Chapter 12. "Faces of death" (Patreon)

Chapter 12. "Faces of death"

* * *

"Is that him?" clarified Santelli, hiding an attentive look in his beer mug.

"Yes," confirmed Kai, also diligently looking away.

The subject of their conversation, who had forced the two "tarred men" to cross the Gate from end to end, from the most respectable pub to the most unrepresentative one, was sitting in the far corner, chewing leisurely on a piece of millet, stale even by the look of it. He was an older man, but he did not give the impression of being decrepit, to whom children casually asked what their father preferred, the grave or the fire. He was dressed decently, not poorly, but not provocatively, more in the East fashion, that is, in pants and an unbuttoned cross-shaped cape with a notch for the head over a loose wool shirt - no fancy dress, short jackets, butt stockings, or any other perversion of the South-West.

Pretending to drop and try to find a small trinket, Santelli peeked under the table and assessed the stranger's shoes - high boots with lapels, worn but still sturdy. They were the kind worn in the brigades, only shorter, often with a slit in the back, so you could unfasten the lace-up in one motion and throw it off, freeing your foot from the trap...

His gray hair was combed back smoothly, like a noble's, but it was cut shorter than usual and uneven as if the man had cut it himself by cutting off strands with a knife. A luxurious, ash-colored mustache curved around his mouth, descending to the very edge of his lower jaw. His eyebrows were pitch-black and even as if they had been drawn with a ruler. But the look... Yes, the look of a fighter sure of himself. There was a quiet confidence and a sense of superiority in the gray-haired man's gaze. But he had none of the coolness, the brash impudence of young bullies in search of glory, who had not yet learned that death was age-neutral, taking the old and the young with equal ease.

We must assume that the man was popular with the ladies. He just couldn't help it. Santelli thought he might have been attracted to the wanderer himself if he had been at least twenty years younger.

He put his half-handed saber without any ornaments, with a simple guard and a single side hook - unusually long, reaching to his ring finger - openly on the table. The blade was extended out of its sheath by four fingers, just enough to show - the wanderer was not looking for adventure and strife but wished to remain alone. But far more interesting was what was left in the shadows, that is, unnoticed, leaning against the leg of the slanting table. And there stood a one-handed "saddle hammer" on a wooden handle with two sides "whiskers" along its entire length.

It was the kind of hammer Santeli had long seen - a faceted beak, sharpened like a chisel, a simple hammer with no seals or teeth and, most unusual, no tip. Usually, all claws had a point or, at the very least, a handle that protruded from the eyelet into the palm. So you could poke and prod if the fight was chest-to-chest and you couldn't get a swing. But here, the whole upper part, from the edge of the beak to the striking part of the hammer, curved in one smooth arc.

As befits a well-conceived and well-made item, the hammer was, so to speak, thought-provoking. Especially the frequent notches, arranged very characteristically as if the weapon was used not so much to hit as to expose it to numerous blows.

"Look at the laces," Kai said in a low voice.

Santelli had indeed missed them, mistaking them for part of a foreign costume. Black twisted cords passed through special loops under the elbows and at the shoulders, and they were knotted cunningly and loosely, with the ends hanging down.

"It's the same on his legs," the swordsman said. "Above the knees."

Santelli nodded, taking note. After a moment of silence, he thought aloud with obvious doubt:

"It can't be. Two of them at once and on the same day?"

"Pantocrator measures generously to the worthy and pious," Kai quoted. "There isn't much to choose from, no matter how you look at it."

"Laces, saber, clave..." stretched out Santelli, still hesitant, but there was a poorly concealed hope in his voice.

"Yes," concluded Kai. "We have to risk it."

Santelli exhaled and finished his beer, literally pouring the contents of the mug down his throat.

"We have to," he said, winding himself up before the responsible case.

"I can try," suggested Kai diplomatically.

In the meantime, the visiting fighter had finished his crust and was looking like a man in no hurry to go anywhere, smoothing his mustache. He attracted the attention of the drinkers but nothing more. They'd seen far more outlandish guests in the Wastelands, and his saber and determined demeanor deterred troublemakers as well as the most honest folk who now had the truest treasure map, the most cherished artifact cache tip, or at least a bar of real gold for a mere third of the price.

Santelli twitched his cheek and, without answering his companion, stood up, heading toward the stranger's table. He skipped a step on the way, passing one girl maid so he wouldn't run into a tray full of empty mugs. With an easy half-turn, he sidestepped a drunkard falling out of his chair, who banged his head loudly against the wet planks behind the foreman's back. He stepped over the regular, who was lying down comfortably in the aisle between the tables, wrapped in a leaky cloak, for he had no other clothes on - all gone down. It looked like today was going to be a busy day for the tavern; beer and diluted wine poured out literally in buckets, despite the early hour. Although the sun had long ago risen, it was half dark inside, and the oil lamps were burning.

"May I?" asked Santelli politely, stopping beside the table so the distance could not be called threatening. The brigadier was almost sure that he could not attack suddenly, even if he wanted to, and the stranger was well aware of that, but a show of politeness is never superfluous.

"I'm not looking for company," the man said neutrally, and the soft accent confirmed his background. Wherever the fighter was born, he'd spent most of his life in the City or at least the surrounding area. The answer sounded as polite as the question but quite unambiguous. To continue was to invite a rude rebuke or challenge, but nevertheless, Santelli took his chances.

"I see," the foreman said and sat down across from him without invitation. A dark eyebrow shifted and crept upward, reflecting a certain bewilderment. The gray-haired man didn't even glance toward his sword, but the muscles under his shirt trembled slightly, and Santelie could feel the stranger's loosely lowered left hand, hidden by the edge of the table, touching the handle of the hammer.

"I apologize for my intrusiveness," the brigadier had a hard time with the "pompous" speech because he hadn't used to ceremonial, and it was all too reminiscent of the past. So Santelli spoke slowly, choosing each word.

"But I have a matter that cannot wait. An important matter that I would like to discuss with you."

"I only came here today, after dark, and I've never been in these parts before," the stranger seems already to have grasped the clave with his whole palm. "I have no friends or business here, much less any delay."

He spoke quickly and very clearly, like a man accustomed to a purely urban culture. And with that familiar, unconscious restraint that comes from years of living in an environment where any word can be followed by a challenge. If Santelli still doubted the nature of his interlocutor's occupation, he would now cast aside all doubts.

"I understand what you're saying," the foreman pointedly placed his palms on the tabletop, showing that he wasn't preparing a sneak attack. All the pride and self-esteem of the Proffitt hunter protested against this, but Santelli was clearly aware that his insistence was an outright accusation, and the reaction of his companion might be entirely unpredictable. The less of a threat the gray-haired man saw, the better.

"Give me literally a few minutes of your time," the foreman offered as calmly and persuasively as possible. "And if you don't find my words worthy of consideration, I'll leave you."

At the last moment, Santelli refrained from completing "and order you some wine." This could have been taken as an outright insult, a hint of the stranger's plight. All the more insulting because the hint would not seem far from the truth. Now, sitting close to him, face to face, Santelli could see that the gray-haired man's eyelids were puffed up by days of fatigue. The travel bag on the bench, at his right side, was unfortunately thin and certainly not burdened with rich luggage. And most important of all, the smell. The stranger's clothes were dusty and hadn't been cleaned in days, which meant he hadn't washed yet from the road. But Santeli did not smell the distinctive scent of horse sweat. So, the man came on foot. And if a fighter does not have a horse, it means either he is a bad fighter or, for some reason, he is in great need.

"You don't seem to have a watch..." After a short pause, the gray-haired man responded, a little friendlier, just a little. "And I doubt there are any in this whole... town."

"But I know what a 'minute' is," Santelli smiled miserably.

"Yeah, apparently, we've both known better days," the gray-haired man returned the same restrained smile. He seemed interested in the conversation.

"Yeah," the foreman remarked neutrally. He was silent for a while and decided not to pull the taguar by the tongue but to cut it off.

"A thousand pardons if my question seems inappropriate, but... let me guess the nature of your occupation..."

"You've already guessed right," the gray-haired man cut him off sharply. "So is your companion, who stands against that wall and pretends not to look at me from behind his mug. He is clearly accustomed to the weight of a knight's spear and ramming."

"Uh-uh..." For the first time in a very long time, Santelli was confused and hesitant to answer.

"But I'm not looking for work here," the fighter continued sternly. "I have no desire to kill alive people again."

Santelli raised his eyes and thought that Pantocrator himself must be helping him, first by pointing to the stranger through Kai and now by taking the conversation in the most desirable direction. The occasional reservation made it possible to get straight to the point.

"I see," the foreman shook his head and paused. For the first time, he caught something in the gray-haired man's impenetrable gaze that looked like a spark of interest. "And what would you say about dead people?"

There was silence. The brether - and this was definitely a brether, a real, metropolitan school, an ambidextrous fencer - stared intently at the brigadier. At last, his left hand trembled, and Santelli clenched his jaws mechanically, ready to parry the blow. Well, or at least to try. The gray-haired man drew an empty, unarmed palm from under the table, rested his elbows on the dark planks, and smoothed his mustache again, this time both at once.

"Charley. Maitre Charley," he introduced himself grudgingly without offering his hand. Just indicating that he was ready to listen for now.

"Santelli. My throat was a little dry. I must admit," the brigadier wasn't in the least bit wry, the usual Wasteland negotiations requiring simple politeness but without all the verbal acrobatics. "While I'm talking, would you be so kind as to share a pitcher of beer with me? And perhaps something to chew on, just so the beer doesn't go down your throat alone?"

Brether bowed his head in silence, his curiosity evidently fighting his general reluctance to get involved in anything he did not understand. Still, he listened to the foreman.

"And here's the thing..." began Santelli, lowering his voice and leaning toward the maitre.

Kai relaxed a little and furtively exhaled. Being a good warrior, he could see that the gray-haired man was an excellent fighter. And very skilled, too, judging by the proper knots on his sleeves, which few people knew how to tie properly these days. If it came to a fight, even the two of them, Santelli and Kai, would have a hard time standing up to the brether. Not because they were inferior. It was just that here, without armor, in the cramped confines of the tavern scene, the maestro was in his element, accustomed to the swift carnage of the city streets, by torchlight or in the dense shadows of the alleys.

Kai prayed briefly to himself, recalling the creed from the Primordial scroll. Everything seemed to be going more or less well.

* * *

Her clogs were pounding on the sidewalk, or rather, on the surface, which partly included elements of the sidewalk. There was not much stone left. It had been badly scattered for buildings and other household things until vandalism was banned by the best people of the city. However, the multi-layered "cushion" of crushed stone and sand remained; it drained the moisture well so that even in the rains, it was much more pleasant to walk on the streets of the Gate than just on the ground.

Lena stomped toward the bakery with the firm intention of buying a pie. A big one, fresh, with meat. The bakers usually made a small supply of fresh pastries in the evening for the brigades who had had the misfortune to return from the field after midnight. The girl was counting on some bonus from Matrice for her successful stitch-cleaning operation, so she decided to go wild and eat her bonus in advance. There were many objections to this decision, from the late hour to the simple common sense of not spending pennies not yet received. For - hunger, the desire to eat properly, not indulging in forced veganism, and most importantly - to "chew" the dreary sadness. For the lack of coffee and chocolate bars.

It was quiet, very quiet. Most of the Gate's inhabitants were either already asleep or preparing to go to sleep. And those who were awake were hiding their nightlife behind solid walls and thick curtains. Like Matrice, who was probably again taking Profit from another brigade in one of the distant warehouses. Only to the side, where the Honourable Gee's brothel was located, there was a noisy party again, with shrieks and firecrackers. Someone must have made a good living and was in a hurry to spend everything.

The psychology of the "tarred men" in general was similar to that of a soldier. Each of them could die at any moment, regardless of any precautions, so few were saving for old age or a rainy day. The Pantocrator gave, and the Pantocrator will give again if it is His will. And to bury the money in a chest is to tease death by alluding to its weakness. So it was the individual hoarders like Santelli who seemed to see his work in the dungeons as a way to build up start-up capital for something bigger. For the past year, however, the foreman had worked mostly to pay off his debt to the brothel for killing his two most profitable workers.

A torch-bearer passed by, having finished his evening's work. They burned all night and gave off a lot of light, almost like gas lanterns, so that one could walk through the central streets of the Gate without having to gauge the road with a stick. Seeing Lena, the torchbearer politely touched the collar of the hood and bowed his head. Lena responded in the same way, only touched the cap... Or rather wanted to touch it.

Damn it! She forgot to put it on again as she left the Apothecary. Oh, damn...

That's not to say it was a catastrophic mistake. By day, yes, the public wouldn't understand. Only fully open hair could be worn by completely independent women like Shena or aristocrats. The former had their hair cut very short, not even "manly," but rather "boyish". The latter had elaborate hairstyles. Everyone else needed at least a symbolic cap, headscarf, or at the very least, a comb. So, technically, anyone could take Lena for a girl of low social responsibility, with all the consequences.

She could go back, or she could risk it. Especially since the risk was low, all the ladies' society seekers were already scattered in the hotspots. Blaming herself for her absent-mindedness, the girl quickened her steps, hoping to be back in a quarter of an hour. Or a little longer if the baker's apprentice on duty had to be awakened.

A city dweller does not understand how noisy the modern city is and how many individual sounds actually hide the overall noise background. In the alleyway, a drunkard is relieving himself noisily, muttering something to himself. Across the street, a child is crying, apparently dreaming. Someone very small was rustling among the refuse, probably a rat, or on the contrary, a tiny fennec fox, which has firmly occupied the niche of the hunter-mouse cat.

It was getting cold. It was getting colder. A nasty breeze slipped through her hair and touched her ears with icy touches. Lena automatically pulled up the collar of her dress, shielding her neck from the evening cold, promising colds and bronchitis.

"Good, kind woman, give a little bread to an orphan..."

At first, she thought it was just the wind rumbling in the alley between the cramped houses. The low-pitched roofs touched, forming a tunnel with blind mica windows without a single light. And from there, out of the darkest shadows, came this voice.

Lena lost her step and stopped listening. The wind rustled the street trash again, rustled the thatched roofs, and bypassed the tiled ones. There was some movement in the alley. A thin, quiet voice repeated:

"Good, good woman, give a coin to an orphan."

The hair on her head began to move. Lena had never felt such creepiness, not even when the local predator, the ugly cat named Taguar, intended to devour her. And it seemed there was nothing to be afraid of, just a little beggar-child's voice... Only Lena firmly remembered one of the unwritten laws of the wasteland - the children never stay on the street after dawn. Even poor orphans who could not find a place in the workhouse in the sewing trade gathered in groups and closed in other people's sheds for a penny.

A lonely beggar on the street in the night is like Santelli without an axe, with a conductor's stick. Either it's not a lonely beggar, or it's not a child. Or both.

"Don't spare a coin."

A girl emerged from the shadows, strangely and frighteningly similar to the one Elena had found on her first day in the Wastelands. Only this one seemed alive enough if it weren't for the paused, bottomless look in her eyes.

"It's not a loss for you but a joy for the orphan. And the orphan child will thank you."

I remembered, very coincidentally (or vice versa), that foul creatures never call themselves in the first person but always in the third, as if from the side. Lena was soberly aware that she was not escaping in her clattering boots. There was no point in calling for help; no one would come anyway. What happens behind the walls of the houses is nobody's business until the sun rises.

She took a step back and put her hand on the hilt of the knife behind her belt. Everyone here had a knife. Those who couldn't afford a regular one used a substitute, like a scrap of an old scythe with a twine wound around it instead of the handle. At worst, it was always possible to sharpen an ordinary bone on a shale or make a stone knife, the kind the boys who were not yet entitled to their father's first gift walked around with. Lena had a good knife, for the herbalist was always measuring and cutting something off. But now, the strip of forged steel in her hand seemed very small and treacherously useless.

Meanwhile, the girl came out of the alley. She was right under the torch, and Lena shuddered. The fathomlessness of her gaze was given by her enormous, inhumanly dilated pupils, which remained motionless even in the light.

"Stay back," Lena whispered, bringing her knife forward.

The girl smiled silently and without parting her lips, took another step toward her. Elena took a step back and ran into someone behind her, thinking, belatedly, that a demon didn't need to hunt alone. She swung the knife at random, and, of course, she missed the gray shadow escaping the short blade in a deft, almost balletic pirouette.

Not as the undead of the Wastelands. As a human being.

The girl with inhuman eyes slid back into the darkness of the alley, her back to the front as if she were hovering above the ground. Behind her, two of the routiers rushed, steel plates clinking on their jackets, cleavers at their heels. Another swung his torch, dispersing the shadows. The fourth stared at Elena in silence, and Elena stared at him, thinking she was going to fall. She would, for sure because her legs were shaking like half-liquid cold meat in a bowl.

"Don't walk the streets after sundown," Ranyan said calmly, as if he, too, had just been stabbed, even if by mistake.

This was the first time Lena had seen the famous mercenary so close. Ranyan looked... usual, as always, that is, cold, impenetrable. Like a man who was minute by minute ready for a fight. Though he was a brether with a fencing brotherhood diploma, he carried no saber, making do with two long knives on his belt. A piercing sword hung behind his back, and few in the Wastelands could say they'd ever seen a Routier draw his blade from its sheath. His dapper beard and no less dapper mustache were still Lena's associations with the seventeenth century rather than the Medieval. Routier smelled of armor leather, rust-proof grease, and something else unidentifiable, like freshly mowed grass. If it had been anyone else, Lena would have assumed that Ranyan had perfumed himself with herbal essence. But that would have been... too wrong. Murderers don't use toilet water.

"Hel? Apprentice to the venerable Matrice?" Ranyan asked.

Lena only managed a weak nod. She fumbled at her belt, almost stabbing her knife through her stomach, looking for a scrap of cloth to cover her hair. She didn't want to admit to herself that in the light of the torches - two at once - the routier couldn't help but notice the dark red of her braid.

"You're lucky," Ranyan remarked with the same impenetrable calm. "An encounter with a 'deceiver' rarely ends so... easily."

He didn't understand anything... He didn't understand! And somewhere in the distance, was a short cry, a child's cry, but with sharp shrill notes, as if the child had been imitated by a good ventriloquist who never got out of character. Someone had just died.

"T-t-thank you," Elena squeezed out. She squeezed it out, every word coming out with great difficulty, pushing its way through her petrified throat. Too many adventures in one day. Too much...

"The city pays," Ranyan said as if that explained everything. "Deceivers haven't come through the Gate in a long time, and now they're getting more frequent. It's dangerous on the streets. Let's go."

"W-what?"

"Let's go," said routier again. "I'll show you out. I don't like unfinished business."

The legs of one such "unfinished business" finally buckled. The mercenary managed to put up a hand in a thick glove, and the girl mechanically leaned on it. The hand seemed wooden, hard, and incredibly strong. Ranyan felt a chill pounding the unexpected encounter but interpreted it in his way.

"No need to be afraid," he remarked with a note of patronizing condescension. "I'll take you to the Apothecary."

And off they went. The sidekick with the torch followed close behind, keeping a watchful eye on the rear.

Lena felt hot and cold. Her head was full of confused thoughts. She wanted to run away into the nearest alley, or try to stab routier with a knife, or just scream. It was wild, incongruous, and impossible just to walk hand in hand with a man who was supposed to kill her. He, without blinking an eye, had ordered the slaughter of an entire caravan of travelers in search of a victim.

Ranyan was silent, adjusting to her hurried little steps. The leather of his harness creaked quietly. The sheath of his sword must have been brand new. The mercenary's footsteps, on the other hand, seemed silent, like those of a ghost.

"See you later," Ranyan admonished her before she reached the Apothecary's porch, above which hung a candle lantern with mica windows. The mercenary gave the girl an impenetrable look and shrugged under his jacket of thick boiled leather, capable of stopping a knife or an arrow from an ordinary bow. And went back without looking back.

Lena locked the door and stood in the dark for a while, feeling her heart pounding and the adrenaline coursing through her veins. In the back rooms, Saphir was rattling something again. Mouse was scolding him in a low voice, reprimanding him monotonously and nastily for something. Without burning the lights, the girl went up to the second floor, to the living part of the two-story house.

The hunger burned out, turning into the exact opposite. Just as in the morning, now the girl couldn't swallow a bite. Fatigue filled every limb with leaden weight, spreading to the tips of her fingernails. A sickly chill chilled her bones, making it hard to breathe, and her heart stabbed with unexpected pain.

Lena was clearly aware that she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. A real one, with screaming and complete loss of control. Before, when life became absolutely unbearable, such outbursts were treated by Mr. Cat. Now...

She sat down on the bed, massaging her diaphragm. Her stomach was cramped, and her fingers trembled and felt like absorbent cotton. Lena breathed, deep and slow, with prolonged exhalation, imagining she was fanning the embers of an extinguished fire in the frosty forest. An exhalation. Exhale. Exhale... She would have to breathe into a bag, so her body would get less oxygen. For lack of a bag, she folded her palms in a tight boat, covering her nose and mouth like a respirator.

In her former life, Elena had never done auto-training, but she had read a couple of Levi's books from Grandpa's library. And now she was trying to draw on a fragmented memory, muttering the formula for calm, imagining a warm heaviness in her hands and feet. My fingertips were freezing as if they were frozen in ice. She should have laid down on her back to relax, but Lena knelt, bent into an S shape.

Slowly, little by little, it began to work. She imagined that the seizure was a cold flame in her heart. With each breath, she dissolved and exhaled the disembodied ice in a warm stream. It was getting easier. She was still very sick, but the hysterical explosion had receded a few steps.

Trying to maintain the same rhythm of breathing, Lena repeated to herself that she is wonderful, strong, and confident. She stayed alive. She became an apprentice and learned to live like a local without standing out for anything. She is smart. She is wonderful, and she cannot be killed.

She rubbed her face, feeling the muscles tense. She felt as if she were stirring heavy, parched clay, but she didn't give up, pushing, pulling, and stretching until the cramped muscles relaxed.

It was letting go. Slowly, hard, but it was letting go. She wanted to cry, to let the hot tears open the dam of grief and fear, to wash away all the weight from her soul. Like in her childhood, when crying became bitter, but then it was easier. But in her current state, the tears could easily turn into a hysterical outburst, the same one from which Elena had had such a hard time recovering.

So, breathe. Again, cover her face with her palms and breathe. Breathe...

No one can hurt her because she is too smart and lucky for all her enemies. She stood face to face with Ranyan - and she survived. Can anything hurt her now?

Elena shook her fingertips as if to shake off cobwebs and nonexistent water droplets. The gesture was graceful. At least, she liked to think it was. Her hands weren't shaking anymore, and her heart was steady, too.

Exhale. Another exhalation. It seemed to be over. An involuntary long sob broke through, but otherwise, it seemed fine.

She have to go downstairs. Drink a mug of sweet broth to add more sugar to her system. She wouldn't fall asleep now anyway. Sweet herbal concoction and maybe some fortified wine from the bottle Matrice hides under the lock. The boss would scream and rage and probably fine her, but the hell with it. Elena stared death in the face twice in one evening and survived. What was the screaming compared to that?

She won't be afraid anymore.

* * *