Vol 6, Chapter 9

◆ Ancestral Castle of Marquis Short, Marquis Laslo's POV. ◆


The cold embrace of a dead body pleasantly refreshed the bed on a hot day. The embrace of death—rather poetic, isn't it? Laslo stretched with satisfaction and pushed the corpse's arms off his chest.

Alas, poetry was poetry, but his pastime was becoming ever more wasteful. And the problem wasn't even the cost, nor the unsavory rumors spreading. It was simpler—there were fewer and fewer girls to his taste. Once, finding a beauty for his bed had been easy, but now…

Now it took effort. Only a few peasant girls were willing to go to his bed for money, suspecting the night would be their last. The rest ended up there against their will. At first, tears and pleas aroused him, but that grew boring quickly. Too monotonous.

So he began experimenting. Potions that clouded the mind and dulled pain. Different methods of killing. Lately, he preferred strangulation. Almost as pleasant as usual, but without blood staining the sheets. What a pity the One had not granted him the gift of a necromancer—then he would have truly indulged himself!

He turned to the dead girl and brushed her hair from her face. Alas, the snub-nosed one suited his taste only partly. And who was to blame for that? For the fact that he had to settle for what he could get, instead of the best? For the fact that he could not live otherwise? Only the nearness of death allowed him release! Every time, he heard again the hum of an iron ball flying past and felt the blood on his lips. Only that made him feel alive.

Oh yes! He knew exactly who was to blame. Because of whom he hadn't been able to taste a single noblewoman for months, surviving only on washed-up peasant girls! Because of whom he could only glance at his bodyguard, unable to take her to bed.

For strangling a warrior would not be so simple.

Laslo placed his hands on the cold neck, and they fit perfectly over the bruised marks. Yes! If he could do that with her… It would be a hundred times brighter than dozens of peasant girls. If he had first experienced it with her sister, then Monica's fate was simply destined to be the same.

The worst part was that she knew of his pastime, which meant he would have to put her in chains. Unless… perhaps with potions, he could dull her mind? But the resistance of warriors to alchemy was much higher—it would require costly components…

Laslo squeezed the neck so hard the vertebrae cracked. The idea drew him in more and more. Yes, he didn't merely want this—he had to! He was obliged to repeat it, exactly the same. But how to make the iron ball fly again?

The damned alchemists still couldn't find a strong enough compound.

Magic would be more reliable, but to find a mage powerful enough, one he could trust… Someone who would guide the ball perfectly past him, without risk of accidentally killing him. Hm, perhaps that risk was necessary? The very presence of possible death, as last time? Yes, of course…

His flesh stirred with excitement.

Oh yes. Everything had to be perfect. Exactly as it was.

For a while he fantasized, not noticing his ideas growing more and more insane. And even if he had noticed, he would have blamed only one person, in his mind, for it all: the cursed Condor.

A knock at the door broke his damp fantasies.

"My lord, you asked to be woken when the alchemists prepared another sample," a servant reported, without entering the chamber.

The marquis sighed heavily, shoved the corpse off the bed with a disgusted kick, and began dressing. Perhaps those bunglers would finally bring him good news?

***

The much-abused, captured rifle roared like a manticore whose tail had been pinched. A jet of flame shot three meters from the barrel and licked the armor. The hall rang with the impact, and in an instant it was filled with impenetrable smoke.

At least this time the smoke wasn't poisonous.

The invited wind mage cleared the hall, and hoarse laughter echoed along the stone walls. A dent had appeared in the armored plate standing in the center.

"Does this still amuse you, soldier?" Laslo asked the exhausted prisoner.

Chained to the wall, the man smirked defiantly.

"It never gets old. Your failures keep me alive."

"Then you'll die the moment we succeed," Laslo sentenced, turning away in search of the ricocheted bullet.

At first he had spared the man's life to prove that their alchemy was no worse than Condor's, but the many failures only made him look foolish. Now he couldn't kill him either, for that would be an admission of defeat. No matter—however long it took, he would see despair on that face.

A pulse of magic, and the deformed bullet landed in his palm. Laslo pressed it to the armor.

"Better. If the strike had been half again as strong, it would have pierced. How much did this shot cost?"

"We've made great progress, my lord. We used the shell of a fire crab and coal to ignite it—we had to modify the lock with a rune, but that even made it more conve…"

"The price," the marquis cut the alchemist off harshly.

"Fire crabs are relatively easy to raise, but no one does it… Um, ten silver coins. But! But if we arrange mass breeding, the price will collapse—perhaps to just a single coin!"

Laslo smiled with satisfaction. Compared to the first samples, which cost dozens of gold coins, he could sense they were on the right track. After all, Condor couldn't possibly supply its army with so much powder if it were expensive!

"That is a good result. However, its power is still unsatisfactory."

"We are working on it, my lord. We need to find a component that will serve as a catalyst. It will take time, but perhaps the Third Prince could help? His knowledge of alchemy is unique."

"No. We are close to the solution, only the last step remains. He will pay us far more for a finished product than for a handful of ideas. Continue the work. Spare no resources!"

The alchemists bowed.

Laslo watched the guards escort them back to the laboratories, then headed for the dungeons. To his toy.

Of course, he had been partly dissembling. The Third Prince would have paid a fortune already for what they had achieved, but… what use was money, when something far more important was at stake? A storm was coming, and if he was to stand beside the Prince as an equal figure, not a powerless pawn, he needed strength. Great strength.

Besides, he had already made enough from ensuring that the relic of the sanctimonious found its way exactly where it was meant to go… and into the hands it was meant for. Hands of the third prince.

With each step the stone stairs grew more slippery. Damp and wet, the eternal companions of dungeons. Perhaps by setting up a few runic circles for ventilation it could be avoided… but why make life easier for prisoners?

Whistling, he walked toward the cell of his favorite.

The tall Monica, who guarded his cell, lifted his spirits even more.

"My lord."

"Nothing happened?"

"He didn't eat his morning portion. He's weak after the procedures."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not good. Feed him with power when I leave. Soon we'll need his blood again. For now, you may take a walk," he allowed the warrior woman good-naturedly.

Yes, he absolutely had to speak with the alchemists, he thought, watching his bodyguard's backside. When should he have her? Wait until the end of the month to mark the beginning of a new world… after that there would be no time for it… or wait until the Third Prince's final victory? Such a difficult choice.

Laslo opened the door. It wasn't locked, there was no need.

"Knock, knock. Wake up and sing, my little bird… By the One, you're as pale as a fasting bishop!"

Kazimir lay on the feather mattress, staring indifferently at the ceiling. Freshly healed wounds bulged painfully on his arms, his face bloodless. He didn't even react to the visitor, though he usually tried to throw himself at his feet, even when weak. Curious.

"I've come, Kazimir."

"I see," he whispered faintly.

"And you don't greet your lord as you should? Perhaps you're tired of living?"

"Perhaps," he answered.

Laslo shook his head. It seemed the procedures had broken him. If he'd known Short's son was so frail, he wouldn't have carried them out so often. He would have waited, though the mages demanded ever more blood to reset the castle's defenses. He would have to slow down.

"Friend, you've completely fallen apart, where's your will to live?" the marquis said cheerfully, plopping down on the bed and deliberately pressing down on Kazimir's arm.

"It's drained away," he replied grimly.

"Well, would you look at that! A worthy answer!" Laslo grinned and playfully slapped his cheek.

Cold, just like a corpse. A shiver ran through the marquis; this nearness to death excited him.

"I have a couple of good news items for you, Kazi. First, no procedures for a whole week. You may start thanking me."

…

In response, silence.

"I don't hear any thanks," Laslo began threateningly.

"What's the point? The outcome is the same anyway."

The resigned voice displeased the new master of the Short estate. Laslo wasted no time with threats. He grabbed the helpless hand from the bed and began breaking the fingers. Thanks to practice, he had gotten quite good at it. Crack. Again and again, finger after finger.

Kazimir held out almost to the whole hand, but on the fourth, the crack mingled with a scream.

"You see? It does matter how you reach the end," the marquis said with mock earnestness, waving the mangled hand with its bent fingers before the failed heir's face. "And now, what must you say?"

"Thank you," he whimpered through tears.

"That's better."

The marquis released the crippled hand, and it fell limply onto the bed, drawing another groan from Kazimir. Good. That meant he wasn't completely broken yet, and there would still be some play left in him.

"Oh yes. You made me lose my train of thought. I should punish you for that… but I'm too lazy. The second piece of good news, you'll have a guest soon."

"A guest?"

"Yes, a special guest. If you behave yourself, I might even let you watch as I wring all his secrets from him… draw them out with pliers and chisels. Come on, guess."

"The First… Duke?"

"What? You idiot. That's far off yet, though one day… ahem. Never mind. You're wrong, and the price for a mistake is, a finger."

The dungeon echoed with another crack.

"One more try?"

"I don't know!" Kazimir whined.

"That's no fun. And the answer was so simple… it's the one you hate as much as me. Well?"

"There is no such person."

"No person, you're right. But it's no person at all… it's a demonic bastard. Condor. Are you pleased?"

The marquis peered at the prisoner's face, but found only indifference.

"Well, I don't see any joy. Where's the joy?"

The younger Short forced a fake grimace.

"Good, good. So, soon I'll hold a ball at your father's former estate outside the city. A fine estate, I must say, I'm pleased with it. All the barons who swore to me will be there. By the way, did you know they all decided to betray you and your father? I reunited these lands," Laslo spoke with relish, hoping for spite.

"You forced them."

"So what? They had the option of death. Some took it, actually. Remember Baron Gusto? Perhaps he gave you wooden horses as a child, or something like that? No? A pity. Now he won't have the chance to give you anything, because he's dead. His entire house too."

…

Something flashed in Kazimir's eyes. And it wasn't tears.

"Ha-ha-ha!" The marquis laughed, pleased to have roused the apathetic prisoner. "So, there will be a ball. You, unfortunately, won't be invited, you're 'dead' too. But Condor will be there. It's already arranged with the King, all that's left is to squeeze more payment from that arrogant dotard. Snap, the bird will fly into my cage on its own. I've spared no expense and hired the best masters of their craft through the guild. Are you pleased?"

"I'm pleased. Very pleased," for the first time real joy sounded in his voice. "Pleased because then the King's wrath won't be long in coming."

"The King? Ah yes, I haven't told you yet."

Laslo leaned conspiratorially over the prisoner and whispered softly into his ear:

"By the time everyone realizes what I've done… the King will already be dead."

*****************************************************************

The weather had turned foul. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, blotting out the sun. Lightning flickered in the distance, dull thunder more and more often drowned out the clatter of hooves on the still-dry road. The caravan was several days' travel away, and I urged my horse on, hoping to reach the city before the downpour broke.

I doubted very much that the stack of papers in leather satchels would survive a downpour without damage. Beyond the fields the rooftops were already rising when the first drops timidly pressed down the road dust.

Judging by how black the clouds were, my decision to break away from the caravan instead of trudging along with it had been the right one. If the roads turned to mud, I could have lost several more days for nothing.

I galloped past the checkpoints, past houses and quarters. There were noticeably fewer refugees, though perhaps they had only hidden from the rain.

I handed my horse to a servant, pulled off the bags, and ducked under the roof of the town hall. Seconds later the rain drummed against the tiles like shot, covering the city with a solid wall.

Made it.

Inside it was unusually empty, except that Aluin was arguing with one of the clerks Tamilla had recruited.

"Some problem, Baron?"

"Viscount." He nodded respectfully. "I came to ask if there is any news of my ransom."

I turned my gaze to the assistant. Stammering, he replied:

"N-no word has come. Forgive me."

"You could have said that right away," the baron grumbled, then turned to me. "All right, I'll be going."

"Stay. The weather outside is so foul you'd better wait it out here," I suggested.

"Thank you, but I can't. I have a lesson in half an hour."

"A lesson? You've taken a post in my school for peasants?"

"I teach only children. I see nothing shameful in that—I love children."

"I never meant to reproach you," I said seriously. "On the contrary, it deserves respect."

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed.

"They pay well, and I could use the money. Perhaps I'll even save enough for my ransom, if you'll allow me to pay for myself."

"No problem. Save with a clear conscience."

The baron nodded gratefully and headed for the doors.

"Wait. At least take an umbrella." I handed him one of the office umbrellas from the stand.

"Thank you," he said, and vanished into the curtain of rain.

I watched him for a moment. A tiny umbrella (tiny compared to the baron) would hardly help him much, but even a small help is still help.

"Order a bigger umbrella from the workshop and deliver it to the baron, along with my thanks for his work," I ordered my aide, who hastily uncorked the inkwell to write down the command. "And also prepare a carriage to Reikland."

In such weather I didn't want to travel, but I couldn't afford to linger here and lose time. I needed to acquaint Pete with the papers and start work as soon as possible. Oh yes.

"And send Count Selbori a note from me, so that he gets a good rest before my arrival. We have much interesting work ahead."

The administrator lifted his pen from the parchment.

"Sir, there's no need for a note. The Count is right above us, at the top of the Town Hall. He arrived two days ago."

"Then forget the carriage."

I picked up the satchels and headed for the stairs.

***

The upper floor was empty. The balcony was being lashed by rain.

Where the hell was he? I was about to look under the table when something wet flopped onto the balcony.

"Ouch! Slippery, though. Hello, Ran. I saw you riding—lucky you, making it just in time."

Water streamed off Pete in rivulets. Apparently when the administrator said he was at the top, he literally meant the top of the town hall.

"What were you doing up there?"

"Watching. You can see everything from above. Come here!" He waved invitingly.

The little awning did nothing against the driving rain, and my doublet was instantly soaked. For a moment I regretted not taking an umbrella.

From the town hall one could clearly see the pit… or it would have been clear, if not for the curtain of rain. Sometimes the sheets of rain parted, revealing not only the man-made crater, but the hundreds of figures around it.

"Pity about the goblins. And pity I didn't see the explosion. I don't even know which I regret more," Pete lamented.

"Who are those around the pit?"

"Oh, that? Pilgrims. Rumors spread quickly. I think the Inquisition will soon take an interest. They can't not. The Theocracy hates when miracles happen without its say-so."

"Just a few hundred barrels of powder and saltpeter—what miracle is there? I explained everything…"

Pete spread his hands.

"People like to believe in miracles. What can you do? But isn't it better this way? We make miracles with our own hands."

"Amazing the Inquisition hasn't gotten you yet, with ideas like that."

"Well, they tried. They even wanted to burn my estate. The Fourth Duke saved me, said I was amusing."

The gesture with which I wiped the rainwater from my face served perfectly in place of a facepalm.

"I thought you were in Reikland."

"Yeah. Decided to take a break. Building the city was fascinating—black tendrils beyond the wall, unknown mechanisms, foundries. It was great, but it started to get dull. I wanted a bit of nature and fields. Oh, by the way, look!"

He stepped inside and drew a sword from its scabbard. Ordinary steel, not blood-bound. Or not quite ordinary.

Looking closer, I recognized the mass production model. Except the quality was much improved. The blade had been hardened and tempered. The edge was almost perfect, and best of all, the hilt had finally taken on a decent shape, with visible traces of engraving tools on the metal.

Only the blade was smeared with some green streaks.

"What's this? Poison?" I asked.

"Huh? No. Just traces from grass, bushes, and small trees. I tested it on the way, to see how to improve it."

I quickly imagined him screaming and attacking roadside nettles. Well, that was in character.

"And? Learn anything?"

"Oh yes. For example, the hilt. I cut grooves and notches into it so the blade would sit better in the hand, but in the end…" He showed me his palm, rubbed raw and blistered. "In the end I should have just coated it with rubber, that would have been better. But never mind, the grooves will help the rubber grip! No need to redo the whole line, right? Just add some boiling rubber as the final stage!"

I didn't tell him warriors would have no problem with a metal hilt, with their calloused hands. Instead I nodded solemnly.

"Excellent thought. Just make the rubber hard, so it holds tight on the hilt."

Because if this caught on, it would be another way to profit from rubber. With our control of the Black Forest, we were practically monopolists of that resource. So yes, more rubber everywhere possible!

Rubber on sword hilts, heh. Funny how times blend. I wonder what else we'll come to...

"So you tested it on grass… but that's not what the sword is meant for. Why not try it on a pig carcass, or a ham?"

"I don't like blood." He grimaced, sliding the sword back.

I turned to the balcony.

"Then you don't need to regret missing the explosion. You wouldn't have liked it."

"Perhaps. Sad we can't live in peace. Don't take it wrong—I spoke with the refugees and listened to their stories, but… I think there's still a chance for peace. I think I should return to work on the dragon tree. Maybe I can make its fruit cause goblins to feel revulsion toward human flesh?"

"They'd still kill. If not for food, then for sport."

"Perhaps. Still… it's sad."

He returned to the balcony and stared thoughtfully at the crater, which was quickly filling with water.

I ought to cheer him up somehow.

"I've been working on modifying powder to impress the alchemists. Iodine gives a beautiful violet smoke. There are other substances that color flame and sparks. If we work at it, we could make an explosion in the sky as spectacular as fire mage tricks, and absolutely safe."

"A beautiful explosion instead of a terrible one? And no blood? Sounds good," he said melancholically.

"Yes. We'll set off fireworks when we finish the next batch of work."

"Next batch?" he asked, frowning suspiciously.

I pointed to the satchels.

"All the papers, rough sketches, directions for work, some calculations, parts of mechanisms, proposals. We just need to change clothes—can't risk getting them wet!"

Half an hour later he was frantically rummaging through the satchels, rustling paper.

His melancholy mood had completely turned into nervous excitement.

"You're even more insane than I am, Viscount. A giant self-propelled mining cart from Reikland to Eagle's Cliff?"

"A train," I nodded.

"A factory for making steel cups… with bullets?"

"A cartridge plant."

"A steel monster that devours trees?"

"A pulp mill."

"And what's this?" he asked, pulling out a carefully wrapped bundle.

"Cheese."

"Cheese? Hm, smells good. A fine plan for the next couple of years, i've always dreamed of trying my hand at cheese making!. What do we start with?"

"Everything. And we don't have a couple of years."

"How long then?"

"Two weeks."

"Absolutely impossible." He shook his head, unwrapping the cheese.