Matabar-Chapter 70 - 69 - What if...

"Thus, determining the depth, length, and width of even the most trivial cut by relying solely on one's own eyes or makeshift tools is hardly convenient," Professor Lea said as she pushed her wheelchair, rolling in front of the blackboard until she stopped near the edge. With some effort (which she tried to hide), she lifted her pointer and tapped it against a rather intricate seal design. "For that purpose, about twenty-five years ago, this seal was developed… Incidentally," Lea added, her masked face catching the light as she swept her gaze across the audience of several groups from the Engineering and General Knowledge Faculties, "I believe I'll combine our lecture with Professor Listov's domain. Can anyone guess what spurred the invention of this seal that gave such a significant boost to the healing branch of Star Magic?"

A few hands shot up. Ardan had an inkling himself, but as before, he felt little desire to volunteer an answer. And after what had happened with Kerimov… Well, this was the third day since Ardan had returned to attending classes at the Grand. Thanks to Bazhen, there had been no formal grievances brought against him. He'd only had to write an explanation for the deans of both the General and Military Faculties, and that was all.

As for the university's residents, the situation there had proven to be more complicated. On the one hand, the professors — especially Convel and an Manish — still treated Ardi with the same warmth and attentiveness as before. But the students, including those who, not long ago, had crowded around Ardan during lunch breaks, asking for help with their assignments, now carefully avoided him. Whenever they saw Ardi, they lowered their gazes, stepped aside, and acted as though he simply didn't exist.

In other words, everything had reverted to how things had been at the beginning of the academic year. Naturally, this current state of affairs would, in time, soften, and endless lines of petitioners would once again start to trail after Ardan. But that would come later. Not now.

Truth be told, the young man felt a certain kind of relief at that. At last, here was his long-awaited peace and the opportunity to immerse himself in his own research. In reality, though, the medallion in his pants pocket — pants so heavily patched they bordered on indecent — kept distracting him from that work.

His encounter with the vampires four days ago had left a deep impression on Ardi. And, regrettably, it had cost him yet another round of repair work on his wardrobe.

"Yes, Miss Eveless," Lea said with as much of a nod as her thick collar of bandages would allow.

An elven woman, smoothing the folds of her exquisite, emerald silk gown lined with the warm wool of the Winged Vicuna (Ardan's mother had once mentioned that a gram of that Ley beast's materials cost ten exes) rose gracefully to her feet. Keeping her chin perfectly level to the floor, she answered in a precise, almost dry tone:

"During the Small War on the border with Fatia, which is better known as the Fatian Massacre, the number of shrapnel wounds inflicted by artillery exceeded the number of bullet and blade injuries from bayonets and sabers for the first time in the history of warfare." Her voice held no trace of emotion. "Doctors and healers could not cope with the influx. The number of war invalids who were subjected to amputation instead of treatment rose steadily. This trend created a need that researchers answered by inventing the Elissaar Calculation Healing Seal."

"Correct, thank you," Lea replied, inclining her head almost imperceptibly.

Eveless lowered herself back into her seat with the same regal air she had shown while standing up.

"Grand Magister Elissaar — who received his title for this research — devised, in the midst of that growing conflict, a seal capable of calculating up to forty-six wound parameters. That discovery reduced the number of amputations and fatalities by nearly three and a half times," the professor continued. Swathed in her cloak, wearing bandages, gloves, and a mask, she wheeled herself over to the steel table upon which lay a cadaver.

This was a corpse that had not been buried and had been given instead to the university for research — a long-standing practice that always provoked protests from both the Church and northerners alike. Such "instruments" were used to test and demonstrate healing seals. Admittedly, these seals had no effect on a cadaver, but as visual aids, they worked just fine.

Lea touched the staff leaning against the table, invoking a three-Star seal. An incredibly complex diagram materialized beneath her chair, and in less than the span of a heartbeat, the corpse — already bearing numerous incisions, wounds and fractures — was covered by a whitish film that looked much like a sheet woven from the finest, shimmering spider silk.

Then, after that ghostly shroud vanished, the quill pen resting on a stand beside the cadaver rose and hovered over a notebook page. After dipping its metal tip into the inkwell, it set to work with brisk determination, leaving behind columns of runic symbols describing the nature of the wounds: depth, extent, the damaged organs, and so on.

"This relates to your question, Mr. Trizovsky," Lea said, turning to one of the Engineering students. "About the possibility of adapting healing arts to field conditions."

"But in the seal you've just demonstrated," the persistent, frowning engineer who was sporting the "bowl cut" popular in working-class neighborhoods continued, "there are four Red Star rays, three Green, and two Blue. The energy consumption of such a construct is enormous. Not to mention that only Blue Star mages can use it, and they make up less than thirty-two percent of all Star Mages."

"Precisely," Lea agreed with his assessment. "That's why Elissaar's seal is used only in cases where it's impossible to determine wound parameters by other means."

"Wouldn't it be simpler to just add arrays for calculating parameters to each healing spell?" Trizovsky pressed on. Despite his somewhat meagre four Red Star rays, he was known for his lively mind and often competed with Ardan in solving problems as quickly as possible. "If we made the seal composite in effect, we could first collect the wound parameters and then feed them into the healing structure. That might produce a result that's comparable."

"You can discuss the finer points of Magical Engineering with — if I recall correctly — Professor Convel, Mr. Trizovsky. Correct me if I'm mistaken when it comes to who teaches your engineering course. As for our session, it's nearly over," Lea remarked, looking toward the clock that was on the far wall behind the students, so the ticking hands wouldn't distract them from the lesson. "As always, the lecture materials are on the board, along with the recommended list of tasks for your independent study. That's all for today. You're free to go."

The students began to gather their things. They closed their grimoires and hooked them back onto their chains, packed their notebooks into bags, carefully sealed their inkwells, and returned their quills to the wooden cases where they also kept their dividers, rulers, pencils, and other tools.

Ardi had always wanted to buy himself a set like that. In place of a divider (fourteen exes and seventy kso), he employed a spool of thread, using it alongside a paper measuring tape he'd purchased for next to nothing at a flea market. That same tape also served as his ruler (these normally cost two exes and thirty-six kso). As for a proper pencil case… Well, all of Ardi's tools could fit into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Of course, the Cloaks had paid him his salary, and the University had given him his stipend (Ard had missed out on receiving a higher stipend by only a few points this time), but once he thought about the prices in the Spell Market, it became obvious he didn't have nearly enough money.

Especially now, when his expenditures included his dates with Tess. Following the advice of his father, his mother, and even Sheriff Kelly, Ardan simply could not allow his still-not-quite-sure-what-their-relationship-was companion to pay for herself, let alone for both of them — Spirits forbid.

Two tickets to a museum — minus six kso. Dance lessons — another ten kso. A dinner for two at "Bruce's," and that was without either of them drinking, cost nearly forty kso. Theater performances, the opera, concerts, the cinema — those were out of the question entirely, given their outrageous prices. But even with such a modest list of activities, he could easily spend more than half an ex in one go.

The Metropolis was positively insane if these prices were any indication. It was no wonder that rumors had been floating around since Pavel's coronation that, on the day the underground tram lines opened, the Emperor would make some bold announcement concerning a fresh addition to his infamous financial reform — the one that had exempted certain segments of the population from taxes.

"Mr. Egobar," Lea called out. "Would you mind staying behind for a moment, please?"

Ardan, who was nearly out the door, halted. He habitually scratched the back of his head with his staff, then returned to the lectern. The professor was slowly flipping through a stack of exam papers, pulling out Ardan's seal diagram.

Once the last student shut the door behind him, the professor, holding the diagram's edges in her gloved fingers, tapped one of its components. The exam task had required them to modify a healing seal designed to soothe skin irritation caused by contact of the epidermis with an allergen.

It had been quite fortunate timing, since Ardan still hadn't managed to make a trip to the district of the Firstborn. Only there could he buy the plants, roots, and other ingredients he needed to make the salve he had promised Milar.

"Is there a problem with the seal, madam?" Ardan asked, surprised. After all, Lea had given him nearly the highest grade possible.

"It's outstanding, Ard," Professor Lea replied, her voice betraying a hint of pride beneath her mask. "I didn't give you the top mark only because I know you can do better."

"Then I'm not quite sure-"

"Look here," she said, tapping her finger a few times on one element of the drawing. "In the free static array, you used a degrading runic link to-"

"Provide a numbing effect while the damaged top layer of the epidermis is being cut away," Ardan blurted out before he could stop himself.

The single eye of the professor, hidden behind her mask, gleamed with a triumphant light.

"I won't even bother to ask, Mr. Egobar, by what means or with what Angels' blessings you've managed to begin studying the runic links covered in third-year classes. But the fact remains," she tapped several runes in the array a third time, "that this little set here..."

Ard tried to keep his face carefully neutral. Since igniting his Green Star, he truly had been studying runic links. Put simply, he was learning how runes bound together inside an array interacted.

There were four main types. The most prevalent — and thus found in nearly every diagram — was the direct type, where runes simply joined like the threads of a weave to fulfill a shared function. Then came the reversible type, in which one rune inverted the properties of the rune linked to it, reducing but not nullifying that rune's effect.

You might see such a rune, for instance, in certain components of the Ice Flowers — the spell Ardan had used to defeat the vampire. There, the runes of density were reversible so that the flowers would remain fragile, yet still hold enough density to exist at all.

After that came the third type, the progressive runic link. As the name implied, both runes reinforced each other's properties. In that same Ice Flowers spell, in the second array responsible for the effect that followed the trap's activation, the runes of the Elemental school had what one might call a complete kinship. In other words, they would fuse into a single structure that allowed the spell to make the most of the energy invested in it.

Lastly, there was the fourth and most difficult type, rarely used because it demanded lengthy, complex calculations — an error in which might yield unpredictable results: the degrading type.

It somewhat resembled the reversible link, but with one crucial difference: here, one rune completely suppressed the properties of the rune it was linked to, though in doing so, it introduced slight changes to its own properties as well.

Take the seal Ardan had — unthinkingly, out of sheer enthusiasm — submitted to Professor Lea. He'd tied the runes responsible for "incision" and "numbing" together via a degrading link. Why? First, because it made the spell less costly, as the direct link was the most ravenous when it came to resources, whereas the degrading link was less demanding.

Second, it lent the seal a more elegant final form. With a direct link, the patient would still feel a flash of pain the instant the incision was made, however fleeting. But this way, the cut would be no more noticeable than a feather's touch — and it would cost less Ley to boot.

There was only one snag…

"I've been reading some of Professor Convel's supplemental texts," Ardan tried to deflect, using Skusty's teachings to lie without actually uttering an untruth. "There's a good deal in there about runic links, so I decided to explore them a bit, on the surface level."

"On the surface level? Enough to fully calculate..." Professor Lea scrutinized the diagram. "Sixteen runic interconnections? Meanwhile, for the third-year second-semester exams, Convel only requires them to manage ten."

"I may have gotten carried away," Ardi mumbled, once again scratching the back of his head with the tip of his staff. "I was away from the University for nearly a month. That's a long time to catch up."

"Enough time to somehow locate and study the structural principles of runic links that Grand Magister Talia used in her repellent creations?" The single eye behind Lea's matte mask glinted ominously.

Ardan strove to appear as though he had no idea what she meant. The truth was that he had indeed continued studying the seals of the Staff of Demons, and in the process, he had stumbled upon a fascinating approach to building degrading links. With it, Lady Talia had not only cut the cost of her seals, but had seemingly fused two runes into one. What's more, she'd managed to overlay one runic link atop another, constructing a sort of array within… another array. The resulting structures were so complex that Ardan couldn't even figure out where to begin. He was unable to start understanding them, let alone finding a way to study them systematically.

"Grand Magister Talia?" Ardi repeated, feigning a concerted effort to recall the name. "Professor Listov mentioned her in passing during a lecture about the final days of the War of the Birth of the Empire."

Again, not a single word of that was a lie.

Professor Lea slowly pulled back, then leaned wearily against the padded seat of her wheelchair.

"I imagine you know how I ended up... like this, Mr. Egobar."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Ardan made no attempt to deny it. "I do," he admitted.

"Yes... Sometimes, I think the Grand is built not from stone and concrete, but from the whispers that permeate these walls," Lea murmured, removing the wig from her head and revealing a bandage-wrapped scalp yellowed by the constant application of salves. "But very few know, Mr. Egobar, that when we were stranded on that cursed island and found ourselves in the midst of the Dead Lands, we encountered not just mutants and chimeras and other monstrosities — there were demons there as well."

"Demons? I thought-"

"Don't pretend you don't believe in their existence, Mr. Egobar," the professor interrupted him. "Anyone else would have either been so terrified they'd run off to change their pants or burst into disbelieving laughter. You, on the other hand, are clumsily trying to steer the conversation away. I'm no investigator, but I served long enough in the fleet to know when a man doesn't want to talk or is hiding something."

Ardan swallowed and remained silent.

"The demons slaughtered us over the course of two nights. They left me..." She gestured to herself from head to foot, "like this. And I spent many sleepless nights — when even morphine could no longer dull my pain — studying everything I could get access to. And the scope of a military fleet healer's clearance is rather broad." She turned her unflinching, iron gaze toward him, and Ardan thought she might be reaching for her staff. "I don't know where you gleaned these runic links, Ard. I don't know how you came by Talia's writings or notes — may her name be burned away by the Angels' swords." She paused for effect.

"But I will warn you only once. Because I find you likable as a student and as a future Imperial Mage. You have a keen mind, a kind heart, and a wide view of the world. But in matters of forbidden Star Magic, such qualities are precisely what can lead you to the darkest of ends. Have the courage to set boundaries for yourself, Ard — boundaries you will not cross in your research. Having no limits awakens the worst in us."

"I-"

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"I've said all I intended to say, Mr. Egobar," Lea cut him off, letting go of her staff and turning her wheelchair in the opposite direction with a quick twist of its wheels. "You may go now."

Ardan nodded, said farewell, and slipped out the door. The Healing Faculty, as always, was dazzling thanks to its opulence and lavish decor, but after months of studying here, Ardi hardly noticed the tapestries or the gold-and-platinum gilding. Gathering the frayed hem of his patched — and still torn in places — scarlet cloak, he passed through the warm connecting corridor and, paying no heed to the other students, made his way to the atrium.

As usual, crowds lingered there — some were perched on the benches and sofas by the fountain, some were hurrying toward the lifts, some were clustering around the information desk to pepper the staff with a barrage of questions. Others had clumped together into little groups, exchanging rumors, updates, seal diagrams, or just chattering away.

High up on the walls, the gargoyles watched it all silently. They were the stony sentinels presiding over the sanctum of the Empire's Star Magic. With all the things he had to do, he could've used a couple of reliable guardians like them…

Suddenly, Ardan felt short of breath.

Fumbling at the button on his collar, he dropped his coat token on the counter and, without waiting for the attendant, took his coat from the rack. Shrugging into it, he hurried outside.

His heart thundered in his chest. His vision swirled and spun in a way that was more awkward than even the islanders' dancing.

Ardan felt nauseous.

Barely managing to keep hold of his staff, he'd made it only a couple of steps away from the main building before doubling over.

The heat overwhelmed him. He wanted nothing more than to strip away every layer of clothing.

What if Professor Lea discovered something about the Staff of Demons? What if she reported him to someone? What if Arkar failed to meet Arseniy's demands and a gang war broke out? What if Ardi let something slip too soon and revealed he had ignited his second Star? What if Lorlov was just part of some grander scheme Ardan couldn't see, putting not only millions of people, but also his family in Delpas in danger because of that Spider in the palace? What if word got out that he'd been corresponding with the Grand Princess? What if Kerimov died in the hospital after all? What if Boris was connected to all of this? What if that vampire woman came back for revenge and Tess got hurt somehow? What if his younger brother's condition took a turn for the worse? What if… next time, he wasn't so lucky, and a bullet, spell, blade, or something else finished him off, sending him to walk the Paths of the Sleeping Spirits?

"It finally hit you, eh?"

Amid the roiling chaos of thoughts stumbling over each other in his head, Ardan heard a familiar voice coming from somewhere above him.

He tried to answer, but…

"All right, all right," the person said with an offhand wave. "I can see that it's gotten to you. You've landed in the 'what if' trap, haven't you? Pondering everything from every angle, trying to come up with answers to every question?"

Ardan opened his mouth, but…

"Save it," they went on. "I can see exactly what's going on. But you should ease up. You can't find answers to everything. You can't solve all the world's problems. You can't stuff straw into every corner so your fall will always be soft. That's just the job we do, Magister — always living on the razor's edge." The man exhaled a cloud of smoke without taking his hands out of his pockets. "Step one way and it's demons, chimeras, foreign bombers, or some other filth. Step the other way, and you trip over petty everyday nonsense. So handle it, Ard, as it comes and to the best of your ability. If you take on any more, you'll end up," he jerked his chin at the mess in the snow, "spewing not just your lunch, but your blood and maybe your own brains out as well. You'll go mad. It's not the greatest advice, but settle yourself. By trying to figure out everything at once, you're only scaring yourself more. The first rule of an investigator: always keep your cool. Even if you've got a revolver in your face and a… well, we'll leave the rest of that image where it belongs."

Ardan caught his breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and managed to pull himself together. A long time ago, on the snowy peaks of the Alkade, back when every crevasse and slope and stream had terrified him — he'd seen danger lurking in all of them — Aergar had once said: "Those are tomorrow's worries, cub. You live in the today and now."

Ardi had felt himself gradually forgetting his mentor's teachings.

"Thoughts for tomorrow," he reminded himself.

"What?"

Ardan only shook his head.

"Why didn't you use the medallion?" Instead of answering, the man patted his pocket.

"I was nearby and decided to wait a bit," Milar said with a shrug, glancing around. "Huh… you wizards live so lavishly. Maybe if I'd studied in such splendor instead of some rural school, I'd be the one sporting epaulettes now. Not Star ones, of course. Maybe a colonel's, though. Or even a general's."

Ardan kept silent. He still felt queasy. It was as though Professor Lea had nudged loose a single stone that had sent a massive rockslide tumbling down.

"It's not helping, is it?" Milar seemed to be trying to distract him. "Then think about something else, Magister. Something that calms you, and — preferably — something you can work out a solution for."

Ardan decided to take his advice and… gradually began to settle down.

"What are you thinking about?" The captain asked, squinting at him.

"I'm thinking that if we take the core concept of Elissaar's seal, we could try to construct a link — one similar to a runic link — between the arrays themselves," Ardan said, leaning on his staff. He was still trembling a little. "For instance, a free dynamic array that would transmit analyzed parameters into a fixed static one, which would then define the rules for the contour properties. That way, theoretically, you could dispense with constant recalculations and reduce the number of modifications. Admittedly, it's likely that the complexity and power demands of such seals would increase exponentially and-"

"Enough, enough," Milar waved his hands as though driving off a bothersome gnat. "By the Eternal Angels, Aversky has rubbed off on you. Let's go."

Together, they crossed the square and climbed into the automobile, which, to Ardan's surprise, didn't smell nearly as bad as it usually did. Yes, it still looked like a rusted heap kept alive by too many visits to various repair shops — its lifespan had stretched beyond what any mechanic would approve of — but at least the stench had faded.

Noticing Ardan's expression of relief, Milar ran his hand along the taped door handle.

"I washed it," the captain said gently, as though referring to a living creature rather than a soulless machine. "While we drive, fill me in on what happened with those Hammers and the Jackets."

"Where are we headed?" Ardan asked.

"Why not guess, trainee investigator?" Milar shot back.

In truth, Ardi didn't even need to guess. "To see the Dandy."

Milar turned the ignition key, released the handbrake, and jerked into gear. More seriously this time, he repeated, "So. Talk."

Ardan was hardly surprised that Milar already knew bits and pieces. And he saw no reason to conceal the details. While he talked, buildings drifted by outside the window — structures enjoying their final weeks of winter's hush beneath snowy blankets. Day by day, the streets were getting more crowded, bustling with people and, unsurprisingly, with more cars as well. It seemed like there were even some additional clunky little trams everywhere. Only the sky offered no cheer.

In winter, it had loomed low and dreary over the city, a sullen face at best. But at least it had looked starkly white back then. Now, as spring approached, the sky was changing its attire. The white was shifting to gray. Gloom gave way to foul weather. The wind was milder, but somehow cut sharper, lashing faces and sneaking down collars, tugging at the hems of coats and cloaks.

Good weather rarely called on the Metropolis. Ardan had already grown used to that fact. Mart's stories about how, whenever fair weather did roll in, people welcomed it just as joyfully as they did some bright, boisterous holiday, had not been a mere fairy tale. Exaggerated, sure, but not totally untrue.

"Vampires… huh," Milar rumbled, coming to a stop at an intersection. Ardan had assumed someone like the Dandy would dwell in Baliero or on Saint Vasily's Island, but the captain just kept driving deeper and deeper into the Central District. "As for the Narikhman, I wouldn't jump to that conclusion. This seems too trivial for their usual line of work."

"So they-"

"No, Magister, it's not a legend," Milar shook his head, putting his cigarette stub out in the ashtray near the gearshift. "It's a very real organization. We've been fighting them for years. Unfortunately, our success has been… mixed."

Ardan was surprised to hear that even the Second Chancery hadn't managed to stamp out a mere gang.

"Mixed?"

"Yes," Milar replied tersely, clearly reluctant to say more. "As for that Castilian tip — it still needs checking. Arkar isn't an idiot. Idiots don't become Overseers, or if they do, they don't last long. He sees who comes calling for you and who you ride away with. Even if he hasn't already guessed you're our trainee, the connection is obvious."

"So what should I-"

"Do nothing, Magister," Milar cut him off again — this seemed to be the day where no one would let Ardan finish a sentence. "It's in Arkar's best interest to have a link to the Black House right under his nose. And our office sees the advantage in your not-quite-official relationship with him as well. Case in point: he gave you that lead about the Castilian."

"But it's not clear why Arkar didn't mention earlier — while being interrogated — that the messenger spoke with an accent."

"Aha!" Milar lifted his index finger from the steering wheel while keeping his eyes on the road. "You're starting to put two and two together, Magister. Good. That's exactly what we need, and it's helpful. He didn't tell us because he had no reason to lay all his cards out on the table back then. Now that things are heating up, he wants to ensure that the problem catches our interest. Can you figure out why?"

Ardi thought about it for a moment. "If a Castilian is involved, that implies potential foreign interference, which places it within the Second Chancery's jurisdiction."

"Exactly," Milar agreed. "Mark my words: somewhere out there, trainee… Wait. What are you doing?"

"Just being thorough," Ardan said, shrugging innocently. He had armed himself with a pencil and a small notebook, the same kind Milar often used. There was too much scattered information floating around to keep it all in his head.

"By the Eternal Angels… All right, fine, write it down," the captain grumbled, turning the wheel as they left Niewsky Avenue behind. They merged onto a series of short, straight streets, each connecting to the next in neat perpendicular lines — all designed so that even the laziest traveler couldn't get lost. "Bigwigs — be they gang leaders, politicians, or giant wallets with people attached to them — hate doing anything themselves. They prefer to rake the coals with someone else's hands. Which is exactly what Arkar wants now: for us to scurry around on his behalf."

"And are we going to do that?"

A squat, boxy car belonging to the traffic police rumbled past them. Two very unfriendly faces peered at Milar and Ardi from its windows.

Ardan recalled Katerina's words about how relations between the Second Chancery and the Ministry of Internal Affairs were — to put it politely — strained.

"What reason do we have to act early?" Milar made a rude gesture out the window and drove on. "We're not the ones with our necks in a noose, Magister. Let those dogs rummage in their own trash. We'll watch to see if a rat comes scrambling out."

"Besides," Ardan said thoughtfully, "there's no guarantee this Castilian lead is real."

"Smart lad!" Milar exclaimed, slapping the steering wheel with his palm. "I always said you'd make a fine investigator."

"Hold on, Milar," Ardi said, turning to face him and bracing his shoulder against the car's stiff upholstery. "If we do accept that Arkar wasn't lying, then… Baliero, the bank bombing, the train incident, Lorlov, the gangs… This isn't just a conspiracy. It's… I'm not even sure what. Everything started right after the Emperor's coronation. Every month, the headlines get darker."

Milar's gaze hardened, and his brow furrowed, carving a deep line between his eyebrows. "You know how many times in the past half a century folks have tried to start a revolution in this country?"

"No idea," Ardi said honestly. "I always thought it was never."

"Three times," Milar answered his own question. "And every time, they failed — thanks to our House."

Ardan turned away, settling against the seat. Yes, life in this country was far from idyllic, but to think that somewhere out there — beyond the endlessly distant borders of the infinitely sprawling Empire — people had it simpler? Especially if you were a Firstborn? That seemed laughable to him.

On the eastern continent, for instance, the Firstborn in Castilia lived in reservations they weren't allowed to leave. In the League of Selkado, they'd been stripped of so many rights that they couldn't even buy groceries at the same shops as humans. Meanwhile, the Confederation had no intention of abolishing its legalized slavery of the Firstborn.

Lan'Duo'Ha had exterminated its Firstborn centuries ago, out of fear that they, too, might spawn a Dark Lord. Kargaam had loaded theirs onto ships and sent them across the Swallow Ocean to the Empire. Not all of them had survived the voyage.

As for the Al'Zafir deserts, Firstborn didn't live there at all. Why? No one knew. Science had no answers.

And when it came to ordinary humans… If Mart was to be believed — and Ardan saw no reason to doubt that seasoned researcher and traveler — conditions worldwide were roughly the same. People wanted to live better. But a revolution… That sounded like something straight out of the pages of a history textbook.

"Do you know how many times our House discovered embassy staff mixed in with these revolutionaries?" Milar asked.

"Three times?"

"You could've answered that more confidently," Milar said with a wink. "Just imagine what a treasure trove our country would be for them. Let's not even speak of the eastern continent — just N'gia, Fatia, and the Tazidahian Brotherhood. Imagine if there was no more Empire down south. Our farmland — there for the taking. Our resources — limitless. Ertalain ore — enough of it to build yourself a palace. Not to mention our manpower. We're nearly four hundred million strong. But none of them want to fight us openly — at least not yet. And so, they nibble at us from within. And now there's a perfect excuse to go even further — a new Emperor who's a thorn in the side of many powerful figures here at home."

"You mean…?"

"I mean exactly that, Magister," Milar confirmed as he pulled up to a modest building whose carved caryatids looked like something out of a children's book about the Vilas. The stuccoed cornice appeared well-maintained, while the stained-glass windows shone with scenes from stories and myths. An attendant in a red coat stood at the marble steps, opening the doors for their few visitors, who would then pause to let their chauffeurs usher them into luxury cars — each of which was worth the cost of funding some massive research project.

"Or do you think," Milar went on, "that these gentlemen" — his tone soured on the word — "are delighted by Emperor Pavel's reforms? We can put aside the social reforms and the ones concerning re-elections to Parliament for a moment and focus on the single fact that, by exempting so many from taxes, he's shifted the burden onto the wealthy. No, Ardi, they're not happy. Nor will they like his upcoming decree in the spring."

He shut off the engine and pulled on a pair of black gloves. Then he holstered his revolver and buckled on the belt that would hold his saber.

"Right now, the Empire's enemies have every opportunity to find willing allies right here in the heart of the country," Milar said, opening his car door and stepping outside. Ardan followed, not forgetting his staff. "And I've got a feeling, Magister, that our investigation is going to drag on… Though, as you said just now, these are all yesterday's-"

"Tomorrow's," Ardi corrected him.

"Tomorrow's worries," Milar nodded. "Come on. Let's talk with our theater aficionado."

They climbed the marble steps, over which thick woolen rugs had been spread (outside, no less), ignoring a few haughty glances. To be fair, most of those leaving the building at that moment were looking upon the investigator with… respect, though not necessarily for the captain himself, but for the uniform he wore. Ardan recalled Davenport's claims that most of the Empire's aristocrats and wealthy citizens were genuinely patriotic, and yet a few black sheep among them had shaped the overall sour impression.

Milar reached the door, only for the club's attendant to slam it shut in his face.

"Admission, sir," the man intoned impassively, "is for club members only. If you lack a pass, then-"

Milar pulled out a leather identification wallet emblazoned with the Black House crest from inside his coat.

"How's this for a pass, my friend?" He asked, flipping the document open for the attendant to see.

"M-Mr. I-Investigator," the man stammered, hastily opening the door. "P-please, g-g-go right in."

"The mage is with me," Milar said with a dismissive wave, stepping inside.

As Ardan passed by, he noticed a metal bracelet glimmering on the man's wrist. At that, the attendant, who had been trembling just a moment ago, drew himself up with a hint of renewed courage.

"Firstborn are not allowed inside," he said, raising his hand to block Ardi's way. Perhaps it helped that Ardan wasn't dressed in black.

"Hey, friend."

"Y-yes, Mr. Investigator?"

Milar made a point of unfastening his revolver's holster.

"I understand that you're just doing your job here, following instructions, and not making up the rules yourself. But I'm in a foul mood. So, how about you choose which knee I shoot first — right or left?"

Realizing the gravity of the situation, the attendant quickly stepped aside.

"Do come in, Sir Mage," he said with a slight bow, gesturing toward the entrance.