Last Life

Book 5: Chapter 2

FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, my castle looked less like a fox’s den and more like a disturbed anthill. With the unexpected gift of about two dozen extra workers, and taking advantage of the spring warmth, Marc Ducos launched into the task of getting my manor into a halfway-decent state.

Many tasks had accumulated during the winter. For example, all the rooms and storage spaces needed to be aired out, the chimneys needed sweeping, the whitewash needed a touchup, the floors needed lacquering, the garden needed to be brought under control, and of course the sewage system needed to be cleaned out. The last task was being conducted under the vigilant eye of Bruno Foulon.

For the first few days, I noticed the senior aide to the count’s steward casting furtive glances full of hope and longing toward the main gates of the castle. Apparently, he was still hoping that the Count de Gramont would come swooping in at the head of his resplendent army of retainers to punish the errant bastard for his presumptive insolence. And rescue his loyal servant in the process, of course.

But with every day that passed, the hope grew dimmer in Bruno’s eyes until finally, by the end of the week, it was gone — nobody from my dear little family disturbed me the entire time.

And there was a good reason for that. On the day after my arrival, I got a letter from Valerie, in which she sounded genuinely joyful at my return and in which she described in detail how the Countess de Gramont had launched into hysterics upon hearing of the “audacious and outrageous antics of that despicable bastard.”

According to the Chapter, the only thing that “saved me from inevitable punishment for my unspeakable villany” was the absence of the head of the family, who was expected to return to Herouxville by the end of the month. In other words, until my uncle’s return my aunt and I would be putting our little “military exercises” on pause.

Although actually, they might be enough to make Heinrich de Gramont come back ahead of schedule — his wife had written a thunderous letter to him in which she regaled her husband with tales of what happened and described all the sins of the “horrible bastard” in detail.

Valerie knew about the contents of the letter because the countess gathered all her children and nieces together to read it aloud to them before sending it. Basically, Catherine de Gramont was seriously expecting her letter to morph into some kind of punishment for the “disobedient bastard.”

At the end of the letter, Valerie thanked me for the pleasure she’d gotten from watching it all; basically, for yet again disturbing the stinking swamp and its biggest toad, Catherine de Gramont. Besides that, my sister expressed some worry about what fate might have in store for me, and that they might send me into exile again.

I didn’t doubt for a second that my little sister’s worries were genuine. After all, it wasn’t me she was worried about first and foremost — it was herself. I didn’t doubt that for a second either. An increase in my status would bring positive effects for her, too.

In every letter, Valerie tried as skillfully as she could (or so it must have seemed to her) to manipulate my feelings and motivate me to greater accomplishments in order to solidify my standing in high society.

Heh... A couple letters like that would have made the old Max try to move mountains, just to justify the hopes his loving little sister placed in him.

After all, she was “praying day and night for his welfare” and “believed in a bright future for him at His Majesty’ court.” And she also “humbly hoped that her beloved brother, her only defender, wouldn’t forget about his loving sister.” There wasn’t a word about Nadine or Patricia in any of this. It seemed that for Valerie, her older sisters didn’t even exist anymore.

In my letters back, I did my best to tactfully stoke Valerie’s belief in her own significance. It was to my advantage to do so. This would help lower her guard and show her that we were really on the same side. Basically, I figured it was best for her to believe her cunning ploy was working, and that her trusting, gullible brother was faithfully following all her recommendations.

As for my uncle and his reaction to what I had done... I have to say, I was waiting impatiently for him to make his move. My act of resistance was a test — it was time to see how tough the head of this family really was. Time for him to show what he was made of. Weakness or strength — either result would work for me. I needed to know who I was dealing with.

In any case, my relatives would need to understand that my property and my people were off limits. Aggression toward me, and trespassing on my property, would meet with a harsh response. And the law of the land was on my side.

Look at Lord Gray — ignoring the king’s order, he returned to his lands and restored order there with an iron hand. Not only did he collect a huge force and run through the offender’s lands like a fiery tornado (for which, by the way, he received not a word of rebuke). The Count de Blois actually had to flee to the capital and put himself under the protection of the king.

And if the rumors among the courtiers were to be believed, His Majesty not only neglected to punish the strongest stryker for taking the law into his own hands — it seemed likely that he was going to force de Blois to sign a peace agreement with Lord Gray whose terms would probably see the count surrendering part of his landholdings to the stryker. And something told me that de Blois would end up swallowing his pride and agreeing, so as not to lose everything.

By the way — as far as I could see, nothing during the development of the whole affair seemed to have surprised any of the power players in this world. Quite the contrary, in fact. It was all perfectly in keeping with the spirit of the times. The strong assumed power over the weak. And it seemed like the king even encouraged it to some extent.

Admittedly, I made the intuitive assumption that Carl III would one day remind Lord Gray of this little episode of “vigilantism” and call on him to return the favor. It simply wasn’t the time for a conflict with a loyal avant, who happened to have several powerful medius and experts in his armed retinue. Summer was coming, and soon it would be time for military campaigns against the Atalians. Not to mention the king’s wounding, which worried not only the dukes but the common people as well...

Even before we got back home, I learned on the road that the king made an appearance at the festival of some saint or other in order to dispel the rumors surrounding his wound, each of which was more vague and dubious than the last.

For this reason, Carl III stood for almost a full hour on the balcony of his palace, accompanied by his most influential courtiers (and probably supported by the best healers in the kingdom), waving occasionally to the ecstatic crowd as they celebrated and toasted His Majesty’s health.

Marc Ducos later told me that he was there that day, and saw His Majesty with his own eyes. My butler was genuinely inspired by the manliness and calm of his king, as was everyone else who was there on the square that day. And there were several thousand of them.

Carl even gave a fiery, piercing speech about the threat facing us all from the despicable Atalian enemy. He called on his subjects to be bold and united at this difficult time.

Marc told me that the ruler’s speech lit a decisive fire in many of the people there and moved them to fight for their land and their loved ones. Many people wept as they were overcome with emotion, and when several hundred barrels of fine ale were carted out into the square, the “appearance of the king before his people” turned into a real holiday that lasted several days in a row. Listening to Marc’s rapturous story that day, I once again realized just how similar our worlds really were.

Despite the king and his advisors trying to stay one step ahead of the rumors and show the unwashed masses that everything in the kingdom was fine and dandy, my senses were suggesting the opposite. Unless my own eyes and ears (along with reports from Tomcat, my “infobot” in Sardent) were deceiving me, clouds of change were gathering above Vestonia.

Tomcat communicated in scrupulous detail how prices for provisions, weapons, cloth, beasts of burden, and especially slaves were skyrocketing. As for that last item, the most valuable slaves on the market at the moment were strong, healthy men, preferably ones with fighting experience.

Besides that, Sardent was seeing mercenary units, both large and small, pouring in from the free counties and baronies on their way further into Vestonia. There were an especially large number of adventure-seekers coming from the Foggy Isles.

The civil wars there had quieted down a little bit as of late, so the dogs of war were making their way to the mainland in search of gold and plunder, which would definitely be available if the dukes decided to move. By the way, this also explained how Lord Gray suddenly acquired so many strykers in his retinue. He simply put out a call to his countrymen.

To systematize all the information I was getting, I set up a huge wooden shield on the wall of my basement, hammered together from several planks of wood. In the end, it looked something like a classroom blackboard, to which I affixed strips of fabric in a three-color scheme representing the three princely parties. Within this, I then made indicators for each of the powerful players in Vestonia, as well as in the rest of Mainland.

As I put the whole layout together, I made little drawings, portraits of several of the key figures, which I then tacked up onto the board. These portraits were connected by little threads to show the connections between the people they depicted. I also tacked up little notes and explanations, as well as reminders to myself for future use. As I worked, my graphic depiction of the political situation began to display new details.

For example, as I put all the pieces in place, I began to realize that Prince Louis wasn’t actually in such a bad position after all (thanks in part to my help, of course). With the support of Princess Astrid and her dear old dad, there was every chance that the little pipsqueak son of Carl III would eventually be able to headbutt his way onto the Vestonian throne. As soon as Sharptooth restored order in Northland, his whole army would be at the disposal of the “green” prince.

But Astrid understood that if she crossed the Vestonian border at the head of a foreign army, the Vestonians would perceive her as an invader. The campaign to put — or perhaps more diplomatically, “return” — Prince Louis to the throne would have to happen under the banners of the native nobility.

For that reason, while the Konung was forcing the north into submission with fire and sword, Astrid would be doing everything she could to return the “green” parties erstwhile allies to their former allegiance.

The main downside of this whole combination was the fact that unlike his bride-to-be, Prince Louis didn’t really have much interest in the crown of Vestonia. And to be honest, the role of ruler didn’t suit him very well. Although looking at the issue in a wider sense, this kind of king — one who could be manipulated — would be extremely convenient for Astrid and her father.

Consider Prince Philippe, for example, who was completely under the control of the Duke de Bauffremont. I couldn’t even imagine how Blanca de Gondy would ever be able to shove the current Queen’s brother aside. It certainly didn’t seem like either she or her father could do it peacefully. My assumption was that if the country ended up erupting in flames, it would be because of a confrontation between those two dukes.

And then of course there was Prince Heinrich, who was the polar opposite of both his brothers. This prince was the one who really wanted to try his father’s crown on for size. At the very least, he was the only one who personally did a lot to work toward his own goal.

After the king got wounded, Heinrich basically took command of the Vestonian army, which was in Bergonia at the time, and if the Herouxville rumor mill could be believed, the king’s middle son had quite a talent for command.

The prince gave an excellent account of himself in two battles, which (if truth be told) were really no more than skirmishes, but all these victories were trotted out before society as grand, heroic deeds. When Heinrich returned to Herouxville about a month ago, he was given a hero’s welcome.

So now, while the Vestonian army froze its ass off in the Gray Foothills, the most northerly and sparsely-settled region of Bergonia, the hero-prince and his generals glittered at every ball in the capital.

Actually, though, the Atalians were in even worse shape. I learned this from my broker, Monsieur Beron, whom I had asked Kevin to invite for lunch a few days before.

While Bergonia was allied to Vestonia, Alfonso the Fifth — known as “the Honorable” — was on enemy territory, taking heavy losses from attacks by the Bergonians, whose forces split up into small flying columns that started raiding Atalian supply chains.

An epidemic had erupted in the Atalian ranks, which shortly led to a state of near-mutiny. The discontent in the army was eventually suppressed, but only thanks to intervention by the Knights of the Order of the Scarlet Shield. I was afraid to even imagine what they must have asked for in compensation for their services.

Besides that, in order to assuage the discontent among his loyal courtiers, King Alfonso’s advisers convinced him to issue an ordinance proclaiming that all promissory notes issued to Astlandic businesses by Atalian noblemen were henceforth null and void. Astlandic bankers were forbidden from demanding payment for those notes, and Atalian noblemen were forbidden from issuing such payment.

Over lunch, Monsieur Beron explained to me in animated detail how Astlandic bankers began a mass exodus from Atalia, bringing their capital with them, along with everything their clients had put up as collateral for their loans.

Most of these bankers then chose Vestonia as their next port of call. The Monsieurs Craonne, naturally, were less than excited at this news, since the influx of competitors meant a curtailing of their ability to indulge Prince Heinrich’s flights of fancy.

By the way — in light of the developing situation in Northland, those of the Vestonian nobility who held lands in the north but supported the “blue” prince might well become inclined to turn their attention to the northern princess, who could promise peace for their lands. If everything worked out for Astrid, the Vintervalders would become eternal allies to Vestonia. My guess was that Astrid had already sent couriers to those barons and counts.

Overall, the country seemed to be on the verge of changes. The situation was becoming more heated by the day. And if you ask me, the whole mess was probably the brainchild of Carl III himself. Why he might have wanted to do so was still a mystery to me, but my feeling was that the king had some kind of ace up his sleeve.

I stood in front of the board, staring pensively at my complex diagram. The whole time, I kept winding a lilac ribbon around the index finger of my right hand, a ribbon given to me by Princess Adèle.

I reached out for a sheet of paper and a piece of coal, and then did a quick sketch of Princess Adèle’s face from memory. I lifted the drawing up, cocked my head to the side a little bit, and looked closely at it. Looks pretty good, I thought... Picking a pin up off the table, I sank it into the portrait of the king’s granddaughter, thereby affixing the picture to a corner of the board, and then drew a little question mark next to it...

I chuckled as I cleaned the black dust off my fingers. Who’d have thought I would end up drawing so much? And doing such a good job of it, too...

Besides knowledge of foreign languages, I inherited something else from Max. It turned out that the previous inhabitant of this body spent a lot of time drawing as a child, and that he was actually really good at it.

Later in life, of course, he abandoned the hobby. According to Bertrand, Max came to consider such a pastime to be beneath the dignity of a real man. Admittedly, I couldn’t really understand how he thought that composing mediocre poetry was somehow more dignified, but I had long ago given up on trying to understand the logic in my old body double’s actions.

My new skill had emerged not long before, during one of the rest stops on our journey south. Seemingly out of nowhere, I — a man who had never really drawn much before — suddenly felt an urge to take up some charcoal and a piece of paper and draw Aelira’s face.

At the time, the northern woman’s snow-white hair was swaying enchantingly in the heat generated by our campfire. She was normally so put-together and stern, but on that day she seemed somehow more relaxed and open.

Sparks of joviality flickered in her wide-open eyes, and her thick hair formed a tight frame around her narrow face. That, together with her dreamy smile, created the impression that it wasn’t a fearsome she-wolf shapeshifter sitting at the fire, but a normal human woman — maybe even someone with a family and a home of her own.

I remembered that when I finished my little sketch and showed it to Aelira, she stared at it for some time, seemingly spellbound. When she looked up at me again, there were tears in the corners of her eyes.

It turned out that what she saw in my drawing wasn’t herself — it was her mother, who died when Aelira was still a little kid, and who — unlike her strict father and shrill, angry stepmother — was always kind and affectionate toward her. As the years passed by, her mother’s face gradually faded from memory, leaving only a dim recollection behind. But then, completely unexpectedly (both for Aelira and myself, mind you), I managed to replicate her image.

I remember how, as Sigurd and the others looked on with surprise, Aelira stood up from her seat, walked over to me in silence, and kissed me on the cheek. Then, still silent, she carefully pressed the drawing to her heart and walked off toward the wagons.

Sigurd watched his wife walk off with evident concern, and was about to go follow her, but Bertrand gently stopped him, silently telling him that it would be best to leave the woman alone with her memories for the time being.

And I also remember how ever since that day, Verena, who saw it all happen, started looking at me with even more interest than before...

These contemplations were brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of footsteps upstairs. Someone was in my office.

“It’s your old servant,” the nisse mumbled as she sat at the table, carefully counting out golden coins before wiping them down and sorting them into piles based on their minting year. “He’s alone.”

I activated the entrance to the basement, and within a few seconds Bertrand appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

“The crew is ready, Your Worship,” he informed me, before looking askance at the red-haired raccoon who, with one squinted eye, was carefully examining a heavy gold thaler. The coin appeared huge and heavy in her tiny little paws.

None of my people knew about the fact that I had a nisse serving me. Once she had a sufficient amount of energy, she had no trouble at all hiding herself in my wagon without anybody noticing her. Even Aelira didn’t sense her.

I introduced Itta and Bertrand once we returned to the capital. To say that the old man was shocked would be far too much of an understatement. Which wasn’t surprising, of course, because for him, a nisse was something out of a fairytale.

Now, each was constantly keeping an eye on the other. And something told me that sooner or later, they’d find common ground.

“Okay,” I nodded, and got up to head off toward the stairs. As I was standing up, I heard Itta’s slightly worried voice behind me.

“Be careful, Master. You know what these people are like — take your eye off the ball for even a second, and you’ll be in debt to them up to your eyeballs.”

I just chuckled in reply and headed up the stairs. Today, my path would take me to Moneychangers’ Square, where I had seen some noblemens’ marks displayed on one of the columns. It was time to make contact with the underground — the real Herouxville.