“He will know. When I retired, I put all papers in order and left them to my successor. I didn't expect it to be him! And I left your case too. What for! Why did I do it! Everything is described there! That's it, Nik, in detail! There are your data, signs, recorded interrogation, my questions and your answers, every word, and how you behaved. What substances and drugs Balthazar injected you with. Your diagnosis. My personal conclusions based on interrogation. My conclusion is that I completely agree with the royal sages and seers and, of course, consider it appropriate to get rid of the suspicious half-blood. But first I proposed to make a laughing stock out of you, humiliate you, make you look like a fool, in order to show everyone that you are not the Son of the Devil, but an ordinary miserable person. And everything that is said about you is just stupid inventions, thought of to intimidate fools, and only ignorant commoners from Lower City can believe in them. So that the sirs have fun at the ball, and laugh. Well, and then, without trial and investigation, I offered to quietly rot you in a stone sack, writing off death for natural causes. And the king’s permission. He liked this idea. And that's all… Leonardo will read it all!”

“He didn’t read anything. Didn’t even look at these papers. He is not interested in this. So he thinks exactly as you wanted, that I am an ordinary half-blood, and everything that is said about me is just stupid inventions of commoners. And he, just like you, considers the king to be an old senile.”

“We will return to the Black City, Leonardo will take an interest in you, take your case and read it! What have I done!”

“And what will he read? That I am a half-blood slave from the command of Prince Arel?”

“I described your criminal biography…”

“What Zagpeace and everyone else know about me anyway? Will he read this? The supreme masters are not interested in this. You didn’t write there that I wasa Demon in a human body.”

“No, of course, I didn’t make such an categorical statement,” and, seeing that Nik was embarrassedly silent, Kors simply mentally conveyed to him the vision of the case, as he wrote it, page after page, realizing that the Demon will have time to perceive this information and understand everything and see what Kors wrote.

Nik was silent. And Kors’ heart was breaking.

“Get rid of him like rubbish, no longer attracting attention,” Nik said quietly, repeating Kors’ entry from his case.

And Kors, in despair, covered his face with his hands.

“You like to put everything on the shelves, you are neat,” said Nik, “well, to hell with that! He has not read it, and won’t read it. He doesn’t care.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Vitor, yes. Don’t worry like that, please. Everything will be fine.”

“I can’t,” said Kors, “I can’t…”

The fear of losing his love didn’t let him go.

He pushed Nik slightly away from him, peering into the faceless blackness of the mask and the narrow slits for his eyes. He saw how Nik was looking at him intently, how he blinked, and this made his light eyelids visible in the slits of the mask for a second, and the eyelashes almost rubbed against the edge and prevented him from blinking. Kors practically howled and inaccurately pulled off his mask, and Nik hissed barely audibly. Now Kors saw his white face, and the way Nick wrinkled his nose from the fact that Kors pulled off the mask from his face, involuntarily painfully pulled on his hair. Long bangs immediately fell on his forehead and eyes, obscuring them. Recently, Nik’s hair has always been clean and combed, and the bangs, cut by strands of different lengths, have become even more naughty.

The blonde strands that Kors loved so much were so thick and fluffy that they covered not only Nik’s right eye and cheek, as before, but literally the entire upper part of her face. And now Kors saw only his pierced lips with two thick carved half-blood rings.

“It seems like it’s time to cut your bangs,” Kors said with affection and as if thinking aloud, “or, maybe, leave it to grow some more…”

Slightly sliding it back, he ran his fingers into the roots of his hair, enjoying its color, softness and density, opening his bright devoted eyes, pressed his boy to his chest with force again and in despair began to sway from side to side, thus trying calm down and at the same time, as it were, rocking Nik. At some point, Kors very clearly heard Nik jerk sharply in his arms. This is what people do when they fall asleep, and Nik, from the affectionate hugs and rocking, fell asleep in Kors’ arms like a child. Kors felt how much Nik loved him. He was not worried or hurt by what Kors wrote about him. Nik trusted him, was not afraid of anything, he was with his tough and best father, and he was calm and happy. And, having caught these emotions in the head of his son, Kors, despite all the fears, felt boundless happiness. Nik considered him very brave, handsome, noble, true black, elite, the best. Nik was proud of him and the fact that he was his father. Kors couldn’t help crying again. Not daring to wake Nik, he awkwardly wiped away his tears and looked at Arel:

“Arel, I love you very much, you are also my son. Call me Vitor if you want.”

Arel got up and covered the stone flower jar with a rag. It became dark in the tent. The prince lay down next to Kors, and Kors, having neatly laid Nik down, hugged Arel. So he lay between them, hugging his boys to him:

“Everything will be fine, and a great future awaits us,” he said to Arel, apparently trying to convince himself of this not the prince, but himself.

Arel pressed closer to him, falling asleep, and Kors, hearing their measured breathing, also fell into a short and anxious sleep. Very soon he woke up. It seemed to him that he had dozed off for only a minute, but it was already dawn, and in the gray predawn haze Kors saw some terrible creature next to him. Very thin, like a skeleton, it seemed to consist of only sharp bones and ribs, tightly covered with shiny black skin with tightly attached scales, like a snake, and this vile creature, curled up into a ball, gently pressed against Kors. It lay next to him, very close, embracing him with several long, articulated appendages, like spider legs. Not yet fully awake, Kors involuntarily cried out, experiencing some indescribable deep horror, and, recoiling, he unconsciously pushed the abomination away from himself with force, also hitting the protruding ribs. At the same moment he heard a choked sob, and the darkness fell asleep. Kors looked at his boy with all his eyes, and he sat and looked at him. Yes, his body was thin and black from tattoos, but beautiful and not at all disgusting and his face was so familiar, and now it is also confused:

“Daddy… what's wrong with you?” asked Nik, stunned and even somehow a little scared, his hand involuntarily twitched several times.

“Gods, in my dream… I, it seems, have not yet fully woken up, and it seemed to me,” Kors looked tensely into his face, not understanding why he saw next to him instead of Nik this muck, what came over him, could the nervous state and fear made him felt like this? Nik, under his gaze, was completely embarrassed and bent his shaggy head low, not allowing Kors to look at himself anymore and look into his eyes.

Kors drew him closer:

“Sorry, I had a dream, God knows about what!”

“You hit me in the ribs so hard…” Nik’s voice was upset, “I don't understand…”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my little boy,” Kors gently patted him on the top of his head, “well, how shaggy you are,” he laughed tenderly.

“Vitor, let me, please, return the rings to my nose,” asked Nik, seeing that Kors again behaved as usual – caressed him, touched him and was kind. Therefore, he raised one of his eyes, not covered by hair, at Kors and looked inquiringly and pleadingly.

“Why do you need them? You don’t take off your mask anyway.”

“I'm taking it off.”

“Only when we are alone.”

“Oh please…”

“No!”

Nik covered his face with his hands, and Kors stared at his black hands, still involuntarily trying to cast aside his insane vision of a vile entity.

“You have a ring in each nostril,” he said, trying more to distract himself than actually listening to Nik. He wasn’t going to allow him to shamefully decorate his face again, and this conversation was completely useless, only Nik hadn’t figured it out yet.

“They are small, they don’t…”

“Don’t spoil you, yes.”

Nik sat huddled and said nothing.

“You’ll come with me to the halt today,” said Kors and Nik didn’t object, they did this from time to time. Kors put him in front of him on his horse and hugged him all the way, burying his face in the fluffy back of the head, and Nik turned his head slightly to the side and pressed against his chest.

Chapter 3

Their journey continued. And if in the Ore town Adrian spent all the time locked up, now Kors, on the contrary, didn’t let him go in the carts. He chained his slave to the cart with a long chain, and Adrian was forced to walk all the way. After so many days spent in a cramped cage, where it was impossible either to stand up to his full height, or even just to stretch his legs, but only to sit, crouching in a practically immobilized state, poor Adrian lost the habit of walking, and even more so to overcome such long distances at once and walk a lot of hours in a row. He stumbled, fell, he was in pain, and often at the end of the march, the exhausted slave simply dragged himself behind the cart, since the red brick road was smooth, without serious potholes and bumps. Kors still covered Adrian’s nakedness, but this gesture was rather purely symbolic, because Kors gave Adrian only a dirty shirt made of rough linen. The shirt was short, above the knee, and it was humiliating, because the master didn’t show any mercy to his slave and didn’t give him pants.

Disgraced Adrian tried not to bend too much, constantly pulling his short hem down to somehow cover his bare ass, and in front – a chastity belt. He tried to move carefully so that the already short shirt did not bulge up even more. With his head lowered, chained behind a collar, barefoot, with bloodshot legs, Adrian, with his last strength, trudged behind the elegant carriage of Kors, inside which, along with other riches of the Ore town, a red slave was locked. The girl also had a hard time: in a carriage crammed to overflowing with various goods, it was impossible to turn around, and Kors did not change his rules. Acting in his usual manner, he chained the slave to the wall, tied her hands behind her back and put his beloved on her head an attribute of humiliation – a dense black bag, as usual, tightened around the throat with a rope. The girl was deprived of the ability to move, see and breathe normally; only at the level of his mouth did Kors cut a small gap with a knife, and if not for this hole, the slave would inevitably suffocate in the unbearable stuffiness.

Prince Arel’s slave, Valentine, rode next to the coachman: the boy still wore a helmet, which, on Arel’s orders, was put on him back in the Limit. Then Verniy, although he was forced to obey, nevertheless selected for his pet the most comfortable and light helmet made of a material that is slightly breathable. But at the moment it didn’t save Valentine: the southern summer days were sunny, calm; there was often intense heat from early morning until evening. Constantly staying in a tightly laced, tightly wrapped helmet was painful. Valentine suffered from the heat and sweated under the dense material. No matter how hard he tried to lift the flap covering his mouth to relieve his condition, salty sweat ran down his parched, chapped lips onto his chin. The rays of the sun unbearably heated the black material and made the top of his head hot, by the end of the day bringing the boy almost to sunstroke. Verniy rarely received a key from Arel and could not unbutton his helmet and remove it from the exhausted slave so that he could get at least a little respite: he could refresh his face with water and wash off the sweat, wash and comb his hair, just take a break from the ever-squeezing vice. Valentine was deprived of these simple joys and therefore constantly scratched his head in unsuccessful attempts to calm the incessant itching. He scraped the tough material with his fingernails and tugged at the tight lacing on the back of his head with his fingers, trying to somehow pull the tight-fitting helmet crust away from his face and hair. He was hot, stuffy, uncomfortable, and the heavy slave collar on his throat did not add comfort. But the poor fellow couldn’t help it, and anyway, he was in a better position than Adrian or the red girl.

In the evening, Valentine looked after them, having finished with business: when the sirs finally left him alone, he opened the cart and gave the girl water. The slave girl practically didn’t move, and sometimes, when Valentine made his way to her in the depths of the carriage through the heaps of chests and bales of wealth, it seemed to him that she was dead. He called out to her, and then the unfortunate woman still moved sluggishly and took a sip of water. Kors didn’t feed his slaves at all, so that they would not defecate and cause trouble on the road, but Valentine took with him a piece of bread that had been stolen from the master's table, thrust it through the crack in the sack and said:

“Eat, eat…”

But she didn’t eat. And Adrian also refused to eat. Both the girl and the unclean were so exhausted that a piece couldn’t go down their throats, they were not at all interested in bread. Adrian only drank water: a lot, hastily and greedily. Having drunk the horses, Valentine always left water for him: he brought in a bucket, as much as possible. Fortunately for Adrian, Kors at that time was already busy with “his boys” and didn’t see the pleasure with which his slave quenched his thirst, otherwise he would have immediately deprived him of this little. However, Valentine was smart and knew: while the sirs are busy, you need to do everything carefully and quietly.

Kors saw some unclean ones approaching Adrian at the halts. Former friends looked at his disfigured face and barely covered body with pity and silently walked away, but there were those who scoffed, stared at him unceremoniously and spit out humiliating jokes. A couple of times Kors watched as they kicked Adrian, and one unclean hit him hard in the stomach. Kors didn’t interfere; he knew these warriors, their names were Mador, Thalbus and Cazul. Despite the fact that they, like Nik, always hid their faces and didn’t take off their masks, Kors still distinguished them and, according to his professional habit, remembered their names. He understood long ago that what was considered shameful among people was exactly the opposite for the unclean. The mask, tattoos and piercings were not at all signs of “inferior”, but Kors couldn’t accept this completely, and he wanted his son to live according to human laws and among people. He also noticed that often among themselves the unclean were divided into groups of ten or twelve warriors, and these three were just from such a dozen. For an incomprehensible reason for Kors, they called each other “night dukes”, and these, in his opinion, unjustifiably pretentious titles only made the noble black laugh.

Ten night dukes had a bad temper and obeyed their superior unclean, and that one obeyed Parky and, accordingly, Kors. Mador and the rest of his comrades were famous for their ferocity and bestial incontinence, even among their no less aggressive fellow tribesmen. They always found the slightest reason for a fight, and if they didn’t find it, they fought for no reason, since they were arrogant and angry. Kors interrupted these endless skirmishes, and unclean dukes often had the pleasure of feeling the taste of blood on their teeth after his iron bar. But in general Kors was pleased with them, since, despite their minor flaws, they were strong and fearless warriors and proved themselves to be excellent in battles; and in Ore town they carried out executions with particular pleasure, torturing peaceful citizens who did not fulfill the new law. Therefore, Kors indifferently watched as they mocked his slave: how Adrian writhed on the ground, how he tried to shrink and crawl away from the tormentors. Kors didn’t interfere with these entertainments, and one evening just like that, as a reward, he even gave them unfortunate Adrian for a couple of hours, thus encouraging the dukes for faithful service.

Adrian was broken: he shuddered cautiously at any person or unclean, covered his tattooed face with his palms, lowering his head low. Kors saw that Adrian could not bear humiliation with dignity, he was ashamed of himself – he was pathetic. But, however, the coward never asked for mercy and did not beg for leniency, thus at least a little deserving the favor of his master.

It was morning, and the unclean ones were packing their camp, preparing to set out on the road.

“Fix your skirt, bitch,” one of the warriors threw in a laugh, passing by Kors’ cart and Adrian strapped to it. The latter, shrinking, tried to pull the short hem of his shirt over his bleeding knees. Nik, who had just left the tent, yawned and, looking skeptically at what was happening, said:

“Dress him, Vitor, eh?”

“No. Dignity returns with clothing and hair,” Kors replied.

He looked at his Nik. Although it was still morning and Nik had just got ready (and even seemed to have done it diligently), he still looked messy: somehow untidy and sloppy. It seemed to Kors that this stupid, bad nature of his son was manifested in everything: even in appearance, no matter how Kors tried to ennoble him. Kors himself, who looked perfect during the campaign, didn’t understand how Nik manages to do this. And it annoyed him.

Adrian, realizing that they were talking about him, immediately knelt in front of the sirs, his head lowered and huddled into a ball.

“Adrian, tell me something nasty!” Asked Kors. “Tell me, I order you! Insult your master; I swear I won’t do anything to you, I just want to see how brave you are, you coward, a-ha-ha. Pathetic little coward, huh? Can you insult me? Are you afraid? I wait!”

“Damn you,” Adrian said through clenched teeth.

And Kors laughed contentedly:

“Good! I wanted to tell you to shave your head bald, but now I won’t. May your noble father see you in all your glory.”

“Do you think Adri is Leonardo’s son?” Nik asked.

“Am I mistaken?”

“And if you are mistaken?”

Kors turned pale:

“Who is his father?!”

Nik shook his head.

“I can only lead to a thought, I can’t say that, forgive me.”

“Heck! Then he is completely useless!”

“Besides Leonardo, there are other noble blacks…”

“And how can I find his father?”

Nik smiled.

“Just as you always do it – watch through his life.”

“His childhood. Yes!” Agreed Kors, but nevertheless he was greatly annoyed that his assumptions and the hopes and plans for revenge connected with it turned out to be incorrect and empty.

“Are you upset?” Nik asked.

“Hell yes! I don’t want to watch his worthless life! And why do I need another true black? I need Leonardo. Now that doesn’t make any sense!”

“Does Leonardo have children at all?”

“As far as I am informed, his children were weak and died in infancy, none of them survived to adulthood.”

“Sadly…”

“Not at all sad!”

“And Salaf has no children, and Zagpeace and Prince Ariel – only you have children, but they are not purebred.”

“Prince Ariel will now, thanks to the diamonds of Ore town, restore his ruined estate, happily marry some noble black woman and continue his family, I have no doubt. Varakh has a son and two daughters. However, the girls are twins, and this is also considered a sign of degeneration.”

“Does Daniel Crassus have heirs?”

Kors shook his head.

“His son died in the war with the Reds, Daniel took this loss hard.”

“It’s a pity.”