Vol 7, Chapter 12

◆ River of the Third Duchy, Asha's POV. ◆


"So the Healers' Guild is like a sort of labor union?"

"It seems you haven't been listening to me at all, young man…" the elderly healer shook his head.

"No, I listened very carefully. You defend the rights of healers, you don't let the rich cut down your pay…"

"WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY!" came an annoyed female voice from the stern of the ship.

"Don't compare us! We're nothing alike; that's like equating a shark and a tadpole just because they both live in water!" the healer hissed furiously at his companion.

"Every shark was once a tadpole," Len countered confidently. "So what's the difference between us?"

"The difference is that any fool can haul crates. Our Gift is rare; we can dictate terms. You cannot. Fools like you swarm the streets, eager to replace anyone who refuses to work under the old conditions. But healers are not found on street corners. We are valuable. You are not."

"That only means we need to bring more people into the union, that's all."

"More? Even if the whole city joined your little conspiracy—which is impossible, but let's suppose. Even then, peasants from the villages would simply come in to take your place. They can haul crates just as well."

"Ha! Then every person in the world must join! It must be a World Revolution!" Len declared triumphantly.

"I'm afraid, young man, your head is one thing I cannot heal," the healer sighed.

"Are you yelling again back there?" Asha shouted across the ship.

"Seems she's coming this way," the healer hunched down.

"Is she always angry, or is it because you gave the alcohol to those royal guardsmen?" Len asked, and the group answered in chorus:

"Always!"

"Who said alcohol?" Asha squinted, glancing around suspiciously as she approached.

Len and the healer fell silent, Marvin and Ashley went on playing dice, while the Captain puffed calmly on his pipe, watching the bleak autumn landscape slip past the ship. A leaden sky, ready to break with rain, murky water beating against the hull, empty fields already stripped of wheat. The weather alone was enough to drive anyone into gloom. And even the fact that they had slipped into the capital's river without difficulty, bypassing all inspections, did little to raise spirits.

Especially Asha's, who for two days now had been railing against the cost of that passage. After all, the inspectors' boat had left only after receiving several barrels of rum.

"No one mentioned alcohol? Then it shouldn't have been. How could you even think to give it to the guards, that was rum from the center of the world! We went through so much just to bring it here!"

"It was just rum. We were lucky they took it and let us through," the Captain replied calmly.

"You should've given them gold! Why do priests even need booze? And why are holy men inspecting ships with the royal guard anyway?"

"We know no more than you. We passed, and that's enough," Flint replied indifferently, tapping his pipe against the mast. Preparations were needed; beyond the treetops he could already see the silhouette of a castle rising over the city.

Lothingham, the capital of the Third Duchy, was founded on the shores of a large, unfrozen lake. Underground springs fed it year-round, and the lake in turn fed the people. On the approach of the battered frigate, fishing boats grew ever more frequent.

"Ahoy there, ship!" a fisherman shouted from one of them.

"What do you want?" the Captain barked back.

"The city's exit is closed!"

"Well we're going in, not out!"

"Well, if you're not turning back, that's your business. Want to buy some fish, m'lords?"

"No!"

"Safe travels then," the fisherman replied, disappointed.

"I wouldn't have minded," Asha remarked, watching him row away.

"Lothingham is the capital of fish dishes. You'll be sick of fish soon enough, trust me," the Captain replied, wrinkling his nose at the smell of scales.

More and more fishing shacks dotted the banks, rising with every hundred meters until they became proper houses. With one last push against the current, the frigate broke out onto the vast lake along whose shores the city spread.

The frail craft of fishermen scrambled in panic, pulling at oars to get out of its path.

"Did we really make it? Oh, why is there a Condor flag on the castle?" the girl asked, pointing at the black banner flying in the wind. And not just one—black standards hung all across the city.

"Our banner is black with white, not plain black," clarified the former Count, just climbing up from the passenger cabins.

"The main House of Klaus has blue and green. Black means…" the healer began, then fell silent.

"Let's just find a proper pier," the Captain suggested, scanning the shore.

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The bunkers and underground chambers we had been digging all this time — served us poorly. Clearing them of slime was far more difficult than the shallow trenches of the Duke's camp. Hidden from sunlight, the alchemical filth could lie in wait for years, slithering out at night as a green fog in search of prey.

Amusing…

Perhaps this was how cursed places came into being. Centuries later, all would have been forgotten about this battle. Peasants would tell tales of a dreadful echo of wars, lurking in the ruins on the hill and ready to kill anyone foolish enough to come there at night. Surely some would dare to test it — treasure-seekers willing to risk their lives for riches that had never been here at all.

And they would die, devoured by mindless slime. The bones would pile up, the hill's grim reputation would grow. The dreadful hill, from which green fog descends each night… Rumors would spread, more and more people speaking of the place.

Thus a legend would be born.

Or rather, it might have been — had we left things as they were.

Quartz lamps burned the tunnels beneath the hills clean of the green invaders. The slime slowly melted under the bluish beams, filling the passages with suffocating black smoke. It evaporated without a trace, leaving only green-stained wooden crates and barrels. The grain stocks were gone, as was all the food, turned into slime… but at least the gunpowder remained intact.

Wheezing "elephants" hauled slime-smeared shells out of the artillery vaults, stacking them on the surface.

Black clouds of smoke slithered like snakes out of the underground corridors, curling around them, trying to seep into the thick rubber suits. They failed, and the smoke drifted away in disappointment into the autumn air.

Dozens of men in gas masks unrolled copper cables and dragged quartz lamps. At the base of the hill, a shift already relieved of duty sat resting, rubber hoses removed. Behind them puffed steam engines, pumping air mixtures into the tanks.

It would take more than a day to cleanse everything. Perhaps more than a week…

"…by my estimates, ore output will increase by at least two hundred and fifty percent, with enormous growth potential beyond that. But… we'll need a large amount of explosives, as well as at least one senior earth mage." Tamilla continued her report, not noticing that my mind had wandered.

"How large an amount?" I asked, returning to the conversation.

"Shells production will have to stop for a week," she checked her notes, which threatened to fly away in the wind, and added, "approximately."

"Then we shouldn't rush. If the increase is that significant, we'll need additional blast furnaces. And we must also ramp up toluene production. Allocate more funds to the workers and expand the staff."

"Ahem. Speaking of funds. The treasury is draining, like that smoke. Our expenses keep growing, and the only significant source of income aside from taxes — is arms sales. Most of our goods simply cannot be sold! Exporting ore would help rebalance things a little, but more importantly, it would lay the foundation for future metal supplies. We'll just need to buy a few barges, expand the river port, and run a railway spur directly to it…"

"So we need money? Maybe we should raise taxes?" I suggested half-jokingly.

"A bad idea… a very bad one. High wages have already drawn merchants to Eagle's Cliff, tax revenues are growing on their own. If we raise taxes, fewer will want to settle here. Besides, we can use them. They're ready to finance the project and invest in infrastructure in exchange for a share of ownership."

"Let me guess: they'll want to use the future port for free, ban competitors from using it, and then resell it when the value spikes?"

"A river port, not a 'port.' One steam engine, a few cranes, warehouses… but overall, yes, you're right. My uncle is already prepared to join in and cover half the required funds. We'll get a river port without spending a single copper coin!"

"Just take the money from the treasury."

"But why?" she raised her brows.

"I don't want to leave such an important asset in the hands of merchants."

"It's just a river port. And it will stand on land belonging to you; no one will dare stop us from using it as we please!"

"Formally, that land belongs to the king, who entrusted it to our family in exchange for loyalty. But that's not the point. Strategic assets must belong to the state."

"You mean to House Condor?"

"I'll explain the difference another time… For now, just handle it. We won't let some upstarts profit off our money. Among Stern's… hm, 'pupils,' there's an earth adept. Let her assist with the port, check the riverbed, and find the best location. We also have something else we can sell. There's plenty of petroleum products, but using them wisely in industry rather than just burning them in boilers will take me months, if not years. Some light fractions we can sell immediately. Send someone to Ashir, have them show the goods and find out the prices. And make sure the Ashirians provide caravan guards in exchange for part of the product. When dealing with a nation of professional mercenaries — we should take advantage of that… What is it?" I noticed her admiring look.

"For an aristocrat, you're far too interested in business. Usually they just collect and spend money, not invest it… Except perhaps the Fourth Duke."

"Maybe that's why he became a Duke?" I smirked.

"I doubt it. By the way, he won't refuse purchases of lamp oil either. Moreover, if we arrange transit with the Second, we'll be able to deliver barrels directly to the Fourth Duchy, and from there ship them overseas, even to the Commonwealth. But he won't talk to a messenger. You'll need to meet him in person, and the volumes must be significant enough to warrant that meeting."

"Which brings us back to the start of our conversation. Raise wages, hire more workers, speed up extraction."

"Alright…" she made a note. "Now, about Mira. She's been asking about the library…"

"Wait." I stopped her, seeing Til approaching quickly. "Do we have trouble? The Duke wants to attack again?"

"Uh, no. On the contrary, observers report he pulled his troops several kilometers back from the leper camp. He needs time to replenish his losses, so it's unlikely he'll come at us now. Maybe he'll even think twice and avoid a winter campaign. Frankly, this would be a good time for us to advance instead, if not for the mud and… hm." He gave a meaningful glance toward Tamilla.

"I'll go if needed. I'll meet with the architect." She instantly understood the hint. "We can discuss the library another time."

"Don't go. What is it, Til?"

Positioning himself so Tamilla couldn't see, he handed me a note.

"Another dispatch from Len. This time it came by a Klaus family postal chimera, not a raven."

I took it, estimating how long it had been since it was sent. A raven's flight took several days, but postal chimeras could outpace even a griffon.

The text was long, the script cramped, and on the back was the Klaus crest imprint. Meaning Len hadn't written it alone. Frowning, I skimmed the first lines. The Third Duke…

"Til."

"Yes?"

"How many veterans have we rearmed with revolver rifles?"

"About eight hundred men."

"Eight hundred sixty-five soldiers, plus another fifty rifles arriving in two days," Tamilla corrected.

"Too few. I need three thousand volunteers, supplies, and the river port yesterday. Speed up the barge procurement… No, wait. Get the materials, Pit will handle the barges."

"Does he know anything about shipbuilding?"

"No. And that's why he'll be boiling with enthusiasm and finish quickly! Prepare everything. We must be ready to march tomorrow."

"That's far too soon," she shook her head. "Preparing for a campaign would take any noble weeks… or longer, depending on their destination."

I showed her the note.

"How long if our destination is the Third Duchy?"

"Three days," she said uncertainly.  "And we'll need to suspend weapons shipments to my uncle. Don't look at me like that! I'm sure he'll reroute some of the weapons already delivered into the Third Duchy, and if we keep sending more—he'll just send those too. Soon swords will be worth more than gold… so why shouldn't we profit from that ourselves?"

"We will. But make sure the weapons go to the right side.  All preparations will be in your hands. I'll go ahead first."

"Alone?" Til clarified.

"With Falcon."

"That is alone."

"There are already our people on site. It's fine." I waved him off and carefully folded the note to tuck it into my pocket.

On the paper's edges, the inked letters twisted into an unmistakable phrase — "The Third Duke is dead."

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◆ Lothingham, Castle of the Third Duke, Countess Erin's POV. ◆

Worn down by age and long illness, the Third Duke's body lay upon the altar in the great ritual hall, and would remain there for five more days… or until the castle's wards were bound to someone else. The hall was filled with a chilling cold to keep the corpse from decaying prematurely. There was no doubt that he was dead.
Sooner or later it would have happened, but this time, he'd been helped along.

An obsidian dagger jutted carelessly from his chest. The strike that killed him reeked of contempt. He had not been slain like a dangerous mage, but like a defenseless old man. Lazily. Casually.

Yet murder is murder. No one had entered the Duke's chambers; all night long only the attending healer had stayed there, watching by lamplight, ensuring the Duke did not die in his sleep.

Naturally, all suspicion fell upon him. No one cared for his protests about a shadowed hand appearing, plunging the dagger, and vanishing without a trace. The culprit had already been chosen.

The only question left was: whose name would he give as the mastermind after long hours of torture?

For years the Duke had lingered at death's door, barely comprehending what was happening around him. Power in the Third Duchy had long since split among three families. More precisely—three Marquises. One name. One bloodline. One ambition: to seize the Duke's seat.

"Mother, don't you think it's too much of a coincidence that all three branches gathered in Lothingham on the day of the murder?" Erin asked, lighting a candle.

The Marchioness said nothing. After the change of king, their position had become the weakest among the three branches—even weaker than the youngest branch!

That one, despite its far shakier legitimacy, was backed by the Second Duke, using his kin as a glove. He did not wish to openly declare his claim to the Third Duchy, preferring to act through puppets. At least for now.

The eldest branch had the new king's support, and so most wavering barons had flocked to them. The safe bet was always popular.

As for them… they stood alone. Only their vassals remained, and far too few of them.

"I think we should leave. Under torture the healer could name anyone, and it's Henri's men doing the torturing," Erin continued.

"His words alone won't be enough. And if we run, it will only confirm the accusations. Now be quiet and let me pray for the Duke's soul," the Marchioness said coldly, her words puffing out in the frigid hall.

"I still think we should inform the Condors."

"No." She snapped the word firmly. "Their involvement would only complicate things further. Besides, the king is already planning to strip them of their title—he just needs a strong enough pretext."

"Titles don't matter as much as power."

"Pfh... That sounds like Etienne's way of thinking. Do not voice such notions at dinner, and do not criticize the king again.  Whatever else, his support of the elder branch will keep the Second Duke from snapping at our house."

Erin frowned. Though both branches acknowledged the third as the youngest, they always disputed who had the greater claim to the inheritance. Her mother's words, calling Henri's branch the main one, could only mean one thing.

"So you just want to surrender?"

"Henri seems reasonable enough to compromise, if we yield ground. That leaves making arrangements with the king. So at the family dinner…"

"I won't go to dinner. I have no appetite. If you'll excuse me, Marchioness." Erin curtsied, pouring as much irony as possible into the last word.

For if compromise was reached, her mother would certainly cease to be a Marchioness.

"Intolerable girl," the woman muttered after her, pressing a hand to her aching head. The screams of the healer from the dungeon below the hall did little for her mood. Negotiations had to move quickly. She had no doubt the healer would accuse either her or Etienne of ordering the Duke's murder, and never mind that it had been least advantageous for them. They had to buy time. At dinner, she would have to propose hiring a necromancer…

Fuming, Erin stalked down the corridor, away from the healer's screams, the gloom, and the flickering torchlight. But even the balcony with its view of the lake brought her no peace. The reek of fish that hung over the city day and night was maddening. Still, there was something of note. Amid the little fishing boats and a barge smeared with fish guts, a real ship was moored at the pier. Strange, unfinished-looking, but large — a sea frigate.

"My lady," one of the knights called to her.

"Yes?"

"A healer has arrived in the city, claiming to be the teacher of that vile murderer who slew our lord! We secretly invited him into the castle. If he gives the right testimony, it could outweigh the words of his student. We only need to… firmly persuade him to cooperate."

"Unfortunate timing for him. Did he come on that ship?"

"Yes. And he did not come alone. Also… We haven't told the Marchioness yet, but…" The knight swallowed nervously. "Old Count Condor is here as well."