Matabar-Chapter 78 - 77 - Firstborn District

Clearing his throat, Arkar steered the car out of the yard, and they rolled along the Markov Canal. But this time, they did not head down, toward the Martyrs' Bridge — the main crossing over the Crookedwater Canal that divided Old Town and the New City. No, they kept on climbing, higher and higher, until they turned off toward Niewsky Avenue.

The city's main thoroughfare was gradually transforming. More and more automobiles of all shapes and sizes were appearing on the road, and amid the usual array of dark gray, gray, black, and the occasional brown, there were now some showy snow-white or coral-colored vehicles. Those models often boasted a leather folding roof and a long, expansive hood with exhaust pipes jutting out on both sides.

And even though Ardi had, by now, grown somewhat fond of fine, stylish clothing, he remained indifferent toward automobiles. His heart still preferred a comfortable saddle, a swift horse, and the boundless steppe, where the horizon would merge in an embrace with the green cloak of earth stretching toward the sky.

"It's not my place to say, Ard," the half-orc rasped, pulling his hand away from his wound.

They turned off Niew Avenue onto an adjoining street and continued on toward the Niewa. After crossing the Cavalry Bridge, they would end up in the northern part of the city. There, once they passed through the trading districts, they'd enter the Firstborn Quarter — a place that was true to its name and where mostly nonhuman races lived.

The blood on Arkar's side had already crusted over, no longer seeping through the bandages. Orcs, much like the Matabar, were renowned for their rapid healing. As the young man had explained to Milar, they couldn't regrow severed limbs, of course, but they still recovered far more swiftly than humans, elves, or dwarves. Only ogres could rival orcs and Matabar in terms of regeneration — though there were almost no ogres left, as Ardan had learned after listening to Indgar's stories.

The capital was home to 714 ogres and 563 giants (or, as they were also called, titans). All in all, only three times that many lived throughout the entire country.

The new world that had emerged after the invention of the steam engine, then the internal combustion engine, and — most importantly — the method of storing and transmitting Ley energy over significant distances, as well as using it in industry and everyday life, had turned out to be alien to them. This so-called "new world" had little need or concern for magical races. It belonged to humans.

And if five centuries ago, there had been no more than a hundred million humans on the planet, there were now about two billion of them. The Firstborn, who had once been on par with humanity in numbers, had been reduced to around seven million in total.

Ardan had gleaned all of this from his history lectures.

"But-"

"No 'buts,'" Arkar said with a shake of his head, overtaking a small truck marked with a shipping company's name. "With the kind of life I lead, an old lady — a wife, I mean — is far too much hassle. And so," he shrugged, grimacing at a sudden flare up of pain, "I get by with the company of the Crimson Lady's girls."

All this time, Ardan had kept his gaze on the half-orc's wound. It stood to reason that humanity, until it had developed Star Magic and harnessed gunpowder for its weaponry, had been unable to defeat the Firstborn.

People simply lacked a lot of the qualities that the Firstborn possessed, whether it was speed, strength, marksmanship, or a unique knack for magic. But as it turned out, humankind was far more attuned to what one might call "scientific progress." Perhaps it was because humans lived much shorter lives than any Firstborn…

"What brought you to the Armondian border?"

Arkar twitched and cast Ard a sideways glance.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because the Firstborn rarely serve in the Crown's Army," Ardi answered, turning back to watch the road, where two streetcars had nearly grazed each other while crossing a narrow bridge. "They-"

"We," Arkar corrected him with a touch of anger. Not at Ardan, but at something bigger.

"All right, we," Ardi agreed, calmly pushing aside the question — "So who am I, really?" — that had not plagued him in years. "We're only accepted there with great reluctance."

"They're afraid we'll desert at the first sign of trouble," Arkar snorted, rolling down the window and letting the night air sweep into the slightly musty car interior. "Or that we'll start up some interspecies conflict."

Ardi nodded in measured agreement. He had heard all of this in Professor Listov's lectures.

Arkar fell silent for a while. By now, they had already crossed the black waters of the Niewa, which was motionless and mute as though frozen in time. The ice had not yet fully melted away, and within that impenetrable darkness, pockets of slush slid around like cream swirling on the surface of a cup.

"I served in a separate battalion of Firstborn and half-bloods, Ard," the half-orc began speaking after a couple of minutes, doing so of his own volition, or maybe because he'd been nudged by the Witch's Gaze. "There aren't many such battalions — four in total — but they do exist. Altogether-"

"There's three thousand, two hundred and forty bayonets," Ardan said, anticipating the rest. "They're called the Fanged Division."

"That's what humans call it," Arkar went on, emphasizing the word "humans." "But in general, that's right…" He paused for a moment, rummaging through old memories. "I'm from the northwest, Ard. Like most of the Firstborn. You know that our blood… our kin, I mean, usually live in the area that stretches out from the Azure Sea all the way to the Great Glacier."

"I know."

"Well, that's the Armondian border," Arkar said with a sad smile. "I lived on a farm near a little village you've never heard of. It's not even on the map anymore… My mother, a pure-blooded orc from the Whispering Hoof clan, married a young corporal who fancied all those tall tales about Ectassus. We were poor, but never hungry — we had our own yard, a small plot of land, and the wages of a cavalry border guard." He paused for a few moments.

"Neither side of my family, Ard, was too happy about that marriage. The Whispering Hoof disowned my mother, and my father… Well, he was a dreamer…"

Ardan involuntarily recalled Milar's words.

"My mother just couldn't get chubby… pregnant, I mean," Arkar went on. "Though you likely know this yourself — how big a problem it is for mixed families to have children. The Firstborn rarely have kids to begin with, and half-blood births… Well, there are always miscarriages, early deaths, illnesses… But orcs and humans do have decent compatibility."

Ardi frowned slightly. In truth, he hadn't known about these problems. His own mother and father had apparently never had any issues with pregnancy. Unless you counted Shaia's poor milk supply, but that was another matter altogether.

"I was born late," Arkar said as they turned off the riverfront and into the heart of the Trade District — a place that was not so different from the city's central streets. "My father was already gray by then, while my mother looked just the same as she had when they'd first met. And that, too, Ard, is a big problem."

Ardi did know about this issue. His parents had been relatively fortunate to meet at a time when their biological clocks had nearly aligned.

"But we got by. We managed, however we could. Then…" Arkar closed his eyes for a moment. "Then they breached the border. Fort Shangrad was taken. The Armondians had had an especially vicious winter that year. So, the tribe that broke through… had nothing to eat. I don't hold that against them. But what I cannot forgive…" His powerful fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard the polished wood gave a pained creak. "When the Armondian cavalry punched through, they brought along entire families of their own. Of course, they didn't storm Shangrad. They made their living pillaging and torching nearby villages and farms."

"And one of the farms they attacked belonged to-"

Arkar nodded, not waiting for Ardi to finish.

"I wasn't there that day, Ard. Mother had sent me to a neighboring village to sell our butter and milk and buy vegetables — our crops had also fallen prey to the Armondian winter." They were now moving out of the Trade District and crossing the last few streets that separated the Firstborn Quarter from the rest of the city. "And when I came back… everything was burning, Ard. Father was hanging from a tree. Gutted like a fish. He was already too old, and had long since retired. He managed to shoot a couple of the bastards, but…"

"And your mother?" Ardi asked before he realized how inappropriate the question was.

Arkar said nothing. That silence was more than enough of an answer.

"The next day, after burying their bodies, I signed up with the Fanged Division," he ended his story curtly. "I took part in freeing Shangrad, where I met Arseniy. Then we spent a couple of years… slogging it out on that border together. Mostly sitting in the trenches, though sometimes they'd send us on punitive raids."

With that, their conversation fizzled out on its own, and Ardi couldn't shake the parallels between Arkar's story and that of his own father. Perhaps there was something deeper threading these histories together — something the young Imperial Mage was not yet ready to grasp.

Thoughts for tomorrow…

Ardan, who was leaning his forehead against the window as usual, gazed out at the urban scenery unfolding before him. He'd already seen the pompous, extravagant Central District with its palaces and mansions; then the austere, no-frills Working Quarter, crowded with simple but solid homes and factories; the peaceful, almost drowsy Tend and Tendari, home to nearly all the strata of Imperial society — from the very poor to those who lacked only a bit more coin to move closer to the Niewa; he'd also visited the New City and its Financial District, where skyscrapers competed with each other for the right to scratch the low sky of the capital first; even the Old Park District, where narrow streets twisted into a muddled web of passages and alleys, lay behind him now.

The only places Ardan had not yet visited were the Imperial Port — where most of the trade was conducted — and, somewhat paradoxically, the Firstborn Quarter.

He'd never had business there (he kept putting off the purchase of reagents for his potions and salves), and besides, no streetcars ran through the Firstborn District. For a long time, he hadn't really wondered why that was, but now, as he and Arkar crossed that final avenue — a boundary that cut off the Firstborn's domain from the rest of the city — he began to understand.

Wherever one went in the Metropolis, every neighborhood, for all its differences, still felt deliberately planned. But here, in the Firstborn District… Houses seemed to have sprung up like mushrooms after the rain. Each was a different color, shape, even built out of different materials, and all of them were huddling close, like frightened, lost souls who had found shelter under stone eaves.

Indeed, those eaves were the countless connecting walkways, bridges and alleyways raised above the ground. The Firstborn District sprawled across a series of hills, and staircases reigned supreme. They were of every possible design, and there was a dizzying abundance of them: spiral and straight, wide and narrow, stone and wooden, with landings or without, some with railings, others as bare as the dancers at the Crimson Lady's "cabaret." They wreathed the motley assortment of buildings that clung to each other, forming an endless, layered cake, one tier stacked on top of another, on and on, until they ran out of space.

But there seemed to be no end to the space, nor to the buildings. Most rose just two or three stories high, serving as each other's foundations on one side of the hills, while on the other side, they were linked by an intricate web of passages — both underground and overhead.

The narrow alleyways made even the cramped sidewalks of the Old Park look like wide boulevards. They crisscrossed the district in a chaotic pattern, as if they'd been conjured by the wild strokes of a mad painter's brush. It was certain that no engineer had been involved in this, since no rational mind, human or otherwise, could have conceived something so delightfully absurd.

"Let's stop here," Arkar said, cutting the engine.

All this time, they'd been inching forward at the lowest speed along a "road" so tight that the side mirrors were nearly scraping the walls. Every now and then, a few other cars had lined up behind them, only to disappear into the rises and dips of the connecting byways. Ardi hadn't seen a single sign of two-way traffic, just a few lone street signs, dimly glowing in the dark, that had been tacked onto building corners.

It took a bit of effort for them to find a slightly broader patch of broken cobblestones to pull over on.

"Most folks walk around here," Arkar grumbled, donning a felt hat banded with a gaudy ribbon.

Ardi put on his own — his cowboy hat — earning a small, amused grin from the half-orc.

"You ought to buy something a bit… more fitting for the Metropolis."

"As soon as I have six extra exes to spare," Ardan retorted.

They shut the car doors. Before moving away, Arkar tossed a few kso coins onto the hood.

"For the punks," he said in answer to Ardi's unspoken question. "They'll keep an eye on our ride… make sure no one swipes the wheels."

Ardi made no comment. Arkar drew the collar of his coat closed to hide his wound and slipped a hand into his pocket, where a revolver clearly lay, then began climbing the nearest stone staircase that led up the side of a hill. Ardi followed behind him, staff and grimoire at the ready, maintaining a wary silence. He could now survey the buildings from up close, and they appeared even more outlandish, sometimes even downright bizarre, and yet somehow intriguing.

Here, orcish houses — broad, spacious affairs adorned with symbols and carved bas-reliefs, all of them having large windows in homage to their nomadic heritage — stood side by side with dwarven structures. The dwarves' homes, squat and square, with nary a hint of ornament, seemed solid enough to withstand artillery fire, their windows more like arrow slits. And on an upper level, you might spot an airy elven edifice, its facade draped with wooden panels that, strangely enough, had survived the local winters intact.

Every now and then, Ardi glimpsed smaller, almost comical-looking dwellings from which a few goblins would emerge. They resembled dwarves in a vague way. However, unlike them, they were not just short, but also wiry, beardless, with pointed ears like elves, and skin the color of stagnant swamp water.

"Watch it, runt," someone rumbled above Ardan's head in a booming bass.

Startled, he jumped aside, and rightfully so. Towering over him was a figure that was easily over three meters tall, with shoulders so broad that only a narrow gap remained between him and the nearest houses.

Sporting a scarlet coat, a green shirt almost the same hue as his skin, a black tie broad enough to serve as a blanket, a wide-brimmed hat that could've doubled as a small barrel, and blue pants that would have made for good makeshift sails if cut open… was an ogre.

He had an enormous, square lower jaw and a nose that was both flattened and, oddly, tipped upwards. His deep-set eyes were hidden beneath the hat's shadow, and in his right ear dangled an earring that might've passed for a small bracelet. His face brought to mind a forest toad crossed with a Kargaam tortoise, and perhaps unsurprisingly, a bit of orcish heritage. And yet no tusks protruded from his mouth, and his skull's shape was different, too.

"Why'd you stop?" The ogre asked calmly, though his sheer size made Ardan feel a vague sense of danger.

"S-sorry," Ardi stammered and quickly slid aside. He noticed that he barely went up to the ogre's navel.

Touching the brim of his hat in a silent gesture of acknowledgment, the ogre lumbered on, each footstep sending tremors through the ground. It was little wonder that ogres were seldom seen in the city and that they traveled to the port on barges, via the canals. Indgar hadn't lied: the Metropolis simply wasn't designed for beings this massive. And in a city of nearly twenty million, the combined thirteen hundred or so ogres and giants hardly constituted a population worth redesigning every district for.

Ardi understood that perfectly.

Snickering at Ardi's near collision, Arkar pulled out a cigar, lit it, then waved for Ardi to follow him. He suspected Indgar and that werewolf would strike as they approached the Conclave. But where was the Conclave? And from which direction would the attack come? Everywhere, a throng of Firstborn and humans bustled about, while an endless series of crosswalks and closely packed buildings loomed overhead.

And yet…

All of a sudden, Ardi's breath caught. They emerged from a cramped alley that was so tight just three people would have struggled to walk abreast down it and onto what, by this quarter's standards, might've been called a broad pedestrian promenade.

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The first thing that caught his eye was the web of Ley cables. They hung overhead like festive garlands, linking house to house, running from facade to facade, looping over the footbridges and stairs, getting tangled up in places, then untangling again to form long, snaking lines from which lamps and colorful flags dangled. At street level, on both sides, open "shop windows" beckoned.

"Shop windows" was probably a generous term, for there was no glass partition between passersby and the goods. These open-air stalls displayed their wares directly out on the street, each vendor trying to illuminate and decorate their stock with as much flair as possible. As a result, the thoroughfare would do its best to dazzle everyone passing by with a veritable storm of Ley-lights, even late into the dark evening.

Countless Firstborn and, notably, Star Mages — human or otherwise — crowded these streets.

"How much for Alnak Gray Larch root?"

"Seven exes per gram."

An apothecary and his assistant — a gangly, hunchbacked goblin with gnarled fingers — were measuring out powders and weighing odd vials and flasks, pouring out vibrant concoctions and handing over packets, jars, and bottles to buyers.

"Do you have Kikimora's eye and Maw's tooth?"

"The eyes will be in next week. And we do have Maw's teeth."

"How much?"

"Got about thirty left."

"I mean the price."

"My apologies." The elf, who looked like an Angel of the Face of Light even in old, threadbare clothes, flushed slightly. "It's one ex and two kso apiece."

"Why are they so expensive?!" A young human in a red mage's cloak exclaimed indignantly.

"These come from the Dead Lands on the eastern continent, not ours."

"Got any from around here?"

"All sold out."

"When will you get more?"

The elf pulled out a small ledger, flipping through it.

"In about a month, if we receive the shipment from the Dead Lands near the Dancing Peninsula."

Shaking his head in disappointment, the young man moved on, and the elf turned to his next customer. He measured out portions of chimera bodies and that of other magical creatures, rummaging through boxes for various parts — fangs, eyes, cartilage, vertebrae, claws, bone fragments, tufts of fur—anything that might be of use to mages.

"Bread, two kso for half a kilo! Butter and sour cream, seven kso for three hundred grams!" An orc stall owner shouted, waving a broad hand toward his price signs.

Here, shops full of magical wares existed in peace beside ordinary grocers, bakeries, butcher stands, and even a few candy shops — strangely enough, these were operated by goblins.

After the orcs, elves, and dwarves, goblins were the most numerous of the surviving Firstborn. The Empire had around sixty thousand in total, some fifteen percent of whom resided in the capital. And yet they, too, rarely left the Firstborn District — almost as rarely as ogres and giants. Their diminutive proportions simply didn't suit the rest of the city.

"You can buy damn near anything on Sleepless Street," Arkar remarked, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "And if you know who to ask… Well, you can get absolutely anything you want."

He paused for a moment, apparently enjoying Ardi's wonderment at the sights, then motioned for them to move on. They pressed deeper into the crowd, though Ardi himself barely felt the crush — he walked in Arkar's wake, and people, Firstborn or human, stepped aside for the hulking half-orc, who showed no sign of yielding to anyone.

"Arkar," Ardan said while he was being not quite jostled by the passersby.

"What?" His companion asked, roughly nudging aside a dawdling dwarf. The dwarf started to protest but, after catching sight of Arkar's attire, quickly closed his mouth and turned away.

"How does Indgar tie in with the messenger's Castilian accent?"

"They both work for the same scum, Ard," Arkar replied curtly, absentmindedly touching the wound on his side. "You'll get what you need from Indgar, and I'll get what I'm owed."

Ardan wanted to ask how Arkar could be so sure Indgar was entangled in all the capital's chaos, rather than merely trying to seize the position of Orcish Jackets Overseer (even the Star-born werewolf's presence might've just been a coincidence. It was highly unlikely, sure, but not impossible). But he never got the chance, because at that moment, someone grabbed him by the wrist.

The person's skin was rough, nearly as bad as sandpaper. Their fingers, long and thin, had knobby joints swollen like pinecones. And yet, their grip — despite evidence of them suffering from advanced age — was strong and unyielding.

Ardan turned. Near the wall, between two stalls, someone sat on wooden pallets, wrapped in a dirty, tattered cloak. At the figure's feet — hidden beneath the threadbare hem of their cloak — stood a tin can into which passersby could drop small coins.

All that was visible of the figure were the two glowing amber eyes that burned beneath their "hood." They reminded Ardan of his own in some way. Perhaps that was why he lingered by the stranger. Arkar, meanwhile, had stepped aside, distracted by a stall where an elderly goblin with blackened skin was selling cheap healing salves made from the innards of magical beasts.

"Pay me a coin, traveler, and I'll tell you what I feel, what I hear, and what I see in your future," croaked an ancient, feminine voice.

Traveler… The word echoed out from Ardi's memories, making him recall the old tales his grandfather had used to tell him back when he'd been a boy. Those legends had often featured fortune tellers like the one this old woman was now impersonating.

And as far as Ardan knew, not even a Fae Aean'Hane could peer into the future. The future was always just a possibility, not a certainty.

"And if I refuse, will you curse me?" He asked.

"You know your fairy tales, young sorcerer?" Rasped the crone. "Fairy tales are good… All stories, once they've aged, become fairy tales. Then they vanish into the folds of lore and song until only traditions and superstitions remain, their origins forgotten by all."

Ardi allowed himself a brief smile. Long ago, he'd heard something similar while sitting on a bench near his childhood home. Maybe it was the memory of that time, a time when he was captivated by magical stories and legends, that moved him to take out his single kso coin from his pocket.

He dropped it into the can, and in that very same instant, a sharp flash of pain seared his wrist. The old woman's bloody fingernail had slit his skin open, and before Ardan could react, she lifted that nail to the darkness beneath her hood and — judging by the wet sounds — licked off his blood.

A moment passed, then another, and she began to sway from side to side.

"I feel damp, old stone," she intoned in a reedy voice. "I hear time in the leathery beat of wings. And I see…" She froze abruptly. When she resumed, her voice was harsh and brittle, like the creaking of an old birch. "I see two cats… and water."

Ardan paid it no mind. It was just a street trick, meaningless words and nothing more.

"Ard."

He looked around. Arkar now stood beside him, holding a flat metal tin without a label. Only a painted inscription on it read, "Griz-Gri Healing Shop." Goblin names always ended up sounding a bit like dwarven ones…

"Let's go." The half-orc jerked his head, glancing warily at the old woman. "There's no point in talking to crazies."

They moved a few paces away. Ardi, who was still turning over the old woman's words in his mind, suddenly realized something. He patted his inner pocket. He never kept coins in his pockets; they were all in his wallet. The single coin he did have in there was…

Ardan turned the pocket inside out but couldn't find the black coin stamped with a shield emblem instead of a coat of arms.

"My Officer's Mark…"

"What?"

"I gave her my Officer's Mark!" Ardan whipped around, but all he saw was the dark cloak merging into the crowd and the rattling tin can. A second later, the old woman vanished without a trace.

Ardi was about to dart after her, but Arkar stopped him.

"She's one of the Unseen, Ard," he whispered in Ardan's ear. "They can sweet-talk you better than the Speakers, or your own Witch's Gaze. Whatever you handed over to her is gone for good. And as for finding one of her kind again… Ha! No one knows this city better than the Unseen. If she doesn't want you to see her again, you never will."

Ardan muttered something incoherent. Fine, that was a problem for another day. Besides, the Second Chancery had no strict rules about handing over an Officer's Mark.

"Let's go," Arkar repeated, tugging him along.

If only he'd had a spell he could use to track his personal possessions, he might have managed to find even one of the Unseen… Or, if he had a spell that bound together instead of destroyed, he wouldn't have had to endure that unplanned swim in the Niewa back when he'd dealt with the city guards.

Sleeping Spirits… He needed time. Not just for practice, but also for something straightforward and obvious: learning new seals. Each month, his arsenal seemed more and more meager, especially when compared to the students at the Grand, who were constantly studying new seals. Yes, studying them, not just memorizing, but still…

Ardi remembered the first lessons of Nicholas the Stranger's book, who'd warned that if you delved too deeply into creating modifications, you'd eventually find that just a handful of spells had filled every last page of your grimoire.

That was probably why Aversky kept one "travel" grimoire and dozens — if not hundreds — more for his research. Considering the fact that a book of spells had around a hundred and fifty pages, if you created just five main modifications for each, you could fit about thirty spells in total in there. And if you etched some onto your staff…

Ardi glanced at his trusty companion, which had been by his side for years. No, he would wait a bit longer before inscribing anything onto it. He wanted to ignite his Blue Star and move on to the complex structures of three-Star spells first, at the very least.

"This way," Arkar said, turning a corner.

They wound their way through a series of narrow back alleys, ascended a few staircases, passed over a couple of stone walkways — which reminded Ardi, for some reason, of the labyrinthine corridors in the Grand's library — and arrived at a thoroughly unremarkable door. The building itself bore no clear signs of orcish, elven, dwarven, or goblin make. It was one of those places you'd walk right past without noticing.

Arkar, after checking his revolver for some reason, rapped his knuckles against the metal. A moment later — similar to how it had gone down at the Crimson Lady's cabaret — a slot rattled open, and a pair of orcish eyes peered out.

"Go away," someone growled, and the slot slammed shut.

Arkar cursed and knocked again.

"Go away," the voice repeated from inside. "Before I spill your guts."

"You owe me, Girgarar," Arkar growled, glancing around as though wary of being spotted.

"I owe you a favor, Arkar, not my wrinkled backside on a platter."

"I'm calling in that favor, Gir," Arkar said, pounding on the door with his fist. "Either let me in, or I'll knock this door down with you behind it."

Hinges shrieked in protest, and the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun appeared, pointed at the half-orc's chest. The gun had clearly been modified to fire a larger caliber than its own.

"You won't accomplish much with a hole in your chest, Arkar." The figure holding the shotgun stepped into the light.

He was an elderly orc, far older than the healer of the Orcish Jackets. His skin was not just gray, but so thin it barely concealed his withered muscles. His tusks were yellowed in some places and broken in others, topped with the cheapest caps — rustproof steel coated in silver. Wispy hair, no longer gray but nearly transparent, clung to his scalp. He leaned on a heavy cane with his left hand, and his right shook as he aimed the sawed-off shotgun. One of his eyes was cloudy and blind, and the other sported such a thick monocle that it was a wonder he could see past it at all. He wore a mohair robe over a shirt and long johns.

"Gir, I-"

Arkar was interrupted. The old orc's gaze shifted to Ardan. He studied him in silence, then, equally silently, he turned his shotgun toward the young man and nearly pressed the trigger.

Ardi managed to shape a Shield, but Arkar also reacted swiftly. In one deft move, he tore the gun from the old orc's grasp before he could fire, and then, in a single motion, he drew his revolver and pressed it against his fellow orc's chin.

The silent standoff lasted a few moments. At last, the old orc gave a curt nod.

"Come in."

"Why'd you want to shoot the kid?" Arkar demanded, narrowing his eyes.

"My vision isn't what it used to be, Arkar…" The old orc wheezed. "I thought I recognized an old acquaintance. A Matabar bastard. But he's probably long dead, just like the rest of that tribe."

Arkar and Ardan exchanged glances. For some reason, Ardan was sure the old orc wasn't talking about his father…

Still withholding the shotgun from the old orc and forcing him to walk ahead of them, the muzzle of his revolver pressed against his back, Arkar led them inside. Ardan followed.

They found themselves in a room not much larger than the young man's apartment at 23 Markov Canal. Here, however, besides a table, a wardrobe, and a bed, there was a tiny kitchenette, a door presumably leading to a bathroom, and every inch of the walls — floor to ceiling — was lined with books. They bowed the shelves down with their weight, forming piles on the floor like miniature mountains of dusty old tomes. None of them had been opened in ages. They bore thick layers of dust untouched by brush or hand. Only a proud gramophone, with its collection of records, gleamed thanks to its polished brass near the head of the bed.

"You shouldn't have come, Arkar," Girgarar said with a shake of his head. He leaned his cane against the wardrobe and sank heavily onto the bed, launching into a fit of pained coughing. "They're searching for you all over the city."

Ardan spun to face his companion.

"I didn't cold out the Gatekeeper… kill, I mean," Arkar said, ignoring Ardi's puzzled look. "When Indgar — may his name be forgotten — and I came to Lisash's apartment, he was already dead."

"That's your version," the old orc said blandly. "All the Conclave knows is that the Gatekeeper is dead. And he died after you — and you alone — figured out where to find him. Indgar wasn't with you then."

"I know, Gir… Spirits, I know." Arkar struck himself on the forehead with the sawed-off. "Idiot… What a fool I am… Indgar must have found out everything beforehand. He set me up, Gir! He's working for the ones who want to pit us against the Hammers! He's got a Star Werewolf with him, by the Sleeping Spirits!"

"That's all just talk, Arkar," said the old orc calmly. "Indgar gave the Conclave a very different account: that you left without him, and by the time he reached the apartment, he found you covered in blood, with the Gatekeeper's mutilated corpse on the floor."

"Fuck!" Arkar nearly roared, pacing the small room, clearly agitated. "We arrived there together! Lisash was already lying in his own blood and filth by then. I'm certain that the Star Werewolf did it…"

"Perhaps," the old orc said mildly, "perhaps not. Either way, the Conclave will hold a trial before deciding."

"A trial… damn it…" Arkar spat.

Ardan had no idea what was going on. Even if Arkar had left out a good many details, the fact that he was suspected of killing a member of the Conclave was bad enough.

"I can see that your young friend is baffled," Girgarar said, flashing a condescending grin that made his steel-tipped tusks glint. "He's probably wondering why you haven't just gone to the Conclave to flush out Indgar, rather than pestering an old man."

Arkar froze and, without warning, aimed his revolver at the elder.

"Gir, I'm warning you-"

"What, pup? Will you shoot me?" Girgarar's laugh was like the caw of a raven. "Shoot your only lifeline? No, I don't think so." And, as if to confirm his words, Arkar cursed again and lowered the weapon. "So then, young man, here's the issue. At a Conclave trial, both the accused and the accuser must drink the Potion of Last Truth. You know what that is?"

Ardan did.

"I can see that you really do… Strange… You really do look like someone I once knew — may his name be forgotten — but you smell human, so maybe my nose is failing me worse than my eyes…" Girgarar drifted into his own thoughts for a moment, then continued. "Once Arkar drinks the potion, of course, the full story will come out. But all it will take is one question — one tiny question — and every Jacket in the gang will want to hang Arkar from the nearest lamppost."

Ardan frowned.

"Money, boy. Money." The old orc raised his trembling arms in a theatrical shrug. "For years, Arkar's been stealing from Ordargar. And whenever one of Darg's accountants finds out the truth, well… Something unfortunate happens to them."

Ardi nearly choked on air.

"Gir, you miserable bastard!" Arkar roared. "You know I've been funneling all that money straight to the Conclave. To you and the other elders! For our own brothers and sisters. If not for me, Darg would still be giving you a measly two hundred exes a month. How far would you get on that pittance?"

"Your intentions may be good, Arkar, but that doesn't change the facts," Girgarar sneered. "Still, I know why you came, pup. So, make your request and be gone before I decide to walk the Spirits' Paths not because my heart will probably give out if I fart too loudly, but with my tusks and fangs stained by your blood."

Arkar let out a long breath and, tossing the sawed-off onto the bed, said, "When the trial starts, you have to refuse to ask any questions that aren't about Lisash's death."

"So be it, Arkar," Girgarar answered with a bored nod. "You have my word. As the Conclave's Judge, I won't let the questioning stray from the matter at hand."

"Let's go, Ard," Arkar muttered. They'd almost reached the door when the old orc's fit of coughing stopped them.

"Arrrrd," the elder repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue. "Has a nice ring to it. A growling edge… A most peculiar name… Almost like it was cut short. You smell like a human, boy… but also like a mountain cat… I've caught that scent before. I've heard names like yours before." His hand reached for the shotgun. "I was wrong… You're not him… You're not Aror, may his name be forgotten. You're his descendant…"

Again, the old orc raised his shotgun, pointing it at Ardan's chest. Instantly, Arkar swung his revolver up, aiming at the elder's head.

"Half-blood," Girgarar spat blindly. "Now I remember… I recall a newspaper headline."

"I-"

"I remember your great-grandfather well, pup… Very well." With a single motion, the old orc ripped open his shirt, revealing a chest disfigured by hideous burn scars. "I remember the heat that bastard unleashed upon me. He punished me just for being hungry enough to steal a couple loaves of bread."

"Gir…" Arkar warned in a low growl.

"I only have to put up with this damned city for a few more months," the old orc continued, clutching the bed's headboard to pull himself upright.

"Gir! Come to your senses!"

"Do I die of old age, my limp manhood lost in the sheets, or take revenge on the one who forced us into this hole?" The elder snorted. "That's hardly a choice."

A shot rang out. Ardan had conjured a Shield already, but alas, it had been for naught.

It wasn't the sawed-off that was now smoking, but Arkar's revolver. The moment the old orc's forearm had twitched while trying to pull the trigger, Arkar had reacted without hesitation. His bullet had blown away half the elder's head, leaving a sizable crater in the brick wall behind him. It was two fingers deep and at least as wide as a palm, maybe more.

The old orc's body teetered and thumped to the floor.

"Damn it… Gir…" Arkar murmured, clutching his five-shot, twelve-caliber revolver. "Why did you never say you knew Aror Egobar… Ard? Hey, you all right?"

Ardan had backed away by now, grimoire open, staff raised between him and Arkar.

"Ard?" Arkar looked genuinely surprised by this development.

"That revolver," Ardan said tersely, "the caliber."

Arkar glanced at the gun in his hand. He happened to be wearing gloves. freёweɓnovel.com

"They've all got the same ones," Arkar replied warily. "While I was tangling with that Star Werewolf, I managed to grab this from his holster."

"Why would-"

"I swear on my ancestors' paths," Arkar interrupted him. "I swear I had no idea Gir would react to you like that. All I knew was that the old wolf had already seen two centuries and still wouldn't go to the Sleeping Spirits. I knew nothing else. I swear the revolver's not mine."

Ardi did not lower his staff.

"Damn it, Ard!" Arkar roared, waving the revolver in the air. "Only a deaf man wouldn't have heard this cannon go off. Any minute now, the local guards and Conclave muscle will swarm this place. Gir was a wise one… a judge, I mean, you know? He worked for the elders."

"And he was also the only one who knew about your little schemes?" Ardan narrowed his eyes at him. "Dragon-back leather, porcelain doorknobs? Ordargar doesn't know, does he? You're laundering money in a completely different way. Through dead souls. "Bruce's" has had no real customers in ages, yet the money keeps coming and going. You simply ring up more customers than actually show up!"

"Ah, you truly are an investigator, I see," Arkar groaned. "Yes, you're right, Ard. That's exactly how it works. I steal from that glutton Darg, who's forgotten his own roots and pretends he's some damn aristocrat. And with that filthy money, damn it all, I help our brothers and sisters via the Conclave. Elves, orcs, dwarves, goblins, ogres. I don't care who."

"So, you're a noble thief?"

"Just a thief," Arkar snapped. "A thief, a gangster, a killer, but never a liar, Ard. Never a traitor. May my name be forgotten if I have ever lied or betrayed."

"You're betraying Ordargar."

"There's a fine line there, boy. I was the one who came up with that whole 'property income' scheme. Me and me alone. So technically, it's not really a betrayal."

Ardan was briefly struck by how deftly Arkar had found a loophole in his own moral code.

"And one day, little hunter, there will come a time when you have to break those three laws, just like I did."

Ergar's words echoed in Ardi's mind. Yes, it was true — Ardan had also had to bend his own principles at times.

He lowered his staff and closed his grimoire. Arkar, after glaring at him for a second or two, wiped the revolver's handle with the edge of his coat and tossed the firearm toward the bathroom door.

"You could've said thanks, at least," Arkar muttered, opening the front door and checking that the street was still quiet (perhaps the locals, after hearing the gunshot, had hidden away). Then he pulled up his coat's collar to mask his face and stepped outside. "I just shot the Conclave Judge for you. They'll quarter me for this."

"Don't try to twist it so I owe you something, Arkar. He couldn't have broken through my shield."

"Dammit, you really have grown… No hard feelings. Had to try. Having an Imperial Mage — an Investigator, no less — in my debt would've been slick… nice, I mean… Ah, crap, Ard, where are you?"

"Here," Ardan replied from right beside him. He was hidden among the shadows.

Luckily, the old orc's books had remained shut for so long that summoning the right darkness from within them had been no trouble at all.

"All right. Now we've got another cough… problem, I mean," Arkar grumbled. "We have to lure Indgar out, without letting anyone find out about my… sick beams."

"You mean your schemes."

"Whatever you say."

They headed onwards, into the winding maze. What kind of maze exactly? Good question…