Book 2 Chapter 15: Not April Fool's Day

Sam

April 1, 1787, Realm Time/July 2, Earth Time, Palermo, Sicily

"I'm sorry I didn't open with it, but have you received any notifications about your minion lately?" Sam asked.

"A short one, about a week ago," Eliza said. "It said the bond was broken. Frankly, this minion thing is not for me. He can fly on his own."

"He's dead," Sam delivered the bad news in one go. "Isolde too."

"What? How?" Tristan and Eliza blurted at the same time.

"Is this an April Fool's joke? It's not funny," Dorian said.

Shit, I forgot it's the First of April...

Sam looked into Dorian's eyes. "I'd do anything for this to be an April Fool's joke. They were escorting—"

"I know the mission. What happened?" Tristan said.

"According to the Swedes, Old Believers from a militant sect ambushed them. They escaped flying with a blimp. The Russians think the Swedes did it. The interim government imprisoned Catherine's heir and declared war."

"Old Believers?" Caterina said, with a certain 'who the hell are those peasants I never heard of before?' intonation.

"The Russian Orthodox Church had its own reform in the mid-seventeenth century," Sam said. "The Old Believers refused to budge, if I got it right from Wikipedia. They argued over whether they should make the cross sign with two or three fingers, stuff like that. The Russians, in their ol' good tradition, burnt a lot of them to the stake, but they lit themselves on fire too. Because they thought crossing themselves differently was a sign of the Apocalypse."

"Form over function," Caterina said, eliciting a gasp of adoration from Tristan.

"It would take an army to kill Janosh," Eliza said, returning the conversation to the main subject, the murder. "He's a Vampire, with the same stats and perks I have. He leveled up very fast."

"He was beheaded, the heart cut out of his chest, and there was a fire nearby, meaning his heart and head were burned," Sam said deadpan.

"That's terrible," Eliza whimpered. "They were engaged..."

"And so young..." Pops said, his eyes overflowing with tears. It was the first time Sam saw him sad.

"Are you sure?" Tristan asked.

"Pretty much..." Sam sighed. "Take a look." He opened the screen and showed Tristan the image. A leaflet with a photo of the corpses, and a text underneath, in Russian originally, translated by his phone: 'So perish the fornicating murderous blasphemers and those who help them!'

"Show me," Eliza asked, but Tristan shoved her back.

"Don't look! They profanated the bodies."

"Oh, God," Eliza heaved, hand over her mouth, which meant she had caught a glimpse nevertheless.

"This was plastered in thousands of places all over Sankt Petersburg and Moscow. One of Glitter As Gold's spies took a photo, made a report, and Glitter sent it to me," Sam said.

"And are we supposed to believe this is the Raskolniks' work?" Tristan sneered.

"With Renegades' help, of course."

"Who is Glitters?" Caterina asked.

"One of the Transylvanians' triumvirs: The Kingling, Mother Hen, and Glitter. Their nicknames were a bit different on Earth, but close enough. They rebelled against Austria and won by using plagues and poisonous gas. Anyway... Glitters says that, back when the Renegades arrived in Transylvania, there was a very secretive Bolshevik group that kept apart because they didn't like the Kingling's anarcho-libertarian ideas."

"I can only imagine how much worse history would have been if he were a nihilist," Eliza sneered.

"It's a joke; the Kingling is a genocidal maniac anyway," Dorian explained.

"If so, he would be dead," Saint-Georges interjected. "Bonaparte was in Transylvania at that time, and he would have taken matters into their own hands. He holds the Kingling in great esteem."

"And this group is responsible for the murders?" Tristan asked. "Do you have names or descriptions?"

"No. There were about a hundred of them, and once their ideas were rejected, they just left. Heading north. The Triumvirs assumed they went to Poland, but with this..."

"Pops, Dorian," Tristan raised his voice. "I'd go to Russia myself, but my job is to protect Donna Caterina. Take Cloudy and go investigate this matter. I'll pay your fees myself."

"You think this old monk is a turtle's egg?" Pops said. "No money."

"Same," Dorian said.

"If possible, bring the bodies back for a proper catholic ceremony," Tristan said.

"Take prisoners to interrogate," Sam said.

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"Duke Samuel, sorry to barge in, but you have to leave soon. Should I begin my presentation?" Saint Georges asked.

"Yeah... Justice will have to wait."

"I call it revenge," Tristan said.

"Knight Saint Georges is a famous fencer, musician, and general—"

"Only captain," the knight said.

"—and brings a fresh perspective. Now that we're allies, kind of, Lafayette sent him to help us, and guess what? It took only a day. They have fast blimps already," he pronounced the next words with clenched teeth. "And combustion engines."

"Wow..." Caterina said.

All eyes turned toward the Frenchman. Handsome, albeit in his early forties, his light golden-brown skin displayed his mixed race, his mother a black slave, and the father a rich landowner. Maybe to compensate for the prejudices he had endured, he was wearing a short wig, despite the Realm being on the verge of moving away from that fashion. Every person who walked by in the hotel had stared at them since the moment they got out of the car.

"The Russian affair was also a surprise for the First Consul," Saint-George said. "Nevertheless, the world is a complex place. Problems were bound to happen. Anticipating the exact kind of trouble that will hit is impossible. What is not impossible is building layers of redundancy, shock-absorbing, self-adaptable structures.

"First, Bonaparte and Lafayette realized that it's not the genius plans that matter, but finding the right people to implement them. As a result, they recruited the best marshals we knew from your history books, along with some new ones. France is controlling a dozen armies, all over the world, each with the best command. The same procedure was extended to every possible domain.

"Second, we implemented meritocracy. Anyone, of any status, can serve their country and be rewarded for it.

"Third, understanding how to use magic in war."

"Have we missed something?" Eliza asked.

"Oh, boy, we did," Sam nodded.

"Understanding the demographic segmentation. Among the first things Lafayette and Bonaparte studied, when they got access to future knowledge, were marketing and social sciences."

"Bly me," Dorian gasped.

"Take the current situation of the magic Orders, for instance. The First Order is dominated by men, the Second is evenly split, and the Third has mostly women. Why? Because magic appears around the age of fourteen, and our current society imposes its idiosyncrasies by then. It is what it is."

"For now," Eliza said.

"Yes, mademoiselle, for now. In both segments, the poorer the magic user is, the more he uses magic to advance his social mobility. Men become either guards, bounty hunters, or bandits; women become entertainers. Bards, dancers, actresses, or... Some jobs are not worth mentioning in the presence of ladies," he bowed toward Eliza and Caterina.

"Whores?" Pops asked candidly.

"In the middle classes, both men and women tend to become doctors, or merchants, or work in the administration. Second Orders have a more diversified range of occupations. Military, mostly, ranged damage dealers."

"We know that," Eliza said, wiggling the tip of her shoe.

"And the upper class is prone to adventurous endeavors. They enlist in the military, many becoming high-ranking officers; others turn into explorers, scouts, inventors, and engineers. Some use their skills to manipulate others, such as politicians, swindlers, and assassins. The missing piece is coordination. What good is a First Order officer if their subordinates cannot keep the pace? A scout who cannot report their findings in time?

"In short, Bonaparte came up with the same idea you implemented with your Chaos Company. Grouping people with complementary skills to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. From manufacturing to spying and sabotage, these teams made the difference. The pay is significant, but it's well worth it."

"Is it? The Orders are not much stronger than ordinary people," Tristan said.

"Our Orders," Sam said. "The Realm's ones had many more years to train. Remember the Tamer?"

"In short," Saint George said, repeating himself, "Bonaparte's recommendation is to start recruiting Orders, and make them work together. You," he gestured over the room, "as the tip of the spear, the Orders as the handle, the Outworlder warriors as the shield, the Realm soldiers as the fortress behind."

"I think he's talking combined arms," Sam said. "He brought a manual, and the few Earth officers we still have in our ranks said it makes sense."

"Truth is, we could use more people," Tristan said. "Bigger teams, better chances. Look what happened to Isolde and Jan," he grimaced. "God rest their souls..."

"God rest their souls," Saint Georges repeated. "I will work with your officers, and they will start recruiting and training about a hundred Orders, as a test."

"As soon as we deliver the news about me being their duke," Sam said.

"You're not holding a vote?" Eliza gasped.

"Nope. That would lead to chaos, and chaos to war. Outworlders will have a choice: if you don't like it, return to Earth. We'll buy back their businesses if that's the case. As for the local authorities, we had contacts with most of them, and they're happier with a duke. The changes are minimal; cities still have great autonomy. There's a centralization of foreign affairs and defense. For this, Saint Georges' advice is most useful."

"To the victors go the spoils," Eliza said. "Long live the Duke."

"Long live the Duke," Tristan and Saint Georges said seriously, oblivious that she was sarcastic, a thing Sam didn't miss.

"There's only one more topic I want to address," Saing-Georges said.

"I'll write them a memo," Sam interjected. "We have to go."

"There are still five minutes," Saint Georges insisted.

[Sam]: Whatever you hear, don't laugh.

"This is about how to ensure a continuation of strategies and good politics," the knight said. "The solution is to bring game and LitRPG culture into real life, ensuring a line of succession. In one world: a dispensation for certain leaders to have Harems."

The women's bodies stiffened. If Eliza had a tail, it would have raised up, announcing an attack. Caterina's mouth curved downward, her upper lip rising while the nose creased, and her left shoe started to tap on the floor.

"And do you have such a group of paramours, dear sir?" Eliza asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

"No, mademoiselle," Saint Georges replied sternly, straightening his back.

Caterina turned her eyes toward Sam. "It might not be a bad idea, Samuel. I could introduce you to some of my cousins. Countryside beauties, a bit of mustache, wide hips, good stock, could carry an ox. I can imagine what a healthy offspring they'll produce."

Samuel choked. He had not expected sarcasm from her, and most of all, not an attack on him. Then, he remembered she had looked at her phone as soon as he had made the presentations, probably searching for Saint George. His mother had been a slave; thus, the knight's birth was the result of a forced relationship. Caterina had chosen another target, sparing him the humiliation.

She's a smart lady.

"And what about us, women?" Eliza asked. "Should I take more than one husband to entertain me? How would you like to be a part of my harem, Chevalier?"

"She's teasing you," Dorian said. "Just tuck your head into your shoulders and accept the beating. This is not a fight you can win."

"Shut up, Greek Chorus," Eliza frowned. "Why do you feel entitled to comment on everything?"

"You cannot defy fate. In one day, Jehu had seventy sons of Ahab executed in a single city," Tristan said almost at the same time.

"He went to a Jesuit school," Eliza said, because Caterina was looking at Tristan with widened eyes, evidently impressed.

"Why do you feel the entitled to comment on everything?" Dorian said.

"And look at the Turks, how brothers kill each other for the throne," Tristan finished.

"I was referring to a polyamory based on common friendship," Saint George said. "I have a brochure—"

"If you value your life, it's time to go," Sam declared before the knight managed to search his pocket, grabbing the man by the elbow and darting out of the room.