Last Life

IT HAD BEEN EIGHT DAYS since we left Abbeville. Without exaggeration, I can say that Bertrand and I left our annex and the city where I first awoke in this world without the least bit of pity. First of all, I was not a fan of sitting around in any one place for too long. And no wonder. I spent my entire childhood and young adult life on the road. And second, Abbeville was not the kind of location I’d want to settle down in. There was nothing special about it.

My goodbye to Trixie and her little brother was quite emotional though. They saw us off with tears in their eyes. Trixie was simply beside herself. After all, she was also seeing her fiancé off along with us.

When I hopped into the saddle, she ran up to me and, clutching at my boots, shot out rapid-fire that she wanted me to look after her Patrick. All I could do in response was snort to myself. But out loud I assured her that I would do everything in my power as long as Patrick asked for it himself.

In other words, I didn’t promise anything in particular but I did leave the door open. Trixie was perfectly fine with that. She was completely aware that after everything that happened over the past few days even that response was the height of magnanimity.

The whole issue was that Patrick Dupree, Trixie’s future husband, and I had gotten off on the wrong foot. It all happened when Jacques and I paid a visit to the man leading the caravan headed for the frontier.

To say we got a cold reception would be a severe understatement. Roland Buquet, the caravan leader, was a short stocky older man with his nose turned to the side, while his right cheek was adorned with a hideous burn scar. He was clearly none too pleased to hear we wanted to join up with his caravan.

A retired sergeant, he’d spent half a life serving in a royal legion and, after retiring, made a business escorting recruits to the frontier. He saw few upsides to having a nobleman in his caravan. Roland Buquet was not accustomed to having his orders questioned. A wanton aristo could easily gum up the works of his finely tuned machine.

I had to assure the grim sergeant that I was not planning to try and dictate the caravan’s travels, and that even if someone asked me to do it, I would refuse the unenviable honor.

I also promised to obey the caravan leader within reasonable limits. For example, I was prepared to help fight off highwaymen or wild animals. But I was not willing to take part in setting our nightly camps. The caravan contained a fairly large number of commoners. Let them dig the pits and so forth.

However, he just so happened to have a broad-shouldered hulk of an assistant by the name of Patrick Dupree with hands the size of shovels who was itching for a fight.

While I spoke to the sergeant, I kept catching Trixie’s fiancé boring into me with his eyes. He clenched his big fists until his knuckles turned white and kept snorting like an enraged bull. But unfriendly looks and snorting were as far as it went. It was not hard to guess the reason he felt that way, either. Patrick must have been burning with jealousy. Later, Jacques confirmed my theory, also having seen Patrick’s state.

Naturally, I was not planning to let his rude behavior slide. I didn’t give a damn whose fiancé he was. Commoners could not look at aristos that way.

So I advised Roland Buquet to clamp down on his assistant and teach him some manners. Otherwise, I would have to educate him. A dozen lashings was the best medicine for cases like this.

I didn’t know how, but Trixie found out very quickly. Though with her phenomenal ability to stick her nose into everyone’s business, it was no big surprise.

She approached me that same day with tears in her eyes and twisting her hands, begging me to forgive her stupid fiancé for his bad behavior.

Overall, I was not interested in playing such foolish games. I already felt like the main character in some second-rate love play.

By day eight, I had enough time to take a closer look at the head of the party and its other members. There were essentially four groups.

The first was Roland Buquet and his ten troops. It was immediately evident that they knew one another very well. And no wonder. Jacques said that the head of the caravan and his people once served in the same legion.

Group two was mercenaries who had signed contracts with well-heeled Abbevillians and who were heading to the frontier to serve as part of the Shadow Patrol. One such mercenary was Patrick, leader of the group, which comprised a dozen soldiers clearly receiving payment from the caravan leader for their assistance.

Group three was the biggest with nearly thirty people. To myself, I was calling them the “poor saps.” They not only didn’t have the cash to pay a mercenary, they weren’t even able to purchase basic weaponry or decent clothing and food. For some inscrutable reason, Roland Buquet and his people had taken the “poor saps” under their wing, providing them with transport, food, and basic clothing. I of course did not believe the sergeant and his people were such pure and untainted altruists, so I told my companions about the oddity and warned them to keep their eyes peeled.

Group four then was our little team. The most well equipped and prepared of them all.

Beyond that, over the last eight days, we picked up random companions on the road from time to time. Many people from nearby villages preferred to pay Roland Buquet for a safe day or two of travel due to their fear of highwaymen.

I must give the retired sergeant his due — he was a real pro. He ruled over the caravan with an iron fist, evidence of his army experience. Any disobedience was met with instant punishment.

I was also a fan of his sense of time. Over the whole eight days, we had not once spent the night on open ground. Every time, thanks to Sergeant Buquet’s insistence and familiarity with the route, the caravan spent the night in settlements, villages or, as happened on day eight of the trip, in a small town by the name of Thiviers. There we decided to spend two nights to resupply and give the horses a rest.

There were no hotels in Thiviers but there were two inns where Sergeant Buquet and his people stayed, and one guesthouse which I selected for myself.

It was nothing special, but I didn’t mind. I was not planning on spending the rest of my life here. A filling dinner, hot bath, clean linens, a roof over my head, and a separate room — that was all I needed.

By morning of the next day, after a short stretch and big breakfast, I went into the backyard to check in with Jacques, who had spent the night in the wagon. Our driver pointedly refused to spend the night in the inn, arguing that he had such a cozy wagon that it would be a crime to waste money on a room ridden with bedbugs and fleas.

“How’d you sleep?” I asked Jacques, nodding at the big wagon.

“Great as ever!” he replied with a broad smile. He carefully ran a hand over the wooden side and patted the boards lightly. “A mansion worthy of a duke! I’m scared to even imagine how much silver you shelled out for it...”

The wagon the Webers provided for us really was strikingly large and well appointed. A true home on wheels, it was unlike any of the others I saw in their office’s internal courtyard. Dormael, in his usual colorless manner, informed us that this wagon was meant to be a gift for the Webers’ eldest son who was constantly on the move in the few years leading up to his death.

To brighten their heir’s spirits and ease the burdens of his nomadic lifestyle, his parents had endeavored to construct a small but very comfortable little house on wheels where he was intended to spend the majority of his time. But alas, their eldest son never even had a chance to see it, much less take it for a test run.

The first time I entered the wagon, I was slightly puzzled. A split-level bed, small steel stove with a pipe leading outside, two big soft armchairs, a dress wardrobe and two bedside tables, walls decked out in dark blue velvet. Gee, my bedroom in Madame Richard’s annex was actually smaller and had somewhat less opulent decor.

“Looks big enough,” I replied to Jacques. “To tell the truth, I was expecting more modest accommodation.”

“It was all Madame Weber,” Jacques shrugged, continuing to stroke the wooden side of the wagon like it was a living creature. “Everyone knows that Leon Weber is such a cheapskate he’d make you beg for snow in winter. His wife is no better, but you saved her son. So...”

But before he could finish, Bertrand walked into the guesthouse backyard where the wagon was parked next to a narrow-shouldered man with darting little eyes and a goatee.

“Monsieur,” he came while looking sidelong at the pipsqueak. “You have visitors...”

“And what brings them here, my good man?” I asked, raising a brow inquisitively.

“Chevalier Renard,” the pipsqueak said with a respectful bow and welcoming smile. “My name is Arnaud Lefevre. I come in the name of my master, Viscount Bastien de Tosny with a dinner invitation for yourself. He will be expecting you this evening in the Red Ox tavern.”

I grimaced. Another of Max’s creditors? Did he just hear what I was doing and decide to catch me en route? I didn’t seem to recall that name on any of my loan documents.

I glanced over at Bertrand. He just shrugged his shoulders with a baffled look, as if to say he’d never heard the name before.

“The Viscount de Tosny?” I said, feigning forgetfulness. “Nothing’s coming to mind...”

“Oh!!” Smiling, he threw up his thin little arms. “You and my master are not acquainted, but he would very much like to correct that oversight now that he’s heard so much about you.”

“Is that right?” I asked in surprise. “What would make a viscount seek a meeting with a man he’s never met before?”

“You see, chevalier,” the pipsqueak fumbled and lowered his voice slightly. “The thing is my master is quite a well-known figure in certain circles.”

“Such as?”

“The Viscount de Tosny is a passionate collector and, quite importantly, a very wealthy man...” the pipsqueak came softly and added: “In certain circles he is known as the Watchmaker. And he has a business proposition for you.”

So there it was... Now I could see what this was about. He reacted quickly. It hadn’t even been a week. The same mysterious buyer who wanted Max’s medallion from the pawn shop for a thousand crowns. The pawn broker also mentioned a “Watchmaker.”

Well, okay... This will be interesting. But to keep up appearances, I decided to give him a hard time.

“I’m not sure,” I frowned.

“Say yes, chevalier!” the pipsqueak smiled. “I promise you will not regret it. My master is a generous man! Beyond that, the Viscount de Tosny is an excellent conversationalist. For a man such as you, backwaters like this must come with such a dearth of interesting conversation. Particularly with people of your station.”

I rubbed my chin and, after a brief pause, said with a smile:

“You know something? You and your master have caught my interest. Tell the viscount I accept his invitation.”

The pipsqueak melted into an obliging smile and, with a bow, walked away. In the end, thinking I wouldn’t notice, he hit me with an unfriendly scornful look. So, this Arnaud Lefevre was not a one-dimensional character.

“A snake in human skin,” Jacques spat out when the pipsqueak had left. “I’ve known plenty of apparently obliging simpletons like him. The second they catch you yawning, you get a knife in your backfat. Keep your eyes peeled around that little live wire...”

“Since when did you start worrying about me?” I snorted.

“Ever since you started paying me a yearly salary of ten crowns including room and board,” Jacques shrugged and smirked. “Not many can boast of such a generous salary.”

“Ah, so that’s all it is! Well, that explains a lot...”

* * *

The main and seemingly only room of the Red Ox tavern greeted me with silence. There were no visitors much less employees.

Actually, no... There was one visitor. I just didn’t notice him right away. At a wide table set with modest dishware near the far wall there sat a thin gentleman of fairly unpleasant appearance. No, he was not ugly. In fact, between his posture, expensive clothing, aristocratic facial features and tar-black hair, this man was probably quite a hit with the ladies. But there was something repellant about him.

My scanner showed nothing. The man sitting before me was completely normal.

“Chevalier Renard, I presume?” the man said, standing from the table.

“The same,” I responded. “And you, I take it, are the Viscount de Tosny?”

“Indeed,” he nodded and added with a sidelong smile: “You certainly are punctual. I appreciate punctuality.”

I just shrugged and sat down in a chair uninvited, which caused the viscount to huff a bit.

Deftly grabbing a silver pitcher from the center of the table, he poured into my glass a dark red wine and said:

“Help yourself, chevalier! Alas, this backwater cannot boast of a large variety of dishes, but I am quite sure you’ll appreciate this wine from my personal collection. I take a couple bottles with me wherever I go.”

Casually, I rubbed the tip of my nose with my pointer finger, covering my mouth. That gave me enough time to silently whisper the Snake’s Breath incantation and splash out a small mass of energy.

The wine’s energy structure immediately revealed lines of dim yellow. The viscount was seemingly trying to slip me some potion. And not any old potion — a magic one. Didn’t spare a dime, ugly bastard. Based on the color, he had most likely used something intoxicating to the mind, to make me more talkative.

The wine in his glass meanwhile was a different sort. Oh well... The dirty games had begun. Heh... I was actually intrigued to see what he’d do next.

My reservoir could easily cope with a primitive sleeping potion. So, as if nothing was going on, I grabbed the glass and took a sip, meanwhile watching the dim yellow dots dissolve into my energy system to absolutely no effect. Yep, ugly bastard, this was a far cry from Swamp Queen’s Kiss. It would take something more serious to bring down Dodger.

The viscount meanwhile, watching with pleasure as I drank his “wonder” wine, continued to speak:

“You have probably noticed that we are the only ones here. That is because I asked the owner of the tavern to find us a quiet place to talk, and he was only too eager to oblige. I am certain that neither you nor I would be too pleased to look on the drunken faces of the local commoners. So get a more comfortable seat. You have nothing to fear.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, taking another little sip from the glass. Soon, I would have to imitate the unsophisticated drunk of a young man.

We spent a bit of time eating in silence, exchanging the odd glance. I was waiting for the viscount to get to business. He meanwhile was probably waiting for the potion he’d mixed into my wine to take effect.

A few minutes later, setting aside his knife and fork, the Viscount de Tosny finally began:

“Chevalier Renard, you must be intrigued.”

“I will not tell a lie,” I said in slightly stilted language, trying not to overdo it. “Your invitation caught my interest. Your servant said that you have some sort of business proposition for me. You have my undivided attention.”

After that, I clumsily dropped my fork on the table, but the viscount had no reaction. That must have been normal.

“Alright, all the better,” the viscount nodded. “Let’s get straight to business.”

For the next several minutes, the viscount told me about his collection and passion for antiquities but served it under a sauce that made it sound like an innocent past time, an aristocrat’s fancy and nothing more. In other words, he expressed a desire to purchase my medallion, which he learned existed only by chance, saying as a passionate devotee of ancient objects he was looking for just such an item to complete his collection, but meanwhile tried to do it in such a way that I would not ask for too much money.

In the end, he offered me a whole fifty silver crowns for the medallion. Slurring, I announced that this medallion was a family heirloom and I had no intention of selling it for less than five thousand silver crowns. Beyond that, I triumphantly told him that I knew the price he offered to the pawn broker.

The viscount feigned indignation and started assuring me that Baptiste Harcourt was a flagrant liar and crook who made a habit of fleecing upstanding citizens. I was then asked the logical question. Who did I trust more — a dishonorable commoner or an elite nobleman with a crystal-clean record? I naturally, cursing all peddlers of overpriced wares with indignation, assured him that as a nobleman he had my complete trust.

After that, the viscount told me confidently that a good price for the medallion would be sixty crowns. And although it was ancient, it was utterly worthless for anything other than exhibition as part of his personal collection and that there was zero chance of resale.

At the end of our negotiating, the viscount talked me down to sixty-five silver crowns. But as if by magic, a scroll appeared before me on the table. A quill was then thrust into my “enfeebled” hand to sign the purchase contract. Following that, the tavern owner and cook appeared out of thin air to place their own signatures as witnesses to the transaction. Then came the buyer’s turn.

After signing the contract, on the viscount’s nod, Arnaud Lefevre threw a small leather coin purse on the table. When I said I had the medallion in my room, the Viscount de Tosny looked slightly upset.

“Get this dolt out of here and take his medallion,” the viscount muttered in disgust while I started to quietly sob with my head between my hands. “Take the silver, too. The bar owner and others must witness it. I’ll be waiting in my room. Make haste. We must leave this place before sunup.”

A moment later, I was grabbed on two sides and dragged to the tavern exit. Out of the corner of my eye, from beneath a half-closed eyelid, I spotted Arnaud Lefevre darting around next to some troops. All the better.

They loaded me into the back of a buggy. One of the hulking men sat next to me while another sat down opposite. Arnaud Lefevre gracefully hopped up on the driving box, took the reins, and the buggy rolled off.

From beneath half covered eyelids, I watched the road carefully while keeping up my telltale trills and glissandos.

“What a lightweight,” one of the soldiers laughed.

“A real weakling,” the other confirmed. “Is this the guy they kept saying all kinds of crazy stuff about? Like how in a duel he took down one of Abbeville’s best swordsmen in a single blow?”

“Must be lies,” the first waved it off.

“Shut your traps,” Arnaud Lefevre hissed.

Hm... But shut their traps they did. The one sitting opposite me even slightly pressed his head between his shoulders.

Looks could really be deceiving. I should never let their guard down around this Arnaud Lefevre.

And here was the very alleyway I spotted earlier. The darkest one on the way to my temporary lodgings. Okay, here was my spot...

“Stop!” I exclaimed, feigning a bout of nausea. “Messieurs! Please! Stop! I need to get out!”

“Monsieur,” the first soldier muttered out unhappily to Arnaud Lefevre. “He’s gonna get puke all over our buggy!”

The pipsqueak produced an elaborate string of curse words then, after a loud harumph, the buggy started to slow down. It stopped right on the edge between the light of the streetlamps and shadows of the alley.

I looked up and met eyes with the hulking man sitting opposite me. I saw his surprised eyes start to slowly widen.

“Alright, fellows, we’ve reached our destination,” I came calmly with a totally sober voice, sending two masses of mana down my energy channels.

With two sudden blows, the pair of soldiers froze unconscious in their seats. Arnaud Lefevre tried to move, but I beat him to the punch. A short jab to the base of the neck and the pipsqueak immediately fell onto his side.

A shadow ducked out of the dark alleyway, but I recognized the familiar figure.

“You’ve grown fat on Madame Richard’s fine cookery,” I chuckled. “We’ll have to put you on a diet.”

“That’s not it,” Jacques objected. “You’re getting faster.”

“Also true,” I snorted. “You know what to do from here. And... so be it — let them live. This Watchmaker is quite the piece of work, but he didn’t order me killed.”

Jacques, nodding in silence, set Arnaud Lefevre’s limp body in the back and climbed up on the driving box.

“I still need to pay a visit to a certain wily viscount.”

After saying that, I ducked into the darkness of the blind alleyway.