What if our world was ruled by almighty sorcerers?
A noir world where magic is a part of everyday life but only cruel Lords have a right to use it. Only a small group of rebels dares to resist this power. But they are doomed to lose.
Unless a new un...
"We counted on the fact that the animats are not able to feel the attack unless it was aimed at the Lord and is committed by a living attacker," Patrick held the mug high, spreading the sweet aroma of apples. "The bomb had to be not active for the time being so that the animats did not feel it. The mechanism was activated only when Lord Brandon rose from his chair, frightened by the first attack. Of course, at this point, the animats would have warned him of the danger, but I hoped that in the chaos of the massacre he would decide that it was related to the first attack. I don't know if that was exactly like this in reality, but I achieved the result."
"But you could not have made it all alone?"
"Friends helped me," Patrick winked mysteriously.
"Well, what did you actually achieve, Patrick?" Joshua Werner put his mug of hard apple cider on the table, next to his cap, this time a winter one: leather, fur-lined.
"I won," Patrick moistened his mustache in his mug.
It was empty and quiet in 'Tír na nÓg', as usual at this time. A small new year tree glittered with crystal balls in the far corner.
"And what is your victory? Three and a half hundred deaths, still as many injured. Chaos, grief, the lordship is beheaded. Winterhill, Tierra del Sol, and the Lords of the Old World are already staring at our lands. It's good, at least, that Malcolm Conchobair has confirmed his loyalty, despite the death of his sister."
"But we have a kind and intelligent Lord in New Avalon now," Patrick retorted, taking another sip.
"Well, yes, a kind and intelligent boy, who now has to extinguish seven hundred fires that you burned in his domain. Seven hundred tragedies and this is just the beginning. Now, enterprises that remained without owners will begin to ruin, and tens of thousands of people will find themselves in the street."
"We'll get over it, Joshua. Every storm passes, and the sun is especially beautiful after the rain."
"It's not a rain, Patrick, it's a tornado."
"Look at this more positively, buddy. There is a new captain at the helm of our ship now. He is young but smart and active. With the right helpers, he will quickly cope with the storm and take a ply to the right haven. And I will be informed about everything that happens in Avalon Hall. I even can influence it."
"And how?" Joshua drank the foaming apple wine and poured himself another mug from a large jug standing on the table.
"Blanca. She is our mole next to Lord Lancelot. She is loyal to me, and Lance listens to her. In fact, the new Lord is under my control.
"Are you sure of her?"
"Absolutely."
"All right," Joshua sighed and picked up the glass. "Then let's have a drink. I never supported your struggle, but I never interfered. I don't support it now, but I will not interfere either. I just wish success to you, and to the whole New Avalon. To success!"
"To success!" Patrick smiled broadly and clang his mug with Joshua's mug.
"Patrick! Patrick!" a boy of twelve ran down the stairs.
"What, Flainn?"
"There are the Lord's men!" the boy chattered, out of breath. "Black, guards, they surrounded the whole building. They have machine guns, rifles, pistols!"
"And the cellar?"
"They blocked both exits from the cellar, too."
Patrick gloomed, nervously grasping his hand at his red head.
"Patrick, who could know about 'Tír na nÓg'?" Joshua leaned over the table. "Of those who knew about your participation in the explosion of the theater."
"Of those who knew both..." Patrick hesitated.
"Go on."
"Only Blanca."
"Perfect, Patrick," Joshua sneered sarcastically, leaned back in his chair, took a big sip of cider, and, with a loud knock, put the mug on the table. "So, you say that Blanca is your mole next to Lord Lance? You say Blanca is loyal, and Lord Lance is listening to her? You say Lord Lancelot and all New Avalon are now under your control?"
Patrick only shrugged his shoulders, staring at the mug standing on the table.
The air smelled of apples.
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