Chapter 3 An Englishman in New York

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Dawn was dawning, announcing its imminent arrival with a pinkish streak at the edge of the horizon. Frightened shadows thickened, hurrying to take one last drink of the night's darkness. A cold wind swept through the city, clinging to weathervanes, and blowing over spires. Torches, wax, and rag torches were still burning in the street lamps at the crossroads and on the main roads, but Milvess, "the city of a thousand wells," was already waking up. The slothful man rises with the first rays of the sun, and the honest citizen at least a quarter of a small watch before dawn.

The lamplighters turned out the lights, and the alarmers rattled and banged on the shutters. In churches, the priests' first prayer was to praise the Father of the Universe who, in his inexhaustible mercy, had granted the world and men a new day. Demiurges necessarily added non-canonical words of gratitude for the last and greatest creations of Pantocrator the human intelligence and freedom of choice between good and evil. For a fact, the Creator allows everyone to determine his own life by his actions, defying the machinations of the Unclean and thus deserving of posthumous bliss. The believers in the Two Creators were also praying but more secretly because the pogroms had begun again in the capital. Not even pogroms, but rather some unrest, even without the normal arson. And still, nobody wanted to tempt fate.

The thin scarlet stripe on the boundary between heaven and earth was brightening, becoming a vivid color, so vivid and intense that no painter could have rendered it with his brush. The moon, shimmering with reflected silver light, was leaving the sky, dragging the waters of the sea behind it. The tide was coming in, and the red lights on the lighthouse of the coastal fort flashed warningly. While the water was still high, ships that had ventured into the night were hurrying to enter Stone Harbor, which was securely covered by an old fortress wall two men's height thick.

The city was waking up... Only in the stone houses of the aristocracy, safely hidden behind high walls amid dense gardens, reigned silence. For a man of noble birth should not get up in the early hours of the morning. It causes damage to health and spoils the skin of the face. As the sun rises to the heavenly dome only after dawn, so the noble lords should not be in a hurry. After all, all the goods of the Ecumene already belong to the best of men.

Here, too, on Remembrance Island, there was silence. It was like a graveyard, which, to a certain extent, it was. A graveyard of old pleas, of desperate hopes, of forgotten destinies. There were no brigands on the island. It was avoided by otherworldly creatures. And even the wicked sorcerers who despised the precepts of the Church did not conduct their rituals here, for the air of the island was completely devoid of sorcerous power. It was simply ... this place was shunned. Thousands of stone statues - from crude statues made of boulders and bonded with mortar to refined sculptural groups - kept in themselves the memory of times that had long passed, of people who were long gone. And this neighborhood made the most hardened sinner uncomfortable. Besides, sometimes people just disappear here like magic. There was a man, and then he was gone. Without a trace.

Yes, it was very quiet. And gloomy. The dawn rays had not yet slipped over the palace roofs of Milvess, and the night was clinging to power with its last strength. A figure in a dark cloak with a very wide hood was almost invisible among the stone statues. But whoever knew where to look found it quickly.

Shoehorned boots clattered faintly on the stone slabs. The one who came to meet him held his sword open, under his arm, hilt forward. A fine weapon, made in the newfangled southern style, for fights on city streets that go fast and are fought only to the death. A long, light blade, a one-handed hilt, and a bronze bar spiraling from thumb to pinky.

"Hello," with those words, the waiting man threw back his hood. Only the sturdy netting kept the wave of long, heavy hair the color of the darkest night from falling apart. Dark eyes glittered, reflecting the light of the departing moon. Barely visible tongues of blue flame ignited in the stiff, succulent fall grass. The sorcerer's fire, flowing along carefully measured and drawn lines with a flint knife, kept the meeting place hidden from sight and hearing. Rare, very complex magic requiring a lot of borrowed power, especially here. Few could produce such a ritual. The dark-haired sorceress could. And she could do it without paying the price, spending months of other people's lives rather than her own.

"Hello," echoed the guest, removing his leather triangle. The hat hung on the outstretched arm of one of the statues without any reverence for the dead. At the same time, the guest removed the mask of illusion with a flick of her fingers, and her mesmerizingly beautiful and, at the same time, eerie, completely inhuman eyes flashed in the shadows. Dark blue, almost violet whites turned to irises, the color of dark ruby, without pupils.

For a few moments, the women stood facing each other as if they had met after a long absence and were trying to remember something. They looked very much alike, both tall, black-haired, and, at the same time, as different as the sun and the moon.

"You're late," the waiting woman stated.

"Once the bridge was released," the guest said briefly, the faintest note of uncertainty ringing in her voice. As if the conversation made her uncomfortable and promised some difficulty. "I do not command the tides."

The answer was fair; the island was so called because it was connected to Milvesse only by a narrow shoal with a bridge built in time immemorial, which was hidden by the tides. And yet the first woman did not deny herself a poisonous prick.

"What about the magical transition?"

The guest gritted her teeth and clenched the blade under her arm, feeling the thin, hard strip of metal forged by the finest southern weaponsmiths.

"You know, I try not to overuse transitions," she retorted, trying to maintain a look of cold calm. It was the same as the icy cold of the blade under her arm, which didn't seem to want to be warmed by body heat.

"Really?" sarcastically inquired the "hostess" of the meeting. "And I thought you were openly ... disregarding the schedule I made for you."

Instead of "neglect", "spit" was clearly heard. The armed lady bowed her head, simultaneously acknowledging some guilt and showing that she did not want to continue this line of conversation.

"You know transitions are bad for us," the unarmed mage sighed hopelessly. She was clearly repeating this not the first and most likely not even the tenth time. Her voice was drenched in hopelessness. "If this keeps up, I won't be able to reassemble your soul anymore, and madness will finally consume the mind."

"I know," the red-eyed woman retorted with seeming indifference. "But it's a risk you have to accept."

Ruby eyes sparkled like the lights of a hidden lantern.

"Or do you wish to decline my services?"

"No. And I'm very interested in what you have to boast about," the woman with the hair in a net ended the preparatory-pleading part of the conversation and got down to business. She seemed distinctly displeased.

"Almost nothing," the guest answered honestly. "We know that Hel has reached the capital. She is most likely already in the city..." The witch looked over to where the finally awake Milvess, the largest city, and heart of the world known to humans, was already bathed in pinkish light.

"And?.." The interlocutor said curtly and angrily, literally snarled.

"That'll be all," the witch grudgingly admitted. Her usually beautiful, expressive voice sounded dull, like frayed rags. "That's all for now."

"That's not very encouraging."

"Yes. But the net is wide open. She doesn't know the city, and she doesn't have any useful contacts. Sooner or later, Hel will go to the temple, or the magicians, or the parlor, or jail. She's conspicuous enough, I'll get word."

"A wide-spread net, that's bad," the sorceress cut off. "Raises questions. Besides, we have rivals."

"Who?" the witch asked quickly and sharply.

"The Masters of Malersyde, for sure. Probably someone else. They're looking for the girl, and they're looking hard."

"Clavel Wartensleben," the witch hissed, flashing her devilish irises again. "I shouldn't have messed with her. Greedy thing ruined everything."

"Let me remind you that the 'greedy creature' has fulfilled everything that was agreed upon," the sorceress blurted out. "You're the one who failed."

"Yes, I failed," the red-eyed woman was unexpectedly quick, unopposed to accept the obvious, not needing to be reminded of the horrifying effects of necromancy that had covered Hel one step away from death.

The sorceress was silent for a moment, squeezing the gloves nervously as if she were about to tear the thin but surprisingly strong leather. From the Wartensleben tanneries, by the way. She remained silent for a few moments, recovering her composure after her outburst of anger. It was stupid and senseless - to be angry at the failure of a faithful performer who followed all the instructions and did not succeed for quite objective reasons. But still ...

One step away from success... May Erdeg take you all. One blow with the sword, and it would be done!

Inhale. Exhale. She is a sorceress. She stands above the crowd, above the Bonoms, even above the Primarchs of the Twenty-Two - the great families, the only aristocracy to survive the Cataclysm. Anger, fear, and malice are for the lower creatures. And her destiny and virtue are pure reason, which is like water from the depths of the great ocean. Water does not doubt, does not fear, does not hesitate. It simply crushes the obstacle with the unstoppable pressure of the waves.

"Too many outsiders," the enchantress said curtly. "A good spy always has at least two masters. At least two. And when he gets an order from one, he runs to tell the other for a reward. That's how we learned the Wartensleben are looking for Hel. That's how something else will find out we're looking for her, sooner or later... if it hasn't already."

"She can't be killed from a distance," the witch caught the patroness's train of thought on the fly, especially since it was a possibility they had been meticulously considering.

"It can be done."

The sorceress fell silent again, whipping her gloved fingers against the sleeve of her velvet jacket a couple of times.

"It can be done," She repeated. "I sent an order to the Wastelands. I need the Colorful Ribbon."

The witch held back her feelings, for it was impossible to read anything in the devil's eyes. She drew in air noisily.

"There are none of them left..." There was not so much a statement as a question in her words. A doubt. "But even if one could find such a ... relic, it has no price."

"It is," grinned the enchantress grimly. "Only it's measured in barrels of phoenixes."

"I understand," the witch said very seriously. "I understand. Someone is going to come back to the Kingdoms a very rich man."

Now, she paused in her turn, pondering what she had heard. There was no point in recounting the danger and difficulty of using the Ribbon in a city of several hundred thousand inhabitants, full of odors and many streams of other people's lives. The sorceress was ready for extreme measures, and it should have been simply accepted.

Or...

"I'll prepare everything I've managed to gather," the witch promised. "All the things that were Hel's."

"Yes. I'll let you know where the Ribbon will be delivered. You will build a circle, arrange the symbols, and infuse the power of the sign. Then, I will perform the ritual. After that, you do the rest."

"I'll wait for instructions."

The red-eyed woman asked with a single glance whether the meeting was over. With a wordless nod, she removed her hat from the statue's hand, stepped back a few steps, and disappeared into the shadows, vanished among the stone. The sorceress whipped the gloves on her hand once more and threw her hood back on. She glanced at the nearest statue that depicted a woman with her arm outstretched in mute supplication. Time had not spared the sacrificial figure erected in support of a request to the Father of the Universe. Wind and rain have gnawed at the soft stone and stained the smooth surface with sores and splotches, but the sculptor's skill was beyond the centuries. The image of a long-dead woman preserved the ultimate despair, the ultimate plea addressed to the silent sky. It was as if the higher powers were responding to the sorceress's fierce striving, hinting at the futility of her efforts.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The blue lights went out. The sorceress finally tore her glove, tossed the useless thing away, and then the second, the one without a pair. She walked away, invisible and inaudible among the silent monuments. She thought of Spark's need to die, to return to the Hell from which she had been summoned. And of the mad expenditure that would be required for properly executed preparations.

And what the witch with the ruby eyes was thinking, only she knew. But if the witch could read those thoughts, she should have thought hard about where to aim the terrifying and deadly Ribbon. Because the mind, distorted, poisoned by magical transitions through great distances, can be visited by very strange and bizarre thoughts ...

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... damn...

There was a loud knock on the shutter. A nasty, shrill voice whined as if into her brain - "Morning, good citizens, the dawn is coming!" As if accompanying the voice, the landlady rattled a copper pot, heating yesterday's sausage for her husband. A mug of heated water for drinking, a bowl of cold water for washing, and a pinch of tar and soot from burning oil seeds were waiting for her to clean her teeth and strengthen them. There was no breakfast, as it was paid only for a night's lodging. There was also no possibility to sleep a little longer. By default, it was assumed that the next seeker of urban happiness was either in a hurry to work or was in active search. That is, he wouldn't laze around in the master's bed.

At the dawn of a new and joyful day, Elena went out into the City, full of either joyful hope or gloomy pessimism, and she did not quite understand her own state of mind.

... damn...

It's sad when a day (what's a day, perhaps a week, or even a whole damn month) starts with the same thought. And with it, it continues. Elena was tired of nomadic life. Of inn houses stinking of urine and sour broth. The small towns and villages of the remote provinces, where strangers were treated as if they had come from the other side of the world, and every glance scrutinized their ability to defend themselves. From the endless roads that in her homeland would have been, at best, cattle drives symbolically sprinkled with gravel. No, there were good roads here, too. Some date back to the Old Empire. It was real transcontinental highways, organized and paved, as well as Roman ones. But Elena avoided them. It is too crowded, too dangerous.

The woman usually hit on another group of pilgrims going to a certain "Rainbow Temple." It was relatively safe. It also raised fewer questions about her cut hair. Still, Elena had grown accustomed to the sucking feeling under her belly from regular malnutrition, the constant sliding of evil glances down her back, and the bone hilt of her gifted dagger under her arm. As well as the need to dye her hair weekly, and inconspicuously at that. Yes, she traveled brunette now.

But there was a prize at the end of the journey - Milvessus, the capital of the former Empire, now a conglomeration of fragmented half-states that had grown out of it. A marvelous city on a huge cape, deeply embedded in a freshwater lake the size of a real sea. Almost like Constantinople.

Elena didn't know exactly what awaited her in the City of a Thousand Wells, but it was assumed by default that it would be good, certainly better than the current one. A fencer was waiting there, and in general, the city was progress, culture, and at least normal stationary toilets. This is important in a world where a terracotta night pot is already a luxury, a source of pride for the whole inn, and finding a mug of hot water for paint is a small quest because you have to boil it on an open fire.

But everything was going wrong again... Nevertheless, Elena tried to believe that her travel ordeal was finally coming to an end and that at least some orderliness awaited ahead. And minimal amenities. In the meantime, she wandered along the river, thinking darkly that early risings were evil. Or, as Grandfather used to say, "God created sleep and silence, and the devil created rise and foreman."

On closer inspection, it's not that Milvess was disappointing ... although it was disappointing. Elena had expected more from the capital of the world. Yes, the local metropolis was big. That could not be taken away. It was many times bigger than all the towns and cities she had met. And ... that's it. Frame houses are slightly larger than usual, all on stone foundations. Stone buildings, almost all of them old. Cobblestone streets, also ancient in appearance - the stones were thoroughly worn away, giving away centuries of use. It was all subtly reminiscent of old Moscow with its chaotic layout.

Helena supposed that she had only seen a small part of the City and that there were probably more interesting places in the capital. She was still wandering around the northern part of Milvess, divided by the river into the "North," called Gearr-Fearainn, and the "South," called Babarren-Fearainn. The northern part was considered poorer, "artisanal" and generally new. Here, among other things, ran the Street of Free Blades, where fencing schools and residences of the largest Brether communities gathered. The South belonged to the merchant class and was noticeably richer. It was connected with the river and bridges, but Elena didn't quite understand how.

There was confusion about names in general. For example, Milvess was also called "Taididdo" - "Sun City." For example, Milvess was also called "Taididdo" - "Sun City" - but the river was also called the same, and it had its toponym, which was used rarely and as if out of necessity.

The sun finally broke its rays toward the southwest. There. Beyond the dull tiled roofs, like trunk lids cut off at the corners, something sparkled, playing in the sky like a web of colors in the finest crystal. What phenomenon could have produced this rainbow Elena had no idea, but the glow added a bit of optimism and cheerfulness. Not everything around was so gloomy. The girl even began to hum softly to herself:

I'm an alien

I'm a legal alien

I'm an Englishman in New York

She was desperate for a bath. Her clothes had not been washed for a week, and Elena had bathed three days ago by a simple stream. The process was accompanied by thoughts that if she had a heart attack because of the sharp cooling, it would still be merciful. You can get, for example, meningitis (short hair also had to be washed, it was impossible to make a fire, and the water was so cold that it seemed like liquid nitrogen). Or pneumonia. And both in local conditions promised a long, agonizing death. There was still money for a bathhouse and laundresses, but it was still necessary to find an appropriate place, to conduct reconnaissance, and to spend time in general. Besides, any visit to a place of presence was perceived by Elena as a test of spirit and a risky endeavor. So, it was unpleasant, of course, to appear to the fencer as a dirty pig, but today, both of them would have to be tolerant.

She was on time, though she had to walk back and forth across the street twice. On the way she caught attentive scrutinizing glances, but there were no conflicts. At least one advantage of the big city had become clear - a single independent woman was not a novelty and did not attract special attention.

It took a long time to pound on the door, but Draftsman didn't open it. At last, something rattled and rattled on the other side of the door, very old and feeble, so Elena wondered if she was wasting her time. But she remembered how Figueredo had struck her with the scabbard and decided, no, she wasn't. The window opened with a loud bang, and a round owl's eye flashed out of the semi-darkness. He stared at Elena for a long time, unblinking, with a fixed pupil like a glass ball.

"Come in," said the master at last, rattling the key in the lock from inside.

"So, now let's test what you can do."

With those words, Draftsman handed her a small axe with a crescent-shaped blade and an armor-piercing beak on the opposite side. It was a compact but heavy weapon with an all-metal handle. Elena had seen them many times before - a purely knightly tool designed for mounted combat. It's a sort of penultimate chance weapon when both spear and sword-puncher are lost.

"Turn it over," the master ordered curtly and, seeing that the apprentice did not understand, explained irritably. "Change the striking part."

Elena obediently turned the axe the other way around. Claw forward, crescent toward herself.

"Once more."

The student tossed the axe a little, caught the right way.

"Again."

Done.

"One more. And continue."

The first twenty or thirty repetitions seemed easy. Then Elena quickly felt the full weight of the forged metal. Figueredo paced around like a hyena waiting for his prey to weaken. He held in his hand a long, thin stick that looked like a stack or a thick rod. Alas, there was no reason to doubt the purpose of the instrument. In the center of the circle, Elena clenched her teeth and grasped the axe. Blade forward, clave forward. Blade ... claw...

"Change hands," Draftsman ordered and condescended to explain. "In battle, it is often necessary to change opponents and choose the right way to fight them. Armored - prick, defenseless - chop. However, it must be done very quickly. Continue."

At first, the change of hands brought relief, but Elena quickly realized her left arm was definitely weaker. An excruciating pain crept along her tendons, filling her wrist and shoulder with a leaden weight. The girl clenched her jaws even tighter and leaned back slightly, bringing her elbow to her side, trying to relieve the working arm at least a little. The reward was immediately a whipping blow to her shoulder.

"Don't slack off," Draftsman ordered. "Faster. Clearer."

It all seemed different to her ... very differently. Elena was generally prepared for Figueredo to be harsh and mean. She was already aware of the craftsman's traditions and knew she would spend months cleaning the latrines, taking out the master's pot, and so on. It was the price of science. A price that could not be avoided in the world of shop corporations. But it was assumed that science would follow. The girl's imagination invariably drew something in the traditional Japanese style. Training at dawn, dawn rays sliding across a mirrored blade, meditations in the morning chill, and all that. The more so because meditations were familiar to the Breters of Ecumene, but they were called differently - "èistris`Sgrìobhaiche." It's literally translated as "listening to the Creator."

Figueredo was more unpleasant than she'd imagined. And the training... strange. And somehow very late, which was not practiced at all. There was a growing sense of impropriety. It was as if Draftsman not that he was having fun... but was loading her with a rather pointless activity, preparing a cruel joke. However, Elena continued. And a couple of interceptions before her fingers would refuse to obey, Draftsman ordered:

"Enough."

The apprentice struggled to keep from dropping the axe. She picked it up with both hands, remembering it was shameful and unworthy to drop a weapon according to local traditions.

"Throw it."

The girl looked at the teacher, perplexed.

"Drop it," Draftsman repeated impatiently, irritated, and another blow burned her hand. The axe clattered to the stone floor, and Helen clenched her aching hand, which was now sore from her mentor's blow as well.

"Take it."

Something changed in the atmosphere. The dark, dusty air, in which the shadows of the lamp's grave light danced, seemed to thicken, to sparkle with invisible tension. Elena grasped the hilt of a short cleaver, very similar to those used in the Wastelands. They were the most widely used bladed weapons in the Ecumene. Only axes were more common.

The blade is from the elbow to the fingertips. The hilt continues with a long "rat tail" bent forward to form a finger guard. The handle is sheathed with a leather cord or simple rope, often loose, designed to grip a hand in a thick leather mitten. A simple weapon, heavy, rather crude, but cheap. Any blacksmith capable of forging something more complicated than a nail could make such a weapon. Despite being "democratic" and popular, cleavers were also popular among professional warriors who valued cheap efficiency and widespread use. Learn to wield such iron, and you can arm yourself in any corner of the Ecumene.

"Position!"

Elena automatically adopted the rapier stance, the familiar, subconscious stance. Draftsman circled her again, scowling and making angry faces.

"I see," he said softly, more to himself than to his student.

"It's just as I thought..."

Elena didn't notice the blow. She didn't realize what Draftsman had done, but her right side felt as if it had been doused with boiling water. And almost immediately, the mentor's stick whipped her just above her left ear with a second blow. The student cried out, recoiling. Figueredo grinned, looking into her eyes full of pain and tears.

"You have a blade in your hand," he reminded her. "And all I have is a stick. So defend yourself!"

The other side, the point just below the collarbone, the thigh. This time Draftsman wasn't in a hurry, he seemed to be enjoying himself, showing Elena the blows she could see, but didn't have time to parry or at least evade.

"Kill me, you trashy wench!" barked the master. "Act!"

Elena lunged at him, remembering how Shena had tried to run over the witch on the ship with a desperate attack. She swung, gripping the awkward hilt with both hands. Figueredo evaded the attack with a professional ballerina's move - a step back with a ninety-degree turn and a tilted torso - letting Elena pass him. Once at her side, the master continued with a beautiful, smooth turn that ended with an exemplary leg hook. It seemed to Elena that the stick in Draftsman's hand had severed her hamstrings. The girl fell down, her nose hitting the stone painfully. This time she screamed out loud.

"Get up, animal," the master commanded, his nostrils flaring predatorily as if he were reveling in his victim's pain. "Get up unless you want to die in a pool of your piss like a pig in a slaughterhouse."

He waited until the student was on her feet, wobbling, balancing on the verge of falling. Then, with a quick under-step, he struck from top to bottom, across the collarbone, until the bone crunched, and immediately performed an arm-and-leg double. The girl knew what pain was. After all, the medic had nearly been killed by a night demon of the swamps, so her lower back still ached on damp nights. But now ... Now.

"Don't!"

The air whistled like a woken hornet under Draftsman's stick. The fencer lunged to the right and struck to the left, slowing down like a demonstration, but Elena still had no time to defend herself. The cleaver in her hands became traitorously heavy and seemed a useless piece of iron compared to the master's fluttering stick.

"Please!" The girl pleaded desperately.

"You didn't last long," Figueredo grinned. "You should have pleasured Vincent better, then he would have been kinder to you. And he didn't send you to me."

"No ... please ..."

Her chest hurt so badly that she couldn't breathe deep enough to speak loudly. Elena felt every bruised rib and sobbed, trying not to fall, struggling to balance on one leg, the one that hurt a little less.

"I've paid ..."

"And I accepted you as my apprentice."

The master's evil grin turned into a mask, his teeth in the light of the lamp seemed to glow with their own fire, as if illuminated by ultraviolet.

"I promised to teach. I am teaching. And now I'm going to teach you a great lesson. The most important lesson of your useless life. You won't need any others after this one."

She didn't want to sob; screaming was a shameful weakness. But the intolerable pain was squeezing the tears from his eyes. And there was no way to bear it silently. Now Elena realized what Draftsman meant when he mentioned "the science of pain," and she screamed again, now despite the pain, out of sheer terror. She realized that Figueredo had no intention of teaching the intruder at all. He was going to beat her to death.

Elena thought she knew the pain before she picked up the cleaver and received the first blow. Thought she knew pain after Figueredo started beating her. Well. she was wrong both ways. A good brether knows the vulnerabilities of the human body. A good fencer knows them much, much better. And Figueredo was very good and set himself up for a great result. The warm-up was over, and the master began the main lesson by breaking the student's right arm just above the wrist with one blow.

* * *