* * *

The heavy drapes turned the bright light into a perpetual gloomy twilight, illuminated by the yellow light of the wall lamps. The owner did not like to open the windows on this side of the house. The same was true of the northern part of the small mansion in the center of Arkhangelsk - it was also perpetually dusky, hiding from its sole occupant the view of what had once been his and his family's property.

Because it is unbearably painful every day to gaze into the majestic silhouettes of factories and shipyards, businesses, and hotels, realizing that all this had been adorned with his family's flags three decades earlier, built by a string of ancestors. Everything from stone foundations to proud spires and... lost in an instant. It was all the more painful to realize that there was only a crumb of what the victor had taken for himself, leaving a handout that was somehow enough for a life worthy of his position. And even that had to be spared, especially in recent years.

Saving on anything that can be hidden from view, of course, for no one must ever see that the Naumov family is impoverished to the extreme.

It did not matter that half the house was unheated in winter and that there was one servant, aka the cook, for two floors. Never mind that the basement was moldy and a family of rats had nested in the wine cellar. They visited neighboring houses because there was nothing to eat in this one. It did not even matter that the house had been remortgaged twice: the second time to pay off the first loan.

There must be a luxury car in front of the house, and the owner must appear at all important parties, each time dressed in a new suit. Everyone must see that the Naumovs are doing well. Otherwise, the young generation, the hope of the family, will be devoured by their peers. As long as their grandfather shakes hands with their peers' grandfathers, they will be afraid. Years will pass, the grandchildren will become stronger, they will receive gifted brides given in marriage by the old man (not the noblest ones, but he tried his best), and the power of the clan will be restored. Alas, not to the limits of what they had thirty years ago, but a level of well-fed life and prosperity is enough. There was plenty to live for and to act on, overcoming the senile ailments.

A seemingly perfect plan - harmonious and full of self-sacrifice. There were no motives of revenge or hatred for the victors, only concern for the future and hope for the best. That is how it must look from the outside - the old man was well aware that the victors were watching his every move. Not so closely, of course, as in the early years after the failed one-day war, when he had almost lost his mind with rage and almost burned himself with posthumous magic - along with those who had come to agree on the reparation list.

What kept him from committing suicide was the sympathetic - sincere - look of the man who had come to accept the surrender. A dark-skinned fellow - younger than he - with a slight accent asked to think of the children - they had not been touched by the enemy. They admitted to him that they were alive out of nobility, in memory of their ancestors and their good deeds, but that without the eldest kinsman, the clan would disappear. Children would be scattered among other families, brought up in their way, and would use the family name and all its privileges for their own needs rather than for the glory of the last bearers of noble blood. So he has something to live for. But there is no reason to die - the posthumous curse, as it turns out, has no power to harm his companion, the sympathetic monster who murdered his entire family.

The head of the Naumov family managed to hold his own. After a pause, he even bargained for a couple of businesses from that list, which was not the most important or profitable, but at the time, this victory seemed very important amid the black slate of devastation and despair.

Thirty years ago, no one could have guessed how another episode of a generally standard family practice would turn out. The Naumovs were selling hopes - almost as much as a poor man buying a lottery ticket. Only the clients were big business, most often young, promising, ambitious, and not accepting the rules and the old tradition of patronage. The strong, pushy managers somehow thought that the days when a commoner had to bow to his lord were over, and their money and huge successes reinforced the fools in this delusion. Of course, no one was robbing them. Why quarrel with the imperial aristocracy, which guarantees the freedom of business, and cast a shadow over the honor of the family by making themselves out to be vulgar brigands? Absolutely not!

Just one day, a call would ring up in the office of the director of a large company, and it would be immediately transferred to the head of the company. It is not right to ignore the representatives of a very wealthy family! However, it was not the bearer of a respected family name who spoke to the director but a trusted person. It is not suited for the head of the family to negotiate personally... But the offer, even if it was delivered by the lips of a servant, moreover, as if it was a great mercy, was tremendous in its scope! The sums in the air made even the veteran businessmen gripe at the edge of the table to be sure that it was real, that dreams had come true, and that the respected clan had come to them itself! They did not pound the doorstep asking for crumbs from the table, but on the contrary - they were invited to take a seat next to them, being treated as equals! And it is not a big deal - to take something that no one pays attention to. It happens even in the twenty-first century.

There will be lawyers going around in circles, and there will be meetings and consultations, but the feeling of a miracle coming true will not go away. Because you have to be an aristocrat to see beyond the numbers, beyond the faceless icons on the map.

Emboldened by hope, the rich commoner will make his move, with his characteristic determination flying neck right into the open palm of an aristocrat - the same reason why in the twenty-first century no one pays attention to the richest deposits under the picturesque valley, between two small mountains... What idiot would decide to dig where generations of Gorchakovs' ancestors are buried? No plaque, no description in textbooks? One must have an understanding - princes are buried in family armor, with weapons and rings, and decorated with gems. Who can point out such a place?

And now the rich commoner is running to his friends in panic and wild fear - he has already been told what has been done to those who touched the sacred ancestral land with the shovel and the drill in a just fury. He threatens and demands, shakes papers and correspondence, but finds not the slightest understanding in return. The Naumovs are not to blame for his stupidity. The Naumov family did not enter into any contract with him. But, so be it. The Naumovs will help him solve his very big problem and even stay alive - for half of everything this commoner has. And he will agree. You can be sure.

The Naumovs will negotiate, resolving the conflict with a finesse honed over the centuries. There will be arguments, heartfelt repentance, collector's wine, and lengthy arguments about the modern generation. In the end, everything will be resolved. Of course, something will have to be given away - from what is left of the now not-so-rich commoner.

And then whatever the Naumovs have taken for themselves, they will give back, nobly and kindly. On one tiny condition, of course. This enterprise will now be under their hand. But is that so important in a truly regal offer, stunningly generous? Especially since the gift is sure to be complemented by new prospects of cooperation, this time without the slightest catch. Emboldened by this new hope, the new servant of the clan will rush to restore what has been lost, hardly realizing that now he is no longer working for himself but for his master. In this way, the right order of the world will be restored to the great satisfaction of all parties.

The Naumovs never engaged in forgery. The lands were indeed foreign, other people's ancestors did sleep under them, and the conflict could certainly have ended in the death of a business partner determined to live by law rather than tradition. In this strange cocktail of hopes and disappointments, the respected clan managed to do no mean feat - under their own name. So there were not only nameless valleys with platinum underneath - the same Gorchakovs would have been greatly amazed to find two idiots not wanting to live in a short time. There are all sorts of things on the map - on land and sea - that cannot be touched, even if the place is declared no man's land. Millennia of wars and armistices had accumulated so many "sore spots" in the immense expanse of the Empire that there would be enough for many generations of Naumovs. There should have been enough.

Thirty years ago, the servants of the family dialed another number. The new 'partner' that the family had approached looked very promising. To think, in just twenty years, an entire merchant fleet had been created and was operating successfully around the world! Thanks to its size and streamlined logistics, the company did not need the help of the nobility - it so happened in all countries it was desirable to transport some goods on neutral ships and not under anyone's coat of arms. The company successfully carved out a niche for itself and prospered, expanding at an unprecedented ten percent annually - how could one miss that? Especially a family tied to the seashore for centuries, with half of Arkhangelsk in personal ownership.

This time the wealthy commoners were offered a convenient route to navigate. A map of the currents and seabed, not at all the same as the traditional nautical atlases, was thrown in. It turned out that the delivery time along the popular transatlantic route could be reduced by a day, gaining a significant competitive advantage and saving on fuel. The 'partners' were quite impressed but refused to believe it. It doesn't happen in the twenty-first century, does it? Satellites are hovering over the planet, planes are flying over the waves, and thousands of ships are sailing the seas - how can one not see a strait where they promise an island ridge and reefs?

It took six months for hope to shine brightly - sailors are unhurried, thorough people. But indeed, it turned out that the respected clan was absolutely right!

The convoy of the ships of the first test voyage was burnt to ashes as soon as the first board had marked the maneuver into the Straits. It is difficult to reconstruct what forces were set in motion and what or who scuttled the four seaboats. No witnesses, no satellite transmissions - simply the beacons installed on each ship stopped transmitting a signal. The search team easily found a smoldering oil slick in the water - something you can't miss.

Here the head of the clan would have told with a clever look about the reasons for the sea tragedy, but he did not know what interests of a very rich princely family forced to forge maps and not to allow foreign satellites to fly over this part of the world. To him, it was just another point his grandfather had once pointed to, accompanied by the phrase 'prohibited'. Who cared, anyway? The philosophical musings of the day were drowned in the bustle of lawyers, attorneys, and other professionals preparing for the imminent visit of the bewildered but still wealthy commoner. Not that they had already informed him that they were on their way, as hopeful as all his predecessors, but an hour earlier, an hour later - who cares?

Soon a delegation of three did arrive in town on a barge laden with coal. Only they did not want to talk.

Grey dust shot up into the air, covering the port and its surroundings in a dark cloud that, to the bewildered eyes of the townsfolk, immediately split into swirling arms that stretched across the city. And there was thunder - incessant, making people hide their eyes from the bright blue flashes, covering their ears from the terrifying thunder.

A primal fear was breaking the will, pressing the gaze to the floor - because something incredible was going on in the sky. Electric flares danced through the steel-dark swirls, a vicious roar of light shooting into targets unseen from the residence, where the enemy was striking. North of the city, the guardhouse and arsenal. North-east, the power station. South, the television tower and communications. The heart whimpered, unable to see the return bursts of fire from the defenders, unable to hear the answering rumble of generic artillery in the wild roar of natural calamity. Just hope we stay alive... whispered the mind, while the head of the clan organized with an iron hand the defense where he was. Naumovs are strong allies, and it is enough to hold out until help arrives. After a moment it became clear that no one would help. Simply - no one would know of anyone else's misfortune.

The phones did not work, the machinery flickered with empty screens, unwilling to work, and a haze of atmospheric interference buzzed in the receiver of the old corded phones. And even the mere cries for help from the maddened servants were drowned out by the roar of the storm. The clan was alone - as if in a wild forest as if nothing existed around them: no computers, no cellphones, no satellites hovering over the planet, no hundreds of years of progress and achievement.

"What should we do?" Financiers and economists shouted in panic.

"This is illegal!" The auditors and lawyers were shaking the papers.

Outside the window was not their millennium. There, behind the armored windows, the word 'law' had not yet been invented. The prehistoric era was upon them, and the elements were upon the caveman, unstoppable, merciless, with wings of ash covering everything around them. So it was time to act according to the times.

In inclement weather, ancient people prayed to the gods for leniency by sacrificing livestock. These gods would demand enterprises and gold - and Naumov was willing to pay.

His men climbed onto the roof of the building, waving a white cloth sheet in the desperate hope of being seen. The cloth turned grey with dust, charred with ash, and almost caught fire altogether until someone thought to run water over it. They were noticed - not immediately. Perhaps ostentatiously, they were blindsided by the fire and the oblivion of their surroundings. Then the head of the clan took the filthy rag himself and tried to shout in despair to quell the storm of other people's anger.

Silence filled the ears as if a giant switch had been flipped, the thunderous cannonade ceased, and the grey clouds parted, making way for the sky and the sun. Only black flakes continued to fall from the sky. The communication was switched on.

The loss shook the imagination. So much so that it took the head of the family a long time to make a move on the roof - the realization of having to walk on ashes that had once been his associates, his friends, and his helpers were stultifying to the mind.

The wind relented and swept the black flakes aside, allowing the head over the hundreds who had become corpses to descend inside the house. Those who were to sign the peace were already standing on the threshold, politely knocking on the front door - two in elegant suits and a lady in an evening dress, as if they had come off the cover of a publication about the capital's celebrities and social bums.

All the preparations made that day came in handy - the symbols, the regalia, the armorial seals. But this time the imprint was put under someone else's document, created by someone other than his kind, but with the same superb punctuality describing everything that would have to be given away. In order to live.

The parties bowed politely to each other, accepting their copies of the papers. The winners departed on their own, while the losers were left to put out fires and bury their loved ones.

After about half an hour, friends suggested the cause of the disaster, and the last of the older Naumovs wanted to catch up with the enemy to run posthumously again - to at least take the assassin's associates with him. But those were no longer in town.

That's all - an ancient clan was offended that its name was being used in a murky matter.

They were not even asked, persuaded, or given fate as payment!

Is such a thing possible?! It was pounding in his temples. Was it worth it?! A mute cry ripped through my chest. They've done this on purpose! They did it on purpose, to ruin it and take it all away! The resentment over his ruined life screamed in him, as intense as that of a boy who had seen a company of soldiers walk through the sandcastle he had built.

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And just like a boy, there is nothing he can do to the offenders. In a world of strength, as obvious as it may seem, strength determines everything. Naumovs would not have had the strength to fight such an enemy before, and now they would not even have the strength to get away with it.

Could he have taken revenge? No. Had he given up the idea? Never.

Years go by, the past fades into oblivion, old conflicts are forgotten, enemies no longer seem dangerous, and resources are reallocated to priority targets. None of the winners have cared about the old man for ten years. And this is all very well for those aspirations and plans that warm the soul with an unbearable fire of hatred - which has not died out to this day.

Naumov was helped by chance. After all, his family's holdings were too large for the new masters to change everyoneю Traditionally they simply reshuffled the key personnel, and the big bosses were kicked out with a wolf's ticket. But there were also the ordinary workers who had not yet forgotten who their true master was - the clan had never abandoned a servant in need, so the dispatcher, whose wife had literally been pulled from the dead, always remembered to whom he owed his good fortune.

The faithful servant was interested in a general routine request from his superiors - not to notice the clan plane taking off. Thinking, "Why?", "Why?" - he wasn't supposed to, but why not let his imagination run wild during his boring watch? Only reality proved to be more interesting than fantasies. First, the plane had quite different take-off characteristics, exceeding the set take-off speed for its class. Second, the plane did not take the standard set of food and water. Third, the plane arrived towards the end of its duty, having requested an ambulance to the gangway. Fourth, the dispatcher had been killed as soon as he had sent his reflections to his own e-mail. And it was not because of the last fact. Naumov had long read the monologues of a dozen loyal servants and had all the necessary passwords.

The head of the fallen clan became interested and pulled other strings, picking up rumors and news from the victorious camp. Somewhere they ordered new mirrors of gigantic size - just like those that decorated the gallery of the main palace - to replace the broken ones (and where else to order for a strong clan, but not in their own factories?), somewhere they were told about the disgrace of the lord to his young wife. Trifles gradually coalesce into something not at all obvious even to a monster intuit of the clan's chief level. Unless, of course, that head was missing a large chunk of the overall picture. A big chunk that he wasn't supposed to know. But his grandfather had told him a lot.

There was a funny and educational story in those stories about the Vedeneevs. A couple of hundred years ago, the most powerful fortune-teller in the family predicted the appearance of a visionary of incredible power, whose name would be Sophia. The whole generations, row after row, started to whittle children, calling every girl and sometimes even boy - Sophia, until the family has become an incredible viper's nest, having lost all honor and conscience. Nowadays, they're just regular charlatans playing Tarot cards with a crested pattern. Such a disgrace.

One of the prince's official wives was named Sophia, which did not make her a strong visionary at all, despite her maiden surname. But it did make her the kind of woman one could become cold to after a scandal - because of the weakness of the family. There was always kin behind princely wives who turned family quarrels into political conflict, so some mirrors could not become the cause of discord. And even later, a quiet divorce - just another faithful servant noticing that the beautiful mistress did not have a ring on her ring finger...

It is difficult to explain by pure logic what drove him to think, forcing him to pull one or the other faithful person, to make small talk so that he would be told about the facts he was interested in. For example, the prince had a very young daughter - very interesting information, as the information about children old families tried not to let out over the threshold of the house. Except that none of the gorgeous, glamorous official brides had missed the social life in the last year, adorning the picture of TV channels and glossy pages with their perfection. Intuition dragged him through the maze of inaccurate rumors and broken descriptions to a clue. The answer, found after six months of effort, fit well with the princely ambitions.

His enemies decided to play at raising a Visionary. And in such a way that no one would even think of it. It was standard practice to separate the future visionary from her mother, and the young mistress was not going anywhere at all, staying daily in the palace as if for show. But it is not necessary to use the mother for this purpose... Another close relative, such as a newborn baby brother or sister, could be quite sufficient. This, of course, is more difficult than with a mother - an adult, aware of his duty to his family, himself hides and plays great hide-and-seek with the future prophet. But it is quite realistic if you organize it properly, isn't it?

And no one would think to look for a bearer of noble blood, sacrificed to the potential power of the clan... And where to look for him? The world is vast! The world, of course, is huge, but Upper Novgorod, where the prince's plane was heading that night, is only a half-million town, in which, if he sets his mind to it, it is not so difficult to find a child even for him. Only one must proceed with extreme caution! It is foreign territory, after all, and one should not forget about surveillance.

On reflection, the search was postponed - let the boy grow up enough to be recognizable from his father's photograph. In the meantime, the school directors were slowly approached, with money and courtesy, and persuaded to comply with a small request when the time came. That's all - to let him know. But it turned out even better than that. The lad showed his family power in escaping the beating. He was also lucky enough to end up in a boarding school, where he would live for the rest of his life until his body was in perfect shape.

It would be so sweet to turn him against his father, to raise him in hatred for those who had betrayed him and forgotten him, for his clan and family... Or even - to take him away and marry him to his granddaughter, shifting the revenge of his own grandfather to his great-grandchildren. But what if the witch finds the brother? Naumov could not risk his clan that way.

And he decided to do subtler things, in the tradition of his family and clan, conceiving of revenge far more graceful than vulgar murder and torture.

He will take the heart of his enemy's son. He will transplant his skin and hair, his liver and lungs, and take his eyes - as blue as his father's! And on Christmas night, at the imperial ball in the central palace, looking with the eyes of his enemy's son into his enemy's eyes, he will wish that his dreams will always come true.

Naumov's insides trembled sweetly with anticipation.

"S-sir... I have news for you, Sir."

The old man perked up, twitching in the cushioned chair, of which he might well have been a part in recent years, focusing on the figure frozen opposite.

"A letter?" The chief pursed his lips, pushing down the misgivings engendered by the servant's alarmed appearance.

"A verbal message, sir. From Mr. Ventseslavov," he bowed, hiding his eyes.

"Don't delay." He was in a state of anxiety, so Naumov searched for the handle of his cane and squeezed the knuckleduster tightly.

"Mr. Ventseslavov regrets, but urgent matters force him to leave the country indefinitely."

"What?!" roared a wounded beast under the vault of the old house.

"Mr. Ventseslavov recommends Channel Eight," the servant continued with a trembling voice, "and advises to pay attention to the resorts of China. That's all, sir, verbatim."

"Help me up," Naumov twitched, leaning on his cane.

A sharp coughing sound bent his body for a moment, replacing all thought with pain and an attempt not to fall. The stuff that had flown over the ancestral quarters thirty years ago turned out not to be coal at all but silicon dust. It's lodged securely in his lungs. Even now, the saliva would come out with the blood of scratched bronchi, and there was no money for healers for a long time. Never mind, he would soon have new lungs...

"What a bastard!" The runaway surgeon came to mind. "Fenia, turn on channel eight. But to be sure, he spread his legs wide and leaned on his cane with both hands."

Channel 8 was broadcasting a soap opera. A mixture of relief, bewilderment, and anger rose up and was expressed in a curse words.

"News in three minutes, sir," the servant spoiled, receiving a fierce look instead of a thank you.

Never before had the short splash screen of a news program evoked such vivid feelings. Both anxiety and wistful anticipation - but at the same time, hope that it would turn out to be a trifle like the medical convention that had sent the surgeon abroad, or some other reason, equally naïve and desirable.

The first seconds of the news bulletin hit in such a way that the world shook lightly before his eyes.

We continue with the latest news from Upper Novgorod, the announcer said in a mournful voice, clasping her fingers together and looking compassionately from the screen. - Recall that a domestic gas explosion occurred in the building of a children's boarding school this morning. Fortunately, most of the children were outside at the time, but the tragedy did not do without casualties. According to the latest reports, the bodies of about a dozen children and a staff member were pulled out from under the rubble. The death toll is still being ascertained.

The picture showed a close-up of the concrete ruins with the strap of a green bracelet, a bright spot standing out against the grey background.

The Eye of the Sovereign has already arrived on the scene...

"Turn it off! Turn it off now!" Shaking his voice, the old man shouted.

"As you command," The servant twitched as he pressed the remote control button.

"What to do, what to do, what to do..." he muttered to himself, not knowing where to look.

"May I ask... is someone close to you dead?" The servant inquired sympathetically.

But a very different meaning came to his mind in utter panic and annoyance.

"None of your business!" With a shout, the cane flew up, hitting the servant in the face. "None of your business!" Again the heavy stick flew up and down, striking the back of the man's head as it bent in pain. And it struck again at the man's collapsed body. "You mind your own business!" He yelled, oblivious to the saliva rising from the corner of his mouth.

Naumov did not notice that the body was no longer moving under the blows, that the end of the cane had already turned a dark scarlet color.

The sovereign's eye... the sovereign's eye... Why are they there? None of their business. It shouldn't be. Why now? The thoughts flashed through his head, preventing him from acknowledging and stopping what he had done.

The cane snapped in the middle with a crack, dragging the body forward, dropping it onto the parquet next to the servant's body.

A sharp pain from the fall and a flash in the elbow of the unfortunate arm that had been twisted under his body allowed his mind to wake up. In front of his eyes was the smooth smoothness of the floor - all the way to the wall.

"Fenya, help me up," Naumov exhaled with a groan of pain. "Fenya! Slacker, I said!"

His servant was beside him, but there was no way he could help his master. A puddle of blood spread silently from Fenya's body until it stopped at one edge at his master's camisole. Naumov staggered to his feet, silently cursing the sluggish fool, but a flash of pain prevented him from rising. His hand fumbled around inhabit, trying to fumble for a lifesaving cane but stumbled on something viscous and warm.

"Fenya, I'm sorry..." he apologized with a trembling bloody palm in front of his eyes.

The old man's mind failed and replaced the reality of the nightmare that had come true with a dream.

Waking up was painful. Age, after all... Naumov thought, accepting the carefully handed vial of liquid and immediately half-full of it. The taste was unfamiliar, but his throat, parched from the night, gratefully accepted the liquid.

"To the bottom," an unfamiliar voice prompted.

"Who are you?" Naumov opened his eyes, following the advice. "What dare you do in my house!" Fair indignation, in a voice hoarse and uncertain.

"Drag him out," another stranger said rudely, and someone's hand caught his leg, yanking him sharply towards the door.

"I'll bury you all," anger blared, summoning strength.

And then his body was cramped with unbearable pain, an impossible pain that made him want to tear his belly with his fingernails to scratch out the source of the torment burning just below the solar plexus.

"The blocker activates when the gift is accessed," a tired voice broke through his mind. "Don't touch the power, and the pain will go away."

"Fool, take him in your arms, not dragging him by the leg!"

"He's covered in blood!"

"It's dried up - can't you see it, moron?"

"Stop talking," a tired voice intervened. "Major, take him to the exit."

The body was immediately picked up from below.

"Who are you?" He asked the question to the opaque helmet in front of his eyes. "Police?"

"The eye of the sovereign."

"I am not subject to his judgment," Naumov wheezed. - According to the regulations, I am not a servant of your emperor."

"Wait with your questions until the exit," the leader intervened, opening the door in front of them.

"Do you hear that?" Naumov did not give up, trying to keep his head above the imperial servant's arm. "You have no right to break into my house. Give me my phone! Give me back my phone!"

The sunlight blinded his eyes, accustomed to the semi-darkness of the corridors and staircases, so he only saw the cameras and journalists next to them after he had been put on his feet and managed to blink.

"You have no right!" His voice snapped, angered by another blasphemy on his privileges.

"Ready?" The foreman asked the crowd and received a flurry of photoflashes in response.

"You have no right!" Naumov shouted, not understanding how these men of no lineage dared to stare at him so insolently.

"In the name of the Emperor, for a crime of particular severity and an attempt on the property and interests of the throne, Naumovs family are consigned to oblivion in the territory of the Empire. The descendants are now free to take another surname until they are called the Vankin."

"You have no right!" The old man tried to shout to the heavens, almost collapsing on the grass.

"I heard," said one of the guards.

"I saw it," said the man who had supported the old man under his arm.

"I testify," the fourth and last in the group put in his voice.

"In the name of the Emperor, Alexander Mikhailovich Vankin is sentenced to death by hanging for attempted murder."

"I heard."

"I saw."

"I testify."

Execute the sentence immediately.

The former Naumov was dragged sharply towards the nearest poplar tree, disregarding attempts to break free and cries of rights and innocence. Realizing that all was in vain, the old man caught the lens of the nearest camera and jerked violently, giving himself a second to say the last word.

"I killed him, do you hear?" the head of the dead family stated in a very different tone to the indifferent lens. "I killed your son! For all of ours, you hear!"

The end of the sentence came out blurred as a violent jerk took him literally in one motion to a sprawling poplar tree near the house. It was remembered from his childhood. It provided respite and shade in the heat, hiding in its crown a mischievous heir. Tears sprang to his face, blurring his vision.

Wrapped a thick branch around the end of the noose, a rough rope caught his chin, and the world jerked sharply downwards, preventing him from breathing and shrieking.

"That's it. We're done. The cameras off, and all tapes and memory cards are for inspection. If you hide it, I'll hang it next to him."

"Thank you, General. May I ask you a personal question?"

"Permission granted."

"Did he have to be hanged? What about the trial and the investigation?"

"How are you going to keep a gifted person in prison?"

"But we have the proper staff, don't we?"

"They have more important jobs than guarding murderers."

"Thank you again."

"Don't you have anything to eat? I'm starving..." came the words to the fading mind.

The body was removed in a couple of minutes under the curious stares of onlookers who had gathered to watch the grief. The lock on the black bag clicked, the wheels of the gurney squeaked, the hitch of the body carriage clanked, and the long black car rolled out into the city streets, turning to the outskirts, to where the city crematorium smoked ash in the sky. The car did not turn right into the dirty gray concrete slabs of the fence, but turned around another roundabout and drove out of the city. A dozen minutes later, a four-meter-high automatic gate opened in front of the black bonnet with the sound of a well-oiled mechanism, only to close the second the car pulled into a vast courtyard with a dozen faceless white-brick buildings connected by second-floor walkways.

This time the cart was rolled out much more gently. The black sack was cut open lengthwise, and the same knife was used to shred the coat, trousers, shirt, and underwear, freeing the wiry body from the clothes. The pale old man was moved onto a medical gurney. A portable awning was immediately unfolded over his head, covering the solid rectangle from the world. A compressor hummed, pumping cool filtered air inside. A circle of several medics whirled, businesslike, exchanging short phrases about the sensors that encircled the body, connecting to the monstrous apparatus in the form of a dozen white boxes with green screens, piled on top of each other, and altogether on a mobile platform with rollers.

But something displeased the men in white coats about the lazy sine wave on the screens. The injections followed, a string of IVs reached out to the arm, a jolt of current from two flat circles hit, and the graphs, to the satisfaction of all on their feet, began to delight with sharp peaks, rhythmic and quite healthy. The senior of the group waved his hand at shoulder level, marking the circle, and was the first to leave the makeshift tent. Everyone else followed him, giving way to two stern men in black uniforms, with the silhouette of a half-rimmed eye on the collar of their uniforms.

"Welcome," the old man was pecked on the cheek, causing him to twitch and open his eyes in bewilderment.

"Is it hell?"

"Purgatory," they corrected him and gently pulled back the awning, revealing the hearse still standing nearby. "But a flight to hell is still available."

"I thought that was it..." The old man gingerly reached for the purple bruise that encircled his neck.

"No. That's it is when the vertebrae break." The man in the uniform bent his palm sharply, feigning. "However, our specialist heard something interesting and decided to give you just a little chokehold. Was he mistaken?"

"No! No! I'll tell you everything!" The hanged man fidgeted, not at all embarrassed by his nakedness. "But you must guarantee the safety of my kin."

It was obvious he was struggling and pained to speak, but there was a wild stubbornness mixed with determination in his eyes.

"The Emperor's Hand will protect the remnants of your family if what you tell us is of interest to our lord. A word."

"I testify," said the second man, who had been silent until then. "So?"

"They create a Prophet."

* * *

Chapter 19

Birthday