Book II. Chapter 114 - Vacation

Chapter 114

“Now, in the old days, people were people, oh yes, not like nowadays,” the slight, wizened old man who was leaning against the counter had been waiting for some time now while Ardi weighed everything and packed it into paper envelopes. “Times were hard. Just take my family—there were a dozen of us, or perhaps eleven of us were born... I no longer remember… And only seven lived to see adulthood. No, wait, it was six. Fedya was trampled by a runaway horse. He was five at the time. Or perhaps a little older.”

Ardan took down a small jar of hop cone and Wandering Horsetail—the Ley-analogue of the ordinary horsetail—powder. Powders of this kind were often in demand all across Baliero. They were usually bought up by fashionable men whose age was approaching twenty-five, which was when one out of every four to seven men would begin to lose their hair.

A few grams of this dried extract were enough, with the addition of water, to make a salve at home that would keep one’s hair in place. Alas, the powder was nearly as bad as a narcotic. While it didn’t bring about an altered state of consciousness, and did not act upon the pleasure receptors in the brain, or whatever they were actually called in non-Star science, it was still every bit as habit-forming. Once a man began using it, he could no longer give it up, or his hair loss would only accelerate.

And so, the apothecary cartel did a healthy trade in a preparation that needed to be used regularly. Ardi suspected that the formula could be improved, and that the dependence could maybe be removed or lessened as the dosage was reduced. That way, a few exes a year might be saved.

Because Wandering Horsetail, which had received its colorful name in some unknown way, was very common in the wild and not at all fussy about hothouses, the powder itself was inexpensive. It was easy to grow, and in greenhouses, it produced shoots during more than just spring. Furthermore, the shoots of Wandering Horsetail could be used in other concoctions and recipes as well.

Ten grams cost just seventy-five kso. However, only about seven or eight grams a month needed to be used, and they sold it in increments of ten. As Bazhen had put it, that was the big market ploy.

“Only two of my sisters and I limped our way to twenty,” the old man went on. He was holding a whole list of things he intended to purchase. “The rest perished who knows where. One was done in by a knife. Another died with a rifle in his hands. One was undone by the bottle. Such was life. Everyone made do with their own two hands and their own labor.”

Ardi checked their supply of antifungal products. It really was time to hire someone to do the basic prep work. Otherwise, he would soon be spending as much time at the pharmacy as he had just recently been devoting to his Black House work.

Taking two small tins of antifungal salve out of a drawer, each of which had a diameter that was only a bit bigger than an ex coin, Ardan added them to the pile of purchases.

“That’s why we helped one another, yes,” the old man smacked his dry, thin lips. “Without mutual aid, there was nowhere to go. In our youth, there certainly wasn’t. And now what? Everyone is a stranger to everyone else. Sometimes, they don’t even know their neighbors. They don’t even greet them. And if you yourself greet them first—just a plain ‘How d’you do’—they look at you like you’re a miracle. Or an imbecile. Mostly that second one.”

Ardan silently turned the list being held by the old man’s knotted fingers and checked the next few items. The “Eorsky and Egobar, Dream within a Dream” pills had a needlessly long name, but Bazhen had insisted on it. Ardi was pretty sure that he had even tried to secure the patent for them.

In truth, there was nothing remarkable about them. Ardan had simply run out of the vials Bazhen had ordered for the sleep oil one week. A whole epidemic of sleep troubles would affect the Metropolis on account of the noisy work of the city services sometimes. It was mostly because of the street sweepers and the repairmen, who would be fixing the city after a season’s wear (at the start of spring), or preparing it for the next trial (at the end of summer).

Right now, a whole month still remained before spring officially began, but three weeks had passed since the end of the Congress. And so, those who needed help falling asleep were stocking up in advance before the prices went up.

Like everyone else, Ardi used to make the oil from Aloof Lavender, the Ley-equivalent of the ordinary flower. It was rather expensive, but it worked much better than its chemical analogues, or ordinary lavender tea, which was like a placebo. This oil sold for three and a half exes for ten milliliters. Only quite well-off citizens could afford it.

Then, a little more than two weeks ago, while battling the mountain of literature that his corner in the library of the Grand had been buried in, Ardan had stumbled upon a treatise from Kargaam. He’d been trying, as per the Colonel’s orders, to make sense of the Puppeteers’ research they’d intercepted, but his knowledge had been insufficient. He’d had to catch up. And then, as was usually the case, once he’d started looking into one topic, he’d realized that he’d need to study another three to actually make sense of it. And that had just kept repeating…

This was how one got stuck with a geometric progression of the widening funnel of knowledge. That’s what Edward used to call this paradox, may the Eternal Angels receive him.

While gradually laying siege to the adjacent topics, Ardi had begun with the basics of alchemy. And the Kargaamian treatise had described their Ley-flora, which included a plant called Breathing Sansevieria (this was a crude translation from Kargaamian, of course). This plant was an analogue of the ordinary sansevieria. It had once been used in face masks made for miners because it filtered the air, and anything that affected the air could also affect how quickly one fell asleep.

Ardan had then immediately set off to Sleepless Street and bought a few grams of the plant. Because of the frozen bay and the end of the navigation season, he hadn’t been able to find a fresh sample of it. And getting a delivery from the southern ports would be way too expensive. And so Ardi had settled for the powdered extract.

After that, he had stood in his laboratory with little jars of the extract, looking at the empty vials meant to hold the sleep oil, wondering why he couldn’t simply make the extract into a powder and shape it, as he did with the other pills. It would all dissolve in the stomach. Or even before then, in the gullet.

And that was how the pills with the absurdly long name had been created. Bazhen had assured him that he would do something about that later.

“No, the people of today aren’t the same,” the old man drawled, looking at the gray murk beyond the window. “And the trouble isn’t even that everyone is a stranger to one another… It’s the fact that man has, in general, forgotten what another man is. They’ve all got some,” the old man rotated his hand by his temple, as though screwing in a lightbulb, “strange notion of people. An artificial one. I would even call it a bookish one, but in the books, in the books! I can no longer even read, my dear… what’s your name… Egobar, is it?”

Ardi nodded and began clicking the keys of the cash register—he still thought Bazhen had been hasty when he’d bought it.

“I can only bring myself to read something old, from the times of the Mercenaries’ War. Ha! Old! I was barely ten back then…” The old man clucked and shook his head. “There you have it… Well, no matter. In the new stories, there aren’t even characters anymore, my dear Egobar. I don’t believe in them. In place of characters, there are simply lines of dialogue. And behind the words,” the old man swung his hand through the air sharply, “there is no one. Emptiness. Only black paint on white paper. People are forgetting the existence of other people. And if one does not know another person—his troubles, his hopes, his virtues, his contradictions—how can one know oneself in the eyes of others? That’s why every man now runs about as though someone has stuffed hot coals in his pants and thinks he is the most unique of all. Special. Not like the others. Because he doesn’t even suspect who those ‘others’ are. And if he did suspect such a thing, he would understand that there is very little of the unique in him. And what is this uniqueness, anyway? To hell with it. Whom is the unique man supposed to share his burden with? The unique have their own burdens, you see. Unique ones. Each of them has his own. It’s hard on them. And for us,” the old man pointed first to himself and then to Ardan, “the most ordinary of people, it is therefore easier. We will huddle into a little flock. And the moment the first one starts to speak, the person next to him will immediately think: ‘There’s that bald cur—he’s talking about me!’ And people these days… Ah…” The old man waved his hand. “There is no one to natter to. And what is one supposed to natter to them about? Refrigerators, heating and new generators? Or, Eternal Angels preserve us, politics? Why, every man is such a mighty politician in his own kitchen that I’m nothing compared to him… But never mind me. There, in their kitchen societies and equally-kitchen-like minds, even his Lordship, Duke-General Zakrovsky and his Excellency the Prime Minister had better watch their step. Or they will pin them down with their authority… As for how many generals there are with epaulettes made of macaroni—there is no counting them. They know no people, they understand none of it. They cannot even find the neighboring town on a map without a hint. They remember no history beyond yesterday or, if the Light blesses them, last year, and yet, they are full of opinions. And how they loathe thinking! They want everything to be chewed for them, told to them, and then, at the next party, they’d love to whip out some other person’s authoritative, at least according to their own judgement, opinion. Of course, they’ll claim it as their own… Ah well. None of it is mine, Mr. Egobar. None of it.”

Ardi stopped operating the cash register and handed the receipt to the old man. Moving aside his Scaidavin wool coat (Ardi had received suits made of that same wool to wear to the Emperor’s coronation), the old man drew out a checkbook in a binding of lacquered leather and, with a flourish, he made several entries in very artistic handwriting.

The endless list of medicinal purchases turned into a number: seventy-six exes and thirty-nine kso.

Almost a dozen packets made of thick paper were now laid out on the counter. Ardan had been sorting vials, jars, tins, envelopes, and small boxes of pills into them for nearly a quarter of an hour. It almost seemed like the colorful customer was meaning to open his own pharmacy.

“Take these, if you would,” the old man requested, putting away his checkbook.

“Yes, Mr. Erskiy,” one of the intimidating men standing behind him nodded.

Erskiy… Why did that surname sound familiar to Ardi?

Twirling his hat, Mr. Erskiy settled it upon his white hair with a deft twist of the wrist. Then he stroked the points of his long but thin moustache.

“Good day, Mr. Egobar. I am deeply grateful for the conversation.”

“Good day, Mr. Erskiy,” Ardan nodded and then added: “Thank you for the conversation as well.”

Admittedly, he hadn’t said a single word until now. And maybe no words had been needed.

“Come along, my dears.”

The old man started for the exit. The little bell over the door rang. A flushed Bazhen flung it wide open, and then he just stood there, frozen with his mouth slightly open.

“Young man,” the old man tipped his hat and immediately vanished into the automobile with the very striking ornament on its hood. It was the same model as Duchess Anorsky’s had been. Only newer.

The driver helped the guards stow the parcels in the trunk of the car, and shortly afterwards, a whole procession of two—or maybe three—automobiles withdrew from the street toward the bridge.

“Well I never,” Bazhen whistled, taking off his hat and watching the cars drive away. “Was that who I think it was?”

Ardi arched an eyebrow.

“That’s Adakiy Erskiy. He’s one of the most prominent novelists in the country, Ard. Your own wife reads his work!”

“Is it any good?”

“Very.”

“And what is it about?”

“You don’t like literary fiction, Ardi-the-Wizard.”

“I simply don’t have the time to read fictional stories. I also had my fair share of myths and legends in my childhood.”

“It’s not a myth. It’s prose. It tells the story of a famous painter who became carried away with a young model, but she didn’t return his feelings. In the end, his broken heart pushed the painter onto a crooked path. He began abusing Angel Dust, alcohol, leading a debauched life, and he quarreled with all his friends and family.”

“And what’s the point of reading such a thing?”

“I don’t know, dear. It’s all presented like an adventure here. The protagonist is very charismatic. His struggle with his inner demons is very poignant. And it has beautiful descriptions of… horizontal relations and… when one reads about something untoward of that kind, then in one’s head, it all looks as though the untoward exists only in books and newspapers, and not in the real world.”

…

“By the way, the book is almost autobiographical. The whole capital knows about the author’s exploits. He once rented a room in the Black Lotus for an entire six months, and was even detained naked in Baliero one time while making his escape from the bedroom of a powerful official’s wife.”

Of course! Ardan now remembered where he’d heard that surname before. Or, to be specific, where he’d seen it. It had been on the cover of the book Tess had been reading during their journey to Shamtur.

“Imagine what will happen if he talks about us in his social circles!” Bazhen’s brown eyes were already burning with imaginary exes.

The fact that Eorsky Junior saw the apothecary solely as a commercial enterprise dedicated to him making a profit was probably why their business had been able to gradually grow and develop.

“New troubles?” Ardan suggested in a despondent tone as the procession slid out of sight.

“Can you not be a little more optimistic, you depressing investigator?” Bazhen demanded and, after vanishing for a second into the back room, he returned without his cloak and staff. “This is just the sort of recognition we needed!”

“That sounded wrong somehow, Bazhen.”

“Only to you,” his friend waved him off and raised the flap so he could go behind the counter. “What even brought you here today? We hired a shop assistant for a reason.”

“I wanted to look at things on Sleepless Street, and then a certain experiment came into my head, and so I dropped by the laboratory,” Ardan answered honestly.

He’d initially thought of going to the “Stables,” but he had already been only minutes away from the Firstborn Quarter by car. And to change his route… he would’ve needed to shed another couple tons of sweat. Every time he found himself behind the wheel, which now happened with an unenviable regularity, he irrigated the cabin of the “Derks” with hectoliters of sweat. How someone could derive pleasure from driving remained a mystery to Ardi.

And, most galling of all, even Arkar had refused to keep teaching him after the two of them had very nearly plunged into the Markov Canal… three times. Arkar had then declared that he didn’t want to die anytime soon, and especially not at the bottom of a river in an iron box.

“And where is the shop assistant?” Bazhen looked around.

They’d managed to hire a fourth-year student from the Imperial Lesser Academy of Sciences—it was something like the Grand, only for non-Star science. Of course, it still had its own Star Magic Faculty, too.

The assistant was a girl with platinum hair, porcelain skin, and a doll-like face. However, she was also slightly cross-eyed, with a low brow, and had slightly bowed legs, which she hid by wearing dresses with pleated skirts. She was a first-generation immigrant from Scaidavin. She often claimed that, due to the Congress, a whole stream of new arrivals from Scaidavin, Uldjingood and Uldjingook was soon going to flood the Metropolis. Too many were unwilling to risk being locked down by the military machine of the newly-formed Charter of the North.

And not only that…

“I let her go home early,” Ardi answered calmly.

Bazhen deflated.

“Why did I rush over, then?” He sighed and leaned against the wall. “How long ago was this?”

Ardan looked at his wrist.

“A couple of hours ago.”

“And the experiment?”

“We’ve run out of preparations. We do, after all, need to hire someone to make them, and-”

“So you let Helga leave early despite needing her?” Bazhen interrupted him, acting like only a part of Ardi’s words interested him.

Ardan let out a heavy sigh. He knew what sort of reputation his friend had. He wasn’t only a star of law, but also a consummate… admirer of women. So much so, in fact, that most of his troubles began in others’ bedrooms.

“It’s not what you think!” Bazhen said vehemently.

“Of course,” Ardan nodded.

“I’m being serious, cowboy. I simply enjoy speaking with her.”

“Because she doesn’t allow your conversation to continue anywhere outside the apothecary?” Ardan suggested.

Bazhen smiled like a fox.

“Believe me, you young and naive Alcade lad, the absence of a mattress here would not hinder me in the least. As the saying goes—the harder the floor, the softer the breasts and-”

“And I do not wish to hear the rest, Bazhen,” Ardan waved his hands in the air. “Spare me the details.”

“Prude,” his friend snorted and, after rummaging in his inner pocket, he placed an official document on the counter. “The patent. I got it. Congratulate me.”

“My congratulations. On the acquisition. Of the patent,” Ardan answered jokingly, imitating his friend.

Bazhen blinked several times.

“That’s it? Where’s the fanfare? Where’s the promise to take me to the ‘Pelican’ and the Black Lotus?”

The Black Lotus required no introduction, and as for the “Pelican,” Ardi didn’t recall it right away. Then he remembered that it was an absurdly expensive restaurant. Not long ago, after his visit to the Conclave, Arkar had treated Ardi to a meal there.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Ardi tapped a finger against a lower section of the document, where it said what the patent had been issued for. “It’s unlikely that we shall see anything in terms of royalties. The apothecary cartel will do everything to get the sleeping pills and still not pay us a single kso for them.”

Bazhen’s smile grew wider still.

“That’s what we’re hoping for, you great, guileless oaf.”

Ardan frowned.

“We won’t sit on the defensive for long,” Bazhen explained and put the patent back in his pocket. “I’ll put this in the safe… Now, see here. They’ve already tried to push through their laws. They will not stop there. So we, too, must begin to bite back. The problem is that all of their tastiest cuts of meat are covered in barbed wire. And tearing our maws apart on it would not be particularly enjoyable. But with this,” Bazhen waved the document with the official seal on it. “I can wait for the pretext they themselves will give me, and then I shall come down on them so hard that their mistresses at the Lotus will be stunned by my… By the Eternal Angels. Ugh. That analogy has wandered into the wrong alleyway. Still, you get my meaning.”

Ardi nodded. He really did get it. Mostly. He also realized that Bazhen likely saw the world the same way the Colonel and the Puppeteers did. Or it was close enough to not make much of a difference.

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“Do you think it’s reasonable to wave a stick around in a bear’s den?”

“Ard,” Bazhen pleaded. “The fact that I began my explanation with an awkward comparison does not mean we have to descend into metaphors.”

Ardi raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Also, are you really telling me that the formidable Matabar, the Blue Mage who ignited his third Star before he was even nineteen, the Second-Class Investigator with two Orders of Valor, is afraid of the apothecary cartel?”

“Are you not afraid of them?” Ardan replied.

“To be honest, I am. To the point of requiring spare pants,” Bazhen said honestly. “But we have no choice. Since they haven’t been willing to ignore us and instead intend to throttle us, I would rather be the first to draw blood from them.”

“As long as you’re not being literal,” Ardi added wearily.

“I still don’t understand where your optimism went,” Bazhen yawned. “Tomorrow is your birthday, too.”

“Be there at six at ‘Bruce’s.’”

“I remember,” Bazhen nodded. “And how are Boris and Elena? Are they bringing the baby with them?”

“Elena’s parents have moved in with them for a time,” Ardi answered, recalling the conversation in the hospital three weeks ago. “They’re there to help and also to show them what to do. They will tear themselves away from the baby to come see us for a couple of hours, but they’re unlikely to stay for longer.”

“Yes, yes—the moment your friends have a child, you lose your friends for a few years,” Bazhen commented knowingly. “And when are they-”

“At the start of spring,” Ardan answered faster than Bazhen could finish the question.

Bazhen was referring to the Light Bringer ritual, and the fact that Ardi was to become the godfather of little Agnes. They’d named her after their great-grandmothers. Yes, by some strange coincidence, they’d shared the same name.

Godfathers in the Church of the Face of Light were those who “brought” a child to the “Light.” The godfather was supposed to place the child in a wooden box that had a candle burning at the bottom of it. Usually, it was a close friend of the family who did this.

This way, they would be “bathed” it in the light.

Of course, this was only done for a moment to avoid the child getting burned. According to the tradition, the flame of every such candle was passed from one source to another, and could trace its roots to the first Light of the Face of Light. This was supposedly the same light with which he had once saved the life of a Prophet freezing in the desert.

“Are you nervous?” Bazhen asked.

“Honestly? About as much as you are about the cartel.”

“There you go!” Bazhen clapped him on the shoulder. “You can joke when you want to. One must not lose one’s optimism, Ard!”

Ardan untied the strings of his apron and, after clearing a spot in front of the cash register, handed it to Bazhen.

“And where are you off to?”

“The Arena,” Ardan answered with a heavy sigh, looking forward to all the delights of an hour spent behind the wheel of the “Derks.” “I have a fourth match scheduled for the end of the week, and John still hasn’t paid me for the previous ones.”

“If you should need a little legal assistance, just wink. And ideally…” Bazhen cast a sidelong glance at the apron on the counter. “…do it right now. By the Eternal Angels, I cannot bear to stand at the cash register. One has to talk with people…”

“Best of luck,” was all Ardan said and, limping and leaning on his staff, he came out from behind the counter and made his way over to the back room.

“You’re abandoning me? Your business partner, your friend, and a generally wonderful person?”

Ardan took his cloak off the hanger, brushed away the dust that had gathered on it, and made for the exit.

“Ard! I’m serious! Let’s close the pharmacy for today! There are no customers anyway! Erskiy alone bought enough for several days!”

The little bell jingled and the remainder of his lamentations was muffled by the door.

“Cowboy! Take me with you! I shall perish here!”

Ardi wasn’t listening to his business partner anymore. They all had to do dreadfully horrific things sometimes for the sake of the apothecary. That was just how the world worked.

Ardan looked at the elderly, hundred-times-repaired “Derks” parked nearby. For a moment, Ardi imagined that it, too, had swept its headlights over Ardan and shuddered, picturing the trials that it would now be subjected to by an inexperienced driver.

“Why is it not a horse…” Ardi sighed and walked over to the automobile, which had no chance to flee.

This would just be his horrific burden to bear…

***

Clutch. First gear. Gas.

Three simple words. Three simple actions. Three reasons why Ardan, a Blue Mage, an Investigator of the Second Class, the man who had survived a duel against a Dark Aean’Hane, was sitting in the frozen cabin of the “Derks” and sweating as though it were the Nameless Month—the eighth month of the year, and usually the hottest by far.

The motor sneezed, jerked and died. This was its second time doing that in the past minute.

Ardan gritted his teeth, pressed the clutch to the floor, then turned the key. The starter obeyed reluctantly, with a metallic moan, as though it was complaining about the cold. The motor, with a dissatisfied grunt, came back to life. Ardan, more carefully than the students at Professor Kovertsky’s labs, began to let the left pedal go up, simultaneously adding gas with his right foot. The “Derks” shuddered, swayed, and crept forward. It did so slowly, crookedly, even uncertainly somehow, but it moved.

The canal embankment had been cleared—the street sweepers had done their jobs, scraping the snow into shoulder-high ridges along the sides—but beneath a thin layer of trodden snow, ice was still hiding. The studded tires scraped over it with a soft, unpleasant crunch, and the rear wheels slid sideways every now and again, forcing Ardi to clutch the wheel with both hands. Every time this happened, a wave of cold gripped his stomach right in the spot where the mutant’s knife had nearly gutted him a month ago. The wound had just scabbed over and it still ached.

Human blood… By the Sleeping Spirits…

He shifted into second gear. He pressed the clutch, moved the lever forward and to the side, then smoothly let the clutch up while adding gas. Milar had explained it to him twenty times. Arkar had done it ten more times. Even Bazhen, who drove marginally better than a drunken cabbie, had tried to help. But Ardi’s hands stubbornly refused to do two things at once. His left foot let off the clutch too sharply, his right was late with the gas, and the “Derks” lurched like a wounded rabbit. The gearbox spoke in nothing but an unhealthy grinding, which caused Ardan’s jaw to ache.

At the intersection next to the Trade Bridge, he braked and nearly stalled again, forgetting to press the clutch while braking. The motor choked and shuddered, but by some engineering miracle, or maybe thanks to Dagdag’s prayers, it survived. Ardan caught his breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. In front of the “Derks,” a sedate street sweeper walked past with a shovel across his shoulder. He was bearded, red-nosed, and wearing a quilted jacket stiff with frost. The sweeper cast a glance at the car, then at the pale face behind the windscreen, and, judging by the movement of his lips, he said something encouraging. Or insulting. Ardi preferred to think it was encouraging.

The city was slowly coming to life.

The snowstorm and the winter season, which had kept the capital under siege for several months, had at last run out of breath, and the city folk, like moles from their holes, began to creep out. On the embankment of the Eagle Canal, two women in furs squeezed between the drifts, holding up the hems of their dresses—the pavement had been cleared only halfway, and pedestrians had to push along narrow paths that had been trodden through the snowy barricades. A paperboy was standing on a corner and shouting out provocative headlines, waving rolled-up newspapers.

Most of them, of course, concerned the Congress and its worrisome outcomes.

From the roof of a house with lovely caryatids, an avalanche of melting snow came down onto the pavement, narrowly missing some official in a fur hat. He sprang aside with an agility that was surprising for his bulk and shook his fist at the roof.

Ardan passed the Trade Bridge, turned onto White Columns Avenue—and instantly realized that he had forgotten to shift back into first before he’d made the turn. The “Derks” shuddered again, and the motor whined, all but reducing the tachometer to tears. Ardi convulsively pressed the clutch and jabbed the lever, but he did it the wrong way. More grinding answered him. Ardi cursed, found first gear, and let the clutch out. The car shot forward like a startled horse, and Ardi nearly drove into a lamppost. At the last second, he twisted the wheel and the “Derks” fishtailed. The rear wheels skidded across the ice, and the studs scraped loudly as he somehow regained control.

Ardi let out a relieved breath.

His grandfather’s stories had sometimes mentioned people who, from birth, had possessed the exact opposite of a “talent” for some particular thing. For example: if they touched a musical instrument, it would instantly break down.

Ardan had never believed in such a thing. And then he’d found himself behind the wheel of an automobile…

Façades that would make any visitor’s jaw drop stretched out along both sides of the avenue. The four-story houses had colonnades, pilasters, pediments, and even cast-iron balconies. They truly looked like palaces. Behind each façade were apartments, offices, shops, hairdressers, and in every hairdresser, there were likely more columns. Such was the city. Even the drainpipes here did their best to look majestic.

Ardi had no time for the architecture that, due to his countless travels across the capital, he had grown used to enjoying. Another bridge loomed ahead, and Ardi understood that he had to shift to second without losing his speed on the icy slope. He pressed the clutch, moved the lever, began to let off the pedal, and the “Derks” rolled backwards. Ardi slammed the brake. The car froze in the middle of the climb. Someone behind him honked. Ardi pressed the clutch again, gas, clutch, gas—the “Derks” jerked and sneezed, but crawled upward. The honking from behind him resumed. It was lengthy this time, and seemed rather irritated.

Most annoying of all was the fact that Ardi could count hundreds of runic links. He could cast the most complex spells that most mages would struggle with in an instant. He could, even while riding a galloping horse, snatch up a sheet of paper from the ground! And here, there were just three pedals, one lever, and one wheel. Five elements in total. And these five elements had turned him into a sweating, trembling incompetent who couldn’t even get going without stalling out. It was some sort of cosmic joke!

Despite his frustration, he kept trying, and Old Town was soon left behind.

Ardi knew right away when he crossed the boundary between the districts—one could discern it easily even without looking at the signs. The palatial houses, plastered over with moldings and the history of Gales, suddenly parted, and ahead, beyond a wide intersection, biting into the sky, rose the New City.

Skyscrapers. They had fifteen, twenty, and sometimes even more than thirty floors. They were steel and concrete behemoths with dark stone facades and hundreds of windows burning with steady Ley-light. The avenues here were twice—and sometimes three times—as wide. They had four lanes going in each direction, separated by tram lines. And here, automobiles growled and rattled in far greater numbers. Even the snow hadn’t stopped the New City—the roads were cleared with military thoroughness, and the cars moved in a dense flow, their engines roaring, their headlights blinking, dousing one another in dirty snow slush that had come from beneath their wheels.

Ardan joined the general flow of cars and regretted it instantly. A black, elongated, fashionable automobile on his right cut him off so quickly that Ardi heard the side mirrors almost scrape against one another. Ardi instinctively jammed the brake, entirely forgetting about the clutch. The “Derks” lurched and stalled. Right in the middle of the avenue. Behind him, the horns wailed. A truck with the emblem of a foundry circled around him, and the driver, leaning out of the cab, offered him a gesture identical to the one Bazhen had shown him just recently.

Ardi started the engine. His hands were trembling.

Clutch, first, gas.

Off he went.

Ardi hastily shifted to second. He did so almost cleanly, with only a light scrape. In third, the grinding grew louder.

To his left, someone was driving an old, squat contraption. He honked at Ardi, and as he drew level with him, the man twirled his finger at his temple. Ardan didn’t react. He was looking straight ahead, gripping the wheel so hard his fingers were almost white, and counting the intersections.

The high-rises hung over the avenue like small mountains. The New City had been built for the modern age. Here, one would find no columns and no caryatids, but they would still be dazzled by the abundance of grand shop windows. There were signs sparkling thanks to large lamps, advertising boards with notices painted on them, and even photographs so enormous that one could’ve comfortably covered the floor of a standard training ground with them. Street clocks loitered on steel posts.

Pedestrians wandered along the pavement in far greater numbers, and they walked faster, too. They didn’t pick their way through drifts, but strode along cleared sidewalks, their hands tucked into their coat pockets, exuding the air of people who had somewhere to be. The city beyond the “Derks’” windows flashed past—he glimpsed a shop window, a lamp, a tram, an intersection, another shop window, another lamp…

At the intersection of New Times Avenue, Ardi braked, and this time, he did it all correctly. He pressed the clutch in unison with the brake. The “Derks” slowed smoothly. This was a small but rousing victory.

Ahead, beyond the tram lines, a traffic warden was wearing flashy white gloves. He was waving his baton with the air of a man conducting a symphony rather than a herd of growling automobiles. Ardi waited for his signal and set off. This time, he even managed to do so without a jerk. Moving away from the general flow of traffic, he turned onto a side street.

It was less suffocating here. The street ran alongside a long brick building. It was most likely a thermal station. The windows were soot-blackened, and brown smoke was pouring out of several chimneys. Ardi shifted into third, and the gearbox replied with only a brief, barely-audible crunch. It was almost a caress when compared to the grinding it had greeted his attempts with at the start of the trip.

Ardi relaxed his grip on the wheel a little. His fingers ached. Ardi hadn’t even known that such sensations existed… Damn the Puppeteers and their creations!

Yet another left turn loomed ahead. Right-hand traffic in the Empire was a holdover from Galessian times. Back then, mounted warriors had needed to ride on the right so that, during long journeys, they could hold their spear in their left hand and keep their right well-rested while still being able to respond to unexpected threats.

Spears and horsemen now only existed in the steppes and the prairies, but this habit had still turned into a law.

Ardan slowed down in time, shifted into second with the clutch pressed, and for the first time during the whole trip, the motor did not choke, it didn’t jerk, and it simply and obediently executed his command. Ardan turned onto a wide boulevard. Rows of young, leafless trees that had been dusted with snow stretched out along both sides of it. Beyond the trees rose the façades of the New City’s less tall buildings. They weren’t as pompous as the skyscrapers of the main avenues, but were still quite imposing. They had eight to ten stories and unmistakably austere lines. They also had balconies without moldings and wide entrances made of glass and steel.

People of comparatively lesser means who were still doing well enough lived here. They were young engineers, junior physicians, petty officials, and equally-petty businessmen. These were people who still rode the trams but already dreamed of owning their own personal automobile.

If they knew what those dreams turn into when they come true, Ardan thought while wiping the sweat from his brow, they would love the trams a whole lot more!

At last, he reached the final intersection. Ardi stopped with a sigh of relief. To his right, on the pavement, a boy was dragging a sleigh behind him. A girl in a red coat was sitting on it, laughing with her head thrown back. To his left, an old man in a long coat was walking a dog. The animal was sinking into the snow up to its belly and looked incredibly annoyed. The traffic warden at the crossing (the newfangled traffic signals refused to work in the winter, which rather strongly justified Professor Convel’s low opinion of the qualifications of most Star Engineers) whistled and waved Ardi on.

The young man started and was a little too quick. He pressed the clutch and then the gas right after. He did so a touch more harshly than was needed. The motor roared, but the car still set off, allowing Ardi to shift into second, and then into third. Whatever Dagdag had wrought in his laboratory, the offspring of his genius had, for a whole month now, endured the tortures that Ardi was subjecting it to with a stoic sort of dignity.

The “Derks” moved smoothly. Or almost smoothly. The studs scraped along the cleared asphalt and the wheel trembled in his hands, but the car was obeying him. For now.

The boulevard led to a fenced-off area, behind which familiar outlines could be seen. Ardan turned toward the car park—it was large, half-empty, and covered with packed snow. He slowed down and shifted into first; he pressed the clutch, then the brake, and the “Derks” stopped. It did so smoothly, without a jerk, without any grinding, even, and without a single superfluous sound.

Ardan cut the engine and slumped back against the seat. Silence. There was only the ticking of the cooling motor and the distant hum of the city at his back.

He looked at his hands. They were still shaking.

He’d spent almost two hours on the road. This was a route Arkar covered in forty minutes. He’d stalled out about ten times, he’d nearly knocked down a lamppost once, he’d rolled back down a bridge as well… and he’d received four angry horn blasts and two obscene gestures. But he had made it! Alive. And the “Derks” remained whole and unharmed. Even the lamppost had gotten away unscathed!

Ardi pulled the key out of the ignition, slipped it into the pocket of his cloak, and slowly climbed out of the car. The frosty air struck him in the face, and after the stuffy cabin, which was now soaked through with his own sweat, it was more than pleasant.

He looked at the “Derks.” It stood slightly askew on the uneven snow, plastered with dirt nearly up to the windows. It was state-issued, battered, and had been mended a hundred times. But even so, it was just as proud and valiant as its true owner—Captain Milar Pnev.

“Thank you. Milar will soon recover and you won’t have to suffer anymore,” Ardan said to the automobile. He instantly felt like an idiot.

Then again, since he’d just spent two hours behind the wheel, the feeling had already made itself at home.

He turned, moved his staff from one hand to the other, and limped to the entrance. The only thing that remained unclear was how, with skills as magnificent as these, he was supposed to take part in—by the Sleeping Spirits—a race in just two months!

***

“Come in!” He heard the rattling voice he’d gotten used to.

Ardan, leaning heavily on his staff, entered the office of a descendant of the inhabitants of the Ranit Principality.

He was greeted by a somewhat cramped space with scuffed parquet and slanting windows that looked out at the Arena. Buried in papers and fiddling with a fat cigar between his fingers, a short man sat behind the large desk. He was one meter and sixty centimeters tall, perhaps a touch more. Compared to Ardi, he probably looked like a dwarf. Ardan was around half a meter taller, after all.

A bright orange waistcoat was creased in folds along his massive belly. He was also wearing an absolutely clashing, pinkish suit with dark beige stripes. John Brolid, for all his merits, dressed like he was related to the Kargaamian parrots.

“Oh, Ard!” John smiled happily and extended his hand.

His handshake was always limp and listless. Almost as limp and listless as his thin hair, which was safely secured by wax to his shining bald patches. His many jowls, which seemed to be competing with his waistcoat, were almost reflected in those bald patches.

Ardi almost squinted out of habit—so bright were the polished gold crowns in the man’s mouth.

“What’ll you have? Tea, coffee?” John rattled off so fast that Ardi could barely make out the words. “Before the freeze, they managed to deliver a splendid brew from one of the islands of Olikzasia. It has a remarkably unusual aroma. Try it! Oh, sorry, you drink cocoa, but that’s run out. We won’t get any new cocoa until the next navigation season. And even then…”

Mr. Brolid waved his hand and didn’t finish the thought.

“Thank you for the offer, John, but I’ve come to get paid.”

“Ah, yes,” the matches’ overseer and, in his other capacity, the owner of the whole Arena, nodded. “Look in the safe. You know the code.”

The combination to the safe in John’s office was, in truth, known to everyone. That was just who he was. Of course, like all businessmen, including Bazhen, he loved money. But more than money, John loved and worked passionately to promote his cause—Magical Boxing.

Ardi rose, went over to the impressively-large safe, turned the ratchet several times, then drew the door toward him and stared at the stacks of documents, including the personal files of the Magical Boxers. And in the lower part of the safe, where the money had always lain, were now only a few coins.

“John…”

“That’s what I’m saying, Ard, that’s just what I’m saying,” John, very nearly weeping now, wailed and seized his head. “First the Congress, and then on top of that, the exercises… I don’t know, Ard. I don’t know. It seems like this is the end.”

Ardan sighed, shut the door, and returned to the desk.

“What exercises?” He asked.

“An order came in from the General Staff,” John sighed and pushed the paper toward Ardan.

After skimming the bureaucratic wording, Ardi delved into the substance of the document.

“Those who have received this order are obliged to report to the assembly point assigned to them within three days in order to participate in field exercises.”

Below were the signatures and names of the Chiefs of Staff.

“A couple of times in a five-year period, those who have a Yellow Star and above are forced to participate in these exercises—but they’re usually picked, as it were, according to a rotten lottery.” John leaned back in his chair, which creaked and groaned in protest. “And one could always send a messenger with a refusal form. Even the flimsiest of excuses were usually enough. Only those who wanted a change of scenery or wished to escape their wives would normally go. And it didn’t hurt that the Crown would compensate them generously for every day they spent there.”

“And now…”

“And now, no refusals are being accepted,” John closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. “Everyone who received an order is required to go there. And, naturally, our whole roster from the Yellow Star upwards has been summoned by this…” His plump hand came away from his face and slapped the sheet. “This letter of joy and my personal, boundless happiness. So, all the Yellow Star bouts are off, Ard. And without them, there’s no coin. Even the tickets had to be refunded. I have an earnings gap as big as the asshole of whoever thought all of this up. And the bank, of course, is not about to give me a new loan because the old one is not yet resolved. And do you know what I was resolving it with, Ard?”

“With the tickets you sold for the Yellow Star Mages’ bouts.”

“Exactly!” John laughed sardonically. “So, I can write you an IOU, but if I don’t think of something, Ard—and I do not see what I can think of—by the end of the month, I’ll be bankrupt. The building will go for thirty kso on the ex. And, naturally, the banks have priority when it comes to my debts, so…”

John spread his arms out.

Ardan didn’t know much about finance, but he understood that, in such a scenario, all he would be left with was an IOU. And, most galling of all, it was not the lost earnings that concerned him. It was the fact that the chance to practice and test his new spells against experienced military mages was slipping through his fingers!

“Do the others know?”

“Agatha came by this morning,” John nodded. “The others still await the moment of joy and enlightenment that is the realization that Magical Boxing in the Metropolis is finished. I shall go off somewhere to the Azure Coast. It’s warm there. One can beg at the church door all year round and not fear freezing to death. Perhaps I shall even get to see my former wife. One of them, anyway…”

It was true that Magical Boxing was being propped up by the duels of Yellow Star Mages and above. That was simply because the spectators were indifferent to the artistry, the difficulty of executing such demanding maneuvers, and the monstrous complexity of the spells being wielded. People, logically enough, were ready to part with their money only for the sake of a spectacle. And that sort of spectacle, the real spectacle, was only possible starting from the Yellow Star.

Ardan sighed and looked beyond the window at the endless rows of seats that reached toward the sky in oval waves, where they closed in upon the heavy cornices. He’d been meaning to try this for a while now, but he hadn’t wanted to get Tess’ hopes up. Hector had taught him that the most humiliating thing a man could do was make an empty promise.

“I wanted to sing and perform on the grandest of stages, Ardi—such a foolish dream.”

“Imagine what it would be like if the sound-amplifying equipment could cover more than just a bar or the auditorium of a theatre.”

“John, how many spectators can your Arena admit?”

“About eighteen thousand.”

“And if one counts the ground?”

Mr. Brolid opened his right eye.

“Meaning?”

Ardan waved his hand vaguely in the air.

“Add some seats. And a stage.”

“If we made it like the stalls, another two thousand could fit. And that would still be comfortable for the people,” John shrugged. “And what is it you wish to propose? That I should erect a stage and weep publicly on it, begging for alms? It is unlikely that we would gather more than two people to watch, one of them being our cleaning lady.”

Ardan simply lifted his hand and demonstratively turned the ring on his ring finger.

John at first didn’t understand what he meant, and then he opened his left eye as well. He returned to his desk so sharply that he very nearly fell out of his chair.

“Damn it! By all the Angels of my bald pate!” John exclaimed. “Corporal, you are married to a jazz diva! I don’t know what demon you sold your soul to for such good luck, but still!”

“Tickets for Tess’ performances sell out in the first few hours.”

John was all but glowing with happiness when he suddenly sank into a depressed mood again.

“There is no equipment that could cover our Arena, Ard. Except for maybe the first few rows… Beyond that, nothing would be heard. It’s a dead deal. But thank you for wanting to help. Honestly, Ard. From the bottom of my heart, you have my thanks. You are a good man, even if not quite a man. That’s not Tavser drivel, just a figure of speech, you understand… But it seems like my wish to lose weight has led me to the most unexpected outcome. I shall lose weight from there being nothing to eat.”

Ardan narrowed his eyes at him and, taking out a sheet of paper, pulled the stub of his pencil off the clip on his grimoire.

“What are you on about now, Ard?” John tried to lean over the desk, but couldn’t manage it. “You want to lend me money? I won’t be able to return it.”

“It is simply a small task, John,” Ardi shrugged. “An engineering task. A harmless one. And a most interesting one, too. And lately, I have had a great desire to distract myself from those tasks which…” Ardi swallowed the rest of his sentence. “So, if I solve this issue and Tess agrees to hold a concert here, then… how much time is left before your bankruptcy?”

John shot a quick glance at the wall, where a calendar hung.

“Exactly twenty-one days.”

“So, we have almost no time!” Ardan exclaimed, very nearly buzzing with delight.

What could be more pleasant than solving a problem with a looming deadline?

Sleeping Spirits!

His unofficial vacation was only just beginning!