Chapter 14 Kriegmesser
* * *
A lazy man gets up at the first rays of the sun, but an honest citizen at least a quarter of a small watch before dawn. Elena woke up early as a good citizen, even before the lantern-watchers and alarm clocks with ratchets. She lay under the covers for a while, savoring the warmth. The wooden bed, which was a long chest the height of a man, stood next to a brick chimney in the wall. The furnace on the first floor had been well heated the day before, so it was warm and cozy. She didn't want to get up, but duty called. The woman sighed and pulled back the thin blanket.
In houses people usually walked without taking off their street shoes or just barefoot, but Elena had arranged the room in the usual way, so the floor was always cleanly swept, shoes were in a separate corner, and the woman walked around the house in slippers.
The morning was sunny, so the mica window let in plenty of light. She didn't need to light the special "night" candle with a torch. It was a pity that the frame couldn't be opened, it wasn't summer anymore... Washing and dressing didn't take much time. Chewing on a tar lump to clean her teeth, Elena looked at the bowl of water, which also served as a mirror. She decided that she would put off practicing her gaze until later, especially since the water was cold. She combed her hair with a wooden comb, thinking it was time to re-do her coloring and get a haircut. You could cut your hair yourself, with Baala's scissors, or you could have it cut by a barber. The latter was more beautiful, but it cost money.
Some more time was taken up by morning exercises, stretching, and obligatory self-massage by tapping the body with special sticks similar to baton sticks. Elena came up with the general program herself, combining the lessons of Draftsman with her personal Pilates experience. The Ecumene had already grown to understand the urgent need for physical training, and Elena was spurred on by the fact that she would probably never see the same level of medicine again. Therefore, careful health care is the best investment in a long life.
The woman pulled on a pair of linen underpants that looked like family underpants with rope ties, another item of clothing that had been "customized" for her. She had never gotten used to wearing local underwear made of a piece of cloth like Japanese loincloths. Though about once a month she still had to do it, purely out of necessity. Putting on pants and a shirt, Elena had a trained eye to assess what needed to be sewn up and what could wait.
Now, it was time to do what in good conscience should have been done the day before - to evaluate the sword.
Elena pulled a blade from its sheath. What Figueredo called a "sword" referred more to military knives, "kriegmessers" [1]. A cross between swords and cleavers, a weapon more akin to an overgrown knife. Instead of the traditional shank, there was a solid plate, a continuation of the blade with wooden plates on two or three rivets. Despite the apparent simplicity and reliability of such a design was considered worse than the usual, and the weapon, accordingly, cost less. Elena never understood why [2].
"Greed," the woman whispered. "Skimp a sword..."
It was a really good knife, though. The blade had a barely perceptible curve, equally suitable for stabbing and chopping. The quality of metal and forging was decent, though, of course, far from the rolled steel of her native world. The handle is one-handed but long enough to allow room for a second palm to reinforce the blow. A crossguard and traditional right hook to protect the outside of the palm. A simple, utilitarian thing, yet suitable for quite sophisticated fencing. And free from the restrictions and prohibitions on weapons for commoners, which is important.
Elena tried on the large knife in her hand and made a few test swings, which evolved first into a parade and training binder and then into a shadow fight. Messer was far from the flashy blades flaunted by hired swordsmen, but with each swing, the temporary owner liked the weapon more and more. In the middle of another bundle, going around the stool with a beautiful pirouette, the woman remembered that, in fact, today, she would try to kill or at least wound. The sobering thought disrupted the movement, Elena hit her thigh against the furniture, and all the energy dissolved.
With a heavy sigh, she slipped the Messer into its scabbard. Well, a duel was a duel, but the day had just begun. There was no time for breakfast, but there was a slice of bread wrapped in a clean cloth waiting on the table from the night before.
While packing, Elena made an unpleasant discovery - the strap of the medical bag had frayed. The old burlap had served its purpose and had crept in such shaggy lengths that it was useless to stitch it. Outside the window, the cracker was already going from house to house, announcing that it was the middle of the dawn watch and anyone who hadn't gotten to work in time was late. Elena grumbled, mixing two languages, and pulled out a Vietnamese chest with straps from under the table. She tried not to flash the signs of her old life, but there was no choice. She didn't want to carry a heavy bale of vials under her arm. Her mind was occupied with other things. She hesitated: should she leave the sword on her belt, wrap it in a cloth, or leave it at home until evening? She decided to let it hang there. It was time to start acting like a fencer with some experience.
It was a good day, sunny and warm, almost like summer. It was a pleasant contrast to the previous fall, which, on the contrary, had surprised even the most experienced citizens with dampness and freezing cold. Elena was almost running through the tunnel under the river. There were almost no clocks as such here. At the same time, a certain regime of the day was strictly observed, and God forbid to come to the service later than the executioners.
Luckily for her, there was almost no work today. The interrogations had been postponed for a couple of days to carry out some investigative actions on the newly discovered circumstances of torture. No one noticed the delay. There were no special patients. There was a rumor that two prison guards from the lower levels had disappeared without a trace as if they had vanished. There were spies from the night guard, some other people with wax tablets, and even stacks of real papyrus. Only parchment was more expensive for writing, and it was forbidden for use by commoners, including merchants, by a special assize.
Dind kept trying to say something, especially when he noticed the kriegmesser on Lunna's belt. But he, too, was caught up in the whirlwind, so the young man, as he walked down the corridor once more, only cast a pained glance at the young woman.
Even the usually sedate and unhurried monk of the Church of Pantocrator, who was in charge of the spiritual consolation of criminal souls - Elena could not remember the name of the church minister - was thrashing about like a pissed-off man. The monk and the medical officer did not communicate much, though they encountered each other often; the churchman was a member of the "commission" that certified the death of a prisoner and sent the body to the anatomical table or straight to the grave. But on this day, the shaven-headed fat man condescended to greet her. Elena answered, and she did not like the scrutinizing glance with which the attendant dabbed at the medicine chest. The unpleasantness was almost immediately forgotten.
It went on like that, in nervous anticipation of the evening and the duel promised by Draftsman. Toward the end of the day's watch, Elena realized she couldn't stand this mess any longer. So she went to look for Master Quokk. When she found him, she asked for a leave of absence without any verbal detours.
"What for?" the chief executor asked laconically, shifting his beret to his side and squinting at the sword at the healer's hip.
"I fight tonight. Swords," the woman said just as briefly. And then she thought that no one had actually called anyone anywhere yet. And maybe they wouldn't. Then, it would be awkward and even problematic. However, she couldn't take back what she had said, so she took on the stern and stern look of a fighter who was ready to say goodbye to life right now.
"Ah," the executioner shook his head with the look of a man who understood everything at once. "It's about time."
"Uh..." The woman said, and that was the end of her eloquence.
"If you're young, a year in the city, and you haven't fought, you're a wuss, a wimp, and a misunderstanding," Quokk explained condescendingly. "And knife-wielding is a good manly thing to do."
Elena wanted to remark that she was not a man and bit her tongue, remembering that right now she wasn't even wearing stockings, which women often wore - for example, the Black Duchess - but pants of purely masculine cut. So she was perceived as a man who not only wore something from a man's closet, but also voluntarily chose a man's way of life, with much more freedom, but also responsibility.
"What will you fight for?" The executioner inquired. "For a man ... or a woman?" he grinned good-naturedly.
Elena hesitated to answer. Unfortunately, a sharp and quick tongue was not her virtue.
"All right, go on. I'll deduct it from your pay for the day, but if they ask, I'll tell them I sent you on the errand myself," Quokk allowed and added. "Not a word to Dind. He's got another work today, and he'll worry, he'll maim the wretch."
"Yeah," Elena said and hurried away before the master changed his mind.
"Hey, there," Quokk called out in the back. "Tomorrow and the day after tomorrow are holidays, weekends, remember?"
"A memorial, yes," the woman remembered and nodded gratefully. If it hadn't been for the executioner, she really would have forgotten about Night of Stars on the Water.
As she climbed the stairs, she mechanically noted how simply, without any emotion, "work today" sounded and was accepted. Professional deformation, damn it. It also occurred to her that the apprentice's affection for the healer had apparently become obvious to everyone, and something would have to be done about it.
But that's afterward. Later.
Now, she wanted to take her shoulder chest home and walk the streets, calming her nerves.
* * *
As she had expected, there was some activity in front of Draftsman's house. The woman adjusted her sword and pulled her combat mittens from her belt. She pulled the thicker one over her left hand, tucked the cuff under the sleeve, and checked to ensure it was still on. The right one was quicker and easier.
Elena strode forward with feigned slowness, trying to keep her heartbeat down. It was scary and nervous. As she walked, she did a few mimicry exercises from her past life, making faces and folding her lips into a tube to stretch her muscles and improve her diction. She didn't need to mumble something inaudible while answering a call. On the way, she thought back to the location, figuring out where to fight.
The Street of the Free Blades ended two blocks above and then divided into three "arms" that descended to the river. That's why Elena spent a lot of time looking for a Draftsman's house. Formally, the three alleys still belonged to the older "commodity," including administratively, through the night guards and lantern service. Practically, they lived their own lives, and no real Brethers were seen here for weeks. Figueredo's house stood in a row of buildings that had once been erected without a single plan and stuck apart like teeth in a jaw. The street curved in crannies, forming small squares with wells and small marketplaces with four or five mobile stalls. In the daytime, the owners rolled out carts with a canopy and a counter. In the evening, they rolled them into barns. In warm weather, they did not even roll them up, sleeping here at night. The main thing was to hang a piece of correctly colored cloth in a prominent place so everyone would know that a criminal deposit had been made and that no robbery was allowed.
One of these curves was outlined by the foundations of a burned-out house on one side and on the other by a good-sized frame barn. There was activity here, and something colorful and bright and uncharacteristic of the locals was stirring. Elena straightened up, put on an important look, and stepped forward, holding her sword with her forearm so it wouldn't dangle at her hip. A step, another step; she had to force herself to walk faster, or her legs would slow down on their own.
The small square had taken over an even older foundation, so it was two-level. There was room for three kinds of stone paving, a small fence, a log pile, and a few barrels. Two mobile benches had been rolled back under the walls, clearing the space. Apparently, the owners had acted preemptively, safeguarding property. A guard in a leather half-plate bore down, leaning on a short halberd and making sure there was no disturbance. Both cuirass and halberd had seen better days. The armor glistened with grease as if the leather had been rinsed in a vat of grease. A duelist wandered by an old wheelbarrow that was a local landmark, burrowed into the ground and rotten enough to be of no interest even to junk dealers.
Here's my first real fight, Elena thought, picking up her pace a little more so it wouldn't look like she was scared.
The man was young enough to look about thirty or forty years old by the standards of her homeworld, so he was about twenty. He should have had a "soldier" sign on his chest because only mercenaries could dress so colorfully and haphazardly. A yellow shirt, over it a black jacket, or rather a set of picturesquely sewn ribbons and patterned shreds. Pants with a bright scarlet codpiece, sewn from strips of red, black and yellow cloth plus blue bows under the knees. The boots were a bit of a bummer, giving off the appearance of a man in need. Brethers didn't dress like that, and his weapons were more like soldiers than swordsmen: a straight double-edged sword with a chisel-sharpened point and a grip like the sign of zero, divided across by a small crosshair.
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Her heart was a little relieved. This wasn't a professional assassin who'd been trained in swordsmanship for years. However, it was only slightly relieved. Elena felt the normal and natural fear of a man who was about to be killed with a real sword.
The small crowd parted as if by order to let the woman through. They knew her in the neighborhood. The townspeople whispered to the casual gawkers about who she was and why she цшер шкщт. Figueredo had not taught her the subtleties of corporate etiquette, so Elena limited herself to standing beyond the reach of the enemy's blade and silently arched an eyebrow, placing her hand on the hilt of the messer. You have some business with me, you say?
"Hey," the mercenary said, not hiding his contempt, the words pushing through his teeth and falling to the ground like maggots from a corpse. "Are you the chiks with the sword?"
The people appreciated it and chuckles ran through the thin crowd. The soldier frowned. Up close, he looked very much like the corpse the medic had opened the last time. The same shaggy head cut into a short stubble, the same thin, bony face devoid, however, of the traces of chronic malnutrition. And an unpleasant slippery look, which, like a tentacle, climbs into the purse and the neckline of her shirt. The eyes of a marauder.
"Well, get it out," the fighter said curtly. "If you know which side to take."
"How shall we fight?" Elena couldn't keep up her steady, businesslike voice, and at the end of the sentence, she snapped into a wheeze that didn't go unnoticed. The chuckles around him turned to disappointed whispers, and the mercenary grinned.
"But when you fall on your knees, we'll stop," all this was accompanied by a characteristic gesture, so there was no doubt about the meaning of the joke. "Maybe I'll pay you."
The sympathy of the crowd was clearly swayed to the side of the jolly man. The people whistled and cheered, and betting on victory began, which was not usually the case in serious fights. God decides whose will it is, and it is unwise and foolish to try to capitalize on his will. Elena gritted her teeth and pulled the messer out of its sheath, and then realized that she had to unhook the scabbard, as it would get in the way, dangling at her foot. Now, it was too late. It would be awkward and ruin everything. Draftsman's house stood like a ghost, without a single sign of life. If his mentor was watching the fight, he was doing it quietly. It seemed to Elena that an inconspicuous gray-brown cassock, the kind worn by wandering monks, flashed among the gawkers, but I guess it was just a glimpse.
The knife seemed too heavy, too uncomfortable as if it were the first time the woman had ever picked up a weapon. The mittens hung on her hands like awkwardly wrapped rags, interfering with her grip. Her feet staggered like stilts, trying to catch on one another. Apparently, the general uncertainty was evident on her face and in her gestures because the soldier grinned even wider, and the crowd hooted. If anyone here had sympathized with her, there were none left now.
The mercenary attacked without warning, just as Helena wondered again if she should take off her scabbard, ignoring the awkwardness. He made a long lunge like a rapier, and it nearly cost her her life. The point of the sword flashed directly in front of her eyes, glinting in the reflected sun. The woman mechanically took a step back, knocked the sword aside, and in turn made a swift counterattack, all on a single exhalation. The curved blade of the messer touched the patterned sleeve of the black jacket but didn't even leave a cut.
The soldier jerked back, breaking the distance, and immediately swung forward, swinging to strike, bringing the blade well past her left ear. Elena stepped - clearly, practiced, toe raised, foot falling vertically - right under the swing as if catching up with the enemy's backward blade. She threw forward her hand with the messer.
Remember, pendulum movements are faster because you don't have to waste time returning the blade to its previous position. By chopping left and right. Zigzagging you'll strike three blows versus two on one side.
Her mentor's lessons came back to mind so clearly, as if Draftsman was standing right behind her back and whispering in her ear.
But if you swing excessively to the opposite side, the shoulder and elbow open for a counterattack. This is a common mistake with all soldiers. They are accustomed to unordered and indiscriminate hand-to-hand combat, where you have to strike as hard as you can just to get hit.
And again, it almost worked, alas, only almost. The point of the knife pierced his shoulder. The fighter recoiled again, tripped on the ledge, and began to fall. He deftly turned the fall into a somersault and jumped to his feet, covering himself with an ancient wheelbarrow. Bright clothes immediately lost their luster. But, what is most valuable of all, the light of mocking courage in his eyes was extinguished. Elena realized that she'd used the surprise bonus when she'd had a good chance to play on her opponent's asshole self-confidence.
She backed closer to the wall, just enough to be in the shadows without risking the maneuvering turning her face to the sun. Not close enough, however, to restrain herself and allow herself to be pinned against a wall of clay and manure mixed with straw and other trash. The spectators oohed and whistled and chewed nuts, and a boy who sold young cane shoots, the cheapest sweet in town, snuck among the townspeople. The soldier waved his sword, inviting Elena to come down to him. The woman gave her opponent a thumbs-down, not expecting him to understand. Though, it looked insulting all the same. The foe snapped at her and attacked, cautious, calculated.
It didn't work with the first blow, and the opponents spun in a strange merry-go-round that resembled a dance underwater. It was nothing like a cinematic slashing with the clang of blades but a lot of false lunges and careful probing. Elena had already realized that the nameless soldier was inferior to her in skill, but he was much more experienced and stronger, overall. So it was only a matter of time before he would try to just pounce like a bear, turning the duel into a regular mauling. Elena would be surprised to learn that she was, in some ways, replicating the Black Duchess's fight a few days ago and solving the same conundrum of how to compensate for her opponent's overall physical superiority.
Only impeccable skill and competent movement will level the odds.
They circled against each other, catching every movement of their opponent, exchanging rare half-hearted blows. Elena tried to maneuver sparingly, keeping the science of Draftsman not in her head but, as fencers used to say, "in her bones" (since the word "reflexes" had not yet been invented here). She clenched her left hand into a fist and put it behind her back. Her legs "under herself" so she wouldn't be hit by a low blow.
But the soldier's culture of movement was much worse. He had enough confidence, and the sword fluttered in his strong hand like a thing with which its owner had become familiar over the years. But he did everything as if with reserve, with excess. If he struck on the lower level, he was almost squatting, leaning on the ground with his left palm. If on top, then barely unwinding the sword above his head. Evading the blow with sharp turns of the body. Obviously, this is what "soldier's chopping" looked like, when you had to smash with all your might not particularly high quality and rather blunt [4] blade on quilts, leather and chain mail, and possibly into plate armor.
Elena caught the "ass feeling," as Draftsman would say, that is, non-rhythmic movements with the connection of her whole body movements to her breathing. She felt she could well "overdance" the soldier and make him exhausted. It was fun, but not good and easy, but rather unhealthy and abnormal, like an alcoholic from the sight of a glass of strong wine. Here I am, a girl not yet twenty, fighting with a scoundrel whose hands are covered with blood up to the elbow and maybe even higher. And he, mind you, does not get on the road because it's scary and on the kreigmesser easy! The painful excitement was intoxicating and accelerated the blood.
But at the same time, Elena was very scared. As a person who had already been tried several times. As a medic who had stitched up hundreds of wounds and escorted dozens of dead people to the other world. Carefree girl Lena knew that death was far away and for someone else. But Hel and Lunna had long squeezed her, and those two were well aware that death was now stomping and sniffing across the street, trying to push her opponent out into the sun, blinding her, and slaughtering her like a pig in blood and screams of horrible pain.
You bastard, when are you going to get tired...
As if responding to her thoughts, the mercenary crouched on his left leg, helping his entire body to fend off the messer. From this position, he either stepped or jumped forward, attacking strangely with his sword at a forty-five-degree angle - not a jab or a blow, but a pushing movement forward that ended in a lurch. The swords clashed together, describing a devious figure, clashing like magnetized swords. The women in the crowd shouted in unison. The soldier finished the move without reaching his target and spun around on his axis, opening his back. This is where he would have ended up if Elena hadn't hit her back against something wooden. A support pole! She was pushed against the wall.
Elena lost a moment. It was enough for the soldier to attack again with a triumphant growl and a gleeful glint in his eyes, about to pin her to the gray-yellow wall. It all happened very quickly. Here was the face of the victor with his mouth wide open and a couple of teeth missing. And here was the sword, a blade with many dashes and dots, inevitable in hand-forged metal of very average quality. There was no point as such. The blade was tapered at the end and cut at right angles, and the resulting stump was sharpened like a rough chisel. It will not break against a bone or steel plate. Even if it does not penetrate it, it will hurt.
Elena swung her left hand, intercepting the other man's sword with the palm of her combat mitt. She swung it to the side, feeling the piercing scrape pass through her fingers, sending a painful squeak through her teeth. The soldier should have been able to get his colored belly on her blade, but the duelist was too invested in the sword's withdrawal. The counter-poke with the messer was inaccurate, weak, and short, without the proper turning of the body that should have lengthened and strengthened the jab. The knife slid down the side of his opponent, adding another cut to the many holes.
If the soldier had been a little more experienced or restrained, he might have turned the fight into a clinch, where Elena had little chance, but the sudden counterattack struck a nerve, and the man lunged backward and sideways, jerking his sword toward himself with both hands. The straight blade came free from the grip of the combat gauntlet with a shrill screech, sparks shooting out as if the woman had a burning jester in her hand.
Elena stepped along the wall, shaking her left hand. A few split rings fell to dust, her palm numb. The quilted mitten was lined on the inside with fine chainmail, which in turn was covered by a flap of cloth. A Brether would probably not be fooled by such an imitation, but with an ordinary assassin - look! - it worked. Figueredo was right again.
However, the opponent got off with a light scratch, and the fight was back to where it started. And the woman had no more tricks left.
Elena changed her stance, that is, her position. She stood almost frontally, no longer hiding her protected palm, and crouched a little, letting her own weight, as her mentor had taught her, "shrink" her legs. According to all the canons of the genre, the third act should now follow, after which one of the fighters would go to the healer's room or to the North Cemetery, to the common grave for the homeless. The soldier approached again, this time cautiously, with a crouching step, without swaying or other movements. Maybe the setting sun was joking with the light, or maybe all the courage and superiority had gone from the fighter's gaze. Elena raised and lowered her shoulders as if she were flapping her wings so that even her sleeves didn't constrict her movements. Her left hand stopped at the solar plexus, palm outward as if she were preparing to catch a baseball. To parry a blow from any direction with equal speed.
Now, one moment...
"To hell with you!" The nameless soldier declared, spat at the woman's feet, and lowered his sword. He stepped back five paces. Then, still keeping his eyes on his opponent, picked up the scabbard. Elena watched in silence as her failed assassin hid the blade, continuing to retreat. The soldier spat once more, straightened proudly, squaring his shoulders, and then finally turned and walked away toward the river. He was seen off with whistles and even various hurtful words but without much enthusiasm. Everyone was waiting for bloodshed, and here...
It was only when she looked at the receding back as if woven from yellow and black shreds, that Elena realized that she was completely lost in the "tunnel perception," not registering what was going on around her. What if it was all just a trick, and his friends were sneaking up from behind with nets or daggers? She jerked and jumped against the wall, waving her knife blindly. The people scrambled to the sides and began to scatter more quickly. A couple of very marginalized people started an unsophisticated fight, figuring out who owed who now that the stakes were stacked and there seemed to be no winner. After making sure there was no disturbance, the guard left, resting his halberd on his shoulder like a pole.
Elena leaned against the rough wall, feeling her hands begin to tremble. The wall of the house smelled of dry dust and hay. Sweat poured down, soaking her recently washed shirt. Her cap stuck to her damp hair. She wanted to scream at the top of her voice and smash something, to run in circles, in general, to give vent to the monstrous tension. The colors of the evening street seemed very sharp, television-bright and contrasting, like in a game, even hurting her eyes.
Slowly, barely moving her fingers, the woman took off her gloves and slipped them behind her belt. The third time, she slipped the blade into the mouth of the sheath. She looked back at Draftsman's house with the lingering hope that the master was on the threshold. He must have seen everything and approved of the successes, and the two of them would correct the mistakes afterward. No, the dark house stood like a gloomy crypt, a monument to the long-gone glory of fencer Figueredo.
But he didn't lie, after all, the swordswoman thought. The master had not cheated. He had promised that in a year, she would be able to withstand one or two soldiers more or less confidently. And so it turned out, with correction for stupid mistakes. Now to home, home.
To home...
She walked towards Baala's house, trying to breathe deeply and evenly, inhaling the cool calm, exhaling the fear and tension.
* * *
"Add to that," the mercenary demanded.
"What?" Mourier stared at him. "Has the clinking of coins made your mind go blank?"
"Add it," the fighter said again, bulking up.
He called himself a brether, but Mourier knew perfectly well that he was no master of the blade. He was a hired murderer, the kind of man who is bought by a gang of three or five men at a time to kill a wife's lover or a merchant of small means in a dark corner. But a good murderer, who was not lazy to wave his blade in front of shadows and a training pole.
"This wasn't the deal," Mourier was prepared to kill the insolent bastard now, but he wondered how it would end. Besides, his mistress was nearby, so bloodshed was undesirable.
"Exactly," agreed the mercenary and explained in a surprisingly sensible way that he had been hired to frighten a manly girl and ruin her skin for the sake of interest. And the wench, as the locals whispered, turned out to be an apprentice of a fencer, the one who ten years ago was considered the best of the best, until he finally lost his mind. And she's good with a sword herself. It was immoral for the employer to reveal such details.
"Twice," the mercenary showed a red dot on his shoulder where blood from the prick had seeped through his sleeve. "That ... got me twice!" now he stuck his fingers into the cut on his side. "Miraculously didn't kill me. Another risk, another price."
It sounded reasonable, and Mourier was surprised to see how deftly the body cutter was wielding her blade. She was inexperienced and had made a few serious mistakes in combat, but overall... Flessa, wrapped in a cloak from top to toe, dispelled his doubts.
"Pay extra," she commanded briefly. Her voice sounded quiet and disembodied because of the high collar and scarf covering the lower part of her face. Her eyes and hair were hidden under the hood.
Lovag obeyed, wasting no time with "are you sure" and other nonsense. The murderer got far less than he would have liked, but considerably more than he had hoped for, and hurried away.
"To home," said the mistress.
Mourier gestured to a few of the fighters that had scattered to the dark corners beforehand. However, despite his instruction, Flessa lingered a little longer. The vice-duchess looked long and thoughtfully along the street to where the medicine woman Lunna had disappeared. Then she looked at the fencer's house. As if on cue, the master stepped out into the dark street, opening the sturdy door. He looked at the patch where the fight was going on as if he could see the chains of traces in the twilight and reconstruct the picture of the battle. The fencing teacher smoothed his long gray hair and tied it back into a ponytail with a tattered ribbon.
Suddenly, the fencer's bony, angry face twitched and blurred strangely as if in a hurry to split at invisible seams. Lovag flinched at first and then realized that it looked like an attempt at a smile on the part of a man whose face must have been frozen in a disgruntled grump for years. The Blade Master nodded approvingly as if in agreement and disappeared into the house.
"To home," Flessa repeated, thinking hard and deeply.
* * *