“Take what?” Not understanding, asked Kors, slightly lifting his head from his folded hands.

“Well, Tyutya, red slave girl,” said Parky.

And Kors laughed: “Parks, don’t speak black! I can’t hear you lisping, it’s very funny!”

“Vitor, don’t shiver! You’re bothering me!” Nik shouted for the umpteenth time.

“What can I do if he makes me laugh!”

“And he is not lisping, Vitor, you just think so,” tried to explain Nik, “he just tries to speak softly. You keep jerking me that I insert everywhere, how are they called… these… consonants. So he just tries not to insert them.”

“And you’re right,” thought Kors, “I just remembered, when I first heard you speak, I also thought that you were lisping, as if you had not even half your teeth.”

“I just tried to pronounce the words softer, to speak your language like you,” said Nik, “and you immediately began to make fun and humiliate me. You asked if my teeth were in place. Do you remember? And then I just recently inserted these beautiful teeth, you couldn’t help but notice that my teeth were all right…”

“Give me my jacket, Parky,” Kors said quickly, trying to ignore Nik and clearly not wanting to continue the conversation with him.

Parky handed Kors his jacket, and Kors, taking out the key from there, handed it to the unclean one:

“Here you go. Valentine will open the cart for you, unfasten her hands and take her, just don’t give her to anyone else. If you want, give Adrian to others, but not Tyutya!”

“Okay, commander. Thank you!” And joyful Parky literally ran out of the tent.

“Tyutya” Kors repeated, shaking his head, and all three laughed again.

There was very little to go to the Fort.

That evening they sat by the fire with the unclean ones. After the capture of the Ore Town, many unclean warriors painted themselves with black and red dyes, thus demonstrating their status as victors. These patterns, combined with their favorite piercings, made their face-muzzles even creepier, but Kors during this time became more or less accustomed to such wild notions of beauty and masculinity.

Kors took off the mask from his Nik, and, not at all caring about how it looked and what the unclean commanders would think, casually fed his son the way he loved, giving him pieces of food from his hands.

After supper, one of the unclean ones began to sing a song, while the others began to sing along with him in the chorus:

I wandered in different countries,

My marmot was with me,

And I was cheerful, and I was happy,

My marmot was with me!

And always mine, and everywhere mine,

My marmot was with me,

And always mine, and everywhere mine,

My marmot was with me.

The unclean ones smiled, revealing impressive fangs, and stared with interest at Kors, who was sitting near the fire and hugging his Nik tightly, kissing him every minute on the top of his head. Kors noticed their looks and smiles, it seemed to him that many literally choked with laughter, barely restraining themselves.

“Hey? Why are you so happy?”

“Just so. Good song, commander,” answered one of the unclean. The fangs on his lower jaw were so long that they protruded from his mouth, making him look like a boar. Others began to grin even harder.

Kors even thought it somehow disrespectful – they seemed to sneer at him. He snorted in displeasure, pushing Nik slightly away from him:

“Pfff, I, apparently, am too noble to experience such unclouded joy from this stupid song of the poor.”

And Nik looked at him with a sly and slightly sly gleam in his eyes, smiling. “Why are you so happy, after all!” Kors couldn’t resist.