“Nik, he can't make drugs with gloves!”
“He can't do them anyway!” Nikto grunted.
“He will make gunpowder, he will read the books of the reds, figure out the proportions and make us gunpowder and all sorts of fiery lighters that explode.”
“What?”
“What you have heard!”
“Is it flora or fauna?”
“Free him! I need him for the war!”
Kors looked at Lis with some respect.
“Let him do it first,” Nikto remarked skeptically.
“Why are you such noble sirs and Higher Powers, motherfuckers! You demand the devil knows what, but you only limit yourself! You are surprised that everyone except you is so stupid, and you don’t allow yourself to develop. He is a simple man, let him breathe freely, support, and don’t interfere! And you will get a hundred times more!”
“Lis, he doesn’t want to do anything, doesn’t want to make you gunpowder, weapons, he is not grateful to you. He wants to commit suicide as soon as you leave him alone. It’s always the same! Tie him up, that’s my advice to you. Put on the mask, handcuffs, fix, so that he doesn’t injure himself. Don't repeat my mistakes. Call Arel, Arel knows how to handle slaves. He will train him in a couple of lessons. Give him unbearable pain. He must understand that he cannot commit suicide, he cannot die. And he has only two choices: either endure unbearable torment, or obey unquestioningly, and then his life will become a little better.”
Lis was silent:
“I'll figure it out myself,” he said finally. :Gather your unclean ones better in the square.”
“Okay.”
Lis turned to Arel:
“Prince Arel, will you make a speech?”
“And to whom should I speak it?” Arel said. And despite all the horror of his position, his completely slave existence in the cruel hands of Nikto-Demon, in Arel’ voice one could still very clearly hear, albeit quiet, but some kind of patronizing intonation, the way he seemed to lazy stretch out the words a little. The intonations of a born lord, prince, characteristic of a person accustomed to order, command, dispose. And it was hard to say how much time and humiliation it would take for them to disappear, and whether it would ever happen.
“To whom should I make a speech?” He repeated. “Before the unclean? Congratulate them on their victory after seeing me naked and crawling on my knees at the feet of their White Lord? I was exactly like Marcus now. Or praise the noble black of Kors for their bravery? This would be very appropriate, especially considering that for them I am a fallen prince, a painted hole. Ah-ah, you probably mean my people, my peasant militias? How many were there? More than two hundred, and they fought bravely. And who should I congratulate? They all died.”