"Come into the hall, they're waiting for you," the duty mage prudently opened the door for Ned, and he stepped through the threshold, right into the light of hundreds of magical fireflies, flooding the entire space of the huge, elongated hall with sunlight.
There were several hundred mages—all those present in the capital. These included army mages, mages from the local Main Agara, and those who had come to the capital on business of their own.
Ned had never seen such a vast hall. Yuragor had. And now, Yuragor's memory reigned supreme within Ned, powerfully pushing the simple shepherd and the ordinary sergeant to the back of his mind. Here, at this moment, a tough, even cruel, ruler was needed, a master of intrigue, one who would shun no means to achieve his goals. Or was it his own? The state's goals. Ned's goals were entirely different. Or were they different?
Confused by his fleeting thoughts, Ned grinned and stepped forward into the empty space in front of the high podium where another speaker was now delivering his speech.
He said something about the important role of magicians in the world balance, about how secular authorities cannot be allowed to rock the boat in any direction, because this will cause chaos, the destruction of the entire world order, that magicians are the keepers of knowledge, and not some kind of servants of the king and therefore should not follow his lead.
Ned listened to this nonsense for about five minutes, until the mages, sitting in their chairs and chatting among themselves, noticed him. The noise in the hall died down, and a deathly silence fell. The speaker didn't understand at first; his words, falling on the audience, became loud and piercing. He apparently decided that his speech had moved those present so deeply, and he reveled in the effect it had produced. Only by chance did he turn toward the door at the side of the podium did he notice the newcomer and immediately falter, halting his speech and turning red as a boiled lobster.
Having run down from the podium, he sat down in an empty seat and froze, catching his breath.
The hall was silent, looking at Ned. He smiled faintly, just with his lips, and, approaching the stairs leading to the podium, began to climb the steps, covered with a thick carpet, slightly worn by hundreds of feet.
For some reason, he noticed that the carpet was pressed to the floor by rods that looked as if they were made of gold.
"Gold-plated!" he thought, and immediately doubted it. Every practicing mage contributed five percent of their income to the agar, in addition to the standard taxes imposed on mages by the kingdom. Considering the number of mages and the amount of income they received from magical activity… it came to a tidy sum. And considering the accumulation of thousands of years… why shouldn't the rods be gold? Vanity… Mages have that too.
Ned ascended the podium and leaned against a dais of dark wood inlaid with bone and gold. There was a place for papers, a crystal pitcher, and a mug—magicians were accustomed to comfort.
Seeing the jug, Ned suddenly felt a tickle in his throat and a thirst. He poured the clear liquid and tasted it—what if it was something nasty? Wizards wouldn't drink anything nasty! No, it was ordinary wine diluted with cold well water, one part to four, for acidity and flavor. It was impossible to get drunk with it.
The sound of pouring water floated over the shifting rows of seats, and Ned realized the podium was rigged, amplifying the sound and sending it to the back rows. Well, great. Let them. They'll hear it better.
"Greetings, gentlemen mages," he began in a low voice, pleased to hear his voice grow louder and carry across the hall. "I am an advisor to King Heverad, a representative of the war council of the kingdom of Zamar. I have come to you for assistance."
"We didn't invite you," someone from the audience shouted, "you damned demonologist! We haven't burned you enough, you monsters!"
The hall erupted in noise, shouts and curses flew, a fight even broke out in one corner, and Ned looked on in amazement at this outrage – these people consider themselves the cream of the crop? Its finest representatives? Well, so much the better, we'll speak to you as you deserve.
"Silence!" he barked, adding with disgust, "Aren't you ashamed? I thought these were learned people, the best of the best, and you... you're bandits! Street bandits, living by your own rules, your own criminal laws!"
"You're too young to accuse!" the gray-haired old man shouted. "Say what you want, and get out of here... before you end up in jail!"
"And why am I in prison?" Ned asked ingratiatingly. "For carrying out the king's will? For caring for the state, doing everything I can to ensure its survival? So that there won't be a civil war, so that people won't die—of hunger or in wars? Why am I in prison?"
"Get to work!" the old man shouted triumphantly. "All demonologists are evil and worthy of the stake!"
"The demonologists are fighting for the lives of the king and queen, doing everything they can to prevent the country from descending into the chaos of civil war. You, however, are doing everything you can to ensure the bloody sword of civil strife rages across the country—so who is evil? You or the demonologists?"
"Those are just words," the old man waved his hand dismissively. "Say what the war council wanted and leave. Head of the Agar, why are you silent? Isn't it time to put in your weighty word? Or have you lost your tongue?"
"Well… you somehow manage without me, Nevandor," chuckled the tall, gray-haired man in the front row, looking at Ned with curiosity, "you always know what to say, you just don't know when and where to do it…"
The old man cursed, and laughter erupted in the hall. Apparently, this Nevandor wasn't exactly a figure of authority here.
The head of the agara became serious, and his gaze became piercing, angry and like a sword blade:
"So, young man, really, tell us the purpose of your visit and leave the agara. This is no place for demonologists. We held a meeting, and by a majority vote, we have decided—no demonologists among our ranks. No contact with the demonic rulers. We also reaffirm our refusal to participate in political conspiracies, including those who have somehow seized power in recent days. Is that clear? If so, you may continue speaking. And refrain from your military manners—otherwise, you will simply be escorted out and thrown out the door like a mischievous cat."
"This is your enemy. That's what he is—arrogant, full of self-confidence. But not very smart. He's testing you. This was a provocation, to make you lose face. You must neutralize him, you must sow discord in their ranks. Not everyone thinks like him. A majority of votes means nothing. A quarter is enough for us. And then... then things will be bad for them. And we have the power to arrange that."
"Have you said everything? Can I get to the request?" Ned smiled, showing his impeccable white teeth. His face became open and boyish, and several of the mages felt uncomfortable—why were they attacking the boy? He's so sweet!
"Let him speak!" a familiar voice shouted. "You keep shutting him up! This is unacceptable! Let him deliver the council's message!"
The head of the agara glanced at Gerlat with displeasure, grimaced, but said nothing, gesturing for Ned to continue.
"Thank you for the opportunity to finally convey the war council's request," Ned smiled again. "So, the war council asks the Agar to participate in the military action and raze the palace to the ground, along with the demonologist Zhordar and the state criminal Gyrsos Amunsky. This will benefit the state and prevent civil war."
"That's impossible!" the head of the agara declared loudly, looking triumphantly around at the hushed hall. "I knew you'd demand that! First of all, it hasn't been proven that Zhordar is a demonologist. It's all your inventions—you even attributed corpse-eating to him!" The hall laughed, and the man continued: "As for Gyrsos of Amun—it's not so clear-cut, and we're not sure that Queen Sanda occupies the throne according to the law. Nor does her husband, General Heverad. Therefore, there will be no interference. And also—don't you feel sorry for the palace? It's several thousand years old, it houses the largest library, second only to the library of the Main Agara—don't you feel sorry for it? You are savages, gentlemen, true savages! How can we help savages who are destroying what was created by people far smarter than you? In my opinion, you don't deserve power. I've said it all!" Do you have anything else to say?
"Yes," Ned frowned. "We are very, very sorry about the library. We would be ready to give all the gold in the treasury, if only it were intact. But human lives are more valuable. Our government, our queen, our king think of people first and foremost, and only then of the papers written by the greatest men of the world. I am sure you have copies of these books and scrolls, and we can restore what was lost. But human life… tell me, are you ready to give your life for a scroll? For a book? No? So why do you demand this of others? Or do you think your life is worth more? That others are insignificant, their lives are worth nothing compared to yours? That is your problem, gentlemen magicians. You have gone too far. You have put yourselves above the state! You have put yourselves above people! That is why they dislike you, even hate you! Perhaps it is time to change this situation? To go to the people? To share knowledge, not to separate yourself from the people?"
"Words, just words," the chief mage chuckled. "We'll live the way we've lived! And no one can force us to live differently!"
"Are you sure?" Ned said sadly. "You see, you live in a state. The state of Zamar. You enjoy its benefits. You have your own business, your own job, your own practice here. Now imagine that the state banned you from pursuing your activities. Moreover, anyone who helps you, who uses your services, becomes a state criminal and is subject to execution, and their property becomes the property of the kingdom. You will be forbidden to own real estate, to carry more than one gold coin, to own horses, carriages, anything worth more than one gold coin. Your deposits in the imperial bank will become the property of the state. Yes, you are powerful mages, but against the state, you are dust, dust underfoot. Those who agree to the agreement will live and work, and what's more, they will receive interest on the value of the property of those who have been deprived of it. And also—for example, if you decide to leave the country, by any means, and you are caught—you will be killed right at the border. Such an order will be given, rest assured." So, your consent—and you live and work. Your refusal—and you become vagabonds, beggars, despised, wretched. Frankly, I don't understand the reason for your arrogant insolence! Only an idiot with no understanding of politics could act the way you do! I'll tell you right away—if there's an attempt to go and destroy the House of Heverad, to help Amunsky, you will simply be destroyed. Your agara is surrounded by troops. Archers, crossbowmen. Anyone who leaves here without my permission will be destroyed on the spot. Whoever they are.
A deathly silence fell over the hall. The head of the agara struggled to speak; he was red and sweaty, his eyes nearly bulging. Finally, he burst into a shout:
– Out! Out of here! Security, take him out! And give him a good beating! Make him forget how to be rude to respectable people!
Four burly men in mage uniforms approached Ned. The sergeant asked:
- Guys, don't. Don't listen to him. I don't want to hurt you!
"Get him! Get him, you idiots!" the leader roared, and the boys hesitated, then stepped toward Ned.
The Right and Left flew out instantly and instantly tore two heads off their shoulders.
The other guards tried to draw their pitiful swords from their belts, but immediately fell, cut almost in half.
Ned runs down the stairs, fireballs flying at him, hitting the protective sphere. Imar cast his spells as best he could, so the sergeant is guaranteed safety for a while.
The head of the agara screams and steps back – his head flies off his shoulders and rolls across the floor, and his body throws out a fountain of blood from his severed neck.
Ned plunges his swords into the floor, grabs a heavy chair and throws it with all his might at the precious mosaic window made by the hand of the great master Isunas!
There's a ringing sound, shards fly, and immediately the remaining windows shatter into glass splashes, and the Corps' crossbows appear in the window openings.
"Shoot those who are casting spells now! Don't spare the bolts!" Ned shouts.
But there was no one to shoot at – the stunned magicians stood frozen in shock, looking at the decapitated body of their leader.
Ned yanks the swords from the floor and, unaware of his actions, casually wipes the bloody blades on the chief mage's robes. For some reason, this shocks the mages so much that several faint, with a thud like tree trunks.
Ned stepped back onto the podium, his gaze fixed on the audience:
"By the gods, I didn't mean to. I promise it won't happen again—if you behave properly. We will develop rules of conduct for mages in the state of Zamar together with your representatives. You must elect a new head of the agara—an intelligent, far-sighted man. I'll be back in an hour, and your representatives with the new head of the agara should already be at the town hall to meet with the members of the war council and discuss the battle plan. Thank you for your attention, gentlemen. Any questions? No? If you don't make a decision in an hour, I'll choose whoever I want as head of the agara. The first person I come across. Even the gatekeeper."
Ned easily jumped down from the stands and headed for the exit, not glancing back at the corpses. He had to step over bloodstains on the thick, expensive carpet. The guys were big—a lot of blood had flowed out of them.
A horse was brought to him outside, he leaped into the saddle, and at the head of a detachment of thirty men-at-arms, he raced to the Tower of Law, where the city guards' headquarters were located. He needed to learn the progress of the detectives interrogating the kitchen staff within the hour. The culprit who had slipped the poison was still at large...
* * *
"Is he alive?" Ned looked with disgusted pity at one of the cooks lying on the floor in a pool of bloody water. Two dark cherry-red streams flowed from the man's nose, spreading across the wet floor like two rivers flowing into the sea.
"Alive. Don't we understand?" Bowing respectfully, the leather-aproned interrogator wiped his hairy, red-spattered hands. "Just a little caress. So he knows where he's ended up. They were all bragging at first, shouting, demanding something!"
"What did they demand?" Ned asked sullenly, looking around and examining the instruments of torture laid out and hung on the walls and tables of the room.
- Well... they promised to complain to the king. They demanded a judge. They threatened me – like, when they get out... But it's not interesting... it's the same thing every time.
– And what did they find out? What did they tell you? Did anyone confess to the crime?
"And how will they confess? You didn't allow any more serious work. No pliers, no breaking a finger, no proper cauterization. So, they interrogated them briefly... and, of course, nothing. So don't be mad at us—we couldn't do it."
- Was Mr. Imar there?
"He was. He gave them some kind of potion, muttered something. His potion was only enough for three. They were released. And the rest are as they are—silent, knowing nothing."
"Get him up and get him back in order. Don't hit him! I'll be right there so he's conscious, able to answer, and... well, I'll skin him alive!"
"There! It's our fault again! Investigators are always to blame!" the big man wailed, his thin voice so out of place with his large, sloping-shouldered frame that Ned almost burst out laughing. But as soon as he glanced at the unconscious man, the laughter died in his throat.
- Where is Imar? Where did he go?
– He's drinking tea in the next room. Waiting for you. Should I see you out?
- No need. Tell me where the room is.
– The third one on the right, painted green. We usually relax there.
Ned nodded and walked out of the fetid interrogation room, greedily gulping in the fresh air of the corridor. The smell of the sea drifted through the open window, washing away the disgusting atmosphere of the torture chamber.
Ned shook his head and decided that this interrogation method was complete crap. Under torture, a man would confess everything he hadn't done, just to avoid being tortured. He'd have to advise Heverad to come up with something else for the interrogation.
And then he grinned—look how he'd gotten into the role of the king's advisor! Just think! He had no idea that Heverad might simply send him packing. Well, that was unlikely. He'd be afraid. At least for now. But then...
Ned had no illusions about the king... or about people, for that matter. Ned-Yuragor knew how fleeting and fleeting human gratitude could be, and how quickly friends could turn to enemies. Especially when one of those friends feared the other. And Heverad certainly feared Ned.
There were two possible outcomes: either he would elevate Ned, shower him with favors so he wouldn't even look at the throne warmed by Heverad's arse, or... he would decide Ned had lived too long. And then he would have to make sure the king never even thought he could kill Ned with impunity. And only a reborn Northern Ispas could help with that. If Heverad knew that Ned's death would be followed by inevitable and brutal retribution, he was unlikely to eliminate his "adviser." Heverad was never a fool and was an excellent judge of business. If a deal only brings losses, why make it?
"Hello. Tell me, how did you put that gang together?" Imar jumped up quickly, pulled out a clay mug, and poured some herbal infusion into it. "Here, drink up. Here's some honey, some pies... No, no—not those! I bought them on the street, from a peddler. I tried them—they didn't seem rotten. Eat them. And tell me about them."
Ned sat down on a long bench, polished by the backsides of several generations of detectives and investigators, took a sip of the brew, which smelled of forest and meadow, with pleasure, and began his story.
He finished in five minutes—there was no time to talk, he only told the main points. Imar stared at Ned for a minute, then exhaled admiringly:
"You're something else! Tell anyone – they won't believe you! You managed to round up that gang of arrogant idiots?! You're a hero! That's truly a feat! And at the cost of only five corpses! It's practically bloodless! It's… it's…"
"Oh, come on," Ned grimaced, "and don't remind me about the corpses. The guards died because of their boss's stupidity. They were doing their duty. I feel sorry for them. Not for him. You can't be that stupid."
"He was never particularly bright. I've known him since childhood. A pompous fool, that's what he is. Forget it. Everything is great. You don't have much time, do you? I report – out of twenty kitchen staff, I only actually tested three. There wasn't enough truth potion. And making it is a hassle, and it takes at least a day – for it to steep and so on. It was ripe, so to speak. We made do with our own means."
"Tortured?" Ned grimaced.
"What else can we do? There's no other way," the old man shrugged, "but no one confessed. Now we'll have to make a tincture. We need to go to Senerad. But only at night. My daughter has definitely assigned spies to watch us. As soon as we show up at Senerad's… well, we need to be more careful."
"Oh gods! When will I get to a place where I no longer have to be careful?! When will there be peace, silence, and nothing but peace?" Ned gritted his teeth, and Imar, with a wry smile, asked:
- Do you mean the grave?