The Gaming Outpost

I sat in the straightback chair with no cushion because my washmaid was off cleansing the thing after Scatterbrain whizzed all over it.

The poor cat sometimes got frantic at not finding me, and finding herself in a still unfamiliar world. At which point, she went howling off to look for something of mine, and relieved her fear and frustration on it.

My hand and half sword hung from the back of the chair, and I had a faintly hostile look on my face. Its the one I practise in the bronze metal mirrors of my castle.

My castellan says I smile too much, and people take advantage of smilers. In this harsh world of serfs and barbarians, knights and bloody raids, being thought an easy touch could be fatal. And not just for me, but for the village below my castle I was sworn before God and King Randall to protect with my life.

“Your lordship….” Began the man kneeling in his rags on the thin stripe of red carpet that ran down the throne room aka court of judgement aka feasthall aka basketball court when I get squirrelly.

I told my people that I had cast a dark spell over the hoop and backboard on the end of the room by passing the skull of a traitor through the hoop on All Hallows Eve. They did not really believe me, but it kept them from complaining about it.

“Yes?” I said, not bothering to hide any negative emotion I could conjure up. Pity for the poor fellow who was half my age and looked twice my age, I kept firmly out of sight.

“Well, my lord…Baron Poltak, he be a harsh man.”
“So am I.” I noted coldly, and the man begging my mercy assured me that all wide and near had heard of my famous cruelty.
” ‘e wants to join up. Tinks duh Baron should not beat him every other week. Tinks duh Baron treats his own hunting dogs bettuh.”

That was my castellan. He was gifted with a horrible accent from a very far away country, nearly fifty miles to the west.

“Mmmmm.”
“I must protest most strenously, your lordship. You have been th…” The young fellow in solid black silks was Sir Roum, and his favored sports were wenching, killing peasants, and jousting. He was seventeen, and he had already killed four knights. No count was kept of how many peasants he had slaughtered.

I yearned for the day I had sufficient excuse to crucify the little freak.

“….Th…thinking hard, my lord. Let me bring to you the cool refresment of reason.”

Drat. The monster had caught himself before he could name me a thief. His father, the Baron, did what he did out of neccessity, and a firm belief that serfs were poor quality cattle. Sir Roum enjoyed himself.

“Do try, Sir Roum.” I said sourly, and was gratified by the small flush across his fair cheeks. He was not used to someone scorning him.

“It is not your lordship’s concern whether my father, a noble who has ancestors going back four hundred years, runs his demense.”

I nodded. By the rules of this feudalism, he was right. I could attack if sufficiently insulted, or if I could fabricate a claim of ancient lineage that held his lands (since I was known to be an extradimensional verser, fat chance of that.), or get the king to agree, or prove that the Baron was a traitor to the barbarians, why then I could meddle and attack as I liked. But otherwise, I was supposed to keep my nose clean.

And considering most of my neighbours were not at all sure about some ‘devil from the Beyond’, I had to stay within the lines.

“So…” Sir Roum said, and he smiled. At that moment, I would not have given two pennies for my serf guy, uh, Mak, for Mak’s life. Roum was going to take the guy from me, and then kill him in the woods. Just because he could. Just to let all the peasants hereabouts that they had better stop fleeing to my lands.

“Walk with me, Roum.” I commanded, and he raised an eyebrow, but here I was in my demense and any reasonable command would have to be obeyed.

So I led him around the castle, and the peasant Mak, my castellan, and two men at arms trailed behind.

“You have many servants in your castle.” He said, and I looked up, pushed out my lip, and considered what I had seen at other castles.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Some of the lords fear that you are amassing a peasant army. It is well known your sympathy for the scum. You grow in strength with their numbers, and how must you feed them? Conquest?”

I blinked. This must be a message sent by his father for it was too insightful and polite for Roum. And it was something I had not considered.

“Let me show you something.” I said, and took Sir Roum into one of the lower rooms into the castle, and toward a great chuffing and puffing of noise.
“A dragon?” I saw fear in Roum’s eyes, and frankly enjoyed it. My mother, the Sunday school teacher would have disaproved, but then she had never had to be polite to a sociopath.
“No.” I said opening wide the door in the long hallway. “Steam.”

Inside a great machine of brass with pistons and wheels and gears ran many beltlines. And each beltline ran a tool. And scattered around the room were the tools and the rushing attendants to the tools who were producing in an hour enough cloth for ten times their number.

“Tell your father these words, Sir Roum, and I charge you to leave none out.”
I waited until he swore by the King’s honor to do so. It was all to easy for a messenger to change a message, and thus, if one swore by the King’s honor, well, there were significant penalties involved in lying. And that was significant in a culture in which the punishment for adultery involved being tossed off a cliff.

“Tell the Baron that I can feed many by my mechanos. I have no need to steal his goods.”

Something was itching at the back of my mind, but I turned to see my castellan jerking his head. I looked at him, and he, with a cunning smile on his face, plopped an arm across the shoulder of the peasant Mak.

Mak jumped, winced, and two big tears went down his face. Roum snarled at the interruption and raised a hand to strike him, but I had already signalled my men at arms to step forward.

Roum looked in their faces, and did not like what he saw.

“Strip the peasant.” I said coldly. Thirty seconds later, he was naked, and I ordered him spun about with a pointing finger.

Across his back, I saw solid bars of red blood, as if he had been beaten repeatedly by a staff.

“Discipline, my lord.” Sir Roum said smoothly.
“Mmmmm.” I paused and shook my head sadly as I looked out of the corner of my eye at the castellan who was mouthing words from behind Roum’s back. “This presents a problem, Sir Roum. I would like to help you, but under Feudal Law, an injured man is entitled to stay at his abode….of the moment….until he is well.”

I smiled.

“Then I shall be back within a month.”
“Oh, no need. I can see this will take three months for this serf to recover.” I said brightly.
“But at that time….?” Sir Roum began to grind his teeth so great was his frustration.
“Yes?” I said blankly.
“He will…”
“Learn to fly? Become a parrot?” I said ‘helpfully’.
“Be able to sue for permanent change of lands at three months.” Sir Roum snarled out.
“Oh.” I said putting my hand to my mouth. “I had not considered that.”

Then I gave Sir Roum my emptiest, prettiest smile. He seethed, and I almost got him to draw on me, but he wisely kept his hand off his sword hilt. Drat. Well it looked like crucifixtion was going to have to wait for another day.

“Let us see you on your way.” I led him out of the very noisy steam room, shut the door, and in relative silence sent Mak and some other escapee from the lands of another lord to the herbalist who thanks to my rules was about ten steps better than the other quacks out there.

I took Sir Roum out, and had his horse brought. I then gave him insincere offers of staying for dinner, but he refused as I expected.

There was something nagging at me. I was surrounded by lords who needed to oppress their serfs to maintain a decent lifestyle and military power. I had the answer. Steam power. It would make us stronger, and richer so that the lords did not have to whip the peasants to get them to work.

But who among the old lords would listen to me. They would only see my rising power, and fear me, and contrive some way to attack.

Rising power.

That was the clue.

I could attack those nearby me as they were not doing that which would make them stronger. Their duty as lords to the king was to be as strong on defense as they could be. If they did not adopt steam power, why then they were traitors and oathbreakers!

I chuckled to myself. Time to figure out the best way to drop this little bombshell into the next tournameant. Either the local lords would become Steam Knights, or I’d be sadly forced to execute them as traitors.

And the best thing was, it was perfectly legal.

And then I heard a purr, and my own traitor, Scatterbrain the Formerly Freaked Out was now trying to remind me that I still loved her, and wanted to feed her as she wound around my ankles.

“You’re a miserable cat.” I said to which she only replied with more purring until I broke down and picked her up, and headed toward the kitchen.