* * *

They left quickly, to the clatter of Maryadek's hastily made but working crutch. The rested and fed horses walked briskly. Of the company, which had grown to ten people, Elena felt the worst and made an epic effort to keep up. Every step was accompanied by a sharp pain in the lower abdomen, which then went somewhere to the left so that the medic entertained gloomy speculations: was it a prelude to inflammation of the appendix or a problem with the pancreas? It was the first time the regurgitation had been so severe that it made me think that perhaps my health was beginning to end. Not to say that the local life beat the woman too cruelly, especially in comparison with some patients from the city crime, looking at which Elena sometimes wondered “he can be killed at all?”. But she'd had her share of trouble starting with a broken arm, which, after fleeing the capital predicted the weather like a perfect barometer.

So, in misery as well as bitter self-pity, Elena measured step by step, trying not to stumble and move in a common rhythm.

The landscape around didn't change, it was still the same “Scotland” with hills, only in the dull gray-yellow colors of a snowless winter—or very late fall, as you might see. The mountains melted behind us into a whitish haze and stretched an endless ribbon of moderately winding road ahead. The traffic was brisk by the standards of the season, and every hour there was a wagon or foot. There were hardly any singles, but mostly groups of apparent refugees or migrants, gloomy, tired men pulling their meager loads with expressions of sullen doom or, on the contrary, determination on their faces. The small caravan looked rich and well-armed compared to most of the people they met, so they were eyed warily and sighed with relief when the groups dispersed. There were almost no merchants, and if there were any, they were all of a piece, with empty wagons, guards, and the fearful faces of men who had sold out and were now shaking their coffers in anticipation of the moment when the coins would finally find their way into a sturdy chest.

Gaval hummed softly, something rhythmic that set the pace well. Pantin walked along with the others, and now the woman finally looked at him calmly and carefully, but she recognized nothing new. The warrior-mage was dressed as an ordinary traveler, only without a cloak and hat, which seemed surprisingly out of season. Over his shoulders, he carried a basket with rope straps that looked like an assault backpack. But most importantly, Pantin had no weapons, only a tiny knife on his belt with a blade no longer than a finger. If it were not for his eyes, which were painfully reminiscent of the infernal eyes of Elena's worst enemy, he would have been no different from an ordinary but bad-headed traveler who was not afraid of catching a cold in the wind, or of catching a chill in his kidneys on the cold ground.

The only really interesting event worth mentioning was the encounter with the “goose train”. A large flock of two hundred or so well-fed, fat, fat birds were on their way to their final resting place, and the interesting thing was that each had leather shoes with straps hanging from its feet. Mariadek explained that the true delicacy “pig” geese were found in only a dozen places in the entire Oikumene and for some reason did not breed outside them. Therefore, for sale, flocks have to be driven sometimes for three months, thoroughly, with breaks and additional fattening at the place of arrival. And to make sure the birds arrive in one piece, they are often even shoeed. Judging by the five armed thugs of the criminal species, breeding special geese was a very lucrative occupation.

"Maybe I should sign up as a goose, too." Gaval grinned bitterly, improvising a sad melody on a music board. "They even give them clogs..."

By evening, a larger settlement appeared ahead. It was the kind of town that usually grew where a couple of not-very-important, but more or less busy roads intersected, and where there was a trade of some kind that lured merchants at least within the county. This town of three dozen houses was fed by barrel-makers and other spoon-cutters, and it was clearly doing well. At the sight of the smoke from the chimneys, the company cheered up, hoping for a night's lodging under a roof and a meal from a real stove.

In such small villages, there might or might not be an inn, and in the latter case one could find lodging in a “drinking hut” or in larger houses whose owners rented barns, cells, and often their beds for a reasonable fee. So the “ magnificent ten,” as the healer called her, made her way to the center of the town, to the Church of the One, accompanied by curiosity and stares.

Gaval shared grandiose plans intending to dazzle the peasants and townspeople with sweet-sounding singing. Having practiced on a spiritless and iron-eared audience, he was now, ready to enchant even an angel of heaven. Cadfal approved of the bold intention, mindful of the debt he owed. Gamilla smiled feebly with a great note of ironic doubt but kept her skepticism to herself. It seemed this day was the last of Gaval's payday, but the crossbowwoman's future plans remained vague. The Highlander was tapping his crutch hard and busily, he was clearly tired, to the point of cold sweat on his forehead and graying face, but he wasn't going to give up. Elena made a mental note to remember to check the bandage and the condition of the wound.

It smelled of shavings, cheap varnish, coal, and tar. The streets were moderately clean, almost free of mud and the ankle-deep puddles obligatory for a normal village. Wooden-clay houses of one, rarely two stories (if we count large attics as an independent level) stood almost level and did not sink into the ground so that the roof began at the level of the pedestrian's eyes.

All in all, the town of barrels and spoons Elena would have even liked it if she hadn't been tormented by the suffering of her body.

The center of the settlement was already occupied by two groups at once. The first one seemed harmless, they were traveling circus performers, and they were clearly of a reduced number. Only Pantocrator knew what they hoped to find here, as usually with the onset of cold weather not only agricultural but also cultural life ceased. Wandering musicians and other people of creative crafts finished their “tour” at the end of the fall fairs and tried to spend the winter at the lords' courts or in larger towns. There they fed themselves by performing in taverns and various neighborhoods so the program would not get boring. But these must have had some misfortune that did not allow to curtail the tour in time. The troupe had a clown, an acrobat, two old wagons pulled by equally old, sad mules... and that was it. The city public showed no interest in the horse-drawn circus, either the program had shrunk to utter obscenity, or all the performances had already been held here so the solvent demand for spectacles had exhausted itself.

However, the circus performers were neither interesting nor dangerous to the fugitives. The second group turned out to be much more unpleasant. It was a dozen armed men under a flag with an eight-pointed star on a red background. Elena knew this combination, the star symbolized the Empire as a whole, or rather the unity of the Emperor's power on eight sides of the world, and meant that its bearers were doing the sovereign's work. Judging by the absence of personal ensigns, there were no noblemen in the squad, but the soldiers seemed to be well-armed, almost at the level of sergeants. Apparently mercenaries in the Imperial service. Unfortunately, the wanderers noticed the flag too late, so it was too late to turn away and go around the town.

Ranjan commanded a halt and gave Grimal an imperceptible sign. The servant immediately threw Artigo off the horse and wrapped the child in the most shabby and untidy plaid. The redeemers, as usual, moved unnoticed and harmoniously closer to Elena, insuring her from the vicissitudes of life, Elena, in her turn, took the already practiced look of a slouching and unattractive figure, who stupidly stared at her feet, indifferent to the world around her.

Ranjan, outwardly unarmed and benevolent, made his way toward the armed men, who at the moment had fully occupied the only inn with stables and were nailing some kind of charter right to the wall of the church. Elena first thought he was a fool, then thought some more and decided it made sense. A rather large gathering, which at the sight of the sovereign's men hurries to get away, arouses suspicion and a logical question: what are they so afraid of?

Brether started a conversation with the leader, who was wary at least at first. Word by word, and although the conversation was inaudible, it was clear that it would be peaceful. The commander and the Brether shook hands and exchanged courteous bows. Ranjan, trying his best to walk carelessly, with deliberate slowness, returned to his men, took the horse under the reins, and quietly, almost without moving his lips, commanded:

"Let's go."

Gaval, of course, not realizing the importance of the moment, opened his mouth to resist, but he looked into Brether's eyes and was instantly silent. Gamilla put a hand on his shoulder and steered him on a new course, silently, unemotional, taking the new introduction for granted. Definitely, Elena liked the tattooed crossbow-woman more and more. She could sense in the mistress of arrows the calm confidence of a person who was not looking for adventures, but if it was not possible to miss it, she acted coolly and reasonably. She wished to know more about Gamilla because such composure is forged only in the forge of rich experience.

Maryadek, too, had gotten it right, seemingly even relieved. He probably didn't want to meet with imperial servants as much as Ranjan did. Anyway, the small caravan moved through the town square (too loud a name for an asphalt-strewn patch of land). The sovereign's men finally lost interest in the wandering company, and the most vocal one took a wooden board, similar to a gingerbread stamp, and, climbing on the saddle with his legs, began to read out an announcement from the wooden board. Everything that was going on bore the stamp of a dull bureaucracy, which was as boring to the performers themselves as unleavened tortillas on a long march.

Elena heard the first words and felt a cold and alive frog settle in her stomach. The vocalized fighter promised a reward for Artigo's Gotdua-Pilvae.

It was not news or something incredible. The travelers had met such heralds before, but now they could sense a much more thorough organization of the process. A short speech, obviously compiled according to some methodology, explained the essence of the problem in simple and understandable language: insidious scoundrels kidnapped the beloved cousin of His Imperial Majesty to villainously kill him according to the property of immoral and vicious natures. So a royal reward awaits the finder. The speech was accompanied by a fairly accurate description of Artigo and Ranjan, but - thank Pantocrator - the other companions were unknown to the enemy. The text was accompanied by drawings of the beloved brother and the villainous kidnapper, again depicted quite close to reality. The carver had done his best.

Elena mechanically moved her feet, feeling a chill in the back of her neck, like a student who knew only half of the exam questions and had to rely only on the luck of the ticket. Whether it would pass or not. It was only now the healer realized how ill-timed and foolish they had come to the town. Artigo was unrecognizable in a cocoon of dirty clothes, but Ranjan was too conspicuous. But the general negligence of the imperial servants and Ranjan's bearded appearance must have saved him from misfortune. The soldiers didn't give a damn about the town, its inhabitants, the travelers they encountered, or, it seemed, their job in general, and the brether with the sunken cheeks and unshaven stubble had changed drastically since the day he'd fled Milvess. They were not recognized.

When the town was behind them, Elena exhaled noisily. Curiously enough, Maryadek exhaled noisily after her, making her think that poaching wasn't the only thing he'd done in these parts. Gaval began to whine and complain about the stony-hearted companions who kept him from earning all the money of the town. Gamilla gave a short bellow, explaining to the minstrel in simple words that wherever any flag and men with weapons appeared, it was easy to sing for nothing, or even to pay the audience for their attention. Gaval hesitated and fell silent. Elena had more respect for the crossbowwoman, and at the same time, she wondered what interest she had in keeping incognito. Positive, the company was well organized, all dark personalities with very suspicious pasts and dubious presents.

We didn't go too far from the town, though; evening was already creeping up, with a winter's early sunset, and a nasty wind was picking up. They stopped at the nearest fork, habitually organizing the camp while it was light. Fuel was a problem at once - the area was inhabited, it was forbidden to cut the thin forest, and there were no traders of oil shale in the vicinity. The travelers scattered far away in search of dead wood, and Elena took a knife and approached Ranjan with the words:

"Sit."

To the silent question she answered, softly, for his ears only:

"We're idiots. We should have realized it sooner. You're too conspicuous. You should have cut your hair a long time ago. I'll cut your hair, then I'll make a turban. No one will recognize you. Just look down."

Ranjan thought for a moment and objected, but weakly, more for the sake of order, clearly realizing the extent of the stupidity:

"I'll look like a bandit. With that stubble."

"The main thing is not to brether," the barber exhaustively closed the question, and the process began.

While the branches were being gathered and the shearing was in progress, two creaky wagons of traveling circus performers passed by. They were ordinary wagons with canvas roofs on semicircular arches. Above the trailing wagon protruded the tin pipe of a traveling stove. It seemed that the micro-troupe had intended to stop here, perhaps they too were uncomfortable in the company of soldiers, but seeing the competition decided not to get involved. The wagons creaked along. Elena caught herself she only gave the random people she met an indifferent glance. In her former life, she would have felt very sorry - to the point of tears - for the circus performers, who must have been in dire need, with no chance to improve their plight even a little during the cold season. There was something to do in the present besides regretting other people's fate, for her own was not illusorily at stake. Elena tightened her lips and worked the knife faster.

The cut hair had been burned off for some old belief. Freed from the shoulder-length strands without a single gray hair, the swordsman did seem a different man. Less stern and much younger. The long hair added five or seven if not ten, years to his appearance, and the short hair made him younger.

"That's good,” Elena summarized, taking a step back and admiring the work of her hands.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

The general opinion was expressed by Gamilla diplomatically saying:

"Well... there are people like that too."

Ranjan couldn't assess the quality of his work because he didn't have a mirror, and it was too cloudy to look in a bowl of water. So the Brether groped his head with a tactile examination, sighed heavily, and remained silent, resigned to the inevitable.

"Let's go,” Pantin said, who was, as usual, very close by, silent and unnoticed.

The crimson comet, though it illuminated the sky, didn't look as impressive as it did in the mountains, where the bloody glow played on the snowy peaks. The reddish moon rose higher and higher, and Elena, though she didn't believe in any of the local deities, shuddered. It all looked too ominous, because if you wanted to believe in bad omens, the birth of headless calves, the end of the world, and other scary things, you would have to believe in bad omens. However, the concept of the Last Judgment in the church of Pantokrator seems to be absent... We should find out. Any religion, one way or another, promises some kind of finale for everything.

The woman and the supposed mage walked further down the road, more like a path, leaving the soft noise of the camp behind them. Cadfal and Maryadek were arguing vigorously, though angrily, over how to use the meager fuel. It was late in the evening, but the huge moon rarely made it pitch black in Ecumene, and the light of the comet made the coming night as white as in St. Petersburg, only darker and gloomier.

"Do you know who I am?” Elena decided it was not appropriate for her to play the modest and virtuous maiden who couldn't speak first. Besides, the woman was overwhelmed with questions.

“Yes,” Pantin said laconically.

"And who are you?"

"Warrior-mage," came the equally short answer. "But you already know that."

Elena sighed, trying to figure out what to ask next. She'd assumed Ranjan would find some special mentor, but this... The woman opened her mouth, and closed it mutely, like a beached fish. She couldn't breathe, a viscous lump coming up to her throat, blocking her breath. She stumbled, staggering. The pain in her stomach became unbearable, spreading lower and wider like trickles of liquid lead. Elena puckered her lips and clenched her jaw, waiting out the spasm, but Pantin smiled weakly and touched her shoulder with two fingers.

And there was no pain.

"Wow!” said the woman, just to express her emotions. Just now it had seemed to her that it would be easier to die than to live like this. Just then... and now the agonizing malaise was gone. The weakness remained, but the pain was gone. Apparently, that's what real sorcery looked like.

"Is it a miracle?"

"No,” Pantin replied very seriously. "It's a trick. Unfortunately not a long one. But at least you'll sleep well tonight."

"Would it be possible to repeat it?" Elena's voice trembled, giving off a desperate hope.

"Yes. Not soon though,” Pantin seemed genuinely sad about it.

"Can you teach me magic?"

"No. You can't be taught magical practices."

"But why?"

"You can't,” Pantin said, then relented and clarified. "There is very little magic left in the world. The only people who can learn magic are those gifted by birth and predisposed to the art. You are not one of them. It's like teaching painting to a blind man."

Oh, if you only knew... Elena thought but decided not to share some details of her life in Ecumene.

"Okay... How many of you are like that?" she continued.

"Very little. It used to be more."

"What happened?"

Pantin sighed, looking up at the cloudy sky with sparse clouds that darkened like ink blots. Either he had expected more from the healer or he was just melancholy.

"I take it you've already met... her?"

"She tried to kill me. Once for sure. I'm not sure about the second one, but I think it was her, too. She couldn't kill me, but she killed people close to me. They died badly."

"And you want revenge?"

"I want to survive. I'm afraid I can't survive a third encounter. And, yes, revenge. And to find out who's behind it all. She's being guided by someone, and she mentioned something about being allowed to do something special to me eventually."

The conversation was developing in a confused way but the atmosphere was favorable. Her thoughts were confused and jumped from one thing to another.

"If you can... that sort of thing, why do you need blades?" she asked. "Why would a sorcerer fight with a sword?"

"Many have asked that question,” Pantin tweaked his beard. "Many... The answer is not simple. You have to understand what magic is and how it works... or rather worked. It's a long story, so I'll tell you this. A magician is capable of many things... was. However, not always, not everywhere. There were times when you had to work with a blade. So some sought to master both arts."

"Draf... my mentor said it was hard and the adepts were struck dumb."

"He was right. Mastering blade skill and magic in equal measure was incredibly difficult. It required the mental discipline of an ascetic saint. Decades of torturous exercise. And, how shall I put it... a pact with forces immeasurably greater than man."

Sell your soul to Satan, Elena's mind was spinning, but the woman remained silent, turning to listen.

"If this is neglected, a man's soul ... becomes distorted. He is struck with madness, but not like the usual wretches chained in asylums. It's more like a darkness that poisons the mind one drop at a time. It awakens the darkest, meanest, most unmanly things hidden at the bottom of the mind. And once the darkness has touched a person, it cannot be reversed."

"That... woman...” Elena jerked her head, shivering, remembering the devilish fire in the black witch's eyes. "She had seemed insane, but she had acted rationally."

"The development of this calamity can be delayed. You can even turn it to your advantage. But the remedies... let me put it this way, the cure is as bad as the disease, if not worse."

"Ah..."

Pantin gestured for her to stop.

"That's enough. If you have any sense at all, you'll know what I mean. If you don't, it's all the more meaningless. Will you continue to listen?"

"Yes!"

"When the old world ended, the art of combining the incompatible was lost. All those who have tried to follow two paths at once since then have met the same end. And very quickly. Except for her."

"She managed to... find the cure that is worse than the disease?"

"That's right. Eventually, the darkness will consume her soul as well. But that won't happen today or tomorrow or a year from now. So I'd say the idea of preparing for the meeting is pretty reasonable."

Then a thought occurred to Elena that made her shudder, not for the first time that day.

"But that means you...you...."

She stopped short.

"Yes. I saw the demise of the old world,” Pantin confirmed calmly and without any pretense."

"How old are you,” the woman muttered, trying to calculate in her mind. The cataclysm had happened four or five centuries ago, and the warrior-mage had hardly been a young man at its beginning. That is, this nice-looking, intelligent, and good-looking man walking on her left side, was at least half a thousand years old... Ten ordinary lives, more likely more. Fucking hell, as Grandpa would say.

"I'm old,” Pantin grinned into his mustache. "Older than I'd like."

"So,” Elena rubbed her temples, getting her thoughts in order. "Where did we start... Aha! So you know who I am?"

“I already said, I know,” Pantin repeated patiently.

"And... who? I'm the chosen one?"

Elena faltered, realizing how stupid that sounded. Stamp of stamps, cliché of clichés, Hollywood at its worst.

"Maybe,” Pantin shrugged.

They had stopped and were now talking, facing each other. The light of the campfire was dancing yellow, and the shadows of the companions moved around them, seeming to be ghosts.

"I don't get it."

"I know who you were. But I don't know what you'll become. Or rather, I see different paths, none of them predetermined. Stein's Paradox... though you still don't know what that means."

"Can you speak more clearly?"

"And I'd pray if I were you, begging all the gods to rescue you from the Chosen One's fate, if it does catch up with you,” Pantin said, ignoring the request.

"Why?"

"Elena, Hel, Lunna, Teina...."

The woman shuddered - Pantin knew the second name unknown in Ecumene. How?! For a moment it seemed to the medicine woman that her interlocutor almost called the fifth name, but the five-hundred-year-old man held back and continued as if nothing had happened:

"Someone who wears so many disguises must be smart enough to know the answer. And you know it, but you're afraid to tell yourself. Well, if you're so weak, I can speak for you..."

"No!" Elena blurted out.

"Really?" Pantin arched a whitish eyebrow and strode leisurely back toward the camp, Elena following him.

"Really,” the young woman lowered her head.

"So tell me."

Elena remained silent.

"Tell me," Pantin did not raise his voice, but struck like a whip. Sharply, demandingly, painfully.

"Because being chosen isn't adventure or apple pies," Elena said dully, without raising her head. "It's my... friend who was killed while defending me. It's a woman and a girl..."

She sobbed, feeling like she was at an appointment with a psychiatrist who was turning her soul inside out, bringing to the surface memories that hurt like jagged arrows.

"It's my broken arm, rags instead of pads... though you still don't know what that means. It's fear. The daily fear that she'll find me, catch me."

Elena sniffled and quickly wiped her eyes with her sleeve in the vain hope that maybe the old man hadn't seen her tears. She straightened in a pathetic attempt to maintain her dignity, at least she thought it looked pathetic.

"I don't know what scares me more. That next time no one will protect me or someone will come between us again. Again."

"I understand."

Elena glanced askew at the warrior, expecting a sneer, but Pantin still maintained absolute seriousness.

"Well, we've had a hectic conversation,” he summarized. "But interesting, that's for sure."

"You're not going to tell me who I really am?" Elena asked without much hope.

"No. It's premature."

"Or maybe it's time."

"No. Hel. I guess I'll call you like the others. It sounds pretentious, but it's as good a name as any,” Pantin looked up at the sky again. "You don't need to know that."

Elena felt a twinge of rage. So many days and nights, so many... yes no longer months, but real years, she wondered why she was here. Was it a cosmic accident or some kind of predestination, what did everything mean at all, what was the meaning of what was happening!? And here's the old prick pacing around, obviously knows what's going on, but he's silent! And there's no power to make him reveal the secret in any way. Elena clenched her fists and teeth, realizing that now was not the moment to show her temper. She could even beat up a normal man with the help of the Draftsman's science, but if this cloudy-eyed devil had trained Ranjan and was even remotely equal to the red-eyed creature, it would be better to ignore him. The feeling of powerlessness burned like boiling water.

"Don't be angry,” Pantin shook his head, seeming to read his companion like an open book. "It's for your own good."

"Yeah,” Elena muttered through gritted teeth, holding back tears of anger again.

Although they were walking at a leisurely pace, the fire was much closer, smelling of the chicken they had taken from Frels.

"That's right. You see, knowledge changes a person. Any kind of knowledge. It inspires thoughts and actions that would not otherwise be conceived and performed. And actions have consequences. That is, knowledge always burdens a person with some kind of responsibility. You don't need that right now. We will have something to do, you will have an opportunity to think and do necessary things that you can do. There's a time and a place for everything else."

Elena sighed, rubbing her chilled fingers. Pantin's words, as befitted a master of arcane knowledge, seemed vague on the one hand, puzzling more than they revealed. On the other, however, they had a definite meaning. It was like the Oracle's speeches in “The Matrix”, as if they were nonsense, or not, depending on how you looked at it.

"There is no spoon,” the woman muttered, irrationally hoping that the world around her would dissipate, disappear, and she would return home. Having grown more than two years older on the calendar and much, much older in her soul.

But, of course, nothing happened, and the world remained where it was before.

“Will you teach me?” Elena finally asked.

"Yes."

"Will this be enough to fight back?"

"Most likely not."

Then what was the point of it, the woman wanted to ask and remained silent, knowing the answer.

"When do we start?"

"Now."

Not that Elena was expecting anything different, but... really, though, why not now, under the blood moon, in the cold wind? She was so eager to find a mentor, and here he was. And, it must be said, for all the abstruse, confused speech, Pantin was much more pleasant to talk to than the late Figueredo.

"I'll go get my sword."

"No need. You won't need the sword."

"...?"

Pantin stopped and looked at Elena with a long look as if measuring her with a laser scanner from head to toe and back. Strangely, the witch's red eyes glowed in the darkness, while the old magician's gray eyes, on the contrary, seemed to absorb the light falling on them completely.

"Draftsman, Draftsman,” he muttered. "Typical of the master's misfortune, he taught you not what you really needed, but what he knew best. That is Brether weapons. A dagger, that's right, that's good. But you should have added a pole to it, not a lightweight city blade. With your height and strength, it's possible to master it in a moderate amount of time. And who can hit and stab with a pole, he can handle a staff, a spear, a galley sword, and even a poleax, if he has the chance to take it in his hands. A good spearsman is not easily wounded by a swordsman. However..."

Pantin repeated the assessment procedure, Elena felt like she was stripped naked and at the endoscopist's appointment, who was shining a flashlight through the entire womb from the inside.

"But perhaps…" Pantin continued mysteriously. "Perhaps, yes. It’s even better that way. However, we won’t start with a sword or even a stick. Let’s start…"

But at that moment the warrior was interrupted by a loud cry from the camp.

"Hey..." Ranjan suddenly asked, looking around frantically. "Where is the boy?"

He carefully avoided calling Artigo by his first name, and demanded that the others do the same. It was a reasonable precaution considering how many outsiders there were in the squad.

The travelers looked around with the characteristic expressions of people who had been taken by surprise by an obvious but unanswered question. The evening revelers, as Gaval had quietly nicknamed them, quickly approached the fire. Pantin looked quite normal, but Elena seemed pale and lost, though she moved much more nimbly than before and no longer wriggled with every step.

"You missed it, you bastard! Asleep!" Ranjan kicked Grimal, who had indeed dozed for a few minutes near the warm fire. The servant jumped on the spot, twisting his head around frantically and not realizing what had happened. Elena was surprised - it was the first time in her memory that a brether had ever raised his voice, much less struck a loyal companion.

"They stole him,” Ranjan whispered with undisguised horror.

"No," Pantin said clearly and calmly. "They couldn't have sneaked up on us. He left on his own, quietly, while we were gathering brushwood."

"Where to!" The Brether growled, twisting on the spot like a dog surrounded by enemies and unable to decide who to chew on first.

The answer came to everyone's mind, seemingly at the same time. A heavy, unpleasant silence hung over the camp. Ranjan staggered as if from a sudden weakness in his legs, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand. Elena felt a sting of grim satisfaction with shame. Artigo had done exactly what one would expect of a minor aristocrat. An ungrateful little brute for going into the rat trap on his own. Maybe that's where he should go.

"M-m-master,” Grimal mumbled with quivering lips, but Ranjan wasn't listening. Or maybe he didn't hear him. Elena had seen the Brether's face once before, cold and detached, like a plaster mask. It was the night they had fled Milvess, and Ranjan had been betrayed by his mercenaries. That night was the first time she'd seen what high-class Bretherism was like when performed by a true master.

While Elena thought, Ranjan silently unfastened the straps on one of the bags he'd never unpacked before. A sort of anatomical cuirass from antiquity was revealed, but the armor was not metallic, but brown and translucent, as if made of bottle glass. Brether pulled the cuirass on with a speed that only long years of practice could achieve. He hung his long sword scabbard behind his back, slipped the bridle on quickly and confidently, and then, wasting no time with the saddle, jumped onto the horse. Elena expected the swordsman to make some kind of speech, like asking to accompany and help. But Ranjan slapped the animal's rump with force, tapped his heels against its flanks, and the horse spurred the Brether toward the town, into the approaching twilight.

"Someone's going to get hurt,” Cadfal decided without a shadow of mockery or irony.

"I'm sure. But the forces are unequal,” Rapist shook his head. "It was a little easier underground."

"Maybe he'll catch up with your boy,” Maryadek suggested, without much faith.

The sound of hooves died away in the distance.

"Won't you help him?" Elena asked Pantin.

"No."

"Why?"

"I can't. I don’t raise my hand against people."

Elena expected any answer except this, the simplest, most artless, and absurd. She swallowed and looked into the incoming gloom, where the mounted swordsman had galloped off. And then suddenly she realized that everyone was looking at her, that is, absolutely everyone. They look with expectation as if she were the person who decides and tells others what to do.

* * *