My Path to Magic (17 page)

"In short, we'll take the road to the east."

"Mihas!"

I had to take the kid to the house and let her cry it out.  The boy was surprisingly quiet and very seriously tried to persuade his mother to wait until the morning.  When we left, she was still sobbing.

"Is she from the white?" I asked, turning my motorcycle around.

"No.  My grandfather is a white."

"I see.  A family trait!"

"What is the family trait?" the boy felt hurt.

"Weak nerves."

Receiving my command, the motorcycle's magic breathed fire into the cylinders and spun the shaft; the engine roared, and a dazzling cone from the headlight punctured the darkness.

"Hold on tight!" I ordered pulling the strings of the coat, and we moved east, followed by the quick shadow of the zombie-dog.

I didn't return to the farm; my suspicions were correct and freedom was more important than money.  It seemed unwise to allow the "cleaners" to see my face: they could quickly take me to NZAMIPS.  I explained to the boy that all the zombies were gone from the farm, and the police would investigate the case.  I reminded him not to tell anyone about the dog.

"...Unless asked directly with no other option; outright lying is not good."

He nodded in accord.

The owners of the neighboring farm, alarmed by news of the
ghoul
s' attack and reassured that everything would be fine from now on, agreed to take care of the kid and let the police know about the incident.  Halfway to the highway, I saw from a distance a column of military trucks with the NZAMIPS logo, stirring dust from the opposite direction.  I cheerfully turned into the bushes—did not want to renew acquaintance with my "beloved captain."

A day later, back at home, browsing through the headlines of the morning papers, I realized what had happened.  It turned out that one of the policemen did break alive through that same cursed forest and managed to call for backup.  A regiment of NZAMIPS' troopers drove there all night because the three active
ghoul
s were horribly dangerous (originally there were four, but one of the killed "cleaners" managed to sell his life dear).  The military convoy was pursued by a pack of journalists, willing to risk their lives for an opportunity to observe the fight.  I saw a few of them thumbing a lift on the roadside, but intuition prompted me not to stop.  Well, they were in the right place, and no
ghoul
s—not even a poor
ghul—
were there.  All were decimated.

It was then that the folktale of the "dark knight on a horned monster" was born.

Mass media went on and on, relishing the story of a private magician that successfully replaced a battalion of "cleaners".  More sensible people questioned how the
ghoul
s could hide for so many years in the heart of a densely populated land, repeatedly attacking unsuspecting villagers.  Casualties of "cleaners" and policemen (the
ghoul
s had eaten the big boss) added savor to the story.  The chief of the regional NZAMIPS' office gave an interview, in which he regretted what had happened and remorsed, regretted and remorsed, and swore on his life that everything would be fine in the county from now on. 

It was then that I became a wanted criminal.  Initially, NZAMIPS' officials hinted at a reward for the "knight" for saving people, and then they publicly offered me to come and get it (did they think I was an idiot?).  Finally, a reward was promised for information about me (well, go interrogate the
ghoul
s!).  Ms. Fiberti, my "answering service", was visited by some guests, but she was a willful woman and chased them all out.  Emotions gradually quieted, but it was clear even to journalists that the dark magician, practicing for almost a year in the county, was from Redstone.

The day after the incident, I left the university after the second lecture reporting myself sick, and went to my "answering service".  There I was handed a new issue of
The Western Herald
.

"Ms. Fiberti, we need to talk seriously."

She knowingly nodded: "Do you want to shut down the business?"

"After what happened, NZAMIPS will comb the entire county.  I do not want trouble."

She sighed, "I'm sorry that it's over; I liked working with you.  May I," she adjusted her glasses in embarrassment, "write a book about you?"

"A book?"

"A novel.  Naturally, I'll change your name."

"Do you think it would be interesting to anybody?"

"I believe so."

"Fine!" I generously agreed.  "Just let me browse through it when you finish.  I don't want to look like a complete idiot."

Ms. Fiberti made me tea; I packed up the filing cabinet and neatly folded my business suit.

"Will you have problems because of me?"

She grinned: "If anything, I will say that I rented out a room with the phone and did not know who lived there."

So we parted.

I wrapped my black gripsack in a white towel and went to the junkyard, where my horned monster slept peacefully under the protection of the zombie-dog.  If someone stumbled into those two, the gripsack would be my smallest concern.  How could I manage to get into such a mess?  I thought I didn't do really bad things... at least I did not plan... most importantly, everyone was happy, and then suddenly—hop—I was a danger to society (according to NZAMIPS).  It was time to stop illegal activity.  I vowed to myself to find Captain Baer's business card in the pockets of my old pants, frame it, and hang over my desk as a constant reminder to stay away from adventures.

Part 3.  INTERNSHIP IN ALCHEMY

Chapter 12

"I'm a good-hearted dark mage, I'm a very modest dark mage, I am very, very..."

Should I stay quiet after what happened at the farm, or behave like everyone else?  Don't get me wrong—I am, of course, very intelligent—but acting is not my element.  I could convincingly simulate simple and natural reactions, but a sophisticated reconstruction of behavior was not my milieu.  That was more up the white magicians' alley.  How could I behave myself if I didn't know what would be best in my situation?

The question was relevant, because Redstone buzzed like a disturbed beehive.  I did not think that a couple episodes of my half-illegal business would make so much noise.  Interestingly enough, the townsfolk's reaction to that matter was diametrically opposed to the official view.  Apparently, people did not support the authorities.  I could imagine how irritated NZAMIPS' officials were!  I was praised, I was recommended as a role model, I was admired and, you know, the dark are suckers for flattery.  For obvious reasons, the mage remained anonymous, but I knew whom they were talking about.  The only thing that kept me from running through the streets shouting, "That knight is me! 
Me
!" was the zombie-dog.   Such a trick no one would forgive. 

University classes turned into a real test for my nerves: Quarters looked at me with a sly eye (what on earth made me show him my motorcycle?), and whenever at least three dark got together, they immediately began discussing "that same incident".  Nothing agitates the dark as much as another's glory!  All of my fellow students were confident that they would have done "the same", but better.  One twit even tried to move from word to deed, and Mr. Rakshat beat him so seriously that the guy had to go to the hospital.  Any other measures wouldn't discourage the dark; therefore, the teacher's over-reaction was considered adequate.  It was clear even to the white. 

Due to such cases the university offered a lecture - a review of supernatural phenomena, mandatory for all dark mages.  The ones who did not attend would not be allowed to take final exams.  The lecturer, sent by NZAMIPS, was a lady of colorless appearance, shy and embarrassed, who told us about the history of the scientific study of otherworldly powers, uttering phrases like "lethal" and "witnesses did not survive" with a slight stammer.  The officer vitalized only when she started a demonstration of heinous exhibits, spreading the disgusting stink of formalin throughout the entire room.

And I saw some of these exhibits without any formalin...

After the lecture it became clear to everyone—even to me—that the accomplishment of the feats, overblown by the media, could only be done by a well-trained otherworldly liquidator, a retired "cleaner", or an aged master looking for a meaningful death.  I didn't understand why I was still alive.  Logic dictated that either I embodied the Spirit of Holy Salem or the lady-lecturer slightly distorted the truth.

Since childhood I have been catching hints well, but my case did not require special subtleties: I ought to put a big, bold cross on my underground business.  That was, perhaps, for the better: how much longer could I risk my life?  Yes, I still owed money for the motorcycle (five hundred crowns) and needed to help my family.  I could not leave them without money—Lyuchik was going to a new school.  In a pinch, I could sell some stuff; the business suit was worth no less than a hundred crowns.

It was time to get more serious about my life—in the next month I would be twenty-one.  No more allowances for non-age.  At this stage, good students looked to make contacts with future employers and earn work experience instead of riding a motorcycle around the county with a magic gripsack at the ready.  It was time to decide which was closer to my soul: magic or alchemy.  Mr. Darkon was right: the majority of initiated dark mages chose the career of a combat mage (it was always easier to earn a living with one's hands, not one's brains), but I tested it and discovered that the job of a "cleaner" was rather monotonous.  To my chagrin, I did not have any employer in sight for a career in alchemy.

What about Quarters?

"Hey Ron, how is our patent doing?" I asked my friend.

"Excellent!  If Dad doesn't show a bit of generosity, I'll sell your invention to Domgari Motors.  Old hags still think that a student is a sort of free slave.  Don't piss!  You will be rich."

"What do you think: can I mention the patent in my resume?"

"You aren't going to be an alchemist, are you?"

"I have always been planning to become an alchemist."

"Weren't you going to learn magic?"

"So what?"

Quarters shrugged and immediately perked up: "How about making some money?"

"Don't even ask!"

"I've got some friends," Quarters hesitated.  "In short, they started a business..."

"Do they need a draftsman?"

"They need brains!  Oh, and a draftsman too.  They've signed a big contract: the optimization of gas generators."

"Shit tanks, you mean?"

Ron chuckled: "Tom, you have no idea what dough swirls in this business!  Do you know how much shit this town produces a day?"

I snorted.  Wow, what a start to my life!  Though, why not?

"What are the terms?"

"You'll like them."

Of course, compared to the income of a dark magician, it was no money at all, but I certainly couldn't become too choosy.  From a student's perspective, everything looked damn attractive, and from the point of view of a wanted criminal, the job was excellent camouflage.  Ron shared a common belief that alchemy was not the place for an initiated dark mage.

* * *

Edan Satal's career as the senior coordinator of the Northwestern Region began with resounding failure and public humiliation.  The excuse that it took some time to gain full control of the situation was poor consolation.  Had Satal caught the ill-starred mage in the heat of the moment, tortures and a murder would have been added to the other sins of the coordinator.  But the hero of Satal's humiliation was wisely hiding somewhere.

Care for the mental health of decision makers was the direct responsibility of empaths in the public service.  Ms. Kevinahari was confident that, whatever passions boiled in the soul of the dark magician, two or three weeks of hard work would melt them in dry pragmatism.  If nothing else happened.  So far, the only side effect of the scandal was the transfer of the regional NZAMIPS' office from Gerdana to Redstone.

Ms. Kevinahari presented an investigatory report on the Fitsroten Estate to the coordinator personally: "In some sense, we have been lucky this time—he drew a pentagram on the ground.  But some... dog…  dug all around and even peed all over.  Having examined... this, our best expert... I don't even know such words!  In short, he came to a conclusion: the power channel of our mage is nonstandard.  That's it."

"Perhaps, I'd better speak to the expert myself?"

"No, no!  You would kill each other.  Seriously."

Mr. Satal kept silence, and even the empath could not say whether the coordinator thought of the emerging issue or cherished his annoyance.

"Would you like me to communicate the results to Captain Baer?" Ms. Kevinahari disturbed the quiescence.

"No!" the coordinator startled.

The empath refrained from commenting, but Mr. Satal sensed some disagreement (or his teamwork skills improved) and found it necessary to explain: "Weren't you surprised that he switched transportation methods at exactly the time that we set up the ambush at the railroad station?"

"Yes, I was," Ms. Kevinahari admitted.  "Prior to that, he used trains so often that conductors thought up a nickname for him.  But Captain Baer is not a traitor, that's for sure!"

"I didn't mean him.  Lots of people work in his office.  I want to close all channels that information could leak from."

The empath reluctantly nodded, admitting that he was right, and immediately livened up: "Do you think that our mage has a support group?"

"Rather, a nonsupport group," Mr. Satal grimaced.  "Talks of the Artisans started again in some circles, meaning there will be sacrifices.  But I am not Larkes!  I'll be sentimental with no one.  If they stick out, they will pay dearly for that!"

Ms. Kevinahari conciliatorily shook her head: "The rrebirth of the sect requires a certain incubation period, if there is still anybody left.  Or do you think the incident at the estate was their work?"

"You mean Grokk?" the coordinator raised eyebrow.  "Nonsense!  The old knucklehead ran in the
ghoul
s' jaws to cover up his wrongdoing.  When he was in charge, seven (that we know about) were lost in that place.  He had to prove to everybody that the danger was exaggerated."