by Vitaly Zykov
It was clear that the only truth in their tales was the information about destruction of Polot. Darg was presented as a simple nomad from the side of the tribe which had been defeated in struggle for power, their clothes were lost in the fire – Darg's skin still had burn marks, then they had been walking through the woods, and were driven out of all the villages, because peasants considered them to be some robbers. Then they met the real robbers and escaped the cruel death only because of Darg's high fighting skill. Maybe those bandits had been waiting for the caravan of honorable Turan! So the respected merchant was very lucky…
Darg and Yarik provided free fun in this rather dull campaign. Nevertheless, closer to Kargol everybody got tired of these stories and they were left alone.
– Kargol is here! – An especially loud voice of the driver interrupted Yarik's thinking. – You're a good guy, Darg. Why did not you sell your slave to our fat man? You could get good money, and then either move further or join into our caravan. Turan will hire you. You're a good warrior! He needs people like you!
Then followed the life story of Shol himself (it was the driver's name), in a brief form, but with great excursuses. Yarik even tried to remember some moments – you never know what and where could happen to be useful.
– Get up! – Darg turned to Yarik. – It's time to leave our gracious host.
Having said that, he disappeared from sight. At this point the wagon stopped. Some cheering sounds were heard ahead. Yarik groaned and stood up. He was pretty tired of lying down, but even more so of walking. Yarik got out of the wagon and met the glance of his master waiting for him.
– Have you taken your bag?!
– Oh, darkness! – Yarik cursed and climbed back.
– Hurry up. We still have to say goodbye to master Turan.
Yarik snagged the strap of the bag and flew out like an arrow. When Darg was speaking in a tone like that it was better to not linger.
When Darg with Yarik hastening behind him came up to Turan, the latter was already lively talking with a soldier in a blue coat with a falcon on his breastplate and armed with a halberd. The second soldier was yawning near the fence blocking the passage.
– And here is my friend Darg. He helped me greatly, when my soldiers fought with the gang of Kurgaz, let him wait eternally for a new incarnation in the Abyss! – Turan said with pointedly gleaming eyes.
Darg nodded politely.
– By the way, dear friend. I would like to thank you for a great trip and say goodbye. I have some affairs in Kargol, – he said politely.
Turan snorted discontentedly. Apparently, he had some plans on Darg and did not want to part so soon. Yarik remembered how much effort the merchant had made to keep Darg in the caravan, but it seemed that Turan respected other people's decisions. He just said:
– Dear Darg, please think about my suggestion about the service. I'll be in Kargol for two days, and if you return, I'll be glad!
Darg nodded gratefully and turned to the guard:
– By the way, venerable man, do you know where is the nearest weapon store here?
– On the street of Green Eyes – the guard replied pompously. – But do not forget about the entry fee! – He paused and added: venerable master.
Darg noticed the pause, but did not show it, he just asked:
– How much?
– A cooper for a freeman and five for a slave! – The guard licked his lips greedily.
It seemed that the fee was considerably overpriced. It could be understood by Turan's risen eyebrows, though he did not interfere with the conversation, obviously believing that everyone has a right for their own small income and the other one has to decide whether to allow to exploit themselves or not. Darg said nothing, he slowly pulled out six small coins from his battered purse, passed them to the guard and nodding toward Turan went down the road. Yarik trotted after him. They did not wait for the fence to open – Darg just ducked under the toll bar, and hurried on. Yarik realized that his master had a definite plan of action.
Darg was going with quick and firm gait, turning his head from side to side, like a hunting hound. Sometimes the warrior and his servant were almost running. So they reached the entrance into the city very, very fast.
And again Yarik's comprehension about city walls turned out to be an empty speculation. Like the unfortunate Polot Kargol was similar to an ordinary Earth town, but without high-rise buildings or electricity. Here again the city started with wooden hovels, which were then gradually replaced with sturdy stone houses. At the same point the ordinary ground road changed into paving stones. Colorful signboards with slogans and images appeared on the houses. Yarik could not read in Gralg, but he could figure out their meaning from the drawings. Or he thought he could! Though on the other hand, only Dark Gods know what the unknown artist meant depicting a whip and a naked girl. Was it a street of Punishment or of Forbidden Fruit?
– Venerable man, can you tell me, where is the street of Green Eyes? – Darg asked an old man whom they met on the road.
– Oh, you have to walk down the street of Royal Mistress for about a dozen houses, then turn left – there would be the street of Poverty, which further rests against the street of Green Eyes!
Darg thanked politely and asked:
– Excuse me, but where is the street of Royal Mistress?
The old man looked at Darg as if he was a madman.
– Son, you're standing on it! – Saying that, the old man walked his way, muttering something about the blatant ignorance of modern youth.
Darg looked at the plate with a whip and a girl, then at Yarik and went on. Yarik trudged behind him, equally puzzled and shaking his head.
«What perverted kings are here!» – Was his only thought.
Finally they turned into another street, like the stranger had instructed them. Without saying a word, the master and his slave began to rummage the houses with their eyes searching for the plate with a picture and the name. And they found it… and looked at each other – there was depicted a beggar with outstretched hand, all right, but the house on which the plate hung, could serve as a country residence for Parsan. The other houses on this street were as if trying to outdo each other in splendor and luxury. Columns, statues, various porticoes and arches – there was not even a scent of poverty. Darg shrugged and wished all the local citizens to fall into the Abyss and stamped forward.
The street of Green Eyes gave no such surprises. There were exactly green eyes depicted on a plate – so they could not mistake. Now they had to find a bladesmith shop. And that was a problem. Apparently, this street was occupied by variety of vendors. There were confectioners, bakers, tailors, one restaurant, a clerk shop and a lawyer… A lot of things were there! They had to stop and ask good people again. Those reacted to the inquiries quite favorably and immediately pointed at the right house. It has a sign with a bull's head.
«I would have never guessed that!» – Yarik thought irritably. This civilization began to frustrate him.
Without any ceremony, Darg was already opening the door, previously ordering Yarik to follow him. A bell jingled quietly, and they found themselves in a spacious room with two glass windows. Yarik began to doubt that he was in Middle Ages. As far as he remembered history, on the Earth not every king could afford such windows!
– What do the kind masters wish… Master, – quickly recovered an imposing man of about forty years old.
Not too toll, a head shorter then Yarik, the man had an impressive physique. Yarik had never seen such a broad chest and biceps like that! The man was dressed in a simple leather vest and trousers – nothing special. The only thing that attracted attention was the broad belt of dark brown leather studded with metal plates.
– I would like to offer to the respected owner some items. Not of the best quality, but good enough for sale…
The man raised up his hand:
– Wait, venerable man. My father, Bishar Tsvar, is not here now. He is in the workshop. Therefore, if you
need him, wait until the evening. – Reassured that the guests did not need the owner himself, the man continued: – Well then, I am Favokl Tsvar, at your service.
– I have the weapons, which I want to sell urgently. – Darg turned to Yarik. – Savage, show it.
Yarik dropped his bag on the floor, looking for a place where it could be possible to unload the contents.
– Here! – Favokl pointed to a thick oak table.
And Yarik began to methodically empty the bag. Three axes, a dagger and four knives were laid on the table. When it was finished, the young servant took a step back. Darg raised his eyes at Favokl. The latter slowly walked close to the table and began to inspect the weapons, looking at them from all sides, and muttering under his breath. Yarik's sensitive ear caught only a few words.
– Axes! The shit of marhuz, but not axes!… And knives?! Who forges steel this way?! I forged better when I was a wetnosed boy! – The face of the bladesmith's son was talking about extreme contempt to the offered goods. – One farlong!
Darg pretended that he had misheard something:
– For one item?!
Now it was time for Favokl to look puzzled.
– For all! All this stuff is not worth even one farlong…
Darg twitched his cheek and said firmly:
– Five farlongs!
– What?! Are you making a fool of me?! – Favokl started to yell. To confirm these words, as the most compelling argument his fist thumped the counter. And the all not too lightweight goods jumped. Darg did not twitch his eyebrow, still continuing to look expectantly at the smith. He sighed and said:
– One farlong and two kelats!
– I hate to bargain, so I'll reduce the price one single time. Clear?! My price is three farlongs!
– You're out of your mind, nomad?! – Favokl roared like a bear. – Who am I going to sell this junk after?! Maybe you just want me to gift you three farlongs?
Darg grunted triumphantly and held his hand to a dagger.
– It's odd enough to call the dagger forged in your own smith shop junk! What do you think? – Darg turned the knife so that the mark of a bull's head was clearly visible, exactly copying the image on the signboard.
Yarik grinned disappointedly, and he was disappointed in himself – he had seen the mark, and made no conclusion! But, apparently, he was not the only one embarrassed: Favokl as if became even shorter at once. His shoulders slumped, the expression on his hitherto stone face was like that of a beaten dog now.
– Abyss! – He breathed.
– Well, now? – Darg asked quietly.
– Two farlongs and three kelats? – Bewildered Favokl suggested tentatively.
– Three farlongs, three! Deal? – Darg pressed on.
– Deal! – Favokl nodded resignedly.
While the smith, shaking his head, was counting the gold coins (although what was there to count? the three coins?!), Darg asked whether there were some public baths in the city. Yarik looked at Darg open-mouthed. Yes of course, Yarik knew that they reeked like a herd of bulls, but he could not believe that the nomad understood it! Judging by Favokl's dilated pupils, he was surprised too.
– On the street of Whores. – And anticipating the next question, he added – Go to the end of this street. There will be a tavern. From the tavern the road forks into three, the left one, is the street of Whores. At the end of which there are the baths.
– And why was the street was called like this? – Darg asked the same question that was on Yarik's tongue.
Favokl guffawed:
– Why do you think? For that exactly! The baths were built there in order to save the distance! And not too far from the tavern, where on the second floor there are the rooms!
Darg looked searchingly at Favokl and asked:
– And the tavern certainly belongs to your brother?
– No, no. My brother is in blacksmith craft – the sturdy fellow was embarrassed. – The tavern belongs to my father's brother, my uncle, that is…
At this point Darg grabbed the coins, bowed and headed to the door. Yarik with the empty bag kept behind. When they were on the street, Darg went not towards the tavern but in the direction of where they had come from. Yarik ventured to ask:
– Master but…
– To a tailor! – Darg interrupted his slave. – We need to buy normal clothes. With the appearance like now they take as for beggars. – Darg angrily tugged his shirt. – And I'm tired of walking in clothes of dead men! It's disgusting!
Yarik nodded, hoping deep in his soul that he would get something from his master's generosity too and his damn pants will be replaced with new ones.
– Here is a tailor! I think… – said Darg under his breath, stopping in front of the sign with a shirt and a pair of scissors.
Yarik was blissfully happy. The warm water was caressing his skin, relieving tension and fatigue. The spicy smell of fragrant salts befogged his head.
«I could lay here forever» – Yarik was dreaming with closed eyes, like a lazy cat gorged with cream.
Each bather had their own small bathing pool like a marble bath. Warm water was brought there by slaves. As Yarik managed to notice from under his half-closed eyelids, none of them was a bondslave. This was clear from the absence of magical aura over their collars. The same slaves rubbed skin, washed head. Service was at the highest level. They even were not confused by the fact that Yarik was a slave. If the man was paid for, they would serve him regardless of who he was.
Darg was lying in a neighboring marble bath. Judging by the relaxed look of his face, he was on top of bliss. However, as Yarik noticed, Darg had put the sword close to him, in order to be able to reach it at once.
Yarik ran his hand over his previously bald head which now had some decent stubble.
– Now go to the barber! – Darg's voice made Yarik flinch. – You still have a little money left.
– Master, maybe it's better to keep the money? – Yarik asked reluctantly. – Look, these slaves have bushy hair… – Recovering himself, Yarik started to patter – I certainly did not dare to argue…
– They are ordinary slaves, but you are – the one tied with the Dark collar. I order you to do it! – Darg rose and shuffled to a large common pool.
Yarik breathed and plunged into the water with his head washing off the foam. If it's so necessary…
The barber turned out to be a good-natured old man, who was sitting sprawled on a wooden bench. One of the slaves pointed at him for Yarik.
– You want to shave, my dear?
Yarik silently ran his hand over his head and face.
– Yeah! You mean completely? Well – murmured the old barber, pulled out a small knife and cut a hair from his own beard.
He worked quickly and deftly. The knife was weightlessly gliding over the skin, without leaving even the smallest cuts, doing no damage. In comparison with Dukan, the old barber won without any exaggeration. The whole procedure took less than ten minutes.
– Well, my dear. You owe me two coins – announced the old man casting a satisfied look at Yarik.
Yarik sighed and counted the requested money. Darg had paid six coins for two men at the bath entrance, and here just the shaving costs two coins. Now Yarik only had two coins left…
The young slave went back. Darg was already getting dress near the clothes stacked in a pile. This time he was putting on the new clothes, bought from the tailor. These were sturdy leather pants, a white shirt, a leather jacket and a belt. Having dressed Darg made a few squats and rotational motions with his hands. Yarik made a mental note that Darg was looking stylish.
– Already shaven? – Darg asked automatically putting on the new leather hunting boots.
Yarik nodded and began to put on his new clothes. It was easy. The trousers of coarse cloth, ideal for the traveler, a dense shirt with lace and open neck and sturdy shoes with thick soles hemmed for reliability with rough thread. The boots had been bought from a shoemaker. They had purcha
se new cloth easily, they both were not very athletic and had no trouble finding a good fit for themselves. Darg had paid three kelats in total. He had bought another shirt for himself and a sturdy bag with shoulder straps for Yarik.
– Come on, – Darg grunted and moved forward. Now near the sword and the dagger there hung a pouch of thick leather, rattling with all their wealth.
Yarik nodded and threw the still lightweight bag over his shoulder. He carried their old clothes in his hands.
– Give these rags to the junk dealer for a couple of coins. He has a shop opposite the baths, you understand? – Darg ordered to Yarik near the exit. – I'll be in the tavern.
Yarik nodded again. Slavery had taught him brevity.
Yarik stood in front of the tavern and looked at the sign with his head thrown back. A fat man with swollen face and a heavy club in his hands obviously had to symbolize the name of the tavern – «The noble robber». Though Yarik did not understand what exactly, i.e. the face or the club, had to symbolize the nobility. Moreover, the sounds heard from within were not too noble. Judging by swearing and the noise somebody was beating someone's face there. Yarik sighed and stepped inside.
The tavern met him with twilight broken only by the light from small windows and a pair of chandeliers under the ceiling. Though not chandeliers, but a couple of wooden rings with candles.
Most of the tables were moved closer to the walls and visitors sitting behind them excitedly clattered their tumblers over the countertops, cheering the three men fighting in the center. In the far corner behind the counter stood a burly host rubbing a mug with the same excitedly gleaming eyes.
As Yarik immediately realized, the fighters were Darg and two guys of brutal appearance. The guys had a remarkable look. Their faces or rather muzzles were smashed into the blood and they were wiping them with their sleeves from time to time. Darg was completely intact and the fact that he was not over with his opponents yet only meant that the fight had just begun. Apparently, bullying strangers was common practice here. It was good that no one had bared weapon yet.