- I really don't like this, I really do. You know, if I had the power, you'd be on the scaffold right away. Without unnecessary ceremony like hot irons, Spanish boots, or tongs. I wouldn't have to keep you here. You're like a damn stubborn ulcer, you know? Really damn stubborn. There was no need to spy on our virtuous merchant; what did he do to you? The nobleman clucked and picked up the long, curved dagger lying on the table. Falstaff smiled crookedly, and the knots that bound him to the chair creaked.
"They call you meurtiers... If I'm not mistaken, that means nothing more and nothing less than an assassin. Well, an apt description, but why so sophisticated? Tell me, Falstaff, why do people always look for beautiful names for horrors? For elves, gnomes, witchers, common bandits who gain more sophisticated names than we, the rulers of the country?" I don't understand this.
Receiving no answer, the nobleman dropped the subject.
"You're not the talkative type, I see.
" "And are you the hospitable type?"
There was a moment of silence, then the nobleman smiled very maliciously.
"That's not up to me, Mr. Assassin. It just so happens that you've gotten yourself into a mess that will effortlessly suck you in at the first opportunity. I'm only supposed to keep an eye on you... for a while." He was silent again for a moment. "Look at him, caught, and he complains about hospitality.
" "You see, Denhov," Meurtier said, not taking his eyes off the nobleman, "at least I don't have to pretend to be someone. And I can complain, yes, I can. "
The servants shifted uneasily.
"What do you think I'm pretending to be?" The nobleman continued to play with his knife.
"The truth might be too painful for you, but even more so for me."
"No, what are you talking about? I was, am, and will always be sympathetic to honest people.
" "Sure. If you want..."
Falstaff took a deep breath.
"You're more important than other nobles because your estates are prime grounds for secret meetings and gatherings. You, on the other hand, by carefully choosing venues for such gatherings and dealing with the 'rulers of the land,' act like a nobleman. Do you know why you're not? Let's start with your lackeys, who try to pass themselves off as bodyguards or other personal guards. Please explain to me why you didn't hire someone more experienced? These run-of-the-mill peasants standing here are nothing more than ordinary, lousy peasants; you've given them a different appearance by dressing them in strange jackets and high-top boots. You're making yourself a laughingstock; it's shameful and disgraceful to have such peasants and scoundrels at your side. Women in corners have been laughing at your entourage for a long time now; soon the children will start laughing too." Falstaff laughed dryly. He wanted to continue, but realized his efforts weren't in vain. How easily these people are offended, he thought, just like children...
The nobleman's assistant standing closest to the prisoner spat, approached, and swung his sword at Meurtier. He swiftly ducked his head and bounced off the floor along with the chair. He struck from the shoulder, pivoted, and adjusted his seat. Before the other two servants had even drawn their batons, he was already upon them, tripping the fleeing nobleman along the way. He kicked the first one, standing a step away from the door, in the knee, knocked the second one onto the sacks of wheat, and jumped on him. They struggled for a moment, spraying dust and dirt everywhere, until Falstaff freed his hand from the ropes that bound him and stunned his opponent. He stood, freed his other hand, and with the remains of the chair, knocked down the one he'd kicked in the knee. He adjusted his position with his fist, then tied them both up. Only now did he notice that the nobleman was lying lifeless next to the table, probably having caught his head on it. The curved dagger lay far from him. The only person still conscious in the room, besides Falstaff, was the nobleman's assistant, who was trying his best to feign unconsciousness, but failing miserably.
An
hour later, the guards burst into the room where Falstaff had recently been imprisoned. The stout commander pushed his way through the tight circle of the crowd to see what had attracted the attention of his men and the local citizens. He spared no curses and insults for those who refused to move. This is too much, he thought angrily, pulling up his trousers after several people had shoved him so hard that he fell to the ground with a thud.
"Step aside, damn it! Step aside, make way for the sergeant! Damn you, or I'll put everyone in the dungeon!"
The threat worked, and the air became loose enough for him to pass. And when he reached it, he was overcome with a great desire to return. His master remained in a half-sitting position, tied with rope and leaning against the wall, casting desperate glances at his subjects, while his assistant hung by both legs, tied to a beam supporting the building's ceiling, kicking softly and uttering plaintive moans. Before them sat a large, shaggy black dog, baring its fangs, growling, and drooling viciously, ensuring that no one dared approach the nobleman within ten paces.
Holy shit, the sergeant thought, that beast could devour most of my men. It's practically a werewolf! But he had no choice, as he risked losing favor with his employer, so he stole a glance at several armed henchmen belonging to his unit and ordered:
"Hit him, beat the vile mutt! Why are you standing there?" You're not here to stare, you idiots! Attack! And damn it, if you don't get food for a few days, maybe you'll regain your will to follow orders.
Seeing no effect, the sergeant swallowed hard. He knew he'd have to throw himself at the great beast if his men didn't. He tried again, thinking of his wife and children, whom he didn't truly love, but the thought of them gave him strength and courage.
"Can't you see your master is in danger?! Will no one move his ass? I hope gangrene gets the better of you! At him, guys!"
No one moved, and the "nasty mutt" began to pay attention to the screaming fat man.
As the sergeant, drenched in sweat, pulled out the short sword he'd received upon his appointment, the black dog suddenly stopped growling, gave a surprised look to the people around him, and simply ran out of the hut. No one stopped him. The passage through the crowd was much wider than for the sergeant.
***
He wanted to complete his assigned task as quickly as possible and get a safe distance from Denhov's estate. However, he had one more matter to attend to here, and it brooked no delay. And she had a beautiful smile.
When she opened the door to him, dressed only in baggy pajamas, in the middle of the rainy night, her hair formed a great tangle of black lines, creating an eerie effect in the light of the lamp she held in her hand. She stared at him silently for a moment, then let him into her small, cozy quarters upstairs. They sat in silence for a long time, he in his dark mercenary's outfit, his sword jutting over his shoulder, and she, a tiny creature with a shock of black hair and large eyes that were constantly focused on the floor.
"Arienrod...
" "Don't say anything. Let's sit like this for a while longer."
He waited for her words, and the wait seemed endless, stretching on forever, interrupted only by the voices of drunken townspeople seeking oblivion in their wine goblets and wandering the city. This time they looked each other straight in the eye, without the embarrassment and shyness that burst like a soap bubble after the first words filled the silence.
Even looking into her eyes, Falstaff could clearly see the delicate outline of her face, her graceful nose, and her small mouth.
"Before you go, answer me two questions," she said.
"Fine.
" "What's your real name?"
He'd expected such a question.
"Cerralunaisselea. Do you want to know what it means?
" "I do.
" "The Fruit of the Bloody Sickle. I was born on a rather unfortunate day.
" "You could break your tongue."
She smiled. Meurtier felt dizzy at the sight of that smile.
"True. Now for the second question.
" "Of course, you're in a hurry."
No, I'm in no hurry, he thought. But he didn't say anything.
"Who are you, really?"
Silence fell. He hadn't expected such a question.
"What do you mean, who am I? Meurtier, an assassin, a hunter.
" "That's not what I mean. "
Silence again.
"I am a trunk full of secrets," he said, controlling his voice. Whenever he spoke of himself, whenever he spoke the truth, he had to keep his voice from trembling. Even if that truth wasn't very specific. "The king's jester once said, 'Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you'll find inside.' But in me, in that trunk, there's not a speck of chocolate, no sweets. There's only blood, money, and the glint of a blade in the dark. You can't think of me in a normal way. Because that leads astray and creates hypocrisy."
He wasn't looking at her anymore. She wasn't looking at him either.
"So how am I supposed to think of you, Falstaff?"
He smiled wryly.
"Best... best not to think of me at all, Arienrod."
He stood up and walked to the door.
"Falstaff..."
He turned, wanting her image to be always clear and precise. If he could have imprinted her in his mind, he probably would have.
"Arienrod, forget me. I am only a ghost who has passed through your life, and will remain only in your memories. "
Then he turned the knob and stepped out into the rain and storm to complete his next task.
The next day, he waited almost the entire day. During that time, he watched the townspeople wandering the city streets with a purpose known only to them. He saw a mother dragging her child, screaming, "I have strong teeth," to the doctor; thugs looking for trouble; guards patrolling the city; merchants and clergy dressed in the richly decorated garb; and beggars looking for a place to make money. Suddenly, he heard the clatter of hooves and shouts. Prudently, he began feigning interest in the wares of the nearest stall, which offered all sorts of "magic amulets," serving, as the labels proclaimed, "to cure boils," "to remove warts," and "to protect against evil."
A troop of horsemen emerged from around the nearest bend and sped on, scattering those who didn't manage to get out of the way in time. So they're already looking for me in the city, Meurtier thought.
The darker it got, the fewer people roamed the streets. Falstaff stayed at the inn for a long time to avoid arousing suspicion, as standing on the street all day could attract attention. He drank only one beer and spent most of the time dozing lightly in a corner. When it was dark enough outside, he emerged into the street.
He didn't wait long; hearing footsteps, he hid in the nearest alcove. He wasn't mistaken this time, and he was lucky – the merchant was alone, and there was no sign of a passerby.
When the merchant was close enough, Falstaff leaped toward him, silent as a ghost, and with a left slash, he slashed across his chest. Using his momentum, he stabbed him in the ribs. His victim fell limply to the cobblestone street, clutching his wounds and choking on blood. Meurtier searched the merchant's pockets and found what he was looking for: a small slip of paper and a small key.
A moment later, the shriek of the terrified woman who had discovered the body rang out in the silence of the night.
***
After returning the items found on the victim, he immediately left Denhov's estate, who was not exactly friendly towards him. Falstaff didn't want to know what the roll of paper was or what the key was for. Most importantly, he thought, I'd received my payment and could move on, away from... from what? Where did I start, where am I going? Probably nowhere... after all, the road is also, in a twisted way, the destination...
Thus lost in thought, he rode his newly purchased horse further into the world.
As he passed the last inn, something rustled in the bushes by the road. A moment later, a large, black dog jumped out, wagging its tail playfully and licking Meurtier's hand. The animal spoke in a low, deep voice:
"And how?"
Falstaff looked at him kindly. The only creature who could stay with me, he thought. The presence of a talking dog was having a beneficial effect on his psyche.
"Good. We can move on."
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