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Matabar. Chapter 44 - Baliero
🕑 Added 2025-01-18 18:44:00 +0000 UTCElver, whose unimposing frame seemed even slighter beneath his worn clothes, was nervously smoking a cigarette by his car. The vehicle — a battered old Derks model that must have been repaired countless times — sported mismatched passenger doors, a dented front fender, and a crooked rear bumper. And yes, over the past month, Ardan had made an effort to learn the ins and outs of cars. This hulking machine, with its almost square cabin and exhaust pipe big enough to double as plumbing somewhere, was probably about eight years old. It had cost Elver a reasonable 650 exes and, unlike the luxurious models the wealthy drove, came in only one basic configuration.
It had a top speed of just thirty kilometers per hour and an engine with around seven horsepower. Ardi still didn’t quite understand what that term actually meant — it seemed to describe the force needed to lift a certain load straight up.
“Are you sure that, if it comes down to it…” Milomir said, waddling over with the elegance of an overfed house cat. He nudged the gray rim of one of the car’s tires with the tip of his shoe. “This old lady will hold up, Elver?”
“The main thing is that I’m sure,” Lisa chimed in as she sauntered past them. Gathering the hem of her dress, she opened the driver’s side door, slid in behind the wheel, and turned the ignition.
Immediately, something under the hood roared awake, a sound reminiscent of a starving bear roused from winter’s deepest dark.
“Impressive,” Milomir whistled, tipping his hat.
“Alright,” Elver muttered, taking a final drag from his cigarette. With a casual toss that flew nearly seven meters, he flicked it straight into a trash can near the entrance to “Bruce’s.” “Let’s go over it one more time. Andrew…”
The young man, who was jittery and glancing over his shoulder, twisted his cap nervously in his hands. His gaze darted about like that of a rat trapped in a cage, and an unpleasant odor, sticky and sour like rotting berries in a swamp, clung to him.
“Andrew!” Elver called again.
The boy flinched, seemingly snapping back to reality. He tugged his cap down over his eyes, attempting to hide.
“Y-yes,” he stammered.
“Explain the details to the newcomer,” Elver said, nodding at Ardan, whose height left Elver staring up at his chest.
“Of c-c-course,” Andrew replied, still stammering.
“Of c-c-course,” Elver mocked. “I swear, they’ll hire anyone these days...”
“Go on, dear Andrew,” Milomir encouraged, his voice dripping with a syrupy sweetness.
Elver swore under his breath as a breeze stirred the hems of their coats and cloaks, sending them flapping. Above, the thin clouds thickened, casting a dark veil over the sparse pedestrians below.
“I… I work for the Guild of Mages and-” Andrew began.
“Yes, yes, we know that already,” Elver interrupted. “Get to the point!”
“Elver,” came Lisa’s smooth, almost foxlike voice from inside the car. “Don’t be so hard on the boy.”
Ardi was lost in thought, recalling a conversation he’d had with Arkar. So, the half-orc had been talking about Andrew…
“A… a-a month ago, I was going through some old files, and I f-found a report about a building slated for demolition. It was once of interest to the scientific community,” Andrew explained, gradually finding his rhythm and losing the stutter. “The report mentioned an abandoned building on Fifth Street in Baliero.”
Ardi remembered the map of the city — Baliero was about a half-hour drive away, located on one of the islands at the mouth of the Niewa River. Adjacent to the Central District, it had become a haven for free spirits and intellectuals alike.
The area was known for its theaters, including a recently constructed cinema, whatever that was (half the newspaper headlines these days were about this “cinema”), as well as a host of bars, pubs, restaurants, and cafés. There were even a few museums there. Baliero was part of the Old City, the districts in the Metropolis that had resisted high-rise developments, maintaining their historic charm. Ardi, however, believed that it was called the Old City because it had been built on the ruins of the ancient capital of Gales.
“The building was supposed to go to some baron’s heir, but the man died at the Taian border about seventy years ago.”
“In the Mercenary War?” Milomir asked.
The Mercenary War had been a major conflict between the Empire and a few foreign powers. It had been far more significant than the usual skirmishes on the Fatian or Armondian border. That war had led to the Empire’s most recent territorial expansion, with Taia losing the southwestern part of the peninsula, and their northeastern border inching within a hundred kilometers of the Taian capital.
The war, which lasted from 436 to 444 E.Y., was so named because the Republic of Castilia had sent aid to Taia in the form of mercenaries comprised of Castilian natives and Ngian recruits, who’d arrived on Selkado’s ships. Combined, the losses of Taia, Castilia, and the mercenaries had reached over a million and a half lives in total, including civilian casualties. The Empire had lost about six hundred thousand, with around two hundred thousand of those being civilians.
Taia wasn’t fully conquered only due to an ultimatum from Castilia, Selkado, and the Confederation of Free Cities, whom they had bribed. They’d declared that if Ezmir, the Taian capital, fell, they would restrict the Empire’s access to the eastern continent’s shores.
Of course, the Empire would’ve still had the option of sailing through the Swallow Ocean, but Parnas, one of Ardi’s teachers, had said that that route was near non profitable due to various reasons.
“Precisely,” Andrew confirmed, clearly emboldened. “The baron’s direct line ended with him, so, as per the law, the country waited half a century for any distant heirs to come forth, but none showed up. Eventually, the property passed to the city and was put up for auction. No one bought it over the next twenty years, so tomorrow morning, they’re demolishing it, and then the land will be transferred to the crown.”
Ardi frowned.
“What’s bothering you, lamppost?” Elver asked.
“Are you talking to me?” Ardi replied.
“No, obviously, I’m talking to the lamppost,” Elver snapped sarcastically.
“My name is Ard,” the young man responded firmly.
“Oh, really?” Elver sneered, a smirk playing at his lips. “And my name is ‘I don’t give a shit what you’re called, kid, because if I did, you’d drown in all of it.’”
“I always knew there was a lot of crap in you, Elver,” came a woman’s mocking laughter from inside the car.
Elver was about to respond, but Milomir intervened.
“Look, gentlemen and lady, we’ll be in the same boat for a few hours, at least,” the older man said, not even raising an eyebrow. “Let’s try to act like even if we can’t stand each other, we at least don’t feel the need to tear each other’s throats out.”
“Well, there aren’t that many beasts among us,” Elver muttered, keeping his eyes on Ardan.
“So, mister mage,” Milomir, ignoring Elver, turned to Ardi. “What don’t you understand?”
“I’m new to the Metropolis,” Ardi said slowly, “but isn’t land in the Old City incredibly valuable? Why didn’t anyone buy it at auction?”
“Because it’s infamous,” Andrew replied, pulling a crumpled pack of cheap cigarettes from the pocket of his worn, unseasonably thin coat. People smoked a lot in the capital. “So much so that, fifty years ago, the city hired the Guild of Mages to place a shield around it, just to keep people from snooping. And that shield and its layout,” he tapped his temple, “I memorized it thoroughly.”
Ardi didn’t immediately understand why Andrew had memorized the seal’s layout, but then, after seeing Elver’s expression, he caught on. If Andrew had had a blueprint of the seal, he himself would no longer be needed, and he’d have probably been paid much less.
“The demolition was supposed to happen four days ago, but something delayed the Senior Magister who was scheduled to deactivate the shield. They expect him tomorrow morning,” Andrew added. “Today is the last day the land and the building officially belong to the city. By tomorrow morning, the land will be the crown’s property. But as long as the building stands, it legally still belongs to the city, even though the time limit has expired. So, until tomorrow morning, the land and the building are technically unowned. Breaking into this property or dismantling the shield isn’t illegal since it currently belongs to no one… A little loophole in the law.”
“And that’s where you come in, Mr. Ard,” Milomir tipped his hat again, like he was greeting Ardan for the first time. “Andrew will explain the rest as we drive, and you’ll break the shield.”
“But why?” Ardi narrowed his eyes at them. “Arkar told me my only task was to dismantle the shield of an abandoned building slated for demolition, one with no apparent value.”
“Then just do as you were told, non-human,” Elver spat on the ground.
“I’d like to see you be this brave inside ‘Bruce’s,’” Lisa remarked coldly. “Or perhaps I wouldn’t, considering I might get the chance to see an idiot embedded in a wall.”
Elver flashed her a rude gesture but fell silent. In that moment, his sleeve rode up, revealing a holster of throwing needles and a Tavser insignia on his wrist.
That explained everything. It was surprising, though, how Elver, with his political beliefs, could work alongside the half-orc Arkar.
“The building really isn’t valuable,” Andrew said, pulling out another cigarette but quickly putting it back. “But in the records, I found information about the building’s previous owners. It turns out that it once belonged to the Vertah Order.”
“The Vertah Order?” Ardan repeated.
“A local ghost story,” Milomir explained. “They were a society of mages who studied the art of the Firstborn. Some say they worshipped demons or tried to summon the Fae, or maybe they discovered some artifact from Makingia. All that’s really known about them is that the Second Chancery wiped them out. And there’s also-”
“Time’s running short,” Elver interrupted. “The bridges will be raised in thirty minutes.”
And suddenly, Ardi understood why they had been standing by the car, chatting instead of driving to what Arkar had called “the job.” Tonight marked the end of the river navigation season, and soon the bridges would be raised for the last time.
Baliero was an island, and in thirty minutes, it would be cut off from the rest of the capital for an hour and a half.
“Everyone knows their tasks,” Elver said firmly, his tone leaving no room for objections. “Ideal arrival time: thirty minutes. And then ten minutes to break the shield.”
“But I’m not sure if-”
“Ten. Minutes,” Elver growled through gritted teeth, cutting Ardi off. “After that, we enter the building. We have forty minutes to search it. Then we go to the pier. A barge will be waiting at the fifth dock. From there, we sail to the Night Docks, then head back to ‘Bruce’s.’ Anyone left behind is on their own. Understood?”
A ragged chorus of confirmations answered Elver, though it seemed only Ardan wanted to ask, “forty minutes to search for what, exactly?”
“Then let’s get moving,” Elver spat one last time before circling the car to take the passenger seat next to Lisa.
Milomir climbed in, filling up the remaining space on the seat. Andrew and Ardan squeezed into the back. As soon as the doors closed, Lisa shifted gears and pressed the gas, guiding them down the street. Andrew took out a slip of paper and handed it to Ardan.
On it was a seal, not handwritten but almost certainly printed by a machine.
“Why-”
Ardan raised an eyebrow in confusion, but Andrew pressed a finger to his lips and nodded in Elver’s direction. Elver was deep in conversation with Lisa, discussing their approach to the building and their subsequent escape. Ardan understood immediately — Andrew feared Elver might catch on. The boy had likely lied about memorizing the seal and creating a rough sketch.
He must have been questioned beforehand, and he had only memorized part of the blueprint to appease them. After all, anyone could memorize, say, one of the sections of a seal with due diligence and a lot of free time, even an untrained person.
Ardan nodded, flipping open his grimoire. Turning the pages, he focused on the seal’s intricate symbols and the lockpick patterns he’d recorded from the Stranger’s book. But as he examined the seal itself…
He coughed, feeling his chest tighten.
“Are you alright, mister mage?” Milomir asked, eyeing him through the rearview mirror.
“Yes… perfectly fine,” Ardan replied, though his voice wavered slightly.
In front of him lay a drawing of some kind of monster. At first glance, it looked like there were eleven contours here, which was something that would only be talked about in the final courses of the Grand. The classification “multiple contours” seemed to apply here, but if you looked closely, some of the contours were divided into sections, and those, in turn, looked like truncated, incomplete seals.
And all of this, like the classification “nested sections of seals,” was not part of the courses taught at the Grand and belonged to the most complicated of science. This was the kind of thing that was taught only after one had been admitted to the Guild of Mages (although their lectures, where the Magisters were trained, were also held in the Grand, just in the main building, on the last few floors). And the number of runes, and their arrays as well... Just looking at all of it made his head spin.
Ardan felt as if he were drowning, grasping frantically for something solid, his fingers slipping through a viscous void. And beyond even the seal’s complexity, parts of the ink had been smudged, making some of the symbols faint and indistinct.
Ardan finally understood why Star Magic had overshadowed the Aean’Hane’s art. If, out of a hundred thousand Star Mages, even two could learn how to craft something like this within a quarter of a century, then…
He shook his head, biting his tongue to regain focus. All he needed to do was find a breach, not shatter the entire wall — it was a puzzle of sorts, and he loved puzzles.
Ardan began deciphering the runes and exploring each contour. The seal absorbed his attention wholly, reducing the world around him to distant noise illuminated only by the glowing signs outside that were reflected in blurred puddles on the rainy street, and the indistinct shadows of bundled-up pedestrians who were adjusting their collars and raising umbrellas to fight off the cold and rain of the evening.
Their car floated along in the stream of traffic. Lisa maneuvered it deftly, switching lanes with ease, one hand on the steering wheel, her other on the gearshift and holding a slim, lit cigarette. The buildings outside grew less imposing, giving way to narrow streets and alleyways. Broad avenues turned to winding lanes, and the sidewalks shrank to the point that pedestrians had to walk in single file.
Ardan barely noticed when they crossed a modest bridge under whose arches the river shimmered with cold sparks reflected from streetlamps and windows. Stone statues of two youths wrestling winged horses marked their passage, though Ardan saw none of it.
A weary tram clattered by, disappearing behind them as Lisa accelerated, ignoring a hand-waving signaler who emerged from his booth to urge them forward.
They sped across the bridge and, upon reaching Baliero, pressed onward. A moment later, the heavy gears of the bridge turned, raising the chains and separating the structure into two halves that now spread out wide, like the wings of the statues that adorned it.
Ardan remained oblivious. He didn’t even notice the altered landscape, where buildings three to four stories high now lined the streets in close, cheerful rows, flashing the signs of countless bars, theaters, cafés, and other venues, their flash lights twinkling like the baubles on a holiday tree.
If the capital behind them was a wise, seasoned matron who knew what price her peace had come at, then Baliero was a vivacious young woman — a red-haired girl in a shimmering gown with a slit in its skirt, singing her evening song, night after night, and often the same refrain. Baliero had its own story, and perhaps it was a little sad, or maybe it was lighthearted and joyful. But you’d never hear or see it until you looked beyond the glitzy outfits, the bursts of laughter, and the clinking of glasses; beyond the rumble of car engines and the tobacco-coffee fragrance that wafted through the streets.
These thoughts danced on the edges of Ardan’s consciousness, but he barely noticed them. His mind was wholly absorbed in the seal.
Still unaware, he missed the moment when they turned off the main island street, weaving through tight lanes where the car barely avoided brushing the edges of old stone facades. Finally, they arrived at a small square.
It was neglected and rundown. Many of the streetlights had been shattered and the wrought-iron fence surrounding the square stood bent in places, like an old prizefighter missing his teeth. The square itself was overgrown, a forgotten place dotted with scraggly trees.
And in the middle of it stood the building.
Or rather, it held itself upright by sheer force of will. The structure leaned to one side and its roof was riddled with holes mirroring the gaps in the fence. The first floor, built from rough stone, was covered in patches of moss and mildew, while the second and third, once painted white, had long since lost their polish. The paint had peeled, revealing wide cracks that someone could fit a hand through.
The grand front porch, which led to a crescent-shaped driveway, nearly brushed against the ground in places, while the marble steps — possibly the last enduring part of the whole place — stood as silent sentinels, bearing the burden of time.
Rain drummed on the nearby rooftops, as if the surrounding buildings were pulling away from this diseased neighbor of theirs. Heavy, cold drops fell, yet none touched the crumbling tiles of the abandoned house on Fifth Street. They pooled around an almost invisible dome, which was draped over the building like a spectral shroud.
Lisa smoothly maneuvered the car to the other side of the street, stopping directly across from the square’s entrance.
“I’ll wait here,” she said, checking her watch. “You have forty-nine minutes.”
“It was supposed to be fifty,” Elver reminded her. “Ten for the shield, forty for the search.”
Lisa turned to Elver, her flirtatious smile fading as her eyes sharpened, all traces of that foxlike charm gone.
“You can argue with me all you want, Elver,” she said, tapping her lacquered nails against her watch’s dial, “but time is ticking.”
Elver swore, nudging Milomir’s shoulder as he exited the car. Milomir was the first out, popping open his umbrella. Elver followed him, flipping up his collar and adjusting his comically narrow-brimmed hat.
Andrew climbed out from the other side, using his jacket as a makeshift hood. Just as Ardan was about to step out, Lisa adjusted her rearview mirror, catching his eye.
“If anything goes wrong,” she whispered, her lips barely moving, “Arkar said you and I are to leave immediately.”
Ardan blinked in acknowledgment before exiting into the cold, damp air, taking a deep breath.
“And what exactly does the overseer see in that pup?” She muttered as the door shut behind him, sealing off the sounds inside.
Making sure the street was clear, Ardan crossed over to join his companions as they entered the square.
As he stepped over an invisible boundary, Ardan felt something viscous wrap around his feet, as if he were wading through thick, sticky muck. It clung to his legs like the clammy hands of the dead, their skin peeling and covered in corpse slime. It gripped his ankles, pulling him back. The air, once cold and fresh, was now thick and pungent, reeking of waste and decay, filling every pore and lodging at the back of his throat.
Ardan gasped, leaning heavily on his staff, and barely holding back a retch.
“Everything fine, mister mage?” Milomir asked, covering Ardan with his umbrella that had a handle shaped like a tiger.
“Yes,” Ardi replied, glancing at Elver. “What exactly are you looking for here?”
“Not your concern, boy,” Elver muttered. “Just do what you’re paid for. Preferably quietly.”
Ardi might have complied, but that casual “boy” made him recall Yonatan, who’d refused to take money from the settlers. It had been such a simple gesture, and yet it had held more meaning than all of Mart’s flowery speeches combined.
Straightening up, he tightened his grip on his staff and slipped his left hand into his pocket, feeling the cold iron for reassurance rather than out of any fear of Elver.
“Either you tell me, or I’m going back.”
Elver’s crooked, unnaturally white grin glinted in the sparse moonlight peeking through the clouds. He flicked his coat open, resting his hands on his many knives.
“Go ahead, try it, brat,” he smirked. “Let’s see what they teach you at the Grand.”
Ardan cocked the trigger and loosened his hips, bending his knees a little so that his legs, as Ergar had taught him, became almost like springs.
A moment passed… Then another…
“We’re searching for a Makingian artifact,” Milomir said, his tone still as smooth as honey. “A carved black wood statue about thirty centimeters tall, shaped like a woman in agony, her eyes set with purple stones. We don’t know more, mister mage. Arkar has a collector client willing to pay well for it. Part of that payment, by the way, is going to be split between all of us.”
“And how can you be so sure that this artifact is here?” Ardan asked, his gaze still fixed on Elver.
He was prepared to use both a shield spell and his revolver, and would bolt at the slightest sign of trouble. Yes, it might mean having to find a new apartment, but with thirty-five extra exes, he could manage at the Grand’s dorms until the New Year. Then it would be goodbye, Metropolis.
“Here,” Andrew pulled out several faded photographs. “A few years ago, a commission inspected the building for documentation. This is what they found on the third floor, in the eastern wing, in what used to be a nursery.”
The young man lifted the photograph higher, and there it was. Amidst the damp wallpaper (it was the rich folks’ fancy to cover their rooms with colored paper), on a rotten bedside table, far from the cradle, stood the very statuette Milomir had just now described.
“And what does this artifact do?” Ardan asked.
“Nothing, mister mage,” Milomir replied, twirling his umbrella slightly. “It’s merely a work of art. The collector provided credible evidence. Otherwise, the overseer wouldn’t have hired us. There’s no point in them attracting extra attention to ‘Bruce’s.’”
“Them?” What did Milomir mean by that?
“Have we satisfied your curiosity, cowboy?” Elver snapped, letting his coat fall back over his knives. “You’ve got seven minutes left. Three were wasted on talk.”
Ardan pondered for a few moments, but... it wasn’t so much a question of money as of the trait that, as a child, had forced him to go farther than his parents had allowed him to. In his youth, he’d travelled through the forest flows without his Master there because of it… Not to mention what he’d done with Anna, his act of studying Star Magic from an illegal textbook, and so on.
And the name of that trait was curiosity.
The incredibly complex shield… He wondered whether he could break it. There was also the mystery of this artifact that was clearly no ordinary statuette, and, given how long it had retained its properties, certainly belonged to the art of the Aean’Hane somehow.
The whole thing had incited an almost physically tangible itch within him. Ardi knew himself well enough to realize that if he didn’t find out everything he could right now, he wouldn’t be able to sleep for the next six months, exhausting himself with speculation and conjecture.
Ignoring Elver, he stepped forward, stopping at the edge of the shimmering dome. The sensation of ghostly hands clinging to him hadn’t left, but it was now a background noise, distant yet persistent.
“Do you mind?” He asked, nodding toward the umbrella.
“Of course, mister mage.”
Milomir stepped closer, sheltering Ardi from the rain as he opened his grimoire.
The shield he’d been analyzing for the last half hour was of the absorbing type, only incredibly complex. So much so that, thanks to the Ley cables feeding it a constant stream of energy, it was virtually impenetrable. Even if you exploded a few kilos of the mixture that miners used to undermine rocks right next to it, nothing would happen.
Neither would something happen if a mail locomotive were to hit the shield at full speed, or if an entire building collapsed on top of it. The runes trapped in the seal did not just absorb certain properties, but also interacted with each other in a clever system.
With some simplification, the seal could be imagined as the work of a living chain, passing buckets of water from one hand to the next to extinguish a fire. Each of the links, individually, was of little value, making it so that if one of the runes was broken, it could be replaced by a spare, of which there were plenty in the seal.
But what if those substitutes didn’t get to the right point in time? Even then, nothing terrible would happen, because the chain would just stretch a little, not losing its functionality.
But all stretching had its limits.
And so, the lockpick Ardi had devised on the basis of the options presented by the Stranger was both as simple as an anvil and as cunning as a hungry fox trying to get into a securely-locked henhouse.
Ardan utilized his knowledge of nested seals that he had recently gained. He wasn’t going to try to overpower the shield (which was unlikely, given the Ley cables, or maybe even outright impossible), and he certainly had no illusions that he would be able to break any of the runes by overloading its property — there were too many other runes there, ready to provide backup to any rune he targeted.
But none of that was, in fact, necessary. Ardi only needed to briefly open a passageway inside the shield. One big enough for a grown man to crawl through.
“Prepare to get dirty,” he murmured.
“What?” For the first time, Milomir sounded mildly irritated.
But Ardi ignored his grumbling. Pulling energy from his Star and feeling it flowing through his veins, he raised his staff and, forming a seal in front of him, slammed it into the ground.
There was no flash, no sudden spark. Ardan’s spell was, as the Stranger’s writings had taught him, invisible by design.
But something that was not visible to the naked eye was unfolding in vivid colors within the young man’s mind. He watched as several of his runes cut into the lines of the shield runes and, like experienced scouts posing as the enemy, stood side by side with them.
Meanwhile, on the other side, a group of follow-up runes had arrived. They started loudly “shouting,” being insolent, and, in general, demonstrating their hostility.
Of course, since it had detected this invasion, the shield was now directing its forces there to absorb the threat. The issue was that whoever had put up such a splendid shield had relied too heavily on the constant supply of energy from the Ley cables. After all, why waste time and unnecessarily complicate this already titanic seal when you could just immediately make it quickly and mercilessly extinguish any enemy as soon as possible?
And so, all the forces of the shield were thrown at the threat, no matter how insignificant it looked. Then, as the several hostile runes were almost instantly dispersed within the shield seal’s structure, the two scout runes came into play. Their function turned out to be ridiculously simple.
At the right moment, while the shield’s forces were distracted, they opened their “arms.”
In that instant, a small archway appeared in the shield, and Elver dove through it, beckoning them inside.
Milomir scrambled after him, his plush cashmere coat and wool suit soaking in the mud while Elver yanked him forward.
The moment they were through, the archway vanished, the shield once more returning to its impenetrable state.
Elver helped Milomir to his feet and turned to say something, but his words were lost to the magical silence.
Ardan gestured to his ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear them. Elver paused, nodded, then pointed to his watch.
Ardan glanced at his own — he’d taken twelve minutes instead of seven to break the shield, leaving only thirty-five minutes for their search. Elver’s finger jabbed at his watch, reminding him of the ticking clock.
The plan called for Andrew and Ardan to wait by the entrance, but he couldn’t help but wonder why that was, since they couldn’t really signal to the two men inside. And honestly, whose attention would they even attract around here?
The square around them lay silent, deserted. The surrounding buildings had had their windows tightly shut and curtains drawn, as if the residents wanted nothing to do with the old structure looming in the center. Even the winding street that encircled the square was devoid of any passing cars. Despite Baliero’s usual buzz, Fifth Street felt abandoned and forgotten.
“Want one?” Andrew held out his crumpled cigarette pack.
“I don’t smoke,” Ardan replied curtly.
“Got it,” Andrew nodded, slipping one cigarette between his lips. He fumbled with a match, striking it twice before the orange glow lit the end. Acrid smoke filled the air, thick and pungent, as he took a drag.
Ardi had never been able to understand the appeal. He’d tried smoking once, out of sheer curiosity, during his travels with the cowboys, only to spend the next hour coughing and spitting in disgust.
“Could you do something about this rain?” Andrew asked, shivering and pulling his coat tighter around him.
Ardan didn’t really feel the cold much, except for a slight discomfort. The rain, yes. But not the cold. Not yet. Then again, who could say how his half-breed Matabar constitution would react to the White Month, a time when the thermometer regularly drops to -25 degrees. But as Andrew’s teeth began to chatter, he picked up Milomir’s umbrella from the ground, shook off the mud, and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” Andrew said, surprised. He opened the umbrella, grateful for even this small respite from the downpour. “Didn’t even notice that the old man had dropped it.”
Ardan remained silent. Something about all of this made him uneasy, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. Yes, of course, he could immediately say that he was indeed involved in some murky business, with equally murky company, and there was even Arkar, acting as their mysterious “overseer.” Not to mention the fact that if Andrew had photos of the exact location of the artifact, then why had so much time been allotted to searching for it, not to mention...
Well. Everything.
But, surprisingly, all of these details didn’t bother Ardan as much as the unpleasant itch that was trying to tell him something.
“You know,” Andrew said after a few silent minutes, “I figured you’d just… cast something.”
Ardi was distracted from his thoughts and looked again at the man standing beside him. He was a bit over 180 centimeters tall, thin almost to the point of being skeletal, with fingers yellowed by addiction and glittering eyes.
“What?” Ardan asked.
“To stop it from raining, I mean.”
He’d simply acted according to Atta’nha’s teachings: the Aean’Hane did their best not to influence the natural course of things. Events, however unpleasant they may be to someone, happened because they had to happen. And something that might’ve been bad for one person could’ve been good for another, and no Aean’Hane had the right to take it upon themselves to judge such things. Unless, of course, they were a dark Aean’Hane.
“You have an umbrella,” he replied simply.
Andrew sniffed, shivering once more as he raised the umbrella a bit higher. “Fair point…”
He was still soaked to the bone, though, his damp clothes clinging to him. Ardan might have tried to ask the cold to release Andrew from its grip, but he was far too distracted by that nagging thought, that gnawing sense that he was missing something critical.
“So, what do you do for the Guild of Mages?” Ardan asked, hoping to keep the conversation going.
Andrew glanced away, his shoulders tensing. “Why does it matter?”
“I thought that maybe you could help me out,” Ardan replied, shifting his weight and keeping his tone light. “I’ve been trying to get a license to work at the docks, but it seems my request has been buried somewhere.”
“Sorry, mate,” Andrew replied, his tone clipped. “I work with records in the Guild’s planning department, not the city’s. I don’t have access to citizen requests.”
Ardan remembered Bazhen mentioning something about the “Department of Mage Affairs” in the Guild’s administration. “Doesn’t the Guild have its own registry?” He asked.
Andrew exhaled sharply, cigarette still clamped between his teeth. “You’re observant, aren’t you?”
Ardan was fast enough to put up his Shield and jump aside, but not fast enough to avoid getting grazed by a bullet.
A bullet that had been fired from the revolver Andrew was holding. The iron in the skinny guy’s hand, who was clearly dabbling in Angel Dust, was solid and all too real, and its muzzle was aimed straight at Ardi’s stomach.
Along his side, where the wound left by the Wanderer had finally disappeared only a couple of weeks ago, blood was flowing once again.
“I-” Ardan started, but Andrew cut him off.
“Sorry,” Andrew murmured, and his voice held genuine regret. “But the Dandy pays better than the Orcish Jackets. My sister’s sick, and I need the money to help her. I don’t have a choice.”
Andrew raised the gun again, aiming it at Ardan’s head. He was drained from casting his Shield and using the lockpicking spell, his Star Magic nearly depleted. His own revolver was still tucked in his coat pocket, out of reach.
“As if we didn’t know that you’d sold us out to the Dandy,” someone standing behind Andrew said.
He didn’t have time to turn around before the next shot rang out.
Andrew’s body jerked, then collapsed, arms sprawling out. His eyes stared blankly ahead, frozen in surprise and fear.
Lisa stood behind him, her hand still gripping the smoking barrel of a lady’s revolver — a popular model, Ardi noted absently, and just like the one Mrs. Okladov had favored. And what Ardi really didn’t like was that, while looking at the still body, the shattered bones of the skull mixing with brains and blood, he didn’t feel particularly disgusted. He was a little nauseous, of course, but far less than he’d been when he’d seen Cassara introducing Gleb Davos to the Eternal Angels.
“The Orcish Jackets,” Ardan muttered, recalling the patrons in “Bruce’s” private lounge. “Does the bar-”
“It’s a legitimate business, Ard,” Lisa bent down and pulled the dead man’s weapon from his numb hands. “The building where you’re staying? It’s perfectly legal, just like ‘Bruce’s.’ But yes, technically, you are renting from a criminal outfit. Arkar is their local liaison, an overseer who connects clients with those who carry out the work. And since the gang operates in the Factory District and around the Old Park, far enough from the upper crust and close enough to the laborers and common folk, the guards and Second Chancery often ignore it. And also...” Lisa shuddered and stopped. “And also, why am I confessing to you like you’re a priest?”
Ardi, who’d lost his composure, must have also lost the little bit of control over his Witch’s Gaze that he had managed to acquire over the past couple of months.
“I… am renting from… criminals,” Ardi said, his words slow and measured as he absorbed the absurdity.
He’d been so careful not to jinx himself, and yet here he was, entangled in a far murkier web than he’d ever anticipated.
“‘Bruce’s’ and the profit house are both a legitimate business,” Lisa countered, giving him a level look. “But yes, essentially. By the way, you’re bleeding.”
She stopped short, going pale as her hand drifted upwards, pointing over Ardan’s shoulder, her eyes wide with horror.
Ardan turned, his pulse quickening.
From a third-floor window, a long, black, clawed hand emerged, holding Milomir’s severed head by the hair. It dangled there for a moment, then dropped, landing with a sickening thud on the ground before rolling away into the shadows. The hand disappeared back into the building.
Ardi gulped, his mind racing. He turned back to Lisa, who was just as pale as he was.
“Does… Does this count as something going wrong?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Yeah,” she replied in a hoarse whisper. “Definitely”
Both of them took an instinctive step toward the square’s exit, but suddenly, the night exploded into a fiery, orange imitation of daylight. Their car went airborne, flung upwards by an intense burst of flames, arcing several meters before landing with a metallic crash.
Lisa reacted first, dropping to the ground and pulling Ardan down with her just as the shockwave hit. The deafening roar filled the air, shattering nearby windows into a fine mist.
But the fire wasn’t the worst of it. From all directions, shadowy figures began converging on them, weapons glinting under the streetlights: pistols, revolvers, even a few army-grade rifles.
“The Dandy’s men,” Lisa spat, raising her revolver and firing into the night. “We have to get inside the house.”
“What? In there?” Ardan shot back, his eyes wide with disbelief. “With that thing?”
“You want to deal with these things instead?” She snapped, pulling the trigger again as more figures appeared from the darkness. “There should be an old sewer hatch beneath the building. That’s our backup plan. Arkar always has a backup plan…”
Steeling himself, Ardan pulled out Gleb Davos’ accumulator, the one he’d taken “just in case.” He’d need every bit of its energy to have enough Star Magic to shield them both.
“I just need a minute,” he said, drawing energy from the crystal. Considering that the accumulator was an order of magnitude more powerful than the energy stored in his own Star, the process was working at a great loss.
“You have five seconds!” Lisa barked, firing round after round into the advancing shadows.
Ardi clenched his jaw. As the night stretched on, it was becoming clearer by the second that this was only the beginning.
