I was surrounded by an unfamiliar interior, but it gradually rose in my memory. There was that window with the thinnest white cloth, from which the whitish light streamed. The ancient stone walls. Opposite me hung a painting, or even an ancient, ornate tapestry depicting an ancient event – the landing of the Dawn expedition on the shores of Amber Island. A small but richly decorated room. There's my bedside chest, where my belongings lurk. Here was the plaster that had crumbled to the floor when K'Yoevghahn had slammed the door in his usual rude fashion yesterday.
I got up. It was unusual to feel unclothed as an undead assassin. After wrapping and securing the straps, I checked and set my crossbow forward. The locking mechanism was multi-shot. I lifted the crossbow's affix with my thumb, and beneath it was a branding with the Dwarven numeral three. A circle, symbolically representing the Titan, and three points in different directions. I see, so it's a three-shooter. It's the kind of fake that the dwarves of the Blue Mountains supply to the special guards of Kostegrad.
I shook it, "It's strong!" ran my eyes over the smooth wood once more and fastened it behind my back – it fit perfectly. I bent down. Sat down. It doesn't constrict movement – "just what you need". I took my hunter's bag from the back of the chair and left the room.
A servant of Count Feanoth's house approached me. If one paid attention to his demeanor, he must have never had to leave the castle in his life. He walked down the corridor with his fist clenched in front of him. I didn't understand these mannerisms. It's one thing to hold your hand up, defending yourself from the creatures of the cover, and another… "this."
"Hunter, are you awake yet?" He was thinking about something of his own, so he faced me nose to nose in the doorway, "What carelessness! On the other hand, maybe that's why we exist, to protect people like him. Those who can't stand up for themselves." I looked at him from head to toe, "Put him in that caftan against Ulrich, the fight would be over immediately. And the knight won't even spare such an inexperienced opponent. I wonder if he can overpower a hound? Yes, no! Where can he go!"
His eyes widened as they met mine. What he read in them was a mystery to me. The servant's voice trembled, "Count Feanot is waiting for you. Come along." He waved a graceful, slender hand in a white glove, inviting me to follow him politely. Turning on his heels so that he even made the hem of his clothes rise up, the servant, beating a rhythm with his heels, headed down the corridor in the right direction.
"I don't think you could kill even a perootle!" I shouted after him. "Oh! That would be a terrible insult. If I said it to Ser Wimal Yaniso, he would challenge me to a duel. Even the boys of the Order can slay the lowliest wretch from the lowest creature of the cover. What to speak of seasoned warriors like the white knight. Turtlenecks, gown and white collar… Ugh! How can you fight in that?"
"We all have a job to do, hunter." But this guy didn't even bat an eye. The man turned around politely, raised his hands and folded them in some special gesture, grasping the edges of his cuffs.
"What is this? Magic?" I squinted at the unusual gesture. "Maybe he's a court magician, just with a quirk," I thought to myself.
