Chương 237: Arc 4 - Chapter 39

Waking in one's own bed was a fine way to wake, Fritz just wished he'd had more time to sleep. Alas, there was an insistent knocking on his door. Thud, thud-thud-thud, thud. An awful rhythm, jarring, one that roused him swiftly.

"Get up, sleepy-skulg! Breakfast!" Bert's voice boomed before his feet padded away with a bounding brevity. Fritz threw off his sheets. Long years of constant wariness had him standing, then scanning the room for any peril in less than a second. When his half-dreaming mind finally caught up to his surroundings, he sighed, deflated, then sheathed Mortal Edge. He'd made a habit of keeping the dagger under his pillow, even when enclosed by the safe walls of his home.

He found he slept more soundly with a blade within reach. And he needed every moment of sleep he could grasp. Yawning, Fritz dressed in his training clothes, durable and rough, and made his way down to the dining hall. He walked quickly and wondered at the strange lightness of his body and the ease of his movement. It was soon obvious why he felt so. He wasn't clad in armour.

While he didn't wear all the heavy plate or mail that a Defender or a melee Striker should, his leathers and breastplate had still been a burden. There was also no one relying on him to lead them; that weight of command that had settled around his shoulders had been lifted, or rather set down for a time. It was good to be free of both it and his need of armour. For now. When Fritz made his entrance to the dining hall, it was to muted joy, bleary smiles and tired, cheerful greetings.

The team didn't question him much, nor did they pry into his Climb. Although they simmered with curiosity, they knew better than to speak of the secret of the Spire, open as it may be at that table. They simply welcomed him back gladly, without fanfare, frenzy or friction. It was exceedingly pleasant, and warmed him more thoroughly than his blankets had. He'd been the last to arrive, so his team were all there, as was Elliot. Apparently, his brother had adopted the same training regimen as the rest.

Amathea and Jess had not; they still slept and would join them for a second breakfast once the team had returned. Which was well enough. They didn't seek to Climb, after all. That was a disappointment, but Jess had a right to choose her path, and Amathea was young; she had a few years until the next Tolling. Still, she should be prepared, both she and Elliot would come of age once the Spires Tolled again, and Fritz wished for them to earn a Path at least. He'd have to speak to her and make his will known.

Fritz sat at the head of the long table and began to pile his plate with battered strips of mana-dense fish, then he forked more than a few red-roast sausages, sweating and steaming spicily, adding them to the growing hill of food.

"Hungry?" Cal asked with a smug smile.

"Starving," Fritz stated.

"You know how it is.

'Convalescing', as it were. Having to subsist on burned beast flesh, barely edible, and the rations that are somehow worse, takes the appetite out of a man. Only now has it come rushing back, as high as the tide at midnight."

"And you still love to hear yourself speak," Elliot said.

"To your own detriment."

"I speak for your benefit, not my own," Fritz protested.

"It must have been a dull, dreary affair to have languished so long without sharp and stirring conversation."

"Hardly," Elliot scoffed.

"Where were you anyway? You speak of foul foodstuffs, were you with your low-born lover down in the districts?" The accusation was voiced blandly, and the face that spoke it was barren of emotion. Still, Fritz could hear the dripping disgust and see the suppressed sneer. He wasn't blind or deaf to his own brother's implications. Indignation burned, and Fritz clenched his jaw. His knuckles whitened as he gripped his fork tightly. He didn't risk speaking, lest he let loose a tirade.

His idiot, fool of a brother, didn't understand. He couldn't, not without certain truths coming to light. Truths Fritz couldn't illuminate himself, nor ones he'd burden Elliot with. No matter how gratifying it might seem in the moment.

"That's not a conversation for the dinner table," Lauren said, precisely setting down her cutlery, frowning slightly and levelling a stare on Elliot.

"Despite our common-born sensibilities, we aren't so low as that sort of speech, thank you." Embers danced dangerously in her eyes, and the young man couldn't meet them.

"My apologies, Ms. Nearshore," he said, his cheeks flushing only slightly, though he was completely cowed and absolutely abashed.

"I accept your apology, Lord Hightide," Lauren said, picking up her knife and fork and resuming her meal.

"You shouldn't be such a prick to Fritz," Rosie piped up, still chewing. Then white flecks of fish were flung from her mouth as she spoke further.

"He's done a lot for you, you know. Got you this nice place, payin' for your food, clothes and learnin'. Fought two bloody duels for it, didn't he? Risked death twice over for you lot. Fritz is a good man, don't be treatin' him like a skulg-scraper." There was a tense silence for only a second.

"How dare you!?" Elliot burst out.

"My family is my business. I will not have a commoner like you comment, nor question my conduct." Rosie shrugged and returned her attention to her breakfast. She shovelled the last of her battered fish into her mouth, drank down a glass of water, then stood, raised her hand in an obscene gesture aimed at Elliot, and turned and walked away. Again, there was a brief, strained silence. One swollen with incredulity. It was broken quickly.

"Did you see that? Are you going to let that commoner insult me like that? To dishonour our House with such vulgarities? I'm a Hightide and due the respect that that deserves," Elliot said, his tone boiling.

"If you have issue with her, take it up with her," Fritz said, keeping a hold on his brittle calm.

"Yeah, challenge her to a duel or something," Bert said.

"That would be a fun watch, wouldn't it, George?" George didn't answer, keeping his eyes on his plate and his thoughts to himself. Then he nodded once.

"A duel? That insolent wench?" Elliot seethed.

"I wouldn't deign to touch her with a gutter-clog pole, let alone my blade."

"Yeah, she's insolent," Cal said, scowling.

"But she's also right. You're being a real prick." He also finished up his meal, stood, bowed shallowly, then left. Affronted, and finding himself beset on all sides by a scornful indifference, Elliot too, excused himself brusquely and departed without another word. Red and white motes roiled in his wake, bristling and burning. The dining returned to silence, but that was fine for Fritz. Though he'd been furious for some moments, he'd mastered it, and his hunger had come back with all its intensity.

He ate, and he nearly groaned when the first smoky sausage burst in his mouth. Then he tried the fish and found its flesh light and delightful, despite the greasy, crisp batter. That did make him groan, which gave Bert cause to mock him.

"Hah, been missing Cal's cooking so much? He'll be glad to hear it."

"Cal cooked this? Truly?" Fritz asked.

"He's improved considerably."

"Yeah, I think he's reached Journeyman in his cooking Technique," Bert provided.

"Or if he's not, he must be close."

"I'll have to congratulate him," Fritz said.

"He's not the only one who's improved," Bert claimed, grinning.

"Most of us have been learning plenty while you've been... sick."

"That's right. It hasn't been dull at all, as you implied earlier. Many things have transpired," Lauren said.

"Matters need be addressed. Now that your 'convalescence' is over, you'll have to manage them properly." Fritz nodded, chewing thoughtfully and attempting to keep down the bitter feeling that welled up from the statement. It felt like an accusation that he'd been remiss in his duties, and it wasn't his fault he'd been absent; he didn't choose to serve the Nightshark.

"There's discord," she continued calmly.

"This house is full of strangers."

"You're not strangers," Fritz said.

"We're a team, we're friends. Aren't we?" She inclined her head, agreeing.

"We are. Though we're still strangers, knowing little of each other, our habits and... eccentricities. And we're all under one roof. Arguments are not common, but they are not rare either. And, well, your sister has struggled. I've done my best. Well, Jess and I have done our best to allay Amathea's doubts and troubles. But we're not her guardians. And we're not her peers. You understand, don't you?" He did. Or he thought he did. Of course there would be conflict. There would be a yawning rift.

One born of disparate stations and his own improper handling of the introductions and the following integration of all of those under his care or command. It was a great frustration. Fritz frowned down on his plate, he was already full, and it was piled too high. He pushed what was left of his breakfast away.

"I understand," he answered.

"Thank you for aiding my sister."

"You're welcome. However, it was no great trouble, she's a delightful young woman," Lauren said, smiling gently.

"When she has cause to be." Fritz nodded.

"However, in your absence, we have incurred some expenses," Lauren explained.

"Expenses?" When she was about to speak, a dishevelled mountain of a man trudged into the dining hall. Sir Needle, slouching from a lack of good sleep and an abundance of drink, grumbled to himself as he made his way to the table. It was the worst state Fritz had ever seen him in. His eyes were sunken, and his hair and beard were more than simply scruffy. It was thin, grey and greasy as the battered fish.

Adam didn't deign to take a seat; he picked up a sausage-laden platter and a jug of water, then turned to leave. The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. He was almost halfway to the door when he stopped, craned his neck and squinted over his shoulder.

"Lord Hightide?" he asked.

"Sir Needle," Fritz replied.

"Welcome back. Did you fare well?" he grunted.

"Well enough."

"No wounds?"

"None."

"Good. Will you be attending training?"

"I will. Will you?" Adam glowered.

"Of course I will. And don't gainsay your tutor or I'll double your regimen." With that, he left.

"Is he well?" Fritz asked the table at large.

"He's as brutal as ever," Bert said jovially. George nodded, then added, "Just as exacting. And still a fine instructor and a skilled swordsman. I've learned much from him, and he helped me find a new Technique."

"He's declining," Lauren said, narrowing her eyes.

"Bit by bit." No one present contradicted her. Although he wanted to, Fritz didn't sigh.

"I'll speak with him. After training. What was this about expenses?"

"That can also wait until training is over," Lauren said.

"No use bothering you with all that now. We can discuss it later."

"Very well," Fritz agreed. Lauren dabbed her lips with a napkin, then rose primly.

"Best prepare yourself, Sir Needle isn't likely to be light on you, despite your obvious weariness. He'll espouse some trite line about death not waiting for you to rest."

"He will," Fritz agreed.

"Though his lessons haven't steered me wrong yet. And he's right. Nothing waits. Epsa turns and Spires Toll."

"Just so."

"Stop being so gloomy so early," Bert said.

"Dawn's almost upon us, and you're back. You're out of that dreadful danger. Cheer up!" Fritz struggled out a smile.

"That's better! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see to my bonded companion. He'll be as hungry as a leviathan. And one day, just as big!" Bert reached over, took what was left on Fritz's plate and poured it into a shallow granite bowl engraved with a glyph that read: Dale. He then nearly leapt out of his chair and bounded away, eager to provide for his snail-beast. Lauren shook her head, and George chuckled. Fritz stood and found that the weight had returned, settling over him heavily like a leaden mantle.

He bore it as he bore all else, with a straight back, a strong stride and a sharp smile.

Training was fraught, but fruitful, and Fritz was relieved to find that he performed adequately. He was well able to keep up with the others, and showed less weakness than he worried he would. While he still wasn't quite at his peak from before his poisoning, he'd recovered much of his stamina and nearly all of his strength. Even Adam, who was poised to pick and prod and point out any poor form, found little to be dissatisfied with. Or at least that had been the case until the personal swordsmanship lessons began.

They sparred, and although Adam had recovered from his sorry state only an hour beforehand, he was quick to notice something off in Fritz's strikes and parries. Something beyond being simply out of practice, something that he himself hadn't detected.

"What did you do?" Adam asked gloomily, sweeping his training rapier into a loop on his belt with a precise, flowing movement.

"I don't know what you mean," Fritz replied honestly, panting and lowering his own blunted blade.

"You're twisting your sword as you deflect and stab," Adam stated.

"Am I?"

"Yes, and it's clashing with the straight, efficient style of the Inevitable Blade," Adam said.

"Can't you feel it? Isn't it jarring? Isn't it wrong?"

"I... I uh... I don't know," Fritz admitted.

"Feels natural to me."

"There's also the feints, they're half-formed and too flashy by two-thirds," he replied disapprovingly.

"No good. And if you haven't noticed this yourself, I have to ask, what did you do? Did you fuse it with another Technique? That Snake's Fangs or whatever it was called?"

"No, no, I didn't," Fritz hedged.

"But?" Adam pressed.

"But Python's Fangs did rise to Journeyman, and grew broader in the scope of weapons it affects," Fritz admitted. Adam dragged one large hand down his face, his eyes scrunched closed. Then he stared hard at Fritz.

"Why did you do that?"

"Why else, I had to fight a foe that Quicksilver was unsuited to cutting," Fritz explained, some of his own frustration heating his tone.

"Then I was 'inspired'." Adam blinked, then, after a moment, asked, "Did you just say you were inspired?" Fritz wanted to ask if the man was deaf as well as drunk, but thought better of it and nodded instead.

"Yes, I 'danced' with a great glass bull, stepping to the songs of Grace and Dus-shadow."

"Huh," Adam said, his features shifting from stern to pensive.

"Intriguing and impressive. I'm envious, boy, not everyone is so easily inspired. Most go their entire lives without such an experience. Still, there's some trouble there."

"What trouble? The twisting?"

"Quite right. I believe your inspiration has influenced your other Techniques," Adam said.

"It's been said to happen."

"And that's trouble?"

"It is if you want to keep the Inevitable Blade and master it further. If it's twisted, it will stagnate, or perhaps fuse with another Technique, the latter of which is more likely, considering that you were inspired." He sighed, running his hand through his beard.

"Though if it feels natural, perhaps you should follow where your instincts are leading you. I've heard of inspiration leading one astray, but never that one should become less powerful for it. The main trouble is that my tutelage wouldn't help you progress whatever new Technique you develop. Well, that's not entirely true; sparring and honing your skill further will still help in that regard.

It would just be slower, and the walls you encounter along the way will have to be broken or climbed by yourself and your own accumulated expertise." Fritz listened intently, then considered what he'd just been told. Dread settled in his stomach. He was loath to lose the Inevitable Blade; he'd worked so hard for it, and it was his and his father's. How could he abandon it? Casting it aside would be like throwing away his House and title, letting his family and name fall into ruin. Unthinkable.

Yet, here he was, thinking about it. It had some appeal, but the steel in him only bent a second before springing solidly into place. He shook his head.

"I won't discard my father's legacy." Adam sighed, then nodded.

"It's your choice, and a safe one at that. Though that means you'll have to be more attentive and fight against those inspired instincts. Just like uprooting a Technique." He drew his sword and raised it.

"Ready?"

"Ready." The rest of his lesson didn't go as well as he'd hoped. Fritz found great difficulty in forgetting those insights he'd glimpsed and gleaned while he had embraced the beautiful battle dance. He soon realised he had to smother the sound of Dusksong, ignore its cruelly melancholy tones and listen only to his Grace and his tutor's barked corrections to make any progress. It was slower and harder than he'd feared, and far more infuriating. For both of them.

Eventually, Adam grew irritated at the constant mistakes, and instead spent some time teaching Elliot and George, leaving Fritz to practice on his own for a time. He spent most of that attempting to refine the Inevitable Blade, remove all that cursed inspiration had added. After half an hour of failure, he relented, giving up for the day and returning to his estate with Elliot and George. It was something of a long walk, but it gave him plenty of time to ruminate and plan. After a shower, he had a second breakfast.

This one was attended by Amathea and Jess, and this time they were served by the maids and servants. He was received with far more fervour and fawning this time, which he basked in for some minutes. Both his sister and Jess were delighted to see him back, as was Cassandra. Their eyes shone, and they nearly wept. Though it wasn't truly proper, not in front of the servants, he swept Amathea into a hug and held her tight, before planting a kiss on her cheek and setting her down.

Then he sat at his rightful place and ate in a dignified manner while the table chatted amongst themselves politely. The fare was mostly the same, though there was the addition of some golden-brown squid pies and a few bowls filled with mana-dense fruits. When Fritz was sated a second time, he retired to a room he had claimed as his study. It had a window overlooking the garden and was sparsely furnished with a desk, a few chairs and a bookshelf.

Not all was as he had left it; there on the polished wood of the desk was a stack of letters. Nine, he quickly counted. All likely addressed to Lord Francis Hightide, as the top envelope declared in dark glyphs. He couldn't help but sigh. Fritz sat at the desk, then began to sort through the letters. Most were nuisances, invitations to banquets and balls, while some were offers from exclusive clubs willing to allow him a chance at joining their vaunted ranks. He cursed the letters and their senders.

The nobility were frivolous, and he had no desire to cater to their expectations of carousal or cordial company. Not with those sly sycophants and pompous posturers. He was far too busy for that; such malignant mingling and merry-making was a waste of his too precious time, so he set those letters aside for now, though he did note the seals emblazoned upon them. Fritz didn't recognise them all, but they seemed to be from Minor Houses. No one important.

The same could not be said of two of the envelopes, one with the orange seal of Noonsea and another with the silver of Wavereach. Both desired to meet with him at his earliest convenience. Count Wavereach's message was a patient plea, an inquiry as to an eventual Climb of the Rain Spire, while Lady Noonsea's lamented Fritz's condition and wished him good health in the future, if only so her daughter wouldn't have to worry about her betrothed. His stomach fell at that.

Was it then that Lady Noonsea would call in his debt in the form of marriage? What would Sylvia think of that? Would she understand the necessity of honouring his word and oaths? Would she be willing to remain his lover in secret? Or would he lose her? With another long sigh, as weary as the moan of an ancient ghost, he pulled out a quill, ink and paper from a drawer and made to write some replies.

Before he'd even started, he stopped, the dark nib hovering above the fine white of the paper, realising he had no idea how to respond. Or rather, didn't know the best way to respond. A way to serve him and his House most effectively. And perhaps a way to forestall any nuptials. He set the quill down, then leaned back, staring at the roof, thinking, scheming. There came a knock at the door.

"Enter," Fritz allowed, glad to have his circling thoughts interrupted. The runner, Mr. Walker, opened the door and called out in a clear voice.

"A parcel has arrived for you, Lord." He held a box wrapped in waxcloth.

"Shall I set it down on the desk for you, Lord?"

"Yes," Fritz said, waving one hand dismissively. The box was placed, then the man bowed low and left swiftly. Fritz carefully removed the wrapping and opened the box, peering within. There was the Pouch of Many Stones. He was glad to have it back, even if it was bereft of all the gems he'd stored within it. He Activated it to check its contents, just in case the fence had missed something. Alas, the man was thorough.

While the pouch's portal was still open, he attempted to test the limits of what he could place inside the strange space. He tried gold triads, but found they were rejected; silver and copper were the same. He wondered why the Know-note he had used said that ingots could be stored within. Why then not coinage, they were but thinner ingots. He shook his head. Magic was strange; it worked how it worked, and the why was unimportant for now.

The return of the Pouch of Many Stones and the notion of Know-notes reminded Fritz he had something he wanted to identify. A brooch acquired from a certain spy he'd caught lurking. And that thought had him remember that he had to treat with Duke Whiteship, perhaps negotiate a truce with the prick with the Treasure sword he still held hostage. There could even be some gold to be had if he bargained well. There was another knock at the door.

"Enter," Fritz said, hiding his exasperation. The door opened, and sure feet on hard sandals stepped into the room. Lauren closed the door behind her. Fritz sighed; he'd nearly forgotten about agreeing to speak with her.

"Are you overtaxed?" she asked.

"If so, I will take my leave; the matters of the estate aren't so pressing as to require your attention this very moment. Though they are very important."

"We can speak now," Fritz said, resigned to his fate of dull documents and drudgery.

"Though I thought I left the management of the Team and its funds to Jess, and you wanted no part in ledgers and bookkeeping." Lauren took the seat in front of him, leaning back and crossing one fine leg over another, then gave him a slightly bashful smile.

"I have found that I don't enjoy keeping the ledgers tidy when doing so alone. When I have a partner, well, it's actually quite pleasant." Fritz raised one eyebrow.

"It's about the company, then? And what if it weren't the lovely Jess you were aiding?" She shrugged, idly scanning her well-kept nails for any chips or blemishes.

"Who knows? I will admit that Jess is particularly good company and a good... friend. Most of the time. Though that's not to say that I couldn't aid another. Still, that's not what I'm here to speak on."

"No, it was expenses, was it not?"

"It was. That and income, Treasures and the sale of our silks and monster materials."

"Well, where do we begin?"

"We'll begin when Jess arrives with the ledgers."

"Oh," Fritz said.

"We're going that in depth?"

"Best to get this all out of the way. You want to have your will be known for the next time you're...

'convalescent'," Lauren stated. Fritz couldn't disagree, so sighed instead, looking down at all the letters and the papers he still had to write his own messages upon. Lauren smiled in commiseration.

"Piles up quickly, doesn't it? Invitations? Challenges?" Fritz nodded.

"Invitations, mostly, but a few important matters too."

"May I make a suggestion?"

"You may."

"You needn't shoulder all that yourself," she said, waving at the envelopes.

"Have your sister or your brother respond and attend in your stead."

"They're addressed to me, won't that go amiss if they take my place?" Fritz asked.

"They're addressed to you, but they're for House Hightide," she stated.

"And more will go amiss if you ignore them. They'll think it's insulting, like you're snubbing them. Which you would be." Fritz nodded. It made sense. He'd been too long out of high society, or any kind of society at all if you didn't count the gangs. Which he didn't. He'd forgotten much of what he had been taught by his mother and father. He had put all those notions about the honour of his House and the dreadful importance of reputation amongst the nobles.

It was returning now, though, and he furrowed his brow, his worry mounting further. The weight grew heavier.

"Would they be up to it?" he asked, mostly to himself.

"Elliot... maybe," Lauren hedged, then smiled.

"Thea, though, would thrive."

"Thea?" Fritz asked.

"Become quite close, have we? Do I need to worry about your intentions for my sister?"

"Fritz, no," she said seriously, frowning, her irises edged with fiery rings.

"She's just a girl."

"My apologies," Fritz said, then sighed. He'd been doing a lot of that.

"Forgiven," she said, the heat leaving her gaze, though her mood remained irritated. They sat for some minutes in quiet, waiting. Lauren's foot tapped impatiently. Fritz used the time to draft a letter to Duke Whiteship, requesting an audience, then moved on to some cordial responses to Lady Noonsea and Count Wavereach, respectively, agreeing to meet. He'd have Jess revise them before he sent them out. There was a knock at the door, and Jess requested entry.

"Come in," Fritz said. She did, carrying a number of heavy books under her arm. Her auburn braid swayed as she approached the desk, then set the leather-bound tomes down with a thud. Jess smiled proudly, as if displaying a portrait she herself had painted.

"Here, all up to date and thrice checked." Fritz smiled back, finding himself intrigued by what figures he'd find in the books. While the vault and all its contents were known to him, he didn't know exactly how wealthy he was. Soon he would.

"Good, now let's talk expenses," Lauren said.

"As I said, you've incurred a few."

"Alright, I'm ready. What expenses have I incurred?"