Matabar

"Wake up, young… man. Or would you rather be addressed as 'citizen of mixed heritage?' I believe that's the legal term for half-bloods these days, following the letter of the law."

Ardan opened his eyes. He did so without much trouble, and just as little desire. He would have gladly slept a few more… Actually, how many…

"It's early morning," the same person informed him. "You've been lying here on your back for exactly twenty-four hours, Corporal."

The man's voice was rough, rasping with the heaviness of tobacco and fatigue, sounding so weary that it seemed like it had long since stopped hoping for any real rest. It also sounded thoroughly... grounded. Stripped of illusions, both about the people it spoke to and the world at large.

Whenever Kelly and Mother managed to put aside enough money, doctors from Delpas would come to Erti. The best of them always had that same tone.

Ardan had even come up with a name for it:

"The Healer's Intonation."

So, even before opening his eyes, Ardi knew exactly where he was and could guess who and what he would see. And he was right. He was lying on simple, sturdy white sheets. The rough mattress underneath pressed uncomfortably against his shoulder blades, the springs prickling his skin. No feather toppers here, of course.

Through the window, which was lightly veiled by a sheer curtain, the bright springtime rays of the morning sun spilled in. They cared not one bit for anyone's inner turmoil, chores, or woes — on the contrary, they offered their long-awaited warmth unconditionally.

At the city gates, summer was knocking louder and louder by the hour. Its footsteps could almost be heard, even here in this long, narrow ward filled with rows of beds interspersed with low, square bedside cabinets.

There were around twenty beds here, though nineteen were currently empty. Ardan found himself alone.

Well, not entirely alone.

Beside him sat a man who was slouched against the back of a chair with one leg crossed over the other. He looked to be about forty, his face drawn and wrinkled, his skin reminiscent of fish scales that had dried out under the sun. His hair was very thick and black, shot with streaks of gray at the roots.

He hadn't shaved. Dark bags sagged under his brown eyes, which seemed puffy with hours — perhaps even days — of missed sleep. He wore heavy, thick-framed glasses with cloudy, stained lenses. It was as though he had long since given up on cleaning them. At best, they got a perfunctory wipe so they wouldn't obstruct his vision too much.

His knobby fingers twitched ever so slightly, and he glanced repeatedly at the bulging breast pocket of his coat. Ardan had seen enough saloon regulars in Evergale to instantly recognize someone who had pledged a part of himself in service to the bottle.

"Everyone has their own invigorating brew, Corporal," the man said. Clearly, he had noticed Ardan's gaze. "Do you disapprove?"

Ardi only shrugged. Who was he to judge someone else's choices in life? Each person lived as best they could. Skusty had taught him that while explaining why one should never put one beast above another, for all of them walked the paths of the Sleeping Spirits.

The doctor adjusted his glasses — Ardi couldn't help wondering whose lenses were dirtier: this doctor's or Professor Kovertsky's — and quickly scribbled something on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. The board hung from little chains that were fastened to the bed rail near the aisle.

Ardan had never stayed in a hospital before, but Erti had told him that this was how these places worked: doctors walking between beds, picking up charts, reading, questioning, noting things down, and moving on.

"According to your blood tests," the doctor said, flipping through a few pages, "you should have collapsed from exhaustion already. So, I assume you're feeding yourself something highly effective, though it's draining you of, pardon my bluntness, every last drop, including your piss and excrement. Your stomach burns through everything like a furnace."

"I'm using invigorating brews based on-"

"I couldn't care less, Corporal," the doctor interrupted with a shrug. Setting aside the clipboard, he took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Don't take it personally. I don't know much about Star Magic or Ley healing. And my few colleagues who do have the required expertise have been reassigned… to those whose names you can probably guess."

Ard could indeed guess their names.

Alexander, Din, and the other Black House operatives injured at the "Heron." In all honesty, that situation had worked out perfectly for the Spiders. In one move, they had swept away most of the evidence while taking out many of those who could have stood in their way.

"And besides, in this place" — the doctor waved the clipboard around in a way that nearly dislodged the clips and scattered the papers — "we don't have much that's actually useful. You half-bloods have mixed physiologies, often entirely individual ones. And-"

"Diseases don't respond to general treatment," Ardi muttered, recalling everything he had heard over the years. "Our blood biochemistry can't be analyzed by current equipment. There's no strict classification. Every case is unique."

"Exactly," the doctor confirmed. "Not to mention that half-bloods quite often have certain… traits caused by the mixing of blood. And if someone in your family line suffers from an illness, that's the biggest indicator that…"

He trailed off. Ardan already knew where this was going. After all, the equipment in the Metropolis was far better than anything they had in Evergale. They actually had equipment here, whereas in that small town in the Foothill Province, there was none.

"What did you find, Mr…?"

"Glarakin," the doctor introduced himself. "Dr. Nazar Glarakin, endocrinologist."

"Ard Egobar," Ardi replied, then, after a beat, he added, "Corporal. Junior Investigator of the Second Chancery."

"I won't say it's a pleasure, but circumstances demand it," Glarakin extended his hand.

Ardan shook it. The doctor's grip was just like the rest of him: shaky, worn out, and yet oddly firm.

"There's nothing dire, Corporal, nothing that might trouble you for the next sixty years or so, until your aging process begins."

"And when it does…"

"When it does…" Glarakin sighed, setting the clipboard aside. "Outwardly, you'll age like any other Firstborn would, but on the inside… You'll experience joint pain, a sharp decline in hearing and vision, and — worst of all — nervous system degeneration that can lead to…"

"Dementia," Ard finished for him, leaning back against his pillows. "And loss of motor function."

"That's not inevitable," the doctor said with a weary nod, "but it is the most likely scenario. Perhaps someone in your family, on your Firstborn side, suffered from something similar, though possibly in a milder form. In your case, the situation is exacerbated by the mixing of blood."

Ardi's mind conjured up a memory of the Alcade mountains and a decrepit, shriveled up old man rocking in a chair on a porch. His blind eyes had stared into the depths of his own memories. His weak hands had no longer been able to hold a staff, and his speech had been halting, incoherent.

"My great-grandfather was afflicted with it," Ardi said softly. "Though we all just chalked it up to old age."

"And who could blame you?" Glarakin snorted. "Firstborn maladies are poorly understood. Same for their origins. While the evolutionary process of humans can be somewhat traced — thanks to archeological digs of early societies — when it comes to the Firstborn and… That Witch's Gaze… It's a bothersome puzzle, truly. It would be fascinating to study how it works and, most importantly, why it affects the biochemistry of the temporal lobe, which handles speech, emotions, memory… everything one needs to — ah, curses. Corporal, this is all rather vexing."

Ardan silently turned his Gaze aside.

The fact that the doctor hadn't introduced himself using all his titles hadn't fooled Ardi one bit. His companion also held a rank and could have easily said he was "so-and-so of the Second Chancery." After all, Ardan could see the Seventh Avenue that spanned a good half of Tendari through the window.

Which meant that Ardan was currently in the clinic located at the intersection of Miner Street and Seventh Avenue — the same clinic the Colonel had told him about in the Anorsky mansion nearly nine months ago.

"But on the other hand, Corporal, you still have, on average, a good sixty, maybe fifty years of youth ahead of you, at worst. Considering how long you've already lived, that's more than most people get for their entire lives. And in your case, it'll be pure youth," Glarakin patted Ardan's leg, then unashamedly unscrewed a flask and took a swig. The smell of alcohol, pepper and garlic drifted over. Indeed, everyone had their own 'invigorating brew.' "All the same, try to stop imbibing that brew of yours. But don't do it abruptly. When you do decide to stop using it, taper off slowly. About one milligram per kilogram of body weight daily. Keep that up until you stop relying on it entirely."

"And what happens if I quit too fast?"

Glarakin spread his hands out, then fished out a cigarette case. It took him a few tries to strike a match before lighting his cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the open window. A gust of wind made the curtains flutter, giving the odd impression that the window itself had sneezed at the smoke along with Ardan, who still hadn't gotten used to the hazy, polluted air of the Metropolis, even after all this time.

"Who knows, Corporal? Like I said, the Firstborn are still poorly understood. You differ from humans in more than just skull shape, skin tone, or minor blood chemistry changes. Elves and orcs may be considered one race — Firstborn — on paper, but biologically, they're two entirely different species. So I have no idea. Nobody does. Matabar, unlike the others, are almost unstudied."

Ardan recalled the Star-born werewolf's words and latched onto Glarakin's remark.

"Almost unstudied?"

"There must have been some research," the doctor said, coughing out a puff of smoke and waving it away with his clipboard. "But it would've been done with ancient equipment and guided by very different knowledge than what we have today."

"And where, theoretically, could I learn more about those studies and their authors?"

Glarakin regarded Ardi with a thoughtful look shining through those murky lenses of his.

"Send a request to the Chancery Archives," he finally answered. "I doubt your rank gives you high enough clearance, but… your situation is special. Maybe they'll tell you something. In any event, I know nothing about those things. What I do know," Glarakin went on, twisting the lid back onto his flask with a grunt and popping the joints of his stiff fingers, "is that among your minor injuries, you had a few hematomas which have already healed. You also had a torn hamstring and multiple abrasions, but not a single fracture. This is good — fractures would've complicated things, even with your regenerative capabilities. Without them, you would've slipped into a coma by now. You need rest, Corporal. Then again, who doesn't? But for you, rest has become a top priority."

"Am I free to go?"

"I believe you can at least try standing up and leaving this hospital bed, Corporal. And you could also do me the courtesy of not wasting my time. And you might-"

"I understand," Ardan muttered. Throwing aside the thin woolen blanket, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His entire body shook, and every motion rang like a bell in his head.

Glancing around, he saw none of his old clothes, only a neatly folded, typical Second Chancery uniform on a chair.

The black, polished, pointed dress shoes caught his eye first. He also saw black trousers with a matching vest and a low-cut collar, a narrow, sharply-tailored black tie, a silver belt buckle bearing the Empire's emblem, a crisp white shirt with silver buttons, and a jacket draped over the back.

With the tailor's eye he'd inherited from his mother, he could instantly see the garments had been made to his exact measurements. It was likely that the suits he was owed by Dagdag and the Supply Department had finally reached their intended recipient, albeit under odd circumstances.

Well, that was some good news, at least. After all, the suits he had taken from the Orcish Jackets were nearly worn out.

Sleeping Spirits…

Who would've thought that the second-biggest expense in his life after paying for Star Magic materials, books, and training grounds would turn out to be the cost of living with Tess (he really should admit to himself that they were already living together) and new wardrobe items?

Ardan dressed and was on his way out when Glarakin called out:

"Try to avoid drinking alcohol, Corporal," the doctor said, taking another swig from his flask. "Despite what some academic circles claim about moderate alcohol intake benefiting the libido, skin and digestion, I'm convinced it only degrades the body. In your case, it might whittle those fifty or sixty good years down to… well, the kind of existence where you're submerged in a bottle."

"I don't drink."

"How long have you served?"

Ardan paused to think about it.

"My fifth month is almost up."

"Five months… and yet I've already heard rumors of Corporal Egobar and Captain Pnev," Glarakin snorted without mirth. "Given how hard you work, turning to the bottle or something else is only a matter of time. In the end, we all seek out a shelter where we can hide ourselves from… the Witch's Gaze. Eternal Angels, Corporal. If you die on duty, I'll make a point of being the one who dissects you. Solely in the name of scientific progress."

Ardan blinked a few times. Glarakin reminded him a bit of Paarlax… and Aversky… and Kovertsky. He was a researcher who viewed the world largely through the lens of his academic curiosity.

Maybe this was what Velena Emergold had been hinting at when they'd spoken at the start of the school year?

In any case, those concerns — like the revelation about the illness lying dormant within Ardan — were worries for another day. He would make use of what Tess had said on that ocean shore.

Fifty years was nearly three times the length of the life he had already lived. Considering all his other worries, it was hardly his most pressing concern right now.

Ardi left the ward and stepped into a corridor that looked very much like the one at the Tears of the Martyrs Hospital where Boris had recovered. Along the way, he passed a few doctors in white coats and caps who were busy conferring and swapping notes.

He descended a freshly-scrubbed staircase into the lobby, where he found his partner waiting on a sofa by the window. Milar Pnev was sipping hot tea from a porcelain cup and reading a newspaper. He'd gripped the cup's handle with all five fingers of his right hand and was flipping the pages with his left. One article bore a headline about a strange acidic gas emission at an old book factory in the Tendari District.

To the right of him, behind the reception desk, several nurses were processing paperwork for a few others wearing the same uniform as Ardi.

Ardan wondered what the Colonel had had in mind when he'd assigned him to this particular clinic. On second thought, the reasoning was obvious enough: if a Matabar half-blood with all his mountain hunter peculiarities needed medical care, it was better for him to receive it in a Second Chancery hospital where, once he recovered (or maybe even instead of him being treated), they could immediately whisk him off to an interrogation at the Black House.

The Black House…

It was funny how, five months earlier, the mere mention of it had nearly frozen Ardan's heart in fear, and these days, it merely brought on the cloying ache of routine weariness.

Or maybe his shoulder blades were just itching from how heavily starched his shirt was. The measurements had indeed been perfect, but the shoes were a bit tight.

"How'd you manage to get hold of these shoes?" Ardan asked, sitting down beside Milar and pouring a cup of tea for himself.

It had a crisp, dark aroma hinting at pine, and was the standard brew favored by investigators.

"I called in an old favor from Dagdag," Milar replied without even looking up from the paper. Then he abruptly folded the newspaper, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Now talk." He paused, then tacked on, "No, better yet, tell me everything along the way. I can't stand the smell of hospitals."

Ardan gave the cup of tea he hadn't even touched a regretful glance, placed it back on the table, and followed his partner outside.

They stopped briefly, and Ardi closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath. True to Mart's warning, the city had greeted summer with storms and squalls, followed quickly by swift, scouring winds that carried the briny scent of the sea on their invisible wings. At least that smothered the usual reek of diesel, smog and thousands of tired bodies.

The flowers were blooming, too.

In spring and summer, for a month or two, certain parts of the city turned into gardens, especially around the central districts like Tend and Tendari.

Violet geraniums were brightening up windowsills with their broad, cheerful blooms. Hydrangeas, pink and white, had ignited the flowerbeds of local squares. Cherry blossoms were winking coyly from behind wrought-iron fences. The heavy buds of deep-pink peonies loomed over shop windows and cafés, weighed down by their own grandeur. Here and there, you'd spot bouquets of multi-colored anemones — daisy-like gerberas and marguerites — huddled shyly together.

The wind coming from the distant eastern lands was mischievously tearing petals away, flinging them into the tangle of Ley-cables and covering the rooftops and riverbanks with carpets of blossoms. It would flood walkways and benches, and sometimes entire awnings, with an enchanting dusting of color. For the first time in a long while, Ardi didn't feel like his throat was getting clogged with coal dust, saltpeter, or engine fumes, but something friendlier… Something reminiscent of those places where asphalt, car horns and mechanical clatter were unknown.

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"Get in already," Milar snapped, rattling the sputtering engine awake.

Ardan opened his eyes, shook the rainbow of petals from his cowboy hat, and settled into the passenger seat of his partner's car. With a groan of the parking brake and a grinding of gears, Milar eased out onto the avenue.

***

"Don't use that Aean'Hane art of yours anymore," Milar remarked absently, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel's leather grip.

They were stuck in traffic near the Martyrs' Bridge. A tram had broken down on the other side, at the worst possible spot — right at the descent leading to Crookedwater Canal. Traffic in both directions was blocked.

City services had arrived, including the fire department, and now everyone was waiting for horses to haul the tram off the tracks.

"If you can't be sure that you won't lose control in a bind — like what happened at 'Bruce's' — that Aean'Hane…" The captain waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Look, Magister, you could wreak havoc and not even realize it. Folks like that end up with a bad reputation… but they won't be telling their own story. The dead rarely speak."

Ardi might have argued that in the Tazidahian Brotherhood — where no one paid much heed to the Ael'Al'Zafir International Pact on Star Magic — the dead actually could speak, courtesy of necromancy.

Yes, scientifically speaking, that was just Ley energy triggering a base-level series of chemical reactions in a corpse's brain and body, creating the illusion of raising the dead and possibly contradicting the doctrines of the Face of Light or the Sleeping Spirits that spoke of souls and the like. But from another perspective, beings animated through necromancy lacked free will or an intellect in the broader sense of the word. They could still carry out orders, with some latitude in how they did so, but they were effectively a biological form of complex machinery.

And then there were vampires, which was another matter entirely…

How did Ardan know all this?

It might not reflect well on him, but over the past few months, especially after the incident with Lorlov, he had somewhat abused his clearance as a Second Chancery investigator. Needless to say, Lisa the librarian — who handled most of his requests — had grown weary of double-checking if he truly needed the specialized and often very… tricky literature he'd asked her for.

"What're you thinking about?" Milar asked.

"The fact that the dead can actually speak," Ardan replied honestly, eyeing the city workers and firemen who were clearing the road so the truck with horses could pull up to the packed avenue. "Any word on when they'll open the underground lines?"

"They can't push the ceremony back any further than the first day of the Sun Month," Milar grumbled, casting a sidelong glance at Ardi. He didn't seem to know whether the young man was joking or not. "So I think you're probably right."

"I haven't even said why I asked."

"Well, Magister, I'm still an Investigator of the First Rank," the captain retorted, though it wasn't entirely clear if his tone was a friendly tease or a harsher jab. "It's quite easy for me to guess what you're thinking."

Ardan arched an eyebrow.

"You figure, Magister, that whoever's behind the Spiders — whether it's a single person or, more likely, multiple people — doesn't really believe the conspirators will succeed," Milar explained, fiddling nervously with a cigarette between his fingers and darting occasional glances at his lighter. "So their whole scheme isn't about time travel at all, but a major terror attack. Something that would shake the Empire to its core. Our earlier theory of a bombing being planned for when the new underground tram lines open" — the captain grimaced, eyeing how slowly they were attaching the ramp for unloading the horses to the truck — "which everyone in the working districts and the New City has been dreaming of… That's shaping up to be our prime candidate for The Worst Day of Our Careers. Though calling your half a year of service a 'career' feels a bit rich… which only makes it sting more, Ard."

The horses were finally led down, and then the next, equally-tedious phase began: unloading the harness straps that were cracked in places, the frayed ropes that had needed repairs ages ago, and the glossy steel hooks polished to a shine.

"So, we have until midnight on the first day of the Sun Month," Ardan said.

"Exactly," Milar replied with a hint of sorrow in his voice. "Less than two weeks… And the nastiest part, Magister, is that no one knows for sure which station the Emperor is planning to use for the grand opening."

"Why is that the nasty part?" Ardan asked in surprise. "If we knew, that's precisely where we'd watch for the attack."

It was just as Ergar had taught him: if you already know exactly where your prey will be, that's where you should wait. There was no point in racing along all the paths in search of dinner if you already knew the precise spot where it would appear.

"Exactly!" Milar jabbed a finger in the air. "If we knew, we could be certain the bombing — or whatever filth they're planning — would happen right there… But the Colonel won't let us so much as breathe a word about using the Emperor as bait. Even if the Emperor himself would probably agree."

"And besides, we can't be one hundred percent sure our theory is correct."

Milar grimaced. Pulling his regulation felt hat low over his eyes, he let go of the steering wheel and slumped against the seatback.

"You're learning fast, almost-Investigator," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Damn it… That calming tea you suggested to me at the start of the year is about to lose its effect. Just so you know, I lost my temper yesterday with our building manager. He came by in the evening to complain that my kids had scribbled all over the front door with chalk."

"And he-"

"He doesn't know where I work," Milar confirmed Ardan's guess. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we don't exactly advertise our jobs. Some of our comrades don't even tell their families what we do, though there's no strict regulation about it."

"So you-"

"I had to go scrub the door myself," the captain cut him off again. "I spent half the evening at it. Then a messenger showed up to say the city guard had received a tip about the explosion at 'Bruce's.' So I sped off to find you. Didn't make it in time, though. Ended up having a lovely talk with Arkar instead."

"I don't remember all the details…"

"Once we dropped you off at the clinic, the orc went somewhere to do his own thing. He didn't say where, but he was likely off to see Ordargar."

Ardan tensed a little. He didn't really understand what ties — beyond the professional — bound the Orcish Jackets' leader and his own Overseer. Indgar had once mentioned that Arkar and Ordargar were friends, though…

"I've got a hunch, Ard: if Arkar can't fulfill the Hammers' demands, the Orcish Jackets will replace their leader… and I mean that literally. Which is also a major problem. Once their internal feuding starts, the neighboring gangs — the Dandy, the Crimson Lady, and the rest — will want to expand their turf. Then…" Milar sighed wearily, all but collapsing onto the seat. "A gang war is about the last thing we need. Eternal Angels above… Whoever's behind the Spiders, they know what they're doing. I wonder how long they've been laying the groundwork for this and covering every front. There's a gang war on the horizon. A conspiracy around the Emperor. Moles in the Black House. Parliament troubles. Foreign mercenaries and saboteurs. Not to mention the Spiders themselves. Sometimes I feel like you and I, Ard, are shoveling only the top layer of a very stinking heap."

"You told me to focus on the Spiders," Ardan reminded him.

"Yes, because that's the most urgent matter," Milar agreed. "But that doesn't mean I can't feel another load of equally-nasty business waiting for our department once we're done. Damn it, maybe we should just let the Spiders blow the Metropolis sky-high and send everything to the demons. Maybe then we'll finally get some time off… Just kidding, of course. Though, like they say, there's always a bit of truth in every joke, right?"

They fell silent for a while. By then, the tram was slowly being pulled away from the intersection. Ardan had lost track of how many times he and Milar had been stuck in traffic precisely because a tram had broken down. From what Ardan had learned, the city had grown so quickly that the technology couldn't keep up, leaving residents of certain districts almost locked within their own neighborhoods.

Yes, the wide streets and avenues of the New City still allowed for free movement, but here, in the center… The load on the trams had exceeded all the engineers' projections, and so they regularly broke down.

That was probably why they were opening the underground routes: there was no oncoming or merging traffic down there, so the trams could travel unimpeded, easing the burden on the roads above and letting people from every district move freely around town.

"Any idea why that mage hid their identity so completely?" Milar asked suddenly.

Ardan recalled his conversation with that Spider, certain that they'd been the chief conspirator.

"Because either they're widely known and easy to recognize, or…"

"Or you know them personally," Milar finished, sniffing and adjusting his hat. "Got any theories?"

Ardan thought about it for a moment.

"None yet," he admitted honestly.

"'Yet?'" Milar jumped on the word with clear hope in his gaze.

"There's a small inconsistency in Ildar Nalimov's personal file."

The captain straightened and pushed the brim of his hat back up, eyes glinting with eagerness.

"Go on," he said, hungry for any good news. "Come on, Magister, tell me you didn't spend all those days poring over Nalimov's paperwork for nothing."

Ardan turned his gaze to the window. He wasn't sure how significant the anomaly he'd found was, but he felt — as Peter Oglanov had said — that a good tracker's nose never lies. This might very well be the right thread.

"I found a discrepancy in the tax reports his cargo company filed four shipping seasons ago," Ardan explained, leaning over the back seat to retrieve his staff and travel bag — Milar had brought both of them along. Unbuckling the clasps of his bag, Ardi pulled out his notebook that had a short pencil attached to it. He flipped through a few pages. "Here it is. In the papers submitted to the tax office, Ildar reported a net profit of 1116 exes and 69 kso for that month."

Milar mumbled something under his breath upon hearing the sum.

"And with that kind of money, he was still looking to the Spiders-"

"But!" Ardi tapped his pencil on the page. "His expenses don't add up. Look, he deposited 440 exes in the bank. Then there are various tax deductions. To avoid being taxed on the full thousand, he reinvested the rest of the profit. Take a look. He allotted 76 exes for management and accountant bonuses. Then he spent 450 on loading equipment. Another 63 exes and 19 kso went to repairs in the loading bay. Then there's the 86 exes total for random costs: fuel for generators, barge maintenance, that sort of thing."

Milar listened intently, then finally said:

"So there's… if my overworked brain can still do math… one and a half exes left."

"Yes," Ardi tapped his pencil again. "One and a half exes went unaccounted for. Since there are a lot of fractional costs here, the inspector who took the report and processed the deductions relied on round numbers, taxing the four hundred and forty exes and writing off the rest."

Milar's mouth pulled to one side — clearly, he'd been hoping for a bigger revelation.

"All right, Magister. Am I supposed to congratulate you on your new side gig as an accountant?"

"I only ever helped Arkar a few times with his paperwork," Ardan huffed, a little offended. "It's really just basic arithmetic and-"

"And one and a half exes isn't exactly a sum that could change anything," Milar pointed out.

"But that was the price, three years ago, when they first appeared, of stuffed teddy bears."

Milar blinked once, twice, then pretended to reach for his revolver.

"What did I say, Magister, about that idiotic habit of yours where you speak in riddles? Which knee do you want me to shoot? Choose."

"Sorry," Ardan sighed. "I recently bought a stuffed bear for my sister, Kena-"

"I know your sister's name, Ard."

"Anyway, I bought my sister a teddy bear. I promised her one on my way out, and... never mind. I talked to the salesgirl. Well, she talked to me. I guess she's talkative."

"And you must be an idiot."

"What?"

For some reason, Milar shifted his gaze to Ardan's staff, then to his face, then back to his staff, and shook his head sadly.

"I'm terribly curious, Magister, about how your mind works. I wonder why you can see everything around you, even the most hidden things, but ignore the obvious facts about yourself."

"Milar, I really-"

The captain just waved him away and said, "Go on."

Ardan blinked just like his partner and, thinking that all this was tomorrow's concern, continued.

"Right, well, I bought a small teddy bear for her, for eighty-nine kso. According to the salesgirl, they used to cost about one and a half exes. And I noticed that there was a torn-up teddy bear at Alice's place."

"All right," Milar shrugged. "So maybe Ildar bought her some kind of… you know… a gift…?" As he spoke, his words slowed and his pauses stretched until he could no longer resist lighting a cigarette. Ardan had known it would happen sooner or later. "Four years ago, Alice and Nalimov didn't even know each other. So he couldn't have bought it for her."

"And besides, stuffed toys aren't exactly a typical gift for a lady," Ardan added. "And there's no way he would have grabbed cash earmarked for tax write-offs in a mad dash just to buy some stuffed animal. That means the purchase…"

"…was an impulsive one," Milar finished, taking such a deep drag he nearly burned half the cigarette in one go. "A spur-of-the-moment thing. But for whose child? Maybe a friend's kid? During a holiday? A charitable gesture for some employee's child? Even so, it doesn't make sense that he'd spend that money so impulsively."

"And if that were the case, he wouldn't have kept the bear around for all these years," Ardan said with a nod.

They fell silent again. The cars ahead began to move at last, and the jammed traffic slid forward in jerks along the Crookedwater Canal like a lazy caterpillar crawling along inch by inch.

"Indgar's family still lives somewhere up north, right?" Ardan asked.

"Narvest," Milar confirmed. "A Firstborn port town on the Olikzasian border — Storm Petrel Bay, I think. I barely remember this since it happened so long ago. When you first brought us intel on Indgar, we sent a group there, but a month later, they came back empty-handed. Supposedly, his family had started moving across the country toward the Azure Sea. I suspect that's a cover story, though. Most likely, the Spiders hid them somewhere."

"Or maybe they didn't hide them at all," Ardan said pensively. "Or maybe it's no cover…"

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm not sure," Ardi replied, gazing out at the black waters of the Niewa pounding against the granite banks of the canal. "I need extended clearance for the Imperial Archive of Civil Affairs, Milar."

The captain spluttered with shock.

"You must be joking. I don't even have that clearance! That's strictly for…" Milar trailed off, choosing his words carefully. "For those of our colleagues who, as I once told you after you spoke with the Head, handle matters we'd best stay out of."

"Politics and international intrigues," Ardan said with a nod. "I remember, Milar. But I suspect that's exactly where — somewhere in the Imperial Archive — we'll find the bit of info that helps us solve this equation and-"

"Untangle this mess," Milar interrupted, shifting gears and pulling onto the road. "Please, do me a favor and say: 'untangle this mess.' Or 'get to the bottom of it.' Or something like that. Anything but 'solve this or solve that.' It sounds… I don't know, impersonal."

Ardan just shrugged. They rode on in silence all the way to "Bruce's." Ardan watched the dark waters the entire time. They kept battering against the unfeeling stone walls of the canal as though they were stuck in an eternal battle between a grief-stricken captive and her stern jailer.

Fifteen minutes later, the car stopped near the bar, which was now barricaded by a wooden fence extending from Markov Canal and adjoining the Crookedwater one. From behind it came the harsh voices of orcs, the pounding of hammers, the rasp of saws, and the general clamor of construction.

Milar turned the key, killing the engine.

"The Colonel gave us free rein, so I'll get the clearance," he said, lighting another cigarette, "but I'm warning you — sooner or later, no matter how careful we are, the fact you got into that archive and poked around is going to leak."

"I understand-"

"No, you don't understand a damn thing, Magister!" Milar barked, then fell silent. "Not a damn thing…" He repeated far more quietly. "For all the budding respect and camaraderie I feel toward you, Ard, you're no investigator. Not really. And even with that leather holder you carry… you're still a trainee. Promising, yes — very promising — but still a trainee. There aren't many wat mages in the Second Chancery, but any one of them could run circles around you. And as for investigators, even low-level ones, there are plenty of them all across the country. You think they couldn't have assigned me someone else?"

Ardan slowly turned to look at him.

"I can see that it's starting to sink in," Milar sighed, blowing smoke out the window. "No matter what you do or where you go, you'll always be Aror Egobar's great-grandson. Right now, no one's pointing that out because you wear a black suit with the Empire's silver crest, and because you're not meddling where the real big shots play. To them, you're just some little ripple on the surface — nothing more."

"But the Emperor-"

"What about the Emperor?" Milar cut him off. "He told you some story about your ancestors? Gave you access to the Matabar file? You really think nobody else ever dug into it before you? That Alexander Taakov's disappearance was casually chalked up to job hazards? Sorry, partner, but if you truly believe that, you might as well quit the service right now because you're not cut out for it."

Ardan said nothing. Truthfully, he'd never given it much thought. He'd always had more pressing concerns.

"My job in the Second Chancery basically serves the same purpose as that phony character reference from Yonatan…"

"Bravo," Milar clapped his hands slowly, sending a dusting of ash onto the seat. He cursed under his breath and brushed it aside. "You're hidden from those bastards as securely as possible. From all the Davoses, the Talises, the Abrailaals… from everyone. As long as the Black House stands, you're out of their reach. You'd have been just as safe in Delpas, but it's less convenient to protect you there since it's farther away. So here you are, wearing black. To be honest, I first assumed I'd have to drag around a promising but still useless load. Instead, you're proving yourself every day and making a huge contribution to the investigation. I'm starting to think that the Head planned further ahead than we can see. Still… Damn it all, Magister, when word gets out that you were in the Imperial Archive, no one's going to believe that it was for the job because…"

"…no one believes in my job," Ardan whispered. "So that's why the city guards…"

"…got an unsigned order for your arrest," Milar confirmed. "Someone wanted to meet you face-to-face — or settle a score — through the guards, thinking you were just some costumed clown. And then the Colonel had to meet with the Minister to cause a huge stir and prove that's not the case. That's why their building was set on fire."

Ardan remained silent. He did understand, finally, everything that Milar was saying. He just wasn't sure why Milar seemed so upset about it. Then again… they were partners. Which meant…

"You don't have to go in there with me, Milar-" Ardan began slowly, only to be interrupted by the captain's gaze.

It wasn't angry or condemning. It was more like the look someone would offer you after they'd just given you a great gift just to be kind, expecting nothing in return, not even thanks… and then you'd turned around and chosen to spit straight into their open heart.

That was how Milar had looked at him.

"I'd punch you, Magister," Milar said quietly, "but there's such an age gap that they'd call it child abuse. I'll say this one last time, Ard: you're my partner. We serve together for the good of the Empire and the millions who live here. How either of us ended up in these seats doesn't matter. And I'm only saying this one last time because if I have to remind you again, I'll be sure that it's all just empty words to you. That you're not here because you feel like you belong, but because… Eternal Angels. I don't know what's in that head of yours. And I don't even care."

He leaned across Ardan, shoving the passenger door wide open.

"Get out, Magister," he said without malice or anger — only disappointment. "I'll come for you once I've got that extended archive clearance. Or whenever we decide to visit Miss Tantov. I don't know. Keep your medallion on and pay attention to it."

"Milar, I-"

"If you say one more word, I really will hit you," the captain warned him honestly. "And you better think about what you'll tell Tess. I'm guessing she won't hold back."

Ardan exhaled, nodded, retrieved his staff and bag, then got out.

Milar shut the door behind him. Ardi heard him mutter quietly, but not so quietly that he missed it:

"What an idiot…"

Then Milar started the engine and drove off down the street.

Ardi stood by the canal, staring at the dark water. Ergar, Shali, Guta, Skusty, Kaishas, Lenos, and Atta'nha had taught him countless things, but never one crucial lesson — something Shaia and Kelly hadn't managed to teach him, either. Maybe they'd just taken it for granted. Maybe they didn't know how to put it into words.

Ardan still didn't know how to live among humans.

He didn't know how to rely on anyone but himself.

Because that was how he'd been raised. Because on the snowy trails and in the endless forests, if you couldn't do something alone, you were as good as dead. It was only your paws, your claws, your eyes, and your wits that could save you from starving. That was all you had in your hour of need.

He still hadn't learned…

He glanced up at the last row of windows near the building's bay. The light was on… Tess, by the look of it, hadn't slept in two days.

He also hadn't learned something else…

He didn't know how to…

Ardan squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head sharply.

He stepped through the gate, greeting a few orc acquaintances along the way. He nodded to Arkar, who was energetically supervising the repair of windows and frames. Inside, the smell of fresh paint, sawdust and aluminum rods filled the air. He stepped over pallets of trash bags and passed what looked like a dismantled stage. Apparently, "Bruce's" was taking advantage of the situation to renovate. After all, they'd be hosting a performer from the Baliero Concert Hall from time to time now… Which would draw a bigger crowd…

Ardan climbed the stairs and was about to knock on Tess' apartment door — or their apartment door — but never got the chance.

She opened it first, and there she stood. Dark rings circled her eyes, her hair was disheveled, and there were fresh scratches on her arms. Her clothes were rumpled and-

She hugged him. She hugged him so tightly that, for a moment, Ardi thought she'd break the ribs that had managed to withstand his escape from the Spiders.

"You knew?" She asked a few minutes later, still holding him, the two of them standing there in the hallway.

Tess was no fool.

"You knew they were watching us? That's why you sent me upstairs and went into the kitchen by yourself?"

Ardi might have used Skusty's teachings to evade the question. He could've even lied outright.

But he chose not to.

"I did."

For a heartbeat, he thought she might slap him. Or slam the door in his face, leaving him forever on the wrong side of this… yawning chasm between them.

Maybe that chasm had always been there, ever since they'd danced on the winter waterfront and Ardi had felt like it would be best if they parted ways then and there.

Back then, he had sensed it, and now he understood it. He understood why.

He wasn't human.

Nor was he wholly Matabar.

And she…

"Let's go home, Ardi-the-wizard," she whispered, running her hand through his hair. "You smell like you've been thrashing around in the sewers. I'm not letting you touch a thing until I scrub you down, or I'll have to throw out half my stuff."

"Tess, I-"

"Don't say anything, Ardi," she pleaded. "If you say even one more word, I'll do something stupid. Something I'll regret for the rest of my life. And I don't want any regrets. So come home."

She released him and stepped back into the apartment. Slowly, gently, she raised her hand, offering it to him across the threshold. Like a bridge stretched over that very chasm.

A chasm Ardi hadn't even realized was hurting them. But Tess had known. She'd spent all this time balancing on its edge, unafraid and uncomplaining, gazing into a dark, bottomless void capable of devouring them both.

Ardi looked at her outstretched hand that was beckoning him into a place he'd never truly been, despite all the times he'd fallen asleep or woken up there.

His heart sped up. Sweat broke out on his brow and along his back. Those cold, clammy fingers he'd thought were gone clenched around his heart. His legs trembled as though rooted in the cold concrete.

Somewhere in the Alcade peaks, at the bend of a mountain river whose frothing rapids were crashing into rocky banks, stood an old house — one that was far too large for a single family.

A home.

His home.

He'd left it twelve years ago and had wandered ever since, down his own trails and those of others, depending only on himself and the lessons his forest friends had taught him.

Ardan gripped his staff hewn from the oak beneath which his great-grandfather had once regaled him with old tales.

That house still stood, waiting for him to return.

But now…

Now…

With great effort, as if boring through solid rock, Ardan took one step forward, then another, crossing the threshold.

"I'm home," he whispered, clasping her small hand.

Now he had another home. This one had red hair, green eyes, a freckled nose, and smelled like the spring blossoms by a mountain creek.

And he'd have to learn to live with that — a challenge far greater than the Spiders or those lurking in their shadow.

She led him into the bathroom, and Ardi felt warmth flood through his body — warmth he hadn't felt since leaving the Alcade foothills.

This was why his Matabar abilities had been returning lately.

It wasn't about the snowy mountains.

It was about having a home.