Thursday, 19 May 2016

Watcher of the West - Part 2 of 3

In the second part of Watcher of the West, young Hugh's day reaches ever closer to its inevitable climax - but not before an unwelcome face has a chance to show itself and threaten to ruin everything.

The grand final of Watcher of the West will be available on Sunday, May the 22nd, where the young Hugh's day takes a dark turn. Happy reading!

Hugh’s cheeks hurt. He had been standing outside the doors to Westwarden Castle’s great hall and smiling for near-on another half an hour, whilst the assembled nobility, with painstaking slowness, filed in. It seemed as if each person wanted to stop to talk to everyone else, and that as soon as they had done commenting on one-another’s choice of hat, doublet, or cloak, they would turn to him and begin gushing.
            Keep smiling, he told himself. Just a little longer. He rocked on his toes and quickly looked about himself to stretch his neck. To his left and his right, the long corridor in which he stood stretched from the castle’s entrance to the great hall. On either side of the long hallway, two long lines of black-armoured imperial soldiers, all with a small white Fortescue stag painted on the temple of their helmets, stood still and silent. Their swords were at their waists, and their shields, emblazoned with the Vidorian phoenix, remained at their sides. Whilst Hugh stood by the wide open oak doors that led to the great hall, feeling stupid in his white clothing, the passage before him was choked with nobles. Still, he kept smiling and nodding his head, then smiling again and laughing when he thought someone was telling a joke.
            Slowly, the tide of nobles began to thin. When the last was inside and seated, the two long lines of imperial soldiers turned about and marched into the great hall, closing shut the great doors behind them. For a few moments, Hugh was alone. The smile dropped from his face and his hands began to tremble. He rubbed his palms together and found them slick with sweat. I could still run, he thought. I can’t stand in front of all those people. They will judge me, I can hear the word upon their lips already…
            And there it was. Hugh’s shoulders fell and he felt what little mood he had leave him like rats from a sinking vessel. He did not even need to turn to know who it was who addressed him, for every time his family came together in any capacity, this voice followed him like a niggling itch that only got worse when scratched. ‘Go away, Darry,’ he said quietly.
            Sir Darry to you,’ the voice of his cousin slid up the corridor, accompanied by a single pair of footsteps. Hugh did not turn to look at him, and made no move to greet his older cousin.
            He slid into his gaze. He was a tall, thin boy with shadowy eyes and a jutting ledge of frown and jaw. His hair, dark black like Hugh’s, was greasy and lank and fell down across his eyes. There was something in his pale, grey visage that betrayed the sickness he fought so hard to conceal. Since birth, Darry had been weak and frail. Though, as he grew, he got stronger and stronger. Darry’s path to recovery had made him spiteful and bitter of everyone – particularly the able-bodied Hugh who, for a long time, could do all the things Darry could not. Now, as he stood before him, Hugh could see in his much-hated cousin’s face that the dregs of illness still clung to him, forming dark rings about his eyes and stripping the colour from his cheeks.
The son of Lord Aesinger wore a dark grey doublet and carried a sword on his hip – a short but nasty-looking blade with a round silver pommel, held in a black leather sheath decorated with a stag’s head wreathed in holly. There was a bundle under his arms as well, which he kept covered with his hands. ‘Father says I have to give this to you,’ Darry said spitefully, taking a dark blue folded garment out from underneath his arm, ‘but I’d much rather keep it for myself. He says that’s not allowed though, so take it.’ He thrust the folded cloth into Hugh’s hands and stepped back, folding his arms. His narrow face was twisted into a bitter leer, as if he had just tasted something sour.
            Hugh unfolded it and gasped. Cascades of dark, sea-blue satin and velvet gushed over his hands, slipping between his fingers and fluttering in the light summer breeze that sighed through the corridor. Upon the face of the gorgeous single-shoulder cape was a stag’s head wreathed in holly, embroidered in a shining white thread. ‘This is incredible,’ Hugh whispered.
            ‘And you don’t deserve it,’ Darry spat. ‘I’ll fight you for it.’
            Hugh frowned and looked at his pale, greasy, ill cousin. ‘You’ll what?’
            ‘We’ll duel for it. Practice-swords only.’
            Hugh frowned for a few moments. From beyond the sealed doors of the great hall, Hugh could hear someone talking. A hard but well-spoken tone: Captain Aelfurd. He will be upon the dais, giving a quick speech before welcoming in my father.
            ‘Well?’ Darry’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
            Hugh looked his thin, gangly cousin up and down. ‘Fine, if you insist,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Now will you please-…’
            Footsteps suddenly filled the hallway. Hugh turned, just in time to see three figures approaching from the end of the hallway. ‘Darry!’ one of them cried in a voice that clapped like thunder. ‘Leave the blasted boy alone and get your sorry backside here! I’ll not wait for you to heave your wheezing carcass to my side for another minute!’
            Without another word, Darry scuttled away down the corridor, shooting one final, snivelling glance back at Hugh. Quickly, Hugh tried to fasten the cloak about his shoulders, so the garment hung to his left and revealed the fabulous stag’s head embroidery, but his still trembling hands fumbled at the clasps and it fell to the floor. Hugh fell to his knees to try and pick it up before anyone noticed.
            ‘Is that any way to treat my gift to you?’ the same voice thundered about him. Hugh scrambled to his feet, the garment in his hands. Four figures stood in front of him. One was his father, tall and proud. On his arm was a beautiful woman with chestnut brown hair that fell in a great bunch of curls down to the small of her back. She wore a full, red smile on her face and her eyes brimmed with adoration for her son. She wore a fine dress of crimson edged here and there with golden embroidery, and a magnificent golden torque around her neck that shone like the beauty she radiated. This woman turned and glared at the third figure, a man with long, black hair that fell to his shoulders and a scrub of dark stubble upon his cheeks. ‘It was an accident, Lord Aesinger,’ she said curtly, but not unduly so. Her sing-song voice sounded like the harps of a hundred musicians, played in perfect harmony together.
The third figure glared down his large, round nose at Hugh. ‘I should damn-well hope so!’ he rumbled. ‘I had that thing specially made, though Darry tells me you’ve pledged it to him in a wager?’ He scoffed. ‘The ruddy cheek of it!’ Lord Aesinger Fortescue was both taller and broader than Earl Jacob, and his posture was a thousand times more powerful. He wore a dark blue doublet on the chest of which was sewn both the Fortescue stag and phoenix, both in gold. Lingering behind him like a bad smell, and skulking in his shadow, was a sneering Darry.
Earl Jacob waved a hand at his brother. ‘Don’t be so harsh,’ he said. ‘Let the boys have their fun. Besides, if it ends up back in your care, I’m sure the garment will see plenty more use.’
Lord Aesinger said nothing. Instead, he sniffed his round nose and scowled.
‘Here,’ Lady Isabella left her husband’s arm and took the cloak from Hugh. With long, slender, and expert fingers she fastened the silver straps and buckles that held the cloak in place, before carefully smoothing it out over her son’s arm. ‘You look dashing, my sweet boy,’ she said. ‘Now, chin up. That’s it! You look every inch an imperial nobleman!’
Suddenly, the sound of the main doors to the great hall swinging open and the wail of blaring trumpets filled the corridor. Earl Jacob, Lady Isabella, Lord Aesinger and Darry all turned and walked towards the hallway. ‘You’re up next,’ Earl Jacob said, winking at his son. As he, his wife, his brother, and his nephew stepped into the doorway, the Great Hall erupted in applause. The great doors swung shut again, muffling the cacophony of clapping to a storm-like rumble. Again, Hugh was alone.
The young knight-to-be began to pace up and down, clenching and unclenching his fists, his mind racing. ‘Why does Darry have to be here,’ he muttered to himself. ‘He’s a slimy little worm and he has no place with us. And his damned father! Why! This isn’t their day, it’s mine!’ Again, the urge to simply turn-tail and run down the corridor, out into the courtyard, and away over the hills gripped young Hugh. I can do it, he thought. I don’t want to stand in front of these people, I don’t-…
The doors crashed open. Trumpets once again blared. Hugh’s whole world went numb. Slowly, he turned to face the high, arched doorway that led into the great hall and began to walk towards it. You were too slow, he thought. Now you have to stand in front of all of these people. What if they all heckle me? What if they hate me? What if they call me ‘bastard’?
He stepped into the great hall. Few halls deserved to be called ‘great’, and many that were did not warrant the title. The great hall at Westwarden Castle, however, was every bit magnificent. Taller than most multi-storey townhouses, the long, wide space stretched upwards into high, timber rafters from which were hung many heavy flags and hangings that trailed on the hard, smooth stone floor below. The long tables and benches that usually lined the hall had been removed, and instead they had been replaced with a long, red carpet that stretched from the arched doorway and its heavy oaken doors, all the way to the raised dais where the high table usually sat. Instead, on this special day, it had been removed. In its place stood four people: Earl Jacob with Lord Aesinger at his side – Hugh was glad to see Darry had been made to stand with the rest of the nobles.
Opposite them stood his mother, Lady Isabella, whose proud eyes and wide smile never left him as he made his way down the red carpet towards the dais. Beside her, in a simple black habit with a golden phoenix sewn onto its front, stood a man some forty or fifty years in age. He had a balding head and a sullen, wrinkled face, but sharp eyes, and upon a red satin cushion in his hands rested a glittering silver sword. Hugh recognised him immediately as Detmoald, the castle’s priest. Behind them fell a huge, dark blue banner on which the white Fortescue stag was sewn, glaring out over the assembled nobility with fierce, warning eyes. Behind its white face rose a large, golden phoenix, symbolising the unity of the Fortescue family and the Vidorian Empire.
Hugh stepped onto the red carpet, whilst either side of him the assembled nobility exploded into a great eruption of applause. The long red vein of fabric was flanked either side by a row of the black armoured imperial soldiers with their swords at their hips and their shields at their sides. Behind them, the nobility surged. A great sea of fine fabric and shimmering dyes, of fluttering capes and rippling cloaks, they beat their hands together and cheered Hugh’s name. For a few moments, Hugh heard nothing but the hammering of the blood in his ears, before it all exploded into life.
Quickly he marched towards the dais and up the steps whilst the roar of applause behind him persisted. Soon, he stood atop the dais in the middle of the four people around him, but the roar of applause did not stop. Please be quiet, he thought. Please look away from me. Reluctantly, he turned and looked out over the hundreds of figures that were stifling the great hall with their painted and perfumed presences. Hugh managed to force one last smile and raise a hand in an uneasy wave, which also, much to his relief, hushed the applauding nobles into a tentative silence.
‘Hugh Fortescue,’ a voice rang out, high and clear, across the whole hall. As he had been told to, Hugh turned to face Detmoald, ‘son of Earl Jacob Fortescue, earl of the Western Imperial Heartlands, and Lady Isabella Beshing, take to one knee now before the light of the Divine Empress, if you so wish to be knighted into her service.’
As he knelt, Hugh made the mistake of glancing over his shoulder at the assembled nobility behind him. Of course, he had to look straight into the pale, grey face of Sir Darry, who was lingering at the front of one of the crowds of nobles. ‘Bastard,’ he silently mouthed before creasing his face into a horrid sneer. Hugh felt what little confidence he had dashed like a ship in a storm, and cast his sad eyes to the ground as he knelt before the priest.
‘I present to you, Earl Jacob Fortescue, this blade,’ the priest continued, ‘with which you may place the accolade of knight-service upon this man, Hugh Fortescue.’  Hugh glanced up into the face of his father as he stepped forwards and gently lifted the fine, silver blade from the cushion on which Detmoald held it, whilst behind him the whole hall held its breath. His father looked down at him, smiled warmly and winked. ‘You can do this,’ he seemed to say with his eyes.
I can, Hugh said, feeling his heart soar. I am the son of Earl Jacob Fortescue, the finest nobleman in the Vidorian Empire. I can do this, and I shall! That will show Darry! Proudly, he puffed his chest out and lifted his gaze to meet his father’s eyes. He straightened his back as best as he could and placed his hands upon his raised knee to stop them from shaking. I can do this, he said to himself, feeling the hundreds of pairs of eyes that were in the room upon this. I can do this, and then I shall truly be a man. Then I can be like my father.
‘Rise, Sir Hugh Fortescue, my son, as a knight of the Vidorian Empire.’
It was done. He had barely felt the blade gently touch each of his shoulders, and now Detmoald and his father were ushering for him to stand. His father was grinning at him, and by his side his mother had a tear in her eye. Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned to face the assembled nobility, who once again exploded into applause. Hugh felt a smile crease his face as he looked out upon the smiling, clapping throng. Briefly, he locked eyes with Darry again, who was scowling at him from the front of the crowd and making no effort to applaud. ‘Bastard,’ he mouthed again.
Hoping that Darry’s father had seen, Hugh looked sideways at Lord Aesinger. He hoped for the man to go storming down to his son and discipline him there and then in front of near-enough every single noble in the Heartlands. But instead, he was greeted with another pair of cold, unsupportive eyes and a much scarier, darker glare. There was a chilling glint in Lord Aesinger’s eyes, one which the cruel little twinge that dances in Darry’s could never hope to outshine. Quickly, scared, Hugh looked away.


‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ his mother said to him as she folded the smart white clothes she had brought her son to wear that day. She placed them on his bed and turned to look at him. ‘It’s not as if anyone is staying around to see this little duel the two of you are having. You’ve nothing to prove, either. Everybody knows you’re the better swordsman of the two of you.’
            The newly accolated knight of the Vidorian Empire scowled in the mirror that was propped in the corner of his surprisingly modest chambers. ‘Of course I am,’ he snapped. He turned and looked at Lady Isabella. The bed which inhabited the middle of the room, on which she now sat, though large enough for two fully-grown people, was not as lavish as the beds of most noblefolk. There were only a few modest furs covering it, and only two well-stuffed, fluffy pillows at its head. There was a single window set into the hard stone walls behind the bed over which a dark blue curtain was draped – night had long since fallen, and most of the nobles had begun their journeys home hours before. Most of the light in the chamber came from the wide, squat fireplace set to one side, or from one of the many candles that glowed warmly from where they nestled in wrought iron sconces around the chamber.
            Lady Isabella sighed and shrugged. ‘Very well,’ she said, folding the small, blue cape that was the centre of the whole matter and passing it to Hugh. ‘Try not to hurt your cousin.’
            Earl Hugh took the fine garment and smoothed the smart but simple leather doublet he wore before scratching his thigh through the loose black trousers that covered his legs. He made one last check of the brass buckles on his mid-calf, black-leather boots and marched out of his room. ‘Darry wanted this duel, mother,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I would’ve rather just kept the cloak and seen to it that he had left with all the other nobles hours ago.’
            ‘Very well,’ his mother said again with a sigh, rising to her feet and following him from the room. ‘I’ve already sent for Detmoald to referee this little battle of yours. He should meet you in the practice yard.’
            ‘Detmoald?’ Hugh said with a sigh as he marched his way down through the many high, airy corridors of Westwarden Castle. ‘What does Detmoald know about swordplay?’
            Lady Isabella shrugged a shoulder. ‘He may surprise you, you know,’ she said in a telling, sing-song voice. ‘If you listened to what he told you during your lessons, instead of fantasising about killing dragons and saving damsels, you might have picked up on the fact that he was once a soldier before he became a priest.’
            Hugh scowled. ‘I’m a knight now, mother,’ he said quietly, though he did not feel like one. ‘Darry has insulted us and our family by challenging me, I have to-…’
            A hand yanked him around. His mother held him firmly by his upper arm and glared hard into his face. ‘This is nothing to do with family,’ she said sternly. ‘We may have houses, yes. We may have our own coats of arms, but each and every house is united under the light and guidance of the Divine Empress. We serve Emperor Lyshir III, who has so far led this empire to nothing but prosperity. If you wish to play at “houses”, then I suggest you march your backside to Maedar and wait for the next lunatic rebel to declare himself a king.’
            Hugh swallowed, but could say nothing in response. He glared at his mother for a moment before pulling his arms away and marching off through the castle. It was not long until he found himself outside, skirting through the wide courtyard that ran all the way around the keep in a big ring. Above him, the night was darkening. The last of the summer sun had slipped away over the western horizon, and the night was clear and crisp. The stars shone above, twinkling daintily. This is a good sign, Hugh thought to himself with a smile. The stars are Vidoria’s eyes, and she has come out to watch her newest knight defeat his foe!
 The serving staff were doing what they could to tidy as much of the mess left behind by the visiting nobles as they could. The last few dozen members of the nobility – and their scores of household followers – amassed in the courtyard directly in front of the castle, close to the gates, ready to depart. There were even a few of the merchants who had provided food and various decorations for the ceremony and modest soirĂ©e hanging around, laughing and joking with the last of the nobles. Father would say that they were doing so to try and build trade-ties, Hugh thought. They want to be able to supply for more events like this; that way they can get more money in future. Quickly, glad now to be in his usual garb and less likely to be noticed, Hugh skirted around the castle’s wall and headed to the north side of the great structure, where the smithy and the practice yard were located.
            He passed a great number of soldiers as he did so, many of which he recognised, many more that he did not. All had the Fortescue stag on their helmets, though, so Hugh assumed that Lord Aesinger had simply brought a number of his own men to accompany him. It would not be surprising, Hugh thought as he caught the eye of two particularly surly looking men he did not recognise, who glared at him from under their helmets. My uncle does have a long way to travel from his small estate on the eastern border with Altmeria.
            Soon enough, Hugh could see the practice yard. The wide strip of much-trampled dirt which Hugh approached was surrounded by a low, simple wooden fence. He could see three figures in the yard already: Detmoald, in his dark habit and wearing his usual sombre expression; Darry was there, as was one of the largest men Hugh had ever seen.
            Darry’s wooden practice-sword was dancing with the large fake blade of the huge, steel-clad knight Hugh did not recognise. The man was at least seven times the height of his own large foot, and had shoulders that looked as if they could hold up the sky. He was dressed in a fine set of steel plate armour and his head and face were completely covered by a greathelm the shape of a stag’s head. Hugh marvelled at the craftsmanship of the item as he approached, for the huge man was obviously sworn to the house of Fortescue. One day I shall be a knight like this man, and my father shall glow with pride, he thought as he looked at the big man.
            Detmoald cleared his throat as Hugh hopped the fence and entered the practice yard. Darry and the unknown stag-knight immediately ceased their duel and stepped apart. The big knight said nothing and made no movement to approach Hugh, whilst Darry simply sneered at him. ‘I see you have it,’ he said.
            Hugh held up the cape. ‘Here it is,’ he said coldly. The thing caught in the gentle night wind and fluttered a little in his hands, unfolding slightly. As it did so, the cold white face of the stag wreathed in holly revealed itself from between two folds. It glared at Hugh accusingly, before catching in the breeze and becoming a ripple of white upon the garment, gently tossed around and caressed in the sweet, cold wind.
Detmoald quickly glided between the two boys and took the shimmering blue article from Hugh. ‘I shall hold on to this for now,’ he said coldly. ‘You both shame Vidoria with this silly little quarrel of yours. You are both knights, and you should both know better.’
Darry snorted. ‘That’s not what Sir Byron says,’ Darry said and gestured to the huge knight. ‘He says that this is good, as it will allow for us to work out who will be the better swordsman, and who would therefore be the better heir to our family’s lands. Besides, he is a real knight, not some imposter who threw away his sword for books like you did, Detmoald.’
The priest glared at Darry and curled his lip disapprovingly. On the other side of the practice ground, Sir Byron made no attempt to move nor speak. The fact he had not removed his helmet made Hugh nervous. It was as if he as a suit of armour given life by some strange spirit, some terrible guardian of Darry. What if he hurts me for beating Darry?
‘Curb you lip boy,’ Detmoald said, ‘or may Vidoria’s light burn your tongue. Now, let us get on with this excuse to play chivalry. One round. Whoever wins gets this misbegotten rag.’
Hugh quickly crossed to one of the few racks of wooden practice weapons that were dotted around the enclosure. He grabbed the first sword he saw and turned to face Darry. He looked so weak and ill, so grey, like a man on the edge of death hauling himself along upon weakened feet. ‘Let us begin then,’ he said and stepped forwards, clasping the wooden sword in his hands.
Darry charged. Hugh was caught completely off-guard by the sudden show of ferocity and quickly raised his own wooden weapon to catch the surprisingly fierce blow aimed at his head by his older cousin. He had barely deflected the strike when a second whizzed past his face. He found himself backstepping as fast as he could, his wooden sword whipping back and forth to catch all of Darry’s blows. His cousin’s grey face had twisted into a death-like, sadistic leer, revealing his creamy-yellow teeth and greyish gums.
What is this! Hugh thought desperately as he tried to block as many of Darry’s lightning-fast strikes as he could. He’s supposed to be sick and ill! He’s supposed to be weak! He’s supposed-…One of Darry’s blows scraped along his cheek, and Hugh felt his flesh graze. He let out a yelp and, suddenly furious, swung his wooden sword in a wide, strong arc. It broke Darry’s defence and cracked him hard in the jaw. His cousin cried out and stumbled sideways. He is still weak, Hugh thought triumphantly, but he is accursedly fast.
Hugh leapt into his cousin and kicked him in the side as hard as he could. Darry stumbled again, but whipped his wooden sword around in a vicious jab into Hugh’s stomach that left him winded and gasping for breath. Hugh tried to grab the wooden blade with his hand, but Darry whipped it away too fast and Hugh felt a splinter slide into his palm. With a hiss of anger, he charged at Darry, sword raised and ready to strike.
Darry sidestepped when Hugh was little more than a few inches away from him, and kicked him hard in the back. Hugh went sprawling into the dirt and felt Darry’s blade rap across his spine. Quickly, he rolled away and raised his wooden sword to block a second slash, this one aimed at his face. He kicked out at Darry’s ankle and knocked him back long enough to scramble to his feet, but before he could consider mounting an offensive against his cousin, the older boy was upon him again, slashing this way and that with his wooden weapon. Hugh felt blows clip against his fingers, arms, shoulders, neck and his head. He felt his skin graze and tear in places, and felt angry red welts rise upon his arms, but he refused to lose. Not to you! Never to you!
He leapt into Darry’s next swing, catching the older boy off guard and battering him in his stomach with his fist. Whilst winded, Hugh raised his sword and cracked him hard over the back and shoulders with it once, twice, thrice, until Darry was forced to one knee. Suddenly, the older boy’s hand shot out in submission, and Hugh looked to Detmoald. Their combat had whirled away from him, and the priest stood close to the centre of the training ground, his eyes watching carefully.
‘He’s surrendered-…’ he began, but suddenly agony shot through his groin and he cried out. His sword fell from his hands and he keeled sideways. More blows rained on his head and back as he fought desperately to cover himself with his hands, but, with laughing coming from between his teeth, Darry continued to kick and strike him.
‘Enough!’ Hugh heard Detmoald cry, but Darry kept hitting him.
‘I said enough, you self-entitled little brat!’ There was a crack that spilt the night like a clap of thunder and the blows suddenly stopped. Hugh heard a cry, followed by the scuffle of feet. Hands were upon him, old hands, weathered by wind and war, and suddenly he was upon his feet.
Sir Darry was sprawled on the floor, glaring at the priest with eyes that brimmed with malice. ‘How dare you strike me!’ he squealed. There was blood upon his lip and running from his nose, for, despite his appearance, it seemed as if Detmoald had quite the strength in his arms. ‘I’ll show you, you miserable priest, I’ll-…’
‘There!’ Detmoald hurled the cape at Darry. ‘May you stuff it down your windpipe and choke on it, you disgraceful little weevil. Your lack of chivalry has shamed Vidoria this day, and utterly shamed this whole family! Come, Hugh,’ the priest said, dragging Hugh away, ‘let us see if we can’t get you cleaned up a little.’
‘He cheated!’ Hugh cried as Detmoald dragged him from the training ring. ‘He cheated! He held a hand out in submission! Then he hit me in the… in the-…’
‘I did not see it,’ Detmoald said quickly. ‘I simply saw him beating you once you were on the floor.’
He cheated!’ Hugh cried. ‘I swear it, Detmoald, he cheated!’
The priest’s wrinkling face drew tight as he dragged Hugh from the training area. ‘At the very least, you proved this night you are a chivalric and just knight,’ he said coldly. ‘The priest in me wants to tell you these are traits that the Divine Empress shall smile upon you for possessing. The soldier I once was warns you that these are characteristics that lesser, evil creatures who lack honour – like your spiteful little worm of a cousin – will take advantage of and use against you. Now come on,’ he said and yanked on Hugh’s arm.
The young knight glanced over his shoulder once last time and back at the training ground. Darry was already in his cape, grinning like a corpse. Behind him, the behemoth that was Sir Byron stood, hidden within his great set of glittering steel armour. He said nothing and made no move, though Hugh could feel the cold, horrible eyes beneath his helmet fixed on his face.

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