Matabar

Milar drove as if a pack of starving demons and chimeras was chasing them. He cut across traffic, sliding through even the narrowest gaps between trucks, cars, and trams while running red lights, each time narrowly avoiding getting T-boned by someone coming from a side street.

Meanwhile, the few traffic wardens at the more complicated intersections behind them hadn't even glanced at the black car. Apparently, Tess hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said that, in the Metropolis, you eventually learned how to recognize a Second Chancery vehicle at a glance.

Inside, the stench of burnt rubber, gasoline, and sweat was merciless. Beads of sweat ran down the captain's forehead in large, clear drops while Milar constantly yanked the gearshift and stomped the clutch, brake, and accelerator (sometimes two or three of them at once). The engine roared like an enraged bear as the car engaged in daredevil maneuvers at wild speeds. The captain looked both deadly serious and intensely alarmed.

Ardan had never seen his partner like this — not even when, together with the two operatives, they'd stormed Selena's house in Baliero.

"Open the glove box," Milar said after a few minutes, using a tone that made it so Ardan didn't even think to ask why.

Even strapped in, Ardan was being tossed from side to side. Reaching out, he opened the glove compartment. Milar abruptly shifted down a gear, spinning the wheel like a seasoned ship captain, and took a sharp left turn without slowing. With the tires on the right side practically lifting off the road, the car hurtled deeper into the New City's business district.

The Financial District.

There were more of the same skyscrapers and broad avenues here, but now the new high-rises were alternating with older buildings. They weren't as tall, but were still far more massive and intriguing. Some of their façades looked like homages to the flamboyant architecture of the Central District — complete with pseudo-colonnades, castle and palace-like silhouettes instead of typical roofs, and some even had gargoyles, sculpted mythical creatures, and other "decorative" flourishes.

Ardan rummaged around inside the glove box and pulled out a wide belt. It looked rather like a standard gun belt and even had a holster for a revolver. But instead of a cartridge pouch, it featured small round slots, each fastened with a snap. Opening one, Ardan couldn't hold back a startled exclamation.

"Wow!"

Inside was a green military accumulator. The belt had eighteen such slots in total. Six of them were empty, while the remaining twelve held accumulators equally divided between red and green.

"Keep looking," Milar muttered, weaving between cars like a knight maneuvering on a chessboard. With the speed he'd built up, it seemed almost like only they were moving, and everyone else had frozen in place.

Ardan rummaged some more and discovered a small leather tube that was not unlike a case you'd use for your glasses. Opening it, he found rings he recognized, along with replacement accumulator platforms.

"Lieutenant Dagdag authorized outfitting you the same way we would a Mage Operative," Milar explained, as if this "gift" from the Black House needed an excuse. "Aversky insisted… Eternal Angels, I never imagined we'd need it so soon… Put it on."

Ardan did not ask questions. Struggling to keep his balance in the violently shaking car, he got to work. He managed to yank his own belt free from his pants, then detach the Ley-bandolier from the new belt. After threading it through his old belt's loops while smacking his side against the car door in the process, he fastened it back on. Next, opening each slot in turn, he inserted the accumulators into their respective platforms and, once they were armed, slid them back into place. The slots were cleverly designed, letting you open them and fit a loaded platform into a ring all in one motion. Ardan now had four rings in total.

Two for each hand.

He did find it odd that they'd given him six accumulators of each color when his Overindulgence limit was only four. Clearly, there was some other reason behind it that he didn't yet understand.

"This evening's going to be a doozy, partner," Milar remarked, taking another breakneck turn onto a broad avenue. They practically shot onto a wide stretch of road separating the city from… a forest.

Ardan, mouth slightly ajar, wrested his gaze away from the astonishing view around them. To the right, the towering silhouettes of skyscrapers and tall buildings glowed against the dark sky. And to the left lay a springtime woodland, one that was just waking from its slumber, cloaked in a dusky shawl.

Towering pines reached out with prickly limbs toward the still-bare but budding branches of birches, willows, maples, and oaks.

They were racing along the Imperial Park — Metropolis' largest park that covered an area nearly one and a half times the size of Baliero itself. It lay right in the heart of the Financial District, a testament of the Empire's respect for the elven people. Centuries ago, when no one had even dreamed of skyscrapers existing here, Duke Abrailaal had purchased the land and gifted it to the Crown with a single condition: that no construction ever be allowed there.

The Crown had kept its promise. But when the capital had expanded, the Agrov family had landscaped the once-wild forest and turned it into a massive park walled in on all sides by towering developments — replete with lawns, ponds, a small lake, gardens, recreation sites, and winding walking paths. At least that's what the photos and postcards Ardi had found in the Anorsky library had claimed. He himself had never actually visited.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Huh?" Ardi jerked as the darkened park momentarily morphed into the familiar forests of the Alcade in his mind. "Sorry… I missed what you said."

"You missed it…" Milar practically growled. "Normally, I'd ask why you spaced out, Magister…" The captain paused as he cut through two lanes at once, coming within a hair's breadth of slamming into a tram. "…but instead, I'll just repeat myself."

"Sorry," Ardi said sincerely.

Milar gave a little shake of his head, as if brushing it off. His hands never left the wheel.

"There was supposed to be a raid tonight on an illegal casino," he said, jerking the steering wheel again. They veered onto a side street, and the Imperial Park began to fade away in the rearview mirror. "We've been on the case for half a year, but just a couple of weeks ago, the investigation finally made a breakthrough. I'm not sure why."

"All of that over a simple casino?"

"Not simple at all, partner… The organizers hired the Narikhman for security and other… delicate matters," Milar said. Without a care for how the speedometer and tachometer needles trembled, he yanked the handbrake and drifted sideways around the next turn.

The car gave a violent lurch, wheels scraping free of the asphalt for a moment. Ardan feared that they might flip, but with a loud thud — followed by an even louder crash — the vehicle slammed back down on all fours and sped onwards.

"That's why it took us so long to build a case," Milar continued calmly, as if they hadn't just flirted with the Eternal Angels. "The raid was supposed to happen tonight. It would've been conducted by our operatives, plus some big guys from the Guard Corps."

"Ursky and Erson?"

"They're already there," Milar nodded. "So is Mshisty."

Ardan had only met the one-armed military mage once, but he'd heard plenty of almost legendary tales about the second most powerful Mage Operative of the Black House. Mshisty was second only to Aversky himself. But while Aversky tended to juggle science and fieldwork, Mshisty… He couldn't live without the whistling of bullets and the roar of Star Magic. A real adrenaline junkie.

As Milar and Alexander had already mentioned, Mshisty was simply looking for any excuse to flex his wartime talents. He just enjoyed killing… by using magic. Fortunately, he killed only those the higher-ups told him to.

"Mshisty sounded the…" Ardan understood what Milar was getting at and turned pale. "…distress signal?"

"Exactly!" This explained why the captain was driving like a madman and why he looked so worried. "And our guys are in there, Magister."

Alexander and Din…

Ardan closed his eyes, recalling his recent dinner with the Pnev family. All the laughter and jokes. Damn it…

He shouldn't have been feeling the same dread he'd experienced when he and Arkar had raced to save Boris. And in truth, he wasn't. And yet, uneasy stirrings similar to those still pricked his heart, which was now pounding faster.

Before long, Ardan heard the wailing of fire alarms and the piercing screams of sirens. Milar veered at the next turn, forcing Ardan to shut his eyes against the onslaught of flashing cameras and the swirl of lights atop emergency vehicles. The evening sky, already freckled by the sparks of Ley-lamps in the tall buildings' windows, became a carnival of color. Streaks of blue, red, yellow, and gray lights sprawled across the walls and asphalt like broad strokes of paint.

The windows of the nearby buildings had been covered with curtains, and there wasn't a soul present on the streets besides those in pale blue uniforms with "Water" symbols on their shoulder patches — the firefighters — and their companions in red — the guards. Even if anyone else had tried to join them, there wouldn't have been room.

The fire trucks — massive rigs dragging tanks of water, ladders, sand, various metal contraptions, and heavy hoses around — were parked in a long row along the curbs. The firefighters had clamped hose fittings to the hydrants and armed themselves with ladders… only to now stand idle. The guards in red uniforms, accented by their dark epaulets, stood with army-issue rifles in hand, their steel helmets gleaming with sharp metal studs. Besides the usual guard detail, some men in dark-green uniforms were pouring out of odd-looking trucks. They wore sloping helmets, tall black boots, and cloaks so large they might have doubled as tents.

The military.

The entire street, from intersection to intersection, was practically brimming with firefighters, guards, and soldiers. And of the three groups, only the red-uniformed guards seemed to be doing anything. They were blocking the entrances to the high-rises, cordoning off adjoining alleyways, and keeping an eye on the throng of press vehicles parked at the corner, making sure no journalist snuck past the living barricade.

Only once in a while did a few black-clad figures from the Second Chancery appear in that sea of blue, red, and green, but you had to look closely to spot them at all.

"What's going on here?" Ardan frowned.

He couldn't fathom why he and Milar had rushed over here so urgently, nor why there were firefighters and so many troops there as well. The street itself, aside from the dancing reflections of floodlights, looked perfectly normal — just deserted. There were no cars, no trams, and certainly no civilians.

Milar leaned on the horn.

A crowd of reporters armed with bulky — or in some rare cases, portable — photo cameras, begrudgingly shuffled aside, letting the Second Chancery car roll up to the barricades.

"I've got a bad feeling, partner," the captain muttered, fishing his document holder out of an inside pocket.

A soldier stepped forward, bayonet affixed, holster unsnapped, and Milar handed him the papers through the window. After checking them, the soldier signaled to his comrades. Four large men with griffin patches on their sleeves moved aside the wooden barricades, allowing the car to pass behind the cordon.

Ardan craned his neck left and right, nearly spinning his head in circles, but the view was much the same in every direction. The towering rows of tall buildings huddled side by side, with one short, abandoned warehouse wedged in among them, surrounded by a construction fence and draped in metal mesh to keep stray bricks from falling on random passersby. It was an odd eyesore, but hardly worthy of so many guards, firefighters and soldiers, of which there were easily three or four hundred in total.

Thanks to its geographic position, the Metropolis had its own sizable garrison of unknown strength. The details were classified information.

Milar rolled down the window and pulled up next to one of the trucks. It was longer than the others, with a tall wheelbase and plates of black steel armor along its edges. Ardi had seen these trucks before in the courtyard of the Black House.

Clustered around it were several official Cloak vehicles, two Guard Corps cars, and a host of people smoking — more specifically, officers from every organization present on the street.

Shutting off the engine, Milar unclipped the holsters of his revolvers and grabbed a sheathed saber from the floor. Stepping out, he buckled it to his bandolier and unfastened the loops around the hilt.

He and Ardan approached the truck. Milar exchanged handshakes with some of the Cloaks and nods with others. Then he saluted one individual.

In the center of that smoking group of about a dozen officers stood the Colonel — the de facto head of the Second Chancery. He wore the same old felt hat as always. His left arm still shook slightly from an old shoulder injury (which was why he smoked with his right), and the long scar on his lip gleamed under the kaleidoscopic lights.

"Captain Pnev, Corporal Egobar," the Colonel rasped in a throat roughened by the cold.

"Colonel," Milar greeted him, hand to his chest.

"Colonel," Ardan echoed.

Beside the Colonel stood a tall, imposing man with aristocratic features, a distinctly military bearing, and hands so scarred by cuts that there was hardly any unmarked skin left. He wore a saber on his belt — an older model from around half a century ago, from a time when multi-shot rifles weren't yet in use, and bayonets were forged from low-grade steel. All of that, of course, had changed after the Fatian Massacre.

"And these are your people who will salvage this situation, Colonel?" The older officer asked, brow creasing. Despite his age, he still inspired genuine awe with his stature, steely gaze, and the wiry muscles visible through his uniform. He also bore several medals, including two Orders of Valor. He was missing just one more — his third — for the full set. Ardi's father had had that distinction…

Looking around, Ardan noticed that none of the other Cloaks who seemed to be wandering aimlessly among the crowd had joined them. Though that "aimlessly" part was surely just an illusion.

"That's right," the Colonel said, his voice as dull as his heavy gaze. He pulled a signal medallion from his pocket. "I'm the one who sent up the flare, Captain Pnev."

"But-"

"Lieutenant Morgeil," the Colonel cut him off, gesturing with his cigar at an officer from the Guard Corps. "If you'd be so kind…"

"At once."

Lieutenant Morgeil, a man in his forties with a belly thrice the size of Ardan's waist, which caused his uniform to squeak and his coat to groan whenever he moved, took two caskets out of a battered satchel. They were made of what looked like expensive cedar, had an intricately-carved checkerboard pattern, were covered in designs depicting two soaring cranes, and had polished brass locks. Definitely not standard Guard Corps issue.

Milar opened the box handed to him. Nestled on a red velvet lining lay, unexpectedly, a pair of spectacles. They had delicate silver frames, with lenses so dark they looked like coal, small and round.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Ardan took out an identical pair.

"Put them on," the Colonel ordered.

The captain and corporal exchanged glances and simultaneously donned the glasses. Ardan, clumsy due to being unfamiliar with the frames, brushed his ear as he slid them on — but the momentary stab of pain vanished the instant the lenses settled in place.

The world instantly changed, or at least part of it did.

That abandoned warehouse, once so drab and unremarkable that one's gaze tended to slip off it, now… shone, rivaling the splendor of the finest structures in the Central District.

The warehouse was gone, replaced by a four-story building whose façade was adorned with thousands of tiny Ley-lights. They merged to form the silhouettes of two soaring cranes crossing their beaks above the entrance. The grand entryway, sheltered by a marble awning perched on colossal columns, glowed with golden light that was beaming down from a dozen spotlights that slowly revolved, tracing abstract patterns in the night sky.

Ardan removed the glasses.

Once again, all he saw was a derelict, soon-to-be-demolished warehouse — nothing more.

Closing his eyes, he opened his mind to the surrounding area. With practiced effort, he shut out the extraneous images and the threads of the Ley Lines, now seeing… a seething knot of Ley energy. The kind you might see in a Ley generator. It was a gaudy swirl of countless colors, all coming close together and yet never fully blending.

Ardan shook his head, pushing away the vision.

"This isn't the work of the Aean'Hane's art," he said quietly, but loud enough for the others to hear.

"How can you be so sure, Corporal, that-"

"Major Trophimov, please allow me to introduce…" The Colonel interrupted the major, "…our specialist when it comes to the Aean'Hane and the Speakers. And in any case, we already know that the casino has at least five Ley generators inside."

"What's their output?" Ardan asked quickly.

The Colonel gestured to a woman among the Guards standing nearby — the only woman there. She looked a bit like Alice Rovnev, only older, more anxious, and with no glasses.

The officer opened her notebook and studied the entries left there by a rough but neat hand.

"Four generators at 160 rays of a Blue Star, and one at 90 rays of a Yellow Star."

Ardan could only blink in astonishment. He knew from Convel's lectures that the largest generators used in processing Ertalain ore boasted 320 rays of a Blue Star, or 180 of a Yellow one. Yes, that was double the capacity, but those were industrial plants producing accumulators and other Ley tech. Here, it was just a casino — albeit a massive one hidden by a complex illusion seal, but still just a building. Nothing more.

"The Minister complied with our request," the Colonel informed them unexpectedly, pulling Milar's and Ardi's attention back to him. "He gave us the full report about the corporal's 'swim' in the Niewa."

He wasn't trying to be cryptic, but without context, that piece of information meant nothing to anyone else — no more than the Black House's internal correspondence would, which wasn't sent via messengers, but regular mail. Their most important memos were supposedly delivered in person.

"I take it that…" Milar began.

"Correct, Captain," the Colonel nodded. "Our recent guest at the Black House wasn't only — or even primarily — involved in the disappearances of citizens of a certain age. He was also…" The Colonel jabbed the stump of his cigar over his shoulder. "…initially taking bribes to protect this… establishment's incognito status. He was only recently brought in to help with your case. Even claimed he never saw those he negotiated with or whose orders he followed."

"A handoff from one middleman to another?" Milar asked, and Ardan belatedly realized that they were talking about Erik Irigov, who had been interrogated in the Black House's dungeons. They were discussing both Irigov and how the Guard Corps had tried to arrest Ardan in a not-so-aboveboard way. "Someone sold our detainee to the Spiders?"

The Colonel nodded again.

"And the order," Milar sighed in frustration, "came with no direct signature, I assume?"

"It came through as an internal memorandum from the Ministry."

"That narrows down the list of suspects."

The Colonel's lip twitched into a faint smirk, making his scar twist even more grotesquely than before.

"To a mere eight hundred or so who have clearance to enter the Ministry building," he remarked with sarcastic dryness.

Milar could only spread his hands out in exasperation.

"Gentlemen Investigators," the major cleared his throat, "maybe we could focus on the more pressing matter at hand?"

"You're right," the Colonel agreed, stubbing out his cigar on the side of the truck and slipping it into the pocket of a simple spring coat. "This evening, based on newly-received intel, the Second Chancery was supposed to conduct a reconnaissance raid here, with support from the Guard Corps."

Ardan fought the urge to ask how a raid could be considered "reconnaissance."

"Our people took part: five operatives, plus five men from the Corps," the Colonel continued. "Their task was to gather an initial impression of the casino and, more importantly, its patrons. Along with… a few other details."

Milar nodded in understanding, but Ardan was lost. Nothing new about that, though.

"Four hours ago, we lost contact with them."

"Their signal medallions?" Milar asked.

"Useless," replied the female officer from the Corps. "A stationary shield over the casino completely blocks any signal coming from inside. Those glasses you're wearing — of which we only have four — are the only way to bypass the shield and see the casino."

Ardan examined the spectacles more closely and, as he'd suspected he would, found a delicate labyrinth of etched symbols on the inside of their arms — several dozen different seals. They had clearly been cut by a machine, not by hand; how else could you carve such intricate patterns with uniform depth into a piece of metal less than five millimeters wide?

So, on one hand, the creators had the means to produce something like this, and on the other, they had the knowledge to craft a shield so complex that it required at least several high-output Blue Star generators to maintain. The only question was: Why did they have the extra yellow one…?

"Were they somehow maintaining contact through a cover?" Milar asked a new, strange question.

Silence was the only reply.

"I see… And what happened to him?"

"It was a her," Lieutenant Morgeil corrected him gloomily. His hefty belly rose to his chest with a wobble, then flopped back down into his pants, which seemed far too deep. "She sent the last message. But…" He sighed. "Posthumously. Come with me."

They didn't have to go far. Once they circled around to the back of the truck, one of the Guard Corps officers reached out, lowered a short ladder, and opened the "door" leading into the cargo bay. Ardi had been in one of these trucks before, back when they'd driven him to see the Emperor.

Inside, lit by a single lamp, were empty benches. Only one thing lay on the floor — a body hidden beneath a sheet. Milar climbed in and pulled back the edge of the white cloth. On the cold metal lay a young woman of about nineteen. She had fair, blonde hair, a round face, thin lips, and cheeks plump enough that it would be hard to call her beautiful, but she was still quite sweet-looking.

There was a hole in the middle of her forehead, a bullet wound — charred and scorched, with traces of powder burns.

"She was shot at point-blank range," Milar said, replacing the edge of the cloth and straightening up. "They executed her."

"And dumped the body out on the street for all to see," the Colonel confirmed. "So you can imagine, Captain, what the headlines will look like tomorrow morning."

"Those ink-sniffing jackals will tear each other's throats out trying to paint things in the darkest possible colors," Major Trophimov spat with disgust.

"Are there any less-gloomy colors here, Major?" Lieutenant Morgeil leaned forward. Plump as he was, there wasn't a hint of cowardice in his sharp, brown eyes. "We have at least a thousand hostages in the heart of the city. A Guard operative has been executed. Two — two! — teams of operatives, from both the Corps and the Black House, have disappeared. It's… it's…"

"Calm down, Morgeil," Major Trophimov patted him on the shoulder. "Deep breaths. My proposal is still on the table."

"What proposal?" The lieutenant scowled. "Bringing in four artillery cannons?"

"They'd overload the shield, and we could commence an assault."

"You really don't care about the headlines as much as everyone else, do you, Trophimov?"

"The headlines are already dismal, Morgeil," the Major replied, shaking himself off like a wet dog. "One more bit of sensationalism won't change much."

"We will not let you fire artillery in the middle of the city, let alone my district, Major," Lieutenant Morgeil said, frowning more deeply.

Ardi now knew who Morgeil was: the head of the Guard Corps in the Financial District of the capital. Each district had one.

"In that case, I await other suggestions from you, Lieutenant… oh, pardon me — I seem to recall that you haven't offered any," Trophimov said.

"You-"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Keep it civil," the Colonel cut in, raising his hands. At once, both sides — Major Trophimov with his aristocratic bearing, and the hefty Lieutenant Morgeil — fell silent.

By that time, Milar had climbed back down and closed up the entrance to the cargo bay.

"Have they made any demands?"

The Colonel nodded, and the same female Guard officer from before handed a note to Milar. It had been scribbled on a ragged scrap of paper marred by stark bloodstains in the shape of a small, feminine hand.

The captain read it, then passed it to Ardan.

"What…"

"Read it, partner."

Ardi, already suspecting why the Colonel had summoned them specifically, took the note:

"To the Corporal of the Second Chancery, Ard Egobar. Inside this building, there are 784 guests, 116 staff, as well as five operatives from the Guard Corps and five operatives from the Black House. If you, Corporal, do not appear for negotiations exactly at midnight, then in the very first minute of the new day, we will execute ten hostages. After that, we will execute one hostage per every minute you delay. We trust you will be punctual.

P.S. You may come to the negotiations with your partner, but no one else. If we see even one representative of the Corps, the military, or the Black House with you, the building — and everyone inside — will be blown up. Should anyone attempt to storm the building, it will be blown up. Should anyone try to breach our shield, it will be blown up. If we see Mr. Aversky or any mage of comparable power appear, then… you get the point — this building will be blown up."

Ardan reread the message once, twice, thrice, then four times. Each time, it refused to make any more sense.

What did he have to do with any of this? Why would someone seize an entire underground casino just to force a negotiation with him?

"Any idea why they want you?" Milar asked. It was as though he'd read Ardan's mind.

"None."

"Perhaps you inherited something valuable, Corporal?" The Colonel ventured.

Ardan could only spread his arms out in bafflement. All he'd gotten from his great-grandfather was Nicholas the Stranger's book, which held no particularly secret knowledge. The spells written there could easily be found in restricted sections of libraries or even purchased in specialized shops, provided you had the proper clearance.

Aside from the book, he only had an Aean'Hane artifact in the form of an eternal candle, plus an old ring. That was the one item that hadn't melted into a puddle of metal when he'd discovered the hidden floor in the shed. A trinket he kept in his apartment along with Gleb Davos' grimoire.

Using his Speaker abilities, Ardi had confirmed that the ring was perfectly ordinary — just forged from metal with trace amounts of Ertalain ore, and of no value beyond the sentimental. His great-grandfather had once said that it had belonged, many years ago, to his mother — Ardan's great-great-grandmother — and if one day Ardan wished to propose to someone, he should use that ring. Granted, it would need a gemstone, because the old stone had long since fallen out of its cracked setting.

"I see," the Colonel said with a nod. "So they want something else from you."

"But why would the Narikhman want anything from me?" Ardan nearly burst out, remembering just in time to keep his voice low. "And something so important that they'd hold almost a thousand people hostage, at that?"

"That's precisely what you'll have to find out, Corporal," the Colonel replied curtly, sweeping a stern, no-nonsense gaze across everyone present. "Now, I must ask that all of you leave me alone with my colleagues."

The officers exchanged glances before leaving — some without the slightest objection, others, such as Major Trophimov and Lieutenant Morgeil, departing grudgingly. Their expressions were grim, but they kept their composure.

When Milar, Ardan, and the Colonel were finally alone, the Colonel lowered his voice a fraction.

"Let's synchronize our watches."

Milar and the Colonel raised their wrists in unison. Ardan hurried to do the same.

"It's 11:44," said the Colonel.

"Forty-two."

"Forty-three," Ardan corrected, glancing at the dial of his own watch.

"Then we'll follow the corporal's watch," the Colonel concluded, adjusting the winding knob of his timepiece. Milar did the same. They shared a moment of silence.

"Our people will stay on the perimeter," the Colonel said, tipping his head toward the other Cloaks moving around the street. "If anything happens, they'll use… special measures to weaken the shield enough for a few people to slip inside."

Ardan wasn't even surprised to learn that the Second Chancery had such capabilities anymore.

"And what about us?" Milar asked with the faintest glimmer of hope. "Do we get any special measures?"

"They might notice," the Colonel said, shaking his head and pulling out the old cigarette butt he'd pocketed earlier. He didn't light it — just rolled it between his fingers. "Corporal, do you have any theories at all?"

Ardan was silent for a moment. The list of people who might wish him harm only grew longer by the month. But that was simple harm — this was altogether different. A grand production, a full-scale crisis…

"And remember, not all of Aror's surviving students are as restrained as I am. For your own sake, try to never meet them. Now, please follow me to the exit."

In Ardan's mind, Grand Magister Emergold's voice fell silent.

He turned to face the "abandoned warehouse." The shield masking the building likely defied comprehension altogether, let alone any attempts of his to analyze it. To create something like that, one would need not just immense theoretical knowledge, but — more importantly — extensive practice as well.

"How long has this casino been here?"

"What does that-" Milar began, but the Colonel cut him off with a raised hand and answered:

"Since the start of the year."

"And they put up the shield right away?"

"As far as we know, yes."

"But you couldn't track down the company hired to erect and maintain the magical structure?"

"We'd have the schematics if we'd managed that," the Colonel confirmed. "Where are you going with this, Corporal?"

"Did you consult with Professor an Manish?"

"Him and several of his colleagues, including some other Senior and Grand Magisters. None of them were involved, and all of them say they'd need at least a year to analyze the structure," the Colonel said, reaffirming Ardan's suspicions. "I realize that puzzling things out is our trade, but you're taking it too much to heart, young man. Out with it."

If even an Manish and the other shield experts would need a year to break down the illusions here, then whoever had set all of this up must have had one crucial advantage over them: time.

Which meant…

"One of my grand… my great-grandfather's disciples is in there," Ardan declared slowly, eyes still on the casino.

"Partner, have you lost your mind?" Milar muttered. "A student of Aror's? That sounds like some new crazy legend or-"

"Captain," the Colonel interrupted him yet again. "Stop by the First Department later and sign the nondisclosure papers concerning this matter."

Milar, stifling his reaction, nodded calmly. Ardan realized that Emergold had casually revealed a top-secret fact to him without a moment's concern — such was the privilege of wielding the power of six Stars. The power and the time… Because even if two mages had the same number of Stars and rays, there could still be a yawning chasm between them in terms of years of experience and practice.

"Are you certain, Corporal?"

"Almost."

"And what would one of Aror's eleven disciples want from you?"

Eleven? Ardan would have to remember that…

"My guess, Colonel, is no better than yours."

"All the same…"

What could Aror's disciple possibly want with Ardan? He had no idea. Not even a clue. So he could only say:

"Could be anything."

"I see."

Whatever the Colonel might've claimed to understand about this, only the Sleeping Spirits and Eternal Angels knew anything for sure. Ardan still couldn't grasp any of it. If the casino really did house one of Aror's students, that person wouldn't have had to go through all this trouble — they could've simply kidnapped Ardan in the blink of an eye. Apart from Edward Aversky, only a handful of Grand Magisters of military magic could've maybe intervened — and only if they'd somehow known about it in advance and had time to prepare.

So, what was the point of this elaborate scheme involving a casino and hostages? Why stage a blood-soaked show by executing a guardswoman?

"Colonel," Milar cleared his throat, "just how dangerous is this suspect?"

The Colonel didn't respond at once.

"Imagine adding Mshisty to Aversky, then doubling that."

Milar cursed, and not under his breath.

"Of Aror's eleven students, only three have made their identities public," the Colonel went on, finally lighting his cigarette butt with a simple match, not a lighter. "Grand Magister Velena Emergold, the Head Librarian of the Grand University. Grand Magister Eliot Razenshles, who's retired to the Azure Coast to grow experimental rose breeds there. And Yaropolk Borskov-"

"Borskov?" Ardan jerked, startled.

"He only shares a surname with your acquaintance, Corporal, nothing more," the Colonel clarified. "Yaropolk Borskov holds no official titles or rank and spends his time… no one knows how."

"No one knows?" It was the first time Ardan had heard Milar sound so astonished.

"No one," the Colonel repeated. "Because, Captain, no one dares to stick their nose in the affairs of one of Aror's students. He wields four full Stars, plus seven and eight rays in his Pink and Black Stars respectively."

"Do we-"

"But we do know his whereabouts," the Colonel anticipated Milar's obvious question. "He lives on the Tiptoeing Isle… A ridiculous name if you ask me."

It was named that because it lay west of the Dancing Peninsula.

"Are we certain?"

"As certain as anyone can be when dealing with a six-Star mage that's two hundred and fifty years old, Captain."

"So Yaropolk might be in there?" Milar nodded toward the casino.

"Yes."

"And the other eight?"

"No one knows," the Colonel replied with a shrug, exhaling a pungent cloud of smoke. "And I repeat — no one."

"And-"

"Neither do any of our foreign colleagues," the Colonel added.

"Are we sure?" Milar asked again.

The Colonel merely shrugged.

"As sure as we can be in our line of work, Captain. Maybe someone found them and struck a deal with them. Maybe one is locked away in some dungeon, forced to give up their secrets… though I doubt that. Aversky once proposed a theory which claimed that capturing Yaropolk alone would require a significant portion of the Empire's Grand Magister Lodge."

Milar swore again — this time with resignation rather than anger.

Their watches now showed that it was five minutes to midnight.

"Try to leave the building intact, gentlemen," the Colonel said abruptly, shifting the topic. "The Head of the Second Chancery wants to seize it for the Crown and apply a fair tax, so-"

"So they can spin this as a planned drill to test the safety of a new entertainment venue," Milar interrupted him, repaying the Colonel for all the times he had cut him off just now. "That way, the Crown collects some extra revenue, and panic doesn't spread."

"As brilliant as ever," the Colonel said, utterly devoid of emotion.

Four minutes to midnight. If that monster behind the shield was indeed a so-called "disciple of Aror," then…

Ardan looked at Milar. His partner had a wife and children. And this crisis didn't truly concern their shared duties — it was aimed squarely at Ar-

"Shut your mouth," Milar muttered, putting on his spectacles.

"What?"

"Your mouth, partner. I said close it," Milar repeated, drawing out his cigarette case. He flicked his lighter and lit a smoke. "I can practically hear all the stupid thoughts rattling around in that head of yours… Didn't I already say this once before? You watch my back, I watch yours. We're in the same boat. So, we go in together. Act like we're the toughest bastards on the face of creation. If anyone doubts it… we shoot 'em dead, no questions asked. Alice Rovnev can get the answers out of their corpses later."

The Colonel said nothing.

Ardan ventured, "I didn't bring a revolver with me."

"You don't need one," Milar replied with a dismissive snort. "You, Magister, should be kept as far away from firearms as possible — at least one bullet's reach away."

"Gentlemen," the Colonel interjected, "it's three minutes until midnight."

Ardan and Milar exchanged glances. The captain, cigarette clamped between his teeth, drew his revolver from its holster and his saber from its scabbard. Ardan unclipped tattered grimoire from his belt.

"If we don't hear from you within fifteen minutes, we begin the assault. Aversky's already on standby — he's sitting in a café a few blocks away."

"How are we supposed to send a signal through that shield, Colonel?" Milar asked over his shoulder as he started walking.

"You'll figure something out," the Colonel replied to their backs.

Exchanging one final look, the two partners let out a synchronized sigh and headed toward the casino.