klevanski
patreon
Matabar. Book II. Chapter 15 - "Metropolis"
🕑 Added 2025-09-01 23:01:01 +0000 UTCThe Metropolis greeted the train from Shamtur with the familiar clamor of the platform crowd and the sharp, slicing whistles of the guards d
The Metropolis greeted the train from Shamtur with the familiar clamor of the platform crowd and the sharp, piercing whistling of the guards directing the flow of departures and arrivals. Some of the citizens were already embroiled in verbal altercations. The segregation of platforms for humans and the Firstborn had been abolished at the end of last winter and not everyone had grown accustomed to the new rules, so the guards often had to intervene in the resulting misunderstandings.
Ardi observed all of this in passing as he pushed the cart with his and Tess’ luggage. Such carts were provided to all first-class passengers by the Le’mrity First Transport Company. It was nothing of note—a simple frame of cheap steel with a wooden bottom, all of it riding on wheels that complained with every turn.
Usually, they were pushed by servants or porters hired at the station. Ardan, of course, pushed it himself. Besides, they had almost no luggage to speak of.
Passing calmly through the crowd, which parted before the cart as if it were a breakwater fighting against the tide, he and Tess entered the main hall.
“In five minutes, the train to Anrad will depart from platform five. Please do not be late!”
Anrad… He was pretty sure this was the name of a city somewhere near the Ralsk Mountains, but that hardly mattered. Ardi’s gaze swept over the massive departures board, where workers with placards patrolled the catwalks, changing them periodically. This way, passengers could always see where they needed to go and when their train was set to depart.
The heels of men’s and women’s shoes alike clicked against the stone floor. Long, winding queues snaked from the ticket counters like centipedes, their “joints” constantly rustling and twitching. In the waiting hall, families with children and solitary travelers with their faces hidden behind newspapers sat on wooden benches.
Here at the station, no one removed their hats. Ardi had noted this detail on his very first visit. Just like he noted that he now no longer broke into a fit of wild coughing when exposed to the suffocating, grimy air of the Metropolis.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
He drew in a deep breath and was surprised to find that, just as he had come to miss the unceasing hum, the cacophony of diverse voices, all the whistling and shouting, he had missed the air that smelled of diesel and factory smog and the collected aspirations of humanity just as much.
The Cloak he’d nicknamed Long Neck had been right when he’d said that everyone eventually gets used to it—and that Ardi would, too.
Ardi had indeed gotten used to it.
Moreover, the Metropolis had managed to carve out its own spot in a quiet corner of the young man’s heart.
“Documents.”
“What?” Ardi started. He’d sunk too deep into the world around him and had forgotten that they’d already reached the guards.
Clad in light, red uniforms, they stood by wooden tables, where queues no smaller than those at the ticket counters stretched out.
Arrivals would approach the tables and present their documents. If a guard grew suspicious of them, or for some other reason, they then had to open their satchels and trunks to display their contents.
In the Metropolis, everyone’s documents were checked upon arrival, without exception. This applied to both foreigners (despite them having already undergone a similar check at the port) and to citizens of the Empire (despite them being in their own country). And they were especially scrupulous when checking the Firstborn and those with family ties to them.
Ardan was not the least bit surprised by the familiar demand.
“Are you hard of hearing, mister?” The guard asked, his eyes narrowing. “Your documents, and present your belongings for inspection.”
Ardan was already reaching for his satchel when Tess leaned forward slightly.
“Are you out of your mind?” The girl asked, her surprise genuine and plain for all to see. “You’re checking the belongings of an Imperial Star Mage? Is this some kind of joke?”
The guard and Ardi both froze. The young man was the first to recover. Tess had never encountered the mundane realities of life for half-bloods and the Firstborn. Whenever they strolled through the city together, if the guards approached them at all, it was with routine questions, and his Grand University student papers were enough for them to wish him a good day and leave them in peace.
In Delpas, of course, there were no strict protocols of that sort, and they had been met by an employee of the Second Chancery; in Shamtur, they’d been met by the military, so…
“It’s all right, Tess,” Ardan whispered, placing his satchel on the table. “This is a standard procedure.”
Tess glanced toward the neighboring table, where several mages not only didn’t have to lay out their belongings, but their documents were barely even being read. The guards were just skimming the marks indicating that the document was not a forgery, comparing their photographs to their faces, and waving them through. The process took no more than a few moments.
Then again, when Ardi had first arrived in the Metropolis, Yonatan Kornosskiy had handled all the problems, and this winter, Milar had met him…
“Maybe you should show him your credentials?” Tess suggested in the same quiet manner, so that no one but Ardi could hear her.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to stand in line—the girl was genuinely concerned for her companion. But the truth was, Ardi had long since grown accustomed to it.
The guard peered inside his satchel but didn’t touch anything. Instead, he opened Ardan’s documents and inspected the main papers. His identification card, Grand University student card, his permit for travel within the country (required only for Firstborn and half-bloods), and his permit for the unconcealed carrying of a staff.
Ardan kept his corporal’s credentials from the Second Chancery separate.
“Why did you leave the Metropolis?”
“I was visiting relatives.”
“Where?”
“In Delpas.”
“Did you go anywhere else?”
“To Shamtur.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I-”
“My fiancé was traveling with me,” Tess cut in, unable to restrain herself, her eyes blazing with righteous anger and irritation at the guard. “To see my relatives. My father. Who, as it just so happens, is the Governor-General of Shamtur.”
The guard slowly shifted his gaze to Tess, who was already holding out her own document, where the man in the red uniform saw a surname quite familiar to the security services.
It couldn’t be said that this greatly affected the guard. Or rather, not in the way one might’ve expected it to. Instead of fear or discomfort, the guard showed… relief.
“Welcome back and have a good day. Sir, miss,” he said, returning their documents and saluting them with a touch to the brim of his soldier’s cap.
Tess was taken aback for a moment, but Ardi, who’d already slung their things into his arms and over his shoulders, handed her his staff and, after taking her by the arm, led her toward the exit.
When they had put some distance between them, the young man whispered to his fiancée:
“They’re often not happy about conducting such detailed checks themselves.”
“Then what’s the point of all this?”
“There aren’t many Firstborn in Shamtur, dear,” Ardi said. That last word still felt awkward on his tongue, but he was gradually getting used to it. “So the problem isn’t as pronounced there.”
“What problem?”
“Mutual distrust,” Ardan replied, shifting the satchel and suitcase for a better grip. “The guards don’t trust the Firstborn, and the Firstborn don’t trust anyone who wears a uniform. In the Firstborn District, for instance, the entire guard corps is made up of locals.”
Tess looked at her fiancé, clearly disturbed.
“Why do you talk about it so calmly, Ardi? It’s a violation of your rights!”
And this was coming from the daughter of the Governor-General of Shamtur, the sister of an officer whose beloved had been killed by Firstborn saboteurs… Yes, perhaps Pavel IV and his distant ancestor had been right. Gradual changes in society would inevitably lead to a day when others thought just like Tess did.
There was, however, one “but” there.
“Tess.”
“What?”
“Please remember where we live.”
Tess started to say something, but fell silent. But not for long. Soon, she added resentfully:
“As if Arkar is the only gangster in the city.”
“He’s not,” Ardan agreed easily.
They were both silent until they emerged onto the wide marble staircase that led from the avenue down to the station.
“Still, it’s somehow unpleasant,” Tess murmured with a shudder.
“You’re just not used to it yet,” Ardan shrugged.
“But I don’t want to get used to it!” The girl’s eyes once again blazed with an unkind flame. “You’re an officer of the Empire! A Star Mage! What difference does how long your fangs are or if your nails look like claws make? You and Milar spent half a year running all over the capital for Face of Light knows what reasons, and they still interrogate you like you’re a wanted criminal and-”
Tess, as she was wont to do, had worked herself into such a state that she might have decided to turn around, march back to the guard, and tell him to his face exactly what she thought of the situation. To prevent that from happening, and also because… Because Ardi felt an incredible warmth that Tess was so upset on his behalf, he set their things down on the cobblestones of the sidewalk and, leaning in without a care for the hundreds of passersby, covered her lips with his own.
She resisted for a moment, then melted into the kiss, touching his cheek with her palm.
“Thank you,” Ardi said with a smile. “But honestly, Tess, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.”
“It bothers me,” the girl countered in a firm whisper.
A married couple with two children walked past. Tess followed them with a thoughtful gaze. Ardan did as well.
So that’s what was really troubling her… Whether their children would have to experience everything that Ardi had.
“They’ll be all right,” Ardan answered the question that hung in the air.
“How do you know?”
“Because Matabar blood doesn’t divide into quarters,” the young man shrugged, picking up their things from the ground. “Matabar can have half-bloods, but if a half-blood starts a family with a human, their children are born as ordinary humans, without a single drop of the mountain hunters’ blood. That’s why my father’s people died out.”
Tess squeezed his forearm almost imperceptibly.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Ardi hurried to reassure her. “Honestly. I think one fanged and clawed member of our family is quite enough, and besides-”
“And besides, Matabar, I think you flatter yourself considerably by calling yourself fanged,” a familiar voice declared.
The crowd parted instinctively, creating a wide open space around a massive orc half-blood dressed in a fashionable, dark purple suit.
Arkar, looking considerably refreshed after the last month and a half, shook Ardan’s hand and tipped his hat to Tess.
“We were just talking about you, Arkar,” Tess said in an even tone, one that was neither cold nor welcoming.
“I hope you were remembering only the lacy… the good stuff, I mean,” the half-orc said, taking the suitcase and satchel from Ardi and leaving him with only his backpack and staff. “Anyway, Ard, you’d be better off getting your own wheels… a car, I mean… Just get one.”
Ardi simply shrugged. While they’d still been in Shamtur, a couple of days before their departure, he had sent a letter to Arkar asking him to, if possible, meet them at the station.
A vacation was a vacation, but…
“Oh, by the Sleeping Spirits, Ard!” The half-orc exclaimed, unable to contain himself. “You didn’t call me here to help!”
The half-orc, cursing a blue streak, led them to his car. He put the luggage in the trunk, helped Tess get inside, then slammed the door, shot Ardan a dark look, and got behind the wheel. Ardi settled into the seat beside his acquaintance.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Ardi apologized, but Tess merely nodded silently and opened a book. Ardan turned to Arkar and continued in the language of the steppe orcs. “We need to talk.”
***
“Bruce’s Jazz Bar” had been transformed—if not beyond recognition, then enough to surprise someone.
The main hall had expanded to nearly three times its original size, and about eight more tables had been added. So where had all the new free space gone? Following the latest trends, Arkar had turned it into a dance floor situated right next to the stage, which had also undergone significant changes.
It had been raised even higher off the floor, more instruments had been added, the wiring was now hidden so it no longer lay under the musicians’ feet, and stationary Ley-microphones and other sound equipment had been installed.
The bar counter was longer, and it had been cleaned and coated with a new layer of varnish as well. Not to mention the fact that the kitchen now employed twice as many cooks, and the menu featured complex culinary items… with equally “complex” price tags.
The wine list, naturally, had grown to include not just expensive, but even outrageously-priced drinks.
The only thing that had remained unchanged was the corner in the far back with its small sofas, still cordoned off from the other patrons, and still leading to the inconspicuous door of the private meeting room.
“I managed to convince Ordargar that a bar with a shady rep and a bar with a shady rep and expensive food are two different kinds of advertisements… getups… fronts, I mean,” Arkar said, pulling a lever. Mead flowed from the tap.
Ardi, as always, opted for cocoa.
The two of them were sitting alone in the bar. Tess had gone upstairs to unpack and freshen up after their journey.
“What you just told me, Matabar,” Arkar took a noisy gulp of his drink and deftly wiped his lips with the back of his hand, careful not to tear the lapel of his jacket on his fangs and tusks. “Sounds mighty unusual.”
“That’s exactly why I thought you could help me make sense of it,” Ardi nodded.
The half-orc smirked.
“First off, Ard, out of what crisps… for what reason, I mean, should I help you?”
“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Ardi suggested.
“To hell with your goodness of heart, Matabar,” Arkar snarled. “The last time you took advantage of the boundless breads…”
“Breadths.”
“…breadths of my soul, I had to…” Arkar shuddered and turned slightly pale. It was the first time Ardan had ever seen an orc turn pale. “I won’t be forgetting that creature anytime soon, Ard. Sleeping Spirits… You don’t come across things like that even in the Elder Mothers’ horror stories…”
It seemed like the demon Edward had fought would be haunting Arkar and the others for a long time to come. Ardan understood them. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop flinching at the hum of Ley-generators anytime soon, either.
“Don’t play coy with me, Arkar,” Ardan said, taking a sip of the sweet, thick drink. “You had your own interest. It seems to me, if I’m not mistaken, that his name was Indgar. And it also seems to me, if I’m again not mistaken, that someone who looked a lot like Indgar stumbled in the Firstborn District. He stumbled so badly that he ended up pinned to a post with a knife. Your knife, Arkar.”
“Ard.”
“What?”
“If you ever yap… talk, I mean, like the Cloaks again, I’m going to raise your rent. And knock your nose crooked. For your innocence.”
“For your insolence.”
Arkar’s eyes flashed and Ardi raised his hands.
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” The young man sighed and shook his head.
The half-orc’s anger quickly turned to amusement.
“What, Matabar, did you have a difficult conversation with a certain red-haired general?”
“More like with a certain dark-haired wife of said general.”
Arkar whistled and raised his mug of mead.
“I’m not surprised. With a man like Reish Orman, his wife is probably no simple woman either.”
“Far from it.”
Their conversation had lost its rhythm, and they fell silent. Orcs occasionally passed by, arranging chairs or adjusting the paneling that now lined the walls. It looked understated but suited the establishment perfectly. A kind of mix of polished cuisine and music along with a general poverty of the decor.
“We don’t do business with the Shanti’Ra, Ard, you know that,” Arkar returned to the topic at hand. “Even the Conclave considers them rad… radic… radicals, that’s it.”
“I know,” the young man admitted.
“But what you just told me… And on top of that, a Larr’rrak,” Arkar sighed and rubbed his forehead. “This is shit, Matabar. It’s very thick and very smelly shit you’ve jumped into. With a running start.”
“I don’t think the Shangra’Ar can cause me any problems in the capital.”
Arkar spread his fingers just enough to meet Ardan’s gaze.
“You don’t catch it… don’t understand, I mean…”
“What don’t I understand?” Ardan frowned.
“The fact that up until this summer, Ard, you were just a simple half-blood. Unimportant and irrelevant. But now you…” Arkar exhaled and drained his mug of mead in a single gulp. “You agreed to a Larr’rrak. As Chieftain of the Matabar. That means you’re not just part of our world in name anymore, but in deed as well. I’m sure that in a couple of weeks, a representative from the Conclave will roll up… approach you, I mean.”
“Why?”
Arkar just waved his hand.
“How should I know? But you can be damn sure they’ll come.”
Ardan mulled this over for a few seconds, then changed the subject.
“Those are thoughts for tomorrow, orc. What interests me today is my original question.”
Arkar gave his companion a less-than-friendly look but answered nonetheless.
“Ard, for all the warmth I feel toward you, lately, you’ve been more and more a Cloak, and less and less a strange Matabar,” the half-orc hissed resentfully. “I’ll try to find out something about that elf who blew up the Imperial piggy… the bank, I mean. But I’m not sure I’ll find much. Especially,” Arkar raised an index finger for emphasis, “since this is being done completely for free.”
“I’m not so sure that it’s for free, Arkar, considering the fact that the elf mentioned the Dandy.”
“The Dandy?” The half-orc’s eyebrows shot up. “The Dandy’s got long arms and an even longer nose, but even he doesn’t have the fire… the resources, I mean, to deal with the Aean’Hane. That’s Narikhman business.”
“Exactly.”
Arkar closed his eyes and set his mug down on the table with a dull thud.
“You suspect that our little problem that never was with the Hammers was someone’s setup.”
“That’s right.”
The half-orc followed his subordinate with his eyes as the man carried a crate of fresh vegetables into the kitchen.
“You think they’ll try again. But not with the Hammers this time.”
Ardan suspected that it had never been about the gangs at all. Or rather, not about them specifically. Perhaps the Puppeteers weren’t just testing if they could pit the gangs against each other, but whether they could achieve something greater. Namely, if they could ignite riots in the city involving all the Firstborn and humans.
“They might even try something worse,” Arkar added.
Despite his strange way of talking and endless confusion when it came to complex words, Arkar was no fool. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have become the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets, one of the six largest gangs in the city.
No, Arkar was smart.
But his was not a conventional sort of intelligence. His mind had been forged not by books and scholarly debates, but by others’ fists, knives, gunpowder, and the endless deceptions of one gangster trying to outwit another.
“Fine, Matabar, I’ll be your secretary again,” the half-orc said, throwing his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He then ducked behind the counter and produced a letter. “Besides, this ink… message, I mean, was just delivered for you. What did I tell you last time about the mail?”
“Sorry,” Ardan apologized sincerely and took the envelope.
He took it and the moment he read the sender’s name, he immediately regretted doing so.
Sent by Peter Oglanov.
“So when’s the wedding?” Arkar asked with a grin, clearly pleased by the change in Ardi’s expression.
“The first day of the Festival of Light,” Ardi answered distractedly.
“Oh, is that so? Well then. I still have time to think of what to cook up… to gift you two little birds, I mean.”
“I understand, Ard, that we parted on a note that doesn’t exactly inspire continued correspondence, but I am forced to turn to you again.
That fateful evening, your esteemed Captain Pnev demanded that I share anything I might find with you.
I have found something.
Something that, for the first time in twenty years, has alarmed me enough for me to stop drinking. Two whole days without a drop. And that, you know, is not so easy and, as I previously thought, not particularly achievable.
I am aware that you are currently not in the city. So come to my office as soon as you return to the capital.
I am sending this letter with a messenger boy directly to the bar because I fear the letter might get lost in the darkness.
Peter.”
Ardan read the letter again and tucked it between the pages of his tattered grimoire. That night, in the suburbs, in Irigov’s mansion, Milar had indeed let the former Chief Inspector of the Metropolis Guard Corps go, on the condition that he would share the progress of his investigation with them and…
Sleeping Spirits!
Peter didn’t know that Lisa wasn’t at all who she’d pretended to be! Or perhaps that was exactly what he had found out?
Ardi glanced at the grimoire he had placed on the nightstand.
No, unlikely.
The last paragraph had clearly hinted that Peter knew about the “moles” inside the Second Chancery. “Might get lost in the darkness”—it couldn’t be more transparent… That was why he had sent the letter to Arkar at “Bruce’s” while avoiding any specifics.
And, by the looks of it, Peter still didn’t particularly trust Milar, which was why he was inviting Ardan to meet him on his own. Or was he planning to pull a trick similar to the one that had nearly cost Ardi his life?
It was doubtful, of course, but Ardi wouldn’t go there unprepared or without a healthy dose of skepticism.
“I have to admit the obvious,” Ardan whispered, his fingers tangling in the strands of red hair scattered across the snow-white face of the sleeping beauty. “My vacation is over.”
Tess was breathing evenly. She had thrown her arms above her head, the blanket slipping down to reveal a body covered only by the thin silk of a nightgown. She was so tiny and fragile, yet so beautiful and, at times, prickly. Like a snowflake.
If Ardi knew how to draw, he would paint her portrait, but he did not. If he knew how to play the piano (Tess had genuinely tried to teach him, as she had promised, but his progress… had stalled), he would write her a song. If he knew how to compose poetry, then…
But he could do none of those things.
The only thing the young man could do was close his eyes and listen. Listen to the hum of car engines outside their small apartment at 23 Markov Canal, buzzing like anxious gnats. To the clatter of heels on the cobblestones and pavement, a sound reminiscent of a little girl clicking her tongue in disapproval at “unruly boys.” To the flutter of the birds’ wings as they basked in the rare rays of the summer sun that sometimes broke through the thinning clouds of a distant sky, which had, for once, lifted its heavy hand away from the Empire’s capital.
Ardi reached for these sounds, took a little from each of them, and then he took a little of the sun as well, using it all to sculpt a figure. A figure of a girl, spinning as she danced. And if you listened closely, you could hear the city waking up in the early morning in her dance.
Tess opened her sleepy eyes and looked at the small replica of herself sculpted from sounds and the summer dawn. It spun in the air, sometimes merging with the sunlight pouring through the murky window, sometimes vanishing into the play of light and barely visible dust motes, creating the illusion that it was dancing amongst the clouds.
“Am I still dreaming?” She asked, rubbing her eyes.
Ardan broke his connection to the fragments of Names, and the vision vanished. He lay on his side, propping his cheek up with his hand, and watched his fiancée. He watched her stretch like a cat, extending her arms and yawning slightly. Her hair was disheveled and she was in a rumpled nightgown, but he still admired the delicate curves of her body, her slender neck, and her bright eyes.
Ardi’s heart was no longer hammering wildly. No, its rhythm had quickened, but it was now more at ease, and if they’d had a spare half hour, the sheets would have ended up rumpled as well, but… Tess was in a hurry to get to rehearsal. And she was adamant about not being late. There was so little time left before the concert hall’s opening and her first performance before hundreds of spectators.
So Ardi didn’t move. He just looked at her and felt… what he had only felt in Atta’nha’s home with a scroll in his hands, or when he’d sat on the Stairs, reading ancient books and dangling his feet over the Alcade clouds.
It was a feeling where even the faintest breath seemed rushed and unrestrained, and you wanted to plead with your heart: “Just wait, hold on a little longer, be still for just a few seconds.” And there were almost no thoughts in your head. Only an image. The image of home, which had taken the form of a red-haired singer.
Tess turned to him, looked into his eyes, and turned crimson. Not from shame or embarrassment, but for some other reason.
“Ardi-the-wizard, were you truly raised by beasts?”
“You’ve asked me that before,” was all Ardan said.
“Eternal Angels,” she leaned toward him, kissed him gently, as if afraid to cause him pain, and whispered in his ear. “The way you’re looking at me now… Don’t ever look at anyone else like that, all right?”
“I don’t look at anyone but you, Tess.”
Tess smiled, leaned in closer, and pressed her cheek to his. Her hot whisper tickled Ardi’s ear, making him regret that he couldn’t slow down time and wrest that proverbial half hour from the new day.
“That’s good, Ardi-the-wizard, because a look like that could charm even the most steadfast girl.”
Ardi couldn’t resist after all. He gave in to his desires and reached out to embrace the beauty, but she, with a peal of laughter, twisted away and, still laughing, ran into the bathroom.
The young man was left lying on the bed. He looked at his arms and it seemed to him like he had just tried to catch a flame with his bare hands. Some might have found it foolish to even try, others would have been afraid of getting burned, but Ardi… Ardi was simply happy. About what? To be honest, he himself did not know.
They took turns with their morning ablutions (Ardi once again noticed that his fangs had grown slightly longer, even though he hadn’t consciously extended them), and then, as was their tradition, they prepared breakfast for each other.
Ardan, deftly wielding a whisk, a bowl, and then a frying pan, made pancakes for his fiancée. Thankfully, they still had some currant jam left. Nearby, the pot was already boiling, the coffee for Tess bubbling inside it.
She, in turn, made Ardi porridge with water (Ardi was physically unable to drink milk for the same reason he didn’t eat meat from human-raised animals), adding dried roots and cured boar meat to it.
They ate, then hugged, holding the embrace a little longer than the situation required.
“Tonight,” Tess whispered to him, not without regret.
They nodded to each other in disappointment and went down to the street together.
“Will you pick me up later this evening?” The girl asked, heading toward the tram stop.
Usually, they went in different directions, but today, Ardi was in no hurry, so he planned to take a walk through the city. He wasn’t going to see Peter Oglanov today anyway—he had other plans.
“Of course,” the young man nodded.
Tess pecked him on the cheek and ran off toward the clanging tram. The young man, who was leaning on his staff and holding his grimoire to keep it from falling apart as he walked, enjoyed the summertime Metropolis, observing the buildings and passersby, and listening, as the she-wolf had taught him, to the world around him. He started walking toward the first item on his list of things to do.
***
The cardboard price tag, with a brazenness bordering on audacity, and with no concern for the customer’s mental health, boasted a three-digit number.
“One hundred and sixteen exes,” Ardan read, nearly choking on the weight of the sum that had just fallen on his shoulders.
“Mr. Egobar, this is one of our best models,” the employee of the Spell Market, who was standing a short distance away, insisted.
He was a young man wearing an emerald suit and black gloves. Not because he had his own unique sense of fashion, but because the Spell Market issued this exact uniform to its employees.
“It’s been a while since you’ve stopped by,” the salesman said, making casual conversation. “Perhaps you’d like to book a testing ground? We have almost no bookings for the next few months, so I could pencil you in for some slots in the evening hours.”
“Mr. Asirs, while that sounds tempting, of course,” Ardan replied, almost with tears in his eyes and a clear grinding of teeth in his voice. “I am afraid this grimoire will cost me several months of practice.”
“Believe me, Mr. Egobar, it’s worth it. In the ‘World of Star Boxing’ magazine, this specimen won awards in several categories! Including the ‘best example of a military grimoire,’” the employee tapped his knuckles on the dome covering the book. “The cover is made of soaked Ironwood. It was cured for over fifteen years in a special solution that made the wood’s structure flexible and resilient while retaining all its properties of strength and durability. The cover is Anomaly leather, specifically an Armored Wild Boar from the Dancing Peninsula. You can set this leather on fire, pour acid on it, do whatever you want with it—nothing will happen.” Asirs was standing next to the dome and leaning his full weight against it. Ardi found something amusing in the fact that the emerald cover with its gold embossing almost perfectly matched the shade of the employee’s suit. “It has 570 high-class pages of Kargaam Weeping Reed. You can only cut them with a scalpel. They don’t wrinkle. They don’t tear. They absorb ink so reliably that even after a century, your seals won’t lose any of their clarity. The manufacturer’s warranty is included, by the way. They also have a patented spine expansion technology, so you can, if necessary, add another two hundred pages without damaging the binding. That is, of course, if you plan on carrying a whole library on your belt.”
“And who is the manufacturer?”
“A small artisan company from the north,” Asirs shrugged. “They usually work on commission. We were lucky to order a batch of forty grimoires from them. This is the last one. They sold out in literally a month. We’ll try to order more, of course, but there’s a queue and… forgive me. I’m rambling again. Whenever I talk to you, Mr. Egobar, I just want to lay out every last detail.”
Ardan sighed and shook his head mournfully. He needed a grimoire, and he needed one urgently. Because, by the Sleeping Spirits, his current one was unlikely to survive its next adventure. Ardi, of course, would have generally preferred for such adventures to avoid him entirely, but it seemed fate had other plans.
“By the way, as a gift with this grimoire, club members receive a complimentary clasp lock with chains. All made of high-quality materials, of course. We give our own guarantee on those,” Asirs pointed to a shelf behind the dome where grimoire accessories were displayed. There were locks to secure the covers, sew-on labels for the spine (in case someone, like Edward, needed to label a grimoire and put it on a shelf), bookmarks for every taste, dust jackets to protect the pages, and, of course, clasps for chains and the chains themselves.
Usually, one had to add another ten percent to the cost of a grimoire for its accompanying goods.
Ardi looked at his own grimoire (in truth, it was a notebook his father had given him back when he was just a child) and, trying to ignore Asirs’ beaming face, he took out his checkbook.
“An excellent choice, Mr. Egobar!” The employee exclaimed, gesturing toward a cherry-wood counter. He was the first to hurry toward the cash register.
Of course he was happy. He would get a commission, while Ardi would part with the travel pay he had received for helping with the Shanti’Ra and Shangra’Ar situation in one fell swoop. As for the bonus amounting to half a year’s salary, Ardan was in no hurry to touch it. He would, after all, need funds to rent a new apartment, not to mention the wedding…
“Mr. Asirs,” Ardi said, writing out the check and handing it to the employee, who began to process the purchase and enter the data into the warranty documents. “I would like to sign up for the Sponsor’s League trials.”
Asirs looked up from his work and glanced at Ardi’s membership card.
“Mr. Egobar, I can certainly sign you up, but you have both Stars in the third triad. That means that, in the League, you’ll be fighting in the heavyweight category. That includes, at times, fighting against Blue Star Mages of the heavyweight category.”
Magical Boxing was divided into “weight” categories corresponding to the triads of rays.
The first triad, from one to three rays, was the lightweight category.
The second triad, from four to six rays, was the middleweight category.
And the third, from seven to nine rays, was the heavyweight category.
In addition to rays, there was also a division by Stars. But it wasn’t entirely fair. Green Mages fought in the same group as Blue Mages, which was why, in the Sponsor’s League, Green Mages, if they appeared at all, usually didn’t last long.
Division by each specific Star only began at the Yellow Star level. This was due to the fact that spectators came mainly to watch the battles of higher-Star mages. Green and Blue mages served as a kind of opening act to warm up the crowd, so there was no point in dividing them, given the audience’s lack of interest in the battles of the first three Stars.
Of course, they still tried not to pit them against each other, maintaining an equality of sorts related to the number of Stars, but it didn’t always work out.
Incidentally, the World League itself only accepted members starting from the second triad of the Pink (fifth) Star. For context, in the entire Empire, with its population of nearly four hundred million, there were just over a thousand holders of the Pink Star.
“I understand,” Ardi nodded.
“I must also inform you that, despite the presence of doctors and Star Healers in the League, you will still have to sign a waiver, and we cannot guarantee your general physical health or the health of your Stars.”
“I understand.”
Asirs looked at him intently, then nodded.
“Then please wait a moment. I’ll finish processing the paperwork for your purchase, and then we’ll proceed with your application for the League trials.”
***
Ardan, holding a hefty cardboard box with his newly-acquired grimoire, stopped in front of a long, single-story building that stretched for nearly a hundred meters. Clearly built several centuries ago, it had once been wooden, until progress and the city’s development had forced it to don stone garments and completely forget its old frame.
The only reminder of its former building material was an attic made from planks, with round windows and flaking, brittle paint that peeled off in petals at the slightest gust of wind.
Upon seeing such a structure, the rare passerby on this dead-end, industrial—and now warehouse—street would simply turn around and hurry on their way. What business was it of theirs, this abandoned building with its boarded-up windows, its small courtyard overgrown with tall grass, and its wrought-iron fence that was so pitted and rusted?
It was surprising how this street, which looked like something out of the Tends, had survived at all on the expensive land of St. Vasyli’s Island, where the wealthiest citizens of the Empire fought almost to the death for every square meter.
It was a truly fascinating puzzle, the solution to which lay in the simple fact that the entire Undying Street, from one end to the other, belonged to one man.
Grand Magister Edward Aversky. And it had belonged to him even before he was born. A long time ago, the Aversky family had amassed an incredible fortune by breeding horses with traces of Anomaly blood. Great Princes had stood in line for them, and dukes and lords had offered any sum for even the less-than-prime specimens of the “Aversky breed.”
With the development of technology, the queues had moved from the stables to automobile exhibitions and showrooms, and so the Aversky enterprise had withered. Perhaps, if not for their descendant’s discovery—one that had literally changed the world—Edward, the descendant in question, would not have had the funds to pay the insane property tax, and the street would have reverted to the Crown—but history does not deal in hypotheticals.
Ardi took a heavy key from his pocket.
He was standing at the gates of the former “Aversky Stables.” Behind them was building number 4, which now, it seemed, belonged not to Edward Aversky, but to Ard Egobar.
The young man exhaled, took a resolute step forward, and inserted the key into the padlock that secured the gates.
Comments
Andrew Simpson
So I think ardi is the least insufferable when he is in the city, followed by when he is in the alcade proper (not that we've seen that for years). When he goes home, or goes on trips, he's forced to justify his world view and personality in a way that I think kind of turns him into an asshole. Milar and Boris and all the social trapping sof the city seem to humanize him a bit, and when he's full feral in the alcade he just is who he is. When he's in the countryside, hes just kind of a quite, standoffish asshole a lot of the time.
Andrew Simpson
The first paragraph of the chapter is an editing mistake- repeated
bob semple
Damn ardi got rizz
BookReadin
Thanks for the chapter! The first and second paragraph are duplicates by the way.
