It was hope. Not just the abstract hope of surviving another day, but a tangible, oily hope of moving forward.
“Can we speak with the ‘Walkers’ before lunch?” Dmitry asked. His eyes burned with such a feverish intensity that Bruno didn't even bother with questions. The old mage realized instantly that Master Dmitry had stumbled upon something far more precious than Hoof’s gold.
“Certainly,” the moneylender nodded. “I know their leader. They might not have an official guild, but their loyalty to one another is sturdier than that of many lords. Let’s go. Claude will have us at the port in ten minutes.”
Dmitry flicked away his cigarette butt and strode resolutely toward the carriage. Cohen barely kept up, his mind struggling to grasp how a conversation about marriage and castles had suddenly pivoted into a frantic pursuit of foul-smelling swamp grease.
The adrenaline surging through his veins acted as a temporary local anesthetic, numbing the dull ache in Dmitry’s back. He stared out the carriage window with a predatory interest. Nordcross presented itself in all its drab "glory"—grime-streaked, gray, and saturated with the cloying stench of open sewers and low-grade coal.
He had read about the abysmal sanitation of medieval cities, but the reality was far more visceral. Neatly dressed citizens paraded down the cobblestones, their cloaks and fine dresses splattered knee-high in a fetid slurry. No one paid it any mind; here, filth was as natural an element as the air itself.
Near the roadside, soldiers in dented cuirasses were dragging a shackled wretch. The prisoner had been beaten senseless and stripped to his undergarments. Dmitry, his medical training firing on all cylinders, zeroed in on the man’s mangled feet. They were swollen, a deep, necrotic purple from massive ecchymosis.
“Textbook torture,” he noted clinically. “Extensive soft tissue trauma, likely multiple metatarsal fractures. He’ll live, but he’ll never walk with a steady gait again.”
Further down, a pack of ragged children cheered as they tried to beat a small animal—vaguely cat-like—to death with sticks. Dmitry winced, a cold spike of revulsion hitting him. As a man who preferred cats to people, he nearly ordered the carriage to stop, but he checked the impulse. This world had its own rules, and its own savage brand of entertainment.
The carriage rolled into a grand square, which was noticeably cleaner than the rest of the city. At the far end loomed the port administration, topped with a colossal mooring mast.
And in the sky, tethered to that mast, hung the gargantuan mass of a Leviathan.
Even Bruno lost his elderly composure, pressing his face to the glass. “A wondrous creature,” the mage whispered, his voice laced with a raw, unshielded longing. “I always dreamed of flying on one. But even for all my wealth, they wouldn't take me on board. It’s a closed club for kings and their hounds.”
Dmitry remained silent, studying the living airship with purely technical curiosity. Through the translucent, taut membrane of the massive gas envelope, he could see biological fluids pulsating and gases circulating in slow, rhythmic cycles. The Leviathan, lashed to the mast, existed in its own slow, alien tempo. From the gondola suspended beneath the creature's belly, gangways stretched to the mast like delicate webs, where tiny figures scurried back and forth like ants.
“Time to return to earth,” Dmitry said quietly as the square faded behind them. “The port and the oil are waiting.”
The river port greeted them with a narrow, stifling corridor squeezed between rows of identical warehouses made of damp-darkened stone. Claude pulled the carriage up to an unremarkable building that looked like all the others.
Inside, the warehouse looked less like a commercial space and more like a makeshift refugee camp. The vast interior was partitioned into tiny cells by hanging cloth, scraps of old sails, and frayed burlap. People were desperately trying to carve out a sliver of privacy in this buzzing human anthill.
It was impossible to guess the headcount behind those cloth walls, but the air—heavy, stale, and thick with the scent of unwashed bodies—told the story. Dmitry, his mind jumping to epidemiology, instinctively covered his nose. In such cramped, humid conditions, a single case of typhus or cholera would turn into a wildfire in mere hours.
Following Bruno through this labyrinth of rags, they reached a large command tent made of thick, high-quality leather. A man stood guard at the entrance, wearing worn but well-maintained leather armor, a naked sword held firmly in his hand. The blade pointed toward the floor, but the warrior's stance left no doubt: he was ready to use it in a heartbeat.
“Not the best time for a visit, Master Bruno,” he snapped, his voice dry and sharp. “You’ll have to wait for your interest payments. We aren’t exactly in peak financial form.”
“Don’t make a monster out of me,” Bruno waved him off dismissively. “I’m here to speak with Master Hugo. Professional business.”
The moneylender gestured toward Dmitry, who was taking in the tactical layout of the room. “This young man is extremely interested in marsh oil. Very interested.”
The guard’s gaze shifted to Dmitry, lingering on his contemporary field jacket and the black silhouette of the Benelli in his hands. For a moment, a flicker of professional respect crossed the warrior's eyes—the look of one professional recognizing another. He slowly sheathed his sword and stepped aside, opening the flap.
“Marsh oil?” he grunted. “Fine, come in. Hugo’s inside. Но если это шутка, мастер Бруно... but if this is a joke, Master Bruno, I’ll personally throw you out. Your magic won't save you.”
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The interior of the tent was more spacious, clearly reserved for the leadership of this improvised camp. In the corner, a young woman cradled an infant; beside her, a younger man with a thin mustache fidgeted nervously. But the center of this small universe was an elderly, one-legged man with hair as white as salt.
His face was weathered and tough, like a soldier's boot that had seen a hundred miles of swamp mud. A jagged scar ran diagonally across his mouth and chin, making his lips look as if they were frozen in a permanent sneer of contempt.
“Master Hugo, health to you and long life to your grandson,” Bruno said, nodding to the woman. “What did you name him?”
“Get to the point, Bruno,” the old man growled. His voice creaked like an ungreased wagon wheel. “You didn't come for pleasantries. Say your piece or get out. I have nothing to give you, as you can see—we’re practically beggars now.”
“I’ve brought someone to talk about marsh oil,” Bruno replied, unbothered by the hostility.
“What the hell do you want that oil for?” Hugo turned his heavy gaze to Dmitry. “Buy it at the market. You’ll always find a jar or two for sale.”
Hugo didn't offer a greeting. Dmitry realized that standard etiquette was a wasted currency here. He approached Hugo and sat on an old wooden crate, leveling his eyes with the veteran's.
“Hello, Master Hugo. I am Dmitry.” He extended his hand. Hugo hesitated, his eyes boring into the "stranger," before finally clasping Dmitry’s hand. The grip was steel; Dmitry’s knuckles groaned under the pressure, but he didn't let a single muscle in his face twitch. Mettle: Tested.
“What if I told you I didn’t need a jar?” Dmitry said in a low, steady voice. “I need, say, a hundred barrels. And I’ll pay in gold. Although, I have an even better offer for you.”
Dmitry watched Hugo’s pupils dilate. A hundred barrels of stinking, useless sludge for gold? It sounded like either insanity or salvation.
“A strange request,” Hugo muttered, his grip loosening slightly. “And what is this offer?”
He’s hooked, Dmitry thought.
“This is Baron Cohen Prast,” Dmitry indicated the youth behind him. “He needs men to guard his castle. Undead have been sighted near Rotten Hill, and we need professionals. And you... you need a home. A place where you won’t be hunted. Where your people can live and work without looking over their shoulders for Hoof’s ‘gardeners.’”
Hugo’s face became a map of intense mental labor. The sneer of his scar twitched. The proposal was daring: turning a band of smugglers into a baronial garrison. But for people living behind burlap curtains on a cold stone floor, it was a chance to reclaim their dignity.
“I... I must think on this,” Hugo said hoarsely, his gaze drifting past Dmitry.
But he wasn't the one who broke the silence. The woman with the child spoke up. She was hissing with a fury that felt louder than a shout, desperate not to wake the infant.
“How much more can I take, Papa!” Her eyes were like flint. “Your pride has driven us into this gutter! Look where your grandson was born! I don’t care if you hate Hoof! What is wrong with this? Under a Baron’s protection, we’ll be a thousand times better off than living with the rats in this hole!”
Tears blurred her eyes, and the child, sensing her distress, woke up with a sharp, piercing wail. Dmitry rose, sensing the offer needed time to "cure."
“In any case, Master Hugo, Baron Prast will be in Nordcross for three more days. We’ll be staying at Master Bruno’s. If you decide to take the offer, come there. We’ll discuss the logistics.”
Hugo didn't look up. He sat in silence, his lips working rhythmically as he chewed over the words. All he managed was a single, curt nod.
When they finally stepped back out, Dmitry took a deep, greedy breath. Even the bitter, charcoal-thick air of Nordcross felt like mountain oxygen compared to the suffocating "soup" inside the refugee camp.
“Good god,” Cohen exhaled, adjusting his doublet. “I think her words cut him deeper than the promise of gold.”
The sky was now a solid lid of leaden clouds. It was midday, but the late autumn gloom made the world feel perpetually trapped in a gray twilight. Dmitry lit a cigarette, the metallic snick of his lighter momentarily cutting through the silence of the port, leaving a trail of acrid smoke in the damp air.
“Exactly,” Dmitry agreed, exhaling a plume. “Consider him agreed. Now all we have to do is rebuild the castle.”
“Just that?” Cohen replied with a dry, biting sarcasm. “A mere trifle, then?”
Dmitry studied the Baron through narrowed eyes. “How did you like Amalia?” he asked, pivoting the topic to catch the boy off guard. “I’m betting you liked her. Am I wrong?”
Cohen instantly turned a shade of red that was visible even in the dim light. He fumbled with his hands, unsure where to put them.
“She... I did like her,” he admitted finally, looking at his boots. “But I don’t know her. At breakfast, she was so composed, so cold... It was as if she were the one born to the title, and I was just some commoner invited to warm myself by the fire.”
Dmitry smirked. He could see the fear in the young man's eyes—the fear of not belonging. For a man of Dmitry's clinical experience, these emotions were as plain as day.
“It’s no surprise,” Bruno interjected, huddling into his heavy cloak as Claude turned the carriage for the return trip. “She’s a brilliant girl. Hoof spared no expense on her tutors. He crafted perfection, not sparing any gold.”
“Why hasn't he found her a more... established match?” Dmitry asked, the question still nagging at him.
“Social barriers,” the moneylender replied matter-of-factly. “Those are walls that even a golden ram cannot batter down. If our Baron here, with all respect, clung to his honor while his boots had no soles, imagine the reaction of a lord whose affairs are going well. To them, Hoof is just a vulgar nouveau riche who smells of warehouses and salt-cod. Cohen Prast is a rare beast—impoverished, but legitimate. For Hoof, this marriage is a ticket to the elite. His only way to cross the threshold where money ends and true power begins.”
Dmitry nodded. He recalled the Cohen he first met—starving, but prideful to the point of absurdity.
They returned to the mansion just as the midday meal was being served. In the small dining room, the morning’s tension had been replaced by rigid, clockwork order. Amalia was there, commanding the servants with sharp, economical gestures.
Her appearance had transformed. She had traded her morning dress for a regal gown of heavy emerald velvet. The high collar, edged with fine gray lace, framed the stark paleness of her neck. A massive gold pendant set with a sapphire rose and fell with her breath. Her hair was bound in intricate coils, pinned with pearl-topped silver needles. She looked ready to receive the oaths of vassals.
“Welcome back,” she said with a flawless curtsy. “My father is delayed with port business. He requested that I host you for lunch.”
They took their seats. Cohen was placed to her right. Servants moved like ghosts, placing dishes and retreating to the shadows. Dmitry, famished, set to work on the food immediately. The silence didn't bother him; his focus was on the meal.
The table featured a roasted boar garnished with chestnuts and apples, bowls of wild mushroom pottage, and baskets of warm, crusty bread. Dmitry noted the quality of the meat—Hoof’s cooks were worth their wages.
Bruno, however, found the silence wasteful. “Amalia, child,” he said, peering over his wine cup. “How do you feel about your father’s plan to marry you to the Baron?”
Amalia was mid-motion, slicing her cheese into perfect, identical cubes. At the question, she flinched—the knife clicked against the silver plate with a sharp, discordant note. She recovered in a heartbeat.
“My father does not wish me harm,” she said softly, her eyes focused on her plate. “He knows what is best for our house. I will not disobey him.”
Dmitry watched her. The answer was textbook, but that flinch told him everything. She wasn't a porcelain doll; she was a soldier who had received an order and was preparing to execute it.
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