Chương 69: Book 2, Chapter 8: Worldbuilding Choices

Clara raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, Lady Iris, you've lost me. What do memories of another life have to do with being a Saintess?"

"That's what Mama told me, and she heard it from Her Holiness," said Iris, with that prideful tone so typical of a boasting teenager.

"It's common knowledge that the twelve original Saintesses—Elowen and her apostles—share several traits, such as unmatched magical prowess and devotion to the Goddess. But according to Her Holiness, there's also the fact that every single one of them was blessed with memories of another life. It's a sore point for the Pope, I'm told, who never had such revelations despite her immense power." Clara's pulse quickened.

"You mean they all had supernatural knowledge?"

"Indeed. Look at Saintess Winifred's recorded self-care practices, such as handwashing and frequent bathing. She said it was for mitigating the spread of diseases, though if you ask me, the benefits to one's sense of smell are of much greater import than the illnesses of the unwashed masses. Then there are other, less relevant things like advanced engineering, the aqueducts, double-entry accounting, what have you." Wait, does this mean the Saintesses were…?

Iris continued, "The twelve all had saintly wisdom far beyond the grasp of ordinary people, granted to them by the Goddess. Just like you and your remarkable knowledge of advocate… things. And, I suppose, your creativity with the Sacred Tongue as well."

"Advocate things?"

"It is a suitable term. Now, as I understand it, not all Saintesses are recorded to have such memories, and not all who have such memories are Saintesses. But we cannot eliminate the possibility that your memories of another life are a gift from the Goddess, a sign of divine favor. And more importantly, a sign that Helena may not be as unique as she thinks she is." Iris gave a pleased nod.

But rather than political and religious considerations about the role of Saintesses, there was only one thing going through Clara's mind. You're kidding me. This was why the world was the way it was. Everything made sense now. The Saintesses were transmigrators. How did I not see this coming? It was the most generic plot imaginable, too, because why wouldn't it be.

A fantasy world was facing a disastrous Cataclysm brought by eldritch beings, and otherworldly heroes were called forth from Earth to save it, armed with supreme magical powers in the form of knowledge of Latin. Which meant that the lack of guns, the months of the calendar, the European names, and the other strange details of this world were not lazy worldbuilding flaws of a hastily put-together novel backdrop.

They were actually lazy worldbuilding choices of a dozen women pulled from Earth, who got together after saving the world and thought, 'hey, you know what would be funny? The Byzottoman Empire.' Actually, you could go even deeper and say that this transmigration backstory is really a lazy choice by the original author to justify their shallow worldbuilding and— Clara smacked her forehead with her palm and cut that thought short, prompting Iris to gasp. This way lies only pain.

"Clara? Are you unwell?" Iris watched her with a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Sorry, my lady. I'm fine." Focus, Casewell. You can yell your worldbuilding complaints at the Goddess later. There are more pressing matters. Such as Helena Rosewood.' There was only supposed to be one'. Those were Leofric's words, when he heard Clara had come from another world. At the time, she'd assumed he meant Warren—that the high inquisitor's faction was somehow aware of Warren's transmigration, that maybe they'd even been the ones to seal his memories away. But what if it hadn't been him?

What if the 'one' Leofric had been referring to was Helena? A Saintess in waiting. A magical prodigy who appeared out of nowhere in the body of a minor baron's daughter. A girl who had attracted even the Crown Prince. The one Leofric had said ' will shine brighter than any of us could'. If Helena were a transmigrator, it would all fit. Of course, Clara had no proof of this.

Besides her magical talent—which was something the Pope also had, without memories of a past life—there had been no direct sign that Helena had otherworldly knowledge. And it didn't get Clara any closer to figuring out Helena's intentions. She seemed part of the plot against Iris at the High Court, but she had saved Clara, which presumably was not something Leofric would have wanted.

"Lady Iris, do you think Helena Rosewood also has memories from another life?" Iris stroked her chin slowly.

"I've said from the start that there was something off about her, so I wouldn't doubt it. You should know by now how exquisite my instincts are. But I have to admit I haven't seen anything that would make me think that. Not that she couldn't be simply concealing it, mind you."

"If I have a chance to talk to her when we go to Elysia City, I'll try to see if I can prod her, goad her into saying something that would tip her hand," said Clara.

"That's all well and good, but right now I'm more concerned about you, Clara. Oh, for you to be a Saintess! Truly, I can think of no better way to stop Prince Lochlann's incessant bragging about Helena and knock her down a peg. Saintess or no, a baron's daughter is hardly qualified to be a future queen, and the more Saintesses there are, the less Helena is special." Iris clasped her hands together.

"We need to investigate your potential." Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Hold your horses, Lady Iris. You said it yourself: not all who have these memories are Saintesses. I'd have to perform a miracle, right?" Iris sighed.

"Yes, I suppose that's true. We can't be sure yet. But at the very least, we must tell Papa about it. He will certainly know more than I do, and he was very clear to me that I needed to come to him with anything that could be important." Clara nodded slowly. That was a lesson she'd learned the hard way—and she was a quick study when the lesson had been written in blood. Maybe, just maybe, if she'd been upfront with the duke from the start, Ricardo would still…

"I agree, my lady. I just wanted to make sure you were the first to know." Iris flushed slightly, then recomposed herself.

"A reasonable order of priorities. Papa is in the capital coordinating with His Majesty, so we will see him when we return from Istantinople. He'll want to verify the matter himself, and consult with certain resources that may have information from within the Church."" Resources? Do you mean the Pope? You mentioned they studied together."

"No, even House von Rhenia is not bold enough to claim we have the Pope in our pocket. But Papa and Mama have friends in unexpected corners, relationships I am not entirely privy to, which may come in handy at a time like this." That was both reassuring and slightly concerning, which Clara had come to recognize as the standard expectation when it came to House von Rhenia.

"Now." Iris straightened, having spoken with the unmistakable finality of someone ready to embark on the next topic.

"Let us return to the matter of your future plans. A 'law firm', you called it? It's not exactly pleasing to the ears, but we can work on the name later."

"Yes, my lady. I plan to take up work as a solicitor when I pass the exam and register with the Traders' Guild, and on top of that work as a trial advocate."

"Hm. I would have preferred your return to House von Rhenia. And yet, when I consider your goals…" Iris fell silent, her hand tracing the chains between the brass buttons on her bodice. Then she smiled, and there was a fire in her eyes.

"An independent advocate's office, to pursue the truth in the most difficult cases, defying centuries of custom and even the Blessing of Truth itself. Run by a commoner with neither title, nor land, nor even a House's protection, who somehow wishes to overturn the entire Kingdom's justice system. When I put it that way, it sounds quite extraordinary, does it not?"

"Really? So you support it?"

"Honestly, it is an idea befitting an absolute madwoman, to which the conventional response would be mockery. It is good, then, that Iris von Rhenia is anything but conventional. Yes, I do believe something this ambitious deserves my hand. You said you intend to lease a townhouse near the Westwick city center?"

"Yes, I've already signed the contract, actually—the day of our departure. The property's mine as long as Prince Lochlann's funds settle within a month."

"And how do you intend to furnish it?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to overspend. Some desks, chairs, shelves. A discreet sign at the door. I'll need stationery, of course, and a small consultation room set up for clients. I imagine most of my initial work will be for smaller merchants and such, so there's no need to make it ostentatious right away." Iris frowned as if she'd just tasted a particularly distasteful dish.

"Oh, Clara. I've never known someone so brilliant, and yet so foolish. It would be charming if it weren't so vexing."

"What do you mean?"

"You have defended a daughter of House von Rhenia in court. You have stood as counsel hired by not one but two princes of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia. Why, then, would you assume your clientele would be impoverished merchants? No, that will not do. I shall need to write to Felicity about your 'firm', and she will tell her mother, and that shall mean half the influential noblemen around the capital will know within the month. By the time you are admitted to the Traders' Guild, you will have a waiting list.

You may thank me later." Clara didn't know what to say.

"Now, of course, you shall need to present yourself suitably," Iris continued.

"Madame Stitch's dresses are a good start, but we will need to commission new suits, and I shall assist with the decoration of your office to receive proper clientele, to avoid any disasters caused by your catastrophic sense of presentation. I will work on a list of what I need to purchase, and I will handle the decoration myself, you just—""My lady, stop. I cannot spend like that when I haven't even gotten started, and I can't accept any more gifts from you."

Iris grinned as if she'd been waiting for Clara to say that.

"Who said anything about gifts?"

"You just said you'd purchase things for my office."

"That is not a gift. That is an advance payment. You may think of it as a retainer."

"A retainer?"

"Indeed. House von Rhenia employs the services of a number of solicitors for our day-to-day affairs, and I do not see why one of them could not be Clara Casewell. In addition, the next time my plans put me at the wrong end of an inquisitor's chalice, I will of course require the services of the Kingdom's foremost trial advocate—and I have the grandest plans. You are free to take other, less important clients, but I shall be your first. Naturally, you will be compensated, as House von Rhenia is not stingy.

And your first payment shall be in the form of making sure you and your firm are socially presentable despite your best efforts to the contrary. Oh ho ho!" Clara rubbed her watery eyes, then offered Iris a handshake.

"Thank you, Lady Iris. It's an honor to do business with you." It was the morning of the eighth day when Istantinople appeared on the horizon. The city sprawled across both banks of a wide strait, climbing hills that were packed shoulder to shoulder with pale domes and spirals glistening under the morning sun. And on the highest hill was a vast complex of walls, courtyards, and tiered roofs that looked down over everything else, with four slim towers surrounding it.

Yet she couldn't help but notice the signs of damage on some of the walls protecting the imperial capital. Clara would wager those were leftovers from the conflict with the Arcadian navy a few decades ago, led by Bel's grandmother. The duchess had described it simply as the forced abolition of slavery, but Professor Baird had been much more critical in her analysis, citing a myriad of economic factors leading up to the war and brutal naval shelling against the imperial coast.

"There she is," said Bel, who stood at the bow of the Esperança surrounded by her officers and guests. The duchess and her marines wore their coats fully buttoned, with no rum or pipe in sight.

"The Queen of Cities. It may be a self-proclaimed title, but I can't say she hasn't earned it."

"It's stunning," Clara admitted. It was even more beautiful than Elysia City, and appeared to be considerably larger, occupying both sides of the strait.

"Most things worth fighting over are." But Bel's eyes weren't on magnificent architecture. They were lower, on the water.

"Now, look there, my dear, and tell me what you see." Strung across the mouth of the strait, between the Esperança and the city, was a wall of ships. There were dozens of them, men-of-war with multiple decks of gunports running down the length of each wooden hull.

"They mobilized," Clara said.

"Thirty-one ships of the line," Bel agreed pleasantly.

"And assorted fire ships and coastal batteries. Every gun they own, ready and waiting for our arrival. We ought to be flattered." Luisa arrived at her mother's shoulder, spyglass already up.

"They are not closing. Anchored, or as good as, with sails unfurled. It is posture."

"Commodore, my pearl," said Bel, "signal the fleet. We anchor here."

"Here? We're still…" Clara squinted at the distance between them and the city.

"It's a long way ashore."

"And we are going to keep it that way. My ships do not put their bellies against an imperial wharf with the Sultan-Basileus's finest at their backs. We will sit here, and they will send someone to pick us up on our terms. We deserve a welcoming party after coming all this way, do we not?"