“I refuse.” The witch said. “Not without the mother’s consent.”

“But she’s only being foolish and sentimental!” Father demanded. “If you do it she won't even suspect, she’ll think she lost it on her own.”

“I’m telling you no!” The witch shouted back. “Besides which this child might have an incredible destiny, even discussing abortion in this instance sets my psychic alarms on fire. I’ve never had a vision of the future before today but when I even contemplate your suggestion images appear in my head. None of which is the point because the idea is unethical in the extreme.” The door slammed on her way out and a cold spot lingered in the room long after she left. Goosbumps formed on my skin as I dwelled on the strange look in here eyes as she discussed your possible future. Father was fuming.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. Then he spotted me.

“Keep what you heard to yourself, it will only upset your sister.”

“Why don’t you make that man take responsibility?” I asked, not for the first time. The idea of Count Grisham escaping my father’s wrath made me lose sleep. Father just sighed.

“A baker taking on the Count of Monte Cristo, I hope it doesn’t come to that. There’s still a few things I can try.”

***

“Please tell me you’re joking.” Sister said.

“I’m dead serious,” father replied. “We haven’t many options left and time is running out before you start showing.”

She shook her head. “Trapping a man like that isn’t right, it’s not honorable.”

Father scoffed.

“Honor is for nobles and judging from your friend Grisham in short supply even among them. You’re a baker’s daughter in a great deal of trouble and don’t have the luxury of honor.”

“Whatever you say.” Sister said. “It still doesn’t make it right for us to trick some lad into raising another man’s child.”

I jumped in my skin as father kicked a chair into the wall shattering it to pieces with a great clatter. “Damn you girl, I’m trying to help you!”

Sister looked away from father not meeting his eyes. “I have my pride too, I can’t live that sort of lie and I could never hurt someone that way.”

“Then what am I to do?” Father asked. “Send you to a convent and the child to an orphanage?” He shook his head. “Or keep you both and live under a cloud of scandal. I’ll lose any nobles as customers that’s for certain and nobody as respectable as a butcher will marry you. You’d be lucky to snag a smuggler or a pirate.”

All the talk of marriage schemes and convents was getting under my skin. To my mind the solution was simple and everyone was dancing around it. This count had seduced my sister and put a baby in her and even as a boy of six i knew that as the men of the family we had to act.

“Why won’t you make that high and mighty cunt come down here and do what he’s supposed to?” I shouted, thoroughly sick of pretending Count Grisham didn’t exist. “You aren't even trying to put up a fight. You’re letting him treat Sis like trash and get away with it!” I huffed, kicking the debris from the chair.

“That’s enough of that!” Father shouted. “You’re not helping. You don’t think I want to march out to that castle of his and give him a piece of my mind?” His fist bounced from the table with a whack. I froze as his eyes fell on me, filled with barely contained rage. His body was shaking with every breath and I suddenly felt that I was about to receive the beating of my life. Instead he beat the table with increasing force and each time I heard the crack of his fist against the wood it was louder and each time I flinched, always thinking that the next time his fist would meet my face.

“I’d kill him if I saw him face to face. It’s one thing to give in to passion, hell I can even forgive the sort who wants to avoid responsibility and live like a child but what this man did to your sister is reprehensible.” He was quiet for a long moment and neither I nor my sister had the nerve to say a word. The only sound was that of our collective breathing joined by the rustling of parchment as he collected his writing supplies from the cabinet and lay them in a disorganized heap on the dinner table. He spread a sheet parchment out, smoothing it with one hand as the other dipped his quill in ink.

“A harshly worded letter, however might just be what’s needed to kick some sense into this so called Count of Monte Cristo.” He put pen to paper.

“Dont,” sister said. “You’ll only bring trouble if you antagonize him.”

Father slapped her hand away.

“Bah, I’m no young hothead who can’t be subtle. I can hide the deadliest venom in the most flattering words. How do you think I survived as a mercenary officer all those years? It wasn’t my baking skills, i’ll tell you that much. I fought with pens as often as I did with swords. I’ll get the right emotions across, believe me you.”

I didn’t read the letter myself but father dictated it to us when he was done and I still recall the gist, though my crude language doesn’t do his poetry justice.

To ;

Tiberius Grisham, The Count of Monte Cristo

I know you to be a gentleman and a man of honor. As such I cannot fathom that you’ve hurt my daughter on purpose nor said the things she mistakenly believes that you did, as only the lowest cad born from motherless filth could say or do such things. As you may suspect my daughter now carries your child. As a father I have every right to demand marriage but as a man of the world I understand the political reality behind a nobleman’s selection of a wife. Nevertheless I must insist on your honor that you take responsibility for the child and it’s mother. Though I be merely a baker I am not a man without friends of certain rank and if we are all to remain on good terms I expect you to both fully legitimize the child as your heir and financially provide for my daughter.

Sincerely,

Balthazar Crowe, Master Baker

“Put that in your pipe and smoke it.” Father said as he signed the letter.

A night later we got our reply in the form of a black envelope delivered under our door.

It read:

Dear Dough Slinger,

Have a care how you address you betters. Do not mistake it to be your place to bandy words with a count. You accuse me of impregnating your daughter, I say she is a lowborn whore and any man on this world could be the father. Yet say that I am, what matters it to me? If I handed my fortune to every plump bellied strumpet who’s father points the finger what would become of me? I have better things to do with my time and money than raise your brat. I regret if it means being on bad terms with your powerful friends at the baker’s guild or confectioner's union. If I've offended any of your noble patrons however, I expect they will forgive me when I invite them to my next ball. As I’ve forgiven you for questioning my honor. Though, as a bit of advice I'll warn that such ill thought words are a good way to end up at the wrong end of a dueling blade.

From,

Tiberius Grisham, Count of Monte Cristo

Father’s face was red as he crumpled the letter and threw it to the ground.

“Damn him,” he said, snatching his sword from the mantle. “If it’s a duel he wants, he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.” His eyes were wild as he sliced the air with his sword. “I’ve slain harder men in single combat than an over bred count.” He sighed and hung the sword back over the oven.

“Maybe a letter to the Mercenaries Guild, though I don’t know if Gnar is running things anymore, that would leave Rex or Sai in charge most likely.” He grumbled sifting through his desk drawers. “If I can find my old signet ringI could get a letter off . Sai might even send me a squad or two but Rex wouldn’t likely lift pen to paper.” He shook his head and looked woefully at me. “Has it come to this, boy? Calling men to risk their lives raiding this man’s home just to avenge your sister’s honor. ”

I knew my father would never do it, never call in his friends to clean up his family’s mess.

The look was in his eyes, he was a man defeated.

“Don’t let him beat you, dad.” I said. “You’re the best swordsman alive, just fight him and make him pay.”

Father’s eyes strayed back to the bastard sword hanging above the oven. It was plain and unadorned, slightly tarnished by age but sharp as ever. For me it was a thing of awe, holding the lives of countless unnamed enemies in it’s blade.

“Don’t tempt me.” He muttered, pulling fresh baked bread from the oven.

He smiled as the smell reached his nose. “That’s a weapon of death, son. Pain is all that comes from using it. You and I aren’t like these nobles who kill each other for sport. We understand that life is like this bread, delicious and every bite to be enjoyed. Sure it can get hard but we still eat it because we don’t waste. The nobles just throw it away when it gets hard.” He shook his head.

I picked up a piece of burnt bread and handed it to father.

“Can we still eat it when it’s ruined?” I asked. “That’s what I heard the church lady call sis, ruined. What do we do when the bread is ruined?”

It wasn’t the first time i’d lied to my father but it was the most important. I wanted Grisham dead like I'd never wanted anything in my life and I knew that my invincible father could kill the man if only he had the right motivation. Like any young boy I knew more about the world than I let on. I certainly knew what it meant for a girl to be ruined, just as well as I knew that the thought of anyone saying that of my sister would put my fathers’ blood to boil. There was no church woman.

He slammed the trey of steaming bread on the table.

“Your sister isn’t ruined!” He boomed. “She’ll be wed if I have to kill Count Grisham in the streets and say they eloped. She’ll be wed if I have to poison the bastard and ransom him the antidote.” A look of pure evil crossed my father’s face and for a second, only a heartbeat he wasn’t himself but a demon.

***

An hour later he came up from the cellar.

“This is the stuff.” He said, holding a putridly green bottle of dwarf spirits.

“This stuff will put any human through more agony than actually dying. A drop has rendered men invalid for a week. We used to play a game back in my fighting days, we’d trick new recruits into drinking it.” He laughed. “A few drops of this into Count Grisham’s muffins will put a scare into him, especially after he gets my next letter.”

My father triumphantly read his diabolical note.

To: The honorless son of a motherless goat known by the (obviously made up) Alias Tiberius Grisham, Count of Monte Cristo.

I hope you enjoyed your muffins, they may be the last thing you ever eat. If you relish life you’ll meet me in front of my bakery and proceed with my daughter to the church where you will be WED. Only after the vows are exchanged will your life be spared.

Sincerely,

Balthazar Crowe, Master Baker.

Scout Commander Balthazar Dracarys Crowe, Black Dagger Mercenary Guild, Retired.