* * *

  The first round of protection was not difficult to get past. It was ridiculously easy. It was just a net of arms, not serious at all. It was clear that the house had been inhabited by the representatives of de Marek only recently, and the protection was not their own, but imported, based on amulets. No, it was better than nothing at all, but it was not enough against Stepan, his retinue, and his agent's work skills. Especially since the guys obviously didn't match the elements of defense to each other, the first yer, that's for sure. Special bloodhounds found these weak points in twenty minutes and spent another three hours looking for trap marks on those who would buy such a simple vulnerability. They didn't find them, making Stepan sit in his cave with his back against the totem, shaking his head, sighing disapprovingly. There are no professional saboteurs on these simpletons, really.

  The main violin was pyed by the spirits with the sphere of the Hardness and rare aspects of Kinship and Transmission. These entities without a clear form-image tasted the magic in the protective formations, and then calmly transferred the taste of this magic to the next intruders, making them completely and utterly invisible to this yer of protection. Further, everything was a little more complicated, the second yer consisted of separate screens, a couple of pulsating fields-analyzers, as well as several statuettes with tracking spirits. The spirits were summoned not exactly by shamanism, but rather by a mixture of it and cssical magic, clearly an old work, perhaps a relic that had outlived its creator. It was not easy to deceive them, but he managed to pick a team of scouts, which moved in the blind zone of statuettes, not shining in their perception, as if becoming invisible to these spirits.

  The screens were even easier. Just crawl through the wall, because even though the screen exists inside the wall but there it acts somewhat weaker there. And if we're talking about the spirits of the Hardness, which simply merge with the wall, perceived as an integral part of it, and create a passageway for other spirits that come out of the back side of the wall, it's just a pleasure. Working with the pulsing field, like a radar on a magic tractor, was the hardest part, even harder than with statue relics, but nothing extraordinary. All within his knowledge and competence. Pulses were not at regur intervals, but in a clear rhythm, which was not difficult to calcute; there were necessary spirits or calcuted algorithms like mathematical equations. Agent work gave such a base, too. And then he simply ordered the spirits to dive a little deeper into unreality, additionally covering them with the influence of another strong spirit, hiding them from the search pulse, and not allowing the fshing.

  There was a fourth yer on the offices and bedrooms of his offenders, a fully functional field, dense and powered by a separate artifact in each case, and there could be something else in the office itself, but Stepan didn't need to get into it. His target was parrots, the most elite and the toughest, not carnivorous, rather omnivorous, but capable of hunting game, and in general quite dangerous birds, which could easily break the skull with a blow of a magic-enhanced beak, and with equally enhanced cws chip off a steel helmet. And they could speak, like a mockingbird repeating sounds or words they liked, some of them even realizing what they were hearing and saying. The intelligence of a dumb goblin still means some limited intelligence.

  Their cells were also very well protected; there were additional barriers and another statuette hidden in the wall, but not from the gaze of Stepan's spirits, which could not see the invisible statuette, but saw a void in the wall, perfectly matching the shape of the statuette. Then it was only necessary to pick up the mode of spiritual perception to see the threat and pick up the keys to this spirit. The guys clearly feared for their trump card, and it must be said, not in vain. On the other hand, if they had behaved humanely with a random boy they met, none of this would really have been necessary. Chuckling nastily in his cave, the young man gave the order, sending a whole host of spirits of the suggestive type to these parrots, affecting all of them that could speak. The spirits were small and yet very weak in terms of energy saturation, barely perceptible, so their presence was completely lost in the background of household magi,c enchanted cages of especially high comfort.

  The birds will have to learn a lot of new words. And sound out the words strictly at a given moment.

  Stepan couldn't resist, and his snickering turned into a rather unpleasant and gloating ughter, sounding quite eerie in the complete darkness of the dungeon.

  He spent the next five days summoning more and more powerful spirits, strengthening his retinue, and making new contracts. Several summons for each element, with different aspects and typification of exotic properties, quite a few protectors, especially one of the spirits who could literally draw enemy magic into a subspace pocket-mouth and then regurgitate it on the enemy, mixing all the spells and adding some toxic and corrosive magical energy from himself. Or that individual who makes masterful use of the concept of static electricity can accelerate it to the point where it can simply stop a target's heart with a jolt of electricity right under shields and amulets without disturbing them. Or another rather dark entity that can repce a damaged organ by eating it, allowing it to live in symbiosis for months until the liver made of spirit flesh is completely real. I also remembered the spirit of the darkness sphere and the vision aspect, which could make the eyes of victims unimaginably sensitive to light, and it could work in areas, being an ideal means of suppressing mass riots, where tear gas was not.

  There were more familiar entities wielding a few individual manifestations of their usual element or concept: arrow, bdes, ball, spear, net, stream, battering ram, and direct attack with their own spirit body - and what these spirit-created spells were made of wasn't that important. Wind, water, fire, earth, light, darkness, and a host of other things. Pick an arsenal of your choosing. The essence of the dust sphere with the aspects of obstacle, protection, and fencing line could be arranged around the summoner literally automatically reacting in defense, intercepting attacks with dusty screens in passive mode, and not distracting the shaman from business. And the defense was active, able to strike back at the attacker, too, with the power of a strong spirit, a very strong spirit. The total power of the entity remained within the limits of its rank, but the stock of these forces caused respect of other elders, even envy! The aforementioned Sleepwalker, while his reserve was not bad, was still slightly less than that of his counterpart, a rank below him. An amazing ability, rare indeed, especially when combined with the combat aspects and the ability to support the shaman in a direct attack. However, the spirit demanded payment for summoning either an unrealistic amount of reserve or a very rge mountain of offerings.

  The ability to save money on those offerings allowed him to spend almost no energy of his own, calling new spirits literally non-stop, stopping only to rest his brain and spiritual body, which was still tired from continuous calls, even with the support of the totem and the earth. In the breaks, the young man helped his colleagues at work, politely refusing to get drunk because he could not drink, and also tried to deal with the problem of mice, which was increasingly becoming something purely personal for Stepan. Because his spirits, discreetly sent to keep the rodents away from the territory, were working successfully and quietly. Except that the transparent cat also worked, and every morning, workers checking the farmstead found new corpses stacked by the cat near the doors of the protected warehouses. Not as many as there had been in the beginning, that was true, but still quite a few, especially considering the fact that the entity ate some of the prey without a trace. And they weren't getting any smaller; every day, about the same number of corpses ended up in their usual pces.

  Scratching the back of his head in bewilderment, Stepan tried to figure out how this was happening and found no other option but to find a lot of mouse nests on the farmstead, from which new mice crawled out. To be honest, the theory did not stand up to criticism, so Stepan was forced to promise to get down to searching for curses on the territory of his residence. Yes, he wasn't getting paid for it, and yes, his employer had already tested this theory with several gifted people, but it had become a matter of principle! He's a goddamn Senior Shaman with System cheats and he can't get the fucking mice out of the not-so-rge-scale backyard! With a sigh of regret about the impossibility of stretching the day in two or three, the Earthman moved the issue of working out the mouse infestation higher in the queue of the most urgent things.

  That night, back underground, instead of going to bed, he'd done one of the things he'd long pnned and, admittedly, long overdue to do: he'd used endowment of system characterization on his contracted Lizard. It gave him about seven units out of twelve, which wasn't the best result, but it wasn't the worst either. The image of the spirit became even denser, its bdes began to be perceived even more deadly, the smoke veil that served as a shield and a bde thickened, and even the body-state itself seemed to have gained extra centimeters. Well, in the manifested state, incarnated in the real world, not less than twenty centimeters exactly. In the cave illuminated only by dim lights, this figure looked threatening, powerful, and a little sinister, which made the shaman tense up against his will.

  Fortunately, a quick exchange of images with the Lizard, who was also getting used to his new self, confirmed Stepan's positive theories. Yes, the entity did not feel grateful to Stepan; it clearly saw the System as its benefactor, but it still realized, as much as it was possible for an immaterial being to do, that the gift had come through Stepan. Being bound by an existing contract, so extremely reliable that even the System confirmed it and counted it, the spirit was in no hurry to break the contract, nor was it in a hurry to pay the price for its summoning. The spirit did not become a senior spirit, it cked some more characteristics and a general transition to a new state, which could not be achieved simply by characteristics. But he was close enough to the new rank, currently only slightly inferior to Squidward Plus, only, as, in sheer power.

  Before the enhancement, the Lizard was an extremely strong exotic, extremely cool for his rank and strength, with unreal flexibility and a selection of properties with aspects. Now he had the added overall strength, reserve size, spiritual density, and flexibility of his smoke properties, but not the skill and ability to utilize his features. Before, the Lizard had a very rge, enormous number of unique traits for his level of strength; now, he was not great for his strength, but simply very good. On average, it still came out stronger and more efficient, but the gifting tool was still not that nagging. The good thing is that for spirits, the knowledge and skills are not as critical as for mages. They are too different, their instincts prevail, not erudition, so the Lizard will catch up with his new power very quickly, well, by the standards of the spiritual world. Stepan was almost certain that it would catch up in a hundred years!

  The st part of his fun after the mission with the parrots was to make permanent and status-certified contracts with those powerful spirits with whom he had never been able to legitimize retionships before. In the shamanic sense of the phrase, no vulgarity, don't even think about it. Having received the support of a powerful totem, a pce of call, a lot of reagents and offerings, as well as the opportunity to constantly wear his favorite mask the issue of these contracts Stepan solved so quickly that even a little strange. Why did he take so long? No, he knew “why”; he knew that this ease was deceptive, and in hiking conditions, he would have wasted a lot of energy and time, but still, it was a funny situation.

  Minor Knowledge: ...contract with an elder spirit: He Who Hides Himself in the Rocks and Opens the Doors; contract with strong spirits: The Three Piglets; contract with a strong spirit: Leaves in Motion; contract with a strong spirit: Urkaguarri; contract with a strong spirit: Embracing with the Fire in the Last Goodbye

  Four new contracts, and Stepan didn't feel the strain that would make him stop and take a break. It was even easier to put together the terms of the deals and make them than to expand his retinue's catalog with the new summons. The three boars stood out because they liked Stepan's nickname and the images attached to it so much that they literally changed their name-image of their own free will and entered their status under a new name. He chuckled, of course, but it was a little embarrassing to ugh at what was perhaps, if not his strongest call among the powerful spirits, then his most resilient and tenacious. They could be called a walking stock of rd, but they had enough lethality to crush fifty city guards with three adepts of combat magic almost effortlessly. The same ghouls, seasoned and old, properly reinforced and fattened, were crushed by these three without even minimal damage. To be honest, they could have been used against his main target, the vampires. They wouldn't have won, but they would have sted as long as they had st time. On the other hand, that wasn't an optimal tactic either, especially with that cursed sword.

  The second of the contracts was a spirit of protection and blessing, a natural spirit, not dark but neutral, capable of manifesting itself in reality as a pile of slightly silvery translucent leaves. No, no Senbonsakura. The attack of this entity is practically zero, but leaves can cover a target as tight-fitting armor a tex super-suit, the degree of protection comparable to not badly enchanted full armor, and also enhancing and dispersing the aura of the one who is in this armor. A kind of lens-multiplier, but only for direct magic of any kind: It will not help with calls, but it will strengthen witchcraft practices, it will not increase puppet skills, but it will strengthen the spiritual form. In addition, the spirit could stick one or two leaves to the target, pumping up the reserve, giving punching power, and coordinating actions, being, in fact, an ideal amplifier of a crowd of small spirits, especially in coordination with the Milker.

  The third contract, which had a difficult name to pronounce, worked with stones, including precious ones, and metals, including equally precious ones. It is not rational to use the creature as a tracker of deposits and veins, as well as to search for buried treasure chests, but in terms of combat, oh yes, in terms of combat, this creature could do a lot. A very rge portion of artifacts are made of a metal base, and gemstones serve as an excellent focuser of energy flow, whether you put them on dispy or melt them into the depths of the artifact so they don't shine in a vulnerable pce. This spirit could temporarily and with considerable strain change part of the magical constants of a separate artifact, enchanted bde or armor, as well as staff or rod, if they or inside the core used semi-precious stones or at least powder of those semi-precious stones. In the best case, the enemy's equipment will be weakened very much, in the worst case for the owner, the equipment will become a pumpkin for a while or forever, but in Stepan's ideal conditions, the artifacts will burst so that shreds will fly from the body and aura of the victim.

  The st of the spirits on a perpetual contract was an Elementalist, able to burn and roast, and he was best at roasting, baking, and heating not only the air but even the bodies, ignoring much of natural resistance. An instantaneous rise in body temperature to the point of well done or at least medium rare would make anyone sad. Most of the spiritual entities did not know how to attack literally inside the enemy energy, and those that could, mostly acted through curses, vampirism, or decay, which is much easier to defend against, because it is expected most of the time. But such purely spontaneous, and secondary, are not the most common. magical in the original basis, the impact, changing a certain constant in a certain area, regardless of the presence of aura or flesh there ... this is a very serious approach. Resistance will help, good amulets that create a protective field rather than a shell or barrier will also be useful, but the trick is still very unexpected and sneaky. Just right for Stepan, who prefers to win quickly, cleanly, and without vulgar fights on the st drops of strength. If he could fulfill his preferences, it would be perfect, but the world, past and present, is criminally far from ideal.

  “The ideal is unattainable, I guess.” He said tiredly and got a bewildered look from Pirius' steward, who gave him another payment, making Stepan remember that he was not in his cave and change the subject. “Dear Sir, what's all the commotion in the courtyard today? I didn't even bother to ask.”

  The man, who had not heard the first comment, understood the question, and when he did, he smiled with a slightly strained smile, behind which Stepan sensed hidden fatigue and long-standing irritation, which he had already come to terms with, but which did not become less irritating. Wiping his slightly reddish eyes, Pirius, the gray-haired and aging man, waved his hand sharply behind his back, pointing somewhere in the neighborhood of the lord's house, which Stepan had never been inside, and had never even sent spirits, preferring to check the thoughts and honesty of his employer during his working hours. Only once he checked the house itself to make sure there was no demonic altar there, at the same time looking for the source of the mouse scourge. He'd thought he could handle it, but now it was obvious that he needed to prepare not the random spirits, but a well-coordinated team of strong entities.

  “It's the honorable Fanya, the honorable Trabius's beloved wife, back from the country estate, which is also the main vineyard.” There was so much sarcasm in the word “beloved” that it made Stepan's teeth crunch. “And you don't need to know more than that. Stay away from the big house, you don't need it. Better go to the southern brigade, Rjok's sick there, he's been coughing for two days, take a look at him there. If it's nothing hard, give him a kick, and if he's sick, let Derek give him some herb to sip or chew.”

  Derek was the name of an old but still quite intelligent and very unhealthy herbalist who preferred not to be distracted from his winemaking experiments unnecessarily. Stepan was asked to see if the sick man was healthy and whether he should be sent to the alchemist at all, and at the same time to keep him busy so that he would not think about what kind of retions Trabia had with his honorable wife. The shaman knew these retions were colder than the Arctic ice, and even Sylvia could not be consulted. Even at the courtyard, it was spoken of, albeit in whispers. Rjok, by the way, was really ill with some form of lung pneumonia, so the Earthman, under the guise of examination, though he did not give any oath of Hippopotamus, Hypothamus, and Hypotenuse, cured him of the disease, advised him to rest for a night and to go to work again tomorrow. And not to sleep in a draught, of course, or he'll get to the point where it hurts to piss.He went back to his room and went to the underground complex to work on his pns a little more. He was in a great mood because he was doing exactly what he wanted to do, and in perfect proportions - socialization and self-development, as well as regur walks around Dantmark, which, no matter how you put it, is still a very beautiful city. He would have said something like the cssic “Life is good, but a good life it's even better!” but he was too afraid to badmouth it, so he preferred to keep his mouth shut.

  * * *

  To his embarrassment, the results of his revenge were seen after the fact, as he was busy working on more and more modifications to his dungeon, selecting new contracts, and preparing the first summoning of the elder entity. He was so ready for the st task that all he had to do was put on his mask and start calling, but he did a lot of other things besides that. He had set up a full oxygen circution system and humidity support, where fresh supplies for breathing were brought in through the spirit world, straight through, yet caressing his nose with notes of mountain freshness. Lighting became more permanent, special hollows appeared in the walls of the halls, which now housed gss vessels in which the very spirits of underground and non-sor light danced. By the way, he did not take the gss for this case from the stock of consumables, it would be too much, no. He simply grabbed those shards from wine bottles, which were going to be thrown away anyway, then cleaned them, changed their shape, fused them by cold transmutation into a gss ball, and summoned his spirits inside.

  At the st moment, feeling some unnatural timidity before the coming procedure, he gave himself one st rest, going up to the surface and walking around the city. He didn't keep track of time, only coming to meals, and if the spirit tracker signaled that he was being searched for something, so he didn't realize what was wrong right away. He sat down in a fairly decent tavern, smiled in response to the dashing and sly smile of the pretty peddler, and began to eat apple casserole on cottage cheese, unwittingly listening to the surrounding conversations. And the conversation of two slightly tipsy, but still quite intelligible speaking men in the clothes of not particurly rich merchants or even just shopkeepers involuntarily absorbed his attention. He even put spirits in his ears to filter the words, emphasizing only the necessary conversation and suppressing the background noise, and he did not regret it.

  “Yes, they say the de Marecs were furious. I don't remember such a disgrace, but de Faler was shining, even though he tried to hide.” A full-bodied man, with the beer belly of a veteran alcoholic wrestler, chuckled drunkenly. “They got my third cousin's nephew as a junior deputy when they recruited the new squad. So, he didn't talk, but he said that the whole representation was ughing. And the younger Marek had the sense to say such a thing outright. Maybe it would have been all right.”

  “And don't tell me, I didn't believe it when I heard it, I thought it was rumors again, how many times they had prophesied that the farmer would fail.” The second of the interlocutors is also obese, but not fat, and even more sober, and he is questioning his interlocutor deliberately, deliberately pouring more, provoking him to frankness. “And here, one step away from success, and yet to fall so hard. Lothar really kissed him.”

  Stepan strained his memory a little and realized that he had missed not only the birthday celebration of Herbert de Dantrel's granddaughter but also the aftermath of the celebration, forgetting that he was in the middle of a dreadful revenge. Well, that's a common occurrence for him. He took his revenge, crossed off the offense from the list, and was too zy to do control, as he always did. Rodisv Gastoldovich Yanin had not yelled at him enough for his love to distract him at an important moment, he needed more. Shuddering at the st thought and at the mention of this chthonic crawler of the deep yers of the dark spheres, the young man began to finish his casserole and ponder how he could admire the results of his bors.

  He walked down another alleyway, averting his eyes from random passersby, and moved into his dungeon and retrieved Sylvia's doll, connecting to her mind and senses. The old and experienced bloodsucker couldn't help but find a source of information that would at least verbally retell the story to the shaman who was eager for details. But, as practice had shown, Sylvia had something better than a retelling of events that had already happened. One of her partners, for a change, controlled not through blood but only through greed, was present at that dinner party, and also knew how to use amulets and was considered an under-adept of mental and illusions, a kind of self-taught, but talented, and with access to specialized literature not for everyone. In general, he, suppressing a smile, even presented his partner with a crystal with a recording illusion directly from his memory. By the way, he specialized just in trading such recording crystals, both from memory and direct broadcast, like a camera. And he didn't create them himself; he had two adept amuletters on contract, the ones his father had paid to train.

  By the way, one of the adepts was an understudy who had dropped out when it became useless to teach without a very serious investment of money. Some bullshit with auric nodes, which made control practically unimproved. The other was a fully trained student with a closed patent, not a partial patent. But he studied not at the Neirat Academy, but at the Guild of the Unquenchable Fme, so his diploma-patent was valued even less than his incomplete colleague's. The guild, based in the free city of Dartman, was one of those organizations that tried unsuccessfully to compete with Neirat. In the st six hundred years, the academics hadn't even discouraged them too much, just making sure they didn't overstep a certain level of coolness or take on too many apprentices by dropping services. It was because there were so many people coming to Neurath that they couldn't physically serve and train all of them, so they allowed the existence of small guilds that had already received a patent for teaching and training from Neirat.

  Or they did not, acting at their own risk, but there were practically no such individuals on the territory of the Confederation. It was very difficult to compete, and academicians often did not even need special bckness and targeted liquidations, simple economic pressure was enough. Cut off supplies of reagents and equipment, where they were either a monopolist, a shareholder, or just the main buyer, and wait a decade until they fall apart. In other nds, farther away, it's more complicated with Hogwarts' power, so Chinese copies of it flourish there but they can't compare with Neirat, because they don't have those resources, knowledge, flows of material and, after all, so many super-densely located magical sources of marvelous power, literally merging into one magical field, thanks to which there are seven full-fledged magical towers with full power supply and other infrastructure in the city of the same name. And that's not counting a bunch of small mansions, underground boratories, and the Academy itself!

  In general, Neirat had no competitors, even most of the usual magick guilds of various kinds were founded, in fact, by the descendants of Neirat or with their direct permission, being just a branch under a different signboard and without the same high quality as the main brand. Stepan had learned all this from Sylvia's memory, and only because between the two adepts-amulettes mentioned earlier, there was such a feud that one could just hide. One considered the other to be a sub-mage, which was studied in the rural school, the diploma of which decent people will not even let on the toilet paper. The second was piously sure that the first was a low-powered snob with a crippled aura, who could not even finish his studies and obtain a patent, limiting himself to a socially despised “incomplete” diploma, while knowing even less than his opponent.

  This enmity, their employer was careful to maintain and warm up, because in this way his two magicians would never agree to jointly demand more pay or better conditions of bor. After all, it would be enough for them to organize a joint Italian strike, doing exactly and only what was specified in their contracts and ordered by their superiors, in order to force their superiors to reconsider the terms of completion of those contracts and the amount of interest. And so, it is only necessary for one of them to start to rebel, as it is enough for a cunning rover to hint to the second one, throwing him a bone in the form of a temporary increase in pay and the tter will go out of his way to work for two, having squeezed out a part of the first one's earnings. In general, a complete victory of social engineering over magical power, and without any mental magic, only on the pure knowledge of human nature.

  Stepan spent the time he had spent looking through some of Sylvia's memories of magic guilds and gift monopolies while she sorted out her affairs. You couldn't just yank a vampire out of her mansion and demand that she bring the record he needed with her. She had her own life and her subordinates, one of whom she was scolding right now for unsuccessfully searching for the escaped traitor, who had never been found. Either he had successfully escaped very far away, which was unlikely, because he had no time for it, or he had simply made a secret hiding pce and was lying in it, thinking of where to go with the information, still hot though cooling. The right hand of the lovely Malter, who lost her young chick, and who herself had saved the burned boy from agony, was already dissatisfied, and she was looking for the traitor with full force, wishing to tear off her irritation and hatred.

  By the time Sylvia was free and forced to say that she would try to talk to one of her informants, she often didn't publicize them, always hiding part of her own network, and no one in the nest knew how many of their parent's bloody puppets and debtors they really had, the shaman had learned a lot about the underbelly of the local magical training institutions. That's why he was even more convinced of how lucky he was to have the System and how the System was worth keeping silent about. Because they would kill him out of envy and try to dissect, analyze, and sacrifice him, if only to connect to this power, even a little bit, even as an illegal user, even as an evil pirate, even as a cheater.

  Sylvia left the mansion on a cloudy and starless night, used all her skills to check herself for tracking or beacons, as well as to throw off any possible tails, and went into the right alley, following the call of the spiritual pointer of the shaman influencing through the doll, and then found herself in the underground shelter. She looked around, thinking about how and for what purpose she could use such a base and such a useful toy, throwing a violet-colored crystal into a thin copper and silver frame. If Stepan had not managed to order the spirits to catch the thing, it could have hit her, and the crystal was very fragile: the dy obviously reacted the way she was used to with her subordinates, and they, for obvious reasons, had no problems with physical reaction.

  “Yes, Pann, you continue to surprise me, shock me even, pet of mine.” Her tone hid not only smugness and greed, not only the profits and combinations that were already fshing in front of her eyes, the possibility of taking over all the smuggling inside the city, but also a considerable shock; she also understood quite well, though not completely, what exactly this pce was. “I suppose you're going to want to lick my sweet rose very badly now, and afterward tell me absolutely everything I want to know-know-know. Ah. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh! I'm going to sit down, my pet, I need to py with my big and juicy tits, don't you dare distract your mistress.”

  Stepan only nodded in response to her order, bowing to the inviobility of her will, and took hold of the crystal he had received, activating the mechanism of its control, which was intuitively clear, even without erudition. Actually, the methods of working with amulets, artifacts, wands, and other bullshit was a full-fledged knowledge in the list of avaible talents. It's not quite shamanic knowledge, but still a full-fledged module and branch of development. Ordinary gifted people have to be taught a lot to interact with the interface of even the most friendly amulets and not mess up good things. There is even a whole subspecies of amulets that are created for training and practicing the skill of using them. This all could have been a nuisance if Stepan had been working with the crystal when he got to the first level. Now, at this very moment, he could perfectly use even very complicated artifacts with a lot of additional settings - puppetry, totems, general call practice, and spiritual operation without the necessary knowledge. All this knowledge, as well as others, however, too, contained some part of the skill of working with the mentioned artifacts, even if they were not shamanic in their essence.

  The young man figured it out quickly, he didn't break anything, and once he had figured it out, he checked the record for any attached surprises. To influence the mind of a person viewing such a thing, in fact, though quite difficult, but possible. It's not a task for an adept, unless very experienced and with specific training, but for a skilled master. It did not negate the need to be careful not to stick your mental body and will wherever you could, or you might end up just like Sylvia, who was sitting in a corner on a stone, rubbing her pale nipples, which had long ago hardened to the maximum possible, with a concentrated and smug look.

  The Earthman would definitely start having bad thoughts, dirty, scivious, and obscene - and they had because no one and nothing prevented him from just “turning off” Sylvia, without naked tits and fondling them - but the content of the record was much more interesting. He, even when he was just executing his revenge, wasn't going to send his spy spirits to that pace at all, because damn, that was idiotic. To risk burning his presence in the city and unching a high-intensity search for an unknown voyeuristic shaman just for the fun of it and the chance to see the result, which he already roughly imagined? No, if the event had been outdoors, he would have thought about it, but going into the centuries-old stronghold of the local ruler as a mere master, albeit a talented one? Thank you, but he's not that confident yet. Stepan counted not even on rumors, but on the memory of those who were at the meeting and saw everything personally - ordinary people were not invited there either, but there were servants and waiters of all kinds, and it was much easier to get into the head of some merchant or aristocrat than to y a live broadcast channel through the pace protection. And here it was even better, I managed to get a ready-made recording without any additional effort - it was a pure pleasure, and it made him giggle.

  Stepan immersed in the recording, which was projected by a kind of illusion in front of his face, then thought, created a small notch in the stone right on the floor, the floor was designed for such maniputions and changes, yielding to changes at the first order and even without active chanting, obeying the already embedded influences. The water called from the depths of artesian water immediately began to flow into this notch, crystal clear and fresh, and the water itself became very bright, literally mirror-like. Another quick call with the totem, and now the spirit with the aspects of mirroring and transmission projected the image on the water screen, only the shaman had to immerse the crystal in the water, still controlling it through the water. Not paying much attention to the uninteresting parts, though not rewinding as quickly, the young man watched the events that he had put his hand and foot to, figuratively speaking, and that the representatives of the House of de Marek had put their whips to.

  He looked at Duke Herbert: he was a tough man, short and almost completely gray-haired, but not old in appearance, just over half a hundred. With access to the best alchemy and healers, it was no wonder he was about to hit one hundred and fifty. I looked at his granddaughter, a lovely creature of exactly sixteen springs, all blond, airy, and delicate like a fairy. Her curly hair, her makeup, and her excellent dress, which cost the price of a couple of houses in a decent neighborhood, no less, added to the fairy tale. It was immediately clear that even if her marriage to one of the richest and most influential vassals of her grandfather would be purely calcuted and dynastic, the groom would not have to overpower himself.

  He looked and saw the color of the city, the best of its humans, and not only humans. There were elves too, even elven women. Still, the emissaries of the forests could not be uninvited to such an event. There were a couple of dwarves and a very respected hobbit, who wanted to give an honorary residence of a native Odessite, despite the fact that outwardly there was no resembnce. Fortunately, he didn't have to look for a long time. The creator of the record cut it to the necessary length to show the best part the special highlight of the evening which was remembered by everyone for a long time.

  “These are the birds that are nicknamed in the jungles of the South, a terrible and distant pce where every creature seeks to kill a decent man and eat his flesh, the Swift Mockingbird!” Ilhero de Marek was ranting, demonstrating the characteristics of an excellent speaker or salesman; he held the audience very well. “It is said that once such a bird flew into the locked cabin of a pirate captain who died of a wound and smmed the lock on the door before he died, and after a week spoke from behind the door in his voice and words, preventing the crew from realizing that their leader was already dead. I know how much you, oh most beautiful and honorable Amarita, love these little feathered pests, and so I thought this gift would be to your liking.”

  And he was not mistaken, for the girl, though an aristocrat, but still too young, was captivated by the bright green-purple-scarlet coloring of the feathers, the exotic look, and the overall confident beauty of these birds, which had more magic than some untrained gifted. She just looked on with complete devotion and attention, and the old duke allowed himself a touching smile as he gazed at his granddaughter's happiness. Somewhere at the edge of the picture frame was visible the deliberately indifferent face of a representative of the very rival house that was brazenly beating out of Dantmark's markets. And then, as if wanting to finish off all the witnesses, Ilhero de Marek removed the sound suppression barrier, letting the birds speak. Stepan himself knew that he and his trainers, not even mages, only one of the three was a weak gifted, had spent a lot of time teaching these birds the right words. But what the birds were saying and mumbling was not what they had been taught by training and primitive analogs of mental magic designed for the small mind of a magic parrot.

  A second of silence was followed by a loud, clearly discernible in the silence that followed, “Herrrrberrt old dick!” While the audience widened their eyes in shock, while the expression on Amarita de Dantrel's face changed, the parrots, all at once, began to express their opinions about the people around them. Loud and clear: “Dantrrrels are faggots, Dantrrrels suck my dick!”, followed almost simultaneously by: “Free the parrots, Inferrrno's armada to you ass!”, “Ilherrrro is a sodomite, Ilherrrro eats shit!”, “Marrrrek, Marrrrek is shitting himself!”. There were also other statements, not so redolent, like a legendary aphorism, which Stepan could not help adding to the memory of the parrots, which several times clearly said: “Sell the shed!”. To the birthday girl, so as not to spoil her, almost crying, mood even more, sounds soothing: “Amarrrrita is beautiful, Amarrrrita is good, Herrrrrbert is an asshole!”, but she is not too comforted by this.

  The pause sted for half a minute, but during that half a minute, the parrots said everything Stepan thought about those who had given him the gift, as well as about the ruling dynasty of local rulers. Then, from behind the back of the Duke, who was turning purple in the face, came out, went out, came out... in general, a certain individual appeared, looking so androgynous that even Stepan's keen eye could not distinguish whether it was a woman or a man. This, this, this... in general, the court mage and recognized master of magic of a wide profile with a focus on barriers and construction of protective arrays in an instant covered the cages with gift parrots with a soundproof barrier, looking angrily at the representatives of the trading house who had become whiter than Sylvia. For a few seconds, there was absolute silence, in which there was a thunderous wheeze from Ilhero de Marek, which he failed to swallow with his parched throat. Somewhere at the other end of the hall, someone dropped a gss goblet on the floor, and Herbert de Dantrelle exhaled noisily, regaining some of his composure and looking anxiously at his distraught granddaughter, tears swollen at the corners of her eyes.

  “I am now counting heavily on you, Honorable Ilhero, to expin clearly the reasons for this bizarre dispy, unless you want to have a very serious argument with me.” And there was something in the tone of this unassuming and only marginally magically gifted man, whose blood was tied to numerous artifacts, contracts, and oaths, that made even Stepan, on the other side of the screen and in another piece of the time stream, chill. “I'm listening to you carefully.”

  “It is a dreadful misunderstanding, most likely the intrigue of our rivals, and I, as well as my men, am ready to swear on the altar of Daromar that we, as well as the whole house, have not the slightest part in this fgrant and abominable act which has spoiled this feast.” He says nothing, but casts his eyes at his rivals, making a very transparent hint that if you, your lordship, would deign to question not only us. “I am also prepared to discuss the question of any compensation and apologies, in the hope of resolving this most unpleasant incident.”

  In response to Herbert's equally eloquent silence, one of the guests stepped forward, the same one Illyero had been looking at, also pale but pinker than his opponent. A noticeably younger and only recently appointed to his position, he was bound to suspect framing or intrigue, but he could not keep silent or refuse to be checked. The House de Faler didn't need this city and its markets as much as they needed their offices in Normgraf or Keirmark, where they were headquartered, but if he refused, he was guaranteed to lose them. He could refuse the inspections and do it as a guest, whom no one had the right to force to swear on the altar of the Keeper of Oaths, but then he would only sign his own guilt. And this is Dantmark, after all; it is amber, it is furs, it is river pearls and reagents, gifts of the wild nds. Of course, de Faler is not the only one holding it all; there's de Farel, de Romar, and de Tagel, but there's not much room even for established pyers. And here they are, de Marek, who has been coming in for a year without soap and crushing de Faler's fiefdom, having somehow negotiated with the others behind the backs of their chosen victims.

  “Neither I, nor my men, nor my house are involved in this vile provocation. Much has fallen upon our house as it is, you cannot but know it, but my men and I are ready to take oaths of our innocence.” Slightly stammering before such an audience, yet with perfect diction, utters a very young man, not even twenty-five years old. “This is, I repeat, a provocation, your lordship, and we, we have simply been chosen as the most convenient straw dummy.”

  "We shall see." Duke Herbert is the only one who gives out, and in his facial expression, he sees a desire to force all the other guests to such checks, but it is, as, too much by any standards, unlike the main suspect and the victims, or especially cunning individuals. "The priest and the Guardian's relic, over here. And hurry, if you would be so kind."

  After the st “if you would be so kind,” the Duke's entourage, whose granddaughter was now being comforted simultaneously by her mother, brothers, and a court magician of indistinct gender, did not run, forgetting about propriety, but accelerated their step to the maximum allowed by etiquette. Stepan could bet money on it, but no one would accept the bet.

  This was followed again by an accelerated scene of the suspect and the victim swearing oaths that fully confirmed their mutual innocence. The Duke wrinkled his face even more, making his expression so that his attendants paled to the level that a vampire would be asked to sunbathe, and then ordered to get rid of the birds still under the dome so that he would not see them again. And by getting rid of them, he obviously meant not to let them out. Birds that could speak such a rumor, flying wherever they wanted, predatory and magical, could take root, and then the whole region could hear about what Herbert was like. But then Amarita, who had come to her senses and really loved birds, intervened and tried to calm the Duke down.

  "Please, my honorable Grandpa, don't kill innocent animals!" She took her grandfather's hand, as if afraid that he would go away and the order would become irrevocable. "I understood correctly that they can be taught the right words, as well as weaned from the unnecessary ones, didn't I? Then let Ma?tre Prostyrus or his students correct that deficiency. It's not the birds' fault that they uttered a word they didn't know they meant."

  Ma?tre Prostyrus was the local chief druid, a highly respected grandfather with a slightly greenish knee-length beard, even at a ball wearing a mantle covered with fresh foliage, an unusual cut, ceremonial and protective robe that gave the wearer extra strength. Master. Not the strongest, closer to the edge of the rank, but a full-fledged master. He was also the head of a circle that included a couple of strong adepts, his grandson and great-granddaughter, a few simple adepts, and a handful of neophytes accepted for training. He was a very influential figure, and among his coterie, there were definitely the right specialists. Still, working with beasts and their subordination was not an obligatory specialization for druids, but a reted direction, which was easy to master. In response to Herbert's questioning look and his granddaughter's begging, the nice grandfather, who held the local drug market, nodded and confirmed that, yes, his apprentices could do it, and he would check their work personally.

  Stepan admired the girl's maneuver, who not only got a personal whim for herself, but, in fact, took away from de Marek, not just the birds she liked, but their entire stock, which could then be trained by the same druids and attract them to start breeding. And then started trading in exotic, rare, magical, and clever birds, literally getting the market that Ilhero wanted so much under himself. Grandpa's face was smiling as he realized it all. He also realized that it was not by chance that his granddaughter had put the question in such a way, at the same time taking from the culprits a part of their guilt for having missed the blow and allowed such a thing to happen, so that they could not refuse now, and bargaining became inappropriate.

  Ilhero realized it too, gloomily looking at the girl he had fttered like an alfonso not so long ago, and then started to discuss the terms of further interaction, hinting at going to another pce, even ter, when the celebration would be over, to discuss this topic more substantially. Ilhero would prepare himself, contact the house, think about what to offer and where to give in, and even look for traces of those who had set him up. Well, let him look. He'll never know what the fuck he's looking for. If the traces of suggestive influence were not even particurly hidden, they were just hidden behind the ones that the trainers had put on, but the method and type of influence would not be understood unless a magister of mentalistic or a master of shamanism was assigned to fuck with this case, and seriously, not by a fleeting analysis. And a couple of weeks ter, these traces will be washed out, merged with the traces of training, and finally lost for everything, except for the most extreme methods.

  In general, the situation was almost settled. Stepan got his revenge, partially or even completely avenging those shes and contemptuous words, but then Alveri de Marek intervened, just like st time, deciding to complete the situation. But if then he had added insult to Stepan's offense by inflicting another blow with the sh, now he finally completed the whole debacle. He saw what he wanted to see, and what he thought he saw was a cunning intrigue and an attempt at asset-stripping by the de Dantrelles themselves. In fairness, Stepan himself would have thought the same, unless he knew for certain that it was he who had arranged the whole thing. But his father, even if he thought something like that, didn't show it or, more likely, dismissed it at once. The words the parrots had spoken were far too insulting and offensive to risk such intrigue. Stepan, to be honest, when he realized how rude and categorical he had been, even regretted a little that he had touched the local dynasty. He could have just sworn at de Marek.

  “What an unfortunate coincidence, really.” With venom in his voice, he said a little louder than he probably wanted to and should have, than he should have spoken at all. “But how quickly it all worked out to the right outcome.”

  His father's face hardened, and Stepan, watching through the record, physically felt his desire to count his son's teeth, kidneys, liver, and balls. The Duke heard it too, and in his hands he almost cracked the gss with a drink, just to wet his throat. After looking at that very gss, he carefully pced it back on the servant's tray, and suddenly... smiled. The entourage, as well as those around him, took a half-step to the side, though the ominousness in the image of the ruler of the free city had even diminished, he became almost friendly, meeting the gaze of the insolent boy who had made such a transparent and obvious hint.

  "I bring my--” He began to apologize for his son, and the d himself realized that he had overdone it to a dry and ringing crack, but they were both stopped by Herbert's imperious gesture and word.

  “Enough, I have heard all that needs to be said.” The man said, good-naturedly and calmly, calling the priest with the Oath Keeper's relic to him. “It has been a long time since I have been so humiliated, and in my house, my dear guest, a long time, perhaps never at all. It's a pity you're a guest, young Alveri. A relic for me, if you please.”

  "I...” Ilhero wanted to start again, but this time he was prevented from speaking.

  “I have said enough, de Marek.” Rolling up his sleeve, exposing his skin, the man took up a grayish stone orb, seemingly ordinary, especially in a record that did not bear the magical imprint. “Let me assure my dear guests that I have not stooped to saying such words in my own address, for profit.”

  He spat out the st word with such contempt that it could be liquefied and distilled, and then served as a spice or, rather, a powerful poison. However, he did something unconventional, not quite in the spirit of the local aristocracy, but reliable, demonstratively going to a frank humiliation by the standards of the same higher aristocracy, you bet, to answer in front of a peddler, and even on suspicion that he called himself “dick sucker” for the sake of money, but now it looked like he humiliates and not him. And the Duke swore an oath of innocence before a mere representative, and not the most important one, of an essentially ordinary trading house.

  “Well, you see, young Alveri, the Oath Keeper has not punished me, I guess I didn't do what you said so vividly to my face.” Well, almost said, as Stepan would add, there were no direct words there, only a very insulting hint. “Perhaps you could ask someone else to vow before you, young man? Amarita, perhaps? She liked your birds so much, didn't she? Or Ma?tre Prostyrus?”

  "I, with your permission, will take these oaths too, if it will not damage your relic, your lordship." Said the druid, immediately winning himself a lot of points, but not in terms of proving his innocence, although he could pull off the whole combination, but in terms of the fact that he, in fact, shared the humiliation with the deeply offended duke, thus mirroring this humiliation even more strongly on the de Marek themselves. "I know how hard it is to acquire them."

  "That's all right. No expense is spared for an honored guest. I'll find a repcement." The ruler of Dantmark and the surrounding nds echoed the words of his old acquaintance and friend. "And the second relic will still be intact."

  "Please..." And again the requests and attempts to stabilize the situation somehow remained unanswered, only now they were made by the son, not the father.

  "Don't disturb me, young man, as you can see, I'm busy." The druid said, stroked his beard, coughed a little, and began. "In the name of the Lord of Promises, I, Prostyrus, son of...."

  The oath was taken. Now it did not look like a stain on the reputation of the ducal family, but an indelible stain on the reputation, if not of the whole trading house, then of these representatives. And one could forget about the dreams of moving to a new pce and developing new markets. As it was possible to forget about peace to all those who benefited from this coincidence. Duke Herbert is unlikely to forget that someone arranged this provocation. They would be looking for him, very seriously, especially among the other trading houses, Sylvia was sure of it, and Stepan was sure of it too.

  "Now, dear guests, I buy these birds that my Amarita likes so much." The host of the ball began calmly and in the same friendly manner, looking at the shrinking and obviously afraid for their lives peddlers with an unreadable look. "For the full price, without discounts or leniency, stiputed in the past contracts."

  "We will gdly give..." Alveri starts again, trying to start again, which, by his attempts to save the situation and interrupt Herbert, only makes it worse and worse.

  "Shut your mouth, young man." The duke's patience was almost out this time, but the boy really snapped his jaw, smming it shut so sharply. "In turn. I by my own will and decision, break that contract which gives me a discount on the purchase of any of your goods, the voices of the house de Marek. It works the other way, too - there will be no tax relief for your merchants and shopkeepers. Don't worry, though, it's no big deal because none of your merchants or those who bear the mark of your esteemed house will be within the city limits anymore. And neither will you. I do not wish to see you. I do not wish to hear from you. I will not even think of you. The ws of hospitality are sacred, so I will neither prevent you from leaving nor pursue you. Now get out of my sight."

  "I..." Stepan almost ughs when this moron, who obviously doesn't understand hints, still doesn't calm down, even though his father's hand on his shoulder is squeezed to a bone crunch.

  "I told you to get out!" For the first time since this idiotic confrontation began, Herbert de Dantrel allows himself to raise his voice. "Now!"

  The result, it should be said, was obvious - the guy shut up and the whole representation almost ran away under the frankly unkind and mocking in equal measure views of the honorable audience. The Duke pushed a short speech the essence of which boiled down to the fact that the holiday is still going on and one should not let the little things of life spoil it. Apparently, these trifles were able to spoil the holiday but people, out of respect, pretended that the mood was still festive and continued the social fun with a kind of desire not to show how much they were all fucked up from such events.

  Stepan carefully deactivated his water screen, expelled the water from reality with the spirits that had received their payment, cleaned up the notch on the floor, carefully pced the amulet belonging to Sylvia aside, and then chuckled in an absolutely idiotic way. A moment ter, he repeated his chuckle, and a second te,r he was ughing like a madman, feeling deep in his chest that warm and pleasant feeling of having done an unrequited and very serious wrong to the bastard who had hurt you. As he calmed down and breathed, he looked over at Sylvia still pying with her breasts, making a note to himself that he should bring a bed of some kind here to the shelter. All he had was a stone bed, a cloak, and a rug for his ass. Oh, and the stockings he'd brought to the new ir from the devastated cache near Dantra, but he wouldn't want to wear them anyway. The mood was perfect for him to y his dolly right here, celebrating success in her cool but passionate and tender embrace. Now he could do it, but he would have to fuck Sylvia literally on bare stones, which is a bit out of line with high aesthetic expectations.

  Turning to the doll, Stepan brought the vampiress to retively normal consciousness, allowing her to pinch her chafed cherries one st time and finish with a quiet groan. Immediately afterward, the night guest tucked her breasts back into her clothes, picked herself up, and once again began to stare at her personal toy with a look full of dominating superiority. Without the slightest difficulty, she caught the crystal thrown to her, put it in one of the pockets on her wide belt, and stretched sweetly, kneading her body more out of human habit than out of need, and also out of a desire to tease the young man's eyes, and then pulled out another thing from another pocket. A small and half-empty vial of dark, almost bck blood was the reason Sylvia had come here in the first pce, well, in her opinion. The vial contained the blood of her fugitive subordinate, and the reason why he was probably sitting in a deep hole rather than selling information about his former mistress.

  The fugitive Riksar was, of course covered from the blood search rituals, but it was physically impossible for him to stay protected on the move all the time. Nor could he destroy all the blood taken from him, though he must have tried. It was standard practice for dealing with new and non-retives coming to a new nest. A kind of reinsurance against possible betrayal, working in conjunction with the standard blood bond patronage. This patronage is still weaker with a non-retive chick than with a personally converted one, or at least through one of these personally converted ones. In general, Sylvia had Riksar's blood, and she searched for him with all her might, and with different frequency and degree of activity, not letting him get used to the search impulses, forcing him to stay constantly in the territory of the room protected by the necessary rituals.

  And now she suddenly remembered about her submissive toy in the person of the young shaman, who had fallen into her insidious nets, so she decided to give the boy his first important task. Stepan, pushing Sylvia to this idea, pursued several goals, among which the simple and understandable desire to watch the recording of the dinner at the castle de Dantrel was only a small part, and the intention to py adult games with the subdued vampiress was not in the top ten. In this fugitive, an unpleasant personality to say the least and clearly deserving of a couple of weeks of continuous shooting with silver bullets, the Earthman saw a good way to make a rather specific summoning of an elder entity. An entity that was both very strong and very strong, closer to the lower limit of a higher spirit, very and very dangerous, including for the summoning shaman if he did not know the specifics of summoning, and also retively easy to summon if certain rules were followed.

  Some cowardly side of Stepan wanted to take his time, to wait a little longer, to expand his retinue of elder and younger spirits even more, especially now that he could summon them literally by conveyor belt. The shaman didn't listen to this part of him, and even the call he chose was quite interesting, not quite elemental, requiring a careful and banced approach. The call itself was not dangerous to him, who knew all the little secrets and details, but a senior spirit of the weakest in this rank would cause much more trouble. But still, even after all the tests, even after he was sure he was right, some part of him was desperately afraid to call such a powerful creature, which in direct combat might not be much safer for the shaman than the Old Root. Here, however, in the pce of his power, fortified and covenanted, supported by his retinue at once, fueled by totems... here he would not destroy a higher spirit, but would drive it out, prevent it from manifesting at all, attacking at the most vulnerable moment. Another thing is that a normal higher would not fall into such a trap, but that's another story.

  "I can handle it, Sylvia." He answered the unasked question, carefully taking the vial in his hands and examining it in his magical and spiritual gaze, scrutinizing the sample of the scarlet drop. "I'll pick you up tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, also at night. I'll make the final preparations and set up a ritual for this blood. We'll find him. And kill him immediately."

  “I certainly enjoy hearing such words from you, Pann, but you forget to add 'Mistress' again, you naughty little pet.” She stroked him on the top of his head, ruffling his newly cut and burned hair, making her tone sterner at the st words, and pressed her face into his chest, hidden by the fabric of his hunting suit, in an incredibly seductive and almost intimate whisper, right in his ear. “I will, so be it, not punish you today, my dear. More than that, if you succeed, if you manage, if you take his eternity in my name, and for my sake, I will do you a very good thing, honor you. Do you understand? Then nod.”

  She did not add strength to her voice, though she was quite capable of putting him to sleep with a word, of brainwashing him with a conversation, Stepan knew that. But all the same, he felt, against all will, that he was turned on and fming with passion by her manner, her behavior, by the way she seduced him even though she was completely subordinate. Every movement, every touch, every choice of tone and rhythm of words. She wasn't doing anything magical or threatening, but someone ungifted, and without agency skills, would have puddled, figuratively speaking, in her embrace. He caught himself nodding obediently to her question and order before he had time to realize and consider what she had said. And the idea of dumping her right now, on the rocks, taking everything he wanted from her, repeating and surpassing that very night after the teleportation, fucking the insolent bitch in every orifice and probably more than once, began to seem more and more tempting. Even though the shaman had so much to do that there was no time for fucking around in bed or on the rocks.

  “I'll let you take off any of my robes, let you touch my soft skin with your lips, let you kneel and kiss my feet. You dream of it, my darling. You would do anything and everything for it, wouldn't you?” In the meantime Sylvia was back on her horse again, slightly breaking the charm of the moment with her usual fantasies, although, to his slight bewilderment and shame, Stepan realized that what she had said was not directly antipathetic, attracted by some strange mixture of attraction and amusement, the realization that even if he obeyed her, he would control her. “And afterward I'll y you on your back, stand over you and slowly lower my buttocks, sit right on your face full of delight, and believe me, you'll feel so good that neither I nor you will need to do anything more, so that you'll spill your passion at the same moment, my sweet Pann. Now, if you would be kind enough to take me back to town, my toy, I have, as, many affairs of my own of which you need not be aware.”

  He pulled himself away, panting and saying goodbye, and let the vampire out into one of the alleys adjacent to her ir, ensuring there was no surveilnce. And then he spent a long five minutes staring through the doorway that had become a wall again, checking himself very carefully for signs of any influence from her. And he checked Sylvia through the doll, analyzing his dialog with her by seconds, looking for reasons why what she had offered him had become not desirable, but at least tempting on the level of “you can try it if without fanaticism and not too often". Having been burned by milk, they blow on water, but Stepan puts this water in an industrial refrigerator. As or fortunately, he did not find any cunning pn for the partially or completely freed Sylvia, although it would have comforted him with the realization of certainty.

  Sylvia smeared her body every evening, which was in the morning due to the nature of the species, with special fragrant oils, the smell of which could have an effect on the libido of individuals of either sex, if they were at least alive and not undead, at the same time causing a slight increase in gullibility and rexation, but it was such a weak effect that it was not even considered as an attempt to bait, although it was on the verge. So, an innocent feminine trickery. Sylvia did not use anything else, except for the fact that she, well, was perfectly able to seduce and cause desire without any magic. Stepan, no matter how cool he had become by the will of the System, had no special experience in resisting the cssical methods of seduction. Agents' skills, of course, this direction partially overp, especially in synergy with charms and suggestion, but not to the end, especially if we are not talking about magic, but about purely social influence.

  Having marveled at his own bugs in his head, Stepan went from the cave to his room, wanting to sleep properly.

  Then stepped back into the passage and checked himself once more, and only then did he allow himself to fall into a restless sleep, for a few hours before dawn.

  * * *

  "I just don't fucking believe it. Bitch, but how?" In the voice of Stepan, who was looking at another pile of mouse corpses was both disbelief and some kind of rage brewing in the back of his mind. "There shouldn't be any more of them left, not in such numbers!"

  This time, he'd sealed off not only the borders of the farmyard but also stretched the protection downward to keep the mice out of the underground utilities, if there were any. He still couldn't do a full-scale call here, summoning a dozen strong spirits with anti-rodent specializations and letting them work undetected, but he still tried harder than a mere apprentice could. Several teams of spirits with different aspects, acting in close conjunction with each other, searched, found, and enlightened everything here; they should have left only a memory of those mice. And the mice, the mice - here they were, fresh and just caught, making the earthling's eye twitch. He would even have thought it was a spirit-cat. What if spirits dragged rodents from other neighborhoods, just for sport, but no! He checked four times. Nothing like that, the cat was just doing his job.

  "Huh, welcome, young man, I've been poking around with this shit for almost a year now, and I couldn't find anything." These words were accompanied by a patronizing pat on the shoulder from a full-fledged adept of household magic with an official diploma, which was, from the side of Ma?tre Jaspe,r a direct manifestation of goodwill. "I've tried everything I could think of, I almost burned down a grain warehouse once, and the result is the same. It was easier to buy additional reagents and charge amulets against rodents with enviable regurity... it didn't help much, though. But your summoned creature, you have no idea how many nerves it saved me. So don't feel bad, not all mysteries have an answer, sometimes they just remain, well, mysteries."

  Stepan wanted, sincerely wanted, to heed these words, but curiosity did not let go, demanding to solve this equation, to outline the unknown variables, and to open the whole mystery like a can of canned beans. And also Jasper himself was tense, though friendly, but too friendly at that, and also, as Stepan's spirits, constantly scanning the situation, suggested, this man of about the same age as Trabius liked the young man. Not in a way Stepan would have felt comfortable with, to put it mildly. He didn't seem to do anything like that, didn't think or even intend to make any attempts, but still, he felt tense. It's unpleasant, it turns out, when you are escorted and evaluated with such a look, as you involuntarily evaluate pretty girls on the street. Especially if it is not a girl, but a manly and lean man, so to speak, in the prime of life. No, no, Stepan had nothing against the warriors of the rainbow legions, especially while they were far away from him, but the dense sensory-empathic network around him at such moments seemed a little unnecessary.

  After a few more words with Jasper, who sincerely offered to read his notes on his disembodied attempts to solve the mouse problem, he also asked if Stepan could recognize the glyphs of the High Neirat, and was surprised to hear a positive answer. The young man checked a couple of colds, corrected a dislocated finger on the hand of one of the cooks, wandered around a bit more, and left for his room. He had already completed the st stage of preparation for the draft, and all he had to do was wait for Sylvia and the night. This was the easiest time to perform the ritual. Checking his notes in the system notebook, he chewed on some very sour fruit that looked like yellow-colored plums, tossing the bones into the spirit world and feeding those spirits who were suitable for such an offering.

  Sylvia came through the passage as soon as the sun went down, immediately starting to undress. It was necessary for the ritual, Stepan also remained in only light pants. She nodded to her toy, not paying attention to the fact that he was holding her doll in his hands. There was no need for unnecessary words; the shaman directly transmitted images and orders to the head of the bloodsucker, and the tter automatically fulfilled them without even thinking. Stepan did not look at the newly exposed breasts, immediately reaching for the only reagent, which Sylvia brought, because it was banally cheaper than buying it in the System Store. The reagent was cheap, even though it was key to the ritual. Scrubbed inky-bck dog hair, a whole bag of such, given voluntarily. There were enough watchdogs of the right color in the city. There were even magical beasts able to sense magic or illusions, and an invisible or intangible enemy. De Marek's representatives also had one, but only two, and only at the main entrance and the emergency entrance, along with the guards. However, the shaman's spirits came through the walls. The wool of such beasts was cheap and throwaway, but a complete reagent, so it was enough for Sylvia to simply order one of the human servants to run to the shop and buy the necessary.

  Stepan checked a few times anyway. He didn't want the trouble of accidentally using the wrong reagent, ruining or weakening the appeal. But no. It wasn't worse, but it wasn't better than what he would have purchased through the store. He had to purchase a few other consumable reagents, more expensive and not provided in the token aid package, but he didn't go broke either. He'll get far more currency from the experience of the call than he'll spend, whether it's successful or not. They sit down in the designated seats, two circles-in-a-circle opposite each other, inside another call line, which will summon the desired entity. The fireflies don't just burn brightly, they don't leave a single shadow or speck of darkness in the entire cave, illuminating every crack or notch with an even bluish light. In this light, the central totem is perfectly visible, even under such bright illumination, remaining inky bck and seeming to have shrunk in size from its original volume. And it is true, it has become smaller; a part of it has taken root in the material of the rock. Now it is clearly visible how these roots, as if they were a real living pnt, spread throughout the ritual hall, throughout the complex, along the walls and ceilings - not too thick, as thick as a pencil, they braid the space with a coarse mesh, an openwork pnt pattern, turning the whole space at once into a totem.

  In the center of the outlined amulet is an excavation, a pipe literally going down, a hundred and fifty meters deep. It had to be strengthened additionally, just to avoid flooding it with water from the underground currents. And how it was necessary to make the spirits of the subsoil allow such a deep change and not come to the fire themselves. Without a new totem, it would have been difficult, and so everything went with minimal fuss and donations, modest to the point of ughter. By the way, it's very, very dark up there in that chimney. It's as if all the darkness banished by the volumetric illumination has gone into the deepest depths. And when Stepan nods to Sylvia, when the tter, triumphant at the coming vengeance and impressed by the power that her toy now holds in and around her, with a wave of her hand orders three quarts of the stale blood of her traitorous servant to flow out of the vial and fall into the darkness... the darkness seems to have grown a little thicker.

  Stepan was already calling, without melodies, throat singing, and any unnecessary sounds. He even tried to breathe less and quietly. Sylvia stopped imitating breathing altogether. The signs on the main totem, on the auxiliary ones standing around the walls of the hall, on the walls and ceiling, and even on the body of the shaman, these illuminated signs, drawn in rough strokes and merging with the aura and spiritual body, pulsate in time with the heartbeat of the shaman. The fire also pulsates with them, burning brighter and brighter, then beginning to stink with stinking and toxic smoke. The spirits of air and cinders are triggered, carrying harmful gases far away, and bringing fresh oxygen in return. Following the toxic offerings, the dog's hair catches fire. It does not burn but becomes ghostly, as bck as the darkness inside the pipe. The ghostly hairs soar in a continuous stream but then stretch into a woolen ribbon that spirals and flies over each of the roasters before diving into the darkness, which is no longer just optically bck. Now, even the spiritual eye of a shaman with an intensity of ten units cannot see through that darkness; now that darkness has become too alive, too dense.

  At the same time, the Door Opener, who is around the underground call hall, is also working tirelessly, blurring the spiritual wave raised by the call, dispersing the energy trace and shocks of the general background, trying to make the whole picture as natural as possible, simir to an ordinary natural anomaly. The entity divides the general picture into many small streams, squeezing them deep under the surface of the earth, into the very bowels. So the fluctuations of the background become almost invisible and insensible up there, up in the city, especially if no one is looking for such a thing intentionally, acting precisely with the expectation of finding a working shaman, who conducts a costly and powerful ritual. Fortunately, so far Stepan had not managed to leave a legacy, so none of the city pyers even thought of starting such a specific search. At least, the Earthman sincerely hoped so, even though he couldn't guarantee a hundred percent, ninety-seven at most.

  The young man was still breathing calmly and measuredly, trying to keep silent. His spiritual body was speaking instead, literally ringing with tension, stretching the reality that had become one with the spheres with its will. Seeking, probing, finding, and calling out, inviting conversation. A heavy, pressurizing presence, next to which even those long-ago calls of the Sleepwalker, especially since he deliberately behaved as correctly as possible, did not press with his chthonic alienness in order to pressure and intimidate. The thing that was coming to the call now, it did not hold back, it saw no reason for it, and that was why the shaman, who had become incommensurably more skillful than he had been in the past, was even more difficult and frightening now than he had been then, at the clearing near Lyady. After all, this entity is definitely stronger and more dangerous than the Sleepwalker. After all, there is nothing to hold it back. Well, except for the shaman's skill, except for the retinue of defenders floating not here but very close to reality, except for the exact and faithful adherence to the terms of the call.

  And the spirit reveals itself. The darkness in the downward passage spills out in a cloud that ignores the omnipresent light, and swells up as a wound and tumor on the body of the perfectly lit hall, forming the body-image of the guest. This spirit did not seek dialog through the totem nor did it save its strength and spare the shaman and his reserve. He appeared at once and completely, silent, silently demanding what he had been called for, silently ready to fulfill it according to his will and the will of others. In front of Stepan and Sylvia, who were shocked to the core of their souls and who had only been able to keep themselves from trembling by the experience of centuries, stood an absolutely bck dog, leaning powerfully on its four paws. As big as a bull, motionless, perfectly imitating the real animal, down to every hair and lens on the eyeballs, it was completely monotonous, not a single light or other spot, like a scarecrow that had been bathed in Vantabck.

  This spirit cannot be contracted. He cannot be summoned by a paid contract. It cannot be induced to cooperate by almost any gifts. It comes only at the call of vengeance, a bloody and cruel vengeance that is devoid of light nobility when the caller wishes to kill, quickly, brutally, and ignominiously, the one who has crossed his path. That is why Sylvia is here, because Stepan has no reason for revenge against Riksar, except dislike, and therefore the spirit would only appear at his call to attack him immediately. If you offer him service, he attacks. If you offer it a gift, it attacks. If you just try to send at least one image-question - the spirit immediately attacks. And, having attacked, this entity will fight until the end, until the death and disembodiment of its own or someone else's. However, it has nothing to fear from disembodiment, because the creature is born out of darkness and malice at the moment of summoning, because it dies, completing the task and cutting off the existence of the one against whom it was summoned. The summons must be executed correctly, the task must be given at the same moment, and the images and emotions of the one seeking revenge must be appropriate and sincere. Fortunately, despite all the changes in thinking and controlling mechanisms, Sylvia's desire to inflict the worst on Riksar is absolutely sincere, purer than rock crystal or a cut diamond of the highest caliber.

  The ritual enters its final phase. Sylvia lengthens the fingernail of her index finger, turning it into a scarlet cw-dagger, and then dips the bde in the remnants of blood and begins to write the name of her victim, the doomed prey, in his own blood, simultaneously with a new intensification of activity of Stepan's spiritual body. The shaman falls on his back, being picked up by the spirits-assistants, coming out, even jumping out of the body, soaring to the ceiling, however, without leaving the protective field of the circle-in-a-circle. Technically, this is not necessary. The spirit is not aggressive at this moment, and the call goes strictly according to the pn, but the shaman will not risk getting into the cage with a predatory beast just because it is calm and fed. The st part of the stone braziers burst into fmes, burning without smoke. The st sparks of this fme merged into two thin streams and entered the motionless eyes sockets of the incoming spirit-dog, remaining there, giving these eyes a color, bright white, like purity itself, like the fires of distant fires, against the endless darkness of the night that enveloped the dark and dense forest.

  At the same instant, the name Sylvia had written burst into fme with the same smokeless fire, even the blood on the tip of the cw and the walls of the vial burned out, without the slightest harm to the bloodsucker or gss. This fme is then transferred to the small and slightly crooked candle that the bloodsucker holds in his hands, and the candle is immediately lit with an even and seemingly normal fme. And one more beat of the beating heart ter, the bck dog himself disappears, disappears. All the darkness was summoned from the tunnel pipe down below. Except that the feeling of a pressing presence didn't go anywhere, it was still there, though it was noticeably muted. If he stepped outside the circle, even that sense of presence would disappear, as if the spirit had finally gone, but in fact the dog was still here, just not for the two of them. Having taken the blood and having absorbed the name of its prey, this thing becomes invisible, intangible, and incapable of harming anyone but its chosen target. And that goes for even very powerful magic, even very powerful protectors.

  If anyone else tries to cover Riksar with a shield, the dog will pass through those shields as if they weren't there. If you cover him with the bodies of the defenders, the dog will pass through their bodies without disturbing their aura. If the bck creature strikes, even if the traitor vampire holds a knife to the throat of a hostage, the hostage will not be harmed; only the one destined to meet the spirit will be injured. Right now, in all the world, only Riksar and the one holding the candle are allowed to see the dog; only the victim is able to feel its touch or strike out on his own, hoping to fight back. But in its finalized form, the blood-named dog is invulnerable to the attacks of its target. But he can find his target anywhere, he cannot hide from it as long as the candle burns, as long as the call of the bck doggie sts.

  Of course, higher, truly higher, magic and protective barriers can stop this thing, sense it, prevent it from passing, or hide its victim. Well, at least partially, though even that is not a fact. The essence of the bck dog's ability is precisely this combination of the aspects of connection, loneliness, stalking, and indifference. The moment the imprinting on the victim is complete, the summoned spirit dies to the world and disappears without a trace or residue, existing only for the sake of the victim, only for her alone. In general, to protect the chosen victim will have to be a team of several masters, among which must necessarily be a Barrier Mage with a secondary specialization in space, Shaman or Spellcaster, also skilled in spatial control and territorial magic, as well as either Malefic or Puppeteer, which can stretch the victim's mark on the entire group, allowing limited to see and attack the spirit. And that will be a risk because the immunity of the creature will be overcome only partially, the honorable magisters can attack as if they suddenly became masters, and not particurly strong, but the creature will be able to beat them in full power. It would be much easier to just put in the victim's hands a top-css battle wand, a full-mythril enchanted bde, dress him in the best-enchanted armor and amulets, and even pray with a priestly miracle on top - then he has a chance to cope with it himself.

  Well, or run to the temple of the god you believe in, who will try to protect you and put a lot of effort into it. That is, you need to be at least a senior priest, otherwise, you will be gutted on the stones of the altar, ignoring the standard prayers and protections. Unless, of course, it's some kind of First Temple, where it's quite likely that the dog will be forcibly restored to corporeality and reality for the whole world and for the temple guards too. But the dog is not a moron and will most likely not climb into such a molten temple, trying to catch the target at the moment of exit. He will attack only if time is running out, and there will be no other options, but for this, you need to know what kind of chupacabra was sent for you, well, or just a lucky coincidence.

  Riksar wasn't a master of battle magic or an ancient bloodsucker to fend off on his own. He didn't have the protective charms and top-grade cutting-off barriers to hide behind. Nor did he have a set of legendary artifacts and a couple of relics. And he certainly wouldn't be allowed into the First Temple of the light god, and even if he was the bck dog chasing the traitor, be the least of the undead and bloodsucking bastard's problems. Stepan, still feeding the general line of amulets and call, looked at what was happening through the thoughts and eyes of the triumphantly smiling Sylvia, who clutched the candle and saw through the eyes of the spirit. Or, rather, not exactly through the eyes of the dog himself, because it was not a fact that the inhabitants of the material world could see and understand what they saw in such a way, without their brains baking. In her perception it was a view from above of a dog running faster than an arrow fired from a crossbow, streaking along the night road.

  The creature ran through the empty streets of the city without disturbing anyone or anything. Its fur brushed the face of the gifted man on duty at the gate, making him shiver without knowing why. The creature's paws carried him through the wall, ignoring gravity, and the enchantments on the night bridge and the forest did not stop him. The huge, bull-sized beast did not shrink or bend, but somehow it could squeeze through the smallest crevice without disturbing a single leaf or bde of grass. He rushed through the night, and one step shortened the distance of a hundred as if space were helping him to reach his goal. And that goal he had reached, running along the Mtra, up its stream, finding the rookery and ir of the one whose life, flesh, fear, and death must satiate the eternal hunger and eternal hatred of the creature at least a little, at least a drop, if only for a brief second.

  It was a vil, a small, well-kept mansion, not aristocratic, but rather the property of a not-so-mediocre merchant, and there didn't seem to be any merchants. But there were a couple of guards and servants that the cunning vampire had processed and subjugated, and there were also prisoners that he had fed on, probably having kidnapped them from the nearest vilges. Right now the fugitive, a pale-skinned man in his twenties with the physique of an Adonis and the face of a Gothic angel, was perched on the terrace, almost on the roof of the mansion, sipping blood from an expensive flute. A young boy, hardly fifteen years old y at his feet, already cold. The dead man's body was covered with many cuts in the veins of his hands, but he had died from the one that had cut his throat - the cattle had begun to colpse from regur blood loss, and so the cattle had been sughtered.

  The bloodsucker sipped some more of the dead man's life, his other hand stroking the hair of the woman sucking his cock methodically and mechanically. The woman had a face very simir to the murdered boy's, most likely being his mother. Sylvia noticed with a keen eye that before the boy's death her former subordinate, who was bisexual or even pansexual, had vished the drunken man with a little pleasure in his service and had fucked him too. It is clear from the lost and mechanical movements of the mother that there is a deep bloody control at work there, that is why there is not a trace of resistance, not the slightest doubt or even a gnce at the child killed and raped before his death.

  This picture was imprinted in the mind of Stepan, who was peeping through the doll. He thought, somehow distantly, that now he would have the will to call the dog himself, to call it for revenge and out of pure spite, not out of a banal desire to kill a theoretically dangerous to society freak. As they say, it is Ma?tre Jasper - a respectable and quite decent gay, but Rixar - the real rotten faggot. To be fair, under Sylvia's supervision, he usually did not allow himself such a pastime, or let it very far from Dantmark, preferably in secret from his superior. She had long suspected that this pup saw her favorite teachings as a burden and shackles, not accepting and recognizing them, obeying only brute force and bloody power. However, there was no difference now. None at all. The fugitive's story was ending right before her eyes.

  Riksar jerked sharply, pushing the dog-wailing woman aside, pulling on his pants, and buckling his belt in one motion. His eyes bzed scarlet, and his body seemed to stiffen as the bloodsucker went into combat mode. How can you not switch here, when across from the mansion, right on the water surface sitting, looking directly at yo,u seemingly completely bck against the night darkness of the creature? It looks at you, drilling you with snow-white sparks in its eye sockets, each of them as big as a cigarette light, but still perfectly visible even from this distance of almost a kilometer. The dog let himself be seen, deceptively unhurriedly standing on four legs, swaying on the river wave, and then blurred from the speed of his spurt, in two beats of the heart, appearing in front of the mansion, on the third beat jumping on the roof, without disturbing a single tile.

  The stunned vampire released his scarlet armor, weaving bloody cws, stepping back sharply, and aiming to rip open the throat of the still whimpering woman who seemed to have had her mind completely destroyed by the crude but reliable bloody patronage. This is clearly a toy and a cattle cow, not a servant maintaining a facade of normality. And it's also a perfect pot of blood, a living grenade because he had clearly prepared it for such an occasion as well, as an extra battery with magical reserve. He just had to make one move, to open the willing throat, releasing a bloody spear into the bck dog. Sylvia knew this trick and knew how well Riksar could do it. But Riksar had no time to cut off another life, or rather what was left of that life, no time to use his crowning trump card. The weightless for the whole world carcass of the dog crashed into the chosen victim with all its mass, for the victim is not inferior to the equal in volume amount of hardened steel, and in strength too.

  The bloody cws of the other hand, which was not busy trying to open the sex toy's throat, left only scratches, not deep or even shallow, but of the kind that is left on car paint when you scratch it with a wrench. And those traces disappeared faster than the protective scarlet armor, reinforced to the limit and pumped with freshly drunk blood, burst under the pressure of bck jaws. The vampire screamed, terrified, desperate, tearing and choking as the first attack gnawed his arm off at the shoulder, along with part of that shoulder. In the next movement, the dog tore off the other arm as well, and even the bloody cws were gone, unable to resist the agony. For some reason, the wounds inflicted by the dog hurt the vampire terribly, despite the pain that had been safely turned off and suppressed by racial skills. The legs came next, left and right, gnawed off along with the groin area, the movements of the fangs ripped through the belly, pulling out the insides, bringing the cries of the bloodsucker that couldn't die to a new level.

  The servants, armed with whatever they could find to look after the manor in the absence of their masters, rushed out to protect their lord, but then his control over them colpsed, causing some to faint, some to vomit, and some to stagger. The main guard, the only one armed with a normal cleaver, who had not taken off his armor even at night, remained conscious and did not even flinch too much, watching with a kind of passionate pleasure as something invisible literally tore apart the vampire's remaining frame until he had nothing to scream with because his head had been chewed off too. In an instant, just for one brief second, the bck dog becomes visible to the whole world again, covering all the witnesses with its crushing and overwhelming presence, almost scaring those who managed to see it into wet pants. Then the presence disappears, just like the dog itself.

  The contact is cut off. The candle made of very unusual wax in Sylvia's hands goes out, having burned through barely an eighth of it. The remnant of the presence of the first of Stepan's personally summoned elder spirits disappears without a trace. Sylvia smiles with such triumph that if Stepan had not been so tightly bound to her by images at this moment, he would have shuddered. Sylvia licks her full lips and literally eats the toy with greedy eyes. She is already dreaming of reaching new heights with the help of her personal sve. And she also, at this moment, completely without Stepan's help, wants something obscene. But, as, not exactly what would like to do with her deadly tired but even more overexcited Stepan, who does not mind releasing the tension. The woman, not going to get dressed, lies naked with her back on the stone of the ritual hall, spreading her legs and giving a look at her already wet pussy, proving once again that power arouses this bitch no worse than any special alchemy.

  "Come here, my darling, you deserve a special treat, you want to lick it, you dream of licking your mistress, licking my bud is your main goal in life, which you will fulfill at the snap of my fingers." Sylvia's mind is triggered by the reinsurance bookmark that had been inserted through the doll long before this night. So it only seems to her that she is letting the power into her enchanting voice, activating the bloody control at the same time. But when she snaps her fingers, she immediately cums herself, changing her mind abruptly. "To the demons of it all, now, right now, fuck me, fuck me like you did then, like I'm all yours, come on my darling, come on, fuck your mistre-e-e-e-e-e-sss!!!!"

  Stepan couldn't help himself, and he didn't want to. He wanted to release the tension, and this was the perfect way to do it. The shaman pawed the soft tits of his doll, never ceasing to pour his power into her with every movement of his pelvis, feeling how she was cumming again, clenching the walls of her pussy around his rod. He came close to ecstasy, but at the st moment, he finished the tantric effect, achieving a complete shutdown of Sylvia's consciousness, with a dull smile on her face and her body as if it were a puppet, frozen in immobility but flexing in its joints. He put her, obediently changing positions with the same smile, on her knees and began to fuck her from behind, and then she regained consciousness and began to thrust. She begged, almost pleading with her beast not to stop fucking his Mistress, fucking her like a whore, a brainwashed brothel seed fucker with a controlling brand on her body. He obeyed that order readily as she described what he would do next, when she was done with this time, well, or the next, or the next, or the next, or the next, or the st-st orgasm again. She dreamed aloud of how she would use his gift, how she would order him to lick her pussy, kiss her buttocks and legs, how she would step on his lips, sit on his face, paralyze him with her gaze, and make him spurt his seed on command right down his pants, maybe in public, how she would teach him to walk on two legs and make him run on all fours like a dog, how, how, how, how...

  The shaman admitted to himself that he sincerely enjoyed her fantasies, and not because he wanted to fulfill them. Certainly not all of them and not like that. He liked, maddeningly turned on, aroused to the point of fme in his loins by the way Sylvia acted like a Mistress. He liked to hear the suggestions she made and voiced as soon as they occurred to her while she was being fucked in every slit by the man who was to be her sve. It was a highlight. To realize, pouring out onto her buttocks, her face, her breasts, her mouth, and even into the tight ring of the backdoor, to realize that these fantasies of hers might well have come true. That if it weren't for that assignment from Her Milfness, he would actually be crawling on his knees, licking her pussy, kissing her ass, and happy to oblige his Mistress. There was something piquant about it, and also karmically just, bringing pleasure not only in sex but also in the realization that he had gotten out of it, had been on top instead of on the bottom, albeit not without help from above.

  Sylvia left in the morning, exhausting his mortal and alive lover to the point where he had to renew his strength once more with the meta-skill. After cleansing himself of the odors, traces, and auric impressions of the dark entity he had summoned, wrapping himself in the concealing Shroud, and returning to his room at the winemaker's farmyard, he passed out instantly as soon as his head touched the pillow. His st thought was that he would definitely not spend the reward for the level twenty-seven taken - not after the ritual, but during sex with Sylvia - today. Maybe not even tomorrow. He could make a day off for himself, he deserved it. He had saved several lives from a very bad death. Still, people who woke up after the death of the bloodsucker, even if they got some injuries from the control through blood, still had time to call priests and healers for help. In case of a dark creature attack, the same priestesses of Gaia could help with healing for free or for a token fee. If not, he would have to send spirits of scouts, transmitters, and healers. Good deeds should be finished if there is no possibility of transferring them to someone else.

  It was with that thought in mind that he finally drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  The new session of cloudy visions. This time he met a much denser group of spirits working with dreams, and the shaman himself had fallen asleep more attentively, which made him realize the dream more fully. Not enough to stop or retain in his memory the roundel of all kinds of visions, but enough to keep track of dangers or the presence of demonic influence from one of his unpleasant acquaintances. Much to the shaman's happiness - to the extent that he was capable of feeling happiness in such a state-consciousness - nothing dangerous or demonic came in dreams, unlike just dreams, visions, visions that pretended to be dreams, and dreams that pretended to be visions.

  * * *

  Six powerful men in business suits discuss their pns to take over the world and rule the universe. Their speeches are reasoned, their proposals are as substantive as possible, and they demonstrate knowledge and skills that show great potential for realizing their vision. On the projector screens and multimedia boards, a coherent pn is gradually being formed, which definitely has all chances to work, anticipating every detail and all possible force majeure. This pn is constantly and continuously supplemented, modified, and remodeled under new details, and each of the six is ready to invest resources in the general idea. But suddenly the door to the meeting room opens, even swings open, and the future masters of the universe hear the sound of frantic firing, which was raised by their numerous and heavily armed elite guards. But this security didn't help, because the open door, almost knocked out of its hinges, the big men dressed in white coats with rolled-up sleeves were already rushing in to start packing the failed rulers under the loud shouts: “To the mental hospital”. There was no way to resist them. Not a few minutes ter, all six of them were packed and stuffed into the armored ambunce, stuffing them so tightly that there was not enough room for the orderlies. The orderlies did not get upset and continued their journey simply by running, right behind the car, despite the fact that the car was driving at three hundred kilometers per hour.

  * * *

  A dark and gloomy dungeon, the darkness of which is dispersed only by individual lights on the high ceiling of a huge underground hall. This is not just a cave of colossal volumes, no, it is a real Underworld. In the abandoned hall, there is complete and utter silence as if life itself is afraid to be here. In the pitch darkness, you can see a city standing in ruins, a city huge, rich, even beautiful, but completely empty, abandoned, and dead, crossed by a huge crack right in the middle. And there, at that crack, you can't see the bottom, and it is not a fact that there is a bottom. But to the horror of everyone who knows about this city, there is something else in that crack, something unimaginably ancient, indifferent and calm, but hungry, eager to satisfy its hunger, but not in a hurry to go somewhere, still waiting for those who will come to it themselves. This creature listens to the subtle shimmering ether currents, which are beyond the control of most of the creatures living and dead, like the whispering of a faithful informer, constantly telling new and new secrets. Its attention is distributed throughout the hall of the Underworld like a fine web. In these currents of ether, in their tremors and tiny swirls, the creature sees and feels with his whole being the coming event. It may be very soon, or it may be years away, but it will be.

  The creature sees the opportunity to satisfy its hunger again, but it also senses the risk, the danger from those who could satisfy that hunger with themselves. A very old, long-forgotten sense of impending doom that has every chance of happening. The creature shifts a little in its ir, shifts a little, and sighs as if impatiently, waiting for the coming event. And the moment of the event comes, comes first with light touches to the web of catching, and then with a needle prick of cunning magic that finally awakened him from his slumber, urging him to rush forward, to the pce from where comes such a sweet smell of foreign magic and lives, which are gathered here somehow too much, so much that the hunger, perhaps, can be satisfied almost completely. So many that the prey may well have a chance to challenge that position, but the creature born of fme and darkness has no fear or apprehension. It knows that if it reveals itself, the prey will run away, and break into many small packs and loners, which will become its food.

  That's the way it's always been.

  That's the way it's always gonna be.

  * * *

  Stepan realized that he was flying and weightless, moving along the surface of a huge and full-flowing river, next to which Dantra was not so colossal. This river flowed through the hot and humid tropics as if it were the Amazon left on earth, but multiplied by two or even three. The waters of the river carry him lower and lower, to the delta itself, revealing a rge city, even by earthly standards, and a huge one by local standards, next to which Dantmark would seem almost a vilge. Humans and non-human figures, most of which are bck natives, are dressed so lightly that they are more likely to be undressed. It's an understandable dress choice in such a humid climate. The current of sleep, this time fully realized, carries the sleeper onward, bringing him to one of the wealthy neighborhoods, where there are more foreigners than anywhere else. In one of the equally rich buildings, the shaman thinks he even recognizes the coat of arms of the trading house on the facade, and a lovely and beautiful woman sleeps sweetly.

  Young, with perfect snow-white skin and wheat hair, a nice figure, medium-sized breasts, and firm buttocks. She could break the hearts of ardent young men with incredible ease, and she probably did. For a moment, the vision-understanding-perception of the sleeper seemed to split, as if he saw a perfectly made doll instead of the sleeping woman, but the vision immediately disappeared. But the sleeper's dream became restless, and the restlessness was unequivocally pleasant, gradually filling with passion and desire. Her breathing became more rapid, her tense nipples showed through the thin fabric of her snow-white nightgown, and her body was covered with sweat. Her mouth opened now and then in a barely audible moan, showing even and equally snow-white teeth and a pink tongue. In a moment, she woke up abruptly, opening her sky-blue eyes and looking before her with an unseeing gaze, and the sleeper again for a moment saw instead of the awakened maiden a kind of doll clutched in the hands of a richly dressed bck man with a truly regal presence. A moment and the obsession vanished, the blue eyes rolled back, leaving only the whites, her mouth opened, her lips took the shape of a ring, and she shook with a sudden and unexpected orgasm.

  A moment ter, she leaned back on the bed, panted for a moment, and then got up and began to get ready for the new day, calling her maid to help her. Styling her hair into an eborate style, applying a minimal amount of very high-quality makeup, and putting on some very advanced magical protection. She, who had long ago confirmed her general adept diploma and the same one, but with a mark of a specialist in curses, and another one specializing in love magic, on the contrary, was in no hurry to confirm it. She knew more about defense and paranoia than most men. She didn't want to remember her strange morning state, her uncharacteristic excitement, and her sudden ecstasy, so she didn't. She had completely forgotten what had happened even before she had finished her morning promenade.

  * * *

  A new pile of images is formed in some space station, in an extremely deplorable condition, stormed by an enemy. There is more than one such station in near and far space, and all of them are either burning, or still holding their shields, or long ago, these stations have been smashed to rubble. Numerous fleets of defenders stand to the death against even more numerous fleets of attackers. The previously organized and orderly space battle turned into an absolute dump, where at dagger distance killed and died representatives of dozens of species and hundreds of races. In this mad scramble, maneuvered and miraculously avoided destruction with decay at the subatomic level of a small and not at all combat ship-cargo carrier on the sides of which was visible neon advertising Coca-Co. The pilot sitting inside the ship, for some reason wearing a stereotypical Santa costume, was desperately swearing at his navigator, wearing an equally stereotypical Grandpa Frost costume, demanding from him a normal route, not this crap. Santa's Svic colleague offered to switch pces and try it himself. At the same time, they are shut up with unprintable swearing by Snow Maiden covered in fuel oil in only her underwear, trying to fix the graviton engine, which is on its st breath.

  SpoilerT.N. Grandpa Frost (Ded Moroz) is the Russian version of Santa Cus. They have some differences in appearance and clothing. But the most important thing is that Santa Cus has a granddaughter, Snow Maiden.

  [colpse]* * *

  The attacking dwarven horde presses forward in a turtle-like formation, the runic spells cast over their all-steel armor merging into a unified field, protecting them more securely than tank armor, while a horde of demonic filth comes at them with no end in sight. The horde is making one st attack. They believe neither in victory nor in their survival, hoping only to die in battle before the demonic enchantments break their minds. The ranks are lined with endless rows of petty and simply vilified mortals, even some of whom are dwarf kin. Here they have already stopped and can hardly stand on their feet; here the higher overseers and incarnate demons have already come closer, preparing to swaddle their prey. And here all this infernal cohort vaporizes steel hardness of light, embodied litany, which burns the foulness better than a fmethrower mixture. A small but very weighty comet bursts into the ranks of the elite group of the enemy, being - here the dwarven elder involuntarily shows btant unprofessionalism and raises his helmet to wipe his eyes - an extremely well-fed human youth with a face full of pimples. Only this young man, armed with two fencing bdes, literally tears apart the enemy elite group, saving the dwarves' lives and souls. The Elder sms the visor back, activating an enhanced wave of mind-cleansing rune magic, literally spreading the corresponding runes carved on the inside of his helmet. Still, even though they had been saved, for which the old dwarf would owe the savior the lives of himself and his three sons standing in the same hird - but the demons' spells had gotten to the dwarf's brain, confusing his mind and causing visions. Otherwise, the venerable Brorri Dum Kaldbandrad could not expin why he heard from the lips of a true saint something like: “Why dwarves? Where are my titty princesses and milf queens? Whereooooooooooooooo?!”.

  SpoilerT.N. This is a reference to a series of omaks in which Stepan the Fat ended up in another world where he has to be a demon fighter. No harems or elfess with big tits.

  [colpse]* * *

  Stepan and Sylvia are sitting alone, opposite each other, both in comfortable chairs, both extremely focused. The bloodsucker, drunk on the fresh blood of his toy, is slowly and methodically crushing his consciousness and will through the blood bond, demonstrating his skill and awesomeness in practice. Voluntarily allowing himself to be drunk, the shaman uses the presence of his self-righteous mistress nearby to train spiritual resistance. At the very least against blood-based tricks, but, if everything goes perfectly, against any envolt influences on the spiritual body and through it, on the mind in general. Sylvia is rexed and smug. She sits in a chair, dressed only in a dark blue bathrobe, and outwardly does not show her work at all, although you can see from her aura how tense she is and how much effort she is putting into it, you can see how she is burning through the scarlet reserve, trying not to push through, but to find a vulnerability in the shaman's defenses. To tell you the truth, she's not even trying to sell it - the boy's strength is no less, and he uses his spirit masterfully, meeting resonant influence with a harsh dampening effect that breaks the connection and drowns out the sent command.

  The guy doesn't even pretend to be at ease. He's breathing hard, his sweat is all over him, making his shirt stick to his body, and there's a wet spot under his ass on the chair as if he'd pissed himself recently. It was getting harder every second to thwart his new attempt at control, especially since Sylvia was also learning and adapting to his tricks. She was experienced enough to make it hard even for a system isekai. Primarily because he has deliberately given her a couple of liters of his blood, and is also not trying to attack physically, cutting off control, acting solely on the battlefield of Malter herself. For a moment, though, he does gather his strength, puts his spiritual will into another spurt, and throws the tentacles of compulsion creeping into his essence farther away, before locking his spirit into a new fortress and managing to burn out the remnants of influence. He exhaled heavily, almost falling out of his chair, feeling his arms and legs shaking. The newly acquired knowledge had not grown up, but the fact he had succeeded was a little heartening.

  The vampiress only nodded approvingly, invitingly pointing to the bathroom, where hot water was already prepared. The shaman left to rinse himself off, shedding his clothes and zily jerking his cock, and as soon as he came back out, Sylvia opened her robe, exposing her breasts and spreading her legs. Seeing no reason not to celebrate his small success, the young man grinned contentedly and knelt before her, licking the most delicious pussy in the universe for the next forty minutes. Only after reaching her fifth orgasm in a row, the boy was a delightful lover, Sylvia made him cum with a single order, putting him on his feet so that he could quickly put his lips around the head of his cock and savor the taste of the incredibly rich magical seed. Settling the moronic smiling boy back into the chair, she slowly loosened the control she had been imposing all this time, imperceptibly and little by little while he fended off the main attack, deliberately rough and noticeable. Stepan blinked in bewilderment and, after a minute, realized everything only swore, but first of all, he paused and checked himself for deeper bookmarks, and then they began to sort out their mistakes. Not the first and not the st during the practice of developing mental-spiritual defense of consciousness.

  * * *

  Upon waking, as was his habit, he immediately checked himself for another encounter with demonic scum and also looked through the images and bits and pieces of his dreams saved by his entourage. Each time, he was able to save these dreams in rger and rger chunks rather than individual images, though perfection was still a long way off, almost infinitely far off. Huge orderlies in white coats, running to catch up with an ambunce rushing at breakneck speed. An abandoned city in the Underworldis divided by a huge crack. The image was very clear and quite possibly real, so Stepan made a note to look for the information, albeit on a low priority. Santa Cus is behind the dashboard of a futuristic spaceship, quite dirty and beaten up, like grandfather's Trabant. The dwarf in animeesque surprise stared at something unclear and unknown. Stepan remembered the face, too, maybe he would recognize it someday. A huge river in the tropical jungle and a city in its delta, and if Stepan understood it right, it was Gnma, he had once searched Sylvia's brain for information on the rgest rivers in the world. There was also an image of a dark blue bathrobe worn over a woman's body, but it was blurred.

  Well, not full foresight-level dreams, but much better than the individual elements he'd gotten before. The progress was obvious and noticeable. Stepan woke up well-rested, barely in time for breakfast, having once again confirmed to the manager Pirius that he had renewed the cat's contract. The same, having looked at the pale face of the shaman and not smelling alcohol, kindly gave him a day off until the end of the day. And in order to leave the farmyard, and not be seen by Pirius' eyes. In this order, one could hear the usual concern for the health of a useful and necessary worker. Zero losses from rodents, for the leveling of which they had to spend a lot of money before. But also something else. It was the kind of thing where it was better to put all the unnecessary people away, out of sin and trouble, or there would be a storm in the house. Trabius didn't like his wife, but in this, she reciprocated him, and when the bosses scolded each other, it was better for ordinary workers not to be present. It's bad for careers. Stepan had learned in the Earth office.

  Well, there was no need to ask the young man to leave. He quietly left, went for a walk in the city, looked at the performance of the fme swallower, without any magic, on pure skill, chewed the freshest pies with potatoes and onions, tasted fried fish of some local and, apparently, absent on Earth species. By the way, judging by the taste, the Earthmen had not lost anything from the absence of such fish in the Earth's biosphere. I looked at the mass fight shop against the shop, again, flour millers and cy makers, that is, ugh, potters, who found out who had prettier girls. As, it was not friendship that won, but the guards. The guards came to watch, and when the fight finally turned from a vigorous brawl into a boring push, they tied up those who had no time to escape. The shaman saved one of them, who had almost died from a blow to the head, by secretly sending a healing spirit. A tired local healer, an apprentice with little gift, but a set of amulets, tools, and potions, even advised the man to put a candle, that is, to donate to the temples of His Craft and the Life-Giver, because he had to die.

  He missed the thief who was determined to cut off his wallet. Once, then again. Each time as if by accident, but when the bastard didn't calm down even after the third attempt, he put a small spirit into the stone of the paving stone under the thief's foot so that he fell face first into the horse shit. The mercenary, whose horse had failed to stay within the city limits, stood dejectedly beside the guard and cheered at the sight. The guard gave him a minimum fine, advising him to hire some of the kids who would follow the horse and collect the shit, there were plenty of them at the gate, or to give the horse to the stable and not to look for problems. By the way, the guard and the thief recognized each other, which made the situation take on completely new shades of humiliation. Something intuitive told the shaman that the insolent loser would change his nickname.

  He had been to the river port, the southeastern end of it, to observe the huge and not very pleasant-smelling - stinking, to be honest - human anthill. He even saw, albeit from a distance, the ship Bastia, which had successfully completed its st voyage and was now making a new one. I did not impose my company, of course, but checked the life, health, and general condition, just for old memory. However, this was not the only meeting with familiar faces during this day, even if the second of these meetings happened not exactly in the port, but in the central quarters. Stepan, taught by experience, was now always on time, and the idiot boys did not throw themselves under the horses' hooves. Another such procession allowed him to look, literally in passing, through the open window of a richly decorated carriage with the personal coat of arms of Magister Miller.

  Stepan had never seen the bored and slightly tired face of the “ arrogant young master,” whose gaze did not even look at the crowd, but looked up into the heavens. But he recognized a characteristic detail - very bright eyes with a slightly violet cast. It was the consequence of several rituals that opened new facets of magic vision and simplified vision in general, a color that many gifted people can boast of. The results of the rituals also vary, but it was not the theory of subtle body modifications that interested Stepan at that moment. He remembered a short visit to Fantrel. The first, not the second, when he came for revenge. And he remembered the only task that the shaman had done in that town - healing a prostitute cursed with terrible nightmares, who had almost been cut open alive by an honorable adept, from Dantmark itself, an honorable apprentice of Magister Miller

  The memory accelerated by the magical gift allowed him to plunge into a rather specific meditation, from the “methods of undercover work”, right on the move, without distracting from the leisurely movement in the crowd. And he remembered very well that the one who liked to love women with a whip and a hot iron, because of which he was no longer allowed into the good brothels of Dantmark, was a certain “violet-eyed bastard”, to quote the very nightman who had contracted Stepan to work on curing the whore from nightmares. No, of course, he was not going to throw himself at the first person, even if he had the right eyes, in the right city, and driving a carriage with the coat of arms of the resident of the local magic tower. But here it was time to find out more about this individual, and then, if everything turned out to be as bad as he thought... well, in his agent skills from the System, the elimination of all kinds of assholes (and not assholes) has a lot of pce.

  His mood had suddenly soured; he didn't feel like walking around the city, the delicious food was no longer pleasing, and even the sausage pte served in the tavern didn't lift his spirits. Having given up on his pns to spend his well-deserved weekend in the most rexed state possible, the shaman went into another alleyway, checked the absence of observers, and moved to the underground totem. There, sitting down on a soft meditation mat - also a gift from the system - he summoned Sylvia's doll and began to search for information, checking to see how the vampire was doing after st night's success.

  The bloodsucker was reasonable and did not immediately announce that she knew about the death of the fugitive subordinate, only giving a couple of vague hints. After all, why should she bbber about such things, if the very fact of being able to involve her favorite shaman toy in her work secretly is a trump card that is better to keep secret? And rumors, she thought, would go anyway, as some had been drugged by Riksar, who had seen the dog appear and disappear. Yes, it would be good if their visions were written off as glitches of the brain affected by bloody control, but, as, even if they were, the torn-to-pieces corpse of the undead and failed lord of the night would be nowhere to go. Sylvia thought her thoughts, dreaming of how she would use the power of the faithful dog named Pann, while methodically rereading the correspondence, which she had unwittingly accumuted even too much. And then one of the merchants began to call on her amulet, demanding a dey in the delivery of several items, for which Sylvia began to demand his blood, even if only figuratively. Stepan, after watching this dialog for a while, turned to digging into his mind and memories, finding confirmation of his worst suspicions.

  Valdis de Lonnir, one of Master Miller's personal disciples and a distant retive, was no small talent. Valdis de Lonnir was a very strong adept firebender who knew something about barriers and even spiritual summoning and was barely past his third decade of age. Yes, yes, even though he looks a little over twenty, this dude is not opposed to cosmetic alchemy and rejuvenating baths. He's the kind of guy who combines important tasks and thoughts about the beauty of his nails. He's the embodiment of a cssic competent aristocrat and at the same time an aristocrat-an ogre, though not literally. Yes, the kid liked to inflict pain; no one argued with that or even looked for excuses. If he hadn't been so talented and ready to take on any assignment of the honorable Magister, he would have exiled him long ago. No, the Magister didn't care that he was enjoying the sound of sizzling flesh to which he applied a red-hot cattle brand. He would not have cared if he had pyed only with commoners or illegally procured, powerless sves.

  But no, the boy had no brakes and preferred to spoil only the best material, so he had to pay, for example, a considerable sum of money to the owner of the Blue Orchid for damaged flowers and healers for those who could still be saved. And in other brothels, he was not allowed to enter. Or he was only allowed to py with prearranged goods, and at triple the price. In recent weeks, the young sadist has been on a starvation ration, because on his return from a long business trip - yes, yes, the same one during which he had to visit Fantrel. He tried to come to the Orchid again. And, that it is necessary to tell, he came correctly, with a gift, politely and correctly outlining his request - it's like say, you, honorable Selena, have the necessary connections and contacts, so could not you respected magician with specific tastes, not too often, find one or two girls cute, innocent and beautiful, and then give him to have fun with them in a soundproofed room.

  He was not refused, but they charged him a hefty price. After the beginning of the Great Search, many illegal svers went to the bottom, some figuratively and some literally, and prices for their services skyrocketed. And the owner, looking like a younger version of the old dy Shapoklyak, of the best and most exquisitely specific brothel in the city, charged even higher prices. Why not? Everyone knew about young Valdis's predilections, and to turn to someone else, there was no one else to help with such a service. Not now. Probably, Silvia was just assuming here, an old and experienced bitch, who saw through people and had lived through a lot of Night Fqthers - brothels are traditionally run by Night Guilds - was not going to refuse, but just to twist his hands more. Get more money, or involve a magician in new services.

  SpoilerT.N. Lady Shapoklyak

  [colpse]It doesn't work.

  Either the brothel-maman pushed to much, or under-pushed, or de Lonnier's marbles roll away, but it all ended in an ugly quarrel, where they peppered each other with swearings. To say in a retively high society something like “that you should burn instead of your creche”, and to hear in response “that you, you monster, should boil in your own juice”, is just beyond the bounds of decency, it is already a sign of a quarrel for life or even for generations to come. The owner of the Orchid, of course, is not an aristocrat, but she has no less power than an influential merchant, and her patrons sit in the castle, not counting the night fathers. In general, the magician left the establishment with nothing. As Sylvia had learned just the other day, he bought for his amusement almost beggars and peasants, and even then, without zeal. He got a scolding from the master.

  Stepan carefully left the doll's mind and began to pace the cave, wondering whether he should get involved in all this. And came to the conclusion that he had to. Just because he could and he should. He wasn't going to look for evil or even Evil, all over the world and then punish it viciously, but he didn't want to put up with that kind of shit right in his immediate vicinity, either. At least for the sake of not having nightmares and not being ashamed to look in the mirror. With such thoughts, the fate of Valdis de Lonnir, pyromage, sadist, tough specialist, and a good duelist, was decided, the sentence was passed, and there were no wyers for this individual. He was not the Devil, after all, to find a wyer for him.

  Nodding to himself, the Shaman silently began to work.

  * * *

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