Chapter 16. The Grave Robber's Travel Kit

* * *

When you clean a well-treated primary stitch one day and perform an impromptu amputation the next, you can't help but expect bad things from the third day. However, it turned out to be rather... interesting. One might even say exciting.

Early in the morning, Matrice placed the faithful Saphir at the Apothecary's counter and handed Shena a purse with change chips instead of money. And Santelli ordered Hel to be equipped for the journey, without frills or weaponry, but with dignity. For about two weeks of wandering. There was no need to buy more consumables for the medicine chest. Take only ... For herself, Lena translated the turnover as "Travel Kit".

And the women went to the market. Perhaps for the first time in all her time in the Gate, Elena found herself in a situation where there was no need to rush anywhere. No list to keep in mind without missing a single item, no heavy basket on her shoulder. But there is an abundance of expectation of something new and interesting.

Strictly speaking, Lena was well aware that she had embarked on an outright adventure. The trip to the Wastelands was a perplexing undertaking in itself, one from which people didn't return regularly. And a raid on the Marshes ... more dangerous than that were considered only entries into the Coastal Caves, where people were swiftly enriched or went missing, with no states in between and a very eloquent proportion.

However, the coming adventure promised dramatic changes in her life, an increase in her social "status," and most importantly, money.

After Charley's stylus the day before had shown Lena the vast world beyond the Wastelands, she was determined to get out of there. Not now, of course, and not even soon. But to get out to a place where there are normal big cities, lots of people, and life doesn't revolve around carts of corpses and Profit.

Someplace where, after all, the dead are buried, or at least burned, rather than fed to the caged Gray Shadows, the farm where spider silk is produced.

Chasing Shena was not easy, especially in Elena's wooden pads. Valkyrie zigzagged between the trading rows, navigating her "equipment" with the ease of an experienced traveler. This ease even created a certain irritation in Lena. The girl suddenly began to think that she could have studied the various nuances of camping life and "road whales" herself. "Somehow, it didn't fit," yes, but that, in any case, was a weak excuse.

To begin with, Shena resolutely dragged her ward past the first three stalls that sold seemingly good stuff for a more than reasonable price. When Lena was (quietly) surprised, the lancer briefly clarified the point: they sold "strjom." Translate it into Russian more accurately Elena could not. Strjom is strjom - equipment, which was sold to inexperienced novices as gold seekers in the Klondike and Alaska, and then returned in various mysterious ways back to the wooden tables under the old tarpaulin tents. And so it went on and on, changing up to three or five or more owners in a row, who had no idea that each other even existed.

After getting past the murky merchants, Shena went headlong into the normal trade. To begin with, Elena became the owner of three pairs of real wool socks, as well as felt insoles. At the same time, the goods were not taken by the girls but set aside so that later the traders would deliver them with a messenger boy. Shena did not pay with money but with special pieces from Matrice's purse, which looked like casino chips or bingo barrels. It was a kind of quick check, which could then be used to get money directly from the apothecary's cash register. In the Wastelands, as a rule, only cash was trusted, but Matrice's word and reputation were worth a lot and were highly valued.

Then it was time for the most important thing - shoes. Elena had hoped for boots but had to make do with shoes just above the ankle. Very good clogs, though, with double soles of thick leather, as thick as a finger. This "style" meant that the boots could continue to be worn without repair after the first layer of soles had worn away. No impregnation made the shoes completely waterproof, but the combination of wraps, socks, and insoles helped keep the feet warm and relatively dry.

Elena felt almost happy. She wanted to change her shoes immediately and finally feel the feet of a normal sole, not a rigid pad. But the girl held back her impulse, trying to seem composed and collected.

After the shoes, Shena moved on to the clothes. Lena was going to insist on linen shirts because she was tired of shivering every time she pulled the prickly wool over her naked body. But she remembered that she didn't buy them for anything, from Matrice's generosity, but on credit, from her future medicine bonus for the hike. So she had to choose not what she wanted but what was "optimal". Wool was more expensive but lasted twice as long as linen. So she had to unobtrusively grit her teeth and agree with Shena's choice. The "tarred one" was quick and unmistakable, right by the eye.

They began with long towels, from which they knitted travel "panties," similar to the Japanese-style loincloths that had so surprised the girl the year before. Pants... that's what Lena hadn't thought of, being used to dresses. Looking at the wide pants with bone oil impregnation, the girl chuckled softly. The fact was that pants were expensive, considerably more expensive than ordinary stockings, and had long since been considered a strictly male accessory in campaigns or war. Therefore, the traditional style required an obligatory codpiece, also for women engaged in men's work. On pants, the codpiece was usually replaced by a flap with frequent small buttons, but it still looked more than unambiguous. One could even say, defiantly, taking into account that local clothes hardly knew any pockets, so the codpiece was used as a purse and generally as a bag for small things, stuffing it to the limit.

Shena looked at her companion with an appraising look. Then at the counter. Then back to Elena. The vendor was squinting contentedly, anticipating a short but intense bargain, without which, as you know, a sale is only half the fun. He was dressed in radical island-style trousers meant to demonstrate wealth and affluence. The island pants were a "tube" suspended from the waist with ties and extra stitching in the middle. The result was neither a skirt with cases for the legs nor pants with sewn-together pant legs. To walk normally, it was necessary to make the trousers as wide as possible, spending a lot of material and thus proving the wealth of the owner.

At last, Shena made her choice. She wondered if she should add booties, but the weather was not conducive to that. The burlap covers were more suitable for cold weather. It would have to do. The purse was lightened by a few more "chips," and the women went on their way.

The leather vests were of no use to Elena, though they suggested some kind of primitive medic's off-load. Later, in the future. But the corset had to be taken, even the men here often wore them - to protect the abdomen and strengthen the lower back in case of carrying heavy loads. At first, the girl wanted to refuse the thing, which cost as much as half a pair of pants, but then she remembered that under the terms of the contract, she would carry all her equipment herself. And changed her mind. Her back would be safer.

The fortune-teller tried to grab her by the hem, mousing over an old, greasy book and promising to roll out the dice for the pretty girl. As he did so, he repeated rapidly in a shorthand manner, without pause:

"Shoe, rumen, dish, plate, dark yellow, cuckoo, award, horn!"

Three-dice divination was very common. Each facet and each combination had its name, so the ability to quickly list them was considered a sign of the great skill of the interpreter. Lena wanted to chase the cheat away, but Shena got there first. The fortune-teller received a swift, precise kick just below the kneecap and, with a thin howl, got away. The green-eyed Valkyrie, for some reason, disliked fortune tellers. Well, they, in turn, took the blows as a normal consequence of professional risk

A travel belt, the simplest with no embellishments, no bling, and a buckle of bent iron rod. But it was sturdy and had three small "pouches" for a camp spoon, a folding knife, and a flintlock. A tent-like cape and a wide-brimmed felt hat in case of the "evil sun." In spring, the chance of getting caught in a flash is minimal, but still...

Sheena hesitated for a moment over the counter, where there were goggles - combat goggles, with yellowish contrasting glasses, and bone goggles, with slits to protect the eyes from the stinging rays. But she passed, the prices biting. But a little farther away, she and Lena chose a thick and wide shawl that could be tied like a shemagh, leaving a narrow slit for vision.

At last, the purse was almost empty. Only a couple of lonely chips occasionally clattered inside with a mournful clatter. Lena lost track of how many new clothes she would have to try on today. The green-eyed woman also promised to show how to stow her traveling kit in a sort of "ponjaga". And in general, they would all spend the night not at home but according to tradition - together in the barn with a horse and cart. In order to go out in the dark, without waiting for anyone and without risking broken legs and stomachs punctured in the fight on the eve.

This attitude toward training was also new to Elena. Santelli did not think to clarify whether the brigade healer on a one-time contract possessed any camping skills. From his point of view, the agreement meant understanding all the risks and agreeing to them. And the brigadier shifted other worries on Shena's shoulders.

After a bit more thought, the lancer bought an ordinary sling for a penny. The simplest, made of woven grass ropes. And she said there are plenty of stones everywhere so the healer could train all the way. The sling was supplemented with a long linen cord, a necessary and useful thing. It could be used as a rope, a kindling for the fire, a drying rack for wrappings, and so on.

At this point, the list for Elena ended, but the lancewoman was going to buy something for herself and then proceed to the gathering of the mentee and get acquainted with the mysterious "ponjaga." So both women, as Gramps would say, in "vigorous trot" proceeded to the weapons dealers. The gloomy, businesslike armorer turned his attention away from the wet clay mold in which he was using a long narrow spoon to mold simple pewter figures. Without further ado, he sold a broad strip of leather with undergarments. It was a budget version of a gorget, which was laced to the jacket in the area of the trapezius, and to it, in turn, were attached shoulder straps. After hesitating, the lancer added to the gorget gloves, sewn on the back of the hand flat rings like a chain mail. For armor and gloves, Valkyrie already paid for her own purse with a ringing coin.

That left the knife-maker. Sheena did not pay him anything; it seemed that there was some old arrangement between them. The spearwoman didn't even look at the merchandise on display and exchanged a few brief words with the craftsman. He nodded and took out a bundle from a simple wooden box. He held it in his outstretched hands as if to show its weight. With his usual dexterity, he unwrapped the rough cloth and held out a brand-new cleaver to Shena, hilted forward.

It was an excellent weapon, she must say. Lena was not an expert blacksmith, but she appreciated it. The cleaver was of the usual Gate style, but it was very elaborate and rich. A long strip of metal glinted in the dim spring sunlight on one end with polished steel, and on the other was a corkscrew that curved up and back toward the blunted heel of the blade, forming a brace to protect the hand. The wooden hilt of the two side pads, on the other hand, was nobly darkened, showing the quality of impregnation of linseed oil. The craftsman additionally worked the hilt with a chisel, making frequent oblique grooves on it so the hand would not slip.

She put the sack with the gorget and gloves on top of the daggers on the counter. She stepped back a few paces to avoid hitting anyone, swung her weapon to try it out, and caught the sunbeam on her blade, letting it fly into Lena's eyes. She made a couple of simple defenses and then a downward thrust. The lancer's face touched a smile, a very rare guest for her, which, nevertheless, visited the dark-haired woman for the second day in a row. It was as if that smile had taken Shena off ten years at once. And Lena, too, felt the corners of her eyes creep up and back by themselves. She and the lancer looked as if she were the same age as she was now, so old was Shena from her eternal frown and suspicious, frowning gaze.

The green-eyed woman swung her cleaver once more, and Elena shuddered, clasping her hands together on her stomach. Her heart raced, her palms sweating. She realized only now that she remembered the weapon. She'd never seen it before - and yet she distinctly remembered the leaf-shaped blade, longer and lighter than usual, with the corkscrew strap and the dark brown pads.

In Shena's hands, the sword from the nightmare of the battle in the cave split the air.

* * *

Without his sword, Charley felt... uncomfortable. Certainly, he was not one of the legendary berserkers of the past, who even slept with their blades in their arms and, when separated from their weapons for an hour, drenched them in their blood. And yet, stripped of his usual weight on his belt or behind his back, he was the least bit nervous.

Brether took his time drinking wine, the lightest. Pink and slightly sweetened. The soldier's mood was completely within the short phrase "we live alone, burn dishes, trash the pub!", which (that is the wording) denied the very idea of economy. Here, in the far corner of the Heterion, the local brothel that combined several faces at once, from tavern to arsenal, it seemed to Charley that he was going nowhere. And beyond the walls of that venerable establishment lay the City, of which the brether had told Hel so eloquently the day before.

Of course, things were quite different... The place was very ordinary, though very neat. And instead of the City, it was a little town with the pathos of the name "Gate". On the other hand, the wine is good, the place is clean enough, and at the top, there is...

Maitre heard the footsteps beforehand when the possible adversary had just entered. The brether's habitual ear, in parallel with his consciousness, filtered all the noises around like a cloth sieve, and when the overall complex rhythm shook a little, the brether carefully set the glass and checked whether the dagger came out of its sheath easily. And the hammer was on the table as it was, habitually, with the hilt under his left hand. The local law-enforcers were literally mesmerized by the sight of the sword and categorically asked to surrender it to a special weapons chest. But they agreed to turn a blind eye to the clave without question. It always amused Charley that people (with few exceptions) focused all their attention on the blade, seeing the saddle hammer as not so much a frivolous weapon ... rather unsuitable for a quick foot fight in the street or even more so in the house.

The guest walked softly, like a bear, but even the carpets (which were worn but still had some fur) could not hide his footsteps from the sophisticated ear. A silence preceded the footsteps and the silence that greeted the visitor. Charley grinned faintly and slightly ironically. Truly, fate can only be outrun, and not for long. His guest gestured with determination to the curtains, and the brass rings swished up the wooden pole.

For a couple of moments, the fighters stared at each other in silence, and the silence between them seemed like it could have been cut with a saw. An ordinary knife would not have done.

"My respects," Ranyan finally said. "Would you mind if I broke your seclusion for a while?"

"Charley measured the dignity of what he said on the scale and found the dark-haired fighter to be very polite. Just enough not to appear to be begging, but at the same time not to give rise to a challenge."

"I would be honored," the gray-haired brether replied in a traditional and noncommittal way. Charley had heard of the number one local routier and had a good idea why he might be here. But he preferred to wait for developments rather than guess.

Ranyan sat down without having to beg. He placed his thin-gloved hands demonstratively, palms down on the octagonal table, just as Santelli had done a few days earlier. Routier showed he wasn't here for a fight. But, of course, Charley didn't believe him since he'd used the same trick many times before. A brether at that level didn't care whether his hand was on the table, on the hilt, or in the as... somewhere else. He knew at a glance that his opponent was at least an equal.

"I am listening with all my attention," the gray-haired fighter hurried things along a bit.

"I wanted to pay my respects to my colleague," Ranyan smiled modestly. His gaze, however, remained impenetrably cold and judgmental. "And to satisfy idle curiosity. People don't often come here... ...not many of us."

"Men of the blade are everywhere," Charley diplomatically evaded the answer.

"That's right," Ranyan agreed, tilting his head slightly. The long dark strands slid down his collar, framing his narrow, pale face, marked with a stern mustache and beard, like a painter's charcoal canvas.

"But, unfortunately, there are too few activities here for them worthy of our skill," Ranyan did not pull the pig by the ears; he stated the point immediately and clearly. Without crossing the line of politeness. However, he came close to it.

Charley twitched his mustache, contemplating what he'd expected to hear. Not explicitly, but more than explicitly, "What are you doing here, and do you intend to take my job?"

Twenty or thirty years ago, that would have been enough to summon the dark-eyed man to the backyard to watch the sunset together. Or offer to answer for the impertinent innuendo right here. But a quarter of a century is a long time, during which time even the dumbest fighter usually gains the understanding that men are mortal, healed wounds still hurt, treatment is expensive, and words are cheaper than a fight. Up to a certain point, of course.

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

Ranyan certainly wasn't looking for a fight, and Charley, for his part, saw no reason to escalate. He had to come up with an answer that would allay one brether's suspicions without damaging the other's honor. Charly stroked his long mustache with his right hand, pretending to be absorbed in the act. Ranyan, well aware of the ambiguity of the situation, waited patiently.

For a moment, Charley imagined how it might happen...

A hammer blow, very fast, right on the temple. Most likely, the black fighter would not have even tried to parry but immediately leaned back with a stool on a twisted leg with a tripod, in the fashion of the capital ten years ago. Ranyan's cloak was very short, barely reaching his waist, and held, it seemed, literally on a cord that could be torn by the movement of his shoulders. Just in case, so as not to lose a moment by getting tangled up in his clothes. Without touching the mossy carpet, the black man would have already pulled out his knives, short but powerful enough, with developed half-guards. And Charley would have to take a moment to throw back the table, separating the opponents. The octagon, though saloon-like, is not made of parchment. This means that Ranyan will face the second attack on his feet and armed with weapons. So will Charley himself, who in turn will draw a dagger.

It would be interesting... Decidedly interesting.

I wander. I'm not looking for helpers or work for a man of "grande art," Charley said slowly, choosing his words carefully. He wondered if there was anything else he could add and decided to stop there for now. That's enough for a smart man.

But Ranyan seemed to find the answer too general, too vague. Routier felt as if something was depressing, so much so that it demanded clarification at all costs.

"You shook hands with the "tar men" brigadier," the dark-haired man said with a frown, either inquiring or stating.

"Not yet," Charley clarified outwardly quite benignly. "Perhaps we'll shake on it tomorrow morning. I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Santelli has a decent reputation. People speak well of him," Ranyan remarked neutrally. "But ..."

"But?" Charley repeated, giving the short word a distinctly questioning meaning. The moment of truth seemed to be at hand.

The usual noise of the joint, which had subsided a little with the arrival of the routier, was gaining strength again. The glass clinked, and the liquor gurgled. The smell of fortified beer mingled with the spicy aroma of not-bad wine, and over the top of the whole range nourished a very light, sour, and ethereal essence of elixir. This subtle, barely perceptible scent made Charley uncomfortable. The anticipation seemed to itself awaken the tears in old wounds. And not old ones, either.

"But I would say that a man of your talents could get a lot more. And if you haven't already sealed the deal with a handshake..."

Ranyan ended the sentence with a meaningful pause, but the meaning was crystal clear. Rutier was not only probing the stranger for competition but also offered to hire him. And Charley repeated what he had said recently to Santélli:

"I have no desire to kill living people again. Unless there is a very good reason for it. I'm not looking for a job worthy of men of the blade. For personal reasons."

Now the game had shifted to the fighter in black, depending on how Ranyan interpreted the answer. And what was said could be understood in two ways, either as the utmost frankness between members of the same shop or as the floridly suggested: "fuck off!" Ranyan's fingers tapped lightly on the table. And suddenly, the gaze of the impenetrable dark eyes trembled. Not from fear, not from excitement. Something else, as if from memory... or recognition. It was as if the mercenary's memory was a jigsaw puzzle.

"The wind carries different words..." Routier came in unexpectedly from afar. "And different stories."

Charley raised an eyebrow politely, showing uncomplicated interest.

"I heard a story... about a very strong fencer," Ranyan recalled thoughtfully as if he were telling a tale. And he repeated. "A very strong one... Who once hung his sword on the wall, deciding to leave the venerable community. Which he was entitled to do. And also had good reasons for that decision."

"It happens," Charley said, carefully controlling his voice.

"Yes. But then it happened that one Bonom owed a Brether. Or maybe he didn't... different things were said. But, one way or another, the Brether decided that the aristocrat owed him because he had stolen. And since it was not property, money, or even honor that had been stolen, the fencer removed his sword from the wall. The same sword he hadn't touched in years."

"Brether must be dead," Charley indicated with a shrug, barely perceptible. "The Grande Art requires daily practice."

"Yes, that's right," Ranyan agreed. "But that man was too good. And he was owed too much. He recovered the debt in excess. They said the brether killed nineteen men that night."

"That's a lot. Truly, he was a great fencer," Charley said, a slight, indifferent smile freezing over his face. "How long ago did that happen?"

"Not really. Less than a year ago.

"And then what happened?"

"He's gone," Ranyan shrugged slightly. "And that's reasonable. Otherwise, he would have been wheeled. It was said that the brether later died of his wounds."

"I'm sure it was," the gray-haired fighter ruled. "By the way..." Charley stroked his mustache again. "I remembered the story, too. And what's interesting is that it's also about a fencer with a troubled fate. Would you like to hear it?

"That would be interesting."

"Unfortunately, I'm a bad storyteller," Charley apologized in advance. "So, there once was a brether... Young enough, though, he couldn't be called a boy. He'd earned a fraternity charter but had no teaching license. But he had his gym in a town whose name I forget. Formally, this worthy man did not teach fencing but sold the services of a partner for training. That is, only helped experienced warriors to improve their skills a little bit in equal training duels. A dubious caveat, but he was careful, selected his students carefully, and paid all his taxes faithfully, so there were no complaints."

Ranyan folded his hands, fist in the fist, and pressed his lips together into two pale strands.

"And then politics tragically intervenes in our story..." Charly paused dramatically. "The fact is that the wife of the local Ovenjulegur..."

"That's enough," Ranyan cut him off. "I'm sorry, I've heard that story before."

"As you wish."

They sat in silence for half a minute, looking at each other sideways.

"Well, the wind brings different tales," Ranyan finally concluded. "About different ... fabulous and non-existent, and therefore legendary people."

"Yes," Charley agreed. "Let's not remember them. Let the tales remain tales."

Ranyan rose lightly and tightened his gloves, a gesture more to signify another pause than one dictated by an urgent need.

"I've heard everything I wanted to hear," Routier muttered with some ceremoniousness. "I respect your intentions, and Santelli is a good brigadier. But still, if you change your mind... in time ..."

"I know where to find you," Charley finished.

Ranyan nodded, bowed his head in a quarter bow, and walked out without turning around. The short cloak fluttered over his shoulders like the wings of an angry bird.

Upstairs, in a separate "suite," that is, a room with plenty of light curtains and a single bed with a scattering of pillows, Charleigh collapsed on the featherbed without taking off his boots. He lay there, thinking. He chuckled wryly, remembering the maid's hurt face when she'd realized the client wanted a room until morning, the awakening before the third quarter of the moon, the vial of Elixir... and nothing else. The bottle of amber liquid, however, was brought without question, and the glass of water to it was very proper, that is, really cold. No ice, but so that a test sip immediately made his teeth clench. It seems that the well here is deep. Such water comes only from the very heart of the earth.

Charley raked more small pillows under his head. He put the hammer down, closed his eyes, and pondered.

Hel explained what she'd said about the Profit in a sensible way. She explained it in a somewhat confusing way, but it was very clever, and she also dispelled some legends that in the outside world seemed to be the iron truth.

... The underworld of the Wastelands was far more terrifying than anything the surface had promised. The Cataclysm had cracked the stone with many cracks, cut through passages and tunnels, and opened previously nonexistent caves of all kinds, from tiny holes to grandiose halls that never knew light. And populated them with creepy creatures, distorted, otherworldly, and deadly. But it also revealed old treasures, shrines, and tombs of long ago, hidden from the sun at a time when the forgotten forerunner of the Old Empire was young and the world was not ruled by humans.

There was death waiting underground. And then there were treasures. Silver, gold, magical artifacts.

But that was not all. The pioneers, who ventured down, quickly realized that, except for the rare "nodal points," the underworld could not be mapped because it was constantly changing. The ground, mutilated by the magical flash, flowed like sand under the pressure of water. The magical world of the dungeons transmuted as if the very space beneath the gray plain of the Wasteland were stirring. One could not go back and gather what had been missed before. But it was always possible to stumble upon something new. A passageway that opened in the strongest stone. A cave that hadn't been here a month ago. And new treasure. Profit - always with a capital letter only, like a new deity of a new world.

So people began to return to the Wastelands, gathering into gangs and then into organized brigades with their charters and rules. Those who turned their backs on church prohibitions and risked their lives going down by the light of tarred torches and unreliable magical lamps. The vast majority of them died a horrible death. Some didn't make it to the top in time and fell under another dungeon metamorphosis, a fate far worse than death. And those few who escaped all threats and were lucky became very rich people.

As time went on. Generations of "tarred ones" discovered that the beasts could also be useful. They extracted extracts and elixirs from individual organs and glands. The "tarred ones" mastered more and more new trades, divided by occupation, and even organized hunts for the aristocrats who had grown bored with their former non-dangerous prey.

So a new order and a new equilibrium were formed. People came out of the Kingdoms, and a not very wide but steady stream of Profit flowed back. In recent years, though, the balance has been upset. Underground gold was becoming less and less plentiful as if the treasure trove of death were at last running low. But people, on the contrary, were becoming more numerous. Those, who sought not riches but a new life, a better and more comfortable life.

Life was changing not only in the wasteland. The Church of the Pantocrator clenched its hand ever tighter, demanding unconditional worship and recognition of all the attributes of the Creator. The Kingdoms, which had recovered from the catastrophe of long ago, squeezed their subjects more and more firmly with taxes and duties. The land was becoming more expensive, but labor was becoming cheaper. It was no longer work that sought a man, as in earlier times, but man was on the prowl in search of some kind of livelihood. And for those who were already desperate for a place in the world of kingdoms, there was a last opportunity. For on the Wastelands, there was much danger but also much free land and opportunity for the brave man. And there were few laws and no regard for matters of faith.

Before, dozens of people a year came to the desert lands. Now there are hundreds. Apparently, soon thousands of hungry and desperate would begin to make their way through the mountain passages. By now, the "tar men" were already killing more of each other than they were killing subterranean fouls. And then... Then it would only get worse.

Santelli was well aware of that. The brigadier, by all accounts, appeared to be very clever and thought far ahead. His suggestion deserved the closest attention. But it wasn't easy for Charley to accept that his search for the wildest, most forgotten corner of the Ecumene had brought him... here. To a world literally teeming with conflict and life. To new hires and new battles. So the brether said neither yes nor no to the brigadier, postponing a decision. And Santelli, for his part, made it abundantly clear - his offer is valid until the first hour before dawn the next day. As soon as the moon bends to the last quarter of the sky, it will be considered withdrawn, and the brigade will be on its way. With or without a new fighter.

Maitre grinned faintly. The lines from his early adolescence came to mind:

The mastery of arms comforts pain, sorrows, and afflictions, gives perfect judgment, drives away melancholy and evil vanity, and gives a man perfect breath, health, and long life. In addition, it is the friendliest and most comfortable companion, and when a man is alone, having only his weapon with him, it relieves all fears.[1]

Charley opened his eyes. His head hurt a bit, especially above the right ear, where the mace had struck twenty years ago. The helmet had saved his life, but it didn't protect him from the crack in his skull that had been a regular reminder ever since. Every broken bone, every scar ached. Every notch that the life of a professional fighter, who had studied the high art of death to perfection and had been selling his skills on the streets of the City for years, ached.

And his heart ached, too. The fire of anguish flared up in Maitre's chest again, and no medicine could comfort it, for you cannot cure what is not wounded by sharp steel.

Charley sighed and pulled a bottle of Hel's potion from his belt pouch. What did the healer say? Five drops? Yes, that's right. Five drops. Dissolve it in warm water and drink it on an empty stomach after waking from narcotic forgetfulness. Well, the water will warm itself, and the stomach empty. And if he, the master of the blade wakes up alive, let's consider Pantocrator himself pointing the way.

Charley squeezed his eyes shut, exhaled sharply, and poured the amber contents of the vial down his throat. Immediately he chugged it down, feeling the icy water roll into his stomach, quenching the fierce burning of the drug. Charley shuddered, stretched out on the bed, feeling the smooth barrel of the glass vial with his fingers, which, Hel believed, promised him a calmer morning.

It was bad, very bad. As usual. Then it got easier. Same as usual. The pain crawled away from the wounds and took out its poisonous thorns. But most importantly, his heart didn't hurt anymore.

For some time...

* * *

They were finally getting ready by sundown. Elena's head was spinning from the need to remember all the new possessions and how to handle them. As an apprentice at the Apothecary, the girl owned, in essence, clothes and a meager set of household implements. Everything else, from a bed to a work knife, was put at the apprentice's disposal by Matrice.

Now, if you don't count the "Vietnamese footlocker," Lena owned an extensive list that included, say, two hats, one for camping and one to sleep in. A felt rug, a blanket, a brand-new spoon in the cover, and even a hood combined with a pelerine collar - a very handy thing that could be worn in several ways, from a scarf-snood to a hat with a veil. There was very little left to do - collect it all, distributing it in a container. The container was one large leather sack for transport in a wagon, similar to a duffel bag with one strap. One smaller bag made of burlap, sewn at both ends, but with a slot in the middle - through which the container was filled with luggage and then carried as a shoulder carry bag - "mixbag." And lastly, the very same "ponjaga." Lena had seen a similar device before. Only she did not know that it was called that.

It was an "A" shaped wooden frame with two rope straps extending from the top to the base. Tied to the frame were tightly wrapped blankets, quilts, and other clothing, making a fairly effective assault backpack. Elena got not the most "advanced" design, but a decent one, made of a willow trunk bent over steam and forming a brace with a crossbar at the bottom.

After watching Elena and her awkward attempts to "craft" a travel kit, Shena sighed heavily and went to work herself, showing each stage not even as a child but rather as a retard. In fact, that must have been how Lena looked from the "tar" point of view - a grown man who can't even build a normal "roll-up". In other circumstances, Lena might have been offended, but she was held back by a whole bunch of reasons, from realizing that Shena had a point to wondering what kind of fly had bitten the lancewoman. The companion seemed as friendly as could be. This was most likely due to instructions from Santelli, who understood that the new medic had to be spared. Still, it was surprising. Lena was too accustomed to the perpetually frowning and dissatisfied image of Shena.

She quickly and deftly separated the items according to their purpose and frequency of use. Then she put everything in the bags and put the ponjaga aside, as it was useless at this stage. The turn of the frame would come when the brigade would leave the cart with the horse in a secluded place and go directly "to work," carrying only the essentials on their shoulders. And then, if the loot turns out to be large so the cart and horse will have to be freed.

At that moment, Lena got a little chill. Up to now, the upcoming event had been a fiction to her, an ephemeral adventure. An opportunity to experience something new in the midst of the hard and, at the same time, endlessly monotonous life of an apothecary's apprentice and to change her life for the better. The mundane, offhand remark about the "case" that the lancewoman had thrown about immediately brought to mind the many, many "tarred ones" that had ended up on Matrice's desk in a state from "bad" to "more terrible than awful."

I wanted to go back to the way things were before, with a predictable life, a warm cat at her side, and the protection of Matrice. With a small but regular paycheck for hard work, but not too dangerous.

An unexpected smack on the forehead snapped Elena out of her gloomy stupor. Shena was the one who noticed that her ward had drifted off in thought and brought her back in the simplest way possible: with a flick.

"Don't yawn!" ordered Shena sternly. "Look. Or do it yourself."

Mr. Cat, who had been watching the process from a corner, showed his fangs in a good-natured yawn. He'd gotten a piece of real pork today, not a rat, so he was beaming with contentment and peacefulness.

Looking straight into green eyes that sparkled with anger, Lena returned to the world of notions and travel blankets.

* * *

"Well ... It's time to hit the sack, I guess," Santelli avoided meeting his gaze with Matrice. As usual, before he went out on the road, he felt as if he were "not from here." It was as if an invisible veil separated the foreman from the world of the living in the Gate.

"Don't see me off in the morning," finished the foreman, adjusting the axe behind his belt.

"No way," the pharmacist snorted. She was a bit feigned, too, a little fake. As if she really wanted to say something to her business partner, but...

There's always a "but," thought the foreman.

"Everything seems to have been discussed," he said rather to himself, going over the details of their overall plan in his mind, like a string of beads on a silk thread. "Didn't miss a thing."

Matrice had a lot to say to him. And she wanted to tell him. That the whole plan was sewn "on a living thread," so there was no further to go. That this time there were too many irreplaceable people in the brigade who could not be lost. That the brether is unlikely to cope, and Hel must be watched, lest she stabs herself on the way from a general ineptitude to life. That the idea of looting a cursed house on the moors, from which few have returned alive and none with profit, is so unfortunate...

The pharmacist said nothing. Because in the main, Santeli was right as the Prophet, who interpreted the Messenger's visions - only risk brings victory. Santelli no longer wanted to be a foreman, and Matrisa was burdened by the life of a pharmacist. They both believed they now deserved better. And so it was time for the Big Risk. And each of the partners would have to do everything that had been agreed beforehand.

"When I come back..." Santelli was silent. "When I come back..." he repeated, gathering his resolve.

"Come back. It will be a long journey."

"When I come back," the foreman repeated for the third time. He smoothed the pigtails over his temples, braided so as not to block his view and give some protection from the sliding blows to his face.

"Marry me."

"What...?" Matrice was sure that after the experience of living in the wastelands, nothing else would surprise her. But Santeli did, and in just two words.

"What am I not good at?" the brigadier asked in all seriousness.

"Well ... not bad... but ..." the apothecary tried somehow to formalize her intuitive rejection of the idea, but each point, upon thoughtful consideration, was at least shaky.

"I don't love you," Matrice finally said, and she cringed with embarrassment at how ridiculous it sounded. A battle-hardened veteran might as well have coyly admitted that he was afraid of mice and boogieman in the closet.

"Me too," the foreman frankly admitted. "But is that a hindrance to an honest business partnership? I know how to beat people, and you know how to count money. Sounds like a great alliance to me."

"But you..." The apothecary's hands fluttered, unable to succinctly and briefly express the basic technical problem. What, am I supposed to be faithful to you my whole life?"

"Yeah, I don't like women, so what?" smirked the foreman, clearly waiting for that counterargument. "You can have a herd of lovers. As long as the heir is mine. And that's all solvable."

"Perhaps so..." diplomatically and indefinitely stretched out Matrice.

"Let's settle with the house and the painting," the foreman reasoned aloud. "Then the castle. We'll get rich. And then, maybe, we'll get a nobler for the phoenixes. It's easier for a married couple to join the nobility than a single one. Modestly, of course, they will not register us as counts. But we can bow less often, and my back hurts from bowing."

Matrice, still somewhat confused, smoothed the sleeves of the simple gray dress with the dark blue insert on the chest. She adjusted the already perfectly fitting belt, a thin one with a long, loose end. Finally, she made up her mind to do something and looked openly into the eyes of her possible future husband.

"Come back from Grey," said the apothecary. "Alive, at least, and in one piece. Then we'll talk."

She kept silent for a while and then added, more quietly and thoughtfully:

"My back hasn't gotten any stronger over the years, either. But if you can't handle it, there's nothing to discuss."

"You'll have something to do, too," reminded Santelli.

"So we'll work together," Matrice summed up.

* * *