Готовый перевод Его не звали, но он приперся / They never called, yet he is here: Интерлюдия пятая: "Лабиринт обмана"

Interlude Five: "The Labyrinth of Deception"

Every eighth, ninth, and thirteenth day, when the first dawn rays touched the crowns of the forest giants, they came here to play the game of ascension. The ancient game, whose rules change depending on the time of day, the position of the stars, and even the mood of the players, was a true outlet for the two ancient Eternals, who could rightfully consider themselves among those who choose the direction in which the leaves on the tree of their Forest would sprout.

Both of them were from a time when the Dawn Forest itself, as a state entity, did not exist at all. There was only a group of youth who were too crowded within the confines of the Eternal Grove, who wanted change, and who longed to decide for themselves where their eternal leaves would sprout and where they would fall. In the case of most other races they knew, such sentiments among the young sprouts would have ended in demonstrative purges or civil war. The children of the preternatural stars were alien to the very concept of fratricidal war, and so much of the unseen and incredibly intense struggle was expressed in a web of obscure intrigue and talk, diplomatic scandals, and unspoken half-hints.

Years later, they both manage to realize that they were, in fact, allowed to win back then. The elders anxiously released the young sprouts to create their own garden, just as those who had once released them themselves had done. But then, with the Book of Right, grown from the sacred tree and sprouting living emerald lilies, clutched in their hands, they both truly believed that they had managed to outplay the Council of Trustees, that their youth and willingness to take risks had enabled them to win such a difficult and so sweet victory.

They were let go, tested in an undeclared battle of wits and wills, and allowed to carry their Truth as they saw fit. Not a century has passed since then. A bunch of fugitives, forced to fawn before short-lived kings, hardly begging for protection and patronage and maneuvering between dozens of all kinds of forces and interests, has become a full-fledged kingdom whose borders are respected by neighbors, whose soldiers are hated by enemies and whose intrigues are known to be so perfect that their essence can be understood only by descendants of the current human rulers.

Time flowed, still respectfully circumventing the children of the Stars, not daring to touch their bodies and souls. And the Dawn Forest, like its rulers, was slowly becoming accustomed to its sinlessness, its omnipotence, and its chosenness. No doubt they got the occasional insulting slap on the nose, but those were situations that were what one would call accidents. It's just that sometimes Lady Fortune turns her back on you, and there's nothing you can do about it. After all, a lord of such a mighty concept as Luck didn't care about the Stars' blessing or centuries of intrigue. To be offended or angry at such mishaps is as foolish as cursing bad weather. Sometimes it just happens, and all you have to do is mourn the fallen, learn the lessons, assess the loss of resources, and get on with your business. Flawless, as it has always been before.

They had recently been shown that they were unacceptably arrogant, and their pride had nearly caused a fatal error that could have cost them too much. There were indeed black pages in the history of the Dawn Forest that they tried not to remember, but they were very old stories, often connected to a trivial lack of power and influence. The recent failure was not due to coincidence nor to the smile of Fortune that had fallen to the enemy.

They were outplayed.

Outplayed on their turf, brazenly, foully, and incredibly gracefully in their sneakiness. And losses of such magnitude, even if for the most part they belonged to loyal short-lived servants and carefully trained agents, would have taken many decades to heal, fearing even just to leave their borders. And such reclusiveness has always been dangerous: one century is nothing to the Forest, but only to the Forest. In that century, people can change too much, and here yesterday's irreconcilable enemies fraternize in blood, vowing to burn to the ground the lair of the vile nonhumans who are so annoying to everyone with their webs of lies and deceit.

Sorz has always been a problematic neighbor, largely because it has been an intransigent neighbor and, sadly, a strong one. These people knew how to keep their secrets and possessed phenomenal cohesion, as for a human state. In the history of the Solar Dynasty, there has never been a significant rebellion, even though many have tried to provoke one. Starborn in the first place, sparing neither finance for bribery, nor venom for elimination, nor promises for aid and assistance.

The Sorzs lived with the belief that beyond the border of their kingdom begins a room of no man's gold, and only they have the right to take that gold. What you take is yours. Whom you took is yours. As long as you are not under the eye of the Sun Crown, even the Sun itself does not see you, which means that its laws no longer exist. Steal, kill, deceive, torture, and betray - no one will say a word to you on your return. Only do it all for the good of your native state.

And, characteristically, these short-eared creatures in the guise of humans not only managed to live with this philosophy but also very successfully live and rule. They may not have been loved, but going to war with them, where they receive huge bonuses in their native land, which the Sun is blessed, few risked, and almost no one knew success. Even though the Sorz rarely won in foreign territory, most often at the expense of numerical superiority. They learned how to operate in small raiding parties, arranging real terror deep in the rear of their enemies.

This doctrine did not add to the love of the neighbors, but they had enough intelligence not to quarrel with all at once, and the fact that to smoke them out of their native land is a very difficult task has been mentioned more than once.

In fact, the fact that the sun-worshippers were able to conduct a successful operation against the Dawn Forest meant very unpleasant news. No, it was not a defeat for the elves but a victory for their enemy. An enemy that had stepped up in one fell swoop with an extremely important and meaningful victory that could serve as a springboard for further action. Completely cut out or over-recruited agents, combined with the extreme fanaticism of the local population, making it difficult to train new agents, was to bite the children of the Stars like a poisonous viper. The wound might not be too great, but the lasting effects would not please anyone but the sorcerers themselves, cursing their fates with a thousand curses.

The failure did not happen.

Or rather, it was not allowed to happen, not just by leveling the situation but by redirecting the tipped scales in their direction. The Starchildren had long ago learned to appreciate any help, willing or unwilling, even if they preferred to pay for it only in gold rather than services. But there is such help that it is better not to accept it, no matter how wonderful it is. It is true that in this situation, it might have been an even greater mistake to reject said help than to accept it.

That is why the two eternally young elders are silent, having never made a single move in their game, which has lasted longer than other dynasties. That is why the surrounding forest is silent as if it had died out in an instant, for they sense the iron will of the two immortals, who are ready to explode in action at any moment.

But all silence comes to an end, such is one of the many immutable Laws that are inscribed in the world itself.

Elves can speak very beautifully, floridly, and multifacetedly, as any literate person knows or at least has heard. There are legends about the fine language skills of arrogant snobs with pointy ears, and not to say that they exaggerate too much. Even if one bothered to study the complex and unnaturally intricate grammar of the elven language without limiting oneself to a common adverb, one would still understand practically nothing. In order to learn and begin to use correctly the half-tones, the hints, the unspoken truth, and the lies hidden behind it... you have to learn this language from birth. Stellar people also learn how to speak all their lives until the very end.

But it also happens that no amount of floridities, no overtures, or deceptions without of lying, can be effective, or even become harmful, taking time and mental strength to recognize the answer and find a suitable argument. In such moments, the children of the Stars speak another dialect of the same language, the exact opposite of that in a peaceful setting. In times of battle or war, away from home, in foreign lands, or even for the sake of communicating with outsiders who simply would not understand overly complicated phrases, they speak differently.

Words of steel.

This is the name of the technique when your speech itself becomes another blade in your hands, becoming short and curt, which should convey the required order, request or warning as fully and quickly as possible, giving time to react to the changed situation.

They both chose to speak this way, which was already saying a great deal, a great deal. If the two of them had chosen to speak this way in a place that was as solemn to them as their own home, it meant a great deal indeed. Fear and impotent rage, cold calculation and the calm anticipation of a predator, a thirst to protect and ward off trouble-all this mingled in them, in creatures who had long since abandoned the separation between themselves and the Dawn Forest, becoming one with the fate of their greatest achievement.

"The risk is high." The first's words have the quiet rustle of the winds and the sound of spring rain falling on the ground, ready to be replaced at any moment by a fierce storm. "A miss will bring trouble, and a fiery lion will offer no forgiveness."

The coat of arms of the royal family of sun worshipers is mentioned for a reason. After all, the fate of one of them is being decided right now. Already decided, even if there is a chance to reverse the decision. But the first of them knows that the second cannot be changed. He knows all the arguments and arguments that will be told to him and all the answers, with which his opinion will be parried, proving the opposite. And nevertheless, he says them, either to maintain the game as old as the game of forgotten pieces or out of simple stubbornness, unwillingness to recognize the need for risk.

"Risk is always unacceptable." The other agrees through the rustling of leaves and the murmuring of streams without even turning his head in the direction of his interlocutor. "But to refuse it now would be a risk even greater in the future. The tree stands forever, and its leaves should not leave for the future those decisions that should have been made long ago."

The second had once failed to convince the first to destroy the fledgling solar kingdom, though he tried as hard as he did today. The risks were too high, the influence of the firstborn too small, the odds that their intrigue would be exposed, and the allies, enraged by their deception, would unleash their power on the real culprit of their troubles, not on those to whom the elves' skillful diplomats had carefully directed their sights.

"Blood has been spilled for a long time." He accepts the rebuke, bowing his head for a moment in a barely perceptible bow. "No one of us will allow a new one to spill. But that is not what frightens me, as you know."

The real reason for alarm now is not war, for the mercenaries alone are enough to hold back the first blows of any enemy that is close by. And no one will wait to be defeated, neither they, nor their allies, nor their patrons. But there is a certain detail in the proposed plan, the uncovering of which would automatically raise several questions that have been long and firmly buried in the past... An all too recent past for which there is still someone to avenge and shed blood. Star blood.

"Ellarinial will sew all the threads together." Now there is real doubt in the other's voice even though no one else, but an ancient elder like him, is able to discern it. "And the legend will hide the lore in its shadow, as it was before."

There is more in this phrase of wanting to believe that someone on their level is allowed to. But the reason for wanting this faith is also undeniably true. Too many threads have already been struck, and too many old stories have come back to life, threatening to dispel a canopy of secrets that cannot be revealed to anyone, which both of them would like to forget for good. But they remember as they will remember in the future.

"You have chosen a strange weaver, my enemy." There is a bitterness of regret in the former's words, but it is too old and painful a theme, making the ancient rivalry blossom again in a lush flower of poisonous lotuses. "The other two would do just as well. They are better than she is."

The second is silent only one heartbeat longer than he would like, unwittingly showing his own excitement and pain from the decisions he makes. The words of the first are true, but the loyal rival and implacable enemy sees only the edge of the iceberg, which is hidden under the black water of other man aspirations. And the other has only to show the hidden truth, convincing his most loyal of friends that he is right.

"One of them relies too much on her gift, even if her will comes very quickly." His tone was now dry and businesslike, for the subject was more than familiar to him, shifting from political to tactical and professional. "This is good for cases that end quickly. And though time is inexorable to us, it would be a mistake to try to catch it by the tail, making it easy on ourselves. Speed in one will give a weakness that will be noticed by the eye of the Sun. The other... she will not be able to weave the threads for our puppet by simply replacing the puppet itself with a ready-made, new one. The Sun-face should not notice such a subtle counterfeit, but once we've already relied on our superiority, haven't we?"

The rebuke hits the target, and the words fall on the right soil, forcing the opponent to step back to admit he was wrong. They already knew the conversation would end this way, but how difficult it can be at times to move away from the usual rut of events.

"I only pray that you do not make a mistake, enemy of mine." The first one was the only one to say. "We both know exactly what the lion would know if he could figure out our plan and pull out the long-hidden thread."

"I know, the enemy of mine." Answer him in the same second, without even allowing himself to doubt. "She'll get over it. We have given her the most important thing, time. We will encase that time and hide it in the depths of existence, leaving only the ends of the threads, which cannot be found due to the lack of their foundation. And we will wait. As we always have."

"We know how to wait, my friend."

"And we will wait for the result."

With the last words, a thin and graceful palm touches the figure of the armored spearman, moving him a few divisions forward, starting a new round of the endless game. The first left the deserted clearing, leaving the second to stare silently at the board, thinking about something of his own.

He had a lot to think about.
* * *

This artifact was found a long time ago, found almost by accident, having bought it for a truly laughable price. Justifying the sellers of the artifact, they could not even guess about the true potential of the artifact they found, just not having the right qualifications. That didn't stop the elven emissaries from mopping up all the participants of that expedition, as well as anyone else who would have known about the strange and ridiculous find. And the emissaries themselves, for the most part, were either eliminated or, in the case of the most loyal and useful, recalled to the depths of the lands controlled by the Dawn Forest, away from chance encounters. That's assuming a thorough memory wipe, which they also remembered to do.

The artifact looked like the foundation for a small building with three rooms. The unusual-looking slabs of stone that would become the floor of the said building were covered with many subtle and elusive shimmering symbols. The most obvious property of these stone slabs was their incredible strength, making them even more indestructible than some legendary artifacts.

It's funny, but it was as a material for some kind of gate that these stones were sold to fence-sellers who worked for the Fores, and the fence-sellers themselves didn't realize what value they had acquired. The slabs were not parts. It was a place. Put them as a foundation, build a house around them, close its walls, and you know what you got. What luck that the black archaeologists found this thing when all that was left of the walls was debris and ruins!

Once inside these walls, Time itself retreated, obediently stretching out in such a way as to best serve those inside. Not such a rare ability, though powerful, very powerful. Thirty days in one - there are few accelerating rooms of the same caliber. But the limitations of this place are also too many to apply to the same training everywhere.

First, it is available only once a decade to a single intelligent person, and not necessarily endowed just having a mind is enough. Try to go in again, and no warp will occur, as if you were entering a normal building. A month before the exam is certainly a very good help... but to find another use for this place, you'd have to try very hard.

Secondly, this house was certainly spacious enough to live there comfortably for thirty days, given the availability of water and supplies, but it was not suitable for active training, which cut off most of its value. So, this a simple little trick in case you need to urgently create a work plan and do it quickly. Which is uncharacteristic for long-lived elves.

Almost all the inhabitants of the Dawn Forest regard it as a testing ground, unaware of its true nature. No disbelief, but it is better not to give even a single clue to enemy clairvoyants or, in a far sadder case, to enemy executioners. But some knew what would happen if a strictly dosed amount of energy was applied to the signs from a very fragile reservoir located inside the largest of the plates.

The Chambers of Oblivion took away memories.

Literally.

With full activation, you go in, and then you come out. Only a few seconds have passed for you, but not a month. All memories of what happened inside the Chambers are securely erased. So securely that not even the Gods can retrieve them. And not only memories but also mental influences of any, let's repeat, any, absolutely any nature is simply rolled back. And no records will help - they will simply be erased along with the memories, as well as any other ways of storing information.

Complete oblivion.

For ten years.

For ten years, no inspection will show any foreign influence, even if the inspectors bleed bloody tears of exhaustion three hundred times, but they will not find anything. And after ten years, the seemingly faithful and three thousand times tested sapient... suddenly realizes that he has long been a long and firmly conserved agent of influence and that now is his hour of the blade.

A very dangerous weapon... for the elves as well. It's not even that anyone would fear elven seductresses, brainiacs, mentalists, or hypnotists, for everyone fears them as much as they know they exist. It's just that there have been a few moments in the past when the sudden strikes of yesterday's friends have helped the lugubrious bastards gain new allies. And that alliance was based on lust for revenge and financial well-being. But no amount of profit will make the still living witnesses of those days, of those betrayals and deceptions, refuse to strike at the treacherous traitors. If not out of a desire to restore justice, then out of fear of repeating old story.

This means that Ellarinial of Amber Branch, possessor of a rare class of Hypnotist and an epic class of Weaver of Consciousness, has three dozen days to process her victim, knowing that when she leaves the Chambers, she will be unable to tell whether her actions were successful or not. Considering the personality and position of the mortal subject, this assignment can, with a clear heart, be considered the most difficult in her very long and eventful life.

There were a total of five individuals in the house that had fallen into a timeless abyss - four elves and one human. Three elite elven guards - women were optional but desirable - whose role would be to keep a watchful eye on the victim lest he tries to commit suicide or otherwise interfere with his training. One mental specialist and, in fact, her victim, who bears the title and class of Prince of the First Blood.

Ellarinial, like any other member of her race, did not have the luxury of slacking off in the study of the same history and therefore knew very well how dangerous the man she was assigned to was. Or rather, how dangerous he would become in the future if he was given that future. She also knew how much stellar blood had been spilled through the fault of the Sorz ruling dynasty, and therefore she had a reasonable fear for her professionalism - what if he would let his emotions go and destroy all the pre-constructed plans?

In fact, Ellarinial was different from most of her kindred in that she did not feel the fear, hatred, and contempt that every starling feels toward humans, and other short-lived creatures as well. Or rather, they were, of course, but on a much smaller scale than they usually were. It is people like her who are invited to such positions, choosing their words carefully, of course.

The woman looked at the unconscious thing with the mild scientific interest with which collectors of rare spiders or birds look at their animals. These creatures may be dangerous, but they hold a lot of interesting things, and hating them is as silly as hating the needle wolf that bit you - you can, but it makes no sense because they won't even understand the depth of your feelings. This way of thinking was a great help to diplomats, who had to communicate with other races all the time, but it was a good idea for Seductresses, too.

Fortunately or unfortunately, she didn't have the patience or the ability to suppress interspecies barriers to be a full-fledged seductress. No doubt, she was perfectly capable of wielding her body and inflaming others' souls with submissive lust, but she preferred to use such means as rarely as possible. I mean, even rarer than the aforementioned Seducers, who, despite rumors, rarely let the short-eared men they treated even see their nakedness, let alone touch it of any kind.

It didn't make her job any easier, but if she applied this kind of pressure as infrequently as possible, it would be harder, much harder, to trace her influence than it would be otherwise. She does not need to turn the heir of the Sorz crown into a slave or an obedient servant. Even after ten years, such a drastic behavior change would quickly be noticed, making all the work a waste. She needed to create a new persona from scratch, fully retaining all the strength and zeal (of which the prince had no shortage, in truth) of the previous one, but with very different goals. Purposes that she must not put in his mind but nurture from the ground up.

The boy was kept almost naked, not only out of a desire to humiliate him but also out of fear that he might pull some dangerous stunt. It never hurts to be cautious. The regular pants of soft silk were undoubtedly very expensive clothes, but they did not come close to what he was used to.

Once he awoke from his induced sleep and looked around, seeing and appreciating his neighbors in the timeless pocket, he didn't even try to attack, judiciously assessing his chances of success. Instead, the prince simply pressed his face to his knees and his palms to his ears and began to drive himself into deep meditation, almost catatonic. Not seeing, not hearing, not perceiving, and not thinking. A very risky trick, especially when performed incorrectly, capable of damaging the user's mind, but putting any effect on such a subject is many times more difficult.

Most of the "soft" classes that specialize in working with other people's minds and wills are extremely loath of such tricks. If the prince, in his naivety, believes that Ellarinial cannot subdue him in this state, he is mistaken. Her second class, though it required long exposure through social contact, was not useless without it. The Weaver could put her victim into a trance even from such a position, even if it exhausted her more than she would have liked.

Her reserves were small simply because her profession did not require any large reserves of magical power. Most of her characteristics were deployed in perception and concentration, which were what she needed to develop as fully as possible. She was accustomed to compensating for her lack of reserve by hoarding or taking potions, but so far, she had never had to give it her all. There was simply no need since there was always enough time to retreat and come back later. Even the most voracious of her abilities didn't require powerful magic but rather extremely light, airy, and nearly indistinguishable. As a thread of cobweb brought by the wind - just as intangible and delicate.

Alas, it would be a mistake, in the long run, to demonstrate her skills to the victim now. She doesn't have a couple of years of long-term training, which wouldn't require any significant exposure to magic or corrective skills at all. Simple manipulation, like the skill of intrigue, only honed to change opinions. She only has a month, and therefore, she needs to act more subtly.

Much thinner, but the subtlety itself may well be hidden behind demonstrative simplicity and clarity, for the good of this trick is truly ancient, even by the standards of eternal living.

Instead of trying to feel the prince's will and begin to influence it, she gives a discreet and inaudible signal to one of the guards, which is followed by a light prick with an oiled poison needle. A simple paralysis that deprives him of control over his limbs but has no other effect. No relaxation, no increase in gullibility or susceptibility to suggestion. A simple paralytic, well-liked by trappers who are ordered to capture their targets alive.

"Well, human, you're going to have to listen to me." There was not a trace of contempt or negativity in his voice, just cold and collected politeness and a faint note of barely discernible superiority, even for an aristocrat of the highest caliber. "Despite your reluctance."

"Go to the flames and the abyss, you subhuman." The answer was exactly the same calm, but also a mountain of sincere contempt and barely suppressed rage. "That's where you belong."

"I'm afraid your words are empty now, but at least you had the decency not to utter equally empty threats of reprisal." Her speech has long since been trained to speak to any race, even sentient monsters, so it's not hard to keep the necessary pattern.

"Why should I need threats?" The prince remained calm. "You're going to die anyway."

Her mouth continued to utter barely veiled insults, but the elf let herself smile miserably, for the paralyzed man's gaze could not be directed at her. He had been taught perfectly well to resist seduction, manipulation, or hypnosis, and all of the above skills worked extremely poorly with those who knew of their existence and were ready for them. Up to the exact opposite of the intended effect, especially if one has been taught to resist well and the victim has the will and fury to fight back. But all this is nonsense compared to the fact that she was spoken to.

If the human pup of royal blood had chosen to remain silent, ignoring her, it would have been a hundred times worse. Yes, in that case, just lying there in silence would make it harder to filter what he said and interrupt the induction, but that difficulty would play right into his hands. There might not have been enough time, cursed and blessed, to complete the processing. But he spoke to her himself and began the communication, even if only out of an exchange of barbs. He built the basis for rapport himself, letting her get a grip on his mind. The rest was a matter solely of her hands and mind, not of his resistance.

She spent the first twenty-four hours piquing the puppy, making only the occasional frankly ridiculous attempt to catch his attention. Eventually, the paralysis stopped working, but the boy preferred at least some mobility to another needle stick, and he continued to struggle with it rather than drive himself into deep meditation.

Then she suggested that he get some sleep when she noticed he was too tired. Naturally, he refused and became even warier - the suggestion of sleep from a hypnomancer is quite an anecdote, yes. She gave another signal in response, and another needle put the man to sleep in an instant. A simple sleeping potion without any side effects, no matter what the captive suspected. The Weaver went to sleep herself, leaving another guard to keep watch.

The first thing the prince did upon awakening was to scan his mind, which, coincidentally, he had been trained to do. Finding nothing, he checked a few more times and still felt a little reassured. In his opinion, he had won the first round, though he had delayed the inevitable (he should know better than anyone that there was no way he could outplay the Slavemancer on his turf). However, he obviously knew that the same time was still working against his captors, so any delay was a victory for him. To some extent, he was even right.

A similar scenario repeated the next day.

And the next one.

And on the fourth, she waited for another awakening, exchanged a couple of dozen lines that were becoming less and less insulting and more and more like communication (they were looking for a way to hurt), and then the elfess focused the boy's attention on the sparkling bracelet and put him into a full-fledged trance in a few minutes. Textbook, you might say.

Instead of erasing memory and setting bookmarks, she merely performed a few manipulations - paralyzing and arbitrarily raising limbs, changing taste buds, and other harmless tricks of the bazaar magician's arsenal - and awakened Prince Ansarg from his induced sleep. At that moment, he tried to attack in pure fury and was instantly twisted by the guards and began to check his mind and the pre-marked associative chains he had left behind.

But she achieved her goal of making the victim admit his defeat, of making him realize that she could entangle his will at any moment just by playing with him. She made him feel her superiority.

A beginning had been made.

After that, she used hypnosis and mind entanglements much more frequently, alternating between different types of inductions and influences, different concentrators and types of distractions, and different everything. Every two or three hours, she turned him off again, not introducing any triggers or suggestions, but forcing him to shake his mind again each time, looking for those suggestions.

Along with this, she spoke, not just spoke, but literally crushed the boy with her superiority. Experienced and having lived for decades, she was simply better erudite and savvier than even the smartest and most talented person his age. She met any of his arguments with her own and buried them under a stream of arguments, turning now and then into another hypnotic induction. And Ansarg, the feisty and cruel short-eared man, without noticing it, began to get used to the fact that he was losing, that she was better and he was worse, she was stronger, and he was weaker.

And all this with a constant strain on the mind from the continuous checks on the suggestion and gradually progressing hunger because food from the hands of the enemy he reasonably refused to accept.

On the eighth day, she hypnotized him with a few strokes of her dainty palm almost immediately after awakening him from his previous trance before he had even woken up and... erased the memory of the second induction in a row. And he, too accustomed to not finding any effects in his meditations, missed the moment, not noticing such a small thing and not paying proper attention to it.

The path into the mind was paved.

The only thing left to do is to go in.

She made her actions as cosmetic as possible, not affecting the prisoner's free will itself so as not to leave any traces. She simply made him listen to her words and perceive them as a normal argument rather than a continuous duel of wills, which, to be honest, they were. And by making her perceive them as an argument, the hypnomancer continued to win them, undermining the slender and clear picture of the Prince of the First Blood's world.

To convince him that the war between humans and elves was unnecessary for either of them.

That Sorz policy was not always the right one, leading to casualties among the Sorz themselves in the first place.

That their fixation on the slave trade does not lead to prosperity but only provokes stagnation.

She made no excuses for the Dawn Forest nor for their scheming and actions, which were very often aimed at harming the Sorz, but she made it clear that there would have been far fewer of those blows if they had not given them a reason to do so. She was as adept at substituting concepts and twisting meanings as any other elf, so slowly but surely, she was changing her interlocutor.

The way she wanted it.

All that remains is that he himself wishes to be changed.

On the thirteenth day, she began to use magic skills, having already managed to almost completely disable the associative network of mind protection, which the prince used to test his mind. Not only did she disable it, but she also prevented the victim from noticing her influences. After that, each dream more and more distorted the prisoner's consciousness and thinking.

Unobtrusively.

Little by little.

But he was beginning to get used to obeying her actions, less and less resistant to inductions, even if she told him in advance that she was going to put him into a trance or a dream. Finding it normal, right, correct. Gradually his forced submission was mixed with a fair amount of admiration for her as superior to him in every way: in conversation, in combat, in levels, in experience, in conversational skills, in everything.

Admiration was replaced by the lightest note of lust, but submissive lust, hidden and concealed, for he knew that he could not have his captive, no matter how hard he tried. He had already eaten the food she offered and was used to her putting him to sleep time after time, even as he continued to desire vengeance and release.

The turning point came when Ansarg realized he no longer wished to see her as just another dumb whore to be taken out of the slavemancer's cage, as he had initially dreamed. In his fantasies, he increasingly saw her as a mistress on an equal footing with him and, afterward, in a commanding position. No humiliation or sadism, just that even in his subconscious. he already understood that should his fantasies come to life, she would be on top... in every sense.

He had his first wet dream the same night.

"You're affecting me somehow." He didn't ask, but he stated, looking like a cornered, but still dangerous, beast. "Couldn't help but influence me. I can't find any trace of you, but... I can't think of you the same way I did before. There is already the undeniable fact of your influence. And dreams. You know what they are."

"Of course, I am, human." She answered, fixing the hem of the same closed dress she was wearing when she entered the Chamber. "It would have been strange if I'd acted differently."

"Don't lie to me, I... Wait, what?" Now the rage is still blazing, but it's too dull, too forced as if he doesn't believe that his words will solve anything. "You're not even hiding it?"

"Speak to me more politely now that we've brought it up." She didn't even notice her interlocutor's outburst. "It's kind of a sign of respect, isn't it? And yes, I've been influencing you since day one, you just haven't noticed it. And now I'm going to put you back into a trance by letting you watch another dream with me in it. Then you'll wake up without too many memories and bring it up again. For the third time."

"You bitch!" He said, with a jerk, trying to hit her with a folded palm, hoping to break her throat.

But as soon as he assumed a fighting stance, all his fury was vaporized by a single graceful gesture of her hand, causing a gem-encrusted bracelet to gleam in his eyes. The disconcerting demonstration was followed by a terse command.

"Sleep, human."

"You... you already know what I'm going to say!" It was the same anger, but it was no longer a pent-up, forced-up anger but a desperate, last-ditch effort that both of them understood. "I'm sure I've said it more than once. I... I just can't even try to test my mind! I just fall asleep every time I start the first breathing cycle! You! Damn you..."

The last phrase is too sensual, too differently said, to believe that he really wants to curse her, really wants her to die.

"Of course, I know what you want to say." She agreed, almost affectionately, as if she were talking to a silly kitten rather than an intelligent creature. "And, yes, this isn't the first time we've talked about it. But what were you waiting for? Wouldn't you enjoy the bodies of my sisters, who have been considered the most status concubines for centuries? Wouldn't you do to me what I did to you, only in a much rougher manner, without even trying to preserve my identity? So why do you hold a grudge that I'm not going to reciprocate the feelings you've provoked in me? To me, you're just like any other human being, a dangerous beast that I fear with all my heart. Yes, yes, that's right, and you needn't dissuade me of the validity of my fear, for we both understand that you don't wish me to harm simply because of my influence."

"Then why? Why don't you finish it? Why in the name of the Sun?" Now there was no fight in his voice anymore, what she had expected from the beginning.

"Of course, I could break you completely right now. A few hours and there would be even less will in you than is in the burned-out piece of your big brother's favorite toy. But, you see, I don't want you to suffer, not at all. I wish to show you the wrongness of your thoughts and judgments, to force you not to be a mindless body but to right some of the grief your forefathers have caused us. That's all."

"You made me want you!" The rage that had almost died out flared up again, making his blood boil and his heart beat even faster. "To desire more than anything else in the world! You could have done otherwise!"

"Is it my fault that human lust is the easiest tool of influence?" Ellarinial asked without even a hint of embarrassment. "Yes, I made you dream of me, but then again, how am I any different from your cage masters?"

The silence was her answer.

"Look into my eyes, count to six, and go to sleep, oh Prince, for we still have too much work to do." For the first time in all his processing, there is a sincere contempt in her voice that hurts far more than indifference and rage. Simply because it is too fair.

"Are you serious?" Ansarg, whose consciousness was becoming more and more entangled with each passing hour, just blurted out. "Really, seriously? Even without your orders?"

He'd given up even trying to resist, surrendering to the dreams, diving into every induction that his personal avatar of retribution, the first-born creature he couldn't even hate anymore, had placed upon him. The dreams, full of the frankest images, were followed by long conversations of which he only remembered what they were, followed by layers of buried memories, illusions, and dreams.

"Of course I'm serious." She answered him. "Have I ever made a joke during our time together? Lust and pleasure, in your case, are the most effective methods of reinforcing a positive experience. You're progressing at a near-perfect pace, so encouragement just makes sense in this situation. Or are you against it?"

"Yes! I mean, no!" He answered hurriedly, once again furious at his wretchedness and intemperance. "But..."

"Did you expect me to lie in bed with you myself?" Ironic, but not offensive or insulting, Ellarinial asked. "That I would throw off my clothes, saddle you up, and take you to the pinnacle of bliss?"

He was almost embarrassed by the picture, right there, under the condescending gaze of his tormentor and the indifferent glances of the guards watching him. He knew intellectually that she was right, but his hope of intimacy with her was too strong. Instead of intimacy, he was given a silk ribbon pulled from her hair and a request to pleasure himself with it. A humiliating request that he knew perfectly well, was simply impossible not to fulfill. He wanted her too much, even just to look at her in a moment of pleasure.

"Won't you be embarrassed by such an indecent spectacle?" The venom in his voice had always been enough to mop up the orcish horde before he was captured, and now he was doing his best.

"Not at all." All attempts to shake her composure are still pointless. "Believe me, a self-pleasing human teenager is far from the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen in my life. Take a ribbon and hurry up, please. With all the tension you've built up during our time together, my request won't take long. By the way, I'll put you to sleep in the moment of climax, so don't resist."

"You..." What he wanted to say he didn't know himself, but instead of answering, he pulled down his pants, soiled by a dozen extremely wet dreams, and took the ribbon he had been given, refusing out of sheer pique to shy away or turn away, staring at her and at the page behind her the whole time he was getting himself off.

Their perfect faces remained slightly bored in Ellarinial's and completely indifferent in the nameless warden's. She had indeed put him to sleep at his peak, but she still allowed him to experience a pleasure. And the dreams that replaced reality were not a bad compensation, though he could not remember them on awakening, as he always had before. In his dreams, he had no doubt. He saw naked Star Maidens, not the broken dolls he was used to, but real ones. And no one allowed him to see such things, so the memories were only scraps and incoherent images.

"Should I call you Mistress now?" He asked, trying to stretch his shoulders after a particularly long session of enslaving magic.

"Is that what you want?" Surprised, really surprised (or extremely talented) asked him back, even tilting her head slightly to the side as if he had made a mistake somewhere.

"We have slaves being forced." Just answered Ansarg, who was forced to admit that there was little left of his former will. He didn't feel like a dumb puppet, didn't have problems with logic circuits, and didn't lose control of his desires. But those desires were very different. If he had such a slavemancer in his entourage, he would... Ooh! One couldn't help but marvel at how bloody good the elfess was.

It's funny, but he had no problem calling her to himself an earwig or a bitch. He could call her that out loud, too. He could, but he didn't want to. She didn't lie, really changing not his thoughts or personality, but his opinion, his life credo as such. Ansarg was no fool. In fact, he genuinely considered himself one of the cleverest men of his generation - he did not suffer from modesty as well as unnecessary bravado, preferring to boast only of what he was objectively sure of. The realization that he was clearly being used as an agent of influence in his kingdom was so obvious that it was impossible not to understand.

"Do you feel like a slave?" Now she was really almost laughing, even if she hid it carefully, and he suddenly had the confidence that he really had managed to make her laugh, her and not the mask she had created to work with him. "Do you wish to kneel before me and kiss my feet?"

"I won't decline the latter." Just answered the prince, trying hard to suppress the longing in his loins, knowing full well that he would be rejected. "But jokes aside. What do I have to do? Even if no one notices the change in me, even if I deceive the Palace mentalists and not be strangled with a silk cord just in case... what do I have to do? What have I been trained for?"

And she replied.

"It seems I will have to if anything happens, open my own throat and throw my soul into the Sun, just so long as the properties of this hole are not revealed." He didn't even ask. He just stated the fact. "A cheerful prospect."

"After a dozen years, no one will even check on you." She rebuffed, locking her demonic bracelets on his arms. "Don't expect me to convince you that we didn't and aren't planning your demise. No, I could lie, even lie so much that you'd believe it, but I don't see the point."

"In my condition, I'd believe the sky was green." For some reason, it felt really good to argue with her, perhaps because she had a great sense of him as an interlocutor - the same ability to create masks, to become the ideal for anyone.

"Would you like to lie down with me?" The question is asked with the same calm expression as always before, but here are the words themselves.

"Are you kidding me?" He wasn't even nearly offended, but he couldn't stop himself from switching to a crude manner of speaking. "And I told you you were above that sort of thing."

"Not at all." There's no remorse to be found in it, not even with the gnome telescope the court stargazer uses. "You have passed all my tests, which shows that my influences are applied perfectly. Positive reinforcement is indeed not unreasonable here and much stronger than the usual permission to indulge yourself in my presence. I won't lie to you about my pleasure, but I can show passion with a guarantee."

Three hours later, with only a few minutes to go before the Chambers stopped working, he was cursing himself with the last words for choosing to play the noble game in front of the one who had enslaved him. As if she would appreciate such 'generosity' or despise him any less.

Ellarinial herself only mentally noted the ultimate success of the personality correction - understanding her true attitude, he refused the unbearably desirable intimacy with her completely unaffected simply to avoid making her feel uncomfortable. Perhaps the biggest victory came at this very moment. Ten years later, Sorz would be having a fun time.

She did not think that the accumulated passion of a pup of royal blood would be burned on the captive elves - embers were no longer her brethren, as every ever-living creature had been convinced more than once. So it wouldn't hurt so much afterward.

It was unbearably tempting to punch her captive in a nerve knot, to let him die in ghastly agony, but she suppressed the thoughts easily. Her dislike of the Prince of the First Blood was no longer important, despite all the details she'd pulled out of him under the influence of the dream scenario. Especially since the revenge had already taken place, and with Fortune's good fortune, it would continue.

The chambers opened.
* * *

The human carefully closed the door behind him, leaving her room, and only then did a sincere smile appear on Laristhenle's face-she was free. Until the last moment, there were fears that her mind, tired during the time of shameful captivity, would become too accustomed to the alien ideas and meanings invested in it, that she would forever remain, albeit partially, the very slave that was prepared as a gift for the offspring of a human ruler. Fortunately, the Spirit Healers, blessed by all the luminaries, proved skilled enough to purge the abomination poured into her ears and body without trace or residue.

It was hard, at times almost physically painful, and simply disgusting, especially in the moments of rewinding memories of her actions. The mere thought of what she had enjoyed doing in the days when the fog of wantonness and thoughtlessness had bound her more firmly than steel, made her barely containable nausea. Neither self-control nor the ability to detach from her own body that she'd been taught, like any warrior, had helped; she needed to relive the experience, only now to reflect the thoughts it brought on her. Not the most pleasant or easy way to deal with mental damage, but the other options were either unavailable or too risky. Especially considering how tightly she had communicated with planar energies... and the bearer of that very energy.

From the thought of the creature that had saved her will and had only on a whim not taken her soul, a cold breath of doom ran down her spine once more. Her battle instincts, honed over the years, literally screamed at the mere thought of who had paved the way to her prison. She tried not to call him by his name - since a Seer of his rank could sense even a passing interest in his person. And she was now, thanks to experience, unlikely to find anything more frightening than the attention of the brat who had saved her.

It is impossible not to be afraid of him.

You simply cannot.

She was there, beside him, staring into the creature's face, devoid of any features, like a dripping wax mask. She could feel, with all her being, with her naked soul, exactly what this creature was. She conceded that it might once have been a simple or not-so-simple goblin, but it had been too long ago. Even by her standards, too long ago. Mortals could not understand primordials, simply by virtue of a different type of thinking, a different nature. But the creature that came from a reflection of reality was just as far from understanding, even farther, so far away that even the thoughts, the memories of it were painful and carried within them the seeds of germinating madness.

It was because of these seeds that she had had to heal the web of bookmarks set in place by the late Slavemancer, whose name she had deliberately forgotten in the most painful of ways available out of a desire not to leave even a memory of it. She simply feared that by sinking into a gentle healing trance and entrusting her mind to the thousand-times-tested mentalists, she would miss some of the madness and allow it to sprout. She was still herself, unwilling to become something else, even if it continued to live her life - she might as well have stayed in the hands of the Sororian short-eared ones.

It was very hard - the creature's influence proved to be truly masterful, so exquisite that it seemed like a frightful fairy tale come to life. The influence had restored sanity even to the wreckage that had been her consciousness at the moment of her escape. It scared the hell out of her to think that the creature had not restored anything, had simply replaced the dead will with one of its countless reflections. That she had long been dead, that in her place there was a sleeping creature sitting in her own home, just waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Of course, she had not been told of such suspicions, but as the daughter of the strongest practitioner working with Dream alone in the Dawn Forest, she understood the implication of the overly attentive glances of those around her quite well. If her rescuer had succeeded in restoring her completely, without the slightest trace, she would have taken the poison herself - there was no other option in such a situation. If her consciousness became clear, it would no longer be her consciousness, no matter how much it hurt.

She would probably have been allowed to live in seclusion under constant surveillance. For her, this excruciating fear, the fear of becoming a creature, was too strong even stronger than the perennial fear of non-existence.

She hasn't been replaced.

They simply rolled her consciousness back to its original form, allowing her to act and fight, albeit with very limited effectiveness, but the chains that were embedded in her will were still there. These chains, unlike reflection substitution, could also be fought if one knew how. In the Dawn Forest, they knew, learned by bitter experience, which reassured her if only a little.

At first, it was unbearable, painful even, though it was difficult to apply the very notion of painfulness to the desires that overwhelmed her. More than anything, she wanted to surrender, to give in to her lack of will, to stop thinking superfluous thoughts, and continue her carefree existence as an expensive toy for the pleasures of the flesh. Without fear, without difficult decisions, without resentment or regrets about the past, but with a sea of pleasure and almost animal impulses.

The nastiest thing about the whole story is that she did not want her kinsmen. Before her captivity, she had quite often had non-committal relationships with coworkers, friends, or comrades. Contrary to what most short-eared people would think, the children of the Stars were not prudes. They were able to tell you a lot about the pleasure that you wouldn't have guessed right away. Needless to say, there was almost no need to teach her exactly how to please in bed, only to tweak her tastes. No continuous debauchery from dusk till dawn, of course, but over the years and centuries of eternal life, one has inevitably had time to try many things.

She wanted humans because of the chains that had been thrust into her. Awareness of the strangeness of these desires, alas, did not diminish their intensity. It was only her constant self-control that prevented her from simply giving up on the treatment and fleeing to one of the towns bordered by the forest to find someone of her new taste and relieve at least some of the tension. She'd been caught at the exit once, having already taken everything she needed for the journey, including several vials of oblivion potions - she didn't want to leave people with memories of her weakness, and she wasn't sure she could overpower the bookmarks and simply ruin the lives of those who saw (and enjoyed what they saw) her shame.

At least she did not have to be caught by force, even though she was able to notice two lurkers at once, already ready to catch their temporarily demented sister as gently as possible. There were no more such serious breakdowns, and the treatment itself was quicker and easier as the gradual and unhurried work of the spiritual healers took its toll.

All her self-control was gone the moment her composure was put to the test. Among the many merchants, mercenaries, and allies who lived in the border towns (often taking the first blows on the elves) it was fairly easy to find someone with the right physique, plasticity, and voice. From there, the usual cosmetic reincarnation techniques came into play, transforming the mercenary into an exact replica of the slavemancer who had broken her.

As soon as she saw the familiar facial features, she bared her breasts and knelt to pull down his trousers and play his flute without even trying to catch the wrongness of her actions. She came to her senses by the fact that the man, instead of giving her rough and vulgar praise, began, swearing wildly, to push away her hands, which had already managed to give him the hardness he needed. The blow instantly summoned by lightning, which she conjured on reflex and released faster than thought, was taken by the blade of one of the guards assigned to her. Then she calmed down, stabilized her breathing, and covered her nakedness, apologizing to those present for the inappropriate behavior.

The man could only utter some profanity before he was sedated and gently dragged out of the room. The healers who observed the process were able to outline the limits of the remaining elements of correction and continued to work on her mind. The second and third attempts were far more successful, as she immediately suppressed involuntary urges to obey her former master. It was only on the fourth attempt that no impulse came - she saw only an ordinary man before her, with no desire for him except, in fact, unwillingness to see him.

A couple of days later, this mercenary will wake up in an expensive hotel room with a tight purse of coins and a signed contract for memory correction next to him. He would not be able to remember the last weeks of his life, even if he paid very well to a specialist with the right grade. To Laristaniel, the very idea that someone would willingly allow an outsider into their mind, whom they had no reason to believe, just for the sake of money was savage. It was... it was such a human act that it involuntarily elicited admiration for such fearless and foolish insanity, just as seasonal lemming migrations are admired.

In any case, she sincerely hoped never to see the mercenary again, nor the chambers where she had been healed of her invisible wounds, nor, most importantly, the one who had rescued her from slavery. Perhaps she did not want the latter sufficiently to forget everything else. Just let him disappear and never return.

None of this matters anymore, against the backdrop of the main event itself.

The web of deception on her soul crumbled without a trace.
* * *

Lacie, in all her life, had never complained about her stupidity. True, she'd often been cheated, often overplayed, but she'd always preferred to simply learn the lesson of defeat instead of crying and blaming fate for set-ups. It was the nature of her job that you found yourself cheated and betrayed almost more often than you went into a tavern for a meal. And this method of dealing with disappointment has proved its worth - over the years, she has risen from a simple tavern lass, collecting gossip and retelling it to the right people, to a very influential persona.

Yes, to call herself very powerful and influential would be foolish, and she wouldn't drink that much, but it's hard to argue with the facts. She has more than two dozen colleagues, over a hundred puppets, temporary allies and mercenaries, and twice as many informers in her direct line of command alone. Quite a decent network when you think about it, albeit far from perfect - too many unreliable sources and small fry, while the really worthwhile players or puppets in her team can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Considering herself.

The woman was not cruel or pathologically treacherous, as most ordinary people think. She was simply pragmatic. She was not afraid to get her hands dirty and knew no pity at all, that's all. Without these three characteristics, it is possible to be a spy but either briefly and sadly or long and dismal. If she hadn't decided to go over the heads once, she would have died in a ditch long ago after losing her marketable appearance - there were always plenty of girls available, and for a pay rise, they would gladly cut each other's throats. So she did.

Now, having become one of the trusted men of the old bastard Frederick, blessed by his lordship's continuous diarrhea, she could be legitimately proud of herself. Few had the same reputation and position, very few. Not that she was all that loyal and not a traitor - she shouldn't lie to herself, but Frederick of Lanorsk was a man who was very easy to deal with if you didn't disappoint them. And very difficult to survive if you did disappoint them.

She could betray him at any moment, and he knew it too. Oh, her information would be bought gladly, perhaps even paid fair, instead of a blade through the heart. Too many fat secrets there, and she was not a girl to be fooled by pretty words - reassurance had always been her main weapon, after her brains and body. But once she got her reward... She would be of no use to anyone but the many enemies she had made, even if she did not count Frederick, upset by her action, who would be deadly to underestimate.

In short, being loyal was more profitable. She understood that, and so did Frederick, and so he doubted her less than anyone else. And she had a touch of gratitude for her current lord, even if that gratitude was priceless and therefore worthless. Still, it was he who had pulled her out of the shit, noted her talents, and placed her in command of her predecessor as Head of Intelligence of House Lanorsk. The predecessor had long since rotted in his grave, not without her help, but Lacie - Lacianna, if one must work among noble lords - was firmly on her feet and doing her job.

Everything would be fine because she has a good job with lots of benefits and great pay... but when something bad happens, your only exit is to quit! 111 Bad things had happened too often lately, obscenely often, unbearably often! So often that Lassie thought more and more about faking her death and going to a monastery. She could go to a men's monastery, at least it would not be boring, and the saintly ascetics, especially the high-ranking ones, were sometimes so amusing that even she, with all her experience in matters of love, was horrified.

First, the story about the gold mine, during which they tried to kill her exactly thirteen times. On the last occasion she had to spend three days in a damn pigsty, amidst the filth, escaping from a very stubborn group of liquidators, who had been equipped by some kind soul with a chimeroid tracker, and an even kinder soul, who knew exactly who she was, had given a lock of her hair to the tracker to find her. She thanked that kind soul for it. Surely it was no fun for someone to find the respectable merchant and his three sons drowned in the village latrine in the morning.

After the old man managed to get a grip on the situation, survived the attempt, and regained mobility in his limbs, things got better. For a while. And there was a lot more gold to finance her actions, too, as the depleted staff had to be replenished and the gaps in her network repaired. And then Frederick, justifying his nickname, started looking for those who had done him wrong. And she became quite sad. Sometimes, looking in the mirror in the morning, she thought she looked sixty-five, despite the alchemy and rejuvenation treatments she'd been using.

She would like to strangle the bastard, who is young and not older, but who will let her do it? And it would be hard to strangle such a one, too. Small is small, but he promises to grow up to be a worthy copy of his father. He was the one who had contracted her to do the job, though she had originally intended to work on quite other projects. But no, she thought she could rest while at the same time chasing the ghosts and fantasies of young Lanorsk. Yeah, right! It sounded like the delusions of a child plagued by nightmares.

It seems...

After a wave of real panic went through Stavrosk, and from the heads of high-ranking officials rolling in even rows, there was nowhere to step. A real cloud of murky water rose, in which it is a sin not to fish for the smaller players. And there, while the old-timers sort out their problems, you can take a big bite and hide far away. It's the good groundwork for the stalwart pro in her face. They'll be able to do a lot, a lot of things, even nail down the Lorays, avenging their treachery and the attempted murder of the Heir.

She would have done it, honestly. She would have been strong enough to organize an assassination attempt in this mess - especially as Harpen Lorais himself had been spotted on his way to the capital. Eliminate him at will, given the fact that there may not be such chances in the future. But no! The boy had an idea in his head. Not exactly an idea, but it'd be better if it never occurred to him at all. Better for her, Lacie.

///Look for stories involving strange deaths, nightmarish dreams that would not let go until death, and changes in behavior that could not be explained. Anything similar to what I said, rumors and torn threads, anything of value or the illusion of it. That is your task, Lacianna.

These were the words spoken to her by the boy, who still holding back his anger and rage and whom she had never been able to fully comprehend. He succumbed to her charms even too easily, but at the same time, he noticed too much. He noticed details that without many months of preparation impossible to notice. He was too strange, too wrong, and that made her feel uncomfortable. And at the same time a desire to speed up the faking of her death before he reminded her of that blow - it was Frederick who tolerated it and knew its usefulness, and what Sigismund would think remains a big question. And "master of silence" is considered a good habit to change regularly, and somehow she can't believe that in her case the "change" would be retirement.

She would have laughed in the face at such an assignment as if copied from some lady's book about the secret guard, like Fear and Passion, which Frederick's first wife had read. But instead of laughing, she looked into the very serious face of old Frederick, nicknamed by enemies and friends "Weasel", and saw not a shadow of a joke there. She had indeed been charged with some bullshit, not only by the naive young man but by his father as well. And if this hardened schemer had said to do something, then the decision could only seem foolish.

She had to suppress the urge to swear and take up the hopeless cause.

Well, not as hopeless as it seemed from the boy's words.

Rumors of some people behaving strangely after nightmares or dying mysteriously after them were not uncommon, to say the least. In most cases, such nonsense was not worth the time it took to hear it, but only in most cases. Whether by blind luck or the agent's skill, she managed to find some quite tangible leads. Find them and drastically become many times more cautious not to get caught in the trap that had been laid.

But...

Every single clue had been cleaned up, and the clean-up had been carefully disguised. So thoroughly, even now, she had not a single tangible proof that she was right. Only her instincts, honed over the years, screamed of a set-up and the noose of the harness clamped around her neck. Accidental deaths, sudden moves, fatal accidents - the bottom line was the same. Anyone who knew or said anything suspiciously fitting the description of her assignment was no longer alive.

Well, Lacie's not proud. She's smart. She knows how to do the right thing. Quickly but without haste, leave a dangerous area, order a valuable agent to lay low, and give mushroom poison to two agents not so valuable. Cleaning up the trail and changing the location of the search. She will have to run personally, remembering the turbulent youth, but all involved were cleaned too well, so her subordinates will not find anything at best. Worst case, they'll come after her, and she doesn't want that. Lacie wants to live.

With money and no luggage, you can travel around Melareth quite quickly, except for the pity of the horses, but there's no love for your four-legged friends here, alas. The uniform of a royal postal courier is the perfect cover. You could go anywhere, pick up all sorts of suspicious parcels at an official level and ask lots of questions - no one would be surprised. The uniform was real, as were the letters. She probably wouldn't even be too lazy to stop by for a paycheck, even though the real girl, wearing a pass paisa, had been nibbled by wolves long ago. For a change, this young lady (an orphan with no friends and patrons) was not killed by her but by a visiting group of thugs, who were nailed by the vassals of one of Frederick's vassals. With a couple of simple intrigues, the death of the courier was gone from all the papers, and Lacie had one extra person to pretend to in case of need. And no one knew about this person, and the legend itself had not yet had time to "rot", that is, the courier was still in the service.

Perfect disguise.

So, under the guise of this courier, she began to roam around her native land, asking questions and correcting with seduction where necessary. She did not like the result. She did not like it at all. She was told, almost directly, that poor Lacie was out of her league. She's a pro, noticeably above average, one might even say a full-fledged elite, despite not being the highest level. But she is alone, and the direction of her class abilities is quite obvious and is not aimed at confronting professionals of a different sort.

It was all about one very amusing title that not even Frederick knew she had in her status - for the title had a legendary rank. The Path to Seduction did not increase her characteristics or add active skills, but it did draw out her legendary rank entirely. Thanks to the title, she instinctively sensed her interlocutor's character so that she could seduce him as effectively as possible. A trifle, would you say? She thought differently. By her reckoning, it was as if the title added an extra twenty points to her skills of persuasion, manipulation, hypnosis, and seduction, albeit without showing up in the Status.

It was because of her title that, as a mere informant in a miserable roadside inn, she could seduce on a level not the weakest of pros. Not a master, but no longer just yesterday's apprentice. And when did she become a master herself? Exactly! That was why Lacie always worked so well when she could get a personal touch and feel out her interlocutor. That was why she could work even with people who were above her in level and characteristics. But she knew her limits, and she also knew that without personal contact she was just a solid professional, noticeably above average, but not a true virtuoso.

Right now, she could not see her opponent, could not analyze him, could not adjust to him, and begin to behave and speak as she needed to fulfill her goals. Her unknown opponent, on the other hand, was accustomed to this kind of confrontation, and he was clearly not alone. The outcome of such a peculiar encounter was logical - she would not be found. Therefore, just the very basics, gathering information and retreating under Frederick's wing. She would have done so at once, but mere suspicion was not the answer, and if she began to report in the same high-handed and devoid-of-detail style in which Sigismund had given her this assignment, she would not be understood as a matter of course.

Scary, but Lacie was used to it. Since starting her profession, there had rarely been a year when she hadn't faced death from any careless sneeze at least ten times. And this adventure, so far, was not the most dangerous in her long and busy life.

The courier is a good disguise but a conspicuous one, alas. So she didn't have too many attempts unless she wanted to draw more attention to herself. And spies were compared to cockroaches for a reason - once in the light, under the evil eye, talking wouldn't help they'd be swatted with a slipper. She didn't want to be slapped, so once again, she had to use her head. Nothing, Lacie is used to it. She works her head not only to suck, but she eats into it too!

It was a brisk start. On the first try, there were a couple of references to a strangely dead slave trader. It all seemed pretty clear if you dug a little deeper - the man had been trafficking in unusual goods, albeit alive, by associating with some kind of blackness. And then he tried to slip away, and that's when he got nailed. He even managed to guess, in theory, which of the quite official covens got his revenge. A perfect picture - everything is well hidden, and if you do find it, all you get is suspicion. No proofs.

Unless there is reason to believe that even the hidden truth is just another layer of lies hidden at the top, hiding something else far more interesting underneath. One's death will not be disguised as a showdown of summoners' covens, for it is the too-dirty theme. So what? The real secret's even dirtier? Quite a logical decision because you can put a lot of things under the guilds' showdown if you're not cheeky. But the resources involved... that disguise is expensive, expensive.

She had heard rumors of nightmares that haunted the late merchant. And one of his assistants had even mentioned some murky contacts and contracts, after which he too died quietly in his sleep - his heart gave out. A very familiar curse. If it weren't for the rumors that he had been moaning in his sleep too terribly in his final days. Curses, especially targeted curses, when easier to kill than giving nightmares and then killing. Not even a clue, just a suspicion, personal and unsubstantiated...

But she decided to check and ask one of the caravaners who had settled in the village, who was very close to the helper - kind of distant, distant relatives - so she could hear something. But he wasn't there - he woke up one morning, packed a small bag, and left without saying goodbye. He might have thought it was because he was afraid of being persecuted by the guild of legitimate necromancers, but... very strange, even if I couldn't figure out exactly what it was that had hurt her.

Lacie being meticulous, Lacie took his personal belongings, his pillow hair (with difficulty separating it from the sheep's wool) and went to the necromancer she knew, already knowing exactly what she would hear at the end of her inquiries.

The corpse-lover himself was brazen enough to quarrel with the Order of Sky, earning orders to eliminate him but also strong enough that no one really wanted to hunt him down. In those backwoods, the local scavengers were only too happy to pay with the corpses of their dead so that no monsters would disturb the surrounding villages. And he kept his creatures under control quite confidently. People like her often came to him - some for advice, some asking him to copy one of his treatises, some with a gift for old services and an offer of work - but the master remained relentless and did not hurry to go anywhere.

Rumor has it that not even an army corps could force him out of those places, but Lacie herself thought that was a bit of an exaggeration. Yes, Caspian Barglore is a very powerful mage, but he's still more of a naturalist scientist than a warrior. Although... Hell knows him. She's not that familiar with him. She doesn't know him that well because he's an unusual sort of person. A normal person wouldn't think of sending a squad of undead led by an elite undead man to work the fields. And they did! She was not too lazy to put several men and women into a trance and questioned them - the undead was really plowing in the field, not a drunken hallucination.

She would not risk influencing Caspian, for he was so saturated with Death. Influencing such a man, if not a creature, would be a lottery - any bookmarks would be washed away and atomized, and then she would be atomized too if she didn't escape sooner. In addition, after such an escape, all contacts in the region could be forgotten and buried.

She had to pay with gold and an anonymous banker's note. She doesn't seem to be spending her own money, but it's like she's tearing it away from her heart. It was as if the treasurer had bitten her, infecting her with his treasury spirit.

The master of necromancy silently performed all the proper rituals and only scratched the back of his head, which looked more frightening than amusing in his performance. According to the wizard, there was no escapee alive, and there was no way to interrogate his soul either, for there was no response at all. It was as if such a person had never existed, never existed at all. Expected, as far as black mages were concerned, but then there were the surprises that confirmed Lacie's conjecture.

It wasn't dark magic that killed. The necromancer vouched for that with his diploma. He might not be able to penetrate every barrier, but he could understand the nature of the kindred magic even with his eyes closed, drunk and high. He said the magic was there, but it was subtly strange as if it were shaky and almost invisible. More at random, she asked if it could be something to do with dreams.

Caspian, who'd lost the languid look of a hung-over burgher, was now transformed and pacing the room like a madman, even giving her the honor of being in his lab instead of the visitors' lounge. She could have done without that three hundred times over, for the pleasure of the stare of the forty-level Death Knight was... not good.

Maybe they weren't exaggerating about the army corps.

"Dreamwalkers are rare birds," he said, leafing through a large volume written on leather that looked suspiciously like human skin, "but usually not dangerous. Their classes are too useless at first and take too long to level up. But I have records of true Dream Adepts, masters of Mirrors and Reflections. We don't have them here... those classes... they're more common in the Empire of the Arms, yes. The yellow-bellied gobblers were no strangers to the magic of dreams and mirrors, but to meet them here... Tell me everything your oaths allow you on that subject."

Lacie was very well aware that if her answers seemed too incomplete to the master, the interrogation would continue already in the form of undead, so she gave out everything she could without direct betrayal of her suzerain. The result of this interrogation was a free ritual that found, though not the soul, but the body of the deceased, as well as a rewritten chapter from the very same book of human skin by some very strange dead man.

"A Dead Scribe?" She asked just to stifle her fear.

"Аh?" The bloody corpse-master burst out of his thoughts. "No, it's a Dead Scribbler, an improved version of the undead you mentioned. Clever enough to understand the writing, and not vicious enough to be hard to control. My own personal design, yes. Tired of everyone around here thinking the undead are necessarily something dangerous, used exclusively in battle and terror. True, this little guy once killed assassins who broke into my office with a fountain pen... never mind. Actually, you're pretty good at this necro-construction thing, Lacianna, not bad at all..."

"I try, Master," she murmured, hoping not to show that she was just saying the first word that came to mind.

She can't wait for this visit to come to an end.

The corpse - most of it - of the man she was looking for was not too far from her home village. A day's journey along the road, then a turn into the woods and another four hours' walk at a leisurely pace. There he lay, dead and already scattered by beasts, clearly unable to answer her questions. According to the notes Master Caspian had given her, the poor man's soul had died writhing before his body.

But something can be learned if you know how to look for it.

Lacie was, frankly, as good a tracker as a crossbow bolt from a cucumber, but she knew a thing or two about it, even if she'd picked up a few things during her turbulent youth. She hadn't been a proud girl back then, absorbing knowledge like a sponge, knowing the value of even the tiniest of secrets. So she searched the countryside for clues, and she was unsuccessful since the beasts had trampled and trampled away every possible clue. But it was worth the effort - what if she didn't have to use Caspian's gift?

Last-Minute Potion actually costs a lot of money. Still, being able to experience a full-blown vision that recounted the last moments of someone's life was no small thing. She'd been given one for free, with the condition that she had to share the information - there weren't many secrets here, and the old necromancer, though scary as hell, was a very useful piece of work. It was easier to agree than to disagree, so she did.

She knew what the potion was made of, and the effects and the way it was ingested were not pleasant. She reached over and grabbed the wolf's gnawed ribs, soaking in the remains of the rotting meat fibers before inhaling deeply the stench of decomposition and tasting the tasteless but still decaying potion in her mouth.

...the man entered the clearing, staring ahead with an unseeing gaze...

...there is no luggage or other burden in his hands...

...the man steps forward and looks around, noticing the tracks of the wolf pack...

...a man lies down on the ground, closes his eyes, and stops living...

Lacie woke up in the evening, immediately emptying her stomach and whimpering with pain in her head. Such was the price of temporary clairvoyance if you didn't have it to begin with. The pain was a small price to pay - a lower-quality potion would have paid in health.

She spent the next few hours adjusting herself while at the same time writing out a report for the necromancer - a specially enchanted piece of one creature's skin, the inscriptions on which are always identical, whatever the distance between them. It seems rumors of the power of the village necromancer are not only not exaggerated but also understated. By manipulating dead bodies and the Death that fills them alone, to create highly ranked potions and extremely difficult artifacts... that's powerful. The Lanorsks had such things in their possession, of course, but they were rarely taken out of storage. On this mission, Lacie, a stuffed fool, did not take them, taking pity on the rare contraption, believing in advance that the whole story of the deaths in their sleep was merely a fabrication of the boy who had somehow convinced his father of it.

She wrote, waited for no reply, and slowly moved on in her direction.

There were still contacts, albeit not fully verified, and there was not a shred of faith in them.

Old man Shatatych was a well-known figure, unloved by anyone but popular. Few people have the same set of classes as the squabbling old bastard, ready to sell his mother for an extra penny. This is why Lacie decided to take him out as soon as she received a response to her query. She already knew for a fact that the asshole was leaking information about her and her people to the side, so she could consider this liquidation a prolonged retaliation. Pity the bail had to be paid.

Gossip Man and Rumour Gatherer were very peculiar setups but effective, no doubt. She didn't know the exact properties and skills of the classes, but one thing was for sure. If there was a rumor somewhere or just a conversation in the kitchen that no one had heard, but that was said out aloud, then Shatat could know what had been said. Just to know, as a peculiar form of clairvoyance. Let his skill coverage not extend beyond a major city, but still, but still.

They hired him often and wanted to kill him more often. But he was worth every penny of his wages. She must have more enemies today - many would not like to be deprived of such a useful source of information. However, a dozen more would want her dead, a dozen lessz what difference did it make? As if she was going to die of old age.

Westmilton was the third largest town in Melareth. It was here that the old gossipmonger preferred to work, not bothering to go to Stavrosk, where he might as well be eaten up with all his shit together. This was also where she had met him and where she had made a second appointment to pick up the information she had paid for. This is also where she was caught, as her former boss used to say, "with her dress lifted up".

As she entered the tavern, a cheap diner whose only virtue was its inconspicuousness, she looked around, finding nothing dangerous. A few muddy faces were drinking in the far corner, another thug of frankly bandit appearance eating fried chicken at the corner table near the door, and indeed, her current target, Shatat himself.

She hadn't noticed the ambush, and she couldn't have, come to think of it, but she recognized Shatat's satisfied face easily. Too pleased, so she wasn't even surprised when she reached the center of the room and was instantly paralyzed and dragged to the exit by three men who had appeared out of thin air. The informer, the brute, also saluted her with a mug of beer and went back to eating. He must have wormed his way out of the group to let her get closer, so he could make a nice gesture. He's like thatю. He likes to show off.

He had shown off to his end, though. For the moment he gave her the last salute, a fine needle flew straight into his mouth, open in profanity, killing him on the spot. Interesting poisons they have, instantaneous. The hangovers didn't even seem to notice, and neither did the chicken-eating freak.

The mere glimpse of what was probably the leader of the freaks who had taken her was enough to make her realize that she, too, was not a survivor. At most, she would live to be interrogated, and then she would be scrapped. The totally indifferent and withering face of an ordinary citizen, unremarkable clothes - not a person, but an empty space. An elite liquidator and a level long into his thirties, which for her, even in the most prosperous circumstance, means a cruel loss. And now, with her body moving on its own at the behest of a Puppeteer, perhaps even the Puppet Master, if she remembered the ease with which she had been intercepted, all that remained was a weary preparation for pain and doom. As if she hoped her life would end differently.

Eh... She should have sent the little fucker fuck off and not care about the possible consequences.

The only hitch happened on the way out - as they were leaving the hall, a thug sitting in the corner tried to go with them. Whether he sensed trouble or wanted to take a piss was unclear. More interesting were the consequences of such a movement, for at the exit, too narrow for all, one of the ranks (not to compare with the liquidator who firmly held it) roughly shoved the "nobody", causing him to stagger. She could not see the expression on the scarred face, but she could clearly hear a hoarse and slightly surprised one:

"What the fuck?"

Instead of answering, the puppeteer swung a hand that she could already discern, instantly paralyzing and taking control of the unlucky thug. This one, she was willing to bet, would only be taken to the nearest alleyway to keep the noise down and avoid bleeding in front of witnesses.

She missed, for it wasn't taken to the alley... he wasn't taken anywhere at all! The body, frozen for a moment, did not obey the puppeteer's will but shuddered as if in a wave. No one even had time to react, and a good-looking gentleman with a goatee, holding her under the arm (so that not jerked at random) began to settle down on the ground with a cheap throwing dagger in his forehead. A cheap dagger. She recognized the crappy steel even with a fleeting glance, but somehow the protection of the amulets didn't help repel it.

Lacie was just beginning to realize what was happening when everything around her erupted in a continuous cascade of movements and attacks. Falling to the ground, the woman rolled over and tried to look around, not feeling her legs yet out of control. And the pros who had taken her, though there were only two true aces there, were swiftly and inexorably... Dying.

Already four of the six were lying on the ground dying, and right before her eyes flashed in some strange blink... bandit? Anyway, a strange-looking man of bandit appearance cracked open the skull of the last rank-and-file foe, getting in a close encounter with the liquidator. The latter was good, amazingly good! He would probably give a great fight to an old heron named Benedict Rossi, with all the chances to win. And yet the strongest blade of the Lanorsk had a level above forty! But where the Liquidator was excellent, his opponent was simply beyond description.

He even looked particularly faster or stronger but all his movements, seemingly unhurried, catching up at the last moment, were deadly precise. The prick made no mistakes, just no mistakes, executing his attacks so correctly that his opponent had not even a shadow of a chance to seize the initiative. They both used some sort of blinks and transitions into immateriality, but while in the liquidator movements, she recognized the characteristic Body of Wind and Gusty Step, the prick used almost no active skills in particular.

And winning.

The liquidator used the charge of some cunning amulet, simultaneously activating his most trumped-up skills. It was powerful. In an instant, he became the wind able to strike from anywhere in the sphere of which he was the center. Lassie was well versed in the abilities of all classes and couldn't help but recognize one of the most common "higher" skills of lurkers walking the Path of the Winds. A clue, too, for such masters are never plentiful.

It's a pity she can't survive because if the liquidator won't win he'll give her a special wind blade... But she was wrong again, as the previously restrained opponent silently struck back with a trump card. Here she was surrounded by her familiar world, full of colors, smells, and sounds, followed by...

...grayness...

...the world seemed to blink. And now there were no bodies on the ground in front of the inn, no traces of battle, just a flat and untouched patch of ground trodden by many feet. And her savior, it turns out. If only she knew who he was working for. As soon as she hears his demands and messages, she will analyze them at once.

The savior stood still, looked around, spat and blew his nose on the same ground, turned his back to her, crunched his back, stretched himself with pleasure, and... just walked away. She lay there for a few more minutes, waiting either for her return, for a note to be handed to her, or for a finishing blow, but all she felt was the cold and the nasty slush of the mud she was lying in.

She stood up.

Shaking it off.

And there was only one question in the mind of Lassie, the Seductress of the twenty-fourth level, which she voiced without being able to keep it in her head:

"What the fuck happened here?"

Authors note:

23 shits

There was supposed to be a PwP with the Prince and the three elves, but again the Dice said NOPE, and I couldn't even put a description of the Prince's dreams in.

The rest of the dice are very interesting, but I have less than five minutes to post and I just don't have the time. Let me just say that Lacianna critted like a goddess: first to failure and then to salvation from it.

The next interlude will hopefully be smaller. Otherwise, again one chapter in two.

If you count them that way, there were four of them!

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http://notabenoid.org/book/80370/542053

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP