Chapter 12

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In a certain way, the night is more full of life than the day. The darkness brings out, makes the events within it shine brighter, hiding the unimportant features and leaving the bare essence behind. Late-night wagons drive along the roads, their rumbling wheels drowning out the quiet prayer of a merchant frightened by the howl of wolves, or the drunken song of a carriage driver. In the tavern, there is music and dancing, the occasional clatter of bones interspersed with square brawls, and more rarely, the sound of wheezing from a slit throat. The bed on which the happy newlyweds conceive their first-born child creaks softly. The guards' lats clink, the whites of their eyes flash mockingly in the darkened lanes, and their scornful words are slow to whisper. Those who have ears shall hear...

It was not that Hustin often went to the city, but he did not like to sit idly at the Academy either. A childhood spent in a large mountain village was not conducive to turning a sturdy, healthy boy into a bookworm, and most of the habits of life remained after the rise. Sharp wit and natural curiosity seamlessly intertwined in the personality of one of the oldest vampires of Taleya with a willingness to adventure and the ability to wait, forming a complex, but an extremely useful fusion of qualities. So now, instead of appealing to a respected leader about a minor problem, Hustin chose to deal with the matter personally. It's not hard for him, and it's nice for his family.

The clan remained one of the meanings of his after-life. His father, mother, brothers, nephews, and even nephews' grandchildren had died long ago, but blood is blood, and one should never forget one's own. The townspeople do not understand this. So the descendants of the Highlanders, who had come to Taleya just before the Plague to support a relative who had been admitted to the university, preferred to live in the suburbs as a close-knit community. The clan had a large estate there, granted by personal order of the Duke, and thus not subject to land taxation; the head of the family had the title of " a man full of spiritual support," that is, he belonged to the upper class of the lower nobility, and the income was also at a decent level. All this came about largely thanks to Hustin, who influenced the aristocrats because of his position. Specific and unstable, but nevertheless.

The fact that Morvan's servant was not supposed to be a guardian angel did not embarrass the sorcerer. He was happy to help relatives, comfort the elderly, goes into the details of the adults' family life, and spoil the children with gifts during his secret visits.

And sometimes he helped solve delicate issues.

He ducked into a dead alleyway, waved his hand toward an inconspicuous back alley, with his fingers marked in the usual way, and confidently opened the wooden door at the very end of the house. He had been here more than once. The place served as a kind of "palace" of one of the capital's gangs, inherited from one deceased ringleader to another. It so happened that the owners of an inconspicuous little house in a low-prestige neighborhood, if they ever died of violent causes - or rather, not "if", but "when", with rare exceptions - they were killed elsewhere. Not in the house itself. In those cases where the owners of a bandit's palace tried to kill them in their rightful dwelling, the attempts have always failed. Criminals are superstitious and observant people, so they soon noticed the connection and drew unambiguous conclusions.

A shabby door, along with a long corridor, with walls covered with century-old paint and cobwebs, which looked as old as the ruling dynasty, led to a fairly spacious hall, bearing some traces of old amenities. Hustin didn't stay long. A frail old man, seated at the roughly folded hearth, jumped up with unexpected agility and, bowing momentarily, escorted his visitor to the second floor. It was probably because of his reaction that the two thugs lurking in the shadows were reluctant to get to know the guest.

The second floor of the building looked completely different. The cleanliness, the thick mosaic carpets on the floor, and the carved doors made of precious Scandian wood pleased the eye and shouted loudly of the owner's wealth. This luxury was not excessive. Unlike most of his predecessors, the current owner of the house had good taste and did not want to wallow in gold.

"I am glad to welcome you, Master, to my humble abode. It's been a long time since you came to see me."

Rushd's appearance was remarkable. A tall, slender, muscular man in his forties, with regular features, piercing blue eyes, and a short black goatee had broken more than one woman's heart, causing the fair sex to do stupid things. The small scar on his right cheekbone in no way spoiled the charm of the predatory male beauty, only enhancing the impression he made. In fact, he had obtained his current position by seducing the former ringleader's favorite concubine and persuading her to finish off her master. What became of the girl afterward, Hustin was not interested, but it is unlikely something good.

"The occasion did not appear..." The sorcerer sat down in the prepared chair.

"Alas, you're right," Rushd regretfully agreed. "The order could have been fulfilled much earlier. But you know what's going on in Carmee!"

"An ordinary civil war. In the barbarian kingdoms, they happen almost once a generation. By our standards, of course."

A generation in Taleya was considered the average length of a monarch's reign. Sixty years, sometimes more. Aristocrats in general lived long lives, conceived children late, and often preferred to die in battle as soon as they felt decrepitude approaching. Cheerful strong men of a hundred years of age, leading young beauties to the altar, did not surprise anyone here. Why? He still has half a century of active life, he has time to continue the family and bring up children, and then he can retire. If only he had enough money for the services of an experienced magician and the internal reserve, feeding the spells of rejuvenation, was available in the right amount.

"I'm more interested," Hustin continued, "should I rely on further supplies, or should I look for other sources?"

"Does a dead leaf grow anywhere else?" The bandit was genuinely surprised.

"No, but there are always substitutes. With the same properties, only of worse quality. However, I would prefer to work exactly with a "dead leaf" - the other ingredients have some unpleasant features."

"What kind?"

"It doesn't matter. So?"

"Well," the owner of the house thought and shrugged, "why not? They wouldn't fight forever, would they? In any case, there are always a dozen fellows willing to risk it for a good price. Only the price tag will go up a bit, Master."

"How much?"

"Half."

Hustin was silent for ten seconds, estimating the possible income and expenses, and then nodded accordingly. He could sell some of the potions he made to people for a profit, the Academy would buy some secretly, some orders were received from Gardoman. The vampire brethren had also asked him to make some for their own use, and Celesta would pay for them. The rest will go for personal use.

"The cost of the rest of the list will not change?" Not so much asked as affirmed by him.

"No, everything is the same."

Rushd leaned back and tugged on the string hanging on the wall, his keen ears picking up the ringing of the bell in the next room. Almost immediately he heard footsteps. Heavily panting, the huge bodyguard brought in the iron-clad trunk and, obediently, placed it beside his guest. He turned slightly in his chair, and the lid of the trunk swung open, revealing a chest full of coils and sacks of linen.

People reacted differently to the obvious sorcery. The guard flinched slightly, his cheekbones marked a little more sharply on his face, and his hand involuntarily waved, revealing the urge to grasp the sword hanging from his belt. At his master's signal, he left the room with little more haste than befitting his proprietor. Not that the strong, experienced man was afraid but rather relieved. Such behavior did not surprise Hustin; he was used to it, but Rushd's feelings were worth pondering. The bandit leader looked at the wizard's actions with a mixture of eager longing and fierce disgust whenever he witnessed a display of his powers. It was as if he had seen something beautiful and terrible at the same time, appealing and repulsive at the same time. There was something personal about his attitude toward the magic that his servants did not have.

In general, upon close acquaintance the bandit turned out to be an interesting person: he was not afraid of witchcraft, loved the cleanliness, unlike most of his kind, to religious prohibitions treated with hidden irony. Hustin tried to find out about his past but constantly forgot, losing the fight with routine or not wanting to break away from his research.

"Perfect." The goods were thoroughly examined before a mutually satisfactory verdict was reached: "As always, the quality is excellent."

Frankly, there was no need to check, it was just that he didn't want to change the centuries-old order. The criminals knew who ruled the nighttime Taleya, and the bandits rarely tried to deceive the risen. But they did try. Some of them succeeded, and the rest served as a visual aid in the study of human stupidity.

"Money at the same address?"

"No, something had changed." Hustin took two scrolls out of his pocket, unfolded one, signed it, and placed it on the writing table. "A check from the First Bank of Lanaka, payable to bearer, so you can go yourself, or send someone else. And this is a list of what I hope to get in the next shipment."

Rushd ran his eyes over the text and noted: "Quite a lot. Three times more than usual."

"I want to make a supply. I'm hoping for your connections."

"Of course," smiled the bandit and smuggler. "Everything will be done in the best way. Although I can't help noting that my connections are far from yours."

"Are you referring to the bankers?" Hustin sniggered. "It's nothing. Don't you invest in legitimate businesses yourself? Yes, your main, uh, "business" is illegal, but there are savings for a rainy day."

"They are much smaller than I would like them to be."

"Don't be so glum," the risen grimaced slightly. "I don't meddle in Zervan's affairs, but I know for a fact that the income from his activities has increased lately."

No matter how hard Rushd tried, the mention of the vampire collecting taxes from the city's criminals made him flinch. There was a reason for that. The self-appointed custodian of the bandit's coffers was beating out money with an iron hand, ruthlessly suppressing any sign of dissatisfaction. True, not everyone got his attention. There were some spheres of activity, to enter which the "spiders" imposed a strict ban, and no matter how Zervan licked his eyes, could not do anything. However, regular payments for smuggling, brothel maintenance, drug dealing, and banal robbery brought a good income.

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"Master Zervan increased the rate the month before last, hence the increase," Rushd grumbled.

Hustin smiled: "Not only that. You wouldn't deny that you've expanded the scope of your work a bit, would you? Or maybe the people who came to the Muddy Mines don't work for you?"

"We just wanted to offer security services," the bandit paled slightly. "You know how many lawless people there are on the roads. I don't go into other people's territory, no way!"

"Of course. Savat got the badge for that area, didn't he?"

"Uh, actually, the Muddy Mines is kind of a nobody's land."

"Well. The deposit in the Mines is small, the ore there is poor, but it is close to the Capital. Transport costs are practically zero, and you can sell the metal directly to smiths, without intermediaries. Would a place like that go unnoticed?" The vampire leaned forward slightly, catching his interlocutor's gaze. "Take my kind advice, don't meddle with it again."

Rushd swallowed. Hustin could not match Celesta's talent for the suggestion, but he had some skills. And now he was sure he'd made his point to the bandit in its entirety, so to speak, of the consequences. Now that the warning had been given, it was up to Rushd whether he would listen to reason, or risk it, too greedy to take it. Though the latter was unlikely-no one in his position was foolish.

"And if you think about it," continued the sorcerer, "you shouldn't collect taxes. It's not your thing. You can earn ten times as much from smuggling if you have such amazing ability to deceive the customs officials."

"But it's safer," the owner of the house grumbled. "At least the peasants don't shoot."

"Peasants, no, they don't," agreed the risen. "However, I must point out that the accuracy of soldiers is inversely proportional to the amount of gold in the officer's pocket. But I don't have to tell you what to do. When can I expect to receive my current order?"

If the sudden change of subject confused Rushd, he didn't show it.

"In a month and a half, not including possible delays. Although, if you like, I can pass the goods in parts. Some things are in stock or will come soon."

"No, I'd rather have the whole batch at once," the sorcerer refused. "It's more convenient for me. Well, thank you for a pleasant time. When I request of you, my dear Mr. Rushd, I am always sure of its successful fulfillment."

After hearing the requisite empty words of farewell, the vampire descended to the first floor and, escorted by a servant with a torch - an unnecessary symbolic gesture, as both sides knew - went outside. It was seven o'clock before dawn, and the night had begun beautifully. The chest carried on his shoulder tugged pleasantly aside, foreshadowing pleasant hours in the laboratory. Now there was nothing to prevent him from doing some of the experiments his mistress had led him to think about, and the petty problem that had vexed his kin had been dealt with. All that remained was to get to the dungeon without any adventures, which was not so easy lately. Though, quite frankly, nighttime Taleya had not been the quietest of places in the best of decades. Except before the Plague...? He'd been out all night with his friends, celebrating his graduation, and the guards had accosted them... They'd let him go, of course, since it was too expensive to mess with rich kids at any time.

Or was he wrong? Memories were washed away, faded, turned into a dry statement of fact, gradually disappearing completely under the inexorable action of time. Memory preserved only the brightest and most important moments, mercifully discarding the everyday husk of routine. Celesta claimed that one could reconstruct one's entire life, minute by minute if one wished, but so far none of the undead had had such a desire. More often the other way around, there were moments I wished I could forget.

Perhaps I should take an apprentice? - Hustin was in a lyrical mood as he grabbed his oversized burden. - An assistant. Pick someone with a bit more sense from the newcomers, let him lug the tools, and look after the library. And hands-free...

He turned around and stared intently into the darkness. Was that a trick? Yes, most likely. None of his brethren would hide from him. Maybe a lowly demon had managed to slip through the perimeter of the city, or maybe a colleague of his had decided to field test a new design. Though no, I don't think so. The sense of recognition that comes with encountering the undead is too specific to be mistaken for anything else.

After hesitating for a moment, Hustin concentrated and exhaled the spell. If there were any priests nearby, especially light temples, vampiric magic would be detected by them on the count of one. The most zealous would sometimes send an armed detachment to capture the "vile spawn of Darkness," and with each passing decade, there were more and more enthusiasts. But since the Lascaris incident, the Taleyans had been nervous of any uprising by outsiders who were not servants of the Lord, and the wizard had not escaped the mania. And his gut told him it was worth the risk.

At the limit of the distance, someone's fading presence was felt. An undead, a complete stranger to Hustin, was moving quickly toward the outskirts of the city. It was unreal to mark at such a distance, and besides, the stranger's aura indicated familiarity with the occult sciences, which meant that he would discard the tracker. Should I try to chase? Not the fact that it would be possible to catch up, and most importantly, the chest is reluctant to leave. A derelict would be taken by the locals in a jiffy. /No, let Zervan or Latham catch the fugitive, they're the ones who like to wave their swords around.

His job is to report the news to Celesta. Others will do the rest.

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The leader must be strong. Regardless of the level of development of civilization, the historical period, and other external conditions, it is the personal strength of the leader that largely determines the survival potential of the population. But it is expressed in different ways, turning into its facet for each time and society. Physical strength in a primitive tribe means about as much as intelligence, cunning and diplomacy are quoted in the Kremlin Palace of Congresses. However, there are universal qualities necessary for a leader everywhere and always - cruelty, cynical calculation, readiness to overstep the limits of the currently accepted morality...

Sometimes Celesta regretted the decision she had made three hundred years ago. Who knows how her circumstances would have turned out if she had refused Cardae's offer then? Would she now have lived quietly in a secluded corner of the dungeons, practicing magic, searching for a way to return to her half-forgotten homeworld, and only occasionally leaving Taleya? No responsibilities, no constant pressure, no tedious paperwork... But what's done is done, and most of the time the mighty undead spent dismantling denunciations of numerous spies and trying to understand the intricate intrigues of power groups. She knew, however, that she could not always rely on her servants for everything, and that no one could protect you better than you. So every day she set aside at least a couple of hours for training.

After all, three hundred years is a negligible period of existence for a race. And the chief of a savage tribe must have the biggest and strongest cudgel.

"Is something wrong, Zervan?" Celeste asked, putting her weapon on the counter.

Without a good reason, she would not be disturbed in the fencing room. The subjects knew how much the mistress did not like to be distracted from her training.

"There's a man to see you, mistress," poked his finger at his companion.

Latham reacted to the performance by curving his lips slightly in a sneer. He didn't think Zervan deserved any more than that. They disliked each other intensely, the former hunter and the former aristocrat, and only an outright ban on fighting between their own prevented them from dealing with each other once and for all. More precisely, enemy to enemy.

Celesta looked at the stranger with unconcealed interest. Risen, old, unfamiliar. He looked like a typical small-town craftsman, owning a small shop, or working with relatives to fulfill the orders of the rich. Short haircut, shallow features, average height, gaunt build - nothing to catch the eye, an average man of the crowd. But the eyes are intelligent. Instinct unusually sharpened lately, rated the intruder very highly.

"Who are you and why have you come?"

"My name is Kalderan, Messena Celesta, Kalderan of Nasan. I lived there until recently."

He'd come a long way. Nasan was in the southern part of the mainland, at least three months away by good ship. No one traded directly with the city-state, though goods from there were prized among the nobility.

"You must have a pretty good reason for leaving your home."

"So it is, Messena Celesta," the risen nodded. "I had no choice. To be more precise, I was left with no choice."

He hesitated a little, choosing his words, but Mistress stopped him. Experience and feeling told her that the conversation would be long and unpleasant. Kalderan brought bad news. With a sign ordering everyone to follow her, she quickly made her way to the private rooms, where again, without a word, she indicated the guests to their chairs. Only then did the vampiress command: "Tell me."

"As I told you, Messena, my name is Kalderan. I rose eighty-two years after the Plague, and in time I became the strongest undead of Nasan. At any rate, the other seven recognized my power." He paused, choosing his words, then began to explain at length: "The risen are not as firmly tied to the human rulers in this land as they are in Taleya, but my community has often done the secret orders of the Sultans, and so it has been stable. Until recently..."

How does he know that we are forced to obey humans? - Celesta noted. - Did Zervan tell him, or did he figure it out himself? We must find out.

"Everything changed two years ago," the man went on to say. "A strange and incredibly strong risen named Carlon came to the city..."

"How did you say that?" Celesta interrupted involuntarily. And in three hundred years she had not forgotten the mad, fanatical priest who yearned to cleanse the world of the filth of the human race. "Carlon?"

"Yes, that's what he called himself. A dozen other risen came with him. He demanded an oath of allegiance and forced me to obey, and there was nothing I could do - I swear he had the protection of the demons of the underworld themselves! I've never met a stronger wizard! Brother Carlon, as he calls himself, performed a ritual - he claims to have summoned Morvan himself - and a plague came to Nasan. We in the city didn't believe him at first, but when the streets were strewn with the corpses of the dead... I don't know how he did it. The rulers and their families died, and disease spared neither the poor nor the rich. When we left Nasan, there was barely a quarter of the city alive."

Celesta sat motionless, her face hardened.

"I knew a risen by that name, a mad priest of the Lord of Hell," she finally said. "But he died the second death. I saw it myself..."

She was staggered. She had not seen the corpse of her first patron. She had heard of the massacre at the monastery and assumed that the fanatic had died. Medea claimed that in front of the altar of the Dark One lay the ashes left by one of his kin; they assumed that the priest had fought his last battle there, and they settled down.

"Describe him."

"A gaunt man, you might say thin. Long black hair, handsome face, round but thin, black eyes," Kalderan enumerated. "He looks like an aristocrat of the old family. His fingers are also long as if in his lifetime he practiced music..."

"Enough."

Survived... - She felt the wood crumble beneath her fingers on the armrests. - He survived, the bastard. Who died in his place, then? Does it matter...? What matters now is why the priest has appeared now, and what he wants.

"Go on. How did you end up in Taleya?"

"I don't know, Messena, for what reason," the man threw a sharp look at his mistress, "but he hates your city and wants to destroy it. He once let it slip that he had made the greatest mistake of all and that he wished to correct it. So we, his flock, though it would be fairer to call us slaves, followed him here to Taleya. In the larger towns, Brother Carlon would sometimes linger, you may have heard of epidemics... The smaller villages were slaughtered to the last man, in the smaller towns we took tribute in blood and killed those who tried to resist. Fifteen older undead were hard to resist."

"So now there are fourteen left with Carlon?" Latham clarified.

"I don't know. Some died along the way, some were welcomed into the community by their brother. Two months ago, in Arvavista, I felt that the sorcery that bound me had weakened, and I fled immediately." Kalderan threw up his hands helplessly. "I have no home now, nowhere to go. And I thought, since Brother Carlon hates Taleya so much, perhaps he could be stopped here. And he's got to be stopped, you know. I've had to do all kinds of things, but he's a monster. It's not even that he kills people like flies! It's just..."

"He turns others into his imitation," the Mistress finished slowly.

There was silence in the room. Celesta had not yet recovered from the shock of the frightening news, the rest of the rebels did not dare to break the silence of the leader. Finally, when Zervan was about to ask what to do next, the mistress spoke: "Latham! Bring Medea and Hastin here at once. Don't say a word about Carlon, I'll "make them happy" myself. Zervan, you may have to travel. The Southern cities must be cleared of all - I emphasize, absolutely all - the risen, and they must be sent to safety. You will learn the details tonight. Kalderan!"

Celesta thought for a moment. The usual coldness of thought returned, and with it the suspicion. Could this whole story be one big trap? What if Kalderan was sent to ingratiate himself with her, to wait for the right moment and strike when she wasn't waiting? Unlikely, though. Carlon likes to show off, or at least he used to. He'll want to punish Celesta, and Medea, too, personally. But a messenger could gather information about the city and pass it on to his master.

There were no charms on the fugitive, as far as she could tell. But that didn't mean anything.

"Tell me about Carlon and his companions," the undead woman ordered. "Names, abilities, habits. Remember the smallest details. Everything is important to me."

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