Chapter 21. "And the secret was revealed."

* * *

The concept of regular days off did not exist in the Ecumene, but there were many holidays, including the obligatory celebration of the sixty-six Attributes of the Creator, one for each week. Therefore, in one way or another, there was a non-working day in the five-day week [1]. It was not easy to get used to such a schedule, as well as to keep in mind the "shifting" weekends. However, Elena coped. So, today was a day off, the last day before the start of the great Tournament. The best fighters of the world would fight in the arena of the Hippodrome to find out who had the truth and power - the One or the Two.

In fact, a normal tournament was not much different from an earthly one. The armor was different, the people were different, but the essence was the same. Training in horse and pike combat plus entertainment for the nobility, usually in groups, party on party. The Tournament of Faith was held under completely different rules. Warriors could be anyone. Origin and wealth didn't matter. Fighters went one-on-one, only on foot, demonstrating not the cost of a horse and reliability of armor against a spear but personal mastery of weapons. Killing an opponent was discouraged but occurred regularly. In addition, according to long-standing custom, battles were held in the evening, after sunset, with magical light provided by the entire magical guild. So the Tournament (judging by the stories) was the closest thing to Earth Elena's idea of a violent sport.

She was very interested in the upcoming event as an opportunity to see the fencing art of the best of the best. That's why Flessa's suggestion was very appropriate. But the great Tournament loomed somewhere in the future, even if not far away, and the training at the Draftsman was here and now. And it was very painful.

"One-two-three! One-two-three!" the fencer indicated the beat and rhythm. "You see the attack, you defend, you strike back!"

Draftsman knew many different techniques and enjoyed shuffling them around. All of them were unpleasant and painful, imparting the science of the High Art most shortly and clearly as possible - through the apprentice's sore ass. Elena had gotten a hard stick, a flexible stick, and even a whip. But exercises "with fire" were the worst of all, and she sincerely, deeply hated them.

"One - strike! And defense."

Draftsman's hand clutched a scented torch like a baton. The tip of it glowed with a scarlet coal, emitting a spicy smoke. Usually, cedar [2] beams were used to spread a pleasant odor at bedtime, to ward off bad dreams, and to cure the respiratory system. But Draftsman used their other property: long and steady burning.

Elena dodged Draftsman's lunge with a practiced movement. Her bare forearms were already sore and itchy from tiny cigarette-like burns. They didn't threaten her health, but they were painful, and they left scars that looked like smallpox marks. It was a good thing that short sleeves were not worn in public in Ecumene.

"Three - counterplay!"

Elena was tired, her movements slowing, seeming to drag as if she were in a muddle. Draftsman parried her awkward lunge with a squeamish curl of his lips and did not fail to leave a new mark. The woman hissed, suppressing the urge to clutch at the new burn to cover it. Elena had learned by experience and knew it would be a good reason to burn her palm to keep her focused.

"One more time!" Draftsman commanded.

Elena gritted her teeth. The teacher and student spun again inside the figure on the stone floor. Clutching a wooden dagger in her left hand, Elena mechanically moved her feet and "played" for three steps, thinking bitterly that she would need gloves with long cuffs in time. Another year of such lessons and her hands would be disfigured like those of a smallpox patient.

"One! Two! Three!"

The ray stung at the joint, mimicking a slashing blow to her fingers. Elena held the blade in place only because of the noose. Instinctively, angrily, she responded with a full arm's length sting - and, of course, was immediately punished. Draftsman didn't even bother to step back. He let the dagger past him, turning on the spot, then simultaneously struck her arm from top to bottom and hooked her supporting leg.

The apprentice lost her balance but immediately turned the fall into a controlled somersault. She rolled over her shoulder and got up, but Draftsman was already at her side, bringing his hand up. The master intercepted the stick by the middle and prepared to fake a "breaking" blow from top to bottom with a reverse grip. "Breaking" - because it was considered one of the strongest, it could pierce any clothes and even chain mail, and when delivered with a training blade, it could easily break a collarbone.

On reflexes, Elena dodged this blow and attacked in turn, trying to "cut" Draftsman's face from the bottom upwards. Master leaned back, letting the wooden blade pass by, and at the same time, he snatched a real dagger from behind his belt with his free hand. Helena didn't even have a thought of "unfair," she continued to act in a practiced manner like an automaton strictly programmed to fight.

The knife fights were usually at such speeds that there was no time to be frightened. After a year of apprenticeship, Elena understood well why Figueredo considered uncompromising dagger slashing the quintessence of skill. A long blade, being heavier, slower, and with more room to maneuver, could forgive a mistake. A dagger could not.

The opponents froze against each other in a left-handed stance, swaying slightly on springy legs. The draughtsman took the baton aside as if preparing to embrace his student with his right hand. Then he lightly struck his blade on Elena's wooden dagger, once more, as if offering to appreciate the pure ringing of quality steel. On the third, he threw a beam in his pupil's face, circled her weapon with his own, and interlocked the blades. He twisted the training projectile out of her hand like a lever and then finished the bunch with a poke of the hilt from bottom to top into her chin.

Elena staggered and backed up a step. Her burns ached, her hand ached, and her jaw ached, though less than anything else. Her ego was hurting, too.

"Mediocre," said Draftsman. That was the word he used most often when assessing Elena's fighting skills. It was progress, though; he'd used it more forcefully before.

"Mediocre. Still a little better than before."

Elena thought she had a hearing problem.

"What?"

"You got someone to practice with?"

"Y-yes."

"It's the right thing to do. The skills came right away. You should have looked earlier."

"But..."

Elena wanted to throw bitter accusations at her mentor and faltered. Figueredo looked at her shrewdly and said:

"One who waits for death truly asks oneself only one question - how best to prepare oneself for the imminent? One thinks about it every day, every hour, and every minute. And if one does not, it means that the fighter is not ready yet, and it is useless to advise one."

The fencer coughed, rubbing his chest at the solar plexus, wrinkling his nose.

"Fighting with only one person is cramping, restricting knowledge. If you haven't realized that skill should be honed with different fighters, always looking for the unexpected, then it's not time yet."

He grinned crookedly, looking at his student's grim face.

"I give knowledge, holding nothing back. But I do not make you a warrior. That is your concern. Though..." Draftsman's smile grew even wider and more crooked. "I really don't. If I hadn't given the messer and not warned you about the challenge, you'd be lying in the common pit in the Northern Cemetery right now. So I'm being fabulously kind. Is there any other master as generous? I'm not sure."

Elena lowered her head. There was nothing to say.

"Will you help me pick up the sword?" she asked without looking up. "Or sell that messer. It came in handy."

"No," Draftsman replied indifferently. "These are my blades. A teacher may bestow a weapon on a student, but only in special circumstances. You are not worthy of such a gift. Not yet, anyway. A hungry man doesn't wait for the universe to feed him. He forages for food. The sick brews his potions. A freezing man gathers firewood and takes a firebrand. If you think danger is near, look for weapons."

Elena gritted her teeth ... and relaxed.

"Thanks for the teaching," she nodded. "I made a lot of mistakes."

The woman looked directly into her mentor's eyes. Draftsman waited silently, seemingly with genuine interest.

"I feel like I've been living in a dream without waking up," Elena suddenly blurted out. "Doing things that needed to be done without thinking about their meaning. Somewhere when I saw that that's what I needed to do."

Why is she saying that? And who is she saying it to? To a sick sadist who broke her arm just for momentary amusement, who despises her as a woman, and a useless student who will never bring glory to her mentor? Elena looked into the eyes of the old fencer and realized that it was to Draftsman that she could say everything she was thinking right now. No one else. Some would not understand, and others would ignore.

"If you're waiting for death, you have to find a teacher. If you practice long enough, the rest will come. A master, before giving knowledge, must say something meaningful and serious. That is the ritual."

She was no longer so much speaking as thinking aloud, trying to arrange the considerations into boxes of awareness.

"I hadn't thought about what life and death really are. What Grande Art is. I think it's only now that I'm beginning to understand something."

She was silent for a moment.

"Thank you, Master."

Elena bowed without subservience but with respect.

"Thanks for the science."

Figueredo sighed, rubbing his chest again in an absent-minded gesture as if out of habit.

"Vandera," he said with a sudden sadness in his voice. "It's all words. Just words. They're beautiful, meaningful, but they're worthless."

He moved his fingers and folded his lips in a pout as if blowing away invisible pollen.

"Words are empty wind. Only deeds matter, nothing else. You've learned something in a year. You could have learned more. What lessons you've learned, we'll see next year. Go on. Think. And remember."

He fell silent again.

"Mentors rarely give gifts to their apprentices. But I've given you three. The sword, the gauntlets, the knowledge about the challenge. I've never been so generous before. And I will never be again."

"I got it."

"Go away. We're done for the day."

Already on the threshold, the woman stopped and turned around.

"Master... I could brew elixirs. I know how to ease the pain in the gut and heart."

"Get out of here," duskily ordered Figueredo.

Elena sighed and closed the door. Draftsman is a Draftsman....

Next in the plan was a visit to Flessa, or rather to the workshop, where the duchess was dressed. But first, Elena made a detour to the bathhouse. Of course, the local bathing complexes were far from Flessa's personal bath, but it was still nice to feel clean and put on a fresh shirt.

As she strolled leisurely through the city, the healer noted a certain calm, as if Milvess had grown tired of the tension and decided to relax for a day. The passersby seemed calm and friendly, well, most of them at least. Street commerce was brisk and there were no outraged cries about money or other scandalous topics. Even armed men, of whom there was an overabundance in the capital, were not looking for fights. It was as if they were saving up their strength and excitement to unleash it in the arena. Perhaps the new rumor that a whole caravan of ships from the Island had arrived in the city, loaded with the purest silver for the mint had had an effect. Everyone was waiting for good, new money to come into circulation.

The last couple of weeks, walking around Milvess had been more like running through the war zone, but this time Elena was genuinely enjoying the walk. In the meantime, she noticed a real winter was finally approaching and a "wicked" one. The cold kept coming, and the snowfall was delayed. If it goes on like this, by spring, the grain in the bare soil will freeze without growing. Another "lean" year ... Coastal areas will survive on fish, but those farther away will have a very bad time. Especially the mountaineers, who have been buying grain for a long time.

The farther she got into the wealthy neighborhood, the more she had to keep her eyes and ears open. Mostly to avoid being hit by a horse. Of course, a nobleman rushing at full speed would not think to look out for the safety of pedestrians. And one had to be especially careful with the servants. An aristocrat might not even notice that he was not properly honored, but a servant, on the contrary, was ready to assert himself at his master's expense, zealously defending his master's honor.

Here's the sewing workshop. Although "workshop" is a weak word. In general, the concept of "ready-made clothes" in Ecumene had its specifics. Materials were expensive, so no one wanted to sew for spare. Sizes as such did not exist. To be more precise, each manufacturer had one size based on the master's personal ideas about the average figure. A dress was sewn to order with measurements taken or adjusted to a particular person from the same size. Therefore, the status and position of any citizen were determined at a glance - sewn or adjusted.

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The really rich shops were like clubs, where wealthy customers spent hours, or even whole days, away from the hustle and bustle of the lower classes. Here, you could always have a snack, quench your thirst, and even take a nap in comfort. Many young men of poorer clans fed themselves in this way, going from store to store, posing as demanding customers. There was a chicken leg, and here was a glass of wine. You are not full but not hungry either.

As befitted a person of her position, Flessa was very demanding about the look and quality of her clothes, so she hung out in tailor shops for long periods. And she chose the best ones. This... probably should say "sewing center," occupied a three-story mansion, small, without a garden, but quite cozy. The first floor, with narrow, blinded windows, was firmly embedded in the ground, where the usual seamstresses worked. A separate staircase led to the second floor, wooden but skillfully carved. Here, customers were received to keep them from contact with working animals, expensive fabrics were stored, and measurements were taken. On the third floor, customers were treated to expensive wine and finalized the transaction by accepting purses of payment. The stove pipe on the roof was twisted along the longitudinal axis, not in a spiral, but like a screw. Such masonry was difficult to make, expensive, and testified to the prosperity of the office.

Elena had never been here, of course, but she'd heard about it from Flessa. The guards at the foot of the stairs had been warned, and they let the unattractive bourgeois pass, though with crooked faces. But at the top, she was stopped by the ubiquitous Mourier.

"Mistress is busy," he stopped the woman with a wave of his left hand. "Wait."

It didn't take long to wait, about five or seven minutes. The door opened, and a man, whom Elena had never seen, stepped out onto the gallery that ran around the entire floor. His social standing could be assessed only by his face and posture. Everything else was covered by a simple hooded robe. The client's face seemed strange, inanimate as if the owner wore a skillfully made mask. Men do not have such perfect images as if they came out from under the chisel of a great sculptor without a single drop of femininity. Elena looked on, and the woman was almost dropped by the retinue, a few beastly-looking warriors dressed in the same cloaks. Their demeanor, as well as the characteristic folds on their clothes, made them look like knights or sergeants in full armor hidden under their cloaks. It's very strange visitors for a purely peaceful shop.

The pale man slid an expressionless glance at Elena, silently pulled back his hood, and strode down the stairs. The guards also moved after the patron without a word. Mourier exhaled, seemingly relieved. Elena, too. The proximity of the "mask" was unpleasant. It seemed that the face was vaguely familiar, somewhere they had met once before and in circumstances not favorable.

"Go," the bodyguard ordered sternly. "The mistress is waiting."

There wasn't a single soul here except for Flessa. However, there was an abundance of cloth, as well as all manner of garments in various degrees of readiness. Tables along the walls, mannequins, and cloth frames arranged in seeming disarray, all occupied by rolls of fabric, sewing supplies, and braids. And as if left in the middle of the work in progress. In a fit of momentary insight, Elena thought that maybe Flessa hadn't come here to sew at all. A closed shop where one could sit for hours without attracting attention was the perfect place for secret or just behind-the-scenes meetings. She wonders what kind of business could be discussed behind the scenes with a Sculpted Face. And where could Elena have seen that face? It's a mystery. First, Flessa thinks she knows her friend's face, and now Elena is having glitches and false memories.

Flessa was seated comfortably on a wooden bench covered with several embroidered blankets. The Duchess was half reclining like a patrician, leaning on a dense roll cushion, and for the first time in Elena's memory, the noblewoman was wearing a dress. Flessa looked as if the duchess had just done some work of incredible gravity and was now resting, putting her thoughts in order.

"My respects," Elena greeted.

Flessa nodded absently, thinking about something else. Elena felt a pang of not exactly jealousy... more like resentment at being neglected. But she hid it because there was no telling what worries were oppressing her friend.

"On the table," Flessa waved her hand.

Elena stepped to a small round table with a glass pitcher and glass glasses. She looked around with curiosity; she'd never been in a place like this before, and it was interesting and new. She poured herself some wine, more to wet her tongue than to quench her thirst. Flessa thought, not wanting to be distracted, but she had important things on her mind.

"Yes," the Duchess said suddenly as if turned on at the push of a button. "Yes!"

"Hi," Elena raised her hand like a schoolgirl at her desk, reminding herself.

She didn't actually say "hi," of course. That would have been too flippant. However, taking into account the adjustments to the situation, the turn of phrase she used was as close as possible to a light-hearted "hi" from the lowest to the highest.

"Yeah, hello. Uh, business, business."

"I see," Elena gestured with a wide gesture to the working mess in the workshop.

"Did Mourier pass you right away?"

"Yeah. Almost. You know... he worries me," the healer admitted. "He has angry eyes. And he's always around... even when we're--"

"Forget it," the duchess said with a graceful wave of her hand. "He's my shadow. And my father's earpiece, without that. Don't be embarrassed. He's a genderless creature."

"Uh..." Elena almost choked on her wine. "He doesn't like women?"

"Mourier doesn't like anyone," the aristocrat smiled. "He only likes power and money. And horses. He understands that he can get what he wants only by selfless service. To my father, and consequently to me. So if you want, you can put him on the headboard with the candelabra. He'll be just as cold a fish."

Flessa giggled quite like a mischievous girl.

"Although I did manage to confuse him not too long ago. But it was a special occasion."

"Yeah..." Elena stretched out, not really sure what else to say.

"Оh!" Flessa had an idea that seemed to take hold of her. "Would you like a prettier maid tonight and Mourier with her?"

"No!" Elena refused too quickly and too sharply. At any rate, Flessa's thin eyebrows arched in amazement.

"Well, whatever you say," the Duchess said with some disappointment.

Elena quickly went over in her mind how she could explain such conservatism. She decided she didn't need to explain anything at all, any excuse would seem pathetic and weak. Fidelity and puritanism had never been considered a virtue among the upper aristocracy. The main and, in fact, the only requirements imposed by the morals of the estate - no publicity, no children. The former could be neglected from time to time. The latter - under no circumstances. Hence, in fact, the traditional fascination of noblewomen with their own sex.

"Maybe later," Elena said diplomatically.

What am I saying... I'm burying myself.

"I thought for a long time... I've been thinking... It seems..."

She faltered.

"Those were certainly hard thoughts!" smiled Flessa, who seemed to have already forgotten the suggestion of the daring experiment. "But perhaps I will manage to please and distract you. That you may have only good, easy thoughts, my dear."

"That would be wonderful," Elena's smile turned a little more strained. She was afraid her friend would start offering jewelry again.

Still, without rising, Flessa pulled a small but delicate, finely crafted waxed leather tube with an embossed, hinged lid from behind the cushions. It was a beautiful and waterproof thing that could keep the contents safe even underwater. The Duchess took out a parchment scroll bound in green ribbon and sealed it with a green seal.

"Here," she held out the scroll, and Elena marveled against her will at the grace of the duchess's movements, the calibrated plasticity of her trained body. Even the strict dress could not hide the grace of the young woman. However, Elena already imagined what would be in the diploma. It was suggested by the color of the ribbon and the seal. So, the mood was quickly deteriorating again.

She broke the seal, unrolled the tight scroll, and read. Flessa waited with a wandering smile on her lips for a reaction. Certainly a positive one. How could it be otherwise?

"Why this," Elena said in a dull, lifeless voice, setting the scroll down on the table next to the unfinished glass. The high-grade parchment was wrapped up in a tube again. The medicine woman stood half-turned toward the duchess, looking away so as not to show her tears.

Why, why, why did you do that?!!!

"What?" Flessa was genuinely surprised. Obviously, the duchess was expecting any reaction but this. There was genuine and unconcealed resentment on her chiseled face. Like a child who'd spent weeks preparing a surprise for her mother and hadn't even looked at the touching gift.

"Why," Elena repeated.

Flessa went from a semi-reclined position to a sitting position, straightening up proudly.

"I've bought you a place in the Guild of Healers, Herbalists, and Apothecaries," she said arrogantly, with poorly concealed (or rather, not at all concealed) irritation. - With payment of all taxes and dues for seven years in advance. What are you dissatisfied with? Is that not enough?"

"It's not fair," the last one was too much. Her tears dried, and she turned back to her companion, her hands behind her back, her feet together, her socks turned up. "It's not fair to accuse me of ingratitude."

"Then what's the matter?"

"You..." Elena swallowed. "You ruined it. You ruined everything."

"I don't understand you," Flessa stood up, stepping closer, looking at her companion intently. "You didn't want to take my money, my gifts. Fine, don't take it. You're out of jail now. Your future is secure."

"I wanted to... on my own... I guess," Elena faltered, confused, trying to fight the burning resentment and anger. To explain to the arrogant aristocrat how wrong she was.

"You ungrateful..." Flessa cut the phrase short, pressing her lips together.

"Ungrateful who?" Elena felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She no longer felt like covering the duchess's mouth. On the contrary.

For a moment, uncertainty, hesitation, and doubt flashed in Flessa's eyes. But almost immediately they were washed away by resentment and arrogant superiority.

"Ungrateful whore," the noblewoman retorted.

"What?" Elena asked dumbly, looking through Flessa, trying to comprehend what she was hearing.

"You. Ungrateful," the duchess took another step closer, stopping almost close, staring with cold contempt. "Whore."

"No..." Elena whispered, not so much in objection as in denial of everything that had just happened. It was simply impossible. What the girl felt couldn't even be called resentment. It was just boundless, absolute disbelief in what was happening.

"Do you take me for a fool?" The Duchess threw coldly in her face. "You think I don't have eyes?"

"What are you talking about," Elena asked muffled.

"You can read and write. You're fluent in cutlery. Not every nobleman knows how to hold a fork and knife, but it's as if you've been eating at the lord's table since you were a child."

Slip up, Elena thought aloofly. Now that's my big slip-up.

"You're used to luxury," Flessa went on. "And most importantly, you take it for granted. For granted! Any commoner, any artisan's daughter, would sit on the edge of the bed, afraid to stain the sheets. She would touch the decanter with two fingers through her handkerchief. God forbid she should break the expensive glass. And how many women can swim? And with such agility? Where could you have learned that?"

Elena inhaled and exhaled. A fierce anger was rising from the depths of her soul. Flessa's voice was distant, sounding like through a cotton wall.

So, whore, that's what I am to you...

"Your speech, it's impersonal, unmarked. It's impossible to tell where you come from. It is the correct, classical language of the Old Empire, taught by the best rhetors!"

Flessa crossed her arms over her chest.

"At first, I thought you ran from an impoverished Ishpan family. Maybe the daughter of a nursemaid who grew up side by side with her master's daughter from infancy. But no. You've never lived in a noble family. It's all too apparent."

Elena was silent, her eyes growing darker and her face stony, hardening with each phrase.

"And then everything fell into place," Flessa said with contemptuous triumph. "Your attitude toward nudity, your lack of lower-class shame. And your skill in bed. It's marvelous, exquisite. Such skills cannot be acquired in the beds of bourgeois women!"

Elena flinched as if from a blow.

"The secret is out," the Duchess emphasized as if she had been waiting for an opportunity to strike deeper and drive the blade into the wound.

"You were trained to be a prostitute, a very expensive one. You've been trained in the art of keeping up conversation, attending banquets, and even swimming beautifully. Orgies in swimming pools are prized at Court."

Flessa snorted with a look of utter superiority. She didn't notice how the medicine woman's face changed, freezing into a cold mask.

"But you went on the run. That's why you're so skillful and helpless at the same time. You just haven't been taught enough. You haven't been shown how to behave in the company of noble men!"

Looking pointedly, Flessa gritted her teeth:

"So, know your place, whore. Be grateful to me. Show deep appreciation in a way that makes me feel like a real benefactor. You don't have to kiss my hand, but you can get down on your knee. If you don't know how I'll give you a hint. On the left, I'm not royalty...."

The sound of the slap was sharp and loud like a dried reed stem bursting in flames. Flessa took a step back, mouth ajar. On her face, Elena read her thoughts as they had been a few minutes ago - endless surprise, a sense that the world had turned upside down. She felt nothing else. Just a cold emptiness.

"No," Elena said very quietly. "You're not her. You never will be. How could I have thought that..."

Flessa put her palm to her flushed cheek, looking at her fingers with a puzzled expression. Elena shook her head, more in tune with her thoughts than addressing her former friend.

"Looks like we both made a mistake," Elena said in a dead voice. "Confused the sky and the stars with their reflections in the sea."

And it was a quote, too, one of many whose origin the Earth girl had forgotten. It was a good quote from some good book, which was very appropriate. The parchment scroll fell from her fingers, rolling on the wooden floorboards with a slight rustle. Flessa straightened, the dagger sliding from the sleeve of her dress into the duchess's palm. Elena would have missed this imperceptible movement if she hadn't known of the hidden weapon's existence. The ex-lover had another blade in a hidden sheath at the back of her belt.

"Don't," she shook her head, gripping the hilt of her knife. "Two of the five fights are mine. Don't forget those... noble mistress."

She bowed but kept her eyes on Flessa's hands. The Duchess clutched her edged stiletto tighter, stared frantically into the face of the prison healer.... and shuddered, taking a step back. In front of the noblewoman stood not a pretty and touchingly amusing in her provincialism healer but a killer trained by a good fencer. And this assassin was ready, at any moment, to fight to the death without regard to titles and consequences, with two chances against three. Lunna's blade was already halfway out of its sheath, and all it would take was a word, a single movement, for blood to spill. With growing horror, Flessa realized she couldn't suppress her opponent's will, her gaze sliding helplessly over Lunna's glassy pupils.

"A lowborn prostitute thanks a delightful mistress."

Elena's voice sounded muffled and very quiet, steady, like reading aloud from parchment.

"You've been overly kind to me, stooping to equal companionship with a... a despicable whore. But all good things come to an end. Now, it's time for me to return to my circle. And you will continue to socialize with your equals."

Elena stammered, remembering where she'd seen the pale face in the hood. Or rather, under what circumstances it had happened.

"With those who rape and torture women, carving Pàtrean, exquisite patterns on their bodies. You belong in their company."

Without turning her back on Flessa, without releasing the hilt of her knife, Elena went to the door and fumbled blindly for the handle in the shape of a horse's head. Mourier was waiting outside, and before releasing the medicine woman, he looked inside to make sure her mistress was well. He froze, shifting his gaze incomprehensibly from the healer to the duchess and back again. Flessa stood unmoving, silent, covering her cheek with her hand. The rodent opened and closed his mouth as if he wanted to ask for instructions but was afraid of attracting the angry attention of his mistress. Finally, he did.

"Would you order me to detain her?"

After enduring a seemingly endless pause, Flessa shook her head very faintly, barely noticeable. But Mourier noticed.

"Get out of here," he muttered to the guest.

It was enough for Elena to straighten up to the point of crunching her vertebrae and walk down the stairs. Keeping a proud posture, walk down the street, and turn the corner. To go somewhere else, wherever, the main thing was to go farther away, miraculously diverging from the passers-by. One street or two, she couldn't tell. Her eyes grew dark, the images of the city inexorably blurred, as if in an advancing fog. Finally, Elena leaned against the wall around the next corner, where there were no people nearby. She took off her cap and wept bitterly, covering her face with a trembling palm.

* * *

"I didn't think I'd see you again," squeaked Figueredo. "It seems to be in fashion among my friends. Disappearing without a trace, and then coming back to life in amazing ways."

He leaned his elbow on the doorjamb as if the master was having trouble keeping himself upright. The fencer blinked often, his eyes watering, the dying light of the evening sun too bright for them.

"We were never friends," Ranjan reminded him with surprising calmness. "We've never even met."

"We have all surrendered to the same god," remarked Draftsman, smiling like a paralytic with one side of his mouth. "All friends and brothers in one service."

"I never understood it," Ranjan said with the same straightforwardness. "You Old School people have always made a cult out of killing. Why? What's the point?"

Draftsman laughed. He couldn't manage to inhale a really deep breath, so it came out as a shallow and nasty giggle.

"Vensan didn't understand either," he squeezed out between fits of painful laughter. "Until a certain point. Then he did. You will, in time."

"Perhaps," Ranjan shrugged his broad shoulders.

Brether appeared to be a huge bat as usual, in a black cloak, with long, blue-black hair, loose and without shaved temples. His face was hidden beneath a triangle hat with the brim turned up.

"I see you've been keeping to yourself," Draftsman quirked an eyebrow, shaking his head at the silent servant who held his master's sword at the ready. "Tournament sword in plain sight to distract attention, and knives under the cloak. Always ready for battle?"

"Like all of us," the Brether shrugged again. The impassive face finally showed some emotion, a restrained impatience.

"I don't have much time. And I have some urgent business for you."

"Well..." Draftsman thought for a moment. Ranjan waited patiently.

"Come in."

* * *