Chapter 15 Once upon a time, there was a brether...

* * *

Elena looked at the water, and the reflection looked back at Elena, grim and displeased. The wooden basin warmed her hands through the thin boards. She didn't want to stick her face inside, and her eyes squinted on their own. She wanted very much to postpone it. Better yet, tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow. To start a new life with a new day of work. Or even...

The woman cursed, exhaled sharply, and dove into the warm water. The first time it didn't work, her eyelids drooped like flaps on autonomous control, ignoring the orders of her brain. On the third time, Elena lost her breath, inhaled the water, and nearly knocked over the vessel. Coughing and sniffling, she repeated, finally, with relative success. It didn't hurt, but it was unpleasant, like chewing on a toothpick. Elena decided that it was enough for the first time, having reached a compromise between the realized necessity and the feeling of natural laziness. Enough for today, but tomorrow she would have to do more.

It's gonna be a good day. Definitely a good day.

Old people were grousing a lot this fall, saying that all was not good. When the calendar says it's frost time, but you can walk down the street without a raincoat, and the "summer" fish still haven't left the sea, having gone into the depths of the ocean - a bad omen. However, old people are always grouchy, and signs of fate can be looked for in everything! So, the honest inhabitants of the City tried not to think about bad things and rejoice in good things. Because to whom is a sign, and to whom is the grace of Pantocrator. If only the price of bread were lowered...

Elena had been living in Milvess for a year already. She hadn't become an experienced, savvy citizen yet, but she could already feel the "nerve" of the capital. And she did not like the unrestrained fun that covered Milvess in the approaching autumnal equinox. Carnivals. Shop and quarterly; theatrical skits; merry brawls street to street, shop to shop, shore to shore; distributions of provisions from guild elders. Wedding Series. It's a good time when coffers are full, and it's clear we'll live until spring. Illusions by the magic guild, usually inconspicuous and stingy on spectacle. Memorial processions with skulls of noble ancestors, more like African funerals. All this was a whirlpool of colors and fun, coloring Milvess with the lights of fireworks and festivities.

And yet...

There was something wrong with the carnival kaleidoscope. Something unhealthy, artificial. As if half a million citizens in the largest city in the known world weren't so much enjoying life as trying to forget themselves in a frenzy of sex-drugs-rock-and-roll. And Elena couldn't understand what it was that scratched her soul so much.

This morning had started particularly well, though. So she didn't want to think about bad things. Usually, Elena and Baala didn't see each other very often, the medicine woman working during the day and the dwarf courtesan resting, and vice versa. But Memorial Day was approaching, one of the few holidays when almost all work in the City was not only restricted but forbidden. Only trade was allowed, and not all of it. For example, jewelers could sell their goods, but shoemakers could not because of their centuries-old privileges. There were no alarm clocks with ratchets in the streets, nor did the sidewalks resonate with the clatter of wooden shoes from the footsteps of thousands of workers. The city was frozen in its morning slumber as if all time belonged to it entirely. Only very young apprentices were rushing to distribute the night-baked bread and other snacks. Even the street vendors were taking their time to pull out their boxes and roll out their carts in preparation for the evening harvest when tens of thousands of townspeople would want to fill their stomachs with food and their belt bags with trinkets.

And for once, all the people of the house were together. For breakfast, Baala made a soup of late-season greens that should have been off the shelves for a month, but thanks to the warmth, the city's vegetable gardens were still producing edible flora, and the marsh reeds were not going dry. Two eggs and a solid piece of pigskin were added to the chowder for extra richness. The three women - the eldest, the middle, and the youngest - passed each other a mug with sour cream for the soup, made like an ordinary barrel but held together not by hoops but by the vine of the olive tree, a local variety of olive trees.

In her former life, Elena had hated eggs, especially hard-boiled eggs, the mere smell of them making her sick. But now the woman had not only widened her horizons of food tolerance but had also become imbued with the continent-wide cult of fat, everything from butter to lard and grease. Greasy skins, and eggs, had all been unpalatable foods before, but now they were energy, precious calories that possessed the flavor of life. So the wooden spoon cheerfully scooped up the green concoction, thickly flavored with good sour cream.

Nibbling on a piece of hide, Elena thought again about what the Ecumene was. Like - why its nature was so incongruous with the human community. The continent had the standard "common European" set of domesticated animals, except dogs, which had died out four centuries ago. A few wild animals that strongly resembled feral and mutated Earth counterparts. Quite a bit of bird life, fish that seemed stuck at the shell stage. And... that's about it. It was as if humans had once come to a young world where life had recently stepped onto land and had populated it with fauna brought with them, which had quickly adapted to the greenhouse conditions. But what kind of people were they? And how long ago had the transition occurred, if indeed it had taken place?

A mystery.

In any case, the aborigines were definitely not descendants of the Earthlings - the time did not match. If Сharley and the scraps of knowledge Lena collected on the road were to be believed, the Old Empire had existed for at least a thousand years with all the attributes of a developed feudal-magical state. That is, long before feudalism with knights and other tinsel was formed in the native universe. On the other hand, if we look at it from the Marxist's point of view, people could move even in the Stone Age and invent feudalism independently, according to the laws of the objective course of history. As for the scarcity of biomass, it could be impoverished in the course of exploitation, as, for example, the once vast forests, which are almost absent in the world, from which the shipbuilders and, first of all, the Island with its huge fleet suffered.

Baala placed a wooden plate of fresh bread on the table. Elena inhaled the stupefying smell, and philosophical musings were blown out of her head. The round loaf of "gray" bread had the traditional shape of two flatbreads, laid one on top of the other with eight deep radial indentations. Such bread could be broken both lengthwise and crosswise without a knife. On one of the segments, the hard crust had a seal imprint guaranteeing the quality of the baking work [1].

The spoons scraped faster across the bottom of the bowls, eliminating the rest of the soup. Baala broke off a slice of bread for each of her companions, poured sour cream over it, and sprinkled it with a mixture of salt and dried herbs like parsley. What was almost non-existent in the Ecumene (and from what Elena suffered to this day) was spices. No saffron or other nutmeg. There was some analog of pepper, but it cost such an insane amount of money that it seemed to be not used for food, serving as vegetable gold. It was compensated for to some extent by a rich array of herbs, but Elena was still suffering without a pepperpot.

The diners munched into the bread, which by itself tasted divine and freshly baked, and with the salted sour cream was the food of the gods. After breakfast, Baala put the loaf away until evening, and the elders talked a little about life with a lazy leisureliness, like people who generally have nowhere to hurry. Baala shared the latest news, or rather gossip, circulating among the merchants and other privileged people. Elena hadn't heard anything new except for the fear of money. They said that the coin was getting lighter and lighter. Then, the rumor bifurcated. One branch had a clear apocalyptic tinge and attributed to the young emperor the intention to introduce copper and bronze into circulation. The other promised the imminent arrival of a silver caravan from the western lands so there would be enough metal to mint into a coin.

In any case, the city's public was clearly and palpably nervous. The issue of "light", i.e. worn out and cut-off money has always been acute, and now it is even more acute thanks to the new round of bread prices. Neither Elena nor Baal had been affected by it yet, nevertheless, general problems always become private sooner or later.

After a long breakfast, Elena wanted more than anything to crawl upstairs and snooze until noon, maybe even longer. Tomorrow was free, too, the only time in the year when two off days were in a row, as in a normal five-day week. However, it occurred to the woman that there was no special arrangement with Draftsman, which meant that today was a normal training day. Of course, one could always refer to...

There was a tingle under her ribs, exactly where the soldier's blade had been aimed yesterday. It tingled as if a higher power had reminded her of the happy parting of ways with death. This unpleasant feeling completely blew out all desire to doze off. Elena drank a mug of tea-like concoction and played a little with the landlady's daughter, spinning a wooden spinner made in the form of a conical pyramid with a rope. Then the woman had a fit of inspiration and, taking an old rural work calendar [2], made a paper airplane, crooked, oblique, but flying. Kid's delight was unbounded, and it became clear that by evening every child on the street would have a new toy, and in a week - and in the city. Elena, smiling, went to pack.

As she assessed the richness of her closet, she remembered the classic quote from "Tom Sawyer" about "that other suit." She counted her savings, thinking about buying new shoes, a winter hat, a warm coat, and a couple of little things like socks and windbreakers. She debated whether to hang a kriegmesser on her belt. She thought, why not, but then the voice of reason told her that it was a little early to show everyone that she was ready to fight at any moment. Elena wrapped the blade in a clean cloth and checked the usual knife, which she never parted with.

Well, that's it...

Baala's house was three stories high and well-built. Good brick, quality shingles, not lead, but they didn't leak in the rain. Wooden stairs and ceilings were made before the general shortage of lumber. It was possible to make a good living by dividing the rooms into separate cubicles and renting them out to at least a dozen families. But for some reason, Baala preferred to live alone, making an exception only for the strange woman who had shown up on her doorstep on an autumn night a year ago.

The first floor was inhabited by the dwarf and her daughter, the third by Elena, and the attic and the middle floor were uninhabited. It was filled with dust, cobwebs, scattered tools, and furniture of various degrees of readiness, as in the shop of a carpenter or a mad junk dealer. The furniture, by the way, was very good; I suppose the late father of the family had been a cabinetmaker. Elena suspected that the dwarf had not recovered her soul after her husband's death and tried not to touch the fragments of her old life, preserving it as much as she could. It was as if she was trying to keep the spirit of the deceased in a dusty maze of unfinished cabinets and varnished boards. Baala never mentioned a past life, and Elena didn't ask. The household was taken care of by an attendant, a young widow with three children, whose name she couldn't remember.

The house had a back door, a small abandoned garden, a high wall, and three entrances: the front one (where Elena had fallen through in the past), a wicket on the opposite side (never opened, so the bolts and hinges were rusted shut). And then there was a small crawlway that only Kid used. A few bricks at the base of the wall had been removed and braided with vines so it was impossible to find it without knowing about the passage. The little girl had once shown the secret passage to an older friend. Elena remembered.

She stepped out into the sun, adjusting her cap. It was warm. Just wonderfully warm and good. She didn't feel like diving into the fencer's gloomy hole. But she would have to.

Today, Draftsman seemed particularly malicious and nasty. He didn't even grind his words through his teeth, but almost without parting his lips. He'd skimped on something new, making Elena repeat the basic steps of the stipulations over and over again. No one mentioned the duel as if it had never happened. The woman was doing her best, thinking about the fact that rumors were spreading fast. So far, she had been ignored, but when word reached the Brether apprentices that the once glorious Figueredo's apprentice was worth something, sooner or later, it would not be a soldier with an infantry blade waiting at the door, but someone more skillful. So every step done right lengthens life.

Elena waved the training blade, Figueredo harmed, the minutes ticked by. Draftsman looked even worse than before. He was sweating all the time and often drank from a large mug. Elena immediately recognized the smell as an infusion for stomach pains. In general, the symptoms, including painful exhaustion, pointed to tuberculosis or cancer. But the cough was not bloody. Besides, a coughing man should have a special blush, and the fencer's face was getting paler every day. So, most likely, Draftsman was eaten from inside by a tumor.

"That's enough," the mentor ordered. "Are you practicing with water?"

"Yes," the student answered honestly.

After all, she had indeed been practicing her gaze. And the fact that it wasn't too long was a nuance.

"Is it hard?" Draftsman asked curtly.

"Yes."

"That's good. When you can keep from blinking, make it harder."

"How?"

"Hit the water with the palm of your hand. The task is the same - don't blink. It's harder that way. You never know if the drops will splash in your eyes this time or not."

"Got it."

Draftsman paused to retrieve a jug of hardened wine from under the bed. Apparently, the decoction wasn't working, so the craftsman diluted it generously with cheap alcohol. The wine worked better and faster than the medicine, and the master became a little cheerful, or rather, lost some of his natural quarrelsomeness. So much so that he showed the new technique in a rather peaceful manner.

Figueredo had taught Elena little in the way of wrestling, reasoning that once a girl got into a close fight unarmed, nothing would help her. But he had taught her a few simple things, such as releasing her from simple grapples or chokes (for which the night bandits of Milvess were famous). Today, Draftsman gave a lecture on the position of unarmed hands in anticipation of combat and surprise attacks.

"Palms in a brace, fingers on fingers, stiff. Position at the solar plexus, elbows to the sides."

A few more sips brought Draftsman to an almost benign state of mind. Elena felt uncomfortable. It was the first time she'd ever seen a drunken master, and experience had shown her that you could expect anything from drunken people.

"It looks harmless and weak, and the movement turns out to be equally short and fast in either direction."

Draftsman, though tipsy, had not lost any of his skills, his movements remained precise, his explanations laconic and clear.

"You can block the blow, you can sidestep it. You can protect your head. Or you can strike."

Figueredo moved. Elena only felt a jolt of air, and then she realized that the master had demonstrated a blow with a hard "brace" to the neck from the front to the place where a man's caddy was. And it was very fast indeed.

"It won't kill, but it will greatly upset the enemy. Could save a life."

Elena practiced her movements for another half an hour or so, practicing at the felt-wrapped pole and then deflecting the lunges of Draftsman, who was armed with a stick with a rag head. At last, the fencer finished and wandered unsteadily to the corner, to the bedstead, where he sat down as if he had been cut down. The draughtsman was getting tipsy as the wine went into his bloodstream. Elena lowered her hands, realizing the lesson was over for the day.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"Leave the sword," Draftsman mumbled, dropping his chin to his chest.

"Thank you," Elena thought maybe she should express her gratitude more visibly.

"Leave it in the corner," the master clarified.

"Ah..."

It was sad to get rid of the Kriegmesser. She was still attached to the knife for a short time, which made her bored without the hard hilt in her palm. Elena had already forgotten her earlier hesitation about whether or not to carry the Messer openly. Now, she lacked the confidence that a weapon gave to someone who had learned to use it. How much, indeed, was a sword worth? Good weapon shops were located in the southern part of the city. One could go there. Maybe tomorrow? Though Elena didn't know if the ban on holiday trading applied to armorers.

The woman looked at Draftsman, slumped on the tattered sheets like a rag doll without a frame. Maybe it was time to try to get something out of him.

"I heard..." she began. Her voice seemed weak, disgustingly sluggish.

"What did you hear?" Master asked without raising his head.

"I've heard of warriors," Elena said, a little stammering. "They..."

"Say it at last," Draftsman hissed.

"I've heard of fighters who are equally good at sword and sorcery," Elena finished, not knowing what else to say.

"Ah, warrior-mages," the master said without surprise. "There are such. Or rather, there were."

"Were there?" The student exhaled, not believing her luck. Not only was the mentor not surprised, but he seemed to take the question as something quite ordinary.

"They were. And there are," Draftsman waved his hand and dropped the mug. It clattered to the floor, spilling a tiny puddle of alcohol-scented sludge.

"Pour some more," ordered the master, trying to rise and falling back down onto the rickety bed.

Elena silently complied with the instructions.

"Ah-ah-ah-ah..." mumbled Figueredo uncertainly, gulping greedily at the already pure wine. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and for the first time in his student's memory, his cheeks were colored with something that could be called a shadow of a blush. Like a real tuberculosis patient.

"Yes," he said, suddenly clear and articulate. "There have been such. A lot of them. A long, long time ago. But the magic was almost gone from the world. It takes too much effort and too much time, to get anywhere near the top of the world. And a natural gift, without which you can't do anything, no matter how much you practice."

"But they do exist, don't they?"

"Yes. Very few. And may the Pantocrator keep you from meeting one of them."

"Why?"

Draftsman looked at her without raising his head, with an unexpectedly attentive and sharp gaze.

"In battle, you can't swing a sword and do magic at the same time. It's like painting a picture with one hand and counting in a ledger with the other. You can't combine the two. You can't split your soul in two. And you don't have to. Because if you're a mage with good skills, you don't need to kill yourself. However."

Another sip, small this time, just to wet his lips.

"However, there were those who strove for perfection in both. And there were those who succeeded. There was a school that taught how to chain oneself to self-discipline. To refuse temptation. To comprehend the unfathomable. To rise above man, to become like the shadow of an angel. That school is long gone. It died in the collapse of the old world."

"But warrior mages do exist, don't they?"

"Yes. And pray you never meet them," the fencer repeated the warning. "The secrets of the old school have long been lost. Without them, the path of the warrior-mage is a road to madness. Their souls are sick, like those who abuse magical transitions. Distorted, like the servants of the Jeweler. I once saw..."

He fell silent.

Elena covered her eyes with her hand, trying to cope with the terror that woke in her heart. She remembered the look of the red-eyed witch on the ship again. Devoid of pupils, and yet surprisingly expressive, seething with emotion. The gaze of a demented creature who had lost her human nature.

What is it really? Magical bullshit? Or a split personality, an attempt to split consciousness for simultaneous control of different processes? And as a consequence, artificially induced schizophrenia?

"Once upon a time, there was a fighter..." Draftsman said suddenly, staring into the void with a fixed gaze.

"I don't understand," Elena's head was spinning. She wanted to leave, even run away, to escape from the school, which was more like a crypt. She wanted to get her thoughts in order, to think about what she'd heard.

"You have learned something," the master said and looked at Elena with the same blank gaze that, like a blind mirror, absorbed everything and reflected nothing. "But you still don't understand what the way of the warrior is. I'll tell you a story. You have seen the ending, and now you will know the beginning. Pour more!"

The last word hit like a mentor's stick. Elena shuddered and hurried to fill the mug again. This time Figueredo took it thoroughly, noisily, dropping drops onto his dusty gray shirt. Elena stood by the bed, not knowing how to act. Whether to sit next to him (no, probably a bad idea), or sit on the floor (uncomfortable), or stand still. I chose the latter.

"Once upon a time, there was a Brether...."

Life is harsh and it rarely happens that a natural gift is combined with the opportunity to bring it to its full potential. But it does happen. So it was with a certain warrior, who was born into a family of hereditary Brethers and played with his father's dagger in his cradle. Years passed, and the boy continued the tradition, diligently polishing his talent with the best masters. He became skilled, then famous, then great. He liked to kill people, or rather - to feel his superiority, to be the best, to defeat any enemies, whoever they were, no matter how many there were. And in time, during his lifetime, the man came to be known as the greatest of the great. It was said that he had made a deal with the Dark Jeweler. It was said that to give him an order was like crossing a man out of the book of the living. Every young swordsman on all eight sides of the world dreamed of repeating his success.

So the years went by, a merry, unrestrained time, filled with excitement, victories, and the clinking of steel and gold that did not linger in his pockets, but never ended. It was also lavished with the blood of the guilty and the innocent, but the warrior did not care. At least, not to a certain point.....

"And then-" Draftsman looked into the mug again.

Elena refilled it without reminder, feeling the jug grow lighter. It would be enough for one more dose. If the master didn't get intoxicated to the point of unconsciousness sooner. But Draftsman was now drinking wine like Athos in his memorable conversation with D'Artagnan about his wife. And he looked as if the ghosts of the past were rising around him.

And then youth and maturity somehow imperceptibly turned into old age. Still symbolic, expressed only in gray hair. And yet... For everyone, the great Brether remained death incarnate. But he himself felt that his muscles were no longer so strong, his ligaments were losing their elasticity, and his eyes could no longer see a mouse tail in the darkness of the night streets. And where once a single stabbing blow had sufficed, now only impeccable skill and years of experience helped. But that wasn't the worst of it.

The day came when the fighter realized that he didn't want to kill anymore. That he was tired of death all around him. Victories were no longer a joy, and the sobs of families deprived of their breadwinner by the sword of the Brether sounded louder and shriller in his ears than the sweet ringing of coins. Killing became hard work, and the aging fighter began to think that every death on his conscience was spreading in wide circles of grief and poverty. So he decided to retire, asking the old Bonom for a modest reward for his faithful service.

Elena had heard of it. Romantic ballads and tales painted Brethers as natural-born killers, almost poets of death, who despised labor and lived with only a saber. At most, as a fencer mentor. There were such things, yes, but in general, the income from bloody work was not enough to live on, especially in the capital, where swordsmen were simply cut the prices in the fiercest competition. So, the average Brether had to have a side "business" to make ends meet. It often happened that some families gave a good fighter a shop or a payoff from a certain plot or trade [2]. From this, the warrior lived and, if necessary, responded to the call of the patron. If the brether lived to old age, which did not happen often, such a shop became his pension. True, there was a new ambush here - old grudges, blood feuds, young and impudent scoundrels who wanted the glory of the victor of the great masters. But it was just a matter of luck.

"So, the Brether wanted to retire, and the Bonom, whom he had served for many years, respected the intention of an impeccable servant. Only he did not give him a shop, but--"

"A Pharmacy?!" Elena couldn't stand it and asked again.

"Yes," Draftsman glared at her. "It's business as usual, as good as any other. People get sick, die, and are willing to pay good money for treatment. Nobody wants to die."

"Well, it's just... well..." Elena bit her tongue, realizing she'd almost spoken about her own past.

"So don't moo and listen," the fencer said grumpily. "Or get out."

Elena did not get out because she did not have to show her keen interest. The story was captivating, and the woman guessed who it was about, already.

Brether liked the new business. Soon, many fighters realized it was here, in an inconspicuous, clean pharmacy, that they would get good advice and good medicine. And the healers were in a hurry to make a useful acquaintance with the honored warrior so that it was to them that he would send his fellow soldiers to darn the many wounds. There were, however, some who thought that the old man was easy prey. They were wrong.

Figueredo grinned, clinking his teeth, and Elena didn't bother to elaborate on how exactly the brether herbalist was admonishing his colleagues.

But there was one problem. The pharmacist needed an assistant. He needed a man who was skillful, trustworthy, intelligent, trained in literacy and numeracy, honest. And, importantly, with sensitive fingers, able to grind, measure, and mix fine ingredients in precise proportions. Brether had found such a handyman in a very strange way.

Once, on a trip for rare herbs, a horseman witnessed a disgusting and, alas, quite a common scene of punishment of an adulterous wife. A young woman, almost a girl, was harnessed either to a cart or a sled instead of a horse and forced to drive her "offended" husband around the village under whip blows. Usually, few people survived such an ordeal, and even if they did, the woman's fate was mutilation and, anyway, a quick death. No one wanted a "spoiled" woman, especially a cripple.

Brether had seen a lot of pain and injustice in his life. He was going to pass by. But he saw the eyes of the unfortunate woman and realized that his life was on a very different track from that moment on. Brether bares his blade with one hand, and with the other, he untied his purse and invited the villagers to choose according to their taste. So he bought a maid and a wife.

"But the slave trade is illegal..."

"Come on," snorted Draftsman. "The divorce was finalized on the spot. The priest must have been clever. And smart. Yes, they overstepped the law a little, but who cares if everyone's happy? It's even better for the villagers. The woman's gone forever, they won't be reminded of their shame, they don't have to take any sin on their souls, and they've got a lot of money."

"But the wife, well, the ex-wife? How could you own her?"

"Where is she to go?" wondered Figueredo sincerely. "There's no turning back, she doesn't know her trade, she can't answer for herself. So the only thing to do is to become a whore. Or straight to the noose. So she went after the buyer."

Brether experienced caring for someone else for the first time in his life. It's common knowledge. It is not what they do for you, but what you do for them that binds you to people. Thus pity and the desire to bring a drop of goodness to the world little by little, step by step, turned into something more. And then a miracle happened. At first, the poor, battered peasant looked at her master as an evil deity. Then as a stern master. Then he became her protector. And finally, the closest person in the world.

Brether was happy. At the end of his turbulent life, he had found an occupation to his liking, respect and honor, and mutual love. Although Pantocrator had not given them children, and their marriage could not be formalized as it should be because of their different faiths, Brether and his girlfriend were happy with what they had.

"Àrd-Ealain," Draftsman whispered as if he were addressing the dead who didn't need loud words. He set the mug aside and intertwined his fingers. "The Grande Art. Do you remember what I said about it?"

"It's like a demon of the old world," Elena shivered. "Greedy and merciless."

"Exactly. That's right. Once you've sworn an oath to him, it's a lifelong service. Until the hour of death."

For two years the brether was engaged in apothecary business, and then the bonom - his patron - died. The family estate was taken over by an heir who had enough youthful fervor and, unfortunately, not enough wisdom. The boy began to "place" himself vigorously and with overkill. Among other things, he decided to bring back to the service of an old brether because a good blade is always on special account, and the family conflicts that had erupted needed to be resolved.

And then came the typical mistake of mutual misunderstanding. The young Bonom believed that he was obliged to him simply by virtue of his position and long pedigree. The old swordsman believed that he had more than paid his debts to his former employer and owed nothing to anyone. If someone skillful in negotiations had happened to be around during their conversation, he might have been able to reconcile the disputants and bring them to a reasonable compromise. But there was no such diplomat around, to their great regret. And a great misfortune.

Brether thought that his tactful - as tactful as it turned out to be under the circumstances - refusal had settled and closed the matter definitively. Bonom took it as a sign of disrespect. And decided to show the stubborn servant his place delicately - as it seemed to the reckless young man. The swordsman left the apothecary's business for a few days, and when he returned, he found the house ruined. And to hell with them, the pharmacy and the house... Something really bad had happened.

Brether's girlfriend was a believer in the Two. The young Bonom hired a dozen bandits to stone the apothecary's shop, ostensibly to denounce the heresy. A sort of warning, saying, look, it could get worse. One of the performers was either too lucky or vice versa, he hit a stone exactly in the temple of a woman, and she died in the arms of the returning man. How exactly Brether found out the truth is unknown, but he did. After that, the old murderer neither prayed nor waited. He buried his beloved according to the old customs, in the fire of a slate fire. He found the stone thrower and cut off both his hands, not forgetting to bind them with cord and cauterize the stumps. Then he took off his trusty saber from the gilded hooks on the wall, put his war hammer behind his belt, and went to the house of the young patron.

"It's been more than two years since that night," Figueredo said. "Two years is not a short time... It seems like yesterday. I didn't see it myself, but I listened to those who witnessed it. And I saw all that was left in the morning."

Elena was silent. In the distance, bells tolled, marking the end of the day's watch. The day was drawing to a close. The city finally woke up and threw off its slumber, preparing, like an extreme bather, to plunge first into the icy font of the annual commemoration and then into the bathing boiling water of unrestrained fun. But here, behind the sturdy walls of the old school, which had fallen into disrepair, it was as if time had stopped.

"It happened at the "hour of the dead," after midnight. Vensan passed like a hurricane, like a death scythe, with only corpses behind him. He killed nineteen men, not a single servant, only armed guards, the best of the best," Draftsman said. "It was impossible, and yet he did it. And the young fool could have escaped, but he missed his chance. He was too proud. Then it was too late. The Reaper chased him into a room under the roof and finished off the remaining bodyguards. And then..."

Draftsman stood up. Not quickly, not effortlessly, but alert enough for his condition, which combined sickness and wine. He turned away from Elena, looking at a large wooden shield with a sketch of a human figure in light armor and its vulnerable points.

"A good Brether is always a bit of a healer," the fencer said without turning around. "To take life, one must know well where it is hidden in the human body. Before the guards arrived, Vensan had cut the fool like a fish, just mangled him most horribly. But he did not bruise deeply any organ, did not cut any major vein. Bonom lived for another six days, dying in terrible agony, but even magic could not help him."

"And Charl... the Reaper?" The apprentice asked incredulously.

"He disappeared. No one ever saw him again. And no wonder, for killing a Bonom, he would be nailed or pecked by crows. Everyone thought the Reaper had fled far to the south and probably laid his head down there. After all, he'd been wounded in that battle too and badly. Yes, that's what everyone thought..."

Figueredo, nicknamed the Draftsman, turned his whole body toward Elena, glaring at her with cloudy eyes.

Until you brought word from my old comrade. And his dagger.

"Why did you tell me that?" she asked, clenching her fists behind her back, trying to hold back a shudder.

"If you're smart enough, you'll figure it out. If you're not, I've entertained you. For free. Appreciate it."

He turned around again, put his hands behind his back, and intercepted them horizontally, clasping them at the elbows.

"Go away. You're not needed here for two days."

Elena exhaled. Slowly, step by step, she backed away, keeping her gaze fixed on the lone figure of the strictly master, who seemed oblivious to her existence. And then she walked away.

It wasn't far, though, because they were waiting for her outside the door.

Although the sun had been shining in the daytime, it was already setting according to its autumnal schedule. There was still an hour or so to go until evening, but the light had already faded and lost its colors, suggesting that dusk was just around the corner. The bells were ringing, calling the faithful to prepare for the commemoration. The streets were bustling with activity, preparing for the vigil. Several figures, whose angular features gave away the good armor beneath their cloaks, encircled the woman, competently backing her against the wall. No one drew weapons, though.

"You again," Elena said tiredly and hopelessly at the sight of Mourier.

The situation was perhaps no more dangerous than yesterday with the mercenary soldier, but Elena felt no shadow of her former fear. The long, grueling training had exhausted her physically, and the Moon Reaper's sad story seemed to have emptied her soul. She still wanted to understand what moral Draftsman had put into his tale. Unless, of course, it wasn't a drunken stream of consciousness.

"Tell your mistress I'm not for sale. She's had enough money to buy any girl in town," the medicine woman explained measuredly, thinking of a way to twist and call for help.

In principle, the chances were not bad, murder, rape, or kidnapping of a townswoman, and even a medicine woman at the prison, quite fell under the definition of "lawlessness," and such was categorically repugnant. It could have been nothing, or it could have been a full-blown investigation. Especially, since the outsiders were already getting attention. Elena touched the hilt of her knife with her fingers, trying to make it go unnoticed. Now, someone would reach out to her. Then, get a quick slash on the fingers so there was less chance of hitting the ring sleeve or whatever it was that covered the rake. And breakthrough with a cry for help.

The smallest of the cloaked figures threw back its hood. Elena inhaled and forgot to exhale. Now that was certainly a number. Only today and only in our horse-drawn circus, Kio and the clowns under the dome on a unicycle with a square wheel...

"I have to wait a long time for you. I don't like to wait," said the young duchess, whose name Elena had not yet learned.

* * *