Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 15

Chapter 15 STUDENT

* * *

The new day started with a string of good fortunes.

For starters, the Barons of Lecuyer-Argreff left the town before dawn without any consequences for the healer who had offered to spit on centuries-old healing traditions. Elena still felt a little sorry for the unfortunate Dessol, but more symbolically, one might say abstractly. Much more emotion was given to the skinny understanding of what troubles she had avoided, quite like a kayaker who had slipped through a river with low water and plenty of rapids. Yes, on this she did not earn anything, but also did not lose, and after all, if things turned out a little differently ... In general, Elena categorically forbade to ever let feelings and pity ahead of common sense and sober calculation. As Flessa had once said, why pity someone who wouldn't pity you?

Then the rehearsal took place, and everything went according to the proper order, without force majeure and failures. What was happening reminded her of “Shakespeare in Love”, but Elena had seen the movie a long time ago, almost didn't remember the content, and wouldn't be able to explain the analogy clearly. It just reminded her of it, that was all. Perhaps it was the atmosphere of ordered chaos, the enthusiasm of amateurism when established traditions were being scrapped and replaced by something new, invented on the fly.

Kimutz, although the day before he had drunk himself to death, played as if he had been doused with living water, everyone more or less succeeded, and even the owner of the wandering circus theater seemed moderately satisfied. Though no... it would be more accurate to say that Joaquina exuded smugness and success, like a ferret in a nest with chicks. Apparently, the acrobat had gotten her way with Ranjan and was now looking at Elena like a Caesar who had defeated the Gaulish leaders in triumph. The scriptwriter had nothing against it, reasoning that as long as Joaquina felt herself the winner in the one-sided competition for Ranjan's body, the troupe as a whole and Elena in particular would have fewer problems.

While they were polishing the lines of Mariadek, who could not catch the image of the treacherous magician, noon passed. Elena took a breath and went to wash her face with cold water, listening to Artigo's loud sniffling. It seemed the boy had caught a cold, and the woman made a note of it. She'd have to check him out tonight. And in general, to organize a good sauna, warming up the imperial body, so to speak preventively. And at the same time...

"It's time,” Pantin said from over his shoulder, and Elena quickly wiped her wet face with a shabby towel with a fringe of fraying threads around the edges.

* * *

The best way to communicate with a magical warrior was the principle of “don't ask - save time”. If he considered something worthy of attention, he explained it himself, if not, he kept silent as if he hadn't heard. That's why Elena didn't even try to ask how the mentor organized the training room. They - teacher and student - simply went somewhere, any place with no prying eyes and at least some kind of door. A barn, a room, anything, once even an old and abandoned privy. The door was always different, but when opened by Pantin's hand it invariably led to the same place.

Maybe Pantin was hiding some folded space in the purse, maybe he was creating a magical portal (though it was unlikely if what Elena had heard about transitions was true), or maybe everything was an illusion... anyway, the two people found themselves in a large hall that resembled a huge stroboscopic cylinder ten meters high, or even more. Outside was the brightest light, penetrating through vertical slits and rows of small - like a sieve - holes, but no details of the “cylinder” environment could not be seen. Only light and nothing else. No odors, no outside noise, just a polygonal platform and a smooth floor made as if of polished malachite. A beautiful training room, but devoid of props, no comparison to the half-dark room in the Draftsman's house filled with dummies, shields, and weapons. The training process was also radically different from Figueredo's.

The late fencer emphasized practice from the very first lesson, but during several months of Pantin's studies, Elena had never once taken up arms. The master and the student practiced almost every day what could be called general physical training, which included special athletics, movement culture, and prevention of musculoskeletal apparatus.

"All human life is a struggle,” Pantin admonished. "A struggle first of all with oneself, with other people, with the countless trials that life sends us. And, finally, the struggle with the main enemy - Time. Sooner or later a person loses this fight, but it is possible to leave with dignity, leaving a noticeable furrow on the plowed field of history. And it is possible to do the opposite. What is the practical conclusion from the above?"

Having asked the question, Pantin himself answered it:

"The fighter's body undergoes extreme stress, it suffers damage and eventually wears out. It is as inevitable as death. Pain in the back. Pain in the legs. Pain in the knees. Painful joints. All of these things await you as anyone follows the path of the weapon long enough. But someone in his twenties is a wreck and has to warm his back with a hot brick every day. And someone in his forties can beat up an insolent punks. What's the difference between them? Let me show you."

And Pantin spent the entire first lesson to “set up” Elena's lumbar spine, as well as her neck. In the second, the woman learned how to twist her head correctly. At the third, she learned how to warm up properly, that is, how to stretch the body after training, when the most useless muscle, the smallest ligament should be warmed up and washed with fresh blood.

"Twist the spine smoothly!" Pantin commanded. “Roll” the back gently, smoothing it out to correct all the irregularities. And do it not through effort, but through relaxation."

"I don't understand,” Elena muttered, twisting like a crazy yogi on the cool floor.

"You'll understand,” Pantin said encouragingly. "You do it a thousand times wrong, and on the thousandth first time, everything will work out. Or ten thousand first. The main thing that will work. Now put your feet in your hands."

And Elena, swallowing curses, took “legs in hand”, that is, sat down, grasping her toes, and began to roll from the left hip across her back to the right hip and back again, like a nevalashka.
Неваляшка

"It's easy to assess the correctness of execution,” the fencer instructed, pacing around. "You can stop the movement at any moment and reverse it. That's enough. Now “walrus”. Do not dare to touch the floor with your hands. Move only with the impulses of your body."

Maybe she should introduce the concept of inertia, Elena thought, gritting her teeth. Stretching her body vertically from top to toe was excruciatingly painful... and at the same time pleasurable. It felt like a seriously ill person who had finally been helped by a potent drug and knew that the pain heralded not suffering and death, but a cure.

At times it seemed to her that her mentor was literally going through her like a mechanism, making the smallest wheels turn, lubricating the corroded gears. Elena considered herself to be perfectly healthy and developed, especially by the standards of the Ecumene, where for the absolute majority of the population to eat enough for at least a week in a row was a memorable event, and to forget about hunger - a pipe dream. But only now Elena began to realize what miracles can be achieved if you apply special practice to youth. Pain taught, pain strengthened. The pain made a young woman stronger and faster.

As the days passed into weeks, the weeks into months, Elena suspected that her mentor was stealthily using magic to restore her body. In any case, the training went on continuously, without discounts for pain and without breaks for recovery. At the same time, the swordswoman was never injured, not even sprained ligaments, which would have been impossible in the usual mode. But Elena did not ask, reasoning - if “it” works, let it continue to work.

The exercises were different - “finger wrestling”, tricky push-ups on the board, and many other things but Pantin paid the most attention to the knees. He, in general, repeated the words of the Draftsman regarding the fact that in battle Elena would be saved only by perfect maneuvering, perfect work with distance when the opponent initially has no chance to break into close combat and impose wrestling. But Figueredo taught Steps, and Pantin went further, working directly with biomechanics.

"The most difficult joint is the shoulder,” he instructed. "Well, unless you count the spine. But the knees are the most vulnerable. The arm moves in all space, in any direction, but the force it can develop is limited. And the legs always carry the weight of your body, taking it alternately and entirely. In battle, the load is multiplied by multiples. You can be a warrior without an eye, without an arm. Even with a bad back if you have a good corset. But with bad knees, it's better to buy a crossbow right away. So do this..."

And Elena did, at first not understand the meaning of the outlandish exercises, only then - step by step - gradually realizing that Pantin was teaching her to work with the “vectors” of movements, to minimize parasitic stress on the joints and to distribute the effort over as wide a group of muscles as possible.

"Nowadays it's fashionable to go as low as possible,” Pantin said. "Squatting down, putting the “weak” leg far out, bending the torso at a large angle to the hip. This makes sense, so it is easier to feint and hit from the bottom to the top, on the “weak”, uncomfortable for the enemy defense directions. From such a “slant” it is easier to stab in the stomach or cut the legs, and your line of parry as if moved further away, as if the wall of a fortified castle. You expose the enemy's upper body, where there are many bones, a good muscular corset, and the vulnerability of the head is often false. One who learns the new urban combat reaches mastery faster, their skills are more sophisticated and dangerous than an old-school aficionado. At least that's how it appears at first."

The master said all this while circling around the student like a shark, an impression enhanced by the light that reflected off the malachite floor and filled the training room with a ghostly gloom. The mentor and apprentice fought as if in a huge aquarium. Pantin slapped Elena humiliatingly, one after the other, forcing her to evade collision, to break distance and “break touch,” that is, to position herself in such a way that, if contact was inevitable, her opponent would strike from as awkward a position as possible. Hot sweat dripped down the woman's face, and soaked her clothes, while the instructor was as if he was not breathing at all, his monotonous, even voice remained steady even when the fencer was literally jumping around the victim.

"But every medal has a reverse. And the price new school students pay is getting their knees out to the side, out from under their torsos. Year after year, if not killed before, the Brethers load their knees more than necessary. Eventually, the cartilage becomes stiff, and brittle, wearing off like overexposed cheese. You'll suffer the same fate someday..."

Pantin knocked Elena to the ground with a sharp blow of his palm between her collarbones, knocking the air out of her chest and causing her backside to bruise painfully as she ran over the smooth stone. The woman gasped, her jaw wiggling like a beached fish, unable to gulp air.

"But later than the others,” the mentor promised as if nothing had happened, and finished the thought serenely. "If you live long enough."

* * *

"Take the blade,” Pantin ordered.

Elena looked around in bewilderment, searching for a weapon, but her mentor was already holding out his sword to her. Pantin's peculiarity also made her nervous. Pantin pulled the necessary tools not even out of thin air but out of nowhere. No matter how hard Elena tried, she never managed to notice the moment of appearance. It just turned out that the necessary thing was in her hands or in the hands of the master, and as if it had been there for some time.

"Oh,” was all the student said as she swung the sword to try it out. It was the first time in months of training that Pantin had given her anything resembling a weapon, even an imitation with a blade of solid wood.

Figueredo taught the young woman primarily with the cleaver and messer, explaining that they were basic bladed weapons. If you learned the basics, you could use anything. But Pantin's sword had significant differences, looking more like a simple sword, or rather the grandfather of the sword. It was strictly one-handed, with a long crossguard whose whiskers curved S-shaped in a plane perpendicular to the blade. The garda was augmented with several rings to protect the fingers and unpleasantly reminded one of a red-eyed witch's weapon. The sword mimicked the double-edged sharpening, lying comfortably in the hand, accurately reproducing the correct weight and balance of a real weapon. Judging by the condition of the wooden blade it had served faithfully and reliably for many years. I wonder who... Did Pantin have other apprentices besides Ranjan?

Elena automatically adopted a stance of deaf defense, Pantin nodded, though without much approval, rather fixing the acceptable and appropriate to-the-moment action of the apprentice.

"Reach me,” he ordered, pulling out his wooden blade very similar to Elenin's, but longer and wider.

The woman stepped around the circle, trying without much hope to pull the master “into a spiral”. The apprentice expected some kind of counter-move, but Pantin only turned a sixth of the circle, maintaining a face-to-face stance. No feints, the master even lowered his blade in deceptive indifference. Making up her mind, the apprentice attacked.

The encounter reminded her most of the sparring that had opened Elena's combat history in this universe when Kai had taught her the inferiority of sport fencing techniques when applied to a real fight. The actions were different, but the essence of what was happening was the same. A sudden turn of events and an unexpected result. The fencer didn't try to parry or dodge, he just stepped right on the blow and made a counter-strike, of course, he hit. Elena drew back, closing again in case of a counterattack, but the master lowered his sword. The apprentice, remembering the lessons of the Draughtsman, didn't buy it, ready to continue.

"That's enough for now," Pantin said. "So, what happened?"

"They exchanged blows,” Elena commented, lowering her sword as well. "Mutual killing."

"No,” Pantin shook his head. "We exchanged jabs to the torso, but you didn't get the blade fully in the right plane. If this had been a real fight, your sword would have lodged in my ribs, three fingers deep in the flesh. Good chance of survival."

He paused as if inviting the student to continue the thought.

"And I got a stab in the heart,” the woman exhaled heavily.

"Yes,” agreed the master. "Of course, there are different things. I have seen a man stabbed in the heart, and he killed his opponent, came to the healer with his own feet, and then only fell breathless. But that's not the case here."

"Yes,” Elena agreed laconically, realizing the lesson was not finished.

"Once more."

And... the same thing happened again.

"The right turn of the blade. You would have penetrated at least palm deep, but past the heart,” Pantin informed coldly and monotonously. "The wound is severe, my chances of survival are one to one. And yours?"

"A stab in the liver,” Elena would have been happy to speak as dryly and professionally as she could if she could just straighten up. The bile seemed to rush from the base of her tongue, and she wanted to fall to her knees in tears.

"Death...” she swallowed, and took a breath. "Inevitable."

"How much life would you give yourself if you were wounded like that?" Pantin said, raising his sword upright, pointing it toward the high, dark ceiling.

"A quarter of an hour,” Elena squeezed out and corrected herself at once. "Less. Unless I'm unlucky."

"And if you're lucky?" The mentor continued sternly.

"Then they'll finish me."

"Yes,” agreed the master. "Liver wounds are characterized by terrible pain. One more."

Third exchange. Fourth... Eighth. Elena cringed at the second ten as her body turned into a solid lump of pain. The master didn't try to feint, he avoided any techniques. A simple step, a direct jab with no regard for defense, and that was it. Only the apprentice was ready to fall to her knees in pain, and the master absorbed the damage like a pillow from a stick.

"Enough."

Pantin took the sword under his arm and twirled the brush, kneading the ligaments.

"What do you have to say about it?"

Elena glanced at the master furtively and changed her grip, shifting the sword to her other hand just in case. Draftsman didn't mean it but by breaking the woman's limb he'd made Elena ambidextrous.

"I'll say that's... wrong."

"Why?"

Elena breathed in the cool, clean air, seemingly sterile. In contrast, the smell of her own sweat seemed especially heavy.

"Because it doesn't work like that. Nobody trades life for life... like that."

"Nevertheless, I did it. And what's your counter to that?"

Elena decided the question was rhetorical due to the obviousness of the answer. Pantin smiled crookedly and ordered:

"Seventeen times I have defeated you, even at the cost of suicide. Now give me two motives for such an action."

"Ammm..."

Elena wanted to be indignant at such bullying, but the school of the Draftsman had its effect. The apprentice swallowed her indignation and tried to strain her brain.

"First... hm... well... Am..."

"I'm in no hurry,” the master smiled encouragingly with a slight sneer.

"You've been paid,” Elena asked more than asserted.

"Clarify,” Pantin demanded sternly. "How can you pay for a deliberate suicide?"

"Well... let's say..."

The apprentice frowned, bowing her head.

Think like a local, she ordered herself sternly. Think like a man who killed two enemies with his own hands. Think like a Brether whose life is dedicated to the Grand Art.

"You were forced,” she said, raising her head and looking straight into the gray specks of her mentor's eyes.

"Yeah...” he stretched out. "That's better. But how could it be done?"

"Duty of honor. Threat to family. Any motive you value more than life. Kill, die yourself, and consider the obligation repaid. Or your family is safe."

"Yes,” Pantin nodded very gravely in agreement. "That's the way it is in the south. More?"

"Hatred,” Elena gritted her teeth for a moment. "Revenge. The desire to kill someone who's obviously stronger than you. So strong that you'd sacrifice yourself for it."

"What's the difference?"

"In the first case, you're forced. In the second, it's a personal choice."

"I agree,” Pantin shook his chin again. "Well, I'm satisfied. In fact, you have now learned a lesson that will stay with you for the rest of your life. What it means, I'll let you decide for yourself."

In some respects, Pantin was remarkably like Draftsman. Meanwhile, the master took a few steps that echoed in the vaults of the training room.

"Figueredo taught you well,” Pantin said with a slight wistfulness as if he were not addressing the woman but rather thinking aloud. "But not as well as he could have. The higher power will judge him, but we shall be grateful to the dead man for his diligence and teaching."

Judging by the rare exchanges, Pantin knew Figueredo personally and respected the skill of the fencer but was quite critical of the school in general and the pedagogical methods of the master personally. Elena tilted her head silently, agreeing with the unusual epitaph. She thought to herself: I wonder what god (or gods) a man who lived for five centuries, or even more, believes in? And does he believe at all...

"Unfortunately, he was too committed to traditional weapons and techniques. I'll teach you better. Alas, some of it will require retraining, which is always more difficult. But I think we can manage. Let's start with the Guards. What are they again?"

"Guard in the simple sense is the position of a fighter ready to strike or parry,” the student said in a straightforward and memorized voice. "Guard in its full meaning is the position of the fighter at any moment during the fight."

"How many guards do you know?"

"Master Figueredo taught me seven. He showed me five more but without practice. Draft... Figueredo thought they were unnecessary for real combat."

"That makes twelve,” Pantin summarized. "Well, that's really enough for a brether. But we are striving for a true, refined art. So you will have to master twenty-one guards."

Elena indicated a bow, as if to bear gratitude in advance.

"Now get the weapon right."

The master didn't specify what he meant, so it was a test of wits she suppose. Elena decided that if a sword looked like a small sword, it should be held like a small sword. And she threw her index finger over the front “whisker” of the guard.

"Two fingers,” the master corrected.

Elena silently complied, adding her middle finger to her index finger, and suddenly this manner was comfortable in its way. Pantin nodded in approval and gave the next task:

" Now show me the first guard."

"Hir rat gynffon," Elena allowed herself a slight, barely perceptible smile, which, however, read confidence. The swordswoman assumed the desired position, the sword point glinting as it was pointed at the bridge of the master's nose. The woman translated from the old style. // “Long rat tail.”

"Not bad,” agreed the fencer. "But this position is more suitable for a combat knife. My blade should be held a little differently."

Pantin came in from the right side of his student, critically surveying her from top to bottom. Elena froze in static, slanting her eyes toward the fencer.

"The wrist is like this,” the master corrected, moving the pupil's hand like a marionette. "A little to the left. And lower. This will be correct, the stab will follow a shorter line. And now..."

* * *

Elena crawled into the shed on all fours, holding on to the wall. Pantin's classes were traditionally exhausting, but today the measure of fatigue exceeded all expectations. Her muscles ached and seemed swollen and stony at the same time, so no amount of hiccups helped. Elena performed typical, long ago learned, thousands of times repeated movements, but now, under Pantin's guidance, a little differently, just a little, but in a different way. And it turned out to be many times more complicated and difficult than learning from scratch. The new style required constant self-control not straying to the usual technique. The body accustomed to certain movements and trajectories responded to the change of mode with painful protest. In general, Elena dreamed only of getting to bed, sipping heated water from a cup, and then falling on the yellow from frequent washing sheets straight into sleep. Without undressing. Without washing. All that would have to wait until tomorrow. But for now, just lay down, and closed her eyes, before her joints sprained like a broken doll's.

Close the eyes...

The woman cursed, realizing that trouble was brewing, not yet of obvious severity, but obvious. Grimal looked grimly at the blankets, and Artigo coughed badly through the thin wall. And Kimutz was perfectly sober, stirring with a spoon the brew that was cooking in a cauldron on the heated stove. It smelled like milk with honey and a drop of alcohol.

I hate you all, Elena thought habitually, realizing that the dream was postponed indefinitely. I hate you all... Now let's see what's wrong with the noble one.

As expected, the diagnosis was made quickly - “poeth bronnau”, literally translated as “hot chest”. Alas, Elena did not know the difference between pneumonia, or, say, bronchitis. And the local “vulgar” medicine did not know the difference. High temperature, sore throat, and so on. Maybe a draught blew the neck and bronchi, maybe enterovirus, and maybe flu with complications. Though the latter was unlikely, Elena remembered that flu made the lymph nodes in the neck swell and inflame, but here everything was normal. Artigo wasn't coughing up blood, and the medicine woman remembered from the Wastelands that was a bad sign and you could start make a funeral pyre

The only thing left to do was to reduce the symptoms, so as not to overload the patient with treatment, and hope that the frail aristocratic body would overcome the disease.

"Take it away!" Elena ordered, with a commanding gesture.

"Are you crazy?" Ranjan asked, clutching the pile of blankets tightly, and the medicine woman noted that time was passing, that things were changing. Not so long ago, the mere thought of facing a Brether had filled her soul with panic-stricken terror. And now the woman easily raises her voice at the killer and expects perfect obedience.

//“Lena Girl, you are definitely growing on yourself!”

"He has a fever,” Elena coined, cranking the medicinal stiffness to the maximum.

"So?" Brether snarled, not letting go of the pile of blankets.

"Don't interrupt me!" said the woman, like a clattering axe, and repeated. "He has a fever. It is insidious. The internal heat exhausts the flesh, but the body seems to the contrary to be chilled."

//“How easy and skillful I am at...”

"If you wrap a sick person up, they can overheat. Especially if he's so...” Elena hesitated for a moment considering whether to soften, but continued sternly. "Small and weak. Then his heart wouldn't be able to take it."

Ranjan clenched his teeth and the blankets so hard his knuckles turned white.

"If you don't believe me, deal with him yourself,” Elena said coldly. "Or get out of my way and let me save your... master."

She held back from the forbidden word at the last moment, thinking it sounded trivial, but walls have ears, too. Especially when the walls are thin. Ranjan looked at Elena like a reptile, dark eyes unblinking then stepped to the side, silent, still without parting his pale lips.

"Find some vinegar,” the woman ordered imperiously. "And plenty of clean, soft cloths. We'll make compresses. Go to the herbalist and get some rose hips and dried raspberries. A decoction will help bring down the fever."

"We will,” Gamilla promised from behind Ranjan's back. Putting her hand on the swordsman's shoulder she said softly, but with the authority of a woman who saves a child, albeit a stranger's. "Come, lord of the blade. We have work to do."

By midnight the vigorous measures began to produce results; the boy began to feel better, and the fever subsided, but not completely, clinging tightly to his thin body. The child could not sleep, fell into a troubled oblivion, and then woke up. Elena dreamed of at least one “green pill”, held Artigo's hand, and suffered in silence, going over in her memory all the moments when she was intolerant, harsh, and finally simply indifferent to the boy. After the fact, the episodes were sadly numerous, more than she could remember.

The stool on the other side of the bed creaked, and Ranjan sat down silently, shaking the drops of water off his cleanly washed hands. Elena had taken into account that the disease could be viral, so she'd made everyone wear medical masks and wash their hands. The healer soaked another compress in a bowl of vinegar, and Brether helped change the cloth. The barn smelled of sickness and cure, familiar from childhood. Grandpa, being a physician, treated his own colds and fever strictly by folk methods.

Jars! - thought Elena. Of course! Tomorrow I must go to the shops and go to the pub and get some glass pots. They are expensive, because there is not even river sand in the area, and even less good, “white”, respectively there are no glass workshops, and the goods are brought from afar. But at least five can be found and it is possible to put normal jars. Closer to the evening, so as not to overdo it. As the Greeks said, what is too much, is not for the good.

Cadfal dropped by conveniently, briefly beeping through his muzzle to see if she needed anything. Elena figured that after a tiring training session and a sleepless night, she might oversleep and forget, so she briefly outlined what she needed and asked him to take care of it. Cadfal asked a couple of questions for clarification and seriously promised to start at dawn.

Artigo regained consciousness and drank some raspberry decoction. The boy looked better, his coughing had subsided, and his forehead no longer burning the fingers like a hot stove. But there was no need to be optimistic; the child was seriously and long-term ill.

"Can't sleep,” Artigo half sighed, half sobbed.

"It's all right,” Elena said soothingly, trying to sound as confident as possible. "The worst is over. Recovery would be long, but now it's inevitable."

The boy's gaze made her want to cry. Ecumena had not spoiled the woman with trust and human gratitude, but Artigo's eyes read desperate fear and equally desperate hope. Not a trace of his usual lethargy and inexpressive apathy.

"Tell me... something,” the little master of the world asked suddenly. He thought, frowning, and added a word that was the last thing the woman expected to hear from the young noble one.

"Please..."

The healer and the swordsman looked at each other, cross-eyed over the patient's bed. Elena could read the obvious confusion in the dark pupils over Brether's mask. Ranjan didn't seem to be good with entertaining stories. She could call someone else, like Gaval, but...

Elena remembered very well Afanasyev's collection of Russian fairy tales, an academic, uncensored edition, one of her favorite childhood books. But she doubted that “stories about dead people” and “stories about ghosts” were the right tales for a sick child with an unstable, impressionable mental organization. Something else was required. Should she tell him “Beauty and the Beast” or something Disney? No, still a boy, here it is necessary not princesses but something about feats. Elena pulled down the cloth covering her mouth.

"Once upon a time...” the narrator began, thoroughly, softly, and very suggestively. "In a kingdom far, far away... in the middle of nowhere, where the land is stony and barren, there lived a humble and poor family."

"Frelses?" Artigo asked quietly, probably remembering his not-so-old adventures on the edge of the plain by the mountains.

"No,” Elena smiled and smoothed her patient's soaked hair. "Simple tenant farmers."

She put her hand on the boy's chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath his thin ribs. The rhythm seemed to have slowed a little, no longer pounding like a drumbeat; perhaps that was a good sign. She was so tired, though, that she was afraid she might be mistaken for wishful thinking. After a moment's hesitation, Ranjan covered her palm with his. God knows what the Brether wanted to say, or if he wanted to say it at all, maybe he was just expressing his gratitude. It was strange to sit like that, to hold the life of the lord of the entire inhabited world in her hands and feel the warm, hard, board-like palm of the greatest Brether of his generation. But fairy tales don't tell themselves.

"They were so poor that they ate chicken once a week and no beef or pork at all. But they did not starve, because they were honest and hardworking. They were respected by their neighbors and loved by their friends. Even tax collectors were honored to ride down to drink water in their hospitable house."

The boards creaked, barely audible. Elena absorbed in the story did not immediately notice Joaquina, who crept up almost on tiptoe, frozen, hiding behind the sheet, which was stretched like a canopy, protecting the bed of the sufferer from draughts. The acrobat threw a glance at her clenched palms, it seemed to the medic that the blonde's gaze for a moment flashed with rabid hatred. But - it really seemed. Joaquina smiled softly and asked Ranjan what she needed in a low whisper. Brether stood up quietly, releasing Elena's fingers, and walked out, treading like a ghost, toe to heel.

"...And the family had an heir, a young man. Well...” Elena thought for a few moments, remembering the characters' family ties. "His father died before his son was born. He was killed in battle. The child was brought up by his uncle, but as his own, preparing him to be his successor. The young man learned to read and write, but not how to use a horse and a lance. His uncle thought there were many warriors, but those who knew and could interpret the laws were far fewer. So the family's hopes were in inkwells and trade rather than military service. And it happened that one day a lone traveler knocked on their door. No horse, no entourage, not even a servant. And his name was...."

The memory failed again, and again in a bizarre, original way. Elena had forgotten the name of the character but she remembered perfectly well who had played him. Grandfather's favorite actor, who believed that there were no acting schools in the world except the Soviet and British ones.

//“Grandpa... it's been so long since I've thought of you... You. And my parents. My friends. All my old life.”

Elena turned away, pretending to wipe her eye where a speck of water had fallen. She furtively brushed away the only tiny tear.

"...his name was Guinness. Alec Guinness."

"He must be from the far north,” Artigo suggested in a whisper. "The boy tried not to swallow, obviously it hurt too much. "They have strange names there."

"Who knows?" The storyteller smiled enigmatically. "But anyway, it was not a simple warrior, but a member of a mysterious order that served the good. The last member, all the others had died in battle."

"He's like our Redeemers?" Artigo whispered, and Elena noted that the boy called Cadfal and Rapist “ours” as if they were family, without the arrogance of an aristocrat who only had servants, his own or others.

"Yes. Only our... friends serve the Church, they are God's people. And here were knights united, glorious, and pious. And though Guinness didn't even have a bad chain mail, under his cloak he carried a marvelous sword. A weapon of heroes with a blade of wondrous blue flame."

Blue? Or was it green? It didn't matter, as long as it wasn't red, Elena remembered for sure.

"The sword of the Old Empire?" Artigo asked, flashing his wide-open eyes, mesmerized by the story.

Elena sighed heavily, realizing that she had forged her misfortune. Now the dream would be goodbye. Well, here it is, the payback for inattention, neglect, and, what's more, let's face it, the callousness of the soul. As the father, whom the daughter will probably never see again, would say - God, thank you for taking the lesson only with sleep and money.

And the stomach on the right side hurts so badly where Pantin's hardest blow came.

She took a sip of rosehip decoction and said:

"Yes. The elegant and deadly weapons of a more civilized age. And then..."

* * *

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

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/83056/581470

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP