Maxwell rubbed his head. This either meant he had a butler with a vampire-like ability to look young—possibly a unique racial trait of these Mambas—or he was talking about someone completely different. If that man wasn’t his butler, he would never figure out who was. After all, he had 16 years of experience in programming and management in the gaming industry and had created plenty of butler type characters. The mystery man, or Baron Catwell, fit the bill perfectly.
Maxwell allowed a moment of silence to hang in the air as he fell back into thought. Would it really be so bad if he just admitted he had amnesia? Of course, revealing that he wasn’t exactly the Duke might present its own challenges, such as issues with national security and the like. If someone with a high security clearance suddenly told his boss he was a foreign national, they’d probably be sent to a mental ward. The comparison still worked however, because even if he was arrested for attempting to steal the duke's title and life or sent to the funny farm he would still be imprisoned. So that option was out.
Then again, he couldn’t suggest he had amnesia for similar reasons. If he turned out to be replaceable, he would, well, be easily replaced. In many of the games he worked on with noble settings, those of high rank were often fiercely defensive against anyone attempting to steal their title or assets. In the end, the medieval world was an eat-or-be-eaten setting... The only thing worse would be discovering that this world was similar to his own in the late 18th century, with a queen who liked to eat cake.
He shook the thought from his head. Of course, he was replaceable. Duke or not, there would be plenty of people eager for his position. Any display of weakness could be exploited. He hummed away his worries and sat back down at the desk. To ensure that didn’t happen, he needed to be prepared for whatever came next. Thankfully, the chair was comfortable enough to relax both his body and mind. Taking a small inhale of the woody air, he began reviewing the documents before him, starting with the incident involving the battalion.
The report revealed that the 77th battalion had been involved in a rather inappropriate practical joke that led to the death of several cows and the serious injury of several men. He was even more perplexed by the fact that the words "cow tipping" were immediately followed by "nightly." So much for military professionalism. Was that even a thing in this time period? Could he even use such a term? How long did the aristocracy last? He shrugged it off. Coding was his thing, not storyboarding or historical accuracy… especially in a fantasy setting.
“No, stop getting distracted,” he chided himself, bringing his focus back to the matter at hand. The cow tipping seemed like a straightforward issue. People got bored, and rituals and hazing were often a part of group life, especially in the past. He could probably handle this without worrying too much about making the wrong decision. After all, he was just receiving the report in person, as this incident affected not only the military but also the farm and its supply to the cities. Despite the gravity of the situation, he found himself smiling as he set the report aside.
Next, he planned to go over the notes about the merchant. He was just about to begin when the butler reappeared, pushing a cart with a pitcher of water on it, smiling elegantly as he entered the room, the cart making nary a sound as it glided across the hardwood floor. Maxwell blinked, having neither heard a knock nor the door opening.
“Your Grace,” the butler said with the same level of professionalism that had become synonymous with the perfect butler, “I was able to acquire the water that Maria was about to send up.”
“Ah, excellent,” Maxwell replied, eyeing the man who, he hoped, was called Sefton. “I was hoping to talk to you. These last two meetings—are they so important that we cannot delay them?”
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“No, but I would suggest finalizing the trade agreement, as it only requires a signature.”
Pretending to fall into thought, Maxwell celebrated internally. “Very well, then we’ll do that, and see about clearing my schedule for the next week. I trust you to verify what is needed and what can be delayed for some time.”
“Understood, sir.” The butler hesitated, a look on his face suggesting he had more to say. Maxwell nodded, encouraging him to speak his mind. “I know this may be out of place, but I feel I must. It is not your fault, sir, the—”
Maxwell held up a hand. He appreciated the butler attributing his change in attitude to the recent killing of a count’s family, but he was far from disturbed by it. After all, it wasn’t really him, but rather the real Duke. “I appreciate your concern and would tell you I’m fine, but… there are some unsettling aspects to this situation.” Namely, that I don't know anything about what's going on beyond this room. Is this a kingdom? An empire? A principality? Do they even have dukes in principalities?
He needed to know more about this world before interacting with it. That’s why he asked Sefton to delay everything and why he didn’t care about the individuals or the Duke’s first killing. In essence, he had just arrived and had nothing to do with it. Yet, at the same time, he had to deal with the consequences of the previous Duke’s actions.
“Very well then,” Sefton said. “I shall leave you to your day. Do let me know if you need anything.”
Maxwell nodded, noting the man’s particularly loyal demeanor. With a soft click, Sefton left the room, closing the door behind him. Maxwell took a deep breath; the pleasant scent of well-crafted wood grounded him.
“All right then,” Maxwell said aloud. Moving to his desk, he glanced at the books lining the wall. Reading all of those in a week would be an interesting challenge, but perhaps it was something he needed to do. He decided to start by figuring out which country he was in and where he was in this world. But as he was about to dive into that task, something tugged at the back of his mind: the trade agreement. It only required his signature, but hadn’t he seen something about trade in the documents?
Sifting through the papers again, he realized that the trade agreement wasn’t as simple as it seemed. The Markswell Guild appeared to be a recently discovered, cutthroat, and dishonorable guild.
“Well,” Maxwell sighed aloud, “I guess that means I’ll have to study trade first,” he muttered, letting out a breath through his teeth as he continued reading. “Especially this land usage rights violation the Duke mentioned here,” he added, tapping a handwritten note. Figuring it would be a headache, he settled down to work.
Soon enough, it was time for the meeting, and Maxwell wasn’t as confident as he would have liked to be, but there was no more time. When a knock came at the door, he allowed the butler to enter. The butler stepped inside, standing before the doorway, and offered an introduction. “Your Grace, the representative from the Fellwood Guild has arrived.”
“Fellwood Guild?” Maxwell questioned, and the butler nodded.
“Yes, Your Grace. He is here about the citrus trade for the Graceway and Hollow Wood territories.”
“I see. Let him in,” Maxwell instructed. As the butler went to retrieve the man, Maxwell quickly scanned the papers left on his desk. That’s when he found other documents detailing a shortage of citrus fruits in several regions. While more than two areas were affected, it seemed the Graceway and Hollow Wood territories were particularly struggling due to the high cost and limited supply of quality fruits.
“So that means,” Maxwell muttered, rubbing his head, “they’re here to finalize a trade agreement to address a shortage of materials.” It also meant that everything he had learned about trade and the Markswell Guild had no bearing on this meeting whatsoever.
“Great,” Maxwell thought, “what a productive use of my time.”