Matabar-Chapter 71 - 70 - The Dandy

Ardan and Milar stepped inside a place that, presumably, was meant to fulfill every lofty requirement Mart believed the proud title of "restaurant" came with.

An expensive parquet floor lay hidden beneath plush carpets edged with golden thread. The walls were adorned with an intricate mosaic, though it offered no particular story — merely scattered scenes from an ancient era, back when human civilization had not yet stolen the secrets of working iron and forging steel from the Firstborn.

Silken drapes and heavy velvet curtains of deep crimson covered the windows. Even so, the light that did slip inside refracted through stained glass of many colors, creating the illusion that within these walls, it was not late winter at all, but the height of a warm summer's day.

Along the ceiling, refined stucco work complemented a massive crystal chandelier, which hung like an inverted dome.

Between the tables — each one tucked beneath pristine white linens — young waiters in crisp, matte-black suits drifted about, balancing silver platters topped with domed lids. They served the guests and their companions — women wearing lavish attire that was likely worth no less than the automobiles parked outside — with impeccable manners.

Ardan had seen opulence before. Truth be told, thanks to the Grand, he'd even grown accustomed to it. The interior here didn't stir his imagination too much. Rather, the density of people for whom all this luxury seemed neither sophisticated nor pompous, but mundane and commonplace, was what truly intrigued him. Even the silverware — which surely cost a laborer's monthly wage — was failing to capture their interest.

Out of dozens of diners, only a few glanced at the newcomers before returning to their meals. Only a handful of women and one man of strange bearing — he was behaving like a young noble lady — lingered with their unpleasant stares on Ardan. This made him uncomfortable and, for some reason, he wished that he could bathe in a river. He felt unclean.

"Gentlemen," an older man approached them. He had a military air to him and the aura of someone who had never let his dignity slip. "How might I help two valiant servants of the Second Chancery?"

"You already know whom we've come to see," Milar replied in an even tone.

"I daresay I do," the stranger nodded curtly, then turned to Ardan. "According to the rules of the Irtiad Club, Firstborn are forbidden to cross our threshold in memory of the martyrs who died fighting the Ectassus oppressors. Since I can see that you're a half-blood-"

"And so, my good man," Milar cut him off sharply, "shut your mouth and show us to the Dandy."

The older gentleman slowly turned his head toward the inspector. Not a trace of anxiety or fear could be found in his gaze — feelings that typically flashed across the faces of city folk when they encountered the Black House's officers in the flesh.

"Let us proceed to the smoking lounge," he said in that same lofty tone, then motioned for them to follow.

They passed through enormous doors carved from rare whitewood found only in the mountains of the Principality of Scaidavin that were inlaid with rose-gold ornamentation. Two young women opened the doors for them, wearing the same strict, matte-black suits as the waiters.

The three of them walked along a long, broad corridor that, in another home, might have passed for a spacious living room. Whoever had handled the construction and furnishing of this place had clearly visited the Palace of the Kings of the Past more than once, drawing inspiration from its imperial décor.

They passed several stands bearing the armor of defeated Firstborn and mail shirts belonging to warriors of the Imperial and princely retinues, before entering a chamber that resembled a library.

The room was oval, its walls lined with towering shelves that nearly brushed the high ceiling, each shelf jam-packed with books — mostly fiction, as far as Ardi could tell by glancing at their spines.

In the center, scattered about, were small tables hewn from the rare blackwood of Kargaam. Their lacquered surfaces supported porcelain cups filled with steaming, fragrant Lintelar coffee. Men sat at these tables — this time without companions. Most were alone, sometimes they were in pairs, and very rarely in groups of three. They smoked cigars, read newspapers, and conversed in unhurried tones.

But the moment Milar stepped into the room, these gentlemen exchanged silent looks, then, one after another, folded their newspapers, collected their hats, snuffed out their cigars in various ashtrays, and stood to leave.

Only one man who was sitting with his back to a window at the far side of the room did not budge. He set a short letter written on expensive parchment down on the table, tapped the ash out from his cigar, and held it in his fingers at an odd angle. Not pinched between them, but rather, as though he were holding a pen. It almost looked as if he meant to write something with the smoke curling into the air.

"Please make yourselves comfortable," the old man who'd escorted them offered a courteous bow, then backed away, closing the doors behind him as he departed.

Milar — seemingly untroubled by the possibility of scratching the floor or tearing the rugs — grabbed the nearest chair and dragged it across the room, letting it screech the whole way. Hearing this, Ardi hesitated for a heartbeat, then picked up the chair beside him and carried it toward the table.

Together, they sat across from the man whose face reminded Ardi of both a cat's and a fox's muzzle: long and thin, with sharply-defined lines of cheek and jaw, though not so much as to make his cheeks look sunken.

He looked to be perhaps forty-two, maybe forty-five, with a few streaks of gray threading through his thick, wavy chestnut hair. It was styled to be far longer than current fashion dictated, and he showed no sign of caring. From his chin up to his ears, a carefully tended but seemingly carefree stubble gleamed, interrupted only by a neatly-trimmed mustache perched beneath a sharp nose.

His fingers were well-groomed, nails clearly shaped multiple times each month by expert manicurists. The lanky man wore no watch, and as for jewelry, he had only a single old, battered wedding ring that clashed with the rest of his appearance. And if you looked closely at it, you might notice that it was not made of any precious metal at all, but rather tin plated in brass.

All this in spite of his expensive three-piece suit with dark pinstripes, and a velvet bow tie in place of a necktie.

But his cultivated image shattered the moment your gaze crossed his. Deep-set eyes of a rectangular, slightly elongated shape — as if he always wore a knowing squint — fixed upon Milar and Ardi with barely concealed… excitement. They seemed to pierce him straight to the bone, almost like his grandfather's once had. It was as though the man could see right through them, knew their every past and future step, and was reading their thoughts as clearly as he would an open book resting at the edge of the table.

"Dandy," Milar said.

"I'd rather you used my name," the man answered, and even his voice matched his appearance — low and velvety, yet laced with a dangerously-sharp undertone. "Arthur Belski, at your service, gentlemen."

The Dandy extended his hand. Ardi twitched, intending to return the gesture out of courtesy that had been instilled in him as a child. But when he noticed that Milar had made no move to respond, he let his own hand drop back to the grimoire resting on his lap.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," he began.

"I'm Captain Milar Pnev, first-rank investigator."

"I'm much obliged, Mr. Pnev, that, in your busy schedule, you found a couple of hours to call on my humble self," Arthur said with the slightest of nods.

He spoke in a manner that even the etiquette teacher at Ardi's first school had never mastered. The Dandy indeed.

"I will note," Arthur continued, "that if you had sent word, I would have gladly invited you to my home, so we needn't hole up in this" — he waved a dismissive hand around the room — "rather distasteful establishment."

"So distasteful that you pay a visit here on the last day of every month?" Milar asked.

The last day of the month?! By the Sleeping Spirits, Ardi's birthday was today! And he'd completely forgotten about it…

"Purely for business," Arthur brushed ash from his cigar, setting it aside without taking a puff. Then he laced his fingers together and leaned against the back of his chair. "You see, Captain, I must frequent unsavory places precisely because they're inhabited by equally unsavory, though highly useful, individuals."

"Let's assume that's true," Milar replied.

"Let's," Arthur repeated with a faint nod.

He spoke and acted as though… Ardi couldn't quite name the feeling that arose each time the Dandy opened his mouth. It reminded him of dealing with Aversky, of the two times he'd met the Colonel, and, of course, the Emperor.

He was a monster, but a monster who knew exactly what he was, and who wielded enough self-control to keep that dark side on a tight leash, which only made him more dangerous.

Beneath his human skin, a predator lurked — one not unlike those found in the Alkade.

"We-"

"You've come to question me about Baliero and, perhaps, about that recent unfortunate business involving the rather well-known Ordargar," Arthur interrupted. This was something Ardi had never seen happen before — nobody dared interrupt an investigator. "Naturally, all I know about that upright and forthright property magnate and restaurateur named Ordargar is what's been printed in the papers. My heartfelt condolences go out to him. I believe I even sent flowers. Though I suspect my courier may have gotten lost along the way."

Milar opened a small notebook and armed himself with a pencil. Ardan hastened to follow suit.

"You both attended the dinner at Duke Abrailaal's."

"As did around a hundred and forty others, Captain," Arthur replied airily, but with undeniable elegance. "Alas, I can't recall all their names, but if you allow me a day and give me an address, I'll gladly dispatch a man with a complete list. I'm sure you can satisfy your curiosity — and justify the money you receive from all us taxpayers — once you begin making your rounds across the city."

"How I do my job, Dandy, is my own business," Milar said.

Arthur remained silent, offering no response to that remark.

"What were you doing four days ago?" Milar asked for some reason — perhaps he suspected that the Dandy had been involved in that vampire business.

"My wife and children and I attended the premiere of 'The Crane and the Titmouse' at the theater on the corner of Fourteenth and Second in Baliero," Arthur replied in that same detached tone. "Truly, Captain, I'm no longer of an age where I can find excitement and amusement in racing across rooftops or shooting at Imperial Mages."

The Dandy didn't so much as glance at Ardan, and yet the young man still felt a chill along his spine.

"How did you know there was any shooting or running across rooftops?" Milar demanded.

"How did I know?" Arthur's meticulously-groomed eyebrows rose a fraction. "My goodness, I merely chose an unfortunate figure of speech. My apologies if I inadvertently offended you or touched a nerve."

Anyone with half a brain could see that the Dandy was openly taunting the Captain of the Second Chancery, a man believed by the press to hold in his hands the fates of the Empire's citizens. In reality, it seemed like the Second Chancery, for all its power, did not reign supreme.

Both men knew this. The Dandy, gazing down at Milar with cool composure, and Milar himself.

"All right, let's be frank, Dandy." Milar snapped his notebook shut and slipped it into his pocket.

"Frank, Captain?" Arthur's expression shifted slightly.

No, his face remained as thin and sharp as before, eyes still deep-set. But perhaps he'd straightened his already-straight posture further or tilted his head differently. Whatever he'd done, the air around him suddenly changed. Before, the danger he'd exuded had been akin to looming storm clouds; now, it was as if a single wrong word, or any sudden move, would unleash a horror.

A horror that would make demons, chimeras and vampires look like child's play by comparison.

"By all means, let us be frank," he said softly, and for some reason, that quiet tone carried as if he were pressing a knife to their throats. "If you assume that I'm delighted by what has been happening these last few months in the capital, you're sorely mistaken. My affairs thrive on peace and quiet, not endless shootouts, terrorist attacks, and whatever else only the Eternal Angels know about for now."

"Then share what you know with us, Dandy." Milar seemed unmoved by this abrupt shift in the gangster's demeanor.

"If I had any knowledge, Captain, your dear agency would be the first to receive it," Arthur said, twisting his lips into a mocking smile. Taking his cigar in that strange pen-like grip, he drew a small puff. "As far as Baliero goes, all I can tell you is that someone came to see me — a person I could not refuse."

"Why not?"

The Dandy's eyes flared for the briefest moment, then dulled once more. Even so, Ardi still felt goosebumps trotting up his spine.

"He had quite an impressive recommendation," Arthur replied. He tucked his cigar aside and, pulling a platinum pen with a gold nib from his jacket, dipped it into an inkwell and scrawled something on a small slip of paper.

Milar took the note, read it, and raised both eyebrows in surprise.

"How do I know you're not sending us on a wild goose chase?"

"Because, Captain, my schedule does not include starting a feud with the Second Chancery," the Dandy answered, wiping off his pen and returning it to his pocket. "I have enough trouble with the city guard and their detectives already, not to mention the tax collectors. Besides, if I heard the street's tune correctly, you already have plenty of reasons to suspect I'm not leading you astray. Again, it's in my best interests for this chaos to die down swiftly."

"And what about the Hammers and the orcs?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," the Dandy replied sharply.

"You and the Jackets share the same turf."

"And the instant we butt heads over that turf, those gents in old automobiles and terrible black suits will come calling," Arthur retorted. "We both know the rules of this game, Captain. We bask by the hearth, but don't draw close enough to get burned. You, in turn, lose the urge to toss new logs onto the flames. As long as we maintain this balance, the capital keeps moving along."

"Do you know anything?"

"It isn't the Narikhman."

"I already figured that out without the help of your big nose, Arthur," Milar said, pronouncing that last word as though it carried a story only the two of them knew.

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Judging by the Dandy's reaction, that might well have been the case. He quickly collected himself.

"You only suppose that, my dear ex-military watchman," Arthur countered in a frosty tone, showing he knew all about Milar's history as well. "But I know it for certain."

The captain and the Dandy stared each other down, both of them clad in black. One of them was radiating wealth and menace, the other a chill calm and the confidence that he could draw his revolver first.

By the Sleeping Spirits, if a sheet of paper had been hanging in the air between them, it would've likely started burning from the tension alone.

The Dandy's cigar smoldered in his hand. Milar's pencil tapped lightly against the page of his notebook.

Ardan had met Arkar, crossed paths with Arseniy of the Hammers, and had even had the misfortune of seeing how Ordargar handled his affairs. None of them had emitted the poisonous, lethal aura of a serpent hidden in the tall grass like the Dandy did.

That explained why even other criminals feared him — and why, behind his back, they called him the kingpin of the underworld. After coming to the capital a little more than a quarter of a century ago as a youth from the Azure Coast not much older than Ardi was now, Arthur had taken the city's underbelly under his wing.

"I believe that concludes our little chat, Captain," said the Dandy, relaxing slightly. At once, that feeling of a venomous dagger pricking one's throat vanished. "Please excuse my poor manners, but I must be on my way. I'm running late for my next meeting. Should you have any other questions, as a law-abiding citizen of the Empire, I'm more than willing to offer whatever help I can to the beloved Second Chancery which is funded in part by my own taxes. I assume you know my address perfectly well."

Tucking the note into his pocket, Milar rose, buttoned his jacket, and headed for the door. Ardan got up, bracing himself on his staff. Throughout the conversation, he had kept silent, and he had no intention of spoiling that arrangement now.

Just as they reached the exit, the Dandy's voice, smooth and quiet, called out after them.

"They say that, every week at "Bruce's," they have nights where there's barely enough room to stand from all the people crowding the place," the Dandy sipped his coffee, pinky raised like an aristocrat. Ardan halted in place. "Word is, there's a certain lovely lady performing there on those nights, with flaming hair and a voice to match. And in mid-summer, a concert hall on Eleventh Street will open — one in which I have a stake…"

Ardan turned to face the gangster. His fingers tightened around his staff, and frost spread along the wooden shaft in a thin filigree. Milar, who was standing at the threshold, exhaled a cloud of white vapor. The Dandy, setting his cup down with a startled expression, found a sliver of ice floating inside it.

A chill had descended upon the room, creeping up the walls and clinging to the ceiling, dusting the window behind the Dandy in a bright, snow-like layer.

The gangster's lips turned pale, his nails tinted blue.

"Well then," Arthur said mildly, though the dagger-edged note in his voice remained. "I'm merely partial to talented performers — nothing more, nothing less. You may ask the captain here. He will confirm that I'm a major patron of the arts. The capital would be an altogether dreary place should it lose that which gladdens our hearts."

Several books toppled from the shelves, shattering into icy dust as they fell. Ardan didn't see it, but Milar's hand drifted toward his holster, and his gaze — despite everything — wasn't on the Dandy…

"When the new hall opens, I'll have a courier bring you an invitation," the Dandy went on, staring curiously at the icicle that had become his cigar. "And I'll let the others know to give the young woman a wide berth. After all, the problems of certain property owners shouldn't involve their tenants. I believe that's fair, Mr. Egobar. Just as it's fair that these property owners' problems stop involving Imperial Mages."

Though the room had grown foggy with the cold, the Dandy's gaze never wavered from Ardan, who stared back unflinchingly.

"I trust we understand each other, Mr. Egobar."

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By the time Ardan left that so-called smoking lounge, the floor was slick with scattered snow, icicles clung to the ceiling, and the shelves of books were sealed behind a layer of ice.

Ardi couldn't even recall how, staff tapping out a feverish rhythm as his coat had flapped behind him, he'd stormed out of the club and stopped beside the captain's car, gripping its roof and struggling to catch his breath.

Everything swam before his eyes.

He was nauseous.

What if…

No. He needed to think of something else. Arrays, runic links…

Professor Lea. Damn it. Damn it!

"Breathe," Milar said, lighting a cigarette as he joined Ardan. He gave the younger man's shoulder a consoling pat. "Nothing's going to happen to Tess."

Naturally… Of course Milar knew it all already.

"Carrying on with that affair is a foolish move, though-"

"It's not an affair," Ardan managed through the knot in his stomach.

"Oh?" Milar exhaled smoke and eyed him. "Then what is it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know…" Milar sighed and took another drag, then leaned against the car door. "Arthur has a soft spot for artists. You can count on him in that regard. No one in their right mind who doesn't want trouble with both the orcs and the Dandy will dare go near your… whatever you call it."

"What about the thing he said about me dealing with the Jackets?"

"He's bluffing," Milar said with a shrug. "And you don't have any real business with them, do you? Baliero… that was just one incident."

"And Boris?"

"Your personal history with Arkar."

"The Hammers?"

"Your way of settling a debt," Milar replied in that same, calm tone. Noticing Ardan's lingering worry, he went on, "Let me tell you a little story, Magister. It happened roughly eighty years ago." The captain drew a deep puff from his cigarette, exhaled, and leaned his back against the car door. "As you've no doubt noticed, we investigators rarely wear masks anymore — except as a nod to tradition, or for official appearances. Care to know why? Well, let me enlighten you. Masks used to be standard gear so no one could identify us or trace us back to our families. But some fools decided to take revenge on one of the investigators. They discovered who he was, where he lived, and the best they could come up with was to… visit his family. His wife, his elderly parents, his children — they smoked them all."

"Smoked?"

"Killed," Milar clarified bluntly. "Their throats were cut."

The ground felt like it was slipping out from under Ardan's feet. In his mind, he could clearly picture Tess lying on the floor with her arms splayed out, her throat slashed wide open, eyes gone glassy like Lisa's, no longer sparkling with life.

"They were hunted down. Every single one of them," Milar continued. "Took less than a week, even though they fled the city — one even nearly made it all the way to Lintelar. One of them had his belly slit open and was strung up by his own guts. He was the first. Another had his manhood severed and shoved down his throat so he choked to death. And the third…" The captain winced, as though he hated even recalling it. "They handed him over to a band of ogres — ones partial to… shall we say… unorthodox pleasures — who had their way with him until they flung his mangled body, entrails spilling from his rear, out on the street. The bastard lived for another half hour or so after that, maybe even longer."

Milar took another long drag.

"Since then, the masks have remained mostly a formality," he went on. "There hasn't been a single madman in all those years who even thought about going after a Second Chancery family." He gave a curt snort and flashed him a wry grin. "The Dandy, Ordargar, and everyone else would tear apart anyone who tried something like that, because they know the Black House would retaliate even more harshly next time."

Ardan finally managed to steady himself, leaning his full weight on his staff, and looked over at the captain.

"And is it really worth it?"

"Worth… what?"

"Keeping those… those people in your own house…"

"Scum?" Milar prompted. "Bastards? Sons of bitches?"

"I was trying to think of a different word."

The captain merely waved a hand.

"The Emperor told you everything back at the temple," he said, snuffing out his cigarette. Then, taking up a brush, he began sweeping snow off the roof of his car. "Sure, we could crush them. Some we'd kill. Some we'd send to the mines. Then what? Chaos and unrest. You can't stamp out crime, Ard. There will always be those who want everything at once and have no intention of following the rules. We let the Six exist, and in return, they keep things in check from the inside. Petty scum — killers, thieves, robbers, rapists, con artists, and so on — the guards hunt them down. The big players… Let's get in the car."

Milar, done clearing off the vehicle, opened the door and got behind the wheel. Ardan followed suit.

"Here."

Ardi found himself holding the very slip of paper the Dandy had given to the captain. Only a few words were written there, but even in ink, they roared louder than any siren:

"Bri-&-Man"

And nothing more.

"Let's grab a bite to eat," Milar said, turning the ignition key. "You, for one, just lost your lunch. And I haven't eaten since this morning. My youngest is teething. My wife's been fussing with him all day, I overslept, and… that Witch's Gaze of yours, partner, is a damned nuisance."

Pressing down on the gas pedal, he headed up the street. They passed several ornate establishments, a few restaurants guarded by attendants dressed exactly like those of the Irtiad Club, and dozens of shops, ateliers, workshops, and other merchants.

Ardan wasn't thinking about anything.

He was resting his forehead on the window, watching the buildings of the central districts slip by — walls that had witnessed a hundred stories just like theirs, and yet still stood, competing amongst themselves to be the pinnacle of refinement, elegance and color.

They parked near a modest café marked by a sign made up of rosebuds whose petals spelled out:

"Eltir."

And notably, a few other cars were lined up at the curb — vehicles vaguely resembling the one Milar and Ardan had arrived in.

The captain switched off the engine, and they stepped out. After crossing the sidewalk, Milar opened the door, and Ardi immediately understood where they were.

In the small dining area — there were no more than a dozen tables — men sat with telling expressions on their faces, wearing black suits that spoke volumes all on their own. Their black coats hung on the rack by the entrance.

Milar hung his coat there as well, setting his cap down alongside its identical siblings.

A few people nodded silently at the captain and he returned the gesture.

The place was warm and cozy overall. Nothing fancy. It was all just simple furniture, though the windows had triple glazing for extra insulation.

Milar and Ardi took a seat by one of those windows.

Soon, a waitress approached. She looked to be about fifteen, surely a schoolgirl working part-time. Wearing a white dress with a black apron, she offered them a sweet smile and pulled out a little notepad — precisely the kind Milar used.

Could the Second Chancery be raising future employees and plucking them straight from school? Given Bazhen's presence at the Grand, it didn't sound all that far-fetched.

"I'll have my usual," Milar said, already fishing out a cigarette. It felt like locomotives smoked less than he did. "And for my partner…"

The girl turned to Ardi.

"Do you have any game meat or wild animals on the menu?"

"Boar sausages and…" The waitress paused. "Venison patties."

"Then I'll take the sausages with turnips and a cup of hot water."

"Certainly," she answered with that same sweet, polite smile and turned toward the kitchen.

"How much do I owe?" Ardan called out after her, concerned about the price — his budget was already stretched thin.

The waitress looked at Milar, then asked curtly, "A rookie?"

"An apprentice," the captain said, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

"Got it."

And off she went, never uttering a word about payment.

"If you ever get hungry," Milar said, answering Ardan's unspoken question, "look for an Eltir café. There are several in each district."

"And… you can eat there for free?"

"Yep."

Ardan nearly choked on his outrage.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" He hissed, barely managing to keep his voice down.

"To be honest, it never crossed my mind," Milar replied sheepishly. "You'll have to forgive me. I've never really worked with a partner before — let alone a trainee. Investigators usually go at it solo. The field operatives are the ones who never travel alone."

Ardan waved him off and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He didn't even want to calculate how much money he could have saved in the past six weeks — or, for that matter, how often he could have eaten more than once a day, discounting those meager dinners he'd had with Tess at "Bruce's."

Before long, a steaming chicken broth arrived for Milar, along with a couple slices of bread, and Ardi got his order as well.

Using a pinky to check the water's temperature, Ardan drew a small paper packet from his pocket and tipped a grayish powder mixed with dried, crushed leaves and seeds into the cup.

"What's that?" Milar asked, blowing on his spoonful of soup.

"A tonic brew," Ardi said, stirring it all carefully the way his mother had taught him — without tapping the edges of the cup. "It's got dried rosehip and rosella, crushed chamomile, a bit of klamath weed, plus a few other additions I've made to the recipe."

"Mind if I try some?"

Ardan gave Milar a measuring look.

"You weigh about seventy-five kilos?"

"Eighty-one," Milar corrected him. "I've got a heavy frame."

"Then just take a tiny sip, or you'll end up…" Ardan stopped himself just in time — it was probably best not to mention how Milar might be bothering his wife all night if he drank more than that.

But Milar was a first-rank investigator for a reason. He grabbed the cup and took one big, noisy gulp.

Setting it back down, he wiped his lips and shuddered, like someone had snuck up behind him to tickle him.

"It's invigorating… downright invigorating," he said after they'd eaten quietly for a minute or two. "I feel like I just had a week's vacation."

"When you get home, add honey to your tea and drink… a couple of liters," Ardan grumbled. "And be careful with your blood pressure — it might go sideways."

Milar flicked some ash from his cigarette and tore off a chunk of bread, pointing it at Ardi.

"You're a big fellow, Magister, but not that big."

Ardan sighed and poked his fork at the sausage on his plate.

"You know why I only eat wild game and hardly any vegetables?"

"Part of the Matabar traditions," Milar answered at once. "Something to do with the laws of hunting and the rule against eating animals that never had a chance to fight back."

Obviously, the captain had done his homework on his "partner," as he'd just proven with that answer.

"In truth, it's all because the Matabar never realized they had a different digestive system and metabolism compared to humans or orcs — those were the neighbors they took their cues from," Ardi explained. "That's how their dietary laws came to be, guided by experience. It's simpler to tell young hunters what's allowed and what isn't. Like prohibiting alcohol in certain branches of the Face of Light's faith. Thing is, truly wild animals eat differently than domestic ones do."

Milar glanced from the sausage to the cup.

"So… is there really that big of a difference?"

"For me, it's less noticeable, but for instance, to get the same jolt from that tonic brew you just had, I'd need around a liter of it."

Milar swallowed.

"How much honey tea do I need, then?"

"A cup every half an hour, each with a spoonful of honey."

"Eternal Angels…"

"I warned you," Ardan reminded him, feigning boredom.

Milar mumbled something under his breath. Soon, they finished their food. The young waitress cleared their dishes and indeed did not return with any bill.

"Listen, if that allergy balm you're working on is as good as this," Milar said suddenly, "maybe you should sell it."

Ardi's eyebrows shot up.

"Sell it?" He repeated, baffled. "They're just ordinary herbal brews."

"Yes, but at the Star Healers' shops, they go for outrageous prices," Milar pointed out.

Ardi had never been to a Star Healer's shop — he'd never had a need to go there. That soon became obvious to the investigator.

"Stop by someday, poke around, see what they charge. You'll get my drift."

Ardan shrugged. His mind still couldn't shake…

"You're thinking about Bri-&-Man?"

"I can't figure out why they'd need it," Ardan admitted.

"Yeah, partner, that's the real question," Milar sighed. Setting aside what was probably his second cigarette of the meal, he reached for a toothpick. "I might've guessed that the Dandy's just messing with us, but…"

"The Staff of Demons," Ardan said.

"Exactly." Milar nodded. "Trevor Man had a reason for bringing that blasted artifact to the capital. And look how neatly it all fits: he brings it here, even tries to conceal the fact — sets up decoy shipments, arranges for the transfer during the holidays…"

"And yet, the saboteurs still learn exactly where the Staff is," Ardan added. "And they're perfectly equipped to handle the very precautions Bri-&-Man put in place."

Milar snapped his fingers and pointed at Ardi.

"Nicely done, trainee." He plucked the toothpick from between his teeth and wrapped it in a napkin. "Still, there's one snag. According to Aversky's analysis, the Staff's seals were never used in that incident with Lorlov."

Ardan looked at him in confusion.

"Naturally, Magister, the Second Chancery keeps copies of the Staff of Demons' seals," the captain said with a roll of his eyes. By now, Ardan had grown somewhat accustomed to that gesture, even if he still didn't fully understand its nuances. "Though I'm still bothered that the Man family somehow holds a permit for their murky collection. But that's not something our department handles."

Ardan stared at the toothpick, which was still rolled up in the napkin. If you didn't know what was inside, you'd never…

"What if demons have nothing to do with it? Same with your revolution theory."

"Mmm?" Milar grunted, puzzled.

"What if Lorlov, the bank bombing, and the gangs are just a diversion?"

"A diversion from what? We searched that house from cellar to attic. Same with the neighboring ones. We found nothing. We even combed through the sewers brick by slimy brick. Empty."

"The chimera."

"A standard Tazidahian creature," Milar said, spreading his arms out. "Nothing supernatural about it."

"But it still got here somehow."

"Yeah — through the port, via crooked employees. They spilled everything under interrogation. They shipped it on a cargo vessel along with, believe it or not, Forian peaches. All of it went down in Viroeira. They knocked it out with some drug, all that. Who loaded it? They claim they don't know. The Forians are investigating, but I doubt they'll find much."

Ardan kept his gaze fixed on the toothpick.

"But it still reached the capital. Same with the Staff. And that Homeless Fae. And the vampires that have no connection to the Narikhman."

"If the Dandy's not lying."

"If he's not lying," Ardan agreed.

Milar followed his line of sight and frowned slightly.

"You think that's it?" The captain picked up the napkin and carefully unwrapped the toothpick, letting it fall onto the table. "Someone's refining a smuggling channel into the city? Though that seems… small-time. Maybe they're testing… testing…"

Milar and Ardan locked eyes and spoke in unison:

"How the Second Chancery reacts!"

Then, just as simultaneously, they leaned back in their chairs.

"But why?" They asked each other again, also in unison.

Milar smirked.

"All right," he said, raising his hands. "It's a theory, trainee. It might not hold water, but it's interesting. We've got no other leads besides this scrap of paper, Duke Abrailaal's dinner, and the fact that each new twist makes this case bigger and bigger. Nothing else. It's worth looking into." He wrapped the toothpick up again. "Besides, there was nothing especially valuable stored in those safety deposit boxes at the bank. Still doesn't explain why anyone would want to blow it up."

"Could I see?"

"The list, you mean?" Milar waved vaguely at him. "I'll send it your way by courier by the middle of next week, once I get permission and all that nonsense… Eternal Angels, I can't wait for your damned probation to be over. The paperwork alone is enough to give me calluses."

Ardan kept thinking about the bombing. So far, out of all the unusual events, that one detail stood out as the greatest outlier.

"Let's go. I'll drop you off at 'Bruce's' and be on my way," Milar said, rising to leave. "As always: keep in touch, and speed up your lessons with Aversky."

***

Inside the bar, not a soul was present, except for a lone spider that scrambled up the wall the moment Ardan opened the front door.

Arkar was off on some Jackets business and the employees were presumably in the kitchen. And the orcs… they were making a point of avoiding the place, just as the patrons were. As Ardan had suspected, it would be a while before even Tess' concerts could once again draw crowds hungry for music, food, and drink.

Judging by the time, the girl herself was still working for Madam Okladov — where, if Ardi kept wrecking his clothes at this rate, he'd soon need to shop for some new ones.

More expenses.

Mulling over the problem of exes and where to find enough of them to cover his day-to-day needs, Ardan climbed the stairs and slipped his key into the lock.

He opened the door and only then detected a smell he didn't know, its traces hidden beneath the bar's familiar reek of spirits.

A revolver barrel stared him right in the face, so close he could make out the spiral rifling etched inside of it.

"We need to talk."