Book II. Chapter 125. Long Ride

Ardi watched through the window as the train crossed the invisible border separating the Kings’ Forest, the dense ring around the Metropolis and its environs, from the Great Forest of the North. Long ago, people had given that name to the vast woodland that ran from the Eastern Shore of present-day Olikzasia to Cold Lake, inside the Empire, west of the border with the Principality of Fatia and south of the Great Glacier.

The elves of the Northern Forests lived here, on what is now the border between Fatia and the Empire. They saw themselves as kin to the elves of the White Forest, but senior to them: the White Forest was another vast woodland running along the continent’s coast, almost from Feladjo, the capital of Fatia, to the shores of Whale Bay, which now belongs to the Brotherhood of Tazidahian.

Of course, more than five centuries ago, there were no vast human states on the map, and no borders dividing them. Only a scattering of small kingdoms, realms, and principalities, each paying tribute to the Kingdom of Ectass. Even so, it would be hard to claim that the Firstborns drew maps at all, or built forts or any other fortifications. No, they simply lived. They shed one another’s blood, exploited humans, and... yes, lived a strange life of their own, beyond the understanding of any modern, civilized citizen of the Empire. And even their “territories” were merely approximate designations, only vaguely conceived in political terms.

So, with his cheek resting on his fist, Ardi simply enjoyed the sight of the forest slowly waking. Sunbeams were already tangled in the green canopy of trees roused from their winter sleep, their shoots still tender but already resilient. More than moss covered the forest floor: mushrooms, swollen roots greedy for dew, tall grass, and the first flowers.

And if you looked closely, you could make out the shore of Winged Lake a little way ahead as their train raced past it. Ardi had, in fact, seen this lake just over six months earlier, when he and Tess had traveled to Shamtur to visit her family. Back then, though, their train had skirted the lake on its eastern side, puffing out pale clouds of steam and giving them a view of the fortifications under construction and the naval shipyard, which was nearly ready to open.

Taking advantage of the very wide river that flowed out of Winged Lake and into the northern part of Swallow Bay, the General Staff had decided to build the shipyard inland rather than on the coast. On the river itself, they had created an artificial island and erected a fort on it. One point is worth clarifying: the Empire built the fort, but under an agreement, engineers from the Island Union built the shipyard. The Empire had never been particularly known for either its merchant fleet or its navy.

The Crown preferred to buy its merchant ships from the islanders. As for warships... it built those in close cooperation with those same islanders. Naval battles had played almost no part in the history of the largest country on the planet. More broadly, bloodshed at sea remained the exclusive domain of just four countries: Foria, Olikzasia, Lintelar, and Grainia, which opposed the other three.

While all the other countries dealt with problems on their own continents, those four managed to seize every one of the many islands in the Shallow Sea and the Swallow Ocean. Now they were tearing at each other’s throats over trade routes, fishing grounds, and the islands themselves.

In recent years, of course, that state of affairs had begun to change. As industrialization accelerated and the first steel ships appeared, the other countries, with their far greater military strength and manpower, began to think it might be a good idea to secure open trade in the Shallow Sea for their own ships. So, little by little, everyone began building up both their naval and merchant fleets, pouring absolutely insane sums into the effort.

And where could the world’s largest “insane sums” be found? That’s right: in the banks of the Confederation of Free Cities, which generously extended loans to national treasuries on rather peculiar terms. The Confederates didn’t ask for interest in cash. They... demanded payment in ships. So, before twenty years had even passed, the Confederation had one of the largest and most modern merchant fleets of any continental power. As always, only Olikzasia and the Island Union could rival it.

What’s more, as the lecturer at the Grand maintained, Olikzasia could challenge a three-country military and trade alliance for supremacy only because it was backed by... the Confederates’ money. The Confederates wanted to keep their monopoly on the Eastern Continent’s access to the Shallow Sea. At the same time, they had no desire to admit the Islanders into their own territory, since geography and history had bound the Islanders closely to the Empire. It happened bit by bit, almost unnoticed, and then, just like that, every island and all the waters west of the Confederate coast belonged to Olikzasia.

Lintelar tried to move in from the south, which led to the War of the Scarlet Waves (a rather poetic name tied to the greatest naval slaughter in history, when dozens of ships belonging to the Islanders and Olikzasia clashed in battle). As a result, Lintelar seized part of Makingia, a reclusive, mysterious island state. Yet not even thirty years later, the Lintelarans fled Makingia’s jungles, leaving their bases deserted.

Well, “fled” isn’t quite the word for it.

When the next delegation landed on the island, it found only shattered hulks and abandoned, empty bases, as if one horrific morning the people there had simply vanished, as though they had never been there at all. On maps, the island was still shown as belonging partly to Lintelar... simply because no one dared venture there and contest its claim.

And why would they?

To return to the subject of the Empire, the Crown handled its export trade through the Islanders. Then that trend reversed... around the time the previous Emperor fell ill. With the help of a loyal coalition in Parliament, Pavel, still the Great Prince at the time, shepherded several measures as far through Parliament as he could, despite, of course, resistance from some lawmakers bankrolled by the Island Union.

Allies though the two countries were, it was not in the Islanders’ interest for the Empire to acquire a powerful, independent fleet. Even a merchant fleet. All this led to the Week of the Gallows, a chapter in the Metropolis’s history from before Ard was born. That was when the Black House exposed and hanged twenty-seven members of Parliament from the Lower and Central Houses, all of whom had been caught engaging in corruption and lobbying on behalf of a foreign state.

Everyone got the message.

In Parliament.

And on the Islands.

Yes, Foria, Lintelar, and Olikzasia may well have had powerful navies, but the Empire remained the largest land power in the world. And yes, it may not have been as modern or as well equipped then as it was now, but it was still powerful enough to give the Islanders trouble. So by the time Ard was born, several new shipyards were being built in the Empire while the old ones were being modernized. The Crown supplied the money and manpower, while the Islanders supplied the brains and know-how.

Ardan sighed.

The things you found yourself thinking about just to pass the time on a journey.

He gazed out at the Winged Lake. Through the fog clinging to the shore, he thought he could make out an island. A distant, tiny island that appeared on no map. But it was probably only his imagination. Not from exhaustion, but from boredom. His body wasn’t tired; his mind was bored.

He had brought several inexpensive volumes along for the journey (because there was no telling what might happen during a journey of nearly three months), but they did little to advance his own research into Star Magic because... they dealt with chimerization specifically and alchemy more generally. Since he was staying on in the service of the Black House, he was under orders from the Colonel to make sense of Driba’s research and the intercepted Tazidahian documents. And he couldn’t put the matter off any longer.

As for his own research, Ard was working on it too, of course. Six days had passed, marking the halfway point of the journey to Northern Park. But with no new knowledge to draw on, no access to his other notes, and nothing but a pencil to work with, he hadn’t gotten far. Or rather, he hadn’t gotten anywhere at all.

And the company he’d ended up with...

Ardi opened the window a little wider, letting fresh air into the compartment. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to call the place a “compartment.” It occupied a third of the car (there were exactly three first-class compartments in all) and contained two beds, two wardrobes, armchairs, a large table and several smaller ones, a carpet spread across the floor, an honest-to-goodness chandelier, and wallpaper on the walls. Ardi felt as if he were in a hotel room on wheels. One where, incidentally, the food matched the accommodations.

So. About the company.

Over six days, Ardan and Taisia Shpritz exchanged scarcely more than a dozen words. She changed her outfits every day and regularly disappeared into the dining car for the entire evening. Most of Taisia’s remarks were barbs about Ard’s appearance. The rest of the time, a folding screen separated them, and neither felt any desire to cross that boundary. Not verbally, and certainly not physically.

Ardan sighed again. They were traveling northeast. On one side, the Empire’s border with Fatia hemmed them in. On clear, sunny days, they could see black plumes of smoke rising farther north. Army engineers were building new fortifications and expanding old ones, working in shifts around the clock. With shovels, picks, and heavy machinery, they cut mazes of zigzagging trenches, cleared forest, and threw up forts, dugouts, and everything else Ardan did not want to think about.

On the other side, if you stepped out of the compartment into the corridor (something Ardan did only when absolutely necessary, for reasons of his own), you could see rocky hills stretching westward and rising toward the sky. The Alcade foothills. Partly Ard’s homeland. Only partly, since he had never been here.

Alcade stretched almost from one end of the Empire to the other, and no single matabar tribe had ever possessed all of it. That meant the place where Ardan lived lay far to the west.

Ardi sighed…

“Oh, I swear by the Eternal Angels, Ard!” With a sharp screech, the screen collapsed into accordion folds, its wooden frames, inset with heavy cloth, clacking together. “If you sigh in that tone one more time, I’ll shoot you!”

Ardan turned toward the sound, only to turn away again just as sharply. Mrs. Shpritz had not bothered to think about what she was wearing before snapping at him. Dressed in nothing but underwear and stockings held up by garters, she held a book by a writer Ard already knew in her left hand; in her right, a cocked revolver.

“Sleeping Spirits, Taisia, could you put something on?”

As always, or at least for the past few years, Ardan felt not the slightest fear at the sight of a gun with its hammer cocked.

“I was just about to, Mr. Cowboy, until you wore me out with all that defeatist sighing!” Taisia barked. She slid the screen shut, then, judging by the sound of her footsteps, headed for the wardrobe. “I’m starting to think risking my own life in very comfortable solitude would have been easier on my nerves than traveling with you!”

“Maybe if you smoked less and spent less time dragging every expedition member you ran into back here, we’d reach our stop before either of us noticed!” Ardan shot back. “Perception of time is highly subjective.”

“And you could make yourself a less revolting mask, Ard, so you don’t ruin the appetite of everyone you meet! And stop being such a know-it-all, assuming everyone around you is less educated than you are!”

The mask... the reason Ardan tried to leave the compartment as seldom as possible. Granted, the Black House, through Dagdag, had given him a small case with sixteen accumulators... per star. An entire fortune, reckoned in exes. But his “Water Mask,” which he used to hide his face in public, required only a few rays to maintain. Even so, it consumed them constantly.

At that rate, no supply of accumulators would last. Appearing without the mask among people who would be shut together for three full months and left to stew in their own company was hardly a good idea. Sooner or later, someone would recognize him as Ard Egobar, and questions would follow, none of them welcome.

So Ard had a whole arsenal of precautions, starting with forged papers in the name of “Dar Skofsky,” a twenty-five-year-old Imperial mage from Delpas. He had trained in the Faculty of Star Magic at one of the universities in Metropolis, then served three years in the marshals’ corps in the steppes.

He had been discharged as a captain, with one decoration for a wound received in combat. That same wound had disfigured Dar Skofsky’s “face,” but at least it had allowed him to take on private work. He worked for Tutsky and Partners, a firm that provided private security. In reality, the outfit belonged to the Black House and was used for just such purposes.

In addition to those documents, Ard’s bag held a whole array of forged credentials, including a bogus Spell Market card and an equally bogus report from the Hospital of Heroes confirming Dar Skofsky’s three stars: five rays in the Red Star, four in the Green Star, and three in the Blue Star. That was still a very respectable number, but not so extraordinary that anyone would wonder why a Blue mage was working for a private security firm.

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Ardan shivered slightly as he remembered his real visit to the Hospital of Heroes, where they had tested his Blue Star. But more on that later...

“I’d prefer solitude to your unhealthy craving for pillow talk, Taisia.”

“You fanged jerk!”

“In that case, you ought to meet my friend Bazhen Eorsky,” Ardan shot back, giving as good as he got.

Not that Taisia annoyed him. It was just... It had taken Ardan a long time to get used to living with Tess, and he loved her! So six days in the company of a woman he barely knew and barely liked had turned everything Ergar and his forest friends had taught him about life on its head.

Ard missed having territory of his own. He also had a feeling that Taisia brought her guests over and sat amiably drinking tea with them at the little table, all for one reason: to get on Ard’s nerves. Perhaps she also wanted to make Senior Magister Chaz Nalensky, whom Ard had seen only twice, jealous.

And Taisia, he had to admit, was succeeding on both counts.

The screen creaked again, and Taisia, wearing a plain but well-made dress and a short jacket over a tight corset, took her seat at their shared table. She poured herself some tea in one elegant motion and picked up the newspaper.

The train, owned outright by the Hunters’ Guild and packed to bursting with expedition members, stopped several times a day. At every stop, Taisia bought local papers as well as new issues of the Imperial Herald.

“I see your beautiful wife is back on the front pages.” With her pinky extended, just as Polina, Boris, and Tess did, Taisia took a sip of tea. “It’s a wonder you don’t burn up with jealousy out here, Ard.”

“What saves me, Taisia, is that my calculations show I can transfer my mask to you.” Ardan lifted a notebook, its pages filled with penciled writing.

And he wasn’t even bluffing. At some point, Ard had gotten so irritated that he actually caught himself devising an altogether different version of the disguise spell.

“That would count as maleficence, Ard,” Taisia reminded him without taking her eyes off the newspaper, her face stony. “They’ll lock you up in a prison for mages. But don’t worry. I’ll bring you care packages. Baked goods. Beef. Homemade pickles. Everything you love so much. Oh, forgive me. You eat things no one would feed to pigs.”

“For starters, I’m a Cloak. And you’re a journalist with a questionable reputation. So they might even reward me. And I did suggest we eat lunch at different times.” Ard shrugged. “Then you wouldn’t have to, as you put it, ‘smell slop instead of food.’”

“My reputation is spotless,” Taisia shot back. “And for my part, Ard, I invited you to join me in the dining car, where they serve food you can eat, food that doesn’t reek enough to make me gag before I even sit down.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why I turn down your offer, Taisia.” Ardan narrowed his eyes. “A few minutes of peace every day. I literally live for the moment when I unwrap my lunch and you bolt.”

Taisia snapped the newspaper shut, revealing her face. She shot him a baleful look and hissed softly.

“I’m amazed you managed to get married, Ard.”

“And I’m not the least bit surprised you’re not married...”

Ardan caught himself, but it was too late. He’d already seen an ember of pain flare in her intelligent, piercing blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, Taisia,” Ardan said, and he meant it.

He didn’t know exactly what had happened in Miss Shpritz’s life. She was thirty and still unmarried, though she was good-looking, sharp, and fiercely determined. But he suspected that... He suspected that Taisia had endured more than just the tragedy involving her father. Miss Shpritz bore an even heavier, darker burden on her shoulders.

“Investigator,” Taisia ground out, her voice edged with pain and a trace of genuine contempt. Then she returned to reading the newspaper.

Ardan stopped himself just short of another sigh. No, he knew Taisia had made her dislike of him clear enough, but his behavior had still been beneath his dignity. To strike at a vulnerability he’d glimpsed beneath another person’s guarded composure, especially when that person was a woman, was dishonorable.

Ardi wasn’t excusing himself, but he did cut himself a little slack, given the six very turbulent days he’d had. You could argue all you wanted that Taisia was in no danger on the train and that Ardan could have spent that time in coach with the expedition staff, but... he’d seen exactly who was paying for the tickets. And whatever Miss Shpritz might say, the geniuses at the Black House were the ones who had come up with this plan for the two of them to travel together. So that was the job.

The heavy tread of broad heels and the faintly stale smell of cigar smoke saved him from the awkward silence. The train had been motionless for several minutes, so before the knock came at the door, Ardan touched the staff with his fingertips. A Star seal flashed beneath his feet. An ethereal veil of water engulfed his face for an instant, transforming it.

His forehead grew lower, his cheekbones grew narrower and more asymmetrical, and his nose swelled into ridged folds. Sores and scars appeared, along with sparse stubble. The bone on the right side of his face warped, leaving a hollow from temple to cheek. He’d had to rework the previous version of the “Mask” to reduce its drain, but even so, Ard would have to expend a ray of the Red Star every three hours to maintain the disguise.

“Come in!” Taisia called out. She shot Ard a quick glance and rolled her eyes.

The compartment door opened, and none other than Senior Magister Chaz Nalensky stood on the threshold, his back to the windows. He wore a Yellow cloak and a decidedly unusual pair of epaulets. His Stars held six Red rays, seven Green, two Blue, and, unexpectedly, four Yellow. It seemed that after graduating from the Grand, Mr. Nalensky, who would turn fifty this year, had lost all interest in how much Ley his Stars contained. Which, on the whole, probably confirmed some students’ theory that mages who became bureaucrats stopped being mages.

“Taisia, you’re already dressed!” Mr. Nalensky, first assistant to the chief researcher of anomalies at the Hunters’ Guild’s central branch, spoke as if he regretted Taisia’s haste and would have preferred to catch her in her underwear. Though... why “as if”? “And Captain Skofsky.”

The Senior Magister (who had earned his rank through research into the biological mechanisms of anomalies) gave Ard only a cursory glance, but the moment his gaze snagged on Ard’s “face,” he flinched and looked away. The “Mask” didn’t so much fool the senses as make anyone looking at it uncomfortable. Ardi had learned that principle from Shali: sometimes you didn’t need to hide from your prey; you only had to make it look somewhere else.

“Oh, dear Chaz.” Taisia tucked a loose strand back into place with carefully casual ease (the same strand she had pulled loose from her hair after the knock at the door). She rose and held out her hand. “Thank you for our conversation yesterday. I found it so interesting to learn how winged cats reproduce. It’s so thrilling.”

Taisia lied so skillfully that if Ardan hadn’t been able to hear her heart’s rhythm, even he would have been fooled by her open, honest gaze and bright, carefree smile. The cold, steely woman, like a fox locked onto its prey, had vanished. A fashionable, stylish girl had taken her place, with an enchanting face that suggested the talk might turn more intimate.

“Is our arrangement still on?” Senior Magister Nalensky asked as he kissed the back of her hand.

Ardan nearly started coughing. Nalensky reeked so strongly of lust that Ard wanted to stick his head out the window. It must be nice to have a human nose and not smell any of this.

Nalensky himself was taller than Milar and built a little like Erson, with the beginnings of a belly hidden beneath his loose vest. Not that the Senior Magister paid much attention to his appearance. Quite the opposite: he had no sense of moderation when it came to food or his vices, which included drinking and cigars. His work kept him traveling and constantly on his feet, and that alone kept him from growing overweight and flabby. As a result, he looked presentable enough, even youthful.

One small catch, though.

A ring on his ring finger.

The ring didn’t trouble him in the least. His complete lack of embarrassment was evident in his oily leer as his gaze roamed incessantly over every curve of Taisia’s body. Ardan had never understood people like him. He had never understood Eorsky, either, for that matter. And probably never would.

“Of course.” Taisia nodded, looking perfectly smitten. Anyone else would have thought she could hardly wait to spend time with the Senior Magister.

Except... she dreamed of it much as a fox dreams of the company of a naive hen.

“Dear Captain?” She turned to Ard, and while the Senior Magister couldn’t see her face, she pulled a grimace so sharp that Ardi felt uneasy. “Don’t forget your staff.”

Ardan jolted.

“What?” he said, dumbfounded.

Taisia turned back to the Senior Magister.

“Oh, forgive me, Chaz.” She waved her free hand. “You know the captain’s story. A serious wound. A concussion. Dear Skofsky is a little slow-witted and forgetful. He’s completely forgotten that we agreed to go to a saloon during the long layover and unwind a little.”

Ardan finished counting to ten in his head. This stop really was shaping up to last several hours. Fresh coal had to be loaded, the boiler topped off, and diagnostics run... They would have to spend all day and part of the evening at the station. And Ardi intended to spend all that time... sleeping. Soundly, peacefully, and, most important of all, in complete solitude, with the compartment entirely to himself.

“Y-yes, of course,” Ardan stammered slightly as he fought down the urge to turn everything around him into one enormous block of ice. “Just a moment, Taisia.”

“Oh, Captain, I don’t recall our agreeing to use first names.” Taisia turned to the Senior Magister, who still had her hand clasped in his. “I told you, dear Chaz: a concussion. Our gallant captain isn’t quite right in the head.”

“I see.” The Senior Magister nodded. “I’m still a little upset with you for turning down my sponsorship, dear Taisia, though I mean that in the kindest way. Rest assured, ‘Tutsky and Partners’ cheated you. You need only look at the captain’s homemade stick... I hate to think why he had to sell his military staff.”

Dagdag had offered to let Ard take a staff from the storeroom for the trip, one made of Ertalain alloy and inscribed with seals, but Ardi had declined. For one thing, he could use his whole arsenal from memory, apart from the Ice Tail, which he still hadn’t quite perfected. And for another... his own staff was somehow... more his own.

“I spent the money on my treatment, Mr. Senior Mag—”

“Not that I’m interested, Captain.” Mr. Nalensky cut him off, undisguised arrogance in his voice. “Do hurry. They’re waiting for you, after all.”

Ardan counted to... eleven in his head. Apparently, the Sleeping Spirits had decided in their sleep to test Ard’s composure and self-control. Otherwise, why on earth would they have dreamed up such a nerve-racking ordeal?

Ardi shrugged his leather field jacket on over his cloth vest (it was only the very beginning of spring, after all, and it still froze at night), then fastened his epaulettes and Blue cloak over it.

Taisia, already basking in the glow of the Senior Magister’s attention, gratefully accepted the coat, and Nalensky deftly helped her into it. All three left the compartment together and exchanged inconsequential remarks with the conductor, who opened the vestibule door for them and lowered the steps to the platform.

The Senior Magister helped Taisia down while she was still melting, and Ardan jumped down on his own, simply to work the stiffness out of his legs.

“Oh, Captain, who on earth did your mother sleep with?” The Senior Magister barked a laugh. It was far from the first time he’d tossed out one of his distinctly peculiar compliments, dressed up as something harmless.

His height was the one thing Ardan couldn’t disguise. It always made him stand out from everyone around him, even the people of the Northern Continent.

“But then again, Taisia and I aren’t the least bit interested.” The Senior Magister was already trying to needle him again. “That was a rhetorical question. Do you know what ‘rhetorical’ means, Captain? I can point you to a book that explains the terminology.”

And no, Mr. Nalensky didn’t smell of jealousy. He was simply… a peculiar sort of gentleman, convinced that even if the world hadn’t been created solely for his pleasure, it certainly ought to meet his every demand. And one of those demands was admiration for his extraordinarily scintillating wit.

Yes, Mr. Nalensky fancied himself an unrivaled humorist. And Taisia, whose feigned laughter sounded so natural that even Ard believed it, had no intention of upsetting her prey.

So the two of them set off laughing, their heels clacking over the platform’s wooden planks, while Ardan trudged along behind. The settlement surrounding the train station sprawled all around them. It had grown into a small town called Reynar, a name rooted in Atrua’s history. And Reynar was far from the capital, not so much geographically as in spirit.

Here you would find no columns, no stucco ornamentation, no gas lamps or Ley-lamps with wrought-iron scrollwork. Wherever you looked, the houses were squat and low, with broad porches and awnings of weather-darkened boards. Beneath those awnings, signs for stores, saloons, and repair shops swayed lazily in the wind. Road dust kept them company. It lay on literally everything. On the railings, the steps, the manes of horses tied to hitching posts. There were far more horses here than automobiles.

Ard counted exactly three automobiles. The first stood by the post office, caked in mud all the way to its roof, as if its driver had taken it through a swamp and then decided, as a matter of principle, not to clean it. The second was parked outside a saloon, with a cracked windshield and a rope holding its driver’s-side mirror in place. The saloon’s sign, “The Flattened Horseshoe,” hung so crooked that the second word was legible only if you tilted your head. The third wheeled contraption belonged to the local sheriff’s office, judging by the coat of arms on its door. It was perhaps the only object in town anyone was trying to keep clean.

Even the people here looked different.

None of the capital’s bustle. None of Baliero’s idleness. The men all looked cut from the same cloth, every one of them tanned and lean, with weather-beaten faces and eyes narrowed by the habit of gazing into the distance. They made their unhurried way along the town’s few streets, and every last one had a revolver hanging from his belt. Not for show, and certainly not for decoration. In fact, it seemed the gun just… hung there, the way house keys hang on a wall. An utterly natural, unquestioned part of everyday life.

The women were different too. They looked sturdier, somehow… They wore simple dresses with the sleeves rolled up. Their hands were work-worn, their backs straight. They watched the strangers pass without shyness, without curiosity, but with the calm, appraising attention of people accustomed to relying first and foremost on themselves.

A water tower rose over the little town like a stern shepherd over his flock. It was the only structure more than two stories tall, knocked together from dark, tarred logs and crowned with a tin tank. Someone had painted the town’s name on the tank in white and, just below it, the number of residents. That figure had already been corrected twice.

“You know, Taisia, I’m not even hoping they have Lintelar semi-dry wine here, but I’d settle for wine. Just wine,” the Senior Magister went on, keeping up his attempts at humor as they walked toward the Horseshoe.

Now and then Ardan caught someone staring at him, but the moment the locals got a look at his face, they hurried to look away. Ardan turned back toward the wooden station. More members of the expedition had already spilled out onto the platform. Some thirty people had come out of the twelve train cars and into the street. Most were men, and most of them were hunters.

They were easy to recognize by their weathered faces, their lean, fit bodies, and the alchemical supplies hanging from straps below their cartridge belts. The researchers, of course, were still aboard the train, along with several mages. Including Ard and the Senior Magister, the expedition had set out with... six mages among its eighty-seven members.

Two Magisters of the Yellow Star and two military mages who, like Ard, belonged to the Blue Star. In fact, they were the ones who had stepped off the train: men around thirty, with expensive staves of rough-cast Ertalain alloy and well-made boots that marked them as seasoned travelers.

“Oh, dear Chaz, have mercy on me!” Taisia laughed, brushing Nalensky’s shoulder as though by accident. “You’re hilarious... my stomach already hurts!”

“Forgive me, dear Taisia, I simply can’t help myself!” the Senior Magister rumbled.

They went through the saloon doors, which swung back and nearly hit Ard in the face. Naturally, no one bothered to hold them for him. Ardi caught the wooden panels before they could smack him in the face, then stepped into the saloon and... sighed heavily.

As in any saloon, the air smelled of acrid sweat, cheap tobacco, and strong liquor. And judging by the looks some of the patrons were giving Taisia and the Senior Magister, it also smelled of trouble brewing.

Yes, he definitely had three very long months ahead of him. And that wasn’t even counting the hunt for poachers or the search for an entire Puppeteers’ laboratory in Northern Park. A place they hadn’t even reached yet!

Oh, Sleeping Spirits...