Accompanied by Ruda, Rustam proceeded down the corridor, heading for the elevators. The soldiers trailed slightly behind them, and although the knight’s hand never left his shoulder, no one put handcuffs or a collar on him, and this was reassuring.

  “I need to know what you did,” Ruda said. “Confess. I saw Sylvie trying to foist money on you. Did you extort it from her? Threatened her? Harassed the poor thing, you lecherous pig?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” Rustam replied, not even wanting to snap back. She would think the worst of him anyway, so why bother?

  He tried to concentrate on how she had saved Sylvie from death as the group approached an elevator decorated with a jeweled battle scene in which a black-robed crusader was using a glittering staff-sword to sever the head of a monstrous mutant who looked a little like Jake.

  The leader was flanked by his guards, their long arms marking them as Trolls. Armed with maces, they slashed into the enemy lines, tiny red shavings giving the impression of splattering blood. Behind them stood a settlement, against the backdrop of which a yellow sun was rising.

  Rustam whistled as he stepped inside the elevator, daring to touch the wooden panels.

  “You mentioned the word Abnormal,” he said. “And all the other soldiers used the word Blessed. Are you from Iterna?”

  Ruda snorted. “Attentive. Honesty in exchange for honesty?”

  “Agreed.”

  “No, not from Iterna. Not even from the Frontier.” She shook her head. “Our village had just begun to accept envoys from that country; I was taught by their rural teacher. Then something happened.” She smiled, tenderly and sadly. “Everything worked out in the end. Iterna… their idea of ??restoring the world is wonderful, but too slow. And the people need order and protection now. Non-interference is equal to crime.” Her fingers on his shoulder tensed and relaxed. “The Oathtakers may not be as smart or perfect as our neighbors, but we have the wisdom to understand the need for rapid change. You owe me a secret.”

  “Better trample me,” Rustam answered wearily. “Because I did nothing.”

  The elevator took them up several levels, releasing them into a corridor leading to a spacious compartment from which came the measured conversations of operators sitting in a circle at various terminals. Flags and banners hung along the length of the corridor, often in far worse condition than the poles holding them. Scorched, shot-scarred, cut fabric and wool did not flutter. Among them hung a greasy beast’s hide with Latif’s symbol painted on it.

  Trophies.

  In the recesses of the corridor, statues stood frozen, illuminated by yellow light and clad in almost exact copies of Szarel’s armor, right down to the heraldic symbols. Crafted from black marble, some of the six statues held weapons above their heads, a couple clutched severed heads by their stone hair, and one read a book. Dozens of sayings covered their pedestals. “A lesser evil is still an evil.” “Do not interfere with the enemy’s feud.” “I am protection.” “Listen, then strike.” “Do not cling to power. You are not eternal, but the legacy and legends will remain in memory.” “Strike in the groin.”

  The last made him chuckle, and Rustam bowed to the frozen face of the unknown champion. A hand on his shoulder led him deeper into the command bridge, while a smile played on the woman’s lips.

  They descended onto a spacious platform located in the depths of the department, stopping in front of the seated magister, accompanied by the invariable Butylin and five soldiers carrying sentry duties. Above, the chaplain chanted a prayer, and his assistant waved a censer, spreading pleasant incense. Szarel stood up, and the ermine mantle slid down from his iron-covered shoulders onto the throne.

  Ruda immediately bowed, stopping in front of Rustam like a shield. Her lips kissed the magister’s gauntlet.

  “Your Excellency, any fault of his is my fault,” she spoke quickly. “I am ready to accept the punishment.”

  “Is there something wrong with your vision?” Szarel asked. Today his eyes sparkled, filled with life, and his skin did not seem so flatly stretched over his skull.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ruda hesitated.

  “Glasses.” He pointed at her face.

  “Oh, this.” She took them off and hid them in her pocket. “It’s a gimmick to boost one’s authority. In some cultures, children are more attentive to those who wear magnifying glasses.”

  “Live and learn.” Szarel pointed to a chair near the long table. “Rustam, sit. It’s nice to see that the effects of radiation exposure haven’t ruined you.”

  “Thanks to Cenfus and the medical staff.” Rustam didn’t let the casual reminder of his obligation to the saviors escape him.

  “If you want something, say it. How are you doing here, are there any complaints or comments?” The magister sat down as well, inviting Rud to join him. She took a seat next to Rustam.

  “Juice!” he blurted out, following Sylvie’s instructions. “And you should eat the dishes served to you in their entirety.”

  Ruda squeezed his wrist under the table as she placed the mug in front of him. The servant bowed and handed her the open white box.

  “You think so?” Szarel took the glass from the iron cup holder and sipped his tea.

  “It is disrespectful to leave scraps, devaluing the work of the cooks.” Rustam decided not to hide his thoughts. Come what may. If Gray Face did not want to hear his opinion, then he should not have asked.

  “I will take this into account,” Szarel said. “Ruda, uncage the boy and drink your tea. I am not a virgin to burst into tears from a well-deserved reprimand. Don’t sit there on pins and needles. Rustam, I will tell you frankly. We need your help in a very dangerous matter. We have reviewed the video recordings and discovered your presence during the sale of our citizens to the representatives of Draz. Don’t worry,” the magister said to the boy frozen with fear. “No one is accusing you of anything. You did everything you could to survive, and at the crucial moment, you made the right choice. We need to get our people back. And everyone else we can.”

  “Then why am I here?” Rustam asked. “You should have forced the raiders to do it.”

  “Would you trust this rabble?” Szarel answered the question with a question. “Rustam, there are many factors in every deal. Take the benefit. We can’t give them the wagon, because these bastards will use it to raid. Life and wealth? Neither is guaranteed from their vile perspective. And we have only one cruiser here. If we let such scum into Rabor, they will immediately betray us… in exchange for acceptance into the local gang,” he finished. “No, they had to be killed, and now the Planet is busy redeeming them. Your face has been seen, and that might work in our favor.”

  “Even if you give me money, I’ll be robbed right away!” Rustam laughed, taking a sip of juice. Ruda poured him another, giving him a barely noticeable encouraging nod. “I don’t even know where the city of that scum who bought the poor guys is. They just kicked us out and made us wait while that bitch and her dogs haggled over the price. The weak don’t survive here, and I’m nothing.”

  “Don’t underestimate your value, child,” Szarel said. “What are we fighting for if not to give civilians a chance to live decent lives in safety? Your happiness will please our hearts too. If you agree, you won’t go alone. Commander Chernogor will lead the squad and take on all the negotiations...”

  “Rustam is my ward,” Ruda suddenly said. “Until we return, I will not allow him to risk his well-being without my presence, Your Excellency.”

  “Of course.” The magister nodded. “The Trolls will be too suspicious on the mission; Eloise and Jake are too exotic. That leaves you. The decision is up to Rustam.”

  His hand trembled. More than anything, he wanted to say no. He remembered the sweaty body that dragged him into the tunnel, the screech of unzipping zippers, the stench of dripping oil, and the rustle of discarded clothes. Greedy, dirty, scabby hands tearing at Rustam’s clothes while he feverishly groped for anything that could be used as a weapon. The sounds of the resounding blows of a broken pipe on the head of the moaning rapist and splashing blood, a fallen-out eye, and pieces of brain burned his memory with an unhealing burn.

  A hair away. Blind luck. He was so close to... Better not to think about it. And it could happen again; only this time he would not be so fortunate.

  At the same time, he realized that he couldn’t say no and stay with himself. He didn’t even hate Szarel for setting him up like that. Any chance to pull people like him—helpless, scared, broken—out of hell was too precious to pass up.

  But he wasn’t going to be a simpleton.

  “I agree.” Ruda squeezed his hand painfully. That stupid cusack wanted me to refuse? Ha! Then I’ll consider it a bonus! “But I have a condition. You will swear to deliver every rescued child to their families, and if some refuse or have no one left, you will provide them with a comfortable existence.”

  “I’ll do even better.” Szarel snapped his fingers. “Boy, never trust what you say out loud. There are many masters of their word. They give it if they want and take it back if they want.” The operator handed him a terminal trimmed in ebony to give it a respectable appearance.

  The magister fell silent for a long while, tapping the buttons, while Rustam nervously drank juice, trying not to pay attention to Ruda’s furious glances. Finally, Szarel pushed the device towards him. There was a long text on the display, verified with a seal at the end.

  “You can ask anyone you know and trust about all the terms and designations in this agreement. When you are ready, we will print the contract and sign it with our signatures.”

  “What will stop you from destroying the document as soon as I am no longer needed?” Rustam asked.

  “Nothing,” Szarel said bluntly. “It is up to you to decide, based on what you have understood about our intentions from our actions. In short, in exchange for your assistance, the Order undertakes to take guardianship over you until you reach adulthood. This includes payment for a prestigious shelter, reunification and search for relatives, and a sum placed on each person’s personal account, intended to pay for a university or private labor school located within the Land of the Oath,” explained the magister. “We also undertake to pay for your full recovery in the event of any injuries received during the mission. You did not ask for this, probably considering it self-evident. But I do not think there is a need to remove this clause.”

  “Can we become like you?” asked Rustam.

  “Trolls? No. Crusaders? Perhaps. This path is open to the Blessed, such as young Decimus, but I think his mother has her own views on his future. For you, such an outcome is impossible. We accept only the Blessed into our ranks.”

  “Join us, boy,” Butylin said. “Payment on time, honest job, you will see many new places, and the girls in the wild regions are so passionate and frivolous...”

  A loud slap of a palm on the table interrupted him. Ruda stood up, trembling with indignation, staring at the soldier. He saluted her.

  “Your Excellency forgot the clause about the possibility of revising it in favor of Rustam and our wards, after consulting with a lawyer, in case our ward considers that you took advantage of his position. And we are the Onyx Order, not the Order,” she hissed, kneeling and blushing with shame.

  “How inconsiderate of me, Honorable Knight-Sister Ruda,” he responded, adding a few lines to the contract.

  “I am only Sariant, Magister.”

  “Well, it won’t be for long.” Szarel waved his hand. “Get up, sister, join us. Rustam, we’ll have to separate you from the group. You’ll have a short training course in using power armor and weapons. Your mentor will lead it. It will be useful for you to work together. To preserve the legend, the squad members will have to use the trash of the butchered rabble. I emphasize, no one expects you to serve in the ranks. In the event of an unexpected ambush, your sole task is to survive. But we will all be calmer if you hone your ability to protect yourself.”

  Ruda subsequently intervened in the discussions several more times, requesting amendments. Szarel did not rebuke such behavior and simply edited the document, reading out the very long terms of the agreement to Rustam, explaining each point. Soon he was ready to agree to everything, too excited by the very real chance of losing everything again and trying to look brave. He would willingly stick his head in the most dangerous place, where many bastards would gladly skin him, enslave him, or worse.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  At the end of their conversation, Szarel unexpectedly examined Rustam, patiently listening to a confused retelling of the agreed-upon promises. When Ruda sat down next to him and put a glass of cold juice on the table, telling him to stop, catch his breath, and think, he felt sincere gratitude.

  However, he could not shake the feeling that Szarel was testing the option rather than him. And she passed the trial.

  ****

  Two days had passed since Rustam had told her about the deal with the magister. At first, Sylvie was beside herself with fear and wanted to demand a meeting, offering herself in the place of this unreasonable idiot. But the owners would not listen to the squeak of an insignificant slave. Instead, she concentrated on demonstrating the usefulness of the group, involving the guys in all sorts of activities. Five were even accepted into the engineering section, for now in the position of ‘bring-give-don’t bother,’ but it was still an incredible success!

  Very quickly everyone realized how delicious the dishes hidden in the spacious refrigerators of their masters were, and the cooks had no end of assistants. Sylvie also found herself a kind of permanent job, earning the privilege of visiting the training hall without an escort.

  In one of the recesses, Rustam was being driven by his mentor. Both wore bulky hodgepodges of rotting bastards’ armor, tailored to their size and scrubbed clean inside. The outside was still coated in a thick layer of grime, dirt, and dried blood, obscuring the identifying marks. It was a necessary evil, Rustam explained, but the technicians had replaced all the cables, running them under the armor plates; eliminated the risk of short circuits; and rebuilt the internal motors, making them work without constantly spitting oil and sparks.

  Armed with a short sword whose origins brought Sylvie grim satisfaction, Ruda advanced on Rustam. The tip of the pincer grazed the floor, arcing upward and missing his visor. A lunge followed, missing his withdrawn pauldron. The crusader swung, her right arm heading too far to the left after the slash aimed at the steel-clad, stamping legs that looked like small, moving columns.

  Rustam looked dashing in power armor.

  “Eyes open!” the knight roared. “Don’t miss the opportunity.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you!” the boy snapped, clutching a short knife. “And my blade is shorter.”

  “Fool! No battle is won by retreating without controlling the flow of the battle.” She took the sword in both hands, raising it above her head. “Don’t resist your instincts; guide them!”

  The blade went down, missing Rustam as he dodged. This time he jerked forward, closing the distance, and plunged the knife into his opponent’s open side. Sylvie heard the screech of metal. Ruda shifted her position, catching the tip between the joints of her chest plate and waist, stopping the blow.

  “Excellent,” she praised, not letting the knife come loose. “You’ve mastered the basics of footwork. But you still think you’re naked.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Granny!” Rustam said, offended, taking the weapon. The speakers in the raiders’ armor specially transformed the speech into a kind of dog barking, mixed with the noise of turning gears, giving an amusing contrast in combination with the young face looking out from behind the visor.

  “Balding dwarves are not my type,” the woman retorted, laughing.

  “My hair is growing!”

  “Of course, of course. I believe that you believe in it,” Ruda teased. “Now seriously. You didn’t get me. Rustam, the easy mobility of the armor confused you. You fight, unconsciously forgetting what you’re wearing. You’re currently carrying eight hundred and forty kilograms of metal of varying quality. In it, you’re a projectile capable of crushing bones with a flick of the shoulder. Don’t be afraid of close combat. Weight is just a tool in combat. The length of my sword would make it harder for me to run you through while you could lean on the hilt of your knife. And we’ll knock the mistaken underestimation of your capabilities out of you. To the running course!”

  “Again?”

  “Not again, but once more.”

  Wooden panels rose and fell on their platform, blocking the path along which the crusader drove her protégé. At first, out of habit, he tried to crawl under or jump over the obstacles, but his knees broke through the first wooden partition, and his fingers split the top of another. Under the encouraging shouts of his mentor, surrounded by splinters, Rustam accelerated, going straight ahead and reminding Sylvie of an enraged porcupine ramming through the walls of a pen in search of the desired meat.

  A very reliable, responsible, and brave porcupine.

  She sat on the very top tier, pulling protective glasses and a breathing mask over her face. On the table in front of her were several trays containing tools and her current work. Merciful Master Carde personally invited her to participate in the restoration of ancient artifacts taken from raiders, and she happily agreed. Today she cleaned the rust off the typewriter, took it apart with a screwdriver, and checked the data against the catalog, regretfully discovering that the object was not an antique. It was a simple fake, manufactured by a company from the Reclamation Army.

  Dumb junk. She threw all the parts into a bag for the mechanics, who would then melt them down into something useful.

  Then she got lucky. Having cleaned off the fungus, dust, and residual traces of acid from a stone statuette the length of her hand, the girl carefully packed the object in a protective bag, nervously awaiting the call from the owner. By this time, the solution with which she treated the round plate had taken effect, and she carefully began to clean the rust off the surface, glancing at the others.

  Grisha was not here today; otherwise, he would have kept her company. Cenfus grabbed him for a medical examination after he twisted his ankle trying to run. Big deal, no reason to panic. If it had been up to the chief physician, he wouldn’t have let their friend out of the ward at all. Tsereg and Unni, who had come with her, showed no interest in the story and hooted from the middle tier, making fun of the sweaty Gosha and Decimus.

  Each foundling, as the soldiers unofficially called them, had electric multi-colored bracelets wrapped around their wrists, giving them limited access to different areas of the cruiser. Only Rustam had an unlimited level, allowing him to wander anywhere alone, and Sylvie was ready to bite her nails with envy. She knew the ship better than he did!

  Every morning she helped the others find their way to classes or rescued lost ones. Then, after stupid school, she headed to the security service, waited for one of the guards to be free to accompany her to collect chemicals and artifacts. Following that, she had a three-hour workday, and considering the hourly rate, the girl’s soul whined at the lost profit. To hell with the laws on so-called child labor, she wanted to earn enough for the best present for Dad!

  Heh. I almost believe they’ll let us go. With the tongs, she removed the peeling layer of compressed black mass and blinked when the light reflected off the yellow, untarnished hue. Gold? She was not entitled to work with precious metals, but curiosity was stronger. She continued to clean the dish.

  On the site next to Rustam and Ruda, the boys were training, snorting and trying to catch Ney as he eluded their jabs, trips, and blows. The knight encouraged them, recommending that they break his concentration, try to attack from both sides, and deny irritation a chance to overshadow their intentions. Sylvie didn’t really understand it, but she agreed with Tsereg, finding the spectacle funny. The fists slid harmlessly off the owner as he writhed and danced under the ferocious onslaught.

  Suddenly Decimus stopped, raised his hand, and brought it down on the floor with such force that the skin on his wrist split. He clutched at the wound, scooping up blood and splashing the red liquid into Ney’s eyes without wincing. The knight did not pause in surprise; he easily ducked, dodging the fanning-out droplets. Gosha fell to all fours, opening his mouth wide and inhaling so deeply that Unni, Yeshua, and Sylvie all cried out, asking if he was all right.

  They needn’t have worried. The Malformed’s sides bulged, stretching the bony growths and revealing his skin for the first time: dry, black, and elastic. To the girls’ delight, he screamed, concentrating the sound of monstrous power on Ney and causing the brushes on Sylvie’s table to jump. She grabbed them.

  “I’ll go deaf!” Sylvie didn’t hear her own words. The table was shaking, and circles were running in the puddles of cleaning solution. “Quiet! People are trying to work here!”

  “Cool! Super!” Unni and Tsereg squealed. “More, harder!”

  Ney closed his eyes, covering his face with his forearms. The sound tore at his jumpsuit, pulling out a notebook and pen and flattening them against the wall. Gosha pounced on the teacher, scrabbling his paws on the floor and moving like a predatory creature. His open mouth, flying drool, and empty eyes scared Sylvie for a second, then she grinned, looking around the training field.

  What a cheater!

  Decimus came up behind Ney, throwing himself at him when Gosha stopped screaming. The boys’ heads collided with a loud thud, missing the elegantly dashing aside instructor. Before they could fall, Ney grabbed them by the scruff of the neck.

  “Unusual, I admit,” he said. “I owe you the candy. Decimus, you clean the toilets today and tomorrow.”

  “I behaved well,” the Troll objected.

  “Mutilation is unacceptable,” Ney said sternly. “Have you ever seen other Trolls do that?”

  “We tear off ears and fingers all the time as kids.”

  “So you’re a little baby?” Unni laughed. “Loser! I saw through your plan from the start...” Tsereg nudged her in the side.

  “Decimus did the right thing,” the huge girl said. “Gosha was too obvious. Try harder, loser!” She coughed, staggering from Unni’s slap.

  “Why don’t you come down and tell us this face-to-snout!” Gosha roared.

  “Try harder if you want a kiss so much!”

  “The only kiss I want from you is the touch of my fist on your lips when I punch you in the face, fatass!”

  “It’s easy to judge from the outside,” Decimus noted. “Join us, sweat it out.”

  “Indeed,” Yeshua butted in. “You made a bunch of comments. Wouldn’t you like to demonstrate your best result?”

  “With pleasure!” the girls responded in unison, jumping down.

  Unni landed gracefully, arms outstretched, then stepped aside as Tsereg crashed in a heap on the floor, her toe caught on the railing. The white-skinned Blessed giggled, bounding toward the white-suited sariant. Sylvie lost sight of her as she sped up, becoming a snow-white ethereal snake slithering across the room.

  Yeshua ducked, dodging a kick aimed at the back of his head. His hand shot out, almost catching Unni by the collar as she twisted in midair, trying to catch his arm. Sylvie didn’t know what her friend was planning, but Yeshua’s fluidity drew her in. The sariant calmly grabbed his opponent’s wrist and hurled the groaning in frustration mutant onto the mat. Decimus clapped slowly. His wound had already healed.

  Tsereg rose to her feet, starting a run, tripping over her own legs. The folds of her skin bounced up and down as she sniffled and panted. She resembled a clumsy doll, sewn together from various blankets, slow and unintelligent. She fell before reaching Yeshua and reached for his ankle with her hands. The knight lifted his leg, and then the large girl reminded everyone of her speed.

  She swung her lower body, creating an arch with her legs, and almost caught Yeshua as he jumped up. Instantly switching from a clumsy incompetent to a hunter, Tsereg bounced off the floor, catching the sariant by the arm. But she couldn’t throw him over herself. His leg pressed into her spine, leveling the advantage he had gained, and his other leg swept the support from under Tsereg, and Yeshua tore his hand out of his grip and grabbed her neck, shoving the girl over with a strong jerk that shook the mats and produced a loud crash.

  “My sister was much better at conning me,” he said smugly. “Compared to her, you are amateurs.”

  “Be careful!” Ney shouted. “They are children; don’t hit them.”

  “Fret not,” the sariant responded. “We are obliged to deliver our charges to their new home or to their families. Do you really think so badly of me, Brother, if you think I will bring them with bloody noses and covered in unsightly bruises? Not a single chance! My sister couldn’t set me up, and they certainly won’t succeed!” Tsereg rose to her feet, cracking her neck, and Yeshua grinned. “You’re a Pureblood, right?”

  “That shouldn’t bother you. Yeshua, isn’t it?” Tsereg grinned, joining Unni. “Watch out. We’re serious now.”

  “Oops, I almost pissed my pants.” Yeshua rolled his eyes, and the girls rushed at him, stepping silently.

  They were clearly hoping to surprise him, but all they got were slaps on their cheeks.

  “Sylvie?” Carde’s voice pulled her out of her observation of the sparring.

  The master chomped, eating a gray mass of food in a small crevice outside the cruiser. The roaring storm, smashing rocks against the walls of the gorge, forced Sylvie to strain to hear the words coming from the bead in her ear, and his image from the lenses of the helmet opposite him was intermittently staticky. For two days, the commander had not washed or taken off his armor. Some sand had collected in her gorget, on his face, and even in his food. The hurricane had nicked his armor and torn his cloak. Still, there were no blue spots around his eyes, and his gaze was alert and penetrating, fixed on her.

  “Owner,” she began. A finger rose. “Commander Carde. I have come across a statue whose appearance almost matches the description of the products of a small country in the Old World. There are external differences, but probably the craftsman just...”

  “No buts,” said the master. “Sylvie, what does your gut tell you?”

  “There is no description of this culture in the database,” Sylvie said bluntly, taking the statue in her hands. “Look, the lines, these triangles, go up, not down, like the nomads. I compared the illustrations three times. These are different. Those people also revered left-handers and chastity. Even though the arms are broken, I’m sure this woman is holding out her right hand, and such a belly must mean that someone knocked her up. Too many things don’t add up.”

  “Fine eye, Sylvie,” the owner said cheerfully. “I’ll mention your participation. If you’re right, and we really have stumbled upon another lost page of history, you’ll be known as an archaeologist. Grabs good, doesn’t it?”

  She shrugged. Glory won’t feed you or protect you from a blow. Why would she need the gratitude of future generations when she is weak and insignificant now?

  “There is another important thing. I found Iterna.” She picked up the terminal, turning its camera to what she thought was a plate.

  It turned out to be an irregular circle, cut off by an unknown weapon. Not a single part of the dark surface was dulled, and, cleared of all unnecessary things, it looked perfect. Part of the branches, forming, Sylvie was sure, a solid tree, ran along the unknown alloy in golden waves. In the corner of this fragment, she found some kind of line, most reminiscent of a scale.

  “Iterna indeed.” The owner whistled. “Entropy has no power over their technology. I have not heard of any expeditions of theirs here. So how did it end up here?”

  “Stole from other lands.” Sylvie considered this obvious. “Or maybe it is from the Old World.”

  “No. Pay attention to the part of the snake. It is the symbol of the House of Barjoni, a trading corporation that rose after the Extermination. This rules out the assumption that this find remained from ancient times. In addition to their excellent solid-shell weapons, the Barjonis are known for their relentless debt repayment. Any idiot who dares to attack them soon finds a plasma bomb in his bed, and their mercenaries operate all over the world. No, if Latif had attacked their delegation, he would have been dead long ago. I will report to the magister; do not touch the object anymore. And thank you.”

  “Sir.” Sylvie blushed despite herself, pleased with the praise.

  Stretching her legs, she moved away from the table and took off her mask, breathing in the clean air. A little envious of the impossibility of joining the training, she noticed Gosha when he approached Ney as the man was changing into another set of clothes.

  “I heard we’re all going to be sent to an orphanage,” said the Malformed.

  “Not all, but those who have no one left,” the knight corrected. “This will allow you to get a fresh start. Don’t worry, the staff there are caring. The previous Order’s magister was an orphan.”

  “But I don’t… I need to go to the toilet. Stomach twist,” Gosha explained and headed for the exit.

  Sylvie watched him go, wondering if she and Rustam would be able to keep in touch upon their return. They won’t let us go, you fool! The strong are playing with us! The doubts seemed false even to her, and the girl thought about Iterna again, deciding to hope for the best.

  What could the Iternians be doing in this dump?