Matabar

"Hello, my dear friend.

I can't say that these last few days have been drastically different from the ones before. I still spend most of my time with tutors and nannies. And while I can still tolerate the former, the nannies… With their 'Your Imperial Highness' this, 'Your Imperial Highness' that… I understand that they're only doing their job, but... I suppose I just miss Tatiana. For some reason, Mother and Father didn't bring her to the palace. Why — I have no idea.

As for recent events, I once again attended a ball in honor of... to be honest, I don't even remember whom exactly. I think it was the Crown Prince of Skaldavin… or was that last month? Ah, right! It was the son of Asalio Liradi. Supposedly, he owns half the trade fleet of Foria.

Father and Mother never say it outright, but I'm already fourteen, so I understand that all these balls and receptions, among other things, serve as a form of matchmaking. Don't get me wrong, my dear friend. I realize that I have no real say in the matter, and my marriage is and will always be a purely political arrangement, perhaps even economic.

Sometimes, while reading old books, I can't help but smile at how many similarities I can see between myself and some tribal cow. They would lead the poor creature to the market in order to pair her with the mightiest and most lucrative bull. And me... Maybe I should gain some weight? So the resemblance becomes unmistakable?

Forgive my unpleasant humor. Lately, I've taken to hiding behind jokes more and more often. And perhaps that's why I snap at all those I mentioned at the beginning of this letter.

Only my lessons with Urnosov let me forget, for a little while, about that diadem I have to wear almost every third evening… and about those I must dance with at least once. Proper etiquette demands it...

Not long ago, I finished reading that collection of old Galessian tales from the days before the principalities united under the banners of the First King. Thank you for recommending them. Indeed, for those two days at least, I managed to escape this endless Palace of the Kings of the Past.

You know, even though we've been living here for nine months now, I still couldn't say with any real certainty that I am able to find my way back to my own chambers without a guide. And more and more, it feels to me like, although nearly a thousand courtiers live here, the palace itself remains empty. Like a hat with holes in it, left on a shelf…

Funnily enough, I've never seen a hat with holes in it, and I can't even understand why a hat would lie on a shelf instead of in a special box somewhere near the wardrobe. Maybe you'll think it silly, but sometimes, I find myself looking intently at the lamp lights, the glowing beacons of the Guild Embankment and St. Vasily's Island.

I stare, then close my eyes and think — can you imagine it? — about how each of those lights, every small gleam that replaces the stars for me at night, holds its own story. People live in each of those windows… I wonder how they live? What stirs their hearts, and with whom do they compare themselves when they feel lost in the tangles of their daily lives? They surely don't compare themselves to cows… Forgive me, I'm afraid this is just summer melancholy. I really don't like summer in the Metropolis.

Yes, everyone else seems delighted by the flowers, the warm weather, and the gentle surf of the Swallow Ocean. But I don't. I prefer winter.

You know, maybe I should do as Princess Osinka did and challenge my "suitors" to a trial? Make all those who wish to court me demonstrate that they know Star Magic better than I do… It's silly, of course, since I still know almost nothing about it myself, even though I did manage to solve that puzzle you sent me, the one about digging a hole and piling the dirt in one heap. Quite an amusing little riddle…

My only comfort is that Father promised not to pursue the matter of my marriage too closely if I truly do manage to enroll at the Grand three years from now. Nor would he resume his attempts until I've graduated. Who knows, my dear friend, perhaps by the age of twenty-three, I'll be far too old for all these… claimants? However, an inner voice is telling me that even if I remain an unwed maiden at sixty, there will still be a line stretching from here all the way to the Azure Sea. Not for me, of course, but for my dowry.

Though that's true even now.

Sometimes, when I look at all those lights, I wonder if there's someone among them who could become for me what Tess is to you. You know, perhaps one day, I too could enter some bar (though I doubt I'll ever even set foot in one) and meet someone I can't look away from. I think about it sometimes, then realize that it would probably be better if it never happened.

Because if I truly did see such a person, just like in those old tales, nothing good would come of it. They'd still marry me off to the one whose alliance they considered the most profitable.

Maybe if I wasn't so worn out by all these social gatherings, I might be able to talk about this with the other daughters and sons of the aristocracy who face the same problem. Especially since there are enough pleasant and educated young women among them. But I suspect that all I'd hear is something about how, if I'm shrewd enough, having an official marriage wouldn't stop me from taking favorites.

Funny, isn't it? Do all people start thinking about how they have no freedom in their life at fourteen?

Thank you, my dear friend, for letting me free myself from the chains of the palace for a short while and take part in your investigation.

I found out a bit about Trevor Man from the daughter of one of his trusted employees. Apparently, three years ago, just as you suspected, things were somewhat restless at "Bri-&-Man." But nobody knows what actually happened. There were only rumors that management might have their bonuses delayed due to unforeseen expenses. Unfortunately, I haven't learned anything more. But it was thrilling. I even felt — for the first time since we danced so defiantly despite all those pompous faces looking on disapprovingly — something besides the suffocating melancholy that plagues me.

Still, when things get truly dreadful, I take our letters and delight in the fact that I can look out at the wider world not just through the palace windows, but also through the windows of your life.

I already adore Tess, though I've never seen her. By the Eternal Angels, how I'd love to stroll with both of you along the embankment, eating ice cream. Or sit with you in a café, chattering about everything at once, and nothing in particular. Please take good care of Tess and don't worry about what your colleague told you.

I've crossed paths with her father — the Governor-General of Shamtur — only a few times, but he struck me as being very much like Davenport. He's stern and strict in appearance, with a strong and commanding presence. Yet deep down, he's calm, gentle, and full of love. If the Governor-General learned that you and Tess truly found each other and your love is pure, I don't believe he would oppose your union.

Thank you for writing to me, my dear friend. Thank you for telling me about your life. Thank you for discussing Star Magic with me, for commiserating with me over grumpy tutors, obsequious nannies, often stifling, tedious aristocrats, and all my other turmoil. If not for you, I'd probably have asked to move my bed into the library by now, because only among books do I find solace. I suppose I ought to accept my fate and the fact that my only refuge will indeed remain Star Magic — until… until I become Empress, at which point, even that shall vanish.

I wish I had been born later. Not as the eldest child. The second, perhaps. Maybe the burden of a second child of Agrov blood would suit me better…

Forgive me for such a melancholic letter, my dear friend. Summer is almost here, and I can't seem to shake off this gloom.

I await your next letter.

I embrace you and Tess most tenderly.

Your faithful friend,

Anastasia Agrov."

Ardan read the letter once more, then held its edge to the burner, letting the flame catch. The fire gleefully nipped at the paper bit by bit, turning it black. Amid the orange dance of the hot petals, the ink penned by the hand of the heir to the throne, the Great Princess Anastasia, faded away.

At fourteen, she'd expressed her thoughts more eloquently and coherently than most people Ardan had encountered in person, which, considering her education and status, was hardly surprising…

Ardi shook his head.

Apparently, working as an investigator did leave its mark on one's habits — be they human or otherwise. Perhaps that was why the first thing Ardan had focused on was the information the Grand Princess had managed to uncover.

So, "Bri-&-Man" really had faced financial difficulties three years ago… But what could have caused problems for the largest, wealthiest company on the entire planet? An event mighty enough to shake such a giant tree would have had to be huge… The kind of news the papers would never miss.

And yet, no one, it seemed, knew a thing about it.

Unfortunately, Milar hadn't told him the names of the two other magnates the Spiders had set their sights on in time. If those two — Le'mrity and Otarsky — had run into similar issues during that same time, then the equation might've started to fit together at last.

And what a flamboyant group (or groups) they were. Trevor Man was the main manufacturer of Ley equipment in the Empire, and arguably for the half of the world, the weapon factories and enterprises were controlled by Tarik Le'mrity, and the transport empire of Ens Otarsky was a real juggernaut. Ardan had no clue about what had so tightly bound this trio together three years ago, but judging by their actions, they'd surely embarked on some joint venture.

And based on what he and Milar were dealing with right now, it had been a failed venture.

But why, then, had the newspapers remained silent? Even the Emperor and the Colonel seemed unaware of it. How was that possible?

Even so, Ardi could sense it, feel it like the times he'd readied himself for that final leap off the cliff and onto his prey, or when he was placing the last runes on a blueprint. The solution was close by.

And its sweet, soft aroma, laced with the tang of excitement, clouded Ardi's thoughts, preventing him from focusing on the seal lying before him.

Or perhaps his mind had been muddled by Anastasia's own longing. During these nine months, they had shared many of the same anxieties. They'd understood each other from the very first word of each letter and always found ways to offer each other mutual support in difficult moments. Even so, Ardan could not grasp that side of the Great Princess' life.

He was having just as hard of a time figuring out what to do with his own…

"Tomorrow's thoughts," Ardan interrupted himself aloud, finally setting his pencil aside.

Work wasn't progressing anyway — for nearly two hours, he hadn't been able to calculate even the simplest load in the progressive runic link of the free dynamic array inside the second contour of a household seal. His goal was for it to recolor yellow flower petals into white ones, and only the yellow petals, ignoring all others.

Why did Ardan need such a spell? Because it was amusing. And pretty. And because Ardi wanted to see if he could create an array capable of more complex calculations than standard orientation tasks.

Right now, however, he was sitting by the bay window, surrounded by panes gleaming with sunlight, and yet nothing came to mind.

Leaning back against his chair, Ardan tipped his head back and stared at the slightly scuffed ceiling.

Next to him stood a bed, lonely and abandoned, stripped of its mattress and bedding.

He hadn't slept here in quite some time, merely using this room (thankfully, he had paid Arkar rent in advance up to late spring) as a study.

There was a light knock on the door. It was soft and careful, as if the person on the other side was afraid of disturbing him while he was doing important work.

"Ardi," came a gentle, warm voice. "Boris and Elena will be here soon. And Arkar says he's free right now."

Ardi glanced at the blueprint and slipped it into his stack of other notes. "Thank you, Tess."

He grabbed his hat and his staff with its shabby grimoire — which he immediately hooked onto the chains at his belt — and stepped out onto the landing. Tess was waiting there.

She wore a light blue dress of airy fabric. As etiquette dictated, it fell all the way to her ankles, revealing only a glimpse of snow-white stockings and simple shoes, which still bore the faint, old smudges of boot polish. She held a small handbag in her hands, and a fashionable straw hat covered her loose hair. A wide swath of azure silk served in place of a ribbon at the top of her hat, shimmering under the Ley-lamps.

She also had on short brocade gloves that covered her hands up to the wrists.

Her only jewelry was a pair of small earrings, a slender ring, and an equally-slim bracelet in the shape of linked bird feathers.

"Any luck?" She asked, smiling with both her eyes and her voice.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Ardi only sighed and shook his head.

"You need rest, Ardi-the-wizard," she said, taking him by the arm and leading him downward. "Come on!"

Holding his staff in his free hand, Ardan quickly followed after her. The previous night, when Poplar had dropped by yet again, Ardi had completely forgotten that he'd been staying at her... their home. And so a half-cat, half-Vila wearing a military uniform with tin medals had just strolled right up to their bed.

Tess had woken up to the sight of their no-less-startled, catlike visitor standing upright, and had promptly shut her eyes and turned over. She hadn't asked a single question — not that night, nor in the morning over breakfast, nor when Ardi had slipped away with the letter delivered by that Vila to his "study."

Even now, she didn't ask him anything…

They descended the concrete steps together, and Ardi smiled, remembering how, not so long ago, they'd used to bump into each other here. He would mumble something awkward, while she'd ask for him to let her pass and then wish him a good day.

And now…

Now they found themselves in the midst of a hive of activity. Orcs in dark coveralls made of sturdy, thick cloth hammered away with mallets. Saws snarled, nails clanked, and scissors hissed, slicing through rolls of leather and vinyl.

Some were reassembling the stage, others were knocking down walls to enlarge the main bar area, and even more of them were sweating away in the kitchen, from which came equally-expressive and, in a way, voluminous sounds. And at the center of it all, like a fairground showman announcing each act, Arkar shouted orders:

"Move it, lads!" He bellowed, looking slightly comical. The thin-framed spectacles he wore nearly vanished atop his massive face, and in place of his usual suit and vest, Arkar wore the same kind of coveralls over his undershirt. "We have to finish laying the Ley-cable today! Azgraukar!"

"Yes, Overseer!" Responded an enormous, pure-blooded orc whose arms were as thick as a horse's neck.

Clutched between his fingers — more akin to a guard's clubs than proper digits — a screwdriver glinted. He wielded it as deftly as a doctor would a scalpel, fastening screws on the cable brackets.

"Report!" Arkar barked.

"Report what?" The worker looked around, perplexed. "Where should I report it, Overseer? The communal funds? That's closed until the opening-"

"You can tell your girl about what's open or closed, you little whelp! I was asking how your pros… larpro… leprosy is coming along?!"

His coworkers scattered, moving a few steps back and away from the orc with the screwdriver and cables, acting like he was actually diseased.

"Process, Arkar," Ardan stepped in with a smile. "You wanted him to report on the process, not his leprosy… or whatever you said. Or maybe you meant 'progress.'"

"Ah, yeah, that's it, that's what I meant," the half-orc muttered. "How's the process coming along, Azgraukar?"

"I'll have the cable laid out all the way to the backup generator by tonight, Overseer."

"Excellent… By the way, Grarkarar, where is that backup generator?"

Another orc, who was busily carving a notch in the new bar counter for the "beer taps," froze abruptly and went a little pale — making his brown skin only slightly less brown.

"Overseer… I forgot to place the order at 'Dimsky's Generators…' They were on their lunch break, and I got distracted…"

"Grarkarar, right now, you're treading on ice so thin, if I were you, I'd only get distracted long enough to remember my prayers to the Sleeping Spirits."

"Yes, Overseer…"

Arkar cursed in a low growl using the language of the steppe orcs, flipped a page in his ledger, and… froze. So did Azgraukar.

"Az-gr…" Arkar began slowly, emphasizing each syllable of the shortened name, "where the hell are you running that damned cable?"

Swallowing loudly, the 210-kilogram orc, who was nearly two meters and thirty centimeters tall, indicated with his sledgehammer of an arm that was so colossal one could hardly call it an ordinary "forelimb," a certain… direction. An abstract direction leading to a gap in the wall, where a few other orcs were having a smoke break. Massive sledgehammers — three times the size of standard ones — lay at their feet.

The Firstborn, thanks to their unique physiology, often used tools crafted specifically for their size. But for tasks involving delicate universal parts — Ley-cables, for instance — they had to adapt to human dimensions. Given the demographic ratio, that made sense.

Ardi was no stranger to the Firstborn's day-to-day challenges, as even he found it a struggle to buy clothing, fit into a car, find a place on the tram, or stretch out his legs beneath a café table.

"What's in there?" Arkar asked, quieter now and even more menacing.

"A hole," the smoking orcs replied honestly.

"A hole for what, damn it? And I would suggest you think about your answer very carefully."

The orcs exchanged glances.

"Overseer, you told us to bust through the wall and into the next unit to expand the main area. So… we're doing that."

Arkar inhaled and exhaled a few times, very deliberately.

"There's an air gap there, you idiots," he growled, resigned to the reality he faced. "You were supposed to break through that other wall…"

"But we-"

"But you nothing!" Arkar cut them off. "It's no wonder, by the Sleeping Spirits, that we're a gang of scummy bandits and nothing more… Patch that hole and break through the right wall."

"Yes, Overseer."

"Azgr!" Arkar roared.

"Huh?" Responded the giant, who was now cowering.

"Put that cursed screwdriver away before I decide to put it somewhere… inside you."

"Right," the orc mumbled, barely audible, and climbed off the ladder that more closely resembled one of the construction scaffolds around the Baliero Concert Hall than any ladder made for humans.

Arkar turned to Ardi, his face practically screaming, "See what I have to deal with?"

"Arkar, I-"

"I know, Matabar. We need to exchange a breath… to talk, I mean."

"I'll wait outside," Tess volunteered at once. "I'll get some fresh air… but Boris and Elena should arrive any minute now, so you don't have much time, Ardi."

"This won't take long," Ardan tried to reassure her.

"I wouldn't be so sure…" Arkar began, but trailed off the moment he caught Ardi's narrowed gaze directed at him.

Tess only smiled and, with a slight sway of her skirt's hem — it was still enough to draw the attention of half the workers — stepped outside.

"Let's sit," Arkar exhaled, slamming his ledger shut and dropping it on the makeshift bar counter. Or rather, on the cardboard strapped there to protect the finish.

In place of proper barstools, they had hastily-assembled… stools? Before sitting, Ardi gingerly ran a hand over the seat to make sure there were no splinters. He'd already resigned himself to wearing out fourteen suits in nine months — mostly due to work and all sorts of mishaps, but work above all else. Still, he had no intention of embracing that kind of wastefulness just yet.

Sleeping Spirits… If he added up the cost of fourteen suits at Madam Okladov's prices, the total would probably make him cry. That was why, in all likelihood, he would never find the courage to buy anything like that for himself.

Maybe if he started earning a couple of hundred exes a month… which was essentially beyond the bounds of reality and bordering on the realm of pure fantasy. His salary of thirty-five exes and seventy-two kso, plus the stipend of eight exes and forty kso, barely sufficed to support his life with Tess and for him to rent the Spell Market's (where most of his salary went) practice grounds.

And all of that didn't include purchasing new books, accumulators, or tools for Star Magic. On top of everything, with Arkar now being back and the ongoing renovation at "Bruce's," he and Tess would need to buy groceries more frequently, which also cost money.

Ardan was beginning to understand Kelly's complaints about the fact that no matter how many exes one earned, it was never enough. He was also realizing that he needed to find an additional source of income, but that would have to wait until he and Milar wrapped up the Spiders case.

"Before we start chewing the fat… talking about our business, I mean," Arkar said, shoving a hand into his front pocket. He pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, and lit it with a flint. "I'll ask you, Matabar, which of our roles are we taking here when we talk?"

Ardan glanced aside.

Good question…

"Yesterday I realized, Arkar, that I don't really understand the meaning of the word 'friendship,' or how relationships work with people who are not bound to me by blood. So-"

"That's not surprising," Arkar interrupted him, shrugging at the same time.

"Why?"

"Matabar," the half-orc replied, as though that alone explained everything. But upon seeing the confusion on his companion's face, he elaborated, "From what my mother said, that's how your kind always was: you keep to your family and clan. As for everyone else — you have no idea what to do with them. Maybe it's because you're raised by beasts. Or because you rarely came down from the mountains. You butchered each other so fiercely that the blood streamed all the way down to the steppes of the south and the north. A closed-off people you were… are," he added with a note of apology in his tone. "You only interacted with us because we lived, well, right next door. And when it comes to those dwarfs occupying part of the Alcade — not on the surface like you, but beneath it — you never once crossed paths with them."

Ardan stared silently at Arkar. In all his eighteen years, he had never even considered the fact that dwarfs had indeed lived in the western part of the Alcade, which was rich in metals and precious stones, and in some ways, they still did to this day.

"See?" Arkar exhaled a fragrant cloud of smoke and smiled smugly. "I'm telling you the truth. Ask away, Matabar, whatever you want. We'll exchange… Spirits, let's say 'talk,' like we always do."

Ardan thought for a moment, then asked the question that interested him the most.

"Are you all right, orc?"

Arkar choked on the smoke and pounded his chest to clear his throat. When he caught his breath, he stared at Ardi for several seconds. Only then did the corners of his mouth twitch, revealing his tusks in a more genuinely good-natured smile than usual.

"As you've probably noticed, Ard, the Conclave's trial dragged on a bit," he said, his voice still raspy from the smoke. "I came there without a novak… I mean, without a witness. So there were lots of… what do you call it… testings?"

"Procedures," Ardan corrected.

"Yeah… procedures," Arkar repeated unenthusiastically. "In the end, I managed to… well, avoid the shallows, let's say. I handled it all smoothly."

"And…?"

"When it comes to that old…" Arkar placed special emphasis on this next word, and an image flashed through Ardan's mind of Girgarar with a bullet wound in his chest, collapsing to the floor. "…acquaintance of ours… Indgar sure messed up. Who would've thought that he'd also take out — do in… kill, I mean — the Judge of the Conclave…"

Arkar's eyes gleamed, dangerously sharp, like the edge of a honed blade.

"Do you know anything about his family?"

"Indgar's family?" Arkar shrugged. "They lived somewhere on the border with Olikzasia. Then, I think, they traveled toward the Azure Sea by the salt."

"By the salt? You mean they traveled by sea?" Ardan asked. "They headed west by ship instead of over land?"

Arkar took a few deliberate puffs and was silent for a couple of seconds.

"Maybe they traveled by land… I have no clue, Matabar. I barely talked to that rat. Never liked him. And I was right, apparently… By the way, how did he look?"

"Rough, but not so bad that…" Ardan trailed off.

Arkar understood him perfectly and cursed again under his breath.

"Too bad we didn't finish him off back then… What else did you want to know?"

Ardan retrieved the small notebook where he kept his notes on the Spiders case. Arkar cast a melancholy glance at the notebook and Ardan's clothes.

"How did he end up in your gang?"

"Indgar?"

Ardi nodded.

"Let me think," Arkar said, looking off to one side as he dug through his memories. "It was Moargar who brought him in a couple of years ago… Three, I guess, or two and a half… He stuck his neck out for him. Then Indgar spent about half a year doing the grunt work, running minor errands 'til he proved himself."

"And how did he prove himself?"

"He went out on a job with Moargar. At that time, we'd had a little… disagreement with the Dandy. They pulled off their task. Indgar was all but shredded in the proci… process. Not an inch of him was left unscathed. Folks respected him for it."

"And Moargar?"

"Moargar…" Arkar paused. "He died."

"So three years ago-"

"Two and a half," the half-orc corrected him.

"Two and a half years ago, Indgar joined the gang, brought in by Moargar, who died on the very same job where Indgar made his name."

Arkar muttered a curse.

"Listen, Ard, now that everyone knows Indgar's rotten, your words do sound suspicious. But back then, it seemed perfectly… how do you say it… ruling."

"Routine," Ardi suggested.

Arkar waved him off, and Ardan moved on to the next issue.

"Your dealings with the Hammers and Ordargar-"

"You got it in one, Ard," the half-orc interrupted him firmly. "They're our affairs. Sorry, but they don't concern you or your people."

"What if the gangs start fighting over territory?"

"We always fight over territory," Arkar shot back. "What you're talking about is war. And no one, including Ordargar, wants a war. But at the same time, none of us can afford to lose face. So… I've got a week and a half left to take care of this. If I don't find Indgar before time's up, then, Corporal, it won't just be our problem — it'll be yours, too."

Arkar's words reminded Ardan of his recent conversation with the Dandy and… Sleeping Spirits. Ardan was starting to realize that it wasn't just difficult to relate to humans; it was difficult to relate to anyone outside his family or pack. On the hunting trails, everything was simpler, more straightforward.

Perhaps Arkar's mother had told him the truth. Maybe Ardi found it hard to interact with others precisely because beasts had raised him.

"So he's wanted by both of us," Ardan remarked quietly.

"Which means, Matabar, that when you set out on the hunt, give me a shout. We'll split the trails," Arkar bared his tusks in a predatory grin. "And we'll split Indgar, like we agreed before. You get the head, I get the rest."

"We agreed on you getting the legs."

"The legs will do," the half-orc allowed with a dismissive wave of his cigar.

Ardan studied him. Something was off…

"Ordargar…"

"What about Ordargar?" Arkar asked.

"You're friends, but… Arkar, he wouldn't just let you go so easily. In nine months, I've seen him only a handful of times, and heard of him even less. You're the one who actually runs the Orcish Jackets, the de facto head, and-"

"And, Matabar, you shouldn't stick your nose where it's not welcome," Arkar cut him off firmly, but without any real hostility. "We've had our talk, right? We have. Am I glad you're alive? I am. Am I glad to see you under this roof? Always. But I'm the one who wears a suit without a vest, and you're the one in black."

Ardan sighed and nodded. That, he could understand. Aergar had said it best: no matter how friendly hunters from different tribes might be in times of plenty, once the Famine came, each of them would look after their own clan. Their own pack.

Even Shali and Ergar… Despite their close bond, if the time ever came for them to fight over a kill during the Famine, neither would hesitate for a second to bare their claws and fangs. They'd clash as true hunters on the trails.

"Oh, by the way," Arkar leaned across the counter, groped around in some still doorless cabinets, and pulled out two oval boxes that were quite distinctive. "Take these. They're my thanks for the Firstborn District."

"But you already thanked me," Ardi reminded him, nodding toward the storage room untouched by the renovation.

"That was a group thanks. This," the half-orc nodded at the boxes, "is my personal one. Plus, you look downright ridiculous in that advert — erm, 'suit,' I mean — and that cowboy hat of yours."

"Thank you," Ardan replied, genuinely grateful, and carefully untied the cords.

As he'd suspected, the boxes contained hats of a fashionable short-brimmed style. The first, intended for cooler weather, had been made from dark blue — almost black — felt, with a silk band around the top. The other, identical in shape and color, had been crafted from light, airy materials and was meant to be worn in summer.

Ardan carefully, gingerly removed the old cowboy hat he'd worn since the day he'd started working at Polskih's farm. Placing the dear old thing on the counter, he tried on his new hat.

It fit him perfectly, and the band neither pinched nor slipped. Still, the unfamiliar feeling tickled the back of Ardi's neck, as though he were being touched by a stranger's hand, or like he'd just stepped off a train and found himself in a new and unknown city — one he'd have to grow accustomed to.

"Look at that fashionista," Arkar snorted with quiet amusement.

Outside, a familiar high-pitched horn blared.

"I'll take care of them," the half-orc said, nodding toward both the cowboy hat and the felt one.

"Thank you," Ardan repeated. Leaning on his staff, he rose from the stool and headed for the exit.

"Hey, Matabar," Arkar called out just as Ardan reached the door.

Ardi turned.

"I'm glad we talked… and I'm glad you're still in one piece."

"Yes, orc… I'm glad you made it, too."

They nodded to each other, and Ardan stepped outside. Tess, who had been chatting amiably with Elena, broke off and turned to look at Ardi. She glanced at his new hat and smiled with her eyes alone.

"It suits you," she mouthed silently.

"I'd love to say that you look better with every passing day, old friend, but I don't want to lie to you!" Boris called out in his usual cheerfully brash manner.

He wore a flamboyant outfit: a red velvet jacket and matching trousers, a pink shirt, a brown vest, and brand-new leather gloves that squeaked when he moved. And… an automobile. Well, he wasn't wearing it, of course, but judging by the glossy paint job on the doors, the flashy chrome, the whitewall tires, and the folded, accordion-like convertible top of the outrageously expensive car — one might say that the machine was as much a part of his ensemble as anything else.

By contrast, Elena looked far more modest. She wore a summer dress patterned with daisies, a neat straw hat, and was holding a small purse.

The couple's staves lay in special side compartments, but there were only two of those, one on each side. As usual, Ardi had to stow his staff diagonally.

Once everyone was seated — Boris and Elena in front, Ardi and Tess in the back — Boris pulled the gear stick, and the car practically shot forward from a standstill, pressing its passengers into the seat cushions.