Rewrite That Witch
CH842 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 842: Chicken-and-Duck Knight

Prius Dessau’s life had been going rather well of late.

His years of service under the Elk Family had blurred at the edges over time, softening into something that felt less like a past and more like a dimly recalled story. The knight’s training had gone equally soft — and so, truthfully, had the rest of him. His old armored surcoat could no longer be fastened at the belly. He had replaced it with loose fabric trousers and short silk robes, comfortable and undemanding, which allowed him to comport himself with a reasonable impression of gentility. He was aware, of course, that His Majesty’s domain had effectively abolished the old nobility — but the bearing, at least, cost nothing.

His knighthood had not vanished entirely. The shining armor hung in his living room testified to that. It was strange: when he had actually been a knight of the Elk Family, he had resented those suits of plate enough to consider selling them for scrap. Now he found them rather pleasing to look at. He had developed a habit of holding his toddler in front of them and spinning tales of valiance and heroic deeds — though in those tales, Duke Ryan had been quietly edited out of existence, replaced by an impeccable loyalty to Roland Wimbledon that had apparently always been there.

In the City Hall he had risen steadily, seizing the moment when Neverwinter’s population was expanding fastest and scaling the poultry operation to match. What had begun as a modest flock had grown into something he now called — without a trace of irony — a factory. After learning the word from His Majesty, he had wasted no time nailing the board above the gate. Factories were springing up across Neverwinter like mushrooms after rain; it was the most fashionable word in the City Hall, and he had no intention of being left behind.

By any measure, his poultry factory was not inferior to the machine-manufacturing plants. Over a hundred employees. Nearly ten thousand chickens and ducks. Several baskets of feed and earthworms consumed daily — a scale he had once considered impossible to dream of, and now considered barely adequate. As for the Chicken-and-Duck Knight — he had discovered, to his mild surprise, that he rather enjoyed the nickname.

With the operation running smoothly, he found he had time to spare. The first cohort of apprentices had mastered everything: distinguishing poultry genders, feeding rhythms, filtering baby chicks, and training newer workers in turn. Fowl plague, once the most dreaded threat to any poultry enterprise, had been effectively solved by the witch Lily, which meant there was no ceiling on how large the factory could grow. His days now consisted of planning, statistics, and passing the figures along to the Ministry of Agriculture.

Most of the other captured knights were doing well enough. A few too proud to cooperate had not fared so happily, but the rest had adapted. Sirius Daly, a former knight of the Wolf Family and Prius’s superior, had risen highest — a full minister now, the best outcome among all of them. Ferlin Eltek, the Morning Light, had been promoted to intermediate teacher and earned roughly what Prius did. He had mentioned plans beyond teaching, though where a former star knight might land next was difficult to guess. The others — Halon, Valsa, Kazan — were teaching or running small enterprises. Prius saw them often enough: slow afternoons spent in talk about daily life, work, the shape of the future.

Not everyone was genuinely persuaded. Halon still brooded over the policy barring captured knights from joining the army, and a certain despondence colored their meetings whenever the subject arose. Prius could not agree with him. Flintlock muskets were enormously powerful weapons. If the positions were reversed, he would not have entrusted them to a defeated army either.

As for his own ambitions — they ran toward the annual Award and Honor Ceremony. Judging by His Majesty’s emphasis on agriculture, he felt it was only a matter of time before he stood on the platform in the square, a medal pressed into his hands by the king himself, a hundred gold royals to follow. That was a more promising prospect than any army commission.

He was humming as he made his way to the City Hall that morning, intending to greet Sirius Daly before heading out to the factory, when the minister stopped him at the door.

“Ah, there you are. His Majesty is waiting for you.”

Prius slowed. “What’s the matter?”

“The guard didn’t say. Only that you should come to the castle as soon as you arrived.”

“I see.” He kept his voice steady. His heart was doing something less steady inside his chest. It isn’t long since the agriculture mobilization conference. Could His Majesty be thinking what I’m thinking — an honorary citation?

Full of that hope, he entered the castle. A guard led him up to the third floor. The door to the royal office.

“Come in.” The familiar voice carried through the wood. “I’ve been waiting some time.”

Prius entered, went to one knee, and pressed his fist to his chest in the traditional knight’s greeting. The extra weight around his middle made it a slightly ungraceful performance, and he nearly pitched sideways on the way down.

“Rise.” The king was seated behind his long desk, smiling. “You’ve been doing excellent work — even Barov has been praising you, which is rare enough to be remarkable. That’s why I have a new task for you.”

“I am at your command.” Prius stood.

“Good. Listen carefully.” Roland’s expression turned serious. “This is top secret. Even within City Hall, very few people know of it. It concerns the future development of Neverwinter. The moment you accept, you cannot speak of what you see or hear without my explicit permission. The reason I’ve chosen you is that you’re the most suitable candidate — though I won’t pretend you’re irreplaceable. If you succeed, compensation will not be an issue. I want your answer now.”

Prius had not expected this at all. Not a medal. Not a ceremony. A secret task — the kind that sounded like it concerned the king’s own affairs.

His first instinct was to refuse. Involvement in royal secrets is the kind of thing that gets men quietly disappeared. The refusal rose to the tip of his tongue and stayed there.

Wait. He caught himself. Who does he think he’s speaking to? This is the Lord of Neverwinter. The King of Graycastle.

When a king asked an official to do something, he was not truly asking. He was extending a courtesy — shielding the man’s feelings. The word “no” did not exist in this transaction, and only a fool or a rebel would attempt it. And hadn’t Prius himself just said I am at your command?

I expressed loyalty, and then I was going to turn around and refuse? If he were king, he would never forgive such a thing. Never mind the Award and Honor Ceremony. Never mind the hundred gold royals. He would be lucky to keep his position at all.

He very nearly slapped himself.

After a moment’s hesitation, he heard himself say: “I accept the task.”

He could not afford to lose his standing. He had already lost his identity as a knight. If he lost this position too, there would be nothing left.

The one thing that reassured him was the phrase most suitable candidate, no precedent for it. That was, in its way, an acknowledgment of his abilities.

“Good.” Roland smiled and spoke quietly toward the empty air beside him, then looked back at Prius. “Now follow me.”

“Where to?” The anxiety was already climbing his throat.

“The Third Border City.” The king raised an eyebrow. “Have you heard of it?”

Discussion

Suggest a change