“Young master, we’re almost there!”
Sigurd smiled and bowed lightly in thanks, sending the man beaming back to his crew, who swarmed him like gossiping old ladies. Sigurd almost allowed his smile to drop, but his long years of acting allowed him to retain a perfect facade. What should have been a perfect facade.
The caravan had been held up at the checkpoint to enter the swamp for a long time, and while Sigurd wasn’t exactly in a hurry, his employer had made it clear he needed to get his ass to Treon if he wanted to keep being paid. Thus, he had swanned over to the front, hoping to be able to smooth over any problem with his charm.
Upon seeing him arrive, however, the SF soldiers dropped any objection and allowed them through, waving away the merchants’ confused questions and urging them forward so that the road would not be blocked.
Ever since then, the men treated Sigurd like royalty. He was quite sure they all believed him to be either a high-ranking officer in disguise or even the lover of one.
Normally, he wouldn't have minded the gossip. He thrived in being talked about, and any good bard knew the value of a saucy story. But it grated him that it had spread far outside his control and without his input.
The SF's knowledge of his identity and that he worked for the revolution also revealed a much larger operation than he had initially understood, and the fact that it happened under his nose meant that he was slipping.
Looking up from his brooding, Sigurd saw Hetnia’s westernmost city in the distance. Towering white walls peeked above the grassy hills, giving the impression of being unassailable.
Considering that the city had very much fallen in recent times, having big walls and powerful wards might not be the most important thing of all.
Not that any noble is about to stop spending on maintaining their active defenses just because passive ones are more effective at actually preventing a takeover. Visible protections are as much a deterrent as they are a roadblock and a source of prestige. There is little nobles like more than prestige.
Sigurd took a moment to check over his belongings, since he was about an hour away from finally being freed from the staring. He found a surprise.
“Room 27 is reserved for you at the Swirling Swan Inn near the docks. We’ll have dinner together. Order a local red while you wait.”
The message was written on a plain piece of whitish paper. Not parchment, which meant the mills had finally begun running and he should expect the price of both to drop significantly.
I have also gotten myself a date. Look at you, not even in the city and already breaking hearts.
The thought was more self-deprecating than he would have liked. His employer, Lady Amelia, had never shown even the slightest hint of interest, much to his frustration. Since his duties so far had been perfectly acceptable, he hadn’t felt the need to overreach and push his charms on her. It wouldn’t be worth it, and he doubted she’d appreciate it for more than a laugh.
I'll eat my hat if that woman is interested in anything other than the Hero's approval. Well, not my hat. I like it too much. But I’ll buy a hat and eat that.
----------------------------------------
Fresh off a luxurious bath that freed him from road dust and other unnamable things, Sigurd took a moment to apply hair oil to his curls. Being as strong as he was, the constraints of a mortal body were significantly lessened than what he used to suffer under, but he retained some habits, as they allowed him to think things through.
His initial sightseeing was enough to get a vague idea of what he was working with, and he was pleasantly surprised to find that Treon wouldn’t be more difficult than Lamprey Port had been.
It’d take more time for his songs to spread initially, but they would pick up steam much faster than in any small town—perks of an already lively musical scene. The people were more refined and used to bards, even if this was still a small city in the grand scheme of things.
Certainly nothing like Mellassoria, where a new bard enters the city every day and not even in the same realm as Dur’dur’dur. The competition there was, without a doubt, the stiffest I have ever experienced. I learned scales that would make a human bleed.
All settlements he visited during his tour of the liberated territories shared the same undercurrent of hope that things would finally turn for the better. Treon wasn’t an exception to this. Yes, there was more variety, especially since, as a city built on commerce, being cut off from Garva would surely bring some trouble to the western merchants. Still, the new government had likely already implemented the first of the many reforms they had tested in smaller trade towns, and Sigurd expected they’d be able to weather the storm without too much rocking.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Beyond the strictly economic observations, he had been glad to see that the new City Watch—essentially the SF rebranded for the occasion—was being treated with only a reasonable amount of wariness. More than anything, this showed what the locals thought of the revolutionaries.
I still have to visit the slums, but I got a good look today. I should be able to work with this. Maybe make the songs less about battle and more about hope for the future and vaguely nice things? Mmmh, yes, Treon hasn’t suffered a bloody siege, but they still lost a lot of people. It's better to reframe the discussion away from those.
As far as Sigurd could tell, most of the local soldiers sent to fight the Revolution had returned home unharmed, surprising many who had given them for lost once news of General Locke’s death trickled down. That, more than anything the Hero had done save perhaps the miracle healing he occasionally engaged in, had convinced the city to give him a chance.
A knock on the door broke him away from his contemplations. “Yes?” He called.
“Dear guest, your dining room is ready. I was asked to inform you of this the moment the preparations were complete.” A young female voice came from the other side, a bit hesitantly.
“Ah, yes. Thank you, dear. I’ll be there in a jiffy.” Sigurd replied, silently sighing at his chain being yanked. It was a very gentle yank, more to remind him of his duties to avoid having him lose too much time on unnecessary fluff than any serious reprimand, but it still annoyed him. Downsides of having an employer. Nothing to do about it.
Rapidly completing the oiling process, Sigurd stoppered his precious Heartseed vial and slipped it back into his pocket. He doubted he’d be brought here to be poisoned, but he hadn’t made it this far by taking anything for granted.
Slipping his evening suit on, having decided on a more traditional masculine cut than he usually preferred, he grabbed his lute and headed downstairs.
The private dining room reserved for him was tucked away in a quiet corner of the inn, ensuring privacy from prying eyes and ears with surprisingly sophisticated enchantments—the type one would find in top-class inns.
As he approached the door, it swung open almost soundlessly, revealing a handsome red-haired butler who greeted him with a practiced smile. “Good evening, dear guest,” he said smoothly, bowing slightly as he gestured to the inside.
Sigurd’s trained eye didn’t miss the faint signs of glamour that shimmered around the butler’s neck, hiding what seemed to be a series of love bites. His eyebrow twitched in amusement, but he chose not to comment. He could easily see through second-tier glamours, being able to maintain them in his sleep, but he knew better than to pry into the personal affairs of servants. Still, the fact that the glamour was there at all was curious, and it added another layer to his mental picture of the place.
He gave the butler a friendly nod and stepped in, observing the elegant setting. The table was set for two, with fine china and crystal glasses, all illuminated by the soft glow of candles. He placed his lute carefully on a nearby stand before seating himself in the plush chair at the head of the table.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. I am at your service should you need anything while you wait for your companion. You need only ring the bell,” the butler said, friendly expression firmly in place as he discreetly withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
Left alone in the quiet room, Sigurd took a moment to relax. The ambiance was soothing, with the faint scent of lavender in the air and the soft crackling of a small fire in the hearth. He allowed himself to sink into his thoughts, his fingers absently tapping on the table as he worked through the new melody that had been bouncing around in his head.
He hummed softly, trying out different phrases and rhymes. “The Hero brought the light... on a dark day... lifted up the veil that blocked our way…”
He paused, considering the words. They were close but not quite right. He wanted the song to resonate with the people of Treon, to capture the essence of the city’s newfound hope and the Revolution’s promise. But the right balance was tricky to find. “Chains were broken...” he tried, but immediately shook his head.
No, that wouldn’t do. Treon wasn’t known for its slaves despite having a decent population, and the imagery wouldn’t connect as strongly with the locals. He needed something more universal to speak to the people’s relief and cautious optimism.
He tapped his fingers again, thinking. “The darkness fled... the light did sway…”
Better, but still not perfect. Sigurd frowned, drumming his fingers as he searched for the right words. Finally, a simple verse formed in his mind:
“With truth as our guide, we found the way,
The light of the Hero turned night to day.”
It was a good start. He’d polish it later, but it captured the spirit he wanted. Something uplifting, something that would inspire the people to see the Hero and the Revolution as the forces that had brought a brighter future to their city. He needed something more specific to Treon in the later verses once he had eased in the crowds to a feel-good tune, but that could wait until he had completed his observations of the city.
Satisfied for the moment, Sigurd picked up his lute and strummed a few chords, playing softly as he refined the melody to fit the lyrics. The music filled the room, weaving together with the crackling fire and the gentle flicker of the candlelight into something that wasn’t quite a rigid spell but was just as magical.
He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice the shadow in the corner of the room until it moved. Sigurd looked up just in time to see Lady Amelia emerging from the darkness, her sudden appearance startling both him and the butler, who had quietly re-entered the room to refill his wine glass, likely alerted by the active enchantment on the table.
The Mistress of Shadows’ entrance was as silent as it was dramatic, her presence immediately filling the room. She wore a dress that seemed to be made from the night sky itself, its deep black fabric studded with tiny, twinkling lights like distant stars. The effect was mesmerizing, and Sigurd found it hard to tear his eyes away, especially once he recognized it for what it was—an active fifth-tier spell woven into the very fabric of the dress.
The woman was wearing enough mana to power the city’s wards!
Amelia noticed his scrutiny and smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Eyes up here, Sigurd,” she said, tone teasing yet firm.
Sigurd flushed, his embarrassment deepening as he realized how it must have looked. “My apologies, Lady Amelia. I was merely appreciating the craftsmanship of the spell.”
Her smile widened slightly, taking a predatory tint. “Of course. I’m sure that’s all it was.”
Sigurd cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. He was used to being the one who disarmed others with his charm and wit, not the other way around. But she had a way of unsettling him, throwing him off balance just enough to make him feel like a novice again.
She took her seat across from him, her smile softening. The butler, now recovered from his own surprise, quickly filled their glasses with the rich, local red wine Sigurd had ordered. It was delicious.
“Shall we?” Amelia said, raising her glass.
Sigurd mirrored her gesture, lifting his glass to his lips. “To the Glorious Revolution.”