* * *

"I'm seeking!" Kid announced loudly.

Elena held her breath. As was usually the case when playing hide-and-seek, the hiding place suddenly didn't seem so good. And it was the moment when it was too late to change it. The girl's light feet ran behind the wall. The boards creaked, and then the sting of the old wood was suddenly cut off, as if Baby had flown away, turning into a disembodied spirit. An evil ghost, perhaps even an ogre, her imagination immediately suggested. The silence was very sudden and ominous.

Outside the brick walls of the house, the usual city noise was beginning, but here, on the second floor, it was quiet and dusty. She wanted to sneeze, the itch in her nose slowly becoming intolerable. Elena pressed her finger forcefully against her upper lip under her nose, stifling the sneeze. It helped. She lurked behind the half-open door of the unfinished closet, feeling the cold of the wall with her shoulder. Judging by the way the weather was changing, today was the last day the house would remain unheated. Tomorrow, a large oven, like an egg-shaped tandoor with a door and chimney, would blaze with a fire of hot slate, filling the mansion with heat and the ubiquitous smell of burning.

A creak. Quiet, quiet, barely perceptible, and indefinable. So much so that Elena wondered if she was imagining things.

She doesn't think so. It's not her imagination. Or maybe it was the other way around. The street noise was breaking through the bricks, creating an intrusive background that made it hard to listen. Silence, but at the same time...

A creak.

It seems closer this time. No, definitely closer.

Playing hide-and-seek with Kid was interesting and fun but very tiring. The girl seemed to have some supernatural sense and always found an adult rival. However, the crumb was so genuinely happy to win that Elena again and again agreed to repeat. Still, Kid had little joy in her life. In Ekumene, children grow up early.

A creak.

Wrong creak.

Elena quietly placed her hand on the wooden hilt of the knife. Out of the blue, she remembered that Flessa hadn't given up the sword from her arsenal. She silently hooked the lanyard with her middle and ring fingers, just as Draftsman had shown her, and thought that she had gotten into the habit of grabbing the knife first and then thinking things through.

A creak.

There was something unnatural about it. Something that made the hairs all over her body stand up, electrified. It wasn't as if a girl's light feet were treading on the wooden floorboards. And if you listened, they weren't feet at all. Elena pulled the knife out of its leather sheath and gripped the hilt tighter. Her consciousness swam, moment by moment, disrupted by vague visions and images. The woman hadn't had a glitch attack in a long time, and now it would be extremely...

A rustle, as if a brush with long, stiff hairs had been brushed over his fur. The sound was low, somewhere at knee level or below.

... untimely. Elena felt like Frodo with the ring on. It was as if her supernatural perception had already detected the outline of something among the dusty furniture, but her consciousness still refused to recognize it. Something completely non-human and not even creaturely. Some entity that lived in two worlds at once, or perhaps everywhere at once, as well as nowhere. Something...

Elena realized she was staring into the darkness with her eyes wide open. Something was in nonstop motion, searching. It was not a living creature that was inherently distracted, taking breaks. It was more like a mechanism that, when wound up, continued the same action until the spring ran out. Elena felt the unfocused attention of the alien entity, which stung with occasional touches as if it were a touch of ice on exposed nerves. The attention was as artificial as a radar beam that ran in circles, devoid of its own will and thought, reacting to clearly defined conditions.

The sound of rustling came again, very close. Elena squatted quietly, bringing her knife hand even higher, preparing to strike with a reverse grip with all her might. Immediately, her ankles ached, sore from yesterday's training. Her mind conjured up an image of something solid, worm-like, covered in flat armor, like...

Elena dizzed. It was as if she were looking at herself from the outside, a frightened animal huddled in the corner between the closet door and the wall. With a pathetic blade in her hand that could do no more damage to Rustle than an angry glare or a powerless curse. Legs failing, she leaned against the wall, again guided by the view from the outside, feeling neither the hardness of the masonry nor the chill stored in the nostril bricks from the cold night. Nothing at all, except...

Spark.

The word was repeatedly reflected in itself, played with hundreds of meanings and representations, crushed as in a bizarre kaleidoscope.

Spark. Darkness. Foundation. Nothing.

Behind each concept, there was a whole universe, a macrocosm, an endless series of great knowledge. Everything had meaning, and everything dissolved, turned to dust of oblivion. It was only necessary to concentrate, to understand what was hidden behind the...

The spark. She will destroy us all.

The mind, searching for something definite, steady, grasped for some analogy, clutched greedily at the tips of invisible fingers. Yes, voices, words. It was as if someone had created something important, talking angrily to himself, and the angry conversation with the void was reflected in the essence of Rustle. Like noise in the background of a tape recorder.

No, it will only destroy you. Because you're stupid. And I'm not.

Elena realized that Something was very close and was about to attack. She couldn't see the aggressor, but she understood it. She understood it as something terrifyingly strong, neither alive nor dead, purposeful and dangerous. It was close, closer than an arm's length away.

I have my own plan. And it's better than yours. At least for me."

There was a door up ahead. Or not a door. More like the idea of a door, something having to do with an exit or transition. Something that could be used to escape to another level. The door felt like a symbol, an allegory, a veil of ignorance. All she had to do was focus. The knowledge was ready to pour into her mind like a full-flowing river. And Elena concentrated, mentally reaching out...

The Spark.

The Will.

A Schism.

The Gathering.

Fear.

Destruction.

It's mine. She's mine! Only mine. Not yours!

The stranger's voice struck like a hammer, shattering her eardrums from the inside, crushing her skull with an anger that seemed as pure and unadulterated as the finest steel in the smelter. Anger, rage, and hope. The painful, hurried, angry hope of a destroyer. And behind the frenzied boiling of feelings, Elena saw the shadow of the man who had left the stamp of his mind on the mystical creature in the darkness. Looked into the red eyes, devoid of pupils, full of carefully controlled madness.

Spark, I'm going to eat you.

She recognized the person.

She recognized the name.

She recognized the target.

She recognized herself, remembered her past, realized the present, and saw the future in hundreds of possible paths and outcomes. And each burned with the flames of rage slid with spilled blood, chilled with the breath of death. Elena, who was no longer Elena, saw everything she had now, who she would gain - perhaps! - in the future. And as the flip side, everything she was destined to lose. And also to take away.

With a mad wheeze, Spark tumbled out of the dark and damp corner, striking blindly. She pulled herself out of the tangle of herself, but each pulled in its direction, tearing her apart, forcing her to walk toward darkness and destruction in her special way, her unique path. She struck as if fate could be stabbed. She felt the old wood crunching under her blade, the splinters digging into her skin, the blood bubbling hot droplets on the fresh abrasions.

And with each step, she forgot. The veil of the past and the future, opened for an infinitely brief moment, was moving away. Three steps, ten strokes, and Elena forgot everything, unable to stem the tsunami of knowledge that crushed her mind. Unable to overcome the horror of memory and knowledge.

"Gotcha!"

Two small hands grabbed her by the waist, and it was a miracle Elena didn't stab Kid. She clutched the knife handle incomprehensibly, twisting her head around. The woman felt as if she'd had a sunstroke. Her body was almost disobedient, and at every movement, Elena hit something. Her knuckles ached.

"You jumped right on me!" said Kid out of the darkness with mild offense. "That doesn't count. You gave in!"

"Y-yeah..." Elena exhaled, trying to figure out what had just happened here. It was clearly something incomprehensible, but what was it? It doesn't look like starvation fainting. No sun, so se can rule out heatstroke, too. Some kind of ailment? She'd felt the same way after her rare bouts of false vision, but now, if she'd seen anything, it was nothing, not a single image. It did seem to be some sort of breakdown. A nervous breakdown, no less.

"Help me out," she said, furtively hiding the knife. The noose clung to her fingers and would not release them. The blade seemed to demand someone else's blood.

"Come on, time for breakfast," Kid took her hand, guiding her toward the exit through the furniture maze, past the rickety, crumbling door that led to the stairs and the back door.

The noise outside the walls intensified. Someone was chanting something, probably demanding wax again. The wax shortage was unfortunate in the face of alarming rumors of a snowless winter that would again ruin the sown grain. And the worries of the townspeople multiplied. Too much was tied to this material - leatherworking, metallurgy, jewelry, furniture, paints, apothecary, and technical ointments. Even wax tablets - ubiquitous writing boards - and the embalming of the aristocratic dead required wax. And, of course, candles. So, the unexpected wax supply crisis hit Milvesse hard.

The capital was already living in feverish anticipation of the Tournament, overheated by the abundance of thugs that had arrived. And now... Rumor had it that the Emperor had summoned every ishpan and knight he could to the City in case of a riot. No one seemed to doubt that blood would be shed one way or another. The only question was when and how much.

Elena quickly grabbed a slice of bread with a thin layer of yellow butter and a couple of dried fish for breakfast. She stuffed a pot of yesterday's porridge and finely shredded strips of dried meat into her new medical bag. She added a couple of light purple bulbs with red veins and decided it was safe to go. As Grandfather used to say, "Hunger death has retreated a few steps."

Baala handed her a glass flask of goat's milk, which had gone sour and was generously flavored with invigorating nut powder. Elena tried not to abuse the mixture because, at times, it acted on the gastrointestinal tract with unpredictable crushing force. But it was invigorating, that's for sure. And the day promised to be challenging.

"Good luck," the little courtesan admonished.

Unlike most of the townspeople, Baala was prosperous. Her "business" was tied to entertainment and "relaxation." The dwarf was paid not only and not so much for her exotic services but for her cordiality and her ability to be a quality conversationalist. For the opportunity to relax and hear from someone that everything will be fine despite the hard times and the abundance of trials. Accordingly, the more neuroses, the stronger the need for escapism. So when the average citizen grew increasingly furious, counting the trimmed, frayed coins in an empty purse under a beam instead of a good candle, the Circus Art Guild (to which Baala belonged) carefully raised prices, knowing no shortage of customers.

Elena, too, looked to the future with cautious optimism. The prison wasn't in danger of being downsized, and the healer had long since proved its usefulness. A nasty little voice lurked in the far corner of her soul, whispering that, at the very least, Flessa wouldn't let her starve.

Flessa...

Elena reminded herself to go to the shop in the evening to buy boots. And to remind the duchess about the promised sword, for the weapon she had earned as a "dummy" for sure.

"In the evening, as usual," the healer said, waving her hand to Baala and Kid. The girl was sitting on a high bench, legs dangling, chewing on a dried crust of pie like a sweet breadcrumb.

Outside the threshold, Elena was shaken again. Her feet stumbled, caught on each other on the ground. A feeling of latent pressure, bordering on suffocation, came over her. It was as if the woman had been wrapped in an invisible roll and had begun to shrink. Elena leaned her shoulder on the doorjamb and grasped the handle in the form of a bronze fist. The sensation was very strange. It didn't bring any physical discomfort. It was more like a computer game, where the player's health and perception problems were transmitted through video effects.

As Elena wandered toward the gate through the tiny and neglected garden, the feeling let go completely. All she could do was shrug and pray with all her heart that such a surge in tone was not the harbinger of an advanced illness. It wasn't so bad, the voice whispered again, because Flessa would pay for any treatment. Even magical treatment.

Behind the high walls, the noise was growing. Dozens of big throats were chanting, "Down with the wine monopoly!" and "Silver coins!!!". However, Elena did not hear the sounds of a typical riot, that is, the clinking of metal, the cracking of the shutters being kicked down, and the rattling of the guards. So, so far, the rioting had been without extremism. Though, there would be some rape and stabbings later in the evening. But she'll be back by tonight.

And Flessa could assign guards.

"Fuck it," Elena said vigorously, answering both the disgusting voice and Milvess in general. Then she unlocked the gate.

* * *

Flessa tried not to squint at the midday sun or blink as she looked at the two men sitting relaxed in front of her. Very relaxed, to the point where alertness and readiness for action were reflected in every gesture, every look.

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

The vice-duchess was uncomfortable and extremely uncomfortable. She was annoyed by the sun, cold, which had lost its last drops of autumn warmth, but at the same time was ready to glare, to sting directly into her eye. And this at a time when one could neither turn away nor wrinkle one's nose, only to see the marble-eyed, dispassionate face of Wartensleben. And the woman's dress, very modest, in subdued colors, with a collar under the throat and a narrow frame, was also poisoning her mood. Certainly not even a hint of cleavage, and moreover, with a wide ribbon tied so that the ends fell over her breasts, obscuring the shape of her figure. Not a single piece of jewelry other than the heiress's gold chain.

'Daughter of mine, these men will do your bidding in any case,' the lithe words of the old duke's encrypted letter brought themselves to mind, resounding in her ears as if the cruel old man stood behind her, whispering wise words.

This is the will of those who sent them, which no one will risk challenging. However, it is prudent to arrange your communication in the right way. Not to command but to instruct, leaving them free to express their opinions. Take note of what is reasonable and tactfully reject what is unnecessary. Show an unyielding will, but do it without hurting their male pride. Believe me, the mere necessity of submitting to a woman, even if she is of our position, is already a serious test of their nature. And for the sake of our Father in all His attributes, wear a dress for once! Simple, modest, without defiance or flashy trinkets. These people have been living, eating, and drinking off the spear for years. They will understand the austere look of a woman in authority, as they have been hired many times by widows and mothers of families. They will take your image of a ruthier as a mockery.

"Gentlemen," she folded her fingers, trying not to make it look like an attempt to ward off, to put up a barrier to the scrutinizing stares. "Shall we begin?"

Flessa allowed the word to hang in the air, to play with many shades, many meanings. A question? An assertion? A recommendation? All of the above, or none of the above?

"Perhaps," said the Prince in a low and slightly hoarse guttural accent.

"Please," said the Duke after a short pause, with the perfect pronunciation of a capital aristocrat.

The men sitting against Flessa looked nothing like the strategists who sharpened their teeth on the bones of their enemies. The Prince was broad of bone but not obese. Just a big man for whom his skin was a little too big. Wrinkles and lines ran around the small eyes, drooped down the sides of the plump lips, and gathered harmoniously even on the cheeks. His neck sagged with fleshy folds. One forehead and the top of his head were smooth, glistening in the sun as if polished. A single strand of hair exactly on the geometric top of his head was gathered into an orphaned tuft, neatly oiled and combed to the left. The guest looked amused and even, perhaps, a little comical. At least until their gazes met. Nothing in the prince's eyes could be used for jokes.

As was customary for a Highlender, he neglected rings, confining himself to a bracelet on his left wrist and a thick silver chain. In the mountains, where echoes of the lunar cult were still alive, silver had long been revered as a "star metal." Among other things, they made "chains of dignity" from it, traditionally seven times heavier than similar ones made of gold. And they wore them according to their weight, not around the neck, but over the left shoulder, crosswise with the belt of the harness. The Prince wore an average urban dress, not distinguished in any way. Characteristic scuffs indicated that a brigandine often lay over the garment.

In contrast to the Highlander, who without a chain could easily pass for a merchant or a craftsman, the Duke seemed demonstrative - defiance and effect in every detail. From the "soldier's duke," a professional warrior living exclusively from war, one expects a corresponding image: practical clothes, steel armor, and military hairstyle with shaved temples. But this man would have seemed his own even at Court. His suit alone was worth a fortune, and the lace collar of his purple caftan made Flessa want to ask for the address of the craftsman. The warrior's immaculately shaven face had an exquisite, cold pallor. It also had a sculptural perfection that was unbroken by a single scar. That, coupled with the master's background, told him a lot about his skills as a warrior.

His smoothly slicked-back hair was in perfect order, with only a single needle-pointed strand falling over his right eye, ending at the edge of his lips. The narrow face, combined with the hard features and sharp cheekbones, gave the impression of unnaturalness, of artistry, as if he were not a living man sitting in an elegant chair but some idealistic representation of the perfect warrior aristocrat. On his face, there was an impassive mask of sorrowful attention and detached sadness.

A Prince and a Duke. A landowner who lives to increase his family's holdings and a mercenary who despises any occupation other than war. An outstanding infantry commander and a master of cavalry attacks. Deadly men, handed over to her, Flessa's, leadership by fate, god, and powerful lords.

You hyena children will walk the line and jump on command!

"So," Flessa leaned slightly forward, carefully controlling the angle to make it appear purely as a show of courtesy, not a single degree further.

"Indeed, fame precedes you, honored ones. I am truly delighted to see such worthy men in person."

* * *

Elena walked back home, trying to stay on the line between acceptable mood and "fuck it!". The spat with Flessa had set off a chain of troubles, starting with the morning seizure and ending with... It wasn't really over yet. The day was drawing to a close, but the last rays of the setting sun were still clinging to the weathervanes and stovepipes, painting the tiles pale pink.

It all started when the prison confessor interfered in the healing process for the first time in many months and started to ask why the doctor wiped her hands with "dead water." And why does she bathe her instruments in a bowl of the same liquid? It was impolite and fraught to be rude to the cult servant, even though Ecumene did not suffer from the religious fanaticism of medieval Europe [1]. In addition, the bald fatty frankly interfered, and the operation to set the joints was difficult. Therefore, Elena annoyingly and hastily recounted the rumor allegedly heard from a certain medical man about invisible to the eye creatures that harm, defecating in the wounds. Surprisingly enough, the monk was more than satisfied with the explanation and immediately left with a satisfied smile.

Dind stuck, shyly, inexpressively, surprisingly out of place. Elena was just trying to stop the bleeding of a mother killer who, to avoid execution by pecking crows, had "opened himself up" with a fragment of a nail. He did it very successfully, cut accurately and deeply. Now he was dying, and according to prison rules, the prisoner had to be cured or at least patched up and then re-executed because accidental death could not be considered justice.

The blood wouldn't stop. The blood coagulated to nothing, probably because of the prison food. The red liquid oozed stubbornly through the corpia and the bandage, and even the tourniquet didn't help; when she took it off, the bleeding resumed. Elena gritted her teeth, fiddling with her hands, dirty to the elbow, wondering what else could be done. Whether to try to widen the wound and cauterize the vessel or to apply the tourniquet again, maybe the second time would help.

The patient was screaming, twitching in his shackles, and obstructing the healing procedures in every way possible, knowing full well that a relatively quick and uncomplicated death was at stake against horrific suffering. Dind stood over his shoulder, always tugging on his new jacket with its intricate fringe around the bottom edge and pewter buttons, a weekend outfit out of place in a prison cellar.

"Yes?" hissed Elena through gritted teeth.

"I... it's..." the enamored executioner's assistant crumpled and looked around, apparently hoping the healer would be able to read his mind.

"That's it," Elena waved her hand tiredly, tightening the tourniquet. "Medicine is powerless. I'll twist it a second time, the blood will stop, but the arm will die."

She did not actually say "medicine," of course, since such a concept did not exist in the common language. But the jailer understood and waved his hand annoyingly:

"The birds are hungry again. What was the hole digging for....."

The scribe scribbled a short, repeatedly fixed quill on a sheet of the cheapest paper, logging the event. The villain laughed wildly and joyfully, realizing that the pecking would not take place. The jailer took out of his belt pouch a brief book of prison rules in a tarnished wooden binding. He flipped open the cover and took a long look at the monstrously greasy pages, where the letters and words blurred into continuous streaks from page edge to page edge. Dind sniffled noisily, waiting impatiently for him and the woman to be alone.

"So we'll pull the veins and then strangulation with a noose on a machine with a lever and a measured twist," the jailer reported businesslike, having finished checking against the wisdom of the ages.

"No other relatives. The execution is not public," prompted the scribe. "So, if the sentences are conditionally equivalent, no notice to the judge of commutation is required. Approved retroactively."

"That's right!" the jailer's fat face brightened. "We'll be done by sunset. Nothing will have time to fall off," he looked at the stunned murderer and asked with the same tired businesslike manner. "Shall you repent? Just in time, before our priest is gone. Look, then they'll take him to the eastern end. Master Quok will cook counterfeiters there. And it's a long business, a full day's work, and by the time he comes back, you'll be finished."

The Motherkiller howled, completely losing his human form, clacking his yellow teeth like a hyena.

"... in a way that is not open to interpretation, he refused to repent," muttered the old and slightly blinded scribe to himself; for the sake of speed, he put aside his pen, took a wax tablet and a stylus, so that he could then, without haste, rewrite the whole thing without error. "By what aggravated ... and worsened..."

He glanced over the wax tablet at the jailer, reminding him:

"You have to offer three times. Otherwise, it doesn't count."

"А... Yeah. Three times," he mumbled, raising his hand with a finger outstretched. "That was the first time, then. Will you repent, you wretch?"

The villain yelled. The jailer withdrew his second and third fingers and wiggled them as if the change in perspective might change the number.

"Confession, repentance, it's not too late."

The murderer howled.

"Threefold proposition," the scribe muttered, running his wand over the wax. "Overruled. All right, I've got it."

"Okay, let's drag it," the jailer sighed.

The silent assistants deftly pushed the murderer into a burlap-like straitjacket, tightened the straps, and dragged him briskly to the exit. It was believed that a qualified criminal could not go to execution with his feet so as not to defile the earth. At one time, this caused a lively debate since the prison was underground, and no one wanted to carry heavy weights.

"Here, if you please," the scribe pointed out. Elena habitually put a cross against her name in the annex of unsuccessful treatment to the death penalty order.

"Thank you," the scribe said dutifully, gathering supplies into a leather, valise-like chest.

Left alone, Elena exhaled with relief and wiped her forehead with her forearm to avoid getting blood on her face. She swayed in place, leaning left and right, stretching her lower back. Dind coughed, making his presence known.

"Yes, I'm listening to you," the oblivious medicine woman said, trying not to give away her irritation. She was tired, her back ached. She had to wash her hands and rinse the table of blood and urine. At such - depressingly frequent! - moments, the prospect of signing up for Flessa's full maintenance didn't seem so wrong anymore.

"Lunna..." the executioner's assistant squeezed out. "Lunna."

"Yes," Elena repeated.

God, I'm so tired.

Strictly speaking, if Dind had plucked up courage at least a month earlier and in a more romantic setting, he had a certain chance. The guy was beautiful (well, at least handsome), well-groomed, and did not neglect to wash and change his clothes to please the Paraclete. Profession... what's a profession? When daily you deal with fractures, wounds, burns, mend cut bandits and open pustules in the ass, the bar of what is acceptable is lowered. And Elena is tired of being alone, in every sense.

At such moments it is peculiar for people to make mistakes, to start a relationship that should not be started. However, the young man did not have time, Elena had already given Flessa, even if not her heart, but at least all the increasing sympathy and loyalty. And she wasn't going to change her mind.

"I..."

"Yes," Elena repeated for the third time, feeling only wistful irritation and wishing this scene would finally end.

"Will you come with me to the Tournament?" Dind made up his mind and said as he dived into the abyss, without looking back, with a desperate gleam in his eyes.

"What?" The healer didn't understand.

She'd expected something like this, but the courtship process had to start with the easy stuff. Inviting a woman to a strictly masculine event like fist fights, hyena fights, or even the Tournament of Faith was equivalent to a marriage proposal. In fact, in the case of widows, it was usually done so to avoid embarrassment and leave the possibility of retreat for both sides. Elena, with her lifestyle, financial independence, and man pants, of course, was considered not quite a woman and the criteria were somewhat blurred. Nevertheless, the approach was serious, far beyond "and then to the hayloft." It was a claim at least to live together in order to test the mutual ability to conceive and procreate.

Elena couldn't help but let out a heavy sigh. She felt very bad and sad. There was no way to accept Dinda's immensely generous offer. To refuse was like kicking a cat. There were countless options, starting with the classic "I'm not worthy of you!".

"I..."- she began and then stopped talking. Dind watched with big eyes that glittered in the dim light of the cheap, hand-rolled candles.

Damn!

"You're a good b... guy," Elena remembered in time that she and Dind were about the same age. "A good one."

She touched his cheek, watching the corners of his eyes and lips quiver. He understood, but he continued to hope with a fierce desperation.

"But..."

It felt even worse on the inside. Elena felt about as bad as a medicine table, still covered in blood and other secretions.

Fucking romantic, found the time and place!

"But my heart belongs to anoth... er."

It sounded vulgar and hackneyed, and Elena grimaced, hoping that the grimace outwardly passed for mental anguish.

Dind finally looked like a cat that had been shown a fish and kicked instead of food.

"I understand," he said, clearly struggling to hold back a sob or maybe a cry. "I understand..."

But I've given to another, and I'll be faithful to him forever, came into her head out of the blue. Where did it come from? God knows. From that other life, which was getting farther away every day, seemed more and more elusive. Unreal

"I understand," the young man repeated like an incantation. And he went, nervously tugging at the sleeves of his dapper new jacket, stumbling at every step as if he were blind without a wand. Silently, not groveling to entreaties and pleading, for which Elena was sincerely grateful to him. And she felt guilty that all she could offer was gratitude.

At least it happened quickly.

"Well, damn it," she summarized what had happened, with passion, energy, and anger. She hit the stone of the dirty, stinking table, cracking her already scraped bones. And, as if waking up, she hurried off in search of a bottle of dead water. The scratches had to be disinfected, for there was no telling what kind of hepatitis she might have picked up directly from the same mother-murderer.

It seemed to be over, but it didn't make her feel any better. On the contrary.

And so the day went on, irreparably ruined, fouled. Dind tried to stay out of her sight, and if the healer and the assistant did run into each other, the boy turned away and twitched his caddy as if swallowing tears. Elena repeated again and again that she is not a guardian of other people's hearts and that you can not build relationships on pity. And, after all, she had a mistress! It was useless. It was only getting darker and nastier. And her fingers were burning like on ambers because Elena had washed them with alcohol several times.

Elena walked home, wishing she had pockets on her clothes so she could put her hands deeper into them. She could, of course, wrap herself more tightly in her cloak, but it was not that, not that.... Up ahead, at an intersection, some murky individuals were trying to turn the wagon around. Murky because they were dressed in a motley mixture of clothes that made it impossible to identify their origin and occupation. That was how the sudden attacks of assassins and brethers usually began - by blocking the street - so Elena, like most passersby, instinctively took a step closer to the wall and twisted her head around. Some of them turned into alleys, preferring to avoid the dubious place.

Elena pulled the ties of her warm cloak tighter and walked on. The streets were filling with people returning home after finishing their work. Many carried torches - because of the riots and other troubles, street lamps were lit only every other day and not for more than one or two guards. The torch-boys and "patrons of fair play" strongly approved.

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the wagon. One of the motley strangers dropped a tightly stuffed, weighty sack. The cloth burst with a metallic clinking sound as it hit the scratched sidewalk and, through the gap, a glistening stream of... coins? Elena suppressed the instinctive urge to rush out and start collecting the tinkling silver. Some did the same, but most did the opposite. Instantly, a crowd formed, shouting was heard, the sound of thudding blows, and a hurried sharing went on. One of the motley ones ran up, shouting and waving his arms.

Elena pressed her back against the house, sideways moving back. She couldn't say exactly what she didn't like. It was just that everything that was happening seemed a little fake, deliberate. Like good theater. The coins shone too brightly and unnaturally. The master was yelling too loudly and not trying to get any silver back. His partner's gone somewhere. In fact, Elena had seen coins like this somewhere before, not long ago.

"Copper!!!!" yelled someone. "In the name of all His attributes, it's copper coinage!"

Elena sped up her crab walk, noting that the scream was far away from the fight. On the other hand, someone had broken out of the crowd with their prey, moved to a safe distance, looked more closely... Perhaps, quite possibly.

After a brief pause, filled with the noise of hurried and disorderly fighting, the outraged cry was picked up by several voices, repeating the word "copper" over and over again. It was a fuse, and a panicked roar rippled through the crowd like fire through dried tufts of grass.

"Copper!"

"Copper money! Worthless!"

"Copper coinage, fake crap!!!"

The first owner of the pouch had also disappeared. The indignant crowd did not think of him, making themselves angry with the anger of deceived greed.

"The emperor's fake money!" Shouted the same voice that had first mentioned copper.

"The Emperor has brought copper to replace silver!"

And immediately, from no less than three different points, as if by decree, it rang out:

"Fake! A fake of the emperor!"

"Payment in copper and taxes in silver!"

The crowd eagerly took it up, chanting "copper" and "fake" at every turn. The Emperor was cursed a little less frequently and quietly but also quite vigorously. Sane passers-by jumped in all directions like cockroaches at the sight of a candle, for there was pure incitement to riot. Elena was in a hurry, hardly more than anyone else, as someone who knew exactly where such accusations led. The laws of Ecumene and Milvess, imprinted on the bodies of prisoners, were memorized surprisingly quickly.

Elena slipped into the alley and sprinted, holding her bag with one hand and the hem of her cloak with the other. A thought raced through her mind:

And at Flessa's, we'd be drinking wine right now, kissing by candlelight, and no extremism!

* * *