Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 18

Chapter 18

* * *

“You don’t sleep well,” Artigo said quietly. “I know.”

“Yes,” Elena briefly agreed. “There is such a thing.”

She didn't want to discuss the nightmares of the last few nights.

“I dream... too,” the child whispered.

A noble upbringing, Elena thought maliciously. The boy was almost ten years old, and at that age, the locals were already working in the fields and assisting workshop masters, joining infantry battalions as drummers, forming city gangs, robbing late revelers. They say there are even squires as young as eleven or twelve. But the noble boy seems stuck in early childhood, both physically and mentally. And it is far from clear whether he will ever be able to escape this state. Although this raises the same question again: should we even strive for that?

To drive away unpleasant thoughts, Elena stirred the medicinal broth in her mug with a wooden spoon. The local Nettles had a completely insane sour taste. In the fall, children gathered and dried it, and in the spring, when the last reserves and grain were depleted, this herbarium went into soup and ersatz bread. In addition, it was widely believed that the decoction helped with bleeding gums and tooth loss. Elena reasoned that, judging by the descriptions, the dried weeds probably retained vitamins, which was just what a sick asthenic needed.

"I dream about my esteemed parents," Artigo said even more quietly. He paused for a moment and then added an unexpected question. “Do you have parents?”

"Of course," Elena snorted and, handing the patient a mug of drink that almost made the boy throw up (but he managed to hold it in), suddenly became pensive.

They sat for several minutes, silently thinking about their affairs. The boy tucked his legs under him on the fresh sheet, wrapped in a blanket, while Elena lowered her arms and hunched over on the stool. Outside the warehouse walls, a herd of pigs squealed madly as they were herded along, and something was being sawed with a heartfelt curse, probably a fresh batch of firewood. Flammable shale had been delivered irregularly over the past week. Since autumn, the whole town had been discussing the need to set up a proper sawmill with an air drive, like a windmill. There were good forests in the area, and the gentlemen had not yet demanded a high price for non-shipbuilding timber. Two traditional questions stood in the way of this good idea: who would invest (and therefore take the main risks), and how to ensure the enterprise against price increases. In general, it was a typical problem for a manufacturer who did not own sources of raw materials.

“I had parents,” Elena said, intertwining her cold fingers. She ran her fingertips over her short nails and remembered that she hadn't worn rings or other jewelry for... yes, years. At the time of the incident, the girl had no jewelry because she had taken it off to clean it. And then, to put it mildly, it wasn't the right time... Flessa wanted and was ready to adorn her lover with jewelry like a New Year's tree, but Elena refused. Then again, there was no time for trinkets; even if they had been at hand, they would have immediately turned into cash. So it turned out that the only jewelry left was two cut coins on a string.

Maybe she should buy a pretty ribbon and tie it around her neck... On the other hand, who is she going to show off to? Thirdly, it's as if a woman must have a partner in order to want to look good.

Elena pulled herself out of her spiral of gloomy thoughts, repeating:

"I had parents... But we were separated. That's how it turned out."

From the change of direction, thought did not become more cheerful and optimistic. Of course, she remembered her distant home and loved ones, but... they were blurred, like images seen through sanded glass. They did not even cause melancholy, but rather a warm and fleeting memory of irretrievably lost times, when everything seemed, and was, better than it is now. And even more so than it will be soon.

"Did you have any toys?" she asked, just to pass the time.

"Yes."

Word by word, it became clear that the interlocutors understood different things by the word “toys.” For Elena, a toy was an object intended purely for entertainment and fun leisure. As it turned out, this concept was completely unknown to the young emperor. He had many objects that he considered and called “toys,” but... Take wooden toy soldiers, for example. What could be more natural for a boy than a toy army? Artigo had two of them. But they were not intended for “play,” that is, entertainment.

"Over there," the boy raised his hand. "Look."

Elena rummaged through his clothes, noting that his clothes were worn, something that needed mending, or better yet, selling and replacing. Her fingers came across something hard, a little smaller than the palm of her hand, and a figure of a foot soldier appeared. I wonder how the boy got it? Had he grabbed the first thing that came to hand while running? Or was it something memorable?

"Wow," the woman said sincerely, turning the toy around.

The figure, carved with marvellous skill and painted in five colours, depicted, judging by the armour and lance, a rushing cavalryman with a black creature lying at his feet. Elena remembered a similar, but much rougher piece from Baala's house and marvelled once more at the quality of the work, which must have been extremely labour-intensive.

According to Artigo, there were dozens of such figures in his chambers, from gendarmes to cooks. They were not toys, but rather models on which the young nobleman was to learn the practice of warfare and many other things, including the organisation of the castle and other possessions. Elena was interested and began to ask more carefully, trying not to break again the fragile bridge of understanding, not too skillfully built by both sides. What she heard made her hair stand on end. Earlier, the woman had thought the boy was an infantile autistic, but now it seemed as if she was looking at a prematurely aged grandfather.

Artigo, as it turned out, had little understanding not only of the concept of a toy, but also of any kind of amusement, that is, an activity that brings pleasure and nothing else. Everything he did in his father's house was invariably for some practical purpose. Learning to read - so that the child would be exposed as early as possible to edifying histories and chronicles, and be able to sort through family annals, accounts, vassal lists, and so on. Riding - because an aristocrat should only travel on horseback, and whoever is bad with a horse is a target for ridicule. Drawing - to deftly and legibly depict family ties, sketch models of coats of arms. Etiquette, the Five Thousand Rules. Language. And so on and so forth. Only in the field of sports does the boy have a huge gap, apparently, after a severe illness suffered in early childhood, the consilium of doctors put a cross on any physical training as an excessively dangerous test for a weak body.

The child who drank the decoction from a crumpled mug, holding the vessel as if it were a crystal wineglass, was neither an idiot nor a fool. His head was crammed with so many skills and information that the healer would not have learnt in a lifetime. And the vast majority of this knowledge was confined to the very narrow specialisation of a nobleman of the highest class, and was completely useless in ordinary life. Before, Elena had thought Artigo didn't know how to behave. In reality, it was much worse: the young emperor did not know how to live anymore.

After that, Elena was no longer surprised to find out that Artigo had never been hugged or kissed by his parents in his life. Moreover, the child saw his mother, as a rule, twice a day - at joint meals and occasionally on holidays. The father even less often, two or three times a week at most, usually in the interval between hunts and other activities appropriate to his position. The child, apparently, developed a terrible tactile hunger and, as a consequence, a panic fear of any touch from strangers. In general, there was a real alien sitting in front of the healer.

“Oh my God,” Elena said sincerely and in Russian.

Yes, many things have become clearer, have found a reasonable explanation. And, Lord have mercy, what happens when such a... creature, whose psyche is formatted in the ugliest way, finally gets the opportunity to satisfy its desires, and any of them.

Nine years... That is, the time when the foundation of the psyche and mental health is laid has been irreversibly lost. Nothing can be fixed, except some correction. And then Elena felt a prick of pity, but not for the boy, but rather for his father. Poor, poor Ranjan. So much sacrifice, so much danger, risk, and all to get his hands on such a thing.... A miracle of pedagogical engineering, impossible to re-educate.

Elena sighed and, after some thought, repeated to herself the already ritualistic question, ‘Why do I need all this?’ and suggested:

"Let's make a ball."

"What?"

"Let's make a ball tomorrow," Elena repeated. "Right in the morning. A rag one. And we'll kick it around in the yard."

“I don’t have any rags,” Artigo noted sadly.

"We'll find it."

“My loyal protector will be against it,” the emperor said even more sadly.

“We won’t tell him,” Elena winked.

"But he will find out," Artigo reasoned very sensibly. "He again..." the boy hesitated, apparently looking for relatively "democratic" words. "He will not show me... us the respect due."

"That's for sure," Elena agreed. "So, shall we make a ball?"

And then, for the first time in weeks, she noticed something resembling a spark of life in the young aristocrat's eyes, almost like a normal boy being called out by his friends from the street, luring him to “go to have fun.”

* * *

"Can he be helped?"

"Don't get distracted," the fencing master ordered sternly in the greenish light.

Today the training started as usual, i.e., with warm-up and push-ups on the planks. There were two planks, each with two slits, and one of the edges converged into a ‘wedge’ like a blade. The unpretentious instrument allowed to work hard on the arms with a bunch of three exercises: to stand in a ‘plank’; to push up in all possible ways as from stops and, finally, to push up with both hands from one board, imitating a two-handed grip of a sword with a change of position of the hands. At the same time, Pantin gave picturesque lectures about the correct fight and grabs with examples of how strong hands saved fighters, and weak ones, on the contrary, ruined them in painful ways. Elena doubted every time that it was methodologically correct to put exhausting ‘physics’ at the beginning of training, but it was absolutely useless to argue with Pantin.

“Enough,” Pantin commanded curtly when the student decided that all the ligaments from her shoulders were about to tear. “Now your fingers.”

And they moved on to ‘finger wrestling’. Here, too, everything was simple: they had to stand face to face, hold hands firmly, left or right, but so that their index fingers were free. And then try to ‘stab’ the opponent with that very finger, overcoming him. Any movement of the body and arms was permitted, but the feet had to remain in place.

"You're trying too hard," Pantin remarked abruptly. "You're holding your breath. Relax. Be more fluid."

Each round ended the same way: Pantin knocked Elena off balance, forcing her to lift at least her heel, but in fairness, it should be noted that the time she remained stable was getting longer. Just a little bit, literally seconds, but still...

"Not bad, the mentor said curtly." Unlike Draftsman, Pantin believed that achievement should be rewarded, not taken for granted.

"In general, not bad. However, it is not enough, and you know it," the fencer finished mercilessly. Elena swallowed a bitter sigh. Yes, there were undeniable successes, but they were not enough, and she understood it well.

"Take the sword."

Elena took it, already automatically throwing two fingers over the guard.

"The side ring on the inside," Pantin asked unexpectedly. "What use do you see for it?"

“Protection of the thumb,” the woman answered with slight bewilderment.

"What else?"

Elena twirled the sword in her hand, unable to come up with anything. However, Pantin rarely made long riddles, so he didn't pause dramatically this time either.

"Put your thumb on it," he advised. "Right on the ring."

Elena tried several options and finally found the right approach. Indeed, placing her thumb on the side ring made chopping very comfortable, providing an additional point of support. The main thing is to be able to quickly change your grip, switching from stabbing to chopping and back again. Useful, worth remembering.

"Now take the shield," Pantin said, and, of course, the object she was looking for was already in front of Elena's nose. It was strange, far removed from the bucklers commonly used in city fights. Pantin's shield was not round, but trapezoidal, not flat or curved, but rather ‘wavy’, with three hollows, like a piece of slate.

“The ‘weak’ hand should always be occupied with something, threatening the opponent,” Pantin said instructively. "It can strike, grab, or, in extreme cases, make offensive gestures. Some masters prefer an ‘empty palm’ because they are skilled in virtuoso grabs. But you are still far from mastery. Therefore, the second hand can do one of three things. Rest on the hilt of the sword, helping the ‘strong’ hand. Hold a dagger...

Elena was already listening very attentively, but now her ears were literally perked up. During all her time in Milvessa, during all her studies with Figueredo, the woman had never seen anything similar to the classical fencing of the times of the European sword, i.e., the combination of long and short blades. Only shields or something original, like a warhammer, like the famous Reaper did.

" ... or a shield,“ concluded the master. ”Let's start with that. So, shield in your right hand, thumb on this ‘tablet’... Good. Sword in your left hand, guarding your face. And now..."

"Can he be helped?" Elena asked again when the class was over.

"Young Artigo?" Pantin asked, not a single thread of whose was wet, unlike the student, who looked like she had just crawled out of a bathhouse. It was good that there were no drafts in the magic cylinder.

Elena didn't remember anyone telling the mage the boy's name or revealing his origin, but... he just knew, that's all.

"Yes."

"No."

"You can't or you don't want to?"This time, Elena decided to enter the dispute.

"I can't," the master replied, managing to put eloquent emphasis on both words. "Someone else might be able to handle it."

"Why?" Elena asked hopelessly, stretching her wrists, which ached as if each tendon had turned into a steel and mercilessly stretched string.

"Because real magic is a contract," suddenly answered the swordsman. "Witchcraft by prescription is the domain of low practitioners. And true sorcery is by nature an appeal to forces so powerful that they cannot be controlled, neither by naivety nor by science," he was silent for a moment. "But it can be negotiated. A kind of bargain. You give and you receive, and the exchange must be of equal value. Cheating is inadmissible and impossible."

"Ah!" Today was definitely an amazing day of insights and revelations. Taking Pantin's words into account, a lot of things fell into place. "So that's why you don't heal or fight!"

"At last, you understand," Pantin grumbled. "Yes, it is part of my pact with the unknowable and the unnamed. I live immune to disease and aging. My blade is the strongest in the world, and there is no fighter who can surpass me in anything. But the price of my art is not interfering with the natural course of things. I am allowed the occasional relief from human suffering..."

Elena swallowed, remembering the hellish torment that the old mage had literally stopped at a snap.

"... and nothing more. Harming people, let alone killing them, is prohibited."

“And if you break the ban?” Elena couldn’t help but ask curiously.

"Then the time of reckoning will come," the master cut off exhaustively. "And it will be collected immediately."

"I see."

"Hardly. But at least you got your answer and will stop tormenting me with all sorts of hints," Pantin replied grumpily. "That's it, let's call it a day. What's going on with your company?"

"It's falling apart," the woman said honestly. "It looks like we'll play one or two shows and then go our separate ways. Maybe..." She thought for a moment. "Maybe it's for the best."

She remained silent for a while, gathering her strength to ask the most important question. Finally, she decided to ask.

"Will you come with me? Will you teach me?"

"Don't harness the horse behind the cart, and put the cause before the effect, Pantin replied mysteriously. Don't rush things. Go."

* * *

She didn't want to go back to the town. Or rather, she didn't want to go back now. Elena preferred to be alone for a while, walking in the semi-darkness behind the city wall, or rather behind a kind of fence, which long ago had probably protected her from something, but now had become a symbolic boundary between the landscapes of ‘vegetable gardens’ and ‘vegetable gardens plus houses.

Elena also had a mood and intention to drink a little. It, that is, the desire seemed strange and completely uncharacteristic for a woman, but once caught in the brain, it did not let go the second day. Especially since tomorrow, it seems, the troupe was waiting for a decisive explanation of how to live further, to such a crucial moment should be approached, clearing the soul of harmful tension.

In the end, exhausted by the moral struggle, Elena decided that it was better not to struggle, but to close the gestalt in a controlled way, for which purpose a good clove vodka was bought and poured into a flask in the morning. Thus, the plan of action was quite definite: now a walk, then a small act of drinking under a blanket, then sleep. Then, as it turned out.

The night was beautiful, somewhat reminiscent of the one that greeted travelers long ago, when Elena set out for Profit for the first and last time. Only now the colors were muted, the world around her seemed less contrasting, more cozy, and slightly blurred. The moonlight illuminated the sky in such a way that it seemed as if the sunset was going on and on. Small flocks of clouds floated quietly by, and the wind had almost died down. It was surprisingly warm, as if a thaw were about to begin. Although why not? Maybe it will start tomorrow.

Elena pulled off her old cap, exposing her hair to the barely perceptible breeze, or rather, draft. She tucked a stray strand behind her ear. She sat down on a log that, for some unknown reason, had not yet been used for firewood. The wood was unpleasantly cold through her pants and canvas trousers, but she had no intention of staying there long. The town was falling silent, lit by a few lamps and lanterns. The houses stood like black cubes with triangular roofs. Сlosed shutters kept out the heat and light. Pigs grunted everywhere.

Funny, thought Elena. A world without cats and dogs... But with magical meows and fearsome hyenas, more like the beasts of Jevodan. Still, it's curious how people appeared here. From what world did they come several thousand years ago? Obeying a sudden impulse, the woman took a flask covered in leather straps from her belt. Yes, it was time to think about getting a tin one, but she didn't want to spend the money, and the glass one was still working... until it broke. Her grandfather said that glass flasks were even used during the Patriotic War, and nothing happened.

She took a sip, just a tiny drop. The vodka went down surprisingly easily, with its usual fusel bitterness, but without any harshness, just “hard water,” as someone once sang. But who cares, what difference does it make, after all? He's definitely not here, and he never will be.

Hard water, she said to herself, carefully and in Russian, then repeated it in a whisper aloud and added:

"A maniac is waiting for us in the alley."

The second sip of aquavit went down even easier. No wonder vodka only relaxes you, rather than getting you drunk. The main thing is not to overdo it and not to fall asleep under the winter moon. There was a crunching sound from the side, the snow that had melted during the day and now frozen again into a hard crust. Someone was coming. Elena touched the knife handle, habitually touching the lace with her fingertip for a quick grab.

"It's me," Gamilla warned.

Elena silently raised her flask in a gesture resembling a salute moved slightly to make room. The healer did not expect the crossbowwoman to sit down, but Gamila did indeed take advantage of the courtesy. For a minute, they sat silently, gazing at the moon like true Japanese, listening to the distant grunting of guard pigs. A goat bleated desperately. Were they slaughtering it in the middle of the night?

An elegy, thought Elena. A pastoral. The paintings of the Dutch masters of the seventeenth century. And she handed her companion the flask. Without hesitation, she accepted it, took a sip, politely, just a little, and returned the glass, after wiping the neck with her sleeve. They sat there for another five minutes or more, passing the flask back and forth, as if competing to see who could take the most elegant sip. The clouds thickened, the moon faded slightly, and the night began to resemble nighttime rather than prolonged twilight. Elena pulled her chaperone's cape higher, hiding her chin in the dyed wool. She didn't want anything and didn't expect anything from her chance companion. There was something surprisingly calm and unhurriedly proper about sitting there in silence, sipping good vodka, and looking at the sky. The intoxication crept up quietly, like a mongoose on soft paws, not clouding her mind but rather inspiring a philosophical acceptance of the world. Elena realized that, in fact, she didn't really care about anything. The troupe, the production, Ranyan, the crazy Artigo. Even the periodic desire to hug and kiss someone, enjoying the warmth of the human body... and not just the warmth.

All this is not there now. It just isn't there.

"I've traveled a lot. Mostly in the southeast," said the crossbowwoman.

"A white mountain on a blue background?" Elena asked, recalling the symbol of the kingdom of the Sunset South.

"Yes."

“It happens,” Elena noted, still philosophically.

It's good to be a noblewoman, even if you are poor, lonely, and unmarried. You can always stay with someone for a week or two, and it's easier to take care of food. Of course, you won't have a feast, but you'll have bread on your plate, one way or another. Why not travel if you have a family ring on your finger and enough courage in your heart?

Gamilla paused, took a sip of vodka, so much so that Elena even wondered if a miracle had occurred, transforming the strong alcohol into water. But no, the vodka was excellent. It could be used for disinfection. Apparently, the crossbowwoman had reached a state where “dead water” had no effect, burning away on her frayed nerves.

"And one day I came to the castle..." said Gamilla at the moment when Elena had already decided that there would be no continuation. Another sip followed, a long pause with thoughtful contemplation of the clouds. Today was a starless night.

"And the funny thing is, I almost walked right past it. I didn't like it, it was too gloomy. I wanted to spend the night further down the road at an inn. But my boot had burst open at the toe, so I had to either walk barefoot or patch it up. In the end, I decided, why not? Surely there's a shoemaker in the castle. And if I had walked past, everything would have turned out... differently."

Elena swallowed the bitter elixir, looked at the huge moon, and thought absently that she would like to see the sea again. Not the giant lake on which Milves stands, but the real thing. The boundless ocean, beyond which, according to local cosmology, there is nothing. But that's impossible, it contradicts geology. It cannot be that there is only one continent in the whole world. So there must be other lands somewhere, who knows, perhaps even inhabited ones. And someday, a new era of great geographical discoveries will begin here, only more extreme than on Earth. There, people knew that the world was huge, complex, and inhabited, and it all came down to finding convenient and short routes to distant lands. But here, it will be a natural leap into the beyond, into the abyss, where there are only monsters, and real ones at that.

Someday.

A defensive reaction, she thought, that's what it is. Deliberate thoughts about something unrelated. After all, she doesn't want to know this. She doesn't want to hear Gamilla's story. She already knows what it will be about. Another tale of cruelty, meanness, trampled dignity. She doesn't want to. But she'll listen, for various reasons. And maybe she'll try to comfort “Mistress of Arrows,” because even in this hellish place, one must at least try to retain one's humanity, not become a beast.

"But it turned out to be much better than I thought," Gamilla continued her story. "The castle and the surrounding area belonged to a married couple, not newlyweds, but not old either. So, in the middle. He was twenty-seven. She was nineteen."

"Hmm..." Elena frowned and thought that nineteen was almost her age now. Probably. She should sit down with a wax tablet and count the days in years, maybe even set a birthday for herself. Then she shuddered slightly. “Isn't their last name Argreeff? Or Lecuyer?”

"No,“ Gamila smiled weakly and sadly. ”Don't worry, it's not your pregnant girl."

The redhead bowed and snorted discontentedly; the phrase “your girl” sounded very blunt. On the other hand, it was unlikely that the crossbowwoman really meant anything intimate. After all, during their journey, Elena had not shown or advertised her preferences; it was not the time for that. Unfortunately.

"They are completely different people," said Gamila. "But similar, yes. And unhappy. Family life is a kind of art. It requires a lot of knowledge and experience. And patience. If you don't have enough of it... things usually end badly."

The doctor glanced sideways at the crossbowwoman, who was arguing so sensibly and intelligently. No, Elena already knew that the woman with the tattoo was by no means stupid, but more or less educated and wise from experience. But Gamila spoke more like a family psychologist than a killer with magical skills. It was unusual and strange. However, it was another life lesson. Even people who seem familiar can always reveal themselves and surprise you in unexpected ways.

"Loneliness together," Elena remembered and thought aloud.

"Yes," agreed Gamilla. "Well said. That's how it was. Two people who share everything, including a bed, but are separated by an invisible wall. And not out of malice or ill will... it's just... that's how it happened."

They sat in silence for a while longer, listening to the light breeze rustling through the dry, frost-covered grass. They took a sip of vodka, and Elena shook the flask, estimating that they had drunk about half of it, which meant they would probably have enough for the conversation. It was unlikely to be a really long story, because nastiness, as a rule, does not require a long build-up.

"In general..." Gamila raised her head, as if consulting with the moon on how to continue the story. She paused for a moment and then blurted out, “Why drag it out? In general, I became a lover.”

She paused to take a drink from her flask. Elena nodded understandingly, as if to say, oh well, that's life.

"Of wife." Gamila finished her thought, and it was a good thing that the doctor had already swallowed the vodka, otherwise, embarrassment would have been inevitable. However, Elena felt this would not be the last “twist in the tale.” And so it turned out.

"She was beautiful, young, lonely, unhappy," Gamila listed, almost bending her fingers. "I felt pity for her. Just pity. And then pity turned into attraction. Real, genuine attraction."

The crossbowwoman glanced sideways at Elena, as if afraid to see condemnation on the redhead's face. The healer smiled crookedly and said:

"It happens. I also slept with... a noblewoman."

She almost said “with the duchess,” but at the last moment decided that it was unnecessary, as it sounded too much like bragging.

"That's what I thought," nodded the mistress of the arrows. "I could see how you were looking at that baroness girl."

In any other situation, Elena would have been surprised, perhaps even denied it, because, well, really, what attraction could there be? Dessol was just a patient, and a “toxic” one at that, dangerous as hot coals in your hands. However, the place, time, and circumstances were not conducive to such thoughts, so the healer did not express surprise or disappointment. The women smiled sadly at each other, almost in sync, with identical expressions on their faces, and passed the flask back and forth again.

"And then her husband joined us," the crossbowwoman said with surprising calm.

"Well, why not?" Elena replied just as sensibly. "If everyone is okay with it."

"Yes, that's how it was," said the crossbowwoman. "For a while."

Elena scratched the tip of her nose, thought for a moment, and suggested:

"Did you breathe new life into their... relationship? Refresh the dry jug with wine? Make everyone feel wanted again?"

Gamilla looked suspiciously and askance at her interlocutor, and remarked just as suspiciously:

"It was as if you were there."

"No, I wasn't,“ Elena gulped, exhaled heavily, and regretted not having at least a pickled cucumber on hand. It had to be with that unique cucumber crunch, which is so distinctive that it cannot be compared to anything else. ”It just... happens sometimes."

“It happens,” agreed Gamila, calming down and believing the doctor. "I mean, it happened. For a while, everything seemed fine. Even better than fine. For six months or so. We were happy. Of course, it was against the rules and commandments, but we didn't care because human and church laws are not for the rich, powerful, and happy. And then..."

She paused, clenching her jaws until her cheekbones became rock hard. Elena had some ideas about what might happen next based on her personal experience and some knowledge of aristocratic customs. But she decided to keep her thoughts to herself.

"And then I made a mistake,” Gamilla smiled crookedly and without a shadow of joy, her eyes slightly sparkling in the moonlight, as if covered with a thin film of moisture.

Elena wanted to say something like, “If it's hard to remember, don't talk about it, let's just sit in silence,” but a simple thought stopped her. Gamila had clearly started this conversation to get it off her chest, to share with someone the long-standing but still painful pain in her soul. And since Elena had agreed to listen, she had to play the role of psychoanalyst to the end. Moreover, the story turned out to be interesting. Obviously cruel, dirty, and despicable, but interesting nonetheless.

"Everything was so good that I forgot about the difference in origin," Gamilla said casually. "That I was a simple cyn who didn't even have a horse when I knocked on the castle gate. And they were noble ausfs with a castle and estates with an annual income of six hundred gold. And if we behaved as equals, it was their benevolent whim."

Elena immediately and clearly remembered Flessa’s harsh remark on a similar matter.

//I allow you to address me as "you" and omit "mistress". But you should remember that this is my permission.

Interesting how the Duchess would have behaved if the lowly healer hadn’t understood the direct hint?.. Good question.

"No matter how close people are... sometimes they have... conflicts. Misunderstandings. Arguments. We were no exception. And when..." the crossbowwoman moved her slightly trembling fingers, as if searching for the right word. "When it happened, I didn't notice that I had crossed an invisible line that my... dear ones... saw very clearly. I must say..."

The further the story went, the more pauses there were in Gamilla's speech, but nevertheless, the woman continued.

"I must say," she repeated. "They acted nobly in their own way. First, they delicately pointed out to me the mistake I had made. The tactlessness towards those who were much higher up. They gave me the opportunity to retreat, to make a proper apology, to return everything to the previous circle. But... I didn't understand. And then they taught me a lesson."

This time Gamilla took a more diligent sip from the flask, taking two or three sips without even choking.

"Well, how... not exactly them, but four grooms by the master's order and instruction. But, at least, without knocked-out teeth and pregnancy."

Elena suppressed a sigh and drank the vodka without feeling bitter. The strong taste seemed even pleasant, repelling the strong feeling that she had sipped a ladleful of slurry.

"And the servants took my enchanted crossbow," said the 'mistress' sadly and thoughtfully, gazing lyrically at the moon.

I wonder if life is such shit or if I'm just “lucky,” thought Elena, recalling Shena's story, which was similar in some ways, though far more tragic (if one can even speak of degrees of evil here). Probably the former. Or half and half.

"Didn't you try to kill them?"

"I wanted to. It's too complicated," said Gamila, as if discussing how to cook a hare, with or without soaking it in vinegar. "You can only shoot rich people or their servants in the city, where a new, unfamiliar face doesn't stand out and arouse suspicion. And they don't go to the city."

"Do you keep track of them? I mean, do you follow the news?" Elena corrected herself.

"As much as I can. As much as I manage."

"I have something to tell you."

"Really?" the crossbowwoman snorted. "What about forgiving and leaving it to God's justice?"

"No. Although it seems similar. It's about not killing anyone and forgetting about them. Only the motive is different. Nothing lofty."

"I don't get it."

"Later. I need to find the right words."

"I'm not sure I'll want to talk about this again later," Gamila admitted honestly. "Or even remember it."

Elena turned the flask upside down and shook it, unable to believe the vodka was gone. Just a moment ago, it had been at least half full, and now it was empty. So, the two of them had consumed at least a 0.33 without even a stale crust?

"Then the future will tell," said Elena. The temptation to immediately retell in her own words something clever she had read in a good book was extremely strong, but the doctor restrained herself. It was too easy to get confused after so many years and say something wrong.

"Yes, I suppose so," agreed Gamila.

And they sat in silence for a while longer. The sky darkened and became covered with ragged clouds, the wind grew stronger, and the city was plunged into darkness.

"I would stay with you," the crossbowwoman said quietly. "It's not easy with you... but it's interesting. Theater again. With these new productions, our flute player will become famous, and with him, I will earn well. In time, I will have enough for an enchanted crossbow and... other things."

It took Elena a couple of moments to understand who her interlocutor was referring to so dismissively, yet at the same time with ironic good-naturedness.

"But you won't stay," Elena said, not asking but rather stating, fixing what was unsaid but clearly implied.

"I won't stay," nodded the 'mistress'. "Not... with him. And he's more important to you."

That's right, Elena sadly reasoned. No matter how much of a bastard a redeemer with an unpleasant nickname taken for the sake of penance was in the past. Rapist was useful. Especially in a world that was clearly moving towards a major crisis, faster and faster every day. Of course, there is still the unresolved question of motivation, whose instructions the spearman is carrying out. But it is much calmer with him, and Elena will not give up the society of Rapist, no matter how much the soul lies to a little-talking Gamilla.

It's sad. But what can you do?

"I'm going,“ said the crossbowwoman. ”Tomorrow will be a difficult day."

“Yeah,” Elena agreed tersely and added, “See you tomorrow.”

What a day, she thought sadly, listening to the crunch of snow under Gamilla's footsteps.

What a shitty day...

But the ball will have to be made tomorrow. Ranjan will be furious, and if Brether had his way, he'd put the boy in a cotton-wool box. But in the end, fuck him, he's a goddamn shirtwaist. If he had to share the roof and the road with a young psychopath, he should at least try to fix something. And there's still time to be an animal, it's always easy, unfortunately.
* * *

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http://notabenoid.org/book/83056/588158

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP