Book II. Chapter 132. Steppe Games

The caravan rolled into First Station from the eastern frontier, and Ardan, who had grown used over the past few days to the smell of wind off the steppe and wet earth, immediately caught a completely different smell on the air. Coal dust, machine oil, and that peculiar, faintly sour odor that always hangs over cities where people work around the clock, seven days a week.

The town itself proved considerably larger than he’d expected. Three or four broad streets stretched from the central square in wide, dusty ribbons, while a maze of side alleys twisted between them. Down those alleys, one-story wooden houses alternated endlessly with brick boxes whose windows gleamed.

The central avenue stretched for some three hundred paces before ending at a squat bank built of dark gray stone. Two old, mud-spattered automobiles huddled by its front steps. Across from the bank towered a three-story hotel with little wrought-iron balconies and an enormous sign promising guests soft beds, a hot bath, and a casino on the first floor. Painted in bright colors and lit from within by kerosene lamps, the sign made the building seem to wink at passersby like an old friend inviting them in for a drink.

There was no shortage of people in the streets.

Hunters wore leather jackets and bandoliers, and some even carried staffs and wore the regalia of Imperial mages. They strolled along the unusual sidewalks at an unhurried pace. More ordinary workers scurried among them. Ard had no trouble telling them apart: coal workers by their faces, blackened with ingrained dust; lumberjacks by their plaid shirts and broad suspenders; clerks by the paper folders tucked under their arms and the faint concern on their faces.

Women in plain dresses carried baskets of provisions. A few delivery boys bearing tin trays of hand pies wove between the carts. On the corner of the central street, a cobbler in a leather apron sat mending someone’s boot in the open air, taking his time. Hammer blows and the shriek of saws rang out from somewhere in the side alleys. The town seemed to be slowly trading wood for brick. As they rode along, every third building on either side of the street had new scaffolding.

The locals regarded the caravan as a perfectly ordinary sight. That was only natural: the town served as the gateway to Northern Park. No one poured out of the houses to gawk. No one pointed at them or rushed to stop work for the sake of idle curiosity. Only a few boys playing by the hitching rail tore themselves away from their stick horses and watched the coaches pass with interest, but even they soon went back to their games.

Sitting beside Nalensky on the driver’s box, Taisia looked around and frowned slightly.

“I’ll admit,dear Chaz, I’d pictured First Station as a little less . . . urban.” She looked delighted and disappointed at once. “My notes described it as a ‘fortified Guild settlement,’ but what I see is an actual city, with a bank and streetlamps. Candlelit ones, granted.”

Nalensky chuckled, delighted at the chance to talk her ear off, and promptly launched into an explanation in his usual self-important manner.

“Oh,dear Taisia, your notes apparently date from before the last industrial boom!” As usual, he looked Taisia over from head to toe. “That’s exactly what this place used to be. I swear by the Eternal Angels, some twenty years ago, there were only thirty houses here, a church, and the Guild headquarters. I passed through these parts myself when I was still a student and stayed at what was then the only inn, where the bedbugs, I’d bet, ate better than the guests. In fact, they fed on the guests!”

“How dreadful, dear Chaz!” Taisia forced a laugh, though Ardi couldn’t understand exactly what the joke was. “And what changed?”

“The economy, dear Taisia, the economy!” Nalensky drew himself up and even seemed to twirl a mustache he didn’t have. “The country needs more and more coal and metal, you know, and leaving minable deposits untouched is, forgive my bluntness, a crime against the treasury, the Emperor, and common sense. All three at once.”

“But the main mines are several days’ journey from here. I read about it in a column by my colleague, Mr. Klochkov. The column stated plainly that the principal mining operations lie southeast of the Park.”

“Exactly right, Taisia.” Nalensky grew even more animated than before. “Oh, Light, what a pleasure it is to speak with an educated woman! Now then. The main mines are indeed farther south, and they can only be reached by narrow-gauge rail. But several very promising coal seams and two oil deposits were discovered quite recently right here, around the Park. Four or five years ago, if memory serves. And there you have the result, in all its glory, so to speak. What had been, until recently, the Hunters’ Guild’s stronghold and nothing more is turning into a full-fledged mining town before our very eyes.”

Ardan’s mare gave a nervous little snort. Ardan looked this way and that, but saw nothing unusual.

“It’s incredible how quickly the world changes.” Taisia leaned a little closer, letting Nalensky’s eyes settle where he had plainly wanted them. “What about logging? I noticed enormous stacks of logs on the northern outskirts.”

“Ah, logging!” Nalensky positively blossomed. “That’s a whole business unto itself and, between you and me, one of the most profitable. Northern pine is in tremendous demand right now. For railroad ties and the new neighborhoods going up in small towns. Why, the very avenue we’re riding along may well be built on pilings cut thirty versts from here!”

“You make all of this sound so fascinating, Chaz.” Taisia lifted the fan just a little, somehow already in her hand, and looked at Nalensky over its embroidered edge. “I’ll be sure to mention what you’ve told me in my article, crediting you, of course. ‘According to Senior Magister Chaz Nalensky, first assistant to the chief researcher of Anomalies at the central branch of the Hunters’ Guild...’”

“Oh, that would be very flattering, Taisia, very flattering!”

Ardan rode a little way behind, wishing he could get farther from the coach. By now, the ease with which Miss Shpritz slipped from one tone to another no longer surprised him.

Half an hour earlier, she’d been smoking on the driver’s box and surveying the endless steppe with no interest at all. Now here she was chirping, batting her lashes, and pretending that, in her three decades on earth, she had never encountered anything more wonderful than Chaz Nalensky. Ard couldn’t help noticing that Taisia even fanned herself as though a gust of unbridled delight might carry her off at any moment. Inwardly, Ard shook his head. Miss Shpritz’s first-rate acting talent was going to waste. She should have been invited to Baliero long ago.

Soon the caravan began to slow.

The Hunters’ Guild building turned out to be one of the few in town made entirely of stone. Two stories tall, with high lancet windows and a massive porch beneath a wrought-iron canopy, it resembled the administrative buildings raised in the Empire’s capitals during the reign of the current Emperor’s grandfather. It had molded cornices and pilasters at the corners, along with a cast-iron fence surrounding a small front garden.

The Guild’s bronze crest, a spyglass and an oak leaf, hung above the entrance. A pair of massive stone urns sat unassumingly on either side of the door, and one of the hunters had already managed to toss cigarette butts into them.

The caravan stopped in the forecourt, and a man immediately burst through the doors. Ard raised his eyebrows slightly at the sight of him. He was short and so thin it could not have been merely his natural build. With his long face, sharp nose, and nearly hairless head, he looked like a mangy woodland polecat that had been kept half-starved for a long time and only just set free.

A Pink cloak rested on his shoulders. His epaulets bore five engraved stars in all: three two-rayed and two three-rayed.

He scurried over to Nalensky’s coach. Without saying hello or casting so much as a glance at Taisia, let alone Ard, he began rattling off words so fast it was as though he had been allotted only so many and had to use them all before someone took them away.

“Finally, finally, Nalensky, I’ve been waiting for you for three days now, do you hear me, three days, do you realize we’re off schedule, completely off schedule, the Horntooth Swimmers will start migrating soon, and then every southern trail in the Park will be impassable for at least two weeks, maybe even three full weeks!”

During that torrent of words, Taisia managed to flick her fan exactly once before turning to Ardan. Her eyes flashed with such undisguised astonishment that Ardi barely kept himself from laughing.

Mages could be quite eccentric at times, especially those at the cutting edge of scientific progress.

“Mr. Zvonkov, allow me to introduce—” Nalensky began, but was immediately cut off.

“Allow me, allow me... What are you allowing me to do, Nalensky? We have no time for all this allowing.” At last Zvonkov deigned to glance at Taisia, then at Ard, and promptly grimaced in distaste. “Gomar Zvonkov, Senior Magister, chief researcher in Anomalies at the central branch of the Hunters’ Guild. A journalist, I take it? I believe I saw you at one of Duke Abrailaal’s receptions the season before last, though that’s unimportant. Utterly unimportant. And who’s this? Security?”

“Captain Dar Skofsky, private security for Miss Shpritz.” Ard dipped his head slightly as he introduced himself.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Zvonkov was already looking past him. “Nalensky, the porters have already brought up the tracked wagons. We need to get the equipment onto them immediately. Any delay would be fatal, do you understand? The migration will begin no later than five days from now, and if we don’t enter the Park before the Floaters take to the southern trails, the entire expedition will turn into a pointless exercise in burning through the budget. And you, let me remind you, are responsible for that budget, not me!”

“But, Gomar, I mailed you reports every chance I got, and—”

“Mailed me reports, he says!” Zvonkov threw up his hands, nearly getting tangled in his own cloak. “Your letters make it to my desk, Nalensky, but they’re worse than no letters at all, because your handwriting is worse than my aunt’s, and she, like you, or you, like her, no, more likely you, like her, mangles every other line so badly that instead of ‘the caravan is moving on schedule,’ I read ‘the caveman is mauling a border guard,’ and then I’m left to guess what on earth you meant!”

Beside Zvonkov, Nalensky, usually so solid and self-assured, shrank in on himself until he seemed several inches shorter. Ard even felt sorry for him, though he knew Chaz himself was hardly a paragon of dignity.

“And this lady is planning to go to the Park with us?” Zvonkov flicked another glance at Taisia, and somehow, all at once, his darting little eyes revealed everything he thought of journalists in general and women journalists in particular.

“That’s right, Gomar.” Taisia gave him the very smile that made the Nalenskys of the world melt but, unfortunately, left Zvonkov completely unmoved. “I’ve signed every required document, including an agreement waiving all claims, and paid for my passage at the Guild’s rates.”

“Another headache,” Zvonkov grumbled, not bothering to be polite. “Fine, deal with your guest yourself, Nalensky. Come on, come on! Unload, load up! I don’t have time for this. I’ve still got three reports waiting on my desk.”

The young porters were already moving the cargo without waiting for any specific instructions. They brought strange mechanized wagons up beside the coaches. Ardan had never seen anything like them and didn’t understand at first what he was looking at.

They were massive steel platforms as tall as a man, each with a flat cargo deck and a driver’s cab at the front. Wide caterpillar treads ran beneath them instead of wheels, exactly like those on the tank Ard had seen at Dagdag’s proving ground, only smaller and lighter.

The treads disappeared beneath the belly of each wagon and connected to tension wheels through an intricate system of levers and springs. At the rear, a hinged cover concealed a diesel engine, and Ard could make out its distinctive cooling coils. The wagons wheezed and puffed, now and then spitting clouds of blue-gray exhaust from vents along their sides.

“Technical progress” was all Ardi said once he had climbed down, trying to shake the image of the tank on the proving ground.

By then, Taisia had already retrieved her valise from the coach. She took Ard by the arm and gave Nalensky a parting bow.

“My dear Chaz, I’m sure you and Mr. Zvonkov have far too much to do to waste time on such trifles, so, with your permission, the captain and I will make our way to the hotel and trouble you no further.” At once, she shot him a pointed look. “Perhaps I might count on the pleasure of dining with you this evening?”

“Certainly, Taisia, certainly!” Nalensky brightened again, forgetting Zvonkov for a moment. “Seven o’clock at the hotel restaurant?”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Taisia gave a slight curtsy, then turned and pulled Ardan along with such determination that he nearly tripped over his own staff.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Taisia let out a breath between her teeth.

“Sleeping Spirits, Skofsky, if I have to spend another half hour buttering up that windbag, I’ll start biting.” Ardi wasn’t quite sure whether Taisia was serious. “Swear to me that if I make a run for the woods, you’ll catch me and bring me back.”

“If anything, I swear I’d do the opposite,” Ard said honestly. “What about dinner?”

Taisia ignored his jab entirely.

“I’ll probably come up with some excuse to cancel dinner.” She gave a little shrug and pulled out her cigarette case. “I’ll plead a migraine. Or a distant female relative who died of consumption. Hell, I’ll say it’s my time of the month and my stomach hurts! Eternal Angels, Captain, I’ve spent time with all sorts of gentlemen, of course, but Nalensky takes being boring to a whole new level. With real enthusiasm, too. Absolutely nothing gets through to him.”

They were welcomed warmly at the hotel, which struck Ardi as odd. Then he remembered that his face was still hidden by the “Mask,” and that explained it.

In any case, within half an hour they had checked into adjoining rooms on the second floor. As Taisia closed her door behind her, she called over her shoulder:

“Tonight, Skofsky. I’m going to the casino. And don’t you dare hole up in your room, or I’ll tell Nalensky you’re dying to talk poetry with him.”

Ard actually choked.

“You wouldn’t dare, Taisia. Even for you, that’s low.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” The door slammed shut before Ardi could come up with a decent comeback.

He sighed, left his things in his room, and headed for the post office. First Station’s post office stood at the corner of the central avenue and a little side street. Not that any of that meant anything to Ard.

The post office itself was housed in a squat wooden building, with a massive oak counter inside. Shelves behind the counter were piled with parcels and envelopes, and a large pendulum clock in an oak case ticked on the wall. The air smelled of sealing wax, ink, and dust from old sacks.

Ardan walked up to the counter. A very young woman in a high-collared uniform blouse sat behind it. He held out four envelopes to her.

“Good afternoon,” Ard said, then noticed the strange look she was giving the top of his head. Ah, right. No hat. “Three letters. To Metropolis and Delpas, as addressed. And please send the fourth to this address: ‘Apartment 11, 7 Malaya Myshovka, Metropolis.’”

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She nodded in silence, weighed the envelopes on a tiny scale, then ran her fingers over one of the enormous directories.

“Malaya Myshovka, you said?” She frowned slightly and began leafing through the bulky tome. “There’s no street by that name on my list, sir. Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?”

“Absolutely certain,” Ard replied evenly. “Try looking in the special-delivery section.”

She turned a few more pages before stopping to read one closely. Her expression changed slightly. Then she gave a brief nod.

“Found it, sir.” Her voice wavered almost imperceptibly. “Please forgive the delay. Sixteen kso for all four. The two letters bound for Delpas will take longer than usual. Ten to twelve days, since the postal service through Alcade Pass is subject to seasonal delays.”

“That’s all right.” Ardan counted out the coins and set them on the counter.

As she stamped the envelopes, he stood at the counter, thinking they could have devised a better cover address for reaching the Black House. 7 Malaya Myshovka, Apartment 11. Imagine coming up with something like that. Not a single street by that name existed in Metropolis, so the branch apparently had a special sorting room, and letters like this one went straight into the hands of a Cloak, bypassing the city’s postal network.

The clerk (who surely had plenty of experience filling out confidentiality forms) stamped the last envelope and nodded. Ardan left the post office.

***

That evening, true to her word, Taisia knocked on his door and peeked inside without waiting to be invited.

“Skofsky, get dressed. We’re going gambling.”

“I don’t gamble, Taisia,” Ardi said, trying to wriggle out of it. “And I’d like to work on my research.”

“You’ll be doing research tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and for another two months straight,” Taisia countered as she stepped inside without asking and surveyed the room as though she owned it. “But tonight you’re coming with me because you’re my bodyguard, and if some local cardsharp cleans me out at the casino, you’ll be the one to blame.”

“Taisia, we both know full well that no one’s going to clean you out.”

“We do,” she readily agreed. “But I listed you as a guard in the agreement, which means I have the right to decide how you spend your time during working hours. As for your working hours, Skofsky…” Taisia checked a tiny watch on a chain. “Your contract says you’re on duty around the clock.”

Ardan seriously considered what might happen to him if he cast a curse on her. After all, no one would even suspect a thing. There probably wasn’t another specialist in the entire Empire who understood the curses used in the art of Aean’Hane.

Wishful thinking…

Arguing was pointless, so Ardan shrugged into his jacket, activated the Mask with a light touch of his staff, and followed Taisia.

The Golden Candlestick casino occupied the hotel’s entire ground floor. The hall was spacious, beneath a low ceiling covered in dark red velvet. Several rows of Ley-chandeliers shone through a dense haze of smoke. The place smelled, of course, of tobacco, strong whiskey, and the thrill of gambling. Tables for Sevens dotted the hall, which also featured two roulette wheels rimmed in gleaming brass and a long bar. Behind the bar, two bartenders in vests bustled about, their mustaches gleaming with wax.

The crowd that had gathered was as motley as they come.

At a corner table, Hunters in leather jackets played a noisy game of Sevens, every so often slapping their cards down on the felt. Workmen in plain jackets and peaked caps crowded around one roulette table, while several gentlemen in suit jackets and white shirts sat at the second, pricier one. Local merchants or mine managers, by the look of them.

On the small stage in the corner, a pianist in a checkered vest played something lively and a little rowdy. Beside him, a woman in a revealing dress puffed on a slender cigar and watched the room with bored eyes.

Ardi couldn’t help remembering the casino called The Blue Heron.

Taisia headed straight for the “expensive” roulette table, pulled a stack of banknotes as thick as a good-sized book from her handbag, and started haggling with the croupier over how many chips the stack would buy. Ardi watched Miss Shpritz. Then he settled at an empty table by the wall. From there he could see the roulette wheel, the doors, the bar, and most of the room.

He ordered tea.

The waitress was a sturdy woman of about forty, her eyes weary. She looked at him in genuine surprise.

“Tea, sir?” Even her voice wavered slightly. “Are you sure? We’ve got wonderful local whiskey, and brandy from Lintelar too. There’s even Shangrad vodka.”

“Tea, if it’s not too much trouble,” Ardan repeated. “With lemon. And no sugar.”

She shrugged. Five minutes later, she brought him a cup of strong tea that smelled of real leaves rather than the herbal dust served in saloons at stops along the train’s route.

Ardan took a sip and, to his surprise, burned his tongue (he still wasn’t used to how painfully sensitive a human body could be and, truth be told, had no desire to get used to it). He blew on the tea, then sipped again as he watched Taisia place her first bets.

Miss Shpritz played with considerable skill. There was a cold calculation in the way she played, the kind that marked her not as a casual gambler but as someone who frequented establishments like this. Not all that surprising, considering their first face-to-face meeting aboard Mr. Man’s Airship.

Taisia placed small bets. She won, lost, then won again, and through it all her expression never changed in the slightest. It was foolish to feel that way, of course, but Ardi was sleepy and hungry, and more than anything he wanted to get as far away from Miss Shpritz as possible.

And apparently, all three wishes were equally, utterly futile.

Ardan had just finished his first cup and was about to order a second when two men dropped noisily into the seats at his table, neither asking permission nor waiting for an invitation.

“And here’s our esteemed Captain Skofsky!” Melin drawled, his red beard wet with beer and his eyes bloodshot and glassy. “Quite an unexpected meeting, isn’t it, Rogov? There he sits, all by his lonesome, sipping a nice little cup of tea as if every one of us here were a complete stranger to him.”

“Unexpected,” Rogov agreed. Though his voice sounded steady enough, Ard noticed that his gray eyes were slightly unfocused. Even without a matabar’s nose, it was obvious the two of them had already been drinking. “We’re celebrating the end of the first leg of the trip, see, and then we find you sitting here all alone. That isn’t right, Captain. Not right at all. You, alone in a place this cheerful.”

“I’m not alone.” Ardan nodded toward the roulette table, where Taisia was just placing another bet. “I’m working.”

“He’s working!” Melin burst out laughing so loudly that people at the next table turned to look. “Did you hear that, Rogov? The captain’s working. Saving a lady from having too much cash in her pocket. An Army combat officer standing guard over a woman’s banknotes.”

“Former officer,” Rogov corrected softly, a note of venom in his voice. “A concussion, as I recall.”

Ardi said nothing, unwilling to take the bait. He simply watched them both over the rim of his cup. The Mask kept his true features securely hidden; they saw only a mercenary’s disfigured face.

Rogov set a heavy glass bottle and two cloudy tumblers on the table. Something dark and oily sloshed inside the bottle.

“Join us, Captain. Our treat. Genuine Lintelar, not a fake.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, but I prefer tea.”

“He prefers tea.” Melin put on a look of wounded surprise. “Did you hear that, Rogov? Tea.”

Considering how many times Melin had asked Rogov if he’d heard him, Ardi had to wonder whether there was something wrong with Captain Rogov’s ears. But he kept that observation to himself.

“I heard.” Rogov studied Ardan closely. “You know, Captain, there’s one thought I can’t seem to shake. A foolish, nagging little thought. It’s been rolling around in my head for going on two weeks now.”

“What would that be?” Ard asked evenly.

“Here’s the thing.” Rogov tapped the brandy bottle with one finger. “Where are you from, Captain Skofsky?”

“Foothill Province. Delpas.”

“Right. And where did you serve?”

“Twenty-First Infantry, Steppe marshals’ corps.”

“The Twenty-First, then.” Rogov nodded, took a sip from his glass, and grimaced. “Nasty stuff... I was on assignment there once, you know. Served at Foothill Province headquarters. And as it happened, all the Twenty-First Infantry’s paperwork passed through my hands. Every document, every report, every casualty list and commendation roll, down to the last scrap of paper. Everything came through me.”

Ardan lowered his cup onto its saucer with such care that it made no sound.

“Well, what a coincidence,” Ardi replied calmly.

“And here’s the strange thing, Captain,” Rogov continued in the same even, faintly drawling voice. “I don’t remember anyone named Dar Skofsky on the Twenty-First’s rolls. My memory for surnames is excellent, you know. Almost professional.”

Melin sat back in his chair, a smirk on his face.

“Perhaps your memory is failing you, Mr. Rogov,” Ardan said evenly and slowly, not wasting a word. “The Twenty-First Infantry of the Steppe Corps has three thousand personnel, as far as I know. It’s impossible to remember them all.”

“Impossible,” Rogov readily agreed. “But I worked directly with the officers. There were only a little over twenty of them.”

An almost palpable silence hung over the table.

Ardi looked at Taisia. She was still playing, unaware of what was happening, and perhaps for the first time since they’d met, Ardan sincerely wished that Miss Shpritz would turn around.

“Well then,” Ard said at last, “it seems we have something to discuss, gentlemen.”

Rogov smiled, revealing large, yellowish teeth.

“My thoughts exactly, Skofsky. My thoughts exactly.”

Ardi never took his eyes off Rogov, silently studying him over the rim of his cup. All the while, he calmly sifted through what he knew, and it began to point toward something curious.

Rogov had never served at Foothill Province headquarters.

Before sending Ardan to pose as Captain Skofsky on the expedition, the Black House had conducted its own checks and furnished him with the personnel files of every mage and officer he would be spending the next two months with. Ardi might only have skimmed the papers, but he’d read enough to know the basics of Rogov’s service record.

Captain Alton Rogov, age thirty-four, a native of Shangrad Province in the northwest of the Empire. He’d studied at the Governor’s Academy named after somebody or other, in a town with a very funny name Ardan couldn’t remember. The Army had sent him there, of course. He’d signed a long-term contract with the Army, which paid for his training as a Star mage. After graduating, he served with the Twelfth Artillery Corps, in the mage unit attached to its gunners. Later, after being wounded near Fort Gardang, he was transferred to the engineering units on the Southeastern Front. Transferred to the reserves after a tribunal found him guilty of disgracing the uniform; brought onto the Hunters’ Guild staff at Colonel Sukhov’s recommendation.

The Second Chancery’s analytical department had added a note: in all likelihood, Sukhov had been generous enough to write such a letter only because a few crisp exes had changed hands.

So Captain Rogov had never once set foot in Foothill Province in all his life.

Ardi took a sip of his tea, careful not to betray his surprise.

Rogov was lying, and lying quite deliberately. He had laid a trap and was waiting for Ardan to blunder into it. His heartbeat sounded perfectly calm to Ardi, which meant he had to have some kind of amulet or artifact that kept the Firstborn from getting an accurate read on him by sound or smell. So Ard couldn’t afford to relax his control over the Witch’s Gaze either; the same protection might work against that as well.

Taken together, all of it meant only one thing: Rogov suspected Ard of something and was trying to provoke him.

The only question was what, exactly.

Several theories sprang into Ardi’s mind all at once. The first, and least troubling, was this: Rogov, a seasoned officer, had sensed that Skofsky was not who he claimed to be. So he simply wanted to trip up the impostor, whether for his own amusement or perhaps for personal gain. Maybe he hoped the man behind the Skofsky name was a criminal with a marshals’ corps bounty on his head.

The second theory, a little worse, was that Rogov worked for someone who suspected a Black House agent was present in the caravan and had sent him to identify that agent. That theory had plenty of holes, and so did the third: that Captain Alton Rogov himself belonged to the Puppeteers’ organization, an absurd idea. But if he was connected to that nebulous third force, the one the vampire also belonged to...

Ardan shook his head slightly.

It was a shame Milar wasn’t there beside him; if he had been, Ardan could have talked through everything on his mind.

“Interesting,” Ardan said evenly as he lowered his cup onto its saucer. “I’ve never gone digging through headquarters records, of course, but if memory serves, paperwork for the Twenty-First Infantry, as part of the Steppe Corps, is handled by the Marshals’ Administration, not Foothill Province. The same is true of all marshals’ records: immediately after the Fatian massacre, the marshals were split off into a separate branch of the army, with their own administration. The Ranger corps was split off, too... So perhaps, Captain, you have me confused with someone from another unit.”

Rogov fell silent for a moment, but the smirk lingered on his slightly pale face. He knew perfectly well he’d been caught lying, but he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow as he poured himself another splash of the plainly awful brandy.

Ardi didn’t drink, but after living above Bruce for so long and spending time with Arkar and Bazhen, he’d learned to tell different liquors apart. By smell, of course.

“Maybe, Skofsky, maybe.” Rogov waved a hand. “Memory’s a treacherous thing, you know, especially after a couple of days in the saddle have left your ass numb.” He winked at Melin. “Melin, how about you? Will you vouch for my treacherous memory?”

“I will,” Melin replied too eagerly as he poured brandy into the cloudy glasses. “Captain Rogov’s memory is highly selective. He’s forever forgetting things. Unless exes are involved, of course.”

Ardi noted that Melin never once took his eyes off him and seemed nowhere near drunk. Somewhere behind his flushed face and unfocused eyes lurked a decidedly calm, sober mind.

What the hell was going on here?

“In any case, Captain.” Rogov leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his stomach. “Here’s what I’d like to know. Senior Magister Nalensky mentioned that your contract requires you to accompany Miss Shpritz whenever the expedition turns dangerous. But somehow I don’t recall bodyguards being expected to create the danger themselves. Why did you drag Miss Shpritz into the crevice while we were dealing with the icelings?”

“What do you mean?” Ardan asked, affecting a haughty tone and hoping he’d pulled it off.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Rogov shrugged. “We saw the two of you split off from the group. And when we asked Miss Shpritz, she told us you’d practically hauled her out of some cave-in all by yourself. We did find the cave-in, of course. And a very strange charred streak on the wall.”

Ard swore silently. So Taisia had already spoken with those two, yet for some unfathomable reason had decided not to tell her “guard”! How lovely...

Ardi was beginning to understand the Second Chancery staff’s deep-seated dislike of “media vultures.”

“You must have noticed this about Miss Shpritz.” Ardi allowed himself a faint, strained half-smile. “She has quite an imagination and a habit of embellishing the truth. Nothing particularly remarkable happened in the caves. Things simply got heated, and I saw a chance to take... cover. As for all the time we spent there... I just didn’t want my charge... to get her brand-new jacket dirty.”

Skusty probably wouldn’t have praised him for such ham-fisted evasions, but the captains weren’t the only ones who’d spent several hard days in the saddle. Sleeping Spirits, how could anyone maintain that kind of stamina?

“So it was the jacket you were protecting.” Rogov nodded slowly. “And your accumulators, Captain, wouldn’t happen to be army issue, would they?”

“They aren’t engraved.” Ardan raised his left hand and displayed his rings. “As you know perfectly well, Captain, officers receive whatever charge remains unspent when their service ends. If that bothers you, you can mail a request for confirmation to the Second Chancery department responsible for the military accumulator records. I imagine they’ll answer. In two or three months, mind you. Not likely before then.”

“They’ll answer, Skofsky; they’ll answer all right.” Rogov drained his glass, then suddenly slammed it down on the table. “But waiting two months would be rather dull. Remember how we test newcomers to our tight-knit little brotherhood of Star soldiers when we’re not sure they measure up?”

Ardan said nothing.

“A friendly duel.” Rogov grinned broadly, once again baring his massive, horselike teeth. “No accumulators. Only our own Stars. A standard shield match. We’ll find out what each of us can do. What do you say?”

“What are you proposing, Lieutenant?”

“Normal people call it a fistfight... but in your circles, who the hell knows? A duel? A match?”

“A magical duel? Against that beast?”

“Having trouble hearing, mage? The boss already told you everything. Either you and the kid fight it out right now, or we leave you here.”

Ardan shook his head.

“No, gentlemen. I’m no fan of Magical Boxing. What’s more, the terms of my contract with Miss Shpritz forbid me from taking part in any such event without her written consent. I must therefore decline your offer.”

“Well, aren’t we proud.” Rogov clicked his tongue derisively. “Contracts, agreements. All right, Skofsky. Then let me put it another way. Not a duel, but a wager. For instance, I’m prepared to stake several modifications to military seals from my personal collection. Three of them. All three are Blue Star. Each comes with a military engineer’s certificate and approval from the Spell Market. Will that do? And if you lose, then, let’s say... you hand over a Blue accumulator.”

Ardan went still. Slowly, he set his cup back on its saucer.

Modifications to military seals.

Never mind Mart Borskov’s astonished remarks that Ardan had shown no interest in his grimoire. Never mind Anita’s attempt to drug and rob Ardan on the way to Larand. Even without those episodes, modifications were not something people parted with lightly, especially military ones. The real problem wasn’t the price so much as how few such modifications ever came onto the market. Recent regulations, loosened as part of the internship initiative for students in their third year or later, now allowed the Spell Market to trade in military magic up to and including the Green Star. But Blue magic still belonged exclusively to the Army and the Black House.

And Rogov hadn’t even said exactly which modifications they were; even so, the three of them would still run ten times the price of military accumulators. Once you factored in how difficult they were to obtain, their value climbed severalfold.

What did that mean?

The most obvious thing, of course: they were luring Ardi into a trap. So cleverly, in fact, that he had no room left to maneuver. If he refused, he might as well hang a sign around his neck that said, “I’m hiding something.”

“All right.” Ardan let out a weary sigh. “Have it your way. But on one condition: if I win, you stop pestering me.”

“Fair enough.” Rogov’s gray eyes flashed as he rose from the table. “There’s enough room outside that we won’t accidentally damage any buildings.”

“After you, then.” Ardan got to his feet as well and took up his staff. “But first, I should let Miss Shpritz know so she won’t worry if I’m gone for a while.”

“Aren’t you just the picture of courtesy.” Melin snorted and waved a hand. “I’ve never heard of courteous marshals before. Quite the opposite, in fact... Go ahead, Skofsky. We’ll wait by the exit. Just don’t even think about making a run for it through the back door.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” Ardan lied.

Truth be told, the thought had crossed his mind. A very tempting one, at that.

Ardi wove between the tables, careful not to catch anyone’s eye, and paused by the roulette wheel only long enough to lean close to Taisia’s ear.

“Miss Shpritz, I’ll have to step outside for a little while. The captains have decided there isn’t enough commotion around here. They’ve asked for a sparring match.”

Taisia froze with a chip poised above the felt and turned her head toward him. For a moment, alarm flickered in her blue eyes, lit by the Ley-lamps. Ardi noted that Miss Shpritz’s heartbeat had quickened slightly. But she soon regained her composure and smiled with her customary ease.

“You certainly know how to find yourself some entertainment, Captain,” Taisia said, with an odd edge in her voice. “And I’d only just begun to worry that boredom would finish me off before the undead or the Anomalies did.”

She shot to her feet, swept a mocking gaze across the casino floor, and shouted,

“Gentlemen, who wants to watch a duel between war mages?!”

Ardi sighed. That about summed it up:

“Ahgrat.”