Part 1
The science of pain
Chapter 1
Vagrant
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On the narrow door, which was made of old, wood-eaten boards, there was a green metal plate with a ring on the hinge, a handle, and a hammer at the same time. The ring had not been cleaned in at least a couple of years, probably longer. Elena took a step back and looked around again. The house looked more like an old, abandoned fortress, or rather a small fortress. Least of all a school for a successful fencer.
The woman looked back toward the Street of Free Blades, where rope and wax torches were already being lit on lampposts. They turn on the night lights early here! Elena breathed in the damp odor of the nearby river, an amber that mixed the richest tones of dead meat and other garbage in bizarre proportions. She had to make up her mind. I didn't want to make up my mind. Now, at the end of a long and arduous journey, Elena felt timid, as if before an exam for which she was barely ready. She had a strong feeling that nothing good was waiting for her at the door. Nothing at all.
Biting her lip, the woman tapped the ring against the plate. It came out weak and pathetic, partly because of the weak hesitant blow, partly because the ring had not been used for a long time. It was literally glued to the hinge because of the street dust cemented by dampness. Biting down even harder, not nearly bloody enough, Lena pounded again as hard as she could. This time it came out loud enough. And nothing happened.
There was a rustle behind her, like a mouse in the corner running through dry leaves. Lena turned around just fast enough to see several wiggly little heads scurrying for cover, retracting like snails into their shells. Looks like some kids keeping an eye out for an uninvited guest. Elena stood half-turned toward the door and remembered there were no children there. There are small adults who have to grow up as fast as possible and pull the work burden along with the big ones in the daily struggle for existence. By the way, this same struggle Elena now leads by herself and in complete solitude. The dagger under her sleeve on her left forearm seemed to heat up by itself, but the woman was freezing with nervous anticipation. She had imagined meeting with the fencer in many different ways, but not like this.
A new clang of the ring. The greenish flakes hit the flat stone pad that replaced the house's porch, so this time, the metal sounded loud and clear.
Knock, knock, knock.
Once again, nothing happened. Elena waited patiently. The sun was setting, long, dark shadows lingered on the street, and a cold breeze was perceptible. Her back, the back of her neck, her whole skin, the woman could feel the hidden glances from every crevice, every bitch hole. She was being watched very carefully, so Elena was glad her leather purse was safely hidden under her cloak and did not bother anyone's eyes.
At last, there was a noise behind the door, faintly identifiable because of the thickness of the boards but indicative of some life on the other side. With a loud bang, a small window at the level of Lena's collarbones, covered with frequent bars, opened. The window looked more like a loophole than anything else, and the distance between the bars was just right to allow a crossbow arrow to pass through. Lena swallowed, realizing how open and vulnerable she was now.
"What do you want?" A muffled question came from inside. The voice was inexpressive, like a leaf that had been lying on the damp earth and had lost all color, as well as the webs between the veins.
Elena leaned lower so the answer didn't go any further than the bars.
"I'm looking for Mr. Figueredo, nicknamed Draftsman," she said.
The pause lasted about half a minute, maybe longer.
"Why?" asked the colorless, invisible man grudgingly and suspiciously.
Elena hesitated, going over her options for an answer. All her fantasies about this conversation, one way or another, revolved around a personal meeting with the unknown Draftsman. A conversation with a void that could be locked at any moment was not envisioned, and the woman had no idea what to say here.
"I was sent by Vincent Mongayard." She decided to go straight to the point.
Again the pause, but ... now there seemed to be a grudging suspicion thickening on the other side of the window.
"I don't know anything about that," the voice said, and the loophole shut with a clang. The deadbolt rattled, and Lena stood before the door as if it were an impregnable castle.
"Uh ..." she stretched out, unable to believe that this was the end of it and there were no more listeners.
"Damn you!" said Elena, already with much more expression.
The evening was creeping up faster and more frankly. The lantern light was already decisively beating the fading sun, and in a few minutes, the huge pale moon would appear from behind the high rooftops. Elena clearly realized that the chances of spending the first night in the City on the street were not illusory. One could even say, it is very great. And it was scary without exaggeration, given the stares that crawled over her body like tentacles. Lena physically felt how invisible observers were measuring and weighing the profit to be gained from her.
And this is a damn near affluent neighborhood, but what's going on in the local slums and ghettos? And how was she going to distinguish between the local neighborhoods? Now the woman realized it wasn't wise to go into the City at night. First, she should have found a shelter in the suburbs and made a few trial trips to the capital to see what and how it was organized here.
But it was too late for regrets now. Elena gritted her teeth and pounded the ring as hard as she could. The flap opened much faster this time. And, if I may say so, much more viciously. The tirade from inside matched it:
"Get out of here before you get an arrow in your belly."
Instead of answering, Elena tapped Charley's dagger against the grate so the invisible squabbler could see the distinctive hilt without a guard and the faceted blade in the translucent bone scabbard. There was a strange sound from within, and then came another act of silence, which seemed to have become an unhealthy tradition in the protracted conversation. Just when Elena had already decided it wasn't working either, the unlocked lock rattled. The door opened barely, no wider than the palm of her hand, unexpectedly quiet on the well-oiled hinges.
"Come in," muttered from the darkness.
Elena threw off the ponjaga, grabbed her bag, which looked like a long, open pillowcase, and sidled through the door, exhaling to keep from getting stuck. She slipped her dagger behind her belt.
"Put the load in the corner. Follow me," the dark figure ordered grudgingly, locking the door carefully. Before the window slammed shut, Elena caught a glimpse of the "castle" owner's face, or rather, a set of features, poorly visible in the dim light. Solid angles and straight lines, folded into something extremely grouchy, marked by an enduring stamp of angry discontent.
It wasn't easy to walk. She had to move practically by feel. After a short corridor that smelled of well-aged mold, a room of indeterminate volume opened up. More like a hall, judging by the echo of footsteps. A mechanism creaked as if a spring were being wound up, and a bluish light flickered in the darkness, growing stronger and spreading rays of a familiar blue hue. A lamp with a moonlight crystal, an expensive item, but seemingly very old, on its last breath. A remnant of former luxury, she supposes. The dark silhouette stood on tiptoe - the owner of the house was two palms taller than Elena, which made him very tall by local criteria - and hung the lamp on a chain. The woman looked around quickly.
Not a room, but a hall, and clearly a training hall... at least it had been once, long ago. It was large, so two or even three pairs of fighters could train there without interfering with each other. The floor was tiled in white squares with black veins. But no, the veins turned out to be something similar to ... Elena didn't know the name of the method of decoration, when the colored wire, copper, silver, or even gold, was pinned into grooves scratched into the armor so that a bright, contrasting pattern or drawing was created. Here the grooves were scraped directly into the stone and filled with some black mass. Time had rubbed off the drawings, but they were still quite recognizable - several circles of different diameters with lines inside, like on a compass.
The wooden walls had also darkened from time to almost black, and along the one on his right hand were goats that held a meager inventory - a short spear with a disproportionately long tip in the shape of an isosceles triangle, a few straight one-handed swords of varying lengths, a heavy palash sword like the one Kai carried. A pair of typically Brether sabers, similar to Charley's weapons. Sticks and poles. The rest was probably hidden in a large chest that looked more like a coffin.
The opposite - left - wall was surprisingly reminiscent of a shooting gallery, with wooden slates of Elena's height with outlines of human figures painted in different colors. It seemed to be a kind of iconography with outlines of vulnerable places and variants of attacks with different weapons. It was proposed to hit just a man, as well as a fighter in relatively light armor and finally heavy armor. The largest rectangle was made of cloth, and four long double-edged arrows, which formed an octagonal star, glowed with thin red lines on the cloth. Two more lines crossed the resulting figure horizontally, above and below the center line. Each ray was numbered and marked with its sign. In the center of the hall stood, slightly tilted, a wooden dummy, cracked and thoroughly battered. The mannequin had once apparently rotated on a wheel-shaped platform. Now, the mechanism was jammed even to Elena's uninformed eye.
The third wall, directly opposite the doorway, had once been a single large window, more like an exit to the terrace, but now it was covered by large shutters, shriveled and propped up with poles for good measure. The poles looked like exercise equipment that had been put to better use.
The room bore the mark of abandonment, most of the shells were covered with a layer of undisturbed dust, and the colors were hidden beneath layers of cobwebs. Only the corner next to the chest of drawers, where there was a bedstead, looked more or less habitable. A red terra-cotta night pot lay defiantly on its side, a lone eye winking in blue paint at the cracked bottom.
"Identify yourself."
Now Elena could finally get a closer look at the owner of the dilapidated dwelling. He was, as mentioned above, tall even by the standards of her world, and by local standards, he would probably have been considered a giant if he hadn't been painfully thin, on the verge of emaciation. So much so that his clothes - a sleeveless camisole over a linen shirt, mournfully black and repeatedly darned - hung from his skinny fleshy bones like rags on a scarecrow. His face was shaven, and his hair was loose to his shoulders and pulled back into a long ponytail, tied with a string so that the ends hung down over his shoulders. His hair was snowy white. Not like ordinary gray hair but more like some specific form of albinism. From under his bushy eyebrows glittered small eyes as round as an owl's.
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This scarecrow looked about as much like a wise mentor-fencer as a girl looked like a knight. But it fit Charleiy's description well: an evil man who hated the human race and wanted the human race to know it.
"Name," the white-haired man repeated angrily.
"He..." the woman hesitated, remembering in time that calling herself by a name from the Wastelands was not a good idea right now.
"Vandera," she improvised quickly.
"A stranger?" snorted the Draftsman, surveying the uninvited guest from head to toe and in reverse order. "A wanderer. Well, that suits you."
Look at yourself, you dusty scarecrow, Elena thought but kept silent.
"Give it to me," Draftsman held out his hand imperiously. The woman hesitated for a few moments, then put the dagger into a palm that looked unpleasantly like a bald spider with long legs.
"Yes, it's a familiar piece. It has many lives to its credit, Though under a weaker hand, Vensan preferred the claw," Figueredo twirled the weapon, squinting critically. He glanced at his companion. "Took it off a corpse?"
"It's a gift," Vandera cut off dryly.
"Yeah," Draftsman snorted skeptically.
Outside, the bells rang, deaf and far away. Evening prayer, it was time to report to Pantocrator about the day's accomplishments and go to sleep.
"You were his bedmate?" bluntly chopped Figueredo. "Robbed him?"
Elena had to make a very serious effort not to spit in the sick freak's face.
Only he can turn you into a real fighter.
"No."
"And I think you're his whore," the scarecrow was openly amused, reading the rage on the young woman's face and the angry desire to punch the asshole in the face.
"No, Master," Elena bowed her head, stifling her natural impulses.
Not the time. And she knew what she was getting into. Politeness itself was unappreciated under the sun and moon of this world. And respect for apprentices was considered a perversion in shop society. And she could hardly slap an asshole. Fencer, damn.
"Ma-aa-aster...," Draftsman said, stretching his vowels. And asked sharply. "All right, tell me what you need."
"Vincent Mongaillard sends his greetings and best wishes," Elena repeated in a rote manner. "He asked to take me as an apprentice and teach me the science of..." she stammered for a moment, remembering the right words. "The science of the geometry of the circle and the eighty-three angles of the human body, as well as sixteen simple and sixteen complex techniques and tricks."
Figueredo was silent, his dagger in his long fingers, and then he made a sudden movement forward, slamming the scabbard under Elena's breath. It all happened very quickly and quite suddenly, without any transition or sign. Here she stood, respectfully bowing her head under her low-crowned triangle hat. Now she was lying on the stone floor, her mouth gaping like a fish, unable to take a breath.
"Neither attentiveness nor quickness....."
Draftsman twisted the dagger between his fingers once more like a drumstick, exposing a narrow, faceted blade that looked more like a thick awl. He looked down with an expression of infinite contempt on his narrow, pale face.
"But why did you, you wretched brat, whore, and daughter of a whore, a creature of the lowest order, get it into your head that you could be my apprentice?"
The woman did manage to breathe in a breath of life-giving air. Her diaphragm ached as if it had been struck with the point of a blade rather than the blunt end of a polished bone.
"I was the greatest of the greats," Draftsman muttered, more to himself than to the defeated Elena. "I taught the best of the best... And now what? The Moon Reaper must have decided to laugh at me."
He glanced at Vandera again and moved his jaws as if the mere sight of her caused intolerable pangs.
"So why did you think you could desecrate with your disgusting, useless, womanizing hands my innermost knowledge? My Àrd-Ealain, the High Art of Death, which I have spent half a century or so mastering?"
Tears welled up in her eyes, her soul burning in a fire of anger turned to hatred. Bitterness came to the base of her tongue. But Elena lowered her gaze again, gritting her teeth in a way that felt like they were going to shatter into tiny shards.
"Because I must master Àrd-Ealain," she squeezed out deafeningly, clenching her fists, so useless in front of the swordsman. "Because my enemies are coming after me, strong and powerful. Sooner or later they will catch up with me. And Vensan said that only you can make me a true fighter."
Figueredo was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"Oh, God," sighed Draftsman. It seemed impossible to show any more contempt than he had already shown, but the old teacher managed to do it unimaginably. In every feeble gesture, in every note of his voice.
"Do you have any experience?"
"Y-y... No," the woman wanted to refer to her rapier skills but remembered how easily Figueredo had knocked her out. She also remembered the outcome of the training bout with Kai. Sadly, though, here, with real blades and real wounds, her skills were useless. She supposed her ranged skills would give her some bonus, but she still had to start from a local base.
The bells fell silent. Draftsman chewed his colorless lips. The woman struggled to rise on woozy legs.
"You realize you're too old?" Figueredo measured her with his gaze again. "Long arms are good, strong legs, yes. But to learn proper fighting, you should have started much, much earlier."
"Char ... Mongayar said the same thing, for five years."
"Five years!" snorted Draftsman loudly. "The Reaper has been too kind to you. A woman is inherently flawed by nature. Her bones are thin, her muscles are weak, and her bodily infirmity can only be balanced by sophisticated skill. Therefore, it takes twice as much time and effort for a woman to step even one step below an ordinary fighter. If your enemies are so dangerous, you should have picked up the blade only a day after your first step! But time is the one thing you can never get back. Now no one, not even Pantocrator himself, can make you a good fighter!"
Figueredo turned away and crossed his arms over his chest.
"That's impossible," he sentenced briefly. "Go away."
Elena stood, swaying slightly, trying to suppress a bout of nausea. Unable to believe that it had ended ... like this. She'd assumed by default that Charley's recommendation would be her ticket in, and it turned out Draftsman didn't give a damn about the reviews. And the asshole's not only a misanthrope, he's also a headline-grabbing misogynist.
Was it all for nothing? And now the grim streets of the City await her, hostile to the lonely wanderer more than the northern Wastelands? All in vain?
Elena finally felt herself standing more or less firmly.
"Give me the dagger," she said, holding out her hand and hoping it looked as demanding as it had a little earlier in Draftsman's performance.
"What?" the fencer looked at the guest with a look of utter amazement.
"Give me the knife," repeated the woman. "It was given to me by Vincent Mongayar after he gave me the advice to find you. Vensan said you were the only one who could mentor me. Well, I guess he was wrong. Give me the knife. I'll go find another master who isn't afraid of a challenge."
"Take it," Figueredo extended his arm slightly but held it out so the hilt of the dagger stopped in the void, just short of reaching Elena's outstretched fingers.
The woman gritted her teeth, feeling like a complete fool. The fiery monologue, which she managed to utter in one breath, almost without stuttering, had taken the last drops of strength. Mentally, first of all. She wanted to sit down on the cold stone floor and cry. The only thing that stopped her from crying was the realization that Figueredo would only be glad to see her tears, and the rest of the world wouldn't care about her.
"Well, you've got some backbone," Draftsman finally remarked, still not returning the blade. "But it's weak. And you can't bluff. And, of course, no one else will take you on as an apprentice, you anonymous loner. But even if they did, you'd have no luck. High-flying Maisters only take noblemen as apprentices these days. The lower ones will test your skills and durability with other apprentices. They'll mess you up with knives. And not with knives. Because a woman with a blade in her hand is not a woman, but a man with a weapon, who took it of his own free will and is ready for the consequences."
Elena felt like her teeth were going to shatter and her jaw muscles were going to tear. She tried to keep at least some of the shards of her poker face. For the sake of what was left of her self-respect.
When Figueredo finished his unusually long speech, he gave her another piercing stare. Only now, Elena noticed the Draftsman's eyes were shining unnaturally bright, and it was hardly the result of drugs. In fact, it seemed the evil prick was seriously and chronically ill. Now Elena felt only immense fatigue. And the desire to finish this useless, very sad event.
"Give it back," her voice came out dull, devoid of color, but the woman didn't care anymore. "Give me my weapon back, and I'll go. Whatever happens."
She was silent for a few moments. And finished, looking directly into the fencer's eyes:
"And you're staying here."
And Elena could have sworn Figueredo read in her eyes the unspeakable:
You'll stay and die here in the dusty hall, alone, unwanted by anyone. Forgotten.
The fencer tossed high and caught the dagger easily. Whatever ailed the vile quarrelsome man, it didn't affect his coordination. The master moved with the ease of a dance teacher.
"Well ..." Draftsman smiled for the first time in the entire conversation, and Elena flinched. In the shadows of the magic lamp, it seemed to her that an old skull was grinning at her with yellowish teeth. There was a change in the old fencer that was completely incomprehensible and therefore, alarming.
"Are you sure?" Draftsman asked as if spitting.
"Yes," Elena replied, catching a reckless wave of "YOLO" style. And also thinking fleetingly that Elena, Hel, Teina, Vandera .... that's a lot of names for one person.
"I've seen strong men leave this place in tears, and you're no match for them."
Elena wanted to say, "I'll try," but hesitated, realizing that such an answer was unacceptable here. In this room, they didn't try. Here, they did. Or leave in tears.
"Yes," she said laconically.
"You know that by the sacred traditions of the shop judiciary, I can beat an apprentice to death. And then, to escape punishment, it is only necessary to swear that it was accidental, against intent."
"Yes."
"You brave. Or infinitely stupid. I think the latter," the Draftsman chuckled. "And you don't expect me to teach you for free, do you?" The Master squinted.
In fact, the woman had cherished such a hope, but now she had to say goodbye to it. As well as with the supposed image of a wise old grizzled man, angry outwardly but kind at heart.
"Dobl a month," Figueredo put a price tag on it, taking his vis-a-vis's silence as agreement.
Elena snickered, completely thrown off balance. Dobl is the Island equivalent of a "good" gold coin, which in turn is equal to sixteen silver coins. But the Dobl is valued higher because the Island mints good coinage, better than the thoroughly lighter continental coins. It is already seventeen or eighteen, or even twenty silver coins. A month's pay for a good - not the best, but good - infantryman without steel armor but with weapons.
The purse on her belt jingled with silver, about a measure and a half, the remnants of the "severance pay" given to Santelli. The girl didn't know the city prices yet, but she clearly realized the financial abyss had suddenly opened up at her very soles. Her boots, by the way, were already worn down to the second layer of goatskin and were in urgent need of repair.
"Dobl a month," she nodded.
"As you wish," the swordsman grinned even wider. He returned the dagger to his mistress and suddenly ordered in a completely different tone, with a categorical, unyielding demand. "On your knees!"
What a turnaround!
Elena-Vandera's legs snapped up as if of their own accord, her kneecaps thudding painfully against the stone floor. Figueredo raised his arms up and forward, covering the woman in a jagged shadow like a giant bat.
"Pantocrator witnesses, before the image of the Father of Swords and the First Master, I take you as my apprentice. As long as you can pay your tuition, I will reveal to you the secrets of the blade, long and short, curved and straight, as well as the secrets of the spear and the lord of weapons, the dagger. If my knowledge is beyond your mind and body, I will cast you out. If you become strong in the Art, I will call you apprentice and allow you to openly call yourself my apprentice."
Figueredo was silent for a moment and then added in a different tone as if he had performed a ritual that had become stale and was back to his old self again:
"And you'll never be a master, so there's no need to talk about it. But..." The ugly smile grew even more comprehensive, turning into an evil grin. "Comprehending the High Art is difficult in itself. Even for someone born a fighter. And for you, it will be the science of pain. If you're ready, come tomorrow after the noon bell. By the way, don't forget the first dobl. I'll take the fee upfront. And I'll call you..."
"My name is ..." Wanted to remind Elena.
"Who needs it?" waved away Figueredo with splendid indifference. "Until the time I call you an apprentice worthy of a real blade, you are nothing. Worse than a pig or a sheep. Because a pig is useful, and you will be a drain on my time for months to come."
And bring you dobls, you dried freak, on which you will at least eat, Elena thought but kept the thought to herself.
"I'll call you Vagabond, for that's all you're worth. Now get out of my sight, and do not defile this place with your helplessness before the noon bell. Away!"
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