Chapter 31: Peasant Bootcamp and the Shovel of Reality

The morning sun filtered through the dusty windows of the Boar & Barrel Inn, illuminating a room thick with tension and the smell of stale ale.

Duke Balmarrat Matthew sat at the heavy wooden table, his massive hands completely covering his face. He let out a long, slow groan that sounded like a dying bear. He had spent the entire night hoping that the sight of Princess Aurelia tumbling out of a sack of horse leashes was just a stress-induced hallucination.

It was not.

Aurelia was currently sitting on a wooden stool across from him, swinging her legs cheerfully, while her younger brother, Crown Prince Julian—now entirely miserable in his itchy wool tunic—stared at his bowl of watery porridge as if it had personally insulted him.

“We have to turn back,” the Duke muttered through his fingers. “I will ride back to the capital, throw myself at the King’s feet, and beg for a quick execution.”

Alistair, pacing frantically back and forth across the floorboards, shook his head so hard his spectacles nearly flew off. “We cannot, my Lord! We are already a full night’s ride from the capital. If we turn back now, we lose days of travel, and the border remains completely exposed. Furthermore, we cannot just put Her Highness on a horse with a single guard and send her back. The provincial roads are crawling with bandits!”

Alistair stopped pacing, pulling at his hair. “We have committed treason, my Lord. Accidental, highly stupid treason. The penalty for kidnapping royal blood is being drawn and quartered!”

“I am not kidnapped, Alistair,” Aurelia chimed in brightly. “I am an eager volunteer.”

“You are a massive liability,” the Duke corrected, finally dropping his hands. He glared at the Princess. “If we cannot turn back, then you cannot be a Princess. You need a disguise. Right now.”

The Duke tossed a silver coin to his assistant. “Alistair. Go down to the innkeeper. Buy the cheapest, most foul-smelling, pathetic peasant boy clothing you can find. Do not come back with anything that has been washed in the last month.”

Alistair whimpered and scurried out the door. Ten minutes later, he returned holding a bundle of gray, moth-eaten fabric that smelled strongly of wet dog and old turnips.

Aurelia wrinkled her nose. “Uncle Balmarrat, surely a simple traveler’s cloak would suffice?”

“Put it on,” the Duke ordered flatly.

When Aurelia emerged from the washroom, she was unrecognizable. The oversized, roughspun tunic swallowed her frame, and the trousers were cinched at the waist with a frayed piece of rope.

“The hair,” the Duke pointed. “Your hair has been washed with lavender and rosewater. Peasant boys do not smell like royal gardens.”

Aurelia sighed heavily. She grabbed a greasy, battered flat cap Alistair had procured, twisted her beautiful auburn hair into a tight knot, and shoved the cap firmly onto her head. She rubbed some ash from the hearth onto her cheeks for good measure.

“Better,” the Duke nodded, though a vein was throbbing in his temple. “Now, the rules. Julian is ‘Jules,’ an apprentice scribe. Your royal accent will get us all murdered the moment you open your mouth. Therefore, your alias is Aura.”

“Aura,” Aurelia repeated, crossing her arms. “And what is my profession?”

“You are Jules’s orphaned, feral, and strictly mute younger sister,” the Duke declared.

“Mute?!” Aurelia protested. “I cannot speak for five days?!”

“If you value your life, and mine, you will not utter a single syllable until we reach Dian Village,” the Duke warned, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “Now, grab your bags. We have a long road ahead.”

✽✽✽✽✽✽

The military carriage hit the main provincial dirt road with the grace of a falling boulder.

Unlike the King’s personal carriages, which featured meticulously engineered steel-leaf springs to glide over cobblestones, the Duke’s carriage was built to survive artillery fire and deep mud. It had zero suspension.

THUD!

The carriage hit a massive rut. Julian was instantly launched four inches off his seat, his head narrowly missing the wooden roof before he slammed back down onto the leather bench.

“By the Gods!” Julian gasped, his face instantly turning a pale shade of green. He gripped the heavy leather armrests so hard his knuckles turned white. “Is the axle broken? Are we under attack?”

“That was a pothole, Jules,” the Duke sighed, bracing his massive legs against the floorboard.

CRACK! They hit another rut. Julian groaned, closing his eyes as a wave of violent motion sickness washed over him.

Aurelia, however, had figured out the physics of the carriage immediately. Sitting directly across from Julian, she realized that bracing herself only made the impact worse. Instead, she sat completely loose. When the carriage hit a bump, she bounced into the air like a ragdoll, landing softly with a wide, silent grin. She was treating the horrific road conditions like a festival carnival ride.

She caught the Duke glaring at her and quickly covered her mouth, giggling silently to maintain her “mute” persona.

The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is going to be a disaster. Neither of you has any idea how the real world operates. We are going to conduct a Peasant Bootcamp.”

Julian opened one eye, still clinging to his armrest. “A bootcamp, Uncle?”

“Yes. If we are stopped by a patrol or a toll collector, you need to sound like a commoner,” the Duke instructed. “Let us start with basic economics. Jules, you are an orphaned scribe. You go to the market. How much does a standard loaf of bread cost?”

Julian frowned, thinking deeply about the question. He wanted to impress the Duke. He tapped his chin. “Well… considering the grain yield and the baker’s labor… I would say… one gold piece?”

The carriage fell dead silent, save for the rattling of the wheels. Alistair buried his face in his hands, letting out a muffled sob.

“One gold piece,” the Duke repeated, his voice dangerously calm. “Jules, a gold piece buys the entire bakery, the baker’s house, and the baker’s horse. If you hand a merchant a gold coin for a loaf of bread, he will assume you stole it, and he will stab you in an alleyway.”

Julian shrank back against the seat. “I… I see. Three silvers, then?”

“Two coppers,” the Duke corrected, rubbing his temples. “Gods give me strength.”

Aurelia, meanwhile, was fully leaning into her feral peasant act. She slouched down in the seat, lifted her muddy, oversized boots, and planted them squarely on the velvet cushion next to Julian. To top it off, she opened her mouth and let out a massive, rumbling, aggressively unladylike burp.

Julian looked at her in absolute disgust. “Aurelia! Have you lost your mind?!”

Aurelia just grinned, tapping her throat and shrugging innocently. I’m mute, remember?

“Put your feet down, Aura, before I throw you out the window,” the Duke growled.

A few hours later, the carriage slowed as it passed a struggling farmer walking alongside a rickety handcart. The cart was filled with small, slightly bruised apples.

Julian sat up, desperate to redeem himself after the bread incident. “Uncle, allow me. I shall seamlessly blend in with the local populace and procure us a snack.”

Before the Duke could stop him, Julian leaned out the carriage window. “Ho there, good farmer! I would like to purchase four of your finest apples!”

The farmer, looking exhausted and covered in dust, grabbed four apples and handed them up to the carriage window. “That’ll be three coppers, young master.”

Julian, who had never touched a copper coin in his entire life, reached into his hidden silk coin purse. He pulled out a massive, heavy, Royal-minted solid gold coin. He casually tossed it down to the dirt road at the farmer’s feet.

“Keep the change, my good man!” Julian shouted cheerfully, pulling his head back in.

Alistair let out a high-pitched, inhuman shriek.

“YOU FOOL!” Alistair screamed. He practically dove across Julian’s lap, throwing half his body out the carriage window. “STOP! WAIT! MISTAKE!”

Alistair scrambled, flailing his arms wildly until he managed to smack the gold coin out of the stunned farmer’s hand. He frantically shoved three copper coins into the man’s dirt-caked palm, snatched the gold coin back, and collapsed back into the carriage, panting heavily.

“Are you trying to collapse the provincial economy?!” Alistair wheezed, his glasses completely askew. “Do you know what a peasant with a gold coin does? He gets robbed! Or he buys a mercenary company!”

Julian looked down at the apples in his lap, properly chastised. “I was only trying to be generous.”

“Generosity in the mud is called a target, boy,” the Duke grunted.

By midday, the carriage pulled off the road to rest the horses.

“Lunchtime,” the Duke announced, reaching into a heavy canvas sack.

Julian sat up straighter, his stomach rumbling. “Excellent. I hope the innkeeper packed roasted pheasant. Or perhaps a sharp cheese with glazed pears?”

The Duke pulled out a wrapped cloth and tossed it onto Julian’s lap. Julian opened it eagerly, only to stare in deep confusion. Inside were strips of dark, heavily salted dried meat that looked like shoe leather, and several large, pale, circular biscuits.

“What… what is this?” Julian asked, holding up a biscuit. It was incredibly heavy.

“Travel rations,” the Duke said, taking a piece of jerky and tearing into it with his teeth. “Salted beef and hardtack.”

“Hardtack?” Julian examined the biscuit. “Well, it looks filling enough.”

Julian brought the biscuit to his mouth and took a massive, confident bite.

CRACK.

Julian shrieked, dropping the hardtack and clutching his jaw with both hands. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes. He looked at the Duke, his voice trembling with genuine pain. “Uncle! Is this… is this a piece of the new masonry Takuya invented? Did you accidentally pack a brick?”

Aurelia silently doubled over in her seat, laughing so hard no sound came out, her shoulders shaking violently.

The Duke sighed, a deep, soul-weary sound. He took Julian’s hardtack, poured a splash of water from his canteen over it, and handed it back. “You have to dunk it, Jules. Unless you want to rule the kingdom with no teeth. Let the water soften it first.”

Julian spent the next twenty minutes miserably sucking on a damp, salty rock.

The true breaking point, however, came three hours later.

Julian, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, cleared his throat politely. “Uncle Balmarrat. I apologize for the interruption, but could you please summon the chamberlain? I need to use the privy.”

The Duke stared at him blankly. He knocked on the carriage roof. “Driver, halt by the treeline.”

The carriage ground to a halt beside a dense, overgrown patch of forest. Alistair reached under his seat, pulled out a rusted iron trowel, and grabbed a handful of broad, slightly scratchy green leaves from a satchel. He handed them to the Crown Prince.

Julian looked at the shovel, then at the leaves, and then out the window at the muddy woods. He looked back at Alistair.

“I don’t understand,” Julian whispered, existential horror creeping into his voice. “Where is the porcelain? Where is the washbasin?”

“The porcelain is in the capital, Your Highness,” Alistair said with a deadpan, exhausted expression. “The washbasin is that puddle over there. Dig a hole. Make sure you cover it up when you are done.”

Julian froze entirely, his brain refusing to process the indignity. The future King of Cynthia, expected to squat in the dirt like an animal.

Aurelia, however, was thriving. She happily snatched the shovel and the leaves right out of Julian’s hands. She kicked the carriage door open and marched enthusiastically into the dark woods, looking like she was off to hunt a dragon.

“She is adjusting much faster than you are, Jules,” the Duke noted dryly.

As the days blurred together, the carriage ride devolved into a theater of madness. The bumpy roads, the terrible food, and the constant fear of being discovered were taking a massive toll—not on the royals, but on Alistair.

By the fifth day of travel, Alistair had completely stopped fixing his appearance. His normally neat hair was sticking up in sweaty, chaotic tufts. His glasses were permanently crooked on his nose. He sat perfectly still in the corner of the carriage, rocking slightly back and forth, staring blankly at his open ledger.

“Section four… paragraph twelve…” Alistair muttered to himself, his voice raspy. “Concealing a royal heir… twenty years in the dungeon. Accessory to the kidnapping of a princess… death by hanging… or perhaps the guillotine if the King is feeling merciful…”

“Alistair, snap out of it,” the Duke ordered, kicking his assistant’s boot.

“I am a dead man, my Lord,” Alistair whispered, staring into the void. “I will never see my mother again.”

“Look out the window,” the Duke commanded.

Julian, Aurelia, and Alistair all leaned toward the small carriage window.

The dense forest had finally broken, revealing the sprawling eastern valley. In the distance, rising into the sky like dark, industrial monuments, were massive plumes of black and gray smoke. The rhythmic, echoing clang of heavy iron striking steel could be heard even from miles away.

“Is that… a city?” Julian asked, his jaw dropping as he saw the towering Rammed Earth walls and the sprawling, organized grid of buildings taking shape in the distance.

“That,” Duke Balmarrat said, a tired smile finally breaking through his exhaustion, “is Dian Village. Peasant Bootcamp is over. Welcome to the real world.”