My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (10 page)

I lured Larkes into the hallway, to the mirror, and
asked him to make faces: "Do it like this!"

"
I will not! I'll look like an army mage!" he was offended.

"That
's the whole point! If something happens, people will blame the army."

Under such a pretense
Larkes accepted my idea. We spent an entire evening working on three basic facial expressions: arrogant contempt, dreamy detachment, grim smile.

"And now
I'll tell you the most important thing: if anyone starts bugging you with nonsense, you reply like this, 'Wha-at?' Then I'll come and solve your problem."

S
aying "wha-at?" correctly was the most difficult part for Larkes.

"Okay, go home, practice!
Tomorrow we will meet near the central train station. We'll visit your bookseller around three p.m."

"Wh
a-at?" came out of Larkes by itself. "Do you know how hot it is outside at this time? Especially in the sun!"

"If we drive fast, it will be coo
ler. And we will have fewer witnesses."

We parted on that
note. Larkes left with a pensively distracted look. Perhaps, he was trying to figure out whether our collaboration was becoming overly costly for him. In my opinion, he made a very bad bargain with me.

Being fe
d up with surprises, I prepared with utmost car
e
for the visit to the bookseller. In particular, I took along my alchemical arsenal - I wanted to see if my poisons worked. Getting rid of the importunate cicerone was easy - Dennis did not watch his food. A small ball of special potion added to his drink forced this poor guy to urgently rush away. I expressed my sympathy and told him that I suspected food poisoning. I promised that I would go to the hotel and rest. Strictly speaking, I didn't lie - it would be true in a couple of hours.

I picked up Lar
kes in the familiar wine cellar. He showed me the bookseller's home on the map, and we raced, trying to offset the unbearable heat with the high wind speed. Our destination turned out to be in the notorious New Blocks.

I left
my motorcycle two streets away from the New Blocks: I was not afraid of thieves, I just did not want to wash the wheels after the visit.  It quickly became clear why the area stank: a man stood and pissed into the gate in plain view, and what flowed from him fell onto ground that was covered with the same shit.  Do you know what happens to human waste in the heat if there is no rain to wash it away?

No,
normal people could not live in a place like that. At least, I would not. "Did the city campaign for cleanliness?"

Larkes
said with disgust: "This propaganda hangs on every corner. But most of refugees are villagers, wild people. They are afraid of toilets."

Well, given
that local folks used recycled water for almost all their home needs, I was not quite comfortable with that in the beginning. The streets in the area were full of people despite the midday heat, but no one seemed to be busy: older men sat under the thin shade of homemade awnings, a company of tipsy young people chatted loudly. The strong smell of sweat hit our noses.

"
Do they not wash and bathe at all?"

"The problem is
more complex. The capacity of the aqueduct supplying the city with water is limited; there is not enough fresh water for everything; that's why we widely use recycled water. But refugees from Arango do not want to bathe in recycled water (in their thinking, it is not water at all). They wash their hands from water bottles!  Naturally, the municipality does not want to pay for their prejudice."

I remembered the
recent conversation with Dennis about the deadly spores. "Aren't they afraid of the gray mold?"

Larkes habitually twitched his face
: "This block is unofficially called Plague; in the past, it was demolished and rebuilt thrice. You see, wide avenues separate this area from the rest of the city. If an epidemic begins, these avenues will be used as quarantine cordons. Refugees from all other suburbs, if they cannot adapt, are displaced and end up here."

I immediately realized that the area was like
a gas chamber. Time to flee from the capital. And the sooner the better!

Fortunately, we did not have to go deep into the plague
block; the needed address was on the border of the area. The four-story house had known better days; it was built long before the arrival of refugees from Arango. Steps in the stairwell were made from imported marble, the wooden door of the gates had a groove, and a garden on the roof had a tracery grating. But the crumbled plaster exposed clay walls, and some windows of the ground floor were boarded. Apparently, the owner did not want to invest in the building that soon would be bulldozed anyway.

An untidy concierge snored
behind his desk in the lobby. I made a sign to Larkes to keep quiet, and made it inside, noticed by no one. The elevator, naturally, did not work. We climbed up to the fourth floor; apartment number fifteen had a plate on the door: "Tamur Hemalis, Archival Research, Consulting, Translations from Sa-Orio". I turned the bell; it clicked and twittered musically. We had to wait for a bit until we heard shuffling steps and a trembling old voice from behind the door: "Who's there?"

"I am from Gordon Ferro.
Please open the door."

Locks clicked, chains rattled
; I got the impression that it was rather a bank vault than a flat. Finally, the door slightly opened, and a disheveled old man glanced anxiously through the gap. His nose was broken. I had never seen a white mage with a broken nose before.

When
the old man made out who was on the stairs, he suddenly became very pale.

"I am Thomas Tangor," I tried to s
peak soothingly and gently. "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

The old ma
n took a deep breath and nodded: "Yes, of course! Come in, please."

Such
stupid behavior was typical for the white. A normal person would not let two suspicious dark mages step into his house. Inside, the apartment was surprisingly decent (in metropolitan style), with low sofas, carpets, and a bunch of bookcases.

"Please follow me into the living room.
I'll make tea for you."

Naturally, we
didn't mind tea after such heat, but I felt sorry for the old white and went to the kitchen to help him. Yes, I know it was odd for a dark mage to feel sorry for somebody, but I was brought up in a white family.  Fifteen minutes later we sat on a low couch in the spacious living room with a heat pump, enjoying cool shade and drinking green tea with mint. It felt really good!

"I confess I expected to hear from your uncle much earlier."

So, he knew about my relationship with Uncle Gordon. "My uncle was murdered last year, and I hope to find out from you: who else knew that you sent him a parcel?"

His
cup-carrying hand fell on the tea table, his eyes suspiciously glistened: "It's my fault…"

Please, no tears!
If I let him cry, he would not stop until midnight, and we were short of time. "It's life, Mr. Hemalis; dark magicians don't die of old age. The bottom line is that I don't want to leave unpunished the murder of my relative; the people of Krauhard won't understand me. The perpetrators are dead, but I need to know who gave them this order. Do you see my point? Who did you talk to?"

His lips
started trembling, "I…I…"

What a
nervous old man. I stretched out my arm and covered his hand with mine: "It's all right. I know they are dangerous. It won't stop me. Help me if you can, otherwise…I run the risk of losing the content of the parcel."

He started and looked at me
in fear; I remained calm and friendly.

"
I do not know their names," he said. "They…behaved horribly!  I had to promise that I would read the book for them; otherwise they would have killed me."

"Can you
deliver on your promise?" Larkes asked.

"No.
But I agreed, anyway." The old man started crying.

"It
's okay. It's okay. Everything will be fine from now on. Did they leave something behind? Did they talk about any events, people?"

"Yes, they did…
" Hemalis lowered his voice; his eyes widened. "It is here, behind the wardrobe. I am afraid to touch it!"

Half of
the window was blocked by an old wardrobe. I initially thought it was done for protection from the sun. Now I saw the real reason: the wardrobe was a shield against a large dusty stuffed bird on the window sill.

"Why don'
t you throw this thing out?"

"They told me I would die, if I did."

It was a nightmare for the white to reside in a house with a dead bird. These bastards were really cruel. I promised myself to get their skins! And maybe I would even be awarded for liquidating them!

"
Listen, in a week you will be able to throw this dead stuff out and move to a quieter area. Do you believe me?"

He sobbed and nodded.

"Please have patience for one more week."

While I
was saying goodbye to the white, Larkes kept silence, but when we came out, he could not resist and twitched his face: "How do you plan to search for a man with no name, who was here a year ago?"

"There is one way.
Do you know any decent restaurant with good local cuisine?"

The
meal I needed was served only in authentic restaurants. It was an oily brown paste made of beans, which I had hated since childhood; all the ingredients in the dish were frayed beyond recognition. The paste was to be scooped with a slice of bread. Dennis advised me against eating this dish: a northerner would not like this, he said.

"Are you going to eat
it?" Larkes asked suspiciously. "You know, northerners don't like…"

I
hissed at him with annoyance. I could not confess that it was for
Rustle
- the monster wanted to refresh the taste of this meal that he had long forgotten.
Rustle
was curious to see how recent generations had changed its recipe. I hated the thought of taking the paste into my mouth and suggested a compromise: I would taste it if he would help me find a man who put the bird dummy on the bookseller's windowsill.
Rustle
agreed. I bravely tore away a piece of fresh pita bread and scooped up a mixture of beans…

It didn't taste too bad;
spicy, but edible; Krauhardian horseradish was spicier. The abundance of onion, garlic, and herbs completely suppressed the bean's flavor, and sliced vegetables for a garnish helped me eat the oily dish without choking. When I took the last piece of the paste and the bottom of the bowl became visible, a familiar gray picture started developing in my mind:
Rustle
advised me to check the northern part of the plague blocks.

"And
now what?" Larkes diligently watched how I was finishing this brown crap and appeared to analyze something in his mind.

I blissfully leaned on the back of a low sofa
: "We'll have our tea and go for a guy who had beaten up the old man. Now I know where to find him."

Larkes did not comment, but
I could see from his frozen face that thoughts were rapidly rushing in his mind and making him woozy. I wondered what conclusions he came to. I'd better be more cautious with him: my subordinate or not, Larkes was a representative of the government, and I intended to kill one bastard…

I was overly optimistic thinking it would be a simple task.
Returning to the New Blocks, we met a crowd of agitated people;
Rustle
confirmed the villain was hiding somewhere among them.

"Get off," I
said to Larkes, preparing to act.

"I'm with you," he refused.
"You are a necromancer; if something happens to you, I would be skinned alive."

He
was right! We drove up closer, pretending to be tourists. A small square at the intersection of three streets of the plague block was filled with refugees. Neither policemen, nor normal city folks, were seen around. The pedestal of an unnamed equestrian statue was turned into a platform for speakers, who gave nonsensical monologues. I suspected the artisans in them.

"NZAMIPS must do
its duties!" yelled one of them. "NZAMIPS lives off our taxes, but doesn't do its job! The otherworldly devour our children in Arango!"

If there was a sure way to discourage the magicians from doing their job, it would be
to tell them they MUST do something for someone.

I snorted
and loudly commented: "Isn't it funny?"

Larkes did not answer, but
a man from the public asked me assertively, "Don't you agree?"

"
Dark magicians are no plumbers," I cut him off. "You can't call them when they are needed and send them off when they are not. Did you protest when authorities closed down Arango's NZAMIPS? Or did you vote for it to save money?"

The guy muttered something,
appealing to Larkes, but my subordinate said masterfully: "Wha-at?" and our discussion withered.  Some people from the crowd started approaching us, but I did not care: if they attacked, I would have an excuse to end this gathering and get closer to the guy I wanted to catch.

Larkes pinched my waist
: "Let's go."

"Wait, I'd like to listen to them.
What if they say something interesting?" I didn't want to beg
Rustle
to intuit further information - that was the real reason why I stayed there.

A
decently dressed white mounted the improvised platform, followed by applause from the crowd. The police hadn't arrived yet.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!
The refugees are in a desperate situation. Authorities should…" I almost immediately stopped listening. What was the use in talking? It would be better if people like him chipped in and hired a few dark magicians for Arango. If the poor residents of Krauhard could afford to pay for dark magic services, then the refugees should be able to find money, too. But they did not look for simple ways; they preferred to sit in the shit and urge the authorities to take responsibility for them. Why else did they settle in Ho-Carg?