Готовый перевод Страж Империи / Guardian of the Empire: 1

Chapter 1
* * *

"All in all, you were lucky, Tier Steini, simply lucky," Tier Svots concluded. "Garot is a master of his dirty craft and has never made such mistakes before." Un-Tarch paused for a moment, apparently remembering something, and then continued: "Although if you think about it, the list of his victims consists mainly of people, let's say, incapable of putting up serious resistance: merchants and businessmen of all stripes. That's probably where he got himself into trouble, overestimating his capabilities."

"Yeah, he doesn't look like a real professional," I agreed, recalling the details of the nighttime fight with this half-baked killer. "He's not very good with a knife... And anyway... You could say he only gets by on speed."

“Before, he relied more on his other talent – ​​his ability to enter his victim’s house completely unnoticed,” the Un-Tarkh noted and suggested: “But here, it seems, he was too hasty, miscalculated something… He alarmed you prematurely and allowed you to meet him fully armed.”

"Yes, it's probably all because of the rush," I agreed, feigning a thoughtful expression. I omitted to mention that the assassin hadn't made a single mistake. And if the watchful imp hadn't woken me up... I most likely would have woken up with my throat slit from ear to ear.

"You got lucky..." repeated Tier Svots, casting a thoughtful glance at me. "Someone was very lucky that our smugglers got nervous and acted stupid in their haste. If only they'd thought it through and found people more serious than Garoth... We have craftsmen no worse than those in the capital... That would have been a disaster for you, Tier Steini." And he asked sternly: "And why all this?"

"Because I didn't report my investigation to you... After all, no one would have needed to eliminate me if I weren't the only person who knew all the details of this case..." I drawled dejectedly, having long ago memorized what the Un-Tarkh wanted to explain to me. Our conversation had returned to the same topic for the tenth time. It was as if the head of the Ostmor branch of the Security Service was trying to instill in me a conditioned reflex: to report to him every single thing I might even think of doing.

"Exactly!" the Un-Tarkh nodded approvingly, reassured by my compliance.

I sighed and cast a distasteful glance at the imp sprawled on the table. He immediately turned his snout away and spread his paws, as if to say, //"What?!"

Although it was precisely because of this scoundrel that I was almost killed by a hired killer... And yet, just three months ago, when I arrived at the separate Ostmor customs post, nothing foreshadowed such troubles...

//"So, did you make a quick buck? Eh, smuggler-catching specialist?" I couldn't resist a venomous jab.

//“And I'm to blame for the fact that your smugglers are such idiots?! They have no idea how these things are done, but they all rush in there anyway!” the demon snorted indignantly. “It's a sacred duty to share your income with the customs officers!”

I sighed again. It was my own fault, too. I should have taken this matter more seriously, not just seen it as a way to relieve boredom. And I shouldn't have doubted that the demon knew smugglers better than me... Now I'd lost a bet on him... Although... What choice did I have? When that wildly seductive bitch Caitlin keeps appearing everywhere...

Oh, I remember...

* * *

Back then, on that ill-fated day, I immediately believed As-Tarkh Bachur that there were no smugglers at the separate Ostmor customs post. Although absolutely everything pointed to the fact that my appointment here was a sophisticated act of revenge on the part of the Secret Service leadership, and that I had simply been exiled to these backwaters. And it wasn't just me — everyone seemed to think so: the openly smirking un-tarkh Svots, and the Ostmor guards, who were told about the important task I had been sent here to perform. It was fortunate that at that moment I had no way of reaching Grass-Tarkh Luarier with a weapon in my hands. Otherwise, I would have been executed for the murder of a high-ranking imperial official. And one committed with particular cruelty at that.

I was so angry and indignant back then... It's impossible to describe. My former boss immediately stepped aside, and I had to take care of customs matters right away. Standing on the pier, by the silver arch covered in scarlet runes, I just gritted my teeth, looking at the endless stream of dirty, foul-smelling creatures called sheep. I wanted so badly to kill someone...

But by the time the heavy ferry had unloaded, I had calmed down a little. And the guards who had been standing nearby had stopped quietly mocking me and smirking. They must have gotten tired of it. Their foreman, after discussing something with the sergeant behind my back, came up and asked:

"So, Tier Steini, you will also be one of the guards?"

"Uh-huh," I confirmed. I pulled a couple of my badges out from behind my jacket collar for all to see. Then I extended my hand to the East Sea guard and introduced myself properly: "Senior Foreman Karridan Steini."

"Gothard Delaney, foreman," the head of the unit manning the customs post shook my hand. He narrowed his eyes slyly. "So what brought you here, brother?"

"For services to the Empire," I grumbled, barely restraining myself from swearing at the head of the First Department of the Secret Service. I explained to the now-elderly guard with a bushy mustache and a whitish mark from an old burn on his right cheek: "I recently proved myself in a high-profile smuggling case."

"So you weren't sent here for some misdeed?" The Ostmor foreman stared at me in amazement. "But if so, then why? You couldn't find smugglers here even with a lantern! They wouldn't be fools to try to sneak something illegal under the Arch!"

"The bosses know best," I diplomatically evaded the question, unwilling to admit that this appointment was truly exile for misconduct. Better to let my subordinates think what they want than openly smirk behind my back. Why should I ruin my mood for the next six months?

"No, wait," Gothard shook his head vigorously. "Wait. We need to sort this all out..." He frowned at me. "So what does that mean? They sent you here to check on us? To see if we're doing our job properly here, and then report back?"

"No, nothing of the sort, I'm not tasked with checking you out," I reassured the foreman. But I still kept quiet about the real reasons for my presence here.

"Then why the hell did they send you here?" Gothard glared at me incredulously. "It's not like for catching smugglers, after all!"

"Why not?" I played along with my interlocutor. "I was given explicit orders to stop the smuggling of goods through this post. Which means the authorities have reason to believe there are problems with the legality of goods being transported across the border here..."

"Oh, come on, that's nonsense!" The foreman waved it off and pointed to the fenced-in pier, which could only be reached by passing under a tall silver arch. "Look for yourself - it's impossible to sneak anything past the Stiarch here without being noticed!"

"Well, I don't know..." I assumed a thoughtful look. "But somehow they manage to smuggle contraband..."

The foreman spat in frustration and was about to offer a few more compelling arguments to prove my assumptions wrong, but then the stream of sheep disembarking from the ferry dried up. And then the owners of this flock appeared – dusty and sunburned steppe dwellers, almost black. And all of them, one after the other, were short and skinny. And their horses were the same – small and unimpressive. No match for our horses.

Ignoring me, an elderly steppe dweller stepped forward, dressed quite decently compared to the other drovers. He turned his head, surveying the delegation greeting him, and then, somewhat bewildered, addressed the Ess-Tarkh:

"Tier Bachour?"

"That's it, I'm done,“ he said with a smile, raising his hands and nodding toward me. ”Now you can talk to Mr. Steini."

"Oh, that's too bad..." The cattle breeder was genuinely upset. "Why are you leaving? You're leaving such a good place... Everyone here envies you - you sit around doing nothing and get paid good money..."

"If you had to sit here for a couple of years without leaving, I would see whether that money would make you happy or not," the Ess-Tarkh said angrily.

But the elderly steppe dweller had already lost interest in the former customs post chief and did not answer him. He began to look at me closely, and then, having decided something for himself, said:

"Write down a thousand and four hundred sheep for me. I'll pay the tax."

"Gotthard, who's supposed to count the sheep?" I suddenly realized, looking around at the constantly moving mass of sheep.

"Why bother counting them?" he widened his eyes. "They told you - one thousand four hundred heads! Write it down like that."

“And what if…” I hesitated and glanced sideways at the steppe dweller.

"And even if that's the case, it's no big deal," the foreman correctly understood the reason for my hesitation. "So the treasury might miss out on a couple of coppers in customs duties, but that's nothing. Counting these animals correctly is a real problem. Now, in the summer, it's not so bad, they're driving the sheep a little, but what happens here in the fall... Anyway, the treasury decided it's easier to give the herders a little indulgence than to send good accountants and organize accurate accounting here. So don't worry - everything's fine. The steppe dwellers - they know what they're doing too; they won't cheat by more than a dozen or so animals."

“Well, okay, if that’s the case, then that’s the case,” I sighed and looked at Un-Tarkh Svots, who confirmed with a nod the veracity of the foreman’s words.

"All paperwork is certified in the office," clerk Netvor immediately interjected. "Come on, Mr. Steini, I'll show you what to fill out and how."

“Yes, let’s go,” I agreed, beckoning the steppe dweller to follow me.

"Steini, once you've sorted this out, come to the tavern," the foreman said after me. "Let's talk..."

“Okay,” I answered as I walked.

"I think I'll go pack my things," Ess-Tarkh Bachur informed us, rubbing his hands excitedly, seeing that we didn't need his presence. He practically ran to gather his belongings.

We leisurely entered the customs building, and the clerk immediately began teaching me how to fill out the necessary documents correctly. Settling down on a chair near the desk, Tier Netvor began pointing at the papers and explaining:

"Take this declaration from the stack, check its number... it should be in order... write down the name..." Pausing, he looked questioningly at the cattle breeder.

"Write Farhad son of Abdullah," the steppe dweller said importantly, smoothing his thin beard.

I wrote it down. And Tier Netvor continued:

"Include the name of the cargo owner and, without fail, the number of people accompanying them. How many were there, six herders?"

“There are seven of us,” said the steppe dweller and began to list them sedately: “I, the younger brother, his son, the nephew of my sworn brother…”

"We got it," the clerk interrupted him hastily and ordered me: "Just write it down here – with six accompanying persons. And then list them by name in the register of persons crossing the border."

"I wrote it down." I looked up from the paper.

"Now you should fill in the column with the name of the cargo being transported across the border and its quantity."

I carefully wrote out: “A flock of sheep. One thousand four hundred heads.”

"Now open the list of goods subject to customs duties and calculate the amount you must collect from Farhad, son of Abdullah," the clerk said, waiting for me to write it down.

"Just a copper a head?" I asked in surprise, quickly finding the sheep in the alphabetical list.

"That's right," confirmed Tier Netvor. "And that means you're owed one thousand four hundred coppers, or two gold and eight silver randos. The latter amount should be included in the declaration."

The herder, hearing about the money, immediately pulled a worn, greasy purse from his belt and began counting out the required amount. It was silver, of course—he apparently had no gold.

Tier Netvor patiently waited until the steppe dweller laid the required number of silver coins on the table:

"Now that the fee has been paid, place your stamp at the bottom of the document and give it to the esteemed Farhad, son of Abdullah."

“What, that’s it?” I asked incredulously, amazed by the simplicity of the document flow.

"No, of course not everything," the clerk smiled. "Everything you've just written down needs to be entered into the ledger. And every morning, you make extracts from it, listing the declarations issued for the previous day, and submit them, along with the collected customs duties, to the city treasury office."

"But I can’t leave my post," I noted.

"You, of course, can't, but the guards on duty here change shifts every morning and return to Ostmor," Tier Svots intervened. "They ensure the daily delivery of statements and money to the treasury office."

"I see."

"That's excellent," the Un-Tarkh chuckled good-naturedly and began to leave. "Well, now that you've sorted everything out, there's nothing more for us to do here."

I opened my mouth to ask something else, but he reassured me:

"It's all right, Tier Steini, everything will be fine. As for the intricacies of the local service, it's best you ask the foreman; he understands the matter better than I do. And I'll drop by in a couple of days and clarify any remaining uncertainties. Agreed?"

“Okay then,” I shrugged.

"And that... good luck to you with the smugglers!" Es-Tarch Bachur, already dressed in civilian clothes, wished me with a grin.

Glancing sideways at the former customs chief, I pressed my lips tightly together to keep from uttering a curse. What a bastard, he's making fun of me... Even though he was in my place just recently.

After a brief farewell, the Un-Tarkh and the clerk quickly left the customs office. They picked up an Ess-Tarkh along the way and hopped into their carriage. Then we were left alone with the imp, casting dismal glances at the handful of silver the steppe dweller had paid…

//“Or maybe screw it, huh? Such a service…” The horned one looked at me hopefully, considering the small sum of silver unworthy of attention.

|\\"We're in no position to refuse, imp," I sighed. "We've already narrowly escaped the investigation into Angel's escape. Now we just have to sit tight and keep a low profile until they forget all about us. And then, six months isn't that long. We'll find something to do and entertain ourselves."

//"Not long?! Six months isn't that long?!" The indignant imp screamed, jumping almost to the ceiling. "We'll die of boredom here in a couple of days!"

//“Well, maybe it’s not that bad?” I expressed cautious optimism and rose from the table. “Let’s go ask the foreman about the local realities.”

//"What's the point? It's obvious that a backwater is just a backwater." The imp muttered, calming down a bit. But he didn't challenge my decision. He simply jumped onto my shoulder, crossed his paws, and snorted sullenly, thus expressing his attitude toward what was happening.

Having put the account books away in the cabinet, I closed the office and headed straight to the tavern. To chat with Gothard and grab a bite to eat. My stomach was starting to rumble…

Quickly reaching the squat building, I went inside and paused briefly at the door. The hall was rather dark. This was because it was cloudy outside and too little light was coming in through the windows. Well, greed apparently prevented someone from turning on the lights in broad daylight.

“Steini, come here,” called Gothard, sitting at the bar, and, nodding his head in my direction, turned to the innkeeper, a burly man who was leisurely wiping a copper cup with a towel: “Here, Liget, meet our new boss.”

“Carridan Steini,” I introduced myself simply and shook the outstretched hand.

“Liget Rice,” the innkeeper said, squeezing my hand tightly and returning to his work.

"There aren't many people, as I can see," I noticed, looking around, wanting to start a conversation with the silent men.

"Yes, not so much," Liget responded indifferently, continuing to polish the already shiny goblet. "There will be more in the fall."

"Perhaps a beer?" Gothard suggested.

"I don't even know..." I hesitated, trying to figure out how to react to such a proposal. "It's not like you're supposed to drink alcohol on duty..."

“That’s just it, it’s not allowed,” the innkeeper suddenly let out a mournful sigh.

“What’s the matter, exactly?” I stared at him in bewilderment.

"Yes, Liget is grieving for the old days," Gothard explained. "The times when the booze flowed in his establishment like a river wider than Leia."

“I didn’t understand anything,” I admitted, shaking my head.

"They've only served light Erechean beer here for about ten years now," Gothard said.

"Who would drink it?" I asked, genuinely surprised. And then I quickly corrected myself: "Well, of course, except for that evil genius himself, Erech Quinti, who invented such a horror - a beer that doesn't get you drunk at all!"

"Where else can you go when there is nothing else and there never will be?" The foreman shrugged his shoulders, looking at the sad innkeeper. "Selling alcohol on the territory of the customs post is strictly prohibited."

"Yeah..." I was a little disappointed by this turn of events. It's not that I can't live without a drink, but sometimes it doesn't hurt to relax.

"So, will you have a beer?" the foreman repeated his offer.

“No,” I thought about it, shook my head, and looked at the innkeeper. “I’d like something to bite…”

"It'll be right there," Liget promised, and, going up to the low door blocking the opening in the wall next to the bar's construction site, he shouted, "Lydia! Bring something to eat! One serving!"

"Is the food variety here as scarce as the beer?" I asked, smiling at how quickly and easily the innkeeper handled my order.

"Yeah," the foreman nodded, taking a sip from his mug of beer and wincing in annoyance. "We have the city council to thank for that, for passing a resolution prohibiting obstruction of cargo transit through the Customs Post!"

"What do you mean?" I didn't understand. "What kind of resolution is this?"

"The Ostmor tavern and bar owners wanted to get rid of a competitor in the form of Liget and, in a clever move, pushed a bill through the city council, ostensibly intended to help cattle drivers get their goods to market faster," Gothard explained. "And so that the steppe dwellers wouldn't be hindered, the magistrates decided to spare them the temptations they face when they encounter the civilized world. That is, the tavern right next to the customs house: with its booze, gambling, and promiscuous women!"

"I don't get it... What, have they completely banned all the usual entertainment or something?" I asked, looking at the imp with perked ears.

"Yeah," Gothard confirmed, waving his hand. "What's fun about? It's gotten to the point that the only food they've allowed to serve in the tavern is boiled lamb!"

"And they ordered the extension that my grandfather had built to be torn down," the innkeeper said sadly.

"Yes, and the two-story annex with the rooms for the merchants' guests was demolished," the foreman confirmed. "So that no one would linger here. What can I say... Look, take a better look over there."

"For what?" I clarified, looking around the tavern and noticing anything out of the ordinary. Rough benches, tables. Steppe dwellers had settled at one. They were gobbling up boiled lamb with potatoes, chattering in their own language and casting wary, narrow eyes at the approaching tavern servant... A truly immense woman... She could easily serve as a bouncer. She was three times the size of the largest steppe dweller and a good foot taller! And she must weigh nearly five hundred pounds! Her fists were the same size as the heads of the steppe dwellers!

"Did you see who Liget is now ordered to take instead of young, pretty girls?" Gothard grumbled. "As it says in this piece of paper, “for the quickest familiarization of commercial guests with generally accepted moral norms regarding representatives of the weaker sex.” Oh, really! Got it?“ He quickly turned away from the maid who had noticed him. Then, lowering his voice considerably, he added, ”You can't mess around with these ones... You slap her on the butt, and she'll punch you right in the face... And that's it."

“Oh no,” I said, stunned, realizing what problems awaited me. Okay, there's no alcohol here—no big deal. Even if the tavern only serves one dish, I'm not picky about food. But in this situation, I'll have to forget about talking to girls for six months! So awful! So awful!

"That's tight," the foreman supported me, stealing a glance at the maid with her hands on her waist. "It's absolutely terrifying."

//"Well, it's not all that bad, is it?" the imp asked venomously, grabbing the collar of my jacket and squealing: "Come on, hurry up and throw your things in the bag and get out of here!"

//“Calm down, will you?” I frowned in annoyance, struggling to suppress my sudden urge to kill the top brass of the Secret Service. Clenching my teeth, I hissed, “Now we definitely won't leave this post just like that!”

//"Are you crazy or something?" the horned one screamed. "We need to get out of this hole right now, right now! This backwater is like a swamp; it'll suck you in in a second!"

//“It's okay, we'll get through this,” I promised, squinting unkindly. “And then the holiday will come to our street too!”

\\“What good days?! What are you babbling about, you blockhead?!” the imp roared. "After such a setup, you've decided to leave everything as it is and wipe your tears away? Are you going to sit here and quietly sniffle into a handkerchief?" And, looking at me hopefully, he suggested: “Let's outsmart these arrogant bureaucrats. We could, for example, do something outrageous to get you dismissed from service and sent back home! Then all their cunning plans will come to nothing!”

//“They can kiss my ass!” I said coldly. “They'll be waiting a long time, assholes...” And I explained to the bewildered imp: “You're right about everything, horned one—those bastards from the Secret Service set me up. But I think they understood what they were doing and anticipated my reaction. That means they simply didn't want to set all their dogs on me right away—it wasn't profitable—and put it off until later. And now they're waiting for me to snap... So they can legally kick me out of the service in disgrace! But they'll be waiting a long time, the bastards!"

//"So what are we supposed to do now, live in this wilderness for six months?!" The imp howled. "Without taverns, without gambling houses, and without prostitutes?!"

//“It's okay, just endure it,” I dismissed the indignant imp.

//“I can endure it,” the imp frowned and immediately grinned maliciously: “But what about you?”

\\“I’ll manage somehow,” I muttered in response.

//"Well, don't be such a blockhead, will you?" The horned one drawled pleadingly. "What's the point of such sacrifices? So what if they fire you? Just spit and rub it in! And besides... And besides, in this scenario, it's the bureaucrats from the council who will end up looking like fools, not you! You're the only one who benefits from this, while they're, you could say, losing their most valuable asset! There! Just think about it, where else are they going to find a first-class employee like you?"

//“Yeah,” I played along with the tailed one a little, listening to his frankly flattering statements.

Encouraged by the fact that I was not arguing and was listening attentively to his truly reasonable words, the imp continued with enthusiasm:

//"Do you realize, you idiot, how this all turns out, huh?! They wanted to make things worse for you, but ended up making things worse for themselves! What idiots, huh?!"

But I remained silent, lost in my own thoughts, and the tailed one became a little dejected. And, looking at me doubtfully, he whined:

//“Well, you really have nothing to lose... Except maybe your medals... But, apparently, considering such a loss to be insignificant, he waved his paw dismissively: ”But why do you need them? Give some money to a jeweler, and he'll make you something a hundred times more beautiful than medals! And you won't have just two, but as many as you want!"

//“We're staying here, imp,” I said, pausing for a moment and shaking my head. “It's not right to dance to the tune of some bureaucrats from the Secret Service.”

//“So, that's how?!” The imp jumped off my shoulder onto the bar counter, put his paws on his hips, and declared, “Then know this—you'll be counting your dirty sheep yourself! Don't count on me! And anyway...” Without finishing his sentence, he simply disappeared.

//"Imp?...Imp, where have you disappeared to?" I shook my head in confusion and tried to summon the evil spirit. But the tailed scoundrel didn't show up or respond.

I was interrupted from my fruitless attempts to call the imp by the foreman. He seemed to have decided that the moment was opportune for questioning.

"So what's up with your assignment, huh, Steini?"

"I already told you - I was sent here to catch smugglers," I told the truth, basically. But not the whole truth.

"No, did you hear that, Liget?" Gothard asked the innkeeper. "They sent him to catch smugglers! And he snorted contemptuously: They think we're complete idiots over there at the police station! They didn't even bother to come up with a decent cover story for their guy!"

“Uh-huh,” Liget nodded in time with his words, looking at me with a wary gaze.

"It's not a cover story at all," I tried to reassure my interlocutors as convincingly as I could. It seemed that by concealing the true motives for my appointment, I could get myself into even more trouble. If I couldn't get away with it now, they'd definitely consider me one of those bastard inspectors who harass the service people with their inspections. And that would be even worse than ridicule—who likes it when everyone turns their nose up at you when you meet, doesn't talk to you, and generally ignores you completely? It's fine in the city, but in a hole like this, you'll be howling in a couple of days without any contact.

"So, you're going to stand your ground?" the foreman asked. "Well, well..."

"Oh, come on," I said, snapping back. And, remembering that the best defense is a good offense, I snorted derisively, "As if you don't have any bad guys here. These are holy places, and the entire population is honest and upstanding citizens."

“Not everyone, of course,” Gothard admitted the fairness of my remark and, putting down his beer, turned to me: “But no one smuggles contraband through our customs anyway!”

"Are you absolutely sure of this?" I asked a provocative question.

"Yes!"

"There's no profit to be made here from illegally supplying goods," the innkeeper intervened in our conversation, pausing briefly to polish his goblet. He sighed, "That's why there are no smugglers."

"No, well, of course, there are cases when one of the clerks or caravan guards tries to smuggle something through customs without paying duty," the foreman suddenly disagreed. "How could it be otherwise? It's rare, but it happens... But that's at the city post, not here."

"And what are they carrying? Just all sorts of nonsense, not worth mentioning," the innkeeper waved his hand dismissively and, leaning his hands on the bar, continued the thought interrupted by the foreman: "We don't have any smugglers here because there's no profit in it. Most of the goods that are exported and are consistently in high demand in the steppes are haberdashery and manufactured goods. And customs duties on such goods are extremely low. In this way, the treasury supports our workers. With this arrangement, there are no smuggling flows from us to the steppe dwellers. And they have nothing to sell except sheep. But livestock imported to us is also subject to a low duty. So it turns out that there is no point in them engaging in smuggling either."

"In short, there are isolated incidents, but there's no criminal system," the foreman concluded as soon as Liget paused. "Merchant clerks might occasionally conceal a dozen or so lengths of cloth, a couple of boxes of pearl buttons... and that's about it. You can't find any real smugglers here."

"Well, if you look, you can find it, but not at customs," the innkeeper chuckled. "They avoid customs like the plague."

"That's right,“ nodded Gothard. ”They just don't mess with customs. You can't smuggle contraband under the arch; no matter how hard you try, you'll definitely get caught. And let me tell you, no smuggler would be stupid enough to do that! The only goods worth bringing from the steppes are Elvian Dust. And importing it means life imprisonment without parole... What kind of idiot would agree to carry such cargo under the arch?"

"There are no such idiots," the innkeeper supported Gothard. "'Elven dust' is increasingly transported by top, or at worst, with runners... But certainly not through customs."

"What kind of runners are these?" I immediately asked curiously.

"Just idiots," the foreman grimaced. "Not even criminals... Ordinary people, recruited by drug dealers for gambling debts or whatever. And hired to deliver goods from the other side of the Leia."

"There are some idiots who'll succumb to persuasion to pay off their debts in one go, simply by making a quick trip across the river and back. But their chances are practically nonexistent," Liget shared. "Five hundred mounted rangers are stationed around Ostmor to catch such runners."

"And these guys know their stuff!" the foreman chimed in. "They've cordoned off the entire river—posts, pickets, and patrols everywhere. Not a mouse could get through!"

"Uh-huh," the innkeeper nodded. "The chances of getting through the cordon are practically nonexistent." He looked up at the ceiling. "That's why almost all the drug traffic is on top. Where neither customs officials nor rangers can get to the contraband."

"How is that?" I didn’t understand the meaningful hints.

"It's very simple," Liget chuckled. "The drug dealers send their emissaries into the steppe, they buy Elvish Dust, return to the border, build a small hot air balloon, and, waiting for a favorable wind, launch it. They load it with a dozen pounds of the drug and equip it with a magical beacon. And within a few hours, the cargo is already in the Empire. Having safely passed all the cordons and outposts, it lands in some remote place. Where it will be picked up. And for the drug dealers themselves, there is almost no risk of being caught."

“A clever way,” I admired the ingenuity of the locals.

"Do you now understand why we don't have any smugglers here?" asked the foreman and answered himself: "Because, given the situation, they simply don't need customs!"

"I get it," I replied, contemplating the local reality. And, after some thought, I cautiously remarked, "And yet, it seems to me, not all is well with the drug dealers. Their air transport is hardly reliable... God knows where that balloon will land. You'll get tired of chasing after it and looking for it."

"That's true," Liget agreed. "Only the drug dealers make a profit, even if they only receive a small portion of what they sent. How much does this 'Elven Dust' cost out there in the steppe? Three, maybe five gold pieces per pound... It all depends on the greed of the collectors. Here, that same pound, if sold all at once, would go for at least fifty. And if you sell it in parts, you can make a profit on the whole hundred."

"Wow!" I whistled. "With such a price difference, few people would really care about losing some, even a significant portion of the cargo."

At that moment, the door separating the kitchen from the dining room swung open. And apparently, it was the same Lydia the innkeeper had addressed earlier. Or perhaps it wasn't her. But the girl was holding a tray of food.

And looking at her, I finally lost heart. No, she turned out to be of average height and not particularly impressive in terms of body. Perhaps a little overweight, for my taste... But it's impossible to look at her without tears - she becomes so pitiful. She is cross-eyed in her right eye, has protruding ears, and a nose like the beak of a bird of prey. And smiling is completely contraindicated for her! For her teeth are all crooked: some are bent inward, and some stick out. Simply mortal fear in the flesh!

"How can you live here?!" I blurted out. And then I said a little more quietly, so as not to upset the poor girl: "This place should be a shelter for the disabled, not an inn!"

"This is how we live," the innkeeper muttered in response. "Go, Lydia, go," he said to the servant who came up to us and placed a tray on the counter.

For some reason, Gothard kicked me and gave me a scary look. I decided not to pursue the topic of the scary personal working in the tavern. Instead, I paid tribute to the local delicacy—lamb fried with onions and potatoes. I was pleasantly surprised that the dish turned out to be quite well prepared. I happily devoured the entire portion and was even about to ask for seconds. But I didn't have time.

"Foreman, they've brought another flock there," the guard said, looking into the tavern through the open window and turning to Gothard, while for some reason looking at me.

"We'll be right there." The foreman immediately crawled out from behind the counter and urged me on: "Come on, come on, otherwise no one will send the ferry without us. It's not allowed."

"Well, if we have to, then let's go, of course. How much do I owe?" I asked the innkeeper, reaching for my wallet.

"Forget it," he waved it off. "I get paid from the treasury for feeding the guards and customs officials."

"Not bad either," I said, approving of the city authorities' concern for their ordinary employees. And I briskly followed Delaney.

Coming out of the tavern, Gothard turned around:

"Stiney, don't hurt Lidka. Yes, the girl isn't a beauty, but it's not her fault."

"No problem," I looked at my unexpected defender in surprise. And asked curiously: "Why are you so worried about her?"

"So she's related to him?" I asked, puzzled. "Why doesn't he turn to the mages to fix the girl's face? Is his situation really that bad because of this city council decree?"

"Well, that's understandable," I chuckled. "But still, an inn has to bring in some kind of income, right?"

"It's bringing it," the foreman frowned. "It's just that... Liget had already collected the necessary amount to make his niece beautiful, but then misfortune struck—his wife fell ill. He spent a fortune on her treatment. But they still couldn't save Adele... The healers told him right away that there was no chance. But he kept hoping... He dragged all kinds of miracle-working charlatans to her..."

"Got it."

"That's the situation." Gothard sighed. "So he doesn't have fifty gold coins right now to fix Lidka's face. And it's unknown when he'll be able to save up that much."

"Wow!" I was genuinely indignant. "Who's charging such prices? The treatment isn't that complicated. Mages will even restore a lost limb for just fifteen gold pieces."

"Well, you're comparing," my companion chuckled. "A face isn't just any arm or leg. This is a very serious matter. Especially for a girl. Magicians will fix the face for ten gold coins, but with no guarantees."

"What guarantees?" I didn't understand.

"That everything will turn out fine. It's a painstaking task that requires special skill. Not only will it take a skilled healer, but also a natural empath and a good mentalist. This work will take more than a day or two, but until the person accepts their new face as their own. Otherwise, knowledgeable people say that anything can happen... From quiet insanity to true madness."

"I didn't even know there were such complications," I admitted. "Then, of course, it's understandable why healers charge such a high price."

That was the end of our conversation. We reached the pier, where a whole delegation of ferrymen and guards was already waiting for us. One of the guards immediately handed the foreman a spotting scope. Even without it, he could clearly see both the flock of sheep and the ferrymen on the other side of the Leia.

"My eyesight has been getting weaker lately," Gothard admitted somewhat sheepishly, taking the spyglass from his subordinate's hands and peering at the opposite shore. After a short while, he announced: "It's the Fury brothers' men driving the cattle... We'll have to take the ferry twice."

"Who are the Fury brothers?" I asked curiously.

"Yes, these are our top Ostmor businessmen," the foreman readily explained. "And do you know why they're top?"

“No,” I shook my head.

"Because they are smart. They were the first to realize that it is more profitable to establish full processing than to slaughter livestock and supply meat to the depths of the Empire. They prepare various smoked delicacies from meat, tan hides, spun wool thread, and even grind bone meal! They use everything. That's why their income from the same livestock is higher than others. After all, they have a whole enterprise, not just a simple slaughterhouse or smokehouse, like some others!"

“They really aren’t fools,” I agreed, immediately assessing the prospects of such an enterprise.

“Yes, indeed,” confirmed the foreman. "They are thoughtful! All businessmen should be like that. They should enrich themselves and provide good jobs for the townspeople, just like the brothers do. They were even awarded the title of honorary citizens of the town for their contribution to the prosperity of Ostmor."

“And what, they also drive the herds?” I asked.

"Well, not personally, of course, but their people,“ replied Gothard. ”They can't depend on the mercy of the steppe dwellers and wait to see if they'll bring them sheep or not. And at what price, who knows? Business is business; you have to work every day. Although if you think about it, all the big businessmen have their own cattle drivers. And in general, there are quite a few enterprising people in Ostmor who travel to the other side during the off-season, buy up cattle, and then resell them on our market. Steppe dwellers are reluctant to sell sheep in the spring and summer. But in the fall, yes... That's when the real action starts! There will be a flood of cattle drivers from the farthest corners of the steppe! And even more sheep!"

"More?" I grumbled, looking at the sheep-filled pen at the pier on the opposite bank of the river.

“You’ll see,” the foreman grinned and said in a businesslike manner, “Okay, we need to check the ferry and send it off.”

The two of us passed under the stiarch's arch and, reaching the edge of the pier, boarded the ferry using its hinged side, which served as a gangway. A massive contraption, forty by twenty-five yards in size, appeared before us. And very sturdy in appearance. It commanded respect.

"How much can you load on it?" I asked, looking around the spacious deck of the ferry.

"Well, when it was tested, they loaded it with two hundred thousand pounds," Gotard said with considerable pride. "And nothing happened, it didn't sink... And if you pack the sheep in here tightly, you can load a thousand six hundred of them."

“You have a whole frigate here, not a ferry,” I shook my head, impressed by the figures mentioned.

"Yes, indeed," Gothard agreed. "The city's is half as much as ours." He tugged at his mustache and reluctantly admitted, "Although it's still not enough. In the fall, everyone's busy—us and the city folks."

Nodding thoughtfully, I pointed to a stone pillar sticking out in the middle of the river, from which a thick iron chain stretched toward the ferry:

"How did they get that pillar in there?"

"The magicians did their best," the foreman replied.

"Gothard, maybe you could tell us everything later?" one of the ferrymen standing on the pier couldn't resist asking. "People are waiting there!"

“We ourselves can tell the boss everything,” another quietly remarked.

"Exactly!" the others started shouting at once. And they suggested, "Why don't you come with us, sir, to the other bank? We'll tell you all about the ferry while you're at it."

"Isn't that illegal?" I asked the foreman, tempted by the ferrymen's promises. It would be interesting to ride on such a novelty.

"No, it's not prohibited," the foreman chuckled into his mustache. "Go for a ride if you feel like it."

So, I decided to take a short ferry tour. I went for a ride, met the ferrymen, and chatted. They immediately criticized Delaney's story, saying that no one bothers to calculate the load capacity in pounds or sheep. They simply look at it: once the ferry has sunk to the point where the gangway is flush with the pier, that's when they finish loading. And what happened during the tests is all nonsense. Back then, practically nothing of the ferry was left. And it was sailing, loaded with two hundred thousand pounds, almost entirely underwater.

At the same time, I was introduced to the science of ferry operation. It is not difficult, but it requires special skills. Yes, of course, ferrymen do not exert themselves physically, because they do not need to turn a heavy wheel to pull the ferry to the other side—the river carries it itself. All you have to do is move the rudders located at the bottom in the right direction, and off you go. But you have to do it right. That's why ferrymen have a foreman who monitors the ferry's movement and gives commands to his subordinates, specifying the required rudder angle. Almost like a captain on a real ship... And the responsibility is just as great. The steering wheels can be torn off by the powerful current of the river if the angle is set incorrectly. Or such a load will be placed on the connecting node that, sooner or later, the chain fastening will break. And the ferry will drift freely down the Leia...

Then it will be bad for everyone: those trying to cross the river, and the ferrymen themselves, who will have to pay for the restoration of the crossing out of their own pockets. If, of course, it is proven that everything that happened was their fault.

The least onerous job is that of the fourth ferryman, who merely swivels his head from side to side, keeping an eye on the river. Although ships rarely sail along the Leia, they do happen. So you have to be careful, lest anything happen.

Overall, it was an interesting and informative excursion. It lasted three-quarters of an hour. I didn't enjoy the return journey, though – the company of sheep was incredibly irritating.

And there’s nothing else to remember about the first day at the new place of service.

Over the next few days, I explored every nook and cranny of the customs office, getting to know everyone living there and most of the guards on duty. I got a little used to the new place, and things immediately became easier. But also a little more boring. And the imp had disappeared somewhere… And he refused to show his face, no matter how much I tried to persuade him.

Tier Svots, as promised, stopped by customs two days later. He checked on me and made sure I was completing the paperwork correctly. The Un-Tarkh also brought me a new outfit—a set of summer uniform for a customs officer. A well-made uniform, made of excellent, finely crafted cloth. It's a steel-gray color, as expected, with dark green accents on the collar and cuffs. The crown of my round cap is also greenish. But most striking are the buttons and belt buckle, made of polished copper, adorned with an engraving of the Imperial eagle.

In such a uniform, it would not be embarrassing to appear before noble ladies. However, after twirling around in it in front of the large mirror in Liget's house, I sighed in disappointment. I am not up to the task. I am not cut out to be a real customs post chief. I lack the authority and gravitas required for such an important position. I don't have a thick face, you know, with cheeks hanging down to my shoulders, or an excellent potbelly, so that my belt can barely be fastened in the last hole. Take eir Batum, the head of the Kelms customs office — he commands respect at first glance with his size. But I look more like some kind of impostor than a customs officer.

* * *

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
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Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/88185/592007

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP