Chapter 18-1

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  The problem with the mice was really not too difficult for the Senior Shaman to solve, so that was a surprise of all surprises. What surprised Stepan much more he never understood the reason why the problem had arisen at all. It was just that the mice, figuratively speaking, flew to the wine merchant's farmstead as if they identified themselves as flies or, more correctly, bees. And instead of a farmstead, there was a honey puddle. There was nothing difficult about his task. He could summon several prearranged contracts among the local spirits bound to the territory even in his unconscious state, as well as choose the most suitable variant for this task. Knowing in advance what pce Sylvia had picked for him and what role he would be forced to py, he physically could not fail the task. A couple of deterrents to keep the mice out of the yard. A couple more for backup, if the first ones got tired, and also a separate spirit-beast of a cat, which was a mouser as well as a rat-catcher. The beast had once achieved such skill and high art in his hunting that when his time came, he did not even notice how he died and went on doing what he was doing.

  Now this small but very advanced and clever spirit, so close to the edge of the strong that he could already be partially considered as such, got new hunting grounds and began not only to strangle mice in an assortment but also to eat them, if I may say so. Technically, of course, he didn't swallow them, but transported them to the spirit world, absorbing their matter with his body-soul. It required some investment of effort, but with a boost from the shaman, he could stage a mousecide and not have to worry about the cost, especially since he could regenerate some of his reserves from what he ate. The same mice that he could not or did not want to eat, this ghostly cat, according to the eternal feline habit, stacked in front of the door of the room where he destroyed them. Stepan had to feed it four and a half times with not-so-rge portions of reserve, restoring the modest reserve of personal strength of the small, mostly strong spirit. The essence was getting high, sincerely believing it had found itself in an analog of a cat's paradise because the conditions were perfect for it.

  He finished just before morning, stroking the ghost cat that had come to collect his reward, which looked like a typical backyard animal, not a local one, where stray animals were not much different from the wild ones, and exhaled in annoyance. Despite all his attempts, and even the quiet summoning of a couple of strong spirits, he still hadn't found a reason for the mice to come into the area. No curses, no distortions in the spirit world, no divine karas, he'd even summoned a professional spirit sniffer who could sniff out anything to the envy of greyhounds, but no, there was no pheromone trail of bait either. There was a feeling that the mice had just started their mass pilgrimage here, exactly to the warehouses with products, just because. The inquisitive earthling was a little annoyed by the impossibility of finding a quick and clear answer, but still gathered his thoughts and came to the conclusion that it was all a consequence of the banal avaibility of food and weak defense. The anti-mouse amulets were of high quality, but they recharged much less frequently than necessary. It wasn't quite the right answer, but he had no other, and the task of finding the cause of the mice invasion was beyond his pay grade, so he let it remain a mystery.

  When he had finished with the research and the mousecide, Stepan allowed himself some normal sleep, but he was always on the verge of waking up, always trying to slip into a typical meditation. As it turned out, he had gotten so used to sleeping under the triple protective barrier during his travels that it was hard for him to sleep without it. Even the spirit guards sitting in the world of spheres, which covered his sleep with their tireless guard, did not help. Subconsciousness wanted a dense protective circle, quality amulets, and all that. In general, he seemed to have slept well, but his mood upon waking was not very good, and the bags under his eyes had formed from some unknown source. However, the tter pyed to his advantage when his employer came to thank him personally, satisfied as an elephant, even if he didn't show it outwardly.

  "To tell the truth, I didn't really believe in success, Pann, for I've been promised so many times that I'm tired of hearing about it." Trabius Borshakl said to him, looking straight into his slightly reddened eyes, and in those eyes, Stepan saw a great struggle, with which the man was considering whether to write a bonus for his new employee. "No, really, he was very impressed by those piles of corpses, Tashka almost woke up the whole farmyard with her squealing. How come you didn't catch them yourself?"

  Stepan only shrugged his shoulders, took from the table an almost empty bowl of good wine, which he had been given as a reagent, and poured out the st drops from it. But, before the drops fell to the floor, there appeared, right in the air, a moving and ghostly cat, a menace to mice and other yard cats, giving out an audible and demanding meow. Why did you call me, Shaman? Why do you disturb my well-deserved rest after a glorious hunt? Stepan bent down and stroked his contract, injecting some strength right through his hand, while Trabius and his assistant, not the one who had shown Stepan his lodgings, but the other one, stared at the cat. Stepan understood them perfectly well because cats were a force to be reckoned with. And also because spirits, especially spirits so dense and with such a clear image, are not often seen.

  “He did the catching, honorable one, and he also folded them like an ordinary cat.” Expining all this, Stepan carefully acted as if nothing unusual was going on, though the contract in fact was by no means simple, literally perfect for the task at hand. “It had not yet been a year since I saw the sky when he was summoned precisely to catch mice. He's not strong, but he's very intelligent, for a spirit, as if he really was a cat, even after life. That's why he drags the corpses of mice to the door, like an ordinary cat, so that the corpses don't rot in the corners or under the floorboards.”

  The men looked attentively at the spirit-cat. Cat is looking at them just as attentively. And if Trabius was simply convinced that he should be given a bonus, his assistant was simply delighted and would have even tried to pet him, if it hadn't been for the presence of his superiors. The winemaker decided not only to increase the payment for this decade but also to thank an old acquaintance, who had recommended the young shaman to him as a hired man.

  “You're all messed up, Pann.” He finally said, looking him over carefully and catching the fact that his new employee hadn't drunk a drop of alcohol with his keen eyes and well-honed sense of smell. “If you get really tired, you tell me right away, and if you need any crap for magic, don't keep quiet either. I may have overdone it a bit st night, yes. But it's one thing if you're trying to cheat your way to alchemy or reagent for yourself, but if you're trying to do business, it's different.”

  He put together his yesterday's threat, in which he demanded from the shaman honesty in terms of requested consumables, or else there would be punishment with kicks in the ass and the tired look of a brat in the morning. And he thought that the boy, frightened by his threats, had decided not to ask for anything but grain and wine, adding his reserve and almost tiring himself. In fact, by the way, it is a very logical assumption, which shows that the man can think with his head and put the facts together well. Another thing is that he put them together incorrectly, but still impressive.

  “No, that's not the point, honorable Trabius. It's just that I didn't expect there to be so many mice here when I called the spirit. In small vilges, it's much easier. They have nowhere to feed.” Slightly dulling his gaze and generally pying the modest man, Stepan finally buys his unpretentious audience. “And here the cat kills them and kill and kill, but they don't end. It's impossible to stop the call; otherwise, you can't call him ter, it's night. There's no one to wake up, so I had to add my own magic instead of offerings. But it's all right, I didn't inject life, and I wouldn't. I just need to sleep and eat a lot. It should be easier from now on, the old mice have been caught by the spirit, the new ones, if they come, will be less.”

  It's very nice to talk to smart people, especially if you know exactly what they want to hear from you. A lot of questions immediately disappear. After looking a little longer at the cat, which was gradually becoming invisible again, as if fading from reality, and at the shaman, who was sleepily staring at his eyes, Trabius remembered once more the mounds of mouse bodies that he had inspected this morning and inwardly began to rub his hands together. Outwardly, the man only drilled the newcomer with a stern and stern look, saying that for this business it was better to ask for more at once, and then spend the excess on the next call than to endanger himself, and he would have to look for a new gifted mouse fighter afterward.

  “There'll be more work for you. They'll come again, the little bastards. They always do. I've already checked and called the mages, nobody knows anything, but the little buggers keep coming.” He gritted his teeth, speaking with a long-standing irritation, as if he were talking about a pimple on his ass that wouldn't go away. “I'll double your pay for this decade and give you two, no, three days off. I know you, magicians, as soon as you get tired, you can't work magic for a long time. In the kitchen, you'll be given a pot of honey, and you'll be able to eat your strength, but when they come back, you'll have to be able to do it all again. Pirius, give orders, and let's go.”

  The assistant only winked at Stepan, patted him approvingly on the shoulder, at the same time writing down something on his tablet, a wooden board with attached paper, not the earthly electrical version, and advised the boy to go to the cooks right now, take some sweets, a bonus, and go for a wander around the city, go to the market and just rex. He also gave him money, four silver coins at once, at the same time, recommending a good tavern if he wanted to wet his throat. Trabius hated it when workers drank on the farmstead grounds. Stepan thanked him sincerely for his care, put the money in a skinny belt purse, promised to continue to please his superiors with success, and went to eat because he really wanted to eat. And yes, the winemaker definitely knew how to communicate with the gifted, because after exhaustion, if it was not too strong, it was the best thing to eat sweet food, if there were no other ways to improve health. The body, weighed down by a magic gift, eats for three, especially when tired, and just sweet things help to recover faster. It's not an ideal variant, even a little harmful if you overdo it, but effective and avaible.

  He was given a double portion at once, a jar of honey and a fresh bun, obviously taken from the master's table, and the smiling and even round aunt-cook also advised him to eat well, so Stepan got up from the table a little closer to the shape of a sphere. Initially, he had pnned to look away from possible observers and go on a binge, or even just take a vacation, but, apparently, he had overdone it again with the quality of work, so that “just an apprentice” impressed his employer so much that he decided to thank him with uncharacteristic generosity. Or, as the shaman suspected, Trabius was truly sick of the ubiquitous mice. So sick that even his stinginess was reduced a little.

  After having breakfast and having warned the guard at the entrance to the estate that he would walk around the city a little since he had been given time off, the young man left the workpce. The guard, just a tired man in good leather armor with steel pques, standing at the entrance more for representational purposes, had already been informed about Stepan. The man, who introduced himself as Rick, sincerely advised the guy to keep his wallet close, not to walk down murky alleys, and not to get into trouble. He also unobtrusively suggested waiting until the end of the shift to go on a binge not alone, but with a company that would show him the city and help him not to get into shit, but the Earthman preferred not to take the hint. It was not enough for him to fight off the tail somehow, or even to drink in the company of the local popution - maybe it was a better option from the point of view of social mimicry, but the shaman was already burning his ass to arrange his ir and camoufge it reliably.

  He moved towards the market, holding his wallet close to his hand and keeping an eye out for possible thieves. He wandered around that market for a while, even buying some local fast food, choosing one of the few pces that sold fresh and not dangerous food. So, munching on the well-fried ground meat between two thin and crispy hot breads, he made a loop and returned to Copper Quarter fully packed. Turning into a previously checked alleyway, he covered himself from sight with a whole cocoon of spiritual entities. The extinguishing of magic trace, suppression of heat, smell, or noise, optical illusion-mirage creating an empty space, suggestive shroud of distraction, and then all the same, only duplicated.

  The point he wanted was very close to Borshakl's farmyard, just beneath a small weaving workshop, where six experienced seamstresses worked, a purely female enterprise. The pce was always crowded and visible. It was a challenge to get through to that little snout, which adjoined almost to the surface, without disturbing anyone's eyes. Well, if you are not invisible, as Stepan became for a short time. In general, he passed through without disturbing anyone. Without touching a single tool, without winding a single thread, and also involuntarily admiring a rather pretty woman, who was changing clothes just at the moment when the earthling got through. She was a nice-looking dy, she would have been about twenty-five or even twenty-eight years old, but given her hard work and constant exertion, she was barely twenty-one. A strong body of a constantly working person, a slightly slouching back, neat double breasts with dark nipples. She had it all. Stepan, forced to stand still while she changed clothes, felt like a pervert, even though the only reason for the dey was that the seamstress was standing right at the entrance to the snout.

  He had to close his eyes touch the world with spiritual perception, and enter a little deeper meditation, so as not to be too embarrassed. The dy silently changed into a new shirt and skirt, washed her face and hands, fixed her hair, and went on working, allowing Stepan to descend from the ceiling to which he stuck like a Peter Parker fan. At the same time, Stepan activated another contract, temporarily merging with his spiritual body, and then making the shaman only partially material. From Sylvia's words and memory, he knew it was possible to lift a rather heavy hatch under the floor and move the floorboards so they would fall back into pce when the hatch was closed. However, it was difficult to do it alone, especially in the daytime, when people were walking around. It was easier to crawl through as a phantom, especially since there were no protective runes or cloaking charms on the lid, which was poorly susceptible to magical scanning or radar scanning.

  He didn't return to his normal form until he was inside the passageway, almost at the bottom, at a depth of twenty meters. Sylvia knew for a fact that it wasn't the executors and other hired bdes or even the lurker of the rebel camp that had messed up during the rebellion. Some at the top leaked, some didn't hold their tongues, some rushed to give them all up, and the rest started to talk, and so, instead of a rebellion, there was a series of arrests, the storming of unprepared estates, and repressions in the assortment. Herbert de Dantrel is still the reigning duke; someone has died, someone is in disgrace, someone is banished, and the quality of the schema has remained a draw.

  Before climbing out of the passage, Stepan summons a bunch of scanning spirits and binds his consciousness tightly to a couple of fighting spirits, among them an almost-evoked Lizard. The st thing he needs is to be disturbed by a sudden arm, an equally sudden ambush by a secret guard, or Sylvia's fugitive chick hiding in this pce. Especially the tter. He'd had enough of battling with bloodsuckers at melee range without training, he'd had enough. If there was a lurking bastard in this pce, Stepan wouldn't even put up a fight, he would calmly walk away without attracting attention, still wrapped in his spirits. And then turn the fugitive over to his former boss and let her deal with the shit herself, she'd be gd.

  To the shaman's satisfaction, the pce was exactly as he had expected: empty, abandoned, dark, and a little musty. There was no air circution. The amulets were sold by Sylvia for a long time. Stepan illuminated the room with a firefly, looking around this slightly ennobled cave. A round hall with a ft floor, but still untreated walls and ceiling, on the floor, barely visible flickering gradually exhaled magic signs, folded into a circle, the same circle produces lines of runes, passing on the walls and even the ceiling in some pces. In some pces, the signs glow not a faded blue, but a slightly scarlet hue. These were the pces where Sylvia had pced her patches, repairing the broken enchantments. There are plenty of pces where more patches need to be put in, but so far the cloaking circuit is holding up pretty well. The height of the ceiling is about two and a half meters, on average, because the ceiling is still very uneven. In some pces, you can see broken or melted stactites. The diameter of the hall is also uneven, the shape of the cave is somewhat oval, but in Stepan's opinion, it is not less than six meters and not more than eight. This is a kind of studio apartment. The conditions are quite comparable.

  Stepan, with a wave of his hand - more for pathos than for call - orders the spirits of the winds to renew the air in the hall, making it fresh again. Another wave and a dozen pale lights bloomed beneath the ceiling, the kind of lights that have light, but no aspect of sun or fire, more like the light of crystals found in magical dungeons or Dungeons. The shaman looks around at his new realm, smiles contentedly, grins his teeth in a sincere grin, inhales a full breath, kneads his body a little, and then speaks aloud, solely to himself, since no other witnesses are pnned:

  “Well, let's begin.” Slightly shifting his brushes, he sends a wave through his own aura and spiritual body, chasing away any fatigue, and then throws his head and torso back, like a St. Petersburg junkie, but only his body shifts, while his spiritual essence leaves his body, speaking now in a voice inaudible to an ordinary ear. “The main thing is not to screw up now.”

  The new contract is easily, calmly, and without the slightest effort on the part of the shaman, he is eager to come to the meeting, easily assimiting the images sent. This entity does not need to be expined for the necessity of a smooth and inconspicuous appearance in reality, so as not to disturb the disguise, that is on its st breath, he is perfectly skilled in such methods of conspiracy. The fireflies had gone out as soon as Stepan left the body, but now it became truly dark in the cavern that had been ennobled by humans. The very reflection of the spirit world loses its colors and light, the coolness comes, not freezing, but making you shudder at its presence, the gaze comes, indifferent and demanding, and the realization comes that Stepan is no longer alone in this cave. The spirit had arrived, hidden its essence in the stones of the ceiling and walls, in the darkness that had never seen the rays of the sun, in the silence and peace of a pce long forgotten by people and born of the forces of nature.

  Stepan does not panic or flinch, silently transmitting the images, accepting the responses from the spirit, describing the situation to it, and additionally insisting on caution. The entity listens to all the demands, stoically accepts them, and begins to wriggle around the cave, dressing the cave on itself and itself on the cave. It's as if the shaman finds himself in the shuddering and murky reality of the activated anteroom, suddenly realizing that his best defense trick and the elder spirit's main skill actually have a lot in common, though there are even more differences. Yes, it is also a kind of distortion of dimensionality, shifting the boundary between reality and spheres, blurring the boundary, and pying with it in the principle of superposition. A shaman does not need to check to know exactly at what moment the spirit closes the cauldron of his body around, cuts off the world-there from the world-not-here, does not need to climb up the tunnel-passage to know that it is no longer needed.

  If someone were to open that hatch under the floor in the sewing studio, he would see only a meter and a half or two meters of a quality descent down, quite narrow, hardly half a meter wide, with hand braces and masking signs on the walls. And then there was only a solid barrier of earth and stone, nothing else, as if the passage had been nibbled off by someone at the very beginning, as if it had not been finished in time. Now there is no use in digging, no use in scanning the ground with artifacts or complicated rituals, because there is no purpose for these searches, but there is still a purpose. With a slight victorious smile, the earthman took a new look at his surroundings. Yes, the main and primary task has been accomplished, but this is only the beginning, there is still a lot of work ahead. Just to support the senior spirit will not be unreasonable. To build for him a whole array of totems, to work with the territory. This entity is able to fulfill its role and without direct feeding, it does not even need a reserve to feed, because of the creation of camoufge for its completely natural property. But even this power can be made even more ultimate, improving the cloaking aspects and allowing it to lean on a totemic structure to offset future complex and forceful summons within the closed space.

  The Door Opener spirit was certainly not against such a decision, it was better and easier for him, so he didn't even pn to resist Stepan's actions. Stepan summoned several spirits with specialization in absorbing magical manifestations without a clear body, form, or even sphere, which were very specific leeches. The entities immediately sucked on the signs, completely discharging them, drinking all the scraps of power that were in those signs, making them become just lines on the stone, no longer glowing, but simply drawn once a long time ago. Next comes the summoning of two very strong and intelligent elemental spirits. of inclination, belonging to the spheres of Earth, Stone, Depth, and Darkness, which are quite reted to the Door Opener. With these forces, Stepan began to rebuild the cave, enrge it, and divide it into separate rooms. And the spirits, being the owners of rather specific aspects, were not just pushing the stone apart, working with it like cy, no. They literally expanded the cave, the new area was as if it were a slightly ennobled natural formation created by underground currents - the same irregurities on the walls and ceiling, the same traces of water channels, the same stactites with stagmites, if they did not interfere with the general interior. It worked not only in terms of external images but also in terms of aspectual understanding, which was much more important for working with spirits.

  Only the floor was still retively ft and level, but not perfect like a stone paving. Stepan, who was used to drawing amulets on earth and stone, didn't need perfect ftness. One of the main differences between high magic and wild, by the way: in the case of shamanism or witchcraft, the main role is not the sign or trait contour, and its reflection in the world of spirits, while cssical ritualism or runology, on the contrary, affects the world of spirits due to the perfectly executed energy form-frame. The cardinal difference in approach because of which adherents of different directions will look at the opponent as if the barbarians-savages, or poseurs-whitewashed. In fact, both approaches require very careful work, skill, selection of reagents, and preparation of the pce of ritual. Nevertheless, he still made himself and the sites with the most leveled foundation, as if polished by a water cannon. Some of the methods can not do without the very etheric framework with perfectly accurate execution.

  As a result, the central cave remained almost unchanged, save for the notches-shelves that seemed to have formed naturally on the walls. Two additional five-by-five meter rooms would serve as living quarters in half as a bedroom and eating area, as well as another kamni hall, with a completely separate circuit and array. Three more small rooms were just storage spaces, and Stepan would insute them further if necessary. He didn't see any need to expand the area further - it was comparable to his Lyady clearing, except for the adjoining territory. Since this adjoining territory and its protection is the responsibility of the ultimate cool for his rank senior spirit, everything is fine.

  Breathing the air regurly renewed by the spirits, the shaman again called on the light spirits who had not gone far and then went to the center of the rgest hall, closing his eyes, turning to the status, and searching for the right image. One moment, one wish, one will alone, and the one-time token activated in the same second, summoning his future consumables and reagents. Yes, the greedy, bad part of him demanded to wait, to pump even harder and summon the token when the effect would be greater. But he, as it often happens, did not listen to his greed. It was vicious greed, not pious frugality, that spoke to him, he knew. When he opened his eyes, he was prepared for anything, but he was still surprised, and it was a pleasant surprise, for he had already seen some unpleasant surprises.

  First, his theory that the token was activated not just at will, but also in a clever way was confirmed. Almost all the reagents materialized right on the shelves prepared for them. Secondly, the System clearly tailored its gifts not only to the css and knowledge of the activator but also to the typing and location of his boratory. In the very center of the underground hall y a box made of enchanted wood insuting magic, the size of a small refrigerator, and inside it y a block of stone in a protective circuit and the warning “DO NOT OPEN TO NATURAL LIGHT” in High Academic. A perfect billet for a totem, it clearly fits the definition of something that could be bought as a special item at auction, albeit at the lower end of awesomeness.

  Made of rare rock, literally imbued with the will of the depths, darkness, and waters, this stone pilr could become the basis for a damn powerful totem, and not just any totem, but the central one, which became the basis of the whole massif, its support. And this totem, when Stepan finished it, would be much cooler than the same central totem in the clearing near Lyadya. In addition, other things in the center of the underground hall had not been pced on the shelves because of their massiveness or the fastidiousness of the conditions of their movement, but they were noticeably simpler things. A heavy amphora with water, very special water, saturated with magic and some specific essences, which made it possible to drink it only once in a lifetime, dying of a rapidly progressing digestive disorder. But if you use it drop by drop, bringing it as an offering to this or that spirit, it is a very universal reagent, a perfect basis for a lot of rituals and variations of them. The amphora, by the way, has a separate enchantment based on witchcraft, ensuring that it is airtight and does not leak vapors so that you can take a little bit and immediately seal it back up. A small beer-type keg, also a bit enchanted, but nothing special, just a rather potent variety of healing mud as its contents. No kidding, you could pour this stuff on a wounded man and he would be stabilized immediately, and if he didn't die right away, he could be dragged to a healer.

  The other “not fit” gifts were of simir type and value, invariably signed or beled in such a way that Stepan could understand exactly what was inside and what the conditions of the gift were - thanks to his general erudition. Having examined the system gifts, the young man closed the lid of the box for the totem billet and went to check the rest of the wonders that littered the shelves and recesses of cabinets without doors. To be fair, not all of the space was occupied; the st of the small storage closets had almost half of the space untouched, but the total number of gifts weighed over a couple of tons, even if you don't count the boulder, which weighed a ton. Most of it was retively simple stuff: stone, wood, rare types of ore, herbs, dried mushrooms, feathers, cws, other animal parts, organs in jars with different kinds of alchemical formalin-preservative, blood, mucus and other liquids in hermetically sealed vials-tubes, some amount of ready-to-use elixirs, extracts, powders, mixtures and smokes, preparations for amulets, spirit houses, totems and dolls, which had already been shaped and basic spells cast, and much more.

  It was good to know that soon it would be possible to immerse himself in work and the creative process without having to think about spending or finding the things he needed for his work. In his underground hideout was the annual budget of another magical guild, one of those smaller ones. Even in the coffers of the de Dantrels, buying that much quality material would have put a hole. Not counting the “elite” gifts. Some Higher Shaman, specializing in Depth and Stone, would pay for such a totem stone in gold, if not by volume, then a third of that volume and a couple of weights on top, and if he agreed to accept silver, it would be fine. But no one would sell it, no matter how much one asked or offered, because they needed it themselves! The stone was, in fact, the heart and basis of some rather old magical source, many times exceeding that temple, bathed in the energy of that source for centuries and centuries, before it was carefully removed, processed, packed, and delivered. And that source was obviously not simple, probably specially cultivated in the right way, nourished by rituals, and fed with the right reagents, so that the rock in his heart was properly soaked. Stepan did not believe that so successfully complementing each other properties and characteristics of spiritual reflection could arise by chance. Or, more likely, there was no origin, no nourishment, no long hundreds of years, but the System had simply created the billet by direct influence on reality alone. For a super-entity capable of maniputing reality and destiny, it was a piece of cake!

  In addition to the stone, there were two other reagents of comparable value, but noticeably smaller in volume and weight: a small crystal that looked like a gemstone, but was not matter at all, and a vial of glowing dark green ichor of an unknown kind. The pebble was a literal manifestation of feelings and emotions that had taken on a pseudo-material form, which made it impossible to touch with bare hands. But the spirits sensualists and suggestors, up to the highest, on such a sacrifice-offering will come running faster than the squeal and the squeal of the caller himself. You know, it is very difficult not to give something desired to an entity in the rank of a higher spirit, if it specializes in distorting thoughts and intentions as its forte. This crystal was securely sealed in a container of insuting crystal. He wouldn't risk using it for a very long time. It would be a pity to waste it, and it would be impossible to use it for good because the entities of the ыгср caliber would come to such a gift so that he couldn't negotiate with them and only run away in terror.

  The vial of slurry wasn't a shamanic consumable at all, though no one was stopping me from bringing it as an offering to someone. Only it would be nailing with a microscope and a video card. The liquid was an exceptionally high-quality conduit of control and will for witchcraft to connect to the territory. You mix it with blood, pour it on the ground or in water, and then you start influencing. The trick is that with such amplification, you can achieve the same result in two or three days, which would require a couple of decades, or even more, becoming a certain area as native as that goblin loser to his ke. Only with much less traumatization and without unpleasant consequences for himself. This is the dream of any spellcaster of wild magic, which witchcraft dabbles in. As, the description, enclosed in a small scroll wrapped around the vial, was the main problem that made Stepan want to cry a little at the sight of the vial. The concentrate had to be poured onto the ground or into the water, but not onto the stone of the dungeon. It would not make contact, and the effect would be a seventh of the potential. And unnoticeable such control will be very difficult to make, it will be progressing too rapidly, and even seeking to spread widely, taking not only Dantmark but also affecting several tens of kilometers of the surrounding area, albeit in a weaker form.

  It was a cssic witches' nest, crammed into the volume of a single vial: that was about the distance they extended their power if they bound themselves to the territory permanently and were really good at what they did. He'd use it right now, but he couldn't do it without attracting a lot of attention, and he couldn't take full advantage of it either. It's not exactly his specialty, it requires accompanying witch knowledge and properties, not just territorial basis, high spirit, and shamanism. So you can py to the fact that some powerful witch will decide to take over the territory, and she, as one who acts in her field, may succeed, up to the attack on the spirit and aura, and even on the mind, given the tendency, Stepan. In total, two of the three strongest gifts had to stay on the shelf for the time being, and the time was uncertain, but he was ready to forgive the System for the third gift.

  The totemic base isn't just usable right now. It was also so dense, so solid in its essence, that he had no fear of ruining it with ineptitude. If his knowledge of totems were to increase, and with such material to work with, he saw it as inevitable, he could easily remake the entire structure, add to it, or even tear it down to nothing. The energies and concepts that permeated the essence of the stone made it so stable that it would take a lot of effort to ruin the material by inept actions... let's just say it would take a lot of effort, it wouldn't be possible to do it intentionally, not like accidentally and foolishly. Stepan, however, was not going to underestimate himself and his talents. He remembered all the hurtful words from the mouth of Rodisv Gastoldovich Yanin and therefore vowed to be very careful. He didn't want to be known, even if only to himself, as that anecdotal idiot who would break the iron fortress with a block of stone. And he would not lose the second one only because no one would give him the second one.

  SpoilerT.N. It's a reference to the joke.

  The scientists put a Russian, a Frenchman, and an American in separate cells and gave them two titanium balls each to see what they would do with them out of boredom.

  A week ter, we went to the American: he put his cowboy hat in the corner and put the balls there.

  They went to a Frenchman - he was juggling.

  They went to a Russian - no balls. They ask, “Where did you put them? He answers: “I broke one and lost the other.”

  [colpse]"Are we happy, Vincent?" The young man couldn't resist the quote, and then he finished it, for ck of a second person to talk to. "Yes, we're happy."

  The inventory took not so little time, the shaman had time to be hungry, to eat a pie with meat, to be tired like a loader in the river port, and also to be tired mentally, simply burning out from the fact that he finally had a reliable rear. Having systematized his new possessions, and having outlined the features of the coming calls, especially those connected with strengthening the Opener, as well as with a set of suggestors to divert the attention of neighbors and superiors, the earthling sent the scouting spirits upstairs, having previously given a command to the senior entity to let them out. The prearranged spot was empty at this moment, with no patrols, ambushes, or loitering about. When he found the conditions suitable, Stepan gave another command, ordering the spirit to create a passageway for a material person, and then left his hiding pce.

  It was so simple it wasn't even funny. He had expected much more difficulty, but the very suitable material for the base of the shelter - this very cave - had pyed its part. It was like going out the door, but not through the door: a request to the spirit, invisibly present around the cave, and he immediately responded, creating the trunk junction, which could take him to any unprotected point of the city and suburbs, up to ten hours on foot in any direction. Oh, and he could make a path to a protected point, too. Over Dantmark, as well as any other rge city, the blocking teleportation charms are quite woven, only the Revealer doesn't care a bit about it, because he's already not-here-and-here, he doesn't need to tear up space, only to shift retive to it. Yes, the most densely protected pces can't be transported this way, rich houses, the Duke's pace, temples, magic towers, rge offices, or offices of important people are too densely protected. But in pces where only the city's general fields are active, he can move almost freely. And not only there. If he prepares himself and strengthens the spirit's piercing properties.

  The especially left contour door resembles a real passage, only it does not lead anywhere, because there are twenty centimeters of recesses, then solid stone, which becomes dark, very dark, even the still shining spirits-lights dimmed presence. In this darkness, the distance becomes different, strange and incomprehensible, distorted and losing all meaning, opening up for the person who wants to discover the way. Stepan stepped into the passageway without any doubts and unnecessary theatricality, walking forward a couple of steps on the stone surface, coming out already in the marked alley, very close to the winemakers' farmstead. Checking the surroundings once more, just to make sure, Stepan adjusted his clothes, took a full breath, coughing from the stench of horse dung and someone's feces - it was a blind alley, after all, not the main streets, where for an attempt to take a piss you could be kicked in the head without waiting for the guards - and went in the direction of Mednaya Seredka. A slight averting of his eyes allowed him to avoid the gaze of a couple of te-night parties, and he was already “home”.

  “You're back in time, kid, right on time.” The guard, not the one from the morning, but also vaguely familiar, as they had seen each other at breakfast, just waved his hand, not even trying to stop him. “Don't wander around town at night, it's not a vilge, they can kill you for nothing, especially in the poorer neighborhoods. We're still decent in Seredka, with guards around, chasing Lotar's fucking army. But in the craftsmen's rows or near the market, the night folk are already in power, they'll ask you who you are and why you're wandering around at night. It always leads to trouble. Did you at least have a good time?”

  Stepan, a little discouraged by the speed of the transition from topic to topic, honestly tried to evaluate the question and give a truthful answer. It wasn't that he wanted to talk to this man so much, but it was necessary to make contact.

  "Yeah, I guess I did. It's a nice city you have here, big, noisy, but beautiful." He didn't talk about the smells and plenty of murky people, nor about the fact that it was dangerous to walk here at night, which was the norm in Earth's Middle Ages, too. "The market was huge, the goods were plentiful, and the taverns were good."

  "Well, if you went alone, for the whole day, not knowing the city, and returned without being beaten, robbed, or returned at all, you would be okay! We were worried about you, by the way, when you went alone, we thought you'd gotten into trouble somewhere, we'd have to buy you back from the guards or nightmen, or even from the svers." Another cp on the shoulder, which before would have made you sit down and get a bruise, but now the physicality helped. "But taverns, yes, especially the drink - wherever you go, and it is ours, in the sense of honorable Trabius. The whole of Dantmark drinks, yes."

  Stepan only nodded and agreed. No more was required or expected from him. The man clearly liked to talk and had no piety for the gifted man. Whether it was his armor and protective amulet, a couple of colleagues who joined the conversation ter, or something else, he behaved rexed and friendly, slightly condescending, but without humiliation or ridicule. After saying goodbye and finding a cold supper in his room, Stepan happily devoured it with another bowl of honey and went to bed. Tomorrow would be another long day of invocations, calls, and, of course, self-development - something for which he was ready to tolerate and even love this cruel world that was always trying to kill him or to fuck him, or all together.

  * * *