- Sir! Sir, wake up!
Amunsky dreamed that some idiot was shaking him in the middle of the night, tugging at his leg, and suddenly a thought flashed through his sleepy head: "Murderers! Murderers have come! Betrayal!"
Gyrsos screamed, jumped up in bed, thrust his hand under the headboard where his drawn sword lay, ready for battle, and… froze. The bedroom was empty except for the young fourteen-year-old slave girl Gyrsos had "uncorked" that night, and an old servant, bowing low in fear and watching his master with the dull gaze of his faded eyes. A bright lantern shone through the doorway, and somewhere in the distance, voices hummed, as if discussing something incredibly important.
"What, what happened?!" the owner of the house panicked, frightening the girl who was cowering in a ball, with black stains of virgin blood visible on the sheet beneath her.
Gyrsos realized something incredibly important had happened, otherwise the servant wouldn't have dared disturb his master at such an inopportune hour. The servants in the house were so well trained that they seemed to understand their master's thoughts—to please him as best they could.
– A messenger from the palace! The king is dead, lord!
"How did he die?!" the nobleman asked, stunned, and the servant, taking his question for a desire to know the details and manner of death, explained:
"He died from a dagger. His guard stabbed him. And then he killed himself, apparently out of fear—after all, he'd killed a royal person. They'd flay him alive for that!"
– Clothes for me! Boots! Have the guards line up outside the house! A carriage! Quickly!
"Aren't you going to have breakfast?" the servant asked solicitously and immediately disappeared through the door, spurred on by the master's wild roar:
– I'll kill you! Quickly! Breakfast?! What the hell breakfast?! When everything goes down the drain?!
Twenty minutes later, Amunsky was already sitting on the leather seat of the carriage, pondering what to do next. What a disaster, what a bummer! Such a wonderful, well-thought-out operation—and it all went to hell! And all because of this idiot pretending to be king. Girsos was one hundred percent sure of it. He'd done something wrong again, and this was the result. It seemed like he could just sit there, eat, drink, wait a little while, and then he'd be on the throne, and then all the women would be his, but no! This idiot was disgusted by masturbation; he wanted a woman! And not later, but now, right now, when everything hung by a thread! And so he got a dagger in the heart.
Actually, the story stinks. It's all too obvious. Too timely... for some. Heverad and his new wife—that's the main enemy, that's for sure. Agents reported him rushing off to marry a bastard, and it's only been a short time since Amunsky's daughter died. He should have at least waited, the soldier's bastard! Never mind, you bastard, I raised you, and I'll bring you down too...
Who else? Iunakor's son? That slug Bordonar? Unlikely. Although... someone could be manipulating him, like Heverad with the bastard. There was some beauty from a provincial noble house hanging around the prince... her name was... hmm... I forgot. Something with an "S" in it. Sinal... Sanul... Salana... Ugh! Never mind.
In any case, those behind Iunakor's two heirs are most likely guilty of the murder. It's a good thing the late king wasn't particularly keen on scattering his seed left and right, otherwise there would be a whole regiment of bastards standing in the palace right now, awaiting their ascension to the throne. But who knows? Perhaps another bastard is lurking somewhere, awaiting his triumphant ascent. But he's unlikely to make it in time for the pie-making; everything will be decided any day now. For now, there's anarchy. Or, rather, the power of Amun—the king holds the decree in his hands, and it says it all: during the funeral and until the rightful heir ascends to the throne, all power belongs to Girsos of Amun.
Gyrsos paused for thought. The situation was a dead end. He had no influence over any of the heirs. He couldn't manipulate them. The "King" was dead. So what to do? What if... The thought of the prospects took Gyrsos's breath away, and his face even brightened. What if he could? After all, how beautiful it would be: if none of the heirs ascended the throne, then he, Gyrsos of Amun, would rule in his place! He had the paper! But without force behind him, the paper would only be a slap in the face. And besides, why did he think he could use it indefinitely? Someone would eventually emerge who claimed the throne! And a legitimate claim. Many nobles had royal blood in their veins, even if it was insignificant! Hmm... just like Gyrsos of Amun, in fact.
There are currently two direct heirs—the king's son and the king's daughter. But if there aren't any, then he can declare that, as the mouthpiece of the late king's will, he will choose the heir himself! And that doesn't contradict the decree or the law! What a genius, Gyrsos, what a genius! Gyrsos the First—doesn't that ring true? Whatever one may say, if there are no direct heirs, Amunsky is highest on the succession ladder; he has at least a quarter of the royal blood. All he has to do is hold out and keep the heirs from the throne. How? It's obvious. Under the cover of all this...
Gyrsos opened the carriage window and shouted loudly into the pre-dawn darkness:
– Zhordara to me! Faster!
Zhordar was Girsos's chief of security, his ears, his invisible hands—scout, advisor, executioner—all rolled into one. One of the most dangerous men in the empire, he officially held the position of advisor to the nobleman Amunsky, without titles or official designation. A short, wiry man, calm and silent as a tombstone, he was quite well off, even rich—Amunsky spared no expense for him, which he earned in full. Noticing Zhordar's cunning and wiles, Girsos was certain he had multiplied his fortune several times over. But Zhordar enjoyed his work; he enjoyed shaping people's lives while remaining in the shadows. He was a shadowy figure, and this unsmiling little man in inconspicuous clothing was behind many of the country's events.
There was a knock at the door, Gyrsos invited him in, and Zhordar leaped into the carriage from the step he'd just stumbled onto. This little man had repeatedly proven to his master that he possessed phenomenal abilities—and not just in planning operations or dispensing sound advice. He was incredibly strong, which was belied by his slight frame, and also ruthless as a snake, and just as agile. He had trained in martial arts, attained mastery, and once, before his master's eyes, killed three men with his bare hands, in less than three seconds, with three blows. He killed on his master's orders—these slaves were of little value, and Gyrsos wanted to witness his assistant's skill. The most interesting thing was that almost no marks were found on the bodies of the dead. Apparently, the injuries that led to their deaths were located somewhere inside, unseen by the observer.
Zhordar didn't answer Amunsky's question about how this result was achieved. He remained silent and merely stared at Girsos with dark eyes, unblinking, like a forest wamba, the most terrifying of all venomous snakes. The nobleman didn't press the issue.
Zhordar had been working for him for many years—at least twenty. But he showed up at Girsos's house strangely—he simply showed up and said he wanted to work for the young nobleman. He didn't explain the reasons, only that if he hired him, he wouldn't make a mistake.
Girsos laughed at the stranger's audacity, having somehow managed to get past the cordon of gatekeepers and guards, and ordered him thrown out into the street—without a beating, since the man had amused him, and that was worth thanking him for. Five minutes later, Girsos was already puzzled and delighted—the five burly men who had come to expel the adversary were lying unconscious on the floor, and Zhordar was still standing there with his usual slightly thoughtful and dull expression.
Zhordar seemed to be in his early forties at the time, but he had changed little over the years of service. Only a little gray had appeared at his temples, and his clothes, while still unremarkable, were now made from much more expensive and high-quality fabrics.
Zhordar didn't reveal anything about himself. Who he was, where he came from, where he acquired his abilities, why he served Amunsky—all remained a mystery. But Amunsky didn't demand a story. The main thing was that the advisor was as effective as the finest blade ever crafted from the master's forge.
"Yes, sir…" Zhordar's eyes fixed on Amunsky, and for a moment the mask of boredom was replaced by a mask of interest – this was how he showed that the master's challenge was very pleasant, interesting and important.
"I'm listening to you," Gyrsos responded, slightly irritated. "You already know everything. What do you say about the king's death? Who is he?"
"We've been exposed," Zhordar nodded curtly. "It wasn't the guards who killed this man, that's clear. They staged it to look like a madman's murder, but it wasn't the soldiers. They were the victims themselves. Professionals were at work. They infiltrated the palace and staged everything just as we know. It seems that information about the terminally ill king's bedtime pleasures reached someone's ears."
"We should have killed that bitch!" Gyrsos couldn't resist. "Why the hell did you let her live?"
"What's the point? A waste of time and effort. A good dozen guards were present when the 'king' captured the girl, and then the news spread throughout the palace and out into the open. Should we just slaughter half the city?"
"Okay. Forgotten," Amunsky suggested peacefully. "So what do we do now?"
"To organize a massacre, of course," Zhordar perked up slightly. "You're the most promising of the potential successors, if we forget about the direct heirs. You have a charter from the king and full powers. Rule in his name for a period, and then... welcome to the throne, Your Majesty." Zhordar bowed ceremoniously, expressing his respect, but Amunsky could have sworn he was laughing, his head bowed to the floor.
* * *
- Killed?
- No, it stunned me.
– You should have killed him! Why didn't you kill him?
- I protected your honor.
- What?! What honor? Ugh! What do you mean, how did you protect my honor?
- Well... then you wouldn't have saved him from death, as you promised. That means you would have lost face. Honor.
"Today is a bad day. Are you crazy? When did I say I had to save him from death?"
"They did. You said it verbatim: 'I will spare your life.' No time limit on the 'agreement,' no specifics. So, in effect, you promised to protect him from any death. You were even obligated to fight me if I tried to kill him."
"Oh, come on," Imar snorted and laughed, shaking his head. "Now that's what you caught, that's what you said. Okay, I caught the old man. I'll be more precise with my statements. Yeah, you reminded me: you have to watch your words, sometimes they can lead to unexpected results. So, big mouth, we need to get out of here, and if you don't want to saw his head off, you should take the puppy with you. I still can't get over how cleverly he fooled us. And if he hadn't gotten so caught up in capturing us, we'd be deep in... Well, we would have failed the operation, that's for sure. But the situation isn't great right now. The guards on duty are about to start banging on the door, or someone else, morning is coming. We need to think of something fast. Any ideas?"
"Yes," Ned said and went to where the guardsmen, killed by the demonic spell, lay.
Half an hour later, all three stood at the door. Imar was dressed in armor, with Ned and the prince standing next to him.
The key turned softly in the lock, the door opened, and the trio found themselves in a corridor filled with bustling servants. Those around them could see only one guard, striding steadily toward the kitchen, not avoiding the servants who brushed against him. In fact, he seemed to be trying to broaden his stance, spreading his elbows and moving like a cart.
Ned trailed behind, hoisting the prince onto his shoulders, puffing and cursing under his breath—the youth was quite heavy, despite his small size. His hands had to be tied—heaven forbid he should wake up, grab him from behind, and try to strangle him. They had to move quickly: no one could see Ned and Bordonar up close—Imar had charged the amulets in the guardhouse—but there were some straight sections where an outside observer would notice strange figures from afar.
The journey to the kitchen took ten minutes—a quick walk, almost a run. Ned was sweating from the exertion—not so much physical, but mental. He expected a shout from behind at any moment: "Hey, who are you?! Stop!"—but everything was alright. This time the gods took pity on the scouts and allowed them to return safely.
The kitchen door opened easily, no need for a spell; it closed. The hatch was unlatched from below, so a few minutes later they were… no, not walking—sitting. Ned pushed the prince to the floor, leaned against the tunnel wall, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the pitch-black darkness that reigned in the dungeon.
Imar took pleasure in stripping off the guard's armor and tossing it to the floor, then sat down next to Ned, feeling his pockets for the phosphorescent wand. He, too, needed to get used to the darkness. Without it, further movement, especially with a load, was impossible.
- Here, take it! Pour it into his mouth.
"What is this?" Ned asked suspiciously. "Are you going to poison me?"
"Now? When we finally got out, against all odds? Honestly, I had my doubts about that. And you're a risky guy. And a lucky one. It's sissna. It'll knock him out for a day, then we'll give him the antidote when we get home. If he starts screaming in the tunnels, Shirduan's fighters will slice us into thin slices. Those are their tunnels, after all. Even just walking there, there's a chance we'll run into their scouts, and then it's fight. It's us or them. I don't want to take any chances. You'll have to work hard with the kid. Well, what can I say," the old man chuckled, "you wanted it yourself! You should have chopped off his head... No man, no problem. An old saying!"
"You have some stinking truth," Ned muttered. "Well, shall we go?"
"Let's go. Let me help you carry it. As usual, we'll keep quiet, we won't say anything. The sounds and voices carry far here, so... Let's go!"
On their way, Ned had to rest twice, dumping Bordonar on the rocks. "Honestly, carrying the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders isn't such a pleasant task," the sergeant thought.
When the scouts reached the exit from the dungeons, the morning was already shining with light and joy, celebrating the victory over the darkness of the night.
Before emerging from the sewer manhole, Imar and Ned cleaned up, wiping away streaks of blood, dried splashes, and dirt. Now they looked like hard-drinking drunks returning from a bar crawl, overcome by their drinking buddies and alcohol. One of them was still groggy from the night's drinking and was riding on his friend's back.
And so they reached the doctor's house. Incidentally, this didn't arouse any suspicions either. Where else would beaten drinking buddies go if not to a doctor?
Amela opened the door in response to a knock, glanced around furtively, a second or two – and the trio disappeared behind the sturdy door of the doctor's house.
Ned carefully laid Bordonar on the floor and collapsed onto the sofa, leaning back and letting his tired arms fall to his sides. No matter how strong his health, carrying such a weight for hours, especially with it constantly slipping off his back, wasn't even an adventure; it was a mockery.
Imar was disgustingly cheerful and fresh, his whole appearance expressing contentment with life, and Ned closed his eyes to avoid seeing his handsome, gray-haired face, completely at odds with the inner nature of the old demonologist-killer. Today he had killed nearly a hundred people and seemed to have no regrets, unlike Ned, who was haunted by those hundred senselessly stolen lives.
"So what? Those people were in our way! We should thank the old man – if it weren't for him…"
- Weren't you the one calling him a donkey? And now what?
"He was an ass back then. But then he made the right decision. He's a powerful mage, by the way. He works with pinpoint precision. He chose a spell of just the right power to avoid hitting the prince in the other room while destroying his opponents. Well done. Learn how to work properly!"
- You are inconsistent.
- And you?
"What kind of trash did you drag here?" Amela asked disapprovingly. "Who is this idiot?"
"This is Prince Zamara, the future king of Zamara—Bordonar of Iunacor. And if we don't give him the antidote, we risk losing him. Friend Cenerad, the antidote for the sissna!"
"Were you afraid he'd start flailing?" the doctor grinned. "Here, just be careful with the portion. If you overdo it, he'll get some terrible diarrhea! He'll clog up the whole toilet... with royal shit."
"I sense you have no respect for royalty," Imar smirked, pouring a glug of medicine into the unconscious boy's mouth. "Didn't that face awaken any patriotism and love for the royal house within you?"
"Why should I suddenly fall in love?" Senerad retorted grumpily. "We're just unlucky with kings. Every king is a fool! The last one declared me wanted as a state criminal! Why should I love him?"
"Zamar no longer has a king," Imar explained dryly, looking at himself in the mirror and smoothing his lush white mustache, "the king died during the night."
"How did he die?" Senerad gasped. "You killed..."
"No, not us. The Brotherhood. And we only pulled the prince out. We barely got away. If you heat us some water so we can wash off the dirt, sweat, and blood, then I'll tell you about last night's events. But first, we need to find a place for the boy. Find a place where no one sees him and he can't escape. There's going to be such a mess now... there are no heirs to the throne! Besides him and Sanda..."
- To the basement. Harald, help! Isa!
The boys dragged the prince down the steps of the stone staircase, while Ned, Imar and Cenerad remained at the top.
Cenerad began busily lighting the fire with a cauldron full of water built into it. Amela helped him, while Ned and Imar sat silently, enjoying the peace. In times of danger, you especially appreciate the comforts of home…
"How do you plan to contact Great Atrok? Your daughter, that is?" Ned broke the silence.
"Yes, there are ways," the old man explained. "You in the North also had ways of contacting the Great One. There are special points, hiding places, letters from which they immediately fall into her hands. There are some like that here, too. But what are we going to offer her? Give her Sanda, they say? But why would she give Sanda up? And one more thing – the prince has disappeared. But his body has not been found. What does that mean? It's almost a hundred percent certain that he is in our hands. Of course, we can lie that this is not so, but… lies are useless. My daughter has always been famous for her ability to distinguish lies from truth. She senses it somehow, on a magical level. So she will play it straight. And tough. You must not show weakness in a conversation with this woman. And also – you, and only you, must be in charge of this conversation. You are the future head of the Northern Ispas. You must not be at my beck and call. Do you understand? So, we have the prince, the king is gone – what will you do?" What shall we tell the Great Atrok?
"That we want to meet with her. And that we don't intend to fight; our goal is to negotiate with her. The meeting place is Heverad's house. Today, at noon. I won't demand Sanda for now—in a letter. I'll mention her in conversation. However, it's all clear—why I want to see the Great Atrok. Do you think your daughter might wage war against us? Fill Heverad's house with shatriyas and try to take us alive to rescue the prince?"
"It's a possibility," Imar admitted reluctantly, "but we'll all go there, the whole crowd. She's hardly planning to kill her children; she's a mother, after all, although that term hardly applies to THIS woman. Besides, she understands that we won't be taken so easily. We'll surround ourselves with amulets, cast protective spells, and our preparation is such that most Shatriyas couldn't even dream of it. In the end, they might overwhelm us with sheer numbers, but victory will cost them so dearly that it will be tantamount to defeat. And where's the guarantee that they'll take us alive? And then their plans with the prince would be ruined. But then they were ruined anyway. Listen, Ned, you need to decide what you want." If you free Sanda and go with her to the ends of the earth, hoping they won't catch you, hiding your whole life and treating every passerby as a shatriya—then you'll have to negotiate for them to release Sanda and give them a prince in exchange. You'll lose Heverad, money, power, and a future career in Zamara. If you leave Sanda on the throne, elevate her to it, then you'll gain money, a career, and the friendship of a powerful patron—a king, practically. But in that case, you'll have to think carefully: what to offer the Great Atrok.
"Legalization?" Amela suggested timidly. "Status, nobility? Permitting the Death Cult?"
"Yes, you're right, girl," Imar nodded, "exactly. Heverad must promise all this. And fulfill it. Otherwise..."
"But that's not enough," Ned added, frowning. "We need something else. Like tax breaks and all that. Something attractive. Something like... hmm... the status of the king's advisor? Eleventh-rank nobility? Can the king grant nobility?"
"He can," Senerad interjected, "he can do almost anything. Almost. But he can definitely grant nobility and distribute estates."
"There's just one more question," Amela chuckled and winked at Ned. "Will Sanda want to leave Heverad? Did anyone ask her? And Heverad—will he agree to his marriage to Sanda being a sham? He probably wants to get into bed with his young wife!"
"Crude, but true," Imar nodded slowly. "We need to figure this out before we meet with Great Atrok, before we negotiate. I'll write a message for the Great One now, Isa will take it and put it where I tell her. We'll wash, have breakfast, and then we'll all go to Heverad. Until then, Ned, think about everything you say. How's the water going? Is it warm enough?"
"Not so fast," the healer said, spreading his hands. "It's warm, but... not very warm. You can warm it up with magic, of course, but if you make a mistake, the whole room will be steaming, and you'd be lucky if it didn't scald you. And such cases have happened. It's better to use a good old fire to heat the water."