Book II. Chapter 91 - The Congress (Part 1)

Chapter 91

“It’s kind of romantic, in a way,” Tess stroked his hair and gazed into his eyes.

They were lying on their recently-assembled bed, in the bedroom of their new apartment. Candles burned around them, and blankets had been draped over the windows and floors. They hadn’t yet been connected to the heating network or the Ley-generators—it was the holidays, after all. Everyone was busy. And since the building’s owner didn’t know Ardi, the manager and part-time concierge, Mrs. Nakovskaya, was in no rush to hand over the keys to a stranger. Not even a stranger who had conscientiously provided all the necessary documents and paid the rent along with the deposit.

A few simple enchantments were preserving the heat, preventing the warmth from escaping through the walls and windows, but even these were not quite sufficient. And as experience had shown him, city buildings, despite being built out of brick, proved decidedly inferior to log cabins with stone hearths when winter came. Of course, that was assuming that the central heating and generators weren’t working.

“Yes, the candles certainly add to the atmosphere,” Ardi smiled, threading his fingers through her fiery red hair.

Tess laughed and gently bit his shoulder.

“I wasn’t talking about your efforts to preserve our comfort,” his soon-to-be-wife laughed.

Wife... What a remarkable, strange, and unfamiliar word. Would he feel differently about it after their wedding?

“I was talking about how there are exactly two weeks until the ceremony, and you’re running off until the appointed hour,” Tess finished her thought.

Beyond the window, snow still swirled. Occasional bursts of fireworks filled the sky, and every now and then, the shouts of still-celebrating people drifted up toward them.

“The organizer’s nearly done with everything,” Ardan attempted to defend himself, recalling the letters and reports from the event organizer who had been recommended to him.

As strange as it might’ve seemed, neither Ardi nor Tess had any time to tend to their own wedding. The hectic life of the Metropolis really was an astonishing thing.

“True enough,” Tess agreed and, pulling away, she sprawled across the rumpled sheets. “Even I will practically be walking from the stage straight to the altar. The last performance ends at midnight on the thirteenth, and the ceremony is at eight in the evening on the fourteenth.”

Eight in the evening on the fourteenth day—the hour when, beyond the ocean, in the desert of Al’Zafir, the first and brightest star of the eastern sky had been kindled. That was why, in the religion of the Face of Light, they’d venerated it as the Day of Light at first. They’d seen it as the hour when light would be born anew. And later, when the religion had spread across the world, the holiday had taken on its own distinctive characteristics in each nation of humankind.

First in Gales, and then in the Empire of the New Monarchy, the holiday had been reborn as the Festival of Light. And the Congress was set to conclude on the night before it. Naturally, it wouldn’t last just one or two days, nor even a week. And, obviously, no one at the Black House was going to prioritize the wedding of one of their agents over the Congress.

Every resource of the capital’s branch of the Second Chancery had been mobilized to ensure the Congress’ security. Including Captain Milar Pnev’s unit.

“Let’s make a promise to each other, Ardi-the-wizard.” Tess suddenly turned onto her side and looked into her fiancé’s eyes once more. “Someday, even if it’s not soon, when we’ve become boring and lazy, like a tomcat and his queen, we’ll take a holiday. For several years. Or even ten. Better yet—sixteen...”

Ardan didn’t need to listen to her heart or gaze into her eyes to understand exactly what she meant. Or why she was planning their “holiday” with such a specific duration…

Tess, who was resting her head on her right hand, was keeping her left hand on her stomach. Sixteen years of relaxing somewhere far from the capital’s perpetual rush sounded like... a dream.

“In that case…” Ardi extended his little finger. “This is a promise. The moment there are more of us, we leave.”

In that moment, he wasn’t thinking about the Puppeteers (apparently, his drive to fight the encroaching darkness shattered against thoughts of his own family), nor about Star Magic (it retreated before Tess alone, to say nothing of the continuation of their bond), and Tess herself was thinking neither of the theater nor of the jazz stage.

“Where do you want to go?” Ardan asked.

A thin, warm smile touched the girl’s lips.

“Where can we go?”

“Wherever we want,” the young man shrugged.

“Theeeen,” the girl drew out, her smile sparkling in her mischievous green eyes. “I’ve heard stories about a certain meadow in the mountains, and an old house that stands at the bend of a stream. It’s too big for one family, but very cozy. Do you know of such a place?”

The young man’s heart skipped a beat, then a second, a third, and in the end, it seemed as if it had entirely forgotten how to beat in its customary, steady rhythm.

“You’re serious?”

She nodded silently.

“Tess, there’s nothing there,” Ardan reminded her, slightly breathless. “I’m not talking about record shops, museums, theaters, and all the rest. I’m talking about humans. Just to reach Evergale, my mother used to walk for nearly an entire day. Half there, then half back. And for many kilometers in every direction, there’s nothing but the Alcade, the beasts, and-”

“Us,” Tess finished for him. “Nothing but the Alcade, the beasts, the fresh air, the clean water, and you and me. And also several very noisy, restless children who’ll always be getting into trouble and whom you’ll teach your brilliant schematics.”

“I’d prefer quiet, boring and sensible ones whom you’d teach to play the piano and sing,” Ardan grumbled in reply.

They looked at each other and laughed. Lightly and brightly. It was as though they weren’t speaking about something distant and barely tangible, but about plans for next summer. And that was in addition to their trip to the Azure Sea that they’d spent five months saving up for.

“That sounds like heaven on earth,” Tess smacked her lips, eyes drifting closed, and returned her head to his chest. “Honest-to-goodness heaven.”

Ardan continued stroking her hair and gazing out the window, where snow had blanketed the rooftops along Markov Canal. And just below, the skates of people that were rushing between the rows of little shops were cutting across the ice.

“And you won’t miss the capital?” He asked softly.

“Will you?” Tess retorted, not without a hint of mischief.

Ardi thought about it for a moment. He remembered Milar, Boris and Elena, Arkar, and Bazhen; his favorite spots in the Central District, the Guild Embankment, the Grand and its Star Square… and there was even room for his apothecary in the Firstborn Quarter in his thoughts.

“I will,” he answered honestly.

“So will I,” Tess added just as truthfully. “But we can come back to visit... every few years. You know, Ardi, sometimes I think that the Metropolis is much better when visited from time to time rather than lived in permanently.”

Ardan smiled.

“I know a certain not-very-brave but in-his-own-way-honest archaeologist who holds the same opinion.”

Gone were the days when Ardan had harbored negative feelings toward Senior Magister Mart Borskov. Back then, on the steppe, when Mart had hidden in his carriage and refused to take part in repelling the Shanti’Ra’s bandit raid, Ard had begun to despise him. He’d genuinely loathed him, even.

But as the months and seasons had passed, as one adventure had followed another—slowly, Ardan had realized that he’d been mistaken. Not every Star Mage with a staff and a grimoire was capable of fighting. Not even close. And perhaps that was the very thing that made mages human in the broadest sense of the word.

Ardan had even met plenty of military mages who would’ve been of little use on that hill. And so Mart, cowardly as he had been—and nothing would ever diminish said cowardice—had acted honestly toward himself. He was no hero. He possessed no gift for war. And so... he had hidden.

Ardi, in his own moments of weakness, even envied the man, in a way. He, too, would have liked to hide. Here. Or in the small apartment in the neighboring building. Or out there, in his native Alcade. And the most terrible thing, the most tempting, the most maddening part… was that he knew one thing with utter certainty: he didn’t even need to ask, but merely suggest it, and Tess would agree at once.

And, remarkably, he could sense in her tone, in her gestures, in her manner of speaking, those very same thoughts. If Tess had asked—if she’d even broached the subject halfway seriously—Ardi would’ve already been buying tickets for the first train to the Foothill Province.

And so, they remained silent, dreaming. Each of them, before that long-awaited “holiday,” had something they wished to accomplish. So that later, when they truly had become lazy cats, they would have no regrets.

But all of that was for later. The distant future. And right now...

“Tell me it’s nothing serious or dangerous,” Tess asked, her voice suddenly hushed.

“It’s nothing serious or dangerous, dear,” Ardan answered just as softly, in barely more than a whisper.

Below their window, the familiar, drawn-out honk of the old, hundred-times-repaired-and-patched-up “Derks” had already sounded.

“Tell me you’ll come back.” She kissed him gently on the corner of his lips.

“I’ll come back,” Ardan replied, regretting that he could not pull his own fiancée toward him. “In a couple of days.”

“Then go...” Running her hand along his cheek, Tess spoke, repeating their customary parting phrase. “And come back soon... I’ll be waiting.”

Ardan nodded, returned her kiss with just as much tenderness, and, trying not to look back, dressed, grabbed his staff, threw on his coat, hung his grimoire at his belt, and walked out the door.

Sleeping Spirits, how difficult it was to turn the key in the lock—and not at all because the mechanism needed oil and maintenance. Simply... because. Ardi couldn’t find the right words to describe these strange and partially-new feelings.

He descended the broad staircase, expecting for a moment to hear either Arkar’s grumbling about yet another generator breakdown, or even the patrons of “Bruce’s,” but instead, he was met by the concierge.

Mrs. Nakovskaya, a woman with a sturdy constitution and a stern gaze, had already taken up her post at the building’s entrance.

“Ah, Mr. Egobar, good morning,” she greeted him. “The workers will come by this evening, and we’ll save you from the fate of a beef brisket in an icebox.”

She let out a short, guttural chuckle, like a hen on a perch. As far as Ardan had gathered, Mrs. Nakovskaya possessed a unique but good-natured sense of humor. She never sought to insult, offend, or otherwise wound anyone’s feelings.

“Thank you, madam,” Ardan offered her a respectful nod.

“You should put a hat on,” she remarked, pressing a handkerchief to her lips and casting a critical eye over the young man’s figure. “It’s nearly minus twenty-eight out there. You’ll come back to your bride without any ears.”

Naturally, it had taken the ever-charming Tess only a few days and a couple of hours of conversation to win over Mrs. Nakovskaya, who now absolutely doted on her new tenant.

“Thank you, but I don’t need one,” Ardan smiled.

While he had still sometimes felt the cold and frost the previous winter, this winter, he felt nearly as free and comfortable as he once had in his native Alcade. Whether this was connected to the feeling of “home” and “pack,” or to his growing abilities as a Speaker—those were thoughts for tomorrow.

Stepping outside, Ardan inhaled the fresh, frosty air, savoring it. If there was anything about a Metropolis in the clutches of winter that one could be grateful for, it was the absence of the reek of factory smog, diesel, and cigarette smoke.

Speaking of which…

Leaning against his grumbling “Derks” (despite everything, it hadn’t so much as entertained the thought of ceasing to function in the cold, which said a great deal about it), bundled up in a fluffy fur coat, wearing gloves topped with mittens, his thickest boots, and a fur hat, holding a cigarette in a somewhat absurd manner, was a smoking Milar. Shivering every now and then, with white eyelashes and red cheeks, he grimaced at the sight of Ardan.

“A light coat and no hat? Seriously?” He asked and, without waiting for an answer, stubbed out his cigarette and ducked into his automobile’s cabin, from which steam all but poured forth. “I don’t know if I envy you or hate you... Get in, Magister.”

Ardi climbed inside, smiling warmly at the shivering Milar. The captain, who’d removed his mittens and gloves, was pressing his hands to the vent that released the engine-heated air into the cabin. The air traveled through specialized tubing and... something-plus-something-else happened. Boris never stopped talking about it, so it was surely intriguing.

“Tell me honestly, Magister—did you sell your soul to your Winter Queen to save money on a seasonal wardrobe?” Milar shuddered and relaxed into his seat, his cheeks shifting from red to a relatively healthy pink.

“Quite the opposite,” Ardan answered the half-joking question after a moment’s thought.

Milar responded with something that resembled a questioning grimace.

“If we go with your allusion to old fairy tales, then a piece of Winter lives in my soul, not the other way around,” Ardan touched his chest. “A shard of the Name of Ice and Snow is growing inside me, which makes me... kin to Winter. And cold is no enemy to cold. So no. I didn’t sell my soul. It’s quite the opposite: Winter is becoming part of me.”

Milar carefully, gently, with a quiet whisper full of hope, engaged the clutch and pulled the lever to shift gears. The automobile, after clearing its throat like an old man with a cold, lurched into motion.

“My allusion...” Milar snorted, turning away from Markov Canal and heading in the direction of Niewa Avenue. “Have you forgotten how to use simpler words over the holidays?” While watching a traffic officer who had very nearly become a snowdrift himself, and who was puffed up like a balloon due to the fur coat he wore over a padded jacket, the captain added: “You’re not going to lose the ability to feel emotions, like in the fairy tales? Turn into a heartless icicle?”

Ardi smiled.

“The cost of the art of the Aean’Hane doesn’t manifest that way, Milar. What you’re referring to—those are just children’s stories.”

“Well, forgive me, Magister,” the captain sneezed. “Blast it... for not being versed in these arts of yours.”

“No, Milar, I will not become an icicle, as you put it.”

Milar, turning onto the main artery of the Central District, repeated his grimace.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Then what is the price of a Name?” He asked.

Ardan turned to the window. He watched the buildings gliding past, buried beneath their snowy covers and glittering with icicles that sometimes hung nearly halfway down the top floor. Some boys would occasionally knock them down with shovels, bravely crawling along the cornices for a few coins. Tied to ventilation pipes with rope for safety’s sake, they were fighting the ice with great valor.

“No one knows, Milar.”

“What do you mean, partner?”

Judging by where the captain was steering, he was carefully staying in the snow ruts and avoiding the places where the trams ran. Or rather, given how intense the frosts brought by the ocean winds had been recently, where they stood. They broke down so frequently that them blocking entire streets while awaiting rescue was a fact of life. However, the people had been saved by the underground tram lines, which, during the holidays, had started getting so overcrowded that the Crown, which had anticipated the problem, had still been forced to pay for factories to operate in emergency triple shifts. Both in the capital and in towns throughout the Metropolis Province.

“I’m being literal,” Ardi replied. “No one knows what price they will pay for the art of the Aean’Hane.”

“Try to explain.”

Ardi sighed and waved his hand in the air.

“It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t know the art, but I’ll try-”

“If you’d be so kind,” Milar interjected, his friendliness not benefiting from the frost.

“For example—if you step outside and slip, what would you think?”

Milar thought about it briefly, furrowing his brow and wiping the condensation from the driver-side window with the edge of his coat.

“That either I’m an idiot, or the municipal services have gone feral and haven’t cleared the street.”

“Exactly,” Ardi nodded. “It would never cross your mind that this was your payment for mastering the art of the Aean’Hane.”

Milar frowned.

“I still don’t understand.”

Ardan, still smiling, held out his hand and, listening to the creaking of the snow beneath the wheels, called out to a fragment of the sound that had reached him in a quiet whisper. A snowflake landed on his palm.

“Hey! That’s enough with the localized winter inside the car!” Milar protested, flicking away the snowflake that was the size of Ardi’s palm. “And I’ve already asked you not to use your art! That time you nearly demolished the Tazidahian embassy was quite enough.”

“I was simply making a point.”

“Making a point, he says...” The captain grumbled. “About what, exactly?”

“No mortal should possess the power to call upon nature through the Ley,” Ardi replied, releasing the tiny shard. “And the world is not pleased by it. And to preempt your question: I don’t mean to imply that ‘the world’ is something ensouled or that it even possesses a consciousness.”

“Well, you know, the Niewa did show itself to be rather conscious last time,” Milar objected, once more referencing the story of the mutant and the embassy.

“That wasn’t the Niewa,” Ardan shook his head, “but the Galessians who inhabited its banks. Their emotions. Their consciousness. They left an imprint on the surrounding world. Mortals leave an imprint of their minds on everything they touch with flesh or thought. And the art of the Aean’Hane allows you to touch... those touches. I don’t know how else to put it, Milar. But the more you touch the surrounding world, the more it touches you in turn. And shards of Names, and even more so the Names themselves—they’re something like a door that never closes. Yes, you can try to shield yourself against the influence of the outside world, but sooner or later, however sturdy your umbrella, Milar, you’ll get soaked in the downpour.”

“I still don’t understand, even after your lofty, very mystical, and convoluted speech, Magister, what the, shall we say, specific cost in exes actually is,” Milar frowned even harder. Deep creases appeared on the bridge of his nose from how hard he was frowning.

“Do you know if it will rain tomorrow, Milar?”

“I don’t. The weather forecasters are always trying to predict that.”

“And do they succeed?”

“From time to time.”

“And from time to time, an Aean’Hane realizes that they’ve paid one price or another,” Ardi propped his elbow against the door and rested his cheek on his palm. “But only after the fact. No one can say in advance what exactly the world will take from them. But there’s no doubt that it will take something.”

“Eternal Angels... That doesn’t sound particularly pleasant, you know,” Milar said after a short pause. “I don’t understand how anyone agrees to such a deal.”

“No one agrees to it,” Ardi returned his gaze to the snow-covered street where one was far more likely to see a freezing guard than an ordinary pedestrian. Everyone was sheltering at home or using the underground lines while simultaneously offering their well-deserved gratitude to the Crown.

“How about you say the whole sentence at once for a change instead of waiting for me to come at you with questions?”

“Sorry...” Ardi said sincerely. “It’s just... You can’t choose to become an Aean’Hane, Milar. You must be born a Speaker. Anyone can learn Star Magic, but the ability to Speak or to Hear is an inborn talent.”

“Then why don’t I know about any human Aean’Hane? Other than the Dark Lord, I suppose.”

“Because the human lifespan is too short. Only by possessing extraordinary abilities can one learn the art before decades pass. Some require forty years, others eighty, others more than a century. And in the past, humans rarely lived past fifty.”

“Fair enough,” Milar nodded and clearly intended to change the subject, but then suddenly caught himself. “Wait—so being born a Speaker means that, sooner or later, you’re literally doomed to give something to the world against your will?”

“Yes.”

Milar swore.

“And is there any way to leave this sorry path?”

Ardan shrugged.

“I don’t know, Milar. Honestly, I have no idea,” the young man answered. “Just by being a Speaker, whether you hone your skills or not, sooner or later, you will hear a fragment of a Name. And if you live long enough, you’ll learn the entirety of it and become an Aean’Hane. The only difference is speed. With proper training, a Speaker will spend half a century on such a thing; without any, it might take nearly a century and a half. Though even those are rather fuzzy timelines. Talent plays its role as well.”

“Talent... Going by that accursed embassy business, you must be staggeringly talented, then?”

“Hardly, Milar,” Ardi replied skeptically. “I was simply trained by the daughter of the Winter Queen, whose dominion over that very same Winter is second only to her own mother’s.”

“Atta’nha,” Milar nodded. “The Witch of Ice and Snow. A Sidhe. I remember, partner, I remember... All right, let’s change the subject.”

“Let’s,” Ardi shrugged.

“Go on—spill it. How did you manage to rent an apartment on the Canal without any help from that tusked bastard?”

By “tusked bastard,” Milar clearly meant Arkar. It made sense that a captain of the Second Chancery wasn’t exactly friendly toward him.

“I sold some military magic.”

“Military magic? Didn’t you complain that they pay a fixed rate for that? I think you even fried the brains of some minor Mages’ Guild official over it.”

Ardan sighed heavily.

“Milar! I thought we were chatting about nothing on the way to... I don’t even know where we’re going! Or have you decided to dredge up all my sins? First the embassy, and now this...”

“If I wanted to dredge up everything, Magister, I’d have started the list with the Treasury Tower, or, say, the Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light,” Milar remarked. A smirk was hidden in his trimmed and slightly snow-dampened mustache.

Ardan just waved it off.

“Fixed pricing applies to Red Star military magic, so that beginner mages have at least a bit of a chance to enter the field,” he answered the original question. “Magic at the Green Star level and above is sold at market value. It’s just that creating it requires a license, which the Colonel thankfully arranged for me to have after that incident.”

“That incident...” Milar snorted. “How deftly you manage to soften the edges of your blunders every single time, Magister.”

“I learned from the best,” Ardan replied lightly.

“Fair enough,” Milar laughed.

They turned off Niewa Avenue, and Ardan lost all hope of figuring out where exactly the captain was taking them. Previously, the young man had assumed that they were heading to the Palace of the Kings of the Past.

“How was your New Year’s Night?” Ardi decided to change the subject.

“Wonderful,” Milar answered with genuine enthusiasm and sincerity. “Elvira made a delicious dinner, the children and I decorated the tree, and after the bells, we walked around the city and watched the fireworks. Pure domestic bliss.”

Ardan smiled, and for several minutes, they rode in silence, turning repeatedly into short side streets—Milar categorically refused to drive where the trams might be standing frozen and solitary, blocking the road.

“All right, partner, I won’t torment you any longer. I was questioning you about the art of the Aean’Hane with only one thought in mind.”

“And that is?”

“Whatever your—and your unit’s—future charge offers you in the coming days, whatever he says and however he tries to win you over—don’t listen to him. And if you do listen… you can forget about a quiet life. And yes, believe it or not, compared to the alternative, life for you and me has actually calmed down recently. Especially these past few months.”

They finally turned onto yet another avenue whose name Ardan couldn’t recall. But he remembered where it led—to the Parliament building.

“Wait, I’m going to be in a different unit? Not yours?”

“Mshisty requested you,” Milar ground out through clenched teeth, “and he presented arguments so convincing that the Colonel didn’t refuse. Until the conclusion of the Congress, you will be attached to Mshisty’s hounds and the military. And while the mad Major himself and his brethren will be guarding His Imperial Majesty, you will be quartered with the security detail of His Excellency Duke-General Oleg Zakrovsky...”

“The Emperor’s mentor and current Prime Minister,” Ardan croaked, very nearly choking as he watched the Parliament building draw near.

Occupying the greater part of Government Square and nestled comfortably at the intersection of three avenues, it didn’t look particularly pompous. Elongated as though it were one continuous facade, the five-story building had twelve rows of slender window frames stretching upward. It had a single unused ceremonial entrance (though that was, after all, why it was ceremonial), and beyond the gentle azure paint adorning the façade, there was nothing else of note. Except, perhaps, the statue of Saint Pavel (for whom the current Emperor was named), the patron of honorable and valiant martyrs, that had been cast in silver. He was the patron of all those who, even when facing torture and execution in Firstborn captivity, had not renounced their homeland or the Face of Light.

Unlike many other buildings in the capital’s Central District, the Parliament had been constructed relatively recently. And the architect’s guiding principle, as far as Ardi could recall from his Evergale history textbooks, was that, in contrast to the opulent palaces of the nobility and the monumental structures of the Church, the Parliament building was meant to be a light, utilitarian structure. A structure of the People, where the People governed, deciding their own fates.

And even the building’s considerable significance was, by historical standards, comparatively recent—it had become relevant about a hundred years ago. Before that, the Three Chambers of Parliament had held rather nominal functions and had gathered primarily in the Palace of the Kings of the Past.

Usually, Government Square teemed with life. There’d be officials heading to the Parliament building for work, ordinary citizens coming in with bureaucratic problems (Bazhen had obtained permission to build their temporary bridge here), media trucks making the rounds, and a lot more besides. But now, aside from the distinctive black automobiles of the Second Chancery and the equally-recognizable scarlet vehicles of the Guard Corps, there was hardly anyone here.

And the most amusing thing was the fact that it was easy and simple to draw the invisible boundary separating the black automobiles from their scarlet counterparts. The guard vehicles looked newer—they were often not “Derks,” but actual “Shvenlik” models—and the guards’ attire sometimes provoked envy among the Black House personnel.

They had high-quality greatcoats with fur trim and padded jackets underneath for the rank and file, while several officers were positively strutting around in special winter military overcoats. These were like fur coats turned inside out—the fur faced inward, and the fabric outward. Meanwhile, the Black House operatives and investigators were insulating themselves however they could—Milar was a vivid example of these efforts.

Turning toward the rows of black automobiles, which had people that were familiar to Ardi occasionally darting between them, the captain killed the engine and pulled on his gloves, then his mittens over them.

“Go on, Ard, and good luck,” Milar nodded. “And please try not to blow anything up, or kill anyone, and definitely avoid starting a world war over these two weeks, all right?”

“Agreed,” Ardi nodded.

The captain squinted at him and murmured:

“Every single time—I can never tell if he’s joking or dead serious.”

Ardan, taking his staff and climbing out of the stuffy, heated car into the fresh air, didn’t bother to clarify that he had been dead serious. And not so much because of his partner’s warning, but because of...

The young man looked at his father’s watch. Or rather, he looked at what it concealed beneath its dial: the faintly glinting symbol in the shape of Allane’Eari’s lips.

“...We gave you the ability to walk when you could not, Speaker... Therefore, this winter, when you will be able to walk, you must stand...”

Why did Ardi feel an almost irrational certainty that she had been referring to the Congress? But what interest could a Fae, and even less so a Sidhe, have in yet another gathering of human politicians? Especially since some of them had arrived from across the ocean. If Ardi knew anything about the affairs of the City on the Hill, it was that the Fae had no interest whatsoever in events happening on the far side of the Swallow Ocean.

And also...

His thoughts were interrupted by a short man favoring his right leg who was wearing a typical Second Chancery mask. Come to think of it, everyone currently in the square who served in the Black House was wearing a mask. Even Milar had donned his “winter season” Cat mask. Unlike the metallic one he used in the summer, it was made of leather stretched over a sturdy frame, and padded, by all appearances, with some sort of insulation.

The man who wore no regalia but was carrying an Ertalain staff and a grimoire over a fine winter coat of wolf fur (not government issue, but clearly custom made at great expense. Wolf fur, though it was the warmest in winter, cost more than good sheepskin) that was visible at the cuffs and collar, was wearing a... Beaver mask. Ardi barely stifled a laugh.

“You can laugh, Corporal, but only after you’ve put yours on…” The officer said, mischievous gray sparks glinting through the eye slits of his mask. He opened a belt pouch and produced...

Ardan sighed. Even though it was lacking the characteristic ears, in the contours of its leather, one could easily make out...

“…Mr. Donkey,” the officer concluded smugly.

“It suits you, partner!” Milar laughed from behind him as he headed toward the waiting Alexander Ursky—Bear—and Din Arnson—Wolverine.

“I got the leftovers?” Ardi asked glumly, taking the mask. Steadying his staff, he raised it to his face and fastened its strap at the back of his head. It fit him like a glove and not only warmed his cheeks, but it didn’t even impede his breathing and hardly impaired his field of vision at all.

“How did you guess?” The unfamiliar mage asked.

“Animal and bird masks are only worn in the capital,” Ardan confirmed the mask was secure and returned his staff to his hand, “but even so, there aren’t enough animals and birds for everyone. At least not ones that are easily distinguishable from each other.”

The officer studied him for a moment, then let out a short huff:

“An investigator indeed…” He extended an open hand with fingers that had already begun to redden. The frost was no longer merely biting—it had begun to gradually gnaw at the people who had surrendered to its mercy. “Captain Senior Magister Kazimir Ponskih.”

Ardi had heard the phrase “Senior Magister Ponskih” before, but couldn’t recall what exactly the title and name were connected to. Truthfully, there weren’t that many Senior Magisters (let alone Grand Magisters) in the Empire, so it had most likely come up in some lecture.

“Corporal Ard Egobar,” Ardi introduced himself and answered the firm handshake with one of his own.

Captain Ponskih hurried to hide his hand back inside a glove and fur mitten, while Ardan, out of habit, caught a snowflake. The snowfall had not ceased for nearly three weeks now.

“Why are we bothering with the masks if we just introduced ourselves?” The young man asked while watching the glittering speck melt in his hand.

“So we get used to not taking them off,” the captain answered at once and pointed with his staff toward a group that was considerably more numerous than the rest. “Come along, Corporal... or we can use first names.”

“Whatever suits you.”

“Then you may address me as ‘Mr. Ponskih’ or simply ‘Captain,’ whichever you prefer. And I’ll use your name.” There was neither any snobbery nor any desire to elevate himself above the young man in the Senior Magister’s words, but simply the knowledge that... he was a Senior Magister and a captain. And Ardan was a corporal and a second-year student. Between them lay a vast chasm, and there was no reason whatsoever to throw a golden bridge of familiarity across it just yet. “Per regulations, for the entire duration of the Congress, whether we’re within the bounds of the current assignment or sent on an errand—we do not remove our masks. And all personal effects, aside from those that are necessary for your work, remain outside the scope of your service. For the entire duration of the special assignment, you will be provided with everything you need, Corporal.”

Ardan had noticed that the operatives and investigators who had arrived as reinforcements weren’t carrying any satchels, nor suitcases, nor even any field kit bags.

Captain Ponskih led Ard over to a group of agents, and Ardan recognized some familiar scents among them. Captain Parela, who was in a snow-white, full-length Arctic Fox coat that reached the tops of her fur boots, was wearing... an Arctic Fox mask. And Lieutenant Klementiy, who was in a gray sheepskin coat, was wearing a Polecat mask. Besides them and Senior Magister Ponskih, the group contained two more mages, as well as three people whose hearts were beating far too slowly. So slowly, in fact, that each of them seemed to take two or even three seconds for each beat.

Ardan had heard something like this before.

In mutants.

“Since everyone’s here, let’s load up,” the captain commanded and was the first to climb the running board beneath the canvas canopy of a truck that was puffing smoke and steam.

Ardan watched the mutants move out of pure curiosity. Compared to Lieutenant Kornosskiy, who had been difficult to distinguish from a human, these individuals... Due to how smoothly they ascended the steps, how evenly they breathed, how easily they settled onto the low benches bolted to the plank floor—there was something... unnatural about them. It was as though they were deliberately controlling their bodies so as not to... move faster? And they were dressed nearly as lightly as Ardan himself.

“Glad to see you, Corporal,” Klementiy whispered, and Ardi breathed a small sigh of relief.

If Lieutenant Klementiy was not stammering, that meant that everything was going according to plan. His speech impediment only appeared when he was nervous. As for Captain Parela, she merely swept a haughty glance over Ardi and... silently turned away.

Ardi had no idea what sort of dark history had caused Captain Parela to feel such a vehement hostility toward Speakers and the Aean’Hane, and, to be frank, he didn’t want to know. He had enough worries to deal with already.

He was the last to climb into the truck, and the moment he lowered the flap and fastened the two latches, Captain Ponskih rapped on the iron panel of the truck’s cab.

The engine growled deeply, and they swung around, driving across the square’s cobblestones, and headed toward one of the avenues that led to the Niewa. It seemed like they were going to Saint Vasiliy’s Island.

“For those of you who are here as reinforcements, I’ll provide a brief overview,” the Senior Magister began. “We are billeted at the Prime Minister’s residence. Code name: Loon. In groups of two plus one, we will accompany Loon within his residence, and stand watch at his office and bedroom. When he departs for any events related to the Congress, we will operate as a full team. In the event of contact, we’ll follow standard procedure, and you, Ard, should simply try to run somewhere as far away as possible. Nothing personal.”

Ardan simply nodded. Of course, he knew nothing whatsoever about any “standard procedure,” and, if he’d correctly understood the meaning of the word “contact,” then he would only hinder the operatives rather than help them.

“Any questions pertaining to the substance of what has been outlined?”

Klementiy’s hand went up.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Captain Ponskih, you said ‘plus one.’ Could you explain?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” The Senior Magister cleared his throat and turned back to Ardan. “Given the specific and narrow sphere of Corporal Egobar’s competencies, he is attached to all escort groups by default and will work not in shifts, but from the moment of Loon’s rising until the hour he retires for the night.”

Ardan blinked several times and let out a quick, “Ahgrat.”

“Bless you, Corporal,” Captain Ponskih said sincerely. “I’ll requisition government-issue clothing for you. Illness will not exempt you from serving under these conditions.”

“He didn’t sneeze,” one of the mutants piped up.

She sounded female. And very young.

“No?”

“It’s a curse word in the language of the Fae, Captain. It means... actually, I’d rather not translate.”

An instant later, the truck erupted in harmless but merry laughter. Only Ardan maintained his silence and the dejected expression beneath his mask, which, admittedly, rather aptly reflected his state of mind, as he faced a very long two weeks of service.

The only consolation was that everyone participating in this was entitled to a bonus equal to a full year’s salary.

Sleeping Spirits...