Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 17

“YOUR WORSHIP, a letter from your aunt, Isabelle Legrand.” Bertrand, carrying my correspondence tray, intercepted me as I stepped out of my office.

I took the envelope and asked as I walked:

“Is the carriage ready?”

“Yes, Your Worship.”

“Excellent,” I said without slowing down. “Let’s get going, we have a lot to get done today.”

Bertrand handed the tray to a footman and set off to follow me.

The day before, I had received a letter from the royal secretariat. Precisely at noon, I was expected at the palace for a conversation with Lambert de Courtenay, personal secretary to His Majesty.

The Duchess du Bellay was right. There wouldn’t be a face-to-face meeting with the king. Although under different circumstances, Carl III would definitely have found a lush reward for the Hero of the Northland.

The reason this was different, by the way, had nothing to do with his wounding. It was because of my background, or to be more specific, because I was the son of a traitor who had attempted to seize the king’s power for himself. It hadn’t been all that long since the revolt was suppressed.

Carl III was using me as an example to all of society, a signal that he still had no intention of bringing anyone connected to the plotters into his inner circle. My uncle the count, my aunt the duchess, and others like them were a different matter. They sided with the king in time, and were duly rewarded. Max, by contrast, found himself put under observation, and even though his guilt hadn’t been proven, he was still sent into exile.

And even now, despite all my achievements, I hadn’t been presented to the king. But at the same time, Carl couldn’t afford to let my exploits go unrecognized. If he did, then pretty soon other energetic people like myself wouldn’t be in any hurry to risk their lives or their fortunes in an effort to secure the king’s goodwill. What was the point of dancing with death if Carl III couldn’t care less about your efforts? So the invitation to the secretariat was an initial, tentative, but very definitive step toward obtaining forgiveness for the sins of my late father.

It was a sign to other disgraced aristocrats that earning His Majesty’ attention wasn’t easy. But with time, it was possible. This would serve as an incentive for people to stop sitting on their asses, to get up and do something.

In other words: “Look how hard Ferdinand de Gramont’s bastard is working! Come on, move it, if you want to be forgiven!”

As my carriage (accompanied by Sigurd and Aelira riding alongside it on horseback) rolled out onto the street, I opened Isabelle Legrand’s letter and was soon absorbed in reading it.

My aunt’s message was short, but informative. Once again, I gave myself a pat on the back for my decision to use her to get things done. It hadn’t even been two days, and everything was already in order. I can’t even imagine what it must have cost her to change Pascal Legrand’s mind.

After reading, I looked up at Bertrand, who was traveling with me. The old man was trying to appear indifferent, but I knew perfectly well how he felt about my relatives on my mother’s side. He had known the sisters Legrand back when they were innocent, snot-nosed little girls.

In silence, I handed him the letter and nodded as if to say “go on, read it.”

Hands trembling slightly, Bertrand took the piece of papers and started greedily absorbing each of the neat, even lines written in Isabelle’s hand.

“They agreed,” he said with a sigh of relief. “You won.”

“We won,” I corrected him. “Are the boy’s rooms already prepared?”

“Yes, Your Worship,” Bertrand nodded.

“Isabelle writes that she wants to buy that emerald brooch back from me,” I said. “You bring it to her. Tell her it’s a gift from me.”

Bertrand nodded approvingly and asked:

“But how did you know that brooch belonged to Adeline Beauchard?”

I laid my hand against my chin.

“Remember how I went to the Legrand family mausoleum? I found a scrap of paper with a prayer on it, written in Adeline’s hand. The handwriting looked familiar to me. And then I remembered the note Paul Lepetit received with the brooch... Basically, they were clearly written by the same person.”

Bertrand let out a heavy sigh. It must have been hard for him to learn that the little girl whose birth and first steps he had witnessed, and who he had helped to raise, had grown into an obsessive, murderous woman.

I leaned forward and slapped a hand onto Bertrand’s shoulder:

“It’s a pity, my good man. I hope you understand that I’m not going to harm my cousin in any way at all? Especially since he seemed to be a wonderful young man.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bertrand with a grateful nod. “Your insistence that he be transferred to your house was a good decision.”

“Exactly — and that’s why, when you go to deliver the brooch, you’ll remind them that only when Alain steps across the threshold of my castle will I fulfill my end of the bargain. Not a moment before.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” said Bertrand. “It will all be done.”

“Now tell me about Mademoiselle Marino...” I changed the subject. “Did she manage to suborn anyone from the Gilbert household?”

It turned out that Susanna, who was highly motivated by the generous rewards I was giving her, was already beginning to excel at the task of recruiting spies within certain noble houses. At the time, she was working hard at recruiting informants within the Gilbert and Legrand households.

This kind of thing was harder where aristocrats were concerned. Especially the old houses. After all, the servants in their households often came from families who had been in the service of their particular noble house for centuries. The symbiosis was very complicated, and always heavily colored with blind faith and honor. But gold is gold. It always finds a way.

“Yes, she did,” replied Bertrand, through whom I conducted all my communication with Susanna. “She says that after your visit, Thomas Gilbert announced that his daughter would be leaving for his West Astland estate. That’s where they’re planning to hold the wedding.”

“Surprising,” I grunted. “That doesn’t sound like Thomas Gilbert.”

“Susanna says it was Betty herself who insisted. Mademoiselle Marino also added that according to her spy, who’s inside the Gilbert house itself, Thomas Gilbert’s daughter is very scared for some reason, and wants to get out of Vestonia as quickly as possible. All signs indicate that your exchange with her at the reception was more than enough to convince her of your sincerity.”

“Seems like it,” I mused as I watched the city skyline pass by outside the carriage window. “And that’s for the best. She’ll be out of my way. I’m planning to do business with her father in the future.”

So, I thought... I can finally cross several items off the huge list of problems left for me by that idiot Max Renard. The Nightwolves were no more. My deranged aunt would be headed to the psychiatric ward at the monastery any day now, where she could spit as much poison as she wanted. Betty had taken my warning seriously and was planning to leave Vestonia, hopefully forever. I hadn’t heard anything at all from Vivienne Leroy — she must have fled somewhere safe, where she wouldn’t pop up on anyone’s radar. That, I thought, was the most appropriate place for her.

“The Duke de Gondy?” Bertrand guessed.

“Exactly,” I nodded. “The trading empires of the Legrands and the Gilberts, and at least twenty other merchants from the golden hundred, are intimately connected to the so-called King of Aquitaine. The Duke of the South is basically feeding all Vestonia. If he should decide to turn off the tap on grain deliveries for even a few months, famine would break out all across the country.”

“You think your uncle the Count de Gramont put his bets on the wrong horse?”

“The Duke de Bauffremont supports the King of Astland,” I replied pensively. “As do all the eastern nobles, who’ve been drooling over the southern lands for a long time now. They have the largest army. It’s a very powerful force.”

“Oh, Most Luminous Mother, save His Majesty!” Bertrand sighed sadly as he crossed himself.

“I certainly hope so,” I nodded. “If the king dies, Vestonia will be plunged into civil war. And we’re not ready for it yet.”

* * *

The royal secretariat was located in the west wing of the palace. It was a vital institution, whose function was to ensure quick and direct access to the king and the rest of the high officials of the government.

Zacharias Beron was right: the royal secretariat’s reception hall was like some kind of mythical monster that guarded the entrance to the holy of holies — the office of the royal secretary.

The spacious hall, with its gray stone walls and tall ceiling, was filled with hustle and bustle: a crowd of petitioners was gathered, comprising people of all ages and social statuses. Although there were no nobles among them.

Some were alone, some with their families, some (like me) with their servants. They were all waiting patiently for their turn; I gathered from the snippets of conversation I could overhear that some had been waiting for at least a week already. The atmosphere was a tense one, filled with expectation; hope, anxiety, and exhaustion were etched into the expressions of everyone present.

The secretaries who inhabited this oppressive place seemed just as soulless and uninterested in the fates of their visitors as the walls that surrounded them. They would mechanically accept petitions without raising their eyes or paying any attention to the petitioners’ desperate attempts to describe their problems.

This was no place for empathy or understanding. It seemed like every day brought nothing but new lines, new complaints, and new petitions, each of which seemed in vain and utterly hopeless.

Waiting in halls like this seemed to me like some sort of psychological torture. It wound the nerves of the like a guitar string, depriving them of the final remaining crumbs of hope.

And this bureaucratic machine also served to enrich all the corrupt parasites who had sucked themselves onto the body of the government. Yeah... There were lots of different worlds, but people always seemed to live by the same laws.

I wasn’t planning to stand in line. My appointment was at noon. At my orders, Sigurd strode forward, looking like a gigantic icebreaker plowing through a sea of gray icebergs as he stepped right up to one of the clerks at his table.

Not everybody was happy about this, but one “friendly” glance from my stryker was enough to ensure that they limited their protests to spiteful muttering.

“My good man, please inform Monsieur de Courtenay that Chevalier Renard has arrived for his appointment,” I said airily as Bertrand laid the letter down on the table in front of the clerk. “Hop to it! I have a lot to get done today.”

The thin, balding clerk didn’t even look up at me; he just kept writing. These people didn’t seem to be afraid of anything. Well, I thought — we’ll have to shake the place up a little bit.

I glanced at Sigurd, then nodded at the balding man. My bodyguard understood immediately. Stepping around the table, he leaned in above the clerk, and then with one swift movement he picked the man up by his collar, which caused him to start coughing and hissing like some kind of street cat.

Sigurd shook him once, and the clerk stopped fussing around, although his eyes were still bulging out as he stared at us.

A deathly silence settled over the hall. Even the scribe’s colleagues stopped their writing as he hung suspended in midair. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry to intervene on their colleague’s behalf, and neither did the two guards who were supposed to be maintaining order in the hall. Actually, judging by the expressions on their faces, they approved of what I was doing. Basically, I was behaving as befitted a man of my status.

“Move it!” Sigurd barked into the clerk’s ear, giving him a little kick to speed him along. “Don’t keep His Worship waiting!”

Like a spooked rabbit, the clerk dashed off from where he stood, tripping slightly as he ran, and rushed off toward a wide door at the opposite end of the hall.

A little while later, a short, chubby man stepped out, with the balding clerk shuffling meekly along behind him.

“Monsieur Renard!” He called to me in a surprisingly sonorant voice as he opened the door to his office. “Please, come in!”

When we walked over, the old man greeted us with a polite bow and warned us:

“Your companions may wait for you here, Your Worship.”

I turned and nodded to my people, indicating that they should comply.

I crossed the threshold and found myself in yet another reception hall. It was spacious, with tall windows that let in a good deal of warm light, and portraits of the kings and their families on the wall, along with marble and bronze statues of all the gods and ancient heroes in the corners — basically, the exact opposite of the first reception hall.

There were a few visitors, seated on several of a series of expensive couches. Judging by their clothing, they were from the more privileged classes of society.

“Please, Your Worship.” The old man led me to an armchair. “Alas, Monsieur de Courtenay is very busy at the moment. May I ask you to wait for a short while? I can offer you wine and fruit in the meantime.”

I sat down on the comfortable chair and replied:

“I can wait. No need for the wine and fruit, but I thank you.”

“As you wish, Your Worship,” the old man replied placidly; then, with a stiff bow, he walked off again.

For a moment, the conversations between visitors died down, but people soon lost interest in me and resumed their discussions.

Thanks to my excellent sense of hearing, I could hear exactly what they were whispering about, even in the farthest ends of the hall. Several of the people present recognized me, and were busy discussing my recent exploits. But there were also some people who were totally uninterested in me.

There were two aristocrats engaged in an animated chat about the state of affairs in Bergonia. That subject was generally at the forefront of the news in the capital at the time. According to the latest reports, the castles Prince Heinrich had previously seized were now back in the hands of the Atalians. While the king’s middle son was entertaining himself in the , the most renowned of Alfonso V’s generals, Ricardo di Lorenzo (more commonly known as “The Golden Lion”), was on the move in spite of the rainy season. And he had started conquering Bergonia.

At this rate, the Golden Lion’s legions would soon be at the Vestonian border. There were rumors that Carl III was sending his marshal the Duke de Clairmont to the front in place of his son. This was the most experienced commander he had.

Lost in thought, I didn’t immediately notice when all the whispering and conversation in the hall slowly died down. All attention was focused on something deep inside the hall. Following their gazes, I turned to see what it was.

Moving on his short legs, at such a quick pace that his movements resembled those of an ape, a hunchbacked man was making his way toward us. A polka-dotted tunic made from hundreds of tiny, multicolored scraps of fabric; a multicolored cap with bells at the tips of numerous horns; a comically-large spoon stuffed behind a simple belt of rope; short boots with silly-looking curled-up tips; striped socks and bright makeup — everything indicated that Kiko, the king’s jester, had decided to grace the reception hall with his presence.

Smiling, the little man turned his head as he winked devilishly at the ladies and thrust his tongue out at their men. As he did so, he was whistling a happy melody that I immediately recognized as a variation of the “Ballad of the Bastard Sword.”

As he approached my chair, he was about to raise his leg into the air to keep walking when he suddenly froze.

“It can’t be!” He exclaimed in an exaggerated shriek, pressing both palms to his chest. “Chevalier Renard, in the flesh! The Hero of the Northland! I never expected to see you in a place like this!”

Whipping his jester’s cap off his head so quickly that the bells jingled loudly, he dipped into a low bow. I noticed that the area around us was starting to empty. The people quietly chatting on their couches nearby began to get up and walk off deeper into the hall.

I stood up and answered his bow in kind. Mind you, this was nothing but common courtesy. I wasn’t trying to flatter him, nor was I afraid like the others. And I didn’t view this man with any sort of disgust. Quite the contrary, in fact — this was one of the few people in my new world who I actually had genuine respect for.

I also realized that he had come specifically to see me.

My aunt the Duchess told me many interesting things about the royal jester. King Carl III’s most constant companion, who blocked several assassins’ arrows with his own body when the king was still a child, and who possessed a remarkable intellect — Kiko was one of the most influential people at court. And he was also one of the most hated, by aristocrats and commoners alike. Many people, both in the kingdom and outside it, blamed this hunched little man specifically for their woes. It went without saying that you had to be on your guard around him.

By the way — I could sense a powerful wave of witching magic emanating from the jester. A scan didn’t reveal anything. Kiko’s aura was something hidden by powerful protective amulets, the handiwork of a very experienced witch. Hm... So that was it... Magical artifacts — in the form of those little bells that were hanging all over his hat and clothes. I wondered, though — what could the little man possibly be hiding?

“Baron,” I replied. “I’m flattered by your attention.”

The fact that I addressed him as a noble seemed to surprise him. The Duchess du Bellay told me that one of Carl III’s first acts as king had been to create his jester a baron. In other words, Kiko had another name: Armand de Lusignan.

“Bravo! You’ve managed to surprise me, chevalier.”

There was a great deal of white base covering the jester’s face, with its sharp cleft chin. His wide, thin-lipped mouth was sloppily painted with bright red lipstick; the lips were frowning on one side, smiling on the other. This makeup was actually an excellent form of protection. A mask, behind which it was difficult to detect a person’s true emotions.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Monsieur de Lusignan.”

“Oh!” The jester’s mask contorted into a frown. “I’ll ask you not to refer to me as such.”

“How shall I refer to you, then?”

“I suggest we address each other more informally.” The hunchback’s big mouth twisted into a stupid-looking smile, revealing a row of big, uneven teeth. “What do you say to that, Monsieur Bastard?”

The royal jester was feeling me out. Testing my patience and stamina. If this were any other baron, I’d have been obligated to challenge him to a duel, but the man before me was the royal jester, whom only the king had the right to punish.

“As you wish, Monsieur Jester,” I replied calmly.

“Bravo!” Kiko applauded with excessive theatricality. “I’m definitely starting to like you. So — what’s happened to bring you to this depressing old place? Everyone knows that the west wing of the palace is the most boring of them all.”

“I was summoned for a meeting with Lambert de Courtenay today.”

“Are you sure?” The jester’s charcoal-caked eyebrows shot up onto his forehead. “As far as I know, the royal secretary is outside the city at the moment, in his villa. Forgive me for the extraneous detail, but he’s being pampered by a new lover! If you don’t believe me, ask his assistants... They know everything. Haha!”

“So I’m sitting here for nothing,” I said, taking a step toward the exit. “But I thank you for saving me some time.”

“Monsieur Bastard, don’t rush off just yet!” Kiko stopped me. “Since you’re here, what say we take a walk around the garden? I want to hear all the details of your adventures up north with my own ears.”

“Well, Monsieur Jester,” I chuckled. “It’s a tempting proposal. I suppose I could... But on one condition. I’d like you to answer a question for me.”

“I’m all ears!” Kiko rubbed his palms together gleefully. “I love it when people stipulate conditions. What would you like to ask?”

“Why do you need that big spook?”

It seemed like I had surprised him again. He stared at me for a second, bewildered, and then glanced down at his absurd, ladle-sized utensil and burst into loud laughter.

After laughing for a little while, the jester wiped away tears (smearing charcoal and white base together as he did so) and replied:

“Once upon a time, His Majesty punished some of my antics by ordering me to try all his dishes before his tasters did. This ended, however, when I started to test them with this spoon here.”

I replied with a restrained smile. Smart.

“Have I satisfied your condition, Monsieur Bastard?” Kiko asked sarcastically.

“Fully, Monsieur Jester,” I chuckled.

“Well then, I propose that we leave this depressing place immediately!” He exclaimed as he took off for the exit at a quick pace. “You simply must tell me everything!”

* * *

Herouxville. Old Capital

The castle of Frederic de Moati, grand master of the Knightly Order of the Gray Rock

When the door to the grand master’s office opened and its owner, Frederic de Moati, strode in, the elder knight Theodore de la Roche sank down to one knee and bent his head toward the floor.

“Brother Theodore,” the master greeted him in a cold voice. “I hope that you have a very good reason for tearing me away from my extremely important business.”

Frederic de Moati was on edge. Not only had Carl III claimed all the prisoners from the werewolves’ den for himself after the assault; he then also decided to “shake down” the people who did his dirty work for him. As such, all the documents taken from old Brima’s lair suddenly vanished, along with the entire treasury. After all, he’d have known that the wolves hadn’t taken anything with them beforehand; the pack mother herself was traveling extremely light at the time of her death. Somehow, in some way that was completely baffling to the grand master, the king managed to clear out the treasury right under his warriors’ noses.

“Look at this, Your Excellency,” said the elder knight as he rose forward slightly from his chair and laid several crossbow bolts on the table in front of the master.

“What are these?” Frederic de Moati was annoyed.

“These are the crossbow bolts that we pulled from the bodies of Brima and her children,” Theodore replied.

“I still don’t understand, Brother Theodore!” The master was losing patience. “Try to explain yourself more clearly.”

“After discovering the underground passage, I ordered the brothers to spread out and seal the block,” the elder knight started to explain. “The fugitives were already wounded by the time we surrounded them. At first, I thought it was our own crossbowmen, but when I examined these bolts, I concluded that someone else must have taken part in the assault as well. And — “

The grand master raised his hand to silence Theodore, and then finished his sentence for him.

“Some mysterious archers, working unnoticed right beneath your noses, bought you some time...”

Theodore de la Roche didn’t respond. What could he say? The master was right. Everything pointed to the fact that both he and his brother knights had been used to further someone else’s personal goals. The worst thing about it was that the whole city would almost certainly know about it by now.

For a while, the grandmaster stared out the window onto the garden outside, deep in thought. Then he turned and looked the elder knight firmly in the eyes. To Theodore’s considerable surprise, there was a satisfied smile on Frederic de Moati’s face:

“So we’ve got a tail. Find me those archers, brother Theodore, and bring them to me. You realize, of course, that this is a matter of honor for our order?”

Without a word, Theodore de la Roche thumped a fist against his chest and walked out of the grand master’s office. He would turn the city upside down if necessary, but he was going to find the insolent strangers who dared make fools of him and his fellow knights.