Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Эпилог

Epilogue

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The quiet melody of the music box was playing, set at a minimum volume, but only more resounding in the absolute silence. Allisira de Fell was careful not to disturb these moments of silence even with her own breath, silently awaiting a verdict from her lord and suzerain. Herbert de Dantrelle had aged over the past week, for he had slept hardly more than Allisira herself, but had no health-boosting magic, and had drunk many times more of the invigorating alchemy than de Fell herself. The woman and the future head of the secret chancellery of the duchy, if she still managed to get this future position, was not that afraid now, but clearly felt some nervousness. She and the honorable Herbert were distant relatives, they had long ago secured their trust by oaths, and the situation itself was not one in which even the closest associates were ordered to be executed.

But still there was something nervous in the atmosphere, though she realized with her mind that her failures were not worth her own life, that those punishments would not be applied, after which a loyal ally becomes an equally loyal foe. Although several of her subordinates, thanks to inactivity or wrong conclusions, of which she now has such a pale appearance, Lady de Fell will either punish or eliminate them in the near future. So far, the blood had not flowed, the mental body of the guilty had not been burned, only and only because there was no time to replace the eliminated, as well as no time for the flogging itself. The worst of all was not even the situation that had arisen; in itself, though nightmarish, though dangerous, it was quite within the framework of those things to which countermeasures and plans had been made for such an event. The trouble is that the resulting demonic breakthrough without a small top-class happened completely suddenly, and its rapid closure and plugging merit not at all Allizira or even the city temples.

There were too many questions for which there were no answers at all, not even normal assumptions, and even then, one had to operate with mere guesses, bold theories, behind which there were practically no facts. In general, being critical of her lack of success, the woman sorrowfully admitted that there was not much difference between her report and the wild rumors retold in the markets of the city. The evidence for the rumors was about equal in number, which saddened her personally, as she was accustomed to operating with only rigorous and repeatedly corroborated facts from duplicate reports. She could assume a lot of things, but the specifics for a normal answer to Herbert's face were lacking, which was the reason for their mutual silence. Both of them understood perfectly well that she had failed, to put it mildly, and both of them had to do something, preferably without crossing a certain line, after which hard decisions would be obligatory.

Allizira felt a sharp, burningly angry twinge of envy for Rictus, who had come down with another thin-body debilitating illness that had kept him under the care of the healers for the past week. It was also a big question whether he'd gotten sick in time or whether he'd had help. Professional paranoia suggested that there were no such coincidences, but logic modestly reminded her that such a condition had been predicted for months. She didn't believe that the old man had deliberately set her up, quickly getting rid of a problem that had been foreseen in advance, leaving the young shiftmate to deal with it and smash her face into it. The old man, called Grumpy even by his retinue, was too responsible and not used to leaving problems to chance. But if he'd decided to punish her for some reason, he'd done it disgustingly well.

"Okay, Allizira, I'm only going to ask one question." Herbert breaks the silence, extinguishing the sounds from the music box in one motion and staring at her with a heavy and tired look. "What was that all about? I've already realised you don't have the facts. Nobody seems to have any. Then let's, as the Southerners say, eat this mumanac bit by bit. Anything we can find out, especially about the demon fighter's identity. I'm waiting."

Allizira once again runs her mind over the data and begins to speak. At first, the most general, witness statements, a list of victims, the place where the infernal creatures broke through, and their classification. Here, it was possible to collect a lot of data. It was unrealistic to completely hide all traces of the ritual, which turned one of the “shadow” taverns into a solid desecrated artifact. However, there was not just one ritual, but many small rituals, which gradually adjusted the thin edges of the world properly. They also managed to find out some identities of those involved, but they were also seen, or at least figured out after the fact, not even being able to execute them since they had not survived the day of the incident.

"The base of the cult cell was the road brothers, and it was through their ranks that the creature or creatures consolidated her influence." De Fell continued her report, pulling up reports by telekinesis or projecting the illusion of faces and places, at the same time marking the necessary ones on the large and high-quality map of the city. "They are always under special control, even among the night people. Still, they are always away, always disappearing somewhere. So it was possible to pocket some of the loot, which frightened Ruth even more than any other possible threats. The first of those who had been inured to the curse was Garaza the Brushwood, the head of a small group of roadmen, not even from Dantmark. She was assigned to Quay. She returned alone, without a group, and told Ruth a tale that her squad had fallen under the guards, and she was blamed for the failure, so she had fled to this place. She probably seduced him or even partially defiled him, but it is not confirmed, and she eliminated Ruth four days before the incident."

Then he listed the faces and personalities that had been caught in the net of the demon of true Lust. Most of their remains, though turned into a mass of meat, had not lost their auric impressions and could be analyzed. Again, every single night leader, one before the other, hurried to give lists of those who behaved strangely or simply disappeared with the ends recently or comparatively recently. They cooperated surprisingly diligently, realizing they were one step away from being wiped out. With such data, it wasn't hard to trace the creature's path, stunningly brazen and yet executed with extraordinary skill. Allizira had managed, she thought, to almost completely reconstruct the scenario of subjugating a large proportion of the road thugs under Dantmark, while also showing how the creature had remained undetected. Indeed, brazenness and astonishing sophistication, a combination that could take cities, not to mention individual operations.

"From this data, from Marek's report and the assurances received from the priests, we can safely say the following: the demon was not trying to build a stable cult cell here, the structure prepared by the creature was doomed to be opened in the near future, which the demon understood perfectly well." It was weak an excuse, but the woman did not hide the fact that the infernal scum had calculated everything perfectly, including the reactions of her department, expecting to pull it off before the department realised the degree of danger. "It could also be assumed with near certainty that the creature was alone, at least initially. Nevertheless, the invasion team was unequivocally waiting at the shortest coordinate, literally one step away from breaking through to reality. Such a methodology is characterised by enormous risk even for such resilient entities, equally enormous cost, and absolute disadvantage in the balance of loss and gain. The only conclusion to be drawn from this is that neither the creature, nor its brethren, nor their higher essence planned or expected to conduct a takeover of Dantmark or a large-scale reaping of souls. The whole purpose of the operation was to hit a single target, capture it, and, obviously, take that target straight to Inferno."

The news on the one hand is very comforting, comforting even, but on the other hand, we had to speculate about who was so interested in the demons, about why this someone surrendered to them, and about what would be fraught with the success of the inhabitants of Inferno. The answers were not the kind of answers that would please or reassure, despite the obvious fact that the demonic side's schemes had failed. Because the one who had failed those schemes in the most radical way was still here in reality, nowhere, unlike the demons, had not gone anywhere. And even though the probability that the unknown individual was still within the city was estimated to be low, it was not dismissed as an unviable option.

"Very little is known; there is nothing to embellish, my Suzerain." Allizira repented melancholically, pulling out a new pile of documents. - There had been traces of the powerful shaman's activities before, even before the incident with the de Lomere heiress. Some disturbance in the fabric of reality and etheric currents had been detected by both the Tower and Master Enyo. It had been suggested that one or more unregistered shamans were practicing in the city, and a version of a sabotage prepared by the green-skinned was being worked out. No trace was found. After the triumphant, pardon my sarcasm, return of de Lomere, this version was checked much more carefully, but no clear confirmation was received. Attempts to get any answers from the de Lomer trading house ended in complete, but expected and understandable, failure."

Pausing and taking a few sips of water from the glass pulled up by telekinesis, Allizira put away most of the papers, creating another illusion and overlaying it on top of the city map. Moving elements began to appear on the map, symbolizing both the currents of the ether, the movements of the search parties, and the banal crowds of citizens wandering the streets along their usual routes. Toward the end, the same map was marked with scarlet dots of the places processed by the search teams.

"None of the scanning influences gave a clear result." She spoke, listing in turn the locations of the search rituals, secretly performed by a group of competent specialists. "The disturbance that the Tower, led by the Honourable de Martire, Master Enyo, and I have detected... it could well be another fluctuation in the ether, there is no evidence to the contrary. Yes, both you and I, and any host of more than a couple of dusters of the human mind will realise that there are no such coincidences, but then again, there is no clear outline of a space control ritual in progress either. You have read Miller's report on the search for the missing heiress, and without my abstruse comments, you can understand how isolated the girl was in a trap."

"And I realise the fact that she came back and we didn't even notice anything that could be considered a portal breach." Herbert, who had also been educated in magic, though not a full-fledged practicing wizard, finished grimly, staring at the full three-dimensional projection of the illusory city she had created with an unreadable gaze. "He who was able to hide such outrage, hiding himself alone, will definitely be able to do so. Do we have any idea where his or her lair was or still is?"

Allizira groaned wistfully, but only mentally, because she understood her suzerain's emotions. It would be hard not to understand those emotions when you were told that you were likely to have in your family fiefdom a concentration of power of a mage of unknown, but obviously very considerable, power, which was hidden from you and your people. And what can provide cover and camouflage, even penetrating and a priori unconcealed in terms of background portal transition super-high range! The first thought of any normal owner will be: ‘Can't this unknown wild magician open a door to my chambers and put an enchanted bone knife in my heart?’. - Try not to be alarmed by such a scenario. Just as mentally, Allyzira suppressed the urge to try to pin it all on Maega de Lomer, saying she was the one who had gotten her daughter out after all. It was possible, but not after she'd failed so spectacularly, when even something she'd summoned had failed, promising the black spirit a piece of her soul. There were still options that the steppe rabid bitch had tricked them, pretended to be weak to buy time... but that theory didn't hold up to scrutiny. Okimarzi's blade - cut off all unnecessary things from the version, leaving the simplest, because it will be the true one.

"We're just guessing. And that assumption sounds extremely vague - somewhere underground." She squeezed it out of herself, feeling ashamed at such a ridiculous and nonspecific answer. "Those few strange signatures of energy currents, especially in the amplitude suitable for the properties of the spiritual call, in three cases out of five, came from somewhere above, at the very edge of the sensitivity of the city's scanning fields. But in a clear sky to hide in.... let's just say I can't imagine that even in theory. The remaining cases either lead far outside the city or somewhere deep within the Earth's bowels. Not the Underworld, mind you. No unregistered passages there, my agents have guaranteed me with their heads. Underground.

Having expressed her complete confidence nicely, she began to describe and colour her utter helplessness. It's not so pleasant, but it can't be helped. Those crumbs, which we managed to find, even on a serious version, did not stretch, and they were considered only from desperation and because of the extreme seriousness of the situation, when even the smallest things are not allowed to miss. A new pile of written reports, a few drawings, and a couple of insulated glass vials took their place on the table.

"We sifted the city from top to bottom, visited Lortan's shrine, scoured the city's catacombs, finding the lair of some dark alchemy adept, alas, long abandoned. In addition, we found..." The methodical enumeration of everything that had been found or searched allowed him to delay the moment of confession that nothing had been found. "...as well as eighteen buried bodies, probably left over from the redivision of the river arms of the trade a dozen years ago. At this point, I can only assume that the shaman's lair, if there is one, is hidden either in an encapsulated area with no exits, which has to be accessed through a portal, as the unknown man has proven himself to be an expert in working with the dimension of distance. Either this lair is hidden at too great a depth and standard scans simply do not reach it, or they lose the lion's share of power, reflecting and losing focus in the cloaking fields. In both cases, the only thing left is to search with more thorough and powerful impacts, and many interested parties are ready to provide services or at least funding for the search."

Miller will be extremely annoyed, he is already annoyed, that now he will have to search for the black weasel in the darkness of the cellars, without even knowing if it is there at all. The resource strength of the scanning obelisks, the cost of ritual reinforcement, the time and reserve of his subordinates, and the magister himself. All this will have to be spent, and not all of it, not all of it, will be compensated by golden streams or supplies of reagents with discounts. Those streams are not so turbulent, the lists provided are not so extensive, well, or you will have to bend a lot harder and share a lot more information. She would not have minded, perhaps, but there was nothing to share, which depressed the beautiful and lovely beauty of the human tribe and the aristocratic family. Her report lasted more than an hour. Herbert seemed to forget that he needed sleep, and she did not dare to drink water, because the duke had such an unpleasantly hard look.

"Payment for the participation and counselling of Zarga Black Vine and the three senior apprentices of her coven had been taken from the reserve fund of the Secret Chancellery. But it wasn't necessary." It would have been ideal not to call on the old hag, who looked hardly older than Allizira herself, not because of her personal magic and alchemy, but because of the black rituals of stealing youth, which she regularly used to use to buy slaves and slave girls, who were always young and always beautiful, and who turned into old men and old women in six months, because they were just sick, and it was a bit scary to say otherwise about a witch who wasn't weaker than Allizira. "In fact, I authorised her involvement and a triple oath on the Keeper's relics solely because the evidence found was related to witchcraft.... May I express myself in the most obscene manner possible for your lordship's society, my suzeren?"

Herbert raised his eyebrows and nodded silently in surprise, and de Fell was eager to give away one of the few trump cards she had during the investigation. Yes, the decision to bring in not just any enchanter or witch who lived near, if not in, Dantmark, but the head of a powerful coven and a recognised expert in area curses had really paid off. Though initially Allizira was already preparing to pay the priests and temples as well, because the old scum demanded not only gold, but also her favourite slaves. Yes, they were ritual modifications, when the victim was forced to grow old and sick instead of the witch, so that she could live young and beautiful, even if she had accumulated a lot of curses in order to get more power and jump almost to the magister of magic. In Zarzha's case, it was said that she could even use her hoods to keep in touch with her land while the witch was wandering somewhere far away, so that the old woman in her young body could keep her mobility without losing a bit of power over the land when she was out of it.

But that didn't save her from inevitable weakening away from her source of power, which made Zarja's existence a little more bearable. She was almost a master even outside of her land, but she was slightly inferior to Allizira in aura power and development. In the centre of her hollow, the old woman could be considered a magister, and there were rumours that she and the whole Black Vine coven had something else hidden in the hollow that gave her great power, even without the ability to take it out of the hollow. All the disciples were silent, buried by their oaths, and all attempts at reconnaissance or espionage had so far failed, though some of the coven's secrets had been learnt and even played out.

"The remnants of the billet used by the unknown - an ordinary, albeit imbued with wild magic, canvas sack, and about three pinches of earth that stuck to it from the inside." A hint of a feeble smile appears on Allisira's face for the first time since the conversation began. "I analyzed the thing personally, with all precautions, per se. Even so, I only recognized the presence of the highest manifestations of wild magic in the matter, which was beyond me to decipher without being a witch myself. But Zarzha realized what she saw and quickly figured it out... I'll say this, apologizing again for my rudeness, I was afraid she wouldn't drool all over me or finish in a raging ecstasy right there. First, she offered to buy the earth from me for half of the payment offered to her, then for all of it, then she began to offer to pay extra herself, noticeably exceeding all the costs of hiring her."

"You have, I trust, squeezed all you could out of her?" The Duc de Dantrel was surprised, but it was a pleasant surprise, and he was probably already going over in his head how to use such an asset. "Including a favor, of course."

"Even a little more than was possible." She doesn't let a shadow of smugness into her voice or facial expression, but she still almost glows, remembering the not-so-small victory. "And a favor she owes to your house in more than one. In answer to the unasked question. This soil is the essence of the material power of witchcraft. Zarzha was unable to pick up any imprints of the aura or the typical witchcraft adept echo of the connection between the land and the host. But the dust itself left on the cloth was so full of power that even a fraction of a smaller fingernail tip would be enough to create a spell a rank above what Zarzha could do. Or to amplify her power source as if she'd been doing just that for ten years, or at least five."

Alizira shrugged her shoulders in response to the surprised look on her suzerain's face, who clearly didn't expect someone like Black Vine to confess such details until her hands were twisted or needles were driven under her nails.

"She wanted those samples very much, and was ready for anything, even an oath of complete truthfulness for exhaustive answers," Allizira added mentaly that she had taken a lot from the witch for herself, not to the detriment of the common cause, just as she had kept silent about the fact that the hag would have offered to eat her out, if only to put her paws on it. "A quarter of the mass of the remaining dirt, I admit, had to be sold to her after all. But before you blame me, I ask the suzerain to look at the list of what is owed to us. Also, of course, under a certified contract and partly under oath."

Herbert chuckled at the aptly inserted joke, an old and long-revered one between the two of them. It was something Allisira, still very young, six winters old, had once said to his face as a distant child. Don't blame me, my liege, I'm innocent of wasting sweets, and I can prove it, and the jam stains on my dress and face are not of a suspicious nature. Yes, she had a terrible sweet tooth, and the punishment of being deprived of sweets was one of the most horrifying to her. So terrifying that she was ready at a ball at Herbert de Dantrelle's house to crawl into the sweet pantry and drop everything.

They spent the next half an hour discussing the prospects of tightening contacts with the Black Vine, even summoning Maître Roderick and Master Enyo in turn, in order to figure out, together with the chief magician and the chief economist of the noble house, how best to take Zarzha by the throat without her taking them by the balls in return. It was no longer her quote, but a direct statement from Roderick, who had always lacked tact, a commoner, that's it. Despite his simply astounding erudition in all things financial. It was only when they had finished with this pleasant business that they were left alone again, to continue Allizira de Fell's slightly interrupted lecture. The woman herself appreciated how beautifully Herbert had not only shown his affection but had even quashed most of the rumors that a rift had passed between them. He praised her in public, but continued to blaspheme her in private.

"Thus, the nature of the ritual blocking the breakthrough can be considered confirmed - the reliance on wild magic and its connection with the world, actually putting the creatures trying to break in against the universe as such." Allizira sums it up again, as she has been pestering the experts for a long time with questions about whether she or any other of the city's mages could replicate even a remote semblance of this marvellous remedy. "The result is not too conceded to the prayer of the chief priest, if conceded at all, although it wastes the enchanted earth, which is a consumable material. And very expensive, as well as long created, years, decades, or even centuries. Expert opinion on the portal was backed up by Brazzera the Locking, delivered by the Keeper's clerics by an emergency portal. Even without my descriptions, you know her qualifications and parsimony for praise, but even she recognised that this trick was far beyond her abilities."

Herbert wrinkled his face tiredly, remembering this particular person. She was taller than Allizira by two heads, bald, even without eyebrows, with lush breasts like a Taurus, and as strong as an Orc warrior, but she was said to carry some demon blood in her. There was no proof, and to ask the priestess directly was a bad idea. But certain things were suspicious. The temples and shrines of Damocar were one of the few places that did not harm demons or their half-breeds per se, but prevented them from using species magic. In fact, it was in the temples and hermitages of the Keeper of Oaths and the Giver of Life that those children who had strong infernal blood, but had not had time to sin or become a problem due to age, settled as eternal prisoners. And not all of them, not all of them, gave the children born by the Tieflings a chance to live. Their blood, their connection to Inferno, was a beacon in itself.

Praying, God-fearing, and able to resist the call of blood person could well ignore such a stress, but also to fall to any stain with foul blood was very easy. A simple man, he began to beg for the power of demons, will only shake the air with blasphemous abomination if he does not have the necessary knowledge and skills. If there will be no demon who heard him. If a Tiefling wishes to reach for power and foulness... a normal conscious desire will be enough for such a one, and on top of that, basic skills of mastery of internal energies, which are almost always gifted with evil children have from birth. In general, outside the temples, such children are good if they just die, but more often they die in a large company, taking a village or two or a city block.

Got your ass kicked for stealing a jar of honey? Anger and rage will burst out in defiling flames, swell the body and muscles, and spill out in an empathic wave that will provoke a fight between everyone. You like a pretty girl? Attraction and lust will open a path to under her dress, and tiefling straight into the jaws of those who will point at the glow of another's passion. Every strong emotion, every fervent desire, is the key, and the door is the very bearer of foul blood, and there are few beings under heaven who can fear, desire, and rage more than the children and youth of any race.

So no one dares to ask Reverend Brazzer why she hides certain parts of her aura even during prayers, why her body has such uncharacteristic features, why even without prayers she can almost smell the infernal scum? After all, who would be a better bloodhound than carrying the necessary mark in their own heart, who will hate the demonic race more than the one to whom their mark broke the life, mutilated body, and mind? The High Priestess herself spent most of her time either in a secluded cell of a large temple in the south of the Western Empire or traveling all over the world, where her power and knowledge could be useful. If she had been brought to Dantmark, the priests had assessed the situation correctly and were very alarmed.

"As for the recording of the images pulled out of this peasant's head....." At that moment, they both wrinkled their brows in synchrony, looking at the carrier crystal as if it were a poisonous snake. "I brought in, at my own risk, one of the unfamiliar experts. It was this that explained the Oath Keeper's overuse of the relic, for I did not trust his silence."

Poking his finger again into the crystal on the table and activating a pinpoint infusion of reserve, Herbert achieved the activation of the amulet, which again formed an illusory image of an isolated and looped second in the life of an ordinary citizen who had barely survived the massacre. A couple of moments, during which the desperate man, running desperately wherever he could see, saw the horrifyingly beautiful in its impossible abomination of the supreme demon and the even more horrifying spirit-possessed shaman, and heard them exchange a few words:

"Bleat, dear... blrblrb... ee for me? Who is a good goat? Who's a good goat?" The demon spoke in the language of the Free Cities, pure and correct, as if the best rhetors had produced it, and the numerous purifications of images, including priestly ones, and the poor quality of the recorded image, badly stored in the memory of the mortally frightened mortal, kept away from the foul treacle of the words of the supreme creature.

"Iya! Iya! Iya, Shub-Niggurra-a-a-a-a-at!" But the answer of a shaman, or a spirit, which, as this version was calculated, could eat its receptacle as well as demons, was much better in the memory of the citizen, conveying all the unnatural and mocking insolent vomiting disgustingness.

It wasn't the first time they'd looked at the tape, but the result was the same. The demon's words were understandable, but the unknown man's answer, most likely male, but even that was unprovable, did not bring any understanding. Except for the fact that the blurred images from the head of the townsman could be assumed to indicate that the demon understood what was said. But now it is not demons to ask about what they heard, right, especially given the death of the guests who came to reality?

"This language is not known to me, nor is it known to any of my men. Master Enyo also failed to recognize what was said. That's why I turned to one of my not-so-reliable but erudite contacts." She barely held back a grimace of displeasure as she remembered all the trouble it had caused to get said person to Dantmark. "If it weren't for the complete lack of more serious leads, I wouldn't have scrutinized this little thing so closely. But without seducing the prince, we'll settle for a baronet, as my venerable mentor used to say, may the gods grant her a pleasant postmortem."

"Let them give it to her, or she'll be back again." Herbert, who knew her mentor well and had personally helped her to send her to the gods for trial, and who had bought her loyalty with his vows, joked grimly. "So, who have you engaged, Allizira?"

"Mater Punto of the ancestral name Yschetsruk. A great, distinguished expert in all matters of linguistics, speaking and reading most of the known languages and dialects, including even the long-extinct ones." A small scroll with the dossier of said individual appears on top of the table. "I would be happy to use simpler methods of confidentiality, but this individual, alas, not only resides in Neurath, but also belongs to the retinue of the heir to the House of de Switzer, and you know how they feel about your family name. There is no reason to give their matriarch any clues as to what we do and what we are doing."

The duke accepts her argument, studying for a while the illusion-printed portrait of a short man with prominent sideburns. Allizira waits patiently, though she has no idea what it was that attracted Herbert to the portrait.

" Yschetzruk..." The old man said thoughtfully, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "It's a clan of latifundist bread-bearers, direct vassals of the Undermountin, isn't it? He doesn't look much like a halfling. And he's come a long way."

"He has blood from his paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather, but yes, he is a pure human being, only that he is not too tall." De Fell reported quickly, mentally wiping the sweat from her forehead, for she was afraid of deeper questions to which she might not remember the answer at once. "But he's an expert in linguistics, and that's why it was so hard to get him out of Neirat, because he knows his value, too. He translates texts from ancient languages or teaches rich kids."

"Okay, then what did he tell you?" And after thinking for a moment, he adds, a little irritated. "Was it even worth it?"

"Partially worth it." Cautiously says the magician, mentally recognizing that there is a very small part of that partiality. "The recording is not too clear, but the combination of sounds flashed in it, produced by the unknown man, resonates with some of the records of the Neirat archives known to Maître Punto. Ab-Niurrat or Shubble-Iguraat - there was no exact transcription, or the expert simply didn't know it. It is the name of an entity worshipped by some tribes of the far North in times before the North was turned into a dead fiefdom. The last mention of this entity dated back several centuries ago, when the last forest refuges of the primitive tribes were finally pushed to the icy shores, where they were killed by the followers of the Thirsty Battler."

A weak lead, frankly, but still better than nothing at all. The Head of the Privy Chancellery, most likely the official one now that Rictus would be removed from his position and sent to a well-deserved retirement, was now ready to cling to anything, even air. Levitation had always been extremely difficult for her, but the last few weeks had been much harder than levitation.

"There is also some evidence that the tribes that worshiped this entity were suspiciously friendly with the worshippers of the Cult of the Depths. Not allies or even neutral, but let's just say they were clearly aware of each other." Here she pauses and still concretizes her words, lowering their value at the same time. "Alas, this knowledge is derived from the diaries of one of the Free Captains, not the ship's log. The degree of reliability of such data, even Maestro Punto, is estimated to be extremely low. As a result, the only thing that was obtained from the analysis of these words was the understanding of the necessity to conduct further searches closer to the Ice Islands and the dead North."

They are silent for a while while Herbert de Dantrel is thinking. What exactly he is thinking about is not difficult to guess, but it is difficult to specify these guesses, because there is too much to think about for both him and her. But the hardest moments have already passed. The Duke's anger has burned out, and only the usual icy rationality remains. Allyяira, no matter what was said, had done well with the tasks that were at her level of competence. Was it her fault that the level of problems and surprises all at once increased in leaping amplitude? Was it her fault that instead of intrigues of Herbert's kin and schemes of trading houses, she had to deal with breakthroughs of higher demons and illegal shaman-scientists in the rank of master at least, who had come from nowhere and were looking for nothing in this hole?

"Do we have any idea who exactly has been shitting in my town?" Gloomily and already knowing the answer, Herbert asked, loosening the collar of his shirt with irritation. "Yes, I know. I've tried to look for it myself, but there must be some clues!"

Allizira suppresses hysterical laughter with great difficulty, because she, as a mage, is indeed watching the ranks of her colleagues very closely, but she can't find any answer either. If it were not for clear guarantees from the sun-lovers, and not for the extremely detailed dossier from the long-eared, which gave a list of mastered schools and approximate characteristics of the aura, this mysterious shaman could well be perceived as the very Master. Alas, but the mentalist who had disappeared into the Dungeon was a classical mage, at least to a greater extent. No, we should not look for answers to this question in mysterious aliens from nowhere, but in the depths of centuries, in forgotten and lost chronicles, and also in the heads of the cursed steppe women. Oh, how gladly she would have talked to Singha de Lomer alone, preferably within a couple of days, having literally drained her of everything she knew, leaving her an empty hulk unable to speak the language of the Free Cities, eager to give herself to any white-faced ‘Khanur’ for a string of glass beads!

She'd found something out there. Somewhere, even Miller was afraid to send scanning charms. Something she'd contacted and negotiated since she'd made it back. She'd seen the calculations, realised that it was extremely likely that the unknown shaman had been active in Dantmark before de Lomer had arrived. But what if Allizira had been wrong? What if de Lomere's visit had been part of some other plan, a plan that had succeeded, a plan that included the story of the elemental suddenly out of Miller's and his clique's control. A very unusual elemental, not the kind of elemental they had originally planned to summon.

"Alas, there is no definite answer." Allizira did not disappoint him, answering exactly what he was expecting, leaving a part of unfounded suspicions and fantasies, as Herbert did not like such spilling of thoughts on the river delta. "Some of the green-skinned shamans, two candidates from different witch circles, there are personalities among the jungle people as well. One of my puppies even suggested the participation of a snake-man, of those who are really powerful and do not show their noses from their green labyrinth. I dug up a Skale-Furray treatise somewhere. With those very illustrations, by the way, and came up with a theory. It's not the dumbest one yet, if only there wasn't some evidence that John Doe had legs. Other than that. You know as well as I do the names of magisters and aspiring masters. Someone could not, someone has a different specialization, someone was seen at the same time in their native walls, others would rather help demons than us. I can't give that answer, I don't know his name ..."

The report, and also the demeanor, was coming to an end, and the details were being clarified, but Allizira, who had come up with the sudden idea at the last moment, was already partially immersed in the idea. Yes, it wouldn't be easy to interrogate the girl. Her mother, even without the House's support, could twist Allizira into a knot; even Miller feared her. And the family's ties to the Steppe were as strong and powerful as ever. It is largely thanks to these ties that Morgrave has not feared an attack from the Horde for twenty years. Or at least an attack that the De Lomer's kinsmen and allies would not warn him about in advance. And there was no reason for such an interrogation, except for vague suspicions on de Fell's part, which might well be the product of delusions, visions of a mind inflamed by overwork, sleep deprivation, and stimulating alchemy.

But.

If these steppe sluts suddenly do well, if their power grows disproportionately and unexpectedly fast, if they have reagents or artefacts at their disposal, which could not have been made or obtained by them.... if there is other circumstantial evidence that they have been assisted by some ancient and experienced fellow shaman who wishes to remain, if not anonymous, which is simply impossible for any powerful mage, then concealing his presence in this part of the Ecumene. Then Allizira would strike her blow, for she had never learnt to forgive such kicks to her well-being, after which she could lose her career and life. And though she had always been a supporter of soft influence, striving to do her work through networks of informants and a shroud of intrigue, in which so helped her well-mastered love and mental magic. The old man Rictus is a professional in enforcement actions. And for the sake of her personal request, he would come out of his rest for a while and go back to his old occupation.

She could find people to kidnap the little brat, as well as ways to block the shaman's gift, because the threat of green always looms over Dantmark, and they know how to deal with shamans. And you don't have to look for humans, do you? No matter how much the blood-sucking sluts under Malter's wing try to avoid such large-scale and risky tasks, the collar on the old undead abomination's throat has been snapped too tight lately. De Fell will find something to motivate the undead, and her new toys rarely have trouble quietly stealing even a protected target. Of course, they'd demand guarantees, and she'd even consider giving them, pretend to think about it, she certainly wouldn't be lazy. But to actually give those guarantees... not a sure thing, oh, not a sure thing. Such unpleasant and blood-smelling subjects are not happy to have a collar around their necks just to get rid of themselves as soon as possible.

With guarantee.

* * *

//"Alas, there is no definite answer. Some of the greenskin shamans, two candidates from different witch circles, there are personalities among the jungle people as well. One of my pups even suggested the involvement of a snake-witch..." - At the next replay of the repeatedly viewed recording, a finger clad in a thin black glove came down on the surface of the recording crystal, interrupting the recording. The leader of the entire group, who had gathered at the operational rookery, looked around the group with an unreadable gaze of bright emerald eyes and sighed tiredly, feeling his eyebrow or long ear twitching in a nervous tic. The wise elf, who had been using the call sign Heather for centuries, had clearly not expected to hear what he heard in that crystal, and neither had his group.

"They really don't know anything, at all." He summarizes in an indifferent and dry tone, despite the emotions raging inside. "I confess that I had thought until the last moment that de Fell was afraid of espionage, and therefore kept the basic picture of the investigation to herself, intending to tell it only to her suzerain in person. I feel exhilaratingly disappointed, and also a little annoyed, even somewhere pissed off. So much effort, not to mention the Treasury's wailing about the cost of the operation."

Here, a smile was suppressed by all present at once. Heather's beloved wife, who had given him two sons and a daughter, worked in the Treasury Department, which meant that the group always had a little less trouble getting approval to fund any operation and issue even very valuable supplies. And more nerves were spent when these expenses turned out to be unjustified. However, a certain amount of disappointment was experienced by the whole group at once, because their labor to create a wiretap channel was very devalued. De Fell's habit of bringing all reports along with a hard copy of a report or schedule, instead of the more familiar and logical illusions, had failed her. However, it was Herbert de Dantrel's desire to receive reports in this form that had failed her in the first place. It was a whim from his youth, when he had almost been burned out of his mind by a cunning spell hidden in a crystal with images. The man had almost turned into an idiot who thought only of having fun with a couple of Oriental concubine maids, and had disliked info-crystals ever since.

So, on a good leather folder, covered with protective runes and special enchantments, which do not allow you to peek at the contents, the squad druid, Leaf, put a few particles of a special moss, which then turned into a living and customizable sound transmitter. It was difficult to get this fastidious and extremely difficult to handle plant even for an experienced druid, so he had to use a trio of specially treated mosquitoes, which were controlled remotely. Even so, one of the insects was carried away by the wind from the palace, and the second got lost in the tangles of stone walls. It was a peculiarity of the perception of the world through the insect's senses. Fortunately, the one that flew and landed on the surface of de Fell's valise was enough. Fortunately indeed, for it is good to know that your competitor also knows nothing in advance, and not too late.

"The fight was all over the city, a lot of surviving witnesses, even those who were closest to the others, but even those survived and now thank the Life Giver...." Rustle, Heather's deputy and trusted assistant, draws out the words thoughtfully. "But there is no sign of them. No dropped drops of blood, no imprints of aura or subtle bodies, not a single scrap of material from the target's actively used battle amulets. You know, Heather, I've always had a low opinion of one-dayers individually and collectively, but this is too much even for them. This isn't a case of incompetence, and it's certainly not a coincidence."

Rustle was from a house notorious for its radical views on the lesser races, as well as radical isolationists, so his comments had long since become commonplace. Heather also knew for a fact that he was making those dismissive remarks about the short-lived purely to make himself seem more inward-looking and inflexible than he really was. Someone would have been fooled, but not Heather, who knew from several separate sources how skilfully this individual used agent networks among humans and greenskins. And now, with his usual nonsense, he was pointing out an obvious and dangerous fact.

"There was someone else, more like an entire cover team, who was actively cleaning up all traces of their patron's battle." Obvious facts in their work have to be stated quite regularly. It is better to be known as a lover of the obvious, like Jasen Ren, one of the Admirals of the Great Armada in the heyday of the Island Empire, than to think that one's subordinates or commander have understood everything, only to regret it bitterly later. "Well, it is dangerous to search for a supposedly existing shelter under the city, because we will not find anything without really large-scale search rituals. But it's really worth it to look for a cover team. And we should start with the Trading Houses, especially those that came here recently and started actively...

The distribution of individual tasks and discussion of the right tactics went on for a long time; the timid dawn was dawning on the horizon, but no one allowed themselves to show fatigue. Heather's group had long been accustomed to working in deep secrecy, methodically, slowly, and efficiently. Yes, maybe they lacked the gusto multiplied by qualifications, which Twilight, who had recently received his hour of unofficial fame and Mellor's tiara on his forehead, could boast of. But their specialties had always been different, too. Where Dusk was always famous for daring and swift operations, assaults, murders, kidnappings, and other risky, though revered cases, Veresk worked quite differently. Minimal risk, minimal contacts, and maximum work with agents, often building them from scratch for each task. They almost never went into battle, often preferring to either retreat or wait for backup, but when it came to finding those who were of interest to the Forest in one form or another, they were hard to find an equal.

There was no easy walk, alas, and it was not planned from the beginning. From the very first minute, just reading the information gathered beforehand, Heather realised how unpleasant this task was for him. The task, as well as the whole chain of recent events in Dantmark, smelled like a cesspool. Not the kind that was filled with the necessary alchemy, fenced off with filters, and then turned into composting material by druids, no. Here, his metaphorical nose smelled the stench of an old cesspool in the middle of an orcish camp that had not changed its location in years. The city was literally boiling and simmering, with many of its agents compromised or simply missing for one reason or another, and the events that had preceded the disappearance were not exactly peaceful. In some ways, they seemed to the experienced operative even more disturbing than the demonic breakthrough of the highest category in the city. And he was even more uncomfortable with the realisation that both lines of events were unambiguously connected.

"What about the Astra-Med object?" He asked a question to which everyone present knew the answer, more eager to hear advice on how to proceed than a dry recounting of events. "Can we at least roughly delineate the boundaries of what she gave up to the de Dantrells before the deep oaths killed her?"

"If killed." The previously silent Thread intervened. She had recently, only thirty years ago, earned the title of Master of Mentalism and was also a very knowledgeable expert in all sorts of concealments and, of course, rituals. "She was covered securely, the honourable Fibendil personally fixing the billet for the Lying Rejection. She simply could not have fallen foul of such an obvious test, and at such an opportune moment, and after such a high-profile and scandalous murder of one of her foes. We all get it, we all realise it, and I think you all know exactly what you're going to hear from me. The likely outcome is that the base of the murderous oathbreaker mechanism Astra-Med, aka Virama Sweetness, was also destroyed or damaged along with the Rejection. We can't rely on any of its associated agents at all."

Everyone present, of course, realised that, as well as the fact that that was why they had been sent here, to look around and, if possible, to plant hooks for new agents, including those playing in the dark. They were all good at that, and Heather was the best at it among the currently active Forest task forces in the field. On the one hand, the failure was far from absolute; Virama had officially made these vows with the honourable Lady de Mont Ros, so formally, the uncovered network belonged to the ruler of Morgrave. But since it had been taken, or rather almost given as a gift, personally handed over to de Fell, so cleanly, even the agents of the second and third information perimeters should be considered compromised. And in the many years that the owner of Dantmark's finest fun house had worked for her masters, she had unwittingly learnt too much, and worse, no one could tell how much she had learnt.

Yes, there was no response from her blood for two moons at least, and before that, probably, the half-corpse of Virama was passed off as alive deliberately to mislead. Yes, even in the most pessimistic predictions, she couldn't know everything. Elves strongly disliked putting their eggs in one basket, always duplicating and then duplicating again their operational networks. In addition to Sweetie's network, there was a parallel network, which no longer affected de Mont Ros and belonged only to the Forest. Even now in the city, there are guaranteed unopened rookeries, caches, hiding places, and, of course, human and not human informants, free and unwilling, even a couple of sleeping agents with mental compulsions. But still, none of the operatives will use the available ways more than necessary, preferring to start all over again and only personally check. And that meant time, effort, risks, and a lot of dangerous and monotonous labour for the good of the Forest, which made Heather feel sad. So sad that he wanted to hold someone by the throat and not let go for three hours.

"I don't suppose anyone will pretend this is a strange coincidence." Smiling wryly at the unfunny joke, Heather gave all six subordinates a stern look. "The main target of the development was scouring the operational environment, apparently either having decided to settle near or in Dantmark or dramatically increased its activity in the city's outskirts. Not surprisingly, it was our agents who got the worst of it." He clearly recognised the danger of Forest's attention, whoever he was, so he picked out the most dangerous personnel for him. He probably figured we wouldn't venture here without a solid foundation under our feet, not for years to come. He got his hopes up for nothing.

Heather had such a weakness, he liked to put a lot of eloquence into his words, to give a fiery speech even where it was possible to do without it. All the operatives themselves understood everything that was said, fully knowing what their leader would tell them, and he, obviously, did not want to disappoint his comrades-in-arms. A kind of joke for his own, from the outside not at all understandable even to a fellow in eternity, not to mention the lesser races. Of course, it was obvious that the unknown shaman had long and diligently prepared a bridgehead for his penetration into the city, knocking out competitors and getting rid of dangerous agents at the same time. What the Forest and his agents couldn't fault was their ability to prepare scenarios for any eventuality, including this one.

"You've all received new inputs from the analysts, we won't go over them now." Heather, meanwhile, continued, involuntarily suppressing an unpleasant shiver. "First of all, we have to check the probability of a bearer of the Soul Tablet living in Dantmark. Moreover, even though the beginning of the anomalies noticed by de Fell's subordinates does not coincide with the confirmed information about the movements and stay of Master, we are still considering this version. Yes, that's exactly what we all realised. Yes, the analysts have ordered that this is one of the three primary options. That's why we work with extreme caution, ensure ourselves as much as we can, apply anti-spiritual methods, and prepare to resist the highest magic of the wild type."

"And don't forget that if the presence of a Tablet Bearer that is not the Master object is confirmed, we have no conflict with this Bearer of the Tablet." Rustle supplements him, on the rights of his deputy and first assistant, picking up what he said. "If there is any confirmation, if there is any information of the highest priority, we will not interfere. I hate myself for my words and dancing on graves, but remember how the last attempt to take the bearer of the Tablet by force ended. If contact has occurred, we do not go to the conflict and fight, just retreat, if not retreat, try to talk, paragraph seven-eight, tactics malachite, ruby, or adamant. Only hit if there is direct aggression and attack from the Tablet Bearer.

Heather still didn't have much faith in another Tablet bearer. He had read the reports on the search for Master and the information received from Maega de Lomer, which she had shared, albeit reluctantly and not fully. He knew where рук daughter had gone. He knew what lived there, as well as the fact that this something, to the great happiness of the world, could not leave its dungeon in any form. Could someone trapped next to a hungry dragon for years, figuratively speaking, without becoming its food or nutrient substrate, escape? The likelihood of that is not particularly high, but it's not to say it's any lower than the presence of a second Tablet under the skies of Beriadon.

The amulets they had brought, made from old blueprints left over from a long-ago expedition into the wild jungle, did not react to the city's energy background. The Omniscient Eye also did not notice any traces of the ancient entity that had escaped the trap. Still, the group had only yesterday stopped scanning themselves and any food and water with specific medical weaves, which were very heavily modified charms to search for helminths. One of the most dire threats was not confirmed, but the rest of the theories were not a little bit happier than the discarded one. Whether it was an unknown shaman, probably Grabazur Zhar-Kama'r'dak, the disgraced head of the Second Fang of the Chieftains, previously thought to have been murdered for trying to kill one of the Chieftains' eldest sons, a half-orc half-elf born to an elven woman captured by the Horde, someone else, or indeed a Soul Tablet-bearing stranger from beyond the world, it would not be easy.

In general, they are always in a permanently complicated situation. Their very job is to gradually make the complicated simple and then, without the slightest risk, to fulfill the previously impossible task, and then go away, under the shade of the Forest and its First Tree. So far, they were doing quite well, and the group of elves who had settled down in the officially rented guest house, pretending to be craftsmen who had moved to a new place, gathered in a small artel of weavers and shoemakers, were ready for the inevitable difficulties, as they always were. As it happened, no one usually called them to a place where it would be even a little bit easy.

* * *

It was obvious to Selendina that her colleagues from the Secret Guard of the Forest were searching the city after such events! Yes, the naive maiden had hoped to simply hide from the attention of the tree stumps who could not understand her feelings, hiding herself and her best and dearest Draga in an unremarkable and remote Free City, where it was guaranteed that there would be fewer events and it would be easier to get lost. And then there's this. Demon breakthrough, panic, large-scale spells and heroic confrontation with demons, among which there were several higher entities, huge crowds of those interested like bees on flower pollen. How could one get a little simple feminine happiness in the arms of the beloved?

That's right, no way. Just absolutely no way, you just have to keep the disguise on yourself, on her, on the house, to keep the legend, pretending to be two old clerks-writers who moved to a big city and are ready to work even for less money, slowly eating up the accumulated reserves. Especially if one of these scribes has been a little sick lately, which makes the second of the old women have to work for two. Alas, keeping her beloved happy with regular doses of mind-affecting snake venom greatly reduced attention and concentration, not to mention the fact that the lovely Draga didn't have any decent agent training to fool the inspectors. She had managed by some miracle, not otherwise, to pass the priests' scans without breaking the false guises, temporarily reinforced and becoming not just an illusion, but a mixture of makeup, ritual image, and a dynamic optical background supported by runes on the walls.

Selendina smiled sweetly at the lush-breasted priestess of the Life Giver, mentally preparing to attack the inspectors with the snakes that had come out to strike. Her speciality, her strongest forte, was focused specifically on snake-type familiars; the elf was a master at that, though she was quite good at druidism, illusions, and classical ritualism too. It was through her serpents that she had reached her peak. It was they who made her a master of magic. It was with their help that she found her true love! And to think that she had once threatened to kill or maim the lovely Draga, caught and captured in a secret guard operation. She had threatened to kill or maim the lovely Draga, who had been caught and captured in the course of a secret guard operation, and could have carried out her threat by implanting one of her familiars into the witch's lovely body, a tiny, thread-thick snake that coiled itself around her beloved's heart, guaranteeing her obedience.

It was through this serpent that the sweetheart was able to contact Selendina over time, come to her in her dreams, let her get to know herself better, and allow her to love herself. Even now, the elfess involuntarily paused for a few seconds, listening to the magic of her beloved pulsing through both of them and through the serpent still coiled around her heart. The first thing she'd done when she'd managed to snatch her sweetheart from the captivity her work colleagues had put her in, the snake lord had offered to remove the dangerous familiar from her beloved's heart. But she refused, only more strongly transmitting her feelings, warmth, adoration, and love through their connection, saying that it was more pleasant, more pleasant and joyful to feel a part of her beloved next to her. From these words, from the very memory of them, Selendina's lower abdomen ached sweetly, and a predatory and satisfied smile spread on her face, which was not hidden by the false guise, as she began to synthesise a new portion of love poison. Without such help, her sweet Draga remained terribly uptight, anxious, and fearful of everything, rushing about and paying Selendina painfully little attention.

Of course, the experienced and sharp mind of a secret guard operative and a master of a very specific school of magic knew perfectly well how charms worked and how to fight them. The problem was that with a properly applied and well-executed love witchcraft, it was not at all desirable to resist them. Especially if the attack through the controlling heart muscle of the captive familiar, which went through the feedback thread directly to the owner of the magical reptile, was performed suddenly and completely unexpectedly for the victim. That's why the motherly and not one hundred years old elven woman simply refused to notice or realise the obvious, saw love and tenderness where there was only the captive's fear and thirst for revenge.

Maybe some part of her subconsciously understood the situation, which was why Selendina had been pumping her beloved with love poison, keeping her burning with desire and visibly dumbed down, wanting only to love and be loved, to be kissed and licked as she was kissed and licked, even though she didn't want to work with her tongue at first. Maybe that was why Selendina, who was a bit slow and distracted, and who could not think about anything but her beloved for very long, was not in a hurry to find a way to remove the seal that blocked the magical gift, which could burn out Draga's gift if the blockage over the seal was broken. Maybe, maybe, but it was more likely that the elven witch, dumbfounded by love and the witch, dumbfounded by elven influence, who could only automatically maintain the magic spell and could not use any more magic because of the same seal, were simply too absorbed in themselves to be seriously distracted by agent work of any kind.

Selendina forced herself with great difficulty to search the city for a handsome young man, which could be allowed to the body of her beloved, to make her a son, a handsome son, from whom the elf herself would bear an equally beautiful daughter, tying herself to her new love as much as possible through the most reliable way - through her own blood. She did, and afterwards, when she thought better of it, she regretted what she had done. No, no, the young man she met, who politely introduced himself by the city's changed steppe name, Sta, was a perfect candidate. Polite, kind, sweet, handsome, gifted in witchcraft, and not badly, with a well-groomed body and hands. Dress him up, wash him, shave him, and he could be a servant, even if not a personal one, but with the prospect of joining their ranks. Too bad he was too old, too bad. And it was a pity that she couldn't help herself, that she'd gone along with her immediate desires, but try to resist those desires when you want to please Draga as much as you can!

The city was in disarray, with patrols of guards escorted by lurkers and priests, everyone was on edge, and even criminals had become a paragon of law and order for a while. And she let the boy go away with as little treatment as you can see on close inspection! Yes, yes, she's a pro, she's a master, and her poison leaves no traces, not the kind of traces that are easy to spot, but you can tell the effect on the mind and behaviour! There, you had to either not touch him at all, just erasing the piece of memory of their encounter, or immediately try to sneak him away and drag him on her own shoulders. But for the former, she didn't have the strength to overcome the desire to bond even more strongly with her beloved, and for the latter, she had the sense to refuse. She was not sure whether she could get to the small house they had rented without being seen, and without leaving a trace.

Honestly, today she was going to go to that inn where the boy had taken up residence and get all the unnecessary stuff out of his head... or she was going to kidnap him the right way. With preparation, the necessary amulets, disguise, building a route of retreat, reinsurance, and other important attributes in such delicate cases. You'd have to be a fool not to realise that there's no place in the city for the agents of all-all-all, and it's lucky that they arrived here well in advance and didn't fall under the attention of those who now track all newcomers. There must be some of her colleagues somewhere in the city's labyrinth of rocks, walls, stinking manure, and sophisticated magic, most likely people she knew personally. Twilight? Babbler? Heather? Osprey? Or maybe Third had been generous enough to send someone from the Shadows here? She didn't know, and didn't want to find out, knowing full well that she wasn't the one they were looking for and not willing to take any chances. That's why she was going to deal with the boy, even though she didn't want to, even though she could change her mind at any moment, without unnecessary risk or trace.

She was going to, but didn't have time.

She just wanted to hug Draga, who was chewing sweetened porridge rhythmically, bury her face in her hair, hug her lush breasts from behind, kiss her neck, pinch the hard berries of her nipples, whisper something tender in her ear... she just wanted. Because Draga suddenly stretched out sharply on her chair, sighed heavily, and carefully lay down on the table with her face, instantly switching off and plunging into a deep sleep. Immediately, the activated magic vision showed traces of a harmless, but very clear and powerful switching off effect, and a single panicky thought feverishly flashed through her head: "Found!", and having flashed, it was replaced by rage and a thirst to protect her love, from which they would definitely try to separate her!

The aura went on alert, the billets in the house and beneath it activated, numerous familiars activated, and the elf's mind and reflexes went into battle mode. Only it was already too late. Not a single billet in the house had responded, neither the amulets under the floor and in the walls, nor the druidic plant combat construct under the foundation, nor the ritual circles hidden behind illusions or simply in the structure of the material. Nor did the familiars help. All of her snakes seemed to have fallen into stasis, as if something that had power over any snake by definition had temporarily, but very qualitatively, hit the brains of each of the snakes, plunging them into lethargy. It hit her, too, whatever it was, but a master of magic could not be taken down so easily, even if a beastmaster without beasts was not half as scary, but she was not only strong with beasts!

She washed away the feedback order to freeze, to sleep, not to think, not to resist with a wave of auric pressure, extreme concentration of the shells, bare reserve washing the nodes and the general matter of the subtle body. A technique as standard as it was basic for any gifted person in general, yet just as effective, turned out to be no help at all this time. Aura Strike. She recognizes both witchcraft and pure spiritual influence at the same time, and on the edge of magical perception flicker hitherto hidden images of spirits, even now lurking too deeply behind the edge. It comes from a completely different direction, and yet has a different structure. Her attempt to flush the attack with reserve ends with her losing reserve, and some of her auric nodes simply go numb, no longer responding to her commands. Selendina quickly recognizes the spiderweb tentacles already climbing into her head and thinking parts of her aura, immediately picking up a counter-attack.

Abruptly approaching the still sleeping Draga, she lifts her beloved up on the chair, and then... she pulls down her dress and begins to gently and tenderly massage her breasts? Blinking in bewilderment, the pixie gently and tenderly pinches her nipples, licks her lips, and begins to roll her eyes, as if trying to see the spirit hovering above her in the form of a ball of weightless threads. She sees it in magical perception, but she wants to see it with her eyes, so that she can dispel the strange perplexity, so that she can stop stroking the huge breasts of the bare-chested and proud Draga. But her eyes, rolled to the limit, still do not see the spirit, but they see something else, something important, like invisible spirals of ghostly threads growing right in her head and around her long elf ears. She sees, sees, sees, understands, and realizes and kisses the still sleeping Draga's neck in relief, sitting down next to her at the table, getting comfortable in her chair, and falling asleep. She's solved all the problems, overcome them, understood, and now she can just relax and rest.

The dream seems unbearably sweet to her, like honey.

And when Selendina woke up, she saw not the faces of the elves she knew, not the faces of de Dantrelle's guards or de Fell's cutthroats, not even the solar paraphernalia of the agents of the Solar One who had flooded Dantmark, but a familiar face, but certainly not the one she had expected to see here. The same boy, the same Sta she had treated, whom she was going to give the great honour of becoming the father of the one who would give her a daughter, even if he would remember nothing about it. And this Sta, who was definitely him, and not an illusion, sat at her table and ate the milk-sweetened porridge as if it were just the right thing to do! Even the consciousness of the agentess with many years of experience was not ready for such a situation, forcing her to blink perplexedly in an attempt to wake up.

"I'm sorry, I just haven't eaten shit since this morning, and you've got so much defence here that I had to dance a lot to get you warm and not to attract too many witnesses." He spoke in the same tone, in the same manner as during their meeting in the alley, only now he was not wary and frightened, but tired and at the same time indignant and angry. "You know, you can't spit in Dantmark nowadays without getting hit by a demon fighter, a priest, or an illegal agent. The guys from Normgrave and Edoras settled in the same building without knowing about each other, and miraculously, there was no mass destruction when they were in front of each other and thought they were spotted. And all because there are no reliable places left. Such a tourist boom for the recent backwoods."

Selendina involuntarily suppressed a laugh, realizing with some sixth sense that her interlocutor had not lied about the adventures of the two agent groups. But the scream of terror had to be suppressed in a controlled manner, and she couldn't scream because her body refused to obey. It was as if she had lost her ability to walk, talk, conjure, and do everything but sit, look, and think. A mental obstacle, not just between the body and the mind, but between the mind and parts of it. It was a class of its own, a master's degree. You can submit for a diploma, especially considering the power of her aura, which had been suppressed seemingly with no effort at all. However, this “boy” does not need to submit for anything. Though her control is not held by him, but by the spirit called by him, which she feels, but can not realize, and about which she can not even think. He doesn't need to submit his candidacy anywhere, neither to Neirat, nor to the Office of the Forest, nor to any of the Caliphate dynasties. She can see his aura clearly and understands just as clearly that this human is stronger than she is.

Well, as if that couldn't be deduced from the outcome of their confrontation. The fact that he was able to stealthily and calmly approach her and swaddle her in less than a second says even more than if he had twisted her in direct combat. Selendina is flustered, to say the least, but tries to calmly wait and analyze the situation. Waiting for the captor, who had clearly been following her since the moment she'd arrived in Dantmark... to say the least. And she somehow guessed who this deceptively calm and carefree bastard could be, pretending to be a young man who dared to touch her beloved Draga. She chased the anger away, suppressing it by sheer force of will, trying not to let it out even in her thoughts, which an individual so savvy in the calls of mind-affecting entities might well ask his spirit if not to overhear, then to ask.

"I can read it myself, it's not that hard, especially on a secured and maximally exposed victim." The interlocutor commented, paying no attention to her anger or horror for the lovely Draga, or anything else for that matter, if you don't count porridge. "And you are generally wrong to blame me for cunning and devious plans. I met you by chance in that alleyway, trying to help you. I almost killed you when you started breathing out poison and summoning your familiars, auntie. I was on my way to kill you and hide your corpses... until I found out why the fuck you needed me!"

At the last words, for the first time, he showed an emotion other than indifference and a shadow of indignation, and he expressed that indignation powerfully, to her face, and so sincerely that she couldn't help believing it. In the coincidence of the meeting. In his indignation. In his anger, and in all the trouble she had brought upon herself by her own intemperance. No, of course, Selendina left the option in which he is now trying to love her long ears, or even immediately in the head, but such a version did not add up. She couldn't understand why a mage of such power would risk coming to her in person, if he could so easily swaddle her without showing his face. Not for the sake of taking an auric imprint, it was much easier to get it otherwise, just by watching the house. And now the lives of her and, what was worse, of her beloved belonged to him, and she was so afraid, so terribly afraid for Draga....

"Yeah, I got it, right! I forgot to deactivate that thing, what a douche, it's a good thing Rodislav Gastoldovich Yanin isn't here, ha-ha, or he would have commented on my thought activity." Having knocked himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand, the one pretending to be a young man got up from the table and went to one of the walls. "Okay, now, focus here and here, block the cognitive nodes, and then pull the distortion onto the envolt."

By the wall stood on the very shelf where the spice bags used to be, two dolls, albeit fabric and deliberately crude, not made with the photographic precision that she had seen in the records of the work of other doll masters that the whole world was now looking for, but also with skill. Huge, huge, and frightening skill! And this man has a doll of her Draga, her favorite and tender Draga! All attempts to break the blockade, or at least to remember how to resist, hit a soft and gentle wall, and she is flooded with a flood of relaxation and calm, almost orgasmic pleasure, but not peak pleasure, but the kind that comes in the first minutes after the peak. And when she comes to her senses, small cloth ribbons are wrapped over their heads, covered with a dense network of magic signs as deceptively primitive as the dolls themselves.

And then it dawned on Selenide.

Judging by the increased breathing quite nearby, at the same table, to Draga as well.

At once, the elf's mind formed a consistent picture of events: The increasing frequency of strange and pleasantly passionate dreams, which could not be remembered and, for some reason, alarmed by the characteristic markers of behavior, the image of the Humans girl, who had long ago been thrown out of her head, the image of a Humans wench who'd been tainted by her attempts to trade in eternal blood, the full-fledged conversation with her in another dream, which was now memorized from beginning to end, literally seared into her mind, the love frenzy that had made her rush to Morgrave and rescue the bitch who'd bewitched her. .. The way she pleasured the witch and lay at her feet hardly touched the general problems, but a note of vindictive pleasure was aroused by the fact that the bitch had made mistakes in some aspects of the spell. And thanks to these mistakes, even completely in love and obedient Selendina little by little pumping the witch with love poisons, turning her into a stupid and obedient wench... but this is so, a weak consolation... but that's a small consolation, especially against the backdrop of the current situation and the situation in general.

"You know, I wondered what to make of you while I was reading you both." She was brought back from the empyrean of high thoughts and low passions by the tired and dull voice of the cursed shaman-witcher. "That is, on the one hand, you, honorable Draga, are undoubtedly a victim, who was physically broken and tortured, who was kept in slavery, and obviously they intended to make you a slave almost voluntarily. As a specialist in the work of a specialist, I will say that the breaking of your will without any magic, on one psychoprofiling, was carried out brilliantly. I can bet on the fact that if you had not received this book with charms and did not learn about the methods of control through the surname, by this time you would have recognized your boss in the brothel as your mistress and would even agree to work in that brothel.... Shit, now I'll have a phobia for brothels. Every decent establishment is an agent's lair of someone's intelligence."

The shaman paused and worked quickly with his spoon, finishing his porridge and drinking it greedily with milk from a jug. Selendina's magic vision, which was fully working, saw that he had also managed to siphon from the milk the amount of love poison she had poured into it for Draga's sake. The timid hope of taking control of the situation died before it was even born, and the gifted man, who had wiped his mouth contentedly, leaned back in his chair and smiled contentedly. He gave them a thoughtful and unreadable look, but resumed his more serious posture and appearance, continuing where he stopped.

"In general, from the outside, you are the very innocent, honorable Draga...." He pauses and then points his finger accusingly at her. "But you ain't fucking innocent, damn it! You got caught trying to engage in the elite slave trade, and before that, you were quite engaged in the ordinary slave trade. It's bad, it's brutal, not to mention illegal, especially against the free population. And you, Aunt Selendina... you know, I could easily forgive your intention to fuck me quite literally. Hypocritical, but you're both quite beautiful and all, and ninety-nine out of a hundred of my yearlings, if put in such a role, would sincerely regret only that you would erase their memories. Not to mention the fact that your plans for me were the result of a spell, and not your own clever brains inside your eared head! And the rest of it, you're just as innocent as you are. An officer of the secret guard, who has fallen under the control of a criminal, and deservedly sent for re-education, how can I not sympathize...?"

For a moment, the expression on the “young man's” face became extremely serious and therefore truly frightening, as if something else was peeking out from under the human skin, something powerful and belonging to something other than the material world. Selendina thought, distantly, that this man belonged to the world of matter far less than one would expect even a strong shaman to be, resembling the mightiest of them, who had long ago become more spirit than mortal. She felt uncomfortable and, she was not ashamed to admit, frightened by his eyes, which were double, triple, and multiplying with constantly rotating pupils and crystals.

"But you're just as dirty as Draga, aren't you? At least because you've lived longer, haven't you?" He asks softly and quietly, almost in a whisper, not demanding answers, knowing them in advance, even if he didn't read her mind like an open book. "A lot of your memory is sealed with oaths, no patience to break them all, but what I saw was enough. Frame the innocent, kill the innocent, deceive the trusted, betray the sworn? If not the same elf, then you did not consider it as a problem, so, ordinary operational costs, that's why you recruit agents from the lesser races, isn't it? And some moments are just my respect, the highest level of Game of Thrones! Just kidding, in time to arrange an “accidental” snakebite for a seven-year-old boy, who was with his parents on the visit of longtime enemies, who were about to become allies. And then such an accident, mutual accusations, crippled heir, who can not return the gift burned in the poison, a lot of resurfaced offenses and the war of two potential competitors again ignited, and the steppe is burning, and burning yurts, and dying herds .... You know, I understand everything, operational necessity, but, honestly, it makes me sick..."

The hair on the back of her neck stirred as she realized he wasn't kidding about unbreakable oaths, even those protected by divine relics or the most reliable rituals. And he had managed to open this block in a clearly not too significant amount of time, days, not weeks, or she would have felt it. Beast masters feel the flow of time even better than other mages, due to the synchronization of the subconscious with the animal beginning. Even if a mage's sense of time is clouded, his beasts will continue to count it down. Give such an individual a month, he will take it apart like a book, tearing it apart and leaving the empty binding untouched.

"Anyway, I had difficulty deciding what to do with you two. I mean, even the attack on me happened because you two were both shitting in each other's heads." He chuckled at that point, and she could swear he chuckled, just like the little boy he pretended to be. "You haven't hurt me, but you have hurt many others. When to yourself, when by circumstance, when by necessity. But I did figure out a way to give you both rewards for your deeds."

Fear was now no longer hidden even from herself. It was one thing to speak to a mage of such power, even as a prisoner and hostage to his will. She knew her worth and realized what she was worth, she realized that she was too much to be of much use and would be killed, sold, or braided for himself. There was still a chance to live and escape. But how to react to a mage of such power, who behaved like one who had read books about the noble knights of the quill of Lutinda Sweet-voiced to the complete collapse of intellectual abilities, or who had listened to the sermons of Sun-lovers to the complete leakage of brains from his ears. If he was pretending, she had to believe him, and she didn't want to die or burn on a purifying pyre or anything in between.

"I'm just not going to change anything." He said, and she didn't understand what was behind those words for an inordinately long time, and when she did, she tried with triple force to squeeze out a word, to promise something, to ask, to try to negotiate. "Yes, yes, that's right. I will simply erase the memory of my visit, make your influence on each other even stronger, prevent your honorable Draga, charm from disintegrating from regular doses of stultifying and corrupting alchemy, and you, Aunt Selendina, from losing your head from love too much and getting caught by your colleagues. I will even cover you a little, if possible, from these colleagues, a little. You can cope on your own. And you will reap what you sow. A fool in love, who will soon knock herself up with a descendant of a human and a stupid whore, who even being a mistress, allowed herself to become a submissive and eternally lustful whore.

At that moment, when he quoted her thoughts to her, probably at the same time quoting Draga's thoughts to the witch who thought them, it really hit Selendina that he wasn't joking in the slightest. And even though it was still many times better than death or, say, getting into the slave markets of the Caliphate, but... she'd forget about this conversation, a master of that level would definitely be able to erase her memories. And even if she is freed, when she is freed, until the last day of her eternity, she will consider herself just the limit of unprofessionalism and stupidity, which let herself be braided by a human wench, managed to braid her herself... and remained in her power! She will be lecturing young agents and agents as an example and warning, and her companions will remember this shame for centuries to come!

The First Tree, no, no, no, not that, no, no, no, nooooo!

"And let everyone get what they deserve!" The words reach her, and then a darkness smelling of honey and herbs rolls over her mind, so pleasant...

And bottomless.

Blinking and opening her eyes, Selendina squeezed the heavy and soft breasts of the moaning Draga a little harder, kissing her on the lips, letting her taste a new drop of passionate poison. A minute later, they are already loving each other right on the table, moaning and adoring, confessing their love and asking not to stop. And, looking into the pleasantly silly face of her beloved, Selendina almost spreads honey with delight, lowering her kisses lower and lower, caressing with her long tongue her breasts, belly, bosom, thighs, feet, caressing all of her, so beloved and most tender, most important. She was ready to spend all her eternity in this moment, in the moment of absolute and pure happiness, simple, clear, and necessary for them, for them alone.

Both women were absolutely happy.

Both wanted this happiness to never end.

And they didn’t need anything else.

* * *

The expression and general appearance of the Honourable Magister Miller de Martire was, to put it mildly, not very good, but this was not a matter of any concern to Clementine de Neirat. She was well aware of how the last months and especially weeks had been for her former student. Although he was clearly not happy to see the representative of the Conclave here, he was not at all opposed to seeing her in person. And vice versa. There were so many things that bound them together, not just oaths and promises, not just mentorship and apprenticeship, and certainly not just the bed they had both shared at one time. Clementine's position of welcoming the owner of the room was much stronger, as they both realised. Both of them understood clearly and distinctly that de Neirat would not push his opponent to the brink, would not want to break the quite benevolent neutrality between them, and reduce everything to an unambiguous quarrel.

"Greetings, honorable Miller, very glad you could spare me a few moments." Not a few, not a few, not a few moments, but who cares when it comes to verbal lace. "I have to say, I'm a little jealous of the way you've organized things here. A chamber and cozy environment, a very pleasant atmosphere, especially if the solemn pomp is starting to make you sick."

Someone else, not knowing the two of them, might think that the more influential and wealthy magister humiliates her colleague and calls him a beggar, even if acting allegorically. They both know very well that Clementine is not insulting him under a polite mask, but is telling the truth. He has been in her house and chambers, knows perfectly well that she prefers modest utilitarianism, which for a gifted of her power and position borders on asceticism. Evil tongues even said that Clementine, they say, sniffed with sun-lovers, which fools the decent men and settles in a remote cell, convincing them to give all the wealth in the name of the Sun. Well, yes, there were among the daughters of some special monasteries such skillful masters, processing rich victims and ruining them in the name of the Sun-faced deity. But what is not, is not. It's just that Clementine from her youth was pissed off by the abundance of colors, smells and luxury, literally make her sick. Again, relatively modest linens and carpets were still made of the fabric, which was worth its weight in silver, and even in gold. Only a reasonable person of the same circle as her could understand it, but to everyone who was not in that circle, the venerable magister of classical elemental magic, who came dangerously close to being called a universalist, seemed a complete ascetic.

She even dressed in an outwardly modest and monochromatic dark dress, fitted but closed, emphasizing every curve of her gorgeous body, large breasts, lush hips, and taut waist. The only thing she allowed herself luxury in was her hair, combs, and jewelry. Her long and well-groomed wheat-colored hair, which, thanks to her figure, could even be confused with a priestess of Gaia, especially when undressed, was braided into a tight bundle, adorned with tortoiseshell combs that were inlaid with emeralds. Few people knew that the tortoise, which went on these crests, was thirty meters long, seven times the height of Clementine herself, and had an aura that would not be ashamed of the archmage. Well, so said the captain who'd sold her grandfather those pieces of shell oozing with power, and then confirmed it on the altar of the Oath Keeper. And yes, in addition to other very extensive properties, these crests allowed her to always know where the colossal turtle was sleeping at the bottom of the ocean, while sending to it all the curses that were trying to get at her.... Given the resistance of the underwater creature, but not the deep, such attacks are like a dragon getting an arrow from a villager's hunting bow. The effect is exactly the same - it doesn't even wake up.

"Hello, Tina." He immediately switched to an informal tone, and thus caused her sincere surprise. She just didn't expect such a transition. "I won't weave a lace of words, I don't have time, I don't want to, and I don't have the energy either, I'll be honest. We both know that you're not just here to help find the remnants of a demonic cult, not even just to check the firmament under the city for hidden hideouts of an unknown shaman. I won't hide it, I can't: your honorable grandfather and equally honorable uncle's plan is doomed to succeed in any case. We have lost many, including those on whom the supply lines held. You have come to fill the void in the ranks, wanting to fill them with your influence. We both know each other. Why don't you just tell me what you want and what you expect, the bottom line, not what you're going to bargain for, and I'll tell you what I'll have to agree to. And we'll find a goddamn compromise."

Clementine smiled, as if she had traveled back in time almost a century and a half, when a hopeful adept and a soon-to-be magister had spoken in a similar way, making a deal. They were both quite satisfied with that deal, and the woman, in her unwitting habit as a teacher, gave her student a few points on the plus side. Yes, he had no chance to kick her out of here, no chance to make her leave with crystal dust in her palms, leave her with nothing. He just couldn't. Enchanting ink has to come to Dantmark Tower from somewhere, supplies of herbs for decocts or reserve replenishment booster have to come from somewhere, and crystal sand has to be taken from somewhere. It's all necessary. No one is going to try to force Miller out of his tower, no one is going to send Clementine into battle, and she's not going to go. It is simply in Neirat's power to make the life and practices of a magister who disagrees with their policy more unbearable than before.

Fewer reagents, fewer apprentices, less money, less everything. It would not destroy the society of Dantmark mages, it would not deprive Miller of the power he already had, he would be able to feed himself and his closest retinue. In the sense of feeding, to provide a decent opportunity for personal practice, albeit without prospects for growth, but with the support of already existing achievements. But the reagent trade would wither, the Duke de Dantrelle would become disgruntled, the merchants of those houses who feared Neurath's disapproval or unofficial embargo would leave. Dirty tricks, dirty deeds, but without blood and neighborhoods burning from the blows of battle magic. That's how it was, centuries and centuries ago, that's how Neirat became the capital of the magical science of the world. A world of humans and other mortal races, to be sure, for it had always been difficult to play by common rules with the Everliving.

Those centuries are long gone. Now the de Neirat clanners do not need to stoop to such, to put it bluntly, arm-twisting in the best traditions of trade wars, simply because no one brings them to it. Miller realizes that he will have to give up some of his hard-won privileges, give up a couple of interesting patents, maybe pass on some knowledge.... No, he won't do that unless he is really sent a circle of magisters headed by Magister Bermunt, the best specialist in forging experienced mages settled at the sources. Or without very tight communication with magister Elesandra, and preferably so that he either did not know about this communication or did not remember. And Clementine herself would be against it, it is very fraught to give so much freedom and opportunities to some individuals, no matter whether they will be a fighter or a mentalist.

No, it will end differently, it already has. Cutie de Martire realizes that he simply can't hold the situation; he is already wobbling too much, and his legs are unsteady. If he had at least one more month to check his newly recruited students, to let those who had suffered after the incident with the elemental recover, to let those who could recover in a reasonable time, to collect some of his services from his old debtors... then he would be able to shake off his debt... then he'd be able to counter her claims. Well, not her, but the entire Clan de Neirat, which saw an excellent opportunity to strengthen its position, and therefore sent the one who could influence the interlocutor better than anyone else to speak. There was no need for threats, sneaky blows, a vial of special relaxing perfume made for the imprint of Miller's aura and blood map. Such petty redistributions of influence regularly occur, regularly repeated. What is there to say, if Clementine was ready to bet that not even a quarter of a century, and Miller will return everything to its former position.

"Is there such a shortage of people?" She asks with sincere sympathy, pointing to the documents lying on the edge of the table, which he did not even have time or thought to cover. "I am far from the kind of impudence that would allow me to read other people's correspondence, but I cannot help but recognize the standard seal-form for payment tables for orders. If you not only sign them, but also read and correct individual conditions, then I can only express my condolences."

Her words made Milla's ears steamy. His face twisted just exemplarily, so clear rage appeared on that face that Clementine had to suppress an involuntary reflex, demanding to cover herself with a shield, a closed barrier on top, a classic screen in front of her face, and to strike first. She's not exactly a pure action movie. Not the face-to-face sorcerer type, true. But, like any magister, especially an elementalist, she knows how to stand up for herself, and she's been taught the right ligaments by the best teachers. Miller had that face, the one that you'd be attacked with without a word. In the first second, the woman failed to realize that this anger was not directed at her. Then the colleague calmed down, exhaled heavily, and answered her question.

"Express it. It's not going to get any easier, Tina." The mage looked down at the stack of sheets with annoyance, and waved his hand, but closed the box of image crystals at the opposite end of the table. "It was as if he was back at the defense of his adept's diploma or master's crest. Who is being treated, who has disappeared, who took advantage of the moment of demonic breakthrough to invoke the subparagraph of irresistible circumstances of high risk and early termination of contracts without payment of most of the penalties! Believe me, I recently had to accept a river mage as an adept of the outer circle, so that I would have to drink the same water for the rest of my life, and not dwarven! And I accepted, accepted, because the reserve was developed, the nodes were not too clogged, and he regularly practiced and did not let his thin bodies freeze completely. A year ago, I wouldn't have even read such a petition, and they wouldn't have put it on the table for me. I'd have to teach and retrain him everything, because all the skills of such overstarted boys are sharpened in navigation."

Clementine appreciated it. Both the confidence of her former apprentice, once a student of the Flame under her supervision, and the severity of his situation. It had always been considered bad taste to accept a craftsman of the magical arts into one's retinue, bad even for a backwater like Dantmark. But here and now, it was not bad taste, but a desperate shortage of manpower, and some of those who had taken the opportunity to break the contract and go free were offered by Neirat. Not to move to the glorious city of the Seven Beauties, and certainly not to the Academy itself, but to the guilds affiliated with Neirat, where there would be room for new talents like Morgrave or Edoras. Talents are ready to take new oaths on more favorable terms, but at the same time for such a handyman will not need to pay himself. He is already trained, studied and knows, very well knows his business very well. In contrast to the same river experts, who were more famous for practicing several very well-honed weaves and techniques of controlling the elements, of course, water, expressed in the feeling and control of the current.

Clementine had even wanted to share a few little secrets in the memory of what had happened between her and Miller, to say that not all of those who had escaped had been able to enjoy the piece they had snatched, not all of them had been able to settle down better at his and his Tower's expense. Yes, of course, the Eighteenth Amendment, which allows you to leave the guild and the city in general, if there is a case of threat of the highest category, which includes not only the wrath of the Gods, magical disasters and invasions of the undead, but also the breakthrough of higher demons. Especially if there were many of them and they came in an organized group - it's not hard to believe that some of the students and adepts who decided to leave Dantmark were really afraid, and that's why they left the Tower. The greediest and most cunning, however, either got less than they wanted or nothing at all.

She had seen the records on the crystals, knew that one cunning fox was now waiting for Kuordemar and its slave markets, for which she had been handed over by a seemingly trusted contact who had quickly realized that it was easier to take everything, including her, from a lonely and unprotected lady than to charge her for mediation services. Another one, the most talented, intelligent, and greedy, was waiting for a debt pit. Because for two weeks he spent all his savings, which he had to spend slowly while negotiating with the new guild, as well as several loans, taken for some reason not from the dwarves but from a very dubious halfling loan shark. All for the sake of his new acquaintance, who sucked and rode him so well that he could not refuse her. Clementine, one of her handmaidens, who carried out the operation of enslaving the impudent man, involuntarily smiled, remembering the recordings of the last days of Adept Maximilian's party, during which he had fucked exclusively the shoes of his new acquaintance, high riding boots up to the middle of the thigh.

Found himself without money, with debts, and without the secretly seized records given to his new love, which even Master Cedric, who was still struggling to come to his senses and certainly not checking his personal library and hiding places, did not seem to know about, he would be forced to accept even extremely unfavorable conditions. And, characteristically, his new employers will not be connected with this shameful page of the annals of his life, about which they will even swear, just as Clementine's people will not be connected with it. Very fortunate those fools from the retinue of the Lordship Caliph's envoy had decided to press the impudent man. Not to mention that Obedient Maxie will find traces of the potion in his blood, and they will belong to the classical Caliph's type of love alchemy, as well as the appearance of the dark-haired woman who used a mixture of alchemy and love magic. But Clementine had nothing to do with it, but she did a favor to de Chanak, who urgently needed a new and controlled ritualist, got rid of a likely competitor for one of her former students, though not a personal one, but also a ritualist-artist, who would have to compete with Maximilian. And also, she simply amused herself by watching a high-quality illusory recording that showed the work of a real professional in the practical application of love magic.

"Well, then, I suppose it's time for me to convey the message and proposal given to me?" She was polite and even a little sympathetic, showing with her whole demeanor that she would never pressure her student like that, but she was not the entire de Neirat clan, which was partly true, and when Mill nodded permissively, she immediately switched to a businesslike tone. "First of all, the supply of magic ink is a key point that I have no right to refuse, regardless of our relationship. The price will not increase, and we can even offer a discount, but you and your Tower will purchase it personally from our suppliers, that is, from de Brick, de Chanac, or directly through the Academy's office. I know that some of your connections are with Copper Kirka and de Sholor, but their deals were made on behalf of Master Cedric, and he is now subject to a footnote on incapacity..."

And De Dantrel also did business with these suppliers, albeit for completely different goods, as his personal craftsman of unknown gender also buys from them. Seriously, even Neyrat's intelligence service does not know the exact answer to this question. The dissatisfaction of the ruler of all Dantmark and the surrounding area will be very significant, but it already exists, along with a bunch of other problems. Mill will survive this discontent because this whole saga with the Inferno breakthrough began because of the failure of old Herbert's quiet men. There were other bottlenecks, but they both respected each other and studied their opponent, clearly seeing where to press and where it was better not to. The discussion took almost the entire evening, but they never raised their voices. Clementine personally allowed him, through subtle hints, so as not to disturb her own commitments, to defend a few separate paragraphs and even secure increased investment for several bold experiments. Again, it would be better if these experiments were conducted by a magister here in Dantmark who was not affiliated with the clan, otherwise even a single elemental call could be destructive.

Well, then all that's left is to put in an assurance..." She looks at the hesitant Mill and even feels indignant. "You're joking, my dear student! I've beaten you out of everything I could give, damn you! If you really want to change my mind, then at least name the reason, that's just impolite."

"Um, I'm kind of, well, okay, mentor, river catfish with this rascal. I promised Herbert that I would stall for time while he pulls his strings, and that I would pull them myself." She just raises her eyebrows, because if he's started, then let him finish, since he wouldn't waste her time if he was serious about going to the theater with her to perform the play. "We agreed that I would give you and your entourage some task that requires more people than we have. You help out as a friend, and I'll certify it as soon as it's done. I'm ready to certify it with both an oath and a contract. I understand how it sounds and don't want to cause any misunderstanding."

She blinked in bewilderment at such impudence, then leaned back in her chair and laughed, because it was not even impudence, but an old and honored tradition when making deals with wizards. Even in fairy tales, this plot is glimpsed when a king or a merchant sends a wizard, who owes a lot, for eternally burning fire or something like that, promising to give more if he brings it. It's a fairy tale, no one disputes that, but at the same time, the “ binding task” was considered a very strong tradition. Then again, the cunning de Martire might well answer honestly later that he had already given his word to her, which would cover him from Herbert's claims.

"I won't undertake the repair of the barriers above the city, and I certainly won't look for your shaman for free." She immediately makes her position clear, to which her interlocutor merely nods, sipping the drink brought by the servants and nibbling on a grape. "And I definitely won't do it under the old man's full supervision and control, no matter how vengeful he may be. I also won't agree to do anything obviously large-scale and requiring more than two weeks. I'm not going to give him or you that time, I'm sorry. Hmm... you have a list of tasks you don't have time to complete. I can see that from the look on your face. I'll take on any of the ones on your list, unless, of course, you added them specifically for me."

A short argument, but without much emotion. Mill had already come to terms with what had happened and didn't even resist much, so she pushed it through, smiling victoriously and seductively at the former student who was already undressing her with his eyes, and without any love alchemy or magic. Eventually, they'd picked a suitable arrangement so as not to compromise propriety too much on Mill's part, but also not to bother Tina too much. Except she still raised her eyebrows and then shifted her judgmental gaze to the man smiling mysteriously at her.

"Seriously? No, really? To rid the winemaker's farmyard of mice?" Pest exorcism is mastered in one form or another by two-thirds of the Academy graduates, because it is a very, very, very popular skill that allows you to feed yourself at all times and everywhere. "Do you take me or Herbert for a sorrowful mind?"

"Even my students have been there; they spent a long time on it, the task is not that simple, and they know about it in the palace." He smiled again, with what she thought was a hint of anger, probably at those who had forced Dantrelay to do such things. "They were doing the same thing right before the breakthrough, by the way. It's not difficult to get rid of mice, but they come back the next day, probably some kind of curse. You're no stranger to exterminating them."

"Yeah." She acknowledged this, read the contract scroll again, imbued it with her magic, and a moment later Miller did the same. "Now stop undressing me with your eyes and run and show your mentor the bedroom, apprentice. And I hope you haven't forgotten the instructions on paired reserve development practice, hm?"

After about ten minutes, Clementine was moaning in her voice, throwing her long legs over the shoulders of her bent over colleague and letting him shamelessly caress her breasts, trying to take control of the flow of energy and force the mature man, no longer an ardent young man, to be the first to finish. In a tradition dating back to their apprenticeship, she had implicitly promised to pleasure him with her mouth if he could keep her skill in check. But that young boy did not hold back, and so, after a bath or a cleaning spell, he knelt before her flower and worked with his swift, in every sense, tongue. But now, making love with a fellow magister, she clearly realized that this time, it seemed, she would have to work with her mouth.

With a loud, piercing moan of pleasure, Clementine came for the first, but not the last, time that long night.

* * *

It always happens that when bosses and noble gentlemen issue some important and binding order, often forgetting about it immediately, the little people who need to fulfill that order can only sob silently. Weep, and notice all sorts of small details, because on the street, you quickly learn that knowing something that others do not know can easily save your skin. Or to pierce the one in front of the liver and throat several times in a row, then, as it happens, you need to determine by your own judgment whether you need to learn that knowledge. Yula, to whom, only on the third day after the priests had released her, the memory of that night returned, was not sure whether it was for good or for bad that she had learned her knowledge. But she could not lie to herself, it was for good for sure, if only because without this meeting and knowledge, she would have been feeding the bottom catfish long ago.

She felt particularly hurt that she had given a third of her savings to the Temple of Merciful Life for performing a miracle and cleansing her and half a dozen other homeless people under her care from the evil taint of demons. Yula was very grateful then, even listening to the priestess's sermon with bated breath, receiving for the first time in her life not just indifference, but sincere attention from Heaven. And this despite the fact that, like any decent street kid, she prayed to Lortan, not Gaia. It is impossible to convey her disappointment when, having already begun to seriously consider attending sermons at the temple, on the third night, she remembered how she and the others had been healed. Yes, yes, everyone was saved by the Life-Giving One, the merciful mother who warmed and caressed her children, yes, yes. There was no visit from the terrifying, gangster-like torturer, who could cause hundreds of night thugss to piss in the pants with a single word.

She regretted the money. She regretted the time wasted, but she pitied herself even more. Yula remembered perfectly well the background to her misfortune, which had been explained in quite understandable language. Well, well, all her life she had been used to thinking of herself as just a poor girl without a father or mother, only to find out that her grandparents must have been important people. Otherwise, why would someone put such a curse on her? And divine, no less! And she had sacrificed her hard-earned, torn from her heart, and accumulated with such difficulty! And this was when the terrible lord, sharper than a razor blade, had said that the temple's blessing in that infirmary was only making her suffering more painful. You can't help but shudder when you remember how her body ached from the inside, as if something heavy and dirty was being dragged through her veins and arteries, sprinkling salt on her exposed flesh. She thought then that she was dying, that she was going to die after all, but no, she was saved by the same unknown person as the first time.

Yula was not stupid, for she had always been weak and sickly. She had to rely on her wits and cunning. Otherwise, she would not have survived, otherwise she would not have saved herself from dying at the hands of her tenth rapist of the night, or, if she was lucky, a client. However, you couldn't call that luck. Even though she was sickly, she was pretty for a beggar, and from childhood she had gotten used to hiding her body, covering it with dirt, wearing baggy clothes. So, after all this fuss with the demons, she gathered some information and realized that they were looking for the magician who had benefited her in some unclear way. And so she could swear, with her ass on the line, that this terror of the city didn't know its way around, especially its lowly streets and alleys; he definitely wasn't a local. Well, maybe he was, but then he was one of those who didn't walk through the city's filth, at most spitting on the hats of the poor from the window of his carriage.

He'd told her to come to an inconspicuous alley next to the flour mill, for fuck's sake! The mere fact that she was still being given a choice, or lied to about being given one, was certainly comforting. And the fact that he'd saved her three times in a row, too. Smart Yula knew the value of magicians, and the shitty and undertrained ones she'd had to deal with. She didn't have the wit or the imagination to imagine how the fuck this scary gentleman could lure her away or trick her. He had put a roomful of people dying of demonism on their feet overnight, so that no one had seen, noticed, or understood anything, and then they thanked Gaia! She'd once learned how much the Herbalists' Boss raised for a month's share of herb sales, with most of the booty going to the druid patrons. Fuck, as much as she didn't like herself, she'd have to be a stupid cunt not to realize it. An hour of a magician's time is worth more than the lives of ten of Yulia's kind. If he wanted to, he would have taken it himself. He would have ordered it, and she would have gone like a goat on a leash at the shepherd's command.

In general, she had to admit that there was no point in waiting for outright shit. There was no point in bullshitting and deceiving her when he could just take or buy her life from the bosses. That's why Yula went where she was told... and also because she was sure that running away was pointless. If they really helped her, even for any price, it would be better than dying in a puddle of her own piss and shit, screaming in pain. If his magic wanted to cut her, she wouldn't run away anyway, it would only make him angry. If it was something in between, if he didn't really want her, but wanted her curse, it didn't matter. Either he'll catch up with her and punish her, or he'll give a shit about her, and she'll waste even the slightest chance she has at life. With these thoughts in mind, Yula went to work, trying not to show any disrespect to the terrible lord, even in her thoughts, lest he read her mind and, at best, simply skin her alive. Right now, she was interesting to him because she was cursed, but later, later, they would surely remember all her disrespect, and she would beg all the gods to grant mercy to the terrible lord, but it was disgusting to beg those who had been killing her since she was in her mother's womb.

But there was so much I wanted to say. The alley, bitch, whore, what a mess, right next to the flour mill! Everyone in town knows that a street punk should only go into the craftsmen's quarter if he doesn't need his teeth, especially alone. Yes, she was no longer a beggar; she had made it into the gang, but this place was still not for her. They would immediately ask her why she was here, whom she knew, and who would vouch for her. Usually, if she did come here, it was only in normal clothes, since she had her boots and cap, and had a reason to be here, so she had something to say in her defence. But the terrible gentleman ordered her to come secretly, without witnesses, and how could she get there, dammit, if every bastard was eager to ask her a tricky question or two? She had to go out in the dead of night, when even the night watchmen had long since fallen asleep in their dens, and the police were certainly not patrolling, but were also dreaming of the end of their shift. She had to go out, sneak around, and sit in a dirty alley, hoping no one would notice her sitting in the corner.

What's characteristic no one notices her. Even the couple who came to piss didn't notice her, either because they were lucky or because of some kind of magic... But some young man, hardly much older than her, noticed her, looking lost and staring into space, like a girl flying around in a cloud.. Such a fool shouldn't show up in the lower town, the port, the marshes, or even across the river, or they'll rob him, beat him, and even sell him to slave traders. Yula didn't get her hands dirty with this filth; there, they would gut her and make her walk in step with those who had already taken a warm place, but she appreciated the expensive clothes, the sturdy boots, and the hands without wrinkles or calluses, as if he had never held anything heavier than a spoon, a pen, or his dick in his hands. She was already planning the rest of the conversation, hoping to lie. She knew a couple of local names and could say that she was wandering around the settlement on their behalf and had come here because her stomach was rumbling. Or she could simply intimidate the boy, threatening him, or silence him completely, since she always carried a knife with her, having been granted the right to do so. But her plans were not meant to come to fruition, as this fellow spoke first:

"Oh, you're here, what is your name, Yula? Anyway, screw it, we don't have much time, let's go." And without giving her, stunned by such a barrage, time to recover from the shock, he immediately stepped into the alley, bypassing her and waving his hand, urging her to follow him. "Don't fall behind, the schedule is already fucked up, and now I have to pick you up too."

"What are you doing, faggot, there's a dead end there?" She even pointed her hand towards the blind alley where this madman was dragging her. "Why the hell would I go anywhere with you when you, bitch, haven't even told me your name?"

She would have said a lot more, but since he had named her, recognised her, and come here in the first place, it meant he worked for a terrible master, so she had to swallow the words that were about to come out and replace them with something more decent. Still, she couldn't just take him in right there, no matter how much she wanted to, but she couldn't let him get away either. She had seen enough of these shit-suckers, who were fucked up from impunity while working for a big boss. They considered themselves almost more important than their masters, and if you didn't give them a shortcut, they would crush you with their arrogance. For them, a beggar was worse than a shopkeeper or a peasant; they didn't consider them human beings. And this one just floated away, only without his usual haughty malice and indignation, just blinking his eyes, staring at her like an owl awakened in the daytime, looking at her with such surprise that she wanted to punch him in the eye, as if he was surprised that she dared to speak at all.

"You can call me Pann, and as for the dead end, well, that's not really a problem." There was something in his tone that made Yula feel uncomfortable and begin to suspect that she had made a mistake, mentally kicking herself for not thinking about the fact that a powerful magician and his servants might not be easy to deal with. "But you, of course... oh, right, I forgot that magical vision still needs to be learned. We've met before, so I figured there was no need to introduce myself, since you didn't seem eager to learn my name last time."

You could say anything about her, but she was quick-witted, so she understood everything immediately and instantly, and she believed it instantly. The cute shit-eater wouldn't dare to run errands for his boss and introduce himself as that boss, because you wouldn't get away with a whipping for that, you could end up crippled, or even die. Yula mentally justified herself by the fact that there was no incomprehensible bullshit, which magicians love to adorn themselves with, especially powerful magicians, on the boy. He looked really young and not threatening at all, or just, well, imposing. The kind of person you look at and immediately see that he is a nobleman, an aristocrat, or a rich man, whom you would be afraid to contradict. But such a gentleman would not speak at all, especially in such a manner, as if to an equal, so she did not think... and now she was very, very scared again.

"You'll fall flat on your face, and I'll leave you there, damn." He exhaled wearily, anticipating her reaction for a moment, and then looked at her just as wearily, afraid to raise her gaze. "I'll say this once, please remember it. So here's the thing: as you might have guessed, I don't give a damn about the usual class etiquette. All I need is polite communication, without humiliating yourself or trying to tell me to fuck off. If I'm angry at someone or want to hurt them badly, it's not because of their chosen manner of communication, but because of their words and actions. You didn't recognise me and responded in your usual manner, which is quite rude, by the way, but you didn't mean any harm and thought that you had already been insulted. That's the end of the incident, and I'm sure you'll watch your language in the future. Am I right?"

Yula just nodded, so vigorously that her head was about to fall off her neck, while at the same time feeling an incomparable sense of relief that she had gotten away with it. She was not fooled by her interlocutor's kindness. She understood that he was being so noble towards her only until she crossed some line and became useless to him, but his words calmed her, truly calmed her. If he just needed to be polite, she knew how to do that, and if they didn't ask for bows and proper treatment, so much the better. She may lie down at the magician's feet. It wouldn't hurt her, but she was afraid of making a mistake and accidentally offending him, because they wouldn't beat her, but would immediately use magic, possibly even killing her. And if she's unlucky, even after death. One of the bosses once hired a corpse fucker to turn a rat catcher into a walking corpse, and that corpse was kept on a chain for a couple more years. She didn't see it herself, but rumours were circulating, from different corners and people, so she had no choice but to believe them.

"Then follow me, step by step, just don't trip." And he went straight into the wall of the dead end, and she, biting her tongue, silently stepped after him.

And in an instant, before hitting her forehead on the rock, she felt as if she had entered a very dark room, felt herself falling from a height, as happens in a dream. A moment later, she barely managed to stay on her feet, finding herself in a large, wide hall, like a natural grotto, only very healthy. She had seen one like it when she was a child, on a river, where contraband was kept, and children were used instead of porters, because an adult man could not fit into that hole, hidden under the river's surface. Here, the walls were exactly the same, even the shelves for storing all sorts of things were knocked out, only the size was larger, glowing magical things dispelled the darkness, and there was no humidity. There was also a force here. Yula didn't really have a strong gift, but even she was overwhelmed by this force; she felt it with every drop of blood, every hair, every toe!

"You can sit on the mattress over there, but take your shoes off." He waved his hand toward a decent bed in the far corner, and let go of his ghostly clawed paws and claws, dispelling her doubts that he was him. "I'll set you a call circle, it'll take about an hour or two. Don't take anything in your hands and don't walk around the hall, there's protection everywhere, and the spirits don't know you yet. If they don't kill you, they'll electrocute you or something. You hungry?"

"No, Mr. Pann,” she answered, and in time with her words, as if in confirmation, her empty stomach from yesterday’s dinner began to rumble, into which not a crumb would fit, despite the fact that she always had a ration.

"Yeah, I can hear that you're not hungry, and without magic. Muttering something, he waved his hand, and a huge clay dish appeared out of thin air, filled with sliced fruit, cheese, various dried and roasted meats, some thin bread, small bowls of some kind of mysterious liquid, and other delicacies. The dish was about the size of a small table and hung in the air without falling. “Take it in your hands, carry it with you, and eat normally, but don't rush. You're hungry.”

She could have said a lot about hunger, especially since she knew very well how dangerous it was to overeat after a long period of starvation, but she swallowed her words before she had even had time to think them through. Carefully picking up the heavy bowl, she dragged it over to the lounger, placing it directly on the stone pedestal that had grown before her eyes, and sat down next to it. Glancing at the man who had taken off his shoes and outer clothing and was now wearing only loose-fitting trousers, Yula couldn't help noticing that his body was very strong, sinewy, and agile, not at all like a servant, nor like the svribe of Mr. Pann, who sat in a strange position and froze completely, she just shrugged her shoulders. If they feed you, that's good; if they offer, you have to take it, and time will tell. They're not going to charge her for the meal, are they?

She had to control herself very carefully. The food turned out to be not delicious, but the best she had ever tasted. Yes, even the street kids, not to mention the ordinary gung members, sometimes got to feast. Especially during fairs or celebrations, when piles of leftovers, even almost entire dishes, went to the street kids, who feasted for a couple of days. But these delicacies... they were so good that Yula almost cried. Out of self-pity and nervous tension, and not because of anything specific, she just let go, and at the same time, everything came flooding back. She didn't allow herself to burst into tears, wiped away a couple of tears, and stuffed her belly with meat, cheese, and a strange liquid, which was so delicious to dip the meat in. She glanced at her benefactor, but he just sat silently in front of a circle carved directly into the stone, surrounded by flickering lights and sometimes ghostly silhouettes flashing at the edge of her vision.

In such conditions, it seemed impossible even to sit still. But after all her thoughts and efforts, she simply switched off, falling sweetly asleep on the soft master's bed, mentally deciding that if she were not allowed to sit on it, she would not have been offered it. She woke up to the sound of bowls clattering against each other, and when she opened her eyes, she saw Mr. Pann, who had put his shirt back on, though now he was wearing it wide open, eagerly eating meat and bread. It didn't immediately dawn on her that he had, in effect, shared his food with her, but when it did... nothing became clearer, although the gesture itself was, of course, fucking broad. Even some shopkeepers would rather starve for five nights than share their food with street beggars, let alone sit down at the table second, relinquishing their primacy at that table. He didn't seem to care, and Yula understood in a detached way that he really didn't care, that he simply didn't give a shit from the height of the magic tower about what anyone there might think or say about him.

To be honest, this dismissive attitude reassured her much more than words or promises. If this magician pays so little attention to the established rules, he certainly won't execute her for a few extra words. In the eyes of any townsman, he had now insulted himself far more than she had with her careless words. Then, however, it dawned on her that she was staring sleepily while her benefactor was looking at her, and Yula jumped up abruptly, trying to stand, but lost her balance and barely managed to remain seated. Realizing that no one was expecting her to bow and remembering Mr. Pann's words, she simply sat down and, frightened by her own courage, took another crispy piece of bread and began to share her food with the owner of the house... well, not a house, but a cave.

"I finished the initial adjustment and adjusted the circle for you while you were snoring." Yula blushed, for she knew that she snored after an untreated injury in her broken nose, and she snored to the envy of other grown men. "I fixed your nose, too, because last time I was concentrating on your blood and aura, and missed the little things. I'm gonna grab a bite to eat, then get back to work. It may be unpleasant, but it shouldn't hurt, not today. By the way, do you control your aura at all?"

Seeing the bewilderment on her face, gradually turning into panic, he explained in a more understandable language that he meant the way she was trying to charm and what exactly she felt. Yula tried to explain, but she was attacked by a mute, which made her slip up and stutter every now and then, but the magician showed great patience, prompting and, if necessary, correcting, so that she also talked and even showed, though she had nothing to show. The ability to slip her hand into a small pocket in her waistcoat, the ability to jump not far, but in fact to almost her full height, only in length, almost without moving her legs, she also confessed that she could see and sense things, like what was around her in the cave. During the conversation, she somehow forgot she was talking to a terrible magician of impossible power, a nightmarish creature that could not even be called human. At the end, she even made a joke, rudely and habitually, in a boyish way, inserting the old joke about the brothel maman's pocket, before she remembered what she was talking to and the fact that she had forgotten to add the obligatory ‘sir’ before ‘Pann’.

That's how they started working on figuring out what the fuck had happened to her grandparents that she had to deal with so many years later. He saw through her, literally, she squealed and jumped out of the circle when she suddenly saw her bones, because her flesh and skin became transparent, he had to give her a cup of some stinging booze, made her move in some rhythm, as if she were dancing at a fair, or freeze in strange poses. Around her flashed already unambiguously visible transparent bogeymen, some simply shapeless, others had the appearance of animals, birds, and insects, others could not be described by words at all, and when she tried to look at them, her head ached. Fortunately, he had warned her in advance that she would have to breathe in some of them, but Yula was already weeping with horror, so Pann even offered to calm her with charms. She refused at first, but when the transparent scolopendras came into her ears and nostrils, she had to beg and plead otherwise.

After the centipedes in her head disappeared, she felt better because it really calmed her down, and nothing more disgusting happened. Pann warned her honestly when he pressed down on her with his strength, causing parts of her body to freeze or twitch reflexively. At one moment she was completely paralyzed, at another she lost control of her movements, moving like a puppet on strings in the hands of a fairground clown, sometimes deprived of her hearing, sometimes her sense of smell, sometimes her sight. She was always warned, never hurt, at most slightly intensifying the nagging torment she had grown accustomed to enduring since childhood. Each time, everything returned to normal, and somehow the horror quickly gave way to routine, to habit, for street kids get used to everything; there was nothing she could not adapt to.

When she had to take off her clothes, she was ready to swear that this powerful magician was even more embarrassed than she was. It wasn't her place to be shy about nudity, although she blushed involuntarily as they stared at her intently. Not Pann himself, but the huge, almost transparent toad with triangular pupils that he had summoned, whose gaze pierced her skin. Yula tried to look the toad in the eye in response, even with some kind of defiance, and in a couple of seconds came to the conclusion that it would be best to challenge it, tear out her own eyes and give them to the toad, and then tear her own throat out with her hands. It was such a natural and correct thought that she giggled at the fact that she hadn't thought of it right away, but she didn't have time to carry out her plan. It immediately became clear that she first needed to wait a couple of days, completely forgetting about these thoughts, and only then pronounce the Name-Call-Word of the insolent toad and give her her eyes, blood, and heart. It would be even better to have a child during this time so she could give him away, too. She even knew roughly who could quickly get her pregnant!

Then, however, the spell was broken, and she, paralyzed and frozen like a stone statue at a temple, watched as the toad was literally devoured alive by Panna's servants. They had pounced on it and at that moment, had become many times more visible, visible, evil, and terrifying, like something unknown. If the strange immobility had not affected her thoughts as well, she would have definitely shit herself in horror, but instead she just watched, having inhaled herbs and mushroom powders, feeling nothing at all. And when her thoughts returned to normal, it seemed as if everything had passed and there was nothing to be nervous about, but her legs still buckled, and a stupid laugh, almost a cackle, began to tear at her insides, with which she tried to erase the extreme fucked-upness of what had happened.

"Sometimes they think they're smarter than everyone else, and it's annoying," Pann explained to her, pouring some of the stuff again, but it wasn't stinging anymore. It was soft and sweet, like the mead they used to roll out in barrels at the winter fair. "I've cleaned your mental body, nothing's left, and you're not too badly hurt, the spirit didn't want to harm you and tried to be discreet. Just for future reference, some of these things take a look in the eye, like wild beasts, which is considered a challenge. It was this “sort of challenge” that it used to twist the contract and affect you. So that you can sacrifice yourself to him."

"So it turns out that it was my fault?" Yula really felt awkward, as if because of her two gangs, both on edge, instead of an alliance and a joint division, had started a knife fight, although here it would be more correct not to have two gangs, but a lone bull against a large mound. "I mean..."

"I get what you're saying, but no, don't worry, it's certainly not your fault." Pann shook his head, squinting with a slight anger at the transparent fragments still hanging in the air, which little by little were being scattered by the ghostly things flickering around, that is, spirits, while the bulk of those fragments were carried away under a stone pillar painted with strange patterns, humming inaudible and magical stream. "This toad understood everything perfectly well, it just found a reason to be insulted within the contract, thinking that I would not notice its actions. It loved curses in general, literally devoured them, knowing how to taste the effects, and here was such a temptation. It also puts the desire to get pregnant in you to double the dish."

Yula wasn't even embarrassed; she didn't have the strength. She just glared at the remains of the toad and returned to the circle. Pann painted her all over with colorful symbols, which sent a chill through her body, and put her through another series of commands and positions. She had no dirty thoughts simply because the magician himself did not look at her at all, and the poses she assumed were far from the typical protruding asses and spread legs; she had to tie herself up in knots, which was no less painful than her back and knees. Her benefactor wasn't resting either, even though he wasn't moving. She could see steam coming off him, and his rolled-back eyes, showing only the whites, were turning redder and redder from burst blood vessels. It was as if he had smoked the kind of weed her kids play with, only without any pleasure.

Finally, before she was ordered to leave the glowing circle, which was flashing with different lights and had spread to cover almost the entire hall, redrawn and supplemented several times in a row, she was seriously thinking that it would be better if he just fuck her. They were both tired, but neither of them enjoyed it. Breathing heavily, like a fish thrown onto the riverbank with its mouth agape, she tried not to move at all, as every muscle and every bone ached. But strangely enough, it was a pleasant pain, like in a tired body after hard work, but without the burning pain inside her whole body, and something else that wasn't in her body at all. From the look and behavior of Panna, who was measuring the cave with her steps, and Yula, who had just caught her breath, she understood that nothing had been decided yet, nothing had been finished. In general, everything was much worse than she would have liked, but it was still nice to spend at least a few days without excruciating pain.

"Uh-huh. Okay. Okay. I'm freaking out, to be honest." Pann, seated next to her, has a look both puzzled and tired, like a boss during a rush when the orders have been given and delivered, it's unclear how or why to carry them out. "The curse is still on you. It's fucking complex, a self-enclosed structure that binds body, aura, spirit, and uses the soul as a marker... It's like an identifying marker that nightwatchmen use to tell which house is safe to rob and which isn't. And the curse is completely harmonious; if one node is weakened, the other two will be strengthened, and the weakened one will be strengthened after it."

Judging by these words, she should be very sad. But, to tell the truth, Yula had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she would not live even to twenty. It was just that before she thought that she would die because of the lack of money for treatment and the impossibility of finding a normal doctor who would agree to work for the pennies she had saved. Now, here he was trying to cure her, if he really was trying and not pouring it into her ears, but she believed in the sincerity of his attempts, a magician of such power that before he would not even have looked in her direction, but she still could not get rid of her troubles. In this situation, she saw some very funny and very bad joke of Fortune, but she, as before, could do nothing.

"It should be impossible, classical or wild magic doesn't allow such a thing. It's like trying to pull yourself out of the swamp by your hair, and without magic. It's physically impossible." Pann, meanwhile, was still cringing, and it seemed to her that he was sincere enough at that moment, or just bubbling around more than he was trying to explain how the coins from the communal pool ended up in his pockets. "Only here and not magic, but a miracle, a very strong and still working divine miracle, and there are no less than seven aspects of Divine Wraith that I have highlighted, but rather even more, just part of it I did not recognize. Oh, bitch, I was never prepared for this, yeah. Okay, let's get out of here. I'll think about it, and I need to see a blood specialist, too, in case she realizes something I missed."

With these words, another door appeared in the wall to the side of her, leading to an obscure place, and Yula, swearing through her teeth, got to her feet and waddled into the passage, only to find herself in a richly furnished house after another moment of fall-no-fall. In her mind, she regretted the shoes that had been left in the cave, and the chest harnesses had also been left there; she had not even had time to fasten her belt, wipe the paint from her body, and put her shirt on backwards. However, it was better to walk barefoot on such a carpet than to tread on it, or they would tread on you, guts and teeth, such moments had happened, though not to her. The servants, two young women with indifferent and calm looks, politely but without much warmth, offered to go with them and led her to the bath. She assumed it was a room for washing, for all the tiles, jars of cosmetics and other shit made Yula dizzy, but it was hard not to recognize the huge stone tub with steaming heated water.

"Take off your clothes, young lady, and then get into the water." Says her attendant, pouring some liquid from a bottle into the water. "It's not hot, just warm. Your clothes will be washed. I'll leave a new set on the shelf."

Shrugging, she pulled off the rags and immersed her tired body in the water, then moaned in pleasure, covering her eyes and promising herself that the only way she would get out of this tub was if they pulled her out by force, or if Pann came here in person to get her. Closing her eyes and resting her head on the special notch, she relaxed, letting the maid take hold of her long-never-rinsed hair, straining to let her hands go to her neck, but overcoming the habit. She swore to herself not to be surprised or frightened by anything. She was too tired and too tempted to live without pain in her whole body, even if it turned out to be a short life, so be it. She would get out of it, and if she didn't, she wouldn't be sorry to die. No, no more fear, no more fright, it was better to just take it while they still gave it to her.

Well, it didn't work out without freaking out.

She couldn't help but be surprised, either.

"You!" Yula did not realize how she had managed to scramble out of her seat and hide behind the back of the clearly perplexed Pann, when she realized who exactly was the gorgeous and luxuriously dressed mistress with a luxurious and envy-inducing figure sitting in a chair in the middle of the richly furnished room, glittering scarlet eyes, and smiling a condescending smile without showing her teeth. "You, I, don't..."

Her legs and body cramped with horror, the horror forgot all fear of Pann, because he was, at least now, quite human, and what was sitting in that chair had not been a living person for a long time. Nor alive at all. All people, townspeople and villagers, hill-folk or river-folk, beggars and shopkeepers, scum, artel workers and labourers, all of them absorb the fear of such creatures from their mother's milk. She had gotten used to the fact that Pann was not a nightmare monster with a hundred ghostly hands, but a normal man, who could be mistaken for an ordinary guy, not even a magician, especially if he did not start talking about abstruse topics. But here she was, and even more so, almost unconcealed, pressurising her with her presence, which made Yula feel like she had stepped into a bathtub filled with fresh blood. She could almost physically smell it, the copper tang of it on her tongue and lips, making her ready to seek protection from anyone, so long as this one stayed away from her.

"You've got to admit, Pann, that's an impressive diction and eloquence." It was a bloodsucking creature that had only been rumoured to exist within the city, but rumours of which it was clear that they did not come from nothing, and, as Yula could see now, they did not come from nothing. "I have no idea why she agreed to take part in this circus in the first place. She has practically no gift, definitely no upbringing or special intelligence; if she is to be engaged in it, it will have to be taught from scratch, for which it is too late, too old. I hope at least the curse that piqued your interest will allow you to push the boundaries of your gift, otherwise, I'll be upset."

This one moved incredibly gracefully, as if she were floating rather than walking, even her leisurely steps merged into one continuous line of movement. It was impossible to see the individual steps. Here, she was still in the chair, and there she was almost beside her, looking over Pann, who with his average height was noticeably inferior to this one. Her smile, her look, her movements, the tone of her voice, it was almost normal, but only almost, and this difference between almost and normal was literally driving her crazy, making her panic and wish she were as far away from here as possible. The thought that Pann hadn't lied here either. There was hardly anyone in the whole city and county who knew more about blood than this one.

"Sylvia, for heaven's tits sake, stop playing on the girl's nerves and mine, or you'll be the one to restart her heart if it stops." Calmly, irritatedly, and confidently spoken words cause an answering irritated grimace on a face beautiful and frozen in inanimate beauty, and then this one becomes almost normal. "Just examine her and give an expert opinion as a master of blood magic. Please."

The bloodsucker was still pale, her scarlet eyes still unnatural and frightening, her movements still impossibly graceful, like those of a cat in human form, but she was no longer the walking creeper that made her shiver. Blinking in bewilderment, Yula realised that in reality the familiar Panna was not so scary, certainly not scarier than the ‘homeless man’ she had met once wrapped in rags, not scarier than the goat-man she had seen in passing, not scarier than the night guest who had come to the hospital. Without trying to frighten her, she looked at Yula, who was staring back timidly, trying not to raise her gaze, and gestured for the magician to move aside.

"How boring you can be, Pann, especially when you break my amusement, but you and I will talk about that again." There was some other bullshit behind those words, but Yula hadn't been around this couple long enough to understand it, though some of the notes in the undead beauty's voice hinted that Pann was even more of a scumbag than she'd originally thought, though who knew, since he might not be the one to drag a vampire into the bunk, he might well be the scarier of the two. "Well, even without tasting her drip, I could tell that there was clearly something wrong with her. The life in her body is somehow faded, the bloody gaze showing the blood too wrong, as if the droplet in her is tainted by something. The smell... no, I won't say right away, especially after bathing with scented oils, but overall she seems healthy bodily, if you don't count the general weakness."

"In the last case, I cured it, but otherwise it was a typical set of ailments of a poor citizen with a dangerous trade, except for the sludge from involuntary inhalation of dope deposited in the kidneys, liver, and lower peritoneal nodes of the aura." Yula only bit her cheek in annoyance, for she knew perfectly well that her job as an overseer of kids who sorted stuff for the herbalists had not added to her health. "Can you be more specific about the blood? The fact that the curse is tied to it, I understand."

"I'm just going to taste your find... Don't shiver so much, a couple of drops, no more, I prefer to drink a much more refined beverage." With the last phrase, she simultaneously calmed down Yula, who was starting to panic, a little offended, although she realised that the servant seen here was obviously ‘tastier’, and also made her suppress an absurd and stupid thought before the magician read it. "Hold out your hand and stay still, child."

//‘Is she fucking jealous of me or something? No, she's not, she's not!’ - flashes through Yula's mind as she assesses the slightly pinched lips and the glint in the bloodshot girl's red eyes. - ‘No, well he's definitely crazy in general! Though... Such a chick... but still crazy’

Swallowing and suppressing the childish urge to say that she wouldn't and didn't want to, Yula held out her palm, and with a black envy of her beauty, the bloodthirster, in one subtly swift movement, punctured Yula's skin with the nail of her index finger that had turned into a long claw, releasing a few drops of blood. Letting the blood hang on the tip of the claw, she reaches up to bring the claw to her mouth, but is interrupted by Pann's quiet cough.

"Sylvia, I am undoubtedly far less versed in blood magic than you are, but...‘’ He paused, gesturing with his hands, pointing at Yula. "She has in her blood a curse of unambiguously divine nature, in which even with my skills, there are seven separate aspects. And you, if I understand correctly, you want to use yourself to analyse it, that is, literally run this blood through your heart. You know, usually in our duet I am the one who creates dangerous for health stupid crap, which threatens me with injuries and death."

Yula felt completely superfluous in this place, because these two were about to argue and fight, because of her, and then they would make up, and she, as a witness of their quarrel, would be silenced forever. And all right, Pann, if he didn't lie to her, he doesn't care about such ‘damage to honour’, he's obviously not the kind of bastard who'd whip the back of a beggar who hadn't had time to think about bowing. But the bloodsucker, looking at her with an attentive gaze and as if looking for at least a crumb of ridicule, as if promising to feed the catfish alive for that shadow to the bottom or, rather, to herself, she could well, here Yula did not believe in other people's kindness even more than she usually did not believe in such nonsense.

"Pann, my dear..." She was obviously going to say something else instead of ‘dear’, but corrected herself at the last moment, glancing at Yula. "You understand correctly - I know blood magic better than you, and I also know clearly that the heart of it is the blood mage himself, overshadowed by the drop. What I can achieve with a simple alchemical analysis, you have probably checked yourself, and the main results will be a full and dense contact with the essence of the drop of this maiden of street lights and night alleys. But to be afraid of a blood curse on someone who has my power, skills, and knowledge. It is worth it only if you drink the blood of an ancient kin or a living archmagister, and that is not a fact. The very situation in which you incriminate me with the risk in such a situation is already not a small insult to me, as a scarlet spellcaster, as a connoisseur of those issues in which you are not knowledgeable, and as a much older and experienced person. Not to mention the fact that you probably imagined the seven separate aspects, or that you have decomposed the echoes of one or two of them into separate sub-aspects, as often happens with those curses, which have long lived only in the descendants of the victims, gradually weakening and eroding."

Yula, as it happened, was a clever girl, so she was good at deciphering what the two said. In her eyes, the conversation quickly took on a more familiar appearance. One boss turned to the second for help, but at the same time tried to command where he had no experience, to which the second objectively pointed out to the first not to interfere, because he knows better than the one who called him. It's the same fucking thing. The bosses will make up, but it's easier to silence the little thing that saw their disagreement in the nearest ditch than to take their word for it and believe that this little thing won't talk.

"Forgive my mistake, Sylvia, I didn't mean to insult you or belittle your knowledge, I just don't like this curse very much, and I also know how to tell the difference between aspect prismatics, and this is definitely not it." He thought for a moment and then added, under her annoyed look. "And it doesn't look to me like this curse is disintegrating. It's slow and unhurried, but that slowness is since the structure is powered by a gift, and Yula's gift, as you can see, is meagre. Just... argh! Anyway, be careful, eh? Just to please my stupid ego, first make the most superficial analysis, tracking yourself first of all, and only then go deeper? And I'll owe you a separate apology for doubting your skills."

Yula thought that in this ‘separate apology’ she didn't seem to realise what she had realised, and it even made her feel a little offended. Not for herself, with her scrawny mosses, but for living people in general ... But looking at the shape and smoothness of the pale skin of the bloodsucker, it became clear to her what kind of person one had to be to refuse such a person. Well, if you're no less scary than bloodwort, a powerful magician and generally so severe that even bedbugs in your presence go in formation, and strictly fuck off from the bed where you wanted to sleep.

"Okay, just for you and your apologies, Pann." Without malice, but with a hint of something unclear, the creature says to Yula, then carefully drips both drops of blood, clinging to the claw, onto its tongue.

And started.

* * *

It was hard to keep track of the time, but Yula guessed it had been about seven hours since the Bloodsucker had tasted her blood. The young bandit had time to get nervous, to bury herself, to think over the prospects of escape, and to run all these thoughts round and round thirty times, and then dozed off in the very armchair where she had found the lovely and seductive creature when she entered the hall. The servant brought her supper, but she did not touch it, awaiting her verdict and fate. And when a tired and pale magician came into the room, as if a little bloodsucker himself, she involuntarily jumped up and fixed her gaze on him, immediately taking it aside. She didn't believe that she would be forgiven for the death of her partner and accomplice, or even something more, and so she thought that since she was still alive, the worst, for her the worst, and the world would only get better, had not happened.

"Is she alive?" Her voice shakes involuntarily as she asks, hiding her gaze in all corners just to avoid meeting Pann's eyes.

"It's been fucking years since she've been alive, I thought you'd have figured that out." It took her a moment to realise he was joking, but then it became clear that if things were fucked up, he wouldn't have been joking. - She got it badly, I had to jump around her, the cauldron she puked blood in was now only to be disposed of, preferably in the depths of the spheres. I'm going to remember this fucking moment for a very long time! What could possibly happen? I'm such a badass bloody magician. My dad's Dracula and my mum's Alucard! Fuck. Bitch. I'd be a little short on charges and blood supply, and you'd be writing letters in tiny handwriting."

Yula didn't understand everything, especially when Pann started to criticise his, um, let's say friend, but she knew the reason why he was so angry. No, well, if she'd told one of her mates to stay out of it or it would kill you, and he'd gone in and almost died, she'd have been the same way. The thought that the two of them were so similar made her laugh, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing, except that Pann obviously read her thoughts, but he didn't give her a slap for comparing herself and him, but another crooked grin.

“Well, at least we found out who cursed you, or rather, your honorable who-knows-how-many-times-great-grandfather, for what exactly and how to fight it.” Judging by the tone and expression he said it with, Pann didn't like the new knowledge at all, not in the slightest. "Have you heard something about the War of God's Wrath? I've been told that sermons on the subject are often preached in temples, for general educational purposes?"

"Well, I've heard something, but not much, because the homeless people pray to Lortan, and Lortan has neither priests nor temples, or, rather, there are temples, but you can't get into them for free." Yula was very puzzled, because the question was completely out of the question, but not to answer someone like Pann, to put it mildly, would be fraught with deadly pussies. "We almost never went to regular sermons, only when they fed us for free, and it was better to look for something ourselves, or they'd make us work for it, but we couldn't refuse the temple. Why? I mean, why?"

"How can I tell you, Yula? It's complicated, but these questions are definitely connected with the reason for our meeting. "A fogged glass bottle appeared out of nowhere in Pann's hand, from which he poured it into her glass and drank from it. - I'll tell you a story about a prominent magician, anti-theist and, forgive my foul language, fucker terrorist...."

As it turned out, temple sermons, too, should be listened to a little more attentively than trying to sleep unnoticed. That way, she would know at least one part of the story, the part that the priests tell, keeping the truth silent. Well, there was nothing strange about it; any thug at the interrogation would defend himself and generally make himself look innocent, noble, and misunderstood, especially if the second witness had long ago gone to study the river bottom. If to believe Mr Pann, who heard both sides of the story, there once lived a magician a fuckload of years ago, and he was such a magician that he was a magician to all magicians. Nowadays magicians look at Yula like shit, but Pann could look at those magicians like shit, while Reistar the Apostate looked at everyone like shit, even the heavens. The latter was literal, because after he became a big bump and built himself a big fucking mansion, he pissed on the temples, something that even the most fucked up thugs wouldn't allow themselves, with a direct gesture, from palm to elbow, telling those temples to get the fuck out of his land, or to be more precise, to fuck off.

No temples, no sermons, no handouts to you and no special treatment of priests, which the guards at the gates do not check at all, or God forbid, they will find something. Nothing at all, fuck you and your accusations. It's a bold, sharp, brash and fucking stupid move. It's as if one of the little bumpkins, having built his gang and crushed his competitors, would tell the Night Master to get the fuck off my street and neighbourhood. For temples and heavens, the whole world is like a city, and a separate kingdom is like a neighbourhood, while a city is good if it is a street. What kind of normal Master would tolerate someone daring to argue for power in a separate neighbourhood? Yes, that Reistar the Impudent was a fucking sharp and fierce man, not even the heavens wanted to quarrel with such a man, so they tried to weave their differences in a human way, without blood. But whether Reistar had the arrogance of ten men, or whether the heavens offended him so much that he kept that offence for the rest of his life, but the fucking route did not change in any way.

The heavens didn't understand the attack. And they fought back, habitually deciding to crush the petty faggot, who thought himself to be someone important, but they failed. Reistar wiped the blood from his lips, spat out his teeth, well, not literally, Yula imagined it for the sake of a colourful expression, and then began to fuck back. The response showed the heavens that the heavens can be very small, bitch. In the place where these authorities were figuring out who was a clay mixer and who was a decent man, there is now a fucking huge desert where almost no one lives, and the few who wandered in will never get out. And yet Daring One stood his ground, not even badly beaten, even though his ‘neighbourhood’ was burned to the ground, but the heavenly hills were left with nothing. No neighbourhood, no brothels, no shopkeepers, only ashes, smoke, and scavengers picking coins out of the burnt ruins. Nothing but losses, in short, a complete fuck-up, not a money-making venture.

At this point, the authorities should have held back and stepped aside a little. But they had been beaten up so badly, if not personally, then by their priests, bullies, snitches, and the people who followed them. It was too late to back down now, they had to push forward, so they did. Just like five years ago with Hermes the Flask. He was also tough, a skilled fighter; he gathered a group of former mercenaries under him, and no one could beat him, so they poisoned him. He shit his guts out. They said that in the morning, only an empty shell of skin and bones was left, and all his guts were floating in shit. They didn't skimp on expensive magical poison. Raistar wasn't poisoned, but cursed, and he died, though before he went to feed the catfish, he unleashed his magic with all his heart, so hard that a couple of heavenly names are now forgotten, and there is no one left to sing prayers to them.

All of Yula's troubles stem from the fact that the curse placed on the insolent boss of all the magicians of ancient times did not stop with him alone. Reistar still had his fortress, fortified and enchanted to such an extent that even the heavenly authorities could not properly break it down. Why would they kill the leader if he had a crowd of hangers-on who would take over his fortress-tower, like a city, only much cooler, and continue to show their asses from the windows? Only his children, grandchildren, and other blood relatives could claim to be the owners of that tower. That's how the curse spread through the blood, and it spread so much that it still continues to this day. It would seem that over the years, Yula could hardly imagine such a number, but she was somehow taught to read and write, and all her relatives, both close and distant, should have died a hundred times over, but no, fuck that, and all for one simple reason.

Reistar, nicknamed the Apostate by the heavenly authorities, was a fucking stud, so much so that even Banann Mudischev of Ferret's gang would seem like a eunuch. He had very, very, very many children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and all that, so many that the curse, which crushed first of all the strongest magicians, did not have time to cope with the goals. And they were trying to save themselves. In the process, they were breeding. And not all of them were known to the priests to finish them manually. So even now, men and women are walking around the world, who by the third ten years have long been in the grave, but are still considered the descendants of the very magician of all magicians. The curse kills a simple man without the gift of sorcery for a longer time, but if you try to ignite the gift in yourself or are born with it, you will die in agony in a couple of winters, as Yula almost died.

"Asshole..." That's all she said, filled with some kind of drunken and resentful anger, anger for herself, not giving a fuck about the ancient time, but was forced to die just because the bosses, who couldn't share their authority, decided to finish off one lawless man. "And I even brought money to the temple... Fuck heaven and their temples! May you bitches rot in hell..."

"Given your curse and kinship, these words sound particularly ironic." He interrupts her long and very detailed tirade of profanity, which would have brought tears of emotion to Shmol Travyanoy's eyes, having finished his story, Pann reminds her where she is. "No, no, don't be shy, go on, I'll remember a couple of turns of phrase, in case of important negotiations."

Yulia doesn't want to continue anymore. She doesn't want anything anymore, except to lie down and cry a little about her fate, because there is simply no cure for her curse. If so many people, including that very magician of magicians and lord of lords, have died over the years, why should she bother? Alas, she had forgotten how to cry as a baby, when it became clear that tears did not help, and often only made things worse. Whether it was the heat of the moment or simply burnout, she looked at Pann, sitting in the chair opposite her, slumped in it like a porter at the port who had worked hard all day, without her usual fear. Knowing that she was doomed to a guaranteed bad, nasty fate, she felt as if she had already died a little. At least her fear had died. Fear of death, fear of bloodsuckers, fear of Pann, fear of the whole world. Why be afraid if the worst has already happened?

She remembered perfectly well how the woman's face contorted when a drop of Yula's blood appeared on her tongue. How her veins turned black, how she began to vomit a stream of bloody black slime that corroded the stone floor. To be honest, she thought they would kill her there, but no, they just pushed her into a corner while Pann held the hissing and moaning bloodsucker by the throat with his glowing hands, sticking several more ghostly hands right into her body, as if pulling something out of it. And judging by the way he swore and grimaced, he didn't enjoy it either. She still remembered how he was pleased that he had convinced her not to let the blood go too deep, and how an unfamiliar but equally pale and red-eyed woman brought a huge iron cauldron, into which she began to vomit filth while they carried her away somewhere behind the door. And poor Yula had shit instead of blood. If such a terrible and powerful bloodsucker was almost turned inside out by a couple of drops, what was left for her?

"What do you want from me, Pann?" She says, frightened by her own words and her audacity. "I... just tell me, okay? Please. I'll do it, honestly, just fuck these games. If you're going to kill me or something, at least do it quickly, okay? I'm tired, bitch, just tired of all this."

"What I need... I already told you what I need from you. At least practice in removing high-level curses and dispelling divine miracles." He seemed to simply ignore her insolence, rolling a small stone that constantly changed colour in his hands. The question is what you need and what to do with you in general. Sylvia, as soon as she could speak, spent half an hour in hysterics trying to convince me to impregnate you, to protect your child from the curse, which is much easier than treating you directly, and then to raise myself a key to the Black Tower. Yes, yes, you understood correctly. Those like you can easily enter empty mansions and take them over. Well, or your children, if you manage to protect them from the curse."

Yula wasn't even scared. She was already too scared, and Pann's expression wasn't the kind you'd see on someone telling you about your fate, someone who had already prepared either knives with nails or dick. She understood what they were saying, but she couldn't comprehend it. Where was she, and where were the powerful and terrifying magicians, where were the palaces and towers that the guards wouldn't even let her approach, let alone enter? And if spreading her legs would allow her to live a little longer, especially to live well, she wasn't so opposed to it. That is, she was opposed to it, but who would ask her? And if no one asks, then she should at least try to avoid broken teeth or a torn womb, as happens to the rebellious. Although if anything, a magician of such power would certainly be able to make her agree to anything, and there would be no need to hold a nail to her eye, threatening to blind her.

"But I don't like that at all, honestly." Meanwhile, the magician continues, waving his hand to make the multicoloured pebble disappear from his palm, simply vanishing without a trace. ЭYes, as one asshole on my favourite book forum would say, such a tower is the perfect hideout for a real bitard, only it lacks a 4chan, but, fuck, I can get one myself. Or build one. Or I'll climb into it and forcibly rewrite the contours to suit myself. I'll offer you something else, in two versions."

Yula could only think of two options: either do as she was told, or immediately regret not doing so, but she didn't interrupt. She didn't believe in the magician's kindness, but she wanted to hope for something better than the role of a victim of breeders — those thugs who kidnap or buy gifted peasant women, village healers, and other weak magicians, and then try to breed gifted children like a breeder of thoroughbred horses or dogs. That's how they hang them and make them measure their guts, but many still carry money to them. It's like an opportunity to raise a gifted slave from infancy, no matter what the purpose! Merchants, nobles, guilds, just individual magicians — everyone needs such a commodity; no one will disdain it.

"Option one, I will take off a curse from you. I am uncertain how, and I am uncertain how reliable it will be, but I can already prevent you from simply passing away for at least another five years, or even longer. And these will be normal years, not constant torment." Yula, as usual, didn't believe in such a fairy tale, but she didn't show it. "The reason is the same as always: I will learn a lot from treating you, because I am that talented. Option two: I take you on as my apprentice and companion, continuing to try to save you from the curse. Of course, you will take all the appropriate oaths to protect me from being cheated, and I will do everything possible to ensure that you can gain enough strength to enter the Tower that belongs to you by blood. And let me live there, allocating guest apartments and a spare laboratory. There are more responsibilities, more risks, and a high probability that you will be hunted not only as the key to the Great Desert, but also by all those who want all sorts of strange things from me. Something like that."

Yula couldn't take it anymore; she just couldn't keep a straight face and act grateful, and she didn't believe she could fool this bastard. At other times, she would have kept quiet, swallowed her words, but now, having already been through too much, she simply lacked the fear that usually replaces caution in street kids, that understanding of where and when to watch your back, lest you get your ass kicked. Opening her mouth, she already knew that she wouldn't be able to hold back, that she would respond to his words, but she still didn't remain silent. She hated such approaches, as if they were trying to fool a silly newcomer, as if they thought she was stupid and had never seen a demon in her life, a bitch who still believed in children's fairy tales.

"Can you even hear yourself, you fucking do-gooder?" She bares her teeth, pulling her legs up under her and hugging her knees, expecting at any moment for the masks to come off and the blows, pain, threats, and whatever else is supposed to happen here and now for her refusal to come. "I'm supposed to believe this bullshit, right? Like, some kind of magician came along, took pity on me, and decided to help me. With apprentices, riches, and some shitty tower! You're a terrible bitch, you fucking freak, I'm not six years old, fuck you! Just tell me what the fuck you want from me, what the fuck am I going to do for you, bitch, I'm already in your fucking collar! Just don't pour shit into my ears instead of honey, okay? I've seen plenty of rich bastards like you, you know? I can see right through your fucking lies..."

It was as if a warm fur had been stuffed into her head, like stroking a cat, only it made her forget all the words for a few breaths, and the irritated Pann said something, waved his hand, and her thoughts came back. Only in a different way. For the next hour Yula lay at his feet, begging him to do whatever he wanted to her: knock her up and stab her, just stab her, skin her, sell her to demons, slavers, sell her to a cheapest brothel, just beat her with sticks, order her to kill herself in some special way. She humiliates herself, kisses the floor and the carpets he walked on, begs, pleads, and whimpers like a beaten dog just to be given any order. And in doing so, almost cumming with happiness, feeling better than she'd ever felt getting laid or fingering herself, those breaths of pleading were better than anything in the world at all.

And then she was off, then she realised exactly what she had been doing and saying and doing, clutching herself sharply from the floor, falling on the slippery carpet, crawling away, no longer trying to get to her feet, breathing hard and haggardly. Her throat was sore, she had been begging and wheezing almost non-stop for the shit that had been shat in her head and ears, her mouth was as dry as it had been in the morning after a binge, her arms and legs were weak, her chest was throbbing, threatening to burst from the inside out. And Pann, still sitting and looking at her with an indifferent gaze, now looked much more like a creature in rags, a guest who had come at night and a frightful goat, than like a man, though no transparent hands were growing out of him.

"Well, darling. I understand your thought process, and that's the only reason I'm being so lenient at all right now." Words are like knives, like they're carved into your head in letters instead of in your ears. "All your accusations are worth a pile of shit because I can take everything from you, instantly, immediately, without talking, just because I want to. Good sir. You're right in many ways, for it's easy to be kind if it costs you little. I'm a lucky bastard, I don't appreciate much of what I have, but, you know, you can't blame me for that. When I started my journey to the heights of the magical arts, I originally wanted to act human. To offer where I can order, to buy or trade where I can take by force, to ask where I have the right to demand. Such kindness doesn't cost me much, so it doesn't cost me much. I have offered you exactly what I have offered you. You can refuse one or both of them, and nothing will happen to you. I'll make you forget again and kick you the fuck out. What's more, I'll still continue to heal you, you just won't know it. Because I can. Because I wish to

For a few breaths, it was as if a wave washed over Yula, only now not rearranging the thoughts in her head, but as if to show an edge of what her interlocutor was thinking and how she understood the world. Cork Bagor had once wanted the boots off the feet of Chumg, her mate and one of the few people she trusted her back to, a similarly barefooted upstart skewer. Chumg didn't want to give up the honestly stolen goods, for which he was beaten and then had his arms and legs broken. It wasn't necessary, though he had no right to contradict the foreman, but his fault was not so terrible. But the bitch Bagor wanted to play around, so he broke her friend, and then Chamg fell asleep two weeks later, having been able to wheeze for the last few days. Yulia remembered that ‘I wish’ in passing, when Bagor had reported to Grass. He had the right. Had the opportunity. Had the power. And wanted to. And did.

Breathing heavily and swallowing her anger, it was slowly dawning on Yula that this one also just wished it. It was just that he had chosen a different wish. She was both offended by this and even more angry when she realised that this freak was really better than her. She didn't dare, she didn't dare, she didn't want to, she was scared, and her mate died. The world is not without good people, but they are good for their friends and relatives, not for Yula. That's how it always was, that's how she was used to it, that's how she didn't hesitate to take advantage of the moment, if some shopkeeper or some other shit-eater decided to be kind. To do good not for someone, but for herself, to make herself feel a little better, to show everyone around her that she felt sorry for the beggar on the street or the shoe-shining beggar at the tavern.

Such kindness is a weakness. You shouldn't show such kindness. You should spit on it, and she spat on it. You had to take advantage of the gullible fool, and Yula took advantage of him. She tried not to think, tried not to ask herself questions, and not to show weakness, but when she did good, she threw the ends of it into the river, did it for herself, not for anyone else... Like when she saw a freezing beggar with nowhere to go, whose alms bowl was so empty that he risked staying on the street after sunset, which for their kind meant death or the shackles of slave traders. A couple of moments later, the one who had been hiding in those rags, hiding there all day, restored some of her health. He hid, and half the neighborhood's chronic ailments disappeared, one of Zuman's girls got back on her feet after a drunk customer stabbed her in the stomach, Sosha Dyachina's daughter's son, who was born sick, got back on his feet... Because some fucking powerful magician decided to do a good deed and drown him at the bottom of the river.
Отсылка.

"I'm sorry." She gritted her teeth, squeezing the words out of her, and they left her throat so hard because they were sincere, not tearful pleas to the guards who'd caught you in the act. "I couldn't hold my tongue. I knew. About the healed ones. Then I compared it. I didn't believe it."

"It happens." He just shrugs his shoulders, and Yula realises that he has exhausted the whole argument. "I don't like other people's attention. I don't think it's necessary to give my life to make others feel good. But if I have time and opportunity, I try to help a good person... or not, it doesn't matter. It's just. just, well, why not? That's how we met, that's all. Now decide what you're going to do, because I'm sleepy."

Yula is silent, thinking. For the first time in all sixteen winters of her not-so-pleasant life, she feels that she has come to a very important crossroads, that right now, a lot depends on her choice. She was used to not believing, used to deceiving herself, but right now, for the first time since childhood, she trusted someone else, trusted them in a way she had never trusted anyone before. Perhaps it was foolish, but apart from choosing to believe or not, she had nothing left, not even her own life, which was slipping through her fingers like sand and dust.

"Okay, I'm ready to learn." A bout of tongue-tiedness comes at the worst possible moment, causing Yula to blush a little. "But I'm a poor reader. And I make mistakes when I write. And don't look at me like that – in our team of a dozen people, only two can read, me and the senior member. And I read better!"

"It's okay, you'll learn, you have no choice." With these words, Pann stands up and extends his hand to her. "Let's go sign the contract, partner, damn it. I have too many secrets to leave them completely uncovered."

"Whatever they told me, I always kept quiet and never gossiped..." Yula objects very weakly, remembering how she was “taught a lesson” by the one she offended out of stupidity, perfectly understanding that if you asked her anything in this state, she would tell you even what she had long since forgotten. "But yes, I understand. Trava also takes an oath from his people, he has some kind of fucking amulet, you just need to drip blood on it."

Before he began to make the promises, Pann, as if forgetting that he was sleepy, had written out in great detail what he would assure and secure the promise. And he described in simple and clear words, clearly outlining what she would be obliged to do and what she would not be obliged to do at all. Worst of all, he wouldn't accept a nod or a dull “uh-huh” as a response, demanding that she understand, not agree. Yula didn't resist, but it was interesting, and knowledge, especially about magic, especially about how big bosses certify things, wasn't fucking superfluous. By the time they got to the magic itself, she would have fallen asleep a long time ago, if she hadn't had some smoking flask shoved in her face, which made her hair stand on end all over her body, including her eyebrows, and her fatigue fled in terror, leaving behind a twitching eyelid and a corner of her lips.

They stood in a circle and began to walk around the circle. A step, and a word, in which the hours of their conversations and explanations were contained. Another step, and the knowledge that confirmed what had already been said and bound them both by that promise. A step, and it was as if they were both before the eyes of someone third, as if the two bosses had been visited by an authority figure from a neighboring town altogether, purely to assure the words. Yula wasn't even particularly frightened, she just didn't have time, it all happened so quickly. Oh, and Pann himself, it had to be admitted, had her back. She felt it, with her whole body and something else outside of that body. She could feel the cold and deadly attention of an incomprehensible weird fuck that could kill her or turn her into a drooling fool bumping up against the wall of will of another weird fuck. Well, if you can say that about your teacher, or boss, or comrade, though what kind of a fuckin' comrade is she to him? Street rats aren't friends with dragons, dragons don't give a fuck about rats. Yula had never seen a dragon in person, only on a ragged and slightly washed-out picture from a book, but she was clearly sure that dragons were not comrades to rats. Still, she wanted to believe it, and it felt good to be spoken to and treated not as an equal, but not as shit either.

"We have sworn our oaths, and now the most important thing: we will make a magician of you." He took her back to the beautifully furnished chambers and sat down on the same armchair, drinking half a glass of water, and then pointed his finger at her, who was perplexed and definitely not expecting such a sharp transition. "Now just agree internally, and then don't get up, you'll be overwhelmed and you might fall."

Yula was just opening her mouth when what Pann had said actually happened; she didn't even have time to fuck up, just blinked, instinctively accepting what had touched her. And then it flashed in front of her eyes, and she was really caught up, caught up in the pure knowledge that was gathering in her head in pictures, in letters that were impossible to read easily, simply because she knew from the beginning what was written in those letters. Fucked up on the level of the worst fuck-ups of her life, which included all three meetings with her benefactor, come to think of it. Somehow focusing on herself, she began to comprehend what was being given to her, assembling those picture-letters into things she was used to.

SYSTEM CAPACITY IS BEING INITIALISED

CHANGING THE IMAGE MODULE TO IMPROVE UNDERSTANDING

SCAN INITIATION

WAIT

WATCH WHO YOU ARE

EVALUATING ACHIEVEMENTS AND FAILURES

MAIN SERVER CONNECTION

DATA TRANSFER

DON'T BE NERVOUS AND WAIT

ALMOST EVERYTHING

LOADING OF LINGUISTIC MODULE

COMPLETING THE LINGUISTIC MODULE SETUP

WAIT

PROCESSING COMPLETE: PLEASE VIEW THE STATUS

Yula did not immediately realize that she was sitting in the chair and squeaking like a mouse, clutching the armrests of the chair with white hands, almost tearing the expensive fabric. Words and images in her head were formed into a normal understanding; she now really knew each of these words, and in general, as if in a few minutes, she had learned a lot of new things. There was not the slightest doubt that she could now, if not write fluently, then she would definitely be able to read as well as some scribe or ink soul from the magistrate. Covering her eyes, as if she'd done it a thousand times before, she concentrated on herself and saw how those who'd given her all this shit saw her.

Name: Yula, descendant of Reistar the Apostate

Level: 3

Race: Human

Class: Child of the streets

Characteristics: (free: 0;)

Talents (free): 0

Constitution: 1

Sensitivity: 1

Power: 1

Control: 1

Source: 1

Spirit: 2

Resistance: 1

Knowledge acquired: oral and written speech: Free Cities (GIFT); basic skills of criminal activity; basic principles of management and control of internal energies (FRAGMENTARY);

Minor knowledge: negligible control of distances (FRAGMENTARY)

Acquired properties: minor innate spatial positioning; hereditary Curse of the Black Blood [EXPOSE EFFECTS]

System modifiers: none

Special: One-time offer to reset levels and choose a base class for further development (fragmentary knowledge will be increased to the minimum level: basic fundamentals).

Baffled and, to be honest, quite shocked, Yula, who had not ruined the upholstery of the luxurious armchair thanks only to the clean fucking bathroom she had visited in advance, shook her head perplexedly, trying to chase away the obsession. Although she realized with her mind that it was not an obsession at all. She was brought out of her strange state by Pann's voice, who yawned audibly and, with difficulty, interrupted her panic-stricken attempts to reassemble her reality.

"Okay, I see you have the option there to recroll the character and choose a normal class?" She immediately focuses on the aforementioned part of the letter-pictures. "I suggest you and I decide who you want to be and how you want to develop yourself. Shall we choose?"

"Yeah, okay."

* * *

There are different types of boredom and one can be bored in different ways too: it means a lot whether you are bored while waiting for the death sentence, sitting in a pit and dying of hunger and thirst, or whether you are bored with idleness, sitting in your own tent, on a mountain of cushions and surrounded by a loyal retinue and servants. Both seem to be boredom, but there are too many shades and nuances in these two bored states. It was one thing to be bored in the company of a chatty friend from a family allied to her father's house, who would wear out the most patient with her chatter. It is quite another thing to be bored in her company, when you realized that not quite a girlfriend is not particularly unobtrusive trying to find out from you the details of the last visit of the old partners of the trading house de Lomer in the office of her honorable father, whether the respected Urwag dropped a few words-observations, did not mention something like that. Fortunately, the ex-girlfriend, one of many ex-girlfriends, had the sense and honor not to try, say, to put something in the drinks to loosen the tongue.

To the girlfriends' good, of course.

Singha had long ago learned not to show her face what she thought of such actions, when words and smiles hid contempt for the mestizo-almost-savage and hypocritical sanctimony, had long ago learned to cross such people off the list of her few friends. She and Garatea will not quarrel, she will not tell her her thoughts that she is saving under her heart, next to her breath. Singha had long since grown up, had long since stopped being surprised by other people's baseness or meanness, had long since learned that for the children of rich and noble parents here in Morgrave, such attempts to find something important were not even considered an insult. If they were at a reception, a dinner party, or just meeting by chance, Singha wouldn't see the problem. Family was important, the words of elders were important, and if her father or mother asked her to talk to someone she knew, why not try?

But she was invited into the house; she was not asked directly, and they treated her not as a friend, but as another partner-counterpart, trying to take advantage of her unaccustomedness and inability to maneuver in the flow of words. Many of them tried to take advantage of this, many of them did not notice that she, in spite of her strange manner of speech and words of steppe dialect inserted from time to time, was perfectly able to notice such things in other people's speeches and behavior. Many did not realize that she was able to keep in her ears and body the right khao, which prompts, sees, and reveals the deception of others and their secret thoughts hidden behind a smile. Many people did not understand why Singha could suddenly turn cold to the seemingly normal relations between friends....

Garathea held her ground for a long time, clearly not wanting to lose the opportunity to join the company of Urwag de Lomer's favourite daughter, as well as the fame of her honourable mother, to whom even Duke Augustus himself spoke only with the utmost respect and courtesy. Singha was not in the habit of turning such acquaintances into something more bland and dry, like the powdered meat one takes on a long trek when one has to ride a horse for days and weeks without being able to buy. Yes, it's bland, yes, it's not particularly tasty, but it's necessary. She would need to keep in touch with Garathea, not to offend the daughter of a very useful person for her father and even for her mother, but that shadow of trust and relaxation with which they had been communicating these three and a half months was gone. Too bad, too bad, Signha almost believed that the poisonous little snake would be smarter, because Parvisa and Katrina had managed to remain friends with her, clearly and honestly dividing personal and family, duty and attempted friendship.

It didn't work out, which made the young but already very skillful Khao-sea, who would become a mighty Khao-seahar in the future, sad and a little lonely.

Garatea suddenly froze mid-sentence, drawing out a long vowel “o-o-o-o-o-o”, then dropped her head onto her small but firm chest, covered by a rather tight and form-fitting dress, and fell asleep. A tense Singha, whose khao had not noticed the attack or any other effect, noted how the servants and guards, both hers and Garatea's, had fallen asleep standing or sitting in their corners. She quickly relaxed when she realized that only one other creature in all of manifestation would have the nerve and arrogance to show up to talk to her like this, unannounced. To distract her khao-kash and khao-ramal, to put everyone around her to sleep, but not to affect her.

"Greetings, Pann." She said, bowing her head slightly in sincere and genuine respect, smiling a smile far more genuine than she had smiled at Garathea. "I'm glad to meet you. I was worried."

He appeared in her gaze slowly and smoothly, floating out of the depths of the subtle world, revealing himself like another khao, appearing in a spirit guise that showed the outlines of a man so easily mistaken for another khao-marash. He came, as he did last time, without a body, only his spirit, and managed with contemptuous ease to bypass both the defenses of the de Plamar estate and the attention of its hearth and khao servants, who should have warned Signha of his attempt to approach through the lakhao-namar, the subtle world, the higher realms, or simply the spirit world, depending on where and how the place is called. This time, his appearance was quickly becoming almost human. She could even make out his facial features, though not too clearly, but it was enough to see the bewilderment in those features for her second sight.

"And hello to you, too, ahem, Singha." She was surprised, and only pleasantly so, that he had, for the first time in all the time they'd known each other, kept an angry word, even if it was fully deserved by her. "Why were you so worried?"

Singha smiled and almost laughed, so much perplexity in those words, but no less embarrassed, which was not surprising. When she talked to Pann, she always remembered her mistakes and the way her acquaintance and savior had paid for them, and each time she was painfully ashamed. Especially for what she had allowed herself to do then, just before she had returned from the eternally damp and wildly magical tree labyrinths of the far South. Even though she had been forgiven, even though she had been out of control and insidiously enchanted, deprived of will and choice, she still felt guilty. First of all, for letting her mind and Anakhao-lash be enveloped in the harness of the snake's gaze, which she had known the danger of, but had forgotten, for having become, albeit unwittingly, the one who had betrayed someone else's trust and kindness.

"News from Dantmark. They came here with the water of the river. And the river itself brought echoes of the battle as well." She shrugs and tries to speak in a way that doesn't directly say what is already obvious, but shouldn't be mussed up by chattering tongues. "Mother has been asked before. A great many have been asked. And many. It's not hard to see who was in that fight. With the urkasham khan, creatures of passion, eager to harvest their crops, to take our anakhao-zan. Wrap them in a harness and take them away. Take everything. Your gift, the gift of your ilash-khao-tar. It is still with me. But I am happy to confirm. That you are safe."

She seemed to have long ago gotten rid of her eloquence, but now, now she was ready to curse herself for having neglected her lessons with the rhetor, the rhetorician who could speak beautifully, for she felt inexpressibly stupid. And silly. And also blushing, flaring like a fire that had been put on with oil. What surprised her more was Pann's lack of indignation and accusation, and she even began to think that he felt awkward, as if he were hesitant to say anything. Mentally, she had decided long ago that she would try to give him whatever he asked for. And the way he can't find words is understandable because he wants to make a request. Only he was painfully inept at asking, not demanding, which reminded her so much of herself that it made her smile.

"Yeah, you're right. There were demons. Fuckin' bitch assholes." There was a sincerity in his curses, and a renewed anger, followed by some incomprehensible emotion that he didn't seem to be deliberately trying to hide, trying not to hide it behind the veil of his anakhao-kan, which he could take any shape he wanted, be it human, beast, or a clump of claws and tentacles. "That thing really got me, didn't it? You were helpful during that conversation. Almost. Fuck. Anyway, I'm fucking tired to talk about it gently. All right, don't be nervous."

Singha became nervous.

"And don't worry," he adds after a short pause.

Singha became worried.

"It just so happens that I was partially under the influence of the fucking thing for a while. I managed to snap out of it and fuck it up with all the arsenal I had, but...." Such confessions would not add to Singh's peace of mind, though she thought it was ridiculous that Pann, who was definitely making up some nonsense that couldn't possibly be true, was being harnessed with a harness of wits and thoughts. "Argh! Okay, let's take a more direct route. Singha, please remember showing me your sweet cumming pussy. Just don't wreck the place, okay, or half the town will be here. And that... Anyway, I apologise for the guilt I have towards you. Here. Fuck."

Singha couldn't understand what Pann was driving at first, but as soon as she heard his words, everything fell into place. The memory of that meeting had not been forgotten, she remembered everything perfectly well, she just accepted it as the absolute norm and did not wonder or think about it. Strangely floating images of the Urach-Nakhao-lar Pann holding the connection, who suddenly said those words about the breasts of the villagers, which clearly did not fall under any notions of normality. Singhi's terrible and obvious conjecture, which until the last could not believe that it was he, so experienced, strong, dangerous, and skilful, who had fallen victim to the love harness, from which she had delayed, did not try to force him out of his helplessness, but only hinted. And the idea that came into his head, so obvious and true: if he thought of the breasts of the villagers, with which they embarrassed and persuaded him to submit to his will, then it was necessary to show something equally shameful, to let him cling to something else instead.

Singha remembered very well how pleasure had rained down from her hanaal, how she had become contented and obedient, how she had been asked not to think about what had happened and not to see the obvious, and she had immediately complied. And all this time, she did it without remembering what she had seen and without seeing it as a problem or a cause for concern, until she heard these words from his mouth and realized what had happened to her and for what reason. Her chest felt hot, and she barely managed to suppress the embarrassment by force, willed her anakhao-lash into the bonds of her will. But still she couldn't hold back some sort of coughing laugh or sob:

"Do you understand what it was like for me, Pann?" She can't help but see the irony, the mockery of khao, for their situation mirrored two instances of unwitting betrayal. "And at least you didn't try to drag me to that urkasham-khan that got into your head. I..."

"I certainly understand!" Pann interrupted her, not letting her finish, and the world around her shook as if from his unaddressed anger; only with great difficulty, that anger did not go beyond the invisible barriers that enclosed this room for her and her friend's conversation. "You have no idea how ashamed I am right now. Fuck. Fuck! Especially shameful when you remember your own thoughts and how skewed they were! Fucking infernal bitch! Fuck! Fuck! Anyway, I'll plead guilty and, if anything, I'm willing to pay for it. That's kind of how it's tradition on the steppe."

This time, it is Singha who interrupts him. She interrupts with a merry, ringing, and so happy laughter that the image-presence of her saviour trembled and almost disappeared as the khao fiefdom dragged the part belonging to him back. Singha laughs under his bewilderment and incomprehension, and that incomprehension and bewilderment only make her more cheerful, only funnier, only more amused by it. The young heiress of the family of the mighty steppe khao-seahar was in such a good mood that she exuded almost tangible, especially in spiritual perception, vibes of happiness. Only after she had laughed a little, covering her mouth with her hand so as not to make more noise, after she had taken a breath and regained the ability to speak, she looked into the eyes of Pann's presence and spoke calmly and seriously.

"I'm glad you threw off the harness from your feelings. I'm truly happy you're alive. And in one piece. As long as we're even talking now." It is difficult for her to speak out primarily because she wants not words to say, but to convey her opinion, with her anakhao-lash conveying the sincerity of her words and meanings. "I'm happy you're alive. And I am ashamed. But I'm happy because you are too. You also harnessed me. Made me forget. Made me splash and rain. Made me not think and believe. Like I once did. You. You're not to blame. You managed to do it on your own. You managed to drive out and kill those Urkasham Khan. I won't accept any guilt. I will accept no apology. Not from the one who saved me. Who didn't turn away. Not from the one who forgave me then. That's low, I suppose. But I'm glad you were harnessed. That you harnessed me, too. Against my will. I feel better now. I don't feel so guilty. The weight of betrayal. Let it go and forget it, Pann."

He looks at her uninterruptedly. She feels his will and attention, opening herself to him and showing him her honesty, her feelings, their complex interweaving, in which, however, there is no room for lies and deceit. Pann himself laughed, not happily, but tiredly and a little bitterly. Signha, on the other hand, simply waited, giving him time to realise and accept her words, and resenting him a little, even a lot. For the fact that he had suggested payback in the first place. Him! To her! After all that had already happened! What she would be, what she would become, dared to harbour a thirst for revenge, dared to take that viru as if his deeds did not atone for anything he might have done at all, any mistakes, and any meannesses.

"Ahem, okay. As long as you're not really angry or trying to kill me, or at least rip off all my protruding parts, we'll move on to the second point of our meeting." She was much more pleased with him as he was, unceremonious and venomously sharp-tongued, than with the crushing weight of guilt he proclaimed to himself. "That's on the subject of our last meeting. I wouldn't mind talking to your mom about cooperation. I'm practically half the world knows about my existence now, and agents in Dantmark are going to drive up rental prices. Ahem, what was I saying? If you don't mind, I'll lift some of the silence bans, and you, on my behalf, will deliver a message to the honorable Maega and Urwag de Lomer.... but be warned that they too will have to promise silence, and may have more trouble than good in knowing me."

All this, Singha, who had thought a hundred times over what her family could offer to Pann and what they could demand in return, understood perfectly well. And she was equally well aware that she would have to share many secrets, and pass through the eyes of all the Khao-panats of the white tent of her house, confirming Pann's honesty and the clarity of her own mind. Because they both knew that hiding her possession of the Tablet would not work, not with long cooperation, and Pann himself would hardly dare to let her reveal the secret without making sure that her mother and father would not decide to sell the secret instead of choosing an alliance. Singha loved her parents, wouldn't dare go against their will, and therefore was willing to do whatever it took to keep both sides of the coming pact happy so she wouldn't have to choose who to betray. So that she would never have to betray anyone, ever.

Nevermore.

* * *

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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/587474

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP