My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  The longhaired with horrible ears looked just like Bandit when he pissed in my shoes. Combat with the dwarf was aesthetically disgusting to me. Yeah, behind the backs of these two clowns there were evil masterminds who planned and organized the explosion in the mine and the murders of kids; but the sinister Salem Brotherhood became forever tied up in my mind with the two funnymen. "May we reimburse you for a moral injury?" the longhaired squeaked with hope.

  "We'll cover the suffering damage."

  "We'll pay for harm done to you!"

  "Stop it! Am I correct that you are willing to compensate me?"

  "Yes!"

  What should I ask them for? I went into the house to pick up my diary and started turning pages. Seeing a notebook in my hands, the guests became noticeably sad.

  I found what I wanted. "I'll agree on an authentic bone from the City of Bekmark!"

  "It won't work," the skinny giggled in a very silly manner, then caught my gloomy gaze and got scared (hopefully he didn't shit his pants).

  "It's not in our power!" the dwarf jabbered. "The bones were kept in museum storerooms without special protection, even without warding spells…"

  Of course, they weren't artifacts and had no practical use. Apparently, someone had found value in them.

  "Stolen?"

  "Yes," the skinny confirmed in low voice.

  I could have asked them to dig out new ones. But the place of their excavation was outside of Ingernika.

  "Another option: the same from Capetower."

  The dwarf's eyes started running. "This we can do," he raised his head, met my eyes for a second, and then pointed his gaze to the ground again. "But since your participation in Capetower's ritual is almost decided, such payback would seem like…"

  "Trickery!" the skinny finished for him.

  Why did strangers always know more about my future than I did?

  To let them go without retribution would mean to lose my self-respect. Perhaps there was a small thing they could do for me, after all…

  "My last choice. Find all (I really mean ALL) available information about my father."

  They became a little confused. "Why do you not ask your family about this?" the skinny inquired cautiously.

  He was determined to lose his teeth today! And ears! When the skinny saw my face, he became pale and rushed to hide behind his less stalwart companion.

  "We'll do, Mr. Tangor!" the dwarf began jumping like a ball. "Do not doubt. Give us a month. Just a month!"

  "Okay," I generously allowed.

  And they quickly disappeared, without losing their teeth and ears.

  I tried to pull myself together.

  How dare they remind me about my family! I had no desire to explain to everyone that my Mom lied to me. It was so humiliating!

  During my last visit to Krauhard I heard from my Mom a beautiful tale of a noble NZAMIPS officer who died in the line of duty. I would have believed such a story right off, if not for the shadow of Messina Fowler in my mind. With her aid, I could confidently recognize signs of deceit - mother's glance running off to the side, her fiddling hands, her smile that was out of place. That's when I decided to collect information about my dad by myself.

  I made a record in my diary to check for a package from the Salem Brothers in a month. Nothing would save them from my wrath if they didn't deliver on their promise.

  Chapter 37

  "Two days for the message to reach the coordinator," Lavender guessed aloud, "a couple of days for gathering a group, and another three days to get back to us. A week before they appear, at most."

  The success of their operation and their own lives depended on the civil service – NZAMIPS - and this bothered them most. If the army had stood behind their backs, the scouts would have felt much more confident.

  "Look, any ritual takes no more than a day to perform," Lavender's eyes absently wandered, exactly like in an elderly woman on the verge of sclerosis, "But preparation for it could take months: to find a hidden place, to fabricate enough amulets, warding signs and perimeters, to assemble artifacts…Where will you do this work without unwanted attention?"

  The coworkers exchanged knowing looks. "The textile factory!"

  * * *

  "Ginger, Ginger! Where are you?" an elderly woman walked along bushes and fences, peering her purblind eyes into the dark shadows; her hands squeezed a worn-out cloth bag. "Kitty, sweetheart, where are you hiding? Young sirs, have you seen a small, red-haired cat?"

  A group of poorly dressed children responded with a discordant "no"; some even volunteered to help in the search. After a whole day of wandering the streets, Lavender convinced herself that she indeed lost a six-month-old kitten with a white muzzle and ginger-colored coat.

  "Can I help you, Miss…?"

  "Tabret, sir! My cat ran away. She is red-haired, her name's Ginger. I haven't seen her for the second day in a row! The baker's wife, Wanda, said that dogs were chasing somebody yesterday evening. Was it my Ginger? She's very homesick! I raised her since she was teeny-weeny. And my neighbor said…"

  The man that stopped Lavender (middle-aged, looking like a priest) patiently listened to her chatter, appropriately inserting all sorts of "ohs!" and "hmms". "Let me help you find your cat - I am friends with everybody here. Do you know where the Rimplyak's elementary school is?" he told the old lady.

  "Of course I do! My nephew was a student there before my sister moved out of Septonville."

  "Great! Then come to the school tomorrow, after dinner. Ask for Derik, just Derik. Anyone will show me to you."

  Ms. Tabret thanked the man a bit confusedly and overly wordy. Derik nodded graciously, but no longer supported her conversation - he manipulated people skillfully. Lavender acutely sensed danger; she no longer pretended to be a lonely eccentric white. Although she WAS, in everything: gestures, gait, speech pattern.

  "See you tomorrow, Ms. Tabret, tomorrow!"

  Later, at night, Lavender meditated on the floor, recalling Derik's image. Her hectic thoughts slowly dissolved in an ocean of absolute rest, letting a whisper of her Source rise to the surface of her consciousness; this skill was open only to the most capable white magicians: an ability to see things as they were, through all the shells and shields.

  She finally recognized what it was! Her own likeness scared her, the spiritual kinship that she sensed: the man with eyes of a priest wasn't the one he pretended to be. They were alike: both had their own sordid secrets, and both were the white mages who knew how to lie and kill. Between two breaths, Lavender realized that she had talked to an artisan.

  She rushed to Pete in the middle of the night, asking him not to seek her out no matter what would happen. "It's our only chance to influence events - to be at the epicenter of them."

  "You've lost your mind, colonel!" Pete became seriously worried. "You won't get 'thanks' for risking your life without the approval of our superiors. And most importantly, why are you doing this? You won't be able to communicate with us - artisans are watching for their own people. Taking root in the sect for a few years would have made more sense. But not in our case - the ritual will start in a few days, I sense it with my ass!"

  "I have to use this opportunity. I'll be our last chance weapon!" Lavender's mate failed to shake her confidence. "You are a suicide!"

  "Do not forget, I am quite a strong magician," Lavender smiled.

  "But what's the point in risking your life?"

  "Okay, let's assume that NZAMIPS will send its people timely and they won't botch up anything. Then I'll just quietly retire. But what if they arrive too late, or fail to overcome the artisans' defense, or allow themselves to be drawn into a violent confrontation? It will be too late to bite our elbows!"

  "I guess I won't be able to talk you out of this," Pete was cursing the day he agreed to this mission.

  "No, you won't!" Lavender smiled slyly and flew off to meet with the zealots, about whom the decent people of Ingernika preferred to speak in undertones.

 
And the fake gravedigger remained alone, cursing his forefathers, artisans, kings, kings' and artisans' ancestors, all the white mages, and those who allowed his white companion to act independently and made him suffer from anxiety!

  * * *

  Colonel Kilozo's skepticism about NZAMIPS wasn't justified - Larkes had gathered a combat group before the scouts arrived at Septonville. "I need a dark mage," Captain Aleph Klyamski reported to the coordinator. The commander of the group was a middle-aged man with a hyena-like jaw. Klyamski was one of few police officers who fought white fanatics in cursed Nintark and lost his bride there - she took the side of the artisans and died in an orgy of violence. Captain Klyamski still experienced a burning sense of guilt, extrapolating his hatred to all white mages. Larkes used his group for top secret tasks.

  "It has to be a strong combat mage who could beat up any of his coworkers from Septonville's NZAMIPS. Can we borrow one from the army?"

  "No. Army mages are masters of attack in a crowd and not good as duelists. We don't want to tear down the entire town; we need to neutralize a single traitor. I have a good candidate. His motivation is guaranteed!"

  On the fourth day after sending the request for enforcement, Pete was shocked to the core - he found a sign at the appointed place that help had arrived. The scouts totally unexpected such promptness from lazy NZAMIPS! They met in a woodshed on the edge of Septonville.

  "Colonel Kilozo? Did you let the white mage join the artisans?" the commander of the group could not believe his ears. "Do you understand what you have done?!"

  'He's a typical policeman, not a grain of imagination, not a shadow of doubt,' Pete said to himself. "Colonel Kilozo is a loyal officer and an experienced agent. She understands what she is up to, sir."

  "We will be revealed, thanks to her!"

  Cold fury started boiling in Pete's chest, "They'll never get anything from her!"

  "Enough, captain!" another officer - a combat mage - grunted indulgently. "The artisans' ideology is not a flu that could be caught through air. She's made the right decision. In such a serious business any insurance does not hurt. What was the reason to call for help?"

  * * *

  Lavender Kilozo fit into the artisans' group with incredible ease. The cultists were very, very cautious with ordinary people; every new person was let into the sect after several years of probation, but a white mage was another matter. The white were more sincere, consistent, responsible, and disciplined. Lavender willingly showed signs of consent with Derik; the artisan had no reason to think that he didn't get her soul along with her words.

  What a pleasure it was for her to watch the work of the virtuoso! Her new friend could persuade his interlocutor of almost anything. On her first day with the group, he handed a red-haired male cat to her, and he overcame Lavender's timid objection that her kitty was female in a half-hour cordial chat. Having returned home, Lavender laughed like crazy, scaring the poor cat to death.

  After establishing herself in the group, the scout began teasing Derik.

  "The dark are part of our society, they enjoy its benefits, but do not share its burden," Derik prophesied emotionally. "We have to limit their selfishness and make them serve people!"

  Ms. Tabret was supposed to agree with him; instead Lavender earnestly asked, "Is it not like this now? Dark magicians serve in the army and in NZAMIPS, defending ordinary people from otherworldly." The scout enjoyed her opponent's momentary hesitation and then clapped her hands joyfully: "I got your point! We won't be compensating them for their inconvenience and risk, right? It will be CHEAPER your way!"

  Derik muttered something vague and changed the topic. Lavender laughed to herself: "Hey, sir artisan, did it not come to your mind that the current stand on the dark is FAIR?"

  Lavender studied the sect from the inside with professional thoroughness. The majority of its members were white and ordinary people; the officially declared goal of the artisans was global spread of a strange, bizarre philosophical system which pretended to be universal. Students spent their time on attempts to break away from reality and immerse themselves in the fantasy world (refugees were the most diligent students, being disoriented by the loss of familiar surroundings). After boiling in the starry company of moralizers long enough, most of the learners lost the ability to think critically and became completely locked up inside their circle of fellow believers. Derik experienced a morbid attraction to the companionship of the sly white, the cause of which he probably did not understand. Lavender described his condition as "intellectual boredom" - the clever man had nobody worthy to talk to nearby. With a serious face, honestly looking into his eyes, the scout exquisitely mocked her companion, turning his logic upside down, and inevitably made him doubt his own preaching. Experiencing a fiasco time after time, Derik, nonetheless, persistently searched for the next meeting with her.

  "Do you agree, Kasia," the artisan shortened her name in the rural manner," it would be great to get rid of the otherworldly once and for all?"

  "Of course, but is it possible in principle?"

  This question wasn't ordinary: archeological findings showed that any past civilization discovered so far had been attacked by the supernatural sooner or later; hence they all needed dark magic - weaponry against the otherworldly.

  "I believe it is. It hasn't happened so far because of constant interference in our work."

  Who hampered the artisans' fight with the otherworldly was clear: of course, evil dark magicians! Because the ritual was interrupted, Derik couldn't prove that the ritual worked at all. If he had argued that the ritual was reversed by the dark, Lavender would have opposed that dark magic couldn't revoke the white.

  "You know, our world and the world of the supernatural exist independently of each other…" he addressed metaphysical issues for the first time. "And white magic repels supernatural, while dark - attracts. The dark Sources are a sort of threads, connecting us with the supernatural world!"

  "Like elastic strings?!" Lavender developed his thought: "Without these threads, the two worlds would have been swimming like dumplings in the soup, absolutely free. What if they don't part fast enough or come in touch again just by chance?" She continued naively, "Oh no! Without dark mages the otherworldly will crash us with all their might!"

  Derik shuffled his lips. He couldn't disprove her logic.

  "Wouldn't it be better if we don't mess up with dark magic?" she asked plaintively. "Let it be as it is. Or it might get worse."

  The artisan sighed and turned their conversation to cats. Lavender congratulated herself on another victory.

  That's how they communicated. Derik often invited Lavender to the cafe and confectionery. The scout gratefully enjoyed the coffee and listened to how other mages from their group, sitting at a nearby table, wrangled over the mounting of an unnamed structure at the textile factory. A dark-traitor from NZAMIPS - a disgustingly brazen combat mage, perfectly conscious of his indispensability - flickered on periphery of her vision, too. "Another week and a half, max. Perhaps, they are waiting for the Solstice."

  Chapter 38

  The Salem Brothers kept their promise. When the dwarf and a mailman pulled a hefty box out of their truck, I thought they delivered everything, including my dad's school reports and his grocery receipts! But the box was filled with copies of NZAMIPS reports either written by my father or related to him. The dwarf cordially offered to call him with any questions - apparently, he hid another such box somewhere.

  I spent two days walking around the "box," not daring to touch it. If I had started reading, the voiceless past would have burst into my life and changed it forever. Finally, I overcame my indecisiveness and took the folder that was at the very top - The Lineage.

  I must say, my parentage had nothing to do with a remote village in Krauhard. My forefathers were dark magicians who betrayed freedom for the sake of despised comfort. My great-grandfather served the king; my grandfather worked for the Inquisition - the Holy Fathers needed someone to deal with both
the rebellious dark and the supernatural. He became wealthy and acquired a few enemies, such as Axel. His two sons obtained the best education for that time. My real uncle, a modest and wealthy master of bank safes, still lived in Finkaun. His younger brother, my dad, dreamed of something bigger, and Fate played along with him: the Reformation began.

  It was an amazing time. Society freed itself from the tight control of the Inquisition and bans on magic. Artisans became a legitimate political party. Sweet dreams possessed the minds; people believed they could live well and in peace without any control whatsoever. Artisans became quickly radicalized. Part of them insisted on new reforms in favor of more freedom; others decided to take advantage of already available opportunities: they created their own heaven on earth in Nintark. Preaching about agape love, artisans reveled in power and practiced the sacrifice of dark. Soon the odious city turned into a troubled cemetery.

  My father perceived the troubled time with enthusiasm, traveled a lot, tried out different occupations, and eventually settled on the career of an officer of the newly-established NZAMIPS (perhaps, he had no other choice, given the reputation of his grandfather). And he became famous! My dad was the head of the Department Of Crimes Against Personality (magic crimes, of course) within the Ministry of Public Defense.

  After the fall of Nintark, on a wave of panic and confusion, the ministry's higher-ups almost accomplished a coup in their effort to punish those responsible for Nintark, and a new term appeared in jurisprudence: theological threat. Toder Tangor was given supreme authority to unleash on brazen white mages all the power of the state's repressive machinery, and nobody could stop him. The previously seemingly invincible sect practically vanished.

  My dad returned to Finkaun as the senior coordinator of the Northwestern Region, became married and continued chasing the activists of the crushed sect, who escaped prosecution. The papers mentioned his hobby that consumed most of his spare time: he was collecting ancient books. A combat mage, a "cleaner", adoring wading through unreadable texts in the extinct languages of vintage books? I didn't believe it. What was so important in those books? Were they the real reason why he was killed? Uncle Gordon lost his life because of a book, too. NZAMIPS experts failed to determine the motives of my dad's murder, but they were certain that he was killed. He died when he was performing a ritual. Dad's enemies brusquely barged into his spell, causing deadly backfire, and shot him from a crossbow to make his death a sure thing.