* * *
Milvess was ideally situated to become the merchant capital of the entire Ecumene. A large river, a wide estuary, direct access to the freshwater sea. The abundance of water for agriculture, not without reason, "Milvess" in translation from the old dialect meant "A thousand springs" (which later turned into a thousand wells). So when the war with the Necromancer Emperor turned the former capital into a poisonous wasteland, the choice of a new location seemed obvious. However, after Milvess was given a new impetus in development, it turned out that not everything was smooth. The same river that had given life to the City became a big problem. The banks proved to be sinking, the soft earth swallowing up foundations and pilings. This severely limited the size of the wharves, the tonnage of ships, and the turnover of goods in general.
But for the Old Empire, there were no unsolvable tasks, and where architects were powerless, powerful magic was used. It was even said that the founders of the City used forbidden sorcery, negotiating with the world beyond by offering human sacrifices. The southern shore was simply encased in granite, while the northern shore was fortified by the pure power of magic. Twelve stone bridges connected the two parts of Milvess, and in addition to them, five tunnels ran under the river. Milvess was also called Taididdo, the Sun City, from the gilded roofs on the houses and the amazing sails that reflected not only the wind but even the sunlight.
And then the Cataclysm happened, and the magic was gone from the world, leaving only crumbs of its former power. The southern bank survived, but the northern bank quickly reverted to its former state. The bridges, except for two, collapsed, their bases dismantled for building stone. The unified city was back to a two-in-one state with regular service via ferries and a respected carrier shop. On holidays, "North" and "South" fought merrily and bloodily on the surviving bridges, and on weekends, the river was transformed into an arena of real boat battles.
The North was considered more "simple" and bourgeois, where the main industries and "dirty" workshops like the tanneries were concentrated, as well as the headquarters of the non-prestigious workshops. Brethers and fencers, who insulted the noble art of real warfare - "Eeach sleagh", i.e. on a good horse with a lance. There was also an embankment here, where they built a fortress for defense from the sea and berths for battle galleys.
The Southern part was occupied by negocians, privileged shops, masters of luxury goods, the residences of Bonoms, and the like cream of society. Here stretched the docks for merchant ships from all over the world, "long warehouses," and a large shipyard - the second in the world after the famous Arsenal of Saltoluchard.
The underground prison was to the South, and Elena's house to the north, but there was no need to pay for transportation. The only surviving tunnel connected the Palace Under the Hill to the Northern district. It had once been used to bring all sorts of provisions and other supplies to the Primator's house. Now, city employees walked under the river, and other citizens were not allowed in. It was obvious that sooner or later, the water would break through here as well, but everyone hoped it would not happen in his lifetime, or at least during his transition.
It was rumored that there was another secret passage, supposedly created magically for some secret rendezvous, this time from the palace to the old city. But Elena was inclined to think that it was a typical urban legend, in any case, the evidence closer than "I knew the man who told the story" the woman had not yet met.
The tunnel looked both lived-in and abandoned at the same time. The high ceiling was covered with a thick layer of soot and smelled of tar, burnt rags, and wax. They didn't spend much money on magic lamps, of course. The brick and stone chimney bent and shifted with the movement of the soil, so the walls were often patches of much later masonry, rough and uneven. The floor was scraped with crumbled slabs that, in some places, protruded at an angle of thirty degrees, like the jagged teeth of a cave monster. Some of the original columns had collapsed, but new ones were sticking out in disarray. Usually, the usual sturdy wood supports to keep the vaults from collapsing. It dripped from above, and streams trickled in the deep scouring holes underfoot. The walls were covered with whitish scum and mineral deposits that looked like soapy stalactites. If you put your ear to the cold stone and listen, you could hear the mighty river running for thousands of years at a distance of no more than a dozen meters.
Elena walked, habitually avoiding places where it was possible to break a leg, mechanically greeting people she met, determining by eye to whom to nod, to whom to say something, and to whom she should take off her hat. She was not going to repeat today's mistake. The weighty purse was pulling on her belt pouch. The weight was unpleasant and uneven as if the coins were rolling over themselves, upsetting the balance. The woman did not remove the seal, did not embroider the purse, and put it as it was.
There's the exit. First, a spiral staircase, then a wide gate with rusty bars next to a drain going into an old sewer. The guard was resting at his post again, this time in an original way. He put a wide board so it stood diagonally right in the wicket, lay down with his back on the resulting support, and dozed off. Those walking by didn't wake up the guardian of order and squatted down, passing into the triangle formed under the board. Elena followed the general example, humming to herself. Someone today will be severely scolded by the shift supervisor. Now, it was twelve steps up the stone stairs to get from the drainage channel to the street itself ... where Elena was waiting. They wait long, judging by the faces of the escort.
"We've been waiting a long time. What's taking so long?" repeated Squint, literally repeating her thoughts. He was indeed blind in one eye, but he had a habit of turning to the blind side of his interlocutor, so it seemed the bandit was looking through his blind eye.
"Work," Elena replied briefly, realizing that no matter how much she dreamed of taking a break, there would be no rest today.
Noseless remained silent as usual, staring at the woman with a hateful look. She was the one who had given him his new nickname. Though his nose was still technically there, the stabbing and lack of treatment had caused the cartilage to spread apart, making it as flat as a gorilla's.
"Work-Pork-Dork!" muttered Squint, and then he chuckled loudly as if to make a point. The bandit was from some distant land and liked to flaunt his dialect, which Elena didn't understand.
"And what?" She asked with the wistful thought that that was it. There would be no healthy sleep.
"A work," snorted Squint. "Only the right kind. As usual."
Noseless looked at her with blank eyes that burned with pure, unadulterated hatred.
"Let's go," Elena sighed, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
The mishap that happened to Elena on that memorable night became a certain problem for the criminal community of the whole neighborhood. On the one hand, blood had been spilled, and although no one had died, two members of the community of gambling patrons [1] were treated for a long time and, it could be said, lost much of their ability to work. On the other hand, Elena was a free woman, and in her right, she fought off the slavers. In other circumstances, it would have cost nothing, but the woman found herself under the protection of Baala, who had many acquaintances. Went on to apprentice to a real fencer. And on top of that, she became part of law enforcement, albeit somewhere on the margins. The Executioners, though not the soul of society, enjoyed considerable prestige. The entire city's justice system could avenge for an offense inflicted on their servant. But blood had been spilled, and it was impossible to ignore it.
The case was resolved simply. Elena was told through Baala that there were no claims against her, but all right people would appreciate a voluntary step on her part, so to speak, in compensation for moral and bodily damage. And since the maiden has no money in such quantity, the compensation is accepted by work. Baala recommended agreeing, noting that it was indeed the best way out. So Elena, in addition to prison medicine, began to mend and a very real criminal. Free of charge, quite often, but with no further problems.
They walked quickly, the same route, along the poor streets in the light of the "touchwood." The second or third floors overhung the sidewalk, almost covering the dreary autumn sky. A thick web of drying ropes hung between the houses, washed clothes dangling in the growing breeze. Small peddlers were winding down their business, stacking goods in boxes. Wooden clogs clattered, and shutters closed. Late shoppers haggled fiercely, hoping to get a few extra pennies. Children with candle burners snuck in to see off the latecomers for a coin and, at the same time, to lure them to the older bandits.
Elena walked past the glassblower's workshop. The glassblower used the last remnants of the furnace's heat, spinning a thin spiral of dark cherry-colored glass on a tall glass, hot even to the touch. The glass was very bad, made of local sand, cloudy and bubbly, but the work itself was beautiful. The windows glowed very low on the first floors, barely at chest level. In the richer houses, the glass was replaced by slate plates, in the poorer ones by the classic bull bubble or specially dried leaves of the reeds that grew in abundance in the southern marshes. The smell of soot, cabbage, and turnips came from the wives warming up the leftovers of the lunch that would become supper. Meat and bread had gone up in price again this year, so most of the townspeople had a lean dinner, even without chicken.
A long line of masons, accompanied by two Highlanders, passed towards them. The Highlanders were funny as usual, and their belts made them look like chickens with thin legs in stockings and huge bellies. The stonemasons were, as usual, tired and lively, probably from the construction of the Tower. This year, many people were earning money there because the islanders demanded fast, good work, but they paid twice or even three times as much as usual. Because of this, the workshop was already indignant, the craft councils disapproved, and there was a rumor the ancient regulations on the height of the residences-towers were being violated. But so far, the matter was peaceful. Milvess began to feel a slight shortage of high-grade coins, so the island infusion was still very much needed.
The headquarters of the neighborhood street crime unit was in an ordinary three-story house with no signs or weathervanes. Only the big chimney emitted a fierce smoke, showing they didn't skimp on fuel here. It smelled of smokehouse and fried sausage, but the strongest was fish soup, the eternal companion of a seaside town.
They were let in without inspection, as expected guests. Elena stayed downstairs on the first floor for a couple of minutes while Noseless went upstairs to report. On the first floor in addition to other things, there was a tavern "for their people", and it was open all year round, literally. Cauldrons in brick slabs gurgled for weeks and months, and various scraps were constantly thrown into them, which were boiled into jelly, hot and nutritious [2]. Everyone could scoop up as much as he wanted with a mug. The main thing was to eat it before it got cold because cold food quickly turned into hardened cement. Silent cooks chattered the brew with wooden spatulas, and silent workers of knife and rope absorbed the calories. No one paid any attention to those who entered. People came, so they had to. When they finish, they leave. And if they don't need to be here, whoever needs to take care of them will take care of them, and there will be no more people. Next to a large stove with two boilers, a frying pan with the very sausage that smelled stupefyingly of sausage, even from the street. Elena swallowed her saliva, pretended she didn't want to eat, and warmed her hands by the fire. A fennec fox was diving under her feet, gnawing small bones.
Noseless came down the creaky stairs and nodded silently. Squint retreated a step, and Elena realized she was allowed to personally visit the body of the boss. It was unusual, as the woman usually cut patients in the annex in the backyard, where it was convenient to bring wounded bodies and take out the dead without attracting attention. Elena went upstairs, trying to put her feet carefully. The ancient steps had not been changed for a long time, and some had been sawed on purpose so they could withstand a normal step and break under the foot of a running guard or a rival.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The second floor was noticeably cleaner and brighter, with normal candles burning instead of glass with rotten stuffing. The twins, the chief's bodyguards, eyed the guest suspiciously. The Brothers, who didn't even have separate names, were the ones who fully corresponded to the villain's craft. They have necks turned into heads without any extensions, tiny chins barely a finger high, lips turned out like those of Africans, and ears that were puffed out at right angles to the skull and repeatedly broken.
The Brothers gave Elena an angry and suspicious glance and then parted. The woman sighed heavily, adjusted her bag, and entered without knocking.
In fact, of course, he was called something else entirely, and it sounded like a repeatedly distorted and abbreviated "defender of fair play and good judgment," but Elena had immediately nicknamed him "Boss." A large, well-built man in his forties, shaved naked, with facial features that could even be called pleasant. Wear a merchant's robe instead of a shirt, and you can draw impressive portraits. The eyes spoiled the whole impression. Psychologists, as far as Elena remembered, called such a look "accentuated." And from the outside, it looked like madness smoldering in the depths of his pupils. A hysterical readiness to explode at any moment with an attack of crushing violence, brutal and demonstrative.
"My respects," Elena removed her cap and shook her head, freeing her short hair.
"Woo-uh-uh-uh..." Boss mumbled in reply, whose name or nickname the healer never learned to this day.
He looked bad. Much worse than the last time they'd met, which had been a few months ago. He was shrunken and pale, sweat dripping down his face despite the compress covering his forehead. His lips twitched like a man in tolerable but incessant pain. Elena drew in air, and even through the pungent odor of strong vinegar, she could smell the decoction of Paraclete Herbs.
Looks like she's got a "highly ranked" patient waiting for her today. And that was not a privilege to be coveted. The medicine woman removed her bag and set it on a wide stool made of cross-bent boards instead of legs. The bag was not very comfortable, and at one time, the woman had wanted to make something backpack-shaped but had to abandon the idea. With the local level of pickpocketing and the quality of razors, carrying something behind her back unattended was unwise.
"No need to send for me to the dungeon," she said, unbuckling the straps. "Lots of familiar eyes. There will be questions."
"Not my concern," snorted the boss, wrinkling his nose. He seemed to be in a lot of pain. Elena didn't know where, but his arms were moving, and he wasn't grabbing his chest. No bandages. What about his legs?
"Where?" she asked laconically, bringing her hand over the open bag. "What are we looking at?"
"Y-y-y-y..." the patient exhaled longingly with unspeakable longing. It sounded and looked like horrifying moral suffering.
It went on like that for a minute, maybe more. The boss suffered, and Elena waited. She wanted to repeat the question twice, but the devil in the ringleader's eyes was burning especially brightly, discouraging all desire to talk in vain. Damn it, not venereology... Not to mention that Elena didn't understand anything about it. The mere thought of looking at a flaccid dick made her stomach cramp.
"That's... Well... Anyway..."
It took him a long time to decide, and when he finally managed to squeeze out a description of the problem. It was hard and painful, like taking a mug of strong wine with a terrible hangover. Elena froze, struggling to hold back a sigh of relief mixed with a nervous chuckle. No, thank God, not a dick. Though, that was another way of looking at it. Well, now it was clear why the leader had sent for her and even left her alone. For a moment, the medicine woman felt a little sorry for the man, but only for a moment. The thought sobered her that if things had turned out a little differently, then from her body, dead or alive, in a slave noose, this unhappy, suffering uncle would have received his percentage, one time or in a stretch.
"Light," she said, proud that she sounded even, calm, without a shadow of a smile. Very professional. "The strongest you can get. Best of all, magical. And a mirror, also the best."
"What for?" squeaked the boss, who seemed to be having a seizure.
"I'll point the light where you need it," the woman explained patiently.
"O-okay," the boss's voice broke like glass chips under a wooden sole. "They'll bring it now. Brothers! Get your faces up here. I have the word!"
Against expectations, the diagnosis didn't take long. When she finished, Elena returned the yellow orb in the bronze lattice to the table, looking like a small and very bright star. She turned a small ring on the top of the protective sphere, turning down the brightness, just like a rheostat. She placed a mirror next to it, a really quite decent mirror. She didn't miss the opportunity to glance at herself, taking the opportunity to look at something more decent than a reflection in a basin or a polished metal plate. Yes... Elena had changed a lot over the summer. There was no way to call her a girl now. From the silver-rimmed circle, she looked like a stern and battered woman in her twenties with an uneven man's haircut. Pale lips, shadows under her eyes, the thin face of a man who does not starve but does not eat enough. She had an attentive and keen gaze, full of latent distrust.
The Duchess with the rings must be out of her mind. Judging by the purses on the bodyguard's belt, a lover of anatomical shows could buy herself, anyone, even a threesome with the best courtesans, if she wanted women. That's right, the depraved gluttony of the rich. Speaking of purses, one was still tugging at her belt.....
"Well?!" asked, like a scourge, the boss, tying the drawstring on his pants with slightly trembling fingers.
Elena flipped the mirror over so she wouldn't be tempted.
"A pustule in the rectum [3]," she reported in a still businesslike manner. "It's big, it'll burst soon."
"And?.." now it was not his fingers that trembled, but his voice.
"If, by the grace of the Pantocrator, it breaks out, chances are good. Rinse with chamomile infusion, drink only decoctions, and most likely, will pass. And if it's the other way around..."
"What's going to happen? "The boss pulled himself together and again seemed like a "really cool guy" without a shadow of fear.
"If the pus goes into the peritoneum, nothing can help. Unless it's magic."
The unspoken "but where to find such a sorcerer" hung in the air. Formally, magicians even had their guild, but practically everything was much more complicated. In one way or another, even a rich man from the lower classes could only buy an enchanted potion.
"What can be done?" The boss threw curtly.
Elena thought conscientiously, fighting the temptation to leave it as is. If the local God really existed, let him help the freak. Then she remembered Grandpa's words about the oath and duty of a medic. Afterward, it came to mind that her medical practice was originally forced, so there was no duty. But what would the gangster degenerate do if she told him, oops, nothing can be done, and the fun life would end with pus in his ass?
Damn, everything is so complicated...
"The abscess is not far from the... entrance. We can try to open it. The chances of it bursting out are a little higher. But it's still a big risk."
The boss didn't think long or rather didn't think at all, dropping it immediately and without hesitation:
"Cut."
"What, right now?!"
"Don't drag it out."
Goodbye, healthy, sound sleep!
"I'll need a long thin stick, clean boiled rags," Elena listed coldly. "Strong thread. Chamomile infusion, hot but not boiling. A jug of fat. The best. And an engraving needle, the kind used to sharpen the finest blades."
"An engraver's?" grimaced the boss.
"They are usually polished and reflect light well. It will be easier to control."
"Gotcha."
"Still need bandages and some herbs. I'll name them myself. We'll make up a tale for everyone."
"What?" the boss didn't understand.
"We'll make up a tale for everyone," Elena repeated. "I'll tell everyone that the old wound got inflamed and rotted and had to be opened. We'll make a bandage on your arm or stomach, and I'll come and change it. I'll also wash the a... inflamed place with chamomile."
The boss looked at her with a squint, sideways.
"Smart girl," he said quietly. "Very smart."
"Mama didn't give birth to fools," Elena hummed.
Of course, it would have sounded better about her father, because it was a patriarchal society, after all. But she can't go back on what she said, so that's fine.
"Brothers!!! Call the maids!"
* * *
A small single-masted ship approached from the north as if it were avoiding all attention. Not a galley but a sailing vessel, which was strange and unusual for the inland sea. And only a dozen men on board, as if the captain wished to keep the crew to a minimum. The single-masted ship was pulling a large boat on a rope as if the pilot and the merchantman had swapped places. The ship made a wide arc past the island of the coastal fortress, rounding the area where pleasure yachts and poor seekers of the Azure Grotto usually cruised. The ship passed the shipyard, where the work was going on day and night, where slate fires burned on brick platforms instead of torches, so it was like a steel factory. Farther out, the ship met only rafts of shellfish and the rare fishing boats that went out for night fishing when the most expensive, delicate creatures rose from the depths. And the most dangerous. The sailors raised a finger or two, depending on their faith, fearfully to the black heavens as a grave, silent silhouette emerged from the darkness, no light, and then disappeared again, so not even the gear creaked.
The distant bells of the Temple of the Sixty-Six Attributes rang out. The Sunset Watch was over, and the Dead Hour, the time of evil and the devil's machinations had begun. Darkness reigned all around. Even the silver disk of the moon was hidden behind the clouds. The weather favored the captain's schemes. The foretop cut the water black as anthracite. Passing the warehouses, the ship came to the conventional city limits. There, instead of solid stone buildings, began rural anarchy with huts and barns. Here, the last sewage pipe silted up and almost impassable, went out to the sea.
The ship slid quietly closer to the shore. A tall, thin figure in a cloak stepped last and took the helmsman's seat. A tall, thin figure in a cloak stepped in last and took the helmsman's place. They rowed in silence, exhaling heavily in a single rhythm to the creaking of the oars. The waves splashed against the side, promising a storm at dawn. When the boat had traveled about half the distance from the ship to the shore, the helmsman judged the distance to be sufficient. He raised his gloved hand to signal. Either the rowers were mute, or everything had been agreed beforehand, but without a word, the sailors threw off their clothes, rubbing themselves with the stored fat. And one by one, they swam toward the one-masted boat, rowing as if the devil himself were chasing them. Now, only the helmsman and a large wooden box, fastened with ropes three fingers thick, were left in the boat.
The person waited for a moment. One stood up and adjusted the margins of one's triangle, which were lowered and tied with a cord in the manner of a hood. One drew one's dagger, cut the ropes one by one, and touched the thick boards with one's fingers. The box shuddered, and a long rustling sound came from within as if a long chain were sliding through the wool. The helmsman nodded to himself, assessing how far the swimmers had traveled. The sailors had had a hard time, but they were all good swimmers, and the fat should have kept them from the cold of the falling water.
The person waited another half minute, then took off one's hat and stepped back to the edge of the boat. Inhaled deeply, concentrating. Exhaled... Deep breath again... As usual, a fleeting regret that such a trick could not be used in battle. A habitual expulsion of outside thought - and an exhalation, deep, extended. Inhale...
On the third exhalation, the woman opened her ruby eyes and threw her left hand forward sharply with a tense palm. A blue lightning bolt struck silently, not so much seen as felt. The crate was tossed against the side like a child's toy made of thin wood shavings, and after a moment of misbalance, it toppled over the side, collapsing with cracked planks. The woman flailed her arms, keeping her balance in the violently rocking boat. Quickly, she drew a circle over her head, the trace of her hand flickering in the air for a couple of seconds, like a sharp swing of a smoldering twig. Closed off from the creature released into the sea, the witch watched intently as something long and flat twisted in the black waves, stirring up the storms. One end of the unknown creature lightly grazed the side of the boat. The oar lowered overboard and snapped like a reed. The boat jerked again so that the witch could barely stay on her feet for a second time, balancing with her arms outstretched.
The creature kept floundering, twisting in complex loops and figure eights, as if it couldn't decide whether it was more attracted to the single-masted ship or the shore. On the complex segmented shell burned yellow fire signs - alternating in strict order signs of the old language and symbols of the Dark Jyotish. They commanded inexorably, guiding the creature toward its goal. At last, the silent order prevailed, and, ceasing to twirl in place, the creature moved swiftly toward the shore, slithering through the waves like a sea serpent. A long stroke of foam in the black water marked the creature's perfectly straight dash to the drainpipe. Squinting her red eyes, the witch watched the long worm-like body climb out of the water, leaving a wide trail in the silt. A moment later, the monster was free and disappeared into the dungeon.
The woman pulled a small bone amulet from her pocket and crumbled it in her palm, signaling that the deed was done and the deadly hunter was free. The next movement of her hands and the boat slowly moved back to the single-masted ship, gently pushed to the stern by an invisible force. The witch sank on the bench, her arms aching with fatigue. So much magic in a few minutes was too much even for her.
"And now, Spark, see you later ..." the woman with ruby eyes whispered.
* * *