The Mist and the Lightning. Part 17. Ви Корс

an ugly fat red from the Upper World and poor miners who give him diamonds, and their thin emaciated children in rags are standing nearby and crying!”

      Igmer chuckled, shaking his head.

      “There is a printing house in Ore town. It can print flyers, newspapers and orders. There are artists there too.”

      “It is wonderful!” Kors didn’t give up. “It is necessary to outline the basic rules of the new order, prescribe punishments and fines, and also hang them all over the city. And hang a couple of dissenters in the square. I also consider it necessary to introduce a curfew.”

      “Yes,” said Lis.

      “Then get to work! And let's gather in the main hall of the palace in two hours for a final discussion. By this time, I will try to sketch out some basic theses.”

      “The palace has a special conference room for such events,” said Igmer.

      “Do I have to attend?” Zaf asked somehow without much enthusiasm.

      “Yes!”

      “No.”

      Kors and Nikto spoke simultaneously, and Zaf froze, not knowing what to do now.

      “I’ll give them everything they need,” Nik said. “They are warriors, not politicians.”

      “And me too,” Lis said barely audibly, somehow sadly, but no one paid attention to his words.

      “Okay, Nik, after all, they’re under your command, do as you see fit,” said Kors. “I don’t mind at all.”

      “I, too, will not embarrass your commanding staff with my presence at the meeting,” said Igmer, “I am still a stranger to them. Will Zagpeace Gesaria be there?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’d better start mailing letters and visit the head of the purple house in person.”

      Igmer went to the table and took a sheet of paper, wrote something on it:

      “Here is the address of the printing house,” he handed the sheet to Kors, “Ore town is big, but I hope your people will not get lost, after all, this is a city, not swamps.”

      And Kors, swallowing the mockery, silently took the sheet.

      22

      Free will

      Kors, Nikto and Arel settled together in the luxurious apartments of the Rainbow Palace.

      They now had a huge living room, dining room, several bedrooms and bathrooms. However, Kors was accustomed to luxury, and Nikto and Arel seemed indifferent to everything. They perceived the objects around them exclusively from a functional point of view, without paying any attention to aesthetics.

      “Nik, eat,” said Kors and pushed the plate towards him. They were sitting at a set table, and Nik was still sleepy, because Kors woke him up and pulled him out of bed, and Arel stayed to sleep.

      “I don’t want to, I can’t eat a morsel in the morning.”

      “It's two o'clock in the afternoon.”

      “I don’t want.”

      “Please. Well, please me!”

      “Vitor…”

      And, since Nik didn’t take the cutlery in his hands and didn’t touch the food, Kors moved his chair closer to him, and, taking a fork, pricked a piece from the plate on it, handed it to Nik:

      “Open your mouth, take it.”

      Nik turned away:

      “I’m sick even from the very sight of this food, and don’t stick that damn fork in my face! I'm afraid of it!”

      They laughed.

      “Nik, I'm asking you.”

      “What is it?”

      “Stew with vegetables and spices of the reds. Beef. It is soft, it literally melts in your mouth. Very tasty. You need to eat meat.”

      Kors put down his fork, and took a piece of meat with his hand, handed it to Nik:

      “Will you take it from my hands? Well, please!”

      Nik quietly, barely audible and shortly growled and doomedly allowed Kors to put a piece of meat in his mouth, swallowed it with difficulty, almost not chewing.

      Kors took the following one:

      “I will hand feed you, my love. But you will finally get better and gain weight.”

      Nik again joylessly, but obediently took the food, took it, along with Kors’ fingers, taking them into his mouth up to the very golden rings with which his hands were humiliated. A precious ring shone on each finger, and each one was worth a fortune. Kors closed his eyes slightly and breathed deeper:

      “No, no… don't distract me.”

      “I don’t want more, Vitor…”

      “Don't growl. The last, last piece. I promise this is the last one.”

      Nik obediently took another piece from his hands.

      “Well, at least something,” Kors wiped his fingers with a napkin and handed him a glass of wine, “at least you have eaten a little. I’ll feed you more in the evening.”

      “Oh!”

      “I can’t see how your ribs are sticking out!”

      “There, as if behind them, it hurts a lot, I can't eat…”

      “This is hepatitis, you need to be treated,” Kors's face showed an undisguised frustration.

      He looked at his pale Nik.

      “Do you still love me, Nik? Haven’t you stopped loving me?” And in Kors’ voice there was some anxiety.

      “I love you very much,” Nik answered simply.

      And Kors smiled, pleased:

      “Really?”

      “Really, Vitor, I love you very much.”

      “And I love you!”

      “You treat me like a child.”

      “Are you unpleased?”

      “I’m pleased. But I’m not a child.”

      “For me, you are my child. And I am your father.”

      Nik bowed down and kissed his hand, kissed the precious rings.

      Kors let him do it, slightly closing his eyes in pleasure.

      “Why did you tell Igmer that I am your son?”

      “I didn’t have to say that?”

      “It is possible, but… now others can learn about it.”

      “Who? Igmer is red, whom will he tell? Why would he discuss our relationship with the blacks? He didn't attach any importance to my words.”

      “Well, I don't know… Vitor, this is…”

      “You don’t want to be my son?”

      “I really want, and I’m yours, I have written about it on my face, no?”

      “Yes.