Contacting the Mage Tower would be even more dangerous. Archmage Damaes Serras, the master of the Mage Tower, was the magical equivalent of a nuclear warhead. Damaes was not the best-adjusted person and that was putting it mildly. In the second book, he turned a knight into a pillar of fire—the man deserved it—and then roasted bacon on a little stick while the guy burned to death. He didn’t eat the bacon. He just wanted to make a point.
The Archmage had to be avoided at all costs. If he figured out that I couldn’t die, he might spend the next couple of decades murdering me in creative ways to see how far he could push my resurrection powers. I had no desire to become an eternal fireball to satisfy Damaes’s intellectual curiosity.
Looking for a way home would have to wait. I needed to figure out a safe place to stay first.
Before I left the room, I’d dumped Lecke’s bag on the rug and counted my ill-gotten gains. The bag felt heavy, but most of the coins inside were dens. I had nine nomas in silver and another five in change, roughly five to six thousand dollars in terms of purchasing power. I could rent a modest room for a couple of months, buy some clothes, and feed myself, if I didn’t make any extravagant purchases. After that, I would have to earn more money.
I finished my tea and refilled my cup.
Robbing some scumbag every couple of months wasn’t an option. My inability to die was magical, but not the kind of skill that could result in meaningful employment. I hadn’t woken up in the body of a trained blademaster or a skilled mage, so I couldn’t take advantage of muscle memory and honed reflexes. I didn’t mind that part. Taking over someone’s body meant that person stopped existing. I hadn’t stolen anyone’s life. I wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else and lie to their family and loved ones. Whatever happened now would be my life alone.
I didn’t have any professional abilities valued by Rellas. Nobody would be impressed by my expertise in Google Docs integration or my mad driving skills. I was bad at sewing, slightly better at knitting, useless at weaving or embroidery, and too old to be accepted as an apprentice into any guilds or shops. I could make a mean fajita, but that was neither here nor there.
On the other hand, I could probably do more math, despite being appallingly bad at it by modern standards, than most of the educated people here. Fractions, a new superpower. If I busted out basic algebraic equations, I’d blow their minds.
No magic, no fighting, and no trade skills. But what I did have was knowledge. I knew things about this world and about its people, intimate things, secrets that could topple noble houses and upend politics. I could present myself to one of the power players in the city and dazzle them with my secret expertise.
The political landscape of Rellas was dominated by the Eight Great Families. They were wealthy landholders, each with their own personal army and unique brand of magic.
In Rellas, magic was a force shaped by two principles: knowledge and practice. Some people were born with a talent for it, and you either had it or you didn’t, the way some people in our world could smell ants and others couldn’t. That type of magic wasn’t hereditary, and it was rare. Anybody with a predisposition for it could become a gifted cleric or a mage, and if they studied and practiced, they could grow stronger and more powerful. The Temples and the Mage Tower constantly competed for talented recruits.
The magic of the Great Families was something else entirely. You couldn’t have it unless you were born into the bloodline. It was hereditary and limited in scope, but devastatingly powerful. When the Eight Families went to war, the world burned.
The Great Families had been playing musical chairs with the throne of Rellas for the last eight hundred years, and how long each dynasty lasted depended on how good they were at pitting the other seven families against each other. The latest royals, the Savarics, had raised political scheming to an art form, but they’d been growing less and less stable with each generation. Sauven Savaric, the current king, had been teetering on the edge of a full psychotic break for a decade, and the tensions among the Great Families were at an all-time high.
Because of this, my knowledge would be in high demand. But becoming a retainer would mean trusting my safety to a lord or lady, and I wouldn’t trust any one of these shitheads to pass me the salt at lunch. The crap they did to each other made your hair stand on end. I met Everard last night in passing for two seconds, and as cool as it was, he’d scared the hell out of me. And he wasn’t even actively evil, like Hreban, who would drown the country in agony.
I glanced across the balcony. Galiene and Hade were chatting quietly. Galiene smiled at something. She had probably kept me from dying again last night.
No, being an independent information broker was the way to go. I would need to keep a low profile and be very careful. This world responded to me. I tried to take Lecke’s bag, and he’d stabbed me. My actions had consequences. Once I started messing with things, Rellas would react to the changes I made. If I wasn’t careful, my information would become obsolete fast. I needed to be very selective about what secrets I sold, and as soon as I was able, I would need to hire people who would feed me new facts to compensate for the alterations to the storyline. Every change I made, even a minute one, endangered me. Especially a change involving the main players. Like Hreban.
Galiene smiled again.
In my head, I could see her in jeans and a sweatshirt, sitting at the next table at the Egg and Fork across from a little girl with the same blond hair. She would drink coffee from a big white mug, while her daughter, in a cute dress, nibbled on a pastry.
The safest, wisest thing to do was to sit on my information and make only the smallest alterations for my own benefit.
My plate was empty. It was time to go.
Several months from now that little girl and her mother would suffer and then die a senseless, horrible death. Because a self-indulgent sociopathic narcissist with delusions of grandeur felt like it.
Galiene had saved me from the streets. She didn’t expect anything in return. It had been a random act of kindness.
Fuck it.
I got up and turned left, walking along the balcony toward Hade and Galiene. Klemena followed me, hovering within reach. I stopped before their table. The two women looked at me.
The balcony was deserted, but for all I knew, there could’ve been people listening to us in the hallway or in the nearest rooms. I really wished I could’ve had this conversation in private, but the chances of getting Galiene alone were less than zero. In her place, I wouldn’t trust me enough for that.
I turned and looked at Klemena, then back at Galiene.
The queen of the Garden nodded, and Klemena backed away a few feet.
“What is it?” Galiene asked.
“You were kind to me,” I said.
“Don’t tell anyone, and we will be even,” she said.
