Last Life

Herouxville

Palace of the Duchess du Bellay

RUBEN DIDIER, personal secretary to the Duchess du Bellay, was standing several steps away from the table. While his mistress ate her breakfast, he read off the list of aristocratic houses that had invited Her Grace to receptions and balls.

“Very well, Ruben,” the Duchess finally interrupted him. “Is that all?” Chapters first released on novel⁂fire.net

“All the invitations, yes,” replied the secretary in a businesslike tone. Then, bending forward ever so slightly, he whispered: “There’s news from Lieutenant Tierot.”

Her Grace livened up at this. She tore herself away from contemplating the dark ruby on one of her rings (a present from Maximillian, before his departure for Bergonia) and turned to face her secretary. Her right eyebrow rose slightly.

Paul Tierot was a lieutenant in the city police force, who had once served as one of the late Duke’s personal retainers before transferring to Royal service upon his master’s death. Now and again, for old times’ sake (or, more accurately, for the sake of some very substantial rewards), the lieutenant would slip various bits of important information to the Duchess.

The secretary shot a glance at the footmen, who were standing silently by the walls like statues. The Duchess caught the hint immediately and waved a hand through the air:

“Everybody out.” The footmen all bowed and left the dining hall.

“So,” said the Duchess as she leaned back on her chair and prepared to listen carefully.

Her secretary was very well acquainted with his mistress’ mannerisms, and he took this for the cue that it was. In a dry, laconic tone, he began to relay his report:

“Alas — at the moment, Lieutenant Tierot has no credible information concerning any attacks on travelers by the Margrave de Valier’s men.”

Catching a stern glance from his mistress, the secretary cleared his throat and rephrased his statement:

“Or rather, any attacks by units of marauders who are covering their actions with the honorable name of His Lordship the Margrave de Valier...”

“Don’t disappoint me, Ruben,” said the Duchess, threatening him with a shake of her finger. “Any fool can see that my nephew’s enemies are trying to besmirch his name. I hope you’re not a fool?”

“My mistake, Your Grace.” A blush appeared on the secretary’s cheeks. “I misspoke.”

“Look at me,” replied the Duchess. Her eyes narrowed. “I hope you’ve got something important for me, and I’m not just wasting time on you this morning?”

“As I said, the news from Bergonia is fairly contradictory,” the secretary quickly continued. “We don’t know what’s happening there with any certainty. Something that happened a week ago, however — right here in the capital — is important enough that I think it deserves your attention.”

“Here in Herouxville?” The Duchess frowned. “As far as I’m aware, nothing of any special importance happened over the last week.”

“High society knows nothing of it — at least not yet,” the secretary nodded. “But Lieutenant Tierot assured me that this matter is rapidly gathering steam, and that the rumors will seep up the chain of command before too long. Otherwise, why would the Herouxville provost take it under his own personal control?”

“Well, well...” The Duchess adjusted herself to sit a little more comfortably in her chair. “What could have happened to make that courtly lackey of a provost actually start doing the job he was hired to do? Normally, after all, he can’t be torn away from his endless round of balls and receptions.”

“Roughly a week ago, there was something of a scandal in one of the city’s main squares,” the secretary began. “Similar conflicts break out among the citizenry at the rate of several hundred a day, of course, but this particular incident had an unexpected coda.”

The Duchess looked slightly perplexed.

“Something related to my nephew? In the main square?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the secretary nodded. “The conflict took place between an unidentified man on the one hand, who had been publicly asserting that he, his family, and the other members of his caravan had come under attack by one of your nephew’s patrol units, and two young people on the other: a young woman and a young man, who described themselves as belonging to the troupe of one Maître Brisot.”

“Circus?” The Duchess asked, although she herself wasn’t quite sure why it mattered.

“Almost,” said the secretary. “Comedians. They were the ones who turned the situation into a conflict. Lieutenant Tierot provided me with copies of witness statements, which all assert that it was the young woman who started the argument with the man. She called him a liar and a con artist. She also asserted quite loudly that His Lordship the Margrave de Valier is a true nobleman, and that it’s only thanks to his efforts that Northern Bergonia is currently the safest place in the country.”

“Sharp girl,” the Duchess nodded with a smile. “You could take a lesson from her yourself, Ruben. Continue.”

The secretary smiled obsequiously, then continued:

“According to the Lieutenant’s records, a dispute then erupted between the man and the girl. He displayed his fresh wounds to the crowd and said that he had witnesses to the crimes the Margrave’s people had committed. Then, however, the young man interjected himself into the dispute and started asking the man questions, which he proved unable to answer. The boy thereby won the sympathy of the crowd, and the liar was forced to make a hasty exit from the square. Witnesses affirmed that he left in a storm not only of cruel jokes and curses, but also of rotten vegetables, stones, and mud.”

“See, Ruben?” The Duchess du Bellay concluded with a satisfied smile. “People love my nephew.”

The secretary nodded, then continued:

“The crowd was driven into further rapture when the boy and girl began to play instruments and sing humorous songs. First was the familiar song about the bastard sword. Then came the Hymn of Gondreville, then finally a new song, whose words and simple melody have made their way quickly around the capital over the last week. It’s being sung in every tavern and slophouse in the capital. As Lieutenant Tierot asserts, it’s this specific song that gave the city authorities cause for concern.”

“Oh?” The Duchess’ eyebrows rose. “And what sort of song is it?”

“Its hero is named Fox, who’s off hunting at the edge of the world. During his absence, the scoundrel Rat paints his tail orange and starts killing other, weaker animals. Soon, however, the song prophesizes that Fox will return and tear off Rat’s painted tail. And then all the animals will know who’s really to blame for all the deaths.”

“Bravo!” The Duchess clapped her hands excitedly. “Find these comedians and invite them to my house. I want them to perform at my next reception. I’m already impatient to see the sour looks on some of the guests’ faces.”

“Alas, that won’t be possible,” the secretary shook his head.

“Why not?” The Duchess’ brow furrowed; her smile started to disappear.

“According to Lieutenant Tierot’s information, Maître Brisot’s troupe has disappeared. They seem to have vanished from the face of the earth entirely.”

“What happened?”

“The evening of that very same day, a group of cutthroats from among the dregs of the city showed up at the apartment building where the troupe was staying. We have it on good authority that they came specifically to teach the comedians a lesson.”

“Oh, Most Luminous Mother!” The Duchess threw up her hands. “Do you see now that all these dirty rumors about my Maximillian are obviously part of a carefully-crafted provocation campaign?!”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the secretary with a bow of his head.

“So what happened to those poor people?” The Duchess du Bellay asked with a frown. “Are they dead? Did the bandits kill them?”

“This is where the story takes a strange turn,” the secretary replied, sounding slightly sheepish.

“How so?”

“As it turns out, the bandits who appeared at the apartment building didn’t just fail to do any harm to the comedians. They took quite a beating themselves. Lieutenant Tierot informed me that the artists left them severely battered.”

“Bravo!” The Duchess’ eyes were shining. “This makes me want them to perform at my reception all the more! Hm... Imagine that... Taking out a band of capital-city thugs!”

The secretary shook his head; he was deep in thought.

“Admittedly, one of the witnesses to the fight — the owner of the apartment building, as it happens — asserted that all seven bandits were taken down by just one of the men. Namely, the father of the boy who was singing in the Square.”

“Oh?” The Duchess was surprised. “He’s probably lying.”

“Most assuredly so, Your Grace,” nodded the secretary. “Nobody believed the owner when he said that. In fact, they say that the fire may have caused him to lose his sanity a little bit.”

“Fire?”

“Yes,” said Ruben. “His apartment building burned down. And the owner blames this on the vanished troupe of artists. Allegedly, it was their revenge for his having called the city guards as soon as the comedians left his apartment building. Basically, nobody takes the poor man very seriously at all. Although to be fair, I should point out that there have been several other fires in locations associated with the city’s dregs during the course of the last week. Lieutenant Tierot said that several local haunts, and one portside warehouse, have burned to the ground. All the properties belonged to the head of one particularly large local band. He also said that the criminal bands have already started redrawing the map of who controls what in these territories. A lot of blood has already been spilled. Long story short, the bandits no longer have any time to spare for any comedians. A rumor has begun to fly around the Lower City that some rats have already had their painted tails ripped off.”

The Duchess sat there in her chair, elbows resting on its armrests, with her fingers folded together. She spun her thumbs around one another slowly as she stared pensively into the space in front of her. A triumphant smile hung on her lips.

Having finished speaking, Ruben stood there in silence, afraid to disturb his mistress’ thought process. But the Duchess’ silence didn’t last long. A knock on the door put an end to it.

She let out a quiet sigh, then turned to face the door.

“Come in!” She said.

The door opened ever so slightly, and a footman appeared over the threshold.

“Verena Marchand has arrived, Your Grace.”

* * *

Herouxville. New Capital

A city park

“A glorious day, is it not, my child?” The Duchess du Bellay asked, turning to Verena Marchand as they walked side-by-side through the park. “A shame that Valerie couldn’t join us today.”

Both women were accompanied by footmen as they strolled through the park in the New Capital. Shielded from the direct sun by small folding parasols with lace running around their rims, they would occasionally exchange greetings and bows with other ladies and gentlemen who happened to be walking through the park.

Next to a nearby lake with swans and colorful ducks swimming across its surface, there was a small stage, where an orchestra played beneath a large canvas awning. The capital’s nobles were all walking slowly around the yellow, sandy paths, while their children ran to and fro across the green meadows in between them, always under the watchful eye of one or more servants. Here and there, one could see guards in polished armor keeping a vigilant eye on the peace and order in the park.

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Verena.

The young woman’s hands were shaking slightly. As soon as Valerie had pleaded illness that day, and said she wouldn’t be able to come to the park for a walk with her aunt, Verena knew that the day she had long dreaded must finally have arrived.

Why was she so certain of this? It was quite simple. This was the first time Verena had ever visited the Duchess du Bellay’s home on her own, without Valerie. And even when she was with Valerie, they had only ever visited the Duchess in the company of the Viscountess de Gramont. Besides, Max’s sister was lying anyway. Verena had seen her energy system. Valerie was perfectly healthy. That left only one possibility: they were going to tell Verena something important that day. And she felt virtually certain that she already knew what it was.

“My child... Why are you shaking like that?” The young woman had failed to keep her condition hidden from the Duchess’ watchful eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re ill as well?”

Oh, how Verena would have loved to lie, and say that she really was ill! How she would have loved to hurry back to the Fox Den, which had started to feel like home after so many months! But she knew that she wouldn’t be able to keep running from her fate forever. She composed herself, and then replied firmly:

“No, no, Your Grace. It’s just that I felt a slight rush of cool air just then. As it happens, I feel very well today indeed. But I thank you for your concern.”

“You’re right.” The Duchess rolled her shoulders forward slightly as she nodded toward the pond. “We’re near the water, aren’t we?”

The Duchess summoned one of her footmen and ordered him to bring them a pair of cloaks. The footman bowed, then hurried off in the direction of their carriage.

“You maintain your composure quite well,” noted the Duchess with a laugh. The remark caught Verena by surprise. “You’ve already guessed what we’re here to discuss, haven’t you?”

Her lips were spread into a smile, but her eyes remained ice-cold.

“I believe so, Your Grace.” Verena saw no point in denying or pretending.

“Clever girl,” nodded the Duchess. “I enjoy perceptive people. Heh... Honestly, it’s a real shame that you’re of common stock.”

She sighed sadly as she shot a disdainful glance around at the other noblewomen who were strolling through the park.

“All these brainless brood mares... They’re miles beneath you in terms of knowledge and social grace, my child. If your parents were still alive, I know they’d be proud of you.”

Verena winced ever so slightly and bent her head into a grateful bow. A lump had risen in her throat, and it was taking all her willpower to keep tears from welling up in her eyes and betraying her true feelings.

“I very much regret that they succumbed to the misfortune that befell your family,” said the Duchess. “Alas — trade always involves risk. But let’s not linger on sad subjects today! Especially when there are much more pleasant matters to discuss.”

Max’s aunt smiled and made her announcement:

“I’ve finally chosen a worthy husband for you. He’s a little older, and most people wouldn’t describe him as handsome, but he also has several indisputably valuable qualities. He’s a nobleman, and he’s rich. And most importantly, he’s head over heels in love with you, and willing to marry you despite your low social background. Girls like you don’t get a chance like this more than once in their lives, if at all. Have you guessed who I’m talking about?”

Verena had difficulty restraining a squeamish grimace. She knew exactly who the Duchess had in mind. She was referring to Louis de Mercadier. A fifty-year-old, bald Baron with sweaty hands and a greasy, unsettling look in his eyes, who had been pursuing Verena at every reception the Duchess du Bellay had hosted. Every time he looked at her, it felt like he was staring at a piece of property that already belonged to him.

But Verena had no intention of giving up that easily.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she replied. “The proprietary gaze of the Baron de Mercadier would be hard to miss.”

“He’s had his eye on you for some time,” the Duchess nodded with a smile, ignoring the sarcasm in the girl’s voice.

“Well,” said Verena, pulling her head ever so slightly closer toward her shoulders. “Then it only remains for me to get my cousin’s blessing for this marriage, since he’s my guardian and patron.”

The Duchess du Bellay chuckled. She had seen through Verena’s game instantly.

“A futile endeavor... I’m offering you an excellent match. You could marry this rich simpleton and get everything you’ve ever desired. Title, gold, status in society. But you insist on blindly believing that my nephew could be yours. That will never happen, my child. Max isn’t meant for someone like you.”

“Then who IS he meant for?” Verena’s eyes narrowed, and she turned to stare straight into the Duchess’ eyes.

The young woman was ready to rush into battle — she was ready either to conquer, or to die trying.

Jeanne du Bellay’s chin rose a little higher into the air.

“My child... Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you reveal a totally new side to me. I’m actually curious... What else is hidden inside that beautiful head of yours?”

Verena had never been closer to finally revealing her true identity to the Duchess, but she willed herself back into line. It was bad enough that Count de Rondi knew. She really regretted that. To be fair, the old man had caught her at a very unlucky time, when Verena was already feeling agitated and depressed. And the conversation with an old friend of her grandmother’s had really made her feel quite a bit better...

Without waiting for a response, the Duchess continued:

“You asked who my nephew is meant for? Permit me to answer you. He’s meant for someone who will make him stronger. Especially in these times, when Max’s enemies are doing everything they can to weaken his position at court. Marrying a girl from a powerful, wealthy family will cement his position. Her family will bring him allies who will support him at critical moments. What can you give him?”

Her Grace’s words fell onto Verena’s shoulders like enormous, immovable boulders, burying all her dreams, desires, and hopes beneath their crushing weight.

A fugitive Princess. A landless Duchess. The last scion of a fallen dynasty. It was a fair question — what could she possibly give Max? Would he become stronger by taking a woman like her as his wife?

It wasn’t likely, and Verena knew that very well. Indeed, by becoming the Margrave de Valier’s wife, she might actually be signing his death warrant. An enemy like Otto II would stop at nothing until he destroyed them both.

Verena sighed heavily, then bowed her head and replied:

“You’re right, Your Grace. My cousin deserves more.”

* * *

Herouxville

Somewhere in a district of the Old Capital...

“You’re late,” said a powerful, throaty voice from out of the darkness.

“I’m doing everything in my power, master,” replied a meek, purring voice.

“Report first. Then reward,” replied the one who had been called master. “Did you manage to sniff anything out?”

“Very little, my lord. All of it strange and confused. Only one thing is clear: it is unlikely that the Captain of the “Last Chances” is personally responsible for the liquidation of Baron de Rohan and his people. My intuition is telling me that the corpses in that hamlet and the murders in Bresmont are connected in some way.”

“One of the gifted?” The hoarse voice asked.

“Almost certainly, but the killers acted without using magic.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Yes.” The reply was short and firm.

“By the way, speaking of the Captain of the “Last Chances...” Did he manage to cross the border?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the purring voice. “But I arrived too late to intercept him.”

“That’s not your fault,” the master croaked. “What’s the situation in the capital? Have you determined what the Duke de Bauffremont has in mind?”

“Yes, my lord.” The purring voice was quieter this time.

“I sense doubt in your voice. Speak.”

“It turns out that ever since Renard returned from Vintervald, he’s been hiding the last remaining daughter of Conrad V in his Fox Den.”

A tense silence followed; just a moment later, however, it was broken once again by the hoarse voice. His tone was deceptively calm and steady.

“I see... So he’s up to no good, then. It turns out the bastard is pursuing his own interests. The games in Bergonia aren’t enough for him. He’s decided to try his hand at high-stakes politics as well. Why am I only hearing about this now?”

“You know that I’m unable to access the Fox’s castle. He summoned a very powerful guard, and the house is also under the protection of a powerful first-born. I don’t — “

“How far out of control has this gotten?”

“I’m afraid I have bad news on that front,” came a quiet whisper out of the darkness. “The King of Astland already knows about everything.”

A deathly silence followed, interrupted only by the master’s heavy breathing.

“How did he find out?” He finally asked. His tone was frigid.

“It was the Count de Gramont who first discovered the truth about the Princess — quite by accident, as it happens. He told the Duke de Bauffremont everything. And the Duke, in turn, reported it all to the Astlandic ambassadors.”

“So Otto knows, but he still hasn’t made any move,” the hoarse voice responded, sounding pensive. “Presumably, he’s waiting for an opportune moment to strike. So — we need to prepare.”

“My lord,” the purring voice pleaded from the darkness. “My reservoir is almost empty.”

“You’ve disappointed me,” said the hoarse voice. “You’re lucky that I have many assignments for you, and you’ll need energy to carry them out. That doesn’t mean I’ll forget this. We will return to the question of your punishment very soon indeed.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the meek response from the darkness. “What must I do?”

“Your top priority will be to keep an eye on the Astlandic Princess at all times.”