Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 13

I HEADED OUT TO INSPECT the property I acquired after Zacharias Beron’s little “raid.”

I started with the riverside port facilities, where my ships were moored side by side at one of the far wharves. And what can I say... Things weren’t quite as bad as Beron had described. Sure, the two vessels were obviously long overdue for some routine repairs, but it was also obvious that their crews had taken good care of the late merchant’s property.

I even got to meet one of them. Captain Druton, who once commanded this tiny flotilla, had learned that the new owner of these ships wasn’t planning to sell them and had been hanging around the port for several days in the hopes of meeting him.

When I finally arrived, he proceeded to effusively praise my newly-acquired ships while I gave them a thorough inspection.

“Your Worship!” Captain Druton began proudly.

A short man of about forty with a bushy, gray-streaked red beard and northern facial features, he basically looked like a scruffy gnome.

“You made right decision in not selling the “Otter” and the “Tortoise.” Don’t judge them by their current condition — once they’re remodeled you won’t even recognize them! They’ll serve you for years and years. Their late owner ordered them from the Anterville wharves. And he spared no expense on their construction. He ordered the oak directly from Vintervald.”

“And where have you traveled on them?” I inquired as I slapped a hand onto the mast.

“I mean, wherever the master ordered us to ship his loads, that’s where we went,” came the captain’s somewhat evasive reply.

“So if, for example, I suddenly wanted to send some cargo to the front?” I continued my questioning. “Is there a river route that can get you there? What do you think — would anyone be willing to sign on for that?”

“Which fortress do you have in mind?” The captain’s face darkened immediately. Judging by his expression, he was thinking some rather unkind thoughts about me.

“Western,” I answered. “And I need to get my cargo into Toulon. I have a mansion and several farms there.”

The captain’s wrinkled brow suddenly relaxed again. His expressions warmed. I couldn’t help but wonder — what was his initial assumption?

“The closest port to Toulon is in Colmar,” the captain informed me as he squeezed a smoking pipe in his hand. “From there, you could get to Western Fortress in five or six days. My master had cargo delivered there a few times. So I know the route well.”

“Interesting.” I sat down on a bench and threw one leg up onto the other. “If you don’t mind me asking — what are you working on at the moment? Have you and your crew already signed on with someone else?”

Captain Druton seemed to blossom right in front of my eyes.

“No, Your Worship!” He replied with a big smile.

“Would you be interested in working for me?”

Prior to coming down to the port, I conducted some inquiries about the late merchant’s crew. Captain Druton received recommendations as an honest, responsible man who kept the crews of both knorrs under control. He was also in charge of maintenance for the ships and hiring people for the crews.

“With pleasure!” He shouted.

“Well,” I nodded as I hopped back up onto my feet. “Please pay a visit to Mathieu Chabrolle, my personal attorney. You can sign the necessary contracts there. If I’m not mistaken, your previous employer paid you 250 thalers per annum? And you never received what you were owed for the final six months of your service, even though I know that you paid out the other members of both crews from your own pocket. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Worship.” The captain stood up a little straighter; a slight blush passed across his face.

“Considering the fact that you single-handedly answer for two ships, controlling their cargoes, crews, safety while at sea, and a wide variety of other matters besides, it seems you bear considerably more responsibility than a normal captain. As such, I’ve decided that 500 thalers a year would be more reasonable compensation for your labor.”

Druton’s jaw dropped.

“And that’s not all,” I continued before he could recover his composure. “In the near future, depending on how our business works out, we’ll be adding language to your contract about a percentage cut of the profits.”

“I thank you, Your Worship...” the captain responded in a hoarse voice. “You’re very generous...”

“I’m confident that you won’t disappoint me, Monsieur Druton,” I replied, then added: “Please bring Monsieur Chabrolle an estimate for the repair of the ships, along with a list of your subordinates and your suggested remunerations for each of them. I’ll expect a detailed report from you in one week.”

“Understood, Your Worship,” the captain bowed, still beaming.

* * *

Immediately after visiting the port, I headed down to inspect the receiving house I had received as payment on my promissory notes.

“What a shithole,” grumbled Jacques as he glanced squeamishly around at the bulky, two-story stone building, in which not a single window or door was still in place. Its roof was open in places, and inside it smelled like urine, shit, and unwashed bodies. In the last year or so, while the merchant’s son was laying claim to the rest of his inheritance, the place seemed to have turned into a squat for the local homeless population.

Whoever was in charge here was obviously a far cry from Druton. Despite the merchant’s death, the captain had still done everything he could to maintain the “Tortoise” and the “Otter.”

Actually, the former manager of this receiving house probably packed up everything of even marginal value and hightailed it out of Herouxville the second he heard about his master’s passing. At least that’s what we heard in the tavern a block down the next street.

That was also where we heard about the former owner’s debts, and the less-than-savory reputation of the people who used to frequent the receiving house. They also confirmed my suspicion that the late merchant’s receiving house had been occupied by all sorts of riff-raff. People called it “Oxbow House,” because it was at the very edge of the long merchant’s district, and some of its windows looked out onto the river.

More generally, as I walked down the streets of this part of the city, I noticed that the entire neighborhood seemed to be going through a rough patch. This was because more or less all the buildings resembled the one I had so recently acquired. I counted more than ten completely derelict houses that were gradually turning into ruins.

At first I assumed the situation must have been the result of scheming by one or more evil geniuses. After all, there were plenty of examples of such behavior in my old world — old neighborhoods being deliberately turned into slums so that all the real estate could eventually be bought at a fire sale price.

But no. This little district was dying a slow death all on its own. Everything was happening naturally. The bigger firms, the more affluent merchants, had all moved to the New Capital. Closer to civilization, so to speak. Where police patrolled more regularly, where there were wealthier clients, where the taverns and receiving houses were cleaner, and where the garbage tended to get cleaned up more or less every day.

To be sure, there was still life in this old merchants’ district, but within ten years or so it would be gone, unless something changed. And when that happened, the sprawling slums of the Old Capital would grow another arm.

“What do you see, Lucas?” I asked Jacques’ old army buddy, who was staring intently around the first floor of the building; by all appearances, it had been a tavern at some point.

Six warriors from Tom Davis’ outfit had just thrown the last of the bums out of the house, at which point we started our walkthrough with scarves and handkerchiefs pressed over our noses to escape the stench at least a little bit.

Overall, we counted ten rooms. Four on the first floor, six on the second. Besides that, there was a whole separate two-story wing where the late merchant once had an accounting house, and in the inner courtyard we found a big stables and a wide stone structure with thick gates of oak, which neither the former employees nor the more recent homeless occupants could lift off and spirit away. Apparently, this was the warehouse, where visiting merchants used to store their goods.

Lucas looked around at the empty hall, filled with all sorts of foul-smelling junk, and said:

“This tavern’s twice the size of Leif René’s “Copper Cauldron.” I checked out the kitchen. It’s spacious; it’s got three hearths in it. One big, two small. And there’s another one out in the hall. Apparently, the cooks used to grill meat right out in front of the visitors. The walls aren’t damp or rotting. The beams and posts are solid. The roof will have to be repaired before the rainy season... But still! I think this house will stand for another century or two!”

He was right about that. In my previous world, big stone buildings like this often stood for even longer.

“You could fit a ton of tables into this hall!” Lucas continued his excited commentary.

“We could cordon off a quarter of the hall for private offices, for merchants to have lunch and conclude their agreements away from prying ears,” I said, thereby earning myself an appreciative glance from Lucas.

“And we could set up a stage in that corner for minstrels and musicians to entertain our guests,” I added. “And we should have white tablecloths on the tables, like in the best houses in Herouxville. Dishes and furniture to match.” A whole plan was already coming together in my mind. Waitresses in clean clothes and white aprons. And two big bouncers at the door to keep out the riff-raff. The place would become one of the best and safest in the Old Capital, maybe in all of Herouxville. I would hire an artifactor to make an icebox and ovens, and to touch up the hearths. All the dishes would be made from fresh ingredients. The drinks would range from cheap to extremely expensive. There would also be rooms with comfortable furniture and clean linens. Some of them would be furnished every bit as finely as my own bedroom. With rugs, baths, and full toilets instead of chamber pots. Those would be for wealthier merchants or high-profile nobles. There was a large stable on the premises, which I planned to staff with hardworking people. And there was also a large, dry warehouse, which would be guarded by my people, where the merchants could store their goods for an extra fee.

Lucas froze for a moment, with a far-off look in his eyes. The rest of my people also started looking around, too; it was as if they were all seeing the place for the first time.

“What’s the point of opening a place like that in this neighborhood?” Jacques’ question was certainly a reasonable one to ask. “Why would rich merchants be coming here in the first place, let alone high-society nobles? They probably used to come here all the time, sure, but they’ve all moved to the New Capital now.”

“This place became a trading center for a reason,” I replied. “It’s practically right next to the river port. I mean, there it is — the river’s right outside. It’s just that it became dangerous. And I’m not just talking about the building. I’m talking about the whole neighborhood.”

“So we need to change the neighborhood first, and then get to work on this receiving house,” chuckled Jacques.

“Exactly,” I replied with total seriousness, which wiped the mirth right off of Jacques’ face.

I turned to Kevin, who was also accompanying us. My protege was once again a frequent visitor to my castle. The reason for that was obvious. To wit, the young man was head over heels for Verena.

Poor kid. Alas... He was in for a disappointment. It was good, at least, that Princess Sophia realized how he felt, and was accordingly careful to treat Kevin like a friend. She enjoyed his company. They would walk the gardens together, and the young man would tell her all the capital’s latest news, while she helped him brush up on world languages.

“I want you to go see Maitre Chabrolle and inform him that I’m interested in all the vacant buildings in this district. Have him find out anything he can about their owners.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” nodded Kevin; with that, he turned and strode briskly out.

I glanced back at Lucas again, narrowed my eyes slightly, and said:

“You can take the wing for yourself. It’s yours. Prepare me a list of everything you need to get this building back into shape and make it into a hotel-restaurant, then come see me and we’ll discuss everything. And we’ll discuss your share in the enterprise, too. What do you say? Interested? Or should I find somebody else?”

Lucas was staring at me, eyes burning with devotion. A wide smile spread across his face.

“Thank you, Your Worship,” he said with a bow. “I won’t disappoint you!”

I nodded and turned to leave, listening as Jacques and the others started slapping Lucas on the back and congratulating him, reminding him that he would have to share the wealth with them when the time came.

* * *

The next item on my agenda was the accounting house of the trading firm “Weber & Sons,” which was located in the Old Capital not far from Moneychangers’ Square.

My old acquaintance Leon Weber, whose son I had replaced in the levy for the Frontier, was only too happy to help Zacharias Beron in every way he could. Well, not Leon Weber himself — his trading firm. The thing was that the head of the Weber family had passed away about six months previously, leaving his business to the management of his spouse. Although to be honest, Madame Weber had already been holding the reins for a long time anyway.

The wealthy widow, her daughter Lucy, and her son Ruben were living in their residence.

When Monsieur Beron appeared in their accounting house and presented his promissory notes, according to which they were obliged to pay almost a thousand gold imperials, Margarita Weber herself insisted on speaking with the visitor.

Imagine her surprise when I walked into the hall instead of Beron. It turned out that she had been following my exploits closely, and that she was very proud to count me almost as a friend.

She didn’t seem especially eager to bring up the fact that I went into one of the most dangerous places in Mainland in her son’s place. And I didn’t bring it up either. After all, it happened via a mutually-beneficial agreement between both parties.

She immediately set about regaling me with all sorts of detail about her life. About the death of her husband, about her daughter Lucy’s upcoming marriage to the son of some merchant and the process of putting together a respectable dowry for the same, about Ruben, who she was trying to bring into the family business but who, alas, was something of a shy young man with his head firmly in the clouds.

Then, as expected, she moved on to complaining about her life. The main source of income for “Weber & Sons” was trade in furs, fish, and caviar. But the war had caused chaos on the roads, and two of their caravans had already been attacked by bandits and marauders. Basically, the payment of these promissory notes, especially to the tune of such a massive sum, was not part of Madame Weber’s plans.

Eventually, we reached an agreement whereby I would kindly defer payment of the debt for another year, at a very reasonable percentage interest, and in exchange Madame Weber would consent to Monsieur Dormal, one of the firm’s best buyers, coming to work for me. With one important condition. Namely, that Monsieur Dormal himself agreed to do so. Because of course he was a free man.

Margarita Weber smiled knowingly as she stipulated that condition. She was certain that nothing could induce Dormal to change employers. After all, he had been working for her family for many years.

Imagine her surprise, therefore, when Dormal agreed to come work for me. She still didn’t seem to realize that a man as businesslike and energetic as him would likely be ready for a change after years of sitting in the same post with no progress whatsoever.

A half-hour’s conversation with me about my plans for the coming years was enough to convince him. Plus, of course, I mentioned the yearly salary that awaited him. Admittedly, I don’t think money was the deciding factor. Dormal’s energetic nature was craving action. Basically, I rescued him from a swamp.

In the end, I left the accounting house with a signed and sealed debt agreement, and in the company of my new manager.

After returning home, I ordered Bertrand to find quarters for Dormal in the castle and then headed back to my office. And that’s where Aelira found me. She had been out for several days, taking care of a particularly important task. She was tracking Basile Bleroux.

“Monsieur,” she bowed. “The old man really is the head of the Order of Potters. And that’s where his den is located. It’s a big stone house. It wouldn’t be easy to take it by force.”

“You’re sure he didn’t notice you?”

“No, monsieur,” she replied seriously. “He’s a crafty old badger, but Ibris knows how to track its prey without being noticed.”

“Okay,” I nodded approvingly. “What did you find out?”

“You were right, monsieur,” she said. “Everything happened just as you predicted. As soon as the old man went back into his den, another spellsword came strolling out. A young one. He smelled strongly like a wolf.”

I showed Basile my amulet for a very good reason. And he knew exactly whose neck I took it from. The ruse worked. The old man swallowed the bait. He underestimated me. That’s one downside of old age and experience — it can lead to a tendency to underestimate dangerous, intelligent young people. Which is really too bad...

By the way, this news meant that the nisse owed me a silver thaler. She bet that Basile would detect my trick. To be honest, I myself reckoned the odds at about 50/50.

But I had to strike at any opportunity that presented itself. Finding the group of secretive werewolves, who seemed to have forgotten all about me, turned out to be pretty difficult. Neither Aelira’s senses, nor Susanna Marino’s intimate knowledge of the city helped very much at all. But I could sense that their den was somewhere in the city, and that they were preparing for another strike. I had to beat them to it.

“Ulf,” I nodded. “The artifactor. The old guy scared him, and he ran off to warn his customers.”

“His senses are even duller,” Aelira snickered. “At least the old guy tried to cover his tracks. To play it safe. But this guy...”

Sigurd’s wife turned her nose up with disdain.

“So,” I looked up at Aelira hopefully.

“I found the wolves’ den.” Her smile had the air of a predatory grin.