Last Life

Book 3: Chapter 14

THE TABLE WAS SET FOR LUNCH in the dining room, which was next to the fireplace room. I sat at the head of an elegantly appointed long millipede of a table and with satisfaction paid tribute to the mastery of my cooks all while not forgetting, of course, Bertrand’s lessons.

Agnès Cassault, senior chef, decided to spoil me and cooked all Max’s favorite dishes. Well, what could I say? The one thing I could not accuse that little blockhead of was lack of culinary taste.

But the number of dishes was astonishing. I had too much food. At the start, I could turn a blind eye to such wasteful spending, but I would have to remember to instruct Marc to cut the menu down by three times at least.

I quickly glanced at Jacques seated next to me as he demolished some elaborate composition of tender mutton chops with great relish. No, I supposed they could cut it just in half. Otherwise, with such a hungry fellow next to me, I risked starvation.

While I ate, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was playing a role in some elaborately staged play. Impeccably trained footmen, all in formation along the wall; the butler like a director, conducting the service with invisible swings of his stick and, as if reading my thoughts, predicting my every desire; the table was set according to every rule of local etiquette. Between that and the exquisite food — I was definitely starting to like living in the capital.

Jacques’ presence at my table came as no surprise either to my butler or footmen. Or if it did, they were hiding it impeccably.

Essentially, they didn’t violate a single standard. Jacques, as representative of the warrior class, according to local rules of etiquette, had the right to sit at a noble’s table if invited without sullying the honor of said noble.

It simply occurred to me that in this home, such things were rare, if they had ever happened before. I somehow had a hard time imagining the Count de Gramont or Duchess de Clairmont for that matter sitting down for a meal with a veteran who was not nobility.

Though I was probably not wrong to suggest that a hundred or so years prior, the ancestors of these respected lords were unashamed to invite to their table their less esteemed friends and associates. After all, their swords were how the ancient houses multiplied their influence.

After lunch, I was planning to walk through all the rooms and halls in the castle. The discovery in the office inspired me to search for more ancient hiding spots, which this place was probably teeming with. But something got in the way of my plans.

When Jacques and I were finishing taking down dessert, the door to the dining room peeked open and a tense little face flickered by in the narrow gap.

It seemed to be Charles Simon. He was silently signaling for Marc to go out. The butler, remaining calm and trying not to draw my attention, slowly proceeded to the exit.

A minute later, he was back and in his place at the head of the footman ranks. Not a muscle on his face twitched. As a well-trained butler should, he was waiting for his master to speak first. Hm... Like a marble statue. The impression was spoiled by the big huge wound left a few days earlier by François’ lash on Marc’s right temple, which came through even despite the relatively thick cake of ceruse.

But Marc’s eyes gave him away. Something had to have happened behind those doors. Something not only my butler didn’t like, but based on the sour and frightened faces, my footmen didn’t care for either. They must have figured out what was happening.

“Is everything alright, Marc?” I asked the butler, listening to the din outside. A loud commanding bass voice particularly stood out from the pack. The bassy voice was acting like it was in charge.

“Ghm... Your Worship...” Marc replied in a tense voice. “Bruno Foulon has arrived, senior aid to the steward for the Count de Gramont. He came with twenty servants and several carts in order to collect your cousin’s belongings, his wardrobe, and all remaining furniture, dishware, portraiture, and wine in the castle.”

“Wine?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Worship,” Marc nodded, slightly surprised by my calm demeanor, and the fact that was all I cared about. Overcoming his slight surprise, the butler decided to elaborate: “Recently, your cousin has amassed quite the impressive collection of wines from all over Mainland down in the castle’s wine cellar, on top of your old collection of course. The viscount is a true connoisseur of the noble beverage. For instance, today at lunch you were served a twenty-year Bergonian, which your cousin acquired a dozen bottles of before Atalia declared war on Bergonia.”

Curious... François had revealed an entirely unexpected side of himself.

“I presume the man with the loud commanding bass is Bruno Foulon then?” I quickly changed topic.

“Y-yes, Yes, Your Worship,” the butler again said in embarrassment.

“And what are these people doing on the grounds of my manor removing everything without permission?” I asked calmly, sitting back in the chair and adding: “In other words, am I simply being robbed?”

Despite the fact that my tone was almost friendly, I noticed a highly promising smile appear on Jacques’ face. Marc also noticed the smile and, based on his concentrated gaze, seemed to sense that something was amiss.

“Ghm...” he hesitated to respond and, just before he could open his mouth, I jumped ahead:

“This place looks so neglected...” I muttered.

Max was not only not respected by his relatives, all the de Gramont servants felt the same. Actually, what was I talking about? But nobody said this would be easy.

Drumming my fingers on the desk in thought, I turned to face Jacques:

“Drag that loudmouth before me. And do not forget to explain to him on the way that the owner of this house would like to eat, and the sound of his voice is liable to give me dyspepsia.”

“Yes sir, Your Worship,” Jacques nodded with a satisfied snort and, rubbing his war-scarred fists, left the dining room.

A few minutes later, holding a dark gray beret in his wide hands, a broad-shouldered man stood before me. Beneath his left eye, a fresh bruise was filling in. The big fellow shot the odd angered look at Jacques standing next to him but was in no rush to express his dismay.

And no wonder! Because Jacques the wolf made this Bruno Foulon look like a frightened bull-calf despite his massive size.

I cast an inquisitive gaze at the veteran. Understanding my unspoken question, Jacques shrugged and gave a predatory grin:

“He was painfully garrulous and rude. I had to bring him to his senses. It’s all your dyspepsia, monsieur.”

After he said that, my cousin’s servant frowned even harder, but still said nothing.

I shook my head and said to the big fellow:

“My good man, you got lucky. Today, on the occasion of my return homecoming, I am in a good mood. And so I forgive you and your subordinates for their insolent behavior. But remember, next time I’ll have no choice but to resort to the lash.”

Upon hearing of lashes, Bruno Foulon clenched his teeth. The beret in his big hands was slowly turning into a shapeless gray rag.

“I’ll bear it in mind, Your Worship,” the big man droned. I heard notes of scorn in his voice. “And I’ll be sure to tell my master, the Count de Gramont what you said.”

Hrm... My uncle must have let their discipline slip. Though I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the count was trying to provoke me. Testing, probing. I looked straight into his sly, satisfied countenance. And in it there was a grin as if to say, “you got the castle, dear nephew, but are you really its owner?”

Oh, don’t you doubt it, uncle... I surely am. It’s too late now. You never should have let the fox into the henhouse.

“Very well,” I continued, paying no mind to his tone. “Now, with regards to your mission... You have one hour to get out of my manor.”

“But how, Your Worship!?” the big man shot out. “We won’t finish in an hour!”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him with a broad smile. “An hour will be more than enough time to pack up my cousin’s wardrobe and personal effects.”

“But we were ordered to remove all furniture and other property!” he started to object.

But I interrupted:

“My cousin ordered all the furniture, as well as drapes, paintings, and other valuables to be burned last night. So tell that to my uncle.”

Bruno Foulon’s jaw dropped. He looked around puzzled at the dining room. He had probably been here before on many occasions. Everything was in its place, and clearly had not been burned.

“And don’t you worry about the wine,” I added, calmly looking down at my fingernails. “I’ll take care of it the same way my cousin took care of my furniture, curtains, and paintings. And tell that word for word to your master.”

Pointedly taking out a silver pocket watch, I opened the round lid and looked at the face:

“Clock’s ticking, my good man. If you are still on my property in an hour’s time, my cousin will have to order all new vests and pantaloons.”

When the big man slid an angry parting look over me and hurriedly left the dining room, I saw my servants smiling with satisfaction.

“Leave us,” I ordered the footmen and glanced at the butler. “And you, Marc, stay back a minute.”

When all the servants left the dining room and it was just us three, I nodded at a chair for Marc.

“Take a seat.”

At first he tried to object, but I came in an icy tone:

“I am not accustomed to giving an order twice.”

The butler shuddered and sat on the edge of the chair, ready to shoot to his feet at a moment’s notice. Watching Marc Ducos, I remembered that when he looked at his master, he couldn’t recognize him.

“Let me explain something to you,” I continued. No, I didn’t start yelling, or threatening, or insulting, as Max had most likely done in the past, but I saw that with my every word, Marc’s face went more and more gray until a shadow ran across his eyes. “You most likely have not fully grasped the true nature of what is happening. Ever since you signed a contract with me, the only person who has the right to give you orders in this house and the grounds it is on, is me. I understand your fear. You think this manor is the property of the Count de Gramont. And most likely, you think uncle could kick his traitor brother’s bastard out of here at any moment. Forget about it. You didn’t sign any contract with the count. You signed it with me. If you now start to let any of my uncle’s mangy mutts break into my house to make off with a stool or my last chamber pot, why should I keep you around as butler?”

Marc started shuddering in tension. I had to add some sugar to help the medicine go down.

“I’m being frank with you, Marc, because you were always the kind of person who took his duties with a sense of responsibility.”

The butler lit up a bit.

“Thank you, Your Worship.”

“I assume that Bruno Foulon is quite a scoundrel?” I asked, hoping to get my butler to open up a bit.

“He is an odd man,” Marc replied softly and lowered his eyes.

“Don’t fret,” I smiled. I noted to myself that Marc was about as far from old Bertrand, who fearlessly held off an invasion from Captain de Rohan, as we were from the Shadow. But on the other hand, why should Marc jump on the spear to defend Max’s property?

“And don’t be afraid,” I continued. “There’s a new master in this house. Beyond that, Jacques will be living here now. In my absence, you can always turn to him. But now, you may return to your work.”

Marc stood up lightly and, bowing, left the dining room.

I turned to Jacques.

“I seem to remember you once mentioning your old comrades in arms who gave up the service and came to live in the capital,” I said and continued after the veteran gave a nod: “I believe the time has come to hire four or five experienced bodyguards. My heart senses that my relatives will continue to test my patience. I do not want to get distracted by nonsense all the time like with today’s ‘invasion.’“

“Budget?” Jacques smiled slyly.

“At your discretion,” I replied. “All that matters is that I need reliable people who understand the work. And who won’t let me down.”

“Got it, Your Worship,” Jacques responded in complete seriousness.

“And now go check on Bruno Foulon to make sure he doesn’t snatch anything he shouldn’t.”

* * *

It had been a few days since I moved into the Fox Den. In that time, strangely, my relatives hadn’t bothered me again. Still, I was expecting a visit from an infuriated François with a certain amount of interest. But it never came.

Valerie explained the situation in a letter. She wrote that her cousin wanted badly to go “deal with the arrogant bastard,” even securing his older brother’s support. But uncle very quickly cooled their ardor and redirected their energy elsewhere.

The issue was that, after the engagement of Prince Louis to the daughter of the northern konung was announced, a large embassy to Northland was organized in a short timeframe. The head of it was supposed to be Prince Louis himself.

As it turned out, the grand embassy also contained both of Heinrich de Gramont’s sons. My uncle must have decided to throw in his lot with the king’s youngest son regardless. And I couldn’t blame him. Such predators would now begin squabbling over the elder prince that the de Gramonts had no business anywhere near the drama.

My uncle could try, of course, to attach his sons to Prince Heinrich, but that would have its finer points. The Blue Prince was involved in the war, and his primary support came from fighting men. Children of wealthy and influential aristocrats as well as bankers were the exception. They of course did not have to swing weapons. The prince seemed to understand perfectly well that a lot of conquest would require funding.

In recent times, thanks to Max’s father’s efforts, the de Gramonts were far from the wealthiest family. And to top it all off, Max’s cousins had never done any fighting. Their decorative swords would be unlikely to impress Prince Heinrich.

On top of that, I suspected that even if my uncle did command such large amounts, he would not have been likely to spend it on Prince Heinrich’s military ventures.

So the Count de Gramont, for obvious reasons, decided to keep his bet on the king’s younger son.

As an aside, I noticed that Valerie always tried to paint Prince Louis in a positive light when she mentioned him in her letters. She was charmed by his sharp wit and refined mannerisms. She praised his innovations in fashion and called him a patron of the arts, which had recently started to take root in the kingdom.

First of all, because of her suspicions, I thought my sister was trying to very discreetly push me toward the “green” side, but then I considered another curious theory — that she was simply in love with the prince.

I recalled lunch at the de Gramonts’ and her pale face after our aunt announced the news of Prince Louis’ upcoming marriage to the konung’s daughter. Then I reread all Valerie’s letters and considered it... What if my sudden support had broken the spell of her years in disgrace and she was now, unbeknownst to herself, sharing her innermost thoughts with her one remaining brother by making references to the prince’s good deeds? Hm... Sounded a lot like nonsense. But the theory had legs.

Basically, I had to keep my nose to the wind with Valerie. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she had long ago fallen in with, for example, our aunt the duchess and all these letters to me were dictated by her. And why was I suddenly bringing the Stone Lady into this? Secrets... Secrets and intrigue all around...

By the way, speaking of secrets... In the last few days, I thoroughly scanned the whole castle I had inherited from Max. As I thought, I was able to discover six ancient hiding spots. Five of them were already empty, but in the sixth I found ancient gold coins from an unknown government and a sack holding a handful of large gemstones.

As an aside, the final hiding spot only still contained anything because it was most likely made by a seer. And that painted a curious picture: one of the de Clairmonts’ ancestors was a true mage. And a very secretive one at that. Otherwise, none of the gems or gold would have still been there. However, that could have had many explanations.

Hm... If this information was made public at court, the de Clairmonts could be in for some trouble. Particularly in light of the current persecution of true gifted.

Ah... Too bad I couldn’t figure out the secret mechanism I discovered in the office. My heart could feel that it hid some very ancient secret.

A knock at the office door distracted me from my contemplation.

“Come in,” I permitted.

The door opened, and Bertrand came into the office. The old man had completed one important task, and here he was back. My valet gave a sad sigh and said:

“Monsieur, your grandfather Pascale Legrand has agreed to meet with you. He expects you tomorrow for dinner at his manor in the New Capital.”