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The Nobility, Vol. I "A Bit of Happy Time."

Prologue

The Nobility

Vol. I

A bit of a happy time

//"Most fans of the fantasy-historical view of the Middle Ages and Renaissance have one problem in common: they don't realize that violence was a constant of life at that time. For a nobleman (and not only), death from an overabundance of iron in the body was an occupational hazard that began with the first steps and continued right up to the funeral service (often in the absence of the body). It was so natural that it was not even thought about and certainly not lamented. Barons and counts (as well as churchmen of all kinds from abbots to cardinals) moved at least accompanied by a dozen or two armed servants, not out of noble pride, but out of a banal desire to live. After all, a blow could be struck suddenly and from any direction. The number of meetings, negotiations, as well as simply road crossings that ended with the removal of bodies, can not be counted. Calm times differed from turbulent times only in the total number of incidents and the reaction of the central authorities to them"

Kirill Kopylov

//"All the characters were on complicated faces, had harsh fates (or rather, fate had them), difficult pasts and dangerous futures"

Ivan Koshkin

Prologue

"They're scum, but they're not stupid."

With those words, Ranjan put his hands on Elena's waist. The gesture looked intimate, almost like a prelude to a kiss, but the Brether only "settled" the belt lower on her hips.

"Nothing should be dangling," Ranjan admonished and continued his interrupted thought. "They don't believe a woman can challenge them and win, but if it happens they will be careful. And they'll put the weakest first. If he kills you, no one's honor will be damaged. If the opposite happens, his example will serve the rest of the group well."

"Is that good?" Elena asked.

"It's not good or bad. These are happenings, they just are. On the one hand, it's good to increase your efforts, to go from weak to strong. On the other hand, the battles will wear you down, you'll approach the strongest opponent tired. Probably wounded."

"You have faith in me," the woman remarked softly and answered the Brether's mute question. "You have confidence that I will cross swords with all of them."

Ranjan remained silent. He took Elena's blade, the woman raised an eyebrow in puzzlement, and the Brether placed a large bundle of sturdy cloth wrapped with a strong cord on the table. The bundle seemed heavy, and the metal rattled against the boards, dark with time and dampness.

"A gift," Ranjan reported, setting aside Elena's krigmesser. "From ..."

He didn't finish, and it was clear who was being generous. The woman quickly untangled the cords. The light-colored cloth held a straight, double-edged sword and a dagger with a powerful, well-developed hilt and a shell-shaped side cup. Valuable things of good workmanship, a fortune, life, and death forged in steel.

Meanwhile, the herald behind the thick grille was blasting away, describing the essence of the conflict in a highly artistic form. The noise of the crowd penetrated through the stone and wood, echoing in my bones and nerves. It filled the soul with anticipation. Judging by the murmur, like the sound of the surf in a storm, there was a goodly number of people. Somebody whistled shrilly, and vendors of sweet cane and honey grains shrieked, hurrying to sell their goods before the action began. Trumpets and flutes accompanied the herald's words, emphasizing important points. Through the background of the music there were individual "dishonorable person of dubious qualities...", "despising the law..." and other circumstances of the case. Elena didn't listen, concentrating on the gift.

"Good steel, properly balanced," Ranjan approved, raising the sword on the edge of his palm. "Still, check to see if it's a good idea to change weapons before a fight."

Elena took the blade, waved it a couple of times, and answered:

"It's just right."

"You know best," Brether frowned, but didn't argue. A fighter knows best what he's more comfortable with in a fight to the death.

Elena tried on the dagger as it would be on her belt from behind, under her left arm. It was uncomfortable, the cup was in the way. Then the woman slipped it into her left boot, but it was even worse, the heavy garde wobbled from side to side, despite the tight shank. She had to go back to the first option, and Ranjan helped tighten the straps, hooking the scabbard to the wide belt. Elena hung a small trapezoidal targu shield on the left side by a special hook. The second dagger, smaller and simpler, fit into her right boot as if it had been fitted.

"Just a moment... I almost forgot," the woman stuck a long, polished silver barrette into her hair. A dubious, borderline contemptuous concession to public opinion, which condemned the uncovered head.

Ranjan lifted and wanted to lace up the high creased collar of her shirt.

"Leave it," the woman shook her head.

"Can protect your throat from being cut," Ranjan reminded her.

"To hell with it," the swordswoman laconically cut off.

"Whatever you say," Ranjan shrugged.

Elena glared at him, thinking that some true values in the world were timeless. No matter what happened, the Brether would always be stylish and sinister, long-haired, dressed in black, and generally looking like a decadent vampire or a tragic musketeer.

Ranjan, nicknamed Plague, the greatest Brether of his generation, is helping her get ready for the fight like his own daughter. He seems genuinely worried, though who knows what he's really feeling beneath the mask of a dapperly trimmed mustache and wedge beard.

"The dagger," said the Brether. "Save it for last."

"What?"

"Barbaza is good, very good," the man explained patiently. "He's not a Brether, but he learned from Brethers. If you get to a fight with him, it won't be easy."

//"Thanks for the if." - the woman wanted to say caustically but held back.

"He's used to fighting against sword or sword and shield, large and small. But your new style... Unusual. Unexpected. From the outside, it will look like you're exhausted, no longer able to hold your shield and grasping at straws. Use it."

"Thank you."

Elena looked into Brether's black impenetrable eyes that looked like polished obsidian

"Do you think he's in there?" she suddenly asked. "Is he looking at... his science?"

"Maybe. He doesn't need to sit on the podium to know," Ranjan replied very seriously.

"Yes, indeed," the woman sighed. "I hope Artigo doesn't see it."

"The crowned bastard will bring the boy to the podium," Brether rumbled, glancing around to see if anyone was listening. Elena regretted stepping on a sore thumb.

Trumpets howled behind the bars, indicating that the time had come. Elena swallowed and placed her hand on the shield, feeling the familiar heaviness and sharp angle of the bronze edging. The sword in her right hand seemed huge and weighty, like a two-handed poleaxe axe. Fighting and possibly - very possibly! - she didn't want to die. To the point of trembling in her arms and legs.

//"When you leave, leave," she remembered her grandfather's words and took a decisive step toward the bars. The watchman rattled his keys on the other side, preparing to open the way for the duelist.

"Stop," Ranjan placed a broad gloved palm on her shoulder, as heavy and hard as the hand of a copper statue.

"Don't take your little finger off the hilt," Brether reminded me. "You do tend to lose the two-finger turn on the blade. You have to grip the handle tightly."

"Yes, I'll remember," Elena promised.

They froze for a moment, standing side by side.

"Don't think, don't wait, don't be afraid," Brether said, looking away. "Just go and kill them. Kill them all."

Elena nodded silently and took a step, stepping out from under the vaults of the stone podium, into the rays of the setting sun.

Normally arenas were round, generously filled with fine sand, but this one was rectangular, rather square, and paved with smooth stone. Apparently, it was more often used for theatrical performances than fighting on ringing steel. Elena would estimate the length of the sides at fifteen meters, which was good enough for maneuvers. The tribunes rose in three tiers, just like in the circus, the first floor was stone, then wood, under awnings to protect from the sun. Now the awnings were removed, so as not to disturb the public with shadows.

Traditionally, the duels of the god's judgment happened in the evening, at sunset, when the sun had already touched the horizon and the moon was just rising into the silver sky. Elena turned on her toes, assessing whether the rays of the heavenly lights were hitting her eyes. No, they didn't, which was good; she didn't have to make adjustments in her maneuvers to see who was going to turn around to face the sun.

The trumpet howled again. Time dragged on never-ending, like honey by the spoonful. Focused on her impending death, Elena perceived the world around her in fragments, like reflections in shards of a mirror. Here is the royal box under the standard of the Sunset South and yes, of course, young Artigo Gotdua sits at the right hand of the Tetrarch King. The boy is well groomed, combed, dressed in a dapper caftan with exquisite gold embroidery and, it seems, even smeared with some cosmetics, but in his eyes, there is still horror, which, apparently, cannot be melted by any love. Because of the wide white collar, it seemed to Elena for a moment that the boy's head had been cut off and was lying on a platter. The woman shuddered.

The faces, the vile faces of the Southern nobility. Luxury, jewelry, and clothes whose value is measured only in gold. Powder, wigs, net caps with pearl threads, high hats embroidered with the symbols of the Southwestern Court - a white ring on a red background. The third tier was given to the lower classes, and on the sides and ornamental towers sat the "shouters" who described in great detail what was happening to the crowd outside the arena. Just like sports commentators. Elena had heard somewhere that a good "shouter" was valued almost more than a minstrel because everyone could sing a song, but to recount in real time a production of a visiting theater or a wrestling match, so that the listener could see it for himself, required skill.

Her gaze stumbled over a familiar face, and Helena missed a heartbeat. What she hadn't expected to see here was the high-born lovari Dessol ausf Lekueye-Argreff. She wonder who allowed a pregnant noblewoman to see a bloody spectacle...? Baroness Argreff resembled Liv Tyler from the time of "Lord of the Rings", only her face was a little wider and swollen due to heavy pregnancy, however, the noble features were hidden under a layer of powder. Her long, heavy hair was tucked into an elaborate style, pierced by dozens of silver hairpins, the same as Elena's only jewelry. Dessol seemed a concentration of cold, arrogant detachment. Only her lace-gloved hands clenched the fan like a spear shaft, betraying the storm of emotion behind the powdered facade. With a great effort of will Elena refused the hooligan desire to wink at the baroness in the good style of dirty cabaret jokes, like, wait for the midnight hour...

The nobility contemplated in silence, the simpler folk made noise and moderately threw apple slices. A trumpet blew. Now Elena finally looked at her opponents, nicknamed the Four-Headed B. Barbaza, the ringleader. Barbro, the second face of the company. Barca, the main "fists". And Battesti, the youngest - dumb and handsome. They all look like brothers - swarthy, hair cut with a knightly ponce and glossy with oil. They are dressed expensively and tastelessly, like mercenaries who want to pass for gendarmes, partly even succeeding, but still, not according to their income. They are not bandits in their purest form, not brethren, not soldiers of fortune, not ruthiers or assassins, but all at once, according to circumstances and profit, under the cover of the thin, but still the coat of arms of the beggarly aristocracy. The four were gathered around a small table, seemingly taken from some decent hall, and their weapons gleamed picturesquely and dimly on the tabletop.

The matter had been stated by the Herald. But everyone knew what the Four-Headed One and a strange-looking maiden or woman had disagreed about. The summons and the reason for it became the event of the week, and it was discussed all over the county, far beyond the walls of Pite Sockhailhay, the "Wonderful City," from peasant houses to mirror palaces.

Elena took a few steps, feeling Ranjan's gaze behind her back. She wondered what the Brether would do if his companion's body lay in a bloody puddle on the gray stone of the arena. Рe would do something, for sure, but she wouldn't care anymore. Mercy is not supposed to be practiced in a God's fight, moreover, it is directly condemned, because the superiority of one fighter over another is the revealed will of the Lord, and it is foolish and dangerous to go against it.

The steward suggested that the parties should come to their senses, reconcile, and not anger the Pantocrator, for where two people argue, at least one is wrong. And the sin in which they persist under the gaze of our Lord is weighted three times as much as usual.

The Four-headed One reacted in a peculiar way, according to its predilections and position in the gang. Battesti made a lewd gesture and promised to fuck the whore right in the ass for the public's amusement. The screamers dutifully retold the promise to all sides of the world, causing a stir outside the walls. Barca promised to stab the fool without pain, God's way. Barbro spat savagely and silently, curving his rather handsome, thoroughbred face. He resembled Ranjan in some ways, apparently from the same region, only Brether was lighter-skinned.

Barbaza, when his turn came, showed himself, as befits the leader of a cunning and successful gang, which makes money from blood, but successfully maneuvers between the laws, avoiding the executioner's axe. He made a short but heartfelt speech in which he advised the foolish woman to come to her senses, not to anger God, and to do something more appropriate to her gender. The Southern bandit's speech was good, without slang, almost like a lawyer's or a reciter's. Now not only the masses were shouting approvingly, but also the relatively respectable third tier, where the shop masters, merchants, and other cream of society without noble chains sat.

Elena turned her head to the right, then to the left, stretching her neck and trapezius muscles. The woman had, of course, carefully stretched every ligament before the fight, but the adrenaline boiling in her blood demanded action. Out of the corner of her eye, Elena caught sight of the Baroness again. Dessol's face was so pale that it seemed to show through the plaster layer of powder.

The crowd's attention focused on the duelist, coming her way to say a word before the fight or to cancel it. Elena raised her head and listened to the silence. Everyone was waiting for what the woman who had lost her mind would say, or rather in what expressions she would be humorously dodging in her unwillingness to die under the swords. Elena turned to the podium under the red-and-white standard, and intercepted the hilt correctly, two fingers over the crosshairs. The sword lay perfectly in her hand, a worthy product of a good blacksmith, light, double-edged, with protective rings and a guard in the form of a slightly curved S. Elena clearly, as in practice, performed a salute towards the royal box, indicated a bow, turned to the Four-Headed One and paused. Everyone was quiet now, the tension seemed to vibrate, making the air waver as if in a fierce heat.

Elena smiled slightly, showing a superiority she didn't really feel. She imagined what she looked like from the outside: a young woman, tall, very fit - the result of a healthy lifestyle, moderate diet, and daily workouts. Black tight pants without a codpiece, similar to riding breeches. Knee-high boots with soft soles and low heels. White - though, given the specifics of local washing, it would be correct to call it light gray - shirt with loose sleeves without slits, with normal buttons instead of laces and other nonsense. Black elbow gloves of thick leather with extra padding. And red hair cut just below the ears. Nice, flashy, provocative. Well, if you're going to spit in the public's collective face, you'd better do it spectacularly.

"You have violated the laws of God and man," she said, noting the excellent acoustics of the arena. The screamers echoed her words with minimal delay, spreading them around the neighborhood.

"I will kill you. And unfortunately, I can only do it once."

The lot had been cast, and the bridges burned. Now, even if the woman wanted to retreat, it was impossible; the challenge had become a test of God's judgment, in which at least one dead man must end up.

"Let there be silence!" proclaimed the Tetrarch. "This is not fun, nor is it a young man's game! This is the judgment of God! Whoever desecrates it with his voice will be hanged without delay!"

And there was silence. Not at once, slowly, besides, the screamers enjoyed the long-standing privilege of describing what was happening, it was considered as if they were outside the ristalis. Elena listened to nothing, however, focusing on her opponent. Battesti was already rushing towards her, swinging a heavy cleaver. He obviously expected to finish the fight as quickly as possible, sweeping away the lighter and skinnier opponent. The guy was understandable, going up against a woman in front of the cream of society was humiliating, to put it bluntly.

Elena stepped toward him with a perfectly upright body, putting her left arm behind her back, elbow pressed to her side with her right, armed one. Behind his younger colleague, Barca yelled and spat, but the older twosome conversely remained silent, squinting intently. Just as Ranjan had predicted, their self-assurance was not turning into stupidity. A woman throwing down a challenge to an experienced gang of seasoned scoundrels? Funny. Ridiculous. But also curious, a reason to be cautious.

Battesti struck with all his might, and the duelist took a light step away from the enemy's blade and immediately swung back, closer to her opponent. She entered her opponent's Circle of Death, gliding on her strong legs like a water viper on water, easily, with graceful grace. Elena marked a jab to the face, Battesti closed rather quickly and skillfully with the messer, putting the blade upright, The woman took another step and firmly grabbed her opponent's right arm. She saw very close the eyes of her opponent, dilated, incomprehensible, full of boundless astonishment, first of all from the sensation that instead of soft, weak female fingers on his wrist there were steel handcuffs.

//Fools and fairground wrestlers grab at the clothes. You can understand them, it's easier that way. But for us, wrestling is not an amusement or a tavern brawl, but a prelude to murder. That's why any grab is always aimed only at the meat. Grab the enemy as if your fingers were pincers and you want to tear a piece of his flesh with them. Then, even if you can't make a throw or a grapple, you will at least punish the enemy with pain.

Battesti lost a moment trying to free his arm, and that was enough. Elena jabbed sideways and placidly, between the ribs, and instantly bounced out of range of the enemy messer, keeping the rest of the B's out of sight.

At first, few realized what had happened, and those who did kept their feelings to themselves. Battesti recoiled, crossing the air with his curved blade, desperately wheezing curses. Barbaza leaned forward, a wry smile immediately leaving his swarthy face. Elena took a few steps left and right, moving along an imaginary arc beyond the messer's point.

There was a loud slamming of leather against leather. Elena knew without even turning around that Ranjan was applauding sparingly, keeping his gloves on, staying in the shadows, next to the ajar door. Battesti looked back at the black brether perplexedly, opened his mouth to say something else, and then felt fully aware that he was clearly not all right. The young assassin threw a glance in the direction of his comrades, moving his lips with an expression of growing bewilderment on his cheekbone face. Then he touched the small slit in his lace shirt, rubbing his red-stained fingers together in bewilderment.

"Oh," he said with a sort of childish surprise, feeling the hilt of the messer getting heavier in his unruly hand.

Elena attacked again like a ghost, staring unblinking, like a snake on the lunge. A blow, a chop, and then a swift thrust of the blade, slicing Battesti's face aslant. It wasn't very sensible, and Ranjan had warned that such tricks were bad for the blade - the teeth were too hard. But Elena wanted the creature to suffer, if only briefly.

And shuttle back again, because even a dying hand can kill.

"Avava-baa..." Battesti whispered, moving his blue lips, crossed by a deep cut. It was as if he still hadn't realized what was happening. And then the kriegmesser fell, clanking audibly against the rocks. The mortally wounded fighter screamed and flailed his arms as if he couldn't decide whether to clamp the wound between his ribs or cover his face. The howl of hopeless despair did not end until Elena had cut Battesti's throat down to the spine.

She took a practiced breath and walked, swinging her blade as if it were a reed, feeling light as a bird in flight. So much so she had to repeat to herself several times that nothing was over yet, that this was only the very beginning of the most difficult fight. Killing a young degenerate by taking advantage of his self-confidence is no feat, no merit. It is just a murder, and to leave the arena, there are three more to be committed, one more difficult than the other.

In the movies, people with their throats slit die quickly and beautifully, except for a slight groan. Buttesti's death was real, that is, long and gruesome. The air whistled out of his cut-throat, and his large body convulsed, rolling from side to side, unable to turn over. And there was so much blood as if a pig had been slaughtered, slaughtered according to all the rules, hung on a hook to drain the liquid without residue for sausage and "roast". Elena noted that now it was a slippery place and she should be careful.

The third person she had killed in her life. And the first one Hel had put down like a true swordsman, with a sharp blade, one on one.

The tribunes were silent. The steward looked back at the royal box, shrugged his shoulders in confusion, and exchanged glances with the exarch. According to tradition, "The Pantocrator has seen" should have been proclaimed, and the minister of the church should have replied, "The Judge of all judges is measured!" and then the duel was officially over. But for the first time, it was so that one challenged several, and the trial developed as a chain of duels. Baroness Argreff did break the fan, the click of the thin slats cracking deafeningly in the silence that engulfed the stands. The shouters screamed, describing what had happened, the descriptions rolled through the crowd outside the fence, growing in detail, and now the red-haired girl had already torn the young man's head off with her unarmed hands, sucking blood greedily from the stump.

When it became clear that there was no miracle, and Battesti was irrevocably dead, Barca stepped to the center of the arena, ducking, stretching out his arms. Elena scrutinized her second opponent's armament - a fist shield and a narrow, faceted blade on a saber hilt with a broad "mustache" of a guard. Such weapons were often used by knights, who, due to poverty, could not afford a real "puncher" with a hilt in one and a half hands. And assassins acting in a group. It is very convenient against chain mail and lightweight "city" brigandines.

This was another matter, the duelist's mannerisms and choice of ammunition indicated a man of understanding and experience. You can't expect an easy victory here.

The woman walked to the edge of the crimson puddle left by the dead man. She removed the targa from her belt, slipping her palm into the loop of thick, hard leather, her thumb resting on the "tab" of the stop. Barca stopped at the other end of the puddle, looking intently into the redhead's eyes. The fighter looked like a bear, short, perhaps a couple of heads shorter than his opponent, but stocky and broad. He was slow to run, but light on his swift rushes. He held his sword and buckler with skill and ease. His blade was always in motion as if cutting off an invisible fringe from a round shield.

Elena raised the targa higher, looking at her opponent over the wavy edge, and pressed the elbow of her right hand to her side again, saving her strength. She wasn't going to start, offering her opponent the chance to prove himself, to make the first move and, preferably, the first blunder. Barca accepted the challenge and made the move, nearly killing the woman with the first blow.

He stepped into the bloody puddle, the metal horseshoes of his boots clattering against the wet stone, and then struck from above, "from the wrist," his blade clinking against the bronze rim of the targa. And then immediately continued forward, translating the blow into a jab, aiming for the woman's face. Such a trick wouldn't have worked with a round shield, but the targa almost killed the mistress - the curve of the upper edge worked as a guide, preventing the blade from being thrown aside. Elena saved herself only by jumping backwards, but too slowly, getting the very end of the faceted point in her left cheekbone.

The woman ran unashamedly breaking the distance. Barca tried to catch up, but the woman was "shuttling", making quick lunges, changing direction. "B" number two was exhausted and went further by step, trying to corner the opponent. Elena licked the blood running down her cheek into the corner of her mouth. It hurt a lot, and the calculations of germs that had gathered on the tip of the armor-piercing awl rushed into her head. It would leave a scar, even if it wasn't the same as the witcher's. But most of all, she resented her own crookedness, because the swordswoman was well aware of the targa's peculiar profile.

//That "closet" is so fast...

Barca was on the offensive, clearly trying to take full advantage of the bonus of a successful opening. The duelist struck again, and struck very well, with a complex, lightning-fast combination. First, a stabbing blow to the stomach, which Elena stopped with a targa, then an immediate jab from the top down over the shield to the forehead. And as Elena raised the targa higher, the jab turned into a zigzag motion, passing under the shield. Again, the woman was saved only by her speed coupled with her well-practiced culture of movement, the proverbial Steps, the science of Draftsman. Elena bent in an unthinkable way and let the deadly lunge pass by, turned the bend into a fall, saving herself from the buckler's blow, rolled over her shoulder, almost breaking her lower back with the dagger's hilt sticking out. Again she ran closer to the center of the arena. Barca stomped behind her, hissing curses and noisily gulping air with his wet mouth.

The broad dwarf had to be finished quickly. Before he wore her down. And even if he did, he was only the second of four, and the skill of his opponents increased with each round. Elena jumped over the puddle and dropped to a knee, resting like a boxer being counted off by the referee. Barca caught up with her and sprinted like a boar. Elena clenched her teeth and counterattacked, "spinning" the movement in accordance with the late Draftsman's precepts, from the bones outward.

A light double-edged sword fell diagonally from right to left, striking the inside of the duelist's thigh. The blow was classic, written in all the fencing manuals of Ecumene, as detailed as the defense against it. Elena had counted on this, that is, on the pattern learned by thousands of repetitions. Enraged by the first successes and the first blood, feeling the weakness of the opponent Barca did not recognize the ruse and reacted like a good swordsman, diligently studying the science of combat. That is to say, he parried it, bringing the blade of his semi-koncerz down low in a clash of clashing metal. Then, according to the canon, followed a retaliatory blow to the shin or knee of the duelist, very convenient from such a position, even with an armor-piercing sword without a well-defined blade. And add a buckler to the head. Then there is only a technical finishing of the opponent, who has at least a strong contusion of the leg, most likely a broken joint, as well as a fracture of facial bones with knocked-out teeth.

Barca moved like a well-oiled machine in which all the wheels were carefully fitted together. The motion of one best matches the rotation of the others. But the pattern of the perfect combination broke because Elena threw forward both hands at one step with a split-second pause first her sword, then her shield. Barca stopped the duelist's sword and at the moment when he should have converted the parry into a counterstrike, Elena blocked his armed arm with a targa precisely catching his forearm with the undulating curve of the shield. The swordswoman spat into the bearded face, winning another heartbeat from her opponent, who hadn't expected the vulgar street brawl technique from a common broad. The woman then took a quick step backward, simultaneously raising her sword and drawing the end of the double-edged blade across her opponent's groin. Barca bent down with a shrill cry, instinctively closing in, and Elena, continuing to gain momentum, finished the swift exchange with a powerful jab to the knee. She was aiming for the kneecap, but it seemed to hit the center of the rounded knuckle, but it was good enough.

Run away again, steadying her breathing, waiting for the heart-pounding behind her ribs to calm down a little. Sweat dripped down her face, mingling with the blood, and burning the wound under her eye, which was already sore. Barca finally lost his temper, yelling and cursing, refusing to realize that he was already dead, though he was still moving. He shrieked, pounding his sword against the buckler and urging the nasty broad to fight as he should. But his movements had slowed, lost their deadly precision, and his stockings were rapidly and the fighter could not walk at all, only hopping on his healthy leg, tucking the injured one. Elena grinned like a hyena as she circled beyond Barca's reach, the silver light of the rising moon reflected deadly in the red-haired woman's dark eyes. Barbaza and Barbro glanced over, heads bowed, discussing something. It was as if they'd forgotten about their comrade-in-arms, Barca was already dead and written off, and the living needed advice on how to drive the mad wench to the grave.

Elena glanced at the remaining half of the Four-Headed. Two more, for God's sake, and they were fighters of a different level, and she was already exhausted and wounded, even if lightly. And twice - in different ways - the trump card technique of blocking the opponent's armed arm had been used she'd have to find something new.

The woman swallowed, feeling the drying thirst, and gripped the belt loop of her shield tighter.

"You will not die easily," she promised Barka quietly, knowing the words would be lost in the noise, and would not even reach the front rows, remaining the exclusive domain of only two.

The dwarf howled frantically, dropping wisps of foam between his teeth. He hopped on one leg again, trying to jump to the swordswoman.

"I'll pierce your bladder," the woman said softly, easily keeping her distance, waiting for her opponent to tire out her healthy leg, completely losing mobility.

Barca howled, rapidly turning pale from blood loss, the screamers broadcast, realizing that their finest hour had come. The storytellers didn't even have to work up a sweat. Stiff aristocrats, noble ladies, the third class - all those who filled the stands, silently stared at the square arena, like a single thousand-eyed creature. The fight went on in an incredible, almost sepulchral silence.

That's four dead on the count, or rather three and a half.

"I'll kill you all," Elena said, sneaking up on Barca, shield out. The tip of the sword jerked like a wasp sting, aiming for the dwarf's stomach.

"All."

* * *

Part 1

The fugitives

Chapter 1

//The typical view formed by a pleiad of prominent minds of the so-called "Old School" categorically emphasizes the role of the individual in history. This approach seems to us to be too narrow, like a flashlight beam, it brightly highlights certain elements, leaving others in darkness. But who would risk denying the historical role of, say, Prince Gaiot or the Wartensleben sisters? Therefore, those who say: here were people whose actions and unbridled ambitions destroyed the world.

We also rightly point out that the catalyst was the objective process of state development, the absolutist tendencies of gathering the Ecumene under the banner of imperial power. And, as a natural reaction - the confrontation of the aristocracy, which felt a direct and clear threat to its position from the House of Gotdua. Yes, the Aleinsae family was the most radical, but did it create a contradiction and tension that could not be eliminated within the power paradigm of the era?

And now let us ask ourselves - what role did the long-term crisis of the petty nobility play in the general events? The ambitions of the Bonoms, of course, acted like a torch, but the spark fell on dry fuel, which became thousands and thousands of lovags, frels, impoverished horsemen, and sergeants. Those who, on the one hand, were obliged to bear the costly duties of the military class, i.e. needed a constant source of income. On the other hand, they became victims of a consistent and extremely aggressive policy of land concentration in the hands of Ishpans and Gastalds. Let us imagine that the Aleinsae family abandoned their plans, choosing a different measure of debt collection. How long could it have lasted and to what consequences would the further ruin, the declassification of the petty nobility, "the bones and muscles of war", have led?

Note that not mentioned here (so far, about them ahead) is the peasantry, which was even more severely pressed than the horsemen, as well as the Church of the Pantocrator, humiliated, robbed, and crying out for justice and vengeance.

Finally, in recent years we have witnessed the emergence of several extremely curious studies on the urban environment and its influence on the Dark Ages. The introduction of previously unknown sources reveals a picture of a ruthless struggle, devoid of even the shadow of compromise, between the small merchants and the guilds of honorable negociants and the craft councils, these forerunners of the manufactory revolution, and the workshops, which at the time in question were becoming the stronghold of conservative production, in the broad sense of "antiquity," based, among other things, on the established practice of weak central authority. The new researchers show by numerous examples that the heart of the turmoil certainly beat in the cities, from where the marching columns of infantry came, weapons and armor were forged, and where the assizes of the new law were born. And this, too, is the truth.

Thus, the story of the Tribulation, the End of Times, or, as contemporaries, the Deadly Age, more often called it, is like a gemstone with a complex cut. Each side refracts the light differently but is all part of the whole. The foundation of the universal calamity was long and painstakingly laid by the mutual clash of interests of guilds, classes, estates, workshops, and other social groups. Those who made decisions and carried them out, those who fought and fled from war, the brave and the victims of unrestrained violence, prominent personalities, and the "dumb majority" - all of them wove the fabric of History from the many disparate threads of their destinies. And in the end, no witness to those events - the strongest of the strong, the noblest of the noble - could say that the Tribulation had bypassed them.

However, no matter how much we agree with the predetermination of the overarching crisis, with the fact that the avalanche hanging over the Empire was doomed to descend sooner or later - the question always remains: who threw the first pebble?...? And, what is no less curious - how did these people perceive their place and role in the terrifying and majestic cycle of events?"

"The demise of the Third Empire in the letters and memoirs of the participants"

Chalatenayo Chair in Chronicle History, 12.19.19.1.8,

II edition, by the Tla-Temohua Working Group

//"My son, if you are reading these lines, it means that the One has considered my life complete, and the executors have fulfilled their will by giving you this archive. And you are certainly at a loss to guess why your father, who was stingy with letters during his lifetime, entrusts you with so much beyond that.

I'll try to answer that.

Once, in the darkest hour of a long winter night, I remembered Her... The woman with hair the color of evil flames, who had so many names. I dreamt of her, and the image of the Red Queen was alive and vivid as if it hadn't been decades since I'd last seen her. Everything seemed so visible, so clear... She looked at me silently, smiling faintly, the edges of her lips, that famous and terrible smile of a creature that knows immeasurably more than mortal man. The smile of a demigod or, closer to the truth, a demon, who looks at everything and everyone a little apart, aloof. Not downwardly, but rather in the wise sadness of one who sees many roads closed to humans.

I woke up and could find no more peace. Until dawn, the cup of wine and the woolen blanket were my comforts. And they also reminded me that I was old. I was very, very old... And then the bitterness of regret seized my soul. How many stories I had written down in my time, how many ballads and tales I had preserved for those who come after us to rekindle the fire. Parchment, wax tablets, papyrus, and paper, all have my pen known... But for the story of Destruction, I have found neither inspiration nor ink. I have not written a line about the Destroyers, but I have lived through them all, and they have all become shadows in my memory. The weak, false memory of an ordinary man whose fingers can hardly hold a pen, and whose life, by God's will, may be cut short at any moment.

So I decided. I should devote the rest of my days to finally capturing my memories as far as possible. After much hesitation, I realized it was not in my age or health to start a great chronicle with a prologue and a moral. So it was decided that I would dedicate each day to an event. One memory, one letter, a fragment of the past, resurrected under the slow pen of a broken old man, whose conscience is burdened with indelible sins.

So I entrust you with my memory and my words. I will give an account to the Judge of all Judges of what I have done, and even more of what I have allowed to happen by inaction....

Logically, I should begin this story with the story of the first time I saw Them. But the mind persistently retrieves something else from the dusty closets of memory. Yes. Other things. Not so much the events as their moods, their ominous reflections, like the dance of fiery reflections on the polished steel of a blade.

The first spring of Emperor Ottovio Gotdua-Aleinsae's reign was rainy and cold. Outwardly, it seemed the turmoil that had barely ignited in Milvesse had subsided, like a spark in the night, a brief flare of weak fire in the darkness. The Imperial power stood firm, the mounted companies and mercenary Highland regiments were as numerous and brave as ever, and the Court treasury had enough money to pay the troops. The lords in power were more zealous than usual in their feuds, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in this, for what year was without small wars of the powerful?

And still, the worry hung over the wet earth where the grain was rotting, promising sure hunger. A comet rose in the sky, its brightness defying the moon, and the monsters of the old world reappeared in the forests, prowling the streets of villages and towns in search of human flesh. Hyenas became especially ferocious, and more than one noble lord laid down his head, deciding to hunt at a bad hour, and wild pigs, as if they had learned the habits of the long-dead wolf tribe, began to gather in predatory packs, dangerous even for mounted warriors.

The old men said among themselves that not a single myaurs had been born since the coming of winter and that the year had begun with bad omens, and after the old men the superstitious whispers were taken up by the young. They said that the Emperor was young and weak. Instead of taking care of the affairs of the Ecumene, he spent his days in unrestrained debauchery shameful even for a man whose hair was covered with gray, let alone a young man of thirteen. The Council of Regents rules in place of the Emperor, enriching only the cursed Isle of Salt Blood. That the young Artigo of the Gotdua family is alive, hiding from his many enemies, and that some have called him an impostor while others look back and pray for the true Emperor's salvation from the wiles of the wicked and the perjurers.

As is customary on the threshold of troubled times, the people waited for the Messenger and the Prophet, and some of them were said to have seen them. It was also said, and this was the truth, which I can testify for myself, that the coinage continued to grow lighter, and the silver in the penny was now hardly two-thirds of its weight as against eight-tenths of its old weight. But that is only half the trouble, for even bad, worthless money has become rare, so that, as in the old days, various people and gentlemen and merchants exchange things for other things and written promises, and the ringing of noble metal does not please the purses for months.

Many things were said in that foul, cruel spring. Many rumors, of course, were figments of superstitious fancy. And some were true.

Gaval Sentrai-Poton-Batleau.

//"The first letter to my son, of the dreams of the past, the due and the harsh spring of the First Year"

* * *

//"Do I want to come back?"

The spray ran down his face like tears. Or drops of blood. You can choose the symbolism of any taste if you want. Curzio, like many of the Island's aristocrats, had been fond of poetry in his youth, and not unreasonably believed that he had attained some art in composing metaphors.

However... no. The saltless fresh water seemed sweet and without bitterness, there were no tears or blood.

//"Do I want to go home?" - repeated Curzio's silent question. - "And where is there now a place I could call home...?"

As has long been the custom, there is only one city on Salt Island. Their names are the same - Saltoluchard - and therein lies a dark play on words, for "salt" is the same as "blood," sharing a common root. Other places are called "settlements", even if they are larger than another royal capital. And, crucially, the island aristocracy are not landowners. None of them carry the prefix "ausf" that is so coveted by mainland nobility. A member of the Aleinsae family has the right to own anything, including people, but cannot call his own, much less inherit a single scrap of land outside the family estate. The Sacred Island that was created directly by the left and right hands of Isten and Erdeg can only belong to the Family. It is a wise charter, it has, among other things, allowed Aleinsae to walk a hard path, saving and growing while others lost and spent. But, good and gracious gods, so often do ancient laws get in the way! And so pleasant it is to feel oneself away from strict regulations, even if the price is a disgrace.

Curzio slouched on a rock, watching the storm gather. The leaden water was a ferocious beast against the old breakwater topped by the abandoned lighthouse. Fountains of gray-black water roared up to the sky where the sun was breaking through the torn clouds. There was a rumble so loud you could recite classical chants, and at a distance of two outstretched arms, nothing could be heard anymore. The fury of the sea assaulted the sullen resilience of the rock as it had for millennia before and would continue for millennia afterward. Spring had been early and very cold this year, and considering the continent's winter had been almost snowless, it boded well for famine. Another "empty" year... The island would not starve, but on the "flat earth", it looked like they would soon start carrying old people out into the cold and killing newborns.

Such is life...

The approaching storm filled Curzio's soul with resigned sadness, and at such times the islander wished he had a small grove at home, something deciduous, with dense crowns. So that he could sit in the semi-darkness, or perhaps lie down on a dense carpet of fallen leaves, breathing in the damp, clean smell of the forest, thinking about sad and spiritually uplifting things.

Empty dreams... Nothing grows on salty soil bigger than yellow shrubs, stunted spruces, and inedible rosehips, which can crack even granite with their roots. Everything else has to be planted in special tubs or tubs with enriched soil. A good way to unobtrusively demonstrate wealth, but philosophical thoughts avoid a well-kept order.

Well, the more precious will be the memories of the time a member of the Privy Council will spend here, not far from the capital and very far from home.

Curzio sighed, wiped his face, wet from splashing, and looked back, glancing lazily around the small manor. On the one hand, it was time to return to the warmth and dryness of home, on the other hand, Curzio liked to watch the riot of the elements. It helped in resolving difficult issues and unpleasant situations. At a critical moment, the islander imagined himself as a terrifying wave that destroys everything in its path, destroys the wood of ships, and scatters the stones of houses carelessly brought closer to the sea. A wave that takes everything away, leaving only a bare shore, not because of cruelty, but because it embodies the natural course of things.

A servant came hurrying from the house, his thin legs in tight stockings moving swiftly, slipping on the winding path lined with flat stones. Curzio sighed again, anticipating the appearance of some new concern, unnecessary and untimely, otherwise the housekeeper would not have dared to disturb his master's contemplative peace. Though, on the other hand, concerns are possibilities. And the Two are witnesses, the possibility of anything now would come in handy for a disgraced member of the Council.

"Ha," Curzio exhaled softly under his breath as he noticed the other man striding behind the hurrying housekeeper.

For a moment it seemed to the islander that his life must have come to an end, for a special executor, whose hand had been directed by the Privy Council, had come to the house. But before Curzio could even flinch, he recognized the heavy, heavy-looking figure, who tread lightly on the wet stones, as if he had been accustomed since childhood to walking indirect paths among the steep cliffs.

Curzio stood up, neither quickly nor slowly, just enough to show that he was honoring his guest, but not in a subservient hurry. He habitually and imperceptibly assessed how he looked from the outside, whether the embroidered cloth was not too wet, whether the lacquered hair had not lost its noble shape. He sent the servant away with a careless wave of his hand before he could utter a word. Judging by the guest's clothes, the visit was purely informal, and Curzio emphasized at once that he understood and accepted it, speaking one-on-one, without intermediaries or witnesses.

"Honorable," the islander greeted the mountain prince. "I am extremely glad of your visit. The doors of my house are always open to you."

Gaiot, the chief of the Court Guard, indicated a ceremonial bow, quite deep for those who declare "we bow only to the Moon and the mountains!". Touching the heart area with the fingers of his left hand, he uttered the words of the ancient greeting in a deep, well-pitched voice, almost devoid of barbaric accent:

"I come in peace, and peace I expect to meet in thy house, son of worthy parents of Aleinsae-Malt-Monwusen."

For a moment Curzio pondered how the remark should be understood. Either the prince was emphasizing his interlocutor's rather low position in such an unobtrusive way, or he was simply unaware of some nuances of island life. Finally, he decided the second one should be true, at least temporarily. From the outside, the short delay was unnoticeable and looked quite natural. The islander bowed in return with the words:

"According to our tradition, a storm portends a good deed with a good outcome. The Two are in favor of this meeting."

As if to accompany the nobleman's speech, another wave crashed with a deafening crash against the lighthouse tower. The shaking of the stone seemed to echo even in the soft goatskin soles. The guest smiled faintly.

"We have no seas, and inclement weather looks different on the mountain lakes," the Highlander said, standing beside him so that the tall Curzio was level with the barbarian prince's shoulder. "But there is a similar belief about an alliance made on a mountaintop under the eight evil winds, the light of the moon, and the watch of the spirits. We resort to it when we confirm by bloody oath the alliances of tukhums, or when we assemble khaseh to march as a single army to a great war."

"And you, too... resorted?"

"Me too."

Again Curzio hesitated for a moment, wondering what his guest was trying to say by openly commemorating the old beliefs. Everyone knew that the mountain savages were pagans for the most part, though outwardly they followed the rules of belief in One or Two. Everyone also knew this was strongly disapproved of outside the Pillars of the Earth, that is, the middle mountains. Perhaps the Prince's words meant something. Perhaps not. The barbarians were always difficult to deal with, often their guilelessness looked so straightforward as to give the impression of the most sophisticated intrigue, and at times the Stone Men were more flexible than the invertebrate snakes of the ocean depths.

"Then, if you're not in a hurry, let's look at the wind, sky, and water," Curzio suggested neutrally. "It is alien to both of us, and at the same time it reminds us, as I see it, of our native land."

"I agree," the prince shook his chin ceremoniously.

And now the two men froze, looking at the storm. Curzio counted the beats of his heart, waiting long enough to create the illusion of being involved in something intimate on the one hand, and on the other not to tire his interlocutor by waiting too long. And at the same time, he amused himself with the thought of whether the guest was not busy with the same thing. Prince Gaiot was known as a man completely devoid of pity, wonderfully fierce, but intelligent on the verge of wisdom.

When the gusts of fierce wind took on a cold sharpness like icy blades, Curzio realized that now his hair would fall apart despite the water-resistant varnish, and decided to end his admiration of nature.

//"Gotta order a wig," he thought, and said aloud:

Please be my guest. Hot wine with herbs will warm us up and keep us from catching colds."

"And again I agree," the prince muttered. "It is truly said that your wisdom is rivaled only by your sweet talk!"

Curzio smiled demurely, wondering again if he was being joked at by the savage, who looked like a dull-faced shopkeeper in a plain and ugly dress, who hung a thick silver chain over his shoulder for some reason.

"Spring this year promises to be harsh," the prince suggested, noisily sipping from his goblet.

Curzio nodded in agreement and took a sip of the wine, thick with the flavor of blood from the veins of a freshly killed animal. The flavor was, to put it bluntly, bad, but it was the sort of stuff the Highlanders valued, considered a man's drink, and the islander saw no point in transferring refined drinks to someone who wouldn't appreciate the subtle bouquet anyway.

The room in the house occupied by Curzio during his stay in Milvess was decorated with ancient traditions. In fact, it was more like a tower, with a very high ceiling on the first level and a spiral staircase with no railing running up the walls to the second level, where the library and study were located. The furniture is mostly shelves with scrolls and some curiosities memorable to the owner. The stone floor is decorated with intricate mosaics imitating the cut of a giant oak tree. Only a very wealthy man could afford such decoration, and Curzio reminded himself again that he should make inquiries as to who it was and where it had gone during the fall events. More importantly, whether there were any living relatives. It would be embarrassing if someone showed up with a claim, or even for satisfaction.

Although there was a table and chairs, the master did not sit down, and the prince followed suit. Curzio, in the same motion, as if shaking drops of water off his fingertips, sent away the servant who was about to pour wine from a silver jug into his guest's cup. The two men were left alone. The islander had brought servants from his homeland, and he could be sure no one's ears were overhearing.

"What is this?" Gaiot asked, looking at the rack of strange things that looked alien and mysterious amidst the discreet luxury of the house.

Curzio couldn't hold back a slight grimace. He was uncomfortable that someone had noticed objects that the owner himself had forgotten about, and his clothes were clinging to his body with moisture, making him uncomfortable. The prince, dressed in a jacket and thick pants of oiled leather, apparently did not feel any hardship.

"It's the source of many of my family's misfortunes," Curzio finally said.

"May I have a look?" The prince showed good manners, and the master of the house appreciated it.

Curzio picked up one of the objects, the one that interested the Highlander. Something that looked like the splinter of an oar slightly shorter than a man's arm. The dark wood seemed polished and heavy, like iron. The smooth surface bore the marks of mysterious writing, smoothed by time and thousands of touches. On either side of the flattened body were rows of recesses, several of them containing remnants of a material that looked like hardened resin. From one hole protruded a kind of glass tooth, glossy black, like the waves of a freshwater sea on a stormy day. The islander touched the tooth with the tip of his little finger, remembering that the chipped stone would be sharper than any razor, even those sharpened by engraving needles.

Curzio silently held the "paddle" to the Highlander, and the latter examined the artifact closely.

"It looks like someone wanted to make a sword without a grain of metal, not even copper," the prince suggested. "And that was in a very hot land. The cutting edge of such glass is of little use against quilted armor. And even on chain mail and plate armor, it would crumble like ordinary glass. But it will cut bare flesh to the bone."

"My great-great-grandfather thought so," Curzio agreed. "I must say in the old days, the Malts were very rich, with their wharf, warehouse, trading flag, and a good share in the Arsenal."

"Oh," Gaiot expressed the surprise befitting the moment.

"Yes. But the patriarch, whose name is forgotten by posterity, was carried away by some idea...."

Curzio remembered the delight with which he had first touched the oddity many years ago, not yet knowing the connection between the Malt family and the useless piece of wood.

"He had trade with the northeast, among other things. He shipped salt and iron there. Back walrus teeth, purple from the bones of ocean creatures. Wordless and loyal mercenaries from the savages there, who still fight with copper and bone. From the savages, he heard stories of the bodies of strange men and shipwrecks that the angry waves brought from time to time. Some of the objects ended up in the Malts' collection. They must have been enchanted and poisoned his great-great-grandfather's mind, so he decided somewhere in the world there were other inhabited lands beyond the Oikumene."

The prince could not resist and snorted, Curzio did not even wrinkle his nose at such a blatant display of disrespect, he understood the Highlander perfectly well. The islander took the baton from his guest's hands, and put it back on the rack, next to the head of a child's rocking toy in the form of a horse. He covered it with a cloth as if the very sight of the old thing distressed his host.

"The forefather's reasoning, it must be said, seemed reasonable at first glance. The debris and corpses were carried by the cold current that circles the north of the Ecumene. So, if we go in the opposite direction along the same current, we will find the source. The same mysterious lands where bronze-skinned people, who know no metal and build rafts, live."

"Well..." the prince hesitated. "Yes, it sounds reasonable. It seems to be..."

"In the end, great-great-grandfather invested all the family's wealth in organizing the expedition. Galleys were not suitable for such a long voyage, so he outfitted only sailing multimasted ships, which cost a fortune. With pilot shamans from wild northerners, two dozen ships moved into the endless ocean ..."

Curzio was silent for a moment. Then he came to the table and splashed the wine generously, refilling the bowl so that the dark liquid stopped flush with the edges of the thin gold wire. When the islander took a sip, the savage wine poured down his throat like blood stripped of hops. Curzio realized with detached surprise that the old tale was hurting again, as it had when the young Cazzi had learned why the name Malt was held in pitying contempt by the other Aleinsaes.

"I suppose this story doesn't have a happy ending," the prince suggested tactfully, deciding that the pause was dragging on.

"Alas, yes," Curzio woke up and drowned his grimace in another sip of wine. "In fact, that was the end of the story. The fleet was gone, the waves hadn't brought back even a broken sliver. But the four generations now had something to do, rebuilding the power of the family."

//"And it still didn't work, even after the double surname became a triple surname, incorporating mainland Monwoosen..."

However, the islander only thought the latter, keeping the thought safely behind tightly clenched teeth.

"And the other... items? The rest of the collection?"

"Long sold out, along with other valuables," the islander said indifferently. "Normally, risky investments can be claimed a year after deposit, but given the peculiar conditions, the Merchant Council set a moratorium of three years. And extended it to five. Eventually, however, it became clear that no one would return, much less bring back ships loaded with silver, gold, and other valuables. Then the partners, who had invested in the expedition and the construction of ships under the guarantee of the Maltese name, came to demand their shares back. This sword club is the last thing left. They gave good money for it, but my great-grandfather commanded that it should always be kept in the family as a reminder of prudent caution."

"I understand. He was a wise man."

"Yes. You have those who want the weird and useless offered to find the "fifth kingdom." We're sent to find the "Maltese fleet."

"Why did you tell me this story?" The prince asked the question bluntly.

"You asked," the islander smiled slightly. "Everyone on Saltoluchard knows it. There's no harm in it for me, but I think you were interested."

"I did. But I didn't ask for such details. And you didn't enjoy those memories," Gaiot said shrewdly. "Then why?"

Curzio adjusted the collar of the blue half-circle around his broad, manly shoulders, hardly worthy of a refined aristocrat.

"To create a mood of confidence," said the owner of the forcibly seized house bluntly. "You're too busy to pay a non-committal visit to a disgraced member of the Council. You want something, and you want it badly and without delay. But you're troubled by doubt. I've tried to break the ice a little. I hope enough for you to state the matter plainly."

"Clever," Gaiot bowed his head showing understanding and restrained approval. "I see the rumors about you are true."

"And what do they say about me?" Curzio inquired.

"Depends on the storyteller."

"Let's do it this way, retell the most vigorous characterization," Curzio asked. "And let's get down to business."

"The most vigorous?"

"Rude. Boorish. Angry. I collect them, you might say," the host explained.

"Well..." the prince frowned, recalling or imitating a recall. "It sounded roughly like a slippery rascal who would squeeze into an asshole without a drop of oil and pour a handful of his crappy salt in there."

"Oh, that's interesting, I've never heard that before. I'll keep that in mind. So?"

"For starters, perhaps you have something more... pleasant?" At the prompting of events, Gaiot looked down at the wine bowl and grimaced in genuine disgust.

"I thought you lived by the precepts of your forefathers," Curzio said, genuinely surprised. "Do not covet the fruit of the sweet vine, for heat breeds weakness and all that."

"Yes, the forefathers bequeathed their descendants to wear skins crafted by the hands of hard-working women, to devour raw hearts torn from the chests of their enemies. To smash skulls with clubs without spilling blood on sacred mountains. And to wash twice in life, at birth, and after death, because all misery is from promiscuity. But I still prefer to wear good clothes, kill with sharp steel, and take a bath at least once a week. And drink proper wines, not fermented goat's piss. I suspect my worthy ancestors would do the same if they had the money."

"We'll have something more appropriate for the moment," Curzio smiled and rang a small bell. "Then we can talk about things that matter. I understand that you... we're having some difficulties, and will probably need some help?"

"Help, advice, maybe something more significant," the prince immediately adopted the strict and direct tone of business people, "For example, your library. But first I would like to talk about the family traditions of Saltoluchard. Otherwise, I am afraid, in the very near future our difficulties will increase manifold."

Waiting for the change of wines, Gaiot sipped half a cup at once, squinting with pleasure.

"That's another thing," he summarized.

"I'm all ears," Curzio reminded him.

"So. The Council of Regents treats the Emperor like... it's strange..." Gaiot wiggled his fingers, as if knitting the words as if they were yarn. Curzio remained silent, not intending to make it easy for him by prompting him.

" It's... indifference. They look at the boy as if he were a hunting falcon. The only thing they want is his signatures on edicts and a speedy conception of an heir. It looks..."

"Strange?" This time Curzio decided to help a little.

"Disgusting and wrong," the prince exhaled with unconcealed anger.

"Why?" Curzio's words were not condemning or threatening, only genuinely curious.

"We on our Pillars, in general, spit on the lords of the "flat earth," the prince honestly informed. "But for others, the Emperor is the ruler of the world, the blood of the sovereign flows in his veins. He is a nobleman of all nobles, responsible before the gods for the well-being of the Ecumene."

Curzio politely pretended not to notice the "gods," and that his interlocutor was clearly not referring to Two.

"One may not believe in the tales of the monks, but at least the honor of the class demands respect for the supreme suzerain!"

The prince unable to contain himself, slammed his fist on the rack so the scrolls bounced and the wood creaked pitifully.

"Respect, damn it! Because if everyone sees you disrespecting the one above you, the lower ones stop respecting you too! And Milvesse is already full of rumors that the Regents do not respectfully request an audience, but summon the Emperor as if he were a servant or a secretary. That the boy is in unutterable grief and weeps for the injustice of his advisers, and his tears cry out to Pantocrator and will bring the wrath of the Lord upon all men. That the young Emperor does not dry out, starting the day with a bottle of fortified wine, and prefers a man's embrace to a woman's!"

"Is that so?" Curzio raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not!" the prince shouted. "Thank the gods, he only has a boner for a woman's ass. But the boy is timid and cowardly, like a girl who's had an engraving of a cock put into her prayer book. And no wonder, at thirteen! And your counselors demand he make a child with that ugly mare as soon as possible. But with that kind of pressure, I fear they'd rather make him completely infirm. Even Shotan had questions, and this ghoul seemed to have been born tired of life, unable to wonder."

Curzio kept a look of restrained interest on his face and thought to himself that the word "ghoul" sounded funny in the mouth of one who adhered strictly to the ancient custom of the Highlanders to kill on the spot anyone who took prisoners or did not hurry to burn down the enemy's house.

"Wartensleben told the regents that they would lead Milvesse into a new turmoil," continued Gaiot. "But his words sounded like the voice of a shrieking man in the middle of the ocean. Is this your custom? Or is there something we don't know about your customs? It's no problem to bleed the capital, but why go to all this trouble?"

Curzio strode along the wall, fleetingly running his palm over the smooth rung of the stairs. The pale face of the island killer expressed nothing, hiding the intense work of thought. This conversation was not treason, Curzio had been removed from the Court and matters of the Empire's governance, but not struck from the lists of the Privy Council. The recluse was not under house arrest, and technically the nobleman of the Maltese family remained in service.

Technically...

In practice, however, there were many nuances to consider, and some of them could lead to a soft handkerchief around the neck, the traditional way of the Aleinsae chiefs to demonstrate their categorical distrust and unwillingness to continue the existence of the offender.

"What I am about to tell you is not really a secret," Curzio said when the prince had finally decided that the visit had been a waste of time. "Anyone who has done business with us for any length of time, who has seen what is hidden behind the dusty stones of the walls of the houses of Salt Island, knows it. But still--" Curzio made a vague figure with his fingers as if turning a key in an invisible chink. "You must not publicize my words. Some things by nature like silence. And if you refer to me in conversation with outsiders... I shall be... very unhappy about it."

"Well, someone less intelligent than I would have heard in your words the shadow of a threat, that is, an unequivocal insult," the prince returned the islander's feeble smile. "It is good that I have a sophisticated ear that distinguishes a threat from a friendly request."

The host and guest exchanged luscious smiles again. Curzio didn't like the remark about "request," but there was nothing to quibble with. Technically, the Highlander had shown impeccable courtesy.

"The thing is, my friend, Ottovio means eighth in the old dialects," the islander began. "And that has some curious implications....."

* * *

Arsenal is the largest shipyard in the world, united with a warehouse, or rather a warehouse complex. All of Saltoluchard's ships are built according to the same templates, some of them are immediately sent to storage in disassembled form. If necessary, as a rule, for military operations, the island can build up its fleet in a matter of weeks, putting several dozen galleys into service. For large shipowners, such vessels play the role of real estate to secure loans and other obligations.

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/83056/570799

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP