klevanski
patreon
Matabar. Book II. Chapter 12 - "The Duke"
🕑 Added 2025-08-21 23:01:01 +0000 UTCOnce again, Ardan was sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a newspaper. Not because he had suddenly become deeply interested in politics, the news, fashion, or court gossip (or whatever else the paper might cover), but simply because there was nothing else available to read in the Governor-General’s waiting room. He had only a few freshly-rolled newspapers resting on a glass side table, and two potted houseplants of some exotic variety—judging by their overly sharp, broad leaves and long, thick stems—to keep him company. The trunks themselves looked more like crooked cedar splinters than anything a proper houseplant ought to have.
General Reish Orman’s primary office was at the headquarters of the Third Border Army, which he commanded, somewhere in northern Shamtur. But occasionally, the Governor-General conducted affairs from home—when he was ill or when the city was “sealed.” That’s what they called those times when the army suspected that Fatian saboteurs had infiltrated Shamtur. In the past, such occurrences had been rare—exceptions to the rule. Take, for example, the time a bomb had destroyed the home of an illusionist adored by everyone in Shamtur. Tess had mentioned him on their first date last winter.
These days, the city was being “sealed” more and more often. Whenever that happened, the brothers Alaris and Asilar would lead their subordinates out into the streets. In wartime, the two of them commanded assault battalions of riflemen, and in relatively peaceful times, they headed the city’s military watch—a sort of equivalent to city guards elsewhere in the country, albeit with a more martial bent.
For people across the country, even those who usually paid attention to nothing beyond their immediate concerns, it was becoming harder not to notice that, with each passing year, the situation at the border grew more heated. At any moment, the “hot peace” between the Empire and Fatia (directly sponsored by the Brotherhood of Tazidahian) could ignite into something far greater. Despite this, people still tried to live as though nothing was happening on the northeastern frontier, as if the fortifications weren’t creeping deeper inland each day. Ardan was one of them. After all, there was no sense worrying about what might or might not happen in some distant future when he had much more pressing issues in the here and now. For instance, the reason why he was, at that moment, waiting in the Governor-General’s reception room.
Reish, wanting to save time and avoid drawing out the matter of his daughters’ betrothals, had prudently invited both prospective “grooms” to meet him at once. At the time he’d made that decision and sent out the letters, he’d probably had no idea it might cause a problem. In fact, he most likely still didn’t know. Nor did the Duke himself. The breakfast conversation that morning had steered clear of any concrete topics beyond the weather, the general state of life in Shamtur, and some very careful, innocuous jokes that had eventually fallen flat.
As for Lady Polina Erkerovsky—the sole heiress of Duke Mark Erkerovsky, whose family tree reached back into the depths of Gales’ history—and Ard Egobar, there was absolutely nothing that connected them (maybe Iolai Agrov, but even then, it was tenuous at best). He and Polina had only seen each other a handful of times, had never really spoken directly and… well, that was that. However, despite her habitual aloofness and apparent lack of interest in goings-on, Lady Polina had never refrained from supporting the crude remarks of her “friends” and most likely shared Iolai’s dark feelings toward Boris. Why? Ardan had no idea and, as always, he wasn’t eager to unravel the tangled intrigues of Imperial aristocracy.
But irony would clearly not be denied.
Here he was, at this very moment, sitting in the antechamber of a military aristocrat, waiting his turn to discuss the details of his wedding to that man’s daughter, and on his lap lay the latest edition of the Imperial Herald. The headline on the front page read:
“On the Eve of the Congress.
What should the country expect? New agreements, or yet another round of scandals?”
Congress? Ardan felt like he had heard that word before.
“...And all this just before winter, when we’ll be hosting the Congress.”
“...The Congress? What’s that?”
“A gathering of emissaries and ministers from nearly every country in the world, partner,” Milar explained while leafing through the remainder of Ardi’s report. “It’s not a big deal to the general public, but it’s hugely important for international relations. Especially considering the fact that this will only be the third Congress in twenty years.”
Yes, that was it exactly—Milar and the Colonel had told Ardi that in winter, a gathering of foreign ambassadors and ministers would take place in the Metropolis. Something like a global convocation of bigwigs to sign some equally-important papers. The Colonel had worried that the Spiders might try to derail this tradition, which had been instituted by the late Emperor. That would be an attack on the reputation of the new Emperor, who had become a thorn in the side of certain aristocrats and the Empire’s moneyed elites. However, as it turned out, the Spiders had had nothing to do with that scheme, whereas those pulling their strings…
“I’m on leave,” Ardan reminded himself for at least the dozenth time, and returned to the rather dull—and thus not entirely comprehensible—newspaper column.
“…as regular readers of my political column know, at the beginning of last year, before His Imperial Majesty Pavel IV’s coronation, I was hounded by suspicions that our alliance with the union of Foria-Lintelar-Olikzasia could not last forever. Yes, we have a rather profitable trade deal with them, making use of their inland waters and trade routes, but… the presence of our naval base on the territory of Viroeira (editor’s note: this is referring to Foria’s capital) is not at all due to cordial neighborly relations. Rather, it’s because we may witness an official signing of a treaty to create a unified fleet between the Kingdom of Urdavan and the Principality of Grainia at the Congress.
It’s no secret that the northerners have cast covetous eyes at the world’s most powerful fleet for a long time, but until now, they hadn’t succeeded in interesting Grainia enough to—pardon the colloquialism—drag her into their bed. Now, however, after Grainia has time and again given up on its ideas of expansion toward Lintelar (protected as it is by its two fraternal principalities), the situation may be about to change.
While the Fatian border flares up with new armed skirmishes time and again (small ones, granted), the frontier with the Armondo Tribes is quieter than ever. But, dear readers, don’t be deceived or naively assume that the Tribes’ fierce temperament has suddenly been soothed. It is more likely that the Armondians have turned inward. They are fighting a civil war on the surface, but in truth, the Tribes are battling each other for absolute power, and the country that has always been fragmented among various chieftains and bloodlines may, for the first time in many centuries, end up united under a single flag.”
Ardi recalled some conversations in Presny that Boris had had with his passing acquaintances. Someone had mentioned that a figure had emerged in Armondo—either one chosen by prophecy, or simply a highly ambitious leader. Apparently, whoever it was hadn’t spent the year being idle. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“And rest assured, as soon as the King of Urdavan puts his signature on that document, even before reporters can set off their camera flashes, an identical agreement will appear between Scaldavin and the Selkado League. That is the only way they can ensure the survival of their western enclave and keep control of the Icy River, which is the key to trade on the Small Continent (editor’s note: The “Small Continent” refers to the northeastern part of the Western Continent, which is connected to it by the Isthmus of Giants, where the Principality of Skaldavin, the Kingdom of Urdavan, and the Principality of Grainia are located).
But how will Grainia see it? She will see that on her eastern border, just across the strait, one of the largest countries on the planet now looms—a country that has formed a naval alliance with her northern adversary, one that would be glad to seize the Grainian peninsula jutting into the White Sea (the very peninsula preventing the prospective Skaldavin–Selkado alliance from fully exploiting the bay). Naturally, Grainia will fear that Skaldavin and Selkado might want to remove that troublesome thorn. Then Grainia would have no choice but to try and court the richest country in the world when it comes to per capita wealth—the Confederation of Free Cities.
And believe me, dear readers, every time someone on the Eastern Continent made an alliance with the Confederation of Free Cities, war flared up in their lands. If the Confederates—with their monopoly on access to the Shallow Seas and the simply unimaginable finances they’ve amassed over centuries of collecting trade duties—were to suddenly acquire an army... Even though they have no need to wage expansionist wars and are perfectly content with the status quo, the mere existence of such a threat would still not be tolerated by their neighbors.
So, the mere fact that an alliance is being signed between Urdavan and Grainia could create tension throughout the region. Do their foreign ministers and rulers understand this? Of course they do. Will they once again delay the signing, as the late Emperor—may the Eternal Angels receive him—managed to do at the last Congress? Or will Pavel IV lack the political will to sway the northern nations?
You might be thinking that the Emperor ought to concern himself with domestic problems right now, and I fully agree. But one need only glance at a map to see the political trap we’ve stumbled into.
If Urdavan and Grainia forge a direct trade-and-military alliance, uniting their armies and navies, the very first and most obvious target of that pact will not be Skaldavin at all, but Lintelar. Because if Grainia and Urdavan annex those lands, they will occupy the very center of the Shallow Seas, thereby not only biting off a significant chunk of the pie that the Confederates have been greedily feasting on, but also gaining the ability to dictate their will across the entire Shallow Seas.
The Empire, even during the Mercenary Wars, never fought naval battles. We have a strong land army, but alas, an outdated fleet thrashing in its death throes and in dire need of modernization. It’s fortunate that His Imperial Majesty Pavel IV has tackled this issue head-on, but will he have enough time? And our alliance with Foria-Lintelar-Olikzasia—especially our naval base in Viroeira and military attaché in Lintelar (editor’s note: this is referring to Lintelar’s capital of the same name)—tacitly obligates us to render aid, which means getting drawn into the conflict. Are we prepared?
Moreover, would that even benefit the Empire at all? But if our ally ends up in the blaze of war and we evacuate our base instead of actively supporting them, what will that show aside from weakness? When a fight breaks out, you can’t afford to show weakness, dear readers, because you risk not only defeat, but also drawing in vultures eager to finish you off. And as it just so happens, no fewer than four of them are lurking along the Empire’s northern reaches—not to mention the Principality of Taia, which is wholly controlled by Castilia and suffering from the depletion of its already meager Ertalain mines.
I may be—indeed, I would like to be—wrong, but something tells me, dear readers, that this winter’s Congress will determine how we live for the next ten years: in fear of the specter of a great naval war, or in peace and prosperity. And I dearly hope it will be the latter, but I suspect it would be wise to be prepared for the former as well. Both personally, and materially.”
Report prepared by
Senior Magister of Military-Historical Sciences
Nalim Movarsky.
Note:
The author’s opinion may not coincide with that of the editorial staff.”
“It’s rather unusual to see a young man of your standing engrossed in anything other than the news from Baliero, lovely women, or perhaps the Magical Boxing bulletins.”
Ardan looked up and saw Mark Erkerovsky. After breakfast, the Duke had changed from his casual suit into formal attire, which wasn’t all that different from his previous outfit, apart from not looking quite so opulent. It was an ordinary suit of lightweight fabric instead of wool (even Shamtur gets hot in the summer, after all), with simple buttons, but the same jeweled cufflinks as before.
“May I?” Mark gestured to the armchair next to Ardan.
“Of course.” Ardan folded the newspaper and set it aside.
The Duke rested his walking stick against the chair and lowered himself into it. He crossed his legs and placed his long, thin fingers together like a steeple on his knee.
“The Governor-General sends his apologies, and asked me to tell you to come see him in”—the Duke flicked up his wrist, and his presumably very expensive watch flashed—“in fifteen minutes.”
Mark was clearly in high spirits, which led Ardi to suspect that there’d been a favorable outcome from his hour-and-a-half conversation with Reish.
“I suspect, Ard, that your relationship with my daughter is rather complicated.”
Ardan nearly choked on nothing but air. Mark’s keen eyes simply glinted.
“Your reaction confirms my hunch…” Mark said, turning aside and, lounging back in the chair, gazing toward the window. “I suppose I paid very little attention to her upbringing. You see, my wife fell ill after childbirth. An infection entered her system—a physician’s error. And for many years, she slowly faded. We sustained her life as best we could, but... alas. It has been a few years since she passed. And... it was hard for me to see her in that state and, perhaps for that reason, I tried not to look. But in the process, I also failed to notice how my daughter was growing up—surrounded by nannies, servants, books, and a mother who was in constant pain. That’s probably why she was friends with Boris Fahtov for some time. He is now your friend, as I understand it. I still reprimand myself for making the mistake of following the crowd by cutting off all ties with that young lord after the incident, and forbidding Polina from having any contact with him.”
Ardan wasn’t surprised that Polina and Boris knew each other. Despite the Empire’s hundreds of millions of inhabitants, the aristocracy numbered barely over a thousand people—essentially a small town where everyone knew everyone.
“And perhaps it’s my fault that Polina became so thoroughly steeped, shall we say, in our family drama,” the Duke sighed, setting his hands on the brocade-upholstered armrests. “Just as I myself have been. You see, I try to keep as far away as possible from political games and Parliamentary affairs—not to mention the wrangling of nobles and magnates. I don’t want to repeat the mistake of my forebears, who got bogged down in all that and then became acquainted with your great-grandfather.”
Ardan involuntarily reached for his staff, but checked the impulse just in time. Mark didn’t seem the type to violate etiquette by causing trouble for a fellow guest—especially not the guest of the man whose daughter’s hand he had come to request.
“Your great-grandfather, along with the Dark Lord, almost destroyed my entire family, Ard. For nothing more than my forefathers’ refusal to stop interfering in the course of the civil war by financially supporting the Crown,” Mark said calmly, though Ardan could hear the uneven beating of the Duke’s heart. “And, as Aror always treated his enemies, he decorated the Dark Lord’s standards’ pikes with the heads of the Erkerovskys. Only one servant survived—she hid my several-times-great-grandfather in a basket of dirty laundry by the privy. A popular story in my family, by the way. It teaches us… Well, to be honest, I’m not sure what it teaches us.”
“I-” Ardan began.
Mark raised his hand, cutting Ardi off mid-word. “That happened over two centuries ago, Ard. To me, it’s just history. And honestly, before the unification of the principalities, tsardoms and kingdoms into the Empire, the aristocrats, nobles—any feudal lords, really—were slaughtering each other just as viciously as the Firstborn slaughtered them. It’s just that it happened five centuries ago instead of two, like in your family’s case, but…” The Duke glanced at his watch, then drew a small flask from his inner pocket, uncorked it, and took a swig. Ardan recognized the smell of a digestive remedy. “Vile stuff, but without it, I can’t, shall we say, properly... relieve myself. Anyway, to return to the subject at hand, I don’t blame your great-grandfather for the atrocities. I’m sure that he and the Dark Lord didn’t drape themselves with their enemies’ heads or flay people alive for no reason. One such gesture could chill the ambitions of dozens of wavering men, and thereby save hundreds, if not thousands, of lives. Or perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe it truly is just the echo of those terrible practices the Firstborn indulged in over thousands of years.”
Ardan stayed silent. He knew perfectly well that his great-grandfather hadn’t always been the slightly crazy, foul-mouthed yet gentle and caring old man Ardan remembered. No. Not at all. He had been Aror Egobar—a mighty Aean’Hane who’d spilled entire rivers of blood and left an indelible mark on the Empire’s history. The right hand of the Dark Lord. The real question was something else entirely. Namely:
“Why are you telling me this, Your Grace?”
Mark didn’t answer him immediately. Nor did he seem particularly eager to answer at all, as shown by his lips that pressed themselves into a thin line and the furrow of his brow.
“You and I will likely not see each other often, Ard. But I want my future children to have the chance to write to, or come and visit, their aunt.”
So Ardan hadn’t been wrong. Reish had indeed given Mark his approval.
“I will take Olesya to the Metropolis in mid-autumn,” the Duke continued. “And at the start of the next summer, the wedding will take place. And when a similar event happens for you and young Tess, then, in a certain sense—albeit very indirectly—your life path and mine will intersect. I’m sure His Imperial Majesty will be delighted. There’s no better way to support his initiative of uniting the Firstborn and Gales’ descendants than our own shining example.”
If Ardan hadn’t spent half a year in Milar’s company, he might have mistakenly thought that this was exactly why the Duke had courted Olesya: to earn the Emperor’s approval and, consequently, his backing. Only…
“Alas, I can’t evade it—even though I ostentatiously avoid participating in the Upper Chamber,” Mark added, confirming Ardan’s conjecture. Duke Erkerovsky truly was an apolitical figure; little interested him beyond ballet and a quiet, comfortable life.
“May I speak freely, Your Grace?”
Mark gave a permissive wave of his hand. Someone else might have found such a casual gesture rude, but after all, Ardan was conversing with a Duke. To Mark, who was Ard Egobar if not a passing stranger? He was like an ant crawling somewhere off in the distance—inconspicuous and inconsequential. It was just that this particular one had briefly and accidentally climbed onto his hat.
“Then why bother with all these complications regarding Olesya?”
“Because she dances beautifully, Ard. She has a figure like she was born for the grand ballet stage, and moreover…” Mark sighed, and his heartbeat settled a little. “She hasn’t been spoiled by the venom of high society. She has no malice, no envy, no inflated sense of self-importance, no unrealistic expectations. She’s young. And she’ll be able to shine on the stage for a few years—might even become a prima ballerina. But a prima’s career, professionally speaking, is very short,” the Duke ran his fingers along his cane, as if remembering something distant and deeply personal. “Three, maybe four years of starring roles, and that’s it. After that, she can bear me children. And before I reach old age, I’ll have the satisfaction of fulfilling my father’s final wish by not letting the Erkerovsky bloodline dissolve into the history of the Empire.”
Ardan did not bother asking why the Duke hadn’t chosen someone from the lesser nobility—surely there were some who would meet those criteria. No matter how he looked at it, picking Olesya seemed to Ardan a very targeted and specific choice. Of course, it had nothing to do with Aror or Ardan himself, because at the time the Duke had begun his courtship, he and Tess hadn’t even met yet.
Even so, the Duke didn’t strike him as a deceitful or two-faced man. He seemed more melancholic, a touch unhappy, and overly pensive—as if he were at once present here and somewhere else entirely, deep within his own thoughts. And if he were truly so concerned about securing a male heir, he wouldn’t have put the issue off for four whole years. Mark wasn’t an old man, but he was by no means young. With the average male life expectancy in the Empire being fifty-eight years, Duke Erkerovsky was playing with fire.
There was something else hidden here. Something…
Ardan’s eyes shifted to the Duke’s palms, which were covered in calluses—the kind left by fencing swords. And what was Reish Orman renowned for? His mastery with a saber. Could Reish and the Duke have known each other? Could Reish himself have introduced his daughter to an old acquaintance searching for a potential mother for his heirs? Only, Reish Orman wasn’t one to chase a profitable match, but... One only had to recall the trenches being dug day and night along the border. The newspaper headlines. And all those faint echoes of a conflict that was still distant, yet already ringing through the streets of Metropolis.
Could Reish Orman have been trying not only to secure a good future for his daughter, but also to ensure that she ended up as far from the border as possible and under dependable protection? The kind of protection where, if it came to it, he could send his other children there too—Shuma and Lubava. Someone else might have refused Reish’s request to shelter his wife’s little brother and sister, but not a man like Duke Mark Erkerovsky. On the contrary, if trouble came, he would likely be the first to offer to take the little ones in.
I’m on leave, Ardan reminded himself—he’d lost track of how many times he’d done this by now—and swiftly waved away his attempt to unravel a puzzle that had possibly already been solved.
“And yet I still don’t understand why you’re telling me all this, Your Grace.”
Mark once again fell silent. “Truth be told, I don’t know myself, Ard,” he eventually said, waving his fingers vaguely as he levered himself up with his cane. “Maybe I just feel like talking to someone who has no one to sell my words and thoughts to, or the desire to later use them against me. And that’s rare. Extremely rare… Or maybe… Maybe I’m trying to see a rational man in you, instead of the descendant of a bloodthirsty killer who wiped out my forebears and didn’t allow a single body to be buried. I don’t know, Ard. Honestly. Maybe it’s all of it at once.”
And with that, the Duke departed without a goodbye. Back straight, stride crisp, heart calm and steady. Ardi remained seated, staring at the newspaper. Somehow, after that conversation, everything written on those pages now presented itself to the young man in a completely different light—almost like that time, after Mart’s little speech, when a world that had existed only on the pages of textbooks had decided it was time to shake off the ink of the printing press and reveal itself in all its splendor. Except that, in this case, Ardan did not think there was anything splendid about trenches, the acrid reek of gunpowder, or parents’ anxiety for their children.
A bell rang from Reish’s office. Ardan rose, adjusted his suit, and, picking up his staff, stepped through the office door. At first glance, it was hard to tell it apart from the office of any ordinary clerk or manager at some enterprise: there was a solitary desk draped in green baize, a few chairs, a reading table, bookshelves, and an iron filing cabinet with labels affixed to its doors—labels that were now gray and faded with age. The only indication that this office belonged to a military man was an unusual map on the wall. Instead of provincial borders or railroad lines, it bore markings denoting trenches, pillboxes, fortifications, river crossings, and most importantly, all of it was on the Fatian side, not the Empire’s. It was likely that the Empire’s own map of such fortifications was so highly classified that even a Governor-General wasn’t permitted to hang it in his personal office.
Reish himself sat behind his desk amid a heap of assorted papers, wearing his uniform and fixing Ardan with a stern, piercing gaze. “Sit down, Ard,” the General said, indicating the chair in front of his desk—an exact duplicate of the ones flanking the glass table in the antechamber.
Ardan propped his staff against the back of the chair and settled into the unexpectedly stiff seat. Reish finished scrawling his signature on a document and, laying his pen aside and closing the inkwell, removed his thin-framed spectacles.
“Ard…” It seemed like he was about to say something more, but instead, he simply sighed and shook his head. For a moment, silence hung in the office. But Ardi didn’t need to hear anything else to know that Reish Orman did not approve of his eldest daughter’s choice. And he most likely would have never consented to the engagement were it not for a whole host of factors.
“It would have been more proper for me to refuse you, young man,” Reish said plainly, leaning back in his chair. His sharp-featured face looked slightly sunken, and his gaze grew dull—not from fatigue, but because the General was lost in his own thoughts. “You will break her heart.”
“General Orman, with all due respect, I-”
“You love her,” the General interrupted him. “Believe me, Ard, that fact is obvious to anyone who spends more than a minute around you two. You sincerely love my daughter, and she loves you.”
Ardan was a bit nonplussed. “Then I don’t understand.”
“And you won’t,” Reish said with a slight shrug, and, much like Tess (or rather, she was like him), he pushed back the curly red locks creeping over his face. Apparently, his pomade wasn’t holding. “At your age, you can’t understand, young man. But when you grow older, you’ll see that sometimes, life is ironic in its choice of tragedies. Some people spend their entire lives searching for someone to look at them the way you and Tess look at each other. And that’s the simple, familiar drama. But other times, Ard, people do find each other, only to realize that love alone isn’t enough. And that is terrifying. Because nothing can be done. There is no way to make it right. And a heart broken by the knowledge that love alone is not enough for a life together cannot be healed or repaired.”
Ardan carefully chose his next words. Not because he couldn’t be with Tess without her father’s permission. Not at all. Such laws had been repealed even before the Dark Lord’s uprising, abolishing the need for a girl to have her father’s written consent to wed her husband. The tradition remained, but nothing more. However, Tess loved her family, and Ardan didn’t want to force her to choose between them. That would be cruel and dishonorable.
“General Orman, I understand that I’m poor and that, besides my rank as a junior officer of the Second Chancery and my studies at the Grand, I have nothing to my name, but I assure you I have a plan to improve my financial standing,” Ardan said, even opening his grimoire to the page where he had laid out, in painstaking detail, which steps he intended to take, in what order, and in what timeframe. “I can assure you, General Orman, that even in the worst-case scenario, all other things being equal, I can move with Tess right after the wedding. We won’t even be near that apartment on 23 Markov Canal, and instead, we’ll find a place that has nothing to do... with a certain group of orcs and...”
Reish smiled. Not with malice, but without much joy, either. It was the kind of smile worn by someone standing at the edge of a cliff knowing he’ll have to jump, that no matter how much he struggled… he’d still have to jump. It was just that knowing it didn’t make him any more willing.
“I don’t doubt, Ard, that you have a good head on your shoulders and that you can provide my daughter with a decent standard of living,” Reish said, sitting upright and glancing at Ardi’s staff, then at his upper lip—which the young man always held taut to hide his inhuman fangs. “Just as I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to protect my daughter.”
Ardan promptly closed his mouth, abandoning the rest of his argument.
“I’m not talking about money, Ard, but about what kind of man you are… Matabar… an Imperial with Firstborn heritage, or whatever the legally correct term for half-bloods is,” Reish said, pulling out a drawer and taking out a small comma-shaped smoking pipe. Its lacquer was peeling, and a flattened lead bullet was lodged in its bowl. That pipe no doubt had a rather interesting story of its own. “I’ve seen people with eyes like yours, Ard. And I don’t mean their color, of course. I mean what’s hidden behind them.”
Ardan, as he had done with the Duke, remained silent.
“People like that never stay in one place, Ard,” Reish went on, packing his pipe with Kargaam tobacco. Ardi had learned to tell those leaves by their color and smell thanks to Milar. “Whether by their own will or the winds of fate… Well, think about it: you’re a Corporal of the Second Chancery. The descendant of Aror Egobar. You’re acquainted with the Emperor and you work for the Colonel. You study at the Grand, duel with Great Princes, and the Face of Light knows what else goes on in your life beyond what the public hears. Do you think that’s normal?”
The voice of Arthur Belsky—better known as the Dandy— echoed in Ardan’s mind, spoken in that concert hall: “And you think you’re not strange?” At the time, Ardi hadn’t grasped what the Dandy had meant. But now, seeing it from Reish’s perspective... yes. Ardan’s life could be called many things, even akin to his great-grandfather’s fanciful stories, but never “normal”—not even by Star Mage standards.
“If you’re lucky, you won’t die and my daughter won’t have to bury you, becoming a widow before her first hairs turn gray,” the General said, opening a window to let in the warm midday air. “And if you’re unlucky, then at some point—maybe in five years, maybe ten—you’ll realize that the two of you are completely different people. Or rather, that you have become completely different people. And you’ll regret your decision.”
Ardan instinctively wanted to grasp his staff—as he’d done in his childhood when he would touch his parents’ bed frame— in order to find some peace and courage for his suddenly rebellious heart in that oak branch.
“As I’ve already said, General Orman, with all due respect, even the predictions of the wisest Aean’Hane are nothing more than myths and legends. No one can truly see the future.”
“See it—no,” Reish conceded, lighting his pipe. “Predict it based on life experience… I trust you won’t deny that my life experience is far broader and deeper than yours.”
“Of course. It would be foolish to deny that.”
They fell silent. Reish puffed on his pipe while Ardan stared out the open window. Cherry trees were swaying in the garden. In Delpas, his mother was probably already boiling a delicious, sweet compote. Ardi couldn’t drink too much of it, otherwise his stomach would react just as it did to eating beef or pork (cherries didn’t grow in the Alcade), but he could indulge at least a little… He used these thoughts to distract himself from what Reish had said. From those words, and from the memories of his father—who also couldn’t be called “normal”—and of his mother. And of how their story had ended.
“I would suggest that you withdraw, Ard,” Reish said, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “We could concoct something more succinct and plausible than your last plan, but... you won’t withdraw, will you?”
“I won’t,” Ardan answered firmly.
Reish turned to the young man asking for his daughter’s hand and met those amber eyes. “Allow me to ask—why?”
The image of a snow leopard battling a lightning bolt that was lashing at it, steadfastly withstanding the fury of a mountain storm in winter, arose in Ardan’s mind. It was a battle the leopard could not win, and so all it could do was die. But it would die on its own terms, not by yielding to the mercy of nature or to anyone else who might come for it in its fateful hour. Milar would have called such an attitude romantic and youthful idealism. But Ardi knew that on the hunters’ paths, one could not survive if they did anything else.
“So that if your words prove true, General Orman, and one day, I do run out of luck… then at least I won’t regret anything,” Ardan answered honestly, without resorting to Skusty’s art. “And I am more than sure that you’re having this conversation with me only because you failed to persuade Tess. You probably told her exactly the same thing—well, with minor variations. And I’m just as sure that she gave you the same answer: that she doesn’t want to live with any regrets.”
Reish closed his eyes and shook his head. “Investigator…” He grumbled. Then he straightened and picked up a calendar.
“What date do you propose?”
“The Festival of Light, early next year.”
Reish nodded. “Location?”
“The Church of the Face of Light in Baliero. Tess likes it—it’s at the intersection of Second Street and Musician’s Street.”
The General lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “A church? Have you been presented to the Light?”
Being “Presented to the Light, Given to the Light, Illumination…” These were a few different terms that all described the same ritual: an infant being placed into a box with a burning candle for just a moment. In the faith of the Face of Light, this was how the deity would touch His child and protect them from evil and darkness.
“No, but Tess wanted a wedding according to the rites of Gales. I have nothing against it.”
“And what about Matabar traditions?”
“You yourself pointed out that I’m a half-blood,” Ardan said with a shrug. “Half my blood is Galessian, and besides, the Matabar have almost no sanctuaries left that would be suitable for such a ceremony.”
“Almost?” Reish echoed.
Ardan recalled the Mountain of Memory, or rather, Atta’nha’s hut—the last refuge of the memory of the mountain folk who had vanished from the pages of history.
“You can’t exactly invite guests there,” Ardan answered, employing the squirrel’s art after all. Reish was neither a stupid nor a rude man, so he simply nodded and shifted the topic.
“You have my blessing, young man, and my permission to take my daughter with you—but don’t think I’m pleased about it. And don’t think I won’t try to see that she comes back,” the General said, closing the calendar and breathing out a plume of smoke. “As I already stated, you have half a year to find a more suitable residence. And also, since you yourself brought up improving your dire financial situation, I’m giving you exactly one year to furnish me with a bank statement showing an account holding no less than seven hundred exes. And I should add: that means liquid funds—money you could withdraw and spend at any moment.”
Seven hundred exes. Another person might’ve assumed that the Governor-General simply didn’t want his daughter marrying a poor student, but that wasn’t it. Reish Orman was not a man who placed material wealth above all else. On the other hand, given what Duke Erkerovsky had told him recently, the amount he’d named could have a very different significance. For instance, that could be how much it would cost to get Tess to the Azure Sea and give her a few years of peace and, in some respects, even comfort. In other words: seven hundred exes was enough to ride out a war, should an emergency arise.
“Is the border really that dire?” Ardan couldn’t restrain his perpetual curiosity.
Reish sputtered on his smoke and looked at Ardi… a bit differently than he had just moments before. “Eternal Angels, Ard, it’s one thing to know you’re an investigator, but it’s quite another to see you don’t even bother hiding it,” the General said, waving the smoke away from his face. “It’s nothing that should concern a young fellow.”
“What about a Star Mage and a Second Chancery Corporal?”
“You can inquire with your superiors,” the General countered smoothly. “And since I presume that our discussion about someone dear to both of us has concluded, you should take Tess for a walk around the city. I doubt you’ll be visiting us again anytime soon.”
“Yes, of cour-” Ardan began, but he was cut off by the sudden clatter of bootheels and the door flying open. In the doorway stood a man… dressed in black.
“Captain Mokretsky?” Reish, who was clearly surprised, said, half as a question, half as a greeting.
“Governor, sir,” Ardan’s colleague panted. “According to the Daggers’ reports, a group of Fatian saboteurs composed of Firstborn may be slipping into the city.”
“Send out four interception teams and get word to all watch unit commanders to tighten patrols. I’ll send an order right now for a few thousand reinforcements,” Reish said, pulling a blank order form from his drawer. “And keep the border searchlights going with no halt.”
“I wasn’t finished,” the Cloak continued once he’d caught his breath. “There’s an Aean’Hane with them.”
A heavy silence fell over the office. Ardan was the first to break it. He had found himself using this word rather often of late.
“Ahgrat,” he muttered.
Comments
Takttiger
And I love it!
vetsin
Falling from one fight into another, all the time, it seems
Ruan Labuschagne
Time for Ardi to give the enemy speaker a nice talking to 😎
