Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Интерлюдия четвертая: "Шагая навстречу"

Interlude Four: "Walking Toward"

"No, I understand that this training is really necessary for my further development, but isn't there any other way to acquire relevant skills, Shaal?" The overly unpleasant sensations in his body made Sigismund not only lose his usual gloss but even begin to speak in as simplified a speech as possible, as his exhausted body lacked the stamina for colorful turns.

"Ara-ara, my lord." His personal assassin smiled softly, stirring a new batch of some kind of fortifying infusion. "The other methods are either ineffective or far more dangerous, despite the fewer side effects."

This training, which had been going on for almost a month, infuriated the young heir to the glorious House of Lanorsk, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was largely because he himself had asked for this kind of training. Or rather, not exactly that, but to teach a specific list of skills. As it turned out, training was not the most pleasant thing to do, and Sigismund had missed the best time when the process itself could be initiated when he was still a child. Honestly, he sort of understood himself from the past, if even now all he wanted to do was lie down and die.

In fact, it's very rare to train by such methods, even if they are very basic, relying more often on all sorts of amulets, tasters, or other servants. Or even trivial guards! The problem is that Sigismund, more than anyone else understood and remembered that the guards and amulets can not help if you get into a really serious trouble. That's why he demanded that the skills required be put directly into the one thing that no one can take away from him: his Status.

To be quite honest, the very first reason that made him start thinking in this direction was the same Shaal, or rather how easily a professional Seductress could influence the young lord's mind without any magic or active skills at all. Not many people like to realize that you were literally led by the collar around your neck, and all you could do was flap your eyelashes, not understanding even the fact of the influence. A shiver-inducing sensation that he was willing to tolerate and even enjoy in the company of the faithful Shaal, but only with her alone. To allow himself to be influenced in this way by anyone else he would never dare again. Their home had nearly fallen because of the betrayal of those they trusted, so leaving his heart uncovered was something he simply could not afford to do.

The wish that had been expressed to Shaal brought a thoughtful expression to the beautiful black beastie's face, and she asked for some time to make a plan for the training. And judging by the fact that Shaal didn't even joke in her usual self-deprecating way, the training was going to be very unpleasant, if not dangerous.

It's worth mentioning that the exhausting and exhausting training fight with Benedict didn't even merit the "mild inconvenience" label. A good reason to think about the trouble you brought on yourself. Not enough to give up on what he had in mind.

The first thing they began to do was to work with Shaal's usual seduction, and very lightly. It was not even training, but a trivial assessment of the resources already available to Sigismund and his... now, perhaps, his mentor. A few facts were given to the boy each morning, with a slight note that they could not be told to Schaal under any pretext. After which the woman herself was to somehow obtain the code phrase - by stealth, trickery, or caressing, it didn't matter.

Of course, Sigismund had had some training, so he knew how to keep his mouth shut. To be honest, he even flashed a humiliatingly weak hope that Shaal would be forcing "secrets" out by tenderness. Not that it was such a strong desire, but if the nightmares he'd experienced had taught him anything, it was the ability to admit his shortcomings to himself.

No cunning tricks of Shaal's were necessary to his mild disappointment and enormous annoyance. It was enough just to ask a question in time, catching the boy in a moment of thoughtfulness or absent-mindedness. Since no one canceled the other classes, fatigue and a slight faintness were frequent guests in Sigismund's mind. Schaal, on the other hand, was very good at, as she called it, "jamming up" the somewhat slow-witted boy to the point where he, in a flood of words, questions, and interrogations, did not notice the moment when he answered the secret question, not even realizing how she had turned the subject down.

He had to watch himself constantly and incessantly, tracking his every movement and word. It was even more exhausting than other physical training, but the results were not long in coming. At first, he stopped catching at her tricks every couple of hours, then he managed to keep at least some of the "secrets" secret until the end of the day, and after the first week of hellish tension, he learned either to filter out what Shaal said or simply slow her down when she tried to bury Sigismund under a pile of empty words.

She still managed to catch him occasionally during a conversation, or some other clever trick, but these were one-time blunders that he already knew how to fix. No, he hadn't become a master secret guard in an instant, but he had acquired the useful habit of listening and thinking at the same time, as well as the ability to always remember to whom and what he had already said, and what you need not say.

Shaal frankly admitted to him that the result was far from perfect and that it would take a long time, if not a lifetime, for him to practice such concentration, letting himself relax only in the safest places and among exceptionally reliable people. Likewise, she didn't shower praise on his pride, truthfully letting him know that his results were only slightly above average, but they were good nonetheless. Such honest praise was much nicer than the praise of his former teachers. The fact that he had previously refused to work with those of them who didn't flatter him at every turn only added anger to the fire of irritation.

Somewhere along the way, the second stage of the training he ordered began.

The first potion Shaal gave him was a trivial "chatty" tincture of Blue Poppy flowers. For the next few minutes, he simply could not bring himself to shut up, vaguely aware that the feverish and gradually becoming incoherent verbal effusion was the result of some kind of influence. The original potion, according to Shaal, even gives the effect of a wild hangover and the loss of memories of the last hour of life, because of what it is so fond of pouring in alcohol all sorts of spies. Sigismund was given the antidote immediately upon awakening, both to clear his memory and to take away his hangover. Well, at the same time, they helped him learn his lesson.

After the chatty composition came various variations of the love potion, from which Sigismund was ready to die for the sake of the same Shaal, not to mention the secret passwords. Because of them, he had acquired the unpleasant habit of checking every meal with impurity detectors. In response, Shaal applied a charm potion to the doorknob of his room. It was certainly a very hot night, but Sigismund had the feeling that towards the end, Shaal had had enough of listening to his endless assurances that he loved her more than anything else in the world. At least it wasn't the loss of his strength that knocked him out, though he didn't notice the stabbing or the attempted stabbing with a needle.

After he had dug out the old and slightly worn gloves in the family arsenal, which did not allow any impurities to pass through their fabric, he was clearly explained that potions could be atomized in the air, delayed action, multi-component, and many other options, which could not be foreseen. In the meantime, with a truly unhuman meanness, Shaal began to use potions that had far less obvious effects. It is difficult to distinguish that blurred line beyond which the desire to speak out ceases to be your own, especially if you are already annoyed with everything.

The height of Sigismund's frenzy was the day Shaal drugged him with some strange relaxing compound that made him very attentive and gullible. After which, throughout a two-hour conversation, she convinced him that she was in fact the heiress of Lanorsk and he was her servant. He simply drank too much last night and hit his head, which made him believe in his own delirium. A very painful blow to Sigismund's ego, who was genuinely grateful that Shaal did not remind him of it unnecessarily.

"Understand, young master." She spoke as she massaged his tired body after another exhausting sparring session. "I'm not an elite Seductress, so most of the damage to your mind was done with potions that weakened your natural defenses of consciousness in one way or another. If your training had not been ignored by all your guards, allowing me to do as I saw fit, it would have been incredibly difficult to spike such bouquets of potions on you. A true professional of the highest order would be able to woo you, young lord, without any magic at all. I have basic skills in persuasion and even hypnosis, but I was trained as a whore, not as a high-class intelligence and influence agent."

"Then why all this circus?" He asks, not angry at all, knowing full well that the reason will be explained to him. "Why did you forbid me to put on or take off the full set of amulets? Why do you have to go on and on about me like a court jester? I noticed, by the way, that most of the servants have been replaced, leaving only the quietest and probably the most loyal, but I don't understand why?"

"You see, young lord, here's the problem." The movements of Shaal's palms on his back slowed and slowed. "I had hoped to be able to induce the right reaction in you, to make your skill of danger sense react to any possibility of affecting your mind and critical thinking. If you had unleashed the skill of intuition, discernment, or even insight, things would have been much easier. But I had to work with what you already have, hoping to either expand your anticipation or uncover a new skill. Can you guess why it didn't work out for you and me?"

There was no need to even think about it. First of all, Sigismund was not a fool, having come to similar conclusions to what he had heard. Secondly, he had long ago found the reason, even before the conversation began, impartially concluding his own inferiority.

"Because you did it." Not even asking, but only asserting, Sigismund explained. "I'm too used to being seduced by you all my youth. Subconsciously I accept your supremacy over my thoughts, don't I?"

"I asked your father to send me away." Deadly serious and dry answered him. "Even then, when I realized how attached my body was to you. I even tried to get permission to drug you and make you think that I was just a light affair. Alas, but then I was the only one who could make you act. A little more and the house rivals would have begun to speak of your mental inferiority, young lord. They already have, to be frank, though not yet in voice."

"And Father decided that ordering you to fuck me into total submission would be better for the family than having me declared incompetent." For the first time in a very long time, Sigismund used a commoner swear word, causing Shaal's hands to stiffen. "A quick marriage to whomever my father chose and a quick birth of an heir, whom he still had time to raise a true Lanorsk, would follow. The wife would most likely have had an accident, for no one would allow a stranger's family to have such influence over the current head, even a nominal one. As a resource too valuable to remain at my disposal, you were to raise a girl or two to keep me busy, keeping me from thinking about anything but their charms. Did I say it right?"

Now for some reason, it seemed to him that Schaal was ready to be torn between her desires and her thoughts. Cold logic asserted that Sigismund would not forgive such a thing to his father, and it was Frederick she was loyal to in the first place. Despite everything, she had been through. But at the same time, she had endured too much in his company to turn away now. Despite all her loyalty. Class skills, hitherto sleeping quietly in the back of his mind, rose again, prompting him to speak and wound with words. He did not doubt that he was now capable of driving a former slave girl to suicide, just so long as she did not have to choose between him and his father.

"Almost." The assassin said, still dry and indifferent. "No one would have killed your wife, rather an amicable arrangement, or with the help of a hired mentalist."

She said nothing more, frozen like a statue, unable, it seemed, even to breathe. Still, she wasn't just ash, no matter how much she tried to believe otherwise. The long years of service, loyalty, and the most ordinary life, though it was very difficult to find a moment for this "ordinary life," had gradually made her thaw a little. His class, his skills told him that twenty years ago she would have simply put him to sleep with a poke in some nerve knot, spiked him with some junk so he wouldn't remember his conclusions, and then gone to report to her father. The fact that she was hesitant now, unable to choose, was already much better than the cold executiveism that had been nurtured in her all her long life.

"That's a good plan." That's all Sigismund said. "I don't approve, but I understand. You can tell my father that I would certainly fall to the despicable peasant ways of solving problems by beating the skin of my fists against his face, but my upbringing does not allow me to beat infirm old men. And now I would like to sleep, Shaal."

She stood silently, not even wiping her hands of the massage oil, put on her clothes as fast as the wind, and raced away, away from Sigismund, who was suddenly cold and prickly and unpleasantly frightening. He knew that she was running to his father for the report, and convinced herself that it was for the report that she was wringing all her strength out of herself, trying to move as fast as she could.

That she is not really running away from herself.

Frederick Lanorsk had a very high level, which logically derived from the experience of his youth, maturity, and old age, enough to write a couple or three cycles of adventure novels. It so happened that this man was forced to take over the management of the house in a crisis period, managing not only to keep it afloat but also to float higher, right on the heads of competitors, which had arranged the young Frederick mentioned crisis.

Then there were long years of peace and quiet prosperity, during which the head of the house feverishly rebuilt what was lost, chewed up what was taken, and strengthened what was there. He proved incomparably more competent as a manager than as a father and a family man. After he had to poison his second wife, who by that time had managed to get a vial of perfume from her relatives, which was the first part of a very cunning multi-component poison, family life was over for him. Moreover, an heir had already been born.

But the upbringing of the heir turned out to be a real failure, so the old aristocrat simply spat on the stupid son and began to look for ways to prolong life enough to work closely on the upbringing of his grandchildren. A mistake, perhaps even a directed diversion, for he seriously had to work out the assumption that the child had somehow been cursed or poisoned, turning him into an almost sorrowful mind. This blunder he took with the same cold concentration with which he was accustomed to receiving blows and striking back.

Sigismund and his upbringing, if training through the female body can be called that, were dumped on the shoulders of Schaal, in whose loyalty he did not doubt, and Frederick himself began to work to leave his grandson home in a state that could not destroy the unsuccessful offspring. Ideally, he would bring him up himself, no longer allowing past mistakes, dumping the child's work on babysitters and servants. At the very least, he was ready to educate even a girl, thankfully there were enough mentions of successful ruling ladies in the chronicles, even if there were none among the Lanorsk.

What he certainly didn't expect was for his son to get his mind right. Had he known, he would have organized several attempts in succession, honestly! He would have spared neither gold nor men, not even the possible answer in the form of poison in the glass, sprinkled by his son who had appreciated the lesson. Little had changed in him, but so successfully that the battered and uncontrollable coward had grown into a deadly venomous snake, dangerous, cold-blooded, and patient.

Sigismund could not become a great warrior even now, despite his class, but he was still dangerous. The boy ceased to be frightened. He was no longer afraid at all. But from some unknown source came the ability to frighten, the ability to control himself at the level of not the lowest-level spies and pretenders, the ability to get to the truth, worthy of a professional interrogator, and, most importantly, an almost painful desire to become better, stronger, smarter. Even Frederick himself, for how seriously he took his development and learning, did not show such zeal at his age!

The boy grew up jokingly managing to withstand loads that would have broken a professional soldier, let alone a pampered young man who had never seriously engaged in anything heavy. Even the always unwavering Rossi had to admit that the calm indifference with which Sigismund takes blows and fractures makes him nervous. Yes, he knows that the healers assigned to him will instantly put him on his feet, that fatigue will be relieved by perfectly matched complexes of remedies, but still, but still...

Now this insolent boy, to whom he was woefully lacking in fatherly admonition as a child, is just as calmly trying to gut him with a training rapier, categorically refusing to accept the fact that blunted weapons are not meant for such things. And that's not to say he has no chance at all. Yes, Frederick has a higher level, but both of his classes are not combating, but administrative, designed for maximum control over the lands and holdings of the Lanorsk. The old earl had honed skills and high characteristics that the young man could not keep up with. He also had a weakness that hadn't fully healed, despite a full recovery, after a near-successful assassination attempt, a lot of old injuries, and just a venerable age.

A month ago it would not have prevented him from kicking the dust out of Sigismund, who had just received his first class, but, as already said, the suddenly well-formed boy had too much desire to tear his own heart out in training. And he really knew how to endure pain, swatting away the blows like flies.

His lower back ached unpleasantly, where he had once been hit by the blast wave from the explosive artifact placed under the tub, anticipating the imminent touch of the heavy cavalry boots, thoughtfully worn by his favorite son.

It's bad.

At first, when Shaal, barely dressed, burst into his office with a report of his son's sudden findings, he was indeed frightened. The house might not have survived an internal war, and explaining his motives to an angry teenager would hardly have worked. To hell with death, he had lived enough, but Sigismund himself was not yet ready to accept power!

Contracts have not been handed over, agreements have not been renegotiated, the retinue has not been sworn in, the spy network has not been renewed, and the allies have not been informed that the old comrade is retiring either. And most of them will gladly use the "we don't work with despicable patricide" argument to get away nicely from the commitments they once made! This is to say nothing of the fact that the same Shaal, could reflexively eliminate the threat to her master, even against his direct order. Even if he would execute her afterward!

After calming down a bit, after briefly hearing the full retelling of the conversation, which had suddenly turned to a very uncomfortable topic, the old man began to boil over little by little. Let's put aside the little fact that Sigismund managed to catch his teacher at the same trick she taught him to resist. Even pros have slip-ups, especially since agent training is still not the main specialty of Shaal, who is actually more of an assassin, or a honey trap, than a spy.

But the words about the plebeian beating of infirm old men hit him harder than he wanted to admit. Yes, his years of glory and youth were long gone, his body was failing more and more often, old wounds ached and repeatedly broken bones ached. But what right did he, his son, have to point that out to him? Frederick wasn't going to argue that what he'd done to his offspring was far from the most humane and loving. Except it wasn't for him to point that fact out, not to him at all.

Frederick did everything to preserve the House, to preserve what generations of Lanorsk had lived for and died for, while the impudent youth could only waste the family gold and hide behind the skirts of Shaal and the other servants. It was not he who spent nights sitting at maps and papers, building a web of intrigue, not he who struck back for every attempt to take another tidbit of the family's assets. He did nothing but obstruct! And now he dares to point out his senile infirmity, trying to hurt him more?

The Duke of Lanorsk was determined to beat an apology out of the mouth of his overly self-important son.

Only the dust was knocked out, and not at all as gracefully as he would have liked. The young man was still spitting pain, striving at all costs to get his father with the flickering steel-colored snake that his rapier was turning into. Undoubtedly he was inferior to the possessor of high levels and advanced stats, only not nearly as comprehensive as the man wanted him to be.

The battle ended in a crushing victory of experience over youth, as it should be. Only he still wanted to lie down for a while on the cool parquet of the ceremonial hall, which had first become the place of the quarrel and then of the "training" battle between the two extraordinary personalities. Just a little bit, just until the lower back, which was once again sore from overloading, ceased to ache. It was from moving too fast, not from a powerful kick from a well-worn boot. Especially since Frederick had avenged that sordid and low blow by breaking the insolent upstart's wrist. And it was no cold-blooded, deliberate exchange for an opportunity to strike in Sigismund's execution. And the servants, should they risk asking unnecessary questions, he would shut them up forever.

He turned his head lazily, shifting his blurry gaze to Shaal nervously flailing by the front door, who seemed ready to be torn apart by the spectacle before her, but he still managed to mumble an order:

"Get the healer over here." And after a moment's thought, he added. "Helm, not Bartemius, she certainly won't chat."

And it would be much easier to shut her up if she did decide to start a rumor or two. As trivial as such a possibility may seem, it's little things like this that make the greatness of a House go away. Someone will tell, someone will compare, someone will consider the House weakened because of internal squabbles, and then in front of the ancestral stronghold already stands an army, storming the walls.

"And the servants, too, let them clean up the mess." Sigismund, who was leaning against the wall, added a little later.

When he looked around the ruined hall, the old man could only curse mentally - they had not spared the interior, especially Sigismund, who had learned to throw relatively light tracery chairs and vases in the corners with accurate kicks. However, he, too, had a hand in the abrupt change of furniture, a good hand.

++There's still power in the old bones, he said to himself, still silently, with pithy praise. It was his blade that left a deep groove in the stone wood table that could withstand combat magic, not to mention simple steel. A training blade, it is worth mentioning separately!

That's all right, soon the silent healer will cure the pain in his lower back, fix his son's wrist, and then they'll talk normally. True, the second time he would wear a set of protective amulets. Yes, and the poison detectors will need to be recharged. Though the son had said that he would not destroy the House with war and intrigues against the current leader, but he could never be too careful. He and Shaal were the only witnesses to his words, and he had no right to harbor ill feelings toward either of them.

A faint smile slid across his face, which seemed to have been hardened since he was a child.

Sigismund felt bad, very bad, so bad that the usual thoughts of stopping the self-mutilation that came to him every couple of hours were not going out of his head. He was still in no hurry to listen to them, however, refusing to admit defeat, even though no one would dare to condemn him for it.

Things had stabilized a bit since that confrontation when he'd finally told his father what he thought of him, and heard a lot of justified unflattering remarks in return. At his worst moments, the young man still replayed in his mind the memory of a steel-toe boot slamming into someone else's buttocks. He wore it for a reason, as Shaal would have said in that situation.

The black assassin took a long time to calm down, avenging her fear of the impossible choice she had experienced, carefully turning Sigismund's life into a personal Hell, and entirely at his behest. Sigismund gritted his teeth and endured until Shaal's fuse went out and she calmed down. There was no apology or sensual confession, but they both understood the situation - he understood and accepted her anger and her thrashing, and she appreciated the fact that he did not hold a grudge against her for what she planned to do to him by order of her father.

As silly as it was to think about it, he just couldn't see himself past as... himself. Well, they were going to take away his ability to rule the house, making him a slave to his desires and fears. They wanted it for a reason, but the hell with it. All the more so because they would have failed as a result - his father's plans would have failed, utterly and completely. He still didn't know exactly what the creature from his last nightmare would have done to him, but he was certain of one thing: it would not have ended well for him or the House.

But now he was unwell for another reason, one far more prosaic than the lofty mental torments of a mind searching for truth. The reason was profoundly material and not mentioned at all in polite society unless you wish to expose yourself to ridicule and the fall of reputation.

Sigismund was vomiting, vomiting so uncontrollably that he experienced the almost agonizing sensation of having his insides tied in a knot. It was a very tricky poison he'd received by carelessly touching the rims of the bathtub he'd filled. All within training, all within training.

In fact, he could have done without such sacrifices, but there were pitfalls everywhere. Sigismund's problem was that his sense of danger, growing in the course of his training, was unwilling to notice those things that were not dangerous to his life and health. All the potions Shaal had taught him to counteract did him no harm at all, but rather relaxed him, calmed him, and took away his worries.

Viewed from this angle, he would never have learned to sense the spilled spirits in the air with the addition of a love potion as long as they were tied to the faithful Shaal. Subconsciously accustomed over the years to this kind of attitude, control, and almost a collar. Even though the old Sigismund was gone, he was still him in too many ways to give up his old affections and weaknesses.

The solution was simple - to pass on the training to one of the honey specialists of House Lanorsk. They may not be royal secret guards, but there were plenty of women of their kind among the House loyalists. Some were even more skilled in their craft than Shaal, inferior to her in every other respect. There were no free men, but for the sake of his training and at his request, one of them could be called back to the manor.

But here other factors came into play. The first and most important fear was the realization of a simple fact: Shaal is loyal to the end, absolutely, but they are not. Every high-level spy was bound by many threads of old commitments, dirt, or trivial lucre, and they could not be completely trusted. Would the insidious snakes and spiders take advantage of his weakness, as well as his deliberately weakened security, to strike a fatal blow? Or at least for a couple of particularly tasty secrets?

Secondly, he could still put up with the influence Shaal had over him, allowing her what no one else would, regardless of all the possible rumors and laughter. To give such not even power, but trust to someone else, he would not do so for any benefit or gain. He has enough of obedience and quiet whispers in his ear, after which there is no way to remember the last hours of his life, and new thoughts and ideas appear in his head. Shaal will confine herself at most to a couple of veiled jabs at his pride. A professional traitor may well stab him in the heart with such a stiletto, with no chance of healing.

Instead of the simple option of training (and then probably eliminating the teacher) under the tutelage of the Seductress, which he was promised to get, he chose another option - in many ways more humiliating, but certainly effective. All the same love potions, all the same, relaxing concoctions, all the same, subjugating carnal caresses. Only with one small difference, the size of Heaven itself, which turns everything upside down.

Here he is, blinded by a love potion, Shaal, smiling fondly, asking him to drink the glass of wine she serves. Anything for her smile, right? Even a few hours of hellish cramps in each limb, still combined with unbearable love, after which the body will hurt for another day, despite the healers hastily restoring his body.

Some kind of drug that induces uncontrollable passion, scattered in powder on his sheets, makes him lash out at the woman who quietly came in to "wish him good night," even though he managed to hold out for almost a minute. The heated kisses end with the sensation of burning skin alive because her lips had the pollen of one extremely rare flower growing in the jungle of Ung Saat. And then the healers and run to practice, unless you wish to anger Maitre Rossi, and spit on the fact that the remnants of passion have not yet weathered from the body.

There is barely detectable smoke in the smoker, which he should have noticed from the start, and he completely loses the will to do anything but stare silently at the ceiling. Then Shaal, whose face is covered with a rag of some kind, enters the room, puts out the incense burner, and begins to speak while shamelessly touching him with such tenderness that he is ready to explode after a pathetic minute, but he still cannot defy her pleas to sit still. He is not able to resist her requests to sit still until the woman pulls out a thin and whipping stick and starts beating him, turning his whole body into one solid bruise.

Pain,

Pain where before there was only passion and pleasure.

And the silent sense of danger that had previously been so reluctant to respond to the attempt to influence his thinking, especially by Shaal, began to signal, first timidly and then more and more vividly, the next atrocity invented by his friend for the sake of learning. When he found three traps at once, the last of which awaited him right in the bathroom, he had a right to be sincerely proud of himself.

Even Shaal's eyes widened in surprise when she realized that he had come all this way in only eight days. She said this kind of training, when one of his intuitive skills is forcibly tuned to perceive something he did not initially perceive, takes at least a month, even for very talented individuals.

All in all, there was a little celebration, a bottle of wine he had carefully tested, and a hot night when he finally allowed himself to relax in the arms of his mistress, already feeling, knowing that she would not take advantage of the moment for another illustrative lesson. In the morning the mood was so rosy that he started the bath without trying to check it out at all, although the woman had once caught him just there, but then it ended only in moral humiliation.

This time he did not indulge in uncontrolled masturbation under the gaze of a fully clothed Shaal sitting on the edge of the tub, politely asking him to stop the unworthy occupation of the future Earl. There was undoubtedly some excitement from another love potion, but it passed very quickly, unlike the violent vomiting caused by the poison.

The most frustrating thing was that the trap was an old one, left over from previous attempts to catch him. Either Shaal had forgotten about it, or she had decided to teach him another lesson. She's a wicked character, despite her beauty!

Now the main thing is not to give his soul to his ancestors because of the cursed poison, which for some reason worked too well, despite having been out in the open for a very long time.

"Now I am ready to accept your admiring praise in any form you like, waiting for the acknowledgment of my merits in your words." He said phlegmatically, as Sigismund kept his sword in his hand, the point of which was aimed at a silent-looking woman, quite beautiful and desirable, who was pressed to the floor by two burly guards.

"Forgive me, young lord, but I have no idea what you're talking about." Shaal's words contain only the purest surprise and slight concern for his ward's health. "Would you care to explain your words to your servants?"

Shaal almost never spoke in this manner-without the slightest trace of mockery or irony, calmly and with genuine respect. However, they were not alone now, but in public, among other people's eyes and ears. Shaal herself would rather voluntarily cut off her own hand than lower his or his father's authority in front of his subordinates and servants.

"I don't argue that it makes sense, but I'm a little irritated by the interruption of the party and my wounded pride." He continued indifferently, not paying attention to the growing concern in the eyes of the bodyguard who was worried about his mental health.

Sigismund stares silently at the black woman's face, full of carefully concealed worry. She, in turn, stares at him, seemingly increasingly convinced that her ward has begun to lose his mind. Seconds merge into a minute, then a second, and then her expression becomes calm and even, and from her lips come a different set of words, more pragmatic.

If it's not too much trouble, young lord, I'd ask you to tell me exactly how you were able to recognize and react to what was going on. I had a vague hope that you would at least be able to suspect something before the end of the first phase or the beginning of the second, but I certainly couldn't expect you to reveal someone else's game from almost the first hours.

Now he sees the genuine academic interest of a professional spy, albeit a somewhat different specialty, who wants to close the gap in her knowledge. Not that he could not answer her, but he would prefer to answer her in the absence of extra ears, which included as well Lady Lacianna, who was now surrounded by several bands of sharp steel at once.

Actually, he suspected her from the start, though he couldn't say exactly what caused the suspicion. There was the possibility that it was a subtle tingling sense of danger, which had been surprising him more and more lately, exhibiting quite uncharacteristic enhancements to this rank-and-file skill. He was sure that he was now frozen literally one step away from having that skill transformed into something far more interesting than a mere premonition of impending doom.

Maybe it was her way of behaving that disturbed him, not at all like Shaal's, but disturbing somehow. Her speech did not bury him beneath a pile of useless and meaningless words, but somehow the thread of her thought kept slipping away, making him just listen to the melodious flow of her ringing voice, getting lost in the flow. So were her movements, smooth and enchanting, they riveted the eyes of the young heir of House Lanorsk, causing a subconscious desire.

And it could not be ruled out that her scent was the cause. Behind the subtle floral notes of her perfume, one could discern a barely perceptible smell of mint, which did not fit at all into the bouquet of her perfume. A book he had once read long ago on the proper selection of colognes had nevertheless been remembered by him, and now that knowledge was surfacing. It was a small thing, but for a young man who had developed a mild form of paranoia, it was enough to make him wary.

Seen from this angle, she must have sensed his subconscious dislike, though one couldn't be sure of that - if there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that it was extremely difficult to read on his face now. The woman, introduced to him as Lady Lacianna Otrintzas, exchanged a couple of standard phrases with him and was like this. That day, the first day of his father's opening feast, he had almost forgotten about her under a shaft of women's smiles and the suffocating scent of perfume far less pleasing to the sense of smell.

He had been a very fortunate marriage partner before, and now, after his House had not only withstood the blows of an unknown enemy but had managed to secure a small piece of the common stream of gold, he had become an even more enviable betrothed. Many were willing to set their daughter up with him for a lucrative marriage, others were flattered to be favored, and some would even be tempted by a few thank-you gifts given for a few long evenings of languor and passion.

Under such pressure, it was easy to forget about a single suspicious figure, especially since the massive ring with the emerald, an alchemy neutralizer, on the finger began to flicker subtly, decomposing another charm into nothingness. A feast was in full swing as hunting outings were interspersed with dances and feasts, and hired minstrels and entertainers continually entertained old friends and new possible allies of the Lanorsk.

Except that Lacianna glimpsed in here and there, just for a few minutes, a few phrases and brief smiles. A quick conversation there, a cute flirtation here, an amusing story that came to mind here - little things, but memorable little things. When she unobtrusively and unpretentiously helped him hide from the intrusive company, again dissolving into the crowd, he, quite suddenly, realized that he longed for another meeting. Not so much as to start looking for her himself, but enough to make his gaze try to catch and latch on to the familiar graceful figure.

And that's when it clicked in his head when the pieces of the puzzle came together when he realized what was causing the underlying suspicion and unease. The answer was quite trivial, something he had heard a thousand times before, but it didn't make it any easier to reach.

She was picking up the keys to him.

Her every movement, word, gesture, and body position was set up to elicit a maximum response from him, to make him feel good about being in her company. This, frankly, was not a crime, because many girls, eager to impose themselves on his company, tried to do the same. Except they couldn't do it, or did it very clumsily, whereas Lacianna did it quite naturally as if breathing it in. The masks and patterns changed so smoothly and imperceptibly that without the long and boring lectures of Shaal, which he most often listened to when he was beaten after another training session, he would not have even realized such a thing.

At this point, all thoughts of his own mistrust were put to rest, and he began to remember and analyze her every movement, every word, and every encounter. It did not come at once, nor was it an insight, for he had originally read about it in a book Shaal had advised him on.

The smell of peppermint wasn't something he imagined, no. It caused a lightness in his body and an increase in his ability to concentrate. There was no other effect, no effect on the mind or thinking. The potion itself was even useful, to be frank, but that was not the point. His subconscious mind began to involuntarily perceive Lacianna's presence as a breath of fresh air: while she was around, breathing was easy and pleasant, the thinking was easier, and sleepiness disappeared altogether. But when the brief encounter passed, he immediately received a subtle rebound from the cessation of the stimulant inhalation, causing an involuntary collapse in his spirits and a worsening of his mood.

She's close by - good.

She's leaving - bad.

The book described the use of far more dangerous drugs, working on the same principle, but causing a real narcotic withdrawal. As smokers of all kinds of potions or those fools who breathe the vapors of special salts experience. But such an effect would have been noticed, if not by his amulets, then by his sense of danger, which was developed for just such a thing. But a much more gentle, almost imperceptible effect was more difficult to notice, especially if it was minimal.

No less, or even, rather, a greater role was played by the very society of the strange woman, who knew how to entice and interest, to make one want to continue communicating. Words, like molasses flowing in the ears, movements that mesmerize the eye, like slowly coiling snake rings, a constant disturbance of concentration, not even to think about something difficult and leaving a void in the head after the end of conversation.

Sigismund realized with genuine dismay that he could not quite remember what she was chattering about as if the entire course of the conversation had merged into one coherent buzz, which was heavy in his head as if he had been stuffed with sheep's wool. Trying to remember anything, in particular, made him feel heavy and want to turn his thoughts to something else.

Sigismund was no fool, and Shaal made him aware of what simple words could do. She explained it to him for the rest of his life, so that he would remember it. She spent a lot more time, though, and she used potions, but the fact was disturbing. And the symptoms were loss of memory, a strange heaviness in the head, and a sudden attraction to a previously unfamiliar woman. One by one it was not so disturbing, but together it was a full-fledged ringing of an alarm bell, indicating that an enemy horde had approached the walls of the fortress.

His face remained impassive, but inside Sigismund was frantically calculating the amount of time he had been alone with Lady Lacianna. It appeared that there was no way she could do anything very bad to his head, even if she were a professional slavemancer. It just didn't add up in time; she wouldn't have had enough of him, because he wasn't a first-level plowman! And she couldn't use her magical energy-consuming skills, since the amulets hadn't been disturbed.

Conclusion?

Whatever she is up to, she is now in the preparation stage. Gathering information about how he reacts to her actions, at the same time stirring up interest and desire in him. And this is far more serious than the mere grimacing of a hunter for his title, aiming for the position of Lady of Lanorsk, thousand times more serious than such trivialities.

It was with these thoughts that he once again "accidentally" met Lady Lacianna.

She quite justified his suspicions by encouraging him to take her for a walk around the castle, showing her the most secluded corners where it would be very comfortable to spend the evening and night and meet the morning after. And if it hadn't been for his complete composure, he wouldn't have noticed how, after a graceful gesture as if she were fixing her hair while showing off the glare from the magical lights on the bracelet, he had agreed to her proposal, even before he realized it. It wasn't a suggestion, but rather a very subtle hint that gave him the right idea.

After that he, without resisting, let her lead her, pretending that he was leading her, into the far corridors, where they easily found an empty room. With his mind he was completely calm, not allowing the flow of words to carry his consciousness somewhere far away, and so at the moment when she clung to him gently and not at all as if from the cold, he struck her sharply and with maximum force with the hilt of his sword in the solar plexus while clutching frantically the alarming amulet in his pocket.

If his suspicions were unfounded, he would be embarrassed, and he would have to give away the gold very generously, unless, of course, his father decided that it would be easier to let Shaal have another accident with a fall down the stairs. There were few places she wandered alone to wring her neck, were there?

Except that instead of folding in pain and quietly following him to the interrogation room, Lady Lacianna Otrintzas, frail and delicate as a mountain flower, punched him in the groin with her fist. Quickly, abruptly, and frighteningly unexpected, without even stirring a sense of danger. He managed to shield himself from the unpleasant blow by substituting his thigh for his groin, but that was exactly what she appeared to be aiming for.

There was a small needle in his fist, which he noticed too late. He managed to steer his body away from the treacherous blow, but still received a minor scratch. The ring artifact he was wearing glowed like a small illuminating amulet, neutralizing the poison, but the boy's leg still went completely numb, almost making him fall backward, right under the finishing blow.

The two vicious guards burst into the room, tearing down the flimsy door and knocking the woman who had attacked him to the wall with her body. Near her body, two glowing blades shone with activated skills, hinting that one more swift movement and she would be cut into several bleeding pieces.

Then a deathly assembled Shaal burst into the hall, and Sigismund immediately understood the whole background of what was happening. It was surprisingly simple, for the young man had no lack of intelligence, and there were plenty of facts to analyze.

She was not afraid.

Or rather, not so, for she was very afraid. She was afraid of being punished for failing, afraid of being reprimanded, being deemed a loose cannon, and being stripped of her position. But she was not afraid of being slaughtered right now, not afraid of being dragged into the interrogation room, where they would rip out the names of customers and other people's secrets with hollow iron. And after the appearance of Shaal, her fear was all but gone.

All of this could only exist for one reason - her employers were standing right here in front of her.

It may have been a simple guess, but Shaal's words confirmed it more reliably than any other argument.

"Sigismund, I am certainly proud of you for how deftly you noticed the influence on you, how quickly you navigated the situation, and how easily you managed to piece together the facts. Truly, Sigismund, is purely true. Except that you behaved like a silly little child." There was a sea of pure pride and even more genuine anger in Shaal's words. "So lets you use your head and tell me exactly what you should have done. From the beginning, okay."

There are seven of them in the study - him, Shaal, his father, the vile scoundrel Lacianna, for whom this may well be a fake name, and three grim guards. He can no longer think of the spy with any respect, for she is not worthy - any noble who chooses to engage in such a low trade by associating his life with it deserves neither name nor title. He does not even want to think about the option where this vile snake invented her title at all, being an ordinary commoner.

"Clutch the alarm amulet and run to the nearest guard post?" He clarified somewhat guiltily, knowing that if Lassianna were not a test of his abilities, but an enemy assassin, the thread of his life would be shamefully interrupted, as if in mockery of a life that had just begun to get better.

"Right, absolutely right." Softly and almost gently said Shaal, almost cooing and, this time, not at all shy of extra ears, because only the most trusted are gathered here. "So what the hell are you doing!?"

It was not even a scream, but a real growl, which made even his father flinch a little. The next three hours were spent carefully explaining to him why he was a fool and how to live with it. First Shaal, who, after the first breakdown, tried to be much softer and more restrained, and then his father, who did not even try to restrain himself, from which his ears were beginning to hurt.

It didn't take them both long to calm down, but Sigismund was silent. Because he knew that the alarm that flashed through the amulet, along with the cleansing amulet's overload alarm, had caused them all to assume the worst. They'd both managed to die several times themselves by the time they got to that room.

The leg, by the way, has still not recovered, although it is not long for it: this poison is not dangerous to health at all, but it is very difficult to remove it from the body. It was easier for the healers to wait until it was gone than to spend a few hours and win at most a few dozen minutes. It was a good thing that the spy herself, who was testing his abilities, had the foresight to take out and remove everything lethal she had on her. For her, who was striking on reflex, of course, it was a good thing.

Then it was Lacianna's turn. She began dryly and without flirting about what she had done, how she had done it, and for what purpose. There were very few of his father's people whom he trusted unconditionally, but this woman was one of them, albeit with many reservations. And she had a lot of work to do, so it was only now that she could be summoned to test Sigismund's ability to counter all sorts of poisoners and spies. She wasn't supposed to deal with him at all, but that's another topic.

The plan, devised with the help of Shaal and Lacianna herself, was to give him a very good lesson, combined with a test of practical skills. Not all heads of House undergo such training. Frederick, for example, did not, rely, like most, on guards, artifacts, and a set of rituals to protect against alchemical influences on the mind and body. The painkillers had a very poor effect on him because of this, but the benefits were undeniable.

But since Sigismund himself began to ask for agent training on the model of the secret guard, and showed great talent in it, the old duke considered it a perfectly acceptable waste of time and money. Sigismund's great-great-grandfather, as known from the chronicles, even worked in this secret guard and a very bread-and-butter place. In the vaults still lie all sorts of rarities and valuables that Caladon of Lanorsk managed to obtain through his position, making up a large proportion of the family's collection of artifacts.

So they tested Sigismund to see how long he would last when he noticed the effects, and whether he could do anything at all. At first, Lacianna thought that Frederick had senile dementia - the young man succumbed to a woman's charms not just easy, but extremely easy. She'd managed to put him in a trance in a few brief encounters. She even took a small risk during one of them, suggesting that he should take off his amulet and allow her to compel him to put it back on and forget the whole event. And it worked! The resistance of the other peasants was greater.

By the way, Sigismund had noticed that the amulet had changed position between the layers of clothing, but he hadn't paid attention because of the compulsion, but that wasn't important. Lacianna calmly led him to the nearest snug corner, where she was going to work his head properly, under the watchful gaze of Shaal, who did not trust her. So she wouldn't damage anything, leave anything permanent, or take advantage of the moment for treachery, which you could always expect from the Seductress - the class had a very treacherous reputation that made even spies seem righteous in comparison.

The next step would have been a little spectacle, where the young man would have been forced first to take out of his father's office a package (with blank sheets of paper, of course), bring it to the woman controlling him, remember everything that had happened to him, and give him a shot in the neck with that very needle. So that for a moment he would really believe that he was dying - the latter was purely from Lacianna herself, but she really didn't like those who thought they were professional "mystery men" who didn't live up to that title. For now, Sigismund gave that impression-a boy, bloated with self-importance, who thought that a couple of days of gentle training had made him a true Shadow.

Instead, she had to hit hard for fear of being stabbed in the gut with a sword. Her higher level and skills left the foolish boy no chance, but the Seductress herself was nearly slaughtered in the heat of the moment, believing that she had once again confirmed the reputation of her class.

She wasn't going to sleep with him, by the way, but only tonight. Afterward, no doubt. When else would she get the chance to fuck the true Lanorski properly, to repay, so to speak, for all the times she had been fucked, the Lanorsk, even if only morally and mentally? She was not about to deny herself the pleasure of lording it over someone likely to become her direct suzerain in the future. Obviously, she did not expect to live to see those days, for he, Sigismund of Lanorsk, would not forgive such a thing.

He went to bed deep into the evening, so that the next morning he could get up again, put on a friendly face and, together with his father, meet strangers, shake hands with acquaintances who were trying to understand how his character had changed and what the consequences were, memorize many names and top secret data that were not even trusted to paper, and just try not to break his back with the burden of obligations.

The hard path of the true Head of his House, forced to stay near the top of the world, fearing every second to fall into a pit full of snakes and jackals, where those who fawned before you yesterday would gladly chew your throat. If he could still be afraid, he would surely have turned gray with terror, but that fear had vanished, killed by his hands. All he had to do was look forward, keeping his eyes under his feet, stepping and stepping upward, to the very top, hoping to hold on.

Hard, thankless work, which can be appreciated only by those to whom you leave behind all that you have gained and multiplied or squandered and lost. So far he has only taken the very first, tentative step. But if he has learned anything, it is that nothing will fall into your hands until you take a step toward your goal.

Authors note:

It was supposed to be an interlude entirely devoted to PWP, performed by Sigismund, Shaal, and Lacianna.

As a result, the little bastard revealed that his mother's name was Mary, and her maiden name was Sue. His resistance was really on the level of a level 2 plowman! And that's how it turned out.

The unique combination of tremendous vulnerability with tremendous resistance, I just can't.

But the plot has moved forward, because here, in this chapter, there are a few groundwork for future action.

Crits.

What is Sigismund's resistance to seduction techniques: 3. It's pretty darn low. Not a crit, but close.

Did she manage to charm him: 2 - no way at all? Also not a crit, but a lot.

Reason: 1 of 7 choices: 4 - spoiler.

The choice of trials is a lot of rolls, but towards the end managed to summon Lacianna, although she will now be biting her elbows (there is a sold-out rush in the Capital because of the fall of Stone, and she's busy here).

Lassianna's attitude toward her future lord: 13 Strictly negative, and whatever the hell he thinks he is. I'm going to scare him off because I'm not going to die in piace anyway.

The reaction of Shaal and the guards to the "assassination attempt": 54 - a little more and she would have been killed without a second thought.

Reaction to strike (strike itself: 27 - very inept): 64 - successfully counterattacked, but forgot you were facing the son of a lord.

Something like that.

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http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/536530

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP