Chapter 15. "The Big World"

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Evening creeps up unnoticed...

Charley thought how much of a cliché it is, the time of day or the year that "creeps up unnoticed". Every aspiring wordsmith incorporates it into his poetry or fiction, thinking he is original and high in style. On the other hand, how else could it be said? If the evening really creeps up. And it does so "unnoticed".

After a brief conversation with the foreman and his partner, culminating in an agreement (but not a handshake, which marks the final agreement), Matrice offered the guest a spare room on the second floor of the house, just above the Apothecary, next to the journeymen's quarters. The first night is free of charge as a token of goodwill. Charley, of course, most politely declined, referring to his principles and his father's precepts. And he paid a reasonable price, three pennies a day. Judging by the eyes of the foreman and the apothecary, he was right, for the free stuff always ended up costing the most. The wisest thing would have been to decline the offer for a day, but the prospect of spending the night on the innkeeper's bench again, half-eyed, with the dagger in his hand, was depressing. Well, as the great Ogoyo used to say, life is a reasonable compromise between the desirable and the achievable.

Maitre set aside the table, which, in the city's fashion, was fastened directly to the wall on a copper hinge and secured by a chain with a hook. Very convenient. When you needed it, you put it down. When it wasn't needed, you put it back. Charley laid his weapon on the table and, at last, removed his cloak, which smelled of the acrid fumes of the slate fires. With a groan, he pulled his boots off, untied the footcloth, and wiggled his achingly battered toes. The floor was thoroughly swept, and he went barefoot, squinting with pleasure. It felt good! Almost like jogging in the morning dew, known to cure feet better than any healer.

He had to hand the clothes over to the laundresses before the smell of sweat soaked into the dense fabric turned into a stale stench that gave away the stench of a homeless hobo. He had to buy some new clothes before the shirt began to fall apart on his body, had to... he had... Only it was all worth pennies or even coins. He and Brigadier Santelie hadn't struck a deal yet, so there was no point in asking for an advance.

There was a knock on the door, quite loudly, but somehow not very confidently, as if the visitor doubted whether he should visit.

"Come in," Charley invited, pushing back the deadbolt and mechanically running his palm over the hilt of the dagger on his belt. It's unlikely that a visiting brether was here to be murdered or robbed, but it could happen. Maitre himself had caught people off guard more than once who thought that since they were under the roof, in a house full of hosts and servants, they had nothing to fear.

The door opened almost without creaking - no oil was spared in the hinges, and that spoke well of Matrice's house and her wealth. At the threshold - without stepping over - froze, eyes downcast, was Matrice's apprentice, who was to play the role of brigade healer in the coming venture. A rather tall girl in a plain - obviously off-the-shoulder - dress and a headscarf, tied in the manner of a turban, carefully hiding her hair. In her hand, Hel - a strange name for a woman - was holding a small basket covered with a cloth.

"Come in," the brether repeated with the lightest note of impatience. The brether was tired and intended to retire for the night, but before he went to bed, on a real bed, however narrow, under a warm hide, he would ponder the offer of Santelli for a while longer. Or rather to decide definitively whether the offer was worth the coins it was offered for. The pay was not bad. Not great, but very, very reasonable. In a big city, that's what you'd pay for an assault on a middle-class merchant, escorted by a retinue of over ten men in chain mail and military helmets. And by the standards of the Wastelands, as far as Charley was concerned, it was a royal offer.

However ...

It was these "however" that the brether intended to think about thoughtfully, without haste, and the apprentice got in the way.

Hel (no, who thought of naming the girl after the demon in Erdeg's entourage, the lord of the Underworld?) stepped over the low threshold. Her wooden "hooves" tapped with each step. The girl did not look up and generally had a modest, pious appearance. However, the usual for villagers subservience to the man with a weapon in her was not felt. Neither was she willing to please a man in bed in any way she could for a few pennies. No, the girl had not come to make money.

"I'm listening," Charley tried to be polite. Or at least appear to be.

"Here..." Still, without raising her eyes, Hel removed the rag from the basket and pulled out a vial of clear liquid. It's big enough, about half the size of a normal camping pot. "I think you could use it."

"What's in there?" Charley, of course, did not think to pick up the strange gift. He knew the trick with the exploding elixir well, though he didn't use it, considering it beneath his dignity. And unreliable.

Hel finally looked up. She looked not eye to eye, but just below her interlocutor's chin, that is, quite freely and at the same time without defiance. Her eyes were dark. Instead of answering, the apprentice silently ran her finger along the edge of her lower eyelid.

"So noticeable?" asked Charley grimly after a brief pause.

"Just a little," Hel responded. "Barely."

"And yet noticeable," grinned the brether just as gloomily.

"I've been selling tinctures from... this, long enough," the apprentice also allowed herself a smile, but a very modest one, barely. "I'm used to seeing."

"I see," Charley sighed. Not particularly friendly, though, and not angry. He took the vial and twirled it in his fingers with a skeptical and even slightly suspicious look. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Drink," advised Hel exhaustively.

Now she looked directly into the fencer's eyes, making sure that her initial diagnosis was correct. Charley's whites were flushed, like the eyes of a man who hadn't slept in a long time and was exhausted from the arduous journey. But only the discerning eye could see that the red threads of inflamed blood vessels were folded into a thin crescent that curved around the lower edge of his pupil. Barely noticeable on the right eye and slightly more distinct on the left.

"Do you inhale, or do you drink?" clarified the apprentice.

"I drink," the brether said through gritted teeth. And, though the apprentice was not interested, he explained briefly. "Old wounds. It hurts."

"Drink," Hel repeated. "Every time you come to your senses ... afterward. Keep a mug of water beforehand, not cold, dilute five drops in it and drink slowly, in small sips. After taking a little lie down and do not rush with food, the tincture should work."

"What's in it for me?"

"Those who 'drink' often suffer from stomach congestion, throat constriction, and intestinal concerns," Charley noticed how freely Hel operated with challenging, medicinal words. "The infusion will alleviate all that."

"Really..." Charley raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Yes. Verified," Hel smiled again. "It's a very marketable commodity... And proven."

"Well..." the brether glanced at her questioningly, looking for a catch. He couldn't find one, so he put the vial on the table next to the battle hammer, deciding he'd deal with it at his leisure. Later. "Thank you. How much?"

Hel lowered her eyes and did something like a crouch. Charley noted that the girl was clearly not of noble birth, but also not of the common people. Her movement was... Exquisite enough, like a good actress, and not a fairground, but from the real theater.

"It's a gift," Hel unexpectedly reported. "But ... I would be very grateful if you could tell me something.

"What, exactly?" Charley instantly pulled himself up and lowered his hand again as if to hold it casually to the dagger.

The apprentice sighed as if gathering her strength.

"Tell me about the world," the girl asked. "About the outside," she made a broad gesture with her hand around an imaginary semi-circle.

"Uh..." the brether was confused for a few moments. Then he finally understood. And he smiled broadly.

"All right," he agreed. "But you will do me a favor in return. Tell me how life works here on the Wastelands. And how is mining the famous ... Profit."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Deal," Hel returned the smile.

"There's only one chair," Charley thought for a moment. "Let's sit on the bed... This, of course, will not oblige you in any way," he hastened to assure the girl.

"Oh, yes, of course," Hel modestly shrugged and then quite busily retrieved the wax tablet from the basket. "Let's get started."

From the outside, it might seem strange that after more than a year in the new world, Elena had very little idea of life outside the Wastelands. But in fact, it was normal and easy to explain if you take into account her surroundings and the specifics of the conditional Middle Ages. And the fact that Lena was simply afraid to make special inquiries and gathered information in bits and pieces, by isolated clauses, so as not to give away her alien origins.

The vast majority of the inhabitants of the desert lands were illiterate and came from the "lower classes". That is, the very people for whom time ended at the memories of their elders, and space was beyond the line of sight and the nearest fair town. In addition, the Wasteland was also a destination for the dysfunctional, lost to the rest of the world, often with the heavy burden of multiple crimes behind them.

Listening to their terse mutterings about their former life, correlating them to the life of the Wastelands, Lena formed a picture of a small "compact" world, which long ago fell into decline, and so remained to this day in the stable position of the protracted "dark ages". And of the times of former greatness remained only the ruins of cyclopean buildings and legends of the "Four Kingdoms" and the great Empire. A golden age that tragically ended.

And now Lena was listening to Maitre Charley with her mouth hanging open. The girl was lucky - the hired fighter seemed to have received a fairly decent education, including a good knowledge of history. Brether, apparently, took the girl for an uneducated but curious burgher with an inquisitive mind and told her slowly, thoroughly, in simple, understandable words, accompanying the lecture with short notes and diagrams on the wax tablet.

To begin with, Lena realized that the world was not an island or a small continent as she was used to imagining it. Intelligent life here spread out over the expanse of a huge continent, which was called the Ecumene. The word was quite different, of course, but Lena could not find a better analog for the definition, which included three roots and was interpreted simultaneously as home, a place to live (in a broad sense, including fields, water, and everything else necessary for survival), a primordial source of life, and even a cradle.

As Charley drew the rough outlines of the Ecumene on the dark wax, Lena was overwhelmed by a persistent sense of deja vu. The continent reminded her very much of the map from "Conduit and Swambrania," a great and, unfortunately, now almost forgotten book that Grandfather loved madly and knew almost by heart. Only unlike the Swambran world, oriented strictly from south to north, the trident of Ecumene was pointing downward and sideways to the southwest. On the left side, a bay like a narrow sea was deeply embedded in the body of the continent. On the right was a huge freshwater lake, with access to the ocean, and larger than the great lakes of North America combined, according to Lena's calculations. In the center of the continent, mountain ranges were grouped, which were crossed by a grid and turned the relief of the Ecumen into a kind of cone with descents from the mountains to the shores of the ocean.

Once, a state called the "Old Empire" united the known world under its rule and held it for more than a millennium (maybe longer, Charley's knowledge of ancient history was regrettably poor). However, a terrible thing happened - a cataclysm that destroyed the Empire in a matter of hours, wiping out the foundation of its existence. That is advanced magic, which provided everything from abundant agriculture to communication and bureaucratic workflow. The great state fell, scattered along the borders of the protectorates, which, in turn, split into even smaller formations. This happened more than a quarter of a millennium ago, 293 years to be exact. In the intervening time, the population recovered relatively (but only relatively, since "natural" agriculture yielded significantly fewer provisions), and the new life was more or less settled.

The western part of the Ecumene was assembled after the catastrophe in the image of Western Europe. There was a Kingdom of the West with self-governing territories, baronies, rebellions, and other feudal exotics[1]. The East survived the Cataclysm a little easier and retained more of the trappings of civilization. From Charley's description, Lena has the impression that the Kingdom of the East is more like Byzantium, only more amorphous and less organized (which was understandable, given the absence of enemies like the Persians and Turks). It even had its own dynasty of emperors, deriving its roots from the Old Empire and, on that basis, demanding subordination from the rest of the world. But since only twenty-two houses of Bonom Primators (that is, the "best people") remained of the old "Old" aristocracy, and they were all known by name, and the new "emperors" were not among the Bonoms, the world largely ignored these claims, and the dynasty ruled mainly in its own palace.

The South was never even formally unified, remaining an Italian-like confederation of independent cities. The cities were famous for their Crossbow Knights, who retained the old magical art of marksmanship. Each such warrior had his own retinue that guarded him, reloaded his weapons, and provided for him in every way. Enchanted crossbows could hit one and a half or two times farther than usual, penetrating any armor, and the knights were hired across the continent.

The Middle Mountains were occupied by a tribal alliance of highlanders, like a cross between Switzerland and the Caucasus, who supplied the best mercenary infantry for the many internecine struggles. There was nothing more Charles could say about them.

To the southwest, just between the hammer-shaped protrusion of the Kingdom of the West and the southern tooth of the Confederacy, was Schwambran Piligwinia, that is, the Island. According to Charley's scheme, it was about the same size as Ireland was about the size of Europe. The Island was the least affected by the Cataclysm, organized a trade federation of free merchants, and over the past centuries has in fact monopolized the maritime trade. The latter flourished even despite the difficulties of seafaring arising from the large moon and powerful tides because the central mountains made overland transport from end to end of the ecumene extremely difficult. So most of the coin for water transport fell into the pockets of the island merchants and the rest into the pockets of their "affiliated partners" from the continent.

The Island had a name, but no one used it because there were many islands and only one Island. Likewise, on the mainland, there were many cities, large and small, newly built and rebuilt on old foundations. But there was only one City: the capital of the lost Empire on the right shore of the great lake. The megalopolis of this world, with all its suburbs and surrounding territories, had about a hundred thousand "hearths," that is, more than half a million people.

Hel, I know how to count, Charley hummed in response to her eloquent, highly mistrustful gaze. Five times a hundred thousand, or five hundred times one thousand. Half a million. Maybe more. The last time the hearths were rewritten was twenty years ago.

From the slip of a tongue, the brether came from the City, but the subject was clearly and distinctly unpleasant to Charley, so Elena refrained from inquiring.

Charley was talking, and Lena could feel the collapse of what was already a fairly solid, well-established view of the world. An ecumene, which had seemed dwarfed and even a bit parodic, suddenly expanded to immense boundaries. It became a vast universe that lived, developed, and fought.

"That's it..." The brether carefully smoothed out the last line with his stylus, turning the scratched field of the wax tablet to its former clean surface.

For a moment, Lena wondered if she should pound iron while it was still hot. On the Wastelands, they prayed to one god, Pantocrator, one in sixty-six attributes. But two gods, Ishtan and Erdeg, Savior and Protector, the fathers of the Middle, earthly world, were sometimes remembered. How did this combine? A mainstream and heretical offshoot? A remnant of local paganism? Or something else?

But after a moment's reflection, the girl decided not to take the risk. No one in the Wastelands gave a damn about their neighbors' faith, the rare churchmen were limited to preaching, and Hel had never once been asked what she believed in during her stay. However, Charley had just, literally the other day, come from the outside world, and who knows if such a defiantly amateurish question would shock him and what it would lead to...

"I held up my end of the bargain," the brether reminded her, looking at her questioningly. It sounded special... Meaningful. As if the subject of contracts and responsibilities were of special importance to Charley.

It makes sense, Elena thought. A man who makes a living from death must be very scrupulous on the subject of reciprocal obligations.

"I was told that it all started after the... calamity," she began, trying to imitate Charley, speaking just as leisurely and methodically. And she realized right away that the beginning was wrong. Because the truth is...

Everything actually started much, much earlier.

The northernmost part of the Ecumene, crowned by a long bay, was developed later than the rest of the continent. It took people a long time to find a way through the mountain barriers, but the search was worth it. According to the legends, the pioneers discovered a plain. Everything there was abundant, and the gulf provided a convenient connection to the metropolis, finally closing the single ring of maritime trade around the continent.

It was impossible not to fight for such land, and they immediately began to fight for it, though it is not clear how it worked within a united Empire. One way or another, the plains had earned the reputation as a place where bountiful crops were watered with blood, not water. And then the Cataclysm happened. And again, if the legends are to be believed, the epicenter of the universal catastrophe was located here. Therefore, if in the Ecumene "simply" disappeared magic (or rather, its power fell momentarily to a vanishingly small level), and a series of animal transmutations took place, then on the Northern plains the disaster was reflected physically, horrifically, and materially.

Great fires had scorched the famous woodlands that provided the best wood for building ships. Several rainy years in a row washed much of the fertile soil into the rivers and ocean. The plains became a wasteland where most of the continental flora was not grafted and instead of a half dozen varieties of wheat, only one cereal like millet, nutritious but absolutely devoid of flavor, grew from now on.

That was only one part of the trouble. The other part was that the Wastelands were "radiating" like a nuclear explosion crater, only not with radiation. The residual level of magical energy was higher than in the rest of the world, but it was poisoned. It brought to life enduring forms of monstrous life and changed the very nature of the world around it. Only here, and nowhere else, could one fall under the "evil sun," or stir up a colony of giant hornets whose venom corroded the glass, or be caught in the claws of the feral meowrs, the cannibals called taguars. Evil, poisoned magic made navigation in the bay and adjacent areas impossible - the transmuting woodworm mollusks devoured wood at such a rate that there was a special specialty among ship crews. In dangerous areas, the most sensitive "listener" would walk around the hold with a listening ear for days on end.

For the first half-century, this land of destruction and death remained deserted. The only people who showed up here were the madmen, the most desperate cutthroats, and the "people of magic". Witches, sorcerers, risky guild mages-all of whom used the higher magical background for their training and dangerous practices.

And they were the first to know that the Cataclysm had not only disfigured this land but had also gifted it in an unexpected way...

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