Chapter 13

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Her sister reacted to the news as expected, that is, severely. Three centuries had passed, life had changed and become different, Medea was used to her condition, but Carlon frightened her as before. Even more so - now in her eyes the priest looked not just like an outcast from that, old and cruel time, but the very real returnee from the hell realm. And that was too bad. The hysterical Medea was becoming a serious problem in itself, infecting those around her with panic.

"You look disgusting," Celesta remarked, assessing the state of her confidante. "Why did you disperse the servants?"

For the past six years, Medea had lived in her mansion, a gift from her former lover. Today the house was empty. The mortals, frightened by their mistress' inadequate behavior, had scattered.

My slip-up, Celesta admitted to herself. But when I told her about Carlon, she didn't shake like that.

She walked through the bedroom, ignoring the naked body of the young man on the bed with his throat torn open, and sat down next to her friend. She leaned against the wall, wrapping her arms around her knees as she did, and mentally cringed-it was unpleasant to see Medea like that. Scared, crushed, stiff with shock, her hair tangled and her nightgown drenched in blood. Fear paralyzed the vampiress, forcing her involuntarily to her dark form and filling her eye sockets with scarlet, extending her fangs and adorning her fingers with powerful claws.

"You chose the wrong time to be hysterical."

Medea finally looked at her, turning her head and resting her cheek against her knee.

"Do you think he didn't die then?"

"We didn't see his corpse, but the ashes could have been left by someone else," Celesta realized instantly. "Artak, Paltin, Tick... There were plenty of vampires in the monastery."

"And what if not?" The singer whispered feverishly and frantically. "What if he isn't? If he really is the chosen of Lord of Wickedness? The Older brother had served him faithfully, he knew secrets unknown to us, he said he could hear the voice of the Master! He disappeared for three hundred years - and suddenly he came back out of nowhere!"

"Yes, I wonder where he's been all this time," agreed the mistress of the city. "And why he decided to come back."

Celesta pulled her friend closer, wrapped her arms around her shoulders, and stroked her tense back. Medea broke down, and she broke down at the wrong time. Despite the demonstrated public impulsiveness and emotionality, which is considered an inherent sign of a creative person, she rarely made very rash actions, even in the most brilliant moments, maintaining inner equanimity. She simply felt powerful support behind her back and therefore did not always correctly assess the risk. But Carlon... Perhaps the old priest was the only creature she truly feared. He had too much effect on her destiny.

"I'm scared," Medea admitted quietly. "He's going to kill us."

"Let him try," the little vampire stretched her lips in a dry smile, feeling her fangs come out into the light. "I made the mistake of not making sure my enemy was dead. I should have searched the monastery more thoroughly. My fault, I admit. I won't do such a foolish thing again."

A long silence.

"Do you think it will work?"

"At least I'll try very hard," Celesta assured her friend. "Stop whining. If you want things to go our way, you have to act, not cry against the wall. Why did you kill a mortal?"

"Accidentally. He was worthless anyway," the beauty was relieved to switch to another subject. The hysteria had passed, and her appearance was returning to the familiar, human image. "I came home, sat down in an armchair, wanting to think quietly about the news. Then Donnis came in and started yelling that I didn't love him. I snapped and started yelling, too. So..."

Celesta just shook her head.

"Hustin claims to have sensed a stranger in the city, and it was not Kalderan. It is more likely that stalkers were sent after the defector."

"It doesn't get any easier."

"Calmed down?"

"Yes. I think so," Medea smiled awkwardly. "Thank you for coming. I don't know how long I would have sat like this."

"Good." The mistress of the city stroked her friend one last time on the sticky hair and stood up. "Tonight rest and fix yourself up, and tomorrow go scare Tulak. He must realize that an ancient mad vampire, a priest of Morvan, is coming to the Capital and wants to create a plague epidemic here. Press the threat to the ruling house and the chancellor personally. We are doing our best to catch his scouts, but we need help. Do not speak of Kalderan. In a word, make our amiable baron shake - he mustn't get under my feet."

"And you?"

"And I really want to catch this or those vampires who came to my town without asking," Celesta replied dryly. "I have some questions for them. And besides, we need to prepare for Carlon's imminent arrival. Hide the youth, make arrangements with the allies... Distract the palace scum - I can't be bothered with them right now."

"I'll try," Medea finally smiled.

Events so far were proving the old adage that trouble never comes alone. The vampires, or more accurately, the top of Taleya's undead, were preparing to pull off the most complicated and dangerous intrigue of their existence when news of the appearance of a peculiar "tribute from the past" arrived. The leader of the risen doubted whether they would be able to solve each problem separately...

There is no choice, we will have to take a risk. First to deal with Carlon and his henchmen, at the same time hiding behind the hunt for a priest from the scrutiny of the Secret Service, then throw all the resources to free themselves from slavery. And the word "all" means absolutely all resources accumulated over the centuries: knowledge, allowing to blackmail officials documents, money, connections in the commercial and military environment, acquaintances in the circles of priests and magicians - any advantage must be used. Even if their forecast of events is correct, it is not certain that it will be possible to get out of the forthcoming bloody squabble without losses.

We need allies, even if temporary and unreliable.

It may seem from the outside that it is difficult to find a person in a big city. In a large crowd, it is supposedly easy to hide, to pretend to be an ordinary gray philistine, busy exclusively with his affairs and carefully not to get involved in other people's. In fact, it is not so - inconspicuous without a long preparation is difficult to become. Any newcomer becomes the object of intense interest of old ladies, neighborhood watchmen, neighbors, kids, a romantic girl from next door... And if he stands out from the crowd in any way, soon enough rumors about him will reach the guards.

It's even harder for vampires. In theory, they can get lost among humans, but in practice, they need long, painstaking work to create a suitable legend. This is possible only in a quiet environment, in their territory. Otherwise, the rebel would have to seek shelter for a day, feeding on a certain contingent of mortals, carefully hiding the corpses, and trying not to come into contact with the spheres of influential people. If they notice, they will be hunted down; a loner cannot fight the system (unless he understands the mechanism of the system in detail).

The web of search weaved quickly and inexorably. Street thieves, beggars, owners of posh taverns and eateries, bribed guards, merchant guards, bandits, prostitutes, market keepers... Everyone knew of the two risen who dared to go against the Night Mistress. The flow of information was increasing, and the four of Latham periodically took off and went to check on the reports they had received from informants. So far without success, but Celesta was not worried - if the enemy was still here, it was only a matter of time before they were caught.

The main trump cards have not yet come into play. Hustin had already arranged with the leadership of the Academy, and in a few hours, the mages will perform a ritual, casting a network of tracking spells over the city. Whether or not the outsiders can hide from the sorcerer's gaze is not so important - in any case, they will give themselves away. And there are still stirring temples, by this time surely aware of the actions of the undead and wishing to join in the game. Under the guise of catching the "wild" undead, you can pull a lot of combinations, and just a reputation among the lower classes to improve.

Using card terminology, Celesta habitually analyzed her condition. So I'm worried.

The official authorities also promised help, not wanting a repeat of the Lascaris incident. At least in words. In reality, there was a lot of confusion among the various parties, and the help from the city guards was late. Looks like someone would have liked a little street rioting. A predictable course of events.

There may be more than two scouts, the vampires pondered. Hustin sensed one, and Kalderan claims that Carlon truly trusts few and tries not to let his "flock" leave him. Still, I'd send a larger unit ahead, at least three of the older ones, with mortal support. Though it's unlikely this lunatic would use humans, except for one-off actions.

On the whole, the search did not bother her and served as a distraction. A decision had to be made, a difficult one, one that might jeopardize everything she had achieved over the past centuries. The emergence of Carlon forced her to take a step more dangerous than trying to throw off the yoke of the secret service. The force she was about to turn to for help was far more unpredictable and old.

The vampiress leaned back in her chair, watching the man before her from beneath half-closed eyelids. No matter how you deny it, being does define consciousness. The activities that require meticulousness and precision inevitably affect the performers - just as artists need constant emotional turmoil. Being surrounded by general hostility for so long and always being ready to stab in your back also takes its toll. In the after-life of any risen, there are enough complications to make the habit of not trusting anyone second nature, and Celeste was no exception.

The circle of people she really trusted was not wide, and strangely enough, it was more than half were human. A special place in it was occupied by Shorgot, who was now writhing before the night mistress of the city, awaiting orders. The man was not accustomed to urgent calls and now wondered what the mighty patroness would require of him.

In the minds of the vast majority of people, the word "magician" was firmly associated with a noble origin. Among commoners, bearers of the gift were extremely rare. Despite the abundant bloodletting received by noble families during and immediately after the Plague, aristocratic women still bore children capable of performing miracles for their own needs. Not as often as before, and mages' abilities were now severely limited by their reserves, but wizards continued to play a significant role in Taleya's life. However, life does not want to submit to the frameworks established by society, and so there are mishaps. For example, some baron will have fun with a pretty maid, and she will have a child who can read the mother's aura from the cradle. Or, say, a noble lady has an affair with a brilliant officer of the Guards and gives the unwanted child to the faithful nurse. And so the child will grow up not knowing about his origins and sincerely believing his stepmother to be his mother.

The blood made itself felt, and wizards still appeared among the lower classes. As a tendency, their fate was not the most enviable. Commoners harassed the gift holders, there was no one and nowhere to learn them, but most importantly, the aristocrats were afraid to lose their monopoly on sacred knowledge. Therefore, the found practitioners were either killed on the spot or transferred to the Academy, where noble magicians had long cherished the idea of developing a ritual to take someone else's power. Until now, no one had survived the experiments.

Shorgot was lucky twice. His gift manifested itself at a mature age, and the boy was smart enough not to tell anyone about the noticed feature. The second time luck smiled on him was when a small merchant, fighting off bandits, caught Latham's eye. The undead warrior quickly chopped up all witnesses to the incident and delivered the lad himself, who was trying to frighten his attackers with simple tricks, to the dark eyes of his mistress. Celesta, naturally, was interested in the rare mortal - she had long wanted to start something like a pocket sect of mages, but the opportunity never came. She offered Shorgoth training and seed money to get things rolling in exchange for faithful service and complete secrecy. The man, after a brief deliberation, agreed - and in time became one of Mistress Thaleya's confidants. Despite Hustin's efforts, he did not become a particularly skillful magician, but he always used his abilities effectively and to the point.

"There's an assignment for you." Celeste considered one last time whether she was doing the right thing, and cast aside her doubts. Hard times call for hard decisions. "You go to Leatherman Street, find Master Garresh there. Do not hide yourself, but try not to draw too much attention. You will tell Garresh... Tell him that the risen Celesta asks for advice and is ready to come for him at any time convenient for the master. That's right, word for word."

In addition to his other virtues, Celeste valued Shorgot for his ability not to ask unnecessary questions. Despite the intense amazement in his eyes - the Dark Mistress herself would humiliate herself before a mere commoner. - he confined himself to asking: "Will he does not call the guards, Mistress?"

"I don't know," Celesta admitted. "So be careful. I have no idea what to expect from him. Go ahead."

The man bowed and left, leaving the mistress alone to ponder whether she had just made a serious mistake.

The door opened, and a lightly armored figure appeared in the opening.

"New message, Messen. It seems that this time it is not worthless."

Latham curled his lips in a dry chuckle.

"How many of these "not worthless" have we checked in the last 24 hours? Six? Or seven? Yes, seven, if you count that visit to the city jail."

"I hear our popularity in the city has grown tremendously since that incident," the deputy shrugged without a trace of remorse. "Nobody likes jailers. But it seems true now - they found a bloodless body with its throat ripped open in that area, and I don't think it was one of ours."

The knight froze for a moment, like a snake before the bite, then rose gently to his feet: "Is the squad ready?"

"Of course, Messen."

The search for the intruders fell almost entirely on his shoulders, and Latham was well aware of why. The Mistress was in charge of general management and had no time to deal with private matters, Medea, Gardoman, and Hustin were strong in their directions and weak in the others, Zervan... At the thought of the bandit, the knight felt a half-remembered desire to spit. The filthy lowlife was also looking for outsiders with the help of his "subordinates" from among the inhabitants of the city bottom, but he has fewer opportunities. In any case, Messena forbade Zervan to try to take the enemies himself. The elder himself is not a bad fighter - experience and strength replace his lack of brains - but the rabble he leads is nothing but grease for blades.

Latham's squad is made up of undead of a very different category. They were the ones who belonged to the warrior class during their lifetime and died in battle, that is, with a special kind of character, training, and worldview. Hee had to collect them literally one by one. The initiative to create a kind of analog of the Guard belonged to the Mistress, who wished to have at her command a team of versatile fighters who can kill demons, and suddenly quell the riot, to quickly deal with the interfering mage, and if necessary, and the monastery cut. Not feeling unnecessary emotions, not freely interpreting the order, but also not doubting its necessity. There were now four of them; he, the commander, the only one who retained his clan magic, was the fifth. The others had to rely on their mastery of weapons and the few abilities developed under Maestro Hustin's tutelage.

At the leader's arrival, the rшыут scurried about. While the group awaited new orders in the back rooms of the vampire-owned tavern, they passed the time playing dice, wondering quietly about their mistress' plans. Latham strode toward the exit, making a slight gesture with his hand and noting with pleasure how the others followed him without a word. His right to command had long since been unquestioned. Though birth-at-night cleared away old debts, still the blood is blood. He had no right to a title now, but he continued to be called "lord," the ancestral spirits had not deprived him of their grace, and Messena Celesta had drawn him closer to her and trusted him in serious matters.

"Here, High One." The fidgety mortal guide stopped, pointing to the narrow passage between the houses. "We didn't touch the bodies."

Latham nodded, tossed the man a small coin, and made his way down the alley. The corpse looked fresh, and it seemed that the commoners who had found it had indeed confined themselves to searching their pockets without leaving much of a trail. The knight crouched down, held the dead man's hands to his nose, and breathed deeply. Yes, there was a faintly sour smell wafting through the stench of sweaty, filthy flesh, torn bowels, and coagulated blood. A vampire had really committed the murder- mortals hadn't yet learned to fake the scent of the undead. Though they'd tried, yes.

"Redgie."

Everyone in the squad knew how to search for traces of dark creatures, but Redgie was the best at it. Now, the sensor knelt on one knee, felt the ground with his fingers, found something invisible, sat there for a while, carefully memorizing the imprint of another's essence, picked up the thread, as he called it, - and moved confidently forward, leading the squad behind him. Judging by the silence, the energy of the trail was unfamiliar, which meant that the murder was not the work of one of his kind. So much the better. Killing people for food was considered a bad sign and indicated the possibility of regression, so normal risen tried to get rid of potential ghouls.

I didn't have far to go. After four crossroads, the trail diverged into the yard of a half-burned-down house that looked like it had been torn down twenty years ago and abandoned since. It's a nice hideaway, as long as mortals don't show up here.

"Vantal."

A short risen with two short blades on his belt gave a low, nasty squeal. Despite his comrade's strange behavior, the rest of the undead stayed still, as if it were the right thing to do. Soon their patience was rewarded - out of the roadside ditch cautiously peeked a gray face. The big gray rat sniffed the air suspiciously, peering warily at the figures frozen in the shadows. Vantal squatted on his haunches, continued his affectionate squeak, and took a piece of jerky from his pouch, offering his tailed guest a treat. The rat hesitated a little but came over. Apparently, this was to her liking, for after a brief inspection she swiftly grabbed it, chewing on it in a matter of moments while crouched on her hind legs. Vantal immediately took out a second piece, this time more graciously.

The rat ate the third bite, sitting on the risen's palm. It calmed down completely and without fear allowed the two-legged creature to bring itself close to its face, trusting the strange fellow who had treated it to such delicious food. Her beady eyes gazed directly into the risen's eyes, her tail sagged, her little brain showed images without resistance, answering the silent questions her older brother asked.

"They're up there," Vantal reported. "Two of them, lying down in the attic. They went down into the dungeon once, but they didn't like it, so they never went down again."

Latham nodded, indicating that he had heard. He could expect no more from the rat, for his small mind was incapable of operating in complex categories. She'd already helped a lot by informing them of the entrance to the city catacombs. Whether the intruders liked it or not but it was necessary to block the possible escape route.

If only we knew how old they are and what abilities they have!

The vampires had a general idea of the inner structure of the building, they were not afraid to disturb the neighbors, and there was not much time left before dawn. Latham considered his options and decided that in such a situation, the Dark One himself told him to start the seizure. Why be afraid? His five men could handle far greater dangers than a couple of undead, even if they had some training. And the mistress is very much in need of prisoners: a renegade she does not trust...

Inaudibly, like ghosts, the undead entered the courtyard. Without fuss, but not in a hurry; smoothly, but not lingering anywhere; not making unnecessary movements, and at the same time in complete control of the visible space, they entered the house one by one. They walked carefully, treading on sturdy beams or stone ledges against the walls, making sure that not a single board creaked. A man with any acute hearing would not have heard them. Unfortunately, they were now confronted by creatures at least slightly inferior, if not equal. As soon as the five men had reached the second floor, they seemed to be sensed.

When not even a sound came from above - not even a short rustle, a shadow of movement - the squad froze. At once, as if it had received a command from a common unified consciousness. The wolves of war, who instantly grasped the change in the situation, froze in complete stillness, merging with the walls and waiting for the commander's order. To storm? Or wait until dawn to let the strangers weaken or, with any luck, fall into a daytime stupor? Elixirs taken before the operation would prolong their wakefulness, though not for long. Latham did not hesitate long. He did not trust the alchemists' designs, especially since the potions cost insane amounts of money and it would be better to save them. In the strength of his fighters, the knight was confident.

Two guardsmen, obeying gestures, returned to the courtyard and began to climb the walls cautiously. They would be the first to act. They would knock, make noise, pretend they were going to break in through the boarded-up windows. They would divert attention, allowing the main group to win a few precious moments. Only then, when they hear the sound of fighting, will they really try to get inside or, if necessary, try to stop the game that found a way to escape. The remaining three, showing no sign of impatience, waited.

Slow heartbeat. Breath oozing in a thin trickle. Relaxed muscles, ready to burst into a whirlwind of rapid movement. Slightly bowed heads, listening attentively to the slightest rustle, waiting for the signal to start the assault. Soon, soon... Come on!

Latham could not explain why he had chosen that particular moment. Just someone immeasurably ancient and savage, unable to reason but able to act, pushed from within, "Go!" And the risen man flew up the stairs, only the tips of his toes touching the rattling steps in time, feeling Vantal tearing after him just as easily and swiftly from behind. The hinges of the trapdoor, which covered the attic door, were snapped off by the seemingly weightless clap of an open palm, flung aside, and before he could hit the floor, Latham burst inside.

Actually, the targets had been allocated in advance, but the plans, as usual, did not stand the test of reality. The two strangers, though distracted by the incomprehensible rustling outside the windows, met the guardsmen in full armor. The first, a tall man in a brown cloak of coarse cloth, at once tried to slash at Latham with a broad, short blade across the neck, hoping if he succeeded in doing so to sever the spine and put his foe to a final rest. His partner, who had a luxurious, deep scar across his face, did otherwise. He picked up a piece of the girder that was lying on the floor and tossed it toward the hatch in a cartwheel, trying to block the path of the other attackers. Part of his attempt succeeded - though Vantal managed to get to the loft, Redgie, who was following, had to stop, letting the heavy log above him and lose his pace, and then move the obstruction aside.

A half-successful attempt to block the entrance was the stranger's final success. Latham swung back sharply and let the cleaver pass over his head, simultaneously swinging his short blade at belly level. He missed, too, but with his attack, he forced his opponent to retreat. The enemy took a step backward, preparing to strike again. Latham, who had regained his balance, did not give him the chance, snapping him sharply as if with a whip and jabbing at his near-open wrist. The cloaked wrist fell to the dirt floor, and the cloak opened its mouth in a soundless cry, but the enemy did not have time to make a sound before the knight drove his fist into his face, crushing his jaw and teeth.

Things were not going so well for Vantal, not because his opponent was too strong, but because of his tactics. In simple terms, the second stranger tried to escape. He took off running from his attacker, and would probably have hit the timbers that covered the window way with his own body if a knife hadn't been aimed at his back. The silvered blade didn't do much damage, but it tripped him and threw him off his path. Vantal took advantage of the scarface's momentary hesitation to half-jump and half-drag his foot off the floor, then leaped up like a compressed spring and struck his hand to the temple. His skull cracked, and the unconscious stranger collapsed backward, wheezing.

The planks covering the windows snapped off the walls and flew down, and the group members who had stayed behind climbed into the holes, but there was no particular need for their help. The wounded prisoners were already being tied up with specially prepared ropes. At the same time, as a precaution, they each had magic-blocking amulets attached and a bottle of debilitating tincture poured down their throats. They did not interrogate them, though intellectually they should have done so. Latham admitted, self-critically, that they had overdone their task, so their prisoners would not be able to speak today, and that they had little time before sunrise. The capture itself took about thirty seconds, but it took at least an hour to prepare.

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