Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 5 - Chapter 5

Late Autumn of the Fourteenth Year

Nobility

A staple of medieval fantasy settings, noble titles are powerful tools that can sometimes bypass the need for speech checks, but are also prone to coming with strings attached befitting such stature. As such, peerage can often be a useful tool in the setting to teach beginners how to navigate a campaign without an overwhelming degree of choice.

Fall was a hectic season for everyone, but I was sure none would complain if I claimed to be among the busiest in the whole Empire.

The past few months had been grueling.

I will be the first to admit that the bureaucrats of the Trialist Empire had done a wonderful job. Professors were sworn in once every few years, and they were well versed in the process of propping up accomplished persons in patrician style whether they had a noble leg to stand on or not.

Yes, indeed, their preparations had been made clear without delay. My employer must have been on the professorship fast track, because the day after presenting her dissertation, a bevy of forms and documents arrived at our doorstep. It was then that I’d realized just how exhaustive their preparations were: they’d handpicked a handful of manors in the capital that she was to choose from; she was offered several selections of luxurious textiles, and they’d assemble a fashionable new dress from her favorite; modern style was for women to wear tiaras, so they’d referred her to an artisan who accepted last-minute orders... The list went on, but the point was that the bureaucrats involved had spared no detail in their goal of ennobling the madam.

Now, what do you think Lady Agrippina had to say when I brought all these matters to her?

Why, of course: she’d passed it straight back to me with a punchable smile and an order to “do as you see fit.”

Bluntly put, I think a normal person would have died. Rather, I was convinced that scum of the earth had only put me in this position because she knew I wouldn’t, and that I could actually manage the work. She may have been rotten to her core, popping open bottles of wine while her whipping boy ran around working himself to death, but she wasn’t stupid enough to indulge in idiocy if it would come back to bite her. Had I been a typical servant my age, unfit for tasks beyond menial labor, she would have taken on the work herself, leaking complaints like a broken faucet the whole while.

Though it was too late now, I regretted getting absorbed enough in my own progress to forget to conceal my actual prowess. I may have been nearing fifty years of total experience, but I was a fragile little mensch on the outside. I’d been forced to take traits like Short Sleeper and Efficient Rest just to keep up—this was not the kind of job to force on a kid!

Although the arrangements marched along at the expense of my time, sanity, and future health, they were proceeding without any issue on the surface. Count Agrippina von Ubiorum, count thaumapalatine, was now ready to be born anew.

My unembellished thoughts on the matter were that I never wanted to do this again. Unfortunately, I doubted this would be the end.

“Come forth, Agrippina du Stahl.”

No, this was merely the beginning.

Despite my sincere desire to collapse into bed, I found myself standing in the most hallowed space of all the imperial palace: the throne room. I would have expected nothing less from the pinnacle of imperial architecture. The snow-white marble floors; stone walls of unlike color, supported by majestic pillars; and the stained-glass depiction of the Emperor of Creation’s coronation on the ceiling came together to produce an atmosphere that weighed on all who entered its presence.

I’d visited the throne room displayed at the Hermitage on a vacation a lifetime ago, but not even that could hold a candle to what I was seeing now. The skylight had been carefully placed to bathe the throne in an enchanting glow that heightened the Emperor’s divinity. From there, the ceiling slanted down, the glow of arcane lamps growing dimmer at the flanks where His Majesty’s bulwark dutifully lined up. Power pervaded the room’s very construction.

Of course, a hall so impressive could only be decorated with artifacts of matching quality. Spoils of war meant to showcase the Emperor’s might were placed on display next to the walls. Crowns and scepters of fallen kingdoms shared space with famous swords and personal accessories no doubt representing historical tales of great import. For those countries which still stood today, the Empire displayed countless banners and helmets taken in battle from infamous generals.

The throne, meanwhile, spoke for itself. With its back prodding at the heavens, the seat was far too large for any normal person; yet its exaggerated features fused to magnify the greatness of he who sat atop it.

Perhaps the most emblematic flourish was the portrait hanging just behind, massive to the point where I couldn’t fathom how it had been painted at all. The semicircle of stone that housed the throne was a few steps higher than the floor, and from it rose a wall housing a heavily glorified depiction of Richard the Creator—the first emperor had despised posing for paintings and sculptures, so most of his likenesses had been made well after his death—flanked on each side by portraits of his immediate successors, the Cornerstone and Marshal Emperors.

While we didn’t quite match the zeal of the Tokugawa shogunate, the mythos of Rhine had cemented Richard’s position in a loose divine canon. Apocryphal accounts claimed he had ended his life with the words, “I have lived as mere man and shall die as him; any more and Eden forged by mortal hands will forever be out of reach,” but in reality, imperial citizens venerated him more fervently than many of the gods.

Interestingly, the gods Themselves seemed to take kindly to the man who had honored Their name. The insolence of worshiping a mortal on Their level was cause enough for divine retribution; the evident lack of heavenly punishment was an implicit acceptance. Nowadays, the first three emperors were openly hailed as heroes of a higher class.

Portraits of the six most recent monarchs filled what space remained. The message, as far as I could tell, was that even those who had given up the throne remained ever entwined in the Empire’s fate, guiding and scrutinizing their successor through their presences.

Having been called, Lady Agrippina marched forth down a carpet too wide and too long to imagine its construction; the brilliant crimson hadn’t faded in the slightest from the time of Richard to now, as the madam strode across it. She had taken the imperial bequeathal of silk magus robes and added her own mystic embroidery, using a splendiferous scarlet dye to tweak it to her liking. Dauntless in her every movement, she made the noble onlookers on the sidelines swallow their breaths with each step.

I’d been careful to touch up her hair down to the roots, and the angelic shimmer of her silver locks outstripped even her mystarille tiara and the large diamond it housed. Enhanced further with makeup, her beauty would have caused the loveliest of songstresses to bury their faces in shame.

Enduring this many gazes while being spoken to by His Imperial Majesty would cause most to shrink and falter; even those who were raised with strict aristocratic educations in courtly conduct would freely admit some level of anxiety during their official ennoblement—this could very well be the most important moment of their entire lives. Yet Lady Agrippina knew no nervousness. Neither the gazes nor the opinions they conveyed proved any more hurdle than a roadside pebble, all too easily kicked aside.

At long last, she completed her journey, kneeling reverently in the Emperor’s presence. But no longer was the Dragon Rider the one summoning her: His Majesty Martin I had partaken in his own ceremony to officially inherit this very throne mere hours prior.

“I ask in the name of the Emperor of this Trialist Empire of Rhine: Who are you?”

“The product of blood flowing in lands to the west, daughter to the Forets name, nobly led by House Stahl—I answer, I am Agrippina.”

The madam’s answer came clearly and without hesitation. Even accounting for the acoustic engineering and voice-boosting spells set up in the chamber, her tone was remarkably full; no one here would believe they were dealing with a pessimistic misanthrope.

“I ask, not to your heritage nor to your history, but only to the personage of Agrippina who stands before me: Will you give yourself to the imperial bulwark? Will you protect the Empire, defend her peoples, and combat any and every injustice that may arise?”

“I answer, not on my heritage nor my history, but only as the self I am: I swear to fix an adamant loyalty upon my soul, and shall offer the whole of my being to Your Majesty, your Empire, and your subjects. Your reign, in harmony with the gods who witness us, shall be built upon the foundation in which I know myself to be but a brick.”

As ritualistic as this back-and-forth seemed, the terrifying thing was that it wasn’t scripted. Each exchange was meant to be personal, meaning the oaths themselves had to be thought up by the speaker. I’d known that literary talent was a prerequisite for entering high society, but seeing the poetic song and dance improvised before my eyes gave me a lot to chew on.

Most notably, the words Lady Agrippina had chosen certainly didn’t suit her, but they did suit the scene. It was impossible to believe she’d thrown this together herself in the past few days, particularly with how much work she had on her own plate.

“My life, my fealty, my blood,” she spoke. “I shall give it all for the Empire cradled by the Maiden Rhine. I shall give it all to support your every step, to be the cobbled stone with which you pave your path. Will you take me as a brick in your Empire?”

“On my name as Emperor of the Trialist Empire of Rhine, as Martin Werner von Erstreich, I welcome you, Agrippina du Stahl, as one of my own. And as my first decree to you, I hereby imbue you with the deed to the Ubiorum county and the rights therein, and appoint you as count thaumapalatine.”

Martin I took a moment to survey the crowd, and— Wait a second. Have I seen this guy before? Where was it?

“If there are any who deem my judgment lacking, who believe this not to be in the Empire’s greatest interests, speak now.”

I cocked my head and tried to remember, but nothing came up; I’d probably just caught a passing glance of him somewhere before. Maybe I could’ve recalled exactly when if I’d invested a bit more into Memory and picked up a trait or skill that had to do with recognizing faces.

Just to note, the Emperor’s invitation for objections here was a formality, and anyone that took him up on his offer would be in for a lot of trouble. This wasn’t some romcom where the guy busts in on the wedding in the third act and makes off with the bride, so spoiling the carefully constructed mood was not going to be taken lightly. It was simply a matter of necessary protocol: His Majesty asked, and his subjects stayed quiet with deferential expressions.

That said, even from my place in the servants’ section by the wall, I could make out a handful of people who made no effort to conceal their frustrations.

Lady Agrippina had told me that she was sure to be given an estate embroiled in trouble, filled to the brim with power-hungry cretins that it would be her job to trample. I suspected those who’d been scheming to win the Ubiorum name would start moving to reclaim their mark by any means possible.

What a pain. I’d already come across a handful of dubious characters among the recommendations the Emperor’s cabinet had given us for keepers of the madam’s new mansion. While I’d already reported anyone suspicious to Lady Agrippina so she could keep tabs on them, it looked like a peaceful start was more than I could ask for.

“The ceremony is complete. With this, I welcome Count Agrippina von Ubiorum to our ranks. Eternal glory to the Empire.”

“Glory to the Empire! Glory to the Emperor! Glory to Rhine!”

The crowd joined Lady Agrippina in chorus—this was the only part of the ritual that was set in stone. Unfortunately, I’d already seen several others go up before my master; the coordinated chant grew less impressive with every iteration.

All that remained was for the Emperor to hand Lady Agrippina the necessary regalia to rule—the Ubiorum seal and ring and the like—and her turn would be over. The next person to be ennobled would go up and repeat the process, until eventually the pool would be exhausted and the ceremony would move on to conferring knighthoods. Considering how the coronation had begun at sunrise and taken half the day, I supposed this was a relatively painless process. I’d heard that the knights were to be honored in batches, so we would probably be done by the time the sun set.

Once Lady Agrippina left the stage, I would need to make my own exit to help her change attire. That meant we’d be waltzing into what was effectively enemy territory: her own Berylinian manor. After preparing a new set of clothes, I’d have to get the carriage ready to go back to the palace and accompany her to the celebratory banquet being held tonight.

This was rough. I was already running on less than two hours of sleep because I’d stayed up to make sure everything was in order for today. From what I could tell, the inauguration feast would run into the dead of night; I was almost certainly not going to get a chance to catch up on my sleep.

Two all-nighters in a row... The pay raise could screw itself; what I wanted most of all was a twelve-hour break to hit the sack. On Earth, I’d laughed off crunch time as a managerial mistake, but I couldn’t do anything about this.

To tell the truth, I wished the madam would hire some help. I wanted a proper noble retainer who had the authority not to be made light of in noble dealings—preferably on account of their own blue blood—and five or six attendants with thorough educations. Add another twenty servants to take care of miscellaneous chores, and I could get by working a cool three hours a day.

Alas, that was too much to hope for. Foes outnumbered friends by an obvious margin, and blindly taking on new hires would more likely than not cause more trouble down the line. For now, pushing ourselves to handle everything was the only choice available.

Soon—and by soon, I suspect she meant in half a year or so—Lady Agrippina would be able to recall a handful of trusted assistants from her home abroad, and she’d pull some strings with her few contacts here to muster up a dependable workforce. However, we were still far from ready to claim we had an actual supply of labor, especially factoring in the need to vet those we welcomed.

But you know, that did raise some questions.

The odds were good that this villainous master of mine had known things would shape out this way by the time she’d begun writing her essay. I could think of no other explanation for how bold and well rehearsed her preparations seemed.

In which case, she should have been perfectly capable of assembling a team of helpers in advance. She had space-bending magic: she could’ve teleported back home to pick up help if she so chose. Besides, she was perennially one favor to Lady Leizniz away from having a whole army of trustworthy workers. The irredeemable wraith was a career politician who’d trained countless apprentices from childhood, meaning any graduate loyal to her would be perfect for our cause.

The only explanation I could think of was that this was still within Lady Agrippina’s calculations. Was she trying to invite her enemies to send in spies by looking as defenseless as possible?

This theory seemed to put everything into place. She was selling the story of a brilliant researcher thrust into a post beyond her depth, wide open on all fronts as she frantically combatted the hustle and bustle of politics. The false sense of security her “incompetence” produced would be the perfect bait to lure in those who would oppose her. Nothing was easier to parry than a telegraphed attack: she wished to sidestep the first blow and plant a perfect uppercut right in her rivals’ jaws. An unexpected counterattack was sure to confuse and disorient; from there, it would be our turn to pick them apart as we pleased.

For those who’d already been ensnared in the trap, Lady Agrippina’s confidence today must have seemed like nothing more than a brave front. Gods, was she crafty. Actively painting herself as vulnerable in order to empower her schemes was something else.

But the real issue here wasn’t about her. Sure, she got to get away with pretending, but I was the poor pawn she got to freely use in her machinations on account of my inability to betray her; my destitution was anything but an act.

I was a normal person, for crying out loud, and a mortal at that. Not only did I have to give up chunks of my day eating, sleeping, and shitting if I wanted to stay alive, but I was a delicate mensch. Couldn’t she cut me some slack?

Unfortunately, the Sleepless and Unhungering traits were locked off no matter how many experience points I earned. I could push my boundaries by picking up things that offered extra hardiness, but there were walls that were insurmountable in my mensch frame.

I’d need to dip my toes into body modification magic and restructure my organs if I wanted features like those. Okay, maybe there were a few supernatural abilities that I simply had yet to find, but their undiscovered nature pointed to my not having the requisite experience to unlock them anyway.

Who would’ve thought I’d be craving an immortal physique because of overwork? What kind of dystopia was I living in? My mind drifted to a futuristic Tokyo where money was the only barrier to the mechanical equivalent to a methuselah’s body as I faded from the crowd and followed my master out of the hall.

[Tips] Most events held in the imperial palace are short and simple in respect of the participants’ time, but limiting the splendor of coronation in the name of modesty is considered a bridge too far. As such, great stocks of food and wine are circulated throughout the capital, celebrations are held in nearby cantons, and writs of tax exemption are carried off to regions farther from Berylin. The Emperor may bear the brunt of the cost, but his inauguration is expensive for all those in his bulwark.

Agrippina was used to wearing masks, and it took her little time to slip out of du Stahl and into von Ubiorum.

“A pleasure to meet you, von Ubiorum. My name is Lovro Hermer Theodore von Janka. Though my estate is far removed from your own, I am a strong supporter of the School of Daybreak.”

“My, Count Janka? The famed herbalist? I happened to read your treatises during my days as a researcher, and had thought then that it was such a shame that you had retired from academic pursuits. But to think that fortune would afford me the honor of speaking to you in person!”

Count Agrippina von Ubiorum was an accomplished scholar, a fervent advocate of the new Emperor, and an innocent lady who prioritized academia over politics. That was the image Agrippina found most convenient, so that was the image she projected onto a social circle where nobody knew her true nature. She wore her mask without shame, and she wore it well.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were aware of my work. How embarrassing—I penned those papers when I was but an unlearned sapling. Looking back now, those were hardly worthy of publication.”

“Oh, please! Bubbling with emotion, your work is as poetic as the finest literature. Your writing carried its ideas to the heart far better than any callous report. Would you please not demean yourself so?”

The dryad—unlike treants, they were humanfolk who were wholly independent of their birth trees—had evidently taken well to the nearly childlike level of praise, as his skin reddened slightly from its original mapleish tone. Although he looked like a young mensch on the outside, Agrippina’s incisive gaze did not miss his mystic signature, which placed him somewhere in the neighborhood of his second century. Despite leaving his title of magus behind, the man was a continued patron of the School of Daybreak. In all likelihood, Lady Leizniz had nudged him her way; the methuselah and wraith now shared an interlinked fate, and this was the master offering her full support.

Agrippina had already conversed with over twenty contacts likely sent by the dean by this point. Some had clearly only introduced themselves out of obligation, but others had been keen to look after a junior pupil; whatever their initial motivations, she was sure she’d won most of them over to her side.

One particularly notable authority who had at first made no effort to hide his displeasure had ended their conversation by taking her hand and introducing her to the leader of his own cadre, after which he went on to invite her to his daughter’s upcoming birthday celebration. Clearly, she’d earned more favor than her position by the Emperor’s side could provide alone. These episodes stacked up with every new person she met, and the former baroness-to-be confirmed that the skills she’d learned under her father had not rusted in the slightest.

After concluding with the dryad, Agrippina flagged a waiter and took a break with a glass of wine. As she sipped to wet her mouth, she noticed someone approaching from behind; she turned to see a most suspicious man.

“Von Ubiorum, I take it? Wit am—”

“Oh, Marquis Gundahar Joseph Nicolaus von Donnersmarck. I had planned to greet you myself, you know?”

The handsome fellow’s soft, courteous smile fit him well, but anyone who knew his true nature would struggle to see it as anything more than a villain’s facade. The grinning methuselah ignored Agrippina’s overt faux pas—cutting off a peer’s introduction was decidedly unmannerly—and bowed, saying, “It is as you say.”

Agrippina believed this banquet was an examination: it was a complicated test wherein she was to separate friend from foe and come up with plans to make use of each.

However, those who could be marked as enemies before the papers were handed out called for special provisions. Here was the leading candidate in the battle of succession for House Ubiorum, sure to be less than hospitable to the thief who’d swiped the territory out from underneath him.

With such clear grounds for antagonism, Agrippina had made sure to do her homework before arriving. She’d scanned through the almanac of imperial aristocrats, gathered historical documents that touched on him, and even asked Lady Leizniz for information that might only circulate in noble spheres.

After all that, Agrippina had decided that her strategy of appearing as a helpless rabbit wouldn’t suffice in front of her greatest opponent. This man was as unscrupulous as they came; making a show of how open to attack she was would do nothing to further her interests.

Instead, she took the stance of a novice who knew the scent of political games but not how to play them. Her actions betrayed a certain level of research, plainly announcing, You’re an enemy, aren’t you? Acting like a failed schemer made for a more tantalizing mark than someone purely naive—that was common sense in this line of work...or at least, so she’d thought.

“You honor me, Miss Agrippina Voisin du Stahl—oh, how rude of me. I should refer to you as von Ubiorum. Forgive me for the offense.”

Had Agrippina been any less experienced—or any more human—perhaps the mask would have cracked. The mention of a name that no one in the entire Empire should have known had surprised her.

Even the poorest pauper knew that the gentry liked to bequeath long lists of names to their own, and Agrippina was no exception. Fully expanded, her name contained over twenty individual names, but the only ones that held any meaning were that which her parents had first chosen and her family name. As such, she never bothered to make mention of any of the others, including in official settings: even her contract of ennoblement had identified her only as Agrippina du Stahl.

But Marquis Donnersmarck had uttered her baptismal name—one established by word of God in the land of Seine. Even in her motherland, she could think of few who might know it.

“No offense taken, Marquis Donnersmarck. It will take me some time yet to get used to my new name.”

“Ah, Wit can sympathize. In my youth, it had sometimes taken me two mentions to realize Wit was being called—a great embarrassment, I know. Then perhaps, von Ubiorum, you might allow me the privilege of referring to you as Agrippina? It may be more comfortable for you, and with our neighboring territories, Wit hope to enjoy an intimate relationship with you.”

Although Agrippina continued the conversation with a genteel giggle, she shrewdly gathered that his willingness to refer to an unwed lady by her name and subsequently take her hand pointed to a rather playful nature.

He was a rarity amongst their kind. Carnal pleasures proved generally superfluous when psychosorcery could suffice. Like Agrippina, most methuselah toyed with magic in their youths and then grew desensitized to the petty stimulation flesh could provide. The most convincing explanation was that this Donnersmarck character derived his pleasure not from physical means, but from the reactions of his partners.

Ah, Agrippina mused. She, too, used others for amusement; yet this man’s proactive approach to drawing out entertainment from those around him was markedly different from her fondness for stories. Irreconcilably so, she thought.

They were simply polar opposites, fated not to share the same earth under the heavens. Eventually, she was sure, some spark or another between them would evolve into full-blown malice. As she tiptoed around her inevitable archenemy’s flirtations, one thought dominated her mind.

Now then, how shall I kill him?

[Tips] First-name-basis relationships between nobles are incredibly rare beyond genuine intimate ties. Generally, most opt to refer to their peers by family name or rank.