Solo Strategy

As in other cities of Pentapolis, the Gate of Sundbad in Feyst was located in a separate building, totally unlike in Beziu, where it was on top of the Pantheon temple. This building stood right on the central square and was more reminiscent of an opera house than a travelers' reception point.

All the formalities, including the "sealing" of weapons, took no more than ten minutes, after which I left the "station" and stepped into the fresh air.

As I exited the doors, I squinted for a moment against the blinding sun reflected in the polished marble underfoot and the gilded facades of the buildings. Then I descended a few steps, moved aside to avoid blocking others, and stood still, taking in the sprawling city.

Feyst, as always, amazed first-time visitors. Amazed with its grandeur, tasteless luxury, and ostentatious flamboyance. No two buildings were alike: here, a three-story tower with a carved dome; there, a mansion with a rooftop fountain; next to it, a structure rather resembling a theatrical set about gods and queens. Everywhere were columns, stucco, gilded railings, stained glass, statues in provocative poses, balconies with peacock feathers for awnings. It seemed the city's architects were dying to cram into every meter of the streets even more gloss, silk, marble, gilt, and anything considered "elite."

And yet, with all this theatrical pomp, Feyst left a strange impression—as if I had stumbled not into a city but into an endless masquerade ball. Beautiful, yes. But fake. I never liked this place. Too much pretentiousness. Too much eagerness to impress.

Standing on the steps of the marble staircase, I once again caught myself feeling the same as last time: as if oil tycoons, Arabian sheikhs, Indian billionaires, and all the most eccentric rich folks from all corners of Ain had been brought here and given free rein to compete in madness and ostentation.

This wasn't my thing. I didn't like gold flaunted and jewelry displayed just for the sake of it. It always seemed to me that wealth could be shown off far more succinctly. Perhaps that's why my "former self" was more drawn to Deytran: there were no fewer wealthy people there than here, yet the world's trade capital appeared much more modest outwardly.

What always repelled me even more was that all this ostentatious luxury didn't extend beyond the city walls. Just cross them, and sprawling slums stretched out—huge, even by Pentapolis standards. In them lived people so poor that finding food even once a day was considered a stroke of luck. Yes, all cities had rich and poor areas, but in Feyst, this contrast was so stark that even Mumbai seemed like the epitome of social equality in comparison.

However, the explanation for this "phenomenon" was right on the surface. Feyst was considered the city of Sino—the deity of Festivities, Wine, and Pleasures. The locals lived "in the spirit" of their patron, extravagantly, with little thought for the future. Here, luck and gold ruled. Prohibitions? They tried not to think about them. That's why even the shadow guilds felt like fish in water here.

If in Deytran or Sun City the central square by this time would already be buzzing, packed to the brim with crowds of merchants, travelers, and townsfolk, then Feyst, as usual, was just beginning to lazily stretch after a wild night. This city woke up reluctantly, tossing and turning like an overindulged gourmet, and truly came alive only at dusk. So, despite the sun having long taken its place high in the sky, the square remained almost empty.

Breathing in the air rich with the scents of musk and incense, I was about to head down and search for the lost altars when my gaze caught sight of an overtly grotesque couple, who seemingly had stepped out of the strangest of jokes.

Everyone else I noticed out of the corner of my eye flaunted deliberately opulent garments: doublets embroidered with gold and silver, pretentious togas of spider silk, dresses with more fabric than the curtains of a palace theater. But this pair... they seemed like they came from another planet or, more likely, a very prolonged bender.

He—a young man dressed only in wrinkled linen pants. Bare feet. A bare torso, half-covered by a broad band of dubious opal shade, more suited to a temple statue than a living person. In one hand, a large bag with bottle necks sticking out, in the other, an open amphora of wine, from which he took a sip with enviable regularity at every step. And this despite it not even being noon yet.

She—clinging to his waist like a vine, with an air of both a victor and a shipwreck survivor, looked like a caricature of a street prostitute: a skirt so short it wouldn't fit even a pocket, an open top, makeup too bright, and a hairstyle resembling an expressive attempt to mimic art deco after a storm.

They stumbled along, clinging to each other as if every movement was a battle. The man's face was hard to make out, completely obscured by his companion's hairstyle, which resembled a sinister carnivorous flower bud. But from their lack of coordination and any semblance of purposeful movement, it was clear: they were dead drunk.

In any other city, such a pair would be treated like lepers. Some would whisper prayers to Antares, others would wrap their cloaks tighter and quicken their pace. In Sun City, the guards wouldn't even let them take a couple of steps toward the central square. They would have been immediately and unceremoniously led to the nearest fountain—to sober up, cool down, and reflect on their behavior. But in Feyst... In Feyst, things were different. The harshest judgment I noticed was a lazy shake of the head—and that was from travelers like me, just arrived through the Gates. The locals, however, reacted as if they were looking at another stone statue: with familiarity, boredom, and even a slight hint of approval.

The best decision here would have been to forget about this unexpected street performance and go about my business, but something about that half-naked man bothered me. He seemed too familiar, as if I'd seen him somewhere before. I tried to get a better look at his face, but his companion seemed born to obstruct my observation attempts.

While I strained my eyes, the pair circled the main city fountain—with difficulty, as if swimming through a river full of seaweed and old amphorae—and, supporting each other, staggered toward the temple. They ambled no better than two boiled octopuses trying to act in sync. Watching this drunken procession, I could almost predict the ending: they'd reach the foot of the stairs, fall dramatically, perform a "gods, take me as I am" act, and then sleep in each other's arms under the midday sun until the temple guards "towed" them to the nearest alleyway.

But I was mistaken, either overestimating their drunkenness or underestimating their determination. Supporting each other and not forgetting to take a sip from the amphora with the gilded neck after each step, the couple, clearly on a binge since yesterday, managed to climb halfway up the rather long staircase of the city's main Temple.

Then something happened that left not only me but everyone else watching the half-naked young man and his companion of loose morals in utter astonishment.

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Taking a hearty swig from the amphora, the shirtless man whispered something to the courtesan, who laughed, nodded in agreement, and suddenly turned her back to him. Then, several things happened at once. The woman in vulgar attire bent over, placing her palms on the steps above. The shirtless man tossed the amphora into the air and, while it hovered, did three things simultaneously. First, he lifted the courtesan's skirt, revealing no hint of underwear. Second, he lowered his pants to his knees. And third, he "aligned" himself with his companion's backside. All this occurred before the tossed amphora could fall.

Catching the amphora before it shattered, the man with his pants down began drinking the wine greedily, not forgetting to move rhythmically. In sync, the woman's body trembled, and unequivocal moans echoed over the city square.

Such an act, a sexual encounter right on the steps of the city's main temple in broad daylight, was beyond shocking even for the relatively liberal local "audience." Movement in the square froze, everyone fixated on the unfolding scene that bordered on blasphemy. As for the four temple guards, all of Wootz rank, they stood petrified, like stone statues, unsure how to react to the spectacle.

Noting again how the gold gleamed on the neck of the amphora to which the culprit of the general confusion was applying himself, I finally understood why the guards were inactive and only exchanged puzzled glances. The thing was, the half-naked individual wasn't just drinking any wine, no matter how fabulously expensive, but "Sino's Tears of Joy." This wasn't just a drink. It was the local equivalent of an indulgence, forgiveness of sins in liquid form. It was sold exclusively by priests, and it was believed that those who drank the "Tears" were in a state of blessed trance, like a possessed prophet or a saintly madman. That is, whatever he did under the influence of this wine was to be seen, if not as a mystery, then at least with understanding and a light smile. Of course, this "blessing" didn't cover murder, arson, treason, and everything else punishable by law, but social excesses—such as, say, public mating—were classified as "well... it happens." However, the same act on the steps of the main city temple... they clearly didn't know what to do with that.

The priests of Sino had built an entire industry around it. The wine contained not a drop of divine magic, yet it was marketed with such PR flair and alchemical ingenuity, and at such prices, that many believed it truly held a fragment of blessing of the god of Festivities and Wine Drinking. This was why the temple guards didn't budge: on one hand, they should have stopped the indecency, but on the other, who would dare to desecrate the sacred "vision under the Tears"?

Almost a minute passed, during which only one person moved—the one rhythmically working their hips. The courtesan, meanwhile, also got into the swing of things and grew more vocal by the second. One of the guards, apparently the most stress-resistant in the squad, abruptly turned and disappeared under the temple arch. Probably for backup. Or for a new round of "Tears," who knows.

The crowd slowly came to life. The murmur of voices grew like an approaching storm, and I couldn't quite figure out what dominated: outrage? delight? bets?

Three minutes later, when the act put on by the strange couple showed no signs of ending—quite the opposite, it was gaining momentum—a priest of Sino appeared from the archway. He was dressed in a white and blue cloak and light pants richly embroidered with gold. In his right hand, he steadily held a heavy staff topped with a large gemstone. Not just some acolyte, but clearly someone with considerable authority. He looked about fifty, his slightly puffy face with red blotches on the cheeks revealing him as a true adherent of Sino's philosophy. His high status was indicated by a broad sash fastened with the distinct symbol of a Reardane rank.

This representative of the priestly class could have incinerated the couple of fornicators in an instant or, with a mere raise of an eyebrow, thrown them into the city fountain, but he chose not to do any of that. Calmly, as if entirely unbothered by the scene, the priest of Sino of Reardane rank descended. He stopped two steps above the couple, who seemed absorbed only in themselves and the wine, and deliberately swung his staff slowly, as if intending to strike both libertines on the back. Most likely, this clearly very experienced priest wanted not just to discipline the wayward drunkards but also to turn the process into a sort of impromptu sermon. He cast a heavy gaze over the crowd gathered in the central square and had just opened his mouth to start speaking when the half-naked man gave his companion a firm push on the backside. She, quickly moving her arms and legs to avoid falling, ended up two steps higher, her face practically pressing into the groin area of the priest who was ready to deliver his sermon. Throughout all this, credit must be given to the main culprit of the incident—after pushing the courtesan on the backside, he, so to speak, "didn't lose contact with her," continuing his rhythmic movements.

In a split second, the brightly painted girl deftly pulled down the priest's pants and, after what seemed to me a particularly demanding nudge from her companion, found the servant of Sino's manhood with her lips and skillfully began her work.

Of course, the Reardane-ranked priest had, in theory, the reaction speed and skills to prevent such a thing. But apparently, the situation caught him so off guard, being unlike anything he had ever experienced, that he froze, bewilderedly staring at the brightly colored head of the woman performing unmistakable movements just below his waist.

I don't know about the locals and city guests watching this scene, but I barely managed to hold back my laughter. Literally covering my mouth with my hand, I jumped off the Gate stairway and, without waiting to see how it would end, hurried away from the city square.

I had just turned the corner of the nearest building when an indignant roar from the priest, who apparently realized what was happening, echoed behind me. Then, something crashed so loudly that dust fell from the nearby facades.

If I didn't have the memory of the future, I would have certainly peeked out from my hiding place to see how this unexpected show ended. But at that moment, I had no desire other than to get as far away as possible. And no, I wasn't afraid of becoming a random victim of the angry priest of the god of Pleasure. Far more frightening was the fact that in the midst of a strong push, the half-naked young man turned his head—and I recognized him. As soon as it dawned on me who I had seen, I immediately chose to flee. As for the priest's wrath—I was sure nothing bad would happen to that guy.

Surely, nothing would happen. Because he was clearly drunk beyond belief to pull off such a performance. And since he got so plastered, no anger, not even from a priest of Reardane rank, could harm him. He'd wriggle his way out somehow.

As for me... I definitely needed to stay as far away from Dice as possible. Otherwise, he'd get me drunk and learn all my secrets, which could tip the scales the questers mentioned, so much that I wouldn't rule out the start of a demonic invasion today.

Composing myself, I put on a look of complete indifference and, with a calm yet broad stride, headed in the opposite direction of the central square.

I hadn't taken more than a couple of dozen steps when a squad of guards led by a veteran of Opal rank appeared around the nearest corner. Their expressions showed apparent concern. Noticing me, the decurion quickly assessed my status and spotted the Sign of the guild sheriff.

"Esteemed Sheriff," he addressed me, "do you know what's causing such a rumble in the central square?"

"Nothing serious," I replied with a strained smile. "Just a young man who drank too much of 'Sino's Tears of Joy,' and now the priests are enlightening the foolish."

"Thank you!" the veteran nodded and waved his hand to his men.

The guards, visibly relieved by my explanation, briskly headed towards the main city square.

I, without even glancing in their direction, continued on, offering prayers to all gods—both earthly and those of Ain—for sparing me a chance encounter with Dice, as they say, face to face. This guy had an uncanny knack for anything curious, unusual, and interesting. So, it could easily have happened that, had he cast even the briefest glance at me, his intuition, greatly enhanced by deep intoxication, would have directed his attention toward me. And after several encounters with Scully, I no longer harbored any illusions about outplaying Shards on their turf.

It was reassuring that, no matter how lucky Dice was, after the stunt he pulled, he'd definitely spend some time in the local lockup. Then again... when it came to Dice, you could never be one hundred percent sure of anything.