Matabar

Book II. Chapter 48 - The hat

Ardan struggled with a stubborn sleeve that had a mind of its own, forever creeping up past his wrist. It had retreated so far, in fact, that the cuff had to be unbuttoned lest the fabric simply tear somewhere on its journey toward his forearm.

Of course, Dagdag’s supply department had no suits that could properly accommodate Ardi’s unusual frame. So, after a cleansing wash—thankfully, the Black House had its own showers tucked away on the lower levels of the testing grounds and firing ranges; the pressure had been weak and the water nearly ice cold, but it had still been better than nothing—he was given something that at least fit his shoulders and hips. For this small mercy, Ardan was already profoundly grateful.

After ten days spent half-starved on a yacht, with water and food rationed out with a miser’s care, he would have been glad for anything at all. That was precisely why, at this very moment, he was drinking the warm, bitter tea with such relish, along with devouring a sandwich of dried bear meat. He didn’t give a damn about the fact that the flour in the bread would mean an extra half an hour he’d have to spend in the privy.

“So,” the Colonel, who had a cigar clamped between his teeth as always, flipped a page of the report that Milar had hastily compiled based on Ardan’s tale. While he had been in the shower. “You, Corporal, have delivered a source to us. Maryana Sestrova. Thirty years of age. A former ward of the Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light. Speaking of which…”

As if on cue, like in some cheap, tawdry play, a knock came at the door. After being granted permission, one of Ardi and Milar’s colleagues entered the office. Ignoring the corporal and the captain, the Cloak placed a thin folder containing only a few sheets of paper before the Colonel.

Nearly eleven days had passed since Ardan had left the Larand Monastery, so some information had managed to find its way to the capital…

“Let’s see,” the Colonel drew the word out, untying the folder’s ribbons. Milar went pale, but Ardi continued to tear into his sandwich with a feral hunger.

He wasn’t even bothered that the fangs in his mouth had extended to nearly their full length, his pupils had narrowed into two sharp slits, and his nails scraped against the crisp bun as sharpened claws. For that matter, these little transformations didn’t seem to bother anyone else, either.

Milar and the Colonel were far more concerned with entirely different matters.

“I seem to recall that you, Corporal, damaged the Treasury Tower to the tune of eighty-eight thousand, one hundred and nineteen exes and eleven kso,” the Colonel coughed. “This time, things are a little different.”

Milar let out a breath of relief.

“I still don’t understand where those eleven kso came from, Colonel,” Captain Pnev said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“This time,” the Colonel unfolded the sheet and gestured to the line item marked ‘total damages.’ “You’ve run up a bill of one hundred and three thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven exes and thirty-three kso.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room. Ardi even paused his belated lunch, a meal that had been delayed for days amidst the thunderous waves of the troubled Swallow Ocean. An ocean about as troubled as Milar was currently.

“Well, here we go again,” the captain tried to joke, his voice catching slightly as he stretched a foolish grin across his face. “And where do they even get these strange sums from? Thirty-three kso… why not thirty-four? Or thirty-one? Or-”

“Enough clowning around,” the Colonel commanded, his voice clipped and quiet, and Milar fell silent at once. “In less than three months, that’s nearly a quarter of a million in damages. If I didn’t know all the circumstances, Mr. Egobar, I’d think that you had decided to follow in your great-grandfather’s footsteps.”

Ardan tried to swallow a particularly large piece of the sandwich, but he wasn’t quick enough, and the Colonel was already continuing.

“On top of everything else, for the treatment of the injured Sisters and laborers, the Nigrad hospital is requesting support to the tune of three hundred exes. That is, of course, a pittance compared to the total damages, but I am sorely tempted to deduct it from your salary.”

Ardan, powerfully motivated by the Colonel’s last words, finally managed to conquer the mouthful and set the sandwich aside.

“They were conducting illegal experiments under the monastery for decades-”

“Experiments which you, Corporal, have buried more thoroughly than I will have to bury this report,” the Colonel said, shaking the folder that had just been delivered to him. “And if you believe that the Emperor will be overjoyed to hear that your assignment cost us a third of what a whole shipyard does, you are seriously mistaken.”

“But I delivered Sestrova! And Driba’s grimoire and staff!”

“And that alone is what’s saving you from the righteous fury of the Treasury, an assignment to Yonatan Kornosskiy’s squad, and a lifetime deduction of nine-tenths of your pay,” the Colonel parried easily, taking a noisy drag from his cigar. “You do understand, Corporal, that you are an Investigator, don’t you? Your job is to ascertain motives, identify persons involved, and then—and I insist on this—onlythen, call in a team of operatives. Captain, didn’t you explain this to him?”

Milar just threw his hands up.

“In the Corporal’s defense, Colonel,” Milar cleared his throat. “We had no idea that… that could be happening there. We thought the monastery was perhaps being used as a sorting station to select the most suitable orphans for the Puppeteers, but a laboratory… right under the noses of the inspectors, the Nigrad branch of the Second Chancery, the marshal, and the sheriffs… It’s too much.”

“Certainly,” the Colonel agreed with a nod. “But if you think about it, even if someone had discovered the laboratory, there was no one they could call for backup except two aging deputy sheriffs. So, the location makes perfect sense.”

“Especially with a monastery on top,” Milar added.

The Colonel looked at him sternly, and his gray eyes seemed to become coated with a film of steel.

“There was a monastery,” corrected the second most powerful man in the Black House after the Emperor himself. “Now it will be closed for reconstruction for several years… Fine, this is all just an unpleasant preamble. What did Corporal Rovnev say?”

Milar, giving his partner a surreptitious, encouraging pat on the back, opened the folder lying before him. Ardan never ceased to be amazed by his senior colleague’s ability to withstand every assault from the Empire’s inexhaustible love for bureaucracy.

“Together with Dagdag and the other bright minds, they’re going to try to figure out what the Puppeteers did to Sestrova’s brain, but that will take time.”

“How much?”

Milar read from a note where Alice’s easily-recognizable handwriting was scrawled in ragged lines.

“Anywhere from nine months to a year and a half,” Milar announced. “And that’s if they get additional funding to purchase new equipment.”

“How much?” the Colonel asked curtly.

Milar pushed a spreadsheet across the table that listed all the required expenses. The Colonel, who was wearing gloves as always, took the sheet and ran a quick eye over the columns, then looked at Ardan with disapproval once more. Ardi, for his part, had finished his third sandwich and was starting on the fourth. Thankfully, they had brought six.

“And that’s not even taking into account the grimoire of a certain Driba, whose real name we don’t know yet,” Milar concluded. “That, they will-”

“Not they,” the Colonel interrupted. “You. Or rather, the Corporal.”

Ardan looked up from his meal, his expression one of pure surprise.

“Save your young eyebrows, Corporal Egobar, before they get lost in your hairline,” the Colonel said. Given that he always spoke in the same flat intonation, it was impossible to tell if he was joking, threatening, or simply making conversation. “This information is extremely sensitive to the Puppeteer case, so we have neither the moral nor the procedural right to entrust it to anyone outside your department. And it would be simply illogical. So you’ll handle the decryption yourself.”

“But there’s-” Ardi began, not at all thrilled by the prospect of deciphering someone else’s codes. Between his own research and the work on long-distance communication methods he’d inherited from Edward, he had more than enough to occupy him. If only he could find the time for it all…

“What?” The Colonel pressed. “It might contain the kind of Star Magic forbidden by the Al’Zafir Pact? Weren’t you the one, Corporal, who requested enough materials from the Grand University’s restricted knowledge sections over the past year to earn several life sentences?”

“It was necessary for the case,” Ardan said, which was not a lie.

“Then you will make use of it for the case,” the Colonel cut him off. “You will collect the grimoire and staff from Dagdag. This is not up for discussion. What does need to be discussed, however, is your note about the mage having apprentices. Were you able to find out who they are?”

Milar immediately pulled another sheet from the folder. After the tragedy at the monastery, the Cloaks had most likely requested every possible document. And while Ardan had been languishing in the hold of the yacht, Milar had managed to study everything carefully.

“On the same day Corporal Egobar arrived in Larand, a laborer named Argaliy and a Sister of Light named Zhanna left the monastery,” Milar said, pulling out several sheets and handing them to the Colonel. “We have a description of their appearance, but it’s only approximate. No one remembers the fine details, of course. Neither of them had any distinguishing features. The names are obviously false. All we know is that Argaliy had worked there for four years, and Sister Zhanna had served at the monastery for only two and a half.”

The Colonel took a drag from his cigar and tapped the ash into an overflowing ashtray. It seemed like the de facto head of the Second Chancery had also had a difficult week.

“So, they knew the Corporal would be visiting the monastery,” the Colonel said thoughtfully, his voice a little quieter. “Why not get rid of him right away… Why all these complications…”

“I believe, Colonel,” Milar spoke up again, “that they were in the exact same position as our colleagues in Nigrad. Driba and his apprentices were just as cut off from the rest of the world. Sestrova was the one bringing them information, and she most likely got it from one of the Hunters.”

“Justify your reasoning, Captain.”

“No one else really fits,” Milar said with a shrug. “The Puppeteers would have had no need to secure a pet sheriff if they already had one of the marshals in their pocket. So that rules out their corps. That leaves the Hunters as the only ones who travel between the Mainland and Larand.”

The Colonel thought it over for a few seconds and nodded.

“Accepted,” he delivered his verdict.

Ardan once again recalled his conversation with Taisia Shpritz, which felt like it had happened six months ago but, in reality, had been less than a month ago.

“But they could only pass on insignificant information with the Hunters,” Milar continued, his earlier fire gone. “Receiving it back, however… especially valuable data about the experiments—unlikely. So-”

“So, Corporal, you let a target slip past you, possibly one far more valuable than Sestrova herself,” the Colonel said. It seemed like he already understood everything Milar was reporting. He’d just wanted to hear it from someone else’s lips in order to arrange it on his own mental shelves. “Most likely, Driba and his superiors used the Day of Weeping to…”

The Colonel left a meaningful pause there, which Ardan immediately filled.

“To send the research details back,” the young man finished. He found that he couldn’t take the next bite of his sandwich. It simply wouldn’t go down his throat. “They wouldn’t entrust something like that to just anyone, so I missed… I missed one of the Puppeteers.”

Ardan’s cheeks burned like they were still affected by the stinging slaps of Mother Belava. Just as Ergar and Shali had taught him, he had walked into a trap set for him, outplayed his prey, and sunk his fangs into his victim’s neck, but… But the world of men was not the hunting trails. Things were more complicated here. Much more complicated.

Once again, Ardan couldn’t say for certain whether he had won the fight or lost it.

“Perhaps it’s for the best, Corporal, because considering the fact that you were already a hair’s breadth from your Sleeping Spirits, then…” The Colonel didn’t need to finish that sentence. It was unlikely that anyone who’d arrived at the monastery on the Day of Weeping could be described as “ordinary.” “By the way, I have to ask, why did you decide to risk your own neck?”

Ardan flinched, pulled from his not-so-rosy thoughts.

“They had no need to eliminate me,” Ardan shrugged, a little detached. “It’s disadvantageous in terms of reducing variables and…” He caught himself and rephrased. “They knew I would come to them on my own. And I knew that they knew. But I was in an advantageous position—I knew what I was looking for. And they didn’t know what to do with me, because if they killed me, the Black House would figure it out immediately. And then they’d have to flee through a land and sea blockade. It was far more profitable for them to get the research out and then stage everything as an accident. That’s why Driba stayed behind. I actually thought that they would use some kind of chimera, not a Yellow Star Mage. And Sestrova, of course.”

“Why didn’t you neutralize Sestrova immediately and bring her here?”

“Because I wasn’t one hundred percent certain,” Ardan answered. “The Puppeteers have more than once made things appear to be something they were not. I had to be sure that Sestrova was truly involved, not just appearing to be involved. Because otherwise…”

“The Puppeteers would have gotten off with just a scare, and we would have lost precious time,” the Colonel finished for him. “Well, Corporal, you played your hand and, though you let a valuable piece escape your grasp, you’ve won us an advantage. Perhaps even a serious one…”

He sighed heavily, drew in the chocolate-scented smoke, and, exhaling a dark cloud, leaned back in his chair.

“So,” the Colonel set his cigar aside and steepled his fingers. “In the end, we have a list of those who attended the charity balls, as well as those who visited the monastery on the Days of Weeping. Driba’s grimoire. His staff. The knowledge that the Puppeteers are experimenting with demonology, chimerology, necromancy, and maleficent magic, as well as their unhealthy interest in new mining methods.”

For a few long, tense minutes, a heavy silence hung in the spacious but smoke-filled office. Judging by the indentations on the sofa, the Colonel had spent the last few nights here. Admittedly, Ardan knew absolutely nothing about the personal life of the de facto head of the Second Chancery, so that was just a guess.

“Your thoughts, Captain?” The Colonel finally asked.

The captain tied the ribbons on his folder and rested his elbows on the tabletop.

“They’ll lie low,” Milar said firmly. “They might continue the search for Alla Tantov’s body if it’s that important to them, but otherwise, the thread we were pulling on snapped at the monastery.”

“You believe their experiments with children are only part of the larger picture?” The Colonel’s steel-gray eyes flashed.

Milar nodded.

“Perhaps they’re trying to create some kind of tool to solve another of their problems, but I’m sure that the orphans and mad scientists are just the tip of the iceberg, Colonel.”

“Justify that.”

“I can’t yet,” Milar shrugged. “It’s a gut feeling.”

“A gut feeling…” The Colonel repeated with a sigh, picking up his cigar again. “In any case, you have plenty of work on the horizon. We’ve traded our element of surprise for an advantage. We’ve gained the opportunity to decipher the seal that has protected so many of their secrets. Of course, they’ll start redesigning it right now, and maybe change their entire approach to risk management, but… we’re ahead. Not by much, but ahead. And you, Corporal, single-handedly conducted a most difficult operation, secured us a source of information, and, possibly, the no-less-valuable records and staff of Driba.” Again, because of the Colonel’s habit of speaking in a flat intonation, it was unclear whether he was being serious or ironic. “If it weren’t for your passion for annihilating everything and everyone around you, I would have made sure to grant you a bonus equal to half a year’s salary, but alas… We’ll have to settle for a recommendation for a state award. Don’t expect an order, but you’ve earned yourself a medal.”

“I serve the Empire,” Ardan thanked him with a military salute that held no sincerity at all.

He would have been far happier with, and more grateful for, crisp exes in his bank account than a medal… What was he supposed to do with it, anyway? Employees of the Second Chancery were not permitted to publicly wear medals, Orders, or any other special insignia.

“Carry on with your work, gentlemen investigators, and please, try not to cause any more destruction than you already have. The two of you are gradually becoming a separate line item in the Treasury’s budget.”

Ardan and Milar, understanding that the conversation was over, rose from the table in unison.

“Colonel,” they said their farewells in chorus.

“Captain. Corporal,” the de facto head of the Second Chancery nodded, soon immersing himself in the reading of numerous documents.

Ardan and Milar, who had taken the folder with him, stepped out the door. The corridor of the Black House, as always, greeted them with a disdainful, slightly haughty silence. The paired sets of doors remained mute—there was no creak of a hinge, no click of a handle. Only the starched curtains and the tulle swaying in the breeze hinted that the building was, in fact, inhabited.

After going down the stairs (which prompted a host of caustic comments from Milar), they slipped out of the vestibule and, after exchanging meaningful nods with some colleagues smoking by the entrance, headed for the parking lot. The sun, its needle-like rays no longer so stinging, still hung in the sky like a bright pancake. But with each new day that pulled the city’s inhabitants further from the beginning of summer and closer to the first weeks of autumn, the high azure sky descended lower and lower onto their shoulders.

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The once-proud, giant cumulus clouds were now stretched into a long veil of gray haze. It was not yet distinct, and here and there it framed the last and most resilient of the fluffy cloud mountains.

A wind blew. It was no longer so gentle and playful. And it carried not the scent of flowers and motley petals, but rather factory smog and the promise of a coming chill.

Autumn…

“Remember how I said things would calm down soon?” Milar asked, leaning against the warm hood of his car. He took a cigarette from its pack and… began to twirl it in his fingers. Apparently, he was trying to quit again.

“I remember,” Ardan nodded, once again pulling the cuffs of his shirt closer to his wrists. The clothes constricted his every movement, and he had to curl his toes in his shoes, which were already beginning to ache.

“Well, Magister—things are about to calm down,” Milar grunted, a sound that wasn’t quite a chuckle, and finally lit the cigarette. “At least until winter.”

Winter… The Summit. This was when ambassadors, ministers, advisors, and other high-ranking political figures from practically every country on the planet would gather in the Metropolis.

“You think the Puppeteers will try something at the Summit?” Ardan asked, a note of caution in his voice.

Milar just shrugged.

“I have no idea, Ard,” the captain answered honestly. “There’s zero facts and a mountain of possibilities. And my gut sometimes keeps me up at night. So… I don’t know, but I have a suspicion. They’ll strike there, but probably not in the way we expect.”

“And what do we expect?”

“We don’t yet. But whatever we expect, they’ll do it differently anyway,” Milar took a drag and smacked his lips. “My first cigarette in a week, by the way.”

Judging by the beating of his heart, the captain wasn’t lying.

“Elvira?” Ardi guessed.

“Elvira,” Milar confirmed. “She said I smell so much like tobacco that she can’t…” The captain cut himself off and smiled thinly. “Never mind… Anyway, my dear partner, we can’t just sit on our hands and wait again. I have no desire to fall behind the Puppeteers once more and then have to run all over the capital or, worse, the whole country.”

Ardan looked toward the port, from where he had been picked up just a few hours earlier.

“Yeah,” was all the young man said.

“So rack your brain, Mr. Mage, and figure out that grimoire of Driba’s. His staff, too. If you want, you can dig around in Sestrova’s mind with Alice, although…” Milar glanced sideways at Ardi and sighed heavily. “No. You better stay away from her for the next couple of months. If she and Dagdag make any progress, they’ll call you.”

Corporal Rovnev… Ardan didn’t blame her for blaming him for her tragedy. He even understood her reasoning. Not that it made things any easier. No, of course, the corporal was a professional, so she wouldn’t repeat her recent momentary lapse, but there wouldn’t be much use in them collaborating. At least not yet.

“And you?” Ardi asked.

“I’ll shake down my contacts for a bit,” Milar smoked the cigarette so quickly that Ardan was surprised smoke didn’t start pouring from his senior colleague’s ears. “I’ll sort through the paperwork. Read all the materials they gave us more carefully. It would be useful for you to read them too, by the way.”

Ardan nodded. He had been meaning to request the materials on “Operation Mountain Predator” from the archives for a while now.

“I’ll drop by to see you sometimes, Magister, and you and Tess should come over for dinner in two weeks,” Milar closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun. “A shame that summer’s ending… Anyway. Two weeks. Seven in the evening. It’s my youngest’s birthday. Everyone will be there. We’ll celebrate and, at the same time, exchange information.”

The captain turned and dove into the car. Ardi, following his partner’s example, tucked his staff between the seats and asked:

“What about Alla Tantov’s body?”

Milar started the engine and patted the steering wheel of his grumbling four-wheeled companion, sending the car rolling toward the avenue exit.

“What about the body… It’s much easier to not bother looking for it at all and instead go after those who are foolish enough to reveal they have it,” Milar lowered the window and rested his elbow on the door’s edge. “There are more than enough people who want that mutant’s corpse, so sooner or later, there will be an auction. That’s where we’ll show up. And anyway, the four of us, including Alexander and Din, aren’t enough to search the entire capital for a single body.”

“Are you sure we’ll have enough time?”

“The Daggers paid a visit to the Ragman,” Milar waved a hand vaguely. “Let’s just say that he got a little too carried away with the Le’mrity business. So, we’ll definitely find out in advance where, when and how the auction for Tantov’s body will take place. You can be sure of that.”

Ardan didn’t share Milar’s confidence, but he couldn’t argue with his logic.

“Besides, we’re not even sure that the search for her body is connected to the Puppeteers,” the captain added, “and isn’t merely an attempt to get something for some back-alley mutagen production.”

“Do such things exist?” Ardan was surprised. “Someone producing uncertified mutants?”

They had turned onto the embankment and, merging into the general flow of traffic, were driving slowly toward the Crookedwater Canal.

“First of all, Magister, according to the official version of things, we don’t have certified mutants, either.”

“Oh, right… of course… and Yonatan Kornosskiy? He must have just been a dream I had.”

“Ard, I have bad news for you if you’re dreaming about Yonatan,” Milar snorted. “But yes—there are rumors of ‘homemade’ mutants. So it’s not a given that Alla Tantov is connected to the Puppeteers. In the end, besides their specific brand of villainy, there are also other, more down-to-earth, but very real bastards out there.”

In this, Milar was also right. The shadowy side of the Empire was not limited to just ancient, cunning and enigmatic conspirators.

“By the way, while I was in Larand, I heard about the situation in the Ral foothills.”

“Yeees,” Milar drew out the word. “A real mess has started there.”

“Do you know anything?”

“Not really,” the captain honked the horn as a driver in a convertible (which was what those cars without roofs were called) nearly sideswiped them while rummaging in his glove compartment instead of watching the road. “Damn… I’m going to start supporting the Lower Chamber’s idea of requiring driving lessons before buying a car… Why do you ask?”

“We suspected that the Puppeteers were looking for something in the mountains,” Ardan reminded him. “And now there’s this strange incident in the Ral foothills.”

“It’s all perfectly understandable,” Milar shrugged. “They found a bunch of… either caves or some kind of hidden rooms there, in the Dead Lands. It’s something like what we saw at the vampire’s estate, only multiplied by a whole order of magnitude. They’ve cordoned it all off for now and are waiting to see if any filth crawls out.”

“Let’s assume so, but what does Kornosskiy’s squad have to do with it then?”

Milar slowly turned to Ardi.

“And how do you know they were there?”

“Cassara hinted at it during Aversky’s funeral,” Ardi didn’t try to evade the question. “And if they were sent there, then maybe the Ral foothills really are connected to the Puppeteers and-”

“And,” Milar cut him off sharply, “believe me, Ard, we’re far from the only ones working on them. But we work in the capital and its immediate vicinity. So, don’t clutter your head with unnecessary information. If other, parallel investigations concern us, the Colonel will let us know. For now, we only need to know what we need to know. That’s the job.”

“That’s the job,” Ardan sighed, leaning back against the seat.

If there was one thing that irritated him about serving in the Black House, it was the constant need to remember that he and Milar were just one part of a larger machine. This lack of autonomy ran contrary to literally everything his friends in the forest had taught him.

“At least it’s a good thing that they’re not sending me and Din there on assignment, like you thought they might last month,” Ardan managed a weak smile.

“Well done, Magister, you’re learning to look on the bright side!” Milar slapped the steering wheel again. “And anyway—look at it from another angle. You’ll have time for your lectures at the Grand University and for Magical Boxing. It’s unlikely we’ll be running around much now, so you and Tess…” Milar hiccupped and thumped his chest. “By the way, we told her you were delayed on your way back from the training grounds. Military magic practice and all that.”

“Did she believe it?” Ardan asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Of course not,” Milar waved it away. “So, I think you have a difficult conversation ahead of you tonight. Elvira, by the way, visited Tess often. She says your fiancée is holding up like a champ… You know, Magister, something tells me that if she hadn’t been the daughter of the Governor-General of Shamtur, you two wouldn’t have lasted a month.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Ardan agreed quietly.

In the past half hour, they had already crossed the Martyrs’ Bridge and were now driving along the embankment of the Markov Canal. The sight of “Bruce’s” brought another thought to Ardi’s mind.

Milar had been right when he’d said that a difficult conversation awaited him. But he would talk to Tess in the evening, when she returned from her rehearsals. As for Arkar…

Milar stopped near the entrance and silently studied the updated sign for some time. Ardi did much the same, mentally rehearsing what he wanted to ask his… acquaintance? Friend? The owner of the house where he lived? Everything had become so tangled over the past year.

And what was there to say—he had been away from the capital for a little over two weeks, but it felt like almost half a year had passed. His life had been churning with so many events lately that it would have been enough to fill not just his eighteen (almost nineteen) years, but many more besides.

“Need help?” was all Milar asked.

The captain knew perfectly well what sort of thoughts burdened Ardi and what suspicions he harbored. Captain Pnev himself was most likely thinking the same things about the same matter. Too many coincidences had gathered around Arkar and the fact that he had sent Zirka to the Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light. The act of sending her there, followed by the timely disappearance of the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets… It all looked as if someone was diligently covering their tracks.

“No,” Ardan answered firmly.

Milar looked at him for a moment, then shrugged.

“Alright,” he said, gesturing to the door. “See you later then, Magister. And if we don’t see each other before two weeks from now, don’t forget about dinner at my and Elvira’s place.”

“Okay,” Ardi nodded.

They shook hands, and Ardan, after taking his staff, stepped out onto the street. The wind blew against his face and ruffled his hair. It was a strange, unfamiliar, almost forgotten sensation—walking without a hat. For the first time, passersby turned not toward the “Derks” disappearing ahead, but to him. Or rather, to his head. Both men and women, their own heads covered, stared at the unusual sight—a person without a head covering of some sort.

Well… he would have to get used to it.

Checking the grimoire at his belt and the accumulators in his rings that had been issued to him immediately upon his arrival at the Black House, Ardan pushed open the door he knew so well. Or perhaps… perhaps it had only seemed that way.

Inside, despite the early evening—the hour hand had only recently passed the number “6”—the main room was filled with guests. People clinked silverware against plates laden with salads and hot dishes. Occasionally, their glasses would emit melodic chimes as visitors touched them together for toasts, though they often did so more out of tradition. Laughter and merriment could be heard, and occasionally, the low rumble of orcs sitting at separate tables. In the dim twilight of the area separated from the main room by a red rope, gangsters in suits without vests carried on their own detached conversations.

On the stage, which had expanded after renovations, musicians were tuning their instruments. Not the same ones who’d performed with Tess, of course. Arkar had had to sign a contract with other artists as Tess and “her boys” were now spending most of their time rehearsing for their debut at the grand opening of the Baliero Concert Hall.

Arkar himself, who was wiping the glasses, was wearing just a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and towering over the bar. Compared to the other bartenders—ordinary humans—he looked like a mountain surrounded by miniature hills. His face, which was covered in stubble, only made him look more rugged. The orc half-blood and, currently, the second in command of the Orcish Jackets gang, glanced toward the entrance.

At first, upon seeing Ardi, a welcoming smile appeared on his face, but with each subsequent heartbeat, it faded and died out, like a coal doused with water. His fangs hid beneath his lips, while his lower tusks, which were much shorter on Arkar than on his full-blooded comrades, jutted forward. Finally, cutting through the hubbub and clamor of other voices, a stern command rang out:

“My apologies, ladies and gentlemen, but due to technical reasons, we need to close the bar,” Arkar said, almost growling, enunciating each word clearly. “Everything on your tables is on the house. Please, hurry. On the fifth day, of course, we will also offer a quarter off on every patron’s bill.”

The crowd looked around in confusion, but as soon as the orcs in the dark corner rose from their seats, the people immediately began to make for the exit. They left their forks and knives, finishing their alcoholic drinks and cocktails on the go, and then, grabbing their hats from the racks, they went outside, still laughing and merry.

Establishments, especially in the Central District of the city, didn’t ask guests to leave all that often, but it was not rare, either. This was especially the case if they weren’t trendy restaurants where the average bill reached five exes per visit, but bars and cafes like this one. It was usually attributed to the maintenance of the Ley-generators.

Finally, the place emptied out. Ardan was left standing in the very center of it. There were also about eighteen orcs that had formed a circle around him, and Arkar. Arkar… who abruptly dropped his hands under the counter, yanked a hunting rifle with a sawed-off barrel from its mountings, and pointed it straight at Ardan’s chest.

“You, Matabar, don’t you go lookin’ at me with those peepers… don’t stare, y’see,” the huge half-orc growled. “Makes me nervous.”

Ardan did not break eye contact.

“Did you know, orc?” He asked heavily, his grip tightening on his staff.

“You ain’t missin'… ain’t mistaken, I mean, about who and where you’re talkin’ to, are you, kid?” Arkar’s eyes blazed with a yellow light.

But all Ardan could see was Lusha’s frozen face, Zirka’s remains floating in a jar of formalin, and the weeping, dark eyes of a child trapped within the visage of a hideous chimera in the middle of a half-ruined, fire-engulfed monastery.

“Did you know?” He repeated the question, his voice barely a whisper.

A cloud of frost escaped his lips. Icy patterns crept down his staff, tracing lines first across the floor, and then up the walls of the bar. The orcs, as one, drew their heavy, five-shot revolvers, weapons that not every man could wield. They raised them and aimed at Ardan, while Arkar shouldered his sawed-off rifle.

“Knew… what exactly, Matabar?” Arkar narrowed his eyes at him.

“About Zirka.”

“Zirka?” For a moment, the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets relaxed, a flicker of surprise on his face. “What Zirka is this, Matabar?”

“Lusha’s sister,” now it was Ardan’s turn to speak through clenched teeth and lengthening fangs. “The boy from Tend. Andrew’s brother. From Baliero.”

The icy patterns on the wall spread and thickened. Some of them grew sharp, long icicles that, like arrows, sought their targets among the still orcs.

“Ah… that human little one… the girl, y’see… What am I supposed to know about her, Ard, besides the fact that we sent her to the monastery?”

“To a monastery where they kill children?” Ardan’s eyes narrowed. “Did you know about that? Did you know what was happening there?!”

Arkar faltered for a moment, his face paling slightly, before he just as quickly composed himself and bared his fangs.

“And what if I did, Matabar?” He snarled and, shattering glasses, vaulted over the countertop. Step by step, he approached Ardan, not even thinking of lowering his weapon. “You come into my bar to accuse me of somethin’? Make some kind of accusation? You got any proof, Mr. Investigator? Any facts, maybe?”

Looming over Ardan like an unbreachable cliff, Arkar pressed the sawed-off rifle into the young man’s chest.

“You sent Zirka to the Larand Monastery,” Ardan repeated, his gaze fixed on the bridge of Arkar’s nose. He didn’t want to look him in the eyes and use the Witch’s Gaze, because he knew that if he did, he and Tess would have to leave that very same evening. And Ardan… really didn’t want to leave this strange, but now so warm, place. “You were gone for several days before I left. And you-”

“I was gone?!” Arkar almost roared. “Or maybe it was you, you idiot, who blew off… ignored, I mean, your agreement with the Conclave?! They set a time for you to sit at the table… to talk about your situation, I mean, and you completely ignored their invitation! Even though right here, on this damn spot,” the half-orc pointed behind him, “you sat and spouted off to their messenger!”

Ardan froze. The Conclave… The talk… Sleeping Spirits! He had completely forgotten that three weeks ago, around the same time Arkar had disappeared, he was supposed to appear before the Conclave council in the Firstborn Quarter.

“I-”

“You!” Arkar jabbed a finger into his chest. “You were running around here like a scalded cat with your shorty Cloaks, and I decided you had more important things to do than listen to the ramblings of old farts… the elders, I mean! I spent several days hashing out these issues with them… smoothing things over, I mean! And I rescheduled your meeting for the beginning of autumn! You short-statured idiot!”

Arkar’s heart was beating faster than usual, but not like a liar’s. More like that of an angry half-orc ready for a fight. Arkar was telling the truth.

And Ardan… In that specific moment, he realized that he truly did serve in the Black House, in the sense that professional deformation had already affected him, too. Just because Arkar led a far from honest life didn’t mean that he could stoop to child murder.

The ice that had been growing on the walls melted as quickly as it had appeared. But the orcs were in no hurry to put away their iron. Quite the opposite.

Ardan knew what would happen next. He knew, and so he made no attempt to dodge or defend himself. For the same reason Yonatan Kornosskiy did not allow arguments in public, Arkar’s fist, heavy as a stone, crashed into Ardan’s cheekbone. He couldn’t afford to lose face in front of his subordinates, because if he did, his position wasn’t worth a single kso.

A human would have had half the bones in his face broken. Ardi, feeling as if he had taken a particularly powerful blow from a bear’s paw, felt his feet leave the floor. He flew back almost a meter, crashing into a table laden with food and drinks, and then…

Then, trying to quell the ringing between his ears and feeling a wave of nausea rise in his throat, he leaned on Arkar’s proffered forearm and got to his feet. He must have been unconscious for almost a minute. In that time, the orcs had dispersed and were now calmly helping the waiters—who were pale and clearly looking for an excuse to leave their shift as soon as possible—carry plates to the kitchen and clear the tables.

“That really hurt, Ard,” Arkar said, seating the young man on a chair and handing him a cold cut of meat. “I told you before, back on Sleepless Street, that I’m a gangster, a thief and a murderer. But not a traitor. And certainly not a child-killer.”

“Thanks,” Ardan said, pressing the piece of meat to his cheekbone. “I’m sorry, I should have…” Ardi sighed and shook his head, which nearly made him part with the sandwiches he had just eaten. “…should have looked into it better.”

“Yes, you should have, you damn investigator,” Arkar clicked his tongue and handed him a glass of water. “Tell me, Matabar, what you saw and heard.”

Ardan, pressing the meat to the bruise spreading across his cheek, began his story. He told him what he could without touching on matters that were classified as “secret,” so the process didn’t take particularly long. But even that was enough for the orcs, who had recently been aiming their revolvers at Ardi, to gather around the conversing pair. Except now they stood with whatever they’d been holding before: dirty plates, tablecloths thrown over their shoulders, chairs and glasses…

They listened.

And as they listened, their faces grew darker.

When Ardan fell silent, Arkar looked at him angrily and swore foully.

“Let’s go,” he growled hoarsely.

Ardi didn’t need to ask where they were going. He already knew.

“Is my hat here?”

Arkar nodded toward a coat rack in the closed-off section of the bar. There was his second hat—an autumn one. It had been a gift from Arkar along with his summer one several months ago.

Ardan took it and went outside with the half-orc. A line of huge gangsters in jackets without vests followed them. They piled into their “wheels” and, a minute later, a procession of five identical, fashionable cars was driving toward the Tend.

***

For the rare few visitors of the Tend cemetery, the procession of orcs in identical clothing and with far from friendly faces was perhaps not the most common, and certainly not the most reassuring, sight.

But neither the orcs, nor Arkar and Ardan, who were walking at the head of the procession, were concerned with the anxious and confused glances of the living who had come to visit the dead.

They walked between low grave fences. These were rarely forged iron, and were more often simple wooden ones, usually cobbled together carelessly with rusty nails. And instead of gravestones, they held equally simple wooden triangles. Only a couple of times did Ardi see any decorations on the graves, like vases for flowers or miniature porcelain figurines.

The Tend cemetery, with its damp earth, narrow paths, and in places overgrown mounds from old burials, was strikingly different from the Cemetery of Fallen Heroes where Lord Aversky was buried, may the Eternal Angels receive him. It differed from it as much as an alleyway differs from the grand foyer of a lavish palace gleaming with gold and marble.

And it was here, in the forty-sixth section, on the seventeenth line, that first Andrew, and then Lusha, who’d been buried with him, had found their final resting place.

Arkar and Ardan stood by a few sticks stuck in the ground. A clothesline was stretched between them, and a couple of handkerchiefs hung from it. That was the whole fence.

“We need to get a proper fence here,” Arkar rasped. “A good one. Metal. Grarkarar, you’ll take care of it.”

“It’ll be done, Overseer,” said the orc whom Ardi thought he even remembered, taking off his hat and nodding.

Along with Grarkarar, the other orcs removed their hats. For a little less than a minute, they stood silently around the small, cramped grave, then turned and headed back. Only Arkar and Ardan remained.

“It feels wrong, Ard,” Arkar whispered. “Wrong in the soul… you know, in all my years, I’ve never lost sleep, no matter how many throats I’ve cut or bellies I’ve shot, but when children suffer, it’s… it’s not right. It’s hard.”

“Yes,” said Ardan. He fidgeted with his hat in his hands and couldn’t shake off the whisper that rustled somewhere among the weeds covering the abandoned grave. “And we need to weed this, too.”

“Yeah.”

Arkar took off his jacket, hung it on the clothesline, and, bending down, began to pull out the weeds. A moment later, Ardan joined him. They were silent. They said nothing and just did their work because no one else would ever be able to do it.

The sun gradually hid behind the darkening autumn horizon. And with it, over the summer-weary earth and the heated roofs of buildings, the grim, untamable dance of the Metropolis’ unwelcoming shadows began. It was as if a willful maiden had ended her colorful masquerade and now displayed her eternal, unshakably severe, though beautiful, form. It was stately, but utterly unsociable.

Arkar and Ardan straightened up.

“You know, Matabar, orcs have this ritual—we spill blood on the grave of someone we couldn’t keep our word to,” Arkar did not take his eyes off the crooked wooden triangle. “With all these pompous, loud words, like ‘I will not return to the paths of my ancestors until I have kept my promise.’”

“I know,” Ardan even remembered the name of this old ritual from Atta’nha’s scrolls.

“It’s all bullshit…” Arkar spat unexpectedly. “Idolized…”

“Idealized,” Ardan corrected automatically, but then immediately agreed. “Although, I suppose your version fits, too.”

“…bragging,” the half-orc continued, ignoring the young man’s remark. “The dead, Ard, they don’t give a fuck. Not humans. Not orcs. Not elves. Not anyone. The dead are already there. And we are here. And all these oaths over graves, all these foolish speeches, we say them not for them, but for ourselves. So we can sleep sounder and sweeter later on.”

“Probably,” was all Ardan could say.

“Yeah… probably,” Arkar repeated.

The half-orc stood there a little longer, then, taking his jacket, turned and headed back to the cars.

Ardan remained alone at the grave. He looked at the triangle and heard a whisper. It spoke to him. It spoke even though Ardi didn’t want to listen.

Leaning over the clothesline, he placed his hat on the grave, and next to it, a charred wooden figurine of a horse.

“I’m sorry,” for the first time in his life, Ardi felt the weight of his own words. They pressed down on his throat, as if trying to pin him to the earth. “I’m sorry,” he repeated and, turning, followed Arkar.

Behind him, a small, forgotten grave remained. It had a rope for a fence, a crooked triangle, a hat, and a wooden horse.

The wind rose. It stirred the crowns of the sparse trees and, tearing the hat from the grave, carried it away into the distance.

Over the grave, only a whisper remained:

“They are so beautiful, Mr. Wizard…”

“Who?”

“The Angels.”