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66.66% Consultant. Redfern Tigers. Vol. 4 / Chapter 18: Chapter 18

Kapitel 18: Chapter 18

"Why aren't you having fun?" Ragnihotri inquired cheerfully. "Do you not appreciate the honor bestowed upon you? Didn't you, meeting with the consultant every day, notice how much more perfect he is than an ordinary human?"

"I noticed," Brannon said grimly. "Where did they drag Margaret?"

The red-haired sailor snorted and pushed him toward the stairs to the deck. The Mazandranman squinted at the commissar.

"Oh, don't worry," the "teacher" assured him. "Your niece needs a little upbringing, but in the end I will cure her if you will insist."

Nathan gave him a long look. It is unlikely that this orange daub will prevent him from wringing his neck. The Mazandranman firmly squeezed the commissar's shoulder - like the teeth of a trap.

"Give me back Peg."

"In time, of course," Ragnihotri assured him. The giant dragged Brennon up the stairs, which the sailor was already climbing.

"Tell me," Ragnihotri asked, "has Herr Redfern always been so... stubborn?"

"How should I know."

"Undoubtedly, the young Fraulen is dear to him, but he doesn't... however, I mean not so much his stubbornness as endurance. He didn't go through The Process, which is obvious, but maybe something else was done to him? A lightweight version of The Process?"

The insistent mumbling in the back aroused in the commissar a burning desire to kick the shaven bastard, and then kick him for a long time and methodically. Peggy was left there alone, completely defenseless, because what was the use of Angel now, but the sailors drag him, her uncle, the devil knows where - and he should rush to help!

So we must hurry, Brannon decided. The red-haired sailor held out his hand and dragged him to the deck.

It was already getting dark outside, and a damp, piercing wind was blowing over the deck. Nathan shivered - he was left without his coat and waistcoat, and the weather was by no means summer. However, the most important thing was that there were living people here. Ordinary, lively, normal sailors scurried about the ship, going about their seaman business. And judging by the glances that they secretly threw at Ragnihotri, his company did not give them the slightest pleasure.

They're afraid, Brannon thought. The sailors hastily averted their eyes, some furtively crossed themselves, and some looked after the commissar with sympathy. They had orange seals on their hands, or their neck or face, like those with which the rajahs in Mazandran marked the clothes of their servants.

"Are they from the Kaiserstern?" Nathan asked.

"Yes. Even my ship needs a crew on a long voyage."

And where do you put them later? Brannon thought, with an effort suppressing the rage. For minced meat for the undead or turning them into all sorts of creatures?

Oh, if Redfern now repeated his offer - he would shake his hand or immediately throw himself on his neck! Redfern... Peggy!

"Arandhati," Ragnihotri proudly gestured around the ship. "The beauty of the Kaiser fleet... former. "Kaiserin Maria Teresa", just think! Our Wilhelm has megalomania."

The commissar glanced around quickly. The sails on the masts were folded. Near the wheel (steering wheel?), which usually controls these pelvis, a thick-set, gray-haired sailor of about fifty stood, with an orange mark on his forehead. Brannon met his eyes and fixed his gaze on his face. Dorgernian looked at him gloomily, hostilely, but after a moment his expression changed to warily sympathetic.

"Leidner, arrange for a drink for the commissar," Ragnihotri ordered. "So, what would you like to know?"

"Give me back Peg. If they haven't even touched her, I'll just leave."

The "teacher" raised his eyebrows.

"Oh," he said mockingly, "are you also threatening me? What, may I know? Your witch? I have something to offer her."

He pulled out a twisted shell with a drawstring from his shirt collar and whistled shrilly into it. A sharp sound rolled over the ship, and for a moment something large, sinuous and scaly appeared out of the water. It immediately disappeared into the waves, but Nathan managed to estimate the size of the reptile. On the reconstruction that the pyromaniac was doing, it seemed much smaller.

"Sea serpent, Mazandran variety. I would not check it for fire resistance in the place of your little animal."

Brannon walked over to the railing. The giant held him by the shoulder, but the Commissar was not about to throw into the sea waves. He examined the ship's skin and pointed with his finger:

"Also pictures?"

Silvery patterns curled on the black side of the Arandhati. Ragnihotri laughed merrily.

"This is the Brahman magic that Herr Redfern spoke of with such disdain. And it is capable of amazing things! You, however, will now feel it for yourself," he nodded to the Mazandranman, and he, seizing the commissar like a lamb, carried him to the mast. Ragnihotri gave several short orders; The sailors surrounded the mast with obvious reluctance. A gray-haired sailor with a seal on his forehead stood the closest.

"What the heck?!" Brennon shouted, kicking in an iron grip. The bearded man held him tightly, but carefully.

"I'm just concerned about my safety. Bitter experience with your relative, you understand. The drink is completely safe, it will only slightly restrict your ability to move. Although," on reflection, Ragnihotri admitted, "the sensitivity to pain is also greatly reduce, so in the case of Herr Redfern, he had to do without him."

Leidner returned with the jug of some abomination. The Mazandranman pressed Brennon to the mast, and the gray-haired sailor began to tie the commissar's hands with a rope.

"For the girl, eh?" He muttered, barely audibly in a heavy accent. The Commissar nodded slightly. The hinges on his arms suddenly loosened.

"Run, man," the sailor whispered. The bearded man looked closely at Brannon, but did not say a word, only flashed his teeth in a grin for a second. Although he obeyed Ragnihotri, the Commissar did not feel any hostility from him.

The master of the undead poured liquid from the jug into the bottle, screwed the neck with a cork with a dispenser (Nathan had seen such at Longsdale) and handed it to Leidner. Meanwhile, the gray-haired sailor tied the rope around Brennon's legs. It looked very natural. The commissar counted the sailors around him. Twenty-two, including gray-haired. Leidner, meanwhile, approached Brannon and muttered:

"Come on, slurp."

The garbage-bucket-smelling liquid splattered on the commissar's collar as he turned away in disgust.

"Slurp, I said!"

Leidner tried to forcefully unclench Brennon's clenched teeth with the tip of the dispenser. Nathan shook his head, dodging the bottle. Leidner pulled out a knife and held it to his throat.

"Be careful not to damage his," Ragnihotri said sternly. "This is a valuable, already prepared copy."

What a stubborn cretin, Brannon thought. Leidner reluctantly put the knife away and thrust the bottle back into him. This time the commissar slightly unclenched his teeth, and when the sailor was distracted by pushing a dispenser into his mouth, he jerked free his hand from the ropes and punched the enemy in the nose with his fist. Leidner recoiled with a cry; Brennon's shirt was generously sprinkled with blood, and at that moment there was a loud, savory crunch in the belly of the ship, and a long crack ran along the mast opposite the commissar.

Ragnihotri's face changed; The commissar, without waiting for a response from him, wrenched himself out of the bondage and rushed away. The giant Mazandranman let go of him completely unhindered and did not even move to detain him. The sailors also showed little enthusiasm, and Nathan managed to run to the door to the cabin and even slam it behind him before he heard Ragnihotri's furious cry. The door covered by orange patterns and Brannon jumped back.

Before him lay a narrow corridor with a pair of doors. It also ended with a door; without thinking twice, Brannon burst his shoulder into it. It gave in the first time, and the commissar burst into the cabin, grabbed the chest standing at the entrance, raised it with a groan and filled the doorway with it. Suddenly the ship gave such a heel to the port side that Nathan could not stand on his feet and drove off to the corner with the carpet. The chest is fortunately stuck in the doorway.

Having got out of the carpet, the commissar on all fours (because it was shaking so that he couldn't get up on his feet) got to the window, looked out and swallowed. A huge sea reptile wriggled in the waves, now emerging, now plunging, now twisting a long body in rings, now straightening. A fragile figure was balancing on the horned head of the snake, clinging to the horn. Flames flared up around her, the snake squealed indignantly in falsetto and dived.

"Jen!"

The girl nevertheless got into the mess, instead of lying and!.. and... she hardly needed to recover. She, damn it, very thoroughly refueled with fifty burnt townspeople! The ship shook so that thoughts about the witch and her cannibalistic diet instantly flew out of the commissar's head. "Arondhati" threw over the waves in time with the snake dances, and Ragnihotri either did not guess or could not detach one from the other.

Although there was no chase noise, Brannon decided not to linger anyway. He opened the porthole and leaned out. At the same moment, a gray-haired Dorgernian sailor hung over the side, ax in hand. For a second or two they looked at each other; then the sailor threw the ax down, so that it stuck into the window frame near Brennon. The commissar pulled out the weapon and waved them to the Dorgernian. He disappeared.

The ship creaked terribly and heeled to the left. Brannon, clinging to the wall, moved to the door to the next cabin, a bedroom with a luxurious four-poster bed in the style of Mazandran rajas. Pillows and bedspreads were scattered throughout the cabin, and the carpet slid into a corner, revealing a hatch in the floor. Nathan immediately decided to use it and with a few blows of the ax made his way up a narrow staircase that descended into the dark belly of the ship. It's amazing why Ragnihotri didn't paint the entire hatch with witchcraft patterns - but Brennon didn't think about it for long. There was a hold downstairs, and Peggy in the hold, and the sooner he got to her, the better.

Having reached the last step, and miraculously didn't trip over from the pitching, the commissar regretted that he could not see in the dark. There was barely enough light from the hatch to make out the chests and bales. But now Nathan understood why the hatch was not protected by anything - it was, in essence, a closet, with carpets, rags and utensils, which pitifully tinkled in the chests from every roll and tug of the Arandhati.

Brannon groped along the chests and finally fumbled for the door. The commissar raised the ax, and then the ship jerked forward and to the left so that Nathan was hit in bales, and pillows, rugs and wicker baskets fell from above. There was a terrible strained grinding, from which the whole ship shook, as if in a fit, and all movement ceased.

The commissar with difficulty got out of the rubble, again groped for the door and properly smashed it with an ax. The wood cracked, and Nathan, delighted at its flimsy, chopped a couple more times. A fiery glow suddenly flared up in the hole, there was a short roar, then something powerful, large and flaming crashed into the door with all its might. The boards crumbled with a heap of coals, and a fiery monster proudly stood in the doorway with burning eyes and a tongue of flame wriggling in its mouth.

"Snappish!" Brennon exclaimed with relief. "Well, thank God! Finally!"

The beast snorted in embarrassment, stopped blazing, drew the flame into its mouth and nudged the commissar's hand with a hot nose. Brannon patted the hound's neck, scratched its velvety ears, and said:

"Margaret, Snappish! Find her soon!"

The hound looked at him strangely and stomped into the darkness. A warm glow of fire spread around the hound, illuminating the way for the commissar. However, they did not have to walk long. Soon, Snappish led Brannon to a gap between the towering bales and crates. The consultant was already there, and by the light of a golden ball, he was looking melancholy at the situation, seeing which the commissar could only utter a muffled curse.

Burning lizards played on the floor, covered in blood; three corpses with serious injuries and one skeleton, gnawed almost clean, lay around. A table covered in blood stains, an overturned chair, scraps of cloth, tongs, pliers, a hammer, nails. It stinks with blood, burned flesh and strong swill.

"What the hell is this?" The Commissar said through set teeth.

"I believe the Ragnihotri sailors were going to torture Mister Redfern or Miss Sheridan," Longsdale replied unperturbedly. "And apparently Mister Redfern didn't like it."

***

Margaret darted towards Angel. He was unconscious, and the girl turned him over on his back, trying not to disturb the burns, carefully arranged his head in her lap. The mentor shivered weakly, his eyelids lifted with difficulty, and he muttered:

"I promised to rip out their eyes... everyone... could not..."

"Nothing, you tried," Margaret consoled him. Angel's eyelids dropped again. The girl bit her lip and looked away from his body; for a moment in front of her everything blurred in a hot, wet veil of tears. The burns up close were much worse, but the worst of all was the hand with the nails.

Margaret wiped her eyes, brushed the hair from Angel's forehead and pressed her hand to it. The forehead was hot. The pale blush quickly disappeared from the mentor's cheekbones; he began to shake with a small shiver. It rolled in waves, as if in a feverish seizure. Angel scratched his feet on the floor, trying to sit up; Margaret helped him crawl to the side and made him half-sitting there, supporting him with both hands. He leaned heavily on the girl, looked around and abruptly ordered:

"Search them."

She didn't want to leave him, but she got up and first made sure that no one was running to the screams: not the crowds of the undead, not even some mercenaries. Then she looked around in search of weapons and, turning to Angel for advice, indignantly found that he stands up and staggers down the wall toward the table.

"Hey!" Margaret snapped. "Should you be given a kick in the head to sit you quietly?!"

The mentor focused his wandering gaze on her and smiled half-madly.

"What uncle's intonations..." he declared and fell on the wall. Margaret managed to catch him when he was already falling. Angel's ribs were shaking under her hand, hot breath burned her neck, his hands were shaking more and more, and his teeth chattered frantically. Margaret was shaking too - with fear, for him. There is nothing she can do to help him now if he collapses in a fever... or from this damn Mazandran poison!

"Just side effect..." the mentor muttered as she dragged him to the table. "Every potion works on us slowly... badly and not for long... it sucks to be Redfern... in that sense..."

Margaret propped him up against the table, picked up a chair, and sat him down (more precisely, Angel himself fell, she only supported, so that he did not miss). Redfern extended his left hand over the table and rested his elbow on the edge of the tabletop.

"Give me the tongs," he said. "Look for some swill from these. Then stronger then better."

Margaret picked up the tongs and placed them on the edge of the table so that Angel could not reach them. Then, as if in a dream, she knelt in front of the corpse with a shattered neck and began to search. She searched the bodies methodically and busily, from head to toe, and only sometimes in front of her everything blurred in a fog. Then the smells sharply intensified, to the point of nausea and pain in the nose, but Margaret shook her head, dispersed the fog, and the stench also receded.

Finally she dumped all the loot on the table in front of Angel. She found flasks of booze at each sailor and offered the mentor a choice of as many as six. While Angel was choosing, Margaret stepped behind him and pulled down her petticoat. It was black with dirt at the hem, but a more or less clean part began just below the knees. Miss Sheridan cut her skirt into the bandages with Kohler's knife, folded them around the flasks, and then she suddenly swayed. She gripped the table and closed her eyes. Her ears buzzed, her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor. Angel's voice dimly reached her, alarmed, calling, affectionate. Margaret heeled like a ship, and she buried her face in the knees of her mentor.

Her senses and consciousness failed her – she felt nothing and understood nothing; the world swirled around her, carrying away smells and sounds. All that remained was fatigue, which began in the bones and grew heavier as it passed through the nerves, muscles and skin. Fatigue spread in the air, it thickened from it, and every breath was so difficult that she wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep - until she wakes up at home, in bed, in your room, opposite the windows, through which the fir forest looks in...

"Margaret," Angel whispered. "Forgive me, dear."

A warm, dry hand rested on her forehead, and the girl raised her head with a sigh. Angel looked down at her. His eyes were so large and warm and deep that Margaret was drowning in them like in dark liquid amber. She squeezed Angel's hand and pressed her lips to thin long fingers.

"Forgive me for that," he repeated quietly. "Forgive me if you can."

Margaret rose, holding onto the table. The tongs were looking straight at her, and she took them. Heavy.

"Give them to me and take..."

"No," the girl said, "I myself."

Angel paused, then put his left hand on the edge of the table and pressed it with his right.

"Open the flask first. Fill in every hole. Do not jerk or loosen the nail. Immediately wrest."

She could not grab the tongs with one palm, only two, and therefore pressed Angel's hand with her knee. As soon as she contrived during the ship's roll.

"God, what am I doing..." the thought flashed her head, and the girl pulled the first nail with all her might. Blood splattered, Angel gasped. Margaret dumped the swill from the flask into the wound, and the mentor hissed hoarsely.

"Second!" He croaked. The second nail was covered in blood, and Margaret was not immediately able to grab it. But Angel did not scream this time either, only jerked his whole body and fell back on the back of the chair. She dropped the tongs, doused the wound with booze, and wiped his palm with a piece of bandage. Angel woke up with a barely audible groan. The blood was flowing so hard that Margaret put two tampons on top and bottom, and then bandaged tightly. The mentor helped her, but even so it did not work out very well: bloody spots immediately appeared on the bandage.

"It doesn't work," Margaret said. Why is she a crooked-armed incompetent?!

"It does. Not bad for your first experience." Angel raised his hand, twisted it, examining the bandage, and stood up. "But let's not linger here. Take a lamp and..."

The ship suddenly lurched violently to the port side, and Margaret was barely able to stand, clutching the table. Angel fell to his knees, knocking over a chair.

"Let's run!" The mentor hissed, getting up with difficulty. "Hurry!"


next chapter

Kapitel 19: Chapter 19

Under the table, the Commissar saw a pair of blood-stained nails, tongs, and a small collection of flasks of booze. Blood stains on the floor and table mingled with puddles of stinking swill. Right there next to them are bloody bandages and scraps of a petticoat. The hound sniffed the tongs, nails, petticoat and looked expectantly at the commissar.

"Is that his blood?" Nathan asked. The hound nodded, and Brannon took a deep breath with relief.

"Can you find them?"

Snappish measured him with a glance full of superiority, buried his nose on the floor and headed into the darkness of the hold.

"The trick with the mast - your handiwork?" Brannon asked as Longsdale followed the hound with him. The consultant smiled smugly. "And we will not sink with this trough?"

"We shouldn't, I carefully dosed the force of the impact."

"Why did you do this?"

Longsdale frowned, puzzled.

"Hasn't your memory recovered yet? Looks like I overdid it with enchantments..."

Damn it! With all this bedlam, Brennon completely flew out of his head that the consultant erased his memory, so that Ragnihotri would not extract from it a plan of action, which was what?..

"While you intended to distract the master of the undead," Longsdale reminded delicately, "we stealthily infiltrated the ship on your trail. When an imminent threat arose for you, I saw fit to intervene. As far as I understand, Mister Redfern and Miss Sheridan were held captive by this man."

"He calls himself Ragnihotri," the commissar fluently recounted what he had learned. "Apparently, his people again tried to knock out Redfern everything that he knows about The Process. The pyromaniac does not like to be interrogated, and even by such methods."

The hound sniffed angrily. Brannon remembered the first meeting with Angel in the father Grace's house - the witch complained about the silence of the pyromaniac in exactly the same way as Ragnihotri. Is such resistance to pain also due to radiation?

"Yeah, just go and stand under the radiation of the portal," the commissar thought gloomily.

"Interesting," Longsdale said thoughtfully. "Some time ago one of my Dorgern colleagues disappeared, with whom I wanted to consult on one case. Then I did not attach any importance to this, since we quite often leave for a long time on business."

"But do you understand what this means? The Process of turning human into consultants is real, and if so, then we can find someone who does it, and, maybe, return your memory."

The hound stopped, turned to the Commissar and gazed into his eyes for a long time. Longsdale was bewilderedly silent. Suddenly, the ship jerked sideways and spun so that all three flew into the pile of crates. The consultant managed to shout something out, and only because of this, instead of some broken ribs, Brennon had an abrasion in his cheek when he hit a large chest.

"Are you all right?!" Longsdale shouted.

"Yes! What the hell is this?!"

The ship turned around its axis, and it began to spin faster and faster, like a top. Longsdale raised his hand, covering them all with an invisible shield. Boxes and chests shook under the ropes, the sides squeaked strainedly, screams and stomps could be heard from above.

"This is bad!" The consultant barked in Brennon's ear. "The ship will simply crack now!"

"Can you stop it?!"

"Can! But I have to go upstairs!"

"Go! I'll find Peggy and Redfern! Snappish?!"

Longsdale thought for a moment and exchanged a glance with the hound.

"It can stay," the consultant decided, threw a transparent shield to Nathan and rushed away, almost immediately disappeared into the darkness. Brannon got up, leaning on the hound's withers, covered himself with a weightless shield and also rushed into the darkness, but in the other direction. The damn ship already seemed to him endless, like the Mazandran jungle.

And besides, since Longsdale did not have time to restore his memory, the Commissar had a very vague idea of ​​what was happening on the ship. Beat now against the boxes, now against the chests, he made his way after the hound, envious of the dexterity with which the beast kept on its paws, until finally a faint light appeared in front of him.

It fluttered in time with the ship's rolling motion, and Nathan hurried into the light. The hound lagged behind and was now stamping after him. Brannon climbed over several overturned crates and nearly tripped over Redfern's feet. There was a wild cry of "Stop!", and the commissar, turning, saw Margaret with a revolver. The girl was aiming at his head, her back against the boxes. The lantern was on one of them.

"Peggy!" Brennon choked out. She looked so awful that he couldn't say anything more.

"Uncle," Margaret's voice faltered, and she threw herself on his neck. Nathan dropped his shield and hugged her tightly. The girl trembled shallowly and sobbed barely audibly into his shoulder.

"Oh, Peggy, Peggy," Brannon whispered. She was covered in bruises and blood, and she smelled strongly of male sweat. Probably because she was dragging Redfern on her, because if he was wounded ... the Commissar turned to him, not letting go of his niece. The pyromaniac, lying between the boxes, gazed up at them, and Brannon did not like his look either. Redfern's chest and abdomen were covered with long burns that looked more like stripes of ripped skin and burnt meat; the face resembled a skull covered with skin tightly with huge dark holes of the eyes; the bandage on his left palm was soaked in blood, so it was hardly possible to tell whether it was leaking from one wound or from two. Bleeding and other traces of beatings against such a background were barely noticeable.

"What happened to you?"

Redfern's lips curled into a smile that sent a chill down Nathan's spine.

"I killed them all," Angel said almost inaudibly, almost dreamily. "Every single one. They did not touch her," his gaze moved to Margaret and warmed; but the expression on his face was still half-mad. "Every single one. I promised..."

Margaret slipped out of Brennon's embrace and sank down next to Angel, putting her hand to his forehead. The pyromaniac sighed convulsively and closed his eyes. His head bowed to Margaret's hand.

"This is because of the potion," the girl sniffed. "The bearded Mazandranman gave me a potion, and Angel drank it. It helped when he fought them, but now he gets worse and worse. And the blood won't stop!"

The Commissar sat down next to the pyromaniac and carefully took his hand. Blood flowed from two perforated wound covered with bandages and tampons, and Nathan understood what the nails were used for.

"Motherfuckers," definitely, Ragnihotri was voluntarily followed by the choicest individuals.

"We left, but this damn ship is spinning all the time, and when Angel fell..." Margaret swallowed. It is clear that the girl was unable to lift the tall man. "I was looking here for something to stop the bleeding, I found a chest with a weapon, then I heard footsteps and..."

Angel opened his eyes. He looked almost normal now, but deathly tired. Margaret made the mentor comfortable and wiped sweat from his face and neck with a scrap of her sleeve. Angel stirred and stared sharply over Brannon's shoulder. The commissar looked around: the hound was approaching them, staring at Redfern. The beast's fangs bared in a mocking grin. The pyromaniac shrank into the crates, and Brannon felt his hand tremble with tension.

"Snappish," the commissar called out, cursing his stupidity for throwing the shield. The hound trotted slowly towards Redfern. "Snappish, stop."

Angel turned completely gray. Snappish put its paws on his chest, crushed him to the floor with all its weight. Nathan squeezed the hound's scruff with both hands, although he understood that he would not be able to drag the beast away. The hound hovered over the pyromaniac and brought its muzzle to his face, looking into his eyes.

"Red!" Margaret cried suddenly and threw her arms the powerful neck of the hound. "Oh, Red, please! Please help me!"

Snappish turned to the girl and looked at her with a long, sad, not at all hound look. Nathan felt uncomfortable with how human the hound's expression had become when the hound licked Peggy on the cheek, removed its paw and nuzzled into the bandage. Brannon began to unwind it. The more he took off the bandages, the worse the view became. Finally, both wounds opened. Snappish ran his tongue over Angel's palm, and the pyromaniac flinched. Flame flashed in the hound's mouth, licked the nail wounds; Redfern arched convulsively in Margaret's arms, but only let out a short, barely audible groan. Snappish repeated the procedure with the back of his hand and released Angel's hand from his mouth. Both wounds were deeply cauterized. The pyromaniac slumped in Margaret's arms like a rag doll.

"Oh my God ..." Brannon had never seen anyone able to endure something like this almost without screaming. What if he is no longer human at all?!

"Thank you," the girl said quietly to the hound and pressed her lips to Angel's hair. He was shaking; Brannon thought he would have to carry him. It is unlikely that the pyromaniac was so beaten during the fight – it must have been before. Then how did he manage to kill the whole horde of Dorgernian bastards? Was it possible that a couple of sips of some kind of potion put him on his feet so quickly, and then knocked him off just as quickly?

Recalling the injuries on the corpses, the Commissar decided to dismiss this question as interesting, but so far unimportant, and said:

"Peggy and you, Snappish - go find out what's going on upstairs. Don't lean out! Ragnihotri sits very quietly - I want to know why."

"But, uncle, what about Angel..." Margaret began, hugging the pyromaniac to her.

"Don't worry," Redfern said suddenly and distinctly. "I don't think your uncle intends to continue what the Dorgern gentlemen started. Go, Margaret. The hound will protect you from a dozen sailors, which you cannot say about me right now."

"But..."

"Go," Angel said softly. "Nothing will happen to me."

Margaret kissed his forehead, got up and, looking back at her mentor, followed the hound. The pyromaniac followed her with a long look, in which tenderness was mixed with longing and with such surprise, as if he doubted that he could arouse such feelings in a girl.

"She's only seventeen," Brannon reminded sternly, who had no doubts. Trying on how to get Redfern to his feet without much pain, he moved to the other side, threw the pyromaniac's good hand over his shoulder and helped him to stand.

"We need to search the luggage," this guy said, staggering like a drunk. "Ragnihotri must have a rich supply of potions, amulets and weapons here. It will come in handy..."

"Are you iron?" the commissar snapped at him. "I will drag you to the place where you, with your hand and other wrong else, will lie quietly and wait for the doctor, and not get tangled under the feet and faint."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that!" The victim of torture immediately hissed. "You have no right to tell me..."

"People sometimes care about each other. Have you heard of this?"

Angel was silent for a moment; In fairness, there was no need to drag him - he moved his legs on his own, although he did not hold on to them firmly. Not surprising with such a pitching...

"So what's this - a care?" He inquired finally. "Are you saying you care — about me?"

"Not because I like you. Because Peggy will scratch my eyes out if she finds any more bruises on you."

Angel chuckled: he was clearly pleased to hear that, much more pleasant than the Commissar - to say.

Brennon had an ax in one hand, with the other supporting the pyromaniac, so there was nothing to grab onto the boxes, and both of them were shaking from the rocking. Having got out of the maze of boxes, Nathan was annoyed to find that he had taken Angel to a cubbyhole, where he had already left four corpses. However, this time someone living swarmed there. The ship suddenly shook to the side, and the commissar could not stay on his feet. Dropping the ax, he fell on his back, Angel collapsed on top and silently twitched in pain.

"Sorry," Brannon whispered. "How are you?"

The pyromaniac hissed obscenely, stood up, leaning on his good hand, and suddenly froze. Nathan too: the ship was no longer turning. It swayed slightly, but it did not move anywhere. Muffled Dorgern swearing came from the closet. Brannon met Angel's gaze — they both recognized the voice, and a glow of unbridled rage flared in the pyromaniac's eyes.

When he jumped up, the commissar did not even have time to grab him. Redfern rushed to the closet like a tiger to prey, pulling the pistol from his belt as he walked. Brannon, picking up the ax, rushed after him, but too late - a shot rang out. The commissar made a desperate dash, finally found himself in front of the nook with corpses, saw Redfern - and quite alive Leidner, who was backing away from the pyromaniac, clutching his shot arm to his chest. Brannon stopped in surprise. He thought that Angel know where his interests lie...

"You don't know what you're doing at all," the pyromaniac said insinuatingly. "But I will explain to you how a professional differs from an amateur."

Leidner, licking his lips, sidled over to the table. Near it, in a stone ball, the salamanders dozed on the coals. The fire cast red reflections on the walls and people's faces.

"To begin with," Redfern purred, "the victim must be reliably immobilized," and slid to the side, clearing the way to escape. Leidner rushed towards salvation, turning his back to the pyromaniac, and he with smiled break his ridge by two shots. The sailor fell to the floor with a cry.

"Stop it!" Brennon snapped.

"Help!" Leidner howled, finally seeing the Commissar. Angel dropped the pistol, picked up the scoop, and scooped up hot coals from the hearth. He approached Leidner, kicked him onto his back and announced:

"And then you can get down to business."

"Hey!" the commissar took a step towards Redfern; he raised a burning, half-mad look at him and said coldly:

"He tried to rape her."

"I didn't touch her!" Leidner wheezed; his eyes were completely white with fear. "Take it away! Take it away!"

The pyromaniac pressed his knee to his throat, and the sailor opened his mouth wide, gasping for air. "Peggy!" Brannon gripped the handle of the ax - Peggy, all bruised and abraded, Peggy, surrounded by these brutes, fragile, defenseless - and missed the moment when Redfern poured coals into the sailor's mouth. Leidner howled deafly. The pyromaniac shoved the coals with the handle of the scoop into his throat and pressed down his jaw with his knee, clenching victim's teeth. The sailor thrashed under him, banging his head on the floor; Brannon woke up.

"Enough!" He grabbed Redfern by his shoulder and threw him away from Leidner. He was still breathing and shaking shallowly.

"Do you really feel sorry for him?" The pyromaniac hissed. "He should have seen it through so that you..."

"Uncle! Angel!" Margaret voice came. "Where are you? We are here..."

"Peg, stay away!" the commissar shouted, but too late: the girl emerged from the darkness, saw Leidner and recoiled with a strangled cry, her hand over her mouth. Angel's face changed, and he darted towards her.

"Margaret!" He caught her hand. "This is Leidner! You understand? Margaret, you remember I promised!"

He stared at her hungrily and pleadingly at the same time. "Look!" Nathan read in his gaze. "Look, I did it for you! You're happy? Are you happy, aren't you?"

"Margaret, I promised you, and he paid for it, you remember... you..."

Are you glad? Nathan thought bitterly. Margaret, trembling, peered at the sailor - and recognized him. Nathan could tell by the way her expression changed. Disgust and horror were gone, as if recognition had washed them away in an instant; she slightly pushed Angel aside to give Leidner a long appraising glance - the sailor no longer shook, only made faint bubbling sounds.

"Margaret…" the pyromaniac whispered. She finally averted her eyes from the sailor and pressed a hand to Redfern's sunken cheek.

"Oh, Angel," Margaret said tenderly, he smiled weakly and leaned against the wall: the outburst of rage faded, taking away the last of his strength. "You are completely tired. Come on, I found a place where you can rest."

She threw his good hand over her shoulder. Angel leaned heavily on the girl. He was sweating as if from a fever,and his ribs were shaking, pulling at the burned skin.

"What's upstairs?" Brennon asked dryly.

"Ragnihotri has escaped," Margaret answered. "The problems remain. Finish him off and get on deck - Mister Longsdale and the witch are waiting for you."

"Finish off?" The commissar asked coldly, although something clenched in his heart. "Do you insist?"

Margaret snorted derisively.

"Do you think I'll forgive him in the name of mercy and compassion?"

"No," Brannon said, "I don't think so."

***

The Commissar took a deep breath of the damp, cold air. After the musty hold, Nathan found it intoxicatingly fresh. As if he had escaped from a suffocating dream - not a nightmare, but a sticky semi-delusional vision, after which the real world, for all its ugliness, looks like a damn cute place.

"What do we have here?" Brannon asked. A piercing wind whistled over deck, and clouds were gathering in the sky, the sight of which Nathan did not like. The ship rattled strainedly, as if it was about to fall to pieces and was choosing the right moment.

"Ragnihotri has escaped," Longsdale said; the hound sat guiltily at his feet. "We were fighting, and he tried some brahminical trick with subduing charms with me, but to no avail."

"So, in frustration, he jumped overboard?" The commissar asked gloomily. Jen was nowhere to be seen, and he was alarmed: the devil knows who the witch was incinerating at this minute... and whether she had drowned, having burst out after a fight with the serpent.

"Well... yes," Longsdale admitted.

"What "yes"?"

"He jumped."

Brannon choked. The sea overboard could only make a suicidal person think of swimming.

"What for?" He asked pernickety, and out of the corner of his eye noticed a group of sailors crowding around a gray-haired man who threw an ax to him. Brannon was still clutching the weapon in his hand.

"To escape. He saddled the serpent, detached the ship and..."

"Didn't even shit at last? This beast can smash half a ship with one blow of its tail, but Ragnihotri just took it and swam away? Where the hell could he possibly be riding the serpent?"

"I don't know," the consultant said, upset. "I should have gone after him, but I cannot leave you on the ship in the midst of such a situation." He looked emphatically at the clouds. "I sent Jen in pursuit, but I'm afraid she will have to return. The sea is not a very friendly element to her, especially in a storm."

"How is she?" Nathan muttered, not sure if he was asking about her health or how many more victims she'd mowed down.

"The serpent did not harm her."

"And she harm it?"

The consultant shrugged vaguely. A gray-haired sailor, surrounded by a tight crowd of companions in misfortune, went resolutely towards Brennon.

"Klaus Gunther," he said abruptly and handed Nathan a jacket, which the commissar pulled on with gratitude. "Boatswain of "Kaiserstern"."

"Commissar Brannon, the Homicide and Major Crimes Division, Riada Police. This is our consultant, Mister Longsdale."

Gunther gave Longsdale a hard, suspicious look, and Brannon could not blame him. After all that they have experienced, nothing surprising.

"Do you have such persons in your police?" the boatswain asked incredulously. "Is this your own, grrmm, zauberer?"

"Uh-huh," the commissar decided. The cracked mast tilted with a screech, from which the whole ship creaked. Longsdale raised his hand and muttered an incantation. Mast fell into place, but the sailors drew back from the consultant; Gunther glanced at him with dislike. And it became clear to Brannon that they would not go far with such a mast.

"Where are we? Is the ship badly damaged?"

"We went to Dessenberg. But the ship will not stand the road there." He nodded to the mast. "We can turn back if we're lucky."

"Why - if we're lucky?"

Gunther pointed a finger at the clouds swirling to the horizon:

"See? We will walk into the heart of the storm if we move to your shore."

The Commissar did not like the prospects. The sailors looked at him like they were waiting for a solution to the problem - and for some reason from him.

"The filthy nit does dirt on us," the boatswain muttered. "Such storms do not happen in these waters in mid-September."

Brannon rubbed his beard and finally decided:

"Send your men to inspect the ship. I'll find out what Mister Longsdale can do with the mast. Oh, and one more thing: Mister Leidner is in the hold. If he's still alive, place him somewhere."

"Leidner," the sailor repeated slowly, adding a long, spiteful phrase in Dorgernian; the sailors supported him with a roar of consent. "If he dies - it serves him right!"

"Was he a member of your crew before he defected to Ragnihotri?"

Gunther nodded.

"Who is this Ragnihotri?"

"Doctor Johann Roismann," the boatswain spat contemptuously overboard. "The f***ing professor. He finished off the secretary of the minister, the police officer, the captain, and took up the passengers. Nobody survived. Son of a bitch."

"There was a Mazandranman with him. Where is he?"

"The savage has not been seen since his master jumped overboard."

Longsdale was studying the cracked mast thoughtfully as Brennon approached him. The hound sniffed at the base of the mast and shook his head sadly at the sight of the commissar.

"Why did you do that at all?" Nathan asked grumpily.

"I wanted to divert his attention."

"You succeded. By the way, our Mazandranman in spirit is Doctor Johann Roismann. He killed the passengers, his companions and finished off the captain of the Kaiserstern. And now he is riding the serpent into his lair while we are stuck on a collapsing trough."

"I think the safest thing to do is to remove this mast," Longsdale said.

"And then? A storm is coming. We must get out of this trough."

The consultant looked at the heavy black clouds. The wind was getting stronger, and the ship rocked more and more.

"If I knew exactly how many people are on board, where we are and what is the distance to the coast, I could use some kind of teleportation spell."

Brannon frowned.

"Wait. Roismann somehow transported his vampires to Blackwhit. Why don't we use his way?"

"If they walked along a mirrored path, then the entry point must be fixed."

"But we're not moving anywhere. I suggest we search Roismann's cabins. We have clearly more chances to survive if we walk the path."

Lightning flashed in the sky. Longsdale gazed uneasily into the clouds. The hound sucked in air.

"Good," the consultant decided. "Tell the boatswain about it. Let him count the people."


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