Last Life

Book 3: Chapter 5

“ALLOW ME TO ASK A QUESTION, messieurs!” I asked the trio. “Why Prince Heinrich specifically? Tell me why I should choose him in particular. What’s wrong with His Majesty’s other sons?”

It was intended to provoke. But the three of them didn’t seem to care. They even looked happy. I got the sense they were expecting something similar.

Let me note that I was slightly discouraged by the capital city’s mannerisms. Here, unlike Abbeville, people treated duels differently. Nobody was particularly bothered with appointing a time and place. Fights broke out in a rapid, almost elemental fashion.

As a matter of fact, the authorities here had almost no reaction. The role of the guards in such cases, if of course the keepers of law and order were present for a duel, consisted in ensuring compliance with the dueling code. De Nevers and I had approximately the same happen.

Apparently, Carl III was himself a real shitkicker. Not only had he not outlawed duels, he did a lot to encourage the more martially inclined aristocrats. It was said that in his youth, he loved to dress as a commoner, go incognito into the city, and get into all kinds of risky business, including duels.

Ahem... This curious monarch was the ruler of Vestonia... At this rate, his kingdom was going to run out of nobles. Or hotheaded ones at least... However, the hotheads were none too eager to go to war, preferring to cut down one another closer to the royal palace clearly in hopes that the powers that be might notice them.

Seemingly, I was now running into just such glory hounds. Or rather just one. The two men with him were clearly no big fans of swordplay. They weren’t against watching someone’s blood be spilled, though. There wasn’t much else to do. They craved excitement.

The one in the middle, smiling wide, brushed the long black locks off his shoulder, and hopped off his horse. His haircut, wide-brimmed hat, expensive clothing and adornments all pointed to him being a keen follower of fashion trends. He was also strong and sinewy. His movements were crisp and quick. His energy system was developed. The grip of his sword and scabbard were unadorned — this man looked like a professional duelist.

“Your name?” he asked, ignoring my question and continuing to smile.

“Chevalier Maximillian Renard. And this is my servant,” I decided to introduce myself. “Who do I have the honor of meeting?”

The black-haired man thrust out his chin in self-satisfaction and looked back at the others who, as an aside, looked much richer than him. The young blond in a brocade silver-embroidered beret replied with a sly smirk as if to say the fun was about to begin. The big redhead in the wide-brimmed hat with bright feathers meanwhile laughed loudly.

“You’ve probably heard my name before,” the black-haired man said with arms akimbo, his right leg thrust forward. “I am Viscount André de Châtillon. And these are my friends: Marquess Olivier de Hangest, and Gaspard Craonne.”

When I leapt down from the saddle, Bertrand was already standing beside the horse down in a respectful bow. Tossing him the reins, I took a step forward and gave a respectful bow of my own. Then I looked at de Châtillon’s companions again.

So the redheaded marquess, based on his title was son of a marshal of Vestonia, the Duke de Hangest. The blond meanwhile hailed from Mainland’s richest family, the Craonne banking dynasty.

“Beg forgiveness for the importunity, viscount,” I replied with a short bow and wave of my tricorn. “Unfortunately, I do not know your name. Though your companions I am familiar with. Word of His Grace the Duke de Hangest’ victories in the southern borderlands have spread like wildfire to every corner of Vestonia. And the trustworthiness of the Craonne banks is the stuff of legends. That is precisely why I keep my own modest savings with them.”

I could already tell how my conversation with the viscount was going to end. But I was trying to keep as respectful as possible. I was being watched by the scions of some very influential Vestonian bloodlines. It was probably a way of staving off boredom. Dragging a professional brawler around and irritating the first nobleman they came across. Well, if entertainment was what they wanted... They would get it.

I could hear the viscount’s teeth grating after my response even from far away. The redhead and blond instantly perked up. The show was about to begin.

Before my opponent could get his bearings, I continued:

“Viscount! You still have yet to answer my question. What did Prince Philipp and Louis do to upset you?”

André de Châtillon stuck out his lower lip and said scornfully:

“Chevalier, based on your appearance, you are either in the capital for the first time, or haven’t been here for a very long time!”

“Right you are, viscount,” I nodded. “For the last year of my life, circumstances forced me to live away from here.”

The viscount and redheaded marquess chuckled dismissively. However, the blond Gaspard Craonne was not similarly delighted. With a slight frown as if recalling something, he scrutinized my modest outfit. Following his eyes, I noticed that the edge of the silver wing was peeking out of my cloak. Gaspard Craonne was staring straight at it.

Hm... He must have known what it was.

Meanwhile, the viscount continued. He scanned me head to toe with a wry look and said:

“Maybe it was for the best, chevalier?! Maybe you’re not cut out for capital city living. After all, there’s a reason wise men say: ‘The less you know, the better you sleep.’“

“There is a germ of truth to that,” I smiled back. “But I’m a bigger fan of a different no less wise saying: ‘Think before you speak.’ I’ve also heard: ‘My tongue is my own worst enemy.’“

The viscount gave a twitch as if he’d been slapped. His eyes contained not a drop of joy. His right hand reached for the grip of his sword.

“Explain yourself, chevalier!” he demanded.

“Gladly, viscount,” I continued, removing my tricorn and handing it to Bertrand. This moron was getting on my nerves. I was wasting time. “The thing is — I asked you the same question two times, but you never gave me an answer. That has led me to conclude that you are a cretin and a dunderhead who cannot even conceptualize keeping your big mouth shut!”

While André de Châtillon fumed and growled out curses, Olivier de Hangest and Gaspard Craonne stared at me wide eyed like some sort of wonder of the world. I meanwhile calmly undid my cloak and drew my blade. Swinging it a few times, I said:

“Viscount, it would be my distinct pleasure to take on the challenge of teaching you better manners!”