Matabar

The young hunter was lying upon the dense, brown fur of his biggest friend. Guta, breathing softly, was exhaling in short huffs that made his black lips curl amusingly each time the bear breathed out a warm gust of air. Ardi pressed his back against Guta. The little hunter's lower left paw (unlike other beasts, his limbs weren't front and hind legs, but upper and lower ones) was resting on Shali. The lynx was curled up in a ball beside the bear's paws. Skusty, having taken on the form of a tiny squirrel, had woven a small nest for himself atop Ardi's head.

Ergar, occasionally swishing his tail, was soaking in the last rays of a sun drifting away for its nightly rest. The snow leopard was sprawled out across a massive boulder, chin on his forepaws, feigning sleep. Even so, Ardi knew his teacher was keenly aware of all that happened around him. No one could escape the nose and eyes of the Storm of the Mountain Peaks.

All of them were resting together at the base of a slope where dense forest gave way to thinner, low underbrush. Thorny grass and plush moss yielded to sharp gravel, and above, next to the clouds, the peaks of the Alcade vanished among them. They were silent and austere… unless you got to know them. The young hunter had come to know them, and now he saw in those dark crags and snow-capped summits, in those deep crevices, waterfalls, and rushing rivers… something more than just the empty, lifeless expanses strangers might see, something just as precious and joyful as the forested lowlands below.

A wind was blowing. It was herding clouds already thickening and dampening from somewhere in the west — some far-off place where, in the unending distance, the waves of the Alcade ceased.

"Why do you call them waves?" The young hunter asked.

There were six of them in total in the clearing. Seated near Ardi, poised on a stump that had come up from the earth after a whispered request, was the she-wolf. Her form was at once reminiscent of an animal's and yet also of something Ardi had glimpsed in his own reflection in the water.

She was holding a book in her hands. Beside her, leaning against the stump, was a staff adorned with an intertwining of countless runes and even pictures — ones that somehow reminded Ardi of the images in the caverns of Memory Mountain.

"Because, my little friend, sometimes I forget I'm looking at mountains," the wolf replied. She closed the book, then slipped down from the stump — which promptly sank back into the earth — and came to sit beside Ardi. She, too, leaned on Guta, nestling more comfortably against the bear's fur. "At times, I feel like I am seeing waves, slow and heavy, one rolling after the other, and steadily growing."

The young hunter turned toward the cliffs again.

"But they don't move at all," he said in a disgruntled tone.

"For you, they don't," Atta'nha answered in a tone that was somehow sad. "For me, they move very slowly."

"Slowly? Like old hunters?"

"Even slower," Atta'nha bared her fangs in a gentle smile. "They're utterly unhurried. Like weary ducks."

"Ducks like… this?" Ardi tried imitating a tired duck flapping its awkward feet along the shore of a lake.

Atta'nha laughed and pulled him close. That's how they stayed there — soaking in the warmth of Guta's fur and listening to the bear's low, resonant breathing. They basked in the sunlight, inhaled the scents of a forest exhausted by spring and summer, and gazed at the sky sinking lower and lower.

"By the next cycle, I'll already be a fully-fledged hunter," he whispered.

Ardi was studying his paw. It was much larger and stronger now than when he'd first begun walking the mountain trails.

Guta's breathing hitched for an instant. Shali flicked her tail, Skusty stirred atop Ardi's head, and Ergar — who had been tapping his tail on the boulder — now froze, more motionless than the rock beneath him.

"That's right," Atta'nha said, her voice tinged with sadness. "Did you finish reading those scrolls I gave you during the last dance of the Spirits of the Day and Night?"

The young hunter nodded.

"I read about the names of fiery mountains," he began to list what he'd seen in the scroll, "and the names of rain and wind, of stones beneath moss, moldy mushrooms, nettle leaves, the branches of oaks and firs, and about cedars and raspberries, too. I read about marshes, little rivers, puddles, drops of dew, and everything else your scrolls mentioned."

With each new thing listed, Atta'nha's face darkened a bit rather than brightening.

"How often do you try listening for them?" She asked carefully.

Ardi shrugged. He honestly didn't know where he'd picked up that gesture. The other beasts never used it. And yet, for some reason, the young hunter knew it signaled: "I'm not sure."

"When I'm bored," he answered honestly. "When there's nothing else to do. Or if I think I might hear an especially interesting story in their whispers."

Atta'nha looked around at the others, but they stayed utterly still. It was almost as if… she was checking whether Ardi was telling the truth? No, that was probably just Ardi's imagination.

He wasn't lying. Ergar had taught him that among his loved ones, among his pack, a hunter never lied. It went against the laws of the hunt… even if Skusty had taught his friend how to lie without ever uttering a single false word.

"That's good."

"Is it? Why?"

"Because chasing after names, my little friend, isn't exactly… right," the she-wolf said, choosing her words with great care.

"How come?"

Atta'nha didn't answer right away. She was gazing at the clouds, but her eyes seemed to look beyond them, up to where the realm of the Spirit of the Night shimmered with sparks left by those who had walked the trails of the Sleeping Spirits.

The young hunter felt like he had once seen a gaze like that. In the past. From someone. And…

Tomorrow's worries, he thought.

"Names bring power, little Speaker," Atta'nha said sternly, sounding quite different from just a moment ago. "And great power can weigh heavily on one's heart. It may lead an Aean'Hane onto false trails."

"I remember that you forbade me from studying Dark Names." Ardi shrank back, recalling the only time Atta'nha had been truly angry with him.

"I did not forbid you, little Speaker, I only warned you," the she-wolf corrected him. "Your life and your path belong to you alone, as do your choices. And their consequences."

"Then I don't understand," Ardi muttered sullenly.

"Dark Names can twist an Aean'Hane's essence, embitter them, feed darkness into even their brightest intentions. But… a great power can do the same."

"Then what's the difference?"

Atta'nha fell silent again, smiling sadly, more so than before.

"To me, what you call mountains are merely very slow waves, little Speaker. Yet even I don't know the answers to your questions. I'm merely the Witch of Ice and Snow, the Winter Princess, and daughter of the Winter Queen. No less, but no more. I lack the wisdom to explain the difference."

Ardi looked up at Skusty perched on his head. The little squirrel pretended to still be asleep, snoring in a theatrically exaggerated way. At first, the tiny creature simply ignored them all, but soon, he gave up.

"When you get angry, Ardi, and you want to hurt someone-"

"That only happened once!" The young hunter protested, interrupting Skusty. "And that wolverine had it coming! She was keeping a baby rabbit cornered in the bushes!"

"And so you crossed her hunting paths, little Speaker," the squirrel went on. "Because you thought it was right. You saved the rabbit and drove off the wolverine. And yet, she was left hungry. You took away her prey."

"That was the right thing to do!"

"And who told you it was right?"

Ardi opened his mouth to answer, but then closed it immediately.

Nobody had told him. The laws of the hunt had stayed silent.

"I… decided that on my own."

"And you called upon the shrubs using their name," Atta'nha said, picking up from where Skusty had left off, "and they answered, thrashing the wolverine and scaring her away. Now imagine, little Speaker, that you know far more names. One mighty, True Name that lets you Speak the way I Speak with Ice and Snow, and many smaller names besides, mere shards of that one. How often will your heart urge you to use that power to bend the world to your will, make it match your ideas of what it should be?"

Once again, the young hunter said nothing. He had no answer.

"You can't create good, Ardi, without causing harm," Skusty whispered so softly that only the young hunter could hear him. "And the greater the good you want to do, the greater the harm you bring."

"Then why learn Names at all?" Ardi flung his paws up in despair.

"Because," Atta'nha said, ruffling his fur, "all hunters learn to run, to bite, to chase, to fight along the hunting trails. It's their birthright. No one truly knows who might lose their way and break the laws of the hunt."

"And-"

"And your birthright," the she-wolf interrupted him, "is to be able to Speak. And to Hear. That means you must learn everything you can be taught. That's the dream of the Sleeping Spirits."

Ardi listened, pondering, but… he couldn't grasp what Skusty and Atta'nha were trying to tell him. As he sometimes did when that happened, he decided to change the subject.

"Atta'nha, how come there's not a single book, scroll, tablet, or record that you wrote yourself in your library?"

The she-wolf paused for a moment.

"Once, not too long ago, another Speaker asked me that same question, my little friend."

"And what did you say?"

"That I'd never thought about wanting to write anything," she told him, and before Ardi could respond, she continued. "Then that other young Speaker asked me to write him a book."

"About what?"

"Ohhh," the she-wolf drew out the sound, sinking into her memories, "he loved stories and myths more than anything. He was able to spend entire days and nights listening to them, reading them, then retelling them. Yes, he also loved telling us stories."

The others fell silent again.

"So, he asked me to write him a book about the tales and myths of my tribe."

"Your tribe… The stories of the Fae pack?"

Atta'nha nodded.

"And so I wrote about them for him: about Sir Marenir, who was exiled from the City on the Hill. About the Lakes of Weeping and Laughter, where, in one of them, the soul sinks into nearly unbearable torment that lasts one hundred years and a day, and in the other, it's touched by overwhelming joy that's as fleeting as the glint of sunlight on morning dew."

"Why is it so brief?" Ardi asked.

"Because, my little friend, any joy that lasts more than an instant becomes indistinguishable from a mere shadow — your soul no longer recognizes it as rare."

"All right… what else?"

"Everything I could recall," she said. "The blacksmith who forged a horseshoe from impenetrable darkness, letting steeds gallop across the night sky, and who, from a star's light, carved a figurine that forever glowed with undying flame." Atta'nha listed myths that Ardi thought sounded like they were the purest of fantasies. But perhaps that was exactly what they were meant to be. "I told him of bards whose singing allowed the blind to see the world around them, of painters whose pictures let the deaf hear the songs of festival dances. I spoke of the small spirits traveling along paths invisible even to the Fae, and of the Aean'Hane who learned how to Speak with them — someone so strong that she might have toppled dragons, but she'd never called upon such might."

"Dragons? Do those really exist?"

"They do, my little friend." Atta'nha rested her chin on his head, and warmth flooded him at once. "Dragons were the first creatures the Sleeping Spirits formed from the blood of this world, and they alone witnessed how those Spirits fell asleep."

"But why would the Spirits create them?"

"To guard us. All of us who dwell in the seen and the unseen."

"Guard us from what?"

"No one knows, my little friend. But…" Atta'nha sighed, hugging him tighter, "Sometimes, I think it's to guard us from ourselves."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

***

"Wait, so this book is a collection of Fae tales?" Milar asked.

Ardi nodded.

"You're talking about the Fae that disappeared after the War of the Birth of the Empire?" Milar continued.

Ardi nodded a second time.

"And you can't tell me who Atta'nha is, or why the book ended up in a bank's anonymous safe deposit box, one whose owner remains unknown even to the Second Chancery?"

Ardi shrugged.

"Damn it, partner. Will you just start talking?!" Milar snapped, closing the car window.

They were driving toward the New City, where the sky had been punctured by towering skyscrapers. The streets soon broadened enough that the automobiles whizzed by in eight, sometimes ten lanes, and that wasn't even counting the trams. The sidewalks, equally huge, were packed with crowds of pedestrians, both human and the occasional Firstborn. Orcs stood out, as always, looming like skyscrapers themselves compared to the smaller silhouettes of the other Central District folk.

It had been four days since the Pnev family's anniversary celebration, and the time had come for a visit to the main office of "Bri-&-Man." Or, well, their building, since the company owned an entire skyscraper, from the first floor right up to the thirty-eighth.

"All right," Milar said, lifting his hand. "Let's switch tactics. I'll think aloud, and you can cough if I'm off track."

Ardan stayed silent.

"In the archives, we've found references to how Matabar clans once had Listeners. They're a variation of the Speakers which lacks that special magic of yours." Milar paused at a traffic light alongside a couple dozen other cars. The sight was intriguing, so different from the city center. They were no longer driving on cobblestones but a newer, coarser asphalt. "So, if some existed back then, there must've been others like them. And yet for some reason, they kept disappearing. Then from time to time, they would pop up again — like your great-grandfather."

Ardi watched the New City evening outside. It shone even brighter and more dazzling than Baliero simply because light poured in from literally everywhere, including from overhead.

"So, presumably, someone taught you. An elder Matabar named Aror? Possibly. The Fae? Another possibility. And you say this Atta'nha man is a Fae?"

Ardi almost corrected him — "She's not a man!" — but held his tongue. It wasn't like he distrusted Milar, nor had Atta'nha ever demanded secrecy about herself, but… he felt it was best not to elaborate. Why? Tomorrow's worries, perhaps.

"And you, my friend, are a Speaker. Which means you were trained by somebody. We can rule out the Matabar themselves. Your great-grandfather? Unlikely…" The captain turned slowly toward him, then back to the road. "Eternal Angels… Kid, does that mean a Fae taught you…?"

Ardi quietly and subtly set his hand on his staff. Just as quietly and subtly, with his right hand still on the steering wheel, Milar unclasped the holster of his gun with his other hand.

That's how they drove for a time. Ardi had no clue what the captain was thinking. As for himself, he was thinking of nothing at all, simply marveling at the city passing by in a haze of tall towers daring the sky to stop them.

"I know you've got your hand on that staff," Milar rasped.

"And you've got your hand on that revolver," Ardan answered without looking away.

They fell silent again.

"Damn it, Magister… Don't you trust me?"

"Do you trust me?"

"You want an honest answer?"

"Absolutely."

Milar froze for a second. He kept his eyes on the road, but Ardi knew the captain well enough by now to realize that Milar could still draw and fire in the blink of an eye if he so chose.

Slowly, pointedly, Milar closed his holster's flap, then placed his other hand back on the wheel. Ardi lifted his own hand from his staff.

"You're Aror Egobar's great-grandson, Ard," Milar said in a dry, level tone. "Bazhen regularly sends us updates about your progress at the Grand. And out in the field, you've shown your best side. Give it another few years — maybe three, maybe five, maybe even ten — and one day, you'll become dangerous. Possibly more dangerous than Aversky or Mshisty. Maybe more than both of them put together. I know this for certain."

Again, Ardi said nothing.

"But you also have a kind heart. Couple that with your youth and massive power…" Milar let out a breath. "I'm not sure, Magister. Sometimes, I think Yonatan was right. Maybe you should've been shot back on the plains."

Ardi nodded.

"Thank you for your honesty. I guessed as mu-"

"And other times," Milar cut in, "when I see the way you look at kids or Tess, or how you laugh and get shy, sitting there like a fool, being all quiet, your eyes wet like a beaten pup's, I think Yonatan must have been crazy. Or me. Or all of us in this cursed city are… Do I trust you? No more than I'd trust a loaded gun in a madman's grip."

"Then why-"

"There's an old saying," the captain cut in again, "that from the perspective of an asylum's inmates, the only real lunatics are the doctors in charge. Meanwhile, the so-called madmen are the sane ones. So, perhaps I just want to believe that we — Yonatan, the Colonel, Aversky, the Emperor himself, and all the others — are the mad ones. And that you, and folks like that guard who refused to cover up the case of the missing children — that you're the normal ones… As normal as anyone can be, anyway."

Ardan turned from the window to look at Milar's face. He was a devoted husband, a caring father, the sort of man who would charge, revolver and saber in hand, into a demon-infested house with no idea about magic. In some ways, he resembled Ergar and the other snow leopards from the wintry trails. Milar felt fear, but that fear never stood a chance against the will of this Second Chancery Captain.

"Atta'nha is not a 'he' but a 'she,'" Ardan murmured, turning his gaze back to the city. "She's my teacher. An Aean'Hane. A Sidhe from the Fae tribe. The Witch of Ice and Snow."

Milar cursed, then cursed again. He slammed his palm on the steering wheel several times.

"Hell, Ard!" He snarled. "Demonologists, chimeras, vampires, werewolves, and now Fae, too? Are we living in some cheap tavern fairytale? I haven't heard half these words since I was a kid!"

He spat out a few more swears, then slumped back in his seat, raking a hand through his tousled hair.

"All right… that's better," he breathed, regaining his calm. "Don't worry, Magister. What you've just told me won't go any further."

"Why?"

Milar clicked his tongue in annoyance.

"To begin with, partner" — he put a great deal of weight on that last word — "I don't like you doubting my professionalism. We" — he gestured between them with a finger — "are partners. I cover your back, you cover mine. What kind of immoral dirtbag would I be if I shared your secrets left and right? Besides…" He shrugged. "We're under top-level secrecy ourselves. I'd be fined. And I need to save up for my kids' summer wardrobe — they're growing like weeds."

Ardan couldn't tell if the captain was joking right now, or in general. Milar had a peculiar, complicated nature. But maybe that's what it took to serve as an investigator for so many years.

"Thanks."

"No, Magister, you won't get off that easily," the captain whistled, pulling off the main boulevard onto a side street. For future reference, Ardan noted a monument in the center of the roundabout: a bronze sculpture honoring the Empress and her generals who had fought against Taia and those who'd sided with the Taian forces. "You owe me."

"I-"

"When we unravel this damn snake's nest, we'll get sloshed."

"Get sloshed?"

"Get drunk," Milar clarified. "We'll plop ourselves down — heck, maybe we'll even do it at 'Bruce's.' You, me, Ursky, Erson, Rovnev… all together. And we'll drink until we squeal like piglets. Then, in the morning, we'll all feel ashamed and be in a world of pain."

"Pain?"

Milar gave him a dubious look and then recalled something.

"Holy fuck, Magister, you don't even know what a hangover is."

"I know about it in theory."

"In theory, sure. And in theory, I know who the Fae are… Listen, can't we just track down this teacher of yours, ask her some questions?"

"No."

"I thought as much." Milar's voice was calm.

Ardan felt a flicker of surprise.

"You're not even going to ask why?"

"Is there a point?" The captain replied with a shrug.

"None."

"I thought as much," he repeated.

They drove in silence for a while. The New City could've swallowed five or six Old Towns, maybe more. After all, the capital of Gales had boasted less than a million people at the height of its power. And now the Metropolis had twenty million of them.

Yes, the New City soared mostly upwards, not outwards, but no matter how high you stretched your skyscrapers, there was a limit to what was truly feasible. The tallest building in the city was the Treasury Tower, and the Grand was second (it was also the only skyscraper in Old Town, which made it seem even taller). And yet, even the Treasury Tower stood "only" forty-nine stories high.

"What do you think the Spiders want with that book?" Milar asked.

"I don't know," Ardan admitted.

"There's nothing… special in it?"

"No. That's precisely it, Milar. It's just a collection of tales, myths, and legends. Nothing more."

"Then-"

"Well, there might be one small thing," Ardan remembered suddenly.

"Do I need to brace myself here, Magister?"

"Maybe. But note that I'm not certain — just speculating…"

"Spit it out. Don't keep me in suspense."

"It's possible," Ardan cleared his throat, repeating for emphasis, "just possible that the book once belonged to my grand… uh, to my great-grandfather a few centuries back."

Milar jerked the steering wheel, ignoring the blaring of car horns all around them, swerving across three lanes in a diagonal dash before braking at the curb that separated the sidewalk from traffic.

For a moment, the captain stared blankly ahead into the endless flow of gleaming, speeding, smoke-belching cars — dark, restless little fish surging in the river of this young city's night.

"I feel like having a smoke."

"You're out of cigarettes?"

"Well, Magister, I'd also like to shoot someone, but as you can see, I'm keeping that urge in check." Once again, Ardi couldn't tell if Milar was joking or not. "So, I'm trying to extend that restraint to cigarettes, too. Especially since the doctor says my lungs have gotten worse. He's hinting that it might have something to do with my smoking. But I say, what do cigarettes have to do with anything, given the kind of work we do? These doctors, Ard… all they want is to forbid you from doing something. I'd bet my right arm they'll soon start calling even food unhealthy."

Ardan stayed silent.

"Want to know what's really rotten, Ard?"

"What?"

"That it looks like we're not only operating under strict secrecy, but we're also basically alone against the Spiders. Your mentor, from what I can gather, is out of reach. Your great-grandfather — no offense — probably can't talk with anyone at the moment. That leaves only you, who… doesn't know shit. Wonderful. And out there… out there… if I had to sum it all up in one word, pardon my crudeness — it's whoredom. Rank, reeking whoredom."

Ardan felt the temptation to add that the captain's word choice had also brought to mind the Fae's request regarding their fugitive kinsman.

"All right, let's presume that…" Milar began drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, "that we can calm down and think logically. Like grown-ass adults, not scared kids… So. What have we got, when it comes down to brass tacks? You start, Magister."

The captain took out a small notebook and, armed with the stub of a pencil, opened it to a blank page.

"Baliero."

"There we have the demonic statuette used by Lorlov," Milar wrote the word "Demon" and next to it, "Lorlov."

"Lorlov had artificial Stars."

"And there's also the Star Werewolf involved in the case, one not created or controlled by the Crown. It does feel like they're made of the same dough," Milar nodded and added a few more notes, drawing dotted arrows between them. "What's next?"

"The explosion in the bank and the theft of the book."

"The one full of fairy tales."

"But it might belong to my great-grandfather."

"Or maybe not," Milar jotted a separate note. "After that, you snatched the Staff of Demons away from those foreigners."

"They could be simple mercenaries or members of the Order. Nobody's claiming the Spiders can only be Imperials."

"Right," Milar gave a thoughtful grunt of approval. "And, once again — demons."

"Actually, no," Ardan corrected him before the captain could write it down. "Both Boris' medallion and the Staff of Demons are most likely tied to the School of Chaos, not Demonology."

Milar narrowed his eyes.

"Does that matter to us, or are you just being picky, Magister?"

"I'm not being picky, but I have no idea if it matters."

"At least you're honest about it," Milar said nasally, making another note. "Next, we've got that clash between gangs."

"Which they're provoking between the northerners and the Jackets."

"Think they picked those two groups on purpose, Ard?"

Ardan shrugged. He didn't know the workings of the Metropolis' underworld well enough to guess.

"All right, let's file this under another unknown," Milar concluded. "And the cherry on top — Bri-&-Man. They come up a little too often on this list."

"Or maybe… it's not really Bri-&-Man itself?"

Milar froze for an instant. He blinked. Then a broad smile spread across his face.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again — you could make a fine Investigator someday... Maybe you're right, and it's not about the giant company, but rather Trevor Man and his family's artifact collection. If we look at it that way, then…"

Milar and Ardan exchanged a glance.

If they set aside the idea that the biggest private corporation in the world dealing in everything related to the Ley and Star Magic was behind this, and instead focused solely on the Man family's private collection, then…

"The statuette in Baliero," Milar started circling items in the notebook with his pencil. "Boris Fahtov's medallion, whom we still have to talk to…"

"He doesn't know a thing about it."

"Right now, Magister, no offense, you sound like his friend, not like a Corporal of the Second Chancery…" Milar had hit the mark exactly. Ardi knew that all too well but didn't want to admit it, not even to himself. "Anyway. There's the medallion. Then the Fae's book. And finally, the Staff of Demons. What does that tell us?"

"It's a linear function."

"Of what?"

"An element of the equation."

"Listen, Magister," Milar said, exasperated, "I was a kid back before the Empire introduced mandatory schooling, so do have mercy on me."

"It's a common thread," Ardan clarified, his tone apologetic.

"Better," Milar nodded. "You could've said denominator, though… So. We've got something in common here — the artifacts are involved. Now tell me something. Could that book your mentor wrote contain information about… artifacts? I know that's vague, but it's a hunch."

Ardan might not have developed the same hunches Milar had, but his gut told him that perhaps, for the first time in half a year, they were on the right track — or at least the outline of one…

"It talks about a lot of things, including artifacts, because they're essentially part of the legends."

"Excellent," Milar said with sudden enthusiasm, circling the word "artifact" in his notebook several times. "Our first viable lead in so many months. Let's try to run with it."

"Run with it?" Ardan repeated.

Milar shot him a mischievous look.

"Funny, isn't it, Mr. Magister? All those years you spent studying, and here you are asking me what certain words mean."

Ardan ignored the jab.

"Running with it means we're going to pound the pavement and focus on this lead. That any clearer?"

It wasn't, but Ardi simply nodded in response.

"There are these artifacts, ones tied to a special kind of magic, according to you. Then there's Lorlov and her artificial Stars. And the Star Werewolf. Plus that Chimera… I'm starting to think the Chimera wasn't just there to guard Lorlov… We should probably check back at the port. Maybe they brought in more than one sample of that Tazidahian war machine," Milar added another note to his pad. "Something's brewing here, wouldn't you say?"

"It's just not very clear what exactly," Ardan agreed. He felt a sensation similar to forgetting a word in the heat of a debate: it'd be right on the tip of your tongue, but you wouldn't be able to recall it for the life of you. "If they were searching for some specific artifact, they'd do it quietly. If they wanted to use artifacts to create more people like Lorlov or more Star-born werewolves, they'd have done that already. And a Fae's book of tales wouldn't matter in that case."

Milar tapped the pencil against his chin.

"Then what if… they're not trying to find an artifact, and Lorlov and the werewolf were simply distractions or even, like we suspected, attempts to gauge our response?"

"But don't you suspect that there's a mole?"

"You remember that, huh? Suspicions, Magister, are just that — suspicions. You have to consider different angles," Milar spun the pencil between his fingers, scanning his notes. "What if… they want… to create an artifact? And don't ask me which one."

"Why would they want to create an artif-"

"And don't ask me why, either," the captain cut him off. "Something's still not lining up, Ard. Damn it… if only we knew more about that book. I feel like it holds a clue… We could try asking the Ragman, but that bastard somehow has his own personal army of informants and a handful of priests who pray night and day for his health and well-being. I can't figure out how else he always comes out unscathed."

The Ragman? That rang a bell…

"'You seem to have dropped this,' someone tapped Ardan on the shoulder.

Turning around, Ardan saw a man with an incredibly luxurious mustache curled into two sharp points. He wore a garish tweed suit in a loud shade of purple, black gloves, and rings that screamed for attention, just like his suit.

…And then sold at a much higher price,' Atura concluded, not even bothering to refute Davenport's remark. "Honestly, I don't know his real name. Everyone simply calls him the Ragman.'"

"I know him," Ardan said.

Milar nearly choked on air.

"What?"

"The Ragman came up to me at the ball celebrating His Imperial Majesty's coronation," Ardan said quietly.

"Just because you traded a few words with him, Magister, doesn't mean he'll tell you anything. Even if he does know something worthwhile."

"But we could try, right?"

"We could," Milar agreed, though he didn't sound too optimistic. "Either way, we still need to swing by Bri-&-Man. Just because we've got one workable theory now doesn't mean it's right. We'll check out everything. The company itself. That mutated lady. The Man family's collection. And… son of a bitch!"

Milar jerked sideways, whacking his head on the door. Panicked, he turned his pants pocket inside out. A medallion tumbled onto the seat. It was one of Aversky's. Except this one was a bit larger than the others. And it wasn't just heating up — it was practically red-hot, with an arrow on its surface pointing in a specific direction.

Strangely enough, the searing metal wasn't burning the upholstery.

The captain looked both alarmed and furious.

"Guess we'll have to postpone our visit to the filthy rich, Magister."

"Why?"

Without hesitation, Milar started the engine and pulled a sharp U-turn right in the middle of the street. Blasting the horn, he sped across oncoming traffic, heading for the far lane.

"This is the emergency medallion for our field operatives. One of the squads has issued a distress signal. We're going to back them up… Out of the way, folks!" Milar yelled, foot jammed on the accelerator and horn blaring. "Watch out!"