Matabar

Ardan strolled in a leisurely manner along the cobblestone street. A cold, drizzling rain fell from above. He had grown used to the sight of it through the window — those small, sharp droplets leaving long threads of tiny beads on the glass. But walking under them was a different matter entirely. He could feel them prickling his face, tickling his neck as they slid in from the brim of his hat, and squelching under his boots as he stepped into the puddles.

At this late hour, you could hardly find a single soul in the center of the city. Just a few unfortunate people like Ardi, who looked equally lost and were wrapping themselves in autumn coats and cloaks, pulling their collars up high to shield themselves from the omnipresent raindrops. They also tried to hide under umbrellas, but as soon as they would sigh with relief, exhaling little clouds of mist, the playful wind would join forces with the rain.

It swept through the streets, shaking the crowns of the few trees planted in flowerbeds, tearing the last golden and russet leaves from their branches and flinging them into the faces of the pedestrians while also bending the spokes of their umbrellas.

The wind also carried scents that were rare in Evergale, but reigned here in the Metropolis like proud monarchs of old. The smell of steel and metal, cast in the nearby factories; the stench of smog and black smoke from coal and coke, rising above those very same factories. It mingled, swirling in hot dances with the islanders’ spices, then mixing with the aromas of expensive perfumes and under-roasted coffee imported from Lintelar.

Sometimes, cars passed by. Like otherworldly, phantom beasts with glowing eyes, they emerged from the rainy curtain, cutting through puddles with their tires and drenching anyone too slow to jump back from the curb, and then vanished back into the darkness.

The trams weren’t ringing and there were no whistles from the traffic wardens; the newspaper boys had gone quiet, no longer peddling their wares, and even the shops, which usually gleamed as brightly as decorated festival trees, had fallen asleep.

The Metropolis, or at least its pompous and expensive center, had sunk into slumber. And so, Ardan felt not quite like a stranger here, but rather as though he had, by accident, wandered into his parents’ bedroom late at night, ready to tell them some incredibly funny and unquestionably important story, only to catch them in the midst of…

Now he knew exactly what they had been doing at those times when he’d barged in. And he finally understood why, on that day when he’d played hide-and-seek with them and had hidden in the kitchen cupboard for a good few hours, his boast of an undeniable victory had so thoroughly amused his great-grandfather.

Ardi smiled at the memory and sighed.

For a moment, it seemed to him like the city smiled back and sighed as well, as if relieved that its new, albeit temporary, resident might find something of his own among the opulent buildings, broad streets, bulky avenues, winding alleyways, and the haughty bridges arching over the black river.

And so, Ardi continued walking, looking around the entire time. Over his shoulder, his satchel thumped against his back; in his hands, he carried a bag and a staff, its tip tapping rhythmically against the smooth cobblestones of the pavement. The stones rang under the heels of his boots, echoing the cawing of scattered and spooked crows, which had gathered for a feast but then been scared off by a cat.

Speaking of which — there it was, the cat. Licking its paw, it darted into an alley and disappeared under a trash bin. The very one beside which, sheltered by an overhang, a waiter stood in black pants, polished shoes, a black-and-white striped shirt, and a starched white apron. He was smoking and, bending down, scratched the cat behind the ear before it scurried away from the rain.

"Hey, Zor, are you going to dawdle all day?" Came an annoyed voice from the other side of an inconspicuous door.

"Coming," the waiter grumbled, stubbing out his cigarette on his shoe and tossing it into the trash. Before disappearing into the building, he exchanged a glance with Ardi.

A moment later, Ardan saw only the swinging door and moved on. The restaurant’s windows glowed in the nighttime gloom of the capital, their light scattering the darkness with a lazy sweep, like someone swatting away a fly.

Ardi paused briefly in front of the wide display window. On the other side, in a grand hall bathed in gold, marble, and amber, sat important men in tailcoats with their companions. A band played on a small stage, and waiters like Zor flitted between the tables. They had different faces and different bodies, but all of them wore the same uniform.

One of them approached the window and waved Ardi away, motioning for him to hurry on.

Ardan tipped his hat and continued. For hours, he walked, simply soaking in the atmosphere of the city, acquainting himself with it as cautiously as if he were meeting a predator in the hunting grounds. With care and respect, he absorbed the sounds, scents, sights, and sensations the Metropolis offered so generously, even deep into the night.

Occasionally, he stopped by small parks where a few locals were walking their dogs, or where, under the streetlights, people sat at tables, smoking and playing chess or cards.

The rain ended — though probably not for long.

In its place came a light, low-hanging mist. Like a pet, it hugged his legs, drifting toward the river, which slowly and steadily flowed closer to the ocean.

The ocean…

Ardi had read much about it, but he had never seen it before. Alas, he probably wouldn’t see it today, either. Too many things to do.

Damp, but strangely not disappointed, he stopped under a streetlamp. The ornate post made of black wrought iron was crowned by two lamps, their yellow light flickering against the foggy glass.

Smiling at a group of young people walking by who were discussing art (they, for some reason, recoiled from him and hurried to cross the street… Perhaps it wasn’t customary to greet people here as it was in Evergale?), Ardi pulled a newspaper from his bag. He had bought it, quite honestly, from the Anorsky household on his last day there.

Well, "bought" was a term for it — he’d left five kso on the hall table. That’s how much the "Imperial Herald" cost in the capital. It was two kso more expensive than in Evergale. Although, if you thought about it, the printing press was located here, and there was no need to send it by postal trains and…

Ardi waved it off. He needed to get used to the fact that everything in the capital cost absurdly large sums of money.

The issue was already a week old, but Ardan didn’t need the latest news from it. He needed something else entirely.

Flipping to the last pages, he ran his finger over several ads he had circled with a pencil.

Even back in the prairie, when he’d heard about the dormitory, Ardi hadn’t planned to stay there for long. Six years with Aergar had been enough to instill a snow leopard’s outlook in him for life, and so he would always seek out his own territory and solitude.

"Big Oboronny Street, number 12," Ardan read aloud from one of the ads he had marked. "I think Mart mentioned Small Oboronny Street once... What’s the price? Nine and a half exes a month. The apartment has heating and a kitchen."

Ardan grimaced and immediately crossed out the ad. Given how his first classes had gone, the scholarship-grant seemed more and more ephemeral, and relying on it was out of the question. So, his budget was limited to eighteen exes in cash and two suits, which he still had to pay off, though luckily, the deadline hadn’t been specified, so he could stretch it until New Year’s.

Suddenly, Ardi realized what the merchants in Evergale must’ve felt when, at the end of each month, they’d rushed to the bank to deal with their loans and debts.

"No point in renting anything farther than an hour’s walk from the Grand," Ardi continued running his finger over the ads. "It’s about thirty minutes by tram… Maybe a bit farther if I run..."

Though, who knew how the city guards would react to a two-meter-tall mage running down the street? Something told Ardi that such a sight might cause unnecessary excitement.

"All right," the young man folded the newspaper and tucked it back into his bag. "No point looking for a place until I sell the suit… And the shops won’t open until eight."

Ardi glanced at his wristwatch. It was a quarter past two… There was still a long time until the shops opened, so…

Adjusting his grip on his staff, he glanced toward the park, then, after making sure there was little traffic on the road, he dashed across it.

Three elderly men, clearly well-to-do judging by their fine coats (this was the Central District, after all), continued playing cards.

Ardan approached and watched them for a while. He recognized the game immediately.

Olikzasian Sevens.

It was one of the most popular card games in the world, and it had grown out of a simple dice game common among sailors in the merchant fleet. That was how it had spread across the globe.

The rules were also simple enough to make it a staple in taverns and saloons.

From a deck of fifty-two cards, each player would be dealt two, and then, each turn, another would be placed on the table until the sum of the cards in one’s hand and on the table equaled seven — hence the "Sevens" part of its name.

Between card reveals, players could place bets, and after the final round, they’d check who had the best combinations. The winner would take the pot.

"Two dragons and two soldiers," one of the elderly men with a comical monocle under a bushy eyebrow said with a grin, a large wart on the tip of his nose.

"Three soldiers," replied the second, already gathering the coins from the table. He was so thin and shriveled he resembled an overcooked tomato.

"Easy there, friends, easy," the third man raised his hands and began laying out the cards for a higher combination. "A two-sword soldier, three-tailed dragon, four-masted ship, five-staff mage, and," he slapped the final card down on the table with a victorious grin, "a six-pointed crown!"

"Eternal Angels," muttered the shriveled man.

"As usual, Peter wins," the wart-nosed one said, spreading his hands.

"Hand over your coins," the cigar-biting elder swept several kso toward himself. The bets seemed rather modest.

"And you, young man, why aren’t you asleep?" Peter asked suddenly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "We, you see, are old men; sleep left us long ago."

Ardan had been standing behind the Shriveled One and the Wart all this time, so they hadn’t seen him, but now they turned and froze for a moment. Fear flashed across their faces for a split second, while Peter, who was slightly portly with rosy cheeks and skin as rough as birch bark, exuded a sticky calm.

"I’m waiting for dawn," the young man replied honestly.

"Then wait for it elsewhere-" The Shriveled One began, but Peter interrupted him.

"Did a lady of the heart throw you out?" The elder, shuffling the deck, nodded meaningfully at Ardi’s bag.

Ardan allowed himself a small smile.

"I wouldn’t call those gentlemen ladies. They were quite masculine elves and dwarves."

The Shriveled One and Wart exchanged confused glances, while Peter only nodded briefly.

"Well, young scholar, sit down with us."

"Peter, you can’t-"

"Nazhir, calm down," Peter interrupted the Shriveled One. "Do you know how to play Sevens?"

"I know the rules," Ardi confirmed, sitting down as the fourth player.

"We bet one kso each," Peter explained. "And raise no more than five."

"Got it."

"Good… By the way, since we’ve got a youngster at the table, what do you know about jazz?"

"Why such a strange question?" Ardi couldn’t help but ask.

It was indeed a strange question.

"Because you’re looking at its aficionados," Peter winked. "We just came from a concert and wanted to take a little walk and chat about it… And that was…"

"Three hours ago," the Shriveled One grumbled.

"Oh, come on, Nazhir," Wart waved him off. "We all live in the neighboring house anyway, so…"

"You may as well give him the keys to my apartment!" Nazhir bristled.

"Friend, he’s a mage — if he wanted to, he could get into your apartment without keys… Or did you forget to hide your second set of dentures?"

The old men, including Nazhir, chuckled.

"And so," Peter continued, "my young friend who has generously lowered the average age of players at this table, what do you know about jazz?"

Ardi didn’t know much. Only what Mart had told him about it. Apparently, it was a kind of music that was slowly capturing the hearts and minds of the people of Metropolis. Born out of the classical instrumental music of the upper class, jazz had woven in the light and quick rhythms of the elves.

At first, jazz had become popular among the working class, who didn’t have the money to enjoy high culture, and then, since there were more poor people than the wealthy, the music had spread throughout the capital, eventually beginning to reach beyond its borders.

But that wasn’t what had interested Mart about it. What had intrigued him was why it wasn’t possible to create a transmitter that could broadcast music over long distances. He had mentioned something about… electromagnetic waves, or something like that…

The problem, Mart had explained, was that these waves were disrupted by the echo of the Ley Lines, which created such strong interference that the waves dissipated after just a few dozen meters.

Mart had said that they had tried to solve the problem by using wires, but even those were affected by the Ley. Apparently, Star Engineers were now in a kind of gold rush, trying to find a way to transmit information over long distances using not "electromagnetic waves," but "Ley cables." But so far, no major breakthrough had occurred.

Ardan hadn’t fully understood what Mart’s words had meant at the time, and he still didn’t quite grasp them now.

But he did remember the part about jazz.

"Well, young man," Peter began dealing the cards. "You, judging by your appearance, have come from afar, but know so little about jazz… And what is the Metropolis without jazz? No, without it, this wouldn’t even be the Metropolis at all. So, take note of what an old detective has to say: Jazz is…"

A few hours of Sevens and an equally long time spent discussing jazz later

Ardan tucked the city map back into his waistcoat pocket, yawned, and tugged on the brass handle. The wooden door, painted matte black, with a sign reading "Madam Okladov’s Atelier, open from First to Fifth day, from 7 in the morning to 9 in the evening," swung open, causing the bell above the doorframe to jingle.

Upon entering, Ardi immediately took off his hat and wiped his boots on the mat… only realizing after the fact that it was likely decorative and not meant for use. After all, how else could he explain the intricate pattern of scissors trimmed into the high-pile carpet?

The old men he had played Sevens with had told him where to find a decent tailor nearby. It wasn’t a place where the prices soared through the roof, but not a bargain basement where they’d sew a button back on for a couple of kso, either.

Ardi needed something in between, and Wart (the young man never did catch his name) had recommended Okladov’s Atelier. It was just down the street, right next to the Three Bridges Avenue.

And as it turned out, the atelier, located on the ground floor of a residential building (like all shops, cafés, and restaurants in the central districts of the Metropolis), was still a little closer to what Ardan considered sky-high prices than not. He had forgotten, once again, that he had been speaking with residents of the capital.

The spacious room, which clearly served as both an atelier and a sort of showroom, featured a massive, full-length mirror, likely for fittings. The walls, painted a deep green, displayed paintings and a cuckoo clock with dangling weights. The space itself was filled with mannequins.

They were spaced far enough apart that several people could pass between them freely. Some mannequins wore flamboyant outfits: crimson suits with twisted orange stripes and shoes polished to a mirror finish, made from white leather so stiff it almost cracked around the toes. Dresses covered in sequins made from tiny aluminum pieces boasted slits so high you could probably see more than you should.

A bit farther on stood simple, well-tailored, woolen three-piece suits. Double-breasted and single-breasted. Some had contrasting silk vests and others were standard, matching the main fabric.

Winter was approaching, and the city’s residents were preparing as much as they could. Mostly, this either meant they’d be wearing more layers of clothing, or in some cases, the gradual appearance of fur coats in the shop windows hinted at how others would combat the cold. However, none of the furs were as high-quality as the ones his mother had made for the people of Evergale. And the fur itself… It was more of a joke than actual fur.

Ardan approached a very simple, dark blue suit with a low-collared vest. It had no flashy embellishments, with buttons instead of cufflinks, and a plain, low collar on a thick shirt.

Ardi suspected that, this far from the Alcade, he would probably feel the cold. But he doubted that he’d feel it so much that he would need to wear lined long johns, thick woolen socks, and a sweater over his shirt. Those items were also available in the atelier, not on the mannequins, but neatly folded on counters and high stools in front of cabinets displaying fabric samples.

Why did the young man need a suit? At the Grand, everyone dressed like that. It would be easier to blend in. But how much would it-

"It’s twelve exes and forty-five kso for the one you’re looking at," someone spoke from the doorway leading to the workshop. "The price includes the jacket, pants, shirt, and vest. Shoes, belts, and other accessories are sold separately. Our partners source those from…"

The woman trailed off as she approached and gave Ardi an appraising look. She herself looked pleasant enough: chestnut hair pulled into a tight bun, white, detachable sleeves tied with ribbons over her arms, and a gray apron with many pockets, filled with various sewing tools, was draped over her simple fabric skirt.

His mother had one just like it… Well, almost.

"Although, with your height, young man, it’s more likely to cost fourteen, not twelve and a half," she declared. "Your shoulders are too narrow for your frame, so we’d have to work hard to make it fit well."

"Madam Okladov?" The young man asked.

"At your service," she nodded curtly.

Judging by the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, she was likely over thirty, but she didn’t wear any rings. And there was a faint scent of men’s cologne about her, rather than anything feminine.

The price she had quoted was only half of what the Anorsky family had charged him for a "casual" suit. But it was still outrageously expensive. So, for the time being, it might be better to look for clothes closer to the factory workers’ districts.

"Unfortunately, I’m not here to make a purchase," the young man said apologetically.

But this didn’t seem to affect Okladov at all. She merely shifted her gaze from his figure to his cloak.

"You want to lengthen your cloak?" She mused. "For forty kso, I can extend it enough so that you don’t look like a scarecrow."

Ardan had almost forgotten that the cloak he had been issued was too small for him.

"And that’s not the reason either…" Ardi opened his travel bag and took out two neatly-wrapped paper bundles tied with twine. "I’d like to sell you these two suits."

He placed the Anorsky clothing on the counter and stepped back.

"Sell them to me?" Okladov didn’t even move. "We’re not a pawn shop, young man. If you’re not planning to buy anything, please don’t waste my time."

Ardi refrained from pointing out that the day had just begun and that the atelier was entirely empty, aside from perhaps the house cat. His Matabar senses had picked up the presence of the creature as soon as he’d entered.

"Madam, I understand that, but please, just take a look," Ardi gestured to the bundles. "That’s Scaldavinian sheep’s wool. Hand-spun, not factory-made. And it was treated with some kind of solution, though I’m not sure which-"

"Are you a mage or a tailor?" She chuckled softly, cutting him off as she began unwrapping the bundles.

The first one, the casual suit, elicited nothing more than a disappointed sigh from her. It was well-made, but from simple materials and clearly factory-produced.

"You-"

"I meant the second bundle."

With a skeptical arch of her brow, Okladov unwrapped the paper packaging. The moment she did, she whirled around and practically bolted toward the cash register.

Ardi, anticipating the reaction, set his staff against a mannequin and raised his hands. So, when she pulled a small, feminine revolver from beneath the counter and pointed it at his chest, he was already in the most non-threatening posture he could manage.

In the back of his mind, he noted that, over the past few months, people had been pointing weapons at him far too often.

"Don’t move!" She shouted, trying to steady the trembling gun. "Don’t you dare make a move! I’ll shoot, I promise!"

"Madam, I-"

Still aiming the shaking weapon at him, she began rummaging across the counter for something.

"Where is it…"

"If you’re looking for the siren cord, it’s a bit farther to the right," Ardan offered, gesturing with his eyes toward the inconspicuous cord near the register.

These cords had recently been installed in Evergale as well. Pull on one, and a long, unpleasant sound would blare from a hidden loudspeaker, alerting the city guards.

His words made Okladov freeze, and she spent the next few moments staring at him. Ardi waited patiently.

"You didn’t steal it?"

"I was given the suit on a temporary, compensated basis," the young man replied.

"Compensated basis?" Okladov snorted. "Don’t try to fool me, young man. These materials and this craftsmanship… You can’t just borrow something like this. These are custom-made in the finest ateliers in the city, for clients like dukes and Great Princes! Not for mages in red cloaks with childish eyes…"

She’d wanted to say more, but then trailed off, her hand still not lowering the revolver as she reached for a folded newspaper in a nearby stack. She opened it and held it so she could glance at both the paper and Ardi at the same time.

"It does resemble the picture," she sighed with some relief. "Even the face…"

Ardi barely suppressed a knowing smile. She had compared the clothes to the photo first, not his face… His mother would have done the same.

"Apologies, Mr. Egobar," Okladov lowered the revolver. "But you must understand, it’s not every day that someone of your appearance, with a staff in hand and carrying around an outfit worth half a year’s revenue, walks into my atelier."

Ardi nearly choked. The ceremonial suit was worth one hundred and twelve exes, meaning… the atelier earned nearly a quarter of a thousand a year?!

"Before taxes, of course," Okladov continued her rambling, still trying to steady her trembling hand. "And before salaries, and… Well, it would take me some time to… Oh, I’m sorry… I’m just nervous… Would you like some tea? Wait, why am I offering you tea…"

Ardi couldn’t tell if this was her nerves acting up or his damned Witch’s Gaze.

"And why do you have a gun in your atelier?"

"What?"

The young man gestured toward the revolver still resting on the counter. It was small, yes, but more than enough to send someone to meet the Eternal Angels.

"The revolver. Why do you need it?"

"Oh, that," Okladov glanced at the gun before turning away. "Last year, someone broke into the atelier. They didn’t take anything… They just tried to get into the apartment upstairs. I live above the workshop, on the second floor. They didn’t like that I live with my…"

She stopped herself and fell silent. Ardan, who didn’t fully understand the situation, decided not to press the issue. He had come here for something else entirely.

"Will you buy it?" The young man asked, his voice hopeful, reminding her of his original question.

Okladov took a few deep breaths, then approached the suit still lying on the glass counter. She ran a finger over it, checked the seams, examined the lining for a few seconds, and finally, using a strange device that looked like a cross between a monocle and a telescope, she inspected the stones in the cufflinks.

"This suit is worth no less than a hundred exes, Mr. Egobar," she declared.

"One hundred and twelve, to be exact," Ardi nodded, pulling out the shoes Tatiana had called "not for the streets."

Okladov shook her head and stepped back.

"You have a rather… unusual frame, Mr. Egobar," she said, now fully composed and back to her professional self, her sharp, discerning gaze back in place. "You’re tall, with narrow shoulders for your size, but long arms and legs, a short torso, and a low waist. Overall, I might find a client among the elves; they sometimes have similarly… peculiar figures."

Ardi understood that "peculiar" actually meant "awkward," but he was well aware of this less-than-convenient aspect of his physique. It was simply the way he was built.

"But it would take too long to find the right client, so the suit itself holds little value to me."

"I see, then I apologize," Ardi began to reach for the counter, but Okladov placed her hand on the fabric.

"I said the suit holds little value to me, but the material is enough for me to tailor something else from it," she clarified with a small spark in her voice. "So, I’ll offer you a deal. I’ll buy both suits for… let’s say… forty exes."

"And the shoes?"

"With those feet?" Okladov snorted, now fully back in control. "Don’t even bother trying your luck with the cobblers. Your feet are abnormal. Long, wide, with toes spread far apart. And those calves… Completely inhuman. Their circumference is probably a match for those of the most passionate food lovers…"

With surprising ease, she listed half the attributes Tevona Elliny had once pointed out when explaining how the marshals had identified Ardi as a half-blood.

"Sixty, and we have a deal," Ardi extended his hand.

"Are you trying to ruin an honest woman?" Okladov grimaced. "Forty-five."

"Aren’t you ashamed of trying to cheat someone who just received their certificate of adulthood? Fifty-five."

"What kind of adulthood certificate are you talking about when you, Mr. Egobar, are tall enough to scrape the ceiling with your head? Forty-eight, or you can take the suit elsewhere."

To be fair, Ardan was still quite a ways from the ceiling — probably about as far as he’d been in his home in the mountains of the Alcade… Well, maybe a little less than that.

He gazed into Okladov’s eyes for a moment and instantly understood that she had offered her final price and condition with absolute seriousness.

"Forty-eight, and a ten percent discount for a future client," Ardan countered.

He wasn’t joking. Being the son of a seamstress, he could easily recognize quality at a glance, and Madam Okladov’s atelier offered excellent value for one’s money. So maybe, sometime in the future…

"Eternal Angels, young man!" The owner exclaimed. "You haggle like a market vendor, not a mage!"

"I had a very… frugal employer," Ardi coughed, recalling how he and the other cowboys had once "convinced" Timofey Polskih to pay them for overtime.

For the first time, Okladov extended her hand.

"Forty-eight and a seven percent discount on your next three purchases."

Ardan nodded and gently squeezed her hand in return, receiving a firm, steady handshake that not even many men could’ve boasted of.

That was the grip of a true worker.

Okladov disappeared into her workshop for a moment and returned with five banknotes: four ten-ex bills (the largest denomination in the Empire) bearing the portrait of Pavel I — the Emperor who had reformed the currency — and one five-ex note with the image of Arch Magister Davilov, the first man to attain seven Stars in the Empire’s history. Both men had been dead for centuries, of course.

Along with those banknotes, Okladov placed down two silver coins with the imperial crest, each worth one ex, and a handful of brown bills — these were denominations of one, five, and ten kso.

Thus, Ardi became forty-eight exes richer… Or, looking at it another way, he was still ninety exes poorer than when he’d arrived in Metropolis.

But now, at least, he could rent an apartment and focus on more important matters. Namely, the daunting task of trying to learn in a month what other students had studied for years… While also mastering the current curriculum flawlessly. Otherwise, he could kiss his scholarship goodbye.

It was as Neviy had once groaned when he’d first started working at the butcher shop:

"Oh, this fu… blasted adult life."

"It was a pleasure doing business with you," Ardi grinned, tucking his wallet into his belt.

"The feeling isn’t mutual just yet," Okladov quipped without malice. "Now, young man, have a good day."

Ardan tipped his hat and stepped outside.

The Metropolis still lingered in that realm of twilight and morning fog. But more and more often, the headlights of cars began flickering through the haze as the streets gradually filled up. Tram bells rang now and then; newsies, still yawning, took to the sidewalks with stacks of newspapers; and occasionally, still-drowsy passersby would approach the shoe-shiners.

Ardi took a deep breath, and for the first time, the air didn’t seem as musty and metallic as the exhaust of one of the tractors on the farm, reeking of diesel and rust.

Life was looking up!

***

"No half-bloods!" The door slammed shut right in Ardi’s face.

The young man raised the newspaper and crossed out the last of the addresses he hadn’t seriously considered in the first place.

What bad luck!

Descending the staircase, he left behind the dimly lit, fifth-floor hallway of the dilapidated tenement where he had tried to rent an apartment. He stepped out into the foyer, where it seemed even the cockroaches were dancing, and then out onto the street.

The Metropolis had… once again, fallen into evening gloom. The closer it got to the White Month, the shorter the daylight hours became in this part of the country, and the longer the nights stretched. So, wrapping his cloak tighter around him, Ardan trudged dejectedly along the cobblestone road.

The stones vibrated cheerfully beneath his feet, as if trying to lift the spirits of this wandering homeless man. The buildings around him weren’t as grand and opulent as in the central districts, but they still exuded an air of agedness and the era before steel and concrete giants dominated the skyline.

By this point, Ardi had almost reached the edge of the circle he had drawn on his map. Within these boundaries, it still made sense to rent an apartment, rather than endure dorm life and… the neighbors.

But everywhere he went, it was the same story. Either young tenants weren’t welcome, or half-bloods and Firstborn were undesirable as residents, or a deposit was required, one equal to three months’ rent, or even worse, a recommendation from one of the current tenants was needed.

His mage credentials, his student paper from the Grand… Not even his earnest, honest look had helped. Though, to be fair, the latter had probably never aided him…

And so, Ardi just wandered the streets now, breathing in the fresh night air. He walked along the embankment of one of the many canals. Behind the wrought-iron railing, adorned with twisting rose and tulip buds — flowers quite unlike anything native to the Metropolis forests — black water murmured below.

Its cold, indifferent caress lapped against the granite banks, frothing with white here and there, as if it were walking in step with Ardan. His bag still bounced against his back, and his satchel swayed in his left hand.

The wind kept trying to snatch his hat and whisk it away on a journey to another part of the city, where renting a room would be pointless — it was too far from the university.

Around him, unlike in the dead of night, golden lights still gleamed. Weeks ago, when he had ridden in the car toward the Anorsky estate, he had imagined the lights as something magical and had wondered why the locals paid them no mind, walking by so indifferently, as if these wonders weren’t worth noticing.

For example, there was the toy store, where a wooden gentleman, lit up by lamps, twirled in a dance with a dainty ballerina nearly his size. Or the candy shop, where, right in front of the display window, a confectioner was crafting something out of cream and layers of cake that would probably become a swan-shaped masterpiece. Or, just a bit farther, there was the butcher shop, which was hurrying to close and had a stuffed cow in the window marked with cuts of meat and their prices. The cow looked so lifelike that it seemed like it might straighten up and moo at any moment.

The cafés and restaurants didn’t lag behind, either, flaunting signs and decorations that Ardi hadn’t even seen at the liveliest of fairs. But…

But right now, he barely paid any attention to them. His mind was preoccupied with one thing — finding a place to live. Yes, of course, he could go back to the dormitory and strike a deal with the warden. Admit he’d been hasty.

Maybe he could even sweet-talk the old man.

But even if those two elves and the dwarf quieted down, it would only be temporary. And living under the same roof with people who had tried to harm you wasn’t a great idea.

It’d be too much trouble.

Not to mention that the majority of the dormitory was full of people like those three. And if you added Iolai and Eveless into the mix…

Maybe he could charm that librarian-assistant into helping him? Neviy had always managed to talk his way out of trouble with ease — a little friendly banter with a young woman, and he’d slip out of any sticky situation.

But Ardi had never been able to pull that off. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose his library card in the process.

The whole thing was turning out to be quite unpleasant…

Ardan jumped aside just in time to avoid the splash from a puddle kicked up by the wheels of a speeding car. Although it nearly dirtied his last clean pair of pants, it snapped him out of his gloomy thoughts.

Without realizing it, Ardi had returned almost to the exact point from where he had started his journey. He was now a couple of blocks away from the park where he had played Sevens, near the Markov Canal (named after a notable public figure from the previous century), and he found himself at a wide intersection.

To his right, a bridge over the canal led to the other side; to his left, a street branched off toward the city’s main boulevard; and straight ahead stood a five-story building with a balcony bay window shaped like a tall tower.

Technically, it was a four-story building since, as usual, the ground floor housed shops and businesses.

One of them caught Ardan’s attention.

Under the bay windows, a round sign made of intertwined grapevines formed a simple name: "Bruce’s Jazz Bar."

Jazz…

Well, since he hadn’t managed to find a place to live, he might as well find out what the old men had been so excited about and what Mart had spoken of with such fond nostalgia.

Overhead, the sharp, cold rain began to drizzle once again. Ardi crossed the street and pushed open the door, stepping inside.

The establishment was somewhat reminiscent of a saloon in Evergale, though far more… respectable, perhaps. The dim lighting created an atmosphere of soft semi-darkness, gently embracing the many tables draped in white tablecloths. At their center stood low lamps, serving as the sole source of light.

In the distance, hidden behind a partition formed by two velvet ropes, there were booths with couches instead of chairs, where, unlike the rest of the establishment, it seemed like… not all the patrons were human.

But Ardi couldn’t make them out. Nor could he see the other guests, including the bar and bartender. The lights suddenly dimmed, and a few spotlights crossed their white beams, illuminating a small stage on the far side of the room.

"Our regular guest," came a voice from the shadows. "Tess."

The audience clapped, breaking up the veil of cigarette and cigar smoke that clung to the ceiling. In the dim light, the silhouettes of men appeared first. One settled behind the drums, another took up a curved trumpet with a multitude of valves, a third stood behind a double bass, and the last sat down at the piano.

And then, carefully walking on high heels and wearing the very same dress Ardan had seen earlier that morning at Okladov’s atelier, a young woman appeared. She had skin the color of a nascent sunrise, and was clad in nothing but that black, sequined dress with a slit that reached almost to her thigh. She stood before the golden Ley-microphone (a simple artefact that increases the volume of the voice) and began to sing.

What’s on the cat’s mind today?

Is her journey far away?

Through the grass and down the street,

So easy, so easy to scare her feet.

Sometimes,

Endless days in shades of gray

Stretch like lines that fade from view,

As the pouring rains cry away.

Her waist was slender; her small, perky chest was barely covered by her dress’ neckline, which plunged all the way to her stomach; her red lips parted slightly as she lifted her hand, scattering a mane of fiery red curls. Thick as ripe wheat, her hair curled and fell well past her back.

And then,

People find they’re left alone

In the autumn’s dreary tone,

Just like cats or strays they stay,

Alone with themselves all day...

Does someone wait for the cat,

Where is she rushing, quick and flat?

Her long, unbroken, lonely quest,

That’s her work, that’s all her rest.

Her face was probably beautiful — though after meeting Cassara, Ardi found it harder to judge. Still, there was something about her… Maybe it was in her high cheekbones, her sharply-defined, neat chin, or her slightly upturned, petite nose, and in those bright, green eyes lined with dark mascara.

Something about her made you believe that, in this bar, which reeked of alcohol and smoke, the sun had suddenly appeared. Warm and joyful, it didn’t care who you were — rich or poor, human or Firstborn. The sun simply didn’t care. It gave you its light and asked for nothing in return.

Sometimes,

Endless days in shades of gray

Stretch like lines that fade from view,

As the pouring rains cry away.

And then,

People find they’re left alone

In the autumn’s dreary tone,

Just like cats or strays they stay,

Alone with themselves all day...

This light washed away all worries and troubles as it burned away grievances and misfortunes. In its glow, everything that had happened recently seemed so insignificant, gray, foolish, and trivial that you felt ashamed for even tormenting yourself over such small things.

And that sun was the tiny young woman singing by the microphone, and her voice outshone even the music itself.

Never

Can people ever understand

What the sky sings late at night,

Whispered from the starry land.

Sometimes,

Stars will fall like leaves from trees,

And to keep the sky at ease,

The cat holds her tail up high!

When she finished singing, and the musicians played their final notes, the bar remained silent for a few moments before erupting in applause. Some patrons brought flowers to the small, round stage, while Ardi stood there, blinking in confusion.

This wasn’t the first time he’d heard music, but he had never heard anything like this before. Now he understood why the old men had spent so much time talking about-

"Finally!" A booming voice came from behind him. "You must be my tenant, I presume?"

Engrossed in the music, Ardan hadn’t noticed the tall figure approaching him from behind. He turned to find himself facing a towering man — no, not quite a man. His lower jaw jutted forward too much, his nose had been flattened, and his short but muscular arms hinted at orcish blood.

The figure was dressed in a black satin suit, though curiously, he wore no vest, which struck Ardan as odd. In his experience, no one wore a suit without a vest unless they were in formal attire, like a tailcoat.

"Excuse me… what?" Ardan asked, still trying to shake off the daze from the music.

The orcish half-blood deflated slightly, his shoulders slumping.

"Ah, it’s not you, either… Fuck it, Sleeping Spirits, what a day…" The half-orc scratched the back of his head with nails so long and hard it sounded like someone brushing a horse with a stiff comb. "I’ve been waiting three days for my tenant, and he still hasn’t shown up. It’s like this asshole fell through the ice or something. Meanwhile, my place is just sitting there, empty."

Ardan blinked, fish-like, opening and closing his mouth before blurting out, "I need a place to live."

The half-orc froze, his hand still on his head, and narrowed his eyes at him, looking Ardan up and down with a scrutinizing gaze.

"You do, huh? Well, don’t get too excited," the half-orc said with a dismissive wave. "The place is more of a hole than a room. No comforts at all. You’ll have to come down here just to use the bathroom. And the space itself… It’s weirdly oval, drafty as hell, with no heating, and no plans to add it, either. You might’ve noticed it when you came in — the last balcony in the tower? That’s the one."

"How much?" Ardan asked, cutting in with great urgency.

The half-orc hesitated. "I’m telling you, lad, there’s no heating."

"I’m not sensitive to the cold," Ardan shot back. "How much?"

The half-orc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The contract is until the end of the year. Five exes a month, plus a ten-ex deposit. But seriously, there’s no heat, no nothing, and-"

"I’ll take it," Ardan interrupted him, thrusting his hand out.

"You will, huh?" The half-orc smirked, clearly caught off-guard by Ardan’s eagerness. "Well then, just know this, lad — if you move out early, I’m keeping the deposit. Understood, huh?"

"Understood."

The landlord squinted at Ardan with growing suspicion. "Why are you so eager, huh? There’s something weird about you. You’re not… You’re not up to something, are you, huh?"

The orc’s gaze drifted to the student badge peeking out of Ardan’s breast pocket and then to the red cloak draped over his shoulders.

"You’re one of those… students from the Grand, aren’t you, huh?"

Ardan nodded, barely able to contain his excitement, though the tune from Tess’ song still hummed in his head.

"Well, I’ll be damned," the orc muttered. "You smell funny… Like a cat… Though maybe it’s just that blasted song of Tess’… She could sing about that cat for hours, and it’d never be enough for this lot." He gestured toward the crowd.

"My name’s Arkar, by the way. And you, student?"

Ardan braced himself for disappointment, sensing this was where his luck might run out.

"Ard Eg-"

"None of that surname stuff," Arkar grunted, clapping Ardan on the back and nearly knocking him off his feet. "We’re simple folk here. Hah! I’ve always loved that joke. Simple folk… non-humans…" He laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, come on, I’ll show you your new palace, Mr. Mage. Just keep in mind, if you blow something up, I’ll make you pay for it — and break your legs. Or arms. Maybe both, depending on my mood."

"Deal!" Ardan responded enthusiastically.

Arkar led him past the stage, down a narrow hallway, and then up a set of stairs that wound higher than the top floor of the building, stopping at a small landing.

"To the left is the attic," Arkar pointed to the first door. "And this one is yours. Here’s the key."

Ardan stepped forward, only for Arkar to tighten his grip on the key, smiling wickedly in order to reveal the sharp lower tusks common among orcs.

"Money first, lad. Fifteen exes."

Without hesitation, Ardan pulled out his wallet from his belt and counted out the amount, handing it to the landlord. Arkar took the bills, held them up to the light, sniffed them, and then crumpled them slightly between his fingers.

"All good," Arkar declared, handing over the key. "Alright, lad, make yourself at home. I’ll bring you the paperwork in half an hour so we can sign it. By the way, you mind if I put down that your deposit was a hundred exes instead of ten, huh? You know, so when people ask why I’m renting it so cheap, I don’t look like a fool. Don’t worry, it’s nothing for you to fret about. The deposit’s yours anyway, so no harm done. And why would I cheat a Grand student, eh?"

"Bring the papers, landlord," Ardan said with a silly grin.

Arkar blinked, caught off-guard by the abruptness, then nodded stiffly and began descending the stairs, muttering under his breath, "Crazy kid…"

Ardan wasn’t the least bit worried about the little trick with the deposit. After all, the deposit was what Arkar owed him, not the other way around. Plus, his Matabar senses had told him that Arkar was being completely sincere. The orc had no intention of pulling a fast one on his new tenant.

An orc… in a suit… Why did that combination feel oddly familiar to Ardan?

Whatever the reason, the thought evaporated the moment Ardan unlocked the door.

Beyond it was an oval-shaped room, about six meters in diameter and surrounded on all sides by windows, which allowed the city’s lights to spill in.

There was a bed large enough for his legs not to dangle off the end, a nightstand with two drawers, a tall but narrow wardrobe by the door, and a simple desk positioned beneath the windows. Off to the side stood a washbasin, complete with a tank for water and a press faucet.

But the windows… They made it feel as if the walls had disappeared and Ardan was gazing out over the rooftops of a city gradually being cloaked by the mantle of night. Below, a swarm of buzzing cars and people rushed about. The sidewalks glowed under a line of streetlights stretching off in every direction.

And the water, ever-present, was lapping against the rough granite.

Ardi smiled.

For a moment, he felt as if he were a child again, sitting on the cliffside of the Stairs and looking down over the forested expanse.

Perhaps life was getting better…

"Don’t jinx it," Ardan reminded himself, and began unpacking his things.