Born a Monster

Chapter 99

Eastward

When I returned to Narrow Valley, Rakkal confirmed that I was, in fact, to be our diplomat to the Southern Isles, and all kingdoms, queendoms, tribes, clans, pirate gangs, and anything else that there was to be diplomatic with.

“We’re constructing a port along the coast, not far from where I was born.” He said. “It will take us months to build, so I’d like you to travel to the Furdian coast, and commission a ship from there.”

“I don’t understand. Am I being exiled?”

“No, no. What makes you think that?”

.....

“It seems to me that a lot of our diplomats never return from this assignment.”

“Yes, and your unique ability to survive will help change that. Besides, I remember who brought back secrets when an alliance failed.”

“Wait, so my reward for almost getting executed is a job where I’ll be risking my life on a daily basis?”

“Exciting, is it not?”

“This is a terrible reward system!”

“Does life offer any other?”

I sighed. “What are quest points used for?”

Rakkal pulled his axe out, held it in front of his face. “Help files – quest points.” His eyes lost focus.

Help files? Did my System have that?

[Functionality is locked. Unlock cost is 100 development points. Focus on this message to unlock help files.]

Just to be perverse, I focused on the message.

[Unlock failed, you only have 2/100 development points.]

I didn’t have long to wait. “They unlock quest benefits, special feats, classes, and such that are unlocked only by quests.”

“I see Oathsworn and Servant of the Divine.” I said. “But they didn’t show up until just now.”

“I am not delaying my empire to satisfy your lack of understanding of your own System.”

“I don’t ask that, big brother. This is a task you believe only I can perform?”

“It’s one I need someone I can trust to do. Harkulet has a half dozen weasels he says can do the job. Two of them will be sent with you.”

“Harkulet could have mentioned this a week ago when I was in Montu’s Glory.”

“When have you known Harkulet to act in such a non-Harkulet manner?”

“I don’t see why you need him, big brother.”

“Harkulet has skills, and so long as he has the illusion of power, he’s willing to use them for the benefit of the Red Tide.”

“After your red axe?”

“Do I have another axe?”

“I notice that Harkulet’s skin is red, big brother, as are many of the people in the land he comes from, across the Daggers.”

He slapped his hip and broke out laughing. “Across an impassable mountain range. Or three week’s travel to go around them. Let them dream of taking my throne. I have the axe, what do they have that can match it?”

“I will point out they had the resources to confine a powerful spirit and a hero for a prolonged period of time.”

“Requiring only a day to free them both. It sounds to me like someone was lazy with regards to imprisoning them.”

That, and they had lousy security... or did they?

But I couldn’t think of how us having their industrial technology helped them, so I gave up on that.

#

“Cosimo...”

“You’ve just cost me a silver, you know. Come in.”

I came inside, the familiar ward tingling less than I recalled.

“If you’ll wait in the gray room, please.”

“Of course.”

I pulled the small chest from inventory, and pulled gold coins from it. Three per month, for two years, was twelve piles of six coins each. The festival weeks constituted another pile.

The irony of the count was not lost on me.

Reynald moved like an ancient, a broken man. There were more white hairs among those on his head, but he hardly looked ...

He hardly looked human anymore, of any age.

Without preamble, he put the contract on the table. “Sign it and begone.” He swept the coins into one hand with the other.

Don’t ask me how all those coins fit; I can only guess some of them went into his System.

Two year contract, danger pay... how had they known?

An impossibly heavy canvas bag slammed into the side of my head.

“You were supposed to catch that.” Kismet said.

“How?”

“I’m available. You need me. It’s called fate.”

I lay there, on the floor. It was my turn to wonder if my neck was broken.

“Bags don’t carry themselves.” She said.

Huh? What? How?

Contracts don’t sign themselves. I dipped quill to ink, and signed my name.

“It’s a signature, not a framed piece of art.” She told me.

“You are worth the extra bit of effort. I thought you were a contracted servant to the Fairfields?”

“Difference of opinion. Got fired. And... not ... quite... signed to a new one.”

“When did this happen?”

“You don’t know?”

“I had no clue you were available.” I said.

She smacked me in the eye. “Friends care about each other.”

“Which doesn’t mean they spy on each other.”

“I’ve seen your spies.”

“They’re not my spies.”

“Uhwa? Whose spies are they?”

“I have no clue.”

I finished the last letter of my name, and hefted a bag that felt like she was carrying all of her friends in it. “Meal to celebrate?”

“You’re paying.” She actually tried to skip with that bag on her shoulder. “You saw nothing.”

“Truthspeaker.”

“Help me up so I can smack you in the other eye.”

“I’ll help you up so we can eat breakfast.”

Living among aristocracy had given her rich tastes in food, but she ate as though she hadn’t in days, and it wasn’t as though money was tight ... yet.

Between us, we had five meals. She got her half in.

“How could you let me eat so much?”

“You seemed to need it.”

“Mnm, so much less stress.” She yawned. “I could sleep for a week.”

.....

“You could sleep for a day, our cart will be ready at dusk.”

She wasn’t joking; she slept in her room, while I dozed outside her door.

Just in case.

#

She woke well before dusk, and there was shopping involved.

Dinner was a more modest affair than breakfast, and then we got to meet our cart animals, Whitesocks and Diamond. Neither was sentient, but both nibbled on vegetables when Kismet provided them.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking the reins. You can ride crossbow.”

“We haven’t checked our cargo yet.”

Mostly, it was food for the animals, but everything on the list was there.

“Okay, it looks good.”

She released the brake, and made a clicking noise with her mouth.

I suppose I am envious of how readily animals like Kismet. Whatever, most of them weren’t trying to eat me anymore. That was progress.

We also met Narces, an uruk Archer, and Gamilla, a hobgoblin who only told us she was a stealth class. They rode in the cart behind us, except when they let their animals sprint, then we’d spend the rest of the day behind them.

Once we were clear of the gate, “So, what’s it like, working for team bad guys?”

“I don’t think team humans is especially good guys.”

“They’re better than hobgoblins.”

Nastyman had been a hobgoblin, if memory served.

“I won’t argue that Narrow Valley is a better place to live than the villages. More amenities, at least.”

“You’re being a boy, and missing the point entirely.”

A day south of Whitehill, the temporary healing camp was already assembling huts.

“See? A plain perfect for farming, and they’re just using it for housing.”

I pointed off to the left. “I notice they are pulling up stumps of the trees they cut down, at least.”

“I don’t see them planting new seeds.”

“Okay, stop the cart. I’ll get them to do that.”

She laughed. “Oh, the delusions. No, let’s just keep going.”

Some of the uruk waved as we passed; it would have been rude not to wave back.

“Rhishi? Do you have friends here?”

“I have people who fought in the same battles here. Nobody to threaten your status as my friend.”

She sighed, tension visibly leaving her. “Nice to hear, but not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

She smiled at me. “So tomorrow, we’re stopping for baths?”

Baths. In Whitehill. Without armor. “I think we have time for baths. It’s a long way to Furdia.”

We stopped by a certain bakery before leaving Whitehill. Kismet had pastries with double icing, and I got to go next door and learn Oriestes-son wasn’t in.

And the next two weeks, we skirted the edge of the Yellow Desert. We stopped at the River Bob, named after Bob the Axe, and started travelling in the day.

You’d think there would be bandits or ghouls or wild scorpion-men, but it was largely boring except for the need to ration water.

“Oh gods, is that a farm? Do you think we could buy a bath from them?”

It was a farm, and they did speak Furdish, and the nearest inn was half a day’s travel away. We stopped for an entire day there. My bath was a two-hour soak, and I wasn’t even the longest bather.

#

I tried to recommend a detour through Gustavian’s town, but the others were having none of that. So I scribbled out a quick letter, and hired a courier to deliver it.

I did eventually receive a response, but that falls outside the frame of this story.

“It’s like a cornucopia of species.” Kismet said.

Well, it was. Furdia may have had terrible taxes, but they were very cosmopolitan. Nikkertiri rodent people argued prices with pale-skinned Nordic humans. A drunken band of men and women insisted that Kismet sing for them (she didn’t, we kept on driving).

There was a bustle, a sense of vitality, to the towns of Furdia. Or a sense of urgency, a lack of patience. Take your pick, both are true.

And then, we laid eyes on Lewardsport, their capitol. Properly speaking, this was the first city I had seen.

It was massive, divided by walls into sections, and the outer wall was...

The outer wall was a work of art, crisscrossed by a triple set of wards in blue, pink, and yellow, strong enough that they glowed during the day.

It was over a hundred feet high, with ramparts that stuck out... well, a lot. I never did get to measure them.

I was surprised to learn that the Red Tide had an embassy in Lewardsport. I was less surprised to find it manned by staff and awaiting their ambassador.

“We were told to expect a hobgoblin named Solwyn.” The head maid told me. “Do you know when she’s coming?”

“I’m surprised they chose Solwyn for this post.”

So much for her value to Hortiluk. Or did Hortiluk have an interest in the diplomacy between the Red Tide and Furdia?

Hrm.

“Perhaps... Are you authorized to represent your government until her arrival?”

“I am not, but I can answer basic questions.”

THIS IS THE WRONG RESPONSE.

I spent the next two weeks buried in appointments, pestered by petty bureaucrats, and filling out all manner of forms.

“My hands are cramping up from all the paperwork.” I told Kismet, who had adapted almost flawlessly to the role of advocate or attaché.

“You should consider writing your autobiography.”

“Ugh. It will read like some manner of wish-fulfilment story, laced through with improbably lucky plot elements and other such literary drivel.”

“Life is messy, you should write it anyway.”

Well, no, but I did end up writing parts and leaving others to dictation and then just writing filler to tie all the events together.

So. Much. Talking.

But eventually, we got notification that our vessel, the Wanton Sharkbite, had arrived and was making preparations to take us southward, to the next phase of our journey.

Kismet bought us matching tricorn hats with feathers from the same bird.

#