Novel 3. The Last Autumn

Irnitsk, unlike Miroslavl, was fortified properly — an earthen rampart studded with sharp stakes, an oak wall with covered galleries, stone gate towers, and a moat full of water. The defence against bombardments was mediocre, but the city could not fear any dashing raid from the land side. There were four gates in the wall, and the group passed through the busiest, squeezing between two merchant wagons. Just in time — soon the street was crowded with soldiers marching in columns. Real Erdosians, not Virians in Republican armour — stocky, round-faced, dark-eyed. They stretched from the harbour to the gate across the city, humming a rhythmic song in Erdosian.

The fugitives instead took a table in a tavern and left their horses at the stable. Armando, Carlon and Valria, as the most enterprising, headed for the harbour separately. Before parting, the elfess said to Don de Gorazzo, "This time, try to find someone... law-abiding. In moderation, of course. No criminal types." The story with the river pirates was still vivid in the former bailiff's mind, so he nodded silently. But he decided to begin not with the wharf, but with the taverns of the harbour. He chose, however, relatively decent ones, where the sailors of merchant sailing ships, not bandits, were supposed to drink their wages. Alas, he was disappointed. There were a lot of ships going to the Republic Islands, but they all left in three or four days, at least. This was no good — if the chase had not lost track of them, the group had barely a day's head start. One suspicious-looking skipper agreed to go to sea "even today", but demanded a huge sum in gold, and in advance, and another sailor, who called himself the first mate of the merchant holk, promised to talk to his captain. Both options did not look encouraging. Finally, the former bailiff reached a tavern in the middle of nowhere, the signboard of which was decorated with the image of a mouse or a rat clutching a gold coin. The tavern differed from in that it was one storey long, like a northern raider's house. The boarded-up building stretched from south to north, though the main room was rather cramped. "Maybe there's a warehouse and living quarters behind the partition?" — Armando surmised, approaching the innkeeper's counter. There were hardly any customers at the square tables, but there was a muffled noise coming from the wall behind the counter.

— Good day, — De Gorazzo said, not even trying to force a smile out of himself.

— Do you want a drink or...? — The innkeeper paused meaningfully, looking at his guest. He seemed to be expecting him to finish the broken phrase. Instead, Don de Gorazzo, driven mad by two hours of conversations with very slippery personalities, laid out the purpose of his visit — he needed a ship to the islands, preferably to the capital's Etaido. A big one, to take not only men but also three horses, with a decent captain who would not change course and throw overboard the contents of the hold at the sight of a patrol galleys. And to leave today.

— No one bigger than a fishing boat goes to sea today, that's for sure. — The innkeeper answered phlegmatically, resting his elbow on the bar. — Otherwise... I think you should have a chat with the "Elena's" navigator. I don't think you'll find anything better. And she's leaving before anyone else, either tomorrow or the day after.

— Where can I find him? — Armando laid a couple of coins in front of the owner of the place.

— Her. Here. At the hippodrome.— The innkeeper pointed his thumb behind his back.

— Her? — The don asked incredulously. — And what kind of hippodrome is this?

— Er, you'll see. — His interlocutor grinned a yellow-toothed grin. — Go through that door. You'll recognise the navigator at once, don't doubt it.

Armando went through the door behind the counter and found himself in a long hall, packed with people. After a few seconds, however, he realised that there were not so many people, but that the whole middle of the rectangular room was taken up by a huge low table, with people crowded along the walls. The room was well lit by the trapdoors in the ceiling, and Don de Gorazzo could easily see that the thick table top was covered by a tightly stretched fine net. Suddenly something dark, small, swift flashed beneath the netting. "That's not a table! — realised the ex-bailiff. — It's a labyrinth!" Now everything fell into place. The tavern with the rat on the sign served as a rat race. Don had heard of such entertainment many times, and even knew the details, though he had never seen a rat race with his own eyes — in Daert people preferred cards and dice. Rats were launched at one end and baited at the other. Bets were placed as at a regular horse race. A good labyrinth cost a decent amount of money and was partially disassemblable. Only the outer walls remained permanent, the partitions inside were sometimes moved, confusing the route.

— The race was almost over. — The don was approached by a bald man, apparently acting as a steward. — But there will be two more. "Domestic". Will you place a bet?

"Domestic" was the name given to races where players were allowed to use their own rats — Armando remembered that. He shook his head:

— I'm looking for a man here. "Elena's" navigator.

— Ah. — The steward pointed his finger. — There it is.

De Gorazzo looked in the direction indicated. He chuckled. It was immediately clear to him what the innkeeper had meant when he said that the Don would recognise the navigator. Standing near the labyrinthine table with one hand on her hip and the other behind her back was a tall, slender elf woman. Her skin was as dark as Carlon's, her eyes were brown, her nose was decorated with a large hump, and her shiny black hair fell in small rings just below her ears. The navigator was dressed in a white blouse with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, thin black gloves, the same colour waistcoat embroidered with red thread and trousers belted with a scarlet sash. The footwear was black over-the-knee boots without cuffs. She looked a little older than Valria.

— Wow, — was all Don said.

— Yeah, — steward chuckled, clearly expecting that reaction. — No one plays cards with elves, so she's stuck with us.

Armando carefully threaded his way into the crowd of sailors, trying not to shove anyone too hard — it was not in his plans to provoke a fight. However, the elven woman, who had been following the race, was the first to notice the stranger pushing towards her. She turned to him and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

— Are you the navigator of the "Elena"? — De Gorazzo decided, as he had done with the innkeeper, to take the bull by the horns.

— That's right, — the elf replied calmly, her voice was low and pleasant, with a faint huskiness to it. In Don's opinion, such a voice would be better suited to a much less graceful and fragile woman.

— Don't you need passengers with good pay?

— Hm-m... — the navigator wiggled her ears, just like Valria. — Can you wait a while? I can't leave yet, and talking here....

— Yes, of course.

In the meantime, the race was over. A rat with a blue ribbon around its neck was the first to reach the exit of the maze. The rat's owner, a man with a short wheat beard, picked it up in his arms:

— My beauty!

— Two more races, — the steward reminded, gesturing for the rat owners to come to him. Armando was surprised to find that the elf woman standing next to him had suddenly perked up. Her gaze was fixed on the light-bearded man, and the palm of her thin gloved hand rested on the narrow scabbard strapped to her hip. Without a word, the girl began to make her way forward.

— What are you... — the don who had followed her began in a whisper, but he did not have time to finish. The owner of the winning rat was the first to come to the beginning of the labyrinth, sat his "beauty" on the edge of the board. At the same moment the elven navigator snatched a dagger from its sheath and... threw it at the rat. The blade literally pinned the animal to the wood. A multivoiced sigh of surprise washed over the "racetrack". The crowd froze. But before the astonished sailors could come to their senses and take up their knives, the girl pointed her finger at the rat and bellowed in her low, strong voice:

— Where's blood?!

All eyes turned to the dagger-pierced "beauty". The rat was lying on its side, showing no signs of life. "It didn't even squeak at the moment of the blow," de Gorazzo thought. Steward pulled the dagger from the board and held the rat, which had been placed on the blade, up to his eyes. He frowned:

— No blood. What demon...

The light-bearded rat's owner didn't wait to see what the big bald man would conclude. He grabbed an object from his pocket that looked like a round mirror, shouted something, and a bright blue light flooded the room.

— Damn! — De Gorazzo shrieked, covering his face with his palms. There was a rumble, a crack of wood, a shriek... When the former bailiff blinked, there was a hole in the boarded wall of the room, no doubt punctured by a small explosion, several of the regulars of the hippodrome were lying on the floor, and the light-bearded man was gone.

— Witchcraft! Black magic! That stinking sorcerer! — The steward shouted, waving dagger dangerously with the rat still on it. Several other people, led by the innkeeper, poured into the room. He glanced round the room and went straight to the elf navigator, ignoring the silenced steward.

— Homa was right, it was a mage, — the navigator said, wiping away the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. — A necromancer. A low-level mage, no higher than third degree. Some underachiever who'd been kicked out of his apprenticeship by a shipyard necromancer. But resourceful.

— So his rat...

The black-haired elven woman strode through the crowd to the bald Homa, took the dagger from him, shook the unfortunate rodent off the blade. With the heel of her high boot she crushed the skull of the body that had fallen to the floor. Contrary to expectations, no brains spattered from under her heel.

— Dead, — the girl stated. — A long time ago. A reanimated rat might not run faster than the living, but it would find its way out of the labyrinth more easily. It was guided by its master mage.

— And how did you realise? — The owner of the place didn't seem particularly surprised — more like upset. — It looked alive.

— The smell. The corpse stinks.

— I don't smell it, — admitted the innkeeper. — And don't all rats stink?

— That's it. Only this one reeks of alchemy.

— Embalming! — Armando took the chance to interject. — Necromancers know how to process bodies to preserve them better.

— That's right, — the elf confirmed. — I don't think this one could make real necroconstructs, rather he only slowed decomposition, and changed rats often. Who can tell them apart?

— The asshole knew he could get caught. — The innkeeper spat on the necrocrat's corpse. — Prepared. But let him run. He'll never pull that stunt again. Thank you, you've been very helpful.

— Fyodor noticed that one newcomer was winning the races a lot, — the navigator explained, catching de Gorazzo's eye. — Asked me to watch from the sidelines while the ship was in port. We both didn't know what we were looking for, but lo and behold... it happened.

— I owe you a drink for your crew and your purse, as agreed. — The innkeeper sighed heavily. — I've got a wall to fix...

— So, I'm free. — The navigator wiped her dagger on the flap of her boot, slipped it into its scabbard. — You wanted to speak to me, messire...

— Armando.

— Messire Armando. Let's go to the common room and take a table. — The elfess held out her hand to the don. — Elena.

— Erm... Your ship? — De Gorazzo didn't understand, accepting the handshake.

— Yeah. Me, too. Also Elena. — The black-haired girl reminded Armando of Sergeant Dallan in the richness of her emotions. But at least the sergeant smiled once in a while.

— That's a human name, isn't it? I'm sorry...

— My father had named the dog Elena, in honour of a human saint he was friends with. — The navigator shrugged. — When the dog died, he named his first ship after her. When the ship sank in a storm, I was born, and my father named me after the ship. Then he bought a new ship and named it after me. Are you coming, messire...?

Chapter 6

— Anelonians aren't elves, — Valria said with a stubborn twitch of her lips, repeating it a third time as the dock loomed ahead. — They're dark-skinned, dark-eyed, almost all of them have dark hair, huge noses, and small ears. But most importantly, they sail the sea. In ships. Elves don't sail the sea. Elves respect the sea and stay away from it. Don't call Anelonians elves.

— Don't say that to the ship's captain's face. — Master Carlon glared at the girl. — You'll be the one to tow the makeshift raft that will take us to the islands. — He shook his head, seeing no sign of remorse on the elf's face. — I never thought that you, pointy-eared ones, were also somehow divided internally...

— We don't divide. — Valria snorted and lifted her chin. — I told you, Anelonians aren't elves.

— To be fair, there was some truth in Lady Valria's words. — Maria smiled faintly as she walked last. Armando never ceased to be amazed at how expressionless the smiles of this truly beautiful girl were. Perhaps it was her colourless face, where only her bright blue eyes stood out. Or in the shadow of uncertainty, the shyness that accompanied every smile. — The elves of Anelon and the inhabitants of the other forest principalities do indeed come from different branches of the elven people. There are legends that the Anelonians came to Daert long ago from across the sea, on giant rafts, and that the elven gods ignore them just as they do humans. This is why, incidentally, there are so many among the Anelonians who have accepted the One Creator. They are not only outwardly, but culturally... distinctive. But they're still elves.

— Valria is just jealous. So she's talking nonsense, — Sergeant Dallan said in a steady voice as she led her mighty warhorse. — She hasn't seen other elves her own age in a long time, and now she's afraid I'm going to like Elena the navigator. She's also not happy that the ship's captain is older than she is.

— You get used to good things quickly, — Master Carlon smirked, glancing at the golden-haired elf. — Some of the eared ones have been living among humans for too long....

— You don't know anything about elven culture, — Valria said, muffled, pressing her ears back against her temples and pulling her hat down over her eyes. — I was born in Kornath, and I owe it to my ancestors to dislike the Anelonians.

Nevertheless, the elf stopped grumbling — after all, her own attempts to hire a ship had come to nothing. The option Armando had found was the best possible. Having made sure that his companions had failed, the former royal bailiff visited the "Elena", talked to the captain, left him a deposit and agreed that the passengers would spend the night on the ship. The party entered the harbour on foot, leading only three horses — the rest of the horses had been sold by the group, having slightly improved their financial situation. The sun was low, gilding the crests of the waves and the masts of the sailing ships. It smelled of salt, tar, seaweed, and sourness. Don de Gorazzo could not vouch for the source of the last odour — perhaps a load of lemons had gone bad in the hold, or perhaps a keg of sailor's liquor had leaked on deck. After walking along the boardwalk, the travellers stopped in front of a gangplank thrown over the side of the "Elena". Sergeant Dallan threw back her head and surveyed the ship from waterline to bow. She gave her verdict: