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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 19 - Tiny Viroeira
🕑 Added 2025-09-15 23:01:01 +0000 UTCArdi whipped around toward the departing car, then back to his fiancée, and once again listened to the sound of its tires receding. Sleeping Spirits. How must that have looked? What… what was he supposed to say in such a situation? Maybe…
Tess laughed. She was wearing a yellow dress, a blue hat, and shoes with a tiny heel, and covering her mouth with a small hand hidden under a white lace glove as she laughed. Both her lips and her eyes were laughing—eyes sparkling with innocent joy.
Tapping her little heels, she walked up to Ardi and, rising on tiptoe out of habit, tugged her future groom down and softly brushed her lips against his cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear.
“W-what for?” Ardi asked, utterly perplexed and stammering.
Tess settled back down and narrowed her eyes a bit slyly—like a fox. Or a cat. Yes, more like a cat.
“For worrying that I might get jealous,” the girl answered. “But knowing you, Ardi-the-wizard—even if the Angel Aliela herself passed by here, you wouldn’t so much as glance at her. So I have faith in you, dear.”
Ardan scratched the back of his head with the pommel of his staff out of habit. “You do know that the Angel Aliela isn’t acknowledged by all denominations of the Face of Light’s religion?” He asked somewhat needlessly. Whenever he was nervous, he always started explaining something to someone. “The Eternal Angels in the Eastern Continent denominations are all impersonal, whereas on the Western Continent, many of them have names, because over the course of cultural history, they sort of supplanted the Old Gods. Alieshta—that was the name of the goddess of fertility in the ancient human religion.”
Tess, as she always did when Ardi told her something, listened in silence with that gentle, caring look of hers. She seemed to understand that Ardan wasn’t so much sharing information with her as trying to calm himself down.
“Now I know,” Tess nodded. “And was she beautiful?”
“Alieshta?”
The girl nodded again.
Ardi pondered this, and after a few seconds, he gave her a little shrug. “Probably… The legends say different things. Depends on the region and the country. Everyone has their own idea of beauty.”
“And in your opinion?” Tess asked, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“In my opinion, the most beautiful woman is you,” Ardi answered at once.
Tess’ cheeks flushed a delicate rosy hue that showed even through her soft makeup. Since their engagement, she had been wearing makeup more often. Before, aside from her performances, Tess had hardly used any “paints,” but now she spent a bit of time at her vanity and mirror nearly every morning.
“One day, Ardi-the-wizard,” she said, “I will meet your forest friends and find out how they managed to raise you so well.”
“Umm, what do you mean?” Ardi still didn’t quite follow.
Tess, just as she had at the beginning of their conversation, laughed and covered her mouth with her hand. They stood like that for a few moments. Only then did Tess step closer again, take Ardi’s arm, and ask, “Are you sure you’re even allowed to talk to her? I heard from my father and brothers that people in the various agencies can’t talk to the press.”
“And how did you-?”
“That was Taisia Shpritz,” Tess confirmed the guess he hadn’t spoken aloud. “I saw her a few times when she was chatting with the owners of the Concert Hall on Baliero. I think she even spoke with Mr. Belsky, though lots of people drop in to speak with him whenever he does appear at the Hall—which isn’t very often.”
Taisia Shpritz had been talking to the Dandy? Was it for the same reason she’d suggested Ardi ask Arkar a few questions, or was it simply due to the upcoming rather big and high-profile event of the new concert hall’s opening? Sleeping Spirits…
When Ardi couldn’t figure out something related to Star Magic, he could always turn to books. In this case, however, the only place he might find the information he needed was somewhere on the southern peninsulas, because that was where Milar had gone on vacation. Or rather, it was where he’d been on vacation; by now, Milar was probably on a train with his family, heading back.
“How are your rehearsals going?” Ardi asked.
Tess sighed, her small shoulders drooping a little. “Kind of okay, Ardi, but everyone’s on pins and needles,” she answered, sounding a bit tired. “Sure, we still have all summer before the first performance, but we’ll be the main act at the hall’s opening, and we’re headlining the first ten concerts too… It’s a huge responsibility.”
Tucking his staff under one arm, Ardi covered his fiancée’s hand with his free one. If he had learned anything about “being with a woman,” it was that in moments like these, Tess didn’t need advice or offers of help so much as someone to listen and support her. And at the same time, he knew he should still add at once: “If you need any help from me, just say it, all right?”
Tess smiled and nodded.
Sleeping Spirits… Sometimes, it was far easier to unravel the motives of terrorists, demons and tangled runic spells than it was to figure out life together with one’s fiancée and future wife.
“Maybe we should head inside?” Ardi suggested at last. “We can change and then stroll over to Niewa Avenue. Remember, we wanted to see that little street… Boris and Elena should be getting there soon, too.”
Ardan stumbled over the name, and Tess immediately prompted him: “The one that’s a copy of that street in Viroeira?”
Ardan nodded. An architect from the islands had spent several decades building a dozen houses in the center of the Metropolis that precisely reproduced the distinctive architecture of one of the “Three Sea Capitals of the Shallow Seas.” Those capitals were Lintelar—the eponymous capital of Lintelar; Seiros—the capital of Olikzasia; and, of course, Viroeira, the capital of the Principality of Foria.
Tess brushed back the ruffled cuff of her sleeve and checked a tiny ladies’ watch on her wrist. “They should be here any minute now.”
“Who?”
“Remember how you complained that your kettlebell had gotten too light for you?”
Ardan nodded. A few months ago, after the power of his Matabar blood had begun returning to him, that old battered kettlebell (a twenty-four-kilogram kettlebell he had bought at a flea market so he could do the morning exercises Guta had taught him) truly had become too light. So much so that he barely felt any strain in his muscles when working out with it.
“I ordered you new ones,” Tess said, leaning into him sideways—which in her personal “language” meant something very affectionate, something that made Ardi’s heart grow calm. “They should be delivered any minute now.”
“You were waiting outside for that?”
The girl gave him a tiny nod.
“Thank you,” Ardi said warmly. He hadn’t even managed to say anything more before a small truck glided into view around the corner.
It was a perfectly ordinary truck, the kind you’d see all over the working districts of Tend and Tendari. White stenciled letters stood out on its iron side: “Vislov Brothers Steel Foundry.”
With its bed sagging under the weight, the truck braked by the entrance to “Bruce’s.” A loader stuck his head out the window—a sturdily built lad of about seventeen in gray work coveralls and a summer cap. He removed his cap, rolling a toothpick between his teeth, and in a rough, local drawl inquired, “Evening, folks, this your order? Three kettlebells?”
“Yes, it’s ours,” Tess answered.
The loader let out a low whistle. “Eternal Angels, ma’am… I hope you won’t skimp on the tip. These things ain’t kettlebells, they’re cannonballs…” Turning back into the cab, he added, “Alright boys, let’s get to work.”
The truck doors opened and three men jumped out. The eldest of them—the driver—had just turned thirty. Or thirty-two. He was no longer a young man and, judging by the tan line on his ring finger, a widower. Why did Ardi take note of all that? Habit.
They unlocked the cargo hold, and the two young workers clambered inside. Among a heap of crates, they found the three items in question.
“How much do they weigh?” Ardi asked under his breath.
“Seventy-five, fifty, and thirty-five,” Tess replied. “These are the heaviest they agreed to make. Going any heavier, they said, wasn’t possible.”
Ardi exhaled. Handing his staff to Tess to hold, he walked over to the loaders.
The two men were heaving and puffing as they maneuvered the medium kettlebell out of its crate. Its handle was so massive that an average person with an average-sized hand would have trouble gripping it—not to mention the largest one, which weighed seventy-five kilograms.
“Allow me,” Ardan offered, and without waiting for an answer, he hopped up into the back of the truck.
Approaching the workers, he first tightened the muscles in his legs, then his core and torso, and only then did he grip the kettlebell. With a measured breath and a slight effort, keeping his back perfectly straight (just as Guta had taught him), he lifted fifty kilograms.
Not bad, but still not quite enough… It was clearly heavier than his previous piece of equipment either way. With this weight, his morning workouts—which he hadn’t skipped since childhood—would once again have real impact.
He set the kettlebell on the edge of the truck bed, then, with greater effort, repeated the same process with the largest weight. Its handle was so thick Ardi doubted anyone much shorter than him could even get their hand around it. Now that one would definitely wear a fellow out after twenty minutes of exercise.
Placing both weights at the edge, he jumped down, then hoisted the kettlebells up onto his shoulders with an exhale and trudged toward “Bruce’s.”
“And who owes whom a tip now, Patrick?” One of the loaders called out, watching Ardi go.
“Alright, let’s at least drag the smallest one in, eh?” Another chuckled.
The three of them managed, with some effort, to haul the thirty-five-kilo kettlebell inside the building.
By then, Ardi was already standing with Arkar. The half-orc was eyeing the stout metal weights with keen interest.
“Good drops… erm, kettlebells, I mean, Matabar,” Arkar clicked his tongue. And when the three workers, panting, set the last kettlebell on the floor, the half-orc strode up to the largest one and…
With no visible strain, Arkar swung it between his legs, then raised it overhead with a straight arm, then abruptly lowered it. He tossed it up, let it spin around several times, and caught it again by the handle.
“A solid piece,” the orc declared, exhaling as he set the kettlebell back down. “How much did these run you?”
“Ask Tess,” Ardan replied. “She did the ordering.”
“I will, certainly.”
The loaders and driver exchanged glances and quietly made for the exit, not even taking the banknote Tess was holding out to tip them. Wishing the couple a good day, they piled into the truck’s cab, and in the blink of an eye, they were gone.
Tess, seeing them off with a puzzled look, stepped back into “Bruce’s” and said almost immediately, “You boys have fun, then. I’ll go upstairs for now.” She glanced at Ardi and added, “Come up in an hour and a half, alright?”
Ardan nodded. Tess propped his staff by the bar counter and slipped through the door leading to the stairway.
Arkar continued toying with the kettlebell, performing various movements from a standard routine. Orcs in general loved kettlebells—it was practically the only suitable equipment for their morning workouts. You couldn’t exactly be bench-pressing a barbell first thing every day.
Ardan had once seen an orcish barbell… It had looked more like a railroad tie with train wheels hanging from its sides instead of plates.
“We need to talk, Arkar.”
“Ard,” the orc grunted, thrusting the weight upward again. Resting it on one shoulder, he began doing squats with it. “That’s the second time in the last few days I’ve heard you say that.”
There was no threat in the Overseer’s voice, but there was plenty of friendly caution.
Ardan settled on a bar stool and poured himself a glass of water from a carafe. “This time, it’s not about work… or rather, not exactly about work.”
“Alright, I’m listening,” Arkar huffed, switching the kettlebell from one hand to the other.
“Do you know who paid the gangs to search for the body of a mutant that went missing after the dirigible crash?”
Arkar nearly lost his rhythm and only just managed to catch the weight before it crashed into his fingers. Seventy-five kilos of steel would have made even an orc’s exceptionally-sturdy bones rather unhappy—half-blood or not, orc bones could withstand far more than a human’s.
“You just vouch… said it wasn’t work-related,” Arkar rumbled.
“I know, Arkar, I know… it’s just…” Ardan sighed, removing his hat to wipe his face with his palm. “I have a feeling it’s all connected to something bigger.”
“Something bigger?” Arkar set the kettlebell on the floor and, taking a seat at the counter, poured himself a pint of strong ale. “What do you mean, Matabar?”
“If I knew that, orc…” Ardi waved a hand vaguely. “My gut’s telling me, Arkar, that there’s something more at play here than just the guards, the Second Chancery, gangs, or terrorists.”
Arkar kept his gaze fixed on Ardi as he took a few noisy gulps, his tusks nearly scraping the rim of his glass. Orcs often had trouble with ordinary dishware because aside from long upper canines, they also had protruding lower tusks. In truth, they weren’t actual tusks, just disproportionately large fangs that jutted out past their lower lip. But everyone simply called them “tusks.”
“You were at the border recently, right, Ard?”
“That’s right.”
“So you saw what the front is like for the first time,” the half-orc said, nodding to himself. “Even if Shamtur’s quiet on our side, for a civilian, even that’s plenty. Don’t worry, Ard. A couple months, and it’ll let go of you… you’ll feel better, I mean.”
“No, Arkar,” Ardan countered firmly. “What I’m feeling has nothing to do with the trenches in Shamtur. Rather… I don’t know. Something is happening. Something big. And very evil, Arkar. Truly evil. Dark. Like in the old stories we both know so well.”
Arkar fell silent. He stayed quiet for a long time, just drinking and saying nothing.
“If somebody else had blabbed… err, told me that, I’d’ve popped him one for talking nonsense, Ard,” Arkar said at last, setting his empty glass back on the counter. He propped his square jaw on an equally square fist. “Even if you had tried to feed me that line half a year ago, I’d have told you to spend less time with your magic books. But after what I’ve seen… Let's breath… talk, I mean.”
***
They were walking along Niewa Avenue, and Ardi couldn’t help noting the difference between Old Town’s main street and the New City’s New Time Avenue. There, among the skyscrapers—those bold, somewhat absurd structures reaching for the clouds—the road felt like a living organism unto itself, obeying its own laws. But here… Here, the avenue blended smoothly with the low yet ornate, palace-like buildings that flanked it, and with the people milling about. There were still so many people, and the riot of ladies’ dresses and gentlemen’s suits made his eyes swim, but even so…
Ardi spent most of his time in Old Town, and he’d grown to love it—indeed, it was Old Town he associated with the Metropolis, even though in reality, the New City made up four-fifths of the capital.
“Ardi,” Tess said after finishing a funny story about how their drummer had nearly caught fire during a rehearsal when a Ley-cable had fallen on his head. She paused, looking unexpectedly serious. “I have a question for you.”
She looked serious enough that the young man was pulled from his musings about the city. “Yes… dear?” That last word still came awkwardly to him, making him feel not quite embarrassment, but definitely a healthy dose of self-consciousness.
“I wanted to ask you… would you mind if I performed that song I sang for you at the opening? I’ve decided to call it ‘The Old Tale.’” She lowered her gaze bashfully toward her shoes.
Tess had a remarkable nature, one reminiscent of a flame. At times—especially when her eyes blazed and her red hair flew wild—she was an unstoppable wildfire, a veritable fiery fury. But far more often, especially when they were alone together, Tess was gentle, calm, and sometimes deeply thoughtful.
They could just as easily talk for hours on end without a moment of silence as wander for hours without uttering a single word and yet say more to each other in the quiet than any spoken conversation would ever manage to convey. Ardi loved that trait of hers—the same as he loved all of her.
“Of course,” Ardi smiled and, shifting his staff so it was nestled in his armpit, he squeezed the small hand resting on his left elbow.
According to etiquette (as he’d learned all the way back in Evergale’s school), a man should escort his partner on his right side if he is a civilian, and on his left if he is in the military or in the security forces so he can always be ready to salute. And, now that he thought about it, Tess had always walked at his left side. She’d done so even before she’d finally figured out that Ardi worked for the Second Chancery. In fairness, that little quirk was easy to explain thanks to the redheaded singer’s family history.
“Want me to sew you a case for it?” Tess asked suddenly, pulling Ardi out of another drifting stream of thought.
“A case?” Ardan echoed.
Tess motioned at his staff. “Not long ago, a client came to Madam Okladov’s atelier,” she began, launching into another little tale. “He’s an engineer, or something like that. He had this unusual, wide walking stick, inside of which he’d very cleverly hidden an umbrella. He asked us to sew him a carrying case so he could wear it slung over his shoulder or back. It occurred to me that if we tweak the pattern a bit, we could make something like that for your staff—with two shoulder straps, like a backpack. We’d just need to attach them at the base and below the knob.”
Ardi glanced at his staff, then at a fellow Star Mage walking ahead of them. The man was a good deal shorter than the rather fine staff he carried, which was made of a not-very-high-quality Ertalain alloy. A staff like that still cost around two hundred exes, no doubt.
Alas, Tess’ idea wouldn’t work for mass production, but for Ardi himself…
The youth stopped himself mid-thought. Sleeping Spirits. He was starting to think almost like Mart Borskov—trying to find a way to make money off every little thing. It wasn’t that surprising considering the future hurtling toward him.
“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d be very grateful,” the young man said, smiling.
“I’d do it even if it were trouble,” Tess replied with the same kind of smile.
Enveloped by the cozy silence of their wordless contentment, they passed through the hubbub of the bustling Niewa Avenue, and before long, they found themselves at an unremarkable gap between two neighboring buildings. On the ground floor of one stood a café, and on the other, a carpentry workshop.
Ardi suddenly remembered that he needed to replace some tools and fix the wobble in their apartment’s dining table, which had begun to display its creaky temperament by leaning on one leg.
The space between the houses was so narrow that Ardi had to squeeze through sideways, nearly popping the buttons off his waistcoat. And this was without Milar being there. His poor clothes…
Once they slipped past those first buildings, they stepped into what at first seemed like a garden. Flowers were blooming everywhere: in flowerbeds along the narrow street—so narrow that even a small car couldn’t get through—and hanging in baskets attached to iron rods that stretched from wall to wall, forming a transparent “ceiling” overhead. Vines with bright blossoms also twined along those rods, creating a floral canopy.
And echoing the vibrant blooms above, the quaint buildings to either side of them were showing off brightly-colored walls as they pressed together. Yellow, orange, green, a vivid blue, a tender pink—each facade held carved window shutters and narrow sills brimming with flowerpots.
The front doors of the buildings, to spare the café patrons from bumping into pedestrians, were raised atop stone staircases. It was real stone, too—laid the old way, with river rock and a clay-based mortar.
Not that the adornment of this “Tiny`-Viroeira,” as the locals called the street, ended there. On the contrary. Everywhere you looked, there were outdoor tables, where guests of the three neighborhood cafés sat drinking coffee, reading newspapers, or enjoying typical Forian dishes: fruit salads, appetizers of thin-sliced cured meats with bread, endless combinations of those ingredients, and plenty of pastries besides.
Although Viroeira lay north of the Metropolis, the influence of the Ley-field was weaker on those islands, and so climatic distortions were significantly less intense, giving way to a more normal pattern. The weather there was warmer and milder—not as rainy, and not too dry.
Foria was called the land of flowers, grapes and eternal spring. They say their harvest would be brought in four times a year, which had once allowed the country to become the breadbasket of all the islands and to finance the construction of its mighty fleet. In fact, thanks to its abundant yields and active trade with the Western Continent, Foria had never indulged in expansive naval conquests, unlike her “sisters” Lintelar, Olikzasia and Grainia.
Even its territories on the southern tips of the Dancing Peninsula had been acquired centuries ago, when Olikzasia had tried to conquer Foria, but had instead ended up losing those lands herself. All of that, of course, had happened long before the unbreakable maritime alliance of Foria-Olikzasia-Lintelar was signed.
“Tess! Ardi!”
A familiar voice yanked Ardi out of his uncharacteristic musings on politics and war.
Elena, who was wearing a blue hat and matching dress, was waving to them from a table perched on a little “balcony,” beyond whose railing the deceptively calm Niewa River lapped at age-worn granite. Across from her, Lord Boris Fahtov—a gifted military mage—was leisurely sipping red wine from a goblet.
He was wearing a white suit, a pink shirt, and that same ever-roguish, crafty grin on his round face.
Both of them, like Ardi, wore cloaks—only theirs were red rather than green.
Wending their way through the maze formed by the many tables, Tess and Ardi reached their friends. After exchanging hugs and handshakes all around, they claimed the remaining chairs at the table.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ardi noticed how Elena’s figure had changed, albeit subtly, now that she was expecting. The lines of her face had grown softer, her eyes were brighter and more lustrous, her lips fuller.
But the most important change wasn’t on the outside, but within. What had once been a tiny spark beneath Elena Promyslov-Fahtov’s heart had now become a separate and distinct second heartbeat. It was tiny. So very small… But still pounding desperately, awaiting the moment it could breathe the air of the outside world.
For some reason, Ardan suddenly thought of the Wolf of Blazing Darkness…
Elena and Tess were hiding behind a café menu, whispering to each other. If he’d wanted to, Ardi could have heard every bit of whatever they were giggling about so excitedly, but he had neither the desire nor the lack of scruples necessary to stoop that low. Sometimes, it was better to suppress one’s natural curiosity than to indulge such impulses.
“Good to see you safe and sound, my friend,” Boris Fahtov said, clapping Ardi on the shoulder. They hadn’t seen each other in almost a month and a half.
“Likewise, Boris. But I only went to visit some relatives, so-”
“First off, you can manage to find trouble even where there isn’t any, my friend,” Boris interjected with a dismissive wave. “And second, you went to Shamtur to ask the Governor-General for his daughter’s hand, so… I’m just glad you still have all your limbs—and that your voice hasn’t gone up an octave.”
“What’s my voice got to do with anything?”
“I heard a tale at court,” Boris explained with a shrug, “that if an opera singer is, shall we say”—the lord gestured toward a small dish of cherries on the table—“deprived of his ‘berries’ as a child, then his voice stays innocent and boyish forever.”
“Why not just call it castration?”
“Because then I’d miss out on your bewildered expression,” Boris winked.
A waiter approached them, sporting the typical islander look: skin bronzed almost to a copper sheen, thick black brows, warm brown eyes, sharp and symmetrical features, and a lean build that people on the mainland usually had to maintain through exercise and lots of restraint at the dinner table.
Ardi ordered a lightly-grilled cut of wild venison and some water. Tess chose a very complex dish of fish, citrus fruits, and something else Ardan couldn’t even pronounce.
The total was not exactly insignificant: ninety-six kso. As he paid for their meal, Ardi silently hoped that the schedule for the qualifying brackets would arrive as soon as possible.
“How are things going with your Green Star?”
Boris smiled slyly. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he suddenly slapped a star insignia down on the table. Once more—like his Red Star before it—it had eight points.
The mere fact that he had managed to ignite a second Star before the end of summer—and with such an impressive number of rays to boot—was a considerable achievement. At the moment, within the first-year ranks at the Grand University, there were only three people who had two Stars, especially in the third triad: Great Prince Iolai Agrov, Lord Boris Fahtov, and Ardan Egobar. And all three, funnily enough, were connected to rather significant historical figures.
“I’ve already ordered the cloak,” Boris said. “Just waiting for them to finish sewing it.”
Once again, Ardi was reminded of something Nicholas the Stranger had talked about in his book: that Star Magic and the art of the Aean’Hane had far more in common than one might think.
“Congratulations!” Ardi exclaimed, sincerely delighted for his friend.
They exchanged a vigorous handshake, then Boris tucked the star insignia back into his pocket and took another sip of wine.
“But I’m going to hold off on the Sponsor League for now,” the young lord added, gesturing the waiter over and requesting another dish of cherries. Ardi knew Boris was very fond of that fruit—his mother had kept a whole orchard of cherry trees… “I’ll sign up for a qualifier bracket after the winter term, when I’m confident I can pass the trials.”
“Are they that difficult?” Ardi asked. He still hadn’t found out what exactly a mage had to do to obtain a coveted magical boxer’s license.
“Well, how do I put it, Ard…” Boris sighed, resting an elbow on the railing. “You have to endure two rounds of trading spells with a mage who has more Stars than you. They, of course, aren’t allowed to use anything from their higher-Star arsenal, but even so, it’s not easy. I don’t want to take the chance… What about you? Have you thought about joining the League?”
“If I can find the time, I might give it a try,” Ardi replied noncommittally.
Boris shifted his gaze to Tess and nodded toward her. “Still worried the two of you might have… complications?” He mimed a rounded belly with his hand.
“I’m not worried, but I still want to research the matter in advance,” Ardi answered, this time without employing Skusty’s art.
Boris smirked. “That’s just like you, my friend.”
They fell silent for a bit, gazing quietly at the little ripples on the surface of the Niewa, which seemed to be trying to lull the city around it.
“I got your letter, Ard,” Boris said more softly, making sure Tess and Elena—still absorbed in their own cheerful conversation—weren’t listening. “As you requested, I stashed the medallion in a safe place, and I grabbed everything from my mother’s library regarding the Dead Lands on the Enario border. I’ll pass it all on to you next time we come by ‘Bruce’s.’”
“Thank you, Boris.”
“No trouble at all, my friend,” Boris waved it off. “Besides, after everything that’s happened, I’d prefer to keep that medallion a bit farther away as well… But I don’t quite get why you’re so interested in Enario’s Dead Lands.”
Why indeed? Ardan couldn’t have answered that question even if he’d wanted to. If Boris had really only been attacked as part of a simple ransom plot, there would’ve been no connection at all. As it stood, the connection already seemed tenuous. The only things that linked Boris Fahtov’s kidnapping and the Puppeteers was an indirect tie to Demonology, a connection to Selena Lorlov, and the peculiar way the warehouse had been blown up. When you got down to it, that wasn’t much at all.
“Honestly, Boris, I don’t yet know myself.”
“Ha! So much for Detective Oglanov’s assistant.”
Ah, right. Boris still thought his friend worked for Peter Oglanov rather than the Second Chancery. Ardi wasn’t in a hurry to correct him, the same way Elena, who knew the true nature of Ardan’s employment, wasn’t rushing to enlighten her husband, either.
“Alright, ladies!” Boris suddenly burst out, clapping loudly. “Enough with the little society divided by gender! Did we all come here together, or are we sitting in couples? Let’s all talk!”
And talk they did—about everything under the sun. About how Boris and Elena had vacationed on the Dancing Peninsula, where you could reach up and pluck fruit from trees growing right along the sidewalk while strolling through the streets of a border town. And about how beautiful the sunsets were there, how gentle the weather was.
Tess and Ardi, in turn, excitedly shared their first experience riding in an incredibly comfortable—and absurdly expensive—first-class carriage.
“But how will you attend classes?” Tess inquired at one point, casting frequent glances toward Elena’s belly.
“Your future husband promised to share his notes with me,” Elena answered gently. She set aside her cup of strong coffee and looked between her husband and her friend. “If, of course, he actually goes to class… Let me remind all you lecture skippers and duel addicts out there: this year, not only will the lectures themselves get harder, but there will also be interdisciplinary classes added to our schedules.”
Boris pulled a face. “Don’t remind me, Elena…” He begged. “I still haven’t forgiven Professor Lea for disappearing so suddenly. That new professor who oversaw our exams… I have a feeling I’ll understand even less of his lectures than usual.”
“Maybe if you spent more time on textbooks and less on pointless duels, Boris, you’d understand everything on your own without me having to tutor you,” Elena retorted.
Boris leaned forward and gave her a grin that was equal parts crafty and flirtatious. “But you do enjoy teaching me, darling.”
“I do,” Elena agreed sternly, and then added in a perfectly even tone that somehow made the verbal jab even sharper, “the product of all those ‘lessons’ of ours is now under my heart, whereas the grades on your report card still leave much to be desired.”
Boris exhaled, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. Then he immediately protested, “Why don’t you pressure Ard like that?” He pointed at his friend. “He sometimes doesn’t show up at the Grand for weeks on end!”
“Tess,” Ardan said, turning to his fiancée.
“What is it, Ardi?”
Ardan turned his back to Tess. “Take a look, please.”
“Take a look at what?”
“Something’s poking me between the shoulder blades… Seems like there’s a knife stuck there.”
All three of them—Tess, Boris and Elena—blinked, exchanging baffled looks full of genuine surprise.
Ardi wilted a little, asking in a small, uncertain voice, “What’s wrong?”
Tess was the first to recover. “It’s just… you cracked a joke…”
“Well, yeah. I thought it would be funny.”
“It was pretty funny, my friend,” Boris admitted with a hesitant nod, “but… you almost never joke.”
Elena added, “And in general, you’re quiet most of the time.”
“Unless the two of you start talking about some complicated mathematical nonsense,” Boris added. “Then there’s no shutting either of you up.”
Ardan, lacking his staff to fidget with, scratched the back of his head with his fingers. Growing up among his forest friends, he’d never shied away from jokes and humor because he’d known exactly what would be appropriate and when, and not spark a fight between hunters or something…
But it had taken him years to learn how to joke around people. And even now, he still didn’t grasp some of the subtleties of human interaction. Take, for example, that most complex and inscrutable of gestures—rolling one’s eyes.
“Dammit,” Boris hissed, covering his face with one hand. “Now I’m afraid that we’ve just knocked him off the right path and Ard will go back to feigning congenital muteness.”
“Ardi,” Tess said, taking his hand and looking him in the eye, “we really did find it funny. It was just… unexpected.”
“Honestly, it’s fine,” Ardan insisted with a dismissive wave, lifting his teacup to take a sip. “By the way! How about we head over to the embankment now? I think the sailboat races start in about an hour.”
“Yes!”
“Certainly.”
Boris narrowed his eyes at Ardi. “Do you know anything about sailing?”
“I’ve never even sat in a boat,” Ardi admitted with a shrug. Of course, that wasn’t entirely true—he and Alla-Lisa had once fled Baliero by ferry—but those details weren’t relevant. “Still, it looks beautiful, doesn’t it?”
And it also helped, if only a little, to quell the steadily growing pull Ardi felt—the urge to find out what lay beyond the horizon.
His journey to Shamtur had dampened that desire for a time, but not so much that he didn’t occasionally drift off into daydreams about where those steel leviathans called steamships, which left the Metropolis port each day, were bound for.
Maybe that was why, as a boy, he’d used to run away from home and go off to explore their small plateau, spending hours perched atop “The Ogre’s Pimply Ass.” That’s what he’d called the boulder that had offered him a splendid view of the Alcade.
Tess laid her hand on his thigh and gave him a soft smile. Ardi smiled back.
He would likely never find the answer to that question. And not because of work, but because once Tess was with child, he wouldn’t be able to leave her in order to vanish for years beyond the Swallow Ocean. Nor would he want to.
But, as Atta’nha had used to say, in the dream of the Sleeping Spirits, one cannot have everything. The living, sooner or later, had to choose just one thing. Between the horizon and a certain red-haired singer… for Ardi, it wasn’t even a choice.
Her mere gaze, her very presence, always muted and sated the wind that drove his soul toward that place where the sun sinks into endless blue waters.
“We could also just walk to the-” Ardi began, but he didn’t get to finish.
For a moment, he felt like some invisible assassin had unsheathed long, thin daggers, and then, with brutal precision, had plunged them into his ears. And along with the pain of pierced eardrums, his consciousness was flooded by a shrill noise—prolonged, high-pitched and vibrating. It was as though those same daggers, after being buried in his ears, were now tirelessly scraping their points across glass they’d found in there somewhere.
Ardan clutched his head and collapsed to the ground. Mouth open, he tried to hear something through the wailing ringing, anything at all. Judging by their faces, Tess and Boris were shouting, and Elena had gone deathly pale.
Of course… Elena was a top student… She hadn’t been in that lecture when Professor Kovertsky had introduced them to the Eyeless Water Beast, better known as the Maw, but she still instantly recognized the symptoms of an attack by a chimera bred specifically to hunt Firstborn.
With tremendous effort, Ardan managed to lift his gaze toward the far end of the narrow street. There, at the mouth of an alleyway on Niewa Avenue, several trucks had pulled up. Men were unloading a cage containing a roaring Maw from one of them, and behind the chimera stood a dozen people with white cloths tied around their foreheads—cloths marked with the ancient sun symbol of the Old Gods’ religion.
The emblem of the SaintEord’s gang.
They hefted military rifles to their shoulders and pulled back the bolts.
Ardan didn’t know if he even had a voice right then, but he tried to scream to Boris and Elena: “Shields! Raise your shields!” At the same time, through all the pain and the warping of the world around him, he reached for his staff.
Sleeping Spirits.
It was so far away from him.
Ardan never even heard the first shot.
Comments
God
What happened to his staff? Why was it away from him, doesn't he always have it with him?
John
Thanks
