My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  Captain Baer started getting angry, but I did not relent. In the end, we concurred that a day of full-time work for the local NZAMIPS would be credited as a week toward the remaining four-year period under my contract.

  Thoughts of harshness and the injustice of life made me restless; besides, my treatment with inhibitors was over. Reactivation of my Source after a long period of suppression was akin to the new Empowerment. I expected to experience again all of its thirty three joys: unbridled lust for domination, inflated self-esteem, paranoid suspiciousness, irritability, mulishness, and laziness. I desired to kill everybody; huge Redstone suddenly became for me as small and cramped as my Krauhardian village. In nearly every place I met people who knew me, and I hated this. Bartenders in pubs greeted me by name and asked about my health ('I will outlive you, jerks!'), my former classmates got in my way all the time wondering how I was ('As if I am in hell!'), and when I almost collided with Larkes on the headquarters porch, I understood that the Roland Fund emerged in my life very timely.

  I quit my job at Biokin (finally) and set to work on Polak's project. Given my limited knowledge of biology, my chances of developing brilliant insight into ore microbiology were miniscule, but I hoped to grasp the depth of my ignorance within the time left. I decided to familiarize myself with the terminology at least, because for the next three years I would lack access to the libraries - fellows of the Roland Fund typically worked in places where no sane alchemist would voluntarily go.

  But I had no peace even in the library. Yesterday morning, when all the professors were supposed to be in their classes, I was caught by a nightmare of all the university’s darks - by Professor Shnise, an extremely boring theorist of white magic, lacking any feeling of self-preservation.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Tangor. What are you doing in the library? Are you feeling nostalgia?"

  "No, I came to educate myself." I tried to hide a monograph about inhabitants of the sea by covering it with a reference book.

  "It is commendable! What do you think this is?" he put under my nose a piece of paper.

  I barely fought a desire to hit him in the face. "A white spell, sort of."

  "You, dear, are truly a universal mage!" he laughed contentedly. I guessed that our librarian, Stephanie, blabbed to him about my strange interests. And I purposely did not approach this guy with questions - not to run into his silly sense of humor!

  "I think it's just a piece of a bigger scheme, a part of an external circuit. There should be more to it," I elaborated.

  "You are right," he pulled out another sheet and then put the two together for a second. "I, too, believe that it's a part of a complex perimeter. Well done! Frankly, I thought that Stephanie was kidding."

  He left me with a businesslike air and nearly instantly disappeared from sight. Why do people call the dark inconsiderate? White nerds like Shnise are much worse!

  By the end of the deferral period given to me by the fund's commissioner, I realized I wanted - or more correctly, not just wanted, but was eager - to work far, far away in the wilderness!

  Before leaving Redstone, I needed to check on the recovery of my Source, so I went to the testing ground.

  Colonel Fatun refused to help me. "I'm not going to provoke you, do not expect that. I'm a psycho, but not suicidal. Here's an imitator and crayons for you, go and exercise."

  My Source responded promptly and habitually, and I blew a phony undead into such tiny pieces that they perfectly blended with the soil. When I called out to Fatun, he responded with a delay - he was hiding from me across the river! I did not need more deferrals - I could pack a suitcase and leave. All that remained was to drop by the commissioner and find out where I should go.

  * * *

  "Do you really want to give away such a specialist to the Roland Fund?" Captain Baer felt uneasy after his talk with Thomas Tangor.

  "My friend, do you have other dark magicians under the age of thirty in your department?"

  Baer strained his memory and was forced to admit that he didn't.

  "There you are! No signed contract can accelerate the physiological maturing of a mage. To develop a healthy psyche, a dark under the age of thirty should have the freedom to choose what he wants to do with his life. Any forceful intervention in this process full of sacred sense will produce a permanent node of conflict in his mind, and the mage will see enemies in the wrong people. It is not constructive. Satal may not know this, but why did Kevinahari overlook the fact that Tangor was too young to be forced to sign a long-term contract?

  Baer became confused. "Sir, there were some circumstances…"

  "Yes, yes, I read his file," Larkes' gaze shifted toward the wall, hung with portraits. "He is a very talented young man. As I see, the 'cleaner' hadn't found the right approach to him."

  'Tangor did not realize how lucky he was that Larkes did not linger at Redstone for one more year,' the captain said to himself.

  "I hope that our young talent will recognize soon that he has mistakenly chosen alchemy as his preferred field. Let the Roland Fund be the source of his irritation for the next three years. Think for a minute, why does the fund refuse to lend money to students of combat magic?"

  "Why did they not agree to the buyout option?"

  "They would be happy to," the senior coordinator smiled serenely, "but the fund is controlled by the government, and the state wishes Tangor to pay off with his work."

  "To be honest, I feel more relaxed without our student alongside."

  "Have you noticed that, too?" Larkes perked up. "There is something in the young man's nature that drives him into the epicenters of conflicts. It would be better if for the next year or two he stays away from Redstone."

  Captain Baer shrugged. The concerns of the dark magician seemed as unnatural as his cheerful smile. Well, clearly, Larkes wanted to get rid of his rival's protégé, and there was nothing he could do to change it! At least, the senior coordinator used legitimate methods.

  Chapter 26

  It took me a long time to reach my new place of work. No express trains went there. When I looked at the map, I understood why the commissioner named my destination at the last minute: he was afraid that I would emigrate from Ingernika without hesitation, because the place was in deep wilderness and in no way better than Kashtadar. Naturally, the fund wasn't going to pay for moving my zombie and motorcycle, so I had to fork it out. The train did not have any compartments for cargo, and I had to load up my motorcycle into an open wagon with coal.

  Heavy rain and Polak saw me off. Polak sadly soaked under a large, brightly-colored umbrella that was barely protecting him from the gusty autumn wind. "Have you thought of our project?"

  "Yes," I gave him back the re-tied packet. "But you must understand that I do not know this subject well. We need to set up some experiments to get a feeling as to whether it is feasible. Somewhere outside the city."

  He nodded knowingly: "I thought about it, too. A project of this scale would be difficult to keep secret, and a bare theory is not patentable. A rural village is what we need…"

  Polak caught my hint on the fly.

  "Well, great. When I settle there, I'll send you a letter. You will have to come to my place. I'm no longer free to move."

  "I understand. Thank you. We'll wait till you are ready."

  "Do not gossip unnecessarily about the project. If you need money, I have saved some. As a last resort, contact Ronald Rest. But be careful with him, he is a quirky businessman."

  And we partied on this.

  Regional trains leisurely drag-pulled me to my destination. I gazed out of the window in boredom. At first I saw only rural landscapes through the spaces in the windbreaks; then warehouses began to rise above the tree tops and powerful freight trains saw me off with a loud roar - it was the western industrial area. Some noisy drunks partied in the compartment next to mine, and every hour they tried to engage me in their fun. After two exchange stations, the design of the cars simplified, and windbreaks degenerated int
o a ridge of evergreen shrubs planted on the sides of the train path purely as a formality. The pastures and factories became replaced by rocky wasteland overgrown with weeds. I recalled that these plains were called a "graveyard of civilizations". In any hill, if you dug it, you would find material suspiciously resembling concrete, or layers of black, tarry deposits, looking like remnants of pavement. The ruins of King Girane's epoch bristled nearby, too. The ill-fated kingdom took the hardest hit in this area: people fled, the otherworldly killed animals and scorched vegetation, and winter rains washed away thin topsoil. The nameless hills of the Midwest had been desolated until the last century…

  Now people populated them. I clearly saw signs of it as I was approaching my destination. An antediluvian locomotive on its last legs dragged four cars. The train was fully packed; if not for a harsh conductor, people would have climbed even on its roof. My zombie and I repelled their persistent attempts to sit on my suitcase; sociable newsmongers muttered in my ear, and children screamed in its every compartment. Maybe I should have travelled under my own steam.

  At a run-down station with the proud name of "Junction" - it was my destination, and half of the passengers got off the train, as I dragged my bulky luggage to the wagon's door. Also, I had to unload my motorcycle. An assistant machinist urged me to hurry and even threatened me, but after my question, "Where will you hide from my assault curse?" he shut up. Finally, my entire luggage was down on the platform, and the train departed into the mysterious distance.

  I looked around suspiciously: a slightly skewed wind-turbine generator towered near a squat station building painted in three shades of yellow. Clusters of telegraph wires stretched among posts in the most insane ways, the arriving crowd cheerfully boarded unthinkably smoking vehicles (no horse-, ox-, or donkey-driven carriages were seen nearby), and in the span of two heartbeats I understood - it was MY PLACE! Five years of my previous life fell off, rustling. I felt myself at home!

  I took a deep breath and instantly caught the enticing smell of home pies. A woman holding a basket was selling them at the station door. Leaving the luggage for Max to guard, I ran through the paths to her. I just barely managed to buy the last pies. The peddler habitually cheated me out of two cents. Right away I realized that the pies, supposedly containing only apples, had at least one more filling - cabbage (of course, it was cheaper that way!). Walking back to my stuff, I tried to figure out where I would go next.

  People still swarmed on the platform, and they found no better place than next to my luggage. I cautiously approached them, listening to their conversation.

  A presentable man in dark green rubber boots (the latest squeak of the village fashion?) strongly objected to a wiry man in an aristocratic outfit of police uniform, military boots, and a totally civilian woolen hat (was he hiding baldness?).

  "I am telling you, Mr. Brian, our alchemist has arrived with this train! Can't you see this?" the man waved his cap in the direction of my motorcycle; the cap missed by an inch the nose of my stunned zombie. A normal dog would not stand such treatment.

  "I do not dispute this, Mr. Kvayfer, but my source explicitly informed me that a NZAMIPS expert would come on this train," his opponent stuck to his guns with restrained annoyance.

  "Then go and look for him somewhere else!" Mr. Kvayfer waved his hand toward the station, again by miracle sparing my dog's nose. Max, getting tired of all the fuss before his muzzle, yawned pointedly. Looking at the dog, Mr. Brian perked up noticeably. The quarrel erupted with renewed force. I exchanged glances with my zombie and started quietly retreating to the station; I could hear their discussion perfectly from afar, but in case they came to blows (Kvayfer was supported by two men and Brian by one, but with a military bearing), I would not be hurt.

  "Sir, excuse me please, are you Mr. Tangor, by chance?" A guy of my age, dressed too light for the weather - a wool sweater, thin pants, and heavy boots on top of thick socks - stared at me with hope.

  "If I am him, then what?" I said in a low voice and tried to gently push him off the platform to get us out of hearing range. Too late.

  "Hello! How are you? We are so lucky to have you here! We have been waiting for you!" he exclaimed.

  The disputants began to turn around, and I had to pretend that I just came up.

  "Excuse me, who are you?" Kvayfer rushed up to me so quickly that Max twitched to leap across his path. This lively man deftly grabbed my hand and started shaking it. I wondered if he knew that I was a dark mage.

  "How are you? I am the chief of the Suesson Alchemical Division. My assistant Winkle," he pointed to one of his escorts, "and our chauffeur Shackly," he swung in the direction of another. "How has your trip been so far?"

  He forgot to tell me his name. "What is your name?"

  "I am a fool! My name's Bob Kvayfer!" he waved his cap widely and hit Max right on the ears.

  "Woof!" my zombie-dog expressed his attitude. Everyone around instantly froze. Taking advantage of the moment of confusion, I managed to back off from this guy to a reasonable distance. One must not grab and shake me! My dark nature howled like a circular saw.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," that was Kvayfer's opponent. "I am Hannibal Brian, the head of Suesson's NZAMIPS. You are a combat mage, aren't you?"

  "Yes, I am!" the sooner the people around me understood it, the better. Kvayfer noticeably reduced his push.

  "As far as I know, an expert for our forensic department was on this train. Do you know anything about it?"

  "I have no idea! What's the name of the expert?"

  Mr. Brian hesitated. "Unfortunately, I haven't been told his name."

  "Then I advise you to find out!"

  No, there were no other dark magicians on the train, but I was angered by the fact that he did not know my name. We left Mr. Brian alone on the platform, and the rest of us dragged my luggage in the direction of the station square. I must admit that Sorcar's example was contagious: in addition to the suitcase and two boxes of books, I took along a silver dinner set, a repair kit for the motorcycle, a neat chest with potions, and a miracle of modern alchemy - a gramophone (some morons tried to steal it twice on the train). The ability of this device to play music without any magic aid pleased me aesthetically.

  Under my strict guidance the luggage and zombie were loaded on a small truck. This beat-up vehicle was spattered with mud up to the roof. Everything and everyone whom we met on the way was dirty up to their brows - either the county lacked roads, or local residents were unaware of them.

  Watching talkative and energetic Mr. Kvayfer, I realized that my new boss did not know how to handle dark mages. Perhaps he was aware that such people existed, but a circle of people with whom he communicated - his subordinates, friends, and neighbors - definitely lacked any dark. In the future this promised me plenty of silly problems. I even considered renewing my acquaintance with Mr. Brian - smoothing out such roughness was his sacred duty, after all. I decided that as soon as I settled in, I would find the chief of Suesson's NZAMIPS.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in Redstone, artisans conducted covert actions. A young man with thick brown curls put on a colorful courier's uniform - wearing a uniform made his face difficult to remember - and took a box tied with red ribbon. Long ago he learned a skill to remain unnoticed. Neither bystanders, nor miracle survivors, nor corpses raised by necromancers could describe the elusive killer: even his unique feature - abnormally dilated pupils - did not appear in their testimonies.

  He reached the second floor of an apartment building, passing a concierge desk and two residents going down the stairs; he paused at one door, put his thoughts in order and lifted the box to chest-level - the deadly machine hidden inside could make only one shot. The assassin learned a lot about his victim residing in this unit and could spot him in any crowd, from the back or profile, but the one who opened the door wasn't him - it was a saucy wench, wearing a tucked-in skirt and sandals on her bare feet.

  "Who are you looking for, sweetie?"
/>   "Where…is…he?" What a mishap - he had to reveal his voice to a potential witness.

  "The tenant has moved out!" another female voice said inside the apartment. "He got out yesterday."

  A doormat flopped behind the door, a bucket thundered - the second woman was also curious to see the hapless visitor. The fake courier recoiled at the elevator and fled.

  Later, the assassin rolled on the floor in hysterics, claiming that it wasn't his fault. A dose of "dragon tears", slowly dissolving in his blood, returned presence of mind to him and made him ignore two watchful pairs of eyes staring at his back.

  "What do you think?"

  "Sadly Ilan is of no use to us anymore, teacher."

  "I agree," the teacher took a deep breath. "Dark sorcerers managed to tame the ancient demon again. We've failed to rid it of its carrier this time. But the demon is stupid; we will succeed next time. In half an hour the action of "tears" will peak. Go and help Ilan to peacefully pass away."

  The companion of the teacher quietly nodded. "Do you want me to find out where the mage moved to?"

  "Wait! So many of our failures are associated with the name of this dark. Let's not rush. Never do what others may expect from you, Derik. Do not behave predictably."

  "That mage is dangerous," Derik took a sip from a cup of aromatic herbal tea and absent-mindedly watched as his teacher's cat intently sniffed something in the corner. "Despite his young age, he is a tough fighter. They plug holes up with him all over Ingernika. Our brothers had believed that the ritual he was a party to was impossible to interrupt; he proved the opposite. And he is open-minded, in contrast to his father. Some are saying that he even learned white magic. Should we stop him before he becomes stronger?"

  The eyes of his teacher, faded from age, examined the face of his collocutor. Derik expected to hear something like "patience and patience is our fate" or "you need to calm down" - after all, they had worked together for thirty years - but his teacher nodded quietly: "Something is bothering you. Do you have a presentiment about him?"