Chapter 23 Trust

* * *

It was quiet, cozy, and very peaceful. Just good. The brightest flash burned out her emotions, but not to the ground, as in grief and unhappiness, but rather like a cleansing flame. There was peace, calmness, soft fatigue, and a slight drowsiness that did not turn into sleep. Elena knew, in the daytime, it would result in drowsiness, apathy, and loss of strength. But that was during the day, and now - whether it was late at night or early in the morning - she was simply very well. And she wasn't the only one.

Elena's bed was perhaps a little wide for one person, but it was just right for two, especially if they were snuggled together, back to chest, like a two-body creature. Elena ran her palm over Flessa's side. The duchess's heart still couldn't calm down. The healer held her fingers on the thin vein beneath her breast and touched her lips to her shoulder, feeling the blood beating, frequent, steady. It could not even be called a kiss, more like a light - the lightest! - touch, but it sent a slight shiver through Flessa's body.

The candles were almost all burned out, and the room was warm enough that Baala had spared no slate for the hearth downstairs. It was night outside the window, the shutters muffling the faint noise of the night capital. The commotion seemed to have quieted down, at least until morning. Elena felt fleetingly sorry for the duchess's companions who had to keep vigil in the cold. On the other hand, it was warmer and cozier to see the hardships of young aristocrats under the winter moon.

Elena moved her hand farther and lower to Flessa's waist and thigh, savoring the sensation. She was a distinct visualist, and now she was discovering how nice it could be to just touch something, to feel the silky softness at her fingertips. She lingered and lightly massaged the delightful dimple at the junction of the thigh, buttock, and waist in a circular motion. Flessa sighed intermittently, took Elena's hand, and pressed it to her breast. Took it so tightly it was as if she wanted to break her fingers. She said quietly:

"You don't need anything from me."

"We've already talked about..." Elena exhaled, trying not to lose her sense of complete peace. It was all too good to start a new and painful conversation.

"Everyone needs something," the duchess said, and her voice trembled as if the young woman were holding back a weak sob. "Everyone but you. Money. Service. Privileges. Access to my father's ears and eyes. My hand and title for marriage. The glory of the conqueror, finally. So one can boast over wine among friends how one's deftly ridden the proud Flessa ausf Wartensleben. Even my father needs me as a continuation of the family and then as a daughter. The youngest, forced to be useful because all the others did not live up to expectations."

"Don't," Elena whispered into her friend's ear, warming her with her breath.

"And you're the only one who doesn't want anything. You want me. Just me."

The noblewoman turned her head to the side so Elena could hear better, and the clear profile stood out against the last candlelight in a perfect sculptural line.

"Yes. And you're mine," Elena murmured, snuggling against her friend, her cheek snuggled against Flessa's shoulder blade. "At least until morning. And beyond. As long as we want."

She exhaled, kissed Flessa's back again, and felt the knots of old scars for the third time. Never had Elena wanted so badly to be a real sorceress, to be able to do something magical. She caressed the hard, jagged lines with her lips, desperately wishing they would disappear, melt away under the gentle kisses. But even more, she wanted the scars on the soul of the powerful, cruel, and at the same time unhappy Flessa ausf Wartensleben to dissolve.

Elena had no illusions about her lover. She knew Flessa could kill and had killed. She could whip a negligent servant girl and only refrain in the presence of her sensitive friend. But... that was in another universe. Not here and not now. Now Elena was embracing the woman she truly, truly pitied, the woman she wanted, the woman she...

What?..

What word can be used here? And can it be used at all?

"Did you love her?"

"What?" Elena flinched.

"You said I wasn't her," Flessa said in a muffled voice, turning away again. "Then..."

Elena felt her lips dry. She wanted to break free, to leave the bed, but as if sensing her companion's impulse, Flessa gripped her hand tighter, shackling her to herself.

"Did you love her?"

Elena sighed heavily, intermittently. Old memories awakened, breaking the thin ice of oblivion she'd worked so hard to create, freezing the pain in her soul.

"Give for Give," said Elena. "Are we playing? Tell me where the scars came from. And I'll tell you."

"Give for Give" was a children's - and even adult, it happened - a game known throughout the Ecumene. Revelation for revelation. A secret for a secret. It was believed that Pantocrator himself listens to the words at this moment, so lying in a seemingly harmless entertainment was unacceptable. Elena wanted to get away from the unpleasant conversation and expect Flessa not to play. Judging from the silence, the calculation was justified.

"My father beat me twice," Flessa said suddenly. "Once, the first time I got drunk. The other..."

She was silent again. Elena was torn between two urges. She both wanted Flessa to be silent and to keep talking. The memories hurt the duchess, troubling the old scars on her heart. She didn't need to look her in the face to realize it. But ... there was a supreme trust in the intimate knowledge Flessa shared. To reject it was to insult her. And Elena listened.

"My father had a henchman. From a good family, a side branch of the true primators. High-born, higher than us, but poor. Poor for their class, of course. It's unbecoming of them to be subservient to those lower by blood. But the boy was the fifth son. He has no future in the family. In such cases, one closes one's eyes and forgives a certain derogation...."

Flessa sighed. Elena slid her right hand between the pillow and the duchess's head and put her arm around her neck, stroking her slightly damp cheek.

"The family allowed him to go into service with the Wartensleben's to strengthen the family's friendship. And the boy... fell in love with me."

Flessa shook her head to make Elena's nails press more tightly against her cheek, rubbing herself quite catlike.

"And I fell in love with him," the Duchess said briefly.

"How old were you?" The question sounded stupid, but it came out of her mouth.

"Not much. But he was handsome. Young. In love. And me... too."

Elena couldn't see it, but she could easily imagine the candlelight reflecting in Flessa's blue pupils, playing a living flame reflected in her tears.

Both he and I already knew we were Bonoms. We have been given much by birthright. We have led and will continue to lead a life that the lower classes can only futilely dream of. But.

Another sigh.

"But such a life imposes obligations, debt. Charges a fee."

Draftsman said something similar. In a different time, about different things, but the essence is the same. In gaining, you always sacrifice something, even if you don't want to.

"We had gotten used to the idea that we were celestials. But we didn't realize that even the highest creatures had to follow rules."

"Did you run?" Again, the question followed ahead of the thought.

"Yeah. We thought it would be like the novels. Ballads. We'd become husband and wife, live happily ever after, and get lost in Southern towns."

This time, Elena was silent, but Flessa answered as if the question had been spoken:

"Yeah. We didn't get very far."

The healer ran her fingers over the grid of scars again. She said, affirming rather than asking:

"Whip."

"Vartensleben is known for its leather crafts," Flessa smiled sadly. "My father had good... crafts."

And the stupid boy with the wind in his head went back home to his family, of course... Elena mentally continued.

"My father hung the page on the window grate in my bedroom. He ordered to keep it up until the warmth of spring."

"Fuck..." Elena exhaled.

Flessa seemed to decide it was just a sigh. She pressed against Elena's hand, palm over the palm.

"God," Elena whispered, because...what else was there to say?

Fucking psychoanalysis...

How old was Flessa then? Twelve? Thirteen? A little more? Hardly more than thirteen or fourteen. Older girls should have realized by now how such romance would end. A romantic teenager whose love was murdered in front of her eyes. Not just killed, but torturously murdered, as a cruel lesson.

And I still feel myself miserable?!

"It was... cruel..." Elena remarked with all delicacy and caution, feeling like running through a minefield.

"That was right."

"What?" Elena thought she'd misheard. For the first time in a long time, she doubted her proficiency in the common tongue.

"I was humiliated. Insulted. It was years before I realized my father could not have done otherwise."

"But... Why?"

"A henchman assaulted his master's daughter. An insult to the patriarch and, therefore, to the whole Wartensleben family. If it had been covered up, the boy could have been sent back. But the flight and the chase... The inevitable rumors of loss of virginity. The father did the only thing he could do."

"And the henchman's family?"

"They did the right thing, too. You can't just kill members of a noble family. And so the war of the houses began."

So this young woman, in her early youth, was the cause of inter-clan strife. That's a lot of life experience.

"Did you win?"

"Yes. My brother was almost killed in the first battle. I still loved him at the time. And it was a good lesson."

"Have you forgiven your father?"

"No. But I understood him. And I learned from him."

"I don't understand it..." Elena was honest.

"Family, Lunna, family," Flessa said very seriously and sternly. "The Suzerain will leave you without favors or protection. Vassals and townsfolk will turn on you. Servants will betray you. The law will be silent, and the Emperor will not notice."

Elena made a grimace, glad Flessa couldn't see her face.

"But only your family will always be with you. They'll break bread with you in times of need. They will feed you in your old age. They will bury you say your prayers and engrave your skull in the family shrine. Only family will stand up for you against the rest of the world. My father was harsh and cruel, and for that, I will never forgive him. But now the boy is long gone, and I... I will rule the strongest duchy in the Western kingdom."

Elena felt a shiver in her hands, and not at all from passion or the cold in the room.

"It's your turn," the Duchess reminded her. "Did you love her?"

"I..." Elena thought about it. "I don't know."

Flessa said nothing, and her silence was more eloquent than any words. A mute accusation of dishonesty. "Give for Give" implied an equal exchange.

"I really don't know," Elena said quietly, pressing her cheek against Flessa's shoulder blade. She wanted to run the tip of her tongue along her spine again, tasting the slightly brackish flavor.

"I saved her life. She saved mine. We had so little time together. Was it more sympathy, gratitude? Or just the desire to share danger and warmth? I don't know."

The words came out on their own, and it was surprisingly easy for Elena to say things she had forbidden herself to even think about.

"I was in a lot of pain when she died. And it hurts now. Is it love? Or sadness? Or loss? I don't know. I've never loved anyone before. There's nothing to compare it to."

Flessa was silent for a moment. Then asked:

"The coins around your neck. Is that from her?"

"Yes, they're from ..." Elena decided at the last moment, not to mention the Wastelands. It's not time yet. Opening up to a lover is inevitable, but... not now. Later.

"...from afar. We shared hardships, life and death."

"A custom of the Ruthiers brothers," the Duchess remarked. "Was your woman a warrior?"

"I'll tell you. But not now," Elena said, and again, something came out that she shouldn't have said. It was a flash, an explosion of feeling. "She was being tortured by that scoundrel you had at the seamstress's house!"

Let it be known, gentlemen, that a woman can satisfy a man's needs in many ways. And though it may seem today that we have experienced them all, let me dissuade you.

Just calm her down. Just break that animal's leg. I assure you, it'll be very docile in no time.

Hand me my special knife. Friends, I invite you to appreciate the ancient art of pàtrean or carving on wrought leather. Unfortunately, my skill is not great, and the material leaves much to be desired, but I am sure you will be indulgent in my imperfection! Let us begin.

She bowed her head, biting her lip, feeling a hot wave go up her body, filling her blood vessels with heat, burning her heart. Stupid, how stupid... To keep silent about the Wastelands, only to blab about his vision in the visions in the bath with Shena. All it would take now was one question, and it would surely follow! Flessa turned sharply, jerkily, crumpling the already bunched-up sheet so that she heard the distinctive sound of tearing cloth.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Never!" she wrapped her arms around Elena's face, not as before, but with a gentle anxiety, as if she didn't want to let go, afraid for her friend.

"Don't ever mess with Shotan!!!"

"Is he so scary?"

"There's no one scarier," Flessa said with the same seriousness and concern. "No one! Trust me. My title and my family protect me. No one can protect you, not even me. Fear him!"

She covered Elena's mouth with trembling, nervous fingers.

"Say nothing. Not now."

The healer clenched her jaws and found it best to remain silent. Her long tongue had almost gotten her into trouble as it was. She had already decided she would get in touch, and she wouldn't be afraid. But later. With careful preparation. Thinking everything over and not committing foolish, hasty actions.

Flessa ran her hand across Elena's forehead and outlined the edge of her sweat-drenched hair over her eyes.

"And when you sleep, you have a sad face," she whispered suddenly. "Always sad."

"Did you look at me in my sleep?" Elena smiled. "Like I was looking at you?"

"Yes."

The movements of Flessa's fingers reminded her of the last night on the Wastelands, only inverted, like a mirror. Elena had stroked Shena's tired, slightly sad, beautiful face then. Now, Flessa was smoothing the tiny wrinkles as if trying to give her friend a new, happy, and serene image. Elena intercepted the duchess's hand, pressed her lips to her palm, and rubbed her cheek.

"It's a shame you didn't enjoy the workshop diploma," Flessa whispered, definitely trying to distract her from her thoughts of Shotan. "I thought you'd be happy."

"I'm happy."

"Then I don't understand..." Flessa pulled back a little, her blue eyes flaring with bewilderment.

"It's hard for me to explain," Elena chose her words slowly, with care. "I was ready to agree. I wanted to... I wanted. But you didn't give me a choice."

"I still don't get it. It's a gift!"

"Flessa, darling," Elena stroked her lover with the pads of her thumbs over the soft skin on her wrists. "I'm a commoner. I'm a townswoman."

It sounded so easy... "The truth is easy and pleasant to tell. Does that mean there is less and less of the Earth person left in her? Is she really becoming a healer Lunna, a human of the Ecumene?

"And I know you don't give gifts of such value," Elena emphasized the word "you" in her voice. "Nobles give presents. A favor from a patron to a client. It's always binding. I thought you wanted to buy me again."

"Silly," the duchess touched the tip of Elena's nose with her fingernail. "Wonderful Lunna... It was a gift. Just a gift. To you."

"Thank you," Elena hid her face against Flessa's chest. "Thank you..."

She couldn't see the Duchess's face, but she was sure she was smiling.

"That's the first time you've ever called me by my first name."

"Really?" Elena wondered. I started to remember, and indeed, it seemed to be true.

"Flessa," she repeated, tasting the word on her tongue like a slice of sweet orange.

"Lunna," the duchess echoed, stroking the healer's shoulder on the inside to the elbow.

"Let's make a deal," Elena suggested.

"About what?"

They spoke so quietly that they could barely hear each other. They guessed the meaning from their eyes, from the slightest movement of their lips. The feelings.

"If a dead horse comes between us again, we'll talk about it. No matter how hurtful. No matter how much we want to break all the dishes. We talk first, so there's no more confusion."

Elena was already operating freely, instinctively, without even thinking about it. Flessa smiled, barely perceptible, with the edges of her lips, which made her smile seem especially sweet and gentle.

"Good."

They kissed again, lightly, like two feathers touching each other. Just wanting to show the other how precious the woman in their arms was. Just to see for herself, "I am desired." Flessa was the first to break away from the other's lips, rose, and sat on the corner of the bed. The candle was almost out. The faint flame produced a marvelous play of light and shadow, illuminating her naked body so that Helena clenched her jaws until her teeth crunch, overcoming the desire to organize a new duel of classes. But there was no strength left for that. And a mere glance at the duchess's coldly detached face was enough to realize that everything has its time. And the hour of exquisite pleasures was over.

"Do you trust me?" Flessa asked. Very seriously, very weighty.

"Yes," Elena picked herself up, tugging the edge of the sheet.

"I trusted you," the noblewoman said with the same deadly seriousness.

"And I will not betray your trust."

Elena gulped, blinking rapidly to make sure there was no trace of a single tiny tear. Yes, happiness is fleeting. All good things come to an end. And this wonderful, magical night that almost started with a murder is also coming to an end. We have to savor every minute of it. Even if they flow away like grains of sand in a clock and there is not much left.

"I believe you. That's not what this is about."

"About what, then?"

Flessa tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something.

"I want you to trust me in return."

"What do you want?"

Now Elena has sat down as well.

"Trust. Faith."

"I'm listening."

"Be with me."

"I'm already with you," Elena didn't know what was going on, but from Flessa's tone, it sounded like something big and important was going on.

"No. Be with me tonight. Let's go to my house," the noblewoman said in short, chopped phrases. "And you will not leave it from dawn to dawn."

"But, uh. my work. home..." The healer pulled the shabby, well-washed cloth even higher, up to her chin.

"Trust," Flessa repeated. Her eyes seemed like the darkest pools of light, taking in the light without letting out a single ray. "I trusted you. Now it's your turn. If you trust me, obey me, no questions, no doubts."

"As a servant?" Elena couldn't help but feel ashamed of the impulse. It was only a few minutes ago that she had suggested that they talk through any ambiguities. She stroked Flessa's shoulder and asked guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"I apologize. No. Not as a servant. As a person to whom I've opened my heart."

It was here that Helena felt a great deal of anxiety. Flashy, energetic Flessa seemed determined, focused, like a fighter in the arena. And the request clearly meant a great deal to her.

"Is there anything you can tell me?" the healer asked.

"Later. Right now, all I can do is... ask."

Elena could well imagine how hard this simple, ordinary "ask" was for the painfully proud - like all nobles - Flessa. Proud and accustomed to communicating with inferiors in the language of orders and punishments.

"And I beg," Flessa looked directly into Elena's eyes. The duchess's face seemed calm and serene, but in her blue pupils, like a trapped flame, there was pleading. The arrogant noblewoman's eyes were pleading as clearly as if she were screaming:

Please, I beg you, don't make me humiliate myself further. I'm ready, for your sake, I'm ready even for this, but please... please...

"I'm worried about Baala," Elena tried to keep her tone even, businesslike. She realized that Flessa probably didn't even know who she was. "The lady of the house. She has a young daughter."

"They will be guarded. The house will be guarded."

"Will you tell me... later?"

"Yes."

Elena sighed. As if in time, with her movement the candle went out. Behind the sturdy shutters, the first, most desperate rooster crowed, ready to call for the first ray of sunlight, even though the shadows of night ruled the day.

"I'll go with you," Elena's voice sounded in the darkness.

* * *

Badas had always slept lightly, half-eyed, which was why (among other things) he had remained alive until now, honored and respected, albeit in rather specific circles. So waking up with a blade at his throat was new to him and gave rise to unpleasant thoughts, even doubts about the near future.

"Good morning," the black figure said kindly, pressing the sharp blade against the patron's neck. "Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say good night. Dawn had not yet come."

Though the room was cool - the coals in the stove had burned out too early - Badas was instantly drenched with sour sweat. His eyes darted from the figure to the sword to the door, where the guards should be watching. And, quite obviously, they were not. The fingers of his left hand moved quietly, just a hair's breadth at a time, to the dagger hidden behind the mattress.

"Don't," the figure pressed a little more, and the bandit felt a warmish trickle slide down his throat.

Badas gulped, and placed his hand on his chest with emphasized slowness, spreading his fingers.

"Smart man," the intruder approved. "No screaming, no panic. That's good. Keep it up, and maybe you'll survive."

The long, narrow sword rose, and Badass gulped nervously again, the movement looking more like a swing before a beheading.

"On the wall are my recommendations," said the black silhouette in the hooded cloak, putting her sword back in its scabbard. The sword was a strange and obviously lordly weapon, not even a sword, but some kind of awl with a double-edged shiv and a hilt that spiraled around the hilt.

The instinct of a born criminal, coupled with extensive experience, demanded that he attack immediately. Silently and without delay, with all speed, and let It be. While the gloomy guest was busy with narcissism and rotten talk. But reason and another facet of instinct whispered that it was not worth it. It's all too... mysterious and sinister. How did this pest get into the house, get to the right floor, and get past the Bros? How did it open - and close! - the door with the clever locks. How had it deceived the sensitive hearing of Badas himself, who for years had fallen asleep every night in readiness for such a visit?

And finally, why couldn't he see the face of either the murderer or the robber? The visitor's face was hidden in the shadow beneath the hat, but the shadow seemed alive and fluid as if it were flowing in individual curls, barely touching the skin, erasing the outlines. He couldn't even make out the voice, whether it was a low female or a high male. Or even...

Yes, the mind, though with difficulty, was restraining the call of criminal rage. Badas lay motionless and looked at the guest in silence, waiting for the continuation. He also listened to the unusual silence in the house. It was as if a dozen people - and that was the least of it - had fallen asleep at once. Of course, one could imagine that all the guards, petty bailiffs, whores, and other people had all fallen asleep. It's unlikely, but possible. But the cooks dozed off, stopping the ringing and round-the-clock fuss over the hearths and cauldrons that never went out. Now that's impossible. And the person who could provide such silence seemed more and more frightening by the second.

"On the wall," the figure repeated with obvious irritation in her voice.

Badass glanced in that direction and swallowed hard for the third time. Well, at least now it was clear where the Bros had gone. The only thing left to figure out was how to do it without disturbing the house. Or the whole street, for that matter.

"Unfortunately, a woman's voice tends to be small in every way," the phantom began.

Women?!!!

"And I quickly realized that when you're not taken seriously, you have to waste a lot of energy and time. Or get attention in other ways."

Badas felt that the room was too cold. Or maybe it was the horror blooming like a poisonous flower that was freezing him.

"So I made it a rule to start a conversation with something impressive. So that afterward, it's just my voice. So, are you impressed? Are you ready to listen?"

Badass looked carefully, overcoming a bout of nausea, at the faces of the Bros, who stared back at him with empty eye sockets. A firm hand carefully cut off the "masks" and stretched them on the boards. The blood served as glue, tacking the dead skin to the wall.

"I'm impressed," he tried to say as calmly and nonchalantly as possible. It didn't work too well, but at least his voice didn't break into a pathetic squeak, which was an achievement!

"That's good," the woman in the mask of living darkness was genuinely pleased.

A dark figure sat on a stool near the bed. Badas shuddered involuntarily when the creature came so close. The patron was not intimidated by death and cruelty, including skin torn off. He had had to deal with such things more than once. What horrified him to the point of cold shivers was not what was done but under what circumstances it happened. To discreetly kill and skin two brutes, almost from infancy, surviving on the street in an endless fight for life ... It required incredible skill. Or some other skills that should not be spoken of aloud, especially at night.

Badas wasn't afraid of any human, but the one sitting next to him was definitely not human.

"So, I'll be honest. Come morning, you don't have much chance of surviving till dawn. But there is a chance. All it will take is obedience. No questions asked, in all sincerity. And complete honesty. Is that understood?"

"Yes."

You're the local patron, you rule the neighborhood. Collecting tribute, deciding issues, judging, determining shares, keeping the whole shady world going. Right?"

"Yes."

Badas had never thought it was possible to douse oneself in icy sweat. Now he realized he could.

"Do you know everyone in the neighborhood?"

"All those who live outside the law," Badas tried to answer as briefly and clearly as possible. "The rest of them as they can be. I know a lot of people. Who I don't know, I ask about. I can ask."

The bandit tensed, expecting some sort of reaction, but it seemed that his interlocutor was really expecting complete honesty. The figure nodded, showing that she was satisfied with the conversation.

"Somewhere out here in the neighborhood, a man lives. It's a woman, no longer a girl, not yet an aunt. She looks to be in her early twenties. But maybe older, depending on what she's been doing. Tall, solidly built, but not masculine, just strong. Redhead, not bright, but probably wearing makeup. You know her?"

Badas had to lick his parched lips, his gaze lingering on the dead faces on the wall. The empty eye sockets and mouths seemed to keep choking with bloody tears and mute screams.

"There's a lot of women in the neighborhood. I have to ask."

"It's not good," he couldn't make out the expression beneath the flowing face, but her voice betrayed restrained displeasure. For now. The three simple words made Badas want to wet himself.

"Lots of people," he hurried on. "Big streets! Floor houses! I must send to the streets, ask, search."

"I don't have time to ask questions. And you won't ask. You'll run," she reasoned sensibly. "To sic your friends and guards on me. That's not good."

The burning in his bladder became almost unbearable. Badas realized that now he was going to end up like the Bros, probably lose face just as much, to impress someone who knew more.

"Yes, one more thing," the woman-death clarified. "She appeared here no earlier than last fall. Maybe later."

"What does she do?" Badas exhaled. A thought flickered in his mind, but it needed to be fanned like a lump of coal, fueled by something else.

"Hmmm..." The figure snapped its fingers with its right, the sound sounding distinct and dry, like a broken branch despite the glove. "Indeed. She had been an apprentice in an apothecary's shop before."

"A healer?"

"Yes, you could say that," the figure leaned closer, and Badas had great difficulty keeping himself from pulling away, hunkering down in the corner between the bed and the wall.

"I know of one. Came to Milvess in the fall a little over a year ago. Tough, strong. Cut up two of my men. Black hair, but she can wear makeup."

Badas interrupted his speech and coughed, the words dragging his parched throat like coarse sand.

"Keep going," the woman asked politely.

"She works as a healer. Has no diploma, but she has a good hand. Sutures wounds like a man of experience. Knows herbs and potions."

Badas thought conscientiously, figuring out what else might fall within the creepy ripper's sphere of interest.

"Alone. Came alone, no family, no friends. She didn't hang out with anyone in particular. She didn't seek out patrons. She didn't join a guild."

"Is that it?"

"Y-yes," Badas said.

"That's a good thing," the woman said. "Very good!"

She straightened up and froze like a statue, probably in thought. Badas froze, too, afraid to breathe deeply.

"Great!" The assassin returned from her dream world and clapped her hands softly. -"I'm glad we're doing so well. Now I need two more things."

"Always at your service," the bandit managed to make a joke, even though his lips were trembling as if in the cold. The joke seemed to fit, and his courage was appreciated, too.

"One. Where do I find her? What places are there? Although, uh. No. Better yet, where I'll find her tonight for sure. Think hard. I don't have time for a long search."

"A home. She's renting a room. City jail. She works there."

"No need for jail," the visitor waved her hand. - "More?"

"The Brether School."

"What!?" That phrase seemed to strike the woman deeply, sincerely.

"She's taking fencer lessons. Said she's not exactly a star, but she's a good student. She recently fought a duel. The opponent retreated."

"Wow," the black-cloaked shadow snorted. "The girl is learning her lessons... More."

"Her lover's house."

"Lovers... Oh, that Spark!" now, the woman was genuinely amused, but the amusement was wild. Like a wicked child setting fire to the ears of a fox for the sake of laughing at the maimed animal.

"More."

"She doesn't go anywhere anymore. She wanders around town sometimes, looking in shops, but that's as it happens."

"So. House. Apprenticeship. A lover Three places. Is that right?"

"Yes. And, uh, dare I say it.

"Briefly."

"Mistress, you'll need someone who knows her by sight."

"That's a hint that you shouldn't be added to...?" The devilish woman pointed her thumb over her shoulder neatly in the direction of the gruesome dead masks.

"I'm useful!" Badas knew when it was necessary to tear his shirt off and show his bandit pride and when it was necessary to bend his head down and lick another man's boot. And now, it was definitely not the turn of pride.

"That's actually the second thing. I'm gonna need men. Hired clubs. I'll pay in gold."

"What?" Badas couldn't help but shout. The transition from a bloody meat grinder to a workmanlike proposition had happened very quickly.

"I may need people, handymen," the figure said with ill-contained impatience. "I can't be everywhere at once. And I don't want to wait. If you can explain to yours about..." she pointed in the direction of the ex-Brothers for a second time. "Or find someone from the outside, we'll make a deal."

"But... why? You have any kind of expert at your service," Badas was very, very reluctant to get further involved. "I have assassins, thieves, whatever you want, whatever you need. But not warriors."

"I don't need warriors. I can handle anyone," it sounded like bragging, but it wasn't. The witch was stating a fact of which she was quite sure, and the two faces on the wall silently confirmed it. "I need 'meat' for a day or two. The violent bastards without honor or conscience. Diligent, savvy. No questions asked. Who can burn a baby in broad daylight and feed its mother its fried fingers."

"It won't work," Badas shook his head as far as the pillow would allow. "There'll be meat, but it'll have to be answered for."

"Patron" was genuinely sorry. He wanted to live and didn't want to join the Bros. However, he was well aware of the limits of what was acceptable and hoped that the creepy creature without a face was sane enough to understand them, too.

"Everything must work as it should. Quietly, habitually, unnoticed," he tried to explain the problem honestly. "If there is "dirty" blood and burnt children, the guards will be mad, the judicates will be outraged, and the courts will start to judge right and left. There'll be investigations and interrogations, and the right guys will be jailed. People won't understand. People will ask, "Who let this happen?" And I won't be hanging on the wall with a piece of my face. I'll be tortured by professional executioners."

"Oh, don't worry," the phantom assassin's broad smile spread like sweetened butter in her voice. "I assure you that very shortly, the Court, Councils, and Tribunals will be preoccupied with other things. His Majesty will have to marry an ugly islander. There will be celebrations, pogroms, settling scores, robberies, and many murders. So an extra couple of dead men won't upset anyone or even attract attention, believe me."

"Lord have mercy," Badas whispered.

"All right, ten men is enough for me. Take care of it. We'll visit the house first."

A purse full of coins rested on the table with a promising clink. It was nicely weighted, full to the brim, and under other circumstances, it would have been surprisingly appropriate. But Badas felt his soul freeze.

"Here's the deposit. There's plenty in it for you to decide who to give what to. Not to mention, you'll make a lot of money on the knowledge of the pogroms to come."

"I-I-ah-ah..." Still, the "patron" could not stand the evenness of his voice and snapped, if only for a moment. It was embarrassing.

The faceless creature leaned in again, closer than before. Badas looked into the purple-lit, living darkness and didn't wet himself, thanks only to the spasm that stiffened his muscles. A paralyzing terror spread through his body.

"Buddy," the darkness said quietly, with infinite suggestiveness. "You may believe in my recommendations. Or not. The choice is yours."

Badass closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, just to bide his time, to push back the burden of choice for a few more moments. And he realized that the visitor smelled nothing. Nothing at all, no body, no metal, no skin. It was like a ghost looming overhead.

"Ten men?" he squeezed out, not opening his eyes, afraid to see. "I'll find the best."

* * *