Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 14

Chapter 14

* * *

"What the hell!?" Shotan yelled at the top of his lungs, spilling wine from his goblet.

Few could boast of having seen the “soldier count” show any emotion other than polite surprise. Even fewer had witnessed a gendarme lose his temper. And, perhaps, for the first time, one contemplated with one's own eyes a count who had lost his temper and given himself over to an outburst of insane rage.

"This is an insult!" Shotan shrieked, spitting the thin silver in his palms as if it were cardboard.

The duke and the islander looked at each other. The Duke was away, Gayot had to leave on an inspection in Milvess to resolve another conflict between the corporation of moneylenders and mercenaries. Considering the treasury had already missed a traditional payment, and the second one was only a quarter of what had been agreed upon, the Highlanders turned to the chivalric practice of borrowing more, delaying payment of debts, and then organizing a moderate pogrom and burning of debt scrolls. Since the “chickens” and the lenders were disliked (or rather hated) in roughly equal measure, so far there had been no widespread confusion, and the townspeople were generally neutral. But everything could turn upside down at any moment.

The Count was shouting, taking advantage of the fact that the old spell had turned the palace dining room into a deafening barrel from which even the roar of a battle trumpet could not break through. Against the wall, the personal messenger and stableboy of the Vice Duchess Flessa Wartensleben, who had been there when the mad captain had burst into the room, was trying to turn invisible. Curzio shook his head measuredly as if lamenting the decline of the sovereigns' morals.

"What does that even mean?" Shotan shouted, calming down a little (but only a little).

"That, my good fellow, is called 'royal douchebaggery,'” the duke shrugged his slouching shoulders and made a faint gesture, ordering the groom to leave. An unassuming but broad-shouldered man with an unpleasant face, hurried to comply, clearly relieved. He limped heavily, leaning on a mother-of-pearl-encrusted cane, and squinted like a hunchback, though he did not seem to be suffering from that ailment.

"Douchebaggery!?" Shotan roared, shaking his fist. With his left hand, he snatched up his dagger and plunged it into the table in one motion, nailing a broad dish of equally precious orichalcum against the precious oak.

"I put this one on the throne...!" The Count began, but Curzio took an unexpectedly quick step and covered the blasphemer's lips with his fingers. From the outside, the movement seemed trustingly vicious, but there was not a grain of vice in it.

"Not every word is worthy of breaking free,” Curzio said sternly. "Some are better kept in the grip of closed lips."

The islander withdrew his hand and discreetly wiped his pinched fingers on the thin cuff of his sleeve.

"No one can hear us anyway,” Shotan said grumpily, but he calmed down a little. The Count began to loosen the blade to pull the dagger out, not caring about the ruined tabletop.

"There could have been other servants here,” Curzio remarked. "We'd have to get rid of them. It might cause unnecessary gossip. Calmness, my friend, calm and composure, are the best weapons of the palace chambers. It can be difficult and unpleasant to wield but it is necessary."

"To the devil the servants,” Shotan snorted. "I will not tolerate such humiliation from....."

He gritted his teeth, swallowing the blasphemy against his suzerain.

"Be patient,” the duke said coldly. "We're playing for very high stakes. And this is a team game, not a lone duelist's game."

The Count snarled like a fighting boar, a vicious grimace turning his handsome, usually inexpressive face into a devilish mask.

"It's all your daughter's fault,” he blurted out. "It's her fault!"

The duke straightened like a stabbed in the butt. His thin lips curled into a pale thread, his chin thrust up belligerently, and the sagging wrinkles in his throat quivered.

"Please explain yourself,” said the Lord of Malersyde. "I'd be very interested to hear what your grievances are against my daughter."

* * *

"Please, Count."

Ottovio made a sweeping gesture around the room he had designated as his classroom and office. Shotan bowed his head in homage to his suzerain and walked to the center of the square room. It was not very large, but the abundance of limestone, quartzite, and marble made it seem substantially larger. The perfect polish of the quartzite panels reflected objects almost like bronze mirrors. That was why Shotan disliked the study. Sometimes the knight thought it was haunted by the shadows of the previous owners. And of the late emperor, among others.

Ottovio did not offer to sit down, a bad sign, and Shotan considered it best to stay on his feet. His left hand came down beside the dagger as if the long sword was hanging from the Count's belt, as usual, needing support to keep it from dangling at his foot. Shotan removed his hand and bent it at the elbow just in case, away from the weapon. Ottovio took a few steps and remained silent, looking at a mosaic panel of multicolored enamel, a dawn landscape in the mountains. Despite six hundred years of history, the colors were still so pure and vibrant that the image could be mistaken for a window. At the wide doors of the study froze immovable statues, or rather people seeming to be statues - two “bodyguards” with short halberds, and two more shooters waited outside. But the emperor and the count paid no attention to them, ignoring them like pieces of furniture.

Will people ever rise to the lost heights of art, Shotan thought? Probably... someday. The Count banished the irrelevant musings and focused his attention fully on the Emperor, anticipating an unpleasant conversation. The lord was too insecure, too careful to look away, as if avoiding to meet the eyes of the loyal captain.

Shotan once again went over all possible transgressions in his mind and found nothing worthy of a private conversation with the emperor. As always, the company was ready for battle, and the reports were so well organized that they could sharpen an engraving needle. Unlike the vast majority of his colleagues in his difficult profession, Shotan strove for impeccable honesty in matters of hiring and spending. He did not even practice the centuries-old tradition of counting the heads of horses instead of warriors (with generous allowances, of course). The Count thought, not unreasonably, that with his prices the squad would not go to the world, and the unique reputation of honest ruthiers was capital in itself.

So what could have happened? Why is the Lord both angry and embarrassed at the same time?

Unless... No, it can't be!

Ottovio broke the long silence and looked at the Count, now directly, without averting his eyes. The young man was clearly frightened, and the Emperor felt a timidity that was normal and natural for a man who had never taken a life in the face of a murderer. Possessed... but not subdued.

"Count,” Ottovio dispensed with the ‘lordship’. "I am displeased with you."

“You” was also a small letter, a distinctly small letter. Shotan barely refrained from making the gesture of spreading his elbows wide and placing his palm defiantly on the hilt of his dagger. This was not the moment to be pompous and “cool”. Ottovio was a boy, but he was an Emperor... And Shotan was just a count and a gendarme, his privileged status largely based on the blond boy's sympathy.

"Your Imperial Majesty,” Shotan emphasized the extremely respectful address. "If I have aroused your displeasure or anger, please tell me why. I am trying... but I cannot recall any fault of my own."

The Emperor came even closer and looked up at the gendarme from below. The Count was not only athletic and handsome but also distinguished by his considerable height.

"Your preferences..."

Ottovio blushed slightly and looked away again, clearly embarrassed. Shotan gritted his teeth, convinced that his worst fears had come true. What a young and foolish moralist... But the situation was indeed curious, even embarrassing, and something had to be done. To deny everything, to try to soften or just express bewilderment, as if the lord of the world does not care about the modest needs of the loyal captain? And the word “ loyal” is the key word here.

Ottovio gave Shotan no time to choose. The emperor almost rose on tiptoe and blurted out, clenching his fists:

"This is unacceptable! It's... unworthy!"

"Your Imperial Majesty,” the count considered it best to bow his head and even crouch down in an unintended but appropriate bow, so as not to tower over his suzerain. "I think I know what I mean... But I do not understand why this trifle has attracted so much attention. Much less my lord's anger. It's..."

The knight involuntarily tightened his lips.

"It's a commoner. A commoner! Yes, I broke the letter of the law, but..."

Shotan hesitated, trying to find the right words. A straightforward and honest “Are the laws written for me?” would have sounded too frank.

"My dear Count,” said the young Emperor dryly. "She may be a commoner, but she is the wife of a master furrier, a virtuous and respectable lady. And even if she were the last..." Ottovio clearly held back the unworthy and uncouth “whore” ready to burst from his lips. "... a peasant, she is my subject, and she is protected by the law! I have received a complaint from the shop and the county judicature, backed up by a letter of inquiry from the court. Your guilt, alas, is undeniable. There must be consequences."

"Yes, of course,” agreed Shotan cautiously, thinking the boy was not stupid after all. Yes, the count had made a mistake and had not taken care that there were no witnesses, or at least their mouths were shut. There are too many people involved... But the young man gives the guilty party a chance to save face and measure out a reasonable retribution for himself. Clever!

"I will try to resolve the matter,” agreed the Shotan with all possible deference. "I believe a generous donation will assuage the husband's grief and cool the anger of the craftsmen."

"The complaint came from the wife."

"Then wife,” Shotan mentally frowned as he added a quarter on top of the original amount he had intended to pay for the insolent girl's claims.

Maybe he should just kill them. It's easier. But on the other hand, what's the fun in that? The true beauty of the patterns must pass through the years, otherwise, it's a simple knife work, vulgar and ordinary bloodletting, no better than murder in a dark alley.

"Count,” the Emperor's voice changed strangely, but Shotan, absorbed in grief for the burden of his creative nature, did not notice it at first.

"My dear Count...,” said the governor quietly and somehow sadly, with sincere sadness. "Did you understand nothing?"

"What?” Shotan said stupidly and plebeianly. "I beg your pardon?"

Ottovio shook his head, and the captain did not like the confidence in the Emperor's movements. The timidity of a young man before his husband, of an unarmed man before an armed man, of an island boy before a warrior, was gone. It was as if... yes, as if for some unknown reason Ottovio suddenly felt superiority over the gendarme, such that all the manliness and terrible strength of Shotan were worthless in the young man's eyes.

"Count, what makes us nobles?" Ottovio asked, still softly. “Men of honor,” sounds dignified and proud, but what is an honor, what is its essence?"

Shotan lifted his chin and cursed the ducal whore Biel. What a wretch, now it was clear what the attack of misplaced nobility was all about. They taught the young man beautiful nonsense..... But he cursed silently, and said aloud:

"Valor!"

"Yes?"

"Absolutely!" Shotan raised his head even higher, no longer trying to equalize his height; the Count loomed over Ottovio like a siege tower. "Bravery on the battlefield is the main difference between a true nobleman and a shopkeeper who bought a title. There are men of the sword, and there are servants of the robe and the inkwell, they will never be on a par!"

"No."

The short word sounded like the snap of a crossbow string and seemed to echo eerily beneath the high ceiling, which bloomed with a pattern of polished dolomite plates.

"No. Not valor,” the Emperor shook his head again, and Shotan suppressed a fierce urge to go straight to the Marquise to cut out her heart, without any of the patterns and delicate play of the razor blade on her glossy skin.

"Not valor, but dignity."

"I don't see any difference!"

In a corner of his mind, Shotan knew that he was being carried along like a galley without sails or oars in a storm. Now, it would have been better to keep silent, to temper his pride, as Wartensleben and Curzio would have done, cold soulless like sea creatures. But the count felt wounded to the core of his soul; the Emperor's caustic words stung like the faceted tip of a dagger penetrating the junction of armor plates.

"Dignity, honor, it's the same thing. Valor, that is our highest virtue! There is nothing higher than that."

"Yes,” Ottovio said coldly, with the same grim determination. "A commoner has only one life, he comes into this world to leave it by the grace of God. He lives in himself; for him, existence begins with his first breath and ends forever with his last."

Shotan clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to ask wryly whether the emperor meant god or gods.

"And a nobleman is a link in a long chain, which was before his birth and will continue afterward,” the Emperor said with inspiration. A nobleman is not the owner of his name which can dispose of it like a merchant of paid goods. He is a guardian who takes the ancestral heritage, spiritual and material, to give it to his descendants. A true man of honor lives in both the past and the future at the same time. This endows him with privileges, but also imposes obligations."

The young emperor took a breath, and inhaled deeply.

"Count, by an act unworthy of a man, a warrior, and a husband, you have blackened the name of your glorious ancestors. And cast an indelible shadow on a long line of unborn descendants. All are equal before justice. And as guardian of the Empire, it is my duty to punish you..."

The ruler's voice broke, and the emperor slumped his shoulders. The gendarme could not believe that he was really hearing all this, that his ears were not lying to him.

"But I remember what I owe you,” said the young man, his speech becoming quieter, sadder. "I cannot flout the law ... especially at the beginning of a reign ... every exception multiplies iniquity ... but I will do it."

Ottovio raised his head, and now there was only determination in his dark eyes, no doubt or hesitation.

"The Crown will make amends for the damage you've done to that woman and her family. But, from this hour forward, you are not welcome in my court."

"W-what...?" Shotan mumbled stupidly and muffled. "Are you really?"

"Count, I deny you my company. You may appear in Milvesse and anywhere else you wish, but only when I am not there. I know the punishment is disproportionate to your misdemeanor. But I cannot bring myself to be more stern."

"My... misdemeanor...?" Shotan blushed, then turned purple, even though he was powdered. The Count perhaps for the first time in years had no words.

"Yes, the word “crime” would be more appropriate. But in the memory of our friendship, I prefer to think of it as a misdemeanor. Dear Count,” Ottovio stepped closer and lowered his voice. "We are seen. Do not compromise your dignity. Walk away like a strong man... who needs no urgent escort."

For a few moments, Shotan stared at the Emperor with dilated pupils, darkness in their depths. More than once, the strongest and bravest had retreated under that gaze, despite their faithful companions at their backs, the strong armor on their shoulders, and the sharp iron in their hands. But the Emperor did not even blink, piously certain he was doing the only right thing.

Shotan slowly, jerkily raised his clenched fist, then abruptly lowered it and, turning, left the office, almost striking sparks from the stone with the heels of his boots. Ottovio sadly watched him go.

* * *

"Unfortunately, I can't ask you personally for diminishing my family's honor,” Udolar waved his fist. The gesture might have seemed comical, for the aging fingers, covered in dry, mummy-like skin with pigmented spots, did not look serious. But it wasn't.

"Wait for the heralds. They will deliver the official challenge and name the duelist to represent me."

The duke's aged, cracked voice sounded like a hammer knocking sparks out of armor. Knowing Wartensleben well, the island emissary was sure that Shotan would not wait for any heralds and would most likely not live to see the dawn. On the other hand, the Count would probably realize this as well, so the Duke would have to walk around looking around and with doubled guards. It was necessary to save the situation somehow. And to do it quickly because the two conspirators had only a couple of words left before they turned into deadly enemies.

"Peace, gentlemen!" proclaimed the islander. "Peace! Or at least a ceasefire. It's not worth throwing around words that can't be collected afterward. It's not a grain in the hands of a peasant! And it applies to both sides!"

He looked sternly at the nobles and shook his head in a judgmental gesture.

" Shame on you! We're walking on the edge, betting one bigger than the other. The whole world is racing to push us into the abyss. Only by fighting back-to-back will we hold on and be able to climb to the peak of power. And now, with our goal on the horizon, you've decided to plunge daggers into each other's backs?!" Curzio took a breath and tugged at his lace collar as if the aristocrat was being strangled by the fabric. "Shame on you!" he proclaimed again.

All three fell silent. The Count was as crimson as the shell of a boiled crab, Udolar had turned gray with anger, and Curzio was as pale as a dead man.

"He insulted my daughter," the Duke croaked.

"Your daughter poured poison into the emperor's ears," Shotan snapped.

"I swear by Two, one more word and I'll leave you both!" shouted the islander like a common plebeian. "Cut each other down!" Curzio fell spectacularly to his knees, nearly breaking his kneecaps, and cried out, addressing the high ceiling, painted with frivolous angels throwing spoons at each other. "Oh, Ishten and Erdeg, why didn't you turn me away from stupidity, why did you let me associate with idiots!"

The Count and the Duke looked at the islander, and the two very different faces were marked with the same stamp of infinite bewilderment. I wonder Curzio thought if I shall now receive two summonses at once...? But at least the two luminous cretins had at least for a few minutes given up their intention of killing each other.

"What?” Shotan asked, wondering if he had misheard. Udolar was silent, moving his brown-stained lips silently.

Curzio sighed heavily and literally sat back on his heels, imagining how silly he looked from the outside in his shapeless Saltoluchard robes and stupid millennia-old hairdo. Screw it, he thought, I'll order a mainland dress tomorrow. Dramatic gestures seemed much more impressive in a normal caftan with tight sleeves.

"Gentlemen,” he said, almost pleadingly, looking upward. "Do you realize what you have staked? Have you forgotten that we are the highest bidder? All of us? And you're really willing to ruin that with a few rash words? Just to blow it away with an arrogant unwillingness to listen to each other? If so, I was wrong."

He sighed and shook his head.

" I called you supposedly idiots. But that was a mistake, and I apologize deeply for it. I am the only idiot here if I have found it useful to associate with you. I have no company of cavalry,” Curzio inclined his head toward Shotan. "Nor a duchy or even a scrap of land on the mainland,” Curzio said, nodding sternly at Wartensleben. "If our treaty is broken, you have a place to retreat to, but I've lost everything."

There was silence. He should have stood up, but Curzio realized how ridiculous that gesture would look in his brocaded cloak with its dovetailed cloak. And he thought it best to remain on his knees, bowing his head tragically. The Duke and the Count looked at each other in silence, still flashing fierce lightning in their gazes, but having cooled down a little. As Curzio had planned, none of the ambitious companions in the conspiracy wanted to return to their previous state. Each of them wanted to be not just among the first, but the only one of their kind, and now was the perfect time to remember that. Shotan twitched his neck, smoothed his disheveled curls, and adjusted the lace on his sleeves. The Duke turned away and poked his long nose into a bottle of pepper.

"Stand up, my friend,” the count said, holding out his hand to the islander. Curzio took the help without stooping and looked at the duke silently.

"He insulted my daughter," Wartensleben repeated for the third time.

Curzio looked at Shotan. Now everything depended on the Count's ambition and the degree of his desire to rise higher than captain of a cavalry company, even if it was the best on eight sides of the world.

"I...” Shotan twitched his throat as if the collar were choking a knight. He took a sip and curled his lips in an ugly grimace. The sculpted pale skin on the Count's face was still blotchy red.

"I...” Shotan repeated, and then he stammered again but then squeezed out with an inhuman effort. "I apologize."

Curzio looked pleadingly at Wartensleben. The Udolar mirrored the Shotan's gesture, twitching his neck in the cord of his modest collar, and spoke just as painfully, not even in syllables, but in almost separate letters:

"Maybe… I was too harsh. But my daughter…"

Curzio, realizing that every second was precious. It was necessary to forge while it burned, and he held out his palms to both companions as if offering to join them in an indirect handshake. The fingers of the Count and the Duke seemed equally hard and cold to the islander. Shotan exhaled and finally returned to being himself, aristocratically pale, coldly aloof, as if he were not of this world. Only his curls, which were in a slight disorder, testified to a certain disorder of mind. The most important thing had been said, the truce had been concluded, and now it was easier to tread on thin ice. And the earl spoke, still without looking at Udolar, but noticeably firmer:

"I accused your daughter of the Emperor thinking badly of me, that was... not very dignified of me. But nevertheless."

The Count let the unfinished sentence hang in the air, showing that the conflict was still not completely over.

"Biel is teaching his majesty the wisdom of rulership,” Wartensleben muttered. "It is not my daughter's fault that the boy is too young and fancies himself a knight without reproach. A lantern of morality, a shining light of morality, damn him."

"Yes,” Shotan sighed. "It usually happens... and passes... earlier. He should have been a squire for a year or two with a worthy knight. It's usually a good cure for naiveté."

"Gentlemen,” Curzio clapped his hands lightly, drawing attention to himself. "Nothing irreversible had actually happened yet."

"I am excommunicated from the Emperor,” Shotan snapped. "The boy does not wish to see me again. It's a disgrace. A real one, and obviously a long one. This is the thanks I get for my service!"

"You shouldn't call him “boy,” Curzio suggested gently. "One could never be sure that there weren't unwanted ears lurking somewhere."

Udolar nodded silently in agreement.

"As for the subject of our conversation... Yes, it is a disgrace,” Curzio did not refute. "And undeserved. But,” the islander pointed his finger significantly upward, almost like a parishioner of the Church of the One. "Ottovio is still young, he has not yet learned all the lessons of a ruler. And he does not know that some... liberties... are better forgiven, for true loyalty to the Emperor is above all else. Even law and justice."

"It won't help me,” Shotan muttered. "He was more than explicit. I am forbidden to be near him."

"It is. But...” The islander raised two fingers significantly. "First of all, your company, as before, serves the Emperor, doesn't it?"

"Hmm...” Shotan frowned. "Yes."

"Yes,” Curzio repeated with a feeble smile. "Ottovio must have forgotten that Count Shotan was not only a man with a title, but also his mounted company. A brilliant, loyal unit that tirelessly guarded His Majesty's peace and safety."

"Well..." the gendarme stretched out with an uncertain intonation. "Well... yes."

"Secondly, someone will have to exhaust His Majesty's hetaires with tireless military exercises. And thirdly, you are not allowed to share the Emperor's company, but as far as I understand, there is no rescript on the subject. You are not forbidden to perform your duties orally or in writing, are you?"

"Yes," Shotan nodded. "It was only about personal disgrace."

"Excellent,” Curzio rubbed his palms together in a gesture that was quite merchant-like. "So nothing really terrible or irreversible has happened. Our ruler is too young and not yet hewn by the blows of fate. He does not yet appreciate loyalty in the proper measure, but this is not a characteristic of the soul, but a temporary and correctable defect. Yes, the boy does not wish to see you. But your gendarmes are keeping him safe. Your students will be his closest companions. And finally, we, your friends, remain with the master's body and soul. As time passes..."

Curzio smiled, and once again Shotan thought he was not afraid of anything or anyone, but... the island emissary's friendliness made him want to turn his back to the wall and draw his dagger. But now and for some time to come, the companions of the small conspiracy would be riding in the same formation, boot to boot.

"Weeks and months will pass, and the memory of the bourgeois woman's suffering will fade like bronze without polish. In the meantime, our Emperor will be convinced more than once or twice that there is nothing more valuable to a ruler than loyalty... especially if it has passed the severe test of royal ingratitude."

"Is a broken bone stronger?" Shotan returned the smile, and Curzio thought he had never seen such a strong distinction between a perfectly beautiful form and a black soul inside. But, unfortunately, for the time being, all the members of the complot are forced to row with one oar, and we'll see.

"That's right. Rulers love loyalty very much. And they love it especially if it is kept, even when the ruler himself... has not shown such virtue."

"Gentlemen," the Duke, who had been listening attentively to the dialogue until now, bared his teeth in an old grin. "It seems you have missed another aspect."

Curzio and Shotan turned synchronously toward the old man. The islander's smile was as sweet as poison, Shotan's as menacing as a dagger in the stomach, and Wartensleben's crooked grin was as ghastly as a dead man's wrinkled lips and glassy, inexpressive eyes.

"Complaint,” the duke mumbled a single word.

Now all three nobles formed a triangle with perfectly equal sides. They smiled at each other and nodded silently at the common sense that had pleasantly diversified the difficult day and the bad news of the Count's disgrace.

"Yes, a complaint,” the islander repeated after the Duke. "A real complaint to the Emperor. Not the Regents. Not the island puppeteers. But to Emperor Ottovio Gotdua-Aleinsae."

"It's not a private petition,” said Wartensleben, shaking his head. "It is not a pamphlet to be handed with a trembling palm and a bag of gold to the cupbearer or the governor. It is a direct appeal to His Majesty's justice."

"Just as we'd hoped,” Curzio sighed contentedly. "Though I had hoped our luck would come from the front door. Fools complain when they don't get what they want, but the wise realize that the gods graciously grant what mortals need, not what they ask for. Perhaps, Count, your knife was directed by a higher and benevolent power."

Shotan noted how gracefully Curzio sidestepped the issue of faith in a direct address to his interlocutor, praying to the Pantocrator.

"But I beg you,” the islander finished his thought. "Be careful in the future."

"Gentlemen," Wartensleben sneezed, sniffing too much pepper, "I think you're missing something again."

"Yes?" Shotan asked. "Indeed, today you are revealing the hidden, exposing the concealed. And I can't say I'm unhappy about it."

"Pay attention,” said the Duke. "The boy has shown himself to be a judge who hears the lamentations of his subjects and comforts those who suffer. I think the cut whore and her hubby will not be in need for years to come. However..."

Udolar made a long pause, as if inviting his interlocutors to finish what he had not said.

"Can you spare me the game of...” Shotan paused, hesitating, but Curzio continued his speech.

"Indeed. Our friend has been punished, in front of witnesses who, one way or another, will spread the news throughout Milvesse. But at the same time, his lordship the Count's honor is not publicly diminished. The punishment has not turned into a humiliation and disgrace that can never be forgotten."

"Oh, yes,” Wartensleben grinned. "So, if the Emperor wishes, everything can be returned to normal without any damage to anyone's reputation. Of course, not immediately, not now... after the necessary time has passed. But it can be done."

"Hmm...” Curzio thought aloud. "Now I'd like to know if it was an accident that played in our favor by a higher power, or...."

He did not finish, and the three nobles looked at each other in silence, asking the same question. It must have been half a minute or more before Shotan summed up his thoughts with a short phrase:

"Or the boy learns quickly."

* * *

Paying by the number of warhorses, not riders, is more of a Polish practice, referring to the legendary winged hussars, the last knights of Europe. But I thought it would be appropriate in this case as well.

Regarding Shotan's pastime and his holy confidence in his exceptionalism - alas, there is nothing extraordinary here. Even at the end of the seventeenth century, it was fashionable and sporting among London's “golden youth” to beat beggars to death. And in earlier times, the fun was even simpler, for example, in the summer of 1572, Charles IX in the company of a couple of dukes at night beat Parisians, broke into homes, and made gang rapes.

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP