Matabar

Book II. Chapter 56 - Deal

Chapter 56

The automobile shouldered its way through the sluggish river of traffic that had all but congealed beside the broad, paved sidewalk. Once it finally found a gap in the flow, it darted into it like a spirited bird.

The driver yanked the small lever of the simple mechanism that tallied up the distance traveled.

“That will be eighty-four kso,” the mustached, slightly twitchy, and largely silent driver announced to Ardan.

Nearly choking at the price, the young man counted out the requisite coins—thankfully, he had exact change on him—and dropped them with a sharp clink into the iron box bolted to the doorframe, muttering his thanks for the ride.

Stepping out onto the street, Ardi squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. But this time, he didn’t do so because of the glare of spotlights mounted on high poles, but simply from the sheer weight of the light itself.

This was the district of fashionistas and dandies, of poets and musicians, of painters and sculptors. It was a place that seemed to scream its defiance against the night—against the gray, almost filthy autumn sky of the Metropolis.

The windows of the many tall houses blazed with light, and the glow of dozens of streetlights competed with them. The angry headlights joined them, flashing to show their irritation at the fact that their path was being obstructed not only by their mechanical brethren, but by the teeming throngs of pedestrians drifting toward the Baliero Concert Hall as well.

They moved like a multicolored river: suits and gowns, hats and top hats, polished shoes and boots alike. There were canes and wide hems, cocktail dresses and severe military uniforms. It was a motley, chaotic procession, a rising tide heading toward the star that had come to life in the middle of the street.

Ardan had seen the building before, back when it had been purchased from the city by Arthur “the Dandy” Belsky. But now, stripped of its scaffolding, freed from its safety nets, and scrubbed clean of the grime and debris of construction, it revealed an entirely new guise to him.

It was not merely airy or light. It was as if some stroke of human genius had dared to reach up and steal the loveliest, fluffiest cloud from a high summer sky.

They’d stolen it, dragged it down to earth, and clad it here in robes of stone so that the celestial wanderer might never return to the heavens.

Built of glass and stone, it boasted arched stained-glass windows that outshone the rest of the street combined. They loomed over an endless balcony where crowds of young people drank sparkling wine, waving their hands and their glasses in greeting to the throngs of guests below, who returned the gesture with equal fervor.

And above their carefree and merry heads, an arched pediment extended its hand, adorned with a copper bas-relief depicting musical instruments and the musicians themselves.

Two symmetrical acroteria stood opposite one another, shaped to look like the Muses from the era of the Old Gods. They were holding mirrors above their lovely heads that reflected their own divine visages.

The cornice seemed to be entangled in a bas-relief that looked like musical notes and flowed smoothly around the building, winding along bay windows, domes, and the multitude of panes that occupied the greater part of the load-bearing walls.

Even the pilasters, tasked with holding up the weight of what appeared to be an utterly weightless construction, weren’t merely columns, but something far more elegant and less obtrusive than what stone usually allowed.

If one looked closely, the acanthus leaves crowning them appeared to be leafy canopies, creating the illusion of marble trees sprouting from the very walls.

But all of this paled in comparison to the light that poured in from the roof—dense, almost tangible light that draped itself like a veil over half the street, almost reaching the intersection and the square beyond.

The building shone not only from the outside, but from within as well.

Ardi absently reached up to adjust his hat, which had surely gone askew after he had been craning his head in every direction, but... his fingers grasped only empty air.

Ah, yes...

He still hadn’t gotten used to that.

Trying to bar the heavy thoughts from his mind, Ardan skirted the general queue at the entrance. He went around to the other side of the building, which abutted a narrow, technical alleyway separating the concert hall from the neighboring house, and approached an inconspicuous door.

While the main entrance was guarded by tall doormen in expensive uniforms and short caps with shiny black visors, here, there was only a single man thoughtfully smoking a cigarette.

He was a man of perhaps thirty, with streaks of gray in his hair, several scars on his face, and a jacket that bulged slightly.

Ardan had seen enough of his type to instantly identify a gangster hiding a short-barreled, small-caliber revolver in a waistband holster.

“What do you want?” The man asked impatiently. He was effectively a bouncer, or perhaps one of the Dandy’s “muscle.”

“My name is Ard Egobar,” the young man introduced himself. “I am here to see- ”

“Ah, it’s you,” the gangster waved a hand, clamping his cigarette between his teeth as he pulled open the unexpectedly heavy doors. “Go on in. You know your spot?”

“No.”

“Go up to the second floor, that’s where the... entrance to the boxes is,” the gangster continued with unexpected detail and a strange sort of politeness. “Find the door with the... what’s it called... the number. Or rather, without a number. A demon would get confused by all these fancy labels... Anyway, there’s a door there. It says ‘Box reserved for family and friends,’ that’s it. That’s for you.”

Ardan’s hand twitched upward again to touch the brim of his hat in thanks, but...

“Thank you,” was all he could say instead.

The gangster merely shrugged and went back to his smoking. Ardan headed into a narrow corridor that smelled of something not quite fresh and was likely related to garbage. Considering the fact that a bit farther down, behind several swinging doors, was the kitchen, this exit was clearly used for a variety of things.

Bypassing several turns he didn’t need, Ardan reached a narrow staircase and soon found himself on the first floor.

Here, the floor gleamed with fresh varnish that concealed narrow laminate, and on the walls, cherry wood panels were interspersed with bright lamps and mirrors.

The various people, clicking their heels, rustling their dresses, and splashing about with laughter and wine, were dispersing through the doors leading to various sections of the orchestra level—one of the most expensive sections.

“Have you heard the recent news?” A dandy in an expensive, fitted suit asked his friend and their female companions—women in glittering cocktail dresses that more conservative members of society would have called outrageous, perhaps even obscene.

Ardi had heard about this from Tess. Modern fashion did not sit well with the older generation, who had been raised on the principle that the absence of a corset and a full hem covering the ankles—let alone the calves—was a manifestation of barbarism and loose morals.

But more and more often, women were choosing to wear outfits that, half a century ago, would have been considered sleepwear at most.

“What news is that, dear Madromir?” Asked a girl who was sipping from a champagne flute. She wasn’t wearing a hat, but a silk headband embroidered with river pearls and adorned with a feather. This was the latest fashion. “Don’t tell me that, by the time the winter vote arrives, we too will be permitted to drop a ballot in the urn?”

“My dear, women in the Empire can already vote.”

“Only the daughters and wives of the military aristocracy and those who serve in the military,” the lovely girl parried instantly. Judging by her appearance, she had received her adult documents only a couple of months ago. “But all of us who, for example, do not possess the regalia of a mage or the white cap of a nurse—we, for some reason, have no right to vote.”

“My dear, if voting is so important to you, I am ready to pay for your nursing training immediately.”

“So that I might dig around in strangers’ excrement and carry bedpans to various ailing folk?” The girl grimaced slightly and took another sip of her sparkling wine. “Forgive me, darling, but I am far too good-looking for that.”

“So what’s the news, my friend?” Asked an older man whose female companion looked at the young girl condescendingly.

“Tazidah has unpegged its currency—the tah—from Ertalain,” the young dandy threw up his hands. “I think by tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, this news will be all over the newspapers.”

“Really?!” His friend nearly shouted, his face reflecting a mixture of surprise and confusion. “But how will they-”

“The exchange rate, my dear colleague,” the dandy tipped his glass. “Their tah will now be backed by the volume of the trade market, and considering the rate at which their imports are growing, especially the industrial ones, the tah will soon collapse.”

“Has the Brotherhood finally decided to cut off its own legs?” the older man grumbled.

“I wouldn’t say that, now. A cheap tah will make the Brotherhood’s exports more competitive on the global market. Both the industrial and agricultural ones, as well as the raw materials,” the dandy grimaced in turn. “And considering the pace at which the Tazidahians are pumping oil and how many barrels are sent through the Whale Gulf every day, heading on to the Shallow Sea and then the entire planet... In a couple of years, the Brotherhood’s treasury will be bulging obscenely.”

“A victory in the short term, but a long-term disease at best, Madromir,” the other man saluted him with his wine. “In five, maybe eight years, they will squeal like piglets due to the inflation and the unstable market bubble. A free exchange rate brings many benefits, undeniably, but the most terrible thing is that it creates inflation. As long as the currency is pegged to the Ertalain on the western continent and to gold on the eastern, inflation is near zero.”

“You are right, of course… Unless the Brotherhood is assuming that five years will be quite enough for them.”

“Do you suppose they actually intend to-”

“We suppose!” the young girl interrupted him. “That your empty male chatter about nothing of import has already tired Agnes and me out!”

Madromir and the other man exchanged glances, and as they entered the door leading to the first sections of the orchestra level, the young dandy allowed himself a somewhat sharp rebuke:

“Perhaps this is precisely why you don’t get to vote, my love?”

“Lout!” came the uncompromising reply.

Ardan, who was climbing up to the second floor along with the unhurried crowd, overheard conversations on the most varied of topics. There was politics, fashion, which restaurant to visit after the performance, and many others.

But it was this dialogue between two men—evidently bankers or stockbrokers—that had occupied his mind for a moment.

Lately, he and Milar had been stumbling more and more frequently upon mentions of the Tazidahian Brotherhood and their loyal puppet—the Principality of Fatia—in their line of work.

Puppets... Puppeteers... Perhaps the answers to the questions tormenting the captain and the corporal lay beyond the borders not only of the Metropolis, but of the Empire as a whole?

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“Think about work later,” Ardan chided himself.

On the second floor, the audience members varied depending on which staircase they had ascended. Those heading toward the dress circle boxes often looked even statelier and wealthier than those who remained near the orchestra.

The people heading to the first-tier balcony, to say nothing of the second, sometimes gave off the impression of having scraped the very best outfits from their wardrobes. They’d carefully ironed them, hemmed them in places, repairing the most visible flaws, and had then desperately guarded them while they’d counted the days until their outing.

And even if the wealthy gentlemen in the boxes and the orchestra thought that their outfits didn’t look all that different from those worn by the inhabitants of the Tend and Tendari, this did not trouble them.

The door Ardi was looking for could be found near the edge. These were the baignoire boxes—those situated perpendicular to the stage, obscuring one’s view of nearly half of what happened below.

Tickets for these seats were usually not even sold. They were reserved for newspaper critics, the families of artists, or the theater workers themselves.

Naturally, Ardan knew all of this thanks to Tess.

Stepping through the door, he expected to see a crowded box. All the musicians in Tess’ band were married with children, so they would surely have wanted their families present at such a premiere.

But, to his surprise, Ardi found that the box was empty.

Almost empty.

In the center of the little balcony, with its soft railings covered in cushions upholstered in red velvet, out of twelve armchair-style seats joined together in three rows, only one was occupied.

The man sitting in the middle seat was wearing a severe three-piece suit of black satin, with a snow-white shirt and cufflinks that gleamed with faceted agates.

“Hello, Mr. Egobar,” he said in a pleasant, soft baritone that betrayed a calm and confident man.

Ardan, sighing heavily, sat down next to the man whose face reminded him simultaneously of a cat and a fox.

It was elongated, thin, and with clearly defined cheekbones, but not so much as to call the cheeks hollow.

He was forty-two, perhaps forty-five at most. There were a few strands of gray in his thick, curly chestnut hair. He wore his hair much longer than the current fashion dictated and seemed not to care in the slightest.

His chin and cheeks, right up to his ears, glinted slightly with stubble that was well-groomed, but made to look deliberately careless. Beneath his sharp nose sat a neatly-trimmed mustache.

He also had manicured fingers with nails that were clearly worked on by manicure specialists several times a month.

The thin man wore no watch, and his only jewelry was an old, worn wedding ring that clashed with his image. Moreover, if one looked closely, it became clear that it was not made of precious metal at all, but tin covered in brass.

One might have thought that this was a prominent businessman, or perhaps a scientist who had achieved public recognition and earned his fame as a pioneer of the scientific wilds.

But that delusion would shatter the moment one met his gaze.

He had deep-set eyes with a slightly rectangular, somewhat elongated shape. It was as if he were constantly squinting in a cunning manner, but his gaze was also one that pierced you to the bone. The predatory nature of his regard was only matched by its ability to see past the surface level and dive deep.

He looked at people like he knew all of their past and future steps and could read their thoughts like a book. Or, indeed, like the small program with a schedule of the upcoming event that currently lay next to Arthur Belsky.

This was the Dandy, one of the leaders of the Six, and the uncrowned king of the criminal underworld of the Metropolis. He was undoubtedly one of the most dangerous people in the capital.

The man was cunning enough to hide his dark deeds under the cover of such loud and pompous events like the Baliero Concert Hall opening; smart enough not to provoke the Emperor and the Black House into helping the guard corps “expose” him; and so ruthless that he could afford to walk around the city without a bodyguard and appear at any event.

“Good evening, Mr. Belsky.”

Ardi placed his staff in a special rack and, after removing his green cloak, he hung it on a hanger.

Once he was done with these procedures that were typical for a mage, the young man sank into the chair next to the Dandy.

“It turned out to be a beautiful place, didn’t it?” Arthur let his gaze roam over the auditorium with its seven hundred seats.

“Chairs made from Alcade larch and cedar. A floor made up of white marble from the Azure Sea… and a stage constructed out of northern oak and maple.”

Ardi didn’t quite understand why the top gangster in the country was describing the materials from which the rich and beautiful decorations of the theater had been made. He chose to keep listening and perhaps find out.

“Nine Yellow Star generators with ninety-six rays and two Pink Star ones with twenty-four... When they were delivered to us, people laughed and remarked that even some factories and plants have equipment that is either simpler, or simply easier to find,” Arthur did not take his eyes off the massive stage and the orchestra pit.

The spectators were really filling up the hall by now, and the orchestra and conductor were already blowing through their instruments and warming up their fingers.

“Seven years of painstaking labor, Mr. Egobar. Everything was done according to the law. Even the financing only came from legal enterprises.”

“Seven long years have passed, and here it is, the hour of my triumph. The largest and most expensive theater in the Empire and the entire world. This is something that will stir the imagination of people for centuries, Mr. Ard. For centuries...”

Ardi spent some time gathering his courage. The fact that he had so easily set his staff aside did not mean he was underestimating Arthur Belsky.

Sleeping Spirits.

He’d faced Driba, that ancient vampire, werewolves, chimeras, and demons, and he’d felt less on edge with them.

Perhaps the only sensations comparable to what the Dandy evoked in him—it was as if his throat were already kissing the blade of another’s knife—arose only when he spent time with people like the Colonel, His Imperial Majesty, and, on particularly bad days, the late Edward.

One should not allow themselves to be fooled. For all his feigned civility and cordiality, a truly hungry monster was sitting beside Ardi right now.

A monster against whom the entire might of the Empire would be instantly directed if he missed a step just once.

But he hadn’t made a mistake yet, and that spoke volumes.

“Mr. Belsky, I don’t quite understand what you’re trying to say here?”

Arthur turned briefly to Ardan, then turned back to the stage.

“I will not stoop to vulgarity, Mr. Egobar, by declaring that I feel sympathy for you because you remind me of myself at your age,” Arthur leaned back in his chair and picked up the program. “No, that is not the case at all. But I do find you pleasant.”

“But, like before, I will not offer you my hand, lest you be seized by the youthful impulse not to shake it, which would lead to certain consequences.”

Arthur had been right back then, and he was right now as well. Ardan really wouldn’t have shaken the Dandy’s hand.

He had been raised without any reverence for bandits and gangsters. He despised them.

How, then, did his friendship with Arkar fit into such a worldview? Well, life had turned out to be much more complicated than it had seemed to be in his childhood.

And maybe the fact that they were both half-bloods of the Firstborn played a part in it.

Maybe Ardi found some sort of justification in that.

“I still don’t quite understand,” Ardi tried to steer their conversation back on track.

“I have no friends, Mr. Egobar,” but the Dandy, apparently, was in no hurry to get to the point. “I generally don’t believe in the concept of friendship. Everyone’s shirt is always closest to their own body. Everyone, in one way or another, pursues their own benefits. And if necessary, they will betray, slander and use you, casually inventing a hundred reasons for why their actions are good, correct and justified. Such is the essence of man and Firstborn alike.”

More and more people entered the hall, and as the audience took their seats, the light of the spotlights gradually faded, plunging the area into a soft twilight.

“Early on, I learned not to expect anything from anyone, and therefore, not to feel personal animosity toward them when they disappointed me. It is impossible to betray someone who expects nothing from you, Mr. Egobar,” Arthur continued, and Ardi realized that he had already heard similar views on life before.

From Cassara. Yes, perhaps these two would have found common ground.

“But what I value in people… What I especially value—is dedication to their cause. Intelligence. Courage. And pleasant conversation. Sometimes, I manage to find someone who combines several of these qualities, and very rarely does someone manage to combine them all. It is a great rarity. And I like being in the company of such people.”

“When it comes to them, I am even ready to forgive small pranks in the form of a few exes pulled from my pocket. I consider it payment for pleasant company.”

Arthur opened the program and took out a photograph tucked between the pages. He held it out to Ardan, and the young man shuddered slightly.

Captured on the thick paper was a man. He was about fifty-five years old, no longer young at all.

He had deep wrinkles, thinning hair, and a chin that had almost merged with his throat, like a turkey’s.

The man lay on a bed, his arms thrown out to the sides. A dark puddle had spread out around him.

This was blood, presumably, but the black-and-white photograph reflected it simply as a grim, absurd haze. It was like a darkness into which the body strove to fall, yet could not quite force itself to go over the cliff.

The victim’s eyes had been gouged out. It had been done messily and carelessly, breaking bones, shattering part of the skull, and twisting the man’s jaw to the side in the process.

“This isn’t the work of the Narikhman,” Arthur answered the question hanging in the air immediately.

“Someone else... on the morning before the premiere, decided to kill the man who created what you see before you now. His name was Veligrad Navalov, Senior Magister of Architecture and Construction,” Arthur closed the program and carefully set it aside.

“And if not for him, none of it would exist. He was a good man. Kind in his own way, though tough.”

Ardi, like Arthur had done with the program, set the photograph aside.

“Did he combine your favorite qualities?”

“And more, Mr. Egobar. He didn’t even steal from me. Not a single kso,” Arthur tented his fingers. “Not once in nine years.”

“It took you seven to build this.”

“It took me two years to convince him to work with me,” Arthur smiled modestly, barely noticeably, but very sadly. “He was as old as his own writing desk, and as brave as the stuffed lion he brought here in his youth from Kargaam. He slammed the door right in my face, and threw the exes I sent him out the window.”

Well... To treat the Dandy like that, one had to possess either a spare life, a lich’s phylactery, or such heavy and large... moral principles that one could only envy them.

“This theater, this place,” Arthur closed his eyes briefly, and it seemed to Ardan like the very air around them became sharper in that moment. “It was supposed to be our triumph. The triumph of his architectural genius and my passion for escapism. Both of us, sitting here, were supposed to forget ourselves along with the other spectators and, for just a moment, leave this cruel world so scant on miracles.”

“And someone deprived Veligrad of that moment. He never allowed him to see the birth of his own child.”

“Did you go to the guards?” Ardi asked, realizing that the conversation needed to be steered again before something too grim occurred.

“They took the case,” Arthur nodded. “But according to my information—it is pointless for you to ask about my source, but you may rest assured it is reliable—the guards will shelve the case. They’ll do it simply to spite me.”

It all sounded quite plausible to Ardan. No one there would even be tormented by their conscience. You work with a criminal? Then you are no better yourself. Ardan couldn’t even disagree with such logic.

As for the Black House, it could not afford to take on every crime in the country. And the death of the Dandy’s architect, well… This was not a case that could even remotely resemble a “matter of state importance.”

“Mr. Belsky...” Recalling their previous conversation, Ardi swallowed the habitual “with all due respect.”“I assume that you yourself have quite enough funds and people with the necessary skills to find the culprit.”

Arthur turned to Ardi so sharply that it looked as if he hadn’t turned his head but swung a saber.

Actually, that was exactly what it felt like to Ardan: as if sharp iron had been pressed against his chest.

Breathing became harder, and goosebumps marched down his spine.

“You are right, Mr. Ard, I do, but if I start looking, then rest assured, the newspapers will be inundated with headlines about corpses, and the city will drown in blood.”

“They will destroy you.”

“But not without a fight, Mr. Egobar. Far from it.”

Arthur was completely serious. He wasn’t boasting or threatening. He was simply stating a fact.

“Was Mr. Navalov truly worth it?” Ardan asked in as calm and even a tone as possible, pointing to the photograph. “You’d risk everything for him? You yourself said that you didn’t believe in friendship.”

Arthur’s eyes ceased to shine with that insane, predatory, bloody gleam just as quickly as they had flared up with it.

And along with it vanished the sensation that Ardi would have to fight for his life at any moment.

“I do not believe in friendship, Mr. Egobar. But I believe in family. Mr. Navalov is... was,” Arthur corrected himself. “My father-in-law. I am married to his daughter.”

Ardan nearly choked. He certainly hadn’t expected such a turn.

“Find the one who did this, Ard, and you may ask for whatever you wish in return. Believe me, even your boldest ideas about the magnitude of my fortune are far from the truth.”

Ardan closed his eyes for a moment and steadied his breathing. He would have liked to say that, for once, fate was being benevolent to him.

He and Milar had needed a way to get to the Narikhman, and now, after not even a month had passed, life had provided them with a path to the darkest sides of the Metropolis.

But a man had died.

And he could never call such a thing “luck.”

“I do not need your money, Mr. Belsky. And I am not even trying to insult you. However, I will not touch a single coin that was taken from someone else.”

Arthur smiled again, just as sadly as the last time.

“When you are older, Mr. Egobar, you will be surprised to discover that the only thing distinguishing me from the inhabitants of Exchange Street is that I am not afraid to dirty my own hands. All the money in the world, one way or another, is taken from someone.”

“Perhaps, but the third bell will ring soon, Mr. Belsky, and I came to see my fiancée’s performance, not to engage in sophistry.”

“Fair,” Arthur nodded. “Your price?”

“The Narikhman,” Ardan answered simply.

The Dandy squinted and leaned forward slightly.

“That is a high price, Ard. Very high.”

The air started smelling of steel again, and the taste of blood settled firmly on the tip of his tongue.

“I recently heard a phrase at a lecture, Mr. Belsky: demand…” Ardan nodded at the photograph of the dead man. “…begets supply. My price is the Narikhman.”

For a few moments, Arthur didn’t take his eyes off Ardan, and the young man was convinced that, at any moment, the Dandy, the king of the criminal underworld, would stand up and silently leave.

“Good,” Arthur suddenly extended his hand. “But you will have to seal the deal.”

Ardan looked at the hand extended toward him. The very thought of shaking hands with a man like Arthur Belsky was unpleasant to him.

Maybe that was why Ardi didn’t like the books Tess read and which were so popular among his peers.

He didn’t romanticize gangsters, scumbags, and those wretches mired in a confused struggle with their demons.

The Dandy had always been, still was, and would remain a dirty stain; an ulcer on the body of their country and city. A killer. A gangster. A scumbag.

It didn’t matter how educated, eloquent, or publicly philanthropic and understanding he was.

His hands were bloodied up to the elbows, and everything he owned had been taken from others.

And yet... the stakes were too high to indulge his morality.

If he could truly find the key that the Puppeteers had tried so hard to get by using the Narikhman, it would be worth it.

A hundred times over.

Ardan squeezed the unexpectedly strong and yet equally cold hand.

“You see, Ard,” Arthur’s eyes flashed again. “I told you that everyone will compromise anything to achieve their goals and invent any excuses to justify it to themselves.”

Ardan yanked his hand back as quickly as if he had thrust it into a fire, but it was already too late. He had been burned.

“All the materials I have will be delivered to you tomorrow morning at ‘Bruce’s,’” Arthur stood up, straightened his jacket, and headed for the exit.“Enjoy the performance, Mr. Egobar. Until we meet again.”