CH 19

Ten days passed since Varrell had started working for Stella, and still no signs of his storm—though, according to him, it was close. Stella had also half expected Apollo to round up his entire house to get revenge on her, but no signs of that either.

The Palpud Union, however, had attacked. It was supposed to be payback for the burglar incident, but Varrell made short work of the attackers. Unsurprisingly, Mace’s men and Beck had been completely useless.

“By the way, what happened to them after they were taken away?” asked Varrell.

“I hear the Company returned them to sender,” said Stella. “But not before making sure they’d never be able to fight again.”

“Well, they were asking for it. They should count themselves lucky for having escaped execution.”

Should they really? To Stella, their fate seemed worse than death. Still, it was the second time the Union had crossed her. One day, she would make them pay.

“I was very clear that I wanted them dead,” she said. “Mace must have given in to Leroy’s pressure. Who’s the coward now?”

“I don’t think it’s so much cowardice as a simple matter of hierarchy. If he wants to become next president, he can’t make a habit of ignoring orders from his superiors.”

Stella snorted. “Next president? He’d need a miracle. Mace is good with words, but he lacks the nerve to follow through with his plans. At this rate, his brother Gard will be the one to take over the Company. They say he’s the kind of man who speaks with his fists.”

Gard Stock. Mace’s older half-brother and Leroy’s second-in-command. He and Mace were said to get along like cats and dogs. Leroy apparently placed a lot of trust in Gard—which wasn’t to say he never relied on Mace, but it was clear that he didn’t have a very high opinion of his younger son’s abilities. Everyone—Leroy included—knew that Mace was more comfortable with a pen than a sword. Which, in Leroy’s eyes, must have meant that he wasn’t the right person to lead a pack of brutes. Stella only partially agreed; the Stock Company was no city or country, but a relatively small organization—small enough, she judged, for Mace’s leading skills. Stella explained her thoughts to Varrell.

Varrell whistled softly, then laughed. “So you profile people now? Man, I don’t envy whoever crosses you when you grow up.”

“By the way, you passed my scrutiny with flying colors. I know I’ve made a good purchase.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Also, is it true that you’ve accepted to be Beck’s mentor?”

“Yes. In my spare time. If I can train him to become more useful in the future, it’ll make my own work easier as well. Call it an investment.”

“I won’t stop you, but it’s an odd thing to do, if you ask me.”

“You keep him around despite his uselessness. Isn’t that odder?”

Stella smirked. “I chose to do that on a whim. I make a point of following my whims.”

Amidst the constant pandemonium of violence and corruption that was the town of Peasbury, Stella’s days went by peacefully.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that the continent of Mundo Novo was at war.

On one side, the Astral Church preached daily against the infidel foreign invaders. Rumors from nearby Church-controlled territories had it that the Church was recruiting people from all over the continent to form a special force, presumably laying out the groundwork for a major counteroffensive to drive out the Empire once and for all.

On the other side, one could hear all sorts of stories about the plans of the Khorshid Empire. Some said they were bringing local lords to their side, others that a new army was about to land on the north of the continent, and others still that the Georgia Family was finally going to switch to their side.

One thing was clear, though—both sides had spies spreading misinformation in the city.

Stella couldn’t tell the truths from the falsehoods; like everyone else, she’d only heard the rumors. This town was where all the trash in the continent wound up. Every day these days the streets were a chaotic burble of people of all origins and backgrounds. Foreigners could hide in plain sight.

I don’t think this place will get caught up in the war, at least. If I’ve judged Greggs correctly, he’d sooner bow to a stronger enemy than challenge him. But well . . . he can only stay on the fence for so long.

In any case, if the war ever did approach Peasbury, Stella could simply leave. She didn’t want to get involved. She wasn’t powerful enough to get involved. And she was too young to die.

Stella finally reached the living room, putting an end to her contemplations. She rubbed her eyes; slowly, the room came into focus. Her body was always extremely sluggish in the morning. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do anything about that.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning, Miss Stella,” said Marie. “Breakfast is ready.”

“You were late, so I already started,” said Rye.

“I can see that.”

Rye sat at the table with Beck and Varrell—just out of their night shifts—and Clever, who was already eating. It was a rich breakfast: bread, vegetables, fish soup, sliced apples, and a glass of milk each for Stella and Rye.

Marie and Varrell were responsible for most of the dishes. Lately, they’d started planning meals to be healthy and balanced, even going as far as cooking together, much to Stella’s amusement. Varrell looked every bit as comical in an apron as she’d imagined him.

But, healthy or not, Stella couldn’t stand some of the things they were feeding her. The fermented beans smelled acrid and had a terrible gluey consistency, and the fish always left a terrible aftertaste in her mouth. But the worst of it all was by far the beef seasoned with grated garlic. Stella had never liked meat, and the garlic somehow managed to make it even less appetizing. A good whiff was enough to make her gag. And speak of the devil, she thought as her doom approached. She tried to escape it, failed, and had to sit through a lecture on the importance of eating healthy. I never asked for this . . .

“Here you go, Miss Stella.”

Marie pushed the bowl of soup, which she had just reheated, toward Stella. If only everyone could be considerate like her.

“Thanks, Marie. . . . Milk again, I see.”

“Is it not to your liking?”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t hate it—but, well, I wouldn’t go out of my way to drink it either. I’m not feeling like it today, so can you make me a cup of cof—”

“Wait!” Rye interrupted. “C’mon, I told you just the other day about how good milk is for your health! Coffee won’t do you any good, you know that!”

“Milk is too sweet for me. And either way, you didn’t give me any conclusive evidence that it’s healthy. Tell you what—if it works on you, I’ll start drinking it too.” Stella pushed her glass aside with a snort.

Rye pushed it back in front of Stella. “If not me, believe my late father. He used to say that drinking milk every day makes your bones big and strong. He wasn’t a liar! But anyway, it’s already worked on me—can’t you see how healthy I am? It was so hard to go all those days without milk when I was a slave!” Rye grabbed her own glass, gulped it down, and grinned.

This was probably not the right time to ask about Rye’s father, as interested as Stella was in learning more about him. She decided instead to look around for a kind soul who would drink her milk for her. Varrell returned her look with a knowing grin, and Clever blatantly looked the other way. The damn bird is never useful when it counts.

“All right, I’ll drink it,” she said. “At least it’s not poison, I suppose. They sell it at the market, so that’s a fair enough assumption. In which case, it shouldn’t kill me instantly. And well, you’re still alive.”

“Why would it kill you?!”

Stella sighed. Then, she pinched her nose and downed her milk in one go. She didn’t hate milk exactly, but rather having to drink sweet liquids so early in the morning. So she got it over with as fast as possible. It was Rye who had convinced Marie and Varrell to add a glass of milk to Stella’s breakfast, but it was hard to resent the girl for that. She’d done it out of an honest concern for Stella’s health.

Stella wiped her mouth. “There, I drank it. Every last drop. Happy?”

“Why’re you so mad? It’s just milk . . .”

Varrell guffawed. “Glad I finally got to see you properly acting your age. I guess you’re no witch after all.”

Knowing Varrell, he was probably not joking about thinking she was a witch. Stella had caught him glancing at her Magic Crystal more than once before, sometimes during her magic training sessions. But while the man clearly had ulterior motives, Stella sensed no hostility from him. Good, she thought, because few things are more pointless than a hostile bodyguard. In any case, Clever was keeping a close eye on him. There was nothing to worry about.

“You two should learn some manners,” said Stella. “Need I remind you? I’m your master, not your toy.”

“I’m not toying with you,” said Rye. “Didn’t you say you want to eat healthy? I’m just trying to help.”

You look awfully amused for someone who’s just trying to help. It was probably her way of getting back at Stella for all the teasing.

“I did say that, but I never said I wanted to drink healthy,” said Stella.

“Come on, now you’re just playing with words!”

“It’s true, though. I never said it.”

“Being picky is bad for you,” said Varrell. “Cow milk and goat milk both have many important nutrients. Some people find it easier to drink with a dash of sugar, while others prefer to drink it warm. I recommend adding a bit of mashed fruit. It’s quite delicious that way.”

I don’t care what you recommend. I couldn’t care less about milk.

“See? He knows what I’m talking about,” said Rye. “I’ll give you a warm glass tomorrow.”

“Don’t. It’ll kill my appetite.” Stella doubted she’d be able to swallow it. She could barely think about it without feeling sick.

“Here you go, Miss Stella.”

Marie had been kind enough to prepare the coffee Stella had asked for. A paragon of consideration if there ever was one. Stella immediately took a sip to wash the taste of milk out of her mouth. This is the stuff, she thought as the bitter liquid caressed her tongue. She’d been drinking at least five cups a day, and the old stock of beans was finally running out. It was time to purchase more.

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” said Rye. “It’s so bitter, and it looks like mud.”

Stella shook her head in disapproval. “You don’t get it. There’s a right way to drink it—first you savor the aroma, then you sip it and let it sit on your tongue. It’s great, and it also helps you stay awake and alert. Can your precious milk do that?”

Rye gaped at her for a moment. Then—

“Oh, I just had a great idea! Marie, make me a cup too! Actually, half a cup, please.”

“Coffee? What’s gotten into you, sweetie? . . . Just a moment.”

Marie went into the kitchen and returned shortly after with a half-filled cup of coffee.

“So you’ve finally come to appreciate the refined flavor of coffee,” said Stella. “I knew you’d come over eventually, Rye.”

“No I haven’t! This is something else.”

And then Rye started drowning her coffee in milk. It was a painful enough sight to bear, but when the girl reached for the sugar, Stella’s face froze in a frown of disbelief. She wouldn’t.

“Come on, now,” said Stella, “those are valuable ingredients you’re wasting.”

“I’m not wasting anything. Now I just mix it, and . . . done! Behold my new creation—Rye coffee!” She proceeded to take the foul beverage into her mouth. A few moments later, she smiled. “It’s delicious! Beck, you have to try it!”

Beck snorted. “Yeah, right. I bet it tastes like crap.”

“You won’t know until you try it!”

“All right, all right. Jeez.” He drank. A few moments later, his face opened up. “What the—It’s actually good! The bitterness and the sweetness balance each other out perfectly! Ma’am, this tastes great!”

Stella frowned. “As if I’d trust your taste in anything. I doubt you can even tell the difference between salt and sugar.”

“I-I’m not that stupid . . .”

“Well, you’re definitely stupid enough to hurt yourself swinging a hoe.”

Beck deflated immediately. Not my fault you’re stupid.

“Is it that good?” asked Varrell. “Give it here, then. I need to try it for myself.”

“This is great!” said Marie, who had just taken a sip.

Stella tsked and looked away.

“Come on, Stella,” said Rye, “you need to give it a try. Aren’t you curious what it tastes like? You’re always curious about everything.”

“I’ll pass. I can imagine pretty well what it tastes like.”

“It’s gonna taste way better this way. Just trust me!”

Rye became stubborn at times like this; she wouldn’t let up until Stella gave in. Sighing, Stella grabbed the cup and took a sip. It did taste better than milk—sweet, but not cloying. The characteristic bitterness and aroma of the coffee were completely lost, but if her life were on the line and she had to choose between milk or this, she would choose this. Reluctantly.

“S-So?”

“It’s . . . drinkable. Just barely.”

“What about the taste?”

“Better than milk, I’ll grant you that much.” Stella turned to Marie. “Add a cup of this to my breakfast every morning starting tomorrow, but without sugar.” She turned back to Rye. “Happy?”

“Awesome!”

‘Good job, eh, lil’ Rye!’

“Thanks, Clever!” Rye high-fived the bird.

Aren’t they a happy duo. Stella took another sip of her Rye coffee and started on her breakfast.

After breakfast was over, Stella changed into less restrictive clothes.

Until recently, she’d been taking a walk first thing in the morning and another one after breakfast. Now, she felt strong enough that she’d changed her schedule to a single jogging session after breakfast. Of course, Stella made sure to stay within the West District, where she was under the protection of the Stock Company. She ran until she got tired, then slowed to a walk to gather her breath, then ran again. It was tough going, but slacking was out of the question. Without conditioning her body, she’d never live to sixty.

In the afternoon, Stella had her magic training sessions. The Magic Crystal being her only means of self-defense, she needed to unlock more of its potential—though, according to Clever, the use of battle magic had seen a decline over the last few decades. Nowadays, the nobility valued healing and convenient daily-life spells over offensive spells, essentially demoting magic to nothing more than a convenient tool.

Few sorcerers nowadays could cast strong offensive spells, and even fewer were sent to the battlefield. With the advent of the “magekillers,” tools and weapons designed to make a sorcerer unable to gather his mana, it became much harder to make good use of sorcerers in battle.

In any case, those magekillers would probably have no effect on Stella. Her spells were fueled not by her own power but by the power stored in the crystal. That didn’t mean she should get careless.

Stella snapped her fingers. Clever soared to her side, and together they left the store. Five minutes of jogging later, her whole body was slick with sweat and she could barely breathe, yet she pressed on. Varrell had said that she’d gain the most benefits by pushing through fatigue. His expertise in these matters could be trusted.

‘Master, yer face looks like a ripe tomato, eh!’

The usual remark would be “pale as a corpse.” The change was a good sign; maybe her face had finally gained some color.

Stella gasped for air. “Should I really be doing this? Honestly, it feels like every step is shortening my lifespan . . .”

‘Take it easy, eh Master? At this rate, yer gonna trip on yer own feet.’

“Just a little further.”

Stella pressed on for an additional half hour before her wobbly legs finally betrayed her. As her face hit the ground, she yelped like a cat who’d just had someone step on its tail.

‘There’s a squashed tomato on the ground! Kekeke! Kekekeke! My belly ’urts! Somebody ’elp, I can’t stop laughing! Kekekekeke—’

Moving with inhuman speed, Stella sprang to her feet and grabbed Clever by the throat. Now he was the cat, and his yelps echoed for miles.