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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 39 - Before the journey
🕑 Added 2025-11-24 23:01:01 +0000 UTCIn the Colonel’s office, the curtains were trying with all their convincing might to mimic ghosts, a performance that was likely unnerving Milar more than a little. The windows, thrown wide open, had extended an invitation to the summer breeze, and the breeze, in its playful way, had no intention of declining. And yet, this did very little to save them from the suffocating staleness of the air.
Despite the generous size of the office, the absence of dust, and the presence of only three men at the table, breathing was still a chore. Ardan was repeatedly dabbing at the sweat beading on his forehead with a handkerchief. Even Milar and the Colonel, men far more accustomed to the heat, were slick with a sheen of perspiration. This, however, did not stop either of them from smoking.
The captain was all but inhaling a cigarette, while the Colonel would sometimes take a deep pull from his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth without letting it touch his lungs. There was a difference, it seemed, in the ways one smoked depending on whether they were smoking cigarettes, cigars, pipes, and so on. Ardi wasn’t particularly interested in this, merely curious.
He was also trying to occupy his mind with something, anything, to keep from dwelling on the papers spread out before him.
“Let’s go over this one more time, Corporal,” the Colonel said, massaging the bridge of his nose while holding his cigar between his fingers. “You tried to sell a dual-purpose seal and were sent to do a standard preliminary questioning.”
“That’s correct.”
“But in the process, you managed to, in your own words, win the lottery of absurdity and, out of four departments on duty, you happened upon the one that was corrupt.”
“Precisely.”
“And you found no better course of action—presenting your identification, for instance, or introducing yourself formally… Instead, you turned the brains of,” the Colonel plucked a sheet signed by Alice Rovnev from the pile of papers, “Senior Inspector Aurelius Lunsky into a soup unsuitable for even research. There is also, by the way, a rather scathing addendum here regarding your professional fitness, Corporal.” The Colonel shifted his sharp, grey eyes to Milar. “Is everything in order in your department? Because if the temperature were any higher, I would consider this not a report, but a formal complaint from Corporal Rovnev filed against Corporal Egobar.”
Milar only let out a weary breath and spread his hands out.
“There’s some friction there, but we’ll sort it out.”
“See that you do,” the Colonel nodded, pushing two thick, official documents across the table. “Sign here, Corporal Egobar, to acknowledge that you have been briefed and have no objections.”
The first paper read:
“Public Order Number: SECRET.
Date: SECRET.
An employee of the Second Chancery, service number: 14/647-3, exceeded his authority and the permissible level of coercion during the interrogation of a suspect, for which he has been fined one month’s salary.
Signature: ”
And right behind it was a second, similar yet diametrically opposed document.
“Internal Memorandum.
An employee of the Second Chancery, service number: SECRET, acting according to circumstances at the time, isolated and eliminated a corrupt cell within SECRET for which he is awarded a bonus equivalent to two months’ salary.
Signature: SECRET”
Naturally, the second document required no signature, so Ardi simply rejoiced about the fact that he had not lost a significant sum of exes, but had, in fact, gained some.
Milar, casting a furtive glance at the papers, rolled his eyes. Ardi thought he was beginning to understand this uniquely human gesture, though he couldn’t always guess its meaning.
“Fifty years ago, that bastard would have been-”
“Firstly, Captain, neither you nor I know what it was like fifty years ago,” the Colonel interrupted him sternly. “And secondly, we make do with what we have. The Corporal’s actions will not, in the end, go unnoticed by the Parliament’s oversight committee. So let’s make sure to present this as if we were conducting some investigation into the Mages’ Guild, and the Corporal simply overstepped his authority.”
“But we are conducting an investigation,” Milar frowned.
“Yes, but not on the matter of corruption,” the Colonel smiled faintly, a sly, cunning thing that touched only the corners of his lips. “Though that might be worth looking into as well, but resources… Ah, resources… Enough about the adventures of our dear Speaker. Anything on your mole trap in the aforementioned Guild?”
Milar just spread his hands out helplessly.
“Aversky’s mansion is clean. None of the markers on his files have been triggered, not by an attempt to copy them, and certainly not by theft.”
“And those already transferred to the Guild’s archive?” The Colonel asked, a sliver of hope in his voice.
“Just as quiet.”
“Hmm… not much to go on,” the Colonel leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm on the table for a few seconds. “Could it be that the Puppeteers are already aware of Lord Aversky’s research—may the Eternal Angels receive him with honors—concerning methods of long-distance communication?”
Ardi turned toward the windows. Despite the fact that they were wide open, no sounds from the street penetrated the office. No screech of tires, no blare of horns, none of the eternal clamor of voices and other melodies of the Metropolis. It was likely, then, that everything said in the Colonel’s office would remain within the confines of its strict, wood-paneled walls.
Milar also fell silent for a moment, his expression almost miserable.
“That would explain why they haven’t tried to get their hands on anything Aversky handed over to the Guild for so long,” he said, his voice much quieter.
“Either that, or they have a problem with their moles,” the still-pensive Colonel added. “The research of Grand Magisters usually undergoes a review and, depending on its classification, is distributed among the archive’s categories. Correct, Corporal?”
It was unlikely that the Colonel actually needed this confirmation. He’d probably asked this because he didn’t want Ardan to tune out of the conversation.
“That’s correct, Colonel,” Ardi confirmed. “Only representatives of the Grand Magister’s Lodge have access to the most secure sections of the Guild.”
The Colonel and Milar exchanged a look. It wasn’t hard to guess what the two experienced Cloaks were thinking. If the Colonel’s hunch was right and the Puppeteers knew about the development of long-distance communication methods, then it was also easy to guess that such significant research would be classified as top secret. Which meant that the documentation would be sent into the protected depths of the Guild’s archive, a place that not even most Grand Magisters could enter. Therefore…
“The list of people the Puppeteers might take an interest in isn’t so very long now,” the Colonel concluded meaningfully, bringing his cigar to his lips again.
“Not at all,” Milar agreed. “Two dozen names at most.”
“How much time would you need?”
“Without attracting attention?”
“No, Captain,” the Colonel exhaled a thick ring of smoke. The wind caught it and carried it toward the window, only to shatter it against an invisible barrier. “You’ll go out with banners in the streets and report to everyone that the Black House suspects that an unnamed representative of the Empire’s Grand Magister’s Lodge is engaging in high treason.”
Ardi was beginning to see where Milar had gotten his biting sarcasm from. This was a trait that afflicted nearly every member of the Second Chancery, it seemed. A professional hazard, perhaps.
Milar smoked in silence for a time, staring at some point in the middle distance.
“Two years, if not more,” he delivered his grim verdict. “Grand Magisters are on a completely different level, Colonel. Especially since some of them hold either hereditary or earned titles. Some of them don’t reside in the Metropolis, only visiting from time to time. And we can’t predict the Puppeteers’ approach. Maybe they’re looking for someone who isn’t constantly in the capital’s spotlight. Or maybe the opposite, so… Two years is an optimistic estimate.”
A heavy silence filled the office once more. Yes, both Milar and the Colonel agreed that the Puppeteers would “lie low” for the time being, but that meant little. Their primary plan likely had a timeline far longer than two years. But the movements of the smaller pieces on the board were another matter entirely.
The body of Alla Tantov. The strange events in Delpas related to the new mining equipment. The experiments involving demonology and chimerization that had been conducted on the children of humans and Firstborn alike. The disappearance of the Staff of Demons, the corruption in the Mages’ Guild and the Anomaly Hunters’ Guild. And there were most likely many other pieces that Milar and Ardi couldn’t see yet, and perhaps never would.
They wouldn’t be idle, even if, on top of everything else, they had to investigate twenty of the greatest mages of the modern era. Or rather, some of the greatest, but that clarification did little to improve the situation.
“What if-”
“Colonel!” Milar cut in suddenly, even rising from his chair halfway. “He’s practically a trainee!”
“He has not been a trainee for a long time,” the Colonel countered, his tone steely and brooking no argument, and turned to the corporal. “You are planning to participate in Magical Boxing, are you not? And your spell has greatly interested Grand Magister Lucas Krayt?”
“That’s correct, Colonel,” Ardi said, not quite understanding where the conversation was heading, though it seemed Milar did.
“Colonel, I am categorically oppo-”
“Captain,” the Colonel said in a low murmur. He didn’t shout, didn’t raise his voice; on the contrary, he spoke quietly, insinuatingly. “I understand that you have children who are still growing up and that your parental instincts now miraculously extend to everyone whose temples are not yet gray, but Corporal Egobar is an employee just like any other.”
It finally clicked. There was a way to speed up the process of investigating the members of the Grand Magister’s Lodge, perhaps by just a little, or maybe a lot. They’d need someone trustworthy, someone who could find things out and was close to them, but not necessarily in the lodge itself.
Moths came to mind. It was far easier to light a flame and watch the poor creatures fly into it than it was to chase them with a net.
The Colonel wanted to use Corporal Egobar as that “flame.”
“We have other mages who-”
“Are known to the entire lodge and most of the higher echelons of mage society,” the Colonel parried. “And I am not planning to use the Corporal at this very moment.”
“Only because he’s of no interest to anyone right now.”
“Precisely,” the Colonel confirmed in an even tone. “And until someone takes an interest in him, you, Captain, will methodically, along with the other aspects of your investigation, look into the Grand Magister Lodge. But do so carefully. Avoid doing too much, because…”
“…at the finish line, the Grand Magister will give themselves away, and it’s far easier to set a trap in the archive than it would be to find a mole who, for now, may not even exist at such a high level,” Milar finished.
The Colonel gave him a pleased smile. Not with his lips, of course, but with his eyes alone.
“But that, as you surely understand, gentlemen, will be handled by another department.”
“More like the Daggers, not another department,” Milar commented in a whisper that was just loud enough for Ardi to hear.
“For now, at least, I am confident that the Corporal can be sent out on his own,” the Colonel pointed the stub of his cigar at the documents lying before Ardi. “He handled the official poorly, but he acted decisively and independently. Those qualities are more important than the blunder.”
They described his assignment. Instead of departing at the end of the month as they’d planned earlier, he would have to pack his bags right now. His ticket for a spot in the seated car (Ardan was beginning to feel the gradual but constant budget cuts affecting the Black House firsthand) of the train going to Nigrad, the capital of the Dancing Peninsula province, was for the first day of the following week. He had a day and a half until departure.
“You will travel to your destination incognito, Mr. Egobar,” the Colonel dropped his cigar stub into an ashtray and cracked his knuckles. “We don’t need the sheriff in Larand preparing for your visit in advance.”
Ardan stared silently at the attached documents. According to them, he was to arrive in Nigrad, which was situated on the narrow isthmus between the “mainland” and the peninsula itself. From there, he was to travel as quickly as possible to the very border of the Empire and Olikzasia in its southern part. It was near Lake Larand, after which the small town had been named. It survived mainly on fishing and logging. Due to its proximity to the Dead Lands, the wood from Larand had special qualities that were in demand among makers of staves and other mid-range Star Magic paraphernalia.
And on the coast, there was an ancient monastery of the Sisters of Light, which also housed an orphanage.
How exactly Ardi was supposed to get from the provincial capital to the remote settlement of about ten and a half thousand inhabitants was not specified. Ardan figured that the method used by the likes of Mart Borskov to travel around the country and the world wasn’t so bad. One could always pick up some news and get a sense of what was happening around them that way.
“Your travel allowance of fifty exes should cover all your expenses,” the Colonel pointed to a check lying nearby. “Go, find out everything, and if you realize that you can’t handle it, use the signal medallion. It’s connected to our branch in Nigrad.”
“Which is at least a two-day ride from Larand,” Milar added, still in a whisper.
Yes… the specifics of the Cloaks’ work clearly differed greatly between the capital and the remote corners of the Empire. But if one recalled Yonatan Kornosskiy’s unit and the lieutenant himself, it all became quite logical and understandable. In large cities, the Cloaks worked as a single unit and could always count on the support of their colleagues, but the farther from the provincial centers one got, delving into the endless lands of the Empire, the more everything depended on the individual abilities of the employee.
“You will depart with utmost secrecy,” the Colonel concluded. “Inform your fiancée of the pre-prepared cover story that you are undergoing military practice at our training ground. Do not flash your identification along the way. It would also be best if no one in Larand knew your true identity.”
“And how is he,” Milar gestured at Ard, likely referring to his height, his regalia as a Star Mage, and the Firstborn features that were very obvious to those in the know, “supposed to introduce himself then? Should we create a legend?”
“We don’t have time for a legend,” the Colonel said simply. “The urgency isn’t the same as with the airship… Let the Corporal come up with something himself. He knows more about how Firstborn can more easily integrate into a new society.”
Ardan certainly did… The answer to that riddle was, in fact, quite simple. They didn’t. Except in the capital and the country’s largest cities, Firstborn and their immediate descendants rarely “integrated into society” and, with few exceptions, lived within their own diasporas and communities.
“I’ll say that I’m searching for my ancestors on my human side,” Ardan suggested without much confidence. “I know that one of them was a sailor once, and he washed ashore at Larand, where the sisters at the monastery-”
“And in doing so, you will immediately draw attention to your interest in the monastery,” the Colonel interrupted, his voice lacking approval but also any particular condemnation. “Besides, it’s unlikely that the Sisters encounter shipwrecked sailors at their walls all that often… No, that’s nonsense, not a legend. Just say your ancestors were Hunters. You know that one of them stopped in Larand before heading into the Dead Lands. It’s a well-known staging post in their fraternity. You’ll surely encounter more than one member of their Guild in town.”
Ardan nodded silently. Yes, the Colonel’s version sounded far more convincing.
“If you’re really in a bind, then don’t hesitate to show your identification, take the sheriff and his deputies under your command, and turn the whole town upside down if you have to, but get the information. That’s only if you can’t manage it with less bloodshed, which would be better…” The Colonel picked up his cigar stub from the ashtray and took another drag, turning toward the window as he did so. His voice grew quieter, deeper, and more thoughtful. “It would be better if our adversaries gradually plunged into the same twilight of ignorance we seem to be stuck in… Try to work covertly, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir,” Ard answered curtly and gathered the documents and the travel allowance check into a folder.
“You are dismissed. Report as circumstances dictate.”
Milar and Ard rose to their feet at the same time and, just as simultaneously, said their goodbyes.
“Colonel.”
To which they received a restrained:
“Captain. Corporal.”
Without turning back, they walked out the door and, after traversing the deserted corridor, reached the main doors. Milar paused for a moment to wrestle with his shoelaces, which had become tangled in a complex knot.
Ardan was thinking about how rashly he had suggested a joint trip to the Dancing Peninsula to Tess, asking her to arrange a few days of unpaid leave with Madam Okladov. Yes, he could apologize and say he was being sent out earlier, but… she already knew exactly where he was going. Which was why lying about “military training” didn’t sit well with him.
He could use Skusty’s art, but… all the aforementioned tricks and stratagems looked and sounded somehow… bad. Yes, that simple, worn-out word was probably the most fitting.
Bad.
“What, you already told your fiancée everything?” Milar asked unexpectedly after finally conquering his laces.
Ardan just nodded.
“That wasn’t very smart, Magister…” Milar clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the stairs. “Next time, you’ll think before you tell anyone about your work.”
“Useful advice,” Ard thanked him, his tone not the most pleasant.
“Despite the obvious sarcasm in your tone, Ard, that is, no joke, very useful advice,” the captain was not in the least bit offended by Ard’s words or intonation. He calmly started down the steps. “Come on, let’s shake something interesting out of Dagdag for you to take on the road.”
***
The familiar bell chimed above his head, and Ardi, stepping over the threshold, immediately removed his hat and was about to wipe his shoes on the mat… when he remembered just in time that it was decorative and not to be used for its intended purpose. Not that this did much to spare the pattern of tailor’s shears trimmed into the high pile. Despite this, Mrs. Okladov refused to change anything and kept it right there on the doorstep, sometimes grumbling at those who didn’t realize that one should wipe one’s feet outside the premises, not inside them.
In the spacious showroom, there was a massive, full-length mirror, as always. On the walls, which were painted that now-familiar deep green, hung paintings and a cuckoo clock with weights swinging beneath it. And the entire place was drowning in fabric samples and mannequins.
They were arranged with enough room for several people to walk freely between them, and plenty of them sported flashy outfits. Some wore cherry-colored suits with jagged, vertical stripes of an orange hue and shoes covered in black, mirror-like patent leather, with white, almost crisp leather around the toe. Others had on dresses with sequins made of tiny aluminum pieces and boasted slits so long that one could probably see more than was proper when a lady wore such a thing.
A little farther off stood more conventional three-piece suits made with good wool. Both double-breasted and single-breasted variants were on display. They also had contrasting silk vests and the more standard ones that had been made from the same material as the main outfit.
After all, the autumn and winter seasons were coming up, and the townspeople were preparing as best they could. This mostly affected the number of layers of clothing one wore. There was also the gradual appearance of fur coats in the shop windows. And these were far from the quality of the coats his mother had once made for the residents of Evergale. The fur around here… it was almost a joke, not actual fur.
Ardan stepped a little closer to the simplest possible dark blue suit with a low-cut vest. It had no pretentious elements, buttons instead of cufflinks, and a simple, low collar on a thick shirt.
“Ah, Mr. Egobar,” a voice came from behind the counter. “Well, what do you say? After almost a whole year, will you finally grace me with your first order?”
Madam Okladov looked as pleasant as ever. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a tight bun, she wore white, detachable sleeves tied with ribbons, and over her simple, cloth skirt, she had a gray apron with many pockets filled with all sorts of sewing paraphernalia.
She was marking a piece of linen with a sliver of soap and making notes in a notebook.
Ardan, in turn, shifted his gaze to the price of the dark blue, autumn three-piece suit with the fashionable, slightly-shortened lapels and sleeves. Such styles were once worn only by the dandies of Baliero, but now, gradually, these new clothing preferences were seeping into the other districts of the capital.
“Exhibition sample price: 86 exes and 17 kso.
Final cost of the order may vary.”
Ardan swallowed hard. This one suit cost more than he had managed to get for selling the Misty Helper. At the beginning of last year, the prices at Mrs. Okladov’s atelier had been considerably lower, but business had taken off. And the numbers on the price tags had followed.
Tess had told him that several jazz lovers from Baliero had visited “Bruce’s” during the winter, and, one thing leading to another, Tess had mentioned where she got her dresses. As a result, expensive cars could now be seen parked more and more often outside Mrs. Okladov’s atelier. Their owners and their companions (male or female) would typically order far more than just one or two outfits for a couple of seasons, or even a whole year (usually, poor folk like Ardi bought a suit that was supposed to last them a couple of years; alas, due to his work, that was often a fantasy and nothing more). No, the fashionistas and wealthy from Baliero would sometimes buy a dress or a suit for a specific event, and then, for everyday wear, they would order five or so outfits.
Using simple arithmetic, one could calculate how much money they paid Okladov, after which any surprise at the price increase would surely vanish.
“Thank you, madam, perhaps another time,” Ardan politely declined, wincing as if he had eaten something sour.
Okladov’s half-moon glasses glinted, and she silently returned to her work. The young man stood among the suits for a few more minutes before the sound of heels clattered down the stairs leading to the workshop and Okladov’s own living quarters.
Tess, who was wearing a simple but lovely dress of a soft blue hue with knitted ruffles and holding a wide-brimmed, almost weightless hat with a hand hidden under a thin glove, practically flew down the steps. Not at all embarrassed by the presence of Mrs. Okladov—a woman of almost fifty, which was quite a respectable age—she hugged Ardi and, as was her habit, pulled him down to kiss him on the lips.
Okladov, as always, made no comment, even though they were violating every conceivable rule of propriety. Perhaps it was due to the tailor’s calm nature, or perhaps because she lived with her female friend. Ardan had seen the tall, stately woman a couple of times—in her youth, she’d probably been quite attractive. But she rarely appeared with Okladov, so how did Ardan know they lived together? From the scent of perfume that lingered on her clothes and, strangely, in her hair.
But the problems related to someone else’s rent and the need to split it were of no concern to him.
“What did you say last time, Mr. Egobar?” The tailor adjusted her glasses and set aside the piece of white soap. “Stop spraying your pheromones and be so kind as to go outside before the sun disappears again.”
Mrs. Okladov was one of those few native residents of the Metropolis who equally loved all the seasons of its capricious weather, from the slushy and damp spring and autumn to the biting, frosty winter and the cantankerous summer, which was either rainy or mercilessly scorching.
Ardi and Tess smiled at each other, said goodbye to the tailor, and went out into the street, where their ears were once again assaulted by the clamor of voices, the noise of the river beating against the hot granite, and the wail of trams and cars.
“How was your day?” Tess asked as they walked toward the flower shop.
His confrontation with the official, then the conversation he’d had with the Colonel, followed by yet another argument with Dagdag over every accumulator and a couple of small but useful artifacts came to mind, so he only replied:
“I managed to sell the Helper.”
Tess stopped dead in her tracks.
“Seriously?!” She exclaimed.
Ardan, who was glowing no less brightly than the fiery sphere hanging in the sky that so rarely visited the city, nodded quietly.
“That’s wonderful!” She hugged him tightly, as if wanting to absorb every cell of Ardi into herself. “I’m so happy for you!”
He returned the embrace. He breathed in her scent—flowers just now starting to bloom on the bank of a spring stream—and touched his cheek to her fiery hair scattered over her shoulders. Tess wasn’t too concerned with social norms, so she didn’t always gather her hair into a strict hairstyle. Today, for example, she’d woven a floral net into it and now wore it loose.
The girl didn’t ask him how much he’d gotten for it, nor what conditions he’d agreed on, but simply rejoiced in the fact that her beloved’s work had been recognized. Ardan could feel it. And such a simple fact made him feel warmer, and a light seemed to ignite inside him.
Only…
“Tess.”
“What?” She pulled away and adjusted her hat.
“About the trip to the Dancing Peninsula-”
“I understand,” Tess interrupted him. “It’s a good thing I haven’t discussed anything with Mrs. Okladov yet. We just finished sewing a dress for Lord Passky’s wife. It was a large order. In every sense of the word. But she’s a good woman.”
“Tess, I-”
“Ardi,” Tess interrupted him again, this time more sternly. “I know what you’re going to ask me. You want to know if I’m offended or upset. Well, I’m not offended and I’m not upset. Am I happy? No. Would I have liked for everything to work out as we’d planned? Of course. But I understand how your job works. And you most likely shouldn’t have told me anything at all, so I’ll pretend to believe the cover story you’re about to tell me. By the way, what is it?”
“I’m not going to the Dancing Peninsula, but to a military training ground.”
“Oh? Wow!” Tess feigned surprise with a perfectly flat intonation. “For how long?”
“Anywhere from five days to a week and a half.”
Tess exhaled and squeezed his elbow a little tighter, leading the way toward the flower shop.
“I’m sorry it turned out this way…” Ardan genuinely regretted how things had played out. “I’ll definitely make it up to you and-”
“You have no idea, Ardi-the-wizard, how much you’ll make up for it.” Tess slowed down for a moment and let go of his elbow to pull a booklet out of her tiny purse with a typeset font, a photograph of a coastline, and... an image of archaeological excavations.
“Don’t miss out!
At the beginning of next year, the grand opening of an observation deck will take place!
Near the end of winter, on the coast of the Azure Sea, the famous Star Archaeologist, Senior Magister Mart Borskov, discovered a pre-Imperial settlement of the high elves, where sensational finds were made, including the frame of an Eran’Hne tower…”
Ardan didn’t focus on the fact that the Imperial Herald’s editorial staff had made a mistake when spelling Aean’Hane. He was much more interested in the bit about the high elves. This subspecies of the elven race was considered to be the common ancestor of all modern elves: southern, northern, wood, and lake, although only a few hundred of the latter remained, living in a gradually-dying village on the shores of Winged Lake.
In Atta’nha’s scrolls, Ardi had read several stories about the high elves and their Aean’Hane, who were considered to be among the most powerful of the mortal peoples. The Firstborn were, in essence, distant descendants of the Fae, and the high elves, out of all the Firstborn races, were the closest to their forefathers. And so their Aean’Hane art had possessed truly magical properties.
Much of what they’d created in their workshops and forges later became shrouded in myths and secrets. And that was among the Firstborn—humanity had only recently learned about their existence.
“I knew you’d like it,” Tess smiled sweetly, pressing against his chest, once again not caring about the whispers and disgruntled grumbling of passersby. “We can go next summer. First, we’ll visit my folks in Shamtur, then we’ll visit your family in Delpas, and then, for the rest of the summer, we’ll go to the Azure Coast.”
“But-”
“You would have agreed to this anyway,” she closed her eyes and sighed dreamily. “If I had said that I wanted to visit the Azure Coast, where the homeland of Imperial jazz is, and maybe even create a record at the famous ‘Vaiski’ studio, you would have agreed, of course, but only to please me. But now you’ll be interested in going there, too.”
Ardan shifted his gaze from the booklet to Tess and back again, and felt that same warmth that spread through his chest every time his… fiancée was near him, flare up with new strength.
“I’ve calculated everything,” Tess continued. “We can set aside six exes each month. We’ll save on our walks and dates. We don’t have to go dancing every week, and we can do without cafes altogether. Of course, unforeseen expenses may arise, but… if we manage our finances well, we’ll have enough for the trip. And also-”
This time, it was Ardi who didn’t let Tess finish speaking. He leaned down and, just as unconcerned about the opinions of those around them, gently touched his lips to hers.
“Tess,” he said softly when he pulled away from his fiancée.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“And I love you, Ardi-the-wizard,” she ran her hand along his cheek and, laughing, pulled him toward the flower shop. “Let’s go, quickly! We’re almost late!”
She held him by the elbow and led him down the street, and Ardan walked slightly behind her, clearly realizing that, in his case, the sun in the Metropolis hadn’t just peeked out from behind the clouds for a few weeks. No, not at all. For him, the sun, with its fiery hair spread out around her, shone from within a tiny jazz singer with whom he was in love.
All that was left was to figure out how to get a three-month vacation approved, but he would think of something. And not just for Tess’ sake (although ninety-nine to one, it was precisely for her benefit), but because it was unlikely that he would ever get another chance to see a piece of ancient history with his own eyes and even touch what remained of the great Aean’Hane of the past.
***
Holy Warriors’ Street greeted Tess and Ardi with tall houses whose architects had once designed the palaces of the Palace Embankment, the Niewa Avenue, and St. Vasily’s Island, so it was no surprise that here, too, the lavish buildings resembled an attempt to cross luxury with residential complexes, rather than… something else. In any case, luxury had won out. Things were not as flashy as one might imagine when the word “palace” is mentioned, but still worthy of admiration.
The buildings boasted rich decorations, stucco, pilasters in the form of nymphs and angels, and also huge doors at the grand entrances raised on marble staircases. This was partially because of the proximity to the Niewa and its constant floods.
After climbing the marble steps turned gray by dampness and time, which the building services had clearly tried to wash, but with little success, they passed through the heavy, carved doors made of Alcade pine.
Inside, in contrast to the skyscrapers of the New City, they were not met by a spacious foyer or a guest hall with concierges standing behind an information desk. Instead, on the right, there was a row of lacquered mailboxes, and straight ahead was a wide, stone staircase with wrought-iron railings.
In total, the building had three main entrances and six service entrances, and there were thirty-six apartments on the six floors. That meant that there were two of them on each floor for each entrance.
Boris and Elena lived on the fifth floor, which Tess and Ardi soon reached. Ardan, as usual, pressed the bell in a metal cup attached to the door made of black, rare wood. It was some pedigreed kind of wood, he just didn’t know which. He was pretty sure that Boris had even told him about how he had ordered it from Kargaam, but Ardan had long forgotten that unimportant detail.
They didn’t hear a long, drawn-out ringing in response, but a light, musical trill, and soon, accompanied by a hurried patter of feet, Boris appeared on the threshold.
He was dressed to the nines as always, wearing a suit that was the latest Baliero fashion. It was brown, with a flashy shirt almost the same color as Tess’ dress. And, along with all that, he also had on flat house slippers that were likely just a little younger than their owner. One would expect to see such a thing on the feet of the inhabitants of the Tend and Tendari, not on Boris’ feet, but Ardan knew their history and the reason why his friend never parted with them…
“Finally!” Boris exclaimed as loudly as he could, full of joy and a little mischief.
He took his friends by the arms and immediately pulled them inside his and Elena’s truly endless apartment with five-and-a-half-meter ceilings. They first stepped into a foyer where Tess and Ardi’s entire apartment in house number 23 on Markov Canal could’ve easily fit. The layout, as in all such palace-houses, was not very convenient. Two doors led from the foyer to the left and right, and each subsequent room continued on from the previous one.
By turning to the left, one could enter the living/dining room that had a real fireplace, and farther to the left, an inconspicuous door led to a long series of rooms: a library, then a cigar room, which was followed by another cigar room that Boris used as a storage area for Star Science-related materials, and at the end, there was a kitchen comparable in scale to the one at “Bruce’s.”
To the right, one could enter… a second living room, this one without a fireplace, but with many sofas and a billiard table. From there, by going farther in, you would find three doors. These led to the master bedroom and two children’s rooms. To the immediate right of the second living room, through an inconspicuous door, one could get to the guest room, which Boris had once offered Ardi for one kso a month.
The bathrooms, equally hidden, were situated behind doors that almost completely merged with the walls thanks to the play of light and shadow created by the stucco on the ceiling, the bas-reliefs on the walls, the exquisite furniture that had clearly been made in workshops and not in a factory, and the painted plaster—a much more expensive solution that was replacing wallpaper.
All of this, of course, Ardan knew because Boris had told him about it.
“Tess!” Elena smiled, wiping her hands on a simple apron as she came out to greet them. “Ardi! I’m so glad to see you!”
The three of them hugged, and Tess handed the future mother the flowers.
“How beautiful,” Elena brought her face close to the buds for a moment, then, whispering something in Tess’ ear, pulled her toward the kitchen.
The girls, laughing and whispering, disappeared behind the doors, and with them vanished the sound of the second heart beating in unison with Elena’s. The child she had been carrying for three months was growing and getting stronger.
“They delivered the baby’s crib,” Boris showed him his injured thumbs, one of which was wrapped in a bandage through which blood was seeping, and also the splinters on his palms. “I asked for it to be delivered disassembled so I could assemble it myself for my future son or daughter… I don’t know why I did that, by the way. It just felt… right, somehow. I didn’t want strangers to assemble it. But, as you can see, my friend, I’m not much of a carpenter. You said you were friends with a hammer and chisel. Will you help me while Elena and Tess are in the kitchen?”
“Show me the way,” was all Ardi said with a smile, since he really did love to tinker with such things. Maybe it was because doing so reminded him of his father and the day they’d built and assembled a chest of drawers together.
He had noticed his friend’s wounds the moment Boris had opened the door for them, but he hadn’t asked or drawn attention to them. He’d figured that Boris would mention them if they were important.
“You’re a lifesaver!”
Quite a bit of time later…
“Grab the pliers…”
“Those are the ones that are like pincers, but wider?”
“That’s right.”
“Got it… Okay, found them, what’s next?”
“Grip the nail with them, place it here, and give it one short tap with the hammer to make a pilot hole, since you don’t have a center punch.”
“Ardi, I don’t even know what those words mean.”
“Not surprising…”
“Are you hinting at my aristocratic origins?”
“More like your red and yet somehow not-so-bright head.”
“Don’t you start about my head, you black-haired beanpole… so, what do I do now?”
“Now take the drill, press it against your shoulder, and start slowly turning the roller, but be careful not to break the belt on the transmission gear, or we’ll have to take Elena’s stockings and cut them up.”
“Roller… gear… and this is the man who says he doesn’t understand mechanisms… And for the record, I actually know about this stuff.”
“Alright, if you know about it, then get to turning.”
“I’m trying, but nothing’s drilling!”
“How are you feeling, Boris? No health problems? Put the drill bit in the hole first.”
“I’ll give you health problems, smartass… You should have specified!”
“And you should have thought about it for a second, perhaps?!”
Boris grumbled something unintelligible and, pressing the drill to his shoulder again, began to slowly and carefully turn the handle, allowing the gear to rotate the drill bit, making the last hole in the side rail.
Ardi, in the meantime, was assembling the headboard, where each slat was supposed to fit into a separate groove, but it seemed like the workshop had taken their customer’s request for “self-assembly” a bit too literally. They had simply sent a set of wood and a few boxes of nails and screws with a messenger. That was it. It was no surprise that Boris couldn’t manage by himself.
Ardan had also had to spend some time figuring things out. And they’d eventually figured it all out together. So it was no surprise that by the time they had finally assembled everything, the capital outside the window was already dressed in its sparkling evening attire of Ley-lamps and car headlights.
“By all the demons of the underworld and the Eternal Angels of heaven,” Boris exhaled, sinking to the floor and throwing his scratched, sweaty arms to the sides. “If he… or she… anyway… if the baby cries in this magnificent, beautiful, beloved-with-all-my-heart, fuc… excellent crib, instead of sleeping like it’s been enchanted, then… I don’t know. I don’t know, Ard, but I will definitely never assemble anything myself again.”
Ardan, who was putting the tools that Boris had bought specifically for this “adventure” into a box, let out a meaningful hoot, just like an owl.
And so, they spent some time in an almost empty room, where the walls had not yet been painted, and the only furniture was a new, in places blood-stained, crib. It still needed to be varnished and treated against mold, but the Fahtov couple, according to Boris, would not be doing that themselves, and Boris would call a craftsman tomorrow.
Ardan sat with his back against the wall, and Boris lay on the floor. He was sweaty, with the sleeves of his torn shirt rolled up, and still wearing his favorite homemade slippers.
“I’m sorry that I let you think I was working for Oglanov,” Ardan apologized honestly, from the bottom of his heart. “That was unfair to you, Boris.”
“I’d say it was unfair to you first and foremost, Ard,” the lord fumbled for a piece of cloth and placed it on his sweaty forehead. “You’re my friend, and I trust you. If you didn’t say anything, it wasn’t because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t supposed to. That’s understandable. But you should think about yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I meant what I said, Mr. Cowboy,” Boris answered a bit sharply. “I remember what you looked like a couple of months ago… You were no fresher than the cadavers in Professor Morimer's lectures… By the way, does that mean she and Lorlov didn’t just disappear from the university for no reason?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Well, you just did.”
“You are free to think that.”
“Have you ever been told to take a long walk off a short pier?”
Ardan mulled that over for a moment.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” Boris chuckled, clearly enjoying a joke only he understood. “But if you were worried that you offended me somehow, you didn’t. Just tell me one thing—were you forced to work for the Black House? If so, then tomorrow, you and I are going to the Parliament. I have the means to get you out of their clutches.”
Boris wasn’t lying. Ardan didn’t even have to listen to his friend’s heart to confirm it. Yes, Boris could probably really get him out of this hypothetical mess. It would cost him a lot, in every sense of the word, but Lord Boris Fahtov, a descendant of Lady Talia, wouldn’t even blink an eye at helping his friend. That was just the kind of person he was.
Sincere, direct, and troubled by his own demons that he fought against every day.
“No, I chose this myself.”
“Well, then you’re a fool, my friend.”
“They offered me very nice conditions!”
“Then consider yourself a very nice fool!”
Ardan grumbled but didn’t argue further.
“So, you really knew Aversky personally and weren’t just joking,” Boris suddenly realized. “That why he put on that show at the Grand… Damn, you really are a Cloak! I never even guessed…”
“Maybe you’re the fool, then?” Ardan narrowed his eyes at him. “Elena figured it out.”
“Well, don’t compare me to her,” Boris shrugged, still lying on the floor. “She was always smarter.”
Boris was no idiot. That was why he could very easily identify someone smarter than himself. He didn’t have an ego about such things, either. He compensated for his far from modest—just average, really—intellectual abilities with truly aristocratic dignity, honor, sincerity, selflessness, compassion, and a considerable talent in the field of military magic.
If someone were to ask Ardi to imagine a knight from the era of Gales and Ectassus, he would imagine Boris Fahtov.
“Please remember, Ard, that if something happens… I don’t know, if you get into a mess at work, if you suddenly have to storm some den of bandits… Even if you suddenly decide to storm the Parliament and the Palace of the Kings of the Past and realize you need help, then to hell with the regulations and everything else. To hell with it all. Call me. I’ll help. Always.”
Boris wasn’t lying. He really would help him. Even if Ardan went to storm the Imperial Palace, Boris would help him. Because that was the kind of person he was. Because that was what knights did once they thought of someone as their friend.
And that was precisely why Ardan knew that he would never, under any circumstances, ask his friend for something that could…
The young man looked at the crib.
Yes… He would never ask his friend for the kind of help that could be the reason Boris’ child ends up living its life without its father.
“You amuse me sometimes, Ard… It’s written all over your face that you want to ask me about Little Viroeira.”
“You’re right,” Ardi didn’t deny it.
Boris sighed and, getting to his feet, took a few steps, then slid down the wall and sat next to his friend.
“I should apologize about that. To both you and Tess. You were put in the line of fire because of me.”
Ardan raised his eyebrows slightly.
“You know who it was?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions,” Boris cracked his knuckles and looked ahead with the hard, angry gaze of a man who had decided on something and would not be dissuaded. “The Orvilovs.”
Baron Orvilov—that was the name of the minor nobleman who had tortured Boris in the warehouse. He had clearly been acting on the orders of Selena Lorlov, who in turn had been a puppet in the hands of Lea Mortimer. It was a long chain that, apparently, had no intention of breaking.
“And not just them,” Boris continued. “Their own hands wouldn’t have reached so far. They’re simply too short. And they don’t have the resources to hire a group of foreign mercenaries who are all former military.”
“You have more enemies?”
“Possibly,” the lord shrugged. “In six years, when I turn twenty-five, I will be entitled to a seat in the Upper Chamber of Parliament. I doubt many people like that.”
“There’s a big difference between ‘not liking something’ and ‘shoot up a whole street,’” Ardan noted.
“You don’t know the aristocrats who have rotted from the inside, Ardi,” Boris chuckled a little sadly. “For some, it’s a matter of course. They wouldn’t even lose sleep over it… So what if a few dozen plebeians died? Yes, there aren’t many like them, but they are the ones who cause most of the problems.”
Boris, without knowing it, had almost repeated the words once said to Ardi by the retired General Davenport, the illegitimate son of Duke Anorsky.
“You think…”
“It was my father’s wife,” Boris said sharply and clearly, as if delivering a verdict.
“And she…”
“Oh, believe me, Ard, even compared to the worst of the rotten aristocracy, this… This creature would give many a run for their money,” the lord was fiddling with a piece of cloth and, at times, squeezing it tightly in his fist. “She thinks she’s something special because of her Agrov blood. Queen of the world, no less. Do you think she’s forgotten what I said to her and my father at my mother’s funeral? And, of course, she’s concerned about the future of her brood.”
“But you were disowned by the Fahtov family!” Ardan exclaimed in surprise. “What does your position as the firstborn have to do with it?”
“It has everything to do with it, Ard, because when I take my seat in the Upper Chamber, I will be able to personally, by my own decree, annul my fucking father’s decision, declaring it unconstitutional and devoid of legal grounds,” Boris was clearly quoting someone or something. “It will take time. There will be a trial, but… it’s a sure thing. It’ll be very easy to overturn that decision for the simple reason that the fucking duke didn’t press any charges when I burned down his family estate. And now you can’t really prove anything. It turns out that he groundlessly infringed on the rights of an aristocrat. That is punishable by a fine of almost one and a half thousand exes and the annulment of the illegal decision.”
Ardan almost choked on air. A fine of one and a half thousand exes sounded like something made up. And not by someone sober.
“And so that bitch is closely watching everything that happens in my life…” Boris squeezed the piece of cloth again, this time between both hands. “I thought she was behind the events on the train back then, but… I don’t know, Ard.”
And then it dawned on Ardi. All this time, he and Elena hadn’t simply been hiding from society’s judgment. A man like Boris Fahtov simply didn’t care what other aristocrats or nobles would say about his marriage to a commoner. No, it was something else entirely.
He didn’t want to make Elena a target for his enemies.
“You think she found out that Elena is pregnant?”
The piece of cloth tore in Boris’ hands, and his gaze was haunted by grim determination.
“I don’t know, Ard. I don’t know, but I will find out,” his words were like molten steel. “And if it turns out that it really was her, then I will kill her. And my father. Because, by the Eternal Angels, she would have had the gall and foolishness needed to try and organize all of this, but only that. Without the fucking duke, the bitch would have gotten nowhere.”
Boris almost never spoke of his stepmother and father in any other way. Ardan didn’t judge him for it. He himself had long since gotten used to such vulgarities.
“Call me when you find out everything,” Ardi whispered quietly. “And if you need help finding out—call me for that as well. I’ll always be there to help you.”
Boris turned, looked him in the eye, and nodded silently. He knew that Ardan was not lying and not simply “returning the favor.” He would really come. Without any unnecessary questions. Without judgments. And after, when the deed was done, he would never remember any of it and never ask him anything.
Maybe Ardi didn’t really know how to be friends with the human tribe, but thanks to Ergar, Atta’nha, and his forest friends, he knew what friendship was. And he knew when it was real.
They sat there in silence for a couple of minutes, just feeling the support of a friendly shoulder, and just as they were about to say something, the door opened.
“Maybe I should send the word to the emergency services…” Elena began a clearly prepared phrase, but then she saw the assembled crib and, smiling sweetly, calmly called them over: “Come to the table, everything is ready and starting to get cold.”
“Getting cold?” Boris’ face instantly brightened as he roared. “That’s sacrilege against your labors! Ard and I will eat everything faster than you can blink!”
“Well, leave some for us, too!” Tess giggled into her hand. She was standing behind Elena.
Boris jumped to his feet and extended a hand to Ardi. Soon, the four of them were heading toward the living/dining room.
“Have you heard that a Museum of Star History is opening in the city soon?” Tess asked.
“My dear Tess, not only have we heard,” Boris immediately responded. “But we also fear that Ard and I will have to take part in its organization.”
“Really? That’s so great!”
“I beg to differ!” Boris and Ardan boomed in chorus, and the four friends, laughing, continued the evening over a delicious dinner and an equally-delicious conversation. This went on late into the night, until their plates, tea cups, and the pot-bellied samovar were empty, but their laughter, the joy of friendship, and the conversation had not run out.
***
Sitting in the packed, stuffy train car, Ardan watched through the window as the platform of the Metropolis Central Station gradually receded. People were seeing off friends and relatives. Men were raising their hands in a restrained wave while women shook their handkerchiefs.
Among them was Tess. She’d taken off her sandals, climbed onto a bench, and was now waving her arms at him and laughing. Ardan, who was holding his satchel on his shoes and keeping his staff propped against the window, waved back to her.
But jolt by jolt, second by second, the platform was soon hidden somewhere behind him, and ahead stretched the endless railway tracks.
Ardi had disliked adventures since childhood. Unfortunately, they did not reciprocate those feelings. And now, in the middle of summer, he was setting off on a journey to the southern borders of the Empire to find the truth and, most importantly, to fulfill the promise he’d made to young Lusha. One sealed, as foolish as it sounded, by his hat.
“Your ticket?” The conductor asked, distracting Ardi from his thoughts.
“Yes, of course, here you go.”
Comments
John
Thanks!
G
There was an opportunity to celebrate his selling of the "Misty Helper" with Boris and Elena; it's implied but not explicitly stated. This would be the most important update Ard could give his true friends in star magic. This could have opened up some space for both Borris and Elena plot line but seems you have other designs. Your reference from Ard's POV as an 18 year old (male) dating a 22 your old woman as a "girl", as opposed to an cougar/old hag (in this setting) irks me. Good job on moving the plot forward.
