Chapter 93: The Rising Tide

At the break of dawn, Buma climbed out of bed. She changed into a coarse white linen maid’s dress, tied on a pale blue apron, and fetched a basin of water to wash herself thoroughly, paying special attention to scrubbing her hair with a damp towel. She wrapped her long hair in a blue kerchief and stood before a full-length bronze mirror, inspecting herself carefully, a hint of satisfaction curving her lips.

The fabric was rough, yet she felt invigorated wearing it, and Buma was quite fond of the attire. Every maid at the Goat Inn had two sets of such clothing; Mr. John, the innkeeper, called them uniforms.

Only six days ago had Buma become a maid at the Goat Inn. As a mother of two, she had to work hard. Business at the inn was excellent, not because of young, alluring waitresses, but thanks to the two upturned-nosed chefs. Their dishes were exquisite and delicious, and the coarse sugar bread here was especially popular. As a result, Mr. John paid generously, and there was no shortage of people eager to work there. If she hadn’t run into an acquaintance, Buma would not have had the chance to get this job.

Buma picked up a bucket of water, preparing to give the gleaming tables and chairs in the main hall a thorough cleaning. When she entered, three other maids were already at work. Buma blushed slightly; she had thought herself early, but she was still behind.

She rolled up her sleeves, ready to begin, when Mr. John called out to her.

“Buma, you don’t have to work today. You can go home and check on your children.”

Buma’s face turned ashen, tears welling in her eyes as she pleaded, “Please, Mr. John, for Ina’s sake, don’t fire me. I promise I’ll wake up earlier next time.”

She was terrified—she liked this job, and despite only having a cramped room under the stairs to live in, it was a hundred times better than the freeman shanties.

Old John patted his forehead and explained, “You’re not being dismissed. You’re new here, so you don’t know the rules yet. At the Goat Inn, after six days of work, you get a day off. On your rest day, you can tend to personal matters—visit your children, see relatives. Don’t worry, you can return to work as usual tomorrow.”

Relief washed over Buma, and she stammered, “Mr. John, may I keep my little room under the stairs?”

“As you wish,” Old John shrugged indifferently.

With a basket in hand, Buma set off for the freemen’s slums, where her husband and children still lived. In her basket were two loaves of coarse sugar bread, each as thick as her calf and half a meter long—gifts from Mr. John, who called it a benefit. Buma didn’t know exactly what a benefit was, but she knew her children would love it. The thought brought a smile to her lips, but the memory of her lazy, good-for-nothing husband quickly clouded her face.

Her current husband was her second; she had lost her first during the migration. For survival, Buma settled with her current partner. They had lived in Blackfort Town for three years. Anyone willing to work hard could find a living here, but her husband was shiftless, living off the church’s charity. Worse, he not only refused to support Buma and her children, but also snatched food from the children—who were Buma’s by her first husband.

To feed her children, Buma once worked the fields for Radishhead, but as a woman, she was only paid half wages. When the Goat Inn was hiring, Buma decided to try her luck. Fortunately, she ran into Ina, a fellow villager. Ina told Buma she was in Blackfort Town accompanying her husband on a supply run; her current husband had several acres of land and was a vassal of the local lord, with close ties to the innkeeper. With Ina’s help, Buma was hired by the inn—meals, lodging, and sixty copper sols a month.

Blackfort’s slums still reeked, but had improved: the muddy roads were now paved with gravel, and public order was less chaotic; at least, one could carry two loaves of bread without fear of being robbed.

All of this, Buma believed, was thanks to Sir Claude the Paladin. Yet in the shadows, many eyes watched her, restrained only by the blue-and-white maid’s dress she wore. Lord Monkey had decreed: anyone who dared touch the Goat Inn’s people would be buried in a pit.

Seeing the low, narrow shack ahead, Buma felt a mixture of dread and disgust. She had once wanted to bring both children with her, but her husband claimed that working with children in tow would get her fired. After much deliberation, Buma left the children in his care. But at the Goat Inn she discovered that other maids kept their children with them, and Mr. John never objected.

In fact, the veteran mercenaries seemed to prefer having children around. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes unwittingly, they even taught the children basic martial skills, and the older ones could find work at the nearby general store. Scatter a few seeds—who could tell what would sprout?

Buma drew a deep breath and walked toward the shack. She had made up her mind: even if she was beaten, she would take her children away today.

“Do you really believe it? That if you reach Victor’s Domain, you’ll be made a vassal straight away?”

“You believe any rumor you hear? Vassal status requires three generations of service to a lord,” Baidi sneered.

Baidi had already heard rumors about Victor’s Domain recruiting vassals, and was astonished his old acquaintances were taking it so seriously. To him, no lord would be so foolish; only gullible peasants believed such tales.

“It’s not direct vassalage—you have to join a work-points system. As long as you work every day, you earn points. Every thousand points can be exchanged for an acre of land. Once you get ten acres, you become a vassal,” another freeman interjected—he had inquired carefully.

“Old Hayden already gathered a group and set out two days ago, and Milu’s lot left five days back,” someone else added.

“Whether it’s true or not, it’s worth a try—and the sooner, the better,” said another.

Their words left the group restless, itching to set out immediately.

Seeing how convincing they sounded, Baidi was tempted, but too lazy to act. Now that his woman had found a decent job, there was no need to risk everything on an unreliable rumor.

The shack’s door opened, startling the group, but when they saw it was Baidi’s wife Buma, they relaxed. Baidi, however, scowled.

“Why are you back? Did John fire you?”

Buma shot him a look of disgust. “No. Mr. John gave me the day off. I came to see the children.”

Baidi let out a sigh of relief; as long as she wasn’t fired, he could still rely on her wages—even as a mere maid.

Buma ignored the men—freeloaders like Baidi, surviving off charity. She went inside, where her two children huddled in the corner.

“Mom brought you bread—sweet coarse sugar bread!” Seeing her sons’ bodies covered in bruises, Buma almost wept. They must have taken many beatings from Baidi these days.

A thick arm shot out, snatching the bread from Buma’s hands.

“I haven’t eaten yet—what are you brats in such a hurry for?” Baidi growled.

“Give it back! That’s for the children, from Mr. John!” Buma hurled herself at him, trying to retrieve the bread.

“You whore—so that one-legged old man bought you off with just two loaves of bread?” Baidi shoved her to the ground, cursing viciously.

“Take the bread, but I’m taking the children,” Buma said coldly, regaining her composure as she grabbed her two sobbing children and tried to flee.

Baidi flew into a rage—the children were tools for keeping Buma under his thumb. If she took them, how could he profit from her? In this world, it was common enough for women with children to remarry.

He grabbed Buma by the hair and yanked her back, slapping her hard across the face. As he raised his hand again, someone seized his arm.

“You want to interfere in my family matters?” Baidi snapped at the man holding him.

The freeman released him, grinning. “Your wife works at the Goat Inn—you haven’t forgotten Lord Monkey’s rule, have you?”

“She’s my woman. Lord Monkey doesn’t meddle in domestic affairs,” Baidi muttered, but dared not raise his hand again.

“We can’t meddle in Lord Monkey’s business,” the man continued. “But we heard the Goat Inn belongs to Baron Victor, so we wanted to ask Buma—is the work-points rumor true?”

All eyes, including Baidi’s, fixed on Buma.

“It’s true. You know Ina—she’s now the wife of a vassal in Victor’s Domain, and she helped me get my job. She told me the barony is short-handed, and the baron himself will come here to recruit settlers. But the work-points system will soon reach its limit. If you want to go, act fast!”

Buma seized the chance to spill all she had heard, wanting nothing more than for Baidi and his crowd to disappear from her life.

The freemen, breathing hard, looked as if they’d sprout wings and fly to Victor’s Domain—such an opportunity was rare indeed.

Baidi was equally eager, but thinking further ahead.

“We should gather more people—the more, the better!”

“You’re mad! Didn’t you hear Buma? The work-points system is about to close. Why bring more people?” one man hissed.

Baidi shot him a contemptuous look. “If we take enough people, the lord will value us more, and we’ll get priority in joining the system.”

The others were awed by his vision. After a while, someone asked, “That’s a good idea. But if we have a big group, what will we eat? It’s a twenty-day journey! Where will we get enough food? And will the group stay loyal, or will we be pushed aside?”

“We’re better off going on our own,” someone said. “With fewer people, we can forage wild vegetables on the road.”

Baidi was anxious—twenty days on foot was no simple matter, and above all, he feared death. Who knew if they’d run into a gnoll? Safety in numbers, and being the leader meant even more safety. Even if a monster appeared, he wouldn’t be the first to die—and the lord might notice him. He disliked risk but didn’t want to miss this chance. Yet he couldn’t solve his companions’ concerns, so he paced irritably, not noticing that Buma had already slipped away with her children.

“May the Radiant Lord bless you.”

Buma threw out the words coldly as she left. In her heart, she added: May the great Lord judge Baidi, that beast, as soon as possible!

Buma was gone, but Baidi didn’t care. If he became a vassal, he could marry any woman he pleased. Yet her words had sparked an idea.

“I’ve got it! We have no food, and we can’t handle a big group, but there’s someone who can—and he won’t compete with us for vassalage!”

“Who?”

“Sir Claude, the Paladin!”

———

“Gris, are you sure you’ve dealt with all the spies from the Chibman family?”

Sylvia, radiant with a charming smile, gently caressed several parchment scrolls with her alabaster hands. She was in excellent spirits—these were the blueprints Victor had given her, including the giant brick kiln design she coveted most.

Gris replied respectfully, “Yes, my lady. According to Achille’s observations, the Chibman family placed three spies in the upper camp. I killed two and let one go. The Earl of Chibman should have received our warning by now.”

Sylvia nodded; she had great faith in Achille’s abilities—he was among the family’s best spies.

“But you failed your mission! And because of your carelessness, our people were driven out!” Baron York, plump and stern, said coldly. The thought of never again being able to spy on Victor’s new contraptions pained him deeply.

Seeing Gris’s embarrassed expression, Sylvia patted the baron’s hand and said softly, “Gris isn’t a professional spy. I’m already grateful he was willing to humble himself. Besides, he brought back such valuable things.”

She turned to Gris. “Gris, though your mission failed, I’m very pleased with what you brought back. Everything I promised you, I will fulfill. You may go.”

Gris beamed. He had endured much, playing the part of a lowly peasant, for this very moment. The old knight bowed deeply to the baron and his wife and left the room.

Once he was gone, Baron York asked Sylvia, “Is a brick kiln really worth this excitement? I saw the bricks Achille brought back—they’re sturdier than ours, but still can’t replace stone. No matter how thick, they couldn’t withstand a Silver Knight’s assault.”

Sylvia replied, “These bricks can’t be used for fortresses or outer walls, but they’re perfect for roads, houses, plazas. They can replace the rammed earth layer in city walls, making them stronger. Most importantly, the kiln’s efficiency—sixty thousand quality bricks in twenty days. That means it’ll devour vast amounts of wood and clay, and our lands are full of shrub-covered hills.”

Baron York clapped in delight. “I see! These kilns will turn hills into arable land, and the extracted clay into countless bricks. We could even sell them! Ha, marvelous—Victor is truly a hen that lays golden eggs.”

Sylvia shot him a look, her gaze as fluid as water, but the baron shivered as if plunged into ice. He knew that childlessness was a sore point for Sylvia.

Why did I mention hens? And eggs? Baron York wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I mean, the blueprints Victor provided seem beyond a freeman’s skill. Where did he get them?”

Sylvia replied coolly, “He stole them from Sophia.”

Victor had sent Sylvia a letter, explaining that he had found these designs in the Marquis’s library while perusing the old marquis’s books, and had made some improvements. He had now handed over everything: the carriage blueprints, the new spinning wheel design, and the kiln village plans.

Victor wrote with such authority that York’s scholar Anthony was certain Victor had been trained in the field and had exceptional talent. The knowledge was too systematic to be faked by a layman. Thus Sylvia believed Victor’s story—and his aptitude and enthusiasm. They didn’t know, of course, that Victor had an alchemical assistant to polish his work.

“If Sophia had such treasures, why didn’t she reveal them sooner?” the baron wondered aloud.

Sylvia smiled lightly. “Sophia has cards to play—Victor does not. He can only reveal his trump cards.”

Baron York nodded. “These things must have cost the old marquis years of effort. Sophia probably intended to use them as her ace in dire straits. Well, it’s a windfall for us.”

“But Victor is unprotected now. What if something happens?” The baron grew anxious, recalling the agreement with Sophia: that the House of York would guarantee Victor’s safety until Sophia produced a suitable heir. Sylvia knew that, in Sophia’s eyes, only the blood of a Golden Knight was worth considering. That process could take two or three years—exactly the time the House of York needed to rebuild its self-sufficiency. The arrangement suited both sides. Such pursuit of noble bloodlines was commonplace among the nobility. Of course, Victor had no idea he was being set up for fatherhood.

“When Nicole returns, send her with some trainee knights to protect Victor,” Sylvia said, her voice gentle. “Victor, if Nicole is the one protecting you, you won’t refuse, will you?” She smiled faintly.