Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 16

Chapter 16

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“I have mentioned many times and will write many times, the strangeness of Hel. She - the one who would be called the Red Queen and not for the color of her hair - was unusual. But that strangeness is one of those things that are hard to define with a reasonable definition. Hel was... different, and that said it all.

Sometimes it seemed to me that this woman had been brought up in a very strange house with strange customs and traditions. She was surprised, and often saddened (though she tried sincerely to conceal it) by the most ordinary things, such as young men's fun at the “fox-fest”. And at the same time, it happened (though rarely) that our companion did very strange things. She took a certain decision not because it was the best of some, but because from her point of view, there were no other ways at all. And for the first time in my memory, this manifested in relation to Artigo Gotdua.

Hel disliked him, almost to the point of disgust (which hurt the heart of Ranjan, loyal to the Emperor like a hero of legendary antiquity), and it was clearly visible. The respectful relationship of master and servant, Emperor and his subjects, man of noble birth and commoner was quite clearly an empty, meaningless sound to her. Hel had invariably treated Artigo Gotdua as an ordinary child who, owing to the viciousness of character and bad upbringing, shunned his natural role. Yet in the hour when a cruel ailment had stiffened the young Emperor, the same Hel had transcended the aversion, literally in one step and irrevocably.

In essence, Hel had pulled Artigo from the other side of the world with her great skill as a healer and her patient care. She treated the Emperor, cared for him as if he were her own child, and told amazing stories that none of us had ever heard before, of heroes with outlandish nicknames. And it was clear that she did not do this for the sake of future reward, nor because of the natural duty of a subject. No. She took pity on the poor, sick boy, though she had no patience for the healthy one. And that was reason enough for her, no other reason was required. There was no doubt in my mind that Hel would have nursed any other child as patiently, persistently, and mercifully if he had been with us.

I will tell you only now, and only to you, my dear son. It was in those days I thought for the first time that the tall woman, who strove to appear unremarkable and inexpressive, was probably the most unusual person I had ever met. Or perhaps not quite a person at all. But - here again, I will be sincere - then thoughts like this drifted away like water in the sand, leaving no aftertaste of reflection and conclusions. The time had not yet come...”

Gaval Sentry-Poton-Batleau.

Fifteenth letter to my son, on how we approached the premiere of Ship of the Pious.”

A drab rag was lowered, symbolizing the backstage in rehearsal, so as not to endanger the expensive canvas. Cadfal soundly struck the brass cymbal, and the minstrel played the first notes of the closing melody. The full run-through with the “clean” dialogues was over. The eyes of those present, all of them without exception, turned to the stage director.

"This is it,” Elena said, feeling strangely empty. It was as if something ephemeral, but meaningful and valuable, had been taken from her soul. Maybe something like that felt by a woman who had given birth, but maybe not. Now, post-facto, Elena saw a hell of a lot of holes, unpolished dialog, overwrought monologues, and so on. And all of it could be - had to be! - fixed, fixed, fixed".

//“Nothing is ready! Everything is terrible! Redo it!!!” - the inner voice was panic-stricken.

"That's it...” she repeated, clearly realizing now it was really over. “The Ship” is ready for the premiere.

"Done."

Maryadek wiped the sweat from his forehead. The poacher, who had become a characteristic facialist, had given all he could and even a little more than that. Such a villain was believable; his viciousness was no longer in doubt. Acting practice made the gloomy man an imposing anti-hero, which was irresistible to women in search of entertainment.

Joaquina seemed pensive and sad, like a ghost, as if she were still a righteous hermit. Kimutz sucked on his flask, making up for half a day of abstinence. The other members of the troupe were also acting somehow... lost as if they were at a crossroads on a dark night with no wise advice on which way to turn. It seems that everyone was possessed by the feeling described by the greedy Polish grandfather: something was over, something was about to begin, but what it would be like and whether it would be useful or not, you never knew.

"That's it, we're done!" Joaquina clapped her hands loudly, getting out of the image of a cute girl who devoted herself to Pantocrator. "Props to be removed carefully folded with care! The man's dress in that basket!"

It was as if everyone exhaled and moved, all at once engaged in the business and concerns of the moment. Gaval played something lyrical on an instrument he persistently called a “wavy flute,” which Elena thought was a crooked and poorly made piper. Although it must be said, the minstrel could squeeze good melodies even from such an inferior instrument, and Joaquina promised the musician to buy a real wheeled lyre on the first trip to the big city.

Elena pulled her cap up tightly to protect her ears from the draught and went to check on Artigo. Tonight was the night to treat the boy again with the jars, which had proved to be very good, and it was also finally time for the famous “I'm your father!”. The Star Wars adaptation grinded the narrator's nerves a lot, mainly due to the need to deftly ride a lame goat around political issues. The original story of the good Republic and the bad Empire would have sounded very bad in a world where, in fact, everything was an Empire. They had to improvise creatively, and Elena was not sure it was good, but the patient liked it.

In the past three days, Artigo had experienced a crisis that had nearly driven him to his grave. Elena could hardly say who had burned her nerves more: the patient, who was strangled by arrhythmia and a dry, throaty cough; the distraught Ranjan, who was dangerously close to losing his marbles and nailing the healer, or Joaquina, who now clearly saw the redhead as a rival. Elena slept three or four hours a night, and the fencer did not consider insomnia and a series of worries as a reason to pause her training.

And it all worked out in the end, though Elena felt three or four years older.

How old am I, she wondered absentmindedly, as she approached the “room” for the privileged patient. No, really, how old? Especially if you count on the local calendar with nineteen short months ...

She went to the canopy and stopped when she heard voices. Gamilla, who had not taken part in the last act, was entertaining the sick man as well as she could, and doing so well. At any rate, the boy laughed softly, faintly, but with genuine amusement,

"Seven...” Artigo proclaimed and paused, choosing a horizontal. "And five!"

He said it too loudly and coughed. Elena frowned sternly, thinking of how she could give her patient a verbal thrashing for violating the instructions - the boy was strictly forbidden to strain his throat - but he seemed fine.

"You got it,” said the invisible crossbowman, and the child laughed quietly again. The medicine woman smiled involuntarily, thinking that the cultural enrichment of the Ecumene had moved at a breakneck pace lately.

Artigo needed to be entertained somehow, and preferably in a simple and interesting way. In search of a game that would be interesting, not too much burden on the patient's brain, and without special equipment, Elena remembered at first about “tic-tac-toe” - simple, convenient, you can play on the tsere as much as you want. And then thought - why not “sea battle”? The game was adapted without any changes at all, good ship battles here provided for an active firefight, including incendiary arrows. The problem of leisure was largely closed.

After listening for a moment behind the blanket, Elena tapped her knuckles against the bar, making her presence known. She pulled back the blanket and found the patient asleep, dropping the wax tablet and wand literally mid-stroke. Gamilla looked back at the medicine woman, carefully adjusted the patient's pillow, and rose, trying not to creak the stool. Elena nodded silently, showing that she had seen and understood - there was no deterioration, everything was going as it should. She wanted to let Gamilla go but remembered that she hadn't closed one question, which was not fundamental, but still interesting, exciting curiosity.

Elena gestured to the crossbow woman to the side, closer to the stove. Gamilla raised an eyebrow in bewilderment but joined the medicine woman. Elena ensured that no one could hear or disturb their soft conversation and politely poured warm water into two crumpled pewter mugs, first to her companion, then to herself.

"I've been wanting to ask for a long time,” she began, taking a sip from the vial. "And my question is respectful, but it is only curiosity, nothing more."

Elena honestly tried to reproduce the formula of the most polite preamble, and it turned out even too correctly, that is, with an overdose of pathos. Gamilla glanced suspiciously at Elena over the crumpled pewter edge, which seemed gripped with her teeth, but listened without comment.

"Why Mistress of Arrows?" Elena asked directly. "And what does this drawing mean?" she pointed to Gamilla's blue tattoo. "I apologize in advance if my question is... dubious. But I really don't know. And I don't want to ask someone else in case they get it wrong."

Gamilla pressed her lips together. Her not-very-pretty but expressive face twitched with a grimace of distinct displeasure. The crossbowman clearly didn't want to get into the subject, but on the other hand, the question had been asked more than politely, so there was no reason to dismiss it outright.

"It's a long story,” she finally said, clutching the mug like she wanted to crumple it.

"You may not say anything,” Elena shrugged. "I'm not prying. I'm just curious. Maybe we'll meet someone else with the same pattern, and I don't know how to deal with it."

The argument seemed to work. Slowly, with long pauses, obviously silent about something, Gamilla reluctantly told me. Everything turned out to be, in general, simple. “‘Masters of Arrows’ were hereditary crossbowmen from several southern cities, who, centuries ago, had agreed collectively with otherworldly forces. By giving up something unknown but valuable, the archers gained amazing abilities passed down through bloodlines, as well as magical crossbows. Such a “ Master of Arrows” could throw a bolt one and a half to two times farther than usual, with unrivaled accuracy. All of them, of course, quite quickly became noblemen, albeit of low flight, as well as highly demanded specialists. What's interesting is that crossbow magic passed without any damage through the Cataclysm that killed the magical civilization of the Old Empire. “‘Masters" retained the skills and passed them on to their descendants as in the old days. But there were fewer and fewer of them born, so now there were only a couple of thousand amazing shooters on the entire continent. The blue tattoo was a kind of shop sign, symbolizing belonging to a privileged caste with an inherited entrance.

Well, that explained a lot of things, including about Gamilla. The crossbowman avoided talking about herself. But, to all appearances, there was a typical story of “raised a boy from a girl for lack of an heir”. Or vice versa, “threw away gender prejudice and did what she wanted.” However, anyway, Gamilla's life had clearly not been easy. Elena nodded more to her reflection than to the words of her interlocutor, but the gesture seemed dubious. The crossbowwoman blushed angrily, slammed her mug against the warm brick, and turned around, anger flaring, intent on leaving.

"Wait,” Elena said, trying to make it sound soft and suggestive. She caught her by the shoulder. Gamilla jerked, wanting to get free, and grabbed the hilt of the broken dagger, which for some reason did not want to change or at least resharpen, shortening the blade. Elena quickly retreated a step, raising her hands in a deliberately peaceful gesture; it was not enough to get cold steel in her stomach on her palm, especially for a deliberately stupid reason.

"You know...” Elena could hardly keep from smiling, imagining how it looked. But the smile evaporated as soon as the woman remembered how she had once found herself in a similar situation with Shena when she saw the scars on her friend's body. When she saw the changing expression on the medic's face, Gamilla flinched and stepped back, raising her blade higher.

Damn it, Elena thought brokenly, everyone is always looking away from me, as if I were the scariest one here. She said aloud, still quietly, not for other people's ears:

"I understand you. I really do."

Gamilla bowed her head incredulously, staring at her as if Elena were a dealer (dishonest of course, there was no other kind) offering a royal coin for the price of an island bagatelle.

"It must be hard to be a woman and do a man's job. Fighting and killing."

She didn't want to appeal to “the world was made for men,” but Elena reasoned that the turn of phrase probably wasn't so worn out and hackneyed here. Besides, she would like to keep her relationship with the crossbowman at least as neutral as before, or better yet, to become friends, well, as much as possible.

"It's not easy for a woman in a man's world, I know that,” Elena pointed her finger at herself with an eloquent gesture. She felt embarrassed and ashamed, though, to be fair, a little, just a little. Yes, she had been beaten and battered by life, no question about it, but what the medicine woman, in good conscience, could not say, was that she had to fight for a place under the sun in a vigorous intersex competition. But... for a good cause, one could lie a little.

"I know it,” she repeated. "It's not enough to be equal to men. You have to prove you're better. Stronger. Tougher. You have to show cruelty and ruthlessness where someone else might show kindness. And your whole life becomes a struggle."

Gamilla was still staring angrily and distrustfully, holding her dagger, but it seemed to Elena that the crossbowwoman's gaze shook a little, and became warmer.

"But you don't need to do that with me,” Elena said quietly, taking a step forward. A small one so that it didn't seem like an invasion of personal space or aggressive pressure. "You don't need to prove to me that you're strong and tough and skillful. That you're worthy of respect as a man and a marksman. I already know that."

She had no idea what else to add. Everything seemed to have been said, and Gamilla still wasn't showing much friendliness. Elena sighed, and waved her hands, saying she was done with the allowed speeches. She turned to leave for Artigo's bedside. The crossbowwoman moved her wide jaw as if she were trying to tear a piece out of Elena's throat. For a few moments, the medicine woman thought Gamilla might say something, but no, she didn't.

At least they didn't fight or quarrel noisily, Elena thought. That was a good thing. She shrugged her shoulders for the third time and went to prepare the jars. The fingers on her left hand ached again, which had been hit hard with a stick by her mentor the day before, demonstrating the necessity of skillful parrying.

"Why not make the garde more complex?" The woman asked perplexed, rubbing her swollen fingers. She had the stamina to swallow a groan, but a hiss escaped through her teeth. It really hurt.

"You could make it in the shape of a basket. So the rods and rings would encircle the hand like a glove. Or even...” Elena crinkled her nose, remembering Alatriste and the crazy Vigo, the best actor and Aragorn of all time. "Covering the crosshairs with a solid cup."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rjEa5roG00

She was expecting a “what's good for the mentor is good for the apprentice” kind of criticism, maybe even a sneer. But instead, Pantin nodded as if in agreement.

"Probably,” the swordsman said with absolute seriousness. "And someday you'll be able to do it. But right now it would be harmful."

"Does it upset the balance?"

"No,” Pantin smiled weakly. "A closed garde forgives mistakes in parrying. You get used to it, and one day you'll have to fight with something else. Then you'll lose fingers, at best."

Elena wanted to object, but then she remembered Ranjan's sword, a good weapon from a good forge that had broken at the worst possible moment. Brether didn't stop, he continued to fight with whatever was at hand. Could she do that?

"That's why we need strict work with the guards in parrying, their perfect execution. So that you can use any weapon, even an ordinary stick. A stick, as you know, has no hilt and the hand is defenseless. Or am I missing something?"

"No,” Elena said through gritted teeth.

"When you become a master, you can practice your weaponry as much as you like. But not before."

"I got it,” the apprentice admitted forcedly.

"Then let's continue."

After lunch, Elena remembered that she should work as a scribe, as she had probably gathered a decent list of new clients over the past few days. So she did. Collecting the next food set of natural fees, the woman at the same time joined the fresh gossip. The main reason for talk and gossip was the convoy passed through the town without stopping, only to water the horses and buy fodder for them. A dozen and a half carts with a gloomy and unpleasant guard seemed very suspicious to the locals. It is not surprising that people on the road, especially in winter, hurry to take advantage of any opportunity to rest, to warm up and, most importantly, to give a break to the pulling force. When travelers are armed and in such a hurry that they are ready to spend the night - in winter! - in a clear field, it always indicates either an expectation of profit or a guilty conscience. Often both at once.

Having looked at the carts, the well-armed mounted guards and the very characteristic sacks with the tags cut off, they all came to the conclusion it was a bread train and a thief's one at that. Someone somewhere had looted a warehouse with grain collected for the ‘imperial share’. To give to the hungry in times of famine. Somebody's going to get rich, apparently. And someone will die when he goes to empty chests to get a bread loan.

No one dared even to make inquiries and ask for fare papers or licenses for the goods, much less to hinder the convoy in any way. The marauders went further east, leaving behind them anxiety, gossip, and a strong feeling that something was wrong with this world... Something was very wrong.

The tone of the letters also changed. There were no more orders for domestic admonitions. Now it was mostly instructions to relatives to hold on to their food and silver, to save on everything, to try not to pay debts to the last, and not to lend money themselves under any circumstances. They were often asked to postpone the payment of the ‘lord's money,’ and to petition for intercession with the king's pawnbrokers. Now, customers often bring their charcoal boards to avoid paying for paper and ink. This did not upset Elena too much, she was earning her rations anyway, but the overall economic situation in the region - and a wealthy one at that - had become depressing.

Cadfal came to the table to the sound of the piper's howl and leaned closer as if to show that the conversation was not for the ears of outsiders. Elena tilted her head understandingly and silently offered the Redeemer a raw egg, of which he was an ardent lover. Cadfal gratefully poked the grey-white ball against the corner of the table, swallowed the contents, cand lenched his eyes, experiencing a moment of food catharsis. Surprisingly, eggs in their original form were rarely used here, mostly in baked goods. It was considered a waste to eat something that could turn into a whole chicken, so Cadfal didn't get his favorite treat too often.

"I'm leaving,” the redeemer blurted out without prelude, after savoring the flavor.

"What?" Elena didn't understand.

"Temporarily," Cadfal clarified.

"What?" the woman repeated, trying to figure out what it all meant.

"I'm leaving," the man explained patiently. "I have some business to attend to. I'll be back later."

"And Rap... your mate? - Elena asked, but she couldn't believe what was happening. She had grown accustomed to the company of the Redeemers in the past time, taking them for granted. Rapist and Cadfal seemed constant, reliable, always behind her back, and always ready to help. Cadfal's statement was a sharp reminder that the redeemers were not her servants, accompanying the fugitives for their own reasons and apparently serving some unknown masters.

"He will stay," Cadfal muttered.

"You won't find us later," Elena tried to approach from the other side.

"I'll find," the big man said with a short snort. "It's hard not to find a circus like this. Anyone can show me which way to go."

"For how long?"

"As it happens."

Yeah, Elena thought. Considering that God's people don't seem to conceptually use horses. And where would a beggar redeemer get a horse? Wherever Cadfal traveled, the journey would take many weeks. More like months. So, in all likelihood, despite his declaration of return, the man with the club is gone forever.

What kind of day is this?

"When?" She asked, trying not to sound so lost.

"Now," Cadfal informed her exhaustively. He was indeed dressed for a hike, having changed his dressing gown for a warmer one, with an undercoat and a hood with many laces and ties.

"Well... then..." Elena was lost for a moment figuring out the right way to say goodbye. "Good luck."

She stood up and manfully extended her hand to the Redeemer, which he did not hesitate to shake.

"Take care of yourself," the woman admonished Cadfal.

"Yeah. You too... don't get involved in anything unnecessary," he said and walked away with his club on one shoulder and a skinny leather-strapped hiking bag on the other.

Elena looked longingly at the broad back of the big man with the executioner's weapon. Ecumena, damn it... Everything is done slowly here - ‘by noon’, ‘before sunset’, ‘with dawn’, ‘tomorrow’. No one is in a hurry. Time is counted by hourly guards, and only in cities. But if something serious happens, it happens in a matter of minutes, as if at the snap of a finger.

The woman began to nibble thoughtfully and gloomily at the crust of a quarter of a crust, thinking that the troupe had not suffered much damage. Cadfal played mostly crowd and comic companions. But the loss in fighting strength is far more significant. But the most interesting thing is, where did the man with the club go? Why now? Simple logic suggested that, most likely, the battle sinner went to his patrons for new instructions. That suggested various thoughts, such as the fact that Elena never found out who her benefactors were or what they wanted. Consequently, the updated introductions might... not be happy. Yesterday she was interested and needed for something, tomorrow everything would change and become the opposite.

The complex thoughts and combinations made her temples ache. She I wanted not to think, but to pretend to be a kitten or a meme Hitler in September. She wanted to wrap herself in a blanket, and make te gyda menyn, something like herbal tea with milk, honey, salt, and a dissolved bar of butter. And be sad, listening to the coals crackling in the stove and Artigo breathing softly in his sleep. And then to fall asleep melancholically, cradling his battered fingers on his chest.

However, the limit of original meetings was not over yet. After Kadfal, Kimutя sat opposite Elena, already quite tipsy, with a jug in his hands. He stared at the woman with yellow-red whites of his inflamed, but somehow attentive and intelligent eyes.

"What do you want?" Elena asked with exaggerated politeness.

There was relative silence in the pub. Gaval had just paused to wet his throat and eat a sandwich of lard on black bread, all drizzled with syrup. Elena smiled automatically, remembering how she had taken a long and painful time to get used to the food tradition of mixing fatty things with sweet things. Calories above all. Not without reason, famous and popular fairy tales necessarily ended with seas of pork fat and endless sausages.

"You know..." Kimutz leaned heavily against the table. The clown's shabby clothes were covered with wine stains. The clown had not limited himself to a flask and was in a hurry to reward himself for the lingering hours of abstinence. Looking at the yellowed whites of his eyes and swollen face Elena thought this warm season would be the last for the clown. Either his heart would fail or his kidneys would detach. Which is sad, of course, but the hell with it. A man's aspiration to a prolonged and expensive suicide is his personal concern.

"You know," Kimutz repeated in a stretch. "I've been sitting here thinking... Thinking for a long time."

His tongue was slurred and stiffened by wine, but his professional diction was not easily lost, and his speech remained more or less intelligible.

"Anyway, I'd like to know where you are from." Kimutz hiccupped loudly and almost fell backward, but he managed to stay on his feet.

"I'm from far away," Elena said diplomatically, wishing her interlocutor would break his neck immediately.

"No, it's understandable..." Kimutz was confused by the consonants but broke through them like a traveler through swamp reeds. "But here's the thing..."

Unexpectedly, Grimal visited the pub. The brether's servant usually avoided places where he was present and in general resembled something like an alcoholic in a bind, who was afraid to look in the direction of a bottle. But now, for some reason, he broke his vow and even ordered himself a beer. Ranjan was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Joaquina. The swordsman was probably sitting by Artigo's bedside, but what was the evil acrobat doing? Intriguing, she bet, you lousy goat.

In the meantime, Kimutz had unraveled his tongue and even returned to more or less intelligible speech. Elena missed the beginning of his speech, but when she listened, she felt uncomfortable and wanted to stab the old comedian.

Stumbling, swallowing syllables, occasionally losing the thread, often unable to find the right words, but stubbornly returning to the previous track, the Clown spoke about how Elena's stories could not just be made up. There must be a powerful culture behind them and an accumulated array of tales, from which something new can be assembled, as from bricks. The cheap wine connoisseur was definitely well-educated and most likely studied rhetoric. Kimutz didn't know the definitions of “cultural baggage”, “background”, “folkloric primordium” and the like, but he conveyed their meaning quite accurately with the available vocabulary. And now he was coming to a curious conclusion: it was as if Elena's stories had no cultural basis at all. They came out of nowhere, on their own. And it would be very interesting to find out where they came from, and on what tales such stories had grown.

"Where are you from?" Kimutz asked, looking at Helena with eyes that were not sober but not quite soaked with wine either. "Are there other tales like that out there? You know, the different ones?"

The woman closed her fingertips, wondering what the clown wanted. Was it idle interest, a desire to dig up more useful stories, or simple blackmail? Or maybe it's probing, figuring out what the redhead is worth, to whom, and for how much she should be sold? Again, as at the first meeting with the circus, a cold and calculating voice whispered in her ear that if she thought a little and did everything right, the troupe would lose its second actor before dawn, and no one would suspect a thing.

"To hell with you,” Kimutz sighed heavily, nearly dropping the jug. "If you don't want to, don't say so."

He slid off the stool like a jellyfish and wandered toward the exit, hugging the vessel with both hands. Elena followed the alcoholic with an unblinking look, thinking that if she waited for a couple of minutes, then slipped out unnoticed through the back door, which was closed but not boarded up, to intercept Kimutz, because the warehouse-hotel was on the outskirts... And again, as then, at the carts and the fire, she almost caught herself by the hand. You can't do that.

Yes, she killed two people with her own hands, but that doesn't count. It's a sin to call them human. And killing someone just because you don't like them or think they're dangerous... no. Even amid brutality, one must remain human. Or at least strive to be.

The theater company had gathered in Elena's corner, one by one. Everyone already knew that Cadfal had left, but Rapist kept his mouth shut, shrugging his shoulders in answer to the questions. Finally, Gaval ordered a beer to drink to the redeemer's health, for the good road. Everyone agreed that it was a good idea, and Elena, after a moment's hesitation, put out all the groceries she'd gotten today as an appetizer. Everyone joined in, except for Rapist, who settled down in a corner with a mug of water and began to sharpen the replacement tip of his protazan spear.

The farewell in absentia was a bit like a cheerful wake. Perhaps it was a long tradition from the days when the village world ended at the boundary stones and the wanderer went to the next world, and the return might well be not a man but some otherworldly thing in his guise. Given that Cadfal had gone nowhere and for unknown reasons, the mood of “let's commemorate our brother” was surprisingly appropriate.

"I'm... I'm a little scared of playing a warlock,” Maryadek confessed gloomily. "I'm afraid I won't make it. What if a real one sees that I've insulted him in such a way? Would he take offense?"

"We'll beat the sorcerer," Gaval suggested carelessly, as drunk on beer as he was on vodka. Gamilla elbowed his companion in the ribs, stopping him from speaking.

"And we'll be left with only Rapist," Grimal sighed, nodding toward the redeemer. "There'll be no one left to tease the singer and remind him of his debt."

His quiet speech fell into a moment of silence when by chance no one in the tavern was yelling a lewd song, demanding wine and respect, banging wooden spoons on the table, ordering the order to be carried immediately, and so on.

"Two are better than one, one is better than none," Elena said, and then she realized there was an unusual silence in “their” corner. All at once suddenly silent.

The woman glanced around at those present and locked her gaze on Gamilla. The crossbowwoman was no longer seated but stood up, stretched out like a string of her ballestra, also ready to explode with a swift burst of action. ‘Arrow Mistress’ paled as if she had been sprinkled with flour, her fingers reflexively gripping the hilt of her dagger, for the second time that day.

"What did you say?" Gamilla asked quietly, and her voice sounded really creepy as if a tiger had spoken while trying to sound no louder than a mouse.

"Er..." squeezed out Grimal. He, as a Brether's companion should be, was not known for his timid nature, but was now palpably confused.

"What did he say?" Gamilla shifted her murderous gaze to the Redeemer.

He looked at the crossbowman in turn, as if weighing something to and for himself. The tip in the Rapist's hands was as long as an elbow and could serve as an infantry sword in its own right. Anyone who had ever seen a spearman training had no illusions about Gamilla's chances in hand-to-hand combat. The Redeemer put down the tip and point, slowly and very carefully, as if some unimportant event had occurred that required minimal distraction. He shook the metal dust off his knees beneath the wide flaps of his all-weather dressing gown, the typical garb of traveling monks and pilgrims.

"This man called me Rapist," the old man said with terrifying calmness. "That is my nickname."

"And how did you get it?" Gamilla's low, almost infrasonic voice sounded truly creepy. Only the Redeemer's frosty calm was scarier.

"I appointed myself. I was a rapist... in my past secular life. But now I make amends for that sin as best I can."

"Rapist,” Gamilla repeated in a whisper.

"Oh," Elena said quietly, only now realizing that, despite the long weeks of travel and adventure together, the Redeemer's nickname had never been spoken openly. There was simply no need. It was a small team, everyone knew each other, and it was possible to go without names for months.

Holy crap... It seems like everything is tricky. And there's not even a quarter of an idea in my head on how to trim it, let alone fix it. Apparently, there's about to be bloodshed.

Gamilla took a firm, perhaps too firm, step, as if her knees were stiff, and walked toward the Redeemer, looking down at him. Her fingers still clutched the bone-encased hilt of her dagger. The old spearman placed his hands on his knees, palms open, a gesture that seemed natural, like a humble willingness to accept any fate.

"Bastard," said Gamilla. She bent down and spat heartily in the Redeemer's face. Then she slapped him, with such force that his teeth ached. The slap nearly threw the knight to the floor, and he shook his head, holding his swollen cheekbone.

"Rapist scum," Gamilla breathed out, still without shouting, not even raising her voice, but sounding as frightening as if she'd been screaming at the top of her lungs. "Damn you. God damn you, you fucking bastard."

The crossbowwoman turned and walked out without looking back, cross-eyed by dozens of eyes. Elena bowed her head and squeezed her temples, thinking sadly that it looked like the circus would lose at least one more member, just not Kimutz. And also that she'd learned a little more about the taciturn Gamilla. But that knowledge was better left undisclosed.

* * *

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