Matabar

A crushing silence descended upon the room for an instant, broken only by the steady drip of Ordargar's blood as it seeped through the wrappings on his mangled leg.

"Honored guests," Arkar said in a hoarse voice, loud enough for everyone to hear, "our bar would like to offer its sincerest apologies for your ruined evening. Please, make your way to the exit. Your meals are on the house. Once again — my deepest regrets."

People cast frightened glances at the massive orc, who was still bleeding, and yet hadn't stopped flashing his deranged grin. Bit by bit, they began to collect their things. Leaving half-eaten dinners and unfinished drinks behind, they grabbed their hats and gloves, hurrying out past the young orc (he was about Ardi's height) who seemed to be in charge of handing them their coats and seeing them out.

There was a resigned sorrow in Arkar's eyes as he watched the night's profits — probably the next few weeks' profits as well — go right down the drain. Even the regulars would be unlikely to return to their favorite bar anytime soon. That was precisely why the orcs never conducted their shady business here. Or why they hadn't until now.

Their best cover had to remain pristine at all times. And clearly, something truly extraordinary had happened for the gang's leader to break that rule.

"Let's go," Tess said, taking hold of Ardi's hand and pulling him toward the stairs.

Ardan didn't resist. Closing his grimoire and tucking a pencil behind his ear, he followed his… friend? He couldn't help but wonder exactly what kind of relationship he had with Tess. He was courting her, that much was clear, but they weren't… Well, they didn't sleep in the same bed, nor did they live under the same roof since being neighbors didn't really count.

How complicated humans could be…

"Arkar," Ordargar rumbled just as his subordinates were about to carry him into a private room, "we'll need every single asset we have."

The gang boss' gaze flitted briefly to Ardan. Naturally, he knew that Ardi owed Arkar a debt… The Overseer of the Orcish Jackets had no doubt told him all about what had happened in the Factory District and his deal with the Crimson Lady, along with a solid explanation for his reasoning.

"Ard," Arkar wasted no time. "You gave me your word."

Indeed, Ardan had promised to repay the favor. And it wasn't even about any grandiose vow — a concept that meant little to someone who'd been raised not just in the Alkade mountains, but among the cowboys of Evergale as well.

He had no reverence for oaths. But a promise… That was another matter entirely, especially since Arkar had helped him in a desperate moment, even though he hadn't been obliged to. Ardi simply couldn't walk away now without paying him back.

Tess released his hand and looked at him with an expression that clearly said: "I knew it would come to this."

"Tess, I-"

"Just promise me you'll come back," she said, touching his cheek gently.

"I promise."

She pulled him down slightly, pressed a quick kiss to his lips, then slipped away through the door leading to the stairwell.

And though she didn't protest, didn't try to stop or dissuade him, Ardan still felt rotten inside. Perhaps this was how his father had felt whenever he'd left on each of his treks through the Alkade?

Mother had never stood on the porch to see him off — or at least Father had never caught her doing so. But Ardi, who'd been left behind in the house, would cling for ages to the hem of her dress while she stood at the second-floor window, staring out of it long after Father's silhouette had disappeared out of view.

"Ard!" Arkar called out, beckoning him over.

Ardan sighed, turned away from the stairs, and joined the orcs in a lounge area lined with sofas.

They had rigged the private room's doors so they would stay open, and had seated Ordargar at a table. One of the orcs — older than the others, green-skinned and covered in black tattoos — had taken off his jacket and removed a set of vials, jars, and a leather wrap full of surgical tools from his satchel. He said, "I need a blowtorch, a wide cleaver used for chopping meat, and whiskey," his growling voice was tinged with a distinct steppe accent. "A lot of whiskey. A whole lot."

By that point, not a single customer was left in the bar, and yet it still felt cramped. That might have had something to do with the nearly four dozen hulking orcs crammed inside.

They weren't as big as their "wild" steppe kin, but were still far larger than almost any human. They had broad shoulders, strong, muscular limbs, and their average height was around 210 centimeters. Dressed as they were in black suits and white shirts without vests, they looked mighty intimidating.

While a few of them were carrying out the shaman's — or maybe he was a doctor — orders, heading to the bar and kitchen, Ardi managed to notice a few details.

Apart from Ordargar himself, several other orcs looked far from healthy. Some had their arms haphazardly bound to their sides, others had limped to chairs, jaws clenched in pain, tourniquets on their legs. And no matter how hard Ardan looked around, he couldn't spot Ordargar's usual driver, who liked to come in and hear Tess sing whenever he got the chance.

He was a good guy. For a gangster. He never showed up without flowers, and a single glare from him would silence any drunk who'd forgotten his manners and was disturbing Tess' performance long before Arkar's bouncers needed to step in.

"Darg," Arkar said softly after whispering to a few of his men and sending them off outside, "what happened?"

"We were on our way back from the duke's dinner," Ordargar said. He chopped the neck off a thick whiskey bottle with a single blow, then drained nearly half of it in one go. "Come on, old fang, do your — arrgh!"

He roared as the doctor set to work, first cutting away the blood-encrusted knot of fabric from his pant leg, then pressing a scorching-hot cleaver to his horrible wound. With a scalpel doused in alcohol, he sliced off clinging strips of flesh, bit by bloody bit.

Ordargar hammered the wall with his free hand, making the masks, hunting trophies, tusks, and photographs hanging there rattle.

The procedure lasted several agonizing minutes, filled with pain, snarling, and the stench of burned flesh.

"Right after the Old Park," one of the orcs who had helped carry Ordargar inside picked the story back up. "We drove straight into an ambush. Two trucks were blocking the road. They tore off their tarps, and there they were — belt-fed machine guns. They blasted the car to pieces. Bordar died on the spot."

Arkar sighed, "May his name be remembered."

"May his name be remembered!" The orcs echoed.

Bordar. That was the driver's name — the one who'd adored jazz in general and Tess in particular.

"They used army-issue machine guns?" Even Arkar sounded taken aback. "So brazenly? In the capital?!"

"If only that was all of it," another orc cut in. "Our wheels, as you know, are armored. We survived the first volley by dropping to the floor, waited till their guns jammed, and then…"

The orc trailed off, and a third one continued for him.

"Fragmentation grenades, Arkar," the orc said, eyes dull, suit and shirt shredded. "They lit the night up like it was New Year's, damn them."

Silence fell, disturbed only by Ordargar's ragged breathing and the occasional low growl of pain.

"The Dandy," Arkar hissed, clenching his fists and baring his tusks. "It's long past time we had a good chinwag about Baliero, right… Guys!"

The orcs rose from their seats, but a harsh, unsteady voice interrupted them.

"Hold your wolves, Arkar," Ordargar rasped through his haze of pain and near-unconsciousness. "It wasn't the Dandy."

"Darg, with all due respect, they must've scrambled your-"

A thunderous blow of Ordargar's fist left a dent in the solid stone wall, cracks spreading out like spider webs. Arkar fell silent at once.

"Watch your mouth, Overseer," Ordargar growled, taking another swig of whiskey and then pouring the rest over his still-sizzling stump, roaring like a wounded Wanderer. "It wasn't the Dandy."

"How can you be so sure?" Arkar asked in a calmer tone.

"Because we came to an agreement at that dinner," Ordargar replied, settling down as well. "And the Dandy thinks far too highly of himself to break his worthless human promise so soon — at least not without waiting a week or two first."

Ordargar spat, his saliva laced with blood and the fragments of a tooth.

Arkar exchanged glances with the other orcs, all of whom bore the same uncertainty in their eyes. Ardan sat quietly on one of the sofas, hoping the matter wouldn't end up involving him.

"But who else would dare to show off like that in this city, if not the Dandy?" Arkar refused to concede the point. "He's the only one who'd pull a… a spectacle like that, Darg."

Ordargar slowly turned to Arkar, wearing the sort of expression Ardan hoped he'd never see directed at him. It looked potent enough to drive iron stakes into the ground and bend rebar in half.

"That, Overseer, is precisely why I'm not yet retired, and why you're not wearing the boss' vest," Ordargar snarled. "First Baliero, then the Crimson Lady, and now this… Someone's trying to set off a war among the gangs."

"To what end?"

"If I knew that, Arkar, I wouldn't have come limping in here…"

Clearly, Ordargar's rise through the ranks of the underworld hadn't been solely due to his infamous brutality and beastly strength, but also a mind as sharp as his tusks.

"But we can't just sit on our hands, Overseer," Ordargar said, glancing down at the bandages the doctor had finished wrapping around his still-smoking stump. Then he turned to face the table and leaned back on the couch. "They've marked us for the kill. If we show any weakness, they'll tear us apart."

"So we're… trapped," Arkar exhaled, dropping onto the seat opposite him. "If we don't make a move, they'll rip us to pieces. If we do…"

"We might play right into the hands of those bastards who turned the heart of this city into the Fatian border," Ordargar finished for him.

The entrance doors groaned, and more orcs began streaming into the bar, all dressed in black coats or suit jackets without vests, carrying revolvers (they were big enough that a human firing one might snap their shoulder clean off) and axes. In orc hands, those axes looked small, almost unnoticeable. Humans used the same kind of axe for chopping wood.

Soon, the crowd in "Bruce's" had swelled to over sixty. And yet, curiously, they gave Ardan a wide berth. After casting a single glance at the cloak on his shoulders and the staff in his hands, none dared cross that invisible boundary around him.

"Dagir," the gang boss said to one of the wounded. "Bring our guest."

The orc nodded silently, stood, and left with another gangster. A moment later, the slamming of a trunk could be heard, followed by a muffled grunting sound.

When the doors opened again, Ardan had to fight to keep from jumping up in shock. Dagir was dragging a man by his hair. He was being muffled by a rag that had been shoved into his mouth and could only bleat pathetically. He seemed mostly unharmed except for the bruises on his face. The man appeared to be around thirty, and was wearing a simple, cheap woolen suit with flat wooden buttons, along with chunky boots polished with shoeshine rather than fur. It was common worker attire.

They placed the man — and made him seem as light as a rag doll in the process — on his knees before Ordargar, yanking the gag from his mouth.

"I don't know anything, I just-"

Ordargar stretched out one mighty arm, seized the poor soul by the throat, and hoisted him clean off the floor. His fingers tightened, forcing the man to choke, clutching frantically at Ordargar's stone-hard, gray skin.

"Talk," Ordargar said.

"I… I was just passing by… on my way home… to my… family… I swear… I don't…"

The boss tightened his grip, causing veins to bulge in the captive's neck. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, and his tongue swelled in his mouth.

"If you don't want my men to pay your family a visit," Ordargar said calmly, as though he weren't holding an eighty-kilo man aloft with one hand, "you'd better start talking."

"I… don't… know…"

Ardan's knuckles whitened as he gripped his staff. He couldn't watch this any longer.

He shot to his feet, slamming his staff down against the floor.

"This man speaks the truth!"

Dozens of orcs turned to stare at him with decidedly unfriendly expressions. Ordargar's glare especially looked like he was deciding whether to tear this intruder in half or try for four pieces instead.

"Darg!" Arkar leaped up, positioning himself between Ardan and his boss. "The kid's young, hot-headed, like a piece of burning coal. And he's just as-"

"He's telling the truth," Ardan interrupted him, stepping around Arkar.

For several moments, silence reigned. But then Ordargar loosened his grip, if only a little.

"And what makes you think so, Matabar?" The orc asked through narrowed eyes. "You're not the only one who can hear the hearts of liars. His is racing like a dog's."

"Or like the heart of a man scared out of his mind," Ardi persisted.

Ordargar lowered the man to the ground, though he didn't release him fully.

"You have two minutes to explain yourself, boy," the gang leader warned him. "And if I don't like your answer, you'll be leaving our home for the hospital."

"Look at his clothes," Ardan said, gesturing to the worker. "They're covered in mud and snow, but not a single scorch mark from gunpowder. With machine guns, grenades and explosions going off everywhere, such stains would've been inevitable. Now look at his boots. They're far cleaner than his clothes. I suspect you found him unconscious on the street, took him for an attacker, and hauled him off. Am I right?"

The orcs exchanged glances. Ordargar said nothing.

"So I'm right." Ardan nodded. "I'd guess that he'd just been to a shoeshine before heading home. Then the flying asphalt fragments hit him and knocked him out. The shoeshine ran, and you, in the midst of your own retreat, saw him on the ground and grabbed him."

Ordargar stared at Ardan with a gaze that made the younger man feel as if a whole pack of Ley-crazed wolves had cornered him.

But the orc's deadly aura suddenly vanished, and he let go of the terrified man's throat, pushing him aside.

"Arkar."

"Yes, Darg?"

"Write our guest a check for a hundred exes," Ordargar told him. "That should cover his medical bills and…" The orc's eyes flicked to the dark stain spreading over the man's trousers, "new pants. Plus a little donation to keep his mouth shut. Right?"

"Y-yes, of course, thank you, thank you so much," the terrified man babbled, half sobbing as he scooted backwards toward the exit. "I won't say a word to anyone. I promise. I-"

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Ardan blocked his way from behind.

A low growl came from Ordargar, and the orcs rose to their feet as one.

"You're playing with a damned hot fire, cub," Arkar whispered in his ear, "and you might get us both burned."

Ignoring the warning, Ardan crouched down and laid his hand on the poor man's shoulder. If Arkar knew Ardan was a Speaker, then surely Ordargar did, too. There was no point hiding it now.

"What's your name, mister?"

"T-Terens," he stammered, voice still quivering with tears, "Terens Fli."

Having freely received the man's name, Ardan infused it with his will and Spoke:

"Terens," he said, frosty clouds escaping his lips. A delicate pattern of rime spread out along the floor and walls. The orcs began to murmur amongst themselves. "Tell me, Terens, what did you see while you were sitting on that shoeshine stool?"

Terens' face went slack, his gaze cloudy. All emotion drained from his voice, leaving it dry and mechanical.

"I saw the shoeshine. His brush… He was cleaning my boots. I got them dirty stepping off the tram, which broke down a few stations too soon."

Ardan felt as if a crushing weight were settling over him, and each pulse of blood hammered like a mallet inside his skull. He shifted his questioning:

"The shoeshine — did anything about him strike you as unusual?"

"No."

"Look more closely at your memory, Terens. You ended up alone. Completely alone. It's not easy to move a shoeshine's stool and all his tools in an instant."

Each word felt like it was draining Ardan's strength, as if his own soul were being wrenched from his body and fed through a meat grinder. But he held on to the power that let him warp another's will.

"He had a red stain on his sleeve. I thought it was paint. But it wasn't paint. Blood. It was blood."

"What did he do when a long, fancy automobile drove by?"

"He… He pulled a flare gun from his pocket. Then he hit me with the handle. Then… nothing but darkness."

Blood trickled from Ardan's nose and ears, and his vision swam.

"When he fired that gun, Terens, did you see anything else?"

Terens' eyes rolled back, his whites the only thing visible now, and froth bubbled at his lips.

"Y-yes… A tattoo… A hammer and gloves."

Ardan broke the connection, severing his hold over the man. He likely would've collapsed had Arkar not caught him. The half-orc helped Ardi stand upright, then guided him to a couch. He placed a glass of water in front of him.

"I… I…" Terens rubbed his bleary eyes and shook his head. "I won't say anything, I swear it on my daughters. Not a word. Nothing…"

He scrambled to his feet, snatched the check from Arkar's hand, and bolted out the door.

"Arkar, Urag and the rest — let's talk," Ordargar said.

Arkar cast a quick glance at Ardan, then headed into the private room with several other orcs. The doctor — presumably Urag — followed. When the door closed behind the last of those hulking figures, the air in the place felt markedly lighter, as if a weight had been lifted.

Even though Ardi had been left alone with several dozen broad-shouldered orcs packed like sardines into the cramped bar, he felt far safer than before.

While the more senior gang members discussed the situation in private, Ardan sipped the water in silence, struggling to steady his thoughts and emotions. Whenever he used the Aean'Hane art to command another's Name, it left him feeling like he'd once again been racing Aergar through the Alkade peaks amid a brutal storm.

"So, the rumors were true — there's a real Speaker living under our roof," said a young orc as he sat down on the seat across from Ardi. By orc standards, he didn't look much older than Ardan himself.

Orcs, once they came of age, all tended to look the same — somewhere between fourteen and eighty. Only after that did any signs of aging truly appear. But thanks to Atta'nha's scrolls, Ardi knew one trick:

The tusks. Specifically, their size. The smaller the tusks, the younger the orc.

Which meant that the gangster in front of him was around twenty-five, maybe a bit more.

"I'm Indgar," he said, offering Ardan his huge hand.

While shaking it, Ardi was startled by how small he felt. Generally, he was the tall one in any room. Here, among so many orcs, he was almost a runt by comparison. It was a strange, new feeling.

"We've heard all sorts of things," Indgar said, jerking his head toward the rest of the gang, who were either muttering amongst themselves or sullenly eyeing their glasses, but still occasionally turning to look his way. "Word is, you took down a demon at Baliero, then you and Arkar butchered half a warehouse, and just recently, you bled — ahem, I mean wounded — some baron so badly his own mother wouldn't be able to recognize him."

Ardan tried not to reveal his surprise at how thoroughly the gangsters were informed. And in truth, matters had unfolded quite differently than the rumors claimed.

"The forest," Skusty had liked to say, "is always full of whispers." Sometimes, it was better to let the other hunter believe you're stronger rather than fight them for the best trails.

And so, instead of answering, Ardan merely shrugged.

"You handled that shorty very well," Indgar went on. "We orcs call humans 'shorties' because, well, they're small."

"What about dwarves, then?" Ardi asked out of habit, his curiosity sparking to life.

"We call them 'bearded shorties,'" Indgar said with a gravelly laugh.

All in all, the orc made a decent impression on him considering the fact that he was still a gangster, and someone Ardan, with his new line of work, should've theoretically been fighting against and stopping.

But if the Second Chancery, combined with the city watch and the army, hadn't solved the capital's gang problem yet, it meant that either they lacked the ability or, given the Emperor's comments, the desire to do so.

Or maybe both. As the saying went: "If you can't beat them, lead them." Or at least try to manage or guide them — the way you would do with rivers, dams, and floods.

"What duke did Ordargar visit?" Ardan asked.

"Abrailaal," Indgar answered at once, then flinched. "Spirits… I wasn't planning to tell you that. Is that the Witch's Gaze we hear about as kids — the one our elder mothers scare us with?"

"To be honest, Indgar, I don't know what scares orcs, or if it's even possible to scare you lot."

At that, the orc flashed him a wide, predatory grin, baring rows of sharp teeth.

"There's no real secret to it," he said with a dismissive wave. "On the first day of the third week of the Star Month, Duke Abrailaal hosts a lavish dinner at his mansion. Prominent folks from all over the capital show up to mingle and shoot the breeze about pointless nonsense that's none of our concern."

The Star Month… With everything that had transpired, Ardi had nearly forgotten that the second month of the year was drawing to a close. Which meant that on its very last day — which was imminent now — Ardan Egobar would turn eighteen.

A birthday… In his childhood, that word had always signified something joyous and magical, brimming with merriment and mischief. But now… Ardi now found his mind occupied with far weightier concerns.

"You did well not to chicken out… or, how do you say it… not to lose your nerve, yes. It's good that you didn't lose your nerve in front of Ordargar," Indgar said, taking a half-finished bottle of gin from a nearby table and pouring a measure into his glass after first discarding the dregs of the previous drink. "He's a decisive leader, sometimes quick to dole out harsh punishment, but fair. If you bring him something worthwhile or have a sensible thought, he'll listen. If you waste his time, though, he might… well, waste you."

Indgar rubbed his chest without thinking.

"And that hammer tattoo," Ardan asked next. "Does it mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does," the orc snorted. "That's the mark of the Hammers."

"The Hammers?"

"One of the city's bigger gangs," Indgar explained, hefting the bottle in his hand. "They're mostly workers from the steel foundries. Employment in those foundries has been completely taken over and is now run by a community of northerners, and the Hammers are effectively their muscle."

"So, are all the gangs tied to the Workers' Guilds in the Factory District?"

"We, the Dandy, and the Hammers split the Factory District and Old Park District, dealing with the Workers' Guilds in the process," Indgar said, pouring gin into his glass and watching the colorless drink slowly run down the sides. "The Crimson Lady is also involved, but she's got a… different profile, same as the Black Lotus, although they do their business here in the Central District. Then there's Saint Eord's folks."

"Saint?" Ardi echoed.

"It's a nickname for their founder," the orc shrugged. "He's been out of the game for a long time. Retired. Lives somewhere on the fancy outskirts of the city. Mansion-hills, I think. But his lot managed to get support from the ogre and giant diaspora. They hold the port."

"Also through the Guilds?"

"Yeah."

"By the way, I haven't seen any ogres or giants around," Ardi muttered aloud without quite realizing it.

No, wait — he thought he might have glimpsed a few giants or ogres at the Emperor's coronation, but not once had he spotted one in the city proper.

"There aren't that many left," Indgar said. "About seven hundred ogres, and the same number of giants. But they're huge, bigger than we are. That's why they're not allowed in the central districts. And generally, you won't see them anywhere except the port or the Firstborn District. It's something to do with the streets not being built for their size, the pressure on the sewer structures, and so on. This city just isn't designed for them."

Ardan arched an eyebrow.

"I studied to be a welder back home," Indgar said, answering the unspoken question of how he seemed to be so educated. "Then I came here. I searched high and low for a job, but never found any. Turns out nobody wanted an orc welder, even with all the right papers. But I had to send something back to my family. Had to eat, too. That's how I ended up dressing like this."

He tugged at his lapel.

Ardan nodded. He understood Indgar's plight. Even though Ardi looked human for the most part — he was quite tall, yes, but otherwise ordinary — he still hadn't managed to find a job or a place to live through the "proper channels."

"You named five," Ardi recalled, returning to their previous topic. "But Lisa… My acquaintance mentioned there were six gangs."

"In truth, there are actually eight," Indgar said, tossing back his gin and taking a loud breath through his broad, flattened nose. "Though it's hard to call the last two 'gangs' in the usual sense… Anyway, there's also the Telkarts, over in the Tend District. They handle most of the illicit alcohol. This here" — he rattled the bottle — "is their product."

He swished the gin around thoughtfully.

"You can't tell it apart from the legal stuff, not by its color or taste. But it's way cheaper. They don't pay taxes, you see."

Taxes… A sore spot for many in the Empire. Not because they were too burdensome, but because failing to pay them could land you in prison — or, if you owed too much, sentenced to forced labor.

Ardan's family had never been troubled by that, though. Those who served in the army, navy, fire department, medical field, or as teachers, plus the members of the Guild of Sciences and the city guard — along with the Second Chancery — were exempt. So were Star Mages with student status. And after completing their studies, Star Mages were exempt from taxes as well, but only if they earned the rank of Magister or higher.

Those reforms had been introduced by the current Emperor back when he'd still been just the heir to the throne amid upheaval and scandals, all before Ardi was even born.

"What about the last two?" Ardi asked.

"They're hard to call gangs, Matabar," Indgar said, spreading his hands. "The Unseen — that's what we call the strays, the beggars, the homeless, all the poor souls who literally live on the streets. There are rumors they've got their own leaders, maybe even a head honcho, but nobody knows for sure. Then there's…"

Indgar shuddered, which startled Ardi. This giant orc who weighed close to 170 kilos and was armed with a revolver the size of a small artillery piece and fists that could crumble walls… was actually afraid?

"The Narikhman," he whispered, lowering his voice and darting his gaze around as if worried someone might hear him. "They control the Angel Dust, contract killings of bigwigs, the biggest heists, all that sort of thing. They cooperate with vampires, werewolves, radicals, and the rest of the scum."

The Narikhman. Ardan filed that name away for later. He'd have to talk to Milar about that elf in the Imperial Bank, and the courier who'd been sent to the Jackets and the Dandy. Of course, Milar surely knew everything Indgar had just shared with him, but that only raised the question of how they were going to tackle this.

"You can't simply schedule a meeting with the Narikhman," the orc went on. "Each gang has an Overseer, the person you can go to if you've got questions. But the last two — no chance. If you don't already know someone who knows someone… it's too dangerous to even try. That's why the Big Six usually just pretend that the Unseen and the Narikhman don't exist. And the common folk? They think those two are just urban legends."

Silence fell. Ardan kept sipping his water steadily, ruminating on everything he'd just learned. Indgar stared at his own reflection in the table's lacquered surface.

"The Witch's Gaze is a frightening thing," he murmured at last, running his hand over the tabletop as if to wipe the reflection away. "I was foolish not to believe the elder mother when she warned me that talking with a Speaker felt as easy as chatting with your best friend or your own brother. You'll spill everything without even noticing it. I didn't believe her… And I should have. But where would I even meet one of your people, anyway? The Speakers… The Aean'Hane… might as well be fairy tales."

"Sorry," Ardi said honestly, though he was exaggerating a little. "I still don't have perfect control over the Gaze."

In truth, Ardan had discovered how to rein in his Gaze when he really wanted to — but it took a lot of effort and left him drained. He only ever bothered doing so when talking to Tess, Boris, or Elena.

"It's not like I told you anything too secr-"

Suddenly, the doors burst open and Arkar stormed out looking as ominous as a thundercloud, followed by two other orcs who seemed just as displeased with the outcome of their talk. Ordargar and the shaman remained inside.

"Ah, this is bad," Indgar muttered. "I hate it when the Overseer and the Boss butt heads. There's always trouble after that."

"You, you…" Arkar began pointing at various members of the gang — Indgar included — until he'd chosen about twenty of the tallest, toughest orcs. "You're with us. We're heading to the Hammers. Everyone else stays here and awaits further orders. Only the Trusted will remain with the Boss."

While the Orcish Jackets' Overseer, his expression grim and his stare heavy, was picking who would go, two more orcs who had emerged from the meeting room opened the supply closet and began bringing out a small armory.

There were clubs wrapped in steel wire and bristling with nails. Massive brass knuckles that looked more like gauntlets from a history museum exhibit. Knives the size of cavalry sabers. And, naturally, bandoliers bearing monstrous revolvers.

"Arkar, they've got rifles and machine guns!" Someone shouted from the crowd.

"And grenades, too," another voice chimed in.

"Don't worry, gents. We've got a little something for them, too," Arkar said with a predatory smile. Then he thumped his chest and roared, "Orak Han-da!"

All at once, sixty burly orcs boomed in unison, "Orak Han-da!" making the entire building shudder from rooftop to foundation.

They grabbed their weapons and ammunition, strapped on the bandoliers, holstered their revolvers, pulled on shaggy coats, and began filing outside.

Ardan was just starting to hope that everyone had forgotten his presence when Arkar, adjusting an out-of-season felt hat, barked over his shoulder, "Ard, you're coming too."

Of course he was…

Patting his pockets, Ardi made a mental note to ask Milar for a medallion that could both receive and send out a summons.

Squeezing his way outside through the throng of hard stares, he put on his hat, wrapped his scarf around his face, and stepped into the street alongside Arkar. In the distance, sirens wailed — the city guard was on its way to "Bruce's."

"Faster!" Arkar shouted, spurring the orcs toward the inner courtyard where, beneath tarps and mounds of snow, their cars and a few small trucks lay hidden. "The pigs are almost here!"

Rounding the corner, they yanked off the covers. In groups of four, the orcs climbed into the vehicles and started their engines. One by one, the cars slid out onto Markov Canal, heading for the Crookedwater Canal, a clattering truck bringing up the rear.

Ardan found himself in a car alone with Arkar. For a while, as the darkened facades slipped past the car's windows, neither of them spoke a word. Arkar kept his eyes on the road and spat out curses through gritted teeth every now and then.

As for Ardi, he was pondering how being dragged into a gang war was hardly the sort of gift he wanted for his birthday. But there was no going back on his word. He'd made a promise and he would see it through.

Arkar had helped him and Boris. No matter how much Ardi wished he was back at his desk right now, he couldn't refuse to repay that debt. He wouldn't be able to respect himself if he did.

"Ordargar's losing his grip," Arkar muttered all of a sudden. "The old wolf's too scared."

Ardan said nothing.

"If he really thinks this is a trap, why jump right into it?" Arkar jerked the steering wheel sharply, cutting off another car and diving into the flow of traffic.

Winter was slowly retreating and giving way — bit by bit — to its younger, warmer successor, the lovely spring. True, the streets were still layered with snow, the river lay buried under thick ice, and people were bundling themselves in heavy clothing. It would be another seven weeks, at least, before the snow would melt away. But the biting nighttime cold no longer howled like a starving beast, and cars weren't stalling at every intersection anymore. Traffic had grown heavier these past few days.

"We could have called for a sit-down," Arkar growled, gripping the leather-covered wheel so tightly it creaked in protest. "Gathered all the Big Sixes' sayers. Anyone who spits in our well spoils everyone's water. The thought of someone with a pair big enough to try and knock up all the other-siders, honestly makes your darkest hole tighten. I swear to the Sleeping Spirits that mine is clenched so tight it could snap a steel bar."

"Arkar," Ardi said.

"What?!" The half-orc snapped, nearly crashing into another car. He rolled down the window to unleash a torrent of curses that probably carried across the entire district.

"Could we speak plain Galessian?" Ardi asked, ignoring the outburst. "I also know Fae, Matabar, some Old Elvish, and a bit of the steppe dialect of Orcish. But I'll need a slang dictionary if you want me to understand what you just said."

"Understood," Arkar grumbled, switching back to common Galessian at once. "Ordargar wants us to confront the Hammers. He wants us to show that the Jackets are still a force to be reckoned with."

"You think-"

"I'm sure of it," Arkar cut him off. "And he's also sure that this is a trap, Matabar. He's right. Not even the Dandy has that kind of firepower — machine guns, grenades, rifles… But Ordargar has gotten it into his head that he's part of high society now. Banquets, balls, fancy threads, I mean… expensive clothes that cost hundreds of exes. His whores are even pricier than that. He's losing his bite. Meanwhile, I'm the one down here on the ground every day, wrangling the fucking… solving the problems, I mean."

Ardan watched the Crookedwater Canal draw closer, the smokestacks of the factories looming beyond it. His stomach twisted at the realization of where they were heading and why. It felt even worse knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"He's grown soft, that old fang," Arkar said as he gunned the engine and flew over the Martyrs' Bridge. "We're about to show off our stupidity, not strength. And then everyone will know the Jackets are just a bunch of donkeys happy to chase after a carrot."

"So why don't you-"

"You talking about a mutiny?" Arkar gave a short, humorless laugh. "Ordargar's got plenty of boys on the take… I mean, whom he pays out of his own cut. They hang on his every word. I guess I can't blame them. All of them have families. Everyone's got to eat… Damn it!" He slammed a hand against the wheel. "This is horseshit! It's just like that time at the Armondian border, when some wet-behind-the-ears academy graduate tried to tell me — me, the man who'd spent a whole season in the forward trenches — how we were supposed to repel the nomads' assaults… Fuck!"

He slapped the wheel again, finally letting off enough steam to grow quiet. Or at least pretend to.

"Be careful with Indgar," he muttered after a moment. "The cub's aiming for my spot. He worships old Ordargar like a god. He'll try pouring honey in your ears about how just and noble our gang life is. All lies, that. We're scummy bandits, not gallant drengrs."

"I figured as much," Ardan said, flipping open his grimoire to a page where he'd sketched out a few seals for two-Star war magic.

Just in case.

He hadn't planned to practice them until spring, when he intended to tell Aversky and the Second Chancery about the progress he'd made. He wasn't in a hurry to reveal his newfound power, especially since he'd lit his second Star — and his Green Star had nine rays to boot — after less than half a year of training. If word got out about that, he might wind up like Lorlov had… Strapped to a table in some Guild lab, his brain under a microscope.

And Ardi still had no real reason to trust the Cloaks or Aversky, either. They were merely temporary companions on his path, as was Arkar.

"We're here."

Their car pulled up next to a mundane, four-story building made of gray brick, its windows wide and drab — one of countless such structures in the Factory District.

Behind them, the other Jackets' cars were soon parked as well, disgorging orcs armed to the teeth, their sharp grins and sharper eyes bared to the night air. The truck also lurched up beside them, and out of it leaped two hulking figures. One was larger than even Ordargar and nearly the height of his steppe kin, carrying an actual belt-fed machine gun, the kind that was normally only seen when you could set it up in a fortified position. The other was hefting a massive rifle that looked like a wooden beam at first glance. A second glance revealed it to be an anti-tank gun.

Yes, the Jackets had come prepared.

"The Hammers' base is across the street," Arkar told Ardi. Then, turning to the rest, he bellowed, "We go in first — me and Ard — and then-"

Ardan felt it before he saw it, a cold that was unlike anything in the natural world. It was not the sharp bite of ice, but something dark and dead, like the surface of a gravestone.

He'd felt this before, out in the steppe, and on the train as well.

He'd felt it when Cassara had used her blood magic.

"Look out!" Ardan yelled, shoving Arkar to the side and slamming his staff against the ground, conjuring a shield.

He was just in time. A flash of crimson streaked from a nearby rooftop — a spear of crystallized blood. It shattered against Ardan's steel-hued barrier, bursting into red dust. However, there was no time to exhale in relief.

Barely a heartbeat later, three silhouettes flashed through the dreary sky, and the night itself grew so deep and dark that even Matabar eyes could scarcely see within it.

"Vampires!" Someone shrieked in horror, their scream cutting off as blood and agony choked it into a gurgle.