Last Life

Book 7: Chapter 18

Vestonia

Outskirts of Herouxville

The hunting lodge of Carl III

AS HE WALKED DOWN the long hallways of the King’s hunting lodge, Lord Gray tried his best to adjust his campaign clothing to make it look at least halfway presentable. He knew, of course, that any attempt to do so was doomed to failure. The dust, the mud, and the blood seemed to have soaked their way into the fabric that had already stunk of horse sweat and campfire smoke even before the top-speed journey back to the capital.

He hadn’t been allowed to change his clothes before the audience with His Majesty, either. Marcel de Gaben, the First Shadow of Carl III, had brought ten warriors from the Royal Guard to meet Lord Gray and his people before they even reached the capital.

In his usual laconic manner, Carl’s morose-looking senior bodyguard had informed Lord Gray that the King wished to see him immediately. The fact that the guardsmen had immediately fanned out into a box formation around the trio of strykers suggested that Marcel wouldn’t be taking “no” for an answer.

Lord Gray had often wondered to himself which of them would win if he ever found himself in a duel with Marcel. Lord Gray had no doubt that Marcel de Gaben was an avant, although he had never actually seen him demonstrate what he was capable of.

The King’s bodyguard never participated in tournaments, nor did he ever draw his sword unless there was a need for it. And yet nobody at court had the slightest doubt that the man was one of the most dangerous and gifted people in the country. Therefore, when he and the other Shadows swooped out to surround Lord Gray and his strykers, Gray understood immediately that neither he individually, nor the three of them as a group, had anything to gain by making a confrontation out of it.

The halls of the castle were already familiar to Lord Gray. He had often been a guest there during royal hunts. Now, however, as he walked down the hall without his armor (which Marcel had requested him to remove) and his loyal strykers, surrounded by a dozen formidable combat mages, he realized something: a single step out of place, a single sudden move, and the King’s men would throw themselves on him without a second thought. And he wouldn’t last long against all those strykers. At best, he might survive for as long as his bruts did (bruts that Renard had given him).

Under different circumstances, such strict requirements from the King’s bodyguards would have outraged and offended Lord Gray. After everything he had been through, however, he was actually very grateful for Marcel de Gaben’s caution, and relieved to see that (apparently, at least) he never let his guard down for so much as a single second.

Lord Gray often thought about the last conversation he had with Maximillian before he left, and he was now more firmly convinced than ever that the precociously-wise young man had been right about everything.

All these precautions on the part of the royal bodyguards, all the tension... Everything suggested that Carl III wasn’t doing well at all.

On the journey north, he had crossed paths with some noble acquaintances who had left Herouxville along with their families. They had shuttered their capital-city mansions and returned to their ancestral lands, where they were hoping to wait out the coming storm.

Nobody seemed to doubt that the King would soon be dead. In fact, they were speaking of it quite openly. Everyone was waiting to see what the coming conflict between the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy would bring, as well as how Prince Heinrich’s involvement would affect the situation. With the main power players out of the capital, the Prince had started to accumulate power and influence once again.

Further, Lord Gray was extremely surprised at how confident his noble acquaintances seemed to be about the military situation — they all seemed utterly certain that the Dukes’ army would defeat that of the Golden Lion. How blind they all were! After seeing the legions lose two battles against the Atalians, Lord Gray knew that the Vestonians had something far more menacing to fear than political intrigues!

After passing by the hall of weapons and armor, which previous Kings of Vestonia had begun to assemble centuries before and to which (compelled by family tradition) Carl III continued to add, Lord Gray followed an experienced footman toward the staircase that led up to the second floor, where the King’s personal apartments were located.

Passing by several more sentries, all armed to the teeth, their procession finally came to a stop outside a wide pair of doors embossed with Shadow steel. Lord Gray had never been to this part of the castle before, but he tried not to turn his head too much; he didn’t want to make his guards nervous.

The footman ducked quickly into the half-open door; then, a few moments later, he came back out, accompanied by another servant.

Recognizing Lord Gray immediately, the latter bowed deferentially and greeted the stryker in a quiet voice:

“His Majesty has been expecting you for some time, Monsieur.”

Lord Gray unbuttoned his cloak, took off his hat, and handed them both to the footman. Then, with another frown, he glanced quickly down at his dirty clothes and boots. With a quick, mildly-reproachful glance at Marcel de Gaben (who had forced him to appear before the King in such a shabby state), he shook his head, then stepped through the half-open door.

The first thing that struck him when he entered His Majesty’s apartments was the unpleasant heat and stuffiness. His forehead and back immediately broke out in a sticky sweat. Lord Gray tried very hard not to think about the smells that were probably wafting off his own body and clothes after his week-long marathon ride.

Inside the King’s bedroom, the atmosphere was dark and gloomy. The only source of illumination in the room was a fireplace, which was also giving off an immense amount of heat.

For a stryker, of course — especially one at Lord Gray’s level — darkness wasn’t really a problem anyway. His magic-altered eyes could see in total darkness pretty easily.

He spotted the King’s reclined figure immediately, lying on a huge, wide bed. On a chair near the head of the bed sat a thin, haggard-looking healer with drawn, exhausted features and big dark circles beneath his eyes. It seemed that the disease wasn’t just sucking the energy out of Carl’s body, but also those of his healers, who were forced to share precious energy with their royal patient every few minutes.

The healer didn’t react to Lord Gray’s entrance at all. In fact, he didn’t even seem to recognize him, although they happened to know each other well. Apparently, the only thing the healer could think about was the idea of passing out into a long, blissful sleep.

Lord Gray slid his gaze across the King’s bed and the healer beside it, then turned his head toward the two armchairs by the fireplace, where he immediately found who he was looking for.

Kiko was sitting in one of the chairs, holding a silver cube in his hand and kicking his short legs back and forth in a ridiculous-looking way. He had a big smile on his face as he watched Lord Gray look around. He seemed to have guessed who the stryker was looking for.

“Greetings, Monsieur!” Kiko exclaimed.

Raising a wineglass to the avant in salutation, the jester deftly jumped off the armchair onto a furry carpet made from some sort of Shadow beast’s hide.

“Judging by your appearance, the road from Bergonia wasn’t an easy one.”

“I hope His Majesty will forgive my appearance.” Lord Gray bowed in the direction of the royal bed; amidst all the pillows and blankets, it was hard even for Lord Gray to make out the King’s face. “I came as quickly as I could, in order to deliver these papers to you.”

With that, Lord Gray pulled several scrolls out of his travel bag (which the bodyguards had allowed him to bring in after thoroughly examining its contents).

Kiko livened up immediately. He quickly set his cube down on an end table and snapped the scrolls out of the stryker’s hands. Lord Gray permitted himself a small smile. The jester was obviously on edge, and Lord Gray could understand why.

In fact, not even the lowliest vagrant in the poorest quarter of the city would have been in any doubt about the fact that the despised hunchback would be first up against the wall in the bloodletting that would inevitably follow the King’s death. He had simply angered too many influential people. That said, Lord Gray’s own relationship with the royal jester wasn’t like that of most other high-placed people in Vestonia — it was neutral, rather than friendly, but at the same time it wasn’t a tense relationship at all. Or at least that’s how it always seemed to Lord Gray. After all, nobody could really say with confidence that they knew what kind of crazy thoughts might be swimming around in the cunning, devious little creature’s mind.

Kiko lumbered over to the King’s bedside, unrolled the scroll from Marshal de Clairmont, and began to read it out loud to Carl in a hushed voice. It didn’t escape Lord Gray’s attention that the jester was able to read perfectly well, despite the extremely poor lighting in the room; more confirmation, if such was needed, of Lord Gray’s suspicion that Kiko secretly numbered among the gifted.

After the Marshal’s scroll, the jester unrolled the message from Margrave de Valier and read it equally quickly. When it came to the third scroll, which contained the account of everything that had happened with the Margrave and his army, Kiko started reading a little more slowly.

As the jester read on and on, Lord Gray could see a triumphant smile growing wider and wider across his face. After he finished reading, Lord Gray heard the King’s weak voice (which somehow hadn’t lost any of its usual resolute confidence).

“Right again, you clever bastard,” said Carl in a hoarse, mocking croak. “Sending Renard there wasn’t such a bad idea.”

“Not such a bad idea — that’s all I get?” The jester retorted with a smile. “I think “genius idea” would be more accurate!”

“You dare correct your King?” Carl asked sarcastically. “One snap of my fingers, and your imbecile head will fly off those shoulders. All my bodyguards are thoroughly sick of you by now. I’m sure they’d be happy to carry out that particular order.”

“But then who’d be here to make you laugh and entertain you, Your Majesty?” The jester asked with a note of feigned offense in his voice.

“Don’t worry about that,” chuckled the King. “There’s no shortage of bumbling idiots in this Kingdom of mine.”

“Oh! I certainly agree with you there, Your Majesty! Very well — what say I draw up a shortlist of candidates who could take my place? What do you think of... Oh, I don’t know, Frederic de Moati? I think the grand master of the Order of the Gray Rock would find my cap to be a nice fit for a head like his. An idiot who could get completely blindsided by a conspiracy among his own knights, right under his nose? THAT’S a rare find indeed.”

“And you think that Frederic will be able to handle your responsibilities after his little meeting with Maitre Sarsonne?” The King asked, sounding skeptical.

Lord Gray twitched involuntarily at the mention of the royal executioner. If there had been some sort of agreed-upon system for classifying the most hated and despised people in the court of Carl III, Maitre Sarsonne, the royal executioner, would probably have come in second — right behind the royal jester.

And as in the case of the jester, Lord Gray had never had a conflict with Maitre Sarsonne either (who, by the way, was also gifted).

Somewhat surprisingly, perhaps, the royal executioner wasn’t at all prone to getting into conflicts with anybody. Looking at the man, who had a kind, unassuming, even somewhat attractive character and who gave generously to temple almshouses, you would never have guessed that he was the same man who might have (for example) broken someone on the wheel, or boiled them alive, just the day before.

The latter punishment, by the way, had been invented by Carl’s grandfather specifically for counterfeiters. Lord Gray had witnessed such an execution with his own eyes. And it wasn’t the action itself, or the shrieks of the dying men, that had shocked him most — it was the expression on Maitre Sarsonne’s face. He was businesslike, emotionless, even a little bit pensive. You might have thought he was a woodcarver, working away on yet another intricate flourish.

And now the grand master of the Stone Knights had been turned over to this man’s tender mercies...

Renard’s little ruse — namely, publicizing the results of his interrogations of the Frozen Spears who had tried to kill him — had worked like a charm. The Amber Guild’s field attache had quickly sent a report to her own grand master, who in turn had whirled around as fast as he could and reported the Stone Knights’ treachery to Carl.

“Édouard.” The sound of the King’s hoarse voice made Lord Gray twitch slightly, and brought him out of his trance. “No need to stand there like a statue all day. Come closer, my friend.”

Lord Gray took a few steps forward and bent down on one knee before the King’s bed. From there, he could get a better look at Carl’s face. And when he did, he had difficulty concealing his concern.

Once again, Renard was right: exactly the same symptoms as Marshal de Clairmont. True, the King’s condition was considerably better than the Marshal’s had been. The work of the most powerful healers in the Kingdom had certainly helped. Even so, however, the King had lost an alarming amount of weight. His facial features were sharper, and his skin had started to take on a slight gray hue. Judging by the fact that the King was receiving him while lying in bed, he was probably unable to walk.

“Your Majesty.” With a frown, Lord Gray began to repeat his earlier apology. “Please forgive my appearance... I’ve just — “

“Don’t,” the King said with a feeble wave of his hand. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re a faithful, devoted servant, and you’ve done your duty. Instead, why don’t you tell me about everything that’s happened with my legions? How did it come to pass that a victorious march suddenly turned into a disgraceful rout?”

Lord Gray noticed a flicker of the familiar fire of rage in the King’s eyes. Therefore, he chose every word with extreme caution as he began his story.

After a little while, when Lord Gray reached the part about the Count d’Angland’s betrayal, the King interrupted Lord Gray and turned an inquiring eye to Kiko, who was sitting on the floor next to the bed.

“The Count d’Angland and several other nobles received written permission to travel to the Golden Lion with ransom money for those nobles’ sons, who were all taken prisoner by the Atalians during His Highness Prince Heinrich’s campaign,” the jester reported in a monotonous voice.

“Who signed those permission documents?” The King’s eyes narrowed. “Me, or the Chancellor?”

“You did, Your Majesty,” the jester sighed.

Lord Gray knew that for just a moment, the Chancellor of Vestonia’s life had hung by a thread.

“Well, so much the worse for that traitor,” said the King; he sounded calm, but that just made his conclusion all the more chilling.

Lord Gray didn’t need to be told what would happen to d’Angland’s family — or, for that matter, to his ancestral lands. And actually, he didn’t feel bad for the scoundrel at all.

“You have my full attention, my friend,” said the King as he turned back to Lord Gray. The latter continued his story.

This time, nobody interrupted Lord Gray again until the part where he and his people left the Margrave de Valier’s camp on their journey north to the capital.

For a little while, the King lay there in silence, with his eyes closed. He was obviously trying to make sense of everything he had heard.

“What else can you tell me about this new Margrave de Valier?” He finally asked; when he did, he opened his eyes and locked them immediately on Lord Gray.

“I’m certain that his devotion to Your Majesty is beyond question,” Lord Gray replied firmly and concisely. “It’s entirely thanks to him that me and my people managed to make it to the capital so quickly.”

“What’s that?” The King’s eyes darted down to the dark-orange streak on Lord Gray’s right hand sleeve. “Is that blood? Are you hurt?”

“No, Your Majesty,” the stryker shook his head. “It’s just paint.”

“Paint?” The jester asked with surprise as he stared intently at the little mark. “You took a quick break for arts and crafts on your way back to the capital?”

The King raised a hand and slapped the jester on the back of the head. The slap was slow and weak, but Kiko didn’t even think of dodging it. On the contrary — he shook his head ever so slightly to make the bells on his hat ring a little louder. The result was a very convincing-sounding slap.

Kiko glanced at Lord Gray with a lightning-quick wink; he knew the stryker had spotted the jester’s little piece of cunning.

“So what did you dirty up your own sleeve for?” The King asked, clenching and relaxing the fingers of his right hand as he did so.

The look of discomfort on his face suggested that even that weak little slap had inflicted some pain.

“To travel the Imperial track without obstruction,” replied Lord Gray.

The King and the jester exchanged looks of surprise.

“Explain, Monsieur,” said Carl.

“This little mark has become the Margrave de Valier’s symbol,” replied Lord Gray. “Every soldier in his army has one on their armor and clothing.”

“And what does it symbolize?”

“As it was explained to me, it’s a fox’s tail,” Lord Gray shrugged, noticing with surprise that the King’s face seemed to darken as he listened to his stryker’s retelling.

“So who convinced you to sport this symbol on your sleeve, then?” The King croaked. “Surely it must have been the Margrave de Valier himself?”

“No,” Lord Gray shook his head. “In fact, the Margrave rather frowns on such symbols — so much so that he insisted on giving me an official safe conduct with his signature, instead of relying on the insignia alone. As for the marks themselves... He actually complained to me about them. The Margrave has ordered his people to remove the marks from their armor on numerous occasions, without much success. They assure him it’s merely a streak of paint, nothing more. That said, these marks always prompt a favorable reception from locals in the area, and several units of werewolves let us pass down the Imperial track unmolested as soon as they saw the marks on our sleeves.”

“Truly invaluable information for any spies,” the jester quipped.

“I suspect that’s exactly why the Margrave de Valier was against these marks in the first place,” Lord Gray agreed. “Although in fairness to his men, I should point out that no werewolf would be fooled by such a simple ruse.”

“So the entire Imperial track is under our control?” The King inquired.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replied Lord Gray. “And your banners are hanging all along its length. In every battle he’s fought, the Margrave de Valier has insisted that your personal standard bearers take precedence.”

Lord Gray saw the King’s face light up. Carl was obviously pleased with his Margrave.

“This boy turned out to be much more useful than I expected,” he noted aloud. “It’s a shame that we still haven’t heard anything about how the battle with the Duke di Spinola’s forces ended...”

“You mean you still haven’t heard?” Lord Gray was surprised as he looked at the tense faces of the King, the jester, and the healer (who, as if having awoken from a deep sleep, was also listening to the stryker’s story with avid attention).

“News of the Duke di Spinola’s defeat reached me in Gondreville,” Lord Gray continued, noting the stunned looks on the faces of his listeners. “The minstrels have already dubbed it the Battle of the Golden Swords. I was told that several hundred Atalian noblemen fell in the battle, while the Margrave’s own losses were negligible.”

The King turned his head and glanced at the jester, who had a big, cunning smile on his face.

“Young Renard never ceases to surprise me. How much do I owe you now?”

With a huge smile, Kiko gleefully began to rub his little hands together.

“Quite a bit, Your Majesty... Quite a bit indeed...”

“You’ll bankrupt me before long, you little bastard!” The King grumbled as he adjusted himself in his bed.

Despite his grumpy tone, Lord Gray knew the King quite well, and he could see that Carl — who, after all, respected martial valor more than anything else in the world — was extremely happy with the news.

It took all of Lord Gray’s restraint to keep from getting carried away. Oh, how he would have liked to tell the King that this “young Renard” was actually an Absolute! After all, the last known Absolute (the founder of the Blades of Dusk mercenary guild) had lived two centuries before. Lord Gray kept his silence, however, because he had given Maximillian his word.

“I can’t even imagine what he’s going to surprise me with next time,” said the King.

“Given that Your Majesty hadn’t yet been informed of the battle’s outcome, I should also inform Your Majesty that the Margrave de Valier made a prisoner of Prince Adrian, the heir to the Atalian Throne...”

A deathly silence fell over the room as Lord Gray finished speaking; an instant later, that silence was broken by the King collapsing into a fit of loud, dry coughing that made his eyes bulge; his jester, meanwhile, had fallen onto his back, laughing hysterically and kicking his short, bent legs up into the air.

“Bring me ink and paper, you idiot!” The King snarled as soon as he finished coughing; as the jester leapt up off the floor to carry out His Majesty’s order, the King turned to address Lord Gray again:

“Monsieur, I regret to tell you that you’re going to have to turn around and go straight back to Bergonia, but I don’t know who else I could possibly trust to take care of this task. You must get this letter to the Margrave de Valier as quickly as possible...”