Matabar (Stubbing October 30th)

Book II. Chapter 79 - Such is the dream

Chapter 79“Isn’t there any other way?” Milar asked, his voice lacking any real hope.

“Do see any other way out of this predicament?” The Colonel responded with a question of his own.

Three people were currently inside the spacious but half-empty office with its dark, heavy drapes hanging over massive windows. The Colonel—who seemed even wider than during their last meeting—was smoking a cigar and reading through yesterday’s reports, beside which lay several fresh newspapers.

Ardi was holding an official document bearing the Imperial seal and the Colonel’s signature in his hands.

The document was lying next to a thick cardboard envelope tied up with a red ribbon, upon which the same “Secret” inscription was embroidered in white thread. After reading it, Ardi slid the order back inside, and the Colonel sealed the ties with wax and his personal seal.

And that was how Ardan became acquainted with a “document of the highest degree of secrecy” for the first time, which promptly disappeared down a pneumatic mail chute.

“If not for this,” the Colonel said, shutting the hatch of the pneumatic tube and rapping his knuckles on an issue of “I might still have been able to cover for the Corporal in front of the Parliamentary commission, but...”

The Colonel exhaled and, leaning back into his chair, waved his smoldering cigar vaguely through the air.

Indeed, from what Ardan had learned, a commission from Parliament had been present in the Black House ever since Pavel IV’s coronation.

“We can’t do anything?” Milar pressed on.

“About the suspension or the commission?” The Colonel asked in return.

Outside the window, wet snow was falling—damp flakes mixed with cold, fat raindrops. Squelching and slurping, they spattered onto the asphalt, where they mingled with the dust and, within moments, turned into a viscous muck.

Why was Ardan watching the snow instead of looking at the captain? The sight of a bandaged Milar—his voice occasionally cracking into a rasp—made the young man shudder whenever his mind drifted back to last night’s scene.

“Both,” Milar said.

The Colonel sighed once more.

“When it comes to the commission—whose head Corporal Egobar had the displeasure of meeting at the end of last year,” the Colonel said, clearly alluding to that “gentleman” who had interrogated Ardan after the explosion at the central branch of the Imperial Bank, “we can do nothing, Captain. Its creation was a compromise made when power was handed over to the Head of the Second Chancery without appointing a new one.”

Ardan sometimes wondered why, after His Imperial Majesty Pavel had ascended to the throne of the Empire, no new Head of the Black House had been appointed from among the Emperor’s family. This was especially strange since Pavel had a younger brother and sister as well, not just his elder sister Isabella who “died” during a yachting excursion.

However, neither of them lived in the capital. They were both in the Azure Sea Province. He’d heard that the sister was researching Ley-plants, and the brother… The second in line to the throne—right after Her Imperial Highness, Grand Princess Anastasia—Grand Prince Andron Agrov, occupied himself with farming.

To be precise, he was raising sheep. He lived in seclusion a few days’ journey away from the nearest town, although, naturally, it was only a few minutes away from an entire Black House station where dozens of operatives and staff stood watch.

And so, although Ardan occasionally pondered the issue, he reminded himself every time that it was none of his concern. And besides, they didn’t pay him nearly enough to worry about the Imperial family’s intrigues.

“And the suspension?” Milar asked. His left arm hung in a sling as he rhythmically tapped the steel nib of a pen against the edge of an inkwell.

“That is also a compromise,” the Colonel replied, spreading his hands out. “Lord-General Aleksevskiy was insisting on transferring Corporal Egobar into Lieutenant Kornosskiy’s squad, along with slapping him with the same lifetime ban on long-term visits to the capital that the Lieutenant has. Fortunately, we managed to…” The Colonel, whose face usually betrayed no emotion, allowed himself a brief smile. “…remind the gentleman—what did you call him, Corporal? Mister Tophat?—that he holds a bureaucratic post, not a position with actual authority.”

“Damn,” Milar swore.

“Watch your language, Captain,” the Colonel said sharply, though a wry glint could be seen in his eyes. “I can’t help but agree with your succinct assessment of the situation, though. Even so, Corporal, you ought to curb your habit of landing on the front pages of the newspapers.”

The Colonel snapped his fingers against the There, on the first page, in a very blurry, grainy photograph taken with extreme magnification, a half-naked man with a staff strapped to his back could be seen climbing the facade of a high-rise building.

Had Ardan not known that the figure captured in the photo was himself, he would never have been able to discern any details—so indistinct was the image. It was no surprise, really, given the weather conditions and the limitations of portable cameras.

“Be grateful that technological progress can stall at times,” the Colonel said dryly, “and that the journalists’ portable cameras remain rather primitive for now. Were that not the case, you wouldn’t be getting off with just a suspension.”

Ardan gave a restrained nod in response. He was itching to ask what exactly “temporary suspension” meant—and, more importantly, how it would affect his pay.

“Now then, gentlemen officers,” the Colonel said, fixing both investigators with a stern gaze, “would you kindly explain why your routine investigative work constantly escalates into full-blown operations with shootouts, explosions, and battle magic?”

Milar winced—whether he did so due to pain or at the Colonel’s words was hard to tell.

“I’d like to know the answer to that myself, Colonel...” The captain drawled, then moved on to his verbal report. “After we…”

Ardan regained consciousness to someone pouring a bitter, viscous substance into his mouth. It tasted like yarrow and maral root.

The alchemy of Black House operatives.

Spluttering, Ardi managed to open his eyes with some effort. Covered by a woolen blanket, he was lying on a bench. The transport truck, shuddering at every bump in the wet asphalt, was racing in the direction of the Crookedwater Canal.

Ardi had ridden in trucks like this before: wooden planks in place of a floor, tin panel sides, canvas walls and roof… Cramped and foul-smelling as it was, it differed little from its counterparts used by the military units of the city watch.

“Back with us, eh,” Din Arnson observed, flashing him a dazzlingly white grin.

Smoothing his blond hair, the former scout from the Ral Foothills settled on the opposite bench. Next to him sat Milar—angry, disheveled, his suit hopelessly ruined, his arm in a sling, his face deathly pale. He never took his eyes off Ardan.

“Please,” the captain croaked, still wiping blood from his lips, but otherwise alive and remarkably articulate, “tell me you know where Shpritz is.”

“I do,” Ardan answered. He then shouted to Alexander, who was behind the wheel. “Head for the Coal Canal embankment, and from there, go straight to the warehouses. We need the one with the white patches on its rusty roof—somewhere in the ninth sector.”

“Roger that,” Alexander Ursky rumbled in his deep, hollow voice, returning his focus to the road.

For a time, they rode in silence. Milar, hissing and groaning, was downing one potion after another—vials of liquids that were of varying colors and viscosities, each containing different Ley-elements. The makeshift “patch” Ardan had applied had been replaced with wide bandages already soaked with blood at the wound.

“What about the city guards...” Ardan began to ask, gingerly rubbing a bruised cheekbone.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and, after finding them all intact, was no longer angry at the guards. In all likelihood, he would have acted exactly the same in their shoes. A bloodied, two-meter-tall, half-naked half-breed with a staff in hand is not the sort of sight that inspires confidence, calm, or a willingness to hash things out without the generous application of force.

“By the time we got there, they were already stuffing you into their truck,” Din answered, casually flipping a hunting knife and catching it by the tip of its blade. “Alexander noticed. We had a bit of an argument, but your badge happened to fall on the ground at just the right moment. The guards were upset, but they didn’t put up any more of a fight.”

Ardan turned toward Alexander and loudly called up to the cab over the clatter and creaking:

“Thank you!”

Adjusting his corduroy cap, Alexander merely waved a hand in reply.

“The Hunters’ Guild and I are going to have a very long and very interesting conversation,” Milar wheezed. He grimaced and clutched his side with his good hand, only to then grimace even more. “Damn it...”

For a few seconds, Ardan seriously considered keeping a certain piece of information to himself. At least for a while. But in the end, he was riding in the same truck as a First-Rank Investigator—even if that investigator was wounded.

“Aaaard...” Milar drawled warningly.

“What?”

“Spare us the squirrels, if you please, Magister,” Milar said, and at the word “squirrels,” Din abruptly turned and scrutinized the captain with sudden suspicion. Ah, of course. Neither Alexander, nor Din, nor Alice Rovnev knew all the particulars of Ardan’s childhood in the Alcade Mountains.

Ardan, groaning no less than his partner, pulled the label he’d peeled off one of the drawers in Madam Shpritz’s filing cabinet from his jacket pocket. Stamped on it was a single word: “Telkarts,” and on the other side was: “Materials regarding the connection between Deputy-Baron Halsky and the Overseer of the Telkarts.”

Milar, after reading the card, slowly shifted his gaze from it to Ardan and back again.

“Eternal Angels!” Milar burst out, then immediately doubled over with a groan of pain. “So we were doing the guards’ job for them just now? Corruption? Over such a trivial thing?!”

Din, who had read the label over the captain’s shoulder, offered a timid objection:

“Maybe it’s not so trivial, Milar. What if this Deputy-Baron is some kind of big shot?”

“Din,” the captain practically pleaded.

“Eh?” The pathfinder responded.

“Do you even know who this Deputy-Baron is?”

“Nope,” Din replied breezily.

“Neither do I!” The captain barked and then groaned again. “If neither of us has heard of him, then he’s not just… not a big shot—he’s not a shot at all. More like a hemorrhoid. And thanks to our dear Corporal, he’s now hemorrhoid.”

“Thanks to me?” Ardan protested. “What have I got to do with any of this?”

“Because, Ard, I warned you! I explicitly—Face of Light have mercy—explicitly begged you not to make any deals!” Milar thrust the label back at Ardan and, in the process, showed him a rather obscene gesture. “She just used you, Corporal. Used you as her insurance in case someone came to grab her backside…”

“It’s not very polite to mention a lady’s backside behind her back, Milar,” Din remarked. “Then again, it’s hardly polite to do so to her face, either... On the other hand, you can only get a good look at a backside from behind-”

“Shut up, Din!” Alexander and Milar thundered in unison.

Din raised his hands in surrender—one of which still held a knife between two fingers. The ease with which he handled that blade would have given an inferiority complex to nearly every swordsman Ardan knew. Including, perhaps, Yonatan Kornosskiy ().

“She wasn’t lying when she said that she was worried about meeting Senior Magister Nalensky, Milar,” Ardan said with a frown.

“And apparently, the meeting went just fine, Corporal, after which Madam Shpritz got grabbed by that particular part of her anatomy which, according to Din, it’s impolite to discuss,” Milar replied, closing his eyes and resting his head against the truck’s cold metal siding. “And she couldn’t think of anything better than to take advantage of your arrangement. Damn it... Not only do I sometimes forget that you’re not human, I also have to constantly remind myself that you’ve got less than a year on the job... and not even twenty years under your belt in total.”

Ardan was about to retort—perhaps even sharply—but Alexander swung the wheel, and the truck skidded to a halt beside a tall plank fence.

“The warehouse you need is two crossings down,” Alexander said, adjusting his cap that revealed just the edges of his Armondo tribal tattoos. “You wounded gentlemen investigators will sit right here. Din and I will go fetch Madam Shpritz.”

Din gave the captain a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, which immediately drew another groan of pain from the man.

“Oh… Sorry, Milar.”

“Just go...” Milar said through gritted teeth.

Din, after buckling on a belt of alchemical vials and cinching the straps of the bandolier holding his throwing knives and twin short sabers, flipped up the back flap and hopped down. The sucking mud splashed messily over his boots, and a torrent of comically-absurd swearing came from beyond the truck’s walls. Even when Din cursed, it somehow sounded… good-natured, almost. And as jovial as Din’s tone was, his face was now that much grimmer.

Half a year earlier, after a battle with Lea Mortimer and a summoned demon in an underwater temple of the Old Gods, Star Healers had managed to save Din’s eye. But the method by which they’d preserved the operative’s sight could not be called humane even by the most generous person. He now had an inhuman iris—closer to a reptile’s than a mammal’s—an incessantly-twitching pupil, and a jagged, wide scar running from his forehead down to his cheekbone.

For that reason, when Din was off active duty, he wore a patch to conceal something that was between a mutation and a partial chimerization. And considering the fact that both of those branches of Star Magic were banned in the Empire, well…

As for Alexander, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out some spare “moons” for his revolvers, along with a brass knuckleduster. Once again adjusting his cap, he climbed out after Din and offered his opinion about the slush in a far less amused tone—though it was impossible to make out any actual words in the terse fighter’s inarticulate grumbling.

Milar and Ardan were left alone. They sat in silence, staring down at the floor. Seconds fell one after another in the unhurried march of time, which seemed just as weary from the long night. It seemed like even the clock hands were drooping with drowsiness, all of them longing for the moment they could touch a soft bed and a slightly-crumpled-yet-freshly-laundered pillowcase.

“You’re not to blame, Ard,” the captain said suddenly.

“Funnily enough, Milar—you just finished claiming the exact opposite,” Ardan murmured.

The captain lifted his keen, perceptive gray eyes to stare at Ardan. Without any need for a Witch’s Gaze, those eyes read him like an open book.

“You struck a deal with someone far more experienced than you. Because of that, you failed to anticipate all the risks. You didn’t foresee the possible complications. You tend to underestimate everyone who doesn’t carry a staff or practice the art of the Aean’Hane. Yes, Ard. When it comes to all of those things, you truly are guilty. You, and no one else. Especially that last one.” Milar sighed and, groaning and wheezing, leaned back on the bench.

“Damn it... You’re reminding me more and more of Aversky. And, to be honest, of Mshisty, too. That’s why people don’t like you mages. Not because of the exes you earn and your ridiculous regalia. It’s because you look at everyone around you as if they were something insignificant. Ordinary. Everyday. A mere background to your lofty thoughts. But listen to me, Ard. In this world—in this whole damn world—even in the best-case scenario… There are only four hundred thousand mages among two billion souls. Perhaps a few more. So, the world doesn’t keep turning because of you lot, Ard. It does so because of us. The ordinary mortals.”

Ardan continued to examine the head of a nail beneath which a maple board had split. Under the endless grind of rough-soled Cloak boots—dirty with water, blood and grime—it had long since been scored with broad, dark canyons in which tiny shadows lurked.

Could Ard have called out to those shadows? Hidden himself beneath their veil, as Atta’nha had once taught him how to do in his childhood? He probably could have. In any case, he wanted to do it. But he did not allow himself to.

Milar’s words stung his ears and his soul for one simple reason—the captain was right. Over the past year and a half, Ardan truly had stopped taking anyone who possessed neither Star Magic nor the art of the Aean’Hane seriously.

“But that’s not fatal, Ard,” Milar went on, covering his face with his good hand and his miraculously-undamaged hat. “Who among us hasn’t made mistakes, eh? The important thing is to be able to admit when you’re wrong and learn a lesson from it. As long as you’re thinking: ‘Where was I wrong, and how can I avoid repeating this mistake?’ instead of: ‘How did the unfair world set me up and betray me?’ then you’ll be able to grow. You won’t stop making mistakes, of course. None of us will... but you’ll make fewer of them.”

“Then why did you-”

“Why did I say you’re not guilty?” Milar interrupted him, drawing a heavy breath. “I know you well enough by now, partner, to notice when you start wallowing in self-reproach. That old man and that child—their blood is on the Telkarts’ hands. On theirs and no one else’s. It is not on yours.”

Ardan kept studying the cracks in the floorboards. Perhaps his own soul and consciousness looked much the same on the inside, where Dark Words were slowly, imperceptibly carving their inexorable route.

“Maybe if I’d done something differently...” Ardan whispered, clenching his staff until his knuckles went white. “Maybe if I hadn’t chased them onto the roof. Or if I hadn’t climbed into the apartment through the window… Maybe the boy might have survived, if not the old man.”

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“Maybe,” Milar admitted. “Or maybe not. We are not the Eternal Angels, Ard. We know only what has already come to pass. When you get right down to it, we don’t even know all of the past, let alone the future. And especially not the future that never had a chance to become the past... Damn it, Magister! You’ve got me repeating words that I laughed out loud at when I was your age. By the Face of Light! Apparently, it’s true what they say: if you want to feel old, just spend some time with the young.”

Ardan sensed that Milar, as always, was injecting a touch of irony into his words, a wry note slipping into his tone. That was just how Captain Pnev did things. Whatever he could joke about and laugh at could no longer hurt him. Burying pain beneath laughter was the surest tomb for heavy thoughts.

Ardan wished that he could learn that skill.

“History doesn’t really have a subjunctive mood, right, Milar?” Ard tried to chuckle, but his lips only trembled wearily and remained pressed into a thin line.

“I don’t know what your fancy words mean exactly, Ard,” Milar snorted. “But in general, I suppose you’re right—history won’t bend. Not in any direction. We can’t save everyone, Ard. We can’t help everyone. And it’s not even our job to do so. When wolves attack the flock, the sheepdogs fight the wolves, but if a sheep just stands there when fangs flash in front of it and does nothing… Then whatever happens to that sheep is on its own head.”

“The old man tried to protect them…”

“But he was old, weak, and he missed,” Milar said softly, his hand hovering a few centimeters above the damp floor. “And the gangsters were young and quick. And the boy was too little to have any say in the matter.”

“Sleeping Spirits, Milar!” Ardan burst out. “In the past year and a half, I’ve seen more dead children than living ones! Why is it always them who suffer first?”

“Because children are defenseless, Ard,” Milar replied calmly. “Because they’re the most vulnerable and easiest targets. So, if you just think about it logically, you’ll find that in any conflict, children will suffer before anyone else. And then the women.”

Ardan stayed silent. The faces of Marshal Tevona Elliny, Corporal Alice Rovnev, even Sheriff Maryana Sestrova flashed through his mind…

“Of course,” Milar continued, “there are plenty of men who’d sooner drop their weapons and freeze in fear as well. But that’s just the way of the world, Ard.”

“It’s not fair, Milar. Not to any of them.”

“Who said anything about fairness, Magister?” The captain snorted, tipping the brim of his hat up. “As a matter of fact, here’s a piece of advice, Ard: forget that word— Forget it altogether. It’s a paradox, Ard. The moment you accept—without any appeals or attempts to sugarcoat it—that life is a harsh, unjust, difficult thing, and that not everyone is destined to find happiness or even a few moments of peace, life suddenly becomes much more straightforward. If you expect nothing from life beyond what you achieve on your own, you won’t ever find yourself disappointed that there’s something missing from your plate.”

“But-”

“There are no buts here, Ard,” Milar cut him off sharply. “Life is unfair. The world is unfair. There are the weak and the strong. The clever and the foolish. The beautiful and the ugly. The sick and the healthy. The young and the old. There are mages. There are mortals. There are Firstborn. There are humans. Did you choose to be born into the family of the Dark Lord’s right hand man? Did I choose to be born into a soldier’s family, only for my father to die before I was old enough to remember his face? No. Is that fair? No. Can we gripe and blame everything and everyone around us for our misfortunes? Yes. Will it change a damned thing? No. So what do we do? We straighten our backs, heft the heaviest load we can carry onto our shoulders, and march it up the hill. And we do it even though, on the summit of that hill, there are those who simply had the dumb luck to be born there. But if you look down, Ard, you’ll see hundreds of thousands who’ve been dealt an even crueler hand by the world than you. And believe me, they wouldn’t hesitate to give their right arm to trade places with you.”

Ardan had heard words like these before, on the snowy slopes of the Alcade Mountains. Back then, even the youngest and weakest snow leopard had been able to easily outdo him on the hunting trails. And yet, Ergar had never allowed him to complain. Complaints, tears, empty words—they changed nothing. They wouldn’t sate the Hunger or catch any prey.

“If I’d been stronger, Milar, the boy would have lived. And you wouldn’t have been injured.”

Milar, still groaning and moaning, pushed himself back up to a sitting position and looked Ardan straight in the eyes. He looked right into their depths—a place the young man himself wasn’t always eager to peer into.

“Yes,” Milar answered shortly but firmly. He then added, “Or if I’d been as much of a mutant as Kornosskiy. Or if Alexander and Din had been with us from the beginning, instead of patrolling the building where the Congress will take place in a couple of months. Or maybe if Aversky, the Eternal Angels, and the heroes from the War of the Empire’s Founding had descended from the heavens and lent us a hand tonight. We could rattle off as many ‘if onlys’ as you like. And all of them wouldn’t change a thing. The only thing that matters, Ard, is that you made mistakes. You took your lumps. You—let’s hope— have learned not to repeat them. I pray that you will finally remember, and pound into that bright, overly-clever head of yours, that you cannot save everyone. Nor are you supposed to even try.”

In Ardan’s mind, the voices of Yonatan Kornosskiy and Esvaialaal, son of Duke Abrailaal, resounded like an echo. They had warned him. They’d said the very same things Milar was saying now. However, back then, Ardan had had too little life experience to grasp what they’d been trying to convey.

With each month he spent in service to the Black House, the young man understood the reasons behind the Cloaks’ excessive harshness and coarseness better. And also their penchant for dark—and at times bloody—humor.

He truly couldn’t help everyone. And if he kept zealously striving to prove the opposite, one day, he would find himself in Aror’s shoes.

“Congratulations.”

“What?” Ardan jerked his head up, meeting Milar’s gaze.

“You just got a little older,” the captain said with a wink. “But enough of this musty lecturing. It looks like we have guests.”

Whipping out his revolver, Milar aimed it at the canvas flap of the truck.

The flap was thrown aside. Alexander and Din were standing below, under the flickering light of a streetlamp. Both of them were a bit banged-up, but looked pleased. An unconscious Shpritz was slung over Alexander’s bloody shoulder.

Din looked considerably better off, though he was favoring his left leg. His bandolier was missing a few knives, too, and the ones that were still there had stained his clothes with blood. Together with Alexander, he climbed up onto the footboard, and then the operatives carefully hauled Shpritz inside and gently laid her down on a greatcoat spread across the floor.

She was breathing. At first glance—setting aside the filthy, torn hem of her simple dress—she even looked to be in decent shape. Well, apart from the red marks on her wrists and ankles left there by ropes.

Din and Alexander, after seating themselves on the benches, pulled out identical kits from under the seats. In unison, they flung open the lids and pulled out jars of pungent salves, phials of pills, and vials of colorful liquids—things that cost a fortune, given that they were all products of Ley Alchemy.

In other words, for the past half hour, Ardan had, in the most literal sense, been sitting atop a small fortune. Even if it did belong to the Crown.

“Convenient, isn’t it, Magister?” Milar asked, raising a playful eyebrow, the old spark of mockery back in his tone. “Not having to catch bullets with your own chest. That’s exactly why operatives exist.”

The “operatives” Milar was referring to were stripping off their ruined jackets and smearing ointment on, bandaging, and even stitching up a number of wounds—mostly knife wounds, from the looks of it. Ardi didn’t see a single bullet wound on either of them, just as he hadn’t heard a single gunshot.

“Who did you have fun with?” The captain asked, turning toward Alexander.

“The Telkarts,” Alexander replied in his favorite laconic manner, pulling together the edges of a ragged gash on his shoulder. “Just the gang’s rank-and-file muscle.”

“Well, imagine that...” Milar drawled, feigning surprise. “This means that, back at the ‘House of Dukes,’ you and I, Magister, were extremely lucky…”

“Not very,” Alexander grunted. He bit off the thread with his teeth and tied a simple knot, immediately slathering the wound with a yellow, viscous mixture that looked like congealed fat. “Lately, the Six… or is it the Five now?”

Milar only shrugged. Since the Crimson Lady had been eliminated by the Second Chancery, only five major gangs remained in the city. It was likely only a matter of time before someone new rose to claim the empty seat—someone unknown, and therefore unpredictable.

“Fair enough,” Alexander nodded. Because of his perpetually-grim face, one might think that every “extra” word he uttered caused Alexander profound suffering. “Anyway… Lately, there’ve been rumors on the street that the gangs are training up their best fighters and buying up every bit of alchemy they can get their hands on from Sleepless Street and the underground labs.”

Milar and Ardan exchanged a glance. Over the course of their endless chase after the Puppeteers, the captain had also begun to suffer from the same “illness” that plagued Ardi: anything unrelated to that grand case didn’t concern them much.

“Think you can drive?” Milar asked Alexander once the big man had shrugged back into his tattered black service jacket.

Alexander replied with a curt nod and climbed into the cab of the truck. Placing his corduroy cap back on his head, he twisted the ignition key, his face scarcely betraying the flash of pain that movement caused him.

“Din, be so kind as to bring our precious witness around,” the captain requested as their truck lurched forward down the industrial street, acting as if nothing at all had happened.

Din, taking one of the vials from the kit, opened the stopper and, gently supporting Madam Shpritz’s head, held the open bottle under her nose.

A sharp whiff of ammonia filled the air.

Shpritz had a coughing fit and, pushing Din’s hand away, tried to sit bolt upright.

“Careful, ma’am,” Din said with his usual kindly concern, helping the woman to her feet and easing her onto the bench beside Milar.

Blinking rapidly, Shpritz glanced around and then managed a smile at Ardan—a smile that only she, perhaps, could produce. It blended a mischievous smirk, arrogant superiority, a hint of venom, and… a sincere apology.

“I suspect that you have a great deal to tell us, Madam Shpritz,” Milar said, not unkindly, but quite firmly.

“Where should I begin, Gentlemen Cloaks?” She asked.

“Start with the main points, Madam Journalist.”

“Very well.”

The Colonel exhaled a cloud of rich smoke that smelled like chocolate and leather. Drumming his fingers on the same newspaper clipping from before, he pondered Milar’s account in silence for a time.

“So, Madam Shpritz promised you, Captain, information about her time spent with Senior Magister Nalensky, in exchange for her miraculous rescue.”

Milar nodded.

“In a nutshell, Colonel, Madam Shpritz believes that she’s managed to sniff out a thread linking some of the Hunters’ Guild higher-ups to the Narikhman.”

“The Narikhman, is it...” The Colonel set his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. “That’s the second time our dear adversaries have cropped up in this case.”

“We’ve always suspected that even after the Narikhman went deep underground, they still enjoyed far too much funding,” Milar said, spreading his hands out. “If they had the Puppeteers backing them, it would explain a great deal.”

“A great deal indeed,” the Colonel agreed. “But there’s far too much hanging in the air here, Captain. Without direct evidence indicating such a connection, we’re just building castles in the sky. We need something concrete.”

“Perhaps Corporal Egobar’s little arrangement with Arthur Belsky might help,” Milar offered almost casually, then added just as quickly, “but how are we supposed to make use of it if the Corporal is suspended?”

“Good try, Captain,” the Colonel said, lifting his cigar and pointing its glowing tip at Milar, “but the Dandy is unlikely to risk any action until the Congress is over.”

Milar shot Ardan a look that clearly said Ardan still didn’t fully understand what this whole “suspension” entailed, so he couldn’t comment on Milar’s attempts to soften the contents of the document lying on the desk.

“Let’s get back to Shpritz, the Guild, the Narikhman, and the Telkarts,” the Colonel prompted.

“Yes, sir.” Milar straightened, giving a brisk, soldierly salute, and once again shuffled through the papers. “Regarding the Telkarts, Madam Shpritz has in her possession compromising material on Deputy-Baron Stepan Halsky.”

“Halsky… Halsky…” The Colonel repeated the name a few times, as though trying to recall something. “Isn’t he one of the donors and members of that opposition party of anarchist-financiers?”

Milar nodded.

“Interesting… What sort of dirt?”

“Madam Shpritz has promised to provide it in exchange for a favor from…” Milar sighed and gestured at Ardan. “…Corporal Egobar, namely his assistance in her investigation of the link between the Hunters’ Guild and the Narikhman. And consequently, all the details of her investigation would be shared with us as well.”

The Colonel leveled a heavy, oppressive gaze at Ardan. At that moment, Ardan would have preferred to be anywhere else, but no such luck.

“My, my, Corporal, you’re quite in demand...” The Colonel muttered. He turned back to Milar. “And the terms of this deal?”

“It’s something from high society, Colonel,” Milar replied with obvious displeasure, pushing another report sheet across the table. “Mr. Nalensky developed a deep fondness for Madam Shpritz, but in high society, everything’s tangled, Colonel… Mr. Nalensky proposed a wager to Madam Shpritz.”

“Don’t drag it out, Captain. What are the terms?”

Covering his face with one hand, Ardan slowly—under his breath, in several different languages—recited every profane curse he knew.

“Considering the fact that I just heard the Corporal muttering in the nearly-forgotten dialect of the Ralian dwarves,” the Colonel said, squinting at them shrewdly, “am I correct in guessing it’s something extraordinarily absurd, Captain?”

Milar took a deep breath.

“Mr. Nalensky is an avid gambler, Colonel,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “And since his meeting with Madam Shpritz took place at the racetrack, the wager they made is as follows: if Madam Shpritz can, in the next short race, provide a racer who beats the Guild’s entrant, then Mr. Nalensky will grant Madam Shpritz the opportunity to visit the closed Northern National Park.”

The Colonel blinked several times.

“Perhaps you could explain in a bit more detail, Captain, how all of this ties into your department and investigation…” The Colonel started to say, then immediately furrowed his brow. “Madam Shpritz is certain that the incidents in the park are connected to the Narikhman.”

The Northern National Park was a rather large expanse of steppe and forest situated near the Great Glacier. Due to certain natural mechanisms, the Paarlax Field in that region had turned out to be almost denser than in the Dead Lands, which had allowed an enormous number of Anomalies to come into being.

And the very epicenter of that intensified Paarlax Field had become something of a national park in the end—or even a preserve. There, under the protection and observation of the Crown, the army, the Mages’ Guild, the Hunters’ Guild, and the Black House, numerous Anomalies lived. Many of them were on the verge of extinction.

“In the past ten years, poaching there has almost tripled, Colonel,” Milar said, sliding forward yet another file. “And as we now know, the Puppeteers are very, very interested in natural Anomalies.”

“Let’s assume that’s the case,” the Colonel conceded, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Where does Corporal Egobar come into the picture? As far as I’m aware, our rookie’s long list of talents does not include racing.”

“Absolutely correct, Colonel. That’s why I’ll be the one participating in the race,” Milar replied, allowing himself a brief, almost theatrical pause. “But Corporal Egobar… Mr. Nalensky didn’t just promise Madam Shpritz a pass—we could have arranged that for her ourselves. Early in the spring, both guilds will be forming an expedition to the park for research purposes. Mr. Nalensky promised Madam Shpritz the opportunity to take part in that, along with full authorization to write a report on it, and a very sizeable fee besides.”

The Colonel was silent for a moment.

“Let me get this straight, Captain,” he said at last, with a slight hesitation. “She wants to acquire, in the form of Corporal Egobar from the Second Chancery, a sort of escort and bodyguard, while simultaneously producing her next sensational report and earning a pile of money?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

The Colonel fell silent again, and then—with a faint grimace—mused aloud:

“You know, Captain, sometimes I think we ought to give serious thought to the Head’s proposal about working with certain civilian individuals on a regular basis. Either that, or we start shooting them on the spot for an overabundance of cunning.”

Milar held his tongue. It wasn’t his or Ardan’s place to comment on the reflections of the Colonel and His Imperial Majesty.

The Colonel nodded at Milar’s bandaged shoulder.

“You’ll manage?”

“I’ll manage,” Milar replied not very confidently, but he nodded all the same.

“Good. Since the expedition is in spring and the suspension is only in effect until the end of the calendar year, I’ll approve another expedition for the Corporal,” the Colonel said, turning once more to Ardan. “And I trust that, since you’ll be out in the forests and steppes, side by side with endangered natural Anomalies—in other words, you’ll feel right at home, Corporal—I won’t receive a long, multi-page report on the magnitude of the economic damage caused by your activities from Accounting afterward.”

“Yes, Colonel,” Ardan exhaled, realizing that he wasn’t going to wriggle out of a posting to the far north.

The one small consolation was that spring was still a way off.

“What about the Deputy-Baron?”

“It’s unlikely that there’s any connection to the Puppeteers there,” Milar said, extending another sheet of paper. “From what I picked up in Madam Shpritz’s account, Halsky receives money from the Telkarts and, shall we say, the unique privilege of being among the first to patronize the new girls at the Black Lotus.”

“And in return?”

“In return, he helps the Telkarts forge their paperwork to smuggle their goods—mostly counterfeit alcohol, along with those same girls. But that’s according to her word. The evidence itself—some photographs and a few wax cylinders with recordings of conversations between Halsky and the Overseer of the Telkarts… She has only agreed to hand that over after I win the race.”

“Marvelous, Captain,” the Colonel said sarcastically. “Journalists are setting conditions for us now…”

“Colonel, Madam Taisia Shpritz is the most prominent journalist in the country, so-”

The Colonel silenced Milar with a brusque wave of his hand.

“Hand the Halsky case off to the Sixth Division. Let them spur the city guards and keep an eye on their investigation. Corruption in the Lower House is not where our attention needs to be right now. And as for the posting—prepare all the necessary paperwork for my signature. Any other news?”

“Only the most positive kind, Colonel.”

“And that is?”

“Did you notice that Corporal Egobar was bounding across rooftops and they remained intact?” Milar asked, a broad, disarming smile spreading across his face. “Not a single kso lost by our beloved Treasury! If that isn’t a success, then what is?”

The Colonel ran his fingers down the bridge of his nose and silently pointed at the door.

“Colonel,” the two partners said in unison.

They took their leave and stepped out into the hall. Passing through deserted corridors where, aside from the whisper of curtains in half-open windows and the creaking of floorboards, nothing could be heard, they descended to the ground floor. They exchanged brisk nods with the duty officer, then walked out under the drumming slant of an icy rain.

In the days to come, autumn and winter would lock horns over the capital in an endless argument about which of them was older and more important. And the mute witnesses of that never-ending dispute—the streets and the townsfolk—would find themselves alternately drenched by rain or soaked by snow that would melt the instant it fell.

“What exactly does my suspension entail, Milar?” Ardan asked as he settled into the driver’s seat of the old “Derks.”

“You don’t get a salary until the term is up,” Milar answered, making himself comfortable in the small passenger seat. He was being careful not to agitate his wound. “And there will be a note in your personal file—you’ll get your next rank for time spent on the job three years late. That’s basically it for the main points. Oh, and of course, they can’t officially involve you in active duty. Technically, you were supposed to turn in your badge, but since our department is rather… special, there’s no point in that.”

No salary… all the way until New Year’s, which was still nearly two months off… Marvelous…

“Let’s go, Magister—I’ll give you a lift to ‘Bruce’s.’”

“Um, I’m actually the one driving.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

***

Ardi turned the key in the lock and stepped into an entryway so tiny it felt cramped even when compared to the modest foyers of other apartments. It could barely accommodate two people and, if one of those two happened to be Ardan… He had to squeeze in even when he was alone.

Kicking off his boots and dropping his umbrella into the stand, he shrugged off his coat, propped his staff against the wall, slipped into a pair of comfortable house slippers, and walked into the living room. He had been away from home for almost a day and a half, and so Tess—who was sitting on a chair by the window—was reading a book.

Her thick mane of auburn hair was bound up in a tight bun, and she was dressed in a simple house frock while stirring a mug of spiced cocoa. She lifted her green eyes from the page and, upon seeing Ardan, smiled.

They walked quietly up to each other and embraced tightly, then sat down at their familiar, small, somewhat battered little table.

Ardan said nothing.

“Maybe I really should sew a cover for your staff?” Tess suggested after a few minutes of silence. “A cloth one. You could carry it in your pocket when you don’t need it.”

Ardan noticed the edge of a newspaper peeking out from beneath the tablecloth—the very same issue that had been lying on the Colonel’s desk. And he noted how Tess had been sitting, too. She usually sat with her back to the water so the canal wouldn’t distract her from her book. But now… Now it seemed like she had been watching the street for a long while, and had only opened her book when she’d spotted the familiar “Derks” outside.

And her heart also gave her away. It was beating steadily. Measuredly. Quietly. But every now and then, it skipped a beat. It was barely noticeable, but still there. It was as if it had only just calmed down.

Tess had been worried. After all, Ardan hadn’t warned her that he wouldn’t be home last night.

“Tess.”

“What is it?”

Ardan sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

“I made a mistake, Tess. And because of my mistake, people were hurt. Just ordinary people… and I don’t want to repeat that mistake. Perhaps we should-”

“Ard!” Tess snapped more sharply than she ever had before.

Ardan opened his eyes and almost flinched. Her own green eyes were blazing no less fiercely than magical fire, and a deep furrow had etched itself between her brows.

“I know exactly what you’re about to suggest, Ard,” Tess said, her voice carrying the weight of a butcher’s cleaver splitting a thick bone. “Because I heard it often enough when I was a child—from my father, when he argued with my mother. They might be different words, but it’s the same intonation. You want to postpone the wedding. You want me to reconsider whether I really need all of this. You want to say that I’m being put in danger, or that you’re a bad influence on my health because I worry about whether you were shot. Or whether you’re lying in some ditch or being sewn up in a hospital. I’ve heard it all before…”

“Tess-”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Tess almost shouted. “I’ll tell you exactly what my mother told my father: those are your thoughts. And your worries. They have nothing to do with me. And do you know why? Because before you started acting all noble and self-sacrificing, you didn’t bother to ask me about it. Ask me what? Anything! Was I worried? Yes. Terribly so? Not really. I know that my future husband is strong enough to make his way home to me. Will I worry in the future? Of course. But that is my choice, Ard. Mine alone. And the next time you decide to climb down from your high horse and deign to share your thoughts regarding the two of us with me, you’d better make sure to ask for my opinion, too. I am not a doll, Ard. And I will not tolerate it if you don’t intend to take my feelings into account. Now think it over a bit, and try to continue our conversation again.”

Ardan, like a fish cast ashore, opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. All of a sudden, it felt hard to breathe, and he had the urge to loosen the knot of his tie ().

Milar had been right.

Ardan had made mistakes and would continue to make them. That was inevitable. The important thing was to learn from them. And that bit of wisdom applied not only to his duties as an investigator, but also to what was happening in their cozy little apartment right now.

“I’m sorry,” Ardan said sincerely. “I almost said something very foolish.”

“Foolish? My dear Ardi-the-wizard, that’s putting it very mildly,” Tess replied. As ever, she cooled down just as quickly as she had heated up. She was smiling sweetly again, and in her eyes, instead of a searing blaze, the warm, homely glow of a hearth fire danced. “So—shall I sew that cover?”

“And what about your rehearsals?”

“Dear, you can’t even imagine how much time I spend just waiting for my turn,” Tess sighed. “In one week of rehearsals, I’ve already read three books. At this rate, we’ll soon need to buy another bookcase. And besides…”

They chatted softly and peacefully. They joked that they had probably just had their first lover’s quarrel. They even remarked that it would be lovely if they could resolve all their future disagreements just as quickly and easily.

They laughed. They sipped cocoa. They talked about everything and nothing, acting as though the harsh, unjust world wasn’t creeping up outside their door.

And Ardi… Ardi inhaled the scent of spring flowers by a stream, gazing into those green eyes, and felt a serene peace wrap his consciousness up like a warm blanket. It snuffed out all his anxieties. It silenced any and all misgivings.

Holding her hand and listening to her go on excitedly about rehearsals, musicians, and her new friends in the troupe, Ardan felt… yes, he supposed he felt happy.

He was happy. Ardan laughed and smiled, hopelessly lost in the sound of her voice, the scent of her hair, and the depth of his fiancée’s gaze.

And that boy and that old man were dead. Their family, clad in mourning black, was grieving and making funeral arrangements.

Was it fair?

For the first time in his life, Ardan understood the meaning of the phrase:

Was it fair?

Such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits…