Book 3: Chapter 12 – New Equipment [Part 1]
Book 3: Chapter 12 - New Equipment [Part 1]
As men get older, the toys get more expensive.
- Marvin Davis
Pushing herself, really pushing herself, had left the girl a drenched, sweat-soaked mess. Still, it was not without its rewards as Seraphina had gained an extra point in Strength and Constitution.
But what truly pleased her, what disturbed her too, was the birth of a new skill: Endure. In the game, Endure was vaguely described as the ability to mentally overcome privation and bolster one’s willpower in adverse situations. Mechanically, it increased the contribution of Constitution and Wisdom to saving throws against negative effects, and provided minor resistance to all forms of non-physical damage.
Despite its obvious utility, Endure was not a skill Seraphina was eager to train—considering, well, that one had to actually “endure” something to improve it. It simply was not a pleasant experience.
Right now, the young girl was enjoying the open hot spring baths, the one saving grace of this backward hamlet. Her magic relieved her body of the rigours of extreme exercise, but she just soaked in the invigorating hot water, enjoying the relative and rustic pleasure. The special waters were also meant to do one wonders for the skin, but again, her Heal spell kept everything about her in peak condition.
It was in moments like these that she missed her lady-in-waiting, Eloise, most of all. Miriam simply could not be trusted with her naked person—the maid’s glances lingered too long when her lady undressed, and her hands were always just a touch too helpful. No, this was a task Seraphina handled herself now, wrapping a towel around her shoulders and wringing the water from her short blonde hair.
I should have learned Fire, she thought sourly. One call to Mana, and I’d be dry.
It also looked like she was the proud owner of a new cattle farm. She would set Miriam to it—let the girl hire more locals or, better yet, draw from her many facilities. The orphans she sheltered were hardier than most, grateful for a roof and steady bread, and less likely to complain or demand extra coin. War along Aranthia’s border with the Empire had swelled their number again; fresh shipments of sorrow to be molded into service to society at large.
Dressed now in her travel-wear, a split skirt of her own invention, autumn brown and suited to both saddle and seat, and a soft, pale smock with a touch of frill at the neck and cuffs, Seraphina studied herself in the cracked mirror by the bed. The tailored garment was a little loose across her chest by intent; using her mother’s figure as a reference, she felt that she needed some room to “grow.” The overall look was “casual” and slightly worn-looking, but the actual cost would have shocked most who would have learned of it. The premeditated worn look was there to add a sense of impermanence to the ensemble.
“Casual quality” would have been a better term, she mused. According to her sources, a growing number of the girls in Aranthia wore her skirts of the same cut, especially among the lower classes. The nobility, too, had, seeing her example, had also started to wear them. She had not intended to set a trend, but she could not deny the little bit of pleasure it brought her. There was power in that, too, wasn’t there?
The Fae, Tia, fluttered about in her garment of leaves, hopping across the coarse, almost sackcloth-like fabric of the bed’s pillow. Seraphina made a mental note to commission a dollmaker to prepare a proper wardrobe for her new servant. Even if no one else could see her, she couldn’t very well have Tia flitting about in that.
She tugged a bell-cord and waited for the bustle of preparation to begin. The road called to her once more. She had weighed the choice: stay another night in this backwater, or ride. And in the end, the choice had made itself. She had endured enough of this place.
***
The de Laney lands had, as expected, excellent roads, much to the delight of Seraphina’s rump. Like the roads of the Empire, they were broad, flat, and dry, with nary a pothole to jostle the carriage nor a stone out of place. Whatever else could be said about the de Laneys, they at least understood the importance of infrastructure.
The countryside beyond those well-laid roads, however, told a different story. It was a sparse and wind-scoured place, where the soil cracked underfoot and the fields looked like they would yield little but disappointment. Crops grew thin and pale as ghosts—twisted stalks of barley, blighted cabbages, and onions that seemed to shrink from the sun. No water wheels creaked in the distance, no workers labored with smiles from vineyard rows, and the grazing herds looked less than vibrant. It was a silent land, and almost a sick one.
The King had both blessed and cursed the de Laney’s with a domain like this. No doubt, Elidion had thought that the de Laney’s would pour their considerable wealth into “fixing” this part of the Kingdom.
Seraphina watched it all through the carriage window, her fingers idly tapping the armrest. Poor soil, she judged, lips pursed in quiet distaste. Or lack of enthusiasm for agrarian pursuits. Perhaps both. By comparison, her father’s domain had been a garden—lush, overfed, and spilling its wealth onto the roadsides like a merchant’s purse too heavy with coins.
The de Laneys, she thought, would have their work cut out for them if they were to make this place prosperous.
Then, on the horizon, came the first smudge of smoke—thin, purposeful columns rising against the afternoon sky. Shortly thereafter came the shape of walls. Low, still growing by the look of them, with scaffoldings of timber clinging like barnacles to half-finished towers. A gatehouse sat squat and stubborn between two stumpy bastions. Beyond it, the clustered rooftops of Bouchant, the de Laney barony’s main town, huddled beneath slate-gray clouds.
As the carriage crested a ridge, she saw it in full.
Bouchant was not a big town by any lord’s reckoning, but it had pretensions of becoming one. The place straddled a shallow bend in the Lurette River, its stone bridge, although functional, still under repair. Rows of narrow houses pressed close together like cold men huddled for warmth, their eaves sharp and sloping, roofs tiled in alternating blue and black slate. Chimneys belched thin trails of smoke that stank faintly of peat. The market square, such as it was, looked little more than a muddy field with a few wooden stalls and canvas awnings flapping in the breeze.
The carriage rolled on past the gates, and the young girl could see that there was something stirring beneath the grime. A new quay was being constructed on the riverbank, where boats might one day unload timber, salt, or smoked fish. Warehouses, freshly mortared and lacking their upper levels, stood like proud stumps near the docks. A modest guildhall was under construction beside the chapel, and just beyond that, what looked to be a new inn promised comfort for the wealthier sort of merchant.
Seraphina saw the signs plainly enough: the de Laney family meant for Bouchant to become a hub of trade, a rival to the older market towns nestled closer to the border. Roads that were well-paved for caravans. Bridges rebuilt with tolls in mind. A barony reshaped not by war, or the fruit of the soil, but by commerce.
Ambitious, perhaps foolishly so, but at least it was an attempt at making it a better place.
The whole endeavour would take time, gold, and more than a little ruthlessness. But in Seraphina’s memories, there was the time when she had met Lady Yanmei Idalie de Laney once, and she did not doubt the Empire woman’s capacity for all three.
The woman, she remembered, had taken an Aranthian name to honor her husband’s land to try and “fit” in. The blonde girl had almost thought such things were an exercise in futility. Foreigners in a foreign land would never be accepted, only tolerated as much as polite conversation would dictate.
The young noblewoman leaned back in her seat, adjusting the fall of her split skirt and brushing a fleck of non-existent dust from her sleeve. “Well,” she murmured to no one in particular, “let’s see what passes for civilization here.”
The carriage rolled on through the streets of Bouchant.
“Civilization, Seraphina?” asked Tia curiously.
The Fae had been, despite repeated correction, unable to remember to call her by her proper title. It was quite enough to drive one wild.