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Matabar. Chapter 99 - A few thoughts
🕑 Added 2025-05-01 23:01:02 +0000 UTC“I’m not so sure that this is a good idea, Magister.”
“Do you have a better one, Milar?”
“Not at the moment.” The captain, for what felt like the hundredth time, grimly reread the invitation.
They were sitting in an Eltir café. It wasn’t the same one Milar had first brought Ardan to several months ago, but a different one near the Dawn Garden.
From the café’s windows — which looked no different than the ones at its sister establishment from the outside or the inside — one could gaze out at Dawn Street.
That street branched off the wide Niewa Avenue, a colorful ribbon arcing away toward the Niewa, and yet, before merging in a warm embrace with the Niewa Embankment, it grazed — just barely — the garden.
Or rather, it was now a park. It wasn’t very large, relatively speaking, just a few city blocks, but it was far more impressive in terms of its beauty than one might suspect while looking at it from the outside. At a glance, peering behind the tall wrought-iron fence — its bars forged by hammer and anvil into the shape of spears thrust toward the sky — one could see only a dense row of maples, birches and larches. Beyond them, nothing else was visible. Only the occasional glimpse between the trees hinted that something more lay within.
Somewhere among all this foliage, pathways paved with white stone wound their way through, cordoned off from the trimmed, velvety lawns by slender iron edging. The paths intersected and crisscrossed, forming the outlines of a complex maze in which the arches of living hedges served as landmarks. Ivy and a special, non-fruiting “grapevine” had twisted themselves into knotted patterns over the wooden and iron trellises, while the pathways ran on.
They led deeper, toward little enclaves hidden behind neatly-manicured shrubs. There, on benches situated beneath awnings, one could pause for a moment, step away from the capital’s bustle, and admire the fountains that were so delicate and airy. They were just as delicate as the statues made from white marble, the eternal companions to those who visited the Dawn Garden. And if you ventured a bit farther, you really could stumble upon a maze made up of those same shrubs, only this time, they’d be three meters high.
There was even an old urban legend about it, a romantic myth: if you walked through the maze with your eyes blindfolded by black silk and found the center — where a small fountain with a weeping angel stood — then, upon opening your eyes, the first face you saw would undoubtedly belong to the person with whom you’d start a family.
Needless to say, in springtime, the park was often visited by the young and in love.
“What are you thinking about?” Milar asked, sipping his coffee.
Ardi, in turn, was warming his hands against a cup of fragrant, amber-hued Kargaam tea. Lately, the young man had come to love this particular blend of herbs, which had barely-perceptible notes of jasmine, lavender, thyme, and something else besides — some plant Ardi didn’t know about. He suspected that he’d never be able to find out its name, as it would likely require a trip to the eastern continent.
It seemed unlikely that he’d ever get a chance to see those far-off lands…
“Kargaam,” he replied.
“Kargaam?”
Ardi nodded.
“May I ask, Magister, why you’re thinking about Kargaam right now, when we seem to have acquired the first real breakthrough in our case in months?” Milar rapped his fingers demonstratively against the invitation — the one they had received from the Ragman.
Along with…
Ardi twirled the ribbon between his fingers. It was a simple, yellow silk ribbon.
A few days earlier
After leaving instructions with the forensics team and the other mental laborers of the Second Chancery, Ardan and Milar — both bandaged and far from cheerful — got into the car and headed back toward the Central District.
The nighttime of the city greeted them just as it would any other citizen lost in the capital’s streets that was hurrying home — or perhaps, like the two partners, was dealing with urgent matters. They sped along amidst other cars, halted at intersections waiting for the green light, then pressed on again. Milar smoked and occasionally took a swig from a flask containing a sharp-smelling, piquant liquid. It wasn’t whiskey, but something else. It seemed less potent, though far more pungent.
Ardi, as usual, had rested his forehead against the window and was watching the glow of the high-rises and skyscrapers slip by. The closer they came to the Crookedwater Canal, the lower the buildings became, the narrower the streets and avenues got, and the fewer pedestrians could be seen on the sidewalks.
Although not as effective as before (the invigorating concoctions had taken their toll), his Matabar blood was doing its work, healing the few wounds Ardi had sustained. He could feel the cuts closing beneath a tight, scabbing crust, pulling his skin into a rudimentary scar, while his bruises faded, allowing his muscles to breathe in revitalizing oxygen and nutrients.
“I envy you,” Milar muttered, wincing as he touched the bandage on his neck. One of the demon dolls’ claw strikes had landed there — and had the captain been just a bit less agile, or his saber any slower or duller, the man’s children would have become orphans, and his wife a widow. “All it takes is some sleep and a meal, and you’re as good as new.”
Ardan remained silent. Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for all the months he’d spent guzzling various concoctions meant to purge the Ley from his system to speed up his metabolism, the captain’s remark wouldn’t have been that far off.
He recalled an incident from his youth, at Polskih’s farm. Back then, he’d been so lost in thought about another experiment he’d devised thanks to Nicholas-the-Stranger’s book that he’d wandered behind the barn where the cowboys liked to entertain themselves by shooting cans — and betting, of course, sometimes for stakes as high as twenty-five kso.
One bullet had grazed Ardan’s shoulder, nearly sparking a brawl. The startled cowboy had accused Ardi of being scatterbrained and not watching where he was going, and Ardi hadn’t been too pleased about his torn shirt and the fact that he’d come within a whisker of the paths of the Sleeping Spirits.
They were eventually pulled apart. Later, Ardan had admitted that he’d been the one in the wrong — everyone knew that was no place to stroll around with your head in the clouds — while the cowboy had apologized for focusing too hard on the targets and the money. The scratch, a fairly deep one, had vanished a mere week and a half later.
To stave off infection, Ardan had boiled a few roots with herbs, ground everything in a mortar, packed the resulting paste into the wound, and wrapped it tightly with a bandage — he hadn’t wanted anyone to worry. That had happened back in Evergale, at the foot of the very same Alcade mountains he called home.
“After the events at Irigov’s estate, they healed just as quickly,” Ardan muttered suddenly.
Milar, who was too preoccupied with trying to slip between two trams, let the comment sail into one ear and out the other. Ardi once again clenched and unclenched his fist like he’d done back at the Stronghold.
He could sense that, despite the exhaustion brought on by all those invigorating brews, he was still closer to the strength he’d had back in his native mountains than what he’d wielded in the steppes.
It was an absurd paradox.
By all rights, his Matabar blood’s regenerative power should have dropped to nearly human levels (again, thanks to the infusions), along with his other physical abilities.
And yet…
“We’re almost there,” the captain reminded him.
Ardan looked out the window. Indeed, the towering buildings of glass, concrete and steel were giving way to the graceful, low-rise, multicolored edifices of the Central District.
He shook out his hand and sighed, thinking, That’s tomorrow’s problem.
Like last time, they turned off the avenue and into the tangle of narrow streets at the heart of the Central District, where there was no clear division between sidewalk and roadway.
Fortunately, at this hour, the streets were nearly empty — there were just a few anxious sparrows, puffed-up pigeons, and the occasional crow flitting about. Skirting the curbs for a while, they stopped by a flowerbed.
Milar took a swig from his flask, wiped his mouth with the torn hem of his coat, and, huffing as he braced himself on the doorframe, stepped out. He had his saber on his hip and his revolver in an unfastened holster. Ardan, given how deserted the thoroughfares were at this hour, simply followed him in silence. He wouldn’t be much help anyway.
“Come summertime, I need to give her a fresh coat of paint,” Milar said affectionately, patting the roof of his Derks. Its paint was peeling off in layers, not unlike a puff pastry.
He smiled at the vehicle the way one might at a beloved pet, then turned toward a shaky, badly-in-need-of-repair awning. He descended the steps toward a door leading to a pseudo-basement floor, paused for a moment, and glanced back at Ardan.
“How are you feeling?”
“In what sense?”
“If something goes down…” Milar tapped the hilt of his saber.
“I can manage one spell.”
“What about…?”
“The Weeper broke all my accumulators.”
All color drained from the captain’s face.
“You do realize that’s government property, right?” Evidently, the fact that Ardi had lost all of his accumulators was stressing Milar out more than their long, exhausting evening with the demon and the Ragman. “We’ll have to file a report on each one. And an explanation. Then submit a request to Dagdag for replacements and… Eternal Angels… I’ll practically become a scribe, Magister. You know what? Let’s just say that those scribbles you put down after the Menagerie fiasco were your first, ill-fated attempt. That’s it. It’s done. You’re filling out all your own paperwork from now on. I haven’t written that much since the academy-”
“Would you like some tea, perhaps?” Someone asked from inside. “Or will you just keep shouting out there? People live in this building, you know.”
Milar ground his teeth and opened the door, stepping in first. They saw the same shelves, the same chalkboard, and — by the looks of it — the same young man, still busily repairing, or pretending to repair, the same shoe. Or perhaps he was not so young.
Mutations had widely varied effects, after all. Ardan knew that in the case of people like Yonatan and Miss Tantov, for instance, those changes had heightened their strength to the level of orcs, granted them the elves’ speed and agility, and even given them ogre-like regenerative powers.
The cost of such changes, of course, remained open to speculation.
What exactly had been altered about this mysterious assistant? Who could say?
“How hospitable of you,” Milar said through clenched teeth as he stepped up to the counter.
The “shoemaker” regarded the captain as if he were of no consequence at all — an event hardly worth acknowledging. Instead of replying, the young man simply set a tin of shoe polish down on the counter.
“Are you suggesting that I polish my shoes?”
“I’m suggesting that you ought to rub it on your face, Investigator, because the way you look right now leaves a lot to be desired,” the assistant responded without taking his eyes off the awl and the shoe.
Milar’s teeth clenched again; he reached for his saber’s hilt, but Ardi beat him to it.
“Good evening… Mr.?”
“Marenir,” the young man said after a moment’s pause, clearly inventing a name on the spot.
“Like in the old fairy tale?”
“Sure, like in a fairy tale,” the shoemaker replied curtly. “You came to see the Ragman?”
“Is there another option?” The captain interjected.
“The shoe polish is right in front of you,” Marenir replied with a shrug. “So that’s for you to decide, Investigator.”
“I swear I-”
Ardi grabbed Milar by the shoulder. If this had been any other day, the captain could have easily bested the shoemaker in a duel of caustic remarks. But not after the Weeper… and especially not after what that demon had shown the captain. Ardi hadn’t asked what sort of vision had made Milar shoot at his own partner, and honestly, he didn’t feel like he had the right to do so.
“Yes, we’re here to see the Ragman,” Ardi answered him calmly.
“Then be my guest, Mr. Egobar.”
And with a quick flick of the beads of an abacus, a section of the shelving that was lined with shoes slid aside, revealing the way into the next room.
“Thank you,” Ardi said, stepping into the passage.
Milar, after shooting the man a look brimming with displeasure and animosity, followed. The latter paid him no more heed, too absorbed in his task.
“Why are you being so polite to him?” Milar whispered once the “door” had closed behind them.
Ardi was about to answer him but wasn’t fast enough. They’d already entered the junk shop: rows upon rows of artifacts, trinkets, and everyday items from various eras were displayed beneath cloudy, Ley-shielded glass domes.
Overhead, Ley-lamps glowed, and behind the counter, sitting on a stool, was the shop’s owner.
He’d traded his suit… for pajamas. Simple fabric pajamas in a yellow hue, embroidered with green thread in the shape of bunnies. Instead of a top hat, a nightcap was perched on his head, exposing a wide bald spot. He also wore leather slippers, and his once flamboyant mustache now drooped and sagged. He must have used a special cream each morning to coax the hairs into shape.
And yet, that mocking gleam in his otter-like face had not changed.
“Because one must always be polite to the one who stands guard at the gates, my dear Investigator,” the Ragman explained with a faint hint of irony. And, like last time, he immediately lost all interest in the captain, turning instead to Ardi. “Mr. Egobar. May I humbly inquire if your visit to my dear friend was fruitful?”
Ardan could practically feel the tension radiating from Milar, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the captain repeatedly touching his revolver, freezing, pulling his hand away, then reaching for it again.
The Ragman, like the shoemaker, gave no indication of noticing any of it.
“We… dealt with the phenomena troubling your acquaintance, Mr. Ragman.”
A strange smile tugged at the odd man’s face. It was as though Ardi were being watched by a grinning predator, happy its prey had strolled right into its den. And yet, at the same time, there was a hint of something benign — like a gentle, somewhat foolish baker smiling over fresh loaves of bread. Soft and welcoming.
Ardi kept trying to decide which of these two natures he was really seeing — baker or predator — but he always circled back to the same conclusion.
He was simply the Ragman. Just as he was.
Which made him very dangerous. Possibly only a fraction less dangerous than the Colonel. He was certainly more threatening than Yonatan or Cassara.
“Well then, as promised, Mr. Egobar, here is the first part of my gratitude,” the Ragman said, clapping his bare hands together.
Ardi couldn’t help but notice the gruesome scars — the chemical burns that marred the Ragman’s skin. In places, it was wrinkled like damp paper on the verge of tearing; elsewhere, it was raised and bubbling, reminiscent of aspen bark. And the entire time, the surface of his skin seemed to pulsate, as if a little heart was beating underneath it, sliced lengthwise from wrist to fingertip.
The Ragman noticed what Ardi was looking at.
“A souvenir from a careless youth, Mr. Egobar,” he said with a dismissive shrug and that same carefree smile, though this time, Ardi caught a flicker of regret in his expression. “But we’re not here tonight to discuss me, are we?”
Crack-crack-crack.
Clattering awkwardly and jerking from side to side toward Milar and Ardi, a… doll approached them. It was about the size of a six-year-old child, lacquered all over, with its “face” painted in oils to resemble a little girl’s: rosy cheeks, a small nose, huge, white eyes. It wore a red dress with blue polka dots and a pair of shiny shoes tapping against the floor under the Ley-lamps’ glow.
“Eternal Angels!” Milar exclaimed, drawing his revolver. Cocking the hammer, he pointed the barrel first at the doll, then at the Ragman, and back again. “Damn it, I knew it! I knew you were behind-”
“Milar,” Ardi whispered, carefully pushing the revolver’s barrel down. “It’s just a doll, partner. Only a doll.”
The captain gritted his teeth, flashed him a furious glare, swore under his breath, and then, grudgingly, holstered his gun.
“I could ask what prompted your comrade’s reaction,” the Ragman said mildly, “but I’m afraid I’ve long since stopped enjoying scary bedtime stories. And I won’t start now, in the middle of the night.” His tone was oddly theatrical, making it hard to gauge whether he was being sincere or mocking. “Raini, if you would, please give our guest his well-earned reward.”
A moment later, Ardi regretted the fact that he’d stopped Milar from keeping his revolver trained on the thing. And the captain himself seemed just as unsettled — looking much like Ardi did whenever he set foot in an elevator.
Milar had gone white as a sheet, a thin film of sweat beading on his forehead, his body as tense and stiff as… well, as the wooden doll now speaking to them.
“G-g-g-u-e-s-s-t,” it chattered, its jaw moving like a nutcracker’s as it swayed on its ball-jointed limbs. It approached Ardi with a halting gait and held up its petite, lacquered fingers, holding a yellow ribbon out toward him. “R-r-re-w-w-ward.”
“Thank you,” Ardi said after a moment’s hesitation.
“Y-y-y-ou’re w-w-wel-l-come,” the doll clacked, then turned — clack, clack, clack — shuffling away into the half-lit recesses of the shop.
“And so, Mr. Egobar,” the Ragman continued, “now that you have in your possession the last item crafted by Mistress Shearaenliee before your great-grandfather-”
“Killed her?” Ardan interjected.
“Killed her? What?” The Ragman blinked theatrically. “Aror Egobar did not kill everyone who tried to hinder the Dark Lord from gathering his army of Firstborn. For instance, Shearaenlie — who had access to the Palace of the Kings of the Past because she was a tailor for the heir apparent — he… turned into an ice sculpture. I’ve heard rumors that she remains there to this very day, though that may be just hearsay.”
Ardan sighed and tucked the ribbon into his pocket. His first instinct had been to toss it on the floor, but he’d resisted it. Not because he feared the Ragman, but because — well, what would be the point? It would be foolish.
“You said you’d answer one of my questions.”
“Naturally, my dear Mr. Egobar. And I shall, of course,” he replied in his usual manner, with the same smile. “But keep in mind that you have just one question, so choose carefully, and-”
“Pardon me for cutting you off, sir, but as you’ve pointed out, it’s the middle of the night, and as you also rightly said, we’re not in the mood for bedtime stories,” Ardan interrupted, stepping up to the counter. “I need your invitation to the auction.”
Milar choked back a gasp, but the Ragman didn’t even blink.
“Mr. E-”
“Corporal Egobar, Third-Rank Investigator of the Second Chancery,” Ardan stated, pulling out his papers from an inner pocket and plunking them on the counter. “You’re no fairy-tale merchant offering a traveler a magical sword for a pittance and a kind word, Mr. Ragman. We’re not living in a storybook. And moreover, the captain and I aren’t your henchmen. We made a deal: a service for a service.”
“We-”
“A service. For. A service.” Ardan repeated firmly, leaving no room for the Ragman to finish that sentence.
Perhaps he’d regret this exchange someday — perhaps the way he had treated this strange man would come back to bite him. But…
He wasn’t a puppet.
He wasn’t made of wood or steel. Demons, gangs, conspiracies, killers, anomalies, and the fact that he had no idea about what he should do regarding Milar’s speculation about Tess — it was all wearing on his nerves. Like Milar, if they had come here in the morning, after a bit of sleep, maybe he wouldn’t have snapped. But…
“Well, then. You are indeed Aror’s descendant,” the Ragman said, spreading his hands out as if it didn’t bother him in the slightest. As casually as before, he opened a drawer in the counter and pulled out an invitation from its dark recesses.
It was just as Ardi had suspected all along.
There was only one reason the Spiders would need to gather so much money: to purchase the artifacts required for something that Senior Magister Paarlax had described in his stolen research. That had to be why they’d visited the Ragman. Either they hadn’t found what they needed here, or they hadn’t managed to get close enough.
There was also no point in asking him who’d come or why. The Spiders could have used a go-between, or the Ragman could lie, or a dozen other things could happen. Only one course remained:
Take the ticket.
How had Ardi been so sure that the auction existed, and that the Ragman had an invitation to it?
When you spot a pattern in a problem with multiple unknowns, sometimes you can guess the boundaries before figuring out the exact solution.
“The ticket is yours, Mr. Corporal,” the Ragman said, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. “And I do hope this rather awkward moment will not be our final exchange. I believe we could still be of great use to one another. Maybe not right now, but in the future. And — call it a baseless hunch — I dare say that future might be nearer than we think.”
“Good night,” Ardan said curtly. He touched the brim of his hat, pocketing the ticket.
“Good night,” came the voice from behind him.
It was soft and easy, free of any hint of mockery, and yet, at the same time, it was sharp and profound — like the sudden sting of a knife.
***
“You shouldn’t have treated him that way,” Milar remarked, sliding the ticket forward across the table.
“Really?” Ardi tore his gaze from the Dawn Garden and returned to their conversation — and to his tea. “Weren’t you the one complaining, Captain, that the Second Chancery hasn’t been able to do anything about the Ragman for so long?”
“That’s precisely why we can’t, Magister,” Milar answered. “The Ragman is needed for something, by someone. And he has patrons. And debtors.” Milar mulled something over, then added, “In fact, I’d wager he has more debtors than patrons. And thanks to us, he’s just gained one more.”
Ardan, instead of responding or continuing to discuss the Ragman, took the ticket.
The paper was thick — almost a full millimeter — and felt more like high-quality cardstock. The kind printers usually set aside for holiday pamphlets, theater programs, or certificates. Ardi knew this because, back in his first semester at the General Studies Faculty, he’d studied alongside the daughter of a printing house owner — small-time, perhaps, but still in the capital.
Embossed in gold, with glittering, violet ink that shimmered in the light — handwritten ink, not the typical printing press kind — the invitation read:
“We are honored to invite you, Mr. Unknown.
On the twentieth day of the Month of the Dance.
To a private auction in celebration of spring’s end.
And in honor of humankind’s dream of flight fulfilled.
What once belonged solely to the Firstborn
Is now ours as well.
60.1722/30.0050
An hour before midnight
This invitation is valid for one person only.”
“Thank you,” Milar said when the waiter, who was young, not much older than Ardan himself, brought the captain some carrot soup and a few bruschettas. “While you, Magister, were idling away at the Grand, I found out everything I could.”
Ardan let the remark about his university slide.
“Those numbers at the bottom are coordinates,” Milar went on. He peeled off the dried meat from one of the bruschettas and, while chewing on it, dunked the bread into his soup. “It’s north along the bay. There’s an old testing ground there for artillery.”
“An… unusual place to hold an auction,” Ardan remarked, right as his own order arrived — pheasant with pinecones and a glass of cranberry cordial.
“Look here,” Milar said, pointing to the fourth line. “See? ‘In honor of… blah, blah, blah… humankind’s dream of flight.’”
“And?”
“Exactly that — ‘and.’” Milar bit into his bread and leaned back in his chair. “You and I were only slightly off when we guessed that the Spiders might strike during the dirigible’s test flight.”
Ardan frowned.
“Milar, I’m not following.”
The captain closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, like a man savoring some magical dish said to grant eternal youth and beauty.
“What are you doing?”
“Savoring the moment, Magister. That fleeting instant when I’m not the only one who’s clueless — you are, too.”
Ardan smirked and, out of habit, cracked his knuckles before taking up his fork. The food at the “Eltir” was obviously worse than at the Grand or “Bruce’s,” but the fact that he got to eat here free of charge was enough to nudge its standing closer to that of the city’s best restaurants… Which, truth be told, he’d never actually visited.
“Development and research,” Milar began to list, all the while dipping more bread into his soup. “Hiring engineers, building design bureaus, sourcing materials, paying out salaries, insurance, setting up facilities — on and on it goes. All of that, Ard, went on for nearly twenty-five years, with test flights, prototypes, and so on.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is this: when the previous Emperor fell ill, and His Imperial Majesty Pavel rallied his own supporters in Parliament, the Crown started funneling most of its income toward public needs,” Milar spread his hands wide. “Look at you — aren’t you the perfect example of our new economy? Did you go to a public school? You did. And are you now studying at the Grand on the Crown’s dime? Yes. And your mother draws a fine pension, doesn’t she? Now multiply that by four hundred million people, then factor in tax breaks, transport reforms, and — most critically — the army.”
Ardan grasped the general idea. While it was true that, at the Grand, unlike how it was done at other universities, they studied only subjects directly or indirectly tied to Star Magic, even his basic knowledge allowed him to see Milar’s point.
“So the dirigibles are like the underground tram lines?” Ardi asked, crunching a pinecone between his teeth.
Milar grimaced.
“Eternal Angels, Ard — how can you eat that stuff?”
“It’s tasty,” Ardan shrugged. “You want to try?”
“I’ll pass,” the captain shook his head, leaning away before returning to the matter at hand. “But yes, Magister. Together with the Crown, several private investors also contributed to the dirigible project. Care to guess which ones?”
The answer was staring him right in the face.
“Trevor Man and Tarik Le’mrity.”
“Exactly, Ard,” Milar said, wiping his fingers on a napkin and reaching for his bitter coffee. “Except I said several, not just two. Guess who else invested?”
Ardan mulled it over. It was becoming clear that the Spiders — like their namesake — had woven a wide web that had ensnared more than a few unwary victims.
Who was the third?
“Ens Otarsky?” Ardan proposed. “Owner of the First Transport Corporation?”
The captain snapped his fingers.
“You’re a terrible shot, partner, but this time, you hit the bullseye,” Milar said, pulling a small folder out of his everyday satchel. “Now watch how it all lines up. The first thing we encountered was Baliero. On the surface, not such a big deal — an artifact, demons, that kind of business. Remember?”
“I doubt I’ll ever forget it.”
“Fair. And now, guess who wanted that land if the Crown ended up auctioning the property? Take a stab at it. You’ve got a one-in-three chance.”
Ardan hesitated.
“Trevor Man?”
“A logical guess, but no,” Milar’s grin only widened. “I’d have thought so, too — Star Magic, an artifact out of Makingia… it all sounds right up his alley.”
Ardan didn’t bother pointing out that there was nothing inherently ‘right up his alley’ in any of that.
“Otarsky was the one vying for that land,” Milar went on. “He wanted to build something there. Fifth Street is near the docks, after all. Then there’s also this: they were transporting Trevor Man’s artifact in Otarsky’s train, and that same train got hijacked. And before that, if we look at it chronologically, the Stronghold got infected by a demon — and don’t tell me I picked the wrong term.”
“Let’s suppose that all fits.”
“After that, we had the Menagerie, and now, voilà — an auction where all the aforementioned gentlemen will gather to celebrate the successful test flight of the dirigible and the start of mass production for both civilian and military models.”
Ardan closed his eyes, pondering all of this for a moment.
“I can’t find a good answer, Milar,” he admitted with a slow exhale. “If the Spiders just wanted to eliminate or revenge themselves on — or do anything at all to — Le’mrity, Man and Otarsky, they wouldn’t have gone about it with all these elaborate schemes. And it definitely doesn’t connect to Senior Magister Paarlax.”
“Exactly!” Milar exclaimed, only to lower his voice when the other patrons of the “Eltir” — each wearing a black cloak and a dour expression — turned to look at him. “None of it lines up, partner. If it was about revenge, why bother with the artifacts? If they wanted a piece of any of these three fat pies, again — what do foreign passengers on the train have to do with it? Or if it’s something so messy that it spans all three fronts, then… what’s the connection to Indgar, the Hammers, and the Jackets? Or have you forgotten them?”
Ardi recalled the Star-born werewolf.
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said curtly.
“There you have it. So think about it.”
And Ardi did think, spinning three — maybe four — threads around in his mind, struggling to tie them into one knot. But it simply wouldn’t come together. At most, he could tie some sort of revenge and the artifacts together, but everything else… The moment he tried to gather it in his hands, it fell apart.
“Greenhorn.”
“What?”
“In sailor slang, it means ‘rookie,’” Milar explained. “Remember how I initially suggested that we were dealing with terrorists or revolutionaries?”
“The things that have been happening don’t exactly support that,” Ardan objected.
True, he didn’t know much about those kinds of criminals, but over the last few months, he’d been reading the newspapers regularly — thankfully, Arkar always ordered them and left them on the counter at “Bruce’s.”
“You’re right,” Milar conceded. Fishing out the last morsel of bread with his spoon, he dropped in the dried meat as well, transforming his soup into something closer to army rations. “Which is why I’m leaning toward my second theory. Remember what that was?”
Ardan nodded.
“That someone’s using the Spiders, just like they used Lorlov.”
Milar snapped his fingers again, nearly splashing soup onto himself.
“And they’re doing it cleverly, partner — exploiting some deep hurt that binds the Spiders and forces them to act together, all the while settling personal scores on the side. That’s where the foreigners, the Hammers, the Jackets — and even that business with the Imperial Bank and the church bombing on the holiday — come in. We’re investigating one case, but inside it, there’s another.”
“And-”
“There’s no ‘and,’” Milar cut him off in a way that was reminiscent of how Aversky would shut Ardi down whenever he veered too far into theoretical tangents. “Right now, considering the fact that there are ten days left before the auction, and ten more days until the first day of summer… By the way, I’m still hoping you’ll finally tell me why you’re so certain that the Spiders will strike on the first day of summer.”
Ardan spread his hands out. Even if he could talk about the Fae and their “request,” his guess was built on little more than… guesswork. A half-baked hunch.
“I see,” Milar said slowly. Spearing a mushy piece of bread with his fork, he then dunked the dried meat again, making his soup look even more like some field stew. “We’ve spent almost six months on this, partner, and I’ve been at it for nine. Don’t hold your breath in hopes that we’ll magically unmask whoever’s pulling the Spiders’ strings, too. First, let’s just keep the city from turning into a smoking crater.”
Ardan gave a measured nod, though he had a thousand questions perched on the tip of his tongue — enough to blanket the Dawn Garden in a flurry of them.
“So, here’s the plan,” Milar pressed on, slurping his makeshift stew. “We’ve got twenty days total. Ten until the auction, ten until summer begins.”
Ardan silently added that it was also twenty-five days until the exams at the end of the academic year, but held his tongue. Milar certainly didn’t care about Ardi’s studies as much as Ardi did. In fact, it was only logical that the captain didn’t care about them at all.
“All we know is that the auction will be private, invitation-only,” Milar went on.
“Which means you-”
“Not me.”
Ardan nearly choked.
“Wait, what? Not you?”
“Based on our initial plan, you’ll be the one attending the auction, Ard,” Milar explained, chewing calmly on his soggy meat and carrot soup as though he hadn’t just dropped a boulder on Ardan’s lap. “I’ll try to slip in as staff — maybe a waiter, a technician, anything I can manage, though it’s unlikely. Aversky will stay on the ground to cover us. After all, in the air, he won’t be much use.”
Ardan opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.
“Hang on… In the air?”
“Exactly, partner,” Milar replied, beaming brighter than all of Baliero’s lights combined. “These wealthy types are always looking to protect themselves from the influence of artifacts, Star Mages, Aean’Hane, demons — everyone and everything. Plus, they’re rich enough to show off. Maybe they just like the pomp of it all. Who knows what drives these moneyed whales…”
“Milaaaaar,” Ardi pleaded.
“The auction is going to take place on the world’s very first civilian dirigible,” Milar said with obvious relish. “Two and a half kilometers in the air. Or something like that.”
Ardan could scarcely believe his ears, but Milar went on without missing a beat.
“Don’t worry. Dagdag, Aversky, and the rest of the thinkers are already figuring out how to make sure you can still function normally, given the thinner… Ley field, or whatever they call it. And between you and Aversky, you’re much easier to shield from it.”
So he hadn’t misheard…
“In any case, we need to pin down more details without drawing unwanted attention,” Milar continued. “Good thing we never actually made it to Bri-&-Man. Maybe it wasn’t Trevor the Eternal Angels were protecting, but us from making a foolish move if we’d barged in there. We’ll tail Alla Tantov and squeeze whatever information we need out of her once she’s back in the city, which should be in three days.”
Ardan just sat there, staring at Milar. Oddly, the prospect of tailing a mutant and Trevor Man’s personal “assistant” (in truth, a sentient weapon) didn’t bother him at all. All he could think about was the fact that this entire auction would happen on a dirigible, and that every time he found himself high up — only the Alcade seemed safe for the most part — something decidedly unpleasant always occurred.
He’d even had to jump out of a window once or twice.
All that was left was to hope that there wouldn’t be any windows on that dirigible.
Comments
John
Thanks!
SirWins
Something I am bothered by in the magic system is that flight seems so inaccessible to star mages. Usually flight is generally mastered at a certain level of power in most fantasy magic novels. There should be a way to circumvent that.
