Matabar

Iolai took off his hat, revealing black hair threaded with snow-white strands. As though no one else existed but him, he sat down in a nearby chair, half-turning toward Ardi and Boris. Clad in a pristine white suit and a crimson shirt, he looked somewhat… odd and out of place. Even the slender Zahatkin and the inconspicuous Shestov managed to appear a bit less pompous and extravagant than their "leader." Lady Polina Erkerovsky seemed equally out of place next to her friends and acquaintances.

You'd glance at someone like her and just shrug. She was a typical representative of the aristocracy's daughters: tall and thin as a rake, with perfect posture and a haughty, clever gaze that sparkled with a hint of spite.

"Still," Iolai said, "I'm not in the least bit surprised, Mr. Fahtov." He waved dismissively at the waiter who approached to offer them menus without even turning to look at him. "You spend time with an Egobar, you'll eventually plan conspiracies… Come now, enlighten us. Maybe your mother's surname — Malish — is nothing but some derivative of that one tribe's, the an Manish? Perhaps all those stories about Lady Talia are true, and her mother was forced into marriage by some desert dweller who washed ashore here?"

Ardi had been prepared for anything. He'd honestly figured that Boris might flare up, brandish his staff, or maybe splash water in the Great Prince's face… Or something. After all, the entire university knew Boris and Iolai took every opportunity to display their mutual dislike.

"You know, Mr. Agrov," Boris drawled in a mockingly cool tone. Their noble ranks allowed them to speak to one another without cumbersome titles. "I was just telling my friend here how your unclean teeth managed to scratch my fist while you were chewing on it so fervently."

"Oh, did you reminisce about that time you soiled yourself at your mother's funeral when the undertaker accidentally pulled back the veil from her face?" Iolai raised an eyebrow. "Or did you fail to mention that part?"

"About as much as I failed to mention your very… unnatural affection for your younger cousin," Boris retorted, clearly implying Anastasia. "Oh, forgive my tactlessness, but it does appear like she prefers to dance with anyone… who's not you. Might I suggest that you start brushing your teeth?"

Iolai and Boris flashed each other wide, bright smiles, speaking in an overtly polite, courteous manner, each of them intent on saving face and following the rules of decorum.

Zahatkin and Shestov silently studied their menus, which made perfect sense. When two figures like a Lord and a Great Prince chose to "converse," the wisest course of action for everyone else was to pretend they weren't even there. One had to be extremely cautious not only about what they said in the presence of someone who could end not only your life, but the lives of your loved ones as well, but also about what they might overhear.

Naturally, such rules did not apply when speaking to an equal in status.

"Well, Boris, since you mentioned unnatural love…" Lady Polina set aside a small book she'd been reading. It was some kind of popular novel by an equally-popular author. Ardi had never had much interest in such literature — too expensive, both in terms of money and time. "I can't help but notice that the two of you, on such a lovely day no less, have decided to come together to the Swallow Festival and-"

And, of course, that was precisely the moment Tess and Elena emerged from the café. Each of them held a small paper bag full of baguettes. Presumably, they were planning to stow them in the car for later, when the roads turned into a chaotic jam and a quick snack would be welcome.

It was far from an aristocratic ideal of such things, but given both women's personalities and histories, it was a very sensible, caring idea.

Erkerovsky, Iolai and both barons stared in silence at Tess and Elena and the bags in their hands, then at Ardi and Boris, then at the car, and back again.

Tess' belongings and Elena's grimoire had been left inside the vehicle, so it wasn't surprising that Erkerovsky and the rest of Iolai's entourage had assumed that Boris and Ardi had come here alone.

"The redheaded singer from that orcish café…" Iolai drawled suddenly. "So that's who Orvilov was talking about before he disappeared. Imagine that, Miss Orman. If there's anyone I wouldn't have expected to see here, it's you. And yet…"

He fell silent again, studying Elena with narrowed eyes, noting how worriedly she'd glanced at Boris. In every way, Iolai Agrov was an unpleasant young man. But that did not make him a fool.

"So that's it…" He mouthed. Then he turned abruptly to Boris. "You know, Mr. Disowned, I'm not even curious about whether you've shared your surname with the huntsman's daughter. What interests me more," — Iolai's gaze flicked back to Tess — "is whether the esteemed Governor-General of Shamtur is aware of the company his daughter keeps."

A heavy silence fell between them. By then, the neighboring tables had cleared out (no one wanted to get caught in the crossfire of aristocratic friction, so they'd paid their bills and left), and the waitstaff preferred to stay hidden inside the café.

"Your Highness," Tess addressed him politely, in perfect adherence to etiquette, giving a slight nod to show she intended it to be a curtsy, but never actually performing it. Evidently, if a noblewoman was in the company of her escort, that minimal gesture was acceptable enough.

If not for the stories of his great-grandfather, Ardi would never have known the reason for the shock on Iolai's face and that of his companions. Even the usually cool and aloof Erkerovsky, who paid little heed to those around her, raised her eyebrows slightly.

And when Tess sank into the chair beside Ardi, Lady Erkerovsky's eyes shone with outright disapproval, if not clear scorn.

"You see, Mr. Fahtov," Iolai sighed theatrically, "how poorly your companionship rubs off on the nobility. The moment they so much as breathe the same air as you, they are consumed by the desire to sully their family's honor. I pray to the Eternal Angels that all of this is some misunderstanding which, naturally, the Governor-General will resolve as soon as possible. Never would I have imagined that a man like him could have a daughter like that."

Ardi felt his fangs begin to elongate beneath his lips.

"Following your own logic, Mr. Agrov," Boris did not remain silent, "I should probably advise your companions to worry about their young sisters and cousins' well-being… Oh, forgive my rudeness, but in addition to your interest in underage girls, you do require that they be your blood relatives as well, no?"

Elena kept her composure, but Tess, clearly unaware of the history between Anastasia and Iolai, blinked in confusion. It seemed she would have questions about that later — just as, even if Tess didn't ask about the Poplar incident, Ardi wouldn't be able to stave off explaining his friendship (if only by correspondence) with the Grand Princess for much longer.

Tess didn't deserve to be left in the dark… at least not any more than she absolutely had to be.

"What, Mr. Fahtov," Iolai asked, "are you planning to do all the talking yourself, or can your little pet manage a bark?"

An obvious provocation, and dull as a rusted blade. The remark was aimed not only at Ardi, but also at Tess, who'd openly acknowledged him as her escort. And though she was indeed the daughter of a noble, her title felt like a nominal one, given her straightforward upbringing and her father's pragmatic view of things.

Ardan saw her lips tighten into a line and watched a flicker of rage spark in her normally warm, green eyes as her thick brows pulled closer together. Tess was on the verge of saying something scathing, something cutting and unmistakably female in its precision and sting. Something that only a woman could say to a man, and it would cut him deeper than any blade. Such a thing wouldn't have ended well.

So Ardan spoke first.

"You're not mistaken, Your Highness," he said quietly, calmly. "I'm not human. Which means my sense of smell is sharper…"

Skusty had taught him: "Before you strike the other hunter with your paw, try to pierce them with a word." And Shali would always advise: "Aim for what the hunter hides — that is their weakest point."

Iolai Agrov was neither weak nor an idiot. He wasn't a coward, either. Yet in the depths of his dark eyes lurked fear. Not fear of the world or of Boris, or even of Ard, but of someone distant and yet very close.

Milar hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that Iolai wouldn't lift a finger without his father's permission. And that was precisely whom the Great Prince feared more than anything. That was precisely where Ardan struck.

"…and I can smell how you reek of fear."

A menacing hush draped over them like a heavy veil.

Atta'nha had always told Ardi that he had no need to run from his own fear, no need to dread that he might end up being afraid of something. Fear didn't make him any less of a hunter. It was only surrendering to that fear that diminished a hunter's dignity, never its existence.

Iolai had never had a wise she-wolf in his life, only an Imperial family. Ever since his childhood, he was expected to see himself as infallible. Because, in his own eyes, he had to be.

This was why there were nine stripes on his epaulettes. Why he had a beautiful and noble-born companion at his side. Why he was one of, if not the best military mage of the first year. And for that same reason, he believed that he had no right to fear anything. He hid his terror of his father from everyone, as though it were a shameful stain on his trousers, covering it by any means possible so that no one might notice it.

Ardan's training had taught him to end a hunt — or a fight — with a single strike. A brawl of words was no exception.

Ardi saw no point in these endless barbs that brushed so close to the line, that moment when any person with pride would have only one response…

Iolai certainly had plenty of pride. And self-admiration, too. Perhaps he had more of it than he had respect for himself.

Hissing venom through flared nostrils and glaring with hateful eyes, the Great Prince forced out between clenched teeth:

"Blood duel. On the last day of exams."

He pushed himself away from the table so sharply he nearly knocked over his chair, tapped his staff against the cobblestones, and strode toward the quay with brisk, angry steps.

His two baron friends followed close behind him, throwing dark, displeased glares at their "opponents." Lady Erkerovsky lingered a moment longer, looking at no one but Tess. She studied her with that same mix of confusion and disgust, then snapped her book shut and followed her companions at a measured pace, shielding her head with a dainty parasol. Considering her somewhat dusky skin, the gesture seemed rather curious.

Ardi glanced at Tess. For a moment, he fought the urge to ask how she knew Polina Erkerovsky — after all, those pointed looks had made it clear they were acquainted.

"And how do you-" Boris began.

"Her father," Tess said as she twisted a napkin between her fingers. "He is courting Olesya. My younger sister."

Boris and Ardi exchanged glances, while Elena, ever tactful, shot her husband a subtly reproachful look. Sadly, he seemed oblivious.

"Duke Erkerovsky was widowed a few years back," Tess went on, apparently hoping to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Several aristocrats, including some in the military, tried to marry off their daughters to him. He's wealthy and not that old yet at forty-four. Besides his seat in the Upper Chamber, he's also in charge of the Royal Theater and gathers ballet talent from all over the world."

Ardi had heard something about that from Boris, but in far more understated terms.

"And Olesya… she loves to dance. When we went to a reception in Shamtur some time ago — back when the heir to the throne at the time, Pavel Agrov, visited the place — the Duke noticed Olesya," Tess said calmly, apparently not too upset about retelling the story. "He asked my father if they could dance. Father agreed. They danced and… Erkerovsky began to court her. My sister will turn sixteen next year, so…"

Tess fell silent.

"What about your father?" Boris asked. "Did he give his blessing?"

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"He's still thinking about it," Tess replied, giving him a small shrug. "But Erkerovsky is offering a lot. Like… a lot. Not to mention the fact that he'll make sure Olesya trains with the best dancers and might even help her get into the Royal Theater troupe if she's committed and talented enough."

Ardi couldn't help recalling Anastasia's letter. He was beginning to understand the Grand Princess' worries, and her comment that all aristocrats were bound by blood ties in one way or another — even if those ties were often distant and thin.

"And what about Olesya herself?" Elena asked, looking rather pale.

Boris and Tess turned to her with faint, sympathetic smiles.

"Ah, right," Elena muttered. "The aristocracy…"

"Duke Erkerovsky isn't madly in love with her, obviously," Tess went on. "But Olesya is lovely and… can bear him children. And considering the fact that he has no heirs other than Polina, well… that's how we met."

Ardan remembered Milar's words again.

By the Sleeping Spirits indeed… Tess' younger sister was about to marry, for all intents and purposes, a duke! And who was he? Ard Egobar, a newly-commissioned junior officer in the Second Chancery, a first-year student at the Grand University, and, as a truly odd, unfortunate addition, the descendant of the Dark Lord's right-hand man.

He and Tess exchanged glances, and she, ignoring all the rules and customs, placed her hand over his.

They both knew it wouldn't be long before Iolai wrote a letter to Shamtur. The last time one of Tess' suitors had seen them at a café, they'd avoided a situation like this thanks to Sidhe magic. Now…

Now, in a few days — perhaps a week at most, since Shamtur was much closer than Delpas, just a day and a half by train — they would have to face the stark reality. This was exactly what Anastasia had warned him about.

Tess was the daughter of the Governor-General of Shamtur, once a hereditary nobleman and, after the Fatian Massacre, a military aristocrat.

Ardi squeezed Tess' hand a little tighter.

Once again, he felt as though the ground had split between them, ready to yawn open like a dark chasm and swallow everything that couldn't cling to the edge.

"All right, my dearest friends," Boris said, nodding to the waiter, who'd peeked warily outside. "We'll have our lunch, then go dancing, and after that, we'll stroll around until our legs give out. Then we'll drive out of the city to watch the last spring stars. No discussion about it!"

Tess ran her fingers across Ardan's palm, and she and Elena began chatting animatedly about something. Boris joined in, too. But Ardan just watched the setting sun become entangled in the thick, fiery curls peeking out from beneath her hat. He watched how its wandering rays seemed trapped, unable to escape from Tess' green eyes, imprisoned deeper and deeper with every flutter of her long lashes.

His heart beat quickly and heavily, like the thudding steps of a hunter nearing the limits of his endurance. Because if he ended up being too late, if he failed… he would perish.

Ardi had repeated these words to himself so often, had so often relied on Aergar's teachings, that he'd nearly forgotten what it felt like to truly worry about something you could never postpone until tomorrow.

He caught Tess' fingers as she tried to slip her hand away and gave them a gentle squeeze.

He felt his fangs lengthen completely beneath his lips and knew his pupils had narrowed, his irises little more than two thin, vertical lines. He knew it because Elena had gone slightly pale and Boris looked concerned and on edge.

Yes, they were his friends — his only true friends in the Metropolis and, perhaps, the only real human friends he had in the entire world. But they were, nonetheless, human. And he was only half human.

And yet, Tess…

Tess looked at him without a trace of fear, wearing that same warm smile, only now there was a new note in her gaze. The look of someone returning home after a long day, shutting the door, slipping off their shoes, and finally exhaling in relief as though the weight of the day had been cast aside along with their footwear.

She was looking at him with clear relief in her eyes. And in that moment, another little bridge sprang up over the chasm. And if they kept building more, maybe the danger of falling in would truly pass them by.

***

Music rang out all around them. Fingers on strings quivered like the first spring droplets, the keyboard keys fluttered like migrating birds, and horns resounded with an echo that rumbled like a canyon wind. Somewhere behind them, a saxophone teased their ears like a playful pup.

And the ocean, usually massive and slow, had become a courteous partner tonight, trying to rustle the incoming waves in time with the music. The water was smoothing out the little sandy ridges along the shore, only to carry them away into its warm, deep expanse.

Strung above them hung twinkling lights, replacing the stars themselves for the dancers. They sparkled overhead, held in place by cables cleverly hidden in wooden posts scattered around the platform.

The city was sinking into twilight, though not the usual sort, where night tentatively applies her mysterious makeup before descending on the mortal realm in that timeless gait of hers, stirring ancient fears of the unknown and our own imaginations. No, swirling among the dance partners, flowing across the waves of the Swallow Ocean, and weaving through the streets, came an entirely different dusk. The sun had yet to vanish behind the eastern horizon, while in the west, the moon winked jealously, barely visible above the skyline. The sky blushed an ever-deepening crimson beneath the gaze of both celestial lights.

Even if someone had turned off the softly-humming generator, plunging the string of lights into darkness, it might not have grown any dimmer.

The rumors had not lied. In the Metropolis, at the start of summer, the night truly stayed almost as bright as the day. It was warm, the air was easy to breathe, and no one seemed ready to end the celebration even though it was already nearing one in the morning. They were ushering in the new season with casual strolls, laughter, conversation, and naturally — dancing.

And so, Ardi and Tess danced.

Not as they would at a formal ball, where every step followed a painstaking, rule-bound choreography, nor as they might in a bar, where the heat of the atmosphere and the music could make one's body tremble.

They danced differently, gently swaying in time to the music. Her cheek rested against his chest, and he was barely brushing her head with his chin so he wouldn't accidentally bump her on the next step.

The melody swept them along, and they gladly joined it.

He felt the soft contours of her body beneath his hand, so familiar to him now, sensed the steady thud of her heartbeat, hot-blooded and fierce, felt the light touch of her breath as it slipped under his shirt and tickled his skin like a springtime breeze. Perhaps it really was just that.

"Maybe we really should go to the prairies?" She whispered without lifting her gaze. "What are they like?"

Ardi didn't answer right away.

"They're like an ocean, I think," he said at last, inhaling the scent of spring blossoms. "Only instead of water, there's grass. And instead of waves, there are occasional rolling hills."

"An ocean of grass…" Tess repeated dreamily, her eyes drifting shut. "What about the mountains? What are the mountains like?"

Ardan closed his own eyes, remembering snowy trails and forest flows that stretched endlessly.

"They're like home," he answered honestly.

They swayed in time with the music. Other people probably danced around them, too, as the city was full of them, but they noticed no one else. Only each other.

"Let's just go there and-"

"Remember what I told you about how my great-grandfather used to tell me stories when I was a boy?" Ardi asked quietly, hugging her a little tighter, gently interrupting her words.

"Yes, I remember."

"In those stories, whenever characters planned to leave or run away, something bad always happened to them soon after."

Tess lifted her gaze to meet his.

"You think that'll happen to us, too?"

"To us…" For some reason Ardi couldn't quite name, those two simple words — this was the first time he'd heard them — stirred both a sudden surge of hope and a heavy feeling in his chest. It was as though a new burden had settled on his shoulders — one that didn't weigh him down, but that gave even the simplest of daily tasks greater meaning.

"No," Ardi said firmly. "So let's not run anywhere."

The music, lapping among the gentle breakers, wrapped around them like a veil, shielding them from the outside world.

They gazed into each other's eyes.

Something pressed against Ardan's chest from within, something that beat in time with his heart, pounding its way up, searching for an escape until it reached his lips.

"Tess, I-"

"Ardi, I-"

They fell silent, smiled, and kept on dancing.

***

Ardan slammed the door of the old "Derks," then opened it and slammed it shut again. This time the lock — though reluctantly, groaning like a cranky old man all the while — finally clicked into place.

"Hey, be gentler with it, Magister."

Milar, who was, as always, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, black tie, and black hat — complete, of course, with black leather gloves — twirled a cigarette thoughtfully between his fingers.

"You know what question I ask myself a lot, partner?"

Ardi paused for a moment.

"I have so many possible answers to that question, Milar, that if I start listing them-"

"Don't list anything," the captain cut him off. "So there I am, partner, talking to my wife about our vacation. You know, we decided to take the kids out to Dancer's Cape. Boat rides, horseback tours… And then a courier bursts in, covered in sweat."

"Whose courier?"

Milar arched both eyebrows, making his round face look like a child's drawing. Ardi struggled to keep from smiling.

"No idea, Magister," the captain said with an exaggerated spread of his arms. "Probably came from the palace. Rode in on a donkey. Oh wait, I didn't see you by his side, so maybe he just came on foot."

Ardan let the jab pass. He knew Milar well enough by now to realize that, much like Aversky, the captain heated up just as quickly as he cooled down.

And Captain Pnev really hated it when work came knocking on his door — especially in the most literal sense of the phrase.

"Yesterday evening, a letter was sent to Shamtur," Milar continued once he'd calmed down.

"Could we-"

"Intercept it?" The captain snorted. "Correspondence from — even if he's who-knows-which in line to inherit — the Imperial bloodline? One of the Great Princes himself? The situation isn't right for that. And I don't have the authority."

"So…"

"I think you can expect visitors by early summer, partner."

Ardan leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He'd miscalculated. Iolai had spent a full day writing that letter, and only the Sleeping Spirits knew what exactly the Great Prince had put down on paper.

Though it wasn't hard to guess.

"That is, if there's still anything left of the city by early summer," Milar finished his thought. "Why didn't you just refuse the bloody duel with that idiot right away?"

"Idiot? What happened to him being the Great Prince?"

"More like the Great Idiot," Milar let out a sharp breath through clenched teeth. "As if he hasn't already had enough after what happened earlier this year with Kerimov, who's still recovering in the hospital."

Ardan glanced at the captain, recalling Bazhen's words. He had asked Ardi not to hold back during the duel with Kerimov, citing Aversky's request as the reason. Back then, Ardan hadn't understood why.

And now he did.

They'd wanted Iolai Agrov to restrain his impulses for as long as possible.

"Should I refuse?" Ardan asked, wanting to be sure. "According to the rules, I can do so at any point before the eve of the duel."

"In theory, that would be nice, but…" Milar sighed and, like Ardan, leaned back against the seat. "It would look suspicious."

"He really is the best military mage of the first year," Ardan reminded him.

"Your friend Lord Boris Fahtov is stronger," Milar countered, demonstrating his impressive knowledge of the goings-on at the Grand. Clearly, Bazhen was earning his exes for a reason. "As Aversky explained it to me, they differ by one ray, but Fahtov sometimes shows even better results in class."

Ardan hadn't paid much attention to such things, be it among the first-year students or any other course. He'd always had more pressing matters to worry about than who wanted to out-duel whom with Star Magic.

"You don't get it, do you?" Milar narrowed his eyes at him.

Ardan just spread his hands out in a gesture of uncertainty.

"All right, Magister, let's think this through," the captain leaned across Ardi and opened the glove box. "See what's in there?"

"Cartridges, a handkerchief, a pair of dirty socks by the look of it, and some newspapers."

"Exactly."

Ardan looked at the newspapers, then at Milar, then, much like his partner, he closed his eyes for a moment. It wasn't just that a duel was happening — the issue was that it was happening between these two particular people. Which did sound odd, but when you thought about it…

A bloody duel between Agrov and Egobar. It sounded like something right out of the pages of a history book. And it didn't matter where Iolai stood in the line of succession. Nor did it matter that they were students at the Grand, where practice duels were hardly a rare event. True, these bloody duels didn't happen often, and they always drew a crowd of gawkers, but they were still part of the educational process. All the students, after all, walked around armed, and they needed to learn how to handle their weapons — especially since every mage had an obligation to serve in the military.

It all boiled down to those two surnames.

"Should I lose on purpose?" Ardan asked.

In truth, he couldn't care less about things like duels or Iolai himself. Any trouble the prince might've caused, he already had.

"The Colonel suggested it," Milar admitted. "But Aversky insisted that you should act appropriately."

Ardan knew the Grand Magister well enough to realize he was insisting on such an outcome purely out of personal pride. Indeed, no outsiders knew that Ardi had been trained by Edward Aversky, but the Grand Magister himself knew — and he certainly didn't want his protégé losing to "some pitiful nobody." Even if that "nobody" was of Imperial blood.

"All right," Milar flexed his fingers and turned the ignition key. "First, we've got to survive until summer. Then we'll see what happens. For now, we're off to visit the Archive."

"You got clearance?"

The captain turned to him slowly.

"You know, I've come to terms with the fact that, during any given hour, you ask more questions than my kids do. But when you start with the really dumb ones… No, by the Eternal Angels, Magister," Milar said, shifting gears and pulling away. "I didn't get clearance. We're just going for a joyride. We've got nothing better to do, and I'm in exactly the right mood to bang my head against locked doors. The Archive is perfect for that, after all…"

For the next few intersections, Ardan listened to Milar grumble, only to then segue into a few jokes and personal anecdotes from his life. When you really thought about it, Captain Pnev was an unusual man.

Then again, so was every single member of the Second Chancery that Ardan had ever met.

***

Behind the polished, lacquered counter stood an employee who bore more than a passing resemblance to the desk itself. He was tall, but not overly so. He was wearing shiny glasses, his hair was slicked back with wax, and he was dressed in a suit that would have suited a Financial District employee more than a government one.

Behind him, at the far side of a small room, was a door. It seemed to be made of metal and quite heavy.

Milar was tapping his folder full of papers impatiently against the counter, glancing every now and then at the embossed official document granting him access. The clerk was meticulously trailing a finger along a colossal ledger whose sheer size made it either the best tool for self-defense in an emergency or a fixture of the building.

Milar also kept checking his watch. They had already waited for nearly twenty minutes.

"Found it," the clerk tapped a line in the record.

"Thank the Face of Light," Milar exhaled. "Bring it to us, if you wou-"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Investigator, I can't."

"My clearance-"

"There's nothing wrong with your clearance," the man adjusted his glasses. "I can't bring you the file for a much more mundane reason."

Milar looked like he was about to blow a fuse. He truly despised conversations where he had to drag each word out of the other person with a pair of metaphorical pliers.

"And what reason might that be?"

"It's already been signed out," the clerk tapped the entry again. "To Alla Tantov, for review and comparison with official records. According to my colleague's note, that was half an hour ago."

Milar and Ardan turned slowly — resembling a pair of lifeless dolls — to the reading hall. All forty desks within it were empty aside from their Ley-lamps.

There was no sign of any folders or files.

No sign of Trevor Man's personal assistant, either.

"But she… She should still be here…"

And with an almost eerie synchronization, the captain and the corporal, without another word, dashed toward the stairs.