No, they didn't leave that night. They spent the night in the camp of Zhostar's army. And it was a strange night. Ned had already become accustomed to the order of the Corps, so the chaos around him didn't just irritate him, it was probably surprising. Everyone was moving, moving, bustling, fires were burning, women were wandering around, offering their services to the soldiers. Justan and Ugras immediately disappeared and reappeared only an hour later, contented and smelling of incense. The other scouts quietly followed them; only Ned, Arnot, and the young guide, who was looking around in amazement, stayed behind. He stared wide-eyed at the painted women and finally asked timidly:
– Are all armies like this? And who are these women?
"Cough, cough," Arnot coughed, then started laughing, then nodded at Ned and said innocently, "Ask the commander. He knows. He'll tell you everything in detail."
"Scoundrel," Ned chuckled, glancing sideways at Arnot. "Arnie, if anyone could have told us about these women, it'd be you! Weren't you and Oydar the one who took us to the healer after visiting such a beauty?"
"With Oydar," Arnot said sadly, looking around and, making sure none of the soldiers were listening, quietly asked, "Ned, what are we going to do with Oyda? Are you even thinking of doing anything with him?"
"What should I do?" Ned's expression darkened. "Kill him? Track him down and force him to hand over the trinkets? What do you propose?"
"Well... I don't know," Arnot said, flustered. "You're smarter than me, so you decide. He basically robbed us. And he also deserted. Besides, he knows your secret..."
"Shut up!" Ned growled, looking at Itrok, who had perked up his ears five paces away by the fire. "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this. We'll meet Oydar someday. And then I'll ask him why he did this to us. It's a small world, we'll definitely meet. I'm not going to tell command. We'll figure it out ourselves. We should have blown his head off, after all… Well, then we wouldn't have found the treasure. It was his idea. And besides, this wouldn't have happened with the city. You could say that's also his doing. It's not that simple… Itrok, stop eavesdropping!" Ned raised his voice. "You wanted to know about the women? Arnot will tell you. He's our expert on fallen women. And I want to sleep. I'm going to the tent…"
Ned ducked into the soldier's tent they had been given for the night, wrapped himself in a rough soldier's blanket that smelled of soap and wool, and closed his eyes, preparing to sleep.
But sleep wouldn't come. Images of days gone by flashed before his eyes: a dead city, galloping horses, painted girls with breasts spilling from their bodices. This image lingered with him, and he suddenly felt a rush of blood... and remembered Sanda, his wife. Or was it his wife? Before gods and men—his wife. And how did he feel about her?
Ned dug into his memory and came to a surprising conclusion: he didn't feel like a married man at all. Not at all! And he perceived Sanda as a girlfriend, nothing more.
But what could he compare it to? If he'd been married before, he could have said, "Yes, I feel like a married man should." But now he was just a guy missing his girlfriend, nothing more.
After all, marriage implies something more than just sexual attraction—for example, the desire to have children, a home, a family. And he certainly didn't have that desire. He couldn't even imagine that a child would be born and call him "Daddy"! And the marriage itself was somehow... strange. It was as if he'd been dragged into the Temple of Celera and married. No—well, he wasn't against it, not at all. And he was head over heels in love with Sanda, but... from here, with the passage of time, from afar, everything looks different somehow. So, was he forced into marriage? And how should he feel about it now?
"I wonder what Sanda's doing now?" he thought, and Ned imagined his wife pining by the window, waiting for her husband fighting somewhere far, far away. It's nice to have someone waiting for you at home, worrying about you, worrying about you...
* * *
"So what? He's not my father, or what?" Sanda looked in shock at her mother, who had sunk into a fancy armchair near the fireplace.
"Hmm... well, no... not the father," Mrs. "Nitul" explained, looking down, not looking at her daughter. "Darling, I have a lot to tell you..."
"Mom, are you crazy! What do you mean – not my father? I'm seventeen years old, and I've been living a lie all this time?! Dad – not my father at all? And I… who am I? Who is my father? I'm going crazy! You… you're driving me crazy!"
"You're a high-born noblewoman, of the eleventh rank," the woman at the window explained sharply, turning to her niece. "You come from the Brogan family. Your mother is a distant relative of Brogan Issarka, one of the heads of the aristocratic houses ruling this country. And your adoptive father is a nobody. A pastry chef. Who has been entrusted with the care of you and your mother all this time. He was well paid for it, by the way."
"Who paid?" Sanda asked sullenly, clutching the lace handkerchief she had just been using to wipe her teary eyes.
"You don't need to know about this yet. Very important people paid. You were removed from the capital, away from prying eyes. Or rather, your mother was removed. And now the time has come to recall you from oblivion."
"Why? Why did you summon me from oblivion?" Sanda asked coldly. "I didn't ask you to do this!"
"In this world, not everything happens as we ask or desire," the woman sighed. "The time has come when you are needed in the capital. Why? You'll find out later. The question is different. Your mother informed me that you are married to a low-born soldier. This ruins our plans. You must break up with him."
"Why should I?" Sanda replied coldly. "Why should I dance to your music? Firstly, he's not a soldier, but a sergeant, an officer, and secondly, I'm not going to divorce him. For one simple reason: I love him. And I'm not going to trade him for anyone else. At least not until I love someone else. Your intrigues, the ones you're plotting behind my back, interest me no more than the water you used to wash the floor. You can't even explain why you need me. Why should I play by your rules? Especially since I don't know them…"
"Fool!" the woman snapped, her thin, beautiful face lighting up with rage. "Provincial fool! You could gain power you never dreamed of! Get any husband you want! Wealth incomparable to what even the richest men have! And all you have to do is give up that lowly boy you only slept with for a month! By the way, your virginity can easily be restored, and no one will ever know you were fucked by a lowly tramp! You didn't get pregnant by him, did you? No? Thank the gods – at least you had the sense to do that! And once you've achieved your rightful position, sleep with whomever you want – even a scumbag – queens are above the rules!"
"Queens?!" Sanda's eyes widened. "You... you... what did you just say?! Queens?!"
"Maybe we shouldn't do this yet, Entana? The girl's already stunned, and we're dumping so much incomprehensible on her right now..."
"Shut up, Helga! There's no point in feeling sorry for her! She's old enough to be responsible for her actions! And from what I can tell, she's quite a quick and cunning girl—look at how she contrived the affair with her soldier husband, fooling him and all of you! She married him, put you in your place, did whatever she wanted. So don't play the innocent, girl! We intend to make you queen! The throne is tottering, the king is crazy and will soon die, his son is a weakling who fears the throne like fire, the queen is a dumb doormat who is used by everyone—she's no obstacle to whoever wants to take the throne. And that will be you. You will take the throne. By law, both men and women can inherit the throne of Zamara. In the history of Zamara, there have been many queens who have ascended to the throne. But for this you need to break up with your current husband.
"I'm listening to you, Lady Entana, and I just can't figure out—are you kidding me?" Sanda shrugged, confused. "Why on earth would I suddenly ascend to the throne?! I'm a girl from a provincial town on the edge of the world! Even if my mother belongs to one of the most powerful families..."
"Silly girl, haven't you figured it out yet? You're the king's daughter! You're a princess, Sanda! You're Iunakor's bastard!"
"Give her a drink, Helga... clear your throat, okay, okay... the last thing I need is for her to die here from such great joy. Yes, you are a princess. Your mother was the king's mistress, and as soon as she became pregnant, she was quickly removed from his presence, with every detail of your birth recorded. Your 'father' was asked, for a tidy sum, to marry your mother and... keep quiet, keep a low profile until the time comes. That time has come. By the way, I hope you understand that everything we've said here is for private ears. If anyone else finds out what we've said here, I wouldn't give a single copper coin for your life! Now do you understand why you should divorce your low-born stallion?"
"What makes you think he's a stallion?" Sanda asked dumbly, unable to come to terms with the stunning news.
"I'm sure. You've got your mother's blood in you—she's a real whore and always preferred dashing officers or even dockworkers as bed partners—as long as he was a real stallion."
"Enta, why?" Sanda's mother winced. "You're depriving the girl of her last illusions..."
"And rightly so. There's no point in looking at the world through rose-colored glasses. Incidentally, I love men myself and see nothing wrong with that. Morals at court are very liberal, so let her learn to live in society, and not by your stale, moldy, provincial rules. You probably miss the high life yourself, the brilliant officers, the glitter of balls and noisy entertainments!"
"I don't know…" Helga shrugged. "At first, I missed all of this… but then I got hooked and it was like I never lived any other life. And Nitul isn't such a jerk. And he's quite good in bed. Well, yes, I had my affairs with him, but… rather modestly. Actually, I always considered marital fidelity a relic of the past. You know how they live at court, it's not for me to tell you, but… there's something charming in small-town prudishness and strict morals. Well, it's not about me. My girl, do you now understand that your… Ned is getting in the way of your brilliant career? That it's time to get rid of this burden? Then you can make him a sentry outside your bedchamber, and let him serve you day and night – no one cares! But you must ascend to the throne an unmarried virgin. That's the law! And what idiot came up with that law – I'd kill him!" What difference does it make whether she's a virgin or not? How does the integrity of a single piece of flesh affect whether a woman can become queen or not? Idiots.
"How will you make sure I'm not listed as a married woman? There are records in the Temple of Celera, and besides, many witnesses witnessed our wedding. What if someone finds out?"
"Nonsense. Temple records are easily copied. Witnesses forget what they saw. Or disappear if they're stupid. Or too greedy. Don't worry about it. The main thing is that you behave correctly. Understand?"
"I understand," Sanda replied slowly, drawing out her words. "Basically, I agree... but... I'm still going to marry Ned. I want him, and only him."
"Agreed," Entana nodded, "then do whatever you want. But until you're crowned queen, you'll obey all our orders. Understood?"
- Understood…
"Now that you understand, go to your room and change. We'll soon go to Lord Brogan Issarc and present you as a contender for the throne. He's already been informed of your arrival. He's the one who summoned you here. He's the one who's been paying for your upkeep all these years."
Sanda rose from her chair and obediently wandered across the vast room, decorated with gilded bas-reliefs. Just as she was about to exit, she suddenly turned around and quietly asked:
– Tell me... will I ever see dad... Mr. Nitul? What will happen to him?
The women looked at her silently with empty eyes, then Entana answered coldly:
"What difference does it make to you what happens to him? He's a stranger to you, forget about him. He got his money, did what he was told, and will be rewarded accordingly. You won't see him again. Go and prepare to meet the nobleman. Enough with these stupid questions."
Sanda stepped out into the hallway, her heels clicking on the waxed parquet floor, and soon the echo of her footsteps faded, lost in the enfilade of rooms. The women sat in silence for a moment, then Helga asked briefly:
- How are you going to do this? Poison?
"Why? He's at war, and wars are not without their dangers," Entana smirked. "What a fool—she'll marry him later! What the hell do we need her for if she can marry whoever she wants! No, my dear, you'll marry whoever we want. And that's not up for discussion. That soldier mustn't return from war. And he won't. I'm saying this, Entana Brogan! And I don't throw words to the wind!"
* * *
The city streets had already been cleared of dead bodies, but the lines of soldiers dragging corpses and dumping them into the river continued. It was as if a line of ants were dragging their dead brethren out of a nest.
The soldiers accompanying Ned were as pale as a sheet. Everyone was silent, watching intently. It's one thing to be told of some strange and terrifying phenomenon, and quite another to witness it with your own eyes.
Conversations died down, no one smiled, no one said a word. Even the mischievous Justan and Ugras, who had been gloomily watching Death's triumph, fell silent.
"The fish and crayfish will be very fatty," one of the soldiers, a gray-haired, mustachioed corporal with a scarred lip, broke the silence. "Who did all this work here?"
"Whoever it was, we should pray to him!" Arnot remarked, looking off into the distance. "He saved our lives. Can you imagine how many of our men would have perished during the assault?"
"Yes, I agree, what can I say," the corporal shrugged, "if we could destroy every enemy that stood before us like that, service wouldn't be much of a job, it would be a walk in the park. See the enemy, bam! And the enemy's gone. Just bits and pieces lying around. We need a wizard like that always with the army."
"They don't like magicians in the army," Ned said, looking sideways at the corporal.
"I don't care who doesn't like what." The corporal actually spat, so deftly that he hit an Isfirian helmet lying by the roadside as if he'd been shot with a crossbow. "I want to survive. And he wants to survive. Both he and that idiot over there—we want to get back to our women, our children, spend our hard-earned money—for that, we're willing to bow to demons!"
"Really to demons?" Ned asked incredulously. "Worship the dark forces? Is that right?"
"You're still young," the corporal chuckled. "There's nothing dark or light. There are people who use things for their own ends. And if those ends are light, then anything can be used. I had a good mentor, a priest of the Temple of the Creator. Well, he used to say that nothing in this world is certain. For example, feeding hungry children cow meat is a good deed. But what does the cow think about it? Has anyone asked her? And as for magicians—well, everyone envies them, that's why they don't like them. Especially black magicians. But they, I must admit, couldn't care less. I've never seen more arrogant types," the man chuckled. "Will we be there soon? I'm tired of hanging around in the saddle, and I'm hungry, too."
"If everything is as they told us at the gate, we're almost there. See that house over there? That's the colonel's residence. See the flag flying over it? That's it."
"It stinks," complained a young soldier from Zhostar's army, holding his nose pointedly to shield it from the light breeze blowing in from the river. This breeze smelled of decay, death, and decomposition...
"Don't like it?" the corporal grinned. "Smell it, smell it! That's how you'll stink when you die! Don't like it? We'll all be there… remember the smell of war. You thought war smelled like incense? That's what it smells like."
"Why me?" the boy was offended. "Maybe I'll outlive you!"
"Maybe you'll survive," the corporal agreed easily. "War is like that. An experienced, old fighter can die from a stray arrow, while some young idiot will live, climb on women, shit, and eat like crazy. That's what war is for."
"You're a mean one, Budras!" the boy said, offended, reining in his horse and falling a horse's length behind the corporal. The corporal glanced sideways at the "deserter" and said with a grin:
"You don't like the truth, huh? Who would? We're all on the edge, alive today, gone tomorrow. Listen – isn't that the colonel over there on the stairs? Absolutely! I saw him in the capital, at a parade – a few years ago. Look – he's hardly changed at all! A real warrior!"
Ned didn't answer. He looked at the colonel, at those standing near him, and wondered how he could evade the man in the white mage's garb standing next to the colonel. There was one way, but Ned hadn't tried it yet...
"Arnie! Arnie!" Ned whispered to his friend, leaning close to his ear. "Lead the squad. I need to run somewhere real quick. Think of something, okay?"
"What's wrong? Who's going to report to the colonel, me?" Arnot said, alarmed.
"You'll report it, demon damn you!" Ned said angrily. "See that mage next to him? There!"
- I see... that's what you've got planned. What, can they?..
"Lead on, I say!" Ned tugged at the reins, and the horse obediently pulled back under the puzzled gaze of his companions. Arnot immediately said loudly:
"Follow me, boys! The sergeant's got a stomach ache. He'll be here soon. He told me to introduce you to the colonel. Everyone follow me!"
The slowed detachment moved forward again, their horseshoes clicking on the cobblestone pavement, "decorated" with dark-crimson stains and strange-looking clots and pieces of flesh, and Ned urged his horse into a trot, dangling in the saddle like a sack of grain - his experience of riding a horse was limited to this day and the memories of the Black, vaguely floating in Ned's head.
A long, winding alley led Ned to the city wall. The houses near it were empty, silently staring at him with the black sockets of their small windows, smeared with something sticky on the inside. Ned dismounted, tied his horse to the railing of one of the houses, and walked around the corner, choosing a secluded spot where he wouldn't be disturbed. He did, and in the corner, he saw the huddled corpse of a man, green flies perched on it, busily crawling into his mouth and nose. Ned nearly threw up, and he hastily retreated to his horse, deciding to do his business there.
What he wanted to do should have been done a long time ago, but Ned kept putting it off, and he didn't know why. Maybe he was afraid? Unsure of his own strength? Or maybe he just didn't feel comfortable? After all, who enjoys shedding blood? In any case, he couldn't put it off. Either do it, or run away like that demon Oydar.
Ned drew the Left Sword from its sheath, trembling with anticipation of blood, and, after a moment's hesitation, decisively slashed his arm with the tip of the sword. Blood dripped in thick drops onto the cobblestones, and Ned began to chant a complex, verbose incantation. He had practiced casting this spell many times before, but he hadn't yet brought himself to carry it out until he was absolutely forced to.
The spell hid a person's aura. Or rather, it replaced it. But the bad news was that Ned himself still couldn't see other people's auras, just as he couldn't see his own. He needed to learn, train, fine-tune his magical vision, but there was no one to teach him. For some reason, the Black One didn't have such knowledge in his arsenal. Or maybe he did, but it hadn't surfaced from the depths of his mind yet. So he couldn't tell whether he'd hidden his aura or not. And there were no options left—if he hadn't hidden it, the mage would see through it instantly, and then... then he'd have to run. If he had hidden it, he'd have to continue living as he had, hiding his abilities until... until what? But Ned didn't know that. And he didn't want to know. He didn't want to reveal himself at all. Why would he? Why bring this uncertain danger upon himself?
Having finished reading the spell, Ned quickly tied a strip of cloth torn from a piece of cloth around his wound, which had already begun to heal – his recovery was much faster than that of an ordinary person (thanks to the demons!) – sat in the saddle and set the horse into a trot.
Several hundred Corps soldiers had already gathered near the stairs of the mansion, watching attentively as the colonel spoke with the scout detachment and the strangers who had arrived with them.
"There he is! There he is, riding!" someone from the crowd shouted, and everyone turned to look at Ned, causing him to involuntarily go cold inside, tensing up as if he were about to be judged. Ned really disliked the attention on his modest person. When he attracted undue attention to himself, it always ended badly... or so Ned thought.
Throwing the reins to Itrok, Ned walked through the parted crowd and, giving a military salute, reported:
Colonel! Your mission is complete. The identity of the enemy force has been established. This is General Zhostar's army. This report is complete.
"I've already been informed," the colonel smiled. "Well done, Sergeant! Zaragor, look at our soldiers! They're a miracle! How could we possibly lose a war with men like that?!"
"Hail, Corps! Hail!" the soldiers around them shouted, clapping the shoulders of the newly arrived soldiers, causing them to sway as if caught in a gust of wind. "Hello, brothers! Finally! Things will get easier now!"
"I see what kind of soldiers these are," the white-robed mage, the head of the Corps's agara, muttered vaguely, and peered into Ned's eyes. His insides went cold—here we go! The mage will say, "Gotcha! So you did this to the city?!"
Ned turned on his mind-hearer and listened carefully to the mage's thoughts. The mage stood a few steps away, so the audibility wasn't very good, especially since the soldiers standing nearby made it difficult to hear properly:
"A young lad... my back aches, am I getting old or something? I need to rest today... the lad is the colonel's favorite, so what's so special about him? Why does he praise him so much... soldiers will be soldiers. Young, stupid, like all of them, these warriors... it's good that Zhostar came, I wonder who's the head of their agars? Bitunas? Or Poroda? I'm thirsty... I need to dilute the wine. I wonder what happened here, after all? I should interrogate this lad, or something... but what can you get out of him? Just look at his simple-minded face... an uncouth country bumpkin!"
Ned felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He took deep, ragged breaths, realizing he'd been holding his breath all this time, waiting to see if the mage would be able to see through his disguise. He hadn't! His insides were singing, he wanted to dance on the spot, and Ned's flushed face broke into a goofy grin, which only made Zaragor even more ill-tempered. The mage turned and strode into the house, telling the colonel he was dying of thirst.
"Ned, my friend!" Zheresar appeared from somewhere, grabbed Ned in a bear hug, and dragged him aside. "Come on over! The boys will be very happy to see you! Colonel, I'm taking the sergeant away from you until tomorrow for some medical treatment!" Zheresar winked discreetly at Heverad, who grinned.
"Take him. Treat him. Three days' leave for him and his team! Eat, drink, rest—I'm relieving you of all duty! What are you all crowded around here for?! Get to work! Clean the city! We still have a long way to go, boys. Come on, come on, don't be lazy! And you," he turned to the strangers from Zhostar's army, "come with me. I'll write a message to the general now. You spend the night here and then leave in the morning. Tell him to come to us immediately."
Ned glanced back, feeling as if someone was watching him, and spotted the young guide standing in the middle of the street. Ned's heart sank—he looked so lost, so alone—just like he once had. Ned stopped, freeing himself from Jeresar's powerful arm, and waved.
"Hey, Itrok, come with us! Come on, quickly!" He added for Zheresar: "He's a good boy. An orphan. He's fit right in with the squad. Mind if he comes with us? He has nowhere else to go... at all."
"Let him go!" Zheresar boomed, adding with a grin, "Picked himself up? Well, well... why not? Come on, boys! My men have prepared dinner there—we've secured a good house for ourselves, with enough food and booze there to last a hundred years! Just shh! Otherwise the officers will get wind of this and try to squeeze out the doctors! Our men are already feasting there, celebrating their victory! Let's go, quickly!"
And the men, smiling, walked quickly down the street, emerged into the town square, and plunged deeper into the maze of streets. Behind Ned, his horse clattered as he led it by the bridle, and Itrok trotted alongside, holding a new bow he'd picked up near one of the houses.
The bow was huge and powerful, and Ned grinned as he thought about how the boy would draw it. However, these thoughts were soon overshadowed by thoughts of the upcoming dinner, a meeting with his friends—the sons of Jeresar—and also by the joyful thought that he had solved one of the most pressing problems of recent months—hiding his abilities from prying eyes. Now everything would be fine. Very fine!