Chapter 7
The will at the tip of a quill
* * *
Filthy degenerates.
The lord of Malersyde was angry and ill at ease, struggling to recover from his magical transition. Age, damn it... In addition, the Duke could not tolerate all sorcery and reasonably feared magical travel, but the urgent need to forget about the principles. As usual, after such kind of travel, he felt dizzy and dizzy, and a feeling of some kind of disorganization. It was as if the parts of the soul had been taken apart and then put together carefully, but with the smallest mistakes, invisible to the eye, as when restoring a complex mosaic of different colors.
But a hundred times more unpleasant than any bodily ailments was the humiliating feeling of dependence, of inevitable subordination to another's will. Patrons snapped their fingers, and the lord duke was forced to rush to the call, even without being aware of the object of such an urgent need. It had never occurred to anyone that the master of Malersyde, with its second largest and most important port on the continent, might have other concerns. But Duke Wartensleben is in a hurry, risking part of his soul in a magical passage, lest the island Bonoms prove displeased...
Filthy degenerates, the duke repeated to himself, glad the magic that allowed read minds had long since been lost. Centuries before magic began to leave this world.
It should be noted that in his energetic and expressive characterization, there was a considerable amount of truth. Before the Cataclysm, Saltoluchard Island (or rather, two islands separated by a shipping channel) was deservedly considered the poorest and most useless corner of the Ecumene There had never been anything useful. Even the middle mountains of the continent seemed richer and more respectable. At least there was grass growing and sheep grazing there. On the Island, sea salt was boiled in stone baths under the hot sun, but it was of the lowest quality. Fish and corned beef were bitter and did not last long.
Therefore, only one noble family ruled on the Island - the Aleinsae [1] - and even that, to tell the truth, belonged to the Primators rather nominally. No one respected her, no one was not in a hurry to be married, and in general, they were kept as a guest under the stairs.
Everything changed after the Old Empire collapsed. In a matter of months, the former rulers of the world had become a pack of hyenas, fighting to the death for the shards of the old world. And Saltoluchard was suddenly the safest piece of land within the inhabited world precisely because no one claimed it. In addition, Salt Island had retained most of its fleet, unlike the other coastal houses that had squandered ships in desperate naval battles, lost to broken repair yards and non-magical navigational errors. Amidst the growing chaos, the Island became a safe harbor, able to defend itself against any enemy. And then, as the ravaged continent began the long road to recovery, the Aleinse family took over much of the maritime trade, ruthlessly wiping anyone who had anything against the monopoly off the map. Salt came in handy, too, albeit a nasty one, but cheap and the only one available. It laid the foundation of Aleinsae's wealth, which in time surpassed that of the Fillamont family, which had long held the banking business of the whole East and which also withstood the winds of change.
The Islanders retained many old habits and traditions, including old fashions, as well as a penchant for close marriages. At first, because no one wanted to be related to distant beggars, sending promising daughters to the salty desert. Then - in the years of chaos and desperate war of all against all - in order not to disperse power and family wealth. This approach was inevitably reflected in the physiognomies of the Aleinse, repeatedly parodied in puppet shows, pamphlets, and engravings.
No, so disgusting faces! Duke Wartensleben thought again, taking a sip of wine.
What do they want?
The dinner in honor of the dear guest was rather modest. One should even say minimalist. There were no feasts, pleasure trips, shark hunts, or other entertainment. A windowless room with a very low ceiling, more like a casemate (albeit luxuriously draped), light appetizers of garden fish, some imported white wine, more for order than for drinking. And three hosts gathered to meet the Duke. In other circumstances, such a reception might have been considered insulting, but this was not the case. The small square table was very low, barely above the knees of the people sitting there, the three Bonoms and a guest from the continent. One man to each side of the dark brown wood varnished to mirror-like condition. The Duke, as the guest of honor, got the north side, with three family members keeping him company.
Yulo, responsible for the circulation of precious metals, was distinguished by her tall stature, goddess-like build, and grandiose wig. A mound of finely curled hair rose two palms high, falling in broad waves over her shoulders. A yellow ribbon tied in a dapper knot above her ear was across her forehead, and beneath the ribbon were glassy eyes, one of which was noticeably squinting.
Girolamo, the representative of the Board of Trade, was not old, but he looked as shabby and, one might say, as worn as a shoe shined for the first time after months of wear. His narrow nose and sagging lips seemed more like those of a doll than a man.
The third was Curzio, a member of the Privy Council with a wide range of tasks that could be defined as "solving his family's problems and inflicting them on others." Of the three, he seemed the most normal and wore a continental dress. Only his hair was old-fashioned islander, shaved from front to top, the strands at the sides curled in hard rolls, the remaining backcombed up and back to give the impression of an elongated, ovoid skull.
The duke took a small sip, breathed in the warm air, and felt a pang of envy. The walls of the casemate were double: stone and velvet on exquisite frames. The space was filled with pepper, which had been ground and dried specially. The air was in constant contact with the spicy substance, acquiring a marvelous aroma and healing properties. Each breath soothed the troubled soul, sharpened thoughts, and cleared the throat. The owner of Malersyde, despite his wealth, could afford to fill only a few bottles in this way. Such wealth... unnerved.
"We're glad you were able to take our advice," Curzio politely rejoiced and set down his glass, signaling that it was time for a serious conversation.
"What sort of advice?" inquired the old proprietor in the same dignified manner. "You have given much valuable, eminently wise advice, and I have found use for much of it."
"Silver," squeaked Yulo laconically. "The fifty 'dry' barrels[2] you were so fortunate to procure in small portions in the east."
The duke set down a glass of the purest glass without a single bubble of air. There was not a shadow of emotion on Bonom's face, and the aristocrat thought that no matter how many eavesdroppers you torture, there will always be more. Not that the owner intended to keep the silver negotiation a secret from his "friends," but something was humiliating about the ease with which the operation had been exposed.
"Ore, crude metal," the lord dryly retorted. "After refining, the net yield will be considerably less."
"And yet it is eminently profitable and wise to stockpile silver in advance," Curzio smoothed the tension that had arisen. "Is there already a shortage of money in your land?"
"Yes," admitted the duke. "I have sent emissaries to all parts of the world, who have secretly and carefully collected a few coins of every possible denomination in all the great cities, measured and weighed them."
"Were we right?" Yulo shrugged again, twitching the loosely hanging end of the knot of her yellow ribbon.
The question was clearly rhetorical, but the Duke felt it was proper to answer politely, once again paying tribute to the foresight of the Coin Council.
"Definitely. Coinage seems to be in decline everywhere due to a lack of metals. Money wears out naturally, and new money is minted rarely and sparsely. It's ..." the duke paused briefly. "Unpleasant."
"Forewarned is half-armed," Curzio smiled wryly. "One must seek solace in the fact that even though we are facing a new challenge, we have the opportunity to prepare for it in advance."
"Not long ago, I read a very interesting book," the duke said neutrally. "There was a chapter where the author considered separately the benefits and harms of minting copper and bronze coins. It seems that this is a way out of the predicament. Combining in an alloy not so expensive separate ingredients, which together acquire a completely different value."
"Perhaps," said Girolamo, who had been silent until then. "Perhaps. But those worries are for the day after tomorrow. Now we are concerned with matters of the day."
"So?" the Duke grimaced inwardly at his inability to lean on the back of a normal chair. The island's poufs and low banquettes, upholstered in red-colored cloth, were luxurious, but they were tiring to sit on. They were not meant for sitting; the Island tradition was to recline at the table, like the legendary patricians of the Old Empire.
"To begin with, we are pleased that now, including your efforts, the stock of precious metals at our fingertips has multiplied. It will come in handy shortly. You don't intend to sell silver to the Imperial Mint, do you?"
"No," the duke pressed his thin lips together, not even trying to hide his displeasure at such an obvious claim on his personal reserve.
"Time to begin," Girolamo said, simply and mundanely.
"What?" the duke blurted out.
"It is time to begin, my friend," Curzio repeated almost sympathetically. "A new table has been drawn in the Hall of Intentions, and the first cell has already been crossed out. That is why you have been asked to be our guest so unexpectedly and ... quickly. The countdown is on. We couldn't waste time on your sea voyage. We must discuss the steps you must take, as we agreed before. Because now the steps will have to be a little faster. And, as you have already realized, we will be forced to ask for a loan. The Mint Council needs more silver. Including your stockpile."
"More?" asked the duke curtly, obeying a momentary impulse. "And how much do you need?"
"Everything," Yulo replied without a shadow of a smile. She never seemed to have blinked once since the conversation began.
"Our plan requires a lot of spending," Curzio rounded the sharp corners again. "Unfortunately, at these stakes, we have to throw everything we have on the board. But the future winnings will be worth it."
The duke bowed his head, hoping the shadow would hide the storm of emotion on his pale face. The subtle odor of precious pepper suddenly seemed like the stench of a well-aged corpse.
"Why such haste?" questioned the duke deafly.
"There were circumstances."
"You decided to time everything for the Tournament of Faith after all," the aristocrat didn't ask but stated.
Curzio remained silent.
The Duke raised his head, feeling red with rage, no longer trying to hide his anger and frustration.
"I was under the impression that we were having a . partnership," he said quietly, and the Bonom's voice sounded like a snake's hiss.
"It is," Girolamo confirmed.
"It doesn't seem so," the duke leaned over the table like a viper ready to lunge. "Partnership itself implies an alliance. A treaty. Joint plans."
The duke took a breath. The islanders listened silently, like sinister puppets in a theater of evil legends.
"I was to have an audience with the Privy Council and the Doge. We agreed that I would give them my thoughts and criticisms. And you would take them into account because the House of Wartensleben is your strongest ally on the continent. And now you call me like a servant boy and tell me it's already been decided. That's not partnership. And that's not respect."
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Curzio was silent for a moment, making sure everything had been said, and now it was time for him to speak. He leaned forward and put his smooth-shaven forehead under the bright light of the magic lamp.
"No, my friend. It is precisely respect. Yes, you were not seen fit to be consulted. There were reasons for that. However, you are here now to discuss the way forward. I assure you, few have been so honored. Emissaries have been sent to most of our allies with instructions on what must be done and when."
The Duke sat with his hands down, carefully relaxing his fingers so as not to give away his feelings with clenched fists. He breathed evenly according to the Brethers' rule, imagining snow-capped peaks as he inhaled and hot aspen embers as he exhaled to relieve the pressure of bad thoughts on his heart.
So the masks are off. He's been pointed to a place in the Plan, after all. And in a future partnership with the name Aleinsae. A privileged second place. No equality. No offer of a real partnership, no cross-breeding of second or third-rate bloodlines, as with Clavel. This is even though the ruler is a widower and his daughter is at the ideal age for marriage and childbearing. No choice. Now, only forward, together with the Island, to the victorious end of the amazing, unprecedented scam, which required all the silver and gold of the world to earn even more, many times more gold and silver in the end.
Maybe we should all take a little break. Take a break and savor the finest of our fine cuisine. By the way, Clavel is eager to meet her beloved father. She's ready to show up ahead of your wishes, as befits a respectful child.
The question sounded for the sake of order, without pressure or appropriate intonation. The questioner knew the answer in advance, and the duke shook his head expectantly:
"No. Clavel no longer belongs to the Wartensleben family," the duke said.
"I understand that."
There was a carefully measured note of participation in Curzio's words. There was an impression that he was no more interested in what was going on than the master of Malersyde. Perhaps the island Bonom, too, believed that the rush should be slow and calculated. And he, too, was compelled to take action. On the other hand, everyone knows that the aristocrats of Saltoluchard learn insidious impersonation in their mother's womb. It is not without reason that in the days of the Old Empire, the art of creating amazing masks was born here and honed to perfection. The whole participation of the interlocutor could well be just a sweet cloud on a vomiting pill. Even if there was sweetness on the tongue, the bitterness would inevitably end up in the stomach.
"Now, let's discuss the details," Curzio finished the preliminary ritual with polite adamancy, and the duke settled into the idea that genuine grief was nothing more than honey-smeared fingers used to shove milk-soaked grain down a goose's throat to grow a fatty liver. Like it or not, you have to swallow.
"Now..." he held up two fingers as if shielding himself for a few moments from the onslaught of another's will. He grinned fleetingly, thinking that the gesture looked remarkably like the traditional salute of the bigots. Ironic. Considering that believers in the Savior and Protector had long been the majority on the Islands. While on the continent, they had been belittled and belittled by the servants of Pantocrator.
The Duke closed his heavy eyelids, inhaled, and exhaled again until his nostrils were once again tickled by the subtle odor of the Spice Phoenix. Well, he would have to play the cards he had drawn in his pursuit of power. Let's see what can be gained by patience and willingness to play second fiddle.
And Flessa would have to change her plans again. The youngest daughter was currently in Milvesse, dealing with some family matters. She was supposed to go to Saltoluchard to represent the Wartensleben's interests and to strengthen family friendship, ideally until marriage to one of Aleinsae's firstborns. Now ... The girl likes fun, and it seems that Paraclet favors her by giving her a chance to settle in the capital for a long time. At the same time, it will be an opportunity to see if the third daughter is able to draw the boundaries between duty and idleness. Her father had never doubted Flessa's determination before, but the various temptations of Milvess broke even hardened men.
"North wind," said the Duke, opening his eyes and slapping himself vigorously on his knees.
"?"
"The north wind has long been considered a bringer of good fortune, has it not?" the duke revealed a knowledge of island traditions. "After all, it is the wind that fills the sails of the merchants who rush home with billows full of good goods, full-weight gold, and weightless spider silk, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Curzio bowed his head in agreement.
"I appreciate that my seat at this table is on the north side. And I hope that doesn't change in the future when the whole world is on the tabletop."
"It's entirely possible," Curzio suggested, the other islanders bowed their heads in acquiescence.
"Then let us begin the discussion," the duke said firmly. He looked energetically confident and willing to bargain, even under severely restricted conditions. The lord could only hope that he had managed to hide the fear lurking in the depths of his heart. Fear and an incomprehensible, unreasonable, but at the same time firm belief that something far greater than the great Fraud was being decided today.
It must be said his faith, derived from purely mystical, non-material trends, was quite justified, although the old man was not aware of it. Nor did he know that he was now literally deciding the fate of the world or, as poetically expressed in olden times, "holding the will of the Lord at the tip of his quill." Although, to be precise, at these moments, the history of the Ecumene for decades ahead was being written by two people. And while one of them was energetically haggling, the other was about to hang herself.
* * *
The noose twisted by itself. It was the first time she'd ever done it, but it was as if she'd been apprenticed to an executioner for years. She twisted the classic thirteen curls, laughing hysterically and humming to herself:
"She says
Don't let go
Never give up, it's such a wonderful life
Don't let go
Never give up, it's such a wonderful life." [3]
The noose was ready. Elena looked out the window, which was blocked by a murky plate of mica. The short winter day was drawing to a close, and she would never see the evening again. And thank goodness for that. The girl looked around her room (though by the standards of the capital's crowdedness, it would be more correct to say "chambers"), furnished poorly and at the same time well. Living on the third floor, under the roof, had its drawbacks, mostly cold. But there were advantages. At the moment, these included the high ceiling and the rafters, dark with time and dried to stone hardness, over which a rope could be conveniently thrown. Elena was tired, so she didn't play Acrobat or Lasso Thrower. She pulled up a stool, climbed on it, and built a proper gallows. She twisted more knots to make sure it was secure. She jumped down on the wooden floor and took a critical look at the work of her hands. It looked amateurishly ugly but quite functional.
"Never give up. Life is so wonderful! Don't let go... Never give up. Life is so wonderful!" came out the girl, dancing a little, and then she had a new burst of laughter that turned into a hysterical wail.
Elena knelt, feeling the cold wood through her shabby pants. She hid her face in her hands and sobbed heartily, letting everything accumulated in her soul like filth in a pit of filth finally come out. She remembered how she'd thrown a tantrum a few months ago in the room above Matrice's Apothecary. This time, Elena didn't even try, surrendering herself to the full power of the dreary hopeless sadness. She swayed from side to side like a pendulum, howling through her skinny fingers and repeating herself:
"The best job in the world ... the best job in the world ..."
They say good tears make you feel better. Maybe... maybe. But this was clearly not the case. The heavy slab of endless longing just piled up tighter, crushing everything but the desire to finally end it all.
Elena stood up, wiped herself with her sleeve, and gave one last sob.
"Life is so wonderful," she whispered one last time, twisting into a wild grin that no longer had anything to do with a human smile.
The door was unlocked, and the hell with it. The buffoonish dwarf named Baala would be gone until dark, probably not until morning anyway. Of course, Baala - exotic actress, jester, and courtesan in one person - in her way wished well to the sudden guest, even arranged protection to the best of her ability. By the standards of the capital, luxurious patronage, all the more so for a woman, all the more so for a motherless loner. One could only dream of such a job. Well, at least, it would be the dream of a native-born local.
One problem, though Elena tried to become a native (and at one time it seemed to be successful), but could not. And such is the gratitude waiting for the mistress on her return - a corpse in a noose. Not good. To hell with them. Them. And the whole universe. She left the door open so she wouldn't have to break it down. She piled the rest of the coins on the table in a tiny pile. The change would hardly pay for all the inconvenience of having a suicidal man in the house, but that was the way it was.
Elena climbed back onto the stool, her toes tucked into her slipper socks, which were freezing. The winters in Milvesse were usually very mild because of the proximity of the giant freshwater lake, a full-fledged inland sea with access to the ocean. But this year, the cold and snow had come unusually early, even though it was still the end of fall, and the ice on the puddles had held until noon, successfully resisting the pale sun. Oil shale was in short supply, and firewood had long been unheated due to the high cost of wood. The city was freezing and sneezing.
"The best job in the world," repeated Elena once again.
The noose was smooth, clean, no comparison to the prickly, greasy crap the Slavers had thrown on that night. Elena stood for a moment, eyes closed, swaying in place. She wanted to cross herself one last time but changed her mind. Instead, without opening her eyes, the girl soulfully pointed her middle finger at all corners of the room and separately toward the window, thus expressing everything she thought about the Ecumene as a whole in all its manifestations.
"Fuck you," she said and lifted her foot, preparing to step into the void.
Unspoken thoughts like "Shena, I'm coming for you" and the like, rushed through her mind, but they all seemed empty, devoid of feeling or meaning.
It's time to end it all.
The leg movement that had started to happen stalled as if it were stuck in something. Elena jerked once, then again, before she realized that something was actuing her. She opened her eyes and looked down.
She didn't know how Kid had managed to sneak into the room so quietly, but the fact was, she had. And now she was silently holding Elena's shin, gripping it tightly with both hands. The girl's large dark eyes glittered in the semi-darkness like polished hematite. The grip didn't seem childlike at all. Kid was a strange child in general. She could speak, but she preferred to keep silent, and it seemed that the soul of an adult and unhappy person was imprisoned in the soul of a surprisingly ugly child.
"Let go," Elena asked quietly.
The girl shook her head so vigorously that her shawl unraveled and her hair scattered, covering her face. The only eye that remained was the one that stared at Elena with the same unblinking and piercing scrutiny.
"Please. I want to leave."
The same movement again, the flight of dark - eye-colored - hair. Kid clutched even tighter.
"I don't feel good here," Elena didn't know why she was saying all this. The words flowed by themselves, like a stream of water from a street fountain in the rainy season.
"I want to leave," she whispered, either to herself, or to the girl, or some higher power. "I feel bad. I'm in pain. Enemies have left. My beloved has left me. My teacher betrayed me. No one wants me."
The tears rolled down again, sparse drops. This time the moisture did not sting her eyes with acrid acid, as it had so recently, but washed them away, making them see life in its true light.
"I imagined it all so well," the girl sobbed, wrapping her naughty arms around herself. From the outside, it looked both comical and creepy - a hanging woman crying in a noose.
"Learn to fight. Find my enemies. Take revenge on them all. I'll live like Ciri. Or a witcher. And then..."
The noose slipped from her neck like a soapy cloth. Elena sank down on the stool, sand lid down - or rather fell awkwardly - to the floor. Her right arm was numb to the point of almost complete desensitization.
"And here," repeated Elena. "Here ... What can I do? What can I do to all of them? It's easy to say, I'll take down Draftman, but how do you do it? I don't know how to kill... Nobody wants to teach me. And the only work I can do is ..."
The crying turned again into a tearful sob.
Kid hugged her older friend, her skinny body clinging to her, her skinny body not wanting to fatten even with Baala's plentiful feedings. It was as if a fire burned in the girl's heart, burning away any fatness. Elena hugged her back and sobbed for real.
"There's nothing left ... nothing. Nothing to live for."
"It's not true. And life isn't over," the girl said quietly, looking up from below.
Elena was so stunned that she choked on her tears and coughed.
"What?"
"I'm saying life isn't over," the ugly girl said very seriously, looking at Elena with the amused expression of a focused monkey. Only her eyes were still not childlike.
"You're alive. You have a home. You have a knife and clothes. You have whole arms and legs, both eyes and even all your teeth," Kid listed with the same abnormal seriousness. "You have us. Mommy likes you. You can earn a living. Find another teacher."
"I can't. I've tried," said the girl wistfully.
"Everyone chooses their future, every minute of their life. The gods only put dots, and the words of their own lives are written by people."
"Who are you?" questioned Elena with a kind of superstitious dread.
"Your friend," Kid replied, hiding her face on the girl's chest.
"Who told you that, about the future?"
"Father," said the girl deafly. "He believed in the Two, preached sermons in the streets, talked about Isten and Erdeg. The Demiurges stoned him. He was sick for a long time, and then he died. I was very young. But I remember. My father knew many things."
It hadn't even occurred to Elena that the dwarf might have been married and had a legitimate child within the marriage. Somehow, it was assumed by default that Kid Girl was the daughter of one of her many unnamed clients. Wow, how strangely and tragically life loops.....
They sat like that for a long time on the cold floor, listening to the draught under the high roof. They warmed each other in their embrace, and each thought about her thoughts, and those thoughts remained a mystery forever. The light of the passing day was fading behind the mica window. The street was unusually quiet as if the early cold had frozen out all life between the houses. Elena rose and wiped the moisture from her face, feeling her nose swell and redden. Her right arm was still sore, but tolerably so, as a barely healed fracture should be.
It was not easy to remove the noose. She had indeed tightened the knots to the best of her ability, and it was a pity to cut the expensive tackle with a mountain knife. But patience won out.
"I need a hammer," Elena said. She thought for a moment and then clarified. "Or a stick. But a hammer is better. Do you have one in the house?"
"On the second floor. I'll have to look for it. It was old and rusty. What do you need it for?"
Elena smiled. When she saw Kid's twitch, she wiped the grimace off her face, feeling her muscles twitch with an angry, nervous grin. She tried again and again. The third approach seemed to work.
"I'll go to the thief-mentor," she replied.
Against her expectations, Kid did not object or dissuade. She shut herself in voluntary mute again and, remaining silent, searched for the hammer. Elena closed her eyes and rubbed her neck, still feeling the shadow of the soft, slippery touch of the rope.
"Time to write a new chapter," she whispered into the semi-darkness, clenching her fists.
* * *