* * *

Elena assumed that a small war was about to break out, a robbery, a raid, or something similar. In a world where any man with a weapon was a priori a threat, a few horsemen were cause for alarm. But judging by Frels' reaction, nothing really scary has happened. Not yet, anyway...

The riders were approaching at a leisurely trot, the breeze fluttering the ensign, its design already visible: a rectangle in a frame with an emblem, plus two very long tails with abstract embroidery. Elena was not familiar with the symbolism, of course, but judging by the "tower" crown with simple teeth, the baron had come here, probably with an entourage.

Elena thought for a moment and stepped stealthily behind Pantin's back, glad that the sword was still in the house. If it came to a fight, there would be someone to act as a striking force, no need to provoke the wild and surely aggressive men by the sight of a woman with a weapon. She lowered her eyes, folded her hands on her belly, and slouched, taking on the most harmless and gray appearance.

"Such a luck, such a luck," Cadfal thought aloud. "Well, Pantocrator will measure it according to his craft."

The cavalcade came closer. No one drew swords, the riders had no normal spears at all, only djerids, which could be thrown and thrust at light infantry, mostly in pursuit. Hence, a fight was not expected, obviously, a courtesy visit was in order. Though... looking obliquely at Frels, Elena thought it was unlikely. The knight's sour expression, which he didn't even try to hide, reliably indicated that the guests were not only uninvited but also unpleasant.

The Redeemers maneuvered stealthily and deftly, and Elena found herself in the "box", covered from three sides. Grimal just as deftly covered Artigo, and Gamilla stepped resolutely in front of the minstrel, not so much placing her palm on the hilt of her dagger as holding it close. Obviously, the woman was going to fulfill her duties as a bodyguard within her paid term faithfully. While this quiet and seemingly disorderly swarming was going on, the cavalrymen came very close.

"Peace be upon this house!" The leader proclaimed loudly. His horse, as if to make an end to his short speech, thumped his hoof on a pebble. "May the Pantocrator bless the hosts and all the good people who have gathered within its walls."

The Baron looked simple and, one might say, “homely”. He wore no special signs or jewelry, not even a chain. He was quite young, with a classic “potty” haircut two fingers above his ears, without tails or braids, with very thin whiskers, more like cat whiskers. His face was even pleasant in its way, his gaze intelligent and attentive. The rider didn't shine with metal armor or at least chain mail but wore a gray jacket like a fleece jacket, with patches of thicker fabric on the collar and cuffs. Judging by the way the jacket fit, it was a lightweight brigandine, so the rider was not careless. And the buttons! Elena noticed that the Baron used buttons instead of laces in his clothes, and this already made the woman favorably inclined to him.

His companions looked much the same, well-built, well-dressed (for a remote province), not openly belligerent, but far from unarmed. Except, perhaps, for one. This one was trailing behind and was equipped as if he were planning to go on a crusade right now. Even to the medic's not-too-skillful eye, the cavalryman was extremely militant. He wore chain mail with plate inserts, a good helmet with a visor (though not silver-plated), and mitten gloves without separate fingers. A triangular shield at the saddle, a spear painted with spiral stripes in three colors. In contrast to the other warriors, it seemed this was not a man, but a self-propelled showcase of knightly ammunition. Only the shield was strange - bare waxed leather on a wooden base, not a single stroke, not even a tiny emblem. Elena furtively looked around and noticed that Frels, seeing the “exhibitionist” turned pale, and even shuddered a little.

The pause dragged on awkwardly. The peasants had gone somewhere, leaving their rudimentary tools behind. The cabbage was dripping in the troughs. At last, Frels stepped forward and, with obvious dislike but a polite quarter bow, said:

"Greetings, Your Grace, Mr. Bonald of Ashey."

Yes, that's right, Baron, that's how they're addressed. It's almost like “Donald,” except it's on the second syllable.

The freckled daughter of Frels froze, clutching the basket with white fingers. Mr. Bonald waited a few moments as if to emphasize that he was in charge and he determined the course of events. Then, with smooth, deliberately slow movements, he threw his leg over the saddle and jumped off the horse, whose reins were immediately taken over by one of his companions.

The Baron's sharp, attentive gaze scanned the redeemers and Ranjan with an invisible beam; the alien looked at Gamilla with curiosity; the minstrel, dressed as a scarecrow, smiled contemptuously. The Baron didn't seem to notice Helena at all, which was for the best; the social mimicry seemed to have succeeded.

Grimal, taking advantage of the moment, grabbed Artigo in his arms and carried him into the house, covering him with himself. The Baron glanced at the servant, and Elena did not like that glance. It was too attentive and sharp, and she could read in it the work of thought: why a child of a not peasant appearance was here, why the child was being taken away in a hurry, what he had to do with the motley company. Ranjan noticed it, too, but it would have taken a few weeks of talking to the Brether, as Elena had, to read the shadow of anxiety and discontent in the coldly inexpressive face.

Elena was expecting a firm handshake, but the gentlemen embraced, obviously out of necessity, clapping each other on the backs and indicating kind kisses, as brothers in class should. The kisses, of course, were of the air. Frels strained to taste the meager refreshment, but the Baron politely declined, referring to business, hurried and urgent, because a good feast means first of all a decent conversation, and what kind of conversation is short? Another time, by all means.

Bonald was good with his tongue. He had taken no lessons in Rhetoric, but he had practiced his speeches long enough to make the words fly out like arrows from an excellent archer. The cavalrymen partially dismounted but did not cross the invisible line, the conventional traverse through the lord. Judging by the insignia and patches, three or four of them were minor knights, the rest were typical sergeants. There was no obvious aggression, but such a fit retinue in itself inspired wary respect.

"My honorable sir, I see that you are blessed with a duty of hospitality. But let me take a moment of your time,” asked Bonald of Ashey, very courteously. He did not even carry a sword, but instead a dagger with a triangular blade, very broad at the base, as wide as the palm of his hand, hanging from his belt.

Frels again, as if with difficulty, tore his gaze away from the dressed-up cavalryman and concentrated on the polite interlocutor.

"Yes,” he said absentmindedly. "I'll allow it... Of course, I'll allow it.Э

"A tournament sword,” the Baron noticed that Ranjan was still holding the weapon. "A rare blade in our land. Would you be willing to identify yourself?"

"My name is Dotta,” Ranjan said grimly, making a rather deft and courtly bow. "Dotta is from the North. I do not have the honor of bearing a noble surname."

"A nobleman's weapon,” his grace raised an eyebrow. "And a very expensive one at that."

"The Assizes do not prohibit commoners from owning expensive weapons," Ranjan bowed again. "This is a gift."

“A valuable gift,” Bonald continued to frown, and the unspoken but clearly implied “too valuable” hung in the air.

"I'm a paid guard, Your Grace. I met a gentleman who was badly hurt by adverse circumstances and the road. I helped him, and he saw fit to repay me with arms."

"And what was the name of that generous gentleman?"

Frels pressed his lips together unhappily, but kept his mouth shut; he did not like the interrogation of his guests, but the Baron had not yet overstepped some bounds.

"Arpheus."

"Just Arpheus?" Bonald squinted.

"He did not give his full name, and I did not ask. If a worthy gentleman considers it necessary to remain incognito, it is not proper to encroach on his intention."

"Good words," Bonald approved. "And what is this service? Or is that also a secret?"

"No, Your Grace. I found him, wounded, bleeding on the road. I warmed him by making a fire, sharing supplies, and bandaging his wounds. Then I helped him get to town and find a good healer. He felt obliged and gave me a sword."

"On the Northern Road, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"What selflessness,” the Baron said sarcastically. "Rare honesty these days. I'd rather believe the story of a robbed corpse. Or a dagger stabbed in the back."

"Yes, unfortunately, it happens these days,” Ranjan bowed his head, perhaps to let the long strands hide the expression on Brether's face.

The Highlander, leaning against the fence, was quietly wrapping up the bandage as if everything that was happening did not concern the wounded man at all. The Baron turned his head to him and suddenly said with a wicked grin:

"Rumor had it that in the forest to the East of here, they set off crossbows for a poacher. He was a cunning bastard, he avoided all the traps. But he didn't run away from the crossbow. I bet if you unwound the rag, the wound would be very noticeable."

Elena lowered her head so no one would notice the crooked grin. She'd assumed something like that. Hunters would set reliable, proven snares, not a complicated self-shooter with an expensive arrow.

"I fell, and stumbled over a knife,” Maryadek said with suitable gloom. After a moment's thought, he added. "Your Grace."

"I would ask you not to make an interrogation,” said Frels with a very marked uncertainty, and Helena only now remembered that she had not heard his name the day before. "They are my guests, and I have seen no bad deeds from them and heard no bad words. From here on, and until duty calls them onward, they are under my roof and protection."

"Oh, my good friend, they're not under the roof,” the Baron smiled. It was a nasty smile, not a good one, but somehow Elena didn't feel threatened or truly endangered. It was as if his grace was playing a performance for a single audience.

"So custom and the letter of the law would have been followed exactly."

"The letter, but not the spirit. So, still..."

"Have it your way,” Bonald waved his hands, saying, ”I can't refuse."

A cunning crook, Elena thought, cunning and sharp-tongued. He had a knack for twisting everything with bare words as if it were not Frels in his right to give shelter to a guest against whom there was no clear evidence, and the baron was making leniency by backing down. A dangerous man. It's a good thing Grimal has already disappeared into the house, carrying Artigo away. Though... perhaps just the opposite, it might have aroused interest and suspicion, but what's done is done.

"I must confess that I am short and on business,” the baron said in a sort of bourgeois tone, without any pleasantries. He stood up so that he was not face to face, but rather side by side with Frels, somewhat more trusting.

"What do you want?" Frels asked as bluntly. You could sculpt or paint an allegorical figure of a troubled nymph from his daughter. Elena would have bet that what was on the girl's face was in the old landowner's soul. But why...? What was the point of this performance? And why is Frels squinting so uncertainly, anxiously at the dressed-up horseman? And the latter, it seems, in his turn, is somehow worried about something, in any case, clearly avoiding a direct look, now and then nervously pulling the reins, making the horse anxious, beating his hoof and snorting.

“I wanted to make sure that your wealth was up to par,” the Baron said bluntly as if he'd hit a chink in the wood with an axe. “As a good neighbor, and as a head lord, of course.”

Frels gasped with indignation, but Bonald took the initiative and wrought iron words like a water hammer.

“Time passes quickly. Winter days are short, nights are long, and spring creeps up unnoticed. I don't see any good horses...” The Baron glanced at the skeleton-shaped structure blowing in from all sides of the world. That must have been the stables. “To be honest I don't see even one horse in there. I also doubt if there's a sturdy chain mail with a brass plaque of honorable Guild, a spear, a shield, a saddle, and all the other essentials waiting for you in the house.”

Such a golden tongue, Elena admired involuntarily. Or, perhaps, he often repeats the same thing. It seems that right now before her eyes the drama of petty chivalry was being played out. And, she guessed, it would be clear why Frels was so calm when it came to the spring review. The Baron had noted the absence of property correctly.

Frels turned and took a step back as if being side by side with the baron was a real pain. He straightened like the shaft of a pike and set his left foot back as if preparing for a dash. All uncertainty flew away like cobwebs in the wind.

"It is not for you to count my horses!" The old warrior shouted, his courtesy at once abandoned. "It is not for you to look in my chests!"

"That's true,” said Bonald. "But I'll have to answer to His Lordship! The time of long peace is coming to an end. Not today or tomorrow the Earl will ask: Heir to the name of Ashey, where is my troop and the good men in it? It is time to defend our ancient privileges, for our old rivals are eager to overturn the boundary markers. What shall I tell him?"

"What to say to the Earl is your concern!" growled Frels, resolute and vigorous. "Our ancestors made the rules, and they made them wisely. What was right for them is right for us! My service this year is done, and all my days are counted properly. Until the snow melts next year, I'm free from obligation! When it's time for the review, we'll talk then. In the meantime."

Elena noted that when it came to the review, the knight's voice trembled slightly, just a little, but still. The baron seemed to notice it, too, his plain, but not unpleasant face twisted into a grin.

"In the meantime, get out!" Frels clenched his fists.

"You receive your guests unkindly,” Bonald folded his arms across his chest and put his foot back. "Not according to the old customs, not according to honor and rank."

"When a guest forgets about decorum, he is shown the door!" The knight was not in debt.

It seemed as if Bonald would grind his teeth to the gums at that very minute, the insult was serious, Elena could almost hear the grinding of enamel, but the Baron held back, smiled forcedly, and said:

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Let's leave the bickering aside. If I did not show the appropriate courtesy and overstepped some boundaries in the heat of the moment, it is the fault of hot-headedness, not the desire to offend."

Bonald's companions looked at each other, apparently not quite sure how to proceed. The Baron was clearly avoiding an admission of guilt, much less an open apology, but Frels didn't seem inclined to fight to the bitter end either. Perhaps the potential for negotiation had not yet been exhausted. Pantin gently stroked his short beard, squinted a little with a look of sorrow, but somehow abstracted, as if he regretted in general the wickedness of the human race. His absolutely white mustache and beard seemed even lighter against the background of his tanned face. And no one seemed to be confused by the sight of his inhuman eyes, though the medicine woman doubted that strangers even noticed the sorcerer. Why, with such abilities, would he even take up a sword? There was something wrong with these warrior-mages.

"My friend,” said Bonald, making another run. "Should we resist the inevitable?"

Frels looked the way there was no doubt that if he had a sword, the fight would probably have started by now. But the knight was silent and seemed to be listening, even though it seemed as if smoke and sparks were coming out of his ears.

You're not such a good negotiator, Elena concluded, glancing at the baron furtively. You should have gone in from afar, more gently, and, of course, without witnesses. And here is a serious talk, and in front of observers. It's a miracle that it has not escalated into a scandal. Although... maybe that was the plan. Yes, it was certainly not her place to criticize a stranger for lack of diplomatic skills.

While Elena was experiencing a pang of shame at the memory of Artigo's recent education, the situation was heating up again. The healer listened to the Baron's soft, almost cordial suggestion, but Frels' reaction was immediate.

"Are you out of your mind?!" literally roared the old warrior. "We have never served as Ruthiers, and we never will!"

"Not Ruthiers. The fate of a Lóvag is also honorable and thus can be saved...” Bonald protested, trying to save the day, but it was too late. Frels was as furious as a haystack full of hay when a torch was thrown into it.

"Lovagh, ruthier, what difference does it make!" Frels, crimson with exertion, shouted in such a way that he looked as if he were about to have a stroke. “'Even a Betyar! It's all the same! This is my land, seventeen generations have fought for it and fallen ashes into it!”

"You will keep your fief,” the Baron made one last attempt. His retinue pulled together, and those who had dismounted stood shoulder to shoulder, the mounted men did something, Elena, being a very bad rider, didn't understand what, but the horses were also alert, shaking their hooves.

"Yes, not all of it, but enough for your children to keep the title. I don't need to ruin you, I need to..."

"You filthy bastard!" Frels shouted, shaking his fists. "You're going to take my domain, leave me a shred of it so I can barely turn on my heel! And turn me into a mercenary! Now, remember, that ain't gonna happen! You came to me like a snake, sneaking in with words of friendship, and you wanted to shame me in front of my family, guests, and servants!"

"You have no servants,” laughed the Baron insultingly and with evident superiority, throwing aside the now useless restraint.

"But I have what you, your children, and your children's children will never have!" Frels growled, raising a clenched fist, not to threaten a beating, but rather to signify the weight of his words. The contemptuous grin left the baron's face at once, and Bonald seemed to understand what the knight intended to say next.

"I have honor,” Frels said in a loud, deliberate voice. "My lineage, stretching across three centuries without interruption. I live in the past and the future, as an heir and father. I am a nobleman by land and blood, that is what you will never have. Asha of the rope-men who bought a pedigree wife and a place in someone else's antechamber for thieving gold. Barons of the inkwell!"

Bonald turned pale and reflexively grasped the hilt of his dagger, while Frels grinned wildly and spread his arms as if offering himself as a sacrifice. The daughter cried out and rushed to her father, but Gamilla intercepted her, throwing her into the minstrel's arms to stop the freckled girl from doing anything foolish.

"What, are you going to kill me?" Frels laughed.

"Oh, no,” the Baron's handsome face twisted in a grimace, and he struggled to hold himself together, but he did. "I won't even challenge you to a duel of honor, my good man. You don't want to give a part of it away while keeping the core? Then you lose everything."

"I cannot be taken out of my class,” said Frels haughtily. "You can't gather thirteen noble men to take the sin of misjudgment upon their souls. And the military gathering is not until spring. I shall be ready for it."

"And you think your scheme will succeed?" Bonald laughed without hiding his mockery. "Oh, Pantocrator, so naive....."

He cut short his laughter, at once, as if he had slammed the iron-clad lid of a chest.

"Collect silver, buy a full set of equipment, and pass it to each other one by one, passing the inspection. Changing the harness and cape, repainting the shield, good idea."

Now Frels turned pale. He took a step back as if shielding himself from the murderous words.

"Hey!” the Baron waved without deference or even looking back.

Slowly, as if the rider's hand were not firm, the horse came out, carrying the very same well-equipped soldier. The cavalryman turned away, looked pointedly away, and generally showed a full picture of a guilty conscience.

"Bone of the earth, salt of the army,” said the Highlander, but without much sarcasm. "Well, everything is clear now."

"How could it be...” With these words Frels stepped forward, looking upward. The woman couldn't see his face, but judging by his figure, the old man was already crushed by the realization of the disaster, but still frantically hoping for a miracle.

"How could... like this? Did you really sell us out?"

"Oh, no,” the Baron answered in place of the silent rider. "He didn't sell you. He robbed you. He bought ammunition and a horse with all the money you had collected. And then he ran away. Well...” Now Bonald looked around. "Not too far, really. Now he was ashamed of his unworthy behavior and wished he hadn't hung himself from the first tree."

"You can't..."

"Of course I can. He's not even a squire. I'll go through the rest of you who were involved in this fraud, show him to everyone, and then I'll hang him up...."

The rider who had stolen the horse and armor was the third person who had changed color during the not-too-long conversation, becoming white, but if the Baron and Frels were pale with rage, this poor man was painted with horror.

"... Or not,” Bonald added. "We'll see. Depends on his willingness to testify for the truth. "Now get out."

Obeying the new gesture, the traitor pulled on the reins, forcing the horse to stagger back to the background. The baron's retinue now grinned openly, triumphant. Gaval released the dark-haired daughter of Frels; the girl was in no hurry to flee, broken and humiliated by the bad news.

"I...” Frels pressed his lips together. For a moment it even seemed that he was ready to make peace in the light of, so to speak, newly discovered circumstances. But the pride of a nobleman of blood and land prevailed.

"You'll get nothing,” the old man said with iron determination, his hands behind his back. "Nothing. In the spring, I will march in front of my peers, on horseback and properly armed. You will be shamed."

Cadfal snorted angrily and clenched his wand with both hands, the hard fibers seeming to creak. It was unclear what had hurt the redeemer so much.

"By spring, you'll have at best re-mortgaged everything you can and put together an incomplete set with a skinny nag," the Baron commented mockingly. Evidently, Bonald had given up trying to come to an agreement and was now scoffing openly. "And I, in the sight of men of honor, will accuse all of you."

The face of the thieving horseman beneath the retracted visor reflected incredible relief.

"The buyer, the seller, and one of your four will probably agree to testify against the others. That'll be enough for a nobleman's apella."

"Thirteen worthy men,” I had to give Frels credit for holding his ground. "They'll dismiss the testimony of the nobodies and the threatened accusation. Apella will not take your side. I am a nobleman, and you are a hyena picking up scraps."

"It will, it will,” the Baron smirked. "There's nothing in the book that says an apella can't be made up of lovags. And you could be a part of it if you were a little smarter. As it is, you won't be a man of honor before the first haymaking."

"I'll always be him! - Frels growled, pounding his fist on his chest. - Honor cannot be given or taken away at the stroke of a quill. And if you manage to buy an Apella, there is still the Court! The Court will protect my rights."

"What Court?" The “inky” nobleman laughed heartily, sincerely. "Justiciars and judges are now playing the game, dividing property and power while Milvesse is shaky. Justice can be obtained, but it must be paid for. I have what it takes to buy myself some justice. Do you?"

"I'll complain,” Frels didn't give up. "I will go to..."

"And where will you go?" the baron interrupted him, no longer embarrassed. "The Emperor is far away, he can't see from the throne. The king-tetrarch has his own concerns, he can't stop the vendetta of Ayme-Dorbo and the one-eyed whore Carnavon, so look, the royal capital will burn. What does he have to do with the vain concerns of our wilderness? The Regency Council has sold out to the islanders, let them not come to us with their capitularies. The Earl loves and appreciates me. He needs order and an army in constant service, I give them, regularly and effectively. I am needed and useful to everyone, and you are a proud beggar."

Frels moved his lips as if reciting incredibly sophisticated insults and arguments to himself, but he only spoke aloud:

"Get out."

“Whatever you say,” agreed the Baron and ordered his men. “Mount up, we're leaving. But remember...” Bonald turned his whole body toward Frels again. “I came to you with an open heart and an honest offer, and you spit in them. I allowed you to still call yourself a man of honor. In return, you have insulted and humiliated me before my companions, as well as before the unbred and alien people.”

"Get out," the Frels repeated, sounding devastated and clearly having lost all his anger.

“But I am kind,” the Baron grinned, ignoring the demand, feeling the force. “I will allow you to atone for the sin of hubris. Now we'll ride off into the sunset to visit the next man on the list of swindlers. On horseback, of course, but without haste. Find a nag, if there are any left on this farm. Maybe there's a mule. No mule, get on a donkey, or run very fast. If you catch up with us by mid-day watch, I'll let you stay a lovag and even own this ruin called a castle. If you're done before sundown, I'll let you stay as a tenant, albeit a penniless one. And I'll even marry off your daughter in a more favorable marriage, for I am kind! The Aimee-Dorbo have made it a good custom to marry their body archers and guards to maidens of good families but without much ambition. It is not good for a wife to have great ambition.”

The daughter squeaked pitifully, and Gaval hugged her again, pulling her tighter.

The Baron glanced at the house where Grimal and Artigo had hidden. He lingered for a moment, as if pondering, and Elena realized clearly that if Bonald said anything, did anything, or gave even the slightest excuse to Ranjan, that word or action would be the last in the life of the “inky”. And then it would be a fight to the last man, because the retinue had to avenge their patron, and the travelers, in turn, could not let the witnesses out alive.

It was all right. In one motion the Baron flew up into the saddle; for a few moments it seemed as if he would spit one last time, but no, he restrained himself from the plebeian gesture. The riders moved on, pulling into a column of two. Frels stood looking down at his feet for a while, his shoulders slumping. The daughter finally broke free and ran up to hug her father, saying something unintelligible. They both hugged each other tightly and joylessly and shuffled toward the house, paying no attention to the people around them.

"It's all right,” Cadfal said, surprisingly angry. "But we must not linger here. Let's get on our way."

"But what about...” Gaval said, but the crossbowwoman slapped him on the wrist and shouted something about an ass that should be held in check.

"Do we not...” Elena murmured, more automatically than at a call of the soul. "No way...?"

"No way,” Pantin said gloomily.

"But we..."

"We will leave, one way or another. And they," Pantin pointed towards the house. "Will remain. Alone with the consequences of our intercession."

"Like we're running,” the woman said angrily.

"It is,” the gray-eyed man said gravely. "And you must run very fast. The county is small, but the roads are bad. We must go South, to the border of the realm."

Ranjan slid his sword into its scabbard with a clatter and strode sprawlingly toward the house, obviously to check on Artigo.

"Take me away from here,” the Highlander asked in a surprisingly polite manner, pulling himself up on a fence post. "I won't be a burden."

"You can barely walk," Elena grimaced.

"I'll make a crutch," suggested Maryadek, firmly standing on his healthy leg. "You won't be able to walk very fast with your luggage and the child, I'll catch up with you. There's no way I can stay here."

"And why do we need you?" Rapist asked abruptly. "A one-legged poacher?"

"I'm a crippled fighter now, but still a fighter. Half a warrior is better than no warrior. I also know how to set traps and get food in the woods. It's a bad hunt here, the animals have been killed, but the little things are still caught who haven't laid down till spring."

"Pack up,” Rapist said laconically, curiously, without the slightest interest in his companions' opinions and with Cadfal's acquiescence. "I'll help you with the crutch, but you'll have to walk with it yourself, we don't wait for stragglers."

"You'll give the healer all the money. The money in the belt, too,” Gamilla, as it turned out, was monitoring the situation well and hearing everything she needed to.

“Then at least let me ride a horse from time to time,” the Highlander muttered, but without pressure. From the look of him, he would have agreed to pay with his clothes, if they would have taken him with them and let him warm himself by the fire under guard.

* * *

"It was wrong that we didn't help,” Elena muttered under her breath. She was ashamed, and though common sense told her that there was nothing she could do about it, it didn't stop her from feeling ashamed.

They packed quickly and left without delay. Ranjan silently placed two more coins on the table. Frels thanked him with a nod, and that was the end of the farewell. The travelers had brought with them vegetables for the journey and cooked chicken so that the food crisis was postponed for a few days.

"We should have...” the woman repeated.

It sounded pathetic and useless, like a promise to beat everyone up after a lost fight. Cadfal heard Elena and acted unexpectedly. The Redeemer pulled in his cheeks, moved his jaws as if sucking out all the moisture he could gather, then spat on the curb and cursed quietly.

"What are you about?" Elena didn't understand.

"Nob-i-i-ility," the redeemer stretched out with incredible contempt. And spat again with the words. "Poor Frels, the soul is torn with grief. Bastard..."

"What's the matter with you?!" The healer said sharply.

"She doesn't understand," said Rapist, walking as usual in small and frequent steps, his shoelaces tied with laces dangling from his chest. "Brother, she had not encountered knights or cultivated cropland. She really doesn't understand."

Cadfal moved his jaws as if about to spit a third time, but held back. And asked:

" A poor knight, eagle-eyed, heart forged of solid nobility, right? That's what it looks like from the outside, right?"

"Well... yes," in the soul of the medicine woman fought two feelings, on the one hand, natural indignation, on the other suspicion that here not everything is not so obvious, otherwise straight as a spear redeemer would not sneer.

"Nobility!" snorted Cadfal. "But tell me, Hel... you've seen their household, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it will yield sixteen kilograms of silver a year in net profit?"

"Well..." Elena thought for a moment. Thanks to the Milves school of life, she was able to estimate the profitability of urban trades. But agriculture...

"I'll give you a hint. No way. Eight kilos, maybe. If it's a good year. The winter will be warm and snowy. And only if everything the land gives is converted into money, not a penny to feed the villagers."

An understanding dawned in Elena’s head of what the Redeemer was leading to, but so far it was weak, like a spark in the night. Such a rotten spark, more like a will-o'-the-wisp among the swamps.

"And tell me, master of knife and potion, do you think the noble Frels will spare at least a pot of silver to feed their own? Or will he squeeze every last drop out of them, every last bulb and apple, in order to equip himself for the inspection properly? To pay a little of the debts he would now go deeper into?"

"But there are rules, laws. There are no serfs here!" Elena tried to argue.

"La-a-a-w?" Cadfal said snidely. "You saw him this morning. In all its glory, from all sides. Didn't you like the fat face of justice?"

Elena swallowed and lowered her eyes to her feet, to the trampled ground of the road.

"Well, what about Frels,” said Cadfal, who was getting angry. "Will he exchange his three hundred years of noble lineage for the full stomachs of the filthy peasant? Or would he not? Or would he starve them to death, but find the silver?"

Elena was silent. Her stomach hurt, and her soul felt disgusting as if a bucket of sewage had been splashed.

“You are silent,” the redeemer stated sadly and without any triumph. "And tell me then, what difference does it make for the poor fellows that now they are picking at the cold earth with wooden hoes, who will skin them in the spring, a worthy Frels or an unworthy Baron? Both need the same thing. Exactly the same thing."

The Baron is better,” Gamilla suddenly said. "He has a lot of tenants and farm laborers. He doesn't have to struggle for every penny. He can afford to rob everyone so that there is little left. Not out of kindness, but to gain a little fat, he can cut it off next year. But the Frels have no reason to think about future years, they will come when they come, but the estate must be preserved now."

Rapist, without stopping, tapped the shaft of his spear, as if to make a point and agree.

“It's just that one of them wasn't too turntable,” Cadfal rounded off the thought. “And that's why poor, unfortunate, he has to eat with the filthy crowd, an orphan, his daughter is shoveling chicken shit with her white, lordly hands. And the other is a little more cunning and meaner, on a good horse and with a retinue on the mountains and hills. But if fate had turned a little differently, you wouldn't have noticed the difference. The Baron would be proud and honest, and Frels would be choking on his three hundred years of pedigree...”.

"Enough," Rapist asked softly and forcefully. "Enough."

"Enough is enough,” Cadfal still spat once more.

"You from the peasants." it dawned on Elena. “He,” she pointed to the old spearman. "Is a knight. But you don't. You saw it all yourself, right? From below... from the bottom?"

Cadfal remained silent, but that silence was more eloquent than any words.

"Enough,” Rapist asked softly, more like gently commanded. "Many different words have been said today. And after long speeches, it is best to be silent."

He gripped his spear more comfortably and walked faster. Cadfal sped up, too, moving with surprising agility for his cubic form. The Highlander's stick clattered behind him, and he was indeed keeping pace.

Again the journey, again the wandering, Elena thought. Again a life in danger, complete uncertainty ahead. But now Pantin was with them, mysterious, frightening, and, it must be assumed, there would be a heart-to-heart talk in the evening. What interested the woman most was what Pantin had said, “Did you think your name was Elena?”. For she knew quite clearly that she had never revealed her earthly name to anyone here.

* * *