By May, spring had fully claimed Paris. As vibrant green leaves unfurled and flowers bloomed across the city, the palace gardeners threw themselves into their work, while servants and soldiers alike found themselves lingering in the gardens to admire the thaw.
I, however, found little beauty in the Parisian spring. My mind was consumed by the seeds I had sown during my meeting with Raleigh, waiting with bated breath for any news from the front. My patience was finally rewarded when a man of African descent slipped into my room, his movements so hushed and deliberate that I immediately focused on his lips.
“Mansfeld has accepted,” he whispered, his voice a low, rapid cadence. “Several other minor mercenary captains have also sent word of their agreement.”
“So, it’s actually happening,” I murmured.
Beside me, Raleigh set down his teacup with a dry, knowing chuckle. I merely nodded, though I knew the sheer audacity of what we had achieved. It was all possible because of the staggering wealth we had extracted from the gold fields of California and the immense profits from our East Asian trade routes. Over the years, our commerce with Britain and France alone had yielded millions of livres.
We had surpassed the Dutch in Eastern trade, rivaled Spain in gold production, and utterly dominated the French in the wine trade. As for industrial and agricultural productivity, we were beyond comparison; the Covenant had long since integrated the steam engine into every facet of society. We could afford this gamble.
“Now,” I said, stretching as I partially drew the curtains to soften the blinding sunlight, “we just have to ensure we can keep these mercenaries on a leash.”
Oitotan and Raleigh exchanged a quick glance before excusing themselves. As the door closed, someone stepped out from the shadows behind me.
“Rest assured, Your Highness. I have taken all necessary precautions. Not a single mercenary who has signed our contract will dare to betray us.”
I turned to find a burly African man standing before me. His voice was as steady as a mountain.
“You’ve done well, Bishop,” I said.
This man had been instrumental years ago when we helped slaves escape Florida and eventually liberated the entire territory. He had been the leader of the Florida underground, and in the fifteen years since, we hadn’t let that organization go to waste. We had scattered Africans, Spaniards, and Mestizos throughout the Caribbean and across Europe.
And as for the English and other Europeans…
***
Mansfeld’s mind was a whirlwind of disbelief. He had spent the last hour verifying the staggering sum the merchant had left behind: one hundred thousand Dutch florins.
A common infantryman earned roughly four guilders a month. When he calculated the conversion from Dutch florins to guilders, the sheer scale of the fortune made his skin prickle. It was more than enough to maintain his entire army for the foreseeable future.
Back in his command tent, he found a single Othello coin sitting on his desk like a silent promise. Just touching the bicolored metal made him feel like a co-conspirator in some grand, shadow-veiled plot. He reflexively glanced around, tucking the coin into his tunic as if it were a stolen treasure.
“Have you ever considered running a mercenary company without the looting and the massacres?”
The merchant’s parting words rang in his ears. It was an absurd proposition, like asking a hunter to kill without blood or an archer to fire without drawing a bow. Mercenaries looted as naturally as apples fell to the earth or water flowed downhill.
But if you tied the apple to the branch, it wouldn’t fall. If you used a pump, water could be forced to flow upward. If someone offered a mercenary a fortune for doing nothing, perhaps the looting would stop—especially if they stood to gain more by remaining peaceful.
But who would do such a thing? A pump was useful for drawing water from the depths, and tying an apple prevented damage from a fall, but what was to be gained by stopping a massacre?
Is this a Catholic ruse? Mansfeld wondered, before instantly dismissing the thought. If the Catholics had this much gold, they would hire ten new regiments and buy a hundred cannons; they wouldn’t beg an enemy not to sack their own cities. Besides, the Covenant was a Protestant power, allied with Britain and the Netherlands against Spain.
The more he thought, the more he felt as though he were wandering through a thick fog.
“Commander! We are ready to move toward Pilsen as ordered!”
The shout from his aide snapped him out of his reverie. Mansfeld signaled his readiness and sent a message to his superior, the Prince of Anhalt-Bernburg, informing him that he would march east via Pilsen to “protect western Bohemia.”
As his army struck camp and began the westward march, Mansfeld’s mental gears continued to turn. The merchant had called that mountain of silver a “down payment.” He had promised more for every life saved. He claimed to serve someone far wealthier than any European duke.
It has to be the Continental Covenant, he reasoned. The Othello coin was practically a calling card. But why? Why bribe a mercenary who is already on their side?
No, that doesn’t matter.
Only two things were important: which path offered the most profit, and which was the safest.
To be honest, the suspicious nature of the deal gnawed at him. He couldn’t see the merchant’s true intent, and that lack of clarity was terrifying. Furthermore, looting and “extracurricular” violence weren’t just about money; they were a pressure valve for men who lived on the edge of death. If he banned looting just because he had been paid, his own men might turn their blades on him.
If it’s just a down payment, he mused, maybe I can just pocket the silver and ‘fail’ to control the men.
That decision brought him a wave of relief. By the time the walls of Pilsen—his captured, personal fiefdom—appeared on the horizon, his heart was light. He gathered his lieutenants, intending to grant them “freedom of action” within the city.
Night fell, and Mansfeld sat in a comfortable chair before his campfire, gnawing on a piece of roasted meat. He reached for a scrap of paper he noticed on the armrest, thinking one of his aides had left a report.
Wait… a note? Who left this?
He unfurled the paper. A single line was written in a sharp, elegant hand:
“I hope you intend to keep your promise.”
Wrapped inside the paper was a jagged, blood-stained shard of a broken blade.
Mansfeld’s blood ran cold.
“Sir! Everyone is gathered! Why did you—”
“It’s nothing!” Mansfeld barked, jumping in his seat.
“Pardon?”
“I said it’s nothing! Get back to your posts! All of you!”
Startled by his sudden outburst, his subordinates grumbled and dispersed. Mansfeld swallowed hard, cold sweat slicking his brow as he looked to his side. There, not a foot away, the merchant was smiling at him.
Mansfeld nearly shrieked. The merchant’s smile was silent and eerie.
“Why are you going to Pilsen?” the stranger whispered.
Mansfeld struggled to find his voice, his heart hammering against his ribs. “To… to defend western Bohemia.”
The merchant’s smile widened to an impossible, terrifying degree. Mansfeld reflexively hiccuped—a reaction that seemed to satisfy the stranger.
“A most acceptable answer,” the merchant said.
He stepped back into the shadows and vanished as if he were made of smoke. When Mansfeld looked down, the note and the bloody blade were gone, replaced by a fresh scrap of parchment. He hurried into his tent, ensuring no one was watching, and unfolded the new note.
It was a single Bible verse: “And it came to pass, that, when the sun went down, and it was dark, behold a smoking furnace, and a burning lamp that passed between those pieces.” (Genesis 15:17)
Mansfeld stared at the verse for a long time before the realization hit him. He held the paper near his lamp, letting the heat toast the fibers. He knew the basics of invisible ink.
Crack. Sizzle.
Letters began to bloom across the page. Mansfeld mouthed the words as they appeared, etching them into his memory.
- Prevent all looting, arson, and massacres against non-combatants.
- Distributing the down payment to the soldiers is an acceptable method to achieve this.
- If strategic goals necessitate violence, casualties must be minimized.
- If supplies or resources are lacking, purchase them locally or report to us.
- Reporting must follow this procedure: First…
Despite the late hour, Mansfeld had never been more focused in his life. He had no choice but to be.
***
I closed the window and drew the curtains tight against the world. I had already dismissed the various guests who had come to see the ‘Crown Prince of the Covenant,’ leaving only a few dim lamps to light the room. After ensuring the hallway was empty, I turned back.
“Several mercenaries attempted to loot and burn earlier,” a voice reported from the shadows. “I left them a minor warning. They have since ceased all attempts.”
I didn’t let my surprise show. I leaned against the wall by the window and listened to the report.
“By now, I believe they’ve regained their senses,” the Bishop said, stepping into the light.
“And if they hadn’t?” I asked.
“I would have followed through on the warning.”
I didn’t ask what that warning entailed. When a man speaks with such an utter lack of emotion, his face a perfect, unmoving mask, it is deeply unsettling—like being trapped in a glitching simulation with a phantom.
I understood why he was this way. In the Florida underground, survival depended on being a ghost, on shedding every unnecessary emotion. They had been trained to be the ultimate instruments of a shadow organization.
But I couldn’t show my fear. I wasn’t just Kim Lee-sang anymore; I was Nemo. I was an angel with power beyond their imagining. I flipped my mental switch and took a calm, practiced sip of my coffee.
“You did well,” I said. “Sometimes, the blade must be drawn to serve a righteous cause.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness.”
“However,” I added, “there’s no need to carry that weight in your everyday speech. Relax.”
The Bishop’s posture softened, the unnatural stiffness bleeding out of his frame. He scratched the back of his head, looking almost embarrassed. “Ah, forgive me. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“It’s fine.”
“As expected of the Nameless One,” he said, his eyes filled with a sudden, fervent admiration. “Even my mistakes couldn’t make you flinch!”
I looked away, staring longingly at the sliver of sky visible through the curtains. “What in this world could be more fearsome than the Lord?”
The Bishop nodded vigorously, his gaze bordering on worship. God, playing this part is exhausting, I thought.
Raleigh had sent the Bishop and the core of the Florida organization across the Atlantic at my request. Many were likely already stationed in France and Britain. This was the birth of the world’s first truly systematic intelligence network—a web of highly trained agents and deep-cover humint assets.
We would use them to leash the mercenaries.
Since it was an organization without a name, even Raleigh and I didn’t fully grasp its reach. It was a mosaic of independent cells and structured hierarchies. My plan was to spread this web beyond France and Britain, deep into the heart of the Empire and beyond. The Thirty Years’ War was a perfect shroud; a few mysterious foreigners wandering the landscape wouldn’t draw a second glance.
If we utilized this chaos correctly, we might achieve far more than just supervising a few paid soldiers. I was counting on it.