Priorities

Curator-J: You must come as soon as possible after finishing your remaining business in Bostkirk.

Curator-J: Otis wants to inspect everything. Accounts, roads, new equipment, the fields, wardens and their gear, reserve stores, and accounts.

She said accounts twice, which was unusual for the fastidious woman. Taylor was tempted to correct her until he remembered that tablet conversations were not secure. Anyone on the Estfold-West network could read them. Sensitive business was often enciphered, but those messages stuck out as obvious secrets.

Her real message was something she couldn't say openly, or put in a cipher that his father would see.

Legate-X: I understand.

Quomorong Station was packed with people. In addition to regular travelers, there was an influx of people from the failing province of Restoration. These weren't day-trippers or vacationers, but groups of people with wagonloads of possessions. Their mountains of trunks and crates clogged passageways, filled lines of baggage carts, overburdened carriages, and stymied the normal flow of people. Most of the immigrants were moving on, either changing trains to other provinces or taking coaches into Estfold. Only a fraction left the station on foot for the city. This first wave was the fortunate ones: people with somewhere to go and sufficient material goods to start over. The tail end of the exodus would be poorer and desperate: far more people with far less baggage.

Taylor got lucky and was able to buy the last first-class ticket on the southwest route for the day, departing in four hours. He took to the city streets in his Riverstone illusion, a waterfall running through the crowded city streets. It was hard to get around by carriage in the middle of the day, so he made better time on foot at enhanced speed.

When he arrived at the Merchant Guild, he made a point of carrying his sword to advertise his status as Legate so he could use the shorter line for officials. He withdrew a stack of fat Imperial Aurochs from his personal account, each one worth ten of the fingertip-sized small gold Eagles. An Aurochs could support a well-off family for a month, servants and all. His own living arrangements cost considerably less.

Unlike the township accounts or the one for his household, these were his personal discretionary funds. However, his legal guardian also had access to the account. It was a fine arrangement as long as that guardian was Curator Jane, but he couldn't count on Father being as trustworthy.

Leaving enough change in his account to keep it open, he ran the crowds again, this time to Arctown. Imperial Expeditionary Force uniforms were everywhere — fresh troops from Lampshire, Rossgnol, and Dimmik, all visiting the city's most famous quarter and killing a few layover hours on their way to Grisham's Wall. Their attitude was upbeat, excited about the coming adventure, and their chance to win honors and glory.

There were other soldiers around, too. They were an older, quieter lot in mended uniforms discolored with blood that never fully washed away, eyeing the newcomers with pity or contempt. The demobilized troops understood what awaited the fresh-faced fighters and knew any offered words of caution would be disregarded. Years ago, they had been the same when they first journeyed West to the wall.

Taylor was in Arctown to visit Dwergbank and deposit his cash into an account under his real name. With the Bilius d'Mourne name gaining too much notoriety, he wanted a more discreet way of doing business. Now, he was glad to have it, even if it meant he had to hand-carry cash between banks to keep the common link between accounts a secret.

That left Taylor with just enough time to visit his favorite used bookstore to buy a copy of Myths of Strength and inform the proprietor that she had shelved it wrong.

His head was a mess during the ride to Mourne. Taylor had too many new priorities to sort through and too many uncertainties about his father to make any plans. He slept poorly, read fitfully, and ended up not making any use of his time whatsoever.

Father left Mourne just days after his wife died while giving birth to his third child. Ten and a half years had passed, and Taylor was pretty sure the man had never planned to return. He supposedly had an estate in Restoration, but that was probably gone now. A decade of blood and hope was ending in abject failure. If Colonel Otis d'Mourne was a man of frustrated ambition, meeting his forgotten son could be painful for both of them.

On the other hand, it could be an opportunity to pick up what was left behind. Taylor allowed a five percent chance of the meeting going well.

When he got to Mourne, the town was going about its usual business, but Jane wasn't in her office in Town Hall. One of the town wardens couldn't wait to give him the news.

"Colonel d'Mourne has returned! He's waiting for you at the house." The man sounded happy about the new development. "It'll be nice to have your family back, won't it?"

"Stellar," Taylor replied with false enthusiasm. As soon as the warden's back was turned, he sent a message to Jane and got an immediate response.

Legate-X: "Should I come up?"

Curator-J: "Yes"

Taylor borrowed a horse from the wardens and rode to the house, where he found a line of carriages and several servants he didn't recognize moving trunks and crates. The colonel was traveling heavily, further evidence that he planned to stay. Taylor tied the horse to a hitching post, cleaned himself with magic, and, after considerable hesitation, traded his mask for a plain white one without the d'Mourne wyverns.

He was met at the door by a butler he didn't know, who directed him to sit in the lesser parlor with several townsfolk. The returned legate and his curator would see them all in due course. Taylor knew everyone present and gave them a tense nod for a greeting. Nobody wanted to talk, not with the new legate's servants so close. Taylor sat in his Riversone illusion as, one by one, the others called into the ground-floor office. The quarry foreman, chief orchardist (Alexis's father), miller, head warden, and the sub-curator who handled retail taxes all went in and came out in steady half-hour increments. They glanced at Taylor as they left the house, but didn't speak to him.

After the last person left, Taylor still wasn't called. Instead, a pair of maids he didn't recognize took a meal for five into the office. When he still wasn't called after that, Taylor relieved himself in the guest bathroom and checked his appearance. It was clear where this was going, now. He was out. He was nobody. Keeva Augberg had known it was going to happen days ago. What had she said? Life can change so suddenly. If you ever find yourself without a place to go …

He didn't need a place to go. He could make a home nearly anywhere. The only remaining question was how much humiliation the colonel would heap on his much-hated son before letting him leave. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to give the old man the satisfaction of running away. Taylor returned to the parlor to wait for the axe to fall.

Servants moved around the house, mostly on the second and third floors, putting away the family's possessions. Taylor could feel them in the master bedroom and wondered what they had done with all his clothes. The ground floor was mostly quiet, except for the foyer, kitchen, and stairs. His usual servants were nowhere to be found. The colonel had probably dismissed them first and foremost.

By the time the butler came for him, Taylor had his nerves in an ice-clad grip and his body wrapped in balanced enhancements. His goal wasn't to stay in the family. His goal now was to end what little relationship they had properly, with whatever dignity he could keep intact.

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There were five people in the room when he arrived. Father was at his desk, in his IEF officer's dress uniform. He had a few more wrinkles around the eyes than his portrait, and a lot more gray around his temples. His sash had gained another row of awards.

A young woman he recognized as his sister Cecilia sat on a couch next to, of all people, Kistur. Taylor's one-time sparring partner wore a uniform with lieutenant insignias and a few awards. He had grown six more inches in the year he was away, and didn't look at all like he was only thirteen. Beside him, his absurdly broad sword that doubled as a shield leaned against the couch. Curator Jane and a mystery woman sat on the opposite sofa. Nobody stood to greet him, and Taylor didn't attempt to sit in the one empty chair. He would give this man nothing to complain about. Taylor approached the desk, dropped his illusion, and bowed.

"Welcome home, Colonel d'Mourne. I am Bilius d'Mourne, acting proxy of Mourne Township." He offered his sword, in its original sheath, with both hands. He'd had to look up the proper ritual for the occasion. "The proxy's sword, sir."

The colonel took the sword and drew the blade partway to inspect the pitted surface. Coating the metal in plasma hadn't done it any favors. "What happened to your sword, Proxy?"

"I fought in defense of one of our citizens who has a class. The town's young Orchardist is studying with Maestro Nelis."

"Don't let a couple of kills go to your head. You owe the township one mithril sword, Proxy."

Taylor said nothing to that injustice. It would only invite an argument he couldn't win. Instead of giving it back, the colonel placed the battered weapon on his desk, another sign that Taylor's service to the town was finished. Without being asked, he retrieved the tablet and his warrant card from his satchel and placed them near the sword.

The colonel leaned back and spoke in clipped sentences. "This is the new situation. I have adopted Kistur as my son. He will marry Cecilia, and their oldest son will inherit my territory in Restoration. This lady is my wife." He gestured at the mystery woman, who was only a little older than Cecilia, "Blodwin d'Mourne. She will give me an heir for my ancestral township. I trust that makes things clear to you."

"You're saying there's no place for me in your family. If you intend to disown me, I won't contest it. I'm confident Curator Jane can prepare the forms quickly."

"All you have to do is sign." Bilius's father pushed three sheets of paper across the desk until they rested next to an inkwell and a metal-nibbed pen.

Taylor read the documents to ensure they were the same and contained no hidden clauses. By signing, he would give up his right to use the d'Mourne name, the money in his custodial account at Merchant Bank, all claims on future revenue from the township or the d'Mourne estate, and several other bulleted items he didn't care about. In return, the d'Mourne family held no claim against him from the time he was a member of the family. Not that Taylor owed the d'Mournes anything.

His hand hovered over the signature line. Part of him had hoped for more, and now it screamed. That's it? He shows up after ten years and kicks me out? Takes all my work and gets credit for it? Takes the money I earned? And I'm not going to do anything about it? I should do something!

I want to leave, he reminded himself. I have my money, thanks to Jane. He's giving me what I want, so I'm going to shut up and take it. Feel sorry for the people who are stuck with him. I'll be free, but they have to put up with this guy.

All sides of him agreed, What a shitty excuse for a father.

Otis d'Mourne's signature was already on all copies. Taylor forced his hand to the paper and signed. Jane signed as a witness, noted the event in the town's official log, and kept a copy. She passed one copy to Taylor and pushed the last to the colonel.

That should have been the end of it. But it wasn't.

Otis d'Mourne, a Commander, used two class skills simultaneously, both of them on Kistur, a Bastion. The old man wasn't going to let things end so easily.

"Kistur, we have a dangerous trespasser in our family home. Get rid of him. Be rough about it."

Several things happened all at once. Kistur stood and reached for his sword with an eager light in his eye. Otis smirked like a man about to vanquish a long-hated enemy. Jane dived at Blodwin and tackled her, causing the couch to tip backward and shield them. Cecilia looked disappointed.

Taylor was miles ahead of all of them. He entered the room ready for a fight and had ample warning before hostilities began. While Otis was sneering about trespassers, Taylor was silently casting Dragon Shot. Normally, he wouldn't dare to use it in his own house or so close to non-combatants. But the house wasn't his, and Kistur's class excelled at keeping damage away from nearby allies.

Taylor had all kinds of time. The spell took shape as a two-foot-long spear of pointed, spinning metal, and Kistur's eyes went wide with alarm as he realized he was moving too slow. Taylor kept feeding the spell more power to increase the shot's velocity until Kistur's hand nearly touched the hilt of his special sword, the sword that could protect him from almost anything. That's when Taylor hit him, square in the chest, with magic capable of killing wyverns.

The room filled with unbearable noise as Kistur disappeared, leaving a human-shaped hole in the wall … and the wall after that … and the wall after that. Only the meter-thick exterior walls of the mansion were strong enough to stop the hurtling Bastion. Kistur's momentum cracked the stone surface, and he sank to his knees, holding his head, momentarily out of the fight.

Otis drew his weapon, but far too late. Many class skills depended on line of sight, and with Kistur three rooms away, he had lost the Bastion's protection. Taylor activated Riverstone so his body couldn't give away his intent, then Sliced at the colonel's sword hand. Otis parried the magic attack with ease, and it gouged the ceiling. Rather than try again or attempt to overwhelm him with dozens of spells and hope to get lucky, Taylor grabbed him with a giant fist of force, pinning his arms to his body. It lacked Reginar's level of mastery, but it was good enough for Colonel d'Mourne, who struggled in vain to cut the magic with his weapon.

Taylor didn't wait to see his ex-father's reaction, but immediately set to pounding his head against the mansion wall, like knocking on a door, but with enough force to crack stone. He deserved it. For abandoning a child, for ignoring the good work Taylor had done, for every unanswered letter, every hateful thought, every act of malicious neglect, he deserved a thorough beating. And he could take it, too. As an IEF colonel, he was loaded with defensive accessories. One by one, they flared with mana and then died. A bracelet cumbled. His uniform jacket smouldered with failing enchantments. His epaulettes spun away from him like they were trying to escape. One of his medals blackened and its ribbon caught fire. When the man himself finally started to bleed, Taylor took it as a sign he was vulnerable and hit him in the face with Stun, over and over and over again until he sagged into unconsciousness. Then Taylor shot him a few more times. Finally, he threw the colonel aside like trash.

A wand appeared from behind the fallen couch, gathering unsteady mana. Taylor cut the magic implement in half with Slice.

"Stay down, new wife," he warned her, while taking up his abandoned sword. "Or this gets worse."

He aligned himself with the sequence of broken walls until he could see Kistur, at the far end of the house, staggering to his feet. Cecilia was still on the intact half of the couch, smiling faintly.

"You should move," he told the girl, while he drew the damaged blade and wreathed it in plasma. "And cover your ears. There's no Bastion to protect your hearing, this time."

She covered her ears and dove away from him.

"Bilius!" Shouted Kister from the opposite end of the house. "I'm … "

Taylor didn't care what Kister was, or what he was intending. He shot his ex-friend in the chest with a stream of plasma and filled the beam with lightning. The house felt like it would explode from contained thunder, and all the ground-floor windows on that side exploded out into the yard. Kistur was a mid-level Bastion, so he could take it. Probably. If not, Taylor wouldn't lose much sleep over it.

There was much screaming after the plasma attack, and the sensation of feet fleeing across wood floors upstairs. Stray bits of flaming cloth and paper had caught fire and were suspended in currents of scorching hot air. The far wall was blackened by heat and lightning. The house smelled of acrid destruction. Someone was screaming in the distance, but he couldn't hear properly.

After healing his, Cecilia's, Jane's, and New Girl's hearing, Taylor walked from room to room to where Kistur lay on the ground. It was the dining room, recently remodeled with larger, sunny windows overlooking much of the yard. Pity. Bonce had done such a great job on it, and now it was a wreck. Taylor barely got to enjoy it.

Kistur lay on the ground, among the broken glass and broken, smoking furniture. He had a hole in his uniform, right in the middle of his chest, exposing his sternum and ribs down to the bone. Taylor straddled the dazed soldier and sat heavily on his stomach.

"I regret everything I ever taught you." He put a bare hand against the man's exposed bones. "So I'm taking it back."

Taylor pulled, replacing some of the mana he had used with all that Kistur had to offer. It was easier that way. Without mana, Kistur's body couldn't fight the changes he was about to make.

He started with the wrists, shoulders, and lower back, swelling and reshaping selected joints so they would never be firm again. Then he worked on the nerves most responsible for carrying mana, especially those favored for use by the class system. He twisted some and ruined others. It was not an elegant job. In this life, he hadn't practiced healing very much except on animals, and he hadn't done this kind of permanent body shaping at all. It was dangerous, and there was every possibility that he was going beyond mimicking old age and was crippling Kistur for life. But that was better than letting the bully run wild with all the gifts he'd been given.

If he could rip the class out of Kistur's body, he would. But this would have to do.

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