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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 2 - The Gardener
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 23:01:01 +0000 UTCThey skirted a broad field and rode out onto the crest of a once-tall hill that had collapsed hundreds of thousands of years ago, forming a rocky bluff that hung like a brooding, furrowed brow a kilometer above Blue Lake. Here, just to the west and higher up, stretched the rails of the new branch line connecting Presny Junction with Delpas, which allowed travelers to reach from the Empire’s capital to the central city of the country’s largest province in relative comfort and equally relative safety.
True to its name, Blue Lake glinted under the sun with silvery sparks atop the foamy whitecaps of a gentle ripple, and its azure waters seemed not so much to reflect the high sky as to be the sky itself. As far as Ardi remembered, that particular hue was directly connected to a special composition of the silt and the fish that dwelt there.
A breeze blew up, and Tess, holding on to her hat, closed her eyes. Rising a little in the stirrups, she breathed in the floral scent of the steppe and the moist air with a full chest. Ardan, meanwhile, kept his gaze fixed on the sky, where cumulus clouds, at the approach of an early sunset, were painted with the sheen of wet copper. Somewhere up there, high above, an eagle from the mountains sang its song—a great eagle whose white-tipped peaks of wings tore at the northern horizon.
Ardi stretched out his hand and shouted:
“Hunter of the Cloud Trails!”
The eagle beat its wings, banked, and spiraled lazily downward. It clutched its talons around the young man’s wrist. Its mighty, broad chest—covered in dense brown feathers—rose and fell in a steady, calm rhythm. It kept sharply turning its head, which was adorned with the same plumage and crowned by a massive gray beak.
“Hunter of the Snowy Trails,” it intoned in a voice that was both booming and whistling at once—like the howl of wind lost among mountain gorges. “You are a hunter, and I am a hunter. There is no prey among us. I seek nothing on your trails. You and I.”
“And I seek nothing on your trails,” Ardi repeated the words of the ritual. “You and I.”
“Why did you call me, Snowy-Trail Hunter?” asked the eagle. “You ride upon prey. Beside you are two more prey: one of two-legs and one of four-legs. Do you wish to share them? I usually do not hunt such as those. Wolves love them, not eagles. Don’t you know that?”
“I know, Cloud-Trail Hunter,” Ardi replied. “I wanted to ask you something, if you are willing to share the trails’ knowledge.”
The eagle’s brown eyes, like beads, swept over the steppe, then turned back to his interlocutor.
“Ask, Snowy-Trail Hunter. I will share knowledge with you, if I possess it.”
“Have you seen anything unusual in the lakes of grass and flowers during the last few dreams?”
The eagle flapped its wings and shook itself, making Tess start and tug the reins slightly, edging her horse away.
“I have seen flocks of kites and scavengers, Snowy-Trail Hunter, which never appeared here before,” the eagle answered, sounding rather displeased. “For many dreams now, they have lingered at the border, within a few steps of the Spirit of the Night. They roam near the two-legs’ lair. Because of them there is less living prey, and my brothers, sisters and I must flee ever deeper into the lakes of grass and flowers.”
Ardi nodded. Animals usually avoided places with too much carrion. When he studied under Ergar, the old snow leopard taught him that death begets death, and where one beast falls, others will fall too, so it’s best not to linger in such places.
Now Ard understood that beasts instinctively feared the contagion, disease, and noxious microorganisms that inevitably accompanied carrion.
“The forest flows ring out more and more often with the clanging of two-legs’ iron as they fell the trees. And the mountain paths are changing under the iron of those same two-legs as they lay down their strange trails on which run their monsters that breathe foul clouds,” the eagle continued, flapping its wings again and casting a less-than-friendly look in Tess’s direction. “Soon we will have to retreat deeper into Antareman and, likely, the descendants of my descendants will never behold the lakes of grass.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sky-brother,” Ardan answered sincerely.
“Such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits, mountain-brother,” was all the eagle said. “Are those all your questions, hunter hiding under the hide of a two-legs?”
“One more remains,” Ardan said. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ask this, but he had little choice. “Have you seen two-legged children of wolves?”
In the tongue of wild beasts, "two-legged children of wolves" was the name for orcs.
“They are the reason the scavengers appeared,” the eagle confirmed, gazing toward the southeast. “A pack of them came here to the lake of grass from the north. It crossed Antareman, breaking many of the laws of the hunt. If your pack were still alive, Snowy-Trail Hunter, the children of wolves would have sorely regretted violating our way of life, but your pack is no more, and they do as they please. They left behind fires and the blood of needless hunts. Like foolish wolf cubs. Now they have come here and hunt two-legs.”
Something about the eagle's words didn't add up. The orcs of the northern plains and the steppe orcs had never shared hunting grounds before. The Alcade mountain range (called Antareman in the language of the Fae and the beasts) separated them. If one ever crossed the mountains, it was only for internecine squabbles or to exchange "brides" and avoid inbreeding.
So even when meeting the marshal earlier, Ardan had serious doubts that the recent events were truly the Shanti’Ra’s doing. The Shanti’Ra lived deep in the steppe and, barring an incredibly weighty reason, never showed up near large human settlements. They preferred to raid farms and to prey on bandits and smugglers.
How ironic…
Ardi used to wonder why they wouldn't send a punitive expedition against the Shanti'Ra, considering there was a military base in Delpas. However, after half a year in the Second Chancery was enough for him to realize that the existence of the Shanti’Ra—orcs, as cynical and revolting as it sounded—kept the steppe from falling completely under the dominion of endless bandits, smugglers, poachers, and outcasts.
And that, in turn, made possible the construction of the railroad, which more than paid for the bloody price exacted on the few dozen who suffered at the orcs’ hands.
The thing was, if Ardi understood correctly what was happening, then as soon as the expansion of the rail line was complete and new towns and settlements rose alongside it, an army would march out of Delpas after all, and not a trace of Shanti’Ra would remain because they would have fulfilled their purpose.
So what did the northern orcs have to do with it?
The delicate equation that had been set up was easily disrupted by an extra element. A newly introduced variable. The northern orcs. Their arrival would overload the equation and prevent it from resolving into a neat, if ugly, answer.
What had driven the northerners to cross the mountain range and end up in the steppe? Something that hadn’t happened since the fall of Ektassus. Before the Empire was founded, orcs did cross the mountains, albeit rarely. But for half a millennium now, nothing of the sort had occurred.
There remained one last thing to learn:
“The two-legged children of the northern wolves—do they attack only small two-legs, or…?”
“More and more often my eyes, and the eyes of my brothers and sisters, see kites and scavengers flocking and scurrying to the remains of the children of the wolves of the grass lake,” the eagle confirmed Ardan’s fears. “The spirit of my ancestors whispers to my heart, Snowy-Trail Hunter, that either a bloody battle will thunder among the packs for the hunting grounds, or the children of the northern wolves will come to the two-legs’ lair. That is all I know. You and I.”
“You and I,” Ardi repeated, swinging his arm upward to help the eagle.
The great bird unfurled its enormous wings and, catching a current of wind in its feathers, lifted off into the air. It began rising higher and higher in that same slow spiral until it vanished amid the setting sun and clouds.
Ardan dearly hoped this was just coincidence. Who knew why a pack of northern orcs might have crossed the mountains? Surely not everything happening in the country could be tied to the Spider Puppeteers in some way.
And yet, as Milar liked to say, in their line of work it was better to rely on one’s own paranoia than to hope for coincidences.
“That looked so strange,” Tess’s voice pulled Ardi from his thoughts back to reality.
She had ridden her horse back over to her… fiancé, and still holding her hat with one hand, she gave a gentle, warm smile. Not with her lips, but with her eyes. And she wrinkled her little nose just a bit. Ardi knew that habit well. Tess always did that when she was worried about something but tried not to show it, donning a mask of cheerful carefreeness almost like that of a small child.
“You said you could talk to wild animals, but I didn’t know it would look… like that.”
“Like what?”
Tess didn’t answer immediately, pausing briefly in thought.
“You jerk your shoulders, move your head around. Your pupils sometimes narrow and widen. Sometimes they even stretch into slits,” she began listing. “You frown like a cat. You bare your fangs, sort of puff out your chest and… if I didn’t know better, Ardi, I’d think it was a nervous tic.”
“A nervous… tic?”
“A kind of disorder,” the girl explained. “They showed us patients with it in medical school. It's usually soldiers or people who have experienced some kind of trauma. Looks rather frightening, actually.”
Perhaps Tess’s words sounded logical… to someone who didn’t know the beasts’ language. To Ardi it felt like he was simply speaking, just as he was speaking with his fiancée now.
“Sorry for making you—”
“You didn’t make me do anything,” Tess laughed, running her palm along his forearm. “Shall we ride on?”
“Yes, of course.”
Ardan patted the mare’s neck and turned her down the slope. Before long, they were riding downhill along the rocky escarpment toward the distant shape of the railway station building, which was not very impressive compared to Grand Central Station in the Metropolis. Standing nearby was a wooden structure that somewhat resembled an Evergale saloon.
A horse station.
The first building (the train station) was regularly serviced: washed free of dust, scrubbed of the mold brought on by Blue Lake’s damp proximity, built up and expanded. The second building, however—the horse station, shoved into the backyards of an ever-spreading Delpas—looked ramshackle: in places its chinking felt had rotted away from between the planks, and the sign had faded from the sun.
By contrast, the expanded parking lot at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the platform and station lobby, as well as the gleaming steel pumps of the diesel filling station, looked like a hint—or rather a promise—that given a little time, perhaps ten years, perhaps twenty, Delpas would in essence differ little from the Metropolis.
The horse station would probably be rebuilt, too — encased in stone and concrete, entombing under soulless asphalt the dusty path trod into the earth where for more than a century cowboys’ horses had worn down their shoes. Perhaps only those same cowboys, who currently make up the majority of those heading into the steppe, would still come here on horseback instead of in automobiles.
“Why are we going to the horse station, and not to your family’s?” Tess asked once her human eyes could make out what stood at the end of the dusty trail.
“They’ll meet us at the station.”
“Meet us?” The girl was surprised. “Did you arrange that with someone?”
“No, but I suspect that in Delpas they already know the train broke down, so Mr. Gardener will be waiting at the horse station instead of the rail station.”
“Gardener?” Tess narrowed her eyes. “Ard, do you know what I want to do right now?”
Ardi couldn’t help but laugh, causing Tess to narrow her eyes even more and even frown a little. She and Milar shared a dislike for Ardan’s manner of speaking when he forgot that not everyone knew the facts and connections he did.
“Sorry,” he apologized, and began explaining.
In fact, the explanation lasted the rest of the way. By the time a viscous night had descended upon the city, bringing with it not just a cool breeze, but genuine mountain winds, they met the Gardener.
The last time Ardan had seen him was in the winter. Bundled in a short fur coat and wool trousers, the Gardener struck Ardan as not much older than himself. Now, the Second Chancery operative had traded his warm attire for simple pants, light work boots, a sturdy linen shirt, and a leather jacket. It became clear that Ardan hadn’t been mistaken.
The operative was, at most, twenty-one or twenty-three years old. Only his keen gray gaze, shot through with a peculiar and difficult experience, made his young (if already somewhat lined) face seem older.
He was smoking and leaning against an unused hitching post. Noticing the riders, the Gardener tipped his cowboy hat.
“Mr. Egobar, Miss Orman,” he greeted them when Ardi and Tess rode up to the building.
Extinguishing his cigarette on the sole of his boot in cowboy fashion, he flicked the butt into a tin can that had been screwed to the post supporting the awning.
“Tie up your horses and let’s be off,” he said with a welcoming wave, and anticipating the question, added, “We’ve already arranged things with the stablehand, so let’s not waste time. Besides, you’re probably tired from the road.”
Tess regarded the operative and his words warily, but Ardi, well acquainted with the Second Chancery's way of doing things, returned the gesture by lifting his hat before hopping to the ground and helping Tess down. Not that she needed assistance, but Ardi couldn't help offering it, and Tess, knowing that, didn't refuse.
They untied their few belongings from the saddles and looped the reins around the bar of the old hitching post. They didn't bother uncinching or removing the saddles. A short, slightly stout stablehand was already heading toward them, waddling on plump legs and having emerged from the dark recesses of the station.
“Allow me, colleague,” said the Gardener, extending a hand. His tone carried a faint note of irony, though not offensively so; rather, it was just enough to remind Ardi of their previous conversation.
Ardan did not refuse, handing over his satchel while keeping Tess’s things in his own hands, as propriety dictated.
They crossed via the new wooden footbridge over the tracks. Then, circling around the station vestibule, they reached the stairs.
“How beautiful!” Tess couldn’t help exclaiming.
Yes, Delpas looked even better in summer than in winter. The city, still not bowed low beneath skyscrapers, spread in a broad crescent along the shore of the boundless lake. Now, wrapped in the nocturnal veil, it was dotted with a multitude of twinkling lights. Some were dead, born of Ley, and others were alive. Above them, the stars gleamed, blinking enviously in time with the lights below.
Narrow streets, small buildings, lovely miniature plazas and a waterfront that ended at the port where barges docked, arriving from mines, quarries, and timber relay points in Alcade, bringing logs here for processing.
Tess drank it in for a few moments, and then they descended to the parking lot. Without any prompting, the girl rather easily and quickly picked out the Second Chancery’s vehicle.
“They must issue them to you as part of the uniform,” she whispered with a slight smirk, knowing full well that Ardi would hear and the Gardener would not.
Truly… it didn’t take long to spot—if you knew what to look for—a far from new “Derks” on the lot. It was dented in places and speckled with that stubborn rust so fond of thin metal.
The Gardener opened the back door and loaded Ardi’s satchel of books and a few other belongings into the trunk. Then he helped stow Tess’s travel bag inside as well.
“Miss Orman, if it’s no trouble, would you be so kind as to rest in the car for a bit while we and your companion get some fresh air?” the Gardener said very courteously, though with an undertone of cool authority that made it clear this was less a request than a polite directive.
Given the place and the family Tess had grown up in, she didn’t ask a single question. With her usual delicate smile, she slipped into the car and closed the door behind her. It didn’t shut properly at first, as the latch was sickly and failed to catch the slightly bent clasp.
At last, on the third try, there was a crunchy metallic sound, and the Gardener muttered a barely audible curse.
“With these budget cuts, we’ll be riding in oxcarts soon…”
“Possibly,” Ardi agreed, recalling the past six months.
For a time they simply stood there in silence, breathing the night air. Fortunately, the parking lot and the station itself were almost empty. Apparently no one was coming from the east due to the breakdown, and to the west, toward Three Lakes, they had only just begun laying tracks. Overall, for the Foothills Province, Delpas was the end of the line.
“You were a bit delayed on the road, Corporal,” the Gardener began, clearly easing into the conversation.
“We ran into marshals on the way,” Ardi replied in the same tone. “Because of what they told us, we had to take a detour to avoid any unnecessary encounters.”
“Sensible…”
They fell quiet again. This time the pause lasted far shorter, and ended with them speaking simultaneously:
“Listen, Corporal—”
“I’m on leave.”
The Gardener gave Ardi a weary, not entirely pleased look.
“In early autumn, at the rail construction in Alcade, a family of northern orcs was found slaughtered down to the last one. Even the cubs…”
“The children,” Ardi corrected sharply, reflexively.
The Gardener eyed him, then shrugged and calmly amended himself.
“Even the children… It seems we managed to resolve the situation quickly enough. Especially since the culprits were caught and hanged.”
“Who were they?”
“Poachers, who had some disagreement with the orcs. The head of the family worked as a foreman laying tracks—one of their own kin.”
Yes, in the north, orcs were often hired to lay rails. They could work sixteen hours a day with a strength and intensity no human laborer could match. So, in places where they couldn’t bring in convicts from the work camps, they hired orcs. For paltry pay, of course, but still more than most could earn at other jobs.
“Only a few months ago, rumors started circulating among their kin that we simply hushed the case up. That the poachers had nothing to do with it. That in reality the orcs were cut down by their brethren from the Shanti’Ra.”
“Shanti’Ra don’t go into the mountains,” Ardi shook his head.
The steppe orcs follow the paths of their ancestors—“to the letter,” as Bazhen Eorsky would say. Which meant they strictly respected the territorial boundaries. The government knew this perfectly well, which is why it built the railroad exactly along the border of Shanti’Ra territory—to avoid provoking the orcs, and to make them unwitting guardians of the process that would ultimately bind them within the confines of civilization…
“And everyone knows that,” The Gardener nodded, removing his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Damn cold… picked it up somewhere, and I’ve been trying to shake it off for two weeks now.”
“If the garden has the right plants, I can brew you a good remedy, Mr…?”
“Sergeant Nil Kralis.”
“Mr. Kralis,” Ardi finished.
“Thank you in advance.” The Gardener cleared his throat and returned to the topic at hand. “But in the north, certain orcs have taken to blaming anyone for their troubles except their own unwillingness to adapt to a changing world.”
“Well, they are orcs.”
“Exactly… So, colleague, it’s been nearly two months now that the Shanti’Ra and the Shangra’Ar have been slaughtering each other in the steppe.”
Ardan turned abruptly toward the Gardener. The fact that the ones crossing the mountains were not just some northern orcs but the Shangra’Ar changed things somewhat. Simply because the Shanti’Ra tribe, almost nine centuries ago, had splintered off from what was originally the Shangra’Ar tribe.
The scrolls of Atta’nha mention that in the times of the Great Songs, long before the fall of Ektassus, the northern orcs found themselves in a rather brutal conflict with the elves of the northern forests. These lands border the Great Glacier and are mostly within the territories of Ngia and Tazidahian today.
The orcs were losing in that clash, and part of the tribe wanted to fight to the very end while another part wanted to broker peace. Thanks to Ektassus’s intervention, the nearly seven-year war between the orcs and the elves ended, but the tribe split as a result.
The Shangra’Ar accused those who wanted to end the carnage of straying from the ancestors’ path and exiled them. The exiles secured Ektassus’s support and received permission from Matabar to cross Alcade, which they did.
Not that here, in the southern steppes, the local orcs welcomed their northern kin with open arms. Nearly a millennium later, however, in a twist of fate, the Shanti'Ra had become the largest tribe of steppe orcs, subjugating all the others.
Only, the Firstborn do not easily forget the feud that led to that sundering of the tribes. A thousand years is still a colossal span for them, but far less than it would be for humans.
“And how many of them are there?”
“The Shangra’Ar?”
Ardi nodded.
“About fifteen tens crossed the mountains two months ago.”
“One hundred and fifty?!” Ardi choked. “How did you miss that?”
“They crossed in scattered groups,” Kralis raised his hands and began to stretch the muscles at the base of his neck, as if trying to ease some tension. “Over the course of almost half a month. They didn’t use the main paths—moved through ravines and forests. How would we have noticed them?”
That did make sense. Considering the endless expanse of Alcade and it's complex system of mountain chains, gorges, forest plateaus and lake networks, slipping through unseen from one side to the other wouldn’t be any trouble at all. It was exactly what poachers did.
“There are about eight tens left now,” the Gardener continued. “The Shanti’Ra cut down most of them, losing about two tens of their own fighters; some were shot by marshals; a few were taken out by army troops.”
Ardi stayed silent. Upon further consideration, it became clear that the northern orc family’s murder, which sparked the conflict between the two tribes, happened at roughly the same time that the Spiders, acting on someone else's behalf, tried to knock heads between the Orc Jackets and the northern human settlers in the capital.
Was it a common denominator or just a coincidence?
Ardi was hoping for the latter.
“Thank you for the story, but I think the city is safe.”
“Perfectly safe,” the sergeant confirmed. “The base has nearly three thousand soldiers, not to mention a couple dozen of our colleagues and… And I shouldn’t have told you any of that. Have you still not learned to control the Witch’s Gaze?”
Ardi didn't mention that he had learned to control it. He just needed to be sure that his family would remain safe, whatever came to pass.
“In that case, I don’t see why you’re telling me all this,” Ardi lifted an eyebrow, absentmindedly scratching the back of his head with the tip of his staff.
Sleeping Spirits… if Professor Lea was right about anything, it was that he needed to rid himself of that habit before he set an accumulator in the staff’s head. An Ertaline crystal could very well shear off a piece of his scalp.
“We need your help, Corporal.”
“I’m on vacation,” Ardan reminded him. “Besides, I’m just a Third Rank Investigator in the Metropolis. Not an operative or a battle mage. I don’t see how I can be of use to you.”
Kralis was clearly trying to sugarcoat the bitter pill he’d been holding this whole time. Ardan could see that as clearly as he could see the six barges in the port. Judging by their waterline, the barges were empty—which was uncharacteristic for the height of the shipping season, when there was no ice or storms.
“We’re not asking for your investigative skills, nor for magic…”
Ardan closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Lately it’s been quiet in the steppe,” the Gardener continued. He couldn’t resist pulling out a fresh cigarette. “Because the Shangra’Ar radicals, falling back, seized a loading station in the north, almost on the Alcade border.”
“A lumber station?” Ardi asked hopefully.
“No,” Kralis replied wearily, taking a drag. “Ore. With Ertaline crystals.”
“And how much is there?”
“About thirty-six kilograms of refined crystals, and roughly four tons of raw ore.”
A fortune…
“Why?” Ardi asked in disbelief. “It’s suicide.”
“They’re counting on a ransom.”
“A ransom?”
“They’re demanding free passage back across the mountains in exchange for not blowing up the depot and, along with it…” The Gardener pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand that held his cigarette, nearly singeing his eyebrows in the process. “…the governor’s eldest son.”
Ardan had expected something like this. The mere fact that the orcs had stormed a loading station (likely sending its human guards off to meet the Eternal Angels) guaranteed them nothing except prompt and unmerciful annihilation. To demonstrate its resolve, the Empire would have brought in artillery and leveled the station. The wealth in the depot wouldn’t have stopped anyone—if anything, it would serve as a vivid example to future marauders.
But throw in Ertaline and a hostage—on top of that not just anyone, but the son of the Foothills Governor, a noble-born aristocrat—and that, if it didn’t completely change the situation, at least slowed things down.
Because of the highborn hostage, the situation was shifting from provincial jurisdiction to a state affair. Mindful of newspaper headlines, the Crown likely wouldn’t want to tangle with the nobility's ire in the near future.
What Ardi didn’t like was not only that he understood all this, but that he had to understand it.
As Milar had said: they shouldn’t stick their noses into matters where what was happening was not investigation but politics.
“I still don’t see how I can help you.”
“The transfer station is already surrounded.”
Ardi turned so sharply he nearly cricked his neck.
“Not by you, I gather?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“Shanti’Ra?”
Kralis nodded. Ardi felt his upper lip curl, his fangs lengthen, and his elongated claws scrape the wood of his staff.
“Is their leader with them?”
If the murderer of his father was there, then…
“The Shanti’Ra leader doesn’t leave the deep steppe,” the sergeant quickly interjected, evidently well-versed in his companion’s background. “There’s a warrant for his immediate execution without any trial, for undeniable and obvious crimes against the state.”
And the fact that the Shanti’Ra had been used as involuntary overseers and guardians of the rail construction in the southern steppes did nothing to change that.
How right Milar is…
“Then…”
“There’s a shaman with the Shanti’Ra orcs. He refuses to speak to anyone,” Kralis interrupted. “The Shanti’Ra insist they have the right of a bloody… what do they call it?”
“Larr’rrak,” Ardi uttered in the Steppe Orc tongue. “There’s no literal translation, but it’s something like a blood trial for those who have spilled your blood.”
“Uh-huh,” the sergeant flicked away some ash. “Great. Thanks. I’ll never remember that… The long and short of it, colleague, is that headquarters believes you might be able to negotiate with them, given… some shared history and…”
“Shared history?!” Ardi couldn’t hold back, feeling that his fangs and claws had yet to recede. It must have been the long journey, the marshals, and the fact that the memory of all the misadventures in the Metropolis—and that night in the steppe when the Shanti’Ra slaughtered half the settlers’ caravan—was still raw. “Is that what you call a shared history?!”
“Rein in your emotions, colleague, they won’t help matters,” the sergeant raised his palms. “All we’re asking—asking, and I emphasize that word—is that you speak with the Shanti’Ra shaman. Because otherwise, we’ll have to blanket both tribes with artillery, and that will have consequences. Maybe not immediately, but someday—inevitably. And nobody wants that. This region is already troubled. The crime rate, including ethnic crime, is one of the highest in the country. Add to that the prospect of a mass execution of three hundred orcs by heavy ordnance, and you have a ticking time bomb ready to go off.”
“You said there were eighty of them.”
“And two hundred twenty Shanti’Ra.”
For the first time, Ardi asked a pointed question:
“How many Shanti’Ra orcs are there in the steppes, overall?”
“On the order of forty thousand in the tribe and its branches. And about the same number are scattered across the steppe among other, related tribes,” Kralis rattled off, then scowled. “I’m starting to suspect, Corporal, that you have learned to control the Witch’s Gaze. That information is classified.”
But Ardi let that remark pass. There were eighty thousand Shanti’Ra orcs, yet their leader had appeared in the settlers’ camp that night, almost on Presny’s border, along with the shaman? If anything, that episode definitely didn’t look like a coincidence.
“But that figure includes children, elders, and women, though I suspect they can also wield weapons… In any case, we don’t want to give the army or the orcs any extra reason to stage a punitive massacre.”
And that was exactly what it could end in. What did that remind him of?
It was impossible not to notice the similarities between what was happening now and what had happened with the Hammers and the Jackets. Even if one tried very hard. And Ardi had tried. Really hard.
“Listen, Mr. Kralis, I came here on vacation. I came with my fiancée. To introduce her to my family. And to see them myself. And you’re asking me… asking me to help you with the Shanti’Ra. Sleeping Spirits… with Shanti’Ra!”
“Believe me, Corporal, I understand completely,” the sergeant reached into an inner pocket and pulled out an official memo. “Perhaps this will convince you.”
“Secrecy – Highest.
Any unauthorized person reading this message is subject to Article 17, paragraph 1.
Message for Employee …, Service Number: 14\647-3
Relayed from Employee …, call sign: ‘Colonel’:
“Please forgive me for having to break my promise about your vacation, Corporal. Given your situation, I have no right to issue you a direct order.
I propose that you take a break from resting to carry out a small assignment.
By way of compensation:
1. Your leave will be extended by five days.
2. You will receive travel allowances equal to three months’ salary.
3. In the event of successful completion of the task, you will receive a bonus equal to half a year’s salary.”
End of message.
Recognizing the Colonel’s handwriting, Ardi turned the note over. He and Tess had departed the Metropolis nearly a week after he and Milar visited the Black House. This memo had been sent on the third day, four days before their departure.
This meant that Ardan was truly the Colonel’s backup plan. Apparently, the de facto head of the Second Chancery had genuinely not wanted to resort to his help.
The offered compensation was extremely tempting: in the most favorable outcome, it was just shy of two hundred twenty-five exes.
Ardi cast a quick glance toward the Derks’ passenger cabin, where Tess was seated.
The General-Governor of Shamtur set a condition that they would have to move out of the "Bruce" in half a year, which meant they’d need money. A lot of money. To rent a flat in the same neighborhood as the Jackets’ bar, they would have to pay a hefty price. The going rate for such a privilege was somewhere between seventeen and twenty-five exes per month, not to mention the deposit. And that's for not even a flat, but a tiny room.
Two hundred-plus exes would go a long way toward helping them, sustaining them until Ardi could scrape together more funds. In the past six months he hadn’t had the chance to heed Milar’s and Elena’s advice—there simply hadn’t been enough time.
But at the moment, praise the Sleeping Spirits, no more dashing about the capital was expected, and the investigation—according to Captain Pnev—could drag on for years, including business trips across the country. Which meant Ardi could try selling a few potions and salves to the Star Healers’ shop to see if Aean'Hane's creations would be in demand. He could also drop by the Spell Market to evaluate the new seals and visit the Magical Box.
Ardi planned to add several income streams to his little hoard, to be confident… confident that Dandy’s words, spoken to him at the theater, wouldn’t have any impact on his and Tess’s life together…
“Ahgrat,” Ardi exhaled in resignation, tipping his head back. Folding the memo, he tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“And what does that mean, Mr. Egobar?” Kralis asked.
“In this context? It means I agree to help you. But only help. I’ll speak with the Shanti’Ra shaman, but if even the slightest hint of trouble arises, I’ll leave immediately.”
Ardi almost added that he would vanish in the most literal sense of the word, but held back.
“Fair enough,” the sergeant nodded. “I’ll inform the brass. For now, my sincere thanks, colleague. In the morning three days from now, we’ll take a ride to the base, and from there to the loading station. By then our colleagues will have arranged the negotiations.”
Ardi grimaced but said nothing.
“For now, allow me to drive you to your wonderful relatives’ home.”
They got into the car. The sergeant took the driver’s seat, and Ardi sat in the back. Resting his staff by his feet, he looked over at Tess. She understood everything immediately. Without unnecessary words. Without any questions at all. She just looked him in the eyes, then at Kralis, then back to Ardi, and smiled. Only with her eyes. Lifting the little upturned tip of her nose slightly.
Just as she did every time…
“When?” was all she asked.
“In three days.”
“How long?”
“A few hours.”
“Alright.” She squeezed his hand lightly. “But you’ll owe me. I saw that Delpas has movie theaters too, and we kept putting it off. I’m curious why everyone’s so crazy about them. Let’s go and see what all the fuss is, shall we?”
“Absolutely,” Ardi promised.
The automobile set off, rolling down the dimly lit serpentine road. As they descended, Ardan realized that if he had agreed to help right away, he probably wouldn’t have received any travel money or bonus.
Both because of the budget cuts. And also, because, as Dagdag had said, the Second Chancery is not a charitable organization—and if you screwed up, you had only yourself to blame.
Comments
Javek Redhand
Word choice issues. From the first paragraph “which allowed travelers to reach (did you mean to say journey or travel?) from the Empire’s capital to the central city of the country’s largest province in relative comfort and equally relative safety.” I won’t belabor the fact that the prose could use some polish, as you did in previous chapters.
John
Thanks!
