* * *
It was early in the mountains. Elena was the last one on duty, that is, she was the first to get up. Before waking her colleagues, she revitalized the fire with a generous pile of twigs, melted snow for drinking people and horses, as well as wiping her face with a wet cloth. Chewing on a lump of tar to replace toothpaste, the camp duty officer stood for a while on a high rock, just like Ranjan the night before, looking at the majestic mountains and thinking about life. The moon's disk, a giant mirror for a bloody comet, was creeping out of the sky so the air lost its red tint and the world turned yellowish-gray.
The Ecumene used a calendar tied to the agricultural cycle of the three fields, for nineteen months of twenty days each, and the time count did not correlate directly with the terrestrial one. However, by the combination of natural and weather conditions, Elena decided that the coup in the capital had taken place around the end of October, and now, accordingly, December and the solstice were approaching.
After crossing the sea-lake, the travelers were faced with a choice: what, in fact, to do next? The Redeemers didn't really care, they were following Hel, refusing to tell who had obliged them to such service and why. Hel didn't know the geography of the inhabited world well, and Grimal was following his master, so the burden of choice fell to Ranjan. The swordsman made the seemingly strange decision to head southwest, skirting the edge of the middle mountains. Strange because every step brought the fugitives closer to the island of Saltoluchard and its ruling family, who had a vested interest in the death of Artigo Gotdua. But it was logical in its own way because with communication carried out by pigeons, crows, and messengers on horseback (and only exceptionally by magic), proximity to cities and busy roads matters, not a conventional geographic point. In such a context, the swordsman's decision was adequate; Ranjan wanted to get lost far away from the capital in a “gray” zone at the intersection of the borders of three huge regions at once, where the concept of “organized authority” remained extremely conventional even in times of peace.
The plan had a good chance of success, but, alas, like any plan, it faced problems of realization. The nomadic life required money, preferably a better season, not the eve of a harsh winter. In addition, heralds with promises of benefits and rewards for any information about the whereabouts of the lost prince, began to get into the remote rural areas, forcing the fugitives to go even farther away. So the first part of the idea - to promptly throw off the tail of the pursuers - succeeded, but the future was gaping with uncertainty....
There was still a quarter of the crow's chowder left in the cauldron; the broth was frozen, of course, so Elena melted it as well. At the sound of burning coals and the clinking of metal, Rapist awoke. He, as usual in silence, wiped his face with snow and got into his camping bag. What was interesting was that on the trek, the Redeemers didn't bother with special prayers, didn't perform rituals, and would have been indistinguishable from vagrants in general, if not for the emphasized poverty combined with good weapons. Rapist took out some dried fish and began pounding them with the handle of his knife, knocking off the scales, making them a little more chewable. After soaking the dried flesh, the redeemer tore it into individual fibers and threw it into the cauldron, mixing the fish with bird bones. Gastronomic horror, Elena thought, but protein is protein. We'll be fed, we won't die, or something like that.
Artigo woke up and sat up as usual, his eyes glistening between his cap and scarf. The nine-year-old boy, torn away from the comforts of palace life, acted like a man who had completely left the mortal world. On the one hand, it was convenient, the boy did not cause any trouble on the road. However... Elena suspected that the little heir of the giant empire was not quite sane before. Now - after the death of his mother, the meeting with the underground monster, the blood, and the murders he had witnessed - young Gotdua looked more and more like an autist. And, saddest of all, there was no time or energy to deal with the bastard's state of mind in any way. Or was it not a bastard?
"Good morning, honorable companions!" cheerfully proclaimed Gaval with an incomprehensible surname. His companion, however, was much more cautious and wary, despite the separation of dinner and lodging. Gamilla's left hand was always close to her hunting dagger with its blade half broken off.
Gaval, Gamilla, Elena thought, then Grimal. It's like a parade of G's and al's.
The camp was coming to life. Ranjan was rolling up the blankets stretched around the fire for the night as screens to reflect the heat. As she poured the clean snow into the wok, Elena thought she needed to improve her legal literacy. Is it possible to call “bastard” a child, secretly conceived by a nobless fighter with good genetics and the physiognomy of not yet-drunk Athos? And God knows... Meanwhile, the aforementioned fighter had finished with the blankets, and now he took out stale cakes and smeared them with butter from a pot with a leather cover and a string. It was going to be a hard day, and it would be desirable to pass the cursed pass before sunset, so they planned to walk without stopping during the day and compensated for the absence of lunch with breakfast.
To pass through the mountain and snow zone. And finally, get washed up. To hell with meningitis, bronchitis, and cardiac arrest, Elena was ready to splash in an icy stream.
They ate quickly and gathered vigorously. Gaval grew gloomy, and in the end, moved by mercy, the redeemers quickly assembled a more or less suitable traveling kit from the assorted items.
"You'll work it off with stories,” Cadfal promised, and the storyteller nodded happily.
The healer and Grimal put Artigo on the horse, and the servant threw a plaid over the boy's cloak and fastened it with a bone buckle. Now the lord of the world looked like a round bundle of rags that could be rolled in any direction. But he wasn't cold. Elena threw a double sack over her shoulder, which looked like a pillowcase cut in the middle, and fastened a belt loop under her arm so it turned out a kind of one-armed knapsack made of coarse burlap. I'll have to make a pioga when the group gets to the forests. Elena touched the waist belt and the waxed tube that held the diploma of the Guild of Physicians and Apothecaries. A most valuable item and an insurance policy in case of a free voyage.
“Just so there's no admonition or moralizing,” Cadfal specified the cultural program, pouring the rest of the boiled water from the kettle into glass flasks. He was always thirsty at altitude, probably because of the dry air. “Only merry tales of heroes and deeds!”
"And also about love,” Grimal said, wrapping the hiking roll in a piece of bearskin and tying it with a rope with a copper ring to secure the knot. "A noble one."
At the word 'love', Ranjan shrugged his shoulders in annoyance, but kept silent, adjusting his long scabbard behind his back.
“He knows how to talk about love,” Gamilla hummed, the woman was going through the lead balls in her belt pouch. Elena thought again, looking at it, that she should make pockets fashionable, following the example of Don Rumata, who was unknown here.
"Can I tell stories with tragic endings?” asked Gaval, twisting the issued chaperon from hood to cap.
"You can,” Cadfal agreed after a moment's thought and added sternly. "But no obscenity."
About light and lofty feelings,” Rapist clarified.
Gaval was a little confused by such an order, but the wandering minstrel accepted the challenge.
"Let's go,” Ranjan said, and the united group trotted off in a column one at a time.
The way turned out to be unexpectedly easy, so much so that Elena was even a little afraid of this ease as if fate had not decided to compensate with new trials. First of all, the path was now mostly downhill, the ascents were not frequent and did not last long. Secondly, the wind was not too fierce, in general, it was warmer than during the previous week. Thirdly, the stony, twisted road was almost free of snow. We walked briskly, not stopping under the light of the sandy sun.
At the edges of the trail, there was sometimes useless trash, shards, horses, and other bones. Twice there were dead men, naked, frozen, and nibbled by small predators. The sight of the dead was reassuring. There were no visible wounds on their bodies, so they had not been killed by bandits but had been mowed down by more natural causes.
Toward noon they made a short halt, only to water the horses. Gaval dutifully worked on the feeding with cheerful songs and tales, at the risk of tearing his throat. Elena decided that the handsome fellow was hardly a real singer, his voice and confidence were lacking. More likely just a townie with a good memory who'd picked up some scattered cultural baggage. But why not? In hard times, everyone earns what they can.
"You promised me a mentor,” she reminded Ranjan quietly, ensuring no one else could hear them.
"I promised,” Brether agreed.
"And where is he?"
Ranjan looked left and right, showing the flawed idea of searching for a swordsman on a mountain path. But still, he added:
"He'll show up."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"When the time is right. Soon."
Elena looked at her companion carefully, noting the sunken eyes with dark circles. Ranjan's eyes were dark circles and sunken, dark circles. Ranjan had lost a lot of weight in the past couple of weeks, the nights outdoors, chronic sleep deprivation, and heavy thoughts had taken their toll on the usually dapper-looking Brether. The woman said nothing more, moving to the rear of the column, closer to the silent Artigo.
As the day wore on and Gaval chattered, the crossbowwoman shot two more birds of a breed unknown to Elena, a little smaller than crows, but good enough for soup. The wanderers' cooperation was paying off. Toward evening the harsh nature began to lose its winter severity. The snow was decreasing, dry grass was increasing, and the plain with hills of hills could be seen far ahead. The landscape reminded her of the North Caucasus or Scotland. Cautious twilight was approaching.
"Well done,” Cadfal thought aloud. "I thought we'd reach the plain in three passes. Or even four."
Gaval took off his shoes and inspected them critically, the day's travel had destroyed them completely. The minstrel sighed heavily and threw the shoes into the distance.
"What a fool,” Grimal commented. "You could have used it for leather patches. Or sell it."
"A townie,” Cadfal answered in place of the poet. “Doesn't know the rule of the palm."
“What rule?” Gaval with the unpronounceable last name didn't seem to really know.
"If there's anything left even a palm-sized piece, it's still useful. A piece of wood, a hide, a piece of cloth, a knife scrap, anything. The rule of the palm."
“Аh...” Gaval looked thoughtfully in the direction he'd thrown his boots. From the look on his face, the minstrel was struggling with greed and coolness. Coolness won.
“How did I manage to get hired by such a fool,” muttered Gamilla quietly.
"I release you from service,” the minstrel said in a high-pitched voice. "Woman, you no longer have to risk your life alongside me!"
"Yeah, and I suppose you want your money back for the service?" snorted the crossbowwoman. "For the three remaining days?"
"Well... yes,” the poet said confusedly.
Gamilla ignored her employer's remark with splendid disdain, showing how futile his efforts were to escape from the bonds of mutual responsibility.
Elena sucked in a breath of air. The dryness of the highlands had softened, and it wouldn't be long before it rained.
“Aren't you hot?” she asked Artigo. He heard the second time and shook his head, saying no.
You should find some toys, Elena thought. Good question, what do princes play with? If they play at all... There were different rumors about the life of Bonoms, all quite bizarre.
The road stretched in not-too-steep curves, the horses' hooves stomping over the cold earth in a steady, soothing rhythm. The sun was moving toward sunset, and the purple colors were beginning to push the yellowness out of the sky again. The travelers had not met a soul the whole day, which was understandable - the “passenger traffic” had stopped until spring.
Cadfal was muttering to himself, thinking how to prepare the birds for the night before in a clever and tasty way. Grimal answered him, showing a great knowledge of travel gastronomy. The two men quickly concluded that if there was clay or mud at the campsite, the crows could be baked in clay without special tricks. And if not...
"Smoke,” Rapist interrupted, squinting his already narrow eyes. The old man seemed farsighted, so he saw like an eagle. "Straight ahead."
"Yeah, maybe the ones who outplayed... him?" The crossbow woman also squinted her eyes and twisted the screw of the ballester. To avoid stretching the string, Gamilla kept the weapon ready, but not cocked. Grimal hummed and pulled out a rope sling. Curiously, the Brether's servant had never used a long blade.
"The place is inhabited,” Cadfal pointed out. "The road is traveled, though not often. There's a fork in the road ahead, and trash on the side of the road. Some villagers, I suppose."
"A tavern, perhaps?" Gaval hoped as if the minstrel had money.
The travelers briefly discussed how to proceed. There were three options. The first was to make a detour, avoiding the suspicious smoke. The second was to camp for the next night, and approach the source of the smoke at dawn (or bypass it again, just in case). The third - to step towards fate, expecting to find a warm place to sleep, maybe even under a roof. They decided to go.
Although it would have been more logical to find an inn or even an inn for those who had passed the pass, the travelers finally saw a dilapidated castle. It had been a good castle in its time (and, by all appearances, a very long time ago), albeit a small one - single dwelling tower like a chess rook, and several outbuildings surrounded by a wall. But whether the fortification was stormed more than once, or over the years it was dismantled for building stone from time to time, or probably both. In general, what remained of the once powerful structure was a crooked tower and a couple of houses that looked more like cattle yards or vegetable bases. The locals were actively engaged in vegetable gardening, and the castle smelled of turnips, acorn bread, something sauerkraut, and boiled cabbage, an invariable companion of rural kitchens of any wealth.
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"Wait here,” Ranjan ordered curtly and went forward to where several men of about the same ragged appearance were waiting for him at the empty archway without a gate. They had abandoned their simple chores and gathered in a tight group. The gender diversity was created by one fragile girl who would have looked like a common peasant girl if not for her hands, which were too white and smooth for a commoner. Helena had long ago noticed that a country girl could look as young as she wanted, but her hands would almost always be old-looking, disfigured by hard work. City women aged quickly, too, but not so terribly.
"Won't we be beaten?" Gaval asked anxiously.
The newcomers and the locals were about fifty meters apart. Ranjan was talking to the leader, and the conversation seemed peaceful, but anything could happen on the road, so everyone was wary and eyed each other with undisguised suspicion.
"They shouldn't,” Gamilla reasoned, not in a hurry to unload the ballester.
Elena only smiled wryly, she supposed that Brether, Cadfal, and Rapist could each take out the locals in one without much effort. However, God knows what amazing talents the Castlemen might be hiding, not to mention a couple of possible archers, so the woman took a step back and readied her scabbard.
Finally, Ranjan turned around and waved his hand, saying the consensus had been reached.
"No, they won't,” said Cadfal respectfully. "And cabbage at bedtime is very good for the stomach."
"Yeah,” Grimal snorted gloomily, taking advantage of his master's absence. "In the morning, it'll be good to shit....."
He looked back at the young emperor, grimaced, and smacked his lips.
The family of the castle owners consisted of an elderly but still sturdy Frels and his daughter, a pale, thin girl of about fourteen. “Frels” followed the “Baron” and was considered the first rung on the ladder of the real nobility. Anything below that was considered despicable trash. Apparently, this family was poor and worked almost side by side with the peasants to whom they rented the ancestral land. However, this fact was not noticed by the guests in a friendly and tactful manner. The hosts were not to say that they were happy about the guests, but they accepted them cordially, partly out of hospitality, partly in the expectation of good conversation and news. As it turned out, rumors about the change of power had reached here without any details, and the provincial nobles were eager for details.
The tower itself had apparently not been inhabited for a long time and had been used as a representative and protective - in case of emergency. The visitors were accommodated in the lord's house, where there was not even a fireplace, it was replaced by a universal hemispherical stove made of stones and clay in the center of the hall. However, the travelers finally warmed up and washed themselves, even if with barely warm water. They were not the only guests of the house. A lone traveler, a typical Highlander, dressed as an ordinary mercenary in search of work, had already settled here. He seemed to be wounded in the leg and lay mostly silent on a pile of straw. The Highlander didn't ask for help, so everyone ignored him amicably (and politely).
The host and his daughter served the guests personally, and again everyone pretended that this was a great favor and a sign of respect on the part of the hosts, and not the lack of servants. The hosts, in their turn, accepted the silver coin from Ranjan with dignity. God forbid, not payment, but honest unselfish gratitude. And after supper the Brether finally satisfied Frels's longing for news, referring very carefully and regularly to fictitious descriptors and narrators, lest, God forbid, he be mistaken for an eyewitness. Elena, however, was once more absorbed in thought.
She had heard many times in different variations that the petty nobility was going through bad times, everywhere and not for the first year, not even for a decade. Apparently, Marx's thesis about the accumulation and concentration of capital worked perfectly here. Rich landowners became richer and richer, multiplying their holdings, buying out, or even taking land from their less fortunate colleagues. And the “horsemen” of the simpler ones were in need, their ancestral lands were mortgaged and then sold off. In the best case, the impoverished knight found himself in the position of a Lovag, that is, actually a mercenary, who had symbolic land ownership - just to be listed in the estate - and lived off the bread allowance of the magnate, doing the will of the lord. But this was at the best. The rest fell lower and lower, turning into real ruthiers, sergeants, or even just bandits and other declassed element. A good, big war, i.e. looting and extensive redistribution of property on the scale of at least a kingdom, could fix or at least mitigate the situation globally, but there had been no such war for almost a century and was not expected to happen.
But to hear is one thing, but to see with one's own eyes is quite another. The old Frels was a true knight, the representative of a family with a pedigree of three centuries longer than that of another count. However, the only difference with the peasants was the coat of arms on his belt. The knight dressed like a commoner, ate like a commoner, worked like a commoner. And was clearly in dire need, dressing in pride instead of the rich dress.
While Elena thought about Marxism and political economy, the men delved into conversations about masculinity, that is, the military. Frels talked about the coming trouble.
The annual military review of the district was to be held in the spring. A traditional occasion for decent people to gather and settle matters, from engagements and amateur tournaments to duels of honor. Most importantly, cavalrymen must demonstrate the equipment and skills appropriate to their position. After all, if you can not serve according to the status - you can not be a nobleman. In the past year, the event was hard, not easy, with some excesses, which Frels did not want to talk about. And the coming one promised disaster. Too much debt, too little money, too expensive equipment. It was coming to the point that the small nobles would not be able to go out en masse “mounted, armed, armored”, that is, there would be a question of exclusion from the class lists. Frels himself, despite his poor situation, for some reason was not afraid of this, but he felt pity for his neighbors in a friendly way.
Word by word, it turns out that among the newcomers, few people realize how much it costs to be a knight.
“Well, let's do the math,” the old Frels even pulled up the sleeves of his worn jacket with numerous drawstrings for emphasis. “Full plate armor, well, is a count's shtick. We'll have it simpler. Iron hat, quilted under-armor with absorbent cotton, no rags. Brigandine or chain mail,” he curved his fingers so as not to miss anything. "Gloves at least. A shield, if the armor is thin. Spears, suitable against horse and footmen, three if ordinary, six if southern by custom drilled in the middle for ease. An axe or clave, and also a mace or pole-axe. A quilted blanket for the horse. A saddle, if good, is a fifth of the cost of the horse, or even more expensive, but without it, you can not, the spear requires it. A servant to clean weapons and armor, wash clothes, and all that. And companions to equip, at least one, preferably two. Even if you count coin to coin it's sixteen kilograms of silver."
Elena quickly recalculated the weight of the precious metal into silver coins, transferred it into her allowance as the prison medic, and couldn't hold back an exclamation of amazement. She had, of course, imagined that horse warrior's equipment was expensive, but she realized the scale of the financial disaster only now. The sum, to put it bluntly, was impressive.
"A lot,” said Gaval, his handsome, unshaven face squinting in a dreamy grimace, as the self-proclaimed singer seemed to be spending a fortune in his mind.
"What about saving?"
"It is possible to put it down to half if the need arises, but that would be... a “donkey knight” of sorts."
Frels grimaced and shook his head. Judging by his face, seven or eight kilograms of good silver was a pauper's sum, which could only be enough for a gopnik with a stick.
"How about a count-style gear? Or higher?" Elena, who was interested in military math, was persistent."
Frels scratched the back of his head in some confusion, but recited from memory:
"It is written in the Assizes about gendarmes as follows. Let every soldier be armed with a good cuirass, a sword, greaves, and a helmet with a visor, and it is good if the helmet is trimmed with silver. We will not speak of spears, for they must be, as well as pageboys to carry the warrior's equipment. You should also have at least three horses for yourself, your page, and your battle companion. It would be better to have four or five horses each, one for battle, one to replace him, one for daily travel, and two for luggage. And for the companion... the companion..."
He faltered and moved his lips as if remembering, but then Rapist, clearly familiar with the subject, suddenly spoke up:
"The companion should have a helmet unadorned with silver, a short sword or dagger, and an axe or similar implement. The same equipment should be bought for at least two mounted warriors, for it is not proper for a man of the spear to go into battle with only a chosen companion at his side. If from the armor warriors can wear only a chain mail, it is necessary to attach a corset made of iron plates sewn on a leather or woven base."
Elena hid a smile in her raised collar; she had long ago realized that the samurai spearman had been a nobleman and a mounted warrior in his past life. And, judging by the long quotation, given without a single hitch, not a commoner at all.
"Oh, what a sound,” Cadfal said dreamily. "Music to the ears. Silver trimmed... at least three horses... people live!"
"That's right,” Frels agreed. "In the end, a good armor with weapons and other equipment... a chest for armor... 48 kilos of silver comes out."
"Is that all of it?" Elena clarified just in case.
"Oh, no, of course not,” smiled the owner sadly. "Horses are counted separately."
"And how much does a horse cost nowadays?" Rapist was practically interested. "I remember a good one used to go for 4 kilos of silver."
Frels answered readily, and it seemed that the aged knight was hungry for a conversation with a knowledgeable man. From the dialog, Elena understood that nowadays the cost of a good war horse is about five kilograms of silver, and it is possible to get cheaper, but either you have to look for it, or the animal is flawed or just aged. For this money a medicine woman could rent not even a room, but a whole floor in a good house for a year, on full board with daily chicken on the table, beef and mutton on weekends and holidays, a laundress, as well as a place in the stables. An elite destrier, on which a gendarme in full plate armor was not ashamed to sit, went for thirty kilos, or even half a centner. A “premium” beast of war costs about seventy, and in exceptional cases, for dukes and kings to a hundred.
"Yeah...” Elena stretched out. "The life of a knight is hard."
She was still trying to work out the warrior value system in her head and realize how a man could pay a centner of moon metal (or appropriately ten kilos of gold) for the privilege of a good fight and get punched in the face, way even through a silver-trimmed visor.
"But it's a one-time expense,” Elena said. "The armor lasts a long time, right?"
"It does,” Frels agreed meekly. "But horses grow old, die and perish, and equipment wears out. And if you lie down in a fight, you lose everything at once, and you have to pay the ransom. Of course, there are warriors from whom the earth has never knocked the spirit out, but I have not met such men. Everyone's been out of the saddle at least once. And it is a great favor if the suzerain ransoms you from captivity... but he may not, he has his own expenses."
Well, now the nature of the class disaster was becoming more or less obvious. Even if one spends sums of this order not regularly, but as the ammunition wears out, it still hurts. And then the mechanism of typical usury is surely unfolding: borrow, trouble, borrow again, work for interest, debt bondage, and eventually “your point goes to the audience”. The joke was silly, but it stuck in my soul after little Lena brought it home from the street and got a good thrashing. Apparently, the global process has been developing for a long time and has now entered the final stage, when class impoverishment has taken on the character of an avalanche.
Шутка про очко
T. N. Once upon a time, there was a game where the audience played against the team in the studio. When the audience won, the presenter would say - your point goes to the audience. But over time, the word "point" came to have another slang meaning - arsehole. So the phrase took on a completely different context.
"I wonder why the owner of the ruined castle is so calm...? Frels didn't look like a man willing to spend even four kilograms of silver. But he wasn't afraid of a spring parade. I don't understand."
"That is why it is necessary to fight on foot,” said the mountaineer, who had been silent until then. His voice was hoarse, and unpleasant, as if from a chronically cold throat. "It will be more reliable. And cheaper."
"If you're on foot, you're not a knight,” Cadfal said. "It's a mess, not a knight."
"Well, well," the Highlander grinned, not offended, but still with some hidden irony. "There are no diplomas, no villages, no estate."
"It is so, good sir,” said the elder knight with dignity. "A mounted warrior is the salt of the earth, the bone of the army. And he needs a lot of things for food and equipment. And the foot soldiers..."
He frowned, but kept silent, either not wanting to offend the sickly guest, or, indeed, Frels had not found a single kind word for the foot soldiers. The Highlander smiled, as if he had something to say, which was extremely offensive, but also kept silent. Rapist and the knight went deep into discussion of some weapon nuances. In the warmth and with a belly full of cabbage soup she wanted to doze off. In the light of the stove, shadows raced across the face of the Frels' daughter, who was husking peas like a common cook.
"Hey, buddy?" the nameless Highlander called softly.
"My name isn't “Hey,” Elena corrected him. "And I'm not your buddy."
She was amazed at herself: the phrase had slipped through like soapy, completely natural. The habit of weighing every word and not letting a drop of disrespect slip had become second nature. Here a man is the way he holds himself and behaves.
"I'm sorry,” the man held his hands palms up as if to emphasize his peacefulness. "I didn't mean to."
"What do you mean?"
She didn't look in the Brether's direction but felt him tighten and tense. The proximity of one of the best swordsmen in the inhabited world was at times very reassuring and comforting. Elena wasn't fooled, Ranjan was only interested in her medical talents and the two skilled warriors accompanied the devilish Hel. But the symbiosis temporarily suited both parties, except that the woman had not yet waited for the promised swordsmanship lessons.
"I heard you could heal, didn't you?"
Elena had absolutely no recollection of such a conversation but decided there was no point in denying it.
"I can blow and apply plantain,” she said gruffly.
"Oh, I see. My leg hurts,” the Highlander grumbled.
"Bruised? Cut?"
Elena felt a pang of shame at her lazy reluctance to see what had happened to said leg. But on the other hand, she hadn't taken a hippopotamus oath, nor had she taken any other oath. She had a right not to rush with a lancet to every sufferer.
“Arrow,” the wounded man grumbled even more sourly. “I was wading through the undergrowth, trying to cut the road. And there was a trap with a crossbow ... It's a small one, put on a fox, but it's nasty. And a nasty arrow, the tip was split, and the shaft was either broken or sawed. It broke. The tip was stuck, you can't get it out without a piece of meat.”
On the Wastelands didn't use such things, they used normal tips, leaf-shaped or faceted. So Elena had no idea how to carry the “mean” arrows, which she did not fail to mention. The Highlander became sad. The crossbowman listened to the conversation, interested in the mention of arrows. Ranjan, on the other hand, relaxed, and laid his head down on the tightly rolled blanket. Artigo crawled under his side like an ordinary peasant child, staring silently at the fire, the walls, and the people around him.
Sad, Elena thought, so sad... A father who will never be able to tell his son about his fatherhood. A son, guarded by his father's love, who would never know it, believing he was accompanied by an ordinary ruthier mercenary.
"It's a pity,” the Highlander sighed and asked hopefully. "Maybe you'd like to take a look? You can cut what you need,” he slapped the skinny wallet on his belt. "I don't have much money, I won't lie, but I know prices. I have enough for it,” he was silent for a while and confessed. "I'm afraid the burn will spread. Iron in a wound begins to ooze poison, everyone knows that."
"You should pour fortified wine on it,” said Gaval, who had ears as big as a cat's, in a solid voice. "It leaches poisons from wounds. Or vodka."
Elena could hardly keep from smiling, remembering who had brought the tradition of sanitizing with strong alcohol into this world. How long had it been since then... not months, but full years? She wanted to see Sharley and even Santeli, just a little. She wondered how they were. Are they alive?
The Highlander looked at her with hope. Elena thought for a moment and took pity on the poor man, not forgetting the money:
"We'll take a look tomorrow morning."
She raised her hand, pre-empting an objection, and clarified:
"If you haven't died before, you'll survive one night. To cut I need good light and a steady hand. Also clean rags, boiling water and the like. I'll be ready at dawn and do what I can."
"Good!" The Highlander visibly cheered up. "I will not forget the good!"
"You'd better not forget the money,” Gamilla said turning to Elena. "I didn't use such arrows and didn't pull them out. It's not worthy."
She added a peculiar Southern slang that could be translated as “not worthy”. And Elena made a second note to herself to clarify (later) who the “master of the arrow” was, what was the meaning of the tattoo, and why everyone, from brethers to knights, treated the crossbowwoman with respect.
"But I saw them being pulled out,” Gamilla continued, and Elena propped herself up on an elbow, listening very carefully.
"It requires a willow stick...."
Gamilla briefly but clearly described the simple device of driving an arrow into the wound to cover the jagged edges, then tying it to the shaft and pulling it out. The shot man did not hold back a toothy grin, obviously he had a vivid imagination and visualized the procedure. Elena listened attentively, memorizing the science and after a short thought decided:
"Let's try it. Tomorrow, in the light."
* * *
In listing ammunition, I relied mainly on the Burgundian ordinances of the mid-15th century. With the cost is more complicated, it should be understood that prices jumped wildly depending on the region and time. But in general, the equipment of a conventional “common European” knight cost in the range of 10-40 kilograms of silver.