Matabar

Book II. Chapter 53 - Bruised Ego

Ardan had no clear recollection of how he had come to be in the dean’s office. He suddenly found himself in the same cramped office from last time, seated across from Stefan Dittmar—the new Dean of the General Faculty—who was lazily smoking a cheap cigar.

Dittmar opened the small window, sweeping the acrid smoke away with one hand. All the while, he kept his thoughtful gaze fixed on Ardi.

Ardan couldn’t quiet the frantic hammering of his heart. His thoughts spiraled, consumed entirely by how he might counter Dittmar’s magic, as if the dean were poised to strike him down at any moment.

It was an absurd notion, but his instincts didn’t care.

“Might I suggest that you release your staff?” The dean asked suddenly.

The moment Ardan heard that suggestion, his instincts screamed at him to do the exact opposite—to raise his weapon and cast the most lethal spell in his arsenal.

He almost moved faster than his mind could comprehend the sheer idiocy of this impulse.

But Dittmar, of course, was faster. The dean merely brushed his fingers against his own staff, which was leaning casually against the cabinet, and in an instant, chains of mist entangled Ard.

They appeared to be weightless, mere gossamer wisps of vapor, yet they pressed down upon him with a heaviness that mocked the strength of mere iron.

“Haven’t seen one of these in a long time,” the dean whispered. He moved to the cabinet and retrieved a worn grimoire.

He thumbed through the pages while Ardan’s eyes darted wildly around the room, seeking some avenue of escape. With a satisfied smile and a murmured, “Found it!” Dittmar formed a second seal.

It was complex, a multi-layered construct of geometry and light that Ardan would have needed days to unravel.

A haze erupted from the tip of the Dean’s staff, thick and roiling, reminiscent of frothy milk. It enveloped Ardan, seeping into his every pore, and then receded... taking the chains with it.

The young man slumped into the armchair, his heart, which had been galloping like a frightened stallion, finally slowing its frantic rhythm.

Only then did he release his staff, his fingers white and numb as they uncoiled from it. Slowly, the memory of what had recently transpired began to return to him.

After Eveless had been wounded, his eyes had closed of their own accord—due to Kshtovsky’s spell, undoubtedly—and they had not opened again until he’d found himself here.

Sleeping Spirits! Eveless...

“What...” Ardan attempted to spring to his feet, but his legs betrayed him, and he collapsed back into the chair as if he were a marionette that had had its strings cut.

“What happened to Lady Eveless?” Dittmar returned the grimoire to the cabinet, moving back to his seat to rest his chin on a pudgy wrist, looking thoroughly bored. “She’ll be fine. Colonel Kshtovsky provided first aid, and the healers did the rest. She’ll be discharged from the infirmary by tomorrow morning.”

Ardan exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and covered his face with his hand. Damn it... Ahgrat!

He had always suspected that his nerves were far from steel, but to react like this...

“Wondering why it happened?” Dittmar asked, answering his own question before Ardan could speak. “Drop it, Corporal. You’ve never had a chance to avoid a trap laid by someone else’s wounded vanity.”

Ardan slowly lowered his hand, looking at the bored, portly man who was trying to hide a growing double chin. He was seeing the new dean in an entirely new light.

Ardi opened his mouth to speak, but a commotion from the corridor silenced him.

“You can’t go in there!”

“I can do anything I want, my dear lady!” a familiar voice shouted.

The door was nearly torn from its hinges as a disheveled Bazhen Eorsky burst into the room. He smelled like a cocktail of “yesterday’s party” and a woman’s bed. Adjusting a tie that had clearly been knotted while running, he blurted out:

“According to Article 44, paragraphs 4, 5, and 7, any incidents...”

“Mr. Eorsky, please take a seat,” Dittmar smiled cordially, gesturing for his secretary, Erdova, to return to her duties.

“...that happen on the training grounds of the Imperial Magical University and were initiated with the sanction of the teaching staff...”

“Bazhen, close the door behind you,” the dean said, his voice dropping a fraction, becoming colder and rougher. But the young man was beyond hearing him.

“...are treated as exceptional circumstances and cannot be reviewed by either a civil court or a military tribunal as grounds for any sanctions regarding the participants of the aforementioned incident...”

Dittmar touched his staff. A seal flashed beneath his feet, and a heartbeat later, the door slammed shut behind Bazhen. The heavy wood struck the future lawyer in the back, propelling him into the vacant chair.

A second later, iridescent ripples shimmered along the walls. A privacy ward…

“Corporal!” Dittmar barked, his tone shedding all pretense of academia. “Shut your mouth and sit down!”

Accompanying the command, the dean pulled a distinct black leather document holder out of his pocket.

It was easily recognizable because both Ardan and Bazhen, who also held the rank of Corporal, possessed such papers as well.

The biggest difference was the rank. Bazhen paled, swallowed hard, and took the identification. He opened it and read aloud:

“Major Stefan Dittmar,” Bazhen said slowly, enunciating every syllable.

Considering the fact that he didn’t add “Operative” or “Investigator” to that, Ardi didn’t even need to look to know what was there.

An emblem in the shape of a dagger.

Of course... naturally. The Empire had nearly missed a Puppeteers pawn operating in the very heart of the forge that produced the country’s—and the world’s—best Star Mages. Something told Ardan that the previous dean hadn’t abruptly departed for an expedition with Mart Borskov entirely of her own free will.

Senior Magister Paarlax had died some time ago, relatively speaking, but Eisa Pimenova had left only recently.

Could the Second Chancery really turn a blind eye to the incident and not insure themselves against the possibility that the Puppeteers’ interest extended beyond Lea Morimer?

Absolutely not. No one knew how deep the rot had spread, after all.

The Black House had thus needed its own man on the inside, preferably in a high administrative position. He would watch over things and try to clean up the mess that had been allowed to fester over the years.

Ardan looked up at Stefan Dittmar. For some reason, the young man was certain that the major was intimately familiar with Ard’s biography. The Larand Monastery, Lea Morimer, the Puppeteers—all of it.

“Will someone be backing us up?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

Naturally, Milar’s department wasn’t the only one dealing with the Puppeteers, and Dittmar was living proof of that.

But, as Milar and the Colonel had said repeatedly—that was the job.

“Now that everyone has calmed down, gentlemen Corporals,” Dittmar took back his identification and returned it to the inner pocket of his jacket. “We need to make a plan about what we’ll do with this joyous event.”

“What is there to even do?” Bazhen recovered quickly, spreading himself comfortably over the chair. “Even if Ard had sent that elf to her Sleeping Spirits, legally, there is nothing they can do to him.”

Dittmar turned to Ard.

“Did Colonel Kshtovsky warn you, Mr. Egobar, that you were only permitted to defend yourself, and only within the limits of a specific number of rays?”

“Yes,” Ard managed to squeeze out through a groan.

Bazhen cursed and massaged his temples.

“Alright, that complicates things,” the law student hissed. “It complicates things severely, but I’ll come up with something and-”

“You will do nothing, Corporal,” Dittmar interrupted him.

“But then-”

“Ard will be punished,” the dean nodded. “For violating direct instructions during a high-risk exercise, which resulted in a threat to the health of a fellow student.”

Bazhen swore again.

“You brainless cowboy...” Bazhen exhaled. “I understand that you have a whole nest of vipers in your year, but couldn’t you have curbed your... your... vindictiveness? Destroying buildings wasn’t enough, so you’ve taken up maiming people now as well?”

Ardan, who was still feeling a strange emptiness in his head, couldn’t catch the surprisingly slippery thought required to formulate an answer. It was as if, instead of words, only a ridiculous moo was resting on the tip of his tongue. Which was exactly how he answered Bazhen.

The law student, taken aback, looked in bewilderment from Ard to Dittmar and back.

“Colonel Kshtovsky was apparently deeply offended by the fact that his protégé, Great Prince Iolai Agrov, fell on his ass—quite literally—in front of Mr. Egobar three months ago,” Dittmar extinguished his cigar. He retrieved a carafe of water from the desk and poured three glasses.

“The Colonel used a spell on Mr. Egobar that was occasionally employed on the Fatian front. It was used on the military mage recruits to prevent them from getting distracted during combat. It helps one focus on their instincts for self-preservation and survival. It suppresses fear, extraneous thoughts and emotions.”

“Never heard of it,” Bazhen shook his head.

“Because they stopped using it, Mr. Eorsky, when you were still about knee high,” the dean—the Dagger—replied calmly. “The spell, while active, severely impairs one’s intellectual capabilities. And after the effect wears off, it can drive a person to a nervous breakdown because the body has just produced enough adrenaline to make four men jittery for a month.”

“And in the case of a Matabar...” Dittmar glanced sideways at Ardan. “It was apparently more like a dozen.”

Ardi moaned something again.

“I don’t really see the difference between this and the nonsense the cowboy usually spouts, but... Mr. Dittmar,” Bazhen poked a finger worriedly into Ardi’s shoulder. “Will he be like this for long?”

Dittmar shrugged and, looking into Ardan’s eyes, asked curtly:

“Do you understand us?”

Ardan nodded.

“Then it won’t take very long,” Dittmar concluded, not without a hint of relief. “He’ll come around in a couple of hours.”

Bazhen nodded and leaned back in his chair.

“So, Colonel Kshtovsky set Ard up? He set up a Corporal of the Second Chancery? Is he immortal? Did he make himself a lich’s phylactery?”

“For the sake of operational security, Mr. Eorsky… Kshtovsky, just like the other professors, does not know about our,” Dittmar swept a gaze over the two of them, “employment. And it must remain that way.”

Bazhen sighed and threw up his hands.

“So what now?” was all he asked.

“Nothing,” Dittmar replied in that same tone. “Colonel Kshtovsky will go on to believe that he has fully settled the score with Egobar and achieved his goal.”

With that, Dittmar laid out several decrees on thick paper adorned with the university’s crest.

“I assume, considering how quickly Vice-Dean Alirov delivered these to me, that the papers were prepared in advance.”

Bazhen leaned forward. “May I see them?”

“Go right ahead,” Dittmar pushed the documents across the table toward the law student.

“Right, what do we have here,” frowning, Bazhen scanned the text. “...due to violating direct instructions, by the will of the Council of Professors, according to paragraph... damn it, you can’t undermine this... Ard Egobar, a second-year student of the General Faculty’s second group, is hereby suspended from General Physical and Military Training classes for a period of four months.”

“Four months?!” Bazhen shouted in outrage. “That’ll last right up until the winter break! How can he pass the midterm without practice? This is the second year, not the first! You can’t get far on self-education alone.”

Ardan said something that was, in his opinion, fiery and defiant, but he impressed no one with his incoherent moaning.

“The practical military exams in the second year aren’t just standard drills like in the first, Ard,” Bazhen had apparently understood the gist of his various noises. “It’s more complicated... and without the necessary preparation, you could fail.”

“Alright, and what’s in this second document... So... Based on the attached document, which was signed by the Rector, you’ve also been assigned a disciplinary action to the tune of 186 hours of community service...”

By the end of that sentence, Bazhen was speaking quieter and quieter, until he fell silent altogether, after which he exploded.

“This is a classic setup, Major! It’s all very high quality and clearly thought out in advance! Clear collusion! I am sure that Agrov-”

“Great Prince Agrov,” Dittmar corrected him firmly.

“Even if he’s His Grace thrice over,” the future lawyer dismissed. “Alirov and Kshtovsky planned this beforehand!”

“Most likely,” Dittmar did not argue the point.

“And the Black House is just going to let this slide?!”

“There is no Black House in this story, Mr. Eorsky,” Dittmar took a sip of water and poured himself a little more. “And I will once again point out that the Black House should not appear here. And why should it? This trio with inflated egos believes that they have settled the score with our troublesome Corporal. Let them revel in their petty victory. It’s less of a headache for us.”

Ardan, who understood everything being said but had no ability to articulate his thoughts, merely nodded and moaned in Bazhen’s direction. Dittmar was right.

If Iolai and Colonel Kshtovsky were satisfied with threatening Ard’s scholarship, then so be it.

And as for those hours of community service… While that was certainly an unpleasant complication, he would come up with something.

The main thing was that he was no longer weighed down by the guilt of having harmed Eveless.

True, she’d made no secret of how much she disliked him, and last year, they had sent each other to the infirmary more than once during practical exercises, but the nature of their conflict differed from the one with Iolai.

Eveless did not plot behind his back; she always struck at him in the open.

If they had met on equal terms, Ardan would have been calm even if the elf had ended up in the infirmary, but like this...

“It’s rotten that Kshtovsky can’t even be held accountable for allowing this to happen,” Bazhen drummed his fingers on his chin. “Because Ard violated a direct instruction, Kshtovsky is almost squeaky clean before the letter of the law. He’ll get off with a reprimand and a small fine for allowing an injury... Eternal Angels... Can we prove he enchanted Ard?”

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“Of course we can,” Dittmar nodded. “Only, as I have already said, we are not going to do that. Because in this office, there is not a single employee of the Second Chancery. Only a dean who is dissatisfied with his erratic student and his friend from the Jurisprudence Faculty who is trying to outmaneuver the law in favor of said friend. And, of course, the culprit himself. Is that understood?”

Major Dittmar’s dark eyes flashed with a light so piercing that only someone with a completely absent sense of self-preservation could’ve failed to understand the hint.

“Understood,” Bazhen wheezed, clearly without much pleasure.

“And you, Mr. Eorsky, right here and now, will give your word as an officer that you will not seek retribution against the aforementioned gentlemen.”

Bazhen moaned something inarticulate. It sounded as if he, not Ard, had been cursed with mental magic that lay somewhere on the border between the permitted and forbidden branches of Star Magic.

“Corporal!”

“You have my word, Mr. Dagger, you have it... And I’m once again convinced that I am wasting my time in this hole.”

“You are paid handsomely for it, Mr. Eorsky.”

“That is my only salvation, Major,” Bazhen spread his hands out. “That, and the fact that the women here have slightly looser morals than in the country as a whole, but those are just details.”

“Precisely,” Dittmar agreed, adding, “Details that do not interest me. As for the community service, I managed to seize the initiative there,” the Dagger turned to Ardan. “Let’s just say, Mr. Egobar, that the cover story is good, it’s useful for you, and the Colonel gets to plug a small leak. But these specific instructions,” Dittmar glanced at Bazhen, who raised his hands in surrender, “you will receive later. For now... Yes, it seems like he is already here.”

Barely a moment passed before there was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Dittmar called out and dispelled his privacy ward.

A smiling Professor an Manish, looking as pleased as a well-fed cat, appeared at the door.

As always, he was wearing loose, shimmering robes of an Al-Zafir cut and looking slightly out of place in the Metropolis. And yet, given his appearance, the heavy caftan worn over business trousers looked more colorful than ridiculous on Talis an Manish.

“Oh, how glad I am, esteemed sir with the rough surname but sweet heart, that you turned specifically to me,” an Manish shook Dittmar’s hand with such zeal that it seemed like he was checking the structural integrity of his shoulder joint. “Naturally, without fail, I will ensure that the ceiling-scraper known among the people as Ard Egobar suffers and weeps for the duration of his three hundred-”

“One hundred and eighty-six,” Dittmar interrupted in a gray, dry voice.

“Naturally, oh my affectionate and all-understanding friend, I will oversee those two hundred-”

“One. Hundred. Eighty. Six,” Dittmar interrupted him again, pausing after each word, and drilling the professor with a gaze far removed from softness.

Talis an Manish sighed sadly and shook his head.

“If your hearing matched your perceptiveness, Senior Magister Dittmar, you would be able to hear the deep sorrow cracking my aged heart.”

“My sympathies,” Dittmar replied without a hint of the actual emotion.

Talis ignored this in his habitual manner—simultaneously gracious and far from welcoming—and turned to Ard.

He grabbed his hand and shook it with no less enthusiasm.

“You see, my dear friend whose gaze pierces hundreds of learned books and thousands of clouds, how everything falls into place. If you won’t be in my research group, then you get to do some commercial work instead.” The professor looked at Ardan with the expression of a man who had just realized that he had accidentally dug up a treasure chest. “Perhaps you will not be upset if I offer you compensation in the realm of, say... two exes and fifteen kso per hour.” He winked at Ardan.

“Professor an Manish, I wish to remind you,” Dittmar crossed his arms over his chest and frowned deeply, “that this is community service, which means that student Egobar cannot receive compensation.”

“Which, oh guardian of the letter of the law,” the professor turned to the desk and flashed him a snow-white, perfectly even, victorious smile, “is calculated using a formula that is dependent on the number of rays and Stars one has. And considering my one-time contract with the future luminary of Star Magic scraping the heavenly azure, his one-time compensation cannot exceed four hundred exes in three months. I am offering him sixty-two hours each month at two exes and fifteen kso per hour. Shall I provide you, oh great keeper of order, with an arithmometer, or will you calculate it yourself?”

Ardan tried his best to pretend like he wasn’t present in the office. Professor an Manish, who was usually soft—if entirely immodest—but good-natured and welcoming, could, when necessary, exude venom no less potent than that of Professor Kovertsky’s beloved chimeras. Only in this case, he didn’t even know how accurately his sarcasm had landed.

While clearly mocking Dittmar’s attempt to maintain the spirit of the rectorate’s decree, Talis an Manish did not know that the man he was talking to was actually a guardian of the law. And that he belonged to that group of them who answered directly to the Emperor’s left hand.

Bazhen turned away, clearly hiding a stupid grin.

“Well,” the Dagger spread his hands out. “I suppose there is nothing I can do about it.”

“In that case, would you be so kind, oh wisest among us,” Professor an Manish, despite his rather portly figure, executed a bow that was smoother and more elegant than many slender young girls could manage, “as to allow me to take this compatriot of celestial wanderers with me? I don’t want to lose any time and show him his humble working abode for the next three months right away.”

“Certainly,” Dittmar nodded and handed Ardi an envelope. “These are your instructions, Ard.”

It was clear that the papers within the envelope were connected not to the university, but to what the Colonel wanted him to extract from the situation.

Ardan, swaying and moaning something, rose on legs that felt like cotton and, using an arm as limp as a rope, he took the envelope.

“And what is wrong with-”

“It’s the Seal of the Relaxed Mind,” Dittmar interrupted the professor, gesturing toward the door. “Student Egobar was extremely agitated by the incident. I had to help him a little. It will pass in a couple of hours. And now, if you have no further questions for me, Professor, then please...”

“Yes, yes, oh most busy colleague,” an Manish bowed again. “I dare not soil the gaze of your clever eyes or occupy the thoughts of your clear mind any longer.”

Casting a quick glance at Bazhen Eorsky, the professor opened the door for Ardan and offered him his shoulder.

This was something that Ardi was exceedingly grateful for, as he doubted that he could’ve stayed upright on his staff alone.

He somehow managed to stow the envelope in his satchel. In truth, he didn’t need to open the Colonel’s message to know what the man wanted him to find out.

Last autumn, when Arkar had hired Ardan to help with the situation at Baliero, the shield guarding the house that had contained the demon and the artifact from Makingia had been erected and maintained by none other than Professor Talis an Manish’s company.

He hadn’t actively worked there for a long time, of course, but as one of its founders, he held a significantly large number of its shares and sat on its board of directors.

Supposedly, Andrew had received a copy of the shield’s schematic from the Mages’ Guild, which... would have been entirely plausible were it not for a few “buts.”

First: why had the copy been damaged? The Guild, despite all its problems, treated its archive with nearly the same reverence that the university showed its famous library.

But far more importantly… there was the “Heron.” The fake Anvar Riglanov, who had actually been the Sidhe of the Burning Dawn, could certainly understand Star Magic... at the level it had reached five centuries ago. That was when the false Anvar had been imprisoned in the City on the Hill.

It was hard to believe that he had become familiar with all the advances in Star Magic in just a few months, which included not only the modern seals themselves, but also, at the very least, Ley-generators. And that wasn’t even mentioning the complex artifacts like the goggles he’d used, and so on.

It was far more likely that the Puppeteers had provided all the necessary tools through an intermediary, like a company…

Admittedly, it was far from certain that all these threads led specifically to Professor an Manish’s company, but an investigation was still warranted.

And that was why the Colonel wanted to get as many benefits as possible from the situation.

Ardan didn’t really mind. He was even “for” it.

Getting paid four hundred exes minus ten kso for three months of work at one of the best shield design companies in the capital? And only fifteen and a half hours of work a week, at that? Frankly, he wouldn’t have been upset even if an Manish hadn’t paid him a single kso.

“Indeed, oh wanderer of avian paths, you really stirred things up,” an Manish helped Ardi cross the atrium, which, at this late hour, was fairly empty, save for the ever-vigilant gargoyles who were still watching over the marble expanses entrusted to them.

“I will not pester you with questions of what happened and why. The affairs of the Firstborn are not always understandable to me due to my humble origins in the hot desert sands. But what is clear to me is that you, Ard, will surely not deny me the pleasure of sharing a bowl of Kargaam amber tea with cherry blossoms with you.”

Ardan raised both eyebrows. They did not leave through the main entrance, but used a nondescript door near the information desk instead, then walked through a narrow corridor, eventually finding themselves in a spacious parking lot hidden behind a low arch that connected the main building with the annex.

Ardan’s eyebrows climbed even higher. He hadn’t previously considered that the university professors were, for the most part, Senior Magisters (a few were even Grand Magisters, teaching only senior courses and select groups), and that teaching was far from their only source of income.

For a second, it seemed to him like he was back in Baliero. Here, among the dozens of parked automobiles, there was no room for even a single “Derks.”

Sleeping Spirits! Even the cheapest cars parked here were still solidly average in terms of price and reliability.

The entire space was full of long, chrome-plated, fashionable automobiles featuring elegant wooden “fenders,” leather convertible tops, or monolithic roofs.

Someone else might’ve discerned more nuances, but he knew little about cars. They weren’t horses. Ardan understood horses.

“Let’s go, Ard,” the professor, still supporting Ardan with his shoulder, led him to an automobile that looked like the one Ms. Atura—servant, assistant and friend of the current Empress Consort—had been in when she’d picked him up from the station a year ago.

It wasn’t exactly identical, but definitely similar. This one had a higher roof, and the body was longer and more elegant, with a row of exhaust pipes located not under the hood, but running along it and pointing upward.

This marvel of the “Orlas” company could cost upwards of thirty-two hundred exes per unit. And the cost was justified, since it could reach speeds of up to eighty kilometers per hour, and the engine boasted nearly forty horsepower.

How did Ardi know all this? Boris wanted to buy one but complained all the time that his order would be “waiting in line” for another year and a half.

“Mr. an Manish,” a chauffeur in a strict black suit vaguely reminiscent of a uniform stepped out of the car.

He took the professor’s and Ard’s staves in his hands that were covered with white gloves, then opened the door for them and helped them climb inside.

The interior... the interior looked as luxurious as any upper-class dining room. Spacious and elegant, it had soft seats neatly stitched and upholstered in calfskin dyed scarlet. It also had lacquered insets and, surprisingly, a stand for bottles and goblets.

“To the company, please, my dear master of mechanical beasts,” an Manish requested politely in his own unique way.

“Of course, Mr. an Manish.” The driver turned the ignition key—the engine, unlike the engine of a “Derks,” did not cough like an old man with consumption but purred like a gentle kitten—and smoothly guided the behemoth toward the exit of the faculty parking lot.

“Perhaps we shall drink to our collaboration—short-term though it may be, yet dear to my heart—and to how loudly the teeth of my faithful friend, Eric Convel, will grind when he hears the news,” the professor poured them some dark Kargaam tea into bowls and took the first sip.

He and Professor Convel had indeed been friends for many years, quietly competing for the most promising students. Everyone who studied under them knew this.

“So, Ard, as you might recall, we once had a very pleasant conversation on the subject of Star Magic lockpicks and a certain shield on Fifth Street in Baliero, and now it has become known to me that a certain Misty Helper seal has appeared on the market, significantly simplifying the testing of even the most burdened of shield spells.”

An Manish’s eyes shone with a not-entirely-healthy excitement, and Ardan stared at his reflection in the surface of the dark drink.

Perhaps he would have preferred the comfort of his laboratory in the “stables” to the professor’s piercing gaze.

“However, my dear Ard, we can postpone this conversation until you can speak again without fearing that you’ll pass for a learned cow. To your health,” an Manish raised his bowl of tea and drained it.

By now, they had already turned off the avenue onto Holy Warriors’ Street, driven past Boris and Elena’s house, and were rolling toward the New City, where an Manish’s company was located...

One cup of tea and ride later

They stopped near a six-story building. It was square, the sort of construction that should have looked like industrial premises usually do.

But instead, Ardan was presented with something that would have fit right into… if not the Central District, then certainly the Old Park District.

Though lacking truly flashy elements, the façade was still decorated with cornices, bay windows, and even some sculptures hiding the facing seams.

“Thank you,” Ardi, rejoicing at the fact that clarity had returned to his mind, thanked the chauffeur and followed the professor out onto the street.

The New City always amazed him with its high-rise buildings, where twelve stories looked quite modest compared to all the giants with rows of windows twenty stories high and more besides, and also with the width of its sidewalks and roadways. The quantity of pedestrians, automobiles, mechanical omnibuses, trams, and everything that walked, rode, shouted, buzzed, and all but boiled with life was also staggering.

“It always seemed to me like you, oh witness to the birth of winds, and this statue… shared a resemblance.”

Talis an Manish, leaning on his staff, was standing near a monument. It was one of many that, spaced a kilometer apart, rose up amid small flowerbeds along Heroes of the Small War Street.

This was where an Manish’s company was located. And not far from the entrance, holding a bared saber in his left hand and a rifle with a fixed bayonet in his right, gazing upon the city was... Ardan’s father.

Hector Egobar.

He had bushy eyebrows, a rough face, and an upper lip hiding—just like Ardi’s—fangs. As a pureblooded Matabar, Hector had been able to control his body far better and could have, if needed, hidden his fangs deeper than Ardi ever could. Why hadn’t he, then…

This really was Hector Egobar... even if the commemorative plaque at the base of the monument displayed something else entirely in steel letters:

“Major Hec Abar. Senior Officer of the Separate Reconnaissance Diversionary Corps of the Third Army, Commander of the Sixth Division, Full Cavalier of the Order of Valor, awarded the Order of Saint George of the Second Class and the White Phoenix Order of the Second and Third Class. A true Hero of the Empire! Honor, dignity, brotherhood!”

When, at the beginning of summer, Boris had passionately declared that a monument should be erected in honor of his mother and Ardan’s father, Ardan had remained silent.

He didn’t know if he could share the information that the legendary (at least in army circles) Hec Abar and Hector Egobar were one and the same.

“Definitely,” an Manish seconded his own thoughts. “There is really a resemblance there... but, by the Sands and Temples, perhaps my vision is failing me! Let us go, my dear Ard, I will show you everything and introduce you to everyone.”

“Yes, Professor, of course,” Ardi tried to pretend like the monument didn’t concern him in the slightest. He’d always known that it was here, on a street whose name was dedicated to the Fatian Massacre, even if they’d used a far nicer term for it. It was such a simple stone statue covered in copper plates in some spots, and yet…

It was dedicated to Hec Abar and ten other heroes of a very small war that had nonetheless exerted incredible influence not only on the western continent, but the entire world.

Looking away, Ardan left the monument behind, and they soon approached the doors.

They were met by two doormen who greeted an Manish with sincere smiles. The professor reciprocated this and even asked about the children of one of them.

Ardan, who was still seeing the monument in his mind’s eye, missed the short exchange. The young man finally came to his senses once they reached the foyer.

He was amazed by how luxurious and elegant it all seemed. The walls were covered in dark wallpaper, but didn’t have framed photos or paintings. No, these walls were adorned with intricate schematics and seal designs so complex they were art.

In the center of the foyer, greeting every visitor, polished metallic letters shone on the wall: “Garilov, Nelgs and an Manish Shielding,” and below was their motto: ”Our shields don’t protect your property, but your peace of mind.”

The rest was the usual fare: cozy sofas for those waiting, a glass table with newspapers of all kinds and, of course, an information desk.

Everything was made of expensive materials—Alcadian larch and marble.

And the carpets, it seemed, were exclusively from the northern provinces of Lan’Duo’Ha—something Ardi only recognized thanks to Boris, yet again.

“My dear Anila, whose eyes are outshined only by the light of her soul,” an Manish leaned down and theatrically pressed his lips to the back of the hand of the young woman who had approached them.

She’d slipped out from behind the counter and fluttered like a swallow over to the professor. “I am glad to see you here, being even more charming than the wildest dreams of my own youth.”

Anila adjusted her thick, black hair and blushed slightly.

“Mr. an Manish, Mr. Nelgs wanted me to tell you that-”

“Business, business, business,” an Manish waved his hand. “I am honorably retired, my dear Anila whose name is more melodic than a song, and so I can only proudly present my student to you. Mr. Ard Egobar will be collaborating with us for the next three months.”

Anila, who was dressed in an outfit that would have been more suitable for the fashionable parties of Baliero than for working as a secretary in a company, took Ardan in with a not very welcoming, but for some reason interested, gaze.

“And now forgive me, Anila, for my young colleague and I are forced to leave the light of your eyes to plunge into the depths of far less pleasant and intriguing profundities,” and then, kissing Anila’s hand again, he walked confidently toward the elevators.

Ardan managed to notice how the other secretaries at the information desk were looking at Anila with great disapproval.

Ardi had always been curious about where an Manish found so many different companions with whom he could attend Tess’ concerts, and now it seemed like he had his answer.

As always, he did not intend to judge anyone.

Everyone was free to make their own choices in life.

The main thing was to remember that one would also have to bear responsibility for them. That was what his forest friends had taught him.

“On the first floor, we have conference rooms and several exhibition halls for demonstrating the most popular solutions,” an Manish listed as they waited for the infernal device already prepared to grind them down with its steel mandibles.

“On the single subterranean level, we have a testing ground, but one can go there only if they are accompanied by one of the senior engineers. Your curator will inform you of this. As for the other floors, except for the last, the sixth, which is administrative, the rest are occupied by workshops. If I am not mistaken, that adds up to…” The doors opened, allowing the professor to ponder and Ardan to gather his courage.

Stepping inside the steel box lined with wooden panels, he felt his undershirt and shirt already sticking to his back with sweat.

“...sixteen research groups. Yes, I believe it’s that many. They all operate under the guidance of magnificent senior engineers, some of whom I, in turn, had the joy of teaching within the walls of the Grand. You, oh wanderer of azure valleys, I will introduce to those who have already managed to work with your Misty Helper.”

Ardan did not ask what Professor an Manish thought of his creation. Had it seemed useless and clumsy to him, he would not have mentioned it several times already.

Together, they exited on the fifth floor and immediately found themselves at a corridor junction.

And, very strikingly, the offices here had no walls. Or rather—they were there, but they were entirely glass.

Framed by wooden slats, they divided the space quite nominally into several zones, each of which was still perfectly visible.

Ardan saw mages in suits, with their staves set aside and their cloaks hung on racks.

Some, with pencils tucked behind their ears, had laid out enormous building blueprints on tables, overlaying them with Ley-wiring diagrams, and were currently calculating the necessary generator voltage. That’s what it looked like, anyway.

Others, who were in groups of three, and sometimes even five, were standing near graphite boards, writing and drafting complex formulas and graphs, and calculating the parameters of industrial shields.

Others were scurrying between desks, gathering papers, and then discussing them with their colleagues on the go. These other people were also walking somewhere, even running there occasionally, and at times rummaging under desks in search of something very important.

Typewriters clattered, the keys of arithmometers clicked, and the air was all but soaked with tobacco smoke and the tart aroma of coffee and tea.

“We initially wanted to save on lighting, but then it turned out that the more transparent the walls, the higher the productivity,” an Manish whispered. “But I can see that you like this, Ard.”

Ardan couldn’t even answer him. For a moment, he lost his ability to speak. Was this what paradise looked like in the religion of the Face of Light?

“Uh-huh,” was all Ardan could mumble.

“Professor!” A man of about thirty-five stepped out of one of the offices, heading toward them.

He was only slightly taller than a dwarf, and yet surprisingly, he had a quite symmetrical build and even, probably, a handsome face.

Ardan didn’t understand male beauty, but he could distinguish a pleasant face from an unpleasant one, at least.

He had his sleeves rolled up, wore suspenders under an unbuttoned vest, and dark lilac trousers.

He was also holding a cigarette behind his left ear and a pencil stub behind his right. In his hands was a rolled-up blueprint.

“Magister Tenev, joy of my memories,” an Manish greeted him heartily.

For the first time ever, Ardi had encountered someone who was even shorter than an Manish. Well, a human male shorter than him, at any rate.

“So it’s thanks to you, young man, that we’ve been in a lather for two months now?!” The Magister exclaimed with great excitement. “The entire capital has been turned upside down! You single-handedly remade the principle of testing finished products, reducing their cost by almost seven percent! This is an achievement, young man! An achievement!”

“Yes... probably...” Ardan was a little lost. He was used to the fact that when it came to Star Magic, all he’d ever heard about himself had been Edward’s endless wailing that he would be better off training horses how to dance than teaching Ardan military magic.

“No need to be modest, young man!” Tenev continued to shake his hand as if he were trying to tear it off. “Professor, may I take this talent with me and bring him up to speed? The sooner we start work, the better!”

“Of course, Magister Tenev. As for you, my dear Ard, I hand you over to these caring hands, and I myself will retire to conduct a far less exciting conversation about exes, other people’s ambitions, and simple human stupidity,” and then the professor, bowing, returned to the elevator.

And Ardi was then swept up by an unstoppable current of industrial Star Magic, which did not release him until that evening.