Last Life

Book 8: Chapter 10

NO DOUBT ABOUT IT: Chevalier Duval was certainly a predator. And a dangerous, experienced predator at that. He had to be, or he would never have survived so many trips into the Shadow. It so happened, however, that he had voluntarily made his way to the den of another predator, who was one step higher on the food chain than he was. And I could tell that Duval understood that.

He silently picked up his glass of wine, brought it to his lips, and took a small, unhurried sip. Then, moving with deliberate slowness, he took a small pouch out from behind his belt, pulled a small, curved pipe out from it, and glanced at me for approval.

I nodded silently, and Duval began packing his pipe. I knew that, in this inconspicuous way, my new vassal was buying himself a little time to think. Apparently, he hadn’t expected his little game to be recognized and turned back on him quite so quickly.

For my part, I just sipped my wine, watching with halfhearted curiosity and generously allowing the Chevalier time to get his thoughts together. It didn’t escape my notice, by the way, that his pipe, its pouch, and even the tobacco inside it were all products of the Shadow.

Meanwhile, Duval puffed his pipe until an ember was smoldering comfortably inside it, then turned to look at me as he gently exhaled a puff of bluish smoke from his nostrils. My tent filled immediately with a sweetish, herbal smell that was tinged with notes of mature wood.

After taking a single pull, he stood up and leaned toward me across the table to place the little pouch directly in front of me.

“Crimson leaf,” he said as he nodded at the open bag, in whose depths I could see a fibrous, reddish-brown mass. “One of the best local flow-altered strains.”

I carefully took a small pinch of the tobacco in my hands, sniffed it, and nodded.

“Smells nice. Unusual. You said it was from...?”

“That’s right,” the Chevalier replied. “There are others, too, but Crimson leaf is the best and rarest.”

I immediately assumed that this was one of the products he had been so eager to deliver to the valley. And I even had a good idea of who he had in mind as a customer... It seemed likely that he had probably stocked up quite a pile of goods during the time when the Scarlets had been in control of my Margraviate. He would have had to turn most of his haul over to the Scarlets themselves for rock-bottom prices, of course, but I would never believe that he hadn’t managed to squirrel at least a little bit away from the prying eyes of their quartermasters.

“And how much of this do you have?” I asked.

For a moment, a shadow fell over Duval’s face. Soon enough, however, he got his emotions back under control. Although he couldn’t conceal his irritation, or the resigned look in his eyes.

I had some idea of what he was probably thinking. Originally, he had been hoping to make a quick trek into the valley with his valuable product, in the hopes of selling it off to his old clientele and thereby making at least a little improvement in his financial situation. With the war, and the accompanying ravages of the Scarlets, I knew that most locals were probably going through some very hard financial times. There might have been more than just a grain of truth in Duval’s story about his castle and the peasants who worked his lands.

In the end, though, he never made it to the valley in time. I had cut him off with my march, which totally ruined his plans for a successful sale. Considering the specifics of his work, Chevalier Duval was probably already saying a mental goodbye to his goods. He didn’t seem like the type of man who could possibly believe that his new Margrave would let him pass without taking a cut — let alone without commandeering some of the goods. “I’m about to be fleeced like a sheep... Flensed to the bone.” That, basically, was the look in my new vassal’s eyes.

After all, the Margraviate de Valier was ruled according to the laws of the Kingdom of Vestonia, where all Shadow goods were supposed to be sold by the Amber Guild. They, after all, were the ones who held the monopoly from the King. There was no point even trying to complain about the ruinous prices the Guild charged for those goods. In that respect, at least, they weren’t much better than the Scarlets.

Speaking of the Amber Guild, by the way — I hadn’t forgotten the way they treated me personally, or their general attitude, and I had dropped a pretty transparent hint to Samira Clemand that I didn’t want to see either her or any of her colleagues in my Margraviate any time in the near future.

Sure, I couldn’t do anything official to prevent the Amber Guild from opening up a branch in my lands. But they would have to actually REACH my lands first. Ever since the war, and despite all my efforts at keeping the area patrolled, there were still many bands of thugs and marauders plying their trade on the roads. Too many, alas, for me to keep track of every single group.

Basically, it seemed like Samira Clemand took the hint, because she linked up with Prince Philippe’s court and headed back to the capital with them.

And I hadn’t seen any of the Amber Guild’s “curators” since. From what I had heard, they had been going through some hard times in recent months. The King’s illness had sparked a tussle for influence. The grandmaster of the Amber Guild, Gilbert de Ambrelle, was pulling as many combat mages into his orbit in the capital as he could...

“Not much...” Duval replied. “There have only been a few ebbs this year...”

“I see,” I nodded. I fell silent and stared at him expectantly.

Jean Duval cleared his throat, then continued reluctantly. With a few periodic sighs, he proceeded to spend the next few minutes running through a list of all his goods and answering my clarifying questions in satisfactory detail.

I had already spoken to other strykers about expeditions into the Stryker, but none of them compared to Jean Duval, who seemed to have been hunting along the frontier and over the Barrier since childhood. And whereas I was mainly interested in bruts (and maybe also valuable hides and bones from Shadow monsters), Chevalier Duval took quite a thorough approach to his business.

Besides hides, fur, and bones from Shadow monsters, for example, the Chevalier was currently bringing gallstones, glands, rendered fat, and dried insects into the valley to sell.

I realized, of course, that by going into such detail he was trying his very best to steer the conversation away from the main question. But that question came up nonetheless.

In the end, I learned that Chevalier Duval was carrying about two dozen magical crystals of various sizes and colors. None of them were lilac bruts or pearls. The latter, of course, were something I wanted for my own personal use.

At a certain point, a pause settled over our conversation, and Gunnar was quick to take advantage of it. He brought in a tray with a bottle of brandy on it and set it down on a small table next to the campaign stove.

Chevalier Duval and I got up from the table and sat down in the armchairs nearer to the warm stove, where we proceeded to sample the brandy.

“So the Scarlets’ garrison has already left the Margraviate?” I asked.

If the change of subject was surprising to my companion, he certainly didn’t show it.

“Yes, Your Lordship,” he replied. “The Atalians were led out on mountain paths.”

“And I’m guessing they’d never have been able to do it without help from some of the locals...” I mused aloud, in a sort of half-question, half-statement.

“Exactly,” he confirmed my suspicions. Then, with a squeamish grimace on his face, he added: “Baron di Festa certainly did a good job there.”

Yep, I thought... There’s another name from the Sapphire Guild’s log. This Baron di Festa was the biggest supplier from my Margraviate. And it turned out he had sided with the Scarlets. I guess that wasn’t too surprising, though... Judging by his name, he was an Atalian himself. All that remained after that was to find out a little more about the third and final band of smugglers.

Chevalier Duval suddenly cast a glare, filled with hate and disgust, at the curved blades hanging on the sword rack. Then he turned his head and looked me straight in the eyes.

“You’re free to suspect me of whatever you want,” he said, quietly but with dignity. “But I never had anything to do with those bloodthirsty sons of bitches, and the gods will bear witness to it.”

He quickly glanced back at the Gray Reaper’s swords, then continued:

“Sure, I wasn’t about to wait around for the Scarlets to come calling at my castle, like the late Baron de Vilar did. To keep my people alive, I first had to flee north into the mountains, then all the way to the frontier. At the time, we considered ourselves to have been abandoned by everyone. Our main duty was simply to survive.”

Hm... He didn’t seem to be lying. But I would still have to double-check what he was saying later on.

Having heard a third name from the Guild’s log, however, I repeated it back to him:

“Baron de Vilar?”

Jean Duval snickered.

“Vincent was in his autumn years, and I think he simply outlived his good sense. He believed that the castle his Mage-Artificer ancestor had built could withstand any assault... His brain was as faded as his eyes, I guess... Two of the soldiers in his bodyguard had certain specific skills that enabled them to hide out in the sewers beneath his castle. They serve me now. And they told me that the Gray Reaper tortured the old Baron himself. He kept him alive for several days.”

I already had a pretty good idea who those two soldiers might be...

“Did Baron de Vilar have any heirs?” I asked.

“He did,” Duval shook his head. “Alas, they’re all dead.”

“How certain are you?” I had to ask.

“I was personally present at their funerals three years ago,” replied Duval with total confidence.

I noticed the demonstrative expression on his face as he said this. While the case with the Baron who had sided with the Atalians was pretty clear (I would be taking over directly as soon as I could take possession), I would have to be very careful about following the law when it came to Baron de Vilar’s fief. That said, the situation would be pretty simple if there really weren’t any heirs.

Chevalier Duval spent the next hour telling me all about my Margraviate. The more he spoke, the more I began to realize that all my assumptions about this region had been correct.

While there had been at least some sort of functional system in this unruly land prior to the war, things were in a very sorry state indeed after what the Scarlets had done.

Once my companion finished speaking, I turned to him:

“Monsieur, I thank you for this extremely illuminating conversation. Thanks to you, I think I have at least some understanding of what I’m going to encounter here. As for your trip into the valley... I have a proposition for you.”

Despite his relaxed posture, I could see (thanks to true vision) that Chevalier Duval’s interest was piqued immediately.

“You have my full attention, Your Lordship.”

“First of all, I’d like to save you some time by allowing you to unload these goods without leaving the Margraviate,” I said, watching as Duval began to frown. “In other words, I’m willing to buy everything you were hoping to sell in the valley, and give you a very good price for all of it. I’ll tell you right now: with the war just having ended, you’re going to have a hell of a time finding buyers for Shadow resources in Bergonia right now. Ricardo di Lorenzo, who the people know as the Golden Lion, went through the cities and villages with a fine-mesh net and scooped up pretty much everything of value. They need food far more than they need magical resources right now. Sure, I understand that you’ve got channels and connections to work through, but I assure you: nobody’s going to give you a better price than I will. Plus, don’t forget about the risk. Your goods have a pretty specific appeal, and that’s putting it mildly.”

With every word I uttered, Chevalier Duval’s eyebrows rose higher and higher. The look of gloomy despair on his face began to give way to a look of cautious hope.

“Second,” I said, without giving him time to think about it. “As I’m working on sorting out this Margraviate’s affairs, I’d like to have someone who’s acquainted with local realities at my side to offer me counsel. You’re better suited to that role than anyone else. And finally, third...”

I stood up and walked over to the sword rack that Gunnar had set up. Taking one of the swords in my hand, I spun it lightly around once or twice, and then sent a small clot of mana surging into it. As Jean Duval watched in awe, it began to shine with a golden glow.

“... I’m going to need an experienced guide for a campaign into the Shadow.”

* * *

Three weeks later, our force finally made it to Fort de Gris — our final destination. Jean Duval had been with me the entire time, and he was playing the role of guide (occasionally verging on “tour guide”) pretty well.

That night, when I had first put my propositions to him, he had asked for a little time to think it all over. I said that was fine, and allowed him and his people to leave our camp at their leisure.

I had no intention of putting any pressure on my new vassal. People like him had to come to a suzerain on their own — they needed to understand that it was in their interest to do so before the relationship would actually stick.

Vaira had kept constant track of the smugglers; in fact, she “led” them back to their camp, and later told me all about the council that Chevalier Duval held with his best fighters — the two medius strykers.

In the end, Duval agreed to all my propositions. Admittedly, his warriors were still skeptical of the whole thing. As it happens, they were both from the East. One of them was thin and flexible, which was typical for a nomad from the Great Steppe; the other was stocky and muscular, and hailed from one of the Free Principalities...

I was standing on the crest of a hill, looking down at the fortress that had previously been nothing but the subject of stories and legends for me. The springtime mountain wind was still cold and biting, and it brought the scent of raw earth and rot as it whipped across my face. The city that stretched out all around me might once have been the jewel of the Margraviate, but it certainly didn’t look the part anymore.

In its heyday, Fort de Gris’ population had numbered somewhere around 3,000. Now, however, I’d have been surprised if it could muster even a fifth that many. It seemed extremely unlikely...

The locals had learned of our approach in advance, and most of them had opted to abandon their homes for the time being and flee the city. They wanted to sit out their new ruler’s arrival somewhere safe and see what he was going to do before they put themselves at his mercy.

The fortress that (presumably) had once stricken fear into the hearts of its enemies now looked like a sad relic of a bygone age — it certainly wasn’t a suitable strongpoint anymore. Its massive stone walls had clearly been powerful at some point (indeed, they would have been virtually impregnable), but years of neglect had left them covered with spots of black mold and moss.

In places, the stonework had collapsed entirely, leaving gigantic, yawning gaps that stood out like unhealed wounds. The towers also looked badly neglected. Several of them had lost their crenellations, and their black-tiled roofs clearly hadn’t been repaired for many years. The gates, still holding their heavy wooden bolts, groaned sadly in the wind, almost as if bemoaning their miserable fate.

A human anthill had grown up all down the slopes that stretched down from the base of the fortress. The narrow, mud-choked alleys looked more like rivers of liquefied earth than anything resembling roads. The houses had all been built of gray stone and wood, and many of them were extremely rickety. It had clearly been many years since anyone had taken a skillful hand to them. The roofs were thatched with rotten straw or equally-rotten boards that had already collapsed in many places, and it seemed to me that any winter might well be the last for many of these structures.

The people on the streets were all walking around with their heads down, their faces every bit as gray as the world around them. Some were pulling carts, which barely seemed to have any cargo on them at all; others were just walking around, leaning on long walking sticks as they went.

Life here seemed to flow as slowly as the mud beneath their feet, and the feeling of poverty and neglect seemed to emanate from every window and door we passed. These lands had been under the Order’s thumb for a long time, and the effects of that oppression were everywhere, radiating out of everything around us. The Atalians had not only plundered the city; they had also sucked the life force out of it, leaving nothing but a hollow, gutted shell.

The locals watched our entry into the city with cautious interest. Most of them were elderly, or at least approaching old age. We didn’t even see any of the packs of children that roamed the streets in most sizable cities. The youth — especially women — had been hidden away from any possible harm.

Basically, the locals perceived us as yet another band of invaders. And that remained the case even after the loudest soldiers in our vanguard had made the rounds through the city’s streets and alleys, announcing the imminent arrival of the land’s new master.

Within the fortress, however, life was already boiling at full steam again. No matter where you stood in the town, you’d have heard the shouts of soldiers, the groaning of wooden wheels, and huge herds of neighing horses, mooing cows, and bleating sheep.

Driven on by their commanders, the soldiers and civilians from the baggage train were already busy hauling buckets, armfuls of straw, baskets, and bales of hay. Muffled shouts could be heard coming from within the castle — a mixture of outraged cursing and raucous laughter. My first impression of the city had left me in a slight stupor, but hearing the activity in the castle made me feel a bit better.

I glanced at our seneschal, standing in the midst of his minions, and smiled. Hans would have the place whipped into shape in no time.

I rode a little further into the fortress, and soon found myself in one of the inner courtyards, where I stopped and looked around. The whole place seemed dead. It had obviously been abandoned quite a long time ago. The grass growing through the cracked stone tiles was the only sign that there was still anything alive in the place at all.

I walked along the wall, checking out the narrow windows and arrow slits. The walls were so dilapidated in some places that it seemed like I could simply have pushed them over.

The main square, which should have been the center of life in the city, was utterly deserted. That said, the garbage, pools of swill, and horse droppings all over the place suggested that something had happened there not long before our arrival. Some sort of daily or weekly market, most likely.

As I looked around, trying to avoid taking in too much of the rank, fetid air, I pictured the first rulers of the city as they built the place. As they labored to lay the stones and drive the posts, they must have hoped that these buildings would one day become symbols of power and authority. So far, though, the place was practically the epitome of despair and decline.

I realized that returning these lands to their former glory was a bit much to ask, and that even getting them back into a more or less presentable state was going to take a whole hell of a lot of work. At the same time, though, I felt a flush of decisiveness surging in my mind. These lands are mine now, I thought. And I’m not here alone. I have a lot to do, but I’ve never been afraid of a challenge. And once I’m done, I’d love to see anybody try to chase me out of here...