Last Life

MAÎTRE BRISOT WAS EXCITED all the rest of that evening, after receiving a handsome advance payment for the upcoming performance at Baron de Rohan’s reception. As were all the other members of his family. After all, this was the first time in the history of his family’s troupe that they had ever received such a high-level request. The best they had ever done before that was a performance at the birthday of a mid-level merchant in some provincial city, and that had been several years before. The event was still a source of fond memories for the troupe: they had been paid well, and then fed to their hearts’ content for two days afterward, until the celebrations finally came to an end.

As such, getting a request to perform for a real-live Baron, at a reception where the elite of an entire city would undoubtedly be present — after years of traveling around to small cities and towns, playing songs in two-bit taverns — represented a real takeoff in the family’s theatrical careers.

Maître Brisot and the others understood exactly whom they had to thank for the sudden change in fortunes. So when our little caravan finally came to a stop at Madame Drieux’s inn, I found myself under an avalanche of questions as soon as we sat down to dinner.

I had to tell another little series of half-truths: basically, I said that everything they had seen was one big improvisation. A sort of mix between Glenn training and tricks that I had seen in traveling circuses. And there had certainly been an element of improvisation about the whole thing — someone had to think of something, after all, to save Maître Brisot, who had so carelessly wandered into the trap set for him by those guards and their lieutenant.

Yet again, the entire family thanked me and started asking me what else I could do that might come in handy at their upcoming performance — which, by the way, was scheduled to occur in three days. I had to lie again, and tell them that I didn’t have anything else in my “repertoire.” But this didn’t upset them at all. They had already seen more than enough earlier in the day.

By the middle of that night, Bridget and Maître Brisot had put together a plan for the performance, and even thrown together mockups for the set. I watched them in silence, and could only shake my head. Alas... Their performance at Baron de Rohan’s reception was never going to happen, because I wasn’t going to wait three days to visit my old acquaintance.

I would need to conduct a little bit of reconnaissance before the visit, and that’s exactly what I planned to do over the course of the coming two days.

* * *

Exactly 24 hours had passed since our arrival in Bresmont. The lunari and I had spent the entire time tracking movement in and out of the Baron’s mansion, which (of course) was located in the elite district of the city. Just a stone’s throw away, as it happened, from the Duke de Clairmont’s old headquarters at the Count de Brisse’s palace. Unlike the lunari, who was able to remain constantly at her post, I had to be present for all the rehearsals for the upcoming performance. Among other things, of course, this would serve as a convenient alibi when the time came.

When I finally returned to our stakeout site (which we had set up in the attic of a neighboring house), it was already night. Selina materialized after a few minutes. The moon flashed in her big eyes as she turned to face me.

“How’s it going?” I asked quietly.

“The servants are already asleep in their wing of the house,” Selina started listing her observations. “There’s one soldier guarding the Baron’s bedroom. Three more shooting dice in the stables, and two more soldiers in the kitchen finishing off the master’s dinner and drinking wine.”

I chuckled. That’s what happens, I thought, when you entrust your safety to a bunch of rabble. Judging by their equipment, they were simple mercenaries. They were in the middle of a sizable city, so they had grown relaxed and started getting negligent about their responsibilities. Not that de Rohan himself seemed to be especially worried about his own safety. He kept a guard mostly because it was a social expectation for a man of his status.

This was something that we were only too happy to take advantage of.

“And Brossard and Buquet?” I asked.

“Left the mansion after dinner,” Selina replied laconically. “A prison wagon was here while you were gone. I could only sense one prisoner in it. I couldn’t get very close. But there were four horsemen guarding it. I heard that they were planning to house the prisoner in the basement of Brossard’s home for the time being, then send him on to Herouxville later.”

“Got it,” I said. “We’ll take care of those two later.”

Earlier on, I had learned that Brossard was renting a house in the lower district of the city, and that Buquet was living there as well, serving as Brossard’s batman. My appearance in Toulon had put an end to their slave-trading business, but apparently the master of the little trio had found a new use for the other two.

“When do we start?” The lunari asked.

“Right now,” I said. “You take the servants, like we talked about. They’ll need to be asleep until late in the morning. I’ll start with the ones in the stables. Let’s go.”

With that, I slipped quietly down a tree outside the house. After switching to invisibility, I rushed toward the mansion, the lunari following close on my heels.

* * *

“Wake him up,” I said as I sat down on a big, deep, comfortable armchair that stood next to an unlit fireplace. Next to it was a small table with a tray, on which stood a jug of wine and two silver wine goblets.

There were thick, heavy curtains covering the window, and the Baron’s bedchamber was immersed in darkness.

While Selina brought Louis de Rohan back to consciousness (he was tied to a chair), I splashed a little bit of wine into one of the goblets. I gargled a little bit of it and poured the rest of the cup into the fireplace. Then I wiped the edge of the cup with my handkerchief and filled it halfway up with wine.

By the time I got to that last part, I could already hear muffled groaning, and the scraping of a stool being yanked from side to side. The Baron had awoken from the deep sleep that Selina had sent him into before I tied him up.

As soon as he realized he was tied to a chair, wearing nothing but a nightshirt, with a ball gag in his mouth, Louis de Rohan’s eyes bulged in terror. He was trying desperately to figure out what the hell was going on around him.

I sniffed the contents of my goblet and let out a mild grunt of approval. The Baron certainly had good taste. The price of Atalian wines had skyrocketed in recent months.

The sound made Louis de Rohan freeze and listen carefully. After watching him for a little while, I set my glass down on the table and lit a candle.

An abrupt flash of light lit the room, causing the Baron to squint for a moment. He quickly opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and then spotted me. Recognition took a few moments — and from that point on, a look of horror was frozen in his eyes. A second later, a dark stain started to spread across the lower part of his nightshirt. The smell of urine filled the room.

“Oh, my dear Baron!” I exclaimed, acting surprised. “I don’t know what to make of this. But something tells me you’re certainly not happy about our meeting. Mind you, I’ll be perfectly honest and tell you that I’m not thrilled about it either.”

Louis de Rohan mumbled something and shot a quick, hope-filled glance toward the door.

I turned slightly and made a show of following his eyes, then shook my head.

“Fear not, Monsieur. Your people won’t be bothering us.”

Confusion and fear splashed up into de Rohan’s eyes. He looked so defenseless and pitiful. Remembering how many people’s lives the man had ruined, however — how many futures he had destroyed by selling people into slavery — whisked any illusions out of my mind pretty quickly.

“By the way, you really ought to have taken more care when hiring your security team,” I said. “Dealing in petty contraband and selling peasants into slavery by quietly writing off their disappearances is one thing. Hiring a bunch of convicts and highwaymen to rob and murder innocent travelers on the roads is quite another. Surely you didn’t think that your activities would escape my notice?”

The Baron let out another whimper. A violent shudder had seized his body.

“I seem to remember that you were a Baronet when last we met. One of the elders of your house must have departed this world and left you the Barony. Ah, if only you’d stayed put on that Barony... Perhaps you’d like to tell me why you decided to get involved in these shady dealings?”

The Baron nodded eagerly. A spark of hope flashed across his face.

“Very well,” I rubbed my chin. “Let’s proceed as follows. I’m going to remove this gag, and you’re going to tell me everything, in detail. But you must promise not to make any noise. Do we understand each other? If not, we’ll have to have this conversation in quite a different manner.”

Louis de Rohan replied with a joyful-sounding grunt and some furious nodding.

When I took the gag out of his mouth, the Baron took a big, frantic breath.

“Abyss take it...” He said, his voice shaking. “Your Lordship, I beg you, please hear me out... I’m... This isn’t my doing! It’s him — all him!”

In my mind, I had to laugh. To think that this same man had once considered himself too good to talk to me at all. According to what he’d said at our last meeting, I was nothing but a bastard and an upstart.

“Whom, exactly, are you talking about?” I asked.

“I’ve been serving the Duke de Bauffremont for many years!” He insisted as he leaned forward.

“So it was him who ordered you to recruit those units of impostors?”

“Yes,” the Baron nodded.

Sure, I thought. And I bet you were an innocent lamb in the whole affair. Well, well...

“Who else is involved in this?” I asked.

“Your uncle, the Count de Gramont,” he replied, before adding: “And also your grandfather, Pascal Legrand.”

Things were getting interesting. The former was to be expected, I guess. I knew exactly why my uncle was angry. That made perfect sense, but why was my grandfather so angry at me? Presumably, he must have shared his crazy daughter’s fear that I would take the trading house from Alain. That was the only possible explanation that came to mind. Had he known about the actual state of my finances, of course, he might have been a little less concerned for the safety of his own fortune.

“Do you have proof of the Duke de Bauffremont’s involvement in all this?”

“No,” the Baron shook his head. “His Grace has always been very cautious. He always communicates his will verbally, either at a personal meeting or through intermediaries.”

“Names.”

“They’re usually anonymous couriers. But last time, it was Count de Broglie.”

Hm, I thought... Of course it was. I bet de Broglie was only too happy to carry out this kind of assignment.

“Also...” Louis de Rohan was about to continue, but then he hesitated. “The Duke’s messages are occasionally delivered by a... Ahem... This will be difficult to believe, I’m sure, but — “ ᴛhis chapter is ᴜpdated by NoveI~Fire.net

“Let me guess,” I chuckled. “A white cat?”

Louis de Rohan twitched; his eyes widened.

“But how...”

It turned out that the lutine’s secretive master was also involved. My elevation in society hadn’t been a favorable development for him.

“Never mind how,” I said dismissively. “So you say my uncle and my grandfather are also involved in this whole affair?”

“Yes,” the Baron nodded. “The Count de Broglie told me about their involvement.”

“In other words, you don’t have any written proof to confirm what you’re saying?”

“Alas,” the Baron shrugged.

Our conversation lasted for another hour. Louis de Rohan didn’t lie to me once the entire time. The lunari sitting behind his back was seeing to that.

Alas, he really didn’t have anything else interesting to say. At the end of our conversation, I suggested that the Baron record all his nefarious little deeds in writing.

Although to be honest, I had no idea what good such a piece of paper could really do me. I had no intention of going to the King with a complaint about the Duke, or any of Max’s relatives. I intended to take care of them later on, and in my own way.

Understandably, Louis de Rohan didn’t much like the idea of having to write a letter of confession, at least at first. When I finally untied him, however, and mentioned that it would be good if he could affix his seal to the letter below his signature, a flash of joy and hope shot through his eyes.

With almost unseemly haste, he rushed to grab a quill and started writing down everything we had been discussing. It took up ten sheets of paper by the time he was done. After finally finishing the enormous confession, he signed the document. Then, raising his head and nodding toward the wall at the far end of the room, he spoke:

“My seal is in a safe. Would you permit me to get it?”

“Of course,” I said.

The Baron replied with a strained smile and walked over to the far side of the room, where a small portrait of some black-haired woman in an old-fashioned dress was hanging on the wall. I stayed where I was, next to the table, watching him move with a smile on my face.

After sliding the painting aside, the Baron fiddled with the mechanism a bit and opened its little steel door. Then he stuck his hand into the safe.

I could see his spine tense up. An instant later, the Baron whipped around to face me. A small crossbow flashed in his hand. A muffled click — and a short, stubby little bolt came flying toward my chest. A triumphant smile stretched across Louis de Rohan’s face; actually, it was more like a vicious grin.

This only lasted a moment, of course, before the look on the Baron’s face changed to a grimace of fear and confusion. Which was only to be expected, because the bolt that should have been sticking out of my chest was instead lying motionless in my hand. The Baron, it appeared, hadn’t even noticed me catching the thing.

“Hm. A rock viper’s venom, if I’m not mistaken?” I asked, sniffing the tip of the bolt. As the Baron watched in amazement, I licked the tip of the bolt with my tongue, despite its liberal coating of yellowish liquid.

I smacked my lips a few times, then nodded:

“Yes. That’s definitely it.”

In the blink of an eye, I was standing next to the Baron. A quick thrust of my hand — and the poisoned bolt plunged into his heart.

* * *

Bresmont

Lower District

Darkness was pressing in from all sides, filling the basement with a sticky, stifling heaviness. The air was damp, permeated with the smells of rotten wood, stale earth, and mildew.

Gaston Laforte had only been there for a few hours, but it felt like these smells were already eating their way into his skin. Sometimes, these aromas would give way to the sharp stench of urine and blood — neither of which were fresh. It seemed that this basement had hosted quite a number of guests recently.

Gaston was sitting on the dirt floor, leaning up against a stone column. He could feel the all-encompassing cold seeping straight into his bones. His arms were bound behind his back, where his wrists were further restrained by a board with two ill-fitting holes in it. Pain throbbed from his wrists up into his shoulders. His aching muscles had already gone into convulsions several times. The skin beneath the steel cuffs on his arms and legs had long ago worn away and turned into four big, ring-shaped wounds around his limbs.

From time to time, he would hear voices. Floorboards would occasionally creak, and doors would sometimes slam shut somewhere above his head. The voices were muffled; he couldn’t make out any of the words.

“Bastards,” he growled through a painfully-dry throat.

They hadn’t given him any water all day.

Despite his desperate situation, though, Gaston Laforte — Captain of the most fearsome cohort in the Legion of Last Chances — was simply enraged. He hated the men who ran his convoy. He hated the people who had betrayed him. And he hated the King. More than anything, though, he was angry at himself. Angry that he had failed to recognize the deception, and thereby put all his men in harm’s way.

He had trusted Bernard de Lancre, General of the “Last Chances.” Gaston had been betrayed by his old friend. If it hadn’t been for a letter from the General, Laforte would never have left his cohort on the southern border. He would never have headed for Conterne at all.

But the Captain had been blinded by good news. The Margrave de Valier had kept his word. He had sent the King a letter asking for pardons for all the men in the “Last Chances” who had fought in His Majesty’s army, and Carl III had granted those pardons.

That was what led to the day, several months before, when Gaston had received that ill-fated letter from General de Lancre. Laforte was supposed to appear in Conterne, in order to sign for his resupply shipments and pick up the written Royal Pardons for all the men in his cohort.

Instead of supplies and pardons, however, Gaston found a unit of soldiers waiting to arrest him. By the time he had actually realized he was being arrested, it was too late. More than six months before, his cohort had refused to march to Eastern Bergonia to put down some localized rebellions. Laforte had always managed to get out of unpleasant assignments before — sometimes with bribes, sometimes simply by exercising his legitimate authority. He thought he had managed it again this time. But this time, his past behavior came back to haunt him. Gaston Laforte had refused to serve as an executioner, and now he was scheduled for a meeting with Maître Sarsonne in Herouxville.

On the very day of his arrest, Laforte had decided to try to break out of the city. If he could do that, he reasoned, he could make it back to his cohort and then lead them all into the Margraviate de Valier. He believed that despite the developing situation, Maximillian would take them in, and that he would definitely be able to come up with some sort of solution to their problem. If the Margrave couldn’t do it, nobody could. Laforte knew that for a fact. But his breakout attempt failed. By the time it was all over, twenty of his men lay dead, and he himself had been clapped in chains.

They held Laforte in Conterne for a little while, but then sent him by convoy to Vestonia. Gaston had no illusions about the fate that awaited him, especially after his escape attempt.

Just the day before, his convoy had crossed the border, before arriving in Bresmont later that evening. From what he could hear of the convoymen’s conversations, they would be spending about a week in Bresmont.

Despite everything, the Captain grinned. He was thinking about the duel between the Margrave de Valier and Baron von Neumark that had taken place right there, beneath the walls of Bresmont. It was an unforgettable sight. That might have been the first time in his life that Laforte’s intuition had deceived him. He had felt absolutely certain that the Baron would destroy the little bastard, but the young man managed to surprise everyone. Not only that — he went on to keep surprising everyone, with enviable regularity.

If somebody had told him a year ago that some unknown bastard boy would essentially wipe out the Scarlet Order and force the Golden Lion himself into a retreat, Laforte would have laughed in their face and called them a fool.

The floorboards creaked above Gaston’s head again.

“Sons of bitches,” Laforte growled to himself. “Abyss take you all!”

He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He could feel rage and fury sharpening his conscious mind. Gaston would have given anything for an opportunity to throw himself at his tormentors. In his mind, he couldn’t stop imagining how it would feel to sink his teeth into one of their throats.

Laforte’s head was pounding. Maybe it was from the beatings; maybe it was the hunger and thirst. Probably all those things put together. But no — he wasn’t going to break. This basement wouldn’t be his grave. These chains were just a temporary inconvenience. He would wait for his moment, and attack when the time was right.

Suddenly, he heard the sounds of a door opening above him. Laforte’s lips spread into a predatory grin. The gods, it seemed, had heard his prayers.

The unpleasant screech of rusty hinges split the air, and then the light of an oil lamp dispelled the darkness in the basement around him. The Captain could hear confident footsteps. Laforte tensed up, and tried to turn his head to see who specifically had come to torment him that night. But he couldn’t see anything.

The next second, the footsteps stopped right behind the Captain’s back, and he saw his own shadow on the dank earth in front of him.

“Well? What’s the holdup, you little shit?” Laforte croaked.

The only reply he heard was a strange rustling sound; and then the lifeless body of Roland Buquet, the house’s owner, thudded to the ground at the Captain’s feet. The man’s face had been etched into Laforte’s mind: this was definitely him. And now the footman’s dead eyes were staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Laforte jerked himself around and tried to look behind him, but once again found that he couldn’t.

“Who are you?” He croaked. There was no answer.

He heard the characteristic sound of keys jingling, then felt the block of wood fall from his wrists. The Captain’s heart started thumping in his chest. He still couldn’t move his numb hands, but he knew that he was free. A ring of keys fell to the floor. Whoever this person was, one thing was clear: he was on his own from that point on.

The Captain heard quick footsteps heading for the staircase. Before his mysterious savior left the basement, Laforte croaked one more time:

“I don’t know who you are or why you did this, but you have my thanks. My name is Gaston Laforte. Find me, and I’ll repay my debt to you.”