Chapter 12

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Two days had passed since the unsuccessful attempt to examine the house of the leader of the light-worshippers. Having recovered from her injury, Celesta felt ready for new achievements. In other words, she was about to carry out her plan to set up an underground laboratory. She had no qualms about it - she had long ago decided that all was good for survival, so she acted vigorously. Of course, if she had her way, she would have preferred to sell something safer than drugs - Andrew had seen what a junkie could do for a dose - but the legal ways of making money were still closed to her. Decent people didn't want anything to do with ghouls. The remnants of conscience resented the decision, but they were quickly overwhelmed by the excuse that dope was relatively safe for health.

A room for production was found quickly, and a morvanite alchemist named Stasz managed to produce a test batch. The "stuff" presented to Fakasius passed the quality test, and the fat "mafioso" agreed to take care of the sale for measly three-quarters of the price.

"Don't kid me, Holiness." The ghoul's face didn't let the shadow of a smile slip across it. "One does cost the whole dinar. Every tenth dose goes to the dealer, half to the wholesaler, and the price of four stays with the manufacturer. What are you talking about?"

Celesta, as always, wanted to be on the safe side. She did a little market research beforehand on the potential business.

"It's dangerous," said Fakasius with a wave of his hands. "Ignar was selling dope - and where is Ignar now? He feeds fish in the sea. Salty went into business - now he's shoveling in the village. Lisny, a poor man, only wanted to earn a little money, and what happened to him? The poor guy got his legs bitten off!"

"And we both know by whose orders," the girl replied. "I admire you; the effect has been amazing."

"How could I! Do you really blame me for the tragedy that happened!" The fat man gasped with indignation.

"Well, no, so no. Let's get back to the money. Now there are two laboratories in town, and they deliver the goods steadily and at high prices. The clients of your brothels are wealthy bastards, they pay, and they don't pucker up. And they'll keep on paying, they're not going anywhere."

The list of drugs sold in Taleya did not shine with variety. The old supplies had long ago expired, and the raw materials were in short supply, so the recipe was simple and primitive in its technology. Almost all of the drugs were versions of "pea" - those who took it were sent to the afterlife rather quickly because of the mass of side effects, or "whitewater" - transparent water, which induced a slight euphoria for a short time, usually added to alcohol. The local craftsmen have not yet been able to produce anything else of principle due to the lack of qualified personnel and suitable material. And the drug was becoming more expensive every month because of the decreasing supply of raw materials. A funny situation: people who wanted to kill their health agreed to pay a lot of money, the authorities, in principle, did not interfere with production, but the total amount of stuff was decreasing. The criminal circles were constantly striving to find new recipes, even experimenting with mutant animals, but so far they had no success.

The ghouls were lucky to have an alchemist. Stash was a local, and he knew where the purchased mineral used to make the drug was kept. It used to be used to make lemonade, but clever heads quickly figured out that adding this ingredient to a solution of salt and the juice of a garden shrub had a rather interesting effect. Stash traded in this very mineral and had a license to do so. Immediately after the catastrophe began, he prudently stashed away the last batch he had bought, swearing that the good storage conditions had not affected the quality of the raw materials at all. It would appear so since the tests of the resulting product passed successfully. The mineral was not much, and there were plenty of sacks in the secret warehouse, so Celesta counted on a good and long-term business.

"I don't intend to argue about those points, my dear," Fakasius said bashfully. "There's just one more thing. The Spiders look after all the laboratories, they have a small share of their own. Why do they need a competitor?"

Celesta thought for a moment, glaring at her interlocutor. She doesn't think he was lying about the Spiders. So not only did the Duke's security service work more closely with the city's bandits than it wanted to show, but they also had complete control over all of Taleya's drug business. That's interesting news.

"You know, if the Spiders find out that I'm not only buying from them, they may be offended and upset," His Holiness continued. "The frustration of the gentlemen from these structures sometimes takes fatal forms. Very, very rude people, real savages. No, I'm not saying no, but understand me: the standard prices are inappropriate here."

"I'll think about it."

Little was known about the security service. The people whispered that there was one, and tried hard to frighten each other with fantastic slanders. Those more knowledgeable knew little more about Spiders - a spider weaving a web was the symbol of the service from the old days: the names of the management and a couple or three agents, for instance. Fakasius, in an uncharacteristic fit of candor, told me that there was at least one snitch in every hundred guards or department of officials. The bandit had been receiving advice that sounded like orders through a petty port official like himself, and he was diligently carrying out the instructions - he was aware of the fate of those who ignored the "advice".

"So the deal was off?" Medea contemplated her long, strong fingernails, wondering whether they should be trimmed. She'd suggested from the start that they sell the raw materials they'd found and not go through the trouble of making stuff themselves.

"Why should I? It's just an extra factor that complicates things a bit, that's all. I'll see what I can get out of the fat man."

"Then we'd better get going." The woman slid off the bed and pulled out her leather pants with apparent reluctance. There was no reason to wear a dress in weather like this.

Tonight the ghouls intended to take the equipment they had ordered from the blacksmith, who was making money on the side. The blacksmith was charging a fortune, taking advantage of his monopoly position and the customers' desire to remain incognito. Cauldrons, serpentines, strange scales, and other alchemical tools cost a hundred dinars. Celesta was ready to kill the man - he was saved by a willingness to barter. The smith didn't ask how the girls had obtained a pile of high-quality armor, but the ghouls sold their loot for a decent price and got a promise to buy more if they turned up.

The workshop was in a very unusual place for a craftsman's neighborhood. The blacksmith had come to Taleya on some business of his own just before the catastrophe, along with his family, and he stayed. What made him drag nearly two dozen people into town, he didn't say; as a matter of fact, no one asked him. In the same way, it was not customary to ask how the man survived the next two years, what he did for a living. Suffice it to say that Master Tarrasch made and sold armor and weapons for all the neighborhood bandits until the moment when the Duke ended his voluntary isolation and began to restore order in the city. The blacksmith and his household were unharmed in the short but bloody war that followed: the new authorities promised him protection and privileged food and other benefits, in return for providing work, work, and more work. If the guards were aware of his connections with criminals, they looked the other way - minor violations of the law were forgiven to valuable workers.

Why Tarrasch, who has a stable income and a sufficiently weighty position in society, would risk it all for a dubious opportunity to earn extra dinir, Celesta did not understand. Apparently, he had his own reasons. Or maybe he was just greedy.

"It's not a house, it's a fortress," Medea said.

The master settled in a fenced three-story house, the former homestead of some eccentric rich man. People lived in the main building and a small outbuilding in the backyard, and several other buildings were used as warehouses and storerooms. Although the work had been done here infrequently in recent days, the neighbors could barely hear the clanging and other accompanying noises. The rulers of the city moved the main production close to the barracks: it was easier to keep track of the finished product, and it was considered safe to walk through the streets. Previously, before the Duke's arrival, a few hundred paces away from home risked one's life, but now guards patrolled the streets constantly.

"Fakasius is better guarded," Celesta shrugged.

"By the way, when are you going to introduce me to him? I'm tired of listening to the ramblings of fanatics, I want to talk to an intelligent man."

"This intelligent man wouldn't hesitate to place you in one of his brothels if he could find a way to capture you. It's so exotic. A ghoul whore, the local perverts will lay out any money."

"But he doesn't touch you," Medea sulked.

"Because he's not sure if he can handle me. And he knows for sure that the first attempt will be the last. Besides, we have common affairs and he appreciates my services. Last time he asked me to steal the paper from Count Lash's office: the man would have failed the task for sure." Andrew thought for a moment. Fakasius must have had a lot of money on that document - they say the Count was furious and put a huge bounty on the thief's head. The theft drew unnecessary attention. On the other hand, the order was well paid, it added to his reputation... "And don't forget about appearance. There are enough girls with my figure and face - I am pretty, at best just nice. You make men go crazy just by one look."

Medea smiled flatteringly and remarked: "Now I believe you have the soul of a man. A woman would never say that."

"It depends on what kind of woman."

"You said bad things about Richard, too, but no trouble came from him."

"He's used to us. Don't doubt, at the first opportunity the bandit will sell us out."

At the last meeting two weeks ago, the gang leader had successfully bargained for a place in the guard, extracting more and more promises from the officials. In the future, he hoped to gain possession of the land, which had yet to be cleared of any trash, and permission to own a merchant ship. Right now he did not have enough money to build one, but Richard seriously hoped to earn a lot of money. He had his reasons: plans for the summer campaign were being openly discussed in officer circles. Large and medium-sized gangs would either join Duke Dinir's ranks or be wiped out, the pariahs living in the Pit would be added to the number of settlers. Smart people were in a hurry to tie their fate to the victors beforehand.

"We'll see," Medea smiled slyly. "I think he's got a serious crush on me. You should have heard the compliments he said the last time we met!"

"Compliments?"

"Oh, yes! "Mistress of the night," "eyes like stars," that sort of thing. By the way, he was trying to find out what we were up to."

"Is that it? Why this interest?"

"It's ambition, I suppose. Richard hopes to become something more than a mere nobleman in the service of a ruler or a vassal in the retinue of an aristocrat. I think he hopes one day to have a title. Our help in court intrigue could be useful to him."

"I'd call his chances slim." Celesta was skeptical. "Mash, with his hundred blades, could expect to get an appropriate allotment in exchange for his oath, but not the leader of a medium-sized gang."

The system of ranks was confusing and had a huge number of contradictory laws, and not every specialist could make sense of them. And each rank had its duties and privileges, on ceremonial occasions wore clothes of a certain cut and color, ate from the appropriate dishes, and exhibited exactly the number of soldiers at the request of the lord, which was clearly fixed by the customs.

The strangest thing is that these archaisms did not affect the quality of the functioning of the state and government: the system worked. Perhaps because the nobility was divided into three unequal categories: the ordinary nobility, who had nothing but a string of ancestors, the titled nobility, and the so-called "blessed" - the higher aristocracy. To become blessed is impossible: they must be born. History has recorded no more than a dozen cases where a person was accepted into the highest caste, always for exceptional merit and with the direct blessing of the gods - in other words, had tremendous magical powers. To get a title seemed to be a difficult act, but real: at one time personal titles were given quite often. More difficult was the situation with the rights that could be inherited, which were necessarily accompanied by large land grants. Much depended on one's mercy in ascending the caste pyramid.

Dinir, like all descendants of Derkana the Changeling, was entitled to four families of first rank servants (counts) and sixteen families of second rank servants (barons), no more. Also, he could award clothes of dark blue color, enter the names of distinguished soldiers in a special register and assign honorary nicknames, which gave people or their families various benefits. A clan whose members received such distinctions for several generations in a row automatically raised their hereditary status. It must be said that the Duke was distinguished by conservatism and was in no hurry to give out baronial hats even to old associates, so the hopes of Richard would be more correct to call it a dream.

A knock on the gate was answered at once. At first, a gloomy face appeared in the small window, peering intently at the figures who had come out of the shadows on purpose. Celesta was recognized, or the two girls did not seem dangerous to the observer, but no questions followed. The door swung open hospitably, and the ghouls quickly slipped inside, trying to ignore the rattle of the massive deadbolt behind them.

"You've got the wrong porter with you," the bear-like smith muttered, staring at Medea with obvious pleasure.

He met the customers in person, accompanied by two big guys who looked like relatives. Each one would have held at least three Celestas.

"Are you going to check the armor? That's the leftovers, no more yet."

"Show me," the master nodded, shuffling toward the forge. "You might as well check the work too."

There was nothing to check: Tarrasch vouched for the quality with his head. His wares were renowned. So the ghoul simply checked the completeness of the order, packed the things, and habitually froze, glancing sideways at the men flattering her friend. No problems were foreseen, Medea confidently fooled her admirers. The blacksmith snorted unhappily as he examined the armor, but did not nag.

Celesta didn't immediately understand what caused her tension. It was as if small goosebumps ran down the back of her neck, signaling the appearance of an intruder. They were indeed being watched: the girls could see the crossbowmen lying on the roof (the blacksmith had decided to be on the safe side), but something else was felt... The ghoul slowly glanced around the courtyard. Five people, a cat on the window, a faint snake scent emanating from Medea. For what reason the undead smelled like reptiles, she didn't understand: too little data for a reliable guess. Stop.

Medea smells different.

Celesta inhaled greedily, bitterly regretting that her sense of smell was little better than a human's. The smell was everywhere: the courtyard was saturated with it. So her kindred must have been coming here often and for a long time. She wonders why what does it want.

And there he was, coming around the corner. The sight of the unsure figure stopping in front of the big house made the ghoul's fangs grin reflexively. She almost immediately forced her face into a normal expression, but she was sure the grimace had been noticed. Celesta had learned from previous encounters with strange rebels the need for a show of strength. Now it was up to the unfamiliar fellow: how would he react? Being in his territory, among friendly people who surely knew of his presence and showed no hostility, he might attack the girls. Celesta cast a hard look at Medea, urging caution.

Probably have to give up shopping and run away. If the attempt to negotiate fails, of course. The kinsman has lived among people for a long time, does not give the impression of a madman, it is necessary to find a common ground with him.

The ghoul took a few steps forward and stopped. The people still couldn't see him; to their eyes, the darkness, slightly diffused by the light of the lantern, remained impenetrable. But Celesta could clearly see the youthful figure, the huge, slightly frightened eyes, the frozen expression on his unnaturally pale face. At the time of his death, the kinsman was no more than eighteen years old. He was well-developed for his age, tall, and of a similar build to Tarrasch, suggestive of common blood. No one but the ghoul had noticed his appearance yet.

Celesta hurriedly approached the master and stood beside him, trying to at least partially shield herself from the crossbowmen with her powerful carcass. She wasn't afraid of the blacksmith's brute strength, counting on her strength and speed if necessary, but an arrow was a different matter. She did not want to end up pinned to the fence like a butterfly. An undead man in combat would be wary of an armed man: you can't fight an undead with your bare hands.

"Don't you want to introduce me to your relative, Master?"

"What relative?" Tarrasch grumbled grudgingly. The brat was recommended by serious clients, and if it weren't for their vouchsafe he wouldn't have helped her.

"That young..." Celeste paused deliberately, "man who's looking at us now. Not the one on the roof, but outside the house. Dark hair, a head taller than me, eyes with a reddish glow... Introduce him."

Tarrasch shuddered at the power embedded in the order. The customer's voice did not rise in the slightest, but there was such power in it that the blacksmith had no time to think how he jumped up from his seat and led the girl after him. Only after taking a few steps did he come to his senses and begin to turn on his overzealous guest. Who, by the way, still skillfully covered her body from the gunmen on the roof.

The unfamiliar ghoul also took a few steps forward, stepping into the light. From behind came a curious Medea, standing behind Celesta, covering her behind. On the other side, the blacksmith's assistants held their ground. Now the important thing was not to let people do anything foolish: see how they were frightened by the unexpected turn of an ordinary seemingly ordinary deal.

"We come with peace, and we don't hunt on your territory," Celesta began the conversation. "My name is Celesta, and my friend's name is Medea. What is your name? How long have you been up?"

The unfamiliar ghoul looked at Tarrasch, who was only now beginning to understand who he was dealing with and said uncertainly: "Hustin... My name is Hustin."

"Excellent. Master Tarrasch!" The short ghoul had to raise her head to face the man. "I think we should talk. The four of us."

The master remained silent, rubbing his short beard thoughtfully. He stared at his interlocutor. Finally, after a lingering pause, he pressed his lips together and nodded, sending his assistants away with a wave of his hand. The lads tried to protest and were instantly slapped in the face. They looked back with angry glances at Celesta, and longing glances at a demurely downcast Medea, they strode reluctantly toward the house. Tarrasch ignored the younger's dissatisfaction, as the Smith sat down on a roughly hewn bench and stared expectantly at the girls. He had no intention of removing the shooter from the roof.

"We came into port almost five months ago and didn't know anyone else was here."

"All yours," Tarrasch emphasized the last word in his voice, "were either slaughtered or driven to the Pit. The guards rampaged through the winter until they cleared the port and warehouses."

"You shouldn't identify us with those lunatics." Celesta looked coldly at the blacksmith. "We're certainly no saints, but we don't stoop to the bestial level. Or have you heard about the corpses in the streets, the people disappearing?"

"Who knows you," said the man grimly. "Maybe you're hiding it well."

"When necessary, we hide, and do it well," agreed the ghoul. "Master, a corpse, or a missing person is a trail. We don't want trails. We want to live our lives in comfort, to be able to deal with our new condition in peace. We don't need to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves."

Tarrasch was silent, looking thoughtfully at the girls. Celesta had heard of his tendency to look at a situation from all sides before making a decision. Because of that, he was considered a slow-witted man. At the same time, the man had managed to keep his family intact after the disaster, while others, more agile and quick-witted, had laid down their heads in skirmishes or starved to death.

"So how long ago did you rise up?"

"It's been a month." Hustin shrugged awkwardly. "It was stupid: I wanted to make some extra money, made a dozen bolts to sell. Went to a customer at night and ran into someone's knife. Woke up covered in blood, in some ditch. Nothing to do went home. I had already started to wash when I realized that I had become... like this."

"On the first night, the uprising is not thinking clearly," Medea voiced.

"Yes... I went to my father to confess... I thought he would kill me."

In response to the stares directed at him, Tarrasch shook his head slightly and said nothing.

"I've been living like that ever since. Not all my relatives know that I became a ghoul. They think I got a night job, so I sleep rough during the day. In the basement."

"How do you hunt?" Seeing the misunderstanding in the boy's eyes, Celesta explained, "How do you drink blood? Do you go to the slums or something?"

"No..." Hustin shrugged. "My father and my brothers give me blood."

Andrew's amazement was so great that for a moment he lost touch with reality. Medea's cry, the disbelieving questions posed by her friend, Tarrasch's confused grunt passed over his consciousness. More than once he had heard - and seen with his own eyes - how mothers sold their children for a dirty piece of bread, how fathers rented out their daughters for "rent," how the son who killed his parents roasted still warm human flesh on fire. It was the other way around: mothers sold themselves into slavery for a better share for their children. But never in his memory had a father agreed to feed his blood to a son who had risen from the dead.

"And the brothers, too?"

"What?"

Handled with surprise, Celesta clarified: "Do your brothers feed you, too?"

"Yes. There are six of us. If you take a little bit every night, it won't be noticeable."

One feeling mirrored on the girls' faces: envy. If only they had someone who could just accept, no matter what, soothe them in their first moments of awakening! Celesta felt an unbearable urge to claw at that clean-cut face. She even took a step back.

"Okay. Time out." The ghoul shook her head and nudged a motionless Medea. "We're leaving. Master Tarrasch! It's nearly dawn, we must get home in time. Thank you for a job well done. I promise we'll be sure to visit you again soon. Hustin, see you soon."

Without listening to the words of farewell, hurriedly grabbing the prepared things, the girls rushed out of the courtyard.

Their departure was more like a hasty flight.

Medea let her emotions run wild at home, underground. A short trip through the filthy, stinking sewers broke the restraints. Compared to the Tarrasch farmstead where Hustin lived, the ghouls' shelter was indeed a great loss on all counts. The strain of the unexpected encounter, the short conversation, and the shocking revelation lay on the accumulated fatigue. Well, the girls had become unaccustomed to ordinary human kindness! They forgot that you can give without demanding anything in return.

The reminder had too much effect.

"Did you see that?!" Medea rushed around the room, knocking things over. "No, did you see?! He's just living off of everything! He doesn't even have to hunt!"

"I saw it."

Celesta sat gloomily, rolling a small coin across the table. Could it be that the choice she'd made was wrong? Once trapped in another world, the lonely outsider, stripped of everything, even the body, desperately wished to survive. At any cost. He broke his usual principles, robbed, killed, swore, and cheated on the living and the undead to please his decision. He constantly lived on the edge, not allowing himself to look back on his past and question his decision. He thought he had achieved something. The ghouls had settled among humans, they had permanent housing, some hint of comfort, no need for nightly hunting. Now they had servants, ready to set their veins to the fangs of their masters.

Now there is some confidence in the future.

But what are their successes worth compared to one hour among loved ones? Those who trust you unconditionally? Those who are willing to share the last not out of necessity, but out of ordinary love?

Which is better? An easy and quick death or a prolonged bloody hell? Whatever life awaits her, it will certainly not be easy and simple. She would still have to lie, twist, deceive, fight in the dark corners of the dilapidated city. Dealing with scum like Fakasius.

"Have you ever thought about getting it over with?"

"What?" Medea froze, as if she had run into an invisible wall.

"I thought about it a lot at the time." Celesta looked at the claws with a melancholy expression. "What if I could step out into the sun and be returned to my old body? It would only take ten minutes to wake up in my world. I could be in the hospital: just to be rid of this nightmare."

"Celesta," her friend said worriedly, "don't say that. Don't even think about it, you hear! You'll just die, silly!"

"Maybe yes, maybe no. There is hope, right,"

Medea crouched beside her and grasped the blond girl's hand tightly. Her face seemed to glow white, her fangs involuntarily appearing and disappearing from her fidgeting lips. The sight, to the common man's eyes, was horrible.

"You said yourself that everything will be all right! We just have to wait for a bit, be patient. You'll see, we'll live in a nice house, and we'll invite the best musicians to play for us, and..."

"I'm not arguing," Celesta interrupted the frightened woman. "It will be. But why? To go out night after night to hunt, to drink people's blood? We're like parasites, we only take without giving."

"You're the one who doesn't give anything?!" Medea laughed hysterically. "If it weren't for you, I would have continued to serve Carlon, and no one knows how many people would have died from my fangs!"

"If it weren't for me, there's no idea how many people would still be alive," Celesta sighed. "Well, relax a bit, and that's enough. Don't be afraid. I'm not going anywhere. It's too soon to give up, especially since things are going well."

Looking warily at her friend, Medea nodded. She still clung to the small, cold hand, as if she feared her friend would suddenly disappear.

"What do you think of that guy, Hustin?"

"I don't know. I didn't like him."

"You're just jealous."

"Isn't there a reason?"

"There is," Celesta smiled crookedly. "Of course there is. But we don't have the right to be jealous. You know how some people are lucky and some aren't, some more than others. Hustin is lucky. The end."

"So, should I bring him here, give him a room?" The beautiful singer was indignant. "Maybe you should just put him in my bed?"

"No, it's too early for him to know about this housing. But we shouldn't lose our ties, either."

Put your emotions aside, and you'll see that the acquaintance is profitable. Here, of course, a year count as a three, you can't call Hustin a boy, but he's still a child. He can't hunt, he can't hide well in the shadows, and he can't climb chimneys like us. In general, he doesn't know much about the inside of life in Taleya: he's been cherished. He's bound to want to know more about himself - no one to ask but us. He can't listen to silly gossip. If we help him, we will have the gratitude of Master Tarrasch, much more pleasant to deal with than Richard or His Holiness, and a place where they'd be the last place to look for ghouls. We'll hide there, too, in the worst-case scenario.

The boy might prove useful. He almost certainly will be. It's very rare to find a ghoul who's still thinking normally, who's not a crazy ghoul. The last time we met one, we were escaping from the monastery. Pity, he did not want to communicate, drove him from his land. Hustin doesn't look like a madman, so it's worth taking a closer look at him. You know, it's easier with the three of us. There's not much we can do now, and when the lab starts working, there won't be any time left.

"Do you have an idea of how much work it would take?"

"We will teach him. You will teach him: remember the way he looked at you. And you'll charm his family, too." She was silent, her eyes hardening. "Well, I'll take care of the shit. I guess that's my destiny."

Medea said nothing, just put her arms around the skinny girl's shoulders and held her tightly to her chest. Celesta mumbled: "Come on, it's okay. We'll fight. Ha!" She threw her head up sharply and smiled predatorily. "I think I know what to demand from Fakasy!"

His Holiness did not want a repeat visit of the ghoul to his luxurious bedroom, so he preferred to meet somewhere outside the mansion. Celeste, for her part, was not eager to visit other people's territory. Her carefully nurtured paranoia demanded a safer place. So traditionally they would socialize in a small, dilapidated cottage at the edge of the slum. There were no prying eyes or ears, but plenty of the beloved sewer manholes. They usually met on Tuesdays and Fridays, but if an urgent order came up, the fat man would leave word at the arranged spot.

"Honey, there is news you must hear. As soon as old Facasius heard what the people were saying, he immediately thought of his friends! The holy ascetics teach us to do good, so that after a death we may stand before the great judges with dignity, and to the best of my humble strength, I follow the advice of the wise elders. What could be nobler than helping a friend, beautiful Celesta?"

"I am well aware of your unselfishness, Holiness," Celesta said with a poker face.

"Truly so! How kind are your words! But my virtues are not comparable to yours, for seldom in my life have I met a creature so rich in talents. Truly, the gods themselves have favored our meeting!"

"I'm not going to argue."

Facasius shuddered involuntarily. The hint of Morvan's meddling, and at night, made even such a hardened cynic feel uncomfortable.

"Yes... Tell me, you remember the Duke's plans to strengthen the legitimate power, don't you?"

"If you're talking about the massacre scheduled for this summer, yes, I remember."

"The Lord of Taleya, concerned for the welfare of his subjects, of course, decided to move the deadline slightly." The fat man grimaced. Something about the authorities' change of plans was bothering him. "The cleanup of the bandits on the outskirts of the city would begin in the spring, in two months."

"Why the rush? He didn't seem to intend to act too quickly."

"The warehouses are emptying and there is a food crisis. Dinir wishes this year to clear the surroundings of the villages of evil and plow as much land as possible. Circumstances are favorable: almost all the ringleaders have been sensible enough to agree to serve, and the guards plan to deal with the Pit within a week. This is the perfect chance to strike at the creatures while they are weakened by winter. "Fakasius was a little confused. "I hope you don't take my words personally, precious."

"Not at all. I don't classify myself as a foul creature. As a matter of fact, it's hard to confuse me with a regular ghoul, isn't it?"

"Absolutely, Celesta, absolutely! But... however... what should I call you? I wouldn't want to make the mistake and insult you."

Andrew's memory prompted an idea: "Call me a vampire. The difference between a vampire and a ghoul is small but significant: with the first, you can negotiate, with the second - no."

"Truly you are right! During the Great Hunt, I will try to avoid encounters with the latter. That's the courtiers' nickname for the spring operation: The Great Hunt. Young warriors hope to prove themselves to their superiors, to earn glory, to receive rewards from the hands of the Duke himself. None of this is for fat old Fakasius. I will stay here, with a prayer to the gods for the happy return of those whose lives are still just beginning, not tending to end like mine."

"A very wise thing to do. I'm going to stay in port, too, and I'm counting on your help with a little thing."

"Which one?"

"Directly related to our recent conversation about selling merchandise you know." The man nodded, and his squinted eyes gleamed keenly. "I could agree to your terms, but with a little "extra. I need the tavern."

His Holiness raised his eyebrows in surprise: "A tavern? But why? And, excuse me, please, how do you intend to run it?"

"Rest assured, I'll find a manager," Celesta smiled coldly. "What for? It's a very convenient cover. People drink, fall asleep, and are dragged off to the back rooms, where I or my fellows could satisfy their hunger without a problem. In the morning, the drunks wake up with a slight headache and go to work quietly, trying to stay out of sight of the guards. Agree, for me the latter point is especially relevant."

"I see," he nodded. He wasn't at all impressed by her stated goals. On the contrary, he appreciated the elegance of the idea. "But, Celesta, you want too much. Each establishment brings me a good income, which you can hardly compensate for. Don't forget your reputation: you might get noticed, and then I'd be torn apart!"

"The establishment, as you say, I will build a new one, with my own money. Your profits won't be affected. All you have to do is declare the place to be under your protection and help a little with the suppliers and the license. That's it. With your connections, it'll only take a minute. If we get caught, you can honestly say that you didn't interfere in the management process, just helped to fend off scum."

"The licenses will probably be canceled," said His Holiness absent-mindedly. "The authorities intend to let go of the reins a bit: there's nowhere to run anyway."

"Even more so."

"Suppose I agree. How much would you be willing to pay for help in resolving conflicts?"

"None." Andrew was strongly tempted to show his left arm bent at the elbow. The gesture was universal and well known in Taleya. "I'll deal with the thugs myself. When the "product" is over, then you'll start getting money for the name."

The short and bitter bargaining that followed resulted in Celesta's unqualified victory. Fakasius benefited from her offer. He was getting the drug at an obscenely low price, and in exchange, he was making a promise that either would have to be kept or not. Setting up a good hangout place was a costly affair, and whether the girl could find the right amount was a big question. Maybe he'll lend her some money for interest. If the bloodsucker gets away with it on her own, then later she will inevitably have to pay for protection from small gangs.

Celesta, too, was pleased. Food, a place to meet, a source of regular income, and the potential for legalization - whichever way she looked at it, the tavern promised to be a useful acquisition. She was already making construction plans. Tarrasch could be approached for metalwork - with the right approach, he would give a discount. Some of the Morvanite cultists would serve as servants; they were incapable of more than that anyway, and this way they'd be both useful and well looked after. The hardest problem was the steward, or rather the lack of one. Celesta didn't even have any suitable candidates in mind.

Despite the difficulty with the innkeeper's personality, the girl had no doubts about her decision. As they say, the main thing in any business is to start. Sooner or later everything is bound to work out.

* * *