Book II. Chapter 80: Enterprise |
“Let me remind you, my dear ladies and gentlemen, that you have fifteen minutes remaining to finish your work,” Professor Conwell announced, tearing his gaze away from a stack of documents on his desk.
As always, he was clad in a gleaming robe, clean-shaven, smelling of costly cologne, and looking as if he were trying to breathe a second wind of long-forgotten youth into his fading years. More likely than not, though, the Senior Magister was simply indulging a long-standing habit of maintaining a well-groomed appearance—which, considering the deep wrinkles and gray in his hair, had become his signature trait. And a positive one, at that. It wasn’t gaudy or overly pretentious.
For that matter, why was Ardi watching Conwell, who was scratching away with the golden nib of an expensive pen across the columns of his stationery, rather than the graphite chalkboard itself?
White chalk swirled across the black surface in a procession of formulas, givens related to the problem, and an unfinished seal diagram. It was an utterly ordinary spell that reduced an object’s apparent weight by means of heating it up. This was basically a straightforward formula from non-Star physics—where density is defined as mass divided by volume—interacting with Star Magic. The object would heat up, its density would decrease, and correspondingly, its weight would then drop as well.
The main issue was making sure the object wasn’t burned to cinders. Without magic, that would be an impossible task. But for mages, it was merely a matter of properly calculating an array of runic connections and attaching them correctly to the contours (not to mention choosing the exact runic connections themselves). Ardan had handled this problem even before Professor Conwell had finished writing out the final conditions on the board.
How, exactly? Out of boredom, Ardan had added an extra contour to his schematic to accommodate a wider range of input data. That way, he wouldn’t be bound by the strict parameters of the presumed “object.”
But that was as far as his boredom had gone. Nearly an hour ago, Professor Conwell—having finished with the chalkboard—had strolled over to Ardi’s desk and handed him a separate sheet with a separate assignment.
Task: At an arbitrary point in space, across an area of twenty-three square meters, a fire breaks out. Extinguish this fire.
Conditions:
- You cannot use the Green Star.
- You cannot use more than two seals.
- You cannot use more than six red rays in total.
- The fire must be extinguished regardless of its intensity or location.
- The fire must be extinguished within the first second of its ignition.
If not for the second condition, Ardan would have constructed a delayed-action stationary shield—but that required three seals. With only two, he couldn’t account for a fire igniting at an arbitrary location.
If not for the first—the simplest air seal would instantly snuff out the flames by depriving them of oxygen.
The fourth condition immediately eliminated any chance to tamper with the ambient temperature.
And the fifth ruled out manipulating the air’s moisture.
Thus, he was forced to navigate a convoluted, cunning path through a maze of conditions, constraints, and logical dead ends. After trying to game one fork in the maze, Ardan would find himself at another, only to then run straight into a dead end labeled “the ray limit.”
In the end, despite spending the full seventy-five minutes allotted to them on this, Ardan still hadn’t found a solution to the puzzle. And it was driving him mad. The days when he’d sit in Professor Conwell’s classroom, not knowing what to do, were long gone. And, truth be told, a return to the bewilderment of last year did not please him in the least.
“Time’s up—hand in your work,” Professor Conwell proclaimed.
Second-year students of the General Faculty and first-year Jurisprudence Faculty students dragged themselves to the podium. Dropping off their diagrams, heads hanging, they shuffled toward the exit. Out in the wide hallway beyond the door, lively chatter had already sprung up as students discussed how well they’d done on this exam.
Ardan approached the podium last.
“So, Ard,” Professor Conwell greeted the young man with a roguish smile that wasn’t lacking a touch of self-satisfaction, “let’s see how you fared.”
Ardan handed over his sheet of formulas and schematics. Conwell adjusted his spectacles and peered at the work. For a time, he clicked the keys of a pocket arithmometer, jotted notes down in his ledger, then looked back up at Ardan with that same smile.
“At best, this is six points out of twelve, Ard,” he pronounced with evident relish. “As for my tone, well... You haven’t missed a single lecture for these past one and a half weeks, of course…”
Yes, because I’ve been suspended from my work at the Black House, Ardan wanted to say, but he held his tongue.
“…but over the past two and a half months of classes, if you’ll pardon me saying so, you have consistently not been present at the university,” Conwell continued, removing his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose, and leaning back in his chair. “I won’t ask you whether you plan to continue this year in the same manner as the last, but I will recommend that you give it some thought.”
In lieu of a reply, Ardan held out not the sheet with his individual assignment, but the one dealing with the problem written on the board.
“I have no doubt that you solved that paltry little diagram,” Conwell waved it off, not even taking the sheet. “The problem is, my dear Ard, that with your abilities, you ought to focus on what you cannot do, rather than on what you can.”
Ardan, shoulders slumping, still couldn’t hold his tongue.
“Professor Conwell, with all due respect—how will standard lectures help me solve a non-standard problem? That statement contradicts itself.”
The professor, instead of bristling at this obvious impertinence, positively beamed as if he’d been waiting all this time for just that question.
“Exactly!” He exclaimed eagerly and then proceeded to miraculously solve the special puzzle.
One might think—what was so miraculous about that? This was Senior Magister Conwell, a Star Engineer with nearly the highest degree of scholarly knowledge, not to mention decades of experience. For him, such problems were like… Ard couldn’t even find a suitable comparison.
And yet, a miracle it was, if only in the eyes of the young man himself. But why? Because of how Conwell solved the very puzzle he’d formulated. The professor used nothing beyond what was required to solve the problem still etched in porous chalk lines on the board.
He only used basic, even downright banal formulas and calculations, but in a completely unorthodox, creative manner. Where Ardan had tried to find the correct path through the labyrinth, the professor simply built a ladder, propped it against the wall, and climbed over. Where Ardi had futilely bashed his head against a dead-end wall, Conwell bored a tiny hole right through it.
“Impressive, no?” Conwell winked. “No need to answer, Ard. I can see that you’re indeed impressed. And that is the point of your education, my dear student Egobar. No matter how magnificent a mansion of knowledge you raise—spending sleepless days and nights in the embrace of grimoires—without a solid, sturdy foundation, the first hurricane that comes along will blow it away.”
“May I?” Ardi held out his hand.
“By all means!”
Snatching up the diagram from Conwell, Ardan quite unceremoniously plopped himself down on the nearest student desk and spent a few minutes carefully examining the solution. The most vexing thing of all was this: the deeper he delved into Conwell’s train of thought, which was reflected in the formulas and seal lines, the more clearly Ard realized that he himself could have done something like this.
Yes, it’s easy to think such a thing when the solution is already presented to you, but no. Honestly! Ardan could have managed it. He’d have solved it. If only… if only…
The youth sighed and lowered the sheet.
If only he’d had a better grasp of those basic concepts upon which, as Conwell had rightly put it, he was building his mansion of knowledge.
Sleeping Spirits…
Grand Magister Lucas Krayt, upon examining the Misty Helper, had voiced a similar opinion. Except Mr. Krayt hadn’t seen the full depths to which the cracks in Ard’s fundamental knowledge ran.
But Conwell had, if only because part of the professor’s job was to ensure that a student had no such cracks. And if one did, he would need to expel them in time so they wouldn’t hinder the rest.
“I wouldn’t have sunk my claws into you so...” Conwell began to say, then, upon noticing Ard’s hands, cleared his throat. “Ahem—a poor joke… You’re not offended, I trust?”
“Offended by what?” Ardan didn’t immediately grasp his meaning.
“That’s why I respect you,” the professor winked again, then returned to the original topic. “Now then, Ard. If you hadn’t been so openly displaying your thirst for deeper and more complex subjects, I would’ve left things as they are. Ultimately, for a second-year student, you’re demonstrating phenomenal progress. But your results are becoming more and more average by the standards someone like you ought to adhere to. It’s up to you to decide, my dear Ard, what to do next. You can continue trying to absorb everything our colleagues spend years studying all at once, or you can stop at what you’ve achieved and strengthen your foundations. Try to understand what you’ve already learned better. Learn to truly use that knowledge, rather than leaning on it like ever-reliable crutches. Only then should you move further.”
Ardan averted his gaze. Ever since his childhood, he had often thrown himself headlong into one obsession or another. At times, this had led to days, weeks, even months spent on futile attempts to solve the same problem. Atta’nha and Skusty had ensured that their headstrong ward no longer suffered from that bad habit… or so they’d thought. Ardan himself had even assumed that they’d cured him of it.
But once Star Magic had come into play, everything had returned to its old ways. Over the course of his studies of forbidden grimoires in the library, his development of transmutational runic links, the crafting of his own spells, the devouring of knowledge provided to him by the Black House—Ardan had completely lost sight of one crucial detail.
He had been studying Star Magic for only a year and a half. Yes, the knowledge he’d gleaned from Nicholas the Stranger’s book had helped, but it could hardly be called a real foundation. At best, it was a shaky framework.
“I suppose I got carried away,” Ardan confessed reluctantly.
“It’s good that you’ve realized that, my dear Ard. And to better cement that knowledge in your young, hot head…” Professor Conwell, pointedly displaying the grade ledger, entered a big, beautiful, almost perfectly neat “0” in the column by Ard’s name.
With that stroke of the pen, Ardan was stripped not only of his Black House salary, but also his increased scholarship.
“You can, of course, appeal this decision to Dean Ditmar, my dear Ard,” Conwell commented without a hint of malice or personal animosity. “But something tells me that you won’t do that.”
Conwell was right. Ardan wasn’t about to march to Dean Ditmar with a written complaint, even though he had every legal right to do so. In fact, he had solved the problem (the one on the board), and all those “individual” assignments held no real legal sway. But Ardi only nodded meekly.
Why?
Back in the snowy mountains, Ergar had taught him that as long as Ardan measured himself against other hunters’ achievements, he would never find success on the trails. And Atta’nha had even warned him that: “Comparison is the thief of not merely joy, but one’s own spirit as well.”
Professor Conwell had, in his own way, repeated the very same thing Grand Magister Krayt had told Ardan last summer:
“I could pay you a compliment, young man, and say that, for your level, this is an impeccable piece of work, but… Your level is not merely reflected on paper. So, I’ll rephrase: for your potential level, this is, if not a mediocre piece of work, then one close to earning that disparaging title. It’s sloppy, full of mistakes and, despite an excellent, fresh idea, utterly superficial.”
Perhaps if the Grand Magister had refused to accept the Misty Helper, Ardan would have learned this lesson even back then. But the difference between Professor Conwell and the Grand Magister was that the latter couldn’t have cared less about Ard. Not in any negative way, just… Normally.
And the professor clearly did care. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be spending his time and energy on him.
“You have tremendous potential, Ard,” Conwell said in his trademark, slightly theatrical manner as he gestured toward the door, “try not to squander it.”
Stepping out into the corridor, Ardan couldn’t shake the thought that, overall, if not for the loss of his pay, he wouldn’t be the least bit upset about being suspended. Quite the opposite, in fact. In any case, until winter and the Congress, he and Milar didn’t have much of anything to do. On one hand, the decryption of Driba’s grimoire was progressing at a very modest pace (namely, it was barely going anywhere at all). They had gotten all they could from Sheriff Sestrova. And apart from an Manish’s company, they had no direct leads left. At best, they had some indirect ones: the charity balls for orphans; the Narikhman with their underground laboratories and that unknown key; the book stolen from the Imperial Bank by an Aean’Hane elf (which, like the Staff of Demons, had left no clues behind to pursue); and all the other disparate pieces of the bigger picture.
The only thing uniting them was time and the sheer amount of it needed not even to solve the case, but to simply attempt to formulate the conditions of the problem. And so, Milar’s prophecy was coming true.
They really would have next to nothing to do in the near future. And since Captain Pnev’s department had been freed from other tasks and given the opportunity to focus entirely on the Puppeteers, all they could do was wait. For winter. For the Congress. For the expedition to the north. For the Ral Dead Lands to no longer be closed off. For the Dandy to get them an in with the Narikhman. And they could also hold out hope that the Puppeteers would slip up again somewhere. But that last one was more in the realm of Tess’ favorite books.
The only mistake the Puppeteers had made so far—aside from the unrelated confluence of events that had led to the death of Arthur “the Dandy” Belsky’s father-in-law—was how they’d handled the situation at the Larand Monastery of the Sisters of Light. And that was it, even after so many years.
So, apart from the serious blow to his finances (and the fact that, very soon, Ard would have to move himself and Tess to new lodgings… which he hadn’t even started looking for), Ardan was actually glad to be suspended. Perhaps that was precisely why the Colonel hadn’t bothered defending him before the commission.
And why would he? For the next month and a half at least, Milar and the rest wouldn’t need him anyway. And besides, Ardan really had made a mistake and been suspended because of it.
Not because two civilians had died. Instead, he was being punished for making a deal with Madam Shpritz of his own volition, which had led to the chaotic commotion at the “House of Dukes.” In truth, that, too, was a rather contrived justification, but evidently, Mr. Tophat had wanted to get even with him for last winter. The Colonel had allowed the Tavsers’ disciple to sate his thirst for blood, thereby killing two problems with one stroke.
A tactic that was somewhat reminiscent of the Puppeteers’ own…
However, none of that was important right now. The main thing, as banal as it sounded, was his finances. Luckily, his remaining sources of income were still solid. There was his reduced stipend, the payout from an Manish (which looked like charity, and not toward Ardan, but more like an attempt by the professor to redeem himself to the Crown for his recent blunder. How, exactly? By sponsoring one of the Crown’s employees), the proceeds from the sales of the Misty Helper, and his payments for competing in the Magical Boxing qualifiers.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
However, all of that amounted to barely seventy percent of what Ard needed even for his own laboratory, let alone anything more ambitious.
Star Magic, as Mart Borskov had once aptly said, was by no means a cheap indulgence.
“Why so glum?”
Ardan’s musings were interrupted by a familiar, slightly inebriated, jovial voice that reeked of liquor. Dressed in a rumpled suit that had traces of a recent party on its lapels and collar, wearing a faded cloak, and carrying the cheapest staff one could possibly find, Bazhen Eorsky popped up beside Ardan.
“Exes,” Ardan answered shortly.
“Ah… right… You got suspended,” the senior law student said, giving him a pat on the shoulder and clearly hinting at his awareness of the situation. “Then rejoice and be merry, cowboy.”
Ard turned sharply to face his unshaven… business partner?
“You got it sorted out?”
“Ha!” Bazhen smirked boldly and, in his signature style, saluted with his removed spectacles. “You think the city bureaucrats had even the slightest chance against me?”
Ardan cocked his head to one side.
“Alright, alright, cowboy! I did have to trot out a convincing argument a couple of times. Corruption, you see—when you’re not obliged to combat it as part of your duties, and instead use it for your own benefit—can be a startlingly convenient tool.”
“How much?” Ardan asked simply.
“One hundred and ten exes.”
Ardi nearly choked on air.
“For the permit?”
“No, you towering numbskull,” Bazhen grimaced. “For expediting the review of our application by the city administration. If we’re talking about outright bribing someone for the permit… To be honest, I’d turn in any bureaucrat who’d approve something like that for coin rather than by the book.”
“So? What’s the result?” Ardan all but groaned.
“This right here!”
With a flourish worthy of a circus magician, Bazhen whipped a thick sheet of official paper out of his satchel:
“Notification for a Small Enterprise:
Eorsky and Egobar Apothecary.
With this letter, signed by the Senior Manager of City Water Services—Mirovir Nuzov, by the Manager of City Transportation Services—Anakia Misky, and by the Chief Officer for Civic Initiatives: CLASSIFIED, the city administration, represented by the Assistant to the Governor-General for Civic Initiatives—Baron Nathan Bolski, hereby grants the above-mentioned enterprise permission to carry out construction work.
The above-mentioned enterprise is obligated to fully fund the construction at its own expense, without drawing on Treasury funds or outside financing in any form.
The above-mentioned enterprise is obligated to complete the construction work by the first day of the calendar spring.
This notification and the orders attached to it come into effect on the day following the date of signing.
The above-mentioned enterprise has been informed of the fines and penalties that will occur in case of a violation of the terms of its contract with the Metropolis.
Sincerely,
Date: 21st day of the Month of Waters, 518 f.o.E.
Signatures: [illegible]”
Ardan read the letter again, just to be sure he wasn’t mistaking wishful thinking for reality and that they truly had obtained the permit. One detail—perhaps because it didn’t fit the general context, or perhaps due to Ardi’s professional instincts—made him glance at Bazhen with skepticism.
Bazhen, as was his habit, had propped a shoulder against the wall and was rocking his staff from side to side. When one looked at the short, frail, perpetually sickly-looking law student and heir to one of the largest law firms in the Metropolis (Bazhen had an extremely strained relationship with his father, its current owner, for reasons unknown), they got the sense that his staff only seemed to get in his way. Ardan still hadn’t figured out why Bazhen had ended up at the Grand University instead of, for example, the Imperial Lyceum where future officials were trained.
“The signature, name and surname of the head of the administration’s bureau are classified?” Ardan asked in surprise, pointing at that part in the notification.
“Yup,” Bazhen nodded casually.
“Why’s that?”
The older student blinked a couple of times and adjusted his glasses.
“Why does it matter to you, cowboy? Or are you going to stick your investigator’s nose everywhere you’re not paid in exes to do so even after your suspension?” Bazhen put a particularly bright emphasis on that last word.
Ardan pondered this for a few seconds and couldn’t find a compelling counterargument. Indeed, what business was it of his how the bureaucracy ran its affairs? The important thing was that they’d been issued the permit.
“Now please enlighten me, my dear business partner,” Bazhen said, throwing up his hands, “just how, by the Eternal Angels, are we supposed to build an entire bridge right in the middle of the ocean?! Because I’m starting to suspect that I wasted half a kilogram of paperwork and wore out my last pair of shoes tromping through a dozen offices. And in each of those, mind you, there were absolutely no young, liberated ladies open to amorous adventures! Quite the opposite, even!”
If anything could outshine Bazhen’s love of jurisprudence (and of twisting any laws, rules and statutes to his own advantage), it was his passion for the fairer sex, which often landed him in the most ridiculous, and at times, rather serious trouble.
“Let’s go,” Ardan said with a cryptic smile. Stowing the notification in his satchel, he headed for the exit.
“Dammit, cowboy! Why do I not like that mysterious, oh-so-magical look of yours? We’re not in some kind of fairy tale!” Bazhen huffed. Struggling to keep up with Ardan’s long strides, he still managed to let his gaze rove over practically every dress that passed by them. Ardan did not approve, but he didn’t judge, either. “We’re not in a fairy tale, right?”
***
While moving through the port, Bazhen was clearly out of his element. He kept flinching whenever the silhouette of an ogre pushing a wagon the size of a small truck appeared ahead. Laden with crates, bales and barrels, such a load would have required the strength of several draft mules or half a dozen sturdy men to move. Or, in this case, just one ogre in work overalls and a cap perched on his greenish head—a cap much like the one Alexander wore.
And when two giants wearing pants smeared with paint and engine oil and jackets made of Shaggier leather blocked their path, Bazhen nearly stumbled over his own staff.
In general, the frenzy of dockworkers, the strained droning of countless engines, the screeching of loading cranes, the far-from-polite shouts of numerous laborers, and of course, the rumble of trucks arriving and departing, did little to ease the mind of someone unaccustomed to such a commotion.
Ardan, though he’d only been to the port once before, felt, if not completely at home, then perfectly comfortable. Endless scurrying around the city—including places not exactly rich in culture by any measure—had, as Arkar would put it, given him “skin tougher than a dragon’s hide.” The young man was not so easily rattled anymore.
“We’re sure we came to the right place?” Bazhen asked for perhaps the third time.
“Bazhen,” Ardan said, perhaps beginning to understand Milar at last, since he’d suddenly found himself in the captain’s shoes, “you and I have an agreement. I don’t pester you with questions about your half of the tasks, and you don’t pester me about my half.”
“Fair enough, I suppose, cowboy, but at the moment—pardon my frankness—I’m the only one who’s done any work.”
Ardan chose not to comment on the undeniably truthful remark. He could have pointed out that until Bazhen had found a building and wrangled a veritable mountain of paperwork—permits, notifications, licenses, and other bureaucratic drivel—there hadn’t been much for Ardi to do. Well, apart from leveraging the fact that he lived under the same roof as the Orcish Jackets’ Overseer.
Arkar’s line of work had spun a very wide web of useful contacts.
“Alright, we need building number eleven,” Ardi said, stopping before a creased, well-worn map that had been tacked with a bent nail to an old corkboard. “Oh, we’re not too far from it.”
And indeed, before long—deftly dodging casual attempts to crush them under multiton loads—the two student mages were standing before a small wooden shack. Here, under a sloping roof of rusted metal and walls of rough-hewn planks insulated with felt and peeling paint, there weren’t even eight square meters of space.
Ardi rapped on a windowpane that was rattling in the wind. At first, he received only silence, but then there was a scrabbling sound, and the old reed mat serving as a curtain was pulled aside. Two wide, black eyes set against yellowish sclera stared out at Ardan. He was greeted by a face with grayish-green skin, a long, hooked nose, ears like a donkey’s, and uneven rows of teeth jutting out like tusks.
An aging goblin glared at the young man with a sour squint. Clad in a ridiculous purple suit and sporting gold rings on unnaturally long fingers, he was presently occupied with picking his wide nose.
“What d’you want, human?”
Ardan cleared his throat and, glancing around to ensure no onlookers spotted him, extended a small slip of paper into the pass-through tray. The goblin, likewise glancing about, took it and read what was written on it.
“Got it,” he grunted. “Follow me.”
Donning a coat that had clearly been tailored for a dwarf and then drastically taken in, the goblin squeezed out of his “booth.” Locking the door with a heavy, rusted padlock, he beckoned sharply and set off through a labyrinth of massive shipping containers—whole tiers of barrels, crates and other cargo.
Bazhen looked decidedly tense, whereas Ardi wasn’t worried in the slightest. If he was certain of just one thing, it was how Arkar conducted business. Especially when the half-orc was due to receive ten percent of their apothecary’s profits for its first six months of operation.
Yes, some might say that Ardi, as a Black House officer, was being terribly hypocritical by partnering with one of the capital’s gangs, but… but! In this case, Arkar was acting only as a private individual, not as a gang leader. And moreover, Ardan was merely making use of the half-orc’s connections. If someone still insisted on calling that hypocrisy, then that person had clearly never tried to find a job in the southern part of the Empire as a Firstborn or a half-blood.
And Ardan had tried…
They entered a warehouse where, by all appearances, raw steel and other materials were stored, ready to be transported by land and water across the country.
The Metropolis constituted not only five percent of the Empire’s entire population, but also nearly eighteen percent of the country’s industrial might. It was no wonder that His Imperial Majesty was so zealous about his transportation reform and spending utterly unimaginable sums of exes on it.
“Obadod,” the goblin called out to one of the ogres. That ogre, armed with a massive clipboard, was walking among the metallic hills, inspecting labels and jotting down notes on his forms.
“Nagrarakz,” the ogre greeted him in return and—with a crash that jangled Bazhen’s already frayed nerves—trudged over to the trio. “This from Arkar?”
“Mhm,” the goblin nodded, handing over the note.
Wiping his face with something that would have served as a small tablecloth for most humans, the ogre bent down and, squinting hard, scrutinized the slip of paper.
“Alright. Come on, then.”
The four of them were now striding off toward the depths of the warehouse. Before, only Bazhen had been hurrying to keep pace, but now Ardan also had to make an effort not to fall behind the ogre. Not to mention the goblin, who was practically running.
Before long, they were standing before an array of wooden containers… whose inventory tags had been cut off.
“Eight and a half tons of decommissioned hollow pilings,” the ogre said with a grin, patting a container with a paw as large as a cart wheel and flashing his blocky teeth.
“Metal?” Ardan asked curtly.
“Excellent quality,” the ogre assured him. “Written off through our contacts at the Brothers Umsky plant.”
“Price?”
The ogre made a show of mulling it over, though he knew the figure right away.
“Sixty exes per ton.”
Bazhen let out a squawk that sounded not unlike a startled duck. Not out of indignation at the quote, but because at market prices, they’d have had to pay twice that.
“And how much are you planning to slip into your own pocket, Mr. Obadod?” Bazhen asked pointedly.
The smile evaporated from the ogre’s toad-like face (no insult was meant by that. Virtually all ogres, Sergeant Boad included, looked like a cross between an orc and a toad).
“That ain’t any of your f—business, runt.”
Now it was Ard’s turn to smile, baring his not-quite-human fangs.
“Oh…” The ogre visibly relaxed at once. “You’re that, what’s your name… Ard Egobar, yes. The last Matabar.”
“Precisely.”
“Arkar sent you, right?”
“He did.”
The ogre rubbed a square, wrinkled chin that vaguely resembled a cantaloupe.
“Out of respect for the Orcish Jackets, I’ll let it go for fifty-five.”
“Make it fifty and we have a deal.”
“Mr. Egobar, are you perhaps not quite right in the head? I’ve heard—no offense—that among half-bloods, that’s common.”
“Mr. Obadod, these pilings aren’t worth fifty-five a ton, not even on Sleepless Street, especially not in their written-off state. And those sellers take fifteen exes per ton as their markup, as well.”
“Fifty-two and a half,” the ogre grunted grudgingly.
“Forty-seven.”
“It was fifty just a moment ago!”
“That was before I realized that you intended to skim twelve exes per ton, Mr. Obadod,” Ardan countered in an implacable tone. “New offer: forty-six and a half per ton.”
“You little…” The ogre began hotly, but after seeing Ardi already drawing breath to argue, he raised his free hand and his clipboard in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. My apologies, mage. I can see that this ain’t your first time dealing. I still gotta pay up above and to the side, Matabar, and I’ve no desire to beggar myself, either. You understand, I’m sure… So, make it forty-eight exes and seventy-five kso per ton, and we’ve got a deal.”
“One addition: if you happen to get, say, any written-off alchemy worktables or containers for Ley-plants, you’ll send word to ‘Bruce’s,” Ardan added, extending his hand.
Amazing… Ardi would never have thought that he’d one day be grateful that Timofey Polskih had been such a miser. The owner of the largest farm in the Foothill Province could haggle for hours over every ex beyond the asking price, even with his very best workers.
“It rarely happens, but it happens…” A grin gradually returned to the ogre’s face. “I heard you’re opening an apothecary in the Kar’Tak district.”
“Maybe.”
“Then add a ten percent discount on your products for anyone I send your way, and you can have your future orders at cost plus one and a half exes.”
“Seven and a half percent, and cost plus one point three.”
“Deal!”
For a moment, Ardan feared that sparks might fly from his eyes. The thrill of a successful bargain had been instilled in him by that same Timofey Polskih who’d made every fruitful negotiation an event unto itself.
“Excellent, Mr. Obadod. A pleasure doing business with you.”
“And with you, Mr. Egobar.”
Extending three digits—his thumb, index and ring fingers—the ogre carefully clasped Ardi’s hand. Had he used all his fingers, Ardan’s hand would have been left a pulpy, bloody mess.
Ardan nodded to Bazhen, who stepped forward, counted out the required sum, and placed two stacks of banknotes and a handful of coins on one of the empty pallets.
Soon enough, the two of them, along with the goblin, were striding toward the next warehouse—one of those where giants manned the loading conveyors.
“I must say, Mr. Egobar, that wasn’t bad at all,” the goblin offered respectfully… before snorting and spitting to the side.
“Thank you,” Ardan said, flashing him a wide grin and rolling his neck to loosen it.
For six years, at the end of each month, he had haggled, to the gnashing of teeth, over every kso of overtime pay. Today was only just beginning…
At the end of the trading day…
Ardan and Bazhen were sitting in one of the “Eltir” cafes. Thankfully, aside from the loss of his salary, Ardan’s suspension did not affect his privileges as an employee of the Second Chancery.
While devouring beaver cutlets, Ardan listened attentively to Bazhen.
“So, in total, cowboy,” the other mage began, sipping a strong floral tea as he ran a pencil down the columns of his notebook, “we got eight and a half tons of hollow pilings. One and a half tons of rolled steel. Seven hundred kilograms of seasoned pine. A crate of fasteners. All told…” Bazhen paused, performing the simple calculation. “…that’s almost nine hundred exes, which is just about two thirds of the bank loan.”
“Seems like it.”
Bazhen looked up at his partner, who was ravenously wolfing down his meal.
“Damn it, cowboy! You do realize that we’ll have almost nothing left for purchasing equipment and materials!”
“Yes,” Ardi replied calmly.
Bazhen threw up his hands, nearly smacking a passing waitress with his notepad. Apologizing, he lowered his voice and returned to the conversation.
“This is absurd, Ard! We’re just burning money for nothing!”
“Look at the map and-”
“Yes, I understand your plan, cowboy,” Bazhen interrupted him. “I’m not an idiot… The bridge we build will become the only pedestrian crossing in that area. All foot traffic—cars aside—will pass through us.”
“Exactly,” Ardan nodded. “Statistically, for every thousand people who pass by, we’ll get ten visitors and one customer. And being right next to the sole bridge will allow us…”
“…to go broke before we even open,” the older student cut in again. “We have, besides some bare walls, nothing in that building! No Ley-wiring. No generators. No greenhouse for cultivating Ley-flora. No contracts for supplying chemicals and Ley-ingredients. Not even, by the Eternal Angels, counters, displays, or a cash register—which, by the way, also isn’t cheap!”
Ardan sighed and set his fork aside.
“Bazhen.”
“What?!”
“You’re thinking like someone who’s lived in the Metropolis since his childhood and is used to having everything available here.”
Bazhen narrowed his eyes at him.
“Explain yourself, cowboy.”
“To start with, we don’t need display cases—we’ll make do with a chalkboard and chalk to list our wares,” Ardan began ticking points off on his fingers. “Instead of a cash register, a ledger and an abacus will serve us well enough. For the counter—give me a few dozen kso and we can haul in some tables from the flea market. And we can buy all the ingredients for our first batch of medicines on Sleepless Street. Everything else can come later.”
“An abacus… Flea-market tables… Do you even hear yourself, cowboy? You’re not describing a pharmacy, you’re describing a… a…” Bazhen groped for the right words.
“A country shop?” Ardan suggested. “Because, to be honest, that’s exactly what I have in mind.”
Indeed, Ardi wasn’t describing the pricey apothecaries of the city’s central districts—establishments that resembled museums more than anything else. He didn’t even want to emulate the healer shops of the Tend and Tendari, which could accommodate if not an entire bar, then something close to it.
Instead, Ardan was genuinely relying on his experiences from Evergale and how new shops opened there. As a farmhand constantly on the move and “at everyone’s beck and call,” he had seen and heard plenty. And even though he never would have thought that such knowledge would prove useful later in life, such is the dream of the Sleeping Spirits.
“Alright,” Bazhen exhaled. “I don’t fully see it, but I can sense a kernel of logic in there. You’re probably right. We really don’t need a gaudy display in a Firstborn district.”
“Exactly,” Ardan said, nodding. “In that neighborhood, an expensive, fancy establishment would sooner scare customers away than draw anyone in.”
Ardan remembered how a tavern in Evergale had closed down simply because people had literally been too afraid to step inside—the place had looked as though a common laborer wouldn’t be able to afford the prices.
“And the Firstborn from the port that you negotiated discounts with will immediately become our first customers once the bridge is built,” Bazhen continued, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Even if only a tenth of them come see us… that’ll be enough for them to tell others about our place.”
“And it’s not just locals who work in the port,” Ardan added. “There are laborers from the Tend and Tendari there as well. So if the wind catches our spark-”
“Let’s skip the poetic metaphors, cowboy,” Bazhen grimaced. “You’re starting to ruin the wild man image I have of you. Fine. Let’s say that I accept the fact that the bridge is more important than furnishing the apothecary right now. Even so, having potential customers doesn’t solve our most critical problem. Where are we going to get our initial stock? It’s one thing to write rock-bottom prices on a board, and quite another when, aside from those chalk marks, we’ve got nothing else to offer.”
“We’re not going to manufacture that initial stock ourselves,” Ardan answered evenly.
Bazhen opened his mouth, then closed it without a sound, blinking.
“I don’t follow,” he finally admitted.
“We’ll buy the necessary ingredients on Sleepless Street,” Ardan explained. He hadn’t been idle these past few months, after all—in fact, he had simply asked Arkar for advice, and Arkar had an abundance of experience and insight regarding such matters. “And along with them, we’ll pick up those subpar medicines they sell. Then I’ll simply fix all their flaws. At first, nobody will be coming to us for anything serious. Painkillers, fever reducers, cough syrup, joint salves, cold remedies, and little things like that. I’ll be able to restore all of those, rather than preparing them from scratch. Which-”
“Will be quicker, though it’ll yield almost no profit,” Bazhen cut in, talking faster as he started to get drawn into the idea. “But it will create—if only on paper—a sales turnover and a flow of customers, which we can leverage to take out our next loan.”
Ardan waved his hand vaguely in the air.
“I hadn’t thought of that part, Bazhen,” Ardan admitted. “To be frank, I didn’t even know it was possible. I was simply counting on us scraping through the first month and gradually getting into the black, which would let us start buying our own ingredients.”
Bazhen, now looking like a hunting dog that had caught the scent, straightened up a bit. It was like he was preparing to leap at prey that was already nearly cornered.
“Gradually, cowboy? Autumn’s almost over. Winter is coming. We’re heading into peak cold season… Tell me, when will your workers start?”
Ah, right… Ardan still hadn’t told Bazhen that the “workers” who would build their bridge at cut-rate prices were very fond of their jackets…
“Well, here’s the thing, Bazhen…” Ardan began cautiously.