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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 11 - "Poplar"
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 23:01:01 +0000 UTCArdi was sitting in an armchair, watching the flames cavort in the fireplace. The firelight cast daring reflections that scampered through the room’s acrid gloom before beginning their intricate dances across the surface of the slightly murky windows. They weren’t murky because the windows hadn’t been cleaned—the room, in fact, practically sparkled—but rather due to the perpetual dust stirred up by the winds that swept clear through Shamtur. Situated on a plain riddled with trenches and bordered by artificially-planted forest groves, the wind here was as chaotic as the dance of those reflections.
They’d put him up on the second floor, in a corner room with only a few narrow, elongated windows that were more like oversized arrow slits than true windows. Aside from a comfortable armchair, the room also had a table, a bookcase of cracked cherry wood filled with fiction, and a bed with creaky, partially-rusted hinges. Surprisingly, it also had a small sink with a mirror all his own and an antique, massive wardrobe so spacious that one could hide several people or even two orcs inside it.
Outside, night had already enveloped the city, and the lights in the houses had been extinguished, leaving the streets at the mercy of the gas lamps hidden under the glass domes of wrought-iron lanterns. The inside of the Orman house—unlike its exterior—matched the impression Ardi had formed from Tess’ stories: plenty of open space, no excess furniture or gaudy decorations, family portraits and photographs in frames on the walls, and, acting as the center of life for this military aristocratic family—a vast dining parlor occupying fully half of the first floor. However massive and foreboding (it was more like a military redoubt than a home) the mansion appeared to be from the outside, on the inside, it felt more like Milar’s apartment than, say, Duchess Anorsky’s manor.
“Dukes…” Ardi sighed, leaning back in the armchair. He closed his eyes and tapped out a slow rhythm on the tabletop with his fingers.
He and Tess hadn’t crossed paths with Erkerovsky or his daughter, Polina. Those two had already retired for the night, or had otherwise been busy with their own supremely-important aristocratic affairs behind the closed doors leading to the guest wing. As far as Ardan knew, they were staying in the Orman house instead of at a hotel solely because of the betrothal—something to do with that notorious etiquette of high society. To be honest, Ardan wasn’t particularly bothered by this fact. Nor was he troubled by the forty-year-old Duke Erkerovsky being engaged to sixteen-year-old Olesya. For aristocrats and the wealthy, such marriages were considered quite ordinary and entirely within the bounds of “normal.”
Ardan was far more concerned with how he himself would be seen by Reish Orman. After all, his younger daughter (or, going by birth order, his middle daughter, since Tess also had a younger brother, Shuma Orman, a boy of twelve, and another sister, Lubava Orman, who was seven years old) was being courted by nothing less than a Duke, a member of the Upper Chamber of Parliament, whereas his eldest…
Ardi sighed and, pushing aside the strap of his watch that concealed the Sidhe’s mark, looked at the blue outline left behind by the Winter Princess’ lips. And then there were those orcs…
“I’m on vacation,” Ardan reminded himself, and once again picked up his grimoire.
It wasn’t like he’d suddenly developed an interest in military magic beyond the amount he needed to be confident he could make it home from another trip with Milar. But, for equally understandable reasons, he would also have to make sure he successfully qualified to join the Sponsored League of Magical Boxing.
“And so I need to work through all the ideas I’ve accumulated regarding war magic,” Ardi grumbled.
He would much rather have moved on to studying everything required for a deeper understanding of the engineering branch of Star Science, but alas…
Turning up the lamp’s oil flow, the young man opened a page in his nearly-filled book.
After his battle with Darton—that Star Swordsman from Selkado—Ardan had been struck by an idea. Darton, like Semyon Davos, had used the common structures of concealment, as well as the strengthening of one spell by another, in his three-Star spells.
“But!” Ardi exclaimed, pulling a pencil from behind his ear and adding a few annotations above the sketches of various seal nodes. “One could also approach it from the other side…”
In this case, he had already borrowed an idea from the art of the Aean’Hane. After his fight in the bank against the elven Aean’Hane (Ardi suspected that this elf had had something to do with the complete incineration of the “real Anvar Riglanov’s” apartment in the Le’mrity tower, rather than it being the work of the Weeper demon, but he was on vacation…), Ardi had realized why Atta’nha, on the day her battle with Ergar had nearly begun, had been forming abstract yet very concrete figures using the Name of Snow and Ice, instead of using their magic directly.
Perhaps the issue was, as Senior Magister Paarlax might’ve said, in the Ley field, and the fact that the Aean’Hane, when using Names, mixed their own Ley field with the natural one radiated by the Ley Lines beneath the earth. Such a close connection, ultimately, could lead to exactly what had happened to Ardan—the elf had “grabbed” hold of his magic and almost buried Ardi with it. That was why, in the cases of Darton and Professor Lea, Ardi had likewise created creatures and objects rather than wielding the Name directly.
“But what if we tried to combine them?” The youth mused aloud, penning another flourish onto the paper.
Truth be told, Ardan was perhaps even more inspired by the Tony doll that inhabited Aversky’s testing grounds than by all of the above.
“If one could make a defensive spell that wasn’t just a passive shield, but also an active defense…” Ardi interspersed his musings with a one-sided conversation, sketching tiny runic linkages and vectors in the margins. “The main problem of any three-Star military spell is that it works from the moment of casting until the moment it dissipates—a continuous effect. And as practice has shown me, any spell with a continuous effect—be it in Saimon Davos’ case or Darton’s—can be outmaneuvered even by a mage with fewer Stars.” Ardan himself was a prime example of such things.
“But if, say, Davos’ Fire Lash or that strange bird of stone and lightning that Darton had used hadn’t triggered immediately, but only at the most opportune time, then…”
“Or rather, if they could operate in bursts, not constantly,” Ardan corrected himself.
Another sketch appeared in his margins—something shaped like Tony, which was conjuring an icicle, its arm raised. If Ardan could create a spell that would form a “doll” similar to that to distract the opponent—allowing its “owner” to act independently—and then, at the right moment, use the spell hidden within it… It would be hard to overestimate how useful, militarily, such an invention could be.
“Too many free variables,” Ardi reminded himself.
The idea, at its core, wasn’t new. Orlovsky’s Shield, which would create six flying discs that protected the mage from bullets and other high-speed projectiles, relied on a similar principle. And the main problem with Ardan’s scheme lay precisely in those free variables. Even if he could somehow remove the target fixation in a two-or-three-Star spell (so that the prospective doll wouldn’t just run “headfirst” into the nearest wall), how would he imbue it with other parameters?
Orlovsky’s Shield worked by detecting changes within a set boundary around the mage. It did nothing on its own—didn’t move anywhere, took no active actions. Such a “doll” would be of no help in a fight. The enemy mage could simply step aside or block the new target. The doll wouldn’t dodge, wouldn’t evade, wouldn’t even attempt to defend itself.
“Necromancy sidesteps that snag by using the nervous systems of the corpses it raises,” Ardan mumbled, and immediately added aloud, “That’s why they can only raise fresh cadavers in which decay hasn’t progressed too far.”
He had studied this branch of magic during his last investigation, even if only the surface layer of it, and… He’d done so out of sheer curiosity, of course, and thankfully, his Second Chancery clearance had allowed it. The Colonel also seemed to be turning a blind eye to the literature Ardan was requesting from the Grand’s Library. Or perhaps it was because Ardan read absolutely everything even slightly related to Star Magic.
Either way, Ardi could borrow the structure of their runic connections from Necromancy, which created an auxiliary nervous system of miniature Ley Lines inside a cadaver. However, that system was based on the corpse’s own nerves. Spells had no such systems.
“I could try to create one,” Ardi shrugged, continuing to scratch his pencil across the pages. “But that’s at least five rays of a Red Star, meaning the spell would require a minimum of three Stars to cast.”
“And we’d still need to place a stabilized offensive spell inside it that the “doll” could use. Preserve the overall construct’s integrity… Provide at least minimal protection from environmental variations so the structure holds in any conditions.”
“And all of the above, plus countless other issues I don’t even suspect are there yet, without mentioning the single biggest problem: how to add the new parameters of a changed environment into an already created spell,” Ardi sighed, setting his pencil aside.
Free arrays only had a very small—minuscule, in fact—capacity for transmitting new parameters. It was so tiny that a spell, if it wasn’t initially written to do so, could not alter its trajectory or direction mid-flight. Yes, Ardan could make something like the Fire Lash, where he controlled the spell manually by linking it to himself—but in that case, the whole point of the construct would be rendered moot.
But how could he add something new into an existing construct?
“The Ley field,” Ardi said, closing his eyes and drumming his fingers on the table once more. “Obviously through that. The only question is… how. And whether that’s even possible at all.”
Star Magic would say it isn’t. The art of the Aean’Hane claimed the opposite.
Ardan smiled.
At last, a good puzzle unrelated to the Second Chancery. One day, he would figure it out. The key was to always be moving in the right direction, even if he was only taking the smallest steps. The most important thing was to never stop.
“No,” Ardan corrected himself. “The most important thing is that I wouldn’t have enough exes for the number of experiments such research would require.”
After spending another quarter of an hour pondering this issue, Ardi returned to his work on the Ice Bullet—fortunately, that project was a lot simpler than Ice Tony.
Despite a month having passed since Ardan had last taken an invigorating draught, he still hadn’t managed to get back to a normal sleep cycle, and was thus struggling with insomnia. The clock’s hands were already drooping drowsily toward two in the morning, the oil in the lamp was sputtering no worse than an irate commandant, and Ardan’s pencil raced like a brisk little soldier across his grimoire’s pages.
A click sounded behind him.
It was familiar: snappy and sharp, but somewhat muffled and distant, as if someone had suddenly stumbled on the staircase while being several flights up. It was the kind of sound that might be made by the tiny heels of a certain half-cat, half-Vila.
Ardi turned around. From the gloom—pushing apart the coiling smoke of the shadows—stepped Poplar, the faithful friend and comrade of Grand Princess Anastasia. Outwardly, he resembled an ordinary forest cat, but he walked upright on his hind legs, wore a miniature military tunic adorned with tin medals that Anastasia had crafted for him with her own two hands, and, at his belt, he carried a slim sewing needle reworked into a rapier, while on his forepaws, he sported white brocade gloves.
Bowing courteously, the creature—part cat, part Fae—clambered onto a chair and, purring with delight, lifted the saucer of milk Ardi had prepared in advance for his… not friend, perhaps, but very good acquaintance.
Over the past year, the youth had grown… if not exactly attached to Poplar, then… It was complicated. But in any case, Ardan was glad at the talking cat’s appearance. Maybe the roots of that change in outlook were the result of one cold winter night where Ardan, sitting by the fire in Delpas, had read letters and hadn’t known what to do next. Poplar hadn’t ignored him or brushed him off—though he’d had every right to do so—but instead had supported him as best he could and had even offered advice. Good advice.
“I’m glad to see that you’re on the mend, Mr. Ard,” Poplar said, sipping the milk and twitching his long whiskers comically as he gave Ardi’s figure an appraising once-over.
In first class, they had fed him quite decently, and there’d been no physical activity to speak of (aside from one thing he wouldn’t discuss with anyone, of course). Whenever the train had stopped, he’d stretched his legs a bit and then hopped back on, maybe doing a few exercises as well. And so, in that time, Ardi had managed to regain a few kilograms. And even if it was “dirty weight,” consisting mostly of fat… when the skin on your cheeks is nearly touching bone, anything will do. He could get back to his normal shape, the one he’d gotten used to since his childhood (back when he didn’t feel winded after the first five kilometers of a run), once he was back in the Metropolis. Perhaps the city folk, and certainly the guards, wouldn’t like it and might grow suspicious if someone were to be out jogging in the mornings along the Markov Canal embankment, but he always carried an excellent counterargument with him—it was bound in black leather and emblazoned with the crests of the Empire and the Black House.
Usually, that alone was enough to quash any desire to continue an interrogation or detain him, even in the most zealous guard who was deaf to reasonable explanations.
“And you, Mr. Poplar,” Ardan replied, running his eyes over Poplar’s coat, which was glossy after shedding. “You look completely ready for the summer season.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Egobar,” Poplar answered with no hint of irony, his feline eyes utterly serious.
The beast-halfblood (though that term sounded rather odd to Ardi’s ears) always spoke as if he were at a royal reception or among only the crème de la crème of the aristocracy.
Poplar reached a paw inside his tunic and drew out an envelope, as he always did. He served as Anastasia’s personal postman, gifted with the ability to deliver a letter to almost any point in the country near instantaneously. The blood of the Vila aided him in this, with their knowledge of hidden paths that no one could traverse except for…
Cassara’s words echoed in Ardan’s head, and before his mind’s eye, a scene from the recent past drifted into view. He recalled how the vampire’s shadow had seethed behind her, almost like Poplar’s own...
“I have my own ways to travel, little one.”
Well, perhaps “no one” was a bit of an exaggeration… And given that Poplar needed the addressee’s blood to find them, the comparison soon crossed the line from amusing coincidence to a noteworthy observation of a possible connection.
“And I am very glad to see, Mr. Egobar, that your eyes are not weighed down with ponderings on the tangled webs of fate, but rather…” Poplar turned Ardan’s grimoire toward himself, “…with something in which you and Great Princess Anastasia clearly speak the same language.”
Ardan brushed aside the disturbing thoughts of any link between Cassara and the Fae.
“How is she, Mr. Poplar?” Ardi asked.
The cat did not answer immediately, which in itself was not a good sign.
“On good days,” Poplar said at last, “the Great Princess is just as cheerful and witty as she was before her father’s ascension to the throne, and on bad days…” He fell silent and took another sip of milk. Whereas before, his tail had been hanging down in a relaxed manner, now it flicked back and forth in agitation. “I’m worried, Mr. Egobar, that the bad days have been growing more frequent of late. My lady withdraws into herself. More and more often, I find her in the company of enormous tomes rather than people. And when people do manage to reach the Great Princess, something unfortunate can occur.”
“Unfortunate?”
Poplar nodded.
“For example, the last time it happened, she used Star Magic to recolor the hair of a court lady who was engaging her in small talk.”
“That sounds, well-”
“And the color the Great Princess chose,” Poplar went on, “was arranged in such a way that its outline matched that of a bull’s reproductive organ.”
Ardan nearly choked on his own breath. He couldn’t decide whether to laugh or be horrified.
“I’m not entirely sure where she even saw one,” Poplar muttered angrily, whiskers bristling. “But the most trouble is in store for anyone who dares invite her to dance during a formal reception. She skips every ball under the same pretext that she’s indisposed… due to the influence of the Eye of the Spirit of the Night and her feminine bond with it. Those, of course, are just excuses, because balls sometimes happen twice a month, not merely once.”
Ardi held his tongue. He hadn’t spent a lot of time with Anastasia, but their few minutes of conversation and that single dance had been enough that if Ardan were to imagine the Great Princess as an animal, he would perhaps choose… a swallow. More than anything, the Great Princess wanted to break free from the shackles of the Palace of the Kings of the Past and the duties that awaited her, albeit in a distant but inexorable future. Only, like a swallow, even if Anastasia managed to escape for a short while, she would soon have to return again.
“And how was your visit home to Delpas, Mr. Egobar?” Poplar ventured, trying to change the subject.
The invisible path magic of the Vila had a whole list of limitations, including the inability to travel to places isolated from the Ley, as well as onto fast-moving objects. Therefore, Poplar hadn’t been able to get to him earlier because Ardan had been on a train. On the other hand, nothing had hindered him now, since the heavy Star Magic shield encased the Orman house in an “impenetrable” dome of conveniently thick Ley.
“How did you put it, Mr. Poplar?” Ardi propped his chin in his hand and turned to the window again. “On good days, great; and on bad… bad?”
“Something like that,” Poplar replied. He held out the letter, and Ardi reached for it. Or rather, he tried to, because as soon as he accidentally touched a bit of fur protruding from under the Vila’s glove, Poplar hissed and, jerking his paw back, dropped the envelope.
“What happened, Mr. Poplar?” The young man asked in alarm.
Poplar’s pupils had contracted into slits. He peeled off his glove and began to lick his paw. Only after several long, heavy seconds of awkward silence did he carefully pull the glove back on and speak in a soft voice:
“You are not wearing your mentor’s bracelet any longer, Mr. Egobar. Atta’nha’s gift has lost its power. Am I correct?”
Ardan held up his bare left wrist, where the charm woven by the she-wolf from clouds, the wind and the night sky no longer gleamed.
“It was protecting you from the influence of the Fae and the Homeless,” Poplar said, giving Ardi a rather peculiar look. It was as if he were seeing him for the first time and was now trying to discern who exactly was standing in front of him.
“Mr. Poplar, I don’t understand why you’re saying all this.”
The cat pointed with his paw at Ardan’s right wrist (Ardan preferred to keep his watch there, since he held his staff in his right hand. This was the opposite of soldiers, who hold a rifle and thus wear a watch on their left wrist). There, beneath Ardan’s watch, lingered the kiss of Allane’Eari, the Sidhe of the Cold Summer Night.
“You carry the mark of the Winter Princess, Mr. Egobar. Placed there by right and in accordance with all the laws of the Queens.”
“Yes, I had the misfortune of meeting Allane’Eari a few days ago,” Ardi admitted.
“Perhaps.”
Ardan frowned. “Perhaps?” He repeated.
“Perhaps it was not misfortune, Mr. Egobar,” Poplar clarified. “Without Atta’nha’s bracelet, you would essentially be prey to any Sidhe or Homeless. As defenseless as a child. In less than a year, one of them would’ve come to take your Ley.”
Ardan recalled the words of the Homeless snake Fae he and Milar had encountered in the apartment where they’d believed Lisa’s body had lain:
“I will drink your Ley, Speaker!”
“What does it mean to take someone else’s Ley, Mr. Poplar?”
Poplar did not answer immediately. Not at all…
“To be frank, Mr. Egobar, I do not know. Mother told us only a few stories in which it was mentioned that certain Sidhe who walk paths in the Dark, and those who have Strayed From The Paths, are capable of such a thing. But beyond that, I have no knowledge of such things,” Poplar said at last, covering his injured paw with his good one. “But what I know for certain, Mr. Egobar, is that you bear the mark of Allane’Eari, one of the daughters of the Queen. Through it, she asserts her lawful right to you. Fae will sense it. Whether they are a common Fae, a highborn Sidhe, or one of the Homeless—only a madman would dare challenge the Winter Princess’ claim or attempt to openly harm her property.”
A shiver ran through Ardan at how easily and unabashedly Poplar used the word “property” in reference to the person he was speaking with. The youth raised his wrist to his face and looked with fresh eyes at the blue imprint of feminine lips hidden beneath his watch strap.
“So this mark protects me?”
“Not exactly,” Poplar’s tail was lashing harder now. “While Allane’Eari’s mark is on you, Mr. Egobar, she will always be able to find you. Wherever you might hide, whatever spells you shroud yourself in, however you try to deceive the Princess—she will always know where you are and what is happening with you. Once, long ago, Mr. Egobar, an elven tribe learned how to place such marks from the Sidhe, and they used them to mark human slaves they abducted from the Galessian Principality.”
Poplar drained the last of the milk in one gulp and leapt down from the chair.
“It’s a slave mark, Mr. Egobar. A brand with which an owner marks their cattle. Maybe it does protect you, but at the same time, no Fae or Sidhe will agree to any dealings with you.”
“It’s not like I was planning to make deals with them, Mr. Poplar.”
“Perhaps… In any case, even if you wanted to, Mr. Egobar, now you simply couldn’t. And also”—the cat laid a paw on the hilt of his rapier—“while you carry this mark, Mr. Egobar, I will do everything in my power to ensure you never find yourself in the same place as my Lady. Even if I must, with great regret, kill you, or perish in the attempt myself. I hope you understand why I say this.”
Ardan’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“She’ll not only know where I am, but with whom as well?”
“If she wishes to, Allane’Eari can now see with your eyes and hear with your ears,” Poplar nodded. “I don’t think she’s watching you constantly, but the mere possibility… I’m afraid our meetings have come to an end, Mr. Egobar. Call me by name when you remove this mark. Until then, I will not allow my Lady to write you a single word. It’s not safe—not for you, and especially not the Great Princess.”
“Wait, Poplar, what are you-”
The half-cat, half-Fae clicked his heels and, in the same instant that his silhouette dissolved into the warped shadows of the gloom, the letter left behind on the table burst into blue flames. In the space of a single heartbeat, Ardan was left alone in the guest room, accompanied only by silence and the black ash that was all that remained of the Imperial heiress’ letter.
“Sleeping Spirits,” Ardi breathed, rubbing his wrist.
He had grown attached to Poplar, but even more so to Anastasia’s letters. Perhaps, after a year of rather frank discussions about everything under the sun (Star Magic included), he’d come to think of her as someone close to him, like the Fahtov family. Of course, he didn’t know if you could call someone whom you’ve only seen twice your friend, even if you’d spent a long time exchanging letters with them.
Perhaps one really couldn’t do so…
Humans… Why were they always so complicated?
A glimmer from the oil lamp slid across his watch.
“And not just humans,” Ardan added aloud.
Aside from his research on Star Magic, he would now have to add to his list of pressing issues the task of finding a way to remove this mark.
“Or maybe not?” Ardi frowned.
The mark’s “slave” connotations didn’t trouble Ardan in the least. He belonged neither to the Fae, nor the Sidhe, and certainly not the elves or Firstborn in general. They saw him as human and a loathsome half-blood. Just as humans saw him as a Firstborn and a “dirty beast.” And so Ardan paid no mind to anyone’s traditional worldview, since he didn’t count himself as belonging to any of those groups.
He was simply himself.
And that was that.
That was the only way he could answer the question “Who am I?” that he had asked himself in Evergale, and at times had returned to even in the Metropolis.
But what did pique Ardan’s interest was Poplar’s assertion that as long as he bore this mark, neither the Homeless nor the Sidhe would initiate any contact with him. It turned out that the mark performed, in a sense, the same function as Atta’nha’s bracelet had. And considering the fact that, in the near future, he, Milar and the rest of the department would have to deal with matters related to demons and Homeless Fae, that facet of it could actually come in handy.
Did Allane’Eari know that? Of course she did. But then why…
“I’m on vacation,” Ardan reminded himself and snuffed out the lamp by twisting the oil-feed knob. He closed his grimoire and headed for bed.
***
Morning in Shamtur, which was situated north of Winged Lake, greeted the townsfolk with a dense fog, just as Tess had described. It was so dense that the streets looked smoke-filled. And if not for the sun in the sky gradually dispersing the milky veil enshrouding the sidewalks and squares, one might have thought the fortress was on fire.
The curfew, which began at eight in the evening, ended at six in the morning. The city was already filling with the buzz of automobiles and the clop of horses’ hooves pulling old-fashioned omnibuses—those elongated wagons that somewhat resembled trams. Only instead of Ley energy, they were drawn by horses with drivers astride their backs. They looked rather out of place amid the motorcars and yet, albeit a bit grotesque, also somehow… interesting. Yes, “interesting” was the best word Ardi could find for what he was seeing out the window while washing up and shaving.
With each passing year, his stubble—his fur—was growing thicker, so the youth had been forced to abandon the convenient safety razors and return to a straight razor, which he invariably stropped on a belt before scraping his face until it was pink. Starting at his cheeks and sideburns, he shaved all the way down to the base of his neck. He wasn’t entirely sure he was doing it right. In his childhood, as far as Ardi could recall, his father had managed the task much faster, and afterward hadn’t been forced to parade around with clear signs of skin irritation covering most of his face. Ardan, on the other hand, had to apply a self-made ointment to his face to alleviate the razor burn.
Twisting the lid back onto the little aluminum tin, Ardan stowed it in his satchel and paused for a moment.
“I really should follow Milar’s advice,” Ardan grumbled to himself, recalling a conversation he’d had with his partner from half a year ago. “When we get back to the Metropolis, I’ll tour the pharmacies and see what they carry.”
Shali always said, “Where there’s prey, there will surely be hunters.” And Shaia, while living in Evergale, had used to say that it was pointless to sew, say, dresses, if the customer needed pants. This meant that, before planning anything else, Ardi first needed to find out whether there was any demand in the capital for those ointments and potions he could brew. And if there wasn’t, then he’d need to discover what was in demand, and whether he could come up with something that’s not yet on the market that would satisfy that need.
Or, as Shali would put it, catch the prey other hunters preferred not to chase.
After donning his suit, hanging his grimoire at his belt, and taking his staff in hand, Ardan made certain that no one would see the Winter Princess’ mark safely hidden beneath his watch strap (he still hadn’t found an opportunity to check whether anyone aside from him and the Fae could see it. He certainly wasn’t about to show Tess, who might start worrying).
After exiting the room, Ardan, out of habit, touched the door with his staff and immediately felt the structure of the stationary Star shield—far more complex and dangerous than the one at Irigov’s manor—brush against him and inspect the spell the guest had used. It checked him, then retreated, allowing Ardi to lock “his” room with his own magic.
The difference with the guest wing was that the doors here had locks and keys, so a guest could feel completely secure. It was a nod to the traditions of bygone centuries, when guests had been received in castles and all sorts of things could happen—both to the visitor and to their belongings. Which was why the doors were kept locked. Nowadays, of course, such an outdated custom was almost pointless. Ardan had apparently caught Milar’s paranoia, because the emphasis was on almost for him. Or perhaps such wariness was simply a professional trait of all Second Chancery investigators.
The Ormans kept no servants, which was, of course, quite uncharacteristic not only for aristocrats, but even for ordinary nobles. Nevertheless, the Ormans did everything they could by themselves, and would only arrange a full-blown cleaning of their not-at-all-small home a few times a year, for which they hired help—if only because doing it all alone was simply impossible.
Ardan descended the broad yet plain staircase down to the dining parlor. The space was around ninety square meters and perfectly rectangular. It opened into the garden, and the wall bordering the street—in defiance of safety rules—boasted enormous windows, almost merging into a continuous sheet of glass. The room was bright and spacious. There was a long, broad dining table capable of seating up to forty people at once; the massive hearth of a wood-burning fireplace; several armchairs and settees; and in the far corner stood a grand piano—the only item in the Ormans’ house one could comfortably call a luxury. As Ardi had learned, such an instrument could cost at least three, maybe even four hundred exes.
Everyone was already seated at the table. Cursing himself inwardly, Ardan glanced at his watch. Owing to his skewed sleep schedule, he had run into a not-too-obvious but very unpleasant problem that really needed solving. He’d fix it by buying an alarm clock.
At the head of the table sat Reish Orman, looking exactly as he had when he’d arrived at “Bruce’s” just under a month ago—except his business suit had been exchanged for a senior officer’s uniform. Its color was somewhat reminiscent of infantry green, only instead of dark olive, it was more of an emerald hue. Reish’s tunic sported not a single jingling medal or Order, though he certainly had plenty of them to display.
Beside Reish, calmly reading a newspaper, was his wife and Tess’ mother, Adelaide Orman. Reish was descended from the nobility of the Atura Principality, which had been absorbed into the Galessian Kingdom during the War (hence the unusual names of his sons), whereas Adelaide belonged to the Empire’s most common ethnic group—a born and bred Galessian. She was the one who’d chosen their daughters’ names, and thus those names sounded perfectly ordinary in the Empire.
It was clear whom Tess had inherited her sometimes breathtaking beauty from. Adelaide looked so youthful that, for a moment, Ardi mistook her for a Fae. Only her many minor imperfections—the pronounced asymmetry of her face, the traces of childhood illnesses leaving marks that no makeup could fully conceal, a fine mesh of wrinkles, the calluses on her hands, and a figure that had begun to gradually lose the sharp lines of youth, yielding to the smoother, rounder strokes of advancing age—made it evident that she was an aging woman who, some sixteen years ago, had still been glowing with the beauty and fervor of youth.
It was honestly amazing that such a woman had ended up with the decidedly unremarkable Reish. Apart from Reish’s exceptional height for a human, that is.
“Ardi,” Tess exclaimed, rising from her seat and stepping away from the table. Coming over to her fiancé, she took him by the arm and led him toward the others.
A long round of introductions began.
“You already know Alaris and Asilar”—the twin brothers nodded in greeting and promptly returned to discussing some matter about reinforcing the northeastern flank of the watch—“and Lada too. Allow me to introduce Olesya.”
A black-haired girl rose from her seat. Reish had the same fiery mane that Tess had inherited, whereas Adelaide kept her jet-black hair pinned under a hat. And while Tess had taken her father’s hair and her mother’s beauty, Olesya had done precisely the opposite.
She’d gotten her mother’s hair and her father’s plain features. She had a simple, round face without any distinguishing traits, except, perhaps, a snub nose (it seemed the whole Orman family shared that trait) and a calm, very gentle gaze, with warm brown eyes. It was not a stupid gaze, but not one weighed down with an especially quick or deep intellect, either. Dressed in a simple, youthful frock with a sash at her waist, she stood almost half a head taller than even her older brothers, with a frame so slender it verged on frail.
Nonetheless, despite her unusual height, Olesya looked to be well-proportioned, if not exactly a beauty. In that, she reminded Ardi a bit of Alexander Ursky’s wife.
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Egobar,” the girl said softly, nodding, and returned to her seat.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Olesya,” Ardan responded.
She had addressed Ardi by his surname since he was a guest in their home, while Ardan had used her given name—otherwise, he’d have had to greet each of them as “Mr. Orman” or “Miss Orman,” which would sound rather odd. A quirky bit of etiquette, but thankfully, Tess had briefed him on it beforehand.
“And this is Shuma, the youngest man in the family.”
He was a twelve-year-old boy. About Erti’s age, or nearly there. Only this one looked like a true child—tall, gangly, with a plump face still carrying the pudge of youth. In terms of appearance, he was another mix: like Tess, he’d inherited his mother’s good looks, and also his father’s hair. If Ardi hadn’t known he was a boy, he might have thought Shuma was an awkwardly-built girl.
“Hello, Mr. Egobar,” the boy greeted him politely.
“Hello, Mr. Shuma,” Ardan replied.
The boy sat back down, his expression giving away nothing. Ardi noticed Shuma stealing a furtive glance at Asilar, and the older brother giving him the briefest of approving nods. Well… all things considered, Ardan would likely only see these people a handful of times in his life at most. So what did it matter to him…
“And finally, Lubava. Our little one.”
“I’m not little!” The girl burst out hotly—just like Tess—and immediately wilted under the stern, disapproving look from her mother. “Sorry, Mr. Egobar,” she mumbled.
Sleeping Spirits… This time, Ardan could easily have mistaken Lubava for a stocky, well-built, dark-haired little boy. It was as if Reish and Adelaide’s children had inherited their parents’ traits in a checkerboard pattern, each of them taking different qualities in turn.
“If I may, Ard,” Reish, as head of the family and master of the house, rose from his seat and gestured toward a young woman whom Ardan already knew. “Lady Polina Erkerovsky.”
Ardan’s coursemate—ever indifferent to the world around her, with an intelligent yet distant gaze; a girl who was attractive, though not so much that it would even let her compete in terms of looks with Shuma, truth be told—put aside a treatise on switching runic connections. Without standing up, she gave Ardi a slight nod of acknowledgment. Considering the gulf in their social standing, even that nod was more of a courtesy than was required of her, as she was a titled lady.
“And Duke Mark Erkerovsky,” Reish continued, introducing a man of about forty who was dabbing his mouth with a napkin. The Duke stood, even though he wasn’t obligated to even look away from his breakfast.
After the Great Princes, Dukes represented not just the “highest rank of nobility,” but a near-unattainable pinnacle. A pinnacle wrought by hundreds of years of their forebears’ efforts, and perhaps an equally-long accumulation of power. If one could even measure power in centuries. At times, the Dukes of the New Monarchy Empire had wielded even more influence, wealth, and ability to sway national politics than some of the Great Princes—though the majority of Dukes, in one way or another, had close blood ties to the descendants of the Agrov line. In fact, Erkerovsky’s late wife had been some distant “aunt” of Anastasia’s.
Outwardly, the man who had only just turned forty somewhat resembled Arthur Belsky. He had the same sharp features. Except Arthur dyed his hair to hide the gray, whereas Erkerovsky wore his thick hair streaked with silver proudly, as only a Duke could. A monocle sat over his right eye in a simple iron frame; he wore no other adornments except diamond cufflinks and agate buttons on a suit tailored from Scaidavinian wool. Yet on the Duke, these accessories didn’t appear ostentatious—merely appropriate for his station. His eyes were dark, the eyes of a man who expected nothing from anyone, who knew his own worth, but did not require others to live up to… anything at all.
A strange man.
Ardi couldn’t say that Duke Erkerovsky struck him as pleasant, but neither could he assert the opposite.
“Since we arrived ahead of you on our journey, young man, it would have been impolite of me not to offer you my hand first,” said the Duke, extending his hand to Ardan.
Erkerovsky could very well have not stood at all—indeed, he could have interrupted Reish mid-introduction and left for his chambers. The way the Duke was behaving now meant only one thing… He was using Ardan to show Reish that the Governor-General of Shamtur and he shared similar views on life. Views in which “the seniority of one’s bloodline” was given minimal consideration, if any at all.
Ardan returned the handshake, surprised to find old, nearly calloused hardness at the base of Mark’s fingers, and at how firmly those seemingly-slender, delicate hands gripped his own. Even if fencing was only a hobby for the Duke, he clearly took it very seriously and had dedicated many years to the sword and sabre.
“Youth is enchanting with its early nights and late dawns,” the Duke quoted with the barest twitch of his lips. “Do you know who said that?”
“The poet Orz Zanarr,” Ardan answered at once. “He was from the Principality of Aradira that was incorporated into the Galessian Kingdom during the second century before the Fall of Ectassus.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet a well-read young man,” the Duke rumbled approvingly, releasing Ardan’s hand and sinking back into his chair. “I tried to smooth over the impression made by your tardiness, Ard. I truly did what I could. But I’m afraid that, in the process of that, I tired everyone out with talk of the connection between poets and ballet. Unfortunately, I have a nasty habit of being overly loquacious.”
“Father,” Polina interjected wearily.
“Fortunately, my daughter is always nearby to remind me of that,” the Duke chuckled.
“Have a seat, Ard,” Reish said, indicating the chair next to Tess, “before the breakfast loses all its charm of being any warmer than stone.”
Ardan sat down and spent a couple of seconds coming to grips with just how absurd a situation he had stumbled into.
Comments
John
Thanks!
Lena
I think you're right. Author's gonna have to edit that.
SirWins
Hmm. Did I miss something or did he not greet the mother.
