Готовый перевод Ойкумена / Oikumena: Глава 19

Chapter 19

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The evening sun cast its last rays through the clouds, so the lighthouse and breakwater were painted yellow-orange, while the rest of the area retained all shades of gray. The winter sea raised leaden waves heavily, rocking the distant schooners of fishermen. There had been no storms for almost a week, and Curzio decided this was a good sign. Of course, the house would reliably protect the owner and guest from the rage of the elements, but ... the beauty of the moment could fade, even if in an imperceptible smallness, but still.

The noble lady arrived with a very small retinue, no more than a dozen bodyguards and a couple of her most trusted servants. Curzio was used to the fact that all members of this family were excellent horsemen, so he was momentarily confused when he saw the carriage, and an inconspicuous one at that, devoid of even a coat of arms, in which a wealthy bourgeois woman could easily travel. However, after thinking about it, the man decided that this spoke of the prudence of the hostess, incognito above all. Or of other, much less flattering considerations, for example, of secret shame and unwillingness to advertise a visit to a not very noble and famous nobleman. However, the islander preferred not to think about this.

"According to our tradition, winter food should be enjoyed on an open veranda, in warm fur coats, feeling the salty wind, enjoying the power of the sea. Or on the deck of a ship."

Curzio, in a gallant half-bow, offered one hand to the Marchioness of Wartensleben, placing the other behind his back. In other circumstances, the gesture might have seemed almost obsequious, but here the difference in origin played an important role, as did the courtesy of the event. It remained only to hope that Biel was sufficiently educated to appreciate the multifaceted nature of the event. Judging by the slightest smile that touched the Marchioness's lips, she understood and appreciated it.

"But I decided that our customs were too far from those accepted on the continent. Therefore, I decided to adhere rather to the continental custom."

Curzio straightened up, holding Biel by the very tips of her fingers, covered in a gossamer glove so thin that the fabric even repeated the wrinkles on her skin. The islander’s gaze clearly showed undisguised admiration. Yes, the marchioness could not be called a beauty in the usual sense, starting with the fact that the woman was a brunette, and only natural blondes were considered truly “beautiful” at court. But at one glance at Wartensleben’s eldest daughter, all this chaff of far-fetched canons was forgotten. And Curzio was glad he had ordered the shoemaker to put thick soles with high heels on his shoes. Otherwise, he would have had to look at the woman eye to eye, level with her, and the emissary could not stand this since the days of his poor youth.

"You forget, my dear friend, that I was born and raised in Malersyde," replied the marchioness, lowering her chin in a slight bow. "The salty wind has been familiar to me since childhood."

Curzio, of course, noted how Biel had put the emphasis on the word "friend"; it only remained to interpret it correctly. On the other hand, the man could afford the luxury of not doing it at all, since he had originally intended to enjoy only the company of a noble lady and a pleasant conversation. And when you do not make long-term plans, there is nothing to be disappointed in. And...

And all the more pleasant is some interesting turn of events, if it finally happens. As his father used to say, count on little, then failure will not bring great disappointment, and success will pleasantly surprise. And this, perhaps, was the only good thing that Curzio could remember about his parent.

"Like father, like daughter," he disappeared behind the cliched phrase, leading his guest through a brightly lit suite of rooms. Curzio's house usually stood as dark as a crypt at night, because the temporary owner was either away on business or working, and the islander disliked noisy parties and didn't organize them, considering them a waste of money. In this, Curzio differed from the Duke, who equally disdained gluttony and festivities but considered them inexpensive investments in reputation.

A liveried servant struck a silver gong with a silver hammer, announcing the start of a modest dinner—or rather, according to etiquette, a late lunch. A slight hitch immediately arose: it turned out the marquise didn't drink wine, any wine at all. However, a bottle of condensed blackberry juice was found in the spacious pantry, which saved the situation.

"I have taken the liberty of organizing the changes according to my own judgment," warned Curzio, tucking his napkin into the collar of his simple but elegantly tailored caftan.

The man now dressed in a mid-continental style, devoid of any metropolitan flourishes; his attire lacked even a hint of anything island-inspired. His elaborate hairstyle was also gone, and to avoid looking foolish with a third of his head shaved off, Curzio had cut his hair, leaving a short buzz cut under a small cap. Now, only the thin threads of his plucked eyebrows remained a reminder of his origins.

“What kind of dish is this?” asked the Marquise, looking with interest at something that looked like an elongated pinkish-flesh-colored pear in a garnish.

A unique delicacy of Saltoluchard. You won't find anything like it in Malèresida or here in the capital. Translated, it means "sea pig." The back muscle of the pork thigh is salted for ten days, then washed in a special wine, and salted again, this time with rare herbs. It's packed in a bladder and tied by hand. The meat must then age for at least six months in a dry, shady, and well-ventilated place. Only then does the pork reveal its true flavor. I trained my chef in this art, and he has achieved quite good results.

"Interesting."

The chef, who had arrived especially for this moment, personally cut off several slices. He used a knife more like a razor and cut just as sharply; the slices were translucent, like tarred paper.

"Most of our cuisine, one way or another, originated from the provisions stored by sailors," explained the hospitable host. "Water, grain, and other fruits of the land can be bought in various places, but meat is expensive and doesn't keep for long. For dozens of generations, we've cured meat and lard with all sorts of ingredients and methods, achieving the best results. Some recipes have evolved over time…"

Curzio hesitated, looking for a word, and Biel prompted with a smile:

"Did they turn golden?"

"Exactly."

"A refined taste," the Marquise remarked after tasting the meat. Without looking at the chef, she bowed in his direction and said, "My compliments to the worthy creator of this delicacy."

Well, at least one person was completely, absolutely happy that evening. The cook returned to his kingdom of fire and frying pans, enriched with the best memory of his life.

"We love and value snails in +Malersid, too," Biel said, trying out a new variation. "Our merchants even sell them in barrels of wet grass."

"Therefore, you are a connoisseur and an expert," Curzio suggested.

"Alas, no need to be an expert to say yours are better. Quality snails grow in free-range pastures and only in good clay soil; they require edible weeds, mainly dandelions, and plenty of dew for drinking. But the soil of our estate is too rich in sand and salt; the snails that grow there are only fit for merchants who want to serve tables like noblemen."

"Truly, your education is second only to your beauty," the hospitable gentleman of the house gracefully flattered his guest.

"I expected more from you," Biel said with deadly bluntness, so that Curzio almost bit his tongue.

"It's not an easy wish, but... I'll try."

"I would be grateful."

"How are things with our protégé?" asked Curzio.

“Indeed,” the marchioness agreed. “It’s not an easy choice.”

"Good."

"Will you contradict the wishes of the beautiful lady?"

"Yes."

Biel looked at the man appraisingly, noting a subtle yet, to an experienced eye, obvious change. Curzio was as varied as a drop of mercury, always adapting to his interlocutor, lacking a distinct form, always elusive, always unknowable. But now the man had withdrawn, withdrawn, as if frozen, giving him rigid contours that could even cut someone if they weren't careful.

"Unpleasant memories..." Biel murmured thoughtfully, looking straight into the face of the owner of the house. "Let's play."

"I offer you another game."

Biel walked with a truly regal gait to the table and sat gracefully, leaning her elbow on the precious wood.

"I'll try to figure you out."

"You were poor."

"Yes."

"Was it broken by one of your relatives?"

"Hmm..." Curzio frowned, surprised by the unexpected turn of events and remembering. "Yes, one of my servants plays the lyre. But it's an instrument of island style, not a mainland one."

The island lyre was generally similar to its continental cousin, but smaller, had more strings, and a different shape—not a frame, but a board with a decoratively cut hole running three-fifths of the instrument's length. A bundle of strings ran across the board and then fanned out over the window.

"Interesting," Biel commented, handling the instrument quite skillfully. "Let's see if the general principles hold up."

She sat down, resting the lyre on her hip, and removed her gloves, which the man promptly took away. She ran her long fingers over the strings, producing atonal notes. Biel played unusually, with both hands, her chin resting on the instrument. At first, the host assumed a mask of polite approval, as befits a guest attempting to demonstrate some talent. However, once the woman had adjusted to the new instrument, Curzio was captivated. Using both hands, the marquise muted the low, often nasal, notes, making the lyre sound high and melodic, so that the music seemed to dissolve into the air, saturating the ether with honeyed vibrations. Then Biel began to sing softly.

Песня.

"All the devils of the deep," Curzio breathed sincerely when the song ended, and the last echoes faded under the high vaults of the tower room. "I always believed myself indifferent to music. And poetry, too. Until today."

He bowed his head, acknowledging the performer's perfection. He took the instrument from the rising marchioness and returned the gloves.

And then...

"My friend, don't make me disappointed in you," Biel grimaced. "I'm thirty-six years old. When a woman that age goes out to see a man in the evening, it's foolish to claim she's interested in a collection of lutes and old sheet music. I think you've already noticed that affectation isn't my thing."

"So?" the Marquise raised an eyebrow ironically. "I hope you don't intend to ask whether I received permission from the strict father?"

"Now, I..." Curzio suddenly felt his voice go hoarse. A boyish excitement overwhelmed him. He simply spread his arms and smiled broadly, acknowledging that this round of the verbal duel had gone his way.

From the depths of the house came a noise, as if someone was running, boots clattering across the precious mosaics and equally precious parquet floors. Servants shouted among themselves, and the hurried noise drew nearer.

They didn't stop him, thought Curzio. So either he was a special courier, or...

"Sir," one of the guards said as he opened the door, "a grey raven just arrived. We wouldn't dare, but you yourself ordered it..."

"Excuse me," Curzio turned to Biel. "An urgent dispatch. The kind that is read even on the deathbed."

He expected displeasure, but the marchioness nodded with an extremely serious expression and limited herself to a short phrase, and, it seemed, completely sincerely, without a shadow of sarcasm:

"I understand. Business comes first."

Curzio dismissed the raven cage manager, opened the tiny cylinder, and unrolled a thin sheet of parchment, seemingly translucent. He squinted at the brief, unencrypted—against all rules!—message. Only the composure forged over many years kept the emissary from hurling ornate curses. He looked at the Marchioness and, after a moment's hesitation, silently handed her the scrap of paper containing the message. Biel shook her head.

"No."

She took a step towards her interlocutor and, with a light movement, touched his cheek.

"I've long since stopped feeling the need to assert myself by forcing a man to choose between me and urgent business. You want me, that's obvious. And if some concern still forces you to refuse my company, then something extraordinary has happened. I don't intend to humiliate you or myself by testing whether the reason is truly so important. Get to work, and when you're done, send me word. I think it's my turn to return the favor next time. Don't see me out."

But, one way or another, Biel Wartensleben is right about one thing, as is Ishten, the creator of heaven and light. Something extraordinary has happened.

He cursed, however, with all his heart. He reread the urgent dispatch and carefully burned it in the flame of a candle, scattering the ashes. Then he sat alone, surrounded by old things and fragments of the past, to think for a long time.

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP