He made an attempt to ignore just how many times he’d considered doing it anyway.
Cars were not exactly rare in this part of town, where most residents had money to waste on such antiquated vehicles. They were exceedingly difficult to maintain in the long term—as were their asphalt roads, really—and even the cheapest of modern alternatives outperformed them.
Roland hated cars. They were noisy, smelled like someone hallucinated leather couches before 3D-printing them, and had been the leading cause of death in too many countries to count prior to their fall in popularity. Hell, when he’d been young, the movement for the transition towards more sustainable methods of transportation had been so prevalent that he’d been convinced they’d be eradicated completely, perhaps with some exceptions for those held by collectors.
Because fuck cars.
He’d rented this one regardless, because walking here was not an option—the inane neighborhood didn’t even have sidewalks, and Roland knew better than to walk on the street ever again.
He’d had to deal with quite the legal headache the last time he’d smashed someone’s windshield with his cane.
He’d actually been aiming for the head behind the wheel, but that just sort of got in the way. This generation was genuinely just full of whiners—if they were so fond of their overpriced car glass, maybe they shouldn’t nearly run into old men minding their own business.
The coffee wasn’t helping, not that it ever did. Roland yawned before sipping it again, lowering the bottle into its cupholder.
He’d made sure to rent a car with a rearview camera, at least. His neck just wasn’t what it used to be, and craning it back to keep watch over the home as he staked it out.
More than once, Roland considered napping then and there. The only thing that kept him from giving into that temptation was the likelihood that he’d miss the caretaker leaving if he did as much. From what the P.I. told him, the window between visits should be wide enough for him to squeeze in comfortably, but there was no reason to risk it.
Granted, this was also his first attempt—he could always try on the next day, once he was better rested.
Nah, Roland shook his head within the privacy of the car. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could go to sleep without concerns over the snooping he’d left undone. Another yawn later, he found himself blinking, idly trying to stretch his eyelids. Why did this car’s seats have to be so comfortable? He was almost—
The sight of movement by the corner of his eye snapped Roland out of his daze. He could see the door had opened, his view of the house’s balcony clear on the screen.
Rubbing his eyes, Roland stretched as best as he could within the confined space, ignoring the creaking of his bones—it had either been that or he’d hit the dashboard a bit too roughly.
He watched her go, then. The camera quality was far from great, but it was clear enough. He saw a woman with a tight bun and some type of uniform walking down the stairs and into a car, something reflective in her hands that might have been keys.
Who the hell uses keys anymore? Roland scoffed. Even the piece of junk he’d had rented worked by connecting to his phone. The woman must have been clinging to the past—and she looked young enough that it couldn’t possibly be a past she’d even lived through.
Younger people with vintage tastes had always confused him.
Once he was sure he had waited for long enough, Roland shut the car off and—cane in hand—began his slow walk to the house. It was a tedious walk despite the short distance—despite all his precautions to avoid being watched, he couldn’t resist the urge to look around after every single step.
Standing before the door, he did not ring the digital bell—it’d been disabled, after all—instead knocking only once.
“It’s unlocked,” a raspy voice told him from within.
Roland wasted no time entering the home and closing the door behind him with gloved hands. It smelled of potpourri in here—something that would have been nostalgic had the sight of Martha not made a knot out of his stomach.
She looked old, and that opinion was coming from someone who was a supercentenarian himself. Her pale skin would have had more in common with the bark of a bleached tree than with his own, and her eyes looked lost, her hair missing entire chunks.
They had been acquaintances at most, in the sense that Roland had even known Thurmond’s father in passing—an inevitability given his vocation—but he could not shake his disgust at seeing her like this. Money could buy you years, nowadays.
Someone clearly had little desire to buy many more for her—that she was willing to go along with this made much more sense now.
“Zamacuco,” the decrepit woman croaked the greeting out without fanfare. “I was told to expect you.”
No need to waste time on platitudes, then. “And I was told you had something for me.”
“I do, yet I’m surprised you didn’t start by asking me why I haven’t given a statement,” Martha noted, her full gaze still off in the distance. “That’s where most go to lately, anyway. Even the man you had speak with me.”
“Does it matter?”
That seemed to catch the woman off-guard, her eyes snapping to him, wide. “How could it not?”
“While it could be a gesture of goodwill, I’ll be blunt with you—the families wouldn’t care. Your silence can be telling, but what would you do if you did speak? Apologize for giving birth to him?” Roland countered. Perhaps more than he intended to show of his real views slipped through. “Anything you say will be more than anyone uninvolved should be expected to say, yet insufficient for anyone who wants to be placated.”
She stared at her guess with unblinking intensity the moment he finished speaking—Roland was already going through mental contingencies on how he might change the topic by the time Martha even moved again.
“I suppose you are not wrong,” Martha nodded slowly. She produced a shimmering card from the pocket of her flannel gown. “I cannot promise you that he kept everything of importance there—but I am certain he kept at least some.”
“I reckon even a tenth of your son’s paperwork would be enough to bury him, in truth,” Roland mused.
“I’ve grown convinced he can barely read,” Martha scoffed. “Mark my words, that none of this would have happened, had I been the one they gave custody to. But I cannot change the past, and it has been so long now. No use crying over spilled milk, is that how the saying goes?”
“Yes. But you would hold that stance even when speaking of your child?” Roland raised an eyebrow. He would never complain over her cooperation—and enough evidence backed it being genuine that he chose not to suspect her of acting duplicitously here—but he was quite curious.
“Blood comes with no obligation of love,” Martha countered, her lips twisting into an ugly smile. “You must surely relate to that better than most could.”
“That, I do,” Roland agreed as he reached over to take the card from her. He examined it—the gleaming chip on its surface was the real deal.
For the briefest moment, he wondered whether he would do the same were their roles reversed—had Yoland’s mother been to blame for so much loss of life, could he have brought himself to pull strings to ensure things got even worse for her?
That question lasted him only a moment—of course he would, he absolutely would. But unlike Thurmond Thompson, his daughter was long dead.
“Have you had word of the rescue mission?” Roland asked as he approached the door. The crew responsible for it had been quite tight-lipped about it so far, but they might have let something slip to the CEO’s mother, even if they were estranged.
“Only that they have reason to believe his survival is all but confirmed,” Martha shook her head. “It was not a development I expected, at this point.”
“Did you hope he was dead?”
“Maybe.”
Roland nodded, and left it at that. “I’ll take my leave now. May our next meeting be under better circumstances.”
“May we never meet again at all.”
“Sure, sure,” Roland waved her off—the passage of time had made him forget how much of a bitch she was.
As he returned to the rented car, he shook his head.
If he was to give his grandson the revenge he had promised, there was still much work to be done.
Johann fon Tō was the closest thing to a tracker to be found within the Capital. A lesser son of a lesser noble, he had always found himself believing circles and greater nobles alike dubbed him Tō hlāford not out of respect, but because he was the only Tō they knew.
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Yet here he was—given a task by the Prince and Second themselves. The men in his company, he could have gone without. Four fellow nobles and two men presumably present due to their ties with the Crown. The first, he knew as Achim, the city’s overseer in all but name.
He hadn’t the faintest clue as to who the last man was.
As for the nobles, Tō had so far gotten by. Tempal hlāford had introduced himself unprompted, while two others answered to the call name of Gunther. “I must thank you again, Master Joshua.”
Tō wasn’t about to ask for the name of the young man’s house, not when every single person in attendance appeared intent on assuming everyone else could make their identities out by default. Still, Master Joshua gave him a sharp look. Tō could imagine the petty thoughts going through the young man’s head. ’How come you get to be called Lord in front of our betters?’
He certainly seemed the type to waste breath on something so trivial, though the twisting of his expression as Tō returned the young man’s quill had him wishing he were within the privacy of his own quarters. At least then, he could afford to laugh.
With the sigils inked, he hung the parchment out to dry. Tō’s
Jokes about overspecialization on the upper echelons of society were common enough, but it hadn’t been until the overseer contacted him with claims that he was the closest thing to a proper seeker they could find, that he realized just how ridiculous it was.
“For how much longer shall we dally?” Tempal hlāford asked. His hat was topped by a garish display of taxidermied birds, no doubt an heirloom from the times when trade with the surface was possible—birds were rare beyond measure down here. “The boy’s trail goes colder by the second, and we have yet to move. Surely, you know that?”
“When you need to take more than one portal to a destination beyond a single portal’s range, do you ask the mages on your first stop ‘are we there yet’?” the remaining stranger looked over his shoulder to meet the Lord’s gaze. “Because you strike me as the sort who would do that.”
“Men, please keep things civil,” Achim declared—he earned himself a handful of glares from the nobles in attendance. That they reacted so affronted to being told to behave told Tō all he needed to know about what working with them would be like.
“The making of maps is a complex matter, and I confess, never before had this been asked of me,” Tō explained, ignoring the brief argument. It was an oversimplification of how his Skills functioned, but he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting what he did for a living in front of these people. “I would normally be commanding this to make me a map to lead to an artifact or place of interest—I am now asking it to lead me to a person instead. Don’t ask me to predict how long it will take, when I do not have an answer for that myself.”
Tō kept his eyes on the parchment from that moment onward, watching the lines shift. He’d witnessed it enough times that the sight bordered on boring, but his tolerance for the type of inane arguments that could arise when their ilk were left without direction for too long was low enough as it was.
Better for them to assume they had to remain silent for him to work, Tō reasoned.
“So, what brings you here?”
Or not.
Through narrowed eyes, he snuck a glance to the men behind him. The stranger had chosen to engage one of the Lord Gunthers in conversation—and the Lord in question appeared suitably baffled. “Undoubtedly the same summons that brought you here. I am a hunter, and while I have no experience in the chasing of runaways, I can understand why I might be considered to join such an expedition.”
“Ah. Actually, my situation is different. I found myself on the receiving end of a notice from the circles, about how our contract would have to be suspended due to the current situation. I must admit the sender was most impolite, going as far as to suggest I should lend a hand if I had a problem with it,” the man said. He’d found himself a sitting spot on a tree’s widest roots, and lounged there, legs crossed at the ankles. “I have reason to suspect no one expected me to actually show up.”
Even Tō gave the man an odd look at that, but Achim merely sighed—perhaps the overseer was better appraised about the situation in general.
“Overseer,” Tō asked, tipping his head politely. His own rank was low enough that he saw little issue with showing deference to someone whose organizational position was of such importance. “A word, if you will.”
“Of course,” Achim returned the subtle bow and motioned for Tō to follow. Before they walked away, he warned the remaining men. “Ensure Tō hlāford’s work remains undisturbed.”
From an aperture on the wall of Achim’s makeshift office, he watched his would-be collaborators. Even within, plant-life thrived. At first, Tō had considered the Royal Forest an odd choice of a meeting location, but he now attributed that to how at home the overseer clearly felt here.
“Can you tell me anything about these men I am to work with?” Tō asked as Achim settled on his desk. “I confess I have little experience working with others in such a capacity.”
“I suspect telling you politics required their inclusion would do little to soften the blow,” the overseer actually laughed. “You’re familiar with the Gunthers—fon Blukn? and fon Liggjan. The former is a hunter, and the latter an outdoorsman. To my understanding, Liggjan hlāford’s strengths lie in herbalism and crafting. I would not expect him to be of much aid for your quest itself, but he may yet prove valuable for an expedition, in any context.”
“That is reassuring to hear,” Tō nodded—but the Gunthers had been the least of his concerns.
“Lord Heinrich fon Tempal is the boy’s guideparent—a choice I have overheard is cause for regret on the Second’s part, but you did not hear such a thing from me. The short of it is that he could not possibly bear to be excluded from the search for his guidechild, and we must bend over backwards to accommodate his presence.”
Oh, there is always someone like that. Every. Single. Time.
“The last man is Joshua fon Burgī, youngest child of Burgī hlāford. He’s no one of particular importance, but he’s been vying for an apprenticeship under Liggjan hlāford at his father’s behest—I can only presume his efforts have paid off, given how the man brought him along.”
There was something oddly vindicating about learning that, for all his clashes with the young man had been instigated by Joshua himself. Still, Joshua fon Burgī had been the only individual at the Core Integration stage present, and Tō had understandably found himself doubting his capacity accordingly. “And the man who claims the circles suggested he come here?”
Achim groaned immediately, as if by instinct. “It’s probably true, that explanation of his. Do not make any ‘suggestions’ in jest to him—not ever.”
That certainly piqued Tō’s curiosity, and he raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Aitel is what we would call a well-administered prick, pardon my language. You can trust him to get the job done, but don’t make the mistake of relying on him for any bridges you wish would remain unburnt.”
“Is he at least qualified to contribute to the search?”
“Not even the Devils know,” Achim coughed. “But I would consider it likely. Spite fuels the man, but it’s difficult to find faults with what he delivers. If he’s getting involved, he must believe he can at least achieve something. But I reiterate, make no mistake—the man is incendiary. Assign him to a task that requires as little interaction with the rest of your team, if you can manage.”
“And he has to come along?” Tō frowned. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of including him, now. For the high nobles, the miracle had occurred that they could at least somewhat justify their presence.
By his own admission, the other man had simply decided to show up.
“No,” Achim admitted, but he didn’t stop there. “You could tell him to leave or stay behind. Good luck getting the man to heed that, though.”
“I confess that is odd to me,” Tō’s scowl deepened. “If he is commanded to leave, he must.”
Tō would have loved to say he’d never abuse his power over the common folk—but for something like this, he was perfectly willing to give the man an order as his better.
Yet Achim simply shook his head. “He is not Grēd?cavan, and will take any chance to remind you of that.”
Now, Tō was baffled. “Is he not still subject to our laws?”
“Again, you could try telling him that, but good luck getting him to heed it. His daughter is a Saint, and the Foremost at that.”
Oh, wave take me. That would certainly make matters difficult. Tō was used to nepotism taking the form of what was natural, for parents to understandably wish for their children to have a good start as they began to involve themselves in the world around them. But he supposed the opposite could be true—and with how Achim was phrasing it, he could only guess the daughter would likely shield her father from any repercussions here.
Not even the Second would dare challenge that lightly.
There was little else for Achim to tell Tō then, and while he would have loved to delay for an excuse to continue avoiding his travelling companions-to-be, the parchment tugged at him—his Skill required his attention.
As moved to return to where he had left it hanging, his stomach dropped—Liggjan hlāford was holding a translucent bag open while his apprentice dropped pieces of the parchment in it.
With dawning horror, Tō broke into a run, and he was shouting before he’d even reached the men. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Taking samples, obviously,” Joshua fon Burgī snapped. “You continuously deny to offer my master details on the material you use—the epitome of disrespect in his field. We had no choice but to take matters into our own hands.”
At least Tō himself was not the only one utterly at a loss—Blukn? hlāford was staring incredulously at the pair. “Are you two mentally challenged?”
Aitel glanced at the hunter disapprovingly, rising from where he’d sat. “Please refrain from using such terms as insults, you never know who you might offend—what these two are is morons.”
“You are awfully eager to intrude upon arguments between your betters, commoner,” Tempal hlāford snapped, as if this involved him.
The Foremost’s father did not skip a beat. “Heinrich, dear. You must be aware the stratification of society goes far beyond the mere divisions of common or noble, no?”
Tō found, all of a sudden, that he wished to be anywhere but here right now. And this would be his life for the duration of the expedition.
As a grown man, a cultivator halfway through the stages of the Formation of Tree Veins, Johann fon Tō wanted to bury his head on a pillow and scream.
“You will watch your tongue,” Tempal hlāford hissed out as he squared up to the man, “lest you lose it for not treating me with the respect I deserve.”
It was then that Aitel smiled, sticking his tongue out in the direction of the taller man. “Try.”
“Enough!” a voice shouted, and it took Tō a moment to recognize it had been his own. He pointed at the duo who’d carved a corner from his budding map. “If I find so much as one weakness to the effects of my map, I will demand of the Second herself that she see you punished.”
Liggjan hlāford and his apprentice at least had the decency to pale at that.
“Tempal hlāford, I understand the disappearance of your guidechild weighs heavily on you, but cooperation is key,” Tō continued as he retrieved his map—he accrued the smallest amount of [Toll] possible, and relief bloomed within his chest as he found it remained fully functional, if now missing a corner. “And you—Aitel, is it?—I understand you are a foreigner, and perhaps you were never educated on the matter. I must ask that you respect the men of this expedition, and use the proper title of hlāford when addressing us by the name of our House. Lord followed by our call name would also be acceptable.”
“I may not be Grēd?cavan, but I have studied your history. The title of hlāford comes from a time when safety was far from guaranteed, and despite outnumbering cultivators by far, it made sense for mortals to defer to a Lord whom the would serve in exchange for the protection they needed,” Aitel spoke with a level gaze. “I shan’t use such a title for any man whose only achievement or function is having a real Lord’s blood. Perhaps if you go and prove me wrong once we’re on the field I might reconsider, for only then could I know for certain if you are worthy of its use.”
“We are worthy by virtue of the very blood you seek to disparage,” it was Blukn? hlāford who spoke this time, surprisingly enough.
“Don’t—I beg of you,” Tō breathed out, trying to lock eyes with the Foremost’s father, whose mouth hung open—he had at least postponed whatever he meant to say in order to listen. “We will be travelling together for the foreseeable future, and we may not relent until the boy is found. No one benefits from infighting.”
“I only speak the truth, and when provoked.”
“No, you enjoy provoking others,” Joshua fon Burgī countered with a scoff. “Being respectful to your betters costs you nothing.”
It was strange to hear that coming from the young man—of all people—but Tō suspected he was simply doing what he could to push the spotlight off himself.
“Ah, your map still works,” Liggjan hlāford interjected. “Could I trouble you to give me another piece then? You were being far too dramatic in your refusals, we have proof of that now.”
Tō could help himself no longer—he screamed wordlessly, stilling the others.
The expedition in search of Theodosius fon Grēd?cava could not head out soon enough.