Long after the serpent was gone, Lothar's heart still hammered. Across two lifetimes, he had never seen a creature so terrifying. "How can this world contain a monster that size?"

"It's not just the size," Prajna said, her voice low. "The most unsettling thing about it is the sheer magical power inside its body. It reminds me of some of my sorcerer colleagues." In the darkness, her eyes glinted with a strange light: excitement. "Could it be… a witch?"

"A witch? A shapeshifting spell?"

Lothar was guessing. He'd never actually seen a witch, but chivalric romances and tavern tales had given him a rough idea.

"Witches, they say, can drink potions brewed from the blood of certain monsters, then transform into those very creatures, borrowing their strength. But the transformation eats at the mind. The beast grows inside them. Every so often, they lose control and change whether they want to or not. The fairy tale of Cinderella, why she fled the prince's ball just before midnight? It's said she was a witch practiced in transformation magic, about to revert into a monster right there in the hall."

He frowned. "Of course, that's just a guess. This world is as strange to me as it is to you." The original owner of this body had been, at best, a country bumpkin with a title.

"The unknown is what makes it interesting," Prajna said. "That is a good thing."

Lothar sighed. "I'd have preferred a low-fantasy world. One where you and I could carve out a kingdom without fearing some witch's silent curse in the night."

Prajna's lips pressed together. "Then you'd best summon a healer Retainer. I can block physical harm. I can't stop a curse."

"That's not something I can decide," Lothar said helplessly. "I created the System, but the rules are fixed. I don't even have permission to build myself a backdoor."

He looked out the window. The serpent was long gone, but the trench its body had carved through the mud remained starkly visible. Then, droplets struck the glass. The air grew damp. Rain began to fall in thin, whispering threads.

Lothar's eyes narrowed. "Rain? Did that serpent summon a rainstorm to wash away its tracks?"

Prajna shook her head. "I don't know. But it's possible."

The next morning, the rain had not stopped. The whole world had turned grey. A full night of rainfall had scoured the streets clean of the serpent's trail. Six horses, six riders, they left the inn early and pushed on through the muddy country lanes, every surcoat and shirt clinging damp and miserable in the wet.

The Countess's knights had dealt fairly. The two warhorses they'd selected from the captured stock were Hungarian-bred, a solid cross of native and Arabian blood, they were told. A fair bit shorter than Lothar's Nisaean charger, but good mounts nonetheless. Lothar assigned them to Prajna and Hans directly.

Laine and Modell showed no resentment at being passed over. For one, neither of them was a cavalryman by trade; a warhorse would be wasted on them. For another, the first was a suspected witch close to their lord, and the second an elite knight in his own armor. They weren't about to grumble.

Hans hadn't brought a lance or horse when he was summoned, the card art hadn't shown one, but that didn't mean he lacked the skills. As a Teutonic Knight-in-Training, he'd been drilled in both.

Ahead, a dense press of humanity clogged the road. They wore rags. Whole families moved together: here a cluster of roughnecks and petty criminals, there a band of mercenary-looking men in chainmail. A motley flood of every station and none.

Lothar stopped a man at random. "Where are you from? Where are you bound?"

The man ducked his head nervously. "We are pilgrims, my lord, bound for the Holy Land. My companions and I hail from the Margraviate of Brandenburg."

Another People's Crusade, Lothar thought.

His party pressed into the crowd. The ragged, filthy, road-weary commoners parted to let them pass. Mud splashed up from the horses' hooves and streaked the faces of the people they passed, and the people swallowed their anger and said nothing. Lothar put a stop to it at once, ordering everyone to dismount and walk. On a road this choked, even a horse couldn't make speed, and the common folk were nearly throwing themselves aside to avoid giving offense.

Up ahead, a covered wagon creaked along. Faint sounds drifted from within. A moment later, a mercenary climbed out, expression dazed and satisfied, pulling up his trousers.

Laine chuckled. "Camp followers. 'Streetwalkers' is more like it."

"They trail the pilgrim columns and earn their passage along the way. Some settle in a town along the route. Some follow all the way to the Holy Land to wash their sins clean."

Lothar asked the question before he could stop himself. "Aren't they afraid of disease?"

Laine laughed outright. "Working in a big city does not make you safe from that. If anything, the ones who follow the pilgrims pay less in taxes to the lord."

Lothar fell silent a moment. "They tax money earned by selling your own body?"

"Of course. And not lightly, either. Add the tithe, labor service, military levies, and whatever new tax a lord's greed happens to dream up…" Laine paused.

"My lord, your father is a good lord. But most lords don't treat commoners as human beings."

Lothar nodded. He glanced at Prajna and thought back to their conversation that night. If he was a transmigrator, if he'd been sent to this world, he ought to do something about it. Even if he couldn't change the whole world, he could at least make sure his own future subjects lived in something close to dignity.

By the roadside, men and women collapsed into the mud, too sick or starved to walk another step. A man thrust a cracked wooden bowl toward Lothar. "Noble lord, mercy, my wife is dying of hunger. Please, a handful of grain—"

Another held up a homemade crusader banner and cried, "Sir knights! We are crusaders too! Let us follow you! We can serve as squires, servants: we'll tend your livestock, work your fields!"

An old woman, her face wet with tears, clutched her bone-thin daughter. "Please, take my girl in. She's going to starve."

Lothar's chest tightened. Modell leaned close and whispered, "My lord, you cannot save everyone."

Lothar nodded. "You're right. I can help for a moment, not a lifetime.

"A few silver coins, a loaf of bread—those will not save a life. This People's Crusade, led by some barefoot village priest... I doubt a third of them will ever see the Holy Land. But I still need to do something."

He lowered his voice. "Modell. Take grain to that woman in a moment. Do what you can for the others as well. Give away half our dry rations.

"Be discreet, if you draw a crowd, we won't be helping, we'll be starting a riot."

A man pushed through the crowd alongside Lothar's Nisaean, dragging a pale, soft-faced youth. "Sir knight! Those stick-thin little girls are no fun at all. Why not give this one a try—"

"Get away!" The horned-helm knight thrust his riding crop forward. "You dare peddle such filth before my honored lord? Would you have him commit an unforgivable sin?" The Church counted sodomy among the gravest of crimes.

The peddler recoiled in terror. He'd taken this fierce-looking warrior for Lothar's equal, a fellow knight, only now realizing the man was a mere squire. Lothar's stature in his eyes leaped upward: a knight who commanded a knight. No common rider, but a man of high noble blood.

"Forgive me, forgive my offense! But he is no man; he is a castrato, trained in the secret arts of the Eastern court. No unclean thing. The emperors of the East love to raise eunuchs as their closest confidants, to govern the state on their behalf…"

Lothar waved him off. "Hans. Calm yourself. Eunuchs have existed for centuries. In the Eastern Empire, a eunuch has even risen to the rank of Grand Magus, the equal of His Holiness the Pope in spiritual rank."

He lowered his voice. "I find myself wondering, Hans: are you a knight of the Heavenly Father? Or are you a knight sworn to me alone, loyal even if I pledged myself to a pagan devil?"

Lothar swung up into the saddle and spurred forward. Beneath his winged helm, Hans's face went white. His lips trembled, bloodless.

A moment later, he urged his horse up beside Lothar.

"My lord. Forgive me. Perhaps I've immersed myself too deeply in this world. But if the Heavenly Father truly exists here; you are still my creator. The only master I worship. Please, forgive me for presuming to decide on your behalf. I will find that merchant at once and buy the eunuch for you."

Lothar nearly laughed. "Absolutely not. I have no interest in that eunuch, nor in the… tastes that would imply. But I value your loyalty highly, Hans. A philosopher once said: loyalty that is not absolute is no loyalty at all."

His voice was dead serious. If he became a lord, he would eventually clash with the Church. He could never allow the clergy to claim half his authority, and he would never tolerate his people being more loyal to the Church than to him.

Hans rushed to speak. "Please, my lord, have no doubt of my devotion. My sword, my lance: they exist only for you, and only in your service."

Prajna's cool voice cut in.

"He isn't lying. Lothar… you need never worry about whether we are loyal to you. We exist because of you. Even if I disliked you—hated you—I would still be bound to obey. I could never act against you."

"I understand," Lothar said quietly. Then, testing the waters: "Prajna? Do you dislike me?"

Prajna paused. Her brow tightened. After a long silence, she answered: "No."

Lothar smiled. Hans, riding behind him, was consumed with shame. Even General Prajna treats him with regard, and I, a lowly one-star, dared to make decisions on his behalf? Unforgivable presumption.

Affinity increased.

Lothar clapped Hans on the shoulder with an odd expression. He was beginning to think he might have a natural talent for psychological manipulation.

The crowd grew denser. Up ahead, a checkpoint appeared, manned by soldiers. A knight on a brown warhorse, hand on his sword hilt, was shouting at the throng.

"Pilgrims from afar! Ahead lies Lienz, domain of Lord Leopold of House Babenberg! By his order, we distribute grain to you, but you shall advance no farther! A knight's tournament is being held within. Nobles and knights from across the land are gathered. If you offend them, the punishment will be severe. Take your grain and turn south at once. Should our patrols find any of you still lingering, harsh penalties will follow!"

Lothar sighed. "Lienz already."

They had reached the Austrian March. This was Babenberg territory. The ruler here, Count Leopold, was a count in name only; his real power and military strength far exceeded the title. The March of Austria was possibly larger than many a duchy. But it was frontier land, thick with mountains, and poor.

Hans murmured behind him, "My lord, this land should belong to your house."

True enough. Austria had been the historical base of the Habsburg dynasty.

Lothar shook his head. "Father told me about this Count Leopold. He's not someone to trifle with. Besides, the Habsburgs rose to power not because of Austria. It was a base, but not an irreplaceable one."

He had no designs on Austria. The King of Bohemia and Henry the Lion had both been eyeing it for years. Even when he returned from the Holy Land, he wouldn't move on it recklessly.

If he had a choice, he'd rather open his path in the Low Countries. That was where the real wealth lay.

Lienz was a castle-town. The fortress stood at its heart, ringed by the tallest and strongest walls. The town itself had only a low outer wall, and the jumbled mess of buildings within made it hard to recognize as a city of any size.

Outside the gate, servants worked a registration table. One spotted Lothar and hurried over. "My lord! You've come for the tournament, yes? If you wish to register, please follow me, the deadline is nearly upon us."

"What's the prize?"

The servant smiled. "The victor may win the favor of my master, Lord Leopold. He might receive a grant of land. A title of honor. Or a handsome sum of shining coin, perhaps a pretty maid or two."

Land was tempting, but he'd already committed to his path. Maids, even less necessary. Coin, though. That, he needed.

"I'll enter. And my squire as well. Take me to register."

"Squire?" The servant's expression flickered with disdain. "Ha! My lord, do not underestimate this contest. Renowned knights aplenty have gathered; the scale is no smaller than the last great tourney at Vienna. A mere squire may not endure. He could well be beaten to death."

Squires usually fought without armor. And tournament rules required participants to provide their own.

"Don't underestimate my squire." Lothar gestured at Hans. "He's fully armored, highly skilled. Many a proper knight would fall to him. I'd have knighted him already if he'd had the chance to earn it."

As he registered, Lothar called over his shoulder. "Laine. I need four lances of white ash, two of applewood. And a well-made kite shield for Hans, leather-faced or iron-rimmed."

White ash lances were brittle, prone to shatter, and thus ideal for tournament use. Applewood was tougher, meant for real war.

Laine took the coin pouch and hurried off. Hans's voice was tight with emotion. "My lord, I will not shame you."

The servant stared. "He's a squire? That harness of his… he looks more a knight than most proper knights." He scratched both names onto the register; Hans had no surname, so they borrowed Habsburg. "Good sirs! The tournament commences this afternoon at the hunting grounds outside the city walls. Be prepared."