Chapter 24. "The Collapsed World."

* * *

Elena expected that she was waiting for a whirlwind of amazing secrets and secret affairs. But in reality, everything turned out to be dull and dreary. When the sky was just beginning to lose its deep blackness, the women, accompanied by guards, left the house. Flessa left three watchmen in the house, solid and armed to the teeth. Baala immediately started feeding them fresh pastries, and Baby woke up and, completely unafraid of the armed men, went to get acquainted. Elena left the house with a light heart, realizing everything would be fine here. Or at least safe.

They got to the duchess's mansion quickly, on horseback, and here again, Elena felt her inferiority. She had never learned to ride a horse because she didn't have one. So she had to sit behind Flessa, but that was a good thing. She could hug her friend tightly and snuggle against her clean, floral, essence-scented cloak.

The square in front of the mansion was inhabited almost as it had been on the memorable night of the bowing, only the discipline had increased considerably. At a glance, one could sense the order and unified will that subdued the motley crew. Inside the house, life was just as tense, with servants, couriers, armed men, brethren, and other dubious persons scurrying about, waiting, hurrying, alone and in company.

It was like a headquarters before the start of a decisive operation, and Flessa immediately got involved in the process. After a short conversation with an almost bald uncle, who looked like a merchant and, for some reason, wore a thick chain of pure silver without jewelry, the duchess went up to her office. She quickly changed from a man's suit into a familiar dress and locked Elena in the dressing room.

She was not particularly upset because the ducal dressing room was intended for long, thoughtful choices with fitting and philosophical reflections - what suited the fashion, the season, the time of day, and the owner's self-perception. So the room itself could replace a small guest room, where one could even take a nap on a sofa and drink good sangria-like wine.

Elena dozed off to the accompaniment of slamming doors, indistinct conversations, and Flessa's quick, clear instructions. The words through the door were almost indistinguishable. She didn't want to eavesdrop. She only realized that something serious was going on that needed constant monitoring. Under other circumstances, sleep would have fled, especially since the healer hadn't shown up for duty yet, and that promised trouble. The sleepless night had taken its toll. However, anxiety about the future was eased by the workshop letter from Flessa. The tube didn't fit in her purse, but it had convenient loops for hanging it from her belt, so Elena put it on at once, partly to please her friend, partly just in case; the thing was incredibly expensive, and it was a pity to lose it.

The newly minted shop medic lay in a half-awake state until about noon. Then the bustle abruptly lowered the degree, as if all orders had been given out, and there was a pause between instructions and reports of implementation. The Duchess took advantage of the interruption to wake her friend and take her mind off her current worries.

The study had changed very little, except that a large, human-sized magical chronometer made of several circles of variable radius had been placed against the wall of bookshelves. On the duchess's desk appeared several pouches of money, not of copper. Some were untied, apparently for quick calculations, so gold and silver were mixed, sparkling solidly in the dim sunlight. A mysterious book with a black cover with a lock lay in a prominent place, now open, all scrawled with notes. At a cursory glance, it was an ordinary accounting calendar with many boxes, most marked with ticks and crosses, often with notations in the margins. For obvious reasons, Elena did not dare to go over and read it. There was a saber lying on the corner of the table and something rectangular and flat, wrapped in a cloth, nestled against one of the cabinets.

The dummy with the ancient armor was pushed into a corner. The helmet was hidden under a carelessly thrown-on jacket of very interesting work - expensive cloth with embroidery on the outside, steel plates, and ringlets of small rings on the inside. Being in fact a brigandine, the garment concealed the outer rivets of the plates and seemed from the outside to be merely the mannered dress of a pampered aristocrat.

Flessa didn't waste time on idle conversation and got straight to the main point:

"We're in a bit of a calm. I want to talk about something important."

"Come on," Elena agreed, hoping to find out what this was all about.

"Come with me."

"Where to?" Elena didn't understand.

"I'll be leaving Milvess soon," the Duchess stated instead of a direct answer.

"For how long?"

"Forever, I guess."

"Is Father unhappy?" Elena suggested.

"No way!" snorted the Duchess. "On the contrary! That's why he will come here with my brother, to take care of the family affairs, to protect our rights. And I..."

Flessa continued after a short pause, and now you could hear barely restrained triumph in her voice, a tightly harnessed anticipation:

"And I will begin to rule our entire domain. And if the Pantocrator is merciful, I will become the matriarch of the Wartensleben family. The third in the family's history."

"I... I'm happy for you," Elena hid behind her duty approval, trying to figure out how to behave next.

"Come with me," Flessa suggested, not waiting for her to continue.

"To Malersyde?"

"Of course," Flessa wasn't the least bit surprised by the silly question. "It's not as big and famous as Milvess, of course. But it's a big city by the sea. Our port is one of the richest in the entire west. Here, I'm just one of the provincial noblewomen. There, I'll be a lord and master of life and death. And you..."

"Yes, I am," Elena smiled through her strength. "What am I going to be?"

She knew the answer to that question and didn't want to say it. The healer was sad. It was not a gloomy, hopeless grief but rather the sadness of an autumn forest. The realization that happiness is transient and that a rise is always followed by... not a fall, perhaps, but just something else. Not a rise. Not happiness. Change.

"My companion?" It sounded both like a question and a suggestion and with a touch of fervent conviction at the same time. "A trusted healer?

Flessa stepped closer, absently stroking the narrow hem with her palms. The dress made her feel constricted, unaccustomed.

"Be whatever you want," said the noblewoman. "Whatever you want. Only be with me."

"It's a generous offer," Elena tried to maneuver, to play with words, to avoid answering. And it wasn't that she was so against the idea, but it was too sudden. And drastic.

The Duchess hugged her friend again, tightly, very tightly, with a kind of incomprehensible desperation.

"It will be hard for me," Flessa said quietly. "I've been involved in the family business for a long time, but as a representative of the Grand Duke, as a conduit for his will. And now I will rule in my name. That means there will be a lot of flattery in the eyes and streams of venom behind my back. I will be lied to, defamed in my father's eyes, and intrigued. Perhaps an assassination attempt."

The noblewoman's voice grew quieter and more feverish at the same time. Flessa seemed to be completely sincere. And it was obvious that the iron vice-duchess was mortally afraid. But still, she was ready to accept the challenge, to start climbing to a new peak.

"I need someone close to me. Someone who won't fawn over me. Someone who won't beg for themselves, their greedy relatives and lovers. Someone to remind me that life isn't all intrigue and assassination."

Flessa loosened her embrace, as if ashamed of the sudden impulse, and stepped back a couple of steps.

"And probably drink a goblet of poison for you." [1] - Elena thought but did not speak aloud. It was sad and a little amusing. The Duchess did not even think about the dangers of bringing her companion to a foreign city, bringing her into a tangle of long-standing ties and conflicts as a close person, privy to the secrets of secrets, secrets of all secrets. It was as natural to the Duchess as air or the hourly chance of hearing the silent footsteps of assassins.

What have I got to lose? the thought seemed surprisingly sobering.

Baala. Home. Lessons from Draftsman. However, the dwarf would be only too happy for the innkeeper, as she said outright. And the fencer... Surely, there are mentors in the seaside city. Someone taught Flessa the art of the sword, and as if not better than Figueredo Elena.

And what in return?

Affluence. Confidence. Protection from the monsters that lurk. And an amazingly beautiful blue-eyed woman.

"I won't answer you right away," Elena said honestly, looking into Flessa's eyes. "I need to think about it. And I'm not playing around. I'm not bidding up the price. I really want to think about it. It's a big step, a big decision."

"Think," Flessa agreed. "But you will."

"Really?"

"Of course. You're very naive... in many ways. But clever. You already realize you'll be better off in Malersyde than here. But you want to make your own decision. I don't mind. That's why I'm telling you in advance, so you have time to think it over."

"Thank you," Elena thought it was time to take the conversation in another direction. "What's this?" she pointed at the mysterious object under the cloth.

"Ah, it's from Malersyde," Flessa said casually. "My father had requested that we exchange height portraits so that even when we were apart, the family would remember each other. Damn it, I completely forgot! Now I have to find an artist and copyists. Wasting time and money on useless scribbles. Father, brother, two sisters, each of them a good copy, I'll go broke!"

"We're in the capital," Elena remarked with barely contained laughter. "There are enough artists here. And I wouldn't say the thing is so useless. Imagine, years, centuries will pass, no one will be alive, but the Wartensleben family will remain on the canvas and in the memory."

"When there's no one left, yes," Flessa grumbled. "Your cheerfulness is exemplary. I want wine! Now, where did that old horse put the bottle of red lemon...?"

"Can I look?" Elena asked while an angry Flessa was cursing under her breath as she searched for alcohol. The duchess looking for the bottle herself instead of calling the servants was comical and very cute.

"I don't care if you burn it!" Flessa growled, but Elena realized at once that her anger wasn't directed at her. "Useless smear... What does it matter to descendants if my body will be scattered with ashes, and the skull will lie in the family crypt with a prayer engraving? The dead don't want money or pictures. Oh, here! Want some?"

Elena shook her head. Despite her rest in the dressing room, even a glass of good wine could send her into a knockout, and the healer was curious about what was going on around her. Flessa pulled the cork with her teeth and took a sip from the bottle.

"I hate... commanding... over highborn freaks," she reported between gulps. "Iron-bound assholes with swagger and hubris. Eating out of the hands of the Wartensleben and Salt.... other hands. But they're always trying to show they're only condescending to service. They must be managed, but you can't order them around like a superior to an inferior. I feel like a whore with a flaccid cock in my hand! Hold it tight to get it up, but pull it gently so you don't scratch it!"

Elena laughed out loud, and the Duchess snorted.

"Survive the day," she wished loudly. "And the night. Don't tire yourself out. And tomorrow, when it would be time to consolidate our successes. And then we will have a well-deserved drink, rest, fun, and...."

The last words were drowned in a noisy gurgle, but there was no doubt about their content. Elena smiled, squatted down, and began carefully pulling the coverlet off the painting.

"Do you want to become a Lovari?" Flessa asked, exhaling noisily. She could tell from the healer's face that she didn't quite understand, and the duchess twisted the title in an Eastern manner. "Baroness."

"Is it so simple?" Elena raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing difficult or expensive for us in a couple of days. First, I'll have you in my entourage as a "healer of body." Cure me of something terrible. Then we'll figure out what it is."

"God forbid!" Elena wasn't particularly superstitious, but she shuddered, and then she baptized herself with the sign of the One. "Don't be sick!"

"No, when I'm tired of the city," Flessa reasoned. "I'll call in sick and rest for a few weeks away from Malersyde. Then I'll come back in the glow of health and vigor, declaring that you've rendered invaluable services in healing a noble body, defeated the incurable, and so on. I will reward you generously. You will become a baroness. Ausf unlikely. Father will not allow such a dispersal of ancestral lands. But you can become a hereditary cyn [2]. And then I'll make you maid of honor. I can't promise a castle, but it'll be a nice house. And it must have a high fence!"

"A fence?" Elena felt her smile spread even wider.

The woman from Earth remembered one of the bearded classics, Heinlein, it seems. He had remarked that even hardened republicans were easily imbued with the ideas of monarchy. The main thing is that the Republicans should be in a privileged position. Interesting and extensive thoughts about the hygiene and medical care of the high-born patient popped into my head. Less alcohol and red meat, more herbal infusions, and generally an orderly diet. Swimming, not for pleasure, but to strengthen the back. Yoga? Pilates? A methodical approach to calisthenics and stretching? And why not? And, of course, fuck off all cosmetics which, by the age of thirty, turn the face of a typical noblewoman into flabby skin. Though Flessa didn't use any ointments as it was, let her continue not to use them.

Is it interesting - even very interesting! - if we do some cosmetic research? What can be squeezed out of natural components with good resources and little knowledge of a man of industrial-chemical future? Elena could not make gunpowder because she did not know what saltpeter was and how to get it. And as a personal trainer and nutritionist, she can well be, without any discounts on favoritism. All the more so because there is a workshop diploma, which allows a lot of things.

"Yes, the highest fence!" The duchess was broadcasting, unaware of her future, in which there was no longer any room for whitewash with lead oxides. "So when I visit you, no bastard will disturb my peace. We'll have crazy orgies! But that's for later, later."

Elena shook her head and hummed, watching her friend out of the corner of her eye. The weight of responsibility of the unknown case knocked all the noble pathos out of the duchess. Flessa was tired and exhausted, but the hardships only added to her fighter's anger. Elena thought that now she was seeing the real Flessa ausf Wartensleben. The heiress of a vast domain, ready to fight with the entire Oikumen for what she considered her own. And the Duchess considered everything she could reach and hold to be hers.

Except me.

Or not?..

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Court "healer of body", baroness, maid of honor, lover of the mistress. And then what? The same poison in the glass? Or the arrival of a new favorite?

Elena scratched her ear, looking at the large rectangle in the simple frame. The young woman understood nothing about painting, but for the most part, the art of the Ecumene matched her ideas of what a conventional Renaissance should look like. Nothing like "stick, stick, pickle" medievalism and a good approximation of photorealism. The portrait of an angry young man in full armor really seemed like a portrait, not an "I see it this way" from an ancient Soviet TV series.

"Wow!" Elena couldn't help but exclaim.

"What?" Flessa snorted, setting the bottle on the crystal tray with visible regret. From the sour look on her face, the duchess would have gladly finished the bottle and added another one, at the very least. But duty called her back to urgent business.

"Is this your brother?" Elena asked, looking at the familiar face.

In the portrait, the swordsman of Santeli's brigade seemed a little older and had changed his hairstyle, and the artist also tried to ennoble the characteristic (and extremely deceptive) expression of the weak-minded ghoul. However, the canvas definitely depicted an old acquaintance.

"Yes," Flessa wiped her lips with her sleeve and waved her hand squeamishly, adjusting her lace sleeve. "It was like you knew him."

"Surprisingly, yes, I do," Elena smiled again, remembering one of the few "tar ones" genuinely sympathetic to the healer. And she immediately turned darker, remembering the circumstances of the parting. "It's Kai! I met him in the Wastelands when he was looking for luck in the Tomb Raider Brigade. I was a healer. We even went on a quest for Profit once. I'll tell you about it later."

The healer didn't immediately realize that something strange had happened. It took her half a minute, maybe more, to realize Flessa was silent. Completely silent. No drinking, no glass clinking, no swearing or walking. Total silence.

And then Elena was scared. Very, very scared. She hadn't realized what had happened yet. It took time for her mind to piece together what had happened and produce a result, but her instinct took a firm grip on her shoulder and silently said:

Tragedy.

She turned and saw Flessa standing silent as a statue. She stood there, staring at the healer with a dead stare of stopped pupils. The duchess's face was expressionless as if her muscles had been paralyzed or a fairy creature had turned her delicate skin into hard marble. Flessa clenched her hands, and her fingers seemed white and dead, too, the force with which she clenched her fists.

"What..." Elena said, feeling her voice drop, dying along with her hope. "What happened..."

In that instant, she realized. And understanding coincided with a single word that came out of Flessa's mouth. Not a question, not even a guess, but rather a statement, a completed knowledge, when many disparate fragments, incomprehensible in isolation, suddenly, by a random turn of the kaleidoscope, come together to form a complete picture.

"Hel."

They were both silent, frozen a few meters away. And Elena wanted to scream, to howl at the realization that life had split again like a sharp blade split into a before and an after. And the "after" would be worse, much worse than the worst "before." A moment ago, the woman had everything. Now, the world around her collapsed, burying her and all hope.

"Hel," Flessa repeated softly. "So you are her. You've been her all along."

Elena clasped her hands to her chest, not even thinking it was time to grab her weapon.

"No..."

Her lips moved, but Elena couldn't feel them. Her voice was hers, but the woman didn't feel the air pass through her lungs and throat.

"How strange," the Duchess said. "I found it where I didn't think I'd find it."

Flessa sighed intermittently, and in her eyes, Elena read her judgment.

"No..." she whispered again.

The duchess opened her mouth and moved her lips silently as if the devil had taken her voice. The noblewoman's eyes no longer shone like stars; they seemed dark and blind, like storm-tossed waves full of bottom mud.

"Hel," she squeezed out painfully, and everything had been hiding behind the noblewoman's impassive face broke through in her voice in a single word.

Elena watched and realized that a woman in love and the daughter of her family had collided in one person. She saw the split soul, felt the endless, unspeakable pain of another's heart, pierced by the realization of what must be done.

"It can't be," Elena whispered.

Flessa blinked, and two tears glistened on her long lashes.

"How could it be, Hel?.. How could it be?"

Silence. A world at a standstill. A moment separating fates.

Flessa lifted her hand, so strenuously and low, as if her wrist were weighed down not by a fine gold bracelet but by a shackle. Her fingers trembled, clenched into a fist again as if the duchess were trying to tear invisible threads, but she couldn't.

It's a mistake... It's a crazy, crazy, crazy mistake...

Elena wanted to lie down and die. Just to die, to end it all. So that she wouldn't have to think and decide what was next. Because thinking about it meant realizing and accepting that death was ahead, at least for one of them.

"You sent her. You killed Shena."

"You were on the ship. You raised the dead."

It sounded at the same time, and the women fell into sepulchral silence again.

"Go away," said Flessa, and now her voice seemed even and calm. The voice of a true nobleman, a superior creature, always reserved, always calm, far from plebeian passions.

Elena took a step back, feeling the coldness in her heart. Grave, spreading through her body, freezing to the tips of her fingernails.

"You have time until sunset," Flessa turned to the high window, crossed her arms over her chest, and turned her head farther back as if hiding her face. "Hurry."

"Then you'll send assassins after me again," Elena said as if in a dream. "Again. Like Ranjan. Like the monster on the ship."

"No," Flessa shook her head, still looking away. "That's a claim for my sister and the wizards. I was only looking for Hel to bring to Malersyde. And I found her."

Elena dropped her hands. The world around her was disintegrating, crumbling into invisible shards. Everything was ending, dying like a late butterfly on the icy breeze of a winter wind.

"Go away," Flessa commanded.

Elena remained silent.

"Get out!" The Duchess shouted suddenly, fearfully, unable to hold back her despair and tears, as if she were trying to hide her sobbing in a hysterical cry. "Before I change my mind! Run away from Milvess! As far away as you can! Run without looking back, you damned, stupid girl!!!!"

Elena took a step back, then another. Too slowly, as if in a dream.

"Mourier!"

The duchess's faithful bodyguard and head of the duchess's companions were waiting outside the door, as usual. The door swung open like a battering ram. Lovag stopped on the threshold, ready to carry out any command of his mistress.

"Get her away," Flessa's voice trembled like a string that was about to break and was quivering on the last thread a hundred times finer than a hair.

"Mistress?" Mourier frowned, trying to figure out what was going on here. He put his hand on his sword, questioning the proper interpretation of the word "get her away."

"Out!" Flessa shrieked. "Chase her away! Give her the purse and throw her out of the gate!!!!"

Mourier picked Elena up with an iron hand without comment or question and dragged her along with a grim and inevitable certainty. The healer stumbled on stuttering legs and seemed whiter than snow that had just fallen. If Mourier was happy in his heart, it was not reflected in the face of the sinister, omnivorous rodent.

"Go off," Flessa whispered as the insanely expensive birch door with even more precious inlay and carvings closed. When two fingers of the sturdiest wood separated the duchess from Lunna.

"Go off..."

From a lover. A friend. The only person in the world who only wanted Flessa and loved to watch her sleep.

From Hel. A necromancer whose death had been paid for with enough money - phoenixes and magical services - to kill a family of primators and still have enough left over to bribe royal investigators and the court. A man Duke Wartensleben wished to find because it was necessary for the family, the only power that mattered in the world.

Flessa was a noblewoman by birth, an aristocrat by upbringing, and a person of iron will by choice and desire. She first made sure that no foolish maid was hiding behind the drapes, eavesdropping on secrets. That the doors were bolted, and no one would see the Duchess here, now. She lay down on the couch and covered her face with a pillow. And only then did she scream - terribly, like a mortally wounded beast. Her terrifying, endless scream throbbed, bogged down in the velvet, and remained trapped in the sturdy walls.

Lunna.

Hel.

My love.

My enemy.

Flessa howled, feeling the hot tears finally flowing, burning her eyes like acid. She screamed in boundless despair, like a man whose soul was beating in agony, dying forever.

* * *

Figueredo, nicknamed the Draftsman, realized at a glance that everything was over. And, it must be said, he behaved stoically, perhaps because of the firmness of his character, perhaps because he had already reconciled himself to the thought of imminent doom. Or maybe both. Either way, he just grinned and coughed, clearing his throat. He did what he should have done, as usual, with great skill as well as grace, which - alas! - there was no one to appreciate. And then he defiantly ignored the bandit "meat" that sniffed, stinking of unwashed body and blood, filled the training room, dispersed to the corners so as not to disturb the mistress.

"Wow," the witch remarked, stepping into the center of the Circles. "Classic. Old school... I studied in a very similar place... a long time ago. Years ago."

She took a few Steps, turned smoothly on the spot, and bowed to the Draftsman. He didn't answer, wiping a scarlet drop from his lip with a gray handkerchief.

"By the way, my first mentor despised me too. He despised all women. But he loved young girls even more."

The witch spun again, literally dancing in lines and circles with surprising ease and filigree precision.

"And he generously shared with them, not at all paternal love."

"Apparently, it was worth it. Perfect Steps," Draftsman muttered. "Impeccable craftsmanship. Only three men in my memory have managed it, and one is long dead."

"And who killed him?" The woman asked, ignoring the insult as she continued to slide. Now, she was performing one of the more complicated moves designed for fighting alone and surrounded. A lot of quick, short moves with multi-directional turns.

"I did. That was my best student."

The witch finished and stopped exactly in the center of the circle, bowed in the traditional bow, showing respect to the master of the hall. Figueredo indicated a bow in return.

"But you are impolite, Master," the woman chided, taking a few moments to even out her breathing. "Do you greet guests with a dagger in your hand?"

"Well," Figueredo twirled a thin, graceful stiletto without a guard, its blade more like a needle. "An uninvited guest can't expect a good welcome."

"It won't help you."

"I know," the fencer replied laconically, rubbing a weak palm under his ribs as if trying to relieve an itch.

"I thought you'd try to fight these scum," the witch waved dismissively in the direction of the bandit's entourage.

The villains remained silent, looking displeased but stoic, pretending that the remark did not apply to them at all. The willingness to tolerate insults thrown in passing said a lot about how many coins were already jingling in their pockets. Or how the employer had managed to put herself in her place. Or perhaps both.

"I'm a fencer, not an idiot," Draftsman replied grouchily. "No chance, only embarrassment."

"Too bad. It would have been interesting to see," the witch seemed genuinely upset.

"You're about five years too late. Back then, I could teach and fight a lot of people at once. Now it's just teaching."

"And you're calm," the woman pointed out.

"Fool," Figueredo said without much anger. "When a dozen bastards break into a house in broad daylight without scaring the guards, it's obvious. I'll never see the sunset again."

"Anything is possible," the witch said as if she hadn't even noticed the insult. "For example, I had a similar conversation with another man this morning. He was very reasonable and cooperative, so he survived and made a profit. You're welcome to join him. Or not."

The witch looked at the fencer questioningly. He remained silent.

"Yet you look on without surprise. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," the master didn't deny it. "I know. There aren't many of you left. Very few. Seven for the whole world? Or is it six already?"

"There are two of us. Me and Hermit. But he lives by the old laws and doesn't interfere in the affairs of ordinary people, so I'm the last one."

"Your time is long gone," Draftsman chuckled. "It ended when God took the magic away from humans. No more great masters, no more warrior-mages, only mad sadists with poisoned souls. The lingering agony of a lost world. But it will pass along with you."

"Don't be so sure and malicious, old man," the witch pressed her lips together, hurt by the fencer's remark. "Otherwise, I might roast your tongue and eat it for dinner with garlic butter."

"It will still be bitter. The best and sweetest years of my flesh are long gone," Figueredo moved his bony shoulders. "So what do you want?"

"You were ready for me," the rage died down as quickly as it had come. "So someone told you."

"Not about you," Draftsman was frank again. "But there was talk of your kind, that's true."

The witch nodded a strange, jagged gesture, either in agreement with the master or in time with her thoughts. She came closer and looked at Draftsman if you could call it a "look" in the otherworldly flicker of purple pools devoid of pupils.

"Where is she?" The witch asked very quietly. "Where your student might be now. And when she'll be here for her next lesson. You'd better answer quickly and accurately."

Figueredo spread his thin lips in a crooked smile, showing crooked teeth covered in pink foam.

"Search," he growled in the red-eyed demon's face. "It's a big city, but maybe you'll get lucky."

The witch gazed into Draftsman's watery eyes with cloudy yellow whites for a couple of moments.

"Why?" She asked. "Not that it's significant because I'm going to find out anyway. But I'm curious. Where does this inverted loyalty come from? The apprentice must honor the mentor, and since when is the mentor willing to suffer for the apprentice?"

"Because..." Figueredo was silent for a few seconds. "Because Vandera is my best creation. And if she dies, it won't be my fault."

"You're kidding!" The witch couldn't contain her surprise. "She's a nobody. She's a wench of the Wastelands! She's too old and stupid. She'll never be a Brether. You're out of your mind and delusional, old man! You'd better tell me straight, how does she please you?"

"Old and stupid," Draftsman smiled, this time without the evil grin, almost softly. "It had seemed the same to me. I despised Vandera because my life was ending there, my art dying. I cursed fate and God for the fact that I, a great jeweler of fighting talent, at the end of my life received instead of a diamond a crappy stone with cracks, inclusions of useless rock."

"A philosopher with a sword," the witch said menacingly, losing patience. The beautiful pale face began to twitch in micro spasms as if the rage had a physical embodiment and was trying to find its way out, out of the black soul.

"Yes. It's true, the years do tend to make you think," Figueredo agreed. The master staggered back, his already pale face even more pale. The witch pressed her lips together contemptuously, contemplating the old man's frailty.

"And one day, I wondered which jeweler was more worthy of admiration. The one who took a perfect stone and skillfully cut it and encased it in openwork gold? Or the one who made a good ring of muddy glass and copper because there was neither gold nor stone at hand? What is higher in the eyes of Pantocrator, the multiplication of a degree of perfection or the creation of something beautiful out of a trashy void? I grumbled at cruel fate and realized too late that this ridiculous, useless creature was the greatest gift. The true, final test of my life. She is my last service to Àrd-Ealain, to the Grande Art."

"From what I know, you failed your test. The girl learned something, but little and badly."

"Alas. I did not teach her as well as I could have because I was blind and deaf and did not realize how generous Pantocrator was. I have not rejected His gift, but I have not been diligent. Now, Vandera will go her own way. She will find new mentors, will continue to improve...."

Draftsman stepped forward and looked into the witch's bloodshot eyes without flinching.

"But she will build the palace of future excellence on the foundation I made."

"I don't think so," the witch shook her head. "But it doesn't matter now. Tell me where to find Spark, and I'll give you anything you want."

"You have nothing for me. The dead don't need gold and worldly pleasures. And you can't give me back my strength and youth."

"I can't get your youth back. That's true. But it is possible to make you healthy, to banish the sickness that gnaws at your gut."

"Forget your mother's face, nibble your father's bones, sell your children!" answered Draftsman with an ancient curse.

"I've had many mothers. It's easy to forget their faces. That's what happens when you grow up in a brothel. As for my father..." a mad grin contorted the sorceress's features. "You have no idea how close you are to the truth. It was my blood father who became my first fencer. And yes, you're right, old men's tongues are bitter. Even if you soak them in a sweet marinade."

Draftsman was silent. He looked deadly tired and weak. He seemed ready to collapse at the slightest draught.

"Well, I guess we can't succeed that way," the red-eyed girl sighed with seeming sincerity. "We'll just have to use the tried-and-true method. I didn't want to start with it as a sign of respect. After all, we both serve the art of destruction, albeit in different ways. But you have chosen your destiny."

"Is it torture, really?" Draftsman smiled sarcastically, with visible effort, his lips turning blue. "For five years now, I have been devoured day after day by my gut. Do you think I'd be impressed by your efforts?"

"Oh, old man, you will indeed be surprised at how much I will reveal to you about the science of pain!"

Red-Eyed raised her hand. The bandits prepared themselves for their usual work of grabbing, holding, and torturing.

"Science... of pain..." coughs Figueredo. "That's funny. Because... my words."

"What the..." The witch was silent, staring into the fencer's cloudy eyes, grabbed his wrist, weak and helpless. "You bastard!!!"

Draftsman began to fall like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The witch picked up the master with ease and inhuman strength. Greenish lights flickered from her fingers and danced on the dying man's chest and stomach.

"Don't you dare die!" growled the woman. "Not yet! Not now!!!"

A stiletto fell out of the fencer's hand, which Draftsman had plunged into his stomach when he heard the rattle of the lock opening by itself. When he had read in the footsteps of the witch's underlings a swift, inevitable fate. It's only a great connoisseur of death that could inflict a wound on himself that was fatal and, at the same time, let out a couple of red drops. The narrow blade left no visible marks on his clothes. Minute after minute, as the conversation went on, the internal bleeding killed, or rather, finished off, the old master. It was an irony Elena would have appreciated if she had known about it, for a similar wound had killed Shena.

"If you're, uh... so good... bring me back... from the other side of the world," Figueredo whispered with great strides, panting. "But you can't... This is the world of humans now... not mages."

The witch was roaring with rage, uncontrollable frenzy, spending her power generously, trying to keep the suicide on the threshold of life at least a little. The criminal "meat" huddled in the shadows in the corners, trying to figure out whether the gold was worth the magic creepiness, whether it was time to think about the soul and get out before it was too late.

"She has only just begun her journey, but I can see that Death already loves her," the fencer said very clearly, triumphantly. "Another master will teach her better than me. And someday..."

Blood bubbled on his blue lips, and death spasms twisted the master's arms. But Figueredo managed to finish the sentence on his last breath:

"She'll come after you."

The witch threw the corpse with such force that it knocked over the shields with the drawings and fell to the cold stones like a pile of rags. The woman stood for a moment, kneading her fingers. The bandits were silent, afraid to even breathe loudly.

"So, two strikes already," the ominous sword-wielding figure muttered to herself. "Not the house. Not the hall. Then it was time to visit the pig with the acorns."

"I don't need you anymore," the witch ordered after a moment's thought. "Go back to the house and hide with the others. The instructions are the same - to grab anyone who comes. The woman is not to be killed or injured under any circumstances. But you can break a leg or an arm. I'll find anyone who runs away."

She was answered by a sepulchral silence. There were no fools to discuss and even less to challenge the employer's instructions. Badas had picked good performers, and the pale appearance of the quartermaster's "patron" was enough for them to think of the dick to their noses. The question on everyone's mind now was, should they work the deposit and get the rest, or should they run as soon as they walked out the door? Both options had strengths and weaknesses.

Death or no death, fate has definitely kept you safe, Spark. However, luck is not infinite...

* * *