Last Life

Book 3: Chapter 3

“THANK THE GODS, we’ve arrived!” Bertrand exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

We were standing on top of a hill staring wide eyed at the sprawling capital of Vestonia down below. Closest of all to us was the so-called Old Capital, or Old City. The New Capital, or New City was located in the distance on the left bank of the Legha river, the longest river in Vestonia, which rose in the south of the country and emptied into the Gray Sea in the Bay of Anteias.

I had learned from my history books that the division of the capital took place in the previous century. However, it was never truly divided. The current king’s great grandfather, whose rule began with a rebellion known popularly as the “Blood Prince Uprising,” was extremely paranoid.

After executing the rebels, including some of his own cousins and uncles, the king decreed the foundation of a new city on the opposite bank of the Legha, arguing that Vestonia was embarking upon a new path and thus the capital also had to be built anew.

Over eight or so years, the new city experienced fervent growth. For the most part, it was manors, villas, and palaces for the wealthy elite. But now, that was where my “doting” uncle was waiting for me.

However, I was not going straight to his place. For starters, I decided to set up in a hotel in the Old City and spend a few days getting my bearings.

I was distracted from contemplating the city by some noise on the road. On it was a long procession made up of dozens of riders in expensive, vibrant outfits accompanied by a richly appointed carriage with a ducal crest adorning its sides depicting a rectangular red and blue escutcheon supported by a pair of manticores rampant. The escutcheon was crowned with a six-toothed golden crown.

“Make way for His Grace the Duke de Gondy!” a broad-shouldered rider on a black mare called out in a booming voice. The long feathers on his dark blue brocade beret with gold and silver embroidery stuck out dashingly in various directions.

The riders and carriage raced down the road, not slowing their pace and paying absolutely no heed to the other travelers. People dove out of the way, hurrying to get their modest carts, wagons, and wheelbarrows out of the path of the ducal procession.

When the carriage caught up to our coach, which was parked on the side of the road, it came to a screeching halt. The riders, who were in front, furiously working their lashes and spewing obscenities, cleared a jam on the tract made of peasant and city-dweller carts.

At that very moment, the dark burgundy velvet curtain in the carriage’s window flitted back, and a sweet woman’s face peeked out. The look of scorn in her big hazel nearly black eyes landed on everything around. Her disinterested gaze slid over the peasants in their colorless clothing, their carts and wagons full of bags and animals in cages on their way to the stalls of the capital city market.

After that, she saw the hunters and lumberjacks coming home with their quarry, then finally landed on me. Looked with disgust at my cheap clothing and mare. We stared into each other’s eyes for a moment.

As a noble, I was allowed to stay in the saddle. Everyone else had to remove their hats, dismount, and give a deep bow. I also made a respectful bow just how Bertrand taught me.

The woman’s little mouth curled into a wry smile. She looked at me like a pauper. I couldn’t blame her. Compared to the riders alongside her carriage, decked out head to toe in capital-city fashions, I truly looked like a street urchin.

A moment later, the curtain slid back, and her face disappeared.

When the procession made it away from us, I glanced at Jacques. He just shrugged.

“De Gondy,” he came as if the name explained it all.

“As in the de Gondies?” I asked.

“Yes,” he nodded. “The Dukes of the South, rulers of Aquitaine. Most likely, she is the daughter or perhaps niece of the duke.”

I snorted. We were seemingly arriving in the capital at the exact same time as one of the most influential people not only in Vestonia, but in all Mainland. He controlled the southern provinces which, essentially, fed the entire country. Popularly, he was even called the king of Aquitaine.

Honestly though, repeating that around here was a good way to end up headless. De Gondy himself would perform the beheading. Or rather his people. The precedent had been established. Particularly now that the King of Vestonia was keeping such jealous watch over any suspicious chatter after suppressing the uprising and executing the rebels.

“I didn’t see any armbands on His Grace’s riders,” Kevin piped up from back in the coach.

“Because they didn’t have any,” I responded.

“So the Duke de Gondy has yet to take a side?” Kevin’s question was more rhetorical than anything.

I just shrugged and shook my head.

“Apparently so.”

The last few hours of our trip down the royal tract were observed closely by groups of nobles riding past us. Almost all of them had small thin armbands of various colors. Some were green, others blue, while others still flaunted a red shade.

Bertrand, who I’d sent out for information, figured everything out very quickly. Apparently, all these colors denoted various princes. Having three sons, Carl III the Victorious had yet to declare a dauphin of Vestonia. In other words, the king was dithering in his choice of heir.

There were lots of rumors about why the king was being so indecisive. And each theory was more nonsensical than the next. In one way or another, the king was giving his subjects a reason to voice their own preferences. I suspected that was precisely what Carl III was hoping to achieve. Still though, who could say what was going on in the monarch’s head?

He was clearly no fool. Much less a weakling. I suspected he simply knew his own children too well and more importantly knew who they associated with.

I had to say that Carl III, who earned glory on the battlefield in his youth and brutally suppressed all disobedience, had actively concentrated all power in Vestonia in his hand. And to my eye, he did quite a good job of it. Particularly considering the fact that his daddy the king, a lover of wine, hunting and fancy balls, had left him a government which had essentially been split into three parts.

As dauphin, Carl quenched the fires of war in the western baronies, bashed in the heads of the barbarians invading the northern provinces, came to terms with the priests of the Forefather and had just recently suppressed the rebellion Max’s father played a part in.

As an aside, I had looked into the chronology of that rebellion, dug into some parallels and concluded that Carl III had essentially provoked the rebellion himself. Surely, he had long known about the conspiracy and pushed his opponents to act. If the king himself were not involved, the nobles would most likely not have moved so soon. They’d have kept scheming and preparing in their castle, conducting expansive discussions and arguing about Vestonia’s great future.

As was only logical, Carl III quickly suppressed the rebellion, confiscated all the conspirators’ fortunes, and thus filled his coffers with the funds he so desperately needed for the upcoming war. Unlike Alfonso V, king of Atalia, who was mired in debts, Carl III was in a more favorable position.

As an aside, based on the information that I got from Tomcat, I had concluded that things in Atalia were, to put it lightly, not going great. Alfonso V, popularly known as the Pious, was under the financial thumb of the priestly Order of the Scarlet Shield, whose knights took a solemn vow to exterminate all True Gifted in Mainland. De facto, the country was ruled by the grand magister of the knightly order. As an aside, that was one of the reasons I was in no rush to visit Atalia. I had no desire to end my life on a pyre... Or however they executed true gifted...

The order was also a thorn in the side of Carl III. The issue was that many of the Scarlet Knights, as they were popularly known, were gifted and mainly combat mages. And I had already seen just how effective they were as strykers.

But that was not all. To fill his coffers, Alfonso V had started issuing counterfeit coins. Every month, his golden reals and silver escudos grew lighter. Add to that high taxes, peasant rebellions, plagues, and famines in the northern provinces... The sovereign of Atalia must have been desperate to improve his financial situation on the back of the “buffer” counties and baronies and also, if possible, the Vestonians.

We got into town without issue. Honestly though, we did have to spend a bit of time waiting at the gates, but the line went quick.

I found Old Herouxville charming. It was pretty much exactly how I imagined. An old stone giant that harbored many ancient secrets and legends.

The streets were crowded. The Old Capital’s merchant quarter, which Bertrand confidently led us through, reminded me of a raging river with its constant streams of humanity. The densely packed stalls, slowly strolling hawkers, unhurried buyers, foreign gawkers randomly stopping in passageways to look on in astonishment at all the havoc — this quarter made Sardent’s market seem much less grand. I heard screams, laughter, whinnying horses and bleating sheep from every direction. The air was saturated with delicious smells of hot food, boiling oil, spices, meat, and fish.

Every last alleyway specialized in something different. The smithy alley gave off a telltale metal clanking sound. The tailor street was hung with colorful fabrics. One street down, I saw bouquets of hanging sausages and smoked meats. Saddlers, bootmakers, carpenters, and potters; taverns and pubs; apothecaries and barber shops — this place seemed to have everything a person could want.

With Bertrand as guide, we very quickly found our way to an inexpensive but decently appointed inn in the Old Capital, where I rented us a set of rooms for the week. That was how long I’d given myself to get to know Herouxville before presenting myself to my dear uncle Heinrich.

Leaving Jacques, Gunnar and Kevin behind to unload, the first thing I did was head for Herouxville’s famed baths, asking Bertrand to show me to yet another place.

* * *

“So, this is the place I grew up,” I snorted, taking a scrutinizing look at the manor Ferdinand de Gramont had furnished for his bastard.

Max’s old house was located in an elite quarter of the capital, and doubtless was one of the oldest homes in the city. That was not to say it was in a bad state, though. Just that compared to the other structures I’d seen, the three-story stone building with its pretty yard and little pond looked more like a small castle. I immediately told Bertrand my theory.

“You’re absolutely right, monsieur,” the old servant said, no longer paying any mind to my “memory lapses.” “This castle is one of the most ancient chateaux in Herouxville.” And immediately added: “And best defended. But you never liked it.”

“Did I ever explain why?”

“You said you wanted to live in a more modern and refined home. You found it too old fashioned. You also used to complain that your friends would make fun of you.”

I snorted. Sounded just like Max. He was a real dunderhead.

“You know something?” I came. “I’ve changed my mind. I like this castle. It gives me a... homey feeling or something... Maybe because I grew up here.”

Bertrand nodded and smiled.

“I always knew you’d change your opinion about the Fox Den one day.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine.

“Fox Den?” I asked, hiding my trepidation.

“Yes,” Bertrand nodded. “This castle used to be called the Fox Den. But you never liked that, either. You actually forbid me from mentioning it.”

My mouth stretched into a smirk.

But that Max — what a cretin. As expected. I wasn’t even surprised anymore.

“Starting today, I give you permission to call it that whenever you wish,” I announced in a cheery tone. “The Fox Den! I rather like it.”

Heh... Whoever would have imagined? As soon as that thought flickered by in my head, I seemed to hear a soft, short laugh. I shuddered and looked around but didn’t see anyone.

“I want the castle back,” I told Bertrand after a brief silence. “Who lives there now?”

“I haven’t a clue, monsieur,” he replied. “But I could find out quickly. Based on the state of the grounds, the castle was not left unattended after your departure. Most likely, the same servants and butlers are still there.”

“No,” I shook my head. “As soon as you show your face, my uncle will know I’m in town. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

We were about to leave our observation point when a carriage pulled up to the castle gates surrounded by a dozen riders. The gorgeous horses, expensive outfits — this must have been the city’s young elites.

Watching closely as the young people chatted and laughed loudly while waiting impatiently for a short gray-haired servant to come out and open the gates when the cavalcade arrived, Bertrand came:

“The young rider there in bright green is François de Gramont. Your cousin.”

François bore no resemblance to Max. He was taller than him and broader at the shoulders. Yveline, that was who he looked like. Same eyes and golden locks.

“Well, now we know who got my castle,” I snorted, looking at Heinrich de Gramont’s son. “Bad luck for him...”

Bertrand shuddered and looked at me anxiously. But he kept those thoughts to himself.

The heavy gates started to open, and the cavalcade went racing inside. While riding past the servant, François gave him a lick with a lash. It was such a forceful blow that the gray-haired man flopped to the ground and blood covered his face.

“I warned you many times, dog!” the viscount shrieked. “If you don’t move quicker next time, I will give you a whipping in the back yard!”

“Yes, milord!” the servant muttered, kneeling and shivering with his entire body. “Kindly forgive me!”

Paying no more attention to the man, the viscount rode off after the others.

“Poor Charles...” Bertrand whispered with a heavy sigh. “Most likely, you’ve also forgotten him... He served you as a footman.”

“My cousin sure is quick to punish,” I uttered.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bertrand looking at me strangely and immediately look away.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.

“Uh-um...” the old man hesitated.

“Come on, spit it out,” I encouraged.

“How shall I put it, monsieur?” he burbled. “You’re completely different... You’ve changed. And for the better. Uh-um...”

“Wait...” a guess suddenly hit me. “Are you saying I treated him the same way?”

“You’ve changed...” Bertrand started hurriedly repeating. “You’re different now, milord!”

I breathed a heavy sigh. You have no idea just how right you are, old timer.

Ahem... Seemingly, Max’s ghost would be haunting me for some time to come.

“I’ve seen all I care to,” I came drily. “Let’s go back.”

“Yes, monsieur,” Bertrand came.

Jerking the reins, I started the horses. The old man on his mare followed after me.

Right when we went past the gates of the castle, in a little gap between the closing gates, I saw Charles’ gray head. His wide face was bloodied but, seemingly, he didn’t particularly mind.

For a moment, his gaze slid over us and landed on Bertrand. The footman frowned, then his broad countenance stretched out in surprise.

“Bertrand!” he called out to my valet in a timorous voice. “Is it really you?!”

I glanced at Bertrand as he cringed guiltily, trying to look away and hiding his face.

Too late...

“Monsieur Renard!” the gray haired footman exclaimed “Monsieur Renard! Have you returned?”

But that was where it ended...

“Hey, dog!” I heard the shrieking voice of François de Gramont from behind the gates. Why the hell was he back? “You’re still here?! Who are you talking to?!”

Damnation! Well, looks like I’ll have to get to know my cousin ahead of schedule...