Martha went to the corner with the sick boy. Toby woke up from the smell—the thick, meat-heavy aroma of the broth. He moved weakly under the shining white Snow Lion pelt. The woman sat down next to him, holding the bowl.

  "Toby, son... Eat. It's... it's medicine."

  She scooped a little broth into the spoon. The boy opened his mouth. Dmitry noticed how in the lantern light, the pelt suddenly flared brighter when the child took a sip, as if the artifact itself rejoiced that life was returning to this fragile body.

  Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the clinking of spoons and heavy breathing. Dmitry stood in the shadows, not disturbing them. He felt strange—like Santa Claus who brought gifts but forgot the reindeer on the roof. But the main thing was done. They were eating. Their faces were turning pink. Their eyes lost the expression of hunted beasts.

  Cohen scraped the bowl to the bottom, holding back the urge to lick it only out of pride. He put the spoon on the tray and leaned back in his torn armchair. His gaze found Dmitry. Now it was the gaze of an equal. A full man always feels more confident. When the last spoon hit the bottom, the heavy silence of hunger was replaced by the lazy silence of satiety. Blood drained from limbs to bellies. Even Dmitry felt the tension releasing him.

  He stood by the table, holding the tablet.

  "Well," he said in Ukranian, looking at the Baron. "We ate, now we can talk."

  Dmitry stepped forward, showing the screen with the map of Earth.

  "Look," he said, poking the glowing rectangle. "Map. World. Where?"

  Cohen opened his eyes, grimacing at the meaningless, barking sounds. He was tired of guessing, tired of feeling like a deaf-mute. This man saved them; he commands the iron beast. One needs to speak with him.

  "Karl!" his voice sounded commanding.

  The old servant perked up. "M'lord?"

  "The Amulet of Voy," the Baron threw shortly. "Akkh'm ull!"

  Karl froze. "M'lord... It's in the treasury. We haven't opened that chest since your grandfather's time. And the charge... there might be no mana left."

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  "Akkh'm ull!" Cohen slammed his palm on the armrest, kicking up a cloud of dust. "I don't intend to croak with this outlander until morning."

  Karl bowed and disappeared into a side door. Dmitry lowered the tablet, sensing a "system upgrade" was coming.

  "What, moving to a new level?" he asked the void.

  Five minutes later, Karl returned with an ebony box bound in blackened silver. The butler approached the Baron and opened the lid. Cohen took out a massive chain of dull, gray metal with a medallion—a rough piece of rock crystal set in iron. Inside the stone, some smoke seemed frozen. The Baron stood up and walked to Dmitry.

  They ended up face to face. Dmitry—tall, in high-tech clothes; Cohen—pale, in a dirty sheepskin coat, but with eyes burning with the determination of an ancient lineage. Cohen held out the chain.

  "Ghorr," he said, making a gesture around his neck.

  Dmitry hesitated. Putting unknown artifacts on oneself in a strange world was a risky idea. But Cohen’s gaze read: "I need answers, not your soul."

  "Alright," Dmitry sighed. "Diplomatic protocol."

  He took the chain; it was unexpectedly heavy and cold. He put it over his head. At first, nothing happened. Then... Zoom. It wasn't a sound, but a vibration at the base of his skull. His ears popped like during takeoff. Contours of objects became sharper.

  "Oh..." he exhaled. "That hit the spot."

  Cohen watched closely. Seeing the guest's pupils dilate, he nodded. The Baron took a step back and spoke clearly.

  "I, Cohen of the House of Prast, Baron of the Rotten Hill and Keeper of the Northern Gates, welcome you under my roof."

  Dmitry froze. He saw the Baron's lips moving, pronouncing guttural sounds, but in his head, the meaning flashed instantly. It was a neuro-linguistic interface without chips and batteries. Dmitry touched the medallion. It became warm.

  "Holy shit..." he whispered in Ukranian. "Universal translator. Star Trek can go home."

  "Do you understand me?" asked Cohen.

  Dmitry swallowed, getting used to the new state.

  "Yes," he said. "I understand you. I hear the meaning."

  Cohen exhaled with relief.

  "Good. The Ambassador's Amulet. My grandfather used it when trading with the dwarves. It is old, but knows its duty."

  The Baron pointed to the chair opposite him. "Sit, guest."

  Dmitry sat. Now they were equal.

  Cohen leaned forward. "We ate your meat. We accepted your fire. By the laws of hospitality, you are safe here. But now, answer me honestly. Who are you? Are you a mage from the Capital? Are you a spy of the Empire? Or are you who you seem—a madman who arrived from the swamps on an iron demon?"

  Dmitry took off his glasses.

  "I am not a mage, Baron," he said firmly. "And not a spy."

  He straightened up.

  "My name is Dmitry Antonov. I am an engineer. And I am a traveler who got very badly lost."

  He put a hand on the tablet.

  "My 'demon' is a machine. A mechanism. Like a mill or a clock, just more complex. In my world, there is no magic. We have science."

  "In your world?" Cohen narrowed his eyes. "You mean to say you are not from our lands?"

  "I mean to say," Dmitry sighed, "that I seem to be not from your planet at all."

  Silence hung in the room. Only Toby sighed heavily in his sleep, and the Snow Lion pelt flared slightly brighter, as if confirming the stranger's words.