Prince Arel’s slave, Valentine, rode next to the coachman: the boy still wore a helmet, which, on Arel’s orders, was put on him back in the Limit. Then Verniy, although he was forced to obey, nevertheless selected for his pet the most comfortable and light helmet made of a material that is slightly breathable. But at the moment it didn’t save Valentine: the southern summer days were sunny, calm; there was often intense heat from early morning until evening. Constantly staying in a tightly laced, tightly wrapped helmet was painful. Valentine suffered from the heat and sweated under the dense material. No matter how hard he tried to lift the flap covering his mouth to relieve his condition, salty sweat ran down his parched, chapped lips onto his chin. The rays of the sun unbearably heated the black material and made the top of his head hot, by the end of the day bringing the boy almost to sunstroke. Verniy rarely received a key from Arel and could not unbutton his helmet and remove it from the exhausted slave so that he could get at least a little respite: he could refresh his face with water and wash off the sweat, wash and comb his hair, just take a break from the ever-squeezing vice. Valentine was deprived of these simple joys and therefore constantly scratched his head in unsuccessful attempts to calm the incessant itching. He scraped the tough material with his fingernails and tugged at the tight lacing on the back of his head with his fingers, trying to somehow pull the tight-fitting helmet crust away from his face and hair. He was hot, stuffy, uncomfortable, and the heavy slave collar on his throat did not add comfort. But the poor fellow couldn’t help it, and anyway, he was in a better position than Adrian or the red girl.

In the evening, Valentine looked after them, having finished with business: when the sirs finally left him alone, he opened the cart and gave the girl water. The slave girl practically didn’t move, and sometimes, when Valentine made his way to her in the depths of the carriage through the heaps of chests and bales of wealth, it seemed to him that she was dead. He called out to her, and then the unfortunate woman still moved sluggishly and took a sip of water. Kors didn’t feed his slaves at all, so that they would not defecate and cause trouble on the road, but Valentine took with him a piece of bread that had been stolen from the master's table, thrust it through the crack in the sack and said:

“Eat, eat…”

But she didn’t eat. And Adrian also refused to eat. Both the girl and the unclean were so exhausted that a piece couldn’t go down their throats, they were not at all interested in bread. Adrian only drank water: a lot, hastily and greedily. Having drunk the horses, Valentine always left water for him: he brought in a bucket, as much as possible. Fortunately for Adrian, Kors at that time was already busy with “his boys” and didn’t see the pleasure with which his slave quenched his thirst, otherwise he would have immediately deprived him of this little. However, Valentine was smart and knew: while the sirs are busy, you need to do everything carefully and quietly.

Kors saw some unclean ones approaching Adrian at the halts. Former friends looked at his disfigured face and barely covered body with pity and silently walked away, but there were those who scoffed, stared at him unceremoniously and spit out humiliating jokes. A couple of times Kors watched as they kicked Adrian, and one unclean hit him hard in the stomach. Kors didn’t interfere; he knew these warriors, their names were Mador, Thalbus and Cazul. Despite the fact that they, like Nik, always hid their faces and didn’t take off their masks, Kors still distinguished them and, according to his professional habit, remembered their names. He understood long ago that what was considered shameful among people was exactly the opposite for the unclean. The mask, tattoos and piercings were not at all signs of “inferior”, but Kors couldn’t accept this completely, and he wanted his son to live according to human laws and among people. He also noticed that often among themselves the unclean were divided into groups of ten or twelve warriors, and these three were just from such a dozen. For an incomprehensible reason for Kors, they called each other “night dukes”, and these, in his opinion, unjustifiably pretentious titles only made the noble black laugh.