Matabar

Book II. Chapter 67 - On the eve of a new journey

Chapter 67

Beneath the dim, flickering glow of the Ley-lamps, in a secluded corner of the library’s reading section—in an area set aside for the Faculty of General Knowledge—a young man sat at what had become his “personal” table. He was far too tall and broad-shouldered to be anything but a student of the Military Faculty, at least when you looked at him from the back. And yet, he definitely wasn’t. The young man had taken off his regalia and set it all aside, and now he sat there, nibbling pensively on the end of a pencil and holding its sharpened tip just beside his ear. Piles of books towered to his right, left and front. Some tomes were lying open and others were still awaiting their turn, and their multicolored spines made them look like silent companions to the young man who had, by this point, utterly lost track of time. Like incorruptible sentinels, these volumes kept a grim, and at times, nonsensical vigil to ensure that no one dared distract their charge from his undoubtedly vital studies and tasks.

For that matter, what use were clocks when their hands only jerked in soundless ticks somewhere behind him? Before the young man, aside from a desk strewn with treatises on Star Magic, stood two additional bookcases. Lisa, the tireless attendant of the reading section, had stocked them with several dozen more books that Ardan had requested.

Tapping his pencil against the pages of his notes, Ardi felt like he was in the one place where—aside from his actual home, of course—he felt truly at home, as absurd as that might sound.

At the moment, an old tome lay open before him, its binding frayed in places and even torn in others. It dated back to the time between the War of the Empire’s Founding and the Dark Lord’s Rebellion: the end of the first century and the beginning of the second since the Fall of Ectassus.

Lines of handwritten text composed of strokes, dots and all manner of squiggles resembling splotches of ink filled the yellowed parchment of mediocre quality. At first glance, anyone unfamiliar with hieroglyphs would find it impossible to tell that this was a written language and not just a jumble of disconnected symbols. However, that was exactly what the language of the Al’Zafir Desert looked like—the place where not only the first human Star Mage had been born (he’d learned from the dragons of the north), but also the religion of the Light.

Ardan, however, didn’t know this desert language—nor, for that matter, any of the other human tongues. His linguistic repertoire was limited to Galessian, the tongue of the Matabar, the Fae, the steppe dialect of the orcs, the languages of the elves of the northern and western forests, and a couple dialects of the dwarves, which he remembered only vaguely. All told, this was already an impressive feat—one that even most graduates of the History of Magic Faculty couldn’t really boast of, to say nothing of the other faculties.

But human languages had largely passed Ardan by. And so, he was reading the work of an ancient mage by the name of Nahami al’Mashim with the help of several dictionaries at once. Why several? Because one allowed him to translate the desert language from its archaic form into its modern form, and another then translated that modern desert tongue into Galessian.

Of course, Ardi could have made use of an already translated and adapted version of the text, but Atta’nha had always taught him that knowledge gained secondhand—like prey delivered by another’s fangs—was not truly yours. No matter how respected or erudite a translator might be, they could always miss some seemingly insignificant detail—but what if that very same detail could influence the entire picture?

“In the oasis of Meshrashim—may its waters never run dry—I met a wandering Keeper of Secrets who came from the West, from lands where the Light’s sparks have taken the most bizarre and wondrous forms. The people of those lands—may their days be unending—were once enslaved by those same sparks, which they call the Primal Ones.

I had a most marvelous conversation with this man who spoke our language very poorly. It was as if the organ of his truth had grown stiff with bones and olive branches. But however ossified his speech was, his thoughts were just as lucid and bright as ever, I’m sure of it.

He told me of magnificent beings that are as solid as flesh, yet as kindred to the ether as the wind or our dreams. Verily—may the first of the Keepers of Secrets be infallible—I was astonished to the depths of my heart and soul.

How wondrous are the Spirits of those lands…

We conversed—about people, the Secrets of West and East, the seas and oceans, wine, women, and about Spirits. I revealed that I am bound for the tomb of the accursed Keeper of Secrets named Rashim Narash—may his afterlife be as black as his soul. The entrance to it lies somewhere nearby, and I have spent the last ten years, filled only with loneliness and wine, in search of it. I believe that in his inquiries—so disparaged by other Keepers of Secrets—Rashim Narash saw a path that has been forbidden since the times when the Heavenly Wanderers had not yet revealed to us the Knowledge of Secrets.

The Light—may His Radiance be everywhere and always—teaches that beings born of Flesh and those born of Spirit can live in peace and harmony, but their thoughts and life paths shall not cross even if they run alongside one another, just as the paths of wind and earth shall never cross, even if there is not a hand’s breadth between them.

But Rashim Narash, whom old mothers (in whose wrinkles lie the wisdom and joy of the generations they’ve borne) still use to frighten the children of their children, sought a power not granted by the Light to His final sparks, and in so doing, he found a trail that connects earth and wind.

I believe that until other Keepers of Secrets discover how to destroy that trail, there will be no peace in the world, for that which must remain apart must not be joined.

I know not what my quest will yield, or if it will yield aught but emptiness and oblivion. But my left waterskin is full of wine, my right waterskin is filled with water, my camel is strong and placid, in my heart burns a fire, and in my purse, there are a few grains of gold and silver in case I encounter tribes with young and beautiful maidens. What more could a Keeper of Secrets desire but the search for mysteries, wondrous places, and equally wondrous encounters where one can have wise conversations with strangers?

Our talk, the Western man’s and mine, ended by dawn, and I shall journey on in search of the tomb where I hope to find answers to my questions. A faith lives in me—may its flame be unquenchable—that perhaps the tales of Rashim Narash are nothing but frightful fables. Yet all too often, I have heard rumors that Dark Spirits torment the flesh and soul of simple folk. That which the Light condemns somehow still comes to pass in our remote villages. I seek an answer. Thus is it ordained for the Keepers of Secrets. May my path be fruitful, and the stars above me bright and well-disposed to the hopes of a mortal man.”

Thus ended the short diary—it was only forty pages long—of Nahami al’Mashim. Today, he would be called a Grand Magister of the History of Magic, but back in those days, in the sands of Al’Zafir, he was a simple Keeper of Secrets—or, as they called it in the west, a Star Mage.

Ardan exhaled and leaned back against his chair. Tucking his pencil behind his ear, he clasped his hands behind his head and cast his gaze toward the distant vault of the library’s ceiling.

For the third day now, the same voice had been sounding in his head. Scraping like knives on glass, turning his stomach inside out, it haunted his nights—the voice of the Striga:

“I can endure it now, Speaker. I can hide among the humans. I can speak their language... I can do many things. We can do many things. The Harvest is nigh.”

Previously, it had been a fact that any Speaker could sense a Homeless Fae—by smell, by feel, by color, or perhaps through some vibrations in the air (each Speaker was taught differently). The point was that Homeless Fae could not hide from the Aean’Hane or their Speaker students. And indeed, for thousands of years, the purpose of the Aean’Hane’s existence had been to fight against them, and they’d also been in charge of maintaining the balance between mortals and the Fae.

The emergence of Star Mages, the evolution of technology and science in human nations, the spread of iron and industry—not to mention the Fall of Ectassus—had profoundly upset that equilibrium, albeit in favor of the mortals. In this world reeking of diesel, coal and fuel oil, there was no place left for the Homeless Ones, for demons, or even for the Fae themselves. In a world where locomotives chug along iron rails, automobiles roar down city streets, and the chimneys of steel ships smoke over the sea waves, people have no patience for legends about those who cannot lie if asked thrice, whose gifts must never be accepted, or a City on the Hill where there is no old age, no pain, no sorrow.

The world had changed.

It had changed far too much.

But surely the Homeless Fae could not have changed as well. For millennia, Speakers had been able to pick them out of a crowd—so why now, all of a sudden, could they no longer do so? Or was it just one specific Striga in particular?

“Driba and Mortimer’s experiments,” Ardi answered his own unspoken question. “This means that it’s not only those two who conducted them. And it also means that they didn’t just experiment with possession and demonic chimerology, but other things as well.”

Demonic chimerology… Ardan was fairly certain that such a term didn’t officially exist. But too many clues indicated that the Puppeteers had been working on precisely that, among other things.

There was the Staff of Demons that had gone missing at the end of autumn, the chimeras, the Homeless Fae appearing in numbers unheard of even in his grandfather’s legends, and now there was also a concealed Striga and the map of an underground complex connected to the High Elves.

“The Puppeteers always try to hit several targets with one shot,” Ardi reminded himself.

If they’d known that Ardan was leaving no stone unturned to sniff out their agent in an Manish’s company, why had they not immediately sent Mr. Nudsky away, as well as Anila?

Perhaps it was because the Colonel had been right about the fact that someone’s emotions had indeed come into play (which, truth be told, unsettled Ardi greatly), but also because…

“They needed to test something,” Ardan muttered, pulling the pencil from behind his ear and starting to twirl it between his fingers. “Maybe they wanted to test how long Anila could hide from me. And considering the fact that, after three weeks, I still noticed nothing, their experiment was clearly a success. Because of a mistake, they lost an engine and a factory, but they carried out the best trial they could have hoped for.”

That made sense, except… a trial of what, exactly? On the surface, the answer seemed obvious—what happened if you crossed research in demonic chimerization with a Striga who could not be sensed?

It seemed like the Puppeteers were trying to create an undetectable hybrid. Some sort of entity in a human body that would not give itself away in any manner.

“But why,” Ardan wondered. “There aren’t that many Aean’Hane left in the Empire, and the Speakers number only a few dozen, if that. Why even bother?”

This meant that the answer lay on a different plane. A completely different one—one which Ardan, even while staring straight at it, had yet to perceive. And so, there was no answer. But questions… with each passing month, there were ever more questions.

A few had recently been added to the eternal roster: what did the mysterious key open, how was Tazidahian connected to all of this, and—still unanswered—who and how had orchestrated “Operation Mountain Predator,” which had led to the extermination of pretty much the entire Matabar race?

Ardan’s train of thought faltered; he dropped his pencil onto the table and covered his face with his hands. Before him lay whole piles of books that would have gotten anyone else brought in for interrogation at the Black House, if not locked up altogether.

The History of Necromancy; Man and Chimera; The Evolution of Malefic Magic; Blood Magic in the War of Gales and Ectassus; Notes of the First Demonologist; Lady Talia Malesh—this was just a brief selection of what occupied the top layers of his towering stacks.

And Ardan was trying to find answers to his questions in all of it, despite the stench that seemed to cling to these books. So far, though, he had found only lost time—time he could have spent on his own research into transmutational runic links—knowledge he dearly wished he didn’t possess, and sleepless nights. More and more often, he was being visited by abstract nightmares, the meaning of which he forgot the moment he awoke with the first rays of the dawn.

The oil lamp flickered, then flickered again, and Ardan realized that his improvised “alarm clock” was warning him that the time he’d allotted to working with books was up.

Glancing at his watch, Ardi discovered that it was already a quarter to six. That meant that he only had fifteen minutes left before he really had to get going if he wanted to make it to the Arena in the New City where the second round of the Magical Boxing qualifiers would take place. A round which, apart from a few days he’d spent in the “Stables,” he had barely managed to prepare for.

“I wonder, do a Tazidahian mutant and a Striga count as practicing one’s military magic?” Ardan mused aloud to himself.

Packing his satchel full of writing supplies and notebooks and fastening his grimoire to his belt, he slipped out quietly so as not to disturb the dozens of other students, and made his way over to the information desk. There, he was met by the normally-unflappable Lisa, who regarded him with a mixture of aversion, nervousness, and perhaps even fear.

“Thank you,” Ardi said softly, sliding his library slip with the listed titles back across the desk.

Lisa nodded and, taking the slip, left the counter to her coworkers. Silently, she went off to collect the books she had checked out to him.

Ardi didn’t blame her in the least for her change in attitude toward him. Even setting aside the rumors circulating around the university concerning him and Baron Kerimov, Eveless, and so on, Ardan had also been regularly requesting, to put it kindly, dubious literature. More than that—he had permissions for it that some magisters and even professors at the university did not possess.

Lisa’s reaction was understandable. If Ardi saw someone with such a reading list, he too would be more than a little alarmed by it if he didn’t know the whole story.

As he was leaving the library, Ardi felt, for just an instant, someone’s intent gaze upon him. But when he turned, he saw only endless rows of towering shelves joined by hanging walkways.

Lingering a moment longer, the young man departed the foyer, where lines of students were crowded together and waiting for a chance to work with the freely-available books. Moving past the long queues, Ardi had almost reached the stairwell when the familiar shuffling steps and rustle of a professor’s robes sounded from the direction of the elevators.

An Manish was hurrying toward him.

For a moment, Ardi faltered, not knowing what to do. On the one hand, he could, of course, duck into the stairwell, where the portly, far-from-young wizard certainly wouldn’t catch him, but on the other… On the other hand, that would be cowardly, utterly dishonorable, and just as discourteous. And so Ardan remained where he was, bracing himself for a deserved heap of accusations, possibly even insults, and the destruction of the amicable rapport he’d enjoyed with the kindly, always-helpful professor.

“Oh Ard, whose crown scrapes the ceiling plaster!” Professor an Manish cried out, practically flying up to him and seizing the young man’s forearms in a firm grip. “I see that your conversation in that dark and fearsome house went easier for you than it did for dear Brant and Adakiy.”

Ardi blinked in silence. It seemed like…

“You probably weren’t aware—you’ve been absent from work for three days now, and I was even getting ready to use my Guild connections to pry you from captivity,” an Manish continued in a lowered voice, taking Ardan by the elbow and steering him down the corridor. “And so I was overjoyed to receive the news today—may the days of the lovely Ella, friend to the Nelvir sisters, be unending—that you’re back among us!”

It seemed like Professor an Manish knew nothing about Ardi’s work for the Black House, nor his direct involvement in the recent events!

Ardi hadn’t been to the university for three days, and he’d spent that time on his own investigations at the “Stables,” where he’d focused all his attention on Driba’s staff and grimoire. The situation with the Striga had so consumed him that he hadn’t been able to find the strength to relax and return to his usual routine.

“I was so worried, my dear Ard, that you might have been caught in that explosion, that I nearly disturbed your poor fiancée,” an Manish kept prattling on. “Sands and Temples, thank goodness I never committed such a blunder.”

Ardi cast a skeptical glance at the short native of the Eastern Desert. It was far more likely that Professor an Manish simply hadn’t wanted to witness any potential tears from a woman—something he, by his own admission, sincerely could not abide.

“Everything’s fine, Professor an Manish,” Ardan hastened to assure him. “I did indeed have a brief conversation at the Black House, where they inquired about my internship at your company.”

Even if an Manish had possessed some Speaker amulet or a creation of Star Magic able to detect lies, Ardi hadn’t spoken a single untrue word there. At times, he found it amusing that, out of all the lessons imparted to him by his forest friends, the ones he used the most often were related to the art taught to him by Skusty.

“Yes, I understand,” an Manish said, patting Ardan’s hand. “From the depths of my soul—its unquenchable flame, in fact—may the Angels, Sands and Temples bear witness, I am sorry, dear Ard, that it all turned out that way. To think… Terrorists infiltrated my company. What a nightmare… What a disgrace!”

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Ardan had read the transcript of an Manish’s interrogation, in which the professor had told the Black House all he knew about Lashim Inakov, Odurdod Nudsky and Anila Equaari. Adakiy, Brant and Senior Magister Idrad Radov had done the same. Besides them, the Black House had managed to question about a hundred other people in under three days—former colleagues of Inakov’s at “Derks,” the trio’s relatives, friends, acquaintances (except for Anila’s, since she, of course, had none)… even the shopkeepers at the stores where they might have bought food and other necessities regularly.

Ardi had dutifully pored over all those documents in the past three days. And only a few bore the signatures of Milar, Alexander or Din; all the rest… All the rest of them either had no signatures at all, or the names had been meticulously blotted out with ink.

Clearly, it wasn’t just Ardan and Milar working the Puppeteers case—although, as always, they “didn’t need to know” any more than that.

“The important thing is that it’s all over now, Professor,” Ardi tried to smile as openly as possible.

At the sight of Ardan’s fangs—these days, the young man hid them under his upper lip less and less often—an Manish shivered slightly, but quickly collected himself.

“I was simply worried, my dear Ard, whose heart is as great as your bright mind,” the professor said, “that given your, shall we say, lineage, the Black House might have treated you more harshly than the situation warranted.” They stopped by a window overlooking Star Square. “And I’m truly glad that didn’t happen. Indeed, my dear Ard—you, like Adakiy and Brant, will receive the compensation due to you. Since you don’t get an actual salary, per se, our accountants—bless their thick lenses and adding machines—will think of something. But don’t you worry! We won’t shortchange you in the least!”

Ardi felt distinctly uncomfortable. He’d already felt awful about having to deceive Professor an Manish (the same man who, from day one, had shown Ardan nothing but kindness and goodwill), and now on top of that, he was going to get a bonus he didn’t deserve.

“Honestly, Professor, I-”

“It’s from the heart, Ard,” the professor interrupted him rather firmly. “So, it’s not up for discussion. And now for just one more small detail, oh Ard, whose bravery was born of a lion and a tiger’s union. After a certain incident on Baliero’s Fifth Street, I adjusted all our shields. And I must admit, I never expected that one could infiltrate the head office by exploiting a loophole in the primary parameter calibration. What a wonder—it turns out that a shield can be bypassed if one is simply an incredibly gifted half-blood of the Firstborn.”

An Manish met Ard’s astonished gaze without flinching.

“So I was right after all,” the professor sighed, and shaking his head, he patted Ardan’s hand. “I suppose that’s why the Black House went so easy on you. They’re unlikely to torture one of their own agents with pointless interrogations.”

Only then did Ard realize that an Manish had been leading him away from prying ears this whole time, and they were now entirely alone.

“Professor, I-”

“I admire you sincerely, my dear Ard. I really hope that you can continue finding the time to balance your service to your homeland, your studies, the life of a young man betrothed to a beauty, and your internship at the company,” an Manish went on before Ardan could finish. “I am sure that—may the Sands and Temples witness the words of my soul—it will be to all our benefit.”

Ardan didn’t know what to say. The professor’s heartbeat was steady, and as always, he smelled of coffee, candles and expensive men’s cologne. There was no whiff of falsehood about him. The professor was speaking sincerely.

“I never meant to deceive you, Professor.”

“And I daresay you didn’t tell me a single lie, my dear Ard,” Professor an Manish replied with a smile that was a touch more wistful than usual. “Well then, I hope you won’t indulge in the privilege of missing your lectures. For the moment, you’re ahead of our curriculum, but rest assured—if you continue in this vein, by year’s end, you’ll once again be falling behind. So, my dear Ard, take my advice to heart, brave and proud as it is, and allow me to take my leave.”

An Manish gave Ardan’s hand another warm pat—there was almost a fatherly tenderness to it—then flashed him a bright white smile and headed back toward the lifts.

“Professor,” Ardan called out.

An Manish halted and turned halfway around. There were so many words, thoughts and questions crowding around on Ard’s tongue, but he managed to voice only one:

“Thank you.”

The professor stood in silence for a few moments, then his grin grew even wider, becoming as mischievous as a young boy’s. With a nod, he replied simply:

“Eshfashim aea hatfa.”

From what Ardi knew, in the desert tongue, that meant “drink my water,” or in other words, when adapted into Galessian: “you’re always welcome.”

The professor departed toward the elevators, and Ardi remained by the windows for a time, standing alone. The huge square, its cobbled expanse capable of holding thousands of mages, looked so small from up here, from the lofty heights of the Imperial Magical University’s central tower. It was positively miniature, in fact. It seemed as if you only had to reach out a hand to lift it up toward the sky—the very sky challenged so fervently by the university’s lofty spire.

Ardan sensed that some fragment of the Metropolis’ Name could be found here, but as Skusty had used to say, he was still “hearing the world far too poorly.” And so he turned silently and continued on his way to the stairs.

As he walked, he felt like it had become easier for him to breathe. It was as though a small but rather awkward and unpleasant weight had fallen from his shoulders.

***

Ardi watched attentively as a tall—by human standards—blond man named Nars Malkov employed a protracted casting formation. The six green sparks of the Flaming Round Dance—an active shield ready to absorb Ardan’s ice magic—whirled about Nars at waist height while he tirelessly rewrote the runic bonds and vectors in a seal that was most likely meant to create something akin to a dense fog.

Until Nars revealed the final modifications, Ardi couldn’t tell… if it was a poisonous fog? Moving or stationary? Or perhaps it was superheated or acid vapor?

The presence of his Orlovsky’s Shield, which had five discs remaining (he’d expended seven of them to defend against Nars’ stone spells. His opponent had demonstrated a level of mastery over them that was far beyond the capabilities of even Baron Kerimov), allowed Ardi to focus on possible countermeasures.

At last, with sweat beading on his brow, Nars struck his staff against the platform. From the tip of his staff, a rapidly-expanding cloud burst forth. It completely shrouded the mage, hiding the next seal already flaring to life under his opponent’s feet from Ardan.

This was one of the typical strategies for battlemages, and out of the entire list of ways one could conceal the formation of their seal, only the most mundane were available to two-Star mages. Obstruction was one of them, wherein the seal was hidden behind various obstructions, and bifurcation, which encompassed the methods of rapid spell formation and also multiple rewriting.

Each method had its advantages and drawbacks, but Edward’s teachings had recommended that he never resort to obstruction when facing an opponent who was roughly his equal. In such cases, no matter what he conjured to hide his seal, he still had to form and manifest the obstruction spell itself. Thus, a split second before the podium was engulfed in an impenetrable cloud that was as thick as cotton batting, Ardi had already glimpsed all the key final parameters.

It felt like a bit of good luck that Nars had chosen that very method of concealing his magic. But as the late Lord Aversky had used to say: “Luck is an integral part of any victory.”

Ardi, after swiftly forming his spell, slammed his staff against the planks of the dueling stage. From its tip burst a modified Breath. A gust of wind that was far weaker than the one that had saved him and Milar, and which had recently sent the Striga back into the darkness, began to swirl in a merry dance. A winter dance.

Spreading frost in patterns across the platform and making the air around them crackle with sudden cold, the burst of freezing wind blasted into the cloud that had already cloaked the whole platform and wrapped Ardi in a clammy, heavy embrace. There, ahead of him, sparks of lightning were already flickering at Nars’ side—but before his opponent’s spell could be released, the droplets of moisture within the cloud turned to ice crystals, and the damp “cotton” was swept aside.

Nars, who had been using stone spells all this time—making it “plain” that he intended to Resonate something from that element—had suddenly switched to lightning. The plan was simple and effective: he would hide his spell, and the combination of a rain cloud and lightning would bring him victory.

But instead of what he’d intended, his own spell, now flash-frozen, turned against him. Fine cuts crisscrossed Nars’ face and hands. The green lights of his shield flared again and again, absorbing the icy needles, but there were far too many of them whirling around. And before the Finger of Lightning spell could even try to pierce the cloud, Nars’ shoulder was already grazed by Ardan’s Ice Bullet.

The trouble with obstruction, as Edward had taught him, was that it always handed the initiative to one’s opponent—not to mention the fact that not only would the mage across from you lose sight of your seals, but you would also have no idea what they’re preparing to use against you, either.

“Match over!” the referee announced. “An unregistered spell cast by Ad Abar has penetrated Nars Malkov’s defense, scoring one point. The eleventh match of the Sponsored League, season 518, is over! The winner—Ad Abar, three points. The loser—Nars Malkov, zero points! Combatants, shake hands!”

Nars, who looked more disappointed in himself than in the outcome, calmly walked forward. He and Ardan met in the middle of the stage and shook each other’s hands firmly.

“Well fought, Mr. Abar!” Nars flashed him a slightly crooked grin as he gave Ardan’s hand a hearty pump.

“The same to you, Mr. Malkov,” Ardi replied with equal sincerity.

They descended from the dueling platform together. The other participants in their bracket were already waiting for them, including the swarthy Rakshad and the young, always energetic Lucius Raft who cared about Magical Boxing with all his heart and soul. He was every bit as devoted to it as Boris. Standing beside them was Agatha Spree, who had come without her husband this time. Tess, who was busy at the Concert Hall, rehearsing her audition for the musical, had been unable to come as well.

Ardan wasn’t bothered by that. Both he and Tess were, in their own ways, pursuing their ambitions and aspirations. And besides, since they hadn’t had children yet, it hadn’t affected their life together in the slightest. If… no—when someone new, small and defenseless eventually joined their still-tiny family, then they would have to change their lifestyle somewhat, but not now.

“Excellent performance out there!” The others in their qualifier group congratulated Ardi and Nars on the way to the changing rooms.

A long round of handshakes followed, along with brief discussions of the previous bouts. Today—because the Arena was being prepared for the next day’s main tournament round—the qualifying matches had started earlier and ended with, appropriately enough, Ard and Nars’ duel.

“How about this time, Ard?” Lucius asked as he approached Ardan. He had already traded his dueling garb for an expensive, tailored business suit. “You coming with us, or are you off on your own business again?”

Ardi gave him a brief smile and nodded. “I’ll come along this time.”

“Ooooh-ho!” Lucius half-howled, half-shouted. “Gentlemen—and our lovely, regrettably married lady—tonight, the Crown’s faithful defender is coming with us!”

A brief round of applause and cheerful remarks followed that announcement. Ardi had long since realized that, on the Arena’s stage, in the communal changing room, and beyond the tournaments themselves, the atmosphere among the Magical Boxers was not exactly one of warm friendship. No, it was more like genial camaraderie and honest rivalry, where each of them was ready to help one another with the endeavor that had set all their hearts ablaze.

“Then let’s be off!” Lucius urged everyone. “We won’t all fit in my car, so, Agatha, lest we risk your honor and reputation…”

“I wasn’t about to let any of you smelly louts into our family vehicle anyway,” Agatha retorted in the same teasing tone. Grasping her staff, she donned a fashionable hat over her tight bun of gray hair.

“It’s settled, then!”

***

Stepping out of Lucius’ automobile, which clearly indicated that its owner was anything but destitute, Ardi wasn’t even sure where they had arrived at first. He’d seen similar three-story, utterly standard buildings before.

They were built by the Spell Market, and the only way these types of buildings differed was in size—some were wider, some a bit narrower. It all depended on the number of training grounds inside them. Here on Winged Street, deep in the New City, wedged between skyscrapers, stood the most standard of the Market’s structures—one you could easily find in the central districts of Old Town. The only difference was that instead of the sign “Spell Market” followed by a branch number, above the mages’ heads twinkled a marquee spelling out the name “The Sword & Staff Club.”

“Come on, Ard—I see our table’s still free,” Lucius said.

At the entrance, they were greeted by a decidedly surly doorman, who opened the door for the group of mages. And inside… The inside looked just like any other not-particularly-expensive club or bar. The were plush carpets on the floor, a bar counter with high stools, tables for large and small parties alike, a cloakroom, and senior waitstaff waiting to receive them.

Only instead of offering them menus, the staff checked the tournament participant cards everyone carried, then simply gestured toward the coat check.

Aside from their group of five, there were no other patrons.

“Today, there’s an eighty percent discount on the training grounds,” Agatha Spree answered Ardi’s unspoken question as she adjusted her hair in a mirror, making it so that the few rare chestnut streaks showed amidst her gray bun. “Eighty percent off.”

Ardan nodded in understanding. Before inheriting the “Stables,” he himself would have preferred to squeeze in an extra practice session rather than spend time idling at a table.

“And we’d have all ended up there too,” Lucius said, indicating the door leading to the club’s inner facilities, “but first, we must celebrate the fact that a new member has joined our ranks! So, my friends! Three bottles of sparkling wine!”

Ardan was about to object and say that he didn’t drink alcohol, but caught himself just in time. No one was stopping him from ordering tea or water for himself, as was his habit.

Soon, they were all seated at a table after ordering something from the menu. Ardi, alas, saw nothing on the list that would suit his inhuman dietary needs, so he asked only for a glass of water and a mug of spiced cocoa.

“Ard?” Nars looked at him in slight confusion.

The others also shot him a curious glance, to which Ardan simply lifted his upper lip and bared his long fangs. Credit where it was due—none of those present so much as batted an eye.

“We’ll have to ask the chef to refine the menu,” Lucius nodded and Agatha waved her hands awkwardly as she added:

“So that’s why Grorogzorg never joins us.”

Ardan raised an eyebrow at the obviously goblin name.

“He’s a half-goblin mage from the main tournament,” Agatha explained at once. “A great lover of drink.”

“And of visits to the Black Lotus,” Rakshad added, clearly disapproving. “Otherwise, he’s a pretty good-natured fellow pushing forty—just a bit greenish. And he never eats here. We thought he was just turning his nose up at us. The rascal could have told us… All this time, we figured he just didn’t want to spend time with us.”

Ardan suspected that the half-goblin truly was avoiding company and so hadn’t hurried to share the fact that his digestive system couldn’t handle human cuisine.

That topic was quickly forgotten. As soon as silverware stopped clinking against porcelain plates, and the assembled mages relaxed on the couches and chairs, the conversation naturally shifted toward duels—specifically, Ardan and Nars’ bout.

“Well, who knew the newbie wouldn’t take the bait,” Nars exclaimed with a dramatic wave of his hand, already a little tipsy. “Lucius pulled that exact trick on me last year to score two points.”

“That’s because,” Rakshad said, swirling a glass of wine, “you always get itchy at a certain point, Nars. You don’t know how to wait.”

“What was there to wait for?” Nars nearly sobbed. “I put all my reserves into the stone spells—anyone would think that’s what I wanted to Resonate. After that, it was simple: obfuscate with Cotton Rain, then use the extra conductivity to strike with Finger of Lightning, which, instead of a bolt, would turn into an area lattice. That way, I wouldn’t even need to aim.”

“And we all saw how that turned out for you, Mr. Malkov,” Lucius chuckled and gave Ardan an acknowledging nod.

Though it was only a little, Ardi was proud of himself. After all, everything Nars had just described was something he had calculated in his head during their duel.

“Obstruction is always a losing choice, Nars,” Rakshad said, motioning to a waiter and ordering another bottle of a light wine that was little different from ordinary berry juice. “Any experienced battlemage will turn it against you.”

“Admit it, Nars,” Agatha chimed in, “you just wanted payback for Lucius’ trick last year.”

Nars just waved this off glumly, which drew a round of good-natured laughter from everyone.

“It’s especially bad since obstruction stops working as you reach the Blue Star and beyond,” Agatha added with a sly glint in her eye.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Lucius groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

Rakshad leaned over to Ardi and whispered: “He tried the same trick against Agatha and lived to regret it—he walked around for two days with the illusion of donkey ears on his head.”

Ardan allowed himself a gentle smile. Thanks to Edward, he knew that, with the kindling of their Blue Star, a mage’s perception would shift slightly. This fact supported Nicholas the Stranger’s theory about the common origins and interconnectedness of Star Magic and the art of the Aean’Hane.

“After all, we don’t quite see seals with our eyes,” Agatha continued. “Otherwise, if that were the case, a mere fifty meters’ distance would be enough to obscure most parameters. But once you have the Blue Star, if you train your perception, neither fog nor smoke—nothing short of a solid physical barrier—will stop a mage from seeing a seal. Or sensing it. I don’t know how to describe it to you gentlemen.”

“That’s Agatha for you, bragging about her Blue Star and her Imperial University diploma, as always,” Lucius toasted with light sarcasm.

“Anything to make you happy, my dear friend,” Agatha shot back, not missing a beat.

Another round of chuckles went around the table.

“In any case, Ard, you’re pretty good for a newcomer,” she said as she turned to him. “Then again, what else should one expect from someone in your profession?”

Ardan raised his eyebrows slightly. It seemed like the other mages had assumed that he served in the Black House as an operative rather than an investigator. And, if you thought about it, their assumption was a pretty logical one. Ardan himself hadn’t heard—from Milar or any of his other colleagues—about mages being used as investigators…

“But you do need to work on your combinations,” Lucius said, leaning forward a bit. “Even now, it’s clear that you rely on alternating between swift embodiment and multiple seal rewritings. That’s rather easy to block.”

“Lucius is right, Mr. Ard,” Rakshad agreed. “You should read up on chaining seals into long combos and bringing them out with a Resonance. You hardly use that at all.”

“And instead of reading, it’s better to practice,” Agatha nodded over her shoulder toward the doors. “If you like, Ard, we can pick a day and train together. Mind you, I won’t show you all my cards—we do still have a match coming up—but I’ll point out some obvious mistakes of yours and explain them.”

Ardan didn’t even need to draw on his Matabar abilities to tell that Agatha was speaking the truth. It was precisely this openness and willingness to help a future opponent that had attracted Ardan to the whole Magical Boxing endeavor, which no longer seemed like such a complete waste of time to him.

“All right, gentlemen, what do you think about tomorrow’s match between…”

The conversation smoothly shifted to discussing upcoming matches in the main tournament, and to the finer points of military magic that Ardi, until recently, had never even pondered. It was well past midnight when he finally called for a cab.

***

With a painful tightening in his chest, Ardan parted with almost eighty kso. He’d had no other choice—late at night, without a car of one’s own, there was practically no way out of the New City except by taxi. After paying the driver, he stepped out onto the street.

The chill air hit his face, and droplets from the Markov Canal, coated in a layer of ice, misted his hair. Number 23 greeted him, as always, with the humming crowd of “Bruce’s” and the dark windows of empty apartments. Only the corner apartment on the top floor gleamed with Ley-lamp light. Tess was still up, and Ardi was hurrying to meet her.

His staff struck the ground a heartbeat before an unfamiliar, modified Spark would have burned through his liver. A flickering elemental shield of blue radiance flared up, swallowing the hostile spell.

Whirling sharply to his right, Ardan very nearly cast his most lethal spell. Even if he’d done so, it wouldn’t have affected the outcome of any confrontation.

Ardi wouldn’t have had the faintest chance against someone like Mshisty. And it was indeed him who was smoking nearby while leaning back against the Black House’s “official” truck, his staff tucked casually under his one arm.

“Major, you-”

“Catch, Corporal,” Mshisty said around the cigarette clamped between his teeth. He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it to Ardi.

The young man snatched the gleaming metal object out of the air. Upon further examination, it turned out to be… a communication medallion. However, it was slightly different from those Ardan had seen before.

“Dagdag and his bright boys have developed a new one,” the man who was better known as the Black House’s Mad Dog explained. “This one will work despite any… interference. For a time, anyway. Until the interference grows stronger, at least.”

“Thank you,” Ardan said gratefully. “Is that the only reason the Colonel sent you here?”

Mshisty was silent for a few moments, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“We’ve got some scribbles gathered for you back there. Dug up from the deepest recesses of the Archive. High Elves. Aean’Hane. That sort of nonsense. Issued to you by direct order of the Colonel.”

Ardan forgot to breathe for a second. “I-”

“And I’ll answer the rest of your questions along the way.”

“What?”

“Having trouble hearing, Corporal?” Mshisty crushed his cigarette against the truck and flicked it brazenly to the ground at his feet. “Climb in. We’re heading to the station. From there, we’re southbound. For the next two weeks, you’re attached to my department.”

Mshisty, who was keeping his staff pinned expertly under his arm, approached Ardi and handed him a letter.

“Order No.: SECRET— For personnel (Service No. 14/647-3)

Corporal, for the duration of the next two weeks, you are on an official assignment, and at the disposal of Major Mshisty.

This order takes effect immediately upon delivery to you.

Signature: SECRET (decryption: Colonel)”

“Well then, Corporal, grab your things, give your fiancée a kiss on the forehead, and let’s go,” Mshisty urged him impatiently. “We’ve got two days of stewing on a train ahead of us. And only the Eternal Angels know how long it’ll be on horseback after that.”

Ardan sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, then turned to look up toward the windows of his and Tess’ apartment.

“That’s why I never got married, Corporal… You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Mshisty said, drawing a fresh cigarette and lighting up.