Last Life

THREE WEEKS HAD PASSED since Maître Brisot had been granted permission to perform in the Palace. During that time, a number of changes had occurred, both within the life of the troupe and in Herouxville more generally.

In recent days, while down at the capital’s port facilities, I had watched a rapturous crowd roar out a welcome when several ships from the Foggy Isles docked, carrying a cargo of almost 200 influential Astlandic nobles under the command of one Marshal Albrecht von Mansfeld. No sooner had he learned of Princess Sophia-Verena’s existence than he had hurried to move his base of operations — he wanted to be by her side. According to my information (which Lucas was receiving from Susanna Marino, and which I always verified through several other sources), the exiled Astlandic Marshal could bring a force of something like 5,000 men to the colors. In addition to that, Vestonia itself was home to quite a number of Verena’s countrymen, who had once fought beneath her father’s banners. Ursula Hoog was one of them, as were Barons von Holtz and von Brunon.

As it happens, Lord Gray returned to the capital that very same day as well. He came at the head of a large company of mercenary islanders, which was exactly what Carl had sent him to get. With the arrival of these ships, Herouxville basically turned into a big, buzzing beehive of activity: Vestonians began to talk of a new war with Astland as though it were a fait accompli.

I had started hearing a lot of talk — snippets of conversations in taverns, on the streets, and at the city’s markets — about the war to come. Every time one of the usual loudmouths started shaking his fists at the sky, threatening to rain down his righteous vengeance against the usurper Otto and restore the true Princess to her rightful throne, I recalled having heard very similar conversations just a year before. Those, however, had been about the Golden Lion, Bergonia, and the Royal Family of that unfortunate country (a family that had since been slaughtered).

At moments like that, I had to give a mental round of applause to Kiko and his organizational skills. It had been his people, after all, who had launched the information campaign against Otto that the common people had so comprehensively picked up and swallowed.

It was all starting to give me the impression that everybody had forgotten one very important fact: namely, that the country had hardly even begun to recover from the Bergonian War. And that the bands of royal recruiters who were still roaming the country had literally emptied out almost all its villages and cities, sweeping up men and youths for Carl’s legions.

The preceding two years had seen surprisingly good harvests; and that, in my mind, was the only reason that Vestonia hadn’t already been swallowed by a wave of peasant unrest. It was also the only reason Carl could even begin to contemplate another war against his foreign enemies in the first place. Hunger would have turned all of Vestonia out onto the streets in protest...

As it was, though, the entire population of the capital seemed to think of little else but the coming holiday. Musicians, artists, acrobats, singers, and jugglers had begun to pour into the Royal Palace from all across the country. The streets were filled with colorful outfits. The sounds of happy singing and provocative melodies could be heard around the clock.

I was standing in the middle of our temporary home’s inner courtyard, watching the final preparations. Four brand-new wagons, bought to replace the old ones that had creaked and groaned over every rough patch in the road, were shining in bright new coats of paint. They smelled of lacquer and freshly-stained wood. The morning sun was glinting off their metallic brackets from above — these were engraved with ornate flourishes and mysterious symbols. These wagons had been built by the same group of masters who had once constructed a whole fleet of campaign wagons for me. True, the head of the shop was initially reluctant to take the job on, because he was overloaded with work orders already. My homes on wheels had become immensely popular, and the master of the shop that had created them was almost overwhelmed with new orders (I should also note that as the inventor of this particular type of vehicle, a percentage of the profits from such orders went straight into my pocket). The problem was solved, however, when Lucas plopped a heavy bag of gold imperials down onto the table in the shop owner’s office.

As I checked out all the upgrades, I couldn’t help but chuckle as I imagined how our audience would react to our heretofore-unseen combination of circus and theater.

I had decided that, as a parting gift to the Brisot family, I would share some useful knowledge from my previous life with them before I bade them farewell. Admittedly, I would have to try to pass it all off as a bunch of new ideas that had popped into my head while watching them rehearse.

Over the preceding months, and to my considerable surprise, I had grown pretty attached to these good, kind people, in whose company I occasionally felt like I had journeyed back into a previous life. A life where I was still a carefree young boy, who had only just started to realize his gift, where Vadoma (my adoptive mother) was still alive, and where my teacher Mamoru Yamada was showing me his sword for the very first time. The world seemed so wonderful and limitless, so full of miracles and magic.

When Maître Brisot realized what I was proposing, he met with his family for a brief discussion, and then invested the troupe’s entire savings into the project. Not surprisingly, this wasn’t even enough money to complete a single wagon; to everyone’s delight, however, Lucas agreed to loan them the remainder from his own “personal savings.”

As per my blueprints, the wagons would be able to transform into a full-fledged theater set, consisting of four tall podiums on wheels that could join together to form a multi-tiered platform for performances.

The sturdy wooden joints and spacers were tough enough for people to run, jump, and climb across in any way necessary. During scene changes, complicated mechanisms could move the decorations; these, thanks to Max’s innate gift as an artist, were another part of my gift to the family. That still left a lot of gaps to fill in, of course, but that was what the masters managed to accomplish in the short interval of time they had to work with (and to their credit, they worked around the clock to get it done).

“Jack!” Bridget’s sonorous voice echoed across the courtyard as she jumped out of one of the wagons. She was holding a brush, a jar of paint, and a polished sheet of copper with a wooden frame that served as a makeshift mirror. “It’s makeup time!” Google seaʀᴄh novel•fire.net

I chuckled and nodded at the jar in her hands:

“You thought of something new, huh?”

Bridget was truly a treasure-house of hidden talents. Besides her acting and musical gifts, she was also a pretty good artist. She always handled all the makeup and decorations before the family’s shows.

I should point out, however, that she probably thought much the same about me. Especially after I showed her a few new chords on her instrument and drew her portrait for her.

Recently, I had also started catching her looking at me with a thoughtful expression on her face. These looks tended to linger longer during the parts of the rehearsal when I was shirtless, jumping and climbing across the beams and platforms of our new stage.

“Yep,” said Bridget with a happy wink. She waved her brush through the air, spraying a few drops of paint at me. “Come on. I have a few new colors for you. I want your fox face to glow, like it’s real magic.”

I got up and followed her toward the largest of the utility rooms in the house. This is where we had set aside space for a sort of all-purpose art studio.

Bridget sat me down on a chair. As she searched for the shades she needed, her face dropped into a focused frown, and she started muttering to herself under her breath:

“Here’s... Red-brown, there’s... Ugh, it’s not gonna be enough, I’ll have to shade it a little...”

When she finally walked over to stand in front of me, I caught a very distinct aroma of flowers. I had long ago detected the scent of magical perfume, created from the dust of emerald bruts. This perfume had appeared on Bridget’s clothes about three days before, and judging by the looks that Michaela and her elder daughters kept shooting at me when they thought I wasn’t looking... Well, let’s just say that the hunting party had its sights set on me. They had even shelled out for a magical perfume.

Noticing my appraising glance, the young woman blushed slightly, then quickly stammered:

“Jack — close your eyes.”

I complied, feeling as her brush slid across my cheeks and beneath my eyes.

“Jack?” Bridget’s voice was a little bit lower.

“Yes?” I asked, without opening my eyes.

“You’ve never told us whether you have a family.” She was even quieter as she asked this. The brush in her hand started to quiver just a little bit.

“You’re asking about my wife?” I asked, in as serious a tone as I could muster. My voice sounded steady — in fact, it almost sounded bored. I cracked my right eye open just a little bit.

Bridget’s hand twitched. Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped open in outraged surprise. She stepped back just a little bit.

“What?!” She exclaimed, sounding almost indignant. “You’re married?!”

“What’s so surprising about that?” I shrugged. “Me and Brunhilde have been in love since we were kids.”

“So do you have children too, then?” She whispered. Her voice already sounded crestfallen.

“Of course!” I nodded. “Seven of the beautiful little beasts, probably waiting impatiently for daddy to get home.”

“Oh, Luminous Mother!” Bridget exclaimed with a sob. Throwing her brush onto the table, she turned and raced for the door.

I watched her leave with a little smile on my face, then picked up the brush, grabbed the copper plate, and continued applying my “makeup.”

Besides the fact that my true identity was a closely-guarded secret, my makeup and my brand-new mask (which I had sewn especially for the occasion) would prevent anyone in the Palace from recognizing me.

I raised the mirror and put on my fox mask. I froze for a second as I examined my own reflection. The mask’s black-lined eyes looked genuinely wild — it looked like the face of a real-live fox, with golden sparks flickering in its eyes. I blinked a few times, and the golden sparks disappeared.

Just then, Michaela popped her head into the studio.

“Ready, Jack?” She asked quietly, looking at me with a little hint of laughter in her eyes. Apparently, Bridget had already managed to tell her mother all about my complicated family life; unlike her daughter, however, Michaela had appreciated my joke for what it was.

I nodded as I stood up:

“Yes. Time to get going.”

We were planning to leave the district early in the day, so as to arrive at the Palace before the gates opened and get a good position in line (we knew, after all, that were would undoubtedly be a huge crowd of artists waiting for checks by guards and officials) before finally parking our vehicles in their designated spots within the Palace grounds.

We rolled out of the old merchants’ district, then passed by Moneychangers’ Square to find ourselves on a wide thoroughfare that led to the New Capital. A veritable river of wagons, carts, and other horse-drawn vehicles stretched down the road in the same direction.

It seemed like all Herouxville had come out to watch the day’s rehearsal, which would involve a special commission watching the various troupes perform and deciding which of them were worthy to perform for the King and his invited guests. We had only found out about that last detail a few days earlier. It meant that most of our bribes would end up being for nought...

Soon enough, we found ourselves in a full-on traffic jam at the foot of the big stone bridge that connected the Old Capital to the New. The guards at the crossing seemed utterly unconcerned about the massive holdup as they examined each cart’s official documents and verified that it had permission to cross. We could already see the brightly-colored flags on the towers of Carl’s palace, as well as a crowd of actors, minstrels, and other guests gathered along the riverside promenade.

And that was when we heard a stream of mocking shouts:

“Hey, Brisot — you’re here too? How’d that happen? I didn’t think they’d ever let you past the dirtiest of the suburbs!”

The shouting was coming from a puny little man, who was sitting on the trestle of a massively-heavy wagon loaded with puppets and curtains. Judging by the laughter that echoed down the line of performers in response to these comments, the Brisot family was something of an object of mockery among their colleagues in the acting profession.

“And what’s with these wagons?” A big-bellied man with a beard called from his high-sided wagons (whose sides were covered with lewd pictures) as he pointed toward our little caravan. A grotesque-looking mask had been pulled away to the right side of his face, where it covered his ear and cheek. “Damn, Brisot... Did you sell your soul to the demons for those things?!”

I noticed Étienne frown next to me. The boy was squeezing the reins in his hands so hard that his knuckles had gone white.

“I’d love to shut their filthy mouths for them,” he grumbled.

“Take it easy,” I chuckled, giving him a reassuring slap on the shoulder. “Let them talk. Speak with your actions, not a bunch of empty words. Take a lesson from Maître Brisot.”

Maître Brisot was busy nodding friendly greetings to all his acquaintances. He seemed to take the shouts of abuse more as a sort of friendly ribbing than as anything approaching a genuine insult. He obviously didn’t care about the shouting at all.

Mind you, it was far too loud for anyone to have gotten into an actual shouting match anyway. I hurried over to the horses, helping Jean pull the reins to the side so that we could take a more obvious place in line.

We were slowly moving forward, almost literally crawling along the bridge. Before long, two golden-haired young men with colorful jackets and flamboyant peacock feathers in their caps called out to me:

“Hey! Fool! Little bit early for makeup, don’t you think?”

I just shrugged and turned away. I had no interest in getting involved in any unnecessary conflicts. But this fact seemed lost on the “peacocks” behind me, who interpreted my reaction as a sign of weakness. One of them walked right over to our wagon and turned to address me in voice dripping with mockery:

“What’s the matter, dumbass? Swallowed your tongue? How will you possibly perform in front of His Majesty?”

The two men were obviously trying to show off in front of Bridget, whose cute face was occasionally popping up from inside our wagon.

I just chuckled and slapped a friendly hand down on the blond-haired young man’s shoulder:

“I was actually going to ask you the very same question.”

As my hand landed on his shoulder, I quickly mouthed the words to a short spell. The young man didn’t notice, of course. Especially since he soon had other things besides me to worry about. He reached down and clutched his stomach with his hands, wincing as he suddenly (and quite loudly) let out a big burst of gas. A moment later, a brown stain began to spread across his trousers.

“Eww-ww!” Étienne frowned, deliberately pinching his nose so that the two men could see him.

A loud peal of laughter rippled down the line of carts. Several of the wagons stopped to stare at the lanky idiot, who was spinning around in confusion, letting out big, noisy bursts of gas as he did so.

His friend was trying to help him, which only elicited more laughs from the crowd. Seeing that the artists had apparently started their performance ahead of schedule, and thereby threatened to stop up traffic on the bridge entirely, a menacing-looking lieutenant ordered some of his men to remove the befouled young man from the scene.

The guards handled the task in quite a creative fashion. They simply grabbed the poor bastard beneath the armpits and hurled him into the river. The sight of the lanky young man thrashing around in the water made the crowd laugh even harder.

Meanwhile, we took advantage of the confusion to keep moving, passing by several of the wagons and carts that had stopped to gawk at the spectacle.

The commission was waiting for us at the other end of the bridge: it consisted of several guards and one official with an enormous book, in which he was recording the names and information of all the artists who crossed the bridge. Behind this first group stood another one, consisting of several people who were all intently examining the artists as they arrived.

I noticed one petite figure who looked especially familiar. It was Susanna Marino. Apparently, her department had brought all its gifted employees to help with the checks. I laughed to myself as her attentive gaze flitted across my face. Not surprisingly, she didn’t recognize me.

By the way: given the obsequious manner in which Susanna’s colleagues seemed to be revolving around her, it seemed my investment had paid some significant dividends. My spy had obviously taken a few steps up the career ladder. Which was certainly good news for me.

When it came to our turn, the official asked for our papers in a tired-sounding voice, and Maître Brisot (smiling, as always) handed him the papers, as well as the scroll containing our official invitation.

Having checked the seal and made a note in his book, the official nodded:

“Everything’s in order! You may proceed.”

The guards parted to let us pass, and our little caravan continued on its way.

For the time being, however, they weren’t actually letting anybody into the palace. All the various multicolored wagons were heading to a wide-open square, which on other occasions was home to horse races and various other entertainments.

We started unloading our wagons and preparing everything for our dress rehearsal. We had been told that the performances were supposed to start in about an hour; that, at any rate, is when the members of the special commission would arrive and select the most worthy acts. We had also been told that the head of this commission was a particularly incorruptible man, whose sole concern was making a genuine appraisal of the talent he was about to see.

Sure enough, the hubbub began after about an hour, when an anxious murmur passed down the rows of wagons. Its tone didn’t seem to bode well. Criers quickly announced that everyone should prepare to display their very best numbers. Furthermore, they told us right off the bat that we would have no more than ten minutes to perform.

We took these warnings in stride, though, because we were already prepared anyway. Our colleagues along the line, however, erupted into a fit of full-on panic. This got considerably worse when everybody realized exactly who the incorruptible head of the commission was going to be.

Two hours later, as it came time for our turn, I finally got a look at his hunchbacked figure for myself. Kiko (for that’s who it was) was surrounded by several other people as he made his way somberly down the line of wagons and carts, watching with a sour expression as yet another crew of performers broke out their very best number for his amusement.

Judging by the dejected looks on most of the faces whose shows he’d already seen, the Royal Jester was utterly merciless in his judgments.

When it finally came time for our turn, and Kiko and his entourage of officials stopped across from our stage, I saw a look of amazement on his face. With an acid smile, one of his companions leaned over and whispered something into his ear. The jester nodded; a wry smile spread across his face as he bellowed:

“Which of you is Maître Brisot?”

“I am, Your Worship,” replied our leader with a bow.

“I see you’ve made excellent preparations!” The jester noted with a smirk on his face. I knew that the look had probably sent shivers down the spines of everybody else in the troupe. “Although we would expect nothing less from the famous Brisot troupe!”

He glanced at me a couple times, but didn’t recognize me. I remained absolutely calm the entire time.

The jester giggled and rubbed his big hands together. They were practically drooping under the weight of their golden rings.

“The authors of the famous ballad of the “Red-tailed Rat” simply MUST perform for His Majesty!”

I stared across at the corrosive smile on the hunchback’s face and realized that all his friendliness was nothing more than one big trap. It was obvious that Étienne and Bridget’s song had really rubbed Carl the wrong way.

The jester and his commission moved on, and I turned to Maître Brisot (who was still stunned by what had just happened) and shot him a happy wink.

“Excellent!” Okay, I told myself — this is good. We’re past the first stage.