The war dragged on for another six months. Is that a long time or a short time? It depends. From a historical perspective, it's a completely insignificant period. And the results of the war, an outside observer might say, weren't all that impressive. So, they drove the invaders out of the country, moved the border a hundred li beyond Zamara, so what?
Voices were heard proposing a victorious march on the capital of Isfir and the punishment of the impious invaders. To crush the viper in its lair, so to speak. General Kheverad received dispatch after dispatch from the kingdom's highest leadership demanding that he continue the military campaign and punish the adversaries for their insolence. However, Kheverad curtailed military operations, limiting himself to establishing strong garrisons in the captured cities, linked by a rapid cavalry communications system and signal posts set up on high hills. They transmitted signals via smoke from fires and mirrors in sunny weather.
Driving out the invaders was the simplest thing; securing the border was the more difficult. Heverad knew the war wouldn't end there, that the enemy would seek revenge—even the most foolish person could come to that conclusion, and Heverad wasn't foolish. But that was precisely why he didn't want to march on Isfir. Before launching a full-scale war, Zamara's armed forces needed to be reformed, and then... Then what? Then—we'll see. First, he needed to sort out the affairs of his own kingdom. And there were many. Messengers from trusted men brought bad news. The king had completely lost his mind, and anarchy had descended upon the capital. The kingdom stood on the brink of civil war.
A few days after Heverad established the last garrison in the city of Eiko, the Corps, swelled, rested, and refreshed, marched toward the capital. Accompanying them was a heavy cavalry regiment, increased to two thousand men-at-arms. A total of eight thousand fighters marched toward the capital—enough to constitute a hefty weight on the political scale. Following behind the Corps were wagons carrying provisions, equipment, tents, and everything necessary for service. The Marines traveled light, a fact they were incredibly grateful for. The plan was to reach the capital in a month, traveling twenty li a day. If they wished, the Corps could march twice as fast, but why? Arrive at the capital exhausted from the march, as worn out as a messenger's horse after a multi-day race? No, Heverad was not about to allow that.
The Corps mages traveled in comfort, in separate wagons. Ned lay on a mattress covered with a rough soldier's blanket, reading books on magic and enjoying the peace, rest, and reading. The twins tried to rouse him, but he promised to give them a good beating, so the brothers left him alone, turning their attention to safer objects worthy of their attention. For example, the wagons of the merchants who had joined the army caravan. They were always full of pleasant-looking and -to-the-touch women, who were favorably disposed toward the nimble young mages. There, they could also buy free treats from the talkative merchants, who were flattered by the attentions of such important people as mages. Anything was better than sitting in their wagon and watching Ned, clutching a boring book and smiling an idiotic grin—so they both declared in unison.
Ned didn't mind—whatever these restless children did, so long as they stayed out of his way and didn't interfere. In the evenings, when the army stopped for the night, Ned always practiced martial arts, taking both brothers and anyone else from the agara who wanted to join. There were already ten of them—young mages, recently joined the agara and free to explore new trends. Arnot and Itrok also came to train. They were making progress, especially Itrok, who was distinguished by his excellent reflexes and good eye. In six months of training, he had developed into a skilled swordsman, and in hand-to-hand combat, he could defeat a man twice his strength. Ned looked at the boy in amazement—skinny, frail-looking—and wondered how appearances could be deceiving. And also, what would happen when Itrok reached his full strength. He was a true man of war—skillful, calculating, calm, not prone to hysteria or panic. A warrior with a capital W.
Since Ned had fought the Shatrii and Silena, there had been no more assassination attempts. Ned was always on guard, so this assassination attempt had little effect on his life. Gerlath tried to impose a guard—two soldiers, day and night—but Ned categorically refused. It was foolish to guard a fighter who made them look like children. Especially since he always had two mage brothers by his side. Besides, no guard could protect him from a dart laced with ssful poison. A white mage, however, might. Gerlath grumbled, then waved his hand—do what you want, he said. But if they kill you, then don't complain, I didn't tell you. Ned promised not to complain, and... everything went on as usual.
Over the course of these months, Heverad summoned Ned twice. The first time, he questioned Ned at length about what he had already told Gerlath—about himself, about who was pursuing Ned, about the structure of the Shirduan sect, about everything he wanted to know. Ned answered without reserve. Except for a few intimate details of Yuragor-Ned's life, which Ned himself preferred not to remember. The second time, Heverad summoned Ned to inform him that he had been awarded the Star of Courage for exceptional merit during the war and would receive the decoration upon their arrival in the capital. He also informed him that Ned was heading to officer school, but... would also attend agara to continue his magical training. Heverad didn't yet know how this would all work out and hoped to iron out all the details of his training upon his arrival in the capital.
In short, everything is still ahead. Everything is in the capital. There, in the city the twins spoke of with bated breath, the city that is the heart and head of the kingdom of Zamar.
* * *
– You received the money you requested. I've been waiting for results for over six months. Is the job done?
"No, it's not done." The voice coming from under the thick bandage was indeterminate—whether a man's or a woman's—it was unclear.
"The reason for not fulfilling the contract?" The man was cold and insistent. He held a small paper knife in his hands, twirling it between his fingers and staring intently at the shapeless figure sitting on the chair before him, trying to decide what to do.
"Reasons? First, you misled us. This isn't just any guy, as you made him out to be. He's a magician, and a top-level martial artist, too. Do you think this is grounds for terminating the contract?"
"A magician? A master?" the man was genuinely surprised. "Are you serious? No—are you seriously saying this?"
"We never joke," a disembodied voice whispered. "We conclude you didn't know. Okay, we believe you. But to continue the contract, the payment must be increased."
"How much?" the client muttered discontentedly. "Isn't a thousand gold enough to eliminate even a demon? In my opinion, it's more than enough!"
"Then take this thousand and fulfill the contract yourself," the voice whispered, and the man thought he heard mocking notes.
"I was told that you are men of honor and always see things through to the end," the man said haughtily, blushing slightly. "It turns out that you are not men of honor!"
"Honor? What do you understand by honor, fool?" the figure replied contemptuously. "Enough empty talk. Ten thousand. I'll tell you the place to deliver the money later. I'll send a messenger. Refusal is tantamount to a death sentence. For you. You will die if you refuse. You've been warned."
"You're forgetting yourself!" the enraged man barked. "You might never leave here! And the heads of your gang will quickly end up on the city wall, their eyes pecked out by crows!"
"No need to shout," the alien whispered, "and stop twirling your stupid knife. The shooters behind the vents have been neutralized, so don't count on their help. I repeat—you gave us false information. We're fining you five thousand gold pieces and increasing the contract fee to five thousand. That's ten thousand. When will you be able to raise the required amount? Keep in mind—if you don't raise it by the deadline, every day you're late will cost you a hundred gold pieces."
"Cursed be the day I ever got involved with your gang," the man cried heartily. "You'll have your money! In a month. Yes. In a month. The only question is, how long will it take you to kill the guy? If you're setting a deadline for me, then you should set a deadline for yourself, too."
"Yes, that's fair. After receiving the money, we commit to removing the property no later than six months later."
"Six months?! That long?!" the man clutched his head. "Why so long?!"
"Would you like to pay extra for the rush?" the stranger was clearly amused.
"No," the man said angrily, "just keep in mind that if you don't fulfill the contract… I'll find a way to get even with you."
"Everyone said that..." the alien chuckled.
"What?! What did you say?!" the man cried, but the room was empty. The killer seemed to vanish into thin air, like a cloud of gray smoke...
The master of the house sat in silence for a while, pondering what had happened, then took a silver bell that stood on the table and looked like an upside-down glass, rang it, and when a servant came running at the sound, he ordered:
– Go and check if everything is okay with the hands?
"Sir, I was about to report to you—the archers are lying upstairs, near the vents... alive, but unable to speak, only blinking. Their bows are lying nearby, and each one has crossed arrows on his chest."
- What arrows? Why arrows?
"I don't know, my lord," the servant bowed even lower, "only in childhood I heard that crossed arrows are a sign, something like a threat – if you don't carry out the order, you will die."
"Who entered the house? Who was upstairs?" the man asked sullenly, already knowing the answer.
"Nobody came in. There was nobody," the servant shrugged. "You yourself ordered the security to be strengthened. So, the courtyard is simply swarming with mercenaries. They've clogged the place up like a herd of cows. The stench is overwhelming... But no one can slip past them. There was nobody here. Maybe they themselves... each other?"
"Nonsense, what nonsense! What's my security worth if murderers sneak past them! And who was I talking to five minutes ago? I was sitting in this very chair!"
"I didn't see anyone, sir!" The servant's face became confused, and he bowed low.
The man looked at the servant—he wasn't lying. He truly hadn't seen anyone. It was as if no one had ever been there. Only the bodies of the guards indicated that the visitor hadn't been a dream.
* * *
"You're good, yes," Entana smacked her lips in admiration, tugging at Sanda's skirt, "men will hang themselves, poison themselves, and throw themselves on their swords because of you!"
"Do you think they'll get tired of me like that?" Sanda blinked innocently and, unable to contain herself, burst out laughing. Entana and her mother, Helga, echoed her.
"Well, it's good you have some brains," the aunt remarked with satisfaction. "Of course, not so much as to understand who you should have married and who you shouldn't, but you still have a clue. So, remember—you're an unmarried girl, innocent and silly. Blink your eyes, act pretty, make eyes. You have to seduce half the court, promise... but not keep your promise. God forbid you behave in such a way that everyone understands you're ready to go to bed with the first man who comes along. You must be as unattainable as... as... well, make eyes, but don't let anyone get under your skirt. That's it. Get out! The carriage is waiting."
The heavy structure of polished, varnished wood swayed gently between its enormous wheels. The coachman shouted, whipping away curious passersby. A guard of sturdy, steel-clad soldiers, riding large horses, formed a tight formation around the carriage, protecting it from attack.
The capital had been in turmoil lately. Rumors swirled that the king was living his final days. He no longer left his chambers, and evil tongues were murmuring that he was dead. It was impossible to verify this fact—the accursed advisor, Girso of Amun, wouldn't let anyone near him except a couple of physicians, but they remained silent, refusing to provide information on the monarch's health. Either they were well paid to keep the physicians quiet, or they were severely threatened, but... no information was forthcoming. It was most likely a combination of both. Girso was renowned for his stern temper; many who disobeyed his orders were rotting in the city cemetery. But that's normal—you can't make a politician with white gloves. A politician must be tough, unscrupulous, and unafraid of bloodshed.
Blood, blood... too much of it has been spilled lately. It was as if a plague had descended upon the aristocratic families—people were dying, run over by suddenly maddened horses, falling into abysses, dying in bed from unknown illnesses, or from indigestion after eating innocent, familiar foods. Someone profited handsomely from this deadly harvest.
Everyone who could lay claim to the throne was eliminated. Sanda was guarded around the clock by dozens of guards and bodyguards. She was so fed up with this attention that she once told her aunt she would rather remain in a backwater garrison town than endure such torment. Entana sharply demanded that she stop talking nonsense and do as she was told. And Sanda did.
She was taught good manners, how to dress in court fashion, how to hold a conversation on any topic, how to dance, and also how to be submissive, firmly hammered into her head that she owed her family, that she was obligated to elevate them to the highest rung of power. And that this was Sanda's only way to survive. If anyone learned she was a bastard claiming the throne, no one would give a copper penny for her life.
When Sanda was informed she was to appear at a court ball, she was very surprised – how did this square with the statements that no one was supposed to know about her origins? And she received the answer – the time had come to declare herself. Now she would be presented to society as a princess. And she must behave accordingly. And then they explained to her what "accordingly" meant.
All these months passed in a blur for Sanda. She was moved somewhere, something was demanded of her, and she did it mechanically, obediently, and only at night, when she was alone, all by herself, would she quietly cry, like a little girl who had lost her favorite toy. This wasn't her life, she didn't want it, but like an animal trapped in a drum for the amusement of its owners, she spun and spun the transparent wheel, dreaming of someday escaping this vicious circle.
The days she'd lived with Ned now seemed like happiness to her. But why did they seem like it? That was happiness—young, beautiful, loving each other, together. If that wasn't happiness, then what was happiness? A hundred times, a thousand times, she asked herself if she'd done the right thing by giving in to her mother and aunt's demands. Why did she need this power? Why this wealth? She wasn't starving anyway. She had a husband respected by many. And, as it turned out, a mage, too.
Sanda hid this fact from her family—that Ned was a mage. Why should they know? She certainly understood that it was every man for himself. And to her family, she wasn't a person, just a bargaining chip. Even to her mother, from whom Sanda had grown distant these days, sadly remembering her "father," cast aside like a half-eaten apple.
What could Sanda do now? Just wait and hope that Ned would return one day, and everything would somehow work itself out. And yet, these people were sorely mistaken in thinking Sanda a simpleton who would be easy to manipulate. The girl strictly controlled her every move, and only occasionally, forgetting herself, did she demonstrate her remarkable intelligence.
Six months after her saga of ascending to the throne began, she already hated her family. Her mother had gone wild, constantly hanging out with young courtiers; guards would occasionally emerge from her room, and in the mornings, bruises from kisses would be found on her chest and neck.
The aunt was not much different from her sister - the same dissolute, corrupt intriguer, thinking only about power and money.
The head of the Brogan clan was a smug, self-assured, arrogant man, eyeing Sanda with lustful eyes—if only she weren't supposed to be a virgin... However, it was all still to come; she could sense the far-reaching plans grinding away in his balding head. Who was stopping him from marrying his second cousin when she became queen? And ruling the country in her name... She was a fool, she'd do whatever you told her.
Sanda was taken to a healer who restored her virginity. Painful, disgusting, and stupid—from her point of view. She still couldn't understand how these people planned to erase from people's minds the memory of her past wedding with Ned, of the long time they lived in the same house and slept in the same bed. Okay, so they bought and destroyed the temple's register book. But the "record" remained in people's minds! The whole town knew she was the wife of Sergeant Ned the Black!
Sanda pondered this and came to two disappointing conclusions. First, these creatures were planning to kill Ned. Planning to ensure he never saw his wife again. She gloated—dozens of bandits couldn't stop Ned, the black mage! He'd tear any bastard to pieces!
And the second conclusion—it was even sadder. Why burn the memories of their wedding from people's minds? There are no records of the wedding, she is now Sanda Brogan, not Sanda Nitul. If someone from her past life sees her in the capital and tries to remind her of themselves, they will either be eliminated or convinced they were mistaken, that THIS girl is not THAT girl at all. Now her virginity is in place, so there are no obstacles to ascent. The path to the top is open.