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Matabar. Chapter 118 - The truth
🕑 Added 2025-07-03 23:01:02 +0000 UTCSome time ago
“And what were you two chatting about so sweetly?”
“Ella invited you and Boris to a party,” Ardan said with a shrug.
Elena’s eyes narrowed even further, her expression growing more amused by the second.
“Me and Boris?” She asked in a tone akin to a fox coaxing a hare to join her for lunch in her den.
“And me as well,” Ardan added with another shrug. “I guess she felt awkward about asking you directly, so she passed the invitation on through me.”
“She passed it on through you?”
“Yeah.”
“Ardi.”
“What?”
“I don’t understand how you can be so smart and at the same time so… clueless.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. Go on, tell Tess about it if you like. She’ll explain,” Elena said, then added hastily, “Actually, you better not. She might worry. You two only just started your relationship…”
“Elena, I really don’t understand,” Ardan frowned.
Elena merely burst out laughing. Ardi was about to ask what exactly his friend had meant, but just then, the medallion he’d gotten from Milar grew steadily hotter in his pants pocket.
***
Ardan was about to grab the car door handle, yet his hand never touched it. In every puzzle or riddle, regardless of the circumstances and number of variables, there was always a single common element — some unknown upon which the unspoken principle of the puzzle rested.
Why was that? Because otherwise, the riddle would be unsolvable. You couldn’t really ask someone, “If the apple is green, then why is the dog named Hornet?” and expect anything but the vaguest of musings in return.
Of course, hunting along the trails, as Ergar, Shali, and the other forest beasts had taught him, seemed to have nothing in common with Skusty and Atta’nha’s riddles, but... as Senior Magister Paarlax had once noted, life itself was governed by a principle of determinism that extended well beyond experiments within stuffy Magisterium chambers.
Every event had a cause, a course of development, a logical outcome, and consequences. These links would intertwine in an infinite braid of complex and interdependent... threads. Yes, threads. They weren’t exactly three-dimensional (and from above, they might even appear two-dimensional), but they still stretched out like an infinite ribbon at the very edge of a multidimensional, warped space.
It all rather resembled the principle by which the Ley moved within the vectors of a seal. Mathematically, it was difficult but possible to compute. Still, visualizing it with a mind confined to three dimensions was impossible.
So how did that tie in here? What if Ardi, who’d been searching for the starting point all this time — the tiny segment where the knots of riddles had first begun — was never really inside a three-dimensional space of mysteries, a space that might have offered him a clear view of the horizon full of entwined destinies and tragedies?
What if, just as with vector calculations, he simply hadn’t been able to perceive the space’s multidimensionality because of his own limited perspective? An ant standing on a ribbon can sense that it might be multidimensional, yet to an outside observer standing apart from the mystery, it would have, at best, only three dimensions.
And to truly grasp the nature of that multidimensional realm, one must become part of the equation. In the case of the Ley flowing through a seal, absent intricate mathematical equations, having such a direct experience would be impossible. But in real life...
What if he had been seeing it all in a light that was utterly different from actual reality?
Just like in Edward Aversky’s lecture...
“Why are you just standing there, Magister?” Milar asked, leaning over the backseat and rolling down the car window.
“We’re looking at this puzzle the wrong way.”
“What?”
Ardan slid his staff between the seats and settled inside, brushing slush from his shoes as he did so.
“What if the Spiders aren’t the ultimate goal of everything that’s happening?”
Milar frowned. “Explain.”
“What if, just like us, they’re stuck on this web...” Ardan propped his cheek on his fist and closed his eyes. “What if they’re simply a tool?”
Anticipating a lengthy conversation, the captain fished out a cigarette and lit it, forgetting — at least for now — his pledge to quit for his wife’s sake.
“We’ve already guessed, Magister, that someone might be pulling their strings.”
“But what if it’s not just a guess, but the plain truth?”
“Even if it is,” Milar shrugged and lowered his window, exhaling smoke out into Star Square, “it doesn’t change anything.”
“Haven’t you noticed the contradictions?”
“I have,” Milar nodded. “So many that, if we started listing them all, we’d get a list so long that not even you, Magister, would care to read it.”
“They must realize that their bombings and murders hold no real weight when it comes to altering the past...”
“Not a bit,” Milar agreed.
Milar’s formal education consisted solely of what a provincial school would teach through roughly the first three grades, but his mind was still undoubtedly sharp.
“Then why do it?”
“Because, as we’ve already guessed, their puppet masters don’t believe in time travel.”
“But the Spiders themselves do.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Milar frowned. “Why what?”
“Why do they believe it’s possible if those backing them from the shadows have an entirely different motive for working with the Spiders?”
Milar fell silent for a moment. “Maybe they don’t suspect anything?” He ventured without much conviction.
Ardan arched an eyebrow.
“Alright, fine, partner, I admit it sounds stupid,” Milar said, raising his hands. “But there could be reasons enough to stretch all the way to Selkado, if you catch my drift.”
Ard did indeed.
“What if they’re not the ones being used, Milar, but...”
“The Spiders are using the ones behind them?” The captain finished for him.
“Precisely,” Ardan nodded. “Or they...”
“...think they’re using someone else,” Milar again concluded on Ard’s behalf.
“Exactly,” Ard said. “Then, if they genuinely believe they can rewrite history, it might explain the contradictions in their own words.”
“Like when they claim they want to minimize the casualties, yet leave bodies scattered left and right in their wake?”
“Yes,” Ardan repeated. “If all those deaths and destruction are part of some bargain they struck with whoever’s behind them, then it suddenly makes sense. They’re pretending to fulfill their obligations while planning to erase not just the event that first led them into this mess from the timeline, but every bit of havoc they’ve ever unleashed as well.”
Milar went quiet, smoking and gazing out the window. All along Star Square, young mages bustled toward the trams or the handful of parked cars. Only the wealthiest of the Grand University’s students could afford such vehicles. Everyone else, when forced to choose between pricey artifacts, books and equipment, or an equally expensive automobile, settled on things that had nothing to do with four wheels.
It was a detail you wouldn’t think of unless you’d experienced it firsthand.
Just like with the Spiders.
“Let’s assume that’s all true,” Milar finally rumbled, “but how does that help us, Magister?”
“It means the Spiders weren’t villains to begin with.”
“Not villains, right. They’re the heroes, of course, about to save some princess or kill a dragon in a tiresome fairy tale,” Milar said dryly.
“You know what I mean, Milar.”
“I do...” The captain conceded. “But I like that even less than the scenario where we were simply chasing terrorists, demonologists, revolutionaries, and... every other label we’ve pinned on them over these past six months.”
“Why?”
“Because, Magister, if I may answer your next ‘why’ as well,” Milar tapped out his ash and settled back against the seat, “I know what to do with all those types I just listed — though demonologist is a new word for me, but so be it. However, if you’re right, if the Spiders aren’t vicious fiends, then... what’s their motive?”
“They want to fix something in the past.”
“Eternal Angels, Ard!” Milar waved his arms so vigorously he almost burned the upholstery with his cigarette. “That’s like pointing at a random spot on a giant map of the capital and saying, ‘We’ve got problems here!’”
“But we can try taking some parts of the equation out.”
“What do you mean?”
“We strip away the unknowns,” Ardan explained. “For instance, what don’t we know?”
“Everything,” Milar grumbled. Then, easing up a bit, he went on. “We hardly know a thing, Magister. Like how ‘Bri-&-Man’ fits into this, why they did so much with Rovnev, what Nalimov’s part in this is, how they mean to power Paarlax’s device, where the vampires and that orc factor in... I could go on.”
“But!” Ardan raised a finger. “We do know these events happened.”
Milar gave his partner a slow, steady look.
“They had a use for Alice Rovnev, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“But in the meantime...”
Milar’s brow furrowed again. “They know certain facts,” he mused, “that Rovnev simply couldn’t have known. For example, she had no idea who you were, Magister, until the day she first met you near Miss Elisabeth Aris’ house.”
“Yet the Spiders had chosen Lorlov from the start.”
“She might not have been connected to you at all, Magister.”
“She most likely wasn’t.”
“But then... she’s connected to the Grand.”
“Yeah...” Ardan agreed, not sounding pleased.
Milar narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got some angle here, don’t you?”
“I’m still not sure what it is myself, Milar... but let’s keep going,” Ardan admitted, pulling out the small notebook he’d been jotting things down in for the past few months. “Look, Nalimov has links to the sea, right?”
“He does,” Milar said, flipping through a few pages of his own scribbled notes. “And he met Rovnev a while back. So if the Spiders really are, as you suspect, not outright fiends, then that might’ve really been a chance encounter. Maybe Nalimov truly had feelings for Alice. But then why...”
“Why did he use her?” Ardan finished for him. “And are we certain he used her? Maybe they want us to think that. You know what a squirrel once taught me?”
“I don’t even want to know if that’s a literal or figurative question, Magister.”
Ardan ignored the dig. “There are all kinds of ways to deceive someone, including letting them deceive themselves.”
“They might have more than one mole, Ard. That, too, would fit our theory.”
“It would,” Ardan nodded. “Which is why we set such unknowns aside.”
“Unknowns... aside... An equation... You’re still on that?”
“I remember what you said, Milar. But it’s the easiest way for me to explain it.”
“Are you trying to convince me of that, or... yourself?”
Ardi, who was caught up in that flash of excitement he so often felt whenever he sensed that he was on the right trail — be it during a hunt or in the midst of unraveling a puzzle — paid no heed to what had just been said.
“Nalimov and Rovnev. We know they were together. We know that Rovnev believes she gave him some kind of information and…” Ardan stumbled, recalling the Emperor’s words and what Duchess Anorsky had admitted to him. Sleeping Spirits! The situation was almost identical. Rovnev, like Anorsky, might have been deceiving herself…
“Go on.”
“Yeah… Sorry…” Ardan cleared his throat and pressed the pencil onward across the page. “So we’re left with a known fact: Nalimov is tied to the sea and also has some secret in his past involving children.”
“Children? Ah, right, that stuffed bear…” Milar licked the tip of his pencil and started jotting things down as well. “I see where you’re going with this, Magister. We need to remove all the unknowns and keep just the known pieces, right?”
“Something like that.”
“In that case, if we strip away all those unknowns you just mentioned, then Nalimov is connected to the sea. Anvar Riglanov told us about a ‘ship.’ And… that’s it. It’s not much to work with if we want to find a common thread.”
“There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Lorlov.”
“What about her?”
“She’s an orphan.”
“I remember.”
“And do you remember why?”
Milar shrugged. “Her parents and siblings are all listed as missing…” The captain trailed off, pausing mid-stroke on the page. “…in the Swallow Ocean… And the joint company ‘Man, Le’mrity, and Otarsky’ also depends on sea routes for supplying their airship project.”
“You see?” Ardan could feel his heartbeat quickening. It was the same thrill he felt whenever he tracked prey through forest marshes and mountain paths. “Four times. The sea appears four times. Actually, if you think about it, it’s five times.”
“Five?”
“Indgar.”
Milar snapped his fingers. “You once guessed that his family might’ve tried crossing the country not by rail, but by sea. I just don’t see how that ties into our story, aside from being yet another unverified mention of the sea.”
“But if I’m right, then all of Nalimov’s peculiarities become easy to explain.”
Judging from Milar’s reaction — his twitching shoulders especially — he’d nearly thrown up his hands in exasperation at that. “How?!”
Ardan turned to face him, wearing a slightly sorrowful smile. At first, Milar didn’t catch on, but then…
“The restrictions on the rights of Firstborn and their direct descendants…” He said slowly. “They’re prohibited from crossing provincial lines without the proper permit, let alone traveling beyond the region of their birth.”
“And more than that…”
“And more than that, it’s nearly impossible to get a permit for travel by sea,” Milar continued. “Because a ship is a confined space, if a Firstborn caused trouble on one, there’d be no easy way to contain them.”
Ardan nodded gravely. It was such a simple piece of paper, so small, and yet it was the very same document that had sent him on his journey from Evergale to the capital. And just as Kelly had forgotten it back then — forcing Yonatan to issue him a new one — Ardan had likewise forgotten, or ignored, how crucial such paperwork was.
“Nalimov’s commercial shipments,” Milar said, making more notes, “and his odd thing with the toys… What if, as a powerful businessman dealing with all sorts of folks, he made a bit of extra profit under the table by secretly ferrying Firstborn from the east to the west and back again? You’d earn more from that than from hauling ordinary goods. But how would he have ended up in touch with the Firstborn in the first place?”
“Through other Firstborn.”
It didn’t take Milar long to grasp Ardan’s point. “Family?” He asked without looking up. “You’re thinking maybe Nalimov had a family, an unregistered marriage to a Firstborn?”
“Imagine the trouble he’d have been in if anyone had found out. Even setting aside the formal civil contracts, all the government contracts he’d handled would’ve been called into question for no other reason than his connection to a Firstborn.”
The captain paused to think, and Ardi turned to look out the window. In the side mirror, he could see the dormitories that included entire “floors” for Firstborn.
“At least it sounds logical,” the captain remarked at last, leaving a long, scribbled note on his page. “But we can’t verify it.”
“We can.”
“Arkar?” Milar guessed.
Ardan nodded. “He can find out what the Firstborn know. Nalimov is, after all, a key figure — well, he used to be — in maritime shipping. If a Firstborn had dealings with him, there’s bound to be someone else who knew about it.”
“Then we’ll pay your friend a visit,” Milar said, underscoring “Nalimov” and “Arkar” a few times.
Ardan didn’t argue. They really did need to see the orc. And not only for the reason they’d already stated.
“But we still don’t have the faintest clue where Nalimov’s family, if he had one, vanished, or why he got involved with the Spiders,” Milar reminded him, and then immediately answered himself. “Unless we assume that his reports were tampered with… And if they were, it implies that something happened at sea about five years ago, give or take, something that someone very powerful, with far-reaching connections, managed to sweep under the rug.”
“Know anyone who fits that description?” Ardan asked wryly.
“Sarcasm?” Milar asked with a snort. “Man and his new partners.”
“I was actually referring to Irigov, but you’re right. Besides Irigov, they could have bought off…”
“A few more Irigovs, at least,” Milar finished for Ardan. “I didn’t mention that bastard because he never confessed anything of the sort during questioning... before his brains melted.”
“Which means they really did buy off someone else.”
“Or maybe they didn’t buy them at all, Ardan…” Milar said softly, almost whispering. “Maybe they borrowed them. We can’t know whether those aiding the Spiders lack that sort of influence. They most likely do have it… All right, we have a new hypothesis. Once again, though, it’s riddled with contradictions and far too many unknowns that we’re just guessing at. We have no solid proof.”
“You’re right,” Ardan conceded. “At best, if we lock all these unknowns away for now, there’s only one concrete fact we can lean on: there was an incident at sea that’s been hidden from the public.”
Milar tapped his notebook with his pencil and, after writing down the words “Ship” and “Sea,” he circled them and drew several lines branching out from them. For a time, silence filled the cramped interior of the old “Derks.”
“All right… All right, Magister, let’s suppose… you’re right,” Milar said at last. “Let’s assume we’ve found a common denominator: some incident at sea. That doesn’t narrow it down much because of how many things happen out on the water each year. And looking for something that got buried five years ago is like firing a blind shot into the sky and hoping to hit an eagle.”
“Yes, but we can add back one unknown.”
“Which one?”
“Lorlov.”
Milar sighed and shook his head. “I’ll rephrase the question I just asked… How does she figure into it?”
This time, Ardan sighed as well, setting his pencil aside.
“A snow leopard once taught me-”
“A snow leopard, not a squirrel?” Milar interrupted.
“I had several teachers.”
“Right, Magister. A squirrel, a snow leopard, a she-wolf, and that witch Fae.”
“The she-wolf and the witch were one and the same Sidhe.”
Milar just waved a hand dismissively. “So, what did your leopard teach you?”
“That during a hunt, you never pick some far-off target. You always search for what’s nearby.”
Milar blinked a few times in disbelief. “And how does that little scrap of animal wisdom help us now?” He sounded like he was starting to regret letting Ardi in on the investigation.
“The mage I saw at the factory.”
“What about them?”
“They were hiding their face from me,” Ardan reminded him.
“Because, as you rightly pointed out at the time, that mage either knows you personally or is too prominent of a figure,” Milar murmured, then turned to look at him. “But if we weave in your theory — sorry, your new hypothesis about the Spiders and their motives — then any widely-recognized mage would also come with a note that something happened to them at sea, and…”
The captain fell silent and turned very, very slowly toward Ardan.
“Damn,” he said succinctly.
Ardan kept his eyes on the reflections of the mages pouring out of the Grand University.
“If we open the bracket labeled ‘Lorlov,’” Ardan said in a dry, almost hollow tone, “then we end up with two immediate links.”
“Lorlov is connected to that sea incident,” Milar began, his tone suggesting he was on the verge of jumping out of the car and charging the Grand with his sabre drawn and revolver cocked. “She’s in your class. And your class is taught by Professor Lea Morimer, whose warship got caught in a storm.”
“Officially.”
“And unofficially,” Milar grated out, “that ship might very well have collided with a barge carrying not only cargo, but also living souls. So why bury the case?”
“Who services a large number of naval vessels outfitted with Ley generators to support military mages?”
Milar snapped his notebook shut. “Man,” he replied, “and Le’mrity. If something happened on one of their ships that led to a collision, they’d do everything possible to hide the evidence. And then…”
“It becomes clear why the warship ended up on that island within the Dead Lands,” Ardan nodded. “Who can survive there?”
“No one.”
“No one except a twisted, dangerously-gifted mage who dabbles in demonology.”
“The same demonology we’ve run into more than once,” Milar added, fixing a hard gaze on the Grand’s facade. “So that’s how they all tie together, Ard. Indgar lost his family there. As for the vampires… They can’t leave their designated territories at all… I also recall you mentioning that they can’t survive at sea.”
“And that’s the discrepancy that keeps me from claiming I’m right,” Ardan sighed wearily, closing his own notebook. “The vampires contradict my whole hypothesis, Milar. They couldn’t have been aboard Nalimov’s barge.”
Milar scowled. “You said they’re young.”
“Very,” Ard confirmed. “Just a few years old at most.”
“And we have a young Star Werewolf as well.”
Milar and Ardan exchanged glances.
“In that case, Magister, what if it wasn’t an equipment failure in the engine room or a glitch in the Ley generators,” Milar murmured. “What if Man and his partners had set their sights on something bigger… The ship was in neutral waters, up north… while Nalimov’s barge was going south. You see how that doesn’t align? Even if they did collide, how did the warship end up so far from our bay?”
“Nalimov could have made multiple stops to pick up cargo from various Forian or Olikzasian islands while trying not to draw attention to his ship,” Ard suggested with a shrug. “They might have ended up anywhere, even the north.”
“You just don’t want to believe the worst, Magister,” the captain said, tucking his notebook into the inner pocket of his regulation jacket. “They might never have reached any island within the Dead Lands at all. A military ship in neutral waters, outfitted with Ley equipment and staffed by mages — maybe they were conducting illegal experiments. That’d explain the vampires. And the Star Werewolf. Though I doubt he was involved in this supposed collision between two vessels.”
Ardan wanted to protest. He truly did, but instead, he simply added, “Lorlov’s parents.”
“What about them?”
“They were mage researchers.”
“Researchers, you say…” Milar drew out the word.
“In any case, Milar, one theory doesn’t cancel out the other. Yes, it’s entirely possible that there were experiments on that warship, and it’s entirely possible that Nalimov plotted out complicated routes — he likely did — so as not to draw attention to himself.”
“Most likely,” the captain agreed. “They really could have ended up on that island within the Dead Lands. But not because of a storm, but rather…”
“To cover their tracks,” Ardan and Milar finished in unison.
“But they didn’t do so to cover up a collision with a civilian vessel,” Ardan continued on his own. “Or rather, not just that. They also wanted to hide something far more horrifying.”
“Illegal experiments,” Milar exhaled.
A heavy silence descended upon the car, like a weight pressing on their chests, and squeezing their throats with the foul, nauseating realization. It lasted only a few seconds, but that was a few seconds too long for both of them.
“That’s why the Spiders want Man dead.”
“And that’s how they found people to help them,” Milar added, inhaling the cigarette smoke so deeply that he nearly burned his own fingers. “The Spiders want revenge.”
“And their patrons want to erase their own trail,” Ardan added. “If Man and Le’mrity made such a grave mistake, their backers might’ve lost all desire to keep working with them. If they get rid of them…”
“Then all the other potential partners for these schemes would think twice about working with them. And then these desperate avengers come forward: Professor Morimer, Indgar, Nalimov, the vampires, and any surviving relatives of the dead, all of whom refused to believe the official story or be placated by generous bribes. Damn…”
Ardan tried not to dwell on the fact that the two vessels — if you added up all the crew — had been carrying over fifteen hundred people. However, at the factory, they’d only seen a small fraction of those bound together by that same sorrow.
They’d likely tried reaching out to the others first. Then the government. Then the newspapers. But no one had listened to them. People had surely brushed them off, dismissed them as mad, crazed with grief.
How does one go on living, knowing your loved ones died because of someone who still walks free, breathing the same air as you, rather than lying in a wooden box under the earth?
Ardan knew that feeling. He knew it all too well.
It was like carrying a stone on your back — a weight pressing down on you relentlessly, shackling you with regrets. You’d be cast into a bottomless chasm of the past, its walls carved from remorse, impotent rage, and a thirst for justice that would slowly mutate into the desire for vengeance, blinding and all-consuming.
And at some point, when you could no longer bear that burden, you’d slip. You’d fall into the abyss, and either vanish there… or cling to the cliff face. A cliff face made of vengeance…
Ardan understood all of this because he himself might have slipped if not for Atta’nha, Ergar, Skusty, Guta, Shali, Kaishas, and even Lenos. At first, they’d helped him bear that weight; then, when the time had been right, they’d severed those bonds, letting the stone plunge into the darkness of the past.
Ardan had not forgotten. Nor had he forgiven.
But that tragedy in Evergale had happened because his father had chosen that path himself. He’d chosen, and he had lost.
Such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits.
One day, if he and the head of the Shanti’Ra ever crossed paths again, they would do battle a second time. And then Ardan would feed the hunger of that aching wound.
But he wouldn’t seek revenge outright. He wouldn’t incinerate himself in its flame. They had all taught him differently, taught him how to live and how to die on his own terms, not just because someone, somewhere in the past, had toppled a stone from a mountaintop.
Ardan understood the Spiders, but no more than that. Did he condemn them? No. Certainly not. Did he understand why, once they’d learned all the details, people had chosen to take the side of the conspirators and were justifying vigilante justice? He did. He’d been close to doing that himself.
Would he understand those who called inaction weakness and cowardice? Of course. He sometimes berated himself for never tracking down the head of the Shanti’Ra to this day.
On the other hand, he would also understand those who claimed that the Spiders’ actions were precisely an act of weakness — that they had become what they despised. Man believed he had the right to shape destinies, and his delusion had led to tragedy.
So, too, could — it likely would — this vigilante spree lead to an immense tragedy if the Spiders kept pressing forward.
Where was the right answer? Where was the “correct solution” in this multidimensional riddle? How could Ardan even tell which facet he was truly seeing? Were these just ordinary people united by a noble cause, or were they seething souls lost in the furnace of vengeance and reduced to terrorism?
If Ardan had been a tiny ant, like in the example with the Ley vectors, maybe he would’ve known exactly what plane he was standing on. But he didn’t know. He had no idea which answer was the right one.
Were the Spiders evil or not? Was their cause noble, and did that justify their horrific deeds… Or was it all just the desperate battle cry of people who no longer expected anything from life and were prepared to destroy everything around them so that others might finally feel their agony and taste that desperate howl of a soul ripped to shreds?
Ardan didn’t know. He knew nothing.
He only knew how to feed himself in the mountains and forests. How to survive on the plains and find his way to any point on the continent by using the stars. How to summon shards of Names, how to glimpse beyond the world’s outer layers. He knew how to craft seals and how to count runic bonds. He knew how to…
Words from a distant memory surfaced in his mind:
“I have read almost all of your books and most of your scrolls,” he muttered. “I know how to light moonlight in the middle of the Spirit of the Day’s path; I know how to hear part of the storm’s name and summon an icy bolt of lightning; I know how to make a cloak from darkness that averts the eyes; I know how to whisper words that open closed passages; I know how to mix hundreds of herbs, roots, and fruits; I know how to create a star map from sparks; I know how to-”
“Not all knowledge, little Speaker,” Atta’nha interrupted him. “Can be gleaned from books and scrolls. And the most important knowledge you’ll ever find will not come to you through books.”
Six and a half years had passed since then… and yet nothing had changed. Ardan still knew nothing. Perhaps now he understood what Atta’nha had meant, if only partially.
“We are not judges, Ard,” Milar said suddenly in a hushed tone.
“You-”
“I know what you’re thinking, partner, because I’m thinking the same thing,” Milar told him, fastening his holster and removing his hand from the hilt of his sabre — which, without realizing it, he’d placed on his lap. “But we are not judges. We don’t get to decide who’s right and who’s guilty. We investigate. We catch criminals. The worst, most dangerous ones.”
“They’re only a tool,” Ardan murmured. “And even then, they didn’t ask to become one.”
“But they did become one,” Milar declared firmly. “And now they inflict upon others the same pain that was once inflicted upon them. If I’ve learned one thing over my years of service, partner, it’s that broken people break everything around them. And it’s not our job to fix them. Our job is to stop them.”
“And Man and-”
“And the rest of them, if our theory holds and we find actual proof, will face the justice they deserve. After that, once we lock up those who ought to be locked up and hang those who deserve hanging, we’ll go after those who hide in the shadows, pulling the strings. We’ll find them, too, partner. And turn them over to the courts. Because no one, Ardan — no one except the Face of Light — has the right to decide another’s destiny. Not even us. Not even the Emperor himself has the right to take a side besides the side of the law.”
Ardan inhaled and exhaled a few times.
“And what about Irigov? Or what you saw in that demon’s vision-”
“No one’s perfect, partner,” Milar shrugged. “And if I could, I’d personally skin that bastard Irigov without any trials or investigations. I’d lose no sleep over it, or feel any remorse. In fact, I’d probably sleep better knowing I’ve rid the world of that vile burden.”
“That’s hypocritical and-”
“And the day after,” Milar interrupted him, “I’d report to the Black House and turn myself in. Let the judges decide from there.”
“And who tells the judges how to decide such things?”
“No idea, partner,” the captain admitted. “I’m no judge. I’m a Captain of the Second Chancery, and a First-Rank Investigator. My job is to catch criminals. And the Spiders are criminals. Or do you deny that?”
“It’d be foolish to deny the obvious,” Ardan replied. “They’ve done so many terrible things that-”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“I just don’t know… I don’t know what to feel. Are they pure evil? A necessary evil? A betrayed good? Who are they, really?”
Milar smiled for the first time since their discussion had begun. It was a small, wistful smile, tinged with a hint of nostalgia.
“Good… evil… If you keep defining everything with those terms, partner, sooner or later, you’ll find yourself in the same place as the Dark Lord. Or acting like Aror Egobar.”
Ardan jerked as though he’d been slapped.
“You-”
“They both believed they could remake the world according to their own vision, and where did that lead them?” Milar pressed on. “To mounds of corpses and rivers of blood. As for your feelings… try not to listen to them too much. Just do your job. Do what needs doing. Do what you must.”
“You know what sets a grown hunter apart from a pup, Ard?”
“What, Ergar?”
“A pup does what he wants, but a grown hunter does what he must.”
“It’s hard,” Ardan said, running a hand over his chest as though to calm his aching heart. But the pain wasn’t physical. “It’s hard not to listen to your feelings.”
“No one ever said this job was easy,” Milar remarked with a wry grin. “But usually, cigarettes, dark humor, and a stiff drink help. Just don’t overdo any of them.”
“But being a decent human… Well, that’s a label, too. Forget what I said. All of us who do what needs to be done? We’re always the villains in the eyes of the obedient sheep.”
“Why?”
“Because, kid, our existence is a thorn in the side of these ‘good people.’ We remind them that the WORLD IS SHIT!” Katerina suddenly yelled, glaring at the remaining patrons in the dining car. “A dirty, rotten place where the strong eat and fuck the weak. Where everyone lies, betrays, and kills. And the good people? They don’t want to see that. It’s uncomfortable for them. We remind them of all that filth just by existing. That’s why we’re the bad guys. And they… want us… gone.”
“But that won’t solve the problem.”
“Exactly,” Katerina drawled. “You get it. That’s fine. Most people… Ah, forget it, Ardi. It’s the whiskey talking. Or maybe it’s just because I hate delivering death notices.”
Katerina had been right back then. She hadn’t said a single untrue word. The only trouble was that Ardan couldn’t quite grasp where the truth lay. All he felt was the faint sense that he understood something.
Anyone who’d never had to make the same decisions as Ardan and Milar could stand on the pedestal of their spotless conscience and label both men scoundrels — condemning them for defending not the deceived masses, driven to the brink of desperation, but rather Man, Le’mriti, and the others who’d caused all this tragedy in the first place.
Yet that was not how things truly stood.
Not at all.
And to understand this, one had to observe the multidimensionality not from the outside, but by standing on one of its facets.
Ardan knew that much now.
All that remained was to choose the exact facet upon which he stood.
“We still need to confirm this hypothesis, Magister.”
Ardan started, trying to shake off his thoughts.
Worries for another day…
They had far more pressing concerns right now.
“Any ideas?”
“If you’re right, and they’ve got more moles — and deeper ones at that — than just Rovnev, that’s the first thing to check.”
“Haven’t we checked that already?”
“How?” Milar asked, then answered his own question, just as he had last time. “The archive. Rovnev couldn’t have passed anything on, yet someone beat us to it.”
“Because they already knew and wanted to distract us.”
Milar muttered something under his breath.
“That doesn’t help us get her out of the Black House, but it’s still better than nothing,” he said, obviously finding anything to do with Alice Rovnev a raw and painful subject. “All right. Nalimov?”
“We need to see Arkar.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Wait,” Ardan clamped a hand on the steering wheel. “We don’t have much time.”
Milar sighed and scowled again.
“Yes, I remember, partner, that you believe our deadline is the first day of summer. And I also remember that you can’t tell me why.”
Ardan really couldn’t say it. He couldn’t reveal that there was another unknown in their equation, a mysterious Sidhe who had escaped from the Summer Court’s dungeon.
Or… perhaps he wasn’t so mysterious after all?
“Remember what I told you about the Star-born werewolf’s claims?”
“The ones about him having Matabar blood in him?”
Ardan nodded.
“So what?”
“What if they didn’t abduct me back then because I possess the Aean’Hane art, but rather-”
“Because of your blood?” Milar interrupted.
Ardan nodded again.
The captain fell silent, and remained so for a long moment. Then he spoke heavily, brows furrowed more deeply than ever.
“You understand what that means, right?”
“That those tied to the Spiders are also tied to ‘Operation Mountain Predator.’”
Milar let go of the wheel and reached for a third cigarette, but then he remembered that he was still on his second. With a curse, he stubbed it out, tossed the butt away, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Apparently, the wax there had dried.
“Don’t tell me you plan to pull that same stunt you did back at the factory by playing bait again?”
“Do we have any other options?”
“First, we verify everything,” Milar countered. “We still only think we’ve figured out the heart of all this. We can’t prove your professor’s involvement. We can’t prove Nalimov’s schemes. We can’t even tie Man and Le’mrity to the Spiders or those mysterious lords we’ve been hearing about. All we’ve got is circumstantial evidence. And we’ve only got one bullet left in the chamber.”
“That’s why I suggest we split up and-”
“No, my dear partner. The one making suggestions right now is going to be me, and you’ll listen closely. And let’s begin with…”
Bruce’s Jazz Bar
Arkar stared at Milar as though he were looking at a creature for which he had no sure response. It was part dangerous, diseased cur, one likely to bite and infect anyone unfortunate enough to come close to it, and part foul-smelling insect he’d very much like to crush but couldn’t be bothered dirtying his hands with.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right, Ard,” Arkar said in the steppe orcs’ tongue. “You want me-”
“Can we speak Galessian?” Milar cut in.
The orc froze and turned to the captain.
“Shorty, if you’ve got nothing better to do, grab a rag and wipe down my floors, will you? Unless the Cloaks have grown too useless for even that?”
The captain’s hand twitched toward his revolver and Arkar clenched his fists.
“Gentlemen,” Ardi pleaded for what felt like the hundredth time that night. “Please…”
“I’ll speak whatever tongue I please, shorty,” Arkar growled. “You two came to me, not the other way around.”
“I won’t forget this, orc.”
“Feel free to write it down,” Arkar snorted, turning back to Ardan. “You’re asking me, Ard, to find out from the Conclave if Nalivov had…”
“Nalimov.”
“Same difference,” the orc waved him off again, “…if he had bedroom ties with any of our people.”
“Yes?”
“All right… I owe you for that business with Indgar. So-”
“But that’s not all.”
The orc stared at Ardi expectantly.
“We can’t show our faces. Everyone knows us.”
“Just like everyone knows me,” Arkar retorted.
“Which is why we need your connections in the Conclave.”
“For what?”
“To prevent a potential war with the Hammers, one that would lead to chaos among all Firstborn.”
Both Ardan and Milar were certain that the mysterious puppet masters couldn’t care less about street gangs. All they wanted was to pit the Firstborn against the rest of the capital’s population, and the Orcish Jackets and the Hammers were just the sparks they planned to use to ignite that tinder.
“Let’s hear your plan, Ard,” Arkar said in Galessian at last, after a brief pause to think it over.
Ardan opened a folder that held the details of the operation he and Milar had devised — well, it had mostly been Milar. Ardan had just pitched in a few ideas.
“To start, we need to spray Professor Lea with a special chemical compound, and then-”
“Hold on,” the orc cut him off. “Professor? You mean a Star Mage?”
“Yes,” Ardan confirmed. “This will help us track her. If we use magic, she’ll notice. But a specific scent might also rub off on Indgar, and he’s the one you need for-”
“I know what I need him for. I’m just amazed that your puny… I mean, that your heads managed to hatch the idea — well, never mind. Carry on.”
And so Ardan kept going. He explained everything they’d planned and done so far, including how they’d managed to free Alice with a direct order from the Colonel, since only she could develop the right compound to track Lea. Then he explained how they’d needed to urgently wake up Din and Alexander (Mshisty had already been awakened) so that, while everyone assumed those two were still stuck in a magical slumber, they could serve as Ardan and Milar’s primary eyes and hands. There was simply too much that needed doing on the ground.
And, of course, Aversky would be their main combatant. Ardan had no illusions about his capabilities. If they went up against someone like Lea Mortimer, they’d need a war mage of Aversky’s caliber.
“So, you want me to spray some compound on a Blue Star Mage and…” Arkar peered at the list. “A bunch of other tasks no less… Well, let’s say no less nontripodal.”
“Nontrivial,” Ardan corrected automatically.
“I don’t care what you call them,” the half-orc snarled. “I’d say it’s a fucking fool’s errand, but I suspect your delicate ears wouldn’t approve. And all of this because of what? I swore by the ancestors’ trails, Ard, to repay you for what you did with Indgar, not to do… whatever this is. It honestly looks like military sabotage behind enemy lines to me.”
“The Spiders plan to explode—”
“Let them blow up the whole street!” Arkar cut him off.
“—a tenth of the capital,” Ardan finished emphatically.
Arkar barked out a laugh, then, seeing the seriousness in their expressions, he froze like a statue.
“You’re not joking?”
They answered him with silence.
“You’re not joking,” the half-orc exhaled. “All right… but let me just say this first.”
“You-”
“If that shorty tries to say something else,” Arkar growled, leaning in toward Milar as the captain opened his mouth, “I’ll plant my ‘comment’ right in his ribcage.”
Naturally, Milar didn’t hold his tongue, and only ten minutes later did Ardan finally learn that Arkar wanted to propose using a simple whistle — one favored in the steppe — as their signal, rather than any particular code word.
Abandoned Temple of the Old Gods,
present time
“You are under arrest by order of the Second Chancery, Professor Lea Morimer.”
Unsurprisingly, the words had no effect at all. A moment later, bullets and spells flew through the air, only to vanish upon contact with a whole succession of shields erected by a single, precise touch of Aversky’s staff against the cavern floor.
At the feet of the Grand Magister of War Magic, nearly a dozen seals, all linked together in a fiendishly-complex network, burst into being. Judging by the glitter of accumulators on her fingers, Lea had expended no small amount of energy.
All of the Spiders, Nalimov included — everyone but Indgar — were holding wands in their hands.
And each of them possessed artificial Stars.
“Professor Lea,” Ardan said, using his staff to brace himself as he forced his weary body upright. After all these recent ordeals, his limbs were howling in protest. “You can still-”
“My colleagues were not mistaken, Mr. Egobar, when they praised your intellect,” Professor Lea lifted her other arm, the one that, until recently, had been disguised as a mere prosthetic, and tore off her cloak. “But don’t think we haven’t prepared for this.”
It took Ardan a moment to register the sight before him, and a moment longer to actually believe it. Where Lea’s prosthetic should have been, a reptilian limb protruded from her shoulder, covered in scales and ending in taloned fingers studded with rings bearing accumulators.
And instead of legs, she had the talons of a bird. It was almost like… the Harpies once created by Gales in the days of the War of the Birth of the Empire.
Professor Lea had subjected herself to chimera-like modifications. Judging by the erratic way she was moving, it hadn’t gone very smoothly.
But that was hardly the worst of it.
The real problem was the scroll she was holding. Ardan — who’d spent so many months studying Lady Talia’s seals — recognized its structure instantly.
And so did Aversky.
“Ard!” The Grand Magister shouted, but it was already too late.
When he slammed his staff against the ground, Lea’s spell simply blew his own apart. It was snuffed out in an instant by an appallingly-powerful burst of her magic, one fueled by the agonized shrieks of the Spiders trapped in a muddy, crimson flame that devoured them. Anyone holding a wand vanished into that bloody inferno — everyone but Indgar.
Ash rose from their crumbling bodies and swirled into the air, forming a seal that was an exact copy of the one shining on Professor Lea’s scroll.
And when she pressed the button on her “detonator,” the crystal partitions of a dome snapped shut in the blink of an eye, cutting Ardan and Lea off from the others, making it so neither Aversky, nor Arkar, nor anyone else could interfere.
On top of that, they were all far too preoccupied with trying to avoid the flaming blade that was several yards long and being wielded by the creature that now stood among the giant statues around the platform.
Professor Lea had summoned a demon.
“I did tell you, Ard — you’ve lost,” she said, pressing a second, concealed button on her device. The pyramid beneath them began to fold in on itself, taking the platform lower and lower into the depths.
Comments
Andrew Simpson
Part of me wonders if ard just does that to fuck with people at this point. Or out of habit.
The Human
They use the phrase moles here multiple times in the flashback but supposedly ard learned it on the airship
John
Thanks!
