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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 37 - Cost of an ex
🕑 Added 2025-11-17 23:01:04 +0000 UTCArdan breathed out and leaned back in his chair. It was a piece he’d bought at the flea market. A brand-new leather armchair, one with good lining and quality upholstery, would have cost him upwards of twenty-two exes—a crazy amount of money. Come to think of it, the Tend flea market, a place where you could buy almost anything for a reasonable price, much like on Sleepless Street, had been the salvation of the young man and his finances for nearly two years now.
Said finances, even after the events in Delpas, hadn’t improved all that much. The Magical Boxing matches had yet to begin, his salary from the Black House wouldn’t be paid for another two weeks, and his scholarship was a month and a half away. Summer, after all, was a time when the Grand University didn’t pay its students. And so, at this very moment, Ardan, who had at last finished drafting the cover letter for his completed research on the Misty Helper, was tossing a pencil into the air, following it with his eyes, then snatching it up.
Why?
Just because.
He was resting, letting the myriad thoughts settle in his buzzing head.
“Don’t give me that reproachful look,” Ardan said, pointing his newly-caught pencil at one of the “Tony” dummies standing on the testing ground. “I still don’t have any new ideas on how to implement prototype transmutational runic links into the Helper.”
The “Tony” that Ardi had been using for his so-far fruitless attempts to merge his research on new runic links with the spell looked disgustingly whole and unharmed. Not once had Ardan managed to get his spell to integrate itself into the foreign structure.
Yes, he had advanced his understanding of the array, seeing it not as a uniform mathematical object, but as a voluminous, three-dimensional structure where the Ley could move in any direction, but… that was all.
As if to confirm these less-than-joyful thoughts, a note lay on the table before the young man, right atop his notes on the Transmuted Misty Helper.
“Theoretical development of Transmutational Runic Links. Day: 56. Misty Helper Trials. Day: 4. Version: 6.1. Revision: 8. Attempt: 7.”
Nearby, in an aluminum wastebasket, lay the crumpled scraps of paper that still bore some encrypted seals. Ardan would have preferred not to burden himself with the need to count the exes he spent on pencils, paper, and, most importantly, fuel and consumables for the generators of the “Aversky Stables,” but he had to.
It was cheaper than renting a testing ground at the Spell Market, of course, but it was still not free. And that was precisely what Ardan was currently earning for his research into Star Magic: zero exes and zero kso. He was operating at a loss.
Which, naturally, did not please him in the slightest.
“And the situation with Mshisty,” Ardi narrowed his eyes as if the “Tony” mannequin had just delivered a sarcastic remark, “didn’t help at all. Transmuting one specific sequence of runic links is incomparably simpler than creating an entire approach that includes the possibility of applying it to any structure.”
Ardan glanced at his notes on transmutational runic links and realized that he had just quoted himself. Or, to be precise, his own comments on his own documentation. On the advice of Nicholas the Stranger (whose book he had barely consulted lately, finding it impossibly outdated, with only the information concerning the Aean’Hane still seeming useful to him), he always commented on his own research in writing. That way, he would not waste time later on trying to remember what exactly he had been doing.
The shelves in the cabinet next to his workspaces—one for engineering, one for alchemy—were gradually filling with new books. He had brought some from home, much to Tess’ delight, as she was beginning to get a little irritated by their need to navigate carefully-laid paths between towers of Star-related works. And this was despite the fact that most of his literature was stored not with Tess, but in the small apartment where Ardan had lived for half a year. The one he had used as an office until he’d received his “inheritance” from Aversky.
As for the workspaces themselves, apart from a multitude of blueprints and notes, nothing new had appeared on them yet. The tools for Star Science were far too expensive. In order to spend money on them, he would first have to turn a profit from at least one of his supposed sources of additional income, whether that was from the Spell Market or from the Misty Helper.
Ardan waved away the “Tony,” which was staring at its owner in silent reproach, and then he himself, with that very same reproach, looked at Edward’s separate, unfinished research: “Methods of Long-Distance Communication.”
“Not this year,” Ardan reminded himself. “And probably not the next, either.”
He had tried several times to immerse himself in the research, but all he’d understood was that he understood nothing. No, the general meaning of the formulas and calculations was relatively clear to him, but… that was it. Where exactly he should go from there, Ardan hadn’t the faintest idea.
Tying the ribbons around the cover letter (thirteen pages long) and wrapping the full documentation for the Misty Helper (nearly sixty-four pages) in some thick paper, Ardan took his jacket and hat from the rack and cast a glance around the laboratory. He was gradually making this place his own, but he still felt less like a master of the house and more like a guest, or perhaps a petty thief who had snuck into someone else’s estate.
Even the hanging switch near the exit, which Ardan had connected to the generators in the basement, didn’t help. They usually turned on when the doors opened, but that meant fuel was being spent even when Ardi wasn’t using the testing grounds—a far too great expense. And so, one day, the young man had spent half the day running a cable from a homemade switch to the generation bay’s circuit. Now the circuit closed not when the doors opened and closed, but only when Ardan wanted it to.
“Saving is sometimes more important than earning,” Ardan grimaced as he said it.
Why the grimace? Because that was the favorite phrase of Timofey Polskih—the biggest cheapskate in the entire Foothills Province. Ardi had never thought he would one day recall his words with gratitude…
Closing the heavy doors behind him, which were capable of withstanding several shots from small-caliber artillery (and that was without considering the stationary shields the “Stables” had), Ardi stepped out onto the street. The city greeted him with scorching heat and the vibrating air that rose up from the pavement. The characteristic smell of baked earth and heated metal immediately hit his nose.
Summer in the Metropolis might not last long, but when it came, it shouldered aside the eternally-overcast weather and the cold winds from the Swallow Ocean to take the meteorological throne for itself. And so Ardi, who instantly felt a dozen extra degrees of heat weighing him down as he locked the gates, trudged down the street.
Emerging from the dead end onto a wide avenue, Ardan coughed from the exhaust fumes of numerous expensive automobiles. If Saint Vasily’s Island resembled the districts of the New City in any way, it was in the number of vehicles here. Only, unlike in other parts of the city, including Baliero, you would rarely, if ever, get to see a car that cost less than some apartments in the capital’s far-from-shabbiest districts.
The trill of a tram bell pulled Ardi from his thoughts, and the young man, holding his hat, ran to the already-departing trolley and jumped aboard.
“Careful, young man,” grumbled a wizened, short conductor with suspiciously angular pupils.
Upon noticing Ardi’s surprised look, the man, who was perhaps not a half-blood, but at least a dwarf’s grandson, demanded even more sharply:
“Pass or payment?”
“Pass,” Ardan replied, holding out the cardboard ticket that allowed him an unlimited number of trips, but… only in the districts of Old Town. For the New City, one had to buy another, more expensive one.
This was due to the significant difference in the length of their respective tram networks. Not to mention the fact that, in the New City, such a pass also covered buses.
As for the underground lines, that was another story entirely, one Ardan tried not to think about for now.
“Go on,” the conductor waved his hand hastily after confirming the ticket’s authenticity.
They weren’t often forged, but it happened.
“Thank you,” Ardi touched the brim of his hat and made his way over to his favorite spot, which was usually unoccupied. Here, on the very last bench seat, the ride was too bumpy.
But for a young man accustomed to a saddle, it was, on the contrary, quite comfortable.
After checking that the two important bundles hadn’t fallen out of his bag, Ardan sat down and, resting his chin on his fist, stared out the window. He would have to travel across the entire island, then cross the Tsar’s Bridge, and then, on Niewa Avenue, transfer to another tram that would take him directly to the right branch of the Spell Market.
The mansions and palaces of Saint Vasily’s Island floated past. Lush, airy, and always colorful, they danced in circles around tidy streets and courtyards that smelled of the shampoos and expensive brushes that had scrubbed the cobblestones to a shine. The people who lived here weren’t just rich; they were people for whom exes were merely numbers on bank documents rather than a matter of life and death. Perhaps they only thought about money when they were selling their pleasure boats or their country houses in the Mansionhills.
The Mansionhills…
Ardan’s mind drifted back to the events of the past few days, specifically to his and Milar’s visit to the clinic at the intersection of Miners’ Street and Seventh Avenue…
A Few Days Earlier
After taking off his hat, Ardan climbed the stairs he knew all too well. He would have preferred not to know the peeling paint on the walls, the sharp smell of herbs and alcohol, or the window frames that were rotting in places, and that somehow reminded him of the faces of the healers, nurses and doctors.
They, of course, weren’t rotting, unlike the wood, but by evening, they, too, would be covered in a gray film of fatigue and dark spots. Usually around the eyes.
“The only thing I hate more than visiting hospitals is delivering death notices,” grumbled Milar. He was carrying a bag from an inexpensive cafe.
“Why?” Ardi asked at once.
This wasn’t just his habit of constantly asking questions flaring up. He also wanted to distract himself from the oppressive atmosphere that had settled not only on his clothes and skin, but even in his hair. That was how he felt, anyway.
You always wanted to wash after a hospital visit. And not just because the patients within its walls lacked that opportunity…
“You just feel so helpless here,” Milar answered after a moment. “Most of the time, you’re not visiting strangers. You can see how they’re suffering, and you can’t do a thing about it. The only thing worse is the death notices…”
Ardi remembered hearing similar words from Katerina of Yonatan Kornosskiy’s squad.
“And how do they decide who delivers the death notice?”
Milar just shrugged.
“Usually, it’s the department head or the squad commander, but if they agree among themselves, they can also draw straws. Whoever gets the shortest one goes.” Milar stopped in front of the door to a private room. “Or, if there were only two people on the mission, the survivor delivers it. It’s just one of those things, Ard. No one likes to see the pain of loved ones when you hand them that… letter.”
Without waiting for a reply or a reaction from Ardan, Milar knocked and went inside. The small room, designed for just one patient, was mainly used for those who might infect someone else with something. And also, in the case of Star Magic, for those who had suffered the effects of a forbidden branch of said magic.
In Peter Oglanov’s case, both were probably applicable. That was why no one had been allowed to see him for the first three days. Not even the investigators. Though, perhaps Oglanov had been “put up in a private suite” (as Milar had phrased it) because not everyone could stand the company of the former head of the guard corps’ detectives.
Oglanov was sitting on a chair by the window, smoking and flicking ash straight down onto the rosehip bushes planted along the clinic walls.
“And where, Mr. Oglanov, did you manage to get cigarettes?” Milar placed the bag on the bedside table, where it looked somewhat out of place among the numerous vials of medicine.
“Same place I got…” Peter pulled out a flask hidden under his leg and shook it for effect, then took a deep swig of something very alcoholic and equally foul-smelling. “I suppose that, given the presence of your intellectually unburdened faces, my alcoholic celibacy is coming to its logical conclu—cough-cough…”
Peter was seized by a fit of painful coughing. Pounding his chest with his fist, he spat out some truly viscous phlegm and then… took another drag. Ardan simply could not understand people like Oglanov.
But Milar, it seemed, understood him quite well.
“I brought you a sandwich from the ‘Monkey Cafe,’ Mr. Oglanov.”
The detective spun around to face them and smiled a still partially-toothless, but no longer so bloody and repulsive, grin.
“Did your homework on an old acquaintance, eh? Commendable… So what’s in it?” He nodded toward the bag.
“Two turkey slices, four leaves of lettuce, six thin slices of tomato, two lengthwise-cut halves of a pickled cucumber, mayonnaise, honey mustard, black pepper, and salt.”
“My respects!” Oglanov nearly fell off his chair and, with a flick of his fingers, sent his cigarette into the long-suffering bush, then limped to the bed.
Collapsing onto the blanket with a groan, he unwrapped the bag with the desperation of a man who’d found water after a long thirst, pulled out the sandwich, and sank his teeth into it… or what was left of them.
“Damn it,” he mumbled through a poorly-chewed bite. “They promised to put in some crowns, but not for another month… Still, it’s tastier than the local slop.”
“Mr. Oglanov…”
“Oh, stop it with your feigned politeness, Captain,” Oglanov grimaced and leaned back on the pillows, tossing his legs onto the table and not caring that he’d knocked over several vials. “I know you find me unpleasant, and your face, as you might already know, is no more pleasing to me than my morning dose of medicine and procedures.”
Milar, losing all his restraint in an instant, dragged a chair across the tiled floor and sat down opposite Oglanov.
“What, old man, are they touching you all over?”
“Don’t be jealous, Captain. You’re a married man with children,” Oglanov took another bite of the sandwich and washed it down with his flask. “Young man, are you just going to stand in the doorway?”
Ardan didn’t move. The last time they’d dealt with Peter Oglanov, it had nearly cost him his life. He felt no desire to once again get involved with the portly, foul-mouthed alcoholic who was ready to sell out anyone to achieve his goals.
It was a wonder that he hadn’t ended up in the same boat as the Dandy and the rest of the Six.
“Got it,” Oglanov nodded. “I can’t blame you for your distrust, Ard, but believe me, I was almost one hundred percent sure you’d get out of that mess.”
“Almost,” Milar repeated dryly.
“Go on, Captain, give me another lecture. As if you’ve never used anyone yourself.”
“I have, but not colleagues,” Milar cut him off.
“And what makes you think we’re colleagues?” Oglanov raised an eyebrow, or rather, the eyebrow, as a bandage from a burn covered the space above his right eye, not thick hair. “The fact that we’re fighting all sorts of filth here doesn’t make us brothers in arms, Captain. Oh, wait, you were arresting people at the front, not crawling through trenches like the rest of us.”
Milar let the jab slide. Ardan didn’t yet understand the meaning of those words, but he had often seen former soldiers and military men displaying a dismissive attitude toward those who hadn’t spent time at the front. Even Arkar did this sometimes. It was probably some form of professional deformation.
“Alright, Captain, we really are doing the same job here, so let’s save this squabbling for our next meeting,” Oglanov set aside the half-eaten sandwich and wiped his fingers on the sheets. “There, in the bag. Take a look.”
Milar pinned Oglanov with an unpleasant stare for a moment, then got up, walked over to the coat rack, and took down Oglanov’s leather shoulder bag. Worn and battered, it somewhat resembled the ones postmen carried.
“Look at the notebook.”
Milar pulled out an equally-battered notebook and returned.
“Excellent,” Oglanov snatched the notebook from his hands and… began to fan himself with it. “Oh… that’s good. Thought I’d die from the heat before the local cuisine killed me.”
Milar, shifting his gaze to Oglanov’s left kneecap, reached for the revolver at his hip.
“Easy, easy,” Oglanov raised his hands and opened the notebook. He flipped through a few pages and… “I need my glasses. They’re in the bag as well. In a wooden case.”
Milar unfastened the strap of his holster and placed his hand on his gun’s grip.
“I’m serious, Captain. Besides, you won’t shoot me in here, and we both know it.”
Milar silently stood up, returned to the bag, took out the glasses, and handed them to Oglanov.
“Excellent,” he adjusted the spectacles and began to trace his finger along a line of tangled, crooked handwriting. It was so bad that he didn’t even need any codes. “After we parted at the Irigov estate, I decided to look into this matter more deeply. I don’t know the full extent of your investigation, Captain, but it doesn’t take much to guess that you were interested in Irigov not so much because of the children, but for some other reasons.”
“Continue,” the captain urged, his voice sharp and clipped.
“I am continuing and… alright, never mind,” the old man coughed again and took another swig from his flask. “I didn’t fixate on the unfortunate children, but focused more on Irigov himself. I pulled up information from the last two years. Where he was seen. What he was doing. Whose dinner parties he attended. In what dubious or not-so-dubious circles he moved. You know, that sort of thing.”
“We checked his connections, Oglanov.”
“I don’t doubt it,” the detective shrugged. “But you checked them with your own biases. You were focused on something of national importance, whereas I looked at the little things, Captain. Because it’s from the little things that the biggest pictures are formed. Or do they not teach military investigators that?”
Milar just exhaled loudly and frowned.
“Doesn’t matter,” Oglanov waved the notebook and readjusted the frame sliding down his nose. “Irigov, despite holding a high post in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, was still just an official. Greedy, stupid, but at the same time, quite clever and cunning when it came to knowing whose ass to kiss and who to frame.”
“We’re aware,” Milar commented dryly.
“Yes, but are you aware that Irigov, up until seven years ago, was not one of the high-ranking officials?”
“He only started moving up the career ladder after he married the daughter of the Minister of Internal Affairs. We know that, too.”
“Oh, really… well, that’s excellent. Then you probably also know that Irigov couldn’t be with women.”
“What do you mean… couldn’t?”
“He couldn’t sleep with them, Captain. Maybe he could sleep next to them while cuddling them—and even that’s unlikely,” Oglanov was seized by another coughing fit, which ended with the same strange phlegm and another gulp from his flask. “Until he married into the Minister’s family, he lived the life of a simple, not-so-wealthy baron and law graduate from the Imperial College.”
“We know.”
“And what do guys like that do?” Oglanov continued, ignoring Milar’s remark. “They go out, Milar. To taverns and with women. And year after year, they go to the same ones. The taverns, I mean. They change the women. And so, I visited these places. Asked around. Irigov was often seen in them. But not once did he use the services of girls unburdened by social norms and morality. He was more interested in boys. The youngest ones. It was essential that they had their documents, but they had to be young.”
As he listened to this conversation, Ardan involuntarily recalled the scene at Irigov’s estate, a scene he had been trying to forget for months without much success.
Milar opened his mouth, then closed it, raised his eyebrows, and covered his face with his hand.
“I can see that you understand, Captain. You were looking in the wrong place, my friend. But I don’t blame you. Honestly, I’m sure you were dealing with a much more important and urgent problem at the time, so you checked the most obvious things.”
“The wife…” Milar drew out the word. “Damn her to hell, the wife…”
“Exactly, Milar, exactly. The Minister’s daughter,” Oglanov tapped the notebook with his finger. “What did she see in Irigov? The last time he held a breast was when he was drinking his mother’s milk. And he had no desire to hold one again.”
“A diversion.”
“Bravo!” Oglanov almost applauded. “The Minister’s daughter is too attention-grabbing a label. But if you find a greedy and foolish pervert to use, you can manipulate him very conveniently and easily.”
“And their children?” The captain asked, then immediately answered his own question. “A couple of special potions and magic could have made Irigov able to perform for the sake of their cover story… damn it.”
“And that’s when I started unraveling other connections, and something interesting emerged,” Oglanov turned a page in his notebook. “If you disregard Erik Irigov, and focus on the past of Acacia Norlenov, daughter of Lord-General Daniil Norlenov, who also happens to be the Minister of Internal Affairs, you’ll find a very small, almost unnoticeable, but interesting tidbit.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Oglanov.”
The detective winked and read:
“At the age of nine, Acacia Norlenov was assigned a Star Mage, Senior Magister Taveriy Kas, as a tutor. He was dismissed after five years of service due to an accident that occurred, indirectly, because of him.” Oglanov flipped the page again. “I became interested in this accident and started looking into all the servants who worked for Norlenov at that time. And it turns out, imagine this, that Acacia showed great promise as a Star Mage, according to various rumors—she might have even been able to ignite a Red Star around the age of fourteen. She was planning to enroll in the Grand University. But then, no one can say what exactly, but something strange happened. The stable boy’s son died at the estate. He died so strangely and horribly that he was buried in a closed casket. At the same time, Taveriy Kas was dismissed, and Acacia…”
“She wasn’t a Star Mage,” Milar realized. “Yes, her brain was fried just like Irigov’s, but her remains showed that she wasn’t a Star Mage.”
The captain turned sharply to Ardi.
“Can something be done to a mage’s Star in their head so that it can’t be found?”
Ardi thought about it for a moment.
“In theory, if you destroy it almost immediately after it forms, then…” Ardan replied without much confidence. “And the Senior Magister was dismissed after five years, which means she was fourteen at the time…”
“And the young talent catches on,” Oglanov grunted. “Of course, I wanted to question the Senior Magister, but it turns out that he died during a work assignment in the Dead Lands of the Dancing Peninsula.”
“And the one who sent him there was…”
“I also thought it was the Minister, Captain,” at this, a grim cloud passed over Oglanov’s face. “I even shook down some old debtors and visited the Archive, but I couldn’t find a single paper trail. There was nothing except for the reports themselves, the ones that proved the existence of such a mission and the fact that Senior Magister Kas was assigned to it. He was sent there after someone bypassed the ministerial bureaucracy.”
“Alright, let’s assume that’s the case. That still doesn’t prove anything.”
“Perhaps, but if we look further, Acacia was seen in dubious company and various seedy establishments over the years. But her longest acquaintance was, you won’t believe it, with Mark Zubrovsky.”
“That name means nothing to me.”
“It should, Captain, it should, because it was at Mark Zubrovsky’s estate that we crossed paths just recently,” Oglanov closed his notebook and tossed it on the table. “It’s the pseudonym under which the ancient bloodsucker, disguised only the Eternal Angels know how, went out into society. And do you know what he was involved in?”
Milar clenched his jaw.
“Charity? Something related to orphanages?”
“Glad to see my taxes aren’t just going to your tasteless uniforms, Captain,” Oglanov winked again. “Acacia was often seen at receptions and gatherings where funds were raised for such orphanages. At one of them, Mark introduced her to Irigov, who happened to be there, one might think, by mere chance, but no.”
“So all this time…”
“He was just a pawn,” Oglanov picked up his half-eaten sandwich. “One who was promoted up the ladder to carry out some necessary errands with his own two hands. And you know what the most unpleasant part is? When I tried to get the names of those who participated in those interesting charity events, the most I got were mentions of their visits to the girls and boys of the Black Lotus and the Crimson Lady. I never managed to get any lists of names.”
“Is that why you sent me to Saint Eord?”
“Not exactly,” Oglanov closed his eyes. “In the Irigov case, several missing children were connected to the port, so I went there for information and got another lead on the Crimson Lady. By the way, did you find Lusha and his brother? And that prostitute?”
Ardan and Milar remained silent.
“Judging by your faces, I don’t want to know the answer…” Oglanov trailed off, then swore under his breath. “Alright, this is all just the prelude, gentlemen. The main concert is about to begin. Captain, please get my left shoe.”
“Oglanov, you…”
But, after meeting the detective’s serious gaze, Milar just grumbled something unintelligible and, walking over to the aforementioned coat rack, picked up the left shoe from under it.
He handed it to Oglanov, who took off his glasses and… inserted one of the end pieces into a small recess under the heel. It clicked and slid open, revealing a hidden compartment.
“So this is you knowing nothing?” Milar crossed his arms. “Even though I respect that you withstood the torture, your assistant, she-”
“I don’t have children, Milar,” Oglanov interrupted him in a completely different tone. It was full of old, hardened pain that reminded him of its existence every day. “The Face of Light did not bless me. And then my wife died and… We both know I’m a scoundrel. I used my assistant. Caught my breath, so to speak. But maybe… maybe this list is much longer than one ruined life, right, Milar?”
Oglanov held out a note folded into a square.
“Here is a list of all the orphanages to which I was able to trace bank transactions connected to the name Mark Zubrovsky.”
“How did you get it?” Milar asked, unfolding the note.
“I know how to make deals with people.”
“I doubt that…”
The captain was about to say something else, but instead, he silently handed the note to Ard. He ran his eyes over the writing. The list had nearly two dozen orphanages, and he saw a familiar name there:
“11. Shelter of the Sisters of Light. Dancing Peninsula.”
Arkar had sent Lusha’s sister there…
“Two dozen orphanages, Captain, received donations from a vampire connected to child killers for almost ten years. Do you understand how many lives that is? Innocent lives that never even really saw life itself…”
Milar swore, and Ardan suddenly realized that he would likely be sent on an assignment long before he returned to the lecture halls of the Grand University.
***
They stood on the street, hidden in the shade of a tree that hung over a parking spot where an old “Derks” was slowly baking under the merciless rays of the capital’s sun. Milar was eating a sandwich from the same cafe where he had bought the “treat” for Oglanov. And he was smoking, of course.
Ardi, for his part, was tearing at a stick of spiced jerky with his canines.
“So what is it this time?” Milar asked, glancing sideways at his partner. “A beaver’s reproductive organ?”
“It’s venison,” Ardi had long since learned that the best way to deal with Captain Pnev was to ignore his friendly jabs. “With Kargaam spices. Quite tasty. Want to try some?”
Milar looked suspiciously at the proffered crimson-colored stick and shook his head.
“Unlike old man Oglanov, the Crown won’t be putting crowns in my mouth at its expense, partner,” he took a drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke that disappeared somewhere among the rustling leaves. “And something tells me that trying to eat that thing will cost me half my teeth.”
Ardan shrugged and, holding his staff propped against his chest, continued to chew on his snack. Tess always refused this treat, too. Only Arkar ever took any… the same Arkar who sold such delicacies to Ardi. They were prepared in the kitchen of “Bruce’s” specifically for orcs and one particular Matabar.
Ardi suspected the half-orc was charging him a price one and a half times lower than the cost of the product itself, but he didn’t delve into the details. He just felt grateful for the opportunity to have a snack at work.
People passed by the two partners. There were gentlemen sweltering in the heat, wearing hats; to escape the heat, they would take off their jackets and hang them over their elbows, remaining in just their shirts and vests. Beside them walked girls and women in light dresses, sometimes with fashionable, woven nets in their hair that had replaced hats; and, of course, with umbrellas that gave them some much-needed shade.
It was funny how, for almost ten and a half months of the year, the residents of the Metropolis complained about the gray gloom, dampness, and piercing cold, but as soon as the hot summer came, everyone immediately reminisced fondly about the departed cold and incessant downpours.
A couple of times, guards had passed by, wearing their red uniforms and thin helmets. They had noticed Ardi’s unsheathed staff at first and headed over to check his documents, but upon seeing the car and the partners’ uniforms, they’d grimaced and moved away.
The nature of the relationship between the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Black House still remained a mystery to Ardan, even though the veil of its secrets had been slightly lifted.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Magister. I think that, in about six days, you’ll be heading to the Dancing Peninsula,” Milar finally got to the point. “And I’ll be buried up to my neck in the Archive. It’s shameful to admit how badly we missed the mark with Irigov. Even blaming it on the Spiders is pointless here.”
“That’s why the Puppeteers used Acacia, Milar,” Ardi tore off another piece of the jerky stick with his canines, causing a young girl to turn excessively pale and earning a silent look of contempt from her companion. “I suppose she was looking for a way to restore her Star that was destroyed by the Senior Magister. As a result, she fell in with a bad crowd.”
“That much is clear,” Milar flicked the ash into his ever-present tin can. “While you’re off on a southern resort vacation, I’ll try to unravel this whole mess. Oglanov’s connections are good, of course, but we have a much bigger, stronger and heavier lever.”
Ardi wanted to joke that one still needed to know where to apply said “lever,” but he realized that it wouldn’t be very appropriate.
Human humor was still not his strong suit.
“And if we can get to those who participated in the charity events, it could be a major breakthrough in our case,” the captain continued. “It’s unlikely the vampire was doing all of this alone. I feel like there must be a bigger fish somewhere close by.”
“Don’t forget that half the criminal underworld is still looking for Alla Tantov’s body,” Ardan reminded him. “And the strange goings-on at the Mages’ Guild. By the way, what’s the situation with the trap at Aversky’s house?”
Milar sighed and, crumpling the paper around his sandwich, sent it flying into a trash can with a well-aimed toss.
“You’ve completely ruined my appetite…” Milar grumbled. “It’s quiet there. Like a tomb. So much time has passed, and no one has been caught.”
“You think the mole is being cautious?”
“Either that,” the captain nodded, “or the Puppeteers are in no hurry. They’re afraid of making a mistake. With Aversky and Lea Morimer, they came too close to failure. So they’ll be careful. And in general, it’s more likely that everything that has happened in the past year is just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence? In what sense?”
“In a global sense, Ard, a global one,” Milar took out a new cigarette and flicked his lighter. “The Puppeteers took advantage of His Imperial Majesty’s coronation. Pavel had to hand over the affairs of the Black House, and that’s not a quick process. Plus, there were all his reforms, decrees and so on. The opening of the underground tram lines. That was a real mess… so the Puppeteers decided it was the most opportune moment to strike.”
“Especially since all the pieces were already in place…”
“What?” Milar asked in a not-so-pleased tone.
“If you imagine everything not as an equation,” Ardan explained, remembering the negative reaction the captain had had to comparing an investigation to mathematics, “but as a game of chess, then before you launch an attack or a maneuver, you need to place your pieces in their positions. Or somewhere they can advantageously move to the desired position from.”
Milar’s eyebrows shot up.
“When did you learn how to play chess, Mr. Cowboy?”
“The squirrel and the she-wolf liked to play it,” Ardi shrugged. “So they taught me.”
Milar blinked a few times and couldn’t suppress a nervous chuckle.
“Sorry,” he raised his hands. “My imagination got carried away… What are your plans for the next few days?”
Ardan mulled the question over for a moment.
“I wanted to work a little-”
“Oh, so you don’t have enough work? I can tell you where-”
“I meant on Star Magic, Milar,” Ardi interrupted the already enthusiastic captain. “Then I need to go to the Spell Market, and I still have a visit scheduled with Boris.”
“Excellent. You can also ask him about what happened on Little Viroeira.”
Ardan nodded.
“And… Magister, we can’t ignore the obvious for much longer.”
“It’s not that obvious.”
“There!” Milar raised his index finger and pointed it at his companion. “That’s the whole problem. You just don’t want Arkar to be involved in this.”
“He’s not the type to harm children,” Ardan stood his ground.
“He’s the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets, Ard,” the captain objected with a sad sigh. “A gangster. And not a low-level one at that. So…”
A pause hung in the air. It was almost as heavy as the golden sun hanging above their heads.
“I’ll ask him,” Ardan promised.
“Do you think he’ll tell you the truth?”
“He will,” Ardan answered firmly, then added more quietly, “Besides, I’ll know if he’s telling the truth or not.”
Milar exhaled another column of smoke.
“You know, sometimes I envy the fact that you don’t have to trust your gut and experience when talking to someone, and you simply know if they’re telling the truth or not.”
“It’s not always pleasant, Milar.”
“Really?” The captain asked, then answered the question himself. “Yes. You’re right. Especially in everyday domestic matters, I would imagine.”
“And just dealing with people in general,” Ardan turned away. “That’s why I try not to listen to hearts. Because people lie about little things all the time, and trying to figure out if it’s a little thing or not every time—it’s not very healthy.”
“Was Oglanov telling the truth?”
“You know the answer already.”
“Yes, I do,” the captain confirmed. “The old dog left something out somewhere.”
“Because he’ll continue the investigation himself,” Ardan added.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to pull his ass out of a vampire’s lair or some other den again,” Milar extinguished the cigarette and put the unsmoked half back in his cigarette case. “Let’s go, Magister, I’ll drive you to ‘Bruce’s.’ And make sure you talk to Arkar.”
Ardan silently dove into the scorching interior of the car. It was Arkar who had sent Lusha’s sister to the Shelter of the Sisters of Light. Did he know what was happening there? Was anything happening there at all? Ardan wanted to believe the answer to both questions was no, but his gut told him he couldn’t be that lucky, and that somewhere, a far from welcome “yes” would be found. He could only hope it wasn’t the first item on the short list…
On the Way to the Spell Market
After waiting for the next tram for almost a quarter of an hour, Ardan regretted that casting spells in the city was not recommended. Doing so without a good reason could lead to a fine or worse.
Ardi had all the necessary permits and papers to prove he was allowed to do so, but he didn’t want to disturb the peace of those around him. He had already convinced himself more than once that he, too, had undergone a professional deformation.
Considering his work at the Black House and his studies at the Grand University, Star Magic had long since become, if not commonplace, then something prosaic and unsurprising to him. One the other hand, even the mere sight of a Star Mage in a cloak, with epaulettes, a grimoire on their belt, and a sheathed staff in their hands, caused the average person to become somewhat nervous, and they’d usually want to get away as quickly as possible.
Magic, if it didn’t frighten people, at least reminded them that the world was much larger, more complex, and more terrifying than what could be seen from the windows of their cozy apartments, stuffy offices, and clattering factory floors.
And so Ardi once again went over the memories of his visit to Oglanov, and then his attempts to talk to Arkar, who… hadn’t been there. He hadn’t shown up the following day, either. Nor the day after. Only this morning did Ardi learn from a conversation between the bouncers that the Six had decided to “have a sit-down.” That was what they called their peculiar meeting.
For a few days, or maybe even a week, the entire top brass of the Metropolis’ criminal underworld would go to some safe house where they would decide and discuss matters. It was something like negotiations during an unceasing war. And for some reason, Ardi was sure that in this case, the event had been triggered by the search for Alla Tantov’s body…
In any case, the fact remained. He had not yet managed to talk to Arkar and clarify things.
Jumping off at the right stop, Ardan approached a pot-bellied building with a sign that read: “Spell Market. Branch 14.”
Opening the doors, which caused a squeaky bell to jingle, Ardi entered as if this were his own home. Well, it almost was...
As always, the walls were lined with towering cabinets filled with various works, all of them sorted by topic, year of publication, and field of scientific knowledge. The cheapest of them—textbooks for specialized classes in schools—cost about one and a half exes, while the most expensive—thick folios on the principles of the interactions between seal vectors and Ley Line structures—cost up to thirty-five exes.
In addition to the cabinets, shelves with complex instruments awaited their buyers in the wide halls connected by spacious passages. And arithmometers, even trigonometric ones, were always the simplest and cheapest of them. Ardan, out of habit, let his gaze wander covetously over the huge typewriters, with their many lamps, toggles, and levers, which were capable of making copies of seal blueprints up to a certain complexity (Ley-machines capable of handling the Blue Star, for example, started at a price of four hundred and twenty exes).
There were also portable, small transformers awaiting their time to shine; Ley-cables in various configurations; devices for measuring the natural concentration of the Ley in the atmosphere; analyzers of all sorts and costs (based on the number of phenomena they could detect); some mysterious tubes, iron boxes with lightbulbs and gears, and much more, including the instruments Ardi had seen in Klementiy’s hands, all of it invented by the geniuses of Star Science.
Alas, all of this wealth remained out of reach, hidden behind the veil of Ardi’s own poverty. So, bypassing the sample goods, he went to the checkout counter.
“Ah, Mr. Egobar,” one of the employees greeted him. “Are you here for paper, as usual?”
Working on blueprints required a special, thick paper capable of withstanding hundreds of eraser uses and a sharp, honed pencil, so he had to buy it in specialized stores like this one.
“I’m going to the second floor,” Ardan opened his bag slightly and showed him the envelopes.
“Ah, then good luck to you,” the salesman said with a sincere smile.
Ardi took a ticket from him and, passing several Green and Blue Star Mages who were processing their purchases, went through an inconspicuous door and practically flew up the stairs.
Unlike the first floor, this one somewhat resembled the headquarters of the Cloaks. Just like last time, Ardi didn’t linger near the line of double doors and immediately turned toward the first set, upon which a steel plate gleamed with the words: “Purchase and Appraisal of Seals.”
Inside, in a spacious, bright room, among yet more bookcases, a man sat at a desk by the window, buried in documents—the same elderly mage of about seventy from last time. He wore a blue cloak and thick glasses on his hooked nose. He was digging through a multitude of blueprints and scrolls. Only this time, instead of a suit, he… was wearing pajamas. Or something similar. But it was unlikely anyone would judge the old engineer who was considered to be one of the best spell appraisers in the city.
Truth be told, Ardi had found out this fact a while after he’d sold his Water Shroud to the “greedy, self-absorbed, narrow-minded old man,” which was what almost half of the Grand University’s Engineering Faculty called him.
Ardan was about to place the envelopes with the cover letter and documentation in the pile of other materials when he heard:
“Ah, the young man with the bright mind… I remember you… come closer,” The Grand Magister of Engineering Magic, the Blue Mage Lucas Krayt, beckoned Ardan to his desk.
With far more caution than last time, Ardan approached the desk.
At the Grand University, there was a lot of speculation as to why, in his twilight years, Lucas Krayt had left the Grand Magister’s Lodge, abandoned all his research, and taken up appraising seals at the Spell Market. Most called it eccentricity, but Elena Promyslov insisted that it was due to a sad event.
His grandson, a promising Magical Engineer, had bought a not-so-high-quality seal at the Market, and experiments with its modifications had led to him being in… what was it called… ah yes—a coma. It was a peculiar, strange sleep. And he had been sleeping for almost seven years now. And all this time, Lucas Krayt had been appraising seals at the largest branch of the Spell Market, probably to ensure that the tragic fate of his grandson would not befall anyone else.
“So, what do you have for me?” Pushing aside some papers, Grand Magister Krayt adjusted his glasses and took both envelopes. “I see you’ve prepared everything properly this time… Alright…”
He untied the ribbons of the cover letter and, with gnarled, wizened fingers, quite deftly and briskly flipped through the pages. He looked over the main points, the names, and the list of runic nodes, fundamental connections, and vector loads in the contours used for the seal.
“At first glance, it’s solid… Remind me, young man, you’re graduating this year, aren’t you?” Of course, Krayt remembered nothing about Ard except his appearance and, more or less, what he had then called a “good idea.” Without waiting for an answer, the Grand Magister moved on to the documentation itself. “Let’s see if this work is worth the effort you spent on its proper presentation. You certainly used enough paper. So, let’s begin…”
Armed with an arithmometer that probably cost more than “Bruce’s” with all its supplies, as well as a Ley-machine capable of calculations up to the Yellow Star, and several Ley-rulers and other equipment with a combined cost greater than Ardan was willing to say out loud, the Grand Magister began his analysis.
Clicking his fingers on the keys, occasionally distracted by the notes he was making with the simple, battered stub of a pencil on equally-ordinary paper, Lucas Krayt dismantled Ardi’s creation brick by brick. He literally deconstructed it, subjecting every connection, every node, every seemingly-insignificant load in the connections, the bridges between arrays, or their attachments to the contours to a thorough analysis.
And he did it with the kind of speed, precision and insight that Ardan could only dream of wielding right now. Perhaps if he had the same amount of experience, skill and knowledge, he would have been able to advance his research on transmutational runic links a little more than almost not at all.
“Part of the matrix system for calculating the transformation of energy in a field of conservative forces leaves much to be desired,” the Grand Magister made several broad strokes directly on the documentation. “There are inaccuracies in the calculations of the Lagrange function on the segment of the fourth vector in the contour responsible for stabilizing the seal’s transitional state. It’s not fundamental, otherwise it would have been a failure, but sufficient to cause errors to accumulate in the system under serious modification. Especially with repeated modification of the seal’s secondary properties.”
Ardan wanted to slap himself. Apparently, this was why he still hadn’t managed to achieve even the slightest progress in attaching the transmutational runic links to the Helper. He had simply made a mistake in his calculations.
“But here I can only praise you for the quality of the calculations themselves,” Mr. Krayt continued. “The depth of the research is almost ten to the fourth power, which covers the absolute majority of potential runic links for the planned field of modifications up to the Blue Star. Excellent work. An error with just one vector, even if it carries functionally important information, is forgivable. Let’s move on.”
And once again, the pencil hissed on the paper, and the fingers tapped on the keys. And, as Ardan noted, Krayt was most likely performing all the calculations in his head, using the arithmometer and Ley-machine only for a secondary check of his solutions.
“In almost all the runic links where the integral expression of the projection of effective intensity is used, you’ve overdone it with the safeguards in the auxiliary systems,” the Grand Magister delivered another remark. “In the short term, this has almost no effect on the blueprint’s operation, but in the long term, especially with modifications, it can cause a cascading increase in costs. A margin of error of up to two rays at a depth of ten to the second power is an unaffordable luxury, young man. I offer a strict reprimand for you here. If you are not confident in your design, you should not prop it up on crutches of excessive safeguarding.”
“Yes, Mr. Grand Magister,” Ardan replied immediately, simultaneously making notes in his own grimoire.
He had no intention of squandering the priceless comments and remarks of a Grand Magister of Magical Engineering.
The elderly scientist did not slow down for a second:
“The bridges between the arrays are executed so… I don’t even know how to put it… straightforwardly, that one might assume you are not finishing your sixth year, but at most your third, young man…” The Grand Magister made a few more broad strokes. “One could approach this process more creatively. Here, if you pay close attention, you can see that your tensor of the vector segment responsible for implementing the calculation of the Green-type quadrupole moment is all but screaming that you don’t want to apply the covariance of linear functionals to it. Which in itself is pure nonsense.”
Ardan barely restrained himself from asking, “What is a tensor of a vector segment?” and then “What kind of Green-type moment? Followed by “Quadru… what?” and of course: “Covariance of linear functionals—what’s that about?”
“And it’s all written down so oddly… Where did you even find such recording systems?” Lucas Krayt frowned more and more. “The indices are all over the place. The notations, without your cover letter, are indecipherable. Did you decide to encrypt not only the seal, but the documentation as well? Where did you pick up this ugly palisade of abstract symbols?”
For the first time, the Grand Magister looked up from his work and glanced at Ard, who, in turn, was scratching the back of his head with the pommel of his staff. He really hadn’t done a very good job of recording his research, for the simple reason that… he didn’t know what exactly to record. At some points, Ardan had simply realized that he needed to calculate a certain phenomenon that he’d observed purely empirically (thanks to his Speaker’s Gaze), but at the same time, he’d had no idea what it might be called. And without knowing all these names, how could he find the correct form of notation?
“Very tall… with amber eyes… are you Ard Egobar?” Mr. Krayt asked suddenly.
“Yes, Mr. Grand Magister.”
Those bushy, gray eyebrows rose slightly.
“Young Aversky, may the Eternal Angels receive him, while praising you as highly as he was capable of praising someone else, mentioned that you are a first-year student… may I see your membership card?” The Grand Magister held out his hand.
Ardi handed over the requested document. Old man Krayt, moving his glasses to his forehead, shifted his gaze from the photograph on the card to Ardi and back, as if he wanted to make sure he was not being deceived and that it was indeed him—Ardan Egobar—standing before him.
“A first-year…” He whispered barely audibly and, returning the card, thought for a moment before quickly jotting down a list of about a dozen titles on a piece of paper. “Before you prepare your documentation next time, please take the trouble to study all of this, young man.”
“Thank you,” Ardan accepted the note and gave it a quick, cursory glance:
1.“Linear Functionals. Four volumes.” Gr. Magister A. Pulovitsky
2.“Dominant Types of (Star) Spaces. Collected Works.” Sr. Magister N. Voyt
3.“Ley Scalars.” Sr. Magister K. Fikhovtsky
It seemed like he would have to spend a small fortune on another purchase of nighttime literature in the near future. Or, in a month and a half, once again skip some lectures in order to visit the Grand University’s library. Fortunately, he had full access to all the literature thanks to his work at the Black House. Without such access, Ardi didn’t even want to think about how much his research would have slowed down. It might’ve even stalled altogether.
“I could pay you the compliment of telling you that for your level, this is an unparalleled achievement, young man, but…” Lucas Krayt tapped the knuckle of his index finger on Ardi’s calculations. “Your level is not reflected on membership paper, but here. So let me rephrase—for your potential level, this is, if not a mediocre work, then close to that derogatory title. It’s sloppy, with smudges, and, despite an excellent and fresh idea, completely superficial.”
“Yes, Grand Magister,” Ardan did not argue simply because Lucas Krayt had probably even smoothed over some of the rough edges and, after all, had paid him a compliment.
“I can offer you…” The Grand Magister of Magical Engineering, who, in a few seconds, could calculate in his head what Ardan had labored over on paper for a quarter of an hour, armed himself with… a simple, wooden abacus.
He tapped his fingers on the beads, flicking them from side to side, while Ardi hoped for at least four exes. Maybe the Misty Helper would bring him at least enough to cover the cost of the paper and allow him to buy the next batch required for new attempts.
“Sixty-eight exes, forty-nine kso,” the Grand Magister delivered his verdict, causing Ardan’s forehead to instantly break out in a sweat. “And also eight percent from every purchase of the base seal. And ten kso for each encrypted modification we sell.”
The Spell Market didn’t sell full seals all that often, but encrypted modifications. These were seals that, even with the help of careful reverse engineering, made it impossible to understand how exactly and on what fundamental principles the basic seal had been built. This was how the Market made its profit.
“Of course!” Ardan extended his hand so sharply that he nearly tripped over his own staff.
“No haggling?” The Grand Magister squinted at him.
Haggling? If they were buying a seal from him for almost seventy exes, then the Market wouldn’t sell the base version for less than a hundred exes! If they sold at least one such version and several encrypted modifications each month, that was practically his monthly scholarship at the Grand University!
Due to his shock, Ardi, who, from a young age, back when he’d worked for the miser Polskih, had gotten used to having to bargain fiercely for every kso, had instantly forgotten everything he’d learned about the art of shifting the price in his favor.
“Umm… ten percent and twelve kso?”
“Nine percent and eleven kso,” Mr. Krayt immediately replied with a counteroffer and extended his hand.
Ardan, without delay, without arguing for even a second longer, accepted the unexpectedly firm handshake.
“While I’m preparing all the papers, you’ll have to wait downstairs, Mr. Egobar,” the Grand Magister returned his glasses to his nose and grabbed a form. “And, by the way, given the dual nature of your seal, which has potential uses in not only civilian but also military applications, you will need to go to the Mages’ Guild for an interview.”
“And when will that-”
“That will have to be done now,” the Grand Magister reached out and placed the filled-out form inside a pneumatic mail container. It disappeared inside the copper tube with a whooshing sound. “Representatives from the Guild will be with you shortly. Please treat this procedure with the seriousness it deserves. You may go. And, of course, I look forward to seeing you back here with new research. But only after you’ve familiarized yourself with the necessary literature.”
“Of course, Mr. Grand Magister, have a good day.”
“And you as well, young man.”
Lucas Krayt returned to his papers, and Ardan, as he was leaving the room, reached for his Second Chancery identification. It would greatly simplify both the trip to the Mages’ Guild and the interaction with its representatives, but…
“As for your own question—my father was investigating corruption within the Anomaly Hunters’ Guild.”
The Mages’ Guild and the Anomaly Hunters’ Guild had close, almost inseparable ties, and only the sheer volume of potential bureaucracy prevented the state from merging them into one entity. Unfortunately, he and Milar suspected that corruption, and perhaps a mole for the Puppeteers as well, was lurking directly in the heart of the Empire’s mage community.
Ardan did not pull out his black identification card. Since he had to go anyway, he might as well get the maximum benefit from his forced visit to the Guild. Besides, it would be Ardi’s first time there.
Comments
John
Thanks!
Deviant Ranger
Thanks for the chapter
