Varvara Ugrev, formerly Bellring, slammed the door as she entered the room—loudly and sharply by her standards, yet still within the bounds of army propriety. Her mood was as foul as could be, as it always was when faced with blatant injustice.
Her Homeland, this beautiful, practically ideal country—were it not for excessive strictness in some places—this Refiteya, turned out to have its own problems and thorns. And one of those problems had just humiliated her, again. Fool, misogynist, brute—General Prosveschensky earned the most unflattering epithets in her mind. Her enormous contribution to that battle had been obvious to all; her tactical maneuver, proposed at headquarters before the fight and ultimately adopted, had helped them all significantly reduce losses to a minimum, while the personal contribution of her and her units had been like a mighty gale sweeping away leaves.
Of course, Varya hadn't returned to her Homeland expecting an easy life. She understood perfectly well that the friendship she had built with the Queen of Sakuramoria promised a Refiteyan an instant career at the very top of a country that was far from unnoticed in world politics. But that was not her path. Taking on administrative work wasn't impossible, but it would have meant constant headaches multiplied by the endless boredom of a person who had been interested in war above all else throughout her life. The military path was far more interesting in a country that fought against the strongest creatures and opponents that this already quite bloodthirsty world could possibly provide. Rather than languishing in the Sakuramorian headquarters, waiting for some uncouth pirates from Levia or even superhumans from Aoki—whose power is offset by narrow-mindedness—to attack... It was far more interesting to cross weapons with the fantastic automatons of the Bastion, or bathe them in the flames of Lunir's dragons, or measure strength against the creatures of Serhant, who surpassed humans in everything many times over. The latter front was eventually chosen for many reasons.
Obviously, Refiteya had its own military academies, which could probably compete with the famous NAILS—besides the danger of not surviving another battle, Varya's officer service and her promotion upward were hindered by competition. But this only added zest to her life and made her more skilled and stronger than ever, forcing her to give her maximum every day. She likely wouldn't have reached such a level in Sakuramoria, which would have softened her with a lack of challenges. Despite all this, Varvara's start was promising; she quickly received awards and ranks, but only for a time, until the aforementioned general noticed the upstart—and since then, for some incomprehensible reason, almost exclusively Oleg progressed in service, as if his wife's merits were automatically credited to him. At the same time, as mentioned earlier, Varya's ideas were often accepted at meetings, but in the end, she was not rewarded for them, as if the Sakuramorian woman had nothing to do with it...
Ah yes, dual citizenship—another presumed reason why this happened.
Their married life with Oleg, which began after graduation, certainly helped combat this and other stresses, but it wasn't perfectly smooth: envy was currently undermining their relationship, and the difficulty of physical intimacy, when army conditions are not conducive nor encouraging, left its mark. And yet, it was easier this way than being alone without any moral support, much easier.
Varvara had another competitor, one Pyotr Prosveschensky, clearly a relative of the general, who had recently risen to major and was clearly aiming higher. A lazy creature, capable of nothing in either combat or tactics, in Varya's opinion; to yield to him in anything in this race solely because of patronage was especially shameful. One form of competition between Pyotr and Varvara was the race for intelligence on the location and movement of enemy troops. Where Varya went on reconnaissance herself, or at least kept her finger on the pulse of her scouting parties by staying nearby, her competitor Junior Prosveschensky liked to rely on informants, checking nothing afterward, and once he was even caught stealing a nearly finished map from Varya. In the end, Pyotr Prosveschensky's work was consistently lower in quality, yet consistently landed on the general's desk sooner, which boded nothing good for any of them in battle (but for someone's career, of course, it was simply wonderful).
"Well, this time will be the last," Varya told herself. Preparations for the breakthrough were in full swing, and studying the surroundings of the enemy fortress—with its complex terrain and numerous spots for surprise attacks or fortifications—presented a real challenge. A challenge upon whose effective execution the entire operation depended; there were no corners here that could be smoothed over. But after today's latest unjustified assault on her personality by the general, Varvara decided that this wasn't enough and that she should guarantee herself an advantage. Her brain, honed for finding the enemy's weak points and selecting the perfect tactic against them, started working in an unusual direction, and the woman began to freehand draw a map of the area—a false map. The real one had long been drawn, but this one was different: locations for enemy troops and fortifications were carefully calibrated to seem reasonable, but they couldn't have been further from reality. Meanwhile, anyone knowing the real map could be sure: relying on the fake plan, the commander would inevitably drive himself and half the army into the grave.
This wasn't revenge or the realization of some negative desires, just cold calculation combined with a sense of justice. If Pyotr were so incompetent as to accept a fake map from one of his informants (Varya even knew which one)... If the general once again failed to believe his well-proven subordinate, who would prove her correctness with all arguments, and then, if necessary, with emotion... Only in this case of double human stupidity and depravity would deserved retribution follow; such people are like enemies, and it is better to get rid of them before it is too late and they cause even more trouble.
Satisfied with her work, Varvara looked at it for a long time, ensuring that the presumed location of the general's staff, where the Prosveschenskys would be hiding, would almost certainly come under attack. And simultaneously figuring out how she and Oleg would ultimately win the battle. It would be difficult, of course, many of theirs would perish, but the reward is worth it...
Is it worth it?
Frowning and hesitating slightly, the Sakuramorian abruptly opened the stove and threw the pseudo-map inside. To think, she had almost dirtied her hands over some nonsense! To hell with them, all these Prosveschenskys put together!
And they truly went to hell in the very first battle, without any help from Varya. Before him, Pyotr brought what seemed to be an exact copy of Varya's false map to headquarters... Obviously, she wasn't the only one thinking this way, but the enemy this time did not skimp on the opportunity for disinformation. By the next imperial order, the woman, having shown heroism and unusual preparation in battle, was sharply promoted in rank.
***
Mettis was a good city. Clean, tidy, fresh on this spring day... Not yet the wealthiest, not having fully survived the destruction during the siege in the war, but active construction was visible here and there, which didn't just restore the place, but transformed it into a true rich fortress, the beauty and pride of Refiteya. At first glance, you wouldn't say that the primary inhabitants of this land were non-humans.
However, the vicar was not pleased by this. It would have been better if Mettis lived up to its name as a haven for Dante's forgotten freaks living in filth and poverty, rather than enduring not only the presence of Rishi's creations here, but also their peaceful, seemingly human lives—as if they had any right to it! Amazing that they don't moan and curse their fate, while the vicar did exactly that...
Of course, this "exile" to distant Serhant—formally a transfer to a new location—was deserved... The vicar understood perfectly well what Father Vasily's decision was linked to, and Father Vasily understood that he understood. But the resentment was no less for it. Even if the vicar had saddened the abbey, surely through old friendship something could have been done?.. If not through friendship, then at least through health—the servant had become too old for such moves, and the climate of the northern continent is no joke.
The vicar pondered all this, sitting on the porch of the Temple, looking with tired hatred at the passing ugly nagas, medusae, and whatever else scurried about here. Alas, this beautiful structure, which provided him with its warm steps, wasn't even his temple—the vicar's monastery was just a couple of shabby wooden shacks outside the city, surrounded by a leaning palisade. And since there was no desire to actively restore or improve it, apparently, this environment would be with him for a long time.
Having finished a cheap cigarette and throwing the butt into the reindeer lichen on the roadside, the vicar locked eyes with a pair of gremlins, an older one and a younger one. Notably, the little gremlin held some kind of bucket in his hands. Exchanging glances, the pair briskly hurried toward the vicar with some clear, active intention.
-- No-no-no, nothing here, I have no money, -- the church servant warned their attempts immediately.
-- Good sir, kind sir, it's not about that at all!
-- Do you not understand the language, you stupid non-human...
-- Look, kind sir, -- the gremlin seemed not to listen to the vicar's excuses and ignored the insults, continuing to smile with his whole crooked mouth. -- My son is undergoing an important test for an apprentice! Forgive his shyness, kind sir, but he is a good mechanic; for his age, he is a fine boy, my son...
-- Hel-lo, -- the little gremlin squeezed out.
-- Well done, dear son. You're a good boy. He is a good apprentice, kind sir, so we go around giving away his works. That's the test in our guild, sir; if you want to become a master, you must make everyone happy with your work.
-- I won't buy anything, I don't have any mo...
-- This isn't for money, good sir! Completely free, kind sir! If you need to buy something, you go to the workshop, but we are just completing a test, so no money; it would be insulting to demand payment for this...
-- Eeeee... Meeee... -- the priest realized he was stuck and couldn't shake off these pestering non-humans, but still didn't stop trying to insert a word into the continuous stream of consciousness of the small green creature.
-- And now I ask you, kind sir, put your hand into this very bucket... No, no, you mustn't look inside, good sir, I just explained the rules to you! By luck! You must take the item by luck, otherwise you can't, kind-good sir! Come on, don't peek, put your hand in!
-- Are you trying to kill me?!
-- You offend us, sir. The mistress of this place would surely hang us in the square, or lock us forever in a dark Dungeon, if we did anyone harm, good, kind sir. So please, don't speak like that! Now, do as we ask; I will swear by whichever god you wish, nothing bad will happen to you, I checked all the crafts myself, they are all good, kind mechanical toys.
The vicar gave in. Apprehensively, barely touching the contents of the bucket with his fingers, he rummaged a bit and fished out... Something. His parish education was definitely not enough to determine the purpose of this item, but it looked like an old alarm clock barely holding together by threads.
-- You are very lucky, kind sir! I told you it must be by luck! Luck is very needed in life, good sir!
-- What the...
-- This is probably the best invention of my smart sonny, kind sir! It is a compass that points to pancakes!
-- Huh?
-- Wherever you are, this needle will always point to the nearest place where you can eat hot, delicious pancakes! You are very lucky, sir! Luck favors you, good sir! If you catch the lines of pancake induction, they can serve for navigation, although for this my son had to turn magnetic-pururunt material...
-- Wha...?
-- But that's probably not important or interesting to you, good sir? Use it in good health, and say thank you to my son! I think my smart son will like the praise, although the best praise is when you and your inventions are needed by someone, yes, my smart son? Ah, and one more thing, listen to one more, sir. Large clusters of fritters can disrupt the lines of pancake induction, therefore... Therefore, close to fritters the compass works poorly. But that's not a big problem, usually that doesn't happen, good sir. This is a very kind invention, you are lucky, sir.
The vicar sat lost on the steps with this strange device in his hand, not knowing what to say. The gremlins—the father smiling with his whole mouth, and the quiet, slightly shy son with an intelligent gaze—looked at the servant, awaiting words of gratitude. Finally, realizing they wouldn't wait any longer, with slight annoyance, the pair of non-humans left to peddle their mechanisms to someone else and quickly forgot about what had happened. They simply rejoiced in their craft and the fact that they were useful to someone.
His stomach growled.
-- Foolish gremlins, whetted my appetite with all this talk...
The vicar looked into his purse, from which fell a few pitiful coins and two crumpled cigarettes. You might as well beg with such wealth. And where to get money if not a single living soul reaches their monastery on the outskirts? Giving up, the servant stood and headed where the "compass" needle led him—promising himself that he would execute the non-humans according to the tradition of demon hunters in a dark alley if (or rather when) the gremlin invention turned out to be broken.
After walking a block and a half in the direction suggested by the compass, to his surprise, the vicar soon smelled fried dough, and at the next turn saw its source—a street eatery with a crowd of visitors. Behind the stove, a naga worked skillfully, wearing gloves and a headscarf, everything as required for work in the food industry (otherwise it was hard to call this conveyor of pancakes anything but an industry). The priest looked at the compass suspiciously once more, shook it back and forth, confirming that the needle pointed exactly to the maximum concentration of pancakes, and, humming, put the device into his black monastic bag. He had absolutely no desire to eat in a place run by a non-human, but his growling stomach disagreed with the head's opinion in this case. Taking the guts hostage, the terrorist organ made it clear that it would not let the monk leave this street until its demands were met.
-- I'll have... Uh... Just with butter.
-- We were brought deer meat today, wouldn't you like to try a pancake with it? Ah... Forgive the mindless one, -- the naga said motherly, belatedly realizing that a monk was before her, and he might not eat meat. -- It'll be ready in a moment... And... Here, take it.
Paying with half of his remaining copper coins, the vicar unceremoniously, right at the counter, sank his yellow teeth into his pancake, feeling that he probably hadn't eaten such exquisite food in a hundred years. A maximally simple flat piece of dough, but with this appetizing butter dripping into the mouth, and with this crispy crust hiding a soft center... Perfect salt level and a few sprigs of dill, which the owner did not skimp on; this warm food in the mouth contrasted so wonderfully with the wet, cool spring northern wind... It was unpleasant to admit, but for a short few seconds, the vicar was finally happy.
-- Deer meat? Yes, of course, wrap a couple for me to go, please! And also, as usual, if possible... -- the servant heard, slowly returning to reality.
-- Coming right up, -- the naga replied cheerfully, preparing an order of two meat and four ham and cheese pancakes. -- What, husband is returning from the capital, and you decided to please him?
-- Uh-huh. You notice everything... Ever thought about going into intelligence? -- the owner of the first voice frowned slightly playfully; she turned out to be a very tall, appearing young and beautiful woman in a shawl. Behind the woman's outward innocence, some hidden threat could be felt, though surely this was a false feeling, the vicar thought, for the woman was an ordinary peasant. By the way, this feeling of danger and pressure... Where could he have experienced it before?
The naga and the woman chatted a bit about this and that and parted ways, provoking whispers at the tables upon their departure.
-- And how is she not afraid to walk alone? She's loved here, of course, but I heard the underground hasn't died down...
-- Eh, brother, you understand nothing. First, there is no underground in the city; they were all suppressed here long ago. They say some survived in border Lapega, where they receive help from Old Serhant.
-- Haha, well that won't last long!
-- Second, do you even know what she can do? They say she turns her enemies into toads! Better...
-- Now don't tell me fairy tales, Palych...
-- What do you know?
-- Oh, @!~*$% it. But her magic is indeed curious. I saw something... When I was still in the army. Maybe from afar, but... It really amazes, -- the man took a sip of cider, and the others at the table followed suit. -- Her favorite trick is copies. Seems impractical, since they're fragile as beaver eggs. A light arrow or a spear poke—and that's it. But by the time they manage to thin them out, few of the enemies survive. A scythe, damn it. Scary even to look at. Beautiful, but scary.
-- Is it true they say her father was a giant?
-- Fairy tales again... She's human. Although terrifying at times. In battle, she seems to become even taller, and by a lot. Magic too, probably... -- another sip of the drink. -- Giants just fell into a stupor around her... Used to, you know, being defeated by cannons and such, and sometimes, you know, sharp stakes set in the field... Who would risk a fair fight against such a thing? But she... she can do both. And things she can't even do. In one battle, several giants killed each other before they even approached the Refiteyan troops, imagine? That's why they respect her more than any other human, and fear her... Well, you know yourselves, one of them stands at the city gates, and another at the residence.
-- You know a lot about her... From where?
-- Well, I fought.
-- Listening to you, she's a real monster. Can't tell by looks...
-- Yeah, except a non-monster wouldn't just win a province like this from non-humans, yeah. And they don't just give out the title of Governor-General for nothing.
-- What do you mean, "from non-humans." All the non-humans are here, haha!
-- I hear everything, boys, -- said the naga at the stove.
-- No, well you're one of us, we weren't talking about you, Ziliss!
-- Where is she even from? Some say she's a foreigner, but she looks like ours...
-- Well, she's from the Lafrenian continent. Raised by demon hunters, then studied somewhere in Saharomoria...
-- Sakuramoria, I think.
-- I don't know. Became friends with the queen there. And so here she is. Married, of course, blah blah... Although they say it's tough with children. One was born six months ago, premature, but Refiteyan medicine has nursed worse...
-- Health not great?
-- I don't know, maybe she just overworked herself. Lady Varvara is a willful woman; she gave no importance to her position. She was constantly seen here and there.
The vicar was struck as if by thunder, and he remembered everything. So that's where he knows her from; could General Ugrev actually be her? Astonishing. And how could such a fool...
The servant rushed away from the stall, hoping to see the tall woman with the scythe behind her shoulders once more to confirm his suspicions—but it was too late; during the conversation, she had already gone far. Instead of further pursuit, the monk kicked a pebble with his toe and simply walked wherever his eyes led, through the blocks and then along the embankment of the mountain river.
Criminally serene city, this Mettis. Apprehensive glances of humans at non-humans and vice versa are still visible here and there, but mostly... Mostly, in this currently cozy but rapidly developing city, the wind of a new era was felt too strongly. Everyone seemed to forget the past and live for the present day. People flocked here from everywhere, understanding perfectly well that Mettis, despite proximity to its dangerous neighbor, Old Serhant, as it was now called, was a safe place. And besides that, it encouraged the hardworking in every way, partly thanks to the local Governor-General, who achieved certain economic concessions from the capital. As a result, there were plenty of newcomers here...
They came of their own will—soldiers and peasants, factory workers and traders, miners and builders... And joined this place as if it were some kingdom of Mana, rather than a cold land, a haven for monsters... Such strange unanimity made the vicar feel even more abandoned and lonely.
The servant had almost reached the edge of the city, where it was quiet and practically deserted, and stopped on a bench to rest. Ahead was a picturesque stone cliff, behind which water roared loudly, and it occurred to the vicar to check the compass. Surprisingly, the needle confidently pointed toward the river.
And yet the compass was a deception from the cunning gremlins... Of course, there could be no talk of pancakes here; neither this river, nor the stones and forest beyond it, nor the massive, awe-inspiring outer city wall a bit further away, could be the source of any pastry. Alas, the spoonful of honey from the non-humans being exposed was outweighed by the barrel of tar from the fact that even this modest property of the vicar, to which he had grown accustomed, turned out to be useless junk. Ideally, he should throw it right here, off the cliff.
Looking around, the monk noticed that in one spot by the cliff there seemed to be no railing, and then discerned well-hidden steps leading down. For a couple of minutes he just stared stupidly at this staircase, and some strange, foolish feeling of anticipation of something incomprehensible pinched his heart.
Finally, the vicar stood and went to the descent, and upon reaching it, stepped forward and looked down. The steps descended to the river itself, and at the bottom, on the last one, stood a paper bag, like the ones given to visitors of the pancake stall. Nearby stood Varya and Oleg; the former was cuddling the latter, pressing the back of his head against her chest, which had become noticeably more impressive since student days. Naturally, Oleg's protests against this activity were not accepted, if there were any, and it was clear that both were having fun.
By some sixth sense, the Refiteyan noticed they were no longer alone and, letting out a little gasp and feeling embarrassed, released her husband from her embrace. Slightly dissatisfied, she looked at the vicar, and the servant realized that she recognized him...
The vicar made a familiar gesture to Varya, meaning "continue, ignore me," belatedly realizing how stupid he looked in this situation.
From youth to adulthood
Ple-Sen
Fragment
