Oleg Zdrav We weren't here. Golden code
Cambridge and Ely, December 1958
On the last Saturday of the term, they wake up early in the morning in Jim's room, sneak through a hole in the hedge undetected and take a bus to Ely.
The transparent sun hangs low, as if resting on the horizon, and barely illuminates the surrounding swampy lowlands. The wind is easterly today. It has been blowing in the city for several weeks now, forcing passers-by, whose mouths are steaming in the frosty air, to tie their scarves tighter. But there are no buildings to stop its rampage, only acres of frozen dirt and low, crooked trees.
- When are you going to get ready? he asks. Tomorrow they are both leaving: Jim by train at noon, and on the way will spend another day with his Aunt Frances in Crouch End; Eva - after lunch, at her parents' "Morris Minor" with younger brother Anton, who will sit in the back all the way, tired and irritated.
- In the morning, I think. I need an hour or two, no more. And you?
Jim takes her hand in his. His hand is cold, hard, forefinger hardened from working with a brush, dried paint under my nails. Last night he finally showed Eva the portrait; Jim removed the old canvas with the ease of a magician, but Eve could see how nervous he was. She did not admit that she had already looked at the picture a few days ago when Jim went to the bathroom; the resemblance struck her. Just layers of paint - but it was herself, created by quick, light movements his brushes, very similar and at the same time somehow different, unearthly. A week has passed since Eva went to the doctor. It was unbearable to look at the picture, see this gift and remain silent. What can we say?
She is silent again, looking at the wasteland running past. Somewhere in the front seat of the bus, a child is crying hoarsely, and his mother is trying to calm him down.
“The period is eight weeks,” said the doctor, looking carefully into her eyes, “perhaps twelve.” You need to start getting ready, Miss Edelstein. To you and yours...
He did not finish the sentence, and Eva did not finish finishing the sentence for him. She thought only about Jim and the fact that they had only known each other for only a month and a half.
If Jim notices her silence, he doesn't ask questions. He doesn’t say anything either, his face is pale, there are circles under his eyes from fatigue. Eva knows: he doesn’t want to leave, to return to a Bristol apartment that he doesn’t consider his home. For Jim, this is just a place that his mother rents. His home is in Sussex, where he was born; there are walls of rough gray stone and roses in the garden. My father paints in a workshop set up in the attic; mother sits with little Jim or mixes paints, rinsing turpentine jars in the storeroom on the first floor. Vivian was there when her husband fell down the stairs clutching his chest; she ran out of the closet and found him downstairs, with numerous fractures. Jim was at school at the time. Aunt Patsy took the boy and brought him to the place that suddenly ceased to be home; The police were already crowded there, the neighbors were making tea, and the mother was sobbing non-stop until the doctors who arrived calmed her down.
In Ely the bus stops near the post office.
“The final one,” the conductor announces, and they are the last to go to the exit, still holding hands. In front of them is a mother with a child who has finally fallen asleep, and an elderly couple: a man with a flattened hat and a stern expression on his face, and a woman, a good-natured plump woman. As she exits the bus, she meets Eva's gaze.
– Is everything just beginning for you? - asks the fat woman. - Have a nice day, both of you.
Eve thanks and snuggles closer to Jim. It's cold outside.
- Shall we see the cathedral? - Jim suggests. – Last year I listened to a concert here in honor of the meeting of the Law Society and at the same time went on an excursion. A nice place.
Eva nods; she agrees to everything that Jim offers, just to stay close to him, just so that that inevitable moment does not come longer when she will have to tell him the truth about herself and what she must do.
And they go, wrapped in scarves, to where the cathedral spiers rise, their chopped forms reminiscent of fortress towers; their walls are marked by time, and these traces are clearly visible in the dim winter light. Suddenly Jim stops and turns to Eve, his face turning red.
– You don’t mind, do you? Well, should we go to the cathedral? I didn't even think about it.
She smiles.
- Well, of course, I don’t mind. I don't think God minds. First of all, Eva is stunned by the huge space of the cathedral: the columns endlessly stretch upward to the vaulted ceiling, and there is a mosaic of tiles on the floor.
“A labyrinth,” Jim explains, “with God at the center.”
In front, under a huge panel of colored glass, there is a golden screen, and behind it an altar covered with expensive white cloth. They walk slowly along the main nave, sometimes stopping to look at the ceiling, decorated with gold, red and green designs. A star is visible in the center; on the tablecloth that Eve's mother sets the table on Shabbat is almost the same, although this one - Eve counted - has eight rays, not six.
“An eight-pointed star,” Jim explains quietly, almost in a whisper. Eva looks at his living, moving face, and love overwhelms her: this feeling is so huge that she can barely breathe.
“How,” she thinks, “how can I leave him?”
And yet she will have to do it. One day, lying awake in her room in Newnham, listening to the creaks and sighs of the old building, Eve allowed herself to dream: she imagined that she had confessed to him, and the expression on his face changed, and then everything was resolved.
“It doesn’t matter,” the imaginary Jim said and hugged her close. “Nothing matters, Eva, if we are together.”
For now, these are all just dreams, but Eva knows that they can still come true. The real Jim, who is now standing nearby and looking at the high vault of the cathedral (how you want to touch his face and reach his lips with your lips), is capable of such words. That is why, that morning, when the college began to wake up around her, she decided not to give him a chance, not to allow the person she loved - with his talent, with his huge plans, already struggling with his mother's illness - to inevitably find himself in a trap , becoming the father of someone else's child. Jim will say that he can do it, and he really can do it. But she will not allow him to make such a sacrifice.
A few days ago, he and Penelope were sitting in an embrace in Eve’s room, and even best friend did not try to dissuade Eva.
– What if David refuses? – asked Penelope. – What are we going to do then?
How grateful Eva was to her for this “we”.
- He will agree, Pen. And if he refuses, I'll think of something.
“We’ll figure something out,” Penelope corrected her, and Eve did not argue with her, although she knew that she and David would have to bear this burden, and no one would help them here. Neither Penelope nor Eve's parents. She believed that Miriam and Jacob would understand everything, and how could it be otherwise, considering their own story? Still, the thought of leaving university, returning to Highgate, and being back in my old room, pregnant and alone, was unbearable.
In her diary she wrote: “I chose Jim and I can’t leave him. But it’s not just me who makes decisions now.”
Jim, standing in the middle of the cathedral, continues to say: “The monks built new columns after the old ones collapsed one night.” Most likely there was an earthquake. So they wanted to show that they would not retreat in the face of the elements.
Eva nods. She doesn’t know what to answer, how to convey the feeling growing in her chest: love, but at the same time sadness for everyone who left. By Jim's father, lying in an unnatural position at the foot of the stairs; for Eva's grandparents on both sides, for all her aunts and uncles, cousins. They were herded into trains like cattle, and they suffered from thirst and darkness, did not understand anything, only guessed where they were going, and were afraid of this, but still hoped. They probably hoped last moment when it became clear that nothing could be done.
Jim seems to guess what she's thinking and squeezes her hand.
- Let's light a candle.
At the western entrance you can see a stand with a dozen lights flickering on it. Below is a box with a slot for money, next to it are candles. Eva takes a few coins out of her wallet, drops them into the slot, takes candles in memory of all the grandparents, lights them and places them on the metal bottom of the stand. Jim takes only one - in memory of his father; They, holding hands, watch the flames flare up, and Eve again feels Jim’s fingers, rough from work. She wants to cry, but tears cannot convey everything she feels now - closeness to him, memories, hope, anticipation of separation.
They eat thin vegetable soup in the cathedral refectory and slowly wander through the city. The sun is setting, the wind is ruffling your hair; the warm interior of the bus becomes a salvation. Eva takes off her shoes and puts her feet on the radiator under the seat. She doesn't intend to sleep, but almost immediately drops her head on Jim's shoulder. He wakes her up already in Cambridge.
- We have arrived, Eva. You slept the whole way.
Only now Eva tells Jim that she, unfortunately, will not be able to spend the evening with him, she needs to do something. Jim protests: after all, the day after tomorrow they will leave and won’t see each other for four long weeks. Eve says: “Yes, that's right, I'm very sorry, but...” She leans forward, kisses him and forces herself to leave without turning around, although Jim calls out to her several times, but there is nothing more she can do.
She walks to King's Parade without slowing down. tall towers the entrance to King's College casts long rectangular shadows on the paving stones. Eve stops near a lamppost, ignoring the curious glances of the guys in black robes who are rushing to the end-of-semester dinner. She'll miss the same dinner in Newnham, but she doesn't care. Eva cannot imagine ever going hungry again in her life.
The gatekeeper looks at Eve with undisguised disapproval.
“The gala dinner is starting, miss.” And Mr. Katz should be there.
“Please,” she repeats, “I need to talk to him urgently.”
David appears a few minutes later.
- Eva, what happened? - he asks in an anxious whisper. - Dinner is about to start.
Then he peers into her face and softens her tone. Eve remembers how David looked when she said that everything was over between them, how he seemed to shrink from these words.
“But I chose you,” he said then, and all she could say in response:
- Sorry.
Now David takes off his robe and hangs it on his arm.
- OK. Went. Let's eat something at Orel.
Later, when they had discussed and planned everything, Eve would return to her home in Newnham and write a letter. Then he would get on his bike and ride through the dark streets to Clare, where he would ask the gatekeeper - he was watching TV and smiling, looking first at the screen and then at Eve - to accept a letter for Jim Taylor.
Then Eve quickly leaves without turning around, so as not to accidentally see him. Not wanting to look back at all the things that could have happened.
I knew them - both the dog and the wolf cub. Nord was very good, but all Great Danes, in my opinion, are good - and I didn’t pay attention to him. I was interested in the Sultan, who was raised for the arena. A wolf working in the middle of a crowd of people is a rare occurrence. For a wolf, not even frightened by a raid, human voices from all sides, breathing, movement - signs of a raid. Wolf cubs gain intelligence even when they suck; they learn from their mother wolf who their first enemy is.
Lyusya, a young trainer from Durov's Corner, has long wanted to raise a wolf cub. Trainers meticulously select their animals, but here they brought a single wolf cub, and there was no need to think twice. Yes, no one would be able to guess what kind of character lies in a whining lump with a childishly clouded gaze. The age of the wolf cub was encouraging - he was about ten days old - and the fact that he was small even for that age. He did not latch onto the pacifier and was initially pipetted.
Lucy did not part with him either at night or during the day. Because of the wolf cub, she wore a jacket, belted, and he slept under her jacket, and on hot days Lucy carried him in a market bag. He traveled on trolleybuses and electric trains and swayed in his bag, floating above the sidewalk. He got used to the smells of asphalt and motor oil, to the smell of the crowd and listened to the noise of the streets.
Then they began to lead Sultan on a chain. Some wolves can be confused with a shepherd dog. But in the Sultan, in his appearance and especially in the way he, growing up, began to cuddle up to walls and fences, there was something so definitely wolfish that passers-by stopped, saying:
The wolf is being led!
In Lucy's apartment, explanations began. While Sultan was little and the handsome, good-natured Nord was escorted from a walk along the corridor, the neighbors did not protest. But when, huddling in corners, insultingly running away from people, the little animal began to sneak through the apartment, the neighbors could not stand it. And Lucy, although her mother did not let her go, decided to move to another place for a while.
A house next to Durov's Corner was being demolished. In this house one room and a dark closet were still intact. Perhaps the closet once went beyond the kitchen, because it had a tap.
This is where Lucy settled.
In mid-August, she and her trained animals went to a pioneer camp for a day. I stayed with the wolf cub and the dog for the night.
1
At ten o'clock in the evening I found the key under the sagging steps of the porch and unlocked the door, behind which a delighted dog was stomping. He almost knocked me over in the dark, but I managed to quickly connect the hooked ends of the wire, and the room was illuminated. The wolf cub was sitting on a chain under the window, looking from under his brows, and his tail, although timidly, still scurried across the floor in a welcoming manner.
I sat down on the ottoman. The ottoman was a broken mattress placed directly on the floor, covered with burlap. A faded vygon blanket was thrown on the mattress; there was no pillow. So Lucy sleeps, leaving her soft white bed.
They advised me to hide everything from the wolf cub, even hang my shoes on the wall when I went to bed. For now, I hang my backpack on the highest nail. The dog, leaning his front paws on the wall, rises to his full gigantic height, sniffs the backpack - and I notice that the room has a low ceiling.
I go look out the window. The dog walks nearby. When I look out, he, leaning against me, looks out too. And the wolf cub backs into the corner, pulling the chain to the limit.
Together with Nord we look at the street. First floor. Weeds right next to the window. Our light reaches the fence, thickly shrouded in ivy. On the other side there is a linden tree, a wide branch is lowered towards us. Silence. The dense dream of an old Moscow courtyard, living out its century...
The Sultan rushes towards me, rattling his chain. He fusses, licks his hands, jumps towards his face. I want to pet him, but he shrinks away. I put my hand on Nord’s head, the wolf cub widens his eyes, tenses, as if he was commanded: “At the start, attention!” As soon as I start talking to Nord, the Sultan takes off. He must be jealous or gain confidence in me because of the dog. But his trust is short. I reach out to him - he shrinks all over and crawls into a corner. The wolf cub has grown up - probably the most unsuitable for training of the entire brood...
I remember Lucy: “What will I do if he’s afraid of the arena? What will happen to him then!
2
Tugging up my sleeve, I select the best pieces for the wolf in a half-bucket saucepan, as instructed, and place them in a smaller saucepan. I feed each one separately. Nord is head over heels, the wolf cub manages to peek out of his saucepan. Looks like he's looking over glasses.
Finally Nord moved away and collapsed - he was full. And the wolf cub is full. He pulled the last one out onto the floor, then licked one piece, then another. He begins to chew sluggishly.
I remove the dishes and release the Sultan from the chain. I take out a thermos, a cup, and cookies from my backpack. I lie down on the mattress. It turns out that everyone loves cookies. The little wolf catches cookies from afar. I pour a second cup of tea. I screw on the empty thermos. It's time to sleep.
How did I imagine this night?
I didn’t think about the dog, about Nord. This one will lie where he wants. And the wolf cub will be with me on the ottoman. He is a timid, mistrustful wolf cub, but I will be able to assure him in the dark, in the silence of the room, in the peace of home at night...
I lower the mug onto my lap. The wolf cub is trying to open the dog's mouth with its nose. This is what puppies do when the father wolf returns, having swallowed meat, this is how they force the prey to be thrown out to them. But the Sultan is full! Is he really capable of eating more?
The dog jumps up with a roar that is truly lion-like. The wolf cub, crouching, whining, leaving touching puddles, pursues Nord. I'm guessing it's an old relationship. Nord howls with frustration - apparently, he has long been tired of the annoying wolf offspring.
Whining, pitifully stretching his lips, steps, steps, sideways, the Sultan approaches with a smooth, foxy, ingratiating face. Snarling, Nord dodges. Nord growls in warning. And before he has time to turn away, the puppy quickly puts his sharp nose into Nord’s mouth.
Nord spits out the wolf's muzzle. Nord is exhausted. Moaning, he gnaws at his hated head. The wolf cub squeals, and he climbs and climbs into the mouth.
Nord is furious. He could have killed the puppy long ago... I take a closer look. Nord doesn't bite, he quickly, finely pinches, as if he were cutting off a wolf's forehead with a clipper.
Once again spat out, the wolf cub is slobbered, disheveled, pitiful. But he has iron character. He gets his way - and I think I'm starting to understand him.
3
Nord gave up. He voluntarily took the Sultan's head into his mouth. Both stand without moving. A large wolf's eye peeks out from the side of the dog's mouth.
Sultan has a thin, thin tail. The time will come, his tail will turn into a magnificent marvel, it will sway smoothly, expressing the feelings of the wolf without fuss and with dignity. Now the tail is trembling pleadingly: Nord pulled away. The tail freezes: Nord hums without malice and puts his paw on Sultan. The Sultan hastily falls down, the dog takes him by the neck. Pathetic neck! She still has to become powerful enough to withstand the weight of the sheep that you carry to your children... For now, a Great Dane can bite through three such necks at once.
I notice that Nord now treats the wolf cub differently. Just now it seemed to me that he was capable of strangling a wolf cub, but now it doesn’t seem so. And the wolf cub caught the difference. Previously, as soon as the dog abandoned him, he would creep and crawl - now Sultan quickly gets to his feet and waits. And from that moment, as he, looking sideways at the dog, confidently waits, knowing that the job is done and Nord will run up on his own, from that moment the Sultan becomes different.
...Nord stuck his nose into the Sultan’s overgrown ear. Both are standing again. Threatening to crush him, the dog flies up and falls, but only presses the wolf cub to the floor. They're lying down. They jump up. The puppy runs freely under the high arch of the dog's retracted abdomen. Nord catches him with one jump and knocks him down.
I'm surprised by Nord. Even in the heat of battle, he remembers who his opponent is. Not once did his terrible stomping feet step on the small, prostrate body.
Nord is beautiful. Everything about him is beautiful. High front legs, wide chest. Stately hind legs and a long tail, tapering gradually, like a whip. And color. Connoisseurs do not value white Great Danes, but Nord is white, with only one dark ear. He is all nobly white. Here it is, the dog. This is the dog. That's what it's called - "Dog", a dog. Not multi-colored terriers and dachshunds, but the original white dog, the pure crystal of a dog.
Nord is an aristocrat... Although his face is perhaps rather simple. He has a pink nose and lips. It was as if he had drunk cranberry jelly with milk and had just climbed out of the bowl.
He has fun with a light heart. The wolf cub plays frantically, with passion. Nord hooks the wolf cub under the belly, butts him, closing his eyes - the wolf's eyes are constantly on the alert. They are watching - me. No matter how the puppy tumbles, they do not disappear, do not drown, they seem to float on top - gloomy wolf eyes.
But the Sultan doesn't whine anymore. He is silent. He would rather die than admit that pressing his back against a doorframe hurts. The sound of falling bodies and panting fill the room. The Sultan has heavy bones: it seems like someone is throwing a stool.
The Sultan is exhausted and beaten. The Sultan is pleased.
4
I lie across the ottoman, my shoulders against the wall. I'm afraid to move. I managed to get into someone else's skin. A dirty skin, but a wolf's, and I am filled with a sense of dignity. It turns out he has a lot of self-respect, this kid. And he is in love with Nord, like a boy with an adult strong man.
What do we understand about animals? We have one standard for all living things. We judge right away: the puppy is begging. Isn’t it clear that he is humiliated, that he has a flattering face?
Can not understand anything. The Sultan did not humiliate himself. He took on the appearance that would not scare away, but would captivate and lure the dog. He didn’t “step up sideways,” but openly exposed his side, disarming him with the trust of the mighty Nord. He wanted the dog to take his muzzle into his mouth - but he didn’t need meat. He needs a wolf sign of affection. Sign of love and equality - not by physical strength, to your liking. He demands to be taken into account, just as a wolf cub is taken into account in a pack.
“...I am small, but equal to you. Don't you dare forget - I'm here! There are three of us!"
This is roughly what Sultan is saying now - although he says it inconsistently. It’s hard for him among us. He is constantly nervous. He is tormented by anxiety. Vague anxiety: the she-wolf did not have time to convey to her wolf cub who he is and who we are. But the “I” awakened in him, a confident, independent wolf “I”, which will be suppressed by training...
5
Deep night. Having put my jacket at the head, I head to the Sultan. He slips into the closet and watches me from there. I squat down and beckon to him. I'm persuading. The Sultan crawls up. I take him in my arms. He will good wolf: I can barely carry it to the ottoman. I try to lie down without letting go, and I almost fall with him - he’s so heavy. The old springs grind, the Sultan breaks out of his hands in panic.
I reach for Nord, and Sultan flies back. He pushes the dog aside... There are three of us!
I pull Sultan onto the mattress by his collar. He resists, crawls halfway.
Here it is, the wolf cub's head. Exquisitely pointed at the very nose, its muzzle is puffy. This is childish cheekiness. The wolf has a long childhood; it won’t be long before the cheeky face turns into the chiseled muzzle of an adult animal.
Here's his forehead. An innocent hillock overgrown with a dark hedgehog - the childish forehead of a wolf. The many-wise wolf's forehead!
And eyes. Their oblique cut has not yet been determined. The Sultan stared straight at me, and something familiar seems to me in his gaze... He reminds me of a blind man. He has listening eyes, like a blind man.
I stroke the muzzle and notice that it is twitching. I scratch the Sultan behind the ear, stroke his throat, breathe warmth into his crown, I say, I say, I say, it seems that the stone would hear! The little wolf is getting more and more excited.
I stop talking. His lips are trembling.
6
Nord stretched out near the ottoman, Sultan - against the far wall. He's dozing. His ears turn. A fly is circling around the room.
The fly calmed down. Silence. The wolf raises his head.
He examines the crack in the ceiling - a recent crack. A carpet once hung over the ottoman - the wolf cub looks at the nails. On the outermost nail, then on the second in the row, on each in turn. I was chained to something higher: there was a button stuck there. Even higher: my backpack. There's a fly on the ceiling. Plaster stucco. Crack. And at the same time - I, every second - I, cautiously, suspiciously, unreleased, tracked - I, a person. Joyless animal eyes slide over me.
What came between me and this wolf cub?
Strangled sheep. Hunted horse. The tame calf Umnitsa, killed by wolves in the Pechora taiga near Sozhva. And - Delphi. Our beautiful Delfa, setter. From the Romanovsky forestry, where my father was hunting, she was lured by wolves (that same pose, sideways, sideways, I trust you, let's get to know each other? And, as if frightened, away - catch up with me?).
Between us are a couple of seasoned men who were shot dead in the winter. And pereyarok - my father told me about him. Pereyarok, a one-year-old wolf cub that was whining in the bushes then, stupidly asked for the flags to be paid to his parents.
Between us is an inept crippling shot. And a trap. And a plundered lair, wolf cubs dumped in a bag...
I didn’t call out to Nord, but he was banging his tail on the floor. He's knocking on me. I lower my hand from the mattress. I take hold of the dog's strong paw.
I'm not alone, there are three of us. But all of us - the wolf, me, the dog - have no time for sleep.
And I didn’t let you down here – two special skills: Freezing and Fan of Ice Needles.
The first, obviously, is a slowing effect, and we’ll deal with the second right now. I activate the skill and set the target for attack - the nearest tree next to us. Not a prodigy, however: the snowman makes two quick movements with its curved blades, and two dozen thin ice needles stick out in an elongated scattering in the tree trunk. Damage in the region of hundreds of hit points, reload time is five minutes. The range is completely ridiculous - eight meters. There is a small bonus - when hit, the enemy is slowed down with a probability of twenty percent, but also not full - it only reduces the speed by a third.
Naturally, as a true herbalist and alchemist, I could not ignore the suspicious liquid dripping from the blades, reminiscent of blood. It turned out that it was not blood at all:
Glacial acid. Toxic!
Resistance to poisons: + 1(18).
It seems that my karma now is to attract everything poisonous and poisonous into my skills. Was it really the shaman who summoned the curse with his long, chatty tongue, registering it for all eternity under the name of Herbs?
Unfortunately, there was a fly in the ointment in the barrel of poison. Apparently, the Reaper can only be summoned if there is snow, which needs at least two or three kilograms. In a dry and warm place this will be a problem, not to mention the spring-summer season. However, we still have to live until summer. We will solve problems as the weather warms up, since the snow in the Bucket can be stored inside the bag for a long time, you just need to determine how much of the substance is consumed for one call.
I was pleased with the simplicity of weaving the call - no runes are required, the spell icon appears in the quick access slot by default, upon request. But the mana consumption is high, and the time for re-summoning is only four hours later. In addition, it is strictly not recommended to keep a snowman indoors - the entire floor will be stained with acid. And nothing washes off this crap. By the way, a snowman does not melt in the heat - he is a magical creature, he does not care about the laws of physics.
The Reaper's lifespan is about a day, after which it disincarnates without noticeable special effects: it simply disappears, like a switched-off image. The collected glacial acid disappears along with it - a free endless source of valuable raw materials turned out to be nothing.
My collection of poisons in a gift skull box from a druid could have been replenished with a very worthy exhibit, but no luck. But, remembering its existence, I finally decided to look into it - maybe I’ll find something interesting.
After experimenting with the assortment of poisons, in just half an hour I gained three more units of resistance to poisons (now their number was twenty-one). There are only eight types of different poisons, one even in the form of a powder, with a persistent smell of almonds, inhaling which I immediately received fifty HP damage, after which I plugged it with a cork and put it back, out of harm’s way: God forbid, I’ll spill it - no gas mask will help .
But the most interesting thing was in a modest bottle, without an inscription, with a cloudy colorless liquid. Only half a hundred milligrams, but what kind:
Ether toxin. Concentration: 400%.
I dropped it on my hand - I’m a super-resistant Herb, why should I be afraid in vain, you ask?
And he almost died. IN morally, naturally, since I was left without magic for a day.
Ethereal poisoning – 10 mana/sec. Action: 23 hours 59 minutes.
Ether toxin. Concentration: 399%.
Ethereal Defense: + 1(4). Magic resistance: + 1(3).
The troubles didn't end there. I don’t know how the shaman got wind of this potion, but all evening he was whining that the spirits were very unhappy and I was preventing him from meditating. Moreover, the shaman said all this without fully regaining consciousness - and he followed me around for two hours with eyes closed and muttered that his spiritual glitches were complaining about the ethereal pollution of the surrounding area.
“They attacked the wrong person, write your complaints in writing, in triplicate, and pass them through the press secretary,” without thinking twice, I appointed a hamster to this honorable position, because I feel they will not be left behind.
Oddly enough, it worked - apparently, the goblin’s astral accomplices fell into a stupor and are now comprehending the bureaucratic side of the universe.
In the meantime, taking advantage of the temporary respite, I quickly looked for where to put this dirty trick to good use. For one should not pollute the ether too often - demons and spirits are vengeful, vindictive and very sophisticated in curses and damage to karma. Since this has happened, it’s better to immediately investigate what I can do, chalking it up to inexperience and ignorance, and only then can I promise anything - for example, not to poison the astral plane with poisons in this area.
Going through the options of what to mix the new product with and who to poison with it, at first I planned to try the poison on plants and potions. However, upon careful study, I did not find a single suitable combination. You have to try everything, and this is undesirable - as well as overuse of material, dissatisfaction of the spirits is guaranteed. It is advisable to do it in two or three attempts, and do it quickly, otherwise a showdown of the highest spiritual level is guaranteed.
Based on these limitations, I decided to experiment with the equipment in the hope of improving the characteristics - after all, the plants are likely to simply die without benefit. All that remains is to select an item and treat it with a toxin. And here luck, born of patience and careful thought, turned to the bright side for me.
There is a better option! Here they are, brothers - Drinking and Singing.
It is worth saying that two blades stood out from the rest of my assortment of things as the president and prime minister on the political horizon of the country. Firstly, they were not identified. No characteristics, stats or explanations - like two pieces of wood from the forest. Secondly, the brothers categorically did not recognize the new owner. It was impossible to even just hold them in your hands - they vibrated, if you took them without gloves, they burned and hit you with magic (removing one HP per second), twitched and twisted out of your hands, like vipers caught by the tail.
And thirdly, the blades tried to cut anyone within a radius of several meters, in the absence of other targets, they eagerly looked at the new owner. At least when I tried to do a regular figure eight, the Singing One tapped me on the leg. Fortunately, the defense held up, and I held back the blow, being on my guard. After that, two steel relatives, possessed by demons, migrated to the bag completely and forever.
However, now their fate is about to change.
Well, well, those who don’t take risks don’t know what a mortgage is in Biryulyovo!
– AAA! - it hurts like that. This possessed blade pierced my hand almost to the bone; however, it seemed like that out of fear - there was a lot of blood, but in fact it went off on a tangent. And there is no magic to heal properly, I had to use potions to save myself. Bad idea poison a blade while holding it in your hand. Just one drop, and this metal viper seemed to go berserk. It looks like nothing good will come out of this idea, and to hell with them - it’s just insulting and painful, the thirst for revenge overwhelms my tender soul.
“It’s too early to rejoice, now the “answer” will arrive,” I grin maliciously and generously splash out the ethereal toxin on the ungrateful brothers. Taught by bitter experience, I no longer hold them in my hands.
You destroyed an epic item! Fame: – 1(15).
Artifact: + 3(27). Tool repair: + 3(9). Weapon repair: + 3(9).
Experience: + 1500(39,050/45,000).
You received new level: 23. Unallocated experience points: 20.
Received a set of Silent Blades (only used in pairs). Damage: 120–180. Additional damage: poisoning 10 HP/sec (2 min). Wear: 666/666. Two-handed fighting (skill) + 20. Requirements: Dexterity 65.
“I’ve experimented further, as they say,” the mood, having fallen into the abyss, decided not to stop and dig a grave at the bottom.
Ether toxin. Concentration: 217%.
- No! - Mafei protested, offended by the vile suspicions. – I was looking for methods of spiritualistic communication! And I just wanted to ask how... it was there.
- Why are you even sure that she is dead? What made you think Olivia was killed right away? If it was so important for Hunchback to take her to his world, then it must have been for some other purpose. They could have killed both of you here without taking up such valuable active time on the portal.
“I know...” the prince explained quietly, without raising his eyes. “They needed a witch for some ritual.” And she was killed that night.
- But from this place in more detail. - The king perked up a little and put it aside tutorial. – What exactly do you know, where from and how accurately? Did you still find her in the Labyrinth, just like you found Kantor?
Mafey hesitated:
- Approximately…
-Have you seen the ritual itself?
- No. Everything is wrong there... I saw the killer. He was waiting on the other side of the tunnel. They also told me that he was undead, that’s why he came from the other side... And then... No, Shellar, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you!
“I didn’t think you’d be so afraid,” the cunning king told him.
The young elf immediately succumbed to the provocation:
- I wasn’t afraid at all! Kantor took my word of honor... - Mafey fell silent in fear, covering his mouth with his hand, and His Majesty joyfully clung to the piece of information he had obtained:
- So have you seen Kantor? At least tell me which direction he... headed? To the tunnel with Olivia or to the exit with you?
“But I promised to keep silent about the fact that I saw him!”
“Let’s do this,” Shellar suggested, feeling his mood rapidly improving. “You won’t tell me anything so as not to break your promises.” I will speak, and all you have to do is nod if I’m right, or shake your head if I’m wrong. If you find it difficult to answer, you can shrug your shoulders. If we manage to figure it out, I won’t tell the master about your suddenly appeared criminal tendencies. Provided, of course, that you return the book to its place as quietly as you took it. Agreed?
Mafei nodded doomedly and wiped away last tear.
– So, you met Kantor in the Labyrinth. First of all, so as not to torment anyone, answer: is he alive? No, I understand that some time has passed since your meeting and you cannot vouch for the authenticity. But did you go out together? Thank the gods, after all, he survived... But where did he go... He didn’t tell you where he was? No. This is already worse... Did you mention anything from which one could draw conclusions about his whereabouts? So, okay... And did you draw these conclusions? Amazing. So, let's try to guess where our missing comrade Kantor is... Did he somehow leave the battlefield? That is, how - no? He was there? And was wounded in battle? So what kind of demon can they now not find among the wounded? No, no, this is not a question, I already know that you cannot say anything about this. Let's continue. Was Kantor alone? Sorry, how should we understand your difficulty? Ah, I guess. Quantity characters changed, right? But when you met, was he alone? Yes. Okay... he picked you up like last time, swore at you in his traditional manner and took you with him. Was he heading towards the tunnel?
The industrious king spent the next two hours carefully extracting every bit of invaluable knowledge from his cousin. After this time, he managed to almost completely restore the picture of events, with the exception of exact text conversations that Kantor’s numerous relatives had among themselves. During this time, His Majesty’s mood improved so significantly that he did not continue the intended moral teaching, deciding to replace it with a couple of simple and effective object lessons. Making the thieving cousin swear that he would return the book today and never again pick it up without his mentor’s approval, Shellar suggested, already getting up to leave:
– Do you want good and practical advice?
Mafey, out of habit, only nodded, although the topic forbidden for conversation had long been exhausted.
– While grieving for the dead, you should not forget that there are living people around you. Someone simply sympathizes with you, someone is very worried about you, and someone may need your help. As far as I remember, the master taught you the basics of resuscitation, and you quite professionally know how to maintain artificial life support, or hold, as it is called in common parlance. Now all available specialists in this field, changing every two hours, are trying to keep your friend Orlando in this world. And one more assistant there will in no case be superfluous. Think about it, is it worthy to lie in bed and feel sorry for yourself when you could be saving the life of a friend? You don't want to lose him too, do you?
“Won’t the master send me away?” - Looks like the lesson worked. Mafey suddenly perked up, stood up, and something like hope appeared in his eyes.
- You will say, I ordered. Just don't forget to wash and get dressed first!
Having dealt with his cousin, His Majesty went to the queen’s chambers to talk with her before some other trouble spoiled his just-impressed mood. The king did not know what to say to his disobedient wife. Or rather, he had something to say, but His Majesty would not have dared to say and show the pregnant woman what, in his opinion, should have been said. In any case, without first consulting with Master Istran. The king just wanted to listen to what Kira herself had to say. And see how it will look into his eyes.
As luck would have it, on the way he came across yesterday's delegation almost in in full force, with the exception of only Count Dinnar the son, whom his father wisely decided not to substitute again. The king’s mood deteriorated at the mere sight of these gentlemen, and in order not to be irritated again before meeting the queen, he did not communicate with anyone, but sent everyone to wait in the reception room. And in such a tone as they usually send to completely different places.
There are far from 3 of us who were waiting for the speedy release of this comic book by Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely, so with the news about sending “US3” to the printing house, the publishing house “Azbuka” did “good” to a large number of readers. A comic about animals, about the victims of experiments, about the fact that we are responsible for those we have tamed (otherwise the tamed ones can teach us a lesson)... it would seem that the main ideas of this story are crawling out from just one synopsis. But, as happens with Morrison, everything is not so simple and obvious. Only one thing is obvious - “NAS3” will very soon take its place on store shelves (there should have been a joke here about the sixth volume of Sandman, which has been in the printing house for a month and a half already).
Publisher information:
Friends, we have put into print one of the strongest stories by Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely - “US3”, deluxe edition!
In the depths of the top secret research center USAF's cyber revolution is taking shape. From ordinary domestic animals, scientists have created new class cyborgs, an alloy of flesh and metal. These creatures are destined to reign on the battlefields of the future. The culmination of the project is a trio of prototypes, codenamed HAC3, each of which is specially designed and prepared for teamwork. Having enhanced nervous system, armed with advanced military equipment, NAS3 is the ideal of a “smart weapon” – programmable yet autonomous, loyal and absolutely ruthless.
But no matter how successful they are, NAS3 are just prototypes that will be dismantled after testing. However, inside these formidable mechanical shells are three confused animals, whose will to live turns out to be much stronger than the designers expected. Faced with danger, US3 flee, escaping into a frightening and complex world, for which they currently pose a serious threat. As do those who hunt them. Relentlessly pursued, the US3 fights, combining the firepower of a battalion with the faint, fond memory of something called "Home".
