Book II. Chapter 94 - The Congress (Part 4)

Chapter 94

In his time living in the capital, Ardi had seen—both up close and from afar—the boldest of technological creations wrought by human genius in its relentless march toward progress. He had even personally set foot aboard one such creation—an iron colossus that had traversed the sky—and he never wished to find himself there again. But not even in his most daring fantasies, which, admittedly, seldom focused on contraptions of metal... could Ardan have imagined anything like this.

Cleaving through the frozen surface of the Swallows’ Bay with its sharp prow; puffing from five stacks that breathed out dense, black, seemingly factory-grade smog; so wide that even Markov Canal looked like a modest stream beside it; taller than some of the high-rise buildings of the New City—an icebreaker was approaching the Metropolis.

The word “enormous” didn’t describe even a fraction of the scale of this creation. It was the only vessel on the entire planet capable of reaching the Imperial Port of the Metropolis in the dead of winter, despite the hold that the Winter Queen had over it. For thousands of years, the coastline would’ve simply been buried for nearly four months, submitting to the dominion of nature. And then man had come and, with the power of reason, changed the order of things.

In the cordoned-off civilian section of the port, along the broad pier, dozens of automobiles had lined up. They ranged from the cheapest of “Derks” to the stateliest of “Imperium” models—special vehicles used exclusively by dignitaries and their ilk when conducting official business.

Outwardly, they resembled a “Derks,” but one that cost ten times more and had been designed for comfort rather than as a means of getting from place to place.

Ardan, who was one of many hidden behind masks and clad entirely in black, stood with his back to the crowd and his face to the ocean. A hundred meters behind them, beyond the cordon of soldiers deployed to reinforce the Guard Corps, people were shouting. They were waving their hats and handkerchiefs, laughing, smiling, and—predictably enough—camera flashbulbs were sparking. Most of them, in all likelihood, hadn’t come to gawk at the Congres. After all, why would an ordinary worker care for world politics—his concern was how to procure food, clothing, and warmth for his family. No, the icebreaker had attracted this crowd. It was the first of its kind in the world, and the only one so far.

“You can’t deny that the Prime Minister knows how to impress an unprepared man,” Klementiy, who was standing beside him and shifting from foot to foot, whispered.

The General himself was standing ahead of them, near the end of the red carpet already unfurled on the pier in anticipation of the icebreaker’s docking and the arrival of the towering gangways on wheeled platforms.

Ardi had sometimes wondered how exactly the Congress was planning to convene in winter, when the hibernating bay meant that the only way into the Empire was overland. Primarily through Fatia, at that. Neither the Principality of Fatia nor the Empire were in any hurry to let anyone visit their already tense border.

And now, blotting out the sun that had peeked through the clouds with its smokestacks, the answer finally presented itself in all its steel and gleaming-rivet glory. Along the hull was the inscription, “Snow King.” It felt like a rather fitting name for the behemoth.

The icebreaker had picked everyone up at Lintelar, where they had arrived from every corner of the globe, making use of a declaration signed by all the nations guaranteeing unconditional peace for a period of two weeks. Right now, not a single country, under threat of being ostracized from the global community, had the right to exercise its... aggressive claims.

Rumbling with a bellow that was a match for an entire herd of wounded Wanderers, the ship’s horn sounded, and the icebreaker began slowly, almost reluctantly, to decelerate. Ice cracked, smashed against its merciless prow. The slabs of vanquished ice fell to its fangs and claws because the ice hadn’t expected any resistance from the humanity that had long since submitted to its rule.

Ardan watched all of this and felt... almost nothing. Faster and faster, before his own eyes, the world was surrendering itself to the dominion of the human race. And, who knows, perhaps in a few centuries, there would be no place left in this story at all for half of his blood. Just as there was no longer any room for ogres and giants in most of the capital.

Strange thoughts…

But what else could one think about when thousands of tons of metal were moving parallel to them after winning a crushing victory over the elements?

At last, the ship halted, and from the stacks poured not black smoke, but first gray, and then an altogether whitish haze. On the high deck, somewhere around the eighth floor, the first people appeared. They were wearing all sorts of garments, they had different skin colors, their eyes varied in shape, and even the air around them seemed to behave differently.

Ard’s breath caught for an instant. At the celebration of Pavel IV’s coronation, he had seen foreign ambassadors, but because of all the things that had happened, that evening had been almost entirely erased from his memory. All that remained was the ceremony itself, his dance with the Grand Princess, and the Homeless Fae that had been dubbed The Spider. As for the foreigners—Ardan barely remembered them.

The delegations went down dozens of gangways, one after another. Ardan saw the inhabitants of the distant Kingdom of Lan’Duo’Ha in their satin-trimmed furs. They had skin the color of wet gold, hair blacker than night and softer than silk, and narrow, dark eyes that seemed surprisingly calm.

A fair distance from them came people in strict suits and dresses, invariably adorned with copious amber and gold jewelry in their ears and at their necks. Kargaamians. They had gleaming, jet-black skin, were nearly as tall as Ard himself, and their voluminous hairstyles were currently hidden beneath numerous colorful headscarves.

The citizens of the Confederation of Free Cities, the League of Selkado, and the Republic of Castilia arrived as well, but outwardly, setting aside some minor differences in attire, they were almost indistinguishable from the peoples of the western continent. In scientific circles, the prevailing theory was that the human race had originated in the south of the eastern continent and then migrated across the landmass. They’d gone from south to north, changing in appearance under nature’s dominion.

Then, using the Selkado Strait—which froze over in some areas during winter—humans had reached the north. And, as the Sleeping Spirits could attest, Mart Borskov and the numerous fashion journals of Baliero hadn’t at all exaggerated—and might have even understated—the beauty of the northerners.

Down the gangways came women who looked more like sculptors’ dreams made of living marble. They had skin whiter than snow, hair the color of wheat fields, lapis-blue eyes, and bodily proportions that most painters could not have achieved on canvas. As for their companions—every single one of them looked as though he’d come out of a military recruiting poster. They were all stately and perfectly built, with jawlines along which one could draw the straight lines of Star seals. Like the Kargaamians, they were of imposing height and massive musculature. Among them, Ard would have still stood out, but perhaps not so strikingly.

The people of Grainia, Scaldavin, Urdavan, and even the irreconcilable religious fanatics of Uldjingook and Uldjingood had set aside their conflicts of the northern continent and descended onto the soil of the Empire.

Following the theory of the Great Human Dispersal, the islanders followed. They were far more joyful than all the rest combined, acting as though they had arrived not in a foreign country, but their own home, waving to the crowd and chattering merrily amongst themselves as they came down the gangways. Lintelarians, Olikzasians, and Forians. They had copper skin, snow-white smiles, and were wearing clothing that, despite the winter chill, might have caused even the most liberal-minded to consider the benefits of stern and unyielding morality.

Back then, thousands of years ago, before the mages of Urdavan had erected the Isthmus of the Titans, connecting the Northern Continent with the Western Continent, it had been simpler for humans to build boats than to cross the strait where the currents ran so fast they could grind bones to dust.

At last, the aloof, unsociable Tazidahians appeared as well. Their delegation consisted exclusively of men clad in blood-red furs with dyed fox and wolf pelts. They exchanged only a couple of brief nods with the natives of the Kingdom of N’gia, who likewise looked very similar to Imperials. The only real difference was that their winter clothing seemed to be somewhat lighter.

Despite their more northerly location, due to the influence of the Paarlax Field, winters in N’gia were far milder than in Gales... The last to descend were the Fatians, who looked and conducted themselves as though their feet weren’t touching the granite surface of a pier but, at best, frozen manure. And at worst—manure of a rather soft, viscous, and decidedly pungent variety.

Only a handful of nations had, since the Congress’ founding, never attended the event. The nomadic tribes of Armondo hadn’t done so because, in their worldview, the social institution of a “country” simply did not exist.

The religious fanatics of the Enario Theocracy ignored the rest of the world for the simple reason that they considered everyone but themselves to be heretics. Their Inquisition even believed that the world should be incinerated so that, like a phoenix, it might be reborn and inhabited only by the true “children of the Face of Light.” And the government of Taia, after the Mercenaries’ War, had declared the Empire its “enemy until the end of time” and had never mustered the resolve to restore diplomatic relations. Which looked somewhat absurd when one realized that the Principality of Fatia itself had sent representatives.

As for Makingia... No one really knew what was happening there. Even their borders were drawn rather tentatively on maps. Several centuries ago, Kargaam and Lintelar had signed a treaty agreeing not to disturb the inhabitants of the Black Country. This wasn’t referring to their skin color or religion, but the fact that there, in lands closed to the world, dwelt those who... had not merely declined to sign the Al’Zafir Pact, but, on the contrary, were exploring the most forbidden of Star Magic’s domains.

According to ancient Firstborn legends, the Aean’Hane who had succumbed to the Dark Names had been exiled beyond the Great Sea (the Swallow Ocean), where they were supposed to perish. But if one believed modern scholars, they’d established themselves on the territory of modern Makingia instead. And they lived there to this day, in decidedly closed-off societies.

“The desert-dwellers are late as always,” Klementiy exhaled a small cloud, clearly freezing.

From the ocean, driving before it a snow-white blizzard and milky fog, a wind was coming in that, unlike in the city, was not being blunted by various buildings. Even Ard felt a bit chilly, to say nothing of the inhabitants of Al’Zafir.

At last, they also appeared on the deck. Both the men and women were mostly no taller than an Manish, with skin that wasn’t so much dark or swarthy as it was simply kissed by the sun, and dark hair reminiscent of straw. They’d bundled themselves up in such vast quantities of fur that they seemed to have made it their goal to buy up everything available on the richest markets of both continents.

Each delegation was met personally by the Prime Minister, who was accompanied by the Minister of Foreign Affairs—Alexiy Sivirov. A man who had no military rank. Nor any aristocratic titles. He didn’t even have any academic degrees. He wore sturdy, but inexpensive clothing. He had perfectly unremarkable features, an eloquent island of baldness hidden beneath a fur hat, and... an absolutely indifferent gaze lurking behind the thick lenses of cheap, horn-rimmed glasses.

As Bazhen and Boris had put it, Minister Alexiy Sivirov was simultaneously the most harmless and the most terrifying person in the cabinet, apart from Duke-General Zakrovsky himself.

“They’re shaking hands over there while my ass is about to freeze off.”

“Stop whining, Klementiy,” Captain Parela hissed at her subordinate and colleague. Her own lips had already turned blue.

Each delegation approached the Prime Minister and the Minister of Foreign Affairs. They exchanged handshakes or, occasionally, other greeting rituals that were customary in the country from which the diplomats hailed. Then, once they were done with their procedural smiles and generic remarks, the delegations made for the veritable convoy of “Derks” and “Imperium” cars, settled into them, and departed with a “Derks” escort up the road, followed in turn by the scarlet vehicles of the guards.

The entire route from the Imperial Port to the Crown Hotel, which was located on the street right next to Parliament, had been cordoned off by the military. Neither vehicles nor pedestrians were allowed to go there. This still didn’t stop people with plenty of curiosity and no small amount of free time from attempting to observe, even if just from behind the barricades, the unfolding event. And while it wasn’t quite as interesting as the world’s first icebreaker, it was still something to see.

Last to approach the ministers were the inhabitants of the distant desert. Ardi and the rest were going to escort them. At the head of the delegation was an elderly man who looked remarkably similar to an Manish, apart from his snow-white curls, the fact that both of his ears jangled with numerous earrings, and the presence of a belly so voluminous that it preceded its owner by several seconds. Which, to Ardan’s surprise, did not spoil the man’s appearance at all. If anything, it was the opposite—looking thin would have been entirely inappropriate for this gentleman.

The only thing that caught Ardi’s eye was a small irregularity. While shaking hands with the Prime Minister and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and then exchanging the greeting that was customary in the desert (the desert natives would press their index, middle and ring fingers to their forehead first, then to their lips, and then direct them toward the person they were greeting) with them, he kept glancing around like he was concerned. This was probably because he was unaccustomed to the sight of snow, ice and colossal ships.

The ministers, together with the head of the Al’Zafir delegation, hurried to the government automobiles, while the members of their retinue distributed themselves at a more leisurely pace amongst the remaining “Derks.”

“See you tonight,” Klementiy waved and, together with one of the women whose face was hidden behind fabric jingling with gold discs, disappeared inside his assigned vehicle.

Ard, meanwhile, in the company of a taciturn mutant from another unit and a driver who had already smoked half his pack, found himself face to face with...

“Sands and Temples! You must have started communing with birds in your childhood, my Galessian friend,” said the man who stood before them, wrapped in heavy furs that did nothing to stop his teeth from chattering.

He was perhaps a year older than Ardi, with a face caressed by desert winds and, in all likelihood, by unending female attention as well. He also had wavy black hair, naturally arched eyebrows, and brown eyes that were so bright they were almost gold.

Ardi was not good at judging male beauty, but even he felt like this man had surpassed the northerners in outward grace. Only where their beauty appeared cold, aloof, and even dangerous, in this case, the desert native’s mere appearance provoked... a smile. A sincere and wide, happy grin. It was almost as though an endless holiday had come to the city.

“Please, sir,” Ardan, just like in that morning’s rehearsal, opened the door of... a “Derks” that had been scrubbed and scoured with considerable effort. One did not want to imagine who had been transported in this car before today. The desert native climbed in with clearly theatrical groaning.

Ardan, after settling in beside the man, nodded to the driver, who waited for his turn to merge with the enormous motorcade.

“Call me Mani,” the gentleman introduced himself right away for some reason, and extended his hand.

Ardi sighed inwardly. He had hoped to spend the next forty minutes in silence and peace. But, apparently, Mr. Mani had his own ideas about how one should conduct oneself on the way to the Crown Hotel. According to tradition, the Congress’ guests were not housed in their embassies (the reasoning being that it harmed the spirit of unity, or something to that effect). And since the Al’Zafir embassy, relative to the port, was on the other end of the city, no one there was going to complain about it.

“I’m...” Ard shook the unexpectedly firm and calloused hand, then hesitated briefly. “To be honest...”

There was no protocol for what exactly he was supposed to do in a situation like this. On the one hand, refusing to show a member of a foreign diplomatic party basic courtesy was more than absurd; on the other, Ardan was on duty.

“Oh, Sands and Temples, forgive me, you who walk among the clouds,” Mr. Mani caught himself and apologized with genuine sincerity, his manner of speech somehow... robbing Professor an Manish of a certain uniqueness. Apparently, in the desert, everyone spoke with elaborate flourishes, but in the capital of the Empire, such a thing sounded rather extravagant. “In my astonishment at your truly magnificent city—even if it is rather... brisk—I have placed you in an awkward position. I in no way intended to make you feel uncomfortable, not even for a brief instant, akin to the moment the Angels allowed our meeting to occur.”

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Coming from most aristocrats (and there could be no doubt that Mani was connected to the desert aristocracy), such a declaration would have sounded like a procedural, bureaucratic, non-binding apology. But Ardan could hear how Mani’s heart had stumbled and how his breathing had grown deeper and more resonant. Not because he was lying, but because he was nervous.

Ard likely did something very foolish then. Or perhaps it was even a crime, given the degree of reproach with which the driver and the mutant operative looked at him. But there was something about this strange man who was barely older than Ardan that compelled him to be honest. He simply didn’t want to lie.

“Ard,” the young man introduced himself. “Ard Egobar.”

Mr. Mani gazed silently at him for a moment, then pressed his fingers to his forehead, then his lips, and said:

“Eshfashim aea hatfa,” adding: “Your mask, Mr. Egobar, does not lie in the slightest.”

Given that Ardi was wearing the face of a donkey—an animal celebrated in Galesian folklore for its stubbornness and... stupidity—he assumed that he had made the wrong call.

“And once more, falling prostrate, I beg your forgiveness for my rash and foolish tongue, which is like a saber without a master,” Mr. Mani nervously smoothed his hair. “In the legends of my people, donkeys are accorded a special place, Mr. Egobar. For it was upon its back that the Great Sage, the First among the First, the Worthiest among the Worthy, the Prophet”—Mr. Mani blessed himself with the symbol of the Face of Light—“rode from oasis to oasis, from city to city, sharing the wisdom of the Light. He rode upon a simple donkey, one bereft of the gifts that nature had bestowed upon camels. It endured heat and thirst. Miles of dunes and stones. It accompanied the Prophet until his very last day, when the spark of the Great Sage was taken to the Heavens, returning him to his Creator.”

Mr. Mani made the sacred sign once more. Perhaps out of all the countries on the planet, the warmest relations the Empire enjoyed were precisely with Al’Zafir. And while some might point to the Island Union of Lintelar–Foria–Olikzasia instead, those relations were born of mutual benefit.

As for the sands... The two nations—one of the smallest and the largest—were bound by religion. The Al’Zafir desert belonged to the same denomination of the Church of the Face of Light as the Empire of the New Monarchy. This did not translate into unique diplomatic or trade relations, but rather, into a sense of distant kinship. Perhaps that was why, among all the other nations, it was the desert natives who felt most at home in the Empire.

Faruh Amani of Evergale and Talis an Manish of the Metropolis were living examples of this.

“To be honest, Mr. Mani,” Ardi smiled, though it was invisible beneath his mask, “after such high praise, I find it somewhat easier to wear this mask.”

“But of course, Mr. Egobar!” The man laughed. “We all wear masks, and the only question is how well we inhabit them. But the main thing, as my Teacher used to say—may the sands beneath him be cool and the sky merciful—is to not forget who exactly is hiding beneath it.”

Mani spoke easily and freely, with a slightly sibilant accent. Because he’d arrived from the other end of the planet, he seemed to Ardi like a visitor from another world. Or perhaps another galaxy. Just like in Tess’ books. Perhaps that was why, given how much ordinary citizens now traveled between nations, such books had come into being? The mind simply could not encompass the scale, the diversity, and the splendor of their world. It seemed like, on a single stone fragment hurtling through the boundless expanses of the universe, such proximity was simply impossible.

“Oh, Mr. Egobar, whose eyes shine brighter than the resin-stones of Kagillur, I can see in your gaze a thought rather distant from our mortal bodies and base concerns,” Mr. Mani made a light gesture that Ardan had already seen from Professor an Manish. “And my experience among the loveliest creations of the Face of Light, whose scent is sweeter than paradise and whose voices are softer than song, tells me that you are thinking of a woman. But not one you can see—rather, the one who has captured your heart.”

Mr. Mani touched his chest. And once again, Ardi didn’t detect even the slightest attempt to pry, to investigate, or to use anything against him in the strange gentleman’s words. It was quite the opposite, in fact—never in his life had Ardan encountered a person who was so open, so curious, and so sincere.

That was why Ardan pulled out his wallet and produced a miniature black-and-white photograph.

“Her name is Tess,” he introduced his fiancée.

“And you are...”

“Getting married soon,” Ardan nodded. “In two weeks. Right after the Congress.”

“Then, Mr. Egobar, let us drink wine and raise the most ringing and heartfelt of toasts!” Mr. Mani reached downward without looking. It seemed to be a habit of his. He really appeared to be expecting a mini-bar to materialize between the seats. Such a luxury was found only in the most opulent and expensive automobiles, however. “Oh, Sands and Temples... Alas, my dear Egobar, whose heart is as easy and pleasant as a sea breeze in sweltering heat. But know that in my mind, I have just now consumed the most robust of wines in honor of your... nashaas... what’s the word... ah yes—wedding!”

And then he smiled. Sincerely and openly. He was such a strange man from a strange country… Mr. Mani wanted to say something more, but then they turned onto Niewa Avenue, and the desert native quite literally pressed his face to the glass.

“Oh, Sands and Temples! My father, may the Eternal Angels be merciful to him, did not exaggerate! I have never seen houses more beautiful and more akin to palaces than these palaces that are pretending to be houses, my dear Egobar!” They were racing alongside the multicolored facades, and Ardan entirely understood and shared the sighs of admiration. Even after living for nearly two years in the capital, the young man had still not grown accustomed to the beauty that the Galessians had constructed after casting off the Firstborn yoke. It was almost as though they’d been trying to pay tribute to all their fallen brothers and sisters. “Quick now, Mr. Egobar, tell me everything you can about these palaces!”

They spent the remainder of the journey discussing architecture and indulging in idle, non-binding chatter. And, to his surprise, Ardan discovered that he was somewhat dismayed when the automobile turned past the cordon and they stopped before an ostentatious building.

Everything that Parliament lacked in architectural adornment, the Crown Hotel more than made up for. It looked very nearly as sumptuous and airy—despite all its extravagance—as the Palace of the Kings of the Past. Even the window frames seemed like the work of the finest sculptors, and the sculptures on the columns themselves were like living portraits made by the greatest painters.

Exiting the automobile and covering his hair with a fur hat, Mr. Mani once again could not contain an exclamation of admiration. Meanwhile, Ardi, after coming to his senses, was already picturing himself... somewhere in the company of Yonatan Kornosskiy.

Hurrying toward them at a rather brisk pace and with decidedly grim expressions were... Prime Minister Zakrovsky, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and the head of the Al’Zafir delegation. Though, perhaps he was not quite the head...

“Alfair Nashari!” The portly gentleman exclaimed and, bowing... kissed the rings on Mr. Mani’s fingers. “Nah’fatim sha-”

“Oh, stop it, Teacher,” Mr. Mani interrupted. “Let us take this splendid opportunity to polish our Galessian!”

“Oh, by the First Star of the Firmament!” The portly man exclaimed and straightened. “Enough of your pranks! You promised to ride with me!”

“And, beneficent Teacher, whose wisdom cannot be contained even in his boundless belly,” Mr. Mani bowed, “I merely mixed up the automobiles. They are all black, after all... or perhaps I simply wanted a bit of adventure—we did, after all, just spend two months at sea.”

Mr. Mani turned to Ard and, just as he had throughout the last half-hour, smiled broadly at him.

“My name is el’al’Mashan’an’Ani,” he introduced himself. “Mani is what my family, my Teacher, and my friends call me. And now, my dear... Mr. Donkey, I want you to know that, in a distant land, among the Sands and ancient Temples, you have a good and faithful friend. And with the same passion with which you presented your homeland to me, may the Eternal Angels will it, I dare to hope that, someday, I shall present mine to you as well. For, as they say among the dunes and stones, nazir ata dalashim, which translates to...”

Mr. Mani held a lengthy pause.

“Friendship is like the reflection in a mirror,” Ardan finished for the crown prince, since he’d already heard these words from Faruh Amani.

The crown prince pressed three fingers to his forehead, then to his lips, delivered courtly nods to the ministers, and, throwing an arm around his teacher’s shoulders, laughing and guffawing, led him toward the hotel:

“Quickly now, Teacher, let us sample the local spirits! Father always said that the Galessians know a thing or two about drink!”

Ardan watched the strange man depart. Perhaps it was Captain Aloaeiol’s doing, or perhaps it was the Winter, but now Ardan understood why the crown prince’s accent had seemed akin to a rustling to him. It was because that was precisely how, to the right ear, the wings of a free bird locked in a cage sounded.

* * *

Ardi watched as, on the far side of the frozen river, a young couple strolled. The man was tall for a Galessian, in a brown winter coat, and a girl with black hair was wearing a white puffer jacket, her hand resting on the crook of his elbow. They barely spoke, only occasionally glancing at each other and smiling. They were so generously bestowing upon their other half the warmth that had accumulated beneath their furs, and even beneath their skin and muscle, right beside their heart.

Snow swirled around them. Glittering in the searchlights that ringed the hotel and Parliament building, it sparkled and danced, descending to the earth most reluctantly.

In the houses, lights glowed. Soft and cozy. While the frost scraped its claws against the glass and sank its fangs into the frost-encrusted, icicle-laden reveals, people huddled in their apartments. They stuck close to radiators or hearths, if the newest expression of technological progress had not yet reached their home.

Ardi turned to a streetlamp. It was flickering. Sometimes, it did so faster and faster, and sometimes slowly and reluctantly. It was like a weary old man shuffling somewhere, measuring out the memories of the past few decades of his life with his steps.

The young man exhaled a cloud of vapor. This dense little cloud rose a touch higher and immediately dissolved against the black, impenetrable sky.

Ardi smiled.

On nights like these, which reminded him of his native Alcade, he missed the stars especially.

“I can’t see you smiling, Donkey, but I swear it on my frozen-through backside—that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

A man in a Vole mask approached Ardi. His build could have made even Alexander Ursky look frail by comparison, but he still kept rubbing his fuzzy mittens together. Then he would tuck them into his armpits, pressing them tight to his body. The thermometer had already dropped below minus twenty-five.

The city had been blanketed by a milky fog that crept along the deserted streets and silenced roads. The frost was so severe that even the trams had not been sent out from the depot, and most automobiles, in addition to the snowdrifts that had buried them, had acquired thick covers shielding their engines.

“The forecasters say that this is the coldest night in the last quarter of a century,” Vole shifted from foot to foot. He was wearing several layers of clothing and what seemed like multiple fur wraps. “And, naturally, tonight of all nights, we’re standing watch for the benefit of... those people.”

Vole jerked his head toward the frost-decorated, ice-caked windows of the Crown Hotel, which had been painted by the brush of the winter wind. At that moment, nearly five dozen Cloaks were keeping watch around the building. And all roads, pedestrian sidewalks, and Government Square in general had been cordoned off by the military and the Guard Corps. Only...

“I envy the Shrimps,” Vole muttered, using the street slang that mocked the guards based on their scarlet uniforms. “They’re with the soldiers in the trucks. At least it’s a little warmer there.”

Ardan said nothing. He could feel the frost pricking his fingers, nose and cheeks slightly, but nothing more. If anything, the young man might not have minded if it grew colder still. Breathing had suddenly become so easy and free.

The eternal companions of the capital—the factory smog, the stench of diesel and fuel oil, and the taste of iron on one’s tongue—had tucked their tails and fled from the Queen striding across the ancient stones. The silk of her icy gown trailed behind her in an icy haze, and the staff she’d carved from the Snow Tree kept striking the ice with a crunch.

“How is it that you, Mr. Mage, ended up out here with us simple mortals?” Pulling his hands away from his armpits, Vole lifted his mask slightly and rubbed his face. Amusingly, if not for their masks, the operatives would likely have suffered from frostbite on their faces.

Instead of answering him, Ardan sighed and shook his head. He didn’t particularly wish to recall the sharply-changed demeanor of Captain Ponskih. Having shed every trace of his friendly composure, the Senior Magister had summoned Ardi the moment they’d returned to the Prime Minister’s residence.

For roughly a quarter of an hour, without faltering once, Captain Ponskih had dressed down his temporary subordinate. Employing less than pleasant turns of phrase, he’d lamented that, in the Cloaks division, discipline had gone entirely to hell. He’d also told him that he was not Captain Pnev and would not let such things slide.

For the first several minutes, Ardan had tried to find an opening to interject and explain that he hadn’t had even the slightest opportunity to identify the crown prince of the Holy Emirates, but... he’d waved it off. Mentally, of course.

Last night, Captain Ponskih hadn’t really been demonstrating his personal animosity toward Ardi. He had simply found an open valve to release the steam that had built up in his head. Unfortunately, the pressure relief valve had turned out to be Ardan.

In the end, given that the Prime Minister intended to spend the entire day before the Congress at his residence (where he would receive those who wished to approach him with... unofficial conversations, so to speak), Ard had been dispatched to reinforce the hotel’s security.

And, as Vole had observed, the young man was the only bearer of a staff out here. The entire building was protected by a truly titanic stationary shield powered by an entire network of Pink Star generators, and he wondered how effective the mages of the Black House and the Army would be within its boundaries. Even so, they got to stay inside.

Such was the dream of the Sleeping Spirits…

“It worked out that way,” Ardan answered curtly.

Vole studied him for a moment and whistled.

“You must have really messed things up to literally get left out in the cold like this.”

Did it count as “messing things up” if a boredom-stricken, good-natured heir to the ruling family of the desert had decided to sit in precisely his automobile? Perhaps. But even if Ardan had read the political columns of the Imperial Herald and other newspapers, it was likely that he still wouldn’t have recognized el’al’Mashan’an’Ani on sight.

Vole wanted to say something more, but just then, the hotel’s tower clock—its upper floors resembled a castle from the end of the pre-gunpowder era—indicated that it was midnight.

“Let’s move, Donkey. I’d rather not suffer your fate. One night like this will last me the next several years.”

Vole pointed Ard toward an operative standing twenty meters away. Along with the clock’s hands, the operatives would rotate as well. Every hour, on the hour, they rotated positions. Why? Ardan had no idea. Nor did he care enough to ask about it.

He was glad to spend the evening in the fresh air, and the following day, instead of joining the morning security inspection of the estate—he’d be able to take a nap. In Ardan’s estimation, this was an excellent trade.

Vole had actually rotated a minute early, which, if he were reported, would earn the operative a second night of watch duty. Leaving him behind, Ardan walked a few meters and took his position at the building’s corner. He was now practically flush with the embankment. In the snow, the iced-over footprints of someone else’s boots were still visible.

The operative, looking more like a cat due to being so puffed up from the cold, waddled onward through the snow, whispering quiet prayers of gratitude to the Eternal Angels that he hadn’t been forced to stand in the draft all night.

The spot where Ard now stood was indeed windier than the rest.

The young man turned back to the embankment, but the sweet couple had long since vanished, and the lights in the windows had dimmed slightly. The citizens, weary from the day that had just passed, were turning in for the night. And, perhaps only a little, Ardan envi-

“Strangers,” came a barely discernible whisper.

Ardi spun sharply and thrust his staff out before him, simultaneously opening his grimoire to the section on healing seals. But all his narrowed eyes could see was the curtained first-floor window of the hotel.

“Hey, Donkey!” Vole’s shout drifted over. It had instantly lost all its plaintiveness and sounded decidedly... steely now. “Something happen?!”

Ardan continued scanning his surroundings but noticed nothing suspicious.

“I slipped,” Ardi answered.

Vole looked at him for a moment, simply said “Mages!” and returned to surveying his section.

Ardi, meanwhile, could not shake the feeling that he was not alone.

“There,” the whisper came again, and a gust of cold wind tore at the back of Ard’s cloak, pulling his overgrown hair toward... the hotel roof. It was as though the building itself were speaking to him? The hotel building. And the neighboring building, too. Even the granite embankment, like a kindly old woman, was trying to help him somehow.

It was nonsense.

And thoughts for tomorrow…

Ardan, half-closing his eyes, looked up. Several shadows flickered on the parapet and vanished at once. The young man was about to call out to Vole when his nose caught a thin, barely-perceptible scent of sulfur.

“But where could the demons or Homeless have come from?” Ardan whispered.

His memory helpfully supplied the answer:

“...I can endure it now, Speaker. I can hide among the humans. I can speak their language... I can do many things. We can do many things. The Harvest is nigh...”

“More than you can imagine, mortal. We wait… And there is little waiting left. Soon, our Master will fulfill his grand design. Soon, the Harvest shall come!”

Ardan didn’t take his eyes off the roof. The most reasonable course of action would have been to raise the alarm, but... if these were truly Homeless Fae or creatures of the Puppeteers, the alarm would simply scare them off.

He could either take a risk in order to obtain another clue that might help him solve the complex puzzle, or act according to logic and protocol. What if one of his and Milar’s theories had proven correct, and the Puppeteers were planning to attack the Congress?

Ardi gritted his teeth.

“Milar won’t approve,” the young man exhaled.

He extended his hand toward the frozen Niewa and allowed his Will and thoughts to unfurl like a cold mantle from his fingertips. He wrapped himself in the cold creak of ice luxuriating in the frost; he wandered among the short, swift flashes of drifting snowflakes; he roamed between the stones trembling with cold.

The fragment of the Name of Ice and Snow came to him faster than ever before. It didn’t even feel like a third hand, but like an inseparable part of… the very essence of what made him Ardi. It was as though he had always known that he need only will it, need only blow upon the tip of his staff, and from it would burst a dense stream of whitish fog that the frost—ever eager to paint—had adorned everything it could touch with.

“Please come back, summer,” Vole shivered as he pleaded.

And Ardan kept blowing until the entire square was submerged in a milky haze within which one couldn’t see past their own arm. The cold grew sharper.

Ard, dropping into a crouch, pressed his hand to the snow-covered ground. It felt like an extension of his thoughts and imagination, and in this particular fantasy, Ardan was climbing the trunk of his native Alcade pine.

A moment later, he was clinging to icy branches glittering inside a snowy whirlwind that lifted the young man several dozen meters into the air. Ardan calmly stepped onto the hotel’s cornice, and behind him, the blizzard scattered the ice tree that had existed for only a second.

Sensing the boundary of the stationary shield that was humming inside the stone beneath his feet, Ard sniffed. The scent of sulfur led him onward, and the young man hurried along the trail. Passing several ventilation pipes that were letting out steam, Ardan approached a small enclosure with an iron door that locked from the inside. And until recently, it had indeed been locked.

Only the telltale marks in the snow and the fractured ice on its panels and frame suggested that it had been opened not long ago. And the most astonishing thing was that Ardan could find no other footprints in the snow that blanketed the gently-sloping roof.

For a second, Ard wrestled with the urge to cast Orlovsky’s Shield, but he didn’t dare risk it due to the proximity of the stationary shield protecting the hotel. His signal medallion wasn’t working, either—the entire Government Square was humming with protective magic.

Right now, only representatives of the Army, the Black House, and the personal guards of the delegates were permitted to cast spells in the area.

Maintaining his connection to the shard of the Name, Ardan opened the door and peered into the darkness. In gray silhouettes, a staircase surfaced, then pieces of furniture, pipes, and everything else that could be found in this utility space.

The scent of sulfur wound like a ribbon into the depths of the murk.

Ard went down the staircase carefully, and the moment the door closed above his head and his boot heel touched the floor, he heard a quiet, brief thud.

The thud of a living heart.

In the murky, gray tones of a Matabar half-blood’s vision, Ardan made out a man curled up on the floor. His fur coat was torn, and he was still attempting to push his own intestines back inside his gutted belly. A pool of black blood had spread across the floor, and clouds of fog that were the same grim color were escaping from his lips.

In a hotel where ambassadors and foreign ministers from all across the world had gathered, lying in a pool of his own blood, twitching in the throes of death, his belly slit open and his throat slashed, lay a Tazidahian mutant.