Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 13

Chapter 13

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As Elena walked toward the table, it seemed to her that instead of a hard floor of wooden planks, it was a swamp under her feet, and with each step, a pot of mud clung to her shoes. It was getting harder and harder to walk, the doubts multiplied, and the ordinary noises around her faded like the rustle of grass in a windless night.

A compact and class-based society provokes an extremely attentive attitude to the people around you because any shit can happen at any moment. You can look at the wrong person the wrong way - or not look - and the feast turns into an execution or a stabbing. So only the drunkest or the busiest did not see a young tall woman in pants and a strange flat hat of unprecedented style walk straight to the table occupied by noble gentlemen. As Elena measured her steps, they lowered their heads and moved the clay mugs with bowls - just so, according to the established habits, for the sake of safety. Just in case...

Two bodyguards blocked Elena's path. They didn't look like experienced mercenaries or combat companions, more like armed servants, but not bad, rather athletic and sharp to boot. One of them stretched out an empty hand, stopping the unknown, while the other maneuvered his thumbs behind his bronze-plated belt, displaying an impressive array of weapons. Elena held back a smile. The fighters were displaying the classic mistakes of bodyguards who were used to working for the public and the patron. Still, there were two of them, and the atmosphere of active menace thickened.

Some of the visitors were still talking, mostly those who happened to be sitting with their backs to the mise-en-scene and missed the beginning of the events. But in general, the people were silent and listened attentively. In the countryside and small towns, life is monotonous, and surprisingly poor bright events, all the original attract attention and are remembered for a long time. So the story of how a woman just took and came to the table of nobles, as if to their own door, will be retold for weeks. In the inn kitchen, a chicken was screaming, and the poor bird was trying to be cut up by a negligent cook. In the silence, one could clearly hear the kneader cursing her penny wages, the “heavy” flour, and the bad vinegar, which did not soften the meat, but made it go to hell in a sludge. When the invisible aunt moved on to discussing the meat itself, which was only veins of meat, she was cut short by a resounding slap. Someone had dropped and broken a clay mug, and its cracking sounded as deafening as a hammer blow.

Elena raised her hands, showing that she was unarmed, and glanced obliquely at the pregnant lady who had stopped at the top of the stairs and was in turn looking down. The servants supporting the lady under her arms were shimmying and fidgeting, but clearly wary of pushing her further. The healer swallowed, trying to improvise something polite yet informative. The nobleman raised an eyebrow with languid interest, the earring on his ear swinging heavily, catching and breaking the dim glow of the greasy candlelight into crystal-clear rainbow colors.

First, it was necessary to understand how to address him. The unnamed nobleman was not a Duke, but he was not an ordinary gentleman either, he looked too expensive for a Frels. A Baron or a Count, then. To exalt a nobleman, raising him a step higher really - it is normal, especially for a commoner, who is mean, uneducated, and overwhelmed by the splendor of the highest creature. But to belittle is the opposite. So let's aim higher - you won't hit, so at least you won't shoot yourself.

"Your Highness,” said Elena, reproducing the formula she had learned by heart at Milvesse.

The nobleman curled his lips in either contemptuous disregard or a grimace of mild annoyance. One of the armed servants turned toward the lord, awaiting orders. The other corrected quietly, barely parting his lips:

"His Grace."

Yeah, a baron after all. Well, it's off to a good start. And so far, there's still a chance to retreat. The baron's face doesn't look too angry, but rather tired and nervous. It is still possible to roll it all back, to say that she got it wrong, she humbly apologizes, please eat further, fine sir...

Elena glanced again at the woman, who had already turned away and stepped onto the penultimate step.

//Damn! Damn! Damn!...

She bowed her head stubbornly, knowing full well it looked impolite and threatening, but she couldn't help it. She was scared.

"Your Grace,” said Elena, feeling like a man who had already jumped into a hole, but had not yet touched the icy water. It was too late to turn back, but it was possible to imagine the horrors to come.

"My name is...” she paused for a second going over the names she'd already accumulated in her memory, remembering what she'd called herself here in town. She paused, realizing only now what a mistake she'd made.

"My name won't tell you anything,” Elena quickly turned her monologue in the other direction and found it best to bow, without subservience, but with the utmost respect. "And I am a healer."

She glanced once more at the back of the pregnant baroness beneath the loose dress.

"I can help."

The medic staring at the unexpected guest with silent curiosity all this time, curled his lips and snorted. Some of the crowd followed suit, but for the most part, they remained silent catching every word. They could laugh later, but now the main thing was not to miss anything interesting.

"We don't need midwives here,” the medic said with frank contempt, shaking the deadly vial once more. "Get out of here."

He snorted angrily again and seemed to have trouble keeping from spitting at the feet of his sudden rival. At any rate, he curled his lips in a very characteristic way. He turned up his nose and walked past the empty space, pushing one of the bodyguards away with his shoulder. The Baron, judging by his indifferent look, lost interest in what was happening and turned away. It seems that he had already distracted his thoughts to something else and was not going to develop the situation further, say, with lashes. All things had turned out well... as if fate had given the woman a second chance to retreat without loss.

"Get out of here while you're lucky,” the guard admonished quietly.

The silence in the inn ended the murmur of voices like an incoming wave - louder and louder. There was an implicit, but not malicious disappointment in the atmosphere that the intrigue had gone into steam without noise, much less bloodshed. There is something to discuss, something to talk about at home, and that's good.

Elena gritted her teeth and tilted her head even lower, looking frowning. Maybe she really would have backed off. Perhaps... If she'd had a little less acute hearing, and the medic had spoken a little quieter. But the woman's hearing was excellent, and Elena clearly heard the certified butcher in a black robe muttering importantly under his nose:

"Boorish brat."

Elena straightened up like a fighter before a fight - her back in a perfectly straight “string” - put her hands behind her waist, just like a baron's bodyguard, and said, as if hammering each word with a hammer:

"Your Grace, you shouldn't give her that mixture."

Compared to the silence, the previous act of silence would have sounded like the shrieking of a crowd at a gladiatorial performance. The flies were long gone, out of season, but if one had come late and flown under the high ceiling, the buzzing would have been as deafening as the gnashing of a saw. The Baron raised his head, which had been lowered so the diamond swung on its golden hinge. Elena thought it would be a good idea to introduce not only pockets but also real earrings instead of these stupid parodies. Only her own ears had long since grown over...

Slowly, with ostentatious safety, Elena opened the waxed leather holster hanging from her belt that she had never parted with. She pulled out a parchment scroll written in red ink, stamped with a rare green sealing wax that was only allowed to privileged workshops and guilds. She clenched her jaw even tighter as the touch of the expensive item brought up memories that she would have liked to bury as deep as possible.

//I've bought you a place in the Guild of Healers, Herbalists, and Apothecaries. With all taxes and dues paid seven years in advance.

It was a good diploma, a real one. But it was personalized and issued for Lunna, and in that town, Elena was known as Siriol, by many. No one would believe that a real master with a diploma would pretend to be someone else. Therefore, the document is stolen, no one will even investigate. Everything is obvious. So, technically, the woman literally picked up from the floor of the completed composition of the most serious crime. The experience of the prison medical officer readily suggested the measure of punishment.

All it takes is for someone to say her name out loud and.....

Screw it!

Elena silently handed the letter to the servant, who took it and twirled it around in bewilderment, apparently unable to read. He shrugged his shoulders and handed the scroll to the Baron, obviously deciding that the lord knew best. The medic snorted once more and hurried upstairs, holding the vial with the look of an alchemical grenade thrower at a fortress assault.

"Stop him,” Elena said just as audibly and harshly, addressing the Baron directly, and repeated. "This medicine is not for your wife."

The nobleman quickly ran his eyes over the parchment. Apparently, he was not only literate but also accustomed to parsing the ornate lines of shop wording. He put the sheet on the table, letting it curl up naturally, and looked at Elena coldly, like a snake before striking.

And then a miracle happened.

The man pointed to the seat against him (which was instantly vacated by one of the servants) with the words:

"Sit here."

"Your Grace!" the medic cried tragically from the stairs. "You didn't..."

"Shut up, maitre,” said the Baron, irritably, as he seemed to be continuing some argument that gave a faint hope. "Sit down,” he repeated to Elena, more irritably and impatiently.

The healer hurried to take advantage of the generous offer. She felt herself to be the center of attention. Now dozens of eyes were looking at the tall woman in the leather hat, including the foxy mouser peeking out from under the table. Elena, cursing her own stupidity and forgetfulness, hurriedly took off her cap. She sat down. Now she prayed that no name, any name, even “Siriol”, even “Lunna”, would be heard in the tavern.

"I don't have a university education,” Elena spoke quickly. -"But I have had extensive practice...."

Pause. Well, if you've got involved in a murky business by your own folly, put your foot in the stirrup to the end.

"... In the Wastelands."

Now the Baron's other eyebrow crept upward; it seemed that the healer with the diploma had captured his attention. On the stairs, the medic hissed and cursed, with all the soul of a man whose competence had been publicly challenged by a passerby.

"Shut up,” the Baron said coldly and sharply, wiggling his fingers weakly. Elena stammered, not realizing at first that it wasn't addressed to her. The medic with the vial shut up instantly as if he had been turned on the faucet of his verbal outpouring. Almost imperceptibly, with only the creak of the door, Ranjan came in from the street, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. Joaquina appeared right behind the Brether, angry but silent. The swordsman was, as usual, impenetrably restrained, but the beautiful acrobat's face flamed with barely restrained rage as if she and Brether had been torn away from something important.

"Please continue,” the Baron shook his head, now definitely to Elena. "I'm listening."

"I had a good experience there. I learned how to make different elixirs and mixtures."

Elena paused briefly for the man to comprehend what he had heard.

"What your... ''maître'' had mixed,” she couldn't resist a contemptuous burst of venom. "It's vomit. Very strong. Mercury-based, with an extract of Silverstone. And I understand Her Ladyship has been taking it for some time."

"Our healer has been giving the medicine to my wife every day for two weeks,” the Baron thought for a moment and clarified. "Twice. In the morning and the evening."

"Oh, God...” Elena whispered with undisguised horror.

Well, now it was at least clear why the young noblewoman had a pale blue color. It was a wonder her hair didn't grow out... though maybe it did, you couldn't see it under the hood.

"What is that wretched bourgeois mumbling about!?" The certified physician shrieked in an almost uncontrollable voice. "My treatment is impeccable! And I'm not going to discuss it with...” he spat, unable to help himself.

Elena also wanted to scream but for a different reason. She clearly realized that she had a very poor understanding of perinatal medicine. And how chronic poisoning with mercury and a mineral, which even among the reckless “tar ones” was considered wildly poisonous, could affect the condition of an obviously not the healthiest woman. What to do about it and whether it is possible to control the consequences?

"Your Grace!" Meanwhile, the diploma doctor was raging. - Send away this herbalist and impostor! She has a fake diploma! You can't get one without a university!

The Baron leaned his elbows on the table and folded his fingers, looking at Elena with interest and distrust. It seemed to the woman that in the depths of his dark eyes, there was a desperate, blind hope, but natural suspicion lingered like ice on frost.

"That's right,” the healer decided to go all in. She just felt sorry for the poor woman who had been methodically killed instead of cured. And the baron, who was probably an asshole and a bastard, but clearly cared about his wife.

"I'm not university-educated. But the diploma is real. It was a gift from a patron of mine whom I treated, and who felt obliged."

Well, after all, she genuinely wanted to keep an eye on Flessa's health, so it was almost not a lie. Well, except for a little bit. It doesn't even count since it's for good deed.

"And his name?..."

"I will give the name to you personally and on your word of honor never to publicize what you have heard,” Elena said firmly.

"Go on,” the coldness in the Baron's voice could freeze pig carcasses to a clinking sound, but still he listened.

Elena prepared to continue, but the Baron suddenly changed his mind.

"Though no... Follow me."

Without looking back, and seemingly without a second's doubt that the woman would follow, the man rose from the table and strode toward the stairs. The medic was still arguing, but the baron pushed him against the low railing with his shoulder and only looked at him perplexed with a mute question on his face. Who was this random nuisance who didn't hurry to clear the way? Elena followed, not forgetting to take the diploma. Ranjan gave the woman the same impenetrable look, which made her feel a little warmer. Yes, of course, the Brether was unlikely to go to as much carnage for her as he had to save Artigo. But... it was a little more comforting to have one of the best fighters in the world waiting for you, even if not healed. Joaquina tugged at the swordsman's sleeve, whispering vigorously in his ear, but her words seemed to be wasted. The people of the tavern were still gazing at the free and colorful performance, and it was clear that the short story would be retold for weeks, embellishing it with more and more details.

The most luxurious guest room on the second floor was the baronial family's natural residence. By the standards of a small, though, prosperous city it was richly decorated and large. It was also heated. The featherbed seemed new, the floor cleanly swept and covered with fresh straw, and one of the windows even had real glass. Brass candlesticks and glassware are on a separate shelf. Luxury! But still, the Baroness seemed like a pearl in a pile of humus. Without the hood and mask, the woman looked uncannily like Liv Tyler from Armageddon, a very light-skinned brunette, only with black eyes that glittered like obsidian instead of blue.

In a few brief words the Baron described the disposition: here was the healer, speaking of her experience and blaspheming the maestro and his methods. She is worth listening to, and if anything, the wench will taste a generous lashing. It was said in a monotone, almost expressionless, and as a matter of course. Elena even wanted to take offense, but looked into the eyes of the woman, who was sitting on the edge of the carved bench, clasping her rounded belly with trembling, slightly swollen fingers. The noblewoman's face screamed of desperation mixed with timid hope. Elena sighed heavily, wondering if kindness and compassion would someday get her into trouble. Maybe even today. Then she moved closer and knelt in front of the Baroness, gently taking the pregnant woman's nervous and icy fingers in her palms. The feeling was almost the same as it had been during the meeting with Frels when Elena had tried to calm Artigo. Yes...she wish it had worked out better now than it had that morning.

"I seek no reward or honor,” the healer said with all sincerity, for indeed she would consider it great good fortune to have a mere peaceful expense without consequences. "I wish to help according to the precepts of our Father Paraclete, creator of health and patron of the medicinal arts. Tell me how you are being treated and for what. I may be able to give you some good advice."

"Healers don't work without a reward,” suspicion seemed to return to the Baron with redoubled vigor.

"My companion was badly wounded not long ago,” Elena improvised. "I prayed for his recovery and vowed that if the Lord would let him live, I would do a good deed of medicine every week, free of charge, for God's mercy."

The lie slipped between her teeth like a soapy one, smoothly and without the slightest hitch. Appealing to a higher power helped at once; kindness for free was strange, and suspicious, but a vow, an actual contract with the Creator in one of the Attributes, was normal. And the dialog went on, accelerating like a heavy cart pushed down a hill.

The baronial couple bore the double surname Lequieu-Argreff, which spoke of the merger of two families of roughly equal importance and generosity. And the prefix “ausf”, not uncommon, but not typical for barons, testified to serious wealth. Theobald and Dessol were young, wealthy... and desperate, so when, like a devil on a spring, a strange woman with insane claims popped up out of nowhere, they did not chase her away at once, but, on the contrary, listened to her very attentively. And not just to listen but to tell her things that were strictly intimate, absolutely and categorically not subject to publicity.

The Argreff family was blessed and cursed at the same time, no other way than for the grave sins of their ancestors. The women of this noble family often bore twins, but they were very difficult to deliver so the family was more than once on the brink of extinction.

No wonder, Elena thought, sneaking a glance at Dessol's slender figure. For any woman in Ecumene, pregnancy was a game of coin. Childbirth and postpartum fever killed with the same unpredictability and efficiency a peasant woman or an empress (for example, the wife of the late Gotdua). It came to the point that the Church of Pantocrator had to throw reprimands at the townswomen, who quite purposefully refused marriage and any cohabitation with men, not wanting to regularly toss a coin “lucky or unlucky”. And if the Argreff women all have such narrow hips, and probably with poor muscle tone... No curse, pure anatomy, and physiology, but it is hard to explain it to the victims of genetics.

The Lecuyer-Argreffs needed a child, of either sex, to cement the unity of the family name. And a good omen! - Dessol bore, according to the right signs, twins, exactly according to tradition. The family traveled to Pite Sokhailhei to receive the blessing of the holy fathers there, to make the proper offerings, and to pray tirelessly in the legendarily beautiful and sacred Temple of the Sixty-Six. Along the way, however, the Baroness began to experience the typical symptoms of toxemia with regular nausea. The physician, who was laden with diplomas up to his ears, pompous as the devil himself, frantically expensive (only gold, no lowly silver), made a scientifically grounded, the only correct diagnosis: violation of the balance of five fluids in the body. And began to restore this balance. The worse the patient felt, the more doses of the “medicine” she received. Obviously, the curse had found another victim.

Until the moment a certain woman suddenly stood up like a veritable messenger of doom and boldly declared that the treatment was wrong...

"What a horror,” Elena exhaled sincerely, having grasped the big picture.

Dessol squeezed the healer's fingers with such force that Elena thought it would leave bruises. The baroness was frantic for a miracle. Theobald stared at the redhead with a mute question on his pedigree face.

"A woman's body becomes fragile during pregnancy,” Elena chose her words carefully so that she would be well understood. "It's a vessel that holds two lives at once. And one of them is like a candle's flame and can go out at any moment."

Dessol shrieked and bit her blue lip. Elena thought she'd probably overdone it, but it was already said, so let's move on.

The vomiting itself is not good for you. After all, it is a poison, only in a small dose. In addition, nausea is a process of spasmodic, acute muscle contraction.

//“Thank God I'm fluent in the language! And seems to be on the level of a scholar...”

"Therefore, the mixture you drink twice a day does not alleviate suffering. On the contrary, it is aggravating and harmful."

"But a lot of people drink that medicine,” the baron said incredulously. Elena understood him perfectly well, it was like saying: paracetamol doesn't bring down fever, it's just an illusion, and it also makes your hair fall out and gives you cancer.

"It is useful in one case,” the woman said firmly. "When a patient is poisoned. Then one poison helps to get rid of the other quickly, clearing the stomach completely. That's what the Tar Men of the Wastelands use it for. If the food is bad and the profiteer feels sick to his stomach, he takes a vomit. He prays to be in time, because if the poison has gone into his guts, it's useless. And for you,” she looked eloquently at the Baroness. "Such treatment is fatal. And most importantly, it is dangerous for the unborn child... children, that is."

"This is strange,” Theobald frowned. "It sounded reasonable with our medic. If the body is spewing stomach fluids, it means they are in unhelpful excess and the body should be helped to get rid of them. That's what everyone does."

"Did he prescribe bloodletting?" Elena asked, more for the sake of order, and again shuddered with horror when she received an affirmative answer.

That is, a thin, obviously not very healthy woman who was carrying either a very large baby or twins, was poisoned twice a day with mercury and “silverstone” and bled regularly. Not surprisingly, Dessol has not a speck of blood on her face and walks supported by servants. It seems “not too healthy” is a misconception; here, on the contrary, is an iron stature that has so far withstood the mutilating “treatment”. But how it affected the child.....

Elena sighed, trying to think of the right way to tell the barons that a certified medic was an idiot and a charlatan, even with the best of intentions. And a street hustler with a left certificate - knows the truth. They won't believe it... They'll take her to be whipped, she won't allow it, Ranjan will intervene. Oh, it won't be good.

"Tell me, did you feel better after this treatment?" Elena asked directly, looking into the noblewoman's black eyes. The Baroness was one of those people who are at first a little colored by bodily ailments - painfully, perversely, like the early stages of tuberculosis. Her pallor was not yet deadly, her hair had not yet fallen out, and her eyes had not yet had time to droop. That made the gaunt, ghostly Dessol seem like a true elf. Looking at her, the red-haired medicine woman suddenly felt a blush flood her cheeks and her stomach grow warm. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead, and Elena quickly wiped them away with her sleeve.

It's too hot... too hot. The innkeeper didn't spare the burning stone.

"No,” Dessol whispered, looking back at her husband. "Only worse..."

Elena waved her hands eloquently.

"I don't have a degree, just a diploma. And experience,” she said honestly. "This experience tells me that this treatment is harmful. For the mother, but first and foremost for the child."

The barons shuddered as if on cue, obviously the issue of offspring was acute and painful. Elena did not fail to take advantage of this and pulled the blade of doubt into the wound of apprehension:

"For the unborn child feeds on its mother's juices in the womb. And therefore shares the poison in half."

Yeah, I guess I don't need to tell anyone about the placental barrier.

Dessol bit down on the other side of her lip, so that a drop of dark, almost black blood came out. Theobald clenched his fists, the first real, serious sign of his feelings.

"I advise freely, as a servant of the Paraclete, refuse to vomit, under no circumstances do bloodletting. Rest, calm, walk. You can drink chamomile decoction."

Once again Elena experienced a fit of anger at herself. Yes, it was understandable that when she was pulled “from there” to “here” - the girl was simply not of age and not interested in painstakingly studying the course of pregnancy, contraindications, and so on. But ... because she could! And now she should guess, for example, whether thyme and peppermint are useful to pregnant women or vice versa.

"But clean boiled water is best,” she said firmly. "It must come from a good well or spring. It must be boiled."

"What about...” the Baroness looked pityingly at Elena, and made a characteristic movement, running her palm from her chest to her chin.

"Nothing,” the redhead shrugged. "Your body can hold two lives now... or maybe three. That doesn't go to waste. It won't be easy. But poisoning yourself, and releasing your life force with blood, that's something you don't want to do."

Elena stood up, stepping back so as not to loom over the Baroness, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

"This advice is highly questionable,” said the Baron bluntly, stroking the diamond in his ear. "Extremely!"

"Then don't listen to them,” Elena said, looking at herself as if from the outside and wondering what the devils were moving her lips, uttering unwise, risqué words.

"Don't listen, keep giving your spouse this crap and drain her blood more often, at least a glass at a time. If I were a bad man, I would bet on who would be taken to the graveyard first, the mother or the abandoned children. But I'm not a bad man, I only serve the Paraclete to the best of my ability. You are free to make your own decisions, and I will pray for you."

If Elena had promised to gut the Argreffs and dance on their graves, the effect would have been weaker. Dessol seemed to faint, Theobald's eyes bulged like a constipated cat and he was speechless. It was probably the first time they had ever been spoken to in such a tone by a man who stood much lower on the social ladder. And Elena also realized that she'd blabbed to herself and the accusation of evil witchcraft. If anything happened to Dessol now, it would be clear who had jinxed her. In general, a good deed turned into a parade of careless and inconsiderate stupidity.

Well, the main thing had been said, and now it was time to get out of here. Elena backed toward the door, so as not to turn her backside to the honorable gentlemen. She remembered a winged quote from “Fight Club” about ass and scrotum, in general, lately her memory often threw analogies from her past life. The Baron's family was silent, either baffled by the unsolicited advice or something else, but in any case, they didn't stop the medicine woman. When she closed the door from the outside, Elena exhaled with relief, wiping her face again with her sleeve from the hot sweat.

It seemed to pass... Though maybe it didn't, the future would tell. Elena felt strange - fear and expectation of trouble mixed with a calm, clear conscience. I thought that this is an interesting moment, which should be remembered and somehow developed in “The Ship of the Pious”, probably so feels righteous - fear of the body, but peace of mind.

The certified healer was still stuck on the stairs, agonizing over the uncertainty. He was not called to the masters, it was humiliating to wait, and it was impolite and even insulting to break in. The charlatan of science intended to vent his rage on Elena, but the woman looked at him in such a way that the blasphemous words stuck in his unfriendly throat. Still, it's amazing how much confidence and dignity is given by the realization that you can smack your opponent without much effort.....

The whole theater seemed to have gathered downstairs, even Rapist had come, though the redeemer disapproved of drinking in any form. When the redhead returned, the noise resumed, and it was clear to the audience that the show was over. They could only wonder what strange, bizarre forms the story would take in the course of the many retellings, each of which would inevitably distort something, and add something equally inevitably. Gaval's flute began to play, heralding some music and heartfelt songs, as well as the clinking of coins in the minstrel's purse. They paid for culture in much the same way as they paid for the scribe's services, that is, mostly in kind, but occasionally in silver.

"Is everything alright?" Ranjan asked softly as Elena passed by. She nodded silently. Joaquina gave the medicine woman a fierce glare, but she too remained silent. Well, she had every reason to do so, for if disaster struck, the lords could claim collective responsibility for the strolling theater.

It was cold and windless outside. The comet had almost disappeared, so the silver disk of the huge moon was only slightly tinted with pink watercolor. On this occasion - the passing of the threatening sign - the people had been holding localized festivities for the third day within the confines of a few houses and streets. But until the Church said a weighty word, they were somehow afraid to celebrate seriously. Now a group of ten people of both sexes gathered at the widow's house, which had been turned into a beer house. A keg of beer was already in hand and the smell of badly roasted meat. In the dusky air hung the mood of a hurried, bustling feast. A desperate party, born not of happiness but of fear.

The other day Cadfal could not stand it and tried to disperse a similar gathering by using the power of a pastor's persuasion. He expertly delivered a short but vivid and imaginative speech, which boiled down to a simple moral: every grain you eat today, every scrap of meat you eat instead of salting it, is a crumb of food that you will not eat in the spring, which, unlike the comet, will come soon and inevitably. Some even came to their senses, but they were few, and the speaker was not booed only out of respect for his reputation as a man of God. People were tired of being afraid, seeking solace in anything, trying not to think about the future. Also, as Elena once thought, there must have been a religious and mystical motive in this, an echo of pagan rituals and analog witchcraft. Demonstratively donate something valuable, live as if you had a lot of it, and the world would give you more.

Hmm, she wonders what the world was like here before the Church of One came...?

Elena thought that she knew surprisingly little about the belief in the Pantocrator. She thought that she knew surprisingly little about the belief in the Pantocrator. Especially since two redeeming sinners are within reach. But that's tomorrow... all tomorrow.

She wandered down the street, pulling on her fingerless mittens, feeling infinitely tired. Thank God Pantin had disappeared somewhere, apparently today's training was canceled.... As if in response to her thoughts on cult issues, the wandering priest began an angry sermon on human untruths. It happened often, misfortunes and hardships demanded explanations, and the obvious sequence of “ Sin - God's wrath - Retribution” built itself up. This time the subject of denunciation was the new-fashioned top sleeveless dresses, which were indeed far from prim restraint. The cut-outs for the arms opened more and more and went lower so the dresses became like an apron with a skirt. Judging from the vigorous speech of the priest, these cut-outs - the “infernal windows” through which sin (and consequently liberty of manners) literally seeped - were the cause of all the troubles.

The cries of the wandering preacher pleasantly diversified the gluttony and drinking, so that people listened attentively, nodded approvingly, and from time to time heated up the heat with pieces of meat and a mug of beer. Elena thought about stopping and listening but decided there was no need. It was too easy to go from loose dresses to women in pants, which were surely even more sinful. Still, it was a good thing the Church of Pantocrator was not Christian, even though the outward similarities were obvious. In the case of universal religiosity, the mores of the monotheists were still softer. To be more precise, God's servants were not allowed to go wild by worldly rulers. And that was good, not enough to start killing village witches, midwives, and duotheists. The Church even had to put up with witchcraft, though not without some gnashing of teeth.

The woman approached the barn in the dark. Technically, it was a double shed - a storage room under a gable roof, and an annex on the side for storing all sorts of equipment. There was a real stove in the annex, so this was where the circus theatricals lived, and the performances were given in a large shed, where any number of spectators could fit, and the acoustics were good. The building, as if made of two oblique rectangles, seemed grave-dark, only the windows with oiled paper instead of glass or slate plates shone behind the slits of the shutters. Inside it was warm and dark. Only the night lamp gave light. It smelled of paint from the freshly painted scenery of “The Ship” and the invariable cabbage. The room was divided by partitions of thin boards, and by screens in the manner of a Japanese house so privacy was somewhat symbolic, but it was still possible to undress and wash in relative privacy.

Kimutz snored tremendously, having managed to get drunk and crawl home while Elena was talking to the nobles. Pantin never showed up, which made Elena sigh with hidden relief. The others had either gone to the pub or fallen asleep. Artigo coughed in his sleep, and the medicine woman didn't like it, but the woman decided that the young prince had nothing to be sick about. And if he had caught a cold, well, she would know better at dawn.

Without bothering to get dressed Elena did her daily stretching and self-massage, paying the most attention to her wrists, traditionally the most vulnerable part of a fighters' body to injuries. Subjectively, the woman felt healthy and strong as never before, but she wanted to look in the growth mirror, to assess the changes not by touch. And the last normal mirror Elena had seen at Flessa's. She was unlikely to see it in the next ... perhaps months, perhaps years.

The heating here was much worse than in the barons' room, so Elena was cold during physical training and hurried to put on a nightgown and a bonnet. She couldn't stand the latter, but in the absence of hot water, the bonnet was useful. It was easier to wash the small cloth with the straps than a pillowcase, and the hair was slower to get greasy.

Despite her fatigue, it took the woman a long time to fall asleep. The strain of the “counseling” had taken its toll, and her thoughts had jumped from the mirror to Flessa and then to the other brunette, Dessol Argreff. Unhappy, scared, sick. Beautiful, despite her obvious ailment. Then Elena thought that Ranjan had still not returned, and neither had Joaquina. And she, that is Elena, should be completely indifferent to all this. Yeah...she probably should be. So, with Artigo coughing sporadically behind a thin screen of old blankets, she fell asleep.

* * *

“Silverstone” - Elena doesn't know it's Antimony, of course, but she is aware of the harmfulness of the “cure”.

As for women abstaining from marriage for fear of pregnancy and childbirth - historical fact, at least in England.

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/83056/580683

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP