Book II. Chapter 90 - A bit of peace

Chapter 90

Ardi was standing on the dimly-lit embankment. Behind him, beneath the ice, the weary black waters had fallen silent, wrapped up as they were in a heavy, but oh-so-coveted blanket. Markov Canal was basking in a blissful drowsiness, savoring the peace that winter had brought.

The young man watched the grumbling automobiles pass by. There weren’t many of them out and about, nor were there a lot of pedestrians. They were doing their best to carve their way through the deep ruts of gray, partially ice-covered snow. The snowfall had not ceased for nearly three weeks. The street sweepers, who wore woolen scarves crisscrossing their heavy sheepskin coats, worked their scrapers. These were not the miniature sort a layperson might imagine, but long poles with thick, broad steel blades bolted to the ends.

The scrapers were accompanied by crowbars, iron-edged shovels, billows of whitish steam, pillars of acrid cigarette smoke, and muffled curses. It was almost the same noise the automobiles bustling past produced. The trams, which seemed lost as they dispelled the darkness of the winter night with their broad headlights, plodded along rails sunk into the cobblestones.

And on the opposite side of the street, the lights of “Bruce’s Jazz Bar” glowed. A brand-new sign gleamed with pot-bellied bulbs and New Year’s garlands sparkled along the surface of the wide window. Inside, numerous patrons were clinking their glasses together, scraping forks and spoons across plates, laughing, and every now and then, they would grow still, enchanted by the latest jazz band that had taken the new stage.

He had two and a half weeks until his wedding. A week and a half until the Congress. Six days until New Year’s.

New Year’s...

This was the first New Year’s in the last seven years that Ardan would not be spending at the family table. His strange state—balanced on the thin line between nostalgia and melancholy—ought to have been called hypocrisy. Perhaps even self-deception. For if one thought about it, during those six years he’d spent among the Alcade’s snowy peaks, Ardan hadn’t even remembered New Year’s, or Shaia, or Erti, and... And he had walked among the beasts. Worn their pelts. He’d lived according to their thoughts, their scents, their rules and laws.

Ardi adjusted the fur coat that covered his bandaged arm. Nearly three weeks after the museum incident, it still hadn’t fully healed. Ardan now understood why Mshisty, the late Edward, and even His Imperial Majesty had been forced to accept prosthetics. Star Healing had still not reached the level of development where they could mend wounds inflicted by powerful magic.

If the Tazidahian mage had struck a bit higher and to the right, Ardan might’ve lost the arm entirely. Did this trouble him? For several days—yes. And now—practically not at all.

Those events already felt as though they’d taken place years ago, at the very least.

And so he stood in the center of a flickering circle of light. Snow clung to the lamp’s glass, briefly obscuring its glow, then melted away. The snow melted, and Ardi stood and gazed at number 23 on Markov Canal.

Six days until New Year’s...

Six days until he and Tess would have to pack their things and move out. He had, after all, promised Reish Orman, his fiancée’s father, that they would. He understood why the Governor-General had made such a demand. He understood why and even agreed with the man. However, that didn’t make the weight on his soul any lighter.

“It seems like I grow very attached to places,” the young man whispered under his breath while studying the building.

Once, in what seemed like a past life (in reality, it was less than two years ago), while talking with Mart Borskov, he had found something they shared. Just as the famous archaeologist pined for his travels when in the capital, and dreamed of returning to his study when setting off on a journey, so, too, had Ardi done in his childhood. While swinging his legs over mountain precipices, he had dreamed of climbing down to the forests. And once he’d found himself among the forests and fields, rivers and lakes, he had gazed with longing up at the silent, snow-white summits of his native Alcade.

It had been the same with the steppe, and with Evergale.

And it was most likely going to be the same with his and Tess’ home, and...

Ardan turned toward the canal, which flowed into the Niewa, which in turn carried the black waters straight into the bay of the Swallow Ocean. With each new adventure, each new journey across the Empire, Ardan found it harder to not dwell on his childhood memories. He recalled lying near Ergar’s home, listening to the hurried, breathless stories of the swallows. Atta’nha had told him not to heed those—as she’d called them—dishonest little birds who abandoned their homeland the moment Old Lady Winter knocked on their door.

Ardan had tried. He honestly had. And yet… he couldn’t do it.

All he had managed was to forget those stories for a time and leave them somewhere among the mountain ice and snowy paths. But now... Tazidahian mutants, the Selkado Knights, ships from the Island Union, ambassadors from the Northern Continent, the Congress... Sleeping Spirits—there, beyond the ice-covered crescent of the weary bay, an entire world lay hidden. So enormous. So wondrous. And so...

Ardan turned to the window on the top floor. He turned and smiled. His thoughts of swallows quieted once more. They hid beneath the scent of spring flowers blooming by a stream. Ardi, of course, could not smell the scent from here, nor could he discern any silhouettes through the curtained window, or hear her heartbeat, and yet he knew this with utmost certainty: Tess had come home early from her rehearsal.

Out of habit, he looked left first, then right, making sure no clerk who was hurrying home would run him over, and dashed across to the other side of the street. As he leaped lightly over the snowdrifts, managing to keep his shoes from sinking into them, he drew amazed looks from the freezing street sweepers who were standing nearly knee-deep in the snow.

A bell trilled:

“Oh, Ardi! Thank you for the discount! My knees don’t hurt anymore,” said one of the orc bouncers guarding the patrons’ peace, extending his hand.

“You look like hell, half-pint,” his friend snorted. “I figured your Matabar blood would’ve patched you up by now.”

Ardan looked at their brown, fanged faces and protruding tusks. He even remembered their names. They were gangsters, but... somehow warm. Probably. Or perhaps he was simply deceiving himself again.

“You could at least help clear the snow,” Ardan squeezed their proffered hands firmly. “Pretty soon, no one’ll be able to get to the bar.”

“Arkar went to grab the equipment,” one of them waved toward the slightly open utility room.

“Arkar?” Ardan echoed. “He’s here?”

Lately, it had become hard to encounter the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets at “Bruce’s.” No one besides Ardi knew why he was traveling so much. For nearly two months now, the half-orc had been investigating the circumstances behind Arseniy’s death. The former Overseer of the Hammers had been a fellow soldier of Arkar’s once, and perhaps even his friend. Or perhaps he’d been his steadfast enemy. In their case, there was likely not much of a difference between the two terms, however strange such a statement might sound.

In some ways, they reminded Ard of Major Mshisty and Lord Aversky, may the Eternal Angels receive him.

“He decided to finally attend to his duties as Overseer these last few days,” one of the bouncers snorted.

“Say that to his face, Agrak,” his partner snarked, using the shortened form of Agraragrak, and turned to Ardan. “Want to join in, Ard?”

Ardan answered by glancing meaningfully at his own forearm.

“Fair enough,” the orc rumbled.

Ardan exchanged nods of greeting with the orcs sitting in the dark, partitioned corner, and paused briefly outside the utility room, but could not bring himself to enter. If Arkar had begun appearing at “Bruce’s” more frequently, it meant that he had either learned nothing, or he’d learned everything he’d been looking for. In either case, Ardi was not in the mood to hear the answer.

Leaning on his staff, careful not to disturb his arm, Ardan passed through an inconspicuous door and climbed the staircase. It seemed like only yesterday that he had bumped into Tess here as she’d been rushing to the atelier, had lost the power of speech, and mumbled something unintelligible. He had often contradicted himself, too. It was remarkable how things had turned out...

He turned the key in the lock, entered the cramped hallway, removed his boots, set his staff against the wall as always, and hung his coat on the slightly crooked hook. Warm air from the oven caressed his face as the aroma of baked apples and a rabbit and turkey stew came from the kitchen. Because he and Tess were constantly staying out late these days, an unspoken rule had formed: whoever came home first was the one who cooked.

They had never discussed it aloud, never promised each other anything. It had simply... come about on its own.

Ardan washed his hands, listening to try and discern whether the tap was honking and vibrating too much when the valve opened the flow from the pipes. During the last freeze, the pipes had burst, and he and Arkar, waist-deep in water, had repaired the damage. In fact, over the past year and a half, Ardan had honed all his carpentry and plumbing skills, including joinery, painting, and everything related to domestic Ley-wiring and the maintenance of low-output generators.

On the other hand, Arkar had charged him and Tess almost nothing to live in this apartment.

The girl, who was wearing a house dress and a comical red apron with green flowers, was working a slotted spoon over the stew, skimming the greasy foam from the water as it came to a boil.

Ardan came up behind her and, like a bat, enfolded her in his arms. Both his healthy one and the not-quite-so-healthy one. Bending practically in half, he laid his chin on her shoulder and pressed his cheek to hers.

“That tickles,” the girl smiled without looking up from her work. “How long has it been since you last shaved? Three days?”

“Two,” Ardan replied, wrapping his arms around Tess’ waist and stomach.

She cooked, and he stood behind her and held her. Simply held her. He breathed in her scent and her warmth. The thoughts in his head, leaping like anxious fleas from one subject to another, gradually fell silent. His eyelids grew heavy. In the past, he hadn’t understood why his great-grandfather’s stories, if they’d concerned lovers whom fate had forced to overcome every sort of hardship, had never ended with the phrase, “and they lived happily ever after.” Aror hadn’t once used that ending in any of his fairy tales. On the rare few occasions when “everything had turned out well,” the Dark Lord’s right hand and the greatest Aean’Hane of the last millennium had employed a strange phrase that had been incomprehensible to his child self: “They found their peace.”

A child playing with wooden figures of magical beasts hadn’t understood this. Then the young man who’d stolen glances at a girl with hair the color of golden rye hadn’t understood it, either. Only the young man who now held a flame-haired spark of light in his arms finally grasped the meaning.

Peace.

That was precisely what Ardan felt each time he touched Tess. He felt it every time the world suddenly shrank to the size of their small kitchen and their miniature but cozy living room; or their table with its fragrant tea; or their bed with its sheets that would be crumpled by the time morning came; or that rooftop from which they watched the city at night; or her eyes, her earlobes, the tip of her nose, and her soft smile most of all.

Peace. There were no thoughts, no anxieties, no worries when he was at peace. And it seemed like, so long as she was near, regardless of what the world hurled at Ardan’s face, he could swat away even the most accurate and most dangerous throw. Ardi did not know if this was love. He didn’t understand what that word even meant—“love.” He could say it as many times as he liked, confess his feelings to Tess, but it felt as though he were merely imitating someone. Like a raven that, after hearing a sequence of sounds, would endlessly repeat them for all to hear, as though hoping that they would somehow define and color reality.

Yes, he loved Tess, but he simply couldn’t describe the meaning of that word.

But he could describe peace.

“I love you too, Ardi,” Tess whispered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“And I’ve told you this before, Ardi-the-wizard: you don’t always need to say things out loud,” Tess replied and, scooping a piece of meat and radish with a ladle, held it out to the young man.

Without opening his eyes or lifting his head, holding the girl tighter still, he tasted it.

“Delicious,” the young man answered the unvoiced question. She was right—not everything needed to be spoken aloud.

“And what do you really think?”

“Could use some black pepper.”

Tess laughed. As always, the sound was light and bright. Ardi would have cheapened it to say her laughter sounded like something trite—spring droplets or birdsong, a trill or a melody. No, it sounded the way only Tess’ laughter could sound, and nothing else in the world was capable of reproducing that sound. Her sound. His sound.

“How are your rehearsals going?” Ardan asked, fighting the drowsiness overtaking him.

“Wonderfully!” Tess set the ladle aside, turned down the dead Ley-fire on the burner, and, turning to her fiancé, laid her head against his chest. “Mr. Marnakov is very demanding, but I’m managing. And besides, I don’t get it nearly as bad as the lead performers. I never imagined that working in a theater could be so difficult. Performing in a show is far easier.”

“A show?”

“Yes,” Tess nodded and, imitating what Ardi had done moments ago, she nuzzled her cheek against him. “That’s what Mr. Marnakov calls performances meant for entertainment.”

“Entertainment?”

“Have you turned into a parrot?”

Parrots, as far as Ardan knew, since he was desperately unwilling to frequent zoos, were colorful birds from Kargaam that could, like ravens, repeat sounds they heard. They had been popularized several centuries ago by the pirates who’d once dominated the Shallow Seas. Or by the stories about those pirates. Or perhaps both.

“Strange.”

“What is?” Tess whispered.

“That people mention parrots and not ravens when they talk about something that repeats things.”

The girl laughed again.

“Have you ever actually seen a raven, Ardi?” She asked and, immediately catching herself, laughed even louder. “Oh, right! Out of everyone I know, you’re probably the only one who has. They’re a rare bird.”

Rare indeed. Ravens didn’t live in cities and preferred to avoid large concentrations of humans. In the eastern part of the continent, it was likely that only the people who’d settled at the edge of the King’s Forest were familiar with them.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Tess narrowed her eyes like a cat. “In the Metropolis, it’s far easier to encounter a parrot than a raven.”

“Probably,” Ardi smirked, genuinely finding such a state of affairs ironic.

“Mr. Marnakov considers jazz and other singers who don’t serve in the theater…” Tess returned to the original topic. “How did he put it... mass-market culture. Something intended for the masses. And the theater, opera, ballet, and to a lesser extent, operettas and musicals, are true artistry. High art.”

“Want me to enchant him, darling? Make him repeat, like a parrot, that it’s all untrue?”

“Nope.” She nuzzled against him again. “He’s certainly a man unto himself and very arrogant, but he’s good. In his own way. He’s always ready to help... those he respects. Some might find him cruel, but... I don’t know, Ardi. There’s something very soft about him. And kind. Open. Maybe that’s why the troupe’s plan to poison him has never progressed beyond tired post-rehearsal jokes.”

“And what does he think about your books?”

Tess laughed and lightly headbutted him.

“The same thing you do, you wet blanket,” she answered in a tone of mock offense. “And it is not pulp fiction.”

“Ah, so it’s called ‘pulp fiction,’” Ardi drawled. “Another term I’ll have to memorize. It turns out that practitioners of what you called... high art also have their own language.”

They stood like that for a while longer.

“Oh, right!” Tess started and glanced at the clock. “Everything will be ready in ten minutes, so we still have time.”

She took him by the wrist and, making sure not to hurt his injured shoulder, led him to the living room. Sitting him down in a chair, Tess flashed him a smile and, her dress’ hem whipping around her, dashed to the hallway, where she opened the small cabinet they used as a closet. Pulling out a bundle of thick paper and fuzzy twine, the girl picked up Ardi’s staff and returned to the table.

In all of the Metropolis, it was likely that only Tess could touch the branch of the oak tree and not cause the young man to feel unease deep in his soul. Tess’ musician friends had told her that it was a familiar feeling to them—they experienced the same thing when someone picked up their instrument without permission.

To a mage, their staff was an extension of their own self.

“Look, I finished everything,” Tess propped his staff against the table and, untying the strings, pulled something resembling a crosspiece out of the bundle. Only with straps.

It was a 170-centimeter-long cloth sheath—almost the same length as Ard’s staff—with snaps at the top and bottom. And at the sides, at the level of the young man’s own shoulders, sturdy nylon threads had been fastened to the straps with thick stitches.

“There are also clasps here,” she pointed to specialized fittings on the straps, “so you can adjust the length however you like. You can wear it over one shoulder, across your back, diagonally—whatever suits you. And the most important thing…” Tess pressed the frame of one of the clasps, and the strap slipped free from the mount. “This is so you can remove it from one shoulder.”

Ardan smiled. This was a device that was utterly useless for military mages, which meant that it was perfect for the comfortable carrying needs of eight out of ten staff bearers. And even military mages only used their staves in a professional capacity a fraction of the time.

“Thank you so much,” Ardan said with genuine gratitude and was about to try it on, but Tess took the sheath back and returned it to its wrapping.

“When your shoulder heals, then you can experiment,” she said rather sternly and headed back to the cabinet.

To other mages, such a “device” might have seemed unnecessary, or even insulting. Most mages lamented not only the obligation to wear their regalia, but also the fact that carrying one’s staff openly, without a special case, required a separate permit. And here was someone suggesting that they carry it not in their hand, but on their back.

If one suggested such a thing to some Senior Magister, let alone a Grand Magister, they would risk offending them to the very depths of their indignant soul. Perhaps that was why the Star community had never adopted, nor even developed, something that could be used for convenient carrying.

Or perhaps it was all a matter of technological progress. To live comfortably in the modern world, a person often needed both hands, and it was quite inconvenient when one of them was permanently occupied by a staff. It was not a cane one could tuck under an arm or simply do without.

“And how about you?” Tess asked once she returned.

Several days earlier

Ardan was feeling… if not outright anxiety, then a very palpable unease. This sort of felt like the last time he had been required to visit an ill-fated building. Of course, he didn’t think that things would go quite so poorly this time, but with his luck, he wouldn’t bet on it.

Adjusting the strap of his school bag (because of his shoulder injury, Ardan couldn’t carry both his satchel and his staff at once), the young man resolutely headed for the building with the colorful sign reading: “Spell Market, Central Branch.” Inside, as always, the Star Magic society of the Metropolis bustled. Among the countless rows of shelves, people in multicolored cloaks darted about. They ranged from reds to the admittedly rare yellows, and Ardi even thought that he spotted the owner of a pink cloak, who was proudly wearing a Grand Magister’s medallion upon his chest.

People parted before him almost like he was an icebreaker plowing straight ahead. This gentleman, who’d emerged from the section on Mechanical Ley Engineering, was heading for the staircase to the second floor. And behind him, practically skipping, the beaming Asirs hurried toward the registers. He was a salesman in the Spell Market’s central branch. The very same one who had sold Ardi a truly high-quality grimoire that was turning out to be worth the considerable sum of exes he’d paid for it.

Approaching the counter, Ardan cleared his throat politely.

“Oh, Mr. Egobar,” Asirs looked up from the Grand Magister’s order, which, as far as Ard had managed to see, comprised at least three dozen items.

And at the bottom, in Asirs’ handwriting that seemed to be trembling with impatience, the words “1,914 exes, 28 kso” had been untidily scrawled.

Just like that, practically in passing, an Imperial Mage standing somewhere at the pinnacle of Star Magic had spent nearly two thousand exes at the Market. This was an insane sum to most people, but when one took into account just how lofty the ambitions of Grand Magisters often were, it was most likely rather insignificant to them.

As far as Ardi could recall, Lord Aversky’s shelf of spare grimoires alone had approached a roughly comparable sum.

“The usual, Mr. Egobar?” Asirs asked, stamping the order sheet and sending it through the pneumatic mail tubes. “Accumulators for the generators, paper for your seals, and the latest scientific journals?”

Ardi visited the Market almost every week, since the voracious generators in the Aversky “Stables” showed no particular restraint in their appetites. In that time, Asirs, whom Ardi visited regularly, had managed to memorize not only his regular customer’s name, but also his preferred shopping list.

“That, and also…” Wincing slightly from the pain in his shoulder, Ardan pulled several envelopes tied closed with string from his bag. This was the cover letter and the seal itself.

It wasn’t like he desperately needed money, but he and Bazhen and Boris (who had only recently left the Martyrs’ Hospital) still hadn’t managed to make anything that could be called a “profit,” let alone a substantial one. Bazhen, naturally, was always lamenting that Ardi suffered from “a compulsion to inflict kindness upon everything that moves,” but it was all about customer flow. Though “flow” was rather a strong word. It was more like a thin, almost-threatening-to-dry-up trickle. It was growing, certainly, gaining strength and breadth, but nowhere near as fast as one might’ve hoped for.

And so, in order to fulfill the second of Reish Orman’s requirements—namely, to provide the man with a bank statement showing a very substantial sum of exes in his account—Ardan had decided on a desperate step. Faced with a choice of either selling his last Blue Star accumulator he’d gotten from the former “Bri-&-Man” company—now known as the “Bri Imperial Star Bureau”—and attempting to receive a substantial check from Grand Magister Lucas Krayt for his Ice Bullet, Ardan had chosen the latter.

A Blue Star accumulator was worth a staggering amount of exes, and a military one was simply not obtainable by ordinary means. And Ardi would sooner or later have to kindle a Blue Star regardless. Yes, he could request support from the Black House to do so, but... he had his reasons for not even considering that path.

“Then good luck, Mr. Egobar,” Asirs said earnestly, but then frowned slightly. “Only, you’ll most likely have to wait several hours.”

“Mr. Krayt is busy?”

“For a while, I’d imagine,” Asirs nodded. “Mr. Moshain has gone up to see him.”

Well then, everything was now falling into place. Grand Magister Foda Moshain was one of the founders of the method of multiple combinations of runic bridges in complex runic compounds. In other words—Grand Magister Foda Moshain, as the head of an entire research group, had defined how runic compound arrays looked today.

He was nearly seventy, and he possessed—like most Star Engineers—a not-so-particularly impressive collection of rays. He had four rays each in his first three Stars, two rays in his Yellow and Pink Stars, and lastly, a single ray in his Black Star. Apparently, Mr. Moshain only needed it to maintain the Seal of Long Years.

And regardless of how incredible that might’ve sounded to an observer unfamiliar with Star Magic, even people as prominent as Foda Moshain were required to have their seals evaluated and verified before they became available for purchase by other mages. Naturally, in all of the capital’s Spell Markets, the only person capable of evaluating Grand Magister Moshain’s work was Grand Magister Krayt himself.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to wait, then,” Ardi exhaled.

Besides potentially selling his seal, his only other plan for today was to visit the addresses he had copied down from newspaper listings. It could no longer be put off, and he needed to find a new apartment for himself and Tess.

“As you wish, Mr. Egobar,” Asirs agreed. “Go on up for now, and I’ll process your order form. Will you pick it up yourself, as always? Not paying for delivery?”

“That’s right,” Ardi confirmed and headed for the staircase.

It was not so much that he feared for the secrecy of the

“Stables,” but more so that he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention with regular visits from a truck bearing the conspicuous “Spell Market” label. Perhaps he was giving in to the investigators’ paranoia virus that had infected him at his job, but... it felt like the right thing to do.

After climbing the stairs and turning the appropriate corner, Ardan froze. On the bench beside the office bearing the proud if somewhat faded inscription that read, “Seal Evaluation,” he found none other than... Grand Magister Moshain. He was wearing an expensive suit of gentle gray, with platinum cufflinks and small, nearly-invisible diamonds. It wasn’t at all ostentatious, and rather well-suited to his almost square face that looked like it ought to belong to a forty-year-old man.

Apparently, Ardi hadn’t been wrong in his assumptions, and Moshain did indeed use the Seal of Long Years, which effectively rendered him a Green Star Mage. All the rest of his magic went to preventing those biological processes in the body that led to aging. It wasn’t perfect, of course, but still enough to stretch out the lifespan allotted to the human race to nearly three centuries.

In his hands, he held a staff made from a Ley-wood whose species Ard could not identify. Bearing a minimal selection of military magic seals (mostly defensive and only a few offensive ones), the staff bristled with numerous utilitarian seals used for a wide variety of tasks that were primarily of a scientific nature.

Ardan wasn’t exactly in the habit of shaking in the presence of higher authorities; he had merely been taken aback for a moment that even a Grand Magister had to wait his turn like every other petitioner. But apparently, Mr. Moshain interpreted his behavior somewhat differently.

“I must confess, young man, that I don’t bite,” his voice proved fitting for his face—somewhat rough and muffled, as though Grand Magister Moshain were speaking through a film that was clinging to his features. “Although, if Lucas keeps me sitting here even ten more minutes, I may make an exception to that rule. Though, as they say, why wait?”

Ardan raised his right eyebrow in bewilderment, and then Moshain took out... a sandwich wrapped in paper and filled with sliced beef.

“Would you like some?” He offered, propping his staff to one side and sinking his slightly-yellowed teeth into the fresh bread.

“I’m afraid I must decline,” Ardan said politely.

It was now Moshain’s turn to regard him with a slight measure of mistrust and even displeasure, which was soon replaced by understanding.

“At first, I thought the refusal was your clumsy attempt at courtesy, but now I can see that you truly must,” the Grand Magister gestured invitingly toward the space beside him. “A tall young man related to the Firstborn who refuses the meat of domesticated animals… I wouldn’t be wrong to assume that your name is none other than Ard Egobar?”

“Quite right, Mr. Moshain,” Ardan confirmed and, leaning heavily on his staff, he sat on the bench. There was space enough for four people, so there was no need to crowd the other man.

The Grand Magister regarded the young man’s shoulder with some interest.

“An occupational injury?”

A question as vague as Ard’s own answer.

“Yes, Mr. Moshain, that’s right.”

The Grand Magister permitted himself a thin, seemingly “knowing” smile, though what exactly Moshain understood was known only to him.

“Your work, was it... The Misty Helper, I believe... Yes, precisely. Well, Mr. Egobar, accept my sincere delight that the rising generation of colleagues can boast such a vivid imagination.”

Honestly, Ardan didn’t know whether to express thanks for the positive assessment or not. The young man wasn’t even particularly confident that such an assessment had taken place at all. Perhaps Moshain had merely couched his condescension in a nice phrase? Ultimately, he had praised his “imagination,” not the work itself. On the other hand, according to Grand Magister Krayt as well, his Misty Helper left much to be desired.

Ardan didn’t have time to respond—the door opened and a student of the Grand wearing a blue cloak emerged into the corridor. Judging by the insignia on his chest, he was a final-year student of the Engineering Faculty. He was a young man of twenty-two with a staff of inexpensive Ertalain alloy bearing, surprisingly enough, engraved seals of a military nature. Why was that surprising? In proportional terms, this young mage had considerably more of them than Grand Magister Moshain.

Ardi recalled his conversation with Milar on the night of his museum practicum, if you could even call it that.

“Grand Magister Moshain!” The student started and nearly snapped to attention. “What a great honor to meet you here today!”

Foda Moshain smiled affably and waved his unfinished sandwich in the direction of the mage who had emerged from the office.

“Now that, Mr. Egobar, is true courtesy,” he said and, taking up his staff, proceeded toward his audit.

Ardan still couldn’t determine whether Mr. Moshain had been serious or whether this was simply how he spoke. The student, whose name the young man didn’t know for obvious reasons, stared after… if not his idol, then certainly his Star Magic lodestar, nodded to Ardi, and headed for the exit. Protruding from his pocket was a rejection form that had been signed with a recognizably broad flourish.

For those who believed in omens, this might have seemed like an inauspicious sign, but Ardi simply drew out his grimoire and immersed himself in his notes concerning transmutational runic links. He hadn’t exactly made great strides in studying the theory over the past six months, but he had at least established some landmarks with which he could advance further.

His prototype Ice Dolls spell had even managed to do well in his duel against the Homeless Fae. Of course, years of refining the spell system itself, as well as attempts to formulate, describe, and—most importantly—make transmutational runic links work still awaited him, but... Puzzles of this kind, unlike his bloody adventures in the Metropolis and the Empire at large, made Ardi’s heart beat faster not due to fear, but sheer anticipation. It was a far more pleasant feeling than...

“Mr. Egobar,” distracting him from his musings, the comically tousled, dark-haired Moshain poked his head through the cracked door. “Please come inside.”

Ardan was briefly taken aback but, finding no reason to refuse the invitation, hung his grimoire back on his belt, picked up his staff, and entered the office. Grand Magister Krayt’s workspace was, as always, drowning in stacks of letters, books, research folders, and other people’s shattered dreams that were usually related to making a quick profit.

Lucas Krayt himself was an elderly man with a sharp nose and a slightly bored gaze. He was currently hunched over a barely-cleared space amid the papers on his desk. Beside him lay the folder Ardan had seen in Grand Magister Moshain’s hands. Its strings had been untied and it was now spread wide open. It gleamed thanks to the snow-white, expensive paper that had long processions of symbols winding their way across it, assembling into the highly complex calculations and descriptions of the nodes of a nested seal.

And it wasn’t merely a nested seal... What Mr. Krayt was looking at resembled a trick where a performer would, before the eyes of an astonished crowd, link and unlink multiple brass rings. Only here, instead of those gleaming rings, six seals were inscribed on the paper.

Six. Seals. Assembling that many of them into a unified structure that would not conflict with itself and could be wielded by a Star Mage who didn’t have a stationary generator to fall back on...

If the structure Moshain had created had belonged to the category of stationary shields, Ardan would not have been the least bit surprised. There, as far as Ardi knew from his brief tenure at an Manish’s company, structures of far greater complexity and scale could arise. This was because mages who dealt with stationary defenses were not limited by their Stars. But using something like this without the aid of generators was thought to be impossible for a mage.

The only thing that gave Ard pause in the schematic before him...

“How fortunate it is that I scheduled your audit for precisely today and precisely this time, Mr. Egobar,” Grand Magister Krayt announced with a bit of merriment in his tone. His intense gaze had been fixed on Ard for the last several seconds.

Indeed, after Ardi had submitted his application to sell his Ice Bullet, he had received a notification about the audit date. It was standard practice, though not when dealing with students, but rather Magisters and regular Spell Market associates.

It seemed like his encounter with Grand Magister Moshain hadn’t been a coincidence at all.

“Don’t be shy, Mr. Egobar,” Krayt pushed the schematic of the complex compound seal toward Ard. “Indicate where you can see the fundamental problem.”

The way both Grand Magisters were looking at him with clear interest could only mean one thing—they’d made a wager. And the subject of that wager, apparently, was none other... than Ardi himself. Or rather, it was his ability to find the problem in the schematic. A problem that seemed very conspicuous to him.

However, if he did point it out, he might incur the displeasure of Grand Magister Moshain, and if he didn’t, Grand Magister Krayt would be disappointed in him. In other words, Ardan had found himself between a rock and a hard place. No matter which angle he viewed the problem from, the young man could find no correct answer.

If Krayt hadn’t immediately discerned that Ardan had indeed spotted the inaccuracy, he could have simply played dumb and said that he’d seen nothing. But... alas.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Egobar,” Moshain said calmly, smoothing his bushy mustache. “I may be a man who holds grudges, but I have no intention of making trouble for a young talent. Especially when my friend Lucas speaks well of him. And certainly not when said talent was, however briefly, a protégé of dear Lord Aversky, may the Eternal Angels receive him.”

Ardan listened carefully to his heart. The man wasn’t lying. He had lied neither about holding grudges nor about anything else.

Drawing a breath, the young man pointed to one of the runes in the long chain of connections.

“At this juncture, the directional inversion won’t lead to a progressive function, but to a structural collapse upon contact with any opposing connection possessing an alignment that’s parallel with the given junction,” Ardan rattled off in a single breath, as though reciting a memorized phrase.

It immediately became clear to him why Foda Moshain had mentioned the late Edward. With Grand Magister Aversky’s death, the sphere of complex military magic development (including strategic magic) had seen not merely a niche, but an entire field open up. Edward Aversky’s works had made up nearly a tenth of all new military seals in the Empire at the Pink and Black Star levels.

Naturally, many Grand Magisters of engineering and military magic would want to claim such a resource for themselves. Foda Moshain was merely a vivid confirmation of this fact.

His creation apparently relied on the same mechanism that Mshisty and his hounds had employed on the shores of Angel’s Tear. It wasn’t yet strategic magic in the classical sense, but it was no longer something an individual mage could wield alone, either.

“You see, my dear Foda,” the smile on Krayt’s face widened as he relished his victory. “I won. Your compound, as always, is impeccable from the standpoint of classical magic. But for military purposes, it’s unreliable and essentially pointless.”

Krayt placed the schematic back into its folder, tied the strings around it, and held it out to Moshain.

“Because of one rune?” The Grand Magister squinted, his appearance conveying nothing good.

“That’s just the obvious, Foda,” Krayt gave him a slight shrug. “You can sort out the rest at your bureau. By the way, whom did you hire for military viability testing? Old Kanalov? Mrs. Enika? Or the retired Nahlestsky?”

“Enika,” Moshain grumbled, taking the folder.

“I adore her approach,” Krayt declared without a trace of irony. “She always finds a way to squeeze an extra thousand exes from the Treasury for testing prototypes that are dead on arrival.”

“Perhaps I should dismiss her,” Moshain mused, laying the research on his lap. “But then again, whom would I even hire? The entire city’s been in turmoil since the start of summer. Every competent military engineer has already been snatched up by the bureaus. Everyone’s desperate to claim poor Edward’s domain. No offense intended, young man.”

Ardan pretended not to notice the clearly inappropriate comment. The first snow had barely left Lord Aversky’s grave before the vultures had descended. And one couldn’t even say that this was dishonorable or wrong. Quite the contrary. The state needed new, more modern developments. In fact, the Crown was very interested in filling the void left behind by the death of one of the country’s foremost scientific minds as quickly as possible.

It was just that understanding this fact somehow did nothing to lighten its crushing pressure.

As for the names Grand Magister Krayt had mentioned, Ardan had heard only of the woman with the unusual name—Senior Magister Alika Enika. Edward had spoken about her without much flattery, faulting Mrs. Enika for valuing exes above scientific progress.

“Was there something else, my dear Foda?” Grand Magister Krayt asked, giving the man an obvious hint.

“If you don’t mind, I’m curious to see what the student of Lord Aversky can actually show us,” Grand Magister Moshain answered honestly, without any subtlety. “Especially since he detected a fundamental error that four Senior Magisters and I myself overlooked.”

“In fairness, my dear Foda, and in an effort to preserve your self-esteem, none of you had previously ventured into military magic,” Krayt immediately stated.

Ardan, too, would have noticed nothing amiss had it not been for the evenings he’d spent assisting Lord Aversky in his development of strategic military magic. Yes, Ardi had only calculated runic compounds and assembled them into arrays, but... he had still performed more calculations than an average Engineering Faculty student probably completed in an entire year.

“And our very first attempt in the field has resulted in…” Grand Magister Moshain rapped his knuckles on the folder. “…this sort of debacle. So humor an old man and let me see the product of the generation that will replace us.”

“With the Long Years, you’re unlikely to be replaced anytime soon,” Grand Magister Krayt observed.

“One can age not just physically, my dear Lucas, but on a deeper level as well,” Mr. Moshain replied breezily. “The Seal of Long Years will not save me from becoming obsolete. One must keep pace with the times and the currents of scientific growth. So then, Mr. Egobar, show the world your latest creation.”

Despite his categorical tone, Ardan could have asked Moshain to leave, and the man would have had no legal grounds to refuse. Seals were intellectual property, and barging into someone else’s audit so brazenly was not merely rude, but illegal. At the same time, Moshain had honestly warned him about his tendency to hold grudges. And making himself an enemy—or at the very least, someone who was far from a “friend”—out of a Grand Magister, over essentially nothing, when Ardi already had quite enough other troubles...

And so, given that Mr. Krayt clearly had no objections to this, Ardan placed his cover letter and documentation on the table.

This time, Krayt didn’t even open the folder with the letter (which, incidentally, Moshain hadn’t provided along with his own schematic) and immediately untied the strings around his research.

Setting aside the title page with the schematic itself, as was his habit, Grand Magister Krayt immersed himself in the calculation sheets that had an analysis depth extending to ten primary modifications, as well as the mathematical representation of the schematic’s activation.

“I can see that you’ve read most of the literature I recommended,” Grand Magister Krayt noted without lifting his gaze from the calculations. “And have brought your notation to a unified standard. Now it’s at least possible to understand what you mean by all of this.”

Moshain allowed himself a brief smirk, while Ardan simply waited for the verdict. Right now, he was far more concerned, just like Mrs. Enika, with exes.

Scratching with a pencil stub, occasionally clicking the keys of an enormously-expensive mechanical arithmometer, Grand Magister Krayt scribbled entire matrix equations on the sheet—equations that would have taken Ardi hours of strenuous work to do. And it wasn’t so much the arithmometer as the experience that allowed for such efficiency.

Without a doubt, Lucas Krayt, like the other Grand Magisters, did not bear his lofty title for nothing. Watching him work was both immensely satisfying and also filled Ardi with a sort of wholesome, pure envy. If Ardan had possessed even half of Krayt’s capabilities, perhaps he would have known for sure that he could create his transmutational runic links before his graduation from the Grand… or he would’ve at least realized that they were an impossible dream before wasting time on them.

After ten minutes filled with Ard’s silence, the scratching of graphite on paper, and the lip-smacking of Foda Moshain as he studied the patterns in the cracked ceiling plaster, Grand Magister Krayt leaned back in his chair and tucked his pencil remnant behind his ear. Crossing his thin, wizened arms over his chest, he regarded Ardi for several moments. The young man kept his Witch’s Gaze reined in. He was beginning to understand why, in his great-grandfather’s stories, witches had disliked having their eyes gazed into. It was like standing before the open door of a house one was repeatedly being asked to enter and having to resist the urge to do just that.

“And how do you intend to adjust the countermeasures for elemental shields with varying Ley volumes in the temperature contours?” Mr. Krayt asked, pointing to the fundamental nodes of the seal. “Not a single dependency construct can be seen in the transmitted parameters for the primary offensive definition.”

“With your permission?” Ardan indicated his cover letter and, upon receiving a nod, untied the strings around it, opened the folder, and brought all the necessary explanations into the light of the Ley-lamps. “Using pre-prepared functions and-”

“That much is clear without your letter, Ard,” Krayt interrupted him impatiently. “You’re treating the opponent’s defense as a foreign object with a set of specific parameters. You intend to pass these parameters into the functional section of your seal, but I can see none of the connections necessary for those parameters to work. And for each such parameter, you’d need a separate modification. That’s a geometric progression for each Star. And there are two of them here. You’ve lost your mind, Ard. No one is capable of memorizing that many modifications for each individual temperature load on a shield. To say nothing of the fact that temperature is only one... single... par… a…meter...”

Over the course of his long monologue, Grand Magister Krayt had been peering ever more intently at the cover letter and the formulas and calculations in Ardan’s documentation. Then, frowning, he began tapping his fingers again—not on the arithmometer this time, but on his beloved abacus. His pencil practically whistled over the paper, and Grand Magister Moshain leaned forward slightly.

“You’re not going to create a modification for each parameter...” Moshain muttered under his breath. “You’re going to pass the parameters directly into the offensive function. This isn’t a two-Star seal, it’s a one-Star seal, but... no. It is a two-Star. It’s just that the Green Star handles the attack itself, while the entire Red Star is devoted only to...”

“Computing the function,” Mr. Moshain’s friend finished for him.

The Grand Magisters exchanged glances, and Moshain, after propping his staff against Krayt’s desk, rose and went over to his colleague. Together, they pored over Ardi’s calculations.

“Four rays of the Red Star are directed toward the sequential processing of a single function,” Krayt wrote out the formulas for the runic compounds as he spoke. “Since it has no strict input parameters, it can accept a predefined set of parameters. One set per parameter.”

“Each ray is responsible for a unique defensive property,” Moshain added, pointing with his little finger at the accompanying calculation nodes. “In elemental defensive magic below three Stars, there are four fundamental properties. Intensity—expressed as temperature in this case. Density. Area. And the volume of Ley expended.”

“And for each property, there exists a separate function, prepared to accept a specific set,” Krayt nodded. “All the user of the seal needs to do is analyze the parameters of their opponent’s defense and input them into the formula.”

“Which isn’t particularly difficult, because the formula doesn’t need to be rewritten from scratch.”

Both Grand Magisters simultaneously looked up at Ard.

“How much do you gain in speed?” They asked in unison.

“In relative terms—from five to fifteen percent per use,” Ardan answered. “It all depends on the skills of the dueling mages, but the free function is inherently faster. Though- ”

“The offensive node of the spell drops an entire Star in power,” Moshain interrupted him.

“On the other hand—what difference does it make how weakened the spell is,” Krayt muttered, “if the mage slips it beneath their opponent’s defense... Whether you die from a splinter or a cannonball—the Eternal Angels couldn’t care less.”

The entire essence of the Ice Bullet idea (and all of Ardi’s current spells) lay in the simplification of transmutational runic compounds. He’d devoted an entire Star to creating something like an arithmometer, only inside the seal itself. Thus, he didn’t need to rewrite his entire seal on the fly, but only its strictly defined sections. It was precisely this that had allowed him to surpass all of his opponents in terms of casting speed, including Agatha Spree, in the Magical Boxing Arena.

Yes, the offensive portion of the seal lost most of its strength as a result, but honestly—did anyone care about how they’d defeated their foe if they’d actually won?

And if Ard ever managed to develop transmutational runic links, he wouldn’t need to rewrite the seal himself at all. The spell would gain the ability to adapt almost independently to external conditions. This would, of course, require keeping the spell in a permanently active state, which was enormously costly in terms of Ley and demanded incredible mental effort and concentration, but those were thoughts for tomorrow.

“I did say, my dear Lucas, that one can age not just in body, but in soul as well,” Moshain reminded his friend without much enthusiasm, returning to his chair. “I think I’ll be going and-”

“My dear Foda, you won’t have time to reach your bureau before I’ve filed the patent in Mr. Egobar’s name.”

“But this is simply a specific variety of variadic functions, Krayt!” Moshain said angrily. “What patent! It’s been used in stationary shields and strategic magic for a quarter of a century now!”

“But until Mr. Egobar, no one thought to adapt it for use in two-Star military magic,” Krayt replied calmly.

“Because out of every ten military mages, only two could use something like this without Breaking their own seal. It’s one thing to rewrite an entire seal on the fly, Krayt”—as the conversation progressed, Moshain gripped the back of his chair ever more tightly—“and quite another to rewrite individual nodes. That’s magnitudes more difficult!”

Ardan decided to keep the comment that this assertion was rather subjective to himself. For him personally, it was far simpler to rewrite part of a seal during casting than it was to redo the whole thing. Though perhaps this was only due to the specifics of Lord Aversky’s training. Ordinarily, military mages were taught to rewrite seals in their entirety.

Grand Magister Krayt answered his colleague with... a broad, disarming smile. Grand Magister Moshain, in turn, brandished the folder containing his own research and flew out of the office like a bullet (not an icy one, admittedly, but a fiery one). He didn’t slam the door on his way out, but something told Ard that he hadn’t made a useful acquaintance today. By the Sleeping Spirits, one could only hope that he hadn’t made an enemy, at least.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Egobar,” the Grand Magister filled in a small form and sent it through the pneumatic mail tubes. “Mr. Moshain is quite hot-tempered, just like most natives of the Azure Sea coast, but he’s also equally quick to cool down. Although, if I were you, I would probably avoid him for the next... few years. Accept my sincerest apologies. I didn’t think it would turn out this way. I’d planned to inspire you a little with my colleague’s achievements, but, as they say, if you want to make the Face of Light laugh, simply tell him your plans.”

Ardan nodded and gestured toward the pneumatic tubes.

“Is that truly worth a patent?”

“Why not,” the Grand Magister shrugged. “For your information, Ard, Star Engineers are usually prepared to patent their own sneezing if they can glimpse even a hint of innovation or uniqueness in it. And, moreover, yours is not an empty patent, but one backed by tangible and quite substantial research. A rather fine achievement even for a graduate of the Grand, let alone a student who hasn’t yet finished his third semester.”

Ardan nodded again. Thanks to Elena, he knew that one of the requirements for pursuing a Magister’s medallion was that a mage had to have at least one patent in their chosen field. So, there was nothing particularly outstanding about such a document being issued by the Mages’ Guild.

“And, before we move on to my comments regarding your improved skills that still offer boundless room for development, tell me, Mr. Egobar, would you agree to... let’s say...” Grand Magister Krayt clicked the beads of his abacus. “Two hundred and seventy exes as a premium?”

Ardan employed every last bit of his rather meager acting skills to keep from letting out an ecstatic shout.

“As for royalties, I can offer you”—the wooden beads clicked again—“seventeen and a half percent on each purchase of the base seal, and forty-six kso on each purchase of an encrypted modification.”

Ardan needed several long seconds to digest what he had just heard. It was now clear how Edward (aside from his patent on training grounds) had amassed a significant portion of his staggering fortune. If military magic was compensated this generously, then once again, it was no surprise that Moshain and his ilk were rushing to fill this niche.

Remembering his previous audit with Grand Magister Krayt, Ardan ventured:

“Eighteen percent and fifty kso?”

“Don’t push your luck, young man.”

“Sorry.”

* * *

“Four hundred exes?!” Ardan very nearly choked on his outrage.

The man standing before him in a formal tweed suit and carrying a leather briefcase gleaming with lacquer scrunched up his face in displeasure.

“Mr. Egobar, it cost me a great deal of effort to convince my employer that having a Firstborn representative in his tenement building wouldn’t frighten away the other tenants,” the secretary of the tenement building on Patchwork Street, which wasn’t far from the border of the Central District, said. He walked over to the window and looked out at the Crookedwater Canal. It hummed with crowds of people on skates and sleds. “If you hadn’t been a Star Mage and a student of the Grand, we wouldn’t have even spoken to you. So, four hundred exes as a deposit is quite a generous offer. Especially since the deposit is refundable.”

“And sixty-six exes a month?” Ardan ground out. “For one room and a kitchen of just three square meters?! Without a lavatory or a shower? The listing stated that the price was for two rooms, a bedroom, and a kitchen of eight square meters!”

“It is,” the secretary confirmed, “for those whose identity document does not bear the notation, ‘Firstborn or first-generation descendant of the Firstborn.’ And yours, as far as I’ve managed to notice, bears precisely that.”

Ardan could’ve said something biting in response, but the secretary didn’t seem to feel a single shred of personal hostility toward him, nor was he displaying any. He was merely stating a banal fact. A fact that Ardi, after a year and a half of living at “Bruce’s,” had managed to forget.

Regardless of the regalia he wore, his documents contained one small but very conspicuous annotation which closed most doors in his face. Not throughout the entire capital, of course, but in the Central District—certainly. Except for one single building. Number 23 on Markov Canal. The place Ard had to move out of in the very near future.

“I’m simply doing my job,” the secretary added in a somewhat apologetic tone, “and if I let you have the apartment you were hoping for, I’d lose my position. I still have children and a wife to take care of, Mr. Egobar. So, let’s not make a scene.”

Ardan gave the man a restrained nod and walked out into the corridor in silence. Pressing his staff under his arm, he used his good hand to cross out the last address on the list that hadn’t been that long to begin with.

Something about this felt familiar...

“Ahgrat.”

“Bless you,” the secretary called out.

The present day

“A patent?” Tess raised both eyebrows as she finished up her stew. “That’s something good, isn’t it?”

“To be honest, I have no idea,” Ardan answered her while wiping his lips. “What worries me more is that I still haven’t managed to find us an apartment in the Central District, dear.”

“Yes, and no amount of nerves would be enough to survive living in Baliero,” Tess exhaled.

“And it’s quite a trek from the New City, even on the underground tram lines.”

“Especially since you’re afraid to go underground.”

Ardan grumbled something unintelligible. A stupid childhood adventure in a magical crevice had led to his fear of tight, enclosed spaces. One over which he could exert no influence, neither through the use of willpower or reason. It had long since become an inseparable part of his mind. Like some contagious, incurable disease.

“Done eating?” Tess asked.

Ardan nodded and, gathering the plates, headed toward the sink. Their unspoken rule about who would do the cooking had a corollary: “whoever didn’t cook should wash the dishes.”

“We’ll wash those later,” Tess suddenly sprang up. “Come on, Ardi-the-wizard. Let me show you something.”

Tess made him set the plates back down on the table and pulled him toward their apartment door. She burned with such impatience that Ardi was actually surprised at how stoically the girl was enduring the unwashed dishes. Usually, any sort of disorder provoked roughly the same degree of indignation in Tess as it once had in Ergar. Perhaps that was precisely why Ardi had never moved his study from the tiny apartment upstairs into their slightly less small apartment.

They dressed quickly, headed down the staircase, and, bypassing the clamoring bar, stepped out into the street. A cold wind struck their faces, one that seemed to already be shaking with impatience at the approaching final day of the calendar year. Tess didn’t even button up her coat before grabbing Ardi by the wrist and hurrying into the snowy gloom.

“Where are we going?” Ardan called out.

“You’ll see!” was her only reply.

They dashed across the snow-covered road, which looked lonely without the sweepers who had despaired at the futility of trying to conquer the snow drifts. Tess yanked open the front door of the neighboring building, which was separated from “Bruce’s” by a dead-end intersection.

They were met by a bored concierge—a lady wearing a comical pink bonnet who had a… generous constitution and a very inquisitive gaze.

“Ah, miss Orman, come to see it with the fiancé this time?” She asked in a slightly croaking voice and, without waiting for an answer, produced a long key from beneath the counter.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Nakovskaya,” beamed the radiant Tess.

Together, they ascended a broad staircase with wrought-iron railings and lacquered wooden handrails. On the walls, dark paint gleamed evenly in the light of the Ley-lamps. On each floor, there were three apartments—one in the center and one at each end of the landing.

They climbed to the top floor. Tess turned the key in the heavy lock and pulled the door toward her.

“Surprise!” The girl very nearly shouted, and then, covering her mouth with her hand, laughed. “Oh... I hope we didn’t wake anyone.”

They passed through the hallway. Then they went through the living room, from which a connecting corridor revealed three rooms: the study and bedroom, and somewhere ahead—a spacious kitchen with not one, but two windows.

The apartment contained nothing beyond the old parquet flooring, the plaster on the walls, and a ceiling painted white. Well, that and the twisted wiring, which was nailed to the ceiling molding and disappeared into insulation boxes.

“I know it was important for you to find everything yourself,” Tess came up behind Ardi and, pressing her cheek between his shoulder blades, wrapped her arms around his chest. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I asked them to hold the key for us. Just in case. Just until the end of the year. You know, in case you couldn’t find anything.”

They were standing by the window, which overlooked the sleeping Markov Canal and the gleaming sign of “Bruce’s Jazz Bar.” It was across the road. Just one step away.

“The building’s owner is asking for a deposit of one hundred and sixty exes,” Tess said, but Ardi could barely hear her. The sound of his own heart pounding in his temples drowned out the words of his beloved. “And the rent, not counting Ley-energy and winter heating payments, is thirty-two exes and fifty kso a month. Expensive, of course, but we’ll manage, darling. If we try hard—we’ll definitely manage.”

Through an involuntary rasp, Ardan asked the question he had been afraid to voice for a very long time now, but still had to speak aloud in order to overcome his fear:

“And you don’t mind that... we’ll be staying nearby? With the orcs. With the gangsters.”

Shaking her head, she rubbed the tip of her nose against him.

“We’re not staying near some gangsters, Ardi-the-wizard, but the place where we found each other. And where we were happy. And if you think about it, we’re simply expanding the area of our happi-”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence. Ardan turned sharply toward her and crushed her in his embrace.

“Just don’t disappear, all right?”

“All right. And don’t you disappear, either.”

Which of them said what? Does it matter?

The days that followed were a frantic, pre-holiday blur. There was their noisy move, during which Arkar grumbled about being used as a pack mule. Ardan drilled things, sawed things, assembled and disassembled furniture, hung shelves, hammered hooks, wired up appliances and lamps. Tess was perpetually cleaning, filling bags with dust and construction debris several times over.

With a kerchief binding her hair, she looked nothing like a baroness, nor like the jazz sensation of the year.

Ardan, who was shirtless and covered in scratches and scrapes, and was mostly using his one good arm while the other still recovered in its sling, looked nothing like an Imperial Mage or a Black House Investigator.

They were Ardi and Tess. Two young hearts beating somewhere very close to one another. And that was enough for them.

Several days passed like this, and then they were in “Bruce’s,” where toasts were resounding and glasses were clinking. Arkar was drunk and bellowing, with Boris somehow keeping up with the Overseer of the Orcish Jackets. Elena was laughing aloud beside the companion of the ever-joking an Manish. And sitting beside Bazhen, who had arrived with an entire company of friends from Baliero, was Ardan. He was reading a congratulatory letter from Milar. His partner had invited him to dinner the following day.

Beyond the window, the lights of New Year’s fireworks blossomed.

“Let’s go for a walk!” Bazhen shouted, waving a bottle.

“You won’t make it two steps!” Boris laughed.

“With your help, my dear partner, I’ll make it to three!”

More glasses clinked. More toasts thundered. The holiday fireworks did not cease. Ardan, holding Tess close, looked at his friends, and for the first time in his entire life, even though he wasn’t with his family, he felt... whole. He was with people who were dear to him. That was more than enough.

The Congress, his wedding, an expedition to the nature reserve alongside Taisia Shpritz, and far more besides still awaited him. But all of that was somewhere on the other side of New Year’s Night.

And right now...

Right now, he was at peace.