"How come you're in charge of the tavern?"
Kalim asked the question when his house was far enough away to make it boring to walk in silence. The candle in his hand hissed from time to time if a drop of water fell on the wick.
"You weren't the only one who needed helpю" Cyril said, clutching a map of the capital. "Why doesn't the candle go out? And matches, too."
Kalim nodded with satisfaction at the question on his favorite topic. Playing with fire, deceiving fire, using fire, fire dance in burning flames - the alchemist adored fire almost more than alchemy itself.
"It's all about the special impregnation." Kalim said. "My wet matches burn even better than dry ones. Although King Phalos is against alchemy because he supports the magicians of the Pure Heel clan, he actively buys up my toys. However, he is sure that it is magic of magicians, and my intermediary doesn't hurry to convince him of the opposite."
Kalim laughed merrily, shaking under his robe. Several dogs in the distance responded with loud barks.
The rain had finally stopped by this time, but clouds still covered the sky, blocking out the moonlight. The shattered shacks on either side were buried in mud and squalor.
"I could even buy a normal house." The alchemist smiled under his hood. "But I'm safe here."
Cyril nodded. He understood that the God-forsaken slums would be perfect for forbidden activities.
"In my homeland, illegal substances were also brewed in remote basements."
Although the rain had stopped, Cyril was no warmer, but he was beginning to get used to the cold. His right hand was clutching an old map, and his left hand was carefully carrying the bartender's oil lamp. His knuckles were blue, his feet were covered with boots made of a sticky mixture of shit and earth, and his naked penis had shrunk to the size of a pea.
'My endurance affects an ability to tolerate hypothermia.' Cyril guessed. 'Any person would have long ago ossified in such conditions.'
"Where are you from, anyway?" The alchemist asked, amused.
"From a distance." Cyril said, not wanting to waste his energy on chatter.
"Hey, it's not fair." The hood turned to him in the light of a burning candle. "I've already told you so much, even shared the main secret, and you don't tell anything about yourself."
There was a hint of resentment in Kalim's voice, and for good reason. However, where there was room for this guy's emotions, Cyril saw no reason to worry.
At first, when the mysterious hood stopped him in the tavern, Cyril thought he was a classic crook. These guys are always ready to cut your wallet, and, at the same time, cut your kidneys, as soon as you complete the order.
Then he quickly took the situation into his own hands, forcing the herbalist to pay for lunch and breakfast in the room. The trick with the second beer convinced Cyril that the herbalist could easily close his mouth. The care with which he drew the reference book spoke of the herbalist's passion for his work. Cyril loved working with accurate people.
However, fear of the bartender and outbursts of emotion on the way here made Cyril doubt his reliability. The alchemist could love his work, but excessive emotion spoke of youth and weakness of spirit.
A couple of days ago, Cyril wouldn't have noticed this, but he decided to become stronger. And first of all it concerned the ability to cope with yourself. Assess the risks, do not rush either at the enemy or from your foe, if the escape does not guarantee success.
Cyril wanted to resurrect the mechanic, and hoped the alchemist would manage. However, he wasn't sure if this youngster wouldn't cause him more problems.
'I've had enough of Clara.' Cyril thought, slapping the mud. 'More intimacy means more problems.'
"I'm still not sure who I can trust here." He said in response to Kalim's question.
"But that's stupid." The alchemist said, genuinely surprised. "We are accomplices, aren't we?"
"It's not more stupid than jumping in a cart." Cyril said with a grim smile. "How far is it to Carpenter street?"
"Half an hour." Kalim said, looking around.
A faint light from a window fell on a wall of a stone house. The road was no longer a stream of shit mixed with rain and logs, and the rotten shacks were replaced by squat but sturdy houses.
Cyril opened the map, that was ready to crumble.
"Where are we?" He asked, coming closer.
Kalim shone the candle at the risk of burning the paper and pointed on the map.
"We've left the vicinity of the Prison district and are entering the land of successful craftsmen." He said, in the same tone of satisfaction as he had spoken of the king's matches.
"Where is the tavern and where do we go?"
Kalim pointed to both places, and Cyril nodded. He put the paper away from the flames and studied the detailed map. In the lower-right corner, in a curving handwriting, was the inscription: 'Bardos. Kingdom of Hewman.'
"There's a typo in the title." He muttered under his breath.
The alchemist heard his remark and burst out laughing again.
"Ahaha, right." He laughed. "But if there was ever a monk who knew how to spell it correctly, he's long dead. The last time the name of the Kingdom in an old form was found in scrolls written four hundred years ago. That's when the Clean Heel clan founded this city."
The city was an almost perfect circle, divided into equal parts like a birthday cake. Cyril noticed a dozen images of a fountain or a water source gushing from the ground. One of these seemed to indicate the baths where he had met Clara.
They had just left the Prison district and crossed the border into the Craftsmen district. This piece of cake was intersected by Carpenter street.
Soon Cyril could twist the map back together, recognizing the place where they had alighted from the carriage. A little ahead of them, the fence was hidden in the shadows. There he and Clara had been hidden from the maddened horses and the fleeing crowd.
At the thought of Clara, Cyril felt a strange uneasiness.
'She should have been back by now.' He thought. 'I hope she's all right.'
"We are here." He said, as the outline of the shattered walls appeared against the dark. "There are some people there."
Cyril whispered the last sentence so that only the alchemist could hear. The alchemist's candle was almost out, but there were streetlights in the area. The street lamps could not illuminate the courtyard, so Kalim was surprised.
"Where? I can't see anything in the dark." He said, peering into the gloom.
He could make out the walls of the barn, the outline of the house with no light in windows, and even the outline of the barn, but he could not see the people.
Cyril was in no hurry to share secrets, so he simply asked Kalim for a candle. He held the candle flame to the Dyck's oil lamp, lit the lamp, and held it high above his head.
"They'll notice us." The alchemist said, shrinking back into his hood like a tortoise.
"Hey, guys!" Cyril shouted at the top of his voice. "Out there in the yard! Hi there!"
Cyril's voice woke up the neighborhood dogs and roosters. The shadows near the barn moved, and a counter light appeared.
"What are you doing?" Kalim whispered, looking for a hidden ditch. He would have shrunk into his own boots and disappeared into the darkness rather than risk being seen.
There, in the tavern, he told Cyril he was practicing alchemy because he had seen the stranger's situation. A man in poverty, unable to feed himself, would not turn Kalim over to the authorities. At least as long as the alchemists were not hunted. With other people, Kalim preferred to confide as little as possible.
"I'm working on trust." Cyril said, and started walking toward the wrecked hangar.