Wayne didn't push the pace. He could easily guess that the reception staff needed to scramble to get Number Four, Crown Street ready for its returning master, and he had no intention of making things unnecessarily hard for people who were just following orders. But even after leading the party on a leisurely half-loop through the streets, they still arrived to find people in servant's uniforms running in and out in a lather of sweat.
At least they were more or less finished.
A tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing a white wig and a black cravat erged from the residence and bowed before Wayne's horse.
"My lord, your residence is prepared. I am Jas Brayne, currently responsible for the upkeep of this property. It will be my honor to serve as your steward during your stay in the capital."
"Brayne... I know that surna," Wayne thought for a mont (searched his mories) and smiled. "Ah, yes, Howland Brayne. Charles's little attendant back in the day. Charles was the one who gave him the surna Brayne."
The man calling himself Jas Brayne wore a trace of wonder, the kind anyone would feel upon having the chance to interact with an ancient who had personally known their ancestor.
"Y-yes, Howland Brayne was indeed our progenitor. Our family has served as royal attendants for generations, and the crown's directly held properties in the capital have all been managed by mbers of House Brayne..."
Wayne chuckled. "Right, because this house of mine is crown property now."
Jas Brayne's cold sweat materialized on the spot.
The awkwardness index of this topic was absolutely the day's peak in the capital, roughly equivalent to being strapped to a chair while soone read aloud, to your face, the angsty poetry or edgy fanfictions you'd posted online at fourteen...
But Wayne was only joking, and quickly moved on. "Tell everyone not to go to too much trouble. I won't be staying long."
Jas Brayne straightened up. "I have my orders, sir. Serving you with the utmost dedication and preparing the residence properly is our duty."
"Such as clearing out the ticket booth at the entrance and the tour guides inside?"
"...Pardon?"
Communicating with people from another world was such a hassle. None of the jokes landed.
Wayne waved his hand with a touch of deflation, dismounted, handed the reins to a waiting attendant, then led his N-plus-one-tis-great-granddaughter and the rest of the entourage into this seven-hundred-year-old residence.
Just as the inner court official had said, the historically significant mansions on Crown Street had not only been preserved but maintained in continuous repair to keep their original appearance.
Over seven hundred years, even with magic's unscientific existence, many things would have long since decayed. Wayne was nearly certain that at least half of what was here was no longer the original, rely close approximations. But he didn't care. He wasn't the real Gwayne Seawright, after all.
Through a modest garden and front courtyard, down a short corridor, and into the main hall. For a founding duke's residence, Number Four, Crown Street was honestly a bit humble. Practically any family with the ans to own property in the capital could have built a house twice this size, which prompted Amber to start muttering the mont she walked in.
"This is it? Way smaller than I expected..."
"It was built seven hundred years ago," Wayne glanced at the half-elf. "Back then, the Silver Keep was only a bit bigger than this."
"I think it's quite nice..." Rebecca said quietly. "My castle has a bigger foundation, but in every other way it's probably worse than this..."
Amber rolled her eyes. "Well, obviously. You lot have nearly squandered everything."
"No fireballs in here," Wayne preemptively pressed down on both Rebecca's and Amber's heads. "And you, behave. Just because your escape skills are top-notch doesn't an you can push your luck forever. The day you actually run into a shadow master, you'll die on the spot."
After sending Ser Byron and the soldiers off with the attendants to settle in, and dispatching Betty to the kitchen to help prepare dinner (the girl's frying pan was finally getting its mont), Wayne began circling the main hall.
"They really did preserve everything..."
After two laps, Wayne murmured softly. mories kept surfacing, matching up with each object he saw. Though many were no longer the originals, the familiarity drawn from those mories still moved him.
Rebecca trailed behind Wayne, circling with him, studying the hall's furnishings with a mix of curiosity and complicated emotion. Every first-generation pioneer had descendants, and many of those descendants still lived right here on Crown Street. But she, the heir of the greatest among the pioneers, the current head of House Seawright, hadn't known until today what her ancestor's residence had looked like.
Many things here she'd only ever seen described in family books. Like the ancient battle-axe hanging on the main hall's wall.
"I won that from Charles in a swordsmanship match. It's nothing special, really, just a dwarven war-axe," Wayne said, pointing at the axe on the wall while searching his mories. "No idea how those little fellows develop. Every one of them only cos up to my waist, yet they've got arms like oxen. An axe this size would feel heavy for a human soldier, but they can swing one in each hand like the wind."
Rebecca caught the na. "Charles... you don't an the founding king, Charles?"
"Charles Martell. The fellow they call Charles the First these days. Who else?" Wayne smiled. "When I say Charles, there's only one."
Though I'm just wearing Gwayne Seawright's shell, the first-person bragging rights feel amazing.jpg
But Wayne wasn't doing this purely for the thrill. He genuinely needed to practice inhabiting this identity across many situations, for the foreseeable future, the Gwayne Seawright identity was obviously going to be enormously useful.
Amber, for her part, had no interest in family history or kingdom secrets. After circling the hall once and weighing what would happen to her if she stole sothing here, this half-elf, rich in professional spirit but richer in self-preservation instinct, settled onto a sofa, swinging her legs and looking around.
"So you insisted on coming here because you want to pack up all this stuff and take it with you? I an, your descendants have nearly run through the family fortune. Opportunities to waltz in and haul things away under a legitimate pretext don't co often..."
Wayne was dumbfounded. "Where do you get these ideas?"
Amber preened. "Don't be shy, it's a perfectly normal line of thinking. If you're worried about smuggling too much out at once, leave it to . I'll get everything out without anyone noticing. With my skills, give three grocery-shopping trips and I'll have this place cleaned out..."
A thief who brazenly discussed how to steal from a place with the actual owner was truly a rare specin. Miss Amber was no longer rely the disgrace of elfkind, she had now achieved the rank of disgrace to thieves everywhere...
Evolving from racial disgrace to professional disgrace felt like unlocking quite the achievent.
"Save it. If I actually wanted to take sothing, I wouldn't need your help," Wayne waved her off, cutting short her impractical fantasies. "Denethor may be many things, but he wouldn't be petty over sothing like this."
Amber blinked. "Fair enough. Most of the stuff in here isn't worth much anyway, almost all reproductions. Only that axe and the vase by the door are real... oh wait, the vase is fake too."
Good lord, the girl had been here for all of five minutes and she'd already appraised every single item?!
Could she maybe redirect a fraction of that energy toward controlling her mouth and, I don't know, building up so actual courage?
Finding no one willing to engage with her, Amber swung her legs for a while before hunting for a new topic. "So what did you drag here for anyway? I'm not one of your family knights or soldiers. I'm just a passing thief. What could I possibly help you with?"
"First. you robbed my grave. You claim you were just sheltering there, but under kingdom law it's still a hanging offense. As the wronged party, I pardoned you. Don't you think you have both an obligation and a reason to help out?" Wayne looked at Amber. "Second. I genuinely value your abilities, and I don't an the stealing. I an your talent as a stealth operative. This is the capital. There's no telling how many people with all sorts of agendas are watching this place, watching every one of us. Byron is a knight who only excels at direct combat. Rebecca can only cast Fireball. I haven't fully recovered my strength yet. So I do need you, a skilled shadow master. Are you satisfied with that answer, Miss Amber?"
Wayne's tone had turned serious by the second half, and the gravity of it caught Amber off guard. Her expression went montarily blank.
She genuinely hadn't expected Wayne to speak to her this solemnly. As a petty thief, a rogue who started at negative-one reputation with every noble by default, she never in her wildest dreams imagined being entrusted with sothing so earnestly by a mber of the aristocracy.
And the aristocrat in question was the legendary Grand Duke Seawright himself.
She could brag about this for half a year!
"Well... since you put it like that, I'll help, I guess," the half-elf turned her face away, a touch of self-consciousness showing. "But could you say that part again a few more tis? The 'shadow master, skilled' bit, say it twice more and I won't even charge you..."
Wayne turned to Rebecca. "Can you control your Fireball precisely enough to hit soone in the face without actually killing them?"
Amber: "...?!"
But Amber was spared the fireball-to-the-face experience, because the Brayne steward appeared.
"Ser, you have a visitor," Jas said with a courteous bow. "Prince Edmund is here."
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