"Double bed?" Angel asked with a smile. Actually, on Ragnihotri's bed, you could arrange a row of Angel, uncle, Longsdale, his hound, and still there would be place for Margaret.
"I hope at least you will lie quietly on the bed for a while," she grumbled, seating the mentor on a snow-white bed in lace. His knees buckled at the last moment, and he did not so much sit down as fell on the blanket, grabbing the girl by the hand. Angel's eyes drifted. Margaret hastily laid Redfern down on the pillows, and he finally allowed himself to breathe and close his eyes.
"How emaciated..."
His head sank into a lush pillow, and this made his face look quite thin; the black stubble only accentuated the hollows of the cheeks and the tight skin on the nose, chin and jaw. As soon as the burning dark eyes were closed, he became an exhausted, mortally tired man, as if the fire that supported him had died out.
Margaret poured lemon water from a carafe in a steel holder on the wall into a cup and lifted Angel's head to touch the rim of the cup to his lips. With an effort he opened his eyelids, saw the water and began to drink greedily. There was a tray on the carpet, soft crispbread around it. The girl's stomach rumbled hungrily.
"More!.."
She poured him more water. Angel drank to the bottom and dropped his head on the pillow.
"Tired," he muttered under his breath. Margaret wanted to get up to find food and pain relievers, but the mentor suddenly squeezed her hand.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "Margaret?"
She gently ran her hand through his hair. Redfern pressed his cheek to her hand, tingling it with stiff stubble.
"I shouldn't have let something like this… happen to you."
"Angel..."
"I had to protect you... and I could not... What the hell am I good for, if I can't even do it!" he hissed angrily and suddenly added: "You despise me. You have the right. Now."
Margaret hugged him and kissed the dark curls of hair behind his ear. Angel shuddered weakly and looked into her eyes in disbelief. The girl's head was suddenly dizzy with weakness, and Margaret, trembling tiredly, stretched out next to him. Angel put his good arm around her and touched the top of her head with his lips.
Lord, he couldn't protect me! She thought. What would have happened to me if he hadn't… - he clung closer to her mentor.
They lay there, not moving, until Miss Sheridan mustered enough strength to rise. Her legs buckled, the weak rocking of the ship instantly responded with nausea and dizziness, but Margaret stood up, holding on to the canopy pillar.
"We need medicine and food. I'll look now."
"I'll have enough of that loaf from the floor over there," Angel said a little indistinctly. "Be careful."
"Yeah," the girl bent down for soft bread, fell to her knees and swallowed sour vomit with difficulty. Margaret pressed her forehead against the side of the bed. She could not remember the last time she ate, and with horror thought that Angel hadn't had a crumb in his mouth for God knows how long, either.
- Margaret! - an alarmed exclamation made the girl straighten up and smile. She picked up the loaves from the carpet, wiped them with the edge of the sheet from the nap and sat down next to the mentor to share the meager food.
They ate in silence. Margaret surveyed the cabin. The rolling sent all the loose things flying across the floor, but there was nothing interesting among them. However, the door to the right of the bed looked promising. How can she open it?
"How are you feeling?" Angel asked.
"Passable. We need still search his quarters. I'm sure there is a lot of useful stuff here."
"You don't look too good."
"It depends with whom to compare," Margaret grunted. She felt such a brutal hunger that even leaden fatigue would not have prevented her from breaking down the door with a chair, if only the smell of food from the other side was.
"What do you think is there?"
Angel didn't answer. He propped himself up on one elbow and turned towards the door through which they entered. Margaret, too, heard footsteps, turned around and saw the witch. Jen looked as if she was first soaked to the skin, and then instantly dried. She stared at the girl and her mentor with glazed eyes; suddenly a blush flashed on the witch's cheeks, her eyes lit up greedily, and she stepped into the cabin.
Angel sat down with a jerk and pushed Margaret behind his back, but the girl managed to feel the power of the witch's gaze: it stuck into her like a sting, drawing out the pain - but with it the strength, leaving only emptiness and stupefying weakness.
"Get out, you creature!" Angel hissed. The witch stopped in front of him, held out her hand and...
"Jen!"
She jumped away from the bed, turned to Commissar Brannon and blurted out:
"I did not want!"
"Go upstairs," the uncle ordered dryly. "Gather the sailors and bring them here with Longsdale."
The witch nodded and run out of the cabin. The Commissar walked over to the bed. He looked stern and unfriendly.
"How are you?"
Margaret put Angel on the pillow. He was so white, as if the witch was drinking his blood and not the pain.
"As you see. What's up there?"
"The storm is coming. One mast was cracked, so it was not safe to stay on the ship, and I decided that we would lead all the people through the mirrors that Ragnihotri used."
Angel lifted his head and stared at Brannon.
"Do you even know how to use them?"
"We have the consultant. Will you survive the crossing the trail?"
"Who do you take me for?" Angel asked chilly. Well, when will they finally stop scratch one another for any reason?!
"For a man who will die of spitting," the commissar grumbled. "Do you know how shitty you look?"
"I guess," Angel said through set teeth. "Do you still care about me?"
"People do that sometimes. Take care of each other, you know."
Longsdale entered the cabin, ducking to avoid crashing into the low bulkhead. THe hound followed him with dignity.
"Can you do something?" Uncle nodded at Angel. Margaret felt the mentor turn to stone with tension as soon as he saw the consultant.
"Do not try! Don't you dare touch me!"
Longsdale sat down on the edge of the bed, took his wounded hand and squeezed it lightly. The last color faded from Redfern's face.
"Now you cannot adequately perceive reality," the consultant gently admonished, unbending his fingers, twisted with pain. "Do not be afraid, it is completely painless."
Angel gritted his teeth so that the muscles protruded under his skin. Margaret put him on her chest and hugged him, although now she more wanted to hit him well on the brilliant head for his donkey stubbornness. The consultant bent over Redfern's palm and muttered incantations, drawing marks over the wounds with his finger. Angel glared at him with jealousy. Margaret sighed. The reason why a grown man behaves worse than a five-year-old boy remained a mystery to her.
Uncle, meanwhile, examined the door, which so excited Margaret, and exchanged glances with the hound. The beast sniffed at the lock and the gap in the floor, took a few steps back and jumped. The door collapsed inward along with the jambs. Inside were rows of shelves and bookcases with transparent doors, three large mirrors bolted to the floor and sides. Angel stirred in the girl's arms and leaned forward like a cat on the scent of valerian.
"Shuh," Miss Sheridan purred softly in his ear. "Or I'll strangle you with a pillow."
"That's where he let them out," Brannon said; the flasks behind the doors tinkled threateningly in time with the rolling of the ship. "What do you think, Snappish, will we have time to get everyone to Blackwhit? Twenty-two sailors and six of us."
The hound glanced sideways at the porthole. Inky darkness thickened behind it, and the ship rocked more and more.
"It's ready here," Longsdale let go of Angel's hand: the scars looked terrible, the mentor's face returned to its pale, but lively colors, and he breathed much more evenly.
The consultant reached out to the burns and met Angel's gaze. Longsdale froze for a moment; suddenly a light lit up in his eyes. The consultant got up on one knee and loomed over Redfern. Longsdale's hand clenched into a fist, his face darkened with rage. Angel struck first - with the edge of his hand in the throat, knee in the stomach. The consultant dodged, caught his arm, twisted him behind his back and knocked Redfern face down on the bed.
"What the heck?!" Brennon snapped.
"Hey!" Margaret shouted and grabbed Longsdale's shoulders and elbow. His muscles were just stone, and the girl squeezed between him and Angel. "Stop it! What's gotten into you?!"
Longsdale turned his gaze to her - and looked steadily, as if afraid to look away, with such tenderness that Margaret's heart sank. Letting go of Angel, he put his arm around her and touched the clotted wound on her cheek with the other. He whispered a spell; a pleasant warmth spread across her cheek, and the pain disappeared. Margaret touched her cheek and involuntarily touched his hand. The consultant's gaze trembled and began to scatter.
"No, no, no!" The girl screamed and clutched at Longsdale. Again! As last time! "Where are you disappear?!"
Suddenly Angel grabbed onto her and hissed:
"Leave him!"
"You three!" Brennon yelled; on the right, it was as if a fist had struck the ship, and the ship tilted sharply to the port side.
***
The hound darted to the side, plowed the smoldering furrows in the floor with its claws and stretched out along the side. The commissar was slammed into its soft side with such force that all the air was blown out of his chest. Longsdale, Margaret and Redfern rolled past him almost in one ball. A decanter, rashly forgotten by someone on the table by the bed, slammed against the wall, followed by pillows and bed linen. A tray of food whistled past Nathan, leaving a trail of Mazandran spicy stew and spicy bread in its wake, and adorned the porthole with a long crack.
- Commissar! Sir!
Brannon propped himself up on his elbows. A witch hung in the doorway, clutching the lintel with both hands and resting her foot on the doorframe.
"We are fine! Are you all right?!"
"Yes! Started! Storm!"
"Where are the sailors?!"
"On deck! They're coming down now!"
"Bring everyone here!"
The Commissar turned to the mirrors. They, thank God, were intact and working: nothing was reflected in them, except for the blue sky with a scattering of stars. He scratched his hands on the floor, trying to get up, and quickly acknowledged the futility of all efforts. The ship rattled terribly, lurching steeper to the port side.
"Hurry! Leg here, leg there! Lonsdale, for f***'s sake!"
"Here!" cheerfully, albeit somewhat strangled, the consultant responded from under Peggy and the pyromaniac.
"Get busy of those damn mirrors! While they are still intact!"
The consultant obediently pushed Redfern and Margaret aside and moved to the mirrors. Fortunately, all cabinets and shelves were bolted firmly to the floor and walls, and the doors were locked. They withstood with honor the hail of books and flasks that fell on them from the inside from the sharp tilt of the ship. Bur now something was swirling and bubbling in the shelves. Longsdale muttered a spell over the first mirror, and Nathan turned to his niece.
"Peggy, are you okay?"
"Relatively," the girl answered a little hoarsely. "And you?"
"I'm too. Redfern, can you help Longsdale?"
"No," the pyromaniac said irritably and raised his hand with the bracelet. "As long as we have this rubbish on us - no magic."
"And if we saw it? Longsdale somehow got rid of chains with similar drawings."
"Oh, damn you!" Angel snapped. "Similar drawings! These are absolutely not similar drawings! Defoe applied runes to the first object that came across, and this," he shook his hand, "a specially made thing, with mehndi integrated into its composition, which..."
"Don't yell, I already understood," the commissar cut him off thinking that this was a very useful thing. You caught the sorcerer, put this on him - and forward, into the cell, for interrogation, to the court...
"You don't have to talk about what you don't understand," muttered Redfern, but much more calmly. Maybe it was about Margaret, who gently huddled under his side. Angel groped her carefully and whispered something in Ilarian. The ship shook like a drunken man, and Brennon remarked a little enviously that the pyromaniac, with rare serendipity, had settled in the only corner in that was least bumpy. Even the hound tenaciously dug its claws into the floor to stay in place.
"They're tuned in to the theater," Longsdale said. Already the crack run on one of the cabinets next to him and smoke is oozing out of it.
"Still?"
"Yes. Apparently Ragnihotri has not used mirrors since that day."
"Okay, let's not waste time. How many people can pass through each mirror?"
"Optimally - two at a time."
The commissar scratched his beard. The water was gushing in the porthole, and the crack in it was rapidly widening. The ship leveled off, but with each shock of the waves it seemed as if it would crack like a nut. The menacing hiss and gurgling in the shelves were also not pleasing. The hound moved over to them and sniffed tightly.
"And if more?"
Longsdale considered.
"Maximum - three. But then there is the possibility of breaking the path. The ship is extremely unstable, and I still wouldn't risk it."
"Okay. Then two at a time. When they will be ready?"
"Already," the consultant said calmly. "The path has been laid."
"Then let's start with these," the Commissar jabbed a finger over his shoulder at Angel and Margaret. The pyromaniac somehow got to his feet and, holding on to the wall and Peggy, made his way to the mirror. The girl supported her mentor, looking anxiously first at him, then at the path.
"Can you handle it?" Nathan asked. Angel nodded.
"Hurry up here," he grunted grimly. "An unpredictable reaction from mixing potions has already started in the cupboards."
"Will it blow, or what?" Brannon was worried.
"Best case scenario."
The Arandhati lifted her nose and screeched up to the crest of the wave. The porthole glass cracked loudly, and water poured into the cabin. Nathan was thrown backwards, but Longsdale managed to grab onto the frame of the mirror, which was bolted tightly to the wall and floor, and grabbed Angel's arm. Margaret hung on the pyromaniac, clinging to him with all her might. The ship froze at the very crest of the wave. The consultant dragged Angel and Peggy to the mirror and threw them inside. The shiny surface closed behind their backs.
"Now you!" Longsdale shouted. Nathan shook his head. The ship balanced on the crest and plunged down. The Commissar was hit on the floor. The hound's teeth closed on Brennon's shoulder, and only because of this, Nathan was not washed out the window with a stream of water. The Arandhati again soared to the top of the wave. The Commissar barely had time to spit when Gunther burst into the cabin, followed by Jen, and the sailors.
"Where are the others?!" Brennon croaked, the sea water burning his throat unbearably.
"There's everyone who's left," Gunther said: water flowed from him in streams, and from the other twelve sailors too. "The mast has already fallen apart."
"We're all gonna die here!" One of the Dorgernians spoke grimly.
"We won't make it," the commissar said. "We'll leave here along the mirrored path. It leads to Blackwhit, a town in the Riada. You will be safe there."
"Through these mirrors Ragnihotri released his creatures," Gunter hissed. "How do we know which ass you're driving us into?"
"Well, you can stay," the commissar said dryly.
The ship shook, and it plunged down. On deck, something screeched and fell apart with a crash. Water gushed through the porthole, and the cabin quickly turned into a pool. Gunther gave the order abruptly in Dorgernian; the sailors approached the mirrors uncertainly.
"Two by two," Longsdale said. "Follow the path strictly and do not turn off anywhere."
The first six sailors disappeared into the mirrors. Casting a glance out the window, Brannon blinked at the lightning that split the sky to the sea. But, on the other hand, the water seemed to dampen the reactions in the cupboards, where all kinds of potions from broken cans continued to mix into an unpredictable brew.
"Next!" the consultant announced. Jen exchanged a worried look with the hound and, as soon as the Dorgernians entered the mirrors, touched one of the cupboards. It flared up so that the commissar's clothes were instantly dry. Gunther staggered back, cursing. At that moment, the ship spun, and it capsized on the starboard side.
The impact on the water was so strong that one mirror broke with a crash from the wall and shattered into smithereens against the window frame. Shrapnel rained down on people drowning in the water.
"Hurry!" Longsdale shouted. "Commissar and you, Herr Gunther, in the left mirror, me and Raiden - in the right!"
"Do not forget Snappish!" Brennon responded. The water was rising rapidly, and Nathan and Gunther had to dive to step over the frame. The commissar held the boatswain's hand tightly and for good reason - as soon as they were in the mirror, the path abruptly returned them to a standing position. Brennon staggered with dizziness, but resisted, but Gunther almost flew off the path.
"Go!" the commissar snapped: it was cold here, and he almost chopped off his tongue with his teeth, they chattered so famously. Nathan dragged the boatswain with him to the door at the other end of the path. A few minutes later, Brannon spilled out into the real world with relief. It was dark, dusty, but warm and safe. In the light of the moon, the Commissar recognized the foyer of the theater. Angel, hugging Margaret, stretched out on the surviving couch. The sailors sat on the floor and looked like people who survived the collapse of the familiar world.
"Well, are you all right?" Nathan asked.
The Dorgernians responded with a deaf discordant chorus. Jen jumped out of the mirror next to him, followed by Longsdale, and last, the hound. Brannon took a deep breath. Never before had he felt such an ardent, deep and strong love for Blackwhit as he did now.