My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  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.

  Chapter 8

  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.

  Last 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. Tangor," 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 trained 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 suggestion 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 trained 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, what 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.

  "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 matters 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 in 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, the 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 han
dsome 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.

  To 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!

  Chapter 9

  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.