Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Интерлюдия вторая: "То, что не сгорело"

Interlude Two: "All that didn't burn"

Whenever a visitor, who had yet to be sent back safe and sound, came in here, a bright light burned, dispelling any hint of darkness and giving the place a somewhat dreamlike appearance. Accordingly, almost no one was aware of the fact that when there were no guests, this house was always dark, like some kind of coffin. This was not far from the truth, given the absence of any windows or other openings to the outside of the building, and the kind of activity that took place there. Standing on the spur of the moment, the stone manor has really become a tomb for a huge number of people and non-humans who have been transported here for a long time.

Usually, very few slaves were brought here, even if they did so regularly, but there were times when the quantity required increased, and the commodity itself had to have some specificity. The people involved in this high-paying business never asked any questions, though their present leader had been plagued for years by a single question - where did all those corpses (and he did not doubt that slaves were going for sacrifices) go? They could not really be buried in the backyard, for no yard would be sufficient for such volumes of production waste. However, it was a familiar task for the mind, while the slave-trading crew was having a very civilized rest at the nearest tavern.

What the old slavemancer was sure of was that if he asked such questions, a new supplier would be found very quickly, and no one would remember the old one. Maybe the corpses of him and the people he had hired would even be thrown into the same hole where they put the corpses of the slaves. Revealing the truth is, of course, a very important activity, but not to the extent that one seriously desires to expose it in this way.

It was much more interesting to think about the goods delivered in this shipment - they paid the price without arguing, as they always did, though the slavemancer, let's face it, charged a much higher amount than usual. He was trying not to be cheeky, even though the price he quoted was always accepted. So, about a quarter of the average market price, but always on time and without unnecessary irrelevant words. But this time he was asked for a very unusual product, and with great urgency. Frankly speaking, he overcharged the price deliberately, just to cancel the contract under plausible pretext - he did not want to spoil his reputation by a failure. Alas, the price was accepted at once, with a deposit and a sum for expenses, which made the merchant's arse itch unpleasantly for trouble to come.

The customer wanted twins, as many as possible, and the price for triplets was fabulously high. Undoubtedly, such goods would cost a lot at another dealer, but in combination with the information he already had, the conclusions were not happy. Slavemancer, because of his association with all sorts of criminal and antisocial elements, was well versed in the theory of witchcraft, even if he did not get involved in this business. And what he knew made the poor man, not at all happy about the fact that he might not spend his money, especially if the customer found out about his suspicions.

Witch doctors and necromancers most often didn't give a shit whether the sacrificed witch was a virgin or not. No, for some rituals it did matter, but those were the exceptions to the rule. The only area in which even basic rituals and sacrifices had to be extremely specific was communication with the inhabitants of Hell. And fiends have always been synonymous with fubar - Slavemancer caught a few breakthroughs during his childhood, when conclaves of black mages rose up in Sorz, nailed down by templars.

Anyway, the merchant drank the strong and high-quality ale served in the local tavern, trying to stifle his fear. That fear drove him forward, urging him to get out into the night and get out quickly, but the old professional was in no hurry to go along with his nightmares. Knowing the customer and his influence (which he only suspected), they would catch up with him and find him anyway, only he would die hungry and tired. But if you show every kind of contentment with life, then maybe they will carry him through, maybe they will let him live a little longer.

Slavemancer lived a good life, leaving three official sons and a whole bunch of unofficial - women don't say no to slavemancers at all if you add a couple of funny class skills to your flirtations. He had no fear of death itself, knowing full well the survival statistics among his peers, and he had something against torture to go without pain. But he really didn't want to die in the claws of the fiends, knowing perfectly well all the possible consequences. It was unpleasant to feel like a hunted rabbit, but he knew what he had signed up for.

Eh, the life of a simple honest, and decent man in this cruel world is hard and unpleasant - all around there are monsters and scumbags, and they are trying to either eat or kill or at least fuck with a poor slavemancer.

He made a sign of repulsion against evil, then said a short prayer, discard his supper, and went to bed. His soul was pure and good, even if it was uneasy. But he sincerely believed that Samaan and Litany would protect him from evil, and so he slept as a child, as pure as he was sinless.

It was always dark inside the house, as it was said before, but today that rule was slightly broken by a few alchemical burners that emitted the smoke of mind-altering herbs. The fire was not enough to dispel the darkness, but it provided some light, which would not have pleased a possible observer.

The stuff was gone, only blood droplets rapidly absorbed into the threads of the Dreamcatcher covering the floor. It seemed as if the material had literally sucked two and a half dozen children and teenagers through a tube, leaving only empty leather bags piled in the corner, and these blood droplets disappearing before their eyes.

The material was above reproach, which the old man, the owner of the place, noted in passing, reminding himself to encourage the catchers who brought him the goods. Proper fulfillment of even the strangest demands and a minimum of questions - perfect workers. He even took a little time to make sure the mercenaries were as clean - as possible, for people in their profession - as they were. No desire to blab or sell information, which made it necessary to regularly get rid of old slave traders by hiring new ones. And it was easy to remove the excitement and unnecessary interest, it was not even necessary to interfere himself, it was enough to send one of his children.

The material had already been properly processed, and the souls bound to each other served as the perfect billets from which the finished instruments of his vengeance were already created. A father's revenge for his murdered child must be as terrible and unstoppable as a snow avalanche. He had already brought it down, created the necessary stones for it, all that remained was to find the one on whom the avalanche would fall and then enjoy the spectacle.

Even though someone who managed to save and revive the young Lanorsk was a true professional, the old man had lived a very long time, so long that he no longer remembered the days when those who could oppose him walked the earth. And even then he was very old. Now there are no opponents to him - even if some young talent managed to get such a rare class somewhere, there are many centuries of experience on his side, which cannot be overpowered by system talents. So all that's needed is to secure an encounter, preferably in the old man's territory, where he could feel almost all-powerful. Even if the enemy and the abominable infanticide manage to fend off the first attack, he won't have the skill or talent to hide after that.

The old man would find his enemy everywhere, even on the other side of the world, and he would impose a new battle on him, increasing the threat level over and over again, exhausting him with endless waiting, until the enemy made a mistake, until the enemy fell. The old man was not afraid that the assassin would be able to do the same trick - he had been in this house for more than two centuries, have managed to turn it into a fortress from which not even a divine avatar could smoke him out at once. Unless the god himself decides to come down from heaven, but that would require something very... strange from his side.

If the murderer is foolish enough to come to his abode himself, it is the murderer's problem alone, and for the old man, it will be a gift from the Weaver herself. The main thing is to finish the processing correctly, so that the resulting material bloodhounds will not fail at the most important moment, finding the target and laying a path to it.

He had already tried to carefully play the card of the freed Sigismund Lanorsk, but he did so as carefully as possible. If he were his opponent, the old man would have unequivocally left the gift near his target, so his nightmares were as careful as possible - and for good reason. Whatever had happened to the puppy, it was as if his dreams had disappeared, as if they no longer existed. Or rather, his nightmares disappeared. The old man's children could penetrate any dream, but they couldn't stay where they had no power. Not necessarily fear, lust and joy and sadness would do. The problem was that none of his creatures could become the master of the boy's dreams. He had to retreat carefully, for anything unfamiliar could prove to be a well-prepared trap. Still, he was already finishing making a new instrument.

Thanks to the carefully chosen material, we feed one twin to the Catcher and the Nightmares dancing in the shadows. After that, from the crying and screaming soul, we stretch a thin link, sewing it to the soul of the second twin. This is very simple because their souls are already related to each other, and then there is the skill of the old man, enhanced by the native workshop.

Step by step, out of the sacrifice grew something that could not even be given a name. They will go to the place where the men of the man who considers himself the patron of the old man nearly killed young Lanorsk. They will go from there, spreading out across a broad front, looking for any trace of work with Dream, looking for any clue. Whoever his enemy was, he would have to show his skill in one way or another, to leave his touch in the souls of those who were close to him.

And then the bloodhounds will be on the track.

Then they will bring the old man to him.

And then the old man will take what's his.

There was a cozy semi-darkness in the room, dispersed by two magical lights that revealed the rich furnishings and ornate furniture that made up the local interior. What the beams of light could not illuminate was the sheer number of enchantments of all kinds that turned the room into a fortified bunker, albeit one that was magically fueled.

The owner of the office was not the most unforgettable impression, being outwardly an ordinary aristocrat with a stamp of nobility on his genteel face. What attracted far more attention were his eyes, which resembled two cold snake eyes, in which the search for human warmth was as rational as the meaning of life in horse manure.

The owner of the office was silently looking over the multitude of documents piled up on the desk. Different shapes of sheets, different handwriting, different inks, different everything - a kind of an artistic mess. If you don't know what exactly is written on these sheets if you don't know who exactly sits at this table, who belongs to the cold snake eyes.

Silay's death had undermined many plans, only miraculously not affecting the master of the cabinet himself. His entire staff of Seers, whose support and fees cost a fortune, allowed him to react quickly and timely to the threat. There was no direct connection between him and the Red Knot since the catcher's detachment was entirely on Silay's conscience, but if they dug deeper, strange questions and suspicions might arise. Elves are dangerous precisely because they can and love to look at the root of the problem, not agreeing with the slipped versions and not accepting any bribes. Had to react sharply and was on the verge of a foul, scrapping several very promising projects.

Even though the death of the Sixth Advisor had not directly damaged his position, it was much easier to go about his business without attracting unnecessary attention from behind this squabbling moneylender who thought he was blue blood. Now he would have to find and nurture a new screen for part of his business while redistributing the agents who had lost their cover in other directions.

Still, the professionalism of the long-eared bastards cannot be underestimated - he barely had time to arrange the disappearances of a couple of the most dangerous witnesses who could point to him personally. Later there was a sweep of much less dangerous witnesses, some of whom were even saved by tying up new debts. Very fortunate, especially against the backdrop of the other failures that had suddenly descended upon the occupant of the office.

His gaze fell upon a report from one of his most useful agents, who had only with great difficulty managed to escape the raking clutches of the secret guards and servants of the Crown. The possession of the legendary Class of Drawing the Future had paid off many times over for her upkeep and the cost of her abduction. In fact, they have developed quite a business relationship - she works for him alone, and his men do all sorts of whims of the feisty girl. It is not yet clear which of the two of them found whom and forced their cooperation.

Nevertheless, even she could not answer his questions now. The one whose specialty was depicting real webs of schematically shown interconnections, the one who could tell the biography of a man she had never seen by the color of his socks, sent only one simple picture. This was infuriating, for she had wasted a great deal of time and effort, and his, the employer of effort! What a collection of authentic elven china, which had to be bought at auction for enormous sums of money. And all she did was drink one bowl of herbal concoction, then smash the unusually sturdy material into a veritable crumble.

And it would have been fine!

He put up with more than her shenanigans, and she always got the results he needed. Her schemes and webs allowed him to maneuver between other people's interests while remaining virtually unnoticed by the other players. But now she sent only one piece of paper with primitive charcoal drawing on it.

/Here's everything I could see. Find it before it finds us.

A sheet of expensive paper, covered with the usual charcoal from the fireplace, making only a black canvas visible. And in the center of that blackness is a faded face-shaped oval, as if someone had tried to rub out the charcoal with his fingers. And a long bloody line through the resulting face of another monster in a parody of a smile.

There have been a lot of those monsters in his life lately. First, the bloody old man, who asked for an exorbitant number of slaves with very tricky features. Again he had to work through a third party, and the pay was correspondingly high. Now this strange creature, somehow connected to the elves and the late Silay.

With a sigh, he set aside another report, then took the sheet of paper with the drawing in his hands and leaned it against the incendiary amulet, beginning to watch as the paper slowly caught fire. The amulet suspended the burnable in the air, causing the flame to gradually cover the face as if it were leaning snidely to the side, watching the man intently.

Such nonsense!

After mentioning a few dark gods and their offspring, the man got up from the table and left the office - for some reason he felt too uncomfortable at that moment. And the words of the prophetess were still before his eyes - until that day she had never allowed herself such familiarity, nor had she ever addressed her employer directly.

Too obscure, and therefore dangerous.

For a moment, it seemed to the man walking down the corridor that a burnt-out face with a bloody smile turned to follow the man, staring at his back and smiling mockingly. He could almost hear a shrill chuckle, somewhere on the very border between fiction and reality. It was unbearably tempting to turn around, but he was above such petty and lowly fears.

When he returned back to the office, all that was left of the sheet of paper with the ugly face was ashes and a small ash, a piece of unburned paper left by the malfunctioning of the household amulet. Lifting up the scattered burnt piece of paper in his hands, the man was able to distinguish the still viewable words:

/...before it finds us...

He swore, not at all fondly, though muffled, through gritted teeth, and silently rubbed the scrap in his hands, turning it to ash like the rest of the "portrait". The quiet ringing of the bell was instantly taken as an order by the well-trained servants. The maid, who appeared a short moment later, received a calm and commanding order:

"The amulet began to malfunction. Replace it immediately."

A new, perfectly functioning amulet was brought a few minutes later, immediately checked for undocumented surprises with all the scanners, and installed in place of the old one. After another minute, the owner of the office was alone again.

He quietly finished his work on the bulletins and went to the dining room to dine on a superb meal prepared by the high-level cook and his assistants.

He managed not to make a peep when he heard a squeaky chuckle in the creak of the always perfectly oiled door. Just a poorly oiled hinge.

Just that.

"You are dead, sire." Calmly, and with some apology in his voice, Benedict said as he withdrew the blade of his sword back into its scabbard. "Again the problem with switching to defense after a completed technique."

Sigismund just nodded, not wanting to waste his labored breath on a shuffle and cursing the day when his father had finally recovered from the poison and started to teach his heir. Or rather, he'd cursed that day only in jest, but there was little pleasure in his present condition. You might say there was none at all.

Benedict Ressi was the strongest warrior at his father's command, but he also had amazing talents as a mentor and teacher, so all of Lanorsk's elite units were trained by this man. Tall and lean as a pole, he resembled a very vicious heron, pretending to be human for some reason. His straw-colored hair, always perfectly trimmed and styled, his neat mustache and beard of the same color, the piercing look in his crystal blue eyes, his sharp and slightly elongated face - he really looked like some kind of a scholar or stargazer rather than a warrior.

A misconception that became the last thing on earth for so many detractors - since his childhood, many people wanted to make fun of the unshapely man's appearance. Not everyone had time to apologize. The forty-first level allowed him to stand on equal footing with the most illustrious fighters of the capital's guards. It seemed strange that Benedict would choose a possible career in the capital over service to a not very powerful clan in Melareth.

The original Duelist class, very typical of aristocrats, was aptly complemented by the epic Master of the Blade, making the man a real meat grinder for any opponent. His classes may not have been as impressive, especially against other members of the high aristocracy, but that impression quickly passed when Benedict stepped into battle. Not a man - a machine of destruction, unstoppable and irresistible.

Sigismund, for example, could only receive blows, despite his epic class and arrogance. Naturally, no one expected the young man to be able to stand on equal footing against the first blade of the entire House. It's just that the training from the blade master himself was exactly that - as tough as possible, stopping at the very brink between injury and exhaustion.

His skills did grow incredibly fast, especially considering how hard his studies had been before. In fact, not much had changed - it was just that Sigismund stopped whining and fearing, stopped demanding the impossible without wanting to make the slightest effort. And it did go, except that Benedict not only had to bring the unhappy pupil to the edge but also had to endure the spiteful gaze of Schaal, who took incomparable "pleasure" in the humiliation and torment of her ward.

But whoever Benedict was, he could spit on Shaal's opinion from the top of the castle donjon without fear of her revenge - if there was a conflict between them, he would wipe the square and all the floors around it with black beauty, probably without even a gasp. She understood that, too, which made her more furious, frightening the servants and other soldiers with her frenzied appearance.

"Another round?" He tries sincerely to keep his voice from sounding doomed but doesn't seem to be succeeding at it.

"I think that's enough for today." Benedict's words give him faith in the future, giving him the true bliss of knowing freedom. "We shall continue in two days. Right now your joints need rest. This, however, does not negate the need for three warm-ups of an hour each. You may use your bodyguard as a partner for the last third of the complex."

After listening attentively to a few more of his mentor's recommendations, Sigismund nods and silently walks off the court. He would have taken the time to say thank you and be polite, but the master doesn't care about the shuffling. He is already rushing toward the approaching warriors, preparing to begin a new training session - his schedule is extremely tight and there was only room for Sigismund there by the will of his father. He would have sent someone else, including Sigismund himself, right away, albeit in his trademark manner - as polite as possible, but one feels spit upon no matter what.

Such was he, Benedict Ressi, equally indifferent to praise, threat, declaration of love, and challenge to a duel. Sometimes it seemed to Sigismund that even if an angry dragon swooped down on him, the master of the blade would greet him with the same indifferent expression and calm gaze. They say some people have a smile attached to their face at birth that never disappears until death. Looking at Benedict, you can't help but wonder who the smile was taken away from before it was attached.

With a nod to Shaal, who followed him, Sigismund led the way to the mansion, which in recent months had become a mixture of a dump and a library. His father, when he spoke of training, had not meant combat strength alone; the young man had to use his mind just as much. Now, however, he had a couple of days off that he could use as he wished. Personally, he wanted more than anything else to get a good night's sleep, for he had no time for a good night's sleep. Sigismund, who finally got a chance to sleep without nightmares, considered at least ten hours as normal sleep and a couple more for slow waking up and lying in bed. Given the schedule, a naive idiot's pipe dream.

He was well aware that he would be no longer under pressure the moment he demanded a reduction in his workload, as he always had been. But he could not, and would not, force himself to admit defeat again, to begin to fear again, if now not the darkness and locked doors, but the stacks of scrolls, books, and training blades. Nonsense, no doubt, but a useful and even correct kind of nonsense, as strange as that combination might sound.

When he entered the room, he immediately threw off his heavy breastplate, followed by the rest of the armor that now had to be worn as well - Benedict had once demonstrated the usefulness of medium-light armor by taking every blow he took on that armor. No blocking, no shifting aside, just placing the right section of enchanted steel plates under the blade. The exemplary example inspired the young man enough to agree to learn this skill as well. So far, wearing medium armor had barely crossed the apprentice rank, but even with it, the inconvenience was reduced quite noticeably. When the skill reaches at least twenty points, the armor will feel like normal clothing. It's certainly a long way from the level Maestro Ressi was demonstrating, but it's a good start.

Rumor has it that this monster in human form once managed to walk a hundred paces separating him and three dozen archers shooting at a human target in the same quiet way without getting a scratch. It seemed like a fairy tale, another soldier's tale, but then, unable to make a normal strike, he still believed the tale.

The rest of his clothes went with his armor. At first, he was still shy of Shaal, though he understood the foolishness of such shyness after the few times she had to undress him while he lay there like a log, unable to move even an eyebrow, the shyness passed. Naked, the heir to the noble house immediately climbed into a massive bath of herbs prepared especially for him. The herbs themselves were also extremely expensive, but very useful - full recovery and healing of all the inevitable micro-traumas allowed him to get through the hell of training without being crippled.

He was just lying in the water, unable even to open his eyes, feeling himself gradually falling asleep, when the quiet rustle of clothes being thrown on the floor caught his attention. Naturally, this rustle was only let him hear, for Shaal could be as inaudible as a shadow. His skills may have grown, but not enough to detect the presence of a skilled assassin unless she wished it.

The servants in the castle were trained to perfection - no one even let a single whisper (in his presence), but the bath was put double, and the water was poured exactly enough so that two people could get into it at once.

"I barely have the strength for your caresses, Shaal." He said without opening his eyes. "I feel like... I don't even know who."

His words did not embarrass the woman whose naked body immediately pressed against his chest, causing only a weary sigh. There was really no energy to fight back unless he poured himself full of potions, which would not add to the health of an exhausted body either.

"My caresses are enough for both of us, young lord." Dutifully, but with barely perceptible mockery whispered right into his ear, again getting no response. "Just let your silly maid take over the task."

She had always talked to him like that, from day one. At first, he'd even genuinely believed in her ostentatious submissiveness and self-deprecation, until he'd wised up. She had once been trained and educated precisely as a seductress, and it was noticeable, especially if you knew where and what to look. The guy was completely convinced that he was the one in command in their relationship. And it was her hints, her flippant phrases, and other barely discernible gestures that turned him away from the most reckless and foolish decisions that his childish brain was rich in.

When she decided to take on his training in the intimate aspects, he, too, did not immediately realize that he was ready to dance to her tune at any moment, just to touch her black skin again, to see her naked body and hear her submissive whisper. It was almost impossible, but he really couldn't find in himself enough strength to give a firm order and get what he wanted. The mocking tilt of her head, the subtle touches to her arms and shoulders as she asked if he was sure of his choice, and here he was no longer going to taste the fairy dust, but staying with her and her hot body. She even managed to get him to learn at least the basics of the weapon he was so afraid of cutting himself with (and he was afraid of the weapon itself, too). Each lesson was equal to another reward, though he had every right to simply demand whatever he wanted from her. But he never did.

Now that the hazy fog that enveloped his mind and deprived him of his will had long since vanished, he saw it as if it were real. For instance, another obvious conclusion was the realization that she had deliberately tried to put him on edge, to make him furious and put her in her place. But immediately stopped when he became even more dependent on her smile and words. To be angry with her over the years as she pulled his strings (rather one particular rope, to use a vulgar analogy), he didn't even think about it. He clearly distinguished between his past self and his new self. That past Sigismund could not have survived that battle, but he still found the strength to rewire himself into the man he is now.

He really wanted to take Shaal at this point, painting her dark body with snow-white spots - for some reason, the sight was incredibly arousing, which she shamelessly took advantage of - but the training from Benedict was too accurate. He could still walk and even think, but no more than that.

"Seriously, Shaal, I don't mind at all, but I really don't have the energy." One would be ashamed to say such a thing outright, but it's not with her that he should feel ashamed. "Better let me get out of the water and make my way to the bed."

"If you really don't mind, can your personal lowly peasant give you a massage?" There was an immediate reply. "If, of course, the young lord so desires."

Here he did feel the tips of his ears blush, despite all his composure. What's more, he had once thought so, not immediately realizing that this very "lowly fool" was not just another babysitter, who Sigismund's bad temper simply could not stand, but who she really was. After that she often took it out on him in her favorite showy and submissive manner, lamenting time after time that her noble lord was frantically desiring a silly commoner. Once again he noted that only his sense of duty and absolute loyalty prevented the beastly woman from making him beg for another round of pleasure.

"Don't remind me, please," Sigismund grumbled as he started to rise from the water, not paying attention to Shaal almost lying on top of him.

It seems that a second ago she was holding him in place, restraining him securely in seemingly tender captivity, but now she is helping him to a standing position and reaching the bed. Great power lies hidden in her supple body, something too many, including himself, are oblivious to. For his enemies, such forgetfulness is usually fatal; for him, it is just another reminder of his inattention.

Then, when he first realized how much control Shaal had over him, how submissive she could make him, he could not bear to ask, even though he feared her reaction. To his surprise, she was not upset, but smiled quite sincerely - this he could tell, thanks to the class she had taken - as if she had received the most beautiful gift of her entire life.

She explained to him, without concealment and the slightest piety to his pride, what she was doing, how, why, and by what means, and at the same time told him what such a game might have led to if she had decided to "tame" him to the end.

"You see, young lord, that's what I was originally trained for." She said then. "An obedient slave for one, and a venomous snake for another. As levels and characteristics rise, so does the will. I could hardly really tame someone strong. That's why they worked so hard on me. They wouldn't let me grow in levels, forcing me to develop skills... I don't remember those days well, preferring to forget them altogether, but even the fragments I had were enough to understand. Your father became the world to me precisely because he did not see me as a woman. He didn't kick me to my death on the savannahs because he liked my flute playing, and no, you're thinking of the wrong flute, young lord. Then, when he did not order me to spread my legs but simply let me live and think with what remains of my brain that had not yet been replaced by the settings of a slave trainer, he saved my personality from final disintegration."

The quiet and somewhat sad words were only a mask that hid the long-standing pain, the hatred, and the endless ocean of fear, fear that was securely buried and forgotten, but that never disappeared. Fear that had become part of the very essence of his maid, his lover, and perhaps his faithful friend.

"It was later that he used my original skills, putting me under some bastards. And no, you're wrong again, I'm perfectly fine with that sort of thing. It's hard to explain, but after all the treatments, I can't treat my body any other way than as just another tool. It's like a dagger, only not cutting, but caressing. Going back to Lord Frederick... he let me choose my classes, and I deliberately took those options that were as far away from the "sweet" branches as possible, even though there were even a couple of epic ones among those options."

Joy, quiet and calm, mixed with a stony devotion to a man who almost didn't care about her. She couldn't help but understand it, but that loyalty didn't diminish her. Simply because his father was the only one who gave the instrument the right to choose for itself. At least to choose something, but herself.

"You think in categories of your upbringing, which, by the way, is a direct quote from a scholar who examined me, but this method cannot be applied to me. If you ask some normal girl, whether noble or not, to go to bed with a stranger at your command, it will cause anger and resentment. Even if she agrees, the shame, resentment, and fear won't go anywhere. I... your lustful servant girl is simply incapable of having bad feelings about something like that. Yes, I've lived long enough to know this way of thinking is wrong, but there's nothing I can do about it. I had to put up with it and enjoy what was still available to me. So, young lord, don't be afraid to insult me or give me false hopes; I haven't cared about such nonsense for a long time."

They talked for a long time then, discussing small details and parsing individual episodes. Shaal was even happy to explain to him exactly how she had trapped him in her net and how to avoid doing so in the future. He could not ignore the fact that such tricks were almost the only way to control his hysterical and disobedient character, but there was a certain amount of childish resentment.

And Sigismund also felt slight anger at his father, because even now he considered his friend to be just a tool. And much more anger at himself, because he was well aware that Shaal could not, physically cannot, take any other attitude toward herself. She just doesn't have what it takes to live a normal life.

He was already lying in bed, where Shaal had put him, almost asleep, and he was able to ask her a question that had been troubling him for a long time:

"You said that you had been worked with... ...the trainers, didn't you?" Waiting for a questioning expression on his face along with a cautious nod, he continued. "Isn't there any way to remove their influence?"

He expected a lot from her, but certainly not a funny, even mocking laugh. It was as if he'd said something incredibly stupid, and now he was being laughed at by all of high society.

Oh, young lord! What makes you think I want to change anything? My original personality has been gone for decades. All I am is what your father gave me, all I know is my present condition. Why would I want to remember pain, tears, and death when I can live again, even if someone would consider such a life wrong? My past is only dust and ashes left over from the fire that has passed through the savannah. I am all that did not burn then. And I'm really glad that I can live. And now, since you have the strength for heartfelt conversation and such nonsense, turn over on your stomach and let the silly me breathe some more strength into your loins.

She did the last point perfectly, and after about half an hour, after an incredibly effective massage, he stroked her black and delightfully firm breasts again, forgetting everything else but her body. As he climbed and fell into the deepest abysses, he could really consider himself almost happy. He had a home, he had people loyal to him who were ready to follow him, he had a beautiful girl in whose arms he was now. He had managed to overcome his nightmares, had managed to find himself, something many people far more powerful and richer than him could never achieve.

He kissed, stroked, and embraced the supple and unruly body, and then he could barely keep his mind when he himself was bound in a ligature of kisses and caresses, depriving him of any desire to resist.

At last he was enjoying his life to the fullest.

Only the thought flashed somewhere in the back of his mind that, in a way, he was just like her - a remnant of what was not burned in the fire.

* * *

Well.

Second Interlude.

Next come the usual chapters.

It shows the mechanics of charm and seduction skills, so to speak, on rabbits.

Here is some more information on the moves of hostile and not-so-hostile factions.

P.S. The only crit, albeit with bonuses, belongs to the old man and his bloodhounds. Such is the case.

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/523868

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP