Matabar

The shutters wobbled ever so slightly. The glass shook beneath a rainbow sheen, like a soap bubble moments from popping. The wind howled as though it were being strangled by invisible claws reaching out from the black belly of the sky.

By now, Ardi had grown used to the almost indistinguishable seasons of spring and autumn in the Metropolis. Both came cloaked in a damp, piercing cold. Their differences were only in the leaves — if you cared to look for them. And since there were hardly any leaves to be found (certainly not in the central districts of the colorfully stony capital), it was no easy task to guess whether the endless rain, storms, lightning, and cold were spring's doing or autumn's.

Spring was wading through the capital. It trudged through the slush clinging to boot soles, squelching whenever someone came in from the street. It had wrapped itself in the wet, river-scented spray of the Niewa and donned a dress sewn from the briny tang of the waking Swallow Ocean, which was battering the long breakwaters stretching out toward the horizon in stormy waves. And it never forgot to anoint itself with the diesel fumes from the buzzing roads, the fancy perfumes of the stylish elites, the aromas of Kargaam tea and Lintelar coffee, and all of it capped off by a dark crown of heavy, leaden sky.

Even so, Ardan rather liked this city. Less than a year had passed, and yet, when he gazed out the window, he no longer saw an enormous prison. More and more, he saw something akin to the Alcade's peaks in the capital's stone spires. It was almost as if the Metropolis had its own hidden trails, its hunters and prey, its everyday residents and those who guarded its secrets. Here, in the heart of the New Monarchy Empire, there was magic as well. A different kind of magic, one that had been alien to the young man at first, but now...

Ardi sighed.

Perhaps such thoughts were occupying him only because they had been sitting in the Colonel's smoke-filled office for four hours. The situation was not helped by the fact that the de facto head of the Second Chancery was currently smoking by the open window, allowing the howling wind to send a cold draft through the room.

"What exquisite crap, by all the demons," the Colonel declared in his least pleasant tone, then shut the window to keep out the echo of the dying storm still dancing through the streets of the Metropolis. "Captain, you couldn't have phrased this any better?"

The Colonel clamped his cigar between his teeth and, taking each step with military precision, returned to his desk. Among the papers there — chief among them Milar Pnev's report — lay his ever-present felt hat. The Colonel, it seemed, never parted with the thing, so much so that, to everyone else, it had become an extension of his very self.

Milar Pnev, for his part, looked the same as always: a slightly worn suit of standard government issue, scuffed shoes whose glory days were far behind them, and an odor that blended cheap cigarettes with a pungent cologne.

"Seemed fine to me," he muttered.

"Fine?" The Colonel's voice was calm and measured, as though his vocal cords were incapable of changing volume or pitch. Even so, there was something about the set of his brow and the flicker in his gaze that hinted at hidden emotions. Or so Ardi imagined.

In any case, the two days since the incident at the Menagerie (which the public knew nothing about) and the bombing of the Temple of the Tormented Saints (which every paper in the city was shouting about) had clearly taken a toll on him. The Colonel, who had never been particularly stout to begin with, now looked visibly gaunt. It was obvious he hadn't slept. He must have had several conversations as unpleasant as this one already — except in those, he likely hadn't been the one sitting at the head of the table…

"I-"

"Out loud, please," the Colonel cut him off, pushing a folder across the desk. "No need to be shy, Captain. Go on."

Milar, smoothing down his neatly-styled dark hair, turned to Ardi with a brief look of irritation. The young man gave him a faint shrug. He hadn't objected when Milar, all but breathing fire, had dragged him out of the Grand University Library, shoved official forms into his hands, and then practically ordered him to write the report on what had happened. "I won't get a bonus for that kind of creative writing," he'd snarled. "So you can explain to the higher-ups what, by the Eternal Angels, happened there."

Ardi had done his best to explain.

Milar cleared his throat and grabbed the page he himself had signed only a couple of hours before being summoned here — without so much as glancing at it.

"'On the day of the incident, Investigator Ard Egobar, employee number 14/647-3, arrived at the designated area due to unforeseen circumstances arising from the fact that the employee is studying at the Imperial Magical University…' Colonel, the beginning isn't half bad, is it? Sure, I could have written something like, "'This investigator is uniquely gifted at finding trouble for his own ass.'" But how does one phrase 'ass' in official language? That's quite the conun-"

"Don't play the fool," the Colonel interrupted him. "Keep reading."

Milar flashed Ardi another sharp look, while Ardi, in turn, tried to pretend he was wholly absorbed in the view outside the window. Considering the Black House's location — and that the Colonel's office faced the Niewa waterfront — it was indeed a mesmerizing sight.

"'In the Menagerie, the investigator…'" Milar paused. "Here we have some confusing text about certain fields and the Ley…" He flipped the page, scanning the thin columns of small, rather sloppy handwriting. Curse those fine motor skills…

"Something about experiments… or excrements… or maybe both? Ah, here we go: 'The investigator, facing unpredictable circumstances, responded as needed. In the Menagerie, transport was expropriated, which, given that the aforementioned property is funded by the Crown, falls under the statute on usage of government property while a Second Chancery employee is on active assignment.'"

Ardi silently thanked Bazhen once again — he was the one who had helped Ardan draft that report.

"Transport, Captain? By the Eternal Angels… Government transport?!" For the first time, the Colonel's voice rose — though it might simply have aligned with the wind's howling outside. "I hope you haven't missed all the newspapers. Take a look."

With that, the Colonel, biting down on his cigar, tugged open a drawer that creaked in protest and threw a stack of grayish pages across the desk, each lined with columns of print surrounding photographs.

"The Imperial Herald, front page." He tapped a finger on the first paper.

"I-"

"Keep reading, Captain, don't stop."

Milar leaned forward to pick up the paper.

"'Riding an Anomaly: How the Wolf of Blazing Darkness Ended Up in the City Center — an Independent Investigation by Taisia Shpritz.'"

He glanced down, where half the page was taken up by a blurry, out-of-focus photograph, but you could still make out the massive, flaming wolf tearing through the streets. And nestled within its fiery coat, you could see the silhouette of a rider, though mercifully, it was so indistinct that you couldn't discern any identifying features beyond the basic outline.

"And now the Dubravy Family News Agency," the Colonel said, pushing a second paper toward him.

Milar set aside the Empire's top paper and reached for the next.

"'Was This a One-Off, or Is It Now Our Reality? Can the Authorities No Longer Keep the City Safe from Anomalies?'"

The picture beneath it was even worse than the one in the Herald, because in this shot, the wolf was crushing a parked car under its paw. It was possible that someone making a sudden turn had forced Ragrazrar to dodge or risk colliding head-on with them — an impact that would have meant not just wrecked property, but casualties.

"The Dubravy always skew things," Milar grumbled. "You know that as well as I do, Colonel. They'll do anything to grab attention and sell more-"

"It no longer matters, Captain. Look at the next one." The Colonel seemed unwilling to let Milar finish a single sentence tonight. A third paper slid across the desk. "The Time of Politics and Peace."

"The opposition press?" Milar's eyebrow arched as he picked it up. "Why would we care about their rag? If the Emperor handed out a thousand exes to each citizen tomorrow, they'd find some hidden motive there."

"Because in the last two days, they had to rent two more printing houses just to keep up with demand," the Colonel said with a weary exhale as he settled back into his chair. "Their circulation went up sixty-three percent."

"And what exactly did they…" Milar opened the paper. "'Love in Defiance of the Church and Security Forces.'"

Below was a photograph of two hazy silhouettes — clearly a man and a woman — embracing against the backdrop of a burning temple. Around them, firefighters, guards, soldiers, and Second Chancery employees were in disarray. Ardi remembered that night vividly: aside from the firefighters, everyone else had been aiming weapons at each other. The photo, however, made it look as though all the barrels had been pointed at the hugging couple.

"A cheap manipulation," Milar said, grimacing as he tossed the newspaper back on the desk. "They're trying to cast 'the little guy' as the center of a standoff against the repressive apparatus."

"I'm glad to see our lectures about public opinion manipulation haven't gone in one ear and out the other, Milar," the Colonel said. This was the first time he'd used the captain's given name. He tapped ash from his cigar, then pressed his fingers to his temples. "Cheap or not, the facts remain facts. The opposition just found new ears to listen to them. And believe me, Captain, the Emperor is none too pleased. Nor is he happy about the fact that on the day honoring the Saints, an explosion rocked the heart of his capital. And all this just before winter, when we'll be hosting the Congress."

"The Congress?" Ardi couldn't help asking. "What's that?"

"A gathering of emissaries and ministers from nearly every country in the world, partner," Milar explained while leafing through the remainder of Ardi's report. "It's not a big deal to the general public, but it's hugely important for international relations. Especially considering the fact that this will only be the third Congress in twenty years."

"It's a very young tradition," the Colonel added, eyes closed as he leaned back in his chair, "started by the late Emperor — may the Eternal Angels gladly accept him. And now… by all the demons… I can't imagine a bigger slap in the current Emperor's face than if one of his father's hallmark policies gets sabotaged so soon into his own reign."

Ardi and Milar exchanged glances and stayed silent. Their mission was to stop the "Order of the Spider," the group of terrorists and maniacs plotting their dark schemes in the city. Everything else, politics most of all, was hardly their concern. Milar had warned Ardi about that early on, explaining with great vehemence that in the Metropolis, it was best not to poke one's nose into lofty matters and the powerful individuals who presided over them. In the time he'd lived here, Ardi had come to realize how right Milar and the others — Cassara, Mart — truly were about that.

"It feels like we're playing two games at once," the Colonel said, fiddling with his cigar but never quite lifting it to his mouth. His gaze lingered on the Emperor's portrait. "Either the Spiders have multiple goals, or someone's taking advantage of their antics and dropping breadcrumbs on the table."

"Possibly, Colonel," Milar said, a grave expression on his face as he gently pushed aside the newspapers (there were more than three). "Because if it was all about scientific experiments and time travel — no matter how foolish that sounds — that wouldn't add up with what they did to the Orcish Jackets and the Hammers. Not to mention the bombing of the Temple."

The Colonel finally took a drag and exhaled a smoky halo. He waved his cigar vaguely. "What do we have on Nalimov?"

"Not much," Milar replied, untying the strings of another file and pulling out several documents. "Our people collected everything on him from the archives and the Guilds. Ildar Nalimov is a perfectly genuine name. He was forty-two years old. Born in Altrit."

"That's south of Winged Lake," the Colonel noted, as though it mattered. Maybe it did.

"Moved to the capital at age seven with his family," Milar went on. "Father was a master woodworker, mother a housewife. They lived in Tendari, then moved to the Central District when his father started a small company making technical furniture."

"As in?"

"Office desks, shelving for archives, stands of all sorts," the captain shrugged. "They worked with suppliers of rare wood from the islands. Because of that, once he grew up, Ildar opened his own business importing gourmet foods. Then that went bust — it became unprofitable when excise taxes on foreign goods went up."

To Ardi, all of this sounded like a foreign language. He got the gist, in a vague sort of sense, but nowhere near as well as Milar or the Colonel, who seemed perfectly at ease with talk of excise taxes and markets. Ardi remembered Milar once saying that, compared to Ardi, he himself was poorly educated, since the educational reform had happened long after the captain had grown up.

But at the moment, it felt like just the opposite.

"So how did he-"

"Connections," Milar said, taking his turn to cut off the Colonel. "This is how it happened: the father of Senior Magister Erzans Paarlax, a certain Enraz Paarlax, once served as the head of procurement for a company that installed large-scale Star Magic shields. That's where he met Ildar."

The Colonel took another drag and blew out more smoke. "Sometimes I think there are only twenty thousand people in this city, not twenty million," he observed, voice oddly contemplative.

"To be fair, Colonel, thirty years ago, the Metropolis only had about sixteen million."

"Only," the Colonel repeated in that same level tone that somehow conveyed dry, ironic amusement.

"When Paarlax took a position, or, depending on who you ask, was exiled, to the Menagerie, Nalimov saw his chance," Milar continued. "He reignited old connections, and started supplying the anomalies with food from the islands, and later, from all over the continent. He built a middling fortune off that."

Milar ran a finger down the columns of numbers. "According to our estimates, Ildar Nalimov's assets amounted to nearly seven thousand and three hundred exes."

Ardi let out a soft, involuntary whistle. Ildar had certainly given him the impression of being a wealthy man, but hearing the exact figures was another matter entirely.

"Have we already seized it to cover damages?"

"That's the snag, Colonel," Milar replied, spreading his hands out. "The folks in the financial crimes unit say his accounts are empty. All his property was sold off a couple of months ago. Same with his company and his three merchant ships."

"And the new owners?"

"Clean as a newborn's tear. Scrupulous, reputable organizations. They pay their taxes on time, their employees have decent insurance, and the only violations at the enterprises have been minor, the kind everyone has. They're behind on some fines and overtime pay, but who isn't?"

"Conduct a full audit anyway."

"It's already been ordered, Colonel. But it won't be ready for another couple of months," Milar said, setting the file aside. "Nalimov sold everything piece by piece, and never more than a twenty percent stake each time. So-"

"He knew we'd be investigating," the Colonel concluded. "And the more buyers involved in taking over bits of his assets, the more time we'd spend sorting out the deals… meaning Nalimov not only knew about trade, he also knew how to exploit bureaucracy."

Ardi recalled his single conversation with Ildar — excluding the Menagerie incident — and realized that he would've pegged him as anything but a man who relished wrangling with officialdom the way Bazhen Eorsky might. If anything, Ildar had seemed like his exact opposite.

"How much cash in total is missing from his accounts, considering the sale of his business assets?"

"Fifteen thousand, Colonel."

"Fifteen thousand, by the Eternal Angels… And the bank — wait, which bank did he use?"

"The Imperial one."

"Marvelous…" The Colonel laid his cigar carefully in the ashtray's groove and turned to Milar again. "You're telling me the Imperial Bank didn't think twice about somebody withdrawing so much?"

"Nalimov had been an honest businessman for a long time, Colonel. They assumed it was for a major deal… And it wasn't all in exes. He only took fifteen hundred in exes, the rest in gold."

"And if we add the earnings from the 'Heron' on top of that… the Spiders are sitting on the budget of a small town," the Colonel said.

Ardi refrained from mentioning that in Evergale, even if you gathered every coin in the settlement and sold off all the houses, shops, and farmland — not counting the massive Polskih farm — you wouldn't even come close to such a sum. Only if you added the livestock could you maybe acquire somewhere around two-thirds of Ildar's wealth.

"His parents, sisters?"

"His parents have been with the Face of Light for some time now. The sisters married years ago and moved out of the capital," Milar said, not bothering to open the file again. "The older ones live by the Azure Sea. The youngest one's on the Dancing Peninsula, on the Olikzasian border."

Ardi shivered, recalling Katerina's dream of building an orphanage there.

"Check them out."

"We will," Milar nodded, tugging at the slightly greasy lapels of his jacket — he most likely hadn't been home in a while to change clothes. "But again, it'll take time. And I doubt that-"

"I know, Captain. But we're out of leads. Now, tell me: why would a man like Ildar Nalimov get himself tangled up in this? What was his motive?"

Milar sighed, gaze dropping to the desk. "He had no children, no wife or mistress," he said with a shrug. "He led a perfectly ordinary life as a businessman. He had no memberships in any organizations. No record of political involvement. He wasn't seen at any opposition gatherings or on their donor lists. Despite his income, he lived relatively modestly. He drove a decent but plain car. Owned a small apartment on the outskirts of the Central District. There's even an overdue bill for the house's Ley generator, though he probably just forgot to pay it. The building manager and his neighbors all had nothing but praise for him."

The Colonel looked like he was swearing under his breath — at least that was how Ardi interpreted the deep furrow in the man's brow.

"You said he had a trading fleet. And Riglanov — or whoever's really hiding behind that name — left us a little present."

"Technically, yes," the captain replied with a shrug. "But in reality, it's three old barges with repair and service bills so long you could wallpaper a decent-sized living room with them. They mostly sailed back and forth between Seiros and Viroeira."

"And…?"

"We checked, Colonel. The crew on those ships hasn't changed for almost ten years. There were no chimera sightings, no strange cargo, no rumors — nothing we could latch onto."

"Huh," the Colonel clicked his tongue. "No matter how you look at it, he just led an ordinary, boring life."

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"And yet," Milar Pnev raised a forefinger, "in that ordinary, boring life, there's one instance that's anything but."

Silence fell over the office, oppressive and heavy, the kind that could pin even the most talkative jester to the ground, forcing them to wander the twisting halls of memory until they found themselves standing before those dark moments they'd rather forget.

Ardi had never considered himself to be especially talkative, and certainly not a jester, so instead of a twisting corridor, he felt himself plunging straight into the deepest well of his own recollections.

One Day Before the Meeting in the Black House

"You'll hand it in tomorrow when you come by the office for the debrief," Milar said as he killed the engine and pulled out his cigarette case.

He lit a cigarette as usual. It produced the same smell as usual. And once again, it was unpleasant. Ardi was getting used to the acrid stink that clung to both clothes and skin like wet clay.

"Debrief?" Ardi echoed.

"That's the term," Milar replied, not taking his eyes off the building's main entrance. "Means there'll be a meeting. An unpleasant one."

"Are there ever pleasant ones?"

"No idea, Magister. Maybe there are. I just haven't been lucky enough to attend any yet."

He'd tried to slip back into his old half-joking tone, but it didn't work. His voice sounded weighed down, his gaze was heavier still, and his hands were trembling slightly. Not from fear, but tension. Storm clouds still loomed overhead, the wind was rattling the metal sheets on the rooftops, and the tempest that had swept the capital wasn't quite done making itself known. For some people, that was only literal; for those in the Second Chancery, it was figurative, too.

The same echoes of the spring thunderstorm were resounding in Milar's heart.

"Let's go," he said at last. He left the cigarette in his mouth, opened the car door first, and stepped out.

Ardi grabbed his staff and followed. At once, he felt the nearly soaked air from the Crookedwater Canal brush across his face. The distant clanging of tram wheels filled his ears, and beyond that, workers hammered away, building yet another bridge to the opposite bank — anything to ease the burden on the Martyrs' Bridge. Though it was doubtful it would help much.

From the two black cars parked behind them, officers from other departments (Alexander and Din were still in the hospital, in some sort of magical coma, though their condition was improving, albeit more slowly than anyone would've liked. Mshisty had recovered faster) began to climb out. But as Milar drew near, he tossed them a few sharp words, and they stayed where they were.

"No need," he said grimly, returning to Ardi.

Ardi kept silent. The captain knew best. After all, the building they'd come to was the home of Corporal Alice Rovnev. She rented an apartment here by the canal. And now three government cars had lined up outside her entrance.

Because it was through Alice Rovnev — whether she'd realized it or not — that the Order of the Spider had been getting vital information, allowing them to always stay one step ahead of Milar and Ardi.

"By all that's rotten, this is foul," Milar said with a huff, raising the collar of his coat and holding his hat in place before the playful wind could snatch it.

The gusts caused the puddles to ripple, occasionally ripping off chunks of sodden grit and flinging them against pants and shoes. And there they stood, their backs to the restless canal as it tried to calm itself after the storm, watching the front door.

Ardi hadn't known Alice for long — just over three months — but even to him, this moment felt bitter, because he knew exactly what would follow once they took her in.

Milar Pnev knew it, too. To him, Alice — like Alexander and Din — had likely become much more than a simple subordinate.

And Alice herself understood…

Ardi looked over at the officers, noticing that they were holding signal amulets in their hands.

"Milar…"

"I know," the captain muttered. He took a lengthy drag of his cigarette — so long it nearly scorched his fingertips — then exhaled a cloud of smoke like a train. Stubbing out what was left of the cigarette with his shoe, he spoke in a rough, hacking voice. "Let's go, partner."

They started walking.

Their shoes crunched on the wet paving stones, while their coats flapped in the wind like the wings of startled birds desperate to escape the hunters who prowl the paths between the clouds.

Ardi wore no cloak. By order of the Second Chancery, while serving as an investigator, he was exempt from donning any official insignia: there was no need for epaulettes, a cloak, or for his license to be displayed. All he needed was his Second Chancery papers.

That alone was the best marker of one's affiliation with the security services, because their mages were the only ones who roamed the city without regalia. Then again, he would eventually have to wear the cloak and stars, but not today. After the last incident, his epaulettes had survived, but the cloak…

Ardi sighed.

He was trying to distract himself from what lay ahead.

He'd tried and failed.

Milar opened the door, and they stepped into a spacious hallway. As always, mailboxes were mounted on the left, with a staircase and the first few apartments on the right. And yet, since this building hadn't originally been designed as a residential one, corridors branched off to the left and right from the entrance. Doors lined their lengths.

Once upon a time, before someone had bought the building and converted it into a residential one, these hallways might have been filled with offices, with typewriters clacking, heels clicking, papers rustling, and important business being hashed out in loud voices. That was how Ardi pictured the offices of city firms, since he'd never actually been in one.

Right now, it was silent — a silence broken only by the faint sound of shoes sinking into the stiff, almost crunchy carpeting that covered the floor. It was easier that way than constantly sweeping out the seasonal mud tenants tracked in.

He and Milar made their way to the third floor, headed down the corridor to the west wing, and turned at an intersection deeper into the building. Alice's windows must have faced the side opposite from the canal.

That's a shame, Ardi thought. It would've been a nice view.

What a silly thing to think at a time like this…

They arrived at the door. It was plain, made from unremarkable larch wood, painted a dull red, and it had been varnished. The varnish had peeled in places, though someone had tried to fix it. You could see the marks of past efforts — someone had once truly cared about this home.

They had maintained the varnish and touched up a few scuffed spots. Then there had been years of neglect, when the paint had blistered and the varnish had flaked away. And after that, someone had tried to fix it again.

Milar exhaled, shook himself like a dog, then unfastened his holster. Without drawing his revolver, he tried the door handle.

It wasn't locked.

They stepped inside. A clean, bright corridor greeted them: it had a tiny entryway with a simple stool, a wall-mounted coat rack, and a small shoe shelf.

"Take off your shoes," came a voice from the kitchen, judging by the other sounds. "I'll make you some tea."

Milar and Ardi exchanged glances and, in unison, untied their laces and left their shoes by the door. They slid their feet into worn slippers — half-eaten by moths — and made their way into the apartment. Ardi glimpsed a small living room with a table and couch, and farther in, a bedroom. The apartment layout allowed you to see almost everything from the corridor.

It was cozy. It smelled of flowers and, for some reason, cheese. It also smelled of happiness. And a hint of passion… tangled up in the nets of a broken heart. You could sense it in the rumpled bedsheets that no one had straightened. In a shattered vase. A ripped-up stuffed bear. The strewn flowers. Jewelry had spilled across the carpet, most of it clearly too expensive for a Second Chancery employee to afford. And in the center of it all lay a ring. It was a white gold ring with a large, sparkling diamond.

An engagement ring.

It lay precisely in the middle of it all, as though someone had toyed with it in their hands, hesitating, then hurled it in a burst of emotion. There was even a mark on the wallpaper where it had struck. It must have bounced and landed symbolically right there in the center.

Ardi read all of that at a glance — just like how he'd used to read tracks in the Alcade forests, back when Shali had been teaching him. Judging by his expression, Milar had noticed the same thing.

Alice really was in the kitchen, wearing her usual work attire: a black skirt that went down to her ankles, a slim-fitting corset vest, and a neat jacket with the faint marks of torn-off frills at the cuffs.

She'd often lamented how hard it was to find suitable clothes for her "unique line of work," and that having them tailored was too expensive. And so, she had to modify what stores sold for more conventional ladies.

The kitchen was barely ten square meters, with no Ley cables or fancy appliances. There was a wood-burning stove, a wash basin with a bucket for the gray water, a roomy ice chest, and a table used both for food prep and, when in a rush, for eating. Ardi could see all the tiny scrub marks and stains that had never quite gone away.

On a small iron stand sat a tin kettle, full of freshly-boiled water, and beside it was a small, expensive-looking porcelain teapot.

Once Milar and Ardi were seated on stools, Alice poured a bit of strong tea concentrate into round cups, then filled them with boiling water.

The two partners exchanged a glance but did not drink. Alice lifted her own cup and took a small sip. She had a remarkable ability to gulp down liquid right when it was boiling hot. She always said it was because she'd grown used to warming herself with hot drinks — her "office," after all, was perpetually cold.

"I'm not going to poison you," she said.

Traces of tears clung to her soft, round cheeks. Her hands trembled no less than Milar's had earlier. Ardi turned away.

It hurt him to look at Alice, this petite, warm-faced woman with a strong spirit. Intelligent gray eyes peeked out from behind thick glasses.

That had been the case before, anyway…

Now she seemed hollowed out. Dark circles lurked beneath those frames. Her skin was slack. She looked like she'd lost ten kilos in the last thirty hours. She had more gray in her hair as well.

"Even after your divorce three years ago, you still looked better than you do now, Alice," Milar said, finally breaking the silence as he wrapped his fingers around the teacup. He took a sip and hiccupped. "How do you drink it so hot…?"

"Habit…" She answered, sounding both lucid and vacant all at once. She was staring at a single spot, never glancing away. "Those were the best two years of my life, Milar. No men. Just me and my job. The best years… by the Eternal Angels…"

"Ildar…"

"I knew," Alice went on, as though she hadn't heard him. "I knew it couldn't be that good. 'Madam, I believe you've dropped your smile; may I return it to you?'" She tried to mimic Ildar Nalimov's deep voice, then snorted. "By the Face of Light, what nonsense. That's what I thought back then — what utter nonsense. But he was stubborn. Persistent. Strong. Not some spineless wimp like my ex-husband. I thought he could handle it — handle being with me. I'm not exactly a prize, Milar."

"That's true, Alice… That's true," he said, nodding. He gripped the teacup so hard his fingertips reddened, and only partially from the heat.

"I wasn't a very good wife, Milar. I don't know how to take care of a man. I know how to work. I know how to spot tiny details. I'm good at chemistry — very good. I love it." Her words tumbled out in fragments, sometimes with long pauses between them. "I didn't love my first husband. I married him because I had to, because a grown woman is supposed to be married. He was from a good family and promised me that he wouldn't demand anything from me that I couldn't give. He promised — and lied. But Ildar… he never promised me anything, Milar. He just… did things. He never asked where I'd been if I was gone for a couple of days in the lab. Never demanded I cook — he was just as happy in the kitchen himself. He even hired a housekeeper for us. Can you imagine that? At first, I was against it, but then the house became tidy, and we were both more relaxed. Life was… it was good…"

"Someone managed to share your heart with chemistry?"

Alice gave him a bitter smile — so bitter it made Ardi's throat tighten with sympathy.

"It seemed that way to me, Milar… It seemed that way…" She glanced toward the other room, where the engagement ring lay among the rumpled sheets. "I mixed up affection and understanding with… damn it. Damn it!" She balled her fist and struck the table so hard it became clear that she was seeking a jolt of physical pain — anything to numb the anguish inside.

Ardi knew that feeling well. He'd once given in to it himself, back in Ergar's cave after his father had died. He'd thought his father had betrayed him, abandoned his family for Evergale. But Ergar had shown him otherwise.

Alice's situation was different, though.

"He just used me! Used me!" She burst out. "He fucked me right there on those damned Kargaam silk sheets, asked me to marry him, called me — called me…" Her tears were spent, and now she spoke quietly: "He called me his beloved. And I believed he meant it. I felt like I mattered to someone alive, not just the corpses I carve up every damned night! For once I felt warm. Warm, Milar… do you understand?"

"I understand, Alice."

"And now he's cold. He died like a dog. Gone. And I can't even dig my nails into his eyes and rip out that lying tongue. There's only a corpse — just another hunk of meat to dissect and weigh, then shut away in a wooden box. And me… Now I'm alone again. And so cold, Milar. It's like someone tore my heart out, took a bite, and tossed the rest aside."

Silence again. Each of them stared at their cup of tea, thin strands of steam rising up from the fragrant brew.

"I don't remember what I told him," Alice went on, curling in on herself. "We just talked about everything. He'd mention his work, I wouldn't. Protocol, you know. But over time… I talked about my own stuff. He listened. He understood me. Understood me — what nonsense. He understood me… The bastard… I mean, who am I? Just a woman with a scalpel who slices up corpses. You know how people look at me at family gatherings? They treat dog poop with more respect. My chemistry degree? My publications? My rank? They don't care. My mother only started talking to me again when I showed up with a husband, and after the divorce, we were back to square one…"

Milar said nothing. Neither did Ardi. They all worked the same cases, wore the same uniforms, breathed the same polluted air, but they still lived in different worlds.

They could glimpse Alice's world, but never truly grasp it. Just as she could never fully grasp theirs.

"So I spoke more and more. I shared more. He always seemed to understand… always listened… Eternal Angels… Milar… So many people… All of it… because of me. My stupidity and-"

"Don't say that," Milar cut in, reaching out for her hand. She pulled back as if he were some monster. He froze. "He tricked you, dear. And who knows how he did it — through magic, potions, artifacts, or-"

"Men," Alice spat. "Magic… hah. All he needed were words. Just like all of you. Mere words and the fact that I wanted to believe them — even if I don't know why."

They fell silent again. Ardi felt not just out of place, but as though he were witnessing something he should've never, under any circumstances, seen or heard.

"I didn't betray you, Milar. Not you, not the Second Chancery, and certainly not the Empire."

"I know, Alice. I know… You just slipped up. It's not a betrayal. I know that."

For the first time, she lifted her gaze. And for the first time, some emotion stirred there. But Ardan wished he hadn't seen it.

What shimmered in her gray eyes bordered on madness born of an animal terror. A fear so profound it could only come from the realization of one's own unavoidable fate.

"You know… but those… The ones who'll be interrogating me… they don't know. They won't believe me and-"

"Interrogating?" Ardi asked, confused. "Aren't we-"

"Wake up, Corporal!" Milar barked, not even turning to Ardan. "Alice caused an operational leak. Terrorists got their hands on the Second Chancery's classified intel — secrets that safeguard the entire country! You think we're in control here? That we're the ones interrogating her? No, we're here to take Alice to the Black House, where… where…"

He couldn't finish. He didn't have the strength.

"I don't want to," Alice shook her head. Tears slid down her cheeks, not from heartbreak, but from raw, mind-numbing fear. "Not there, Milar. Not there… Please… Please… just — just step outside. Give me a minute. I'll do what any officer should. Let me at least go out that way. At least let me keep a shred of pride."

What any officer should do… Ardi didn't fully grasp her meaning. But he'd worked with Milar long enough that he could read his partner's feelings like the city's footprints.

Milar was torn.

He believed Alice — that much was clear. But… he couldn't allow for even the faintest possibility that she was holding something back. And that possibility, that minuscule worm of doubt, meant that letting Alice do what she wanted was impossible. Too much was at stake. They needed to be sure — needed to know exactly what Alice had told Ildar, and whether she truly wasn't involved in anything else.

Only the Black House could find that out…

"Forgive me…" Milar exhaled and lowered his head. "Forgive me, dear…"

Alice sniffed, straightened her back, and nodded. For a moment, she was just like her old self again: a smart, self-possessed young woman with a core of unshakeable will.

She looked much like Marshal Tevona Elliny once had.

And why did the world always break the strongest among them? Ardi still couldn't fathom it.

"Yes, Captain, you're right," she said, her voice cold and distant. "If I were in your place, I'd do the same."

"Then-"

Milar was interrupted. Alice shoved him aside, snatched up the porcelain teapot, and smashed it against the wall. Grabbing a shard, she lunged for her own throat. She only managed to "lunge," though, because Ardi reacted first.

He poured his will into his words:

"Alice, freeze!"

It felt as though he were lifting an entire car off his shoulders. Even wounded by heartbreak, Alice's spirit hit him like a Star-born werewolf. Maybe even harder than that. Ardan nearly blacked out after smashing headlong into that impenetrable wall of someone else's psyche.

Sleeping Spirits… How powerful his grandfather must have been, even in his old age…

Ardi still couldn't seize control of Alice, despite knowing her true name and having grown stronger since arriving in the capital. He lacked the strength to make her obey for even a full second.

Still, that brief hesitation was enough. Instead of slicing her throat open, Alice only cut the side of her neck before Milar leaped forward, knocked the shard from her hand, and pinned her against him.

"No! No! Let me shoot myself! Damn it, Milar! I won't go! No! Not there-"

The captain wrapped his arm around her neck, and as gently as circumstances would allow, he choked her out. Alice scrabbled at his lapel with broken nails, leaving oily smears on the fabric. She jerked once, twice, three times… then went limp.

She was alive, just unconscious.

Milar lifted her in his arms and, without a word, headed for the exit. Ardi followed him in silence.

They made their way downstairs, where a few of the officers took Alice and put her into one of the cars. After exchanging a few words with the captain, they drove off toward the Black House.

That left Ardi and Milar alone on the canal embankment. The captain tried to get out his cigarettes. He couldn't even manage to open the case. His hands shook so badly his fingers couldn't find the latch. As pale as the streetlamp overhead, Milar cursed under his breath and slipped the cigarette case back into his coat pocket.

"Tess…"

"What?" Ardan jolted and clutched his staff tightly. He had no idea why he'd done that.

"Yesterday, Magister… I'm not blind…" Milar, much like Alice a short while ago, spoke haltingly, his gaze fixed on the Niewa as it battered against the granite embankment. "You two — it's serious… for both of you… And she's a decent lady, Magister. Even if she's an aristocrat."

Of course… Ardan would've expected nothing less from the Second Chancery, which had surely investigated and discovered everything about her long ago. Then why had they missed so much about Ildar? Perhaps they'd shed some light on that once the Chancery archives dug deeper into the man's personal file.

"Word will spread soon, Magister… That damned aristocratic circle of hers is a tight-knit bunch… but she won't say a word to you about it. Not ever."

"Rumors? About me being a half-blood and-"

"About you sometimes being an idiot," Milar cut him off. "What does your blood have to do with anything, you big lunk? You're not only a mage, you're also an investigator with the Second Chancery… I'd like to see who among them thinks they're immortal enough to insult you or your lineage. No. The rumors will be about an unmarried young lady who's constantly seen with the same man — and not in some polite society setting, or whatever they call it… You know what that means? And do you know what they'll start calling her behind her back?"

Ardan didn't know for certain. But he could guess.

"You two are serious," Milar repeated. "So find the courage, all right? Don't put her in that position."

Finally, Ardi understood. Understood what Milar was really trying to say: he was talking about the question. A very important question that Ardan needed to ask Tess.
But if — if she said no… what then?

Sleeping Spirits…

Suddenly, his heart was pounding like it wanted to shatter his rib cage; his breathing grew shallow, and everything began to spin before his eyes.

"I'll kill them."

"W-what?" Ardan jerked again, somewhat calming down in the process.

Milar had changed the subject so abruptly that it had snapped Ardan out of his panic attack better than a cold shower. Staring after the black cars that were already driving off, the captain repeated himself, "I'll kill them, partner. Every single one of those Spider bastards. I'll kill them with every last bit of brutal force I can muster. And then, as our Emperor likes to say, when I get to Hell, I'll kill them all over again."

Ardi also turned his gaze toward the disappearing cars.

"Will she come back? Will Alice come back?"

Milar said nothing, which was the clearest answer he could have given.

"Will you help me?" Milar asked without looking at him.

Ardan didn't answer right away. He waited until his heart and head could come together on an honest reply.

"I will."

"Then let's go, Magister. We've still got a hell of a lot to do, and it's just the two of us now."

***

"We have no clue what prompted Ildar Nalimov to risk everything for the Spiders." The Colonel lifted his cigar from the ashtray but didn't yet take a drag. "We don't know why he is so interested — or rather, was interested — in these insane experiments or what made him contact Corporal Alice Rovnev."

At the mention of Alice, both Ardi and Milar flinched.

"That's correct, Colonel."

"Splendid," the de facto head of the Second Chancery said, clapping his hands in feigned enthusiasm. "Need I remind you that the grand opening of the underground tram lines is drawing nearer? As is the public launch of the new dirigible. Where will the Spiders strike next, and at whom? Captain, do you understand me? It's already been half a year, and the only 'result' of our investigation is a foul-smelling substance that doesn't help the Empire in general, or the Second Chancery in particular. By now, every bigwig who's so much as strolled past a high-level office is calling us useless. And, by the Face of Light, I don't have a single retort to offer them."

"They act as if there aren't other problems in this country besides the Order," Milar noted.

"There are," the Colonel nodded. "But, Captain, the other problems — both at home and abroad — are ones we handle rather well. Our enemies have nothing to criticize there, no further reason to snap at us. But here? They've got a reason…" He rose from his chair and walked back to the window. Ardi had noticed by now that the Colonel always did this when he was thinking hard. "What about the notes on Senior Magister Paarlax's experiments?"

"He kept a storage unit in the seaport," Milar said.

"And?"

"By the time we found out and sent agents there, it had already been broken into."

"Why am I not surprised…" The Colonel opened the window again, letting in the rush of city air and street noises. The crowds of people who had no idea what kind of conversation was happening in the Black House at the moment seemed almost mockingly cheerful and carefree. "Do we at least have any leads at all?"

"There's a chance we can reach them through the Ragman. He's someone who might confirm our theory that the Spiders are after certain artifacts," Milar said in a careful, roundabout tone. "And from there, we can maybe trace the Spiders themselves."

"And how are these artifacts connected to Paarlax's experiments?"

"They're directly related to them, Colonel," Ardi assured him, speaking up for the first time that evening. "An artifact of that kind can be drained of its energy, and according to the late Paarlax's research, that energy would be necessary to activate his device."

"What's wrong with using Ley generators?"

"In theory, Ley generators, Colonel, have their own Ley field that could resonate with the device and interfere with its operation. That's just my guess…"

"I'm glad you at least have a theory, Corporal Egobar," the Colonel remarked dryly. He leaned against the windowsill, surveying the city like a hawk. "Captain, gather all the materials and send them via messenger to Aversky. Mark them with the highest level of secrecy. This matter is so urgent that if Aversky starts making excuses, you tell him it's my direct order."

Milar snorted and nodded.

"Does that mean-"

"Yes, Captain," the Colonel interrupted him yet again. "As long as the Spiders case isn't closed, Grand Magister Aversky will be answering directly to you. And you to me. No orders, decrees, directives, or statutes — whether earthly or, Face of Light forgive me, from the laws of the Church of Light — apply to you or your group. You can do whatever you want. Ride around the capital on a hundred wolves if you like and interrogate every second passerby for all I care. But find these Spiders. Find them and neutralize them. If you happen to take one alive, wonderful — I'd be delighted to talk to them. But given the current political climate, I — and the Emperor as well — will be just as happy if you simply remove this problem from existence. Understood?"

"And-"

"Access to the armory is only granted upon a direct, justified request. Once you know you're about to move in on them — and mind you, I do trust that you'll get there eventually — you'll put in for it. At that time, whatever you and your people think you might need, whatever the armory has available, it'll be yours."

For some reason, this part didn't bring Milar much satisfaction — if anything, it did quite the opposite.

"You're dismissed," the Colonel snapped. "And take back this nonsense you gave me in the form of a report, Captain. Rewrite Corporal Egobar's fairy tale in normal language and file it away in the archive… Along with that 'fairy-tale' copy for which I'm awaiting a higher secrecy level…"

"Yes, Colonel."

"That'll be all." The Colonel remained facing the window. "Pnev. Egobar."

Both partners offered a crisp goodbye.

"Colonel."

"Colonel."

Together, they left the office, descended to the first floor, picked up their belongings, and left the Black House.

Standing by the car, Milar was smoking with an anxious fervor that was unlike anything Ardi had seen from him before.

"This is bad news, Magister… Truly downright rotten…"

"Why?"

"Because, my curious friend, the Colonel just gave us a rather pointed hint."

"A hint… about what?"

"That if we lose this little game, we'll end up in the same cell as Alice."

Yes. That really was…

Bad news indeed.