Matabar

The driver braked at the very edge of a basin, which hid itself from prying eyes using the protective embrace of the towering hills surrounding it on every side. Those attentive giants had encircled the little basin, cradling it in forest groves, sheltering it with broad meadows, and gently wiping away the tears that trickled like rivulets across the fields.

What had wounded this valley, once so dazzling with its lakes and flowers? Most likely the broad concrete mantle that now smothered much of what had once been a piece of Gales' endless forests, breathing free beneath open skies. Then there were the hulking, heavy… what did they call them? Ah, yes — hangars. These were shelters of artificial stone and metal with elongated arches that had swallowed up the rolling meadows and open grassland of the past. The bramble thickets had been replaced by a high fence of towering steel rods topped with coils of razor wire. Every hundred meters or so, a watchtower rose into the sky, each of them fitted with powerful searchlights that would banish even the mild twilight of a summer night. A short distance away stood a much taller tower, looming higher than even the hills themselves. It was conical, crowned by a large "bowl" at its peak, and alive with flashing, colored lights and the blurred silhouettes of unknown figures bustling about.

Ardan could sense the land groaning beneath this cumbersome outfit forced upon it without permission. He heard it, and yet he still couldn't quell a faint gasp of awe.

At the center of a paved stone lot, set apart from the hangars, stood something. It resembled a regular ship, only it hadn't been left open at the top — it was entirely enclosed. It looked kind of like a weaver's spindle in an ancient loom, or maybe like an enormous cigar. It was so colossal that Ardan doubted he had ever seen anything crafted by human ingenuity, rather than by nature, that could match its scale.

Perhaps only the seafaring ships docked at the harbor came close. But those concealed most of their size below the waterline, whereas this contraption had all its immensity on full display. The "cigar" itself was a metal framework swathed in layers of fabric, beneath which lurked "pouches" of gas. It had to be at least sixty meters… no, more like eighty meters long. Attached underneath were a couple of bulging "nostrils," and the diesel engine pipes that'd be spewing exhaust were protruding from them. Rotatable nozzles would guide each burst of gas, allowing the behemoth to alter its course.

Ardan had spent several days poring over the documents detailing the ins and outs of this flying vessel. Needless to say, the file had been labeled "Top Secret."

From what he could recall, the actual "boat" fastened to the lower half of the craft was called a "gondola." A sloping, elongated gangway with blinking lights at its sides now led up to it. Cars — some even more luxurious than the outdated version of the "Wings of Pegasus" in which Ardi had arrived — were pulling up to the base of the gangway, and various gentlemen and their companions were stepping out of them. Walking along a plush red carpet, they would make their way up to the staff who would inspect their documents and tickets.

The gondola could've probably fit two "Bruce's" inside it. In fact, based on what Ardi had read, it boasted a viewing deck, a restaurant with fifty seats, a bar with forty more, several lounges intended for relaxation, and even a small casino with a "miniature" concert hall. The cabins were situated above and slightly behind the gondola. And beneath the "cigar," under a long metal gutter, lay the engines, the fuel storage, and the crew berths, including the captain's bridge set just in front of the gondola itself.

"Corporal," the driver turned to Ardi. He was, of course, an employee of the Second Chancery. "Your documents."

Ardan opened the leather folder handed to him. Inside, on official paper complete with seals and signatures, he read:

"Kerid Barov, 23 years old. Place of birth: Metropolis, Empire of the New Monarchy. Race: Human."

"Try not to bare your fangs at anyone," the driver remarked in a flat, emotionless tone, holding out a ticket next. Ardi had seen it already.

"I thought I would be going under my real name," Ardan said, a bit surprised.

"There was a change of plan," the driver shrugged. "Management decided otherwise."

"Why?"

"No idea, Mr. Barov."

"Barov… Barov…" Ardan tapped the documents against his palm, looking like Professor Lea for a moment, then slipped the leather folder into the inner pocket of his jacket. "That name sounds familiar… So, who is this Kerid Barov?"

"He's the son of a major landowner in the Foothills Province," the driver explained, turning the ignition again and guiding the car down the serpentine road winding between the hills.

"Does he even have a son?" Ardi frowned, slowly recalling the Barov family.

They lived on the far side of the Alkade Steppe, about seven days' ride west of Evergale. Because of that, the Barovs had no reason to feud with the Polskihs, as they'd never clashed over grazing lands. They'd only butted heads at Delpas' livestock auctions, and Ardi, who'd ended his "career" on the farm as a mere "junior cowboy" (they had no formal titles there, but for the last few months, he'd done the same work as the other ranch hands, so they'd taken to calling him that), had never had any reason to delve into those finer details. He'd simply not cared about it.

"Only daughters."

"But what if-"

"We've already checked everything, Mr. Barov," the man Ardi suspected was a Dagger interrupted him, "including your sisters. None of them are in the capital. In fact, only one of them has ever been here at all, and that was in her very early childhood."

"But what if-"

"The Barovs live in a remote area, with no ties to the capital's nobility or upper class in general, so you won't run into anyone who might suspect you," the driver went on, anticipating his "passenger's" questions. "Still, try not to engage anyone in overly long conversations. The rule of seven handshakes still holds true."

"Seven… what?"

"It means, Mr. Barov, that you're almost guaranteed to not encounter anyone who knows you personally. And you most likely won't come across anyone who knows your father, either. But that doesn't mean…" The driver fell silent and lowered the window as they stopped at a gate.

It consisted of a wooden beam balanced on some counterweights and a roadside booth manned by two guards who looked almost like they were from the military. An actual soldier stepped forward — a young man wearing his summer uniform with a rifle on a leather sling — raised his hand in a salute and introduced himself.

"Corporal Norsky," he said crisply. "Please present your temporary pass to the facility."

Ardan's expression tightened. He nearly winced as he tried to sink back into the seat's shadows, hiding from the corporal's potential scrutiny.

His attempt went unnoticed by Norsky, but not by the driver. Out of the corner of his eye, Ardi saw the man shift his foot closer to the gas pedal.

"Here," the Dagger said, handing over a paper through the open window.

The corporal read it for a moment, then saluted and waved to his comrades. They lifted the gate, letting the car enter the testing grounds.

Only once the checkpoint had vanished in the rearview mirror did the driver speak again. "What was that all about?"

"That Corporal Norsky was working the gate at the Palace of the Kings of the Past a year ago," Ardi murmured.

The driver frowned. "It's unlikely that he would recognize you, Mr. Barov. You look different now, and the situation itself is entirely different. I wouldn't worry about Norsky."

Somehow, Ardi wasn't surprised that one of the Daggers knew exactly what his "passenger" had looked like nearly a year ago.

"As for the rule of seven handshakes," the driver continued, "like I said, you won't encounter anyone who's actually met you before. But that doesn't change the fact that there are people who know other people, who in turn know more people, and so on. Don't assume your paperwork is some sort of invisibility cloak. And be mindful," he added after a moment's thought, "of your tongue. And your manners."

Ardan clearly recalled how just a few glances at Tess and Boris as they'd dined — observing their posture, gestures, and their smiles most of all — had revealed that both were far from ordinary folk.

"But the Barovs are from the Foothills Province…"

"Which is precisely why they were chosen for your legend."

"Legend?"

"That's what we call a fabricated biography." Their car joined a slow queue leading toward the gangway. "You'll be in the air, Mr. Barov. Keep in mind that we can't offer support from the ground."

Ardan stiffened. In his and Milar's plan, one of the key points had clearly stated that it required no fewer than four agents of the Second Chancery to be on board.

"But-"

"Your plan was handed down to us last minute," the Dagger cut him off again. "We barely managed to produce the documents and run your name through every possible archive. Embedding four of our people in a well-insulated crew structure — on short notice, at that — and placing them in positions that would allow them all to board the airship in just three days? Impossible. One of our employees will be there. But they are working deep undercover within an organization we've been watching. Our agent has been instructed to assist you if absolutely necessary, but… In truth, we'd all prefer not to jeopardize their cover, which took years to build. I trust you understand?"

"Completely."

"Excellent," the driver said with a nod.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes. Ardi studied the steel colossus — up close, it looked even more formidable — and pondered how long it had taken humankind to achieve such progress.

Five centuries ago, they had fought Ectassus with bows, crossbows, heavy cavalry, and primitive powder cannons that had exploded on battlements more often than they'd successfully fired a shot.

And yet, Ectassus had been vanquished. Some historians credited the victory to the theft of the Flame of the Sidhe, while others insisted the outcome had been inevitable: the human kingdoms never stood still. Their fortifications grew ever better, and science advanced at a blistering pace. Instead of simple forts like Ectassus' own, they'd learned how to build complex star-shaped citadels with ravelins, bastions, trenches, and all manner of cunning defenses. They no longer shoved clumsy siege towers forward. Instead, they dug zigzagging trenches, creeping so close to fortress walls that a few ladders were enough.

Five hundred years ago, they'd used armor. Swords. Spears. Axes. Trebuchets. Ballistae. And simple castles.

These days…

Ardan gazed at a metal monster that housed engines the size of the cars inching toward the gangway. To humans, five centuries was an incredibly long time. Yet even to the Matabar, that was merely a handful of generations. And to the dwarves or elves, it was even less. Not to mention the Fae…

Had Ectassus ever stood any chance at all of resisting the onslaught of human creativity and progress?

Finally, their car rolled to a stop.

"Fair winds, Mr. Barov," the driver said softly, his gaze pointed forward.

Ardan gave him a subtle nod, opened the door, and set his staff in front of him first — there was no other way to get out — and then stepped onto the pavement. A rush of air met his face, though calling it "fresh" would've been generous at best. The place reeked of diesel, metal, the chemicals used to treat the fabric, and exhaust fumes from half a dozen primed engines.

On top of that, his ears were assaulted by an ever-growing din. Behind him, on the massive tail assembly of the airship, colossal propellers were spinning in test mode, one after another.

Finally, there was also the sheer cacophony of scents swirling around the "rich and powerful" of the world who had gathered here. Perhaps a human nose couldn't catch even a fraction of it, but even those without Matabar senses were already covering their faces with handkerchiefs. Ardan fell in behind one such couple.

A stately man, his hair streaked with gray and his skin marred by life's trials, leaned on a cane as he strode across the wide wooden planks of the gangway. Ten people could have stood side by side on it without feeling crowded.

His suit was formal and black, contrasted by a broad silk sash in a lavender hue, and he wore shoes polished to a mirror shine. He did not flaunt any jewelry — he wore no fancy cufflinks, no rings, and even his buttons looked plain rather than carved from a rare beast's horn or bone.

His companion was quite different. She looked to be about thirty-eight, an age when youth has already receded into yesterday's memories, and those dreamlike days of early adulthood feel like a half-forgotten tale. Even so, old age was still only gently rapping at her door. And with the aid of her wealth, she looked far younger than many of her peers with fewer resources. She was elegant, slender, and only faintly touched by wrinkles or loose skin. Her dyed hair, arranged in an elaborate style under a pearl-studded net, had neither thinned nor lost its luster.

She wore heavy white gold earrings and a necklace with an emerald the size of a large thumb, all draped over a long, form-fitting scarlet gown.

"By the Eternal Angels, Lyudmila, why have we come here?" The man grumbled. "So we can once again offer polite smiles to those pompous peacocks? How ridiculous."

"We haven't gone out for quite a while, dear. Besides, how often do you get the chance to ride on an airship?"

"We can do that next summer, my love," the man snorted, casting a look of undisguised contempt at a rotund fop puffing along nearby. "When the Crown and its sponsors finish building the air dock on the Dancing Peninsula and launch their first commercial flights."

"I know, darling, but that won't be the first flight," she said, placing a deliberate emphasis on the word. "This is the kind of event you'll tell your grandchildren about."

"That's assuming I live to see them. Your son's in no hurry to settle down," he grumbled.

"He's your son, too."

"He is," the man conceded with a nod. "But you're the one hiding him away from me in those fancy city apartments."

"You threatened to break his legs if he didn't get his act together!"

"I didn't threaten, I warned," the older man muttered darkly. "And I'll actually break them if he keeps squandering his time and intellect at that university instead of doing something productive."

"You could offer him a job at your firm again," she suggested gently, almost sweetly.

He just waved it off. "Last time I did that, he threw the letter back in my face and stormed off."

"He's exactly like you were at his age, whenever you were forced to do something you didn't want to, dear. He's so much like you…"

"That's precisely what worries me, Lyudmila."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

The man turned his head, and Ardan nearly stumbled over his own staff. At the sight of the gentleman's face, Ardan had instantly realized who he was. At the same time, he'd also come to realize that he could not always distinguish truth from lies, especially when the lies had been crafted by someone with a gift for weaving half-truths nearly as well as the Fae themselves.

It would appear that Bazhen hadn't been entirely forthright: this was clearly David Eorsky, and he looked far from impoverished. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Careful there, young man," a firm hand caught Ardan before he could fall. "Though I suppose I can appreciate your eagerness to return to solid ground by any means — even if you've chosen to do so with an unceremonious tumble… David Eorsky, at your service."

"Kerid," Ardan introduced himself. "Kerid Barov."

The man nodded, pretending that the name rang some distant bell. It was a mere courtesy and nothing more.

Satisfied that "Kerid" was steady on his feet, David turned back to his wife, who offered Ardan a polite smile before the couple continued their ascent.

Ardi silently recalled his "driver's" words about the seven handshakes. And he thought again about how personal troubles and family disputes seemed to be so commonplace among the well-to-do. Just look at Boris, or Bazhen… or plenty of other students at the Grand…

Perhaps these were thoughts for another day, but Ardan had no time for further pondering. Tomorrow would bring its own share of worries with it.

Ardan tried his best to avoid drawing attention to himself. Admittedly, most of the guests seemed far too preoccupied with their companions and their hushed commentary on everyone else to really notice him in the first place.

Before long, Ardan found himself face-to-face with a very particular type of individual: he was short, with a square jaw, a couple of scars on his cheeks, and a distant, cold stare. If this had been "Bruce's," Ardi could have sworn he was a gangster. But considering the setting, the evening's security was being provided by former soldiers. In other words, mercenaries. There weren't that many of them, all told, but still enough, as Arkar had once called it, to cater to the demands of the wealthy.

"Good evening, sir," the mercenary said in a crisp but polite tone, displaying no excess warmth as he studied the document handed to him. "Mr. Barov. Your ticket?"

Ardi held out the second piece of paper.

The mercenary took the ticket that the Ragman had provided and swiped it beneath a stamp emblazoned with a faintly-glinting dog's head — clearly some clever Ley-device.

"Everything appears to be in order, Mr. Barov," he nodded, returning the documents. After casting a quick, appraising glance at Ardan's staff and the two-Star insignia on his collar, he delivered his practiced speech that he'd likely repeated many times that evening. "Just a reminder, Mr. Barov, that we'll soon be climbing to about eighteen hundred meters. At first, you may feel dizzy or nauseated from the thin Ley. Don't worry or panic. Once the aircraft reaches its cruising altitude and speed, the generators will activate and create a Ley platform-"

"Ley field," Ardi corrected him automatically, then cursed himself for speaking out.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Mr. Barov, you are correct," the mercenary replied with genuine gratitude, nodding. "A Ley field. We do regret to inform you, however, that it covers only the gondola. You may still experience discomfort in your cabin. If your condition worsens, please contact any member of the crew so they can take you to the physician. Is that clear?"

"Of course."

"In that case, sir, I need to search you for any weapons. Please raise your arms."

The pat-down was brief — along Ardi's sides, arms, thighs, and calves — after which the mercenary gave him a final nod.

"Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Barov. A firearm could create a dangerous situation, dropping us out of the sky faster than we'd like… Ah, excuse me, I'm talking too much."

Ardan gave him a brief, awkward smile, mindful of his Witch's Gaze. The mercenary interpreted the odd expression as annoyance and stepped aside, gesturing for Ardan to pass.

"Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Barov."

"Thank you."

Ardan moved past him. A dozen or so aristocrats and nobles were also being checked by about twenty mercenaries, who were letting an apparently-endless stream of guests pass. For a moment, Ardi thought the airship would never manage to lift so much weight and, truth be told, for a few seconds, he rather hoped it wouldn't.

But soon enough, he left the gangway behind and went through a steel doorway. Judging by their design — and by the documents he'd read the day before — these doors slid into grooves in the gondola's walls, sealed in place by a complex hydraulic system.

The cabins and gondola were heated by the engines' excess warmth, but the air itself was bound to be thin, which could easily cause dizziness in people not used to great heights, like the kind found in the mountains — even those who weren't mages. Ironic, really…

Glancing around the interior, Ardan felt as though he'd found his way back to the Palace of the Kings of the Past. Of course, there were no floating chandeliers, and instead of three layers of balconies, there was just one. Still, the parquet floors were polished white wood, the walls were paneled, and the area teemed with men and women in formal suits and gowns. At the far side of what appeared to be a wide salon for gatherings and dancing, a buffet had been set out on a long table. Ardan headed that way.

Until the auction began, he had little to do but make the most of dinner. Taking in the lavish light fixtures — wall sconces fashioned out of mountain crystals — he worked his way around the edges, careful not to tread on any toes or bump anyone's shoulder, until he reached the buffet table.

He'd seen a similar display at the Emperor's coronation, but that did nothing to stop his mouth from watering. Just like before, he asked one of the waiters, "Do you have any game on hand? Preferably without any vegetables and, if there's bread, let it be bran rather than wheat flour."

"I can offer you-" The waiter started, but true to form, Ardi cut him off:

"One of everything, please."

He'd just begun to consider sinking his fangs — teeth — into a bruschetta when he heard a vaguely-familiar voice speaking in the language of the northern wood elves.

"And how fares your frightened heart?"

Ardan turned slowly. Next to him stood an elf. The same elf he had seen at the Tears of the Martyrs' Hospital, where Boris had been treated. He looked as ageless as ever, with almond-shaped eyes and wide, colorful pupils that nearly eclipsed his whites, which was common among elves.

This time, his lithe, almost feminine figure was not draped in a white coat with yellow patches. Instead, he wore an elegantly-tailored suit with shiny lapels and slightly-shortened sleeves. It was perhaps a bit flashy, but finely made. He held a white wood staff etched with countless seals, and most of them were clearly designed to cast healing spells. Only a handful seemed related to something… else outside the elf's professional domain.

He wasn't wearing his cloak, just like Ardi-Kerid. An awkward loophole in the law allowed one not to wear their mandatory regalia while in the air, since the legislation specified they had to do so "on land and sea." The airspace had been conspicuously omitted. Naturally, every mage present had taken advantage of that fact.

Listening to Mart's stories from his university days, Ardan had struggled to understand how something as trivial as a cloak could trigger an entire protest, which had then escalated into an armed standoff with the guards. But after a year in the Metropolis, he had felt firsthand the aggravation of compulsory regalia. Aside from being inconvenient, cloaks required constant repair or replacement, thanks to everyday wear and tear.

"It's better, thank you," Ardan replied in the northern elven tongue.

The elf stepped closer and gestured for the waiter to bring him something vegetarian and some wine. If Matabar physiology was wired to digest mostly animal products, elves, with their two-chambered stomachs, were quite different. Apparently, they could eat meat, but only fish, and in limited quantities. Orcs and dwarves were luckier, sharing a digestive system nearly identical to the humans' own.

Sometimes Ardan envied the omnivorous nature of Arkar, Tess, Boris, Elena, and… everyone else.

The elf, chewing on something green that smelled intensely of mushrooms and berries, took an ungraceful gulp of wine — more of a swig than a polite sip. Raising a thin, meticulously-shaped eyebrow, he cast an appraising glance at Ardan.

"It's a tonic based on the Sleepless Forget-Me-Not, pink rhodiola, leuzea, dog rose, and… something else. The smell eludes me."

While Matabar could pick up even the subtlest animal scents, northern elves could sniff out a hint of parsley on you before you'd even bought it at the market — or so Ardan's great-grandfather had used to joke.

"That's correct," Ardan said, seeing no point in denying it.

"A very old recipe, older than anything you'd find in pre-Imperial collections…"

Of course, he hadn't used words like "library" or "pre-Imperial" in the northern elven tongue. Those terms didn't exist in their language. Rather, he'd conveyed their meaning in a way that was less nuanced than the language of the Fae, but still clear enough.

"I like exploring old recipes," Ardan said.

"And inefficient ones, by the look of it," the elf added, licking his fingers clean after devouring a juicy cherry tomato. This startled not only Ardan, but also the waiter, for it was anything but elegant. "There are better recipes out there, less burdened by the side effects you're currently experiencing."

Then, with no shame at all, the elf placed his half-eaten dish back on the table and pulled out a rumpled pack of cheap cigarettes. Extracting one, he flicked it into his mouth and struck a match on his shoe's sole. The waiter looked close to fainting.

"I'll bear that in mind, thank you," Ardan replied.

Again, the elf eyed him as if weighing and measuring his every aspect.

"Your northern dialect has improved since our last meeting," he remarked with a thoughtful twitch of his long, pointed ears. It looked as though someone had pulled on them with clothespins, stretched them out like elastic, and then frozen them in place.

"Thank you," Ardan said again.

In truth, his northern elven really had improved a great deal lately, as had his knowledge of the orcs' steppe dialect. He had also gotten fairly adept at reading in the language of both the Alkade dwarves and those of the Ral mountains.

It was remarkable what treasures could be unearthed in the Grand's library, which had, over centuries, absorbed a multitude of texts gathered by the human kingdoms. Whether they actually belonged there or not hardly mattered now.

Immersing himself in that sea of knowledge meant endless hours spent with dictionaries… and repeatedly requesting Milar's permission to access certain archives. Someone working the night shift at the Black House was surely cursing Ardan every time the university sent in its monthly list of his borrowed texts.

And so Ardan made sure to muddy that list with dozens of titles, sneaking in volumes on cryptic topics like "The First Development of Undefined Arrays within Abstract Contours." If no one looked too closely at the name, it raised no eyebrows. But if they did, they might notice that the author was "Senior Magister Talia…"

"How should I address you today, Mr. Hunter?" The elf asked.

He'd deliberately avoided using Ardan's real name. After all, proper names sounded alike in any language.

"Barov," Ardi said, quickly adding, "Kerid Barov."

"That seems fitting… You've slimmed down so much, my dear Barov, that I'm sure even those who saw you a year ago at the palace under a different name would hardly recognize you," the elf murmured. And as was his people's custom, he brought two fingers first to his left eye, then to his right. Ardan's great-grandfather had told him that this gesture meant, "I saw you in the past and in the future," though the phrase's deeper meaning remained obscure. "I am Esvaialaal, son of Abrailaal."

Ardan recoiled slightly, gripping his staff tighter. Seven handshakes, indeed… It was exactly as Davenport had warned him: most people harmed by the Dark Lord and Aror Egobar could scarcely recall the faces of their ancestors lost in the civil war's fires. But with the Firstborn, things were very different.

Unlike Maurice Talos, Davenport's old comrade-in-arms, Esvaialaal hadn't just read about the bloodshed in a dusty family chronicle; he remembered the actual faces of those who had died, who had been tortured, burned, or left among the ruins.

For him, that wound had never truly closed.

"You-" Ardan began.

"You resemble him," the elf interrupted. In elven culture, cutting someone off was deeply disrespectful — an insult not to the one interrupted, but to the interrupter's own dignity. "Yes, you look like that old Aean'Hane. I recall how he came to our forest seeking allies against humankind. My father agreed initially, but then changed his mind. And so your ancestor, my dear Mr. Barov, killed my elder sister. I was no taller than your knee back then, but I still remember how she screamed when your great-grandfather's fire devoured her..."

Ardan's hand closed around the lighter at his belt, mind racing through every spell he knew.

"Don't fret, young Barov," the elf told him glibly, draining his wine glass in a couple of powerful gulps. Then he tossed the empty glass over his shoulder and snatched a fresh one from the table. "I came here to get drunk, squander a few thousand exes on some trinkets, and maybe wake up in the arms of a not-too-hideous mortal. Fighting you was never my plan — not this time, not the last, and not back then, at the Emperor's coronation."

"Then why approach me at all, Mr. Esvaialaal?" Ardan asked, still clutching his staff.

"To make sure I wasn't imagining things — neither in the palace nor in the hospital," the elf explained, crushing the stub of his cigarette in what was now his third glass of wine. "You really do resemble him… Not so much physically, though you do share a few features. But you're far too short. What are you now? Eighteen? Matabar males at that age are typically well over two meters and thirty centimeters."

Ardan kept his eyes locked on the strange elf who was behaving in a way that only a few of Arkar's most hostile thugs might have approved of. And they were the sort that, if someone ever told them about proper manners, would probably just scoff at the idea.

"You have the same look in your eyes," the elf explained, tossing his head back and shaking out his silken hair, "that same urge to save everyone, to help everyone. It's a dangerous look, my dear Barov. Whenever someone comes to me to learn about healing with that look in their eyes, I always turn them away. Shall I tell you why?"

"Why?"

"Because that look always does more harm than good." The elf grabbed two wine glasses at once, and his gaze lingered on a young girl of about seventeen wandering by with, presumably, her mother. "Now if you'll pardon me, my dear Barov, I may have a chance not just to drink my fill, but also to wake up in the embrace of not just one, but two mortal women."

With that, Esvaialaal took his leave. Before he vanished into the sea of aristocrats, Ardan saw him whisper something to mother and daughter both.

Ardi honestly hoped that the elf would never see the same expression Ardan had once glimpsed in Yonatan Kornosskiy staring back at him in the mirror: the look of a man trying to bury a pain devouring him from within, hiding its rotting fangs and dulled claws behind a mask of indifference and cynicism.

What did this encounter mean, in the end? Not much, except for the fact that somewhere aboard this airship, there was a certain elf who knew Ardan's true identity.

"Wonderful," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" The waiter asked at once, eager to forget the bizarre scene he'd just witnessed.

"Wonderful pâté," Ardan said, raising a slice of duck liver pâté spread out on frozen moose fat and dried boar sinews.

The waiter blanched, then hastily turned away. Evidently, that combination wasn't too appealing to human taste buds. But if that was the case, why was it here in the first place? Tess had once mentioned something about gourmets, but Ardan had never quite grasped what that meant.

He might have kept pondering culinary tastes across various races if not for the sudden crackle of a Ley-microphone standing on a small podium. The artifact was linked to cables hidden within the walls. Approaching it was a man of medium height. His posture was straighter than a flagpole, his keen, green eyes were brimming with a certain proud intelligence, and he had a lush head of silver hair. His face was soft and gentle, though wrinkled with age, yet free of pockmarks, scars, or any lines of hardship. It was as though someone had taken a child and aged him fifty years overnight, leaving no sign of life's tribulations on his features. His angular, sharp cheekbones, pointed chin, and slightly upturned nose did not detract from this impression in the slightest.

The man wore an absurdly expensive suit. Even his shirt, made from Moon Silk — harvested in a single northern forest that still supported a dwindling population of Moon Butterflies who were revered in elven legends — could easily cost three or four hundred exes.

Perhaps Ardan ought to abandon this habit of a tailor's son who first judges others by their clothes. But, by the Sleeping Spirits, that was easier said than done.

Narrow-shouldered and sporting just a faint belly, the man ascended the platform. Behind him, like a barely-visible shadow, stood… Alla Tantov. Her whimsical sweater had been replaced by a knitted vest patterned with two geese. Other than that, she looked as Ardi remembered her: she had a severe countenance, distant eyes, and her hair had been done up in a tight bun.

It took little guesswork to realize that this colorful person had to be Trevor Man, one of the co-owners of "Bri-&-Man."

"My dear friends," he said, spreading his gloved hands wide, "it is my pleasure to welcome you aboard the very first commercial air voyage in not only our country but, indeed, the entire world."

He paused, allowing the crowd to burst into mostly heartfelt applause.

"Thank you, thank you," Mr. Man said, calming the lofty throng of aristocrats with a gesture. "This achievement would've been impossible without our beloved sponsors, who I'm honored to call my old friends — Tarik Le'mriti and Ens Otarsky."

The applause started afresh, this time apparently dedicated to a single individual: an obese man with greasy hair, piggish, greedy eyes, and rings on his sausage-like fingers that were so large they might've passed for bracelets on anyone else.

Ardan recognized him from the photographs: Tarik Le'mriti, sole owner of the First Transport Corporation. Not its founder, of course — he'd inherited it from his father, who'd received it in turn from his father.

"Alas, Mr. Otarsky is not as fond of attention as Tarik and I," Man announced, offering them a theatrical bow. "He sends his deepest apologies. And naturally, we could never have arrived at this breakthrough without our brilliant scientists and engineers, who worked day and night solving problems that I could scarcely dream of. My own worry is simply not missing my next loan payment at the Imperial Bank."

A ripple of laughter moved through the ranks of the wealthy guests.

"I must also thank the Crown for helping us — primarily by not hindering our research," he went on. "I'm proud to introduce tonight's distinguished guests: His Grace, the Great Prince Arkady Agrov…" Ardan couldn't see precisely whom the crowd was now curtseying and bowing to, though the name sounded familiar — perhaps he'd heard it before… "And, of course, his younger son, one of the finest students of the Grand's Military Faculty, the Great Prince Iolai Agrov!"

Ardan took a step back, trying to conceal himself in the crowd, while that same crowd showered a radiant Iolai, who for some reason had donned a white jacket modeled after a military uniform, with applause.

Arkady Agrov… Ardan remembered the name from his dance with Anastasia, who'd mentioned that Arkady was Iolai's father.

"Tonight, my dear friends, please make yourselves comfortable and enjoy a bit of rest," Man continued. "Tomorrow morning, you'll be treated to breakfast prepared by the capital's top chefs. Then, from midday until late into the evening, you're invited to try your luck at our modest casino, so you can, of course, lose all the money you've set aside for the auction."

That elicited another ripple of chuckles, and Trevor Man's smug face shone even brighter.

"And come tomorrow night, while we're soaring over the Swallow Ocean, you can admire its beauty until morning — by which time we'll have returned to the Metropolis — while we hold our auction. That will bring the first commercial voyage of "Heavenly Roads" to a close. Trust me when I say that in a couple of years, flights like these will be as routine for you as those endless days spent in a train carriage. Except where a train might take a week to get you somewhere, "Heavenly Roads" promises to do it in a day. But we can talk about that later. For now, enjoy yourselves and prepare to part ways with your money."

More applause followed, mixed with laughter, while the musicians in the distant corner played with renewed enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Ardan's heart thudded in his chest as he considered how he might slip into Man's cabin undetected — and do it all within two days — while also managing to steer clear of the Agrovs.

Seven handshakes, by the Sleeping Spirits. Or maybe it was just one?! And why hadn't the Second Chancery known that Iolai and his father would be on board?!

However, all of that would have to be a problem for tomorrow. As Ardan was wrestling with these vexing thoughts, the gondola started quivering, prompting some uneasy murmuring from the guests. Then, accompanied by a loud, low-pitched siren that echoed like the horn of a regular ship, the ground that could be seen through the portholes began to fade away, swallowed by the summer dusk.

The airship had begun its ascent.