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Matabar. Chapter 88 - Ragman
🕑 Added 2025-04-03 23:01:01 +0000 UTCThis time, the ride didn’t last long. They passed along Niewa Avenue, which was teeming and churning with the vigor of early spring. Vivid shop windows seemed to be competing with each other in splendor, and the people, in step with the boisterous stalls, boutiques, cafés, and restaurants, were strolling about in their fresh new outfits.
Ardi, who’d rolled the window down to let in the air, was trying to catch a whiff of that crisp breeze drifting in from the northeast. It was no simple task. Amid the brash, brazen notes of diesel fumes spewed by most cars, it was easy to lose one’s way. In contrast, the showier new models — which were quite rare — were hissing out gasoline vapors. Meanwhile, the city itself carried the pungent smell of heavy fuel oil, the occasional tang of rusting iron, the dull scent of concrete, and of course, a mingling of cobblestones and asphalt.
All of this blended with the aromas of freshly-brewed Lintelarian coffee, robust Kargaam tea — perhaps even tea that had come in all the way from distant Lan’Duo’Ha — blooming flowers in the windows of the reopened flower shops, perfumes both costly and cheap, and a faint but undeniable briny hint of ocean air.
The Metropolis’ spring breath felt nothing like the fresh wind that played among the young flora found on the peaks and in the forests of the Alcade. And yet, bit by bit, Ardi was beginning to find a certain joy in it. It was like meeting someone new: at first, you’d be unsure of how to feel about them, but once you got to know them better, you’d realize that whenever they appeared, a silly, good-natured grin would creep across your face.
This place, which had once seemed like a soulless stone prison to Ardi, was now revealing itself to him in entirely different ways, after all this time. It was not quite a friend yet, but someone he found himself growing steadily fonder of.
Like a woodworm stealthily boring its way through, the capital was finding a subtle path to the young man’s heart, and he didn’t mind that in the least.
They turned near a café that had already set tables out on the street. People were sipping warm drinks and nibbling on little pastries there. The clerks and other white-collar workers were on their lunch break, leaving their offices and typewriters and paperwork to flood the nearest establishments.
A few more streets took them deeper into the Central District, then they turned to slip under an archway that was hidden by the building facades, and which led into a maze of narrow alleyways tucked away behind the various avenues and streets. In the past — merely half a century ago — carriages belonging to nobles and hired drivers would have been passing here instead of cars. Since then, the horses had been replaced by engines, but the streets themselves hadn’t been widened — there was simply no space to do so. Thus, within the interior of these Central District blocks, the buildings crowded upon the citizens as tightly as they did in the Firstborn District.
Milar gripped the steering wheel tightly, doing his best not to crash into flowerbeds, trash cans, lampposts, or, all too often, pedestrians ambling right down the roadway. Beyond those archways, which concealed the “rear side” of the Central District from everyone else, there was no separation between sidewalk and street. Everyone moved along the same path.
At last, they pulled up in front of an unremarkable building. Maybe it had belonged to some merchant or famed craftsman long ago — perhaps even a jeweler. It was hard to say, given that they’d stopped not in front of its façade, with its presumably well-tended main entrance, but rather the back of the building. Decades ago — those same fifty years or so — servants would have been scurrying here and there; now, their vehicle came to a halt near the only doorway, coughing out one final dark, foul-smelling cloud.
Ardi didn’t bother asking why they had come in from the inside yard rather than from the street, as usual. Nor did the house itself, whose top floor boasted attic windows winking like glassy eyes, stir much curiosity in him. Over the past few months, he’d seen plenty of these beautiful, graceful buildings in every hue of the pastel palette.
Yes, they still made him feel like he was stepping into one of his grandfather’s old stories, but the initial sense of reverent wonder had faded.
“Let’s go,” Milar said, pulling out his keys as he stepped out first. Ardi noticed that the captain had unfastened his holster and undone the straps securing his saber’s hilt. Before the events at the “Heron,” Milar had practically never worn his blade — usually keeping it inside the vehicle — and now he almost never took it off.
Ardi hurried after him. Leaving the state-issued “Derks” behind, the young man smiled slightly at the smell of the flowers. Here, barely a step away, flowerbeds seemed to have sprung from the ground. Though not filled with the most beautiful of blooms, they nonetheless softened the city’s stony embrace enough for Ardi to feel spring against his very skin.
The house itself seemed to be hiding shyly beneath the shadow of its far taller neighbors, its walls bearing the scars of cracks in the outer masonry. Miraculously, the warped door frame did not creak, though it was overdue for repairs, and the awning above the back entrance — known once upon a time as the servants’ entrance — looked out of place in the midst of all the architectural flourishes. Simple metal sheets rested on dried-up wooden posts that held up the structure.
There was a flight of stairs leading downwards to a pseudo-basement level. More than once, Ardi had had to remind himself that the Metropolis’ architects had built houses like this not because they had been bribed by the dwarves, but rather in response to the recurring floods caused by the Niewa. A difference in elevation kept water from reaching the living quarters.
But that had been an issue in the old days. Now, after an elaborate system of dams had been put in place, these so-called basements sometimes housed shops and budget-friendly eateries, and even apartments.
Milar went down the stone steps first — they were weather-worn and had turned green from the moss. He pushed open the simple wooden door, which let out a long groan through its neglected hinges. Warped by winter, they drowned out the cheerful tinkle of a bell overhead with a crotchety squeal.
Together with the captain, Ardi stepped inside a small, nondescript shop. A quick glance around the displayed merchandise revealed nothing particularly out of the ordinary. There were rows upon rows of men’s shoes in every size and style, shelves of boots with tall shafts, and cabinets with women’s footwear shining behind glass.
Judging by the price tags, the shop catered largely to people of moderate means — those who could afford a new pair before their old shoes had utterly fallen apart, but maybe once or twice a year at most.
Behind the counter worked a young man — and indeed, he really was working. With his sleeves rolled up, dressed in brushed wool trousers, a grayish shirt, and a leather apron, he was repairing the heel on a man’s boot.
His fingers moved expertly, wielding an awl, a needle, and nylon thread, flickering under the glow of Ley-lamps in their steel thimbles. Meanwhile, he was somehow managing to hold in place, between his knees, a cobbler’s last — an iron bar curved at a forty-five-degree angle to match the shape of the insole — upon which the shoe was fitted.
Ardi had long ago tried his hand at such tasks without much success.
Next to him, in place of a register, sat an abacus and a ledger, and by the wall stood a small, battered safe.
“Good day,” Milar greeted him, removing his hat and setting it on the counter before the young man.
“Gooood,” the cobbler replied through clenched teeth, drilling a hole through an especially thick area of the boot’s upper half. “You want something? Prices are over there.”
Without looking up from his work, the youth nodded toward a chalkboard with partially-faded letters and numbers. Overall, the costs here seemed fairly reasonable, except for the price of sole repair, which looked bizarrely inflated. That caught Ardan’s eye.
Instead of answering him, Milar placed his open document holder on the table. Glancing at the credentials, the young man’s expression and posture didn’t change in the slightest — something that hardly ever happened when it came to ordinary civilians. Papers from a Second Chancery investigator typically sobered common citizens up faster than a bucket of ice water.
“We need to speak with the owner,” the captain said.
“I don’t-”
“I’m not in the mood to argue, lad,” Milar cut him off, his voice even. “We want the Ragman.”
And to reinforce his unimpeachable argument, the captain laid his hand on his revolver. Who knew what might have happened next had Ardi not noticed a third detail.
When the captain had touched his revolver’s grip, the young man had flinched slightly — like anyone would when faced with the prospect of a shootout. The cobbler’s needle had then slipped off his thimble and run along his index finger.
But instead of torn flesh and blood, a thin black line had flashed across his skin. Ardi had seen something like this before a few times. The first time had been out on the prairies, when Yonatan had been showing off with a knife by juggling it while blindfolded, and not always successfully.
And the second time had happened on the train, after the explosion Ardan had set off, when splinters from the paneling had grazed Alla Tantov, the assistant of one of the owners of the Bri-&-Man Company.
“You’ve got the price for sole repair wrong,” Ardi said, pointing his staff toward the board. “It’s listed as fourteen exes instead of fourteen kso. And it looks like that mistake’s been there a long time, since the chalk is half-faded and it was never corrected.”
“So?” The young man asked in an even tone.
“You’re set up at the back of the property, but you have no windows that face the street. That means you can’t occupy the whole space, so there should be a door or a passage leading farther in. But I don’t see it,” Ardan continued, then played his final card. “And you’re a mutant.”
At those last words, Milar jerked back, just barely keeping himself from drawing his revolver.
“You have a keen eye, Mr…?”
“Egobar,” Ardan introduced himself. “Ard Egobar.”
The cobbler’s eyebrows finally twitched slightly beneath the band holding his hair back so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes as he worked.
“Can you confirm that?”
Ardi stepped up to the counter and showed him his own credentials as a corporal of the Second Chancery. The young man skimmed the text, pausing at the official seal, then gave a brief nod.
“Go on in,” he said, as though Ardi were the only one present, and a first-rank investigator and captain meant no more to him than the shoe he was repairing.
Stretching out his hand, the “young man” whose youth Ardan was now doubting clicked a few beads on the abacus. Soundlessly, a portion of the wall with its shelves of shoes slid backwards first, then to the side, revealing a passage into a corridor.
Milar narrowed his eyes and picked up his identification. Ardi followed his example and retrieved his own papers.
“Do you pay your taxes?” The captain growled.
“The accounting books are in the safe, Captain Pnev,” the cobbler replied. “Shall I show you?”
“And the chemicals you use — are they labeled, or do you produce them yourself and-”
“All my contracts with my various suppliers and vendors are also in the safe. I can show you those as well.”
“And-”
“And the rental agreement,” the young man interrupted for the second time. “And the employee work arrangements, plus any other paperwork that might interest the relevant authorities.”
Ardi couldn’t help noticing that the cobbler’s speech was far too cultured for a simple shoemaker — he sounded more like Bazhen might if you dropped in unexpectedly at his workshop…
Bazhen! Yes! Perhaps that was the answer. He had mentioned how punishments were doled out depending on the year of study, but back then, Ardi hadn’t really been paying attention since it hadn’t concerned him.
But that was a worry for later.
“We’ll check all of it,” Milar said.
“Certainly,” the “young man” replied, returning to his work, his demeanor making it clear that their conversation was over.
Milar tapped his identification against his open palm, put it back in the inner pocket of his jacket, and headed into the newly-revealed corridor. Ardi, leaning on his staff, followed behind him. No sooner had they crossed the threshold than the wall slid back into place behind them, and bare Ley-bulbs flickered on overhead.
“One day, the Ragman’s going to slip up somewhere,” Milar hissed, evidently irked by how that exchange had gone.
“Why hasn’t he been shut down yet?”
“Because, strictly speaking, he’s not breaking any laws,” the captain answered dismissively. “He officially runs an antique shop. All perfectly legal. And the camouflaged entrance? Well, there’s no law against that, either. And as for that shoemaker… I can’t prove he’s security. And the Ragman’s got enough patrons that we can’t lay a finger on him without cast-iron justification. And that-”
“That, my dear Captain Investigator,” came a familiar voice, “you will never obtain.”
After a short walk, Milar and Ardan emerged into another store. Only now, instead of shoes, the various shelves, cabinets, glass cases, plush cushions, stands, and hooks were filled with… everything.
Narrow shafts of light filtered in through small overhead windows. People outside stomped around in their noisy shoes and boots, utterly unaware of the vast array of items below them. Ardi’s head almost spun at the sheer variety of curiosities.
He saw animal skulls inlaid with crystals and gems, lying next to books whose bindings were more like works of art; those, in turn, leaned against jewel-encrusted caskets — some of them coated in amber while others were more like simple, rough wooden boxes with corroded nails.
Bundles of feathers, tied together with old hemp twine, sat next to golden coins the size of a child’s palm. Simple carved rods etched with mysterious symbols held their own among ornate rods and even a pair of staves whose surfaces boasted seals on par with stationary wards.
Sabers, daggers, revolvers, rapiers, even swords, axes, and two battle hammers lined one wall and display cabinet, some of them battered, with multiple cracks and nicks. Sometimes they were even outright rusty. They stood there like weary warriors, gazing at… a pair of car rims propped against a rack.
The place resembled a scrapyard — but a scrapyard of the strangest sort, full of objects that might come to mind only after a long night of heavy drinking.
“Ragman,” Milar greeted him, tipping his hat that he hadn’t put back on yet. “Or should I say-”
“It’s better to use no names,” the man behind the counter replied with a brilliant smile.
The last time Ardan had seen this peculiar individual had been at the Emperor’s coronation. Back then, he had looked no less flamboyant — and, as it turned out, the Ragman’s usual style was precisely that. He hadn’t actually gone overboard for the festivities.
He still had that dramatic mustache, with each side twisted into a tube and ending in a sharp point. His bright violet tweed suit was gone, replaced by one in almost neon green. His black leather gloves had given way to red gloves with ridges along the fingers, and a fresh set of equally-massive, expensive-looking rings adorned them.
His face still resembled an otter’s: long in the nose, with a small chin and wide cheekbones, giving one an overall impression of ugliness, but also a certain mischievous charm. It was as if everyone else were bound by chains while he alone was free to dance in the sunlight.
Not even his enormous top hat, which matched his gloves in color, and his comically wide polka-dot tie could dull that impression.
“Mr. Egobar,” the Ragman said, swiftly removing his top hat and pressing it to his chest in a small bow. “I had so hoped you might visit my humble corner of the world, but you’ve taken so long that I must admit I’ve nearly forgotten why I expected to see you here at all.”
As he circled around the artifacts, Milar looked more irritated than intrigued. Ardi, removing his own hat, approached the counter and offered his hand. The Ragman beamed at him, exuding carefree delight. If Anvar’s smile had been foxlike or serpentine, the Ragman’s was that of a child overflowing with the world’s happiest secrets.
Rather than offering a handshake of his own, he presented his hand in a decidedly feminine manner, as if waiting for Ardan to kiss the back of it, then awkwardly waggled Ardi’s index finger in a gesture that passed for a handshake.
“Delighted, delighted,” the strange man said, nodding so vigorously that he nearly dislodged his hat. Then, placing his top hat upon the counter, he simply… dropped into a chair.
The chair itself had been several steps away, but the moment the Ragman had begun to “fall,” it had jerked like a startled horse and slid across the parquet floor, almost neighing, arriving just in time to catch him and keep him from collapsing.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked.
Ardi blinked a couple of times, shaking his head. He was somewhat stunned by such a carefree and casual display reminiscent of Aean’Hane sorcery. Only his grandfather and Atta’nha had been so free with their magic at times.
Milar, who was eyeing the animated chair with a worried, thoughtful expression, slid his hand into his pocket, which was presumably where he kept his set of signal medallions. Ardi didn’t see the point of that gesture. If the Ragman wanted to hurt them, well…
“This chair once belonged to the Sidhe of the Burning Dawn,” the Ragman informed him suddenly, still cheerful. “He presented it to a prince during the Galessian King’s reign as a sign of gratitude for the prince’s little boy offering him an apple. Legend says that a child who grows up with this chair will become an unmatched horseman.”
Ardi blinked again.
“I’m no Aean’Hane, Mr. Egobar,” the Ragman went on, patting his knees. “Merely a collector, and occasionally a merchant of objects from a bygone era. Some things I keep, some I sell, some I give away, and some are given to me. That’s how I pass my days.”
Ardan studied the man before him carefully. In every tangible sense, he was just that — a man. Not some half-breed of the Firstborn, and certainly not one of the Fae. He was an ordinary human, if that word even applied to him, given everything Ardi had just witnessed.
Yes, perhaps Ardan had jumped to the conclusion of him being an Aean’Hane a bit too quickly. The last known human to master such magic had been the Great Prince Jacob — the man more commonly known as the Dark Lord. Since then, no one else of purely human blood had manifested those abilities.
“I-” Ardi began.
“But since you hold me in such high regard, Mr. Egobar, let’s say…” The Ragman spread his arms wide, and a length of ribbon appeared between them — a simple yellow silk ribbon. It coiled into the shape of a swan and drifted through the air. “I’ll do my best to preserve my good name. A favor for a favor, let’s say. I need your help, and if you agree, not only will I gift you this ribbon — crafted by the elf Shearaenlie, who tailored garments for princesses and royal ladies — but I’ll also answer a single question of yours. Just one, mind you. In the end, I’m a seller of artifacts, not information.”
Milar stayed silent, and it was obvious why. The Ragman had no interest in the Second Chancery’s presence in his shop, and he was only speaking to Ardi for reasons all his own. Any attempts by the captain to intervene would yield precisely the same outcome as all previous efforts by the Chancery and the city guard to bring the Ragman to heel:
Nothing at all.
Chances were high that the Ragman really wasn’t breaking any Imperial laws, and even if his activities ever inconvenienced anyone, he would surely manage to find someone else to whom he had provided a timely favor, thus gaining the influence he needed to brush them off.
It was the same principle that kept the city’s gangs in operation. A foul principle, precarious and far from just, but Ardi hadn’t set the rules of this game — he was just another participant. Judging by his time in the capital, that was one of the few truths he had come to accept.
“What sort of favor?” Ardi asked.
The Ragman waved his hands, and the ribbon, unraveling from its intricate knots, coiled itself into neat loops and settled on the counter.
“I don’t know what question you intend to ask me, Mr. Egobar, nor do you know what favor I will demand in return. Doesn’t it strike you as too poetic to spoil this little proscenium of ours?”
If Ardi was remembering Tess’ theater stories correctly, the “proscenium” was the space closest to the audience. Then came the “stage” itself, and at the far end, most distant from the viewers, was the backstage area.
Was the Ragman hinting at something, or had Ardan simply grown so used to puzzles, half-truths, and hidden secrets that he was starting to become paranoid?
“‘The Tales of the City on the Hill,’” Ardan blurted out. “What do you know of them?”
The Ragman flung up his hands and once again beamed that bright, childlike smile at him.
“No more than you yourself, Mr. Egobar. A witch she-wolf wrote that book in ancient times, back when our beloved capital had not yet spread beyond the black river, for a young Speaker. But that is not really the question you meant to ask.”
“Who is Anvar Riglanov?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that name,” the Ragman said with a shrug, then offered some encouragement: “Think carefully once more, Mr. Egobar. What is it you truly want to ask me? I’ll give you one more chance.”
Ardan froze. Which question did he really want to ask? Should he bring up the Embers? No — maybe the Embers were just a ploy, a smokescreen Anvar was using to hide… something. Should he ask about this supposed “ship?” That just led to the same dilemma he’d had with the Embers.
Baliero, Selena Lorlov, the Bri-&-Man train… none of that mattered in a way that might crack open the central mystery. Nor did they differ much from…
“Hope you use prize with reason.”
Ardan nearly smacked his own forehead. Anvar… He’d hidden the answer right in plain sight, despite the bad Fae he’d used. Where did you win something? Like a prize? A casino, of course. So why had he and Milar assumed that the man had been dropping some sort of cryptic hint?
Sleeping Spirits!
He’d practically handed them the casino on a silver platter and wrapped up in gift paper! That was their “prize.”
The “Heron” itself.
Which meant…
“Is there somewhere — besides you, I mean — where one can acquire artifacts of old, or perhaps relics made by the Aean’Hane’s art?” Ardan asked, causing Milar to clear his throat in startled confusion.
But the Ragman — ever the peculiar collector — stretched out his hand and opened it. A business card lay there, bearing an address. Given the floor number — thirty-two — it had to be somewhere in the New City.
“A friend of another good friend of mine,” the Ragman said, still smiling, but with a weightier tone, “ran into an item of quite the mischievous nature. Now his apartment has become subject to… unusual phenomena. He’s been trying to find a specialist who can sort it out. Alas, it’s not so easy to find even a Speaker in the capital, let alone someone versed in the Aean’Hane arts. But you, Mr. Egobar — I’m sure you can handle it. And once you do, you’ll have your answer.”
“Why should we beli-”
“Thank you,” Ardi coughed, cutting off Milar and pocketing the card. “When may I… visit your friend?”
“I’ll send a courier to arrange the details. Let’s say…” The Ragman opened a journal and flipped through a few entries. “Three days from now, to give both them and you time to prepare.”
“All right…” Ardan nodded, then thought to ask, “Prepare for what?”
“The friend of my good friend insists — with all the passionate dread of a man in trouble — that his lovely home is besieged by what he calls ‘terrifying ghosts.’”
Ardi swallowed hard. The Ragman had described it as though it were some cozy bedtime story, not something that reeked of Baliero’s Fifth Street from a mile away.
***
Milar was tapping a slow rhythm on the steering wheel with his fingertips. They’d gotten stuck for a while on their way toward Star Square. A tram had inconveniently broken down right at the intersection, slowing traffic to a crawl and creating a line of waiting vehicles nearly two kilometers long.
Ardi turned the little business card over in his hand, pondering not the ghosts or the high-rise in the New City, but the Menagerie, the Festival of Saints, and Tess. He was more worried about the promise he’d made to the woman he… still couldn’t quite bring himself to call his own. If Bazhen and Ildar couldn’t help…
“I don’t like it,” Milar muttered. “Magister-”
“I-”
“Yes, yes,” the captain waved a hand, his fingers twitching toward a pack of cigarettes, then pulling away again. It looked like he was trying to cut back, as his wife had asked him to. “You explained it already. You felt like he wasn’t lying, and anyway, why would he lie? All because he approached you at the ball, and Lady Atura and Davenport told you about courtly games…”
“You’re mixing everything together, Milar, and you’ve left out half my explana-”
“Well, you’re not the best storyteller, Magister.”
In the lane next to them, a driver was clearly fed up. Opening a newspaper across his lap, he took out a tin container of food, unwrapped a greasy paper, and sank his teeth into a sandwich.
Ardi’s stomach growled, so he turned aside. He’d missed breakfast.
“If the Ragman realized that you were interested in black-market antiques, it means he knows that the Spiders are interested, too.”
“He’s a collector himself,” Ardan offered with a shrug. “The Spiders might have approached him with exactly the same request we did.”
“Not ‘might have,’ Ard,” Milar said, shaking his head. “They definitely did. I’d swear on the Eternal Angels that the Ragman’s had dealings with them already.”
“Probably,” Ardi admitted, trying to ignore how ravenously the man beside them was devouring his sandwich. “But if he agreed to help us, that implies he doesn’t have a deal with them — or we’d have learned nothing.”
“Damn it! Then why didn’t he tell his contacts…” Milar attempted to mimic the Ragman’s friendly tone but failed miserably. “They could’ve tipped us off. Looks like our theory about artifacts is shaping up more and more.”
“But we still have no clue what exactly the Spiders want with those artifacts,” Ardan reminded him.
“Or artifact, singular,” Milar grumbled. “You know what else bothers me, deeply?”
Ardi had so many possible answers to that question that, wisely, he said nothing.
“That we knew nothing about the “Heron,” we let Baliero slip past us, not to mention an incriminated deputy minister. And now it turns out the Ragman had a key piece of this puzzle all along, and once again, we had no clue.”
Obviously, by “we,” Milar meant the Second Chancery.
“Ten years ago, if someone had told me all of this would happen, I’d have burst out laughing,” the captain went on glumly. “But now, after all of Parliament’s reforms, I can’t imagine what would have become of us if Grand Prince Pavel hadn’t stepped in and stopped most of what that same Parliament wanted to do to us while the Emperor was ill.”
“You think-”
“I’m certain,” Milar interrupted. “I’m certain, Magister, that we’ve gotten under someone’s skin. They’re choking us with budget cuts, starving us of resources, and limiting our powers. And now all of this as well… Look how nicely it lines up. The Emperor’s coronation happens, and right afterwards, this whole business with the Spiders starts. And who ends up looking like fools here?”
“The Second Chancery.”
“Exactly! And which group was supposed to not merely investigate, but prevent what’s happening in the city right now?”
“The Second Chancery.”
“There you have it,” Milar said, drumming his fingers on the wheel again. “I’ve got a hunch that we’re very close, Magister. I can practically feel it: we’re on the verge of sniffing out this pack of mad dogs at last. But…” The captain sighed, finally giving in to temptation and pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Every mad dog’s got an owner, Ard. That idea’s been keeping me awake at night for a month now.”
“You think the Spiders aren’t acting alone?”
Milar didn’t answer right away. He smoked and watched the road workers hitching horses to the broken tram and fitting them with harnesses. This was a rare sight in the city center.
“Maybe they’re not working directly for someone,” he said at last. “Could be an alliance — someone whose interests align with theirs, like with Anvar. And that would explain…”
“Why the Spiders are testing the Second Chancery’s response when they don’t actually need to.”
Milar snapped his fingers and pointed at Ardi.
“You catch on quick,” the captain said and continued, “If the Spiders themselves don’t care about the Chancery’s reactions to various crises, then their ally-”
“Presumed ally,” Ardi noted.
“Fine, presumed ally,” Milar conceded. “Anyway, that presumed ally seems to want some kind of test. And don’t ask me what it is. Every idea is worse than the last.”
“You think that’s why everything we’re doing is top secret?” Ardi asked, pressing a hand to his rumbling stomach as he tried not to look at the man wolfing down his meal. “Is the Colonel using us as bait?”
Milar shrugged.
“First, we need to deal with the Spiders, Magister,” he said, finally turning the key in the ignition and making the engine rattle to life. The tram was being pulled off the intersection, and traffic was beginning to move again. “Through them, we’ll either find a thread leading to their powerful ally — whoever managed to hide them from us — or we’ll realize we were just being paranoid.”
Ardi knew he shouldn’t ask. They had enough on their plates already. But his curiosity got the better of him.
“In your line of work, how often do you end up discovering that it was just paranoia and things weren’t really so terrible?”
Milar blew a cloud of smoke out the window.
“Far less often than I’d like, partner,” he replied as they turned onto Niewa Avenue and headed for Star Square. “Far less often…”
***
Catching his breath, Ardi pushed open the door and stepped into the corridor of the twenty-ninth floor. Fortunately, the Ragman’s shop wasn’t too far from the Grand University, so they’d made it back before the school day had ended.
At the information desk, Ardi had asked which room Bazhen’s group was in, and after one glance at the elevators, had decided that he’d put himself through enough stress for the day. That was why he’d chosen to use the stairs instead.
And now, after passing through the by-now-familiar halls of the Grand, Ardan stood by a window, gazing out over the sprawl of the Central District.
Rooftops — some rusted over, some bristling with lightning rods and the occasional water tank for buildings not yet hooked up to plumbing or the power lines — stood above the streets teeming with pedestrians and cars stuck like flies in amber. Parks and gardens broke up the stone expanse of the city center with patches of green. The spires and gilded domes of the city’s two main cathedrals (one was still under construction) rose above the skyline. And in the distance, on the granite shores of the black river, shone the Palace of the Kings of the Past — the crown jewel of the city’s architecture, which had once been little more than a half-forgotten fairy tale to him.
Ardi liked the Central District — perhaps more than any other.
Behind him, a door opened, and third-year students poured out into the corridor. Among them was Bazhen, still as painfully thin as ever, but with bright, lively eyes gleaming behind his thin glasses. He was joking about something and rather blatantly flirting with a classmate, who was giggling behind her hand while throwing him playful looks. Bazhen practically basked in that attention — until he glanced over and spotted Ardi. Instantly, his cheerful, buoyant expression turned to one of glum disappointment.
Murmuring something into his classmate’s ear, he shook hands with a few other students and, stepping away from the throng heading for the elevators, made his way over to Ardi.
They shook hands in silence, waiting until all of the students vanished through the doors to the lobby.
“You, my colleague, may have just robbed me of a warm dinner and an even warmer bed,” Bazhen said, setting his staff against the wall and folding his arms. “And I’ve been working up to that dinner and bed since my second year. So either you’ve got a damned good reason for hunting me down, or we’ve both got a problem.”
Instead of answering, Ardi silently handed him the disciplinary notice. Bazhen adjusted his glasses and read it.
“What a nerve for that rat… It’s a holiday,” he muttered.
“You practically repeated word for word what Mil-”
Bazhen shot him a sharp glare.
“What our mutual acquaintance said,” Ardan corrected himself. “You mentioned earlier that Menagerie duty only starts in the fourth year.”
Bazhen folded the notice again and handed it back to Ardan.
“Do you clean your ears in the morning?”
“I do.”
“Clean them better,” Bazhen snapped, clearly losing his patience. “I said that assistant work in the Menagerie only starts in the fourth year. Eternal Angels… I assumed Alirov wouldn’t bother wasting his time with this. Why is he so worked up about you anyway? Something to do with that baron? Is he an idiot… or did his brain sink into his gut…?”
“I-”
“It’s not your fault,” Bazhen assured him, waving off his explanation and gesturing to the paper. “He’s trying to yank my chain. I mentioned the Menagerie on purpose to stall until your fourth year. By then, even the fussiest folks would’ve forgotten. But Alirov sniffed out a loophole. Probably spent what remained of his wits on it…”
“What loophole?”
“That your disciplinary notice doesn’t specify what exactly you need to do,” Bazhen replied, hopping up to sit on the windowsill and letting his legs dangle. “So, you’ll spend the whole night in the office, filling out ledgers. Not so much a punishment as a boring chore. But everyone will know that I’m effectively the one who chose this penalty for you. And after that, who’d come to me for advice? How would I ever wring another shiny ex out of folks who don’t want their rear ends stuck in-”
He paused and shook his head.
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Right now?” Bazhen thought for a moment. “You can appeal to the dean’s office, but that’s a dead end — too contrived to work. They’re not forcing you into stable duty with the chimeras. You’ll just be stuck stamping paperwork and clicking an abacus, which the internal rules don’t forbid.”
Ardan sighed.
“Is it crucial for you to be free tomorrow evening?”
“I had plans.”
“That’s rotten,” Bazhen said sympathetically, then leaned forward. “Really, if they assign you to shuffle papers, just finish the job quickly and be done with it. Believe me, the folks running the Menagerie don’t care if you leave early — they have enough on their plate as it is. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you’ll be free.”
“And if-”
“And if they try to put you on chimera duty, get a written order from the shift supervisor and walk away. Then bring me that paper and I’ll remind Professor Alirov why I’m the best student of Star Law.”
Comments
Silver Beard
Or artifact, singular,” Milar grumbled. “You know what else bothers me, deeply?” What should have followed, "I've been reduced to your chauffer leading to each puzzle point. Me, a Capt, ignored over my corporal!"
Sean
I think it’s more that they don’t want the general public to know because then it will be all over the papers and cause a huge public outcry since they don’t like ard. Also it would make the second chancery look like fools again. But I agree he hasn’t necessarily done an amazing job of that especially with how many reporters were at the casino incident.
Benjamin Walsh
So when they made Ardi a Corporal, they told him not to go around telling people… and so he hasn’t told anyone close to him… yet every chapter he runs into someone and is introduced or even shows his credentials… wouldn’t life be easier for him if he let his professors know? Doesn’t seem like that big of a secret anymore.
