* * *

The country palace was dozing, sighing quietly and measuredly in the quiet wind, exhaling with the rustling of the pine forest branches. Quiet is now the palace. The noisy inhabitants have rushed off in the early morning to the peat bogs and forest lakes for affairs unknown to him. Leaving within the walls of the monumental three-story building, built more than a thousand years ago, only silent and inaudible servants and a dozen guests who love peace, quiet and daytime sleep as much as they do. Nobody scratches words of first love on granite slabs, nobody climbs into windows, disturbing wooden frames dried from time. No one murmurs in the corridors and the courtyard, singing merry songs. No thunderous bass of tutors, trying to find culprits for the third hundred years, no thin voices of children, never guilty in any way, answer them. Blissful.

Only the solitary figure of a man, peering patiently into the horizon from the roof of the palace, suggests that this tranquillity is not destined to last.

With a loud chirp, a blue drop of the attack helicopter streaked across the sky, piercing the gray sails of the rain in the distance, and, in a moment, it seemed to collapse onto the snow-white circle of the takeoff pad, frozen some meters above the ground, to descend smoothly, concealing the scarlet insignia in its center. The two propeller pairs, until then visible only as a blur against the sky, flickered and stopped, taking the familiar shape of dragonfly wings bent slightly to the ground.

The heavy flap slid sideways, allowing a burly man in his mid-fourth decade, wrapped in a floor-length sable coat, despite the heat of July, to jump onto the heated stone platform. The large jewels - scarlet, turquoise, blue - glinted brightly on gold and snow-white rings, one on each finger. They were matched by a headband, tall and thin, patterned all over, with a silver band that covered his forehead and was lost in his graying black hair. The owner's eyes burned just as brightly with blue and will, a recent storm of anger and fresh irritation.

Two lines of servants stretched out towards the helicopter. They tilt their heads to greet their lord. The closest of them respectfully accepted the coat thrown off his shoulders and deposited in the lacquered chest the precious rings the man had indifferently plucked from his fingers. In this place, lost amid the taiga, there is no one to show off their family's wealth by displaying their unique gems. There is no need to lug heavy and stuffy furs around to remind them of the antiquity of their kin. The inhabitants of the palace, known as the Garden, already know that they are the very best, from the youngest inhabitants to honored elders who are given the honor of overseeing the most valuable possessions of the clan.No strangers have been to the area in a hundred years, not even the occasional mushroom picker or hunter who strayed or wandered too far. They were prudent to believe the voice from the bushes and the treetops that there were no more beasts or mushrooms there.

Only the tiara remained on the man's forehead as a status symbol... and a working tool. There, behind the thin silver engraving with ancient motifs hid the technology of the present day, continuously linking the head of the clan with the faithful professionals. Not just an audible link, no - they saw what he saw, heard what he was told, erasing the word 'personal' from his life. Once irritating and anger-inspiring, now it has become a second self.

Too much meant a word in this world, and too often he was required to give a decision now, pressing deadlines and dreading rejection, to ignore wise counsel. Not to mention the small details and hints that might have been missed and misunderstood if the four cameras hidden in the decorative swirls of the runes had not been looking out into the world with him. It is quite possible to compromise the personal, the intimate, and the private when the lives and well-being of a million and a half of the principality's subjects depend on decisions. Very few people were aware of the nature of the silver hoop, including the swarthy gentleman who greeted him.

"Did you call?" the Head threw up heavily, waiting for the servants to disappear behind the office doors, leaving him alone with the man whose message had literally plucked him from the corridors of power in the capital and provided six hours of helicopter chatter.

Had anyone else sent the message, he would not have lifted an eyebrow, as the events behind his back had become very murky. But he could not ignore the author of the terse cipher that read: "Come". The best friend, tutor, and protector of his child, a brother not by blood but by a ritual created on the battlefield between their fathers. He had never disturbed him in vain.

"How do I look?" Amir adjusted the collar of his shirt under his snow-white suit and looked demandingly at the silver hoop.

"Like a suicider," the Prince responded to the delay.

"Shh, you're incompetent," his friend tsked at him and turned sideways.

He sighed indignantly, about to give a speech about fatigue and the long flight, but just as quickly calmed down, guided by the whisper of a hidden earpiece.

"The think tank reports that you're an asshole," the man muttered back, losing all irritation, "but Tamara will love it."

"Ok, that's it."

"Nice, then I go?"

"Yeah, just look in on your daughter," the mate said light-heartedly.

The windows flickered for a brief moment, signaling that the defenses were on. The floor trembled, lifting the men slightly above the general level of the floor. The ceiling and the seemingly indestructible walls moved in sync. All to create a room within a room, the space between them immediately filled with the hum of energy shields. The palace already boasted decent protection from the attention of outsiders, but the created transformation elevated security to an absolute. The faintly audible background from the hoop link was gone too. They would get the recording afterward.

"Did she say where he was?" said the Prince with a suddenly dry throat.

A heavy excitement pervaded him, swirling with hope and forcing him to listen to the humming silence of the room lest he should miss the coveted answer. The strange thing was that the only person who could play with his emotions like that was eleven years old, and also his own daughter. Nowhere and never had the prince been a petitioner, yet... he had made it by his fifth decade.

Six months ago, the young lady, completing a drawing of a tiger in a coloring book in response to the trainer's question of where to fly next time, informed him routinely that there was no need to fly anywhere else. She's already found her brother for a month...

Amir lost his oriental cool and dragged his friend out of Moscow with an incoherent shriek. The emergency flight, the panic, the clinking of champagne crates, the excited chorus of analysts' voices in the hoop... And here are two big-headed fools standing in front of a serious girl and asking for the third time, "Why not?" - and hearing the utterly childish response, "Because".

Who knew that an arduous mission to reign in the prophetic gift could end like this? Apart from the prophetess, of course.

Everyone saw the meeting, the tears, and joy, the elation and success, trying not to think what to do with the new-found prince - far more important was the "working" oracle. And the girl saw what would happen "after" and "punished" her father by refusing to tell him where her brother was. She punished him for the future, not for the past.

The first attempt to press ended in a complete refusal to cooperate. That is, an impenetrable childish "Nope" against which there was no method. Because the first one who suggests a violent solution was a burn by Amir.

So, the clan now had an oracle of enormous potential and power, showing her tongue and covering her ears with her palms.

That night many people managed to get so drunk on champagne that by morning, even the figure of the Treasurer, proudly reciting a poem standing on the table, was no surprise to anyone. Because outside the window, in the sky above the forest, a huge electric dragon was trying to catch the fiery one by the tail. Then they put out the forest, planted a new one, and thought a lot.

Finally, they decided to change the initial scenario of sending the "foundling" to a good family across the ocean. However...

"No," Amir smiled sadly and quoted his ward, "Father is still punished."

"Like daughter, like mother," the man said indignantly as he paced around the much smaller room. "No respect and discipline! At her age I...!"

"Locking Dad in the Treasury," Amir coughed loudly into his fist.

"It wasn't me who broke the vase!"

"That's right, it was me," his friend nodded, amused, "for which I thank you."

"And I glued it back together!" The head of the great duchy spluttered indignantly.

"Your craftsmanship is unsurpassed," Amir chuckled admiringly. "From glue and diligence, you create such a masterpiece..."

"Why pour water into it, eh?" The man continued to be indignant without listening.

"Water in a vase! The silly people!" He shook his head sympathetically in response.

"It's three thousand years old! And they stick flowers in it!"

"Aye-aye."

"Amir," the man stopped abruptly, instantly curbing the vivid memories of his childhood (of course, the ruined treasury... and with whom would he remember?), "if not the son, what reason is there?"

"The papers on the alliance with the Tenishevs, remember those?"

"Gone?" without understanding, voiced an assumption the Prince. "She has hidden them and won't give them back? I told you not to take important documents to Ksyusha!"

"The papers are in place," his friend reassured him, maintaining a serious expression on his face, "but your ban has been broken after all. Yelizar Sergeyevich decided to take the initiative and visited the girl to talk about the duty and honor of the clan."

"Results?" Prince exhaled back, rubbing his face with his palms. That was no way to say good news.

"Ward two, under IV. Stroke, but we got there in time, so the prognosis is positive."

"What did she say to him?" Prince turned back to the window, putting his hands behind his back.

"The truth." Amir, too, turned around, peering at the flat line of forest on the horizon. "The young wife is cheating. His only son is on drugs."

"Who overlooked it?"

"We're working it out," Amir shrugged behind him.

"Why was there no report?"

"Yelizar has put the brakes on everything. He has a right to account by the result." Amir noticed the surprise of the over-zealousness of the stroker in the eyes of his Head and hastily added, explaining, "You don't have to be surprised. He's tough. He didn't think to take a tumble right there. I watched the camera footage - he even said thank you, got up, and walked out. Then he organized the liquidation of his wife and son, supervised it, wrote a report, and lay down to die. But we didn't let him."

"Why the son?"

"The shit has altered the genome. The offspring are not viable."

"Damn." The room shook with a wave of anger.

"We are already working on the crap suppliers. Expect the highest reprimands and demands to stop killing fair merchants."

"How high up are the patrons?" the prince wondered.

"How will I know, eh? It's been six hours!" Amir pretended to be indignant, but after a short pause, he added: "The money leads to the banks of the Merchant Hundred. Who feeds on them, should I tell you? They'll be the ones to complain to."

"Make sure there's no one to complain," his sworn brother smiled crookedly. "Then clean up the dealers in our land, thoughtfully, to the second generation."

"There were none of them on our land. Moscow killed him."

"Then... Let's take the protection off and let the analysts think about how they missed it and what to do next. Slackers!"

"Go to your daughter," Amir reminded him, "talk to her about the truth."

"Good," sighed the Prince. "Ksyushka, what are you doing to us..."

"Please take the papers, too," he pointed to a pile of faceless blue files that had been placed on a chair in the corner for the time being. "Yelizar will be pleased."

"Why didn't you talk, eh?"

"I'll talk. Tomorrow. At practice."

"What about today?"

"And there is no class today. And I can't go to the women's side," Amir replied with ostentatious sternness.

"Sure. And who visits Tamara every night?"

The walls and floor rumbled again, removing their defenses.

"I'm through the window!" Amir resented in response.

"So you'd climb in through the window to see Ksyusha.?

"Through the window, only to your lovers. Tradition."

"Well, well. When are you going to invite me to the wedding, you cheeky boy?" The prince grinned, stepping out into the corridor.

Sorrow and anger vanished from his face, spilling over into a dense stream of information that immediately slipped over the secure satellite link.

"I'll persuade her to convert to my faith..." said Amir.

"She's more likely to convince you."

"We fight every day," the friend sighed ostentatiously.

"Every night, you mean," the prince patted his shoulder with a sly smile as he paused with him at the edge of the spacious dormitory hall, beyond which lay the virtual female half. Virtual, because an old man, carrying a load of towels, strode past in that direction.

"Servants are allowed," warned Amir as he looked at the elder with a thoughtful glance. "Look, isn't this honorable grandfather entitled to the decent rest he deserves for his age?"

The prince gazed at the slouching back, wondering the same thing - after all, the clan was not poor at all and could provide for loyal people in their old age - and then finally found the answer to the unusual question in his memory:

"My grandfather put him here with the right to serve until he wants to leave. I guess he doesn't want to."

"Or he's afraid. Send him to retirement, and show him what's good there, eh? It's painful to watch."

"Amir, my grandfather put him here," his friend explained, turning to him as if he were a child. "The day I start changing my grandfather's decisions, he'll rise from the dead and smack me. And you, too."

"Why me?"

"For not talking me out of it," the Prince explained patiently, stepping from foot to foot and giving out a sharp, full-throated laugh: "Do I have to visit my daughter empty-handed?"

"In no time, there was a huge teddy bear and a box of chocolates."

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The lord only shook his head at this sluggishness - it would seem that the smart and curious eyes of those who should be guessing the owners' thoughts were peering out from all sides... Or was he so used to the servants of the Main Palace?

"Break a leg," a sympathetic voice came from behind.

"To hell," snapped the Prince, stepping onto the soft carpet of the women's quarters with some hesitation.

The young saboteur's room was in an additional corridor of the main branch behind a massive wooden door. The bear came forward, covering the prince's chest, and after him, the man himself, cautiously looking out for his daughter in the huge hall-room.

"Hello."

Among the many exercise machines against the far wall, in the pink colors of the bed group to the right, a spot stood out easily in the very center, between the long strips of sunshine from the windows. Saboter nestled in the shade on a pile of cushions. She sat with her laptop with her back to him. She was expressing her indifference to her guest with her yellow bows. The prince wanted to be indignant and voice back such irreverence but could not. He stood, leaning against the wall and smiling stupidly as he watched the concentrated actions of his offspring. Why is it that the naughtiest children are the most beloved? Or was it that this time it happened for love and not the dictates of papers grey with old age? Or is the guilt pressing down on him, for mother and son...

Prince quietly walked over to Xenia and sat quietly beside her, peering over the girl's shoulder at the state news bulletin screen.

"Hello," the daughter said without turning round. "Why do people like lies?"

"Not everyone. I like the truth. To me, say anything."

"You're bad," Ksyusha told the truth and turned towards her father, looking him intently in the eye.

"I know," her father nodded calmly, resting his chin on the bear and cradling him in his arms. "I have to be bad for the good people to live. And these people think I'm the good one. They like this lie and will be offended by the truth. It will make them miserable."

"Better not to know but to be happy?" With uncharacteristic childlike seriousness, the daughter clarified.

"If those who are supposed to know the truth know, yes. If you had told me or your uncle about Uncle Yelizar's family, he would still be happy and not dying right now. All his troubles would have been taken over by one very bad man." Prince smiled sadly.

"I'll keep that in mind," Ksyusha nodded, turning back to the monitor.

"Daughter, I brought some papers. Look, huh?" The father pulled a pile of documents closer. "Not for me, but for the uncle."

"I want to see my mother."

"Not yet," Prince answered patiently. "It's not my decision, you know."

It is difficult to explain to a child, even one so extraordinary, why her mother has to be sad on the other side of the globe. How to put into simple words the incessant pressure of the "allies" and, since some time, the sovereign himself, to share "the research and developments they know about"? So far, everything has been limited to counter demands, such as joint concessions on the Northern Shelf or the right to build one's own space launch pad, which is obviously impossible to fulfill. But the more time passed, the more often there were talks about it, and the more the polite phrase "we will think it over" got closer and closer to the situation when the Shelves would be really given away, and the Clan would have its own window on the sky. But something about these predictions did not make me happy at all.

And then the "former relatives" joined in, demanding to see a relative. The scum has sold their blood! They had no right to her, not even to mention her name, let alone demand a meeting! And yet - there was no official slavery in the Empire, which meant there was nothing to stop the filth from insisting on seeing their "beloved daughter/sister/niece" since she remained in her husband's clan after the divorce. The excuse was that she wasn't in the principality and generally - she's a free person and chooses who she sees. The secretariat did not even respond to the insecure mutterings that the kinfolk wanted to see their daughter as well.

"What if I made it possible?"

"How?"

"Well, this uncle here," she poked at the face on the screen in the government news bulletin, "has an account with the password EX5622-609N32X-60L93K-MTO in a warm country with beautiful mountains; remember, we flew there last year? He keeps writing it out on a piece of paper so he won't forget it, and then he burns it."

"Money won't help," the Prince shook his head.

How can they not...? blew up a previously subdued analyst-support channel. I mean... excuse me, sir. The password pattern is similar in a mask to Swiss CIBank. Rolling the trial transaction... Chief, there are almost two billion in there."

Oh, the man rounded his eyes. "Although... Does this fellow have a password like that?" he poked at the glossy face beside.

"He is, but he's not a bad one," Ksyusha answered incomprehensibly and poked at the previous man again, "and this one sells people."

Boss, we've got him by the balls now...! Excuse me, sir. Undersecretary Polikarpov has been made a priority.

"Hmm, you know... this will really help," the father smiled with the tips of his lips and gently stroked his daughter's hair. "Not right away, I'm not going to lie, but in a month..."

"What if I help with the other uncles?"

Flight time is twelve hours, whispered an agitated voice.

"Then Mum will be flying in in a week," the Head of the Clan was in no hurry.

"That's great!"

"Uncle Amir will make the list of bad uncles."

Tonight!

"Tomorrow, after training. Don't exert yourself too much; if you get tired, rest." The prince looked at his treasure with warmth. "I'm off to do my bad deeds for the good people."

"And these papers?" Nodded a cheerful daughter at the selection of the alliance treaty.

"It's all settled," her father shrugged indifferently. "But if it's not too much trouble, take a look. Let the old man calm down."

No one required the young lady to delve into complicated legal terms or check the financial projections of the future alliance. The folders could not have been looked through at all. What was more important was the very fact that the papers had been long held by the leaders of the two clans, thinking about the future and the past, speculating and discussing with their subordinates the most important points of the future union, withholding, according to a long tradition, their main benefit. The gift needed something to go through the person's future and find the right fragments tied specifically to the treaty. Of course, it was possible to look through everything, but the speed of "insights" was not much different from the normal course of life, and this method was too time-consuming. It was much easier to look at "bits and pieces".

With the right motivation and developed talent, such "crutches" might not have been necessary, but for now, the young Seer found it easier to rely on photographs and personal items, such as a comb with a couple of stuck hairs "forgotten" by the high guests, an ornate signature on the "protocol of intentions" page, a drop of wine accidentally dripped on multi-page appendices...

A light meditation, mastered in training, and a child's palm rests on top of the Tenishevs' coat of arms ring. The seer's eyes are closed. Her breathing is measured and inaudible. The vein near her collarbone beats faintly, indicating a state of trance.

Prince looked anxiously at the detached face of the little girl, forced to search out evil and treachery in other people's schemes. How does it feel to see death and grief, filth and deceit, pain and injustice before the bright days of carefree childhood, before the arrival of true friendship and first love?

That was not at all what he wished for his daughter, interpreting his wife's prophetic words as a promise of a future genius scientist or warrior or artist or architect for his child... And who on earth would not be a father who would be proud of his child? Of course, the gift of prophecy was a blessing in disguise for the clan leader. But for the common man, slumbering somewhere out there under the scales of a politician, an assassin, and a warlord, it became grief that took his son and the woman he loved.

"Dad," Ksyusha breathed out sleepily as she opened her eyes, "why pump oil into the ground?"

"No, darling, they take it out of there. The water is pumped into the ground to maintain the formation pressure and..." Prince stopped, noticing that his daughter was shaking her head negatively.

"The one who signed this page is standing in a field of dead grass. He is wearing a helmet, as are three others nearby, all wearing orange jackets. In front of them are six trucks with round barrels on their backs. Hoses are being hosed out of them, and a black liquid is being poured into the ground. The signatory asks how much more oil is needed. He is told that there will be two more trips."

"So... they're promising me Russian Kuwait," the Prince hissed through gritted teeth as he stared angrily at the innocent documents.

Acknowledged... a hesitant, slightly dazed whisper came through the earpiece.

"Thank you, darling," he smiled softly at his daughter, hiding his anger deeper for the moment as he clumsily held out the teddy bear.

"Wow..." still as if after a long nap, her daughter squinted slightly as she accepted the gift, wrapped her arms around him... and then something went completely wrong.

"Cold, damp, low ceilings," Ksyusha frantically raved, her hands clutching at the toy. "Lots of people, fear; make it twenty more - or pain. The rattle of sewing machines, the shout of an angry man. Five bears - water, seven bears - bread!"

The prince, trying to free his daughter from the nightmare, literally ripped the bear to pieces, and only then did the flow of words subside, replaced by the silent sobbing of the experience of grief - alien, infinitely distant.

"Where?" the father breathed out heavily, hugging his treasure gently, wanting to protect him from any danger.

"Taipei, suburbs, big water nearby, smoky factories on the right, the basement of a three-story house with a red sign," the daughter replied between sobs.

"It'll be all right," he kissed her awkwardly on the top of her head, carried her gently onto the bed, and left, shutting the flap quietly behind him.

"Red alert, you have the coordinates," he said into space.

The territory of a neighboring state. Geo-targeting implemented. Toga Clan Khanate. Prognosis: war - eighty-six percent.

As he stepped out of the women's quarters, his brother walked beside him, calmly donning his lightweight MI suit. His headpiece with the tactical helmet was already on, which meant he had heard about the forecast at the same time as his friend.

"Acknowledged."

Sir, wouldn't it be easier to buy a slave from Toga?

"Too long."

Sir, the Toga are very jealous of their territory! There will be a massacre with a very low chance of survival for the Ungifted. Would you like your daughter to see this?

"So I'm flying in person."

Prognosis correction: war - zero percent, an elderly voice rumbled over the white noise, which meant that everyone else was now muted and entitled only to listen. When the wolf enters the yard, the clever mutt climbs into the kennel and trembles in fear, wishing he had lived to see the sunrise.

The white noise was gone, but no one was in any hurry to break the silence.

Imperative number one. Let's keep working on the Tenishevs. We will dip their faces in oil. Imperative number two. Ensure our own production of children's toys. With happy seamstresses, got it?! So that the wages are sky-high, the janitor says hello to them, and the husbands love them!

"And take the fluff from the happy sheep," Amir interjected into the general channel.

"Yes!.. Ugh, shut up. I'm already sick."

leisurely, as if on a stroll, the two male figures reached the helicopter, ready to carry the "virtuoso" and the "master" over the horizon.

"I want her to know that Daddy can be good!" shouted the Prince through the roar of the helicopter addressing his comrade. He hooked the brace with his hand and nimbly jumped in.

Amir lingered, trying to imagine what it would be like to be willing to start a war for the sake of his child's tear. Eventually, he decided that this case had to be urgently checked by organizing a firstborn child.

When the clamor of anger has died down, beautiful words have dropped from their lips and the whirlwind of human will has turned desire into action, it is time for the servants. Quiet and inconspicuous, they clean up the shards of broken crockery, wash the wine off the carpets, pick up the shreds of what was once whole, and recreate the scenery for a new performance of their masters' lives.

And so it was this time. As the duke turned away from the door, a nameless servant, bent by years of service, shuffled behind him. With haste accessible to his ancient years, he gathered up the scattered fluff from the torn bear on the floor. Carefully he carried the papers forgotten by the prince to the table. Wiped the floor where the lord had stepped, forgetting to change his street shoes in his greatness. He picked up the scattered cushions from the floor and shook them off. And, with a soft hum - the window did not seem clean enough - he rubbed the glass with a suede handkerchief.

"It's going to be all right," came a child's voice, addressing perhaps the world, perhaps someone else. Not to the servant, right?

The old man breathed on another speck and continued his monotonous work.

"Grandpa..."

The old man's hand froze for a moment, pushing the handkerchief in hard. If the glass had not been armored, a crack would have appeared. Fingers, as if waking up, jerked away from the clear glaze, and the handkerchief wrapped awkwardly around an old wedding ring finger - just enough to conceal the thumb press on the rim that substituted last-minute recordings on the cameras. No risk - there was never a live feed from this room.

"How..." There was an unspoken question in the air.

"Someone kept forgetting candy in my room."

"I'm an old man. I'm allowed to be forgetful," a hoarse voice muttered, and its owner had somehow forgotten to hunch over.

Grandfather borrowed a chair from the wall and pushed it up to the bed, habitually heckling it and placing himself on the edge of it.

"When did you figure it out?"

"For a long time," the granddaughter admitted honestly, "since last year."

"And you didn't say a word?"

"Would you keep bringing candy?" The prophetess looked at him intently.

"Is that the only reason?" The grandfather became indignant. "We've lost a year, by the way! And we have laws to learn, clan affairs, politics, and etiquette to deal with..."

The old man paused, noticing the princess nodding sourly at each point of the grandiose plans.

"Yep. And we like the decrepit servant scattering sweets more," read out the old man's verdict.

"Well, Gran...pa..." the young beauty shrugged her eyes down.

"Stop with all the shenanigans," the old man looked at her sternly. "Look five minutes into the future: what am I going to do if you don't apologize?"

Kseniya turned her head thoughtfully as if staring, and her cheeks flushed sharply:

"I can't be treated with a belt!"

"Don't you trust your gift?"

"Grandpa, I'm sorry, please, I won't do it again... Grandpa, why hasn't the future changed?"

"Think."

"Grandpa, I will never, ever tell people about a bad future again," she said, frantically remembering her father's request. "Honestly!"

"Well, it's something.." the old man grunted.

"And anyway, Uncle Amir said I shouldn't be flogged..." muttered Ksyusha.

"As a man who has flogged Uncle Amir, I dare say otherwise. It's about time. What did you do today? You almost killed a man. Do you understand that?"

"I knew he would survive," she grimaced.

"Sweetheart," her grandfather leaned over to her patiently. "You see one outcome tied only to you. You talk, and he reacts. Include a third person in this prophecy, and everything will change. The future will become brighter for all of us."

"Good," the granddaughter sniffed back tears. "I just don't know how to..."

"Oh, you... What a pity for a lost year!" The old man shook his head. "We wouldn't be in so much trouble now..."

"Don't worry, Daddy will be all right," said the crying face.

"I know." The old man handed her a clean handkerchief. "I don't blame you for that. It was an accident."

"Well..." Ksyusha blushed again, averting her eyes.

"Well... No need to look into the future. The belt is guaranteed."

"I can explain!" She perked up.

"You'd better try," Granddad said skeptically.

"I don't have anyone to play with, so I decided to find a friend," Ksyusha rambled on and closed her eyes.

"Weeell..." sighed the grandfather as a mantra.

"They won't let me play with the other children," she complained. "I started looking for one I would be allowed to play with."

"And sent Daddy off to the war for her," Granddad unbuckled his belt buckle and began to take it out.".

"Wait! You'll forgive me in a minute!"

"A bluff."

"Tai Ling has the potential of a Teacher," Ksyusha trumpeted. "She could train with me. We could be friends. She could learn Russian, and I could learn Chinese, huh? I found her by chance, honestly! When I saw the bear. And insight is honest!"

"What if the bear had been the wrong one?" Still disbelieving, the older man raised an eyebrow.

"So I showed the servants how much I liked it, and they slipped it to Daddy."

"She's growing up to be a schemer," Grandpa shook his head, "but she doesn't want to study."

"I will study! Together with Tai!"

"Don't ever do that again, I beg you," Granddad clasped the buckle back on after all.

"But I can see there's no harm done..."

"Granddaughter, the world is not as simple as you think. You see our men returning with their loot, and I rejoice with you at this outcome. But do you see the Chinese Emperor's protest? Do you see a tacit order to hinder business, a falling reputation, a stigma of bandits, which will not be easy to remove? All of which we are about to live through. Every action shakes the scales of the world, and even if the scales are in their previous position, the grains of sand inside them will inevitably shift. And the next time, the mechanism may tip over altogether, scattering the labors of our ancestors in the roadside dust."

"Ah?"

"Don't mind me. It's just that I haven't talked to people in a long time. From now on, tell me anything you want to do."

"The old man looked into the crystal honest eyes of his bloodling and added nervously:"

"Start now."

"Well," she fidgeted in her seat, sticking her finger in the blanket, "I want to bring my brother home."

"Good wish," smiled Grandpa warmly, "but it doesn't come back in that future where only you act, right?"

"Aha."

"But if you did, you would stop wishing him back."

"That's not true!"

"Sweetheart, wonder why Daddy asks to show him his son every time but doesn't look for him himself."

"But he is lost, isn't he?" the granddaughter timidly suggested.

"Ksyusha, we are the Clan. We are not you and me and your dad and Uncle Amir. We are factories and planes, space satellites, ships, and even a submarine. If we wanted to find one single boy in this country, two days would be enough."

"But I don't understand..."

"But if you'd studied this year... Oh, what can I say no?!" With annoyance, he slapped himself on the knee. "Ksyusha... We are strong in unity. The clan is strong in unity. There is your father, he is in charge, and no one dares to challenge that. He's smart enough. He's the strongest. He's educated, and he knows how to work. But he wasn't born head of the Clan, you know? He had brothers and sisters who had as much right to be in charge as he did. Some of them were older than him, some younger, but they all grew up in friendly competition, learning to rule and fight together. When the time came, the worthy one led the Clan. The others began to help him by taking an oath of allegiance. This is what nature calls natural selection since the weak and the foolish do not have a right to lead and rule the pack. We have survived like this for millennia."

"Will my brother lose? So be it! At least he will be by my side, by my mother's side."

"My precious," He smiled sadly, "Your father has three sons and two daughters with you. Have you seen any of them? Have you seen any of the other mothers?"

"Well, I'm not allowed to see anyone," the young visionary grumbled sweetly.

"Other mothers are afraid of you, afraid that you will tell your rivals for the princely throne something that will help them win in the future. They are afraid because you know the outcome of this struggle now and can influence it later. They are afraid that you see them grow old and die. You are their greatest terror. That is why they have agreed not to visit you or talk to you."

"So be it. As if I wanted to!"

"Ksyusha, now imagine the Prince bringing your brother into the house and officially recognizing him as the Heir. Imagine the horror of all those aunts behind whose backs, by the way, are the families of our allies. The Heir and his sister oracle. They, their children, are doomed to fail."

"I don't have to tell my brother. He'll beat their faces all by himself!"

"Problem number one - they won't believe you won't help. Problem number two - our allies will resent you for their daughters. Problem number three - family and clan dissension because of an unfair contest. So your brother will most likely be killed. Ninety-three percent chance. They'll stage an accident. Which we, sorry, will turn a blind eye to so it doesn't fall apart. They won't hurt you, they can't do anything to hurt the clan. But to the clan, your brother in charge... a leader not properly trained looks like a threat. They won't have to go through themselves, against their power and honor, nor will they have to break their oaths to organize his death."

"What if he refuses to fight?"

"You cannot give up a competition that is not announced but exists as a tradition. Understand, for us intra-clan rivalry is a huge disaster and discord. Worse than war. That's why we're not looking for it with Clan powers. Because for the clan, he doesn't exist. He's a much bigger mystery than me in the guise of a servant. But your father and I would be glad if you could tell us where your brother is. Then we can quietly take the boy to ourselves. He won't be the heir, but he'll be close by. Please."

"No..." Ksyusha said.

"But why?! Why can't you forgive us?"

"Not me. He won't forgive you. He... he won't forgive anyone right now."

"What if something happens to him?!"

"Grandpa, you don't have to be afraid," the little palm hugged the old dried-out palm, "I'll look after him."

* * *

Chapter 16

A day that