Matabar

Behind them, the wailing of the guard sirens began in earnest. Arkar took a sharp turn and climbed a spiral staircase attached to two houses stacked atop one another. Ardi followed him, staying close. He didn't know how much longer he could hide in the shadows — they were eager to break free and dart into the nearest dark nook, or the impenetrable gloom of a storm drain.

While trying to hold on to the twilight that had become his cloak for just a few minutes more, Ardan found himself standing beside the half-orc at the edge of a walkway. Below — like a peculiar "floor" descending toward Girgarar's house — several automobiles had already pulled up. Ardi had never encountered anything like them before.

One of these vehicles was barely larger than the small wagons used by northern settlers crossing the Alсade. It was no more than two and a half meters in length, with crimson stripes on its navy-blue sides. Three goblins in red uniforms emerged from its cabin and into the light.

Next to them, a truck came to a stop as well — only it wasn't big and bloated like an apple pie, but stretched out like a herring. Panting heavily and practically having to push himself out of the cabin... the very same ogre Ardi had bumped into recently stepped out of the truck.

Behind them came a pair of fairly standard "Derks," painted in the guard corps' colors. Orcs and two dwarves got out of those.

Ardi saw no humans at all, and the vehicles of the Firstborn were now completely blocking the narrow alley leading to the house.

Meanwhile, Arkar stood leaning on the railing, smoking a cigar and observing the commotion.

"Form a perimeter," the ogre boomed, casting a critical gaze at Girgarar's house. "Question all the neighbors. Call the crime scene eggheads."

"Yes, Sergeant Boad," an orc saluted.

The goblins, nimble and fast, began unrolling a strip of paper to cordon off the crime scene from any gawkers. The orcs, who were serving as a containment detail, positioned themselves in various alleys, knocked on doors, and generally pushed back the slowly gathering crowd.

The ogre named Boad remained by the entrance to the house; he couldn't go inside without folding himself nearly in half. And so, every now and then, he would instead stoop down, stick his head in through the doorway for a look, then straighten back up and jot something down in his "notebook."

"Is that why you killed Girgarar?" Ardan asked quietly, almost in a whisper, still holding his grimoire open.

Arkar remained silent.

"That revolver is probably quite distinctive, right?" Ardi continued, his eyes never leaving the commotion down below. "Humans likely couldn't handle that kind of weapon. It'd knock most of their shoulders out of joint. And in this neighborhood... The guard will start looking for anyone with a similar revolver." The young man closed his grimoire and hung it from the chain at his waist. "For ogres, the grip is too small, which leaves the orcs and, of course, any Star-born werewolves."

"There are also mutants," Arkar added evenly. "But they don't live close to each other. They're scattered all over the city."

The dark hues of the spring night settled over the city. It was still cold and so damp it felt hard to breathe, soaked through with oil, gasoline, and plans within plans — what everyday folk simply called lies. In truth, Ardan had learned from Skusty back in his childhood that you really didn't need to lie outright most of the time. One merely had to reveal that sliver of truth the listener most wanted to believe, and they would then happily deceive themselves with whatever followed.

Just like tonight's calm, which promised no more frosts or snowfalls, but was hardly any more welcoming for it.

"And of course, everyone knows that you plan to summon Indgar for a trial," Ardi went on. "And that you and Girgarar had a... Well, a close relationship."

"We weren't close, no," Arkar said, shaking his head. He stubbed out his cigar, carefully brushing the ash into his pocket so it left no traces behind, and tucked the remainder into a handkerchief. "Long ago, I did him a solid... helped him, I mean, that is, in a certain situation. After that, he owed me a favor."

"And you didn't need any of the things that you listed out loud from him," Ardan finished just as quietly. "Who else but Girgarar would ask you something off-topic about the Orcish Jackets? So... you called in your favor."

"Gir was always waiting for the right moment to stab me in the back, Ard," Arkar said, his tone as flat as water trickling through a pipe. "We both kept each other's secrets, and we both looked for a way to remove the threat of those secrets ever getting out. I was just lucky enough to find a way first..."

"That's-"

"Life, Ard," Arkar interrupted him. "And life is like that — gray as mouse droppings. I warned you. I'm no knight in shining armor. I'm a bandit and a gangster."

"And I'm an Investigator of the Second Chancery."

"So what? Are you going to arrest me?"

At that moment, in those few seconds he shared with the half-orc who had unflinchingly blown half an old man's head off — even if that old man had hardly been innocent — Ardi understood with sudden clarity why the Six existed in this city, and why the Second Chancery hadn't wiped them out, merely reining them in whenever they overreached.

The young man couldn't arrest Arkar. Yes, Arkar had committed a cold-blooded, calculated murder, but... Oh, how often that wretched "but" had intruded into Ardi's life lately. But! But… Arkar was his connection to Indgar, and Indgar, in turn, represented a way into a far more savage and terrifying forest than the one where a gangster had gunned down an old man.

"Damned Metropolis..." Was all Ardi could say.

"Indgar's in too comfortable a position. He has plenty of time to plan his next move right now. The elders won't convene quickly," Arkar said, rubbing his wounded side. "But once they hem him in on all sides and corner the Conclave — force it into a desperate position by naming Indgar as a suspect in a Judge's murder — he'll have no choice but to come looking for me himself. And that's when he'll slip up."

"And Girgarar will never again be able to reveal your secrets to anyone?"

Arkar nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me the whole plan right away?"

Arkar glanced over his shoulder at Ardi the way Ergar had sometimes looked at him when he'd been just a young, clueless hunter.

"If you want to survive in the Metropolis, Ard, even with your gifts as a Speaker and all the regalia of an Imperial Mage, you've got to keep your cards close to your chest," the half-orc said, tipping his hat, stepping away from the railing, and shoving his hands into his pockets as he strolled deeper into the district. "Shield them from everyone."

Ardi recalled Mart's advice. He, too, had warned him about the same thing... Sleeping Spirits, how different the human world was from the hunters' trails of the Alcade.

Ardi followed after Arkar. With one eye, he studied the district's colorful, one-of-a-kind Firstborn architecture; with the other, he stayed alert so that none of the random passersby could draw a revolver or a blade from beneath their cloaks and surprise him.

Little by little, the world around them faded into the thickening canvas of night occasionally lit by Ley-lamps. Overall, the place didn't look so different from the rest of the Metropolis, if one ignored the cramped streets, the haphazard buildings stacked atop one another, and the fact that, instead of humans and the occasional orc, elf, and dwarf, it was populated largely by elves, dwarves, orcs, and goblins. Ardi even thought he might've seen a couple of horned satyrs, and perhaps another ogre as well — provided he wasn't confusing something like a pumping station for an ogre. All in all, it was a neighborhood like any other.

Its residents bustled about, hurrying on their clearly urgent and important errands. Dogs barked and howled in the distance while cats meowed somewhere in the alleyways and dead ends. Automobiles creaked through puddles, sometimes splashing unwary bystanders who would then turn to curse the careless drivers.

Along the ground floors, signs framed by round Ley-bulbs glowed. During the back-and-forth of descending and climbing, and sometimes even squeezing between buildings, Ardi caught sight of all sorts of things: theaters the size of a bar, bars the size of an opera house in Baliero, restaurants so peculiar in form and theme that they looked more like museums of curiosities, and cafés more prosaic than anything you'd find in the remote corners of Tend or Tendari.

Perhaps that was why Ardi barely noticed that he and Arkar, accompanied by the rumble of spring thunder somewhere over the Factory District, had reached a cabaret.

Its sign flickered, the lights arranged in such a way as to create the illusion of a siren lying on a rock, waving her tail. This was a true siren, too — half woman, her form more beautiful than any elf, and half denizen of the ocean depths. She had a woman's head, face, and torso, but where her legs should've been, there was only a fish tail. She was nothing like those ghastly chimeras the Star Mages had created half a millennium ago.

"Sea Breeze" — that was the name of the place. Beneath its awning stood a handful of figures in dark coats with raised collars, whispering among themselves as they smoked: two goblins, a dwarf, and an elf.

As Arkar and Ardi drew closer, the Firstborn fell silent, regarding the half-orc with thoughtful, almost devouring stares. Then one of them — a very young goblin — turned and headed toward the nearest stairwell.

Paying them no mind, Arkar pushed the cabaret door open. Ardi followed him in and instantly regretted not holding his breath before doing so. He'd been in smoky establishments before, but in here, it seemed like if you stumbled, you wouldn't even reach the floor, you'd just plop right into a thick layer of tobacco smoke as dense as cotton.

It spread across the boards, some of which were cracked with age. Like a morning fog, the smoke wrapped itself around the shoes and legs of the various patrons: goblins with ragged ears that were dressed in colorful suits worthy of Baliero's finest dance halls, hulking orcs who mostly wore vests or knitted sweaters instead of jackets (quite logical, considering the existence of the Orcish Jackets gang), graceful elves so entrancing that the eye could hardly even register what they were wearing, and the occasional dwarf in a strict three-piece business suit, his fingers sparkling with rings.

The smoke climbed higher, twisting like ivy around the wooden table legs before concealing glasses of strong liquor in its faint embrace. It brushed against the red embers at the tips of cigarettes, cigars, pipes, and cigarette holders before soaring toward the ceiling, where Ley-lamps glimmered hopelessly, as though they had given up on shining through the smog.

Along the lengthy bar counter, loners perched on stools of varying heights, chatting with the bartenders who, in turn, shielded rows of squat bottles behind them. Through the haze, their labels and price tags were impossible to make out.

In a far corner, on a round stage near a Ley-powered microphone, an elven woman was singing. She had dark blue, curling hair and wore a dress that revealed her satiny skin more than it concealed it, showcasing a slim, beguiling figure. Her almond-shaped eyes, burning like flames, paled beside her voice, which could've rivaled the mythical song of the siren on the sign outside. A sensuous aura, almost animalistic in its allure, emanated from her. It was potent enough to make one's mind go blank, overshadowing even the famed girls of the Crimson Lady.

But… There was that "but" again… Though the elven jazz singer was undeniably more beautiful than Tess, though her sense of rhythm, her voice, and her enchanting gaze left little room for the redheaded singer to compete — what she offered was different. As for the musicians, especially the orc on the piano and the second elf whose fingers blurred over the saxophone, they were talented beyond question.

And yet, despite all of this, there was not a trace of what Tess' listeners would experience.

When Tess sang of the ocean, even someone who had never seen anything deeper than a pond in a park would suddenly feel the wind sting their face with shards of salt. They'd experience how the air, slightly rank with seaweed and fish, could make them inhale deeper and deeper until their lungs were so full that, almost without thinking, they'd tear off their clothes, run across the scorching sand that would burn their cold feet, and then plunge into the surf's foam, ending up rocked by it as a mother rocks her child.

When Tess sang of winter streets and lampposts, even on a sweltering day, the listener would pull their light clothing tighter around themselves and shiver on their stool, recalling how they'd once huddled at bus stops and beneath awnings, avoiding the merciless howl of a blizzard that had prowled every sheltered corner to lick at you with its frozen tongue, leaving behind a layer of frost on your exposed skin. Only the flickering glow of a street lamp had assured you that, eventually, this endless winter night in the Metropolis would give way to the dawn.

The elf on stage, though, even as she arched her body and wrapped herself around the microphone stand like a serpent — revealing first a thigh, then a collarbone, and even bending so far forward her firm breasts were nearly visible — sparked nothing but admiration for her angelic voice and demonically tempting figure.

She lacked the most important thing in her singing: art.

And so, Ardi, after shaking off his momentary fascination with her, hurried after Arkar, failing to notice that the bracelet Atta'nha had given him had grown even thinner. Once as wide as two of his fingers, over the years, it had shrunk to the thickness of a thread of yarn. Neither did he notice how the elf's flaming eyes flashed with interest and slight offense at this — eyes that held dozens of onlookers under their spell, ready to do anything for her if only she would bend over again, stretch out her leg once more, extend a hand... anything at all.

Arkar pulled out a chair at one of the distant, empty tables, snapped his fingers, and soon, two stout mugs of light ale were placed in front of them.

"I'm not-"

"As you wish," Arkar cut him off before he could finish his complaint, taking a sip of the ale.

From his sidelong glances, uneasy posture, and the constant tapping of his fingers on the table, it was clear that Arkar was nervous.

"Try not to listen to the singer," he said, nodding toward the stage. "She's a half-blood — her father or mother must have been one of the last satyrs in existence. Her singing's like your Witch's Gaze, only its effects are a bit… different."

"Then why is there such a large crowd here?"

"There's cheap drinks, decent food, and you won't see the guards suddenly storming into the 'Sea Breeze' demanding licenses, permits, and all that other nonsense. If they did show up" — Arkar gave a quick glance at the stage — "Liaelira would soon make them forget why they came."

Ardan, after studying the room carefully, realized that not everyone in the bar was entranced by the singing. In fact, it was only a fraction of the patrons.

"For some folks, it's like a drug," Arkar added. "They come here, lose themselves in her singing, and when they leave, it's like they… well… you understand."

"I don't," Ardi admitted.

"Like they just had a good tumble," Arkar sighed. "Sometimes I forget, Ard, that you're still wet behind the ears."

Ardan frowned.

"And don't start with that nonsense about how Matabar are considered adult hunters from the age of twelve," the half-orc said, waving him off and taking another swig of his ale. "Life experience, kid, is not a single brew..."

"Single blend," Ardan corrected him, since he knew the old adage.

"Yeah, that… You see, when I came back from the border, I thought I'd seen all life had to offer. And I had, in a sense! But what happened to me during my first month in the Metropolis?" The half-orc sneered, clearly mocking himself. "I was swindled, dumped out on the curb, and came very close to getting covered in this city's filth. So no, Ard. This isn't the Alcade, nor the steppes, nor the Armondian trenches."

"I've figured that out already."

A flicker of genuine sympathy flashed in the half-orc's gaze.

"Trust me, Matabar, you only think you've figured something out."

They fell silent. Arkar sipped his ale calmly, while Ardi tried not to think about anything at all. After his "little escapade" with Peter Oglanov, the worm of suspicion in the young man's heart had grown into a small but menacing snake, and now, after seeing how Arkar went about his business, it had turned into a venomous viper.

Yes, the half-orc hadn't set him up or deceived him, but he was going to use him…

Just as I'm using him, the young man suddenly thought.

Because if he were being honest with himself, he'd admit that without Arkar's mention of tracking down a lead on one of the participants in that Baliero fiasco and all the rest, Ardan would have stayed with Tess. He would be eating a good steak right now, admiring his… woman, and maybe pondering which seals to work on next.

Only Arkar's pledge had prompted him to head out with the half-orc on this immediate trip to the Firstborn District.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Which meant…

It meant that, in essence, Ardi was acting exactly like Peter and Arkar.

"Damned Metropolis," Ardan repeated in a heavier tone, feeling somehow unclean.

"You'll get used to it… everyone does," the half-orc echoed one of the Cloak's words from when the young man had arrived in the Empire's capital.

Ardan studied his reflection in the faintly-muddy sheen left behind by the burst ale bubbles.

"And what if I don't want to get used to it?"

"Then leave," the half-orc responded instantly, without a shred of doubt. "Or you'll perish here."

"That second option is something we'd rather not see happen," someone said as chair legs scraped and two figures pulled up chairs beside Ardan and Arkar. "At least not before we make our proposal."

Ardan recognized one of them. Indgar.

He was dressed in the usual Orcish Jackets style: he had on a navy-blue pinstripe suit, pearl-white shirt, suspenders, and a slim tie. The only change in the orc's appearance was that his left hand was bandaged, and from the way those bandages were arranged, it seemed like Indgar had lost several finger segments. Purple shadows of exhaustion lay under his eyes, and a coarse stubble that looked almost like sheep's wool dusted his greenish skin.

As for the orc's companion...

He was a completely unremarkable man. He looked both thirty and forty-five at once — it was impossible to tell outright. He had the typical build of someone not shy about physical labor, but not yet broken down by endless shifts in factories or hauling cargo at the port. He stood about 180 centimeters tall, his shoulders broad and waist fairly narrow.

He was clean-shaven, with soft, oval features, calm — almost melancholy — brown eyes, and a neatly-pressed suit without a vest. It hadn't been made from the most expensive materials, but it was still a solid outfit that any mid-level clerk would've worn with pride.

He also smelled a bit off. Beneath the piney notes of cheap cologne lay a pungent, musky scent mixed with the odor of wet fur. Neither humans nor beasts smelled like that... He was definitely a Star-shifter.

"We find ourselves in quite the tricky predicament, don't we, Arkar?" Indgar said, lifting his bandaged left hand and snapping his fingers a couple of times while spinning a small disc in his right.

"What do you mean?" Arkar seemed in no way troubled by the sudden appearance of these two.

A half-blood goblin waiter (taller than his kin, with more angular, human-like features) rushed over, setting down two more mugs of the same ale Arkar and Ardan had already been served. He turned pale and hurried back to the bar, and so did some of the patrons who'd been sitting nearby. Lifting their mugs and plates, a few drifted farther away, while others simply placed bills or coins on the table, grabbed their coats, and left entirely.

The music fell silent. And when Ardi glanced at the stage, he saw no sign of the elf or the musicians there — only abandoned instruments and a single Ley-microphone.

"Ordargar is after you, suspecting you of betrayal, and the Conclave believes you killed the Keeper," Indgar said with a shrug, taking a swig of his ale. "And they're after me too — the same faces, for the same reasons. But," he sighed theatrically and slumped, "now we can add the shrimps who turned my apartment upside down to that list."

"Shrimps?" Ardan couldn't help but ask.

The trio at the table turned to him in unison.

"The guards," Arkar rumbled. "Their red uniforms. That's why thieves' slang calls them shrimps."

Ardi nodded gratefully and fell silent again. The others did too, and an almost painful pause settled over the table.

"I just can't figure out why you're so stubborn, old fang," Indgar said, leaning back and spreading out on his chair. "You can see for yourself that Ordargar's in a sorry state, in both body and mind. So why cling to him like this?"

"I swore an oath to him," Arkar replied tersely.

"Oaths," Indgar snorted, sipping his ale. "You sure you're in the right century, old fang? Oaths... Take a page out of the humans' book. Their word's worth nothing."

"I'm not human."

"Oh, really?" The young orc clicked his tongue. "My nose tells me at least half of you is. I wonder… Did your father have such a massive cock that he could satisfy your lustful mother, or was your mother so hideous that none of the Whispering Hoof would have her?"

Arkar didn't even lift an eyebrow, but his gaze carried a death sentence. Ardan was certain that, no matter what happened, no matter where their conversation led or what the Conclave decided — if they even reached it — Indgar was a dead man walking. He was speaking, breathing, drinking ale, and had no idea he was nothing more than a living corpse. Even if Indgar wound up in the Black House, Arkar would find a way to settle the score.

"Staying quiet, half-blood?" Indgar sneered. "Fine. Truth is, I have no interest in you. You're a dead man anyway. You won't make it to the Conclave. I came here for another reason." The orc turned toward Ardan. "Speaker," he said with apparent respect, though it was clearly feigned. "I don't know what Arkar might've promised you, but… you're both barking up the wrong tree."

"The wrong tree?" Ardan echoed.

"To start with…" Indgar flipped the little disc he'd been toying with and then slapped it down onto the table. It was an ordinary piece of metal engraved with a complex seal so intricate that you couldn't decipher it without a thorough analysis and a good grasp of vector principles. But Ardi did notice one detail… "This will ensure your pesky Cloak friends don't interrupt our conversation, Speaker."

Silence fell over the table again, and the Star-shifter offered them a thin smile, clearly enjoying the tension. Only Arkar looked somewhat stunned.

"You two are quite a pair," Indgar went on, his grin sly. "The right hand has no idea what the left is doing… Arkar, old fang, your precious Speaker called in the Cloaks as soon as you stepped foot inside the 'Breeze.' Well, he tried to, anyways. We" — Indgar tapped the metal disc on the table — "prevented it. And now the Cloaks are heading someplace else… What, you didn't really think we'd fail to figure out how to break Aversky's latest invention, did you?"

Ardan kept his face impassive. Either Indgar really knew a lot, or he was putting on a show. In any case, this orc needed to be taken to the Black House eventually. But first…

Ardan looked Indgar right in the eye. As deeply as he could. And-

The young man clutched his head, jerking it to the side. Something sharp had pierced his mind, skewering his consciousness through and through. If he hadn't looked away right then, he would have been badly hurt.

"The Witch's Gaze isn't something you should rely on, Speaker," Indgar remarked, "not when you're wandering the strands of the web."

Ardan wiped his face clean and turned back to Indgar. "Wandering the strands of the web…" It was unlikely to be a random metaphor from an orc not prone to poetry; more likely, it was a clumsy hint at the involvement of the Order of the Spider.

Indgar was practically reveling in the scene unfolding before him: Arkar and Ardan were both as tense as a drawn bow, while the shapeshifter was calmly sipping his ale. And there Indgar sat — a young orc with a demeanor more imperious than both Ordargar and the Dandy put together.

"Lisa?" Ardan asked.

"No idea," Indgar dismissed the question, waving a hand. "I had nothing to do with your sweet doormat hired by Oglanov or with Baliero."

Indgar's heartbeat was steady, his breathing utterly calm. He wasn't lying. Or he was lying with perfect skill.

"My task," Indgar went on, "is to pit the Hammers against the Jackets, ideally taking Old Darg and his pet dog — Arkar — off the board in the process."

The Witch's Gaze didn't work on Indgar, so why was he spilling everything so openly?

"The ale's good here, isn't it?" The orc raised his mug and wet his lips. "There's a hint of ginger. An interesting aftertaste."

Arkar, calm as ever, drew a revolver from its holster and laid it on the table. At the same time, the shapeshifter reached into his pocket, making a show of pulling out… a common yellow accumulator?

"How about I shoot you right here?" Arkar suggested matter-of-factly. "Put a bullet in your ugly mug… your face, I mean. I'd do it purely out of curiosity, Indgar. I wonder if there's a brain in that mouth of yours."

"I'd rather you didn't," Indgar replied, setting his own revolver on the table. It was a five-chamber piece with a twelve-millimeter caliber and looked like a handheld howitzer. "But you're not exactly young anymore, old fang. For all you know, I could pull the trigger first and blow away that ugly half-breed mug of yours, sending you straight to the demons."

They stared each other down for several long, slow heartbeats.

"If you kill me," Arkar said, "Ordargar will know exactly whom to blame, and no matter what you and your masters have planned, it won't work, Indgar."

"And if you kill me," Indgar shot back, "then you'll never clear your name before the Conclave. You'll all but confirm you murdered the Gatekeeper."

Both revolvers were on the table, each massive hand covering the metal and bracing the triggers, barrels pointed at the other. Neither of them moved. They couldn't. Whoever fired first would be at a disadvantage.

"That's what makes this situation so damn delicate, old fang," Indgar said, flashing another grin.

"Enough with that 'old fang' routine, Indgar." Arkar exhaled, sounding a bit weary. "I'm not even fifty. I'm no older than your older brother — whom, once this is all over, I'm sure we can track down."

"I'm counting your age in human years, half-breed," Indgar spat with undisguised spite. "And as for my family, they're hidden so deep in the web that you'll never find them, no matter how hard you search. Not like…" Indgar turned again to Ardan. "Not like you, Speaker. I didn't come here — as you may have already guessed — for Arkar. I came for you."

"I'm a half-blood, too," Ardan reminded him, for whatever that was worth.

"And trust me, if I had it my way, I'd crush you both — the laughable orc wannabe and you," Indgar said with a nod at Arkar. "But my orders are different. I was sent to talk to you."

"Who sent you?"

Indgar opened his mouth to answer but then clamped it shut again, lifting a finger and wagging it in mock disapproval.

"Ah-ah-ah, Mr. Speaker. That's no good… They warned me you've got that special Witch's Gaze and told me to watch my tongue. If I get careless, you might find everything out, yeah? And clearly, we can't have that."

"So what do you want, then?"

"Not much, really," Indgar said with a shrug. "By the way, either of you know if they serve food here? I need to restore my strength." The orc displayed his wounded hand. "Arkar's handiwork. He shot off part of my pinky and ring finger when he left our meeting in a rather rude manner."

"I can feed you your own balls, Indgar," Arkar said icily, "once I cut them off."

"I appreciate your eagerness, half-breed," Indgar said. "But I've got a more practical use for them. Let me spell it out for an ignorant brute like you. P-r-a-c-t-i-c-a-l."Ardan didn't even try to catch himself before speaking.

"In this case, the right word would be 'expedient,' not 'practical,'" he corrected.

Silence descended upon them once more. The orc and half-orc kept their revolvers trained on each other's hearts. The shapeshifter sipped his ale, cupping the accumulator in his palm as if he were lulling it to sleep, and Ardan didn't move his hand away from his staff. If someone had dropped a sheet of paper on the table just then, no doubt it would have burst into flames from the sheer heat of the tension around the four of them.

Ardan could feel the Stars blazing in his mind. Three rays glowed in his first Star (he had spent four on the two shields he'd cast earlier that evening), and all nine in his second.

"We have a proposal for you, Speaker," Indgar said in a harsher tone than before. "Leave the city. Or at least stay out of our way."

Ardan stayed silent, recalling what Skusty and his great-grandfather had taught him: the less you say, the more you hear from the other hunter.

"So tell me, why are you even involved in all of this?" Indgar assumed Ardan's silence was a sign of hesitation. "Why break your back and risk your neck for a bunch of humans? Whose life are you really making better? Those of your other brothers and sisters crammed into those shacks while humans live high on the hog in the Metropolis? No. Hardly."

"And what about you?" Arkar growled through clenched teeth. "What are you doing for them?"

"Maybe nothing," Indgar admitted freely. "But at least I'm not lying about caring for some 'greater good.' I'm just surviving, Arkar. Unlike the two of you, with your grand delusions."

"But you serve the Spider," Ardan said, narrowing his eyes at him.

"I work with them, Cloak. I don't serve them," Indgar said, nostrils flaring. "I'm not some half-blood lackey for humans. And I'm not a Matabar who lost his way, betrayed his brothers and sisters, and even changed his name. Hec Abar, wasn't it? Ridiculous…"

Ardan's wristwatch seemed to sear his skin at those words.

"There's a big difference between serving and being subservient, Indgar," Arkar said, his tone rougher and heavier now.

"Right, right, of course," Indgar scoffed. "Justify your cowardice however you want… Speaking of cowardice, old fang… Want me to spell that out for you as well? Or can you figure it out for yourself, assuming you've still got something of an orc's soul?"

Another lull in their exchange made the air around the table feel even more suffocating than the tobacco haze.

"The Order is giving you a chance, Speaker," Indgar went on. "A chance to walk away from the game. You and your family: little Kena, that sickly Erti boy, Shaie and Kelly, who are growing old… and that singer of yours, too," he added. "It's a one-time deal. No second chances. Next time, we'll kill you first, then every single person you care about. And if you think that the Second Chancery can protect your kin, or that the Governor-General of Shamtur will be able to save your songbird, that might buy them a little time, sure. But eventually — maybe even years later — on the Paths of the Spirits, or among the Angels of the Face of Light, or wherever half-bloods like you end up, you'll know that their suffering, and trust me, they will suffer, is all on you. All because you dug in your heels."

Indgar fell silent.

Ardi's mind rang with a chorus of questions.

What if Indgar wasn't bluffing? What if the Order's men were already prowling through Delpas? What if the Second Chancery couldn't protect his family? What if the reputation of the Governor-General of Shamtur, who practically commanded his own private army, wouldn't stop them from harming Tess? What if he failed? What if he wasn't fast enough, strong enough…?

His heart began to pound. He couldn't breathe. His thoughts tangled and collided with each other, spawning dozens — no, hundreds — more questions.

What if… What if… What if…

***

The little hunter was lying on the paws of his teacher. They had left the cave and curled up in the snow on the Stairs, gazing at the stars burning overhead.

Ergar breathed evenly, warming the little hunter's face with each exhale. The small one burrowed his paws into his mentor's thick fur, watching the glow of the Spirits who had gone on to the Paths. Their eyes looked upon mortals from behind the wings of the Spirit of the Night, just as mortals, in turn, looked back at them.

As above, so below.

The wind blew — cold and ruthless, oblivious to mercy or compassion. That was how the little hunter used to imagine it, a few cycles earlier. He'd feared it and had howled whenever the heartless blizzard had covered everything in its path, creating dangerous, snowy sinkholes beneath which yawned deep cracks. Many a hunter would be waiting for its prey to slip after such a thing. For the prey to become vulnerable. To start truly fearing whatever lurked in the shadows.

Yes, the little hunter had been afraid, too.

"Your heart is beating quickly, Ardi," the snow leopard rumbled. "When your heart pounds, it means your mind is unsettled. Calm your mind, and your heart will settle. A hunter must always be calm. A calm spirit sharpens your sight. A calm mind grants precision to your claws and fangs. And a calm heart strengthens your bones and muscles."

"H-how do I calm down, Teacher?"

"Do you remember the lesson about the thoughts for tomorrow?"

The little hunter did remember. But earlier today, when he'd faced another young snow leopard that had been ready to fight him to the death over a hunting path that led to the ibexes, those thoughts had failed him. He had tucked his nonexistent tail and fled.

Ergar had seen it all.

And for the first time, his mentor had not scolded him. He'd merely turned back to his cave in silence, and the little hunter — unharmed but feeling battered — had followed after him.

"It doesn't always help, Teacher. Sometimes, I'm so scared… Sometimes, I have so many thoughts… I don't know how to hide from them. No matter how fast I run or how loud I roar, they won't let me go."

Ergar extended his long, rough tongue and ran it over the few tufts of fur that covered the little hunter's head.

The little hunter laughed and tried to squirm away. He pushed at the leopard's mighty chest, tugging on his hide, but the snow leopard just pulled him closer with his forelegs, licking the fur on his head and rubbing his muzzle against the small boy's back.

Then he fell still. He froze. It was as if he'd been carved from wood, like the statues the little hunter sometimes found while playing in the forest waters.

"Do what you must, my student. And if you've done what you must — never doubt yourself or fear anything. When you know what must be done, anxious thoughts will depart, and you will find calm."

"And how do I know what I must do?"

"If you get lost in your thoughts, remember the hunters' laws." Ergar tightened his hold, wrapping his tail around the little hunter, locking him in a warm, unassailable embrace. "Now sleep, Ardi. Tomorrow, we'll return to the snowy trails. We will hunt and perhaps cross paths with other hunters. But don't be afraid. Just do what you must. Then your heart will beat steadily, and your mind will remain free of worry. Sleep, little hunter. Sleep, and I will stand guard."

And the little hunter, hugging his teacher's neck and pressing his face into that soft fur, drifted off into a slumber where neither other hunters nor the cruel wind howling around them could scare him anymore.

***

Arkar might have said that, by now, he surely knew the young man who had arrived in the city not so long ago. Ardi was kindhearted and gentle. Not one to argue just for the sake of it. He seldom resorted to coarse language, and never heeded rumors whispered behind his back.

The young man's amber eyes sparkled with a keen, lively intellect — a calm, rational intellect. The sort that would sooner observe a butterfly from afar, trying to understand its nature, than catch it in a net and tear off its wings to learn more.

Perhaps that was why Tess, who had turned down so many others who'd been tougher, ruder, and, dare we admit it, bolder, had chosen this… warm half-human and half-wizard-from-the-old-tales.

Yes, if he'd had to sum Ardi up in a single word, Arkar would have chosen that one: Warm.

Which was why Arkar was so startled when he felt a chill graze the tips of his fingers and saw the cold puff of breath on the young man's lips — those lips he so often, without thinking, pressed together to hide his inhuman fangs. Ardi's features had hardened, his mouth trembling.

His calm, sensible gaze was suddenly reflecting a different sort of tranquility, a frigid and unyielding kind, like ice and snow in the dead of winter.

Arkar, moving as discreetly as he could, reached for the second revolver hidden beneath his coat.

***

His thoughts settled. Quieted. Now he knew. He knew what he had to do. And just as Ergar had promised him back in his childhood, that knowledge stilled his mind and steadied his racing heart.

"You know, Indgar," Ardan said, inhaling and exhaling slowly, deliberately, "I might have taken your deal. After all, what do I care about the Order of the Spider, the Metropolis, 'Operation Mountain Predator,' and all the rest? Nothing. I could have stocked up on Star Magic books and, if Tess had agreed, taken her and left for Delpas. From there, we'd have headed to the shores of the Azure Sea. She'd have sung, and I'd have crafted seals."

"Great idea, Spea-"

"But for some reason, you had to threaten my family." Ardan ignored him. "And you weren't just bluffing — you weren't lying. You really would have harmed them. You and those you serve. Which means I must do what I must."

Ardan locked eyes with Indgar. He no longer saw an orc before him but — like that time many winters ago on a mountain trail, amid snows and a raging storm — a hunter. A hunter who had stepped onto someone else's hunting path.

"You, Indgar, have given me a reason to stay," Ardan went on, his words slow and heavy, each one soaking in before the next. "I will hunt you down. Every single one of you. I will make sure my family and friends will never be threatened again. Not by anything or anyone. You came to my hunting trail, orc," Ardan finished in the dialect of the steppe orcs.

Judging by Indgar's baffled expression, he didn't understand that language. Arkar, however, got the message loud and clear.

As Ardan drew upon four rays of the Red Star from his ring accumulator, Arkar was already leaping to his feet.

Upending the table, the half-orc raised both revolvers, and, though he didn't do so as deftly as Alexander, fired at the shapeshifter's chest. The shots knocked him off his chair and dragged him several feet across the floorboards.

Ardan struck his staff against the floor, forming a basic Ice Arrow. A meter-long crystalline spike shot out from his staff's tip, hurtling into Indgar, who had managed to grab his revolver. The arrow speared his shoulder, tearing the orc's arm off. Indgar got a shot off anyway, but Ardi was faster with a shield than Indgar was with the trigger.

By the time another thunderclap echoed through the bar, accompanied by screams and shouts from the other patrons, and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, Ardan was standing behind a shimmering, steel-gray veil.

Given the caliber of Indgar's weapon, Ardi hadn't bothered with the basic version — he'd used an enhanced variant of the dispersing Basic Shield, consuming four rays of his Red Star.

Even then, for a moment, Ardan had feared that Indgar's bullet, which had gotten caught on the shield's edge, might break through and slam into his lung. But the magic held. The bullet's momentum dissolved, and the heavy projectile dropped to the floor at Ardi's feet.

Indgar, howling and cursing, tried to stem the fountain of blood spurting from his mangled right shoulder with his bandaged hand. Stumbling backwards, he tripped over his own severed arm and toppled over.

Ardan raised his staff again but never brought it down. The shapeshifter — who had taken two large-caliber bullets to the chest — was now rising to his feet. The accumulator in his hand had crumbled into glowing dust.

From each pore, from every cell of his body — even his hair and eyes — a crimson, bloody mist poured out, the same kind vampires unleashed. The sickening crunch of bones and the wet snap of tearing skin sounded, reminiscent of an overstretched string snapping. An instant later, something emerged from that red haze.

Something that looked both like a man and a smaller, upright version of a Wanderer — but with properly-proportioned limbs.

The shapeshifter's clothes didn't even tear. He was snarling now, baring his fangs, with claws outstretched where his hands had been.

Ardan "drank" the red accumulator dry, adding another five rays to his Star, then formed a second Ice Arrow.

Again, a crystal spike spun out from the tip of his staff. It hurtled straight for the shapeshifter's face. But the creature, moving only a fraction slower than a mutant or a vampire, twisted aside and… simply caught the spike, snatching it out of midair. His fingers clenched, and the arrow shattered into shards of ice, dealing not the slightest bit of damage to that Star-born being.

Arkar and Ardan stood shoulder to shoulder, both utterly taken aback: Arkar, because the two bullets he'd fired hadn't left a single mark on the shapeshifter's chest (apart from the holes in his shirt), and Ardan because he had just discovered that a Star Magic spell could be destroyed with nothing but one's bare hands.

"Well, that's a situation," Arkar muttered, raising his guns while Ardan lifted his staff.

But the shapeshifter, faster than the eye could track, blurred into motion and swept up the moaning Indgar, slinging him over his shoulder. With a single leap, he vaulted above the screaming patrons sprawled out on the floor and crashed through the window onto the street.

Arkar and Ardan exchanged glances and shouted in unison:

"After them!"