Готовый перевод Настучать в бубен / Hit the tambourine: Глава 5

Chapter 5

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Once again, a steppe night—quiet and beautiful as ever. An inconspicuous spot in the middle of the boundless steppe, a few pitiful little trees—stunted steppe apple trees—growing near a prominent burial mound. Not a soul in sight for many kilometers—no horses, no yurts, no traces that they were ever here. These traces were carefully erased by magic and summoned spirits; they did not pitch yurts, and they did not bring horses at all, having come on foot. Although for noble and not-so-noble steppe dwellers alike, this is quite shameful, for no horse means no aura.

Are they some pathetic, broad-faced softies from stone cities who don’t know how to ride a horse? There are few ways to insult a steppe man more effectively than suggesting he retrain as an infantryman. It’s not about the desire to insult, but about what lies hidden beneath the long-neglected apple trees, beneath the burial mound that crumbled centuries ago. A small and very well-hidden underground storage complex, where a very important object was safeguarded, regularly changed location, moving across different parts of the steppe. A small group of silent guards followed in its wake, men who were responsible for the treasure with their very lives—and more.

Actually, there wasn't much security here. Secrecy protected this place better than any army. De Lomer only found out about this place—and exactly where the hidden object was currently located—solely because of someone else’s carelessness. Probably the smartest decision would have been not to move the contents of the hideout at all, or to take them closer to a certain old man who liked to bang on a mute tambourine. But the commotion caused by de Lomer in general—and Maego in particular—really spooked the guys, so they decided to hide their treasure farther away from Morgrave and the territories controlled by Sulsham-bey.

That’s how they were caught by Furval’s intelligence service, even though he swore up and down—and was ready to swear—that the information was, of course, genuine, but it was clear that someone helped his idiots to get it. It’s unclear exactly who, but the Neirat towers stood out so clearly and obviously in this story that it made one the boar-like merchant want to look for long ears peeking out from behind them. Be that as it may, the hiding place of a very valuable little item—or rather, a set of such items—had been found and pinpointed, and the opportunity to multiply to zero that place and what was being guarded there. To be honest, many had wanted to wipe it out before, but an even greater number stood to benefit from its existence, and so it continued to exist.

To put it plainly, we’re talking about a shamanic portal complex of the breakthrough-stealth type—and, importantly, a portable, highly mobile one. An artifact. And not just any high-gradel artifact, but an entire complex consisting of thirteen totems each as tall as a hobbit, as wide as a hobbit, and weighing about as much as a hobbit. A true relic of a bygone era, created back in the days of the Great Horde as a response to attacks by elven special forces on the Horde’s logistical arteries. One of the now-deceased shamans, a close associate of the Chief of Chiefs, created several of these—more than ten, but fewer than twenty. Only the elves probably remember the exact number now.

That shaman was successfully eliminated, blowing him up along with his yurt—enchanted down to the very last scrap—and his personal disciples (and one of those disciples really shouldn’t have been visiting his lover so often, given that he had as many as two wives and a concubine, especially since that lover was an agent—either of the Forest or of Neirat—who possessed methods of suggestive correction of behavioral matrices). But the totems remained. As did those who could use them by right of blood, even though their numbers had dwindled over the centuries, bloodlines had become diluted, and clans and families had merged—which is why at least five complexes that have survived to this day simply cannot be activated now.

That family, whose blood sustains these totems and grants permission to use them, once swore that their treasure would not be used for the good of the Forest, all those who serve the Forest, or all those who might be considered its allies. Since the totems worked best on the territory of the Steppe, the only way to use these artifacts—made from hairy-legged lovers of a second breakfast drenched in scorching resin and amber—turned out to be smuggling, and smuggling that was thoroughly illegal in every respect, the blackest and darkest kind.

Moreover, the current owners might well have been happy to renege on the promise they once made, move into the legal sector, and rake in honest money—not just by the shovelful, but by the wagonload—but it didn’t work out. Shamanism and Wild magic, in and of themselves, aren’t particularly well-suited for creating stable portal arches—not just individual paired structures, but an entire network of them. This path has always been considered the domain of High magic, the kind that, if desired, can so easily be replicated or emulated by various gifted individuals—with different bloodlines, different training, and everything else different.

Portal arch operators must be exceptionally competent and trained specifically in this field—gifted individuals nearing the pinnacle of the adept rank. At the same time, their specialization is practically useless outside the context of operating those very arches. Each such operator is a highly valued and closely guarded specialist who, however, will never be released from their “golden cage”—all contracts there are strictly for life. At best, one might be able to negotiate a very thorough memory wipe—and even that is unlikely. Such an adept knows the keys to controlling the portal better than the back of their hand; in other words, they can always hack into such a structure.

In contrast to these portals, the ancient orc’s work was entirely different. It could be moved from place to place, albeit with a host of elaborate rituals. It wasn’t permanently anchored to the world’s energy field. It was configured separately for each jump, requiring no second arch on the other side—only a receiving ritual, one that was simple and easy to learn. And that’s not all! This structure could even be used, to a limited extent, to transport magically active goods—the kind that, in a standard portal crossing, people tried to isolate using incredibly secure containers, often even more expensive than the goods themselves!

All in all, deep down, they really wanted the chance to enter the legal sector. They would even have been willing to offer such an opportunity. Alas, the lives of all those possessing the required bloodline belonged to Akshtar the Mute Tambourine, and he would never allow anyone to move to any sector that was legal under the Confederation. That’s why, for more than just the first or fifth generation, the owners of this relic have been living almost as slaves alongside their treasure. They’re constantly on the move, constantly hidden away in the middle of nowhere, constantly living in fear of a visit from the liquidators sent by a host of interested parties. And just try to make a move if all your children, all your blood relatives, and all your kin live in the same encampment where the Bone Yurt stands.

That said, these guys didn’t exactly live a bad life. They enjoyed sufficient honor and respect, and they even took turns standing guard by the totems. It was just that, deep down, they understood perfectly well that they could have become one of the rich smaller tribes of the Steppe—perhaps not the richest, but close to it—yet instead they were languishing on the fringes of history. What can one say, when even the guard of silent, blood-bound knights—who covered them at every new campsite—belonged not to them, but to Akshtar. Like guards over prisoners, overseers over slaves, ready to kill those under their protection rather than let them fall into captivity or face interrogation. They know far too much about Akshtar’s transportation and logistics—and those of his allies—as part of their duty.

His not-so-important but most reliable means of supplying the most essential goods was hidden away not only from outsiders but also from his own people. The wild nature of this totemic structure made it impossible to use it in large cities or settlements. It was necessary to carry out the “piercing-reception” ritual in the wilderness, somewhere in the middle of the Steppe. As a result, the operational rhythm of these totems looked like this: a long stay in shelters like these, a burst of activity when it was necessary to transport a large quantity of goods from one end of the Steppe to the other within a few days, replenishing the totems with sacrificial energy, and then back into hiding.

The old orc was very reluctant to be deprived of such a toy, even though he had a number of official—and far more unofficial—connections to both the Dead North and the Eastern Empire. The ability to quickly send or receive sensitive cargo through a portal without fearing for the integrity of the goods—and without spending exorbitant sums on magical containers that are extremely short-lived and prone to damage during transport—is a huge advantage. The lion’s share of the exorbitant cost of transporting magically active substances through portal crossings lies precisely in the need for shielding. There are very few high-magic portals in the world capable of such quiet and gentle transportation; almost all of them belong to Neirat and the Forest, with a couple in the Caliphate and the Eastern Empire—they seem to have something similar, though their range is more limited.

Add to this the relatively faint echo produced by the use of these totems, which allows the opening point of the second portal to be concealed, and what we end up with isn’t even a smuggler’s dream—it’s a wet erotic fantasy. And worst of all, it’s not just darkness that’s being traded through these totems; Akhtar the Mute Tambourine is a very pragmatic individual—as long as you don’t touch on his personal quirks—so perfectly legal shipments of all sorts of goods are also being sent through the totems, just by illegal means and without paying taxes. That’s why there are so many interested parties, and why even the Forest hasn’t yet dared to officially shut down this trade. They’d have to answer to a significant number of people for whom such a shutdown would feel like a serrated sacrificial knife to the scrotum.

The outbreak of the Trade War, the old asshole’s attempt on the lives of the Maega and Urvaga families, and the near-tragedy—which had countless witnesses—gave Urvaga and Furval free rein. But at the same time, they both pleaded very convincingly to ensure no one could trace the evidence back to them. Because, if anything were to happen, they would be in the right, but they wouldn’t be able to avoid problems or losses either. And so, if there were someone who could make use of the information from Furval’s spy network—but not Maega and not Singha—then, when they were finally cornered, they could declare right there at the altar of the Keeper of Oaths that they had nothing to do with the thirteen totems.

Stepan, who had been given access to reports and intelligence on exactly what these guys were trading and what kinds of cargo they were transporting, was more than willing to become that “someone.” Not because this sabotage operation is insanely profitable for Sulsham-bey, nor out of a desire to receive a reward from a number of Neirat magisters—for whom the flow of reagents with heightened sensitivity to spatial distortions, bypassing their pockets, is a real pain in the ass. No, the Earthling is happy to participate solely out of a desire to please a certain orc, and also because this mission doesn’t require any large-scale bloodshed at all.

Well, too large-scale.

This time, the beacon wasn’t delivered by an arrow. He didn’t dare involve the steppe network; otherwise, the involvement of either Maega-Maedra or Sulsham Bey would have come to light. And while the latter wouldn’t have cared if it became public, he didn’t want to put Singha's grandma in the line of fire. Besides, there was no need to. Three small stones—ordinary river pebbles—were brought in the claws of the most ordinary birds. The de Lomer estate had its own falconry, and the birds there were extraordinary, magical, trained, and specially prepared to host spirit scouts, observers, or sensors. The possibilities were endless, and Maega was justifiably proud of her birds, often lending them to one ally or another—for example, to support part of Morgrave’s magical defense system. After the visit of the islanders’ combat fleet, the venerable August invested considerable resources in modifying the city’s defensive systems and, more importantly, its sensor systems.

The Duke had no desire to miss the visit of the guests who had come to collect tribute for umpteen years yet again.

The falcon shaman chose the most ordinary falcons—not from Maega’s falconry. He simply lured them in and worked his magic on the birds, transforming them into a fully-fledged living totem artifact. They flew the required distance calmly, guided by Stepan’s will and their innate sense of direction. Then they dropped the pebbles onto the steppe grass and flew on their way to hunt and live a very long life, for with all the beneficial spells cast upon them, these falcons will live longer than the vast majority of people. The pebbles, meanwhile, lay there for a couple of days until Singha finished her part of the work, passing on to Stepan the summoning contacts for a very interesting spirit she had obtained through her “advanced, developed work with benevolent spirits.”

The contract was quite capricious and cunning, capable of bestowing a blessing that would later bring you no joy and be nearly impossible to undo. Its blessings were barely distinguishable from curses. The girl had to sacrifice several very valuable preparations intended for her personal practice, but she summoned him. Then, after summoning him, she simply talked, haggled, and chatted with him—until she got a migraine and a nosebleed—but she couldn’t agree on a price with him and let him go. Only later did Stepan summon this spirit, but he managed to strike a deal, for Singha hadn’t hidden her ritual from him—he had literally been standing right behind her, writing down the technique.

They headed out of town—just the two of them—leaving Stepan’s mannequin doll behind, while Singh herself pretended to be “a little sick” and generally suffering from magical exhaustion. Half a day out in nature—it turned out to be a very romantic date; I’d go on one like that every day. But seriously, they were both so tired and worn out that they felt like either killing someone or just dropping dead themselves. On top of that, they couldn’t set up the mosquito protection; it interfered with the main ritual.

Stepan performed his second summons at his abode; it went much more smoothly, and the spirit agreed to work—albeit for just one summons. The senior benevolent spirit was of a very rare and unpleasant subtype, an aspect of intemperance and satiety—specifically, of the sphere of Death. Stepan named him “The Little Devourer of Death” and even renamed him as such in the system’s records. The summoning wasn’t exactly extremely difficult, but it was very cunning, testing the limits of his resolve at every moment. Without Singha’s help, the Earthling wouldn’t have managed it—most likely not in such a short time, and certainly not without conducting the summoning unnoticed by any potential observers.

And then everything went like clockwork: the tentacle-eyes, then the covering pack, then a second one, and only then, through a spiritual passage, did Stepan himself appear next to the burial mound. Or rather, it was solely his spiritual body, contorted into such a grotesque form that at that moment he bore even less resemblance to a living, physical shaman than most of the entities he had summoned. If some other shaman—who had also left his body—had encountered him in this spiritual form, there would have been a good chance of catching spiritual enuresis.

Stepan spent a long time—almost a full day—carefully peeling back the camouflage covering the refuge beneath the burial mound. Across all spectrums, there was absolutely nothing to be seen—only a faint necrotic aura, which could easily be explained by the mound itself. This camouflage had been designed specifically to ward off shamans and those who sought something on their spiritual journeys. But Stepan had the certainty that what he was looking for was here, as well as all the experience of the Tablet of the Soul. It was precisely that necrotic aura from the burial mound that gave away the camouflage—it was far too uniform.

It wasn’t a static stillness—the kind that would have immediately given the illusion away—no. The spiritual currents stirred, flowed, and swirled, yet they repeated themselves. It wasn’t immediately apparent; the cycle lasted nearly half an hour, and maintaining it at that level of detail would have required at least several powerful spirits. Once he noticed it and understood the mechanism of the disguise, the rest turned out to be merely a matter of technique, nothing more. He began with the “needle spirits,” literally summoned through an offering of a hundred old sewing needles, each of which had been worn out from constant use, yet not a single one had ever pricked living flesh or drawn blood.

Without a system shop, you’d be hard-pressed to put together an offering like this; it would be easier to make it yourself, spending a year or two and hiring a few weaving guilds. And, of course, quite a few active magical reagents were used up, but those are just the usual expenses. Mostly rare ores, including a couple of varieties of magical mercury, since the summoned spirits belonged to the metal element. A hundred minor entities, each summoned separately—though in practice, the summoning is very quick; it only takes a long time to summon the very first one; each subsequent one arrives faster.

A hundred needles—which, even in spiritual vision, looked exactly like needles, with only a single watchful eye in place of a hole—began to gradually merge, becoming a dozen strong spirits, and then a single, elder one. As they merged into a single megazord, these entities did not enlarge their form or make it stronger—no. The final needle seemed thinner than a hair, thinner than a nanofiber, thinner than the most insignificant stream of energy permeating the Higher Spheres. It was practically impossible to discern this entity in its “assembled” phase, unless one knew for certain of its presence.

The needle slowly made its way between the layers of spheres, heading straight for the burial mound, without triggering a single sensor system hidden beneath the camouflage, and without alarming the guardian spirits—among whom were also a couple of elders. These spirits were bound to one another, their foundation consisting of two mighty shamans whom these spirits had been fed. Out of curiosity, Stepan read the story of these two—a brother and sister—who, long ago, had challenged Akshtar and did not survive their own audacity. Of course, both sides were at fault, but he still felt sorry for those orcs; no one deserves such a fate, for they are still partially aware of themselves, having spent an eternity being digested inside the two elder entities.

The needle didn’t bother them. It simply pierced the edge of the mound, went inside, and stretched all the way to the storage chamber, where the ill-fated totems lay, each on its own stand. The spirit-needle was thinner than a thought, shorter than life itself, yet it pierced and sewed together the very fabric of reality, stretching from Stepan’s palm—one of his many palms distorted by spiritual transformation—all the way to the totems, ignoring defenses and barriers. A perfect bridge, a perfect conductor—like the needle of a medical syringe—just take it and channel a deadly poison through it. Channel it to achieve nothing, for all thirteen totems are perfectly protected against any attempt to damage their structure.

Well, it’s perfect for its level and price range, but otherwise, it’s manageable. Stepan would have a chance to succeed… if he stopped hiding, if no one got in his way. But he won’t stop, and he’ll be hindered. And so, instead of a deadly poison, a curse, or even a direct blow—though it’s doubtful that such a thin and fragile bridge of offensive spells could even withstand that—the Earthling blesses this trash. Well, more accurately, not so much the totems themselves as the halflings languishing inside their amber-and-pitch prison.

The blessing of this spirit—a contract that was successfully concluded with Singha’s help—provides the recipient with a very powerful blessing that greatly simplifies work with personal energy. This is not merely an increase in control, as reflected in the characteristics of the aura, but a full-fledged, comprehensive effect—one that is insidious and cunning. Working with energy is made easier, but control over it is not granted. Under such a blessing, one can easily weave spells or enchantments that could never be replicated on one’s own in a lifetime. But any overly abrupt movement of the aura—whether a surge, a contraction, channeling through the nodes, concentration on a single point, or linear pressure—will also occur dozens of times more easily, literally tearing the aura apart with an unexpected and excessively strong impact, ripping pieces from it, clogging the nodes, and tangling the energy flows into dead loops.

These totems were constructed and brought to life using the very same hairy-legged creatures that served as the primary material for this masterpiece, retaining some of their auric characteristics—linked by the shared blood of their tortured kin. And these auras have just received a little gift like this! The power constantly circulating through the totems—the streams of spiritual energy that keep the universes of these spirit bodies in check—suddenly began to swirl with greatly increased intensity. They began to become entangled, to tear at one another, to shatter the entire monolithic and very sturdy structure. The balance between spiritual and physical matter was disrupted; the foundations of the totems began to crack; defense protocols were activated—but the defense itself was also ten times stronger and just as unbalanced.

After thirty seconds of frantic attempts to do something—accompanied by an indescribable barrage of profanities in dozens of dialects all at once—all thirteen totems cracked in unison, and then crumbled into amber and pitch-black crumbs: the bones of the halflings, shattered by the pressure of magic. The portal complex was hopelessly damaged, with no chance of repair or even of understanding what it had been in the first place or exactly how it had happened. With a quiet creak, the spirits that had dwelled within those totems left their abodes—though not all of them; some had suffered too much and had disembodied.

A moment later, with a wild and inaudible scream, it began to disembody the two elder guardians, who were also bound to this structure—drawing sustenance from it, yet also safeguarding it with parts of themselves. It didn’t kill them, but it ripped away a portion of their power, forcing them to break their contracts, leaving only a small part of themselves still chained to it, and then plunging them deep into the world of the Spheres. Right where an ambush awaited them in the form of combat packs prepared by Stepan—those that had been specifically honed for battle in the world of the Spheres. And the “Turquoise Left and Aquamarine Right,” which once seemed immeasurably powerful to him, of course still play one of the leading roles, but they are not the strongest or most dangerous in that pack.

A continuous, self-looping silvery line flashed, like a string from some musical instrument. A long, high note—audible to no one but Stepan—rang out, and with it the elder spirit fulfilled the bargain and delivered the single promised blow. The orc brother was freed and could finally die when the spirit—which looked like a gleaming white ribcage with a mass of bony, bloodied tentacles—was simply torn apart into several dozen pieces, sliced like a boiled potato in a Russian salad. The sister found her freedom three heartbeats later, when the elder spirit—wrapped in the jellyfish’s tentacles—was pierced as if by a hundred invisible blades. These blades turned out to be only the beginning; through the wounds, hundreds upon hundreds of fly larvae crawled in, feeding on the bones.

A very good contract—though sickeningly vile—yet one that doesn’t require living, sentient victims to be killed or tortured; any magical flesh that’s begun to rot and ferment will do. And he loves bones, too, so despite Akshtar’s summons, he was bound to perform quite well. And he did! Not even “pretty well”—he did an excellent job! The second bone creature lasted less than a couple of seconds in real-world time before it, too, kicked the bucket, and its stomach released the undigested sacrifice into that long-awaited eternity.

A few minutes later, Stepan had already made use of a portal piercing hidden deep within the spheres. He entered it, and then brought his entourage with him, leaving not a single trace of their presence anywhere near the burial mound that served as their refuge. The spirits even took the guiding stones with them, carrying them off. It took about another hour to assign the entourage to their respective totems and finalize one-time contracts, awarding additional rewards to those who had distinguished themselves; then the shaman returned to his body.

His disjointed body, aura, and spirit snapped together like Lego pieces, and a moment later, a groan of agony echoed through the underground chamber. Stepan’s stiff and partially numb body literally rolled out of the multi-layered circle-bed and immediately began vomiting foam into the bucket held out to him. In principle, he hadn’t needed to prepare himself with alchemy before such dives for quite some time, but the Earthling couldn’t know for sure how long this task would take him. He’d had to play it safe, and now he was paying the price.

A warm and delicious drink flows down his throat—the unmistakable taste of wild honey—as strong female hands lift him up and lay him on the bed, beginning to massage his limbs and back. Lemira and Rovena, who had come from Dantmark through the passage, did everything they could to help their mistress’s “toy” regain his strength. A part of the earthling even wanted to take advantage of one of them—or even both—but the massage felt far too good, the urge to let it all out was too strong, and they were kneading him just right. It all ended with the bloodsuckers, smiling slyly at each other, helping to relieve the tension by hand, intercepting the stream of semen with their lips at the last moment, kissing the head from both sides, and using their tongues to ensure they didn’t miss a single drop.

He emerged from his lair feeling refreshed and satisfied, even though the system had not granted him any rewards whatsoever for his operation—no feat, no achievement, not even recognition of any kind, unless one counts the (quite respectable) slight increase in his strip of experience. It’s a shame, but perfectly understandable. A significant portion of the work had been done for him—either by Singha with her summons of the blessing-destroyer, or by Furval and Urvag when they pinpointed the exact location of the funeral home, which was perfectly concealed on the magical plane. The defenses there were, well, a C-minus at best, or maybe even a B+, so they didn’t pose any particular difficulty for Stepan.

After turning off the dummy, who had been fulfilling the role of “fetch, bring, and don’t get in the way” for the “sick” girl—who was, in reality, absorbing the gift of the Tablet—Stepan also warned her that he would be coming over for a talk soon. The passageway in the closet was immediately opened for the dummy, and Stepan and the dummy—which was visibly losing its human features—literally passed each other in the passageway. Recently, both he and de Lomer had managed to master the logistics of such rearrangements and replacements, executing the partial opening of a controlled breach in the defenses and a teleportation into the hideout directly through it with impressive skill.

“I have the most unpleasant news for all of you, ladies and gentlemen.” Stepan’s smile and tone didn’t match his words at all, and the end of his sentence brought similar smiles to the faces of the entire de Lomer family. “I have this—exclusively intuitive, I might add—feeling that, in the near future, the smuggling routes through the Steppe will undergo a certain degree of renewal, diversification, and adjustment, but this, I repeat, is simply my opinion. I had a dream; my intuition is whispering to me.”

Everyone present looks utterly satisfied, but Urvag stands out in particular—he’s the one who trades with Steppe and runs the smuggling operation through the destroyed portal complex, which now has no one left to rebuild (unless it’s Stepan himself), which had caused quite a bit of trouble, preventing him from becoming—if not a monopolist—at least a dominant player in the trade of steel and various alchemical reagents; but, let’s just say, he wasn’t always able to twist the arms of particularly brazen partners. Now, however, he’s in the clear, because officially he has absolutely nothing to do with it—something he’ll swear to under any oath, especially if he blesses himself beforehand with a couple of rituals devised by Maega.

Of course, if he were subjected to a full-scale psychological interrogation, he would inevitably crack, but to carry out such an interrogation, they’d have to kidnap him by force. No one would ever sign off on or authorize such a thing through legal channels; anyone who tried would be devoured whole by August de Mont Ros. Or the entire Confederation would devour him en masse if he decided to pull something like that off on his own. But with a kidnapping—yes, with a kidnapping, anything is possible. Not so long ago, a very wealthy, very influential, and extremely shady business tycoon was, in fact, kidnapped during a combat operation—most likely an elven one. Afterward, the venerable Virantir turned out to be among those who were deeply entangled in illegal dealings with a certain Master.

"So I suppose I shouldn’t neglect my security either, nor let my guard down while riding in the carriage along a familiar route." So said Urvag, trying to sound serious and composed, rather than giggling like an idiot, like a little child, unpatriotically gulping Kuordemar rum straight from the bottle, as his own brother did. “But the news is wonderful, even though I’m already tired of reminding you that it makes me damn uncomfortable that you don’t demand payment for your services. We, for our part—if I may say so—haven’t been sitting idly by either...”

At that moment, they all looked over at Furval in unison; he had set aside a half-empty bottle and folded his arms across his bulging belly with an expression of pure innocence. Stepan snorted, Singha smiled, Maega snorted like a vicious fox, and Urvag simply pressed his palm to his face, mentally implying something along the lines of “there’s no way I can fix this guy now.” The banter between them—clearly a familiar routine for these two—didn’t prevent them from moving on to more substantive discussions. The trading house's intelligence operations and those of its allies were operating at the very limits of their capabilities—and slightly beyond—thanks to allies who, seeing that de Lomer were not only winning but had no intention of slowing down anytime soon, were providing truly significant intelligence support.

This was partly because there were very few registered Trading Houses in the Confederation of Free Cities that could afford the luxury of maintaining even neutral relations with the faction of Akshtar the Mute Tambourin, which could rightly be called radical revanchists. They also counted on de Lomer to squander his strength and resources on a conflict that would benefit all his allies but ultimately weaken only de Lomer himself. True, the opposite seems to have happened here, since this House got off to a very fast start and, so far, has shown no hurry to face excessively powerful counterattacks. They might become too strong, having taken too big a bite out of the steppe pie with its bones. Then their allies might well begin to actively side with the other side of the conflict—a possibility that cannot be ignored.

The Steppe revanchists, who want to make the Steppe Great Again and who fervently hate the treacherous scum that prevents them from rising from their knees and slitting its throat, are certainly no gift to anyone. But just as they have been slitting each other’s throats first and foremost—waging dozens of sluggish or fierce tribal conflicts, rarely venturing beyond the Steppe, and mainly tormenting ordinary people and the Noble Houses along the border—so will they continue to slit each other’s throats, occasionally going on raids. From those raids and that carnage, the damage to the Trade Houses is minimal; in many ways, this situation even suits them—the aristocrats suffering from the raids are forced to spend fabulous sums on defense, arming their retinues and militias, or else they’ll literally be devoured. But the de Lomers, who have become excessively influential—they’re right here, close at hand—we’ll have to live with them and actively compete with them for markets.

It’s no surprise that Urvag and Furval have already begun figuring out whom to offer a share of the pie to—and under what terms—so that everyone wouldn’t rush in to snatch it all at once, like a pack of wolves. The vague anxiety gnawing at the plump girl’s intuition wasn’t helped by the recent meeting between Maega and the venerable Turiel de Mont Ros—or rather, between Maega, Urvag de Lomer, and Turiel. Her husband had simply served as a handsome backdrop while the girls whispered about their own, feminine matters. The conversation, which took place in the empty corridors of the conservatory—which seemed to have died out for the duration of their talk—left both husband and wife with decidedly mixed feelings.

"She just bit down and let go. Like a cat playing with a mouse." Maega rarely speaks respectfully of any of the wide-eyed girls from the big cities, but in this case, that respect was there, along with a fair share of anxiety. "She… It’s hard to say, hard to put into words. But she understood. She understood my words—exactly what I was saying. Who I was calling and why, and who I’d managed to reach. I can’t say she understood our unspoken implications. But I won’t say the opposite either. And the way we spoke… Tkhat-laash."

The last phrase meant something like “a tongue without bones,” to put it in earthly terms, only noticeably cruder. Urvag immediately explained that the venerable Turiel was clearly teasing Maega a bit, jumping from one topic to another, returning to the original one, and barely touching on the specific issues of shamanism. And a long monologue about different varieties of roses might be interspersed with references to some very classic book on astrology and reading star charts, only to then return to the earlier summons and veer off into a discussion of the influence of Confederate fashion on the style of dresses worn by noblewomen of the steppes. The shaman had the persistent feeling that this little lady had decided to cosplay Detective Columbo in front of Maega, even though she probably hadn't heard of him.

Behavior that was partly or entirely absurd—the kind that made her very tense conversation partner feel nervous, look for mistakes, and feel insecure. And the elven lady, deceptively relaxed like a cat basking in the sun, read all these reactions, recorded them in a mental catalog, sorted them out, and came to a certain conclusion. Masters Johannes and Ahya, the court master wizards of the de Mont Ros family, also took part in the conversation, though only minimally. They both knew how to counter shamans but were not well-versed in the theory of shamanism.

But the venerable Turiel indeed was.

"My head’s spinning from her schemes—it’s way over my level. May the devil take her!" Urvag reacted with uncharacteristic emotion, rubbing his temples as if a migraine had struck, and a check of his aura confirmed that it indeed had. “She’s the head of the Secret Chancellery, not a merchant—a completely different field, different training, different experience. A fucking abyss of experience that I don’t have. The only consolation is that she can’t possibly suspect your existence, Pann; otherwise, she wouldn’t have let it slide so easily. But this favor is for her—specifically her, not Augustus… so now I’ll have to sleep restlessly, waiting for the day she calls in this debt, wondering what she’ll ask for, what she’ll demand.”

The storm had passed, and the three-layered legend seemed to have been devoured, though it wasn’t entirely clear whether the elf had suspected the fourth layer—the one where the unaccounted-for carrier of the Tablet of the Soul was hiding. The first layer was simply the official version: Maega had taken it and saved her son, husband, and brother-in-law by fending off and outwitting the “bony thorn” of the universally despised Akshtar. The second layer, through subtle hints, led one to believe that not long ago, Maega and Singha had made a significant leap in their mastery, completing a long-standing project and, in the process, managing to restore some of the invocations lost over the centuries—ones that had been considered lost to their bloodline.

This legend fit perfectly with Maega’s not-so-distant dealings with the forest emissaries, when—as repayment for saving her daughter from the clutches of Kuordemar’s “hospitality”—she was forced to carry out a couple of very difficult assignments on behalf not even of the Forest, but of their Palace. Maega said not a word, had not a single thought, nor conjured a single image about the contracts themselves, clinging to the oaths she had sworn, but even without any hints, it was clear what had drawn her into the search for Master. This made Singha’s reaction to her encounter with Stepan there, in the jungles of the Worm Queen, all the more understandable.

Getting back to the topic—those orders weren’t just generously paid for, but so generously that it’s actually scary, and Maega was even allowed to keep all the offerings that wouldn’t be used during the call. And those items are so extraordinary that they’d fit right in as a “super-lot” in the system’s store. Just the flight feathers of the Thunderbird alone—and a genuine ancient specimen at that, a species that has been considered extinct on the continent for several centuries! Even Stepan started drooling involuntarily at the sight of them. In short, with offerings like these, it’s entirely plausible to explain the sudden surge and emergence of a whole series of new—or long-forgotten—old contracts.

The third layer—about which there wasn’t even a hint, just a few very indirect clues—was the classic “bear trap.” Another steppe term with a long history, but to put it in plain terms, the third layer made one suspect a cunning trap and a provocation. In other words, de Lomer knew that an attack was being prepared (and they had their suspicions—the crystal trap alone was enough to arouse their suspicion), and they knew where and how it would be carried out. They had known for many months—which is precisely why they managed to fend off the attack with almost no bloodshed or losses, and then managed to respond so effectively and powerfully—a response that would have been very difficult to mount with the resources Maega and de Lomer had at their disposal. It was as if they had begun preparing their response in advance and were simply waiting for Akshtar’s attack—waiting for him to cross all boundaries and break all the rules, thereby giving them free rein.

“God, what a bunch of sneaky bastards we are.” That was all Stepan said, flashing a grim smile. “We lured that poor old man into a treacherous trap and tricked the poor soul. Fine, then—I say we keep on beating up disabled old people. You know, beating up people like that is going to become second nature to me soon."

"I know, you told me." Singha got the joke—unlike her mother, father, and uncle. "About that goblin. The lake witcher."

Retelling the old story and explaining the memetic nature of the phrase “I beat women and children” took another half hour before everyone went their separate ways. Still, no one relieved Stepan of his menial duties, even though this current part of the legend allowed the caring Maega and the astute Master Lavis—who could sense which way the wind was blowing—to shirk some of the most time-consuming aspects of the work. The hardest part was feigning a sincere lack of understanding of the situation, which is probably why some of Urvag’s relatives were just as sincerely convinced that Maega had artificially blown this inability to grasp the obvious into Stae’s head.

Or even Singha, who was gaining more and more fame with each passing day, for her dramatic leap in development had already officially confirmed her status as a senior shaman. News from the Steppe—accounts from witnesses to the battle with the late Kulym—had finally reached the ears of the local Confederates. People had been staring at the girl before, but now that she could literally consider herself the youngest master of magic in the Confederation, that attention had become downright excessive. Even if her mastery wasn’t entirely pure—rooted in the specifics of shamanism in general and an ancestral practice that had finally taken off after many generations of a bloody lineage—there was still a hell of a lot of attention. And that attention was far from always healthy and well-meaning—oh, not always! In short, Singha was secretly glad about the state of martial law at home, which allowed her to cancel most of her social outings and get-togethers with her girlfriends.

Poor, tired Stae envied her for that—sincerely and bitterly.

* * *

Skotok-Saray was one of the major cities of the entire Steppe—and rightly so, as it covered an area even slightly larger than Morgrave’s. This was largely due to the fact that there were practically no multi-story buildings here, and a great deal of space was set aside for pens for warhorses and other livestock. Its population, of course, could not be compared in size or wealth, but it was nonetheless a major transit hub in the middle of the Steppe—closer to the northeast, yet partially intersecting the trade routes of the heart of the Steppe as well. It was a place where blood was shed very often, and where rulers changed hands only slightly less frequently, since the city changed hands roughly once every half-century.

Right now, yet another figure of compromise is in power here, trying to please everyone at once—which is why everyone immediately dislikes him. Well, how does he rule? De jure, the young Tsulkhara-bey—who took over the post from his father, who retired at a rather inopportune time and was very quickly laid to rest in a burial mound—is the undisputed ruler of this vast encampment. Behind him stands an unbreakable wall of his loyal guard of nukers and the no less loyal steppe aristocracy, as well as the slightly less loyal tribes of tributaries and the merchant dynasties of caravan drivers. De facto, everything is ruled by a motley crew of representatives from those very factions, who modestly call themselves “the most loyal advisors,” and their loyalty has been sustained by the fact that, for now, it is in no one’s interest to dig a burial mound for Tsulkhara-bey.

A young lad who hadn’t even turned twenty yet. Stepan, upon hearing this description from Maegi, merely grunted, considering his own glaring youth. He spent most of his time in the harem or with the maids assigned to him. And from what intelligence had managed to uncover—not just from de Lomer—those three maids, each a highly experienced adept of her own school of magic, would only refrain from sitting on their master’s face or brainwashing him in public during official meetings. In short, the puppet ruler happily spent his time in the arms of others, occasionally sealing this or that deal with blood and the bloodline of a distant, distant descendant of the Chief of Chiefs and a relative of a host of noble families.

All of this meant that there were so many agents from various steppe factions in Skotok-saray that you could have formed a separate secret service from them—or even two such services—and a small rapid-response unit on top. Operating here using the “raincoat and screwdriver” method was orders of magnitude easier, but also more difficult; there was always the risk that your agents had long since ceased to be solely yours, that your network of informants would overlap with someone else’s, that some unpredictable shit would happen again, and everything would go down the well-known path. In short, it was precisely here that de Lomer chose not to mobilize his small network of agents, preferring instead to rely on professionals.

These professionals turned out to be Sulsham-bey’s men. He was one of the few major players in the Steppe who preferred dialogue to war, trade to plunder, and compromise to hostility; he was, in a sense, no more interested in the success of today’s operation than Maega and Singha—and certainly more than Stepan. It was his men who set up a small hideout on the outskirts, carefully isolated it, and then even installed several of Maega’s communication totems there. In effect, they created a window for spiritual passage through which one could not only pass but also observe or perform something important without entering directly.

\\“What a mess.” So goes Stepan’s spiritual musing as he looks through this little window alongside two female shamans. “Have they even heard of clearing spiritual emanations and purifying energy? Judging by what we see here—no.”

He and Singha are sitting in an underground shelter, while Maega is in her White Yurt, but they share the same window-portal. It’s just that this little window has only one exit, leading to an inconspicuous yurt among hundreds of others just like it. As for the entrances, there are two—or perhaps just one, existing as a spiritual reflection at two points simultaneously. All three shamans have not left their bodies; they have partially emerged from them but are still firmly anchored in the flesh that is home to their souls. Hanging before each of them is a small, deliberately carelessly crafted doll with a clay head and a body made of fabric stuffed with herbs.

Oh, how Maega had to force herself when she let him take a drop of her blood right in front of her and mold that very doll right there in front of her! It was a hell of a sign of trust, even though she knew full well that, with his Tokens and the Mark, Stepan didn’t need that blood at all if he’d planned to turn Maega into a submissive doll. But it’s one thing to know this logically, and quite another to willingly hand over such power over herself to a true professional. After all, he needed to test how that doll responded to Maega—the one that clapped her hands, squatted down, and flicked her own nose, without even noticing her actions, accepting them as normal, and paying no attention to them at all.

And then, simply realizing what had happened—which made her tremble with the desire to eliminate the threat at any cost, take back the doll, and stop being so dependent on someone else’s will—Singha reacted much more calmly, though she wasn’t entirely free of nerves either, especially when she realized she’d been acting under someone else’s will. Some particularly mean part of Stepan kept urging him to test the envolutive connection in a slightly more “creative” way. It wasn’t just wrong—it was downright humiliating—to try to get even for what Maega had done, but he suppressed that part of himself with truly titanic willpower and heroic humility of spirit.

But now each of the three has a fully-fledged puppet-mediator, fashioned from a real spirit of the animal-passion sphere—spirits that were exceptionally wicked and unwilling to negotiate, which is why they became victims of vivisection. All three peer into their dolls, as if leaving their bodies, but in reality remaining within them; instead, ghostly copies of Stepan, Maega, and Singha emerge from the dolls, their animalistic features barely discernible in their spiritual forms. Not like those of cute cat-girls, but something closer to the cursed forms of lycanthropy or other were-curses—evil, traumatic, and disfiguring.

If these spirits were to possess someone's body, that's exactly what kind of accursed, beast-like creature would result. After Stepan applied his skills (with some assistance from the mother and daughter), this ability of the spirits to inhabit human bodies takes on a completely different role. Now these three spirits are their copies—remotely controlled clones possessing a portion of the abilities and powers of the three shamans. They have literally created an envolt-mannequin for spiritual travel! This is truly a new development in local magic—a school of thought that had never before existed in reality, simply because there wasn’t a single moron who could have come up with it. But Stepan had the Tablet, as well as the abilities it had granted him, so the task, while not simple, wasn’t particularly difficult either. Especially with competent help on hand.

Three ghostly shamans squeezed through a window that was too narrow for them, and then the window slammed shut, cutting them off from any way back. Venturing into this place in a spiritual form—and with almost no entourage at that—is an extremely dangerous undertaking, even for the three of them. There are plenty of local shamans here, and the packs of sentinel spirits aren’t just circling around for decoration. They’ll track them down, spot them, attack them, and force them to flee and retreat rather than fight, because three shamans out of their bodies—and without a proper entourage—would find themselves in the role of hunted rabbits. Well, a hunted man-eating wolf, played by Stepan, who has mastered spiritual transformation to perfection.

That is why they didn’t come here in their spiritual bodies; instead, they simply put on others.

These costumes are uncomfortable, not as easy to transform into, don’t respond as well, and overall, it feels as if I’ve squeezed into a mannequin—only far less comfortable than the doll standing in for Stepan as the footman. On the other hand, he doesn’t feel bad about them. Besides, they won’t be dancing in these little costumes for long. They wear out quickly; in a couple of days, the spiritual bodies will simply burst, and their consciousnesses (specifically their minds, not their spirits) will return to their ghostly bodies, which will then return to their physical bodies. It turned out to be a sort of matryoshka doll—it’s quite a source of pride—and he’s also confident that some sort of reward from the system still awaits him at the end of the operation, even though he spread the burden across everyone present.

\\“This place belongs to everyone. But at the same time, to no one.” Maega replied to his words, snapping the shaman out of his thoughts and back to reality. “No one wants to clean it up. Everything that others haven’t cleaned up. They’ll consider themselves humiliated, insulted, and shortchanged. They’ll defend themselves—their yurts, their horses, their people. Everything else isn’t their problem. It’s not their decision.”

Upon closer inspection, the earthling realizes that this is indeed the case. In the Higher Spheres, one can see separate fortified and protected areas, further reinforced by portable altars or groups of totems. But between them, it’s a complete mess. There are shards of spiritual images left over from kamlanias, the remains of offerings the spirits have spurned, nascent elemental curses, and vile and simply dark spirits drawn to this stench. The entire city was separated from the world of the spheres by a powerful and ancient kamlaniya—likely part of some altar—the very same power of blood possessed by the local venerable ruler. But as soon as this barrier between the spheres and the real world is removed, all the rot and waste will immediately cause an epidemic, curse the livestock and unprotected people, spoil food and goods, and even the devils might not know the full list of possible consequences.

\\“It’s a rusty shield. A broken sword.”—Maega responds once again to the unspoken images, gazing intently into the spiritual world beyond the protective boundary within the unassuming yurt, analyzing what she sees and charting a course. – “In a fierce battle. In a time of need. This protection will turn into a bucket. It will become a jug. Into which they will pour all the filth, all the corruption. And then they will pour it out where the enemy is.”

From the rapid exchange of images that followed, it became clear that Maega knew what she was talking about. Her mother and grandmother had witnessed these strategic spells being used against the enemy on more than one occasion. Or against an ally, yes. Because far more often, this nasty stream of spells was hurled at sections of Skotok-saray when it was being divided among the interested parties. And while such an attack isn’t particularly effective against a besieging enemy—and there aren’t really any proper sieges on the Steppe anyway, due to the lack of a tradition of fortification—it should work like a charm against unscrupulous residents.

\\"Shall we begin?" Singha interrupts their exchange of professional experience, then answers her own question: "We begin."

And so they began, first by concealing themselves with camouflage and leaving the secret yurt, where the totems—having served their purpose—were already crumbling into dust carried away by the draft. A multitude of currents intertwined here; a multitude of sentinel networks and packs of spirits guarded the peace of this place. But all these networks and spirits guarded specific points of interest, not the entire encampment as a whole, so it was possible to pass between them unnoticed. Or, if noticed, they simply failed to arouse the guards’ interest, since they didn’t venture near the protected sites.

Alas, sometimes it felt as if they had to dive into a garbage ditch, swimming between protective fields and amulet complexes that clashed against one another. On one occasion, they had to eliminate an overly meticulous guardian spirit, one that not only spotted them but also automatically memorized them. Resembling a one-eyed dog—though its eye was half the size of its head—the spirit didn’t even have time to bark an alarm. A lunge by one of Stepan’s few retinue spirits immobilized the hound. Then its final cry was swallowed up by the mother’s windmill, and the daughter finished it off, manifesting a deadly-sharp dagger right there in the spirit world—its blade forged from gusts of hurricane-force wind, and its hilt from a scrap of the sky’s azure.

Once again, they had to fend off a pack of wild spirits roaming freely—probably someone’s contract, granted permission to take whatever caught their eye, as long as it wasn’t someone else’s property or a reflection of something real. They were hunting small spirits lured by free—albeit stale—power, but ran into a trio of remote-controlled, multi-component combat robot complexes. Stepan had to pull one of his backup tricks, opening a tiny rift into the very depths of the Spheres and tossing into it a nut that glinted barely perceptibly, as if carved from pure emerald. The mental effect was such that even the mother and daughter involuntarily jerked toward the rift, striving to be the first to grab it.

They quickly regained control—after all, they’d been warned—but that pack of gray clouds with teeth and eyes even got into a fight in the process, tearing up their contract and retreating into the depths of the Spheres. It’s unlikely these spirits will return anytime soon, even if they survive such a deep dive. The shamans, however, didn’t slow down; they finally reached the point they needed to reach, and once there, they got down to serious work.

First, they broke into one of the lavishly furnished yurts, inside of which a veritable orgy was taking place; even in her spiritual form, Singha blushed a little, and Stepan, to be honest, was a bit stunned. Exchanging glances, the three of them sprinkled a powder—which existed only in the spiritual world—inside the yurt. It looked like ground stardust that settled on one’s aura and spiritual body, producing an exceptionally positive effect. The orgy certainly wouldn’t stop in the coming hours… though even without their help, it didn’t seem like it was going to stop anyway.

They fed and influenced a couple of guardian spirits—two ghostly cats with large teeth—using mental imagery, essentially subjecting them to a form of suggestive hypnosis in the Gypsy style. “We’re not entering your territory,” they said, “we’re just here to ask a question.” And then, twenty minutes later, they had practically settled right on top of the cat-spirits, who were now in a catatonic stupor. And they began to wait, for their target was by no means inside the yurt, but on the road leading to the main tent of the entire encampment—and that target was bound to pass this way, to pass today, to pass very soon, no later than this evening.

Singha lights a candle that is incredibly vivid in its spiritual form, carefully holding it steady in her hands as she stares at the flame and plunges herself into a deep trance. The candle’s flame gradually burns her clone—if one can speak of such things in the higher spheres—but causes her no pain, despite the injuries that are already guaranteed to be fatal. It will last for a few hours. If not enough, Stepan will take over with the candle. Maega will still have to deliver the blow—it is her goal and her killing; she must claim the glory.

Singha had already burned away more than a third of herself and was beginning to struggle not to die—or rather, to keep the vessel of her will from perishing—when their target finally came into view. On horseback, under the reliable protection of classical magic and an entire retinue of spirits, even though he was a warrior rather than a fully gifted mage. Physical security, including a classic-school healing mage, was also present in significant numbers. Along the central path, in the heart of the most luxurious section of the barn, a youthful-looking steppe dweller in his thirties was leisurely taking his stroll.

He was graceful, though he didn’t exactly stand out for his athletic build. One might even call him effeminate, especially given his very professionally applied makeup, eyeliner, and something that looked suspiciously like lipstick. He is not thirty, but nearly a hundred. He will live at least another half of that time, remaining young and handsome until his very death. Such is the power of the ritual performed on him by Akshtar the Mute Tambourine. This individual was then plunged into clinical death—partially killed—and subsequently revived. And after such a ritual, the body—specifically, the flesh—considers itself to have already outlived its purpose and therefore does not age, as if the counter had been reset to zero.

Alas, the aura continued to age and, at the same time, became too static. Other rituals or forms of alchemy—those specifically designed to renew the subtle bodies—now either don’t work at all, work very poorly, or produce the exact opposite effect. On the other hand—a hundred and fifty years of guaranteed life, along with an equal measure of guaranteed health, youth, and the full spectrum of life’s pleasures—all at the cost of just one ritual and a heap of people who’ll be slaughtered in that ritual to trade you, the dead, for them. Not a bad choice at all, especially for someone who has responded to the call of Ebalty-bey his whole life, proudly embracing his very peaceful and kind nickname—the Gravedigger of Cities.

After all, he burned three entire cities to the ground—not the largest, but fully-fledged cities on the border with the lands beyond the Steppe—and buried the survivors alive. And why wouldn’t he bury them, when he’d promised that no blood would be shed against those who surrendered? And anyway, don’t you know the word of a real Steppe guy? A guy says it—a guy does it! To be honest, the locals really didn’t know, because up until that day they’d been fighting other people, not Akshtar’s protégé, who—though not particularly gifted—had adopted his mentor’s approach to keeping his word to a T.

The Theocracy is offering a bounty for this faggot’s head—in the worst sense of the word—that’s only slightly less than what it promised for the head of that same Arslein the Raider. And in the cities of the Confederation, if you add up the promised bounties from all the bounties, it actually comes out to a little more. In short, it’s absolutely no surprise that the guy walks around with this kind of security detail, just as it’s no surprise that there are regular attempts on his life. And it’s not just Maega, who has a natural blood feud with this guy, since he brutally murdered the sister of the man who fathered Maega’s mother, and later her grandfather—a grandfather she truly loved—who tried, along with his personal bodyguards, to avenge his sister.

Ebalty-bey knew how to fight and loved it; he didn’t keep herds or protect caravans, but he was hardly any poorer than Sushlam-bey. Less influential, yes, but not poorer—he made his living from his sword and whip, his lasso and horse, not from fields and herds, yaloms, or vassals. In essence, this man was a figure of a caliber only slightly less than Urvag himself, with the entire Morgrave wing of de Lomer, or Maega, with all the vassals of her little clan. And yet he was by no means alone here—which is both amusing and sad at the same time.

\\“Krurgash is here, too. So close. So near.”—The elder shamaness is referring to the tall orc riding right next to Ebalti, with a scar across his entire face and an eye patch.—“But his protection is different. Not like Ebalty’s. I can’t reach him. I won’t be able to.”

And there was so much sadness in those words that it almost brought tears to his eyes—he realized just how kind and sweet his ally was. Stepan silently offered his help: a burst of reserve spirit, as a last resort. He could try to take out the orc—Akshata’s personal aide and commander of the left wing of the guard—even though there were so many bone amulets on his armor that the green one could survive the impact of an enchanted catapult projectile. Maege wanted to agree, but she refused, shaking her head and just as silently indicating that this strike could in no way be attributed to Maege and Singha’s efforts.

\\“Begin, my daughter.” With that single command, Singha, letting out a sigh of relief, gently pushes the candle—clasped in her charred spiritual limbs—forward and upward.—“And so I shall begin.”

The candle flies over Ebalty-bey’s retinue, startling a couple of gifted shamans, and then shoots sharply upward toward the heavens, followed by frenzied spirits as those gifted ones cry out. Like moths to a flame, they all—forgetting their oaths and pacts—rush toward the candle, plunge into it, burn within it, and cause it to blaze even brighter. And while the shamans managed to hold onto most of their retinues—and the effect weakened significantly beyond a certain distance—Ebalty’s retinue of defenders, whom she could not properly command, bore the brunt of the attack. The six powerful spirits dwelling within the artifact belt—linked in a single chain and jointly creating a defense that even a master mage could not immediately breach (as proven in practice)—simply rushed forward, and they were not alone.

The spirits took the magic with them, stripping the spells from amulets and talismans—including those that already belonged to the classical school of magic. Even the makeup bag with its powders and its spatial expansion in the hip pouch, and the enchanted steel fountain pen in the pocket, were affected. Not to mention the protective and healing amulets that the spirits—having lost their minds and free will—took with them. Such is their nature, such is their dual nature—greed and goodness; they protect greedily, but they also depart greedily, taking with them everything that seems valuable to them but is not protected by a separate contract. They did not take health or life—they could not, nor could they even conceive of it—but they took everything that protected that very life.

For one brief moment, Ebalty-bey—who had been completely taken aback—found himself completely defenseless, and Maega seized that moment. A fierce wind howled, whispering with an ominous draft, and Ebalty, whose face was rapidly turning blue, clutched at his throat, trying to cover his mouth and nostrils, through which the air was beginning to be sucked out of his lungs. For a second—and then a second more—his body, highly developed through military training and boasting no less than a “3” in both Resistance and Constitution, still resisted the inevitable. His orc companion yanked him violently off the horse and tried to shield his comrade with his own amulets, but to no avail.

Horrified, terrified, and gasping with mortal despair, Ebalty opened his mouth wide in a scream, and a torrent of pitch-black blood gushed out, in which one could easily make out shreds of lungs that had burst and been crushed into tiny pieces. The fountain shot up three meters before splitting into a hundred tiny streams that, accompanied by the whistling of the wind, rushed off into the spirit world. One of those contracts—restored using information from the Tablet—revealed itself once again for the first time in nearly six hundred years. Maega herself, like Singha and Stepan, gave her vessel a final command, and the spirits’ bodies began to devour themselves, ascending into the depths of the higher spheres.

A moment later, the shaman opens her eyes, watching as the doll gradually transforms—not even into dust, but into droplets of water condensation—while nearby, the same fate claims Singha’s doll. The shamaness is still clasping his hands tightly to create resonance during their joint call, but she is lost in thought, clearly unable to resist the urge to start reading the list of system gifts. He had to clear his throat awkwardly to get her to focus her gaze on Stepan and return to reality once and for all.

“We did it.” A statement of the obvious, but Stepan understands it, because he can sense the storm of positive emotions that only someone who isn’t exactly a good person could feel—someone who has just sent a truly wicked man to face the judgment of his ancestors. “And our success is so sweet, Pann!”

"Yeah, I get it." He really did learn a great deal about this person, drawing not only on de Lomer’s archives—which could be considered biased—but also on his own private agent, since he’d hired the old man; but the old man merely confirmed the information from the archives rather than shedding light on the attempt to smear the poor, innocent boy from the steppe. "We caught a real scoundrel."

"You don’t understand, Pann. Even now, you don’t understand what it’s like. To exact retribution for bloodshed against someone who’s gone. From punishment, from retribution, from revenge." She’s right about that; he has a completely different mindset, and he doesn’t have any blood debts to anyone in this world—unless you count that one demonic scum. Most of those he wanted to kill, Stepan simply killed without putting it off. “It’s as if… As if I’ve thrown it off my shoulders. A burden of guilt that isn’t mine. A debt that must be paid. But I couldn’t pay it either…”

The shaman’s monologue—full of heartfelt gratitude and an utterly sincere happiness, though tinged with sadness—was impossible to listen to without being moved. Still, at moments like these, when she is happy and can’t find the words to describe that happiness, Singha is a far more pleasant conversationalist than when she’s yelling at you viciously. Still, there is a certain dissonance, because this shamaness—who looks disarmingly sweet—is now rejoicing over a successfully executed operation, carried out with cold precision, to eliminate a protected target deep behind enemy lines.

"Something wrong, Pann?" She noticed his sudden, slightly awkward silence and grew anxious—after all, anything could be the matter.

“No, no, everything's fine, Singha.” His answer was completely sincere—not a word of a lie. “But could you please let go of my hands?”

Still clutching the earthling’s hands in a deadly grip, which she had grasped to stabilize their paired call, Singha stares in bewilderment at her own hands, blinks a couple of times, and then, blushing fiercely, lets go of him and hides her hands behind her back. Stepan involuntarily lost his balance from the unexpectedly sharp movement and might have fallen backward had his spirits not caught him. Seeing this display of his personal “grace,” Singha became even more flustered; she jumped to her feet, nearly falling because her body had gone stiff from sitting in a contorted position for twelve hours, and then straightened up abruptly, like an arrow.

“Sorry, thanks, sorry, I have to run—I need to check on my mom. Sorry, I'lldefinitelystopbyagaintotalkPann!!!”He could only make out her last words thanks to his heightened Sensitivity, because she shouted them from across the street, on the other side of the crosswalk, as she headed toward her estate.

She’s acting especially strange today—maybe it’s the euphoria from her success, or perhaps a slight clouding of her mind from prolonged exposure to the candle, even if only indirectly, through the double matryoshka doll. Still, it’s definitely nothing serious—the connection was as secure as could be, so she’ll sleep it off and be as good as new. He could use some sleep himself, but at first Stepan just couldn’t resist and went to check what his beloved system had bestowed upon him from his even more beloved Patroness.

Received: “advanced methods of direct remote puppet control”; “basic skills in spiritual-energetic envolt surgery”; the process of restructuring spiritual and auric matrices to match the structure of the envolt—and vice versa—has been made easier.

Acquired talents are added to the player's overall status.

After giving it some serious thought, the shaman decided not to fall asleep—he was simply too afraid of failing the main lackey quest. To lose all the time he’d invested in this task and, more importantly, to lose the reward promised for perfect execution? No, no, not for all the money in the world—let Akshtar and his clique wait. They won’t be able to escape Stepan and Singha’s revenge. But the shaman, who’s facing penalties for failing the task, is quite capable of slipping away. It’ll be painful and humiliating—he’s sure of that.

He had to down the alchemy potion he’d bought right there on the spot, assume a meditation posture, and meditate, rapidly absorbing the new knowledge. Of course, he could have used the meta-skill refresh token again, slowed down time, and spent that time in complete comfort, but the token doesn’t have an infinite number of charges, and the “Token Charge Replenishment I” meta-skill he received from the auto-milf quest has a long cooldown and is only rank one. Moreover, he can’t advance to the second rank right now; he needs to reach the full Magister level—or its shamanism equivalent—to be able to advance directly to the third rank.

Stepan plunges into the ocean of knowledge that engulfs him, but he faces these waves with a steadfast spirit and a willing heart. And this particular flow of knowledge isn’t really all that daunting, despite the synergies. Advanced knowledge, while very extensive—like any advanced knowledge—is closely tied to working with envolts and only touches on other areas of knowledge very superficially. Here, it was not knowledge itself but “tricks of the trade”—whether those of a fighter, an agent, a hitman, or a professional brainwasher—that brought the most synergy.

The second knowledge, however, was merely basic and, in practice, stemmed from totemic mastery, as well as from those aspects of it that work in conjunction with ennvolts—the very transformation of living beings into totems, multiplied by the ability to perform such feats with spirits: totemic-puppet artifact magic. The range of possibilities was vast, and not only in terms of manipulating the minds of others or even one’s own. First and foremost, these were the very same espionage tricks, such as replacing someone else’s guardian spirits with one’s own—exactly the same, with the same image-molds, the same spheres, and the same aspects—which also serve someone else, until their true nature is activated.

However, it’s not just spirits. Physical beings can be processed in this way, too. Take, for example, the personal servant—a tea maker—of some nobleman or other, who one morning suddenly realizes that he isn’t a tea maker at all, that the original tea maker has been floating at the bottom of a river for three years or lying in a coma in the middle of a shielded, prison-like room. And the one who has come to this realization is, in fact, the “Y7R11K combat elimination drone,” and the time has come to fulfill his predestined mission… Or perhaps the “OH6969AX sex doll”—but his predestined mission must also be fulfilled. It’s hard to stop imagining such filth when possibilities for applying this new knowledge are automatically loading into my head.

It’s a good thing, too, that the system itself builds barriers between knowledge and the individual; otherwise, that knowledge would have long since devoured the original Stepan, turning him into a walking appendage to his own status—obsessed with the next level, a thirst for power for power’s sake, control for control’s sake, authority for authority’s sake, and boobs for boobs’ sake. Some other people, however, wouldn’t even notice such a change, since they, too, thought that way from the very beginning.

The side effects of this knowledge turned out to be well-honed skills in bargaining and exerting pressure during spiritual dialogues with spirits—not through direct intervention, but through a multitude of indirect measures. Knowing exactly how to reshape a spirit, alter its nature and way of thinking, makes it easy to understand exactly where to apply pressure and how to convey one’s will more precisely and forcefully by safeguarding the will of another. That very fine line of spiritual communication—which no longer teeters on the edge but directly enters the realm of reshaping the foundational thought patterns of a spiritual entity—can actually be quite useful precisely here.

Stepan got up from the mat that had been laid out specifically for him—one designed to facilitate meditation in general and the assimilation of what he’d learned in particular—feeling under the weather, but he was still a pro. A master shaman, almost a magister—all that remained was to finally invest his accumulated attribute and knowledge points. He would have invested them, but he’ll do so only after completing the quest, because it’s going to take him down in spectacular fashion—especially if he manages to acquire the magister-level core knowledge for the shaman class. A quest he took on voluntarily won’t forgive such a disruption to his schedule.

“Back to work,” Stepan said gloomily, getting to his feet, cleaning himself up as he went with household supplies, and changing into his servant’s clothes. “I don’t feel like Stepan at all, but more like some Ilya Pavlovich who’s just run away from an office somewhere. To end up in another world just to work nine to one, with almost no days off! It’s a good thing I’m one of the bosses’ favorites; otherwise, it would be really depressing...”

Talking to himself helped him get into the right emotional state more easily, essentially giving himself a series of suggestions so that he could respond appropriately to everyday irritants. Less than ten minutes had passed, and the sleep-deprived, angry, tired, and nervous shaman was already getting ready to greet his young mistress in the morning and help her saddle her new foreign car—that is, ugh, her horse for the morning ride. Singha likes to go for a ride in the mornings, especially after absorbing the gifts of the Tablet; it helps her think more clearly. Um… literally go for a ride—on a horse, not a lover.

The shaman was really tempted to tell her exactly how he felt about her behavior, but then she might actually stop having fun this way. And that wouldn’t just mean the quest would fail—since the shaman would simply do away with the part of his lackey duties that annoyed him—it would also upset the girl herself. Let her ride if she wants to—who is he to stand in the way of someone else’s happiness? Although he definitely needs to keep an eye on the hooves of those treacherous creatures; otherwise, he’s starting to get the strong suspicion that Travolet doesn’t like Stepan very much and wouldn’t mind ramming a shod hoof right into his skull.

He needs to be careful, or else it might get dented.

The horseshoe.

* * *

Against his will, a very strange cognitive distortion had taken root in Stepan’s mind: that the most popular means of ensuring the obedience of male and female slaves, as well as male and female sex slaves, was mental magic—or, well, ordinary threats, starvation, beatings, and training. As it happened, it was precisely various forms of mental and suggestive influence—gentle, subtle, and gradual—that were applied to him. Even the potion from Truda and her daughter could be classified in this category; it was relatively mild in nature, rather than harshly and permanently turning people into mindless, will-less zombies. But this is precisely a misconception—and a very deep one at that—because the most popular form of enslaving magic in the Confederation, and not only there, consisted of techniques from the arsenal of the “Branding” school.

Slaves with brands on their foreheads (it’s possible to brand them elsewhere, but the forehead is easier and more reliable) were sold everywhere, from the underground cities of the Dark Branch Elves to the sweltering, humid jungles of the Lizards. It doesn’t matter whether those brands are primitive and simple, disfiguring the body and aura, or the most exquisite works of masters and grandmasters—it won’t diminish the school’s popularity in the slightest. Pure mind magic, for all its advantages, is far better suited for covert operations than for creating loyal servants and slaves. That doesn’t mean it isn’t used for that purpose—no, by no means—it’s just that branding is still used more often.

And the whole reason lies in two extremely clear factors—the reliability of the control mechanism, as well as its extreme standardization and ease of use. The mental leash can slip, triggers can be accidentally activated, and a burst of emotion can overwhelm the induced array of feelings and deceitful thoughts. And a loyal slave, who has just shielded his master with his own body, will immediately stab him in the heart; a high-class prostitute, once she’s been conditioned, will remember who she used to be and how she became what she is, after which she’ll slit her client’s throat, eyes, liver, and heart, partially devouring these organs and shoving the severed parts down the victim’s throat. The latter, by the way, is a documented case from one of Normgrave’s finest brothels! A very unpleasant end for a lover of large women and thrills who decided to try some “green stuff.”

The Brand works in a fundamentally different way. It does not affect the mind at all, or only in a very indirect way. Its domain has always been the body and aura. The Brand controls movements, actions, and reactions, forcing the bearer to obey the commands of those who hold the control wand or amulet. Obeying an order brings pleasure; resistance brings pain—and thus, a gradual erosion of the individual’s personality and a gradual transformation into a walking golem. The highest forms of this magic even allow the use of the slave’s skills and abilities, though almost always at a level below their original capacity.

The Brand wraps itself around the aura like an octopus, turning the victim into a helpless observer of what his or her body is doing. It’s the perfect magic for simple, routine work; for silent, taciturn bodyguards; for servants and assistants who will never blab. It’s also very well-suited for lovers. It’s much harder to hide a little gift from the creator within the Brand, though it is still possible. In general, while mental processing is the choice of aesthetes and elite buyers, pragmatists from the lower segment will more often choose a Brand. There are exceptions—it’s not exactly an overwhelming advantage—but six and a half out of ten brainwashed sex slaves, for example, are more likely to have a Brand than soft processing.

The middle segment is dominated by the Brands. The elite are far from always fond of the expressionless faces and eyes devoid of any glimmer of thought in those they fuck. Working-class slaves, artisans, or ordinary gifted props—whose sole purpose is to channel power into amulets or ritual circles—will bear brands eight times out of ten. These are official statistics, by the way! And yes, these statistics are compiled by several Free Cities at once—and, of course, Neirat—because who else but them would be responsible for advancing scientific thought?

In the heart of the glorious and free Steppe, the magic of Branding isn’t all that popular. Here, people prefer wild love spells—with all their advantages and disadvantages—and the role of the School of Branding is filled by Tattoo schools or the Scarification division, which belongs to the same school. The difference is that Branding is a unique school, almost entirely focused on creating slaves, whereas tattoo artists are skilled not only in this vulgar art but also in a whole host of other things, transforming the skin of the gifted into a permanent, indelible artifact of any nature. But we can talk about magical tattoos some other evening, can’t we?

The venerable and formidable Dragbdyr Kusaka was not only a mighty orc chieftain, the leader of no fewer than three tribes—the Green and the Steppe—that had sworn allegiance to him, but also a great admirer of the Branding School. And all because he had formed a deep bond with a mage from that school, having once saved her life from an avenger who had come for her. The avenger sought vengeance for the transformation of his brother and mother into walking puppets with burnt-out brains, but instead received several days of torture, during which time the young mage and the venerable Dragbdir became quite close.

They never became lovers or a married couple. An orc would never have let such a viper into his bed. The bitch herself knew perfectly well that they wouldn’t rest until they’d destroyed each other. But their friendship continues to flourish to this day. Dragbdyr, who lived and behaved like a steppe man of the human tribe despite his orcish origins, had a harem that was quite sizable—five women. He had subdued two green-skinned bitches with his personal charisma and strength, proving his right to take them as keepers of the hearth, while the other three went about with their brand marks. A voluptuous, short half-gnome; a fair-skinned northerner; and a steppe woman.

By the way, her father isn’t just some ordinary rider—or even a knight—but holds the title “sula.” So, by the fact that the orc regularly pounds this young girl’s ass to the point where she has to go to a healer for a healing enema, Dragbdyr consistently shows exactly where he saw her father, her family, and Sulsham-bey—the patron of that family and her father’s suzerain. The orc had absolutely no intention of giving the girl away for a ransom and was in no hurry to do so, even though they offered quite a lot—she was the beloved daughter, not of her father, who couldn’t care less, but of her mother, for whom she was the firstborn. Her father couldn’t care less about the opinion of his beloved wife and the mother of his daughter; he just wanted to live, and her mother’s relatives are a whole other story—every other one of them is a shaman or a witch. And every single one of them is a rabid shrew.

Dragbdyr, on the other hand, simply lived, robbed, collected debts, and enjoyed life. Mainly the last two. Most of his work consisted precisely of collecting debts—that was something he was good at. And not just through massacres and agonizing executions—no. The green one was quite understanding; he could see things from the debtor’s perspective, grant a deferment, or split payments into installments. If the debtor was genuinely willing to pay the debt and it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t pay it right then and there, he was shown a very limited measure of mercy. It was a different matter, however, if it became clear that the debt could no longer be repaid, that the money had vanished, and that nothing could hold Dragbdyr Kusaku back.

Despite his nickname, he was no cannibal. He earned his nickname during his first raid, when he closed in on an enemy at an extremely close range and simply bit off the man’s nose. Even this humanist from the world of green-skinned debt collectors didn’t particularly enjoy inflicting pain and suffering. But he did inflict it, tormented, maimed, and committed such atrocities that even hardened ringleaders were sickened—all to ensure that no one would ever want to end up as one of his irredeemable debtors. In fact, he was so effective in his role not because he was particularly cruel—in his line of work, there simply aren’t any who haven’t gotten themselves covered from head to toe in blood and shit.

He’s effective because of his skillful blend of mercy and ruthlessness, and because he’s always ready to give a way out to anyone willing to take a step toward him. All in all, he’s a surprisingly good professional. He’s the pride of the Steppe! A scumbag, a murderer, a monster, a bastard—but still a professional, no doubt about it. And right now, this professional is staring at the ceiling with completely vacant eyes, devoid of even a shred of sanity, spilling stream after stream of seed onto Duudra’s toned and firm thighs (roughly translated from one of the Orc dialects as “Hole” in the most obscene sense), known to the world as Lhaeta-soy, daughter of Borlat-sula, son of Gorgat-sula. One stream of semen after another.

Perhaps he should have noticed the unhealthy gleam in the branded girl’s eyes—the emotions that flared up there, emotions that should have long since vanished from the eternal passenger of her own tormented body. He probably should have noted the fact that, instead of instantly shoving the green club up her ass—a traumatic and bloody act (though the orc deliberately ordered her to be healed each time so that the next time would be just like the first; he enjoyed tearing her apart and breaking her)— the girl decided to give him a massage, as if there had been a glitch in the branding settings. He certainly must have noticed how quickly and copiously he came from her massaging, light movements kneading his shoulders.

But by the time he was completely paralyzed by the incredible, pure pleasure—a brain-searing, utterly undeserved yet delightful mental execution—the venerable Dragbdyr simply couldn’t shake off the girl, who had begun to move beyond his specified commands. He nearly threw Lhaeta off his own body with a powerful thrust of his hips, but she held on. He still thought for a moment that he’d managed it. His hand managed to grasp the control rod… but it didn’t work. It was as if someone had taken control of her brand; only a strange tattoo on her forehead began to glow—resembling at once a scar, a tattoo, and a wax seal—but now a web of unfamiliar, previously unseen lines was visible on that seal.

Right on top of the central structure.

Stepan wished that at least someone would appreciate just how incredibly awesome he was, but even if an orc were in its right mind, there’s no way it would have figured out how skillfully the shaman had broken the brand and taken control of Lhaeta’s energy. After waiting for a complete breakdown of his personality—from which even the shaman himself would be unable to restore his mind—he turned once more to the small clay ball that the girl was clutching tightly in the palm of her hand, now free from the massage. She had found that ball half a day ago under her own bed.

Her brand contained a very clear directive for such a situation: to sound the alarm and call a mage or the owner. But by the time she had, for some reason, reached under the mattress, the brand had been partially suppressed. She took the ball in her hands, freezing for several very long minutes, and then she was swept over by what felt like a refreshing breeze, a sea wave, an ice-cold bath, and all of these at once. Her mind, which had long been plunged into a catatonic state of utter despair, suddenly began to function almost normally. As normal as one could possibly remain after what she’d been through. And then a quiet, completely genderless, and emotionless voice—one that was difficult even to call human—spoke to her.

And suggested.

He offered it to her precisely because he could have taken her by force, but he wasn’t in a hurry. And she didn’t even have much of a choice. Lhaeta, of course, wasn’t a fool, and she strongly, strongly suspected that they’d finish her off themselves once it was all over. But for just one chance to take revenge on the bastard who’d enslaved her, she was ready to trade away everything that was left of herself—and she would’ve been happy with the deal. A deal she’d just carried out, climbing off the still-spurting, green moral monster.

\\“Mission accomplished. Target eliminated. Begin evacuation.”—The same impersonal tone, the same terse sentences—orders, not recommendations.—“Take the staff and place the amulet on it. Then cleanse yourself and get dressed. Then wait.”

She waits, feeling a strange sense of calm and relaxation—unnatural and all-encompassing. Then a new signal comes; the staff, now blackened and crumbling, simply falls to the ground in pieces of wood and bone. Lhaeta picks up a small vial she found in the same spot as the amulet—under the mattress—slightly twists the cap on it, causing the clear liquid inside to darken rapidly, and then carefully places the vial under the head of the orc, who is still cumming.

\\“The bomb had been planted.” – For some reason, it was precisely with this phrase that she first detected, in the words of her savior—or perhaps her destroyer—at least some emotion, a hint of inexplicable cheerfulness. – “Get dressed for the exit. Something inconspicuous and unobtrusive; a hooded raincoat would be appropriate. Wait in the part of the tent that leads into the entrance hall.”

Once again, agonizing minutes passed. Once again, uncertainty and a state of limbo set in, but then there was a soft rustling against the tent fabric, and a vaguely familiar steppe man with darting eyes and a sweaty face stepped inside. He flinched slightly when he didn’t immediately notice the slave girl standing motionless, and then, upon seeing her, licked his dry lips and asked somewhat nervously, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying himself.

“So, everything's still on? You're not going to sound the alarm, then? The soldiers of the green-as... venerable Dragbdyr won't arrest us for this, will they?” If he could have gotten any more nervous, he probably would have burst right then and there, like an overinflated balloon. “So, that's it, alga?”

It was evident that the man was panicking, but the completely calm young woman simply heard the words "taking control of the speech center" in her mind, and then she spoke.

“The objectives haven't changed; just do what you were paid to do.” She says it in a way that makes it impossible to mistake her for the real Lhaeta, even when you're very drunk. “The tracking component of the brand has been disabled. The owner shouldn't notice it's missing.”

At that moment, the girl realized that this man—the one with the shifty eyes—didn’t yet know what had happened to Dragbdyr. Or perhaps he did, but was forcing himself not to believe his suspicions. The man quickly handed her a bundle containing normal shoes, everyday travel amulets, and another stone bead, seemingly made of perfectly black volcanic glass. The captive and fugitive dressed herself, followed the guide on her own, and saddled the horse that had already been prepared. She listened in silence to the arguments of the nervous agent—who had nearly botched the whole thing but had nevertheless managed to convince the stablemaster that he and his assistant “needed to go in the night to carry out yet another assignment from His Excellency.” The need for spare horses was obvious, and no one was surprised that there were as many as two—after all, it was a long journey.

The journey proved far shorter than expected; after just three hours of hard riding—not blindly, of course, but with a special alchemical concoction for night vision administered to their mounts’ eyes—a well-armed band of steppe warriors met the pair. These men had skillfully concealed both themselves and their horses in a shallow ravine, masking their presence with the aid of an illusionist spirit. With a sense of relief beyond words, Lhaeta recognized them as her father’s men.

"It's her." The henchman she knew confirmed this tersely, tossing a heavy purse into the hands of an agent who was fawning over him—practically wagging his tail (were he to have one)—and whose name she never did learn. "What’s next?"

At this point, the one speaking through the captive—who has gradually begun to pass out from the stress she’s endured—takes over. Even the Brand doesn’t help much. Her aura is severely strained; after all, the force with which she fried the bastard’s green-beaked brain was channeled through her body as a medium. She herself, gifted though weak, understood exactly what she was doing. She didn’t understand exactly how, but she understood what.

“I am severing my connection to this body.” Against her will, she raised her palm, on which a black orb rested, causing the warriors to recoil, also against their will. “It is under a calming spell. I recommend entering a healing sleep. The removal of the brand must be carried out over the course of eight days. Then a long period of rest. The reward must be delivered via the agreed-upon method using code phrase number three. I also request additional payment for completing the side mission."

“Yeah, and can I have some too? I’m moving to the other end of the Steppe now.” The sweaty steppe guide-courier immediately chimed in, surprised at his own boldness and the fact that he hadn’t been killed off yet. “Now Dragbdyr’s going to come looking for me—for his beloved… ahem, I mean, for that freed girl! You should add that.”

If she could speak right now, she would have burst into a completely hysterical laugh. Instead, her father’s servants, who had already begun saddling the horses, chuckled and smiled contentedly. They, too, understood exactly what the “side mission” in her rescuer’s words meant. And they, too, were very pleased about it; after all, many wanted to see the venerable Dragbdyr dead and gone.

"No Dragbdyr is going to come looking for you." Clearly, the guy wanted to kill that scoundrel and pocket the gold meant to pay him, but he couldn’t—it would be a stain on his honor, and then hardly anyone would be willing to trust the clan’s word. And that bastard obviously made sure that word of his death at the hands of his “employers” would definitely get out. "Unless it’s from the grave. Now, either you ride with us or on your own—I don’t care."

"Damn it, uk-lack-took-took! I didn’t sign up for this!" He, realizing the scale of the blood feud that the deceased’s relatives and associates would unleash on him—a man from whom, as he’d thought, they’d merely steal a cheap whore—almost squealed out that phrase, but immediately pulled himself together. “Then, of course, I’m with you. I can’t stay here anymore, and neither can my family. My brother will surely be killed as an accomplice. Just great!”

Meanwhile, the small stone in Lhaeta’s palm was gradually crumbling into black dust, while she herself felt herself sinking into a strange, dreamless slumber—though not yet fully. She could still hear the words her lips were speaking and distinguish colors and sounds in the rapidly graying world.

"I am severing the connection. I am returning control of the subject." Her lips aren’t going numb; she’s simply stopped feeling them as she drifts off to sleep and sinks into darkness. "May the wisdom of the skies and the wings be with you."

She collapses as her legs give out; one of the warriors catches her immediately, and she falls asleep, looking forward to waking up for the first time in many, many days. With anticipation and fear—fear that everything that happened today will turn out to be just a dream, that when she wakes up, all that will await her again is the sickening tent of green filth and the pain in her tortured body, when they’ll start tearing her apart again with a club that doesn’t fit her size. Just before she blacked out, she still managed to make out the last phrase spoken by a vaguely familiar warrior.

“You damn scaly fanatics, uk-lakshar!” It’s hard to tell what’s more evident in his voice: nervous irritation or sincere, respectful admiration. “I don’t know where, how, or through whom Borlat-sula tracked him down, but this hurbat-khanur really knows his stuff—I can’t believe it myself. All right, let’s get moving—drink the potions, put on the amulets—they might be hot on our heels."..

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http://notabenoid.org/book/86785/599543

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP