Part III And hell will follow us
Chapter 19 Practical economics
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Like a normal noblewoman, Flessa had an extensive retinue. Personal servants, jewelry and clothing guards, gate and wall guards, a key-keeper, cooks, tapestry makers, barbers, groomsmen, and so on. And also about a dozen squires of the old duke as privileged "companions." The companions under Mourier's direction acted as couriers and bodyguards, slept at the door of private chambers, recounted the news of the city and Court, and entertained by reading aloud tales of love and exploits. Thus, the heiress was almost always in the company of someone else.
But the realm of assistants ended on the third floor of the mansion, at the door to the duchess's private quarters. Training with the "dummy" was one-on-one, and Elena suspected that was a separate reason for Flessa to appreciate fencing lessons. It was a way for the heiress to gain legitimate privacy. The companions were unhappy to the extreme with the appearance of someone who came in as neither a fighter nor a fencer. Especially since each of the generous men had all the skills of a class fighter and would have been happy to play the role of a sparring partner. But Flessa kept a tight grip on the Rodent Murier, and he, in turn, knew how to maintain the necessary level of discipline among the staff. So, the rejection of the prison wreck was limited only by angry glances from behind the scenes. On the other hand, Elena tried not to get into trouble, taking off her hat in time, bowing, and generally following the rituals.
A blow, another blow. Flessa was advancing, shielded by a circular shield. A tall figure in layered protection, her face obscured beneath a mask of sturdy vine. Elena crouched and leaned slightly, turning her left side to face her opponent. The wooden swords struck the leather paneling simultaneously with a thud. Elena retreated half a step, thrusting her training blade forward, propping it up with her shield for stability. The technique was simple and designed for a hasty pursuer who was in a hurry to develop an attack and was ready to jump on the spearhead. Elena didn't expect it to work but rather tried to gain a few moments to assess the situation and somehow change the course of the fight.
Flessa tapped her blade against the very end of Elena's, showing that the ruse had been seen and unraveled. It seemed to Elena that two lights glowed in the darkness of the mask, like blue-eyed ghosts. The opponents moved in a circle with small cautious steps. The girl felt that a little more, and she would begin to suffocate. It was to be hoped that the fight had not added to Flessa's stamina either. Serious fights had many unpleasant and not at all cinematic nuances. For example, it was incredibly hot in thick quilts. How real warriors fight, say, in ringlets with felt undershirts, Elena was even afraid to imagine. But wooden swords, though they didn't kill, left big bruises. It wasn't a problem to break something with them if you were unlucky enough.
Flessa froze, putting out her right leg and lowering her blade very low, provoking an attack. Elena realized it was a trap, but she couldn't resist. And "from the wrist," almost without connecting the elbow hit the open shoulder at the same time with a step to the left. It was assumed that the duchess would cover herself with a shield and counter-strike, for which the "dummy" was already ready... Here, Flessa once again gave a surprise. She parried the blade into the blade and, in turn, stepped sideways, bypassing Elena's defense, marking a kick to the leg under the shield. The healer miraculously evaded the whipping swing purely due to the science of Draftman's Steps and sheer luck.
Elena gritted her teeth beneath the mask and whistled, glad that the mask wasn't soundproof. The blue lights flickered again behind the bars, and Elena realized she'd been wrong about the soundproofing. More than anything, she wanted to attack frantically, throwing an avalanche of blows at the duchess, wiping away the smile of superiority from her marble face, which she couldn't see but imagined perfectly. There was also no doubt that this was exactly what Flessa was waiting for, ready to take the impulse "on edge." Elena clenched her jaws and went round again, crouching even lower and raising her shield high, her fist over her ear, her arm closer to her body, so that the motion went from her shoulder up and down. The loose, relaxed grip of the shield was a typical mistake of non-professionals, paid for with bruises at best. You can't cheat physics, and even if the blow doesn't penetrate the double layer of leather-covered wood, the kinetic energy doesn't disappear.
"You hold your sword like a spinning wheel!" prodded Flessa through her mask, so it was unclear how she had the breath for everything. "And the shield is like a tray!"
Elena remained silent, waiting for the right second, hoping for a slip of the tongue. Over dozens of fights with Flessa, she realized that even a good technique of Draftsman was not enough to fight on equal terms. Though the Duchess was inferior in some respects, she often beat her partner due to more practice.
A blow, another blow. The parquet under their feet creaked softly, paying tribute to tradition. Wooden floors in rich houses were specially made "singing," two-layered. First, the main flooring was laid out, then copper nails were hammered into it, and patterned boards were laid on top of it. The resulting array hummed melodiously with every step, preventing the assassin from sneaking up.
The midday sun was beating through the windows, forcing her to maneuver to avoid facing the blinding light. They exchanged lunges again. Elena fought back a horizontal blow to the neck, and for a few moments, they fought rapier-style, striking with the upper quarter of their blades from a good distance. Then Flessa came up trumps, trying to penetrate Elena with brute force, vertical blows to the head with all her might at an extremely fast pace so her partner had time only to parry. The medic shuddered. The whole thing reminded her of the terrible boarding party, Shena's last suicidal attack, and the hail of blows she had thrown at her sorceress opponent.
Elena exhaled, feeling a wave of blinding rage wash over her eyes. The Draftsman wouldn't have failed to give her a good beating with a stick, lecturing her about cold thinking in battle. But he wasn't there, and the fencer's apprentice stepped right under the swing, hitting the shield with her shield. Flessa staggered, having to step back and spread her arms wide, catching her balance. Elena struck her short garda with force into her breastplate, knocking her opponent over. She stepped on the shield, preventing Flessa from rising, and swung again, preparing to finish her off. The duchess hurriedly threw her sword away, raising her empty palm in a thick glove.
The vicious violence ebbed away. A couple of moments later, Elena was already ashamed of the outburst. The victorious woman unclenched her fingers, releasing her training blade, and held out her hand to Flessa, helping her stand up. The Duchess rose heavily, seeming to be as tired as her visage. Her movements seemed to drag and slow. When Flessa finally stood upright, the blue eyes behind the bars flashed with sudden ferocity. Elena realized she was caught, but it was too late. Flessa slid toward her, pressing close, snatching a small dagger from its sheath on her left forearm. A real one, never once a study dagger. The faceted point pricked just below her ribs, indicating that the cotton-lined jacket was no barrier to the weapon.
Elena froze, afraid to take a breath.
Damn...
Flessa put her dagger away and removed her shield. With both hands, she unfastened the fastener and pulled off the helmet mask. She shook her head, gulping air with her mouth. Drops of sweat covered her white face, and her laced hair was disheveled.
Damn it, this is a training match!
"Never give mercy," admonished the Duchess sternly, still breathing heavily. "Never! You will be stabbed in the back, and no one will appreciate your nobility. Everyone will say, here is a man who failed to dispose of the gift of Pantocrator!" [1]
Elena bowed her head, acknowledging the mistake.
"But it was good!" Flessa evened out her breathing. "Two fights out of five are yours."
"I thought we were training you, but it seems more like I'm the one learning," Elena remarked.
"And that's good!" the duchess was in a good mood. "I made the right choice. You're strong enough. Our fights make me work hard and sharpen my skills. And you're evolving, which means I have to keep the score at three to two, not two to three. Next time, we'll try sabers. Or something shorter. without shields."
"Happy to serve," Elena repeated the "swan curtsy," remembering that Flessa was madly fond of it.
"I am proud to accept worthy service," replied the Duchess in the classic form of accepting a valuable favor and changed the subject. "Wait a moment, I must read the letter."
There was a separate fencing room in the manor house, which the Wartensleben's rented for several years in advance. But the women usually practiced martial arts in Flessa's study, which adjoined her bedroom. There was plenty of space, the huge room took up nearly a quarter of the floor and seemed sparsely furnished. High floor-to-ceiling windows, several bookcases that were always locked, a huge table of dark yellow wood covered with silky leather so fine that one wanted to run one's palms over it, savoring the feeling of perfection. It was not without reason that leather in every conceivable form and finish was Malersyde's trademark. What spoiled the beauty was a constellation of old ink stains. These, and the many sheets of paper and the bottle of ink, showed that the table was not an object of decoration. It was a place where people worked regularly and a lot.
Among other things on the table was a weighty expense journal, a mighty stack of paper sheets enclosed in a brown binder. Elena had imagined the life of an aristocrat as a series of amusements and, consequently, the scattering of gold left and right. And so it was - outwardly. But behind the facade of frivolous spending, there was meticulous accounting.
Flessa herself kept the books for all expenses. The salaries of the lower level servants down to the baker's assistant boy, the maintenance of "body" and "room" servants, bodyguards, couriers, and postal services. Donations to the church, distribution of alms, purchases small, medium, and large. Shoes and shoes, clothes - numerous gifts to family friends in the capital, children of family friends, and useful people like scriveners. Parchment, dressed leather, needles, and other gear were bought for the craftsmen, who in turn carried out special orders for the young noblewoman. The expense of a home tailor to cut off the pile of worn clothing. Chests of tanned leather. Reeds for lining the floors of servants' quarters and other "noble" rooms. Copper, pewter, and "lordly" utensils. Candles, lamps, luminous oil, magic lamps. Wine bought, wine received as a gift, beer brewed by a female brewer directly in the Duchess's house. Everything was accounted for down to the last coin.
This time, near the familiar red folio, there was another book, similar in format but bound in black leather and with an ingenious lock with no visible hole. But Elena only glanced at the new object. As usual, the woman glanced at the armor that stood to the left of the duchess's desk on a polished stand made of precious northern birch. It could be called armor with a great stretch. The construction was more associated with something fortress-like, reminiscent of a tower. Several cylinders of black bronze on belt loops and rivets with chopped caps formed a cuirass, a long skirt below the knees, as well as a gorget up to the level of the eyes. All this was crowned with a soup bowl-like helmet, lined with boar fangs so often that the metal was barely visible beneath the yellow, time-cracked bone. Flessa had mentioned that it was a family heirloom, the lats of ancient times, made before the rise of the Old Empire. Walking in bronze buckets was nearly impossible. Riding was impossible on principle. Elena assumed that, most likely, in front of her was a charioteer's armor, a self-propelled battle turret, apparently for an archer. But in any case, it looked incredibly impressive.
Next to the armor, on the very corner of the table, next to the black book, was a weighty pouch with the characteristic folds that only coins give. It was a lot of coins and not a silver change. The pouch was untied, and the precious burden was partially spilling out. The midday rays had reached here, and the coins glistened in the reflected light. Wow, the coinage is brand new! Something about the money seemed unusual, strange. Elena didn't have time to think about it. Flessa firmly moved her guest aside and covered the purse with a large sheet of parchment.
The women exchanged glances for a few moments, and then Elena sighed and shrugged, admitting defeat. Yes, it was rude, but on the other hand, she shouldn't have stared so obviously at someone else's gold. Or silver...? What was wrong with the coins after all...
"A bath," Flessa said, showing with a smile that the brief incident, whatever it was, was over. "We need a bath."
"Definitely," Elena agreed enthusiastically.
She watched with satisfaction as her friend removed her workout clothes, throwing felt slippers, jacket, and stockings with stitched rollers across the shiny floor. With only a thin cloth shirt left, Flessa looked over her shoulder.
"Are you with me?"
The women smiled without collusion, remembering a not-so-long-ago situation when the same words were spoken by another.
"Yes, of course," Elena unbuckled the leather belt that supported the man's pants. Contrary to custom, she kept a knife, more like a scalpel in a wooden sheath, in her codpiece than petty cash.
"Let me help."
She stood behind the duchess and helped her pull her sweat-wet, wide-sleeved shirt over her head. At the same time, she couldn't resist the temptation to touch Flessa's neck, which was revealed from beneath the short haircut. The heiress had a long yet strong neck that grew into graceful shoulders without any of the slouching that characterized city dwellers. Flessa had the royal posture of a man who was not accustomed to bowing her head to anyone, who had been well nourished since childhood and was accustomed to rigorous exercise.
Elena's gaze fell on her lover's naked back, and the smooth glide of her fingertips was disrupted. Now, the medicine woman saw what she had only felt before, clutching Flessa in her arms - a few criss-cross scars, looking provocative, even offensive against the white skin, untouched by tan. Elena from Earth had no idea where they might have come from. Lunna from the prison, on the other hand, recognized at a glance the long-standing, well-healed marks of a whipping. Years ago, Flessa had been brutally whipped, not to maim but to inflict maximum pain,
The Duchess flinched as if she had eyes in the back of her head. She shrugged, threw off her shirt, and stepped forward without turning around. She even straightened up even more, even though it seemed impossible. As she watched Flessa march without turning her head, she licked her parched lips and hurried out of her pants and undershirt.
The water poured from the jug in a hot stream, almost scalding. Elena moaned through her teeth, experiencing the ecstatic delight that only an athlete and a fighter could understand. The bath wash pulled the fatigue out of her body and caressed the fresh bruises pleasantly - training was training, but she beat Flessa in full force, as she received in return. Besides, the warm bath was an incredible luxury, and Elena savored every moment. Usually, the bath also came with a masseur, but today, they had to do without him; the master had dislocated his finger in a street fight and was temporarily incapacitated.
To hell with it. It's good enough. Elena put her hands on the brass railings. She checked the knot in the towel she'd wrapped around her hair. The dye was permanent, but Elena still had nightmares of Ranjan recognizing her by the sudden redness. That, by the way, was also a problem. Given that Elena was now intimately involved with an outsider, even to the point of sharing a bed, she had to color more thoroughly and more often. Although the black ointment didn't seem to spoil her hair, the medicine woman seriously feared for her hair. Perhaps in time, she would have to open up to her friend.
"Out," Flessa nonchalantly sent the maids with the jugs away.
Elena suppressed a grimace of displeasure as usual. The way the duchess treated the lower-ranking servants was one of the many things that irritated her immensely on the one hand and made her feel powerless on the other. Elena understood perfectly well that if she tried to push for human dignity, the aristocrat simply would not understand what she was talking about. The idea of "all men are equal" could easily lead to the interrogation cell because it directly attacked the foundations of class society.
"Did you know that in the old days, healers used to prescribe separate baths for cooling spouses?" the duchess squinted, extending her left hand, the one with the rings, above her head. "In the same bathing room, facing each other."
"No," Elena smiled, sinking deeper into the large tub lined with a sheet so the metal wouldn't touch her skin. The bath smelled pleasantly of soap and scented sacks of dried southern flower petals.
"But it's true. Baths were required to be taken naked..." Flessa twirled her fingers, enjoying the gleams of the gems in the rings. "And in fine jewelry."
"I'm going to take a wild guess. It warmed up the cooled feelings?"
"Exactly," purred the Duchess, stroking her neck. "Stirs the blood and awakens the sensuality."
"Well, you're a long, long way from that."
Elena thought it was easy and pleasant to flatter with the truth. It would definitely be many years before Flessa had to spur someone's sensuality with aphrodisiacs and psychotherapy.
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"You need fine jewelry," the Duchess suggested casually.
Elena could barely keep from a disgruntled grimace as she realized it was starting up again.
"When you look at me, do you need to, uh. to arouse sensuality?" The healer knew she sounded provocative to the point of insolence, but she couldn't help herself. She threw her head back, pulled back her shoulders, and half-closed her eyes, nibbling her lips for the right shade of bright red. Judging by the blush that flooded the duchess's usually pale cheekbones, it worked without fail.
"I want to admire you in jewelry!" wished Flessa capriciously. "You have slightly darker skin, and white gold would look good on it. And opals. Opals would go well with your eyes. And you have no opals! Just these... old coins."
"Tell me about commerce," Elena asked suddenly, wanting to turn the slippery conversation wherever she could, as long as she stayed away from the unpleasant topic.
"What?" the Duchess was confused.
"Yesterday, there was a fight in front of our windows. A lot of people were beaten up. It was over the wine monopoly. You know more than I do. Tell me what's going on."
"Hmm..." the request was clearly unexpected and put Flessa puzzled. "You're unlikely to understand."
"I'm smarter than I seem," Elena furrowed her brow.
Flessa smoothed her wet hair and interlaced her fingers as if touching the smooth gold of the rings was a pleasure.
"The Emperor needs money. In fact, everyone needs money, but the Emperor is especially short of it."
She paused, gauging the reaction. Elena was even a little offended that her friend doubted her ability to understand such simple things.
Elena had heard of the Emperor. The young man, almost the same age as Flessa, was considered the lord of the Ecumene on eight sides of the world, including the Island. In fact, like the long line of rulers before him since the Cataclysm, the Emperor's power ended somewhere beyond the palace walls, somewhere beyond the city gates. Nevertheless, the lord had some weight as a lawmaker, an arbiter of the disputes of the upper aristocracy, and something else.
"It's obvious," Elena said exactly what she was thinking.
"Well," retorted the Duchess with a note of approval. "The commoners think that if you're a noble, money takes care of itself, as much as you need. And certainly, if you're an Emperor..."
It was even more offensive to emphasize "commoner." Though there was no point in being offended, Elena was a low-class townswoman, and the aristocrat was merely pointing out a fact. But still...
"However, the Emperor's sources of income are not many," Flessa continued, splashing drops of water from her fingertips.
"What about taxes?"
"Taxes are payoffs," the Duchess explained. "And payoffs are sticky gold."
"Sticky?"
"Sticks to the fingers in abundance."
"I see... So the Palace isn't that rich?"
"Well, how can I put it... enough for a life of luxury. But the young emperor would like much more."
Flessa was enthusiastic, and Elena was a grateful listener, so the general picture became clear quite quickly. In the process, she caught the duchess's unusually interested glances a couple of times, far from the usual passion, but she ignored them, trying to keep the thread of the story.
The finances of the Imperial Court were replenished in perplexing ways. Formally, the ruler of the world had an extensive share in tax revenues, as well as the right to collect contributions from the Church "for the defense of the land and faith." Practically, however, for many reasons, the money came mainly from the emperor's personal estates, of which the family did not have many. And, of course, taxes from the biennial Great Fair. That was enough for the previous lords. Not for this one.
As far as Elena understood, the young emperor intended to organize a full-fledged analog of the Industrial Revolution, seriously moving the traditional workshops to the benefit of the so-called craft councils, which at the same time exercised administrative power in urban areas. Fair dues for apprentices, the possibility for everyone to practice any craft and change occupation at their discretion, direct payment of taxes past the shop treasury, and so on were declared. And somewhere on the horizon, the contours of tax reform with the transition from the system of payoffs to a normal bureaucracy were already glimmering.
Of course, the whole reformation had the simple goal of broadening the tax base. Of course, a large part of the shop community rallied together, sabotaging the idea in the most subtle ways. Nevertheless, up to a certain point, everything rolled like an old cart, crookedly, breaking every minute, but still in the conventionally conceived direction. The Emperor was backed by many different people, from the ruined petty nobility to the low, unprivileged workshops, who paid as "higher," but otherwise were considered to be the same kind of common people as gravediggers, goldsmiths, and collectors of filth for tanneries.
"What's wrong with pushing the shops?" Elena dared to clarify.
"What's good about it?"
"Well, that's not fair!" Elena splashed water at her friend. "Question upon question! But I'll say..." she thought for a moment. "When a man is free..."
And then there was a hitch. Elena realized she couldn't express everything she thought - she was simply speechless. "Bourgeois revolution," "manufactories," "industrial society," and many other concepts were spinning in her head in clear images, which could be expressed in English.... and that was it. The universal language of the Ecumene and its numerous dialects were simply devoid of the necessary words.
"Well, okay," Flessa smiled, watching Elena's mouth drop open in a mute attempt to describe the indescribable. "Let's imagine."
She lowered herself in the tub, showing off her graceful feet, lifted and extended her right one, admiring the new ankle bracelet.
"How many shops do you think there are in the world?"
Elena thought again.
"Well, I don't know," she said with obvious uncertainty. "A dozen or three, maybe... No, fifty."
"Almost guessed it," Flessa hummed. "In a normal city, there are between twenty and fifty shops in operation all the time. Depending on how big the city is and what it does for a living. If it's on a river, it's got fishmongers and shipbuilders. If not, then there are sawmills, hog farmers, and so on. Coal miners, potters. You see?"
"Yes."
A big city, that's another matter, and the complete shop mural of Milvess has one hundred and thirty-two shops.
"Wow!"
"What did you think? Drapers, purse makers, bookbinders, wine keepers, white dyers, blue dyers, and all the others too. Glove makers, felt makers, nail smiths, horseshoe smiths, five other different blacksmithing occupations."
"And all of these are independent shops?"
"Of course! With its diplomas, its rules, its charter. And most importantly," Flessa admonished, raising her index and middle fingers folded together, calling for attention. "With precise, strict rules of the craft."
"I don't understand. Oh, no! I think I do. How much of what to mix and all that?"
"Exactly," Flessa nodded. "Every craft has a detailed code of what must be done and how it must be done, and what must not be done under any circumstances. Everything is accounted for. If it's steel armor, what metal it is, where it should be branded, and what tests the plates are subjected to. Do you have chain mail?"
"No."
"I'll show you later in the arsenal, every good chain mail is always riveted with a copper plaque with a stamp - where and what master made it. And if it's bread, the shop books describe how it is baked, from what flour, what size and weight the loaf should be."
"Does flour have its own sign?"
"Of course. And so it is with everything. When you buy bread, you know it will be of proper quality and weight. When you order clothes you don't have to puzzle over their quality because the fabric is supplied by the clothier's shop. Any shop keeps an eye on its workers, always vigilant. And if someone starts to cheat, underweight, or cook bad steel, the shop punishes him severely before any laws and judges. After all, if the work is worthless, why demand privileges?"
Elena thought hard. She had never had to evaluate the phenomenon of the shop organization from such a point of view. And in the words of the Duchess there was quite a definite, serious meaning.
"But..."
"But?"
"But apprentices, they live in hell," Elena found herself. "Years in poverty, like slaves, until they save up money for the exam. Many never do. Or they have to marry the daughters of masters."
"Why do you care?" Flessa said with splendid disdain.
"But it's kind of..." Elena was a little angry, realizing that today she was falling too often, getting caught in the middle of things, and unable to parry a verbal outburst.
"Somehow, I guess," Flessa agreed, stretching out her foot again and catching the golden spiral on her ankle with a beam of light. "But tell me, what do you care about the torment of some apprentice who has to fuck the old master's daughter, who is as ugly as a slaughter horse? Is that your concern? Why pity someone who won't pity you?"
Elena folded her hands into a ladle, drew warm water, and poured it on her face, squeezing her eyes shut. It seems that her harmonious picture of the archaic character of the workshops and the progressiveness of bourgeois-democratic transformations was... incomplete.
"Keep going," she asked.
So, the young ruler, to raise more money for the treasury, was playing a long game, trying to rebuild the cart that had been rolling along for centuries. And he could have succeeded, but... to make a lot of money, at first, you have to spend a lot of money. Bribes, promoting loyal people, awarding positions, giving away lands and privileges - everything cost gold. The Emperor borrowed and borrowed and borrowed, going into debt. Who knows how everything would have ended in the end, but then nature itself intervened. A series of bad harvests hit the Ecumene. It was far from a devastating famine, but there was significantly less money in their wallets. Less money, less taxes, leaner coffers. And this is not counting the widespread rumors that Pantocrator is dissatisfied with the ruler, showing his anger to the world, alternating between summer drought and snowless winters.
And then the Emperor did what people in their right mind never do - he took some very large loans from the Island. Such sums required serious security "in physical form," i.e. land and rights of tax collection. The collateral was the last vast tracts of forest on the continent, and the right to collect taxes from the Great Fair. And the Fair was not a trifle but an economic event on a global scale.
Every two years, hundreds, thousands of merchants brought goods from all over the Ecumene, and the merchants were followed by everyone else like beasts of the forest to a life-giving spring. Here they bought and sold, made huge fortunes and went bankrupt, joined clans and started blood feuds for generations to come. Everything could be bought here, even a bride or groom from a generic but ruined family, so that at every Fair a dozen or two rich and ignorant upstarts acquired nobility by right of marriage.
For two weeks of the Fair, wars were stopped, its territory was declared a zone of special jurisdiction, the property of merchants was protected by terrible penalties and huge fines regardless of religion. In the course of the event, one could not sue or take property in pledge. In addition, Milvess paid the merchant's lodging (usually the merchant staying in the house did not pay in money, but took it upon himself to reimburse part of the house expenses).
Of course, the Fair brought in a huge income in the form of fees, which were traditionally collected by the emperor and two-thirds kept for himself. Traditionally, this money was considered inviolable. It went only into the personal coffers of the rulers, not into other commercial transactions. The emperor borrowed a great deal of gold from the Island in several installments for the security of forests and revenues from the future Fair, which he then refused to return.
Well, I mean, not to say that he refused... From what Elena understood, it was more like a technical default. Or maybe a temporary bankruptcy. The Emperor didn't say he was forgiving everyone he owed, no, not at all! There's just no money, bad harvests, thieving payoffs, unplanned expenses. As for the forest (which Saltoluchard had already scheduled ten years in advance, preparing to seriously renew the fleet), a thorough audit, reassessment of the boundaries, and so on, was required before he could pledge to cut it down. And after the Fair was over, part of the palace archives burned down, where by an unfortunate coincidence all the records relating to the levies perished.
The emperor spectacularly turned out his empty pockets and, figuratively speaking, advised the borrowers to keep in good spirits. And as soon as there was more money in the treasury, then, of course, all bills would be paid without delay! In addition, the emperor doubled the guards, bought several mercenary units on permanent salaries, and allowed the Сraft Сouncils to form their squads. Finally, he announced that he intended to assemble a separate council to organize the crown's wine monopoly. The islanders found themselves in the typical position of the creditor to whom the door was always open but not the purse. It was brazen, it was risky, but the young emperor, cornered by chronic pennilessness, went all-in and raked all the chips off the table, hoping to pull off a Reformation before the amount of discontent led to real upheaval.
"Big debts are no longer the debtor's problems, but the creditor's?" quoted Elena, not remembering whom. "But that's how you get poisoned."
Definitely, she liked this young emperor more and more, who persistently bent the universe to suit himself despite the inertia of a machine that had been rolling for a thousand years in the same rut. Elena had never given much thought to what he did, how the occupant of the huge palace in the southwestern part of the City lived. He was simply like the sun, the sea, and other manifestations of nature. A celestial, at once and forever, separated from all others by position and descent as the highest Primator. And so, it turned out, that while the healer was surviving, such amazing things were happening around her. No, of course, echoes of fascinating conflicts she observed every day in different forms. But the background was as fascinating as a good detective story. And caused a prick of discontent - because all of this she could have found out for herself if she'd asked around. If she had looked at the world around her. If she had taken her mind off the sullen struggle for existence.
"They can," Flessa agreed. "But things are tricky. The Island isn't the only one that lends large sums of money in phoenixes, many continental primators earn interest. The Emperor owes them money too. If the ruler is gone, there will be complications, collisions, and disputes about the order of payments. Everything will be settled behind tightly locked doors, of course, but money is money, and in such disputes, people often start dying early."
"Doesn't the emperor borrow on behalf of the Crown?" wondered Elena. "So he writes the promissory notes for himself, as a private person?"
"Don't rack your brains," Flessa retorted, swinging her leg. The duchess's face darkened as if the woman was berating herself for something. It was as if the student had been too clever, and the teacher doubted the usefulness of the lesson. Elena didn't notice it and continued to argue aloud:
"So the Island is in a bad position. The debtor has defaulted. There's nothing you can do about it because the other creditors won't understand. And if the debt can't be collected, it's reputational damage... And it's unlikely that the lord would risk such a venture without support. He must have some allies among the other Primators, perhaps hidden ones."
"Enough!" interrupted Flessa sharply, harshly, whose mood was rapidly deteriorating.
"Whatever you say," Elena agreed, not understanding what could have made the young duchess so angry.
By "robe" in Ecumene meant something like a long-sleeved shirt with short sleeves, so one could put on gloves with oils and creams to soften the skin. Technically, robes could be unbuttoned and buttoned, but since the lacing was the typical infernal weaving of a dozen or so cords, they were usually worn over the head. Elena got tangled in the cloth, and when she got out, the duchess had already taken care of her shirt, put on her belt, and seemed collected, ready for something decisive.
"I want you to take the money from me," looking away, Flessa said stubbornly.
"We've already talked about this," Elena sighed heavily. "I won't take your money. Clothes, good shoes without jewelry, yes. But no more."
"Gifts, jewelry, gold," the Duchess enumerated coherently as if she had already replayed the dialogue in her mind and now only repeated it. "You must take something from me."
Elena stepped close to Flessa and touched the duchess's chin with her fingertips. She ran her fingertips up to her cheekbones, feeling the tiny veins shiver beneath the smooth skin. Up to her temples, she touched her black hair, smoothing the silky strands. She ran her fingers over her ears, which were slightly pinkish and without pierced lobes. Bonoms did not wear earrings; aristocrats more often wore clips or elaborate designs that were looped over the base of their ears.
"If I kiss you, will that count as me avoiding an answer?" clarified Elena hoarsely. "Or..."
Flessa swallowed, barely noticeable. She took Helena's hands at her wrists and squeezed, pulling away with firm assurance.
"Yes," said the Duchess decisively. "It counts."
"So be it," Elena stepped back, freeing herself from Flessa's arms. "We've talked about this before. Several times. I'm not taking your money."
"But why the hell not!" Flessa straightened up like a taut crossbow string, Blue eyes throwing lightning bolts so that it seemed to Elena - just a moment more and the air would smell ozone from electric discharges. "Why? You're mine. You're with me. Minions, keepers, courtesans, servants, everyone takes money!"
Elena bowed her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose. An unexpected headache bit at her temples and touched the back of her head with sharp claws.
"That's exactly why," she muffled in wistful hopelessness. "Because I am not a servant. Not a courtesan."
It's useless. It's all useless. Flessa is smart, very smart. She's experienced, a million points ahead of the medicine woman in a fight for anything. She's the daughter of a ruler, trained from childhood to rule, to survive, to swim in intrigue like a shark in the sea. But in Flessa's world, there is no such thing as ...
As...
Oh, my God.
Elena gasped, realizing she'd forgotten how to say it in her native tongue. It was wild and scary to feel mute, even worse than mute. To imagine something and not be able to give it a name, to put it into words.
In Flessa's world?
No, it's in her now, too.
Flessa waited for the continuation, flaring her nostrils angrily, like a cranky toddler ready to cry over a sweet.
"I am a free man," Elena said. "And I am with you because that is my desire. I want to be with you. To see you happy. To give you joy... and pleasure. I want to wake up in the morning and watch you sleep. If I run my fingernail through the ends of your hair above your eyes, you wrinkle your nose funny. And if I touch your lips just a little, you smile without waking up."
Flessa stared silently, her lower jaw seeming hard, carved from stone even in appearance. Elena spoke hastily, trying to hold her feelings in her words, to hold them back like water through a sieve.
"If you pay me just once... then I will become your servant. And all this will be gone. It will be over. There will be buying and selling. Trading deeds, words. One day I won't want to sell you anything. And you'll decide it's too expensive and look for another seller."
Flessa moved her jaw in a purely masculine gesture, like a fighter ready to rush into battle. She looked into Elena's eyes, her gaze sharp and cutting like shards of blue diamond. The duchess opened her mouth, and Elena covered her lips with her fingertips in a quick movement.
"You are...!"
"Please!"
It was simultaneous, the two voices merging into one. Elena saw Flessa grasp the hilt of a dagger. One that seemed like a toy but could kill with the inevitability of real steel. God damn the Ecumene, let this terrible world burn in hell, where a beautiful young woman sees in a sudden movement first the murderer's intentions and then the caress.
"Please," she repeated quietly. "Don't say what you were going to say. Because what's said can't be taken back. And we'll both remember that. If you really want to, say it later. After you've thought it over, in a cooler mind."
Flessa slumped a little, like an inflatable toy that had been blown out of the air, just a little, just enough to make her figure lose its former clarity and elasticity. It was as if the Duchess had gained five years, if not more. Exaggeratedly slow, somehow emphasized, Flessa took Helena's hand, took it away from her lips, as far away from her lips as possible, to the length of her outstretched arm.
"Go away."
One word, just one word, cold as ice from the mountain tops in the center of the continent. Alienated, like... like the other side of the moon.
"As you wish, Mistress," Elena felt now was not the time for friendly words, much less loving ones. The more strict, official detachment, the better. As Mourier had said, something about the diversity of an aristocrat's essence.....
God, why is everything so complicated?! Why was everything with Shena as simple and easy as a warm wave on a beach of soft sand? And a snide voice in the back of his mind whispered: maybe that's why it's not easy? Because with Shena, they had only been given a few hours of happiness. Pure emotion, nothing more. And then death and only memories. Not a living person, but her romantic shadow, a memory of happiness.
This is completely, completely different.
"Goodbye."
"Are you coming to the tailor?" asked Flessa, staring sideways again and folding her hands on the buckle of her finely beaded belt.
"To the tailor?" interjected Elena, engrossed in introspection and therefore not immediately engaged in the essence of the question.
"The Tournament is nearing, a few days to go," the Duchess's gaze remained dull and detached. "The day after tomorrow, the white seamstresses will be dressing me. Come..."
She sighed intermittently, as if another word was stuck in her throat, unwilling to come out.
"Ple..s..!"
"I'll be there," Elena promised and saw the cruel fury in the blue eyes waver for a moment as if the caustic acid solution had been diluted with a drop of gratitude. For the fact that the proud and imperious lordess didn't have to break herself to the point of uttering a word, she was unlikely to say to anyone other than her stern father.
"Goodbye."
* * *