Day 34, 10:10 AM

“Since mankind’s dawn, a handful of oppressors have accepted the responsibility over our lives that we should have accepted for ourselves. By doing so, they took our power. By doing nothing, we gave it away.”

— Alan Moore

When I regain my senses, there is no Najel. Not even a proper corpse. I stare at an unrecognizable, vaguely humanoid mess I tied to a tree, ten feet away from the road. I just watch in a strange mix of disbelief, rage, and horror before spitting and leaving what is left of him to hang there.

I reach Harkgord around two in the afternoon. I could have arrived sooner, maybe even around noon, but I had to clean up. Doesn’t matter. I’m not in a hurry, and there’s no need to risk a chance encounter with perceptive guards spotting sleeves splattered reddish-brown of caked blood or whatever else they could catch.

I enter town without a problem, noting my portrait is considerably more human and handsome here. Two steps later, the difference between Harkgord and Holgord strikes me with almost physical force. The change in the atmosphere is palpable. Harkgord is alive, clean, thriving. The hawkers’ shouts are loud, coming from the bottoms of their stomachs.

Their goods certainly don’t seem any different from those I saw in Holgord, but they are more into it, making their grilled meats smell better and the bright silks for sale look more vibrant. It’s an odd psychological effect, glum salesmen painting their goods glum. I’ve never noticed it before. Then again, due to Dovid, most of my shopping happened online these past few years.

The almost jovial air gets me, and I catch myself smiling. This town isn’t a bad place. I head for the town square, grab a mediocre beer, find myself an inn where I have lunch.

“How much for a room and a hot bath?”

“Six plows,” the cutthroat running the inn says.

“Four.” I’m on autopilot, observing Bargaining do its magic.

“Five!”

“You throw in a mug of beer with that room, and you got yourself a deal.”

The proprietor grumbles, but a minute later I’m heading up, a slave carrying a small tub right behind me.

“Let me,” I tell the skinny youth. “You just bring hot water.”

He looks at me with wide eyes, gripping the tub.

“Off with you, I want steaming hot water.” I can let it cool until it’s the right temperature, but I have no way of reheating it, so steaming hot seems a sensible choice.

The kid scrambles down the stairs, and twenty minutes later I’m soaking in water that’s probably too hot to be healthy. My knees are sticking out, but it was either them or my shoulders, and I prefer warmth against my neck.

I can feel my muscles melt, all the tiny cramps oozing out of me. I don’t know how it happened, but I probably fell asleep or passed out when I closed my eyes. The sky outside the window is pinkish-red when I wake up, steeped in cold water.

Half an hour ‘till sundown. Keeping track of time has already become a reflex.

I get up, water trickling down my body. If I had fallen asleep in a tub of cool water with my old body, I would have caught a cold and all my muscles would’ve locked up. Aang’s godly physique, however, doesn’t give a damn.

I grin, patting myself dry with a rough towel, and after getting dressed, head down to the common room for dinner.

I have picked Harkgord’s fanciest inn. It’s on the main street, with a clear view of the town square, the scaffold, and the lord's mansion beyond. The lunch was already decent, but after grabbing some shuteye, the dinner is fit for a king.

Finely diced meat chunks, probably veal, float atop the potage and melt in my mouth with each spoonful, their meaty flavor accented with a sour aroma of a dip nearly identical to horseradish. I’m tempted to order seconds, but the waitress brings me a plate of cheeses, mostly of the old, smelly variety. Steaming collak roots, soft wheat bread, and fresh spring garlic accompany the cheeses and force out the idea of extra soup from my mind.

I dig in, and while enjoying my dinner, keep an ear out for local gossip.

Clara’s having a baby, and apparently everyone except her husband knows it’s Jiff’s, whoever that is. Thommy saw a horned horse in the forest the day before yesterday, but the bicorn ran away before the drunkard could catch it.

Trite story after trite story, I listen to them all. All of it is shallow small-town life full of love, veiled malice, longing, envy, and jealousy. None of it is national politics.

I guess it makes sense. People lack the information and interest in their ruler, except when their rule is horrible or unbelievably good.

“Another serving!” I call the waitress, and she waves, letting me know she heard me. I devour my seconds with gusto, stashing the dry fruits dessert in my handy pocket for later. I yawn like a lion and pat my stuffed belly, trying to recall whether I’ve done something similar in my past life. I have no idea why, but acknowledging the food which went into my stomach feels right and proper.

I rub my eyes and yawn again, sleepy as hell.

Time to hit the sack. I head back to my room, deciding to nap for a couple hours before showtime starts. I sure as hell don’t need to deprive myself of sleep for no reason at all. The assassination, releasing of slaves, and plundering Harkgord’s viscount won’t take more than two-three hours.

When have I become so callous about murder and robbery, viewing them as a chore? Was it before or after I was reborn? It’s not the first, nor the second time I ask those questions, and I try to ease my conscience, just like every time. I’m not killing and robbing random people, but threats and Manuella’s political enemies. I won’t kill the innkeeper or a jeweler just because I need cash and they have it.

Those thoughts and the threat viscount Parren poses to us don’t vindicate me. Not by a long shot, but they put my doubts to rest and quiet the whispered squeak of my conscience.

“I’m too tired for this,” I mumble and fall into my soft bed, covering my head with the soft feathered duvet.

Why am I so tired? Then my brain starts listing all the sleepless or half-slept nights I’ve had since coming into this world. Like counting sheep, I fall asleep after recalling the sixth incident.

The night is light when I wake up. I almost have a heart attack and rush to the window, but the full moon is still high, shining brightly, and there’s no faint line in the horizon.

I sigh in relief. Perfect.

I don’t know the exact time, but sunrise is hours away, and I ain’t going back to sleep. So, I open the window and check the roof. Thatched. Will I fall through?

I bite my lip. It’s an iffy question, I’ve never walked on straw roofs before. I gingerly place my foot on the old straw. My boot sinks a bit, but the footing is stable. I tread lightly, and reach the edge of the roof without tumbling over or sinking into the slumbering inn below.

Why don’t they have tiled roofs like in Amplegord? I want to mutter, but bite my tongue. I think Holgord also had thatched roofs.

I hop down, as stealthy as a cat. Good thing, too. The night is bright and quiet. Anyone paying attention could have spotted me with little trouble.

Everyone’s asleep. Nobody’s after you. Relax. I take a deep breath and focus.

Viscount Parren’s estate is across the square, the gallows, whose scaffold can double for a performer troop stage, sprawls some twenty yards away from the main gate. Anyone heading for the city lord’s has to pass it by.

I wonder whether that’s a statement? Consider the consequences before pestering me with nonsense?

The thought is irrelevant, and I won’t use the gate, but the symbolism is something I should mind if Manuella and I prevail and become the rulers of Garacia.

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Not if; When. Be positive. Now, focus on the task ahead. I circle around the square, sticking to the surrounding buildings to benefit from their shadows. It’ll take a couple minutes to reach the wall, and I have enough time for a double take.

Garacia has few towns on large rivers, and because of the tall forests breaking the wind, the slave-powered mills are the only way to process grain. Most towns have a mill or two, and Harkgord is no exception. Meaning viscount Parren should have ten to twenty mill slaves. Freeing and arming them before the assassination, just in case, is an option, but the guys back at Holgord were loud and their ruckus might cause an alarm. It’s a tempting notion, though, going in with more allies, but it doesn’t mesh with my personality, the added risk is just another reason to do the deed first.

However, I hesitate because of another matter. Viscount Parren is married. If he’s anything like me, he probably sleeps with his wife, and I might have to deal with both of them simultaneously, if they are awake in this ungodly hour.

I would prefer not to kill her unless she attacks me. What I told Garny about ransom is just a part of it. The conundrum about my moral compass is the only one keeping me company in the dark, forcing me to consider unwanted thoughts. I am a murderer, a stone-cold killer. My lack of guilt is unsettling. I like to believe that’s because I haven’t taken a life I deemed innocent, but I’m afraid I might discover a different truth, and I don’t want to take the chance.

What happens when you pinch someone unconscious while they are sleeping? Can they pass out? Out of all my options, I like this one the best. Incapacitate and capture. Swift, clean, morally white.

Fortunately, I reach the wall, and practical problems suddenly outweigh philosophy.

The moon still shines brightly above my head, stars twinkle, and not a cloud in sight. Well, I don’t have a choice. Manny is coming today, I have to have everything ready for her. I draw a deep breath, and scale the ivy-covered brick wall.

I lay flat atop it for a moment. Everything is silent. Nobody’s shouting at me, there’s no alarm. I roll, grab a clump of tough vines, and slide down.

I crouch against the wall and check the yard. Still no movement. The only lights come from the gate, some fifty feet away. This guy doesn’t have guard dogs either. Manny said all nobles are required by law to keep bloodhowlers and hunting dogs.

They also have to organize hunting parties at least five times a year in different regions of their domain. So, why don’t they let them wander the grounds at night?

Once I word the question, wisdom keeps popping answers into my mind. Dog poop, barking, hole-digging, howling all night long…

Yeah, fine. I get it. Since I know the lawn is poop-free, I crawl towards the house, showing more caution on this fairly bright night. As I crawl forth, I’m certain everyone can see my wiggling butt, and hear the rustle I’m making. Nothing happens, however, and I focus on my movement. I lower my ass, spread my knees further, and slow down.

It helps. The noise seems quieter, and I hope I’m less noticeable. Not that there’s anyone to notice me.

I guess just doing things isn’t enough. You have to think about what you are doing. The thought isn’t novel, it struck me quite often when observing others doing their jobs. Maybe time has come to stop being snarky and pay attention to myself?

I focus, and I think my crawling technique advances by leaps and bounds before I cross a hundred yards and reach the mansion. Voices and hushed laughter stand out in the silence of the night. I circle around the house, and find a servants’ entrance at the back. Lanterns burn inside, and I take a peek.

Kitchen. A fat woman with massive arms is kneading dough. A ten-year-old boy is stoking a fire, and a slightly older girl is mixing something in a big black pot.

What to do?

I lightly tap the doorframe, lean Batsy against the outside wall, and step into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” I say, my voice and bearing suave, like I belong here.

The fat woman looks at me, as do the kids.

“Good morning, my lord,” she says. “I didn’t know we had guests. How may we help you?”

She’s slightly suspicious, but I’m wearing decent clothes, and thieves don’t bid you good morning before breaking in.

I’m uncomfortable with what’s about to happen, but I’m already heading down the path of no return. I smile as I walk towards her, My arm flashes and grabs her by the throat so she can’t make a sound. The kids, however, squeal.

“Quiet. I won’t hurt you, nor your mom. But I need both her and you to agree that you won’t make loud noises.”

The kids are too shocked, the boy frozen while closing the oven door, and the girl stopped whisking her eggs. Maybe? Something yellow and foamy, in any case.

The cook grabs my forearm and opens her mouth, but despite her muscular arms, her effort is as effective as shaking a tower. I glance at her and shake my head.

“Madam, please don’t. I really mean you no harm. I’m not even choking you, you can breathe just fine.” I realize it’s true as I say it.

Initial Grappling can actually do stuff like this? I didn’t even know our bodies could do that.

She relaxes and nods, visibly calming.

“Kids, does any one of you mind coming over here? I want to speak with your mother, without her screaming.” They stare at me, still standing frozen.

“The brave one gets a handful of dried apricots.”

I don’t know if it’s my charisma, Bargaining, or maybe the boy’s just brain dead, but he runs towards me, and I dig into my fancy, improvised pocket and give him some of the fruit I stashed after dinner.

“Here. You’ll have to sit in my lap while you eat, though.”

He nods, and several moments later we’re having a surprisingly civilized conversation, given the circumstances.

I’m sitting on a stool, the boy happily munching while sitting on my thigh, and the girl is back to her whisking, but she’s eyeing me darkly, as if saying, ‘I dare you to try something.’ The fair-skinned cook rubs the folds of her neck.

“My apologies, I didn’t want you screaming and waking everyone up. Have you calmed down?”

She nods slowly. Still displaying clear distrust.

“I will perform no acts of violence directed against you. And you won’t scream, regardless of what I say. All right?”

She stares.

“Please acknowledge— say you understand what I’m saying. I don’t want unnecessary dead bodies to weigh my conscience.”

The whisking and chewing stop, and the woman stares at me with wide eyes and mouth ajar.

“For the last time, I wish you no harm, please don’t force me to act against my wishes. Now, you have one more chance to answer before I consider you my enemy, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes.” Finally, she bobs her head vigorously.

“Good. Now, if you scream or make any loud, suspicious noises, the boy dies, I throw that big knife through the girl’s heart, and then crush your skull.”

The boy in my hand starts shaking. “Please don’t piss yourself, son. I mean you no harm, unless your mom forces my hand.”

“What do you want?” the cook asks, pale, clutching the table as if her knees are about to give out.

“When is someone else coming to the kitchen?”

“A maid will come for breakfast once the buns are baked.” She glances at the dough.

“Please, keep working then, we don’t want the poor thing hungry.” She gapes, and I motion her with my hand. “Go on.”

She continues kneading, but her movement’s stiffer than before. The boy has a coughing fit and we all turn towards him.

I smack his back and a big chunk of apricot flies out. “Son, chew carefully, please. We don’t want you choking.”

I stop focusing on the boy trying to swallow a whole dry apricot in fear, and refocus on the cook.

“Now, I will tell you a few things. They may shock you, but please, remain quiet.”

I explain how I have killed the viscount of Holgord, started a slave uprising, and how I’m here to do the same. I see no reason to mention Manny in my one-minute-summary, and by the time I’m done, the cook is shaking. She understands why I’m here. Still, I should explain it in simple terms.

“I am here to repeat the feat. To kill the corrupt leader and liberate anyone who wishes to escape. Last time, eleven men died needlessly when they could have lived. I assure you it was a painful and gruesome experience for everyone involved, I would prefer not to repeat it. Last time I knocked out a slave who gave me the information, and she chose to follow me later. She is with the rest of the army, along with seventeen other women and two little girls.”

I pause to let her process everything.

“What do you want?” the adolescent girl asks and puts down her bowl on the kitchen table. She either didn’t understand me, or failed to process my request.

“Ideally, to kill your viscount, hurting nobody else in the process. To do that, I need to know where he is and where everyone else is. Otherwise, unfortunate accidents may occur.”

“He’s in the guest bedroom. Cellie, the maid is with him,” the cook says. “It’s on the upper floor, the third room left of the staircase.”

“Thank you,” I smile. “Left or right side of the hallway?”

“Right.”

“Thank you. I will knock out the boy first. You can have the rest of the apricots later, sorry for spoiling your appetite.”

He gulps, and his mother bites her lips.

“Don’t worry. He will suffer no harm, and you can wake him up by slapping him several times. Then I will knock you out too. Do you have any questions?”

They are all terrified. Normal human beings would have started screaming and shouting, which is actually really bad in situations like this. Fortunately, these three are slaves, docile and used to abuse.

“Why are you doing this?” the cook asks.

“For freedom.” I say, not entirely lying, then point at her son with my chin. “For him.”

I point at the girl. “For her.”

The cook shakes, but has no more questions. Instead, she addresses the boy.

“Ander, don’t be afraid. Everything will be fine.”

I pinch Ander’s neck, and he goes limp.

“Here,” I hand him to his mother. “He’s breathing just fine, he’s just out cold. Could you come over, please?” I ask the girl, and she approaches.

Her steps are small, she’s scrawny, and just looking at her makes my heart shudder. Pitiful little thing.

The next moment, I hand her unconscious form to their mother.

“They look nothing alike,” I say. “Do you know who their father is?”

The cook shakes her head.

“Do you really want her to grow up in such a world? Do you want her to go through the same things you went through?”

The cook starts crying. “What else can I do?”

I clench my teeth.

“You can fight,” I hiss.

She shakes her head, and I knock her out, pissed off by that helpless victim mentality.