My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (8 page)

The capital seemed to come out of
its midday torpor: on recently quiet streets one could now hear the shrill signals of horns and laughter and murmurs of thousands of voices, though they were muffled by the time they reached the cabin. The zombie-dog delicately smelled of lilies, the necromancer smelled of nothing at all, and Dennis began to feel unconscious respect for him. Tangor looked like a well-bred magician; even his strange interests seemed to bear the stamp of his aristocratic origin.

And yet, when the car arrived
at the ministry's hotel, Dennis experienced incredible relief. It remained to put the necromancer in his room, show him the direction of the pool and the dining room, and then he would be free until tomorrow morning.

The curator dragged his charge's luggage with all possible haste to the third
porch of the building, but Tangor himself wasn't in a hurry, diligently looking around as if afraid of something. The dark mage's fears proved true: as they approached the porch its door flew open with a kick, and a grim stranger in a military cap appeared on the threshold, his clothes marked with the fluorescent filaments of officer insignia. Dennis dashed aside, pulling away the suitcase: he instantly recognized by the arrangement of stripes the most bellicose of their client varieties. A combat mage in the rank of army colonel came out from the depth of the entrance with the dignity of a mountain lion and, without glancing aside, moved in the direction of the parking lot for ministry vehicles. Mr. Tangor cautiously stepped aside and watched his colleague passing by. The curator took a breath - they had the misfortune of running into Tangor's neighbor and fearlessly entered the building. There were no other tenants in this two-unit section.

I
nside, the mage meticulously checked the quality of the chemicals delivered by Mr. Felister, the presence of sheets and towels in the room, whether there was a bucket of water for his zombie and, finally, unable to nag at anything, Mr. Tangor waved his hand letting his curator go. He did not have to repeat; Dennis immediately hid behind the door.

"Congratulations on
the first day of your solo job!" the senior curator patiently waited for his younger colleague at the porch. "How is he?"

"We came across his neighbor at the entrance," Dennis said.

The chief shook his head sympathetically. "It happens. What do you have planned for tomorrow?"

Dennis listed the enchanting plans of his charge.
"Also, he needs a map of the city with all the streets."

"
Will do," Mr. Felister promised. "Try to persuade him not to take the beast along. Perhaps, he will get access to the library with the zombie, but they will not let the dog into the botanical garden under any circumstances.  By the way, are you absolutely sure he wants to visit the botanical garden?" Dennis nodded grimly. "An odd interest."

"
Very true."

"Let him run around
to weary himself. On Monday he'll be calmer."

Dennis nodded and dragged his feet to the
gates and out of the hotel's territory; he wasn't eligible for a free drive in a ministry vehicle, and a rickshaw was too expensive; he had to go to the Old Blocks on foot.

The city seethed and sparkled with lights, as if trying to
help the sky regain its daylight rage. With the fall of twilight the streets became filled with people. In the middle of summer the capital almost completely shifted to a nocturnal mode of living. Dandies in brightly embroidered beaux gowns sedately walked along the streets, clerks in suits hurried to their homes, other people cheerfully clattered around. And a strong smell hovered above this bustle. Dennis, born in Ho-Carg, unmistakably distinguished its origin: it was the smell of sweaty and dirty human bodies - a sure sign of poverty and disease. Lately, this sweetish stench was everywhere, spread by a crowd of people from Arango, who literally flooded the city. These poor beings took up all the low-wage jobs and, unable to cope with the high cost of the metropolitan life, sheltered in basements in horribly unsanitary conditions, threatening the rest of the city with the specter of a new plague.

There were lobby talks in
the ministry that the government had doubled the troops at the expense of northerners and was about to send them to the depopulated lands of Arango province, which was now treated as enemy territory.  Kashtadar was bulk-buying from refugee children with magic abilities, and residents of the regions affected by the invasion of the Arango escapees demanded that the poor people be sent back to the East Coast.

"Why didn'
t they die in the place where they were born?" Dennis could not help thinking, coming across an unkempt vagabond in the crowd, and he immediately felt ashamed of his thoughts: he considered himself a humane and enlightened man. But that stench…It was driving him crazy.

* * *

I couldn't say that I was pleased with the chance to visit the capital during summer. It was not exactly my dream to get into the desert at its hottest. How did it happen that Ingernika's capital was settled in such a vile place? Perhaps, because in the entire former Kingdom of Ingerland, Ho-Carg was the only (literally the only) city left intact after King Girane and the father-inquisitors' escapades. Anyway, one could have chosen a better place for the capital.

A h
eat pump on the roof of our train was on its last legs; I felt like a steak traveling through the oven. Looking through the train window at the salt pits, which were mined for saltpeter from time immemorial, I pondered that I would hardly enjoy a town founded by slaves and convicts. I was about to hate Ho-Carg, but the capital's service stunned me!

Two boobies from the local NZAMIPS met me on the platf
orm, posing as gracious hosts. I managed to shake off my suitcase on them at once - it was incredibly heavy because of the lead enchanted padding at the bottom which hid Uncle's book from prying eyes. Then they offered a free dinner. Yes, they paid for me and didn't even blink!

I felt
like a real dark magician, and I liked that feeling! Then there was a free ride in a car with a personal driver, free chemicals, a pair of socks my size and slippers in the room. My mood spoiled at the realization that I was not the only one enjoying such treatment.

Early in the morning I deci
ded to try a local bathhouse. It was a bit unusual: it had a few basins and no shower. Instead, there was a common swimming pool, where for the first time in my life I saw four dark magicians spending time together without fighting. Two "cleaners" - you could always recognize them by their looks - sluggishly swore at some officials. Third, a lean mage from the army (judging by his muscles and tan) meditated with a damp cloth on his head. Fourth, an elderly magician was sadly sitting on a stair in the corner of the pool. As soon as I recalled how hot it was outside during midday, I became sad too. I basked in air bubbles from the jets for about an hour while Max soaked in the bathtub under the porch stairs. When I returned, I found my neighbor standing near my zombie. I looked at him indignantly, and he got it and left.

Then there was
brunch in the dining hall. Plenty of tasty food and not an ounce of strong drink, not even beer. Of course, having finished their meals, dark mages instantly moved to merrier institutions, but I noticed a company of empaths in the corner of the dining hall: they sedately drank green tea and intended to spend a whole day doing just that.

I
pondered for a moment and stayed with the empaths; I couldn't do anything else on such a hot day. My local cicerone found me there and brought a map of the city, cheering me up. I methodically browsed the map for all the geographic names associated with a theater, fables, botany, and Pierrot Sohane. Finally, I had an opportunity to work on resolving the painful puzzle of the letter that cost Uncle Gordon's life. The letter surely contained some encryption, intuitively decipherable by the addressee from the point of view of the sender. I lived near Uncle Gordon for fifteen years - I had every chance to grasp his way of thinking. I planned to visit a few places in town to ease my guesswork and find that "precious friend" who would tell me what he "solemnly kept" for "continuity's sake". After looking at the map, I realized that Ho-Carg was a huge city, and over three dozen places could be associated with the sender of the letter. I diligently wrote all of them down on a piece of paper.

By the end of
the day my head became heavy as a cast iron ball.

I treated my nerves in the evening
by walking through souvenir shops with my cicerone – I couldn't recollect what his name was. Late at night I came back to the room and took Max for a walk. Returning home, I found three combat mages on my porch; they pretended to be breathing cool air and had even brought a bench from somewhere. I bluffed like I didn't notice them – I never liked the army's magicians.  They bored me.

On Monday morning
, Dennis met a buddy who was a curator of army mages; the army was relocating him to Arango through Ho-Carg.  He was informed of recent developments and told Dennis, "Watch out! I heard that necromancers raised a zombie, and General Zertak is going to try it in combat with army mages."  Dennis winced at the thought of a fight between dark mages; there could easily be casualties among civilian personnel.

L
ast night Dennis had been so exhausted that he fell asleep right in the pool. He hadn't felt so tired for a long time! His young and energetic necromancer had rushed through petty shops, full of pep, until late at night. His catch was: a large rosy-cheeked doll, a piece of colorful cloth with pretty flowers, a skein of lace, and two hefty illustrated books of fairy tales. Dennis had to carry all of these. The curator did not know for whom Tangor bought all this stuff; according to his profile, he had no children of his own, and even if he had a younger sibling, a dark kid would not touch such gifts, even under fear of death.

The curator was afraid that his charge
overslept for Monday meeting, and he would need to drag Mr. Tangor out of bed. But the necromancer came to the ministry on time, he wasn't rude, made no fuss, and diligently followed clerks' instructions. He behaved like an angel except that he refused to fill out required forms in triplicate. After quickly drafting his answers, he seated Dennis to rewrite them. The curator did not mind; his calligraphy was excellent.

When a short guy in an official gray suit walked into the room without knocking,
Dennis cheered up: Mr. Tangor would not be bored; therefore, Tangor wouldn't think up further exploits.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ta
ngor," the officer greeted. "Have you filled out your forms?"

"Still
working on it."

Dennis
sighed, accurately scribing the name of the tiny Krauhardian village and, next to it, a lengthy explanation in parentheses (there were about two dozen villages with the same name in that area). The curator did not listen to the conversation between his charge and the officer, afraid to make an error in the unfamiliar words. He had just finished filling out the second sheet, when a wave of unpleasant shivers touched his nerves; perhaps others would pay no attention, but employees of the support services were diligently taught how to distinguish the activation of a magic Source. Dennis understood that someone right next to him was about to cast a spell.

"
You deserve a punch in the face," Tangor said politely, continuing their leisurely conversation.

Due to
the inconsistency between the magician's tone and his words, it took a long time for Dennis to catch the meaning of what his charge had said.

"Aren't you afraid
of trouble?" the officer whispered in anger.

"Corpses don'
t avenge!" the necromancer stated boldly.

The curator startled and
began sweating: the conversation was heading for a violent confrontation. Two dark mages stared at each other. The senior officer unnaturally bent and pressed his hand to his chest in a suspicious gesture. Tangor didn't waste time on gestures: a crazy smile, not devoid of charm, bloomed on his face, and his dilated pupils shone with rage. They were just about to start a fight.

"Is it time to
run and hide?" Dennis hesitated. He was taught how to divert one magician from an attack, but didn't know how to manage mages on the verge of a duel.

"Satal poorly train
ed his puppy," the officer muttered.

"Objection!
The teacher taught me everything he knew."

Dennis
realized that the older mage was losing ground. Backing up and not taking his eyes off the enemy, the officer reached the door, bumping into the jamb, and disappeared behind the door. Tangor eyed him amusedly.

"What an idiot," the necromancer summed
up his opinion of his opponent. "I hope the circus is over for today."

The curator was not sure
about the latter: a couple of unfamiliar people popped into the room as if incidentally, and security in the hallway was removing clerks from the nearby office rooms. "This was all for real!" Dennis became frightened.

"Do not piss
yourself," the mage deigned to notice his reaction. "We were kidding."

The joke was not funny
- Dennis was about to shit himself. But leaving his charge alone would be negligence now, and the curator sighed heavily: "How about we get a bite?"

"A good idea!"

While Mr. Tangor was busy with his food, Dennis slipped away. The ubiquitous Mr. Felister waited for him at the washroom door.

"Report to me!"

"An officer had a quarrel with Mr. Tangor. I did not catch the issue. The conflict grew to the highest level almost immediately. The officer retreated when his opponent showed his readiness to fight."

The senior curator
nodded, satisfied with Dennis' analysis. "I hope that Larkes won't raise a scandal, if he didn't attack right away."

"
Have I done anything wrong?"

"Nothing!
As a curator, you are expected to prevent accidental conflicts, when participants put themselves into a trap of pride and would be happy to get out unscathed. When dark magicians are on the verge of a duel, your intervention would be a mistake. The faster they come to blows, the less they injure people around them. Fortunately, such conflicts are rare here."

After
the words "such conflicts are rare here", Dennis cheered up.

"
In submitting your report, describe the incident in as much detail as possible. Make a draft tonight, while everything is still fresh in your memory," ordered his boss.

Mr.
Tangor greeted Dennis with a mocking look which the curator studiously ignored.  Dennis couldn't afford to drag himself into a showdown with the mage; he would be heavily beaten, in the best case.

* * *

My whole Monday afternoon was wasted on an idiotic preoccupation: registration as a necromancer.  I was annoyed by the words these morons used to designate my profession in official documents: a specialist in retrospective animation.  Never in my life would I have guessed the meaning of it! They recorded another crystal of my aura, took my photograph and a blood sample, and then gave me a set of brochures on magic safety. With pictures.

The quickest way to get
tedious bureaucratic procedures over with is to follow the rules, not wasting time on objections. When my registration came almost to an end, another character decided to share my fun: it was a dark magician in a gray suit that I associated with a diplomatic outfit (for no apparent reason - I haven't seen any diplomats).

"Good afternoon, Mr. Tangor" the officer
greeted me.

He was a typical urban
dark, surely born in a high-class family, educated in a decent school, where he had never been beaten for his "evil eye"…He had a beautiful vocal timbre, but an unpleasant face; he pretended to behave in a friendly manner, but his facial expression betrayed his true attitude. A small badge on the pocket of his jacket with the name "Rem Larkes" sounded familiar. I recalled that that was the former senior coordinator of the Northwestern region, fired for the supernatural phenomena surge. Did I owe that guy last year's decent earnings in the suburbs of Redstone?

After the first greeting phrases, Larkes
froze like a pillar. What was he doing? Pondering on his next step? In Krauhard, one would be called a gopher and kicked in the ass for such delay. If he had spent a couple of years at my home village, he would have learned to express his ideas quickly and clearly.

"Let's go to my office.
I want to offer you whiskey," he finally said.

"Thank you, it'
s too early for whiskey." For a few seconds I enjoyed the confusion I caused in him.

"We could meet later
, if you don't have time now."

"We'd better never meet at all," I replied in the same tone.

"We need to discuss a few important issues in my office without interference."

His sugge
stion amused me: "What if I welcome interferences?"

My
question caused a stupor in the magician. Perhaps, he was some other Larkes. This retard could not rule the region for fifteen years! And most importantly, I absolutely could not understand what this guy had to do with me. He obviously did not enjoy our conversation; however, he stayed and continued talking to me.

"You'
ve made an excellent career in Redstone," Larkes sighed. "Do you want to continue it?"

"No, I don't."
Should I tell him that I couldn't care less about the career of a combat mage? I had a momentary weakness, yielding to Satal's persuasion, and now I was deep in shit. I had no desire to aggravate my situation.

"Aren'
t you interested in making money?" Larkes was surprised.

"Thank you, I
make enough."

The time
when I was ready to dance for a crown was long gone, and letting myself get involved in some intrigues right before graduation would be stupid.

Larkes made a "gopher" again.
It started annoying me. I already spent more than four hours in his retarded ministry. And now this comedian invited me to drink and chat. I needed a bath, not a drink!

"I worked in Redstone
for a while," the magician said suddenly, "and watched closely the progress of talented university students." He bowed his head, waiting for my reaction.

Was he that
former boss who made Captain Baer rewrite my crystal to remove the evidence of my spontaneous initiation? I remembered that he stood up for me and closed my case, but that didn't give him the right to be so demanding! And by the way, he could reopen my case, if he wanted to. It suddenly came to my mind that if I initiated a scandal with him right now, I would be able to write off any of his claims against me in the future. I decided to take the chance to neutralize this guy! How does one get into a guaranteed row with a dark mage? By questioning his righteousness, boasting about my own prowess, and threatening him with physical violence!

"
If you had done your job in Redstone properly, we wouldn't have so many problems now. Satal and I have fixed your poor work. You deserve a punch in the face," I enjoyed releasing the beast that rumbled inside me.

Larkes was
as old as my father, perhaps even my grandfather, but age was not an important hierarchical consideration among the dark mages. For us, the most senior is the one who proves his superiority through force, experience, or wisdom. I disrespected Larkes and felt an urge to mock the former coordinator. Such behavior is in our blood. Show your claws whenever you can!

"Satal poorly train
ed his puppy," the former coordinator muttered resentfully, as if any education could undo our dark nature and ensure victory without a fight.

"Objection!
The teacher taught me everything he knew."

He still wasn't attacking me.
I wondered if he feared me because I went through Satal's training in combat magic.

In principle, I was ready to wind up the conflict at any moment and to portray contrition
. But then the unbelievable happened: my opponent didn't call his Source; instead, he backed out and left the room. What the hell! The incident led me to an amazing conclusion: some dark mages did not like conflicts. True, if there were militant white mages with "dark" personalities, there should be dark mages with "white" characters…

Inactivation of
my Source was a simple task. More difficult was to ignore the reaction of my internal occupant:
Rustle
totally disagreed with a peaceful resolution to our conflict. In his understanding, we should have now rolled on the floor, like crazy cats, and tore each other up, confirming our dark reputations.

By the way, wh
at did he need me for? He would have achieved more if he had spoken plain English…"What an idiot!"

"
How about we get a bite?" my grief-filled curator suggested.

"A good idea!"

In general, the dark cannot be called gourmands: food should be plenty, and the fleshier and oilier the better; the rest is unimportant to us. Eating something exotic is the best way to relax after the arousal of the Source. I ordered their special: they brought me noodles in hot water, and the next hour I was fishing in my bowl with a tiny porcelain spoon. What an entertaining meal!

After the meal my
curator disappeared. At least I managed to learn his name - Dennis. He was strange. Normal people would have run away at the sign of a brewing duel between darks, but Dennis stayed and even took me to the buffet thereafter – a smart guy.

In a few minutes
he returned to my table, smiling. I didn't sense any magic in him, and for an ordinary man he behaved exceptionally calmly. I felt an unstoppable urge to tease him.