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Her favorite spot in the corner of the tavern was taken. Of course, Agnesa didn't visit the city often, splitting her free time between hunting monsters and offering penitential prayers afterward. As a result, she only sat at the sturdy oak table a couple of times a month, so it would be presumptuous to expect that a free bench in the corner would always be reserved for her.
On the other hand, she didn’t want to sit with the crowd, and a lone traveler was unlikely to spoil her evening. So, she marched through the clouds of tobacco smoke, dumped her clanging gear in the corner, and settled on the other side, muttering:
“Good evening, enjoy your meal, hope I’m not disturbing you too much.”
Feeling the formalities were out of the way, she turned to the server who had appeared beside her. The tavern boys managed to serve everyone, but the Midwife was a favorite among the regulars. She wasn’t stingy with tips, nor did she shout, “You lousy bug, where’s my beer?”
“The usual, ma’am?”
Glancing at the gentleman sitting across from her, Agnesa gauged his size and slightly adjusted her usual order:
“Yes, but make it two pitchers of wine.”
“Five minutes and it’ll be ready!”
After two mugs of wine, the Midwife's fighting spirit began to wane, and she silently poured the remnants of the pitcher for herself and the stranger. He appreciated the gesture and pushed his plate of enormous boiled crayfish to the center of the table. Then he toasted and spoke in High German:
“Du-slaintish!”
Agnesa understood the meaning because a year ago, she had helped a family of ogres fend off undead threats alongside bearded brutes in bear skins. Trolls were nasty, brazen, and untrustworthy. Ogres were slightly smaller and considered northern Germans as kin. Helping a cousin’s family was a divine duty—defending the homestead from raids, fixing the cabin, propping up a crooked fence with troll bones, and all sorts of other things, including plundering a captured enemy cave and counting the loot. The brave Midwife had actively participated in that endeavor. Northerners were good folk; they even bathed occasionally when caught in the rain. The only issue was their counting. They could manage twenty if they took off their boots, but anything more required stacking severed hands to have enough fingers. So, Agnesa shot first, then swung steel, and covered their backs. In the end, she helped evaluate the spoils. Not enough fingers among the whole crew? Who would try to count them one by one? Better to use barrels or chests. One chest for you, one for him, one for the cousin with the club. And one for me, last but not least.
In short, she could understand what was said, but conversing was another matter. That required a foul-mouthed croak and mimicking Brother Dimitro when he passionately howled a new song in incomprehensible growls from the bell tower.
So, the stranger wished her good health. It would be a sin not to respond:
“And you, don’t cough,” she said, after which the second pitcher came into play. “Just passing through? From Londinium?”
“Is it that obvious?” the man in the gray suit said, taking a tiny sip from his freshly filled glass.
“Well, we only wear such clothes for funerals. That’s when they lay out the pretty ones, placing a prayer book in their hands while the family in mourning dresses squabbles over the inheritance. Usually, we wear something simpler... Also, your hat. If you leave the city walls, a helmet is better. Something sturdier. Otherwise, they might bite your head off.”
Looking at herself, Agnesa frowned. Yes, unlike her companion, she had nothing to boast about. Her favorite red cloak was stained with dried blood. The left boot had remnants of someone else's fur and claw marks on the calf. A new scratch crossed her mask. It was a miracle she managed to lower the "beak," or she would have been in serious trouble. No need to mention the travel dust, dirt, and burdock. She had only gone to the neighbors for a side job, escorting a merchant caravan along a well-trodden route. Of course, they had paid a premium for dealing with the roaming band of monsters, but she was as tired as a dog.
“My apologies, I forgot to introduce myself. Di-Lexi, squire. Freelance constable of Londinium, as you’ve guessed. They hire by contract when something needs careful consideration.”
“Const... What? Sorry, I don’t understand your island quirks very well.”
“Invited sheriff,” Di-Lexi tried to explain the convoluted justice system of those distant, misty bogs. “Every town elects a constable. For you, it’s sheriffs. An official who has the right to recruit assistants, maintains order, investigates crimes in his jurisdiction, fights vagrancy, and various other things.”
“Vagrants? What’s there to fight about? Either make them laborers if they want to work, or send them beyond the gates. After the first night, there won't be any bones left... Although, it’s all strange where you come from. It seems even someone from the undead sits in the town hall.”
Yes, the plague hadn’t hit Albion as hard. Or perhaps they just hadn’t noticed. It was wet, cold, eternally gloomy, and subject to raids by neighbors. First, they would come to seize other people's goods. Then they fled from monsters and bolted across the strait as if on dry land, terrified. In the end, the islanders oppressed only that foulness which tried to eat the people without asking. They either found them jobs or even allocated land to help them start sheep farming. There weren’t that many people, so who would have time to swing an axe at every wandering corpse? And who would work?
But since the conversation had turned almost heartfelt, the Midwife introduced herself too:
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“Agnesa, the Immaculate Maiden, eyes and ears of the Brotherhood in the western lands.”
“Intelligence, then.”
“Well, sometimes I also help the Plague Sisters maintain order. If they need a little firepower.”
“And storm operations. I see. The sword of the Mother Church. Let’s drink to you, Maiden Agnesa. To your daily toil!”
How could she refuse? Then the Midwife peeked into the second empty pitcher and gestured for the server:
“Refill! And some spiced meat!”
“Last piglet, Lady Agnesa! And the caravaners have already ordered it.”
“One moment, Di-Lexi. I need to say a few words here.”
Four big men in leather vests looked at the approaching woman with considerable suspicion. If it were one of the staff or a lady of the night, there would be no questions—everything was clear there. A pinch on the rear end or a seat on their laps was expected. But with a tall lady in a bloody red dress, they probably wouldn't want to joke around. And besides, the acquaintances at the nearby table had already whispered about how she vigorously butchered some creature in the bushes—only the guts flew in all directions.
“Hey, folks. Aren't you going to burst from that whole piglet? I think even half would be enough for you.”
To ensure her words matched her actions, Agnes grabbed a heavy axe leaning against a chair, spun it around, and with one blow, split the rosy piglet in two. After a moment’s thought, she took hold of its crispy tail and dragged it toward herself, not forgetting to slip a silver coin to a nearby boy:
“Drinks for these brave lads on me! Something good, to knock them out properly!”
This exchange satisfied everyone, and soon the Midwife was raising a toast in response:
“So, here’s to the squires! May the beer never run out, may the barns always be full, and may the undead not bother us unnecessarily!”
Agnes respected the sheriffs. In large cities, such a person was somewhere in the middle or at the end of the administrative pyramid. What can you do? A city is always a crowd of losers dreaming of chatting while doing nothing. But in smaller settlements or even villages, the sheriff served as a guardian of order, a judge, and an executioner all at once. He also headed the local militia, managing to fend off the occasional monsters that dropped by. Therefore, whenever possible, the quick-witted lady brought ordered weapons, gunpowder, and charms against evil spirits when she visited.
“What are you doing here in our neck of the woods? Seems like you have plenty of lawmen around.”
“Oh, yes. You also try to maintain order, which is commendable. The Franks still can’t tell where the crown lands end and where the chaos and disorder begin... At home, it’s quiet. So they call on me when a complicated case arises. If someone needs to stand on the trail of a criminal and track down a scoundrel. Or when the Scots are rebelling again, I act as a negotiator. My great-grandmother is from those parts, so I have to travel with letters and negotiate... And I came to you on an occasion. It turned out that one of our peers had his aunt devoured in your local lands. She traveled to a friend’s house without proper protection just after the Plague and got lost along the way. No one thought they’d find her remains, but they caught a zombie with a distinctive pendant. They interrogated it for a long time, twisting it in various ways. In the end, it turned out that he was from a gang that operated in robberies and murders here in the north. Now I have orders to find the remains of the relative. And most importantly, the precious box with the family jewels.”
“And you have a zombie as a guide?”
“Absolutely right. It points to the map, and off we go. We look around the place, and I try to find traces. I’ve been beating the wheels of the stagecoach across the local thickets for three months now, and all to no avail. I think this idiot just enjoys traveling... You won’t believe it, I’m already speaking the local language!... But I want to go home. To my family...”
***
They descended into the basement, where the foreign zombie was temporarily kept, after the fourth pitcher. Agnes leaned against the cold stone walls with one hand, using the other to steady Di-Lexi. He tried to stay upright but occasionally swayed like a sapling in a sharp gust of wind. However, the man and woman managed to move quite successfully together and even reached the place they needed.
There were no free cells in the monastery basement; every available corner was filled with supplies for the coming winter. So, the moldy corpse had been shoved into the torture chamber. Usually, the guards warmed themselves next to the brazier here, so they wouldn’t allow the last free corner to be cluttered with junk. Thus, the poor thing sat on a chain, rattling heavy iron.
Settling beside a massive table, Agnes began unloading her tools from a huge sack. The zombie first looked on with interest, but then began to bulge his eyes with considerable fear. Two sabers, a small axe, a six-pronged fork, a metal ball with spikes on a silver-plated rope. And more, and more. The displayed arsenal could have armed a caravan guard and still left plenty to spare.
After slamming down the last sharp implement, the Midwife asked the detective:
“So, he lies and locks himself away, the wicked one? He doesn’t want to tell the truth?”
“He just moos. His tongue has rotted; it’s hard to communicate.”
“Nothing. We read prayers after conversations like that. Diligently, like... SPEAK, YOU CREEP, WHERE DID YOU BURY THE OLD WOMAN?!”
The walls trembled from her scream, and the zombie, in terror, pressed against the wall and howled, horrified by the angry lady. A lady who was usually pleasant in every way but not during work.
“I’ll tear you apart, my precious little darling. Right now, piece by piece, finely shred you and feed you to the dogs... Where is the old woman? With the junk from which you snatched the trinket?” she hissed quietly, smiling as she aimed a sharp blade at his left leg.
The poor creature couldn't speak, but literally a minute later, he was feverishly poking at a spot on the map. Moreover, when Agnes handed him a stack of blank sheets and a charcoal pencil, he sketched a diagram with a road, a bridge, and a cemetery nearby.
Struggling to focus his eyes, the guest first hiccuped, then thoughtfully mumbled:
“We passed by there, yes... I remember that place... I have a professional memory; I notice all the interesting spots... Yes...”
The midwife soaked the zombie a bit in a tub of tar soap, then exchanged his old clothes for a new outfit and a straw hat. The old rags were given to the young hunters to help them train their pack without straying beyond the walls.
After a light lunch, Di-Lexi took his leave:
“I was very pleased with our unexpected meeting, Lady Agnes. I must admit that your hidden skills and ability to conduct field interrogations are simply astonishing. If you ever feel like changing your line of work, I would be honored to offer you a position as a companion. Of course, it hasn’t been as much fun dealing with monsters lately, and you’d only get to shoot in rare cases... But in a year, you would become a very well-to-do individual. With a title, naturally.”
After some thought, Agnes didn’t immediately decline. There were no unplundered banks nearby, and she had to travel unimaginable distances for each new coin. So, why not have some fun with the undead? Maybe, as she approached her fortieth birthday, she would indeed move to a land of eternal mist.
“I’ve noted down your address, Mr. Squire. You know mine too. Don’t be a stranger. I’m not very good at all those brain-teasing things, but if anyone needs their fangs adjusted—always happy to help... And keep a tighter leash on that green one. He’s trying to act like a tourist. If you don’t find the treasure, toss him into the fire and roast him up to his neck. His head can still poke the right spot on the map with his nose...”
Two weeks later, a letter arrived at the monastery. Inside was a lovely ruby pendant on a gold chain and a note: “To Lady Agnes from a sincere admirer of her hidden talents.”
It seemed that a slightly looted inheritance had been located. And Mr. Di-Lexi could now return home to his family and children with a clear conscience.
***
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