is with him?”
“He has…” Kors was a little delayed with the answer, remembering the name on the red, “hepatitis. And we need the drugs of the Upper. The best.”
“Hmm, and what kind of hepatitis does he have, what form?”
“What do you mean, the form?”
“Hepatitis is different.”
“Really?”
“You don’t know what kind of hepatitis he has and ask for medicine, not really knowing anything about his illness?”
“Listen, Cartmer, it's your job to know about diseases, I'm not a doctor.”
And the doctor smiled condescendingly:
“I have noticed. Well, we need to find out first what happened to him. Establish a diagnosis and then seek medication. It’s strange that you don’t know his diagnosis. Maybe he doesn't have hepatitis at all, but something else? You would first figure it out…”
Kors suddenly abruptly drew his sword from its scabbard, forcing Nikto and the doctor to recoil from him in different directions, but he simply thrust the hilt into the doctor’s hands:
“Hold and make me an eight, show me a banal eight, well? Why don't you do it?”
The doctor turned pale:
“But… but. I'm not a warrior!”
“I'm not a doctor, damn it!” Shouted Kors. “And I don't have to know all the forms of your fucking hepatitis! You are too proud of your knowledge and medical subtleties here! You look at us with superiority! You see, he knows all forms of hepatitis, but we don’t! Let me now make you fight my son and see how you know all the intricacies of swordsmanship! What, you don’t know anything? So why the hell am I supposed to know your job?”
Cartmer was dumbfounded, and he carefully held out his sword to Kors.
“Take it, please. I am sorry if I was wrong.”
Kors made an arrogant and displeased face and took the sword from the doctor:
“That's it.”
He looked around the room. In Cartmer’s large and bright cabinet, in tall glass cases, there were many hermetically sealed containers, in which all kinds of human organs, embryos and babies with anomalies and other wonders were kept.
Kors looked sideways at the can from which, it seemed, a human eyeball was also staring at him:
“What the shit?”
“This is a unique collection of human organs, healthy and damaged by diseases. I have been collecting it for many years,” the doctor answered, not without pride.
Kors looked skeptically at the life-size skeleton in the corner.
“Oh well…”
His attention was drawn to medical devices located near a tall window, half-sealed with thin white paper.
“Is it a weighing machine?”
“Yes.”
Kors nodded at Nik.
“Weigh him.”
“Weigh?”
“Vitor…”
“Shut up, Nik! I want to know how much he weighs. I think he is underweight, I want to know how much to take action. It is strange that this is not obvious to you and is surprising. I have already begun to doubt your professionalism.”
“Well, well. But then he needs to take off his clothes.”
“No, this is impossible. He won’t undress in front of you.”
“Not in front of me, I don’t need it, but in order for the scales to show the correct body weight.”
“Go weigh him! I will subtract the weight of the clothes, I understand this.”
The doctor just shook his head.
“Then let him at least unfasten his weapon.”
“Okay. Nik, take off your belt and unfasten your swords.”
Nikto obediently took off his weapons and stood on the scales. The doctor aligned the weights on the bar in front of him.
“Well, what is there?” Kors asked impatiently.
Cartmer gave him a number:
“Normal weight. For his height, this is a perfectly acceptable body weight.”
“But he’s thin!”
“He is thin, but not below the norm for his height.”
“You just don't understand anything!”
“Well, maybe a little below the norm, but not critical,” the doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Moreover, he is still young, and he is a warrior. You came from Crimson Rock, right?”
“Yes.”
“Where, as far as I know, you spent a long time in a tough siege. Hiking, battles. Such a life is not conducive to gaining body weight.”
“Are you deliberately misinforming me?”
“No.”
“He's got exhaustion!”
“I would not say that.”
“Everything is clear, you don’t understand anything.”
The doctor just shook his head, but didn't mind. He returned to the table and wrote down Nikto’s weight and height on a piece of paper. Nik, too, silently began to re-fasten his weapons.
Kors took off his boots, because they had a small heel, and stood up to the vertical ruler, put a bar on his head. Then he walked away, examining the figure. Seeing that he was literally a centimeter short of up to one hundred and ninety, he frowned in displeasure and annoyance:
“Heck!” He hit the bar. “It’s a wrong device!”
“Do you speak red?” Cartmer asked Nikto.
“Yes,” he nodded.
The doctor was looking at him very closely, and Nik grabbed the gloved
