Matabar

Book II. Chapter 72 - First part of the Deal

Chapter 72

This time, everything was different from what had transpired in the Red Lady’s mind. Ard was no longer adrift in darkness, where in the press of murky shadows he could discern only vague silhouettes. Yet it was also unlike Lusha’s memories, where Ardan had quite literally slipped beneath a boy’s skin—experiencing his every emotion, breathing his every thought and fear.

No, it was utterly different. Now he himself—Ard—had taken on the form of a shadow. Incorporeal and powerless to affect anything. Nearly vanishing in the whirl of those fragments of reality that flared within Odurdod’s smoldering mind, fragments mistakenly called memory.

Ardan did not feel the emotions of the shriveled Nudsky, in whose trembling hands a fat cigar smoldered. The mage sat in an armchair and stared sightlessly through the haze of dispersing objects. Shaped not of wood, nor wrought of metal or iron, nor built of stone, they presented themselves as swirling multi-colored vapor, barely assembling into the outline of a spacious room. It could just as easily have been a salon on Baliero, a club in the New City, or perhaps even someone’s rather sizable apartment.

Somewhere, a fireplace crackled—dry and hollow. Like a crotchety old man, it had fallen into a fit of coughing; evidently someone had just thrown on a new, slightly damp log. Perhaps it was winter? Ardi saw no windows, because Nudsky wasn’t looking toward them.

All the mage’s attention was focused on the armchair opposite him, across a small glass table. Or rather, not on the chair itself, but on the figure that had nonchalantly draped its arms over the armrests.

Yes—a figure.

Or perhaps it would be more apt to say—a doll. Utterly nondescript, absolutely unremarkable—the kind you wouldn’t even glance at in a toyshop. Its varnish was peeling; its little outfit was tattered and sewn as carelessly as the indistinct features of that odd little face had been carved.

Ardan held his breath and barely stopped himself from darting toward the doorway that wavered like a haze somewhere at the edge of Nudsky’s peripheral vision.

The young man recognized that old, battered doll, as if it had been forgotten in an attic for ages. It was the very same one he’d seen last year in the Palace of Past Kings. Ardi didn’t know whether it was connected to the Firstborn, the Fae, or the Star Mages, but one thing was clear—on that occasion he had truly stumbled upon one of the Puppeteers.

“What guarantees do I have?” Nudsky asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“None,” the doll replied in a dispassionate, stern tone that was nonetheless undeniably alive.

Ardan had no doubt that now, just as back then, he was seeing nothing but an illusion. A glamour so masterful that even in the memories of a dying mind, the true form of one of the conspirators remained concealed beneath the veil of Ean’Hane art.

“Then how am I supposed to know you won’t harm them…?” Nudsky whispered.

“You cannot,” the doll repeated. “But think on this, Mr. Nudsky—if you fail to turn over the research to us, I can guarantee that you’ll return to an empty, cold home.”

The doll reached into its inner pocket with a series of jerky, broken movements, as if it were a puppet yanked by the strings of an unskilled puppeteer, and drew out several photographs.

“It would be so very sad, Mr. Nudsky, if these little flowers never get the chance to bloom.”

Through Odurdod’s eyes, Ardan saw the photographs, each image painfully sharp. They seared themselves into Nudsky’s mind like a rancher’s brand on cattle. In one, his daughter was pushing a lovely ornate pram, and inside a merry pair of twins clutched with tiny fingers at the leaves dangling above them. They were strolling through the Dawn Garden, awash in marble statuary and fountains, the autumn trees shedding the last of their summer finery.

Then another photo: in it, Nudsky’s son stood at a lofty lectern, delivering a report before an entire hall filled with gentlemen clad in regalia and robes at the Mages’ Guild.

Nudsky’s family.

“The Black House won’t allow you… no—no. It’s all a bluff,” Odurdod was murmuring, “They’ll stop you.”

“In the same way, I suppose, that the esteemed Cloaks managed to prevent the bombings at the Imperial Bank and Archive?” The doll lounged back in the armchair again. “Go on and hope, Mr. Nudsky. But if you choose to stake everything on them, don’t be too upset when you find yourself standing over cold graves.”

The Puppeteers always pursued several goals at once… Why stage all those vivid, bloody scenes that flooded the capital at the beginning of the year? Perhaps precisely to lead to these quiet conversations steeped in pain and drowned in fear. Conversations in which a solitary Nudsky—shrunken to a pinpoint of terror—cannot bring himself to believe that anyone could protect him.

“I’m not a fool, Mr. Nameless,” the mage whispered again. (Naturally, none of them used real names.) “Even if I bring you the Senior Magister’s research, the moment I stop being useful, you’ll dispose of me. And my family too.”

“In that case, Mr. Nudsky,” the doll said with a slight shrug, utterly unmoved by his plight, “it’s in your best interest to stay useful for as long as possible, isn’t it?”

Suddenly something flared to life inside Odurdod—something desperate. Something deadly. So bold it practically burned the tips of his fingers. He whipped a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, tore off the cap, and plunged it into his own throat.

But instead of a hot spurt of blood, only a muffled, choking croak escaped his lips. As Nudsky struggled to breathe, the doll twirled that very pen between its wooden fingers.

“Foolish, Mr. Nudsky, very foolish,” the conspirator commented with a sigh. “You must understand that if, by your own hand, something happens to you and you can’t uphold your end of the bargain, then your family will follow after you. Let’s say, to keep you company in the society of the Eternal Angels you seem so eager to join.”

Nudsky, breathing hard and clutching the back of the wobbling chair, struggled to his feet.

“A deal? What deal?” he gasped.

“Why, the one in which you unfailingly follow the instructions you’ll soon be given, Mr. Nudsky, and in return receive quite a tidy sum of eks,” the doll explained smoothly. “Eks, along with the opportunity to go on enjoying your cozy little nest without worrying that poachers might take an interest in your nestlings.”

The doll set the pen aside and steepled its fingers.

“I don’t need your money, you bastard,” Nudsky spat, his voice rasping.

“They all say that, at first,” the doll replied, utterly unfazed by the insult. “But I assure you, Mr. Nudsky, in my experience a threat accompanied by a fat envelope of cash works much better than a threat alone. Why, even a threat of torture pales next to an obvious incentive. After all, who knows when you might need money? What if one of your little ones falls ill? Medicine is not a cheap indulgence.”

“Leave my family alone!” Nudsky snarled.

“If I may point out, Mr. Nudsky, no one is bothering them. For now, the doll stressed the last words. “And it depends on you—and, let me emphasize, solely on you—whether their innocent peace remains intact or…”

A heavy pause fell over the room, broken only by Nudsky’s ragged breathing as he sank back into his armchair. Seated, he wrapped his hands around his head, fingers digging deep into his gray hair.

“What… what do you want?” he asked after a moment, his voice virtually boiling over with desperation.

“As I mentioned already—the research of Senior Magister Idrad Radov,” the doll repeated. “In his personal safe deposit box at the Imperial Bank’s sixth branch, there’s a folder, Mr. Nudsky, which contains information concerning his final project at the University—the one the Mages’ Guild refused to accept as the thesis for his Magister’s medallion.”

“And how am I to get it?” Nudsky whispered.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” a short, haughty chuckle crept into the doll’s voice. “If I knew that, then you—despite my generally kind disposition toward you—would be of no use to me at all. But what I do know for certain, Mr. Nudsky, is that you have a deadline of exactly one year.”

“A year? I only have a year?”

“Precisely,” the doll nodded. “And may I remind you, you were remarkably perceptive in your observation about your own usefulness. So I suggest you think of a reason why, once you’ve fetched the document, I shouldn’t send you off to the Eternal Angels.”

Odurdod cleared his throat and lifted his eyes to his interlocutor—a stare brimming with hatred and loathing.

“Damn you,” he spat.

“Already am, Mr. Nudsky, already…” the doll sighed. “And now—” The doll waved a hand, and into its palm flew a staff that ripped itself off a nearby wall—an old, carved staff of some wood unfamiliar to Ard. “Let’s seal our deal with a mark. My apologies—this will be unpleasant.”

The doll struck the staff against the floor, conjuring a seal as horrifying in appearance as it was intricate, and Odurdod’s vision was engulfed by a bloody silence as his entire being constricted into a guttural scream that tore at his throat and lungs. Nudsky clutched his head and fell.

***

Ardan opened his eyes. He was staring at Nudsky’s face, which was already shriveling to a desiccated mask.

“Sa…ve them…” From his nearly empty eye sockets rolled a barely perceptible, silvery tear. “Plea…se…”

Ardan felt his heart clench. What was he to think of a man who had saved his family, while at the same time dooming dozens of others to a fate so horrific that…

Those were thoughts for another day.

“Where?” Ardan asked, still cradling Nudsky’s head. “Where is the research?”

“I… already… gave it… away,” Nudsky rasped. “Gave it… away.”

Sleeping Spirits! Of course—they and Inakov hadn’t come here just to hide. Most likely, the situation with Angel’s Tear was exactly the same as with the Larand Monastery. It was just like chess. They were trading pieces. The Puppeteers were happily giving the Black House any pieces that, in their opinion, had already served their purpose.

But… what purpose?

“About what? What was the research on?” Ardan pressed.

“L-look… further…” Nudsky’s thinning lips whispered.

***

Ardi found himself in a spacious house on St. Basil’s Island. He recognized it by the view of the Pridvortsova Embankment visible from the study where Nudsky now stood.

Odurdod held a folder in his hands. Though a considerable time had passed since it had been sealed—bound up with ribbons and the knot sealed in wax—it still bore the marks of the careful respect it once had been shown. Whoever had collected these documents had treated them with nearly the same tenderness and love that a parent has for a child.

Nudsky’s gaze was fixed on an accompanying note.

“Method of Implementing the Selkado Swordsman’s Armor with stationary shields of Classical Magic.”

*“Request for Trial.

Material for testing: biological material.

Clarification: Firstborn or human.

Requirement: material must be alive.”*

Attached below the folder was a rejection letter endorsed by the Grand Magister’s Lodge of the Mages’ Guild.

***

Ardan straightened. Before him lay a dried-out mummy—lifeless and silent.

“Well?” Major Mossy asked, his body practically twined around his staff. Great beads of sweat rolled down the major’s face, and his lips trembled slightly. “Were you able to find out anything?”

Ardi didn’t answer immediately.

“Probably,” was all the young man could manage to say.

The major, after catching his breath, cast a glance toward the exit.

“Let’s go, Corporal. It’s stifling in here.”

And they left. They walked slowly, wearily past the old stone cells, taking care not to look inside. Ardi kept his gaze fixed somewhere around the toes of his own shoes.

It seemed to him he was starting to figure out how and why Pnev had happened to be near the late Pizhon’s son-in-law’s mansion that day.

Such work…

Likewise, Ardi suspected why it was only now that the Black House had given him whatever information they had on the art of Ean’Hane.

Such work…

In his head, the Emperor’s voice resounded.

“…do not think I will mindlessly take you at your word, Ard, even though I see no reason for you to lie…”

In simpler terms, that essentially meant: don’t think that if we’re looking for a mole inside the Black House, we haven’t considered that we might find him in you, Mr. Egobar.

Trust had to be earned. Ard, who had grown up among the Alcad hunters, knew that full well.

“And what now?” he asked Mossy when they finally emerged from the underground structure.

The bodies of the mercenaries and perhaps workers—or maybe researchers—had already been dragged off to the side. They’d been stripped naked, their belongings sorted into piles. One of the Cloaks was inspecting them closely in Parela’s company. The others, led by Klementiy (who traded a glance with the major), had begun the descent into the cells and the “sanctuary.”

“We’ll gather every bit of information we can,” Mossy said. Leaning against the broken stump of an ancient column, he pulled out a cigarette with a hand trembling from fatigue. “We’ll analyze it and… I expect that in a couple of months you and Pnev will be able to review the results.”

Stolen story; please report.

Ardan stepped up beside the gray-haired mage. He gazed at the stars, still sparkling above their heads.

“I suppose it really does look suspicious,” he murmured.

The major gave a questioning grunt and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“My presence at the coronation, then Baliero, the Bank, and… everything that happened after,” Ardan said, closing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing, to drive away everything he had witnessed below ground. “I’d have thought I could be the mole, too.”

They fell silent. So long that the major finished one cigarette and started a second.

“If it makes you feel any better, Corporal, Captain Pnev always wagered that you had nothing to do with it. It was a rotten coincidence that you barreled headlong into this stinking pile. That happens—albeit rarely,” the major said, drawing on his new cigarette and letting his shoulders sag. “But you’ve passed all of your exams with flying colors.”

For some reason, Ardan was certain Mossy wasn’t referring to the University at all.

“And what now?” he repeated.

“Get back to work, Corporal, back to work,” the major replied, making it clear he’d understood perfectly well the first time. “We suspect the Puppeteers might strike at the Congress. There are just too many leads pointing toward Tazidakhian and Selkado. And considering the incident at the Tai border and the Great Glacier…”

“What incidents?” Ardan asked.

“Read the reports when you get back,” Mossy said, avoiding details. “I think you have full clearance for them now… But overall, Milar is right. We likely won’t have much trouble with the conspirators in the near future. First the monastery, now here… they’re dumping ballast. Feeding us rotting scraps they themselves no longer need.”

Once again, Ardan wasn’t surprised that Mossy seemed to know absolutely everything about his and Milar’s investigations. Otherwise, he truly never would have been assigned to help them with the Nochniks and that ancient vampire.

Suddenly, the corridors of the Black House rose in Ardan’s memory, where each office hid behind a set of double doors.

Perhaps no better allegory could be found for the operating principles of the Second Chancellery.

“And if not the Congress?” Ardan ventured.

“Then there’s also a lead in the Ral Foothills on the border with Enario,” Mossy continued calmly. “But there’s a serious snag there, one that probably won’t be cleared up in the next year or even year and a half.”

“And what—” Ardan began.

“Nothing, Corporal,” the major cut him off. “I’m not an investigator. But you are. So it’s up to you and Milar to sort out the who’s and what’s of those incidents in the capital—if you manage to dig anything up, of course. Because right now everything else is relatively quiet. The only leads we have at all are the ones you two uncovered.”

Mossy crushed out his cigarette and slipped the butt into his pocket, and Ardan realized that the major knew nothing about Pizhon, the mysterious “key,” or Alla Tantova’s body.

Such work…

It seemed Ardi was beginning to understand the full depth of that phrase.

***

Ardi gave the horse—a steed that had served him faithfully these past few days—a pat on the neck.

“You and I,” he whispered in the language of wild beasts. “Thank you, swift brother.”

The horse snorted something unintelligible in the language of domesticated beasts—a tongue Ardi did not know.

They returned to the small town by the middle of the next day. They were exhausted, wounded, and… accompanied by a body wrapped in gray cloth, strapped down and placed on a sled. Not to mention a few more bodies they had loaded into the crate where the strategic magic device had once been.

After a single use, that device had melted beyond recognition, and Ardan suspected that the black accumulator inside had been used not for the sigil itself, but to power the apparatus. In the end, Parela and Klementiy smashed the apparatus into small components, which Mossy—using an enhanced Breath technique modified to Blue Star level—scattered over Angel’s Tear. The lake’s waters welcomed the fragments of the Ertaline alloy into their placid embrace.

As Ardi tethered his mount to a hitching post, he cast the occasional quick glance toward the shrouded body of the Cloak who hadn’t survived his injuries. Had he known what he was dying for? Or, because “that’s the job,” had he simply done his duty without even an inkling…?

Ardan sighed.

From Grandfather’s legends and tales, he knew that it takes courage to step into a monster’s fiery maw. But such courage is usually born of understanding why and for what you do it. Whereas to surrender your life like this—on the deserted shore of some far-off lake—Ardi could scarcely imagine the degree of bravery that once breathed within the Cloak’s now-silent heart.

“The train will be here toward evening,” Mossy said, approaching the dismounted group and gesturing toward the saloon. “So we’re going to sit inside, calmly and civilly, and wait for departure. If anyone gets the itch to scratch their trigger finger or any other short but sprightly organ, I will depress that urge—likely with physical and, most embarrassingly, moral injuries. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir, Major!” the operatives thundered in unison.

The major nodded and stepped aside with the local lieutenant-detective. They began discussing something, and Ardi could have listened in if he’d wanted. But he found he simply didn’t care enough. All he wanted at that moment was a hot cup of cocoa, the soothing clack of train wheels, and the nearing Metropolis where home awaited him.

Along with the other Cloaks, he entered the saloon, which had fallen suddenly quiet. Of the two dozen or so patrons, the vast majority were cowboys and farmers, with only a few townsfolk from the local trades. After all, for now this town existed solely as a place for farm folk to trade and take their leisure. Perhaps in thirty years it would grow to the size of Evergale, but not now.

With Mossy absent, Parela was the highest-ranking among them, so she gathered everyone’s requests and headed to the bar. A few of the bolder or more curious patrons cast glances her way. Their eyes were invariably drawn to the captain’s staff—just as they couldn’t help but notice the staffs borne by Ardi and Klementiy.

As he took a seat at one of the tables, Ardi reminded himself that Star Mages were, by and large, a very uncommon sight in the Empire—at least to ordinary folk outside the provincial capitals. In the Foothills Province, for example, apart from Delpas you would hardly encounter a Star Mage at all.

For a while, the saloon was wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of soft, murmured whispers. The locals were uneasy, but only a few people actually left; the rest remained where they were. They played cards, ate their suppers, sipped their drinks, and generally relaxed after a hard week’s work.

Ardi sometimes met the complaints of his Metropolis friends with a smile when they groused about getting only two days off a week. On a farm, there were no days off at all…

Before long Parela returned, along with a couple of Cloaks who had helped her carry over drinks and bowls of stew—not the heartiest, but warm enough. She sat at a nearby table—at a little distance from Ard. He didn’t blame her. Each of them had their own demons to fight.

Gradually, the saloon grew accustomed to the presence of the black-clad, unsociable newcomers, and the blanket of whispers first gave way to a quilt of murmured half-conversations, until at last the whole place shook with laughter and boisterous talk.

Ardan stared out the window, watching the autumn twilight bite off pieces of the low but vivid sky. It was not nearly as gray as the one over the Metropolis.

“It’s the Empress, Jean,” a voice drifted to Ardan’s ear. “If she says it, then it must be true.”

“Still, Istislav, I don’t believe these tales,” one of the cowboys said, slapping a newspaper page. “Just think. How does it all add up? And when would he have even had the time… it’s all nonsense… they’re trying to fool us.”

“Why would they bother fooling us?” a third voice asked.

“Beats me. I’m not the Emperor’s wife. And I’m sure as hell not Emperor Pavel,” the cowboy named Jean retorted.

“Well, since you’re not His Imperial Majesty, Jean, maybe you should just shut your mouth,” Istislav drawled.

“Oh, you’re going to shut it for me, Istislav?” Jean shot back. “Last I checked, no one’s repealed freedom of speech in this country.”

“Sure, go call someone a goat and see where that freedom lands you,” the older man snorted. “Just don’t come running to my shop for a styptic afterward.”

“True enough, I suppose,” Jean agreed unexpectedly easily. “I just… don’t know… something about it rubs me wrong. Feels like we’re being lied to.”

“That’s just the Tavser in you talking,” Istislav chuckled.

“Maybe so,” the cowboy sighed. “But it still gives me a bad feeling. Like we’re being tricked.”

“Oh, come on now, Jean,” came an encouraging voice from another table. “What difference does it make what the aristocrats and mages are plotting in the capital? We just need to get through the winter. Livestock are dying as if the Eternal Angels have turned their backs on us.”

At the table where the heated discussion was taking place, a murmur of agreement rose.

“There you go,” Jean said, nodding toward the group of Cloaks. “Maybe these valiant gentlemen have solved our problem.”

“We’ll see, Jean, we’ll see,” said the healer—whom Ardi had initially taken for a farmer—shaking his head gloomily.

He lifted his mug and, cursing under his breath, tried to peel away the newspaper page that had stuck to it—the issue delivered to town early that morning. This town wasn’t far from the capital, so thanks to the swift mail trains, news reached here much sooner than it did the far-flung corners of the vast Empire.

A bold headline caught Ardi’s eye:

Exclusive interview with the Empress Consort, Her Imperial Highness, Duchess Oktana Anorsk — Special to the Imperial Herald

Ardan had already begun to turn away when he felt a slight jab in his chest. As if he’d brushed against a sharp branch that scratched his skin.

A strong fragrance of enchanted wildflowers struck his nose, invisible droplets of cold dew rolled down his skin, and somewhere in the distance a voice rang out.

Ardi remembered that voice.

Through all the years that had passed, he had never managed to forget it.

It was the voice of spring blossoms and grass blades swaying in the wind, the voice of a creaking willow and the hushed whisper of forest crowns. The voice of Lady Senhi’Sha, Keeper of the Garden of Queens:

“The first part of the debt is paid. Words of help have been spoken.”

“Corporal…” Klementiy gently touched his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yes,” Ardan answered haltingly. He got to his feet and, as the tavern gradually fell silent once more, he walked over to the locals’ table.

Taking a few iron coins from his pocket, he laid them on the table and gestured toward the cider- and gravy-stained newspaper.

“Will you sell it?” he asked.

The locals were stunned for a moment, but quickly collected themselves. The flustered healer nodded dazedly and offered Ard the crumpled paper, which he tried to wipe clean in his haste.

Ardan practically snatched the newspaper from the healer’s hands and, back at his own table, opened it to the first spread. There, from a poorly printed photograph, Oktana Anorskaya gazed at him as she conversed with the Herald’s editor-in-chief—a rather dignified elderly man, Lord Virov, whose family owned a third of the Herald’s shares.

Ardan quickly skimmed the flowery introduction and, finding nothing of interest, focused on the transcript itself.

Virov:“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness, for carving a few minutes out of your busy schedule to speak with us.”

Oktana:“Of course, Lord Virov.”

Virov:“Your Imperial Highness, of late high society in the Metropolis has been abuzz with talk of an upcoming social event which, for some reason unclear to society, people have tried hard to keep hidden. Like a dark stain on the body of our community.”

Oktana:“Forgive me, Lord Virov, but I’ve had almost no time lately to follow life at His Imperial Majesty’s court. We have far too many affairs to attend to. And in the capital, over the past year, I’ve spent only a few months.”

Virov:“Yes, indeed… of course, Your Imperial Highness, we all know how fervently you champion the aid program for the most vulnerable segments of our Empire’s population. Without your involvement, Parliament would never have dared to approve the initiative to open preschool classes at new schools. It will greatly ease the lives of those children’s parents.”

Oktana:“Thank you for your kind words, Lord Virov. You mentioned a dark stain on the face of the capital’s aristocratic society.”

Virov:“And not just the capital’s, Your Imperial Highness. Allow me, with utmost respect and humble deference, to remind you that very soon—rumor has it in the height of the Festival of Light—a wedding ceremony will take place uniting the Orman bloodline’s heiress, Baroness Tess Orman, with none other than etid Ard Egobar, heir of that very Aror Egobar—the henchman and right hand of the Dark Lord. A Firstborn who brought harm to no small number of the Empire’s worthiest families, not to mention the common folk.”

Oktana:“Yes, I have heard of their forthcoming union, Lord Virov, and I see no reason why the court should react to it at all. I don’t recall the weddings of barons and baronesses—in cases such as this—lingering for weeks on the front pages of newspapers.”

Virov:“Pardon my outburst, Your Imperial Highness, but how can one not make a comparison! The Ormans have guarded our border faithfully for nearly thirty years now. Under the command of General-Lord Reish Orman, Shamtur has been turned into an impregnable fortress, and the border is stronger than ever before! We all bow to his valor and military prowess.”

Oktana:“You’re right, Lord Virov. Lord Reish Orman fulfills his duties excellently. His Imperial Majesty regularly acknowledges his service to our country and our people.”

Virov:“So how is it, then, Your Imperial Highness—surely you realize we might soon see just such a breach opening in our own impregnable Fatian fortress?”

Oktana:“With all due respect, Lord Virov, I fail to see your point.”

Virov:“Forgive me, Your Imperial Highness, it’s my professional habit to tease my readers. I’m referring to the union of etid Egobar and Baroness Orman.”

Oktana:“Ah, you’re still going on about that… and what exactly troubles you about it?”

Virov:“But how could it not! Why, his great-grandfather—”

Oktana:“I’ll stop you right there, Lord Virov. What did your great-grandfather do in his lifetime?”

Virov:“To be frank, Your Imperial Highness, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Oktana:“Then perhaps, Lord Virov, you should pay a visit to the archives and refresh your memory—because your great-grandfather was convicted of bribery. The Virov family paid the Crown a fine of seven hundred and fifty eks (at the old rate) so that Lord Virov—your distant ancestor—would not be thrown into the dungeons of the Palace Fortress.”

Virov:“Oh, Your Imperial Highness, that was so long ago…”

Oktana:“Of course, Lord Virov. Very long ago. Precisely during the foreign intervention amid the Dark Lord’s uprising, when your family tried to evade the wartime tax the Crown had levied on the aristocracy to support our army’s readiness. One could say your distant forebear attempted to steal bread from the soldiers’ mouths.”

Virov:“Your Imperial Highness! Pardon my boldness, but how can you say such a thing! We paid the fine in full and ceded a third of all our estates for the army’s needs!”

Oktana:“My, how quick you are to recall your family’s merits, Lord Virov, and how swift to forget its transgressions… No matter. I’m happy to share some news with you. Rejoice that it’s your newspaper that will receive this sensational scoop first. We—His Imperial Majesty, the advisors, and the General Staff—have long prepared this announcement, but it seems we must move up the schedule slightly.”

Virov:“May I, with the deepest respect and humility, inquire what you mean, Your Imperial Highness?”

Oktana:“Certainly, Lord Virov. I hasten to inform you that—to use your own words—the Egobar family has paid their fine. And a far more weighty and substantial one than yours. Let all the Empire hear me.”

Virov:“You are going to make an official announcement, Your Imperial Highness?”

Oktana:“Precisely. Henceforth, let the entire Empire know that the renowned Major Hek Abar, hero of the Little War with the Fatian Principality, is none other than the father of etid Ard Egobar—Hector Egobar!”

Virov:“What… but… how can that be… Your Imperial Highness… how…”

Oktana:“And the miraculous recovery of my daughter, Her Imperial Highness Grand Duchess Anastasia, almost seven years ago was directly due to the selflessness and bravery of etid Ard Egobar—who performed a deed worthy of a story every bit as captivating as those your newspaper, Lord Virov, so enthusiastically touts.”

Virov:“Good heavens, Your Imperial Highness… these revelations are astounding…”

Oktana:“Indeed, Lord Virov. Astounding. And, as you can see, the Egobar family never forgot the harm it once brought upon our common motherland. Thus it never ceased paying its debt. And after my husband, His Imperial Majesty, personally signed a full amnesty not only for the name Egobar but for all the Matabar who were directly or indirectly involved in the tragedies of the past, I see no cause for the outrage of so-called high society.”

Virov:“I humbly beg—”

Oktana:“I don’t have much free time, Lord Virov. I want to stress that the marriage of two very worthy young people—the splendid Baroness Tess Orman, who gave a magnificent performance at the opening of the Baliero Concert Hall, and the promising, talented and courageous future Imperial Mage, etid Ard Egobar—has my full support, as well as the full support of the Crown. And since they have chosen a quiet, cozy ceremony without involving the press or the court, so let it be. We must respect the will of the young, for it is their life and no one else’s. I will emphasize in particular that the Crown—in my person, at least—does not welcome any further discussion in the press of either the marriage or the names of the individuals I’ve mentioned, who are exemplary representatives of the Empire’s new generation. I trust I will be heard in every corner of our country. The aristocracy and the court, I am sure, have matters more urgent and requiring their attention than someone else’s marital status.”

Virov:“Of course, Your Imperial Highness. I only wished to shed light on… a story that also interests our readers.”

Oktana:“I’d say you’ve fulfilled that task, Lord Virov. And now, pray excuse me, dear sir, but I must bring our pleasant chat to an end.”

Virov:“Your Imperial Highness, please accept my deepest bow and sincerest gratitude for your time.”

Beneath the transcript came Lord Virov’s commentary and his obsequious expressions of gratitude, as well as a full column dedicated to the feats and merits of Major Hector Egobar (whom they now referred to solely by that name and no other). At the end was a list of his decorations—medals, orders—and even photographs of a monument in New City and of his uniform on display in the Museum of Martial Glory.

Whether the duchess’s impulse to help Ard and Tess was genuine or she truly had simply found a convenient way to repay the first of the three debts laid upon her by Senhi’Sha, Ardan didn’t know. In truth, that particular detail didn’t concern him much.

What troubled him far more was the stark realization that, looking ahead, nothing good was likely to come of such an article for him. Yes, perhaps—just perhaps—now his and Tess’s ceremony would go forward without the dark cloud that had been steadily gathering over them through Iolai Agrov’s efforts. But… it was doubtful that Grand Duke Iolai would read this, be overcome with remorse, and simply let the whole thing drop.

More likely—quite the opposite.

Not to mention the Conclave. Yes, certainly, the unofficial little governing council of the Firstborn community had removed Ard’s pariah status, but… official status was one thing; public opinion was something else entirely. Over the course of his life, Ardan had learned that distinction the hard way. And his gut told him that the endeavor he and Bazhen had only just set in motion might now receive a brutal shove from behind.

Not to mention that Ardan—thanks to being raised by his woodland friends—utterly loathed any undue attention directed at himself. In fact, he didn’t like any attention at all. As Ergar used to say, “a hunter who’s been noticed is a hunter who goes hungry.”

Considering the repayment of the Fae’s debt, Oktana truly was pursuing the noblest aims in good faith. Only, for some reason, after finishing the article Ardan couldn’t squeeze out anything besides a succinct:

“Ahgrat.”

“Bless you,” Klementiy said at once with a smile from where he sat beside him.