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Matabar. Book II. Chapter 18 - Taisia Shpritz
🕑 Added 2025-09-11 23:01:01 +0000 UTCAs he was stepping out of the taxi for which he had paid an outrageous thirty-seven kso, Ardi found himself in the midst of a veritable storm of sounds, voices and smells. He had the strong urge to glance back to confirm a suspicion, but he refrained… Instead, he walked unhurriedly down the sidewalk.
The New City greeted him with the chaos and cacophony that was so familiar to the locals—one far more motley and “colorful” than in the central districts of Old Town. This was especially the case on New Time Avenue, where the address Ardan needed was located. The eight-lane thoroughfare behind him roared and groaned with hundreds of automobiles, chugging exhausts, and occasionally squealing brakes. Their horns bleated whenever pedestrians lingered at the crosswalks.
And if Ardi had grown accustomed to Old Town, with its elegant buildings from past eras, the New City—filled with high-rises stretching toward the sky—still felt somewhat alien to him. Even now, just to glimpse a rooftop, he had to crane his head back until his neck cracked. Giants of concrete, brick and steel rose all around him, boasting countless windows. The shortest of them had eleven floors, and those that were counted as skyscrapers flaunted twenty-four or more.
Even the people here—though they were dressed just like those in Old Town, with the same absent expressions, equally pensive, and a bit aloof—felt somehow different. More… quick, perhaps. Like the sharks that Ardan had read about in Professor Kovertsky’s textbooks—creatures that would die the instant they stopped moving.
The sun was still bearing down mercilessly, frozen at its zenith, forcing humans and Firstborn alike—who settled in the New City far more often than they did in Old Town—to seek refuge in any available shade. Alas, at noon, there was almost none to be found. Perhaps it could only be sought under the awnings of the numerous tram and mechanical omnibus stops. These were big, elongated, rotund vehicles that were not pulled by horses (as in Shamtur and Delpas) but by massive engines. They could fit up to two dozen seated passengers and another dozen standing ones. They were something like trams, only on wheels.
They weren’t allowed into Old Town due to the increased strain on the road’s surface and the underground infrastructure. But here, literally every hundred meters, the sidewalk hosted aluminum stops with posters whose yellowed pages bore the schedules of the “route mechbuses” as they were officially called.
Several days had passed since Ardi’s conversation with the Colonel. For some reason, they’d never directly touched on Edward’s research or the fact that the grimoires remained in Ardan’s possession. In the young man’s opinion, the Colonel ought to have demanded that such important documents be surrendered to the Second Chancery’s archive, but… the thought that the Black House archive might not be the most secure place in the Empire had clearly troubled more than just Ardan.
“Those are thoughts for tomorrow,” the young man reminded himself.
In truth, it wouldn’t exactly be “tomorrow”—more like the start of next week, when Milar would return to the capital, likely thoroughly disgruntled by the premature end of his vacation, but…
“Well, those will definitely be tomorrow’s worries,” Ardi muttered, shivering as he imagined his partner’s reaction.
Adjusting his hat, he double-checked the address on the ticket. Today, the trials for admission to the Sponsored League of Magical Boxing were being held. Ardi was going to fall under the aegis of the Spell Market, which in fact sponsored the vast majority of participants in the Empire. The only exceptions were a small number of self-nominated fighters, appointees from major aristocratic families, and the private leagues of large enterprises.
“New Time Avenue, number 128,” Ardi read aloud.
A broad, four-lane road with spacious sidewalks—more spacious than even the roadways of any Old Town street—branched out from the avenue. But here in the New City, that was the norm.
The road veered off and wound around several blocks of high-rises (which essentially had no inner courtyards, only service alleys), then opened onto a broad plaza. Only instead of a monument, a park, or just empty space, something stood here.
Something shaped like a river pebble—only magnified a thousandfold. It was a smooth, streamlined building, which almost resembled a squat pancake. Its walls, instead of rising straight into the air, spread outward at a negative angle, hanging over the ground like the flared lip of a clay jug. And when they reached the limit of the support structure’s load, they started to converge inwards again, making the whole edifice resemble the bulbous base of that same jug.
The building had no roof, boldly exposing its broad interior arena to the whims of the weather.
Around “Emperor Andrew III Arena” stretched thousands of square meters of fresh asphalt. Part of this expanse had been set aside for the throngs of visitors’ queues, and part for transport, both civilian and service alike.
The Emperor’s Arena (as it was colloquially known) was considered the Empire’s premier sports facility. It could hold an astounding forty-five thousand spectators, and it was primarily used for a single purpose—to host the most high-profile competitions in Star Magic. Tess sometimes fantasized about how, if sound equipment could one day overcome its current limitations, musicians might get to perform in such arenas. A concert for nearly fifty thousand people? It sounded as fantastical as… as dirigibles.
Ardi shuddered, recalling his recent adventures in the sky.
Leaning on his staff, tapping its base against the asphalt in a steady rhythm, he turned onto the side street and trudged toward the arena. He wasn’t particularly enthused by the prospect of participating in a sporting event, but what he needed wasn’t so much the money (which, to be fair, he did need as well) as the chance to test his inventions in conditions close to real combat.
It was one thing to sell research findings that have been tested, refined and polished, and quite another to try monetizing raw ideas. The difference in price for such seals was enormous, and Ardi could not afford to throw exes around the way Boris did.
Ironic, Ardi smiled to himself.
The closer he got to the building, the more it loomed, and at the edges of his consciousness, he could sense the thrumming of a whole host of complex, multi-component stationary shields. The place had clearly been secured well. The irony, however, lay elsewhere.
Apart from its modern construction, and thus its crisp, even somewhat coarse lines, the building closely resembled the Blood Arenas of Ectassus. Aror, his great-grandfather, had often romanticized the Firstborn Kingdom, but Ardi had read about the Blood Arenas in Atta’nha’s scrolls and books.
That was what they’d called the structures in the cities of the ancient kingdom where the Blood Games had been held. Initially, thousands of years ago, they were part of the religious cult of the Sleeping Spirits. Then, as so often happens, the original purpose of the Games was lost to history, leaving only the spectacle itself behind, accompanied by obligatory visits to the Spirits’ temples and altars.
The essence of the Games was that captives—humans taken prisoner—would be brought into the arena and… either forced to fight each other, or anomalies were unleashed upon them, or some Firstborn warrior or Aean’Hane would demonstrate his skill on the hapless slaves, bragging about how many humans he alone could leave dead on the ground.
No, Ectassus was far from the magical, enlightened place Aror remembered from his own childhood memories. And now, half a millennium after Ectassus’ fall, humans had erected the very same structures where they’d once fought one another. It was as if the Firstborn had managed to inscribe their Blood Games on the very consciousness of the human race. But that was more of a topic for lectures on the History of Star Magic.
Lost in these thoughts, Ardan didn’t notice that he had already passed through one of the many double doors leading inside. Right now, in the off-season, the arena looked so empty it bordered on abandoned. He had to orient himself through simple corridors with painted walls and wooden floors by following the directional signs.
Climbing a broad staircase to the second floor, Ardan finally saw something besides emptiness and some sturdy yet tasteless bleachers.
Along the walls, mages sat with grimoires in hand. Some of them were wearing the occasional green cloak, but they were mostly in blue ones. They were leafing through pages of notes and occasionally cross-checking against the seals inscribed on their staves. Only a few mages, like Ardan, had wooden staves propped up by their feet; the rest possessed various manufactured models. They weren’t as expensive, of course, as those of Edward or Mshisty (their staves were made entirely from Ertalain alloy), but still far from cheap.
Staves, in general, were distinguished by their Ertalain content. The more of it there was, the more easily and quickly the Ley flowed along the shaft, making the process of casting more reliable and predictable. Wooden staves were considered the most basic and cheapest kind, since they conferred no benefit to the mage—sometimes even the opposite. Not even students all used those. The exception were staves made from Ley-trees. But that, again, opened up such a world of nuance that only professional manufacturers understood it.
“May I please see your documents and ticket?” Asked a freckled boy of about thirteen, who popped up before Ardan in an instant. Apparently, he was working part-time here, helping the administrators.
“Yes, of course.” Ardi retrieved his Grand University student papers, his Spell Market club membership card, his signed application for the trials, and a few other equally important but useless papers.
Bureaucracy… How someone like Bazhen could find so much enjoyment in it, Ardi would never understand.
“Thank you,” the boy said as he took the documents. “In the meantime, please remove the sheath from your staff and have a seat. Your serial number…”
The boy’s words trailed off as he noticed that Ardan’s staff had no cover at all. “Oh, you don’t wear a sheath? It’s just that it says here you’re from the General Faculty of the Grand. They don’t grant those permissions there.”
Ah, right. Ardi sometimes forgot that ordinary mages—ones not serving in the armed forces or enrolled in military faculties or departments—were required to put covers over their staves. It made little difference to the mages themselves, but it reassured the public. After all, a staff was a weapon, and quite a formidable one in skilled hands.
“I’m not asking out of idle curiosity, it’s for work,” the boy hastened to add a bit nervously. “It’s just that those who are…” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “…on duty… For them, things work a little differently here.”
Ardan slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and discreetly showed him a corner of his black badge.
The child instantly turned so pale that one might have thought his mother had nursed him not with milk, but bleach.
“P-p-please f-follow me, s-sir,” stammered the boy, turning stiffly like a puppet and shuffling off down the corridor.
Yes, Ardi had also forgotten how intensely ordinary people reacted to a Second Chancery badge.
They passed the corridor full of mages. Those mages followed them with curious eyes for a bit, but soon returned to their grimoires and documents. They were far more interested in getting in a few last moments of preparation before the trials. Many—like Boris—had dreamed of joining the Magical Boxing League since childhood and saw something a lot grander in this sport than Ardi did.
Taking a fairly wide detour by going almost halfway around the arena’s circumference, the boy, who hadn’t uttered another word—Ardi’s height allowed him to see that the boy’s hands were trembling as he carefully carried the documents—led Ardan to one of the few doors in the building. There weren’t many doors at all here, especially compared to the Black House.
“Here you are,” the boy said. He seemed to have calmed down. At the very least, he was no longer stuttering as he returned Ardan’s documents. “Go on in. Right now, there’s no one in there besides the organizer.”
And before Ardi could thank his guide, the kid bolted and dashed back the way they’d come.
The young man could only sigh and shake his head. It had been an expected, if not very pleasant, reaction, and one he was used to by now. Sometimes, when Ardan forgot himself—especially during his strolls with Tess—and failed to keep his fangs tucked behind his lip, passersby would shy away from him in just the same manner.
He understood them. He didn’t even blame them. But that didn’t make it any easier.
He wondered what tricks his father had used to pass himself off as an ordinary human… Then again, those who’d realized that Hec Abar was a Firstborn had most likely kept their mouths shut and had simply been grateful that he was fighting on their side.
Ardan knocked on the door.
“Come in!”
Out of habit, he scratched the back of his head with the tip of his staff. Removing his hat, he stepped into the office. It was a cramped space with scuffed parquet flooring, a desk, and slanted windows overlooking the arena’s interior. Ardi didn’t have time to take in the view because the office’s sole occupant had risen from behind a small desk and, with a couple of strides, had crossed over to his visitor and extended his hand.
He was a short man. A meter and sixty centimeters tall, maybe a little more. Next to Ardi, he probably looked positively diminutive—there was nearly half a meter of difference between them.
He had a bulging belly that made the bright green waistcoat he wore bunch up in folds, and a completely mismatched purple suit with dark red pinstripes. His handshake proved to be limp and listless. Almost as limp and listless as his sparse hair that had been plastered with wax to his shiny bald patches or the turkey wattle under his chin that hung down, almost as if it was trying to mimic the waistcoat’s creases.
The man smiled wide and bright, quite literally—Ardi nearly squinted at the glare coming from his polished golden teeth.
“John Brolid,” the man introduced himself. His family apparently hailed from the Principality of Ranita, which had likewise joined Gales during the War of the Birth of the Empire. “I am the owner of this humble enterprise and, at the same time, the organizer of our cozy little community.”
“A pleasure,” Ardi replied, and he truly meant it.
Despite the man’s peculiar, gaudy, even off-putting appearance, there was something to be found in the clear blue eyes of Mr. Brolid. Something very soft and warm, almost welcoming.
A strange one, this fellow.
“Have a seat,” John said, rocking from foot to foot like a little round ball as he waddled back to his desk, then gestured to the chair opposite him.
Ardi glanced for permission to set his hat on the table; at John’s nod, he laid it down and sat.
“Now, what have we here?” John asked, pointing at Ardi’s documents. Taking them into his plump hands, he quickly scanned the pages. “Two Stars. Both in the heavyweight category. Eighteen years old. A Firstborn descendant… with Matabar blood? Well, fancy that, I thought they’d all been killed off… Oh…”
John’s face turned red as he realized what he’d just said, looking genuinely abashed. He probably was a good person, after all. “Forgive me, Ard, do you mind if I dispense with the formalities? Just speak plainly?”
“Whatever you’re most comfortable with,” Ardan answered calmly.
“Please use my first name as well, then.”
Ardi nodded.
“Sorry I blurted that out…” John said as he slid open a drawer and pulled out two cigars. Without even asking, he set one in front of his visitor, and then he quickly snipped the end off the other and lit it with a long, thick match—it was practically a fireplace match.
“I’ve been afraid of fire since childhood,” John explained as he took a puff. “So, you’re a descendant of Aror?”
“Is that going to be a problem?” Ardi asked in return.
“Who knows.” John waved his cigar, scattering ash across his none-too-clean desk. “That depends on where the Eternal Angels cast their gaze—that’s where trouble springs up. Me, for instance, I get something new every week. Sometimes I start feeling like I’m in one of those serialized stories in the ladies’ magazines. You know, the ones where they publish short chapters from dime novels each week.”
“I don’t read those.”
“Me neither.” The fat man coughed and waved a hand, dispersing the sweet, chocolaty smoke. “My mistresses read them. Almost all of ‘em.”
And for some reason, Ardi instantly believed that this round—or perhaps square—little man, with barely a hair on his head, who wheezed after every sentence and had joints that hardly bent, really did have plenty of mistresses. Possibly more than Bazhen, even.
There was just something about him. It had nothing to do with Star Magic or the art of the Aean’Hane. John Brolid simply… drew you in with a sincerity and frankness that bordered on impudence.
“So, moving on…” John shuffled through the papers some more. “Oho! A Second Chancery Corporal… Did you know the late Grand Magister Aversky, may the Eternal Angels be merciful to him?”
Ardi felt a slight, almost imperceptible, but nonetheless sharp pang near his heart.
“You could say that,” he replied, using the methods Skusty had taught him to avoid admitting to more.
“He performed here a couple of times in his younger days,” John said, taking another drag and leaning back into his chair, which groaned not so much in protest as in outright distress, the wood creaking like it might break under his weight. “I was just a gofer back then. Need I mention that given my build…” The rotund man slapped his belly, making his turkey chin wobble, “…and charisma, I wasn’t much of a runner. So I figured there was nothing for it but to move up the ladder right away. Metaphorically, of course. Actual ladders, Face of Light help me, I can’t stand. The bastards feel the same way about me and are forever trying to send me to the Eternal Angels.”
John Brolid loved to talk. Not in the florid manner of an Manish, but more down-to-earth, yet no less heartfelt for it.
“Your bosses, Ard, won’t have any objections to our collaboration?” John abruptly segued back to business, though he likely made no distinction between business and small talk in his rambling monologues.
“They shouldn’t,” Ardan answered evasively once again.
Truthfully, he didn’t know the answer. All of this had been suggested to him by Edward, who was now no more. Whether the Second Chancery allowed its mages to take part in sporting competitions or not… Ardi didn’t know. But in this case, as Milar was fond of saying, it would be better to write an explanation later for breaking the rules than to ask permission first and risk refusal.
John nodded, which somehow produced a couple more chins, and picked up the last sheet.
“And finally, you’re a student of the Grand University. The General Faculty. Unexpected… but who am I to judge, right?” It was a rhetorical question, so Ardi kept silent, and John didn’t make him wait long for the continuation of his inexhaustible spiel. “As my grandma used to say… well, she used to say something or other; I don’t remember her, my dear Ard. I remember the smell of burnt buns—she cooked like a demon, with the same zeal and just as awfully. But I don’t remember the woman herself. No matter. Point is: all your paperwork’s in order.”
“Thank you… I guess,” Ardan murmured. It was hard for him to keep track of the thread of this conversation. John talked like he was being paid on a kso-per-word basis. “I can participate in the trials, then?”
“Consider yourself already admitted.”
Ardan raised his right eyebrow in confusion. It was a silly habit that had “stuck” with him after spending time with Edward.
John took another puff and, after exhaling yet more clouds of smoke, opened a different drawer. His entire desk, and his workspace as a whole, was arranged in such a way that he could reach most of it without moving. And, judging by the screech of tortured wood, instead of ordinary feet, his chair’s legs had small steel wheels affixed to them.
An amusing idea.
It was no wonder that half the parquet in the room looked so scuffed.
“We don’t send mages from government security services to the trials,” John explained in that same almost boyishly cheerful tone. “That service by itself confirms your qualifications. Especially with your heavyweight Stars, so… what’s the point of wasting time and money, right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Excellent.” John kicked off, moving away from his desk and rolled over to the filing cabinet, where he rummaged among the drawers and fished out a few documents. Then, just as nimbly, he pushed off the metal cabinet and rolled back to his desk. “Look here, Ard, here’s how it is. This here paper is your waiver. You know, if someone gives you a not-so-nice jolt with a spell, you’re agreeing not to drag me through the courts and all those buildings with ridiculous, slippery marble staircases. I swear on my first wife’s dead dog, may it die a second time, they are a menace. Her name’s Ansi, by the way, an Islander, and she’s off rolling in the hay with a gardener by the Azure Sea. Not my gardener. She ditched my gardener on the way there… fifteen years back. And what is it with gardeners and women of a certain age, right? Anyway, those staircases will send me to the Eternal Angels one of these days. Or the gardeners will. That’s why I don’t remarry. And why I don’t keep a garden anymore.”
John grinned, baring all his… eleven natural teeth and two dozen gold crowns. Ardan read the waiver. His Star Jurisprudence lectures were enough for him to identify it as a simple release of liability regarding, mainly, his health and the preservation of his Stars.
“Don’t fret too much—due to the law, we provide even the smallest competitions with on-site healers,” John said, indicating a license hanging on the wall under some glass with his smoldering cigar. “We pay them insane exes. Sometimes I feel like those bastards are even greedier than me, and I do love a good meal. As you’ve probably noticed.”
Then John slapped his belly again. The man had an abundance of self-depreciating humor.
“You’ve signed it? Good… Hey, that’s quite a handsome signature.” John took the signed waiver and tucked it into the folder, which he set aside. “Next up, we have the standard contract for the first season. Seasons here last half a year. I’ll explain in a second why they’re so short. After passing the trials—which, as we’ve established, you’re skipping, Ard,” John gestured animatedly with his cigar, ash constantly dropping but miraculously missing the papers, “a magical boxer goes straight into the qualifying bracket. All newcomers go there. It tends to be about twenty-five people, maybe thirty. Actually, there’s more this year, which is unexpected. Over forty… not the point. It’s like the mages are magically drawn to us this year… Okay… that was a stupid joke, I admit it.”
Ardan nearly pinched the bridge of his nose to keep his mind afloat, fearing it might drown in John’s torrent of words.
“The bottom five contenders in the qualifying bracket get dropped from the Sponsored League with a three-year ban on participation. The top five, accordingly, advance to the regular bracket,” John went on, pausing only to inhale or take a drag, seemingly none the worse for wear despite his loquaciousness. “Let me warn you straight off, there’s almost no money in the qualifying bracket. You get five exes for a win, fifty kso for a loss. Used to be you got nothing for losing, but new laws and such… All that not-very-interesting stuff that absolutely wallops the wallet… Anyway, the bracket will run four, maybe five matches. You can check the rules later yourself. Nothing special there. Three accumulators per match. You can pick the Star ratings of the accumulators yourself, in any order. All three green, in your case, or all three red, or any mix. As for the magic itself—everything needs to be in accordance with the Al’Zafir Pact. If you do anything illegal, not only will you get a lifetime ban from the Leagues, you’ll also get introduced to the Cloaks… though you’re already acquainted with them… You get it, right?”
Ardi would have liked to say that he understood, but that would have been a lie. John had said he could read up on the rules later, but for some reason, he was explaining them anyway. Or were these not all of them?
Oh, Sleeping Spirits…
“Well, anyways, after New Year’s, if you pass the qualifiers, you’ll be competing in the show bracket. With spectators and all that. Though when it comes to the Blue-Green bracket, hardly anyone ever shows up… The money’s a bit better, too. For a win, your Spell Market pays fifteen exes, plus five percent of ticket sales. And there are more matches as well. An evening show every two weeks. So it all depends. You can have from four up to twelve matches, but that’s if the audience takes a liking to you and we see a growth in attendance for your bouts.”
“And if I don’t pass?” Ardan managed to interject into John’s endless… speech.
“Then next season, you try the qualifiers again.” John waved a hand. “And so on, until you pass. Or until you get eliminated with the three-year ban… There was something else I wanted to mention… Something important… Ah, yes! Betting on yourself or your opponent is forbidden. Betting in general is forbidden for participants. You can’t do it on yourself, nor on anyone else in the League. That’s an immediate expulsion and, I believe, even criminal charges. You can’t have others place bets for you, either. Selling information… well, you get it. Behind bars.” John set down his cigar and interlaced his fingers to form a grid… only in his case, it came out more like a lumpy pancake. “That didn’t quite work. And I thought I’d lost some weight. Alas…”
Seeing that John was intentionally poking fun at himself, Ardi allowed himself a harmless smile.
“When’s the first match?” He asked.
“Once they draw up the bracket, they’ll send you a letter. Along with your League participant papers. Paperwork… it multiplies even faster than my suit jackets shrink,” John said, gathering up all the documents Ardan had signed and filing them away in a folder, which, after a scoot across the floor, he slid back into the metal cabinet. “And finally, the most important thing!”
Ardan raised an eyebrow again.
“All the fuss with you folks from the various agencies has to do with keeping your identity under wraps while on duty,” John explained, pulling out yet another sheet of paper. “Pick any pseudonym, and your face will be covered by a mask during your matches. That way, of course, everyone will realize you’re one of the security mages, but… you’re not the first, and won’t be the last. In the Blue-Green bracket, if you qualify, you’ll be the third such mage, in fact. In the Yellow bracket, if I recall, there are two more of you. In the Pink bracket, there are none at the moment. But there aren’t that many folks in Pink overall, and we often have to arrange intercity matchups to fill the slots.”
Ardi gave in to his natural curiosity. “How many mages are in the Sponsored League in total?”
“In the capital?” John pondered briefly. “Not counting the qualifying bracket… if you add up all the colors… around a hundred and fifty, give or take. Across the country, another five hundred or so. Not that many. Tickets are pricey and arenas aren’t in every major city, so if not for the Spell Market sponsorship, the sport would’ve died out long ago. It’s not like a book you can just borrow from a library to read at home. It’s more like theater, only trickier.”
Ardan didn’t doubt that the Spell Market sponsored Magical Boxing purely out of self-interest. Exactly what that interest was, he didn’t yet understand. Presumably, he’d find out once he began participating in matches.
“Well, Ard, that’s all.” John set his cigar in the ashtray and tried to lever himself up from the chair. He managed it, though not on the first attempt. “Expect a letter, and good luck in the competitions. You’ll find your own way out, yes? Otherwise, I’ll only make it back by crawling… or maybe rolling from side to side. If that. Just keep your right shoulder against the inner wall, and sooner or later, you’ll find the stairs to the first floor, and from there, the exit to the street.”
John smiled again, revealing the triumphs of modern dentistry.
They shook hands and Ardan headed back the way he’d come. He followed the curved corridor, passed by the mages still engrossed in their grimoires, and emerged outside. His face was hit by a wind that was not exactly fresh or cool, but rather stifling and hot—Ardi welcomed it all the same. He let it stream through his fingers and tried to listen for its stories, but the wind was rushing down from the hills of Old Park to plunge into the Swallow Ocean, desperate to escape a heat it wasn’t accustomed to.
The Metropolis did not love summer. Not in the way a person accustomed to intense Kargaam spices might dislike bland food, but rather… it simply did not welcome it. The Empire’s capital was much more at home with an autumn wrapped in a gray shawl, a snowy winter in a plush coat, and, of course, a fleeting encounter—like a brief romance—with the beauty of spring.
Summer here felt like an interloper. One of its own for sure, yet still out of place.
Ardi could see something in common between the two of them.
Just as he could spot something in common between the woman who was approaching him now and that “old lady” who had sat with him at the gambling table aboard the infamous dirigible.
Only now she had traded the odd hybrid of a frilled bonnet and outdated hat for a perfectly fashionable, wide-brimmed mother-of-pearl ladies’ hat with flowers tucked under the ribbon near its crown. Instead of a dress that looked more like a pillowcase, she wore a stiff corset-vest and jacket, and below her waist, a trim skirt fell to neat ankle boots, covering her calves. The overpowering perfume that had made it hard to breathe before had been replaced by a berry fragrance. The sagging jowls were gone, the bags under her eyes were no more, and the wrinkles on her face had been smoothed away.
Everything that had been makeup before had been left behind somewhere on that airship.
Before Ardi stood a woman of about twenty-seven. She had thick black hair, bold, bushy eyebrows, high cheekbones, a fine nose, full lips… The only thing still reminiscent of the old lady from the dirigible was the gleaming look in her blue eyes and her steady heartbeat.
She was probably beautiful, but thanks to Cassara and then his feelings for Tess, Ardi had completely lost the ability to judge women by abstract standards of appearance.
And besides…
“You recognized me, Mr. Egobar,” the woman said—not asking, but stating—as she offered him her hand, which was clad in a brown leather driving glove with cutouts over the knuckles. Such gloves were popular among women who drove.
“Taisia Shpritz,” Ardan said softly, gently taking the offered hand and giving it a light squeeze to avoid hurting her. According to the rules of etiquette, women were allowed to leave their gloves on when shaking hands, and it wasn’t considered rude. “Journalist. I’ve seen a few of your articles.”
“Investigative journalist,” Taisia corrected him.
Ardi’s gaze slid past her shoulder. Without her heels, she was only a little taller than Tess. In the parking lot stood a fine make of automobile, with an elongated body of lacquered steel, massive exhaust pipes, and a low leather roof. Such cars were often seen in Baliero—fast and expensive. However, in the artists’ and fashionistas’ quarter they gleamed with polish and served more as a symbol of commercial success and status, whereas Taisia’s car looked more like a tool scarred by hard use.
Here and there, the wheel rims were scratched, there were traces of dents on the body, and there even seemed to be a couple of scrapes that looked as if bullets had glanced off the panels. Or sabers. Probably sabers.
And yet, who in their right mind would slash a car with a saber?
“You once wrote an article about Grand Princess Anastasia,” Ardi said, moving his gaze back to meet hers. “But that hardly gives you the right to tail me.”
“Yes, I know.” Taisia replied calmly, releasing his hand. “You almost turned around when you stepped out of the taxi. That’s when I realized you knew I was following you.”
She had a keen eye. Almost like Shali’s. There was no denying that. Ardan could have flashed his badge and even detained Ms. Shpritz and brought her to the Black House to interrogate her, but… given their past encounter, Taisia had to know who he was and where he worked. So, she likewise had to know she was taking a significant risk by tailing a Second Chancery operative.
And yet, that was exactly what she had done.
Sensible, clever people didn’t take such risks without good reason.
And Taisia struck him as a smart—a frighteningly smart—woman.
“What is it you want from me?” Ardi asked bluntly.
She fixed him with a piercing look and, stepping to his side, took his arm.
“Be a gentleman and escort a lady to her car, won’t you, sir Mage?” Despite the playful wording, Taisia’s tone was frosty.
For a moment, Ardi continued to wrestle with the urge to walk off in the other direction, but he relented. And it was unclear which impulse he’d yielded to—his budding paranoia, or his innate curiosity. Perhaps both at once.
What could have driven Taisia to seek his company and risk being detained by the Second Chancery in so clumsy a fashion?
They walked the fifty-odd meters to her car, where Ardi opened the driver’s-side door and helped Taisia inside. Then, by force of habit, he set his staff on the floor between the front and back seats, and took a seat on the front passenger side.
She fetched a cigarette case from the glove compartment, plucked out a cigarette and, in a rather unfeminine gesture, bit the filter off with her teeth. Then she lit up.
Still silent, Taisia started the engine. It purred to life like a lazy cat reluctantly stirred from sleep, and she guided the car out onto New Time Avenue.
Taisia handled the vehicle well. The ride was smooth, without any sudden stops or bumps, and Ardi scarcely felt the gear changes as she timed them perfectly. Not even her heeled shoes hindered her—she manipulated the pedals and gear lever with expert ease.
“You’re eyeing me quite warily, Corporal… or Sergeant? Probably Corporal,” Taisia broke the silence at last. “One might even think you fancy me. Your fangs and claws are all on edge… but I believe you’re soon to be married. Or is a Matabar’s physiology truly not tied to that organ below your waist that so troubles lesser men?”
Ardan turned to look out the window.
“Sorry,” he said sincerely.
He felt his extended fangs gradually retract back into his gums, and his claws slide under his skin. The last time a woman had driven him somewhere, that woman had been Lisa-Alla-whatever-her-name-was.
Taisia had brought back some not-so-pleasant memories.
They drove on in silence. There was probably no specific destination and they were just cruising through the broad avenues of the New City amid thousands of pedestrians, dozens of trams and buses, hundreds of automobiles, and an innumerable array of soaring high-rises and skyscrapers.
Living in Old Town, one could forget that the Metropolis had around twenty million residents. But here in the New City, among all the traffic lights, the glitter of electric signs, and the active construction of the underground tram lines, the capital’s live, clamoring mass was more palpable than ever.
“I wanted to discuss something with you, Corporal. Or may I call you by name?”
“Please,” Ardi said, then immediately added, “You realize I can’t discuss anything related to an investigation.”
She gave him a thin smirk, like a hungry fox.
“At the very least, you just told me an investigation exists, Mr. Ard.” She shifted gears as they halted at a traffic light. It felt strange. Ardi was used to a traffic officer’s hand signals, but these new mechanical lights were a mild irritant—sitting and waiting for a colored lamp to change… “Let’s not beat around the bush, shall we, Mr. Ard? Foreplay never particularly did it for me.”
Ardan nearly choked on the daring words. He had heard plenty of ribald talk from Cloaks of both sexes, but he hadn’t expected it from a civilian, even a journalist.
“You know that someone was searching for something on the airship,” Taisia continued, as if oblivious to his reaction—or simply disregarding it. “It wasn’t an ordinary bombing by insurgents, and I certainly remember it all going down quite differently than what’s being said in the papers. The day was saved not due to the efforts of Iolai and Arcady Agrov, but thanks to you, Mr. Ard. Which makes me wonder about everything that’s been happening in the city since the coronation. When there are too many coincidences, Mr. Ard, they cease to be coincidences and start to form a pattern. Someone is plotting a conspiracy—a conspiracy against the Emperor himself, and the entire Empire as well. And you know it. You’re investigating it.”
Ardan remained silent.
Taisia was not just clever—she was a professional. On the level of Milar, even, only younger. Of a different sex. Prettier. And with lips the same shade as the glowing ember of her cigarette. Apparently, that trait was common to all consummate professionals: a love of tobacco.
Ardi kept silent. Both because he had no right, as an officer, to respond, and because he didn’t trust this woman one bit.
A year ago, he perhaps hadn’t taken the advice of Mart, Cassara, Katerina, and Yonatan to heart—but now he knew one thing for certain: in the Metropolis, trust is the rarest and most expensive currency, and one that has to be earned.
“I understand why you’re staying quiet, Mr. Ard, but let’s make a deal,” Taisia said, turning off New Time Avenue toward the embankment of the Crookedwater Canal, apparently heading back into Old Town. “I have some information you lack. In exchange, I need some information from you.”
Ardi couldn’t help himself. He asked, “What, so you can write another little puff piece in-”
He didn’t get to finish.
She slapped him. She even brought her hand back fully to do so. And given how they were seated, it was not her palm but her knuckles that connected with his cheek.
It was the first time in his life anyone had struck him like that.
He didn’t so much feel pain at this—there was hardly any—but he was definitely stunned.
“Not a puff piece. An article,” Taisia snapped, her tone turning from icy to steely. “And you have no right to judge me, Mr. Ard. Certainly not you…”
“What do you mean?” Ardan asked, more in surprise than in hurt or anger, rubbing his cheek.
“I mean that you live under the same roof as the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets, and you’ve been seen with him more than once in rather… peculiar circumstances,” she replied, putting her hand back on the gearstick. “Sorry I reacted like that. Your eyes… they’re strange. I was thinking of slapping you. Only thinking… I didn’t actually intend to. It just sort of… happened.”
Ardan cursed under his breath and clamped down on his Witch’s Gaze. Thoughts of Lisa-Alla had caused him to subconsciously relax his hold on that ability possessed by all Speakers and Aean’Hane.
“The Witch’s Gaze,” Taisia murmured, nodding to herself after a moment. “No wonder… Believe me, Mr. Ard, I have my own reasons to hunt for the conspirators.”
Ardan rubbed his cheek again. Taisia had a strong arm—unexpected and stinging. Were it any other situation, Ardi could have blocked or dodged it easily, but he hadn’t expected anything of the sort, least of all from a woman.
But for an ordinary person, even one who’s seen trouble, to do that… No, such reflexes didn’t just appear out of nowhere.
Just as beautiful women didn’t, on a whim, start risking their lives in the most dangerous parts of the capital.
“Your father?” Ardi ventured.
“Pardon?” Taisia glanced at him.
“Your father,” Ardi repeated, resting his hands on his knees. “He was probably an inspector in the city guard. If he’d been a Cloak, things would have gone differently. And I suspect he died tragically. In the line of duty. And it happened quite a long time ago. But for some reason, you think that tragedy is linked to these recent events.”
Taisia looked at him with newfound respect and… a touch of fear. Not the kind that makes people panic and run, but the kind that makes them more guarded.
“And here I thought you were just a field operative… but it turns out you’re an investigator, Mr. Ard,” she said, turning her eyes back to the road. “There was no ‘tragedy,’ exactly. But you’re right. My father did not come back from a mission. At least… not alive. His eyes were cut out after his death.”
“The Narikhman?”
“Everyone assumed so. At the time, no one paid attention to the fact that the Narikhman operate cleanly, while my father… he was mutilated,” Taisia said, her voice wavering slightly. She stubbed out her cigarette and tossed the butt into the ashtray. “Until, just recently, a new, similar case turned up. A young guardsman, back from the Fatian border, was found with the same injuries.”
A young guard back from the Fatian border?
Where had Ardi heard that before?
He suddenly recalled Peter Oglanov’s words from that ill-fated night:
“…So, I started looking into which division might have recently discharged somebody… And I found it. The Sixth Division in Tend. They’d let go of a young officer, someone who’d just returned from the Fatian border. He was exactly the kind of man who wouldn’t stand for injustice, or…
…I found him, my young friend. In a small apartment on the outskirts of the Tend. His throat had been cut. His eyes had been carved out.”
Yes, exactly—Peter Oglanov had mentioned this case right before luring Ardi into that trap at Irigov’s estate. There couldn’t be many incidents like that in the guard, certainly not with someone imitating the Narikhman’s signature so crudely. You’d think that, after so many years, any copycats would have learned to cover their tracks better.
“In the Tend?” Ardi asked, just to be sure. “An officer from the Sixth Division in the Tend?”
Taisia nodded and, taking advantage of a red light, pulled out a lipstick tube and retouched the color on her lips that had smudged onto the cigarette filter.
Sleeping Spirits…
She was right.
There were too many coincidences to just chalk them up to mere chance. No, Ardi and Milar had already suspected that the conspiracy had its roots deep in history. Even the Colonel did not doubt that “Operation Mountain Predator” and everything now happening in the country likely hid the same puppet masters behind its bloody curtains.
“What was your father working on?”
Taisia smiled—a triumphant little smile.
“I did say, Mr. Ard, that I have information you need, and you have information I need. Let’s trade.”
If Ardi hadn’t been listening to her heartbeat and catching her scent beneath the perfume, and if he hadn’t had at least a bit of hard-earned experience by now, he would never have agreed to continue this conversation.
But the facts spoke otherwise.
Taisia Shpritz was telling the truth.
“One answer from me for one from you,” Ardi agreed at last.
Taisia didn’t waste a beat. “You weren’t around to see what happened after the crash, Mr. Ard. But I saw how all the armed forces—every last one of them, from the guards, the military, the Cloaks, the harbor watch, to dozens of state Star Mages—were frantically searching for something in the Niewa and all along the airship’s route. They searched and searched, and never found it. Now, tell me, please, what could they have been looking for?”
Thoughts swirled in Ardan’s head. There were countless theories. But only one idea came to mind—or rather, one connected pair. The Second Chancery, clearly leading the search, might have been looking for bodies. The bodies of Alla Tantov and the elf Esvaialaal, the son of Duke Abrailaal and, incidentally, a Dagger of the Second Chancery.
“There were bombers on board, Ms. Shpritz,” Ardi tried to deflect. “Most likely, they were searching for them.”
Taisia shook her head.
“I need specifics, Mr. Ard,” the professional pressed. “Or our deal is off.”
Ardan exhaled slowly. Milar likely wouldn’t be pleased, and the Colonel would be better off not knowing at all—but right now, Ardi trusted his instincts more than caution.
“Alla Tantov. A mutant. They were most likely searching for her. And that is truly the most I can tell you, Ms. Shpritz, because I myself don’t know any more.”
Taisia let out a deep breath in relief.
“So it’s true…”
“What’s true?” Ardan asked.
“Ask your dear Overseer of the Orcish Jackets why all the gangs in the city are currently on edge, and what exactly it is they’re now so actively trying to find—for a great deal of money, at that,” she replied, turning onto the Markov Canal embankment and heading straight toward “Bruce’s.” “Consider that hint my apology for the slap. Witch’s Gaze or not, I should have kept my cool.”
The drive along the canal, in the middle of a workday, didn’t take long. Soon, they pulled up outside the familiar bar.
“As for your own question—my father was investigating corruption within the Anomaly Hunters’ Guild,” Taisia said as she drew out another cigarette, then nodded toward the door. “You’re right, Mr. Ard. I do have a feeling it’s connected somehow, but in the past year, I haven’t managed to figure out how.”
Indeed… Ardan couldn’t imagine what the link might be, either. Unless it was just a hunch or intuition suggesting there even was one. Or maybe it was simply that this was now the second time he’d heard someone mention the Hunters’ Guild. The first had been in Boris Fahtov’s tale… whose inheritance was also tied into everything that was going on.
Well, it was at least a starting point from which he could begin solving this equation, only now with some of the larger brackets finally opened up.
Ardan stepped out onto the street, retrieved his staff, and in that same moment, he heard two things simultaneously:
“Until next time, Mr. Ard. I do hope we meet again—and more than once,” Taisia said with a smile as she pressed down on the accelerator.
And from behind Ardan, a surprised, familiar voice asked:
“Ardi?”
It was accompanied by the scent of spring flowers by a brook.
A scent Ardi knew and loved.
Because that was how Tess smelled.
The girl was standing just behind Ardan.
Comments
TeDureShi
You’re so boring.
Alibhai
Please. Even with the setup of Tess's comment to Ard to not look at other women, noone believes for second this will cause serious waves in this relationship. To quote a Key & Peele Skit "That mariage is rock solid". At best the conversation is gonna be " O who was that?" "A journalist." " O ok."
karol Z
Stop teasing us with this boxing league, please!
