Last Life

I MADE FOR THE HAPPY BADGER the next day. Tomcat said Arvid Ulsson the northerner almost never left it, trying to win his money back from the local sharps. Honestly though, he never did a very good job. Or rather, he always did a very bad job. The longer he sat at the table gambling, the deeper he fell into the local sharps’ debt trap.

“Spit it out,” I chuckled, wrapping myself in the thick collar of my coat and fidgeting on the back seat of the buggy as it rolled off.

“What?” Jacques asked neutrally with a light shake of the reins.

“Oh, cut the crap,” I snorted. “You think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been looking at me the last few days? There’s something you want to ask me, but you don’t have the courage.”

Jacques gave a half turn and looked searchingly at me.

“What’s in it for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What made you want to buy those peasants’ freedom? What’s the point?”

“Don’t you feel bad for the poor saps?” I asked.

“Because they will be sent to galleys or mines,” I made a final attempt to move Jacques to pity.

“You know perfectly well they will not,” Jacques snorted back and replied: “Lada of course is a savvy woman. A witch, to put it in a word. But she doesn’t seem to have the foggiest notion of slave trading.”

“And you do?”

“There’s not much to understand,” Jacques shrugged. “See for yourself. We’ve already found out that Sergeant Buquet sold each one of the poor saps for a minimum of ten crowns. That must mean they’re being resold for a lot more at the eastern bazaars. Out there, they place a lot of value on hard work, and obedient peasants. They do not rebel. They work hard and keep their heads down. Slaves like that are a great investment. Their future masters will take good care of them. Why bury such expensive workers like that in a mine? Captives taken in war are another matter. Northerners, for instance. They’d make crap farmers. They are warriors and would constantly be trying to attack their masters. It’s a short road from there to the galley or mine, where they won’t live much longer.”

Jacques made a brief pause, then added mutedly:

“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn all those poor saps were actually happy with how it turned out. To them, living in a foreign country even as slaves is better than dying in the jaws of a Shadow creature.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course,” Jacques snorted. “Their existence practically won’t change at all. What’s the difference between being slave to a rich landowner in the east and having the Count de Brionne as your lord?”

“What about freedom?”

“You think they ever had it?” Jacques shook his head and added: “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Why are you doing this? Why change the fate of people with slavery in their bloodline?”

“Who ever said that was my goal?” I asked.

“Then I am completely lost,” Jacques frowned. “If you’d have managed to buy those peasants, you’d have been totally shaken down. You’d have paid double at least. What’s in it for you? I’d never believe you went to all that effort just because.”

“You’re right, I had a couple ideas,” I replied, adjusting the collar of my coat. “But it’s too late to talk about them now. In fact, it goes against my code to discuss events that fate has decided will never come to pass.”

Jacques just snorted, keeping his opinion on the matter to himself.

The Happy Badger tavern greeted me with a din of clattering dishware, a cheery hum from the feasting gaggle of merchants, appetizing aromas from the kitchen, and a sour beery atmosphere.

The only person not celebrating along with the rest was a redheaded kid sitting at a table against the far wall. Based on how many beer tankards he had on the table in front of him, he was trying to drown his sorrows in alcohol.

A cute server hopped over deftly and, when I asked where I might find Monsieur Arvid Ulsson, she pointed at the redheaded kid. Thanking her, I headed his direction.

“May I?” I asked the big redhead, nodding at his table.

He looked up at me hazily and bleated out something indistinct.

“Let’s call that a yes,” I chuckled and plopped down in the chair.

With a disgusted look at the table, all piled high with dishes and wet with puddles of beer, I sat back in my chair.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” I came. “Chevalier Renard, at your service.”

“Whadda you want, kid?” the redhead barked in broken Vestonian.

“To offer you a deal,” I replied, also shifting to a more informal register.

I knew appearances could be deceiving, but this guy didn’t much look like a merchant. He had a different air about him. He was missing the spark common to the profession. They had a way of looking at people that was both tenacious and searching. This redhead’s eyes meanwhile were empty like those of a cow out to pasture. And it wasn’t even down to how much he’d drunk. A good merchant would never let profit slip through his fingers no matter how wasted he got.

“I can’t talk now,” Arvid Ulsson turned his red head and looked sadly at the empty mugs on his table.

“Then why does it look like you’re very interested in my proposition?”

“Kid, you deaf?” the redhead barked.

I chuckled and, taking a fat sack from my pocket, threw it on the table without a word.

“What is that?” Ulsson asked.

But his instantly changed look made it obvious that he could tell what was in the sack. Plus, when it hit the table, it gave a familiar clink.

“Sixty silver crowns,” I replied calmly.

The redhead gulped loudly and reached his big hand for the coveted silver, but I quickly stuck the tip of my stiletto into the wooden table just half an inch from the coin purse.

“Not so fast,” I said coldly.

Ulsson frowned and tensed up.

“Don’t even think about it,” I chuckled and shook my head. “You’d be dead before you could get your ass out of that chair. Anyway, even if you survived, attacking a nobleman would be a one-way ticket to the gallows. So, can we please just talk?”

Ulsson spent a little while wheezing, sizing me up with an angry look but, clearly, he was still in sufficient possession of his faculties, so he said:

“What do you want?”

“That’s better,” I came with a smile, hiding the stiletto.

Despite his drunken state, my deft movements did not escape him.

“I want to buy your slaves.”

“The slaves aren’t for sale,” Ulsson threw out sharply.

“Why so inflexible?” I asked in surprise. “Sixty crowns for three urchins is an excellent price. You won’t get more where you’re taking them. And you’ll still have to feed them, protect them, take care of them, and transport them.”

The big man winced and breathed a heavy sigh. His fearsome northerner face slipped for a second to reveal a somewhat baffled man.

“So,” I snorted, looking around at the disorder on the table with a haughty wisdom. Then I raised my hand to call the server. “Looks like we won’t get very far with you dry. What do you say? Sound good?”

Ulsson glanced plaintively at my coin purse yet again, stared at the empty mugs then, with the loud gulp of a scratchy throat, nodded fatedly. Apparently, I’d really pinned him down.

When a smiling woman appeared next to our table, I pointed around at the mess Ulsson made and asked:

“Sweetie, could you find us a quieter and cleaner place to sit? Somewhere my friend and I can dine in peace and sample your finest ale.”

Then to back that up, I set five thalers down on the table. The magical glint of silver worked as intended. The Happy Badger, like the tavern where I was staying, had small meeting rooms where passing merchants could discuss important matters and ink business deals at their leisure for an additional fee. We were led to one of them.

The atmosphere of the meeting room was completely different from the main area. The crude table and chairs were the same, but it was quiet and relatively clean.

A few minutes later, dishes of food appeared on the table along with a few large wooden tankards of fresh ale.

Ulsson, like a traveler fresh from the desert, drained half of his tankard and then, the look in his eyes warmer, stared straight at me.

“That better?” I laughed.

“Yep,” the northerner’s bearded face blossomed into something like a smile.

For the next whole hour, we ate, drank and made conversation. Slowly, Arvid’s tongue loosened, and I got through to him.

Using casual leading questions, I slowly figured out that my theories about my “drinking buddy” were not far off.

He claimed of course to be a merchant but, in reality, he was a mere assistant to his uncle, his mother’s brother, who had been working as a trader for many years. He had finally given into his little sister’s insistence and agreed to take on his wayward nephew. While his uncle was in the capital of the county on business, Ulsson and a few troops from his uncle’s band stayed behind to look after the wares and cash.

Essentially, this was his first time away from home with so much relative freedom, and Arvid was cutting loose. At first, it was innocent little benders with local ladies of ill repute, but then he attracted the attention of local sharps and, before he knew it, he was sitting down to gamble. In the end, Ulsson landed himself pretty deep in debt. While listening to his tale, I found myself chuckling several times. The old Max and this guy would have gotten along just fine.

It had gone so far that the local crime boss had already sent people who easily laid out his uncle’s security face-first in the mud saying Arvid had a week to make things right. The local debt collectors were supposed to come again that very night, and here I showed up at lunch with a handsome bag of cash.

Needless to say, Ulsson was overjoyed to see my coin purse and now even more disappointed when he heard what I wanted to buy.

Ulsson didn’t want to explain the reason for his unwillingness to sell the slaves even at double their value. At first, I thought the redhead was just trying to haggle, but very quickly I realized there was something else going on.

I had to fall back on a tactic I picked up from my good friend the Viscount de Tosny.

It was not too hard to dribble a bit of “truth serum” into Ulsson’s tankard. A few minutes later, he was singing like a bird, showering me with valuable information.

The more he said, the gloomier I became. From his unfocused retelling, I was able to determine that the northern continent was engulfed in the flame of war. King Harold Graywolf had amassed an enormous warband under his banner and was now slowly conquering all of Northland. On his side were most werewolf clans as well as the priests of the Frost Temple, famed for their blood sacrifices to Hoar, ancient god of the north.

Incidentally, Arvid Ulsson’s uncle came to Sardent with just one goal — to purchase young slaves for that very sacrifice. And he was accompanied by a priest of the Frost Temple, who subjected each slave to a thorough selection process. In Sardent, the priest found just five worthy of giving their lives for the glory of his ancient deity. And that was why the merchant travelled on to the capital of the county — they needed more slaves for the sacrifice.

Ahem... Considering the fact Arvid’s uncle was far from the only merchant who set off for the continent with the priest, something vile and bloody must have been in the works up north.

Last night, before heading to the tavern, we were able to determine who specifically Sergeant Buquet had sold to Ulsson’s uncle — the youngest of the poor saps, including Jérémie.

Arvid Ulsson was unaware of the purpose of the sacrifice. He just shared with me the sinister rumors that circulated about an ancient power that called out to all who served the Frost Temple.

He also said that if not for the council of five jarls who, with support from the order of shadow mages, had risen up against Harold Graywolf, he would likely not have turned to the priests for aid.

The biggest factor influencing Harold’s decision was an attack by the fleet of Helga the Valiant on his kingdom’s southern shores. Or at least, that was what Arvid’s grandfather told him in strictest confidence.

While I listened to Arvid’s tale, I got a strange feeling that in some way I was a participant in those events. Honestly though, despite the intensity of the feelings I was experiencing, I was unable to connect them to any specific event in the past.

Was it Max’s memory acting up? Unlikely... Heh... I mean, what could Max have had to do with pitched battles at sea?

There was no way that could have happened in my past life. Maybe it was memories surfacing from other past lives. Could it perhaps have been my mysterious benefactor intervening to play a trick on me?

When Ulsson started repeating himself and telling stories from his life again, I realized it was time to call it a night.

Unlike the Viscount de Tosny, my true vision allowed me to be more judicious with the magic truth serum without suffering any loss in effectiveness. And that was why Arvid remained conscious all that time. In fact, if not for all the ale, he’d have looked more or less acceptable.

Thus, under my complete control, Ulsson “invited” me after lunch to personally visit the slaves the priest of the Frost Temple had handpicked, and who were being kept in a special outbuilding behind the tavern.

The Happy Badger’s savvy owner had built the accommodation for his merchant guests. And no wonder: Sardent was a slave trading town. If you want to make a profit, adapt to local realities.

Next to the slave quarters there sat a black-bearded northerner with a big bruise spread over the right side of his face. It must have been a gift left by the previous night’s guests.

When the bearded man spotted me walking next to Ulsson, he bared his teeth unhappily and barked:

“Arvid, you moron! Who’d you drag down here this time?!”

“Cram it, Knud!” Ulsson barked back. “Or I’ll tell my uncle how some local urchins laid out an esteemed warrior in the mud. Show some respect. My friend is a nobleman!”

They were clearly speaking Astlandic. But it was very distorted with strange pronunciation and words I did not recognize. Still, I had no trouble understanding what they were saying.

The black-bearded Knud deflated immediately. I also noticed he was caught off guard by Arvid’s tone. The boss’s nephew must never have let himself do anything like that before. It must have been the magic potion.

The bearded man muttered something to himself but did not reenter the argument. The squabble with local criminals could probably blow up in his face. I’d bet my right hand he already asked Arvid to keep quiet about it.

Meanwhile, Ulsson walked up to the slave quarters’ door and nodded at the boys inside, saying:

“Here, eat your heart out, chevalier.”

I glanced into the small little grated window and winced. A sharp scent of sweat and feces stung my nostrils. Out of the dark room stared four pairs of eyes in which I saw nothing but apathy and resignation.

Jérémie and another two kids from our caravan I recognized straight away. They recognized me, too, in fact. Just the way they lit up. A spark of joy and hope flickered in their eyes.

I had to put a finger to my lips to make sure they didn’t say anything. The fourth man, a tall broad-shouldered blond, saw our exchange of gestures, first lit up, but then quickly lost hope. He had realized who I came for and concluded he was not going to be saved.

“What did the priest see in them?” I asked Arvid. “They’re common urchins. Every city in Mainland is stuffed to the gills with them.”

“No clue,” Ulsson admitted with a shrug. “He used a certain artifact to test a drop of blood from each of them. And to be frank, he didn’t look too happy when we bought these four. He called them common ‘flesh.’“

I switched to true vision. Jérémie and the two saps I had scanned in Abbeville before our departure, so I knew already there was nothing special about their energy structures. Scanning the blond also gave nothing. Essentially, there was nothing remarkable about any of them. Most likely, the priest selected them simply because of their age and good health.

“But the fifth one is a different story!” Arvid gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s go. Let me show you. We’re keeping him separate from the rest.”

The quarters where the fifth slave sat were deeper in the building. It was noticeably warmer and cleaner. At the very least, it did not reek of hogwash and excrement.

The huge bald muscle man guarding the fifth slave, unlike the black-bearded Knud, reacted neutrally to us. He and Arvid exchanged a few short greetings, and then I was allowed to take a peek at the priest’s quarry. While we walked into the building, Ulsson told us that the Frost Temple acolyte looked very happy when he saw the artifact’s reaction to this kid’s blood.

I glanced inside and met eyes with a gaunt little boy no older than fourteen or fifteen. His thin pale face was stamped with a look of fear and mistrust of his surroundings.

I took a closer look at the kid. Now this one was no common peasant. In fact, the scraps of clothing on him indicated that he was from a somewhat well-off family.

Hm... I wonder what about you drew the priest’s eye? I quickly scanned his energy system and smiled in satisfaction. So that was it! Now I could see why the priest was so happy. The energy system of the kid sitting on the pile of damp hay staring back at me hopefully was light amber.

With a friendly wink at the kid, I turned to Arvid Ulsson and said:

“Thank you, my friend! I’ve seen all I wanted. I say we go back to the tavern and talk a bit more over another tankard of ale. I’ve got an offer now that I’m sure you’re going to like.”