Time Of Traitors

1

A bell rumbled from the side of the cathedral square, announcing the end of another day. People - living and dead - involuntarily added a step. A prickly drizzle charged, and the outlines of the houses blurred, floated along the dirty streets. The first peals of thunder rolled along the horizon - a storm was promised.

The coming October tirelessly undermined the day. Early winter breathed after him, which, hand in hand with toothy winds, brought people of various occupations under the roofs of the city: pilgrims and merchants from the East, fallen maidens and gypsies, preachers and predictors of the Third End of the World, breters and mercenaries, merchants of holy relics and Lords of iron - many, many rogues that the Saved Kingdoms are so rich in.

Among these waves of playboys, Cres walked invisible. His tall figure under a fur hat flashed in the dim rays of the setting sun. His path lay along black pits, on the site of which there was once a great number of haunts - until recently Brokeback Street was famous for them. A group of children of the last victorious slaughter crowded in a cavalcade along the wall of one of the houses. Slanting and lame, they stretched out their hands, grabbing the clothes of anyone who escaped from the rain fast enough. One of the beggars, an old man in a faded uniform hung with clusters of faded medals, ventured to try his luck and, as if by chance, brushed Kres with his shoulder:

“To the glory of our Savior…” he habitually sang, drowning his crutches in a viscous puddle.

Cres bent over his ear and whispered a few words. The dim windows of the shack behind him reflected the gleam of a couple of coins and a wrinkled face that was instantly contorted.

The old man drew his bushy brows together in concentration and pointed the stump of his thumb at a gap behind him that could only be called an alley in jest. Cres thanked the beggar with another worn coin and, bowing his head low, like a sinner in a confessional, descended the boardwalk.

The sun went down over the edge of the roofs. The ringing of bells shook the city for the last time.

The path went deep into the yard gut; where the night darkness lurks like a wild beast. The noise of Brokeback Street was instantly bogged down in the mass of houses, choked in the viscous swamp underfoot. The street breathed dully in the back of Cres: the echoing tunnel, formed from a dirty gateway, was filled with sounds. Every crevice in the wall and dark corner breathed menace. Cres involuntarily quickened his pace when he caught an unkind muttering behind him. The hand itself lay on the whip under the cloak. It smelled like a sewer.

The desired house lurked in a dead end. A heavy sign with a harlequin gave him away. In one hand, he clutched a jagged cleaver, the other raised his own severed head high by the hair. A cheeky grin broke out on his face. A black liquid dripped from the iron hinges of the sign onto the ground.

At that moment, something grabbed Kres's sleeve.

Your love warms my pocket.

Cres lowered his chin slightly. Something shapeless and torn dangled from the boy's narrow shoulders. Her greasy tousled hair looked like a crow's nest. Two thorns in front of his eyes, thin - he looks about six years old at most.

"I'm afraid you can't afford my love," Cres muttered in a hoarse, hissing voice. It seemed to come out of his throat with an effort.

“Don’t be afraid for my pocket,” the street breeze grinned impudently, not letting go of his sleeve. – It is better to hold on to your Love and share it with me.

“Sharing with you was not part of my plans,” Cres sighed. “And what makes you think that you will like my love?”

– Why not? After all, Love is the same for everyone.

– Is that how? And what is it?

“Money,” the molestation bared a discordant row of a dozen teeth.

“Smart boy,” Kres grinned, rummaging through his pockets.

- I am a girl!

Before the coin had time to make even a dozen turns in the air, tenacious paws picked it up.

- You don't value your Love very much!

“That's enough for you,” Kres said, and went to the doll shop. At the door, he involuntarily turned around: from the girl there were only two prints on the greasy dirt. Cres could have sworn he didn't hear the squelching of bare feet. The beggar vanished like a ghost.

The door chimed with the chime of a bell. A stingy streetlight stepped into the tiny shop, lit by a single light on a table. The room was clamped on all sides by long, tall racks. With their tops they went high up to the ceiling and dissolved there in the darkness. As soon as Cres crossed the threshold, the front door closed by itself and left the guest alone with the inhabitants of the shop.

Hundreds and hundreds of dolls for every taste and budget met the visitor from the sagging shelves. They sat on the shelves in two or even three rows, their legs dangling absurdly in a childish way. Many powdered noble ladies in bright dresses and bouffant hairdos. Beautiful long-legged knights with sharp, sparkling swords. Against them, white-toothed gypsies froze in a frantic dance: men girded with blood-red sashes, and women in puffy, swollen skirts - guitars and cards in their hands. Harlequins and executioners, princes and beggars.

Having walked deep into the store, the visitor found himself surrounded by these creatures and more and more different faces were revealed to the eye. Cres was not a fan of various curiosities and trinkets, but his eyes involuntarily clung to one or another masterfully made toy. And the longer he peered into their clay faces and tenacious beady eyes, the sooner and more clearly he caught in them, along with childish charm, something frightening. Especially strange were the eyes, sparkling like fireflies in the forest, steadily following every step of the guest.

And then one doll, like the brightest star in the dark sky, captured his attention. Cres reached out and pulled out a figure in an inconspicuous black cloak. For a simple toy, it was quite heavy, under the clothes the torso turned out to be soft and pliable. Long black hair fell from under a shaggy hat. Swamp-colored eyes shone slyly from a pointed, pale face. On the doll's cheek, cold and smooth, grew a tiny fluff, like on the skin of a peach. The puppet boy would have been as handsome as a fairy-tale prince, if not for the wry expression of his lips, as if he understood what the devil's joke was, but was afraid to laugh, so as not to frighten his comrades.

With a sinking heart, Cres began to pull off one of the leather gloves from the doll. So it is - on the back of the pale palm shone a black star with a disgusting grinning muzzle.

Did you see someone you know?

In surprise, Kres turned around sharply, almost releasing the puppet of their hands. In front of him stood a little man in a green, soiled clothes - he jumped out as if from nowhere. He could easily be mistaken for one of the dolls, if not for the lively, wet eyes that looked at the guest with undisguised interest, looking out from under the cap of matted hair. With his long, hooked nose, he looked like a dirty crow on a perch. The lower half of the face was covered with a high collar. The little man put his hands behind his back and, with a masterly look, began to sway on his toes.

- Do not rush, choose! he shouted, making an inviting gesture. The voice was so thin that it would easily suit a girl. – I am sure that here you can easily find what your soul so desires. Do you want a gift for yourself? Beloved? Daughter? If you find it difficult to decide, then you are welcome to follow me to the back room. We can find something more interesting there. If you have special predilections, then I think we will figure it out here.

“No, thank you,” Kres muttered under his breath, unable to tear himself away from his find. Did it seem to him, or did the eye of this thing really squint in the direction of the puppeteer?

“Interesting things cost a lot of work,” the little man winked mysteriously. -These beauties require special skills, and only then they turn out the way you want to see them.

- So frightening?

“So frighteningly beautiful ,” the puppeteer corrected him with a chuckle in his voice. “After all, to give these cuties a special character, to breathe life into them and make them speak , a lot of work is required. Unfortunately, there are few people here, but this allows me to deal with them to my heart's content. But diligence pays off. Each of these babies has their own special story. Here, take this one.” He nodded at the doll in Kres's hands. “When I was doing her, she whispered her story in my ear. Very beautiful, sad story. Do you want to hear it?

Before Cres could answer, the doll seemed to leap into its maker's arms. For some time the puppeteer stood, pressing the toy to his ear.

- Really? How sad... Did you hear?! Poor creature! The little man shook his head. The kid has been through so much. So many humiliations and hardships: he committed terrible deeds for those whose lips do not dry out from blood, he was driven through the forests, and then years of senseless wanderings and slavery. They branded him like a dog!

The walls of the room with the dolls sitting on the shelves seemed to take a step forward - closer to the speakers, not wanting to miss a single word.

“And how much my little friend endured on his way to me,” the puppeteer continued to squeal. - Imagine: he came here from afar! From that place, which is scary to even hint at ... in our turbulent times.

The puppeteer put the doll to his ear again and whispered something to her.

“Uuu…really?” he continued. What an unfortunate girl. This must happen! Such a thing to do with the poor thing, but the poor boy wanted the best! And after that, he was forced to hunt for sick children ... Sir? I see you are pale. It's just a story. Story! It's amazing how often people get offended by fairy tales, especially when you yourself tell them that this is a fairy tale, even if there is some terrible truth in each .

The swindler uttered the last phrase with special pressure. Kres' heart was already fluttering with might and main. He rushed forward, intending to grab the little man by the scruff of the neck, but he caught the void - the puppeteer had already disappeared among hundreds and hundreds of his creatures. Cres walked quickly towards the exit, but quickly discovered that the door was lost among the broken, buckling shelves, and finding it now would be much more difficult than finding a pin in this cramped, dark, dirty shack. In an instant, something subtly changed and the shop turned into an abandoned labyrinth littered with dusty toys, and new inhabitants appeared on the shelves.

When Kres was just taking his first steps on the rotten floor and examining the shelves, somewhere deep inside, a desire to escape from this place flashed. But he could not accurately guess the reason, so he considered this cowardice, not worthy of attention. Something frightened him. It was something sitting there, closer to the ceiling, hidden by darkness. And now it descended as the darkness grew thicker, as if it could really be grabbed by its spiky beard. As if on cue, a downpour rumbled outside the window. Underfoot something moved, something creaked under the soles, clung to the trouser leg with claws.

“Did I hurt you, sir… Cres?” - flashed the voice of the puppeteer from the fat darkness, teeming with something clumsy and toothy.

- How do you know my name? Who are you? Kres blurted out, stepping back to the only lighted wall that wasn't occupied by a rack of dolls. But even behind it something tossed and scraped, trying to escape.

Kres felt dizzy: the puppeteer's voice sounded from one side, then from the other. The puppets themselves seemed to speak to him, moving closer and closer, snapping at his every move.

“I'm just a puppeteer, lord,” came a voice from behind the wall through gnashing of teeth. - I'm just a fan of all sorts of stories and fairy tales. I know a lot of them: about everything and about everyone. Want a different story? He knows a lot of them. For example, he can tell about one mediocre gray-haired scoundrel with whom our hero had to spend many years. Vile vampire henpecked?! Don't do it, dear!

“I didn’t come to listen to fairy tales,” Kres said decisively, unwinding a long whip. The floorboards in front of him cracked and bent under heavy hooves, threatening to crack. "Come on, you damn bastard!"

- What jokes are there, Mr. Cres, - the little man humbly stepped out of the darkness into a circle of light and immediately the fuss in the dark died out. “I just thought I'd have some fun. Cheer up! I told you that rarely anyone comes here. I wanted to tell a story. And stories, they demand to be told. They don't like, you know, collecting dust on the shelves.

“You will tell stories to girls in a tavern,” Kres replied gloomily, slowly reeling in the whip. "What the hell is this anyway?"

Are you talking about my friends? The puppeteer blinked in disbelief. “Looks like they scared you a lot. But the hostess told me that you are not a shy guy.

- Where's she? I just…

“I know why you are here,” the puppeteer interrupted him. “Trust me, sir, otherwise you would have passed by and not noticed our colorful sign. How is she to you, by the way?

“Ugly, just like your friends.” Take me to your mistress. Somehow I didn’t want to buy this dirty trick, - Kres pointed his finger at the toy, which the puppeteer was still holding in his hands.

“It’s a pity…” the puppeteer sighed and put the toy back in its original place. “And Mrs. Koch is not here right now, I’m sorry.” He scratched his eyebrow in a businesslike manner and raised a finger. “Although, I can arrange everything if you promise to listen to another story…”

"Come here, you little bastard!"

This time, Kres certainly expected to grab him and never let him go.

- Well, as you say, - the puppeteer squeaked and, for the second time, dodging his hands, disappeared into the darkness.