Matabar

When Ardi and Milar approached the construction fence that separated the "abandoned warehouse" from the rest of the street, the first thing they noticed was the complete absence of any entrance. They hesitated…

"Put them on," the captain commanded.

Ardan nodded in confirmation. The two partners simultaneously slipped on their glasses, and at once, a wrought-iron enclosure with a small gate appeared right in the middle of the plain, hastily nailed-together wooden barrier.

It truly looked like it had emerged out of nowhere.

Polished, twisted bars shaped like long, sharp feathers — fused together into a pattern depicting two wings — had pushed aside the rough, splintered, grimy boards.

Ardi stepped closer and touched the handle shaped like a slender, elongated beak. His fingers confidently found the cold steel that was ribbed and etched with fine patterns. The fence smelled of cast iron and sticky grease. The bars cast flickering, unmistakable shadows across the sidewalk, and their matte surface refracted the light, preventing any lively sunbeams from darting off in a sudden burst.

And yet, somewhere deep within his mind — beyond conscious thought or even sensation, and closer to something like the sharpened intuition of a startled creature crying out "this is all a lie" — those same wooden boards poked through. But if he ignored that voice, all that remained was an elegant, flawless illusion, conjured to cloud one's sight and disrupt the natural order of things.

The illusion had been so exquisitely crafted and woven so deeply into reality that even a Speaker's honed senses could not detect its artful deceit.

Ardan pushed on the beak-shaped handle, and at that same instant, the cry of a heron rang out, causing the gate's wings to swing open, shedding steel feathers onto the ground before they vanished into the shadows. And only somewhere far beneath it all could the faint, bashful creaking of rough wooden boards be heard.

"Ard…"

"This is… something incredible, Milar," Ardi breathed out, his voice shaky with awe. "I'm not sure if even the Aean'Hane could craft something like this… It's most likely woven into the shield, which would mean that the Yellow Star generator is needed precisely for-"

"I'm not talking about that," Milar said as he followed Ardi, tapping a finger against his watch.

Ardi raised his wrist. The minute hand was pointing unmistakably to the arrival of a new day. They were late, if only by a minute.

Even so, the courtyard — seen through their glasses as a well-tended garden filled with shrubs sculpted to look like animals, ponds, lawns, and stone-paved paths — was shrouded in silence. Thick and cloying, it was nothing like the hush that follows a barrage of gunfire used to execute ten people.

Instead, it was more akin to a stillness that had never known gunfire at all.

"Maybe their clocks are slow?" Ardi ventured.

"Possibly…" Milar lifted his revolver and shifted his saber to a more comfortable grip. "Hurry!"

The captain went first, his heels tapping against the stone path — though, in the back of his mind, the echo felt more like wooden boards squelching in wet mud. He bounded up the marble steps covered in a plush carpet (which, from the corner of his eye, revealed itself to be a threadbare rug thrown over bare concrete), then kicked open the massive, gilded doors upon which faintly moving herons appeared to be gliding.

The doors swung wide, revealing the astonished face of a staff member — a man of indeterminate age wearing a black tailcoat with gleaming lapels and polished shoes that shone like they were brand new. On his right lapel glimmered an embroidered patch depicting the same kind of heron they'd just seen.

"Gentlemen?" He said, genuine bewilderment coloring his tone. "You…"

What he'd intended to say remained lost beneath a fog of uncertainty. Milar gave him no chance to speak, prodding the man's chest with the muzzle of his revolver. He didn't do so forcefully, but to ensure this wasn't just another illusion.

Ardi could sympathize with the captain's caution. The man's age was impossible to gauge, and not because of any remarkable physical characteristics, but because he simply had no discernible features at all.

His face was concealed by an impenetrable, dark shadow. It was as though someone were holding an umbrella just above his head at noon, and it was being held so low that the darkness had swallowed his features entirely, hiding them from any observer's gaze.

"Ah, so you must be…" The employee murmured, apparently calming down. He shifted his attention from the revolver to Milar (indicated by the subtle movement of his shadow). "Someone will be with you shortly, but in the meantime, feel free to join the games. Your chips are on the house. Just kindly put away your weapons, so as not to alarm the other guests."

Stepping aside, the staff member revealed a vast gambling hall. A broad staircase led down to the roulette tables, various card games, and even mechanical slot machines. True to form, the banisters were shaped like herons, with handrails fashioned to look like feathers.

Herons soared through the air as well, glimmering with hundreds of lights that converged into avian silhouettes before dissolving in a shapeless shimmer. Beneath the glow of this unusual chandelier, hundreds of people crowded the hall.

They rolled dice across the tables, shouted and laughed, celebrating their winnings by scooping up heaps of mismatched chips. Occasionally, they argued with the croupiers, prompting burly guards — some of which might well have been orcs — to step in. Women in expensive gowns adorned with sequins and crystals wore hats and veils along with their elaborate hairstyles. Their necks glittered with pendants and necklaces, their wrists sparkled with jeweled bracelets, and their fingers bore the heavy weight of rings. There were also men in suits there, a good portion of which were carrying canes. Some of them were tall and trim, while others were short and stout to the point their shirts groaned under the strain.

Waiters would constantly approach all of them, bearing trays laden with decidedly pricey drinks — from Lintelarian wines costing fifty exes per bottle to Grainian whiskey and Imperial cognac.

After nearly half a year spent living above "Bruce's" and conversing with Arkar, Ardi had become quite adept at discerning the quality and cost of alcohol. So adept, in fact, that he could tell at a glance that this casino was hardly meant to swindle and fleece the city's working class.

No, it clearly catered to a far wealthier crowd. Perhaps not the highest echelons of society, but certainly those aspiring to join them. Though for all Ardi knew, the truly wealthy and aristocratic might've also been here. It was impossible to say for certain.

Everyone's face — be it a gambler at a table, a croupier in a green vest and pink shirt, the band on stage, the older-sounding vocalist with a velvety voice, the waiters, or the guards — was shrouded beneath a veil of darkness.

Their faces were being replaced with impenetrable black voids. For all anyone knew, the Great Princes themselves might've been mingling with the patrons.

"What the…" Milar exhaled, lowering his revolver. "This doesn't look like a hostage situation to me, Magister."

Ardan glanced at his watch: it was five minutes past midnight. Going by the message, fifteen people should have already parted with their lives by now. And yet… the bustling casino, alive and humming with energy, drowning in the glow of those floating herons, in the sparkle of various gems, draped in the crimson velvet creeping across the floor and walls, and basking in those endless gilded reflections — none of it resembled a mournful graveyard.

Here, a celebration reigned in place of death. Instead of fear, the air was thick with revelry, alcohol, and the thrill of chance.

"Illusion," Ardi whispered.

"Ard, honestly," Milar said, rolling his eyes. Oddly enough, Ardan could see his face perfectly. "That habit of yours — blurting out single words — can be more irritating than your endless questions."

Together, they descended into the main casino area. Those around them were showing no concern about any possible encounters with the Eternal Angels. They were far more invested in where the roulette ball might land, whether it would be red or black, if the right card would come their way, whether they could assemble a winning hand in Olikzasian Sevens, or if the slot machine's reel was rigged.

"It's a trick."

"Damn it, Magister… which part?"

"All of it," Ardi replied, surveying the area carefully and heeding his instincts.

The air smelled of lavender and motherwort — scents intended to soothe people so they wouldn't fret too much over potential losses, and to help them lose all track of time…

"Look," Ardan said, spinning Milar around by the shoulder and pointing to the opulent, gaudy stained glass.

Behind those multicolored panes… there was nothing. No light, no shadows, and certainly no sign of the street that was teeming with service vehicles, trucks, and hundreds of soldiers and guards.

"That explains a lot," Milar grunted. "They're not even aware they're hostages."

"Or they only just became hostages."

Milar turned to Ardi, looking somewhat lost. "What are you getting at, Magister?"

"Perhaps that note, and this entire situation, is just…" Ardi paused for a moment, searching for the right word. "A smokescreen."

"A smokescreen, Magister?" Milar repeated. "That'd be an awfully strange smokescreen, considering a guard was killed."

Ardi mentally stumbled over one guess after another. Indeed… If not for the fact that just a couple of hours ago, they had executed a young guard, what was happening right now might have been dismissed as a twisted and elaborate performance. But…

"And not to mention," the captain went on, "if we don't give the signal, they'll start the assault. And we're supposed to give that signal in…" Milar checked his watch, scowled, then tapped the face of it with a finger. "Eternal Angels, how I hate all this bloody magic of yours…"

Ardi frowned and looked at his own wrist as well. A moment ago, his watch had been showing the correct time, but now it looked like a fragment from a child's nightmare. The minute and hour hands had turned into tiny snakes, slithering beneath the glass through small pebbles where the numbers had once been. It was impossible to tell what time it might be.

Another illusion.

Just like the lavender and motherwort. In truth, the place smelled of damp and cheap anti-mold chemicals. And instead of velvet, their footsteps fell upon the same wooden boards they'd seen from the outside. Only the warmth, which was evidently coming from the generators, felt real.

Even so, perceiving the truth beneath that veil of fantasy was no trivial endeavor. Ardan could only glimpse reality for a brief moment before being ensnared once again by the masterfully-woven façade.

"Why do it, then?"

"By all that's holy, Magister…"

"Sorry," Ardi caught himself. "I mean — why shoot a guard if the mage could create all of this?"

Milar, who'd taken a glass from a passing waitress' tray, sipped the effervescent golden wine. Tiny streams of bubbles rose up from the bottom of the tall, slender crystal flute and burst at the surface.

Ardi wondered what this casino looked like in reality. All these guests in their flashy outfits, steeped in perfume, sipping expensive drinks… standing around simple tables in the middle of an abandoned warehouse, utterly blind to anything beyond this enchanted opulence.

It was poetic… in a way.

"Well spotted, partner," Milar nodded. Grimacing, he poured the wine into a planter filled with thuja — likely just a tin bucket in reality. "I don't like sparkling wine."

"Then why did you drink it?"

"To see if it was real or a Telkarts fake."

Ardi recalled how people had assured him that Telkarts products were no different from the genuine article. Clearly, there was some difference after all.

"And?"

"It's real," Milar snorted, glancing at a nearby roulette table where a couple dozen players had gathered. "Aside from the guard — what's the point of this entire hostage charade? They had to know that we'd send enough troops that no one would walk out alive. And we've been here for at least ten minutes… Soon, the Colonel will order an assault, or…"

Milar and Ardi exchanged looks, then each of them let out a curse in their own style.

"He won't," they said in unison.

He wouldn't give the order for the simple reason that, any moment now — if it hadn't already — his medallion would receive a signal. A signal indicating that Milar and Ard had the situation under control and that there was no need to risk the lives of hundreds of civilians by launching an early assault.

And even if the Colonel did suspect something was off, he'd still need time to confirm his suspicions.

Because…

Because nothing here was what it seemed.

And if that was the case, then…

"Please, Mr. Pnev, Mr. Egobar," came a voice from behind them. It belonged to a short woman whose figure was practically nonexistent: her waist was almost absent, and her short legs nearly matched her flat torso in length. Only her voice was strikingly captivating. And for a moment, Ardi felt the inexplicable urge to knock her out with his staff and run. "Follow me. The Master is expecting you."

Her face, too, was hidden beneath that veil of darkness, though it didn't stop her from giving a slight bow and gesturing with a gloved hand toward a floating staircase. The white marble steps were quite literally resting on plump, fluffy clouds that were swaying gently above the floor.

Naturally, it was yet another illusion, just like everything else around them. Ardi tried to rely on his senses to discern what lay beneath that veil of sorcery, but he had no time.

They ascended to the second floor — an extended mezzanine that opened around the well of the main gaming hall. The oval balcony encircling the casino glistened under the illusory chandelier's glow, while the herons would occasionally rest their wings on the railing, only to whirl away again in bursts of magical sparks.

"Let's hurry," the woman called out. She might have been young, or perhaps not — it was impossible to tell from her voice, which was dry and devoid of emotion. It reminded Ardi of the creaking of wood that occasionally made itself heard through the mirage of plush carpets caressing their unremarkable, soiled boots.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Milar made no move to return his saber to its sheath or his revolver to its holster. Nor did Ardi close his grimoire he had opened to a page describing a new spell.

"Orlovsky's Shield"

[Star: red + green
Number of rays: 1 + 2
School: Defensive/Elemental
Element: Universal
Shield Type: Absorbing]

Ardi had not given up on the Stranger's system of systematically recording Star Magic spells in a thesis-like manner. But the old parameter of "maximum rune combination" had long since fallen by the wayside, replaced by arrays, contours, and runic connections.

Unfortunately, Nicholas the Stranger had lived too long ago to witness the progress made in Star Magic, meaning Ardi would have to spend considerable time devising a suitable method to document the properties of each of his creations.

Ardi had managed to practice Orlovsky's Shield with Aversky, as well as at the Spell Market's training grounds, which had naturally drained some of his supply of exes. But there was little else he could've done to prepare.

"Something's definitely off here," Milar whispered in his ear.

Ardi could hardly disagree. They were walking along a corridor where landscapes came to life upon the walls. Fluffy firs shook off their snow, making the air crackle with frost. Deserts, like the ones Mart had described, spawned sandstorms reminiscent of dusty blizzards, with golden sand rising up in massive, frozen waves. Gargantuan fish with curved bodies, strange heads, and sharp fins broke the surface of an endless ocean — these were creatures Ard had never seen before, and yet he somehow found them friendly and good-natured. And then came the jungles. The very same ones Mart had spoken of.

These jungles had bizarre trees that were taller than even cedars or the oldest of pines, yet more colorful than any of their broadleaf cousins, standing so close together that you could hardly slip an arm between them. Again, it was just like Mart had described them. Beyond the trees, the jungle floor sprouted grasses and shrubs so peculiar that Ardi began to doubt whether they existed anywhere in the real world, suspecting they might just be mere figments conjured by the illusionist's imagination.

In the distance lay mountains, endless valleys, small flower-filled meadows, riverbanks, lagoons, and gardens. Everything around them teemed with life and fragrance and blooms. The river spray stung their cheeks with prickling droplets, the desert wind made them squint, and the jungle's heavy, humid air nearly suffocated them, acting akin to a hand tightening around their throats.

Only by focusing and commanding themselves to reject the mirage — to delve deep into their senses — could they barely make out the outlines of doorways. And beyond them, some telltale sounds: sighs, cries, moans, rhythmic slapping, and occasionally even growls. And then there was the smell: musky, sweet and yet bitter, deeply penetrating, and mingled with acrid sweat.

It didn't take much imagination to guess what was going on in those rooms, nor why there were so many of them. When faces were hidden, and illusions allowed one to cloak themselves in any way imaginable, then…

"I can see why the Crimson Lady and the Black Lotus have been doing so well lately."

Ardi looked at Milar in surprise — not so much for mentioning the most famous "pleasure houses," but because he too had managed to peer behind the illusion's veil. Where Ardan had relied on his lessons from Skusty and Atta'nha, Milar had overcome the magic using only the instincts he'd honed through years of detective work.

That was what it meant to be an Investigator of the First Rank.

"Even taking the generator into account, Milar," Ardi whispered while walking in step with his partner, never taking his eyes off their guide. "Creating something like this… I don't know, Captain. There are more variables here than an entire textbook could cover."

"And those textbooks have a lot to say, do they?"

Ardi shrugged.

"They usually cite a few dozen seals, whereas here there's just a single one."

"For both a shield and an illusion at the same time?"

"Yes."

"Is that possible?"

"It is," Ardan nodded, trying to lay a hand on the wall that was showing a riverbed. It was a peculiar sensation — feeling the chipped paint of the brickwork and the slimy, tentacle-like algae tickling his skin at the same time. "But it's so advanced that I can't say who could manage it."

"Aversky?" Milar asked hopefully.

Ardan said nothing. He simply did not have the knowledge required to gauge the limits of the Grand Magister's abilities in martial magic. Besides, this was clearly not warfare-based sorcery, but rather shield-based and interwoven with illusions belonging to a more general field.

Illusions weren't taught separately from the other disciplines; they were gradually covered from all angles. They were used in shield spells — for instance, it was thanks to illusions that the floating discs in Orlovsky's Shield were rendered invisible — in martial magic, in engineering, and even in alchemy, to mask the harshest odors of brews and potions.

But here… Here, the illusion was the very heart of the construction itself — a design so complex and heavily laden that one could scarcely begin to fathom it. How many contours were there? How many could one fit into a single seal? How many arrays, and of what kind were there? What runic links… How many runes had been folded into those connections, and what type of shield was it?

It was no wonder that an Manish and his colleagues had asked for at least a year to analyze such a structure.

Ardi would likely need fifty years, if not more, just to make sense of what he was seeing.

Ironic, given the circumstances, but that was how things stood.

"Please," their guide said, approaching the tall oak doors adorned — once again — with the same heron motif from before.

And if one trusted their senses — arguably not the best idea in this place — these massive, heavy doors with carved handles were the only things here that did not belong to the realm of mirages and illusions.

They seemed to be quite real indeed, though who knew how they'd been brought here.

With a light, almost imperceptible touch, the woman opened them — perhaps the movement was triggered by some hidden mechanism, or perhaps…

Whatever the method, Ardi's thoughts on it evaporated the moment he saw what lay within.

Inside, in the middle of a half-collapsed room where the broken boards on the battered walls alternated with dark gaps, there stood a long, wide table. It rested directly on the greasy, mildewed floor, which sometimes creaked beneath their feet, and sometimes winked at them with gaping, dark holes.

The table was made of the same material as the doors through which they had entered, covered in a blue cloth marked with yellow card lines — the sort used for Olikzasian Sevens.

And indeed, they were playing that game now.

There were eleven people in total. Five unknown men sat on the right side with stony faces and hollow, glassy stares, as though they were sleeping while still keeping their eyes open.

On the left side were faces Ardan mostly recognized. Alexander, whose hat had tilted on his bald head, revealing part of his tribal tattoos. Din… wearing a silly grin, chin slumped to his chest, and occasionally chuckling. Mshisty, the only one whose jaw muscles sometimes twitched. And two more: a man who was around forty and holding a staff but bearing no regalia, and a young woman — roughly the same age as Alice. She wore revolvers at her belt alongside a saber that was much longer than Cassara's. And with each breath she took, a swirl of dark vapor emerged from her mouth.

A mutant.

At the center, facing both the entrance and the ten other players, sat an old man. The most striking old man Ardi had ever seen.

The first thing to catch the eye was his enormous, white top hat, where a pair of strange-looking goggles with an unknown purpose rested near his forehead, cocked at an odd angle. Below its ragged brim lay a gaunt face rendered unrecognizable by a thick, snowy mustache and a beard extending all the way to his drooping ears. The effect was not helped by the round spectacles he wore that had a gold frame with crimson lenses, which somewhat resembled those worn by Milar and Ardi.

Incidentally, the guards and Black House operatives wore no glasses, which might explain why they had slipped into a deep slumber. At least that effect of the shield was something Ardi could understand. The principle was akin to what had been employed in Irigov's mansion: an effect and a key preventing the enchantment from taking hold…

The old man wore a white jacket with broad lapels, beneath which sat a pinstriped, black waistcoat pressing down a bright red shirt and a gray cravat. His short, wrinkled arms lay on the table, and his fingers — covered in something that looked more like crumpled paper than real skin — toyed with chips for the Sevens. On his right hand were two rings: one on his ring finger (though it didn't appear to be a wedding band) and another on his middle finger.

With his head bowed, the old man thoughtfully shuffled the chips in his hand.

"Master, I've brought them," the young woman said with a bow.

"Thank you, Inasha," the old man said, waving his hand…

And their guide vanished, dissolving into a hazy mist and leaving Milar and Ardi wondering whether she had ever been real at all… or if she was merely hidden again by the illusion.

The captain reached instinctively for his enchanted spectacles, but Ardi caught him by the wrist.

"Don't," he cautioned, nodding at their slumbering colleagues.

At first, the captain didn't understand, but after a few seconds of mulling it over, he nodded.

"Please, have a seat," the old man suggested calmly, not at all concerned by his visitors' exchanged glances or quiet conversation.

Ardan and Milar, making a point of not holstering their weapons, carefully took seats at the table, positioning themselves neatly between the guards and the Black House operatives.

"Do you play Sevens?"

Milar remained silent. Ardi, recalling the Colonel's advice that sometimes keeping one's mouth shut was a good strategy (but also knowing that there were times to bend that rule), answered:

"Yes."

In fact, he'd only played the game three times in his life. Once with Peter Oglanov and his friends, and twice with the cowboys on the farm. Why only twice? Well... that's a story for another time.

"Excellent."

The old man tapped the table in a manner that would ordinarily signal a croupier to deal the cards. And indeed, the cards promptly appeared before each player — yet no actual croupier materialized.

Which meant that the cards were just another illusion, like everything else around them. Which also meant that picking them up served no real purpose.

Noticing that Ardi hadn't so much as twitched, the old man smiled.

"Didn't your…" — he cast a sideways glance at Ardan's hat — "…cowboy friends ever tell you that once you sit down at a Sevens table, you can't simply back out?"

"They also told me not to play with a marked deck."

"You wound me, young man," he replied, his broad mustache curling into the rest of his snowy beard. "Want me to show my hand?"

With the practiced flourish of a seasoned cardsharp, the old man flipped his cards face up.

In Sevens, a standard fifty-two-card deck was used, with ten cards in each suit: Dragons, Soldiers, Ships, Mages, Crowns. And there were two more unique cards — the Queens of the Fae, which were often called "Chance." The Chance card could become anything the holder wished.

And yet the cards the old man revealed bore no standard markings. Instead, one featured a naked mermaid bathing herself in the water, while the other showed a small cat swishing its tail on a pier.

It was a cat too familiar for Ardi not to recognize it. After all, every week (on the nights when "Bruce's" had been open, at least), he'd heard Tess' songs about that very same cat.

"I wanted to speak with you back then, young man," the old man said, his grin widening. "But you and your lovely redheaded companion were so charmingly absorbed in your stroll in Baliero… And that dance of yours was so enchanting that I decided to wait for, let's say, a better time. Alas, I must depart the capital sooner than planned, so I can no longer delay."

"You knew my great-grandfather."

"Straight to the point, then?" The old man reached up and began twisting the ends of his mustache, sharpening them to fine points. "Not even a single round of cards first?"

"I'm not very good at Sevens, sir," Ard answered evenly, still refusing to touch the cards. "You'd find it boring."

"Any boredom can be dispelled by a worthy wager, boy."

Ardan tensed. So did Milar.

"And because I want to make it clear just how serious my wagers can be," the old man went on, his eyes gleaming like a hungry predator's behind those red lenses, "let's play, as they say, with everything on the line."

He shaped his fingers into a gun and aimed them at the temple of the person right next to Mshisty — the second mage in the Black House's team.

"Still don't want to play, Ard?" The old man asked.

"Stop messing around, old man!" Milar barked, trying to draw his revolver. Instead, he wound up aiming an empty hand at the old man while his revolver remained locked in its holster.

"I will take that as a no," the old man said, ignoring Milar completely. "In that case, Ard, this obituary falls on your conscience… Bam-bam!"

With those words, he jerked his wrist like a child mimicking gunfire. Only, in this instance, two bursts of flame shot out from his fingertips. Then, as the room descended into silence, the sharp tang of gunpowder smoke spiraled upwards in twin trails from his hand.

The staff slipped from the mage's fingers and rolled across the floor. The body — the Second Chancery operative — slumped over in his chair, and a crimson puddle shot through with clots of gray started spreading out beneath him. Two holes gaped in his forehead, and the back of his skull resembled a melon smashed by a mallet.

"You're. A. Dead. Man." Milar declared slowly, almost syllable by syllable. "Whoever you are, wherever you hide, we'll-"

"Inasha, if you would," the old man interrupted him, and their guide reappeared seemingly out of thin air.

Her right hand clamped down on Milar's shoulder, pinning him to his seat, while her left hand covered his mouth. No matter how the captain — a strong, fully-grown man — struggled, he was powerless against the petite young woman.

Ardi understood why.

He recognized the woman now that her face was no longer hidden by the veil of darkness. It was the same vampire who had pursued Arkar's group by running across the rooftops that night in the Hammers' territory — and the same one who had screamed "Artem!" when Ardi had put down one of the trio of vampires.

And now her crimson, deathly eyes were boring into him with a hatred and fury he had never imagined possible.

"I know, Captain Pnev. I know," the old man said, nodding as though he were humoring Milar's unspoken threats. "You'll track me to the ends of the earth and execute your grand vengeance. Forgive me, but I have nothing against you personally. I merely wished to show our mutual friend here how serious I am and how high the stakes truly are. And what better way to do so than by presenting him with a Cloak's corpse?"

"What if he isn't actually dead?"

The old man's brow twitched.

"Excuse me?"

"What if you only made it look like you killed him?" Ardi's heart was hammering in his chest so fiercely that it was threatening to leap out and flee this wretched place all on its own. But he fought to keep his fear from showing. "It might just be another illusion."

"It might indeed," the old man acknowledged, fingers steepled as his eyes flashed once more. "Or it might not. Care to find out?"

"No."

"May I ask why not?"

"Because every time I try to perceive what lies behind your illusions, I sense the hidden contours of a seal," Ardi answered. He saw no point in lying — at least not in the conventional human sense. Though perhaps he could still lie as the Fae would... "I suspect that the more I peer beneath your sorcery, the deeper I sink into it, and the more likely…"

He glanced at the nine (or perhaps ten?) operatives. They had delved so far beneath the illusion that they were now completely under the old man's control.

It was a cunning, cruel, and… yes, eerily beautiful magic.

"Clap-clap," the old man said, bringing his palms together in mock applause. "I expected nothing less from the great-grandson of the man I despise with every fiber of my being. Not many, Ard, can claim I hold such hatred for them."

"You're one of the Eleven," Ardi said, no longer doubting it.

The old man lifted the brim of his top hat.

"Anvar Riglanov," he introduced himself. "At your service, young man."

Ardan remained quiet. The name meant nothing to him, and Anvar clearly noticed this.

"I can see that your great-grandfather didn't speak much about his past… and that's no surprise," Anvar muttered. He lowered his hat back onto his unruly curls and settled more comfortably into his chair. "Had Aror devoted even a fraction of his efforts to you — the very dedication with which the Eleven foolish children were…" Anvar's lip curled in disgust. "…blessed — I doubt you would've needed the help of that young man, the one so desperately trying to crack my shield right now, at all, Ard. Poor Aversky — he's already losing patience. As is your Colonel after finally realizing that your silly trinkets won't breach the shield. Incidentally, I knew Edward's father and mother. Though that acquaintance was brief — I killed them before I could learn who they were."

Ardan stayed silent.

"You're wondering why I'm telling you all of this, correct?" Anvar's sly grin returned. "Trying to work out if it has anything to do with the Witch's Gaze… or something else?"

"You won't answer me anyway," Ardi said.

"I won't," he agreed. "But you may later mention, when you meet him again, that you had the pleasure of conversing with the Black Top Hat." He tapped his hat, and for a brief moment, its white surface turned the color of midnight before shifting back again. "He'll appreciate it."

"You plan to let me go?"

"You, your partner, your colleagues, and the rest of my guests," the old man replied calmly, and with what sounded like genuine candor. "I'm not mad, Ard. Whatever your great-grandfather did, it has nothing to do with you personally. As much as I might like to heap my rage upon your shoulders, there's no logic in that. And that bracelet on your wrist…" Anvar's gaze flicked to Ardi's arm. "I'm not keen on getting entangled with the entire Fae court…"

In that instant, Ardi's composure faltered, just for a heartbeat.

"Oh, so you didn't actually know!" Anvar laughed, and it was a sound similar to the squeal of a hungry weasel. "That trinket on your arm… Well, I'll keep that secret to myself. Besides, the bracelet's power will fade soon enough. Don't worry — I won't come looking for you even then. Nor will my… friends. If we'd wanted to snuff out your family line, we would've done so years ago, when Aror grew old and feeble. Where's the joy in killing a powerless old man? There's no thrill, no vengeance to be had there."

"What do you want?" Ardi finally blurted, unable to contain himself.

The old man picked up a stack of chips and spun them so quickly between his fingers that one seemed indistinguishable from the next.

"A profound question, young man, almost philosophical in scope. And not one I can answer so hastily. But!" — he raised a finger, then set the chips down on the table — "We can play for it. Each round you manage to win against me, I'll answer one of your questions. Each round I win…" Anvar winked. "…I kill a random guest. How does that sound?"

Ardi neither moved nor spoke. He knew all too well that sitting down to play cards with a cheat meant you'd already lost the moment you'd agreed to play.

"Or perhaps we raise the stakes even higher?" Anvar tossed a chip into the air — a special one emblazoned with a skull — and caught it again. "If you refuse outright, I might tear up my contract with Inasha and her brother and set them loose upon the world."

The vampire restraining Milar licked her lips.

"I beg you, mortal, don't pick up those cards," she said, her face that of a killer and her voice that of a pleading child.

"Do you know what Inasha wants more than anything, young man?" Anvar slid his spectacles down the bridge of his nose. "No? Then let me enlighten you. The night you ever so elegantly — and, I must admit, beautifully — put her beloved to rest… She's never forgotten about it. Perhaps you're wondering if vampires are capable of love. A philosophical question indeed… but that's beside the point. Can you guess how exactly she hopes to take her revenge?"

Ardi recalled what Cassara had told Gleb Davos. So yes, he could guess.

His fingers clenched tighter around his staff.

"I'd unravel your seal before you could even form it, boy," Anvar said, suddenly serious. "And your Speaker's tricks might prove troublesome to your fellow academy students, but not to me. So, for the last time, I suggest we settle this with a game."

"You don't really want to play cards just to kill random people," Ardi finally spoke again.

"No," the old man conceded.

"Then what is it you want?"

"Answers, boy. Answers to some questions."

"Such as?"

"Where are the Embers?"

"What?"

"The Embers of the Sidhe Flame that Mendera stole from the Castle of the Sidhe of the Flaming Dawn. The Embers that Jacob Agrov ordered Aror Egobar to hide away."

Ardi opened his mouth, about to admit that he had no idea what the old man was talking about, but then his gaze dropped to the floor. More precisely, to the shadow on the floor shaped like a revolver…

"Well then," Ardi cleared his throat, gesturing to the cards, "let's play a single round. One of my questions for one of yours."

"Splendid," the old man said, baring that predatory grin again.

Now all that remained was the most crucial part: figuring out how to discreetly signal Milar.