Interlude: "Watch Your Back" - 3

* * *

A figure appeared in a deserted section of the Copperbelt shopping district, where a heated battle had recently taken place, but about which almost no one knew, and those who did know did everything they could to keep the knowledgeable to a minimum. It appeared instantly, without outward magical manifestations, simply beginning to abide. The figure was graceful, beautiful, and impersonal in its beauty.

Next to the figure stood three others, who had been waiting in that spot for about ten minutes. The heavy cloaks of coarse cloth that protected them so well from the night wind hid their expensive robes and enchanted armor beneath them. These guests, whose faces were concealed by hoods and masks, would have been far more logical to see at a wealthy social gathering or a ball in the Imperial Palace. The figures were silent, but one of them, the central one, asked in a tired and resigned voice:

"Was the Sovereign displeased?" The slightest tinge of interest and indifferent humility in those words.

"The Sovereign was displeased." Confirms a pale figure, then disappears from sight, and in the magical perception it did not show anything before.

After a few seconds, the three figures silently walk away, and the cover, hidden among the rooftops and alleyways, without which they have not left their houses for a long time simply by a social position which, alas, is obligatory, follows them.

Somewhere far away and close at the same time, said gentleman acknowledged with mild displeasure that plans, almost completed plans, almost accomplished goals, would have to be accelerated the least bit.

* * *

A good mercenary never asks unnecessary questions or even unnecessary thoughts. Then such a mercenary would be fed, clothed, well-staffed, well-recognized by his employers, and, most importantly, alive. The Four Shields was a squad not too numerous but famous enough and not squeamish to work in a somewhat gray area, which at times was replaced by true blackness. One who was not caught by the hand might be considered innocent, especially if that hand, should suspicion arise, would generously pay off those who would shake off the trappers. Or prove the innocence with blades and magic, if that's cheaper.

The squad was originally named after its first four founders, all of whom were Shielder class, which greatly influenced the early stages of the squad's career. They took on mostly defensive contracts, taking part in various border skirmishes and wars of noble lords. It was a lucrative business, though risky.

Once, the risk was too great, and the squad was beaten and left without money. The heir of the dead employer flatly refused to pay for the labors and losses of the Four Shields. After that, all four founders died in a heated argument over who the fuck was to blame, and Burge became the new head of the company. He didn't change his squad's name because to change a squad's name required an official registration procedure, without which a squad of armed men in the Empire of the Ages was considered thugs and other outlaws rather than a respectable mercenary squad.

Yes, you didn't have to bother. In the provincial and frontier areas, it was easy to get by without a badge and even closer it was enough to pay a much smaller sum by giving it to the Governor. Not personally, but through his men, of course. But you would have to pay anew in each new province. And most importantly, the Four Shields badge has already been paid for!

That's how they worked. They stayed out of combat, trying more to work with guards and deliveries, but they did not hesitate to ambush them at the behest of their anonymous employer or without the behest either. Berge had to cut the zealous heads off several times to keep the squad from degenerating into another outlaw gang, the end of which was always the same.

Three years ago he found a real gold mine. That's not to say that he was sought out on purpose, but the employer needed specific people with the right skills and experience for a long-term contract, and Berge and his Shields fit that definition perfectly. And a relatively carefree time began - the employer needed them, who was not going to eliminate them in order to find new ones immediately, and he kept people in a fierce glove, not allowing them to say too much and shutting them up forever if they did not understand the first and only warning.

Of course, he guessed that it was what they regularly carried under false documents, which each time had different seals of influential people, but always turned out to be real. The squad mage had identified the rune pattern on the long wooden crates, which ensured healthy sleep and air circulation. He shared his observations, though only with Berge, so he lived happily ever after. It wasn't just crates they were carrying - there were cases, boxes, caskets, just letters and documentation and, of course, perfectly legitimate goods. Apparently, they were only given them when Shields was going to be checked seriously.

Burge kept quiet, drove, made, guarded, and killed anyone who attempted to steal the goods. There weren't many of them, come to think of it, and almost all of them were just unlucky outlaws. In cases where more serious people were interested in Berge and his band's transports, one message to the man from his employer was enough, and then they lost interest. Sometimes, along with the person who was interested.

The old rascal kept his men from feeling impunity, made sure they didn't attract attention, and generally did exactly what was desired of him. He did it without asking any questions. Time flowed, gold multiplied in stashes or bank deposits, and Burge himself was thinking of having an accident and retiring. Though he was not going to even think of divulging the secrets he knew, the innate pessimist could not believe that he would be allowed to retire. And the spent mercenaries had better kill themselves, or they would be killed for real.

This was to be his before before last order because he had everything he needed, including a corpse from a provincial vivisectionist who looked exactly like him and an appearance-change operation ordered from another magician. The lady even offered to change the sex, but Berge was not yet so hungry for a new experience in life that he would agree to it. The man did not doubt that his deception would be uncovered, but he would be too far away by then to really look for someone who knew no special secrets and was doing his best not to find out.

The long wooden crates, which this time had to be carried out of the usual queue, this time had a much larger number than usual. That worried the mercenary a great deal, for a change in routine, was always a sign of trouble to come. The exception only confirmed the rule. He'd like to think it was just a one-time glitch, but when your employers started demanding triple the number of victims outside the usual schedule, it was hard not to join them.

Were the mysterious employers one of the guild wings conducting undocumented experiments in the chanceries, necromancers preparing an army of their own, or rebels feeding a summoned creature to kill the Emperor? He did not give a shit, and he will not give a shit. The main thing is to be out of the way at a time when it smells like it's about to go bad.

Like, for example, right now.

The group of mercenaries had no time to be surprised. As they passed through another alleyway, several dimly glowing pink spheres fell on their heads, and then a flash of light disabled every single one of the armed men, who had relaxed considerably over their years of the quiet life. Even Berg, who wore a level twenty-two, was not invulnerable to magical attack.

They disarmed the mercenaries silently and deftly, poured more reliable sleeping potions down their throats, calmed their horses, stacked the men next to the boxes, covered them with cloth, took their places as carriers and guards, and continued to the very near goal. This time there was no time to assign a new delivery point, and the mercenaries had outlived their usefulness.

As the morning wore on, the young-looking redheaded ritualist began to wipe his bloody hands and clean his work clothes. He had to try really hard to use all the material, but the Shroud that had been cherished for so long not only did not go to pieces, but it strengthened, making further work much easier without losing its invisibility. The subtlest influence was hidden in the magical background of the capital, and so far no one could notice it, and those who could simply not going to look for what they had no idea about.

"The Sovereign will be pleased." Quietly whispered the young man, whose age was older than other third-rate aristocratic houses, leaving the ritual room to the janitors.

Approximately the same thoughts and words were whispered by his colleagues at another thirteen points inside the walls of the Eternal. Colleagues of lesser importance and talent did not fail, and the terrible mystery remained a terrible mystery.

* * *

But not for long.

Few merchants can afford to keep their own personal Seer, no matter how shitty Seer might be. Alas, Torch of Tanai was a merchant who was quite rich, very clever, and quite cunning, and Congar Bernt was a Seer, maybe not bad but certainly unlucky to the extreme. From his little investigation, his grandfather had pissed off Lady Fortune or one of the deity's priests - some generic bad luck curses don't appear out of the blue.

He lost his inheritance through a fraudulent scheme involving administrative resources, a team of burglars, and two lush-breasted Seductress who kept him in a state for a week where he had no time to see where his inheritance was slipping away. By the time Congar had recovered enough to appreciate the depth of his ass, he was left in every sense of the word with a bare ass.

So he didn't have to open his own business but was hired as an assistant to one of the tradesmen. The work was not too dusty and fairly money, and the curse, which had lost its power in two generations, had been lifted with the help of Malefic, advised by Torch. The loss of money and opportunity was still pitiful, and the man did not like to think about it.

The merchant, proficient in several near-intuitive class tricks, had been wishing to match him with his daughter for months, and Kongar was thinking of agreeing to it. True, he had not forgotten to check himself for love charms - burning on hot broth, you begin to blow even on icy gruel. Maria was a pretty girl, shapely and very sweet... a fool. On the other hand, this wedding would not only bind him to the Tanai House, but it would also open the door to the family accounts of this house. Congar understood that Torch understood that, and even Maria might have understood something there.

With the new finances, it would be possible to invest and make deals, and then, perhaps, it would be possible to get a trade prediction class, closing the gaps in the work of the trade analytical, which Torch owns. Together, with family ties, they could advance considerably in the financial hierarchy of the Capital. All the way from the Copper Belt to the Silver Belt, where both money and connections would be of an entirely different order.

If he is lucky for once in his life.

Kongar didn't like this deal from the start, and it was precisely because it was too ordinary. The intermediary who ordered the whole list of very rare spices, which are also used in the creation of some alchemical drugs and poisons, was trustworthy and reliable. Another thing is that this case seemed deliberately grayish as if someone carefully tried to create a picture of a not-very-honest, moderately greedy, and sufficiently contractual client engaged in some near-illegal activity.

Searching of Vision and Finding a Motive, he had used enough times to be relatively certain of his assumptions. There was nothing in this transaction that would become unpleasant or dangerous to Torch and his caravan house. Of course, his skills are still too far from even closing the first rank, and he is by no means an elite seer but merely the possessor of a somewhat unusual branch of the administrative class. In all likelihood, his suspicions were the result of sleep deprivation and paranoia after the inheritance, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Once again activating his Searching of Vision - he tried to keep himself constantly alert, if only without endangering his health, trying to gain more experience - Kongar felt that something had changed on this attempt. His skill was imprecise, weak, fuzzy, and could be fooled even by the average person if the right precautions were taken. Don't tell anyone unnecessary information, don't leave your stuff lying around, don't entrust all the data on your projects in one head, and all that. Even such basic opposition, even some of it, was insurmountable for a man.

Yes, he was considered a full-fledged seer, not some intuitive who could only win at dice, let alone ordinary warriors who had only premonition of danger at their disposal. But ninety-nine out of a hundred full-fledged Seers (very rare birds, in fact) were just that. They have unsure and inaccurate visions, vague predictions, and regular mistakes due to misunderstandings of their visions. Unicums that, with a single glance, without long rituals or deadly fatigue, can see into a person's past and future are so rare that they serve not rich merchants (just from a copper belt!) but mighty Guilds or Crowned dynasties. If they do not serve the prophets themselves.

Nevertheless, Searching of Vision is one of the most basic skills available to both ordinary and elite visionaries, though they use it with varying strength and skill. There are plenty of exceptions, but it is indeed a common skill in one form or another. And one of its characteristic features is not only the extremely low probability of a successful, clear, comprehensible, and truthful vision but also something else. With some very slim chance, this ability can not only send a vision but also collect scattered information, scraps of phrases, conjectures, and glimpsed details and put them in the mind of the Seer.

Hence the rumors of spoken Prophecies and Omens, which came from the lips of, in general, not at all distinguished seers. It happens sometimes, that's all. Congar was now remarkably close to such a "critical success," though it was far from a full-fledged Prophecy. A second more, and he seemed to understand the mystery behind the ordinary transaction, even if only a minuscule part of it, a piece of the mosaic.

This is the problem with complicated and multi-stage plans and conspiracies. Sooner or later, some seer will notice something. That's why all sorts of tricks, false images, and redirected attention are used, but there's always a chance that some random seer might notice something wrong. Probably without any harm to the overcomplicated plan, for it would be only a fraction of the mystery, but it would still be a clue.

With a quiet rustle, an ordinary room spider fell on the face of a man frozen in a kind of trance, sitting in his own room, inside a special ritual figure.

That frantic swearing, which marked the interrupted trance and escaped secret, which promised him at least a level, and at most, a free point of development in a class skill, woke up not only the servants but also the neighbors. The oddities of yet another business partner were forgotten over a headache, a nosebleed, and an emotional breakdown that had to be poured over with a couple of pitchers of wine.

The mystery remained secret.

Likewise, it remained a mystery to others, even if the way of keeping it was always different, but never suspicious. All in all, a common everyday detail that so often haunts humans and non-humans throughout their lives. One cannot hide from it, just as one cannot hide from one's own destiny. No one is immune to unfortunate accidents, not even the cleverest and most talented.

The experienced Interrogator, who almost caught the thought by the tail, used a Bold Assumption, beginning to stack several seemingly unrelated cases into one, but slipped on the wet floor, barely keeping his balance. And the thought was gone, and there was no evidence there, only conjecture and suspicion, which even for an Intuit seemed too far-fetched. Even if there was a connection, it was only a showdown between two rival Trading Houses. There was enough evidence for that, and it was carefully hidden but still found, not deliberately left in plain sight.

Another Interrogator, no longer a state investigator but an employee of a magic guild, was sitting in a cozy meditation chair, thinking about a strange change in the usual flow of ritual reagents, which had risen considerably in the past year, although those buyers who used them were strictly known to number. Is someone pocketing an extra kickback? Or maybe the competitors were preparing to set up a subsidiary guild and stock up on supplies for their warehouses already? But then the financial flows must have been distorted... though they must have been hidden much more carefully.

That's actually a job for Guild Economists, Fence-sitters, and Treasurers, not for the Inquirer, but in life they often have to pry into each other's duties. He twisted the thought around in his head some more, but then the misted bottle of chilled wine, into which fortifying potions had been added, slipped from his palm. The fairly leveled man's reaction was enough to catch the vessel before it tipped over, but the thought was lost. The usual memo addressing the Treasurer, though detailed, led him away from the truth.

The thirty-ninth-level Seeker of Truth, sitting in a screened and barred room, guided by his will the entire circle of seers, among whom there were no middlings - only hard professionals with vast experience. Others, you know, are not accepted into the Eyes of the Eternal, trusting them to continually check all the details of this fine-tuned mechanism.

They have seen much, even if a good deal of the secrets were hidden from them by their colleagues in the same agency, as well as by the many artifacts, barriers, and ritual protections. It is difficult to maneuver through this maze in such a way as not to miss a spy's attention but also not to find something they are not allowed to know. The Seeker, despite his legendary class, was far from number one in the hierarchy of the Seer's Eyes and therefore was well aware that closed areas were either considered by far more trusted and powerful ones or not considered at all. The Eyes knew perfectly well not to give too much information in one hand, so the constantly overlapping teams of sighters were a necessary evil.

His concentration was unwavering.

His attention is a sharpened scalpel, cutting through the web of events.

His will is a red-hot needle that pierces any veil.

Routine inspection never became routine for him, no matter how much time passed. Especially after that terrible massacre in the Eternal that they had missed and failed to prevent. Sifting through the decisions of some individual Eyes with a fine sieve, he looked for any trace of treachery. And he found none - the intrigues, abuse of power, attempts at subservience, hidden and not-so-hidden machinations, but no betrayal. All this would be recorded and used by the higher ranks to keep in check the enterprising subordinates, who themselves only dream of becoming higher ranks.

For a moment, it seemed to the Seeker that in the kaleidoscope of other people's desires and motives, the face of the recently eliminated liquidator flashed, whose killers were now being sought by several other groups at once. Having begun to shuffle the circle of images, he continued the search in a new direction - without surprise or unnecessary emotion. The presence of a mole in this case, voluntary or not, was a proven fact, for two of them had already been found and tied up, right now turning their memories inside out.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

In all likelihood, he's just picked up one of the wandering links that lead to the captured double agents, but it's never a bad idea to check. A sip of the vision-enhancing potion and a particular part of the picture of events begins to be scrutinized much more closely. Truth and Lies, an ability of the second rank of his class, allowed recognize the answer to some questions, if only in the form of extremely short "yes" or "no". The main thing is to ask the right questions and to distinguish between attempts to deceive the asker.

The skill drained his reserves and was also quite painful to apply, but he had no more reliable way of quickly verifying fresh suspicions. The purest cognition, very problematic to reflect or deceive, is used by an extremely determined individual. He had long ago outgrown the level at which anything could distract him, cause him to stray, lose his train of thought and ruin his technique. And there was nothing like it in this place, in this deliberately isolated room, cut off from reality and serving as an amplifier of their abilities.

It was at that moment another unfortunate accident occurred behind the wall, in the form of a rather large storage crystal that had been dropped and broken. And it broke, even though it was carried in a container. The fall of this container was so unfortunate that it fell apart with the crystal.

It was just an accidental drop of weapon oil that a passing operative wiped on his blade, who wasn't supposed to be in this department today. A slight delay in the cleansing charms, which not the first day tried to fix on their own, not wanting to bother with the documentation to call the professionals. Just one step too wide, causing the man who carried that container to fall forward and lose his balance. Because you should give such tasks to those with dexterity, not flimsy and clumsy wizards!

Neutral magic storages, despite the rumors, rarely explode. Or rather, there is an explosion, but compared to the wasted power, it is quite tiny. There were no casualties unless you count the monetary deductions from the wages of the crooked loser. A couple of burned palms and a bunch of crystalline splinters they'd have to get out by the healers. The magical flare, which activated all the alarm systems and put everyone temporarily on alert, was another matter.

The seers inside the isolated amplification chamber barely noticed the incident. The Seeker, of course, understood everything, but his concentration was high enough not to lose the thread of thought and keep the technique. But one of his assistants, holding the load of the circle, had a rather ambiguous title, which allowed him a much brighter awareness of magical currents. And here, he lacked concentration.

The Seeker of Truth, deprived of his support in the form of a disintegrated circle, was unable to maintain control over the force used, abruptly cutting off contact. His honed professionalism was enough to not only avoid injury but also to cover his allies, avoiding a couple of unpleasant injuries to himself and them. His indignation was expressed with only one disapproving glance at the culprit, which was perfectly enough to convey his irritation to the other Seer. There was no point in making a scandal, for the Seeker was well aware that the injuries that nearly occurred were the fault of the dumbasses outside their workplace.

Half an hour later, they all caught the right rhythm again, went into a trance, and continued the search exactly where they had interrupted it before. Only now, the truth they had found was no longer touched by other secrets. And all the images of Areya Fern that they found coincided with the information they had already received, containing nothing new.

There were enough adventurer guild members who saved more lives than the most virtuous paladins without getting involved in adventures. For example, the Endless Watch was one of the few reasons the adventurers' guild representatives in the capital were tolerated rather than banished to the frontier.

A whole plethora of very specific visionaries with highly specialized classes allowed them to estimate with unprecedented accuracy the presence of all sorts of monsters and beasts, predict their appearance, and find their weaknesses. Without consulting with these guys rarely passed raids in the most terrible lairs. Without their tips could not evacuate towns and villages from under the hammer of the attacking horde and, in general, help humans and Inhumans to survive. For a not modest fee, but still, but still.

Right now, one such Watcher was walking down an inconspicuous and little-visited corridor of the central office, diligently holding a huge plate of jam-covered pancakes with shaking hands from overexertion. Not too high physical attributes turned an ordinary task into a real feat in the name of gluttony.

As he approached the next section of the corridor, he turned to the flat surface of the wall, knowing in advance that there were no unnecessary witnesses nearby, and then, with an attitude and slight exaltation, he proclaimed:

"Everyone says the beaver is a giver, but is the beaver really a giver?" And then he ducked into the passage that appeared in the wall, or rather, through a section of the wall that had lost its materiality. "Heavenly names, what kind of sick bastard makes up these passwords?"

Instead of the usual consonant grumbling of his colleagues, who were just as sick of saying all sorts of nonsense, he was met by the frantic matting of his boss and mentor, who was trying to pick bits of fruit out of his hair, obviously caught there from a small dish where these cut fruits were lying.

Technically speaking, they are not supposed to use the passageway that leads to the corridor - it is too often used by those who should not know about the secret ritual-amplifier room of the Watch. But the kitchen is just a short walk from there, and the much more secure secret passage that leads to one of the empty offices of the administration building, through which they get to their workplace every morning, will take much longer.

"What happened?" Putting the dish on the table, letting his hands start working normally again, he asked his colleagues.

"Loon caught a vision and meditated, and Carl had a fruit slicer and caught a vision, too, right on the move. And there was a fruit slicer in his hand, the one that Loon now had in his hair. Now, Carl is hiding in his lair, and Loon is threatening to tear out his liver and use it to tell fortunes." The last member of the foursome answered him, not taking his eyes off the enchanted cards with drawings of all sorts of monsters.

Fless's class allowed him to know from a picture of a monster, especially one like this one, where there were more such specimens, and the chances of encountering them were much higher. For him, almost all his work was like that - playing solitaire cards, or staring at those cards, trying to get through to his intuition.

"A double vision and such a fiasco." He nodded, shuddering sympathetically and understandingly as he imagined the magnitude of the setback and the migraine that would follow. "But I brought pancakes!"

After about five minutes, the temporary quarrel was forgotten, and the four sentries began to pay tribute to the skills of the guild cooks and to discuss the ass of the new high-level cook who had recently joined the staff. The never-captured visions were all but forgotten.

* * *

William Parpiconti sincerely believed that Lady Fortune had kissed him on the mouth in life. With no special talents, no pedigree, and no heavy purse, he got on in life the way he could only dream of getting on in life. And all because he once punched one insolent clergyman in the face who thought too much of himself.

Then, in the tavern, where he was sipping on cheap wine, wondering where and to whom to sell his blade so that he could continue to drink wine and preferably a little better, he noticed a trio of either mercenaries or adventurers who had retrained as mercenaries, pressing on an old man. The old man looked rather lost, tired, and jaded, and he evoked a touch of sympathy from Wilhelm, who felt the same way.

There was also a priest of some light god, but it was the priest, not the god, that interested Wilhelm. Just recently, just a few days ago, one of them, out of sheer maliciousness alone, had framed Wilhelm up against the guards, who had given him a hefty fine. It was a good thing he had something to pay, or else he would have had to sit in jail in a company, not at all befitting an honest man.

The priest was very different, but the drunken man didn't care about such trifles, so he silently got up and went to beat his face, saving his soul mate. They gave him a good kicking - there were three of them. But he was not in debt, too, giving each a black eye (one under the right, the other under the left) and the priest both of them at once. When he recovered, shook the dirt off his clothes, and spat on the closed door of the tavern from which he had been thrown, he met the old man's pensive gaze.

A shabby suit, thin gray hair, and squinting eyes that looked a bit blind, like an old clerk from the magistrate's office out for a stroll. The clerk lifted a heavy monocle to his face, looked at Wilhelm through it, blinked a few times, and offered a part-time job. The man, who had drunk his last money, accepted with sincere enthusiasm. And so he became a guard, a porter, and, at times, an interlocutor for the strange old man. By the way, he still had no idea what to call him, referring to him by the neutral "Chief" or by the more friendly "Old Prick."

The grandfather paid well, didn't get into any trouble, required little or no activity from Wilhelm, and generally seemed to have hired him just to have him. The old man also had a lot of secrets, which Wilhelm, who was almost freely paid, ignored and did not even think of finding out. Even if he were the head of the secret guard on the run, Wilhelm wouldn't give a damn!

The old man also had a strange book, which he often read and made all sorts of notes in it in the margins. He only once asked the old man, "What do you read?" If it's love affairs, he knows some good authors whose descriptions are so juicy that even a dead man would get hard on.

"The legendary artifact." Answered the old man, scratching his nose. "You can read any insufficiently protected reports and trade reports within a certain radius. And you can read protected ones, too - it copies them directly to the pages of the book."

If he expected Wilhelm not to believe him, he was wrong - Wilhelm believed him immediately and unconditionally. If he expected it to make any difference, he was wrong, too - Wilhelm still didn't give a shit about other people's secrets, as long as they didn't disturb his wine-drinking and wooing the pretty maids. The old man, by virtue of his age, didn't care as much about their forms as Wilhelm did about the legendary artifacts.

At a certain point, the old man began to walk very gloomily, spending more and more time in his book, scribbling all sorts of tables on an expensive batch of paper after another. Even the meals had to be carried to the chief, and he had to feed him, almost by force. The old man could hit the servants, and the strength in his old body was not bad. Wilhelm was also punched a few times, but unlike the frail girls, Wilhelm was used to getting punched in the face and was not shy to twist a dish of mutton stew on the old man's head in return. Then he would get another round of blows, but his employer would still eat.

At a certain moment, the old man began not only to work with the book but also to send letters and, in general, began to close the window to his room at night, although before, even in the fiercest frost, he covered it to the maximum, so that the snow did not fly in. Wilhelm began to drink one more glass of wine at night, just in case, to get a better night's sleep.

Then the old man was visited by some dingy fellow with a face that made you reach for the sword on your belt and clutch your wallet with the other hand. They met like old friends, and the man who arrived punched his employer in the face without a word and immediately flew into the wall because of the lightning strike from the amulet, which worked faster than thought, clenched by the old man's fingers.

The old man, who had fixed the dislocated jaw, turned to the still twitching and sparkling guest, clearly intent on kicking the paralyzed body. He only kicked him twice, and then the amulet crumbled to dust. The old man got another punch, drew another bolt of lightning from the new amulet, called the guest bad words for spoiling property, and sent Wilhelm off to fetch drinks. Then, apparently having made up, they locked themselves in the old man's office, along with the records and a lot of food and booze, from which for two days there were foul language and mutual accusations of bestiality.

Then the scowling face came out of the office, kicked the door open, punched Wilhelm in the face, and was gone. The old man followed him out, handed his guard a vial of healing potion, and then thought for a while and said in a cheerful tone.

"You know, Willie, it's time for us to get the fuck out of this city."

Is he stupid, or what? He was told to get the fuck out, so he had to get the fuck out. He just went to make the fired servants happy with their excellent allowance and to collect his favorite novels.

"Who was here?" He asked in between, dragging some bags and trunks to the wagon he had bought for the move.

"An old acquaintance." The old man wrinkled his nose. "Used to be an employee of mine. Now I owe him a favor, and I gave him some tips on the old stuff he's looking for."

"Oh, well, that explains why he's so mean." For a former employee not to want to punch his former boss in the face, you have to be very kind and not vindictive.

And with a face like that, he definitely not a good person.

Especially if he starts claiming old debts from you.

* * *

"We were unable to find the Wanderer." He summed up his hour-long report as an unassuming man dressed in an inconspicuous cloak that suited an aristocrat as well as a merchant or even an adventurer at leisure. "He disappeared."

The person to whom the report was intended was silent, not making any movement and not letting the speaker know how his words were treated and what was in store for him now. However, he had no idea what else he could do in this situation, so all he could do was wait for a response.

"What about Fern?" He asked in the same calm voice he'd always used as long as anyone had known the man.

"Supposedly eliminated, but to be fully certain, it would need to unfold the Webs, which would cause a weakening of the Shroud." And he added, a little hesitantly. "I didn't risk taking responsibility."

A man in a soft armchair, very venerable in age, dressed in a very homely manner, rose gently to his feet and strode to the wide stained-glass window that overlooked the morning view of the capital. His face showed for one brief moment a slight irritation that was only a shadow of the rage boiling inside.

Areya Fern and everything associated with her was one huge lump of stupidity, incompetence, and unprofessionalism, multiplied by a hundred and elevated to infinity. The successful assassination of the Second Prince not only stirred the murky waters of the Eternal City, forcing the Shroud dangerously close to the point where it could be damaged. It also forced them to act rashly, employing untested or unreliable people. And this could not but result in a series of small fails, which, fortunately, could be quickly closed and hidden.

Before the incident with Fern.

Her recruitment was the obvious solution, simply because the brash and willful bitch, deliberately put herself at the mercy of much of the tangle of connections and reciprocal agreements. In all of Eternity, it would have been hard to find another possessor of such a high caliber who would have allowed such carelessness. Virtually unprotected lodgings, no guards or personal retinue, and an unwillingness to accept the patronage of others - she was simply asking for the arrival of unkind guests.

No doubt he was aware of what had previously happened to those who felt the same way, but he paid no attention to it. A liquidator of her level might have been lucky long enough, but not against the force behind them. If they had worked the original plan, Fern, with all her experience, powers, and controlled strike teams, would have just fallen asleep one night only to wake up entirely their in the morning.

If...

Covering the gaps in the plan, they had not been able to allocate sufficient forces for her recruitment. They were, undoubtedly. They were, but they remained reserves for emergencies. The situation could change at any moment, and they all needed something to close the breach, shutting up unnecessary witnesses forever. So they had to work not for sure, but with a clever combination. Alas, the one entrusted with the execution of the combination considered himself too cunning and the others too stupid.

It was not difficult to assign Fern to one of the Circles of the Seers in all this mess. It was a little harder to get her to the point where overexertion would completely block the use of her most dangerous abilities. Adding a few harmless but minimal-effect additives to the potions given to weary seers was really hard - they had to work with seers and right in the heart of the Eyes of the Eternal.

From the report that had already come in triplicate, it was clear that Fern, who had never trusted anyone, had not only bought her own potions but had also purchased them from several different alchemists and potionsmiths. As bad luck would have it. That day she drank a compound made by one of those they did not have time to visit. It didn't stop the additives from working but weakened too much.

Fern shouldn't have woken up that night. She shouldn't have, period.

But she woke up, and the damn self-righteous moron sent an underprepared group after her. She slaughtered the Alishan Cranes in their nests. Some lurkers who had lost the element of surprise are nothing to her. The mighty gift, a sophisticated artifact that had been given to the leader of the capture team, was useless if there was no way to activate the link.

Doubly useless if a man too quickly recruited, not having had time to go through all the necessary processing, could not keep control of his desires and miss a stab in the back. A foolish blow, foolish as the death of the one struck, as much as the failure of theirs - a practically captured Fern had slipped from their grasp, though she could no longer think of resisting.

And then came a fair of stupidity, a parade of idiocy, and a triumph of incompetence, the description of which was almost physically painful to read. Hasty processing is, after all, deadly, and perhaps we should give it a rest. And already not the cleverest agent, after realizing his passion began to go even crazier. He simply follows the call of the artifact, not even taking with him a normal guard. What were those who treated them thinking they let him out of their arms with assurances that his condition was satisfactory?

If only. There's that "if" again! If the kidnapping had been a success, then the processing of all involved would simply have ended as normal, removing frivolity and impulsiveness, and correcting the loss of some of their thinking abilities. Those who have fully accepted their service are no inferior to their former selves, but it's a damned "if"!

Fern, in some obscure, even after all the analysis, way managed to throw off her control and just slaughtered a rather valuable for their plans man. His death evoked a clear and necessary response - there is a time to save effort by holding the cards up, and there is a time to use those cards without delay. After the life and soul of Fern and the very boy who had managed to shoot the leader of the capture team in the head came the Messenger.

For an entity of this caliber, it would not have cost anything to kill one mortally tired or even completely fresh liquidator, take the artifact, and eliminate witnesses and traces of the battle. And that's where the Adept of the Road intervened. An adept, strong, experienced, and a complete stranger. These wanderers, searching the world for their purpose and gathering road dust, were never considered strong fighters. They had their dangerous tricks in abundance, but it was tricks. Tricks to buy time to escape, and they were better at escaping than anyone else in the world.

This one had enough cunning, too, along with the insane fighting power that allowed him not just to survive his encounter with the Messenger but to force him to retreat. In doing so, he reveals his nature. After that fiasco, the Areya Fern incident had lost much of its significance. Whether he killed her or not, the very fact that they saw and experienced everything serves as ironclad proof of the need for them to stop living.

Reserves had to be pretty much wasted, pulled a lot of strings still have to be somehow severed, but the situation was kept under control. Fern was declared dead in an assassination attempt by her enemies, whom she, like any liquidator, had amassed in time, and the investigation of what happened was either entrusted to trusted people or sent on a hastily created false trail, which stuck straight into the Shroud.

If she survived, if she chose to appear, she would probably now simply be detained and put in a dungeon, where it would be much easier to get her. Fabricating a rather sordid story of her dastardly treachery was not so difficult. At least this attempt helped in some way because as long as the crowned blood demands revenge, it's quite easy to settle your scores. Even if it had to be done with a woman of such outstanding caliber and talent. Had she been in the thick of things, had she exerted her influence, had she enlisted her debtors and allies... but she wasn't in the thick of it.

Many people will be looking for answers to inconvenient questions. By pulling strings, they had to shake up those who could not be eliminated or shut up without making more noise. Some would be recruited, and some would be bribed, but they had bought time, precious time. The plan was almost at its final stage anyway. By the time they figure it out, at least consider analyzing the strange events, the orders, the requests, and the debts demanded, it will be too late.

They should look for those answers, find, if not Fern's body that had gone missing on the Road, then find proof of her death and some information about the Wanderer. It would be a great help, but they can't. The Web can't touch what the Shroud hides, or the two structures would conflict, with unpredictable results. The cursed answers will have to be sought on their own in the old and time-honored ways. At least they have a chance of finding those answers.

Looking for answers...

What good is it to look for them if the Sroud is unshakable and uninterrupted, protecting them from any attentive eye? Direct causal manipulation throughout the capital and its environs simply will not allow us to understand, to grasp the thought that leads to them and their plans. And no intuition, no honed techniques, or clairvoyant classes will help - no attack, no influence, no direct intervention that would leave a trace. And other traces promptly disappear and become part of the Shroud, as soon as someone gets on their trail.

In order to spot traces of their activities without knowing what to look for, you have to have incredible skills, extremely powerful abilities, a will of steel that will not allow you to be distracted by the interference created by the Shroud, and a terminal stage of paranoia, in which you expect the cataclysm even if you go to the latrine. And also to be a completely unaccountable element in their grand equation. Such mighty clairvoyants undoubtedly exist, but they are in plain sight. They have enough problems of their own, and specifically for each of them countermeasures have long since been established. Those of them who are too far away, in other countries, can hardly notice what is even close to the center of the whirlpool of events they cannot see.

The man silently shook his head and sent the speaker away, unwilling to show any other sign of disapproval than this single gesture.

"To work according to the plan that was announced, the sixth version of it." That was his only answer.

The speaker left his chambers with unprecedented relief, and the man only now allowed himself to sigh wearily and raise his eyes melancholically toward the ceiling. You are never immune to two things - those who turn out to be smarter and more talented than you, and those who are simply too stupid to predict their actions properly.

"The Sovereign will not be pleased." Barely audible, as if complaining about life, the man said, returning to his work.

The man did not know that there was, after all, an individual in Eternal with the right skills, the right class, enough anonymity, some motivation, and the very paranoia to expect the apocalypse when he went to the latrine. Simply because that's the kind of person who could have had such a story. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this person had enough problems of his own to pay attention to the small oddities and the barely discernible fleur of sweetness and rot that Shrouded the capital.

Had enough yet.

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