Last Life

I WAS STANDING with my elbows leaned up against the side of our buggy and watching the count’s coach drive away. By local standards, it was a gorgeous vehicle. And elite.

I had been tossing the golden signet back in forth in my hands all that time, feeling its pleasing heft.

“A great investment,” I heard Jacques say to my side.

“You know that word?” I asked, not turning. I wanted to see the riders on the big warhorses accompanying de Angland’s coach. A gorgeous sight.

“There was a brainiac in my troop,” Jacques snorted. “A brilliant mind. And he knew a lot of clever words. Honestly though, it didn’t help him in the Battle of Leon. A lot of men died there.”

“Yet you survived.”

“I survived many battles.”

“Ever miss the old days?”

“No-o-ope,” Jacques chuckled. “I’m just fine with my life now.”

“I’ve noticed that Madame Richard enjoys your company.”

“Yes, that is one reason,” Jacques smiled back at me. He looked in that moment like a sly tomcat in heat.

“So, what were my odds today?” I asked quickly.

“One to ten,” Jacques responded, slightly taken aback by the change in topic.

I snorted. I thought it would be more. That Paul Lepetit was quite miserly. But still, my twenty-five crowns were now two hundred fifty. All I had left to do was wait for Bertrand with the money and we could drive home. Hm... But first celebrate.

“Once we’re finished with business, take me and Bertrand to a place that serves nice food,” I said, stashing the signet in my pocket. Jacques was right: this ring was a good investment. Plus the count did me a favor. Now I wouldn’t have to waste time selling the armor. It was also convenient. I could now always keep a large amount of money on me. I wouldn’t have to haul a bag of silver around.

“Will do,” Jacques nodded, concealing a mischievous smile.

I warned him straight away:

“But not like last time with the armorer. Somewhere respectable but not too expensive.”

Jacques nodded in silence, but the smile didn’t leave his face. The winning bet had put him into an uncommonly good mood. Should I ruin it? Aw, come on. Let him have his fun.

But Bertrand’s prolonged absence was starting to alarm me.

“You know something?” I asked, hopping into the buggy. “Why don’t you take me to the bookmaker’s? I get the feeling something has gone wrong. He should have waited for me rather than going alone.”

* * *

Paul Lepetit’s office was in a neighboring district at the very end of a street. It was a two-story stone building with a red tile roof, thick iron-bound doors and narrow windows with steel grates.

When we first stopped beneath the wooden sign depicting coins and two horse heads, I whistled.

“This place is a real fortress! A whole army would have trouble taking it.”

Jacques shrugged.

“That’s the idea. This town gets restless at the slightest provocation. And hotheads always come running to places like this to loot. They know there’s always money.”

Hopping out of the buggy, I quickly walked to the heavy door and knocked on it loudly.

“I’ll knock your head in!” I heard an annoyed bark from the other side of the door.

The lock clanged and a mountain of a man appeared in the doorway with big, huge fists and a total lack of intelligence in his eyes.

“What do you want?” he barked out.

Holding back my annoyance at the plainly boorish treatment, I asked a question:

“My good man, I am looking for my servant who I sent here to collect my winnings.”

I was about to start describing Bertrand, but he was in no mood to listen.

“Nobody’s been here,” the giant answered suddenly and added: “You should have kept better track of your servant. He’s probably pounding back ale in a dive as we speak.”

After the tirade, the iron-banded door slammed straight in my face.

I frowned and looked at Jacques. All he could do was shrug his shoulders as if to say he didn’t have a clue.

I looked around. Not a soul. Nobody to even ask. I wound up to knock again, but Jacques stopped me.

“Monsieur,” he said quietly. “Look.”

I turned where he pointed. A grubby child’s face was peeking out around the corner of a neighboring building.

“Looks like he wants us to go over there,” Jacques commented on the child’s gesturing.

Crossing the street, I walked over to the boy trying to get my attention. Dirty dark blond hair, old clothing and shoes. This kid was clearly a member of the local homeless community.

“Monsieur,” he addressed me in a slightly rasping voice. “You wouldn’t happen to be looking for an old servant, would you?”

“What makes you say that?” I asked, now on guard.

“I heard what you said to Bull,” the waif answered shiftily, nodding toward the iron-bound doors. “Also, when the old man was thrown out of there, he threatened that his master would surely come after him, and they would not like it when he did. Honestly, no offense if it was you, monsieur, but it looks like the old man was exaggerating. Paul Lepetit has fifteen enforcers in there. That is of course if you can somehow get past Bull.”

“You know where he is?” I took a step forward.

“Not so fast,” the kid stepped back, about to run away. “Yes, I know where he is, and for a small reward I could take you to him.”

“Will this be enough?” a few copper coins appeared in my hand.

The kid’s eyes lit up with greed. He even gulped loudly.

“If you show me where the old man is, they’re yours,” I said. “If this is a setup, you better high tail it out of Abbeville.”

We met eyes. He wasn’t lying. He knew where Bertrand was. But the look in my eyes seemed to have scared him.

“Follow me, monsieur,” he said in a shaking voice and quickly started down the next street over.

I then, signaling Jacques to stay where he was, followed the boy.

We didn’t have to go far. Lying on a rubbish heap wearing nothing but his skivvies, Bertrand was at the end of a dark dead-end alleyway between two buildings. When I saw him, I burst forward.

Holding my breath and shaking with overexertion, I bent down over his body. Pale face, bleeding broken nose, a big bruise under his right eye — the poor fellow had taken a serious beating. Based on his faint breathing and lack of reactions, Bertrand was unconscious. Plus he was very cold.

I quickly scanned his energy structure and breathed a sigh of relief. He just needed a nice warm bath and some time to recover — he would be fine.

Tearing the coat and cap off myself, I quickly wrapped the old man in them and found his body unexpectedly light.

“Monsieur, uh...” I heard the kid ask demandingly behind me.

“Your name?” I threw out sharply while picking Bertrand up.

“Everyone calls me Goldfinch,” the kid muttered.

“Bring my companion with the buggy this way and I’ll pay you double what we agreed.”

Goldfinch whistled away like the wind.

While I walked down the street, Bertrand woke up and glanced at me with a dim look. I saw recognition. He first gave a faint twitch, but I reassured him:

“It’s over, old fellow. It’s all behind you. I’m here. I’m with you.”

“Monsieur,” he whispered in a shaky voice. “I let you down... They recognized me... They kept all your winnings... They said the money was going to pay your debt to someone called Trebolt... I tried to protest, but they overpowered me...”

“Everything will be fine, my friend,” I reassured him. “It’s my fault. I never should have involved you in all this. Or let you go on your own. I must have still not been thinking straight after the duel. It won’t happen again. Ah, and there’s Jacques...”

The buggy came flying around the corner. Jacques looked upset.

“What’s going on with him?” he asked when he came to a stop.

“He’s a bit worse for the wear, and needs to warm up, but he’ll survive,” I replied. “Take him home.”

“What about you?” Jacques asked in surprise.

“I have more business to attend to with a certain self-assured gentleman.”

Not waiting for Jacques to respond, I threw a handful of copper coins to Goldfinch and strode off toward Paul Lepetit’s office.

Tightening the sword scabbard on my back as I walked, I drew a bit of energy from my full reservoir and directed it into the tips of my fingers. I no longer cared to make sure I wouldn’t kill my opponent on accident.

The iron door opened to my insistent knock with a slight delay, and the same giant man appeared in the frame.

“Well, what do you want now, rat?” he barked. “I believe I already made myself clear. I take it you aren’t going to understand the nice way?”

“Is Paul in?” I asked, ignoring the insult, which baffled the big man. He nodded mechanically.

“Looks like you...!” he bellowed out when he found his footing but was unable to finish.

I gave him a short blow to the solar plexus reinforced with an energy pulse which made him double over and, wheezing, fall to his knees. The veins in his bovine neck bulged with strain. His face filled with blood. I gave him another short pop to the temple and ended his suffering.

Stepping over his body as it convulsed in agony, I walked into the building.

The fairly spacious entryway continued into a long corridor with a door looming at the other end. When I was already in the middle of the corridor, it opened and another bald enforcer stepped out, but smaller than the doorman.

He froze in the doorway and stared at me in surprise with his little closely set eyes.

“Hi!” I smiled carelessly, upping my pace. “Bull sent me. I need to talk to Paul. Where is he now?”

“Second floor, in his office,” the goon kept frowning as he answered. “Just who might you be? And why did Bull not take your weapon?”

Too late. Scanning the big man’s energy system, I had already made it to the end of the corridor and landed a right-hand punch right on a dark spot on his chest. That was how old wounds and injuries looked in true vision.

It only took one push — he lost consciousness before he even fell to the floor.

From behind the door the bald man stepped out of, I found the lobby and a wide marble staircase with two guardsmen stationed on it. Was this Paul guy growing these men from test tubes or something? Their food budget alone must have been staggering.

The bruisers, drawn by the commotion at the door, were already coming down. The first was a broad-shouldered kid with a thick head of hair and a wire brush of a beard. The second, somewhat shorter, had fiery red hair and stared at me in surprise with his blue eyes open wide. He seemed to recognize me. My guess received immediate confirmation.

“Max?” he asked. “How’d you get in here?”

I just shrugged and dashed with lightning speed straight over a couple stairs until I was one step away from him. Before he could say another thing, I shoved him in the gut, he cringed and, his eyes rolling back, tumbled down the stairs until falling silent.

The redhead shouted out an indignant curse and tried to grab me by the shoulder. I meanwhile ducked beneath his hand, climbed a step higher and, sending a bit of energy into my hand, slammed it into the base of the ugly man’s neck. A moment later, the blue-eyed man was lying at his partner’s side showing no signs of life.

I took down another seven goons in the hallways and passages of the second floor and, a few minutes later, found myself opposite a carved double door made of reddish wood manned by a couple old friends.

“Bah!” I spread my arms and smiled. “My guys. Crab and Block. It’s been a while!”

Whereas Crab’s face started filling with blood when he saw me, Block shuddered and mechanically covered his crotch with a wide hand.

“I see you haven’t forgotten our last encounter!” I kept smiling.

Crab, sputtering and spewing curses, dashed my way like an enraged rhinoceros. I saw a knife blade flicker in his hand.

I didn’t try anything fancy with the ugly bastard. Grabbing the sword off my back, I swung at his hand. Crab’s hand, still grasping the knife, fell to the floor and ruddy blood started spurting from the stump. That was for hitting Trixie.

Crab took another few steps out of inertia and, clutching his right wrist with his left hand, started howling. His wailing lasted only a few seconds though. The heavy pommel of my sword smashed through the back of his bald head with a crunch. I was not intending to leave that scumbag alive.

Block, who had been watching me take my revenge on his buddy the whole time, had yet to move a muscle, just covering his groin with his big hands.

“Is Paul Lepetit behind that door?” I asked him calmly, wiping the blood from my blade.

Block nodded quickly. It somehow even looked childish.

“Very good,” I praised him. “Because you do not want to die today, right?”

He shook his head rapidly and even growled. Great, now he won’t talk.

“Well then, run off home,” I waved the sword at him. “And don’t ever let me see you again. Got it?”

Block, sidling toward the door to the stairs, nodded very quickly and bleated something out.

“Run along then,” I shook my head and breathed a heavy sigh.

I waited for Block to leave and made for the carved door to what appeared to be Paul Lepetit’s office.

I wanted to push it open but before I could someone opened it for me. A fashionable head of curly hair poked out of the gap and said fearsomely in Beetle’s voice:

“What are you two idlers doing out there?!”

Before he could say anything more, the tip of my blade was pressed against his neck.

“And I just kept guessing who could possibly have recognized my Bertrand.” I chuckled and pushed the door, holding the tip of my sword to his neck. “Because you do understand that when you beat up the old man, you crossed all known bounds, right? If I would have waited any longer, he’d have frozen to death.”

“Max,” Trebolt’s henchman said plaintively and gave a loud gulp. His eyes open wide, he stared at Crab’s dead body and the brownish blood running around the bloody stump. “I beg you... Don’t kill me... I warned them, but they wouldn’t listen...”

“Beetle!” I heard an authoritative baritone from deep in the office. “What is going on out there? Why are you taking so long?”

“Step aside,” I ordered Beetle sharply.

And when he ran in fear to the far corner, I entered the office, put my sword in its scabbard and looked around. Big fireplace. Thick rug. Wide desk. Soft sofas. It was like I was right back in the Pit warden’s office. But the man in charge of this place looked nothing like the toadlike colonel.

Paul Lepetit, and that was exactly who this was, looked more like an aristocrat than the owner of a bookmaker’s office. Angular facial features. A slicked back hairdo. Neatly trimmed mutton chops. A strong jawline. Clothing of a fashionable cut.

“Not a bad place you got yourself here,” I said while looking around. “Pretty cozy.”

“Max Renard?” Paul Lepetit stared at me, stunned. “How’d you get in here? Who dared let you enter?”

My predecessor must have known this Paul all too well.

“My servant, who you robbed, beat, and threw on a trash heap in his skivvies said you wanted to see me in person. Is this how you do business nowadays?”

While I spoke, I was slowly approaching his desk with a stack of scrolls and papers, some stuffed leather sacks, inkwells, bundles of plumes, a small dagger and a thin letter opener.

The owner of the bookmaker’s office quite quickly got himself together. Placing his well-manicured hands on the tabletop, he frowned and tried to get up out of his chair.

“How dare you, you little bastard!” he shouted fearsomely. “I see you have forgotten who you’re dealing with! You...”

But before he could finish, a wave of energy ran over my body and, a second later, I grabbed the dagger from the edge of his desk in my right hand while with the left I took the letter opener and stuck both into Paul Lepetit’s hand, pinning them to the desktop.

The bookmaker was apparently a man with a very low pain threshold. Plus I knew perfectly well where to hit to cause the most pain. In the end Paul Lepetit’s brain couldn’t take it, and he passed out.

The gambling boss’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped in his chair before his aristocratic countenance came in for a rough landing on the desktop. And meanwhile, it looked like he broke his nose and lips. Beetle hiccupped mutedly in the far corner.

“He got off easy,” I muttered, looking at the fat sacks on the table interestedly. “Hey, Beetle, splash some water on him. Otherwise we’re gonna be here all night.”

Beetle did as I ordered quite quickly. The contents of a silver decanter on the desk got splashed onto Paul Lepetit’s head. Based on the smell, it was wine.

The man coughed and groaned out loudly. He raised his head, and we met eyes. Now there wasn’t the least bit of rage or fury in his eyes, just all-consuming fear and horror.

“That’s more like it,” I bared my teeth and sat on the edge of his desk.

Interlude 2

Herouxville, capital of Vestonia. The Manor of Thomas Gilbert, head of the Gilbert trading house.

“Well, old snake,” Pascal Legrand said mischievously. “Tell me why you summoned me. Just don’t try to claim your heart suddenly swelled with longing for an old friend.”

Despite being over sixty years of age, the head of the Legrand and Sons trading house looked alive and full of vigor. His harsh, searching gaze, sharp movements, and quick reactions to even the most insignificant changes in the world of finance all seemed to indicate that the Legrand and Sons trading house was not going to have a change in leadership any time soon.

Whereas Pascal Legrand was called a hawk in the world of merchants and profits for his blistering speed, Thomas Gilbert’s manner of conducting business was more snakelike, involving lots of waiting and ambushing before in the end swallowing his prey whole.

Both of them were prime examples of the kind of people said to have made their own fortunes. But that was where the similarities ended. Well, apart from age. Gilbert was older than Legrand by just one year. In every other way, the pair were utterly unalike. But that was no obstacle to their long-lasting friendship. Still, both of them were aware their relationship had only remained friendly because their business interests never overlapped.

“Care for some wine?” Thomas offered.

“I suppose so,” Pascal Legrand sighed, getting settled in for a long talk. It was just how Gilbert did things. Now, they’d have to talk around the issue. After sharing a meal, he even pulled him into his office.

First, Thomas filled their glasses with a light pink liquid that gave off a faint cherry aroma, then made a short toast:

“To fortune!”

“To fortune!” Pascal repeated the motto all merchants lived by and took a small sip.

A moment later, a wave of warmth spread through his body while his eyes widened in surprise.

“Yes, yes,” Gilbert said with a satisfied smile. “That’s right. This is none other than Eastern Ruby. It has more than fifty years on the both of us.”

“Excellent!” Legrand took another little sip and even winced in delight. “A real treasure!”

“I’ve been saving this bottle for a special occasion,” Gilbert chuckled and also took a little sip.

“It’s nice to know that a meal with an old friend is something you see as special, worthy of uncorking such a fantastic vintage.”

A fire of curiosity sparked up in Pascal Legrand’s gray somewhat squinting eyes. What could the old snake really be after?

“You know the history of Eastern Ruby?” Thomas Gilbert asked, placing his glass on the table and sitting in an armchair next to the giant fireplace, which resembled the mouth of a fire-breathing dragon with its huge size.

“Beyond the fact that Astland’s winemakers are gifted, and willing to kill anyone for their secrets, no,” Pascal shrugged and also sat back in the comfortable leather armchair. Wines were in fact one of the areas the Gilbert trading house specialized in, and which the Legrand trading empire had never so much as dipped a toe into.

“Well, everyone knows that,” Thomas Gilbert waved a wide hand carelessly. “But less well known is that Astlandic winemakers’ strict adherence to principle, as well as the ancient laws of their guild are just myths concocted to increase prices.”

“Gold opens all doors,” Pascal nodded, agreeing with his friend.

“Not all,” Gilbert expressed with a sigh of pity. “Alas, not all... But that’s for another time... This variety, as well as some others are actually made with a base of solid brut.”

Legrand snorted and glanced again at the contents of his glass. So, not dust, not hollowstone, but solid crimson brut?

He turned his intrigued gaze at Gilbert.

“This beverage is worthy of the table of a king or emperor.”

“Agreed,” Gilbert came, smiling his serpentine grin. “That’s why we’re drinking it now. Because you and I, even if not by origin, are also kings and emperors. And unlike aristocrats, who were handed everything on a silver platter since the day they were born, you and I forged our empires with our own hands! As a matter of fact, without us and our money, most of Vestonia’s nobles, and all of Mainland’s would be nothing but so much hot air. Their armies, fancy clothing, purebred horses and fine wines, as well as their lovers and very homes are all financed by our purses. In fact, if we called in all the debts they owe us right now, they’d lose their pants. So if anyone should be enjoying a wine like Eastern Ruby, it is us.”

Pascal Legrand snorted. He already knew everything the old snake was talking about. As did every merchant of the golden hundred. Beyond that, this was far from their first conversation about it. Just this time, Thomas Gilbert was speaking with particular emotion. Which wasn’t much his style. He only acted like that on rare occasions, such as just before he struck like a snake ready to swallow its prey.

Pascal didn’t feel like his prey though. First of all, Gilbert would simply choke on him, and second — neither had anything the other wanted. So this must have been something else.

“They say wines like Eastern Ruby have to age under the strict supervision of a gifted person. They make sure the mana contained in the liquid is maintained and gradually leeching its power into the wine. Which is why, beyond the bruts, the grapes the juice is pressed from must be grown in the Shadow. And even under those conditions, out of thousands of bottles, in the best case only around a hundred age to maturity. The rest turn into revolting sludge.”

Gilbert fell silent and stared thoughtfully into the roaring fireplace. Pascal, having known his friend for many years and accustomed to such pauses, waited in silence for him to continue. And he did so quickly enough.

“To successfully craft this royal beverage,” Thomas said, not taking his thoughtful gaze off the fire. “There are several conditions that must be met. One of them is the age of the grapevine. The longer it’s been growing in the Shadow, the greater the chance it will birth a true Eastern Ruby. After that, they require care and cultivation by an experienced gifted person, along with a lot of other minor things.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Pascal Legrand couldn’t resist any longer.

Tearing his gaze from the fireplace and looking at his old friend, Thomas Gilbert said:

“You told me gold can open all doors. Not all, my friend... Not all... Some of them will remain closed to you and me forever. And you know that perfectly well. All these counts, dukes, kings, even bare assed and up to their eyeballs in debt, will always be part of a closed circle which we can never enter. Not even for all the gold in the world. They were given the key to that door by birthright. Only their family trees, like those old grapevines, are capable of producing true fruits which can yield the juice that will mature into ancient blood. That blood is the thing that commands armies, and makes nations bow at their feet. It is what confers true power in this world.”

“You are now talking like the madmen who sit beneath temples. Or has the wine gone to your head?”

Thomas Gilbert laughed and took a sip from his glass.

“Do you remember the first time we met, my friend?” he asked.

“As if it were yesterday,” Pascal nodded. “Honestly though, on that day you were drinking booze of a completely different quality.”

“And I wasn’t wearing any shoes and had a broken rib,” Thomas confirmed. “The vessel I was sailing to Mainland on crashed on a reef. All my belongings sunk to the bottom of the sea. But I survived along with another few poor saps. I had to start over from nothing.”

“And I admire you! And respect you! Unlike you, I got help from my father starting out. You earned everything yourself.”

“Don’t be modest,” Thomas Gilbert waved him off. “You built the Legrand empire. Your father, compared to you, was a common shopkeeper much the same as mine. Honestly though, he never did forgive me for not returning to the Foggy Isles and taking over his business.”

“You made the right choice,” Pascal shrugged. “Your counts and barons are constantly at war. And if they just let merchants earn their money, that would be fine enough. But no, they constantly demand honest traders pay them gold.”

“That was exactly why I made Vestonia my new home,” Thomas said. “This is where I earned my starting capital.”

“For which I am immeasurably happy,” Pascal saluted him with a glass.

“But the time has come to move on,” Thomas Gilbert said suddenly and gave a mysterious smile.

“Move on?” Pascal frowned. “To Astland? Closer to your beloved wines?”

“Oh, no!” Thomas laughed. “You’re joking, right? I wouldn’t last a week among those hard-headed snobs. Vestonia is forever my home! This is a place where fates are made, and where the largest capital funds can be found. How could I live without the Herouxville stock exchange? Haha! The heart of Mainland is right here. I was referring to something else...”

“Then illuminate me,” Pascal threw his hands up. “But I beg you — don’t give me any long preface. My patience and time are not unlimited.”

“Yes, forgive me, old friend,” Thomas Gilbert shook his head. “My speech has taken longer than intended. In my defense, I will say that none of it could be left out. So, I hope you understand me.”

Pascal, in silence, gestured with a hand as if to say, “go on.”

“As you’re aware,” Thomas Gilbert appeared to finally be getting to his point. “My business is on the upswing. Profits are rising every year. Much the same as yours. But there is one ‘but.’ I get the feeling I’ve outgrown the golden hundred. It isn’t enough for me anymore. It’s time to move up a level. Or not quite. It’s time to make sure all my heirs into the future will have the chance to reach that new level.”

Pascal knitted his brows. Now he didn’t understand a thing.

“I spent a long time contemplating my life, my friend,” Gilbert continued. “And I concluded that everything I have done is but the basis for something greater.”

“Says the man who controls the entire wine trade in Mainland and the Foggy Isles?” Pascal snorted. “Not to mention your other, equally successful endeavors.”

“Exactly right, my friend,” Thomas nodded. “The man sitting before you finally realized one simple truth — I must leave a firm, indestructible foundation for my grandchildren.”

“Are you terminally ill?” Pascal asked in surprise. “And preparing for your death?”

“Despite my age, my health can only be envied. But as you correctly noted — death could strike at any moment. And that goes just as much for me as anyone. However, I must be certain that I have all my ducks in a row by then.”

“You talking about a will? I instructed my attorneys to draw one up ages ago.”

“Not exactly,” Thomas shook his head. “I am now speaking of the doors you and I cannot open. But I want those doors open for my descendants. My grandchildren and great grandchildren.”

“One second,” Pascal rubbed his eyes. “All this time, what you’ve been getting to is that you want to marry your children to someone from a noble family? Well, what’s so hard about that? Fix your Betty up with some baron or other. They seem to have multiplied like mongrels as of late. Your only daughter and the heiress to the head of the Gilbert trading house! Oh, as soon as the nobility finds out about your intentions, their sons will be lining up outside your door. I shouldn’t have to explain such obvious things...”

“I know,” Thomas responded calmly. “But I have several conditions. One of them is that a mere baron will not suffice. I need someone from a truly ancient house. And preferably the kind of person I can control completely, but to whom all doors will be open. And with my money, all the more so... Basically, you understand.”

Pascal started frowning even more.

“Even if these doors of yours do open, you yourself can never pass through. To them, you will always be the son of a shopkeeper. Regardless of your obscene wealth...”

“I do not intend to go through them,” Thomas snorted. “But my grandchildren and great grandchildren will be part of that world. They will be untouchable. Do you see? They will be their equals. That is precisely why I need a person who carries the blood of one of Mainland’s most ancient houses!”

“Yep,” Pascal shook his head. “That’s going to be a tall order. What member of the upper aristocracy is going to want to give up their offspring to the daughter of a man such as yourself? Furthermore, as far as I am aware, that class of person has all this arranged practically before their children are born.”

“Whoever said I would have to arrange anything with them?” Thomas Gilbert gave a wily squint.

“Who were you planning to make an arrangement with then?” Pascal Legrand asked in surprise. And meanwhile, he suddenly felt a pit in his stomach. A sure sign he was being recruited for some mad scheme.

“You, my friend,” Gilbert smiled wide like a snake. “I want to bind my house by marriage to yours.”

“Have you lost your mind?!” Pascal exclaimed, baffled. “Where do my children come into this...?”

He wanted to continue objecting, but suddenly stopped short... And his jaws started grinding...

“Oh, my friend!” Gilbert sighed. “I seem to have opened up an old wound... Forgive me... But I had to speak with you first. Don’t you see? Your grandson...”

“He is no grandson of mine!” Legrand hissed through his teeth. “That de Gramont scoundrel killed my sweet Anna...”

“But Pascal, he was only a newborn...” Thomas Gilbert tried to bring his friend to reason. “Such things happen from time to time. Women give their lives so that their children may draw breath...”

Pascal jumped out of his seat. Fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white, he loomed over the head of house Gilbert and barked:

“He hasn’t been a child for a long time! Ferdinand de Gramont the conspirator managed to raise his bastard into a vile little libertine. I have but one regret... That he was not beheaded alongside his traitor father and brothers.”

“I understand,” Gilbert stated softly. “And I share your grief. I remember Anna. And I mourn her along with you. Because we actually once had plans to marry our houses together. My Thomas Junior was in love with Anna... But, alas, the Shadow takes mercy on no one...”

Pascal shuddered. The haze of fury gradually subsided. He breathed a loud sigh, settling down, and took a step backward. Of course he mentioned his son and heir. Anna loved him, too. But the kid decided to join up with the Shadow Patrol, and there he perished... If not for that foolish death, Anna would have been alive, and now she and Thomas would have been raising their shared grandchildren. Remembering the freak who killed his beloved daughter by being born, Pascal closed his eyes.

“You did not have to mention that person to me,” he came in a cold tone, underlining every word. “The de Gramont bastard does not have and never did have any relationship to the Legrand family. To me, he will always be the man who murdered my Anna. And although her blood runs in his veins — he has no right to call himself a Legrand. And if you want my advice... Marrying him to Betty would mean ruining her life as well. No good will ever come of that bastard.”

“I know,” Thomas Gilbert nodded. “I am interested only in his pedigree. I want him only to give Betty and I a few grandchildren, who I will raise as true aristocrats. And then, I will get rid of Max Renard.”

After those words, not a single sinew on Pascal Legrand’s face twitched.

“Incidentally, I have already instructed Betty to go to Abbeville to look into her potential suitor,” Gilbert said. “She managed to make the acquaintance of an intriguing young woman whose admirer nearly killed Max in a duel.”

Pascal frowned and glanced at Thomas in surprise. In his turn, watching his friend’s face all that time, he snorted in puzzlement. Legrand thought the man looked discouraged by his reaction.

“So you didn’t know that your gra... ghm, that they boy nearly died?” Gilbert asked.

“How should I?” Pascal grumbled. “I have absolutely nothing to do with him. I wouldn’t care if he expired in a ditch.”

“But still, you did let your Bertrand go with him,” Thomas snorted.

“That was Anna’s last will, not mine...” Legrand cringed. Poor old Bertrand, a man he had essentially grown up with and who was more of a friend than a servant, had suffered unbelievable humiliation at the hands of that freak. He knew that for certain. He got his fair share of reports to that effect when that Max was still living in the old capital. And that only made Pascal hate the mongrel even more. Alas, as much as Pascal may have pitied his old friend, his daughter’s dying wish was law.

“So, its decided then?” Thomas Gilbert asked, standing from his chair. “You have no objections?”

“Let me repeat,” Pascal Legrand replied, raising his head. “Maximilian Renard has no relation to me or my family.”