Last Life

CALLING WHAT WE WENT ON a “walk” was quite the stretch. It was only thanks to Bertrand that I took my first few shuffling steps in this world. And to be totally honest, the old man was practically carrying me.

The walk from the edge of my bed to the desk and back took me several long minutes. But all the while, I was wincing in pain, sweating like I was carrying an unbearable weight, and stopping once per second to catch my breath.

As a matter of fact, if I hadn’t pumped enough of the brown energy into my energy channels at night, there would surely have been ruptures. When I got back in bed after my “walk” and glanced at my body using true vision, I was horrified. My entire energy system was lit up like a Christmas tree. My reservoir was already long dry, while the channels and nodes kept demanding more mana like insatiable monsters.

Squeezing the inkwell secretively in my hand, I sighed — I had another sleepless night ahead of me. But I was only glad. The progress was evident.

“Monsieur, this is a true miracle!” Bertrand whispered enthusiastically, carefully tucking in my comforter. “This is the first time I’ve seen anyone recover so quickly. It’s like a master healer has been working on your body for a whole week.”

“A week?” I asked in surprise. “Sounds like a long time. From how you described them...”

The old man snorted.

“Is a week really all that long? I was understating for effect. In fact, normal recovery would take longer than that. I’m reminded of when your late grandmother fell down the stairs. A capital city healer spent a whole month taking care of her. And that was a magister! And you say a week is a long time...”

“Curious,” I came thoughtfully.

A cautious knock at the door interrupted our conversation.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Bertrand grumbled and went over to open the door. “That flibbertigibbet has come prancing by again. She sure is a frequent visitor. But I can see why. The way she’s always looking at you, monsieur. Like I don’t see it. And she keeps telling everyone she has a fiancé... Pah...”

Not paying much attention to Bertrand’s complaining, I took a sniff. No, it wasn’t Trixie. This visitor smelled of ink, paper, and tobacco.

Hm... But Bertrand was right about the maid. For the last few days, I had also been catching her staring. Beyond that, during my baths, Trixie was now shampooing my head longer and rubbing my back and shoulders with the washcloth more thoroughly. And all of it was clearly her own free will rather than Madame Richard’s pressure.

Every time our eyes met, Trixie’s face went beet red, her chest started heaving, and a strange fire lit up her big blue eyes. I was sure that if Max were in my place right now, and he made a move on her, things would work out in his favor.

Hm, but I never gave her a reason. In fact, I tried to keep my relationship with Trixie strictly business. She was quite good at handling her maid duties, and my little jobs. Beyond that, she had already started slowly gaining perspective on my interests, because the information she was digging up for me was getting better every day. I started to think I could make a truly good assistant out of her one day. She clearly had potential. And now this...

Oh well, I could handle it if things ever really veered off course. The fact that Trixie’s unexpected interest in me might become a problem was undebatable. Either that or I knew nothing about relationships with engaged women...

Bertrand meanwhile finally made it to the door and, after a brief exchange with our visitor, came back into my room.

“It is Monsieur Moreau,” the old man reported. “The attorney I told you about. He arrived in Abbeville last night and, when he heard you wanted to see him, decided to come pay you a visit.”

“Send him in,” I nodded, adjusting the comforter on my knees and brushing off the nonexistent crumbs.

A few seconds later, a short thin man of fifty years appeared in the doorway. And he brought with him a suffocating cloud of tobacco smell. The yellow hue of his face and teeth with brown overtones, bloodshot eyes as if from lack of sleep, and sparse hair — he had every sign of being an inveterate smoker. And there on his belt was a pipe.

Before saying anything, my guest coughed loudly and wiped away tears with a kerchief.

“Please forgive me for the discomfort, Monsieur Renard,” he apologized. “I must have caught a chill while travelling.”

Yeah, sure. Cut the smoking, man!

But out loud, I said:

“Everything is fine, Monsieur Moreau! They say the winter is particularly harsh this year. I am doubly grateful that you could find time for me. Take a seat...”

As soon as the attorney landed in the chair, he took the pipe off his belt and set it in his mouth.

“Don’t worry,” I he warned. “I am not planning to fill the place with smoke. It’s just a habit... I hope it won’t be a bother?”

“Not at all,” I nodded.

“Thank you,” the attorney gave a slight bow without standing and, through the pipe mouthpiece, said: “Then I say we get to business. I’ve been told you wanted to see me? I hope you aren’t in any mortal danger?”

He nodded at the bandage on my head, which I was still wearing only so those around me wouldn’t how quickly I was healing. But it wasn’t great camouflage. Both Trixie and Bertrand were aware that my headwound had healed over several days ago. And if Trixie knew, that meant Madame Richard knew.

“If you’re suggesting that I should draw up a will, I do not intend to die just yet,” I said with a smile. “I wanted to meet you for another reason.”

“You have my full attention,” the attorney’s face didn’t express a thing.

“Before I continue, I’d like my servant to be present for the conversation. Because, essentially, this matter concerns him directly.”

“As you like,” Monsieur Moreau’s dispassionate expression changed to one of slight surprise.

“Bertrand!” I summoned the servant. “Come over here! I need your help. And bring me my box, if you’d be so kind.”

A minute later, Bertrand extended me the box of documents and was about to leave, but I stopped him.

“Wait up, old fellow,” I said and slapped the bed next to me. “Take a seat.”

The old man looked puzzled, first at me, then at the attorney and did as he was told. Once seated on the edge of the bed, he observed quietly. But what unfolded clearly surprised him.

Meanwhile, I took two pieces of parchment paper from the box written in magic ink and handed them to the attorney.

“Take a look at these, Monsieur Moreau.”

He took them, read them quickly, and rendered a verdict.

“The first document confirms your identity, and the second entitles you to lordship over the serf Bertrand Fournier, present here. Both documents are authentic. But I can’t figure out what you’re intending to do with them.”

“Basically, I would like to get rid of the second document,” I said calmly.

For a moment, a cryptlike silence fell over the room. Moreau was first to speak.

“Am I understanding you correctly?” he asked in surprise. “You wish to grant your serf his freedom?”

I glanced up at Bertrand, who was keeping a close eye on me. I was expecting to see all sorts of things on his face — joy, happiness, surprise, anything but fear and despair. And seemingly offence. Old man Bertrand now looked like a tiny baby whose parents were about to give him up forever to an orphanage. Tears came streaming down his face.

“Yes, you understand correctly,” I replied.

“You don’t need me anymore, monsieur?” the old man blubbered. “You’re getting rid of me... You... I...”

Then it finally hit me.

“Oh, gods!” I exclaimed and gave the poor man a gentle hug around the shoulders, making him shudder. “How could you think such a thing?! I just wanted to give you the freedom to make your own choices. Don’t get me wrong, I just can’t live at peace knowing I am keeping you in bondage.”

The old man’s shoulders heaved with sobbing. I stroked his gray head and kept reassuring him:

“Have you really never wanted to go back to your family? To your brothers and sisters? To see your nephews? Now you can do that. You will be free.”

The old man backed away and looked up at me with eyes full of despair.

“Since the day my father sold me to your grandfather’s father, I haven’t heard a word about my brothers or their children. Monsieur, it’s been so long that you are my family. And before you were born, your poor mother was my family, and before she was born, it was your grandfather... I don’t know how to go on without you... Don’t get rid of me... I’m old, but I will strive to carry out your orders better than ever!”

I again hugged him and shook my head. What a conundrum! I was not expecting this reaction.

“Old fellow,” I whispered. “Nobody is getting rid of you. I wasn’t even considering it. If you want to stay by my side, then stay! I’ll only be happy! But stay as a free man. You see?”

I backed away from the weeping Bertrand and took him by the shoulders.

“Don’t you worry about another thing, my friend. Alright?” He nodded insecurely. “And now, allow me to finish what I’ve started and let the esteemed Monsieur Moreau be on his way. He must be swamped.”

I glanced at the attorney. All that time, he just kept looking puzzled at the two of us. He even took the pipe out of his mouth. I also got the feeling he felt slightly touched by the scene.

* * *

It had been five days since Bertrand obtained his freedom. I couldn’t say my relationship with him had changed in any way. He was still trying doggedly to serve me, while I in my turn was still playing his master, but with new conditions — now I was paying Bertrand a monthly wage like a regular servant.

And Bertrand himself defined the arrangement that way. He did not intend to become a sponger, and the master-servant relationship was just fine by him. As a matter of fact, if I ever tried to do any housework to lighten Bertrand’s load, his indignation was so fierce that it was easiest to just give in and leave well enough alone.

I set Bertrand’s yearly salary at six crowns with clothing, food, and housing at my expense. By local standards, those were more than satisfactory conditions. Trixie for example would have had to labor away a whole five years for Madame Richard to earn that much. Disregarding her little side hustles, of course.

Bertrand by the way did not hesitate to tell me exactly what he thought about my extravagance and did everything in his power to lower his earnings. But I was unwavering. For one thing, I had essentially been living on his dime for the last few months. Not to mention his purchase of the outrageously priced potion. But oh well, I’d be sure to pay the old man back for everything he’d spent. Honestly though, I was not sure he’d accept the money...

Over the last few days, I had come a long way with reinforcing my energy system. All the important channels and nodes had become more stable. Now I could gradually start performing physical exercises without risking ruptures.

The brown hollowstone magic I decided not to abuse. I was using five drops every day. The unruly energy was still very hard for my body to incorporate. It always brought along headaches and nausea. But it was nothing compared to the results. By the middle of the third week of my stay in this world, I started performing basic physical exercises.

My daily squats, stretches, push-ups, and sit ups left Bertrand in shock. The old man found it very odd watching what he called my self-torture. Furthermore, as it turned out, such behavior was frowned upon for young nobles. Basically, the old Max never would have jumped out into the cold shirtless like I did every day to pour ice-cold water on myself from a bucket in the yard of our annex.

By the end of week four, I was finding my new body quite tolerable. I was gradually transforming from a flabby, pampered little noble into a lean, powerful man, which made me unspeakably happy. Despite the fact it was causing me no pain, Bertrand was constantly rushing off to fetch a doctor to finally talk some sense into me.

I just laughed him off and kept stubbornly pressing forward with my exercise routine. Our annex’s internal courtyard I turned into a workout area, clearing the snow and rubbish.

I started with basic stretches and ended with the first-degree kata Mamoru Yamada taught me as a child. I wasn’t doing any difficult power katas requiring energy yet so I wouldn’t overload my energy junctures. But I did have to train this body to use weapons ASAP. I had several duels on the horizon. But because my sword and armor had been won by Vincent de Lamar in accordance with the dueling code, I had to look for a replacement.

I got started using a simple light bokken because, thankfully, in my past life I had a wealth of practice with that sort of thing. I dug around in the pile of lumber for a bit while Jacques looked on with an attentive, sullen gaze before finding myself a suitable stick and, after a bit of whittling, got started with training.

Jacques, who had been watching my slow katas all that time even laughed at first. My new body was just painfully clumsy, but my pace grew with every day and along with it the veteran’s opinion of my “nobleman’s diversion.”

It was particularly nice to see a stunned look on his face when, by the end of week five, I completed a short kata using energy from my reservoir. At the end of the “sword dance,” the bokken was humming with strain and easily broke the handle of a shovel.

Honestly, I did have to invest all the energy in my reservoir into the blow, which brought along nasty consequences — my energy channels got rattled and nearly ruptured. The sharp pain almost made me faint, while my bokken’s “blade” blew apart into tiny splinters.

Kneeling and breathing heavily, I watched distantly as red drops of blood dripped down from my nose onto the white snow. Raising my head, I met eyes with Jacques.

The face of the always unimpressed veteran was pale, a look of fear frozen in his eyes. The big man leaned his back up against the barn wall, trying not to move a muscle.

After wiping my face with snow, I slowly stood up and walked over to Madame Richard’s porter, which made him push himself into the wall even harder.

“What are you so afraid of, old fellow? After all, until today my exercises only seemed to amuse you.”

My calm tone of voice only put Jacques more on guard.

“Forgive me, monsieur,” he bowed. “I didn’t know you...”

He hesitated for a moment.

“That I what?” I asked, stepping even closer.

“Ahem,” Jacques cleared his throat. “That you were a stryker...”

That made me laugh, which only made Jacques turn paler. What exactly were these “strykers” if even someone like Jacques, a veteran of many battles, was so damned scared?

“What makes you say that, old fellow?”

“I saw a flash of light at the moment of impact,” he replied.

“You sure you didn’t imagine it?”

“No,” he shook his head and replied more confidently: “I’ve seen all kinds of things during my time in the service. Including stryker attacks.”

I sighed wistfully. Jacques had no more to say. It was obvious he had already snapped out of it.

“How about this?” I broke the silence. “I’d really like you to forget everything you saw today. Can you do that for me?”

I switched to true vision and looked at the veteran’s body. There was a dark spot next to his heart. Must have been an old battle wound. Astonishing he was still alive. It looked like the work of healers or highly effective potions. It would only take one energy blow to that dark spot to kill him.

As a matter of fact, no one would have even suspected a thing. It would have just looked like an old wound flaring up and causing cardiac arrest. But I didn’t want to start my new life by killing an innocent man just to hide the truth about myself. Furthermore, it wasn’t even such a terrible truth. Bertrand had told me that it was nothing extraordinary for adults to suddenly find the magical gift had awoken within them. At any rate, sooner or later I would have to make my big debut. I just didn’t want it to be so early.

Jacques, having read something from my face, rasped back:

“Got it, monsieur. As a matter of fact, I have a very short memory. I’ve already forgotten everything.”

I smiled and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Great! By the way, I want to see you here tomorrow, same time. I need a sparring partner. I hope your short memory doesn’t apply to weapon skills as well.”