Matabar

Book II. Chapter 61 - The Red Night Tree

Chapter 61

Milar, who was grabbing his scattered clothes as he ran and awkwardly shoving his feet back into his boots and his legs into his pants, didn’t even feel the cold. It must have still been there, somewhere at the ragged edges of his awareness, gnawing at him like a rabid dog trying to get at a piece of frostbitten skin… but the captain had more urgent concerns at the moment.

His eyes never left his partner. Ard was clearly lost inside his own magic, engulfed by it, and so Milar’s attention was split between the young man and the mutant girl that was skittering away. The bloodied, barely-breathing mutant was desperately scrambling toward the Tazidahian embassy, moving with an uncanny, spider-like speed despite her injuries.

The embassy was a palace in its own right, an ornate building erected before the civil war that had been unleashed by the Dark Lord. In the decades since, it had expanded to an almost ridiculous size for its lot, so much so that its winged façades were nearly touching the high iron fence surrounding the property. By law—one that had been passed during the intervention that had occurred right in the middle of the Dark Lord’s Rebellion—the Empire was forbidden from selling land to foreign private parties like companies or governments. Thus, Tazidah could not enlarge its little patch of sovereign territory in the heart of the Metropolis.

That was why their building looked simultaneously grandiose and a bit absurd—lavish and monumental, yet crammed awkwardly into a space far too small for it. Still, none of that detracted from the fifty soldiers now arrayed in front of it. These were men in dark maroon uniforms reminiscent of cassocks. Instead of epaulettes, the Tazidahian soldiers would tie a specific number of rat bones to their shoulders. Of course, nowadays, the bones were cast in silver, not plucked from actual rats as they had been a few centuries ago.

Milar, who’d always tried to keep away from politics, didn’t know much about the Northerners’ rank insignia. But two rows of riflemen with their Selkado-model rifles already cocked, and a tall, imposing man standing a short distance behind them with a grim, and more importantly, resolute, expression, inspired dread regardless of how many bones or what rank he bore. And that wasn’t all. Behind the full platoon of riflemen, on a staircase of black Tazidahian marble, stood another figure. One that was perhaps not entirely human…

That individual had spread his arms wide, as if preparing to embrace someone. Each of his palms had split open, and from inside them—from the man’s own hands—bone tentacles were wriggling out. They unfurled like whips composed of what looked like vertebrae strung together. Not human vertebrae, either, but something else that had jagged segments with sharp protrusions. And as if that horrific sight wasn’t enough on its own, the two bone whips ignited with orange vapor, a burning gas seething along their length. Milar wasn’t knowledgeable when it came to these sorts of things, but the gooseflesh marching down his spine seemed well aware of what the Brotherhood’s military mutants were capable of.

The Tazidahian officer raised his hand, and as one, the soldiers leveled their rifles and took aim. Only a sharp swing of that hand separated this moment from a unified volley, and possibly the beginning of something that would cast all the partners’ past troubles into the shadow of an entirely new era… a new world, even.

Eyes narrowed, the Brotherhood officer didn’t rush to give the signal. He was waiting. Waiting for the blood-soaked, barely conscious mutant girl to reach the fence. The instant she so much as touched the invisible border at the wide-open embassy gate, she would, according to every law and statute, be off Imperial soil. And if Ard didn’t stop right then, he, an agent of the Second Chancery under the direct authority of the Emperor, would essentially be committing an assault on a sovereign state. Unfortunately, it was clear that whatever force had overtaken him right now clearly didn’t give a damn about politics…

It wasn’t hard to guess what consequences this might have. If both sides decided to stand their ground, with Tazidah on the side of their wounded mutant girl, and the Empire on the side of its investigator, then… the Second Fatian Massacre might come before the first snow. And in the best-case scenario, it would only be a single Fatian Massacre.

“Boy!” Milar shouted with all the force he could muster, not even sure what he was hoping for.

He couldn’t call out Ard’s name because there were plenty of others listening as well, and it would be best if those people didn’t learn the identity of the investigator whose figure was almost entirely obscured inside a vortex of water and wind at the moment.

Of course, his partner didn’t hear him. Cursing, Captain Pnev sprinted to their car. He flung open the trunk and pulled out the military rifle stored inside.

Dropping to one knee, Milar braced his elbow on his leg and raised the sights, aligning the rear and front sights with great effort. Despite being nearly two hundred meters away, he aimed at Ardan’s right wrist, the one clutching his staff.

Damn it all… He’d never considered himself—for good reason—to be an outstanding marksman. Maybe at fifty meters, given, say, four tries, he might hit the target. Asking him to make the shot on his first try, from a cold barrel, at this distance, in the wind, shivering from the cold, and while aiming for a wrist… It felt optimistic, to put it kindly.

“Come on, lad,” Milar grated out between clenched teeth, sliding a special cartridge into the chamber that Dagdag had issued them not so long ago. “Don’t force me to sinMagister… I don’t fancy delivering your death notice to Tess later.”

Milar’s jaw muscles tensed hard. His finger trembled on the trigger like a frightened maiden on her wedding night. The chance that he would miss and send the bullet wide was about equal to the chance that he would miss his wrist and instead shoot the kid’s heart. And whether the boy was a Matabar or a Speaker or not wouldn’t matter a bit at that point. The Eternal Angels, the Sleeping Spirits, or whoever Ard believed in, would claim their due.

“Come on…” he whispered.

Milar should have fired. He should’ve fired several seconds ago, but… he couldn’t make himself do it. He knew it needed to be done, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to admit this even to himself, since such an admission was far too troublesome, but inside that whirlwind of water, suspended in mid-air, was not just some dead weight or just a work partner that had been assigned to him. It was his friend. Young and, at times, foolish…

But a friend.

“Ah, screw it all!” Milar yelled, furious and helpless.

Everything happened far too quickly after that. The mutant girl, who was almost within reach of the gate, suddenly froze mid-leap. Her dangling hair, which moments ago had been scrabbling across the cobblestones like so many spider legs, transformed into icy dust. A frigid blast, roaring along the embankment, scattered those sparkling strands everywhere.

A bright flash burst from the symbols on the young man’s staff and, at the same time, jets of water erupted from his staff’s tip. The streaming ribbons of water coiled around the mutant’s limbs and yanked the girl off the ground, hoisting her up like she was a doll. The water stretched her taut like a cruel boy pulling the wings off a fly, and then the black water suddenly crackled with crystalline spikes.

The mutant screamed.

She screamed the way only someone who no longer feared pain, who could barely even feel it, might scream. It was the kind of scream Milar had heard before, on the front lines. Sometimes, those screams had been more terrifying than the thunder of the artillery. In just nine days at the front, he’d heard enough of those kinds of wails to haunt him for decades. It was a sound one could never confuse with laughter, or surprise, or even fear or horror.

It was the sound of a soul being dragged out of a body against its will.

And in this case, that was true in an almost literal sense. With a slight flick of his wrist, Ard made the streams of water slice into her like frozen claws, and they tore the girl to pieces. It really did resemble a boy cruelly tormenting a caught fly.

Before the mutant’s body could hit the red cobblestones in a spray of blood, her screaming ceased. Her body, now bereft of all four of its limbs, was coated in hoarfrost, and what hit the ground was a brittle statuette that shattered into whitish, powdery snow.

“Well,” Milar breathed out, lowering the rifle from his shoulder. “At least it wasn’t on embassy grounds…”

And that might’ve been the end of the story—the symbols on Ard’s staff were gradually dimming, and the furious waters of the Niewa were calming—if not for the second thunderous scream.

Milar had heard screams like that before as well. It was the sound of a person seeing something they love more than life itself—more than anything under the sun—being taken away before their very eyes. It was the howl of someone rendered utterly helpless as a loved one died.

The bone whips of the male mutant lashed against the ground, and ignoring a sharp command from the Tazidahian officer—“Shanhad!”—the mutant warrior of the Brotherhood vaulted over the heads of his own soldiers.

Clad in a simple, well-tailored Imperial business suit, that man—heedless of his officer’s shouted orders to stand down—strode forward to confront Ard. The thick, oily drops of black tears were coursing down his cheeks. Or perhaps it truly was tar…

The glow along Ard’s staff had almost completely faded by the time the mutant swung his arms. His whips cracked, and from their tips, blazing orbs of liquid fire shot forth. Hissing, they turned the cobblestones in their path molten, the metal of the street lamps and nearby parked cars sizzling like heated syrup. But the fiery globes vanished into the churning torrents of the reawakened Niewa as if they’d never existed. There was no bang, no steam, nothing.

What followed was the steadily rising roar of water. The black waters of the great river beyond the granite embankment heaved up, swelling a meter and a half above their normal level and flooding over. Milar couldn’t exactly see what Ard did next, but judging by his movements, the young man brought his staff’s tip to his lips and blew hard across it. At that moment, a true blizzard burst into the city. And not the occasional prickly winter flurry that could scratch at the city with an icy, woolen-gloved hand—this was a genuine mountain blizzard, the kind Milar had only ever heard about from Ard himself.

A whirling white haze of glinting ice shards swirled around the mutant in an impenetrable vortex. When it finally cleared, not even a trace of the man remained. He had simply vanished, evaporating as suddenly as his own burning gas orbs had moments before.

“Well… go on then, Ard, why stop now,” Milar groaned, plopping down on his backside and giving a weary, cynical wave at the unfolding scene. “You’ve already killed agents of a foreign intelligence service; might as well demolish the whole embassy while you’re at it.”

Ard had already raised his staff overhead. And with that motion, the waters of the black river rose up as well. Contained in looming, menacing walls, tons of water towered above the embankment, leaning toward each other, poised to slam shut into a solid dome. Thousands of tons of furious river, rapidly beginning to freeze, were ready to come down onto the building like an avalanche. Even stones would be ground to nothing under such a deluge, let alone bones.

“That’s what I respect about the Corporal—he doesn’t do things by halves,” came a familiar voice. It was relaxed, almost calm, and at the same time, half-mad. “Just like me. Not like poor Edward, may the Eternal Angels receive him.”

Beside Milar, there was the telltale tap of a staff striking stone.

Milar turned somewhat lethargically to see Mshisty, who had appeared next to him. On the baron’s wrist, a bracelet flared with multicolored crystals. Beneath the feet of the Black House’s mad dog, intricate patterns of light unfurled, glowing a bright pink hue. The swirling sigils converged and fused into one another, making the crystal at the head of Mshisty’s military staff pulse once—a single blink.

And that was all.

There was no garish explosion of color, no vivid spectacle. Suddenly, the entire embankment sank in a perfect circle about two meters across, with Ard at its center. It was as if an invisible cylinder of immense weight had dropped onto it, one that was far heavier than the dome of water that had nearly formed above the embassy.

That transparent, bodiless cylinder smashed the ice dome to powder, scattering it like mere snow, and drove the pavement thirty centimeters into the ground. Along with it, the pressure brought the young man crashing down. Even from here, Milar heard bones crack as Ard’s chest was crushed inward. A second more, and Ard would have been a bloody pancake, but Mshisty slammed his staff down again, and the terrible pressure disappeared, leaving only a warped, sunken crater in the embankment and a young man bleeding out at its center.

“Anyone got a light?” Mshisty asked casually, tucking his staff under the crook of his single arm while reaching into the inner pocket of his coat for an expensive cigar. “I left my matches at the range.”

“Take a look in the glovebox,” Milar muttered with a limp wave of his hand. All strength had deserted him—not so much his physical strength, but more like his will to do anything at all.

“Excellent.” Acting as if nothing unusual had just happened, Mshisty leaned into the car’s cabin to rummage for the matches.

All around them, sirens were already wailing. The red fire brigade trucks screeched onto the embankment, disgorging firefighters in crimson uniforms. Not far behind them, black cars came skidding to a halt. Mostly field agents emerged from them: a few mages, along with Alexander and Din, and of course… the Colonel.

Calm and implacable as ever, the Colonel adjusted his beloved fedora and, leaning lightly on his cane, headed toward the embassy.

“Come on, let’s at least go listen,” Mshisty said, extending a hand to Milar. Milar waved him off and pulled himself to his feet using the car as support.

Soon, they caught up with their leader.

“Colonel, we-”

“Silence, Captain,” the Colonel cut him off curtly, sparing him only a dry glance.

Mshisty let out a low whistle, and Milar shook his head in dismay. He could hardly imagine what Ard could possibly do—what miracle he could pull off—to justify everything that had happened tonight. Milar might not have to bring a death notice to Tess, but that wasn’t much of a consolation. She would hardly be happy to hear that her fiancé had been reassigned to serve under one Lieutenant Yonatan Kornosskiy, and that he probably wouldn’t be allowed to return to the capital for several years.

By this time, a man had emerged from the embassy building and was going down the stairs with measured steps. It was none other than the official holder of Tazidah’s letter of credence—the ambassador himself.

He made for quite an imposing presence thanks to his tremendous height (for a human) of nearly a meter and ninety centimeters. He also weighed over a hundred kilograms, with shoulders that could rival any circus strongman. One might’ve thought that this square-jawed man with a chin you could hammer nails with, and who appeared to be around forty, was himself a mutant, but no. If he had been one, the Imperial Secretariat would never have approved his diplomatic status.

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“Mr. Anzahd Haddar,” the Colonel said, coming to a stop in front of Ard’s barely-breathing, clearly unconscious body. He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in a polite gesture.

“Colonel,” the ambassador replied with a nod of his head in impeccable Galessian, though his voice was shockingly shrill for such a robust frame. Shrill, yet firm and confident. “I trust that you won’t object if I take this abomination with me.”

“I will certainly object if you continue to use derogatory terms to refer to a citizen of the Empire,” the Colonel answered coolly.

The ambassador’s bushy eyebrows knit together as he puffed out his broad chest in that dark-wine-colored cassock that served as his uniform. “I will refer to the mongrel nonhuman who killed two of my compatriots using whatever terms I see fit,” he said, voice dripping with venom. He waved a hand, and a few of the Tazidahian soldiers broke from their lines and started forward.

“If I were you, Mr. Ambassador,” the Colonel said, utterly relaxed and unruffled, “I would use my head for a moment.” He delivered the suggestion almost pleasantly. “It seems to me that according to the pact on diplomatic missions signed by our countries, the Empire is prohibited from having Firstborn representatives in its embassies, and Tazidahian is prohibited from having mutants.”

“They have no relation to our mission,” the ambassador snapped immediately. “That was a married couple of travelers whom we were assisting with paperwork.”

“Oh, is that so, Mr. Ambassador?” The Colonel quirked an eyebrow. “If I request records from the Ministry of Defense’s border patrol, will I find documentation noting the mutated status of these… ‘travelers,’ as you called them? Because if memory serves—and it rarely fails me—the Empire does not permit mutants to cross its borders.”

A muscle in the ambassador’s jaw twitched. “They were unaware of that fact. That’s why they came to the embassy, so we could help them with their documents.”

“They were unaware, and so they concealed such a sensitive fact at the border?” The Colonel shook his head in feigned disappointment. “Tsk. You used to fabricate better cover stories for your agents, Mr. Haddar—back when you were among the Elders of the Senior Brothers’ Order, of course.”

Milar hiccupped in surprise. He’d had no idea that the Tazidahian ambassador, prior to his appointment, had been an officer in the organization that was the Brotherhood’s equivalent of the Black House.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Colonel,” the ambassador replied without so much as blinking. “My biography is known to His Imperial Majesty’s Secretariat, and it contains no record of any service in the Order of Senior Brothers.”

“Of course,” the Colonel agreed easily. “I must be mistaken, then.”

For a time, the Colonel and the Brotherhood ambassador engaged in a silent staring contest. Eventually, the ambassador exhaled and spoke in a far more cordial tone:

“I trust that a thorough investigation will be conducted regarding the deaths of my two compatriots.”

“Oh, have no doubt, Mr. Ambassador—it’s already underway,” the Colonel replied with equal pleasantness. “Captain, what can you report?”

“Ah… Ehm…” Milar cleared his throat, taken aback by being suddenly thrust into the conversation. He stepped forward. “The female mutant was located at the estate of the late Veligrad Navalov. We wished to question her, but she attacked our agent and fled. In the course of her flight, she caused significant material damage and jeopardized the lives of a child and an elderly woman who-”

“Who are, at this very moment, in the hospital,” the Colonel interjected smoothly. “As for the second mutant, whom I, incidentally, can’t see anywhere—perhaps he escaped? In any case, as soon as you provide us a body to lodge a complaint over, we-”

“This is outrageous!” the ambassador roared. “We all saw how that… that inhuman monster destroyed Anzamahs!”

“Just like we all saw that a certain Anzamahs was the first to provoke our citizen,” the Colonel retorted, unperturbed. “In my opinion, your cards aren’t particularly strong here, Mr. Haddar. I’d advise cashing out while you can—in your case, logging the damages—and moving on.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Colonel,” the ambassador snarled, leaning forward aggressively.

“Perish the thought,” the Colonel said, once more touching the brim of his hat. “My apologies for my rudeness… Your Grace, High Ambassador.”

Comical as it was, next to the Colonel, who was almost diminutive at barely a meter and sixty-five centimeters, and pudgy to boot, the Tazidahian ambassador truly did fit such a description. He was a lot “higher” than the Colonel, after all.

“You expect me to believe that this…” The ambassador nodded toward Ard, whose smallest wounds were already beginning to close before their very eyes, “…is simply a citizen, and not one of your agents, Colonel? Or do you think I won’t ferret out his identity?”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” the Colonel replied casually. “And you’ll be relieved to discover that my colleague, Baron Mshisty, happened to be nearby to save your precious embassy. I dare say that merits a lot of gratitude from Tazidahian, don’t you think? Perhaps even a letter of commendation from your diplomatic mission.”

“You’re crossing the line, Colonel,” the ambassador hissed, stepping even closer.

“What line would that be? The one your mutant spies hop over to skulk around in my country, spreading their information network?” the Colonel asked as calmly as ever. “I’m not sure that there are any lines or borders left at all in this situation, Mr. Ambassador.”

The ambassador drew himself up and snorted like a prideful stallion. “This is a scandal. An international scandal!”

“Indeed,” the Colonel said lightly. “I’ll be sure to report it to His Imperial Majesty. I’m certain that His Majesty will endeavor to find the time to personally sign a diplomatic letter to His Holiness, the Elder of Tazidahian, expressing His condolences for the tragic deaths of two foreign citizens who had illicitly crossed our borders.”

The ambassador, who moments ago had resembled a puffed-up turkey, suddenly deflated, letting out a steady breath and speaking calmly:

“This isn’t over.”

“Indeed,” the de facto head of the Second Chancery repeated.

“As for this creature…” The ambassador tilted his head toward Ard. “For him, things are only just begin-”

The Colonel, for his part, did nothing overt. He merely inclined his head a fraction, chin dipping almost imperceptibly toward his chest, and leaned forward an equally tiny degree, resting a bit more weight on his cane. That was all, but it was enough for Milar to momentarily regret the fact that, long ago, he had agreed to serve in the Black House.

Milar had seen all manner of things. Eternal Angels, at the beginning of summer, he’d even seen a real demon. And Milar had never been—nor considered himself—particularly faint of heart. Yes, like any sane man, he felt fear, and often at that. But he always managed to push through it.

Yet this simple gesture from the Colonel—that single look from the short, stout, aging man—was enough to make the captain feel as if his entire body had been clamped in icy, steel shackles. He couldn’t so much as move a finger.

The ambassador recoiled, staggering back and nearly toppling over. The Colonel, once again relaxed and composed, slightly lifted the brim of his hat.

“I bid you a good day, Mr. Ambassador,” he said softly. With that, he turned and strolled back toward his automobile with unhurried steps.

Milar had always known that if a dog is barking, it likely won’t bite. But today, he remembered something else: wolves don’t bark…

***

Ardan was ravenously tearing into chunks of raw venison, his sharp teeth ripping apart the meat as he scooped it out of the simple glass bowl set before him. Bandaged head to toe and keenly aware that he’d be dealing with broken ribs for a while yet again, he sat in the Colonel’s office at the Black House, in the middle of the night, with Milar by his side.

Ardi didn’t remember anything that had happened after the Name of the Niewa had consumed his own Name. He’d come back to himself here, in the office, lying on the sofa and wrapped in bandages, reeking of medicinal alchemy.

“I’ll warn you both right now, Captain,” the Colonel said, sliding open a desk drawer and extracting a cigar cutter, “if you don’t give me a good explanation for tonight’s events, Lieutenant Yonatan Kornosskiy is going to have two new subordinates. Permanent subordinates.”

Milar shot a resentful glare at Ardan, but the young man only spread his arms helplessly, his mouth being too full of meat for him to speak.

“We… needed to get access to the Narikhman in order to find the underground Star Magic and alchemy shops,” Milar began.

The Colonel clipped the end of a cigar with a small snick, then struck a long match and began puffing, the pungent smoke curling upwards. “Go on, Captain,” he prompted, gesturing lightly with his lit cigar.

“I planned to use my trusted contact among the Daggers…” Milar continued.

“Who only operate outside our motherland’s borders,” the Colonel noted.

“Of course,” the captain nodded, and with that, the little “procedural” niceties (which none of them truly believed) were out of the way. Now he spoke more directly: “But my trusted contact is in no position to respond quickly. Then Corporal Egobar took the initiative and struck a deal with Artur Belsky to investigate his father-in-law’s death.”

The Colonel’s eyes flicked over to Ardi, who was still devouring raw meat. “You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, Corporal.”

“I told him the same thing,” Milar interjected, raising his hands.

“And what did you two manage to investigate?” the Colonel asked.

“Corporal Egobar discovered that…” Milar untied the strings of a document folder—it was one Ardan had never seen before and had clearly been assembled after the fact to bolster their case. Milar pulled out a sheaf of papers and spoke as if reading a report: “…according to the official records, Veligrad Navalov had no children apart from one acknowledged bastard, who is now Artur Belsky’s wife. This means that the entire estate of the Navalov family—a considerable sum, in both monetary and real estate terms—would, by default, go to her. However, on the day of his daughter’s wedding, Veligrad Navalov disowned her, thus leaving himself with no heirs.”

The Colonel made a slight rolling gesture with his hand, encouraging Milar to continue.

“In any other case, Navalov’s property would have gone to the Crown by escheat. But!”—Milar snapped his fingers and drew out another document—“Some years ago, his former apprentice—the one who stole away Navalov’s young wife back in the day—received the title of Grand Magister of Architecture, which made him…”

“Higher in rank than the late Navalov,” the Colonel finished, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “And according to that absolutely ridiculous, archaic law which Parliament refuses to repeal (they used it to dodge inheritance taxes), all of Navalov’s property would go to the apprentice who surpassed him…”

“Exactly!” Milar nodded.

“Do we have anything besides indirect evidence?” The Colonel asked, tapping ash into a tray.

Milar produced another bundle of documents. “The Grand Magister of Architecture and Construction, Alexasha Runov, was logged at the train station when he came to the Metropolis a few months ago,” he recited, laying out one page after another on the Colonel’s desk. “According to the servants’ testimonies, he had a heated argument with Navalov in a café, after which both men left in a bad mood. Navalov also said on multiple occasions—and I quote—that he would ‘put that loud upstart in his place.’ And on the night before the victim was found, one of the maids saw Runov leaving Navalov’s study. He was in such a hurry that he didn’t even notice her.”

“Still circumstantial,” the Colonel murmured.

“Well, additionally, that same night, he was recorded boarding a ship bound directly for Seiros, from where he likely made for the Confederation of Free Cities.”

The Colonel drew on his cigar and exhaled a dense, voluminous cloud. “The Daggers?”

“They’ve been notified. They’ll be waiting for him,” Milar confirmed.

“Good… but that still doesn’t explain why Navalov never wrote a will. The law about an apprentice heir is a weaker claim than a proper will.”

Milar closed the folder and slid it across the desk toward the Colonel. “I think Navalov truly wanted to one-up his former student. He wanted to prove that he was better. Perhaps he even wanted to create some grand project that would not only overshadow Runov’s achievements, but also… I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It seems like a contest of two overinflated egos to me.”

“The Baliero Concert Hall?” the Colonel ventured.

“I doubt it,” Milar said, shaking his head again. “Or rather, I think Navalov needed more than that. And I think that it was this desire to overcome his former apprentice that gave the Tazidahians a hold over him. People often saw Navalov with those mutants who—”

The Colonel cleared his throat meaningfully.

“—who vanished without a trace in the Metropolis,” Milar quickly amended. “My point is: they were frequently seen together at charity events.”

“The same mutants from earlier?”

“The very same,” Milar affirmed. “Now, we can’t assume that even as much as ten percent of the guests at those events are connected to the Puppeteers, but perhaps isolated cases of such connections did occur.”

The Colonel set his cigar aside on the lip of the ashtray and steepled his fingers. “So, it turns out that Mr. Navalov owed the Brotherhood something… Something he hadn’t yet delivered. And it was something so valuable that the Senior Brothers risked their agents and turned his house upside down for it. It’s a neat theory, Captain. How does the attempt to pin everything on the Narikhman fit into it?”

Milar pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Runov happens to be a member of a detective fiction readers’ club.”

For the first time that Ardan could recall, the Colonel looked genuinely perplexed. “That simple?”

“Yes,” Milar said with a wry half-smile. “It’s a completely perverse coincidence—just a run-of-the-mill murder driven by personal animosity. I suspect that money might not even have been a factor. It was just two idiots competing with each other their whole lives.”

“No kidding… Something so banal it almost cost Peter Oglanov his life,” the Colonel remarked. “How is Peter, by the way?”

“He’s already trying to flirt with the nurses at the hospital,” Milar grimaced.

The Colonel stilled for a few moments, letting the room lapse into silence, save for the wet smacking of Ardan chewing and the faint squelch of blood on his fingers and lips.

“All right, Captain,” the Colonel said at last. “I would even be willing to overlook…” The Colonel’s eyes flicked to the now-familiar sight of an expense report form on his desk “…the eleven thousand, seven hundred and four exes and twelve kso in damages… And don’t you dare start explaining how the kso amounts are odd to me again, because by some divine providence of the Eternal Angels—or truly devilish luck—you two have once again managed to haul an enormous sturgeon out of a dried-up pond. However! Navalov’s house was all but turned upside down. Mshisty’s people found everything, absolutely everything, all his hiding places, and there were plenty, some of them containing things one doesn’t mention in polite society. And you know what, Captain? They didn’t find a single thing that might interest Tazidahian. Not unless the Brotherhood has a keen interest in jewel-encrusted phalluses.”

“Phalluses?” Milar blurted out.

“Phalluses,” the Colonel repeated dryly. “An entire collection of them, Captain. And, forgive the mental image, but part of that collection may serve as makeshift seats for you and the Corporal for a time, in a most unorthodox way.”

“They’re covered in gems?” Milar echoed as if he hadn’t heard the second part of the Colonel’s statement. “Those would be awfully scratchy, wouldn’t they-”

“That’s what you and the Corporal will find out,” the Colonel interrupted him, “on your way to Lieutenant Kornosskiy’s outpost, right after you—what is it, Corporal?”

Ardan, who had been sitting with one hand raised this entire time, like a schoolboy waiting to be called on, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Fort Pashar,” he said.

“A nice try at grasping a straw of salvation, Corporal, but we already dismantled that miniature while you were resting. It’s been reduced to very tiny components,” the Colonel replied, spreading his hands out. “You’re not the only one who thought Fort Pashar might be the crown jewel among the Navalov family’s works.”

“What about the table?” Ardi clarified. “The battle at Fort Pashar was fought because the Dark Lord received information that hundreds of accumulators had been prepared for His Majesty’s army and were being stored in the fortress’ underground vaults.”

The Colonel exchanged a glance with Milar. Frowning thoughtfully, the Colonel scribbled a quick note on a slip of paper, then slid it into a pneumatic tube. With a whoosh, he sent it off via the hidden system of air-mail pipes that ran through a niche in the wall behind him.

“If this is just a ploy to catch your breath before an endless assignment in exile, Corporal, I’ll be sorely disappointed in you,” the Colonel said warningly.

Milar, for his part, was wearing the look of a gambler who had just staked his last exes on a wildly unlikely hand and was now praying to Lady Luck for the right cards to turn up.

It took less than ten minutes before a silent Cloak with a nondescript face entered the office. He was carrying a table of dark cherry wood, the very same table upon which the miniature of the famous fortress had stood in Navalov’s entry hall.

Setting it down in the center of the room without a word, the Cloak left. Ardi got to his feet, still sore, and slowly walked around the table, examining it. At a glance, it was no different from any other fine piece of furniture… with one small exception.

“Milar, do you mind helping me?” Ardi said. He pointed at the carved pattern of cherry leaves around the table’s edge.

Milar stood and came over. He pressed on one of the wooden leaves… and nothing happened.

“Damn it, Magister, what sort of circus-”

“Not that particular leaf, then,” Ardan hissed in annoyance. “I know it’s one of them. Try them one by one.”

Grumbling under his breath, Milar began pressing each carved leaf in turn. After a dozen tries, there was a muted click, and a hidden compartment popped open under the table.

“Just as I thought!” Ardan said triumphantly. “This isn’t cherry wood at all. It’s Narit’kha—the Red Night Tree. It’s incredibly rare. There are no living specimens left, only artifacts like this. The High Elves cultivated it for use in the torture implements of the Aean’Hane because Narit’kha absorbs the Ley. In fact, the legends of the Red Night Tree later inspired Galessian Star Mages to seek out materials and methods to shield themselves against the Ley-”

“Thank you for the lovely lecture, Corporal,” the Colonel interrupted dryly. “What’s inside the table, Captain?”

Milar, who had literally crawled under the table, carefully reached into the secret compartment and drew out a rolled-up piece of parchment. The parchment was ancient, but also smelled like modern alchemy—presumably a treatment to keep it from crumbling with age.

“Careful!” Ardan urged.

“Up yours, Corporal,” Milar snapped without heat. He gently laid the parchment on the Colonel’s desk and unrolled it. “Some kind of scrawl… a blueprint, maybe? It’s all smudged. Hard to make out…”

Ardi felt his heart leap wildly, pounding like it was trying to race through every part of his body at once. He stared at the distinctive script: elegant, flowing swirls drawn over what was indeed a faded diagram.

“These aren’t just scrawls,” the young man said, his voice hushed with awe as he took in the ornate lettering. “This was written in the High Elven tongue. It’s over twenty thousand years old. And this isn’t just a drawing—or rather, it is a drawing, but not a normal one.”

Ardan picked up a pencil from the desk and hovered it above the schematic.

“Navalov was clearly attempting to restore it… but no human knows the High Elven language—it’s considered dead. So how was he restoring the schematic… unless they didn’t need the text, only the layout… But in its current state, it’s of no use to anyone except a historian…” Ardi was mumbling rapidly to himself as his eyes traced the parchment.

“Corporal,” the Colonel said quietly, using a soft tone that was still firm enough to snap Ardan out of his reverie, “you’re not in a lecture hall at the Grand, nor in your laboratory. Kindly explain.”

Ardan stepped back and looked at Milar, then at the Colonel. He took a breath. “It’s a diagram of a High Elven Aean’Hane sanctuary. In other words… an ancient dungeon located somewhere in the western part of the Empire.”

Silence fell over the office once more, heavy and profound, only to be shattered a few heartbeats later by a single, eloquent remark:

“Fuck,” someone muttered.