Matabar

Book II. Chapter 40 - The Dancing Peninsula

The journey to Nigrad proved to be as trivial and mundane as possible. A few minor disputes over abstract topics flared up in the carriage every now and then. One man kept snoring too loudly, earning the displeasure of the man seated across from him; a lady’s child started crying at one point, which, of course, immediately annoyed everyone. And there were other small things as well: suitcases tumbling from luggage racks, toes being trod upon, and a host of similar troubles.

It wasn’t like Ardan had been terribly exhausted by the two-day journey in the seated carriage (they could have made it in one, but this route used old boilers that required long stops at stations), but nevertheless, as he stood and stretched to his full height, a pleasant crackle running through his body, he was glad to finally give his stiffened legs some room to breathe.

Collecting his staff and hat, Ardi draped his jacket over his arm and winced slightly at his own sharp scent. The air in the heated carriage had burned his lungs and made his clothes cling to his sweat-dampened body that was now begging for soap and clean water.

The platform looked to be almost as old, dusty and creaky as the one in Delpas. The only difference was that in the capital of the Foothill Province, the mountains shielded the city from the swift steppe winds, preventing pillars of golden road dust from being stirred up. Here in Nigrad, however, which was situated on a narrow isthmus between the Swallow Ocean and the Nosatiy Gulf, there was little more than a small forest to be found.

Pushing his way through the crowd of passengers, some of whom were leaving, while others were here to spend some time at one of the resorts nearest to the Metropolis, Ardi held onto his hat, not forgetting to glance around.

The platform ended at a standard-issue station building. It was painted white, stretched out along the railway tracks, and featured a tall clock tower and a sloping roof. Inside, it was no cooler than the outside, but it was just as noisy and crowded.

“Your documents,” asked a guard with a bored expression. He was dressed in a light, red summer uniform.

He was fiddling with the button on the strap of his revolver holster, every so often tightening the laces that secured his wooden club to his belt.

Ardan, who was under orders to travel incognito, did not produce his Black House credentials. Instead, he set his suitcase on the floor and pulled out the papers confirming his identity from an inner pocket, along with a certified permit allowing him to cross the administrative borders of the provinces, which was required for all Firstborn and their immediate descendants to have while traveling.

“Ah, excellent, welcome...” The guard gave the documents a cursory glance with that same weary look and, with a yawn, nodded. “Don’t take a taxi at the station. It’s better to walk a bit farther and take the first tram to Flower Square. You can figure it out from there.”

A little surprised by such a warm reception, even with the note in his documents marking him as an immediate descendant of the Firstborn, Ardan put the papers away, picked up his suitcase, and, touching his fingers to his hat, offered his thanks.

As he was moving away from the inspection line, he heard:

“Ah, excellent, welcome, don’t take a taxi at the station, it’s better to...”

People streamed past him. Some were meeting others, while others, in turn, were being seen off. Station carts laden with luggage—sometimes even with fashionable new suitcases—creaked on their wheels, scuffing the worn tile floor that had seen better days.

“I’ll take you to the best hotel in the city!”

“I have connections at the ‘Oshklet’ tavern, so I can arrange a good price for you!”

“The ‘Molen Brothers’ hotel will give you a big discount!”

“My third cousin owns a pleasure sailboat! Come aboard!”

“We can arrange for you...”

“Wouldn’t you like to...”

A multitude of exclamations wrapped Ardi in a thick blanket of discordant voices. Dozens of drivers were standing beside their massive, old automobiles (these were far more worn out than the Second Chancery’s ‘Derks,’ and some were even started not from within the cabin, but with a special lever used to crank the rotor), calling out to the new arrivals. Most of them acted not only as drivers, but also as living advertisements for the establishments they’d partnered with.

The most brazen of them would approach newcomers directly, offering their services with considerable persistence. At times, the lazy and reluctant whistles of the guards had to intervene.

A few drivers started toward Ardan as well, but upon seeing his coat, his epaulettes, his sheathed staff, and the less-than-friendly gaze of his amber, inhuman eyes, they retreated and soon chose a new target.

Following the guard’s advice, Ardan bypassed what was less a station square and more a wide street, and made his way through rows of familiar-looking buildings. Everything here looked almost the same as on the main street of Evergale.

He saw squat, red-brick buildings with wooden signs and angular balconies attached to their rusticated corners, which seemed to be sulking as they puffed out the accumulated heat of the sun. Beside them, their more mature neighbors, built from planks and, in a few rare cases, from logs, were propping them up. And none of them had any insulation, which was different from Evergale.

Just a day and a half south of the Metropolis, due to the proximity of the ocean and, consequently, the rarefaction of the Ley-field, its influence on the weather here was weakened. That was why the Dancing Peninsula, along with the island nations, was famed for its mild, warm climate.

Ardan looked at the trees, from which large oranges hung, so close you could just reach out and take one. Colorful butterflies fluttered above flower bushes, and on the dusty roadway, which wasn’t even covered with gravel, the rare few automobiles, long since obsolete by the capital’s standards, rolled unhurriedly among the cabs and horsemen. Occasionally, a cart laden with crates or cloth sacks would squeeze between them, a suntanned worker chewing on a blade of grass as he held the reins of a draft horse.

This was just a day and a half from the capital, and life seemed to have stepped back in time by a decade and a half.

The sparse lanterns which only seemed present in the city center, still ran on oil, and the air had been so completely cleansed of the “dead” Ley produced by generators that Ardi felt like it would take more effort to keep his Witch’s Gaze in check.

“Interesting,” the young man murmured and, trying to stick to the shade to escape the scorching sun, crossed to the other side of the street, which nearly cost him his life—he had already grown quite accustomed to the traffic controllers, pedestrian crossings, and even the traffic lights of the New City.

Several shops flashed past him. They were mostly souvenir shops, but some were also selling maps, offering the services of guards, and a few were offices whose entire purpose was to organize a memorable journey for their clients. You could do so on horseback, on the water, and sometimes, they involved entire guided tours. According to Arkar, such enterprises had sprung up like mushrooms after a rain with the development of the Empire’s railway system. As had the hotels, which were increasingly and actively treading on the heels of the outdated saloons and taverns.

But none of this held much interest for Ardi, beyond idle curiosity. During the two days he’d spent on the train, he had not only managed to read several chapters of an interesting book that discussed the relationship between vectors and tension within fundamental nodes, but he had also figured out the best way to get to Larand.

There weren’t many options, as it turned out. He could rent a horse from a stable and ride across a third of the Dancing Peninsula, but that might cause certain problems with the marshals who were in charge of ensuring that the Firstborn did not cross provincial borders freely. The shady business that had been the starting point of Ildar Nalimov’s misadventures was not something he’d invented. And the Dancing Peninsula, especially its northern part, was one of the main transit points for illegal resettlement.

If he hadn’t been tasked with reaching Larand incognito, Ardi would have gone on horseback, but...

The next thing he’d thought of was to buy a spot in a guided equestrian group. It was quite comfortable and inconspicuous, but it cost so much that it would be easier to just burn all his travel exes than to spend them so foolishly.

Travel by water was dismissed for the same reason, which left one method that was far from the well-trodden paths of most travelers.

And it was this very method, which aligned perfectly with both his cover story and an indirect part of this investigation, that Ardan now approached. It was a two-story, red-brick building located two streets over from the station. Ardan had overheard some young men talking about it when he’d gotten out to stretch his legs during one of the stops.

It was almost indistinguishable from a post office: just as square, with a sloped roof, a main entrance cordoned off by a small, decorative fence, and a wide sign where, on faded wood, in equally-faded paint, the words “Guild of Anomaly Hunters” were written. The sign wasn’t like that because it wasn’t maintained; it was simply that anything would fade after a month and a half of summer.

Passing through the unlocked gate, Ardan gave the thin door a gentle push. The winters on the Dancing Peninsula were still harsher than in Viroeira (which, despite being north of the Metropolis, knew neither snow nor ice), but much milder than in the capital, so they didn’t bother much with heating or with protecting themselves from the persistent cold that could seep through even the smallest crack.

Inside, Ardan was greeted by a small entry hall (and the young man sensed no stationary shield) with a checkerboard stone floor, a pair of plush armchairs with a small table, and an information desk that separated visitors from the doors located behind it. It wasn’t the most convenient layout for an administrative building, but very convenient for a post office. Apparently, the Hunters had taken it over...

“Good day, Mr...” A pleasant-looking girl in a dress with a wide skirt and a thin jacket greeted him.

Before Ardan had entered, she’d been sitting on a bar stool, reading a magazine. Right now, she was diligently pretending that the issue with the very eye-catching headline of its lead article, titled “Gossip and Cuisine of the Metropolis,” held no interest for her at all.

“Egobar,” Ardi introduced himself, removing his hat. “Ard Egobar.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Egobar,” the guild worker nodded.

Changing his name wasn’t necessary for such a trivial task. After nearly a year following the Emperor’s coronation, even in the capital, the vast majority of people had all but forgotten the Egobar name. For them, the stories of the Dark Lord, the Firstborn Rebellion, and Aror were but shadows of a forgotten past that had sometimes visited them in their childhood, usually in the form of frightening tales.

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And here, far from the skyscrapers and palaces of the capital, one could even introduce themselves as Pavel Agrov—it was unlikely that anyone would immediately realize that this was the name of the ruler of the entire Empire. Later, of course, they would realize what had happened and be offended by the foolish joke, perhaps even outraged, but the point was clear.

“Was there something you wanted?” The girl asked.

“Yes, Miss...”

“Lesia Eni,” she introduced herself. It was an unusual-sounding name for the Empire, but quite standard for Olikzasia.

“Miss Eni,” Ardan began, placing the same documents from before on the counter: his identification and his border crossing permit, but now with the addition of his Spell Market membership card as well. So much bureaucracy... “I have a rather unusual question. I am trying to find my human relatives, but all I know is that my father was involved in researching the Imperial-Olikzasian Dead Lands.”

“My condolences for your loss,” Lesia said with genuine sincerity, completely unconcerned, like the guard had been, by the line in the documents referring to Ardi’s origins. “Unfortunately, access to the Guild’s archive is not granted to outsiders. And even if you pay the membership fee, you won’t be given access until you’ve served in the Guild for at least five years.”

In fact, in order to join the Hunters’ Guild and get a license to hunt in the Dead Lands, one had to pass their entrance exams. They would test your marksmanship, horsemanship, hand-to-hand combat skills, and fencing proficiency. And these all had to be re-certified every three years.

But if the applicant was a mage, all they needed to do was prove that they had two or more Stars, each with two or more rays.

And, like all other applicants, they had to pay a membership fee of twenty-two and a half exes.

Why such a high price? Most likely to weed out the majority of hopefuls who were looking for easy profit but would often find a hard death or become cripples instead.

“Yes, I understand, but I don’t think the archive would help me much.”

“Then I’m afraid that I don’t see how I could help you, Mr. Egobar.”

Ardan, imitating what he had seen Milar do a couple of times, took out two twenty-five-kso coins and placed them on the counter.

“You would help me greatly, Miss Eni, if you could tell me where the gentlemen hunters gather for an expedition.”

Eni glanced from side to side, as if afraid someone might overhear them in the empty building or, Sleeping Spirits forbid, see them, then discreetly swept the coins into her jacket pocket.

“A group is heading toward Larand tomorrow morning at dawn. They’ll be leaving from the southern exit of the city.”

“That’s wonderful!” Ardan exclaimed and laid down two more coins. “And where, in that case, can I meet their leader?”

And once again, the iron discs vanished into the girl’s pocket almost faster than Ardi could blink.

“I don’t know where he is right now, but after dark, he’ll be at the ‘Oshklet’ tavern,” Lesia replied with a certain amount of disdain for the subject of their conversation. “Probably drinking in exchange for some of his foolish tales and fleecing the gullible newcomers willing to pay for his dinner.”

“Thank you,” Ardan said, putting on his hat and picking up his suitcase. “Have a good day, miss.”

“And you as well, sir,” the girl replied, returning to her magazine.

Ardan, once he was back out on the street, took a few steps forward. Unlike the capital, there was no clear division between the sidewalk and the roadway here. Just a street. And when there was less traffic than people on this street, it became a pedestrian thoroughfare, and at other times, a road for cars and horses.

So, without waiting for someone to stop beside him, Ardan put two fingers in his mouth and let out a sharp whistle, just as the cowboys on Polskih’s farm had taught him. Not twenty seconds passed before a cabbie pulled up beside him, reining in his horse.

The bay mare, kicking up clouds of road dust, struck the ground with a hoof, and the gentleman in the driver’s seat asked, short and business-like, without any unnecessary pleasantries:

“Where to?”

“To the ‘Oshklet.’”

“Very good, sir,” the driver leaned over and opened the cab door, its leather roof folded back and fastened with straps. “That’ll be twenty-nine kso, but if you ask me, I know a place much better than the ‘Oshklet.’”

“Thank you, that’s much appreciated, but I need to go there specifically.”

“As you say.”

***

“Another mug of cocoa and some dried venison for you?” The waitress asked as she approached Ardi’s table.

He just nodded and turned the page of his book. Right now, he was reading about the processes of chimerization in ordinary animals. It was a perfectly acceptable course at the Grand University, and it covered the principles by which organisms could be combined, relying on the implanting of Ertalain crystals and a complex alchemical process supported by a spell.

In other words, the result would be something like a biological generator that would allow the resulting “monster” to function. Of course, this was a very superficial explanation of the principles of chimerization. Trying to explain the creations of the Tazidahian Brotherhood, who possessed the best alchemists and chimerologists in the world, so briefly and simply would be impossible.

But it gave one a general idea.

The “Oshklet” tavern looked similar to all its brethren. It had a spacious ground floor with a bar, behind which the kitchen was located. There were several tables of varying sizes and shapes, designed for groups of different sizes. A few, as in Ardi’s case, were small, standalone tables. Usually by a window or in a corner.

And then there was the staircase leading to the second floor, where a visitor could, for a very small sum, get a night’s lodging and, if they splurged a little more, a tin bathtub filled with water.

Ardan, who’d arrived at the “Oshklet” before the main influx of patrons, had felt a fleeting temptation to wash up, but saw little point in it. He would be on the road again in the morning anyway. He would simply rid himself of the road dust and sweat in Larand. The only thing the young man had done was retreat to the washroom so he could change out of his city suit for clothing more suitable to the area.

In fact, it was the only clothing he had brought with him. His jacket had been replaced by a leather one, his dress shirt by a linen one; sturdy pants had taken the place of his slacks, and instead of shoes smelling of polish, his feet were now clad in high work boots with heels better suited for stirrups than for cobblestones and sidewalks. And, of course, his old cowboy hat was once again resting on his head, not the fashionable headwear given to him by Arkar.

All of this made Ardi look more like one of the locals than a visitor. That was why none of the swindlers were bothering him. The young man was calmly drinking his cocoa, occasionally chewing on some dried meat, and reading his books.

Gradually, as the sky outside was draped in a dark, starry blanket and the streetlights were lit (apparently, the nighttime hours of near-daylight brightness were also somehow dependent on the Ley-field, because Nigrad, unlike the capital, did not have mere twilight instead of a proper night), the place filled with patrons. And they were mostly newcomers. Some were trying to bargain for cheap lodging; others had come here on a cabbie’s recommendation, and a third group was looking for an inexpensive and hearty meal, but one way or another, the first, the second, and the third were all eventually disappointed.

The tavern owner was refusing to give anyone a discount, the recommendations had raised expectations too high, and one could hardly call these prices inexpensive. Ardi had seen lower prices even in the Metropolis. Though perhaps that had something to do with the appearance of these new patrons.

When Ardan had changed his clothes, he had been given a slightly different menu from the one he now saw in the hands of the guests dressed like they’d left the capital minutes ago. And the prices Ardi observed there were indeed at a level that could safely be called daylight robbery.

“Of course I’ve seen an Ice Wyvern.” Nathan Balitsky (Ardi had overheard the man’s name) had been pontificating for the better part of an hour, and was currently waving another mug full of beer.

He was short and wearing worn, not-so-clean clothes. All in all, he looked like a typical representative of his guild: lean, moderately muscular, with scars on his face and hands, traces of burns peeking through a scraggly beard, and, in Balitsky’s own opinion—undying glory and a fire in his eyes.

Well, considering how many city gentlemen were swarming around the talkative hunter and hanging on his every word, Balitsky was not entirely wrong. And his stories, though embellished—sometimes quite heavily judging by the beating of his heart—did not stray too far from the truth.

“Its wingspan was wider than five of these tables,” Balitsky slapped his palm on the table, drawing the listeners’ attention not so much to the very wide tabletop as to his prosthetic ring finger. “And this, gentlemen, was not devoured by the Wyvern that froze Lagrad’s ass, but by a Carnivorous Toad.”

“Tell us more about your adventures in the Dead Lands,” a young girl wearing an outfit that would have been more at home in Baliero pleaded almost breathlessly.

Her older escort was chatting with the bartender, and both of them—Mr. Balitsky and the unnamed girl—were taking advantage of the moment. It wasn’t like they were actually alone as a considerable crowd had gathered around the hunter, but these two were trying to only notice each other.

“Once, my colleagues and I,” Balitsky continued, lowering his voice to a heated whisper and narrowing his eyes, leaning forward just enough to catch a glimpse of the not-so-deep but expressive neckline of the girl’s dress, “were descending into a burrow. We went gradually at first, slowly, to then make a powerful push forward. It was hot. And tight. But we moved forward, time and again, sometimes retreating for a short while. Our hearts beat faster and faster. Our breath became so hot you could feel it on your own skin. Everything swam before our eyes. But we moved. Sometimes forward. Sometimes back, but then, always, forward again.”

Ardan nearly choked on his cocoa and felt a deep blush creep up his neck. But apparently, his sobriety was to blame for this. The others, as if mesmerized, were listening to this ambiguous nonsense like they were being told the most interesting tale of their lives.

And only the girl, whom Balitsky never stopped staring at, understood perfectly what he was talking about. Ardi, even from across the room, heard her rapturous heart start beating faster, and sensed a completely different scent begin to break through the fragrance of her perfume.

Well, what a perfect opportunity...

Turning to her companion, Ardan focused on the back of the man’s head and slightly relaxed his Witch’s Gaze. He had no intention of invading another’s mind (and couldn’t, not until they looked him in the eyes), but his will was strong enough to make the man, who was clearly not of the lowest social standing, turn around.

He saw his companion on the verge of touching the hunter’s hand, which lay so tantalizingly before her on the table, and immediately broke off his conversation with the bartender.

Squeezing through the crowd in the main room, he placed the handle of his cane between the hunter and his companion.

“Thank you for the conversation, my good man,” he said in a stern tone, causing the girl to lower her embarrassed gaze. “I believe it is time for my wife and I to depart. Tomorrow’s journey is a long one, and we need to spend some time alone.”

“My apologies,” the girl said politely and, getting up, followed her husband, casting a final, furtive glance at Balitsky that was just as ambiguous as his story.

The hunter himself watched the lady with the expression of a fisherman whose catch has slipped off the hook at the very last moment.

Ardan, collecting his suitcase and staff, sat down right in the vacated spot.

“I can’t say, Mr. Mage, that I am particularly pleased with your interested gaze in this context.” Maybe the alcohol had affected the rather inarticulate hunter, or maybe this was his stock phrase for such occasions, but it sounded quite gallant. “So, please, lay out your shit... For the sake of the Eternal Angels! I was speaking metaphorically!”

Those sitting and standing nearby laughed, and Ardi realized that the phrase had, after all, been prepared in advance. Especially since someone who’d really liked the joke was now ordering another round of ale and snacks for Balitsky.

“I heard your expedition is heading toward Larand.”

“Maybe it is,” Balitsky took a few gulps, let out a loud belch, and thumped his chest. “What’s it to you? Or did you decide that just because you finished your first year at the Grand, you can go out and make some coin?”

Ardan was momentarily taken aback, but then he understood that Balitsky, being Milar’s age, had likely been “in the business” for a long time. And he must have also met many who’d come to the Dancing Peninsula during the summer academic break in search of earnings and practice. Surely, after so many years, he had learned to spot Grand University students on sight.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, Ardi noticed an amulet swaying on the hunter’s hairy chest. It was a small river pebble with a Fae rune carved into it. It was nothing special, in truth, but if someone nearby lied, the amulet would warm up slightly. This was a simple trinket that the Speakers of ancient times had made to sell to those Firstborn races that did not possess the hearing of orcs or Matabar.

“I have not come here for money, Mr. Balitsky,” Ardan began to reply using Skusty’s art.

“If you came here for some wome... young and beautiful ladies, Mr. Mage, then...” Balitsky let out a frustrated sigh. “Most of them are here with their husbands, and the local beauties, no offense, aren’t particularly interested in a half-blood.”

At the mention of him being a half-blood, some of the people in the large audience looked at Ardi as if he were a curiosity, but it seemed like, apart from the unusual color of his eyes and his height, they found nothing strange about him.

“I am searching for a missing person who is dear to me,” Ardan continued carefully. “And if you agree to take me with you to Larand and make introductions at the Hunters’ station in the settlement, I will not be in your debt.”

“And just how not in debt will you be, mage?” Balitsky squinted at him.

Ardan showed him two fingers. The hunter jerked his chin up. Ardi added another finger. Balitsky winced slightly.

In the end, their silent bargaining stopped at four and a half exes—the appetites of hunters were certainly beastly...

“We depart at six in the morning from the southern exit of the city, mage,” Balitsky swept the coins into his pocket. “If you’re late, we won’t wait for you. And now... who wants another story?”

“Of course!”

“More!”

“We’ve been waiting!”

Balitsky’s eyes flashed, and he waved his empty mug. Another was immediately ordered for him, after which the hunter continued to spin his tales, but Ardan was no longer listening.

He returned to his seat and, resting his head comfortably against the corner, closed his eyes. He had no intention of paying extra money for a bed that was likely harder than the tavern wall.