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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 27 - Two Letters
🕑 Added 2025-10-13 23:01:01 +0000 UTCChapter 27
Ardi drifted awake to the slow, soft touch of fingers carding through his hair. Tess was winding it around her fingers, then tracing its lines with the pads of her thumbs before letting it fall free.
They were lying beneath the thin sheet that served as their blanket, a pale cloth lost in the sea of rumpled linens. Ardi remembered little of the evening before. He had a hazy memory of driving with Milar to the Black House, where they had summoned Alice Rovnev ahead of their arrival. The scholar had looked… gaunt. And she’d smelled not only of cigarettes, but of cheap alcohol and men as well. Different men. She hadn’t greeted Ard. He’d understood. And he hadn’t blamed her for it.
He and the captain had handed over the body. For a time, Alice and Milar had discussed the tasks ahead of them, then they had parted ways, and the captain had driven Ardi back to Markov Canal.
They’d passed most of the journey in silence. Only near the end had they exchanged a few thoughts, agreeing to visit the Crimson Lady first thing the next morning. Time, similar to before, was not exactly on their enemy’s side, but every hour they delayed could end up costing Peter Oglanov his life. And he was a man who, despite his foul character and a certain lack of principles, was still, relatively speaking, on their team. Or so Milar had said.
When asked, “What team, exactly?” the captain had refused to answer. He’d only said it would sound far too pretentious.
Ardi had somehow managed to get himself upstairs. He’d washed, and without bothering with dinner, had fallen into bed. He hadn’t even opened his mother’s letter that had been delivered by the postman sometime during the day.
He only remembered that, at some point, someone had embraced him. He had embraced them back. And he hadn’t let go. Not until the sun had come up.
And now the sun was once again casting its rays into their small apartment, its light filled with a kind of greedy envy. The sunbeams ran along Tess’ silhouette, shattering into a myriad of sparkling fragments and making the singer’s velvety skin look like the shimmering expanse of a sea that seemed to extend all the way to the horizon.
She was smiling.
It was a soft smile. It had a measure of care, a touch of tenderness, a grain of understanding, and a bottomless lake of calm.
Ardan drew her toward him, and Tess rested her cheek on his chest. He stroked her back and stared at the ceiling. He really ought to touch up the plaster before autumn came…
“Tell me something,” Ardi whispered quietly.
“What, exactly?” Tess replied, her tone matching his own.
Her fiery hair was splayed out across the pillow, making it look like the bed itself might begin to smolder at any moment.
“I don’t know,” Ardi answered honestly. “Something… ordinary.”
They kept their voices low, speaking as if someone wasn’t just likely to be listening, but was surely listening, right at that very moment. Who, exactly?
It didn’t matter.
They simply didn’t want the outside world to distract them. Didn’t want anything besides the sun to break into their tiny universe, a universe that existed only for the two of them at that moment. For their breaths. For their thoughts. And for the peace that lulled their minds, causing their eyelids to droop ever lower, to open less often with each passing second.
“They started building a buffet in the concert hall yesterday,” Tess said, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest, patterns with no meaning and no clear shape. “They promised that the prices will be half off for all the performers.”
“Is that so…” Ardi was genuinely surprised by such generosity coming from Arthur Belsky of all people. “Will we be able to save on groceries again?”
“If you’re prepared to live on nothing but fish sandwiches, briskets with pâté, and cheese platters.”
Ardi sighed in feigned sorrow.
“It seems we’ll have to remember to visit the grocer’s after all,” the young man pronounced, his verdict absolute.
“And reporters from the ‘Imperial Herald’ came to our rehearsal,” Tess continued. “They’re planning to cover the opening. Though it’s been postponed again.”
“Until when?”
Tess shrugged her shoulders.
“The end of the Month of Saints.”
Ardi held his fiancée a little tighter.
“Are you upset?”
“Well… no…” She shrugged again. “On the one hand, Ardi-the-wizard, I’ve gotten used to performing for the crowd at ‘Bruce’s.’ Sometimes, they’re foul, and sometimes more than a little drunk, but they’re… familiar, I suppose. On that stage, it will be complete strangers. Hundreds of people. All the tickets for the opening have already been sold. Twelve hundred seats. A full house.”
Ardi remained silent. He knew the best thing he could do right now was to listen quietly. Tess needed neither his advice nor his opinion, only his presence. Just as he, at times, only wanted her to be there beside him.
“And yes, I remember saying that I want to perform on the biggest stages for the biggest audiences, but…” Tess shivered and rubbed her nose against his shoulder. Only after he’d grown older had Ardi finally begun to understand Neviy’s strange jokes about everyone being the same height in bed. “I’m scared. And a little nervous. I think I’m a little more scared than nervous.”
“What exactly are you afraid of?”
Tess didn’t answer right away.
“That I won’t be good enough. That I won’t be able to perform well enough, consistently, to avoid…” She paused for a moment. “To avoid the papers running articles about how Father asked Duke Erkerovsky to support my career as a ransom for Olesya.”
Ardi had lived in the Metropolis long enough and spoken with enough of the world’s rich and powerful to understand one thing:
“They’ll write such filth anyway. Even when you’re shining. And you will shine, Tess. I have never heard anyone perform the way you do.”
Tess smiled. It was a little sad. A little shy. And unusually in love.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know they’ll write that. Even if you turn out to be right.”
“Of course I’ll be right.”
Tess gave his shoulder a gentle bite, then suddenly jerked away.
“Did that hurt?” She asked, concerned.
Ardi shook his head, all the while trying to suppress the grimace of pain that was fighting its way to the surface. His body still hadn’t had enough time to recover, and yesterday’s overly long day had done nothing to speed the process along.
“No,” the young man lied easily.
He could have used Skusty’s art, but Ardi never used the squirrel’s teachings when talking with his fiancée. For some reason, it seemed to him like a simple lie was somehow more honest, despite the contradiction in the statement.
“Good,” she said, settling back down. For a time, she lay there in silence, continuing to draw on his chest with her fingers. “You know what the funniest part is?”
“What?”
“When all those journalists arrived, since the plumbers had connected something the wrong way, when they turned on the pressure, half the reporters were drenched with…” Tess giggled and whispered even more quietly than before. “The black water from the builders’ latrines.”
Ardi allowed himself a few short chuckles. A funny coincidence indeed. Although, knowing the Six’s dislike for the sharks of the press, perhaps it hadn’t been a coincidence at all.
“And so, I think that, by the end of the week,” the girl continued, “there will be a dozen articles about the deplorable state of the Baliero Concert Hall.”
“You see, my dear? You won’t even have to worry about a full house. People won’t want to bother bringing umbrellas and will return their tickets because of it.”
Tess wasn’t offended and laughed lightly, a sound like a tinkling doorbell. Ardi kissed the top of her head and then covered the spot with his chin. Outside the window, the sun dove into the clouds like a cheerful fish, winking at the city’s inhabitants every now and then.
“Is it soon?” Tess asked suddenly, and without waiting for a question in return, immediately clarified. “Will you be leaving soon?”
Instead of a direct answer, Ardi asked:
“How did you guess?”
The girl pulled herself up a little and kissed his temple gently.
“When you came back yesterday, you had the same look about you that Father sometimes did,” Tess’ voice held a soft sadness. Not the kind that causes one pain, but was more like a spice for distant memories. “And every time he came home with those eyes, he would leave some time later.”
So that was it…
“I leave in a couple of weeks,” Ardi answered. “Maybe a little sooner.”
“Going far?”
“To the Dancing Peninsula.”
“Oh!” Tess propped herself up on her elbow. “They say it’s a real paradise there this time of year. Apricots grow right over your head. Peaches are just a few kso a kilogram, and the Bright Lake is warmer than fresh milk.”
Ardi narrowed his eyes pensively.
“Since your opening was postponed, maybe we could go together?”
“Together?” Tess asked, surprised.
“It’s not a very… difficult trip ahead,” Ardi said, searching for the right words for a moment. “If we can’t get the information we need by post, we’ll have to go and check something in person.”
Tess seemed a little hesitant, while Ardi, for his part, felt a real surge of energy envelop him.
“Will it take long?”
“Just a couple of days. The journey will take more time than the work.”
Leaning back on the pillow, stretching like a cat, and offering the sun and Ardi’s gaze her most secret and most seductive curves, Tess purred:
“I’ll ask Mrs. Okladov if she’ll let me take a week of unpaid leave.”
“Excellent!”
For the first time in several days, Ardi felt something warm and pleasant near his heart.
He looked at the naked, green-eyed, red-haired beauty. In just a few months, they would be husband and wife. Such strange words. Wife. Husband. They were so simple and yet so heavy and still completely incomprehensible.
“Tess.”
“What is it, dear?”
“What do you think the Eternal Angels look like?”
And without waiting for an answer, he leaned down and joined their lips in a long kiss.
***
Sitting at the bar, Ardi carefully cut the first of two envelopes with a letter opener. Beneath the stamps of the Metropolis’ internal postal service, it read:
“For Ard Egobar. Confidential.”
Considering the fact that the envelope also bore the crest of the Mages’ Guild (a hat, a staff, and a grimoire, which was a bit like the crest of the Grand University) and the acronym for the State Organization of Magical Boxing, he didn’t have to worry about the letter’s security.
Actually, crimes against the postal services and the sanctity of correspondence were not that common in this country, as they were equated with particularly grave offenses for which one could get either a life sentence of hard labor or be sent to the Eternal Angels altogether.
All because the postal service remained the only truly reliable means of communication across the vast expanses of the Empire, which spanned eleven time zones.
I wonder how everything would change if Edward’s research were ever completed? Ardi mused for a moment, but then immediately reminded himself: Thoughts for tomorrow.
Having finally conquered the stubborn flap of the envelope, Ardi pulled out its meager contents.
It was another identification card—damned bureaucracy— with the Mages’ Guild crest, and there was a clarification that it belonged to a participant in the qualifiers of the Sponsored League of Magical Boxing.
“Dear Mr. Egobar,
We would like to remind you that you have signed a contract to participate in the qualifying tournament. Listed below, you will find the schedule of your matches. We would also like to remind you that before your first match, you must submit a signed application for a pseudonym due to the specifics of your service.
First Round:
• Ard Egobar (7R9G) and Lucius Raft (6R7G) | Month of Saints, 17th day, 8:30 in the evening.
Second Round:
• Ard Egobar (7R9G) and Nars Malkov (9R6G) | Month of Saints, 29th day, 8 in the evening.
Third Round:
• Ard Egobar (7R9G) and Agatha Spree (6R6G7B) | Month of Waters, 16th day, 10 in the evening.”
•
Ardi didn’t even bother to read the remaining two rounds, the fourth and the fifth.
“Ahgrat,” Ardan swore, waving the schedule in annoyance.
“What, Matabar, are things heatin’ up… Are you in a tough spot, I mean?”
Arkar was cheerfully moving the beads of his abacus as he was filling out the bar’s ledger. He was wearing a pair of comical, rectangular glasses, which made the sight almost surreal. The Forian Ale at “Bruce’s” ran out rather quickly, so it had to be ordered often… from the Telkarts. Ardi hadn’t thought that the Orcish Jackets would ever spend extra exes on the original product, and, as it turned out, they didn’t.
“They’ve paired me with a Blue Star Mage.”
The half-orc choked and, losing his count, also swore. In Orcish. Quite colorfully, at that. Though, when translated into Imperial, orcish curses often sounded like absolute nonsense.
“He a strong fella?” The orc asked.
“A lady, not a fella,” Ardan replied glumly and took a sip of hot, thick cocoa. Of course, Arkar had charged him six kso for it. “And she’s at least a whole Star stronger than me, orc.”
“Is that a lot?”
“Imagine you were in a fistfight with an ogre.”
“Well, that’d be unpleasant, sure, but you don’t have to go belly… you don’t have to lose, I mean.”
“Now make that ogre almost as big as a giant,” Ardi finished the thought.
Arkar thought about it for a moment and, with a grunt, snapped the ledger shut.
“So I shouldn’t bet on you?”
“Hey!” Ardi protested. “According to the rules, I’m forbidden from trading any information related to the tournament.”
“You’re not tradin’ it,” Arkar winked conspiratorially. “Just a couple of mutters… words, that is, here, a couple there, and just like that, fifteen percent of our winnings are yours.”
Ardi grimaced and waved away his… friend… probably…
“And then they’ll take away my League license, and I’ll lose a reliable source of income, right?”
“We’ll come up with somethin’ clever, Matabar,” the half-orc persisted. “Plenty of time still. Maybe set it up through proxies. Or buy some dead souls from the Telkarts. We can put our heads together… think on it, that is.”
“Leave it,” was all Ardan said.
“Well, look, it’s your call, of course, but it’s a shirt thing.”
“A sure thing, not a shirt thing,” Ardi corrected him.
“That’s what I’m sayin’,” the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets nodded and returned to his accounts.
Ardi would not have been honest with himself if he’d tried to claim that he wasn’t tempted. He pondered what the orc had said for a while.
There was no doubt that the Orcish Jackets would indeed find a way to arrange everything safely. After all, they had been running their scheme (a double one, at that, if one recalled that Arkar was not entirely honest with Ordargar) at “Bruce’s” and their supposed tenement house for so many years that they would figure out the betting as well. The only question was the availability of guaranteed information.
The temptation was great.
But the whole affair smelled strongly of theft, and Ardi was no thief. He never had been and never intended to become one. He had no need for what belonged to others.
So, after pushing down the dark chimes of base thoughts as deep as he could, he picked up the second envelope.
He ran his fingers over the Delpas postmarks and read the signature with a smile:
“From Shaia Brian-Egobar, for Ard Egobar.”
And below that, a neat, beautiful handwriting had spun the threads of a long-awaited message:
“Hello, my son.
I am writing to you a week after you’ve left for Shamtur. All is well with us. The generator is working properly—Percy did an excellent job. He and Anna’s brother looked a bit strange when we were signing the confirmation documents, but I think they just hadn’t seen you in a long time and they probably don’t get to meet Imperial Mages all that often.
Yesterday, our gardener returned from his vacation. He promised to take care of the rose bushes and the lilacs. I want to plant a small flowerbed in the backyard before next summer.
I am very happy for you and Tess. She is a good girl. And you look very lovely together. Perhaps I do have a little regret that we won’t be able to hold your wedding according to your father’s Alcade traditions. They had… have, very beautiful rituals. It’s not at all what one might imagine from a mountain people.
Now, as I sit on the veranda, I remember my wedding to your father. Your grandfather took me to a stream and asked me to scoop water into my cupped hands and told me to walk to the nearest shrine. I had to dodge fallen fruit, ravines and thorny branches. I had to carry at least a drop of water there. Even the smallest one. And your father, from the other side, carried a small splinter from a tree struck by lightning.
By the way—we waited almost a month and a half for lightning to strike a tree… These days, I remember it all with a laugh and pleasant nostalgia, but back then, I was quite worried.
So.
Your father had to carry the burning splinter through the same obstacles. And then, at the shrine, we exchanged our gifts. I gave him water to drink, and he warmed my frozen hands with fire.
Back then, to be honest, I didn’t quite understand the meaning of what happened. We set out before dawn and only met at the shrine by sunset, when the sun had almost wrapped itself in the snows of the Alcade. But now, I think I am beginning to understand the meaning.
According to Matabar traditions, if the fire had gone out, or if I had been unable to carry even a drop of water, our wedding would not have taken place, and we would not have gotten a second chance. That’s why we walked slowly, carefully, literally inch by inch, as we made our way through the thickets. It was painful. Branches cut our skin and tried to poke out our eyes, our feet kept trying to stumble, and our soles were almost bleeding by the end.
And you know what? I understand why.
Because if one of us hadn’t truly cared, or if our conviction—this desire to unite our life paths—had not been strong and firm enough, then one of us would have stumbled. Or not noticed a branch. Or, due to cold and hunger, would have gotten impatient and started running. But, just like in a real marriage, this ritual required one to be patient, attentive to oneself and one’s actions, thoughts, and desires, and also to the thoughts of the one who is also walking toward you from the other side. Even if it’s with a different burden. But by making our way through the exact same bushes and stones, experiencing the same fear and uncertainty, and…
Yes.
Perhaps, on that day, your father and I learned what it means to live in a marriage. As one family.
Then we had a very sweet ceremony from the book of the Face of Light. Your father built a small log house, and I consecrated it with the sacred banner of the Eternal Angels. I washed your father’s face with the light of the dawn, and he entwined our hands with his belt.
I am sincerely happy that you have found a person with whom you are ready to go through everything that life will throw at you. My heart is a little less worried for you now, my beloved son.
…
Kelly is doing well. He’s still working as an instructor. He often complains that the cadets are sometimes foolish and ignorant, and that their parents can’t see beyond their own ideas of what their child looks like in their own eyes.
Perhaps I can understand them.
Sometimes I hear rumors that Erti has been seen in strange company, but I know my son and do not believe that he could ever intentionally hurt anyone.
By the way, I recently saw him in the company of a very lovely girl. The daughter of the manager of the city post office. She has funny freckles and slightly protruding ears, which doesn’t spoil her looks at all. I must admit, the sight they present together, given your younger brother’s appearance, is a bit strange. She is only twelve, and she unequivocally looks her age, while your brother… well, you already know that any stranger would think he’s no less than seventeen, or even older.
But I am in no hurry to interfere. I’m afraid I’ll only make things worse. I’ll trust Kelly—he is looking after us and sends you his warm regards.
Kena has already gotten used to the school for girls of noble birth. Despite her lack of pedigree, she is not bullied or picked on. She even enjoys studying there. Now she is even bored and sometimes invites her friends over. Their parents don’t refuse and come to visit us.
So the house is often filled with laughter and fun.
And more and more often, just like your grandfather once did, I find myself on the veranda, in a cozy armchair, with warm coffee and under a blanket. My gaze is directed toward our house on the mountainside. A part of me, as the Face of Light commands, rejoices in each new day, but another part—the one that was cut and pricked, that carried water from the stream through all those hardships, sometimes regrets that all this laughter and fun does not happen there, on the bank of the stream in our home…
Forgive me for putting all of this in a letter, and not saying it in person. When you and Tess came, I didn’t want to mar our brief time together with inappropriate thoughts and worries.
And…
Forgive me, Ardi, my son.
Sometimes, I have strange dreams. In them, dark shadows follow at your heels.
Please, take care of yourself. And always remember that, as the Face of Light teaches, we are all made of Light, and Darkness is but a choice for each of us.
May the Eternal Angels protect you and may your path always lead you home.
I am counting the days until we meet in the capital for your wedding.
With all my love.
Your mother,
Shaia.”
Ardi read the letter several times. Not because he wanted to delve into its meaning, but simply because he couldn’t bring himself to put down the paper saturated with the scent of pastries and blackberries. That was how his mother smelled…
Even before Ardi’s arrival in Delpas, Erti had written to him that he was noticing their mother sitting on the veranda more and more often in her free time. Like their grandfather before her, she would look toward the Alcade and smile at her memories.
No, she wasn’t sick at all. It was just that her wounded soul and weary mind had finally been able to relax, and Shaia Brian-Egobar had at last found well-deserved peace.
Ardi ran his fingers over her neat, beautiful handwriting.
She had written about the path in the Matabar tongue, but using the letters of the Galessian alphabet. Just like his father. After all, the Matabar had no written language of their own. Only songs, stories and cave paintings.
In his childhood, among the various books and scrolls of Atta’nha, Ardi had read a story recorded by the elves of the northern forests about an Aean’Hane from the Matabar tribe. As a child, before the beasts had taken him, he’d fallen in love with a gatherer who’d been part of the children of Lenos. He was taken to the City on the Hill, but, by deceiving his mentors, he made a deal with an ancient shadow and, with its help, managed to escape the City on the Hill, never becoming a Sidhe. And he did it all for the sake of meeting the girl again, who by that time had become a woman.
That story had also mentioned a wedding ritual. But when Ardi had been little, it had all seemed a bit strange, absurd, and even foolish to him.
Now, of course, everything was different.
Distracting Ardi from his musings on the past, the doorbell chimed lightly. A colorful visitor entered the room, making Arkar look up from his abacus.
Walking with a rolling gait, removing a colorful, old-fashioned top hat as he entered, and with a mustache and beard so lush they could’ve been mistaken for a knitted blanket, dressed in a violet suit and a green vest that somehow looked… acceptable together, a dwarf walked into “Bruce’s.”
He was about a meter and a half tall, with shoulders of nearly the same width, and thick, gnarled fingers crowned with large rings, and he had a cigar in his mouth. His teeth were too square and too massive to belong to a human.
Propping a massive cane with a silver lion-headed handle against the counter, the dwarf climbed onto a bar stool. He smelled of expensive perfume—lavender, fruit and pine. According to Ardi’s tastes, it was a slightly feminine scent.
“Arkar,” the dwarf greeted the half-orc in a pleasant, velvety tone and wiped his hands with a handkerchief.
“Bagdbag,” the Overseer replied, removing his glasses without much warmth.
The dwarf extended a hand to Ardan.
“We haven’t met,” he said. “My name is Baron Bagdbag. I am the Chronicler of the Conclave.”
Ardan exchanged a glance with Arkar. The orc had warned him that representatives of the Firstborn organization would be visiting him soon, and he hadn’t been wrong. All because of that stupid Larr’rrak…
“Ard Egobar,” Ardi introduced himself curtly.
He didn’t state his rank. Not because he was unsure whether Bagdbag knew he was speaking to an employee of the Second Chancery (and given Sergeant Boad’s awareness of such a thing, he surely did), but because he wanted to see where their conversation would lead.
“So, Mr. Egobar, as you may already know, I represent the interests of the Conclave,” the dwarf turned to Arkar and, in a casual tone, not so much asked as ordered: “A glass of beer.”
Arkar bared his tusks and raised his canines.
“Were you never taught how to ask politely, shorty?”
Bagdbag just waved his hand vaguely in the air.
“Don’t forget, Arkar, that you are still on probation with the Conclave.”
The half-orc’s eyes glinted with a far-from-harmless steel.
“And you shouldn’t forget, Bagdbag, that you’re not in your little piggy bank… not in the Firstborn Quarter, that is. You’re on our land, the Jackets’ land. And I can-”
“You can talk for a very long time,” Bagdbag interrupted in that same casual manner. “The suspicions against you regarding the deaths of the Gatekeeper and the Judge have been dropped, but that doesn’t mean the Conclave is happy to have you. You and your tusks—you cause our community far more problems than you bring benefits.”
“Oh, really? And what would your community live on if not for our door nations?”
“Donations,” Ardi and the dwarf corrected in unison. The latter took the floor again. “And where would you be, Arkar, with your Jackets, if not for our support? Or do you think we have nothing to do with the fact that the other members of the so-called Six haven’t strangled you yet?”
Arkar fell silent. Everyone knew that if the five other gangs ever united against the Jackets, a swift act of retribution from a certain part of the Firstborn was inevitable. This was how the unspoken status quo was maintained.
But this worked both ways, preventing the Orcish Jackets from fighting to expand their territory.
“But these are all trifles,” Bagdbag pulled a… bone from his inner pocket. A crow’s skull, to be precise. He placed it on the table and pushed it toward Ardan. “Do you know what this is, Mr. Ard?”
Ardan did know. A crow’s skull was sent to tribal chiefs, under-mountain kings, and elven princes when they were summoned to a council. It was a very old tradition, with roots stretching back to the time of Ectassus.
“I do.”
“You are to arrive, in exactly six days, at this address—Sleepless Street, number 7, Firstborn District. Midnight. Otherwise…”
Ardan tapped his staff almost silently against the floor, but it was enough for Bagdbag to flinch back and grab his watch, which… didn’t show the time at all. It was a disguised Ley-artifact.
“I will remind you, Mr. Bagdbag, that you are not my superior, not a good acquaintance, and certainly not a friend, to tell me what I am to do,” Ardan felt neither anger, nor was his ego wounded, he was just… not in the mood for convoluted conversations and figuring things out for a long time using Skusty’s art. Perhaps if it hadn’t been for yesterday’s long day, he would have been more reserved in his conversation with the Conclave’s representative, and maybe he’d have tried to play along and find something out. “All other things being equal, Mr. Bagdbag, I am quite certain you know about my service in the Black House.”
The dwarf, to Arkar’s unconcealed delight, was silent for a moment. His shock, of course, hadn’t been caused by the mention of the Second Chancery. The dwarf’s square-pupiled gaze did not leave the staff in Ardi’s hands.
“It is this detail, among others, that the Conclave must discuss,” the dwarf said, regaining his composure.
Ardi narrowed his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“You, young man, will cast a shadow on the entire community of the Firstborn. For a tribal Chief to serve the blood of the Agrovs… it is spitting in the face of our history,” Bagdbag released his watch and straightened up. He seemed to be feeling the superiority of his position again. “We have already turned a blind eye to your connection with the Traitor of the People, Aror Egobar, may his name be forgotten, and-”
Ardi felt himself unconsciously raising his gaze to meet Bagdbag’s eyes, but he forced himself to turn away in time. He didn’t want to harm the Conclave’s messenger. And in truth, the man didn’t deserve it.
Just like the followers of the Tavsers, Bagdbag had been taught to think the way he did. It’d been literally calculated and planned out, like a Star Magic seal. He had his own parameters, arrays, and, unfortunately, he had almost no room for modifications.
“The Conclave wants you to resign your position as an Investigator of the Second Chancery,” the dwarf continued, “and publicly declare yourself as the Chief of the Alcade Tribes and heir to the blood and history of the Matabar people. After that, you will swear allegiance to the Conclave and its aspirations. After that, your status as Chief will be recognized by us, and your position as, forgive my directness, a pariah will be lifted.”
Ardi inwardly smiled at what he’d just heard. It was a strange sort of irony. Both the Conclave and, at one time, the Emperor had wanted to use Ardan’s lineage. Each of them had wanted it for their own purposes, but both of their desires were equally aimed at the Firstborn.
“You mentioned something about me refusing,” Ardi reminded him.
“Of course,” Bagdbag nodded. “If you refuse the proposed conditions, you will not just be unwelcome in our district in words alone. The Conclave will subject you to ostracization. And then you will be barred from all places, organizations, shops, stores—everywhere the Conclave has influence. And that, young man, is quite extensive.”
Ardi glanced at his mother’s letter lying next to him.
“And what about the fact that I am not a pure-blooded Matabar?”
“The issue of your tainted blood will also be discussed at the council of the Conclave’s chiefs,” Bagdbag nodded, completely convinced of his righteousness. “But it is not as controversial as your service in the Black House, which you yourself mentioned. You will simply need to renounce, with both words and legally, your human blood and all that is inherent to it. A standard procedure, really. Our lawyers will quickly prepare all the necessary papers.”
Bagdbag sat there with the posture and expression of someone who had just conquered half the western continent. Or maybe all of it. He was beaming with self-satisfaction, an incredible amount of boastfulness, weighty bravado, and because of that, foolishness as well.
No, the Conclave’s messenger was not a fool. He just… believed too strongly that no one in their right mind would refuse such an offer.
Half-bloods, as Arkar could confirm, were always outsiders. To some, they were non-humans, and to others—on the contrary, too human. And becoming one of them somewhere, so that at least someone wouldn’t point fingers and whisper behind your back… that was worth a lot.
But…
Maybe Ardi was flattering himself, maybe he was making assumptions, but he had already become one of them. He was one of them to a red-haired singer. A chain-smoking investigator. A self-absorbed genius who hadn’t been able to communicate with people, but who’d had a kind heart and hands covered in the blood of his homeland’s enemies. And also those who lived in Delpas.
For some time now, Ard hadn’t been asking himself the question “who am I?” because he’d understood, in that moment by the cemetery fence, as he’d been holding Edward Aversky’s posthumous letter, that he had no need to search for an answer to that question. In truth, he’d always wanted to answer it not for himself, but for others. He’d wanted others to see him as something more. And he himself… was just Ardan Egobar.
Someone’s friend. Someone’s son. Someone’s fiancé.
He needed nothing more.
And to be honest, what he already had was so much that Ardan could not have even wished for all of it before. He got to return to a home where he was always welcome, regardless of any circumstances. He got to smile at a loyal friend who would not turn his back on him at the first sign of trouble. And he got to do a job that made the world a little better.
What more could a hunter wish for?
“I will, of course, come at the specified time and place,” Ardan replied, taking the card with the address from the dwarf.
“Excellent, then I will tell the lawyers to prepare-”
Ardan raised his hand in a typically “Aversky” manner and Bagdbag fell silent.
“Please, do not trouble your lawyers for nothing, Mr. Chronicler,” Ardi requested. “I have not the slightest desire to accept any of your Conclave’s conditions.”
“But-”
“But, equally, I feel no negativity toward your organization,” Ardi continued, ignoring the dwarf. “So I will make the Conclave a counter, mutually-beneficial offer. Whether you agree or not is your business.”
Bagdbag tensed like a cat before it pounces.
“This is your only chance to be recognized, young man, and-”
“Please, Mr. Chronicler, do not call me a young man,” Ardan requested in a calm tone. “Usually, those who say that know much more than I do and understand things I have no idea about. From their lips, those words sound reasonable.”
“Why you-”
“Yes. Me,” Ard interrupted again, his tone almost bland. “This is the last thing I will say to you, Mr. Chronicler. I understand that you are only broadcasting what you have been taught to believe since childhood, but…” Ardan folded the letter and put it in his inner jacket pocket. “The next time you want to threaten me or suggest I renounce my family and my grand… great-grandfather, who raised and nursed me, then, please, I beg you, remember what happened to those who provoked the wrath of Aror Egobar. Because, I swear by the paths of the Sleeping Spirits, I am really holding myself back from testing what is stronger: my Witch’s Gaze or your protective artifact that you are so diligently passing off as a watch.”
Bagdbag recoiled so violently that he nearly fell off his stool. He was caught just in time by Arkar, who’d leaned over the counter. With a fanged, mocking smile, he returned the dwarf to his seat.
“That’s the kind of tenant I have, Bagdbag,” Arkar clapped the dwarf on the shoulder, as if wanting to brush off the dust there. “We don’t keep any others.”
A little pale and therefore angry (mostly at the realization of how terrified he’d been for a moment), the dwarf looked boldly into Ardan’s eyes. He looked to be accepting an implied challenge, but… Ardan was holding himself, and his Witch’s Gaze, in check.
“Try it, Mr. Egobar,” he said the surname as if he were spitting it out. “Or have you grown too confident in your powers after that farce with Iolai Agrov? Or perhaps you believe that the Conclave has no Aean’Hane within its ranks for whom you are nothing more than an arrogant pup?”
“I’m sure they exist,” Ardan agreed in a serious tone.
Only a complete fool would consider the Conclave a harmless and toothless creature. No, there was no doubt that the organization uniting the Firstborn of the Empire had connections with some Aean’Hane. And maybe some of them indeed worked directly for the Conclave.
“We are extending a helping hand, Mr. Egobar,” Bagdbag took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty face with it. “We are offering you the opportunity to throw off the Agrovs’ collar. And you, like a rabid dog, are biting the offered hand. Do you enjoy serving the Crown so much?”
Ardan threw a quick glance toward Arkar.
“You know, Mr. Bagdbag, a wise orc once said that there is a big difference between servility and service. And I am inclined to believe those words.”
Arkar laughed and slapped his own chest.
“He’s talkin’ about me, just so you know,” the half-orc boomed.
Arkar had indeed said that. To Indgar. He’d done so when the four of them, including the Star-born werewolf, had had a brief meeting at the “Sea Breeze.”
The dwarf snatched his hat from the counter, jumped to the floor, and, raising his cane, pointed it at Ardi.
“You have until the appointed time, young man, to reconsider and understand what and for whom you are renouncing such a generous gift,” putting on his hat, the dwarf turned and walked quickly to the door, where he paused for a moment and, turning halfway, added. “But perhaps there is too much dirty blood in you. The son of a chained dog could not be born as anything other than a dog.”
Bagdbag was clearly talking about Ardi’s father. Or rather, about his pseudonym—Major Hec Abar.
Ardan felt something fiery and dark ignite in his chest.
He had warned him…
But even before Ardi could catch the dwarf’s eye and unleash his Witch’s Gaze, the click of a revolver’s hammer sounded. And immediately after it, there came a second one.
The first belonged to Milar, who had pressed his service iron to Bagdbag’s temple.
And the second belonged to Arkar, who had aimed his own gun right… at Bagdbag’s face. He wasn’t targeting the employee of the Second Chancery, but someone with whom, logically speaking, he should have had much more in common. Ultimately, Arkar was also a follower of the Conclave’s ideas. Though not all of them. And apparently, that fact was far more complex than it might’ve seemed like at first glance.
“Did I just mishear you, sir, or did you actually decide to insult the memory of a hero of the Empire,” Milar asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I don’t remember the article number very well, but the fine for that is outrageously huge. Three hundred exes. Or three hundred and twenty.”
Bagdbag, shifting his gaze from Ardan to Arkar and ignoring the revolver pressed to his temple, said curtly.
“They will find out about this,” and only after that, without losing his composure, he turned to Milar and replied:
“That would be the case only if this young man’s father has any relation to His Imperial Majesty’s army, but, as far as I know, Hector Egobar was just a simple gamekeeper.”
All four of them understood that Bagdbag had cleverly and neatly extricated himself from the situation, but…
“Have a good day, Mr. Bagdbag,” Milar returned the hammer to its resting position and holstered his revolver.
Ardi wasn’t even surprised that the captain knew the Conclave’s Chronicler by sight.
The dwarf just snorted and darted out onto the street, where he dove into the back seat of an expensive car. The engine roared and a moment later, amid a cloud of black smoke, the vehicle, which was worth as much as a decent apartment in Tendari, disappeared from view.
Milar and Arkar looked at each other and said in unison:
“This changes nothing, shorty.”
“This changes nothing, fang-face.”
Ardan, sighing, shook his head and, after shaking the hand of his approaching partner in greeting, asked:
“And who exactly did my great-grandfather ruin in this gentleman’s lineage?”
Milar and Arkar exchanged glances.
“No one in their right mind starts an acquaintance like that,” Ardi explained. “That’s how you start fights over hunting grounds. So Bagdbag clearly knew what he was saying and why. And that’s why I’m interested to know who-”
“It’s not his own family,” Arkar was the first to respond, putting on his glasses and returning to his papers. “It’s his wife’s. She’s the great-granddaughter of a renowned under-mountain smith. They were a big clan back in the days of Ectassus. They traded armor and weapons with anyone willing to pay well. The Galessian princes took advantage of that. Through third parties, of course. Aror, according to the rumors, didn’t bother to find out whether the smiths knew who they were trading with or not.”
“And…”
“Almost none of them survived,” Arkar finished and waved his hand. “Get out of here, gentlemen Cloaks, before anyone gets the idea that I’m running a Black House safe mouse here, and not a bar.”
“You mean a safe house,” Ardi corrected him.
“No, kid, more like a plague house.”
***
Ardi stared out the window as buildings drifted by, as they always did. There were dozens, hundreds of windows, all of them hiding thousands of stories behind their glass veils. The city whispered them. It told them quietly and imperceptibly, making sure that only the most attentive listener could distinguish even a couple of the shortest stories.
There was a boy walking a dog. Nothing unusual there, but the dog was limping slightly on its right front leg, traces of ointment remained on its left side, and the boy was clutching a newspaper-wrapped bundle in his hands, inside which the shape of a pipe could be discerned. Apparently, his dog had been attacked, and now the child, who was no older than ten, was carefully watching to make sure no one else hurt his four-legged friend.
And over there, a young woman in a light dress and a wide-brimmed hat had gotten out of an expensive car and handed the keys to a grimy mechanic covered in grease and oil. They looked at each other and smiled brightly. It was all so young and beautiful. However, the man’s boss was watching the mechanic closely, and the girl was diligently trying to remove a much too old-fashioned wedding ring from her finger behind her back. The mechanic was wondering how something in her expensive car managed to break down every week, and she was just laughing awkwardly.
A city guard was sternly lecturing some street musicians, secretly gesturing for them to run as soon as he turned away for some reason. They took advantage of this, inviting him to their next concert at Baliero as they ran.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Huh?” Ardi was distracted from the city’s stories, among which he could hear distant, muffled fragments of a Name so large that even mountain peaks could crack under its weight.
Milar, chewing on the filter of an unlit cigarette, was watching the busy road.
“I said: what’s got you so lost in thought, Magister?”
Ardan turned back to the window, but the city had already fallen silent. Its stories were once more veiled in the haze of exhaust fumes and the reflections of Ley-lights.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Mhm,” the captain made an unintelligible sound. “When are you planning to see Lord Fahtov?”
“Tonight.”
“Good,” Milar nodded. “We need to be able to understand who exactly attacked him in order to definitively rule them out as being part of the Puppeteers case.”
Ardi handed his partner a note.
“Ah, so Arkar finally shared the address of the shelter?” The captain asked a rhetorical question, glancing quickly at the writing, and immediately answered it himself. “I’ll send a messenger there, but even on a fast train, it’s a week minimum for the round trip.”
A week…
Ardi looked toward the street leading to Niewa Avenue, from where one could get to the island of Saint Vasily, where the “Aversky Stables” were located.
He wondered if it was possible to implement the principle of transmutational runic connections into the theory of long-distance communication methods.
In other words—could Ardi use something he didn’t understand at all in something he hadn’t yet managed to create. And if not for his gut feeling, which was telling him that a solution could still be found in the puzzle called “rune transmutation,” he would have long since abandoned his idea.
But no.
Maybe it would take him a couple of years, maybe longer, but he would find a solution.
“Milar… Who, by law, is supposed to inherit Boris’ property?”
“His closest legal relative, of course,” Milar took a turn and, bypassing a slow driver, headed toward Martyrs’ Bridge. “But I’m not sure Elena organized that whole circus.”
“I’m not talking about Elena.”
“Then what are you on about?”
“The point, Milar, is that they were aiming specifically at Tess.”
The captain shot a glance at Ardi and returned his attention to the road.
“Let me guess—you and Tess were sitting in the shade, and Boris and Elena were in the sun.”
“That’s right.”
“And your fiancée’s red hair looked like the general description of Boris’ wife’s hair in the shade.”
“Exactly.”
“So they could have made a mistake during their attempt to kill both of them. Both the wife and the husband… so they’d get the inheritance,” Milar concluded. “It doesn’t add up, partner. The Duke-General, the Commander of the Southern Fleet, no less, is already a wealthy man.”
“But he still married Boris’ mother, who…” Ardi searched for the right words for a moment. “Had a special history.”
Milar drove in silence for a while. They were heading toward Tendari to visit the Crimson Lady’s establishment.
“You think it’s not about the money?”
“I don’t know,” Ardi shrugged. “But another reason-”
“Motive,” Milar corrected him. “Start using official terminology, partner.”
“Alright, another motive, then,” Ardi immediately corrected himself. “I don’t see one, Milar.”
“You think the Puppeteers drew attention to Boris last year, and now one of his relatives has decided to get their hands on Lord Fahtov’s bank vault?”
“Either that, or-”
“Or,” the captain interrupted him again, “you’re stretching a theory you want to believe and therefore discarding facts that cast doubts upon it. A typical rookie investigator’s mistake.”
“For example?” Ardi asked curiously.
“For example…” Milar tucked his chewed cigarette behind his ear and slowed down. You couldn’t really step on the gas pedal on the narrow streets of Tendari. “…The attackers used a Maw, which means they knew about your presence. Besides, based on your testimony, they looked more like soldiers than gangsters. It looks too much like sabotage, rather than something else. Understand?”
Ardi thought about it for a moment.
“Roughly,” the young man said, not very confidently.
“Come on, partner, none of that. Tell me what you understand. Otherwise, you’ll go on a business trip, and instead of a proper investigation, we’ll get either mountains of corpses, ones of your making, or…” Milar mimicked his partner’s tone. “Roughly. You know where the Colonel will shove that ‘roughly’ of yours? Somewhere we’ll be pulling it out of until we retire. And I don’t have that in my plans.”
Ardi, as usual, waited for Milar to calm down (thankfully, it usually happened quite quickly), then offered an idea.
“It could have been foreign saboteurs who staged everything in such a way as to cast suspicion on the Duke-General.”
“Excellent,” Milar snapped his fingers. “Now, give me some kind of motive that will add weight to the theory.”
“In the winter, this city will host the Congress, something that ambassadors and ministers from most of the world’s major powers will be attending,” Ardi slumped a little, or at least as much as was possible considering the fact that he already had to fold himself in half to avoid hitting his head on the car roof with every bump in the road.
“Exactly,” Milar nodded. “But don’t forget that this is also just a theory. So, you’ll talk to your friend, and after we deal with the Crimson Lady and Oglanov, we’ll look into this matter.”
“And…”
“And there’s not much else for us to do, Magister,” Milar shrugged, not taking his hands off the steering wheel. “If we don’t find some sort of thread in the mysterious death of Andrew and the kidnapping of Oglanov, we won’t get to the Puppeteers until the bastards make their next move. Of course, we’ll still bury ourselves in the cases we’ve been given access to. We’ll go through everything again, but… we’re not the first, Ard.”
“And what about the contents of the warehouse at the Delpas loading point?”
“Check the glove compartment,” Milar nodded in that direction. “We just got it this morning.”
Ardi opened it and took out an official letter. Skimming the not-so-legible handwriting, Ardi leaned back.
“So, it was a new rock-cutting machine after all… And, of course, the orc’s brain melted during the interrogation attempt.”
“Just as you predicted, Magister,” Milar put his chewed cigarette back in his mouth. “If this wasn’t just a diversionary tactic, then the Puppeteers are planning to look for something in the mountains. And quite deep inside them, at that. But you know what the problem is?”
“There are plenty of mountains in the world.”
“Exactly,” Milar nodded. “But! We mustn’t forget that they really wanted to get the seal from Boris’ medallion. So what does that mean?”
“The Ralsk Mountains?” Ardan suggested. “Lady Talia, Sergeant Mendera’s squad, and the Dead Lands? You think their attempt to steal the new machine is somehow connected to those old stories?”
Milar smirked in a very… mysterious way. And… just as unpleasantly…
“Noooooo,” Ardi drew out the word and then quickly rattled off. “No-no-no-no.”
“Well, you’re the mountain expert, Magister. Besides, it would be good for Din to take a trip home, too. Unlike some of us, he hasn’t been there for a couple of years.”
“I’m not going to the Ralsk Mountains!” Ardi almost snapped. “That’s on the other side of the Empire!”
“If they order you to do it, you’ll go,” Milar cut him off. “But I don’t think they’ll approve such a difficult trip before winter.”
“I have a wedding in the winter!”
“And by law, you’re entitled to a week of special leave for the celebration and other… matters,” Milar agreed and then immediately barked. “A week! Not a lifelong anchor in the Metropolis.”
Ardi closed his eyes and breathed a little more evenly.
“In theory, you and Din are unlikely to go there alone,” Milar continued. “They’ll most likely assign Mshisty and his dogs to you as well.”
“Wonderful…”
“But that’s not certain yet. It’ll only happen if…”
“We don’t find any threads in the brothel?”
“Exactly,” Milar confirmed. “That sounds strange, by the way… and a little funny. But that’s not the point… So, Magister, it’s in our best interest to sniff something out here.”
“In our best interest? You won’t be the one running off to the other end of the continent on a train!”
“And you think I’ll just be sitting here, drinking cold cider and solving crosswords with my wife in your absence?” Milar didn’t relent. “Alright. We’re here.”
The captain turned off the engine and pulled the handbrake. They were parked right in front of the unpleasant entrance to a semi-basement room, which was covered, unlike its neighbors, by a massive steel door. Ardi remembered it well from his last visit.
This was the Crimson Lady’s “bar.”
Comments
God
More Aror lore, who else could have tricked the fae and escaped being a Sidhe
vetsin
I don't even like school, but I always worry for his studies. How's she supposed to change the world with no time to learn
