Last Life

Book 8: Chapter 1

EARLY THAT MORNING, despite the misty cold and the drizzle falling gently from a slate-gray sky above, Gondreville’s main street leading out to the western gates was neither quiet nor empty. No matter which way you turned, you could hear the impatient whinnying of horses, the shouts of their drivers, the raucous laughter of soldiers and women, and lively, upbeat music.

The people of Gondreville were up to bid farewell to a big merchant caravan, which was setting off for Vestonia that morning. Many of the wagons, laden with trophies our men had taken in the battles with the Atalians, were headed to the markets of Herouxville, where they would no doubt turn a very solid profit for the speculators who had been following our army for months, buying the loot straight from the hands of our legionaries.

Actually, this was the second such caravan we had sent. The first had set off along the Royal track even before my departure from Romont (the capital of Bergonia). A large unit of Vestonian and Bergonian noblemen had been put in charge of that caravan to accompany Prince Philippe, who was personally under the protection of the King’s Shadows as well as Lord Gray and his squires.

Maybe it goes without saying that the Marquis de Gondy and his hangers-on took off alongside the King’s eldest son as well. The Duke de Bauffremont’s allies were quick to follow suit, although of course (for obvious reasons) they were in a much less advantageous position at the time.

As I was bidding farewell to Prince Philippe the day before their departure from Romont, I saw something interesting happen, which served as a nice illustration of an old saying that Vadoma was fond of repeating: “What’s true today will be long forgotten by tomorrow.”

It hadn’t been all that long since the day the Golden Lion and I exchanged Princes, but the disgraceful defeat of the Ducal army already seemed to have been forgotten, as had Prince Philippe’s cowardly flight from the field and subsequent capture by the enemy.

Among the noblemen who surrounded the King’s son, mentioning any of those subjects was considered very bad taste indeed. At the rate the story was changing, it seemed like it wouldn’t be long before the Prince became the hero of the Bergonian War — maybe even the conqueror of the Golden Lion.

My farewell with Philippe was cold and awkward. Despite the fact that I had been the one who set him free, the Prince was obviously afraid of me. And you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out why — one look at the sour expressions on the noble faces around him, as they watched us bidding each other goodbye, made it pretty clear who was filling his head with worries.

To be honest, though, I couldn’t have cared less about anybody in that whole mismanaged circus. Never for a moment had I expected Philippe to be grateful, especially since he didn’t actually decide anything in Vestonia’s political processes, and it certainly didn’t seem like that was about to change any time soon.

That said, if I ever DID need anything from the elder Prince, I had a few strings I could pull that would undoubtedly bend the incompetent young man’s ear. The lunari and I had taken advantage of a golden opportunity and slipped a few subtle ideas into Philippe’s head.

Where most of the Vestonian and Bergonian nobles were concerned, our time together didn’t end on the most pleasant note. Before their departure, anybody who had made use of my healers’ and medics’ services received a detailed bill, listing all services rendered and medicines provided, along with the total sum they now owed me for the same.

As a result, I had to spend a few days dealing with unpleasant visits from nobles who were outraged at this unexpected news. In fact, I had to teach a few of the hotheads some manners before it was all over. In the end, though, I left the capital of Bergonia with several hundred letters of surety and promissory notes tucked safely away in my wagons. Very few people were willing (or able) to pay their debts immediately.

My inner werefox was especially gleeful to see Étienne de Broglie’s hysterics when he came to complain about his bill. Which, by the way, was one of the heftiest of them all.

“This is highway robbery!” He shouted as he brandished the scrolls my messenger had brought him. “How am I to understand this?!”

Between his lips, which were blue with rage, his red eyes (whether from lack of sleep or excessive intake of wine, I couldn’t really tell), and his slightly-puffy, strawberry-colored face, I thought the Count might actually have a heart attack right there in my tent. Over the preceding months, I had come to the conclusion that this man’s most prominent defect was greed. So I had decided to hit him where it hurt most.

With his master the Duke de Bauffremont in captivity, and already in search of money to pay his ransom (a sum which, according to local custom, his vassals had an obligation to raise) the Count was going through... Well, let’s be charitable and call it “a difficult time.” And then I came along and threw fuel onto the fire with my bill.

“How else, my dear Count?” I asked with a look of confusion on my face. “Or did you assume that you had the right to empty my wagons and my stock of magical potions without any obligation to record what you were using or repay me for the supplies? To use the services of my healers on the same terms? To use my wagons to haul your personal effects?”

“But...” The Count’s jaw began to tremble. Little white spots of foam appeared at the corners of his lips. “The prices you’re charging are astronomical!”

I just shrugged.

“I disagree. At the moment, my magical potions are the best in Bergonia. I daresay they’re better than anything in Vestonia, too. The services and provisions you made such liberal use of on the march were also of the very highest quality. Where else would you have found any of this while we were on campaign? And while we’re on the subject, I feel the need to remind you that I never gave you permission to use any of these resources.”

“What are you implying?” The Count’s voice cracked. “Are you accusing me of thievery?”

“Please indulge me, my dear Count,” I said with an expression of feigned confusion. “How else would you like me to interpret your actions? First, you made extensive use of my property without getting my permission — or even bothering to inform me — and now you’re refusing even to pay for what you’ve used.”

Étienne de Broglie seemed to be literally choking on his own outrage, so I quickly finished the conversation for him.

“If you intend to continue speaking to me in this manner, I’m afraid this conversation will have to be continued in the presence of witnesses. At present, you seem highly agitated and unable to control yourself. At such moments, a person is liable to say something insulting — something that another might take more closely to heart than was intended. Things can quickly spiral out of control and lead to a duel. All too often, such affairs end with the loose-tongued party losing their head. You must admit, my dear Count, that in such cases neither party really has any interest in seeing things spiral out of control like that. Better to resolve things peacefully. That way, the former party need not come to a bad end, and the latter need not part with the considerable sum of money to which they’re entitled.”

Through it all, I maintained a calm, even lackadaisical, tone of voice as I stared firmly into the Count’s eyes. Judging by the numb expression on his face, mentioning a duel seemed to have cooled his ardor pretty effectively.

“I don’t have that much money at the moment,” the Count finally replied through gritted teeth. He sounded somewhat dazed. “Will you accept a promissory note?”

“Certainly. I’m willing to wait. But a 30% surcharge will apply in that case.”

The Count winced, but didn’t object. Any of the loan sharks among the camp followers would have charged him at least 50%. And he seemed to know it.

Right then and there, in the Count’s presence, one of my secretaries (a former assistant to my lawyer back in the capital) sat down and drew up the promissory note. I used magical ink, to the Count’s obvious displeasure. I would have loved to have used algae paper as well, of course. Part of the haul we had taken from the treasury of the Sapphire Citadel. For the time being, however, I decided it was best not to let anyone see that. Brown magical ink would do just fine.

As the Count de Broglie walked out of my tent, he shot a burning, hate-filled glare back at me, thinking I wouldn’t notice. Poor bastard, I thought. You don’t even know what else I have in store for you yet. This promissory note’s just the beginning... You should never have brought me a severed fox tail...

Unfortunately, I also have to point out here that when I had warned the Vestonian noblemen about serious consequences for anyone who decided to plunder any defenseless Bergonian villages amid the post-war chaos, not all of them took it very seriously.

Assuming that nobody was actually keeping an eye on what they were doing, some of these loose-cannon robber barons split up into small units and set off in search of “adventure.” And generally speaking, adventure found them much earlier than they expected. All these bands of marauders (which, of course, is exactly what they were) soon disappeared without a trace.

I have to give credit to the Marquis de Gondy and his lackeys here, though: none of them came to me with any questions about where their hotheaded comrades had disappeared to. True, after a certain point, whenever news came in that yet another Vestonian “unit” had disappeared during a raid, I started catching knowing glances from some of the people in the city. And while the aristocrats’ glances were usually full of loathing, the common people — especially the locals — tended to look at me with expressions of full approval on their faces.

Along with Prince Philippe went delegations from several of the larger Bergonian cities, who intended to present themselves before Carl III in the capital and officially swear fealty to him. Some other cities, however, had decided on a different path.

A few of the larger cities in Eastern Bergonia, which had barely been affected by the war at all, preferred freedom (with all its attendant risks) to dependence on the King of Vestonia. According to my sources, they had even gone so far as to send embassies to their neighbors in the lands of the Free Principalities and Baronies to the east, hoping to secure support from some of the rulers there.

I had no idea how that would work out for them, and it didn’t really concern me anyway. For my part, I was just glad that I hadn’t allowed anyone to talk me into taking charge of Bergonia myself. Had I done so, I would probably have been up to my elbows in blood out in Eastern Bergonia by that point, pacifying the petty rulers out there and spreading Carl III’s power by the sword. Which, of course, would merely have been the beginning...

No, thank you. I had no intention of getting involved in any such games. People like Charles de Rollen could take care of that — after all, he was the one whom the King had actually assigned to command the remaining legions. The Count was obviously itching to prove himself anyway. True, I wasn’t sure how successful he would be in that.

He was basically a commander-in-chief without an army. There was nobody to send out to Eastern Bergonia. His attempts to recruit mountain men and Bergonians from among my forces had failed. As soon as they learned what he was trying to recruit them for, most of them categorically refused to participate in what would, after all, essentially amount to the mass slaughter of their countrymen. At that point, the Count de Rolenne was about to try to resolve the issue by using me again, but I made my position extremely clear from the outset. I suspect that yet a messenger bird set off for Herouxville that day, carrying a complaint about me to the King.

So be it, I thought — let them complain. One bird more, one bird less... I was already used to seeing whole flocks of birds fly north after every conflict with the Vestonian aristocrats. I figured that the Royal Chancery had probably already set aside a small room to hold all the complaints and testimonies against me...

Soon, this train of thought was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of my wagons, which I had previously provided to the Duke de Clairmont for his personal use. Four of my best mistrals were towing the wagon; Lorin had chosen each of them specially, at my request.

Behind the wagon came a unit of cavalrymen, consisting mostly of André de Châtillon’s men plus a few of the Duke’s direct vassals and those of the Count de Leval (who, after all, was also one of the Duke’s vassals).

Pierre de Leval was among them, as was André de Châtillon himself. The latter was bringing the King a personal request from me. In it, I provided a long, detailed list of all de Châtillon’s exploits on campaign, and asked that his name be cleared of all charges and suspicions.

And I didn’t forget the “Last Chances” either: I put together a long, detailed request for pardons for all of the men under Gaston Laforte’s command. I also sent another, even more detailed account of the legionaries’ services in general (with special emphasis on the “Last Chances”), and asked de Châtillon to see that it found its way directly into Kiko’s hands. Despite his clownish facade, the Royal Jester seemed like an intelligent, clear-thinking man to me. For the time being, therefore, I allowed myself to hope that he would help get my requests granted.

Besides that, I counted out a sizable sum from my own share of the spoils and divided it up into one-time payments for all the families of the Vestonians and Bergonians who had died fighting in my service. I let it be known that this payment came from the Margrave de Valier personally. Again, I didn’t neglect the relatives of the “Last Chances” who had died in my battles either.

Naturally, this action came as a huge surprise to the noblemen in the army, and did a lot to cheer up the rank-and-file soldiers. I noticed a sharp uptick in the number of red foxtails on their armor after that. And it wasn’t just the men in the ranks, either — some aristocrats were sporting the mark as well. It didn’t even stop there, though. Foxtail marks started to appear on the clothing, wagons, and doors of local residents too. Like some strange epidemic, it quickly started to spread through all the towns and villages we liberated.

I didn’t really know what to do about it. I had already tried to ban these marks, of course. That didn’t work. It seemed to me that the next best thing would simply be to ignore them. Only once in a great while, when I noticed a brand-new red-orange streak on the doorjamb of some tavern or house, would I turn and shoot a reproachful glance at Leo von Grimm, who would always pretend he didn’t know what I was upset about. As soon as he thought I had turned my attention somewhere else, though, a big, happy smile would always spread across his face. The whole thing had started with him, after all, and he seemed pretty proud of what he had done...

The Marquis de Hangest and his entourage were also departing for the capital. According to Lord Gray, the King had already received my report about the grim reality behind all the stories of the young man’s “heroism.” I was mildly surprised, therefore, that nobody had actually started doing anything at all about his criminal mismanagement of the Citadel. When I asked for more information, Lord Gray simply shrugged, and the commander of the King’s Shadows replied that he hadn’t received any word at all about the matter.

At first, I was thinking that the Duke de Hangest would probably roll up to the Sapphire Citadel in person in order to free his son from its dungeons, but that didn’t end up happening. In the end, I decided to get rid of the light-fingered Marquis by sending him back to Herouxville.

When I saw the Marquis for the last time before his departure, he looked suspiciously happy — in fact, he almost seemed to be radiating satisfaction and joy. There were only two possible explanations for this: either the Duke de Hangest’s eldest son was foolishly overconfident that he wouldn’t be punished for his father’s crimes, or there was something important that I didn’t know...

When the wagon finally came to a stop, the Duke de Clairmont stepped out of it. As had become a habit by that point, I switched to true vision as soon as I saw him, and what I saw left me very satisfied with the outcome of my work. The Marshal was still weak, and regaining weight very slowly, but there was no sign of the black parasite anywhere in his energy system anymore. More than that, I had also managed to heal all his old wounds, for which the Duke was genuinely grateful. The magical potions his healer had been prescribing were helpful, but only as a source of temporary relief.

Soon, the Count de Leval popped out from the wagon after the Duke. Pierre’s father didn’t want to leave his master and friend; furthermore, he was planning to share the burden of blame for their army’s disastrous defeat. Plus, he had already transferred all the cohorts under his command to the Count de Rolenne anyway.

The Count de Poitiers, on the other hand, whom I had rescued from Atalian captivity, had already refused to leave my side. He justified this decision by saying that he had always wanted to see Shadow Pass with his own eyes.

“I suppose there’s nothing I can say to dissuade you from making this trip?” I asked the Duke for what felt like the hundredth time, as one of his men helped him down from the wagon onto a small portable staircase.

“No,” he shook his head. “I need to report to His Majesty as soon as I can, which means setting off before the snow.”

The Counts de Leval and de Poitiers struck up a conversation about some mutual acquaintance of theirs and tactfully moved off to the side, leaving the Duke and me to talk in private.

“Monsieur.” The Marshal lowered his voice as he turned to face me. “Perhaps you yourself will reconsider your own decision, and come with us to the Palace to see the King?”

“No,” I shook my head. “I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that nothing good will be waiting for me there if I come back right now.”

The Duke frowned. This wasn’t the first time he had tried to convince me to travel to the capital. But I had turned him down every time.

I smiled.

“You haven’t forgotten why I came to Bergonia, have you? My lands are waiting for me. If I start zipping around to all the different capitals, I’ll never make it to the Margraviate His Majesty has conferred upon me at all. My travels have been delayed quite a bit as it is, and my people and I are already going to have to winter in Gondreville. That means another delay of at least two or three months.”

“Maybe you’re right...” The Duke de Clairmont mused. “In any case, my wife and I will be expecting a visit from you at our home when you return.”

“I thank you for the invitation, Your Grace,” I said with a low bow. “As soon as the opportunity arises, I’ll be quick to take you up on your hospitality.”

“It’s the least I can do, Monsieur, to thank you for saving my life,” the Duke replied, before adding: “I’ll tell you something else, too: perhaps more than any other person except yourself, I understand exactly what might have happened if you hadn’t intervened in this war when you did.”

“I was merely doing my duty as a nobleman.”

“A shame that not everybody understands that...” The Duke sighed. “You’ve made yourself a whole pack of enemies among the clients of the Dukes de Bauffremont and de Gondy.”

“So much the worse for them,” I shrugged. “Besides, I’ve made some allies, too, not just enemies.”

“You certainly have — and you can count me firmly among them,” the Duke announced. Then, with a little irony in his voice, he added: “Although I’m afraid that at least for the time being, an alliance with me will be a source of more problems than profit.”

“Time will put everything in its place,” I said.

“Time...” The Duke sighed as he stared out at the darkening range of snow-capped mountains on the horizon.

For a little while, we just stood there in silence. The Marshal was obviously lost in thought, and I didn’t want to disturb him. Before long, however, a horse neighed loudly somewhere nearby; a young woman’s loud laughter rang out into the air off to the right; and children, playing somewhere off to the left, began to yell and shriek with joy.

The Duke snapped out of his pensive trance and turned to look at me again. His eyes lingered on my fox medallion. I had noticed him looking at it before — he always looked at it as though he had seen it somewhere before. It made me wonder: did the Duke know that his spouse, Louisa de Clairmont, had tried to buy the medallion through the offices of the late Watchmaker?

As if reading my mind, the Duke de Clairmont nodded at the medallion and said:

“Here and Now... An excellent motto.”

“Your Grace speaks the ancient tongue?” I asked with a feeling of mild surprise.

“Alas, I don’t,” the Marshal shook his head. “But I’m quite familiar with the translation of that particular motto. Once upon a time, my ancestors used to fight and die with that motto on their lips. I see that surprises you?”

It certainly did — especially in light of what the Watchmaker had told me about the sigil and the motto on the back of some of those gold coins from my castle’s secret stash.

Meanwhile, the Duke kept speaking in a sort of absent-minded tone as he stared down at the medallion:

“Very few people know about that anymore... The truth is that the de Clairmonts are a junior branch of the Royal House de Lannois. But that house no longer exists. And neither does the country it once ruled. It was covered by the Shadow. Theirs are among the lands that the common people refer to as the Forgotten Kingdoms. The only traces of them that remain are little trinkets like this — coins and spoons. The kind of thing antiquarians are always so eager to hunt down. I gather that you’re one of those who appreciate such artifacts of the Forgotten Lands?”

The question had been phrased to make it sound innocuous, but I could see a sharp, appraising look in the Duke’s eyes as he waited for my answer.

“Very much so, Your Grace. I have a deep appreciation for the ancient and the beautiful,” I answered (I wasn’t exaggerating, either). “Mind you, as for this specific medallion, I prize it not so much for its historical significance as for its sentimental value. My father gave it to me prior to his execution.”

Lying wasn’t an option. The Duke was obviously examining me.

A shadow passed across his face at the mention of Max’s father, but he quickly overpowered his emotions and replied with perfect calm:

“Well, you may not have any familial connection to the House de Lannois, but their motto is almost strikingly well-suited to you. I’m sure you’ll restore order to your lands and return to the capital in no time. My wife and I will be expecting a visit from you, Monsieur.”

With that, we bade each other farewell with a bow, and a few minutes later I was watching the train of wagons and riders file out of the city as it made its way slowly but surely over the mountains to Vestonia.

As I watched, I couldn’t shake an unpleasant feeling of foreboding — somehow, I knew that without ever intending to do so, I had managed to get myself enmeshed in some ancient story that connected Houses de Clairmont and de Gramont. I felt certain that my mysterious benefactor was enjoying it all immensely...