Matabar

Book II. Chapter 52 - The Ice Cage

Chapter 52

Ardan sat staring at the black graphite board, the tapping of his pencil against his workbook creating a restless, staccato rhythm that defied the silence. The board was a dense thicket of formulas, calculations and complex graphs that illustrated the geometry of runic compounds. It was a tangled web that only the initiated could hope to unravel.

“Thus, we arrive at the understanding,” Professor Convel began, his voice carrying the weight of practiced pedagogy, “that the basic principle of joining two disparate runic links into a single essence is nothing more than the creation of—if you will permit the expression—a parent function. And into this function we pass not a free parameter, but yet another... function.”

“A daughter function, if you will.” Professor Convel paced the length of the dais, the wood of the floor creaking softly under his weight. He had grown somewhat portly after what had clearly been a great vacation, and he punctuated his steps by tapping his pointer against various graphs on the board, the sharp click echoing in the hushed room.

“Now, what does this remind us of?”

He accompanied the question with a benevolent, slightly crooked smile. It seemed like even the generous salary of a professor, combined with his royalties from his numerous research papers and the not-insignificant pension of a military officer—rumor had it that Convel had spent several hard years on the Fatian border—was not enough to purchase a visit to the Tears of the Martyrs hospital, where the finest elven healers practiced their arts.

Perhaps Convel could have afforded their procedures, but he likely saw no reason to waste good exes on restoring his smile to the state it had been in thirty years ago, back before the bald spot had devoured the greater part of his hair.

A rustle of fabric filled the room—the whisper of expensive cloaks and short jackets concealing tight corsets—as several slender, feminine hands rose into the air like white birds taking flight.

Among them was Elena Promyslov-Fahtov. She looked every bit as expensively dressed as Eveless, who also had her hand raised. Since Elena had found herself with child, she and Boris had ceased to hide their marital status.

Elena no longer dressed like a servant, but as the noble lady she truly was. On her hand sat a ring of platinum alloy and white gold—a piece of jewelry that had likely cost enough to cover a year’s rent for Ardan and Tess in a decent apartment in the Central District.

“Lady Eveless,” Convel extended his favorite pointer toward the girl. She possessed an incredible beauty matched only by her cold, imperious haughtiness.

Dressed in the latest creation of the Baliero fashion houses, and looking more like a professional model than an Imperial Mage, the elegant elf rose from her seat. Her platinum hair was swept up in an intricate coiffure and her dress shimmered with silver threads. The overall effect was not at all spoiled by the strict jacket or autumn boots she wore.

Elena had once joked that no matter what Eveless put on, she would always look as if she had just returned from a fashion show.

“The creation of a runic array,” a voice that was both soft and melodic declared. It was a timbre no human vocal cords were capable of producing. “According to all the rules and formulas you have cited, Professor Convel, one might hypothesize that complex runic links are beholden to the same laws as the arrays themselves.”

“Bravo.” Convel was even generous enough to applaud her. His gaze swept over Eveless, Elena and Ardan. “At times, I wonder, my dear lovely ladies—and one gentleman—how the finest engineering minds of last year’s intake ended up in the General Faculty... And so, as Lady Eveless has noted quite correctly: the connections of heterogeneous runic links are formed according to the same principles as general runic arrays.”

“Strictly speaking, that is what they are called: Arrays of Runic Compounds.”

“Now, as a first step—a pure thought experiment for the moment—try to calculate what will occur within this equation. The final parameter of the desired property is this Key Rune... Who can remind me what a Key Rune is?”

This time, Convel invited one of the Nelvir twins to answer.

It seemed to be Ishka and not Veshka—Ardan still struggled to tell them apart. They even smelled the same... They were twin sisters from the Nelvir family, a lineage famous for its jewelry house, which was small, perhaps, but exquisitely refined.

“A Key Rune is the term for the rune upon which the effect of the runic link is exerted,” the girl recited crisply. “The runes within the link itself are called free parameters.”

“Excellent!” The Professor of Star Engineering beamed, shining no less brightly than the Ley-lamps suspended above their heads. “Now, please calculate what will happen if we exert influence on the Argo Rune. I will remind you that it independently regulates the density of the external contour for the mass transfer of the final construct.”

“Calculate the resulting influence on the Argo using the connection of this construct.” Convel pointed to two formulas as he added these instructions.

Both referred to “Direct Runic Links,” but in this case, they utilized symbols of differing lengths.

In the small, slightly stifling classroom, the future Imperial Mages—fourteen young women and one young man—dipped their pens into their inkwells in unison.

Soon, the scratching of iron nibs against paper filled the silence, leaving behind complex systems of equations where parameters danced between functions. That’s what it seemed like to Ardan, at least. He always found something beautiful and elegant even in the simplest mathematical problems.

Though, judging by the tense expressions on the other students’ faces, including Eveless and Elena, they did not share their classmate’s aesthetic appreciation.

This was hardly surprising.

Ardan had independently studied the creation of arrays of runic compounds in the middle of the previous year. Without them, it was practically impossible to regulate the Ley consumption in his blueprints.

Judging by the General Faculty’s syllabus, they would be studying these arrays for two thirds of the semester. Only near the New Year would they transition to the study of vectors. After that, until the summer, they would be submerged in the topic of the direct dependency between these two concepts. Their third year would be dedicated to deepening that knowledge.

Overall, this curriculum sounded entirely logical, and yet Ardi would have preferred to be in the Engineering Faculty at that moment. There, due to the difference in hourly workload and the greater demands of Star Engineering, runic links and vectors were covered in their entirety by the middle of the second year, not the end of the third.

“Ardi...” Elena shot a quick glance at his notebook, eyebrows raised in slight surprise. “You missed almost half a year of lectures, yet you’ve already calculated everything?”

“I had... a lot of practice,” Ardan replied somewhat evasively.

He did not wish to mention his work with Edward aloud. While Elena had a general idea of things, she did not know the details. The girl, understanding perfectly what he was referring to, gave him a curt nod and returned to her own calculations.

Ardan shook the remaining ink from his pen, set it aside, and turned toward the window.

A reasonable question arose: why attend lectures on material he had already mastered? The truth was, he had studied these topics not only superficially, but also one-sidedly. His classes at the Grand would allow him to patch the holes in his knowledge—holes he might not even realize existed.

His gaze drifted toward Saint Vasyli’s Island, where the laboratory—his laboratory now—was located.

There, his own research and experiments awaited him. This was the sort of work that could not only improve his financial situation, but also increase his chances of survival should he ever encounter another “Driba.”

Edward had been right. He would not always be able to rely on his wits and his knack for finding an advantage in his environment. The events at the Larand Monastery were the starkest example of this, even though Ardi had managed to use the Puppeteers’ equipment to his benefit.

If not for Driba’s mistake—the man had clearly been far from a military mage—Ardan would not be sitting in this cramped classroom right now.

The seventeenth of the Month of Saints, Ardan reminded himself silently.

That was the date, four days from now, that had been set for his first match in the Sponsored League of Magical Boxing. He would be going up against a certain Lucius Raft, who had six Red Star and seven Green Star rays.

And on that very same day, due to endless delays and rescheduling during its construction, the grand opening of the Baliero Concert Hall was also set to take place.

Ardi could hope all he liked that it would be postponed again, but thanks to the unwritten law of universal malice—especially considering the unpleasant coincidence—the opening would undoubtedly occur on the seventeenth, at exactly half past ten in the evening.

Fortunately, it was only half an hour by taxi from the Magical Boxing arena to Baliero. On paper, at least, this would allow Ardi to make it to the performance in time.

Remembering the incident with the Menagerie, he had warned Tess about his upcoming match. She had been visibly upset that she would not be able to attend and watch from the stands.

Ardan himself was just as eager to see his fiancée shine bright on a massive stage for the first time, before a crowd of nearly five hundred people.

He wanted this far more, in fact, than he wanted to figure out how to gain access to the black market laboratories that traded in mutants and chimeras.

Several days earlier.

The New City.

“The Pelican” restaurant.

A young man in a severe tailcoat with a white towel draped over his forearm stepped up to the right of Arkar. With a bow, he placed a tray before the half-orc.

With a gesture bordering on theatrical, he lifted the metal dome. Beneath it, faintly steaming, an exquisite dish awaited Arkar.

For a garnish, he had nearly half a kilogram of the freshest string beans, steamed and drizzled in a sweet, brown sauce that glistened under the lights. And as the main course... there were four steaks cut from the tenderloin of specially fattened beef.

Such steers weren’t fed grass, but exclusively grain, and lived in conditions designed to prevent them from exerting themselves. The result was layers of fat penetrating deep into the muscle, marbling the red flesh with white and rendering the meat impossibly tender and juicy.

Farms raising such livestock were found exclusively near the Metropolis and Lazurite—the capital of the Azure Sea province. Their citizens were the only ones who could ensure a stable demand for such exorbitantly expensive meat.

“Your white beef steaks, sir,” the waiter recited in a slightly mechanical tone. “Garnished with steamed string beans covered in Ki sauce.”

“Excellent!” Arkar licked his lips shamelessly.

And he did so despite the fact that, before this main course, he had already consumed a lush salad with sturgeon, an entire meat platter meant for several humans, and no less than three plates of raw, marinated tuna.

This wasn’t Ardan’s first time witnessing the sheer volume of food consumed by orcs, whose metabolisms demanded exponentially more energy than humans, yet he never ceased to be amazed by it.

“Your dinner, sir.” Another waiter had appeared beside Ardan. “Fried nutria sausages with a garnish of cattail roots, baked with mountain goat cheese and served with a lingonberry gravy.”

Ardan barely restrained himself from mimicking Arkar.

“If there is one thing I agree with that shorty Cloak on, Matabar, it’s this—how, by the Sleeping Spirits, can you gulp down... eat, I mean... such filth?”

“It’s delicious,” Ardan countered, flexing his fingers more out of habit than necessity. “Wanna try some?”

Arkar grimaced, shoving a piece of meat weighing nearly a hundred and fifty grams into his mouth in one go. “Only if I were dying of hunger... It’s lucky that you like the same things as the goblins.”

Ardan merely shrugged. Goblins, due to their peculiar digestive tracts, also couldn’t process flour, the meat of domestic animals, or the majority of the standard human diet. This physiological quirk of theirs was why Ardi was even able to find things that he could eat. Of course, not all establishments went to great lengths to accommodate them.

Inexpensive restaurants and cafes usually offered venison, partridge or grouse as game dishes. But they were currently in an establishment of a very different caliber.

Here, the light was muffled and the walls hidden beneath expensive emerald wallpaper. The floor was lacquered parquet made from stained larch polished to a mirror sheen. The ceiling boasted stucco molding and patterns, and the windows were framed in casings that looked like they belonged in a museum.

In the center, surrounded by small tables, a grand piano held court, currently being played by an elderly man. The music was loud enough to be heard, yet quiet enough not to intrude on conversation. Silverware gleamed atop snow-white tablecloths and golden candlesticks held wax candles where little flames danced merrily.

And then there was the absence of prices on the menu, a subtle hint at the categorically indecent cost of the dishes.

It was exactly the sort of place that included items to satisfy any appetite. It lent credence to the saying: if you want to find a place where no one cares about the Conclave or the Tavsers, go where the exes matter most, not ideas.

“Well. Here’s to the fact that no Dark Lord is sitting at this table.” Arkar held up a thin crystal goblet of sparkling wine. It looked comical next to his thick, massive fingers, like a toy in the hand of a giant.

Ardan clinked his glass of berry juice against Arkar’s. The half-orc downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp, snapped his fingers at the hovering waiter, and pointed at it. It was immediately refilled from what seemed to be the third bottle of the evening.

Orcs and their metabolism...

“I wanted to ask you...”

“I’m not nearly drunk enough to tell you stories about Boad, Matabar,” Arkar interrupted him, deftly cutting into another piece of steak with surprising grace.

“...about the black market trade on Sleepless Street,” Ardan finished his thought. “Specifically, about the illegal laboratories that deal with chimeras and mutants.”

Arkar set down his fork, which held half a steak impaled upon it. Leaning back in his chair, he looked Ardan in the eye. Even knowing about the Witch’s Gaze, he didn’t fear the boy invading his mind. Arkar was perhaps the second person after Tess to whom Ardi had revealed earlier that year that he had learned to control this ability of all Speakers.

“Why do you want to know, Matabar?” Arkar asked sternly.

Ardi, caught off guard, didn’t immediately grasp why the half-orc seemed so on edge. But the piercing look in those far-from-human eyes clarified things for him.

“I’m-”

“Working for the Black House?” the half-orc interrupted. “I don’t recall an ideological serviceman walking into my bar last autumn, Ard. Or a hereditary officer or some such.”

If one thought about it, Ardan was effectively a hereditary officer. Thanks to Hector, he had a claim to such a title on both sides of his family tree.

“Have you actually thought about why you’re doing all of this?” Arkar continued this strange line of questioning. “No, I get it, Ard. You used to break your back... work, I mean... because you were studying under that Lord who saved all of our hides, but... why are you still doing it? Why bother?”

Naturally, since he’d participated in thwarting Leah Mortimer’s plans, Arkar knew the gist of his training under Edward.

Ardan swallowed a piece of undeniably excellent meat and set down his utensils.

“You know, orc, I thought about that almost all summer.”

“And what did you come up with?” Arkar squinted at him.

Ardan swept his gaze around the room. Pompous gentlemen were proudly resting their massive bellies on the tables—these were undeniable proof that they had enough money to dine in expensive restaurants and eat lunch in exclusive clubs not once a season, but every day if they so wished. Beside them sat their statuesque companions, glittering no less than the display case of a jewelry store.

In this sort of setting, Ardi looked indistinguishable from a homeless vagrant who had lost his way in Tend or Tendari.

“Just don’t tell me it’s for them,” the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets gritted out, his tusks and fangs grinding audibly.

“No, Arkar, it’s not for them,” Ardan shook his head. “Maybe for my family, but... no. I don’t understand it either when Milar says that he cares for the well-being of all the Empire’s inhabitants.”

“Then why, Ard?” Arkar wouldn’t let the matter go. He shivered slightly. “I’m sure you saw things on the Dancing Peninsula that were no less terrible than what we saw... back then...”

“Back then” was obviously referring to the battle between Edward and the demon summoned by Leah Mortimer. Ardan hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, but he could easily imagine how terrifying it must have looked. Especially to Arkar, Milar, Alexander, and Din, who, despite being unusual, were definitely not mages.

Feeling truly helpless in the face of all-consuming horror wounded one deeper than any physical injury because it left a scar on the very soul. It planted a seed of fear in the mind, a squirming worm that woke you up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night because your own screaming had startled you.

If one believed Atta’nha’s scrolls, anyways.

“I don’t know, Arkar,” Ardan shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I was just born this way. You know, in my childhood, I often rescued small animals when predators hunted them...” Ardi remembered the bear cubs and the hungry mountain troll whose hunt he had interrupted. “...even if it contradicted common sense. When I see someone strong harming someone weak... Or not even just harming them? Using... Yes, using them. When I see that, something right here,” Ardan tapped his temple, “feels like a needle. And it pricks, and pricks, and pricks. And eventually-”

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“And eventually,” Arkar interrupted him again, “you try to convince yourself that it’s not about the thrill of the hunt.”

“What?”

“You are Matabar,” Arkar raised his fork and pointed a piece of steak at Ardan. “And maybe you don’t look like they told me a Matabar should look, but you’re still from the Alcade, Ard. So maybe what you call a needle, or whatever else, is just your variety of the hunt.”

Ardan remained silent. He wanted to dismiss Arkar’s words, but he didn’t. The half-orc had lived for over half a century. He had survived the Armondian border, survived vagrancy in the Metropolis, had managed to climb the vile and treacherous, blood-soaked ladder of the gangster hierarchy... To ignore him would be nothing less than foolish.

“Maybe you’re right, Arkar. But after what happened with Morimer, I realized that I can’t just stand aside.”

Arkar stared at him for a few moments longer, then tore off a piece of meat with his fangs and swallowed it almost without chewing.

“The Narikhman,” he said quietly. “Shops like that are run by the Narikhman.”

“I thought there were no gangs in the Firstborn Quarter.”

Arkar laughed. It was a loud, barking laugh, reminiscent of a dog gasping after a futile chase. The other patrons, especially the ladies, glanced around nervously, while others studiously pretended nothing was happening.

However, the atmosphere lightened on its own after a few seconds. The gentlemen and their companions remembered who they were and where they were. The discomfort caused by an ancient, subconscious fear of something capable of snapping their spine without any real effort retreated before the rustle of crisp banknotes and the glitter of diamond cufflinks.

“Believe me, Ard, there’s plenty of seedy... criminal elements, I mean,” Arkar chuckled bitterly. “More than in the entire capital combined. It’s just not as... organic, I guess.”

Ardan opened his mouth but closed it in time. He had promised not to correct him.

“You’re going to burst at this rate, Ard. It’s not organized,” Arkar corrected himself. “It’s all... complicated there, Ard. There are our Jackets. A few. There are a dozen local bastards of various calibers and their mongrels. And then there are the Narikhman. They are everywhere. And do you know why?”

“Because they don’t differentiate between Firstborn and humans?” Ardan made the obvious guess.

“Exactly, Ard,” Arkar nodded. “They don’t give a damn about anything. They will off anyone… kill them, I mean, with casual ease,” Arkar waved his hand and downed the rest of his sparkling wine. “Makes no difference to them. The main thing is that the dough... exes, I mean... fall into their pockets. So they are everywhere, Ard. And they are especially present where there is lots of dough. And the thing you’re asking about, Ard—there’s not just a lot of money there, there’s enough to drive you mad.”

Ardan raised both eyebrows slightly. “I never would have thought that illegal alchemy is so profitable.”

“It’s not profitable at all, Ard,” this time, Arkar didn’t even have to summon the waiter. The man was already there with a bottle ready and he poured him some more wine immediately. “But those who participate in the underground trade of seals don’t complain about being poor.”

Ardi nearly choked on his berry juice.

“What? Even spells are traded on the black market?”

To a young man who had hidden a book by Nicholas the Stranger under a floorboard in his childhood (a book he hadn’t opened in ages due to the material being so woefully outdated

), a book that could’ve led to his entire family being exiled to the mines while he would’ve been hanged, Arkar’s words sounded like some childish fable.Everything related to Star Magic was strictly regulated by the state because it was crucial to the country’s survival.

“But-”

“You aren’t the only Kar’Tak who wears black, Ard,” Arkar set aside his utensils and wiped his lips with a napkin. Sometimes, he behaved no less gentlemanly than Arthur “The Dandy” Belsky. “And believe me, more than two thirds of them are located right in the Firstborn Quarter. They’re there to finally bleed the Narikhman dry because everything related to illegal Star Magic belongs to them.”

Ardan had heard from Milar and Katerina that fifteen years ago, the criminal situation in the Metropolis had been much more... complex. It had only improved after the previous Emperor had fallen ill, and Grand Prince Pavel, the future ruler of the country, had taken the reins. He had strangled the workshops manufacturing Angel Dust, and then the members of the Six had torn the weakened Narikhman apart.

Something told Ardan that this was exactly why the Six, provided they didn’t cross that invisible line, weren’t bothered too much. It was something like an unwritten agreement...

The Narikhman had survived and gone deep underground, leaving behind a truly foul legacy that had led to them “unofficially” being declared enemies of the state. Members of this organization were not arrested, not judged, demands were not made of them—they were simply executed.

Which happened far less often than the Colonel would have liked.

“I know what you want to ask me, Ard,” Arkar’s voice deepened, his gaze growing heavy. “And if you come to me with a Cloak’s badge, if you surround my bar, if you put your staff to my throat, I will fulfill the order of the Black House. And I will make it so you speak with the Narikhman, but...” Arkar switched to the language of the steppe orcs. “After that, Ard, you are a Cloak. And I am an Orcish Jacket. And believe me, I will not think twice before gutting you.”

He switched back to Galessian. “So if you don’t intend to call in your black dogs, I won’t say another word to you about the Narikhman. I don’t care if that offends you, since I don’t want to put up a fence and a monument on your grave, too. No way. I want to drink and make merry at your wedding with Tess, and then invent funny nicknames for your children, not bury you, you little idiot.”

“Arkar, I-”

“Let’s eat, Matabar,” Arkar had evidently decided that Ardan didn’t need to finish his sentences tonight. Or perhaps he had already had a similar conversation with someone else, long ago, and knew how they ended. “I won’t say another word about the Narikhman, the Firstborn Quarter, or any other murky nonsense. We are here to eat heartily, and then shit just as sweetly. Though we’ll do it separately for that last part. And that is the only shit I agree to, Ard. Everything else is not for me.”

Ardan exhaled, nodded, and they returned to discussing the broken generator.

***

Ardan walked out of Professor Convel’s class and immediately ran into a smiling Boris.

“Well, Ardi, barely a year has passed and we are once again heading to military training together…”

Elena rolled her eyes theatrically and Ardan nearly howled.

Not only had he promised himself that he wouldn’t skip lectures without needing to, but the Mages’ Guild, along with their reform of Star Education, had issued a decree on mandatory attendance for General Physical and Military Training.

And that “mandatory” part was enforced so strictly that missing a class without a valid reason could earn someone a severe reprimand. Two severe reprimands would lead to an expulsion.

Since he’d been to Shamtur and seen the Fatian border for himself, Ardi wasn’t particularly surprised by these changes, but he still wasn’t ready to submit to them meekly. Even if only in his own mind, he would heap blasphemy upon those who’d come up with this.

“Already missing Iolai and his henchmen?” Boris wouldn’t let up, spinning around the others like a playful puppy. “Do you think he’ll finally shut his feebleminded mouth, or will he go on a rampage again? By the Eternal Angels, I hope he does! I’m just looking for someone to vent my indignation on—having to calculate all those stupid formulas in Star Engineering and-”

Suddenly, Ardi realized that Boris wasn’t aware of the warm welcome Iolai had “awarded” Ardan.

“Guys,” Ardi cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you something.”

As he recounted his meeting with Great Prince Agrov, the faces of Boris and Elena grew darker and darker. Ardan finished the story right before they parted ways with Elena in the underground levels of the Grand.

At the end of the last academic year, Ardan had been transferred to the first group of Military Training, which was taught directly by Colonel Vseslav Kshtovsky—the head of the Military Faculty for the entire Imperial Magical University.

Ardi and Boris walked past numerous doors, each of them leading to its own training ground where classes were being held. Each faculty had its own privileges—the General Faculty, where Ardan studied, had greater access to the library. Healers could use their faculty’s numerous high-tech laboratories at any time, while those in the Military Faculty, for example, didn’t have to pay to use the training grounds and didn’t have to wait in line to book them, either.

“That is low, even for him,” Boris hissed, gripping his staff tightly. He was still leaning heavily on it and favoring his damaged knee. When his staff wasn’t at hand, or couldn’t be used for some reason, Boris relied on a cane.

“I don’t understand, Boris,” Ardan shook his head. “What’s the problem? The newspaper headlines?”

“Them too,” his friend nodded. “But mostly, Iolai is simply trying to drag that part of the aristocracy into your conflict, including the military, who will see your union with Tess as a breach in Shamtur’s defenses.”

“A breach? In Shamtur’s defenses? What nonsense.”

“Nonsense is right,” agreed Boris. “But believe me, this nonsense will inevitably be used against you. Yes, given the Emperor’s favor toward you, they won’t be able to intervene directly in your marriage, but trust me, the Governor-General of Shamtur is going to hate this. His enemies, consisting mainly of the envious, have received a premature New Year’s gift. Not to mention the followers of Tavser.”

“Do you think they’ll try something?”

Boris was silent for a few seconds, then shrugged. “I don’t know, Ard. Honestly… I have no idea. The human supremacists scurrying about the country are unlikely to start anything,” Lord Fahtov stopped at a door with a sign reading “Practice Ground 3.” “And those who possess not only muscles, but real power as well, even if they share Tans Tavser’s ideas... They won’t expose themselves so easily, Ard. But they will make a mess. You can bet on it. And they’ll do it more than once.”

“We haven’t exactly kept the engagement a secret,” Ardan drawled, examining the tarnished brass plate. “Tess visited my family, I visited hers—we’ve been seen together repeatedly.”

“Yes, you were seen together,” Boris agreed. “But until recently, that whole pack hadn’t received the signal to hunt yet. Or do you think Arkady Agrov and his son don’t have a cohort of sycophants?”

“Conspirators?”

“Not conspirators, Ard. Turn off the ‘Cloak’ mode for a second,” Boris rolled his eyes slightly. “Not conspirators—politicians. And if you ask me about the difference, I won’t answer. I don’t know myself. But there probably is one.”

“It’s unlikely that our marriage will lead to a coup,” Ardi scratched the back of his head with the pommel of his staff out of habit.

“Of course it won’t,” Boris clapped him on the shoulder. “It won’t lead to anything at all, except a couple of dung-filled articles in certain newspapers. But those who want to add a few coins to the piggy bank labeled ‘Iolai Agrov’ have just seen not only a way to achieve that, but also a signal—it is permitted.”

Ardan wanted to say something, but then he sniffed the air. Behind them, from the direction of the elevators, a familiar scent was rapidly approaching. It smelled of wet copper and a freshly-extinguished bonfire. Sharp, penetrating and slightly bitter.

It belonged to Lady Polina Erkerovsky, the daughter of the future husband of Tess’ younger sister. As always, she was an icy, aloof beauty who looked like she was dying from boredom in any setting. She looked down on everyone, and seemed to merely tolerate Iolai. Perhaps he tolerated her in turn and they just pretended to be close friends in public.

Or maybe it just seemed that way to Ardan. In matters of high society, he trusted Boris since he understood nothing about it himself, and Boris treated her with caution and a certain degree of... if not hostility, then detachment.

“I hope that you will do your best to ensure that my father’s name is not mentioned alongside yours in the papers, Ard,” the Lady said without greeting or any ceremony, in a tone bordering on a command.

Before Ardan could answer her, Boris leaned forward. “The same father who didn’t teach you that eavesdropping on other people’s conversations is indecent?”

“It’s not your place to lecture me on decency, Boris,” Polina’s gaze brushed over the wedding ring on his finger. “You are, of course, free to choose anyone as your wife, but I don’t think your children will thank you for it.”

Ardan blinked a couple of times, looking at Boris in surprise. He really didn’t understand Polina’s verbal jab, but his friend clearly did.

“At least my marriage is with a woman I love, and not the highest bidder, Polina.”

Polina merely shrugged her narrow shoulders and adjusted her already-perfect hairstyle topped by a decorative, miniature hat. “Love is vastly overrated, Boris. It’s a pity your mother didn’t have time to teach you that.”

Boris’ eyes flared with an unkind light, and he swung his staff over the floor, but Ardi caught him by the elbow in time.

“Don’t provoke me, Polina,” he practically growled.

“You were just trying to do the same,” Polina didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “But as soon as you tasted your own poison, you got riled up? Eternal Angels, I pity Elena. With such a man, you don’t need misfortunes—he’ll bring them to the hearth in his beak himself.”

And without another word, she vanished behind the door of the training ground.

Boris, who was watching his old acquaintance go with a burning gaze, nearly blew smoke out of his nostrils.

“Fool,” he finally exhaled. “She thinks that if she gives Iolai hope and keeps things public, no one else will dare to woo her. And he puffs up because a noble beauty has ‘chosen him.’ He doesn’t miss an opportunity to get on the newspaper covers with her. Everyone can see it.”

Ardan raised both eyebrows slightly. He’d already guessed that Polina and Iolai were connected by bonds that were not entirely transparent, but he hadn’t suspected that they were motivated by such... twisted mutual benefit.

However, one could understand Polina’s reasoning. Especially when you considered how marital relations were forged in the aristocratic circles.

“But she can’t hide like that forever,” Ardan said aloud for some reason.

“She doesn’t need to,” Boris waved his hand. “She’ll drag it out until the end of her time at the Grand, and then, considering that she’ll be graduating from the Military Faculty, she’ll be obligated to serve in the army for three years. And if Parliament passes that new law, it’ll be seven. She’s studying at the Crown’s expense, after all. And honestly, there aren’t many who would dare or even want to woo an Imperial War Mage of thirty years.”

Ardan’s eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline. He had briefly wondered at the beginning of the year how a girl like Polina Erkerovsky had ended up in the Military Faculty. But he’d never imagined that she was studying on the Crown’s kso! This meant that she had passed the grueling exam for a full scholarship all on her own.

“And Iolai, he...” Ardi fell silent, leaving the question unspoken but clear.

“He’s an idiot,” Boris smiled a crooked, poisonous smile. “A blind fool. If he were more attentive, he would have realized long ago that he won’t get to pluck a flower in that field. Forgive the euphemism. Polina set everything up perfectly. She is smart. You can’t deny that.”

Ardan frowned. “I don’t really understand, Boris.”

“What’s not to understand, Ard,” Boris gradually calmed down, his posture relaxing. “Polina hasn’t been very interested in boys since childhood... but that is not something self-respecting gentlemen should discuss. And class is about to start. Let’s hurry.”

Boris was clearly trying to hide his anxiety. About what? Given how he’d reacted to Polina’s jab about his children, it was likely that. Not to mention everything he had told Ardan in the middle of summer regarding his stepmother and father.

Apparently, Boris wasn’t the only one who had come to logical conclusions about what had happened at Little Viroeira. And if one applied everything his friend had said about Iolai, didn’t it seem like Boris himself was in exactly the same situation? Anyone wishing to gain the favor of the wife of Duke-General Fahtov knew exactly how they should act.

Politics...

Milar had been thrice right. As had Cassara.

Beyond the door, a short, branching corridor awaited the two friends. On one side was the women’s changing room, and on the other, the men’s. This academic year, Ardan had come prepared: instead of sweating in everyday clothes, he had purchased the training uniform.

It consisted of light linen pants, a striped vest, and something akin to a uniform tunic. It had a double row of buttons and did not restrict his movements, but still covered his arms and fell below his waist, preserving his modesty. The clothes were of a very loose cut, concealing one’s figure completely, and were perfectly suited for both sexes.

For footwear, they used short military boots with heavy soles. Ardan preferred to practice war magic barefoot (something Edward had frequently mocked him for, may the Eternal Angels accept him), but in this case, he had to silently follow the rules.

As Guta had used to say: don’t crawl into a strange brushwood pile with your own rules.

After they got done changing, he and Boris walked out onto the training ground.

It was relatively spacious, but still far smaller than the main training ground of the Grand and, of course, exponentially smaller than the “Aversky Stables.” However, eight students and Colonel Kshtovsky fit quite comfortably into this room flooded with the shimmering blue radiance of Ley-lamps.

The colonel was a Senior Magister of War Magic. He was about forty, of average height and average build, with an absolutely unremarkable, round face, a small bald spot at the top of his head, clean-shaven, and he possessed a languid gait. Usually, he wore a casual three-piece suit, but for classes, he donned a fencer’s uniform: gray linen pants, high boots, a shirt, and a quilted jacket on top.

In general, he seemed fairly unassuming. His epaulettes were what set him apart. Kshtovsky’s Stars boasted a considerable number of rays: seven, nine, eight, six, and eight again.

He wielded a very ordinary staff—wood with veins of Ertalain. Basic military seals of one and two Stars glimmered on its surface. It was likely a practice weapon.

“Since we are all assembled now,” Kshtovsky began without greeting them or any particular cordiality, “we will proceed without delay. As you recall, I asked you to work on the penetrating type of spell with a false external contour during your summer vacation.”

The other students, including Boris, tapped their staves on the floor. Ardan assumed that this was the equivalent of raising a hand or verbally confirming something in this class.

Incidentally, Ardan did not know the other three students by name. All three were guys from the Military Faculty who usually stayed away from Iolai and his group. Surprisingly, his loyal “barons” hadn’t joined their “leader” in Kshtovsky’s elite class.

Ardan was late with his staff tap, so he mentally reviewed the list of seals that fell into the type Kshtovsky had mentioned. There was a countless variety of them, naturally, but Edward had always preferred the element of air for such exercises.

His favorite example was a cloud of colorless gas containing a thermal parameter. To a mage, it looked like a Spark was flying at them, but in reality, if one raised a simple elemental shield, they would immediately suffocate from the gas that would pass calmly through their defenses.

And how could one understand that something invisible was trying to send them to meet their ancestors? Without the ability to read someone else’s seal at the formation stage… they couldn’t. That was why the best military mages trained for six years at the Grand, followed by many years of relentless practice on military training grounds.

“Mr. Egobar,” the colonel’s voice tore Ardi from his musings. “If you plan to keep showing such blatant disdain for military magic, we are going to have a problem.”

Blinking, Ardi realized that the other students had already stepped over the border of the platform and were ready for practice. In his defense, he could have said that he had fallen out of practice with this type of “lecture,” but he decided to remain silent.

Stepping over the steel pipe that hid the platform’s external wiring, Ardan felt, as he always did, the momentary touch of a complex spell. It was amazing that Edward had created this masterpiece almost “in passing...”

“As usual, we will begin with a demonstration,” the colonel paid no further attention to Ardi, for which the young man was unspeakably grateful. He intended to spend a quiet, calm year within the walls of the Grand. He’d had enough adventures outside the university.

“Any volunteers?” Kshtovsky swept a piercing gaze over his class.

Staves tapped. All except one. No, Ardan wasn’t pondering magic again; he was simply lazy. It was hard to count how many hundreds of hours he had spent on such drills, and he’d hoped that he had left them in the past. Edward had basically used all of the tricks one could employ with hidden spells on him. It had been a great demonstration of why he’d needed to learn how to read a foe’s seals and rewrite his own without being distracted by external manifestations of magic.

“Lady Eveless,” Kshtovsky called on her first.

The beautiful elf, in whose violet eyes without irises (or without whites, depending on how you perceived them) one could see boredom that was somehow miraculously mixed with excitement, stepped forward.

Sleeping Spirits, Elena was right—Eveless looked incomparably good even in training clothes.

“Mr. Egobar,” the colonel suddenly turned to Ardan. “Since you are here for the first time, demonstrate your skills.”

“He already demonstrated them against Iolai,” Boris chuckled as he said this loudly, not even trying to whisper.

“Mr. Fahtov, twenty push-ups.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Kshtovsky.”

Boris, who’d seemingly known the price of his remark in advance, set aside his staff, got into position with some difficulty, and then, much more easily, began to execute the order.

Meanwhile, Eveless passed by the chuckling Boris and stood before Ardan. She was a bit more than a head shorter than him, with an open grimoire in her hand and... epaulettes denoting two Stars. Sleeping Spirits! Had the entire first year decided to ignite their second Star way ahead of the schedule that the Grand would recommend?!

Eveless couldn’t exactly boast an overwhelming number of rays—five in her Red Star and six in her Green Star—but even that was an incredible achievement.

“If anyone else decides to ignite a second Star before the end of this academic year, know that I will be happy for the country, but...” The colonel, as if voicing Ardan’s own thoughts, paused significantly.

Given that half his group now had two Stars and half of them had one, it wouldn’t be too difficult to compose a lesson plan. But if the division became uneven, Kshtovsky’s headache would be incurable.

“Time to cast lots. Lady Eveless, choose.”

Kshtovsky pulled a small pouch from his pocket. Judging by the sound it made, it was filled with stones. Eveless dipped a slender hand inside and pulled out a red stone.

“You will attack first,” Kshtovsky nodded. “Mr. Egobar, you are defending. I will deactivate the external protective seals, so try not to cripple each other. It is unlikely that anyone wants to spend the first days of classes in the infirmary... You may not use more than four Red rays.”

They took up their positions, and Ardan prepared. He opened his grimoire to a page with one of the basic healing spells. He knew several by heart, of course, but as Edward had used to say, memory had a strictly inverse correlation with the volume of a wounded mage’s screaming.

Tina, wasting no time, swept her gaze over the page of her own grimoire and struck the ground with her staff. Her staff, which had been made from expensive Ertalain alloy (more suitable for a Senior Magister than a student), barely touched the floor before a dark lilac seal flared beneath the elf’s feet.

What happened next...

Ardan managed to read his opponent’s seal without much difficulty. Eveless was casting a Stone Dagger spell, a modification of the Stone Fist. It was a simple combat spell of four Red rays, inside whose external stone contour a steel needle was hidden—thus, if a mage countered with a shield calculated for a large area of attack and a lower density, they received an unplanned hole in their body. He’d intended to set up a simple shield in response.

But the moment he saw the seal, his mind and body reacted faster than he could even comprehend.

What Edward had demanded of him for so long now played a cruel joke on Ardan. The Grand Magister had required him not to think during a magical duel, but to trust hundreds of hours of past practice. And in Ardan’s case, this practice had only been sharpened and made more instinctive by the constant attempts of the Puppeteers’ mages to end his life.

Ardan was simply used to magical duels meaning an immediate risk of death. And after returning from the Dancing Peninsula, while preparing for his Magical Boxing matches, he had doused the “Tony” dolls with his best creations for days on end.

Ardan, like a hapless bystander, watched in shock as an Ice Cage—a variant of Ice Wall—sprang up around Eveless even before she finished forming her seal.

And following that, literally in the same instant, a second seal formed an Ice Artillery shell, which hurtled toward the stunned, clearly frightened and confused Eveless.

If not for Kshtovsky, she would have been turned into a bloody mess.

Luckily, Ardan’s spell dissipated in a watery haze. The colonel destroyed it as easily as he would swat a mosquito.

“Egobar!” Kshtovsky roared. “Are you mocking me or do you have hearing problems?!”

But Ardan, ironically enough, wasn’t listening to the colonel. He was feverishly trying to form a new seal, only... only he had never tried to save anyone from hisownmagic before.

“Colonel!” Boris was the first to spot the problem.

Kshtovsky struck the floor with his staff and the Ice Cage melted... a few seconds too late.

The Ice Artillery had been a distraction, while the main threat had actually lain in the modification that Ardan had spent weeks of his life practicing—one that had cost him two rays from his Green Star and three rays from his Red Star to cast.

Tina Eveless lay on the floor in a pool of her own blood after being impaled by dozens of ice spikes that had erupted, after a delay, from the walls of the cage.