Matabar

Book II. Chapter 73 - Back home

Chapter 73

As he stepped off the carriage, Ardi was immediately greeted by Milar.

“You look...” The captain narrowed his eyes as he offered him his hand. “Just as awful as ever. I can’t help but admire your unwavering dedication to consistency, Magister.”

Ardi clasped the man’s firm, calloused hand. He held no ill will toward Milar. They both did the same type of work and... there would be time to discuss everything.

“What happened with Radov?” Mshisty asked at once, slipping out from behind Ardi.

Ardi was momentarily surprised that the information they’d obtained from Odurdod had apparently outrun their train and reached the capital before them. Maybe it had something to do with that brief conversation the major had conducted the day before with the lieutenant-investigator who had discovered the hidden shrine.

Milar raised his eyebrows slightly, shifting his gaze from Mshisty to Ardi and back. As Ardi marveled at the inexplicable speed of the information’s transmission, Milar spent that time regarding Mshisty with a dubious expression. Then, with a relieved and even gleeful glint in his eyes, he replied:

“Too late,” he answered curtly, though, despite the grim news, he maintained an optimistic tone. “By the time we arrived, the Senior Magister had already been greeted by the Eternal Angels.”

“Suicide?”

Milar waved a hand vaguely through the air.

“Rovnev and the experts will determine that, but there were no signs of external assistance.”

“Coincidence?”

“Doubtful.”

Mshisty nodded.

“Nudsky’s family?” The major asked as he opened a notebook that Ardi was all too familiar with, despite his claims of not being an investigator.

“They live in a small village on the northern coast of the Azure Sea,” Milar answered, sounding a bit dejected. “They’ll probably be questioned within a few hours, but by the time the report reaches us...”

“Understood,” Mshisty said with a curt nod. “In that case, I’ll take my leave. Captain. Corporal.”

And without another word, the major headed off toward his subordinates and the other Cloaks, who were busy unloading the bodies and whatever key evidence they had gathered at the shrine. They’d only brought the most important pieces, since—from what Ardi could tell—the rest would get here later.

Why was he so sure that there was more to come? Because the lieutenant-investigator had never departed for the capital. Instead, just before their train had left for the Metropolis, Ardi had seen marshals approaching from Larand, accompanied by several dozen riders.

“Come on, Magister, I’ll give you a ride home,” Milar said with a wave of his hand, clenching an unlit cigarette between his teeth.

They passed through a separate gate that led into a very small, deserted lobby not meant for ordinary citizens (it was interesting that Yonatan hadn’t used it). A few scattered groups of Cloaks followed them with their eyes. One man was reading a newspaper, and others sat beside massive trunks meant for long journeys.

Emerging onto a little side street adjoining Station Avenue, the partners soon found themselves standing next to Milar’s battered, scarred, but still living “Derks.”

“It’s truly astonishing that Dagdag always manages to find a way to fix it,” Ardi couldn’t help voicing his amazement.

“A tight budget and golden hands will get you far,” the captain snorted.

“Listen, Milar, any chance I could get a company car as well?” Ardi asked. He acted like it was an offhanded question and not something he particularly needed. “It’s not like you’re always able to rush over when I end up almost on my own. For example, during independent investigations where, naturally, there’s no one else around. Someone named Mshistynear Larand, may be, I don't know, but…”

Milar sighed and finally lit up.

“I liked it better when you hadn’t yet grasped the thorny depths of sarcasm, Magister... Now get in.”

In five minutes, the partners were... sitting in a traffic jam at the turn that led to the Crookedwater Canal. This one hadn’t been caused by a tram that had broken down again, or because of a car crash—they’d just had bad luck. They hadn’t managed to slip through before the bridge was raised. Like the wings of a colossal stone bird, the two ends of the bridge rose above the waters to let the cargo barges pass beneath them.

“He truly wasn’t there,” Milar answered the unspoken question. “You weren’t even in the top ten on the list of mole suspects, Ard.”

Milar wasn’t lying. At that moment, Ardi was relying not only on his intuition, but on the steady beating of the captain’s heart as well. Of course, if the man only thought he was telling the truth, then...

“Is that why you turned up near Navalov’s house?”

“Exactly,” Milar admitted. “But look at it from our perspective, Ard. Half a year before the Emperor’s coronation, Aror contacts Cassara—Aror, who was either dead or had gone so deep underground that he was indistinguishable from a corpse. Then, thanks to some indirect clues, the Black House realizes that certain parties have taken an interest in your journey.”

“What clues, exactly?”

“Figure it out yourself.”

It took Ardi only a few seconds before he shook his head.

“The Black House has people in the Shanti’Ra.”

“Some would disagree with you about them being people, Ard...” Milar shook his head. “But let’s continue. The moment you arrive in the capital, the commotion begins. Baliero. The main branch of the Imperial Bank. Then you tell that story about the Homeless Fae you saw in the Palace and...”

“...and there’s also everything else that’s happened in the past six months,” Ardan finished for his partner.

“Nearly a year now,” Milar nodded again, flicking away some ash. “Anyone would’ve started looking askance at you. My gut told me it was the craziest, wildest coincidence imaginable, but still just a coincidence. A perverse joke of the Eternal Angels, if you’ll pardon a touch of religion in matters of fate. But you can’t really offer up fate as an argument.”

“Then why was I entrusted with the ‘Aversky Stables’ and the documents on the long-distance communication method?” Ardi asked, not taking his eyes off the dark river and the slow procession of barges gliding along its cold surface, laden with wooden crates and barrels.

Milar replied after a brief pause. “The only ones aware of its existence were Aversky himself and the Colonel. And so, when you showed up to the brass with the astounding news that you’d been left an inheritance, well... think carefully.”

Again, Ardi needed very little time to figure it out.

“The same thing we set up at Aversky’s house.”

Milar snapped his fingers like he always did when he agreed.

“If you’d tried to hand over the research, the mole would have been found. But, again, no one—not even the Colonel, I’d wager—seriously suspected you, and yet...”

“Such is the job,” Ardi finished for his partner again. “And Larand-”

“Why are you so fixated on that monastery, Magister?”

Ardi threw up his hands.

“I don’t even know, Milar. Maybe because I almost died there?!”

The captain turned to him and smiled somewhat warmly, and at the same time, a touch irritably.

“I definitely preferred it when you spoke without sarcasm, Ard. It isn’t very respectful, you know.”

Ardi raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Seriously?”

Milar answered with exactly the same gesture.

“You didn’t know?”

Ardi scratched the back of his head.

“Humans...” The young man murmured. “Sorry, Milar.”

“It’s all right,” the captain shrugged. “But again, think carefully, Ard. Why did you end up in Larand?”

“Because...” Ardi began, then immediately stopped short.

He’d ended up in Larand because of one simple fact: the clues had led him there in his search for Lusha’s sister, whose fate had supposedly been handled by the Orcish Jackets. And also because she’d had a tangential link to Andrew, who had been involved in the incident on Fifth Street in Baliero.

But here’s the rub: the list given to them by Peter Oglanov contained a dozen different orphanages.

“The chance that a secret laboratory would be found in Larand was extremely low,” Milar echoed Ardi’s thoughts. “The other teams sent to all the addresses on that list came back empty-handed. And so, we had yet another coincidence. Or rather, in this case, a direct chain of events, not just coincidences, but we couldn’t have known that. And our resources aren’t exactly abundant. And! Magister! If you care to recall them, what were your orders? Find out everything and at the first—at the first sign of serious danger—call in reinforcements! And what did you do? You blasted half a national historic monument sky-high!”

“I’m not actually the one who blew it up,” Ardi grumbled, conceding Milar’s point.

Still, he could admit that he had grown far too used to relying only on himself. That trait hadn’t just been instilled in him—it had been beaten into his flesh with paws, slashed into him with claws, and gnawed into his bones with fangs. And even knowing this fact about himself didn’t mean that he could always catch it and rein it in.

Even a beast changes its habits very slowly and, at times, not at all. Ardi was trying to change, but too little time had passed...

“But every time you ended up in the thick of things, Ard, you showed your true intentions and teetered right on the edge between life and...” Milar didn’t finish that sentence. He didn’t need to. “So either you truly are, like all of us, devoted to the Empire, or the Puppeteers have created not just a mole, but a masterpiece of undercover work. And since the former is far more likely than the latter, then... let’s just say our line of work just got both a lot simpler and far more complicated.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, believe me, Magister, it is.”

Ardi turned to his partner, who was tapping out a broken rhythm on the wooden steering wheel, and clarified:

“I’m not talking about the job, I’m talking about the Empire.”

“What do you mean?” Milar asked with no threat or worry in his tone.

“I can’t say that I have any real devotion to our country,” Ardi answered honestly. “I care about my family. About Tess. I enjoy studying Star Magic and, moreover, I truly want to solve the mystery and stop the Puppeteers. Not to mention ‘Operation Mountain Predator,’ which they’re likely involved in. But as for any sort of ‘devotion to the Empire...’ I don’t know, Milar. I’ve never really thought about that. Not the way you and Aversky have, you understand?”

Ardi expected Milar to snap at him. To remind him of duty, honor, and other such things the young man found hard to grasp. But the captain did no such thing. Instead, he... smiled. It was warm, somehow. Almost fatherly, in a way.

“Remember when we were driving to the Castle Tower and I was going on and on about the phrase ‘you’ll understand when you’re older,’ and how it annoyed me back when I was roughly your age?”

“Vaguely,” Ardi fibbed a bit, since he didn’t remember that at all.

That conversation had probably meant a great deal to Milar and his personal demons, but it had meant almost nothing to Ardi. And he didn’t possess some kind of magical memory where everything he’d ever seen or heard was preserved.

“So—when you grow up, you’ll understand,” Milar said with a wink. “And I’m not talking about age, I... I don’t know how to say it, Ard. But for some reason, I’m sure you will understand.”

Ardi remained silent. He truly didn’t grasp the phrase “devoted to the Empire.” It seemed as abstract and distant to him as... a lot of the things that had appeared just as blurry and incomprehensible a year and a half ago. Things that now stood somewhere right beside him. Tangible, comprehensible, and vividly defined.

“All right, that’s all just idle talk,” Milar said, stretching and then placing his hands back on the wheel. “What do you think Senior Magister Radov’s research was about, now that we can’t very well ask him?”

Ardi sighed. On the one hand, the rule that mages didn’t have to submit a copy of any research not approved by the Lodge to the Guild made life much easier (otherwise, scientific work would turn into endless hours spent at typewriters, or lead to insane expenses related to hiring typists). But on the other hand, that practice could backfire in extremely rare, yet very inconvenient situations.

“I don’t know, Milar,” Ardi answered honestly. “From the title, you could think that Radov wanted to do... well, anything. From trying to make a stationary shield that wouldn’t be inside an artifact—you can only fit so much into those—but in a person’s own body, to attempting to gain access to information about Selkadian magic. Maybe he thought he could find something useful for his research there.”

A regular, rank-and-file mage—which was what Radov had been in terms of his clearance for classified information—couldn’t obtain Black House files on the Selkado Armor. They also couldn’t get information on the shamans of Kargaam, the sword masters of Lan’Duo’Ha, or, say, the secret techniques of the Aean’Hane. This was simply because, according to all the international pacts and statutes, the Empire simply could not have such information in its possession.

But everyone understood perfectly well that each nation still tried to get as much intel as possible on the scientific achievements of its rivals.

“And what if we try to tie it to the pregnant girls and those filthy demons and Homeless Fae that we regularly deal with?”

“Add to that the mining equipment the Puppeteers needed in Delpas,” Milar reminded him.

“Also, the Paarlax blueprints and Lea Mortimer’s research, which were in a slightly different vein…” Ardan mused aloud.

“And...?” The captain encouraged him.

“And I have no idea, Milar,” Ardi finished the thought. “I could give you any utterly absurd theory, and it wouldn’t be any different from your own equally-crazy guess.”

“I have no theories at all, Magister.”

“Just as I have no idea how all of it might be connected,” Ardi exhaled sadly. “Unless the link can be found in Driba’s grimoire, because at first glance, his work fell somewhere in the middle—but... I have no idea when I’ll be able to decipher it. If I can decipher it at all.”

They fell silent for a time. Lost in the quiet of their dark, heavy thoughts, they watched the endless procession of cargo barges. The navigation season was drawing to a close. Very soon, the Niewa and all its many branches, tributaries and canals would be covered with a thick layer of ice.

This text was taken from NovelBin. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Now that the Colonel has finally crossed you off the suspect list, Ard, I can get you the materials we have on the Selkado Armor,” Milar drawled a bit pensively. “Maybe that’ll spark some ideas for you.”

“I won’t refuse, of course,” Ardi tried to hide his excitement. The chance to learn the details of Star Magic not just from another country, but one that was on the other side of the globe?! You couldn’t buy an opportunity like that for any amount of exes and, moreover, you wouldn’t even be able to find it in the Grand’s library. “But I also won’t promise that it will yield any results.”

“Fair enough,” Milar agreed.

At last, the massive halves of the bridge—Ardi couldn’t recall its name—began to lower slowly, and within minutes, Milar’s old “Derks” grudgingly rolled forward along the edge of the freezing embankment. The wrought-iron railings were now adorned with the very first delicate netting of frost patterns, and a fine glaze of ice that had seized tiny droplets in its white-blue claws.

“For now, the safest bet is on the Narikhman, and that mysterious key everyone seems to need,” Milar said as he drove through the maze of backstreets and intersections, carefully avoiding the main arteries of the central districts. In the first hour after the bridges were lowered, those turned into jam-packed, honking chaos. “And you’re right, Ard. There’s too many disparate pieces. We just can’t find a common link.”

“Same as with the Spiders at the start of the year,” Ardi added.

“True enough.”

And indeed, if one thought about it, the situation with the Spiders and their masters, the Puppeteers, was very much like this one. There were a multitude of pieces for a rather frightening mosaic which could be explained individually, but still stubbornly refused to assemble into a proper picture.

“And what were those incidents on the Taian border and at the Great Glacier?” Ardi asked suddenly, recalling his conversation with Mshisty.

Milar didn’t answer right away. Perhaps he was trying to remember things, or perhaps he was choosing what he could share. Ardi hadn’t thought about it before, but now he had no doubt that he and Captain Pnev had access to completely different sets of information. In all honesty, given all these recent “revelations”—that was perfectly reasonable.

“Right before we stopped Lea Mortimer—literally that same day—a series of murders took place on the Taian border at Fort Naskergrad.”

Ardi frowned.

“And how are they connected to the Puppeteers?” He asked, not sounding very confident.

“That’s just it, Ard, that’s just it,” Milar said, drumming a now-somber rhythm on the wheel. “On the surface, there is no connection. A few privates were playing Sevens. One of them lost pretty badly and, drunk as he was, said he’d introduce the others to his sister if they let him win back his losses. Naturally, he didn’t mean anything by it, but by the time he lost again, everyone was so drunk that his words were a bit... twisted by them. Although, maybe they weren’t twisted at all, considering... Never mind. I’m getting ahead of myself. In the end, when they went on leave, his comrades showed up at the private’s family home and... The final tally was four corpses, Ard.”

“Why did the Black House investigate it, and not the military detectives?”

“Because, Magister, my former colleagues, each and every one of them, promptly lost their dinners when they arrived at the settlement by the fort,” Milar drawled. “Not that I blame them. It’s really not so easy to keep your meal down when you’ve got someone else’s guts hanging like garlands from the Ley-cables, there’s limbs impaled on poles, and severed heads have been stacked one atop another with their eyes cut out.”

Ardi said nothing. On the one hand, he understood why the Black House had been called in, but on the other hand... Not so long ago, he himself, after just hearing a description of such a scene, would have felt a wave of nausea and a desire to end the unpleasant conversation as quickly as possible. And now... Now he just listened with detachment and tried to grasp the details.

“They went after the private and his sister,” Milar went on. “There were four operatives, Ard, with alchemy and decent combat skills. None of them returned. Then we had to deploy a punitive raid and a group of Blue Star Mages. In the end, they managed to capture the sister; the brother was killed. Or maybe put to rest is the better term for it...”

“Put to rest?” Ardi repeated. “Vampires?”

“Yes, Ard. Vampires. Ones who got by without using protective cream and showed no distress in the sunlight.” Milar shuddered and jerked as goosebumps rippled across the skin of his wrists. “They tried to interrogate the sister, but...”

“The seal?” Ardi guessed again.

Milar nodded once more.

“It was the same as that Homeless Fae at Alla-Lisa’s house, Magister. The vampire was simply torn to pieces, sending yet another operative off to the Eternal Angels in the process. And that’s exactly why their case was connected to the Puppeteers.”

Miniature balconies hung above them, jutting from houses that were just as small, but lush and elegantly adorned. With their delicate yet colorful facades, they all but openly battled the drab gloom creeping over the city.

Vampires...

“This is already the second time that an undead has turned up because of the Puppeteers,” Ardi whispered.

“Third, if you count the ancient vampire in the Mansionhills,” Milar corrected him. “And now add the Night Folk and Star Werewolves to that pile, as well as demons and Homeless Fae. What does that give us?”

Ardi spent a few minutes pondering Milar’s words as they turned off toward the Markov Canal. Somewhere in the back of his mind, right at the base of his skull, some thought was scratching around. Like a sly little fox, it refused to let its fiery fur be caught, merely swishing its tail haughtily just under his nose.

It was like a word forgotten in the heat of a quick, fervent conversation. It felt like any moment now, with just a little more effort, he’d remember it, but no. It slipped away.

“I agree with that grimace of yours,” Milar chuckled. “There’s something here, Magister. Something is here... If only we could figure out what exactly.”

“And the Great Glacier? What’s going on there?”

“Sestrova,” Milar waved it off. “Mshisty isn’t aware that she was involved in the death of the engineer—her husband.”

Ardi waved his hand through the air.

“Milar, seriously, what’s the logic in splitting the equation like that for each of... sorry. What’s the point of doling out information in such measured portions to everyone involved?”

Milar sighed heavily, the way he did every time he faced a tedious conversation he would rather not take part in.

“Aside from the obvious effort to combat information leaks, the logic is quite simple, Ard,” Milar said as they pulled up to “Bruce’s” and cut the engine. “Imagine that, during the next raid, they capture, say, Captain Parela. I don’t know how exactly or why, but suppose that they do. And remember: we don’t have any mind-melting spells. And so, given the Puppeteers’ capabilities, they wouldn’t even need to torture her. They’d just crawl into Captain Parela’s mind, and in there, they’d find not just a treasure trove, but literally a ring of keys to every door of the Second Chancery. And what are we to do after that? Rebuild the entirety of the Black House and its operations every time someone gets captured?”

“Does that happen often?”

“Extremely rarely,” Milar shrugged. “But that’s not the point, Ard. The point is that with higher stakes and more dangerous enemies, the risks are greater as well. And those risks need to be cut down. In our case, it’s done by rationing information. Those operatives who went with you to Angel’s Tear knew nothing at all, Ard. Absolutely nothing. And they didn’t ask questions. I’m not saying you shouldn’t ask anything. It’s just... The longer you do this job, the more you get used to it. You get used to it and understand that it’s better this way.”

“I recall that you mentioned how the Black House has an urgency ranking system that a lot depends on.”

“Yes, we do,” Milar replied with a dim smile. “Though it no longer applies to us, actually.”

“Why not?”

“Because now it’s a matter of state importance, Ard,” Milar said dryly and calmly, but with a certain weight to it.

“And what about the fact that the Colonel told us that we can rely only on ourselves?”

“Sure, but it’s the entire capital, Ard,” Milar clarified. “It’s not like we’re the only ones working on this case in the entire capital and across the country itself.”

“So why did I have to go to Larand and Angel’s Tear?”

“Think back on what I said a few seconds ago,” Milar brushed him off wearily. “We can’t share information with just anyone. Both because of moles, and also because...”

“It increases the risk.”

“Exactly. And the Puppeteers are already at least fifty years ahead of us. Not fifty weeks or even months, but years! Do you have any idea how many resources and how much time that is?” The captain ran a hand over his face as if he were trying to wipe away all the weight of the problems pressing down on him. “And if you add in the Colonel’s suspicions that the Puppeteers are involved in the ongoing weakening of the Black House, then...”

“Then it turns out they have variables... their own people,” Ardi corrected himself on the spot. “In Parliament.”

“In all three Chambers,” Milar rumbled, closing his eyes. “And in the Ministries. And in the local governments in the provinces. And in the army. And in the Guilds. Most likely in the Six as well. And the Narikhman. Now do you understand why the information is strictly portioned out? Only two people in the country—the Colonel and His Imperial Majesty—likely have the full picture.”

“So how do we work, then?”

“By following orders,” Milar gave him a little shrug. “Follow orders and use your head so you don’t have to use your ass.”

It sounded... perfectly logical and even natural, but also very... unusual to someone who had been taught since childhood to figure out everything on his own and rely only on himself. It was unusual and, in some ways, unpleasant. But Ardi also understood that his dislike of it was motivated by personal reasons, not objective facts.

“And what are our current orders?”

“Continue working,” Milar rolled down the window and exposed his face to the cold wind of the Swallow Ocean. “We wait for the Dandy to get in touch with you.”

“If he keeps his word.”

“He will, Magister, you can count on that... In the meantime, you attend the Grand University, hone your skills in the Arena, tinker with your research, and wait for the day when I arrive on your doorstep—perhaps not on a white horse—looking all handsome in my full regalia, and share no new information with you.”

“Sounds encouraging.”

“It sounds, Magister, like a hint that you should refrain from taking any initiative from now on,” Milar whistled. “You’ve got a signal medallion. If, by the grace and will of the Eternal Angels, a piece of the mosaic falls into your lap, you call me. We’ll figure it out together. Understood?”

“Understood... Oh, by the way,” the young man exclaimed suddenly. “How did Mshisty’s message overtake the train?”

Milar closed the window and started the engine again.

“The Black House has a way to communicate with the capital. It doesn’t work over a very long distance. Up to a thousand kilometers at most. No farther than that. And it costs so much that-”

“A summoning spell,” Ardi interrupted him, nodding.

Milar choked and looked at Ardi in surprise.

“I thought about that too,” the young man said matter-of-factly. “If you can create a physical object using Star Magic and imbue it with a function, then why not fashion an analogue to carrier pigeons, only made of Ley? But I concluded that the cost for every one hundred kilometers a letter travels in the claws of a magic pigeon would be monstrous. And intercepting such a message wouldn’t be that hard, either. Not to mention the fact that such a method would only be available to mages. Very powerful mages.”

Ardi was already opening the door to get out when Milar’s creaking groan stopped him.

“You know, Magister, I just can’t figure it out—did Aversky agree to train you because of Cassara, or because he saw in you the same stuck-up, arrogant snob that he was himself? Please, do try not to turn into the same sort of bastardly prick in the future, all right?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good, then we’ve got a deal. See you around, Ard.”

“See you, Milar.”

The young man stepped out onto the street and, watching his partner’s car drive off, pondered the fact that, evidently, Milar didn’t know everything either. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have mentioned Cassara’s request. Ah well, such is the job...

Ardi turned up his coat’s collar and walked across the street to get to “Bruce’s.” As always, it was packed with patrons. Arkar, leaning with his back against the bar, was discussing something with a murky, unpleasant-looking fellow whose sullen face promised nothing but trouble with the law.

In a dark corner that was obscured by the bar’s two constant companions—dim lighting and a haze of cigarette smoke—sat a group of orcs. Dressed in jackets without waistcoats, they were quietly discussing something and sipping potent drinks that could seriously harm an ordinary person’s health.

And on the stage...

Ardi pushed the front door open and, hanging his coat over his arm, slipped carefully inside so as not to disturb anyone. In the corner, by the window overlooking the canal embankment, stood a small table meant for a few people (and only if they squeezed in tight). Ever since last year’s Festival of Light, Arkar had kept it perpetually-reserved for one particular regular.

Ardi settled into a chair and just looked at Tess. Her thick mane of red hair flared around her like a wildfire. Once again, like that time a little over a year ago, when he’d first seen her on what was then the tiny stage of “Bruce’s” (the renovations had clearly done the bar good), she was wearing a black dress. It had little glittering specks and a slit running up to mid-thigh. On tall stilettos, her neck bare, she was singing her favorite song, “The Cat.”

It was a simple little song about a cat rushing toward the ocean. Jaunty and rhythmic, it made the patrons close their eyes in wistful reverie, surrendering to memories of the summer that had passed. The very same summer they had been cursing not so long ago for its stifling, unbearable heat, and yet, they now recalled it with longing. They missed the sunlight and those days when the capital had worn colors other than gray.

Ardi sat and listened to the song, which he almost knew by heart at this point, and he couldn’t shake the thought that he was living in some kind of dream. A dream born of a fevered, mad mind. It seemed like, only moments ago, he’d been in the saddle, galloping across the hills somewhere between the ocean and the Dancing Peninsula. He had beheld the horrors of what happened when Star Magic and the art of the Aean’Hane were twisted. He had heard the whistling of bullets and the thunder of spells, and now...

He was here again. In the heart of the Empire. Where glasses chimed, jazz kept the beat, and a red-haired singer performed on the stage.

After signing a contract with Arthur “the Dandy” Belsky, Tess no longer needed to put on shows at “Bruce’s,” but she unfailingly agreed to do so whenever Arkar invited her. Perhaps, deep beneath her aversion to the orcish mobsters, she felt the same way about the jazz bar and its somewhat rowdy-yet-earnest crowd as Ardi did.

And what did he feel about it, exactly?

The young man watched his fiancée and smiled. He didn’t even know why. His heart had steadied its restless pace, his heavy thoughts had evaporated, and a sense of peace settled over his soul. Peace. Light and effortless. It was like the surface of a lake untouched by winds or storms.

Peace.

“A round of applause for our now not-so-regular, but still very much beloved guest!” one of the orcs, who was standing a little way from the bar, shouted into a Ley-microphone. He doubled as the bouncer and the master of ceremonies for the local jazz bands. “The magnificent Tess! And of course, don’t miss her next concert in Baliero! By the way, my dear Tess, when will you grace us with your presence on the big stage again?”

If not for the wet-parchment color of his skin, his small tusks (indicating that he was on the younger side), and sharp fangs, not to mention the fact that he was two meters and thirty centimeters tall and nearly two hundred kilos of lean muscle, Gazrgargazar could have been mistaken for a gentleman of high society. That was how well he spoke.

“In the middle of the next month, my dear Gazar,” Tess replied with a smile of her own. “Tickets are already on sale at the theater box office, and now, if you’ll excuse me, my future husband has returned to me.”

And the girl, stepping down from the stage—leaving the musicians to pack up their instruments to the dissatisfied but good-natured hoots of the male part of the audience—came over to Ard. She grabbed him by the wrist and, still smiling and laughing, pulled him toward an unremarkable door that led to the staircases.

As soon as the door shut behind them, they embraced tightly and warmly. They did so in complete silence, not saying a word. They just held each other close, breathed in the familiar scent of a loved one, and silently basked in the warmth they generously gave one another—asking nothing in return, yet receiving the very same in kind, and even more besides.

“It feels like I never got an answer to my question from last time, dear—did you get the role?” Ardi asked, breathing her in, his cheek buried in her thick, fiery hair.

“Come along, Ardi-the-wizard,” was all Tess replied with. “You’ll get no celebratory dinner now, sorry—I ate it all myself. By the way! I even drank the celebratory glass of wine! And I did that without you, too!”

By her tone, it was clear that the girl was teasing and flirting with him rather than expressing any real displeasure. Yes, she obviously still felt a twinge of it, as any living person would, but it was buried so deep and made so little difference that Tess herself paid it no mind.

They flew up to the top floor, unlocked the door, and stepped into their small, somewhat cramped, but oh-so-cozy apartment. They kicked off their shoes without bothering to put them on the rack, tossed aside Ardi’s coat and satchel, and let his staff and grimoire tumble onto the shoe cupboard. Still holding hands, they moved into the kitchen.

Barefoot—one of them in a travel-worn suit dusty from the road, the other in a stage outfit and makeup—they set about preparing their usual “dinner.” It wasn’t often that they managed to cook a proper meal together, as the pace of their young lives rarely aligned. And if they ever did get an evening off at the same time, they tried to spend it not at home, but out somewhere in the city.

But even so, without fail, they carved out at least half an hour from their hectic lives every night. And every time, just like right now, a kettle would boil on the stove for their cocoa (diluting chocolate powder in pure milk was too expensive in the Metropolis, where a liter of milk cost around twenty-some kso), and from their small icebox (they hadn’t yet been willing to splurge on a Ley-refrigerator), they would fetch a glass bottle of milk.

Ten minutes later, they were seated at the table, sipping the thick, spiced drink and gazing into each other’s eyes.

“Mister Marnakov...” Tess began, but then narrowed her eyes at him, sighed, and added, “He’s the director from the Holy Empress Theater. Belsky invited him to put on the musical Death of the King.”

“Ah, of course,” Ardi nodded. “I remember you telling me about that.”

Tess narrowed her eyes further. In the time they’d spent living under one roof, Ardi’s fiancée seemed to have learned how to tell when he was using Skusty’s art. In his defense, Ardi did remember Tess telling him about the musical, and he even remembered its title, but not the offhand mention of the director’s name.

“So,” she continued, wrapping her slender fingers around the broad mug, “I got the role of Verensa.”

Ardi almost choked on his cocoa, then he leaped to his feet, swept the joyfully-laughing Tess into his arms, and spun with her around the living room, barely avoiding bumping into the table, shelves and walls in the cramped space.

“Congratulations, Tess! Congratulations!”

“Put me down, Ardi!” Tess laughed.

At some point, they stopped, looked into each other’s eyes, and kissed. It was not the kind of kiss after which, with trembling hands, you tear off your beloved’s clothes and help her do the same with yours—your heart pounding fast… So fast that it’s almost inaudible beneath the thunder of an entirely different feeling.

No, this was a different kind of kiss.

Quiet. Gentle. Full of a completely different feeling, one that neither Tess nor Ardi could yet name.

“It’s not the lead female role, of course,” Tess said, waving her hands once they sat back down at the table.

“What do you mean it’s not the lead?” Ardi objected. “Verensa is the most beloved female character in that story!”

“Yes, but only because she ran away from the palace,” Tess countered, propping her chin in her palm, still gazing into Ardi’s eyes.

Just as he was gazing into hers.

“It suits you perfectly,” the young man insisted.

“It’s a musical, Ardi,” the girl laughed. “Everyone in it can sing and loves to do so. Any actress would be perfect for the role of the youngest princess who wanted to sing and didn’t want to marry some random noble. Especially since I actually do want that role.”

Ardi let a meek smile touch his lips. Perhaps he was trying to hide the blush that scorched his cheeks crimson behind that smile.

“It’s been four days since rehearsals started,” Tess said, running her fingertips along his wrist. “The premiere will be on the last day of the Congress. Will you come?”

In Ardi’s mind, the Colonel’s voice resounded:

“You will assign the Corporal to ‘Operation Winter Guard.’”

“Of course I’ll come!” Ardi exclaimed. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything!”

“Thank you,” Tess whispered softly and, after a brief pause, flashed him a roguish smirk. Not with her lips—only with her emerald eyes. “And since you’ve managed to return... tomorrow, I’m going to the Arena with you. I’ve already missed two rounds! I still haven’t seen any of your matches!”

Ardi immediately grimaced as if he’d just eaten half a kilo of Kargaamian lemons.

“What’s wrong?” Tess asked, noticing the change in her fiancé’s mood.

“Maybe the next round would be better, dear?” Ardi suggested, averting his gaze by staring at the hole in his sock (he hadn’t gotten around to changing after the trip). “There are, you know, three whole rounds left. Including tomorrow’s.”

“Ardi...” Tess said a bit more insistently.

“Sleeping Spirits,” Ardi exhaled, leaning back against the chair. “Tomorrow, I’m paired against a Blue Star Mage, Tess. And I’m a Green Star one and... I just don’t want you to see me not just lose, but... I don’t know.”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Tess drawled with that same warm, light smile from before. “I never knew my fiancé was prone to pride.”

“It’s not pride,” Ardi protested, and after thinking about it for a moment, he exhaled. “Alright, maybe it actually is.”

“Maybe, you say?” Tess rejoined, batting her eyelashes theatrically.

“Fine, fine,” Ardi raised his hands in surrender. “You’re right. It really is pride. But, come on—why would you waste your evening watching a completely uninteresting and utterly pointless duel?”

Tess reached out and touched his cheek.

“Because I missed you, my very clever but sometimes equally silly Ardi-the-wizard.”

The young man closed his eyes and gently pressed her warm, soft hand between his cheek and shoulder.

“Yeah... I missed you too.”