My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (9 page)

"Your city is quite
mangy."

"You have chosen a
bad time for your visit."

"It's hot."

"Only in the daytime."

"
Your streets are too narrow."

"
Not in the areas of the new home construction."

So far, it was a draw: zero - zero.

"I've noticed that you dislike immigrants from the east," I approached him from the other side.

"They are dirty,
" Dennis sighed.

"Would you
have treated them any differently if they hadn't been dirty?"

The guy looked at me with honest eyes.
"You know, in our mythology, the Master of the Desert had a sister, Plague. Spores of gray mold can survive in a hot and dry climate for centuries, and they have always been present in the desert. An easterly wind carries them to Ho-Carg. If they manage to take root in someone's body, they start eating live flesh. Aggressive strains can assimilate the entire human body within days; that's why warm-blooded animals and humans don't inhabit the inner regions of the desert."

I knew none of that and barely
suppressed my desire to run out of town or lock myself in the room till the moment my curator gave me a return ticket. But in a few moments I came to my senses and cleared my mind of unpleasant thoughts. No one seemed afraid, so I wasn't going to be the only one scared to death.

I had more urgent matter
s to worry about: "Well, it's time to go get my cargo."

"What?"

"Have you forgotten? Your boss has promised storage space for my stuff."

Dennis
' eyes started flickering, "Ehh…Yes, but we needed to take measurements first…"

"Let'
s go and measure then!"

There were no cars i
n the ministry's parking lot, and I ventured to take a horse carriage – almost no difference, except for less comfort. Road traffic in the capital moved at the speed of its slowest participant - rickshaws, which were plenty. That's why, in my opinion, rickshaws and cars are incompatible on the roads. I hoped that the two wheels of my motorcycle would be better than the four of a car. And if I wanted to rid the road of rickshaws, it would be enough to turn off the muffler on my vehicle, and the rumble of my motor would scatter them in a minute.

Shipping my
motorcycle to the capital was my personal diplomatic achievement in negotiations with Satal. The senior coordinator screamed that the cost of shipping was not included in my contract. But I had an ironclad excuse: a vehicle could save my life if I had to run from artisans.

Besides, t
he junkyard where I kept my motorcycle refused to renew my lease. Practically all old tenants were exiled - the police suddenly requested registration from the inhabitants of the junk yard. Why didn't they wait for another six months? I voted against registration with my feet, so I took Max to my apartment (my rent immediately doubled), and leased a corner of a small woodshed (without a lock) in my landlord's backyard. Soon I realized that it would be silly to hide the bike now, when NZAMIPS knew all about me, and I decided to ride it openly. For better camouflage, I drew white daisies on its black enamel, and it looked so psychedelic that nobody would guess it belonged to the notorious Black Knight. When Rakshat saw my motorcycle for the first time, he fell in a stupor. I didn't care; I wanted to keep my mobility in case I would meet artisans in Ho-Carg.

A clerk
at the train station checked my invoice and personally escorted me to a fenced cage. There it was, my handsome mustang! I looked proudly at Dennis. The curator and the clerk looked like they did not know whether to laugh or faint. Morons!

"This is
camouflage for rural areas," I explained, pointing to the daisies.

The clerk
started twitching convulsively. In response, I plugged the key in the slot and tapped the central plaque of my bike; its white daisies acquired an earthy green shade. The audience (clerk, curator, two loaders, and one janitor) dropped their jaws.

"It
's magic," Dennis remarked sagely.

"No, it's alchemy.
Oh, and magic too. It'll take a long time to explain. Let's go?"

"What?"

I was sick of human stupidity!

"
Your boss hasn't rented storage yet, as you said, and I am not going to pay for parking out of my pocket. I'll keep the motorcycle at the hotel. Get on quicker; when it gets dark, I won't find the way even with a map."

The motorcycle's engine roared, and we briskly rolled forward, leaping down the stairs, ducking into narrow passages
, and deftly bending around congestion on footpaths. The road to the hotel took fifteen minutes, including a stop at Dennis' house (I gave him a ride), whereas by car the way took at least three times longer, as far as I remembered. A funny metropolitan phenomenon: to reach some places on foot is faster than by car.

T
o enjoy a bathhouse before bed and have a cup of tea in the dining hall took no more than half an hour, but, having returned, I found five (five!) over-agitated army magicians near my motorcycle. Judging by the color of the daisies (they turned red), someone had already tried to steal my vehicle. I restarted the security alarm, added some sound effects, and then, gleefully grinning, went to sleep. God save them from touching my motorcycle!

Satal
tried to kick me out of Redstone after the end of classes as soon as possible, but it took me a few days to collect my stuff. He was so angry that he even forgot about the artisans for some time. According to him, I deserved no less than two years of hard prison labor for being late with my departure to the capital. I thought that his Ho-Carg superiors raged and fumed because of my lateness. Far from that! After registering me as a necromancer and handing me an identification bracelet, Mr. Felister, smiling, offered his help with touring the capital's attractions and sightseeing. To my bewilderment he responded with a long and incomprehensible speech on issues of communication and security.

The hell with them!
It was time to tackle the problem of my strange manuscript more closely. Now, when I could ride my motorcycle, I had a chance to inspect all suspected sites in one day, travelling in comfort and not wasting money on carriages. After fiddling with the bike's controls, I gave the daisies a gentle blue color.

Dennis frowned,
"Could you paint them in black?"

"
Why?"

He did not rep
ly.

My
importunate curator took a seat on the trunk, and we began a methodical inspection of the places on my list, starting with the most distant.

The capital city
was big and chaotic; even Mihandrov had a more logical plan, despite its antiquity. The capital's architecture seemed lacking any general idea, although one or two attempts were made to put new real estate developments in some order, but then the situation went out of control again. As a result, a wide avenue that separated blocks of antique buildings could end in a cul-de-sac; narrow streets, wrapped around the hills, were punctuated by staircases. Centers of business activity from different eras - palaces, temples, and government buildings made of mud brick and stylized as modern - were embedded in the array of plain apartment boxes, usually built from the same brick, but of poorer finishing. And far to the east, the titanic arches of the aqueduct hung over the horizon like a strange dream. This complex combination of otherness and uniformity, almost at right angles and unexpected hurdles, blunted my sense of direction; I had to use a map every fifteen minutes, even though I usually did not suffer from topographical cretinism.

We drove to the old salt marshes converted into greenhouses,
circled around a sewage disposal factory (I will never get accustomed to the idea of using recycled water for drinking or bathing), and looked from afar at the New Blocks, populated by refugees from Arango. (The area smelled like a fermentation tank. If the answer to my riddle was hidden there - the hell with it).

My search didn'
t go well. Basically, the addresses I tagged didn't provide me with any hints. I sought for something botanical, related to the famous white mage Pierrot Sohane. But if a place I visited had something to do with a theater, it lacked anything botanical, even plain plant ornamentation. If it had some greenery, it had no connections with the eccentric white recluse. At lunch time I took a four hour break, following the local tradition. I intended to spend the hottest part of the day in the metropolitan library searching for literature on ancient manuscripts, but then I spotted the word "technomagic" in the catalog and got lost in the books, desperately wanting to find out what exactly technomagic meant. As a result, I postponed my search for the mysterious botanical-theatrical destination. Dennis peacefully snuffled in a chair, and I diligently waded through incomprehensible terms. Dreams about flying machines, inspired by
Rustle
, did not let me relax: I wondered whether such machines existed in reality. The remainder of the day quietly flew by over the books.

A surprise
awaited me at the hotel. It was getting dark. A few cheeky guys, whose faces already looked familiar to me, hung around my porch; some other boobies competed in artistic whistling under my windows, hoping to see my zombie. I went up to my room, picked up my slippers and a towel, and suddenly noticed a stranger sitting in my chair. Max, fanged and silent, stood between him and the door. I turned on a light; the intruder was Rem Larkes.

"What do you want from me, man?"

He cautiously rose from his chair: "Good evening, sir. I need to talk to you."

I tried to meet
his glance, but he persistently looked at something in the corner. He stood sideways, kept his head low, did not look into my eyes - these were obvious signs of submission. Was he really so fearful of Max? He, the dark mage? Impossible! Then why? Finally, I grasped it: Larkes treated me as a senior. Me! Good heavens! I was respected! For that, I could forgive him anything! And his face did not seem as unpleasant as before. Any man is allowed to have a few oddities! "Okay," I muttered without my previous push, "what do you want from me?"

He took a deep breath,
"I am ordered to recruit you."

"
To recruit?"

"To the
state security services."

"No way."

"It wouldn't cost you anything!" he started moaning. "No one would know. Your status as an agent wouldn't be recorded anywhere."

"Why do you need
my consent then? Just say that you have recruited me, and let us be done with it."

"The m
inister needs a status report on the eastern province from an independent source."

"What do I have to do with it?"

"You're going to Gilead, and it's right there."

Well, well…
"Nobody has told me yet where I'll go."

His face experienced a st
range convulsion. I understood: he tried to pull on his eyebrow.

"Felister is
waiting for a confirmation from Arango's NZAMIPS. It can take some time. We have no direct communication with them."

Shit!
My contract had no time limits, but my exams were in August.

"
Can you speed it up?"

"I'
ll do my best."

Perhaps
, having an acquaintance in the capital wouldn't hurt me. Subordination among the dark is more reliable than human friendship. Larkes wouldn't go against me, and I would have my own man in the ministry…

"I'll think
how to help you," I relented.

I
pondered on the pros and cons of the commitment he asked for and the usefulness of Larkes as my hand and concluded:

"Not for free."

"How much?" the former coordinator sighed.

"I don't care about money!
You'll do some work for me."

Larkes
musingly shuffled his lips (I understood that he frowned that way): "Elaborate, please."

"My u
ncle was murdered; artisans tried to kill me, too. There is one man in the capital who must know something about this. If you help me find him, you'll get your report on Arango."

"
What exactly happened to you?"

I wouldn'
t have told anyone about Uncle's book, but my subordinate was a different story. Hierarchy is sacred for the dark; we are not used to digging into our superiors, because duels between us end in death too often. So I didn't expect Larkes would play any mean tricks on me. But if his power would increase…but it couldn't happen to a man like him.

"Can I see the
object?" the former coordinator asked after listening about the ill-fated package.

I took
my treasure out of its cache in the suitcase. He examined the book, turned over a few pages, and studied its protective spells. His face acquired a business-like, concentrated expression. He found the location of secret signs in the book much faster than I did.

"I can say
right away why he was killed," Larkes shuffled his lips. "Your copy of the
Word About the King
is very old. I dare to guess that it's the original."

"Go on."

He sighed, either in surprise or ironically (I did not like that I could not read him clearly): "It is the oldest manuscript in the world; I cannot date it more exactly. The ancient believed that the
Word About the King
explained how the supernatural originated in our world. According to one legend, if the
Word
is read by a white mage, our civilization will be in terrible danger, but this is doubtful: the language the manuscript is written in is untranslatable. There exist a few copies of it, but they are useless. It is believed that only the original is suitable for reading."

I recalled
Rustle
: the monster did not know letters, but he could "read" some books by playing back memories of dark mages he was in contact with, if they read these books in their lifetime.

"The manuscript
was declared a national treasure twenty years ago, but government agents failed to discover in whose possession it was. Given its redemption price, no wonder the
Word
became an object of a hunt. And when artisans joined the search for it, blood was spilled."

The a
rtisans again! It was amazing how they always got under my skin. Larkes pointedly tapped the cover: "It does not matter whether the book is the original or a copy; you can be killed for both. Five years ago, at the peak of interest in the
Word
, eighteen book collectors were murdered! I strongly discourage you from showing the manuscript to specialists and advise you to stay away from any ancient literature."

"I do not care
much about the book," I took the letter and the envelope, which came with the book. "The one who sent this may know the name of the person who tried to kill me."

Larkes
solved my puzzle right away; he really was a good analyst. "I think you need a bookseller, whose hobby is gardening and who lives in a place that is mentioned in a comedy about Pierrot," the mage suggested. "The reverse order of meanings is less likely, as it would be too simple."

"If you find him,
I promise I'll do your report. But I won't sign my real name under it."

"No problem.
You are well educated and will easily collect good quality material for the primary analysis," Larkes rubbed his hands in anticipation. It looked strange; he rejoiced too early. "I'll come back tomorrow, around three p.m. The streets are less crowded at this time."

"How will you get in?"

He beckoned me to the closet and showed a hidden door, presumably leading to the stairs and a backdoor.

"Some magicians refuse to live in a
suite, if it doesn't have an alternative exit," he hemmed (perhaps it was his laughter). "But don't let others know about this," he nodded to the window, hinting at combat mages having fun outside.

I t
otally agreed with him on that; I didn't want to be attacked by them from two sides.

Waking
up the next morning, I realized that I was sick of the capital's exoticism. However, the blood feud for the dark was above all! I diligently stuffed my pockets with bags of tiny poison balls - to be armed if the right moment would come - and set off for lunch and a meeting with my curators. Felister didn't rent storage for my vehicle (I knew it was expensive).  Though I didn't mind keeping my motorcycle near my room at hand, I poured my discontent on him anyway, for appearances' sake, colorfully describing my vehicle to the outrageous interest of the army mages.

I came back to my room feeling
like a winner. It was about three p.m. Larkes already waited for me inside. He watched what was happening on the street from behind the curtains. The army mages tried to pull off the cap from the fuel tank of my bike with a fishing hook.

"What are they
searching for in the gas tank?"

"I do not know.
Do they think I keep fish inside?"

I brought a glass carafe with cold tea from the dining hall and gestured
for Larkes to join me at the table. "Have you found the sender of the letter?"

The former coordinator twitched his face:
"Tamur Hemalis, a bookseller, lives on Maitre Kebersen Street. The street was named after the playwright of a comedy about Pierrot." Larkes didn't expect me to be well educated. "His building has a greenhouse on the roof. He wasn't involved in the machinations with the
Word
. The man earns extra income translating from Sa-Orio languages. A year ago he had a health problem: the old man was badly beaten. Otherwise, he is unremarkable."

Bingo!
The white, engaged in the translation from Sa-Orio, certainly could call himself a "worthless master of mirrors" - those crazy Sa-Oriots wrote from right to left.

"Let's go visit him!"

"Right now?"

"No, we need to
disguise you first.  You see, your face is too memorable."

He got nervous.
"What are you going to do with my face?"

"Do not worry.
Nothing that would hurt you. Have you ever been to the theater?"