The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail)

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "Thomas, you've become so handsome!" Fiberti clasped her hands, meeting me at the railroad station.

  I agreed with her. Deep tan on my face and hands allowed everyone to see: here came a man, who had enough money to travel to the south. "Did the boss send anyone with my stuff?"

  "He has sent me," Fiberti twitched in indignation. "This arrogant, unbearable…"

  "Senior coordinator," I chuckled and broke off our conversation to receive my luggage. "By the way, I am now Edward."

  "Good to know you, Edward."

  Obviously, Larkes was off for the same meeting as Axel. I did not need his close custody; I came here to get the promised valuables. "Where are my things?"

  "In a bank vault. Do you want to go and get them now?"

  "No, I'd prefer to drop off luggage in a hotel, at first."

  I booked a downtown hotel. Max pretended to be a dummy for the hotel receptionist. The room was too expensive and outdated for its size, but access to the heart of the artifact was likely to be somewhere in downtown.

  "What has he got?"

  "Your diary…"

  I expected that.

  "... and the contents of your father's cache!"

  That was a blow. "How did he find it?"

  "Larkes noticed something strange when he was restoring your diary. He called it a non-removable curse."

  Never heard of such a thing. "What was inside?"

  "A small box and a strange magic thing."

  I was about to die from an inflammation of curiosity. "Let's go for it now!"

  It was my first ever visit to the bank's vault. A small hall was so tightly stuffed with magic signs, perimeters, and seals that I doubted its legality in the center of a densely populated city. Very diverse curses co-existed peacefully in the vault; personally, I wouldn't dare to impose them - combined together, they were too dangerous.

  A bank employee pulled out a long armored pencil case, put it on the desk, and walked away. Under the steel cap I found my diary, a worn-out, two-palm sized case on a chain, and a folded piece of paper. I immediately opened the mysterious case with fingers trembling from greed. Inside there was a bar made of colored glass, seemingly painted with a geometric pattern. My intuition prompted that this thing had the same nature as the golem.

  "Do you know what this is?" Fiberti stood up on tiptoe, looking over my shoulder.

  "I am thinking."

  The bar could be a pass to an anchor point for the artifact I looked for. The more I twiddled it in my hands, the more I was astonished. The bar responded to my magic with a delicate vibration - a cleverly made thing, protecting itself from ordinary people. I even discerned control structures in it.

  The second surprise was a letter from the senior coordinator. Larkes returned my stuff without precondition and free of any obligations on my side. It made me anxious: what did he really want from me?

  "It looks like a key," I concluded. "If there is a key, there should be a door for it. I guess my dad often used this key, if he kept it handy."

  He was a genius, if he set his cache in the hallways of the Project under the protection of sleepless golems! Fiberti seemingly doubted my conclusions.

  I thought of starting the search for the cache from dad's previous workplace - the King's House - but shrewd Fiberti made inquiries and found out that NZAMIPS was located in the Royal Guard's barracks when my father was in charge of the region. The barracks were bulldozed ten years ago, and now there was a bridge and eight-direction crossing. I walked through the place three times, causing drivers to honk and swear, and didn't sense anything. It was a dead end.

  Next on our list was an examination of the local catacombs. But the city archive denied our request for a map of the city's catacombs - it was classified information. We could try to get there through the municipal sewer.

  "Do what you have to do, Edward, but I won't climb down the sewer," my companion announced. "Maybe your father had stronger nerves, but I suffer from asthma!"

  I, too, believed that no money could lure a combat mage into strolling around the sewage. There should be a cleaner, more comfortable entry. The mysterious key was burning my pockets. I was about to roam Finkaun day and night, poking it into all the cracks. I even talked to my uncle on my father's side. If the cache indeed belonged to the Tangor family, then who, if not the oldest son, should know about it? Unfortunately, I would have to share the treasure, if he had not already pilfered everything. As an expert on bank protection, he could easily circumvent the ancient defense without any keys.

  I meditated for the entire evening, trying to bethink the address or telephone number of my next of kin from the Salem report. I called him in the afternoon, hoping that after lunch my uncle would be friendlier.

  "Hello! Am I speaking to Ralph Tangor?"

  "Maybe," the tube muttered grumpily.

  "I am Thomas, son of your brother Toder. I'd like to talk to you about my dad's cache in Finkaun…"

  I was not allowed to finish.

  "I don't care who you are," my dear uncle hissed angrily. "If you and your pals don't stop pestering me about the crypt, I'll kill you. Got it?"

  "Son of a bitch," I calmly replied and hung up. Apparently, I wasn't the first one to whom he showed the door.

  Unwittingly he gave me a hint to check the cemetery, where the Tangors were buried. The gravestones of my ancestors occupied an entire alley; rectangular marble slabs hid under urns with ashes, and almost all names were familiar to me. I asked Fiberti who followed me, "Please advise where I can linger here to avoid unnecessary attention?"

  "At the Arak memorial," my companion shrugged.

  It was a small building; a round pedestal inside of it served for worshipping the most famous Krauhardian. Stone benches with carved pictures of flame were placed against its walls. We took seats on the benches. I didn't see anything even remotely resembling an entrance to the catacombs.

  The Arak memorial was worth closer examination. With some preparation, I could reach out to one hundred fifty feet down. No sooner said than done. Next day I packed up in a knapsack everything I needed for spell casting and went to the cemetery in the daytime.

  Fiberti tried to stop me, "Eh…Edward, don't you think that the police will arrest you?"

  "Getting a permit will take forever. It'll start snowing, and I'll need special tools to draw. I'll try now."

  My plan was simple: I would act as if I were an ordinary visitor, hide amidst graves, cast my spells at night, and leave in the morning unnoticed. Who would search for traces of my magic in the middle of a cemetery?

  It was a clear and frosty day. I walked straight through the front gate with a knapsack, which rose no questioning from the guards. Early twilight hid me from prying eyes. For an hour after closing I depicted a statue, and then started acting. I wasn't aware that the night before some vandals broke into the Arak memorial, and the cemetery security was reinforced by policemen.

  I chose for spell casting an intersection of two main paths. It was a flat, open place, where any traces of my pentagram would be quickly trampled underfoot. The pentagram had already been finished when I heard the unhurried footsteps of the cemetery guards. I rushed to pack up my magic stuff and moved into a side passage.

  After looking back, I grew cold from horror: my footprints and pentagram were very visible on the sparkling white cover. I pulled myself together; maybe they wouldn't look down at night. Trying not to rustle or squeak, I crawled away from the guards. Alas, there were no idiots among them: on the intersection the patrol stopped; I heard their excited voices and saw the flashing of their lanterns. To hell with the cache and dad's treasures. My freedom was more valuable.

  I hadn't prepared a single escape route in my haste. In hindsight, my idea of spell casting in the middle of the city seemed real lunacy. Working with the top NZAMIPS executives, I forgot about the consequences for a dark mage breaking the law. Larkes would stand for me, but he wasn't a philanthropist. My previous innocent prank ended in five-year
contract with NZAMIPS.

  The fence was already within my reach, when something stopped me. Ahead I heard a harsh scraping sound, as if someone shifted from one foot to the other. An ambush! I turned around, but the ambushers immediately saw through my maneuver. "He's going away!" a young voice shouted.

  I raced through the cemetery, no longer trying to hide. I had no experience in hide-and-seek, anyway! Unfortunately, the guards were young and energetic; they chased me light-handed and knew well the cemetery's layout, unlike me. I was being cut off the fence. Healers advised me not to overstrain myself…

  I decisively turned to Tangor Alley. Jumping from one headstone to another like a rabbit, I dove into beaten- by-frost chrysanthemums, begging the forefathers for help. I crawled amidst headstones and flowers, hoping that nothing would tinkle in my knapsack. Behind my back the chasers echoed, arranging for the combing of neighboring alleys.

  I needed a hideout. Alas, neither the leafless trees, nor the neat gravestones provided me with an opportunity to hide. I recalled the inside of the Arak memorial: there were marble shelves near the ceiling; yesterday I was astonished by such a strange design. The memorial was within arm's reach from Tangor Alley. In the darkness I stumbled upon an outcropping of rock and decisively crawled over it - time was running out.

  Suddenly I realized that the outcropping wasn't an object of nature. My heart began pounding: golem material, melted in a dense mass, was under my body.

  I suppressed a desire to conjure a glow-worm – I didn't want to leave an imprint of my aura for the chasers and reached into my knapsack for matches. (Yes, I carry them all the time. I can light a candle without matches, but it never hurts to have a non-magic replacement.) Sulfuric flame trembled under my fingers, illuminating visually ordinary basalt approximately ten feet in diameter.

  The chasers echoed in the Arak memorial; apparently, I wouldn't hide there. I prayed to gods and touched a control element on the Key from my father's cache. What seemed to be a solid outcropping began melting and bending down, like a drop of honey. A moment later I was sitting somewhere deep underground in a quiet and cold darkness. It smelled of sage. Recalling Undegar's mine, I decided that to cast a spell in this place would be a dangerous venture. And I had used up all my matches! My senses failed me; to keep myself busy with something I began to count and reached twenty thousand. Then I activated the Key again.

  The ancient device carried me off back to the surface. The guards were gone; clouds began glowing with color in the east, but it was still too far till dawn. A bit torpid from the abundance of impressions, I chose the shortest path to the cemetery's gate and thoughtlessly climbed over it.

  Chapter 29

  Lavender Kilozo slept tighter since the death of red-haired Gertani, the sect's assassin. He failed his task and was punished for that. His victim lived in the most odious district of Ho-Carg called Settlement, and Gertani planned to kill him at home. Lavender used to live in the capital, and she doubted that the cultist would get any help in the breeding ground of traditionalists. Her doubts were justified: four artisans along with Gertani disappeared among gloomy wattle and daub walls.

  Now sectarians lived exactly as the persecuted and outcast were supposed to live - permanently moving from one place to another. Haino rushed across the country like a crazy rabbit and couldn't find rest anywhere. Abandoned huts replaced countryside villas, unnamed farms replaced the rich neighborhoods of big cities. As if he sensed a sword hanging over his head, but he did not know whose hand was holding it. The white mage purged the sect, throwing off unreliable cultists with a zeal that frightened his close circle of like-minded fellows.

  "These brothers-in-arms served our goal for many years!" Master Ainar reproached the patriarch. "They could have been our striking force when the current regime will be overthrown."

  Haino sometimes condescended to an explanation: "Let them think that we lost nearly all our people. We need to appear weak, but in reality we will focus all our forces on the achievement of the primary goal. After successful completion of the Lunar Communion, we'll recruit a new cast without looking back at NZAMIPS."

  Lavender questioned herself whether Haino experienced a perverse pleasure, betraying and killing his own people. The white can behave atypically, if they are convinced of their own righteousness. Lavender herself was capable of doing much for the sake of her country. Perhaps, in Haino's system of values, his actions were justified. The scout wondered from what roots grew a tree bearing such strange fruit, and on what beliefs its branches relied. Busy pondering, Lavender didn't pay attention to the everyday misery of their living conditions, which plagued the lives of other sectarians. Her tea gatherings with Haino turned into long conversations, where the patriarch expounded some knotty philosophical parables and obscure theories. More and more frequently ordinary sectarians turned their problems to Lavender, and mysterious guests didn't interrupt their confidential talks at the appearance of the scout, providing her with an opportunity to catch glimpses of their strategic plans.

  "It looks like we won't get help from our friends overseas," informed one of the guests, wearing a mask. "An agent from Zertak's staff reported that the island garrison drowned an unknown ship which refused to stop for the inspection. These were our supporters from Sa-Orio."

  "Professionals," Haino muttered irritably. "Army mages spot a danger on the fly."

  The companion in the mask complained, "If it continues like that, we won't gather enough power to capture the coast by spring."

  "We will; if not by spring, then by summer," Haino dismissed. "Our overseas friends cannot retreat. Organize a media campaign to condemn regional authorities for not helping out Sa-Orio emigrants. Stir up public discontent with brutal NZAMIPS actions. And the critical mass of refugees will be reached within a few weeks."

  "We are working on it."

  "Work harder."

  Alas, Lavender didn't hear the end of the conversation: she finished pouring the tea and had to leave.

  * * *

  It was one of the rare cases when an extended meeting of the Ministerial Circle was held outside of Derenkorf's Castle. The government learned about new threats that the castle couldn't provide protection from. The decision makers gathered in the training center of Northwestern NZAMIPS near Dreyzel, and now Larkes welcomed his guests with quiet pride. The fact that the top people in his country entrusted their lives to him was proof of his superiority as head of the region over other senior coordinators.

  Selection of meeting participants was somewhat unusual. Usually, only the heads of the power ministries and the police, along with the chief censor, were present at the meeting. But now Larkes greeted the Minister of Healing Practices, the Minister of Alchemy and Crafts, the Minister of Public Education, and the Minister of Public Welfare (the latter, Mrs. Alia Savanti, was the only woman among the ministers). Savanti had no combatant-subordinates whatsoever; her ministry employed mostly empaths. Seeing so many civilians was a complete surprise to Larkes.

  True, Ingernika was in a state of war, but Larkes could not catch the logic of such a gathering and ran his fingers along the left lapel of his jacket every now and then, demonstrating his confusion to those who knew him. Obviously, Mr. Michelson had some plan, and Larkes decided to wait and see.

  The meeting began with a presentation by the chief ministerial analyst, Mr. Philip Oleman. Larkes barely listened to the speaker; what Oleman narrated to the Ministerial Circle, the senior coordinator had figured out himself from the reports of his subordinates, from General Zertak in exchange for some favors, and from Axel, who unexpectedly reconciled with Tangor. Recently, dark magicians more willingly communicated with each other, and the ones who weren't initiated rushed to undergo the ritual of Empowerment and sign up with the "cleaners" or NZAMIPS. In Larkes' view, it was a bad sign: 'We all feel a threat to the world. The whites cluster around schools and churches, and the dark prefer to join the power structures.'

  The conclusions of the chief ministerial a
nalyst fully coincided with Larkes' observations. After a tight combing by the army mages, Arango was slowly returning to normal life. Dark mages from the alien territories of Kashtadar began to move en mass to the depopulated areas of Arango through the unguarded border.

  But the frequency of registered supernatural phenomena was still growing in Ingernika and overseas. If quieter previous years were the result of the forbidden ritual, they should expect a significant worsening of the situation in the future.

  The speaker glanced at General Zertak, and Larkes sat up straighter: the speech shifted to practical issues.

  "…In the very near future, up to one third of the empire will be under quarantine…"

  "…Two or three years till the end, if the imperial elite retain control over the country. But if they rush to the islands hoping to sit out the otherworldly, the collapse will happen within a year. At this point, the main threat to Ingernika is massive migration of Sa-Orio's residents," Oleman concluded.

  "Why don't we take in these unfortunate people?" Mrs. Savanti gave voice.

  "With all due respect, I am against this proposal. We don't have enough vacant land for the entirety of Sa-Orio," Oleman frowned. "And most of them have been under spiritual patronage from childhood. Their masters can make them commit any crime. We cannot risk the lives of our citizens!"

  "I do not see a problem," retorted one of the civilian ministers. "You've said the empire is experiencing a deficit of magicians. Ordinary people, even if there are many, cannot oppose our brave army mages. We'll end any riots before they begin!"

  "You are wrong," Mr. Oleman gasped. Now he avoided looking at the dark - he felt uncomfortable discussing the shortcomings of combat mages in their presence." All of you are familiar with the old saying that the dark who've tasted the blood of the innocent turn into beasts. We closely watch the army mages who fought against the Imperial Marines, and the conclusions of our empaths aren't encouraging: they observe sustained violations of social norms by their patients. And the army dark dealt with alien soldiers, professional warriors! What will happen if our combat mages are set against unarmed civilians, enchanted by their spiritual patrons?"