Matabar

The initial wave of dizziness and nausea came on as subtly as the fact that the airship — its engines thrumming, puffing exhaust through its nozzles, its colossal propellers spinning — had already carved a path through the porous clouds and was now drifting among them, almost joining a slow procession of massive, billowing cloud banks. They looked like thoughtful giants shuffling aimlessly across the azure sky.

Ardan clung to the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. Were it not for the several days he'd spent imprisoned by the Second Chancery immediately after the bombing of the Imperial Bank, he might have panicked at these unfamiliar and far-from-pleasant sensations. It felt as though a long, scorching-hot rod was being slowly, millimeter by millimeter, drilled into his skull. First it grazed his temples, making them burn as if he were running a high fever, then — like a slippery splinter — it wormed its way deeper, scraping bone along the way, like a knife screeching across glass.

Once it found a way inside, that fiery rod churned the contents of his head, rapping at the walls of his skull as casually as a child stirring their tea and clinking their spoon relentlessly against the inside of the cup. With each clang, each rotation, the pain intensified and sank lower into his throat, coiling there in a stifling knot that dropped into his stomach, only to surge back up again.

A cold, clammy sweat erupted down his spine. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. His fingers first turned pale, then took on a bluish tinge, as though they'd been exposed to a bitter frost that not even a mountain hunter's blood could ward off.

And then, without warning, it stopped. Not gradually, but suddenly and absolutely. Ardan exhaled and slowly peeled himself away from the wooden paneling that groaned under his fingers and showed signs of cracking where it covered the gondola's metal walls. He tried to straighten up, taking a moment to catch his breath.

As he recovered, he noticed that other staff-bearing individuals were likewise coming back to their senses. There weren't many of them — maybe eight humans in total, plus three Firstborn, including the son of Duke Abrailaal. Each of them had someone fussing over them — a wife or perhaps a "niece" — except for two mages who had no support at all. One of them was Ardi, for obvious reasons, and, to his surprise, Iolai Agrov. The young man's father, Arkady Agrov, was standing off to one side with a look of clear disappointment.

The Emperor's cousin did not appear to be merely strict or haughty — he was both of those things at once, and more. He stood with an unmistakable military stiffness, bearing a patch over his right eye and marked by grisly scars that had once been sewn shut with coarse horsehair rather than proper surgical thread. This gave the marks of his valor an almost disfiguring quality. From Boris and Bazhen, Ardi had learned that Arkady Agrov had once served in the assault infantry.

It was the Great Prince's own father — Iolai's grandfather — who'd assigned Arkady to that post. At the time, he was one of the members of the Imperial General Staff. By happenstance, fate, or sheer bad luck, Arkady Agrov had ended up serving… pretty much everywhere.

He'd fought the fanatics of the Enario Theocracy, earning his first "honors" there. His legs had been so badly burned by various acids below the knees that he constantly had to wrap them in bandages soaked in special solutions, lest every movement become pure agony for him. Anyone else — especially a noble or aristocrat — would have retired with honors after that, but not Arkady Agrov.

He impressed every medical commission and once again distinguished himself on the proving grounds. His rank was raised and, thanks to a truly unfortunate twist of fate, he and his division were sent to reinforce the Seventh Army along the border with the Armondo tribes. Arkady had likely once served on the same front as Arkar, just in a different part of it. He was taken prisoner there.

That should have been the end of his story, but no. Not only did Arkady escape captivity, he also managed to bring back two grisly trophies: the head of the tribal chief who'd imprisoned him, and that of the chief's eldest son. In the process, he'd lost his right eye, which had been burned out while he'd been tortured. Once again, no one would have so much as raised an eyebrow if he'd opted to leave the service then, or even asked for some lofty command post.

But no.

Arkady Agrov, Great Prince and one of several claimants to the throne, remained in the army. He arrived — by that time a major in command of a battalion — at what everyone had assumed was a calm fortress on the border of the Great Glacier. Barely six months passed before the Tazidahian Brotherhood decided to test their newest creations: transport chimeras capable of climbing and descending sheer ice cliffs while carrying ten soldiers plus their gear and weapons.

Forty chimeras and four hundred Tazidahians besieged the Great Prince's fort. Arkady's battalion refused to surrender and held out for seven days. By the time reinforcements came, only six men were still alive, barricaded inside a cramped bunker within the ruined fort, its walls smeared with Tazidahian blood and the chimeras' entrails.

Arkady's body was riddled with saber cuts, and no one bothered counting his fractures past his twentieth. The doctors tried to fix the aftermath of the "field medicine" Arkady's battalion had applied to each other, but by then it was too late. At this point, not only his father and countless relatives, but the Emperor himself were begging him to retire. An imperial decree even ordered Arkady's discharge. But the courier who arrived at his mansion with that decree didn't find Arkady there at all.

Knowing that they wanted to pension him off, the Great Prince had forged new papers and slipped away to Shamtur, where he fought as a regular soldier throughout the entire Fatian Massacre. Only after losing both hands — replaced by prosthetics concealed by gloves — was Arkady Agrov forced to retire as a general of the assault infantry. Even then, he insisted he could still carry artillery shells with his new hands or at least learn how to direct artillery fire.

And now, as his single eye gleamed, his countless scars rippled, and wearing a suit that was staggeringly expensive but devoid of any medals or Orders, Arkady looked at his son as though the boy were a botched experiment. It was as if he'd tried to forge something magnificent, only to end up with… this.

They stood not too far from Ardan. By human standards, perhaps, they were out of earshot; one wouldn't even notice Arkady's lips moving, much less parse his words at that distance. But Ardi was not fully human.

"You disgrace our name, you spineless worm," Arkady hissed, hauling his son to his feet.

He used his motionless prosthetic to hook Iolai by his collar, hoisting him up with almost inhuman strength.

"Father, it's because there's no Ley-"

"Don't speak to me, worm." Arkady's single eye flashed so fiercely that one might have cut themselves on its glare. "If anyone's to blame, it's your mother. While I was gone, she turned you into… into whatever this is. And whatever it is, it's not a man of the Agrov blood."

Then, turning away from Iolai, Arkady marched off deeper into the crowd. Anyone near enough to witness the incident pretended not to have seen it; the rest didn't even have to pretend, because they were pressed up against the portholes, transfixed by the view outside.

Apparently, they'd never been to the mountains…

Ardi, meanwhile, walked over to the beverage table and asked for a cup of boiling water. The waiter regarded him curiously.

"Would you like me to brew you some tea?" The rather pale young man suggested.

"No, thank you."

"Did my tea not meet your expectations? I could ask the head waiter if-"

"It's all right," Ardi hurried to reassure him. "I just need boiling water to take…" He withdrew a small envelope of powder from his jacket pocket. "…my medicine."

The waiter exhaled in relief, apologized, and quickly poured steaming water from a stout metal teapot into a porcelain cup so thin it could've passed for paper.

Turning away, Ardi emptied the powder into the cup and took a few quick, measured sips. He'd made it from Sleepless Forget-Me-Not fortified with the crushed root of a Laughing Ley-Fern. And as he waited for this alternative brew to take hold, he scanned the crowd.

In total, there seemed to be about a hundred and twenty guests in the gondola right now. That wasn't even every member of the capital's high society, let alone the nation's. He didn't see the families of his classmates from the Grand (including Eveless, whose family's wealth nearly rivaled the Anorskys'), nor did he spot many other faces that were frequently featured in the papers.

So, there had to be some specific criteria behind these invitations, ones Ardan couldn't guess. But if he listened carefully to the conversations…

"You really think the Crown plans to take a third of our ticket sales just for letting us use our own airspace?" A tall man with oily eyes fumed.

"What sort of ridiculous term is 'airspace,' anyway?" His companion agreed. "Absolute nonsense. A third of the ticket sales, plus we have to service the air harbors and constantly subject ourselves to engineering inspections… Imagine the costs!"

"And that margin-"

"If not for the Crown, regulations, and so on, we'd be talking about a thirty-seven percent margin," someone remarked.

"Not bad at all!"

"Not bad indeed," the companion nodded. "But we'll have to keep the civilian airships practically in mint condition. As if trains ever get that level of maintenance… With that alone, our margin drops to just eighteen percent. Then, add to that a third of all ticket revenue going to the treasury, plus mandatory insurance contracts for all our employees, paid leave, and free flights for their families… It's a nightmare. We'll be lucky to see as little as six and a half percent net profit."

The first speaker clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disgust. Nearby, their young companions — so young they might easily have been their actual nieces — murmured among themselves until one asked:

"But isn't that still a lot?"

The men exchanged glances and burst out laughing in a way that was anything but kind. Perhaps it was mocking their young partners, or maybe someone else entirely.

Ardan, still sipping his concoction, turned in the other direction and overheard a group of men and women, all of them somewhat jittery, with some even sniffling like they had a cold — or perhaps something else — talking in a similar vein.

"Over seven million people have been exempted from taxes already," an older woman said through clenched teeth, a pelt draped over her shoulders. And not just any pelt, either, but that of a Horned Ley-Fox — an extremely rare anomaly. "What next? Are they going to tie our taxes directly to our profits? Or even to our total turnover? What are they doing in the Upper Chamber? Why does nobody defend our interests?"

"Pavel's built up too strong a coalition in the two lower chambers, Lady Larven," a stocky man drawled while lazily sipping some sparkling wine. "He's got a few key people in the Upper Chamber as well. He's not so easy to outmaneuver. Plus, the people are on his side."

"The people? Those unwashed outcasts and ragged drunks?" Scoffed another noblewoman. "He tosses coins into their filth and misery, and they squeal with delight like hogs. As always."

"At least we should be grateful to the Emperor for moving them out of sight underground," quipped a relatively young lord, his hair stiff with styling wax. "Finally, we can stroll the central districts in peace."

Apparently, only Ardan found that "joke" revolting, because everyone else laughed out loud.

"I could hardly believe it when the late Emperor repealed his grandfather's decree that only residents or authorized individuals could enter the city center," wheezed an elderly lady leaning on a jewel-inlaid cane. "But you probably don't remember those days."

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"We believe you, dearest grandmother," replied a man — likely her grandson — while bending down to hug her. "That it was better back then."

"It surely was…" She murmured. "And Baliero wasn't a den of incompetents back then, either."

Ardan continued to eavesdrop for a while, grateful that his hunter's ears — thanks to his Matabar heritage — allowed him to pick out fragments of conversation from even the far corners of the room. Almost all the aristocrats were of the opinion that the Emperor was focusing too much on the lower classes and ignoring his wealthiest taxpayers, the ones supposedly responsible for forging the Empire's industrial and commercial might.

"Don't you find it suspicious, my dear friend, that just as the late Emperor was considering canceling the mandatory insurance for steel mills and shipyards, he suddenly fell ill and-"

"Shh," hissed his companion, eyeing their surroundings in alarm. "Are you mad, talking like that here? Do you want to end up in that house of a not-so-cheerful color?"

They sometimes referred to the Black House that way: the "house of a not-so-cheerful color." People who feared and loathed the Second Chancery used such euphemisms.

"I just hope," the man continued while gulping down a vile mixture of whiskey, vodka, cognac, and who knew what else — he'd simply mixed the priciest liquors at the bar into some sort of cocktail. "I hope the headlines in the papers continue to bring me joy, Paris. And maybe, if they keep it up, Pavel will lose the support of the masses. Then we can take a page from the alliance's playbook. All we'll need are a few greedy orators with silver tongues and a timely… execution of a few women. Or, better yet, children. Yes, if children are harmed, the people will erupt with outrage, and-"

"You're drunk," his companion cut him off. "Drunk and an idiot. You're talking nonsense that'll get you… I'd rather not be around when those who shouldn't hear this finally do. Sorry, but I see some acquaintances who need me."

"Fine, go," the man muttered, turning to the bar to pour himself yet another of his "cocktails."

With varying degrees of candor and condemnation of Emperor Pavel IV, similar conversations echoed throughout the room. They even referenced "mysterious bombers" sometimes, and if there was anything that bound this assembly — beyond their disapproval of the Emperor and his allies — it was their utter disregard for the victims of those "noble warriors fighting against tyranny."

It was remarkable how one man could be seen as a beacon of progress by some and a raging tyrant by others, while in reality, the Emperor…

Ardan shook his head. He didn't really know who Pavel IV was at his core. He had spoken with him only once, and yet that had been enough to make him feel like a child in the presence of an experienced hunter. Not a pleasant feeling, to say the least.

"Perhaps these are the people Davenport was talking about," Ardi muttered under his breath, stirring his drink.

He had prepared an especially large dose of the concoction, hoping to counteract the fact that there'd be no Ley field in the cabins. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to function properly. Of course, he would eventually have to pay the price. In fact, he'd already been depending on these concoctions for half a year, paying the cost with his weakened physique as his body tried to save energy wherever it could, "cutting away" all it could afford to lose. Now he was compounding that by taking a triple portion, the equivalent of a week's supply in just a few days… and at triple the usual concentration, too.

"Excuse me, would you care to dance?"

Ardi turned to see a girl not much younger than himself — likely just old enough to have her official papers. Her cheeks were rosy with youthful health. She wore a light summer dress in a greenish hue, along with a small hat perched atop a simple yet lovely hairstyle adorned with a morning glory blossom. She wasn't beautiful, exactly, but she wasn't plain, either. She had round, pleasant features, a soft set of cheekbones, a slightly upturned nose, and very warm, blue eyes.

Ardi was about to refuse. Something told him that it would be wrong to dance with someone else when his… his… his Tess was waiting for him at home.

He opened his mouth, intending to say he wasn't feeling well, when he caught sight of Iolai Agrov coming toward the buffet. If Ardan kept standing there, his sheer height would draw the young man's eye.

"Certainly," he agreed, handing his staff to a waiter who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Thanks to Boris, Ardan knew that at events like these, there were usually attendants whose sole job was to help mages stow their staves while they danced.

The girl grabbed Ardi's hand, pulling him toward the circle of dancers. They narrowly missed crossing paths with Iolai, who was so consumed by his own troubles that he failed to notice anyone.

Ardi felt relief wash over him.

A familiar, gentle dance rhythm filled the room:

One-two-three.

One-two-three.

They spun amidst the other couples, with the girl brushing up against him every now and then — a hip here, a slip of her hand below his shoulder blades there, and sometimes she pressed her cheek against his chest. Ardan had no idea what she was doing.

Over the past six months, he'd grown rather adept at this kind of social dance. As Milar had once observed, most women loved dancing. Tess was no exception — if anything, she adored it. She loved to dance, and Ardan… Well, he tried to support her. They often danced together: out in the open, in cafés, in "Bruce's," even in their apartment. Sometimes, they danced with no music, in utter silence, just gazing into each other's eyes and dancing.

Ardi avoided meeting the girl's gaze. And when her corset pressed its… softer parts against him, he felt nothing at all. No quickening of his pulse, no tingling below his belt — nothing like what he'd experienced once before at the Crimson Lady's establishment.

This girl and her odd flirtations left him utterly indifferent.

"Pardon me," she whispered after a while. "I must've made a mistake. Would you like me to fetch my colleague instead? A young man?"

Ardan's steps faltered, and he nearly stepped on the young woman's foot.

"W-what?"

"My colleague," she repeated calmly, her expression more marble statue than angelic visage. "It seems you might prefer the company of… other partners. He is more expensive, though. A night with him would run you eleven exes instead of nine and a half."

Ardan gave her a new sort of look. She evidently belonged to the same trade as the women employed by the Crimson Lady, only she presented herself quite differently. She seemed far more… modest, perhaps. He'd never have guessed that she wasn't some noble scion, but rather someone who sold herself.

"Black Lotus?"

"Naturally. He's also from the Black Lotus," she confirmed with a nod. "Or perhaps you do like women, just older… or younger? Much younger? I can talk to-"

"Please," said Ardan. "Stop."

A flicker of memory assaulted his mind — scenes from the underground tramway construction site, and then from Irigov's estate. The very thought that something like that might be happening here, aboard the airship…

"Don't misunderstand," the girl blurted out, hurrying to explain herself. "I'm twenty. It's only makeup… And they're sixteen. It's all within the law."

Ardi didn't bother correcting her. In reality, simply selling one's body — regardless of one's gender or race — was against the law.

"Forgive me," he said politely, with no condemnation in his tone. "I'm feeling unwell. This altitude doesn't agree with Star Mages. Apologies for spoiling your evening, but I'm afraid I must excuse myself."

Ardan stepped away from the bewildered girl. Retrieving his staff from a passing waiter, he made for the exit. Luckily, by then, Iolai Agrov had already left as well.

He'd already known that many of the "nieces" there that evening weren't family at all, merely paid companions. He just hadn't imagined that he'd stumble into someone from the Black Lotus here and see firsthand how it differed from the Crimson Lady's venture.

Mart had been right about this as well: in the Metropolis, absolutely everything could be bought and sold. You just had to find the right seller and name the right price.

Ardi wasn't feeling judgmental of these people, but even so, he still felt dirty. Oddly enough, back at the Crimson Lady's establishment, he hadn't felt that way. But things were different back then, and he and Tess… They hadn't yet… Well, they hadn't yet "danced."

"Retiring for the night, sir?"

Ardan's wandering thoughts were interrupted by a member of the crew. Like the other "air sailors" — as they were being called — he wore a dark blue jacket reminiscent of a sailor's uniform, but with bright red piping on the lapels and cuffs.

"Yes," Ardan said.

The man nodded, holding up a sheaf of papers on a clipboard.

"Your name?"

"Kerid Barov," Ardan replied.

They didn't ask for his documents this time.

"One moment, please," the man said, scanning the list before taking a key with a tag from a box. "Your cabin is number seventeen, on the third deck. Take the stairs up one flight and follow the signs. And please remember, there's no Ley radiation in the cabins. If you feel ill, call for a crew member immediately. They'll bring you to the physician."

Ardi resisted the urge to inform him that the proper term was Ley field. After thanking the man, he moved through a foyer that hardly differed from dozens of its "cousins." Without the portholes revealing the fiery orange sun outside, you wouldn't even realize you were airborne at all.

He climbed a plain iron staircase and found himself in a narrow corridor that was rather like a train car's hallway, except here, there were doors on both sides, not just one.

Stealing a glance at the next few flights leading up to the second and first decks (they were laid out similarly to train compartments, so Kerid Barov's ticket had brought him to the most modest accommodations on the airship), he breathed in the scent of fresh varnish on the paneling, which mingled with the scent of unworn brass fittings — handles, lamps, and fixtures that still bore no trace of dust or wear. Underfoot was a plush carpet, as thick and soft as a fluffy cat, smelling faintly of wax and animal fat. It had presumably been treated to preserve its pristine state.

Cabin 17 turned out to be in the middle of the corridor, and smaller than a second-class train compartment. Two narrow beds stood almost side by side, separated by a polished crimson bedside table that caught the light. One single wardrobe was set into the wall, tucked behind two thin, tawny doors. There was a lamp on the table, no chandelier, and rather than a reading chair, there was just a single sturdy but simple stool.

Ardan placed his travel bag on the table and sat on the bed. His "third-class" cabin had no porthole. Instead, a painting of a seascape hung on the wall.

He checked his watch. The first part of the evening's festivities would go on for at least another three hours — Trevor Man certainly wouldn't be returning to his "grand cabin" for a while.

"But what is Arkady Agrov doing here, if Man and Le'Mriti invited all the malcontents…" Ardan mused out loud, opening his valise.

Then again, as Milar always said, politics and feuds like that lay well outside their jurisdiction. The Second Chancery had specialists far better suited to that. So… These would be tomorrow's worries.

Ardan pulled out two sets of undergarments and, nestled in a cloth cover, his "spare suit." Anyone rummaging through the bag would find nothing strange or incriminating: just clothes, underwear, toiletries, cologne, perfume, a book, and yesterday's paper.

"I hope everything works," he murmured.

Gently arranging his things on the bed, he returned to the valise. He closed it, bringing the two metal plates together, and then he pressed four of the eight rivets holding the metal strips in place.

There was a click, and one of the strips slid aside, revealing a tiny combination lock with three digits. Ardan spun them to the correct code, and a second click made him exhale in relief even as his heart picked up speed.

Reopening the valise, he saw a newly-revealed handle attached to a false bottom. Pulling it up, he lifted out the panel. Beneath that were all the "special tools" provided by Dagdag, except for the lighter. According to the Second Chancery engineer, it was practically impossible to detect the lighter, so carrying it on his person posed little risk.

Ardan changed into the suit the Chancery had given him, fastening the cufflinks and gloves, and slipped the special handkerchief into his pocket. Taking up his staff, he approached the wardrobe.

Opening its doors, he armed himself with a small, thin screwdriver. Listening for any sounds coming from the corridor, he braced his weight on the handle, prying at the seam between the panels.

They gave way almost immediately. The simple latch popped free, and the panels separated. Ardan folded each panel inward along its hinges until he could remove them.

Beneath them were metal plates riveted around the perimeter, and in the center, as he'd expected, a technical duct concealed behind a metal grille. Due to the drastic temperature changes at high altitude (as explained in the schematics), the ship's air was warmed by channeling heat from the engines. And to save space, as well as facilitate winter operations, the ventilation had been integrated with these heat-conducting pipes.

Because of the gondola's size and the length of the passenger cabins, the decks, and the main heat duct, the air had time to cool enough so that the crew and passengers wouldn't suffocate, yet it remained warm enough to keep them from freezing.

Naturally, thanks to this engineering solution that had been blatantly copied from modern automobiles, the square opening (easier to produce on a lathe) was a good eighty-five centimeters wide. Not exactly spacious, but still enough for the newly slimmed-down mage to get through.

Ardan eyed his staff. The hardest part would be hauling it through the ventilation shafts, especially around corners. He could only do that by avoiding any truly sharp angles and detouring at the sections that used right-angle junctions. The path would be like a labyrinth, but, fortunately, Ardi's memory was up to the challenge.

He removed the screwdriver's cap and carefully sprinkled a shimmering substance onto the first of the bolts securing the grille. Milar had assured him that this would burn through a couple millimeters of steel, as it was a chemical compound the Cloaks used to open locks that could resist standard picks.

At first, nothing happened. A few moments passed… still nothing. Ardan waited another second, then another… but the two grayish-brown crystals simply lay there, inert, on top of the bolt.

He scowled, muttering a few choice words in multiple languages. Closing the wardrobe, he tucked the broken panels under one of the beds and stared at the cabin door.

He didn't have all the time in the world, but he had enough. He could've just stayed put in his cabin, scrapping this part of the plan as impossible. There was no guarantee that Trevor Man had brought any important documents with him, let alone that he'd also left them unattended in his cabin.

But even if he found no documents, there might still be something else, some small lead or hint that Ardan's suspicions were correct. There had to be.

Aergar had taught him that in order to understand your prey, you had to learn its habitat and its nature. Meanwhile, Milar always insisted that someone's living space was the best dossier on that person. Granted, a cabin wasn't exactly a home, but on an airship so dear to "Bri-&-Man," it was close enough.

Ardan scratched the back of his head with the end of his staff.

It was as Arkar liked to say: "All clever plans end up shoved up your ass anyway."

"I hate improvising," Ardi growled under his breath.

He wasn't naive enough to think that he could shroud himself in invisibility with Words or Star Magic at this altitude, even with the meager Ley stored in his cufflinks to aid him.

But for six years, he'd hunted by relying solely on his body and mind, not on the Aean'Hane arts or Star Magic.

Bending down, he tugged off his shoes and socks. After tying the shoelaces together, he slung his shoes around his neck. Pressing an ear to the door, he listened to the corridor for a while, and, satisfied no one was passing by, eased the latch open.

Feeling the plush carpet beneath his toes, he crept silently into the corridor, straining his ears in order to hear even the faintest sound. He also kept sniffing the air, looking for the slightest trace of unfamiliar scents.