Capítulo 12: Chapter 12
Nathan looked a heavy glance around Rocksville Street. Everywhere he again saw the same traces as twenty years ago: broken lamps, shop windows and windows, tumbled down fences and gates, stones and bullets left potholes on the walls, blood stains on the cobblestones... Unless there are not enough fires and Deirinians hanging on lanterns. Although Brannon could smell smoke and burnt flesh. The hound poked sympathetically with its wet nose into his hand. Longsdale sniffed the air, dabbed a finger on the blood on the pavement, and licked it.
"Missis van Allen is right. It is the curse that poisons the mind, awakens the basest instincts and animal aggression."
Nathan has seen such poisoned people - drunk with permissiveness and revolutionary freedom. Marauders, rapists, robbers - everyone whom the "first law of the Republic" allowed the Commissar to shoot and hang without trial or investigation, without leaving the scene of the crime.
Damn pyromaniac is right! He thought in impotent rage. Any nit can start a bloodbath just for fun - and no one will prove anything! They won't even catch a jerkoff with these curses, spells, conjurations!
The walls of the cafe and the department were charred, the pavement too, even the lantern was melted. Jen did a great job on them. The witch stood on the porch of the cafe and silently looked at the Commissar.
"Tired?" Nathan asked.
"More like I snacked," She grinned for a moment, but Brannon saw that she was tired. "Fought a little. Pain, injury, suffering. Survivors in the hospital."
"How many are there?"
"More than necessary. I would have burned everyone," Jen assured him bloodthirsty, "but vivene wouldn't let me"
Byrne came down the steps of the department. He was staggering, on a bandage around his head, above his left temple, a bloody stain spread.
- Why the hell aren't you in the hospital? Brennon asked sternly. The detective winced.
- I inspect the place of crime. Here are the lists of victims, our guys are not in them, - Byrne handed the folder to the Commissar, grabbed the porch rail, turned white, and vomited.
"Longsdale, can you get this idiot to the hospital?
"Of course," the consultant reached over the head of the detective, who was still hugging the rail, and muttered. It seems that Byrne felt better, and Longsdale, throwing his hand over his shoulder, strode towards his carriage, oblivious to weak resistance from the detective.
"This guy is so damn careless," Jen pointed out. "For such a curse, a very strong enchantment is needed, which leaves a bunch of traces. We can sniff out the critter at once."
"And if he is at a great distance? At sea, for example?"
"Are you sure? The enchantment weakens in proportion to the distance. However, this explains why the master caused only a couple of outbreaks of rabies, and not general madness. But, if he is so far away, then can you imagine how much power he should have?" Jen was worried. "Well, these are not stupid ghouls, which you can raised and rule, but living people."
"Have you visited the Sheridans?"
"Yes. Your pyromaniac has packed their house in such a dense cocoon that I couldn't even get inside. Human - even more so. So your family was safe. Although they have suffered a lot of fear, of course."
Brannon sniffed. His debt to the pyromaniac grew at an astonishing rate. Maybe, he'll have to give it back with interest…
In the department, Brannon had a talk with the guys who got hit on the night of the popular riot, and went up to the chief. Broyd read Byrne's report with grim concentration.
"What the hell, huh?" He asked, barely seeing the Commissar. "Yesterday there was peace and quiet and God's grace! I couldn't believe my eyes when peaceful citizens tried to land the doors and kill us all!"
"Uh-huh," the commissar responded sympathetically. "Is your family all right?"
"The unrest affected only the department, cafes and the Sheridans quarter. However, I understand that Longsdale has taken care of your sister's protection. And his butler," the chief added after a pause, "saved us and the Van Allen. He interrupted a bunch of people, but saved!"
Jen, following the Commissar like a shadow, snorted loudly.
"Sheridans was protected by the pyromaniac," Brennon muttered. "Sir, I brought some sad news from the capital."
The chief armed himself with a cigar to strengthen his spirit and nodded. The Commissar talked about everything that happened at Breswain and shared his findings. Broyd grunted, coughed, and finally said:
"If I did not know about your modesty, I would say that you attach excessive importance to your person."
"Yeah, I'm sleeping and seeing myself on a pedestal. But note - as soon as we got to the bottom of the more or less the truth, as the master of the undead immediately organized for us a popular unrest."
"Because he knew," the witch interjected sarcastically, "that you'll drop everything, rush in there and don't allow me to burn these innocent citizens of yours to hell!"
"You read the mind of the pyromaniac." Brannon pulled Peggy's letter from his wallet. "Came on, read it aloud."
When Jen finished, Broyd remarked disapprovingly:
"You left your niece with this Redfern."
"At least he can protect her."
"He himself was almost kidnapped by the owner's mercenaries. Not to mention that the guy and the girl are looking for the suspect's ship, which turned the townspeople into possessed as soon as you got close to it. What will he do if Redfern finds his ship?"
"I hope the pyromaniac will be smart enough to tell me about the find. And if not he, then Peggy."
"You are not going to bring her home?"
Nathan sighed heavily and admitted:
"No. I know I must, but how do we keep her there? Perhaps with the help of Longsdale. And that's not a fact. Besides, the pyromaniac…" the Commissar paused, choosing his words. "It was he who took care of protecting her family, and this is not the first time. I don't think he's going to hurt Peggy."
Broyd blew out his mustache angrily.
"And if she gets pregnant from him?"
The Commissar ran his hand over his forehead. He didn't know what would happen then.
"It's not that important now, sir. First we need to catch the master of the undead, and then..."
"How are you going to catch him? Just do not say that for live bait."
"Well, there is no another way."
"Brannon!" the chief thundered. "Do you at least realize that we do not know anything about his intentions? Maybe he will turn you into another walking carrion, and I don't want to shoot you in the head with silver bullets, or what else do you kill these creatures!"
"I'm not going into the noose without preparation," Brennon said patiently. "But the more the master is busy with me, the less he will pay attention to Redfern tracking his ship."
"If your pyromaniac can be trusted at all. I am not inclined to believe a man who steals girls and burns criminals alive."
The commissar paused and finally reluctantly expressed the thought that was gnawing at him:
"But, sir, we can't do anything to him anyway. Again, we weren't able to put the pyromaniac behind bars, let alone the master of the undead - with no chance at all. Unless Longsdale builds some kind of cage. But even when we catch the criminal, what charge will we bring against him?"
Broyd opened his mouth in indignation, closed it, crushed the cigar in the ashtray, and finally said:
"That is, your plan is that while you distract the master on yourself, the pyromaniac finds his lair - so what? What do you intend to do next?"
"Trump card," Brannon nodded at Jen. The witch bared her teeth in joy. "Raiden and Longsdale will burn this lair (the ship is there or something) to the ground. To create undead, he needs a laboratory - so we will destroy it along with the entire brood of creatures."
"And then?"
"I'll persuade Redfern to tie him up and take him to safety," Brennon said firmly, and the chief expressed his skepticism about the idea in a loud snort. The Commissar, frankly speaking, deeply doubted it himself.
"Why do you suffer so much?" Jen couldn't stick. "Catch the bastard and break his head, that's all you have to do!"
"I'm afraid this is the only thing we can do in the end," the Commissar muttered grimly. "We will never be able to prove that it was he who arranged the crash of the Kaiserstern. Leaving him free is risky, but putting him in prison is useless."
"Yes," Broyd said quietly, "I didn't think I would live to see this."
"Me too. That's not what I dreamed about when ..." Brannon trailed off. He always believed that only a court can pass a legal sentence to a criminal - but what to do if even bringing this criminal into the courtroom is not only almost impossible, but also dangerous?
Is Redfern really right? Nathan thought wistfully. And if he is right, then what's next? After all, a pyromaniac is going to create a whole organization that will deal with lynching - and who can guarantee that criminals will always be guilty?
"All right, go," Broyd grunted. - I need to think.
"What's the matter?" The witch asked as they descended the stairs. "What's stopping you from finishing off this guy?"
Brannon just sighed.
"Hard to explain."
"Generally, or just me?" Jen specified.
"For you," the Commissar admitted. The witch snorted and fell behind.
Brannon walked out of the department and knocked at the café, casting a grim look at the broken window. Victor van Allen opened the door to him.
"How are you doing?" The Commissar asked.
"All are safe," the young man answered mechanically and let him inside. The cafe hall was strewn with broken glass, stones and bricks. Most of the counter windows and bottles on the shelves were also broken, and the smell of spices, sweets and syrups wafted in the cafe.
"Mother is in the hospital," Victor muttered, averting his eyes from the witch. What did he see? A ring of fire flaring up outside? Or Jen in her real form?
"Where are the younger ones?"
"I hid them in the basement," Victor sat down on the edge of the table and clasped his head in his hands.
"Vivene destroyed the curse," Jen said mockingly. "And he saw everything. Look how many impressions. Until now!"
"Why," Victor whispered, "why didn't she kill them all at home in Meersand?"
"Vivene cannot harm the living," the witch said. "But I can. And I harm!" Bloodthirsty eyes flashed, she added. "Especially when they're bothering her."
"May I," the commissar asked as delicately as possible, "to visit your brothers and sisters?"
"They're upstairs," Victor said blankly. - In Marion's room.
Brannon went up to the third floor, on the way thinking about what it would be like to suddenly become a father of five rather grown children in old age? Ellen, as far as he remembered, was ten, but the others... They don't seem to mind, but how can you guess - is it true or so, a duty of courtesy? Turning to Jen, he asked:
"Do you have brothers and sisters?"
"Yeah," the witch chuckled.
"And how does your old man deal with them?"
The witch stared at the commissar in surprise, like a cat at a mouse:
"In what sense?"
Nathan somehow explained his idea, and the girl, after a long silence, carefully replied:
"Everything is not so arranged with us."
"Do you think I don't understand?"
"Well, I don't understand your stupid rules," Jen shrugged. "That is, I understand why you don't like the pyromaniac as a person, but why are you so worried about Margaret's virginity? She chose a man for herself, but it would have happened anyway, so why are you seething all the time?"
Brannon gasped.
"But he won't even marry her!"
"I could never understand why you are doing this," Jen admitted. "What is the use of these strange actions? The result is the same."
The Commissar shut up. The abyss of difference that suddenly opened before him was too deep and insurmountable.
"Let's stop," Brannon decided, and raised his hand to knock.
"And if he married her - what would make a difference?"
"Of course!"
"In what?"
Nathan was silent, unable to explain such fundamental things.
"That this is how he fucks her, that this is how," the witch muttered. "I do not understand your human nonsense."
"Shut up," Brannon said sternly; but the thought that Redfern might be doing this with Peggy right this minute made his mood sour.
Found someone to talk to, really, thought Brannon sourly. Her father probably doesn't even think about where she is or what's wrong with her. Peggy is another matter...
***
Margaret thrust her nose into the gurgling pot with interest and asked enthusiastically:
"Is that what you wanted to do in the grove near the villa?"
"Yes. I need room for action, and it smells, too." Angel poured the powder by a measuring cup into a bowl, in which he mixed the bulk ingredients while the liquid ones gurgled over the fire.
"The smell is quite pleasant."
"This is for now. Take a spoon and stir clockwise."
"Are you sure you can do this in a park in the city center?" Margaret asked curiously, dipping the spoon into the brew. "What if all sorts of caretakers run into the smell and spoil everything?"
"Do not hope, sloth, no one will save you from lessons. I have cast an averting charm around. Mix thoroughly."
He began to pour a mixture of powders into the pot in a thin stream. The girl stirred the liquid and frowned: the smell changed from spicy to rather sharp.
"And what are we doing?"
"Since the master of the undead did not leave us a single piece of material - not a hair, not a scarf - we will have to improvise."
A damp salty wind from the sea ruffled the foliage in the trees. In the twilight, it looked blue like cornflowers. The hill where Angel and Margaret were located was surrounded by dense thickets of elder and blackthorn, and around the top, like a broken crown, stood and lay roughly hewn stones. On two of them the third rested, and from that they seemed to be gates to nowhere.
"And for the success of improvisation, I need a special place," Angel tapped a spoon on the bowl, shaking off the last grains. "What can you do if it is in the middle of the city park."
Miss Sheridan looked around curiously. Special place? Because of elder and blackthorn? Or because of these strange stones?
"If you studied the maps of the city, starting with the most ancient ones," the mentor began to pluck a lush bouquet of flowers, herbs and branches into the fire, "you would notice that this place has always been a forest, grove or park. It's time to use its power."
"How exactly?"
"It's pointless to look for a cluster of undead — we'll find too many of them. There's a hell of a lot of ships at sea, too. But if you combine one with the other and run a search spell, to order they like a comb went through the seas around the Riada..."
Margaret's mouth widened with delight.
"But to comb all the seas around, you need a huge lot of strength!"
"That's why we are doing this here," Angel said smugly and handed the girl a branch of mistletoe: "Finally use your virginity for its intended purpose and present a gift to this place. Let's be polite."
"How can I present it?" Miss Sheridan blushed.
"Stand under the tol maen, cast three times the spell carved on the branch, and hide it in the grass. Concentrate on asking for help."
The girl looked skeptically at the stone "gate", but did not dare to argue about their stability. The spell consisted of unknown words, but Angel thoughtfully placed the emphasis. Margaret focused, as he taught, on the very essence of her desire, rushed to it with all her heart and read the spell. For a moment, it seemed to her as if the stones responded with a low rumble and turned deep blue. However, you never know what will seems to you in the twilight...
By the time she had finished with the mistletoe, the mentor had finished with the bouquet, walked over to Margaret and took her hand. The girl tightened her grip on his dry warm palm; Angel smiled, glancing at the pupil, and softly, in a singsong voice, began to recite a spell in a language she did not know. It was as long as a song, and Margaret listened. Gradually the evening became warmer, and the rustle of foliage around - louder and more harmonious. Angel fell silent and pulled the girl closer, without opening his hands.
"Stay here," he whispered. "Do not go out from under tol maen."
The stones turned an inky deep blue. The liquid in the pot was agitated like a little sea, stirred up and began to drop scraps of foam into the fire. The fire burned so hard that heat touched Margaret's face. Flames rose high above the pot, thick steam was pouring into the sky, and suddenly the pot burst with a loud clang. The liquid poured into the fire, the fire shot up to the tops of the trees, and then splashed along the top of the hill in a perfect circle. Margaret gave a shrill cry and grabbed onto Angel. The flames reached almost tol maen and stopped a few inches away.
"Shh," Angel whispered, hugging the girl to him, "now it will start!"
The fire has leveled off. It made ripples, as if someone was stirring him with a spoon. The ripples looked more and more like sea waves, and the sparks flying into the air for a moment folded into pictures and immediately crumbled.
"Now you can see why the sorcerers are so fighting for places of power," Angel said, watching the flames maniacally. "See how the power feeds it!"
Suddenly, an amber picture flashed over the flaming sea: a ship rushing through the waves, harnessed by a sea serpent. The creature easily drew him along; the sails were curled up, lights flashed on the masts, and human figures were visible on the deck. A forged patterned inscription flashed on board.
"Arandhati!" Angel screamed furiously. "It's Mazandranian! Gotcha!"
"What is "arandhati"?"
"Nothing, just a woman's name. But where is he, where?"
Waves of fire rippled around. Angel, nostrils flaring predatory, leaned forward, as if he wanted to jump on prey and grab his claws like a cat. Finally, a patch of land appeared on the port side of the ship. "Arandhati" approached the shore - there appeared a village, a forest, a road, in the distance - an unclear silhouette of a city with a lighthouse.
"This is the Breswain Lighthouse!" Margaret was surprised.
"Now we know where he is going. It seems that sometimes he needs to moor to the shore. Great!" the mentor's eyes flashed belligerently.
"What will we do?"
"Let's strike a preemptive blow."
"For instance?"
Angel remained silent, and Margaret realized that he had not yet decided on the details. But the silence was threatening.
The fire began to go out. The flames fell to the ground and melted. To the girl's surprise, the grass on the hill remained intact, but each blade of grass was covered with a thin layer of ash. The coolness of the night gradually dispersed the heat - Margaret did not even notice how night fell. Finally the ship erupted in a sheaf of sparks, and Angel said:
"The show is over for today. Did you like it?"
"Impressive," Margaret admitted. "In what language did you read the spell?"
"Come on, girl, it's a shame not to know the language of your ancestors! Modern Riadian is derived from Emnin..."
In the stillness of the night, something whistled thinly, and a long black needle dug into Angel's neck. The mentor shuddered, pulled out the needle and sniffed. Margaret screamed: the same was stabbed into her shoulder, and the skin at the injection site was instantly numb.
"Run!" Angel hissed hoarsely and pushed the girl under the tol maen, behind his back. "Hurry!"
The whistle sounded again: two needles stung Margaret in the arm and under the rib. Pulling out the needles, she ran away, frantically going over in her mind all the spells that could be defended as she ran. Branches whipped her over her face and sides, the grass slid under her feet, numbness spread from her shoulder, arms and ribs.
"Levitation!" - the words "Volare mea" flashed in her mind, but, trying to pronounce them, Margaret could hardly move her lips. Trees and bushes blurred into misty smudged spots, became distinct again, until the eyes hurt, the ground swayed like the deck of a ship.
"Vol…" Miss Sheridan managed. Her tongue and lips were numb. "Vlo... lar..."
Saliva ran down her chin. Margaret spat with difficulty and, clinging to the trees, dragged forward. She stumbled over roots and glided over the grass, which now and then strove to wriggle out from under her feet. Her vision was clouded so that the girl barely made out the outlines of the trees, then it became painfully sharp. She tried to squeeze the spell out of her throat, but her tongue was already petrified.
"Why doesn't it work on him?" it suddenly rumbled in her head in Ilarian. Margaret screamed, squeezed her temples and fell to the ground. Someone was shouting in Dorgernian, in Ilarian, and in the noise of other people's voices she made out for a moment Angel's voice - a short growling cry - and realized that she was still very close. She crawled away, under the bushes - to get to the city, get help, contact her uncle, Mr. Longsdale, someone...
God, let them not do anything to him! Miss Sheridan pleaded.
"Hit him!" Someone yelled in rage. Lord, she's still here! But when will she finally budge!
The ax blade flashed over her head several times, and Margaret shrank into the ground. A bronze-skinned giant with a full-chested curly beard threw away the felled branches. Someone in a dark jacket and carrying a lantern flashed by. The light hit the girl's eyes, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
"This bitch is still conscious," the guy with the lantern remarked in surprise and shouted: "The girl is here too! Kidge-chi!" He ordered. The bearded man thrust the ax into his belt, grabbed the girl and threw her over his shoulder. Miss Sheridan twitched several times in desperation and prodded the giant with the toe of her boot. The bearded man strode toward the rocks, making no sound as he moved through the trees.
The clearing was illuminated by torches blazing in the wind. Angel was lying face down in the grass - one man, having pinned him down with his knee, pressed a revolver to the back of his head, the second one was searching him; Margaret gave a weak sob. The bearded man laid her down next to him. Someone's hands immediately slipped over her body, and the girl shuddered weakly in disgust.
"Someone got sweets," they laughed over her head. They pulled the potion belt and holster off her and with difficulty pulled the lace ring off her finger. Angel gave it to her! She never took it off... Margaret jerked her hand.
"What the hell! When they both pass out!" a fuzzy shadow on the edge of visibility fiercely barked and added something in Mazandranian. The bearded man took the pipe, the box, and the tongs from his belt. While he was rummaging through the box with the tongs, the searching man squeezed Margaret's breasts with both hands and rubbed it. The girl turned away and looked at Angel. One of the kidnappers was fastening a wide black bracelet on his wrist. Then the needle stung Margaret's neck again. A choking fog billowed around, and reality began to slip away, although the girl clung to it with all her might. The last thing she caught was someone pulled up her skirt and loudly indignant:
- Yes, she's in pants! Look, look!
Angel made a strangled hiss near for her, and everything disappeared.
Status de energia semanal
-- Ranking de
Poder 
-- Pedra de
Poder