Disregard Fantasy, Acquire Currency: 2 and 3 (Patreon)

I'm thinking I might change the first chapter up. Willem's background won't change, but I'm considering revealing it piecemeal throughout the story instead of front loading it at the beginning. Instead, I considered doing the first chapter wholly from the perspectives of other people. Matter of fact, I intend on making that common throughout the whole story. People seem to enjoy it.
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Lennard stared down at his younger brother, Willem. His nonchalance in the face of their father’s poisoning was a strong indicator of his character, he felt. Was there any filial son that could remain so composed when death lingered near their father’s side?

“Father was poisoned after a meal with you. Conveniently, you were late for said meal,” he outlined, all but accusing him directly.

Willem asked passively, “Is he dead?”

Lennard ground his teeth together. “No. He kept the meal heated waited for you, and that distorted the effect of the poison.”

“Well, that’s nice.” He gave a forced smile.

“It would’ve been the perfect time for a would-be assassin to slip something into his meal—while it was heating. While you were absent,” Lennard implied.

“I saw half a dozen people scurrying away from me like rats in the hall as I wandered about,” Willem waved vaguely. “The maid that fetched me did so on the second floor. Plenty of witnesses.”

“Why do you make excuses for yourself when I talk about an assassin?” Lennard put his hand on the hip opposite his sword, looming closer over his brother.

“Oh, we’re playing it that way.” Willem pointed. “I thought you made these things called ‘allusions.’ It’s when you imply something by speaking indirectly. I thought you were alluding I had poisoned him, but it’s clear to me now that you’re just a dullard.” He clasped his hands together. “My mistake—I’ll try to think less in your presence from now on so as not to make intelligent assumptions. It’s clear there’s very little going on in that head of yours.”

Lennard could only stare, a bit stung. His brother seldom said such harsh words—either it was a sign he was cracking under pressure, or he was letting the mask down now that their father was poisoned.

“There’s going to be a full investigation,” Lennard vowed, then pointed at the ground. “I’m calling our brothers back here. This isn’t going to go how you think it’s going to go.”

“Which brothers?” Willem asked.

Lennard narrowed his eyes. “Our only brothers.”

He left the room, mulling over that strange comment. ‘Which brothers?’ Was that a metaphor of some kind? He didn’t have time to think on it long. When he left the room, his father’s main attendant was waiting outside.

“Baron Regent,” the steward bowed. “The attendant that your father called for has arrived, and he’s looking for direction. He’s already been paid for, so… we ought to put him to use.”

Regent. It felt strange, hearing that word. He focused on the steward. “What attendant?”

“A talented young man named Dirk, sir. He was to accompany young lord Willem to the capital to begin reeducation. If you’d like… we could continue with that schedule,” the steward suggested.

“Not a chance. Willem isn’t leaving,” Lennard refused at once. “But… he’s already been paid?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lennard tapped his gauntleted fingers against the side of his leg. “If my father chose him, he must’ve expected him to monitor Willem’s progress, right? Write reports, that sort of thing?”

“Indeed,” the steward confirmed.

“It’s simple, then. Have him stay with Willem.”

#####

Willem had failed in his first task—acquiring a name of the man who appeared to be his brother. It was surprisingly difficult to get someone to introduce themselves without saying something a little stupid. Willem hated looking stupid. Worse yet, he had a hard time concealing when he thought someone else was a simpleton.

He sat on his bed a while, lost in thought. He stared at the rug made of a bear for a long while, considering his troubled situation. If this fellow whose body he’d landed in had poisoned his father… what could be done about it? Willem didn’t know any of the evidence he was meant to hide. He couldn’t even remember the face of the maid who’d come to him in the morning.

A knock interrupted his musings.

“It’s open.”

The door parted, and in walked a plain-looking short lad. “Young lord Willem. I’ve been instructed to serve you.”

“I can serve myself. I’m not some old man. I’m about to sleep, anyway.” He narrowed his eyes. “Speaking of sleep, I hope that’s not what you meant by ‘serve.’”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s my orders, sir. I’m to help and look after you.”

Willem’s face brightened as opportunity came. “Whose orders?”

#####

A night had come and gone, and Willem had overcome the insurmountable—learning people’s names without making a fool of himself.

Willem set down the teacup upon a table in his room. He wanted a morning drink, and the attendant had one prepared. He didn’t like tea especially. He liked to drink something that tasted like battery acid smothered in sugar—energy drinks, sodas, or most often coffee for the mornings. Tea, contrarily, was subtle and faint, like grass in a puddle. This brew in particular tasted like someone had dropped a hard candy into water and left it there.

“Would you like more, young lord?” the male attendant asked carefully.

“God no.” Willem shook his head, and the attendant seemed uneasy.

Willem studied the young man. Brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin. Quite plain, all things considered. He was short—that was a good sign. From Willem’s experience, short people were generally angrier, but they tended to work harder in light of their… shortcomings. Additionally, they made him seem taller than he actually was when they stood beside him. He only hired people shorter than him as secretaries or attendants.

And right now, he might need a hand. It wasn’t often that he was thrown off-balance, but waking up in another’s body threw quite the large wrench into his plans.

But his scrutiny made the man uncomfortable, and he asked uncertainly, “Young lord…?”

“What’s your name?” Willem asked.

The man closed his eyes like death had come to him. “Dirk, young lord.”

“Dirk?” Willem laughed. “That’s it? Dirk?”

“Yes.” The man lowered his head.

Willem pointed his finger. “You’re perfect, Dirk.”

Dirk lifted his head in surprise. “What? The tea, young lord? Or…?”

“You have a pitiful look about you.” Willem leaned in slightly. “Sad eyes, I’d say. You’re short, and you look malnourished. You were probably bullied as a child. I certainly would have bullied you, were we both children. Even your name, Dirk… it just exudes a certain sadness. It’s perfect for what I need.”

Dirk’s defensiveness redoubled, and he cast glances at the door. “I-I don’t follow.”

“Lennard seems to think I’ve killed our father,” Willem stated plainly, and Dirk seemed surprised he even said it outright. “Why do people generally kill their parents, Dirk?”

“I have no idea.”

“You can guess,” Willem pointed out, annoyed. “I hope that’s not expecting too much from you.”

Dirk wracked his brain. “Revenge? Inheritance? Possession? That’s what I’ve heard, at least. It’s never entered my mind.”

“Possession?” Willem leaned forth. “Elaborate.”

“Evil spirits, demons, or wights invade the mind and—”

“Does that actually happen, or is it just tales spread by the ignorant?” When Dirk shrugged, Willem asked, “What about people possessing people?”

“Some black magic might be able to do that, but it’s certainly not common enough I’ve ever heard about it.”

He leaned back with a sigh. “How would I gain from our father’s death?”

“Is that rhetorical?”

“No.”

“You could…” Dirk looked hesitant to say more. “…dispute the succession.”

“Is that what Lennard thinks I intend to do?”

“I don’t know the thoughts of the Baron Regent.” Dirk shook his head.

“Again—you can guess.” Willem tapped his temple rapidly. “A little initiative. A little forethought. It goes a long way.”

“That… succession would be the concern of most people, I would think,” Dirk said vaguely.

“I couldn’t care less about who ends up in his seat.” Willem sighed. “If the man even dies, that is. Seems everyone is pulling out his will and reading it while he’s still breathing. Hopefully it angers him enough he actually wakes up. Do you think getting disinherited could alleviate some of his concerns?”

“Disinheritance?” Dirk sputtered. “That’s not something done lightly. It’s a legal process, and the young lord remains an exceptional aura user and a blessing to his house. I doubt proper justification could be found for stripping you of your birthright.”

“I keep hearing this term. What’s aura?”

Dirk looked at him uncertainly, like he was being toyed with. “Aura is a manifestation of a knight’s will. With it, they can perform incredible feats far beyond what the body—”

“Alright, I get it.” Willem waved to silence Dirk. “So, it’s magic.”

“Not… not magic, young lord. A swordsman must—”

“It’s sword magic, then.” Willem nodded.

“It’s not magic,” Dirk insisted firmly, then added as a panicked afterthought, “…young lord. Having trained with the sword, you should know this.”

“Whatever.” Willem turned to the table. “This very non-magical magic power isn’t my problem, anyway. You said disinheritance was a legal process?”

Dirk nodded.

“Do you know these laws?”

Dirk furrowed his brows, then said, “Not well.”

“Alright. You tried, Dirk.” He stood up. “Where would one need to go to learn the laws of succession?”

“I believe the library would have them, young lord,” Dirk supplied.

“Great. Dirk, please go get me any and all books related to succession law.” He clasped his hands together. “There’s probably a very civil way out of all this.”

Dirk processed the command, but stood in place. “The law… I’m quite certain that anything written down will dictate you have no legal claim to become baron.”

“Wonderful.” Willem smiled. “Hurry up and get it, if you would. Take a tea cookie as a service fee.”

“What are you planning to do?” Dirk asked.

“Are you writing a book? Spying on me?” he pressed. Dirk tensed at the last question, but Willem missed that fact. “I’m going to see if there isn’t a way I can’t ease my brothers’ fears in a legal fashion. Of course, I’d need my share of the trust to be paid out, so to speak.”

Dirk looked stunned. “What… what would the young lord do without the Brugh family?”

“If I can? Nothing!” Willem smiled. “Let me tell you something, Dirk. I seldom give lessons, so I suggest you pay close attention.” He leaned in, and Dirk came to attention. “Do you want to know who lives the best life?”

Dirk waited, but no answer came. He answered, “The nobility? The dukes, the kings?”

“Ew. No.” Willem scrunched up his face in disgust. “Sure, you get a lot of power. But you’re overseeing this vast territory full of people who resent you for levying taxes, and you have all these people trying to take your place or your territory. You can’t just sit around eating grapes—this is how coups begin. Some prime minister sees some king living a bit too well, and then he decides to get a guillotine and start a revolution. Forget the king. I’d never do that job.”

Dirk didn’t look like he entirely agreed, but he only asked, “Who, then?”

“The financiers,” Willem said grandly. “The investors. The moneylenders. They give someone else a penny, and that man or woman uses it to work long and hard. When all is said and done, that penny comes back—with interest. Instead of levying taxes, you avoid them.” Willem emphasized that point with a finger. “While the actual workers are breaking their back, the money men sit around reading books, eating grapes, chatting, gossiping… you can live like a rich child with absentee parents.”

Dirk frowned. “I had parents like that. It wasn’t…”

“Well, I said a rich child. It’s different for you, I imagine. You have my condolences. Being poor must be rough—not that I’d know,” Willem apologized. “But stay with me, Dirk, and you can have someone feed you grapes. If you work hard enough, it might even be a woman.”

Dirk looked at Willem peculiarly. “What are grapes, even?”

Willem smiled and clenched his fist. “Get the damn books, Dirk.”

“At once, young lord.”

Dirk left the room hastily, and Willem spent some time examining the room. Whatever this was—dream, illusion, what have you, it wasn’t ending. If this unpleasant circumstance was overcome… it seemed that only sunny days awaited him.

Chapter 3

“He’s just been reading?” Lennard said in surprise, looking upon the attendant as he gave his report late in the night. “Reading what?”

“Many things things. Law books. Maps. Economic records. Censuses of the territory, and some beyond it. He’s been paying particular attention to succession law.”

Lennard leaned back in his chair, feeling that everything had become somewhat clearer. “Succession law, is it?” He scoffed, laughing. “Not even trying to hide it.”

“He’s paying particular attention to disinheritance, baron regent. I believe that’s his intention,” Dirk continued.

“Disinheriting me?” Lennard laughed. “As if he’d ever find justification for that. There’s no grounds, no precedent. And he’s not even the regent.”

“I believe his intention is to disinherit himself, actually,” Dirk continued. “If he’d been preparing for this a long while in advance, why would he not be prepared? Would he not have read these books long in advance, and already be acting out his plan?”

Lennard stared at the attendant. “As I recall, I asked you no question.”

“Just… trying to show a little forethought. A little initiative.”

Lennard said coldly, “I ask you to gather information, not for opinions.”

“Of course,” Dirk lowered his head. “My apologies, baron regent.”

“You can go. Report to me if he does anything outside of what you’ve already outlined,” the baron regent dismissed.

#####

Dirk walked to the room of the strange young lord Willem, bearing a tray with tea. Without fail, Willem insulted his tea every time he brewed it. Nevertheless, he kept asking it be made. It was a perplexing thing. He stopped before the door, took a deep breath, and opened it up.

Willem laid on his bed, reading through documents with a smile on his face. He didn’t notice Dirk’s presence until he put the tray down on the bed—strange, for someone practiced in aura to be so inobservant.

“Dirk,” Willem greeted him by name. “Tea again, I assume.”

“Yes. Greenberries and—”

“All tastes the same, anyway.” Willem drank it, and set it down. “Dull. Next time, just squeeze some fruit juice into the cup—same result, but less time spent. I won’t mind.” Willem held out a document. “You know what’s not dull? This.”

Dirk took the paper, skimming it. “It looks like a statement of a loan, young lord.”

“Half-right. You read fast.” Willem took the paper back. “This is called a bottomry contract. They’re given to fund voyages—seafaring vessels. The moneylender charges high interest, but in return, they agree to drop the loan if the vessel used as collateral in the loan sinks, is captured by pirates, or whatever.”

“That sounds…” Dirk trailed off, hesitant to voice his opinion after being rebuked by the baron regent.

“Like a terrible deal for the moneylender?” Willem smiled. “Yeah. It is. It’s rife with fraud. I imagine ships disappear all the time, and people make away with tremendous sums of money. Even with rigorous processes to interview potential merchants, the moneylenders get screwed all of the time. But, fundamentally… do you know what this is?”

“A bottomry contract.”

“Well, I walked into that one…” Willem sat up on his bed. “It’s insurance. It’s a really terrible form of insurance, but it’s insurance.”

“Insurance,” Dirk repeated.

“It’s a simple concept. Let’s say we have this bed.” Willem grabbed it. “You really like this bed. If it was destroyed, you’d cry. Hence, you pay me a monthly fee, worth vastly less than the value of the bed. You become insured. I become the underwriter. If anything happens to this bed while you’re paying insurance, as the underwriter, I’d give you money equivalent to the value of the bed so you could replace it.”

“Sure. That… that makes sense, I suppose.”

“You suppose, do you?” Willem smiled. “I love insurance. If you do it right, basing it off statistics and probabilities, you’ll generally make off quite well.”

Dirk thought about the matter. “So… you’re betting they’ll pay long enough that what you earn from fees is larger than the payments made to the customer? That’s how money is made?”

“In part.” Willem nodded. “For one, what policyholders pay isn’t actually revenue—I’d classify it as money reserved for insurance claims. That helps avoid taxes. I don’t know how that’ll fly in this backward economy, but I think I can sell it…” He shook his head. “Whatever the case, the true value of the insurance business is this—the money people pay in premiums can be put to use in other investing activities until you need to pay out the claim. It’s essentially interest-free loans.”

Dirk said nothing, but he thought this all sounded rather risky.

“I can see on your face—you’ve doubts. They’re good doubts. Caution is good, but I know what I’m doing. As I said, the only bit of insurance I could find was this.” He lifted the bottomry contract. “We’re dealing with my wet dream. I often wake up sweaty at night thinking of this, and then I have to explain to my partner why the sheets are ruined.” He leaned in. “Dirk, we’re dealing with an inefficient market. It’s the duty of any red-blooded capitalist to correct those inefficiencies, for the sake of the people.”

“How…?”

“How does this help people?” Willem put the paper down. “Imagine this. You own a house. It burns down. No insurance—you’re on the streets. With insurance—you’ve got the money to buy a new house. In a way, the underwriter is actually betting that nothing bad will happen. I think that sort of service entitles them to profit. It’s all rather fair.”

Dirk did see the utility in the idea, but he had doubts about whether Willem could actually make it work well enough to generate profit. More importantly, he doubted that he could get people to buy into the idea.

“You’re going to be my insurance salesman, Dirk.” Willem patted him on the shoulder.

“What?!” Dirk said a little loudly in alarm.

“Like I said, you’re perfect. You have sad eyes. I do the analysis, then you go out there looking all pitiful. We certainly won’t be giving out bottomry contracts. Bleh. No—I have a much better business in mind. The details can come later. There’s only one thing I ask of you.” He pointed. “Never lie to a customer. Never. We’ll do honest business, but make great money. Integrity, and the reputation it affords, can’t be bought.”

Dirk blinked in surprise at that request. Before he could ask if Willem was being serious, a knock at the door disturbed him.

The door opened, and a well-groomed butler stepped inside. “Your father is ready for visiting. Your brothers have called for you.”

“Ah.” Willem rose. “First, I have to get out of this annoying obligation. But aren’t you excited, Dirk? I certainly am.”

#####

Three young men stood around a bed where an emaciated older man laid wrapped in blankets. It was clear from their shared appearance that the four were close family—golden hair, blue eyes, cream skin. They were all quite physically fit, excepting Baron Tielman lying down with his eyes closed. He bore scars from years of warfare, and his considerable frame seemed to make his atrophied muscles all the more pitiable.

The scene couldn’t be clearer—three sons, standing at what could be the deathbed of their father.

One might expect tears in such a situation; hugs of comfort, either among themselves or with the man dying. Instead…

“I never thought you’d actually do it,” Hans said, crossing his arms as he looked at Willem. “Much less cock it up so badly.”

Willem looked what he thought was the youngest brother, Hans. He only had the words of Dirk to guide him—and with a name like Dirk, his instructions couldn’t be too reliable. But Dirk’s description matched. Hans was the shortest of them, yet still tall enough that his casual arrogance could be seen as charming rather than annoying. He wore his hair in a lazy ponytail.

In the end, Willem chose not to answer. He didn’t see the value in verbal sparring over someone’s sickbed.

“Where’s Godfried?” Lennard looked at Hans.

“Delayed, I hear, by a minor border raid. He can handle it, but it’ll take time. In the meantime… you and I have to decide what to do about him,” Hans gestured. “Are there any free racks we can put him on, or are you devoting all of those for the kitchen staff?”

Lennard looked at Hans icily. “There is no ‘you and I.’ I’m the eldest son. I’m the regent. And I, alone, will decide what happens.”

Hans clicked his tongue. “Oh, look at you. Already acting like the baron. You’re not half as frightening as father, even when he’s lying in bed like this.”

 Lennard shook his head, then looked back at their father. After a while of silence, he studied Willem. “The librarian tells me you’ve been getting a lot of books.”

“I have been.” Willem nodded without hesitation. “I’ve been studying the succession law of the kingdom.”

Hans laughed. “Not even trying to mask it at all?”

“And what about succession law has you so interested?” Lennard asked firmly.

“Disinheritance.” Willem stared at Lennard. He didn’t like this young fellow much at all—much too guarded. “You seem to have gotten it into your head that I had something to do with this. Your reasoning, I imagine, is that I’m gunning for this man’s seat. Well, I figure there’s only one way to absolutely prove you wrong.”

Lennard’s firm face showed cracks for the first time. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the baron regent. You’re the head of the household while Tielman is indisposed. That carries with it certain legal rights—principally for our situation, the right to disinherit.”

Hans shook his head. “Nah, that’s not true. The king made quite sure that no one could disinherit in any non-hereditary position like a regency, and—”

“Unless, of course, the person who the request affects gives their explicit consent, with proof it was not done under duress confirmed by an accredited mage’s lie-detecting spell.” He held his hand out. “If I agree to be disinherited, Lennard, you can disinherit me. We can put this damned farce behind us, once and for all, so I can go about my day without thinking of this nonsense ever again.”

Lennard and Hans were both stunned, and could muster no words at all.

“Would you like to go get started on that process, Lennard? Or shall we continue saying mean things to each other while your father lies dying in front of you?”