Kors clenched his teeth.
“I’ll go after him myself and drag him here by force!”
“Zagpeace will quickly put you in a cage there. You’re not going anywhere, and I don’t need any doctor,” leaning heavily towards the box, Nik slightly rattled the bottles of drugs, sorting through them.
“I…”
Nik raised his voice.
“Calm down!”
Kors froze: “I can’t show that I’m afraid.”
Frustratedly turning away from Nik, he took off his cambric shirt and elegant doublet from the back of the chair — the things that Nik had given him yesterday in exchange for wet clothes. Well, what else was left for him? It was cool in the tent, and there were no other clothes nearby. Having dressed, Kors approached the table. The dirty countertop was covered with spilled wine, there were unwashed plates with the remains of meat, pieces of bread were scattered on the table, the ashtray was full of cigarette butts. Kors took the jug and, bringing it up to his nose, sniffed its contents. Again wine, as in a couple of unfinished bottles, and as in a goblet. Well, what a morning! All was going wrong! Kors slammed his goblet on the table with an already barely concealed irritation.
And Nik, who was concentrating on filling the syringe with the drug from the bottle, involuntarily shuddered and turned to him:
“What are you looking for?”
“Water!”
“What?”
“Just water. I’m thirsty, my throat is dry.”
“Have some wine.”
“I don’t want wine!”
“Vitor, stop your whims.”
“I just want to drink a couple of sips of clean water, do you think this is a whim?”
Nik somehow wearily sighed, but didn’t answer. Kors realized that he was mentally calling his Verniy, because very soon he stumbled into their tent. His cloack was wet as the rain still hadn’t stopped. The dog’s head was covered by a helmet. Ver didn’t take it off, he stopped at the threshold. Kors saw his bestial eyes gleam in the narrow slits of his helmet.
“Ver, Vitor needs water,” Nik said without even looking at his unclean habir. He turned his hand palm up, and seemed to carefully examine the inside of the wrist.
The dog turned to Kors.
“What kind of water do you need, sir? Should I bring a bucket of water for you to wash up?”
“Is there any drinking water?” Kors asked.
“I haven’t gone to the spring yet. But the buckets have stood in the rain all night, they are full. Can you bring rain water? She is clean.
“Pour it into the kettle and boil it properly,” Kors ordered, “I won’t drink raw water from a dirty bucket!”
“Okay, sir,” and Ver turned around and left.
“Though I can wash myself, too,” Kors muttered. His mood didn’t improve, and he thought he could still smell the scent of Arel’s body on his skin. The smell left over from the prince’s strong embrace and his hands. It remained on Kors’ body, on his back, his shoulders, his chest. Everywhere that Arel had touched him. Kors looked at Arel. He was half lying relaxed on the trestle bed, the golden blanket almost sliding down to the floor, exposing his muscular torso, his oblique abdominal muscles, and part of his thighs. The prince had another bottle in his hands, and he took a sip from it.
“Arel, don’t mix up the bottles,” said Kors, “I put that one away, of course…”
“Very funny,” he snorted indifferently, and lazily tousled a long lock of his smooth dark brown hair back out of his face.
“Well, I’m just not sure you’d know the difference, it’s just habit, you know…”
But Arel only smirked indulgently with his lips covered with a thick layer of black dye, glinting in contrast with the white jagged edge of a chipped front tooth. He took another sip from the bottle and gave an audible burp, unresponsive to Kors’ jabs, but still as gorgeous and uncommonly attractive as ever.
Kors shook his head judgingly, but habitually:
“A descendant of royalty, indeed.”
He involuntarily continued to admire Arel, knowing that he didn’t give a damn about the impression he was making on those around him.
Kors glanced at Nik. Strongly tightening his forearm with a black cord, he somehow miraculously found a living vein on his arm and managed to inject himself, injecting the drug just below the elbow bend.
“Nik, maybe you can lie down with Arel, cover yourself with a blanket?” Kors suggested. “It’s cold on the floor, I feel it with my feet.”
“I don’t feel cold. I’m not cold,” Nik said. Kors called him Nik, but he didn’t correct him.
“Just because you don’t feel cold it doesn’t mean you have to lie in a draft.”
“I don't feel cold,” Nik repeated, leaning toward his box again.
So he took care of his slaves in their still human bodies, put them gently on the bed and covered them to keep them warm, but he didn’t care about his own body, just lay down on the floor, on the skins.
“Why don’t you feel the cold? You’re human, but you can lie down in the snow, can’t you?” Kors didn’t understand that.
“Yes, I can. A lot of people are used to the cold. It’s a habit,” Nick said faintly, but he did.
Kors watched him sit on the hide, with his head bandaged and his hair tangled, sticking out from under the bandages. Kors watched as he put something back into the syringe. One of his thick white braids, which Kors had so lovingly braided, was now disheveled and sticking out from under the top layer of shorter hair. It was disheveled, and the tip lay on the dirty floorboards. Playing with Nik and decorating him to his liking, Kors had begun to braid the bottom layer of his hair back in Ore Town. He remembered that this was how Nik’s hair had been braided the first time he was brought in for questioning. The bottom layer of his hair had been braided into four braids, one of which was very short, cut by Arel. Kors had ordered Nik to unbraid his hair then, to show him off at the Spring Ball in all his glory, but later he began to braid him himself, fixing his hair beautifully with bobby pins and, in addition, to keep it tousled longer, he bound it tightly with long thin cords adorned with faceted black and turquoise beads. It was probably wrong, too — beads were usually used by girls to decorate their braids — but Nik looked so much like a girl, so delicate and sweet, and Kors liked it when he was neatly combed and tidy. Later he would braid Nik’s hair in the Fort as well, thus trying to pass the time and do something to occupy himself without taking a restorative or drinking too much. Nik never even looked at what he was braiding into his hair, how he was decorating it. He always sat there obediently, not moving, like a doll, and he never minded Kors, letting him braid his hair, put as many different colored beads in it as he wanted, pin it with different pins. Even now he hadn’t taken them off; his hair had just come undone, unraveled, and was now touching the floor. And Nik didn’t pay any attention to it, didn’t take care of himself, didn’t take care of his beautiful hair.
“What are you wearing?!”
Kors saw that Nik was wearing the clothes of the unclean ones again. His leather trousers were visibly frayed at the knees, on the outer sides there was a wide strip of lacing, it seemed, in three rows, one to the other, and maybe more, with some complex intricacies of the unclean ones. Probably, it could have been beautiful once upon a time… but now it was torn, tied somehow into sloppy knots with protruding dangling ends. Moreover, the trousers were sewn over the edge in some places. Kors saw a rough seam under the knee. On the thigh, a torn flap was roughly fixed by lacing, so that the hole was still visible, and through it and loose lacing, Nik’s tattooed thigh was visible, and also it could be seen that he was again without underwear. A short vest was put on his naked body, barely reaching the waist; it didn’t cover his sunken stomach. In general, it was not clear from what pieces it was sewn, on the shoulders there was the shabby fur of some animal, which apparently died at the dawn of time, it was slightly puffed up. Boots were lying nearby, again boots of the unclean ones, with heavy soles and a blunt cape, adorned with a million iron buckles and clasps to the very top.