Chapter 19. "The Moon's Eye"

* * *

The studio was almost empty, with the three main objects arranged in a triangle, dividing the space into equal segments. An easel, a sofa, and a mirror. Everything was clear with the sofa. Judging by its shape and disposition, it was supposed to hold a drawing model. And it was not to sit down vulgarly but to place it in a free, refined position. One might even say, stirring the imagination.

An easel... It was very different from what Elena was used to, but it was clearly an easel. On a high, thin leg stood a rectangular almost square frame enclosed in a bronze circle with hooks. To all appearances, these hooks, in the form of silvered claws, were used to hang some kind of artistic device. The structure looked as did everything in the house, strange and unfamiliar but at the same time recognizable and functional. Without the pretentiousness typical for bad decorators of cheap movies. This thing was created based on some ideas of convenience and practicality, but the ideas were sensible, and the easel was used often. The canvas on the frame was turned away from Elena, and the foreman was looking at it.

Lena estimated that judging by the height of the frame and the inclination of Santelli's head, the artist of bygone times might have been taller than the visitor from the alien world, six feet, if not more. For some reason, it seemed at once that it was the woman. There were no individual items like jewelry, clothing, or other accessories preserved in the studio, and yet ... There was no way a man could have arranged everything exactly like that. A woman worked here, and the room under the glass pyramid, decorated with red and white stone and dark, almost black wood, belonged only to her, no one else.

And the smell... Or rather, the elusive shadow of scent... It was as if year after year the landlady had come up here, lightly touching behind her ears with the cork of her favorite perfume. The weightless scent permeated every panel, unobtrusively and at the same time reliably so even the stench of well-seasoned and decomposed urine seemed to recede and lose its sharpness.

Lilacs and gooseberries... She wonders what they really smell like. Maybe that's exactly what they smell like?

Lena stepped forward and to the side to see the picture, but Santelli had already covered it with the coverlet torn from the elegant sofa. At that, he looked at the healer angrily as if she had broken some important rule.

The mirror remained a rectangular, floor-standing mirror in a simple, unadorned frame. And it seemed that the surface was not glass but rather some kind of polished metal. A repeating pattern, a coat of arms or branding, ran along the entire perimeter of the black frame-an arrow, an eight-pointed star, and a moon sickle inscribed in a diamond and turned upside down with its horns.

"Good, good," Biso rubbed his palms, which were oozing with acrid sweat. Despite his apparent success, the alchemist was literally shaking with nervous excitement, as if the most interesting and difficult thing was to come.

"Suggestions?" asked Santelli curtly to everyone at the same time, apparently performing some sort of ritual.

The mirror... Lena looked closely and realized that nothing was reflected in the rectangle. It was impossible to describe it in words - the mirror seemed ordinary, with all the attributes of a mirror ... and at the same time, it looked at the world with an empty lens of polish. Lena mechanically stretched out her hand and touched the frame with her fingertips.

"Don't touch!" Biso's shriek literally tossed her aside. The alchemist yelled so loudly that the echo of his cry began to echo through the house, echoing in the empty rooms beneath the high vaults.

Biso tossed the girl aside with unexpected force so that she almost ran into the Valkyries' ahlspis. Hurriedly he pulled a nearly clean handkerchief from beneath his robe and carefully wiped the wood where Lena's hand had touched the surface. The alchemist's fright was not feigned; the healer had done something extremely bad.

"I think it's all right," muttered Biso, peering into the work of his hands. And he growled menacingly. "Don't you ever do that again! It's the Eye!"

Lena had no idea what an "Eye" was and with an obvious capital letter. But Charley seemed to know, so he nodded understandingly but without much judgment in his gaze.

"So," Santelli put the axe on the couch, forming a highly artistic installation of high with low, peaceful with the military. He clapped his hands sharply. "One more time and fast, the sun is setting. Suggestions!"

"We'll have to spend the night here," Biso calmed down and made the most obvious point. "We mustn't split up. We'll gut everything tomorrow morning."

"There's something to take," Zilber interjected, scratching his sideburns with one hand. The other kept the weapon with the arrow in its bowstring.

"It seems convenient here. You can enter only by the stairs," suggested Einar, and immediately hesitated, critically looking up.

"But the glass one here..." also hesitated Zilber.

It's very easy for a Winger to get in through it," Shena agreed.

"And the light will be visible," the alchemist muttered, wiping the mirror frame once more. "The whole neighborhood will come out to check the light."

The alchemist did not go on. It was already clear that there was someone to come, and they certainly would not bring good things with them.

Outside, the gloom was coming in. The sun, already obscured by clouds, was only a reddish glint on the horizon. Here, beneath the glass ceiling, everything was a murky yellow, which in turn was rapidly turning a grayish-brown hue. And the first floor must be dark by now, like the basement. Lena figured it would be a quarter of an hour before it was dark upstairs, too. And the moon wasn't likely to shine through the swampy haze.

"Look for a room," Santelli summed up without further thought. "A small one, but with shutters and a lockable door. I think there were a couple of them to the right of the reading room. We'll stay here now. We've got work to do. When we're done, we'll come down. Don't come in here. That's all."

Waiting for the last of the tarred ones to come down the spiral staircase, Biso touched a lever cleverly disguised as a lamp stand. He yanked and turned it specially. Curved petals of the same metal as the railing slid out of their concealed slots, diaphragmatically sealing off the descent, securely sealing the room from the rest of the house. The brigadier, the alchemist, and the swordsman were alone.

"Amazing," he whispered, nodding toward the curtained painting. "I didn't think so."

Kai silently moved his sword from one shoulder to the other.

"Later," impatiently threw in Santelli. "All this afterward. Are you sure you can do it?"

"Let's see..." The alchemist said, not too confidently. His voice trembled and faltered. Biso tore off his hat and tossed it in the corner. He rolled up his sleeves nervously, then tore off his cape as well, sending it off with the crumpled hat. The leather corset vest tugged at the alchemist's substantial belly.

"The Eye of the Moon..." Biso muttered feverishly, cracking his fingers. "Lunar... But some actually feed on the moon. And there are the allegorical ones, just nocturnal."

Santelli looked at his mage and realized that the alchemist was overwhelmed by the responsibility and complexity of the task, so he was clearly about to screw something up. The brigadier laid back on the couch, brushed off his pigtails with a graceful gesture, and asked:

"Do I look like a young courtesan? Will I be a masterpiece for the ages?"

For a couple of moments, Biso stared at the commander with a blank, maddened look. And then, at last, he understood and laughed deeply, sincerely. He laughed, throwing away the tension and fear with his laughter. Kai hid the smirk in the wrinkles that spread from the corners of his eyes. The foreman smiled, too, and rolled over with a soft, feline motion, getting to his feet.

"Come on, friend," he said. "Try it. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work. After all, the thing is half a thousand years old. Maybe it went stale a long time ago. Worst case, it'll break. Then we go with the old plan. Longer, but more usual."

Something rattled below, the sound hardly penetrating the thin but sturdy metal of the diaphragm. The tarred ones seemed to be breaking furniture, barricading the chosen room. Santelli smiled faintly, thinking he'd picked a good team. No strife or squabbling, and everyone getting the tasks right and earning their wages. Even the most troublesome rookies, the brether and the healer, don't mess up the enterprise too much.

Maybe Charley shouldn't have been hired. Well, there was talk of the Undead Duelist, who can only be killed by another brether's saber, having been challenged to fight properly, according to the old custom. As might be expected, no mad spirit was to be found in the house, which meant that the gold spent on the swordsman was a waste. On the other hand, if they survived until morning, there would be a hard road ahead, so the old killer might yet prove useful. It's too early to tell...

Biso carefully wiped his palms with a handkerchief, then wiped them again, this time with a special cambric cloth. He took a slate stick out of his bag, traced the perimeter of the frame, put his fingers on the polished surface, and whispered something. Kai and Santelli stepped back and to the side at once. Sometimes the old mirrors exploded, injuring and maiming hapless testers.

There was a thin, almost indistinguishable ringing in the hall and barely perceptible ripples from the wizard's fingers as if the polished metal was alive and malleable. Biso squeezed his eyes shut, blue veins appearing on the alchemist's forehead, his face contorted with tension. He whispered faster and faster so that the words were woven into a monotonous howl. The mirror flashed a bluish flame, and the next instant it spewed a torrent of ghostly flame and immediately drew it back in. Biso recoiled and fell unabashedly on his ass. Santelli mechanically jerked his finger up toward the ceiling and pressed it against his left collarbone, asking for Pantocrator's protection. Kai pressed his lips together.

The blind oval came to life with misty images, as if something was trying to pass from "the other side." Lena, if she had ever seen a magic experiment, would have thought of a broken focus. Foremen thought nothing; he waited patiently for the ancient artifact to come into full force, "tuning in" to the distant responder.

After a few more moments, the image suddenly gained clarity, depth, and color. Now the mirror looked more like a real window, showing the office. A room, to be exact, not too big, not too small, furnished with wealth unimaginable for the Wastelands. There was almost no wood or metal, only polished stone. Marble, granite, crystal, all in different shades and kinds, smoothed and chiseled by the most skillful sculptors, who had made the stone malleable, made it turn into clay, forming amazing images. Santelli tried to imagine how much a marble lectern table with a candlestick, made of the same stone, with malachite inlays, could cost. He couldn't.

A careful eye would have noted that the mirror reflected a study, not an amusement room or some other triclinium. The azurite shelves-so ancient that the original blue stone had turned green-were stuffed with ledgers, with many bookmarks and parchment sheets sewn into work notebooks. A whole stack of these sheets, thickly scribbled in green ink and torn in half, lay scattered on the two-color travertine floor, arranged in small octagons as a family crest - three acorns growing from a single root, which in turn braided a defeated boar. Someone had thrown away a fortune with admirable carelessness, for the scribbled parchment was usually scraped and then used over and over again until the material had thinned to the point of total worthlessness.

Even the wine glass on the candlestick was both precious (the best aventurine glass, decorated with gold enamel) and somehow ... utilitarian. The item, whose value can only be measured in gold, stood carelessly on the very edge of the lectern. The owner simply used the glass without giving a second thought to the price.

Santelli noticed that there was no chair, no bench, not even a stool in the office. No one could sit down, much less lie down.

"Where are the people?" The foreman asked quietly, wondering if he had mixed up the time. But as it turned out, the mirror had not finished tuning, and now the people appeared. Three, to be exact. And one beast. Santelli couldn't help the grimace of displeasure; he was expecting a more private, one-on-one conversation.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The first thing that immediately caught his eye was the Hobbist, a hyena-like creature, which, as it was widely believed, could not be trained in any way or by any means. The beast in the mirror disproved dozens of treatises on the art of hunting and breeding of animals because it sat quietly and serenely, and it was on a thin, gilded chain. Santelli had once been harassed by fighting pigs, of which the brigadier, then a young and naive young man, retained unpleasant memories. The Hobbist looked much scarier than a pig.

The hyena chain ended in a sloppy loop on the arm of a dazzlingly beautiful dark-haired woman in her twenties, no more (or less). The feminine woman looked like an independent fighter, with a haircut slightly longer than Shena's but styled so that her hair seemed even shorter. And dressed like a mercenary routier, in leather pants and a quilted jacket with long sleeves and silver embroidery. The brigadier's experienced eye immediately noticed that the jacket was, in fact, a magnificent imitation of a real military "quilted jacket" - too thin and would not protect against even a blow with a table knife. But if he sold it, he could hire a real routier, at least for a month, maybe longer. The white lace collar, made from real spider thread by the real Shadows from the Farm, was worth about as much. A polished shoulder pad with fine engraving covered his left arm, but the foreman couldn't see the engraving. Most likely, it was the same crest with acorns and a boar.

The second woman was the opposite, a blonde in a long white dress. Her face was covered by a mask in the shape of a gilded lattice, and the pattern was familiar to Santelli. So were the gold fingernails on her right hand, united by chains and tiny hinges in a glove-like structure. Such things, the brigadier sometimes found in the dungeons, and that was an extremely expensive Profit. The mask, coupled with the clawed gauntlet, could be enchanted for a variety of tasks, but mostly, they were used when working with "living cards" made of sand, spring water, or mercury.

The center of the lively composition was a man of advanced years, on either arm of whom the feminines were placed. Formally, the man appeared to be an old man whose face and long white robe were more suitable for a merchant than an aristocrat. Highborn men tended to let their hair grow to their shoulders and shave smoothly, demonstrating that their faces were unmarred by transmutations and sores, a tradition that dated back to the early years after the Cataclysm. This man wore a short solid beard. Old age imprinted itself in every wrinkle of his face, in every spot of pigment, marked his eyes, faded to unpleasant transparency, and dried his lips to a parchment-like appearance. Bluish shadows lingered under his eyes, clearly showing his master's long-standing predilection for rejuvenating elixirs and magical extracts. So the man was even older than he looked, ten years or more.

Only... he couldn't call him an "old man," even for Santelli, who had long ago lost all respect for the powerful.

The six men stared at each other through the impenetrable metal barrier in absolute silence. The alchemist barrelled sideways out of sight of the artifact. Kai held the sword out in front of him, pointing to the floor and placing his hands on the crosshairs as if he were putting a barrier in front of himself and the mirror. And for the first time, Santelдi wondered if maybe his mouth was too wide open and he couldn't swallow it, or even bite it off. The disgusting grunting of the hound hogs resounded in his ears again.

The Brigadier sighed and stepped forward, indicating that he would speak. The brunette jerked her hand impatiently, so the chain jingled, and the gray-haired man raised an eyebrow, keeping an expression on his face that was not squeamish... rather an ambivalent expression on his face. As if he were preparing to hear both absolute nonsense and sensible speeches. The blonde's face was concealed by a mask, but the golden claws clinked together. The mirror transmitted sound in an unfamiliar way, as if shaping it above the surface itself, weaving together the subtlest of vibrations.

"My respects..." the brigadier began and then hesitated for a moment. Initially, he was going to address his interlocutor as "suzerain", that is, "honorable", as was appropriate to his status. However, the mere sight of the gray-haired man appealed and insisted on resorting to "regle" that is "the ruler", a person of royal blood. Santelli stopped at a compromise and ended with an address:

" ... ovenjulegur."

When he heard that he was "exceptional," that is, a man equal to the heads of twenty-two families of true aristocracy, who have preserved the continuity of inheritance and the impeccability of blood after the Cataclysm, the gray-haired ... did not smile. His lips moved just a little, indicating not the shadow of a sneer but rather a hint of one, full of irony. The brunette snorted with a look of obvious disdain for the attempted flattery. The gray-haired man did not make a single move, did not even glance in the direction of the young woman, but the marble and granite office as if a cold draught wafted. The brunette literally swallowed a mocking snort and pulled the chain so the spotted beast looked perplexed at his mistress.

Fuck you! The brigadier thought and decided that now he was going to be himself. Santelli took the coverlet off the picture and carefully turned the easel with the picture towards the mirror.

"Closer," said the man in the robe. His voice was soft, old-fashioned, and cracked but strong at the same time. It was the voice of a powerful man who had never had to raise his voice to be heard.

The foreman moved the easel.

"Closer,"

Santelli felt himself beginning to boil over. A single look, a couple of phrases, the very intonation clearly showed him his place. And even without any particular desire to humiliate, just in between.

"Yes, I'm impressed," said the Duke without changing his tone. "You may remove the piece."

Santelli removed the canvas and rolled it into a tube, tilting his head and hoping that the beard and shadows in the studio would hide the expression of uncontrollable rage on his face. Biseau was already holding a leather case tube at the ready. Real night had crept up outside so that the ghostly light of the Eye was the only light in the room.

"I'm impressed," the gray-haired man repeated. "I didn't think you could keep your promises. Who would have thought... the last work of Geryon... or whoever wrote in his disguise... would be found somewhere in the back of the world... by the people of your occupation."

"It wasn't easy," said the foreman grimly, buttoning the lid of the tube on the bone button.

"By the way, are you aware of the fact,z that for nearly four centuries, no painter has ever been able to reach the heights of the old art?" the Duke suddenly asked.

"No. My family was far from... art."

"That's what I thought. The mystery of the golden ratio, the "body-in-itself" proportions, and other tricks are now lost. Forgotten. Unlikely forever, the human mind tends to move upward. On this, I agree with the Demiurge. However, for our generation - definitely."

"I suppose they will turn out to be remembered ... that is, restored when our world is once again bound together by trade and wealth."

"Explain."

"All work must be paid handsomely. High skill beyond imagination requires total self-denial. And a corresponding reward. In other words..." Santelli handed the leather cylinder to the alchemist and straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest. "The old craftsmanship will return when craftsmen can work as in the Old Empire and be paid the same for their work. If you want to make the pyramid taller, increase the base."

"It's an interesting concept..." The Duke frowned. "Controversial, but interesting. Yes, I can see that my son was right to judge you as a simple, somewhat simple-minded man but not devoid of a certain intelligence. Or at least of practical... wit."

"I don't know about wit," grinned the foreman. "But I'm not very good with words."

Santelli had already suppressed an attack of anger and looked at the situation from the outside. It was obvious that the Duke was provoking his interlocutor, probing, assessing the composure and overall state of mind. Unpleasant, however, understandable and tolerable. Given that the negotiators, although negotiated through Kai, it was the first time they saw each other face to face. And at stake were (probably) not even coins, but real phoenixes, and in such quantities that ...

So the worst thing to do here was to show weakness. All the more visibly offended. He's an aristocrat, he can't and doesn't know how to look at people differently from the top down. And the brigadier doesn't care in general, the main thing is to chew out his own advantage. And there's a chance for that. It is not for nothing that the gray-haired goat, though he spits insulting beauties, has kept women with him, of whom the brunette is palpably similar in features to his father...

"So, let's get back to business."

"I agree," the Duke folded together the long, thin fingers that covered the sleeves of his robe up to the second phalanges. The trim gleamed with real gold. "So, it's obvious why you want me. To give you a lot of money. But the question remains. Why do I want you after we've sealed the deal with Geryon? Kai, of course, tried to give me the impression that your glorious company performs some very special services. However, he did not convince me."

Kai sucked in the air noisily. Without seeing him, though, Santelli was sure that the swordsman had clenched his fists until his whitened fingers crunched on the crossbar of his sword.

"I think ... I'm sure you do," the brigadier felt a wicked amusement take hold of him. Santelli noticed, caught the spark in the Duke's eyes that he'd seen more than once in Matrice and the other bargain hunters with whom he haggled furiously for the Profit. A glimmer of interest, lively and perfectly sincere, carefully concealed behind a nonchalant face and sarcastic words.

"Really...?" The Duke's tone could have frozen the ocean and turned the waves into hummocks. But the foreman didn't flinch.

"Absolutely. You rule a city on the most convenient harbor in all the West. You live in two worlds at once, both under the ducal crown and under the merchant's purse, and you profit from both. You understand that no one in our land offers you more opportunities than I do."

"No more promise," the gray-haired man clarified. "And words are the cheapest commodity in the world."

"When I was banished from the city, and even my own family cut me off like an unwanted branch, everyone predicted a sad fate for me. But I survived," the brigadier grinned, teeth as cold as the duke. "When I came to the Watelands, barefoot and with a broken knife, no one believed I would succeed. But I succeeded. When I decided to get the painting from the cursed house on the moors and find a buyer for it, my companion called me crazy. You just saw the painting. Now I say I can wrest from the Cultists the castle of Meinhard and build a convenient, fast trade route directly to the northern harbor. From where your new ships, with their bottoms lined with copper, will be able to haul the Profit faster and more than any caravans coming through the mountains. Are you going to call me insane too?" The foreman grinned even more. "Or would you agree to lead and finance our enterprise?"

"A little gold and cursed artifacts?" sarcastically inquired the Duke. "The profits are not worth such an extensive investment. Mercenaries, settling problems with cultists, ships..."

"I know Kai, and I'm quite sure that your honorable son has exhaustively laid out the full list of our options," Santelli thought he was going to die at this sentence, spoken in one sitting, but he survived and didn't even catch his breath. "Not only a costly Profit but also special services that are only possible here on the Wastelands. Including special contracts with curses in case of breach of conditions. And by the way, I think I might add one more item now."

Santelli stepped even closer to the mirror. He took a pebble from his waist bag, which looked like crystals of sugared syrup pressed into a single briquette. He brought it close so that it lightly clattered against the metal. The duke maintained his composure, but the brunette failed with a perceptible change of face and another jerk of the chain. The hyena snarled, expressing her displeasure to her mistress.

"Cinnabar," said the Duke. "Stone blood."

"Yes, mercury stone," the foreman clarified. "Below Meinhardt are abandoned tunnels that have been broken through to mature wine. It's led to rich deposits of Cinnabar, which were not fully excavated before the Disaster. And these are old catacombs. They remain unchanged, unaffected by alteration. You will not become a monopolist in the "stone blood" market, but you will be able to transport it profitably. And everyone needs mercury. It can even be extracted right at the place of extraction. Slate will do without firewood. Your ships will carry pure goods."

The Duke thought for a moment rubbing his thumb over his index finger. The blonde was still standing like a statue. The brunette looked at Kai as if he owed her an enormous debt.

"And you can certainly get rid of me," the foreman agreed, taking a breath with an unspoken suggestion. "But why? You can't, and you won't do business in the Wastelands by yourself. You'll need people who know everything and everyone here who will solve all the problems of the partnership on the spot, guaranteeing turnover. You won't find anyone better than us."

"Again, I'm still not convinced," the Duke said slowly, separating each word. "But I must admit, you intrigue me."

He thought again. The blond stroked the golden claws with her free hand, slowly, one might even say, with perverse sensuality. The dark-haired woman stared at Kai with the same silent tension, her gaze full of malice.

"I think we'll keep the old plan you suggested for now," the Duke summarized. "The one we discussed through my son's mediation. A ship will be waiting for your company in ten days in the harbor you mentioned."

"I'll take the routiers with me, the ones I'll hire myself," Santelli reminded him. "And ... Kai will stay ashore.

"As you wish," the merchant nobleman grumbled irritably. "And I recommend you not to overestimate the importance of Kai as a hostage. Of course, a firstborn son is dear to every father's heart. However, my only son left the family of his own free will, disregarding love and gifts. One might say he rejected loving hands."

"Tentacles of an octopus," Kai muttered quietly.

"So if the promises are true," the Duke said as if he hadn't heard. "You have nothing to fear. And if you have lied even a little, nothing can save you."

It sounded very mundane, without any emphasis. And that made it really scary. But the Duke continued:

"When you arrive, we will discuss the details of a possible contract. And the party that will conduct all the necessary research on site, particularly regarding cinnabar. You don't expect me to buy a rat in a bag, do you?"

"No, of course not."

"That's good. One last thing. We will not meet again."

"Uh..." Santelli was confused.

"There's no need for that," the Old Duke grinned with a look of absolute superiority. The painting will be accepted by my youngest daughter, and she will give you the agreed-upon reward. That is, of course, if it is indeed an original work by Guerion."

The brunette turned her gaze from Kai to Santelli. It made the brigadier want to spit, so much the arrogant contempt in her gaze.

"As for the joint venture, all further negotiations you will conduct with my middle daughter. She is in charge of shipping and related business."

The masked woman shook her head and clawed again. She never uttered a word, but Santelli had an unpleasant, astringent feeling in her bosom. It was as if his dark eyes were stealing bits of life force from him, and his claws were ready to pierce his stomach, pulling at his insides.

"As you wish," the foreman agreed. He felt immensely tired, most of all mentally. Too much to do in one day. And there was still a whole night ahead, most likely full of danger.

"And one more thing," remarked the Duke at last. "Destroy the mirror. Smash it into the smallest shards. No one must know what was here."

He didn't condescend to say goodbye. The mirror's smoothness grew dim all at once. Dark silhouettes could be seen in the depths of the polish for a few moments, and then they were gone, too.

The three negotiators looked at each other. Kai couldn't get the angry look off his face as if he'd been slandered in public. Bisщ's hands, lips, bags under his eyes, and every other part of his body under his vest were shaking. Sweat rolled down his face, leaving glistening streaks.

"Done," exhaled Santelli. "It's done..."

Kai sighed and took a step toward the mirror, raising his sword.

Neither the alchemist nor the foreman noticed the shadow lurking at the base of the glass pyramid. A flap of impenetrable darkness, devoid of shape, which literally spread across the base of the supporting frame, greedily absorbing the sounds in the studio with its entire surface.

* * *