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by freesayan

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1. Chapter a

Chapter 1

"WHAT DO YOU NEED all that for? What is the true reason?"

Lieutenant Vincent asked me that question five days after our first meeting. I had just finished my procedures with crimson and emerald energies, actively directing them from their bruts into the body of my patient.

Théodore Vincent hadn't said much during his prior treatments. I regularly caught him looking at me, though. I didn't blame him. Apparently, now he'd seen enough to work up the courage for a frank conversation. And to be honest, it was overdue. Despite his chumpish appearance and shirt, Théodore Vincent possessed a razor-sharp wit and uncompromising character. And that was just how Baron von Holtz described him.

"So, I assume you don't believe I could sincerely want to help a suffering man?" I chuckled, stuffing both bruts into my pocket.

Watching my hand, the lieutenant smiled back at me from bed:

"I stopped believing in fairy tales when I was seven years old and my whole family died of plague. The plague battalion burned my house to the ground with my families' bodies inside. After that, I got sent to live in a shelter where I got all that foolishness beaten out of me..."

"I see."

"Oh yeah?" I heard unconcealed sarcasm in Vincent's voice. "If I'm not mistaken, you grew up somewhere warm and cozy with a team of nannies and valets to look after you, right?"

"Weren't we just talking about casting off illusions?" I asked, sitting in a chair opposite Vincent's bed and crossing my legs. "Even legitimized bastards forever remain outcasts. Now picture a bastard whose father conspired against the crown and was executed for his crimes. How could someone like that have any illusions? So I understand you perfectly well even though the two of us grew up with different levels of wealth. And as for your question... What do you think?"

"To be honest, I'm lost in guesses..." Vincent replied. "But still, I have some ideas."

"Curious... I'm all ears."

"You're trying to get the new commander of Westerly Fort on your side by helping me."

"Well? Is it working?"

"Jean Tassen is a man of honor," Vincent responded harshly. "But he is no fool. And as an aside, neither am I. We just like playing by the rules. It keeps things simple."

"Agreed," I nodded. "It's always simpler to live without illusions. But true friendship and loyalty are no mere illusions. They are real. They are above feelings of gratitude."

"Are you saying you are trying to gain loyal friends by helping me?" Vincent smiled condescendingly.

"Hey, why not?" I shrugged. "If I'm not mistaken, that is the path to true, solid friendship."

"Or maybe it's all because you want to wet your beak on the smuggling ring through Tassen and me." Vincent came, staring me straight in the eyes.

"You think I stand a chance?" I asked calmly, not looking away.

"Why not?" Vincent snorted back sardonically. "You managed to get rid of Louis de Rohan, as well as his flunkies Brossard and Buquet. Now the path is clear, particularly now that Tassen is deeply indebted to you for mending my health. He won't put up any roadblocks."

"What about you?" I asked. "Will you be grateful? Or put-up roadblocks? Because I was not joking. You will be back on your feet. And you see that yourself already. You must have sensed the changes in your body over the last five days."

"Yes," Vincent rasped back with a slightly puzzled look. "I can feel it..." And then, getting himself together, he added in a firm voice: "And yes, I am capable of showing gratitude. You healed me, took my wife and daughter into your home, helped Jean get promoted... I won't make any trouble. Furthermore, I will do whatever you ask of me. I give you my word. But there is one but..."

"I'm listening..."
"If I ever hear that you're threatening my friends or family, I will kill you."

Vincent's voice was unwavering. The man looking back at me was a vicious predator. Despite his mortal wound, he was ready to bite through my neck at a moment's notice.

"I hear you, lieutenant," I nodded.
"But you neglected to answer the biggest question," Vincent reminded me.

"You mean the money and smuggling operation?" I asked. "I will not lie. I am interested in that business, but I concluded that there's nothing for me to skim from your operation."

"Is that right?" Vincent chuckled.

"Oh, come on," I waved a hand. "Everyone knows perfectly well that de Rohan and his henchmen's exile is a temporary state of affairs. Very soon, the men who sent him out here will try to take everything back under their control. Either they'll send a new 'de Rohan,' or more likely try to make an arrangement with the new commander. There's no sense going to war with them. You've already seen how that turns out. And considering the fact that I already have a basic idea of exactly who is at the top of this whole pyramid, I'd simply be swallowed up, not merely pushed out. Because Maître Jacob still sits in the fortress as a representative of the Amber Guild. He had to shell out a lot of dough to be granted the royal privilege to be stationed here on the frontier to purchase the claws, fangs, and various roots from the Shadow sold by wildlings after the ebbs."

I started counting on my fingers.

"So... Louis de Rohan's backers, the Amber Guild, unscrupulous secret chancery agents, the mayor and his backers... And that's only surface level information... Sounds like a lot of bloodsuckers to feed already, no?"

"And despite all that, you intend to obtain a manor here, reinforce your position among the officers of Westerly Fort and meet the mayor in the next few days," Vincent noted with a wry chuckle. "After all, you were released

from service in Westerly Fort and very soon will be heading to the capital. All of that seems to conflict with what you just said about not wanting to wet your beak on the smuggling operation, don't you think?"

"You're missing one detail," I shook my head. "What might that be?" Vincent asked in surprise.

"The biggest one," I responded, taking a big violet brut out of my pocket. When Vincent saw it, he gave a loud gulp. "As I mentioned, I am interested in the business, but I do not have the slightest desire, as you put it, to 'wet my beak' on anyone else's cash flow. First of all, it sounds too messy. And second, the money, hm... isn't all that good... And no wonder — with so many mouths to feed."

"I don't exactly get your meaning..." Vincent started.
But I interrupted:
"It's too early for that, lieutenant. Everything in its time."

Standing from my seat, I stashed the brut back in my pocket and straightened my coat.

"By the way," I stood outside the door. "Get ready. Tomorrow, you'll be coming to my manor. The treatment will last more than a month. I cannot waste time traveling to your home every single day. Beyond that, you'll be able to walk all on your own very soon, which is sure to attract lots of unwanted attention. To avoid that, my people will be publicly transporting you out of town tomorrow morning for supposed treatment in a nearby big city at a healer's funded by Westerly Fort officers. Then, in the evening, you will return back to Toulon incognito. You will stay in my manor until your complete recovery together with your wife and daughter."

After I said that, followed by Vincent's thoughtful gaze, I went out the door.

"Monsieur," Bertrand appeared in the doorway of my office. "An Éric Judor is here to see you. Shall I send him in?"

I looked away from reading yet another report from Tomcat, my infobot in Sardent. In it, he informed me that prices on sundries, fabric, iron, fur, and weapons in the independent Duchy of Mâcon had suddenly shot up and were continuing to grow. Hm... And no wonder. To some war could be a great opportunity. Some went to their deaths while others lined their pockets.

Beyond that, Tomcat told me that prices at the slave market had risen significantly, particularly for fit men. Earlier, he informed me that teams of recruiters had started showing up in massive numbers in the county and beyond hunting for fit young men to fill the ranks of the warring armies.

The Count de Mâcon, after a large number of complaints, even tried to combat the overreach, but the higher prices on the "live wares" climbed, the more actively the headhunters plied their trade.

Because that was only the beginning. The armies of Vestonia and Atalia had yet to meet in a single large battle. So far, it had been relegated to small skirmishes for territory belonging to what I was calling "buffer counties and duchies," those between the mega states. To me, it seemed that, after the war, many of these microstates would lose their independence.

Wiping my face with my hand then stretching out, I took all important documents off the table and gave an order to Bertrand:

"Send him in."

A few moments later, a short, slouching man walked into my office. He appeared to be fifty or even older. His pale, smallpox scarred face was stamped with a polite but somewhat crafty smile. His clever, cloudy blue eyes glimmered with sincere curiosity.

Éric Judor, a local money lender, had visited my manor several days before. There was something he wanted to talk about. But I was not home, so he left his card and a request to invite him over at my earliest convenience.

As an aside, the manor was now officially my property. Monsieur Mollet's "fever" abated, and he was all too eager to sell the building to me for eight hundred silver crowns.

I had to slightly rein in his appetites, and the price came down to five hundred fifty. Mollet was desperate to wrap up all his affairs with the inconvenient renter. So much in fact that he agreed to accept a promissory note redeemable in any bank where I kept deposits. I was not doing so great for cash at the time the deal was concluded, so it was an acceptable option.

After a brief greeting, I asked the money lender to take a seat.

"Okay," I came, looking closely at the man. "There was something you wanted to discuss. All I ask... Is that you get straight to the point. I don't have much time."

Éric Judor shifted a bit in the seat, got comfortable and said with a smile:

"Of course, chevalier. Of course! I understand completely. I won't take much of your time. I have come with a business proposition."

"I'm all ears."
"I wanted to offer to buy your promissory note."

"My promissory note?" I asked in surprise.

"Precisely," the money lender nodded and set a scroll on the table. "Please..."

I unrolled it and quickly looked over the document bearing my signature. Just to be safe, I also scanned it for magic ink. No problems. It was the very promissory note I had used to pay Monsieur Mollet his five hundred and fifty silver crowns for the purchase of my manor.

Hm... Monsieur Mollet must have decided to just sell it to the money lender. In theory, I didn't blame him. The nearest branch of the Craonne bank, where my savings were kept, was located in Sardent. And he'd have to get there to get the money. Considering that the roads were less than calm at the moment, Mollet opted to sell the promissory note to a money lender in town. How much might he have sold it for?

"And what do you want for it?" I asked, handing back the scroll.

"Whatever do you mean?" Éric Judor asked in sincere surprise. "What it says on the note. Five hundred fifty silver crowns."

I stood up slowly and walked over to the window. In the manor's back yard, I saw Jacques and Théo Vincent sitting on a bench having a conversation.

Théo, as I promised, got on his feet a month ago and was now slowly starting to walk again, leaning on a heavy cane. I recalled the looks of astonishment from Vincent and his wife when he first got out of bed. On that day, I realized I now had two more people loyal to me in this world.

After they met, Jacques and the lieutenant quickly found a common tongue. As it turned out, many years ago, the pair had even taken part in the same battle against some Northlanders. Honestly though, Jacques was in the infantry while Vincent was part of the cavalry. Now, the pair sat and watched as the kids trained, throwing out clipped phrases. Needless to say, the training had gotten even more intense now that there was another veteran on the scene.

A smile instantly flickered on my lips, which I immediately hid behind a mask of indifference.

Turning, I sat back down at the table and said:
"I will give you three hundred silver crowns for it."

After von Holtz sold our loot to Maître Jacob, I had gotten some cash. In the lower drawer of my desk, I now had four purses containing two hundred crowns each.

The fact we had come back with loot had leaked to the public in the end. And so, we had to sell it all to the official representative of the Amber Guild or risk being labeled smugglers.

I had to admit that when von Holtz told me my share from selling the shadow wolf claws and three nearly empty bruts I was amazed. And Maître Jacobs was most likely not paying us a fair price.

But even so, my people were pleased. Their share constituted just over two hundred crowns, which was a lot.

Hrm... I was afraid to even imagine how much my "collection" might fetch.

As an aside, Lieutenant von Holtz had just gone out on a campaign at the head of a group of fighters from the fort's garrison loyal to Tassen along with von Brunon and Vidal. They decided to return to the lake to look for the dead shadow wolf we hid in a gully there. Or rather, whatever was left of it.

I figured they'd be back any day now. And if they managed to scare up any loot, I was also entitled to a share of that.

"But please, chevalier!" the money lender came indignantly. "The promissory note says how much its worth in black and white!"

"I do not dispute that," I replied. "But it also clearly indicates a time and location for that payment to take place. You can only demand the full amount one year after the promissory note was issued, and only from a branch of the Craonne bank."

And he knew all that perfectly well. I figured he was just testing the waters. He wanted to see what kind of man he was dealing with. I didn't blame him...

Now, by the way, I could see why Mollet was so eager to agree to my conditions when signing the purchase contract. He was clearly not planning to wait a whole year, much less travel anywhere. He was expecting to sell the promissory note to Éric Judor or another money changer, even if the rate would be greatly reduced.

Judor said nothing, sizing me up with a thoughtful gaze. Then, in an utterly unimpressed tone, he came:

"Three hundred is not a lot." "Maybe so," I shrugged.

"Three hundred is nearly half of the total value. I'd come down to five hundred."

I tilted my head to one side.

"Three hundred fifty."

The money changer shook his head.

"Not enough. Four hundred eighty."

"The war," I reminded him. "Has the roads a real mess. On top of that, there are roving bands of recruiters all around cities and their outskirts."

"Sure, but who'd want to recruit me?" Judor chuckled. "And what for?"

"If they don't push you into the army, they'll rob you," I shrugged. "All kinds of things are known to happen in these troubled times. Three hundred seventy."

"Let's round that up to four hundred," Judor suggested. "And part as friends."

Considering it briefly, I rubbed my chin, then nodded:

"Agreed. I'll be expecting you tomorrow, same time, with an attorney."

I didn't know how much Judor had earned on the deal, but personally I was saving myself one hundred fifty crowns. And that meant the manor was costing me a total of four hundred silver crowns.

By the way... What if...?

Squeezing the hand of the self-satisfied Éric Judor, I held his hand in mine for a moment.

"Monsieur Judor, correct me if I'm wrong, but do you also happen to have other promissory notes?"

"Of course," he replied, immediately perking up his ears. "Plenty of them. Anything in particular you're interested in?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I'd like promissory notes from the trading houses Gilbert, and Legrand and Sons, as well as any coming from the Counts de Gramont. Or... The Count de Marbot. But those are lower priority."

When I saw the money changer give a broad, promising smile, I realized that soon I was going to need a very large amount of cash.

Chapter 2

ÉRIC JUDOR CAME BACK the next day at the scheduled time with an attorney. After we signed the agreement, I handed the money changer two fat sacks of crowns. He meanwhile handed me the promissory note, which I then destroyed with the attorney as witness.

After the lawyer left my office, Judor set several dozen more scrolls on my desk.

"Three thousand seven hundred fifty silver crowns — Gilbert trading house," the money changer started listing off with a salacious smile. He clearly loved what he did. "Five thousand three hundred — Legrands. Six thousand two hundred — de Gramonts, and as for de Marbot — fifteen hundred. The ones with the nearest terms are nine months out. Almost all held by the Craonne bank. That makes a total of sixteen thousand seven hundred fifty silver crowns. What do you say, chevalier?"

Hrm... What could I say? That was crazy money. Which I did not have. And that was even considering the fact I was able to finagle a thirty percent discount.

"Welp, let's first take a look..." I said and started scanning each note in detail.

It only took me five minutes to make sure all the signatures were in place. No one tried to modify or forge any of them. Beyond that, Judor provided me with purchase contracts notarized by an attorney for each.

After a scan, I started reading through them all carefully. Most of them were payable to bearer and had definite payout terms. But some of the de Gramont notes for two thousand crowns were pledged against some place called the Barony of Valff.

Also... The de Gramont debt obligations were signed in two different hands. Pulling away from my reading, I called out softly:
"Bertrand!"
A minute later, the door opened, and my valet came into the office. "Monsieur..." he bowed.

"Take a look at these papers," I suggested. "And tell me what you see."

Bertrand came closer to the table and started looking closely at the notes, sorting them into two piles.

"Monsieur," he addressed me when he was done. "The first pile are notes pledged against the Barony of Valff and signed by your late father Ferdinand de Gramont. The rest were signed by your uncle Heinrich de Gramont."

"Hm..." I stroked my chin, paying no attention to Éric Judor, who wasn't saying a thing. "Curious... Remind me again, where is that barony located...?"

"The Barony of Valff is part of the lands of County Gramont, in the northeast of Vestonia, monsieur," he replied slowly. "On the border of Astland."

"I see," I nodded. "Thank you, Bertrand. You may go."

The old man bowed and left the office. The way he did it was so decorous and courteous it was as if he was valet to the king himself. Even Éric Judor found himself struck, watching Bertrand leave with respect.

"Okay," I came, drawing the money changer's attention. "I've seen all I care to. I am interested in all the notes except these."

I pushed aside the stack of paper bearing Max's father's signature.

"For the rest, I could write you a de Craonne bank check for six thousand crowns."

Judor shuddered and took the stack.

"Six thousand is plain robbery!" he exclaimed. "Particularly for notes from such esteemed Vestonian families! But that isn't even the biggest part. Alas, chevalier, I do not work with checks..."

"Okay," I said, getting up from the seat. "Then I ask you to forgive me for wasting your precious time. I do not keep such large amounts of cash."

The money changer hurriedly hopped out of the chair and, as if afraid I was about to leave, started speaking softly while cautiously eyeing the door:

"I understand, chevalier... It is not safe to keep such large amounts in the home in times like this. They're safer in a bank vault..." He again eyed the door and turned to a whisper. "What if there was another way to settle payment for the notes? Perhaps I could let them go for ten thousand. Believe me, chevalier, it's a very good price."

"What are you suggesting?" I also lowered my voice. "You won't take a check... A loan? A promissory note?"

"No, no," the money changer hesitated. "You'll have to forgive me, Monsieur Renard, for my directness but you... How can I put it...? You put your life at risk too often. And beyond that... Please don't take this too personally. You're not creditworthy at present."

He looked around the office.

"As far as I'm aware, this manor is your only property and, forgive me again, but I know exactly what it cost you. And now we're talking about ten thousand crowns."

"Then I repeat," I came, slightly raising my voice. "What exactly do you want for payment?"

The money changer hesitated for a moment, then started selecting his words carefully:

"You see, Monsieur Renard. Everyone in Toulon knows that you and your friends returned with lots of loot from your recent outing, which you sold to Maître Jacob."

"That's right," I nodded. "He is the only man in Westerly Fort we can legally sell such things to. I am a law-abiding subject of his majesty. As are my friends."

"Yes, yes, of course..." Judor waved his hands. "And yet... You could after all have, ghm, well let's say, set aside some of the loot for a rainy day... Of course, intending to sell it later and only to a legal representative of the king. Isn't that so?"

Now that was interesting. When I found out Éric Judor wanted to meet me, I asked Théo Vincent for intel. The lieutenant assured me the money changer, just like every other member of his profession, was slippery as an eel but relatively harmless. He bought up and resold valuable papers and keepsakes. The pawn business, essentially. But otherwise, he was a common money changer with no links to smuggling. And here he was giving me clear hints that he was interested in magic artifacts. Very curious.

I had met people like him in my past life. They got very set in their ways. And if a man such as Éric Judor decided to take a risk, something must have happened. And thus his strange trepidation. He was clearly feeling out of his element. Hm... As if he was being forced... Actually, why not?

"Purely hypothetically?" I lowered my voice again. "Of course!" Judor's eyes lit up with delight.

"Well, purely hypothetically, then of course that could be so," I responded. After that, the money changer took heart. "But we needed money for Lieutenant Vincent's treatments. So we sold all our loot to Maître Jacob."

Judor's expression shifted after that. It transformed in an instant from one of joy to one of sadness.

"Too bad..." he muttered out in disappointment. "What a pity..." I shrugged and threw up my hands. As if to say I couldn't help.

Scraping the papers off the table, Judor placed a hand on the stack of notes with Max's dad's signature. As an aside, based on the dates and money, I was starting to suspect Ferdinand had spent a lot of dough in preparation for his rebellion. He must have put a lot on the line for the risky endeavor. Only the gods could say how many more such notes were circulating in the country.

"Chevalier Renard," Judor turned to me suddenly. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course."
"Why are you not interested in your own father's promissory notes?" As if you don't know. Slippery creep.

"My father is dead," I replied. "And most likely, the barony pledged in those notes was either transferred to the crown or my uncle after his rebellion. If my father had simply died, I would have had a chance to redeem the money indicated in the note. But my father did not die a simple death. He was executed as a traitor."

"But there's also the courts," Judor made a final attempt to pawn off the worthless papers on me.

Funny.

"I suspect I'd have to spend more money on bribes than I'd earn on that transaction. I am not the least bit interested in getting bogged down in bureaucracy."

Based on the heavy sigh, Judor was in complete agreement with me on the matter. He was already near the door and reaching for the knob when I threw out some chum.

"I wouldn't pay so much as ten crowns for those papers." Judor froze and turned.

"Not enough," he immediately fired back. "A hundred would be an excellent price."

I must have been on the right track. Those notes were as good as pulp.

"But please," I smiled. "What good are those worthless papers to me for a whole hundred crowns? Twelve tops, and that only in memory of my dear father..."

In the end, after a brief negotiation, Judor and I agreed to twenty crowns and to meet back up in the next few days to sign the purchase contract in the presence of an attorney.

"What good are those papers to you, monsieur?" Bertrand asked me after the money changer had gone.

"Not sure yet," I shrugged, pulling on my old, worn boots. I decided to change into street clothing and follow Judor. I needed confirmation of my theory about him.

"Twenty crowns is a ton of money!" Bertrand reminded me. "And most likely, your father's notes will not be redeemable."

"I know," I nodded, attaching a dagger in a basic scabbard to my belt. "But the deal is done. So, we'll just have to see!"

With an approving pat on Bertrand's back, I left the office and a few minutes later caught up to the unsuspecting money changer in the merchant quarter. And approximately an hour later, my suspicions were confirmed. Cautiously peeking out around the corner of a fish stall, I watched Éric Judor standing not far from the baker's stall having an animated discussion with Monsieur Gobert, the secret chancery agent.

I snorted. Hrm... They were not going to give up so easily. Which I really should have been expecting.

"I think the time has come to discuss our plans," I came, looking at Théo Vincent sitting opposite me and his wife Clémentine. "We cannot delay any further. Soon, I will leave for the capital."

Théo, his big hand gripping the top of his cane with such force his knuckles went white, cleared his throat a few times and glanced at his wife.

My healing work had ended a week prior, so Théo could already get by without the cane if he wanted. But he was in no hurry to part with it. The problem was that, inside the heavy stick, there was a very heavy steel rod. Carrying it around everywhere, Vincent occasionally swung it like a club or spun figure eights with it like a cavalry sword. And although the cane was constantly evading his grasp for the first few days, now Théo could swing it around like a little twig.

Clémentine gave a short nod to let me know she was listening. My housekeeper in the last month had very quickly gotten the manor in order. The short, dainty looking woman got all the people in my house under her thumb before anyone noticed. Other than me, and of course Bertrand. My valet was more than she could chew.

Honestly though, at first they had little spats. But then the hostility dwindled to zero. I watched the whole process from the sidelines and didn't interfere. And good thing. The pair quickly came to an understanding about who was in charge. Clémentine recognized Bertrand's ultimate authority and now I often caught them having calm discussions like old pals.

Two weeks ago, the Vincents and I had a serious conversation. Théo suddenly told me he'd refused to serve in the garrison at Westerly Fort. He let me know he'd had it up to his neck with serving the king and offered his services to me. To say I was caught off guard by his offer would be an understatement. Still, I should have seen it coming.

Tassen was also shocked by the news. He and Vincent even got into a fight and didn't talk for a few days. But in the end, they made up. On that day, Vincent reeked of booze from a mile off. In the end, Baron von Brunon became Westerly Fort's third lieutenant. Which was perfectly fine by me.

Vincent also was constantly accepting work from Jacques related to my outbuildings. Jacques meanwhile treated his "replacement" with understanding. He would be going to the capital with his master. Vincent meanwhile would be staying behind in Toulon.

"So then," I continued. "As you are aware, this manor costs me a pretty penny every month."

"Yes, monsieur," Vincent replied, trading glances with his wife.

"Some of the expenses are covered by our side businesses," my housekeeper clarified. "But not all."

"True," I nodded. "Those side businesses have proven very profitable. Which is why I've decided to expand them."

"How so?" Clémentine asked.

"I am buying a farm on the outskirts of Toulon. Several if necessary. I am aware that it will mean investing at first. But with time I'm sure income will outstrip expenses."

"Curious," she drawled out thoughtfully and said: "Sundry prices have shot through the roof. If we approach this properly, it should work."

"Gunnar and Kevin I'll take with me," I said, watching Clémentine's eyes light up in satisfaction. My housekeeper clearly was a fan of the expansion plans. "You have Jérémie, Claude, and Luc at your disposal. If necessary, feel free to hire more assistants. We still have time. I can spend a couple

days riding around the area to select a good spot. Beyond that, I can help choosing animals and poultry."

"Yes, monsieur," Clémentine nodded with a smile. "I'm sure you'll choose the very best."

"Don't you doubt it," I smiled back and turned to her husband.

"As for your, Théodore, I have a separate task. But first, I want to ask you a question."

"You have my attention, monsieur," he replied.

"Do you remember our first conversation? If I'm not mistaken, you were asking about the local smuggling operation and whether I intended to, as you put it, wet my beak?"

"Yes," he nodded. "I recall."
"What do you think now?"
He was not caught off guard. He stared me straight in the eyes and said:

"Everything I've seen and heard over the last month leads me to believe that fate has connected me and my family with a man who in the future will become one of the richest and most influential people in Mainland. I think all this fuss with the manor and farms is just a cover for the schemes you have for the future. I haven't yet discovered exactly what they are, but you can count on me completely."

"Good," I nodded. "But I seem to remember you giving me a warning. I'd like to avoid misunderstandings between us. I have embarked on a risky endeavor. I'll have to grow eyes on the back of my head."

My tone didn't bother Vincent or his wife.

"You saved my life," Théo replied simply and without too much drama. The man looking back at me was a warrior ready to go to hell and back. "You gave me and my family hope again."

"Over the last month, you've done more for us than all the masters my husband served in his life put together," Clémentine came firmly. I saw determination in her eyes, and even a certain amount of ferocity. "And when tragedy visited our house, none of them so much as thought about us. Which leads to a logical question — if you're giving this much help to people you don't know at all, how much will you do for those you truly hold dear?"

"At least I'll make them fabulously rich," I responded calmly.

After saying that, I got up from my desk and walked over to the bookshelf while they looked on with bewildered attention. I got out both bags I'd taken from the Shadow and undid the drawstrings.

While watching the Vincents' pale faces slowly stretch out, eyes pinned to the different colored bruts of various sizes, I again sat back in my chair.

Oddly, the first one to come to her senses was Clémentine. She turned to look at me and, her voice shuddering in trepidation and delight, asked:

"Monsieur... Where did you get them? But this... This..."

"These are my loot from the Shadow," I responded calmly and, nodding at the bookshelf, added: "There are also pelts and various small items there like teeth and magical creature claws. And this is only the beginning."

Then I looked at Théo. The former lieutenant of Westerly Fort, probably never having seen so many bruts before in his life, seemed afraid to move a muscle.

"Théo," I called. The sound of my voice made Vincent shudder and look me in the eyes. "Now do you see what I have in mind?"

"Yes, monsieur," he squeezed out with a parched throat. "Are you with me?"
"To the bitter end," he responded without a second thought. "Clémentine?" I turned to his wife.

"To tell the truth, there have been times when my husband and I have had to risk our lives for food I would be hesitant to feed to pigs," she said with a sad smirk, then in a firm voice repeated after her husband:

"I am with you to the bitter end, monsieur."

Chapter 3

"THANK THE GODS, we've arrived!" Bertrand exclaimed with a sigh of relief.

We were standing on top of a hill staring wide eyed at the sprawling capital of Vestonia down below. Closest of all to us was the so-called Old Capital, or Old City. The New Capital, or New City was located in the distance on the left bank of the Legha river, the longest river in Vestonia, which rose in the south of the country and emptied into the Gray Sea in the Bay of Anteias.

I had learned from my history books that the division of the capital took place in the previous century. However, it was never truly divided. The current king's great grandfather, whose rule began with a rebellion known popularly as the "Blood Prince Uprising," was extremely paranoid.

After executing the rebels, including some of his own cousins and uncles, the king decreed the foundation of a new city on the opposite bank of the Legha, arguing that Vestonia was embarking upon a new path and thus the capital also had to be built anew.

Over eight or so years, the new city experienced fervent growth. For the most part, it was manors, villas, and palaces for the wealthy elite. But now, that was where my "doting" uncle was waiting for me.

However, I was not going straight to his place. For starters, I decided to set up in a hotel in the Old City and spend a few days getting my bearings.

I was distracted from contemplating the city by some noise on the road. On it was a long procession made up of dozens of riders in expensive, vibrant outfits accompanied by a richly appointed carriage with a ducal crest adorning its sides depicting a rectangular red and blue escutcheon supported by a pair of manticores rampant. The escutcheon was crowned with a six- toothed golden crown.

"Make way for His Grace the Duke de Gondy!" a broad-shouldered rider on a black mare called out in a booming voice. The long feathers on his dark blue brocade beret with gold and silver embroidery stuck out dashingly in various directions.

The riders and carriage raced down the road, not slowing their pace and paying absolutely no heed to the other travelers. People dove out of the way, hurrying to get their modest carts, wagons, and wheelbarrows out of the path of the ducal procession.

When the carriage caught up to our coach, which was parked on the side of the road, it came to a screeching halt. The riders, who were in front, furiously working their lashes and spewing obscenities, cleared a jam on the tract made of peasant and city-dweller carts.

At that very moment, the dark burgundy velvet curtain in the carriage's window flitted back, and a sweet woman's face peeked out. The look of scorn in her big hazel nearly black eyes landed on everything around. Her

disinterested gaze slid over the peasants in their colorless clothing, their carts and wagons full of bags and animals in cages on their way to the stalls of the capital city market.

After that, she saw the hunters and lumberjacks coming home with their quarry, then finally landed on me. Looked with disgust at my cheap clothing and mare. We stared into each other's eyes for a moment.

As a noble, I was allowed to stay in the saddle. Everyone else had to remove their hats, dismount, and give a deep bow. I also made a respectful bow just how Bertrand taught me.

The woman's little mouth curled into a wry smile. She looked at me like a pauper. I couldn't blame her. Compared to the riders alongside her carriage, decked out head to toe in capital-city fashions, I truly looked like a street urchin.

A moment later, the curtain slid back, and her face disappeared.

When the procession made it away from us, I glanced at Jacques. He just shrugged.

"De Gondy," he came as if the name explained it all. "As in the de Gondies?" I asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "The Dukes of the South, rulers of Aquitaine. Most likely, she is the daughter or perhaps niece of the duke."

I snorted. We were seemingly arriving in the capital at the exact same time as one of the most influential people not only in Vestonia, but in all Mainland. He controlled the southern provinces which, essentially, fed the entire country. Popularly, he was even called the king of Aquitaine.

Honestly though, repeating that around here was a good way to end up headless. De Gondy himself would perform the beheading. Or rather his people. The precedent had been established. Particularly now that the King of Vestonia was keeping such jealous watch over any suspicious chatter after suppressing the uprising and executing the rebels.

"I didn't see any armbands on His Grace's riders," Kevin piped up from back in the coach.

"Because they didn't have any," I responded.

"So the Duke de Gondy has yet to take a side?" Kevin's question was more rhetorical than anything.

I just shrugged and shook my head.

"Apparently so."

The last few hours of our trip down the royal tract were observed closely by groups of nobles riding past us. Almost all of them had small thin armbands of various colors. Some were green, others blue, while others still flaunted a red shade.

Bertrand, who I'd sent out for information, figured everything out very quickly. Apparently, all these colors denoted various princes. Having three sons, Carl III the Victorious had yet to declare a dauphin of Vestonia. In other words, the king was dithering in his choice of heir.

There were lots of rumors about why the king was being so indecisive. And each theory was more nonsensical than the next. In one way or another, the king was giving his subjects a reason to voice their own preferences. I suspected that was precisely what Carl III was hoping to achieve. Still though, who could say what was going on in the monarch's head?

He was clearly no fool. Much less a weakling. I suspected he simply knew his own children too well and more importantly knew who they associated with.

I had to say that Carl III, who earned glory on the battlefield in his youth and brutally suppressed all disobedience, had actively concentrated all power in Vestonia in his hand. And to my eye, he did quite a good job of it. Particularly considering the fact that his daddy the king, a lover of wine, hunting and fancy balls, had left him a government which had essentially been split into three parts.

As dauphin, Carl quenched the fires of war in the western baronies, bashed in the heads of the barbarians invading the northern provinces, came to terms with the priests of the Forefather and had just recently suppressed the rebellion Max's father played a part in.

As an aside, I had looked into the chronology of that rebellion, dug into some parallels and concluded that Carl III had essentially provoked the rebellion himself. Surely, he had long known about the conspiracy and pushed his opponents to act. If the king himself were not involved, the nobles would most likely not have moved so soon. They'd have kept scheming and preparing in their castle, conducting expansive discussions and arguing about Vestonia's great future.

As was only logical, Carl III quickly suppressed the rebellion, confiscated all the conspirators' fortunes, and thus filled his coffers with the funds he so desperately needed for the upcoming war. Unlike Alfonso V, king of Atalia, who was mired in debts, Carl III was in a more favorable position.

As an aside, based on the information that I got from Tomcat, I had concluded that things in Atalia were, to put it lightly, not going great. Alfonso V, popularly known as the Pious, was under the financial thumb of the priestly Order of the Scarlet Shield, whose knights took a solemn vow to exterminate all True Gifted in Mainland. De facto, the country was ruled by the grand magister of the knightly order. As an aside, that was one of the reasons I was in no rush to visit Atalia. I had no desire to end my life on a pyre... Or however they executed true gifted...

The order was also a thorn in the side of Carl III. The issue was that many of the Scarlet Knights, as they were popularly known, were gifted and mainly combat mages. And I had already seen just how effective they were as strykers.

But that was not all. To fill his coffers, Alfonso V had started issuing counterfeit coins. Every month, his golden reals and silver escudos grew lighter. Add to that high taxes, peasant rebellions, plagues, and famines in the northern provinces... The sovereign of Atalia must have been desperate to improve his financial situation on the back of the "buffer" counties and baronies and also, if possible, the Vestonians.

We got into town without issue. Honestly though, we did have to spend a bit of time waiting at the gates, but the line went quick.

I found Old Herouxville charming. It was pretty much exactly how I imagined. An old stone giant that harbored many ancient secrets and legends.

The streets were crowded. The Old Capital's merchant quarter, which Bertrand confidently led us through, reminded me of a raging river with its constant streams of humanity. The densely packed stalls, slowly strolling hawkers, unhurried buyers, foreign gawkers randomly stopping in passageways to look on in astonishment at all the havoc — this quarter made Sardent's market seem much less grand. I heard screams, laughter, whinnying horses and bleating sheep from every direction. The air was saturated with delicious smells of hot food, boiling oil, spices, meat, and fish.

Every last alleyway specialized in something different. The smithy alley gave off a telltale metal clanking sound. The tailor street was hung with colorful fabrics. One street down, I saw bouquets of hanging sausages and smoked meats. Saddlers, bootmakers, carpenters, and potters; taverns and pubs; apothecaries and barber shops — this place seemed to have everything a person could want.

With Bertrand as guide, we very quickly found our way to an inexpensive but decently appointed inn in the Old Capital, where I rented us a set of rooms for the week. That was how long I'd given myself to get to know Herouxville before presenting myself to my dear uncle Heinrich.

Leaving Jacques, Gunnar and Kevin behind to unload, the first thing I did was head for Herouxville's famed baths, asking Bertrand to show me to yet another place.

"So, this is the place I grew up," I snorted, taking a scrutinizing look at the manor Ferdinand de Gramont had furnished for his bastard.

Max's old house was located in an elite quarter of the capital, and doubtless was one of the oldest homes in the city. That was not to say it was in a bad state, though. Just that compared to the other structures I'd seen, the three- story stone building with its pretty yard and little pond looked more like a small castle. I immediately told Bertrand my theory.

"You're absolutely right, monsieur," the old servant said, no longer paying any mind to my "memory lapses." "This castle is one of the most ancient chateaux in Herouxville." And immediately added: "And best defended. But you never liked it."

"Did I ever explain why?"

"You said you wanted to live in a more modern and refined home. You found it too old fashioned. You also used to complain that your friends would make fun of you."

I snorted. Sounded just like Max. He was a real dunderhead.

"You know something?" I came. "I've changed my mind. I like this castle. It gives me a... homey feeling or something... Maybe because I grew up here."

Bertrand nodded and smiled.
"I always knew you'd change your opinion about the Fox Den one day." I felt a shiver run down my spine.

"Fox Den?" I asked, hiding my trepidation.

"Yes," Bertrand nodded. "This castle used to be called the Fox Den. But you never liked that, either. You actually forbid me from mentioning it."

My mouth stretched into a smirk.

But that Max — what a cretin. As expected. I wasn't even surprised anymore.

"Starting today, I give you permission to call it that whenever you wish," I announced in a cheery tone. "The Fox Den! I rather like it."

Heh... Whoever would have imagined? As soon as that thought flickered by in my head, I seemed to hear a soft, short laugh. I shuddered and looked around but didn't see anyone.

"I want the castle back," I told Bertrand after a brief silence. "Who lives there now?"

"I haven't a clue, monsieur," he replied. "But I could find out quickly. Based on the state of the grounds, the castle was not left unattended after your departure. Most likely, the same servants and butlers are still there."

"No," I shook my head. "As soon as you show your face, my uncle will know I'm in town. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

We were about to leave our observation point when a carriage pulled up to the castle gates surrounded by a dozen riders. The gorgeous horses, expensive outfits — this must have been the city's young elites.

Watching closely as the young people chatted and laughed loudly while waiting impatiently for a short gray-haired servant to come out and open the gates when the cavalcade arrived, Bertrand came:

"The young rider there in bright green is François de Gramont. Your cousin."

François bore no resemblance to Max. He was taller than him and broader at the shoulders. Yveline, that was who he looked like. Same eyes and golden locks.

"Well, now we know who got my castle," I snorted, looking at Heinrich de Gramont's son. "Bad luck for him..."

Bertrand shuddered and looked at me anxiously. But he kept those thoughts to himself.

The heavy gates started to open, and the cavalcade went racing inside. While riding past the servant, François gave him a lick with a lash. It was such a forceful blow that the gray-haired man flopped to the ground and blood covered his face.

"I warned you many times, dog!" the viscount shrieked. "If you don't move quicker next time, I will give you a whipping in the back yard!"

"Yes, milord!" the servant muttered, kneeling and shivering with his entire body. "Kindly forgive me!"

Paying no more attention to the man, the viscount rode off after the others.

"Poor Charles..." Bertrand whispered with a heavy sigh. "Most likely, you've also forgotten him... He served you as a footman."

"My cousin sure is quick to punish," I uttered.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bertrand looking at me strangely and immediately look away.

"What's the matter?" I asked him.

"Uh-um..." the old man hesitated. "Come on, spit it out," I encouraged.

"How shall I put it, monsieur?" he burbled. "You're completely different... You've changed. And for the better. Uh-um..."

"Wait..." a guess suddenly hit me. "Are you saying I treated him the same way?"

"You've changed..." Bertrand started hurriedly repeating. "You're different now, milord!"

I breathed a heavy sigh. You have no idea just how right you are, old timer.

Ahem... Seemingly, Max's ghost would be haunting me for some time to come.

"I've seen all I care to," I came drily. "Let's go back." "Yes, monsieur," Bertrand came.

Jerking the reins, I started the horses. The old man on his mare followed after me.

Right when we went past the gates of the castle, in a little gap between the closing gates, I saw Charles' gray head. His wide face was bloodied but, seemingly, he didn't particularly mind.

For a moment, his gaze slid over us and landed on Bertrand. The footman frowned, then his broad countenance stretched out in surprise.

"Bertrand!" he called out to my valet in a timorous voice. "Is it really you?!"

I glanced at Bertrand as he cringed guiltily, trying to look away and hiding his face.

Too late...

"Monsieur Renard!" the gray haired footman exclaimed "Monsieur Renard! Have you returned?"

But that was where it ended...

"Hey, dog!" I heard the shrieking voice of François de Gramont from behind the gates. Why the hell was he back? "You're still here?! Who are you talking to?!"

Damnation! Well, looks like I'll have to get to know my cousin ahead of schedule...

Chapter 4

"WHY... HRM... I..." Charles started hiccupping. His face looked even paler.

"Open the gates, brute!" the shrieking voice demanded.

A few moments later, the gates flew open, and François de Gramont appeared. The white horse beneath him stamped its thin legs in impatience, snorted, and shook its long head.

I found myself admiring the noble creature.

"What is going on here?!" François exclaimed, thrusting his chin forward and frowning.

That let me get a closer look at him. He and Yveline really were very similar looking. But she was the very image of a flower in spring. Vibrant and pure. Her brother meanwhile looked more like a weed. He also had his flowers, but they were noxious.

I could safely guess that François was older than his sister by seven or eight years. Slim with a decent build. Dressed in the latest fashions. It was

immediately obvious that my uncle was not stingy with his children's wardrobes. That broad-brimmed hat with fashionable multicolored plume all on its own most likely cost a ton of money.

As an aside, based on the large amount of green interspersed in François' outfit, he was a supporter of Prince Louis, the king's youngest son. It was said that all innovations in fashion could be traced back directly to His Highness Prince Louis. The youngest scion of the royal family, he patronized musicians, poets, artists, and sculptors. The capital city theater that Carl III's youngest financed was famed even outside of Herouxville.

To be frank, I found him the most tolerable of the king's sons. He clearly understood that he had no chance of attaining the throne, and thus enjoyed life to the fullest.

The behind-the-scenes struggle for power was mostly between his elder brothers. Or rather their supporters. The king's eldest son, "Red" Prince Philipp, was supported by nobles from the east headed by his uncle on his mother's side, the Duke de Bauffremont. His middle son — "Blue" Prince Heinrich — was the candidate of the northerners and big bankers like the Craonne brothers.

Going off the fragmentary information I got from various sources, I was perfectly aware of why the Craonnes and other bankers had taken the side of the king's middle son. Prince Heinrich was determined to embark on the same path of military glory as his father. He was raring for a fight. He craved glory on the battlefield. And wars, as everyone knew, cost money. Lots of money, which just so happened to be something the bankers could provide a lot of only to then shackle his arms and legs with obligations.

The eldest prince meanwhile had the vote of the eastern aristocrats. And that was mainly because Prince Phillipp was completely under the control of his beloved uncle the Duke de Bauffremont, the brother of the queen and cousin of the king of Astland.

From an outside perspective, the whole show looked more or less innocent but, digging deeper, very soon it would all spin out of control. Even before I entered the capital, I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing several spats between members of the different factions. One even ended in a duel with a fatal outcome.

Honestly though, the public announcement said the duel was caused by some lady's besmirched honor. But everyone knew perfectly well that was just an excuse. Still, the princes' supporters had yet to break out into uncontrolled political violence, at least not in public. But things were trending in that direction. The king probably knew what he was doing. Or not... I honestly didn't care.

As an aside, seeing Prince Louis' flowers on François' clothing didn't surprise me. Uncle Heinrich's choice to support the "greens," considered the most inoffensive choice, was calculated to keep his head down despite County Gramont being located in the eastern provinces.

I wouldn't be surprised to discover my uncle was not opposed to casting a line into the ocean of grand politics but, alas, Max's dad's failed part in the mutiny had sullied the family's reputation quite seriously. For now, green was the exact right color for the de Gramonts.

While the frightened footman burbled and hiccupped, Bertrand got on the ground quite quickly and froze in a respectful bow. The etiquette rules of this world stipulated that I could remain in the saddle but, because the viscount was higher in status than me, and an elder relative, I was supposed to greet him before introducing myself. Which I did straight away with a slight bow.

"Chevalier Renard?" I could read strained thinking on François' face. "Very familiar..."

Finally, the viscount's thin brows shot upward, and his lips cringed into a condescending smile. He scanned me head to toe with a disgusted look. His attention was drawn for a second by the Silver Wing on my chest.

The apparently modest sliver decoration was none other than an order I was personally awarded by the Marquess de Crépon, mayor of Toulon. All that happened at the reception in his palace in front of several dozen nobles and the commander of Westerly Fort.

Later, Jean Tassen explained to me that the Silver Wing of Strix was one of the most highly-regarded and valued decorations in Vestonia, which could only be awarded by what were known as "Frontier Mayors" and only to troops of the shadow patrol. Only the Golden Wing of Strix was above it, but that could only be awarded by the king.

Mine was given to me officially for "saving the lives of my brothers in arms." I suspected that if the men I saved were not from noble families my

"good deed" would likely never have been noticed by society.

Beyond that, I made a very strong memory of the mayor's satisfied face during the award ceremony. I had one theory about that. I figured the whole show had a dual purpose. For example, maybe it was a way for the mayor to turn the attention of the paymasters of the former fort captain the Baronet de Rohan, who were now upset that their smuggling operation wasn't delivering, on me. As if to say, everything was working fine until your protege got too greedy, tripped on the young chevalier, and embarrassed himself in front of Toulon's noble council. And this chevalier was no simple man. He was from an elite, ancient family, plus he was a hero. The Toulonnais adored him. Basically, if they wanted to direct their anger at anyone — make it Chevalier Renard, cavalier of the Order of the Silver Wing, a true hero.

At first, I hid the medal and didn't want to show it off, but that turned out to not be allowed. It went against etiquette. If I was outside of my home, my decorations had to be worn on my chest, especially such great ones. Removing, and particularly hiding any medal here was considered bad form. Doing so could be considered a mortal insult by whoever awarded it. I was lucky that Bertrand spotted it and explained before anyone noticed.

As an aside, on the way to the capital, I very quickly realized that medals, particularly those such as the Silver Wing, had a unique almost magical quality. Especially in cities near the frontier. Publicans, when they saw my decoration, tried to serve me the freshest beer and food. Servants and nobles greeted me with respect and even bureaucrats, the most steadfast members of the human species, looked at me differently.

Honestly though, the further I got from the frontier, the more that "magic" lost its power. But the whole way I came across people who were "in the know."

As for the viscount's wry and disparaging smirk, he didn't have the foggiest notion of the shadow patrol's combat decorations. He saw the little silver wing as nothing but a cheap trinket.

"I am the son of your uncle, Ferdinand de Gramont," I decided to remind him. "You and I are cousins."

François' face after that changed from one of mockery to one of indignance and anger. Max's cousin seemed fit to die of dismay.

"Don't mention that traitor's name in front of me ever again!" he hissed through his teeth. His eyes burned with fury and scorn. "You are no cousin of mine! You are the son of a vile betrayer and daughter of a merchant dog! I meanwhile am the Viscount de Gramont! Heir to a great and ancient dynasty! You have no place here! You are a shame on the family name. You should have stayed in whatever hole we stuck you in. Who allowed you to come to Herouxville, bastard?"

François practically spat out the last sentence.

Ahem... I of course was not counting on a warm welcome from my relations, but to be disparaged from the very doorstep?

Bertrand meanwhile was also in shock. His whole body was quivering. I figured it wasn't fear. But the footman's face went dark. He was probably seriously regretting recognizing Bertrand and me and deciding to speak up.

My cousin's words didn't affect me in the slightest, but saying nothing would be a sign of weakness.

I didn't know what François was expecting out of me, but my wry smile clearly bothered him.

"Viscount," I came, continuing to smile. "As soon as I meet your father, who invited me to come to the capital, I will be sure to tell him how much money he wasted on your edification. As regrettable as it is to admit — you are utterly untrained in proper manners. Either your instructors were fraudulent or, as they say, there's one in every family."

The more I said, the darker crimson the viscount's face went. He looked like a fish out of water. His mouth just kept flapping open and shut while his eyes bulged so far out they seemed about to enter orbit. A little bit more and this cretin would have a stroke.

I meanwhile continued:

"When it comes to my father, Count Ferdinand de Gramont, your uncle... He fought a large number of battles side-by-side with our king. After the

battle of Red River, His Majesty personally awarded my father with the Order of the Golden Fang, something only a few dozen in Vestonia can boast. Yes, later my father made a fatal error but His Majesty, may the gods extend his reign for many years to come, gave him the opportunity to clear his family's shame with his blood, and did not strip us of our nobility or regalia. He and my brothers were beheaded by an executioner, not hanged like thieves or murderers as he did with the other conspirators."

Okay, time to reel it in. The way this was leading, I was about to make Max's dad out to be a hero. Bertrand and Charles were giving me looks. My cousin meanwhile slightly calmed down... Was I able to throw him off with my verve?

Okay, then I should keep it up:

"Did you say this is no place for me?" I snorted. "Do you really have the right to say that, viscount? I am clear before the law and king. Royal investigators established that. Or do you think yourself smarter than the agents of the secret chancery? Or are you possibly opposed to the very will of the king?"

François again started gasping silently for air, though now his face was going pale. This must have been the first time in Max's cousin's life that someone had contradicted him.

"Yes, on your father's advice, I laid low in the west until the storm passed," I continued. "But now, what do I see upon my return? My castle, a gift from my father, is somehow occupied by you. And as if your illegal residence

wasn't enough, you've invited guests. Without my awareness or permission. You're cruelly beating my footmen... How am I to take this, viscount?"

"Y-y-you!" François barked, baring his teeth and bulging his eyes in fury. "You!"

He reached for the grip of his sword, which looked more decorative than anything. The handle and scabbard were just too weighed down with gold and gemstones.

"Oh gods!" I exclaimed cartoonishly, covering my eyes with a light pat and shaking my head.

Max's cousin again froze for a moment, staring wide-eyed at me in surprise.

"Your manners are even worse than I thought!" I exclaimed. "Viscount, take your hands off that sword this instant. I may be 'no cousin of yours,' but the rest of society sees us as close relatives. If we duel, it will bring shame upon our house. Use your head, viscount! Just imagine what people will say. Rumors at court spread very quickly. By this time tomorrow, His Majesty would know everything. Your father would be scandalized."

Honestly, I didn't say it, but his outrage would all land on me because I would also end up killing his son. I personally did not want such notoriety. I wanted to get setup comfortably in this world, not become an outcast. Enough provocations out of this cretin.

I couldn't say what spooked François more: mentioning the king or the Count de Gramont. The way his hand jumped back from his sword grip was just astonishing. For a moment, he looked like a misbehaving child caught in the act, but it quickly faded. My uncle must have been a real tyrant.

"You won't get away with this, moron," François hissed, pulling back the reins with fury.

Suddenly digging his spurs into the heaving sides of the poor creature beneath him, the viscount galloped off on his horse down the fine gravel path leading to the castle.

"Start packing, viscount!" I shouted cheerily off after him. "And make it snappy! I want to move back into my castle before it starts getting chilly!"

Then, I looked Charles straight in the eyes. The gray-haired footman, clearly under a strong impression from what he'd seen and heard, shrank and looked down at the ground.

"Look up, Charles," I came softly.

The sound of my voice made the old footman shudder, but he raised his head. The blood on his forehead and cheek had already dried.

"Your Worship, I..." he sputtered.

"I remember that you served me well," I cut him off softly. "Bertrand also has good memories..."

My valet nodded to confirm.

"Are you willing to continue serving me?" I asked.

"Yes, Your Worship," Charles nodded rapidly and winced in pain.

"I see my cousin really did a number on you," I came, tilting my head to one side. "Much like I used to..."

"Monsieur..." the footman tried to object.

"Drop it, Charles," I waved. "It hasn't been long enough for me to forget everything. I promise things will be different as soon as I'm back in the Fox Den. But for now, here..."

I took five thalers from my coin purse and extended them to Charles.

When the footman saw the silver, his eyes crept up into his forehead while his jaw slowly crept down. He wanted to thud to his knees, but Bertrand on my signal grabbed him by the elbow.

"Use this money to buy medicinal herbs and salves," I said, nodding at the wound on his head. "Or better go directly to a healer."

"Thank you, Your Worship," tears welled up in his eyes.

"Close the gates now, Charles," I said, turning my mare. "Otherwise the viscount will get mad at you again. I don't want my loyal servant suffering any further."

"What scheme are you working on now, monsieur?" Bertrand asked me when the castle was far in the distance.

"I want you to come back here in the next few days to find out how things are going in the castle," I replied. "But not empty-handed. I can get you silver."

"What exactly do you want to know?" Bertrand got keyed in very quickly as always.

"Everything," I replied. "Everything you can find out. How many of my servants are left. How many new ones have been taken on. Their mood."

"Well, based on your cousin's hotheaded nature, I can tell you their mood right now."

"And yet," I insisted. "Some of them must be closer to His Worship. I also want you to convince Charles to recount everything he can remember the viscount and his friends saying in the castle. In simpler terms, we need eyes and ears in the castle."

"That will not be hard," Bertrand nodded and added with slight reproach: "Especially after you gave Charles a whole five thalers."

"Money is not so important," I waved it off. "It's just a means to an end. Particularly given the fact I will soon have a lot of it. You saw."

The old man wanted to say more but kept quiet. Three riders with blue bands on their elbows came around a bend ahead of us. The man in the middle cast a quick glance at us and our horses. Seeing our elbows, he gave an awkward but promising chuckle:

"Messieurs! I see you still have yet to make up your minds. Please explain to us why His Highness Prince Heinrich is not worthy of your choice!"

I snorted. The esteemed nobles were raring for a fight. And they would get one.

Chapter 5

"ALLOW ME TO ASK A QUESTION, messieurs!" I asked the trio. "Why Prince Heinrich specifically? Tell me why I should choose him in particular. What's wrong with His Majesty's other sons?"

It was intended to provoke. But the three of them didn't seem to care. They even looked happy. I got the sense they were expecting something similar.

Let me note that I was slightly discouraged by the capital city's mannerisms. Here, unlike Abbeville, people treated duels differently. Nobody was particularly bothered with appointing a time and place. Fights broke out in a rapid, almost elemental fashion.

As a matter of fact, the authorities here had almost no reaction. The role of the guards in such cases, if of course the keepers of law and order were present for a duel, consisted in ensuring compliance with the dueling code. De Nevers and I had approximately the same happen.

Apparently, Carl III was himself a real shitkicker. Not only had he not outlawed duels, he did a lot to encourage the more martially inclined aristocrats. It was said that in his youth, he loved to dress as a commoner, go incognito into the city, and get into all kinds of risky business, including duels.

Ahem... This curious monarch was the ruler of Vestonia... At this rate, his kingdom was going to run out of nobles. Or hotheaded ones at least... However, the hotheads were none too eager to go to war, preferring to cut down one another closer to the royal palace clearly in hopes that the powers that be might notice them.

Seemingly, I was now running into just such glory hounds. Or rather just one. The two men with him were clearly no big fans of swordplay. They weren't against watching someone's blood be spilled, though. There wasn't much else to do. They craved excitement.

The one in the middle, smiling wide, brushed the long black locks off his shoulder, and hopped off his horse. His haircut, wide-brimmed hat, expensive clothing and adornments all pointed to him being a keen follower of fashion trends. He was also strong and sinewy. His movements were crisp and quick. His energy system was developed. The grip of his sword and scabbard were unadorned — this man looked like a professional duelist.

"Your name?" he asked, ignoring my question and continuing to smile.

"Chevalier Maximillian Renard. And this is my servant," I decided to introduce myself. "Who do I have the honor of meeting?"

The black-haired man thrust out his chin in self-satisfaction and looked back at the others who, as an aside, looked much richer than him. The young blond in a brocade silver-embroidered beret replied with a sly smirk

as if to say the fun was about to begin. The big redhead in the wide- brimmed hat with bright feathers meanwhile laughed loudly.

"You've probably heard my name before," the black-haired man said with arms akimbo, his right leg thrust forward. "I am Viscount André de Châtillon. And these are my friends: Marquess Olivier de Hangest, and Gaspard Craonne."

When I leapt down from the saddle, Bertrand was already standing beside the horse down in a respectful bow. Tossing him the reins, I took a step forward and gave a respectful bow of my own. Then I looked at de Châtillon's companions again.

So the redheaded marquess, based on his title was son of a marshal of Vestonia, the Duke de Hangest. The blond meanwhile hailed from Mainland's richest family, the Craonne banking dynasty.

"Beg forgiveness for the importunity, viscount," I replied with a short bow and wave of my tricorn. "Unfortunately, I do not know your name. Though your companions I am familiar with. Word of His Grace the Duke de Hangest' victories in the southern borderlands have spread like wildfire to every corner of Vestonia. And the trustworthiness of the Craonne banks is the stuff of legends. That is precisely why I keep my own modest savings with them."

I could already tell how my conversation with the viscount was going to end. But I was trying to keep as respectful as possible. I was being watched by the scions of some very influential Vestonian bloodlines. It was probably

a way of staving off boredom. Dragging a professional brawler around and irritating the first nobleman they came across. Well, if entertainment was what they wanted... They would get it.

I could hear the viscount's teeth grating after my response even from far away. The redhead and blond instantly perked up. The show was about to begin.

Before my opponent could get his bearings, I continued:

"Viscount! You still have yet to answer my question. What did Prince Philipp and Louis do to upset you?"

André de Châtillon stuck out his lower lip and said scornfully:

"Chevalier, based on your appearance, you are either in the capital for the first time, or haven't been here for a very long time!"

"Right you are, viscount," I nodded. "For the last year of my life, circumstances forced me to live away from here."

The viscount and redheaded marquess chuckled dismissively. However, the blond Gaspard Craonne was not similarly delighted. With a slight frown as if recalling something, he scrutinized my modest outfit. Following his eyes,

I noticed that the edge of the silver wing was peeking out of my cloak. Gaspard Craonne was staring straight at it.

Hm... He must have known what it was.

Meanwhile, the viscount continued. He scanned me head to toe with a wry look and said:

"Maybe it was for the best, chevalier?! Maybe you're not cut out for capital city living. After all, there's a reason wise men say: 'The less you know, the better you sleep.'"

"There is a germ of truth to that," I smiled back. "But I'm a bigger fan of a different no less wise saying: 'Think before you speak.' I've also heard: 'My tongue is my own worst enemy.'"

The viscount gave a twitch as if he'd been slapped. His eyes contained not a drop of joy. His right hand reached for the grip of his sword.

"Explain yourself, chevalier!" he demanded.

"Gladly, viscount," I continued, removing my tricorn and handing it to Bertrand. This moron was getting on my nerves. I was wasting time. "The thing is — I asked you the same question two times, but you never gave me

an answer. That has led me to conclude that you are a cretin and a dunderhead who cannot even conceptualize keeping your big mouth shut!"

While André de Châtillon fumed and growled out curses, Olivier de Hangest and Gaspard Craonne stared at me wide eyed like some sort of wonder of the world. I meanwhile calmly undid my cloak and drew my blade. Swinging it a few times, I said:

"Viscount, it would be my distinct pleasure to take on the challenge of teaching you better manners!"

Interlude 1

Herouxville
A quarter in the Old Capital of Vestonia

AT THE END OF AUTUMN, Susanna Marino got yet another scroll containing a list of names of interest to a department of the Royal Accounts Chamber.

As far as common Vestonians were concerned, the Royal Accounts Chamber was just another institution where, as the name suggested, hundreds of accounting clerks kept busy running calculations only they could understand. According to popular legend, the Accounts Chamber was founded by the grandfather of the current king after his advisors were unable to provide him with specific figures on the number of dead from a plague in the northern provinces. Ever since then, the chamber had concerned itself with keeping data on every imaginable aspect of society.

It was a quiet, dull institution composed of dozens of departments, each with its own sphere of responsibility. Under the auspices of that inconspicuous and utterly uninteresting government body, a small department was formed to tally the number of carts, carriages and other forms of transportation entering the capital.

At least that was on paper. In reality, these "bean counters" carried out special secret missions. Simply put, they were essentially competitors to the secret chancery. However, the chancery didn't have the foggiest notion that anyone else was engaged in official secret investigations.

The Department of Carts and Wagons had been formed relatively recently. Approximately twenty years ago. And it was headed by chief bean counter Henry Purée, who was responsible for hiring and training senior and junior bean counters. And only Purée knew for certain who his secret department was answered to.

Susanna Marino had fled Atalia to avoid pursuit by the Scarlet Knights to Vestonia. Initially, she travelled all around seeking to put her skills to good use. Until one fine day, her name landed on the rolls of the Department of Carts and Wagons.

After finding herself in an ingenious bean counter trap, Susanna Marino was ready to say goodbye to this world. But she got lucky. Its leader found an appreciation for her particular abilities and offered her a job. And now, Susanna worked as a junior bean counter in the smallest, most inconspicuous department of the Royal Accounts Chamber.

Over her several years of service, Susanna Marino saw so much she started thinking nothing could surprise her anymore. But then, at the end of autumn, the head bean counter managed to do just that. She got another scroll, which contained just one name Chevalier Maximillian Renard.

The short missive said the man by the name Chevalier Renard was about to arrive in the capital, and Susanna was to focus on that singular asset and set aside all her running affairs.

That "about to" stretched on for a couple months of Susanna regularly checking the city guard's lists of incoming and outgoing travelers. And in that time, her boss seemed to forget she existed. No new tasks, just one single name. As soon as Chevalier Renard made it to the capital, Susanna was supposed to shadow him and report on all her asset's movements to her superior.

Bit by bit, Susanna was able to gather some information about Renard through her channels. A legitimized bastard of Count Ferdinand de Gramont, a traitor who had been executed nearly a year prior. He was also grandson of Pascal Legrand, head of one of the largest trading houses.

At first glance, he was nothing special. Just another spoiled aristocrat sent on a temporary exile to the west. But that was only at first glance. They'd devoted a whole scroll to him alone, so he could not have been such small potatoes.

Renard finally showed up in the capital a few months later. Susanna was at the gates on the day to catch a glimpse of the mysterious chevalier with her own eyes.

At first glance, he was exactly what she was expecting. An aristocrat of twenty years with a fresh, enthusiastic face returning from exile to a life of capital city excess.

Honestly though, the longer Susanna observed the chevalier, the more she became convinced it was all an act. Sometimes, Renard's true face slipped through the mask. He reminded Susanna of an animal. Something very familiar, yet very dangerous.

The strange happenings began within one hour of Renard's arrival in Herouxville. For some reason, he rented a room in an inn in the Old Capital, even though her intel suggested that he was supposed to proceed directly to his uncle's manor house.

And things quickly went from bad to worse. Leaving his three servants to unload his coach, Renard and another servant visited the Upper Quarter, location of the capital-city elite's oldest manor houses.

There, next to the gates of a chateau, Susanna hid in the bushes to watch a very curious scene. Young Renard easily and casually put his cousin Viscount François de Gramont in his place, and he was part of Prince Louis' retinue.

The viscount was older than his bastard cousin by a few years. Beyond that, he was lower in rank. And yet, none of those advantages were obvious. Renard behaved like he was his cousin's uncle who came to town to teach his misbehaving nephew a lesson.

After talking to the viscount, Renard and his servant tried to go back, but their path was blocked by three riders, who Susanna immediately recognized. They were the youngest son of Damien Craonne, head of the

Craonne banking empire; the eldest son and heir to the Duke de Hangest, Marshal of Vestonia; and André de Châtillon, one of Herouxville's top swordsmen and apple of Prince Heinrich's eye.

From there, it was not hard to predict what happened next. Or so she thought. Susanna had heard many stories about the Viscount de Châtillon dispatching opponents. And now, it was leading to a duel.

She had no authorization to intervene so Susanna, hiding behind a wide tree trunk, looked on at what she assumed were the last seconds of her "charge's" life.

After a brief verbal exchange, the aristocrats drew their blades and... And then Susanna became aware of why she was put on this case. As a descendant of the aghuane, she could sense emanations of a very unusual power she had never sensed before. When her half-blood great grandmother found out the gift of their sylvan forebearers had awoken in her, she trained her how to recognize power flows. And now, she was perceiving something of a different nature.

Renard's gift, and Susanna had no doubts he was the source of the uncanny magic, didn't feel all that powerful yet. But that did not stop the strange chevalier from laying out Viscount Châtillon in a single blow while his friends looked on in astonishment.

No, Renard did not kill his opponent. He just placed the tip of his sword to the man's forehead. And he did it with such speed that Prince Heinrich's champion wasn't even able to get off a proper lunge.

Then, something happened Susanna was not expecting — Renard sensed her. Hopping into the saddle of his horse, he suddenly turned and looked straight at Susanna's hiding spot. She got lucky — Renard got distracted by de Châtillon's companions. The feeling someone was watching her disappeared.

The strange chevalier had left a while ago, but Susanna stayed hidden for a bit longer. She'd have to stop tracking him. She couldn't shadow Renard anymore — he had sensed her. But that wasn't a big deal. Another bean counter could take over the chevalier's case.

But she needed to tell her boss what happened at once...

Herouxville
A manor house on the outskirts of the New Capital

"Out with it," came an authoritative harsh voice from the darkness.

"He is in the capital, Your Grace," a creaky somewhat cold-stricken voice replied. "He paid for a week in a few rooms in an inn."

"Hm... Odd... Why not go directly to the de Gramont manor?"

"I haven't a clue, Your Grace," the raspy voice replied. "But he paid a visit to his old home. A son of Heinrich de Gramont is living there now."

"Thinks he can play independent?" the voice from the darkness asked drily. "Seems like it," the raspy voice agreed, adding: "There's one more thing..." "Out with it."
"It seems the bean counters have taken an interest in him."

"Well, well!" the voice in the darkness said in surprise and added with malice: "That vile hunchback is sticking his nose where it doesn't belong again. What else...?"

"He fought a duel," the rasper said.

"What?!" His Grace exclaimed, puzzled. "He just entered the city gates and straight away he's in a duel? Still... Who did he fight?"

"André de Châtillon."

"What?! And he's still alive?"

"And kicking, Your Grace," the rasper snorted. "The viscount had a stroke of bad luck. Renard hit his forehead with the tip of his sword. De Châtillon didn't even manage to get a single move off."

"The bastard is that fast and proficient?" the voice in the darkness asked, now calmer.

"Yes, Your Grace," the raspy voice replied. "Everything we were told about him is true. The Baronet de Rohan didn't stand a chance."

"Alright..." His Grace sighed. "Anything else?"
"I spotted a Silver Wing of Strix on Renard's chest."

"Hm... Now that is bad... Now someone in the palace knows about him. And the king has an attraction to such things."

"André de Châtillon was with Damian Craonne's son as well as a son of the Duke de Hangest. Renard knocked him down in a single blow right in front

of them."

"Damnation!" the voice in the darkness growled. "Now them, too! The kid is getting popular. And he's only been in the capital for a matter of hours."

"Your Grace, would you like me to take care of it?" the rasping man asked.

"No," the voice in the darkness replied. "Not yet. Tread lightly... Continue following him and keep me informed."

"Yes sir, Your Grace."

When the front door closed and the footsteps faded into the stairwell, His Grace broke the silence:

"Apparently, everything you reported was true. That bastard is clearly not who he claims."

"Your Grace," a mewing voice from the darkness replied. "I watched him be fed to a flow with my own eyes. That spellsword somehow managed to survive the Shadow. And all without a suit of magic armor."

"Keep an eye on him. He probably brought back a lot of interesting goodies from the Shadow."

Chapter 6

"MONSIEUR, PROCEED WITH caution," Bertrand begged me in a voice wavering with anxiety.

"Everything will be fine, I promise," I said, pulling an inconspicuous black beret on my head. Spreading my arms, I then asked: "Well, what do you say? Who do I remind you of?"

Bertrand walked a slow circle, scrutinizing my look.

"A shopkeeper's assistant. But why did you have to put on this whole raggedy getup? As a noble, wearing clothing like that is beneath you. If your uncle or cousin saw you looking like that... The shame."

"Trust me," I snorted. "Even if they did, they'd scarcely recognize me."

"But why this whole masquerade?" Bertrand asked uncomprehending. "And in the middle of the night at that. Wearing this filthy clothing... After all, you only recently visited the baths."

I breathed a heavy sigh. I'd have to think up an explanation or he'd never let up.

"Look, Bertrand," I stroked my chin. "After the duel... Actually, what duel? That was a joke..."

"It was very magnanimous of you not to kill him," Bertrand nodded. "His friends come from very powerful families. Still, it occurs to me that the viscount will not simply leave well enough alone."

"And foolishly so," I snorted. "Next time, he'll be even less lucky."

The old man shrugged indefinitely. As if to say such was the lot of aristocrats.

"So then," I continued, "after the duel, I got the sense we were being followed."

Bertrand shuddered and covered his mouth.

"It could be anyone. Friends of the Baronet de Rohan, or old friends from the guild of the nightwolves. I am very skeptical that they would decide to leave me alone."

The old man whispered a short prayer.

"My sixth sense is telling me something," I continued. "That surveillance of the inn has already been established. And the person I want to pay a visit to cannot be seen by any observers. Hence the change of costume."

"I see, monsieur," Bertrand nodded and looked more closely at my unsightly attire. Then, he pushed me on the back, smoothed my right sleeve, shook it out and said with satisfaction:

"Okay. Now you are the spitting image of a grocer's assistant."

I reached the agreed-upon location fairly quickly. Honestly though, first I had to do a bit of spinning around on the late-night streets to throw off my potential pursuers.

A few times, I blended into the shadows, stopped in dark alleys and corners and closely scanned around. But I quickly concluded that if someone was watching my temporary residence, they'd stayed there. They must not have been expecting a trick from a young aristocrat, thinking I'd be unwilling to dress up for a night-time caper.

Unfortunately, my reservoir had yet to grow big enough for serious spells or incantations. It would be very nice to have Mislead tonight, for instance.

Honestly though, I shouldn't have been complaining. The pearls and bruts had made my energy system start to progress at a rapid rate. I was still far from serious spells, but a good part of the witching arsenal was now available to me.

The man I was planning to visit lived on the same street as the capital city baths. That was why I said I wanted to visit that part of town. To get a good look around.

The man had rented the entire second story of an inn at the end of Flower Alley. As an aside, I didn't know who named the alley that, or why but it was very poorly suited. The aromas were far from floral. Old Herouxville's sewage system was clearly unable to keep up with demand.

It was a sultry evening, so the windows of the inn's second floor were wide open. And I took advantage of that.

Quickly climbing up the stone wall, I ducked into the open window and snuck into the small room. Standing in the shadows, I looked around and listened. Based on the meager furnishings, it was a servant's quarters. The bulky body snoring away loudly on a cot against the opposite wall confirmed my guess.

I drew in air through my nose and closed my eyes. The familiar scent pulled me to a door that was slightly open. The room's inhabitant must have left the door cracked on purpose to keep the air circulating and stave off the sort of stale humidity that might drive a fellow to madness.

Following that smell, I quietly popped out of the room and walked down a long hallway. Beyond it was another small room where, seated in an armchair, a gaunt man was peacefully dozing away, clearly another servant. And finally, I ducked into a doorway that hid what was quite a large bedroom with a broad bed in the middle. All doors and windows inside the small apartment were open — the inhabitants were doing whatever they could to stave off the heat.

On the wide bed, with the comforter cast aside, my old acquaintance was breathing heavily in his sleep.

Closing the door tightly behind myself, I quietly walked over to the edge of the bed and shook the sleeping man by the shoulder. First, to be honest, I had to scan the whole room for traps then sneak my hand beneath his pillow. As expected, I found there a small satchel of poison powder.

When I touched his shoulder, he woke up instantly. But he didn't show it. He also didn't shout or call for help. Eyes closed and pretending to still be asleep, he slowly slipped his right hand beneath the pillow. I chuckled. No surprise.

Meanwhile, taking a few steps back, I sat back in an armchair and crossed my legs.

I saw the no longer sleeping man's face tense up when he found nothing.

"Viscount," I called out softly. "Don't bother. You won't find it. I have your poison. In the name of the gods, don't make any sudden moves and, please, don't make any noise. I give you my word, you are not in danger."

I had to give the Watchmaker his due. He recognized my voice immediately. Raising his head, he quietly asked:

"Monsieur Renard?"

"Yes, it is I. I remembered your invitation and decided to come pay you a visit. Let me first apologize for barging in uninvited and at such a late hour... Trust me, I had good reason for the intrusion. Can we talk?"

Herouxville
The Royal Palace
Carl III's personal chambers

Interlude 2

THE HEAVY DOOR into the king's office flew open and Carl III's youngest son Prince Louis appeared in the doorway.

"Father!" he said with a showy yawn to the king, seated at a big carved yew desk. "You called?"

"Yes, my son," Carl replied with a slight frown and nodded at the seat next to the fireplace. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable. This will be a lengthy conversation."

Carl III, accustomed since childhood to early mornings, did not hide his scorn for all those who allowed themselves to sleep in until noon as well as anyone who led a jovial lifestyle. But alas, his own son Louis was just such a man. Lively balls, raucous binge drinking, large expenses on fine fabrics, wines, and valuables as well as all kinds of luxury items — those were the young prince's main interests.

And now, Louis had come to his father's office most likely shortly after climbing out of bed. And the sun was far past midday. He was also wearing a new style of clothing that had become fashionable at court for some reason Carl found absolutely incomprehensible.

"His grandmother's blood," the king thought with a condensed sigh. And yet again, he reminded himself that Louis was the only one of his sons who bore no resemblance to himself.

Ah, he was no match for Bastien. Upon recalling his favorite younger son, who had perished in battle with pirates, and who he was planning to put in charge of the country, Carl again winced.

Louis then, long since accustomed to his father's scornful grimaces when he saw him, calmly sat down in his chair and got ready to listen. The prince was perfectly aware of how his father thought of him and repaid him in kind. Still though, when he was a child, little Louis recalled loving his father sincerely despite his always being cold. With time, that love grew into hate, then aversion.

Prince Louis was a creative soul with a deep attraction to the finer things in life. His father meanwhile didn't understand a whit of either art or science. To put it plainly, he was a brutish, uncultured bumpkin.

As a child, Louis was very hurt by how dissimilar he was from his father and brothers. Now though, he was happy and very proud of the fact.

The prince cast a languid gaze around his father's office. He had a hard time not wincing. His lack of taste and primitive nature shined through in every element of the interior. The ancient suits of armor, animal horns, pelts, tusks and teeth, the dark, heavy drapes... This hideous, hefty table... Portraits of ugly people hunting or competing in tournaments. Wherever his eye landed it saw ugliness. As a child, Louis was always afraid of this room. Every item in the office wafted with an air of ghoulishness, blood, and moldering antiquity.

Finally, the prince's gaze landed on the jester. Loyal dog that he was, he was seated at the king's feet and, with a sidelong smirk, scrutinizing Louis' new outfit.

The prince noticed Kiko's wry look, tensed up and got ready for the hunchback to loose another of his barbs. The only man Louis hated more than his father was this malicious and filthy dwarf with his constant chuckling and chortling.

As if able to sense his son's mood, Carl decided to have a little fun with him as always.

"Kiko," he smiled to the hunchback. "What do you think of Louis' new clothes?"

"Oh!" The jester exclaimed with delight, the little bells on his toxic-red floppy hat jingling abhorrently. "Looks like I'm going to need a new wardrobe very soon. His Highness' clothing makes mine look dull and gray by comparison."

Essentially, Louis had just been called a jester. And in theory, an insult such as that would have caused anyone else to lose their tongue, but the royal jester was outside these laws. He said whatever entered his head without fear of punishment.

And why? Because first of all, jesters typically were not punished. And second, the wise jester never said that which the king did not wish to hear.

The king with a loud chuckle patted his big hand on the thick tabletop. Louis also had to smile and look promisingly at Kiko. While the prince looked on with anger, he hid behind the king's broad leg, then peeked out from behind it as if it was a column and stuck out his tongue.

Once finished laughing, the king wiped his thick lips with a kerchief which Louis noted with horror was pocked with dried light green spots, and asked his son seriously:

"Are you aware that the Duke de Gondy came to the capital today with his daughter and son?"

It was hard for Louis to maintain composure. As if he didn't know! The Marchioness de Gondy was the most sought-after bride in Vestonia! Rich, pretty and, supposedly, very clever. But that wasn't even the biggest part...

The Marchioness de Gondy had been corresponding with him for the last eight months. It all started a year prior at a ball in the palace of her grandmother, the Duchess de Gondy, attended by Louis and his elder brother Philippe.

His older brother, being a mild-mannered pushover, preferred to live in his uncle's shadow and took practically no part in the festivities. Louis on the other hand didn't miss a single dance. At the ball, he was entranced by the young marchioness. Her refined taste, sharp intellect and sense of refinement.

Also, the Princess of the South, as she was popularly known, possessed an astonishing collection of paintings and sculptures. And it was precisely on the grounds of Louis' artistic output that his relationship with Blanca de Gondy sprouted.

For the previous eight months, they had been corresponding, discussing everything related to art. In one of those letters, Blanca told him her father was planning a trip to Herouxville, and that she and her brother would be accompanying the duke. She also said why. Her brother Éric was most likely going to be getting engaged to Adèle, granddaughter of the king and niece of Louis.

Since that day, Louis had not known calm or sleep. His Blanca was traveling to the capital! He summoned all his best tailors and together they invented a new fashion of clothing, which the vile dwarf had just been mocking.

Oh! Blanca de Gondy would be delighted by this new style and the new combinations of colors and fabrics! Not his father, and certainly not his vile jester — neither of these barbarians could sully Louis' triumph!

"That serpent de Gondy wants to marry his son to my dear Adèle," Carl gave a sidelong smirk and exchanged wicked glances with the jester. "He doesn't stand a single chance... He-he..."

Louis' father's words forced him to emerge from his revery. The prince perked up his ears and strained his body. Why was he here? For what reason was his father discussing such important issues with him? After all, nothing of the sort had happened before. Louis was the last person the king wanted to discuss important matters with.

There! An epiphany! It finally hit Louis. Even the biggest fool in the land could have seen it. Blanca's brother would not become the king's father-in- law, but Carl needed a friendly South, particularly now after the renewal of hostilities with Atalia.

The Duke de Gondy or, as he was also popularly known, the King of Aquitaine, required a guarantee of loyalty from the king. The Prince of Vestonia and "princess of the South" getting engaged would be a perfect solution. It would put an end to the stand-off between the princes. Blanca's husband would surely become dauphin of Vestonia with the South's support. And then, one day, king.

And if Louis was here, that meant... A happy smile blossomed on the prince's face.

"He won't get little Adèle!" Carl barked. "She will be..."

The king wanted to say more but, with a brief glance at the prince's attentively listening face, bit his tongue.

"But the duke will have to give something in return," Kiko hurried to his aid.

"Yes," Carl agreed, now calmer. "He can have a son... Let him think it all worked out for him..."

"Yes, Your Majesty," the jester nodded and rubbed his hands together. "You'll win some time..."

Louis couldn't understand what exactly the pair were saying and didn't particularly think about it. The only thing he yet again noted was how much influence Kiko had on the king. The pitiful, vile hunchback could read the ruler of Vestonia like an open book and manipulated him with artful ease.

"Yes," the king agreed. "While they nip at each other's heels and weave intrigues, we will be able to... ghm..."

The king again fell silent and cast a suspicious gaze at the prince. Louis tensed up.

"It's decided!" Carl slammed a palm down on the table. "We will announce Phillipe's engagement to the Marchioness de Gondy!"

"Excellent idea, Your Majesty!" the jester called back. "Let de Gondy and the de Bauffremonts tear out one another's hair deciding who has more influence on His Highness Prince Philippe."

They said something else, but Louis wasn't listening. The tension made his jaws lock, and blood seeped out of his bit lip. But the prince didn't notice. He was having a tough time keeping himself from fainting.

His Blanca was to be wed to the cretin Philippe! Oh gods, no! That could not be! That... That... Why did they summon him here? Another epiphany! They knew about his correspondence with Blanca! What did that mean then? Did they only call him here to mock him?!

Tears welled up in Louis' eyes. The brutes! What brutes they were! "Louis! Louiiiiis!"
His father's voice seemed to be coming from far away.

"Can you hear me?" "Uh... What...?"

The prince shuddered and sense returned to his eyes. He turned his head and looked again at his sullen father.

"Drifting through your fantasies again?" the king muttered. "Thinking about what color underwear you'll wear tomorrow?"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Louis got up from his seat and bowed respectfully. "Would you remind repeating what you just said to me?"

"Surely," the king nodded. "I said that I found you a bride."

Louis shuddered. And looked at his father with hope. In that moment, he was ready to forgive the king all his insults and humiliation. Could it really be that Blanca and Philippe's engagement was the fruit of his imagination? Or had his father perhaps changed his mind? Bring it on!

"As you know, my son, we are currently at a state of war with Atalia," the king began, for some reason from an odd angle. "In order for Vestonia to

prevail, we need unity between the North, South, West, and East. And to achieve that unity, I will have to make many sacrifices."

"Yes, Your Majesty, I understand," Louis nodded, though he wasn't even close to appreciating what was being said.

"I recently received word from the North," the king continued. "The news is that Konung Bjørn Sharptooth took advantage of the conflict between Harold Graywolf and the council of five jarls to raid our northern provinces. A number of northern counts and barons who sent their retinues to war expressed a desire to return home and defend their lands against these incursions. They will not go to war with Atalia with Konung Bjørn Sharptooth's hordes harrying their lands."

"Other northerners might follow their lead," the jester added. "And that would be a quarter of our troops."

"If the holders of the northern provinces recall their warriors, we will be in a tight spot," the king said. "The Atalians are sure to seize on that. And so, we need to stop the collapse of the army I have already gone to such incredible lengths to gather."

"Father, I cannot see what part I am to play here..."

"You will be assigned a most important role," the king replied. "You are to be wed to the daughter of Bjørn Sharptooth. It is the only way to pacify the North."

Done. That was it. Louis felt the floor fall out from under him. His Blanca would be wed to another... While he would be forced to marry the daughter of some northern barbarian.

"But that's only half the trouble," the king said, as if in ridicule. "It isn't so easy to marry the daughter of a konung. They live by a set of ancient local customs. Claimants to the hand of a konung's daughter are required to undergo a series of tests."

"Claimants?" Louis asked mechanically. He didn't actually care, but he asked the question with intent. His father couldn't be allowed to notice his downtrodden state.

"Ghm," the king stroked his chin. "That brings us to another problem... There are many that wish to bind themselves to Bjørn Sharptooth by marriage. He is one of the most influential rulers in Northland. There are many claimants to his daughter's hand. We have reason to believe several of them are gifted."

Louis perked up. He saw a glimmer of hope.

"Father," he came. "I am prepared to do whatever it takes to reinforce our influence in the northern borderlands... But willingness is not all it will take. I am no warrior. As much as I might want to, I will fail that test. As a matter of fact, if some of the claimants are truly gifted then, alas, few in Vestonia would stand a chance of prevailing."

"You are right, son," the king came sullenly and slammed his fist on the table: "What unfortunate timing for Zoé de Namur to leave with her combatants!"

Trying in vain to hide his delight, Louis asked: "What about our other strykers?"

"I need them for the war," the king shot out. "But it seems I will have no choice but to send Lord Gray with you."

All his hopes were shattered... Louis breathed a fated sigh. Lord Gray was the king's most powerful stryker. He could be trusted to take on any task.

"Alright, my son," the king waved. "That is my concern. Yours is to be prepared to depart for the North at a moment's notice. You may go."

Louis bowed and, shivering in spite and malice, made his way to the front door. If the king could read his son's thoughts, he'd have been horrified at how cruelly he was imagining executing his own father.

Chapter 7

"WHAT ARE YOU SO DRESSED up for?" Jacques commented on my finest outfit, which I had acquired in Sardent, with slight mockery in his voice.

Honestly though, I could tell I rushed it. I should have waited until I got to Herouxville to order myself clothing in the capital city style. My attire now gave me away as an outsider. Or rather, a foreigner.

Jacques' seemingly innocent question was actually a trick. It was a way of hinting at last night's reincarnation and subsequent rendezvous with the Viscount de Tosny.

I was aware that Jacques was somewhat offended to see I had not taken him along as backup. For a certain time, the veteran had been very concerned for my safety. In that way, he and Bertrand were very alike.

Jacques was sitting on the edge of the coach I sent him to rent yesterday from the owner of the inn. He tried to saddle us with his driver as well, arguing that he knew the city better, but we had plenty of people watching us as it was, so I refused. Plus, I had Bertrand.

"How insolent," I snorted without malice, and got into the coach.

In reality, I was slowly introducing that manner of communication into my inner circle. Three heads were better than one. And it was bearing fruit.

Honestly though, the method was not without side effects. The two were regularly trying to sneak me lessons on good sense. And that was despite all they knew about me. Essentially, Bertrand and Jacques were the best informed in my circle.

To my eye, beyond my unspoken introduction of relative freedom of speech for the pair, there was another aspect as well. My appearance. Despite the fact this body had put on a lot of muscle, I still looked young for my age. With all my abilities, if I also had some character and a speaking style fifteen years more advanced, they would have treated me differently. Still, to be frank, the two of them weren't going to change their stripes.

"I just don't want to lose my master too soon," Jacques shrugged. "As an aside, I was promised a happy old age without poverty under the wing of a wealthy, influential aristocrat."

"Not all aristocrats have the fortune to be born rich and influential," I snorted. "Some have to do a lot of work first. Even at night disguised as commoners."

"And here we thought such aristocrats only had to marry elite brides with a large dowries," Jacques said confidently.

"And that is usually the case," I sighed. "But not always. Sometimes, the young nobleman is a pawn in someone else's game. And as you know, pawns were made for the main players to sacrifice whenever they see fit. As for last night's adventure... I had no other choice. Furthermore, you're too old for such things now."

"Well, I can still remember which side of the sword is the grip," I seemed to hear notes of offense in Jacques' voice.

"Enough huffing," I said. "You know what I'm referring to."

"Monsieur," Bertrand spoke up, sitting next to Jacques. "Jacques is a warrior and could have covered your back."

"I had no other choice..." I repeated, putting an end to the discussion and commanding: "Let's go."

The buggy started off and slowly rolled forward. Meanwhile, as if by coincidence, I looked around bored at the street. I didn't notice any "hangers on" but I constantly had the sense someone was watching. It was time to hunt down the clever trackers. They couldn't know much, but most important to me was to grasp onto a thread no matter how small, then to see... Maybe it would lead back to a ball of thread.

"The Watchmaker is in," I decided to share after a brief pause. The buggy just started picking up speed, so no one could hear us.

"I had no doubt," Jacques came softly, not turning.
"You don't say..." I rubbed my chin. "He was very afraid at first." "But you changed his mind?" Jacques laughed.

"Showed him ten little hollowstones," I smiled, remembering the Viscount de Tosny's astonished gaze. I could only imagine what would happen if he could see the largest full bruts in my collection.

"You have a way of changing people's minds," Jacques chuckled.

"It's too soon to say anything," I sighed. "The viscount thinks in valuables. Artifacts from the Shadow are a new market for him. He's liable to lose his head. Which is why he only took three hollowstones to test."

"You trust him?"

"Of course not," I replied. "But he is the only person who could pull it off. Beyond that, he knows what will happen if his scribblings find their way to the secret chancery. On top of that, he is an intelligent man. The viscount does not require explanations of the full benefits he might enjoy from

cooperating with us. By the way, Bertrand, just in case I'm not home, the viscount is supposed to send someone in the next few days."

"What's his name, monsieur?" Bertrand asked.

"A certain Zacharias Beron," I responded. "The viscount claims this Beron is a very deft financial mind. He knows everything about speculation on the Herouxville exchange and bond auction."

"So, you have decided to purchase your dear late father's worthless papers?" Bertrand breathed a condensed sigh.

"Not only that," I nodded. "Not only... Wait! Just what might that be?"

Our buggy just so happened to be driving past a large temple to the Most Luminous Mother. One of the most important goddesses in the local pantheon. A line of pikemen stretched out, holding back the ferocious onslaught of an agitated and angry mob trying to push its way into the temple vestibule. Everyone wanted to see what was going on at the main entrance with their own eyes.

And it really was worth seeing. While the crowd cried out in rage, ululating and whistling, the priests of the local religious order pulled a group of poor chained-up saps out of covered wagons.

Intrigued, I ordered Jacques and Bertrand to stop the buggy and ducked out into the crowd. With a couple of mean elbows, I started working my way to the front rows.

Before too long, I found myself near a pikeman holding a body-length rectangular shield. He was standing in the full light of a scorching sun not far from his brothers in arms guarding a narrow stairwell which, by all appearances, led into the temple crypt.

I saw beads of sweat run out from beneath his helmet over his heat- reddened face. Seemingly, he was on the verge of passing out.

Watching the look in his cloudy eyes, I saw him staring at a big, bearded man with an elongated canteen in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.

"Hey, beard!" I asked the tubby man. "I'll give you half a thaler for your canteen."

"One thaler!" the bearded man reacted instantly with a satisfied belch.

"Here," I tossed him a coin and got the canteen in return. Sniffing the air, I realized I had just bought some foul wine that was hardly worth a dozen copper and watered down to nothing. Oh well...

"Here," I said to the surprised pikeman and wiped down the canteen opening with a sleeve. I then raised the canteen to his mouth and ordered: "Drink."

"It isn't proper," the pikeman rasped and glanced apprehensively toward the main contingent of pikemen. Meanwhile, he gulped loudly with a parched throat.

"This is an order from a nobleman," I added some pressure. "If your commander asks, tell him: Chevalier Renard is at his service."

The pikeman gave it a second's thought and sucked greedily at the canteen. Taking a few big gulps, he instantly drained the canteen.

"Better?" I smiled.

"You have my gratitude, Your Worship," the serviceman smiled. The look in his eyes went clear.

"Your name?"
"Pierre Claverie, Your Worship."

"What is going on here, Pierre?"

"The Stone Knights have delivered witches for public execution. They claim to have caught a whole coven."

Hm... What the Vestonians called the "Stone Knights" or "Knights of the Order of the Gray Rock" were analogous to the "Scarlet Knights" of Atalia. Both kept busy exterminating true gifted. But the former had less power in their country than the latter. However, based on what I'd seen in the last few months, the popularity of that knightly order among common Vestonians was growing not by the day, but by the hour. Soon, the waves would be lapping at the very shores of Vestonia. Then an all-out hunt for true gifted would begin.

Heh... Not that that would change anything... The world here was slowly going the same way as my homeworld. Famine, disease, tax hikes, a huge wealth gap between the nobility and common people, war — the priests knew where to apply pressure in their sermons. And in order to show their unity with the people — they had no choice but to burn or, as they did in this world — quarter a couple of witches. Heh... As if they were to blame for all these troubles...

As long as the interests of the king and supreme magister coincided — the former would turn a blind eye to the latter's activity.

"Then why is it you here and not the city guard?" I asked, nodding at the bronze chevron with the royal crest on his chest.

The pikeman winced.

"Why, we were escorting the princess to come pray in the temple of the Most Luminous Mother. And here these..."

The royal pikeman spat and angrily glared over at the people in dark gray robes installing a small wooden platform.

I looked in that direction, then over at the temple stairs where several dozen nobles were standing in flashy, expensive clothing. A young woman in the group stood out wearing a pretty lilac dress. Princess Adèle, daughter of the king's youngest son who died in battle with pirates. She appeared to be around thirteen or fourteen.

The knights putting on their show were seemingly also blocking the princess and her retinue. She would have to be in the audience for the execution.

I'd have bet my hand that whoever made that happen did it on purpose. Essentially, it was a sneaky way of essentially forcing the princess to take part in executing the witches. Now, word would spread throughout the kingdom that the young Adèle, a pious worshipper of the Most Luminous Mother, was completely on the order's side.

It made me wonder if the king was in on the whole affair. What if he was secretly orchestrating the whole show? Why not? It could easily be the case.

Why not improve the princess' image a bit in the people's eyes. With a bonus boost to the loyalty of the quickly growing knightly order.

Tossing the serviceman a thaler and waving off his gratitude, I quickly went over closer to the hastily assembled platform. I had to be certain Lada was not among the witches sentenced to die. She was the first person who came to mind when the pikeman told me about the execution.

People just kept coming. I looked around. Our buggy was now parked at the far corner of the square. Jacques must have figured such a big crowd was a potential hazard and thus drove our vehicle out of the way. Bertrand and Jacques were both sitting inside the buggy as well. I nodded in satisfaction. That was what I liked about them — their can-do attitude.

Essentially, I just needed one glance at the women the priests called witches to make certain Lada was not among them. I had a hard time believing all ten of the prisoners were really witches. So I wanted to get up closer and scan them. I could always get out after.

While I pushed forward, I listened to the onlookers. People were hungry for blood. They didn't much care for witches. I heard the occasional cry to cleanse the city of unclean forces with redoubled vigor.

"How much of our blood have they supped?!" a burly woman cried, gasping and shaking her head.

"They're the source of all our troubles!" a scrawny man next to her rasped through crooked yellow teeth.

"They'll get what they have coming now!" a broad-shouldered redheaded kid menaced the prisoners. "One of their kind made off with all the cattle in my village!"

I pushed further and shook my head so I wouldn't stand out from the crowd.

Finally, I was directly in front of the platform, where I started looking around in true vision at the chained-up women all huddling together. Unnaturally crooked fingers, bloody wounds, bruises under the eyes — they had clearly been subjected to harsh torture. Scanning one woman after the next, I felt shivers all over my skin.

Unbelievable! I was wrong! They were witches! All ten of them... So, they really did uncover a whole coven. Their reservoirs were mangled and disfigured. I was surprised they were still alive. Lada had very similar wounds.

But she was not there among them.

I sighed with relief. And was about to turn around and leave, but my eye was caught by one strange factor.

I looked closer... Squeezed in the middle of the huddle was another witch being protected by the others. Based on the energy system, she was a nine- or ten-year-old girl.

My attention did not go unnoticed. One of the witches, the oldest, sharply shot up and started darting her eyes around the crowd. A moment later, we locked eyes.

Even in her state, she was able to sense my adoptive mother's mark. I could only imagine how powerful she had been before her capture. I was also scared by the thought of who could take a witch like her prisoner. Whoever it was, they must have had at least as much power as the late Wild Duke. If the order had gifted of such power at their service, the king was going to have another quickly growing force in his kingdom to reckon with.

The witch's swollen and bloodied lips twinged.

"Nod if you can hear me, fox," the quiet whisper reached my ears. The old woman spoke to me in witching. Her pronunciation was mangled, but I could hear her and understand even though there were more than thirty feet between us. It also suddenly hit me that the old sorceress speaking to me was using a kind of wizardry I was unfamiliar with.

Neither I nor my adoptive mother had command of such magic. I nodded shortly.

"They destroyed my reservoir," I heard the magic whisper again. "But I still have a droplet of power big enough to land my final blow... I pray of you... Save my granddaughter... Any coven would take her in... They will pay you handsomely... Be ready... I trust you, fox... You bare the mark of a sister..."

The old woman broke eye contact, rolled her eyes back, and slowly went down onto the stone causeway. She must have miscalculated her powers. I could see that her reservoir had very little mana left. Her sistren immediately crouched over her.

Turning my head, I shook off the invisible haze of alien sorcery, and cursed quietly to myself.

This was exactly why I always tried to stay away from witches and, if I had dealings with them, it was only in cases of extreme necessity. Which by the way, Vadoma had taught me.

She was the one who warned me to never voluntarily have dealings with witches. Because before you knew it, you'd be obeying their every command like an obedient, loyal dog.

I of course felt bad for the little girl, but they should have considered her safety earlier. If this coven had been caught almost in its entirety, these witches must not have been especially hiding. Feeling powerful, they got lazy and careless. They thought no one would dare move against their coven. And paid the price.

But now, they wanted to rope me in... The old woman must have seen a young spellsword in the crowd and habitually decided she could bend him to her will. Too bad... She picked the wrong guy.

I was about to turn and leave the square when I heard a loud, sonorous little girl's voice coming from the temple.

"Look, Your Holiness! There is a child among these unfortunate souls!"

It was Adèle. She was speaking to a short, thin old man in a white priest's tunic with golden embroidery.

I didn't know why, but I decided to stay and listen to their whole conversation. With my hearing, even through the din of the crowd, it was no challenge picking out their words.

"Your Highness," the gray-bearded priest shook his head. "That is no child. It's a witch! Appearances can be deceiving. This brute injured and nearly killed one of our knights."

Based on how the princess turned her little head up, she was not accustomed to being defied. Adèle stomped her little foot, making the chestnut locks on her temples flip around amusingly.

"She's just a girl!" he shouted out sternly. "She can't be older than ten. Captain de Scalon! Bring the poor girl to me at once!"

"Yes, Your Highness," a tall warrior in bone armor appeared from the side as if out of thin air and pounded his wide chest with a big, huge fist.

"Stop, captain!" the priest exclaimed. I heard notes of panic in his voice. "Your Highness! You do not fully comprehend what is happening!"

I allowed myself a sidelong smirk. The directors of this show must not have told the princess anything. Much to their misfortune... Her Highness was making a real mess of things. Her outburst made the crowd start grumbling in dismay. The already incensed public started bubbling like a pot of oil over a heavy flame. The people saw the sentenced girl as nothing but a hated witch. People came here to enjoy a show and watch the "beasts" be torn to bits, not set loose.

"I don't care what you think!" the princess shouted sonorously. "I don't believe that girl is a witch! Bring her to me at once!"

"What the heck is all this, my good people!" someone from the crowd exclaimed. "They want to turn these beasts loose!"

"No way!" a woman cried out from the right. "My sister got a spell put on her, but they get to go free?!"

"Get them, brothers!" a gruff voice near my ear barked, and the crowd lurched forward.

The crowd hummed and burbled. The faces of the people around me warped into scowls of hate and fury.

The jig was up... No going back now. Press on or be trampled. Drawing energy from an emerald brut out of habit, I took the first step.

Chapter 8