Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 10

Chapter 10

* * *

Shotan, Curzio, and Duke Wartensleben listened quietly, without attracting attention, to the soft voices coming through the ajar door of the Blue Palace library. Although, dozens of beautiful rooms and halls in the house, the library had spontaneously become Emperor Ottovio's classroom. And, it must be said, the lord of the world gave himself to the study of the sciences with great zeal. Biel Wartensleben adhered to the concept of practical training without taking time away from pressing problems. So now the Marquess was discussing with Ottovio a difficult task - the legal aspects of convening the future Senate and tax projects. Thus, the young emperor was getting not abstract knowledge, but actual understanding - how the legal system of the Empire, which was confusingly complicated, was organized.

The current problem was that any attempts to introduce new taxes were easily parried by the appeal “this is not in the old ways, our fathers and grandfathers did not know such taxes!”. That is, it was not enough just to unroll scrolls with placards. To approve them with the consent of all estates it was necessary to formalize the new levies as the old ones, only slightly modified. The most promising way was the way of “collecting gifts”, that is, from a purely legal point of view, not the taxable population paid the statutory to the imperial treasury, and grateful subjects collecting for gifts personally to the lord of Ecumene. It was already right, “in the old way” and in accordance with the millennial tradition. And the fact that the gifts were fixed and regular, well, it happened, it happens. After all, why shouldn't the emperor use his personal savings for public needs? But here lurked the next problem. It was necessary to somehow formalize class control over the expenditure of those very “gifts”, and in an impeccably tactful and correct form. So that the procedure in no way looked like an impudent search of the lord's personal coffer (being such a search in its actual content).

Curzio smiled faintly, imagining what it looked like from the outside. The three noble persons eavesdropping under the door like insignificant servants. No, of course, there was nothing special or even more shameful here, the Court had seen such things, because to be near a high-born person at the right moment was a great art and a great luck. But still... funny.

Meanwhile, the conversation between mentor and pupil had taken a bizarre turn to a topic that had not originally been part of the lesson, and Ottovio suddenly asked, “What was a nobleman to the people of the mainland? What is the essence of nobility? The question sounded silly, but it was not silly. The island boy had touched upon a very painful topic that had plagued the Bonoms for many decades.

On Saltoluchard it was simple: there was a single Family, within which everything was organized and regulated, everyone had a place, and everyone was in his or her place. In the rest of the Oikumene, however, things were more complicated. As the world recovered from the collapse and social relations multiplied, the competition between the nobility of the “sword” and “inkwell” intensified. But more importantly, a conceptual question opened up here. If, say, a true baron and an anoble baron are formally equal, if yesterday's merchant can claim identity with a nobleman, whose family can be traced back to the times of the Old Empire, is not someone else equal to a born aristocrat? A shop foreman, for example. A respected townsman. A peasant, finally! Is a diploma with a seal really the only thing that distinguishes a true man of honor from a low-born wretch with a tight purse?

Shotan pressed his lips together, wondering how Wartensleben's eldest daughter would answer a difficult question that had plagued the real aristocracy for at least a century. However, the duke showed signs that it was better to leave, and the count tacitly agreed. Indeed, let all sorts of mutts guard the door, real nobles do not belong to it. You should live in such a way that the monarchs themselves call you.

" So,” Curzio poured the pink wine into the glasses.

The Blue Palace did not have an overabundance of servants, and the wing was cleared of all intruders during study hours. Ottovio had not yet developed the useful habit of concentrating on mental work, and he found himself distracted, so his self-proclaimed mentors decided that no occasion meant no distraction.

Shotan sipped his drink, counting the number of rooms separating their small study from the library. The layout was old and enfiladed, so in the event of an attack, the enemy would have to walk through a straight line of chambers under a crossbow and magical fire. Magic was a problem nowadays, but there were plenty of good crossbows. Especially after craftsmen learned to make “puffed” shoulders, as well as to cut out of hard metal gears for rack and pinion mechanisms. As a result, even wealthy citizens could afford powerful and at the same time compact weapons and the “ masters of arrows” from the south lost their monopoly on the refined art of crossbow shooting. Although, of course, whoever has the opportunity to choose will always hire a man with a blue tattoo on his face rather than an ordinary ruthier.

"Well,” Wartensleben said with his usual caution. "I'd say things are going... pretty well so far,” the duke thought for a moment and then admitted. "I thought it would be worse."

"Yes,” agreed Shotan. "I will disclose that I also shared your skepticism. But the measure of every work is its completion and its result. So we still have to wait for the deserved fruits."

The Count sighed, took a sip, and added with unusual sincerity:

"It remains to be seen when success will knock on our doors."

"Well, that'll be easy,” Wartensleben indicated a feeble grin. "There's a very good signal."

"Yes?" Shotan raised an eyebrow.

"That's right,” Curzio interjected. "May I try to guess?" He turned to the Duke.

Wartensleben, staring bilefully into the untouched glass with the look of someone dying of thirst in the middle of the desert, only nodded.

"It will be obvious that we are on the road to success when another petitioner or complainer brings his complaint not to the Council, but to us,” Curzio said very seriously. "When I or one of you gentlemen is handed a scroll with a petition and offered... let us say, a modest thanks for the petition, then it will be clear that we are on the right track. And if it is repeated a dozen times, if middle-class nobles begin to seek our friendship, hoping to be presented to His Majesty... Then we can say that we have succeeded."

Wartensleben silently saluted his glass, recognizing the justice of what he had heard.

"Reasonable,” agreed Shotan. "Then we should continue to work in the agreed direction."

"And your turn will come soon, my good friend,” Curzio raised the vessel on its long stem. "By the way, the matter with this idiot is settled."

"So I don't have to kill him?" Shotan clarified without a trace of pretense.

"No,” Curzio grinned. "He was rewarded and sent away."

"That's good news,” the duke said, touching his lips to the wine, but no more than that. Wartensleben had been suffering from liver cramps for three days, and the wine made the pain worse. The duke did not want to show weakness in front of his fellow conspirators, so he suffered in silence pretending that the wine was not refined enough for his noble person.

"Yes. The Privy Council looks at all this with distrust,” Curzio said. "But for now they will not prevent us. The time seems long at first glance, but the task is great, and not a single day must be wasted."

"Nice,” said Shotan, smiling at a recent memory. "Nice..."

* * *

A few days earlier, the Count had walked leisurely but purposefully to the arena where a very expensive and generous tutor was attempting to teach the Emperor the wisdom of mounted combat.

The Count carried a naked sword of a strange kind in his hands, holding it under its broad hilt, so that the blade rested on his breast and shoulder, almost touching the point of his ear. Behind Shotan were three hasty gendarmes, ready at any moment to carry out the orders of their commander and patron without hesitation or delay. Shotan and the master had already clashed once before in a fierce pique and were separated, one might say, “at the very edges”. This time the Count was going to finish the matter without leaving any ambiguities. He walked under the unusually warm, almost spring sun and, smiling relaxedly, thought how everything would end.

There were many sins attributed to Shotan, and most of the rumors were true in one way or another. Only one accusation, that of his love for murder, remained completely false. In fact, the “soldier count” did not feel anything special about the process of taking a life. Shotan perceived it as an ordinary action, which had a cause and effect and was not too pleasing to Pantocrator, so it had to be done for the sake of achieving some kind of profit. Now the captain of the cavalry company envisioned the possibility that the visiting dandy would decide to test his fate and die as a result. And... that was it. Just one possibility out of many.

As usual, the site, covered with the best river sand, was cordoned off by guards. Prince Guyot knew the matter well and was anxious that Ottovio should be under guard at all times, except on special occasions. The Count, with a careless gesture, ordered his escort to halt at a distance so as not to make the guards nervous. One armed man in close proximity to the regal body would suffice.

It didn't take supernatural insight to realize from afar that the lesson was a failure, just like all the previous ones. It was predictable and logical. Horses and carriages were not in use on Saltoluchard. Bonomes traveled on stretchers, and it was one of the few opportunities to publicly show their wealth to the city and the world, because the labor of porters is expensive, in addition, according to tradition, they should be beautifully and again expensively dressed at the expense of the owner. Knights in their usual form were also rare on the island. A man should show his valor on the deck of a galley, with sword or coin scales, as the case may be. And to ride a horse with a spear is foolishness and pampering, and disproportionately expensive. That's why the island nobles were not good riders.

Shotan himself thought it was simple: at first, it had been too expensive for the islanders to have horses, for the stony land was chronically short of food for humans, and even less so for the voracious creatures. Then, as the centuries passed, forced frugality became a virtue and a carefully preserved tradition. But the Count kept this opinion to himself, believing that not every thought that could be spoken should be spoken.

In general, the young emperor, arriving in the capital, did not know how not only to ride a horse but even properly hold a saddle. This was no secret to his subjects and, of course, did not add to the sympathy of the pillars of society, as well as the noble youth. The problem was recognized and even corrected, but from what Shotan had seen with his own eyes, the cure was more of a poison.

The count nodded and greeted the commander of the infantry battalion, who looked very much like a prince, probably some relative... Though all Highlanders are in one way or another similar in appearance, with their stupid pigtails and no less stupid knots on their bellies. The commander could have been ignored, especially since the knight did not have the slightest respect for the Peshtsy. But the Count believed it was not worth multiplying ill-wishers unnecessarily, so he was polite to the extent that the infantry was not subjected to outright humiliation.

The Count pretended not to notice the slanting glances of the guards sliding on the blade in the nobleman's hands and stepping onto the sand of the arena. He did not go far, however. Shotan was among those who were allowed to approach the Emperor's body not just with weapons, but with a naked blade. However, one could understand the guards, too, considering how Ottovio's predecessor was rumored to have left this world. Hiding an ironic smile at the corners of his lips, Shotan looked on the 'lesson'.

What can one say... the emperor's destrier was magnificent. A marvelous beast of the purest blood, the product of centuries of painstaking crossbreeding. Horse breeding was perhaps the only trade that survived the Cataclysm almost unscathed. Sages and mages swore that today's knights mounted the exact same horses as the great heroes of antiquity, steeped in the memory of the ages. Shotan felt a prick of black envy as he looked at the red-haired beauty. The Count was not poor but could not afford such a beast. It was unlikely that the entire Ecumene would be able to gather a full dozen equal to this destrier. Well, in this case, Saltoluchard had been generous. And the sadder was the picture unfolding around the marvelous horse.

"No, no, no!" said, literally shouted the mentor. "Your position is not the right one!"

The palpable accent and word placement indicated a native of the Southwest generally recognized as the best horseman as well as the master of mounted combat.

Ottovio hunched in his saddle like a peasant on a nag, not the lord of the world on a magnificent horse. The emperor's face was a picture of universal longing and despondency. The horse was breathing heavily and looked tired. On the moving muzzle beneath the gold embroidered headpiece was an expression remarkably similar to Ottovio's grimace. The Count glanced at the nearby keeper of the palace stables, and the two connoisseurs shook their heads sadly, understanding each other without words.

“Only a turn!” the mentor fervently argued. “No leaning! If you bend, you make the horse strain too much, and the animal gets tired much faster. And in battle or in a gallop you can fall out of the saddle. You control the horse by turning the seat and forcing the spine of the horse to bend in the right direction!”

Ottovio tried honestly to follow the instructions but to no avail. The horse blasted the sand uselessly with his hoofs, squinted his dark eyes sadly, and wagged his long tail irritably. It was obvious that the emperor was languishing in anticipation when the torture of riding would finally end, and he could return to reading the old papyrus in the company of Biel ausf Wartensleben.

Marquise Wartensleben ...

What a woman, Shotan thought. How did the old fox from Malersyde do it? His son was a freak, but he had three daughters by different wives, none of them like the others, and all of them beautiful. Maybe it's time for the Count to get married. He wonder what the Duke would say to a request for Biel's hand in marriage?

"Left hand, left hand!" No longer shy, the mentor shouted. "Don't pull! You can't pull the reins like that! You're tearing the animal's lips, it's not a plow!"

Shotan sighed, thinking that the islanders were idiots after all. Yes, they had chests full of gold (though not so full now), and they could make money by turning anything, including hopes, dreams, and other ephemeral entities, into coins. But the degenerates, who pride themselves on their ancient and ridiculous clothes along with equally ridiculous hairstyles, did not have the imperial mindset of a jeweler's grain. For the last few weeks the islanders - the members of the Council of Regents and the emissaries scurrying between the capital and the Island - had seemed to the Count like children who had borrowed a rich toy from their strict parents, but did not know what to do with it. Their actions were generally correct, and the captain could not deny it. The Saltoluchardians were trying to clean up the Court's tangled bookkeeping, to update the lists of lands, name privileges, forest registers, and other property. But they were doing it without due deference and the right attitude, like true merchants.

And now... Yes, the eighth son rides like a sack of rotten rutabagas, but he is the Emperor, and the humiliation is public. Of course, there is no one here but the guards and the Highlanders are strangers in Milvesse, they are not in the mood to talk too much. And yet... They are men who drink in the taverns and, when drunk, boast like all men. Many have constant mistresses with whom their tongues are loosened, some owe moneylenders and pay with snitching. Everything that happens here is bound to spill out in rumors into the quiet offices of the Bonoms, and then onto the dirty streets of Milvess.

The mentor in the meantime, was trying to instill in his mentee the knowledge of how to defend his horse against enemy attacks. Shotan caught the Guard commander's gaze, displeased and even partly guilty. The Highlander was uncomfortable to see a dandy raising his voice at his lord, the Guardsman tried to look away so as not to see the shameful picture, but then he remembered his duty and the need to supervise. Ottovio pined even more, the mentor infuriated at his apprentice's stupidity.

You can't do that. No, absolutely not, the Count thought, and although he had originally intended to wait until the lesson was over, he decided that some things were better done sooner rather than later. Shotan moved towards the center of the arena, wasting no time in sighing or any of the other rituals people used to encourage themselves before taking decisive action. He literally felt the guards' hands tense, gripping the shortened halberds, more like long poleaxes, tighter. The Count didn't look back, but he knew that his small retinue had in turn adjusted their belts and scabbards, ready to come to his aid at any moment.

"Never, never, remember it, under no circumstances should you let go of the reins," the instructor calmed down a little and did not shout anymore. Then he made an expressive speech concerning the defense of the horse in a cavalry fight, where not only lances but also shorter weapons were used.

"Your Imperial Majesty,” Shotan came closer and made a perfect bow, keeping his sword in his hand. The captain spoke the full title with emphasized respect as if he wanted to emphasize the contrast between himself and the stranger. The Emperor responded with a look of gratitude, while the dandy was completely “missing the point,” puffed up with insulted pride.

"Count, it is good to see you,” said the Emperor, sincerely pleased.

"Leave us alone, please!" The teacher's words sounded almost like an order, which surprised Shotan a little. "Wait for your turn to show the techniques of your low art."

Shotan was even more surprised and looked around to see if the assassins were creeping up behind him. In any case, he would have used such defiant words only to provoke and then kill. The Master misinterpreted the gesture as a sign of uncertainty, and continued like a true primator:

"Yes, yes, please move aside!"

"I don't see any reason for that,” the Shotan said with a slight curve of his pale lips. "I have come to teach His Majesty another useful lesson, and I intend to do so. You, on the other hand, should leave immediately."

"This is not for you to decide!" The tutor mixed up the order of words again trying to make the phrase sound as pompous and important as possible. "You must wait your turn, and from now on be more courteous! My science is the pinnacle of excellence for every warrior and is always first in line. To other things, you should devote your leisure hours."

He asked for it, the count smiled in his heart. But he said aloud, maintaining his typical look of a revived statue without a single emotion on his handsome face:

"Yes, I thought so, too, until I was knocked out of my saddle at a nameless village. Afterward, I was surrounded by men with clubs and axes, despicable but numerous. It was because I was foolish at the time..." Shotan paused deliberately to emphasize what followed. "...like you. And followed advice as stupid... as yours. But fortunately, I had the time and wisdom to overcome this vice."

The Count turned his whole body toward the Emperor, from whom the longing and sadness had fled like powder in the wind. Shotan now addressed Ottovio defiantly.

"Forgive me the sin of impatience, Your Majesty, for I have taken the liberty of interrupting your study. But my motive was purely loyalty. Loyalty has to point out a mistake to one's lord so that it does not grow into an ulcer."

"How dare you...” said the master, whom the Count almost felt sorry for. Indeed, in such a situation one should either take up the sword at once or demonstrate the wonders of rhetoric, beautifully parrying impudent words. The visiting - and very expensive - tutor was definitely not a master of either.

Where did the islanders get this dummy?..

"I dare,” Shotan interrupted him. "Anyone who has ever been in a real attack, who has seen a line of spades in front of him, knows that the first thing to protect is the horse's head. Destrii are strong and mighty, they die hard in battle and take pain easily. But as soon as a horse receives a tangible blow to the head, it refuses to move forward, whether in column or in formation. And the infantry know this very well."

Shotan made a half-turn as if appealing to the guardsmen who cordoned off the arena. The silent Highlanders with halberds and capes in the colors of the House of Gotdua bowed their heads in agreement. They, in general, despised the Count just as the Count despised them - here, another dressed and powdered knight like a girl, who puffs and flaunts himself while on horseback and looking down on the world. But as soon as he gets out of the saddle, having received a halberd on his face, he immediately loses his gloss and beauty, crying like the same girl, begging the angry pikers to take him prisoner instead of killing him on the spot. But the noble dandy with the stone face and the strange sword spoke his mind.

"Moreover, it is not in every skirmish that a knight seeks to keep the enemy's horse unharmed,” continued Shotan, preventing the master from intervening. "And there are those who dare to aim at the animal, risking an unanswered blow from the rider, relying on armor alone. That is why a warrior must protect his faithful four-legged companion, and above all his head."

The count took another step forward, looking up at the emperor from below.

"Your Majesty, this teacher is stupid and ignorant. Cast him away. To learn the science of war, you need not someone dressed up and can fill a large room with beautiful certificates of fictitious merit. but one who knows how terrible the fourth horn sounds to a horseman. How teeth grind when the faceted tip hits the helmet, how the air is knocked out of the chest by the impact with the ground."

"The fourth horn?" Ottovio clarified. "I don't understand..."

"I teach great warriors! Those who never lose a stirrup, let alone a saddle!" Shotan realized what he had long suspected: he was no combat master A true fighter would have challenged the Count with any weapon right here and now. He was most likely an ordinary Voltigeur who had slipped a recommendation to the right man when the islanders needed to find a mentor for Ottovio. And a fool, too, to interrupt the Emperor so aggressively.

The Count, no longer trying to be courtly, grinned in a frankly mocking grin and said, minting his words like the strokes of a claw:

"There is no warrior who has not lost his stirrups. Even the greatest of the great have tasted their blood on their tongue from bruised lungs. Whoever claims otherwise has never known real combat."

"And... you too?" Ottovio asked, not believing his ears.

"Of course,” Shotan smiled modestly. "And more than once. The dignity of a true warrior is not in never falling under an enemy's attack, for that is impossible. It is to get up every time."

The Count turned to the master and ordered coldly, as to a random person who is only admitted to a noble body by misunderstanding:

"Please leave. Your advice is bad and you are no longer needed here."

The tutor was a nobleman, which implied a bright, accentuated, on the verge of morbid imagination sense of aristocratic dignity and paranoid readiness to defend his honor at any moment. But the Count did not behave like a man, but rather like an element that could not be counteracted, and the equestrian teacher trembled, not understanding how one should behave in such a situation.

"I-” He swallowed nervously. "I'll complain to the Council..."

"Then I'll be clearer,” said Shotan. "Get out. Or, if my actions offend you...."

The Count retreated a few paces but left his sword on his shoulder for the time being. Shotan's pause, however, was itself exhaustive and frank. The mentor crumpled, looking around, realizing he would find no sympathy, much less support, here. He turned and walked away, throwing angry glances over his shoulder, alternating with inarticulate hisses.

"Your Majesty,” Shotan bowed in a half bow as if making a point of separating the sad events that had offended the ruler's eyes and ears a few minutes ago. The Count deliberately omitted “Imperial,” experimenting to see if some intimacy and familiarity, was acceptable between the Emperor and his mentor.

"I apologize if my assertiveness offended your ears."

"Nevermind..." Ottovio did not seem to understand how to react to such aggressiveness in the presence of suzerain. But apparently, the joy of deliverance won out. The servant readily held up Ottovio's strive, and the emperor jumped to the sand. Not too deftly, without proper practice, but not hopelessly so.

"If it pleases Your Majesty,” Shotan bowed his head. "I will select a few warriors from my company who will be honored to be your assistants. And I'll be glad to share some practical knowledge of mounted combat myself."

Ottovio glanced toward the Count's minions and shuddered faintly. Shotan usually took with him the most ghastly and beastlike of fighters, whose extensive experience of war and vice was written on their faces like a criminal's testimony in a court book. While the servants were taking the horse to the stall, the Emperor took off his gloves and slipped them behind his belt, stepping closer to the Count.

"I don't like horses,” Ottovio said softly. "Why learn something you'll never use? Emperors don't lead armies into battle."

"Yes, that is so," agreed Shotan, and Ottovio looked at his interlocutor with bewilderment. The emperor waited for the count to argue, defending the perfection and necessity of a truly chivalrous occupation.

"The ruler's weapons are the word and the inkwell,” continued Shotan. "But first a nobleman must be good in the saddle. Besides, we cannot predict our fate. Who knows where and when we will have to fight for our lives?"

Shotan thought about hinting to Ottovio that he might end up like the previous Gotdua but decided that would be inappropriate. But judging by the grim expression on his face, the emperor was thinking of something similar.

"What does the fourth horn mean?" The emperor asked.

"The mounted attack takes place at four signals. First, the cavalry march at a step, “boot to boot”. Then the bugle trumpets for the first time, and the troop moves to a trot, gradually accelerating. At the second signal, the riders accelerate, rising to a “long” trot. The third horn is the order to gallop. When the trumpet calls for the fourth time, the knights tilt their lances and aim at their opponents. Usually, this happens forty or fifty paces before the enemy formation. Earlier is not possible, the shaft retains flexibility and if you lower it too early, the tip will begin to wriggle like a witch's kettle in the cauldron. After that, it is impossible to stop the attack. Therefore, the fourth horn symbolizes inevitability. When it is sounded, the knight either wins or loses, the third is not given."

"That's interesting,” Ottovio said thoughtfully, clutching his knitted belt with its gilded buckle. "I didn't know. And your cavalrymen can't stop after the fourth horn either?"

Shotan smiled modestly and replied laconically, feeling unaccustomed pride, unaccustomed because he was bragging about his personal successes in front of what was essentially a boy.

"Mine can. But I have the best company in the eight corners of the world. There are no others like this."

"And did you have to...cancel the push?"

"It's happened. It's a good way to disperse a low-spirited opponent without too many casualties. Actually, open combat doesn't happen very often. Rarely, in fact. Usually, when two squads converge, whether mounted or on foot, you can see who is worth what. The weaker side retreats or starts bargaining. A fight is rare, and a hard fight, even to the death, is even rarer."

"Have you ever had to fight like that?"

"Yes."

When he said that, Shotan felt the painful sting in his right leg again. The limb had long ago been repaired by the best magicians, the bones mended, the scars smoothed. It cost the young viscount everything: his horse, his armor, even the Pantocrator symbol made of cheap copper - a gift from his mother - and two loyal servants whom Shotan had sold to wealthier cavalrymen. The magicians had done their job perfectly. But as soon as he thought of the old case, the pain returned, as if only yesterday a man's club had fallen on the hip of the young, overconfident knight, shattering both his youth and his overconfidence.

Ottovio lowered his head, staring into the sand.

"Maybe I can add some variety to your teaching,” Shotan suggested modestly.

"In what way?" The emperor asked absent-mindedly, still thinking about his thoughts.

"With this simple tool,” Shotan showed the sword he had brought, a strange weapon that Ottovio had never seen before.

The sword had a very long hilt and a simple cross-shaped guard devoid of rings and hooks. It continued with a leaf-shaped blade without a dol, unusually short relative to the hilt. It seemed that someone tried to combine a “galley” sword, a shovel, and an oar. It was not clear what this thing could be used for.

"What an amazing... device,” Ottovio puckered his lips.

"Very practical,” Shotan said. "It's shorter than a galley sword, the blade is the same length as the hilt, but the weight and balance are exactly the same as the real thing."

"Then why not use a normal weapon?"

"Here, the shape of the blade promotes an accurate understanding of how not to hit flat, which is the bane of long sword owners. With this, you'll learn how to chop properly faster. It's also useful to have a deadly weapon that looks ridiculously harmless. I've known masters who went out in search of a fight with only a wooden sword or cleaver, or even an ordinary stick. They seemed weak, but those tempted by their powerlessness were surprised."

"Hmmm...” Ottovio was still looking at the ‘paddle’ skeptically. "I'll be honest, I think I'm even less enthusiastic about swords than horses."

Shotan noted that the young man's speech had improved, becoming... richer. That's what a few days of relaxed conversation with the right person meant. Still, this Biele... what a woman! What beautiful skin she has. Clear, smooth, amazing texture. Perfect material, the cut on such a one goes sculpturally clear, and the scars are as even and thin as drawn in ink.

Out loud, the count said:

"And let me tell you, it's a waste. A big sword is a good sword in itself. It is suitable for the field, the crowded street, and even the rickety deck. Once the fighter has mastered this weapon, he will be able to fight effortlessly with a pole, a city spear, or a shorter, lighter sword. In addition, regular exercise makes the muscles dense and rounded, allowing you to retain bodily strength for many years. Those who properly exercise with it, always have healthy joints, such masters bypass the scourge of old people - a painful lower back. And adepts of the long blade never complain of male impotence."

Shotan lowered his sword and turned the hilt toward the emperor.

"Take it,” the Count asked. "Take it tight. Feel its power."

Ottovio gave a slight grimace of disdain but held out his hand. The Highlanders on guard tensed perceptibly, more out of habit than actual danger.

"Imagine how much work went into this creation,” Shotan said with a soft smile, and he looked as if he were in a completely different place, far away from here.

"First, the mining masters explored the veins with the best iron and extracted it from the womb of the Pillars. For only there is the best metal in the Oikumene. Often the miners had to fight demons and creatures that could still be found deep underground. The particles of precious metal were then melted down and turned into ingots of steel. They were scorched by the heat of the blast furnaces, in which a part of the infernal flames burned, they were crushed by water hammers, forging the basis for the future sword. Then the best blacksmiths, who take only gold as payment, turned the iron strip into a real blade. They hardened it, giving it diamond hardness while keeping it flexible. Then the grinders polished the sword to the point where you can look into it like a mirror."

Ottovio raised the blade with a look as if he could actually feel the awesome power of the masterful workmanship encased in the metal.

"This weapon is a fusion of wealth and power,” continued Shotan. "The labor of many people whose skills have been honed over decades. The hope and pride of a shameless work. And that power now belongs to you alone. Only to you."

Ottovio gripped the practice sword tighter and raised it upright, catching the polished plane in the dim rays of the midday sun. Softly and almost timidly, he said, more like an eighth son than an Emperor:

"Teach me."

Shotan took a step back and bowed with the words:

"I would be honored, Your Imperial Majesty."

* * *

"Nice,” Shotan repeated, squinting like a ferret that had stolen meat from the master's table.

"And now, honorable ones,” Curzio rubbed his hands together. "Allow me to propose another idea for your consideration."

"You live in remarkable times,” Wartensleben said, still grouchy. Curzio held back a smile as he watched the acrimonious old man try not to show his bodily ailments.

"Yes, interesting times. Useful ideas multiply like weeds in an uncultivated field."

"It's a good idea,” Curzio said very seriously, and the angry old man fell silent.

"Which one?" Shotan asked, still smiling.

"The emperor needs companions."

"The Emperor already has companions," the Duke immediately joined the opposition. "That's us!"

"Absolutely,” Curzio agreed at once. "Flawless, the best of the best! And efforts should be made to keep it that way. But he needs a combat retinue."

"Uh...” Wartensleben muttered. "You don't mean the Getaires, do you?"

"Exactly,” Curzio bowed his head.

"What is it about?" Shotan asked. "I remember it was something from ancient history, but my education was... rather sketchy."

"Young nobles who will become His Majesty's companions, special assistants, bodyguards, and so on,” Curzio noticed the squeamish grimace on Shotan's face and clarified. "The poor and beggars, of course. Those who have nothing to look forward to under the present circumstances. Those who can only get something from the Emperor's hands. Of course, we'll choose them carefully, collecting on each...."

Curzio wiggled his fingers, trying to remember if there was a counterpart to the word “dossier” in mainland dialects

"We understand,” Wartensleben answered for both himself and the Count. "The boys must understand that their loyalty is divided in two."

"Yes."

Shotan ran his fingertips over his face, fixing a stray curl.

"Getaires...” he repeated as if tasting the word for flavor. "The Emperor's personal axe which does not obey the Council of Regents. Or rather, it may not obey... It won't be easy. Your..." the Count emphasized the word clearly, addressing Curzio."They won't like it."

"They would not like it if we recruited young men from the families of high Bonoms, much less Primators. It would be interpreted as an attack on the exclusive representation of the Council, a desire to bring the nobility of Milvess to our side. And no one is interested in the petty nobility."

Wartensleben grinned, and his teeth snapped like the fangs of a hyena.

"Meanwhile, they will be trained by experienced warriors from the company of the gracious captain?" the Duke clarified. "The ones who can make even a lousy peasant into a good warrior in a matter of months?"

"Exactly,” Curzio grinned. "Cheap, promiscuous youths and mercenaries. What could be more boring and harmless?"

The three noblemen smiled silently at each other, and these smiles would have made an experienced physiognomist tremble. But there were no witnesses to the conversation, so there was no one to tremble.

* * *

It has to be said that Shotan is not lying at all. The classical two-handed sword is indeed an excellent training tool and provides a good base for using other weapons. That is why it was in use until the XVII century inclusive, although the age of the small sword had already come.

About the joints - also true, I was acquainted with a man who quite successfully bought his lower back problems by exercising with montante.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/83056/579628

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP