Sam
October 13, 1786, Realm Timeline, Austria, near the Morava River
Minutes after entering the hunting grounds, they encountered a slave caravan. The serfs squeezed themselves together to let the carriage pass by. Their shackles were tied to a central rope, floating three feet above the ground—something Sam had never seen before. Very few were in good shape; all were tired, some hobbled, their ankles twisted by the rough trail, full of bumps and holes.
"Faster!"
The slave handler, a mage, whipped the back of a young girl, fourteen at most. She curved over herself to protect the toddler she carried. A younger sibling, or maybe her own child. On the seat next to the Sam, Eliza retched and balled her fists so hard the knuckles went white.
"Pull over," Sam yelled, preventing her from protesting against the whipping. He also put his hand over hers, a small gesture of comfort.
"We're almost there, Your Excellency," the coachman said. A young man, fit, brown-haired, with lively eyes, in a dark blue and gold Imperial livery coat.
"I said pull over. Now!"
Seconds later, the coach stopped on the right side of the road. Samuel waited for the slave column to pass, then opened the door and descended first, offering his arm. Eliza grabbed it, wobbling a little on her feet. Once down, she straightened her posture and took deep, rapid breaths.
"Your Excellencies, you can go water the roses; I'll look away," the young man waved his hand toward the copse behind the couple.
Eliza tilted her head. "What?"
"I'm sorry, milady, I forgot you're not familiar with our way of speaking. I think your people call it doing the first number," the coachman said.
"We don't need to relieve ourselves," Sam said. "We feel sick seeing slavery. For us, it's an abomination."
"Ah… Don't worry, Your Excellencies. "There's nowhere on the Realm that serfs are treated better than on Austrian lands," the youngster said dismissively.
"Except in the lands where they're free," Eliza muttered under her breath.
A simple roll of eyes was all that Sam deigned to offer for an answer. The convoy had moved a few hundred feet away, and the distance made it look smaller than it was. Samuel counted a hundred slaves and thirty guards armed with muskets and bayonets. The latter's numbers baffled him. A dozen would have been enough.
The road descended the slope toward the castle, lying half a mile further. Count Futak's hunting lodge. Lawns in front, or rather meadows, and stables in the back. Forests everywhere, with rust on their leaves.
It would be better to use the chat, Sam thought. More privacy.
[Sam]: Setting the talks here instead of Vienna and meeting the caravan on our way was no accident. Futak wants to show the nobles still held the power. They won't accept the reforms.
[Eliza]: Then we won't help them develop their industry; it's as simple as that.
[Sam]: Yeah, but our mission is to get a deal, no matter…
His focus faded away, replaced by anxiety. There were many more people better suited for the job than him. Why the Seer, their predictive AI, had insisted that the Council send him was a mystery. Eliza, he could understand; she had a way with people. But him?
She fondled his shoulder, stirring a pain. The shot they had taken a week prior was bringing itself to his attention.
"We should go," Eliza said.
"Yeah, let's go over with it," Sam sighed.
Ten minutes later, they were parked in front of the central staircase. The Emperor and his wife exited and waited at the top of the stairs. The servants took the luggage, and the carriage left. A majordomo advanced and stretched his hand. Sam gave him a printed note.
"The Outworlders' Envoys, Countess Erzsebeth de Lavalois and Samuel the Samurai, representing the Protectorates of Bohemia, Moravia, Slovakia, and the Krakow Republic," the majordomo read aloud. Stepping up briskly, hand in hand with Eliza, Sam bowed, while she curtsied.
"There's no need for such old-fashioned manners," the Emperor said, hugging Samuel and patting his back. The Empress offered Eliza a handshake.
[Eliza]: Really?
[Sam]: Copying Outworlder culture is cool around here.
"Thank you for the warm welcome, Your Majesty," Sam said, feeling awkward, as the hug was still going on.
"Don't mention it," the Emperor patted Sam's back a second time, releasing him. "Joseph will do."
"If you insist… err… Joseph. I'm Sam, and my…err… wife goes by—"
"Liz," Eliza curtsied anew, after elbowing Sam discreetly.
"How was the trip?"
"It went as well as possible," Sam said. Considering what you call an Imperial Highway is a dirt track full of potholes.
"I hope Tristan made a good impression."
"I beg your pardon?"
"The young man driving the coach. One of my personal bodyguards. He volunteered because he hadn't seen Outworlders from close by before. I hope he didn't bother you with too many questions."
"All was fine, Your Majesty."
"I'm glad to hear it. Come. The snacks are ready."
"Maybe we should change?" Sam asked. "We're a bit dusty."
"Nonsense. It's an informal dinner."
Informal, the Emperor's clothes were, by local standards. However, their price, jewelry included, would have been enough to buy a family home in a good neighborhood back in the US. Or maybe a full neighborhood.
Offering Eliza his arm, the Emperor went ahead. Sam was supposed to follow, and he did so, with the Empress at his left arm. The woman was still young and pretty, which meant a little plump per the local standard, but her eyes were tired, showing concern. There was a bump in her waist; she was pregnant.
"Will you help us?" she whispered.
"If it's in our power," Sam said, trying not to show his disappointment. The situation was bleak if he was asked to help in the first seconds after arriving.
A servant opened the doors for them, and two maids advanced, carrying a basin and a pitcher with water. They washed their hands and were offered towels, then the help disappeared, only to be replaced by others who brought food.
The early dinner was served in a central lobby, an inner, covered courtyard, with the roof of stained glass letting in the sunset, surrounded by balconies with wrought-iron railings. There were about twenty more guests, all French and Hungarian nobles. Refugees. That said a lot about the matters the Emperor planned to talk about.
The Hungarians ignored protocols, courtesy, and common sense. They addressed the Kingling's Rebellion even before the soup was finished, insisting that the Outworlders were obliged to help them, because, after all, it was their harmful ideas that had inspired the serfs to take arms.
On the other hand, the French were charming, showing little of their worries and making great conversation. Many of them had thin red ribbons around their necks, a tribute to their relatives who had met their end under the guillotine.
Eliza was the liveliest of all the guests, laughing with a crystalline laughter and bringing up the latest fashionable operas or ballets. On the other hand, Sam was struggling to stay awake. Traveling by horse carriage for hours was a first and extremely tiring. He was hating his assignment more by the minute.
The delicious cake and coffee at the end revived him enough to enjoy it fully, even if the brandy was too sweet. Sam had a bottle of whiskey in his luggage and promised himself to enjoy a pour before going to bed. A few crackling noises started to creep into his ears. The noise grew in intensity, accompanied by bursts of light.
"You arranged for fireworks?" Eliza winked at the Emperor. She had been flirty all night. As planned.
"I don't think so," Joseph said, slightly frowning.
"That sounded like gunshots." Sam put the fork down slowly, patting his hip instinctively for a sword that wasn't there.
The next second, the young coachman burst through the door, slamming it against the wall. He was panting, bleeding profusely from a cut in his shoulder, near the neck. There was a second of silence, then the murmur of whispers, akin to the waves of the sea.
"What the bleep?" Sam asked. It was not the brightest question, but he had been taken by surprise, and he was tired and half-drunk.
"What's going on, Tristan?" the Emperor asked.
"Rebels, Your Majesties!" the young man screamed. "They tried to ambush us, but I noticed something was suspicious. They talked with an accent."
"What the bleep are you talking about?" Sam snapped. The story didn't make any sense.
"It's the caravan guards," the young man said, grabbing a napkin to press over his wound. "Them, the Mage, and the hunting master. They're fighting our guards, and they're winning. You need to escape."
Futak's involved, Sam realized. Their host was nowhere to be found, having left discreetly minutes ago.
One of the Hungarian women brought up a ring to her lips. Eliza thrust her hand and grabbed her wrist before the other swallowed the contents.
"Poison?"
The woman nodded, shivering. "It's the rebels!"
And all of a sudden, Sam's boredom vanished, replaced with thethrill. Fighting, it was what he was good at, and the higher the adrenaline and the stakes, the better. His eyes widened, the corners of his mouth raised up, smirking in anticipation.
"It's not over until the fat lady sings," he said resolutely. "If worst comes to happen, die fighting, sword in hand… Correction, butter knife in hand," he frowned, looking around. "Does any of you have a real weapon?"
Everyone shook their heads, their eyes weighing him, expecting the miracles Outworlders were supposed to perform.
"We have crossbows for small game in the Hunting Master's quarters," the Empress said in a low voice. "It's behind the barracks."
"Forget it…"
[Sam]: Liz, has your Interface set in already?
[Eliza]: Yep, but I didn't have the time to test it. You think this is why the Seer sent us here? It anticipated the attack?
[Sam]: Probably. How many can you enhance?
"One," Eliza said aloud.
"Only one?"
"Not my fault!" she groaned. "It is what it is. It's one."
"Do Joseph."
Eliza moved and whispered something in the Emperor's ear. Joseph's back straightened, his face pale.
"I'd rather die," the monarch said blandly.
"As you wish," Sam replied in the same deadpan tone. "I need my sword. It's in my luggage."
"The guest rooms are upstairs," the Emperor said.
"I won't allow you to harm His Highness!" the young coachman yelled, interposing himself in front of the Emperor.
"Stand down, Tristan!" the Emperor yelled. "This is my decision to make."
The kid thinks this is about offering the monarch a swift death.
"Idiot!" Sam slapped the youngster's forehead faster than the other could defend with his hands. "You got it wrong. The rebelsmust capture Joseph alive."
"Why?" Tristan asked.
"It will buy you time," Joseph said.
"Exactly," Same said. "They'll torture him at length, as they do. That will keep them busy. Meanwhile, you and the rest take the back exit and take the ferry across the Morava. I'll stay behind to take some heat from your heels."
"I'll stay too," Eliza said.
"I work better solo. Go with them."
"Tristan! Protect the Empress with your life," the Emperor said, squeezing the young man's unhurt shoulder.
"Y-yes, Your M-majesty," the young man sobbed.
After a couple of brief hugs, Eliza and the rest hurried away, with her opening the way and the coachman in the back, a short blade in the right hand and a pepper silver box in the left—for whatever reason. The Empress was crying.
Hard times, these are. Fuck, I'm Yoda thinking… Never mind.