Bab 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!"
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone