- Where?
"I need to look into the baker's house…" Ned said confusedly, trying to break away from Harald, who had grabbed the boy by the sleeve.
"What are you doing there? Ah! Got it! Looking for a girl?" his friend winked slyly. "Probably fat and pink—a real piglet, huh? You country bumpkins are supposed to love girls like that—something to hold on to. It's us city perverts who look for the refined, the skinny, the feeble. You know a thing or two about women!"
"Pshaw, Hara," Ned laughed, unexpectedly to himself. "Why a piglet? She must be a very pretty girl. I need to talk to her."
"Well, let's go talk!" Harald said cheerfully, chopping the air with his hand. "Maybe I'll get something too… no, don't frown – not from your bakery! I'm not laying claim to the flesh of my friends' girlfriends! I do have honor, oddly enough. Maybe she has a girlfriend, or even two… Have you tried two at once? No? Or three? Neither have I. To be honest, I've never been up to it… training, lessons… no, no – don't get me wrong, I'm not a virgin! Or you'll say – 'some kind of idiot'! I've had girlfriends, yes. But somehow they were always on the run… for money. Zip-zip – done? Get out of here! But something for the soul… no."
"I don't believe it!" Ned's lips curled in confusion. "You're an aristocrat, a tournament winner, and you don't have girls hanging around you? I won't believe it! I, a foundling, an unknown person, what kind of girls do I have? Besides whores… And you? A handsome man, as big as a buffalo, and without a girlfriend? What's wrong with you? Why?"
"I don't know," Harald sighed dejectedly, watching the backsides of two maids running down the street with closed baskets. "They must have gone shopping and were late for dinner." "We don't have many servants, and all the men are my grandfather's former colleagues. There's no time for courtship, and even more so—I'm not very welcome in rich houses. An impoverished family… You know, it feels like poverty is a disease and they're afraid of catching it. Whores? They cost money too. And contagious… diseases… Grandfather will scold and ridicule them later. And then—money will be needed for treatment. Who's left? The peasant women? With black heels and claw-like hands? Or who else?"
"There are plenty of girls on the street – I'd just go and meet one," Ned shrugged, looking around the houses and deciding where to go and where to look for the baker's house.
– Hmm… I don't know how to do that. Walk up to me and say, "Girl! Would you like to go to bed with me?!" That might even get you punched in the face.
"Yeah. But you can get a bed, too!" Ned chuckled, and Harald followed suit, bursting into laughter until tears came to his eyes.
After the day they dueled, Ned and Harald became fast friends. They sat together in class, went to the cafeteria together, and discussed everything. Harald proved to be a good conversationalist, educated and intelligent, with an opinion on every subject. He, like Ned, was something of an outcast at school—a nobleman, but also a pauper, unable to afford a fine horse, expensive clothes, or attending balls with beautiful ladies. Winning the school tournament in his first year meant nothing—he remained, as he had always been, the product of impoverished nobility, practically a commoner.
After the duel, they tried to find out from the headmaster's son who wanted to kill Ned and why, and why they were pitted against each other. But he merely blinked, feigned innocence, and repeated one phrase: "I don't know anything. Leave me alone. If you bother me, I'll tell your father and you'll be expelled."
Ned no longer cared about being expelled. So what if he wasn't cut out to be an officer? He'd finish out his contract and go to Tiraz—he'd teach children at his martial arts school, he and Sanda would have children, and they'd live a proper life. He had a house in the city, some money, a beautiful wife, respect—what more could a man need to live a quiet life? He'd long since lost the feeling that he absolutely had to become an officer—after Yuragor's essence had disintegrated, leaving him alone. Apparently, it was Yuragor who had insisted on a military career after all.
Why? I wanted to get to the top, to take over the kingdom – why else?
Harald asked them to leave the headmaster's son alone: if Ned didn't care about his studies, Harald did. His grandfather had invested everything he had into him, the entire Shorokan family fortune, and Harald didn't want to disappoint him. It was clear Harald loved his grandfather—Ned even envied him, and his heart was pierced more than once by a needle of regret: how he wished he had relatives like Harald's grandfather! To be remembered, cared for, not forgotten... But what isn't there, isn't there. He's alone. Unless you count Sanda...
Oh, Sanda! Ned dreamed of her every night – her smooth, supple body, her velvety eyes, her soft, soulful moans… her trembling, her love-sick spasms, when her nails dug painfully into her husband's back, leaving red marks, the butt of his co-workers' jokes… Ned even became embarrassed to wash in the communal shower – jokes about passionate women and requests to share impressions of the nights he spent with his young wife immediately began. Where is she now, Sanda?
Ned missed her, but... strangely enough, her image, slightly faded by time and the many trials that had befallen the boy, was mixed with the image of the other one, who had almost taken his life.
Completely different girls - one is homely, gentle, like a house cat, the other is cheerful and bustling, like a breeze over a meadow.
And the other one - strong, sharp, hard, like a steel blade, ringing like the metal of a bell - what do they have in common?
There was only one thing: Ned wanted them both. Thought about them. Dreamed about them. Two completely different girls, both so desirable and so unattainable. But why unattainable? He just had to get to Sanda and bring her here. But the second one… the second one was closer.
"Red Street, the baker's house" - it was forever imprinted in my brain.
How stupid, how stupid – to suddenly fall in love with a girl who almost killed him! A murderer, a demonologist mage! What is this?! Is this the goddess of love playing tricks again? Incidentally, Ned hasn't visited the temples of the gods in a while. He might incur their wrath that way…
"What are you thinking about?" Harald interrupted his story. "Did you even hear what I was saying?"
"I heard," Ned smiled, deftly catching a silvery bug in his fist that had been careless enough to come within arm's reach. He put it to his ear and listened with childish delight to its buzzing, trying to escape its dark confinement.
"Like me, it wants to be free!" Ned thought with a slight sadness and, opening his palm, tossed the insect into the air, watching as it flew away, dissolving in the red rays of the sun.
"You're lying," Harald smiled, "what kind of man are you? I've been telling you for half an hour about my affair with the married woman next door, who lusted after my mighty body, and you're just listening to bugs. And what the hell?"
"I did make it up," Ned chuckled, "you didn't have any affair."
"I've come up with something," Harald admitted unexpectedly, winking sadly. "Or maybe it's all still to come? We'll be rich, famous, and have lots of women?"
"I'd like to sort out what I have!" Ned thought, but said out loud:
"Of course. Everything will be alright. The main thing is not to... not to step in shit," he said, looking regretfully at Harald's smart boots, which had lost their shine, and, to his friend's exasperated cries, suggested, "Maybe you could wash them in a puddle? I wouldn't want to scare the ladies off with that look and smell."
"I wish I could kill those carters! Those cleaners! I wish I could kill anyone right now!" Harald said, his voice heavy with anguish. "Why am I always so 'lucky'? Why am I always so unlucky?"
"What's wrong with you?" Ned raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Who says that? You, the tournament winner? How did you even win it? How did you get in there?"
"Like everyone else," the guy shrugged. "You're the one who's late, otherwise you would have definitely won. Every year, when a new class of cadets is recruited, a tournament is announced. Anyone can participate—both cadets and officers who've just received their stripes. I applied, participated... and won. Easy as pie. It's all my grandfather's doing. He prepared it."
- You have a wonderful grandfather. I'd be glad to meet him.
"And he'll be pleased. Grandpa's a fan of martial arts, especially swordplay. Thanks to him, I never had a childhood. Or adolescence. Or girlfriends. I ran, jumped, and swung iron like crazy!" Harald tapped the massive sword hanging from his belt in disgust. "Thanks to Grandpa for my happy life."
"Stop it," Ned scolded him sternly. "I'd give anything to have a grandfather. And for him to drive me. And for him to give me advice, take care of me, wait for me... Be glad he exists."
"And I'm glad," Harald managed a smile. "I really do love him. But... oh well, forget it. Come on, talk to your girlfriend and let's go home—grandpa will be happy."
"By the way, why do you never talk about your mother?" Ned asked cautiously. "Where is your mother? Is she alive?"
"I don't know," Harald shrugged indifferently. "She abandoned us. Ran away when Isa was only a year old. Apparently, she ran off with some nobleman. Grandfather refuses to say where she is or what she's like. He once said that Mother betrayed us and asked me never to speak of her again. And now he just stares and says nothing if I ask about her. And then he drives me three times as hard to make sure I don't ask again. As if it were a punishment. That's how it is. So, are we getting there soon? We've already walked half the city! We should have hired a cab!"
"Got some money? Need help getting it out?" Ned chuckled.
"They just appear on their own, easily and naturally," laughed Harald, "they just appear and bam! Nope."
– Do you really earn extra money by fighting?
"It's shameful, actually," Harald blushed slightly, "and my grandfather wouldn't approve. A hereditary nobleman—and he earns extra money by dueling! Shameful! Which of the neighbors will find out... well, maybe they do," the boy drawled thoughtfully, "maybe my grandfather knows and keeps quiet. He needs the money, after all. And I'm not working as a loader... Yes, my friend, people sometimes come to me when they need a duelist. The orders increased after I won the tournament. Rumors spread. You know the dueling code—it's perfectly normal to nominate someone else in your place. Or you could hire someone and ask them to duel. Well, like in your case..."
"Have you ever killed anyone?" Ned interrupted. "You got a hundred gold pieces, you could have killed me. But do you really think a person's life is worth a hundred gold pieces?"
Harald fell silent, offended, then, when they had walked about a hundred steps, he spoke:
- You made it all seem like I was just a cheap hitman and nothing more.
"Excuse me, but... isn't that so?" Ned asked mercilessly. "They give you a hundred gold pieces, and you go kill a man you've never seen before, who's done nothing to you—what do you call that? No, I understand, everyone has their own way of making money. And I don't even blame you... almost. But let's call a spade a spade—you're a hired killer, within the rules of the dueling code. You use your fighting skills to kill people for money."
"Why are you doing this?" Harald asked coldly. "What's an officer? A soldier? Doesn't he just kill people for money? He'll kill whoever he's ordered to kill. What's that? He's not a hired killer?"
"Hmm... there's something to that," Ned admitted, "it does sound like something. I'm sorry if I offended you. I have a stupid habit of saying what I think out loud, and my thoughts often don't coincide with the thoughts of others... Sorry."
"Yes, I see – they don't match," Harald said distantly, and they walked in silence for about five minutes.
Ned cursed himself for initiating this conversation—why bother poking a dirty finger into the boy's open wounds? He was already embarrassed by his own affairs, Harald's pride was bursting at the seams, and now this new friend was poking around in his soul and picking around like a clumsy surgeon. He could end up without any friends at all... But then, what good is a friend with whom you can't talk frankly? Someone who would take offense at a clumsy remark, someone who prioritized their own ambitions over friendship! Someone with whom you had to choose your words carefully—heaven forbid, he'd be offended! That meant there was no friendship. That meant it was self-deception!
"You're basically right," Harald said unexpectedly. "A soldier following orders is one thing—if he does anything, it's the commander's fault. But I'm a mercenary. But... I don't know how to do anything else. I was trained for exactly this—to kill. So you're wrong to blame me. I feel sick myself. Although I understand you."
"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have pryed into your soul," Ned sniffed guiltily, watching the little dog trot busily about its important dog business. "It's none of my business. And I certainly don't blame you. And who am I? A murderer. A real murderer. You glow before me like a messenger of the gods, and I'm dark as a demon. What right do I have to blame you for anything? Forgive me."
"You're a good guy, Ned," Harald smiled. "It's good to be with you. You seem dark, but in reality, your soul is bright. It's easy to be with you. I know you won't stab me in the back, that you won't betray me..."
"How do you know?" Ned grinned wryly. "Maybe I'm a scoundrel, like few others? Maybe I'll sell you out for a copper? We've only known each other for a short time, and you've already drawn conclusions?"
"I did," Harald nodded. "Enough time has passed to understand. I'm not a fool, though you might think otherwise. Okay, okay, sometimes I do," the boy laughed, and Ned thought about how his friend had left the question "Did he kill?" unanswered. And why ask about something that's not usually talked about? Better to leave it as is...
"Sir, where's the baker's house?" Ned tried to stop a small man running past in a white apron adorned with suspicious red streaks, but he dashed off, ignoring the boys. "Girl, tell me... Ugh! Why are they running away from us like we have the plague?" Ned grew angry. "Do we smell bad? Or have we grown fangs and horns?"
"We're in uniform. They don't like us," Harald explained with a chuckle. "Soldiers and officers haven't been very popular in the capital lately, have you noticed? The corps patrols made quite a racket here last week. They were probably lying, carting away the dead. And you want to be loved and not feared? Something tells me you won't get your fat girl's love again, my friend."
"I really didn't notice," Ned admitted. "I didn't care what anyone thought of me. I just didn't care…"
"That's what I like about you, too," Harald chuckled. "You're so self-absorbed, you don't care about anyone around you. Incidentally, that's a turn-off for many. Not everyone, like me, can see the tender, troubled soul within you. They think you're an arrogant fool who only condescends to talk to his comrades."
"So that's what they think?" Ned was upset. "Oh, my gods! I don't bother anyone, I live my own life, I sit in my hole – what the hell do they all want from me? Why are they picking on me? I don't want anything from them, I demand nothing, except – don't bother me! Don't interfere, don't bother me – why can't they understand that?!"
"They can't help but touch you. My grandfather explained to me that young men are constantly testing each other's mettle, getting into skirmishes, fighting, picking fights—that's how leaders are forged, the ones who will lead the pack on the hunt. You're a potential leader; you exude a sense of power and danger, so they'll always fear you and try to remove you from your position. Incidentally, this kind of rivalry is encouraged by the school's leadership. Have you noticed? Constant competition, constant contests—there's a reason! There must be leaders to whom everyone will gravitate. Incidentally, I noticed you were very lackadaisical in your fencing last lesson, brushing your partner aside like a fly. Everyone saw it and decided you were deliberately showing off how much lower the boy's level is, wanting to flaunt your skill."
"What idiots!" Ned snorted. "I was bored beyond belief, I wanted to sleep! He was so banal, so inept... like a peasant who had never held a sword in his entire life had finally picked one up and was trying to figure out what to do with it! Should I stick it in the manure or slaughter a pig? And what was I supposed to do? Especially since I hadn't fallen asleep until the early hours of the morning—I'd been reading the magic treatises Senerad gave me all night. I was so sleepy, like... like... basically, I was dying, so sleepy."
"Senerad... a funny old man," Harald smiled, "a bit of a jerk, but interesting. He knows a lot, it's interesting to talk to him. Are you getting any success with him? Well, about the treatment."
"I don't know... I've only had one or two classes, that's all. But you know... sometimes I feel like I'm about to grasp something, about to. You know how it is when you've forgotten a word, a name, or a title you've known for years. You try to remember it, it hangs on your tongue, and you painfully try to push it out of your memory. And... zilch! Nothing. Such a feeling of disappointment overcomes you, your mood deteriorates so much that you can barely recover afterwards. That's what our treatment with Senerad is like."
"Don't you feel sick? You felt sick from trying to do magic."
"No, I don't feel sick. Well, sometimes I do, but that's from the nasty stuff the old man feeds me. Ugh! It's disgusting to even think about. I'm afraid to even ask what he puts in it. I've even seen chicken shit on his table! Honestly! Maybe it was an accident, of course, but... I didn't dare ask."
"Heh-heh... really?! Is this really crap?" Harald laughed loudly, and an old woman passing by looked disapprovingly at the young cadet, hissing something like "they've come in droves!" under her breath.
"That's it. I drink this shitty drink all day, and then I try to cast a spell. Cenerad says I need to train my abilities, develop them. That there's a blockage inside me that needs to be loosened. And that it all depends only on me. And you know, I started trying without the stinking drink—I don't vomit anymore, yes. Nausea—that's true. But to vomit like a fountain after an innocent attempt at conjuring a weak flashlight—that's nothing. So much for the village healer, so much for the old man. A real genius, in a word!"
"I envy you," Harald admitted. "I'd love to be a mage. Cast spells, create all sorts of magical things... What good is it if I wave this iron thing around? Anyone can do that. But the powers of a mage are given by the gods to only a few... That's why we don't like mages—out of envy, of course."
"I know," Ned chuckled, "listen, we've been talking too long! Time flies, and we still haven't found that demon baker! What are we going to do?"
"Take a hostage, of course!" Harald laughed. "We capture the prisoner and interrogate him thoroughly."
"Yes, sir, officer! I see an enemy scout on the horizon! I'm locking him!" Ned darted forward and grabbed a boy running past with a tray of greens. The boy began to struggle furiously, showering Ned with choice street language, in which the expressions "soldier's asses" and "donkey-headed beasts" were the most appropriate.
Harald grabbed him by the throat, choked him slightly, so that the boy's eyes bulged out of their sockets, then said in a hissing whisper:
"A few more curses and I'll cut out your filthy tongue! And do you see the black mage's badge on him? See it? Well, he'll curse you, and you'll rot alive until you die in terrible agony, spreading an unbearable stench that will repel even rats!"
The boy turned his eyes to Ned in fear and asked hoarsely, breaking into a squeak:
- What... what do you want from me?! Why are you bothering me?!
"We need you to show us the baker's house," Ned explained patiently. "This is Red Street, right? Where is the baker's house?"
"There it is! The one with the green fence! But no one lives there, in that house. The baker and his girlfriend disappeared somewhere a few weeks ago. I used to buy buns there, but now I have to run to the next street, five blocks away!"
"Is this really the baker's house?" Harald asked menacingly, rolling his deep-set dark eyes. He looked like a dangerous lunatic now, and Ned chuckled—the boy nearly wet himself at the sight of such a monster.
"Exactly, exactly!" the boy began to tremble. "I've lived on this street my whole life, I know everyone here! There's no other baker on Krasnaya!"
"Get out of here, you stink!" Harald contemptuously shoved the boy and kicked him in the rear. He bolted as if a demon were chasing him, ran a hundred paces away, and began shouting curses.
Harald bent down to pick up a stone to throw at the enemy and interrupt the flow of abuse, but he was already rushing on, whooping and whistling contemptuously like a boiling copper kettle.
"See what a beast this is?" Harald said, glaring at Ned, who was choking with laughter. "These people are easier to kill than to break. What are you laughing at? How are you going to find that girl now? Where did they disappear to?"
"I don't know. I think they'll find me themselves," Ned said vaguely and suggested, "Well, shall we go to your grandfather and tap into the source of wisdom?"
"Let's get to it," Harald chuckled, "let's get to it, I hope we don't choke! He's a good old man, but sometimes he can be disgustingly boring. Listen, let's get a cab, shall we? I prefer the physical exertion of training, not strolling through a hostile city. I keep thinking I'm about to get stoned or shot from a rooftop or around a corner. To hell with them, let's get a cab! Don't flaunt your wallet and make such a sad face! I'll pay, I have the money."
Ten minutes later, they were enjoying the ride, sitting on a leather bench in a closed carriage. A well-groomed, well-fed horse trotted merrily along the pavement, the coachman dispersed passersby with a jaunty whistle and a long, three-sided whip, and life didn't seem so bad.
Well, yes, he didn't find those he was looking for. But then, Ned hadn't really expected to find them. After Yuragor destroyed the Chatrii sent to kill Ned, Silena was simply forced to move. What if the Chatrii didn't die immediately and were tortured into revealing information about their leader? So, nothing surprising. But now he needed to catch another Chatrii and torture them for information. And do it quickly, before the sect changed its location again.
* * *
The boy, released by Harald, ran around the corner of the house, and then a transformation occurred—the idiotic smile vanished from his face. He seemed to have suddenly matured, five years older. Approaching an inconspicuous house two blocks from the former bakery, he knocked with a distinctive knock. Then he pulled the door, and it swung silently open. There was no one behind it, only the darkness of a windowless hallway.
The boy slowly and quietly said into the darkness:
"They were interested in the baker's house. They're traveling by cab to the northern part of the city."
"You're free," the voice whispered faintly, and the boy, closing the door, walked down the street toward the port, instantly forgetting what he was doing. The man behind the door chuckled—his decision to change the location of the ispas had been the right one. The boy hadn't disappointed.
Great Atroc considered whether he should have taken it there, on the spot, in the baker's house. But then he dismissed the thought—everything in its time. Things must not be rushed. The fruit must ripen.