9

 .and that's practically the whole story."

The Sassassin had just finished confiding in Aen'Ghel's wife. She didn't know why she'd shared her story with a strange woman. But in principle, she could have told someone. Especially since she realized that 3jaja wasn't a suitable partner for her; he hadn't spoken a word to her the entire journey, refused to have sex, and was uglier than the village boys. But she couldn't go back... young people can be truly foolish. Mrs. Jusefeen seemed to understand.

"Yes, child," she said sweetly, "I understand you're having a hard time and feeling cheated. But it was immediately obvious that this man is a mutant and will do suspicious things to you. It's better for you to stay with me.

" "Oh, I know it's better, but it will be difficult to leave him and it will be difficult to live here.

" "You'll get used to him; the milkman's son is supposedly a very good slob.

" "Okay, so will you give me the kid or not?" 3jaja inquired. He was just starting his second carafe; unfortunately, there was no moonshine left, so they brought stale apple juice. Aen'Ghel still didn't want to share his drinking with the guests; the old chicken didn't know what was good.

"Really, my wife won't allow it," the trainer explained for the umpteenth time, "unless you give her something, or exterminate the monsters you exterminate. I see you're a brave man and familiar with warfare... but such swords have long gone out of fashion

. Geralt isn't some trendy, one-season piece of junk! Anyway... call your wife here, maybe we can come to an agreement.

" "As you wish. Jusefeen!"

The woman entered the cellar, her dress rustling and the scent of expensive perfume spreading. Behind her shuffled the Sassassin woman, sad, but with a determined expression on her face.

"What?" Jusefeen asked pointedly.

"Dear lady," the witcher began cautiously, "you're probably familiar with the Law of Surprise...

" "No, what, has the king invented some stupid laws again?

" "No, this is about our ancient law. You see, I saved your husband and in return I demanded something he has, but doesn't expect. It turned out it was about that child." I must take them with me now, or else fate will be angry.

"You're talking nonsense, you mutant peasant. But I'll give you the kid if he wins tomorrow's camel race. And if he loses"—here she lowered her voice to a menacing whisper—"you'll be my slaves. You and your friend.

" "Agreed!"

3jaja shook the woman's hand. The lady quickly wiped it on her petticoat, making a silly face as she did so. The deal was done, only one thing remained.

"Your, um... girlfriend... stays with me."

The witcher didn't protest. He thought it was part of the deal; besides, the little blond was more important than some village girl he'd liked long ago (it was a long time ago and untrue).

When you're having sex, you're always in great suspense, because something could happen. First, you're afraid your mother will come, then your husband will come home from work, and finally, your beloved's pacemaker will break. Only sorceresses weren't afraid of these things, but their fear was even greater when someone interrupted their sexual encounters.

Jane Achonen, a sorceress, was in a state of blissful intoxication. She was lying on top of the most wonderful lover (or so her friends said) in all of Zuu. It wasn't a swift mage or a fierce warrior. The most wonderful lover turned out to be a skinny forester. His appearance might not be very tempting, but only at first glance. After removing his clothes, he showed off his best features, and he truly knew how to use them to his advantage. And he never refused beautiful sorceresses.

He was squeezing the rather large breasts of one of them when a knock sounded at the door of his wooden hut. Jane Achonen's first thought was immediate: his wife was coming back! However, the man assured her he wasn't stupid enough to have a wife. He decided to open the door anyway; maybe it was another sorceress; they'd have a threesome, and it would be nice.

The newcomer wasn't a sorceress. It was impossible to tell what he was. A small, funny, yet charming thing. It squeaked:

"A parcel for Mrs. Jane Achonen!"

The forester thanked her politely and handed the letter to his partner. She opened it without hesitation and began reading. The handwriting wasn't very neat, and the envelope reeked of beer. However, the contents of the parcel overshadowed other sensations:

"Dear, busty whore!..."

"What's that funny little worm?" the forester interrupted .

"What kind of worm?" the sorceress asked, setting the letter aside for a moment.

"Oh, it popped out of the envelope, so white."

Then Jane Achonen remembered the story of Vaselinna and the Fonklics. All the elements fell into place. The letter, the worm, the impudent insults...

"It's Fonklic, hide!"

They quickly ran out of the hut. Hastily, they closed the door and ran as far away from the danger as possible. Only when they reached the pineapple plantation did they notice they were naked. The sorceress burst into hearty laughter, and the forester first blushed, then joined in the glee. It was amusing to stand there naked while someone might look on and be shocked.

"Maybe we can have some fun in the lap of nature and pineapples?" the sorceress suggested. "I think I've solved the mystery. I'll tell the three eggs; they'll be happy.

Those Zuuan villages were strange. Instead of wooden, thatched huts, there were white mud huts with red tile roofs. Palm trees grew in the gardens, and strange, horned pigs roamed the yards. Only the children were as dirty as in Tazmania. And in the taverns, you could chat over a beer. In one such tavern, the brave, the future saviors of the world, sat chatting away. The witcher covered his head with his hood, and no one bothered him anymore. Weren't there enough bandits hiding their faces from the law?

The beer was running low, so Bajdel went to the bar to order another. He was observing delicious, dried... let's say animals, not frogs, hanging from the ceiling. They even smelled faintly of spices. Surely they were delicious, and no one would notice if the poet took one for himself. He reached out to grab a delicacy and even managed to touch it, but then the string broke, and instead of Bajdel's hand, the dinner soared high into the air, ending its journey in one of the guests' beer mugs. He must not have wanted to be eaten by the poet, because he chose the beer of a large, hairy peasant with a primitive appearance and probably the same manners. The lanky fellow was at the musician's side in a single bound and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.

"Is this yours?" he asked in a low, booming voice, pointing to Bajdel's unfinished dinner.

"Stop it, Se'Bulwa!" squeaked a strangely familiar voice. "He's a tourist and doesn't know that throwing meat at each mug is improper.

" "Okay," the man snorted. "But don't think"—here he lowered his voice to a sinister whisper—"that we're even. I'll take revenge on the camel race!"

And he went to finish his beer, nibbling on the meat as he went.

Of course, the savior turned out to be Aen'Ghel's blond servant.

"Don't worry," the boy said. "Se'Bulwa is a bit of a jerk."

"We're not worried about him, but we don't know what will happen to you," sighed 3jaja, "but let's not worry about it in advance. What's your name, boy?

" "I'm Naakin. In ancient Zhuan it means 'he who walks in the sky.'"

"Well... interesting. This is Bajdel, and I'm 3jaja, a witcher. Do you know who a witcher is?

" "Sure! Here we call it a witcher, and that's someone who has a beautiful sword and with it flies around the whole wide world, killing evil monsters, and gets paid for it!"

3eggs' face immediately lit up. The boy's words were proof that people are inherently good, and as children, with minds unshaped by politics, they know no hatred, treating everyone the same. So if the Revolution destroyed the entire system, along with its lying propaganda, ethnic persecution would end (hmm, although who would have thought better of it? If ogres had free access to cities, they'd still make a mess) and other persecutions as well. That's why they say children are the future of the nation.

"And would you like to be a witcher when you grow up?

" "Sure! I mean, I'd rather be a firefighter, but a witcher too. But what good is that if I have to serve strangers for the rest of my life. I'll probably never even see a sword. But that's my fate.

" "So you don't know anything? Didn't that idiot tell you?" So listen carefully...

He explained the Law of Surprise to Naakin, then told the whole story of how he'd saved Aen'Ghel, who'd promised him the boy if he won the camel race. Naakin felt as if someone had just presented him with a ten-scoop ice cream.

"I'll become a witcher!" he shouted joyfully.

The sun mercilessly pierced the faded sky. Golden flecks of sand lay still, too lazy to dance in the rippling air. Curious stones peeked out from among them. Here and there, stocky baobab trees, completely bare of all leaves, reluctantly inhabited by various vermin, perched. Vultures were already rubbing their hands (or rather, wings) at the thought of the victims of camel trampling. The tasty morsels were probably already sitting among the crowd, not even suspecting they would be devoured with relish.

Naakin's camel was also eating, though he didn't know what it was. He didn't care, though; he wanted to eat; no one had fed him in weeks, and his hump had almost completely disappeared. He must have been terribly embarrassed in front of the charming she-camel.

Se'Bulwa was pleased. Now he'd definitely win this race; he'd given the kid a special feed that would instantly turn his intestines inside out. And the brat would disgrace himself in the process, hehe.

"So many people here," Bajdel remarked, what was visible to the naked eye

. "Well," he noticed, "3 eggs." He didn't feel like talking. The race was about to start, and he was busy keeping his fingers crossed for Naakin. He just hoped he won, or else Destiny would get pissed.

Finally, the commentator activated his magical sound artifact and began his usual, meaningless chatter, as usual at competitions.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is incredible! Eight competitors have signed up for the race; we haven't had this many since '72. I wonder who will win today?" We will witness this in a moment...

He talked like this for a good few minutes and only under the influence of whistles did he get to the heart of the matter.

"You're so impatient. Okay, let the race begin. 3, 2, 1, go!"

All the camels started. Well, almost all of them. Naakin's mount stood unsteadily, struggling with severe indigestion. The boy nudged him with his heels and shouted. Seeing it was no use, he dismounted and tried to speak politely. 3jaja remembered how he'd tried to convince Blinky to move a few years ago. This kid was so much like him... good witcher material.

Indeed, Naakin was as fit to be a witcher as anyone; after all, Destiny had chosen him. But witchers don't know how to use camels. The boy's mount made a huge mess and refused to run.

The situation was becoming increasingly dire. Se'Bulwa, thanks to his skillful use of a stick, had already routed two opponents, knocking them off their camels. A cheeky grapefruit. What's more, he'd taken the lead.

But then a miracle happened. Naakin's camel let out a powerful fart, knocking the hats off the audience and spreading an indescribable stench. Everyone watched with bated breath (some gasped with suspense, others couldn't stand the unpleasant aroma) as he dipped his head forward, shuffled his feet, and prepared to charge. Smoke began to form under his tail, and he ran like a "car" from the song of the bard Saiens Fikshynn, who invented improbable stories set in the future. Naakin almost fell. All that remained was to catch up with the peloton.

It turned out to be quite simple; his mount was getting closer to Se'Bulwa with every passing second. The audience howled with delight. Such a spectacle hadn't been seen here since the circus troupe arrived. And this was safer; there was no angry elephant devouring half the village. There was only a camel, fast as an arrow, galloping hoof to hoof with the local thug's less swift but more cunning dromedary. They galloped and galloped, injuring other competitors in the process. Finally, only Naakin and Se'Bulwa remained standing. They glared at each other with a perverse fury, shouting insults, and urging their mounts into an exhausting, frenzied run. The finish line was in sight when Se'Bulwa surged into the lead, but just as all hope vanished, Naakin's camel surprised the crowd again and leapt like a frog, kicking its opponent with its hindquarters and smashing him into the sand.

"And here we have a winner!" said the commentator in a disgustingly modulated voice.

The rest of the events unfolded in a flash. Miraculously, Bajdel and 3jaja reached Naakin, saving him from being carried away by the crowd. Then Jane Achonen found the witcher, and Aen'Ghel found them all.

"The boy is mine," 3jaja drawled.

"Honey, there you are!" Jane Achonen rejoiced.

"We won 10 thalers, Master!" Naakin yelled, scrambling from the half-dead camel.

"You haven't looked pretty at all," Bajdel teased the sorceress

. "Take him, stag," the trainer said resignedly

. Everyone said these words at the same time, creating a jumble, and they had to repeat them, this time in order. When everything was clear, everyone went their separate ways (that is, Aen'Ghel went home and the rest went their own ways).

"So what now, eh?" Bajdel asked, in a somewhat blunt tone.

"Now we're going to solve a problem that turned out to be trivial," the sorceress said proudly. "We're going to Amasa's tower.

" "Who is that?

" "The one who distributes the Fonklice. I mean, he produces them and sends them to other mages. Nasty boor! I'd gladly cast Quadrillions of Spinning Knives of Power on him...

" "Power!" Naakin asked, interested.

"Well, that's the spell's name, what can I do about it? I didn't come up with it." 3jajeczka, who is this brat?

"It's Naakin," the witcher replied, embracing his beloved. "Surprise Child, I'll make a witcher out of him.

" "Poor little boy... believe me, it's not nice to die at ten, and even if you survive, you'll have green hair!

" "Why does everyone say I'm ten? I'm eight, you bastards!

" "A wonderful boy! Not only is he grown for his age, but he's also so talkative and intelligent! Perfect witcher material, as if Mother Revolution herself had given him to us!

" "You're not grown, and you're not very intelligent either..."

3jaja cackled, but deep down he felt offended. The sorceress touched her lover's two most sensitive points. Well, it wasn't his fault that he wasn't the height of a troll and didn't have the intelligence of a twentieth-level mage. It was all due to an overdose of witcher medicine. One day, 3jaja, a pimply teenager, spied on where his master hid his moonshine, and at night he sneaked in and drank the entire bottle. Since it was dark, he mixed up the bottles and used Blue Albatross instead of moonshine. No one realized it, but everyone wondered later why 3jaja was such a little brat and couldn't solve puzzles. Well, he had a good heart, though.

"Sorry, honey, I just said it. It's really not your fault (oh no, he's probing my brain again!) Don't look at me like that, I really am sorry! Now let's go have some fun... maybe we'll go tonight, after we beat Amas, what do you think?"

She also always knew how to appease him.