Last Life

Book 3: Chapter 13

I BECAME AWARE that strange things were afoot in Max’s former manor a few days after the memorable lunch I shared with my “doting” family.

We were regularly told the latest news by Max’s former servants. Our main informants, who Bertrand recruited in my name, were Charles Simon, the old servant François de Gramont struck with a whip, and who I gave a handful of silver for treatment; Agnès Cassault, the senior cook; and Marc Ducos, a butler.

Marc had joined the ranks of my spies just a few days earlier. The butler long refused to help, but in the end came over to our side. It was all the fault of François de Gramont’s actions.

A few days ago, just before evening, my cousin showed up at the manor looking darker than a storm cloud. The reason for his abhorrent mood was a visit to his father, who instructed his youngest son to leave the castle and move to Heinrich de Gramont’s former manor in the new capital. And though it was a more than generous exchange, the viscount was outraged. It was all due to the “wretched bastard” François had snubbed.

The whole night, the viscount was drinking wine and talking about the “wretched bastard,” threatening revenge. But the next day, waking up around noon with a terrible hangover, he started putting his threats to action. And of course, these actions were the straw that broke the camel’s back for the butler, turning him to my side.

The first thing the viscount did was make an announcement that he was moving out of the dark old, dilapidated manor into a much better one in the New Capital.

At first, the servants and serfs were happy at the changes. After all, the massive count’s manor was also in the New Capital, which was certainly a step up. But they were in for disappointment. Nobody was planning to take them along.

François with an acrid little smile announced to the servants he ordered to assemble that his father’s manor already had a full staff of servants, and they would all be looking for new work after finishing out their last few days there. Except the serfs, of course. They François ordered to be sold at the slave market.

The butler, going against his own rules, tried to intervene and explain to the young master that the servants and serfs had worked in the castle for many years, were trained and highly qualified staff and to simply cast away a resource like that was unreasonable and short-sighted.

François was outraged by Marc Ducos’s impudence, and the butler got a lash to his “insolent face” as he fully expected. That was the moment he changed to my side, though as Bertrand told me, Marc Ducos was never a big fan of Max for his rude manners and cruelty. But now, he was faced with choosing between two evils, and made his decision.

After announcing his will, François changed clothes and left for one of his many society receptions, ordering his valet before departure to start looking for a buyer for the ten serfs.

That same day Bertrand, feeling in his natural element unlike when we were in Abbeville or Toulon, took me to see Marc Ducos for a long and exhaustive conversation, at the end of which we agreed on a deal. And so, I accepted Max’s former butler, who I also authorized to recruit servants for my manor.

First word from House de Gramont that my uncle decided to return his nephew’s manor came to me from Valerie. Seeing hope for a “brighter future” on my face, my little sister started actively telling me about important events in the count’s home. In her last letter, she gave quite a detailed description of the scene when Heinrich de Gramont announced to François that the Fox Den would now be home to Chevalier Renard. Her retelling of the viscount’s meltdown was particularly acrid.

Valerie I of course was not going to fully trust. Being surrounded by ill-wishers, she had worked out her own way of surviving. She could switch to our uncle’s side at any moment if he offered her acceptable conditions for an alliance. But I also had in my back pocket several levers I could use to pressure my sister if the need presented itself.

All went surprisingly smoothly with the serfs, too. François’ valet was quite the unprincipled swindler. After talking to Bertrand, he had no problem meeting me and selling me all the serfs, pocketing a single silver crown per head. Meanwhile, he knew exactly who I was and most importantly, he knew exactly what his master thought about me. When I asked if he was afraid of his master getting upset, the valet gave an indefinite shrug and, hefting the purse of silver, explained that it was none of his master’s concern how the serfs were sold or to whom.

The personal servant’s total lack of concern told me that nobody in the family had any respect for François. Not even his valet.

The viscount went back to the manor that night with a group of friends, all spoiled morons like him, children of capital-city aristocrats. However, nobody was there to receive him. François must have decided to put a fat endpoint on his stay in the bastard’s castle.

While throwing a grand boozer, my cousin instructed the servants to take all the furniture out into the castle yard and set it alight.

I had to give the butler his due. He quickly got a handle on the situation and commanded the servants to bring out all the old furniture stored in the attic, not the nice pieces.

A big mountain of wooden scrap formed very quickly in front of the door. As expected, François, who was already extremely drunk just like his buddies, didn’t particularly notice the quality of the pile of half-dilapidated furniture in the darkness. When it had been soaked in fuel, the viscount tossed a torch in himself and, while his buddies shouted on, left the manor. Before departing, he spat out a very slurred yet emotional speech, then loudly instructed the servants to keep bringing out all the furniture, paintings, and curtains, and throw it on the fire so the much maligned bastard wouldn’t even have a pot to piss in.

As soon as the noisy cavalcade departed from the manor for the last time, the butler commanded his subordinates to close the gates and start taking the nice furniture inside, which they had hauled out just for show.

That morning, meanwhile, I got three letters. One was from my old/new butler saying the manor was ready for my arrival.

Number two was from my uncle. Heinrich said his nephew could no longer live in any old inn. And so, he decided to allow me to take up residence in my former castle. In closing, he yet again reminded me of my duty to the family.

Reading the message, I just chuckled. Naive uncle. He’d just let a fox into his manor. Might as well forget it now. The fox would only leave it when he saw fit.

After I read the sender of the third letter, I snorted in surprise. It was the Duchess du Bellay. My aunt was very happy I was moving and gave a very transparent hint that the influence of some third party was impacting my uncle’s decision. In other words, Jeanne du Bellay was telling me I had gotten my manor back only thanks to her efforts.

At the end of the letter, there was a note. My aunt was inviting me to a reception, which was to take part in her home in two weeks’ time. It also indicated the address of some capital-city tailor I should visit before the reception, and whose services had been paid in advance by the duchess.

My servants greeted their new/old master in a perfectly straight line formation. The ceremonial livery was dark blue, the buttons and shoe clasps were polished to a shine, and the white bonnets and aprons of the washer women — I somehow became aware all at once that I was in the capital, and my new servants were elites in their profession. Furthermore, with staff like them, I was no longer ashamed to invite even princes or perhaps the king himself. In class, my manor in Toulon was about as far from this as the Shadow from Herouxville.

As an aside, it was Bertrand’s idea to keep all the servants on. He practically begged me for permission to try and save the whole team. Now I understood my valet was correct.

Bertrand, surveying his “army” with a happy smile, seemed happier to be back in the manor than anyone else.

Despite the fact that all these people knew who they owed for their return to their former workplace, they didn’t look particularly happy. Well, other than perhaps Bertrand and my spies. The old footman, cook and butler had already learned how much their former and now current master had changed. And that was at the fact my predecessor wanted to sell the serfs at the slave market like geese.

I figured they simply hadn’t had time to get scared with how quickly it all happened. Oh well, it was nothing to be afraid of. They would get a new lease on life today. I wouldn’t exclude the possibility that, in the future, I would even have to say goodbye to some of them.

The two pretty washer women a bit older than Max were clearly crushed. Thinking I wouldn’t notice, they kept looking frightened in my direction. Based on their reaction to me, it wasn’t hard to guess that Max had taken advantage of his position and let his hands wander from time to time. Oh well, I’d been through that before.

I gave a short motivational speech, calling on all the servants to labor honestly, then let them all go about their business. Because the butler told me I had a bit over an hour before lunch, I said I wanted to run a quick survey of my property, which I supposedly hadn’t seen in a year.

First, I decided to check out the garden plot, which they also had here. Looking over the spacious chicken coop, horse stable, cowshed, orchard and garden, I kept trading looks with Jacques, who was accompanying me. Gunnar and two servants were now busy with our buggy, while Bertrand, Marc Ducos and Kevin went to check my personal chambers.

Next to the stable, I found quite a large structure with a carriage that was opulent even by capital city standards, as well as a summer buggy. Upon seeing the vehicles, Jacques, who had a weakness for such buggies, wagons, and carriages, smiled in satisfaction and rubbed his hands together. Honestly though, he had warned me that he would never put on livery.

And so, trading barbs, we went over to the manor itself.

Well, what could I say...? I liked the castle even more from the inside. Angular and dark from the outside, it was cozy and warm on the inside. Like a proper Fox Den! Storming this place would be no simple task.

I looked over the large reception hall on the first floor, then went into a small office where we were joined by Marc and Bertrand. The low ceilings, dark wood paneled walls, large fireplace, wide table, armchairs and sofa. I was starting to like it here more and more.

I saw that Marc Ducos was watching my reaction very closely the whole time. Surprise slipped through on his face every so often. And no wonder... The old Max detested this place, while the present one couldn’t conceal his delight.

I sat down at the table and reclined in the soft armchair, smiled and drawled out in satisfaction:

“It’s so nice to be back home! Whoever would have thought...? I never much liked it here before... But now I don’t think there could be a better home in the entire world.”

Bertrand, who was also there, gave me a furtive nod of approval.

A look of carelessness froze on the butler’s face, but in his eyes, I could see a faint glow of approval.

“Marc, you did know the former owners of this manor, right?” I asked the butler. “I mean the ones who sold it to my father. I was never interested in such matters before. Now I have to make up for lost time.”

With a sedate nod, hiding a slight burst of enthusiasm, he replied in his deep baritone:

“Yes, Your Worship.”

“And who was the former owner?” I asked.

“This castle and land once belonged to the de Clairmonts,” Marc Ducos replied.

“The de Clairmonts...” I repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds familiar...”

“Duchess Louise de Clairmont,” the butler helped me out. “First lady of Her Royal Majesty’s Bedchamber. Wife of the Duke de Clairmont, a marshal of Vestonia.”

“I see...” I came thoughtfully.

Very interesting... But this couldn’t be the same duchess who so insistently wanted to buy the fox amulet from the Watchmaker, right? Curious...

“You wouldn’t happen to know why they sold it, would you?” I asked.

“I would, Your Worship,” Marc Ducos came gloomily. “The duchess’ eldest daughter passed away in this manor. Marchioness Christina de Clairmont. This home reminded the duke and duchess of the death of their beloved daughter, so they decided to sell it to your father.”

To just up and sell one’s family estate? It was clearly very ancient and had been built by their distant forefathers. The walls of the manor had seen many deaths of members of House de Clairmont. Actually, what was I talking about? I knew just how it was to lose one’s nearest and dearest...

“Sad story,” I sighed, and my eyes caught on a wide wall panel carved out of yew.

I got up from the seat and walked over to the wall. The anonymous carver had depicted a fox hunting scene. In the lower right corner of the wooden relief, there was a fox den with hunters and hounds covering two entrances. But there was also a third the hunters and dogs had not found. And it was that burrow leading toward a forest stream that the whole fox family was using.

A lithe female fox was creeping in the lead, followed by two little kits. The father was guarding their retreat, a wizened fox with long fangs. His head was turned toward the abandoned burrow. The fox was ready to attack whoever dared to follow his whippersnappers and female. He bared his teeth menacingly, and I saw a smirk on his face. It was as if he was saying to whoever might have been looking at the panel, “get a load of these morons! They think they’re slier than me. Ha-ha! They think foxes only have one escape route.”

“If memory serves, this panel was made on an order from the Duke de Clairmont’s great grandfather,” Marc Ducos interrupted my contemplation.

“So many details,” I kept up the game. “I never noticed them before.”

“Good eye, Your Worship,” the butler nodded. “I have been serving this house for several decades now, and every time I look at that panel, I find something new.”

“There used to be real master craftspeople,” Bertrand supported him.

“They say the carver was an artifactor,” the butler added. “But that’s all just rumors.”

Hm... I tilted my head thoughtfully toward my right shoulder. By the way... I should really have been scanning everything carefully. I wouldn’t be myself if I couldn’t find some kind of hiding spot in this ancient household.

Switching to true vision, I started slowly looking first at the wall, then the floor and skirting, and only at the end turned my attention to the panel. Nothing at first... But...

Wait! I seemed to see something...

“Your Worship?” the butler asked with concern and even took a step forward.

“What?” I asked, changing to normal vision. “What is going on?”

I looked Bertrand and Marc in their concerned faces. Though I saw flickers of surprise and interest in my valet’s eyes. He already knew I could see the energy systems of objects and living creatures, and he had seen this look in my eye before.

“Your Worship, you’ve gone pale,” the butler started hurriedly. “Are you feeling ill?”

“No, Marc,” I waved it off and smiled. “I’m just fine. It’s just that ever since coming home, I’ve been overwhelmed by memories from childhood. I was recalling my father...”

The butler gave a mournful sigh and kept prudently silent.

I then, sniffling for show, raised the pointer finger of my right hand and, smiling, said:

“The alluring aromas from the kitchen have reminded me that I am famished.”

“Your Worship,” the butler caught himself. “Shall I go hurry along the cooks?”

“Excellent idea, Marc,” I smiled.

When the butler left the office, and Bertrand and I were left alone, he asked me quietly:

“Did you see something, monsieur?”

“Yes,” I nodded and walked right up to the panel. “See this little carving of a leaf? It’s a component of a complex magical mechanism. Looks like a door lock. It has so little mana left I can barely make it out. Tell Jacques I want to talk to him after lunch. I’ll try to manipulate the mechanism tonight. We don’t need any prying eyes. And by the way, I nearly forgot...”

I did a heel turn and stared Bertrand in the eyes.

“It seems the time has come for you to reach out to your childhood friend, my dear grandfather. What do you think, will he be happy to see us?”

Bertrand said nothing. But the sad sigh and rueful look said more than words ever could have.