Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Chapter 12

Part II

Apron

Chapter 12

"Baron, I break my vassal oath! You no longer serve me!" The Count proclaimed, and the invisible shackles dissolved, releasing the Iron Knight. No longer bound by the bonds of honor, the Knight drew his sword and stepped towards the confused Baron. The Redeemers and Grimal shrieked in unison, acting as a crowd, although in this case, it was possible to do without additional effects - the crowd of spectators was doing a good job on its own. But, as Kimutz used to say, shouting was never enough.

Ranjan swung his sword with jewel-like precision, and blood gushed like a bucket. The total washing of the evil baron's clothes after each performance became the main expense of the theater, but it was worth it; the naturalistic murder of the traitorous nobleman made the audience gasp with ecstatic delight, which, in turn, turned into quite a material profit. While Maryadek, the permanent villain of all productions, naturally squirmed in terrible agony, Grimal grinned in a sincere and smug smile. It must be said, he had good reason to do so. The silent servant had discovered his talent as a natural master of special effects, among other things he had invented and perfected a system of ropes and guts filled with fresh blood hidden under his clothes. Paint, alas, was no good. Every spectator had either slaughtered livestock at least once or just had a good idea of what real blood looked like.

Elena sighed and wiped the sweat from her forehead, she was done for the day. Then there was a touching scene of the reunion of a noble family, a beautiful closing composition on the flute played by Gaval, after the obligatory reading of the moral of the work and, finally, the traditional launching of the hat into the ranks of grateful spectators, but all this was already going without a healer. Elena played mostly young boys, subtle men, as well as villains with whom the Iron Knight fought.

The woman looked through the gap between the two boards and smiled too, though more sparingly than Grimal. The performance went well again. The theater was no longer a full house - the whole district had long since been covered by the cultural program - but the two passing merchants and their guards - about half a dozen men - more than compensated for the day and the washing of the Baron's bloody clothes.

Today the main program was over, and the new rehearsal of “The Ship of the Pious” was planned only for tomorrow, so Elena was completely free. Conditionally, of course, given the tight schedule for the second half of the day. It was cold in the barn that the group had rented for the organization of the long-term scene, so the woman tried to change her clothes quickly, turning from a villainous crossbowman back into a healer-actor-screenwriter.

Ranjan passed by with his helmet under his arm. The helmet was good albeit of papier-mâché, but with a movable visor and a bouviger chin. Joaquina was following the brether, chirping like a songbird. She had a pleasant voice. The acrobat glared angrily at Elena, as if she had borrowed money and wouldn't give it back, then concentrated on Ranjan again. Brether answered one-worded, though he generally tried to be friendly. The swordsman was still not fully recovered; to the uninformed, he moved with the grace of a leopard, but Elena had already noticed with a more or less trained eye how the Brether avoided raising his right arm high and took care of his left side. Joaquina had taken over the care of the convalescent from the beginning and seemed a little jealous. Or not a little... Things with the acrobat were complicated as hell.

* * *

The travelers, as they say, were lucky. The cavalcade of pursuers did not stop at all and galloped past. Whether it was the general attitude to circus performers and theater-goers as people of vanity, tumbleweeds, and incapable of serious work. Whether the rabble team of exhausted fatigued people in no way resembled bloody killers ready to kill seven professionals, not the weakest fighters. Whether due to the night circumstances, the townspeople had concocted some collective image of villains, extremely far from reality. Perhaps the cavalrymen did not pursue anyone, going about their business and having nothing to do with the chase. Or maybe all of them at once, but, one way or another, they got away with it. And further, it was necessary to fulfill the obligations undertaken. The wagons, laden with new luggage, moved to the south-west, and Elena sat down close to the stove, took out a wax tablet, and began to chew thoughtfully on a writing stick...,

* * *

Artigo, as usual, sat in his corner, next to the portable stove, and drew. When Elena could afford real paper (in small quantities, of course, but still), she gave the boy her wax tablet and stylus, and showed him how to use it, for Artigo had never taken a wax tablet in his hands, being accustomed to expensive papyrus and the best ink. The young nobleman was suddenly addicted to drawing and filled every spare minute with it. He depicted mostly castles, knights, and a man and a woman in ducal crowns. The child clearly sublimated his longing for his parents and former life. Elena kept trying, finally, to engage in a normal upbringing of the emperor, but each time rolled another shaft of urgent concerns, and she promised - tomorrow for sure! But “tomorrow” left on the day after tomorrow and so on, of course, due to objective circumstances. Elena made a vow to herself that today she would finally think of something and do it. What remained to be thought of was what. Artigo was simply afraid of his peers, and Elena understood him perfectly well, she would not dare to play with grimy monkeys, whose normal pastime was to throw sticks to death fox mice catcher. Sports games were avoided by the boy. There was nothing to read because there were only ledgers, prayer books, and church records of births and deaths within reach.

However, Elena had an idea, and it was only necessary to find time to try to realize it. But that would come later...

* * *

The production of “The Terminator” was generally successful (of course it was!), but it was not the success the writer and director had hoped for. The troupe was just getting accustomed to each other, most of them had no idea what acting was. Brains, not accustomed to memorizing a large amount of printed text, categorically refused to hold the author's lines. In addition, religious motives decided to soften, just in case. Also, the “folk”, vulgar manner of narration, when the characters did not recite rhymed prose “to be or not to be”, and spoke in ordinary language, did not bring bonuses to the production. But Elena judiciously assessed her poetic talents.

In general, it turned out to be quite an original play, which went well, and allowed the group to solve the food crisis, but nothing more. However, it should be noted the story was incredibly well-liked by Rapist. It seemed the Redeemer was ready to watch the performance as much as he wanted and had memorized all of Elena's original lyrics by heart. It seems the monk was seriously hooked by the idea of sacrifice, unknown and generally inglorious death for the sake of all people. Perhaps, Elena thought, it was logical in its own way; people might not know, but God sees everything.

The second approach turned out to be more successful. The group had their hands full, updated the rudimentary props, correctly distributed the roles, and the original concept of “Robocop” allowed them to adapt it with minimal losses, without adjustments for religious motives. Murphy became a horribly burned knight who took a vow to keep the city's order without showing anyone his mangled face hidden by the helmet's visor. This, at the same time, allowed the production to use Ranjan with his distinct and memorable face. The corporation became an earl family that owns, among other things, a city. The corrupted administrator became a sinister baron-city governor, who was prevented by the Iron Knight from making a fortune from despicable smuggling and plundering of taxes. Maryadek was created for the role of demonic villains. He could not play at all, but it was not required, the grim face and the devilish laughter of the former poacher made children scream in terror and women shudder.

In addition, Elena had finally managed to explain to Joaquina and Kimutz that there was no need to waste precious silver by buying expensive decorations that looked pathetic on a typical set in typical lighting. It needs to be simpler, and more concise, letting the viewer's imagination finish the rest. One canvas with a few rectangles painted in cheap black paint is not too expensive, conveniently rolls up, and perfectly depicts a city street.

And the business went on. Moreover, the problem of folk language suddenly turned out to be a benefit from a place where it was not expected. The essence is that the traveling circus, according to the old tradition, supplied the people with lowly spectacles suitable for the lowly masses. Complex dramatic plots from the lives of privileged strata remained the domain of troupes at the aristocratic courts forming a specific language of narration. This had been the tradition for a long time, and it continued to be so without taking into account the fact the literacy rate was slowly growing, and even in small towns real books were appearing. It was a typical situation when an unconscious demand had already formed, but no one had yet thought of satisfying it.

And suddenly - without any devious intent, due to hopelessness, as well as the special cultural baggage of the scriptwriter - their theater spoke about complex things in simple, human language, without the local Latin, that is, the old pre-imperial dialect, without florid poetry, and also - oh, horror! - even with the common swearing. The simpler viewer saw something he had never been shown before, and he could understand it. The more sophisticated left the show with the feeling that they had been cheated, but in a strange way, showing more than they should for a penny. It seems that Elena, without expecting it, had organized a revolution in the theatrical art of Ecumena with incomprehensible but long-term consequences.

All in all, with the adjustment for the fact that winter was considered the dead season, the production made a sold-out within the three counties and several other smaller entities. Success was facilitated by the unusual activity of the merchant class, which, instead of writing out plans for the warm season, was scurrying around like with stick in the ass. It was as if every merchant had been told in confidence that goods and money would run out in the spring. And when people travel riskily in an unfavorable season, carrying various valuables and a lot of nervousness, they want to have fun somehow.

* * *

Elena stomped down the street, habitually avoiding the puddles kept from freezing by passersby and bystanders, breaking the thin crust of ice. The surroundings were strikingly similar to the Wasteland and the Gate, with an adjustment for fewer angry faces and more prosperity. The same people in general, the same clatter of wooden shoes or wooden “hooves” worn by wealthy townspeople on their leather shoes for better preservation. The same brief greetings - the circus had been in town for a long time, for two months already, and the locals knew all the participants by sight, respecting them greatly for their profits. The troupe didn't pay city taxes, but according to the old custom they “brought in” where they should, not to mention food, repairs, and other expenses. In addition, lately, various people have begun to come especially for cultural entertainment, again leaving money in pubs, lodgings, and shops.

It was dusk, light snow that hadn't melted for a long time, covering her clothes with beautiful stars. Elena walked with clenched fists in her fingerless woolen mittens and wondered whether Joaquina would succeed in getting Ranjan into bed or not. Why should the healer care? But the thought swirled and came back again like a pesky and cunning mosquito successfully avoiding the palm of her hand.

* * *

Joaquina, as Elena understood, was a girl of experience and hardened by the hardships of life. As soon as Ranjan recovered from his wounds and began to get up, the circus girl immediately laid her eyes on the tall and handsome Brether, defining him as her favorite and protector. Which, in general, was common sense - an artist can be offended (and robbed) by anyone, and a woman even more so. Obviously, if Ranjan wanted to, he would quickly become a lover, protector, and co-owner of a circus that had been repurposed as a theater. Joaquina's problem was that the brether had no intention of becoming either a favorite or an intercessor. He didn't seem to understand what the acrobat was expecting at all. All the swordsman's thoughts were turned to the boy and his safety, so all Joaquina's more explicit hints slid like water on a greasy frying pan. The girl did not stop, and Elena sometimes thought that it would be necessary to push the process somehow, so that the tension in the group would not grow, fraught with conflict, but, as with Artigo's education, something always got in the way.

* * *

There was an inn, aka a mini-hotel, one of three in the town. The town was bigger than the one where the bloodshed had happened, and it specialized not in carpenters but in potters. Brickmakers were also starting to come here, so it was likely to have a good future. Elena retreated to the wall of the nearest house, letting a string of gingerbread artisans who were on their way to work. Again - unseasonably early, at least a couple of months before the lines of misfit tradesmen began to converge on the big cities. The gingerbread-makers looked moderately cheerful and, apparently, did not intend to stop for the night. They walked lightly, without carts, as it is customary for peasants on a campaign for city money or wandering artel workers. They had axes and knives, and everything else - the same seals for gingerbread - would be made on the spot or rented for cheap. The wanderers had good backpacks. Elena remembered again that she hadn't gotten a new one, but she should have, it was the first tool on a long journey.

They were already waiting for her, a small queue of five or six people lined up at the entrance, all with the same begging faces, on which the expression of the poor and the weak had been fixed in advance. Elena gestured to the future clients, and they said hello, some of them even took off their hats. By the way, the heavy door on a very tight hinge opened, letting out a thoroughly beaten man, who was in free fall, barely touching the boards with his feet. Leaping like a downed airplane off the low porch without a railing, the man fell soundly into a puddle and seemed to fall asleep immediately. The innkeeper gave Elena his usual stern look, and she slipped him a quarter of a penny and went inside, stepping under the sign with a crudely painted axe.

The inn seemed larger from the inside than from the outside, and considerably so. It was two stories high, with two “halls” and several “offices” for gambling and other behind-the-scenes activities. In one hall, that is, a large room, mostly ate and drank, in the other, on the contrary, drinking, and snacking. Elena nodded to the servants and waved to the courtkeeper, a large, pudgy man who was proud of his military past and even nicknamed the place “Under the Halberd”. The money, however, was only enough for a drawing of an axe, but that didn't bother the customers.

Elena was tired and hungry, but the money in her purse needed saving, and besides, five or six customers meant that a full stomach was guaranteed today. So the fried pig intestines and potted rutabaga were left to others, and the dish of the day - porridge with stewed embryos from matured eggs - the woman was not tempted.

Elena walked to the far corner, thinking on the way that bread was being served less and less, and that it cost more and more and was baked not in the winter way, with a quarter of admixtures, but as in early spring - with almost half additions of herbs, pea flour and other surrogates. In some places, rye bread had disappeared from use altogether, replaced by oat bread, the worst and cheapest. And winter is not over yet....

As usual, there were the wildest and most apocalyptic rumors about what was going on and who was the cause. There were two main versions. The first one was that pagan shamans of the Pillars were to blame. In the mountains, they curse on the blood of babies converted to the faith of the One, so that there would be no wheat or rye at all so that everyone would starve. The second is that the townspeople are to blame for everything, not the local ones, of course, but those from the big cities, where there are real walls and even stone churches. The townspeople, apparently, want to kill all the villagers to take their land for themselves. Strange as it may seem, they were very moderate, purely symbolically cursing the traditional culprits of any misfortune - the believers in Two. Elena put it down to the fact that believers in the Two were the usual lightning rod, on which traditionally everything was blamed. But now, in the cold winter air, there was a sense of inevitable, real misfortune, which even the joy of the departing comet did not dispel. The explanation needed to be appropriate to the moment, i.e. special.

It was good that, at least, doctors were not accused... However, Elena did not advertise her medical skills, having found a much quieter and safer way to earn money. She went to her table and impoverished herself with another quarter of the smallest coin, throwing it to the boy who “warmed the place”. Good thing it wasn't a daily spend, but an advance for the week. She wonders, with the apparent shortage of cash, how long before octuplets become commonplace...? That was also, by the way. a constant rumor - merchants were moving more and more to debt notes, as well as in-kind exchange. Freshly woven canvases - the main village currency - were becoming an ersatz of money in merchant transactions as well. People began to whisper that Pantocrator was angry at the death of the previous Emperor and that the current Emperor was only fanning that anger because he had not yet been crowned as he should have been in Pait Sokhailhaye. Besides, he has not accepted the true faith, being a native of the unholy Island, where they pray to the Jeweler, and he has not married, though he is fifteen years old. And if this one dies, how will we live then?...

A small table and a bench. Elena sat down and set out the necessary supplies on the smooth boards: a vial of ink, some goose quills, a scalpel for peeling them, and a couple of scraps of paper. She closed her eyes and sat silent for a quarter of a minute. From an outside view, she was praying, as she should before work, but in reality she was considering whether to work on the outline of the third production in the evening or whether she was too tired to do so.

* * *

After it became clear that the idea justified itself, it was time to think about the third blow to the audience's wallet. Elena wanted to use a win-win - Romeo and Juliet. Love, death, intrigue, tragic and touching ending, and everything happens in the entourage, which lies on any city of Ecumena as glued. However, it turned out that the classics do not fit here and now. The fact is that the capital of one of the four kingdoms has been the scene of an uncompromising conflict between two noble families for years. Elena never understood what was the essence of the confrontation, and most importantly, why the king-tetrarch condoned the mess, but the aristocrats were cutting each other to pieces in a mature way, turning the spiritual capital of the Empire into a battlefield and a paradise for mercenaries of all stripes. Given that Pyte Sokhailhei (literally translated as “Most Beautiful”, not as an adjective, but rather a form of adulation) was a couple of weeks away, and the theater was going there for the entire warm season in the spring - making allusions to a real and painful situation would be unwise. Something different was required, commercially win-win, appealing to the widest possible audience, from peasants to the noble.

So Elena decided it was time to use the heavy artillery.

The adaptation of “Titanic” went well. Jack became a young and landless cavalier, Kimutz in general proposed to make him a squire, whose master tragically died, but on common sense decided not to clutter the narrative. Rose remained unchanged - the heiress of a noble, but fallen into poverty. Then followed a simple intrigue with the sale of the bride to a fat merchant, traveling on a ship of pilgrims and all according to the canonical plot. In the finale, Rose consecrated herself to the Lord and became a pious hermit. After a little thought, the merchant, however, changed to a sorcerer, so as not to divert money respectable part of the solvent audience. No one liked magicians anyway, and there was no profit to be expected from them.

The production promised to be expensive because of the props. It required good costumes in the assortment but otherwise, everything was perfect. The play seemed destined for success, which suddenly led the screenwriter to a simple thought - wasn't she digging a grave for Ranjan, Artigo, and partly herself? The original idea was to hide as far away and inconspicuously as possible, and the traveling theater, on the contrary, was rapidly marching towards fame.

* * *

Putting aside unpleasant thoughts, Elena clapped her hands and put her hands on the table. It was a familiar signal, and the first customer timidly sat down on a rickety stool on the other side of the square tabletop. In his hands, he clutched a small basket with a fife of eggs. Elena estimated the size of her dinner and smiled.

So, number one - a well-to-do peasant, came to town and had a good trade, now he wanted to send a message home so they would wait later, not to worry, and pray to God for the safe return of the father of the family. Elena quickly scribbled the text on a wax tablet, read it aloud, made a couple of small additions at the request of the customer, and began to rewrite it. The man obviously wanted to make a splash in the eyes of his relatives, so he didn't skimp on a piece of almost new paper, from which the previous text had been erased only once.

Then followed two bonded notes, a petition to the lord to prolong the work permissiion (although formally serfdom had long been forbidden on the mainland); a business letter indicating which debts to pay and which to hold back, and so on... The last was a love letter written strictly by dictation. Elena had to use all her restraint not to smile, writing “And if you, my soul, do not come to the hayloft today, my grief will be immeasurable to the full spillage of bile in the belly. Considering the size of the heart sufferer, she would have bet on apoplexy.

* * *

It turned out that literacy was not a bad asset in itself. To her shame, Elena hadn't thought of writing, but Cadfal had suggested it. The Redeemer sensibly noted that if there is a town, and even near busy roads, it means that all the time someone goes back and forth. If there are merchants passing by, it means there is business correspondence. Writing a good letter is not a common talent, but it's worth something. And so it was. As a result, Elena found a good evening job without much effort and investment. They paid, however, mostly not in money but something edible. It was acceptable, considering how the prices for provisions went up. Everyone was happy - the inn had its percentage for the place provided, and Elena began to eat enough again and even contributed something to the common pot.

* * *

"On Sunday eight pennies were set aside for the paper and parchment bought for the community's treasury, which was noted in the account book,” dictated another customer, judging by the appearance and the text, a representative of some workshop. He was checking his notes on a wax tablet and scraps of real papyrus, sniffling and obviously afraid of getting anything wrong. However, Elena looked at him almost fondly. For half a roast goose the shopkeeper could sniff and moo until midnight.

In the meantime, the people were arriving, as usual on a winter's evening. Maryadek dropped in and was immediately surrounded by a personal fan club, mostly of young widows, of whom there was a certain surplus in the town. The villainous actor, surprisingly enough, was very popular among the ladies but to the poacher's honor, it should be noted he was careful and cautious. He gave no reason to beat himself and avoided unmarried girls in every possible way.

Kimutz came in, sat in the corner again, and ordered the biggest jug of the cheapest wine. Elena sometimes felt truly pity for the fat man who was drinking himself to death. The clown with the sagging cheeks and jaundiced whites of his eyes was a godlike actor who could play anyone, bringing the most hostile audience to tears. The tragedy was that the unique talent was doomed to wander around the cities and towns until his death, without light and hope to nail to the court of some patron of the arts. Kimutz had once and in something very, very badly quarreled with the Guild of Circus Art, so he could not count on a diploma and, accordingly, a good place under a generous patron.

The maids were rushing around, putting more candles on the cross-shaped boards suspended from the ceiling on ropes. Judging from the noise outside, which could be heard even through the clamor of the crowd, which was thoroughly drunk and thoughtfully eating, some important guest had arrived. Apparently, more lights were organized for him as well.

"I paid three pennies for a straw hat and a reed cloak from the dampness of the water. The price was high, but the work was very good, and the overpayment was because...."

Elena smiled encouragingly, figuring that if it went on like this the client wouldn't get off with a half-goose, as it took a lot of paper for his declarations. It seems, the shopkeeper thought about the same thing and fell silent, frantically shuffling his garbage notes. But fate and his intention to give an extremely meticulous report led him inexorably to new expenditures.

Exactly, noble guests, a married couple, or maybe a sister and a brother... no, spouses after all. There were no more seats left in the inn, but for the sake of the guests, the owner quickly threw out people from the most trump table and squeezed in a couple of benches from the courtyard to accommodate the servants. The public quieted down, assessing the category of the new guests and possible trouble.

The man was dressed puritanically in black and brown, with an unusually small amount of jewelry, but the dress looked rich, not luxurious, but rich. He is swarthy, cut short and wears a beard with shaved cheeks. Unusual for a nobleman, for since the time of the Calamity it was customary for them to polish their faces, and on the contrary, to let their hair go almost to their shoulders, to show their health, absence of ulcers and good blood accordingly. Well, everything changes, even fashion. The nobleman's strong neck was framed by a wide, voluminous collar of weightless lace, and a golden loop with a huge diamond hung on his ear. Apparently some vow or religious obligation compelled the man to be ostentatiously modest, which he balanced with expensive trimmings and jewelry, lest, God forbid, he be mistaken for a merchant or the son of an impoverished family.

The woman, judging by her figure and the strip of uncovered skin on her neck, was clearly younger than her husband, perhaps the same age as Elena or a little older. She was dressed, like her husband, strictly, expensively, only without any jewelry, in a gray woolen dress, a three-colored pelerine embroidered with small stripes, and a beautiful, elegant hood, replacing the traditional ladies' hat. The guest's face was covered by a lattice mask of river pearls, small but lustrous. Elena appreciated how carefully the woman moved, leaning on the servant's arm, as well as the characteristic rounding of her belly under the dress, the loose cut of the garment, and the absence of a belt, again a mask. Such were worn to ward off the evil eye.

Well, that's right, pilgrims, probably going to the spiritual capital to pray for a safe delivery. She wonders what month it is... On second thought, she went back to work.

"And six medium skeins of colorful threads, called “five-colored,” were bought for twenty-seven pennies. The most expensive of all was a chest for storing the silver goblets from which the master's community drank at festivals and other entertainments. The chest was made of tanned leather and reinforced with iron hoops. It cost two coins for the chest and a whole coin was given separately for the iron, but all was good work without flaw. And in addition, the ironmaster repaired three spoons...."

The shopkeeper was growing sadder and sadder. Elena held back a gloating grin. The nobles were seated at the “ front” table, surrounded by servants and a couple of guards. Judging by the running sexes, the court servants were on their ears, trying to receive the noble and surely rich guests with dignity. Milk and water were brought to the woman, she opened the lower part of her mask and drank small sips alternately from two glasses of rough glass. Without knowing why, Helena kept returning her eyes to the pearl bars. Something scratched at her thoughts like a cat's claw stuck to her clothes. For such a small belly the noblewoman behaved too carefully, her lips seemed pale, and her face (or rather her lower part) seemed to be covered with bluish powder.

Pantin had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, which meant that today would be an unscheduled class. Elena refrained from rubbing her palms together, anticipating a new portion of interesting knowledge (as well as bruises, contusions, and other attributes of intensive training). She finished the letter and turned the sheet so the customer could sign and seal it. The shopkeeper signed at length in several steps, braiding the simple name into a devious web of ink lines. Given how easy it was to forge a seal, the elaborate signature was the primary guarantor of authenticity. Then the scribe and the customer haggled a little more about the additional payment and Elena finally handed over the sealed message, in exchange for two pennies. The evening turned out to be a fruitful one - not only provisions but real money as well.

Elena glanced around, checking to see if there were any more eager letter-writers or petitioners, but the clientele had dried up for the day. Well, it was a good time. She carefully corked the inkwell, and stashed it and other supplies in her belt pouch, showing that the reception was over for the day. She had to drop off the provisions to her circus colleagues, reserving a share of the dinner after the training.

Meanwhile, the nobles at the table were talking softly. A woman was being fanned by a burly maid. It seemed that the pregnant woman was not feeling well. Elena stood up and sank back in her chair, making a gesture towards Panin, gesturing, one moment, now. The physician herself could not clearly say what slowed her down, whether it was the practical interest of the physician or her natural attention and sympathy for the woman in distress. Anyway, Elena remained seated and saw how the noblewoman was helped to stand up, supported already under both arms, and a man who looked like a typical medic, not an herbalist, but a city doctor with a diploma, that is a certificate. Apparently part of the entourage.

The lady was taken to the second floor, where the rooms were located. The doctor began to stir some mixture of pre-measured ingredients on the inn table. Elena sucked in a deep breath of air with her nostrils and shuddered. Despite the typical atmosphere of a typical tavern, in which dozens of miasms and shades, mostly unpleasant or simply vile, were intertwined, the medicine woman from the Wastelands recognized the characteristic smell. Meanwhile, the doctor finished preparing the mixture and shook it spectacularly in a glassю He looked at the light as if he could see something through the violet glass using ordinary candles. He followed his ward with a vigorous step.

Holy shit, Elena thought clearly and distinctly. Fucking hell... And what to do?

She could have done nothing. That would probably be the best solution. After all, what, after all, did random strangers care about the concerns of noble persons? That's right, they don't. Elena is a person of despicable class, as Artigo would say, of despicable origin. And these are the salt of the earth, the superior race, and whatever you do can turn against you at any moment. Especially when it comes to a matter as complex as health. Especially the health of a pregnant noblewoman, the mother of heirs who will continue the family name and lineage.

The inner voice was literally screaming, demanding that he not interfere. Pantin was staring at her with his usual emotionless, tan brown face. Elena lowered her eyes, her hands gripping the edges of the tabletop as if she wanted to shackle herself to her place.

Damn... He's gonna fucking kill her.....

And it's absolutely none of my business!

"To hell, all of you,” she said in a whisper, more out of excess of emotion than directed. She stood up and hesitated for a moment choosing between the three targets - the lady, the doctor, and her presumed husband. In the end, she chose the third number and stepped firmly to his desk, clearly realizing that now, most likely, she was again earning epic adventures on the ass tightened by cruel physical training.

* * *

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP