POV Simeon
"Here," Visam said tensely. He briefly pointed his finger at the edge of the overgrown garden. The garden bordered a house with cracked walls, which was securely hidden behind a sturdy brick fence. Simeon glanced at the Inquisition knights who had dismounted.
Menellanna took position deep in the garden. Kneeling, the elf placed an arrow on her bowstring and froze motionless among the bushes. Her cloak, yellow as sand, changed to gray-green and blended with the leaves and thin branches.
At the other end, the hunter Drevin had positioned himself, resting his heavy crossbow on his shoulder, aiming it at the gate.
Specialist Irwin stayed outside, lazily leaning against the fence, his head lowered so as not to scare passersby with his half-mad grin. Simeon knew that, if needed, the specialist would immediately alert them to danger, and if things took a turn for the worse, he would strike unsuspecting enemies in the back.
Knights Brain, Raymond, and Erik were dismounting a mage who had lost touch with reality, casting gloomy glances at his companions. Jake hadn't lied – the invisibility spell cast on the entire group had drained all his strength, and even much more.
And although the knights were in a hurry, storming the city like a hurricane and scattering the residents with their horses, the mage's spiritual energy had only lasted two-thirds of the way. He made it through the final stretch by borrowing energy from his own body.
Simeon followed Visam. The messenger leaned down and began feeling around in the tall grass. A chain clinked. Visam tensed, exhaled sharply, and the ground immediately rose with pale roots, lifting to reveal a hidden passage.
"Go," the messenger said, breathing heavily. One hand held the chain wrapped around his fist, while the other held the turf that was sliding off the hatch cover.
Simeon bent down, groaning slightly as he crouched, then chuckled softly—no need to pretend with his own people. The monk sucked in his stomach and nimbly slipped inside, bending at an angle that even a young acrobat might struggle to maintain. Simeon didn't bother stepping onto the wooden ladder. He simply jumped down.
***
His boots hit the stone floor. The monk crouched slightly, and when he straightened up, he nearly bumped his head against the low ceiling.
"Straight ahead," came a voice from above, "Twelve steps ahead, then left."
The hatch closed with a dull thud. Dirt mixed with dust from the air pressure fell onto Simeon's head.
"Of course," the monk muttered, shaking the dirt off his shaved crown. "Of course..."
The monk quickly recalled the messenger's height, his walking style, and confidently proceeded down the narrow corridor, which was plunged into complete darkness. Exactly twelve steps later, Simeon turned left, brushing his elbow against the protruding wall. The air smelled of fresh wind, smoke, and oddly, oil. Simeon stretched his hand out and pushed against the stone.
No, you won't trick me. The second line, in case the enemies find the tunnel. The monk pressed his shoulder against the wall, lightly at first, then leaned all his weight into it.
The wall gave way, rotating on its axis and revealing a tiny room lit by the flickering flame of a lone candle. On the left wall was a small table piled with papers, above which, on a low shelf, stood a jug of Ardaluz oil. It was also known as "sea fire," "liquid flame," or... a precious seasoning for the jaded tastes of gourmets.
On the right wall, there was a skillfully drawn map of the city, marked with numbers and intricate squiggles. On the ceiling, a ventilation shaft was covered with a grate. A very large shaft, it must be noted.
Rip the grate off, pull yourself up, and the shaft becomes another exit if you're agile enough, of course. Like the dark-skinned man in a plain robe who stood facing Simeon, hiding a short knife in his sleeve.
"Dangerous company, my friend," Simeon grumbled. "A candle, papers... and Ardaluz 'seasoning.'"
"You think so, exalted master?" sang Akil in a sweet Shivan accent, casually tossing the blade onto the papers. "In my humble opinion—excellent. A single awkward, completely accidental move of your humble servant, and everything will be consumed by fire. The papers, the table, unwelcome guests. By the way, the upper shaft is double. Pull yourself up, close the plug, and the airflow goes one way. I go the other..."
"I see, Akil, you've prepared well for the local guards," said the monk, taking a step toward the unremarkable man. "By the way, before we get down to business, tell me, what should I call you? Akil... or Arthur de Shtanski, also known as Brother Arturius?"
Akil smirked.
"Call me whatever you like, Simeon," he said without any accent. "To be honest, I'm so glad we've met, you can call me a pot if you like. Just don't throw me into the oven."
He spread his arms and embraced the monk. Simeon did not hold back, returning the hug firmly.
"Oh, how you've grown! But I can feel you haven't lost your strength," said Arthur, patting Simeon on the back. "Enough, monastery brother, you're breaking my ribs. If we ignore the width and the wrinkles, you haven't changed a bit."
"Well, you have changed, Brother Arturius," rumbled Simeon, loosening the hug. "The tan, the manners. Just like one of the locals. Hard to believe we were both novices in the same monastery."
"Work demands it," Arturius shrugged. "Then the mask grows firmly attached to the body. And you no longer know where the foreign guise ends and your own begins. Do you believe it, Brother Simeon? I almost forgot what our sacred Order's land looks like. I saw it in a dream about five years ago, then... it was gone."
"Don't you want to return?"
"No. Arthur de Shtanski doesn't care where to praise the Exalted One. Akil can't bear food without the local spices. As for Arthur de Shtanski... who will remember Arthur de Shtanski? To be honest, I don't even remember what he was like before becoming a monk. But enough about me, Junior Magister Simeon. Honestly, I'm surprised and troubled: you've come all the way to such remote lands. What brings you here?"
"We'll get to that," Simeon said seriously. "We do have things to worry about, my brother. But first, I need information about the current situation."
Arturius rubbed his chin and fell silent for a moment. The Junior Magister didn't interrupt him, allowing his old comrade to gather his thoughts.
"I'll be honest, Simeon," Arturius said, frowning. "You arrived at a very bad time. Kharezmi from Jumbria, through whom all our reports came, sold himself to the Emirate like a whore for a shiny coin. The locals captured the messenger working with this thread. I had to cut off the ends, and I cut them off hard. Like a tree with a rotten root.
I've eliminated more than half of my network because the dead keep their tongues better than the living. Now I have few people, especially in the ranks of the guard. And Goddess be with the people! Worse still, we lost the ability to send reports," Arturius gestured toward the stacks of papers.
"A couple of times, I sent people through the desert to Al-Gord, but apparently none of them made it. I sincerely hope their lifeless bodies were buried by sand, because, unlike mamono, sand can't twist the soul. In any case, nothing came of it."
"That's unfortunate, my brother," sighed Simeon. "All that effort wasted because of one greedy, sinful soul. Half a year, right?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything especially important?"
"Depends on what you're interested in," Arturius said, crossing his fingers under his chin. "The most important news is the closure of the Magicians' Academy. The Emir thought the local sorcerers were plotting a conspiracy, but he was too scared to go against them openly.
Instead, the ruler forbade the magicians from taking new apprentices and scattered the mentors across the Emirate. And I think many of them are already dead: some were strangled, others had their heads cut off for insufficient enthusiasm, for missed prayers—there's always a reason, especially if you look hard enough!"
Simeon had perfect control of his expression. He gave no sign of his anger, only subtly clenched his teeth. A long journey through the sands, a day and a half without food, almost without water—and all for nothing!