Chapter 12 Kisses, fireworks, cheers
* * *
Elena was silently preparing for surgery and thinking intensely.
The conspiracy and haste were, in general, understandable, as was the willingness of the boss to turn not to the shop healer but to an unknown wench with no apprenticeship or diploma. In the world of the "night people," morals reigned outwardly restrained but, in fact - cannibalistic. The power of the "patrons" was based on personal authority, which had to be maintained and strengthened. And it was necessary to maintain and strengthen it constantly because every single boss knew that dozens of eyes were staring at his back, just waiting for a blunder, for any evidence of weakness. In such conditions, "shameful disease" could only play to the disadvantage and even give rise to jokes about Sodom's vice. Therefore, the earlier and more inconspicuously to get rid of it, the better.
But all this did not make the task of medicine any easier. Elena had a great deal of experience in opening boils of all kinds, as it was the most common ailment in prison. From poor food and unsanitary conditions. But not like this. So what to do was clear. But how to do it all technically ... And what if, say, the needle gets into a blood vessel, which around the intestines must be immeasurable? You can't squeeze or cauterize it.
It was the middle of the midnight watch when everything was packed and ready for the operation. The water was steaming, the infusion of dried chamomile smelled pleasant, and the needle had been brought in a good one. It seemed that one could prick oneself at the mere sight of it. Elena looked over the inventory, replayed the sequence of actions in her mind, and asked:
"Are you ready?"
"Work," the boss hissed through his teeth.
Badas, Elena remembered. Exactly, his name is Badas. It had slipped in somewhere once in a conversation with a dwarf. Funny, almost like Badass. She smirked but realized she wasn't laughing at all.
"It's going to be hard. I don't have time to stir the elixir for the pain. The main thing is not to twitch at the moment of puncture, or I'll spoil it," Elena warned.
The boss replied with an untranslatable phoneme, which was built around the extremely coarse form "clench your buns and endure" and meant something like "don't piss off, we'll get through it." He said it himself and laughed loudly, appreciating the subtle irony. The laughter, however, had a distinctly hysterical note, a sure sign that the patient was on the verge.
"Well, let's go," the medicine woman whispered to herself and began to burn the needle on the candle flame.
As the old books used to say, let us drop the veil of mercy over the scene that followed. Let us only say that the hand of the healer was experienced and firm, the patient stoically endured, and God had evidently decided that Badas had not yet taken the full measure of his sins on earth. Everything had gone normally without excesses. As far as one could call "normal" the puncture of a pustule in the rectum with a faceted needle using a mirror and a magic lamp. And the subsequent rinsing with a decoction of chamomile. Suffice it to say that Elena had not been so exhausted for many months, and her clothes stank through, worse than at the fish market at the end of a summer evening. Yes, it had been quite a day, with both a cadaver dissection and extreme medical practice.
"Well, that's it," Elena wrapped the bandage around her patient's chest and smeared the rotten slop from the pot for good measure.
Chest wounds usually restricted mobility, so there would be no question why the boss was sitting upright. Badas looked very pale, but he held on. After all, suffering equalizes people, and there was no trace of the bandit's force on his weary face instead of angry readiness. His eyes were filled with pain, bordering on desperate hope.
"I'll come back tomorrow night. We'll see how things go from there. Drink only water during the day. Don't eat anything."
"What do you want?" looking away, the boss asked softly.
The healer thought hard. It wasn't worth asking for money. If the villainous face had meant it, it would have given it right away. It was a favor.
"I need to get to ..." she had to rack her brain, remembering the address. "And soon, preferably before morning. Give me a couple of men to escort me there and then to the prison."
"I'll give you a cart," muttered the bandit, squirming on his ass, which was securely wrapped in a diaper of clean, boiled rags. "There's no need to tire your legs. And tomorrow after sunset."
"Like a bayonet," Elena promised, and again, she could barely keep from smiling when she realized she had mechanically translated from Russian, using instead of "bayonet," the slang definition of a knight's dagger in the form of a faceted pin. Such linguistic mishaps happened to her less and less often, but sometimes they did happen.
"What?" The boss asked suspiciously.
"I will," Elena promised gravely, estimating what complications might set in after such a dissection and how quickly it would bring the patient to the grave. She should have been afraid, but she was too tired. She was desperate for sleep, and in such a situation, she could only get a nap in the morning in prison, and that with a lot of luck. There was a training session with Draftsman in the evening and then the crippled villain.
Though the South of Milvess was a snooty, disdainful look on the northern part, it was still not the salt of the land of the Thousand Wells. The heart of the City and the continent was a small (relatively, of course) piece of land to the southwest, separated by an old fortress wall. The first inhabitants had once settled here, settling on a large promontory. From here, the houses, streets, and buildings stretched further to the east and north.
The Old City had survived everything, even the Cataclysm. The palaces and estates of the Primators, the entire bureaucracy of the capital, the Temple of the Sixty-Six Attributes, the great hippodrome, the arena for the Tournament of Faiths, and the Imperial Palace still stood there. It had shrunk in size by two-thirds compared to its former size, as well as the power of the new emperors who had been stripped of their magical powers. But it was still considered one of the wonders of the world.
Here, near the dilapidated wall that had once protected young Milvess, was the home of an unknown noblewoman. Technically still on the "simpler" side, east of the fence, but as close to the Old City as possible without sixty-six generations of noble ancestors in the family tree. Elena wanted to whistle but only shook her head. The place is "trump." The land here was truly golden. Houses passed from generation to generation. To build something here without the consent of the primators was impossible, and to rent was insanely expensive. So, the Black Duchess was richer than other royalty. Or rather, the family of the Duchess, she was too young for the matriarch. And it seemed that today, the girl was having a great time.
The pair of escorts from the boss remained in the shadows, avoiding the guards frequent in this part of the city, while Elena made her way toward the main gate with a firm stride.
The small square in front of the house was like a horse market and a recruitment camp at the same time. Horses, luxurious stretchers, and even a couple of carriages. That could be used only by persons of purely noble blood. Servants, guards, sweepers shoveling horse manure, "quick snack" merchants who appeared out of thin air, corrupt women, a few city guards who puffed themselves up and tried to match the background of richly dressed warriors, some other people whose profession Elena could only guess. All this motley assemblage moved, talked, ate and drank, and warmed themselves at the portable fryers. Someone had already crossed swords in the distance, and they fought seriously, at least to the point of "falling and not getting up" [1]. Horses were roaring, the vapor from the breath of many swallows melting in the night air.
There were two things in common: their conspicuous wealth (and hubris) and the deliberate mutedness of their speeches. Each of those gathered in the square puffed himself up as much as he could, trying to demonstrate wealth and grandeur, but at the same time, trying to do it as quietly as possible, as if he was afraid to be heard outside the white stone fence. There, inside, the windows of the four-story house were shimmering with light, and pleasant music tinkled with crystal-honey notes. There was definitely a reception with a party.
Slowly walking between the grouping of warriors and servants, Elena quickly went over in her mind the meager knowledge of the local high society. Every guest was a retinue, at least a dozen people, from personal servants to bodyguards. But a dozen is the minimum because a decent Count Ishpan does not go to a feast with less than a dozen soldiers. And this is not bravado but a severe necessity because the transition from "good day, how are you?" to "ultra-violence!!!" in late feudal society was unpredictable and rapid. Only the Pimators, who saw themselves as an island of the old civilized world in an ocean of post-catastrophic savagery of manners, were spared from this. This is how Roman senators would have felt among the barbarian kingdoms of the early Middle Ages.
Here, outside, there are a couple hundred people for sure, but they are, so to speak, the lower level, who have no access to the lord's house. Some more inside, the most trusted and loyal, as well as the most loyal clients, minions, courtesans, and gigolos. Thus, it turns out that the notional duchess, without a name, has gathered a party of twenty or more people equal to herself. Very cool. Elena felt her legs shaking, but she took her will in a fist and tried to walk briskly, confidently. She was escorted with glances, but they did not try to bully her. The woman passed between two stone bowls, each the size of a good cauldron, where a hot fire blazed. Further on, the gateway began.
* * *
Flessa awoke, and her first thought was that she'd had too much to drink that morning. As a rule, the future duchess avoided alcoholic adventures, mindful of her father's commandment to good judgment. The old man once caught his youngest daughter, who was then ten years old, for tasting expensive wine. The ruler first waited patiently until the hops had cleared from the young girl's head, then worked hard with a whip. And then, when the girl had sobbed her tears, he took her by the hand and led her to the family archive, where, unrolling old parchment and precious papyrus, he read to the girl a detailed lecture on the life and death of noble families. Very seriously, as an adult, and putting special emphasis on death. Flessa did not forget the humiliation, for which the servants who witnessed the punishment at the wrong time were cruelly punished afterward. But neither had she forgotten that in times of open warfare and vendettas, up to a quarter of a generation of Bonom aristocrats died violent deaths in battle, exile, or imprisonment. In more peaceful times, the percentage fell, of course, but it never fell below a tenth, except in the irrevocably past era of the Old Empire. And immoderate drinking was the best companion of murderers, poisoners, and bribed guards.
But Flessa couldn't say that hangovers were entirely unfamiliar to her. Like this morning, on the first day of a new decade of life. And most unpleasant of all, she couldn't remember what had caused the unplanned breakdown. In her buzzing head, faces, events, and scraps of memories were jumping around in a crazy carousel. It was like a broken kaleidoscope, with colored glasses spilling out in complete disorder.
So ... what she remembered for sure was the pleasant fact that the Ishpans, the Gastalds, the young and not-so-young heirs of Noble Houses, none had declined the invitation, claiming to be ill. A snake from the Wastelands, soaked in wine vinegar and roasted with herbs on a spit. Laughter, fireworks, and other merriment. Crane stuffed with three kinds of fine meat. "Liquid Smoke." Several young aristocrats, in varying degrees of courtesies, tried to drive wedges at the vice duchess. Traditional wine, fortified wine, and dead water infusions. Roast from a pig fed on the milk of sixty cows [2]... Heck, the bill from the chefs would indeed be insane, but it was worth it. As her father used to say, the front table isn't for eating. It's an investment in reputation. An abundance of expensive food and wine is the most spectacular and inexpensive display of status.
And what happened then, and why did the birthday girl get drunk like a commoner from the song about two merry widows who spent the night in the mud at the tavern? Was it really that good?
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Flessa opened her heavy eyelids a second time and looked up at the carved wood. In Milvess, it was customary to hang a hoop on chains over the bed and fasten the canopy to it. The vice-duchess found it foolish - too easy for an assassin to get close. She had brought back from Malersyde a familiar bed with a high headboard that curved over the headboard. Well, at least the woman was in her bed. That was good. Flessa glanced to her right, finding a tall window where the late autumn dawn was coloring the sky with every shade of dullness. The movement of her eyeballs triggered a mild bout of nausea that quickly subsided.
She looked more daringly to her left, where something warm was warming her hand on top of the finest blanket of mountain goat down. She found a cap of dark hair, which did not look like a man's, and with a beautiful hairpin in the disheveled strands. The expensive silver trinket was familiar, and the heiress had thrown it on the table in advance, expecting to "reward" the medicine woman for her efforts. If, of course, the effort turned out to be worth it. Apparently, the art was worth the reward. If there was anything left in her memory... On the other hand, if she liked it, she could do it again.
Gritting her teeth, Flessa moved herself into a sitting position. She took a sip of apple juice from a clear goblet with threads of blue, yellow, and brown glass. A light spell kept the drink cool, and her body felt better immediately, but her head still ached with the unpleasant thought that she shouldn't get so drunk. And there had to be a reason for it.
Flessa thought about putting on a robe, but she had to bend over for it, as she did for the other clothes scattered all over the vice duchess's chambers. And the head urged that it was better to keep straight, avoiding bending and sudden movements. One could have called for "body servants." [3] but ... she didn't want to.
She stood up, nearly losing her balance. A bout of headache touched her temples reproachfully. The heiress strode barefoot across the waxed parquet floor, past the weapons rack, the tall bookshelves, and the heavy drapes covering the windows. The bottle of elixir was in its place, in an inconspicuous drawer disguised as a carved panel. Flessa looked back at the sleeping girl, who from across the hall seemed like a doll wrapped in expensive sheets. She was asleep... Though she shouldn't have used the hiding place so obviously... but whatever, that was something to worry about afterward.
The sip sent a wave of invigorating warmth through her body, almost immediately hitting her skull from the inside with a fist of painful heat. Flessa clenched her eyes shut, waiting out the first, harshest attack. And relief came. She would have to pay for it with an annoying stabbing in her right side, under her ribs, that would last longer than a day, but the bodily weakness and hangover would be gone in less than half an hour.
Everything is fine. Everything is wonderful. Despite the daylight hours, the house was silent, protecting the peace of her mistress. But why did it feel as if something had gone wrong? Where is the happiness and pleasant satisfaction of the party?
The woman walked to the window, which was three-quarters closed with a curtain. Warm air wafted from the well-warmed ductwork, pleasantly stroking her body. In contrast to the warmth, a dank chill oozed from the door to the small balcony, which offered a picturesque view of the main gate and the small park. The traces of the festivities had already vanished without a trace, thanks to the efforts of the faithful and quiet servants. The heiress took a glance at herself in the rostral mirror, frowning at her swollen face and disheveled hair, but not without pleasure, noting that the night had definitely been a success. The traces of other people's kisses indicated a marvelous ardor and astonished her by their original arrangement, testifying to the rich imagination of the person who had kissed her.
Balcony. Open door.
Flessa felt her body spring up on its own, obeying instinct. An open balcony was the way to go for an assassin! A moment later, she relaxed, taking a deep breath. No, if the killer had gotten in during the night, she wouldn't have woken up. But someone had opened the door, hadn't they? Or had they forgotten to close it after admiring the magical fireworks?
"So," the woman said aloud, ruffling the remnants of her exquisite haircut.
As the elixir cleared the mind, memories crystallized out of the hangover muddle, stumbling to line up, one by one. So, everything started fine. And then it got even better.
And what happened next?
"So..." repeated Flessa in a complex mixture of confusion and some confusion.
She locked the door to the balcony, clicking the hidden lock. She made her way to the bed, lifting her robe on the way. Tightening the belt as she went, Flessa pulled the edge of the blanket away from the brunette's face in bed without ceremony. She looked up at the vice duchess with a sleepy gaze. The stork wing hairpin really suited her.
"Out," Flessa ordered briefly and walked around the bed, heading for the juice. She took both the goblet and the bell for the servants at the same time. It rang only once, and the well-trained valet, who had been waiting since dawn, immediately opened one flap and indicated a presence without going inside, however.
"A bath," the woman said, glancing at the quickly dressing "guest," adding. "And porters for her."
"As my lady wishes," the valet bowed. "The water is ready. It will be done now."
"Have Mourier come in," the vice-duchess nodded one last time.
* * *
The fireworks had burned off. Elena could see their reflections on the road, but the air above the house still shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, like the northern lights. In some ways, it was more beautiful than the fire itself, a soft, watercolor-like glow that faded into ghostly shadows in the black, starless sky. The guards looked at the woman blankly - two Highlanders with crossed halberds, two more with swords and fist shields.
"We don't give alms," said the one without the halberd in a gnarled accent. The shield on his belt was covered with distinctive scratches and nicks, showing that the thing had been in frequent and serious use.
"But if you're here by dawn when we change, we can make a deal," smirked the second swordsman with a noticeably better tongue. "It'll be a generous chip of silver. Four of us at once."
Elena felt that she was attracting more and more attention, sharp and yet deliberately inconspicuous. A lone free woman had no place here, and the longer she stood at the bronze gate, the more eyes crossed over the tall, masculine figure in men's pants.
The halberdiers were silent. They seemed to be on strictly ceremonial duty, and the swordsmen were like sharks on the loose. Elena glanced left and right, figuring out who else might be lurking in the shadows. Though probably most of the hidden guards were scattered inside, behind the white brick wall. Even from here, it was obvious the house was surrounded by a small but dense park. There must be fountains, paths among the hedges, and pavilions for secret rendezvous. The notion of "landscape design" was unknown here, but people knew how to decorate their everyday life, and loved to do so, even on tiny patches of land of a few patches. And behind the wall, there were many more.
"Oh, wait," the first swordsman furrowed his brow. "You're the girl who was supposed to come! Mourier warned me," he reminded the second.
The mountaineers argued, switching to their native speech. Their braids covered their faces amusingly as if each were speaking from the depths of a birdcage. The halberdiers glanced askew, the tips of their intimidating weapons swaying faintly as if their masters were preparing to open the passageway. A servant was already hurrying toward the gate from inside along the white marble path, hurried, well-fed, and colorfully dressed.
"At last," he wailed loudly. "At last!"
The gates were made as usual in rich houses, compound gates. Two wide flaps, woven of thick iron bars in intricate ornamentation, and a small wicket literally cut into one of the flaps. The structure seemed rather flimsy, especially in light of the nobles' paranoid preoccupation with their safety. But it only seemed so. The ornamentation concealed hinges through which, if necessary, wooden bolts or even long crowbars were inserted, jamming the grating into the archway. So, it could only be broken out with a battering ram and not with the first blow.
"You fool, do you think you're noble?!" the servant quickly unlocked the wicket and grabbed Elena by the sleeve, pushing her inside unambiguously. "You should have come through the back door. Now, I'll have to lead you through the garden."
"Uh, honorable!" the woman rested her palm against his chest, feeling the flabby fat beneath several layers of expensive cloth. "Not so fast!"
The Highlanders stared at the scene with a look of utter astonishment, even the halberdiers, just like the jailer in the anatomy. Everyone near the gate fell completely silent, watching. Elena unbuckled her belt pouch and pulled out a weighty pouch, on which both the lacing and the seal remained intact. Her soul literally cried, painfully feeling how real, living money was leaving.
"Your man who accompanied the noble lady this afternoon accidentally dropped this on the table. I'll return it."
Elena tried to make it sound with the utmost dignity. The servant stared at her dumbly, like a robot whose system had frozen from an invalid operation. Or, given the context, like the sheep in front of the new gate. The woman stood, holding her purse in the air. Realizing the wait was dragging on, Elena leaned over and dropped the leather pouch onto the stone slab. Demonstratively, she raised her hands with palms forward and stepped back a step without turning around.
"Return it," she repeated and only then staggered back.
The man is weak, though Elena had vowed to turn around to keep face to the last. Still, after a dozen more steps, she turned around. She couldn't help herself.
The first floor of the house was hidden behind a wall. The second was only partially visible. Judging by the yellow light in the clear huge panes of glass and the shadows, that was where all the fun was taking place. The third floor seemed lower and girdled with smaller windows, probably where the living quarters were located. On this level, there was only one balcony without a canopy or roof, more like a loggia. In the softly fading light of the fireworks, Elena saw a lone figure standing on the edge of the balcony at the waist-high railing. From this distance, there was no face or any other details, just a black silhouette.
What the devil had sat on her left shoulder, Elena couldn't have told anyone if she'd wanted to. There are times when a person does something, obeying some force, some strange intuition. Sometimes, it makes things brilliant. Sometimes, it makes things infinitely stupid. Either way, Elena wanted to do it and did it immediately, catching an impish vibe.
She stood precisely between the stone bowls in the bright light of the slate lights. Like a tin soldier, with the perfect fencer's posture, heels locked, toes slightly apart, arms at her side, chin up. The uncomfortable bag on his shoulder suddenly became comfortable and unnoticeable, as if it had become attached to his shabby jacket. Then the right leg moved forward, so the feet were in line, arms apart, elbows outward. A light squat, the right leg went in an arc to the side, completely straightening out. And then the whole set of movements harmoniously and coherently moved into a graceful bow with a sweep of the arms, as if a swan spread its wings.
Helena straightened up and smiled at the figure, knowing that the figure could not see it, but she was happy and excited, and the young woman could not help but share some of her fun with the world. And then she left, treading lightly and quickly as if she had not been awake for more than a day. Accompanied by whispers, soft voices, even a muffled whistle of approval.
* * *
The courtesan left without uttering a word.
Flessa fell back into bed, feeling the softness of the down pillow beneath her head. She closed her eyes, feeling a fleeting twinge of gratitude toward the whore who'd been smart enough not to pester her with something like "Is the noble mistress satisfied?" and even less with hints of a sequel. That's what a trained master of her craft means.
Mourier entered the chambers quietly, treading like a great miaur, smelling of leather and weapon grease. He took a few steps and froze, staring disciplinedly out the window and studiously not noticing that his mistress was dressed only in a thin and carelessly tied short-sleeved robe. Flessa lay there for a moment and moved her hand, signaling she was ready to listen. The bodyguard reported quickly and clearly on the progress of the festivities after the birthday girl had left the gathering. He listed the losses in the form of broken precious china, ruined furniture, torn tapestries, and the like. He reported who had already gone home and who was sleeping in the guest quarters on the first floor. Each guest received a gift from the generous hostess befitting his or her position. And so on. The disciplined lovag missed nothing, not even the list of rumors that the spies had already spread around the city so that all of Taididdo would know how amazing and rich the feast of the noble heiress of the House of Wartensleben had turned out to be.
"Gastald?" asked the vice-duchess. "Who was blazing of passion and all that."
"He found comfort in other embraces," replied Mourier diplomatically, realizing at once what was meant. He could barely keep from smiling, remembering how the enraged lady had literally pulled one of the most expensive courtesans of Milvesse out from under the young Tegtmauber (whose advances she had previously rejected with delicate determination). And listening to what then went on in the private chambers of the mistress, even the minions who had seen everything shook their heads respectfully. However, the bodyguard decided not to mention it.
"That healer..." the heiress said suddenly.
"Yes, Lady?"
"Find out where she lives."
Already done. The far end of Free Blades Street. Renting a room on a full-time, fed basis."
Flessa was silent for a moment, and when she spoke, the question caught even the used-to-anything lovag by surprise.
"Mourier, is she crazy?"
Now, he took a pause, a short one, to think over the answer and somehow summarize the information he had gathered, but at the same time not to test the patience of the mistress.
"No. But not completely sane," Mourier said honestly. "No husband, no children, no man. Rumor has it that she's having an affair with the apprentice executioner, but no one has held a candle to it. No one has caught it in a dark corner. She also takes lessons from a fencer, who many years ago was considered a great master, but then he retired from business, dispersed his students, and became impoverished."
"Fencer..." the woman stretched out without opening her eyes. "And executioners. Interesting acquaintances."
"Yeah. That's all I've been able to find out so far."
"Maybe you didn't give her enough?" the woman questioned suspiciously.
"No, how could you!" replied Mourier, with a note of offended pride. "The purse had a red seal! You pay with such at the Jewelers and Tailors," making sure that the mistress was silent, he suggested cautiously. "We could send people to her. There are good specialists. They'll take anyone right from the doorstep, and no one will notice anything."
"I'll think about it," muttered Flessa sleepily, whose body, which was already in full effect from the elixir, was insistently demanding a healthy and long sleep.
"I'll think about it...we'll talk tonight..... or tomorrow."
Lovag bowed in a half bow and went out, leaving the vice duchess alone with her reverie. Outside the door, he shook his head, stopping the valet, who was ready to report the hot bath. The valet folded his arms across his chest and, in a menacing whisper, ordered the water to be heated further.
* * *