Matabar

Disclaimer: This chapter may contain material that is inappropriate for some people.

Ardan just stood there silently for a few seconds, trying to process what he had just heard. Boris? Kidnapped? Who? Where? How?

Questions swarmed his mind like a hive's worth of disturbed bees, battering against the walls of his skull. He nearly let them escape, but right now, a girl who seemed to have shrunk and curled into herself, her face streaked with tears, was standing before him. A girl he could perhaps call, if not a close friend, then at least someone familiar enough for her pain to stir something within him.

Ardan put an arm around her, feeling her involuntarily sag against him. It was as if all her strength had been used to get here, to find help, and now… now there was nothing left in her. Sleeping Spirits. What had happened?

"Come on," Ardi said, guiding the vacant-eyed Elena toward the doors of "Bruce's."

Inside, despite the fact that it was long past midnight, the bar was bustling. Patrons ate, drank, and engaged in muted conversations. The bar counter was hosting a scattering of loners and small cliques of regulars. The vacant stage stood dark and forlorn, its air of neglect accentuated by the faint traces of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. Thick cigar clouds loomed here and there, with the occasional trails from smoking pipes winding upwards. The smell was foul.

Elena coughed but seemed not to notice that she was doing it. Nor did she pay any attention to the patrons, a few of whom turned to glance at the newcomers.

Ardan scoured the room, seeking the one person he least wanted to approach, but he had little choice in this situation. Finally, their eyes met. Arkar, seated in a guarded section cordoned off by a red rope, acknowledged Ardan with a curt nod and gestured toward a private room. No orcish gangsters were there tonight, it seemed.

Ardi navigated carefully past the round tables, mindful not to jostle anyone or step on their feet. He guided Elena to a shadowed passageway, where Arkar unlocked a door and ushered them inside.

For the second time in his life — and under eerily similar circumstances — Ardan stepped into this particular room. A pang of guilt flared up in his chest. He had sworn never to deal with the Orcish Jackets again, and yet here he was, out of better options.

Even before Elena began her story, Ardan knew they wouldn't have time to contact the Cloaks. He didn't know a single address, and Milar's medallion showed no signs of heating up. As for the city guards… They were far too slow. They'd never make it in time.

Ardan settled Elena onto the sofa and poured her a glass of water from the decanter on the table. Her numb fingers fumbled with it, almost spilling everything, so Ardi steadied her hands and helped her bring the glass to her lips.

She took a few sips before breaking into a coughing fit. Gone was the sharp, ever-smiling mage Ardi had come to know over the past few months. Before him now was the same frightened, disoriented girl he'd encountered at the Presny tavern.

"What happened, Miss Promyslov?" Asked Arkar.

Elena and Boris — known for their generous tips — had frequented "Bruce's" for Tess' concerts, so Arkar was acquainted with them.

"Boris has been kidnapped," Elena repeated. Her fingers clenched as she tried to suppress her trembling, but failed. She shook like the last autumn leaf on a sleeping tree.

"Elena," Ardi crouched beside her and covered her small fists with his hands. "Please, tell us what happened in more detail."

Something flickered to life in her eyes, and mustering what strength she had left, Elena forced herself to speak, though her words came haltingly.

"Do you remember that time, Ardi… when we told you about Baron Orvilov before the exams?"

Ardan didn't remember that at all. "Of course," he lied without hesitation.

"Last time, Boris beat him three times out of three," Elena sniffled into a napkin, growing even paler. "Orvilov spent the holidays trying to get a rematch, but Boris just laughed and refused. He even asked if Orvilov had Iolai's permission to act like that. And then… At the Festival of Light, Orvilov showed up with…"

Ardan already knew the answer. He now understood why Tess had returned so quickly.

"With Tess," Ardi said quietly.

Elena nodded. "He thought Boris and I were just…" She rubbed her ring finger awkwardly, where no ring had ever been, but anyone attentive enough wouldn't have needed one to guess they were married. "We came here often. Orvilov must have been watching and decided Boris had an interest in Tess. That's why he invited her. And at the festival, there was a scandal."

Ardi felt a searing heat rise up in his chest, right where the symbol left by Ergar's fang had lodged itself beneath his clothes. It was almost like last time. Like back in the steppe.

"Did he hurt her?" Ardan didn't realize his fangs had lengthened slightly.

"No," Elena shook her head. "He wanted to, though... He deliberately took her to all the places where Boris and I were. They argued. Words were exchanged, and everything came out. Boris and Tess mocked Orvilov, and he raised a hand to strike Tess. Boris punched him instead and challenged him to a duel. A bloody one."

Bloody duels. That was what students at the Grand called matches where normal rules didn't apply. These weren't just shield-breaking duels. During one of them, military magic was allowed to inflict actual harm. Though regulated under the rules of Magic Boxing, such duels required approval from the dean of the Military Faculty.

"But all the Grand's grounds were booked," Elena sniffled again. "So, they decided to find a place in the city. Orvilov suggested one, and Boris agreed. He couldn't find a second, so I went with him. But when we got to the building…"

She reached for the back of her head, wincing slightly. Ardan leaned closer, examining her carefully. Beneath her hat, the hair at the top of her head was matted with what looked like reddish clay. The skin there had been torn, and the blood had dried into a thick crust.

Ardi cursed softly and turned to Arkar.

"If she's already in bed, you'll have to deal with the consequences yourself," Arkar muttered and exchanged a few words with a bouncer outside.

"When I woke up, Boris was gone," Elena took another sip of water and pulled something from her pocket. "And all I had was this."

She placed a small note on the table that had been written in meticulous, almost calligraphic handwriting:

"You have until 10 at morning. Tendari. The Industrial District. Warehouse 6. Bring 2,500 exes and sincere apologies, or we'll send the next piece."

"Quite the statement," Arkar bared his lower fangs.

The note, stained with red blotches, contained more than just a written message. Wrapped inside of it were two phalanges from a pinky finger.

"This is-"

"Yes," Elena cut in. "It's from Boris' pinky."

"And you're-"

"I'm sure of it, Ardi," she said firmly.

The door opened, and Tess entered, clearly groggy and annoyed. She was bundled up in a warm skirt and an endearingly lopsided, hand-knit pink sweater.

"Arkar, Ardi, what are you-" She broke off mid-sentence.

"Elena!" Tess cried out, rushing to her friend. She enveloped Elena in an embrace so tight and tender that it could only be shared between two women. Elena's composure shattered completely, and she broke into heaving sobs, wailing like a wounded doe, more from fear than pain — for herself and for her husband.

"Out!" Tess barked, her tone commanding and brooking no argument.

Arkar and Ardi exchanged glances but didn't argue with her. They left the room, stepping back into the bar's smoky, noisy interior. The orc bouncers by the door stood like statues, their brown, tusked faces impassive as if they'd heard nothing.

Arkar plopped down onto a couch at a nearby table, gesturing for Ardi to join him. Lighting a cigar with a match struck against his stubbled chin, he offered a second one to Ardan.

"Oh, right. You don't smoke," he muttered, pocketing it again. "And you don't drink, either… Saintly as ever."

While Arkar smoked, Ardan stared blankly ahead. He felt like he could see the half-full bar, and yet he didn't. His gaze sank into the crests of his own thoughts, which were crashing like waves against the cliffs of his memories.

Elena had asked him. She'd asked him to be Boris' second. And he… He'd chosen his lessons with Aversky over the only people in the city who had shown him genuine warmth and care.

Emergold… Had she been right about him?

No, this wasn't the time for such thoughts. Not even the greatest of Aean'Hane could turn back time. He needed to focus on fixing the situation, not on what he-

"He's the son of the Southern Fleet's commander, right?" Arkar broke the silence.

"Yes."

"Then it doesn't add up, Ard." Arkar exhaled a cloud of smoke that carried hints of leather, pine, and dark chocolate. "Kids like that don't just disappear. And the ransom, though hefty, isn't exactly crippling for a Duke-General. They could've demanded much more, and-"

"He was disowned."

Arkar choked on his smoke, coughing harshly.

"A duke's son? One of the Upper Chamber? Disowned?"

Ardi nodded.

"Why?"

Ardan shrugged. He had his suspicions about why Boris had been kicked out from the Fahtov family, but he'd never asked directly.

"It still doesn't add up," Arkar said, waving a hand the size of a paddle to clear the air. "Even if he's been stripped of his inheritance and some other fancy stuff, what's the rub — what's the point, I mean — in kidnapping him? The money's peanuts compared to the risk. And his father… Just on principle, he'd erase everyone involved."

"He won't."

"Why not?"

"Orvilov is friends with Iolai Agrov," Ardan replied, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. He needed to think…

"Agrov?" Arkar's eyebrows lifted slightly. "One of the Great Princes?"

"Exactly…"

"Matabar, you've really got a knack for finding trouble, don't you?"

"And some of that trouble was courtesy of you, orc."

Arkar snorted. Ardan did the same. After all, they were both half-bloods.

"So," Ardan continued, picking up where he'd left off. "Boris' father might get involved, or he might not. It all depends on how…"

"…bad the blood is between them," Arkar finished, taking a deep drag. "Either way, while the old man makes up his mind, Boris' ass might be hung out to dry... Time will tick away, I mean. And if time ticks away for too long, the situation could take a catastrophically unpleasant… interval."

"Catastrophically unpleasant turn," Ardan corrected him automatically.

"Yeah," Arkar replied tersely.

And yet, why was Ardi suddenly thinking of the bear cubs and the troll? No one was coming to help Boris anytime soon. The kidnappers, judging by the severed pinky, were serious and likely knew full well that the Southern Fleet's commander wouldn't respond swiftly.

And Ardan himself… His life had only just begun to make some sort of sense as he'd found his footing. His relations with Iolai were already strained, with the Great Prince usually offering barbed remarks and then pointedly ignoring him — a difference in status had its upsides from time to time.

What did this have to do with some pretender to the throne? Simple: Baron Orvilov would not have even looked in the direction of the banished Lord Fahtov without the permission of his senior friend.

And what did Ardan really owe Boris?

Memories of their brief times together surfaced: their shared laughter, Boris and Elena's visits to "Bruce's," the times Ardan had visited them on Saint Warriors Street. No, they weren't his friends. Or perhaps… Perhaps Ardi simply didn't know how to be close friends. Not with humans, at least…

"Help me, Arkar," Ardan exhaled.

"Someone once told me that they wanted nothing to do with the Orcish Jackets," Arkar's eyes gleamed as he spoke. "So why not run to your humans, mountain brother? To the guards or the Cloaks, who camped outside our windows for weeks? Go on, petition the Mage Guild even. Anyone you choose will surely aid you, oh saintly one…"

"What do you want from me?" Ardi narrowed his eyes at him.

Arkar spun toward him, slamming his hand on the table with enough force to make every head in the bar turn their way. But within a heartbeat, the stone-faced bouncers made sure curious patrons had returned to their conversations, late meals, and strong drinks.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"I want you to remember you're not human, mountain hunter," Arkar growled. "And the next time you open your childish, naive mouth to spout your high-brain-"

"High-minded-"

"High-go-fuck-yourself…" Arkar cut him off. "I don't give a damn what words you conjure in that little skull of yours. Remember this, Ard. When you needed help, you came to me. A half-blood orc. Not to the authorities. Not to anyone else. You came to your brothers, the same ones you brushed off."

Ardan stared silently at the half-orc. Arkar kept smoking calmly, as though he hadn't just delivered a tirade laced with bared fangs.

"And you'll owe me," Arkar added after a pause. "A fat one. And rest assured, I'll collect."

"Fine."

"Fine?!" Arkar's temper flared again. "You can wipe your ass with that word, kid. You'll swear by the ways of your ancestors. You're sticking my neck in the noose, you asshole… Barons, lords, dukes, Great bloody Princes. But the most ass... troubling thing of all, I mean... Tendari's warehouses belong to the Crimson Lady."

Arkar said that last title not as a mere descriptor, but with clear respect, as if he were naming someone important.

"Who is-"

"Not another word until you swear it."

Swearing by the ways of one's ancestors was a binding oath among the Firstborn. Breaking it meant renouncing one's past and people and becoming an outcast. Such oathbreakers were branded with shame, banished, their families stripped of land, their children denied matches, and their parents…

Stoned to death.

The Firstborn weren't as civilized as the tales of Ectassus had painted them. Blood rites and traditions abounded.

Would he really make such a serious vow for Boris? A man who, in truth, meant nothing to Ardan? Or was Ardan merely trying to convince himself of that? In reality, he had only two friends in the entirety of Metropolis. And one of them was in trouble because Ardi had chosen Star Magic over him.

Emergold's words echoed in his mind.

"I swear by the ways of my ancestors, Arkar, that I will repay you for your help."

The half-orc turned to him slowly, staring into his eyes. For a moment, Ardi felt like he was drowning in boiling pitch that was searing his skin and mind. For some reason, Arkar's wild, feral rage seemed to roar and rumble within him.

"Are you stupid, little one?"

"What?"

"Why'd you make that vow?"

"Because you asked me to," Ardi said, bewildered.

Arkar stubbed out his cigar and shook his head wearily.

"How are you still alive with a heart like that, Ardi? Mark my words, one day, someone will use your kindness against you and hurt you. And you know what happens to strong but kind people, especially Firstborn, when their kindness is betrayed, and they're harmed?" Arkar didn't wait for an answer. "They become the monsters parents use to scare their children... Let's roll, kid... let's go, I mean."

The half-orc rose, exchanged a few words with the bouncers, retrieved a fur coat that could've doubled as a blanket for someone smaller, and returned to the couches. He lifted a seat to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside, revolvers rested neatly on stands alongside several heavy, short-handled axes in sheaths.

Arkar put all this stuff on his belt, tucked a few "moons" (pre-loaded discs for quick drum changes when using revolvers) into his pants pocket, and stared at Ardan expectantly.

It was only then that Ardi realized that he hadn't changed clothes or retrieved his weapons from the satchel upstairs.

"I'll go grab-"

"Here," Arkar handed him one of the revolvers. "Though from what I've heard from Lisa, you're no gunslinger."

Nevertheless, Ardi strapped the holster to his belt, then rose from the table. Together, they stepped out into the night. The wind swirled around them like a playful dog, licking their noses with wet snow and nipping at their necks with insistent frost.

They rounded the corner where the bar's entrance lay, then walked to the middle of the building and turned into a dark archway leading to the courtyard. Within was a small garden with benches and a parking area bristling with snow-laden winter covers. Arkar approached one of these and, with a quick, powerful motion, yanked off the heavy covering along with its snowy burden.

Under the light of a solitary streetlamp stood a simple, almost unassuming car. It looked like a model from the "Schvenlik" company, which was known for producing reliable but inexpensive vehicles for the middle class. It was intended for those who no longer wanted to drive rickety contraptions resembling miniature trucks but couldn't afford anything too lavish.

Comparing the body and interior to models like a "Derks," which Lisa had owned — or, rather, used to own — the "Schvenlik" seemed to imitate the appearance of high-end automobiles. It had a low profile, rectangular design, and smooth transitions from roof to trunk. Only the bulky wheels and the interior lined in cheap fabric gave away its modest price.

Arkar patted the car's side, and Ardan could have sworn it almost snorted, like a horse eager to start galloping. Its gray, slightly-frosted metal gleamed under the lamp's Ley light, and its headlights resembled the eyes of a steed.

"Get in," Arkar climbed inside and opened the passenger door.

Ardan glanced back toward the archway.

"What about your men?"

"Get in," the half-orc repeated more firmly.

This time, Ardi didn't argue. He walked around the car and climbed into the passenger seat. The stiff, winter-chilled upholstery felt as hard as a rock, and the door creaked like a trapped barn mouse as it closed.

Arkar turned the key, and the engine responded with a guttural growl. The car shook slightly as thick, murky exhaust smoke — gray with hints of brown — poured from the tailpipe.

"If I bring muscle, it'll signal that I'm there on Jacket business," Arkar explained, opening the glove compartment to retrieve another cigar, this one thicker and longer than the one he'd smoked in the bar. "If I show up alone, it's paternal."

"Personal."

Arkar paused mid-motion, his match poised to light the cigar's freshly bitten-off tip.

"Does correcting me bring you joy?" He asked with a squint and a hint of disapproval.

"Force of inertia."

"Inertia? Is that some kind of animal? Or are you insulting me?"

Ardan opened his mouth to explain the term but then waved a hand dismissively.

"You're learning," Arkar snorted. Satisfied, he waited for the engine to warm up and the smoke to clear before flooring the gas pedal.

The tires spun in the snow a couple of times before finding traction and propelling the car toward the archway. As they drove, Ardan remembered Boris' complaints about how, north of the Alcade, in the central part of the continent, people didn't have to worry about snowdrifts or swapping out their summer tires for winter ones equipped with small, specially-designed studs.

Ardan gripped his staff tightly. If only he had agreed to be Boris' second…

Thoughts for another day.

The car rolled onto Markov Street and sped toward the nearest bridge over the canal. The farther they drove from the Central District, the more the winter city began to resemble its smaller counterparts.

Few pedestrians roamed the pavements. Most windows were dark, and only the occasional streetlamp reminded them that they were driving through a city, not among dead cliffs whose shapes loomed eerily in the gloom.

Their route led them southwest, farther and farther from the refined architecture of the center, yet not quite to the grotesque skyscrapers. Twenty minutes later, the buildings around them had shrunk in size, as if contracting. They'd dwindled to three or four stories, modest and downtrodden. The brickwork was devoid of facades or embellishments. Sidewalks flaunted cracked cobblestones like a thug showing off bruises and a split lip after a fight.

The roadway, instead of asphalt, groaned under the weight of potholes and ruts. No matter how much Arkar tried to avoid them, the car occasionally bumped into hidden, snow-covered pits. He cursed and drove on.

As they delved deeper into Tendari, the sky grew even darker, and the air, despite the car's closed windows, smelled of coal, filth, gas, and something akin to diesel. Perhaps it was crude oil.

From the shadows pierced by dwindling streetlights and the rare glow of windows, tall factory smokestacks loomed. Even at this hour, they belched greasy, foul-smelling smoke. The sight of these thick, heavy clouds spewing forth made Ardan want to cover his face with his collar or hands. It was as if a dark, dirty tide was rising toward the sky, dragging everything into the mire of its unyielding stench.

The roadway was practically deserted. Trolley tracks were rare here, and cars even rarer. It would seem the residents of the working-class neighborhoods mostly got around on foot.

They turned off the avenue into a side street and parked near the curb, surprisingly finding themselves among nearly a dozen other vehicles. On either side, three-story houses with iced-over water towers on their roofs loomed overhead.

"We're here," Arkar muttered grudgingly. "Let's get out. And don't forget your hat. She's got a thing about uncovered heads."

Ardi didn't understand but pulled his knitted hat down over his ears anyway.

They stepped out into the street, and once again, like when he'd first come to the Metropolis, Ardan was seized by a coughing fit. His lungs felt like they were coated in tar and his throat itched worse than after inhaling coal dust. He spat thick, acrid saliva and straightened up with great effort.

"Where are we?" He asked, still catching his breath.

"You'll see," Arkar chuckled.

He exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke that almost froze in the air before walking across the dirty slush. Oddly enough, about ten meters from a nondescript entrance to a basement-level establishment, the ground suddenly became less muddy. Someone had cleaned up here, but only this small patch.

They approached a staircase leading down, not because the building had been constructed that way, but because every flood in the Metropolis (which occurred frequently) raised the ground level due to residual deposits. Moreover, streets were often raised by hand to avoid flooding, leaving some windows below sidewalk level.

Arkar descended the stairs, and Ardan followed closely. They stopped in front of a heavy metal door devoid of any signage.

The half-orc knocked in a peculiar, irregular rhythm. Ardan was puzzled at first, but quickly realized its purpose. A latch slid open with a metallic scrape, revealing someone's eyes.

"Arkar?" Came a sharp, clipped voice.

"Yeah," Arkar rumbled.

The eyes shifted to Ardan, then scanned the street.

"Who's he?"

"He's with me."

"All right. Business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"Got it… Armed?"

Arkar nodded.

"Official?"

"Personal."

The latch slid shut with that same metallic scrape. A moment later, the creak of a worn lock signaled the door's opening. Arkar entered first, stepping into a dimly-lit antechamber. It separated the iron door from another, much more curious one.

The heated room, which was roughly ten square meters, contained not only the owner of the sharp voice, but also several burly men with holsters that could be seen under their jackets. They sat at a table, playing Olikzasian Sevens.

"Boys," Arkar greeted.

"Arkar," they said in a discordant chorus.

The half-orc drew his revolver from its holster and placed it on a table near the entrance... where a dozen others lay. The owner of the sharp voice, a tall, subdued man, nodded curtly at Ardan. Discover stories at empire

"Your iron, kid," Arkar prompted.

Ard noted that Arkar had also brought his axes and… his staff wasn't being confiscated. So, he calmly surrendered the revolver.

"Take a seat at the free table," the sharp-voiced man instructed them. "The lady will see you shortly."

With that, he opened the curious door at the back of the antechamber. It was upholstered like a sofa in bright red, almost blood-colored material.

The man let them into a narrow corridor lined with coat racks holding numerous overcoats and furs. Beyond that lay another door identical to the first.

Arkar entered first, followed by Ardan. As soon as Ardan crossed the threshold, the door behind them shut with the distinct sound of a locking mechanism engaging.

"Don't worry," the half-orc said, removing his fur coat and hanging it on an empty hook. "If this goes smoothly, they'll let us out."

"If?"

"You can't be certain of anything when dealing with women like the Crimson Lady, kid."

Ardan hung up his coat and hurried after Arkar, who was already opening the next door.

"And who is she, exactly?"

"Don't tell me you haven't guessed already?" Arkar flashed him a toothy, predatory grin.

They now stood at the entrance to a long, narrow chamber. The unexpectedly high ceiling extended well beyond the basement level. On either side, wrought-iron candelabras rose from the floor, their crimson candles alight with flickering red flames. Beyond them stood tall arches separating the room from two bar counters that ran the length of the walls. Overhead hung chandeliers, their Ley-lamps emitting the same red light.

The entire room seemed suspended in the heat of a spring dawn, that fleeting moment when the world plunges into a bloody twilight. It was warm, like the first kiss of youthful passion.

And amidst this endless kiss, round tables laden with bottles and glasses hosted men. They wore mid-priced suits, all of them donning hats. They drank and conversed. There was nothing unusual about any of it, except for one detail.

A long, crimson carpet with a high pile had been placed across the center of the chamber. And along this carpet walked young women. Some wore sandals, others had on more elegant shoes like high heels, and some were barefoot as they strolled past the tables.

And that might have, arguably, been nothing out of the ordinary, except for the fact that they wore no dresses, no stockings, nothing save for the skimpiest of lingerie. Strings of fabric barely concealed their modesty, exposing their hips and the more intimate parts of their legs. Their bras were simple black bands. Only their heads were adorned, crowned with hats atop flowing, luxurious hair.

Everyone in the hall, including the bartenders, wore hats.

Ardi felt a twinge of discomfort. Perhaps it was his own hat, or the fact that more than a dozen nearly-naked women, swaying their hips and… more provocative assets… were parading before him.

They were short and tall. Slim and curvy. Some had such ample forms that their lingerie strained against its tiny seams (if it had any at all), while others were nearly boyish in their flatness.

Ardan suddenly found it hard to breathe, a furnace-like heat igniting just below his belt buckle.

"This is a brothel, Ard," Arkar clapped his shoulder and guided him to an empty table.

Ardan, stumbling slightly, followed after him, his gaze wandering across the room. He found himself lost in the curves of round breasts, his gaze tracing slender waists and sliding over firm hips crowned by soft mounds. His eyes tangled in long hair, brushed against flushed cheeks, slid down thin necks, and lost themselves among delicate fingers.

The women walked by, casting inviting, sultry smiles toward every patron. Their gazes seemed to beckon each man to follow, promising them whispered secrets shared only in the quiet intimacy of night.

Occasionally, a man would reach out, and one of the women would sit on his lap. They'd exchange a few words before disappearing toward the end of the room, where a spiral staircase beckoned.

When Ardan finally sank into a chair and tried to calm the burning with a sip of water, his hands trembled. His head swam.

"Arkar, darling, long time no see," one of the women said as she approached their table. She immediately sank into the half-orc's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his in a hot, greedy kiss. Next to Arkar's massive frame, the petite woman seemed even smaller. Her curvaceous figure only accentuated her delicacy.

Her skin was the color of wet coal, black as burnt wood. It absorbed light, drawing it into the beads of sweat that shimmered across her body, mingling with the heady scent of expensive, musky perfume. The air was so thick with the fragrance that even Ardan's sharp nose struggled to detect anything else.

This was a woman from Kargaam. Ardi had heard of people with such skin tones from that distant land and had even seen its ambassador at the Emperor's coronation. But this close? He'd never been this close to one of them before.

"How fascinating…" He muttered.

"And who's this you've brought with you, Arkar?" Purred a voice right by his ear.

Soft hands slid down his shoulders, caressing him as they went. They moved across his chest, brushing against his shirt buttons and unfastening them with playful ease.

"Mister mage, perhaps we should slip away and go upstairs? Away from the crowd?" The woman spoke — or was she kissing him? — and Ardan hadn't even seen her face.

"Well, well," she said, a little surprised. "You're not an orc, but… half-bloods pay double, darling."

"Ladies," Arkar lifted the ebony-skinned beauty off his lap. "We're here on business."

"Well, if it's business…"

And then they vanished as quickly as they'd appeared. Ardan was left trying to catch his breath and regain his focus. His vision still swam. He could barely comprehend where he was or what was happening.

"I thought you didn't need anything in life besides your magic," Arkar said, pulling out an ex and placing it on the table. He uncorked a bottle of wine, filling two glasses. "Drink."

"I don't-"

"It's wine, you idiot," the half-orc cut him off. "Take my advice. Drink. It'll help."

Ardan clasped the glass with both hands, which seemed ready to jitter away, and took several gulps of the wine. It didn't completely calm him, but at least the world stopped spinning.

"Cover yourself," Arkar nodded toward Ardan's belt. "It's embarrassing. It feels like I brought a virgin along…"

Ardan hastily pulled his cloak's hem over the area in question. The fire subsided slightly, or so he thought until his gaze landed on another passing woman.

Ardi squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his mind to recall the most intricate seals he'd been working on lately. Demon seals. They had complex contours, some of which entwined the body's… features into a single…

A single sheet. A single bed. He opened his eyes. This wasn't helping.

He downed the wine in one gulp. The taste lingered on his tongue: rich, tart, sweet, like berry juice, but more vibrant and intense. It was as vivid as the girls passing by.

"What is wrong with me?" He muttered to himself.

"Ah, to be eighteen again," sighed Arkar.

"You already had that pleasure... somewhere on the Armondian border, my friend," came a voice — low, sultry and viscous, like honey poured directly into their ears. "Amid trenches and gunpowder smoke."

A woman joined them at the table. She was statuesque, slightly over forty, but looking as if she'd barely passed twenty-five. Her vibrant, scarlet hair — dyed to hide the grays — had been worked on so skillfully that it was almost indistinguishable from a natural shade.

Her neck was adorned with a necklace of white gold and large emeralds, which covered what few wrinkles her flawless skin might have betrayed. Her corset emphasized her ample chest and narrow waist. A fox fur stole draped over her shoulders, cascading onto her slender arms, one of which held a long cherry-wood cigarette holder with a smoldering cigarette.

She wore a long, red dress shaped like an inverted tulip — narrow at the top and flaring out below. Her tightly-styled hair was netted and topped with a hat adorned with decorative feathers.

"You certainly know how to reopen old wounds, Inga," Arkar scowled.

"You're welcome," Inga flicked her cigarette ash directly into Arkar's wine glass. "What brings the right hand of Ordargar here on such businesslike terms?"

"This is personal."

"When it's personal, Arkar, my girls can't walk properly for days," Inga's soft, mesmerizing tone contrasted with the lifeless, icy glint in her emerald eyes. "But you always tip generously and pay double for your… orcish physiology. So, we've never had issues. And I'd rather not spoil such a fine tradition."

"What's wrong with my physiognomy?"

"Physiology, Arkar, not physiognomy," Inga said and, in a fluid motion, she poured more wine into Ardan's glass. "Mister mage, I haven't had the pleasure of being introduced. I'm Inga, but most know me as the Crimson Lady."

"Ar-"

"You're speaking to me, Inga," Arkar interrupted Ardan firmly, prompting the establishment's mistress to turn back to him with a smile. "I'm here on personal business, yes, but it's still business."

"Let me guess, my dear overseer…" Inga's lips curved into a teasing smile as she crossed her legs, drawing attention to their length and elegance. "You're here about the little arrangement that some gentlemen of mine requested assistance with a few days ago."

"I have my own interest in that arrangement."

"Oh?" Inga arched an elegant eyebrow. "And how significant is this… interest of yours, Arkar?"

"At our organization's next celebration, I'll hire your girls instead of the ones from the Black Lotus."

"Tempting, my dear friend," Inga replied, her green eyes glittering as she swirled her wine and gazed at Ardan. "But those gentlemen offered five weighty reasons. And your offer barely amounts to three. Perhaps three and a half at best."

It was clear that these "reasons" referred to exes. Hundreds of exes to be precise.

"And did these gentlemen mention, Inga, that their arrangement involves the son of a duke, who…"

"…has been disowned by his family, Arkar," Inga dismissed him with a wave. "And who would dare hurt a harmless, aging woman who graciously shelters girls who are privy to such interesting secrets shared on their pillows… You've always been terrible at bluffing, my friend."

Arkar clenched his jaw, the muscles there twitching, before curtly stating, "Three celebrations. That's nearly a thousand-"

"A thousand reasons for why I so value our collaboration," the Crimson Lady bit down on her cigarette holder and held out her hand. "Your word?"

"My word, Inga." Arkar squeezed her tiny hand gently with his paw.

"Wonderful," Inga pushed her fingers into her corset's neckline for a moment and pulled out a small note. "Show this to the boys, they won't interfere. And as for those gentlemen... Well, you'll handle that yourselves."

Arkar took the paper with a curt nod.

"Inga," he said.

"Arkar," she replied.

The half-orc rose, grabbing the partially-finished bottle of wine from the table with a cheeky grin.

"For what the ex fall that's the hands' toll," he quipped.

"Savage," Inga sniffed.

Ardan stood and followed Arkar, making a concerted effort to avoid the inviting gazes and smiles of the passing women.

"Mr. Egobar," came a sultry voice from behind him. Ardan stopped abruptly and turned. Inga was tracing the rim of her glass with a finger, her gaze foxlike and playful. "Do come again. On your first visit, we won't even charge you extra for your… half-blood physiology."

"Offer him a magic textbook instead of a girl, Inga," Arkar snorted, clamping a hand on Ardan's shoulder and steering him toward the exit.

They returned to the cloakroom, retrieved their outerwear, then their revolvers, where Arkar exchanged a few parting words with the bouncers, and finally stepped outside into the fresh air.

Suddenly, the earlier frost seemed no colder than an autumn breeze to him. Ardan's entire body burned from within. He wanted to shed his coat, discard his shirt, and roll in the snowy slush just to douse the fire.

"Remember this, kid," Arkar said, glancing briefly over his shoulder. "Never deal with men anyone can buy. And never, ever deal with women who put a price tag on themselves. They'll sell you out faster than an ice cream man sells cones on a hot day."

They reached the car and climbed in. "Well," Arkar gripped the wheel and pressed down on the accelerator, causing the engine to roar as they sped uphill. "Let's go rescue your damn fool of a lord."