Matabar

Book II. Chapter 49 - Once again the Grand

For the second time in his life, Ardan found himself in a square filled with a sea of people. So many townsfolk had gathered here that nearly a kilometer of open space had become a living, seething mass of humanity, a riot of colorful clothes and cloaks of every shade, though green was the color that ruled the day. But even this tide of people, a mix of humans and Firstborn, could not hold a candle to the building that stood at the far end of the long square.

It was a thing of impossible height, rising to challenge the smallest of the Alcade peaks. It towered over every other skyscraper, matched only by the Treasury Tower, yet it was also broad, sprawling like the slope of a mountain. Its facade was an endless forest of columns melting into the wide wings of its long walls. Between them, tall, slender windows shone with a brilliant light. But if you looked closer, truly looked, you would see that they were not columns at all, but towers. Dozens of them.

It was as if some mythical giant had gathered them up in his hands, mortared them with clay, and then squeezed them together, a monument to the legends of a bygone age. A time when mages had built their high sanctums while trying to touch the clouds.

Only now, it seemed, had they finally succeeded.

And there, at the very top of the colossus, sat something that looked for all the world like a miniature castle. It spilled ribbons of snow-white light down into the celestial twilight, long threads of silver radiance that unspooled across the heavens.

From there, one’s gaze would slide down, down to the foot of the Grand, where a tall, two-story arch marked the main entrance. It glowed with the same light, but here it was joined by sparks of starlight that drifted gently outward. They merged with their sisters, climbing up what appeared to be unseen steps as they moved toward the castle above, creating the illusion of a waterfall flowing in reverse.

A year ago, Ardan would not have known how such a thing was possible. Now he understood it was just a complex illusion powered directly by what was likely a Yellow Star industrial generator with a capacity of a few hundred rays.

“We missed the opening speech last time,” Boris said, holding onto his hat as he craned his neck to see the balcony on the library level. That was usually where the university’s rector delivered their annual welcoming address.

“I can’t say I’m terribly sorry about that,” Elena whispered, pressing close to her husband. Her belly was beginning to grow round, but she had refused to miss the opening ceremony, and certainly not the first days of lectures.

As long as Elena could attend classes at the Grand without harming the baby, she would be there. Neither Boris nor Ardan, whom his friends had picked up that morning, had any doubts about that. As for Tess…

A few days earlier

The door swung open, and there she was, standing at the threshold. A woman of no great height, with the clean lines of a figure that could not be hidden even under a loose dress and the sweater she wore to combat the evening chill of the pre-autumn Metropolis.

Ardi drew in a breath, and with it came the scent of flowers blooming down by the creek. No matter what perfume people wore, a Matabar’s keen nose could always find the true scent beneath the artificial veil.

She kicked off her shoes with her usual carelessness. They slapped against the floor, heels clicking softly against the hand-trimmed rug that covered part of the entryway. It was an old thing, worn from washing, nearly as hard as the floorboards it was meant to protect from damp and slush.

Tess let out a breath, then picked up her shoes and put them on the shelf before slipping into a pair of soft, rustling slippers. They were funny things: red, with a little embroidered flower. She’d told him that she had learned how to embroider by practicing on them. Later, she had made them as gifts for her friends, many of whom were now married and rarely found their way to “social events” anymore.

The red-haired beauty flicked a switch, and the hinges of the bathroom door creaked. No matter how many times Ardi oiled them, they constantly spoke up, sometimes hinting, sometimes stating outright that they needed to be replaced. The sooner the better, at that. There was a guttural rumble from the pipes and, for a moment, the smell of rust. Arkar kept meaning to replace the hot water pipes but could never seem to find a reliable contractor.

After waiting for the dirty, rust-colored water to run clear, Tess took a quick shower and changed into a house dress. It was covered in patches and almost threadbare in places. Not at all what you’d expect to see the eldest daughter of the Governor-General of Shamtur, a representative of the military aristocracy, wearing.

She stepped into the hallway and, for a heartbeat, froze. Their eyes met. There was a second of silence broken only by the crackle of the wind against the vibrating windowpane.

Tess smiled. It was a thin, easy thing. And for a moment, a flicker of relief showed in her eyes, which she quickly tried to hide.

“I made dinner,” Ardi said, his own smile a mirror of his fiancée’s. “Pancakes with strawberries.”

“And where did you get strawberries?” She asked, sinking into a chair. “They’re not in season anymore.”

“Arkar,” Ardi said, rubbing his still-itching cheek without thinking. “He froze some.”

Tess armed herself with a fork, used her knife to cut a piece from the neatly-folded pancake, dipped it in sour cream, and took a bite, her eyes closing in bliss.

“I’ll never tire of thanking your mother for teaching you how to make these.”

Ardan sat across from her, his mind turning over Milar’s words. Tess asked him nothing, and said nothing herself. Not even a single word about how she sometimes woke in the night, drenched in a cold sweat. Not from a nightmare or anything of the sort, but simply because her mind, even in her sleep, could not quiet its worry. She didn’t speak of how, sometimes, when she finally lost herself in her own thoughts, she would suddenly hear the sound of familiar footsteps in an ordinary rustle. How she would jump to her feet, hold her breath, and turn to the entrance, only to find nothing but emptiness and silence.

And so it went, day after day.

Ardi had not heard this from her. But he had seen it in his own mother, when she had waited for his father to return from another patrol of the Alcade lands. And Tess had watched Adelaide, who had at first waited for her husband, sometimes hopefully pulling back the crumpled curtain from the window, and then for her sons as well. And each time, no one could say for certain if they would see them again or not.

“How was your trip?” She finally asked after several pancakes and a quiet, peaceful moment of simply looking at each other and enjoying the feeling that came from having a precious person finally be near them once more.

“Slimy will come, Slimy will take you, and everyone will forget you. You were, then you weren’t, only Slimy knows where to look…”

“Children! There are children here!”

“It was fine,” Ardi answered, trying to keep his voice steady. He managed it. He had to. He could not allow what festered beyond their worn threshold to touch their home, and most importantly, Tess. “Got a little wet on the way back, but other than that, nothing much.”

“And how did you like the Dancing Peninsula?”

A cascade of scenes played out in his memories. There was Anita, trying to steal his research; there was Maryana Sestrova, who had indeed turned out to be a pawn of the Puppeteers; then the burning monastery, the jars of formalin, the child’s face on the head of a monstrous product of experimentation…

“You know, I’m hoping the Azure Sea turns out to be a bit more pleasant,” Ardi said, relying on Skusty’s art, something he rarely did when talking with Tess. But today was just such a day.

“They exaggerate, don’t they?” The girl asked, clearly alluding to the stories of how wonderful it was in mid-to-late summer on the border with Olikzasia.

“Pretty much.”

Tess raised her bright green eyes to his. They were like two emeralds, with a young, hot flame dancing inside them.

She understood everything. Without another word spoken, without any needless questions. She understood, and for a moment, her hand touched his. Ardi flinched as if burned by a flame, then barely restrained himself from sweeping her up in his arms and holding her in a tight embrace.

“How are your rehearsals going, dear?” Ardan quickly changed the subject. “Are you looking forward to the opening?”

Tess looked him straight in the eye for a few seconds, then began her story.

“Oh, you have no idea, we went through so much of our repertoire! We reworked several songs, and Shiller, our saxophonist, rewrote the whole arrangement. And there was this funny thing that happened. They brought the stands for the drum kit backstage and…”

She returned to her pancakes, talking a mile a minute about the two and a half weeks they had spent apart. But now she ate with only her fork. After setting her knife aside, she did not let go of his hand. She talked and talked, all the while stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. And Ardi looked into her eyes, listened to her words, and felt his heart slowly unclench, the thoughts in his head growing quiet.

He felt calm.

Without him even noticing the shift, they were soon laughing out loud together, teasing each other, sharing bits of gossip, and, standing at the kitchen sink, splashing each other with water as they washed the dishes.

Once, he had asked Arkar what it meant to be with a woman. Perhaps this, right here, was the answer…

Present day, Imperial Magical University

The townspeople, mouths agape, heads tilted back so far they nearly touched their spines, watched the sparkling illusions merge with the night sky. Their eyes reflected the stars that had descended from the black canopy, beginning a dance around the spires of palaces and skyscrapers.

But then they too began to fade, until the illusions vanished completely. The gazes of thousands of people converged on a single point: the balcony, where heavy doors, normally indistinguishable from the outer walls, were slowly opening.

“I am pleased to welcome you, esteemed guests and colleagues!” The rector greeted the crowd.

Ardi remembered her from Edward’s funeral. She was an elderly, short, somewhat stout woman with three chins, which, to his astonishment, did not detract from her appearance in the slightest. It was all compensated for by the look in her intelligent eyes, which almost sparkled with intellect, and also by the presence of epaulettes denoting that she had six Stars. Two with nine, two with eight, then five and four rays.

Palada Angova was a Grand Magister of Star Engineering and also a Senior Magister in the field of Shield Magic. She was one of that absolute minority of mages who held two scholarly degrees. At one hundred and twenty-two years old, she looked barely older than… eighty. This clearly indicated that her control over the Seal of Long Years was gradually weakening. Because of this, rumors circulated around the university that Grand Magister Angova would soon present her successor.

But that was still to come. For now, a great scholar who had discovered and proven the wave-particle duality of runic connections on the “surface” of high-load seal compounds was standing on the balcony. Ardi had read about it in a paper by Senior Magister Paarlax, who had used Grand Magister Angova’s research and, ultimately, developed it into his theory on the Ley-field.

As was customary, Angova was dressed in an ancient, snow-white robe bearing the crests of the Empire and the Mages’ Guild. In her hands, she held her staff, which she herself had forged from an Ertalain alloy, inscribing upon it seals so complex that they served more as an inspiration for the younger generation of mages than anything.

The only thing that marred her overall pompous appearance was an old, tattered, thin grimoire that hung from the belt of one of the most famous mages not only in the Empire, but in the entire world.

“This year, our precious Imperial Magical University once again opens its doors to those who thirst for knowledge,” the rector continued her speech. “Let me remind our dear students, who sometimes leave their heads in the library, that beyond the dusty pages of textbooks and treatises, there is a world outside our cozy walls. Do not forget about it, because it will certainly never forget about you. Live in such a way that when your time comes to remember the years gone by, you will have something more to reminisce about than tedious professors, stuffy lecture halls, and endless practical exams. Remember that you can always reread something, catch up on the curriculum, or figure out a difficult question, but you will never again be as young and free as you are today… Welcome to the Grand, ladies and gentlemen! I am glad to see those who have remained with us, and just as glad to welcome those whom I am seeing for the first time!”

Grand Magister Angova struck her staff against the balcony and the illusory waterfall on the first floors flared to life. Framing the entrance to the main building, it momentarily concealed the Grand Magister’s figure, and when the flash dissipated, the rector was gone. Angova rarely appeared in public, preferring the solitude of her office and laboratory in the Magisterium.

The crowd of mages, separating from the onlookers, attendants and guards maintaining public order (though, considering the fact that there were at least fifteen hundred mages in Star Square at that moment, it was hard to imagine how a few hundred guards could do anything), slowly moved into the atrium of the central building, a space that rivaled the foyer of the central train station in size. The ceiling was lost somewhere in the heights above, and upon it, the ever-changing night sky rippled like the waves of a lake. Constellations, piercing the swirling gloom with their light, flared up as a multitude of shining points. Among them, Ardi spotted some he was familiar with from Atta’nha’s scrolls and also those he had glimpsed in the night sky of the Dancing Peninsula.

Occasionally, the distant planets of their solar system, which the young man had previously only read about in geography textbooks, would sweep across the magical, illusory sky.

Slightly lower, flowing down the wide columns that held up the ceiling hidden behind the illusion, were threads of snow-white energy. A year ago, Ardi had guessed that this was pure Ley energy due to going by feel, but now he understood that it was just an illusion, and he had missed the mark slightly in his guess since he’d only felt the Ley-tension in the cables that disappeared into the floor through pipes.

Paved with black marble and divided into golden sections, the floor was so polished that it reflected the figures and faces of people. And together with the magical sky reflected across its surface, it created the impression that there was no clear division between up and down.

His head, unlike a year ago, no longer spun…

In the center of the atrium stood a monument cast in bronze. It captured the scene with which the history of the Empire had begun: the wounded and dying Last King of Gales piercing the heart of the King of Ectassus with his blade. Their faces were hidden beneath the visors of their helmets, and their figures did not look particularly mighty. Around the monument, arranged in circles, were comfortable sofas and benches where, on a normal day, students would gather.

Gargoyles lined the walls. Frozen in various poses, they seemed to be watching over their vast domain, their predatory gazes fixed on their visitors.

And, of course, in the corner, near the monumental doors that would have been more fitting in a place like the Palace of the Kings of the Past or some museum, a long information desk was tucked away. It had a multitude of exposed pneumatic mail tubes, around which mages in green cloaks bustled. Queues of first-year students had formed around them, awkwardly adjusting their red capes and straightening their unfamiliar epaulettes.

It was hard to imagine that only a year had passed since Ardi had been just as clueless as these newcomers.

“Look…”

“Yes, that’s right, the tall one with the wooden staff.”

“Yes, yes, that’s him.”

“Well, I’ll be… the Herald wasn’t exaggerating… he really is handsome.”

At first, Ardi didn’t even notice that they were talking about him. He only realized what was going on once the hunter inside him began to grow uneasy from the many gazes, both male and female, fixed upon his humble person. Some were interested, others slightly annoyed, but most were filled with idle curiosity.

The gazes mostly belonged to the first-years who’d ended up distracted from their bureaucratic problems, but several times, Ardi also noticed the wearers of green cloaks stealing glances at him.

“Don’t be surprised,” Elena whispered, taking her friend’s arm. “After the article in the Imperial Herald about your duel with Great Prince Agrov, only the truly lazy weren’t gossiping about you this summer.”

Ardan, out of habit, scratched the back of his head with the top of his staff.

“You know, I’m surprised that looking at the two of you whispering and holding hands so sweetly,” Boris stood in their way, flashing them his brilliant, roguish smile, “doesn’t make me feel jealous at all.”

“That’s just because you know I don’t need anyone but you, and Ardi…”

“And Ardi,” Boris picked up, “somehow managed to find a marvel like Tess amongst his dusty treatises.”

“They’re not dusty,” Ardan grumbled.

This text was taken from NovelBin. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Actually, for the most part, the books he requested from the library were indeed often dressed in a thick, dusty shawl, but only because it was quite rare for someone to request forbidden literature. And even rarer for that someone to have the legal grounds to ensure that the material would actually be given to them.

“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat behind them.

Ardi turned to see Bazhen Eorsky. As always, he was surrounded by a flock of young women in red cloaks. And as was usually the case, he was not quite sober, clearly disheveled, reeking of other people’s beds and such a collection of tobacco and alcohol bouquets that just standing next to him could make you bid farewell to sobriety.

“Excuse me, I’ll catch up with you at the secretariat,” Ardan apologized to his friends.

Boris and Elena waved goodbye and headed for the elevators. They needed to submit their summer practice reports to the faculty secretariat. Each faculty had its own tasks for the summer. For example, Ardi’s and Elena’s group had been told to write an essay on “The Transitional Period of Integrating Star Magic into the Culture and Life of the Western Continent.” The essay was supposed to cover both historical and Star Magic-related topics, have forty-five thousand words and no fewer than thirty literary sources, contain a cross-sectional analysis of their materials, and their own final thesis on the subject that was at least a thousand words long.

Ardi had finished it even before leaving on his assignment.

“My dears, I’ll be ready to give you a tour in just a few minutes,” Bazhen said, somehow managing, despite what was clearly a wild atmosphere, to maintain his clarity of mind, if not his sobriety. “And, if anyone is interested, the tour can continue in my cozy apartment on Baliero, where, of course, the annual festivities to commemorate the start of the new academic year will continue.”

Bazhen spoke in a roundabout way and always at great length, but it seemed like his companions only liked that more. Judging by the scent and the beating of their hearts, at least a few of them were ready to go anywhere with the young man.

The son of the owner of one of the largest law firms in the capital (a fact he never advertised, though he didn’t hide it, either) broke away from his “floral” entourage and approached Ardi. He firmly shook the proffered hand and lowered his voice.

“I’ve heard about your adventures on the coast.”

“Yeah,” was all Ardan could manage to say.

Bazhen Eorsky also served in the Black House and, as far as Ardi could tell, was something akin to the eyes and ears of the Second Chancery in the Grand. And, considering that Bazhen was studying at the Faculty of Jurisprudence, in the future, he would become those same eyes and ears in the bureaucratic apparatus of the Mages’ Guild.

“Hint taken,” Bazhen nodded. “But I have to give you credit for your consistency, cowboy. Racking up over a hundred thousand in damages… what’s next? You going to blow up a small town?”

Ardan just sighed and shook his head dejectedly. Bazhen’s manner of speaking was sometimes more tiring than the future lawyer’s penchant for self-destruction.

“Is that what you wanted to discuss?” Ardi asked.

Bazhen shrugged and spun his hat on his index finger.

“No, cowboy, I wanted to discuss our little venture,” his voice grew firm, clearly indicating that he was no longer fooling around. In this, he and Milar were much alike. “Because while you were busy impersonating Mshisty, I took care of all the paperwork. I filed a dozen petitions and got all the necessary permits. It’s all done. We can go to the Firstborn Quarter tomorrow and look for a building to open our pharmacy in.”

Ardan nearly slapped himself on the forehead. Yes, he had forgotten about the Conclave and their unresolved conversation, but he still remembered the apothecary cartel. He had simply overlooked the fact that his and Bazhen’s plan depended entirely on whether Ardan could erase his persona non grata status in the Firstborn Quarter. And that was precisely why he hadn’t refused to speak with the Conclave.

“Ahgrat,” Ardan hissed.

“I take it that what you just so clumsily tried to sneeze out means I wasted half the summer knocking on other people’s doors, although…” Bazhen winked at one of the girls in a blue cloak passing by them. And considering the fact that the girl had a wedding ring shimmering on her ring finger, well… Ardan didn’t want to get involved in other people’s business. “Although some doors were quite pleasant to knock on, but that doesn’t change the facts. I’ve done my half of the deal. How’s it looking on your front?”

“I’m working on it.”

Bazhen blinked and asked with some indignation:

“You do know, cowboy, that I’m the best law student here, right? So I know perfectly well when someone’s trying to blow smoke up my… Just tell it to me straight—are we in or not?”

Ardan cursed again, this time silently.

“Believe me, Bazhen, I’ll do my best to make sure your efforts don’t go to waste.”

“He’ll do his best,” the young man clapped him on the chest. “And if you later have to tell me, ‘Sorry, Bazhen, it didn’t work out,’ then you’ll owe me.”

“You owe me too,” Ardan countered. “I don’t remember you giving me my share of the bets from the duels.”

“That’s exactly what your future debt to me will be,” Bazhen spread his hands and, without waiting for an answer, backed away toward his companions. Without taking his eyes off Ardi, Bazhen mouthed the words: “You. Will. Owe. Me.”

Ardan sighed again. What was it Milar had said about having a lot of free time?

Ardi turned on his heel and was about to hurry to the stairs (he had no intention of using the elevators more than necessary) when he caught sight of a rather familiar procession. A group of five students, parting the crowd that made way for them, proceeded almost regally toward the elevator lobby.

One of them was of average build, with average facial features, a gray voice, and even his eyes were gray. Only his perpetually slicked-back hair, shiny with gel, stood out from his overall appearance. Baron Shestov remained unimpressive.

The second was a frail young man with narrow glasses in a gold frame and slightly crooked teeth. Always fidgeting, squeaky-voiced, and so cautious that he sometimes seemed cowardly… Baron Zahatkin was currently almost drooling at the sight of the first-year girls.

The third, limping and leaning heavily on his staff just as Boris had, once broad-shouldered and seemingly taller than Ardan, had now shriveled up. His square face had hollow cheeks, and a flicker of uncertainty had taken root in his eyes. This was Baron Kerimov, who had spent six months in a hospital bed after his duel with Ardan.

The three of them were walking behind a tall, majestic, haughty, and beautiful girl with black hair and slightly tanned skin. She had long legs and a slender figure that could not be hidden by rustling skirts or the absence of a corset under her fashionable jacket. This was Lady Polina Erkerovsky, whom Ardan had technically lived with in Shamtur for a little over a week this summer.

And, of course, leading the procession and looking as if he’d both found some dragons and received a Grand Magister’s medallion—Great Prince Iolai Agrov in the flesh. He was of medium height, with black hair streaked with a few white strands. He had a face that simultaneously resembled an otter and a ferret, a sharp nose, narrow shoulders, and a distinctly unhealthy glint in his dark eyes.

The crowd parted before him, trying to disappear and not draw the attention of the so-and-so-in-line for the Imperial throne as quickly as possible. And, most unexpectedly, the entire procession suddenly turned and headed straight for Ardan. Catching up with him right at the doors to the stairs, they left Ardi no room to maneuver around them.

It couldn’t be said that Ardi was particularly nervous. He wasn’t worried about the Great Prince and his companions at all. Rather, he was completely indifferent to these people. Ardan simply didn’t want to start the new academic year with another stupid mess related to someone’s imaginary pride.

“A pleasure to see you, Mr. Egobar,” Iolai said first, extending his hand, his tone impeccably polite and calm.

Disarming him with this sudden amiability, the Great Prince practically snatched Ardan’s hand and squeezed it tightly. Somewhere in the crowd, several camera flashes went off. Iolai spoke loudly enough for half the atrium to hear, and so one didn’t need to be an investigator to guess that Iolai was playing to the crowd.

“Yes, Your Highness, likewise,” Ardi said, trying to respond with a deliberately cheerful smile of his own.

“I heard from a close friend of mine about your engagement and upcoming wedding,” Iolai continued to boom, squeezing his hand tighter and tighter. “I must confess, I was surprised that the most worthy Orman family agreed to bind themselves in marriage with the Egobars, but I suppose our country has endured enough turmoil. It is time to turn over a new leaf and welcome the marriage of military aristocrats, the guardians of our most difficult stretch of the northern border, with former accomplices of the Dark Lord.”

Before, only those who’d happened to be nearby (not counting the cameras’ wielders) had been looking at Ardan and Iolai, but now the gazes of nearly two thirds of the mages in the atrium turned to them.

Ardan didn’t yet understand what exactly Iolai was trying to achieve with this, but his gut told him it was nothing good.

“Have a good academic year, Mr. Egobar,” Iolai released his hand and, as if nothing had happened, turned back toward the lobby.

Ardi didn’t know why, but he felt as if a knife had been twisted in his gut. Looking around over the heads of the whispering students, Ardan found the person he was looking for. Bazhen Eorsky, frozen mid-step, was looking at Ardan. He was also rapidly turning pale.

“Ahgrat.”

Ardi didn’t know much about politics. What he did know was largely thanks to his lectures on the History of Magic. Milar, with a persistence worthy of respect, had instructed him to stay as far away from high offices as possible.

But…

Ardan waved to Bazhen, but the other man drew a hand across his throat and pointed to his watch. Whatever his message meant, their conversation would likely have to wait.

Well then.

After watching Iolai Agrov disappear behind the doors, Ardi turned and, cutting through the gradually-tightening circle of students around him, slipped onto the staircase. As always, it greeted him with concrete steps covered by a seemingly fresh carpet held down by brass rods. However, it only seemed fresh because it had clearly been lying there for more than a year, but almost no one used the stairs. It was understandable—in the main building, which consisted of almost fifty floors, it was quite difficult for ordinary people to move around without the help of elevators.

All things being equal, Ardi wouldn’t have visited this building at all today, but the General Faculty building was undergoing renovation, as well as a redesign of the offices and the administrative floor. The work was supposed to have been finished by the beginning of the academic year, but they hadn’t managed it.

As a result, for several months now, the Dean of the Faculty of General Knowledge’s office had been located on the twenty-sixth floor of the main building, in one of the vacant offices. That was exactly where Ardi was headed.

Flying up the steps and feeling glad that he no longer had to deal with the constant fatigue caused by invigorating brews, the young man emerged into the foyer a few minutes later. He wasn’t even out of breath as he passed a few mages wandering about on their own business and joined a group of students from his faculty. As always, nine out of ten people who wore the emblem engraved with an empty circle (the crest of the General Knowledge Faculty) were female.

This was partly because Mart had been right when he’d said that wealthy aristocrats and businessmen often sent their daughters here to form advantageous alliances through their marriages. Or, if they were recently wealthy, to acquire the noble title of etid, even if it was largely formal. Mart had also said that he had no idea what the title was for and that it had never been useful to him in his life. Ardi now agreed with that statement as well.

Out of all the people he knew, only Bazhen could likely answer the question of why mages were granted such a title.

“So, how is he?” Asked one of the girls who wore a blue cloak (she was apparently someone from the final year) and epaulettes denoting that she had three, three again, and two rays respectively.

Previously, such a finite number of rays would have seemed extremely modest to Ardi. He’d think it was just enough for the General Faculty, but insignificant in the context of Star Magic as a whole. Now, after a summer of traveling the country, Ardi understood that he had become a victim of his own environment.

During his time working for the Black House, he had encountered threats that were beyond what one could find within the walls of the Grand. And at the same time, the Grand had gathered the best of the best. And so, what was considered the minimum requirement for this university was a considerable achievement in the outside world.

And in the Grand, this girl was soon going to be graduating from the General Faculty, which meant that she was barely scraping by. But in other settings, she could find herself so revered that many would tear her limb from limb in their eagerness to hire or collaborate with a Blue Star Mage.

“He has a strong western accent,” answered another student. She was wearing a green cloak with epaulettes denoting four and two rays. “But he seems decent. That’s the impression I got, at least.”

They were discussing the new Dean of the General Faculty that had been appointed by the Mages’ Guild. After the death of Senior Magister Paarlax, his old friend—Senior Magister Eisa Pimenova—had taken an indefinite leave and, according to rumors, had joined an expedition led by the renowned Mart Borskov. This time, the archaeologist was heading to the Selkado League, where, according to an agreement with their Mages’ Guild, he was going to search for traces of dragon flocks in the Harad mountains.

“Oh, Mr. Egobar,” the girl suddenly turned to Ardi. He didn’t know her and had only seen her a couple of times in the faculty building. “They’re waiting for you in there. You should hurry.”

They were entering the office three at a time, so Ardi was somewhat surprised to be called out of turn. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to resist a gift from fate that might save him half an hour of his time.

“Thank you,” the young man said and was about to make the familiar gesture of removing his hat, but his hand found only emptiness.

Ah, right… he had to get used to that…

After knocking before entering, Ardan opened the door and found himself in a sanctuary of bureaucratic chaos. In the long office, which was divided into three sections, endless stacks of folders, piles of papers, and bewildered secretariat employees shared the space, none of them looking happy to be there.

The elderly Mrs. Alina Erdova was there. She probably remembered the times when one of the last buildings of the Grand was still being completed, and that was some fifty years ago. Adjusting her horn-rimmed glasses from time to time, she was tapping her fingers quite deftly on the typewriter and accepting documents from the students approaching her.

The second employee was the unchanging deputy dean, Magister Man Glich. Short, thin and perpetually trying to look younger, he possessed a disarming smile and a shiny, bald head, which he hid under wigs. They often came unglued and slid to the side, causing fits of giggling and smiles to erupt among the female students, which Mr. Glich often misinterpreted.

He wore a blue cloak and epaulettes denoting four, four, and a proud, albeit solitary, single ray in his third Star.

He was responsible for issuing Ley-equipment, as well as accepting papers that needed to be submitted to the dean’s office rather than to the professors. The others, who were toiling away at noisy typewriters, carrying documents, and clearly trying to somehow arrange their temporary dwelling, Ardi did not remember by name. They changed often, sometimes more than once a semester.

The General Faculty did not have a tenth of the budget that the other faculties possessed, so it could not offer any serious bonuses on top of the standard salary of the Grand.

“Where should I put these documents?”

“The filing cabinet,” Mrs. Erdova waved her hand without looking up from her typewriter’s keys.

“But it’s already full.”

“Then, my dear Endit, unpack and assemble a new one!”

“But the new ones just ran out.”

“Then conjure something up!”

“But I’m not a mage!”

“And do I look like a witch to you?” Mrs. Erdova tore herself away from her work for a second and gave the young clerk, who was about to open his mouth, a fierce look. “Don’t you dare answer that question.”

Endit, a young man of about twenty-three, swallowed, adjusted his tie, straightened his cuffs, and, navigating between the stacks of papers, carried several folders in a direction known only to him.

“Ah, Mr. Egobar,” the elderly secretary recognized him. “Leave your report and documents here and go into the dean’s office, they’re already waiting for you.”

Ardan, somewhat bewildered, left the papers on the corner of the already-cluttered desk and, bypassing the students and employees while also carefully skirting the shaky towers of bureaucratic waste paper, knocked on the other door.

“Come in,” came the familiar, hurried voice of Magister Glich.

Pushing another door open, Ardi found himself in what could very well be called a closet. Only the presence of a tall, wall-to-wall window made the miniature room worthy of the proud title of an office. Though that was where all the pride ended.

It had a singular, simple desk, one that had clearly been brought in from some lecture hall, a cabinet with a few grimoires and books, and four chairs—that was all that could fit in here.

“Mr. Egobar, good evening,” Glich greeted him, a strip of almost-lacquered skin once again exposed above his right ear. “Please, have a seat.”

Ardi sat down on the chair next to the deputy dean and quickly glanced at the man sitting at the desk. He was about forty, maybe a little younger, and judging by the presence of a now-darkened ring—clearly long married. He was also a bit chubby, with a prosthesis instead of a right ear, thick-lensed glasses, but pleasant-looking, though with doughy features that promised to soon present society with his second chin.

The man wore a yellow cloak with epaulettes that said he had five, five, three, and once again three rays.

“I am Senior Magister Stefan Dittmar,” the obvious descendant of the inhabitants of Aradira, which had later become part of the Empire, introduced himself. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Egobar. However, I won’t keep our guest from making his proposal.”

Ardan nodded and turned his gaze toward the person he’d least expected to see today. However, despite the surprise, it was a joyful encounter. Ardi truly liked Professor Convel. The Senior Magister of Ley Engineering was sitting in the last free chair.

He was wearing his favorite dark blue robe with a wide, yellow stripe. He had narrow shoulders and was short—almost the same height as Magister Glich. He had inquisitive green eyes and his hair had been cut short. And while it was completely gray, it was also still thick. His epaulettes showed that he had four Stars with four, seven, eight, and two rays.

“Good evening, Professor Convel,” Ardi greeted him with a smile. “You look well rested.”

“Thank you, Mr. Egobar,” Convel shook his hand without hesitation. “My traditional vacation on the Azure Sea has a positive effect on my passion for teaching. And I would like to say that you look rested too, but alas…”

Ardan felt a little embarrassed.

“Youth,” Senior Magister Dittmar interjected.

“Youth,” Glich and Convel exhaled in unison, as if that explained everything.

Although, perhaps it did.

“I beg your pardon, Professor Convel,” Ardi didn’t want to seem rude, but he didn’t want to waste any time, either. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Oh, my dear Ard, it’s nothing that couldn’t wait for our first lecture of this academic year, but still, I decided to combine business with pleasure,” Convel nodded to the new Dean of the General Faculty. “I got reacquainted with a new colleague whom I haven’t seen since-”

“Since you rejected my research on a new type of blade for Yellow Star generators with a voltage of up to sixty-five rays at the Magisters’ council, Professor.”

There wasn’t even a hint of dislike or hidden resentment in Dittmar’s voice; rather, he spoke with good humor and a light dose of irony aimed at himself.

“Exactly, absolutely,” Convel waved his hand and turned back to Ardan. “You see, my dear Ard, every year, professors assemble research groups from among their most gifted students.”

“Which usually means fifth and sixth-year students,” Dittmar coughed. “And rarely fourth-year ones.”

“Precisely,” Convel confirmed without taking his eyes off Ardi. “But I believe we can make a small procedural exception and, so to speak, offer Mr. Egobar a position as a junior lab assistant. You see, my dear Ard, our research laboratory is often short-handed. There’s always something to connect. Something to reconfigure. Sometimes, you have to make a report or cross-reference a couple of sources. Things that take time away from the main research group, but which a bright and inquisitive mind like yours could handle.”

The professor, after finishing his speech, surreptitiously winked at Ardi. He had heard about research groups before. Usually, students who planned to continue their education in the Magisterium tried to get into them in order to get a Magister’s medallion in the future. And then, decades later, maybe even a Senior Magister’s one.

Such groups didn’t cause much excitement these days. In recent times, fewer and fewer students were pursuing higher education, and more often than not, they went directly to work upon graduating from the university. After all, the country’s need for specialists was constantly growing, particularly in the fields of engineering and shield magic.

Mart hadn’t been wrong about this a year ago, either.

“I can see that you’re hesitating,” Professor Convel clearly misinterpreted Ardan’s pause. “Don’t worry about your schedule, my dear Ard, the research group meets only a couple of times a month for joint experiments and tests. The rest of the time, we conduct parallel or independent research. And since you’re not asking what kind, I’ll gladly answer in advance—for several years now, I’ve been trying to develop a new type of Ley-cable with increased throughput.”

“But, Professor, I don’t know anything about cables,” Ardi finally spoke up. “And material Ley Engineering… forgive my frankness, but it’s not even third on my list of priorities.”

The new Dean of the General Faculty choked for some reason. Convel, after a few seconds of engaging in a staring contest with Ardi, threw up his hands.

“Nothing to be done about it, my dear Ard. I’ll try my luck next year,” the professor said with a smile and understanding in his eyes.

He was about to get up when someone knocked on the door. The newcomer had Stars with four, four, six, and five rays respectively. He was seventy years old, but unusually youthful, with a thick, perpetually-shiny beard due to the styling products he used. He wore funny, pointed and curved shoes, doused himself in cologne, loved coffee, women much younger than himself but still older than his students, and also good jazz. At the beginning of last year, he and Ardi had often crossed paths at “Bruce’s,” where an Manish had come with a new flame of about thirty each time. None of them had been older than that.

He was a pleasant conversationalist and often told interesting stories about his homeland—the Holy Emirates of Al’Zafir. This was a country where, instead of grass, there was sand, and instead of mountains, dunes. The professor often joked and even more often lamented that, in his youth, he hadn’t had the strength to ignite a fifth Star and, because of that, he would soon meet the Eternal Angels.

The spell that allowed Star Mages to live for more than two hundred years could only be used by mages with six or more Stars.

And the professor also had a very ornate and strange manner of speech.

“Oh, my dear sky-scraping and roof-scratching, amber-eyed Ardi,” as if not noticing the others, Professor an Manish grabbed Ardan’s hand and shook it several times. “You may be wondering and perplexed as to why I, out of breath and even a little sweaty, so resolutely sought a meeting with you, oh living avatar of lampposts. You may already know that, at the beginning of the year, professors recruit research groups from among the brightest and most promising minds of the student community…”

Behind the desert native, the door swung open again.

“Professor Kovertsky,” Mrs. Erdova’s tired voice creaked. “Let me guess. You need student Egobar.”

“You are absolutely right.”

Sleeping Spirits…

***

“And you, Matabar, you gave them the finger… refused them all, that is?” Arkar drank half a liter of ale in one gulp.

“Did I have any other options, orc?” Ardan answered his question with a question. “I already tried to bite off more than I could chew last year. No, thank you. Or rather—I want to do it, but I won’t. Besides, I have enough of my own research to deal with.”

“Right, yeah, research,” the half-orc chuckled gutturally. “Let’s go… and pay the Conclave a visit.”