"Did you do everything as I told you?" The man's rustling voice was disembodied, devoid of intonation, as if a cold breeze had blown from the mountains.
"Yes, Great Atrok, that's it. We couldn't." The man with the unremarkable face—the kind you wouldn't remember—bowed his head guiltily, as if offering it to the executioner's blow.
"Then why are you still alive? Your comrades, your subordinates died carrying out my mission, and you're alive? Why?"
"I... I..." the man fell to his knees, turning white as snow. "Forgive me, Great Atroc."
"I do not forgive. I do not pardon. Only our mistress, Death, can do all this. She has received five servants. The Chatrii rejoice, sitting in her chambers, and drink wine from the skulls of the victims they have killed. You will not find yourself in her chambers. Now you will die. And you will die in agony!"
Without rising from his chair, the man hissed an incomprehensible phrase in a forgotten language, and the air suddenly filled with a series of odors—from unpleasant ones, reminiscent of carrion and cesspools, to the aromas of blossoming fruit trees and expensive incense. The air thickened, darkened, and a dark mass hung over the offender, shapeless, like a thundercloud miraculously descended from the heavens. The mass darted downward, sucked into the kneeling shatriya, and he screamed wildly, wracked by terrible, terrifying pain. It felt as if he was being eaten from the inside.
The shatriya's body was still twitching, eaten away by the demon, when the Great Atrok looked around at the Atroks standing before him and said in a colorless voice:
"You're not training your Shatrii well. They've forgotten who they are. Execute this slug's remaining subordinates in front of their comrades. Let them take part in the execution, too. And let those who have done wrong die slowly and horribly. The task has not been completed. And it must be completed. One more failure, and you will be punished. You, not your subordinates. The order is not cancelled."
"We obey, Great Atroc!" The people in the room dropped to one knee and bowed to the dark figure, veiled in a shapeless cloth up to his eyes. Great Atroc touched the wall, and it silently slid open, revealing a passage through which he disappeared. When the Atrocs raised their heads, the room was empty—except for a demon-mutilated corpse, reeking of filth and blood.
* * *
– Gentlemen! We have gathered here to…
The door opened slightly, and a woman of about thirty floated into the library. She was quite beautiful, with a full bust that clung to her tight, low-cut dress. She glanced around at those present, at her husband standing in front of the table, and asked coquettishly:
"What kind of meeting is this without me? Darling, are you plotting some kind of conspiracy and not letting your wife in on it? Don't you think that's unfair?"
"Anita, get out of the room!" Heverad's face twisted, his eyes flashed, and Zaid, who was sitting closest to him, felt like the general was about to hit his wife.
Colonel Zayd noted: Heverad's wife had become even more beautiful and even more stupid than before. Rumor had it she'd slept with the entire palace guard, but Zayd didn't believe it—surely not several thousand? But several hundred, that's for sure. Her escapades were legendary, and if she weren't from an influential family of hereditary aristocrats, Zayd believed she should have had an accident to avoid disgracing her husband. She was quite a creature... as was Heverad's son—an asexual creature who dedicated his life to exquisite, perverted pleasures with coxcombs just as prissy as himself.
Rumor had it the boy wasn't Heverad's—Anita had courted him before the wedding, marrying Heverad at the behest of her father, who had given her a huge dowry. Heverad immediately became quite wealthy. However, as far as Zaid knew, the general had already regretted his decision many times. It was no accident that he saw his wife once or twice a year, harboring genuine hatred for her, as well as for her father, who had promoted Heverad. It's a funny thing—people who hate each other stick together and are forced to help each other. The gods play even stranger tricks...
"Why should I leave?" the woman asked haughtily, scanning everyone with a sharp, penetrating gaze, as if memorizing for future reference who had been present at the scandal. "This is my house too! Have you forgotten that this house was bought with Papa's money? Who would you be if not for him? A minor, a petty officer in a backwater town! Look at how you look up! My Amunsky family is related to the royal family! And your ancestors are of who knows what lineage! And you..."
The woman didn't have time to finish speaking—the general silently stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and shoved her out of the room, sending her flying like a ball before she could even squeal. Then the general slammed the door and slammed the heavy steel bolt he'd ordered installed. The library immediately became quiet and calm—the heavy oak door shut out the shrieks and curses of his enraged wife.
The general turned to those present, who had modestly turned away and were pretending that nothing special had happened, and said heavily:
"Excuse me, gentlemen. I forgot to lock the door, and so... excuse me. The creature got in the way. So, let's get down to business, for which we've gathered. Make yourself at ease, have some wine, juice, and cookies. This is an important matter, so the discussion may take a while. I don't want you to experience any inconvenience. Who will speak first?"
"I am." Zayd nodded, attempted to rise, and after Kheverad's impatient gesture, remained seated. "Those gathered here are those whose souls ache, who are concerned for the future of the country. It's no secret that Zamar is on the brink of civil war. The king is dying, if not already dead, the leadership of the country is unknown, and when Iunakor's death is officially confirmed, the division of the throne will begin. Who will become king? His son, who has never been seen and may already be lying in the palace tomb? Or a brave man who will fulfill the dream of Zamar's subjects and restore order to the country? Even if it requires harsh methods. Who could it be? Who – other than General Kheverad? So, I propose we seize the moment and elevate General Kheverad to the throne of Zamar. I have said everything. Now let the others speak.
"What's there to say?" boomed the physician Zheresar. "Nulan, you simply must take power into your own hands. But how? Have you thought about it? No, I agree that we have no more worthy contender for the king's throne, but how will you maintain power?"
"What's new about this?" Colonel Evor chuckled. "We have all of Zamara's armed forces at our disposal. We'll crush any resistance!"
"Gentlemen! That's all well and good, of course," Heverad's cousin, Eston Corton, an eighth-class nobleman, joined the conversation, "but Geresar was right. How will you retain power? And on what basis will you attain it?"
"What nonsense?" Zaid asked in surprise. "Let's move our troops and crush the resistance of those who oppose Heverad!"
"You don't doubt my expertise, I hope? I've been the chairman of the capital's city court for five years, and I understand a thing or two about the law, don't you, gentlemen?" Corton asked ingratiatingly. "So, you... we have two options. The first is to drench the capital, the country, in blood, slaughter everyone dissatisfied with our rule, root and branch, and thus establish General Heverad on the throne. Force the priests of the Temple of the Creator to crown the general, threatening their lives. There will be an incredibly bloody and protracted civil war, the outcome of which is unpredictable. We may have to fight on two fronts—Isfir will not hesitate to attack precisely when the country is weakened to the point of utter weakness. The treasury will be empty—taxes are usually not collected during such events. Part of the army will not submit, egged on by your... our enemies. That means we'll only have the Marine Corps and a few loyal units left at our disposal."
The man fell silent, poured himself some wine, and carefully diluted it halfway with water, filling the crystal glass. He took a sip and paused, making a dramatic gesture.
Zayd couldn't stand it:
- Why are you keeping me waiting, Eston? The second way?
"The second option," Corton carefully dabbed his lips with a white napkin, leaving a pink mark on it, as if the judge had just sucked the blood of the unfortunate defendant, "the second option is to find a legitimate pretext for ascending to the throne. Or to place someone who has the right to it on the throne, and then pull the strings, controlling them like a puppet. Then the amount of bloodshed will be significantly reduced, and the likelihood of victory will be higher."
The judge fell silent, and a dead silence reigned in the room, unbroken by anything but the ticking of the expensive mantel clock, the pendulum of which swung slowly and solemnly, its gilding shining in the light of numerous candles.
– Anyone else want to speak? Colonel Brogan? Is there anything else you'd like to say?
"Don't be so formal, Nulan," Brogan grimaced. "You know me; I've never meddled in politics, or my brother's affairs either. I'm a soldier. I hope a good one. As you've seen more than once. And I'm on your side. I believe the country needs soldiers like us—straightforward, tough, honest—not these scumbag politicians like my cousin Issark Brogan. We're related to the royal family, as you know. But we can't lay claim to the throne—our share of royal blood is too small. But I have some very important news for you: I don't know if you know that Issark has a claimant to the throne. Or rather, a pretender. The king's daughter."
"What daughter?!" Evor asked, perplexed. "Iunakor doesn't have a daughter! He has a son, whom no one has seen for a long time!"
"He probably means the king's bastard," the judge explained, clearing his throat. "I heard something like that, there was a rumor about it, it was floating around town. But I don't know anything specific, except... yes, there is such a bastard, and her origins are documented. And she's somehow connected to the Brogans."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Heverad growled angrily. "You couldn't tell me? Eston, are you crazy? All our plans would go to hell!"
"That's why they're not flying," the judge grinned slyly. "What Colonel Brogan told us is very important. Very. And necessary. Colonel, tell us everything you know about her."
"Well, I've pretty much told you everything," Brogan said, spreading his hands guiltily. "I found out by accident, when I visited my brother after arriving in the capital. While I was at his house, I saw a very beautiful woman leaving his office. A soldier's first thought is that she's a concubine," the colonel chuckled. "I pestered my brother about this woman until he called me into his office and said a few words about this beauty. We'd always been on good terms, even though we disagreed on a man's place in this world. I believed that men were originally defenders of the fatherland, soldiers, but he..."
"Colonel, get to the point, please!" the judge interrupted. "Don't forget why we're here."
"Well, yes, yes... so, he explained that this girl is a bastard, the fruit of a love affair between a woman from the Brogans, a distant branch, and Iunacor, our king. And that the fact of her kinship with the king is attested by many witnesses, recorded in the main temple of the Creator, and so on. And that she, this girl, has a real claim to the kingdom's throne. That's all. He didn't tell me more, except that he was looking into the matter.
"Why did you tell us this?" the judge asked suspiciously. "The head of the Brogan clan is your brother. And you're going to go against him?"
"I broke away from the Brogans long ago," the colonel explained peacefully. "My clan is the army. And I respect General Heverad. I believe he can rule the country and bring it prosperity. These civilian asses don't know how to govern. We need a firm military hand, and I won't hide the fact that under the general, I expect to achieve a respectable position. I've had enough of languishing on the outskirts of the kingdom—I deserve better."
"Hmm... I see," the judge nodded. "Everyone has the right to ambition."
"Eston, don't drag it out, I see your ingenious mind has already figured out what to do," Heverad muttered, adding cheerfully, "You see, gentlemen, it wasn't for nothing that I suggested involving Corton in the conspiracy—he's a very clever man! Come on, come on, tell us!"
"So, what we have is this: General Heverad, backed by an army, with powerful military units. They've seen battle and aren't afraid of bloodshed. He has power in the kingdom, which he can seize, given sufficient skill. But to seize this power, he needs a legitimate pretext—General Heverad must be a legitimate claimant to the throne. Somewhere, there's a bastard with a claim to the throne, and this claimant is supported by Brogan, who wants to rule it himself. Brogan has great power, money, and influence. But he's weaker than General Heverad in military might. If the general wishes to prevent Brogan from placing a bastard on the throne, he can do so. But it won't do any good. A dead end, huh?"
"Speak, speak!" Heverad shouted impatiently, his eyes glittering with excitement. "You've thought of it, so tell me!"
"I've got it. We need to join forces. Team up with Brogan," the judge shrugged. "He has the bastard, you have the power. Agree on a division of power and put the girl on the throne. Then we can manipulate her as we please. That's all."
"Nonsense. Brogan won't go along with this," Heverad snapped confidently. "You're making this up nonsense. I take back what I said about your clever head. Colonel, will your brother agree to the agreement?"
"Probably not," Brogan said thoughtfully, "unless you squeeze his throat. And he'll still wriggle out of it and deceive you later. He's cunning, dodgy, and unscrupulous. As befits a citizen of the capital and a courtier. He uses us all: he'll smile in your face, and then the moment you turn away, he'll stab you in the back. Only under threat of death can you do anything about him. By the way, have you considered that the girl might not agree with your plans to manipulate her like a doll? Once she ascends the throne, she might pull a trick that will leave you gasping. Could she?"
"Perhaps, of course. But Brogan probably took some precautions on that score," Heverad shrugged, "and one more thing. Tell me, if this girl marries before ascending the throne, will she be able to take it?"
"Ah! Brother, you're a smart one!" the judge shook his head respectfully. "I never even thought of that. You think Brogan's grooming the girl for himself?"
"Why not? Imagine how wonderful it would be: she, the king's daughter, ascends to the throne, and he's already her husband. According to the laws of Zamara, a wife must consult her husband when making household and financial decisions, and without his permission, she has no right to alienate property, make payments, or anything like that. I know this for a fact—I've had so many fights with my bitch about this! If left unchecked, she'd squander her entire fortune. Just like her son... If it weren't for this clause, she'd even sell the estate. She can't. In this regard, is the law for a queen any different from the law for an ordinary subject of the kingdom?"
"Let's see... There's a code of laws on your shelf. Aha... so... so... you've worn it out, Nulan. You read it often, huh?"
"That's life. You're always at risk of being ruined or robbed by your beloved relatives," Heverad said with a wry smile, "so you have to know the rules."
- Aha, here... I found it.
The judge read for about ten minutes, leafing through the thick yellowish pages of a huge book, while the conspirators drank wine and juice, exchanging short phrases, discussing the events in the city in low voices.
Finally Corton said loudly:
- I'm ready. Attention, gentlemen.
The conversation died down and the judge continued:
"Yes, a bastard can ascend the throne if it's proven that he... if she truly is the king's daughter. She must also be a virgin—unless she's married. If she is, her husband becomes co-regent, without whose permission she can't sign a single document!"
"Oh my!" Zayd breathed. "And here we are, racking our brains over how to seize power! All we have to do is marry a bastard, then drag her onto the throne and... rule. Tell me, what if the bastard dies after being elevated to the throne? Then what?"
"Then they'll crown her husband," the judge snapped. "There have been precedents. Now do you understand what Brogan has planned?"
"Of course it does," Evor drawled sourly. "Where would we find such a bastard and... hmm... Nulan's married. No one will let him get a divorce—the Amunians would eat him alive before he could do anything. Basically, it's a bad thing."
Everyone fell silent, exchanging glances at each other, then Zheresar could not stand it and, sighing loudly, said:
"Am I the only one who thought of THIS? Gentlemen, I'm against it. Nulan, are you really ready to..."
"I've been ready for ten years," the general interrupted furiously. "I dream of squeezing her beautiful neck until it cracks! Vile creature!"
"Well, well…" the doctor muttered in confusion, "It's one thing to swear, and another…"
"But what if the lives of hundreds of thousands of people depend on it?" the judge countered. "What if it prevents civil war? The life of one vile woman, who's making her husband's life miserable, hangs in the balance against the lives of thousands of people who could bring prosperity to the kingdom. What do we choose?"
"Okay, so you've nailed that woman. What next? Where are you going to find another bastard for Nulan to marry? And besides, what made you think Brogan would just give up his place to your bastard and not fight for the throne?" Zheresar persisted. "What nonsense. We're wasting our time, seriously discussing fairy-tale plans. Nulan, where's the bathroom? I've had too much beer today—I'm itching to go outside..."
"Over there, see the door?" the general pointed to the far end of the library. "There. It's very convenient—I often sit in the library all day just to avoid seeing that bitch. I write, I work. I had to make a toilet here. Take a flashlight—it's already dark."
Zheresar nodded and, shaking the floor with his steps, walked through the library and disappeared through the door. The men watched him go, then the judge quietly asked Heverad:
"Why did you bring him here? What kind of demonic conspirator is he? He's a healer! He's just a healer! I don't understand you..."
"He's an old friend of mine," the general replied listlessly. "He won't betray me. He's a nobleman too, never mind that he's a physician. Okay, maybe only fourth-class—so what? He wants the kingdom's best. And if he's convinced that drastic steps need to be taken, he'll support it and do what's necessary. He's respected in the Corps; many know him, and they know he won't support a dishonest cause. So..."
"It was a mistake, it was a mistake..." the judge shook his head again, and the others nodded in agreement. Heverad didn't protest; he himself was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of his decision. But what to do now? What's done is done.
Zheresar returned, and everyone fell silent, looking away with aloofness. The physician sat down on a chair that creaked pitifully beneath him. Zheresar was tall and powerful, like a bull. A fat bull. However, the extra weight and round belly didn't hinder his movements quickly and precisely. If he wanted, he could have thrown each of the conspirators out the window and not even lost his breath. But he was also a good-natured, albeit hot-blooded man, capable of using strong language so harshly that even seasoned sergeants' ears would curl at his virtuoso turns of phrase.
"If there's no other way, then it has to be done," Zheresar said with a heavy sigh. "She really is a nasty woman. I would have killed her myself long ago."
"What do you care..." Heverad drawled enviously, "your Elsa is pure gold! You bastard, Kosta, you stole her from me... such a woman, such a woman..."
"We've already discussed this," the doctor chuckled contentedly. "She chose it herself! Let's get down to business. My wife has nothing to do with it—she's not a bastard. And glory be to the Creator!"
"That's a shame," Heverad said vaguely, looking at the healer for a long moment and shaking his head, driving away the sinful thoughts. "So, here's the deal: we need a bastard so I can marry her and ascend to the throne. Where can we get one? From Brogan, of course. But how do we get him to give her up? By the way, who is she anyway? Do you know where she came from?"
"Somewhere on the coast, I think... in the provinces," Colonel Brogan shrugged. "They hid her for a while, and when they needed her, they pulled her out of oblivion. My brother is known for his ability to plan such long-term operations. He's a smart guy. It's hard to outmaneuver him."
"Well, I guess I'll have to," Heverad sighed. "I'll have to replay him, negotiate with him, or... destroy him. There's no other way."
* * *
Great Atroc lay down on a modest, silk-embroidered blanket and closed his eyes. A smile touched his thin lips, and he recalled with pleasure all the bags and sacks of money brought to the community treasury by clients wishing to rid themselves of competitors or annoying, long-lost relatives—anyone who stood in their way and who, in their opinion, deserved death. Fools! Only Great Atroc knew who deserved death and who didn't. And who needed to be killed within 24 hours of the order, and who after six months. Of course, they all had to die eventually—it was not for nothing that the goddess Death had implanted in the clients' heads the idea that it was time for someone to die. But only Great Atroc, Death's servant, decides how long a given subject will live on this earth. Sweet. Very sweet, knowing that at any moment you can snap your fingers, and the thread of life for a man or a woman will be severed. And it's so sweet to look into fading eyes, in which the silent question is frozen: "Why?"
But there's no answer. The gods don't answer people. If the goddess Death decided to take a man's soul for herself, causing him to die, people are not destined to know the reason for this decision. We must take everything calmly and cheerfully—we all die someday. But Great Atroc intended to live longer than his potential victims.
Money? Well, yes, money is needed. Otherwise, how can we support the Shatriya schools, how can we provide the community with equipment? Without money, you can't make money. But money isn't an end in itself. Power—that's the main thing! There's nothing sweeter in the world. And hidden, invisible power is the most pleasant of all.
Here's a boy wandering the world, thinking he's stronger, smarter than everyone else, invincible, the very best... that he's no match for a dozen Shatrii, or even Atrocs. And he doesn't realize he's only alive because they let him live. A sting from a poisoned thorn, a crossbow bolt, a blowpipe shot—and suddenly he's no longer a two-meter-tall beauty, but a shaking, pathetic creature, rotting alive, barely limping on wobbly legs. It was a joy to watch how that boy laid waste to the newly minted Shatrii. He's magnificent!
The great Atroc smiled, remembering the boy—tall, broad-shouldered, handsome—a girl's dream! It would be a shame to destroy such beauty. But the order? What order? Yes, Ned the Black must disappear. Die? And who said he must die? Disappear, it was said. He would have a chance. A chance to join his tribesmen, his community. If he didn't accept this chance, didn't understand it, he would die. But for now… let him live. For now. The day will come, and the question will be asked: Who are you with? And the boy's fate will depend on his answer.