The train accelerated - we had successfully passed the check. For the next few hours, conductors walked through the carriages again, gently calling out the names of the passengers, as if congratulating their arrival. Yeah, we were about to arrive in the Golden Harbour - the dream of all the bums of Ingernika.
Railroad tracks abruptly ended almost over the precipice; from there a usual serpentine road went down to the shore. Stunning views of the Golden Harbour, the largest city on the Southern Coast, opened up from the rocky peak, right where the station was situated. The height of the peak concealed the distance, and water seemed to be within a hand's reach. City streets, houses, and gardens chaotically terraced down to the embankment. A thickly-purple armada of storm clouds rolled towards them - it was the end of the velvet season. The praised azure sea waters had already become lead from the first winter storm; sharp gusts of wind fiddled with my clothing and tried to snatch the gripsack out of my hands; the air was warm, despite the late fall.
The passengers bustled, pushed each other at the baggage car, and nervously looked at the low-flying clouds. I immediately went to the exit: travelling light had its advantages. Looking at my black suit, the gripsack, and an umbrella-walking stick, not even one son-of-a-bitch tried to come closer than five steps to me, not to mention robbery attempts.
I needed to find a hotel before it started raining. A few open horse-driven carriages waited for passengers, as did one limousine-taxi. The driver courteously opened the door for me - he didn't doubt my choice.
"Would you prefer a waterfront hotel? Many are vacant now."
"No, some place quieter and closer to downtown." And drier – the first rain drops had already plopped on the window shield. The car was half-way through the serpentine route, when somebody in the sky turned on the shower.
I was impressed with the rain - Krauhardian rains were like a dog's piss by comparison. Roads immediately turned into rivers, visibility was reduced to a couple of steps, and real waterfalls came down from the roofs. I thought we would have to wait at the curb for the rain to pass by (or it would wash us away), but the driver somehow managed to navigate in a continuous curtain of water. We arrived at the hotel that had a covered courtyard; through the back door, I made it inside without getting a drop of rain. The taxi driver had earned his tips.
I planned to start my search for the zombie in a couple of days. Max had been waiting for me for six months, and a few more days wouldn't change anything. I needed to look around; the main thing was not to forget the purpose of my trip in the abundance of new experiences. I wrote "Max" on a piece of napkin and attached the note to the most prominent spot - the toilet door. Now I could relax and do something that ordinary people did when they had plenty of money.
* * *
In mid-summer Edan Satal's wife gave birth to a son. The magician was very proud, as if the gender of the baby was exclusively his achievement, and aggressively shared his joy with coworkers. Realizing that such behavior destabilized the team rather than contributed to more productive work, the senior coordinator sent his subordinate on vacation (for the two prior years plus the current year). Taking care of his screaming child, the mage quickly came back to reality and returned to work ahead of time.
Satal planned an expansion of his department - he thought to add retrospective animation (who would dare say that it was not practical?). Unfortunately, attempts to engage necromancers in the work of NZAMIPS resembled catching a black cat in a coal shed, but Satal did not give up hope. Periodically, rumors about his activity reached the senior coordinator's office to the deep displeasure of the latter.
Once Satal lingered after a routine meeting with his boss to ask about his former student, "Do you know where Tangor is now?"
"He worked for the Army, but then disappeared."
"Why?"
"Because he is a pussy. I'm disappointed with him. He realized that the disk amulets from Haino's estate didn't match his interpretation of the ritual's scheme, but his character did not allow him to admit that he was wrong," Larkes said, sorting out papers with Tangor's handwriting on it.
"Do you have any ideas where he would go?"
"How do I know?"
"Did his curator not follow him?" Satal was astonished.
"They didn't feather in," the senior coordinator tried to be diplomatic, though he wanted to kill the bunglers from the support services.
"Ha!" his cheeky subordinate grinned, lounging in the armchair and clearly intending to give his colleague a piece of advice.
Larkes' eyebrow started twitching - the senior coordinator's self-restraint had its limits. The impending duel was prevented by an agitated secretary who broke into his chief's office: "Sabotage in the Kerpan labs!"
"Poisoning?" Larkes suspected negligence at work with Sa-Orio's gas.
"Explosion!"
"What happened?" Satal became interested.
"It will be your job to find out," Larkes jumped at the opportunity to be rid of the troublesome mage - he could not stand overly independent employees. "You're the chief of practical magic!"
Chapter 22
Alex unlocked the door of his office. The office previously belonged to Professor Nursen. Carefully cleaned quill pens patiently waited for the return of the previous owner (Jim Nursen loved antique things), but the inkwell had already dried up - three months passed since the tragic death of the archeologists. Alex looked through the titles of folders lying on his table.
"We are very grateful for your help sorting out the professor's archive," an unpretentiously dressed man watched closely the actions of the white.
Alex shrugged. He couldn't leave his mentor's works unknown to society.
"Without you, it would be impossible to finish his last manuscript," the man went on, not embarrassed by the silence of his interlocutor.
Alex nodded. He promised to the publisher to finalize the book before the fall - otherwise the contract would have been terminated, leaving Jim's widow without any money. The tragedy deeply affected the white: he became withdrawn and lost his desire to communicate with people. For the white, his deceased friend didn't disappear completely, but rather lagged in time, entrusting Alex with continuing his deeds.
"I thought that your view of history differed from Nursen's."
"N-not in this area." Nursen's manuscript wasn't about White Halak, the theme of Alex's dissertation.
That fall the white magician was awarded a doctoral degree. At the defense he was opposed by a visiting professor from Ekkverh, a respected scientist, who knew none of the subtleties of the candidate's research subject. Now Alex proudly added Doctor of Science to his name; regrettably, he had no friends with whom to celebrate the occasion.
"Do you plan to continue your archeological research?"
The white glanced at the interlocutor in astonishment. Wasn't it obvious?
"I am authorized to offer you the position of senior scientist under the auspices of our brotherhood. In the group studying paleocivilizations."
Alex frowned suspiciously, "W-why me?"
"Who would be better than you? You are familiar with the findings of the Sixth Detachment and the results of the expedition to Polisant; you defended a dissertation in ancient history. Specialists in this subject are exclusively archival theorists, unable to appreciate the importance of field work. Some time ago we…lost our lead archaeologist, and our research in this area stalled."
Alex didn't hurry to reply. The white walked over to the shelf where he stored modest souvenirs from his previous expeditions: a fragment of a transparent glass bottle (there were plenty of them in Capetower's excavations), a mysterious terrazzo, arguably of the artificial variety, and a pale amateur daguerreotype from the Bird Islands, on which a young necromancer was sunbathing (Pierre Akleran just could not pass up this scene).
"I heard about your b-brotherhood from my Mom, Mr. S-siton."
"I hope it was only good things. Please accept my condolences."
The white nodded curtly.
"You are unscrupulous."
"It's in the past. The Brotherhood's politics has changed; you'll see for yourself. You'll be the head of the group. You'll be choosing methods and means."
The white turned on Nursen's kinematic sculpture, which stood on his desk: the balls started clicking. Alex's mother, when dying, revealed many secrets of her past to her son. She strongly advised against the Salem Brotherhood. On the other hand, what could be worse than accusations of madness that he heard behind his back? A teaching career was now closed to him.
"If I f-find out…"
"Then you'll immediately report on us to the authorities, as befits a responsible citizen. Sometimes our brothers lose their sense of proportion in a passionate search for the truth. It's extremely important for us that the head of the group will be of high moral principles."
Alex looked at the recruiter, who smiled good-naturedly.
"What's your problem? Due date nearing?" the white sighed sympathetically.
Mr. Siton lost his pomposity. "Yes, it is. We've gathered materials up to our necks, but we can't make any sense of them. Recently, NZAMIPS seized a unique library from the artisans. We were asked to provide a conclusion regarding the intentions of sectarians. By the way, respected Maitre Haino was one of them: we found a tomb and a crematorium in his estate. Would you agree to the death of a person - let it be a volunteer - in order to uncover some mysteries of the past?"
Alex shrugged, "It's easier to hire a necromancer."
"That's true," admitted Mr. Siton. "What have you decided?"
"I will take the job."
"Welcome to the club!"
* * *
I always wanted to know what drew vacationers to the Southern Coast. Quarters claimed that summer heat was soft here. To me any heat was evil. I would have understood if people wanted to extend the summer season by going to the south, but fall in the Golden Harbour was "off season" because of rain. To me, the fall weather was perfect: warm with a cool breeze and a two-hour downpour every afternoon.
On my first day in the city, after the rain, I went for a walk to the beach and nearly died. The slopes weren't steeper here than in Krauhard - it was my poor physical shape: I hadn't fully recovered after the incident at the Finkaun ritual. So, next day I leisurely strolled around the city, without fanaticism searching for my zombie-dog, in harmony with the locals, who never seemed to rush. A shortage of customers afflicted restaurants: some were out of business, most of them cut the number of tables - extra furniture towered under the eaves or in the yards. However, I didn't see unhappy faces.
Everybody's leisurely mood changed my plans. Once in a lifetime I could afford myself a few days of loafing. The Southern Coast instilled a sense of lightness of existence, though the townsfolk weren't careless - I saw plenty of sensors of instrumental control, and most houses had protective perimeters. Local beggars spoiled my feeling of idyll: skinny and tanned ragamuffins, wearing minimal clothes, looked out of place against the backdrop of neat houses - like slop dogs at the party. Among them were no crippled, elderly, or children.
One house aroused my suspicions: it was on a wild cliff, from the top and on all sides surrounded by bushes, too far from the sea. Who lived in there? I decided to check. I sensed from afar the first touch of alien magic. The two-story building was sitting on an unkempt lot. Its inhabitants did not care about aesthetics and convenience, and only thorny bushes grew behind its fence.
Spells in the security perimeter looked familiar…Who else could steal my zombie, if not a necromancer? Beware of me, thief! I feared nobody and jumped over the fence, spitting on the protective curses.
The door was unlocked. In the spacious kitchen Charak was making tea. Max sat in the corner, on a folded blanket, grinning in a friendly manner and slapping his tail on the floor.
"What?!"
"Will you have tea?"
"What the hell is my zombie doing here?"
Max pursed his guilty ears and drummed his tail harder. I called him up and checked his condition (revivifying curses were in place).
"Did you want to lose your dog? Did you think collectors of 'magic waste' would appreciate the beauty and complexity of a no-man monster? Be thankful that your little dog was smart enough to pretend to be lifeless. Or he would have gone straight into the oven!"
I didn't think of it…But I couldn't admit that I played the fool. "Do you want me to believe that you had pitied my dog?"
Charak winced, "I knew you were alive and sooner or later would come for your dog."
I proudly kept silence.
"Do you remember our last talk? Have you decided what you want as compensation?"
"Yes. I want to know the locations of ancient constructs with unclear or unknown functions."
"Too late!" the necromancer grinned. "Sectarians have already seized the amulets."
"I don't care. Do you know that the scheme you gave to me is a bit distorted?"
"Why do you think so? The drafter looked reliable," Charak sadly shook his head and poured tea into our cups.
"I saw the original," I shrugged, trying to choose the cup with more tea. Charak also offered little iced cakes.
"Did you figure out the meaning of the ritual?" the necromancer's voice was deliberately indifferent, but I knew better!
"I did; that's why I've asked for the locations of ancient constructs."
Charak bit his lip, washing down with his tea his disappointment at my reluctance to talk, "Perhaps, you'll share your guess with your old teacher?"
What a different story! What a pleasure to feel yourself the most intelligent! Besides, there was no point in keeping this secret from him: "The amulets are just the Keys to a bigger device," I spoke with meaning. "The functional part - the device - is somewhere else."
"An interesting theory," Charak stretched thoughtfully, sniffing his ice cake. "By the way, sectarians always performed their rituals in the northwest, and never in the south or east."
I pulled out a folded map: "Can you show me the locations?"
Charak sighed, "I wish I could say 'yes' to you. Wait a minute - I know whom you can ask! A connoisseur, a great lover of antiquities, lives in a nearby town. He owes me a favor. I'll talk to him about you."
"Thanks!"
Love for antiquities was a hobby that required plenty of money or power or both. On the phone, Charak referred to the connoisseur as "Phil," so I had been in blissful ignorance until I read his address on a piece of paper.
"Don't be shy," the necromancer advised me. "Phil is a weirdo, but he can afford such behavior. We have known each other for two hundred years; he's got guts. I gave you an excellent recommendation. You are my most talented disciple, and I owe you. Phil said he had heard your name. He promised to help."
That's when I looked in Charak's crib and realized that his friend was the Senior Coordinator of the Southwestern Region, Mr. Phil Axel. It was too late to retreat. Axel knew that I was on my way to him; it would be cowardice to change my plans suddenly.
Why not, after all? He made a joke of me, and I did not laugh it off. The events of last year that injured my pride were revived in my memory. Mr. Axel had to pay for them.
I spent an entire evening straining my brain in order to come up with something original. I gave up on a thought to use magical tricks - there was a great chance to make a fool of myself. Besides, he could incriminate me in something (I ought to find spare time to learn the existing legislation). How could I put the dark in an awkward position and not run into a fist fight? Well, Axel, beware of me!
Chapter 23
The Tanur Quay rose from the water in two broad granite platforms, each nearly five feet tall and a hundred feet wide. In summer they were occupied by seaside market booths from dawn until noon; in the fall they restrained the attacks of fierce fall storms. People who didn't witness the fall storms at the Cape of Tanur didn't know the real meaning of the word "storm".
Matthew Rayhan grew up in Tanur and lived through a few of the most powerful st
orms ever; accustomed to natural disasters, he fulfilled himself as a curator in the support services. 'I've spent ten years with these crackpots. Enough, I'll take a winter off and go to Ho-Carg. People say there are almost no dark there,' he said to himself, waiting for the arrival of a ferry from Golden Harbour. He had a good reason for his annoyance: normally, curators of Southwestern's NZAMIPS left for a month-long vacation in late fall, and Matthew expected to join the great exodus, but the senior coordinator unexpectedly cancelled his vacation.
"We have a SITUATION," the most powerful dark magician of the Southern Coast told him pointedly.
It meant a lot of overtime work for Matthew. "You promised me a vacation," the curator reminded cautiously.
"You'll get it," the mage confirmed, "but later. You'll need to take care of one guy - as bad as they come. He is just over twenty, a combat mage, a necromancer, and an alchemist," Axel frowned. "And the young hope of Ingernika. So, bear in mind: he might curse and poison you and, if you drive him into a corner, could set a zombie on you."
"Could you please ask somebody younger and in better physical shape to follow our guest? The age difference between us…"
"He won't listen to a puppy," Axel waved, objecting, "I know what to expect from him. He will reflexively treat a man of your age appropriately."
Matthew did look his not-too-old age. 'For how long will I be a gag in every hole? There are thirty-two employees in our department, but difficult clients are always my responsibility! Three weeks ago I was tortured by a depressed army mage; now you gave me a necromancer with a zombie! And I have five more years till retirement!' Matthew wisely didn't show his anger to the boss.
Coordinator Axel noticed the gloomy face of his subordinate - at his age, even a dark mage could become observant. "I'll double your bonus, for hazardous work conditions."
Matthew nodded. To argue was useless; he would still end up doing the job, and likely without any bonuses.
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