Part II Best job in the world
Chapter 9 Birthday present
* * *
I saw a dream...
"What, my lord?"
The Duke raised his head and realized he had spoken the last phrase aloud.
"I saw a dream," he repeated with surprise. He repeated and fell silent, staring at the travertine floor and the pattern of the family crest in small octagonal tiles.
The steward froze, bowing respectfully. One of the few people the Duke trusted, so much so, that he even occasionally shared his innermost thoughts. A man of low class, elevated by his lord's will to a level that many nobles could never dream of. A well-fed uncle in clothes of dim, restrained colors (the ruler should not think that the subjects luxuriate too much) patiently waited to see if the patron would deign to develop the thought. But the Duke remained silent, frozen like a statue in the family gallery.
Flessa, youngest daughter... It's been many months since you left the ancestral castle and have been living in the capital, representing our family, conducting secret affairs.
The white robe hung heavy, pressing down on his skinny shoulders with their protruding bones. The Duke knew from the outside it looked stern and imposing, but the heaviness kept him from breathing and bent him to the ground. The weight of years lived, of hard decisions, of necessary betrayals, of calculated cruelty. The old ruler thought he hadn't worn armor in three years, not even for horseback riding. He would probably never wear it again unless it was new, "tar" armor, half the weight of steel. It was said that it was becoming fashionable in Milvesse to cover the armor, which looked like brown glass with a cloth backing, with the finest foil to make it look like real steel from the outside. Good, profitable news, for a quarter of the tar armor of the entire Ecumene, was already being made in the workshops of Malersyde from special sulfur mined from the Wastelands.
Flessa... violent, impetuous, bossy, intelligent... a true scion of the Wartensleben. The only one to hold my legacy! Is she the only one?
The only one. What an unpleasant, categorical word. It has a bitter taste of inevitability, of finality. How sad to say it, even to think it. And yet. Is there a way out?
The Diabalus, the judicial book and code of laws of the new Empire, strictly delineated inheritance issues. The first child receives all immovable property minus the "woman's share". The second child receives his mother's personal inheritance, as well as maintenance payments from the family treasury. The third goes into the ecclesiastical ministry or - if the Church does not entice - can buy a place in a good, honorable shop. Everyone else gets nothing but a horse, arms, and a title. Therefore, according to the new judicial laws, the duchy must be inherited by the eldest daughter.
She should. If she had the will to rule!
On the other hand, if does a little bit of wiggling with reading the confusing legal formulas, he can try to make Kai the heir. Many people did so, appealing to the fact that "heir" is consonant with "firstborn," i.e. we are talking not just about the first child but about the first boy. Yes, it is possible.
It's possible... If Kai had any talent as an owner!
However, there is a third party.
The Duchy of Wartensleben has long lived according to the Partidas, the law books of the Old Empire. Well, to put it more accurately... the dukes declared their adherence to noble antiquity at the expense of Diabalus. In reality, of course, as befits a good ruler, the Wartensleben have had their noses in both troughs by necessity. But now, a reputation for upholding long-standing traditions may serve them well. The Partidas states explicitly that a lord with at least ten generations of noble ancestors with all the proof of nobility can enjoy certain privileges of a senator. Including marrying and divorcing children, as well as choosing an heir by personal will, according to the interests of the family. And it does not matter the Senate hasn't convened in three hundred years, if not more. What is written in the quills of the lawmakers of the Old Empire is stronger than steel and more valuable than gold.
There are ten generations of the Wartensleben surname. Praise be to Pantocrator, who gave the founders of the family short lives. But even here, everything is not easy. To justify. Moreover, defending the claim will not be easy because traditionally, such a privilege is enjoyed by Primators, to which the house of Wartensleben has not yet belonged. It was logical: old houses have old rules.
Yes, it won't be easy. The help of the islanders, who will support the Duke's claims and reinforce them with the authority of the real old house and an army of lawyers, will come in handy here. But it can be done. And it's time to start getting something from the unspoken, secret alliance.
Or wait?
Flessa is smart, moderately violent, and calculating. And has long been playing family games, carefully building her network of spies. If he starts acting, the girl may think of herself as more than she should. On the other hand, legal things are slow, so it makes sense to start early. Just in case ...
Pantocrator witnesses it so complicated!
The Duke took a sip of wine from the glass and ran his finger over the smooth surface. The aventurine glass had not a single flaw. Just like artifacts from the old days when magic ruled the world. The old lord only now noticed that the manager was standing immovable and seemed afraid to even breathe. It was a pleasure to watch. Well-trained servants, disciplined servants, controlled possessions. Everything worked like a precise mechanism, reliable and predictable. But the next thought was much less pleasant - and his father had thought the same thing. The Duke grimaced, and the fat man in the gray-brown robes, seeing his lord's grimace, bowed forward in the most respectful manner possible.
Idiots thought the Duke. God, what idiots. They honestly think he cares about rags. And that ostentatious modesty would somehow protect them from his wrath. Never mind that the fat man is wearing simple wool stockings with leather soles. He can wear spider silk. It doesn't matter. What is important is that the sins of the steward are known, counted, and recognized as insignificant.
The passion for little girls not yet of childbearing age is against the laws of God and man, but who is perfect? For this sin, the steward will answer to the Pantocrator. The love of swallowing liquid smoke, but controlled, not more than once a week. A habit no worse than any other if it doesn't turn into an addiction. Bribery. This is already more serious, but the Duke understood well where a live coin rings, some silver, and gold will inevitably stick to one's hands. The main thing was to keep the measure. And there was nothing wrong with that.
Moderation, diligence, and a clear understanding of the limits of what was allowed - that's what kept the ducal servants privileged.
Flessa, I miss you! the old aristocrat finally confessed to himself.
It's much easier to rule a trained domain with you. I'm getting older. My body and mind are wearing out. The burden is getting heavier, and it won't get any easier. I'll have to share the power now. Yes, there's a good chance that a respectful daughter will want to reduce my burden early. But if the moment is lost, she will do so guaranteed, and by then, I will be too weak and senile to resist her. Like my father once upon a time, long ago.
"Did you know that my family had mages?" the duke asked the fat servant suddenly. He froze with his mouth open, confused and uncomprehending, whether his lord had bestowed a great honor or was making an elaborate test.
"No, honorable sir," he mumbled, finally. "This was not known to me."
"But it is so," the lord narrated gloomily. "It is said that a drop of the magical gift is still passed on in our blood so that occasionally members of the Wartensleben family see amazing, prophetic dreams..."
"That's great, honorable sir," the steward bowed, cursing the moment he dared to open his mouth. The duke was not prone to gratuitous waste, but the powerful did not like to have their innermost thoughts revealed to the ears of others. And who knows if the lord would regret the next morning that he had said too much the day before.
"I always thought it was fairy tales," said the Duke. "I've never seen anything that could be considered 'prophetic'. And neither have my kinfolk, or they wouldn't have ended up..."
As they ended, the fat man completed the ragged phrase to himself and bowed even lower just in case.
The old ruler went to the window and ran his fingers over the bronze lattice, polished to that special, golden copper glow that only noble, unadulterated material, excellent casting, and careful polishing can give.
"I had a dream. Malersyde was surrounded by strange, marvelous figures. They seemed to grow out of the heart of the earth. The ocean raged, then the salty waves gave out, and a bridge was erected, which at the same time was not a bridge, for it did not connect but barred. The city burned in ghostly flames. A road of fire crossed Malersyde from end to end. And two queens fought in that fire, Red and Black. It was a fight to the death. What could this dream mean?"
This is not known to your humble servant," murmured the steward. "Every man should do the job he does best ... I can count profits with losses, but dreaming.... Honorable, you'd better consult an astrologer ... or a magician."
"Yes, indeed," the duke muttered under his breath. "To the magician. Of course."
He turned to the steward, and the latter flinched. The ruler seemed full of vigor again, exuding impenetrable confidence. The Duke snapped his fingers with the words:
"Have them replace the wine. It's worn out. What's for today?"
"Confirmation of the prohibitive duties for the next year, Sir," was the language the steward understood, and he opened the folder in a businesslike manner. Flessa had introduced this accessory, too. Before, documents were carried in special leather sacks.
"As you wish, the city council forbids the removal of any provisions from the property without special permission. Also, the issue of sending silver to Milvess for coinage must be resolved. Squadron composition, guard galleys, permission to leave port, confirmation of priority mooring rights in the capital. All require your seal. And..."
The fat man faltered, dimming his eyes as if he were embarrassed to be reminded.
"And?" the Duke raised an eyebrow.
"I beg to remind you. It is necessary to spread new rumors that the Emperor wishes to encourage craft councils and limit the ancient privileges of the workshops. It is necessary to pay heralds, scribes of forged letters, and masters of other secret affairs. The Lady has sent a detailed estimate from the capital."
The manager tugged at the edge of a separate sheet of parchment in the general stack.
"That is where we shall begin," commanded the duke sharply. "Those who skimp on soldiers and spies are digging their own grave.'"
"And..."
"What else?" The ruler threw grudgingly.
"The Tournament of Faith is less than two months away, and you have not yet decided whether you will honor this momentous occasion with your participation. If you choose the usual way, it's time to send couriers, buy the best seats in the hotels, and place secret guards. If you choose the magical way..."
"Not a word about magic!" roared the duke, who shuddered at the memory of the magical passage to Saltoluchard, granted that it had happened last autumn over a year ago.
"Yes, Master!" there was definitely not a single hard part in the fat servant's spine, the spine bending in any direction with marvelous fluidity.
"I'll decide that later. Now, back to the budget."
Flessa, you have a marvelous gift for getting things done on time!
"Have them prepare a courier to the Island," the Duke ordered, obeying more on impulse than the voice of reason. "A small and fastest ship. In the strictest secrecy."
To hell with it, I'll take my chances. Let the Wartensleben estate have a recognized heiress. And let the glossators [1] of Aleinsae only try not to support and justify my choice!
* * *
On her twentieth [2] birthday, Flessa ausf Wartensleben decided to gift herself with something original and unusual. The anniversary demanded to be celebrated in a very special way. In such a way that the memories would last a lifetime. And Flessa chose death. Or, more precisely, a fight to the death.
Father would not approve. That is as true as the rising of the Moon and the setting of the Sun. Most likely, disapproval would have been expressed in a very practical and unpleasant way. But Father was far away, on the other side of the world. And Flessa was here, in the most beautiful and richest city in the world, where gold and descent opened many doors. And also gave many opportunities.
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Flessa knew it was possible to kill a man in a legendary underground prison, but it didn't appeal to her. Taking justice, taking the life of a tortured prisoner, an infanticide, or a simple thief, was not interesting. She wanted something different. The "other" was expensive, very expensive, so much so that the daughter of Wartensleben, for some time, pondered whether to hide the necessary expenses in the estimate for the organization of urban unrest. It took a lot of will to turn away from the temptation, but what Flessa had plenty of was the will of the Wartensleben's, the lords of the maritime trade of the west.
Yeah, it was expensive.
But it was worth every coin, every last bezant [3]!
The pool had once been here, oval and deep. The floor still had the outlines of sea creatures in mosaics of all shades of blue and cyan. Lapis lazuli tiles covered the vertical walls, and high above our heads shone a magic lamp of a very rare, "sunny" kind. A pear-shaped vessel on a silver pendant gave off a light almost indistinguishable from natural light, as on a slightly overcast day. At the edge of the pool, the local jailer, as well as the young heiress' head of security, stood motionless side by side. Both, despite their stern, unsentimental occupations, looked pale and lost, grief-stricken at what was happening in the pool.
Down below, where an old mosaic sparkled under the lamp, whose secret of manufacture had long since been lost, two men were fighting to the death.
They circled, trampling the blue designs patiently laid out by the hands of long-forgotten masters. They struck rarely, mostly feinting, looking at each other, trying to catch a false lunge. The opponent was good. A bandit who had long ago sold his honor and conscience, or rather, their shadows, for a coin since the former mercenary hardly knew what conscience was. Quick and agile - wine and drugs had not had time to sharpen his health. He was good with the saber, but not more than that, and Flessa had an advantage. But she was at a disadvantage in height and strength.
Flesse was already hot under the tight quilted jacket. The bandit looked as if he'd just come out of a bath, sweat soaking through the rags that replaced the prisoner's clothes. They fought with ordinary broadswords four-fifths of an arm's length, with leather-wrapped handles. The bandit had an infantry blade, plain and straight, the kind of blade that comes into play when the formation is broken, the shafts broken, and the merciless grinder face to face. Swing harder, strike harder, and the Pantocrator will decide who lives. In the woman's hands shone with reflected light a far more graceful weapon with a smooth curve of blade and lobes chosen to lighten the weight. Flessa didn't want to take a light longsword, so the odds would be at least roughly equal.
She played a little from the wrist with loops and transitions, trying to confuse the prisoner, but he didn't buy it. In response, he began to more or less competently drive the woman into the narrow end of the arena, advancing step by step, provoking her to attack with a far forward leg. The villain's lean face glistened with moisture, eyes racing, straining to catch the glare of the enemy blade. His lips twitched as he prayed or cursed. Or maybe both. But his hands remained steady, and his movements were sure. Flessa thought for a moment that maybe the idea of a duel wasn't so funny and good.
The duelist leaned forward, lowering her blade, hoping to capitalize on the height difference and rip into the thug's stomach or groin. The criminal put the blade on his shoulder in feigned fatigue and hopped on the tips of his feet like a dancer, quickly swaying his body from side to side. In another leap, he attacked with a broad sweeping blow, forcing the woman to retreat a step. He transformed the blow into a series of feints, skillfully working the shoulder, constantly threatening with the point.
Before the fight, Flessa had expected to meet a regular thug who fights by the old principle of "straight punch, straight retreat, other things are for fancy dudes and are not applicable in combat." But this rascal someone put relatively good fighting skills. Apparently, he was not lazy to take lessons from some brether at the campfires on countless breaks of military life. The set of techniques was sparse but well-practiced. Perhaps too well. If Flessa had known she'd be facing such a foe before, she would have wondered. Hell, if something happened, the guard might not make it. The charming game of death was quickly becoming less charming and less of a game.
He struck high, aiming for the head, and immediately swung downward and backward, using the double-edged sharpness of the blade. Flessa, in turn, tried to hook the prisoner with her curved blade from bottom to top as if it were a hook and then lunged forward in a deep lunge, aiming for the weapon's arm. Almost there, almost - the enemy bounced back too fast! The sharp steel ripped through the sleeve of his once luxurious shirt. How had the lawmen not taken it up? And left a shallow scratch. First blood! It was not convincing or dangerous, the kind of wound that would rather add caution and determination. The kind that only becomes dangerous in the company of companions who siphon off the strength.
The opponents circled in dance again, testing each other's reactions, catching the moment to attack. Flessa felt herself begin to choke. The thick clothing, filled with absorbent cotton, did protect her from the sliding blows, but it also kept her warm like a fur coat. Dampness and fatigue hung on his arms like invisible weights. The graceful fluttering of a mortal butterfly turned step by step into a dull braiding of awkward legs.
The guard and the jailer watched the fight with equal anger. Both realized that if things went badly, they might not have time to intervene. Both had no choice. The jailer was faced with a ready-made solution, not even gold, just a handful of silver. Lovag, though he spied for the Duke, making daily reports on his ward's deeds, had to obey his mistress's will and was now suffering, torn between his duty and his desire to jump down and finish it all in one blow. God forbid, the prisoner would get the girl at least with the tip of the blade... On the other hand, if you disobey her, the crazy girl will do anything. Like, kick him out of the retinue for disobeying her. And it's quite possible old Wartensleben won't reverse her decision. Then goodbye to the privileged position, and to the hyena's tail the years of faithful service that lifted the fortunate warrior out of poverty.
Flessa heard the creak of iron. Her guard had already openly pulled his sword from its sheath, catching the moment to jump into the fighting pit. She grumbled annoyingly and lost a moment on that. The bandit also had good hearing and concluded the lovag's readiness. There was no mercy for the murder in any case. The mercenary did not believe promises on a dime, but when condemned to nailing, a quick and not very painful death from the blade is already a boon. All he wanted now was to take one last life. At least a little revenge on the cursed world. And then he could go to hell!
That determination burned clearly in the prisoner's dark eyes, and Flessa realized, it was time to fight for her life. The bandit crouched down, his left hand at his side near the kidney, his right hand pressed against his stomach as if shielding himself with his shoulder. With a quick step, he moved straight at the woman, accelerating like a warhorse before an attack. The jailer did not hesitate to curse, realizing who would be responsible for the death of a highborn in the dungeons of the Palace Under the Hill. Lovag gritted his teeth and stepped to the edge of the pool, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands.
Stumping his opponent, the prisoner slashed with all his might from left to right, horizontally, from the abdomen, adding to his swing the energy of the turning of the body. He expected to sweep away any defense with pure strength and weight, and even if he didn't, the fighters would still be close enough together to pile on wrestling and settle the matter again. The infantry sword struck like a hammer in a way that would indeed demolish any stiff defense. So Flessa didn't block. She threw her left arm back, catching the hilt of the small dagger at her belt. At the same time, she crouched sharply, leaning in, feeling the steel smoothing the quilted cap on her head. The next moment, opponents collided like ice floes in a river, and the bandit, ready to crush the twisted bastard, to break her head in one blow with the hilt of his sword, received a dagger in his stomach to the hilt.
They disengaged, and the condemned man retreated a step, clasping his wound and covering himself with his sword. Flessa indicated a few blows, but more for the sake of order, to break the trap of the stalemate. With half a minute or so to go, the duelists again drew intricate circles across the arena floor. Both were tired, and the prisoner was also losing blood, so the duelists only had enough for one or two blows, more in the hope that the opponent would tire even more and still miss the attack.
"Mistress," the lovag called from above, waiting until the distance between the fighters was great enough so as not to distract the woman in her moment of danger. "Your victory is undeniable. Blood has been spurted. Allow us to finish!"
The jailer played with the whip, praying that the high-born fool would agree. If the woman's head was going to be split open like an old trough or her belly gutted, it was all right, but she'd drag decent people to their graves with her, stupid goat!
Flessa didn't answer, saving her breath. And also not wanting to disturb the splendor of the moment. Now she understood what drew the knights into battle again and again, where this addiction to killing came from. Fear mingled with excitement and spilled through her veins, giving her a delightful experience on the edge of life. She could be killed. She had almost been killed, and she could still be killed. And still, Flessa ausf Wartensleben would outmaneuver the enemy. Because she is faster, smarter, and tougher! Because she is better!
"Fucking... scum." exhaled the bandit. It was the first word he'd uttered since the fight began. "Dirty whore with a fruit knife."
The wound was not dangerous, but with each step, the fighter was losing blood and with it, his strength. With a good healer and some rest, the chances of survival were not bad. But one look into the eyes of a flexible, strong woman with the predatory gaze of a hyena was enough not to wait for a healer or rest.
They stood against each other stiffly, both deadly tired, unable to maneuver. The tattered canvas pants on the prisoner were soaked and red as a butcher's apron. Flessa gulped air with her mouth open, praying she had enough breath. The duelists exchanged a few more blows. The bandit intercepted the hilt with both hands and tried a move that sent the blade high up and to the side but ended up just slashing wide and hard. Flessa parried carelessly, and her hand went numb from the hard concussion. The woman couldn't resist a grimace, and the emboldened villain struck again. Unable to retreat in time, unable to deflect the enemy sword, Flessa struck back again, straight and unsophisticated. This time, she propped the blade's edge with her left shoulder. In doing so, she nearly impaled herself on her dagger, but the move succeeded. The enemy's blade was brittle, a deep crack running down the steel surface, and how the blade didn't fracture was a mystery to the clueless blacksmith.
"F-finish it, you bastard," the criminal wheezed, dropping his sword arm helplessly. He clutched the wound with his left, unable to stop the streams of scarlet liquid.
It was beautifully played. Flessa almost believed it. But the brether who taught her was honestly practicing the gold of the Wartensleben. In addition to pure swordsmanship, he revealed to his pupil some of the techniques of street fighting, which are not taught to young maidens. And at the same time, he told her the story of the duel between the fifth son of Pievevielle, a brilliant saber swordsman, and a certain Brether named Ranjan, who, despite his youth, was already called the successor of the Moon Reaper. The Brether told both versions of the legend, the one invented by the family of the deceased and the other, the real one, which the swordsmen passed on to each other.
The story was a cautionary tale of how easily victory turns to defeat, so Flessa doubled her attention. She gripped the hard leather hilt tighter, feeling the stitches of the strong thread even through her glove. She took two steps back and froze in a classic stance, elbow pressed to her side to put less strain on her tired arm. Realizing that his last move had been revealed and forewarned, the criminal groaned, now falsely. He launched one last attack. The jailer shouted, swinging his whip, and lovagh shrieked too, straining his muscles to jump into the pool. The bandit splashed a handful of blood into the woman's face while drawing his sword. He grabbed the hilt above his head with both hands and struck, top to bottom, giving it all he had.
If a painter or even a sculptor had been here, he would have been inspired by the sight and perhaps, after much labor, would have created a masterpiece because, in these moments, the criminal was beautiful in his way. The bright light of the magic lamp highlighted every feature of the tense body, perfectly outlining the muscles visible through the torn clothes with the play of shadows. Turned the dirty face of a dishonorable murderer into the mask of a man who defied fate. The bandit, whose name had long been forgotten under the weight of his nicknames, had reached perfection at the moment when all his stubbornness, lust for life, hatred, strength, and fighting skills - all flamed with the fire of pure, supreme effort.
Flessa's parry would have elicited an approving nod from any fencer. It came out impeccably competent - a classic deflect of the enemy's blade on her own, when instead of a hard block the force of the enemy's blow is directed to the side, like a stream of water in a drainage chute. And then - a return to the previous position and a quick step forward with a jab in the neck, under the caddy. Flessa realized even an essentially slain opponent was still heavier and stronger, so she didn't try to keep him "on the blade." Feeling, catching the moment when the cleaver trembled in her hand, cutting through flesh, the woman released the hilt and slid smoothly to the side. Her steps were light. Her strength seemed to flow into her weary body like water from a spring into empty fur. Her soul sang, savoring the victory.
Two steps to the side, dagger at the ready, half-turn... Just in time to see the long sword of the lovag chop off the head of the felon who had fallen to all fours. Well, it should be noted that the intervention was timely, neither sooner nor later than it should have been. Flessa closed her eyes, trying to calm her breathing, remembering the inexpressible sensation when the curved steel met resistance against the dead man's neck, how it overcame it, penetrating the fossa just above the collarbones, the place where a bundle of blood veins is hidden and any wound is fatal.
The jailer was jumping upstairs, shouting in his voice, spewing blasphemies, not embarrassed by the presence of two persons "with pedigrees" at once. But his cries did not hurt, only contrasted pleasantly with the heat of the battle. Flessa, still keeping her eyes closed, shook her head, thinking that the twentieth anniversary had definitely succeeded. There would still be time for a feast with young guests of good family names. The banquet would drag on and turn into a merry debauchery that would last until the morning. And it's glorious!
But it's not over here yet.
"I need a bath," she ordered, knowing for sure all the preparations had already been made.
The jailer was noisily fiddling with the ladder. Her bodyguard gave her a gallant hand to help her up the first step.
"Bath, clothes," Flessa said, unbuttoning the collar of her fighter jacket as she walked. "And a special service, as agreed."
"Of course, everything will be executed in the best possible manner," the jailer tried, ready, if need be, to personally fulfill all of his guest's wishes.
The dead man lay on the stone table, as naked as when he came out of his mother's womb. The body had been washed in time so the pale dead man did not stain the stone table with dirt. Once, the Bonoms of the Old Empire had eaten at the white marble slab with black and gray veins. Now, it was a place of special service, providing anatomical performances for healers, Demiurgs, and wealthy visitors whose curiosity was aided by the ability to pay.
Today the corpse room belonged to her, Flessa Wartensleben. And the dead man she wished to take a comprehensive look at. The woman washed away the sweat and replaced the protection with more appropriate garments, but the heat of the past fight still lingered, spreading through her veins, tingling her fingertips, echoing with the anxious rumble of blood in her lower abdomen.
"How much longer am I going to wait?" she tightened her lip.
The jailer apologized, promising the healer, aka qualified anatomist, would be here shortly. A prison is a prison, you see. People die here, sometimes quite suddenly. And, of course, the interest of the lady of the house is only worthy of the best, most competent master, who will open the dead man as easily and tenderly as a brother.
Flessa suppressed a chuckle. She suspected it was simpler than that - there was probably only one healer on the government payroll. Well, the main thing was to get there. The Wartensleben heiress had been a curious girl since childhood, and she couldn't miss the opportunity to see how a man worked from the inside out. The duelist intertwined her fingers, trying to keep her heart from racing. Wanted... something. To spice up the day with some more originality. Flessa smiled, remembering the banquet. Perhaps that was exactly what she was missing.
In the meantime, the anatomist appeared. He was tall, slender, and seemingly still a young man. His face was hidden beneath a strange hat, like a flat leather cap with a semicircular flap over his eyes instead of a brim. While the guy silently laid out his tools and prepared copper basins for the entrails, Flessa finally decided that she was going to end the walk in some kind of violent way. Vigorously. After such a marvelous adventure, she was determined to dominate and subdue. The heiress clenched her fist, feeling the hardness of the rings, especially the largest one. The family jewel was very old. From a time when gemstones were not yet able to be faceted and set in a nest with thin "feet." The large ruby was polished in the shape of an egg and half hidden in a gold rim.
It's settled, so the next morning will be met in a woman's embrace.
"Master Lunna is ready to show you her art!" proclaimed the jailer.
While the duelist thought she had misheard, the anatomist finally removed the funny hat, revealing short-cropped dark hair. A tall, slender woman about the same age as the future duchess, or slightly younger, looked straight into Flessa Wartensleben's eyes.
* * *