Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 12

“YOUR WORSHIP,” said Bertrand. “One Basile Bleroux is at the gates. He’s requesting a meeting with you.”

I looked up from the papers on my table and began racking my brains.

“Bleroux... Bleroux... I can’t place that name... Did he say anything else?”

“No, Your Worship,” Bertrand shook his head. “Shall I tell him you won’t see him?”

I thought for a moment. Such a wealth of information had dropped onto me over the last few days that it was making me dizzy.

Admitting her true identity seemed to burst a dam inside Sophia. She kept talking and talking, sharing all the worries and facts of her life with me. The loss of her parents at a young age, exile and a nomadic life in constant fear of pursuit, then imprisonment and slavery. And, like some kind of perverse cherry on top — the black altar of the frost priests.

With tears in her eyes, she poured her soul out to me, and I listened in silence, realizing with every passing minute that I had gotten myself into one hell of a mess. The only upside to it all was that everyone else believed Sophia had died long ago. They remembered her as a teenager. A frail little girl. Nobody would be likely to recognize this twenty-year-old woman as the daughter of the executed King Conrad V, who by the laws of Astland had every right to the throne.

We also spoke about her gift. It turned out that there were gifted people on her mother’s side of the family. When her mother learned that the princess possessed a magical gift, she told her that according to legend, her great-great-great-grandmother was a powerful witch.

What the princess didn’t mention was the fact that she could see the magic of other gifted people. And I could understand why — that kind of thing was best kept to oneself.

In the end, we decided to leave things as they were for the time being. Verena would remain a distant relative on my mother’s side, who came to me so I could take an active part in arranging her future.

As for the Legrands, I wasn’t worried. Bertrand — the only person I told about the princess’ true identity — told me that Max’s grandfather had plenty of relatives whom he hadn’t contacted in years. He even had long standing hostilities with some of them. So even if Pascal Legrand found out that some distant great-granddaughter of his was living in my house, he wouldn’t remember who she was anyway. He might well have a lot of them, after all. Basically, Bertrand assured me that nobody would question the existence of one Verena Marchand, great-niece of Margarita Camure, second cousin of Pascal of the family Legrand, and still less investigate the situation.

After my conversation with Princess Sophia, I went down to my basement and added a new portrait to my chart. At this rate, I’d need a bigger chart very soon.

The Duchess du Bellay’s attention, meanwhile, didn’t slacken for a moment. My aunt informed me that she’d managed to stall the preparation process for my betrothal to Aurélie de Marbot for a little while.

How exactly she convinced my uncle to do so, what levers she had to pull, she didn’t say. All she said was that Heinrich was decided. My services to Prince Louis and Princess Astrid didn’t faze him. And the invitation to their wedding that I sent to him as proof... Well, he didn’t take it seriously. He, of course, would be attending the wedding of his king’s son with his entire family, but he wouldn’t be changing his color. The Duke de Bauffremont would never forgive him for this. Although who could say what kind of aces Princess Astrid might have up her sleeve when she arrived in Herouxville?

And my aunt also thanked me for the gold I’d sent her, which made its way back into my hands within the week thanks to the payoff of her promissory notes. I couldn’t help wondering — what would she say if she found out who bought them?

Speaking of, Zacharias Beron had swept like a credit tornado through several of the issuers of my promissory notes in search of repayment. Not all of them could pay in money. Some paid in jewelry, some in gemstones, some in furniture or horses.

There was one especially interesting case with a small merchants’ house, whose owner and founder had suddenly passed away. His heir decided not to follow in his father’s footsteps, and quickly sold off everything he could.

When Zacharias Beron came to call on the man and presented him with his late father’s promissory notes, the young man almost lost the ability to speak. He probably assumed that the money for developing his father’s business had simply fallen from the sky. By the way — it turned out that by buying up all the debts of the late merchant, I became the mercantile firm’s main creditor.

It turned out that the son hadn’t managed to sell off his entire inheritance fast enough. Zacharias Beron had his finger on the pulse. Once again, I thanked the late Watchmaker for putting me in touch with Beron.

In the end, besides a hefty sum, I got my hands on two badly-weathered knorrs and a dilapidated receiving house in the merchants’ district of the Old Capital.

All this property needed to be claimed immediately. Beron advised me to sell it all. According to him, it was time to make some big investments. But I decided on a different course of action. The knorrs and the receiving house were both assets that could generate income if properly used.

It was time to get the ships repaired and assemble some crews, and also put the receiving house in order and put a competent person in charge of it. After all, the former employees must have hauled off anything of value a long time ago.

Basically, I was slowly expanding my property portfolio. Zacharias Beron, on the other hand, was just beginning to get the hang of the way I worked. I would need a competent manager to keep all my assets in order. None of my warriors seemed cut out for the job. So after thinking about it for a little while, I came to the conclusion that I knew of one person who could take on this job. All that remained was for me to convince his current employers to let him go.

“Your Worship?” Bertrand’s voice tore me out of my musing.

I didn’t have a chance to answer before the nisse jumped out from behind a portrait and shook some non-existent dust from her sleeves.

“He’s a spellsword,” she said with a slight frown. “Very old. The Old Badger. He sensed me right away. He said to tell you that he comes in peace.”

Yes. I remembered. Basile... The witch had warned me that sooner or later, I’d be getting a visit from the patriarch of the local spellsword clan.

“Send him in,” I nodded to Bertrand. He reacted to the nisse’s sudden appearance with perfect calm. It seemed that the two of them had found a common language. “And bring some brandy into the fireplace hall.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” said Bertrand before turning and leaving.

“Be careful with him, Master,” the nisse warned me as I was walking toward the door.

“Stay close,” I replied. “Just in case.”

I found Basile Bleroux sitting in a chair with a small glass of brandy in his hand. His hair was as white snow. He was broad-shouldered, not especially tall, and built like a freight train — actually, the patriarch of the spellswords seemed to be a little younger than Bertrand.

At his appearance, I caught a whiff of a familiar animal smell. Not as strong as that of the racoon or the wolf. Basile smelled like a badger’s den. Notes of fresh earth, roots, mushrooms, and berries.

As he stepped over the threshold, the old spellsword looked around the hall as though he owned the place. His beady, deep set little black eyes darted around to every corner and every detail in the room.

I immediately found his expression unpleasant. It was the expression of a man who knew that the home would be his within a few days. Who was already deciding which furniture to keep and which to send out to sell at auction.

Finally, the two black eyes came to rest on me. They appraised me immediately, as if I were a big wooden dresser. I chuckled inside my head. All that remained was to decide what to do with this commode. Whether to sell it or leave it sitting in its corner.

“Your Worship,” said the spellsword with a deferential bow and an ingratiating smile. Although it was more of a grin than a smile. “My name is Basile Bleroux. I’m the Elder of the Order of Potters, headquartered in the western district of the Old Capital. I thank you for kindly taking the time to see me. I wanted to...”

As soon as the last of my servants left the fireplace hall, leaving us on our own, Basile abruptly stopped speaking.

He straightened up and adjusted his shoulders. His little black eyes pierced into me like two little pins.

“I think, little fox,” he said with a slight hint of mockery in his voice. “...That we can dispense with this charade. I know who you are. I’m sure you know who I am already.”

“Madleyn warned me that a certain Old Badger would be coming to visit me,” I nodded.

The spellsword grinned. I gestured toward a second armchair and said:

“Please get comfortable. Brandy?”

“No,” the old man shook his head. “I have no time to sit around.”

He came closer and looked through the window out into the garden. The old patriarch was acting like he was already the master of the castle. I quickly scanned him, and let out a long whistle of surprise inside my head. If the gifted were grouped into the same rank system as the strykers, Basile could safely be categorized as an avant. If the old man were to get into a fight with Sigurd, I don’t even know who I’d put my money on.

Apparently, the patriarch could sense how tense I was.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he grunted. “This is just a friendly visit. Word about you has already started to spread. I had to check on it. By the way, would you care to explain to me how the young bastard who grew up here suddenly turned into a spellsword? And not an average one, at that — one who was trained by some Elder Witch. I’ve been living here a long time and I’ve never heard of any Elder Witch inhabiting these parts, even in passing.”

The old man turned to look me squarely in the eyes.

“No, I wouldn’t care to,” I said, calmly shaking my head.

“Why not?” Basile asked with feigned surprise.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Since when do noblemen have to give account of themselves to the Elders of the Order of Potters?”

“Little fox,” said the old man, his eyes narrowing menacingly. “I remember times when even dukes didn’t shy away from coming to the Elders when they needed help. Never mind miscellaneous bastards. Especially when this city was under siege by its enemies.”

“And Elder Witches? Did they come to you for help too?” I chuckled.

The idea of Vadoma bowing and scraping before this old fart suddenly popped into my head. Yeah, right... A single glance from her, and this Basile would be laid up with hiccups and diarrhea for a week straight.

“Did they ask for help and come bowing and scraping too?” I added a little steel to my voice. “You should think before you speak, old man. And you can stop looking at me like that. The times you’re talking about are long gone now. Maybe there were dukes who tolerated this kind of insolence, but I will not tolerate it.”

“You’re hoping your heretic will be a match for me?” The spellsword asked, cocking his head slightly to the side. “Or maybe you’ve decided to take me on by yourself?”

“What the hell did you just say, you shriveled old skunk?!” An enraged nisse materialized out of thin air right next to me. “What did you just propose?”

I had never seen her in such an incarnation before. In some aspects, she was still the same tiny person; in others, though, she transformed into a raccoon. The nails on her fingers turned into claws, and two fangs poked out from behind her upper lip. There was fury in her eyes.

“You came here for a show of strength?” She hissed. “Let’s see what you’ve got! We’ll tear you to shreds, all of us together! Believe me — you won’t be leaving here alive. Or maybe you just need a reminder about whose house you’re in? You come here, looking around as though you already own the place. Don’t start drooling over this house, spellsword. This place is under my protection. And I serve this man, right here.”

With a nod at me, she added proudly:

“And don’t call him “little fox!” He’s a powerful young fox, and if need be he could tear a new hole in the hide of some old badger who’s gotten too big for his britches. Now tell us why you’re here! If you only came to saunter around with your chest puffed out, then get the hell out of here! As if we haven’t got enough to do without all sorts of flea-ridden badgers coming to call.”

Whoa! I was silently thrilled with her performance. Itta was completely transformed. She was emanating such power that it almost burned. Where was that little nisse I saved back in that attic?

The spellsword was affected too. He even flinched a little bit. The old man suddenly found himself on the territory of a nisse in her prime. After all, she had an essentially endless supply of energy at her disposal. The reserves of bruts lying in the basement below us was enough to send a large unit of strykers on a long expedition into the Shadow. And that was only the beginning. We were just getting started.

“Very well,” Basile grumbled. “You’ve made your point. I understand that there’s a powerful young fox in the city now. And he’s already secure in his den. But I came to find out how you’re planning to conduct yourself. I keep a low profile, as do the spellswords of my clan. We don’t get involved in squabbles between the gifted. We don’t attract attention to ourselves. You, on the other hand, have already managed to establish quite a reputation.”

“I’m not a member of your clan, old man,” I shook my head. “I don’t have any obligations to you or your clan. And I’m not a potter, either. The blood of an ancient noble line flows in my veins. I can’t just sit in one spot slapping pots together.”

“We know why you’re here,” the nisse snickered. “You came to bring a young, inexperienced spellsword under your thumb so he could carry out all sorts of assignments for you. Or are you going to tell me I’m mistaken?”

The old man just snickered in response; there was no menace this time, but also no mirth whatsoever. He stepped away from the window and took a seat in the chair opposite me. Silently, he bent over the arm of his chair, picked up the bottle of brandy, opened it, and took a sniff. His eyebrows rose.

“Well, well... Not your average swill, that’s for sure,” he said, before pouring a little of the deep-amber-colored liquid into his glass.

He warmed the glass on his hand for a moment, took another sniff of its contents, and nodded to himself. I knew that the old man wasn’t expecting a reception like this. He was probably counting on a different outcome entirely.

The nisse was right, of course: he had been expecting to leave with me under his thumb, and that hadn’t happened. He would have to speak with me as an equal. Hence the little pause he was creating for himself. I didn’t interfere, and neither did Itta. Let him take a moment to think about how he wanted to proceed.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“Unlike those witches and their coven, the members of our society live relatively independent lives,” he said. “Some even live in other countries. But we’re a clan. And in times of danger, we always have each others’ backs. We differ from each other by nature, but there are certain definitive advantages to that. Some are powerful healers, some create powerful amulets... We also have skilled warriors in our ranks. Our society is small, but multifaceted. We’re accustomed to sharing the fruits of our gifts with each other.”

He fell silent and turned to look at me. I was about to answer, but the nisse beat me to it.

“A typical badger,” she grumbled. “Speaking in hints and suggestions. Sniffing around, trying to apply pressure. We’ve heard your approach — now let’s hear your departure. Or do you want us to deduce what the hell you’re trying to say?”

“Calm down, already,” he frowned. “I’m not talking to you right now. I’m talking to your master.”

But the nisse wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“I’ll calm down as soon as you start speaking to the point,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “And don’t try to shut me up. I’m several hundred years older than you. You know how many smartasses like yourself I’ve seen in my time?”

“You’re not letting me speak at all!” Basile exploded; he sounded very much like a normal old man as he did so.

I understood what was happening pretty well, but I decided not to interfere. The nisse was doing fine without me.

“Then out with it, already! Ugh, it’s like pulling teeth!” Itta seemed determined to have the last word.

Is it just me, I thought, or are they starting to enjoy this little squabble? I don’t know how long it might have continued for, but I decided to hurry things along.

“I won’t join your clan,” I said flatly. Both squabblers fell silent.

The nisse thrust her chin proudly into the air, while Basile’s face darkened.

“You know it’s against a fox’s nature.”

“I know,” he nodded. “But I had to try. The previous master of this castle also refused. It’s a shame... With the clan’s support, he might have survived a little bit longer.”

I tried not to show my interest, although I was dying to learn more about the Duke de Clairmont. I wondered, just then, whether Basile might be able to decipher the letters I had found in the basement? The nisse, unfortunately, couldn’t make heads or tails of them.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t exchange services with each other,” I said, and then noticed Basile’s face light back up again. “After all, I can tell that in addition to what we’ve already discussed, you came here today with a specific goal in mind. So what can I do for you, Badger?”

At this, Basile stopped speaking in “hints and suggestions.”

“Madleyn told me that you needed ash oil to create a defense against the undead,” he said, looking me right in the eyes. “And she also said that you were going to perform the ritual yourself.”

“That witch has a big mouth,” I said.

“Did she promise to keep it a secret?”

“No, but I don’t think I’ll be doing any more business with her after this.”

“Well, that’s your prerogative, and she had hers, too,” Basile shrugged. Then he asked: “So it’s true? You performed the ritual yourself?”

“Yes, it’s true,” I nodded.

“I felt an ancient witching magic as I crossed the threshold of your house,” he said. “You managed to secure a ghostly guardian. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong.”

Basile’s eyes lit up with anticipation.

“You mentioned exchanging services,” he said. “I think we could come to an agreement here. I also need a ghostly guard, and the clan would be willing to render a service to you in compensation.”

The nisse and I exchanged a glance.

“Bring an amulet.”

Itta nodded and disappeared. I turned to Basile.

“Three,” I said.

“What do you mean, “three?”“ Basile asked.

“The clan will render not one, but three services to me in compensation, and you’ll get your ghostly guardian.”

Basile frowned. I could see annoyance and doubt in his eyes.

“And just so you don’t have any doubts...” I said, before whispering a quick spell.

The air around Basile suddenly rippled, and an instant later the ghostly body of a gigantic snake appeared. It wrapped its body around the spellsword’s chair, with its massive, triangular head hanging down over him.

I have to give the old badger his due — he didn’t panic or jump. He just stayed there, sitting in his chair, holding his glass of brandy. Although on the other hand, he couldn’t really conceal his excitement. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to face me and said:

“I agree.”

I snapped my fingers, and the snake disappeared into the air. At the same moment, the nisse appeared, and set the wolf amulet down on the table in front of him with a smirk.

“Do you know what this is?” I asked. “This amulet was created by a spellsword. Was it one of yours?”

Basile didn’t even pick up the amulet. He just glanced at it and nodded.

“That’s Ulf’s work. He handles artifacts for us.”

“I want some protective amulets for my warriors,” I explained. “Introduce me to him. That’ll be your first service. I’ll handle Ulf’s payment separately. Do we have a deal?”

I held out my hand.

Basile cast a pensive look at both of us, then held out his hand in turn.