Matabar (Stubbing October 30th)

Book II. Chapter 77 - Don't be a Fatian

Chapter 77Ard kept a firm grip on the wheel. Milar, meanwhile, huddled into his coat and grumbled under his breath at the window, which was slowly fogging over.

“You know, Magister,” the captain grumbled. “I understand that you have young blood, that you and your fiancée can enjoy each other’s company at any... time of day or night, but this is over the line. Elvira and I had only just arranged a date.”

“Sorry,” Ardan said, sincerely apologetic.

Milar only waved a hand. He had arrived half an hour earlier, disgruntled and flushed. Beneath his black leather work coat lined with inexpensive fur, a dress suit could be seen poking out—carefully pressed, with a starched collar and a shirt so white you could have compared the best tablecloth to it.

Captain Pnev had clearly been intending to spend a pleasant evening with his wife when his signal medallion had heated up. And now, he and Ardi were driving along the freezing canals via embankments and bridges instead, trying to skirt another traffic jam that had formed at the entrance to the New City.

“And I did ask you not to make any more deals, Ard,” Milar persisted. “First the Dandy, and now Taisia Shpritz. Is there anything else I should know about?”

Ardan offered him a restrained smile, and Milar merely threw up his hands and sneezed thunderously.

“Turn off at the Small Bridge,” the captain ordered, pointing to a short bridge whose high arch loomed over the narrowing canal. “There should be less traffic there right now, I reckon.”

The young man, feeling sweat trickle down his back, carefully shifted gears, and the “Derks”—growling in harmony with its owner—managed not to stall out. Ardan sighed in relief, and they slowly, cautiously crossed the Crookedwater Canal, blinking their turn signal. In less than ten minutes, they were driving alongside the high-rises that stretched toward the sky.

“This is right next to New Time Avenue,” Milar whistled while reading her business card. “Looks like pen sharks earn a pretty kso if she lives in a place like this.”

“Taisia Shpritz is the most famous journalist in the entire country,” Ardan reminded him.

“Yes, I know, Ard, I know,” Milar groaned. “But however famous she is, I hope this trip—and your rotten driving skills—were worth me missing my date with my wife.”

And, as if to confirm Milar’s words, Ardan jerked the steering wheel sharply to the side, avoiding a collision with an expensive car that had swerved dangerously close. The dandy behind the other wheel saluted them with an oversized cigar and, laughing with his companion, vanished into the gaps in the traffic flow.

“I thought that people in the Metropolis could tell a Second Chancery car on sight,” Ardan muttered.

“In Old Town,” Milar corrected him. “But here... Look around you, Magister. Pretty soon, there’ll be more automobiles here than humans...or Firstborn”

Milar was right. They were moving in a dense stream of all manner of wheeled vehicles, including omnibuses and trams. Ardan had to keep swiveling his head in a circle, constantly checking the mirrors to avoid becoming another entry in the growing accident statistics—statistics that were rising so rapidly that it seemed like Parliament had gotten wind of Milar’s complaint and started seriously considering implementing a system of licenses for operating mechanical transports.

“And as for Arseny, the Overseer of the Hammers, we’ll wait,” Milar said as he pulled out his ever-crumpled pack of cigarettes and drummed his fingers on the cardboard. “Maybe Arkar will dig something up, but I hope not. Everything had only just started to calm down a bit. A gang war is the last thing we need right now.”

Ard had obviously elected to tell his partner about Arkar’s concerns. Keeping such information under wraps would have been an unforgivable folly. And besides, the half-orc hadn’t hinted in any way that what he’d said was a secret.

Even the initially not-so-lively conversation died of its own accord as soon as Ard turned onto New Time Avenue—the busiest, most congested street in the entire world.

Finding himself in one of twelve traffic lanes situated between two walls formed by thirty-and-forty-story skyscrapers standing side by side, Ardan felt not just uncomfortable, but much the same as he did inside a cramped elevator car. There, his life hung on a counterweight cable, and here—it depended on that same kind of cable, only it was the brake cable.

The young man would have much preferred to be among the pedestrians walking on the broad sidewalks awash in Ley-light.

Struggling not to hit anyone or stall out, constantly working the clutch and shifting gears, they managed—albeit with some lurching and jolting—to cross half the avenue and turn onto 116th Street, where the buildings were lower and wider, and the ground floors clamored with numerous cafés, little restaurants, bars, and high-end shops.

Taisia Shpritz lived just past the intersection, in a brand-new skyscraper that had been built literally two years ago: a broad, rectangular tower with very inconspicuous ornamentation on the cornice and roof ().

The more Ardan found himself in the New City, the better he understood Atura’s words from a year and a half ago. The young man had realized that he, too, found the densely populated districts—where buildings competed with each other to see which could climb higher into the clouds—a bit soulless, noisy and overbearing.

And parking here was always a problem. They managed to squeeze in only two blocks from the address they needed.

“Infernal machine,” Milar concluded after the automatic parking meter accepted their last ten-kso coin only on the fifth try and, with a rusty spat out a battered ticket.

Stepping onto brand-new asphalt instead of cobblestones, Ardan kept catching curious glances. They were provoked not by his height, his lack of a hat, or the unremarkable Firstborn features of his face. His kind were more than plentiful in the New City, which had been planned from the start as a place that could comfortably house representatives of almost every race.

However, because the New City and its endless ranks of skyscrapers were home to around eighty percent of the capital’s entire population, you didn’t encounter mages here all that often. Thus, the passersby were gawking at his staff, grimoire and regalia, suddenly recalling that the fairy tales of their childhood and the splashy headlines of the newspapers lived far closer than they’d imagined them this morning.

All it took was crossing the Crookedwater Canal—which, thanks to the underground tram lines, was no longer such a big problem.

“What are you pondering, partner?” Milar asked as they walked with the crowd toward the avenue.

“Just the fact that I never thought I’d enjoy living in the Metropolis,” Ardan answered honestly, and then added, “or at least a certain part of it.”

“Ha.” Milar chuckled. “The capital has that quirk. It knows how to eat its way through even the most unassailable obstacles. Otherwise, it probably wouldn’t have become the largest city in the world.”

“Probably...”

Their conversation faded out again because keeping up a chat in a many-faced, bustling crowd where you had to work not to bump into anyone () proved to be quite tricky. They reached building 47 at the corner of 116th Street and New Time Avenue in silence.

At the entrance, beneath a broad canvas awning emblazoned with golden letters spelling out “House of Dukes,” they were greeted not by mere doormen, but by veritable gentlemen. Their uniforms were so immaculate, with cap visors and shoe tips so polished that not only Ardan, but even Milar felt a twinge of self-consciousness. And that was considering the fact that the captain himself was wearing something suitable for a date.

“Good evening,” one of the doormen greeted them with a practiced, impeccably trained intonation and perfect posture, then indicated the revolving door with an open palm.

The door slowly revolved around its axis, allowing the four-sectioned compartment to admit those going in as well as those coming out to the street.

“Ah, I see,” Milar grunted, not very politely, and they entered the foyer.

Ard—who had been in the Palace of the Kings of the Past and the Baliero Concert Hall—found himself momentarily bewildered by the décor. Everything that could be sheathed in marble was clad in snow-white stone; everything that required a wood finish shone with the finest kinds of wood and the most expensive lacquers; and the carpets, the paintings on the walls, the countless sofas, tables, and display cases of trinkets were beyond counting.

Not to mention the enormous chandelier framed by a sweeping, twin staircase leading up to private meeting rooms, a cigar club, and two restaurants.

“Eternal Angels...” Milar breathed in awe, removing his hat. “I wonder how much the rent is here.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Ardan replied, fighting the choking dryness in his throat. “But I have a guess.”

Captain Pnev, who was watching a stately gentleman and lady whose outfits—not including their jewelry—were worth hundreds of exes, let out a sort of croaking, affirmative sound.

All things considered, it seemed like New Time Avenue was doing everything in its power to contend with St. Vasily’s Island for the title of the most expensive piece of real estate in the capital.

Blinking to clear their eyes, the partners made their way through the crowd and approached the information desk. Said desk would probably have looked more at home in the foyer of Central Station or perhaps a branch of the Imperial Bank, not a mere residential building.

“And I thought people lived lavishly in the Castle Tower,” Milar murmured under his breath, slapping a hand on the bell.

Accompanied by the melodic trill, one of the five staff members floated over to them—a man whom Milar took an instant dislike to. The working uniform of the “House of Dukes’” employee, though superficially resembling a suit, looked fancier, better-kept, and more expensive than Milar’s own three-piece suit.

“Good evening. How may I help you, gentlemen?” The man who was around thirty asked in the same haughty, well-practiced manner that the doorman had used.

His skin was smoother than that of some girls, and his teeth whiter than the marble surrounding them.

Milar and Ardan, moving in unison without a word, placed their identifications on the counter. The employee flicked a cold gaze over them and didn’t so much as arch an eyebrow.

“Captain. Corporal. Should I summon the manager?” He asked simply.

“No need, my good man,” Milar said. He adjusted the drape of his cloak to reveal the grip of his revolver and the scabbard of his saber (). “We’d like to access the apartment of Miss Taisia Shpritz, number 112.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the employee refused instantly, his expression and tone unchanged.

Ard, who knew Milar well enough by now to realize that this exchange wouldn’t lead to anything good, promptly spoke up before the captain—mouth already open—could say a word.

“Perhaps Miss Shpritz left something for me?” Ardan asked. “For Ard Egobar. Could you please check?”

He gave Ardan a frosty once-over and, with a curt nod, stepped away toward the wooden cabinets, archives and mailboxes. Apparently, the residents here didn’t retrieve their correspondence themselves, but through... what were they called again... right—concierges.

Milar tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter, while Ardan, glancing around, involuntarily recalled the words of Reish Orman.

Only a month and a half remained until the deadline given to him by the Governor-General of Shamtur expired. Ardan needed to find a suitable home for himself and Tess.

Of course, he didn’t have enough money for anything like this place (), and besides, they were living at Arkar’s place practically for free in the meantime...

“Indeed, there is a message for you, Corporal Egobar,” the concierge returned, looking a bit surprised, and carrying a small box and a note. “Here, take it.”

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Ardan and Milar exchanged glances. The young man took the note and, after unfolding it, read the short message:

Inside the box, they discovered a heavy key with a tag labeled “112.”

“That’s the eleventh floor,” the employee said matter-of-factly. “The lifts are behind you. Have a good evening.”

Milar plainly intended to say something in response to the conceited concierge, but Ardan tugged his partner by the shoulder toward the elevators. The captain, muttering under his breath, shook off Ard’s hand and cracked his neck.

“I swear by the Eternal Angels, Ard,” the captain growled through clenched teeth. “At this rate, give it another couple of decades, and the Second Chancery will, in the public eye at least, be no better than the city guard.”

Ardan only shrugged.

“That’s here in the Metropolis, Milar,” the youth countered. “The farther from the capital one gets, the more terrifying, omniscient and omnipotent you lot are.”

“We.”

“What?”

“You said ‘you,’” Milar clarified. “It’s not ‘you’ but, given your papers, it’s ‘we,’ Corporal.”

The captain pronounced that last word with a slight emphasis, so Ard made no comment on the well-placed remark. Even after almost a year of service, he still didn’t quite count himself among the Cloaks. How odd…

In any case, those were thoughts for another day.

Cutting through the streams of truly wealthy people, where brushing even the hem of a garment was just as frightening as scratching a museum piece (), they reached the elevators.

Doormen wearing the same livery as the concierge and with an equally-imposing posture were calling the lifts and exchanging nods with the lift operators, whose entire job now came down to pressing a button.

“Imagine what’ll happen in a year and a half, when the transition period set by Parliament ends,” Milar whispered as they waited for the infernal box.

Ardan gave him a subdued nod. Six years ago, automatic elevator control panels had appeared, eliminating the need for an operator to manage a complex system of levers and level gauges. In response, Parliament—fully understanding that sooner or later, all the old elevators would be replaced with new ones—had passed a law stipulating that for seven and a half years after the law’s signing, no lift operator could be dismissed.

Ard, of course, was mulling all of this over only to distract himself from his own anxiety—a nauseating lump that was choking his throat from the inside. Even though the elevator in the “House of Dukes” was twice the size of a standard one and, if one had wanted to do so, a small writing desk could have been placed inside it, Ardan still felt like, with every passing second, it was becoming harder to force air into his lungs.

Hunched over and clutching his staff with both hands, he tried to focus on nothing but breathing.

Inhale—exhale.

Exhale—inhale.

Despite his best efforts, the cedar-paneled walls adorned with silver tracery and a mirror in a gilded frame pressed in relentlessly. The figures of the stately gentlemen and their equally-exquisite ladies stretched like grass stalks and clung to the young man’s sweat-beaded face like spiderwebs.

And so, when the doors opened on the eleventh floor and released the partners from the clutches of the infernal contraption, Ardan sprang out into the spacious corridor with a zeal worthy of admiration.

Or perhaps worthy of scornful reproach—which, for a few moments, seared into his back as a small constellation of perplexed stares. But then the doors closed, carrying the skyscraper’s residents farther upward, and Milar and Ardi were left alone in the corridor.

“How big are the apartments here, Ard?” The captain murmured while glancing around.

The building had a strictly rectangular shape, so logically, the floor should have been divided into four sections corresponding to its corners. Instead, the corridor split the space cleanly down the middle.

Armed with the key, and treading across decor that could have easily been mistaken for the interior of one of the finest private clubs or restaurants in the Central District, Ardan and Milar walked up to the door they needed.

“Should we question the neighbors?” Ardan asked as the captain carefully inspected the keyhole.

“Here?” Milar snorted derisively. “So they can immediately declare that they’ll only talk with their family lawyer and a priest present?”

“And why a priest?”

“So they can pray away all their sins straight away, Ard,” Milar smirked, clearly pleased with his own joke. “The lock’s fine. No one’s opened it. What about magic?”

Ardan closed his eyes and trusted his Speaker’s senses.

“The building’s divided into four sections of ten floors each, and each one is under a complex ward system,” Ard reported. “There’s a generator room on the service floor. Everything’s top-notch.”

“Ard, I’m very glad to see that you’ve become our walking Ley-detector, but I’d like something a bit more concrete,” Captain Pnev said, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s nothing that would interfere with our work,” Ardan exhaled. “But, if it comes to it, I won’t be able to conjure anything with a load above three red rays. The wards won’t allow it.”

And that was one of the primary reasons why Star Mages so rarely settled in the New City. Not because they particularly wanted to be slinging spells at home—not at all—but the very fact that they couldn’t use their Stars caused them considerable discomfort.

And due to the dense, high-tech and high-rise construction, all New City buildings were required by law to have a similar shield system for safety. This, in turn, made Star Engineers and warding specialists some of the most in-demand and well-paid professions in all of Star Magic.

“Understood,” Milar nodded.

The captain turned the key in the lock. The door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, and the partners stepped inside a spacious entry hall—one fully worthy of serving as someone’s living room in Old Town.

Following the latest trends, the built-in wall closets here gleamed with lacquer on their rounded doors. By the door, as expected, there was an umbrella stand—only not made of aluminum, but carved from decorative stone. The shaggy doormat, intended to combat seasonal slush and mud, had been replaced only recently.

The captain reached out and clicked a switch. Lamps flared across the high, nearly three-meter ceiling.

“Looks... ordinary, I guess,” Milar said, sounding a bit disappointed.

And it did indeed. Aside from the impressive dimensions, the space visible from the entryway—flowing without any hallway into an elongated, enormous living room—was nothing particularly impressive. Unless you counted the windows, which, with no sills at all, stretched from ceiling to floor.

“I wonder where the heating’s hidden,” Milar mused aloud, walking farther in.

The living room, which was almost twenty meters long, had sixteen windows. These offered a view of the avenue and... other skyscrapers shimmering in the night with their own stars. It was all so artificial. Lifeless. And nothing like the stars Ardan had enjoyed seeing in the Alcade.

“Well, what exactly are we supposed to find here?” Milar plopped down heavily on an enormous sofa and grabbed a newspaper from the coffee table. “Old issue... she hasn’t been here in a week.”

“I don’t know, Milar,” Ardan answered honestly. “Madam Shpritz told me that she would meet me at ‘Bruce’s’ at the appointed time.”

“And if she didn’t show up?” Milar put aside the newspaper and stood, heading toward the kitchen, which was separated from the living room not by a wall, but by a massive oak dining table.

“Then it’s no big deal,” Ardi said, spreading his hands out as he moved toward an inconspicuous door hidden in the monochrome wallpaper.

Pulling it open, Ardan found himself in a study. There was a writing desk there. An iron filing cabinet, clearly old and beaten by rust in places. A wooden chair on wooden rollers. A corkboard with newspaper clippings, photographs, and some notes pinned to it.

Stepping closer and sweeping his gaze over everything, Ardan noticed that the majority of the notes had to do, in one way or another, with the Hunters’ Guild.

On the desk, beside a heap of papers, notebooks and numerous pencils, stood an old, dog-eared photograph on stiff yellow paper. From it, a middle-aged man gazed back at Ardi, a man whose features shared an unmistakable resemblance with Shpritz.

Her father.

From the kitchen, across the entire living room, came Milar’s voice:

“Then why are we here, instead of paying a visit to that... what’s-his-name...”

Ardan, who was about to leave the study, found his gaze drawn to one of the labels on the cabinet’s drawers. Stepping closer, the young man pulled out the metal drawer, but inside, aside from dust and a bit of cobweb, nothing looked back at him save orphaned emptiness.

Pushing it shut, Ardan paused for a moment, then, bending back a retaining clip, pulled out the label and, after unfolding it, read the other side.

“Magister!” Milar barked, yanking Ard out of his thoughts. “By the Eternal Angels, I can’t even get through to you. Did you find something?”

“Milar, we need to-” Ardan began to reply and then froze abruptly.

He stilled and, clapping a hand over Milar’s mouth, slammed his staff against the breaker box mounted between the filing cabinet and the window. Silvery sparks showered down onto his staff in a glittering rain, and the lights overhead flickered and went out.

Milar, raising both eyebrows, nodded and pried Ardi’s hand off his face. Then the captain calmly unfastened his holster and drew his revolver.

Ardan pulled the door almost closed, leaving just a crack, and listened. His inhuman sense of smell had caught a scent that couldn’t possibly belong to the local residents.

Those residents smelled of flowery and fruity perfumes, of fine, cured leather and fur, of money and luxury—certainly not of gunpowder and cheap alcohol. And, strangest of all, the scent was coming not from the direction of the elevator, where it would have mingled with all the other aromas, but from the stairwell, bringing with it the sharp reek of the cleaning chemicals used by the custodians.

Right on the heels of that smell, muffled thuds began to sound, sinking into the thick carpet pile—the wooden heels of work boots. By the depth of the sound and the length of the pauses, several burly, decidedly large men were approaching.

Milar, naturally, heard and sensed nothing, but the captain had long since grown accustomed to trusting Ardan when he behaved in such a way. Especially since, at the moment, Ard’s nostrils were flared, his pupils had stretched into long, narrow slits, and his ears were twitching like a dog’s.

“If the materials aren’t here, we’ll have to think of something,” came the first voice, which was a little rough—like an unplaned board.

“They’re here,” answered a second voice, wheezing and rasping. The kind of voice caused by a bout of consumption. “Otherwise, she’s done for. Shpritz must understand that.”

“Would’ve been better to just off her immediately,” spoke a third voice, the softest and smoothest of them all.

All told, Ardan counted five men based on their footsteps, though two of them were staying silent.

“A well-known journalist? Excellent idea, Caleb. Just brilliant,” the “Board” voice commented sarcastically.

“She’s as good as dead either way,” Caleb retorted. “They won’t let her go.”

“Which is precisely why we’ll take her out to the suburbs and toss her onto some particularly nasty stationary shield,” the consumptive voice hissed hoarsely. “That way, the papers won’t print that ‘a famous journalist met a mysterious end,’ but that ‘the pen shark, just like the curious cat, fell victim to her own curio…’” He broke off with a curse. “Eternal Angels. Why are we even discussing this?”

Ardi could feel Milar’s bewildered stare burning into his back, but now was not the time to delve into how strongly Star Magic and the art of the Aean’Hane influenced each other, or how much more powerful his Witch’s Gaze had become.

Without any sort of clatter or clicking, the lock on the front door opened, making it clear that the unknown men had used keys rather than lockpicks.

Five pairs of boots entered. Someone flipped a light switch.

“Doesn’t work...”

“Flashlights,” barked “Consumption,” who was evidently the leader among them.

There was a whirring sound as handheld, far-from-cheap devices powered by clockwork and household Red Star level batteries came to life. Such a weak charge was plenty to power simple incandescent bulbs.

“Where was the courier supposed to leave the material?” “Consumption” asked tersely.

“The journalist said it was in her study,” Caleb answered.

“Then why are you standing around?” The consumptive voice snarled. “Go fetch it, and we’ll have a look around.”

Whoever these five people were, they didn’t sound like common gangsters or burglars. They were more like professionals at their workplace. Professionals at what, exactly? That was what Ard and Milar were about to find out.

The young man turned to his partner and waved his staff in front of the captain’s eyes. Through the slightly open door, the muted beams from the flashlights and the glow of the city were filtering in. For Ardan, that was more than sufficient, but Milar likely couldn’t see beyond his own elbow.

Fortunately, the captain understood the youth’s silent question and, without a word, opened and closed his fist a few times. That meant it would be about fifteen minutes until reinforcements in the form of Alexander and Din—whom Milar had already summoned—arrived.

Ardan responded with a restrained nod and then, ensuring that he made no unnecessary noise, he set his staff against the wall. Milar had already moved back and to the side so that, when the door opened, he wouldn’t be visible. Ardan crouched, coiled like a spring, and waited. The rhythm of his heart evened out, and the smells and sounds grew sharper.

“Alright, boys,” the consumptive voice continued giving orders. “Check everything thoroughly... but carefully. No one should end up thinking that this was a robbery or some such mess.”

Just as Ergar had taught him, he lay in ambush, waiting for the prey to unknowingly stumble into the snare prepared for it.

Footsteps, weighty and deliberate, grew closer and closer. Ardan, inhaling silently through his nose, immersed himself in every nuance of the scents: alcohol, cigarettes, and a faint, almost undetectable note—barely noticeable even to a hunter’s senses—of herbal medicines. Or... not exactly medicines?

The thought that the approaching stranger might be under the influence of alchemy came to Ardi’s mind only after the door opened.

There was no more time for reflection. As soon as the door opened wide enough, Ardan sprang into action. With his first strike—driving his fist upward from below, elbow bent like a hook—he rammed his fist straight into the opponent’s groin. Feeling something burst with a wet pop beneath his knuckles, Ardan, straightening sharply, grabbed Caleb’s face with his other hand. Covering his nose and mouth, Ardan felt a muffled scream, teetering on the edge of consciousness, batter itself against his hand.

Yanking the stranger fully into the study, Ardan, in one continuous motion, unclenched his fist and snapped his hand upward, slamming his open palm against Caleb’s exposed throat. The man’s body—already losing consciousness from the unbearable pain—convulsed and sent a burst of adrenaline surging to his heart and brain. However, this mattered little since he had a shattered trachea and a ruined groin. Caleb was a dead man regardless.

The only question was what would send the stranger to meet the Eternal Angels sooner: the shock of all that pain, the lack of air, or the blood flooding the swelling tissues of his throat and lungs.

Ardan, with a strength no human could match, pinned the shuddering body against the wall and looked into Caleb’s eyes. The brief spike of adrenaline, which had broken a rule of the hunt (), would be needed here. Ardan, pushing aside the drowning man’s last bits of willpower and ignoring his final, desperate scramble at crumbling banks with numb fingers, ran amid the shards of the man’s fading consciousness.

Flashes of memory streaked past Ardan like the scattered stars of a shattered glass bauble. They glimmered with the final seconds of the life quivering in his hands. One that was dwindling. Dying away. Draping itself in a dusky shroud. Just like the city that Caleb had been gazing at only moments ago—gazing at it as he’d sat in a car pulling out from a warehouse in the Tend.

And there, amid squelching shadows, sat a woman tied to a chair, her head bowed over a torn dress.

Ardan blinked and returned to reality. Still not making a sound, he gently laid the body down on the floor.

“Well?” Milar asked so quietly that it was barely audible. “Were you successful?”

Ardan stepped over to the cabinet and began slamming its drawers open and shut, rapping on its sides as he did so. Maybe a trick like this would buy them a few seconds.

“Shpritz is in the Tend.”

“Alive?”

“For now, yes.”

Milar nodded and checked the spare “moons” on his belt.

“It’s dark as an orc’s ass in there,” the captain muttered. “We’ll be writing up reports for Dagdag again.”

Shoving aside his cloak, Milar tore a few miniature vials from his belt and, biting out their corks, tipped them down his throat.

“Just make sure you don’t hit me,” Ardan said, finishing his noisy distraction and reclaiming his staff.

Milar, whose irises had acquired a greenish tinge and whose veins had swollen and turned pink around his eyes, replied with an uncouth gesture. At the same time, his arms, even under his loose clothing, seemed to swell with extra bulk, and his movements took on an alien quickness and a whip-crack snap that was beyond that of any normal human.

“Caleb!” The consumptive voice shouted from somewhere in the middle of the living room. “What’s going on?!”

Milar and Ard traded glances.

“We take this one alive,” the captain voiced their shared thought, then added with a grin, “You throw up a few simple shields, I fire. Whoever dies is…”

“A Fatian,” Ardan finished.

Together, the partners, staff and revolver at the ready, sprang out of the study and straight into four flashlight beams and four cocked revolvers.

By the look of things, Ardan’s little spectacle hadn’t impressed anyone.

As always, even the simplest of plans had gone straight to that place on an orc’s body where the sun never shines.

“Fuck,” Milar concluded.