Chapter 25 Time to kill

* * *

Elena felt like a numb limb. Everything seemed to be in place, but at the same time, the body felt so foreign. Her nerves were frayed, her senses dulled, but the blood was already flowing through her veins, promising a searing pain in the near future. And the soul is not her own either, like a crappy prosthesis that hurts by mere existence. The woman ran and ran, trying not to think, not to remember, not to live consciously here, now, just to delay the crushing realization for a few more minutes.

All is lost. Everything!

Elena more or less regained consciousness by the river, near the tunnel to the other side. She barely remembered how Mourier had thrown her out of the gate, shoving the money pouch at her. The purse was still clutched in her hand, and Elena hung it from her belt next to the pouch for her flame thrower and spoon. Already more or less sensibly, she went down underground.

So, she's been discovered! Despite the paint and running halfway across the continent. Fantastic bad luck... or was it fate? And, of course, talkativeness! What was the point of keeping silent when you saw a familiar face in a portrait? Take your time, and weigh everything. Just keep silent, don't rush to talk right away. It wouldn't have changed anything fundamentally, but it would have given her time to think of something.

And here she runs again, having lost everything!

No, not everything, in many ways. From some possessions to the very tangible responsibility for the people closest to her. Running her hand over her belt, Elena cursed briefly and harshly. Of course, she'd left her saber at Flessa's... She'd taken it off her belt before she'd snuggled on the couch in the dressing room, then forgotten about it. That's what it means to be unaccustomed to weapons. And the hatchet stayed in the house. Draftsman, despite all the nastiness and squabbling, was right. The apprentice still had a lot to learn!

So what do we do?

Elena sighed as she stepped out at the opposite end, smelling the fumes in the air. It had been colder the last couple of days, and Milvess was burning slate and coal as if the inhabitants were in a hurry to keep warm. Carts and wheelbarrows of fuel ran around the city almost around the clock, though the heating trade was technically a "pre-dawn trade," like milkmen or bakers.

What to do... What to do now...

Without slowing her step, she took a quick inventory of the possessions she carried. Clothing, an everyday set of household possessions like a neckerchief and a spoon, a knife in a codpiece, an ordinary knife... A shop letter, some money of her own, plus a Mourier purse. Damn it, she'd taken the money from Rodent, after all, truly a fate to be reckoned with! What did Flessa say? It's time before sundown, but can you believe it? Where will the Duchess's thoughts and desires turn? Won't she change her mind, or hasn't she changed her mind already?

Elena bit the skin on her palm to hold back a sob. She couldn't sniffle, couldn't sob, couldn't show weakness. She was racing against death again, and weakness kills. No one to help, no one to ask for help. There's only hope for herself. Move, warm, think! Figueredo the Draftsman? Probably not, the old man can't help. The house? That's where you can't go, but you should warn Baala and get your things. Elena can leave the city through the eastern gate by sundown. Prison? No way. Although on the other hand, why not... The healer didn't break any laws, and she is "their" for the law enforcement system, even partially. But on the other hand, how will the executioners and jailers help her? How will they protect her from her enemies, how will they explain her appearance, escape, and other troubles? No, not an option either.

The woman did not engage in a protracted dialog with herself. She simply decided and proceeded. She tucked her cap tightly over her head and pulled her cloak tighter, hiding her face in the shadows between the collar and the visor. If they didn't look closely in the gray autumn-winter sun, she could easily pass for a young man in a hurry.

The city was no longer seething but frozen in a daze, ready to burst into a bloody riot as well as to dissipate into a pool of drunken revelry. Elena's eyes, trained by her time with Badas's boys, noted the unusual absence of petty criminals on the streets. Almost all of the "cool guys," conspicuously dressed, with characteristic behavior, disappeared somewhere as if they were gaining strength for future exploits. And there were almost no guards. Both law and crime had simultaneously left the streets, leaving the townspeople alone with anxious expectations. But all the squads, both shop and artisan, came out "armed and armored," not fighting for the sake of fighting but demonstrating their numbers and strength.

Everyone was waiting. The city waited, like a single creature that felt with hundreds of thousands of bristles the approach of a storm, preparing for something without even realizing it. And Elena did not want to see what the expected storm would be. Well, an excuse to get out of town. If you tried hard enough, you could even try to convince yourself that this was her decision, not a forced, hasty escape.

The Brethers were gone, completely gone. Elena noticed that, too when she entered the street of the Free Blades. She tried not to go into the part where schools and headquarters of fencing fraternities were located so as not to get into trouble, but there were always enough students loitering around. Not today, as if there was a mobilization of all paid assassins.

Don't think, don't think about anything. Live in small steps. Walking through the back alleys was the first step. Getting home is the second. Nothing else.

Long ago, in Grandpa's library, little Lena had read an old classic fantasy by a long-forgotten author. Only one moment remained in her memory - the sorcerer had plunged a ghostly dagger into the protagonist's heart, which was supposed to materialize either at a certain time or when it hit a zone with a high concentration of mana. And now Elena felt like that character as if the faceted blade was already lodged under her chest and trembling on the verge of murderous materialization.

I won't think about it. I'll die if I do.

Women and children shied away from her, and men gave way or moved their daggers in scabbards and batons on belt loops into plain view. Even when the woman turned into the labyrinth of back alleys and alleyways, intending to take the long and inconspicuous way out to the back of the house, no one rushed to rob or even mock her.

It took some art to get through the hidden undercroft with the dislodged bricks at the base of the wall. The bushes and vines were winter-dry, clinging to her clothes like dead men's fingers in a graveyard. She had to take off her cloak, roll it up, and push it forward first, and then crawl herself. It seemed to Elena that the noise and sniffing were heard by the river itself, though in reality, it was quick and quiet, though with scratches. Squatting on the inside of the fence, the woman threw her soiled cloak back on and listened.

Quiet. It's too quiet for a house with five people, including a child who wasn't the friendliest and most open but still a child. Looking up at the blind, windowless wall - there were none in this part of the house. Elena's ears perked up. A cart rumbled down the street, a risky merchant offering cabbages without fear of being looted. In the distance, a bell was ringing, oddly enough, as if it were not yet time for prayers. Somewhere off to the side, a couple of fences away, a loud oven was being cleaned with the characteristic scraping of a dustpan. The street lived an ordinary, albeit muted, life. But the house was quiet as if it had died out. Had everyone left? Or had they lurked, waiting?

Elena walked quietly to the back door and pressed her ear against the stubby boards. Nothing again, just a hum, probably not from outside, but from the blood beating in her head. But where her hearing was powerless, her sense of smell said it all. Elena breathed in the smell of the prison that seeped through the cracks, familiar, accustomed, laid as strokes on a painting, on top of the general background of recently spilled blood. She pressed her forehead against the boards, feeling the cold, and bit her lip so that a warm trickle slid down her chin.

She is late.

What could have happened? Flessa changed her mind and sent the hunters? Too fast, but possible. Bandits and robbers? Too brazen, especially in the daytime, even as the fall sun was setting and anarchy was setting in. Badas's boys decided to settle a score and take revenge on the dwarf, unable to get their hands on a healer protected by the sympathy of a noblewoman? So Baala had enough patrons of high flights and ranks.

Whatever had happened, it had already happened, and there was only one way to go: run. To crawl back, hide in the web of streets, and leave Milvess before sunset. Not to tempt fate, which had already twice in one day taken away the gaze of death.

Yes, that's the way to do it!

The back door was unlocked. No one knew about it. Elena drew her knife and slipped the noose over the fingers of her left hand, just as Figueredo had taught her. With her right hand, very quietly, literally by millimeters, she squeezed the handle, feeling the flakes of either rust or wet patina stain her palm. No hinges creaked, no boards rattled. The house accepted her quietly, imperceptibly, like a silent ally.

It was dark inside. Almost all the shutters were closed, and the candles were burned out. It smelled of fresh bread and last night's chicken. And blood and urine. Fear, pain, agonizing death. Elena closed her eyes and listened again, forbidding herself to even think about what could have happened here. No thoughts. She is now like the sea like the blue sky - the wind blows, the waves diverge wrinkles on the mirror of the water's surface, and the clouds run against each other. The wind subsides, and everything calms down. She is only a reflection in a mirror that is devoid of thoughts. Otherwise, madness would knock in the attic under the vaults of her skull.

Three. Elena heard three. All are on the third floor and seem to be gutting the guest room. Her room. Trying not to make any noise, but they're looking hard for nooks and crannies, hiding places with silver. The first floor has been turned upside down very efficiently, like a good detective or a professional thief. Almost nothing was smashed in the blind destruction, but they checked everything that could hide anything of value. That didn't sound like soldiers. Is it really the "patrons" who gave permission, saying it is possible?

There was little hope, in fact, none at all, but still, Elena hoped desperately. Maybe it wasn't all of them. Maybe there was someone left. Maybe Baala had left the house. Maybe the girl had run off to play or at least managed to hide. Maybe... anything! Stepping as Draftsman had taught her, Elena walked down the dark corridor and looked into the kitchen, aka the dining room, the workshop, and whatever else was needed.

They were here, all five of them, by the light of a single oil lamp. Flessa's guards had been taken out, apparently quickly and cleanly, stabbed with a blade too narrow for soldiers' swords and ordinary cleavers. Strangely and surprisingly, the Mourier fighters had clearly died in the fight, one leaving marks on the hand he had used to try to fend off blows, hoping for a steel gauntlet. Another had been stabbed in the leg before being stabbed in the heart, so much so that the bone was visible. But the faces were not stamped with pain, fear, or any of the other concomitants of untimely death. Rather, they were peaceful, like people who had done a hard but worthy job and had laid down to rest. The dead were completely stripped, but posthumously, not even their undergarments were left behind. And then Elena allowed herself to see, or rather, to realize that she was seeing Baala and Kid. Not under the table, but on it, among the blood-soaked ropes.

Elena leaned against the time-darkened jamb and closed her eyes, feeling a hot, bitter lump stick in her throat. Fiercely, she cursed her job. Without prison experience, the woman could be satisfied with knowing that the dwarf and the girl had simply died badly, horribly, as a human being should not die. But as an experienced master, she exhaustively realized how badly, and most importantly - how long the dying hours of the unfortunate ones dragged on. She also understood perfectly well that an ordinary person could not tolerate such a thing and told everything quickly. So this was not an interrogation but torture for pleasure, very long and extremely inventive.

And in those moments, Elena remembered her vision from a year ago, the one she'd had after Draftsman had broken his apprentice's arm. In which the failed swordswoman had been burned by an endless, all-consuming rage. Rage and a desire to kill. Who could tell that night that the maimed girl had once again seen a piece of what was to come? Only this time, the vision did not deceive her, and everything she had seen had actually happened.

Run. Only run! You can't mess with someone who can put down three experienced warriors, and there must be sorcery involved. And Elena knew exactly who could both sorcery and kill with a sharp stabbing blade. Only death awaited ahead, and most likely something many times worse. Behind, a dig not found by the enemy and life. That was what reason said, and its arguments were logical, fair, and only true. But at that hour, the voice of reason had no place in Elena's soul.

She was already experiencing real fear. She felt the pain of real loss. She plunged into the abyss of despair. And now Elena knew a new, all-consuming feeling that had no place in her soul before. Not even when Shena had died, Draftsman had deceived and crippled his apprentice.

It was hatred. Boundless, icy, killing everything with its black breath, even the fear of death.

Elena quietly removed her cloak and wrapped her left blade-armed arm, leaving about two elbows of cloth hanging loosely. The islander's boarding axe remained upstairs and had probably already changed owners, but the woman looked around and found a hammer. It was the hammer she had taken from the second floor a year ago, on Kid's advice, to make it easier to pound on Drafsman's door. Baala, noticing the tool, was sad at first, probably remembering her husband, but then she adapted it to the usual household activities and left it in the kitchen. Somewhere upstairs, on an abandoned workbench, there were nails, too.

There is a time to sow, and there is a time to reap.

It is a good hammer on a long, strong handle, burnt for strength. The blade is hexagonal, and the toe is sharpened. The wood is cleaved in the eyelet with a silver coin - for good luck and long service of the tool, an old tradition of carpenters and joiners. It's a solid thing made by the strong hands of a master. And surprisingly similar to a weapon, since the battle axes - unless we are talking about two-handed monsters - are also made light and unfurling.

There is a time to run without looking back and a time to stop.

Elena weighed the hammer and took a test swing, assessing how it lay in her hand. It felt good and secure. She shuddered. For a moment it seemed to her the eerie, grave laughter of someone familiar was ringing in her ears. The aged, rattling laughter of someone who was having trouble breathing in. And a whisper penetrated through the laughter with a cold breeze: Death loves you.

No, it's just an imagination.

It's time to be afraid and...

The woman inhaled and exhaled, stepped from foot to foot as if spinning a flywheel inside, dancing slightly in readiness to "breath her ass," as Figueredo had taught her. There was more murmuring upstairs, seemingly relaxed, unable to find the burials, and frustrated at sharing the meager booty.

Time to kill, fuckers. Time to kill, Elena thought and quietly stepped onto the first rung of the stairs leading under the roof.

* * *

The Prince looked at the Duchess and skillfully concealed his anxiety.

In the morning, Flessa ausf Wartensleben seemed a little tired but vigorous and energetic. She was ready for accomplishments and impenetrable confidence both in herself and in the common cause. The Duchess juggled problems and decisions like an experienced circus performer. She did not hesitate to discard what could no longer be corrected and clung like a hyena to what could and should be changed. She threatened, persuaded, and gave out gold in strictly measured and immaculately exact proportions. The Prince had seen many high-born lords of the "flat earth" (as the only real people called all those who were not born under the pure sky of the middle mountains, the pillars of the world), but he could honestly admit to himself that few could act better. There was definitely a great future in store for this young woman.

The more terrible seemed the change that had taken place in less than one watch. When the Prince, having settled certain matters, returned to the Duchess's house a few hours before early sunset, he saw a very different person. The halting look, the abnormal pallor, and the abnormal amount of whitewash which Flessa had applied with an unsteady hand to blot out the traces of bitter and profuse sobs... The Grand Duke's daughter now seemed like a dead man risen from the grave, and so much so the Highlander, who had met the spawn of the otherworld a couple of times, sincerely questioned whether someone's evil would have replaced Flessa. Or at least her soul.

The only saving grace was that the plan had entered its final stage, and now it was not so much to be accelerated as to be directed, which was a little less troublesome. But the prince was still worried because he had been promised too much for success, and too much was tied to the woman who had fallen apart at the most important hour. The aged mercenary had his ideas on what might have gotten Flessa so bent out of shape, but the warrior thought it best to keep them to himself.

The emissary of Saltoluchard, who had appeared unannounced as another representative of the graveyard fiends, had noticed something amiss. In the eyes of a modest, unimpressive in manners and speech islander named Curzio, perplexity, generously peppered with doubt. However, the guest and actual leader of the whole plan did not spread the word and departed on his affairs, which he did not give an account of. Here, too, the Highlander had his thoughts as to how the Island intended to act, but these thoughts did not leave his mouth.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

"Sunset is coming," the Prince looked at his bodyguards, at Flessa's guard named Mourier, at the magic clock. "I'm going to the Tower."

"Yes," Flessa said monosyllabically, making another note in her book.

The Prince grumbled. He strongly disapproved of Saltoluchard's obsession with reports and rigid plans, where each action had its graph and color of ink. It was too easy to lose track of things and fail when one failure was followed by others and brought down the whole plan. But most importantly, it was enough for Milvess's Post Office[1] to get hold of this writing, or at least to know of its existence... However, to all appearances, the Court remained in ignorance to the very end, from which side the blow would follow. And here, the Prince, humbling his pride, had to admit that the use of the Wartensleben was a splendid, almost brilliant idea.

The Emperor understood perfectly well that his escapades would not remain without consequences. He waited and defended himself as best he could, but his spies were waiting for provocations from the islanders or, at least, from their direct allies. That the "head" of the conspiracy would turn out to be a person who had no connection at all with the Aleinsae family (a hasty marriage with all the signs of "remove to avoid execution" can't be a sign), much less a woman... It was a strong move that largely predetermined the success of the enterprise!

A possible success, the Highlander reminded himself. Only a possible success, for nothing had been finalized yet, and the Emperor's bride-to-be was not even in the City yet. Tomorrow, at dawn, the Emperor and Aleinsae's financial disagreement would become an intra-family matter. But before then, there is much to accomplish and many obstacles to clear to enjoy the well-deserved reward.

And damn it, the Duchess had better pull herself together and finish the job! So thought the duke, indicating a bow appropriate to the moment. Then, he three steps back, not turning his back to the noblewoman because otherwise it would look disrespectful. Another bow, less deep than before, more like a nod. The bodyguards, maternal relatives, the product of a complex bond of at least seven branches of five tukhums, repeated all the movements of the lord, only bowing much deeper according to the difference in position.

Flessa raised her cloudy, reddened eyes, shook her head languidly, and gave a curt admonition to show the signs of respect were noticed and accepted. It was still required to stand and escort the guest out, but the Duchess had disregarded etiquette, and the Highlander chose to turn a blind eye to it. Had the omission been dictated by a desire to insult or belittle, blood would have been inevitable. However, Wartensleben's daughter was definitely not herself, and the prince decided that the promised lands were worth a well-timed glance away. Judging by Mourier's relieved exhalation, the "flatlander" got it right and appreciated the visitor's endless benevolence. On the fourth step, the prince began to turn and, with the edge of his eye, caught something surprising that was not supposed to be there.

Age is a bad thing. Muscles turn into old ropes. Joints creak and ache as if sand were stuck between bones. Thoughts become stiff, the mind loses its vividness, and the memory obligingly slips a reminder of what was decades ago but does not hold what happened the day before. The world around you turns gray, loses its colors, and blurs as the whites of your eyes turn yellow.

Yes, old age is bad. But it also has certain advantages. There are not so many of them. They are not capable of replacing what has been lost, but they are there. And first of all, it is wisdom. An inexpressible combination of experience, memory, and what people from the flat earth call "intuition." But in reality, it is just the ability to listen to the voice of ancestors, the whispers of spirits, the whole world that spreads around. Not every old man gains wisdom, but only an old man who has seen a lot and learned a lot can be truly intelligent. That is why old people are taken care of, fed, warmed, and carried away to the mountainous desert for a quiet, peaceful death only in the hardest, hungriest winters. An old man is an experienced man who has seen life and can find in his memory the answer to a question that is beyond the mind of the young.

The prince was not yet so old but already possessed experience and wisdom. A fleeting glance was enough for him not only to realize something amazing and terrible was happening but also to instinctively choose the only correct action. The elderly fighter did not even try to cross swords with a creature that appeared out of nowhere in the middle of a large office. The prince floundered to the side, falling to his knees, rolling across the hard floor, feeling and hearing the boards of the "singing floor" creak melodiously under his weight. The mercenary broke the distance, getting out from under the blow and thereby dropping from the list of priority targets. The mystical visitor took it for granted and was instantly engaged with the bodyguards from the mountains.

He looked strange, as befits a manifestation of other spheres. He was tall, thin, black as a raven, and seemed even winged, with a beaked head and huge coal-black eyes. Only at the third heartbeat did the prince realize that a woman in black men's clothing with a cloak had actually appeared out of thin air, with a triangle hat on her head, and her eyes were not visible at all. They were covered by a solid black bandage as if she were blind.

The prince's bodyguards were quite good, and the uninvited and clearly sorcerous guest needed a few steps before coming within striking distance. That was enough to snatch their swords, and Mourier stood between his foe and the mistress at the table. Flessa leaned back, staring numbly at what was happening.

The assassin moved forward with a flying stride as if she were gliding across the mopped parquet incredibly fast. She drew a long, straight blade from its sheath as she walked, surprisingly now rather than beforehand. The assassin drew the weapon in a single motion, very smoothly and beautifully, but at the same time strangely, unhumanly. First, she took the hilt with a reverse grip, wrapped in a spiral of a closed garda, and then, when the blade was directed forward at the level of her forehead, she intercepted it properly and continued the swing, raising it high above her head. It was like a salute to her opponents.

The Highlanders stepped to opposite sides in unison, drawing their blades to attack from both sides at once. Whatever underworld the alien had emerged from, a Pillars of the World was not supposed to show fear, much less hesitate. But the tall, thin figure seemed to split into two, deceiving his vision for a moment. Her cloak fluttered to one side like a weightless human shadow while her mistress darted to the other. The coordinated attack failed. The left guard bought into the illusion and slashed at the magic cloak, scattering it into a multitude of smoky streams like a drop of paint in a glass of water. The second Highlander struck at the silhouette and was parried as hard as if there were iron hands under the black jacket. While the bodyguard tried to regain his balance, the attacker swung her arm with seeming carelessness and ease from the wrist like an ink brush. The blade passed through the Highlander's neck like a razor through a straggling hair, without resistance, from throat to spine.

"Help!" Mourier shouted in a voice, drawing his long sword from its sheath. "To arms! Save the Mistress!!!"

His words were loud, but they melted with every inch, like ice in boiling water. The duchess heard him well, the duke with great difficulty, like a faithful servant whispering, and the faint whispering no longer reached the windows and doors. Flessa still sat, seemingly unable to believe in the reality of what was happening. The prince rose from all fours, trying to do it as dignified as possible, and at the same time, realized what kind of a mess they were all in. Only one thing could be said with certainty - it was not the Court's intrigues because the Emperor's servants would have come as they should, with a retinue, an armed detachment, and letters of arrest.

The surviving Highlander attacked again, wordlessly, baring his teeth in a vicious grimace. He was very fast and strong. Blades ringing out in a short series of one-note clashes. The black shadow staggered as if it had lost its balance. Emboldened by the seeming success, the bodyguard rushed forward, drawing his sword over his head. He struck at an oblique angle in the classic shoulder-to-thigh direction. The assassin crouched slightly and simultaneously swung to the side so her head, torso, and outstretched right leg formed a single, almost straight line along which the enemy sword passed. From this position, the bandaged woman jabbed her opponent in the right armpit, hitting him precisely above the edge of the armhole of the cuirass hidden under her jacket. The jab was as swift as a snake's throw and immediately turned into a long step with a full turn. Without stopping the movement, the swordswoman swung a sweeping blow to the Highlander's legs just above the knees and went into a new turn, which took her out of the fight without loss of rhythm.

It was a mortal sin for a normal fighter to leave an unkilled opponent behind, but the woman stepped forward toward Mourier as if the Highlander were already dead. The prince's fighter took another swing, tried to take a step, and staggered backward, tangled in his feet. The blood spilled generously under his cuirass and came out, painting his stockings crimson. Along with the blood, life was leaving the body. The Highlander swung blindly again, and for the third time, his legs snapped with the severed tendons. With a short groan, the warrior fell to the ground, spreading his arms as an actor in a theater, wanting to choose the most spectacular pose. He didn't get up again, his legs scraping against the wood in death spasms, shrieking notes from the boards.

"It is wise to retreat," the witch warned Mourier, spinning her blade.

Lovag realized that he had just been given a chance. He also realized that the price of survival would be to run for the rest of his life because old Wartensleben would neither forgive nor forget and when the lord died, any heir would assume the duty of vengeance. But still life... albeit in poverty and on the run.

Life!

All of this went through the ambitious lovag's mind in just a few moments as the sword in the witch's hand completed the circle.

"Always loyal, beast," Mourier exhaled, crouching down and pulling his head into his shoulders. He gripped the hilt tighter with both hands and pointed it at his opponent.

"That's worthy," the woman approved and went straight for the lovag.

Although they were separated by at least three or even six feet, a single step was enough to cover the distance. Mourier did not understand how it happened, whether the long legs in dainty knee-high boots lengthened, carrying the mistress, or whether she entered the empty air in front of her and came out in front of the ready-to-fight Lovag. Or maybe she was just moving so fast that the eye didn't catch the movement. Either way, the witch appeared right in front of him and attacked, Mourier parried, on pure skill and habit, with no input from his mind. He struck, aiming for the neck, the witch crouched, letting the broad blade pass over her hat, and responded with a swift jab straight to the heart. Lovag managed to get his left arm up and drove the enemy sword away, feeling the blade creak against bone. Without losing her rhythm, the witch straightened up, simultaneously kicking her opponent in the shin. A flash of pain caused Mourier to hesitate for a moment, and the dark figure took a step back to allow enough space, and on the return motion, chopped the bodyguard with a long blade from right to left across his torso. It was considered a "weak" strike, not very dangerous, but the iron hand of the mystical Brethern turned it into a killing blow.

The witch stepped forward and to the side, coming around the side. Lovagh had time to think bitterly that he had in vain put off his armor in the morning. He decided it was better to give his bones a break from iron before the night's worries. Well, what trouble could suddenly come to a house full of armed men? A mistake that would cost lives. Mourier raised his sword arm higher, trying to protect his head and neck from the killing blow, but he was hit in the back and fell to the floor, generously adding his blood to the already spilled blood.

At that moment, Flessa shook off the daze and realized this was real. She still had time to lean over and reach for the saber on the corner of the desk, but the assassin was at her desk in the same witchy stride. In one motion, the razor-sharp blade touched the skin on the duchess's neck.

"Are you ready to listen?" The witch asked in a very peaceful, almost social manner.

Her voice was steady, her speech very proper. Flessa froze in an awkward pose, knowing perfectly well that there was no way to resist. The Duchess was not deceived about her ability to resist a fighter of this level. It was useless to call for help because it seemed the noise of the fight was inaudible behind the door. And in any case, the witch would be able to finish off her victim ten times before anyone arrived. The prince was not to be relied upon. The Highland mercenary had already risen to his feet, but he stood still, not in a hurry to draw his weapon from its sheath.

"Sit down," the witch commanded.

Flessa obeyed. The witch threw her saber off the table and wiped her sword on a strip of cloth that, according to Brether's custom, had been sewn on a thread at the bend of her left elbow so as not to stain the sleeve.

"Do you know who I am?" the duchess asked, feeling the unbridled anger fill her. It was a useless and unhealthy feeling, but the more Flessa realized that someone had dared to attack her, to hurt her servant, to invade her home, the hotter the fierce fire of the Wartensleben flared in her heart.

"There was a lot of talks today, and it was fruitless, rather hurting," the witch ignored the question. "So let brevity prevail now."

She extended her arm, the faceted point trembling before Flessa's eyes.

"Where's Hel, Lunna, Vandera?"

"Do you know who I am?" the duchess repeated, staring at the black woman.

"I'm going to gouge out your eyes and slit your cheeks," the woman in the bandage promised businesslike. "Speak."

Flessa grinned a wicked grin and figured out if she could get the stiletto out of her sleeve fast enough.

"And believe me, no healing magic will help," the assassin said. "For the rest of your life, you'll walk with a guide and swallow liquid porridge. And I'll cut off the fingers with which you're trying to pull out that toothpick."

There was silence, only Mourier's barely audible wheezing clinging tightly to life.

"Where is she?"

Flessa swallowed hard, the faceted needle frozen at the very pupil.

"I drove her away," the noblewoman said, wincing painfully. Each word cost her a great deal of effort and another broken twig of pride.

"When?"

"The day before yesterday."

"Why?"

"She didn't show proper deference."

"How? Where did she go? How much money did you give her? What gifts did you give her?"

"None of your business. You got your answer. Lunna's not here, and she won't be here again. Look elsewhere."

"That's a good answer, but you couldn't have chased her away the night before last because you'd spent the night together," the witch said, almost sadly. "Try again, now truthfully. You have beautiful eyes, the color of the sea. When they leak out onto your cheeks, it will be ugly and painful."

Flessa closed her eyes and breathed deeply. What was going on in the noblewoman's soul was Pantocrator's and no one else's. People can do different things for different reasons, driven by wounded pride, arrogance, and disbelief in their mortality. Or, uh... other feelings.

The Duchess opened her eyes and replied with a foulest invective worthy of the vilest den in the port of Malersyde.

"Well," the witch said, the point of her sword quivering, ready to sting. "Let's start with the right one."

"I beg your pardon!" The Prince's voice trembled a little, but it was forgivable for a man who had just missed death and now, of his own free will, gave her his hand again.

The sword froze, and the bandaged head turned slightly in the direction of the new noise.

"Please give me a minute, exactly one minute," the Highlander asked politely. "It will not prevent you from blinding this worthy woman. God be your judge in that intention. But it may save you from a great mistake."

"Speak. Half a minute," the witch allowed.

"Thank you," the prince bowed, his chain clicking audibly on the gold buckle of his embroidered belt.

"Obviously, there's a lot at stake for you, a lot at stake. But is it worth the consequences? Honorable... guest, you are about to mutilate a noblewoman and heiress of an ancient, honorable family, which in itself will incur the wrath of the class and a meticulous investigation. Besides, you should know that Flessa ausf Wartensleben is now not just a duchess, but a conduit for the will of very powerful people."

"I know."

"So much the better," the prince kept his spirits up. "If she is crippled now, the wishes of the powerful will not be fulfilled. These gentlemen are powerful and rich, and it will turn out that it is you, kind warrior, who will blow their aspirations to the wind and even set them up for a huge sum of money."

He took a quick breath. The old warrior did not like to speak beautifully, but he was skilled in the art, for the slurred ones do not bargain well. A mercenary must be able to sell his sword and the art of war.

"Your half a minute's up, keep it short."

"Besides, everyone will realize there was sorcery involved. That is, the mages will also follow your trail to remove the suspicion that one of them raised a hand against a Bonom, almost a Primator."

"Is that it?"

"Almost. So you'll be resented in absentia by a lot of people, from Bonoms to Wizards. And then there's the fact that they'll be avenging me as well. And my family is related in one way or another to almost every principality and tukhums of the Pillars. And in the mountains, there are still shamans who can search for the hidden and see the invisible."

"Avenge you?" The witch grinned. "Are you looking for death? Ready to go fourth?"

The prince, without much haste, drew out of its sheath a huge broadsword with a hilt for one and a half hands and an unlocked wishbone.

"I'm selling my sword and my experience as a commander. I took an oath and received a deposit," he explained with restrained pride and a touch of condescension. "My loyalty is unbreakable as long as the service lasts and the treaty is honored. It is the custom of the Red Moon, unchanged since before the Old Empire."

"You're looking for death." It sounded like a statement now. "You're about to find it."

"No. I keep the honor of a mercenary of the Pillars," the prince pressed his lips together. He was used to the fact that the "flat ones" did not understand the essence of mercenary military service and only dishonored the noble occupation, and then wondered why any infantry of Ecumene was worthless against the mountain battles.

"Lady," the prince bowed ceremoniously toward Flessa. "I will be glad to defend you with body and sword."

"I will accept your service with pride," the duchess bowed her head. Her lips trembled, her fingers trembled even more, her voice breaking on every syllable. Flessa unconsciously squinted, shielding her eyes.

The witch looked very carefully at the pathetic Duchess, who was trying to gather the remnants of courage. The dense black bandage could not let in any light, but the turn of her head, facial expressions, and body movements were as if the monster with the sword really saw everything, not missing the slightest detail.

"Last chance," the point touched her eyelid and brushed her black lashes.

Flessa gulped and clenched her fingers, unable to fight their trembling. A thick layer of whitewash dripped with tears.

"Go to the devil, you bastard," said the duchess, deafeningly, with the despair of doom.

"It seems that today is not our day," the prince sighed heavily, moving leisurely toward the table. He held the heavy broadsword on his shoulder, then raised it above his head, expecting to be able to put it into one crushing attack. Three bodies on the bloody floor demonstrated that outfighting the witch would not work. He could only hope for an unrestrained attack that could break through any defense with the weight of his blade.

In the next instant, the witch disappeared. She stepped into the void and disappeared as if hidden behind an invisible veil. No words, no warnings, no last threats.

"The seven gates of the icy hell..." The Prince muttered, leaning heavily on his sword. "Flessa, you owe me."

The duchess exhaled, wrapped her arms around herself, and shrank back, feeling that she couldn't get up - her legs wouldn't hold her. She wanted to collapse in hysterics, not thinking about anything, expelling the deadly horror with her scream.

"Anything you want," she said with numb lips. "Including a bed. But not now..."

"Pull yourself together. It's not over. The galley and the bride are on their way. No one will accept excuses now."

"W-wine," Flessa croaked.

"Vodka?" The Highlander socially offered the flask. He would have gladly taken a sip to calm the trembling in his voice and body, but if you're going to hold the force, go all the way.

"Please," the Duchess smiled weakly.

The Prince looked at the bodies, noting that Mourier was still alive, though he shouldn't be. Flessa noisily sipped from a flask of grape vodka like the purest spring water.

"Are you done?" The Highlander took the flask.

Flessa nodded weakly. The prince leaned over her and put a hand on her shoulder, and the duchess jerked as a noblewoman whose privacy had been rudely violated should.

"Pull yourself together, girl," the prince knew perfectly well how old Flessa was. At her age, the average woman had a brood of children and a strong hand to rule her family behind her husband's back. But now the twenty-year-old duchess was just a girl with a broken heart, for which, in addition, just came the monster from the old legends. And scared girls need a father, or at least a replacement.

"Pull yourself together," the Highlander repeated, putting his arm gently around her shoulders. "We're alive, it's over."

"Y-yes," Flessa said in a broken voice. She wiped her tears away with her palms, smearing her makeup. "Yes."

Her voice sounded almost steady now, and the prince nodded approvingly. A girl is a girl, but her composure would be the envy of many men. She'll make a fine wife for a strong husband who knows how to appreciate a strong spirit and isn't afraid to bring a woman of equal spirit into the house. It would be a pity if this flower of steel were to fall to someone who would foolishly crush it with clumsy fingers.

Udolar, you bastard, you are not worthy of such a daughter!

"Now, find a veil to cover your face. Call the servants and the healer. We still have a world to conquer. We'll grieve later."

* * *