Chapter 48
Jeremias von Bickenstad was the first to approach.
— Jurgen, my friend, you... hic!
He attempted to speak coherently, but the alcohol he had consumed earlier made it a difficult task.
— I am quite... — von Bickenstad trailed off, swaying from side to side like a sapling in a gale.
The Magister of the Jade Order placed a hand on his shoulder. I noticed a soft, greenish radiance bleeding from the wizard's palm. Von Bickenstad's gaze cleared slightly. It seemed the mage was using his healing arts to partially counteract the effects of the playwright's intoxication.
— Forgive me, Maître Bickenstad... — Gerard said politely. — ...we require a few words with Jurgen. After that, you may converse as much as you please.
— Yes, very well, — the playwright replied, his mind notably sharper. — Jurgen, I must escort you to the upper hall. There are several highly esteemed personages who long to behold the hero of my eloquent tales. I am certain you shall wake up famous tomorrow.
— A few minutes, Herr Bickenstad, — Gerard reminded him firmly.
— Ah, yes, of course.
Lietpold had been studying the wizards intently all this time.
— Are you the sorcerers who survived Pfeildorf? — he asked.
— I prefer to be called a Magister or a wizard, but certainly not a sorcerer, — Gerard replied coolly. — And with whom do I have the honor of speaking?
Lietpold introduced himself, immediately drawing von Bickenstad's attention away.
— Wait... The Lietpold? The Butcher of the Border Princes? Lietpold, bought for a coin?!
The mercenary took these "titles" in stride, almost as if they were compliments, though he felt the need to clarify:
— Bought for a coin? Ha! The rumors are only half-true. There was considerably more than one coin involved.
— Jeremias von Bickenstad. Playwright. If you wish to personally regale me with your grand achievements, then...
— Let's go, — the mercenary interrupted. — I'm not against chatting about grand achievements. I wouldn't mind being the hero or the villain in some play. One can never have too much fame.
Thus, I was left on the balcony with Gerard and Hel. The Magister of the Jade Order looked at me calmly. The sullen shamaness stared off into the distance.
— To what do I owe this honor? — I inquired.
— I shall go find some wine, — Gerard announced with an air of composure and, turning his back to us, strode away.
I was left one-on-one with the shamaness. An awkward silence fell, save for the clamor of voices drifting from the hall. The girl continued to look away.
— If you are planning to try and shove me off the balcony, I'm warning you, I will resist, — I said.
A pair of green eyes fixed on me, a flash of anger sparking within them for a moment.
— I am not, — she replied in a disgruntled tone.
— What are you planning then? To bite me like you did during our first meeting?
The shamaness gave me an even more venomous look, a flush appearing on her cheeks.
— I wasn't going to, but you clearly want me to, given how you're pushing it, — Hel replied. — How old are you even?
— Old enough.
— Do you think you're very clever?
— There have been some indications of that.
Awkward silence reigned again for about ten seconds. Finally, I decided to break it myself, asking as calmly as possible:
— Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?
— I didn't want to, but I have to, — the girl sighed, presumably gathering her thoughts, before stating decisively: — I've changed my mind about complaining about you. I wanted to, but I spoke with Gerard. My mentor could not have been saved.
Aha. I think I understood. This was a sort of apology without an actual apology. Fine by me. I didn't need a conflict with this foolish girl anyway, so I said in a conciliatory tone:
— It's fine. She was someone dear to you. You were just overcome by emotion.
— I was, but I'm not supposed to be! You don't understand...
Oh, surely, how could I—the chosen one, the reincarnated one with knowledge of the future—possibly understand the depths of the drama of a young maiden of the woods.
— Don't blame yourself, Helana. Blame the heretics and the Ruinous Powers of Chaos. That is what most of the Empire's population does. It helps them.
— Perhaps you are right, — the shamaness replied, missing the slight edge of sarcasm in my voice.
— How is it up there in the upper hall? — I asked, shifting the conversation to a more positive topic.
— Boring, noisy. You'll see for yourself soon enough. That drunk man really wants to drag you up there.
— Von Bickenstad? He's amusing.
— More like repulsive. Gerard has tried to sober him up with magic several times already, but he just keeps drinking and drinking.
It seemed Helana was in the mood to talk. I could make use of that. For the next few minutes, I "warmed her up," chatting in a most friendly manner about trivial subjects before finally asking the question that truly interested me:
— There are so many priests of Morr at this ball. Did someone die?
— No. It's because of the prophecy.
— Prophecy?
— Oops! I shouldn't have said that... — the girl checked herself.
— What prophecy? Are we in some kind of danger again?
I didn't really expect an answer, but I had underestimated the talkativeness of the young shamaness.
— It's not a danger. It's a strange matter. I wasn't supposed to speak of it. Oh, whatever. I'll tell you. But no one else. Promise?
— Mute as a fish. Mute as a grave. Mute as a whole burial ground of fish.
The girl gave a slight smirk and began to speak in a half-whisper:
— They weren't going to tell me, but Gerard and his alchemist friend don't realize how sharp the hearing of one raised in the forest can be. The prognosticators of the Celestial College sent a prophecy here. Something about the invasion of this Tamurkhan's army.
— I see. But what does that have to do with the ball and the priests of Morr?
— Let me finish! — the shamaness snapped. — The prophecy didn't come true quite right. We were all predicted to die at Pfeildorf.
— But we are all very much alive.
— Yes. And Elspeth von Draken is trying to find out why. That's what the ball is for. She wants to observe the survivors. All those women with the drinks.
— The prostitutes?
— Yes... — Hel blushed again. — But they weren't just let in here for fun. They're supposed to listen for rumors. Talk to the soldiers. The priests of Morr are watching too. Trying to find clues.
— Wait... Isn't it a good thing that we survived? Why look for clues?
— It is good, — the young shamaness agreed. — But if the prophecy didn't come true, it means someone interfered. Someone with the gift of foresight. Maybe they are on our side, or maybe not.
A prophecy, then? Dammit. This entire event was organized in an attempt to track me down. Me and my spectral toad. What would they do to us if they found us? They weren't likely to hand out a medal. At best, they would study me and perhaps offer a partnership. At worst...
I recalled my rendezvous with Herr Waldemar. I certainly didn't need another interpersonal experience like that. It was better to be cautious and remain hidden for now.
Just then, I caught a glimpse of Herr Bickenstad actively conversing with Lietpold the Black. The playwright could blow my cover. If he whispered all my epic deeds into the ears of important personages tonight, it would surely attract unwanted attention. I had to carefully neutralize that possibility.
To avoid suspicion, I talked with Hel for a little while longer, simultaneously devising a plan and observing the scene in the hall.
— It's strange that such a warrior fell into the hands of Beastmen, — Hel remarked in response to my tale of meeting Liandra. — And even stranger that they didn't tear her head off immediately.
— Are the spawn of Chaos known for their predictability? Perhaps they wanted to keep her for some ritual.
— Well, yes. I suppose. Why did you shave off all your hair? — the girl reached out, running her fingers over my bald head, where a short buzz-cut was just beginning to grow back.
— To make it easier to wash and to avoid lice.
— Lice? You should have told me. I can easily ward off any insects.
"Told me"? It felt as though she had completely forgotten her previous attitude toward me.
— Well, alright. I'll ask next time. Shall we go get a drink?
— A drink? No! — the shamaness protested initially, then added: — Well, maybe a little wine.
— Just a little, — I agreed. — Come on.
In truth, my main objective now was to eliminate the danger named von Bickenstad. A plan had already formed in my currently bald, lice-free head.
First, I headed to Magg's table. There, a clash of wills and livers was unfolding between representatives of two of the most worthy races of my new world. In the left corner of the ring—or rather, on the far side of the table—was Magg Gut-thunder, the Maneater. Facing off against him was the red-bearded Dwarf that Lietpold had brought along.
— Now, let's do two in a row, bottom's up, — the Dwarf suggested.
— Two of these thimbles? — Magg chuckled. — Let's make it four!
I approached the ogre's table, where the alcoholic carnage was taking place. The Dwarf's cheeks were crimson, and his forehead was slick with sweat. He appeared to have met a worthy drinking opponent. Magg, however, was also quite far gone. In truth, it was the first time I had seen him this drunk. The ogre was breathing heavily, hitting everyone nearby with waves of "aromatic" warm wind. His face was flushed, and his scars now stood out as pale patches.
I had already noticed they weren't swilling wine, beer, or ordinary ale. The Dwarf had brought three small kegs of some homebrew concoction. As I got closer, the red-bearded drunkard grabbed my wrist with surprising speed. I tried to yank my arm away, but couldn't. The red-beard turned out to be stronger than the Dwarf I had recently arm-wrestled. Plus, I was without any blood buffs.
— Come, have a drink with us, umgi... — the Dwarf rumbled, his eyes appearing to look in different directions.
Before I could reply, Magg slammed the table so hard all the mugs jumped, and the surrounding soldiers turned toward us.
— Don't touch tha' skinny-one! — the ogre declared fiercely. — Jur is my skinny-one!
— Let him go! — Hel's voice rang out from somewhere behind me.
— It's fine, — I hurried to say. — I'd be happy to drink with you, but in return, I ask that you also pour one for my friend.
— Pour one? — the Dwarf repeated, letting go of my arm. — We can do that. Call your friend over.
And I called him.
— Herr Bickenstad! Herr Bickenstad, you promised to have a drink with me.
The half-drunk playwright looked away from his conversation with Lietpold. He waved to me and headed for our table.
— It's time you tried something stronger than the dishwater you somehow call beer, — the Dwarf chuckled, generously filling two mugs with his brew. — Bottoms up!
Von Bickenstad took one of the mugs, raising it in a toast:
— To all we have endured! КTo our miraculous salvation, incredible adventures, and gripping battles! May the cursed barbarian Tamurkhan fall beneath the walls of glorious Nuln. May time and drink banish from human souls all the vile and terrifying images of the encroaching evil, turning these memories into...
— Just drink it already, troll take you! — the Dwarf interrupted von Bickenstad's flow of eloquence.
I downed the contents of my mug. Merciful gods! It felt as though liquid fire had been poured down my throat. In my home world, I had tried many different strong spirits. Whiskey, rum, gin, tequila, and of course, vodka. But this Dwarven sludge was comparable only to absinthe. At first, my body wanted to reject the potion. It was only through sheer force of will that I made myself swallow it. It was difficult, and I have much to compare it to. I have, after all, been hit by a Hellcannon. That wasn't a particularly comfortable feeling either.
Von Bickenstad initially coughed, then finally managed to finish the mug. I managed to finish mine as well. Surprisingly, after the first two gulps, the brew went down much easier, and after the third, it almost seemed pleasant.
What kind of magic was this? Should I look for Dwarven runes on the keg or the mugs?
I felt lightheaded. My body began to experience flashbacks of ten years ago, when I was just starting to party seriously. My head spun.
— Your species is already not endowed with a sufficiently perfect intellect. Why further use intoxicating potions to dull it? — Loom-Pia addressed me.
— Quiet, Pepe. I am in the middle of a secret operation. I need to get the playwright drunk until he passes out.
Von Bickenstad was swaying from side to side, and then he suddenly let out a thunderous sneeze.
— Gods! — Hel actually jumped. — Taal's horns, what are you doing to yourselves?
— Not bad for an umgi, — the Dwarf judged. — Well, are you up for another round?
— P-probably... — the playwright muttered, frowning and staring into the distance. — I need some air first...
— No, no, no, — I countered, handing von Bickenstad a freshly filled mug. — Now it's my turn for a toast. You won't refuse me, will you, Herr Bickenstad?
— Yes... Alright... but then I need a little...
— To us, to the Empire, to Sigmar! — I blurted out quickly, immediately tossing back the new serving.
Von Bickenstad also began to pour the brew into himself, but then he coughed and tried to stop. I didn't let him. Having finished my own mug, I jumped up and, grabbing the playwright by the arms, literally poured the rest of the drink into him.
— Bottoms up, Herr Bickenstad! For Sigmar, only bottoms up!
After several loud hiccups, the playwright finally managed the alcohol. Or rather, the alcohol managed him. His legs were now tangling, and his tongue was too.
— I... need... air...
A wild thought flashed through my mind: if I were to "drop" von Bickenstad off the balcony now, it's unlikely anyone would bring charges against me. It would be the surest way to silence the chatterbox once and for all. However, I wouldn't do that. I didn't want to tip off the wizards, but cold-bloodedly murdering a man who was quite friendly toward me? No.
In a world full of enemies and monsters, good or even just normal people are in desperately short supply. So let von Bickenstad live, until he destroys his own liver. Today and in the coming days, he wouldn't be able to expose me, and later, hopefully, the battle itself would happen, after which I would head for Ulthuan.
— I ne... ed... hic! — emitting a stifled sound, von Bickenstad tilted and collapsed under the table.
— Idiot! — Hel spat. — I'm going to call Gerard so he can...
— Don't, — I chuckled, stopping the shamaness by her shoulder as she tried to leave. — Let Maître Bickenstad rest.
— Fine, — the girl said huffily. — It's his own fault. Let him lie there.
— One down, — the Dwarf said with undisguised satisfaction. — What about the second? Want more, umgi? This one's on the house!
— My thanks, but I'd still like to remain conscious for a while, — I replied, scanning for Liandra.
The Elf was not nearby. She was found by the stairs to the upper hall. There, the long-eared one stood talking with two others of her kind: a fair-haired man in white-and-turquoise robes and a woman of remarkable beauty with slightly curling dark locks. Interesting.
For the next ten minutes, I talked with Hel, thinking of how to politely get away from her while simultaneously fighting off the drunkenness. Well, "fighting" in the sense of trying not to wobble too much or get too touchy. Though the desire to hug the girl or invite her to dance flared in my mind occasionally, it was vital to see Liandra one-on-one.
Finally, Gerard came down from the upper hall again, calling the shamaness to the company of the other wizards. Now I could meet with Liandra on the balcony in peace. Soon, we managed to do just that.
— Who are those two? — I asked, trying not to slur my words too much.
— They are wine and spice merchants. Sailors who occasionally visit Nuln on business. In a short while, they will return to Marienburg and then set sail for Ulthuan. We can join them. I've made arrangements. It's preliminary for now, but there is a chance for their aid.
— G-good, — I replied, nearly losing my balance.
— Why did you drink that Dwarven swill?
— It was necessary... I'll explain in a moment.
I relayed the information I had managed to extract from Helana. The prophecy, the wizards, the Morrists, the search for the one who changed the flow of fate.
— So I decided to get von Bickenstad hammered... for the sake of secrecy!
— This is bad, Gil. This is very bad, — the Elf said. — Human wizards are ignorant and dangerous. You are chosen, Gil. Unique. Those like them cannot be trusted with the world's hope for salvation. We must leave for Ulthuan immediately.
— No, Liandra. We agreed on something else. First Tamurkhan, then Ulthuan. Don't you see? It's starting to work! I'm starting to succeed! I am changing the fate of men. I am preventing the fragile threads of their lives from being cut. For now, it's just individuals, but the more they accumulate, the more the overall tapestry of fate ordained for this world will change. I am managing, Liandra. I have a chance.