Chapter 14

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"...How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

Medea snorted incredulously: "You're lying to me. Even the descendants of the high aristocracy were admitted to the university at nineteen, everyone knows that."

Hustin did not react to the accusation of lying. He calmly began to explain: "I have a talent for magic... had. The quality of interaction with Sources is almost comparable to the true ones. In our family were often born healers, all the Blue Mountains came to my great-grandmother for treatment. But it's a tradition: the eldest son stays in the village, while the younger ones try their luck down in the valleys. My third cousin became a chief engineer at the metallurgical plant of Vashy in his time, but he never lost contact with his family and came often. He noticed my abilities, began to give me textbooks, and encouraged my father all the time: he said that the boy should not waste his time in the countryside, let him study. Of course, his father was at one with him, it was flattering for anyone to have a wizard in his family. When I was sixteen, they brought me to Taleya and sent me to take my exams with a fake high school diploma."

"Why were the documents faked?"

"I'm a commoner," he shrugged. "It's rare for anyone to enter the University without a noble rank unless the rich tradesmen used to send their children to school. My uncle had a good friend who taught here, and he promised to help me get in if I passed my exams. But he was going to go to Belar next year for five years, so we were in a hurry."

"Did you enroll?"

"Mm-hmm. I don't know how my uncle's friend pulled it off. The papers were considered anonymously. My test score came in the first place." Hustin sighed. "Then it was revealed that if I had any divine blood in my veins, it was only the size of a cat's little finger, and I was moved to the bottom of the list. But they didn't dare kick me out altogether, though; they accepted me into the general training department."

"I think you're lying," Medea said firmly.

"No one believes me," the newbie explained phlegmatically. "I'm used to it."

The woman felt an acute urge to claw at her companion's face. The men around her always tried to brag about their accomplishments - she was used to hearing admirers brag profusely about imaginary and real victories. Her new companion and apprentice behaved very differently. And yet he liked Medea, a lot, she felt! The boy could not hide his feelings at all and clearly sympathized with the beautiful mentor.

However, his awkward compliments made her want to cry more often than to laugh.

Medea frankly admitted to herself that she was not entirely unprejudiced concerning Hustin. So what if the human - or former human - had a right to his "points"? In the old days, she would have easily justified her dislike, and the boy would have been guilty, too. Now it was the prolonged communication with Celesta that got in the way. Her friend had always soberly assessed the situation, carefully weighed the facts of her life, forming a clear and accurate picture of her surroundings. Medea had inevitably learned from her the ability to remain honest with herself.

Celesta kept her promise: she really did dump the newcomer's training on Medea. Both yesterday, refusing to escort Hustin to his designated hiding place, and today, personally engaged in communication with the poor informants. She stopped by once, handed out a pack of dinirs with a brief admonition to buy blood, along with advice to study the main passages in the sewers, and that was it. There was logic in her actions. Celesta had no intention of introducing the young man to either the Morvanites or the most valuable agents. It was all the more too early for him to know about the existence of common business with Richard or Holiness. So while Medea chatted with Hustin, trying to get as much information out of him as she could and just hoping to determine what to expect from the boy, the short undead shook up the beggarly quarters. Celesta began to look for a suitable candidate for the role of innkeeper.

"Then the Plague broke out, and transportation stopped," the young man reminded us after a short silence. "We tried to get home, but it was no use. It was a long walk. There are madmen all around, mages are being killed, beasts have broken free and mutated, the dead are rising... Well, my father thought a little, consulted with the elders, and decided to fortify in the city. There was food and shelter nearby, and if things got really bad, he could steal a boat from the port and sail to the islands. Of course, life there was not easy, but it was better than death. It was hard at first: we fought with bandits and desperados every day, then we got hold of a weapon, fortified ourselves, and the surrounding gangs stopped bothering us. It seemed to get better. Nine months later the first cholera epidemic broke out, three of our children died. I recalled everything I knew from my grandmother - I saved the grown-ups, but I couldn't save the little ones. They were too weak."

He was silent, reliving an old failure. Medea, too, was silent. She remembered the epidemic by the death of her patron, a middle-ranking gang leader, and the long line of men who wanted the former ringleader's inheritance. His woman served as a sort of "transferable prize". Each new chieftain would rape her first, sometimes giving her to his closest associates to use. She was suffering for three months, and then she was lucky enough to be killed.

"Well, when the Duke began to restore order, we supported him. Not at once, of course: he abandoned people in a difficult time. We thought for a long time. After all, we decided - better bad power than no power at all. Besides, the Duke was put on his post by the gods - whom to follow if not him? His reputation was tarnished, but maybe there was no other way to act. In short, we came under his hand. My father was now head of the blacksmiths, Karva's uncle was a foreman in the guard, and my older brother was in charge of a crew of workers in the port. So that's how it is."

Medea grinned dryly. Thanks to the powerful support of the clan, the boy didn't realize how lucky he was. His family was settling in just fine now - three men in positions to employ the others, to support and protect the women, the children. She had to stop to deal with the rage that came over her. Why, why did she have to go on that damned tour?!

"Mistress Medea." Hustin rubbed his neck hesitantly. The young undead uses the gestures they've become accustomed to from their past lives, the stinginess of movement and emotion comes later. "What are we waiting for?"

The ghoul looked at her companion: "Are you hungry?"

"Well... yeah. I didn't ask anyone for blood yesterday, so..."

"That's fine. So, what are we doing here?" Medea waved her hand gracefully around, her voice deep with the melodious intonations of a storyteller: "Always and everywhere there are strong and weak, high and low, noblemen and commoners. It is also true that there are the strong among the weak and the weak among the strong. Here, in this wasteland, live the lowest of human society - the weakest of the weak! Even slaves are better protected than these wretches, for for the death of a slave the murderer would have to answer to the Duke. The locals, on the other hand, are deprived of everything. Cripples, drunkards, desperate weaklings, just unfortunate losers who have found no place in the new life, but do not dare to end it." The woman glanced at the stunned companion, then finished in a casual tone: "Many of them would sell their blood to a hungry ghoul for a little slumber."

She pulled a bottle of murky, translucent liquid from the folds of her hoodie, which Hustin could scarcely identify as "whitewash". His family disapproved of the use of drugs, even the lightest ones, and they only drank beer on holidays. The young man hesitated. As he saw it, blood given willingly had to be paid for in kind, and drugs did not qualify as "kindness". At the same time, the local beggars did not belong to his clan - there was nothing to worry about.

"Why not with money?"

"They'll drink it up. But before they drank it up, they were bound to blab about the source of their income. We used to feed in the nicer quarters and pay in dinars, but we couldn't keep it a secret for long: the rumors would spread anyway. We had to find replacements. The beggars themselves were careful to stay out of sight of the authorities, socializing in their small circle, ready to sell their souls for drugs - they were just perfect. Moreover, no one looks after them, they are not included in any communities, and if one or two of them are missing, no one will notice. Of course, we still have connections among the poor in the community, but they are much fewer, and it is more correct to call them agents than donors."

The meeting place, by the tacit agreement of both parties, had been a vacant lot not far from the hiding-place of the poor. There were several exits to the sewers and enough piles of garbage for the ghouls to escape, and the beggars were attracted by the short distance to the house. Initially, the girls themselves fished out customers in the neighborhood, intimidated them, gave them a taste of a diluted drink, and promised them more for an appropriate fee. Gradually the need for an "advertising campaign" disappeared, and today Medea was sure that they would meet at least one sufferer. Drug addicts would sometimes stand guard on the vacant lot 24 hours a day.

"Let's go, there's the first one sitting there."

The ragamuffin was a disgusting sight, even by Taleja's liberal standards. A certain seal of doom lay across the city's inhabitants, and few were able to escape it. Most preferred to walk with their backs bowed. That smaller stratum of active people who continued to fight for existence and did not fall into despair gradually worked their way into the new elite. Tarrasch, Fakasius, Richard worked hard, looking for ways to enrich themselves, rather than sitting around bitterly whining about their broken lives. That's why they lived relatively well. Here, in the wasteland, the elements were just the opposite. Desperate people who lacked something to continue their struggle for existence - some merit.

Rottentooth Rho was one of the first to trade some of his blood for a bottle of cheap vodka. In the old days he wouldn't have picked it up, but now... All the money he occasionally earned was spent on booze. Food could be found - stealing a piece of fish in the port, rummaging through the dregs at the back of taverns, sometimes managing to moonlight or steal. Not much, of course, but it was enough to live on. Booze, on the other hand, was almost impossible to come by. Before, the beggars tried to brew their weak brew and ended up fighting. In short, when a ghoul named Celeste frightened him half to death and offered a trade, Rottentooth didn't hesitate long.

"Hello, Rottentooth," Medea smiled sweetly as she approached.

"Greetings, Mistress, greetings," the drunkard lingered, squinting warily at her companion. However, it was the girl who got most of the attention. Ever since he had drunkenly suggested that the beautiful girl should "fool around together," Rho had been wary of her. "I see you didn't come alone tonight, did you?"

"It's Hustin, he'll come by once in a while. Did you wash your hand?"

"Of course! Everything as it should be - we know the customs!"

Rottentooth nimbly pulled back the sleeve of a woman's robe over the other rags and revealed his left arm. The scrubbed area at the bend of the elbow stood out sharply against the dirt and stench of the rest of the skin. The undead, especially the hungry ones, rarely paid attention to the cleanliness of their victims, but they couldn't ignore the stench of the slum dwellers. The girls didn't want to sink their fangs into "such things".

"Excellent. Hustin, please."

"Uh... what do you mean?"

"Simple. You fix the hand so you don't accidentally tear a vein, and drink until you're full." Medea turned to the ragamuffin and explained, "Young, recently risen. Tell the others that there will be three of us coming in now."

"Well, why don't you pay extra for the risk?" Rotten Tooth grinned ingratiatingly. "He's a big man - he'll take a lot at once."

"Let's see. Hustin?"

The young ghoul stared at the scene with eyes round with amazement. In his mind, the living dead must pounce from the shadows on lonely passersby, greedily sucking the last drops of blood from their stunned victims. More than once he had seen and buried the consequences of such attacks, and later, when he grew stronger, he fought off the attacks of the city's ghouls along with the other men of his clan. He and all his acquaintances had two feelings at the sight of the living dead: fear and hatred. People either fled or defended themselves. What they didn't do was dance around in impatience: "Hurry up, sir! I'm thirsty!"

There was a contemptuous grimace on Medea's face. She was irritated by Rottentooth's drunkenness, by Hustin's inexplicably slow pace, by Celesta's assignment, and, in the end, by the hunger that was rising from within her. She hadn't had time to refuel yesterday, so today her thirst was slowly beginning to cloud her mind. What is he waiting for?

"Hurry up, Hustin."

The boy shook his head dumbfoundedly, hesitated, and with a swift movement bit into the quivering Rho's vein. There was silence for a while, interrupted occasionally by squelching noises. Medea stepped aside for fear of succumbing to temptation. The man paled little by little, but showed no excitement - it was not the first time he had shared blood. Finally, with visible regret, Hustin broke away from his arm, which the ragamuffin immediately nimbly pulled over with a filthy rag. Medea, who had returned, handed him the bottle: "Take it."

"Thank you very much, mistress." Rottentooth sat up without trying to get up and bowed. "How about a bonus?"

The woman reluctantly took a coarse tortilla wrapped in a cloth from her shoulder sack and handed it to the beggar, who was bursting with gratitude. Then, disregarding the rapturous expressions of delight, she turned to Hustin: "You took very little."

"He's weak, I'm afraid to kill him."

"They're a survivable breed," Medea's perfectly shaped lips quirked. "He'll outlive us. But that's up to you. But be warned, we won't be back here tomorrow, so you'll be on your own to cope with your hunger."

"I can do it," the guy said.

"As you wish. Now stay here and try not to be seen by anyone, I'll be back soon."

She walked lightly, confidently, toward the human silhouette that appeared in the distance. She was hungry, too.

Celesta listened to Laskash and little by little realized what incredible luck she owed to meeting the boy. Lately, the girls had been concentrating on working with other agents, so the very first knot of the weaving network of informants had fallen out of their sight. Laskash did not possess the information they needed. He was a bit dull, could not hold a conversation, did not understand what his employer wanted from him ... In short, his value in the eyes of Celesta was not high. If it were not for one "but".

The kid was lucky. As soon as he was given the right direction, successful events began to happen with frightening frequency. People say that the gods themselves help them. Andrew, incidentally, does not exclude this possibility - all sorts of strange things seen, his current form alone is worth. The locals believed in the gods with a frightening fanaticism, and they had enough reason to believe. The alien's rational mind still resisted the pressure of his surroundings, but how long would the introduced skepticism last?

The Laskash, as Celesta had originally assumed, had blabbed about his encounter with the ghoul. They didn't believe him, and then, offended by a hail of ridicule, the boy banned himself from talking to outsiders about an interesting and slightly creepy subject. In other words, it worked out well. Now he shared the gossip he had gathered quite regularly, managing sometimes to bring back real treasures, the value of which he did not understand at all.

"So why was he released from jail?"

"They're pity him," the boy shrugged. "He has two kids to feed, after all."

Varek, a former fisherman from the village of Three Brides, came to town two years ago. With his wife, brother, and three children. At first, he got a good job on one of the duke's schooners and quickly became the captain's right-hand man, respected for his skill and steadfast character. It was his proud and unyielding temper that served him poorly when the simple fisherman dared to object to the high port authority in the person of Count Lash himself. Apparently, the Count ordered to use the vessel for something very heavy, or there was another reason, but Varek got out of a good place at once. More is more, trouble does not come alone. An outbreak of cholera killed the fisherman's wife and eldest son, his brother was stabbed to death in a drunken brawl, and no one would hire the insolent brazen fellow. The man had to take odd jobs and consider joining a community. He would not be welcome among the commoners, either, but the children would be sheltered and fed.

Recently Varek got into trouble again for trying to work on the black market. He got off with a fine, even though he was usually sent to the settlements or executed for a similar offense - the modern courts did not accept other punishments. It seems that now the man was in a very bad situation and did not know how to go on.

We should take him up on that.

"Did you find out anything else interesting?"

"I don't know," Laskash fidgeted uncertainly under the ghoul's gaze. "I don't think so. The community will be moved closer to Pit in a month, we'll live there."

"What will you do? Are you still going to take out the garbage?"

"Mm-hmm. They say we'll dismantle the houses, useful materials in one pile, trash and rubble in another. Everything's falling apart, it's scary to walk down some of the streets on the outskirts," the teenager added solidly.

The newly established authorities were not without foresight. It was with the arrival of the new order that piles of rotting food were removed from basements, bodies of the dead and piles of garbage disappeared from the streets, and some of the rapidly deteriorating buildings were destroyed. As a result of the measures taken, the epidemic had been suppressed, leaving only the invariable cold and some childhood illnesses. Medicines were in short supply, so were doctors, and formerly harmless diseases regularly killed people.

"And how many communities are relocating?"

"Yes, almost all the neighbors I talked to. Though, to different places."

"The city is expanding. There is not enough space."

"Well, sort of," Laskash didn't catch the mockery in her voice. "There are a lot of people, indeed. But they say we'll move again later, they'll settle us along the roads to the big villages."

"Perhaps."

It is indeed possible. The Duke intends to control his territory, which means, at first, he will settle people in strategic nodes. In other words, in the mines, at crossroads, he will turn the present Pit into an urban suburb. He will begin to re-develop the lands that belonged to his ancestors for centuries.

Celesta leaned back slightly, pondering the words she had just heard. But she couldn't concentrate, because she was thirsty. She suddenly found herself staring at the boy's neck, thinking that she was going to bite it. It took her some effort to curb her instincts. Drinking from the Laskash is not allowed, since sometimes the girls began to make a clear division of people into agents and "cows," the latter included Morvanites, perverts of all sorts. A man must want to obey, want to feel like a victim. Only then is there a guarantee of their loyalty and silence.

Before, they were in no position to be picky. But now, having the opportunity to choose... There are people who are ready to obey always and everywhere. The led, consciously try to shift the weight of responsibility for their destinies on the shoulders of the leaders. They were few in number, these born slaves, but it was they who were of the greatest value to the undead. Celesta carefully sought out who would be among their future servants, the layer between the ghouls and human society. She watched, picking out the right qualities, paying attention to who liked the touch of her cold hands and who didn't, whether they willingly put their throats or hands to the fangs of the undead.

The "cows" were driven by two feelings: physiological desire and vanity. They liked the feel of ice-cold lips against their skin, but they liked the feeling of being a part of a mystery even more. It was so intoxicating to consider oneself a little above the rest! At least in something. To know that the creepy, undead servants of Morvan, of whom everyone whispered tales at night, were willing to talk, to protect you, and even to depend a little on your servility.

"Here," she handed the dinir to the excited boy. "If you hear anything else of interest, come back."

Hustin was temporarily lodged in a cozy little den near his former home. But it was an hour's walk at a leisurely pace. The ghouls had taken care to create temporary shelters in advance, picking two dozen nooks around the city. Nearly half were flooded from the last rainy winter, and they had to be abandoned, but the rest looked good. There was no furniture for them, though, and there was a thick layer of dust on the walls. The main dirt was removed in the autumn when they studied the dungeon, but they were not going to make any cosmetic repairs, and there was always a shortage of time. Anyway, people didn't know about Hustin's hiding place, it was relatively clean, dry, safe - what more could they want?

Celesta intercepted Medea and her "apprentice" not far from their own home. She emerged like a ghost behind the backs of her congeners, pleased to note that her friend had not noticed her appearance. Hustin is still young, it is too early to demand the necessary sensitivity, Medea is a different matter: it is much harder to deceive her. They sometimes amused themselves with such "hide-and-seek", and the score was equal.

"Have you met the ragamuffins?"

The beauty froze for a moment, then turned smoothly, bowing her head slightly, acknowledging her loss. The sly glint in her eyes said, "You're lucky now, but later..." The young man reacted more violently. He bounced back against the wall, turning around, his long knife sharply ripping through the air at throat level. Good reaction, the right one.

"We had the dubious good fortune of communicating with Rotten Tooth."

"Is he still alive? I thought he didn't have long to live."

Both girls were careful not to pay any attention to the embarrassed Hustin. They were amused by his scowl. The trio headed toward the newcomer's "apartment," discussing the night before and making plans for the next. They could have gone down into the sewers, but patrols had been less frequent lately: the majority of the soldiers had already moved to the outskirts. So they walked down the street, occasionally avoiding the occasional human passerby. Celesta pleased her friend: "I'm going with Hustin tomorrow. You are to learn all you can about a certain Varek of the Three Brides." She gave the name of a potential helper in front of the newcomer after a short hesitation. "Talk to the informers, they are out of your hands ready and answer more readily."

"Who is he?"

"Former fisherman, recently released from prison. Now he lives with his kids in the barracks on Line 7, which you also called "a bedbug den."

"It's a disgusting place with disgusting inhabitants," Medea sulked unhappily. "Why don't you talk to them yourself? You can mess with their heads the way you know how."

"No. Do it yourself," the shorter ghoul suppressed her attempt at rebellion. "Hustin, have you been robbing caravans in your mountains? Or sold weapons, stolen goods?"

"No," replied the boy, surprised.

"Maybe you smuggled, pimped, sold drugs on the streets? Also no? Well, nothing, we'll teach you," Celesta sneeringly reassured him. "We'll start with the process of drug production under the guidance of our esteemed alchemist, Stash."

"Especially since the basics of alchemy are studied in the first year of university," Medea interjected. "You're just continuing your education."

"What do you mean?" Celesta didn't understand.

"Hastin claims to have been enrolled in Taleya University of a Thousand Flows when he was sixteen years old. Unbelievable chutzpah!"

"But it's true!"

The leader of the small group stopped and cocked her head to look at the lad once more. He towered over her by a good head and a half, if not more, the spread of his shoulders and powerful arms suggesting long hours of heavy lifting. Even Medea seemed small and weak beside him. A simple, open face with blond hair and slightly naive gray eyes also did not suit the intellectual. He didn't look stupid, but that's all.

"You don't look like a wunderkind," Celesta concluded.

"Like who?"

"Never mind. So what about the university?"

Hustin began to tell his story again, more emotionally than before. Medea's words seemed to have hurt him after all. He was used to being mistrusted by people who'd first heard of his appearance at Taleya, but the direct accusation of lying outraged him. Especially from an incredibly attractive woman. He had stopped spreading his past with strangers for some time, and now only changed the habit because he perceived the ghouls as a potential new clan. It was the custom in his country for a man about to marry to spend some time in the bride's village and, on occasion, stay there for good. That is, the woman did not join her husband's family, but vice versa. Rarely, of course, but it happened. Then the groom was also looked at for a long time, checked, not in a hurry to reveal their secrets.

If, however, it was later discovered that the man had withheld something very important, had not been frank enough with his future kin, shame fell on the heads of both families. The bloody consequences of such strife lasted for centuries. No, it was better, to tell the truth from the beginning, the whole truth.

"Stop!" Celesta stopped, caught off guard by some thought. Hustin was suddenly surprised to note that her expression had subtly changed: it was as if another person was looking at him now. It was as if she were the twin of a familiar blond girl. He wouldn't have been able to articulate exactly what the difference was, but he did not doubt that it was there. "If you went to university, you must know at least a little bit about magic. Do you?"

"Not much at all. I didn't have time to start..."

"That's understandable. The question is, do you know anything about the causes of the catastrophe? Why did the magic disappear?"

"Well, there's a lot I don't know..." the young man answered thoroughly. He even put his hands behind his back in an old habit to concentrate better. He used to scratch the back of his head on such occasions, but not anymore. "Though a couple of the professors at the university said the problem was coherence. The Primary Forces suddenly stopped answering the call, so the spells lost their power."

"Medea nodded understandingly, but the smaller ghoul demanded a more detailed explanation. Hustin began to explain, carefully choosing simpler words."

"Any magical action, otherwise called a "spell", has a three-component nature. Formulation of a task, appeal to elements, and control of the result. The first stage can carry out only a magician - it is an innate skill, which, however, is developed and strengthened by long training. The second component, "appeal", is available and ordinary people, in fact, there is no difference between prayer and the call of the elemental forces. By control is understood as a preliminary check on the integrity of the structure of the spell, simply fail, if something goes wrong - the magician spells "reset" without activating."

"Before the catastrophe, the elements helped people. They gave a part of themselves in response to a request, served as an inexhaustible source of energy. Now the situation has changed: our pleas always remain unanswered. In principle, an incredibly strong mage, the True, can enchant at the expense of their own energy, but the true few. It turns out that the main part of mages, possessing knowledge, is deprived of the opportunity to use their knowledge. For the same reason household artifacts designed for ordinary people stop working - the control circuit put into them when they were created may be preserved, but there is no inflow of power to activate them."

"What was the initial impetus? Why did access to energy disappear?"

"I don't know," Hustin said. "The priests say the humans have angered the gods, and they have turned their backs on mortals."

Celesta smiled back coldly. She indicated to follow her and moved steadily down the road, thinking aloud at the same time: "If they have turned away, then not from everyone. We have more than once encountered the manifestation of supernatural forces already as undead. What do you know of the cults of Morvan and Illyar? I speak of the original faces, not of individual aspects."

"Only that it's better not to mess with them," the boy answered firmly. "We do not speak the names of these gods in the mountains."

"We saw how the priest of the Master of Hell summoned some dark fire that killed a man. The undead has no access to the temple of Illiar: there is a burning veil on the door."

Seeing Hustin's undisguised curiosity, Celesta went on to elaborate. Medea, who was walking beside her, inserted occasional sarcastic remarks, recalling her friend's stupidity. She refused to talk about Carlon, but she described in great detail the way Celesta had looked after her attempt to break into the house of the light sect leader. In her opinion, nothing good could come out of a desire to deal with the will of the formidable deities. Despite her origins, the beauty was rather poorly versed in mystical teachings: all her life she had perfected the art of dancing and singing. Instead of poring over ancient manuscripts, she spent her time at parties, surrounded by numerous admirers.

After the short narration, there was silence, broken by the faint sound of the undead's footsteps on the stone pavement of the street. From time to time nocturnal birds would call out, and from time to time the sounds of human life would be heard from the houses.

"I don't know," Hustin muttered grimly. He was shocked and saddened by what he heard. "I thought there was no magic at all, but it turns out..."

"I suspect that Garresh, the leader of the Illyar worshippers, is more aware of the situation," Celesta remarked grudgingly, turning mostly to Medea. "But I'm not ready to mess with him. Now. Maybe later, but not now. As for our former chieftain... Well, let's hope he gets his head kicked in this Hunt. Richard, for example, was very interested in the location and plans of the monastery."

"I beg you, Morvan," Medea piously covered her eyes with the palm of her hand, "take your servant to your kingdom quickly."

"You hope for nothing. They have too close and trusting a relationship to involve someone third."

Hustin stared at the blasphemer in horror. The tall ghoul, accustomed to her disrespectful friend's remarks, confined herself to a demonstrative sigh. Having once witnessed Celesta's uncharacteristic outburst of rage, and having listened to many coarse words against the higher powers of this particular world, she paid no attention to trivialities.

"Let's split up," the little slender girl with the reddish glow in her pupils stopped smiling, "there's a lot of work tomorrow. Hustin, go see your family. Ask your father if there are any plans to move the forges out of the port. If they're going to relocate the artisans to other areas. If the rumors are true, what will be placed in their place? I also wonder if he'll be able to help us move some things out of Pit. In exchange, we will point out the location of three warehouses with useful materials, canned goods, and clothing. Medea, you owe me information on Varek. Find out everything you can about him. Meet at the shelter under the crossroads of Crooked Owl."

Celeste intended to talk to the Morvanites. The fanatics had to be seen regularly; otherwise, without a visible symbol of their faith, they would start fooling around. Moreover, the lunatics were very sensitive to the desires of the leadership: the information they gathered was very accurate. However, the Dark One's servants evaluated the received news according to their own scale, poorly coinciding with the true goals of the ghouls. Communicating with them was difficult, constantly having to keep a wary eye out for mistakes. Were it not for the apparent favor of the Master of Hell, which was how the Morvanites perceived the condition of the undead, there was no telling how long they would have continued to believe the new priestesses. Now they did not allow themselves to doubt, but how long would that faith last? Celeste had long considered getting rid of the dangerous, domestic lion-like helpers - it was her unwillingness to lose an accessible source of blood that kept her away. They regarded the ghoul's bite as a kind of communion, awaited it, and were proud of it.

She decided for herself: as soon as it was no longer necessary to get rid of the Morvanites.

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