“It was reckless,” Yeshua barked upon returning to the inn. He sat down on a chair with a creak and raised a finger. “That’s how far we were from failure.”

  “Are you afraid of death, Yeshua?” Ney chuckled, welding the torn plate back onto Ruda’s armor.

  “That’s not the point.” Yeshua’s hand, holding his helmet, slammed the table, splitting the wood in two, and the crusader leaned forward, scowling furiously. “I care about those under our protection.” He pointed at Rustam. “Are you prepared to sacrifice him for a momentary whim? Or the rest of the prisoners?”

  “You got your idea across.” Ney approached the sariant.

  “I don’t fear death. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have joined the Order,” Yeshua continued, not looking away. “My duty is to fight, risking everything. But we have no right to put civilians at risk for the sake of petty emotions. I know about Ruda’s exploits. She abandoned El Satanini’s ranks, throwing herself into the heat of battle, and then did it again, chasing the enemy leader and getting wounded. How much more do you intend to repeat this? Until you die? Until your comrades die?”

  “How many lives has her method saved?” Ney clenched his fist. “Care to compare with your score?”

  “Ney, no,” Ruda said quietly, hanging her head. “He’s right. I put you all in danger.”

  “Hell no!” Rustam and Ney exclaimed.

  He didn’t know what had come over him. The encounter with Draz had terrified him to the bone. The bastard didn’t look like a monster, except for his height. Unlike Latif, the mutations hadn’t altered his body beyond recognition, and he treated his servants with gentle mercy, not even getting angry when a maid spilled wine or giving a small reward to an acrobat with a sprained ankle.

  But this normalcy deeply repulsed Rustam. Latif never hid his inner self. Draz calmly played the role of a sensitive conversationalist, yet was willing to kill helpless children for a little amusement. Around him, it was easy to forget the man’s boundless cruelty, and this ability to pretend made him a more dangerous leader than any other barbarian.

  Rustam wanted to tell Ruda everything that was boiling inside him, but seeing such open remorse, he decided to stand up for her, despite his personal dislike for her hypocrisy, because they both dared to act for others at a decisive moment, spitting on the consequences.

  “Did you see the children in the arena? Defenseless people? None of them would have survived!” Rustam lowered his voice, noticing Ney’s sign. “You don’t think they deserve your protection?”

  “Rustam, my actions have put you all at risk of retaliation from the ruler of Rabor,” Ruda said. “Only by sheer luck will we bring all the captives to safety.” She knelt. “Yeshua, you spoke the truth. If you consider me a burden to the Order, then I am prepared to request a shameful exile and surrender all my rewards.”

  “I don’t need that.” Yeshua ran his hand through his hair. “I went a bit too far. I was also considering jumping in. I just don’t want to lose any more comrades.”

  “You simply prefer to see them exiled,” Ney muttered.

  “Enough bickering,” Chernogor stopped the squabble. The commander, who had remained silent until then, tore his gaze from the window. “Focus on the situation. What do you say?”

  “Evening is approaching, but the streets aren’t getting any busier.” Ruda stood up. “There’s less noise coming from the rooms around us.”

  “Yes, I expected more shouting after the main feast ended. Less waste is coming out of the factory chimneys,” Ney remarked, leaning against the glass and peering around the corner.

  “There are fewer guards on the streets than before,” Yeshua added.

  Rustam glanced out the window, confirming the truth of the statements. He heard no swearing, save for an occasional curse, and the sounds of breaking bottles, dancing, and the shrieks of maids being grabbed by the butts that made up the din of the main hall had died down. A cheerful song was playing, and a group of drunken bandits were chatting among themselves, discussing the cooking, but it was nothing compared to the morning merriment that reigned at the inn. The lines for the restrooms had disappeared.

  A group of townspeople was hauling wooden panels. They began attaching them to the door of their home, shushing at a small girl who tried to slip out. Another man rolled a barrel past them, breaking it into planks in front of his house. Merchants were packing up their stalls instead of setting out their wares for the night’s sale.

  “They’re barricading the passages,” Rustam said excitedly. “Are we going to be besieged?”

  “Hardly.” Ruda ruffled his hair. “Why all this fuss?”

  “Something’s brewing.” Chernogor checked the time. “Ney, come with me to the market. Take the money; we’ll buy clothes and wait until our people are freed there. Maybe we’ll find out a clue or two. The rest of you stay here; we’ll meet on the central street in half an hour.”

  After packing up, both men left the room, and Yeshua took the soldering iron, replacing Ney in repairing the damaged armor. A complete repair in the field was impossible, but they sealed every crack with foam, re-insulating the armor and providing basic protection against penetration of toxic gases. Intrigued, Rustam watched the process, memorizing exactly how the sariant worked, until Yeshua asked him to leave. Complying, the boy went to the bedroom, sat with his back to the wall, checked the shotgun, and sharpened the knife. There was no particular need, but the movement calmed his nerves.

  I’m not sure I’m cut out for soldiering. Maybe I should try the police? Rustam chuckled, remembering Butylin’s suggestion. How he’d dreamed of himself as a hero like Ney, swinging a mace, crushing villains, or leading entire armies sent to liberate cities. And when it came down to it, fear gripped his limbs as he sat on the giant’s shoulder. A mediocre hero. Just extra weight, that’s all.

  He settled in comfortably, ignoring the soft crunching sounds, trying to press himself against the wall as tightly as possible and doze off. Wait. I already... He fell backwards, breaking through the falling shards of linoleum, and managed to grab the shotgun as his arms were pinned tightly to his body.

  Chunks of rebar and stone fell around him, trapped in glittering crystals. Ice! Rustam realized with some bewilderment as he was dragged outward. The solid surface around him had disintegrated, unable to withstand the pressure of his weight. He screamed for help, but not a word came out of the speakers. A purple shroud of tiny particles entangled every limb, tightly clamping the speakers. The haze overcame all attempts to escape and slammed him onto the road.

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  Rustam’s helmet screeched on the asphalt as his limp body shattered an outdoor toilet stall, dragging its victim into a narrow alley. He watched as Ruda crashed into the room, leaping out without the slightest hesitation. Clouds of orange fire billowed across the asphalt, produced by hidden explosives, and the shockwave hurled the woman back, straight into Yeshua, simultaneously collapsing the wall of the hotel’s main hall and eliciting panicked screams and foul curses, accompanied by a spray of bullets from within.

  Elongated objects rolled along the ground to Rustam’s right, spitting out black clouds of dense smoke toward another alley, while the purple shroud dragged him away. Guessing the kidnappers’ intention to confuse their pursuers by creating a series of decoys to ostensibly conceal their escape, Rustam reached his fingers to the spikes on the outer side of his greaves and snapped them, throwing the broken thorns at every turn, praying it would be enough.

  The unknown kidnapper dragged his body with extraordinary speed, deftly avoiding cracks in the walls or doors with the weight of his armor, while simultaneously preventing his captive from reaching the safety on his shotgun. Throwing the last of the spikes, Rustam lost count of the doorways flashing past when finally his flight stopped and he screeched across the stones toward a dead end.

  “Look what I found!” Rustam heard a giggling voice, accompanied by a whistle. “I’ve found a new friend!”

  Two people stood at the dead end. The taller of them held a machine gun, looking at Rustam as he rose through the visor of his helmet. A purple glow wrapped around him, creating a transparent hood around his head and illuminating the city guard emblem on his shoulder. The second man emerged from the shadows with a dancing gait, moving on his toes and spreading his arms wide. The jingling bells on his conical hat accompanied his every movement, and his snow-white face mockingly watched Rustam from the round neckline of his robe, crafted from a single piece of multicolored fabric that shimmered in the light.

  “Want a trick?” the jester asked.

  “Help me.” Rustam wanted to scream. There was air in his lungs, nothing obscured the speakers, but only a hoarse wheeze left his throat.

  The jester chuckled, pointing a finger at the frightened boy’s neck. A chill settled on Rustam’s skin beneath his armor, sucking away the last vestiges of warmth. He recoiled, not understanding what was happening.

  “Now, now, no need to shout at the performance. Save your awed amazement for later,” the jester chided.

  Obeying the lessons instilled in him by his training, Rustam automatically raised his shotgun and fired at the leering face, aiming the barrel at the tongue licking its wide lips. Some of the pellets never gained speed, frosting over and smashing harmlessly against the jester’s suit. The purple light caught the rest, preventing them from reaching the guard.

  Rustam spun, firing toward the opposite end of the dead end, scratching the heavy metal door, and rushed there, pulling the trigger again. His voice had weakened, but he could still make noise. He couldn’t shoot the kidnappers, but he could still try to escape.

  A loop of purple light around his ankle ended his na?ve hopes, jerking his leg backward. Choking with mirth, the jester landed on the back of his knee, bringing Rustam to his knees. An icy chill lashed his fingers, numbing them, and the shotgun fell to the ground. Strong hands grabbed Rustam’s head, twisting his neck and forcing him to look into the mocking face. The purple rope extending from the guard standing at a distance illuminated a frightened resident peering out the window of the house and immediately slamming it shut. A shadow flitted across the top of the dead-end wall. The rodents scattered from the change in temperature. A drop of drool landed on Rustam’s visor, immediately freezing, then the glass fogged and broke under the pressure of the thumbs.

  “Tell me, tell me where you come from, who you are, my little one,” the jester sang, widening the hole, and Rustam involuntarily closed his eyes as a sharp piece of ice fell and scratched his cornea. The freak’s mouth reeked of rotten meat, and two of the man’s upper teeth were broken, causing a hissing sound as he spoke. “Sing me a song or I’ll squeeze a tale out of you, my dear.”

  “I serve Latif,” Rustam croaked. “He travels on the huge land train, collecting slaves...”

  “I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it, it’s a lie, my sweetie is dodging.” The jester broke off the faceplate of Rustam’s helmet, exposing his face. Blue-shrouded fingers reached for his eye. “Beautiful eyes, gift me one as payment for my forgiveness...”

  Damn you. Rustam’s clumsy hands grabbed the knife handle, attempting to pierce the laughing jester’s side. Frost coated the blade; a wave of cold ran through the skin beneath his armor, instantly robbing his hands of all feeling. But this time, he didn’t give up. Rustam rolled around with all his might, using his weight and the help of his servo-muscles to pierce the bastard’s skin as he reached for his eye. The jester winced, then screamed in pain as the frozen knife sank halfway into his body, just below his ribs. Without stopping, Rustam twisted the blade, hearing the sound of tearing fabric.

  His plan was simple. The abnormal cold easily cracked metal, rendering any protection no more durable than cardboard. The armor itself moved only thanks to the heat generated by the generator, but the blade had no such advantage and shattered into large fragments in the jester’s bloody wound, cutting a path further as Rustam pushed the maniac off his balance.

  “Bastard!” the jester howled.

  He touched the wound with his hand, beginning to freeze the blood, when a steel-bound boot struck him in the face, eliciting a chuckle from the guard. The weight of the boot broke the cartilage, driving his nose deep into his agony-contorted face. Rustam bounced off the bastard, attempting to stand and limp toward freedom. It wasn’t going well; his knees, weakened by the cold, were useless, and the armor barely registered his intentions from the movement of his pelvis, clumsily lifting his legs.

  A purple barrier appeared before him, cutting off his escape route.

  “Oztai, enough fooling around,” the guard said.

  “So rude!” Oztai roared, scrambling to grab the stone in his hands as he approached Rustam. His fingers crushed the rapidly freezing surfaces; he didn’t bother to stand, quickly closing the distance on a crawl; the ice-turned blood on his side and face reflected the purple glow. “I tried to be gentle, but no! Punishment! Now I’ll not only find out who you are, but I’ll make you squeal!”

  The cold gripped Rustam’s limbs, preventing him from reaching the vanished wall. Oztai pushed him onto his stomach, his fingers tearing gashes in his crumbling armor. Flipping his victim over, the jester slammed Rustam’s head onto the road and grabbed his nose.

  “I’ll rip your nose out, I’ll tear off your ears, I’ll pull out your tendons, one by one, grind your bones to dust, leaving you with your stubborn tongue so you can delight me with your screams. Answer, who are you…” An uneven hole appeared in the center of Oztai’s forehead.

  The maniac’s lips continued to move, uttering wordless threats, as if his body refused to acknowledge the obvious, even as the grayish-pink substance with reddish veins splashed onto Rustam’s chest. A death throe caused the scumbag to arch and collapse in a heap of flesh, taking the unnatural cold with it.

  Rustam tried to rise, frozen when he saw the guard. Through the visor, he could see the man’s rolled eyes and a trickle of blood trickling from his nose. Behind him stood the humanoid beast overgrown with black fur—clad in a tight, matching bodyglove, her amber eyes gleaming cheerfully—holding the dead man’s machine gun in one paw. The second paw tore itself from the man’s back, shaking shreds of flesh from its long claws. Davinia removed the magazine and tossed the weapon aside.

  “My deepest apologies for such a tactless interruption of an intimate conversation.” The Wolfkin’s feet landed on Rustam’s hands, and her furry fingers intertwined with his, stopping any attempts to break free. He didn’t even notice her move. Gone were the elegant manners and ostentatious innocence of a representative of high society. The muscle veins bulged beneath the skin, revealing porcelain-colored skin covered in a tangle of scars where the fur had parted. Squatting down, Davinia opened her mouth slightly, displaying her fangs. “But I was simply beside myself at the prospect of talking to you.”