Chapter 22 Hatred

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At the end of the second day of the new working week, Elena decided it was time to go to church. It was better to go to the Temple, the biggest, most beautiful, and best in Ecumene. Because it was impossible, simply impossible.

The breakup with Flessa and her words hurt in a way that it seemed better to stab the Duchess with a dagger. Dind suffered, trying to do so covertly, but by virtue of his guilelessness and youth, his conspiratorial nature was turning into the opposite. The whole prison was already whispering that a certain maiden had broken the young man's heart. No one had guessed who the girl was yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Another jailer from the lower floors was missing, and the Palace-under-the-Hill was back on its feet. In addition, the personnel was already overloaded, and now the city guards were massively grabbing rioters involved in the "copper rumors," as well as just unlucky people who were near the riots. Whistleblowing flourished, interrogators worked tirelessly with their hands and other tools, and Elena had to deal with the excesses of their zeal.

Poor Dind watched and suffered. Master Quok was furious at the disruption of routines and the increasing injuries inflicted by exhausted workers, but Elena was deaf to everything. Her thoughts were occupied with another matter entirely. The medic was waiting for the backlash, swift and merciless.

Despite all the romanticism of the relationship that had come to an end so soon, the woman was not deceived for a second about the young duchess. The very act of breaking up with her was enough to deeply hurt and offend the noblewoman. And the slap left no choice and, no doubt - Flessa would retaliate with the utmost cruelty. And something had to be done...

What to do?

Applying bandages, stitching up cuts, applying compresses to bruises, smearing healing ointments on burns, Elena came to the same conclusion time after time: she had to run. Things were not so bad in Milvess. They had been good in the last few months, but they were coming to an end. Her life as a citizen, as a healer in the capital, seemed to be coming to an end.

And things just got better....

The worst of all was the worm of doubt that gnawed at her soul, creeping up stealthily, reminding me that things could have turned out very differently, much happier and calmer. A little less self-loving pride, a little more conformism, sensitivity to the wishes of an imperious and powerful mistress ... Imagination drew pictures of a probable, however, not happened future. In it, Elena, as predicted a month ago landlady, woke up on sheets of satin and had breakfast with a golden dish. She could not work at all, could do not too burdensome practice, which was provided by the diploma of the shop. She could do anything. Well, or almost everything. Much more than she did now, at any rate, including longer classes at Draftman's, not the occasional free evening.

Snow seemed to be gathering, the clouds barely scratching the tall spires of the towers. It would be the first snow of the year, too late for the crops, a mocking herald of the coming crop shortage. Elena froze at the crossroads, waiting out the procession of churchmen. It was a sort of procession, a veneration of one of the Attributes. The monks walked in a long column, three at a time. To an earthly person, the servants of the cult looked very funny, as if they had been assembled from pieces of different cultures. They looked like steppe people or Buddhist monks.

The Steppes - because instead of cassocks, they wore special cut quilted robes with a large triangular flap across the chest on a single wooden button. The robe was girded with a wide girdle and was suitable for almost any weather, symbolizing the readiness to endure hardships and carry the word of God wherever and whenever. A chain with the sign of the Pantocrator, usually a ring divided by a horizontal bar, was worn on top, symbolizing that the Lord commands everything in heaven and on earth.

Buddhists - because the canon prescribed that instead of wearing a hat, one should wear a wide headband, where the symbols of the parish and something religious were embroidered in traditional signs. The hair, as a rule, was let below the shoulders and braided into small plaits, according to the number of memorized Attributes and sacred texts-commentaries to them. The complete set was exactly sixty-six braids, and when a brother began to go bald from old age, he shaved his head, again as a Buddhist, for it was unbecoming to offend the canon by the sight of thin hairs. However, some cultists shaved their heads purposefully despite having quite decent hair, and rumor had it that they got rid of their body hair altogether. It had something to do with the movement of certain "Demiurgs," who were a kind of official religion or cult. Rumor has it, aggressive and violent. In any case, when it came to stoning the shops of the adherents of the Two or a particularly vivid sermon, the Demiurgs were always mentioned. The bald one had not a crossbar in the chain ring but an eight-pointed star, symbolizing the worldly domination of Pantocrator on all sides of the world.

Elena touched her fingers to her chest, where the shattered coins from the Wasteland hung on a chain under her jacket. She thought that she should buy herself a Pantokrator ring and wear it openly so as not to stand out among the townspeople. As a rule, the citizens of the capital didn't care about external trappings. If a person didn't openly wear the symbolism of the Two, it was assumed by default that they believed in the One. But given the general nervousness, more prudent caution should have been exercised.

And Lunna also thought that these churchmen were rather strange and offbeat. Most of them didn't wear Jah braids, but they didn't glisten with mirror-like baldness. The gloomy men in the column had haircuts almost like soldiers, some in a "potty" and some in a "horse mane" that curled into a shock-absorbing helmet roll. It didn't look threatening.... but rather unfamiliar and ominous. The army-looking column of unarmed servants of the Lord was dressed in robes of the same dark brown color and marched in complete silence, without the usual chants, only beating out a clear rhythm with their wooden soles. From time to time, the monks in formation stopped and pounded their chests with their left fists while raising their right thumbs to the sky, indicating that the Lord was one in their hearts.

In a picture, this hybrid of steppe, Buddhism, and "afro" would look funny. In reality and motion, she wanted to move away, getting rid of the feeling of impropriety. The procession smelled of pure army organization and the order of a soldier's formation. Maybe some visiting cultists, a pilgrimage?

The sight of the cultists discouraged Elena from going to the Temple. She reasoned that the monumental building had been standing for hundreds of years and would probably remain standing for another day or two. Now, it was time to get on with more pressing matters. Elena turned towards the nearest street of armorers, firmly expecting to buy weapons. Alas, there wasn't enough money for a good sword - waiting for the promised reward from the Duchess, the healer finally renewed her closet and bought some useful little things, including extracts and herbs dried in the fall for future medicines. But Elena reasoned it was better to have something than to make do with a knife while waiting for imminent adventures.

The city was feverish, and rumors swept through the houses and streets like wildfire, filling the streets with incredible details and horrifying concoctions. All the talk, in one way or another, revolved around copper money and the silver caravan from Saltoluchard. "Copper" and "Silver" - these two words came up in every conversation, jumped from window to window, and carried through the taverns and cantinas. Even dung collectors were ready to argue about the purity of the metal of the southern mines, and prostitutes could expertly judge the comparative perniciousness of copper and bronze money.

Elena felt somehow apart from it all again. The city lived, worried, preparing for its trials and worries, and the healer moved in a parallel course. Wandering from shop to shop Elena time after time, returned to the same thought, or rather two thoughts that went in a tight bundle - unpleasant, bitter, hurtful, generously laced with notes of hopelessness. And merciless in its obviousness.

Yes, Flessa would retaliate, if only for the insult. And one hundred and forty-six percent for a slap in the face.

Yeah, she gonna have to leave town.

Swords were rarely sold on this street. It is too expensive for the general public. But it was possible to buy all kinds of cleavers and daggers, compact crossbows, ballisters, clubs, and other gear for beating out health and life. On the counters, crates, wheelbarrows, and in hands, all sorts of weapons glittered, shone, rattled, and rang, up to spear-throwers and batons made of the tusk of strange beasts of the northern archipelago. Elena almost bought a spear thrower because it looked very beautiful, a polished thing made of bone of a pale purple color. You can throw darts, which, according to rumors, even with stone tips stitched through leather armor like rags, and you can wield it like a club.

But Elena changed her mind, opting for a boarding axe with a hook and pincer. It was an ordinary, unadorned weapon for one hand. It was sold by a dull and depressing islander, swollen and colorful like an octopus. Customers shunned him, and Elena compared the man-hating look of the seller, the worn look of the weapon (an old thing, well-polished by thousands of touches), and the sailor's clothes - a traditional jacket with fishing hooks instead of buttons. Such clothes were worn on holidays and for special events like a full crossing around the Ecumene in one campaign. The conclusion was that the vagabond had drunk himself clean, having wasted even his everyday dress on money, and now he had to put on a festive one and sell weapons.

The sailor did not haggle over the price, and in general, to all appearances, he was ashamed to part with the steel "comrade." Elena, in her turn, did not bargain much, and the parties parted, having made a mutually beneficial negotiation. Now, the islander could either have fun for another week or buy a passage to his native land without the need to be hired as a sailor. And Elena felt the pleasant, confident weight of a good tool behind her belt.

As Draftsman used to say. "Armored - stab, defenseless - chop," yes. Now she felt better, more protected, and wondered why she hadn't done it before. Maybe because of the inertia of thinking that an axe was not serious, and when the time came, she could swing a sword or a saber, but for now, a dagger would be enough.

Unfortunately, the burst of enthusiasm didn't last long. It was good to have a weapon. Yet the need to get out of the City was growing. To leave a familiar job, to leave a home that had almost become familiar. To part with Baala and Kid, whom Elena didn't yet see as family, but it was coming. Again, tedious wanderings, and even in the hungriest and coldest time, when everything costs two or three times as much. Without any special savings, without shop credentials.....

Which you could have taken - the worm of doubt and missed opportunities whispered again.

You could have taken it. And also to swallow the pride, to explain with Flessa, remembering that the Duchess was not a mean person (at least, not more than the class as a whole). It was just not worth it to test aristocratic arrogance. And now there would be no problems. There would be nothing but happiness, with confidence in the future. All taxes and dues for seven years were paid. That meant paying only city taxes and enjoying all the rights of a shop foreman. It was fabulous. Songs were written about such generosity. And then one slap in the face destroyed it all. So, no splendor, and she should get out of town alive. Elena had no illusions that a proud noblewoman of some generation would forget how she had been heartily slapped on her beautiful and arrogant face by a lowly commoner.

On the road again, wandering again...

Or maybe it'll work out?

To get back to my native northern land, she had to cross the bridge, where a fight was brewing again. And this time, the conflict promised to be "festive" in scale, when not even street to street, but whole neighborhoods or workshops were coming together. And not at all festive in mood. Elena looked at all this and decided she would rather take the boat.

The woman was not the only person to show commendable wisdom, so the river became crowded with "water taxies." It seems, these days, anyone who had even a gate leaf was in a hurry to make money on transportation. Prices had skyrocketed, too, but with each passing minute, Elena regretted the coin she spent less and less. While the boatman was rowing, angry and very organized groups of people were gathering at opposite ends of the bridge. Many were heavily armed, including chain mail, iron hats, helmets with barbettes, long-handled axes, and cordage. The city guards, sensing something bad, vanished as if they had never existed.

"Who's with whom?" Elena asked the boatman, figuring that he should know for sure.

"On the altogether," he said, displaying a scholarly and philosophical disposition. "For silver."

"Again?" The woman sighed.

"That's right," the boatman managed to combine a wide rowing stroke, a maneuver of evasion from a clumsy competitor, and an expressive shrug. "But after such a thing, there's no harm in fighting!"

"What's the big deal?" Elena thought she must have missed something again.

"Ehma!!!" The rower shouted joyfully, so much so that he almost dropped his oar. The enthusiasm of a born storyteller was in his voice.

Listening half-heartedly, watching what was happening on the bridge, and getting used to the weight of the axe at her belt, Elena had a rough idea of what had been stirring Milvess for the last couple of days. So, while Lunna was working hard and solving difficult issues of her personal life, the capital, like a fire in the wind, received the devastating news: the island convoy with silver was detained in the port by the personal order of the Emperor. The minting of coins will not take place in the foreseeable future. There will be no new, marketable coinage. No one knew anything, but literally every citizen had an acquaintance who had another acquaintance who had tried to be handed some copper or bronze money.

It seemed that Milvess had not yet erupted into spontaneous rebellion from edge to edge, thanks solely to the upcoming Tournament. Any fight attracted armed men who were in a hurry to grab what was theirs, so instead of outrages against authority, just uncontrollable stabbings took place. Besides, the Emperor once again broke other people's pride and hubris (or rather just poured gold over them) by mobilizing and placing the heavy cavalry, personally obliged to his service, to protect law and order.

Outside observers like the same boatman capitalized on the general chaos and placed bets on whether the ruler would be able to keep Milvesse in check for another two or three days. Then the Tournament began, and it was clear to everyone that the rioting of the street crowd would naturally move to the tribunes, spilling over into pogroms of heretics and other bloody, but safe for the authorities. In the meantime, the lords' houses were turning into fortresses, the price of mercenaries had doubled, and even a poor brether had real gold in his purse.

Two days, Elena thought and cheered up, two days of chaos... A good time to get her feet out. The air of Milvess was noxious to her now, and Flessa would most likely be busy with the city's conflicts for the time being. Especially after comparing the bag of copper on the duchess's desk with what she had seen and heard in person. Elena was convinced that the willful noblewoman was involved in murky affairs up to her ears.

Pantocrator, are you playing for me? she asked silently to the darkening sky, putting her hand over her heart. The boatman noticed the gesture and reacted appropriately, with a salute of the oar and a shriek:

"There is no god but One! Down with the damned bigots!"

There was a shout around them, curses to the bigots echoing far over the water, echoing the cries on the bridge. There was fighting, serious fighting, not bloody but deadly. Elena cringed at the cries of pain, which reminded her of working in a prison. The opponents, meanwhile, were hammering fiercely at each other, crowded together in the middle of the wide bridge. Every now and then, someone was thrown over the low parapet, and some jumped themselves, deciding that they had had enough. The river swirled storms and funnels around the wide piers - "bulls," a wounded man, once in there, as a rule, did not swim out, alive at least. The first corpses were already bobbing on the waves, falling under the oars of the swearing carriers.

For some unknown reason, Elena remembered the knowledge she had once heard that the natural tendency of architects to make the supports stronger and thicker led to accelerated wear and tear of oxen under bridges. A thicker column narrows the path for water and increases the constant pressure on the barrier.

The shouts on the bridge were no longer human, and the roar of the furious crowd was now like a chorus of hungry hyenas. The fight had finally become a mutual massacre.

"Go further down," Elena commanded, deciding it would be better to walk than to land near a real war zone. The boatman nodded in complete agreement. It seems that clever thoughts came to many heads at the same time because the boats, as if on command, began to "scatter" to change the route, avoiding the areas near the ends of the bridge. On the other hand, quite miserable boats, or even crookedly and obliquely knocked down rafts, rushed to the bulls and downstream. Their owners had not found any risky customers, so now they were rushing to the aid of the drowning, expecting to be rewarded.

How timely she was concerned about the axe... Draftsman did not teach Elena any special techniques of fighting with a cleaver but showed her how to receive and divert blows with a long-handled axe, "opening" the opponent for a counterattack or a strike with a second weapon. A rare technique mastered, according to legends famous Vincent Mongaillard. Knife is there, and boarding "comrade" is there. You can cope even with not very strongly armored enemies. The hook will pierce both leather and chain mail, but brigandines and, especially, plate armor are not worn by shopkeepers and bandits - stupid and expensive.

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The river reeked of sewage and garbage, and there was shouting and rattling of weapons on the bridge. The oars thrashed against the waves, making a splash. Elena shivered, staring at the cold water. Despite her cloak, her clothes were getting damp, pulling the warmth from her cold body. Suddenly, the hum of the fighting on the bridge changed tone, not quieter, but rather lower, moving from a hysterical bloodlust to a wary buzzing. Elena turned and saw cavalrymen, about a dozen knights in full armor, riding into the square lay ahead to the left.

In fact, there were far more riders, as each armored warrior was accompanied by a retinue of at least two or three men. But the sergeants and mounted archers stayed behind, as did half of the main battle group. And five or six of the most heavily armored moved directly towards the bridge.

Elena had met real knights on the streets, but it was rare, brief, and usually from afar. In the City, there was simply no need to get on a destrier and gallop through the streets in full-fledged "gear". The guest from another universe did not attend the usual tournaments, where one could be blinded by the glow of polished metal.

The knights were like the truth in the X-Files - somewhere out there, far beyond the city walls, in a world of war and field battles. Now Elena saw a squad of heavy cavalrymen, a few real "spears." And she clearly understood why mounted cavalrymen had dominated the battlefield for centuries. They were simply very scary. Incredibly scary, starting with the horses.

The horse seemed rather small from the outside, and the destrier, as a rule, was even shorter than an ordinary horse. But in every movement of the beast of war, there was an eerie and absolutely not beastly purposefulness and precision. Literally machine compactness, ready at any moment to turn into the energy of destruction. Despite the armored riders and their armor, the horses stepped lightly, but at the same time somehow stiffly, shooting sparks with their horseshoes. The helmets on their muzzles were adorned with embossed demonic faces, adding to the intimidating effect.

Before, listening to ballads and all sorts of stories about knightly valor, Elena usually shrugged her shoulders, thinking that they were probably fairy tales - well, an ordinary horse can't ride on a spear "hedgehog", much less penetrate it. And in the visions of last year, the cavalrymen had been taking a good beating from the infantry. Now the woman looked at it and realized that it could, it could!

If you look from the front, albeit at an angle, it becomes clear that the "knight," as a combined combat unit, is armored like a tank, with extreme protection in the frontal projection. The rider resembled a living statue of metal. The horse was covered by a powerful breastplate and an equally powerful helmet with small round holes for the eyes and a fine grille. Some of them also had a ringed hem or an embroidered quilted blanket under the breastplate, almost up to the hooves. It was a living battering ram, which, even if killed on the spot, would still rush forward, at least due to inertia.

Elena shivered, clutched her axe tighter under her cloak, and shivered again, now at how weak and useless the little clave seemed against the iron cavalrymen. The five horsemen, without spears, without drawing their weapons, moved straight toward the crowd, without changing speed, with measured strides, without shouts or mottos. Only the loud tinkling of horseshoes and stone. A faint breeze moved the ensigns with coats of arms behind the cavalrymen's backs. The thousand-eyed, many-armed monster, which moments before had been mad with unquenchable bloodlust, was losing steam and energy before his eyes, emanating horror like a red-hot blade dropped into the cold water amidst puffs of steam.

As if on command, but without any command, the knights drew their lashes, more like thick whips, spurred their horses, and pressed down on the crowd like a hydraulic press, with seeming slowness and yet without the slightest hesitation. A piercing terror rolled ahead of them, causing the townspeople to trample each other, to chop the backs of those not fast enough, to throw themselves over the parapet into the icy water. Everything, even the icy waters beneath the bridge, seemed less terrifying compared to the living steel rolling in with the deadening clang and crunch of metal. The angry roars of the crowd were replaced by howls. The cavalrymen slowed slightly and lowered their whips, letting the panic finish the job. The horses went like four-legged terminators, swaying their heads slightly, trampling the fallen methodically and expertly. Steam from their mighty breath wafted from beneath their horse masks. Not a single man came up behind the five riders.

Elena turned away and smoldered her wet cloak. She was used to the dead, but this clash between the crowd and the Lords of War was new. And it could not be said it was an impression she wanted to keep in her memory. The boatman, too, had lost his talkativeness and was rowing silently, taking the river further to the right, downstream. For Elena, it meant another half hour of walking in the evening street with almost no light, but the woman did not mind. Anything to get away from here!

Two days. I don't care if it's two years. If even a hundred or two of these armored monsters stand up for the Emperor, Milvess may rage until the second Cataclysm. Only brothers in arms or Highlander Infantry can stand against the cavalry, and they have nowhere to be found on the streets of the City.

Elena reached Baala's house in the dark. She hadn't come to a final decision about what she should do. But when she carefully locked the door and entered the kitchen, the dining room, she realized that everything had been decided for her.

"There," Baala shook her head, pointing upwards.

"I understand," Elena nodded. She looked at Mourier and said honestly, like a man who had nothing more to lose:

"I'm so sick of you!"

"Likewise," the bodyguard replied, chewing on a chicken leg. He held it with his left hand but left his right hand free and close to his sword. In the dim light of the hearth and the three candles, the bodyguard's face seemed stamped with deathly fatigue.

"And how did I not notice the retinue..." Elena thought out loud. "Is the house surrounded?"

"You crooked-eyed, I guess," Murier chuckled. "Sure."

Kid was nowhere to be seen, but there was no blood either, and Baala seemed rather calm, so what was going on gave some hope. Be that as it may, Flessa didn't seem to intend to extend her vengeance to outsiders. Elena threw her cloak down on the stool closest to the hearth, the wet fabric immediately beginning to steam. Without embarrassing either the laird or the dwarf, she checked whether the blade was well out of its sheath and whether the hook of the axe would catch.

"Pour some more," Murier ordered, tapping the pewter mug. Baala silently drew out the jug.

Elena didn't look at it anymore as she climbed up, striding up the old but still sturdy steps. The banister creaked, reminding her that it should have been repaired and reinforced long ago. Second floor. Third...

It was bright here, much brighter than usual. It was as if Baala had used the entire supply of candles, seeking to disperse and kill the shadows down to the faintest and grayest. Most likely lit on Flessa's orders. The Duchess stood looking out the window, judging by her characteristically turned shoulders, crossing her arms across her chest. The woman was wearing her usual riding costume, similar to the dress of a ruthier or nobleman on a military campaign. With Flessa's favorite high collar under her ears but without the nobleman's chain. A steel shield engraved with the family crest covered his left shoulder. On his left side hung a short sword in a popular sling - "kerchief," richly embroidered and decorated with pearls. There were no other ornaments on the noblewoman besides the luxurious sling.

"I thought you'd run away by now," Flessa said without turning around. Her voice sounded muffled, as tired as Mourier looked.

"I wanted to," Elena admitted, standing in the doorway. She could see how convenient it would be to smack her ex-lover in the back of the head. The height of the ceiling would be enough for a full swing. The beak of the axe would go into the back of her head to the very eye... Elena put her hand on the axe and squeezed the cold metal.

"Then why?"

It sounded like a completed question, despite the seeming raggedness, the incompleteness. Helena walked into the room, seeing the light of the distant fire playing in the window in red-yellow reflections. She stood beside the duchess.

"I wanted to. And I probably would have run."

"And?"

Elena didn't answer because she didn't know how to answer. It was possible, of course, to think up something beautiful and effective-sounding on the fly. To appeal to aristocratic nobility, to hint at her disbelief in the duchess's ability to do dishonorable things. Everyone loves flattery, especially beautiful, unadorned flattery. Everyone likes to be considered noble, a man of word and honor. But Elena simply did not want to lie, to invent, to weave verbal lace. And she knew Flessa well enough to realize that the nobility of the daughter of old Wartensleben extended strictly to a narrow circle of her equals. The young heiress considered herself entitled to act in any way she pleased, and she understood it perfectly well.

"I don't know," Elena said honestly, standing slightly to the side and behind her former friend.

They were silent for half a minute, maybe a little longer. It seemed that Flessa had not had enough, and she was waiting for a continuation. Unexpectedly, Elena did continue:

"You're wrong about everything but one thing. I'm really running. I've been running for a long time. Hiding. And it seemed like I'd finally found a life I liked. A home. A mentor."

She was silent for a moment. The Duchess turned her head silently, slightly, so that her profile stood out clearly against the window.

"And I found you."

Not a single vein in Flessa's pale face quivered. Not a single sound escaped her lips, though Elena was expecting a sarcastic remark about not finding noble people. They condescend to anyone.

"I didn't want to, uh... lose everything again. To run away again."

"On the table."

"What?" Elena lost the thread of the conversation and stammered.

"On the table," Flessa finally unclenched her clenched hands and pointed to a package that was indeed lying in the corner of the table. Something long, wrapped in a nice cloth. Elena immediately realized what it could be and couldn't help but smile sadly.

"Aristocratic in everything," she mumbled as she carefully untied the sturdy cord.

"I don't know what you mean," Flessa said sternly.

Elena unwrapped the cloth and took the graceful saber under one arm with both hands. The blade had a subtle curve, and the hilt was wrapped in twisted metal wire. The S-shaped guard is complemented by a hook and ring. An excellent urban weapon, any brether would be pleased. Elena tapped the metal with her fingernail, assessing the quality of the polished steel. She appreciated the flexibility of the blade. A very expensive, very high-quality piece with the branding of the famous Gunz Lofar workshop and the stylized Wartensleben crest near the hilt.

"Aristocratic in everything," she repeated, getting into position, practicing the first guards to check how the saber fit in her hand. "Loyalty to the word, above all else. Even if to a commoner and a... whore."

Flessa's face twitched, but it was only for a moment, and it passed so quickly that Elena thought it was just her imagination. A few tentative swings and then a complex combination with a final jab at the shadow's heart. Taking a step back, Elena made a bow to the giver, pressing the blade against her chest at an oblique angle.

"You promised a sword. You gave me a sword. A nobleman's word first, death later."

Another step back, the first position for the fight to begin. Only now, holding the comfortable hilt in her palm, warmed by the warmth of her hand, did Elena realize that Flessa had the same saber in her scabbard. Apparently, it was a paired weapon, a dueling set. Yes, it was logical and quite beautiful to give a sword for one fight. The Court's finest aesthetes would appreciate the elegance of the decision.

"Here?" Elena asked, still unable to believe this was how it was going to end. "I think it's better to wait until dawn. The first rays of sunlight make the steel gleam beautifully. And the sun doesn't glare. Swords like these." she gripped the hilt tighter. "Worthy of a better fight."

Flessa's palm rested on the weapon. For some reason, her left hand, as if the duchess was only holding the saber so it wouldn't get in the way. The noblewoman turned to Elena, her gaze expressionless, her face a cold, indifferent mask.

"Here, then," Elena said quietly, more to herself. She extended the blade to the full length of her arm as if aiming for the point between her enemy's collarbones.

"Thank you for not retaliating like a nobleman against a commoner," Elena thanked her sincerely. "And I have a favor to ask. Don't touch the woman and..."

Kid isn't there. Maybe they don't know about her?

"Don't touch her. This is between you and me."

Two chances against three. And it would be a fight to the death, familiar to Flessa but only the second in the healer's life.

The duchess stepped forward to the point of her saber touched the black fabric just under the ribbon covering the bottom of her collar. Without drawing her sword, she drew Elena's blade aside with a light, deceptively leisurely movement of her hand and stepped forward again, even closer. The next moment, it seemed to the healer that a bomb had exploded in her head. The woman staggered, barely keeping her balance, and almost dropped her saber.

In battle, you must be ready for anything, Draftsman's voice echoed dryly and contemptuously in the memory. The enemy can show a knife and strike with a fist. He may show his fist and strike stealthily with his knife. Or he can do nothing at all because his buddy is standing behind you and has already brought a brass knuckle to smash the back of your head.

"I hate you!" Flessa exhaled with genuine emotion, slapping Lunna a second time from the other side.

"Hate you!"

Elena had already tracked the third blow in the swinging phase, though her head was ringing like a bell. She released her sword, intercepted the arm, and tried to throw her opponent over her hip, but the crowded room prevented it. Instead of a clean fight, it was a ridiculous shoving match, and the two women slammed into a pillar. For several long moments, they struggled in silence, trying to topple or throw each other off.

"I hate you!" Flessa growled a third time, grabbing Elena by the neck. The duchess's strong palms slid upward, wrapping around the medic's face so that her fingertips touched her temples. Flessa's blue eyes cast ghostly fires, burning like sapphires lit by devil's fire.

Thoughts jumped like black-and-white pictures in a magic lantern, frantic, indecipherable, jumbling, and colliding in the brightest flashes of feeling. Hate. Rage. Anger. Willingness to kill. Uncontrollable admiration for Flessa's cruel beauty and fury, the beauty not of a woman but of a predator on the attack. Anticipation of death, mixed with the hope that no one would die here and now. A resentment that flared up with renewed vigor. All merged, melted in Elena's soul like in a crucible, flaring up like the purest philosopher's stone. Until there was nothing left but the primordial desire that stood between life and death, uniting them in itself.

Elena didn't know what she wanted more. To kill Flessa or to kiss her, to own her brutally, bloodily, pupils dilated with pain. But the Duchess had decided first, and she clenched her fingers even tighter and dug herself into Elena's lips with the kiss of an enraged vampire. And Lunna responded so the stars seemed to fade, and the moon trembled, stumbling for a moment in its endless march across the black sky.

They kissed frantically, clutching, drinking each other's breath, and sharing the poisonous nectar of wounded pride. Until the suffocation darkened their eyes.

"Hate," Flessa whispered between convulsive breaths. She gulped for air like a drowning man who'd risen from the depths to life, escaping death. Thin fingers gripped Elena's face tightly, hurting and bruising, but the healer didn't feel it, burned by the flames in her blood.

"If one more time..." Lunna's fingers clamped around Flessa's wrists like handcuffs. "If you call me a whore again..."

The blue flame in the duchess's eyes collided with the darkness of Lunna's brown pupils, dissolved into them, melting away with elusive sparks. Elena's footwork was precise, skillful as a fencing match, toppling Flessa onto the wide, hard bed, and she was on top of her before her opponent could free herself from her grip.

"What are you..." Flessa's outraged cry dried up on Elena's lips and dissolved into a new kiss.

The healer seized the initiative, flipped the duchess face down, and bit the skin on her neck that opened between the collar and the hairline. There was no tenderness in the movement, only cruel passion, and assertion of power, the way a beast takes hold of its victim, immobilizing it.

"What... You..." Flessa sighed exhaustedly, torn between two desires - to break free and to surrender.

"It's a revolt of the lower class," Elena whispered.

The noblewoman jerked, trying to free herself, but the fencer's apprentice was ready and wouldn't let her.

"When the commoners rebel, they break into castles and manors..."

The crackle of tearing fabric accompanied the hot whispering, vividly illustrating the thesis of destruction.

"... And they do brutal violence..."

To embody the reflection of the outrage and violence, she had to take a tight grip on Flessa's neck. Elena did it methodologically incorrectly, and in addition, tightly clutching the aristocrat's waist with her free hand, she loosened her grip. The blue-eyed fury immediately took advantage of the blunder and threw the revolutionary, at the same time, dropping her from the bed onto the hard but cleanly swept the floor. Now the warrior maidens switched places, Flessa on top of her, pinning Elena in a crucifixion pose.

"Rebellions are always suppressed!" The noblewoman's voice was low and husky. Her face flushed, and her blue pupils dilated as if Flessa had run straight from Dune and gotten high on spice. The two women had already accepted as inevitable and obvious that death had no place under the roof of this house. Not until dawn, anyway. But at least one of them had to give in, to surrender, and neither one wanted to be the first to give in.

"And we always rule. Always!"

Elena tensed and brought her hands closer to her torso, twisting her wrists out of the duchess's grip. But at the last moment, she relaxed and put her hands behind her head, the epitome of submission, of gentle surrender. Flessa leaned over, trembling with the excitement of the fight - and not just the fight! - ready to assert her supremacy, as she always had, as she always had, no matter what. There was a mute question in her eyes. A light vapor rose on her temples and beaded on her neck. In the light of the remaining candles, her moistened skin seemed romantically illuminated.

"Kiss me. Like you've never kissed anyone before."

Elena's voice was pleading and commanding. She asked, but the request burned like the blow of a whip, not allowing her to resist, calling for obedience. Flessa froze, and it seemed the frantic pounding of her heart could be heard without even pressing her ear to her chest. To feel the beating without touching it with the tips of delicate fingers. The noblewoman's normally pale lips had turned so red that they seemed cherry, almost black.

"So I forget what happened before. Your... words..."

And Flessa obeyed, commanding.

A spasm of pleasure hit her muscles like an electric shock, twisting Elena so, for a moment, her back was off the floor, touching the boards only with the back of her head and heels.

"Don't you ever insult me again," Elena whispered. "Never again. A second time... I won't forgive you."

"I hate you," Flessa said quietly, barely audible. "You stole my..."

Elena didn't let her get the last word out. She took it into her lips and caught it on the tip of her tongue. She made Flessa shudder with every muscle and felt the prick of blissful anticipation in every nerve.

I hate you.

I can't be without you

Which one of them said it? Didn't even say it but exhaled with agony. Who knows... Both the healer and the duchess - each was sure she had heard words from the other. And each knew in her heart that she was ready to say them herself.

* * *

"Here we go..." Murier grumbled angrily, squinting up at the ceiling, where a draft was stirring up cobwebs not noticed during the cleaning. "Here we go again."

"More?" The dwarf sighed, removing the cork from the lighter jug.

"I guess so," the warrior agreed.

The dark wine spilled into the pewter glasses with a light foam and gurgle.

"Why are you sour?" Murier asked gloomily, sipping noisily. The drink was good indeed. "It's all to your advantage. Or at least no harm."

Baala grimaced even more, not wanting to answer. But then she changed her mind and briefly said:

"A lord's love is a misfortune in the end."

"Yeah," the warrior snorted skeptically, drowning his nose in his mug. "For someone, it's trouble. For some, it is the opposite. This one... so far, it's been good for her, like a good luck charm."

"Fortune and profit come from passion, from lust," said the dwarf sternly but, at the same time, with a hidden sadness. Her gaze clouded as if from a long and sad memory. "But love... it is more complicated."

She stopped talking and tilted the jug again, dispensing the drink. Mourier chewed his lips, pondering the wisdom he had heard, and he wanted to object. Sighing, he raised his mug in a silent salute. The warrior and the dwarf drank without clinking their glasses and, without delay, repeated the drink.

"Uh..." stretched out Mourier. "What if..."

He wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

"You wouldn't dream of it!" Baala snorted. "For nothing is behind the barn."

"I didn't really want to!" The bodyguard snapped at him. "And why should it be for free?"

"Not up to your purse," Baala grinned a little more kindly.

"And you have not measured my purse!" Mourier was offended.

Then they ate and argued leisurely. They sipped the wine with relish until all the candles had burned out.

* * *