Matabar

The few automobiles that were driving alongside the black hulks of the Second Chancery swerved sharply aside, like frightened sheep wandering too close to a shepherd's dogs prowling along the meadow's edge — unnoticed at first glance, yet ready to sink their teeth into any throat that threatened the flock's peace.

Even the clunky trams, their steel wheels sparking along the rails embedded in the cobblestones of Niewa Avenue, seemed determined to flee the glow of those yellow headlights splitting the darkness.

The few pedestrians trudging along the sidewalks at this late hour turned away hastily, hiding their faces and pretending that either they themselves did not exist, or that no investigators and operatives of the Black House were barreling down the road at all.

And speaking of the late hour…

"Milar."

"Hm?" The captain rumbled, keeping the wheel steady with his right hand alone. His left elbow rested on the edge of the door, and, as always, he was smoking, flicking ash out of the cracked-open window and letting a cold, damp wind into the car.

"What makes you think that the minister…" Ardan moved the frayed hem of his coat aside and glanced at his watch. Fortunately, it was still working. It was the same watch his father had given him long ago in his childhood (Ardi had worn it for as long as he could remember). "…will be at work at half past three in the morning?"

"Because he will be summoned to it."

"The minister?"

"That's right," Milar confirmed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Ardan fell silent and did not utter another word for the remainder of the trip. The night blossomed with the youthful lights of early spring, and the stars winked down at them, peeking out from behind the wet, dark clouds.

Soon, they turned off the wide thoroughfare of Niewa Avenue and slipped onto a few adjoining streets, stopping near a massive building. It was nothing like the imposing frame of the Black House, nor as lavish or ostentatious as Parliament. Still, despite that, at the end of the street, behind a tall wrought-iron fence and shielding a small park with its presence, stood a rather remarkable structure.

It was big enough to house several smaller Grand University buildings. Its façade bore columns styled after the ancient world, and the entablature — with its massive colonnade — rather resembled the temples of the Old Gods, those deities that had been worshiped before the religion of the Face of Light had spread. Ardan noticed that the sculpted acroteria depicting mythical beasts — fang-baring hounds of the God of War — looked rather… peculiar. And the modillions perched beneath the long stone slab, which had been fashioned into the shapes of swords, seemed like messages from a distant past.

A broad staircase led to the main entrance, though Ardan could no longer recall what the shape of it was called from his lessons in architectural history.

Before reaching those steps, however, any visitor would first have to pass a very ordinary-looking wooden guard booth, which was positioned by the gate. A lowered barrier and a trio of guards with rifles slung across their backs made it perfectly clear that not just anyone could walk into the Main Headquarters of the Guard Corps.

But such trifling matters hardly concerned the Cloaks. Their cars lined up in a row and continued rolling down the deserted street. Milar and Ardan were riding in the third vehicle.

The guards, who were there more for show and had no real significance, exchanged glances. One of them muttered something to another, who then saluted. In the Empire, the military salute was performed by raising the right elbow level with one's shoulder and pressing their right fist to their chest — another historical artifact. Thanks to his history lessons, Ardan knew the God of War's priests had claimed that a vein leading from the heart along a person's right side carried honor and valor. It was a belief that had grown into a tradition. The guard who had saluted adjusted his rifle so it wouldn't smack against his legs and sprinted off toward the headquarters.

From the booth, a young guard stuck his head out while a second positioned himself directly in front of the barrier, raising a hand in a forbidding gesture.

The first Cloaks' car rolled up to the white line painted on the asphalt and calmly stopped. The others followed suit. For a few moments, the street plunged into silence, and even the raindrops tapping on the roofs seemed to slow their tireless pace.

The guards exchanged glances again. The one at the barrier approached the first car and leaned toward its driver's window. When the window slid down, the guard went pale. In the darkness and rain, with the second car blocking Ardan's view, he couldn't make out exactly what was being shown to the guard from inside.

But whatever it was, it proved to be more than enough. The young guard — his corporal stripes marking him as being just one rank above a private — snapped to attention, turning as pale as though he had faced death itself.

Clicking his heels together, he raised his elbow and pressed his fist to his chest, holding the salute. The other guard, the one who had been in the booth, marched over in precise, parade-ready steps, each time placing the polished toe of his boot forward, and loosened the rope from the wooden barrier's hook. The counterweight swung the barrier high into the air.

Once more, the cars started up calmly — almost nonchalantly, if one could ascribe such an attitude to a soulless machine — and drove on. As they passed the still-saluting corporal, Ardan peered into the man's eyes and saw only one thing there:

An all-consuming, mind-numbing terror. It was an ancient fear, devouring heart and mind alike, twisting the gut until it shriveled. This was a kind of primal dread from the days when humans, huddled in caves, had still hunted with sharpened sticks.

Something churned uneasily in Ardi's own stomach, but there was no time to dwell on it.

The cars came to a stop at the foot of the grand staircase, blatantly ignoring the fact that a small section of the driveway led to the park in the back, where the staff parking lot was actually located.

They parked diagonally, forming a broad wedge, then turned off their engines almost in unison. Doors opened just as synchronously. Stepping into the cold sheets of rain, Ardan immediately saw the answer to his earlier question — what had so frightened the young guard.

From the lead vehicle emerged two figures. The first was a man of average height. His left sleeve flapped empty in the wind, and in his right hand, he clutched a staff forged of black steel, adorned with silvered seals and topped with a badger's tail curled around a pink accumulator. And as for his signature Cloak — the garment worn by employees of the Second Chancery — he wore only a black leather winter coat lined with fur, the same uniform as everyone else in the Second Chancery. But on his shoulders were the unmistakable epaulettes marked with stars: six rays thrice in a row, then seven and four rays respectively.

Ardan had heard of this man from Milar.

Mshisty.

That was all. Just the name.

There'd been no mention of rank or position. Only rumors: that he was bloodthirsty, that he ran headlong into danger, and that he had chosen to remain in the Dead Lands near the border with the Enario Theocracy for nearly a year and a half without leaving, which was something no ordinary expedition did for more than a month. Word had it that he'd lost his left arm that way.

Beside him, stepping out of the driver's seat and donning his hat, came a man Ardan had seen twice before: a lean, wiry fellow, his hair gleaming silver just before it vanished under a modest felt hat.

The Colonel.

Ardan did not know his name or surname, nor was he especially curious about them.

From the second car came Alexander and Din, who gave Ardi a playful wink and moved off to the side. Two women — strangers to Ardan — followed them out.

The last vehicle held four men, all in the same black uniform, though with varied builds and ages.

The Colonel and Mshisty lingered for a moment, then began ascending the stairs. In that same instant, the tall, heavy doors emblazoned with the Empire's crest swung open, and fifteen or so guards rushed out onto the steps. With their bayonets fixed, they shouldered their rifles at once.

"Stop right there!" Barked their apparent leader: a rotund man in a sergeant's uniform. "Who are you, and what…"

He trailed off. His eyes slid over Mshisty's form, then moved to the Colonel, who stood there calmly with his hands in his coat pockets, and very nearly collapsed on the spot.

"F-f-for…" The sergeant swallowed. "F-f-f-forg…" He swallowed again. "F-f-f-for…"

He couldn't get a single word out. He stuttered and shook like the last drop of a melting icicle about to fall, paler than the handkerchief with which he desperately dabbed at his sweaty face — sweat brought on by anything but the drizzle.

Meanwhile, the Colonel and Mshisty walked right through the gathered guards, who remained frozen in the positions they'd assumed at the sergeant's shout. Their rifles were still pointed at… well, at nothing, and the men seemed to be holding their breaths until the figures in black leather coats passed by them.

Only Ardan stood out a little, but no one paid him any mind — a rarity, to say the least.

Inside, the building was no different from any other Imperial government facility: there was a vast lobby, its walls shining in places with mosaic versions of the Empire's crest. To the right, there was a small guard station with a motionless sentry inside it, and to the left, a cloakroom, and then a corridor branching into two directions.

Everything was painted in light colors. Lei-powered chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and carpets stretched across the floor to spare the pale parquet the ever-present mud carried in on boots. The capital seldom saw truly dry weather.

Every guard who happened to be in the lobby at that moment froze as well, just like their comrades outside. They were as motionless as stone statues, watching the Cloaks proceed, breathing and moving as little as possible.

The Colonel swaggered slightly to the left, heading down the corridor and leading his subordinates behind him.

They passed several offices, climbed a stairway, and at last reached the third floor. At the far end of the hallway — just as in the Black House — they found a door with a nameplate reading: "Minister of Internal Affairs, Lord-General Daniil Norlenov."

Without knocking, the Colonel opened it and stepped inside. As Ardi had guessed, the first room was a fairly spacious reception area with chairs lining the walls. By the window stood a small, currently vacant secretary's desk.

A pair of double doors led out of the reception area, and the Colonel promptly opened them. One by one, the Cloaks filed into a truly enormous office. It covered perhaps a hundred square meters and stretched out far enough that it could've been a reception hall rather than a minister's workspace.

There was a fireplace, flanked by three cushy sofas, and cabinets filled not with books, but all manner of statuettes, ornamental boxes, a few prohibitively expensive humidors, and various pieces of decorative weaponry.

There were golden revolvers perched on velvet cushions, cavalry sabers studded with precious stones, and a few artifacts predating the Empire — perhaps even fragments of ancient staves.

On the right, a wall made entirely of windows was draped in heavy curtains of silk, velvet, and brocade. The other walls were paneled with fine wood, much like Irigov's mansion, and broken up here and there by paintings.

Ardan couldn't quite figure out why the paintings were so attention-grabbing at first, until he realized that they depicted historical scenes, only the faces of the well-known figures had been replaced. He even spotted Irigov's portrait among them.

Who on earth would think up such ideas?

"I can't say I'm particularly thrilled about being summoned in the middle of the night, Colonel," came a voice from across the room.

By the far wall, beneath a portrait of Emperor Pavel IV, sat a rather strange-looking man at an imposing desk.

He was stout, though not overweight, with surprisingly clear and direct blue eyes. His long, hawkish nose didn't mar his features, only accentuated the sharp outline of his prominent jaw. He wore a red uniform with a general's epaulettes and was resting both open hands on the green felt of his desk.

To his right and left stood two majors — veterans of the guard, judging by their hardened gazes and windburned faces. Revolvers were holstered at their hips, as was the case with four more guards — two more majors and two colonels — who were seated at a table set perpendicular to the minister's.

A similar setup was used by the deans of the Grand University, and also the Colonel in the Black House. Presumably, it made holding meetings easier.

In this case, that secondary table could seat not just eight people, but as many as twenty, if necessary.

"That's the nature of your job, Daniil," the Colonel said calmly, sliding a chair out and sitting at the head of the second table so he could look the minister square in the eye.

Ardan's gaze, almost of its own accord, followed his. He tried — without meaning to — to dip into the minister's mind. Or at least to skim it. But in the end, he discovered absolutely nothing there: only a gaping void, like the fissures of the Alcade, with only a distant echo reverberating back at him. It was the single thing Ardan could sense in the Lord-General's mind.

Ardi jerked his head back and blinked.

"What's wrong?" Milar whispered.

"I…" Ardan stared at the man who had those unnervingly clear and blue, yet somehow lifeless eyes. "Nothing. I'm just tired."

"Sure," the captain muttered, clearly unconvinced.

Ardi had never before seen eyes like this. They seemed devoid of any feeling — there was no hint of anger, regret, weariness, or, least of all, compassion. They were like glass.

He strained to hear the minister's heartbeat. It pulsed steadily, calmly, more precisely than a metronome.

Thump-thump.

Thump-thump.

All around them, even in the case of those as composed as the Colonel or Mshisty, there was a faint irregularity in their heartbeats, because they still felt emotions, however carefully controlled they might've been.

But Daniil Norlenov… felt nothing at all? Was that even possible?

"I've already provided my statement, Colonel, regarding my daughter and my ne'er-do-well son-in-law," the minister said, and not even the mention of his daughter lit any emotion in his glacial gaze. It was as if he were speaking of a total stranger. "I knew nothing of Irigov's proclivities. He married Oksana only after he'd become my deputy. So-"

"You know, Minister," said the Colonel, shifting to a more official tone as he cut the Lord-General off, "I've always marveled at your remarkable ability to detach yourself from anything, which no doubt serves the state well, but has proven disastrous for your own family."

At last, Ardan finally realized whom Daniil Norlenov reminded him of: a cold-blooded lizard. A creature with whom it was impossible to negotiate. One that would never feel anything for you but apathy or hunger.

"I believe this newfangled branch of science — psychology I think it's called — has come up with a name for that sort of outlook," the Colonel went on. "Sociopathy… or psychopathy. Something like that. Sadly, my mind is no longer as sharp as it once was, so I can't recall every bit of what I read."

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"I call it pragmatism," the minister replied in an icy, expressionless voice. "The Emperor values my methods, which continue to produce results in our work. The Corps' performance is only improving, Colonel, which is more than I can say of your… agency."

He spat out that final word with a faint, hissing sneer. And yet, it, too, felt strangely… lifeless.

The guards at the table snickered, reminding Ardi of the packs of Lei-wolves he'd seen as a child — loyal followers hanging on their alpha's every word.

"And it's precisely that pragmatism, Minister, that makes me wonder about tonight's incident," said the Colonel with a mild shrug, clearly unruffled by Norlenov's unusual demeanor. "It's no secret our organizations have… friction. But to blatantly keep watch on our man's home, and then try to detain another-"

"I have no knowledge of what you're referring to, Colonel," the minister replied in a clipped, brusque tone.

Ardan, who could typically sense whether someone was lying, felt as though he'd just stared into an empty well.

"Major Kree," the Colonel said with a wave.

A young woman who was about twenty-two years old stepped forward. She was one of the two women who had arrived with Alexander and Din. The woman held out a small document holder to Ardan. It had a black leather cover embossed with the Empire's steel-tinged crest.

Ardi had seen something like this before.

Milar had something like this...

"Open it," the captain whispered, leaning in.

Ardan opened it and, to his surprise, found his own black-and-white photo there, which had apparently been hurriedly copied from his student papers.

There was an official letterhead with seals and a signature:

"Corporal Ard Egobar, Third-Rank Investigator of the Second Chancery.

Service Number: 14/647-3."

"But I haven't even completed my-"

He didn't get the chance to finish that sentence — Milar's boot came down on his toes.

"You see, Corporal Egobar here must have lost his papers in the Niewa," the Colonel went on. "For which he'll be reprimanded. A dreadful oversight indeed. So we'll deduct… let's say… one kso from his salary."

"An entertaining little farce, Colonel," the minister said in that same stony manner. "If I wanted to enjoy the theater, I'd go to Baliero — assuming your carelessness hasn't let that district be completely destroyed yet. Perhaps I ought to renew my petition to the Emperor to assign this whole case to our jurisdiction. It seems the Black House can't manage its duties. Otherwise, His Imperial Majesty wouldn't have had to postpone the launch of the underground tram lines."

"And so, without any cause or legal grounds, you decided to detain one of our people, Minister?" The Colonel pressed on.

"One of your people?" The Lord-General echoed. "According to my sources, two individuals entered my son-in-law's estate that night — at the time, he was still a suspect," he emphasized, casually untying the ribbons on a rather thick file. "A private detective, Peter Oglanov, and a student of the Imperial Magical University, Ard Egobar, who has been repeatedly singled out for ties with the criminal group known as the Orcish Jackets. And though Mr. Oglanov might have the authority to do something like that, a student — even one who may someday become an Imperial Mage — does not. Therefore, I had every right to detain him for questioning."

"Not a student, Minister, but a Corporal and an Investigator of the Second Chancery," the Colonel corrected him. "The relevant order was signed in the Secretariat of His Imperial Majesty several months ago."

"I was not informed of such a thing."

"You didn't need to be, Minister," said the Colonel, sounding almost amused. "All the same, you're quite right — you're a pragmatic man, so you wouldn't have rashly given such an inappropriate command. And detaining a civilian, even if he's a mage, isn't the sort of issue that would typically require a minister's signature. So, I'm very curious to know, Norlenov, the precise chain of events by which the order to detain Ard Egobar was passed down until it reached the lower ranks."

"I will consider it, Colonel."

"Oh, do forgive me, Minister," said the Colonel, tenting his fingers and crossing one leg over the other. "I fear I wasn't clear about my position. I'm not asking you. I'm giving you an order. By tomorrow, all the relevant information must be on my desk."

For the first time, the Lord-General betrayed an emotion. Anger gleamed behind his gaze, cold as a corpse's stiffened skin.

"Mind your tone, Baron," he growled in a hard, cutting voice. "I'm still a minister, still a Lord-General, not-"

"And?" The Colonel interrupted with casual disdain. "You're telling me, Daniil, that's reason enough for you not to bleed?"

The guards jerked, almost surging out of their chairs, but the few white sparks that leaped from Mshisty's staff were enough to make them drop back into their seats.

"If you want the chance to speak to your daughter before she meets the Eternal Angels," the Colonel declared icily, "then the information will be on my desk by noon tomorrow. Though, perhaps a man as pragmatic as you no longer cares about that disgraced daughter of yours, hmm?"

"It was her choice," the minister replied in that same dead monotone. "She no longer concerns me, and I've stricken her name from the family records. Why should I waste time on a stranger?"

"As I thought," the Colonel said with a curt nod. Then he clapped both hands on the armrests and stood. He set his hat atop his head, smoothed the brim with his fingers, and turned toward the door. After taking just a few steps, he paused. Fixing Ardan with a piercing stare, he looked him up and down, then said:

"Corporal Egobar."

Ardi didn't respond right away — the word "Corporal" still sounded unfamiliar to him.

"Yes, Colonel?" He finally managed.

"The next time anyone — be they guards or anyone else — tries to detain you while you're on duty, remember that a Second Chancery officer has the right to use any measure of opposition at their own discretion, up to and including lethal force. So…" The Colonel glanced back at the minister. "Your men are fortunate, Minister, that Grand Magister Aversky's apprentice showed such careful, rational judgment of the situation and avoided unnecessary bloodshed. I will be sure to inform His Imperial Majesty of this, of course."

At the mention of the Grand Magister, not only the guards at the table paled, but even some of the Cloaks — all of them save for Mshisty and Milar. So, even Alexander and Din hadn't known about it?

"Do whatever you like, Colonel," Minister Norlenov spat through clenched teeth.

"And of course," continued the Colonel, as though he hadn't heard the minister, "if any information about the corporal leaves this office, I'm afraid I shall have to charge all present with divulging a state secret."

Norlenov's eyes flashed, but outwardly, he remained as unflappable as before.

"If that's all, Colonel, I'm sure you can find the way out on your own."

"Minister." The Colonel touched his fingertips to the brim of his hat.

He and Mshisty were the first to leave, followed by the other Cloaks, with Milar and Ardan bringing up the rear.

"I won't say goodbye," came a voice behind Ardan, cold as the wind howling through a graveyard. "Corporal."

The Colonel heard it, too. Turning to Mshisty, he gave a slow nod. The military mage, flashing a crooked grin punctuated by a few platinum teeth, struck his staff against the floor. In that same instant, the minister's curtains and cabinets burst into bright, crimson flame.

"You'll need to address your fire safety issues as well, Norlenov," the Colonel remarked, tipping his hat while the stunned guards hesitated, not knowing what to do.

As though a cheerful blaze wasn't raging behind them, the Cloaks left the room, descended the stairs, and, passing by the duty officer now joined by the guards who had come in from outside, stepped back into the damp night where their automobiles awaited.

The Colonel and Mshisty, paying no heed to Ardan, climbed into their vehicle and drove off first. Alexander and Din, along with the rest of the Cloaks, followed suit. Only Milar remained, plucking out a cigarette and smiling faintly at the smoke that was wafting from the top floor windows.

"Should we…" Ardan began.

"They'll put it out," the captain said with a dismissive wave. Almost on cue, the smoke vanished within a couple of seconds. "Every headquarters keeps at least one mage on duty, Ard. They might not be the best, but they'll do. You know… just in case. All right, official partner, get in."

And so, the four black automobiles left the Main Headquarters of the Guard Corps, heading back toward Niewa Avenue. Before long, they split off one by one, disappearing into the side streets.

Ardan fiddled with the black leather holder in his hands. He'd only ever heard about ironic twists of fate like these in his grandfather's stories or from tales he'd read in Atta'nha's scrolls.

It truly was amazing: nine months ago, he'd been brought in by the Second Chancery, and now, it turned out, he was going to be working with them.

Corporal.

Corporal Egobar.

It sounded unfamiliar, like a new coat not yet worn long enough to feel like a second skin. And yes, while every student automatically got an officer's rank — which was higher than a mere "corporal" — upon graduating from the Grand University, it was still…

"Milar?"

"Hmm?" The captain mumbled inquiringly, smoke curling from his lips.

"What happened back there?"

The captain, who was calmly driving through the dying drizzle, shot Ardan a sidelong glance.

"Try thinking for yourself, Third-Rank Investigator," he said wryly — not unpleasantly, but with a trace of teasing. "That's the lowest rank, by the way, in case you didn't know."

Ardi mulled it over for a moment.

"Was it because of what Oglanov said? The murder of the guard who tried looking into the case?"

"Well done," the captain confirmed. "Someone in the Corps is working against us, likely at a high enough rank to pull those strings."

"And Irigov-"

"Irigov is just another puppet," Milar cut him off, blowing a puff of smoke out the window. "That much became crystal clear during his interrogation. Unfortunately, we never managed to trace the strings back to whoever was pulling them."

"Why not?"

"The man's brains melted."

At first, Ardan thought the captain was joking, but Milar's expression was wholly serious.

"Malefaction magic…"

"Yeah… That's what Aversky said, too. It was some cunning bit of sorcery that turned Irigov's brain to soup the moment he tried answering the question we needed."

"Interesting…"

"Interesting?" The captain arched an eyebrow. "Should I start worrying about where exactly your interests lie, partner?"

"That's not what I meant." Ardan pulled a small notebook from his coat pocket, licked the tip of his pencil, and scribbled a few lines. "They used to handle it differently."

"What do you mean?"

"Think about the ones we captured as witnesses before," Ardi clarified. "Remember? Every time we had a chance at a live witness, those seals flared up on their bodies and blew them apart."

Milar narrowed his eyes.

"Assume I remember everything."

"So," Ardan nodded, glancing out the window at the Metropolis, which had now been rinsed clean by the rain and was greeting them with the sleepy gaze of shuttered windows and empty storefronts, "the presence of those seals can be discovered, at least in theory. But a malefaction spell aimed at a specific organ… you won't find that unless you have a specialized, and rather complicated, healing spell at your disposal."

"What are you getting at, partner?"

Ardi only shrugged.

"Although," Milar mused, flicking his cigarette butt out the window with a snap of his fingers, "come to think of it, all the pawns taken off the board so far were never prominent people, right?"

"In one way or another, yes."

"Sure, even if it's only 'in one way or another.'" The captain snorted. "But Irigov was quite a notable figure. He often shows up — used to show up — at all sorts of events. Still… What do we gain from knowing that, partner?"

Ardan shrugged again. They fell silent, and the city beyond the windows gradually stirred. Lights began to switch on as the earliest risers took to the streets and plodded sleepily toward the trams. Cars emerged onto the roads, headlights shining as they headed mostly for the Financial District in the New City.

In these central neighborhoods, few people woke before five to man the factory floors. But plenty would get up early to open their businesses, plan out the day's menu, or throw on a suit and hurry to the top floors of the Treasury building for the opening bell at the stock exchange.

That structure was even taller than the Grand University itself.

"Milar?"

"Hmm?" The captain hummed again.

"What else, besides a uniform and meals, do I get?"

He made a face as if he'd just bitten into a lemon, likely still feeling a bit guilty for not telling Ardan sooner.

"Well, now that you're an official employee of the Second Chancery — and you understand perfectly well that you can't go around sharing that with the whole wide world, right?"

Ardan nodded.

"Good…" Milar cleared his throat and turned onto the street that led to the embankment along the Markov Canal. "A lot depends on your length of service and your rank. A Corporal and Third-Rank Investigator is at the very bottom rung, partner. You already know about the tax exemptions. Then there's a decent health insurance policy for you and your closest relatives. Housing compensation, too. There's some complicated formula — I never bothered with the details — but I get around two and a half exes a month from it. A paid vacation once a year for eight weeks… and to be honest, Ard, I've been at this so long that I barely remember how I started. It would be best to ask the supply department when you go order your uniform. They'll explain it in more detail."

"Thanks," Ardan muttered, trying not to dwell on the number of exes he'd missed out on. He could have spent it on… just about anything.

"Don't be sore." The captain gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Better yet… bring your not-yet-your-lady-still-kind-of-a-friend and join us for dinner. Next week, my wife and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary. Fifteen years already." Milar tapped the ring on his right ring finger. "We'll have all our own folks there. Alexander will come with his wife and kids, Din with his fiancée, and Alice… who knows who she'll bring along. Here." Still watching the road, he rummaged in his pocket and passed Ardan a slip of paper. "The address, day and time. Show up. We'll be glad to have you."

Ardan could see that Milar's invitation was genuine, so he took the note and answered, "I'll come."

"Great," the captain said, visibly relieved. "We'll also wash your new rank."

"'Wash?'" Ardan echoed.

"It means we'll celebrate it," the captain clarified.

They spent the rest of the drive in silence. Milar parked near "Bruce's," let his partner out, and then sped away — either heading home or off to attend to some errand, Ardi didn't know.

Tired and soaking wet, even a bit chilled through in places, Ardan stepped into the bar. As was the norm at this hour, the main floor was deserted, so he made his way upstairs.

When he reached his own door, he heard an anxious voice.

"Ardi?"

He turned and saw Tess. She was wearing the light, loose-fitting dress she usually wore at home and had half-finished putting on her makeup — she always kept it subtle when working at Okladov's atelier, unlike the full stage cosmetics she'd don for her performances.

Her red hair had been gathered up under a mesh cap, and the aroma of thick, meaty porridge — boar, by the smell of it — was wafting from her apartment. Since no one was coming by the bar this early, Arkar sometimes allowed them to use whatever ingredients they wanted from the kitchen's freezer so they wouldn't go to waste.

"I-"

"You're freezing," the girl interrupted him.

Ardan sighed and hung his head.

"Honestly… I'm half-frozen," he confessed.

"Do you have spare clothes?"

"Yes."

"Then grab them, bring a towel, and come over to my place," she said in a tone that left no room for debate. "At least you can wash up. Have you had breakfast yet?"

"No."

"The boar meat porridge I'm making is almost done. Want some?"

"I do."

"Then hurry."

She stepped back inside and closed the door. Ardi, knowing she had to leave for work soon, fumbled stiffly with his key in the lock, shrugged off his coat to hang it in the wardrobe, and pulled out the still-unopened paper bundle holding his "spare" suit (foolish optimism on his part), as well as a second bundle containing soaps and other bathing items. Then he headed downstairs.

Tess had left her door ajar, so he stepped in quietly, took his shoes off at the doormat, and — suddenly feeling self-conscious about a hole in the toe of his sock — headed into the living room.

Now wearing an apron tied at the small of her back, Tess was bustling over the stove.

"Drop your clothes in the basket in the bathroom," she said without turning around. "I'll see if I can fix them instead of tossing them. Or, worst case scenario, we'll cut them up for scraps."

Ardan flushed a little.

"Tess, I don't want you wasting your time just to-"

She turned and fixed him with a sharp look, eyes glinting. Ardan raised his palms in surrender and ducked into the bathroom.

Locking the door, he undressed, climbed into the cast-iron "little tub," and turned on the hot water, nearly scalding himself in the process.

After finally getting the temperature right and silently thanking the weeks he'd spent in the Anorsky family's mansion for teaching him how to do that, Ardan scrubbed away the grime and sweat of a day that had been anything but calm.

When he finished, he did as Tess had asked, folding his clothes neatly and placing them in the basket, being careful not to peer inside. It surely contained her things, including undergarments.

Running a hand over his damp hair, Ardan stepped back into the living room. Tess had already set two bowls of porridge on the table, along with a tin kettle and some simple, ridged glasses. The aroma of cocoa hung in the air.

She took off her apron and hung it on a small hook fixed to the door leading to the kitchen.

"Sit down before it gets cold," she urged.

"Thank you," Ardi replied, and lowered himself onto a chair across from her. Out of habit, he stretched and flexed his fingers before taking up a spoon.

Tess, blowing gently on her spoonful, tucked a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. Half turned away, she ate her porridge, occasionally glancing at some papers lying at the edge of the table.

It was something about patterns and sewing templates. Ardan's mother used to fuss with similar ones, sometimes letting him take a look. Now they reminded him a bit of seals. Odd.

"What is it?" Tess asked.

"Huh?" Ardi snapped out of his musings.

"You were staring at me pretty intently." She wrinkled her little upturned nose and flashed her bright green eyes at him.

"I was admiring you," Ardan admitted. "You're beautiful. Like a snowflake. Remember?"

Her cheeks colored slightly, and she returned her attention to the meal in silence.

"Let's go on a date the day after tomorrow," Ardan suggested.

"What about your research?"

"Between you and Star Magic, the magic doesn't stand a chance," Ardi said without a trace of irony. "Nor does anything else."

This time, she blushed a much deeper shade, red flooding her cheeks.

"Are you sure you were raised by beasts, Ardi-the-wizard?" Tess asked, her breath catching.

"What do you mean?"

She didn't answer his question. Instead, she said:

"All right, we'll go. What time will your classes be over?"

"Five in the evening."

"Pick me up at the atelier, then?"

"Sure."

"And where will we go?"

Ardan smiled slightly.

"A new ice cream parlor opened near Boris and Elena's place. Rumor has it they have 76 flavors."

Tess lifted her eyebrows a fraction.

"Seventy-six… You couldn't try them all even if you had a year!"

They fell silent again for a moment. Ardan ate his porridge, which might well have been the tastiest he'd ever had, and stared at the young woman who he believed was the most beautiful person alive — as warm and gentle as a bonfire in a dark winter's night.

"Did you get hired for a job?" Tess asked unexpectedly, nodding to the small, black leather folder Ardi had unwittingly placed on top of his grimoire.

"Tess, I-"

"When I agreed to be with you, Ardi-the-wizard, I accepted that it would be like what my mom and dad have."

Ardan's heart nearly leaped out of his chest, racing from his heels to the tips of his still-damp hair.

"So… we're together?" He asked, uncertain.

"Well… would you have it any other way?" She answered, that same note of trepidation in her own voice.

"No."

"Then we're together." Tess flushed and turned her eyes back to her bowl.

Ardan gulped, then took a sip of the sweet cocoa. So… they really were together. But what did that actually mean? By the Sleeping Spirits, he barely understood what it meant to be with someone who wasn't already family!

"May I see it?"

"S-s-sure," he stammered, suddenly short of breath.

Tess wiped her hands on a napkin and carefully opened his new folder.

"Corporal Egobar," she read in an even voice. "It does sound rather impressive…"

"Will you come with me next week to my partner's wedding anniversary?" Ardan blurted, afraid that if he took more than a second to speak, he'd lose all his courage.

She glanced up at him, those emerald eyes dancing with amusement.

"No."

"All right," Ardan said, crestfallen.

Indeed, it had been foolish of him to think someone like Tess might want to waste an evening with the Second Chancery's investigators and operatives.

"You didn't let me finish, Ardi-the-wizard," she said, finishing off her cocoa and rising to her feet. "I won't go with you to meet your colleagues while you look like a stray tomcat. After the ice cream, I'm giving you a haircut. Then, sure, let's go."

"Oh…"

"Well, that's settled." She leaned down and brushed his lips with hers — sweet and warm — and placed something shiny on the table before heading out. "I'm really running late now, so when you leave, please lock up."

Ardan looked at the glinting object she'd left behind. On the tablecloth, near the dishes, lay a key. The key to Tess' apartment.

"See you tonight, Ardi-the-wizard," she called out from the hall, shutting the door as she left him there, stunned, at the table.

Click-click — the echo of her heels on the stairway was so quick it sounded like she was running.

Probably because she truly was late.

Ardan touched his fingers to his lips, then glanced at the key, and finally turned toward the window. The city was still resting in the gentle twilight of early morning.

They were together…

"By the Sleeping Spirits, what do I do now?" He asked himself quietly.