Thirty-six posts in total.
Kariel looked down at the nocturnal city, calmly rubbing the edges of the blades pressed against his wrists and palms.
This scarcely audible sound did not escape the Ghost’s ears.
He lowered his head, glanced at Kariel’s hands hidden beneath his cloak, and nodded thoughtfully.
An icy wind swept across the roof of the tall building.
The night felt colder than usual.
Below, pointed buildings loomed ominously.
Not far away stood a seemingly abandoned residential house; it was in disrepair, but Kariel could judge its former grandeur from the few surviving details.
The surviving shards of glass reflected neon lights, creating unpleasant, jagged glints.
A few dark silhouettes flickered behind them.
The Old City was just like that — gloomier than the new one, without the ubiquitous factory billboards.
In fact, almost half of the Old City didn’t even have electricity.
“We wait, Kariel?” the Ghost asked quietly, with a hiss.
Kariel was silent, breathing evenly.
Only his fingers slid faster and faster along the blades.
The Ghost looked at him with concern.
After that conversation about the “countdown,” Kariel had become strange.
He didn’t know if this change was for the better, but instinctively, he didn’t like it.
“…No, we don’t wait, Ghost,” Kariel finally said.
“But the plan will have to change.” The Ghost nodded silently, ready to listen.
“Along the border of the Old and new districts, those scum from the Glorious Warlords have set up thirty-six posts.
They’ve even mounted large-caliber machine guns, split into patrol groups, and put up checkpoints on the road…” Kariel gave a crooked grin: “Such a lavish welcome, I’m flattered.
You know what that means, Ghost?” “I do not know,” replied the Ghost.
“But what am I to do, Kariel?” His words made Kariel turn around.
The expression on the ghostly assassin’s face was surprisingly complex.
“It means,” he said slowly, “that the people from House Skraivok will be arriving tonight.” “There’s only one road connecting Quintus’s new district to the Old City.
The Glorious Warlords can’t block it for long.
Other gangs, also backed by nobles, need it for their business too…” “So it’s happening tonight, Ghost.” “What am I to do?” the Ghost asked again.
“I am ready, Kariel.” “No, don’t ask me what to do, Ghost.” Kariel shook his head.
“Everyone has their own opinion, their own thoughts.
You shouldn’t always rely on my plan.
This is just a job, you and I are partners… we are equals.” The Ghost looked at him, bewildered.
“That’s why tonight, I want you to act on your own judgment.” Kariel smiled faintly.
“Thirty-six posts — all yours.
The method doesn’t matter, Ghost, I’ll cover the noise.
And the people from House Skraivok… I’ll handle them.” He laughed quietly.
His laughter dissolved into the cold night wind of Nostramo, like fragments of speech or the growling of a monster.
Then, with a flash of blue light in his eyes, he stepped off the roof and disappeared into the night darkness before the Ghost’s eyes.
… Act alone.
The second time.
Act on his own judgment.
The first time.
The Ghost blinked, his heart beating faster.
He noticed this immediately and, imitating Kariel, took a few deep breaths.
The cold, foul air filled his lungs, and the exhaled steam, now odorless, dissipated in the night like a warm cloud.
The Ghost didn’t fully understand what this meant yet, but it seemed amusing to him and, more importantly, effective.
But thirty-six posts.
How can I do this?
The Ghost crouched down and stroked the head of a stone gargoyle.
He hadn’t given it a name.
Not because he disliked its corrosion-eaten ugliness, but because of its imperfection.
It was missing one horn.
For some reason, the Ghost had no desire at all to give it a name.
He didn’t want to replace its image in his mind with some label.
So he sat there, slowly stroking the rough stone, until the bronze head of the gargoyle grew warm from the heat of his palm.
Only then did the Ghost speak, bidding it farewell.
“Goodbye, Sir One-Horned Gargoyle.” The Ghost politely leaned in and whispered into its ear: “I am going to clear thirty-six posts.
Will you wish me luck?” The gargoyle did not answer.
It still stared menacingly downward, its fangs protruding from beneath bronze lips, its claws scraping against the massive stone pedestal.
It didn’t answer, but the Ghost pretended to listen carefully.
A moment later, he blinked and suddenly smiled.
The Ghost affectionately patted the gargoyle on the head, straightened up, and, repeating Kariel’s movement, stepped off.
His ragged clothes fluttered in the wind.
Icy drops of condensation hit his face, but he didn’t even blink.
Soon he landed.
More precisely, on the roof of some house.
And then he ran.
This time his steps were silent, and a new, fluid strength was blossoming in his body.
Jump – climb – stop and observe.
In three minutes of noiseless running, the Ghost reached the top of one of the spires.
Earlier, he and Kariel had already passed all the posts undetected, and the Ghost had silently memorized their locations and everything that might be useful.
Kariel had said: “Be careful.” Quiet voices drifted up from below, two people talking.
The Ghost listened patiently, hoping to learn something useful, but in vain.
He had absolutely no interest in how one should pleasure men and women differently.
That didn’t help his job at all.
And he continued moving.
The Ghost acted with extreme caution.
His nails didn’t catch on the gaps between bricks, only slightly digging into them.
Before each descent, he checked several times whether the foothold would bear his weight.
He was lucky – the spire was solidly built.
Soon, he silently descended to one of the tower’s windows.
The window was open; a long black barrel protruded from it, and smoke curled out from inside.
“…Like I said, Bangor, you’re a total amateur at this.” A woman’s hoarse voice sounded as if she were scolding a poor student.
“In Quintus, there are brothels on every corner.
If you don’t want to pay, you can just find someone in the lower city, blow off some steam, then sell them to a butcher shop and still make a profit.
What the hell possessed you to latch onto that scum woman?
She’s skinny as a skeleton!” “She… she’s different, Nols, different.” Bangor stammered his reply.
“I think she’s special.
Really, she has very beautiful eyes.” “They all have, for fuck’s sake, black eyes!
What did you see in there?
Don’t act like an idiot, Bangor.
By the way, you took her something the other day, didn’t you?” “…” “Answer me, Bangor!” “Yes, I took her a smoked ham…” “Whose make?” “Gertrudis’s.” “Damn it, you idiot!
Taking Gertrudis’s smoked meat to some commoner from the slums… The other gangs will laugh their heads off at us.
That’s it, I can’t take this anymore.
Once we’re done here, I’ll take you to that woman.” “No, no, don’t!
Don’t, Nols, you dare…” “…Dare what?
You’re not the same snot-nosed kid you used to be!
You’re a man of the Glorious Warlords now, and I’m telling you, Bangor, you have no choice!” Hearing this, the Ghost frowned.
He didn’t fully understand what they were talking about, but in the voice of the woman named Nols, he detected a contempt that was unbearable to him.
She didn’t consider workers and commoners from the slums to be people.
The Ghost didn’t like that.
He didn’t like it at all.
The Ghost released his left hand, and his body spun freely under the pull of gravity.
The sharp, hard nails of his right hand left deep furrows in the spire’s brickwork, which, as he spun, turned into a deep circle.
Then he leaped and burst into the room through the window.
He hadn’t intended to conceal his entry, but he still overestimated their reaction.
Or rather, he underestimated his own capabilities.
In the very first second, inside the room, the Ghost grabbed the woman named Nols by the head with his long right arm, gave a light jerk, and blood sprayed.
And the man named Bangor… Before the Ghost’s eyes, his expression had time to change.
Anxiety and confusion gave way to profound terror.
His mouth opened and closed; he seemed to still be trying to talk Nols out of her scheme.
“Farewell, Bangor.” The Ghost nodded to him.
“Kariel said that some of you weren’t born evil, but joined the gang out of desperation.
But after that, everything changes, and we cannot forgive you on behalf of the dead.” The Ghost swung his left hand, ending Bangor’s life.
He knew many ways to kill, but he chose for Bangor the fastest and almost painless sleep.
Thirty-five left.
Throwing down Nols’s head, the Ghost wiped the blood on his clothes and walked to the window.
He glanced at the black, long-barreled weapon, reached out, and sheared off the barrel with his fingernails.
He flipped over, sat down on the windowsill, and began alternately sharpening the end of the barrel with the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
Half a minute later, the heavy barrel had become a sharp black awl.
The Ghost took it in his hand and, imitating Kariel, swung it.
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
The length wasn’t quite right – Kariel’s blades, fitting against his wrist and palm, left a long edge.
But it was enough.
The Ghost smiled with satisfaction, jumped down, and vanished into the night darkness.
The night was still long, and thirty-five more posts awaited him.