Death After Death

Chapter 395 - Alone Time

Simon only lingered at the broken tower for a few days before he was sent back out on another mission. He got the distinct impression that this was a minor errand to separate him from his charge while they evaluated the boy. This rubbed him the wrong way, but he couldn’t simply refuse to go.

His goal this time was to explore a haunting near a shrine and ascertain its threat, which was interesting at least. That was the good news; the bad news was that it was right on the edge of Charia, which put his teeth on edge, considering there might be witches involved.

As Simon traveled east, he reflected on how much the boy hadn’t wanted to be separated from him. That wasn’t a surprise considering everything he’d been through in the last years. He was, however, surprised to find that he missed the boy as well. After half a day of riding in silence, he found he almost missed the boy’s constant complaints and questions.

Still, it was probably for the best. Charia was one of the regions with the most dangers that he knew of, and while a witch was unlikely to sneak up on him now that he could see their dark auras, he stood out just as much to them, for better or worse. They couldn’t see his bright aura, but his white cloak was just as apparent, and they might take umbrage at his existence.

Or they might steer clear entirely, leaving me in peace. He couldn’t say for sure. Both possibilities seemed equally likely.

He took a couple of days before he left to read up on what the Unspoken knew of the mountainous kingdom, but it was nothing Simon didn’t already know. While the Whitecloaks were eager to expand their sphere of influence into the region because of its reputation for monsters and witchcraft, they’d met with very limited success over the years thanks to the clannish nature of the people.

Simon was not at all surprised by that. He still remembered how communities rejected him even when he came to help with the outbreak of White Fever.

The only thing he did find that really interested him was a translation of the vampire legend that Freya had mentioned. It had led her to Castle Gravenstone in the first place. The tale was tragic, and much as she said. While it offered Simon nothing new, it did make him want to visit the place again, and he made a mental note to do that when he returned to level 33, regardless of what the point of the level actually was.

“If I wrote a book on my experiences in that life, I’d probably increase the amount that the Whitecloaks knew of the area tenfold,” he said to himself as he rode.

He’d be tempted to, of course, if not for the witchmarks. There was a very small jump between the Unspoken figuring out that technique and branding everyone with words of nullification. He could practically see it; a whole kingdom where magic didn’t exist in any meaningful sense. In his mind, there would be no better way to let the Murani conquer everyone.

Simon tried to think of a similar situation with gunpowder on Earth, but his memories were too hazy for that. He did recall that wherever the technologically advanced met the primitive, those who hadn’t yet mastered steel and fire were crushed. The same would be true here; it was just words of life stealing instead of steel.

Of course, there were other nonmagical technologies too. He could try to nurture those as well. He already was doing that a decade or two from now in Charia, which meant if he didn’t do something similar in Brin and Ionia, he might inadvertently cause new friction.

“Maybe I can discover the compass, or some other navigational aid to help the Ionian people,” he said aloud, knowing full well he knew very little about the sea or navigating it. “And Brin… I don’t know? Crop rotation?”

He knew the words, of course. In principle, he could draw what a more modern ship should look like, but in reality, none of his vague recollections mattered much. His lifetimes as an artist and artisan told him that much. Details mattered, which was why he’d had to invent the printing press from first principles. That much was easy; carve a bunch of identical letters, move them around, ink them, press paper against the ink, and then do it all again.

In the short time he’d been running his print shop, he and his workers had figured out half a hundred improvements to make the thing work better. He’d just have to figure out everything else in a similar way.

“Or just make a lot of money and hire smart people to figure some of it out for me,” he mused aloud. He spent a few miles then, imagining what that would look like. It came out in his mind like a cross between a monastery and a university, though to be fair, that was probably what early universities looked like.

That idea wouldn’t leave him, and that night, even as he made camp, he wondered how many decades or centuries it would take for a couple of hundred smart people to reinvent a computer or an automobile.

Even if he knew how to draw a car in great detail, he had no idea how one worked, so the best anyone could do was make a statue of the thing. He had no idea what was in gasoline, or gunpowder for that matter.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“One thing at a time,” he told himself before he started making a simple dinner.

The following day wasn’t much different. He stopped at a crossroads to ask directions and speak with a merchant who was obviously morally flexible, but Simon saw nothing that warranted any severe action on his part.

Even that wasn’t entirely enough to distract him from his previous thought. He spent hours just wondering if he could take the computer ideas as he understood them, and carry out the effective logic with runes. After all, he had no idea what a semiconductor was, except that it might involve silicone or copper, but he had conditional runes. Wasn’t that all computers were? Fancy conditional logic?

The dreaming sphere was probably something in that vein. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if it were a very basic magical computer. That was probably why he had so much trouble unraveling its workings.

If the Magi have magical computers, though, why haven’t they conquered the world already? He wondered.

He was still thinking about the Murani’s technological edge half a day later when he found a couple of armed men who didn’t read as bandits. They didn’t even draw their weapon when Simon approached, though they did try to charge him a toll of two shillings to cross.

“One for you, and another for your horse,” the man explained.

“For a bridge, I could easily go around?” Simon responded, pointing to the stream it crossed. A wagon would need this bridge, but men on horse or foot could just as easily go around.

“It would be an affront to the Count if—” the first man started to say, but the second one interrupted.

“Oh, leave that one alone, Matt, are you blind?” the other man said. “A man like that is not to be trifled with.”

The first man didn’t quite seem to get the hint, but when he noticed the color of Simon’s cloak, his eyes widened, and he apologized, but Simon ignored that. “By what right do you charge travelers a toll of this bridge?”

They might not be as murderous as highwaymen, but it would only take a dozen similar bridges to make most simple trade routes unprofitable in the neglected parts of Brin; this was the opposite of what people needed.

“Trust me, I’d be happier doing anything else too,” the second man said. “But if the count says we need to raise revenues well, who am I to say no? It’s not like anyone uses this damn bridge anyway.”

While they were off the beaten path, Simon was sure the road still got some use. It was in too good a shape to be entirely neglected. Instead of taking his wrath out on the man, Simon inquired where their lord resided and then headed that way. It was a day south of where he was supposed to be going, but it wasn’t as if the Unspoken micromanaged him, as long as he could explain his reasons; and visiting nobility in the neighborhood of his destination certainly qualified.

Simon wasn’t visiting Count Herschel because of hauntings. He was doing it because the man’s greed offended him enough to go a full two days out of his way to see what kind of asshole he was dealing with. He imagined another noble in the mold of Baron Raithwaite or Earl Greyden. Someone willing to betray his own mother if there was some silver in it. For once, though, Simon was wrong.

He knew that as soon as he shook the man’s hand. The count was past forty, with a sprinkling of gray in his short beard, but he had a bright smile and a brighter aura. Better still, he sought Simon out as soon as he heard there was a Whitecloak in town, which was a good indication that he had nothing to hide.

After a brief tour, they returned to the count’s manor, where he found a spartan dwelling that was more fort for the town of Warburg. The town had an ugly name for no obvious reason, given that the surroundings were about as idyllic as one would hope for, but the people were pleasant and in good order; Simon had trouble finding a bad egg among them, and their leader was no exception.

In fact, when he had dinner at the count’s table that night, Lord Herschel explained that he was raising money specifically to improve roads throughout his region, and he was doing so by charging those moving through its periphery. It was exactly the sort of thinking that Brin needed, and Simon almost donated silver to him on the spot.

“My county has no strong rivers or great ports,” the count explained. “Only an unfriendly neighbor, a forest or two, and endless rolling hills.”

He didn’t bemoan his fate, though. If anything, he seemed upbeat, despite making several jokes about how the real wealth of his people was measured in wool. Simon found he liked him, and when the time came, and the conversation turned to his business, he held nothing back, not that he had much to hold back. He had a place and the possibility of a ghost, but nothing more, which made the count laugh.

“A ghost, you say? Near the shrine? Well, that could be Elderlin or Banifsten, or three or four villages. The taxes from Talrinth are down, but I haven’t heard anything untoward,” he commented, stroking his beard. “I’ve other stories. Have you heard of the Bellghast? Or the tunnels that run beneath the old keep and Dunderlane? Now those are some real hauntings.”

Simon shook his head. “I haven’t, but I’d love to. Why not discuss them over a drink and a warm fire?”

The lord smiled at that, and the two of them stayed up until late in the night discussing ghost stories of his region and beyond. Simon still hadn’t found any evidence of the fey, but he was eager to learn more about undeath in all its forms, and took notes on a mirror as soon as he went to bed for the night.

Well, maybe not all its forms just yet, he thought, rubbing his neck and noting he had no self-destruct charm. That would be something he’d need to make before he investigated anything really serious. Still, if the count of the region hadn’t heard anything about where he was going, how bad could it be?

“It’s probably just a wild goose chase because I made someone look bad at the Tithe Pools,” Simon said to himself as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.