Chapter 13

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"Father, more metal has been brought in. Where should we put it?"

"It's up to you," Tarrasch grumbled. "You're not little kids anymore."

The assistants tried to avoid the foreman today, as did the other workers of the forge. They knew that when the foreman was silent and burdening others with work, it was better not to disturb him. Otherwise, you might get a slap on the wrist. Tarrasch is tough, strict, but he doesn't let his people get hurt.

The mighty and not yet old man wondered what to do. Before, he had always had a clear goal of keeping his family together. Clan. The northerners still lived in clans, unlike the fussy and irascible Salves. They were considered barbarians and savages by some for their adherence to their grandfathers' customs, but few dared to speak hurtful words to their faces. In the North, they preferred their own food to imported ones, made many things for the house themselves, and did not buy milk in stores, but took it from domestic goats. One wonders how it is now. The family arrived in Taleya just before the Plague - to celebrate the enrollment of their youngest son in the most prestigious University, and stayed for good. Tarrasch, after the magic had ceased to work and the railroad trains became motionless carcasses, decided not to embark on the distant and perilous journey. His family found a more comfortable place and settled in the city if the gods so wished.

The first two years they lived on a starvation diet, fighting off the neighborhood gangs and the magical creations that proliferated every day. Only four of their kin died. Then the Duke came and put things in order. Everything seemed to calm down, and life slowly began to go back to normal. Until one-day Hustin disappeared. They searched for him for three days, questioned everyone, visited both guards and bandits, but found nothing. On the third night, the son came back himself. Dirty, tired, covered in blood... Not alive.

The youngest did not lose his mind, he quickly understood what was happening to him and told his father. They began to think about how to proceed. The blacksmith did not wish to kill his son. Ghoul or no Ghoul, he was kin to him all the same. Blood of his own, what can you say. He could not stay in the house long: sooner or later someone would spill the beans or nosy neighbors would spy on him and inform the guards. It is doubly dangerous: first of all, no one knows how long Hustin can keep himself, whether he will not attack his family. Secondly, the servants of the Darkness, people were afraid and the connection with them could cut out the whole family mercilessly. He had to go to the Pit, whether he wanted to or not, so he wouldn't have to expose the others.

Soon there will be no more the Pit. They'll clean it up.

It's about time the ghouls came. Too timely. Maybe it was timing on purpose. Knew who they would meet? Master grudgingly looked at another workpiece, put it aside, rubbed his face tiredly. He couldn't decide what to expect from the unexpected visitors, good or bad, he couldn't guess. From all indications, the meeting was useful: let them tell Hustin about their lives, help them get settled, teach them everything. Clan will pay, if necessary. The girls - though what kind of girls they are, probably more people have been killed than he had ever seen corpses in his life - are connected with important people, they buy equipment for some reason, which means they have their own business. Looks like they've managed to get a foothold in the city.

There are rumors of ghouls, but just rumors. None of Tarrasch's acquaintances in the city had seen an undead since the winter before last. No bodies had been found with their throats torn out, either - so Celesta wasn't lying, trying not to get too much blood on herself. What was it she said: "hunting"? We've seen hunters like that before. The master scratched the scar on his collarbone and grinned wryly: he wasn't frightened of ghouls.

Tarrasch decided that next time he would let the girls in. There is a lot to talk about.

Richard lovingly stroked the badge of a half-soldier on his sleeve. Not in vain, oh not in vain, he made gifts to staff officers! The other leaders who had agreed to transfer to the Duke's service were accepted as junior commanders at best, with many having some of their men transferred to someone else's command. The exception was the damned Black Mash, who was at once appointed centurion and "in charge of relations with the independent groups". Simply put, the bandits who did not fit into the expanded structure of the guards intended to be used as scouts, voyageurs, temporary guards for prisoners. In any army, there would be dirty work that needed to be done, but it was not worth assigning to ordinary units. Mash will have to keep an eye on all these volunteers - he will serve as an intermediary between the most savage units and the officers' top ranks.

A rich position.

All right, I'll get lucky, thought the former ringleader. They've given me a rank, they've given me an allowance, and they're promising me a nice piece of land for the estate. It should be sweetened so that they do not forget. Say, Viscount So is collecting paintings. I have one, we'll present it.

The borders of the government-owned territory had imperceptibly widened recently, so Richard was smuggling without the help of ghouls. Why use them when most of the posts had moved to the suburbs, and a third of the guards had moved there? Those who remained were on duty by inertia, all of them expecting the Great Hunt to begin soon. The inhabitants of Pit also sensed the change in their fortunes and shuddered to hide in plain sight. They seldom ventured out, except to trade what they could find for food, and some sought shelter in the villages surrounding the city. Their situation was not much different from that of slaves.

In short, Richard had many reasons to rejoice and only one to grieve. The commander of the hundred and his immediate superior despised the former bandits who fell into his subordination and did not hesitate to express his attitude. He was particularly irritated by the nobles, forced by circumstances to deviate slightly from the rigid code of honor. Where the duke dug it from, Richard did not know: such living relics of past eras were rare. The chieftain had no intention of enduring the taunts of a man who had sat cowardly behind the high walls of the palace citadel for a year, and he informed them of this in as refined a manner as possible. The feud had taken an open form, with only discipline preventing the duel from taking place. All that remained was to endure the nagging and wait for the right moment to get rid of the arrogant bastard once and for all. The centurion had enough enemies, so he wouldn't have to wait long.

Richard remembered the undead acquaintances and the old conversation about the abandoned monastery. He had long wondered what lurked in the old sanctuary, why Celesta had persisted in inquiring about the state of the temple. Perhaps she was telling the truth and dangerous creatures of the same breed did dwell there. But Richard was willing to bet his hand that there was some other reason for questioning the ghoul. It would be a good idea to rummage through the cellars to see what things the current owners had stashed away for their needs. The ghouls sleep during the day, so there's no threat.

The leader made a notation in his memory, promising to visit the monastery the first chance he got.

Celesta felt the stares Medea cast against her skin, and she wished she could visit Hustin that night. But, gritting her teeth, she went about her current business. She preferred to put the tit in its cage before trying to catch the crane. The equipment had to be hauled, Stash had to help organize the laboratory, Laskash had to be visited, and the names of people whose plight would make them agree to work as an innkeeper in the establishment to be organized. Exactly draw him out: the boy gave out information willingly, but haphazardly.

Celesta intended to look for the "front face" of the tavern among the poor. She wanted a middle-aged man, moderately active, rude, cruel, desperate. Definitely with family, for extra leverage. The slums were filled with all kinds of people - there were bound to be some suitable candidates. People continued to make their way to Taleya, though the main flow of refugees had long since ebbed. There were some very curious individuals among them. Most of them settled among the lower strata of urban society, eventually becoming "state serfs. The most active, however, had the opportunity to become someone higher up. Artisans, former fishermen were doing well, and peasants and agronomists could also rise to prominence. Celesta hoped to find someone who wasn't too shifty and cunning: she needed a reliable and faithful contractor.

The Morvanite lunatics were understandably out of the picture.

"Maybe we should look among the refugees?" Medea tentatively suggested.

"All the refugees are in the villages, strengthening the country's agriculture," Celesta joked grimly. "It's a lot of work to ransom them. No, we need a simple man. Stash!"

"Yes, Dark Mistress," the alchemist ran up and bowed.

"What happens to people who have just arrived in Taleya? Here they came to the patrol, rejoiced, rested a bit... What is their further fate?"

"Mostly they agree to accept full allegiance and become servants of the Duke," the Morvanite answered eagerly. "Former subjects of the Duchy of Taleya are said to continue to serve Dinir. The oath of allegiance has not been revoked. Those who refuse are sent to the villages. Those who remain in the city are assigned to their communities; if one has a useful skill, one is assigned to a craftsman."

"I'm interested in ordinary people. Is there someplace, some kind of filter, where they wait for the authorities to decide?"

"No, mistress," Stash shook his head after a little thought. "The system is fine-tuned, the injunctions are issued very quickly."

"That's a shame. It looks like it's going to take longer than I expected. When will the first batch be ready?"

"With the Lord's help, the fermentation process will be complete within four days," the alchemist smiled. "If Mistress will allow me, I dare to suggest some additives, making the consequences of taking the product more severe for the human body. It will be harder to quit the drug..."

"Not now, Stash. First we'll sell the first batch, then we'll experiment. But I appreciate your zeal, you serve our Lord faithfully."

"Glory to Morvan!"

"Glory!"

Not a single conversation with the Morvanites was without such dialogues. The fanatics had to be constantly praised and supervised, so that they would not do anything with rabid enthusiasm.

"I'll go talk to the people in the poor quarters," Medea stood up. She had more contact with informants and could get the right name more quickly.

"Yes, go ahead. You don't have to hurry: it's better to take your time and choose a more reliable contractor. We still have to look for money to set up."

It sounds idiotic, but money was in short supply again. We were out. The last pennies had gone to pay for the drug-distilling equipment she'd bought. Celesta expected to use the proceeds to build and furnish the joint. But first, it might not be enough, and second, she had to live on something. To buy clothes, to which Medea was a great lover, to pay informants, to support the Morvanites. The cultists wanted money, too: their loyalty must be backed by gifts.

Fate itself compels me to bow to Fakasius for a new order. The ghoul squinted slightly, showing no further displeasure. She considered His Holiness the last person worth knowing about her problems. He's like a shark. When he smells blood, he tends to tear into weakened prey.

In an effort to get the job done as soon as possible and to get the promised payment, the girl entered the brothel. They didn't pay any attention to her at first - well, she made a mistake, she would leave as she came. The guard who stepped in the way smiled broadly, running his experienced gaze over the figure hidden by a deaf cloak: "Come to work, girl?"

"Yeah. Lead me to His Holiness, he's supposed to be here today."

The broad-shouldered man became instantly alert: "What the Holiness? There are no such people here!"

"Soon you won't be here," the strange visitor snickered. "LEAD."

The power in the stranger's voice made the man recoil in fright. As if drunk and staggering, he staggered into the back of the place, pointing the way. They walked down a long, richly furnished corridor with many doors - some of them making noises and smells - before the effects of the psychic shock passed. The man, however, continued on his way, judging rightly that his elders knew best. If the wench had come to this place in vain, right now she would regret her impudence. The cellar they came to had a bad reputation with the workers.

The guard at the entrance also became wary of Celesta. He did not know who the girl was, what her business was with the owner. He had only seen them meet a few times. And Fakasius showed respect and even some fear of the short brat, flattering himself in front of her as if she were an important figure of the nobility. But the fighter had no intention of letting her inside either. The reason why Holiness was in the brothel today was not that it was uncommon, just that outsiders were not supposed to see it.

"Forgive me, mistress." The guard prudently bowed, gesturing the escort away beforehand. "The master is a little busy at the moment. Would you mind waiting?"

From behind the tightly closed door, inaudible to the human ear, came voices. The first one, loud and shrill, said something unhappily. The fat man's answering voice murmured a familiar, smooth, shorthand. There was a vibe of pain and agitation and despair, and the smell of blood and sweat and human semen was strong in the air. Celesta snorted slightly: "Yeah, I don't feel like going inside. I'll wait here," she nodded to another door closer to the exit. "When this lowlife is gone, get Fakasius in here."

"Mistress, here..."

The man's warning was belated, Celesta had already opened the door.

"...is not worth going in."

She flared her nostrils predatorily, inhaling the familiar but no less desirable smell of blood. According to the objects and implements along the walls, the room had been used as a torture chamber. More recently, it had been used. The scent of fear permeated the atmosphere, and the demon inside the ghoul instinctively reached out. The only source of food nearby was a man nervously writhing behind her. Celesta covered her eyes, calming herself with an effort of will.

"Well, I expected something like that." Looking around the camera again, she noticed a naked body sprawled out on the bench. "Who's that?"

"Ahem... employee."

Pulling a rag mask over her face, the girl approached the tortured victim. Her cruel life had prepared her for all sorts of spectacles, but this... The nails on the right arm were torn off, the skin burned and wrinkled. Her back was lacerated, covered in a crust of caked blood. The deepest wounds were to her buttocks. The wounded man was male, though she couldn't be sure. The groin was concealed by her thighs, soiled with blood and shit. No, a man, after all. His face was the worst of all: the unknown executioner had done a good job on it. Fragments of teeth protruded from his swollen lips, his broken nose was a crumpled pancake, his eyes... There were no eyes.

"What happened here?"

The man, who towered two heads above the girl, suddenly felt a trickle of sweat running down his back.

"The client gets carried away," he licked his parched lips. "Misstres."

Celesta was silent, squashing her rage. You can't. Nothing could be done.

"Leave me alone. Fast."

The guard thought it best to carry out the order immediately.

The ghoul crouched beside the body. Strangely enough, the heart was still beating, and a sobbing breath came from the slightly open mouth from time to time. A half-forgotten feeling stirred in her chest: pity. And these people think people like her are monsters? Yes, she did want to cling to the bleeding wounds and quench her thirst, her instincts demanding. But never, even on her worst days, had she so cruelly dealt with her prey!

What to do? What can be done now, anyway? Without eyes the boy is not survivable: cripples are rarely taken care of nowadays. A young body can still cope with the wounds, the painful shock, a small chance to pull out he has. But is it worth it? Life in hell, existence on a miserable handout and continuous, constant pain - that's his fate.

Celesta brushed her claw across the wrist, tearing off the tight bandage, and hurried to the door. She would not feed on this young man. He will die without regaining consciousness, and that is the greatest mercy she can bestow upon him. Then, trying to ignore the clatter of thick burgundy droplets falling from her hand to the floor, she moved closer to the door.

The man who argued with Fakasius must have been that client.

She wanted to remember his smell. Remember his voice.

Evil must have its limits.

If there is a god, or gods, or any higher justice, they will meet for sure. There's nothing she can do now, but then... Who knows?

It was another ten minutes before the creak of the swinging door was heard and a disgruntled falsetto shouted: "Don't count on anything more, Holiness! Do you hear me? Don't get your hopes up!"

Then the man passed quickly, almost running toward the exit, Celesta looked out and caught sight of the back in the luxurious camisole. She would recognize him. It would be good to find out his name, too.

"I'm sorry, dear Celesta, for this ugly scene." The fat man wiped his forehead breathlessly. "Sometimes things happen in our business. I try to keep the incidents to a minimum, of course, but sometimes they just go off the chain."

The ghoul turned away from the empty corridor and looked coldly at Fakasius: "Your slave died."

"Ay-yi-yi-yi!" The pimp shook his hands. "Such a grief! Such a promising boy! And there's no one to replace him: quite an exclusive stuff! Poor thing, he was so young!"

"I hope you got enough compensation from the culprit. By the way, what's his name?"

"Enough?! Totally insufficient! A paltry, insignificant, utter nonsense compared to the damage done!"

"Demand more. Or is he not going to come again?"

His Holiness shook his hands regretfully: "This gentleman has caused me a great deal of damage. I have to deny him access to my establishments. It's a pity, a great pity, but from tonight the Baron will have to do without our services."

"Did you say "baron"?"

"Yes, he belongs to the Duke's retinue. Unfortunately, I cannot say more - anonymity above all!"

Celesta did not insist. She knew enough, there are not many nobles with titles, so it is possible to find out the sadist if you want. Fakasius, on the other hand, would keep quiet to the last. His business, dirty and bloody, exists as long as he does not try to violate the unwritten hard rules. Pimps who blackmail clients do not live long.

And what, from the point of view of the authorities, did this baron do? Just killed a slave. He overdid it a bit, it happens. The guards are bound to come to their senses. At worst, the reputation would suffer a little - after all, such amusements are considered unnatural, but it all depends on the Duke's position. If the nobleman is useful to him, the nobleman will be acquitted.

Holiness will not cause a scandal, much less revenge. He will simply find a new employee, a young, handsome, gentle young man, writing off the old one as a "loss". That's all.

"Do you think they're expecting us very much?"

"Very much so. They need us." Celesta looked around the street for latecomers. When she saw no one, she once again envied the advantageous location of Tarrasch's farmhouse. No strangers approached the back door: the place was inconvenient. "The head of the family must get rid of the ghoul in the house, no matter how much he loved him. Come."

At the knock at the lattice window, the face of one of the guys from the day before yesterday appeared - this time he did not look at the visitors for long. The sound of the bolt being pulled back was heard almost at once. The janitor was a bit shy and looked at the girls warily, apparently having been made aware of who they were. Medea threw a warning glance at her friend and faced a similar response, they both noted the chain mail under his shirt and the long sword on his belt.

The man carefully locked the door with a huge iron-bar bolt and led the guests to the nearest building. Not to the main house, where most of the family lived, but to a small building that used to be a barn or something similar. A dim light shone through the shuttered windows, and people's voices sounded within. There were no crossbowmen on the roof this time. Would Celesta have paid dearly to know where they were, lurking in ambush, waiting for the signal, or sleeping peacefully with their families? She didn't know which option to prefer. The confidence of the head of the clan in the coming negotiations meant a great deal, but the ghoul was wary of overly complacent partners.

As she followed her escort, she took one look at the gathering. The room they were in was long, about eight meters long and three wide, clean and sparsely furnished. At the far end was a door, near which stood a tall cupboard with some crockery; the rest of the space was powerfully occupied by a huge table of expensive-looking wood. Next to this masterpiece of cabinetmaking art, two simple benches of some plastic-like material looked quite inappropriate; not much better was the massive leather chair at the head of the table, in which Tarrasch was seated.

The master frowned at the cloaked ghouls, staring unashamedly at his family. In addition to Hustin, who sat closest to the exit, there were four other men at the table, in order of precedence. All were no young men, armed and skilled with weapons, judging by their manners. All looked wary, distasteful - and ready to fight. So, not counting the gatekeeper who came out, six experienced warriors against two undead.

Celesta hummed and pulled off her hood, revealing her face: "I apologize for not informing you about the visit in advance." She sat down on the bench to the right, facing the windows, without asking. Medea stood in the corner as a modest shadow. "But I see you were expecting us."

"Yesterday," grumbled master grudgingly.

"Business, it can't be helped. We have obligations to fulfill."

"Really? What kind of business could a dead one have?"

"Different. We try to fit into human society."

"You said it last time. Only words are words, in serious matters, it is better to see with your own eyes."

"I have far less reason to trust you, Master, than you have to trust me." The girl shook her head, her lips curled slightly. "You're in your own ground, among your own kin... I'd say you're in an entirely advantageous position. But I wouldn't say that - you need us, not the other way round. Don't you?"

"Why should that be?" The blacksmith grudgingly scowled, his posture mirrored by the rest of the men. "We've lived with our wits so far, we seem to manage. What can you do for us, little brat?"

"You've been living with your mind for a month and haven't thought of anything. There's an undead in your house who poses a serious danger to an average person. I don't know what room Hustin sleeps in, but if someone accidentally disturbs his sleep, he risks being sucked dry." Celesta spoke in a low voice, smiling profusely at the angry men. "By day we are, you know, incapable of controlling our instincts. There's bigger trouble, though. Neighbors, customers, random guests... Sooner or later your son will be identified as a ghoul. Knowing people, I assume that in such a case they will kill everyone."

There was silence in the air. Tarrasch was rolling his cheekbones in displeasure, and the man to his right was clenching his fists tightly until they crunched, staring with hatred at the insolent wickedness. At last, he could not stand it:

"Cut off their heads, and that's it."

Judging by the expression on the faces of the others, the idea was popular. A quiet murmur of approval rose over the table, and the men huddled like they were about to jump. The slightest nod from the owner at the end of the table was enough to make them pounce on the ghouls. Medea hesitated, her hands hiding in her broad sleeves, gripping her throwing knives comfortably.

Celesta did not react to the remark; now and here only the opinion of the head of the clan mattered. She waited for Tarrasch's answer, frozen like a stone statue.

"What can you suggest?"

The ghoul was glad that her undead body allowed her to hide her wild joy. She had seriously prepared herself for a fight. The tension was still there, but it was slightly diminished: immediate execution was delayed.

"We are ready to give Hustin shelter and teach him how to survive. How to hunt properly, how to eat properly, how to move around the city, how to deceive the guards. In return," she looked directly at him for the first time, "you must promise me two things: to obey me unconditionally, and not to tell anyone about what you've seen. If you want to go, go, but don't you dare talk."

"And that's it?"

"Well, yes. Your business with the clan is none of my concern, unless it threatens our peace."

"You are too generous," said Tarrasch incredulously.

"Not at all. First of all, we could use a sidekick. Second, let them look for ghouls in the Pit, not in the port. I don't want the Great Hunt to begin with the search for an internal enemy."

Celesta was silent on the fact that she expected a long collaboration. The northerners would remember the good they had done and try to repay the "debt". They could sell their loot at a decent price, learn rumors that circulated among the artisans, assign them tasks, small ones at first, then more serious ones. Not for free, of course: any relationship must be built on a mutually beneficial basis. For example, the girls can tell you what goods will soon rise or fall in price, or provide dirt on the hostile clan official, and more to help. Having a whole clan as allies is a useful thing.

If they turn out to be ungrateful pigs, there is always an opportunity for blackmail. There he sits, thinking, twinkling his eyes. He looks like a human now, too - it's almost impossible to guess that Hustin is a ghoul at first glance. Then the observer will notice the unnaturally pale skin, the too smooth movements, and the habit of smiling without parting his lips. The undead' appearance attracts the eye involuntarily: there is something mesmerizing, sensual, and deadly in it.

"My son," the blacksmith emphasized the last word subtly, insensitively to the human ear, "really can't stay. But I'm afraid to let him go, too. In the first year we lived in the city, almost everyone rose as a ghoul. We fought back with difficulty. I don't want Hustin to turn into someone like those things. They were killing everyone...."

The patriarch staggered back in his chair and looked around at the other kinsmen. Under his gaze, one by one they lowered their heads, not daring to question authority.

"As long as Hustin is with us, he may be dead, but he's human. Do you think he will remain the same among you?"

"No." Suddenly Medea spoke, and at the first sound of her melodious voice, the people flinched in surprise. "Already he is not the boy you raised. He doesn't see the world as a human, he sees it differently, and the differences deepen with time."

"I can promise you that your son will not become a mad killer." Celesta rested her chin on her clasped hands and looked coldly at Hustin: the next phrase was meant for him. "I would sooner blow my kinsman's head off myself than have such a dangerous creature in my vicinity. You may not believe my word, however, for no one knows what the Undead will become in time. We can only hope to keep the rest of our souls intact."

"That's smooth talk."

Tarrasch frowned even more. Then he snorted irritably, looking more like a mighty, angry bear than ever:

"Okay. We don't have much choice, Hustin has to go. It's no good for the dead to walk among the living." Celesta hid a grin. "But look! If I find out you're spoiling the boy, I'll kill you with my own hands."

The threat looked real. He could kill a ghoul with those hands, even if they didn't need air. The girl nodded gravely: "It's a deal." She turned to a motionless and somehow lost Hustin. "Say goodbye to your family today, pack any things you want to take with you. One of us will pick you up tomorrow."

"Did you notice they wouldn't let us go out first?" Medea spoke as soon as the girls got away from the "hospitable" house.

"Probably crossbowmen. They hid the ambush well, had time to learn the capabilities of the undead. Hustin must have tipped them off."

"I hope you're not suggesting we bring him home?"

Belle looked intently at Celesta. She valued the cozy shelter and had no intention of opening it to a stranger. If Celesta had offered to give Hustin a room, a scandal would have broken out, the friends might have had their first serious quarrel.

"No, not yet. We don't know him well enough to trust him yet." The little girl grinned crookedly. "To be more exact, we don't know each other at all - nothing but names and, shall we say, current condition. We'll set him up in one of the temporary beds, to begin with, take a closer look gradually, and start introducing him to things. Keep in mind that we'll take turns teaching him, but you'll take the brunt of it."

"As if there were no other things to do!"

"There is nothing more important than that. And don't you dare try to bully the boy! We city undead are supposed to stick together, not quarrel. He's a bit of a mope without your teasing. His fate has been discussed and he hasn't said a word!"

"That's normal: the Northerners are like that," Medea grinned. "At least, the ones from the Blue Mountains. They still have patriarchy, and they're a wild bunch."

"Lucky. In our time, the tribal system is sort of the most practical."

They walked on in silence. Medea wondered how the appearance of a man, the third member of the gang, would affect their lives. Or should she say community? It was more like this: the undead had little in common with ordinary outlaws. The boy Hustin is good-looking, but whether he will be useful is not known and in general ... The woman honestly admitted to herself that she continues to envy the young ghoul. She knew nothing at all about her relatives. She must think, her parents died, as most noblemen. Nor did she like her friend's desire to immediately approach the unfamiliar young man. Too strong a desire, she thought. Medea was used to dividing the world into two unequal categories: there's her and Celesta, there's the rest of the world. And these parts are at best in a state of neutrality, though more often feuding. Now, seeing someone else intending to join them, she was jealous in advance.

On the other hand, what else are men for if not to make a woman's life easier?

Celesta pondered whether she could trust Tarrasch. A hard life had accustomed her to seize the slightest chance, to get into every narrow crevice. She had long understood that the Great Hunt was not only a springboard for the careers of soldiers and officials: those outsiders who had been involved in organizing the event could also make a fortune, gain influence. Fakasius, for example, provided his associates with contracts for the construction of new villages, and his men made tacit arrangements for the purchase of captured slaves in the Pit. Blacksmiths received good bonuses for making armor and weapons. Richard planned to get rich by searching the surviving ruins of the ruined city, his new powers and the five dozen men under him (plus an equal number of members of his former gang not included in the list) allowed him to assemble a good team for excavation and the subsequent removal of valuable items. The duke graciously gave the captured trophies to his servants.

The ghouls, during their life in the monastery, had managed to study the surroundings quite well, especially Medea. The looters hadn't collected everything. The girls immediately remembered a couple of dozen places where there were expensive and useful finds, ranging from stocks of canned food to warehouses of cloth. There was still a carefully assembled library left in the Pit - there was no way to take it during the escape - other hiding places with belongings. Couldn't they be taken out?

The current underground dwelling, despite some shortcomings, seemed to be a reliable shelter. And there were others. The laboratory, for instance. Perhaps it makes sense to offer Tarrasch an exchange: the ghouls point people to places with goods - in return they give part of the cost in money and help to transport the necessary items to the girls. Hustin's family will be able to get to the treasure first, without searching, and they will become rich and strengthen their status and influence. If the rumors are true, and the authorities intend to "let go of the reins," and trade will soon develop, the negligent man will be able to increase his start-up capital. With the money, the northerners can buy a piece of land for their ancestral use - an illegal transaction, but who cares about such trivialities? - Thereby climbing a step higher in the Taleya society. They will become de facto noblemen so that with time, they can formalize their transition to a higher class legally.

It makes sense to perform a complicated operation if Hustin fits her and Medea. Maybe he's a worse maniac than Carlon, just pretending to be good. There are only two months left until the day when the guards will start a general roundup of mutants, ragamuffins from the Pit, ghouls, and anyone else who doesn't fit into the current system. Suppose some marauders themselves would be glad to be among the Duke's subjects, even if in a capacity little different from that of an animal. Their lives will not get worse - rather, on the contrary. In the time remaining, the girls will have to answer an incredibly difficult question: is Hustin trustworthy? Will he join the team, or will he have to get rid of him one way or another?

Celesta had a premonition that the week ahead would be a very difficult one.

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