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Matabar. Chapter 87 - Notice
🕑 Added 2025-03-31 23:01:00 +0000 UTCArdan tapped his pencil against a sheet of paper. In front of him was the diagram of a creature from the Dead Lands that almost seemed to be staring at him reproachfully. It was an enormous cat, standing a meter and a half at the shoulders, with leathery wings attached in the same way as a butterfly’s, plus a reptilian tail. The beast inhabited areas near bodies of water, hunting mostly Maw-like creatures and other, loosely speaking, smaller nasties that had been created during the War of the Birth of the Empire.
On the diagram, one could clearly see the tendons securing its wings to its torso, the scales on its tail, and its fangs and claws. Its eyeballs and nerves were also outlined, along with its heart, stomach, intestines, reproductive system, a sac that produced a particularly caustic acid, the venom sacs at the base of its lower jaw, the large bones in its paws, and so on.
To the right of the diagram, a list showed the creature’s strengths and weaknesses. And to the left of it, what each part of the Maranzh’s body could be used for, and how, had been listed. That was the name of this particular representative of the Ley-fauna.
And why was the monster’s diagram judging Ardi so harshly? Most likely because, instead of paying attention to Professor Kovertsky’s lecture — the professor was wearing his usual shabby attire as he delivered it — he was busy pondering last week’s events.
“A Maranzh’s eyeballs,” Kovertsky was saying, occasionally smoothing his disheveled hair and adjusting his perpetually-smudged spectacles, which pinched the bridge of his hook-shaped nose, “because of their unrivaled ability to see in the dark — thanks to a special organ located behind the lens — are particularly valued in the creation of medicines for the visually impaired, as well as specialized brews.” He moved his pointer along the graphite board, where a large rendition of the same diagram was displayed. “As for its classification, this chimera has been considered aboriginal for a long time now. Can anyone tell me what ‘aboriginal chimera’ means?”
Several hands shot up at once, including that of Elena Promyslov. But on this occasion, Professor Kovertsky chose Tina Eveless. The elven girl, who was always dressed according to the very latest trends in spring fashion, rose from her seat.
She smoothed down her short, scarlet jacket that was worn over a corset-vest that cinched her already slender waist. It topped a practical, floor-length skirt whose seam was adorned with ruffles shaped like rosebuds — these were, of course, also red.
And no, red had not truly come back into style, at least not for the ordinary townsfolk. But for a Star Mage with only one Star, there often wasn’t much choice in wardrobe color.
Her violet eyes shone, carefully highlighted by an expensive new mascara — something wealthy young women now used in place of ordinary ink, which was typically made from iron salts and gallic acid.
Ardi knew this because that same type of ink was widely used for writing. Before the law mandating universal schooling and the widespread construction of school buildings, the manufacturers had sold it primarily as a ladies’ cosmetic product.
Back when Ardan had lived in Evergale, he’d saved up and managed to make such ink himself. Admittedly, he hadn’t managed to make it from “ink nuts,” but by boiling oak bark for a long time. The end result hadn’t exactly been of the highest quality and had often damaged the paper.
Why was Ardi, at that moment, thinking about ink, its composition, and methods of producing it instead of Anvar Riglanov, the Order of the Spider, or — at the very least — Professor Kovertsky’s lecture? Because out of all those topics, the ink seemed like the most logical and comprehensible to him.
“Aboriginal chimeras,” Eveless began, looking more poised than many of the top models working for Baliero’s finest fashion houses, “are those which, after the War of the Birth of the Empire ended, were left to face nature and the outside world on their own. As a result of natural reproduction and mutation, today’s chimeric species differ somewhat from how they were originally created by the Star Mages and Aean’Hane. Hence why they’re classified as a separate branch of the Ley-fauna.”
“Alright,” was all the professor said in response. From what Ardi had gathered over these past several months, Kovertsky didn’t have much love for his students.
In fact, he didn’t care for people in general. He much preferred the company of laboratories, chimeras, and his own scientific research. He was similar to Edward Aversky in that regard.
“And so, from the eyeballs, we shall move, perhaps,” the pointer in the professor’s hand drifted toward the creature’s abdomen, “to the acid sac. In the past, this substance was used to make a special solution capable of oxidizing up to a hundred grams of iron ore in just a few minutes. There was a particular boom in hunting the Maranzh after the discovery of an ore-oxidation recipe that worked on Ertalain ore as well, but it quickly died down once a simpler and cheaper means of oxidation was found…”
Ardi tuned out again, his thoughts running through the wide expanse of his anxious mind. Even the dark, underground lecture hall, only dimly lit by Ley-lamps, did nothing to hinder his musings on all that had happened. If anything, it only encouraged them.
Was there any connection between his great-grandfather’s students and the Order of the Spider beyond the presence of Anvar? In all honesty, it was impossible to confirm whether Anvar truly was who he’d claimed to be.
Yes, the man who had introduced himself as Anvar had possessed frightening skills and knowledge when it came to creating illusions and phantoms, and also — most likely — shield spells. Why was it “most likely” and not a fact? Because it couldn’t be stated with absolute certainty that the shield had not been created by using someone else’s schematics.
And if all twelve (or eleven) of Aror’s students truly did occupy some important, honored place in this puzzle, would only Captain Pnev’s unit be assigned to investigate the Spiders?
Or maybe…
Ardi recalled his recent conversation with the Colonel.
Maybe the Spiders were being investigated by more than just Milar. Perhaps that entire group — like Aror’s students — was nothing more than bait meant to lure bigger fish onto the hook.
It was possible…
But in that case, someone somewhere should have noticed something.
So far, all they had really learned was that the Order included several strange vampires, an equally-odd werewolf, and a young orc, and somehow, they had also managed to draw in a mage like Anvar Riglanov (whatever his real name might be).
What did they all have in common? Nothing. Should there even be some cornerstone factor uniting them? Who knows…
Even after almost five months of investigation — including the time before Ardi had officially joined Milar Pnev’s team — they had learned precious little.
The Spiders had carried out odd acts of sabotage that defied logic. They had appeared in the capital relatively recently, just a couple of years ago. But they’d only begun actively working on their goals a short while ago. A coincidence? Maybe. Or were there stricter deadlines at play? That, too, was entirely possible.
Their current theory was that the Spiders’ activities were somehow tied to Aean’Hane relics, combined with an interest in Lady Talia’s efforts regarding her Chaos School that had been derived from Demonology.
But that, again, was only a theory. It might very well have been as far from the truth as Ardi was from his native peaks of the Alcade right now.
On the other hand, the existence of a hidden casino reinforced the artifact theory. Items from ages past could sell for insane amounts of exes, so if the Spiders truly needed something of that sort, that would explain why they’d bothered with the “Heron.”
But… There it was, yet another irksome “but…” The artifact couldn’t be an end goal in itself.
No, certainly not.
Any artifact, regardless of its origin or arcane might, always remained just a tool. Like, for instance, the everlasting candle Ardan still occasionally used.
Which meant that if he and Milar really were on the right track, they were still lagging behind the Spiders by several steps.
They didn’t know what the Spiders were looking for, and most importantly, why they wanted it. What drove them? Why risk so much? Why choose to paint a giant target on their backs and practically shove their heads willingly into the noose? And not just any noose…
Ardi had no doubt that if they managed to take a member of the Order alive, a simple hanging would be the least of the terrorist’s worries. They already had cramped, uncomfortable cells waiting for them in the Black House, where sullen investigators in dark clothing with masked faces would be all too eager to welcome them.
Surely the Spiders understood that.
Which meant…
It meant that whatever drove them easily outweighed, on the scales of reason, their likely dismal fate.
Anvar, in that illusory note, had spoken of a victory. What had the strange mage meant by that? And what about that throwaway word — “ship?” For an entire week, Ardan and Milar had combed through papers, gazettes, and anything that might be linked to that word.
Unfortunately, they’d turned up nothing. The closest thing they’d found was an upcoming test run of one of the experimental air vessels called dirigibles. But their test flights took place several times a year, and the last one — a roaring success — had occurred a few weeks before the Emperor’s coronation ceremony.
It was an air vessel… so why not call it a ship?
Perhaps Anvar had been trying to say that the Spiders were not aiming to disrupt the opening of the underground tram lines. The Emperor kept postponing that event, but he could surely not do so forever. The citizens of the capital had been promised a faster and cheaper new transport option by early spring, plus the addition of five more stations by year’s end. And yet the second month of spring was already upon them, and there was still no talk of any grand opening.
Could it be that the Spiders were only sowing panic with the threat of targeting the tram lines, while their true goal was the airship? On top of everything, the variable of Selena — and her artificial Stars — still loomed over this whole mystery. Besides, the airships were being launched from a military base outside the city. Gaining entry to such a place would be impossible for vampires, werewolves, or…
Right. Yes.
An illusion mage could shift an outright impossibility into the realm of “well, maybe…”
Ardan exhaled and shook his head. This was already his fourth month working for the Second Chancery. There were only six weeks left before the end-of-year exams between the first and second years, and yet here he was, driving himself mad trying to puzzle out the Spiders’ next move instead of focusing on his lectures.
It was astonishing how the seven and a half months he’d lived in the Metropolis had overshadowed not just the years he’d spent in Evergale, but probably his entire life as well.
And then there was Tess…
“Ardi.”
During a rehearsal, Tess had snagged her microphone on the chain bearing her symbol of the Face of Light. That had broken it. She’d bought a new one and wanted to have it blessed in the temple. She’d chosen the Day of the Saints for that — tomorrow, in fact.
“Ardi!”
Tess had asked Ardan to keep her company. It wasn’t like Ardan was uncomfortable around a church, no. The only book his mother had ever owned was an old catechism passed down from her parents. Ardi might not have known it by heart, but he certainly knew it well enough.
So, he had no particular issues with the Church or the Face of Light. It was just that… he’d never actually gone to church in Evergale, simply because half the town would have taken his presence there rather poorly.
“Ard!”
Ardan jerked. He was standing by a worktable, opposite a glass container for mixing liquids. Nearby sat a squat flask suspended over a burner. In the distillation apparatus, essence was already dripping onto the evaporator’s glass.
The other female students from the second group of the General Faculty (they were alone today, as the Military Faculty had gone off for a week of field practice lessons outside the city) were adjusting their burners’ temperature, guided by the thermometer readings.
Ardi, however, was holding his fist over the vapors out of habit. Vapors tinted a rather nasty green color. Such fumes would likely cause skin irritation on a human, which, without proper care, could develop into a nasty rash. But Ardi noticed no ill effects. Matabar, like orcs, were evolutionarily resistant to such toxic influences.
“Ardi,” Elena said again. She was dressed in a light brown jacket with a matching skirt and a white silk scarf over her hair. She nodded toward his clenched fist. “Use the thermometer.”
“Ah… yes…” The young man snapped out of it. “Thank you.”
She nodded and returned to her own table. Ardi, making a concerted effort to banish all thoughts of the Spiders, got back to the practical assignment.
They needed to prepare a reinforcing paste from ground up Maranzh teeth. This sort of mixture had once been used to seal minor cracks in stone construction, back in the days before cement was produced on an industrial scale.
All in all, it wasn’t hard. The main requirement was to calculate the formula and, based on the parameters, add the correct proportions of ingredients. Why was there a formula? Because from one Ley-creature — or plant — to another, the concentration of Ley in their bodies could vary. So, you had to do the math first and only then begin the process.
Ardi moved his sweaty fist away from the steam, shook off his hand, and struck a spark with his tongs. The tinder ignited the coals under the burner.
Coals… Embers…
Could the word “ship” have been hinting at something like the Sidhe Flame Embers? But even a week of digging through the Grand University Library had yielded no results. Not even in the forbidden literature sections was there any mention of “Embers.”
Ardi had even tried to request an appointment with Velena Emergold, but the most he’d been able to do was leave his inquiry with Lisa the librarian. As the Chief Librarian, Emergold was obligated to respond to such queries… in order. And that queue stretched out for nearly half a year.
Ardan shook his head again and immersed himself in his work. The last thing he wanted was to fail the upcoming exams and be kicked out of the Imperial Magical University in his very first year. Sure, with his credentials as an investigator for the Second Chancery, he might be able to continue his education in the Black House, but what they taught there was painfully narrow and aimed at a very specific set of tasks.
“Alright, alright,” Professor Kovertsky murmured as he walked between the lab tables. He stopped beside Ardi’s. “What do we have here?” He picked up the notebook containing Ardi’s formula. “Well, now… This is definitely better than what you produced a couple of weeks ago. It seems like having two black potato sacks hanging under your eyes doesn’t do you harm in every regard.”
Ardi said nothing. He knew very well that he was starting to look like one of those black-and-white pandas from the nature books about the Kingdom of Lan’Duo’Ha.
The lack of sunlight had made his skin nearly as pale as Aversky’s, and chronic sleep deprivation had brought on those bags under his eyes — bags so pronounced you could almost call them folds.
But oh well… All he really needed was to find a couple of days to catch up on sleep. Then he could stop relying on the invigorating brews that allowed him to keep going on three or four hours of rest a day — at the expense of other resources in his body. He was losing weight as rapidly as he was growing paler. Even Tess, despite the fact that they had not spent much time together “in their birthday suits,” had begun noticing his weight loss.
Those invigorating brews did not conjure energy out of thin air; they merely burned the body’s resources differently.
Even Atta’nha, back in his childhood, had warned him about the dangers of overusing such potions. But Ardi… Well, he’d been drinking them steadily, as though they were practically tea, for nearly six months.
“And what about your Maranzh Fortification Draft?” Kovertsky took the small vial from the stand where the essence was dripping. Carefully, he carried it — gloved hand extended — to his own desk, then used a pipette to place a few drops into five shallow dishes.
Lately, as their brews had grown more complex, Kovertsky had stopped relying on Star Magic analysis, preferring special testing solutions instead.
He dripped a bit into each dish, recording the changes in color, odor, the structural alterations to the control fluid, temperature, and the speed of dissolution.
“I’d give this a borderline seven out of ten,” he finally announced, bringing the vial back to Ardi’s table. “If this were the exam, Student Egobar, you would pass, but just barely. The brew itself is flawless, as usual, but as I warned you before, we’re moving from general to more specialized aspects of alchemy. Here, accuracy at every stage of creation is crucial. And you, just as you’ve been all year, are still floundering with formulas and their implementation. It’s a pity, Student Egobar, a real pity. I don’t know what you’ve been squandering your talents on, but it’s quite clear that you do squander them.”
Ardan felt the urge to snap back that he’d been wasting his talents on running around the city to try and stop those who might turn it into an extension of the Dead Lands, or worse, something even the Sleeping Spirits wouldn’t recognize. But… that was just his fatigue talking.
“Thank you, Professor,” he replied sincerely, if quietly, because it was rare for Kovertsky to spend time personally analyzing someone’s work right there in class. In fact, he almost never did so. “I’ll do my best to catch up before the exams.”
“See that you do, Ard, see that you do,” Kovertsky said with a nod, adjusting his grimy, grease-smeared glasses once again. “It’d be a shame if you left us without even really starting your education.”
He moved on through the rows of desks. He hadn’t exaggerated about their training barely being underway. The first two years were designed to lay a strong foundation upon which, eventually, deeper knowledge and skills would be built — ultimately producing the Empire’s (and therefore the world’s) finest Star Mages.
After all, the Grand University was widely considered the world’s leading authority on Star Magic.
Studying here was the kind of opportunity most people could only dream of.
So yes, now that things in the Black House were quiet, he really should…
Ardi suddenly lurched sideways, nearly shattering a beaker meant for settling the primary mixture. Then he silently cursed his own tongue — at least in his thoughts.
His leg grew hot beneath his pants. Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out Milar’s signal medallion. Judging by how scalding it had become, the captain was very close by.
Ardi, once again feeling weary and deflated, packed his notes and tools back into his bag, slung his grimoire onto his belt, grabbed his staff, and made his exit.
There was still a good half hour left in the lab session — plenty of time to correct his mistakes and make a second version of the brew. So, it was no surprise that Kovertsky regarded the departing student with a particularly disappointed gaze.
The professors, without exception, had all taken to looking at Ardi that way. Even old Tiun Listov, the history professor, during whose lectures Ardi almost never made a peep, had scolded him for his lack of dedication.
Sleeping Spirits! If not for his Matabar blood, which kept healing his endless “on-the-job” injuries he was sustaining, Ardi might not have been able to attend the Grand University at all. Which, of course, was nobody’s fault but his own. He himself had chosen to work for the Second Chancery. He could have refused.
Curse his love for puzzles…
And curse Grand Magister Edward Aversky, too…
Leaving the Star Biology and Alchemy building, Ardan walked down the corridor connecting it to the rest of the campus. In the empty space, the echo of his cheap wooden-heeled shoes — bought at the flea market — thumped loudly. Yes, his bank balance had been steadily growing heftier with exes, but with the prices of Star Magic texts, not to mention accumulators and ingredients, he sometimes half-jokingly toyed with the thought that robbing a tax convoy might not be such a bad idea.
Ardi stepped into the atrium and was greeted by the familiar bustle that reigned there even during class hours — especially with the end of the academic year looming. Around the information desk milled not only students wearing red cloaks, but also dozens clad in green, plus a few bright splashes of blue bearing mainly Military and Healing Faculty insignia.
With the last of the snow gone, the cloakroom had been put away. Now, workers in yellow uniforms, white gloves, and caps moved about among the students, armed with wide-bristled mops that swept across the floor, scrubbing away the dirt and moisture tracked in on everyone’s shoes.
By now, Ardi was used to greeting the gargoyles. Those silent, unchanging stone monsters, perched high on their pedestals, gazed down upon the vibrant commotion of the university.
Carrying his coat draped over the crook of his arm (one could only check their outerwear during winter, when the Grand University turned on the heating; in other seasons, you had to carry it with you because, until summer, most rooms were chilly, if not outright cold), Ardi slung his bag over his shoulder and was about to head for the exit when someone stopped him.
And in a rather rude way, at that: there was a pointed cough from behind him, followed by the tip of someone else’s staff tapping him on the shoulder.
Startled, Ardi turned around. Standing there in a green suit with a long, double-breasted jacket, wearing a gold-rimmed monocle, and a set of rings that practically screamed wealth, was none other than Lord Raphael Alirov, Professor and Deputy Dean of the Military Faculty.
He was just as pompous and overweight as ever — though that extra weight clearly pointed to his considerable fortune that was allowing him to satisfy an ever-growing appetite, which was perhaps only outpaced by his belly (or maybe they marched side by side). He resembled the self-important rooster of a hen house, with a pair of strangely-thin legs that, through some miracle, had been spared from storing all that extra fat.
“Good day, Student Egobar,” Alirov greeted him in a sugary, mock-friendly tone that was positively dripping with self-satisfaction and condescension.
“Professor… Alirov,” Ardi replied, still perplexed.
What could the deputy dean of the Military Faculty possibly want from…
Oh.
Right.
In all the chaos of his hectic, dangerous life, Ardi had nearly forgotten about the somewhat-recent events that had led to his duel with Baron Kerimov — events that had ended with the baron confined to a hospital bed. There had also been the incident where Bazhen Eorsky, in a very public display, hadn’t exactly humiliated Alirov, but he’d certainly flicked him on the nose rather loudly, so to speak.
“I am delighted to bring you the happiest of news, Student Egobar,” Alirov said, sliding his sausage-like fingers into the interior pocket of his jacket with theatrical flair. “I imagine it has weighed on you, waiting for your reprimand over that little ‘incident.’ So, out of concern for you, my dear friend, I petitioned the dean’s office for a prompt resolution — to spare you any further agonizing suspense.”
Only someone with no social skills at all would’ve failed to sense Alirov’s sarcasm or notice how deeply he was savoring the moment. His honeyed words only underscored the profound loathing that had taken root within him some six months ago, ever since Ardi’s very first run-in with Lord Alirov at the Palace of the Kings of the Past.
“Here.” The professor offered Ardi a sheet of paper stamped with the university crest and signed by the Dean of the Faculty of General Studies.
“Disciplinary Notice
To Student Egobar, according to Article 4, Clause 2 of the Imperial Magical University Code of Conduct — which you agreed to upon signing your enrollment documents — the following disciplinary action is issued:
On the seventeenth day of the Month of Tides, from 6 at the evening until 5 at the morning (of the next day) on the eighteenth day of the Month of Tides, you are to serve your punishment at the Main University Menagerie.
The Main Menagerie is located at:
Old Park District, Carpenter Shaversky Street, Odd-Numbered Side, Building No. 29.
Should you refuse to fulfill your disciplinary sentence, according to Article 4, Clause 4, you will be immediately expelled from the Imperial Magical University.
Respectfully,
The Dean’s Office, Faculty of General Studies.”
Ardi read it once, then again, and then a third time.
“But that’s an official holiday,” he said, baffled. “It’s the Day of the Saints.”
“It is?!” Alirov exclaimed with feigned horror. “Oh, what a pity, my dear friend! And that’s already tomorrow, isn’t it? By the Face of Light, how negligent of me! I shall, of course, rush at once to the dean’s office to correct this dreadful oversight, Student Egobar. But alas, I cannot promise my efforts will succeed.” Everything about him screamed that he was mocking Ardi. He obviously had no intention of rushing anywhere to fix anything — he was merely putting on a show for his own amusement, even if he was the only one watching. “However, I can give you one guarantee, Student Egobar: If word reaches me that you were absent at the appointed day and hour, you’ll be out of this university faster than you can remember your father’s name… Oh, do pardon my tactlessness.”
With the smug look of someone who had just performed a grand historic feat, Alirov retreated toward the elevators. Ardi stood there a moment, watching him go in silence, only to flinch when the medallion in his pocket burned his thigh once again.
He put on his coat, the disciplinary notice still in hand, and stepped outside. The Metropolis, resplendent in its blooming springtime, greeted him with a damp wind that felt far closer to warm than cold now.
Automobiles roared, filling the streets around Star Square once more. The bells of the slow-moving trams chimed lazily, seeming sluggish alongside their smaller, wheeled counterparts.
The townspeople were shaking off the last traces of their winter lethargy. Their clothing no longer stuck to shades of gray and black; here and there, color was beginning to flare to life. One might even see a crimson pocket square peeking out of a jacket, a coat draped casually over an arm, or someone sporting shoes with white or beige trim. Hatbands with bright ribbons shimmered in the sun like silk.
But the women were by far the loveliest sight. Gray and brown dresses had yielded to floral skirts — still somewhat formal in cut, but far freer than they’d been in winter. Their boots now gleamed with various thin metal accents. Under their coats, instead of sweaters, they wore short jackets, vests, light corsets, and any number of other garments with fancy names seldom encountered in men’s wardrobes.
Colorful gloves, indispensable leather handbags, hats trimmed with dainty buds or nets or ribbons — this was life in the Central District. Across the Crookedwater Canal, however, spring didn’t differ all that much from any other season.
Over there, all that really mattered was how many layers of clothing one had. Nothing more.
Ardi, had it not been for Arkar giving him the key to the Jackets’ stash, would have presented a similar sight. Even now, his worn out, repeatedly patched shoes — purchased for half an ex at the flea market — looked rather out of place beside the stylish, fairly expensive suit he’d acquired from the stash.
At least the simple shoes were accompanied by a similarly-unassuming coat and his ever-present cowboy hat.
Ardi turned his face toward the sun, which, for once, had mustered the courage to push its way through the Metropolis’ usual blanket of gray clouds. He made his way across Star Square to the road where Milar always picked him up. Today was no exception. Captain Pnev was standing beside his battered but still-serviceable “Derks,” smoking a cigarette. Naturally.
He was wearing his official uniform, complete with black hat, glossy black shoes, and a black cloak. At the moment, though, he had left that signature garment of the Second Chancery on the back seat. Instead, he was holding a small tin can into which he was tapping out the ash from his cigarette.
“Ard,” he said by way of greeting, tipping his hat.
“Milar,” Ardi replied, returning the gesture.
They stood there in silence for a bit. Milar smoked, staring across the square at the broad avenue beyond. What he was pondering, Ardi didn’t know. Ardi himself was thinking about what he’d do tomorrow.
Yes, if he explained everything to Tess this evening — told her that a vengeful and small-minded lord had arranged for him to serve a punishment — Tess would understand. She’d hardly make a fuss over it.
But…
She’d asked him to join her for the holiday. To go with her to church. Tess’ religion might not have meant as much to the young woman as Ardi’s mother’s faith had to her, but since childhood, he had been taught to respect others’ beliefs. Besides, in all the time they’d been… together… Tess had never asked him for anything.
Refusing… Letting her down the first time she’d asked him for anything, even if it wasn’t his fault? Ardan was certain that no one, not his father, nor Ergar, nor even Atta’nha would approve of that.
He needed to keep his promise. He had to — and, most importantly, he wanted to. He wanted to go with Tess because it mattered to her.
“You know, partner…” Milar said at last.
“What?”
“It’s a bit unsettling how deep in thought you are right now,” Milar remarked, flicking his cigarette ash into the tin. “And clearly, you’re not thinking about our situation.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your pupils are all slitted,” Milar replied with a shrug. “Family issue?”
Instead of answering, Ardi handed him the notice from the dean’s office. Milar clenched his cigarette between his teeth and read it through. Instantly, his verdict was out:
“The nerve of them. On a holiday, no less.”
Ardan said nothing at first, then asked, “Is there anything you can do?”
“You’re asking me for a favor?” Milar looked genuinely taken aback, eyebrows shooting up almost to his hairline. “Ard Egobar is asking for help?”
Ardi did indeed make every effort not to ask the Second Chancery for anything, even when the opportunity presented itself. This was done out of that same foolish pride (as Skusty would have called it) that had driven him to repay the Anorsky family for the damaged clothing.
“I am,” Ardi admitted.
Milar tilted his head, his eyes narrowing so much that small crow’s feet formed around them.
“Not a family matter…” He mused. “So, Tess?”
Ardan nodded.
“You two planned on going to church?”
“I promised to pick her up at five. Right after her shift at the atelier.”
Milar cursed under his breath.
“Magister, we could drive over there,” he said, glancing again at the notice. “Carpenter Shaversky Street — kind of reminds me of the name of a certain Grand Magister we know… But anyway, we could show up, press a gun to the caretaker’s forehead, and make him sign any paper we like. Only…”
“Only what?”
With a regretful sigh, Milar returned the notice to Ardi.
“Rumors would start. Even if the caretaker kept his mouth shut, eventually, someone would notice something.”
“They can see me getting in your car right now, and will surely notice that I’m talking with you in public.”
“Yes, but you’re still the great-grandson of Aror Egobar,” Milar said with a slight shrug. “People, Ard, always pick the simplest explanation for themselves. They see you at the university with someone from the Second Chancery and they presume it’s because the Black House is monitoring you. You’re a potentially dangerous criminal. But if we start doing you favors, people will start asking perfectly natural questions.”
“Everyone already knows I work for you.”
“Not for us,” Milar corrected him, “but alongside us — alongside me, specifically. Big difference. And you’re mistaken.”
Ardi raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll explain,” Milar said, taking one final drag and flicking his cigarette into the tin. “The only ones who know you work with us are Arkar, Indgar, and his superiors in the Order of the Spider. That’s it.”
“And after all this time, they could have told anyone.”
Milar nodded but gave him a sly grin.
Ardan gestured vaguely. “And if people find out about me working with you from the Spiders, we can trace how that info spreads, maybe even ferret out a few members of the Order.”
Milar, wearing the expression of a satisfied cat, patted Ardi on the shoulder.
“What did I say about your knack for investigation, Magister?”
Ardi muttered something unintelligible in response.
“Sorry, partner,” Milar said with a sigh. “I’d like to help — truly, I would — but unfortunately…” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
“I already figured as much…”
“Though,” the captain added suddenly, scratching his chin in thought, “I might have a word with Alice. She’s got a friend — can’t recall his name — who’s got connections with the Menageries. I guess he supplies them with meat or helps them hire staff. Which, now that I think about it, sometimes amounts to the same thing…”
Ardi turned to him, his tone very sincere. “Thank you. Really.”
Milar choked a bit and cleared his throat.
“Ah, curses, Ard… I appreciate the gratitude, but it’s just a tiny favor.”
“It’s not tiny to me.”
“Well, if it’s not so tiny, then you owe me one.”
“I-”
“My wife loves jazz. Tickets don’t come cheap, even on an officer’s salary. Snag us a couple of freebies to one of Tess’ performances sometime?”
Ardi grinned. “Deal.”
“Excellent!” Then Milar caught himself. “But don’t celebrate just yet. There’s not much time left until tomorrow. I can’t guarantee Alice’s friend — oh, I remember now, his name is Ildar — will be able to pull it off, or pull it off in time, at least. That’s all still up in the air.”
“I understand.”
Milar patted Ardi’s shoulder again and nodded toward the car. “Hop in, Magister. Let’s go get some work done.”
Ardi climbed into the passenger seat and stowed his staff, only then realizing that he hadn’t asked the most important question yet:
“So, where are we going?”
“You said you wanted to talk with the Ragman,” Milar answered, turning the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, making the car vibrate. Milar pulled out another cigarette. “So that’s where we’re headed. For a chat.”
Comments
Ryan N
I really hope that this part of the story gets shaken up soon. It's becoming a bit disappointing/depressing to see Ardi flounder in every way and it is going on for so long. Time skips can be a boon. We don't need to read or see most of this. We can see that he is struggling, but it is becoming excessive. Further, he needs to either make a decision to leave the grand or recommit. It was wonderful reading about his time in the grand when he actually was learning magic...now it's just another place for him to ponder these conspiracies. He is treading towards mediocrity as things stand trying to do everything for everyone. Presumably the author has plans in that regard, but they appear to be thousands of pages away at the rate the story is being written. Still a great story overall, but it is starting to get bogged down in the day to day.
Ren Ryder
didn’t bazhen say only 3rd or 4th year students could do disciplinary work and that it any days would need to be appended to that later year? might want to check the library confrontation scene
Nùmenor
Caught up again… NOOOOOOOOOOO
Deviant Ranger
i agree, Ardi needs a break and some rest lol
Alibhai
Ardi needs some kind of time Turner device😂. His responsibilities are pulling him every which way. While I am enjoying it right now. I sincerely hope it won't turn into a Spiderman/Peter Parker situation. Where Ardi always has to struggle on all fronts of his life simply because that is the "defining trait". Like, let him have some small wins here and there. P.S. Milar is a bro. P.S.S The dean of the military department must not have a very long list of achievements if this makes him feel so accomplished.
