Book II. Chapter 110 - The Congress (The Last Part)

Chapter 110

Ardi was taking a walk around the city. The capital greeted him with the same deserted streets buried in snow it had shown him every other evening.

The snow had been falling all day again—unhurried, thick and heavy—and it had once more smothered the city so completely that the Metropolis had quieted down and given up. The pavements were drowning in its glittering crunch. The roads had dissolved beneath its white blanket. The streets were now visible only thanks to the rows of lamps burning along either side of the road and the dark hollows of gateways in which the snow had not yet taken hold.

Ardi was walking down the middle of Niewa Avenue, where, during the day, automobiles and trams thundered. There was nothing but clean, untouched snow beneath him. He should’ve sunk ankle-deep into it. Instead, his steps left almost no trace behind.

The Ley-lamps along the main streets blazed with a steady, bluish flame—cold and unblinking like splinters of frozen stars threaded around cast-iron poles. The light fell on the snow and stained it a pale blue, making it so that the street looked like the bed of a frozen river. And between the Ley-lamps, along the side streets and alleyways, the echoes of an older time still smoldered—the gas lamps. They were yellow, flickering faintly, and a little alive.

Their light would leap across the snowbanks like a playful fox, and where the blue glow of the Ley-lamps met the warmth of the gas fire, strange, unsteady shadows were born. They weren’t blue, nor gold, but something altogether different. Pearlescent, perhaps. The kind you couldn’t find anywhere else.

Ardi stopped on the bridge that stood above Kaisarov Canal and leaned his elbows on the railing. The black waters below had frozen over, of course, and the same white snow had covered the ice in an even layer, but along the banks, one could still pick out the cast-iron bollards of the moorings and the overturned boats. On the far side of the canal, a narrow embankment stretched out into the distance. It was long, gently curving, and lined with lamps so precisely arranged that one might’ve thought the architect, ruler and compass in hand, had personally overseen the work there. And the houses along it were similarly arranged—shoulder to shoulder, façade to façade, each of them four or five stories high, with columns, moldings, porticoes, and dark windows where lights would flare up from time to time.

These were houses that looked like palaces.

In this city, it was hard to draw a line between a house and a palace, between a barracks and a museum, between a tenement and an aristocrat’s estate. Everything had been built with the same sort of attitude, with that steadfast Imperial conviction that even a bakery deserved its marble columns, and a fire station its gilded spire.

And farther on, past the embankment, past the roofs and chimneys, stood the Palace of the Kings of the Past. It didn’t boast about its greatness—it only stood there, huge, dark gold, dusted along its cornices with snow, and stayed silent. This was a palace that looked like a house. A very large, very old, very tired house.

Ardi let out a breath. Steam hung in the air and was soon gone.

He kept walking.

There were very few passersby, which had been the norm for weeks now. Those who ventured out at all made their way along the streets with the care of someone fording a mountain river. The snow was knee-deep, and in the spots where the wind had heaped it against the walls, it was even waist-deep.

A woman wrapped in a shawl and carrying a basket emerged from a gateway, plodded a dozen steps, and dove through the neighboring gateway, taking a shortcut through the courtyards. An old man wearing a heavy, long greatcoat was shivering a little by a gas lamp and striking matches, trying to coax a curved pipe to light up. His fingers would not obey him and the matches kept snapping, but the old man would not yield. The red flashes of their sulfur heads illuminated his weathered face with its white moustache.

Two boys—coming from who knows where at such a late hour—were dragging a sled by a rope. There was a stack of firewood on it. They laughed every time the sled got stuck in another snowdrift. Their laughter rang out through the frosty air, clear and thin, and carried far, far away.

In the winter silence, sound lived a long life.

On Memorial Avenue, an automobile overtook Ardi. It was a lonely thing, black, and plastered with snow up to the roof. It crawled along in first gear, slipping on the road as its engine growled. Its round headlamps drew two cones of snow dust out of the dark, and in their light, it seemed like the car wasn’t actually driving, but swimming through a white murk. By the curb, a few more automobiles stood. They looked like abandoned orphans drowning in snow.

Their owners had obviously given up earlier in the day and had kept going on foot, leaving their vehicles to freeze. One car was squat, with a long hood and bulging fenders, and had been so thoroughly buried that it had become a small, snowy hill with a rearview mirror sticking out of it. Another, which had insolently stuck its nose out from around a corner, had frozen in a ludicrous pose, its front wheel propped against a granite bollard. The snow had covered its windscreen and frozen there, turning the thing blind. The car seemed like it would stay there with its white, unseeing eyes until spring.

Ardi turned off the avenue and into an alley, and all at once, the city became different. The narrow lines between houses lived by their own laws. Out here, even in the Central District, you would encounter no Ley-lamps—only gas lamps every thirty paces. Between them lay strips of thick, velvety darkness, in which the snow slowly turned from blue to gray.

The houses crowded closer. Garlands of icicles hung from the eaves. They were thick and crooked, and were a cloudy white color, like candles that had nearly burned out. From a roof somewhere up ahead, an avalanche of snow came down with a roar, dropping a whole sheet of it straight onto the pavement.

Ardi stopped, waited, then climbed across the fresh mound of snow and kept walking.

It was quiet in the alley. So quiet that Ardi could hear the gas crackling in the nearest lamp, and somewhere far away, several blocks over, the creaking of runners—someone had chosen to use a sled. The snow was muffling every sound and wrapping the city in cotton, and yet each of Ardi’s own steps—soft, deep, accompanied by a small, dry crunch—sounded louder than the report of Captain Pnev’s revolver to him.

The young man came out onto a square. It was a small one, round, with a granite column in the middle. Atop the column, frozen in a beckoning pose, was a steadfast man.

This was someone who was honored. Remembered. Unfortunately, the plaque had been snowed over.

Around the square, the houses gathered again, and in one of them, on the second floor, a window shone. A warm, yellow rectangle of light fell on the snow, and in that light, Ardi made out a cat—red and fluffy, sitting on the sill on the other side of the glass. The cat was looking at him. Ardi stopped and looked back. They spent a few seconds like this—the young man in the middle of the snowy square and the cat in the warm window—and then the cat yawned, showing a pink mouth, and vanished into the depths of the room.

Ardi smiled.

He walked on. The snow kept on falling. It was unhurried, thick, and indifferent to everything. The Ley-lamps burned blue. The gas lamps burned yellow. The city was silent. It seemed to be falling asleep, wrapping itself up in a snowy quilt and asking not to be disturbed. Until spring, ideally. Or, better yet, until the Week of Storms.

And Ardi did not disturb it.

He simply kept walking past palaces that looked like houses, past houses that looked like palaces, past frozen canals, past sleeping cars, past solitary lamps… and the Metropolis took him in. It did so silently, the way one takes in an old acquaintance that can talk to them without a word being spoken.

Ardi, who had come to this strange place that smelled of diesel and motor oil and coal a year and a half ago, would never have thought that it could find a place in his heart. But his second winter here in the capital had nearly run its course, and the young man now knew that he wouldn’t mind staying a little longer. A couple of years after he had finished his studies at the Grand, perhaps?

Tess’ suggestion that they return to the old house by the mountain stream sounded tempting, but… Something was holding Ardan back. Even if he and Milar could stop the Puppeteers within the next several years, and a Great War didn’t happen, even then…

Ardan did want to go back.

Oh, Sleeping Spirits, how he wanted to go back to the mountains, the rivers, the forests…

Ardi stopped on a bridge and looked at the widening Niewa, which had spread out near the Palace of the Kings of the Past into a kilometer of iced-over expanse. It flowed into the Swallow Bay, and from there, it went straight to the ocean. Six weeks, eight at most, would pass, and the swallows would return with stories of what they’d seen beyond the endless waters. And Ardan would, once again, try not to listen to them.

The she-wolf had taught him not to believe the swallows.

But Ardi…

He would’ve liked to go back to the mountains. With Tess. From time to time, they would travel to her concerts, or to sell new seals Ardan had created. They would raise children. Perhaps the young man would repair a few old Matabar shrines, and every now and then, he would call his forest friends down to play and walk with him. He would introduce them to Tess. And when his eldest child turned six, then… no one would come to their door, because the half-bloods of the Matabar could only sire humans. But for some reason, Ardan believed that Ergar, Shali, Guta, Kaishas, and even stubborn Lenos would still come to them, to play with their children.

Ardan smiled.

His imagination was conjuring such beautiful images of the future. They were too much like dreams to be believed. And maybe that was why he wished to believe in them. He wanted to believe that things would work out one day. He would sit, pencil and grimoire in hand, beneath the oak whose branch he carried. He’d look at the Alcade steppes and plains at the foot of the mountain, and listen to the wind and the birds, and he would simply enjoy the steady passage of time.

A wind started blowing.

It ruffled his hair and rushed off across the ocean. Ardan saw the mocking vagabond off with a slightly sorrowful look. For some reason, he now understood the broken-winged fledgling he had once, in his childhood, saved from hunters. The small raven had grown, become strong, his wings had healed and filled with power, and the bird had flown off to freedom. Ardi had never seen him again. Instead, every now and then, he caught the echoes of stories about the places the raven had seen during his endless wanderings.

In the past, the small heart of an equally-small hunter had been torn between the mountain paths and the forest flows. Similar to that, Ardan felt as though strong cables were pulling him in opposite directions right now as well. One wanted him to go back to the house among the rocky peaks, and the other wanted him to go beyond the ocean, to follow the wind and the swallows.

Maybe this was what Mart Borskov had been talking about.

Ardan patted the railing, lifted his collar a little to shield his neck from the wet drops of snow melting upon his skin, and went on his way again. He liked to take a walk through the Metropolis in the evenings. It helped him put his thoughts into their cupboards. One drawer was for his work as an agent of the Second Chancery, another for his research into the new method of linking runes, and a third was devoted to the everyday troubles of ordinary life, which contained so much…

Ardi squinted suddenly. The bright Ley-lamps of a red sign had cut through the slowly-thinning blanket of fat snowflakes. He saw two letters framed by long icicles:

“DH”

On the left, the letters were held up by an angel who looked more tempting than any demon, and on the right, by a demon with the face of a saint. Ardan shrugged and decided that it was worth investigating this new place. Especially since the symbols on the sign seemed familiar to him for some reason.

The heavy cherrywood doors opened easily when Ardi touched them.

He stepped inside, and the noise of the street was seemingly cut away with a knife. Here, in the muffled scarlet light, there weren’t that many tables. Some had been taken by groups of people. Someone was playing a guitar. A couple were holding each other and discussing something with their friends and laughing. At a grand table sat a loud bunch of people, among whom two gentlemen stood out: one had charms braided into his hair, and the other was wearing a gray, somewhat drab cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. It was even wider than Cassara’s.

Others, who were hidden in the dark, were occupied with their own business.

By the long bar, an old man sat in a similarly-drab cloak, drinking his whisky in peace. The barman was topping him up. He was somewhat heavyset, or rather, solidly built. He had a short beard and thick, gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. He also had warm eyes and wide cheekbones. In fact, his face was so kind that it was hard to call him anything but Goodman.

Behind Goodman, a mirror hung on the wall, and a row of liquor bottles stood in front of it. The shelves were transparent, making it seem like they were suspended in the air.

There was almost no metal to be seen in this place.

Almost everything was made of wood and leather, and the dull gleam of polished steel was very rare.

In a far corner was a stage with instruments—all of them trendy and very modern. There was also a wooden case with an intricate mechanical system for changing the records inside a creaking gramophone. That, however, was only what was hidden in the box. For the patrons, there was a glass panel, beneath which were little lamps with matching labels next to them. And there was a slot for a five-kso coin. You put one in, you pressed the button with the corresponding number, and the mechanism changed the record in the gramophone, filling the room with the song you’d chosen and paid for.

Ardan had only encountered such things in Baliero so far. Arkar had wanted to buy one for his bar, but hadn’t yet resigned himself to the extra expense—he still had to get a new generator, too.

“This place is invite-only, sir,” a man said as he appeared next to him seemingly out of nowhere. He almost looked like the twin brother of Goodman. However, he had a scar that spanned the length of his face, and his eyes looked sharp and cold.

Ardan privately named him Scar.

“My apologies, sir…”

“Scar,” Scar introduced himself. Perhaps he was joking.

“My apologies, Mr. Scar,” Ardan repeated, and, still leaning heavily on his staff, turned toward the door. “I didn’t know it was an invite-only esta-”

“If you wish, you may show me your invitation and place an order,” the strange waiter cut him off.

Ardan stopped and spread his hands out (or his hand, to be precise).

“I’m afraid I don’t have…” He began to say, then immediately paused.

Ardi had, at last, remembered where he’d seen the symbols on the sign before.

“You seem to have dropped this,” someone tapped Ardan on the shoulder.

Turning around, Ardan saw a man with an incredibly luxurious mustache curled into two sharp points. He wore a garish tweed suit in a loud shade of purple, black gloves, and rings that screamed for attention, just like his suit.

The man held out a white card made of material far sturdier than paper. Upon its pristine surface, two red symbols were inscribed—“D.H.”—and nothing more.

“This isn’t mine...”

“It’s yours now,” the stranger smiled, slipping the card into Ardi’s pocket.

The man’s face vaguely resembled an otter, with the same elongated shape around the nose, a small chin, and wide cheekbones. He wasn’t handsome, but rather… roguish, as if he wasn’t attending the coronation of an Emperor but celebrating a drinking buddy’s birthday in a saloon.

The Ragman! When they’d first met at the ball in honor of the present Emperor’s ascension to the throne, the Ragman had—with an absurd justification—handed Ardi a card.

Ardan took out his wallet, and from its card slot, he removed the now somewhat-tattered rectangle of stout paper.

Not very confidently, he held the “invitation” out to Scar. The strange-looking waiter, who would’ve looked more at home among the various thugs of the Six, glanced at the card and gave him a brief nod.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Take a seat at any available table, sir, and I shall be with you shortly.”

He went off somewhere, and Ardan, without giving it much thought, took the seat nearest to him. He ended up sitting on a comfortable couch that wasn’t too firm or too soft. Remembering his manners, still leaning on his staff, he rose again and hung his cloak on the nearest peg.

Favoring his wounded leg, he lowered himself back down, and by the time he did so, Scar was standing in front of him with a small notebook in his hand. Ardi was slightly surprised that he hadn’t noticed the waiter’s return. Was that also the work of the mutant’s poison?

“What would you like?” Scar asked.

“Hmm,” Ardi murmured, looking around him a little awkwardly. “May I see a menu?”

“We can prepare whatever you name,” the waiter answered at once with what was plainly a rehearsed phrase.

Ardan raised his eyebrows a little. He would have to recommend that to Arkar—the half-orc was always looking for new ways to draw customers in. Of course, most people would order roughly the same thing, and for those few odd orders, one could always answer that the ingredients had run out.

A mischievous spark flared up in Ardi’s eyes.

“Lintelarian cocoa with Alcade lingonberry juice.”

Because of the Congress and the security measures taken, the deliveries from the islanders hadn’t been reaching the Metropolis for some time now. The port was tightly shut. And so, cocoa had run out almost everywhere, save for the most expensive restaurants. This somewhat shabby bar clearly wasn’t one of them. And Alcade lingonberries spoiled quickly even in Ley-freezers, so…

“One moment,” Scar made a note and headed for the bar again.

Ardan turned to the window and looked at the snow-bound city. His thoughts were getting a little tangled in his head. And he…

“Your cocoa, sir.”

Ardan turned back sharply. He had, for the second time, failed to notice Scar’s return. The waiter was holding a mug that had a fragrant, spiced drink in it.

With genuine surprise, Ardi took a small sip and felt a scalding but very familiar taste on the tip of his tongue. Scar hadn’t lied to him. This really was cocoa straight from Lintelar with a hint of Alcade lingonberry juice as well.

“Until we meet again, Ard.”

“How did you…”

* * *

“Dear.”

Ardi started and opened his eyes. He was sitting at the table in their new kitchen in building number 21 on Markov Canal. He could see the embankment and “Bruce’s” through their window. Ardi looked down. In his hands was a mug of hot cocoa.

He felt like he’d had some strange dream, something to do with the Ragman…

Oh, right! There was also the incident at the new History of Magic Museum!

He and Milar should pay a visit to the capital’s most prominent antique trader. He might shed some light on what had happened, and that might give them a new lead in their endless race with the Puppeteers.

To say nothing of the fact that one of the participants in the diversion-disguised-as-a-robbery, or the robbery-hidden-behind-a-diversionary-screen, had managed to slip away. And if Milar and Ardan hadn’t received any information about him yet, then the Second Chancery had also failed to find the fugitive. Which meant that he was either dead, or… the remaining alternatives weren’t exactly numerous.

“Working again?” Tess smiled, settling herself in Ardi’s lap and lifting his face up.

Ardan looked into her green eyes and drew Tess a little closer. His rather transparent hints became clearer still.

She bent down as though to kiss him, then at the very last moment, she slipped away and whispered hotly in his ear:

“We have guests,” her moist, full lips brushed his earlobe, leaving a damp warmth on his skin.

Ah, yes… indeed they did. In their apartment, in their sitting room, on their couch, wrapped up in a blanket, the heir to the throne was sleeping. And beside her, the noble Poplar stood watch. Well, he’d stood watch for several hours, at least, until he, too, had fallen asleep. Now, curled into a ball, his fluffy tail wrapped around him, he was purring faintly. Every now and then, he’d stretch his small paws forward in a comical fashion, baring his claws.

“Are you teasing me?” Ardi asked.

She wound her arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. She was so warm that it almost felt like she might burn him, but Ardi didn’t fear the heat.

“A little,” Tess smiled mischievously.

For several seconds, they sat there in silence. Beyond their window, the Ley-lamps flung sharp rays of light across the long, well-arrayed façades covered in ice.

Suddenly, Ardi smiled.

“Tess.”

“Mm?” The girl murmured, closing her eyes.

“The Festival of Light… Shall we go?”

Tess didn’t understand what he meant right away, and then, just as Ardan had a moment before, she also smiled.

“I’ve already been invited, Ardi.”

“And you-”

“I promised I would go.”

Ardan nodded knowingly.

“Who invited you?” He asked.

Tess replied with a small shrug.

“A tall, handsome young man.”

“That is a very vague description.”

“He can never be parted from his wooden staff, he carries a large, thick book at his belt, and he makes very tasty pancakes.”

“Is that so?” Ardan narrowed his eyes at her. “And what will you be doing?”

“It would seem,” Tess made a show of thinking about it, “that we are going to the altar together. But I am not certain.”

“Not certain, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” the girl nodded. “I may change my mind at the very last second, like some do. Kind of like what happened last year, when they ignored rather transparent hints about that very same Festival of Light.”

“I think I have a knife sticking out of my back right now.”

“And not just the one, dear.”

Ardan felt the corners of his mouth tug into a short, soft smile without his bidding. He laid his cheek against the red crown of her head and looked at “Bruce’s.” They’d sat with his family well into the night, talking over one another. They’d talked about the news, their lives, and, of course, the Brian-Egobar family’s first impressions of the Metropolis.

Kelly had greatly admired the high-rises of the New City—the ones they’d glimpsed in the final few minutes of their train’s approach. Shaia, naturally, had taken note of every novelty in the capital’s winter fashion—even in the harsh weather, the Central Train Station had been packed with people. Everyone had somewhere to go…

As for Kena, she’d only really concerned herself with the windows of toy stores. And the whole family had spoken with equal enthusiasm about the beauty of the buildings, the width of the streets, and how it felt as though one were walking through an open-air museum.

Kelly had admitted that he’d been tempted to take a jab at the trams. However, it had been a tram, fighting through the snowdrifts and the ice, that had gotten them there. Then again, according to his family, trams would soon make their appearance in Delpas as well. And after that, the underground lines would be planned out. After all, it was the capital of the Foothill Province and a city with a population approaching the one million mark.

Of course, Ardi and Tess had immediately promised to show them both the underground tram lines of the capital (it must be said that Ardan was not looking forward to this) and to take them out to see the Grand. They’d also promised to take them to the Palace of the Kings of the Past, the various museums, the monuments, and in general—to show them the most beautiful and strangest corners of the Metropolis. The Brian-Egobars were planning to stay in the capital for five more days, after which the journey home awaited them.

They’d spend nearly twenty days on the road (the trains were moving slower because of the weather) to be with Ardan for less than a week.

Ardan turned his eyes toward the sky, where, among the low clouds, if one looked carefully, airships could be seen every now and then. With each passing month, there were more of them, and in the spring, after all the delays, the first civilian route to the all-but-finished Sky Harbour at Nigrad would open. And after that would come Viroeira, the capital of Foria.

“You noticed them too?” Tess whispered.

Ardan nodded. As a rule, they saw, at most, one or two airships every several weeks. This usually happened when they sent them up on test flights, or when they used them to transport something especially urgent that required speeds the trains could not match.

This particular evening, however, the sky over Markov Canal was very nearly swarming with searchlights cutting through the clouds.

Between the Emperor and his wife, and people like Urnosov and Mshisty… Ardan didn’t think you could get much past them.

“How has she not figured it out already?” Tess asked, her words barely audible.

Ardan looked toward the room in which the Grand Princess Anastasia was breathing quietly.

“She doesn’t want to,” Ardan said simply.

Anastasia didn’t want to allow herself even the thought that her passionate escape from her gilded cage had been no more than an ajar window, and a tacit sort of permission to spread her wings along a strictly plotted out course. Ardi was certain that, even on the tram and when she’d ridden the underground lines, she had been travelling in the presence of Cloaks and Daggers and possibly others as well.

And the fact that Poplar, who could move to any place he knew in an instant, had never left her side… Well, that also spoke for itself.

“Will we get in trouble over this?” Tess asked.

“Hardly,” Ardan shrugged. “Otherwise, Anastasia wouldn’t have been here to begin with.”

Tess nodded and then turned her green eyes toward her husband-in-just-a-few-hours.

“Which means…” The singer let an eloquent pause hang in the air.

Ardan nodded. Everyone who needed to know about Ardi’s correspondence with the Grand Princess did know about it. After serving in the Black House for over a year, Ardan had learned that the Colonel wasn’t so different from the Puppeteers. And so, the right people were aware of what Poplar knew… And he likely knew more about the princess than she herself did.

And that was precisely why he felt like the Grand Princess’ visit and their friendship wasn’t the biggest problem, but Erti was. After all, his younger brother and the Grand Princess had spent the entire dinner being very friendly with each other.

They hadn’t even taken part in the general conversation, only getting distracted a few times by something in the room. They’d laughed at each other’s jokes. They’d spoken over one another. And without even thinking about it, they’d sat close to each other the entire time. And their eyes—their eyes hadn’t left the cage of each other’s gaze for an instant.

“What will you do?” Tess rubbed the tip of her nose against his neck.

Ardan sighed.

“I have no idea,” he answered honestly.

They sat like that a bit longer, after which Tess, arching her back far more gracefully and fluidly than was warranted, rose from his lap and turned toward the bedroom.

“You coming?” She asked, winking.

“My dear, I fear that my heart won’t be able to bear such torment,” Ardan confessed and nodded toward the window. “I’ll sit here a little longer. Perhaps I’ll spot one of my colleagues.”

“Very well,” Tess wasn’t even hiding her amusement. “But don’t sit there for too long. I don’t want to see a sleepy husband in our wedding photographs.”

Ardan raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Tess blew him a kiss and headed to their bedroom. At the door, she turned and asked curiously:

“Where did you hide it?”

“Hide what?” Ardan asked, clearly confused.

Tess simply nodded at his mug.

“We ran out of cocoa a few weeks ago, and the lingonberry syrup hasn’t been available since the middle of autumn.”

Ardan sighed once more, glanced from Tess to the cocoa and back, and then, very mysteriously, he replied:

“Real wizards do not reveal their secrets.”

And to himself, he added: Thoughts for tomorrow…

Of course, tomorrow was not for the Ragman. Nor was he going to obsess over the dream clearly sent by the Sidhe. The Puppeteers didn’t even matter right then. Only his family, his friends, and the upcoming celebration.

***

“Will you stand still already?!” Boris snapped. He was struggling with the noose that refused to be tamed and kept slipping out of his hands while he tried to twist it into a bow tie.

“I’m standing as still as I can,” Ardan growled.

“Well then stand stiller!” Boris barked in response, and at last, very nearly breaking his own fingers in the process, he fashioned something that, on the whole, even managed to look rather pleasing. “Thank the Eternal Angels!”

“Wholeheartedly agreed,” Ardan muttered and turned to the mirror.

He was dressed in a black frock coat with a shirt so heavily starched that it seemed like, at any moment, the collar might just slice his head clean off. His trousers had creases one could’ve used to draw industrial seals. His shoes were also lacquered, and, of course, his staff was in his hand. He also had on a green cloak (by law, he was allowed to put off registering his new Star until the start of summer) and the ever-present grimoire at his belt. And since there would be no strangers present at the celebration, on a small velvet cushion, in a little box beside him, lay his Order. Two crossed swords were emblazoned on it, and in front of them was a shield with a stylized “3” in its center.

Bazhen, who’d been making faces in the ancient church mirror up until this point, snatched up the Order and very nearly flew toward Ardi.

“Show a little more respect,” Milar muttered from where he was resting in his wheelchair, reading a newspaper.

“Leave it, Captain,” Bazhen waved him off and pinned the Order to the right breast of Ardan’s cloak.

Alexander was chatting about something with Kelly. The two of them had hit it off fairly quickly. Din was showing knife tricks to a rapt Erti, who was trying to emulate them, and Arkar… was standing off to the side and smiling with all of his fangs and tusks.

Governor-General Reish Orman, along with Tess’ brothers, had chosen not to enter the “groom’s cell.” Ardan could only be grateful to them for that. As for Elena, who was very nearly ready to give birth, Alice Rovnev, who hadn’t exactly warmed to him yet, but refused to ignore the wedding, and Elvira, with whom Tess had been corresponding—they’d gone off to the “bride’s cell.”

As for Shaia and Adelaide Orman…

Ardan sighed.

The Brian-Egobar and Orman families had first met at the church gates. They’d been interrupted by the priest, who made Ardi feel a mixture of things, including, in equal measure, bewilderment and a certain tension, if not exactly fright. He’d let them all inside before they’d even really talked. Kelly and the Governor-General had simply exchanged firm handshakes and knowing looks. Kena had immediately made friends with all the younger Ormans, Erti had given the older Orman brothers somewhat cool handshakes, and as for Shaia and Adelaide…

They’d smiled at one another. Then, after exchanging polite greetings and curtsies, they’d practically ignored each other. They’d both likely understood that they were seeing one another for the first and very nearly the last time, and so they’d left it at that. Ardan tried not to think about the exact nature of that mutual coolness. Honestly, it was almost guaranteed that the Brian-Egobars and Ormans would cross paths a few more times at most. They might see each other again after the births of Tess and Ardi’s children. No more than that.

And so, Ardi was glad that all of them had been able to remain civil. This included Reish Orman, who hadn’t extended a hand to Arkar, and who, in turn, had made sure to stay out of the Governor-General’s sight.

No one had tried to spoil the day for him and his future bride and they all wanted the best for them in their own way. As for everything else… those were tomorrow’s thoughts.

There was a knock at the door, and everyone turned toward the sound. According to the traditions of the Galessian Church of the Face of Light, no one could enter the groom’s or bride’s “cell” at will. They could only do so if invited inside. And they couldn’t leave their “cells’ until the ceremony, either.

Milar exchanged glances with Alexander and Din and seemingly checked to see if they had any guns in their hidden holsters, which did not escape Kelly’s sharp eye. Again, according to the traditions of the Church, in the house of the Light, only the soldiers of the Galessian Kings and their heirs—the agents of the Second Chancery—were permitted to enter armed.

“You have guests, Mr. Ard,” the priest whispered, briefly reappearing to deliver this news.

He hadn’t changed since Din and Plamena’s wedding. He was still thin, with hair the color of rye, an open and honest look about him, and a chin that was slightly bent to one side. This did not make his appearance any less pleasing.

“Who else, by the demons—forgive me, Holy Father—has been invited?” Milar demanded and steered the wheels of his temporary transport straight at the door.

But when the door swung open wider, a silence settled in the room.

“Ahem,” Milar cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

Ardan stared in surprise at the gentleman and his companion who had come to this little church.

The woman was about forty, wearing a severe dress with a wide skirt and a heavy fur cape. Her hands were hidden in a muff, and her hat had a small net comprised of rose-shaped knots that covered her face.

Beside the woman stood a man who was about the same age as her. He was broad-shouldered, with a massive neck that neither his cravat nor the collar of his heavily-starched shirt could hide. He was also wearing a plain, wide belt with a shining buckle, thick, striped trousers, and blunt toe shoes.

Just like in the past, it didn’t escape Ardi’s notice that he was holding his left hand awkwardly under his right. He seemed to be trying, most likely without realizing it, to hide the prosthetics that had replaced his little finger and ring finger.

“Madam Atura?” Ardan asked in surprise. “Mr. Davenport?”

Arkar, it seemed, was doing his utmost to flatten himself against the wall and perhaps even merge with it. He was muttering silently to himself: “The best friend of the Empress-Consort, and her husband, the bastard general of the Anorskys… Curse the day I let that half-pint rent an apartment from me!”

“I thought, Mr. Ard, that you might forget to send me a photograph, and so I judged it prudent to attend your celebration myself,” the closest friend of Her Imperial Highness said softly and with genuine warmth.

“Especially since we wouldn’t be opposed to ensuring that…” Davenport chose not to mention Anastasia. “…everything goes smoothly, as Her Imperial Highness commanded, without any unnecessary cameras or press.”

“Dear,” Madam Atura patted her husband lightly on the shoulder. “You’re forgetting about the tradition.”

“Ah, yes,” the retired general caught himself and gestured toward the threshold. “Invite me in, Ard?”

Rousing himself from his momentary daze, Ardan nodded and said:

“I invite you to enter my cell, Mr. Davenport.”

“My thanks,” Davenport said and turned to his wife, whispering so quietly that only Ardan managed to catch what he said: “Try to make her see that she is one step away from being truly locked away in the palace for good.”

Atura, never losing her smile, answered just as softly:

“Of course, dear.” And then, more loudly, she added, “Until the ceremony, Mr. Ard.”

And, without crossing the threshold, Madam Atura withdrew with the priest, heading for the bride’s cell. It was a very considerate and humble gesture from someone who, though she held no official titles, still wielded quite a bit of power.

Davenport stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him. He paid no mind to anyone else there and went over to Ardi. He reached inside an inner pocket and produced a small, lacquered box. Then he pulled out… an Order. It also had two crossed swords and a shield. This one, however, bore the number “2.”

He first unfastened the Order Bazhen had pinned on him a moment before. Then the retired general very carefully, and with obvious skill, arranged them so the Order marked with the number 2 was above the one marked with the number 3.

“In the entire history of the Empire, Ard,” the older man said calmly, “only thirty-two heroes have become full bearers of the Order of Valor by receiving all three of its degrees. One of them was your father.”

Davenport took a step back, looked over his handiwork, and nodded with satisfaction. Without saying another word and without engaging with anyone else, he withdrew to the wall, where… he came to stand beside Arkar. The half-orc was almost shaking at this point. Or perhaps it was the plaster of the cell that was shaking because the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets was very insistently trying to meld with it and escape.

Ardan looked at himself in the mirror. His mother didn’t know that her oldest son was working for the Black House, but something told Ardi that it was all just a game. One that he and his mother had successfully played together by pretending neither of them knew the truth.

Tomorrow’s thoughts, Ardan reminded himself.

In his left breast pocket was a single white rose. According to those same Galessian traditions, the groom was supposed to bring a single white rose to the ceremony. It was a sign that he was dedicating his life forever to one woman.

And the bride was supposed to arrive with a bouquet of twenty-eight black roses. This was a sign that she was giving herself to him for twenty-eight years. In the past, one of them would’ve usually died far sooner than that… But even in modern times, the tradition had stuck around despite longer lifespans. No one really gave it much thought.

The black color had been chosen to represent fertile soil.

Ardan reached up to loosen his tie a little, but Boris immediately cried out:

“I will break your fingers, you fiend!”

That quip dispelled the slightly strange atmosphere of the spacious cell, and a moment later, a bell rang out. Ardan felt like his heart had dropped somewhere into his belly. A cold sweat broke out across his back.

He was nervous. He didn’t really understand why, but he was nervous. He tried to think the situation through somehow, to understand why, but he couldn’t catch even a single one of his slippery thoughts by its ephemeral tail. It was as though a fog had settled in his head.

It seemed like he was walking somewhere, following the priest. It seemed like behind him, a procession of his friends and comrades had formed, with Davenport bringing up the rear. It seemed like he had entered the nave—the guests on either side of the aisle had risen from their pews. On his left sat Tess’ family and her guests, including the musicians. On his right were Ardi’s family and guests.

The men who had accompanied him took their places as well, and the priest led Ardan over to the altar. After dipping the holy symbol of the Face of Light—the golden triangle—into the water, he sprinkled it on his hands.

Then the second bell rang out and Ardan turned sharply toward the doors that had opened again. Wearing a white gown, with scarlet earrings in her ears, her fiery hair streaming over her right shoulder and her bright green eyes shining… a happy, smiling Tess strode toward him. She was holding a bouquet of black roses.

Ardan found it hard to breathe. He very nearly fell, kept upright only by his staff and maybe the priest’s prayer. But the moment he looked up at his bride again, all of it settled. His heart ceased its racing and the fog in his head cleared. At any rate, it cleared enough that he could see the red-haired beauty.

Only her.

And no one else.

Had he been living in one of his grandfather’s stories, the tale might’ve ended here.

But, praise the Sleeping Spirits, that was not the case. Ardan just smiled foolishly, unable to tear his gaze away from Tess, and waited for her at the altar.

And, in spite of every trouble and every woe, he was happy.

Was that fair? Was it right?

Such was the dream of the Sleeping Spirits. And Ardan was grateful to them. More grateful than he’d ever been in his not-so-very-long life.