The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail)

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  I was given a book on necromancy from an incredibly secretive archive (by the way, I had the same manuscript in my father's library, too), and now I read with great interest about the troubles I managed to avoid in previous necromantic Circles. The book wasn't useful for anything else; in our business you either have the talent or you don't, and reading doesn't help.

  The only problem that bothered me was young necromancers, members of my previous Circle. I didn't finish the ritual in Finkaun. Though they agreed to participate again, I was afraid that they might say, "Tangor just puffs his cheeks." And I needed their help.

  It proved I was worried for nothing. They pestered me with one question only: "Didn't you die, Master Tangor?"

  "I was very sick, but I am fully recovered now."

  Charak asked my permission to replace the necromancer, who died in the last Circle. "If you are against of me, I will leave, of course," the old sorcerer sighed with false repentance.

  Yeah, and I would have to train someone else for two months. "No, teacher, if you want to help us, then please do your work!"

  I needed to make sure he would not kick in during the ritual.

  The Circle went off casually, without any incidents. The deceased woke up willingly and parted with us without objections - either the personality of the ancient man wasn't particularly stubborn, or the stars were good for us. But what I learned in the Circle totally crushed, devastated me! The crazy cultists were right in almost everything!

  Our World and the Other World were not spheres on threads; it was a false picture, a deception skillfully embedded in the mass mind. Geometric shapes and the locations of the worlds were impossible to describe; they were somewhere and somehow in space, and sometimes they manifested themselves in the same point of the Multiverse at the same time. A superimposition of the worlds obviously caused penetration of otherworldly into our reality, and this had not occurred once in the history of mankind. The otherworldly was ruthlessly fought back most of the time, but once in a while supernatural entities overpowered natural beings, leaving a nearly dead world behind. People couldn't change the existing order of things, as a shrimp cannot manage the ebb and flow of the sea.

  And then HE came, a genius of such intellect and malice that all of our Jack the Rippers would quietly weep in the corner.

  Mankind always gave rise to individuals with inexplicable affinity to the otherworldly and then persistently tried to get rid of the "devil spawns", because they often weren't cute and harmless.

  It was noted that some people survived global attacks of the supernatural. HE discovered that survivors of such collisions had an affinity to the otherworldly. HE gathered the descendants of such people and helped them to settle here, on this soil, immediately after the last apocalypse.

  HE invented a sort of a crosspiece, which connected together both worlds and kept them at some distance from each other. And the connection point was at the place I called the World Axis. Thus HE created the world, in which the otherworldly was present constantly but in small, manageable numbers. HE developed a civilization, which would not be destined to die from the clash of worlds.

  HE made dark magicians a precondition of the sustained existence of mankind.

  I must admit that HE had not asked the opinions of his contemporaries on this matter.

  Every human with the dark Source is truly like a thread, crosslinking the fabrics of universes, not allowing them to part, but making global attacks of chaos impossible, at the same time. Now, the supernatural comes into our world constantly, but not in extreme numbers. That is, for deliverance from extinction mankind is paying with a constant headache. Well, isn't it a miracle - our dark magic?

  What a storm of debate this news caused! The supervisor of the ritual rushed into his office to write up non-disclosure agreements. The young necromancers participating in the Circle chatted day and night, exchanging their views. Perhaps I was the only one dissatisfied: the raised man knew nothing of the "celestial angels" and The Liturgy of the Light. He was an ordinary guard, after all. The ritual didn't help me to figure out why artisans were so eager to access the World Axis and what the effect of The Liturgy would be on the ancient artifact. I tried to instill doubts in others, but to no avail.

  "Their Liturgy of the Light should be a typical ritual of suppression of magic," Charak stated authoritatively. "The same for Shackles of Deliverance, only with a greater action area."

  Uh-huh. The dark Source is crotchety: it won't return to you if you are exposed to the Shackles of Deliverance more than twice. In contrast, Liturgy was executed by artisans countless times. Also, nobody asked why we still experienced the massive attacks of the otherworldly AFTER the launch of the Project.

  "Why are supernatural phenomena growing in numbers now?"

  "These are insignificant details," the old necromancer retorted.

  I disagreed with him. What exactly The Liturgy of the Light did to the ancient artifact remained a mystery to me; to solve it I needed to make another trip down there. I would have to pass through NZAMIPS posts and protective perimeters. With Larkes' help, of course.

  According to the official version, artisans planned to blow up King's Castle through the catacombs.

  Chapter 34

  "I feel myself an inquisitor." This thought came suddenly and continued spinning in Baer's mind. For the first time in twenty-five years of service, the captain doubted if he was suitable for his post.

  Redstone's division of NZAMIPS was packed with detainees. NZAMIPS wasn't designed to work with ordinary people and did not have enough space for so many artisans, but Minister Michelson vetoed their transfer into the hands of other Ingernika authorities. Society should not view the arrests as mass terror; NZAMIPS just apprehended usual cultists.

  Frankly, interrogations weren't in Baer's job description. But good empaths who could make prisoners talk were in short supply. "You are accused of performing the forbidden ritual of Lunar Communion over Peter Parsons."

  "I don't know anything about the Lunar…whatnot," Antoine Rizolti, a white mage of middle age, was finally brought for interrogation after a week in a bullpen.

  "It's about the modification of human consciousness. The imprint of your aura remains on the victim," Baer explained his crimes to a white mage. "I know Mr. Parsons was a bad guy. But he is human, and you turned him into an instrument. For the sake of the justice and safety of future generations, magicians are forbidden to treat people as…raw material."

  "I do not understand you. I do not understand you…" the man repeated droningly.

  Pete Parsons, a drunk and rowdy, who treated his wife and children badly, became an exemplary family man with no bad habits after talking to the white magician.

  "Today people are grateful to you for saving them from Parsons' escapades, but tomorrow they'll understand what you've turned him into, and they'll think differently!"

  Baer had the "pleasure" of contemplating the victim of the prohibited mental treatment; Mr. Parsons was kept in the NZAMIPS hospital. A staff empath demonstrated to investigators how controllable this man became: one word was enough to force the unfortunate man to stand still or sleep, or even choke himself. According to the expert, the profound interference produced by Lunar Communion couldn't be healed or compensated. Pete Parsons was now officially recognized as mentally disabled.

  "Last year a dog tore a baby to death before his eyes, and he did nothing to stop it: any aggression in him was blocked by you. Now the poor fellow is only a shadow of a normal human being."

  "I do not understand. I do not understand…"

  Most stubborn sectarians sang psalms during their interrogation to silence the voice of reason. In Baer's opinion, if beliefs were so vulnerable to criticism, they weren't worth a damn.

  "Okay, let's leave the law aside; obviously, you broke the law, and it's in the record. Tell me something else: why couldn't you hit Parsons in the face when he mocked his wife? Why did you prefer to knock his brains out? I guess you didn't hit
him because he would fight back. To tweak his brains was safer for you, wasn't it? You couldn't care less about his well-being."

  The white breathed heavily. Baer did not press him harder - the question was not in the proof of the charge (he already secured the Shackles of Deliverance for himself). The captain needed to decide what to do with the detainee further on. NZAMIPS couldn't solve this problem as easy as the Inquisition in the past - by cleansing with fire.

  Baer believed that most of these fools didn't deserve a death warrant. He just wanted to get the name of the person who taught the white forbidden magic, the one who was first to say, "You may do this…"

  "You are a strong empath, and your duty was to help the ones willing to rid themselves of their bad habits and flaws of character. But who told you that it's okay to prune human thoughts in accordance with your own sense of beauty?"

  The detainee was taken back to his cell. Baer felt an unbearable urge to resign. An icy pin throbbed in his temple. Kevinahari also participated in the interrogations; she offered green tea to her old friend.

  "Tomorrow I'll send my resignation letter!" the captain swore loudly. "NZAMIPS has a different profile. We don't investigate political crimes! That's intelligence's job!"

  "It's a political case - absolutely, totally, undoubtedly. But Minister Michelson doesn't want the general public to view the arrests of artisans as a political matter. If the case slips out of NZAMIPS jurisdiction, the power in Ingernika will be at stake," Kevinahari explained to the policeman.

  "What shall I do, Dana? I am losing patience; soon I'll start beating them, and I have a heavy fist. They are delirious!"

  Kevinahari sighed, "Do what you can. Take it easy. Let's hope that imprisonment will bring them back to their senses. Though it might be more humane to euthanize them."

  Hearing such a statement from the empath, the captain realized that his problem was nothing compared to hers.

  The instrumental control officer distracted Captain Baer from his afternoon tea break, "Sir, we've registered an eighth class outburst between Pink Square and King Street, downtown."

  "Any details?"

  "The spell used was white magic."

  Baer was at the crime scene in seven minutes; he wore a suit of the highest magic safety. In the epicenter of the outbreak two terrified policemen bravely guarded a coffee house of a bright canary color.

  "Report to me!"

  "Eh, someone's kinda spell casting. The owner says it's a customer. He ran away, the owner."

  "Any victims?"

  "We didn't go in." The policemen's actions were reasonable. Their on-duty amulets could protect them against innocent wishes to die, at best.

  Baer firmly grasped the door handle and slowly stepped over the threshold. The cafe bore traces of a hasty getaway by customers - overthrown chairs, shifted tables. But there was no broken tableware - white cups with golden stripes danced in the air under the chandelier; dinner plates, set edgewise, floated in flocks. The floor turned blue; the light of the lamps became turquoise; the walls were beautified with intricate swirls of lilac, orange, and green. Only a bleached ceiling stubbornly maintained its original color - the lime poorly absorbed magic.

  The captain cautiously made his way through the hall, looking askance at the cutlery that stood on end over the tablecloths and swayed to the beat. A crazy coffee pot tried to peck at bread leftovers on a tray.

  Enchanted stripes on Baer's uniform shone brighter and brighter.

  The source of the trouble was sitting at the corner table - a skinny, well-dressed young man of twenty stared at the mess. His wide open eyes were white, without iris or pupil.

  Baer didn't need any experts to understand what was happening. 'Class A-2 situation: a white on the verge of the collapse of his Source,' he thought grimly. 'Apparently a university student, initiated this year; can't control his magic, doesn't carry an inhibitor with him. What am I supposed to do with this kid?' It was the duty of empaths to talk to daffy sorcerers.

  Two guys with fractures of their extremities lay unconscious near the young mage's feet; they seemed to be of the same age as the white. The captain suppressed his move to come up and check if they were alive. The most urgent problem was the young mage. If he had caught a dark like this, Baer would have shot him; but with the white, he would have to tinker.

  NZAMIPS handbooks recommended talking to crazy mages, but usually they weren't interested in it.

  "Are you fond of aquarium fish?" Baer nodded at the dancing cups. "Guppy? Platypus?"

  "Cichlids," the young magician replied quietly.

  "My niece keeps the anemone," the captain confided. "It's a troublesome hobby though - a marine aquarium!"

  The boy barely nodded, "My dad promised me an aquarium on graduation. My dad…" His lips quivered, and the floating dishes began rattling in unison.

  "What's your name?"

  "Leon Rizolti."

  The missing piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  "My father is Antoine Rizolti. He is accused of sedition and illegal magic practices."

  Sectarians' families were another issue NZAMIPS had to deal with. The arrest of famous empath Mr. Rizolti Sr. was widely known. The kid was ridiculed by his classmates and decided to end his life as a real artisan (in his understanding of it).

  'Underage moron! Idiot!' the captain mentally swore and kept talking to the kid to help him regain self-control. "Do you want to grow up like your dad?"

  The young guy gathered a little wrinkle on his forehead. "I do not know. I'm sure he is a good man. Why did everything happen like this?"

  "No idea," Baer admitted. "Do you agree that it's not a good idea to scare people with your magic?"

  But the young mage did not support the change of topic. Leon again couldn't focus his eyes; his Source, muddied by the host's emotions, was creating chaotic distortions around itself. A little longer, and the mage would become a match for a blinding flash of light.

  'A deadly curse in the middle of the city…Did you prophesy my death from this kid, Alonzo?'

  "Hit me in the face, if you want!" Baer offered in despair. "You are upset because of your father, and I am the head of Redstone's NZAMIPS. I am the target of your revenge. Hit me, don't hurt innocent people!"

  Such an unusual proposal brought the boy to his senses. He glanced dazedly at the captain, and Baer regretted his sturdy build for the first time in his life: to hit him was a psychological challenge for the kid.

  The student gently poked his finger in the captain's face and sighed - he could not hit first. Baer pulled out of his pocket a bottle with inhibitor; the poor boy drank it off without objection. Enchanted stripes on the captain's uniform returned to their usual conventional copper color - the white Source was deactivated.

  Now the young man's look was more sensible. Baer finally did what he wanted from the beginning: check the pulses of the injured people. They were alive, but they needed the help of a healer. The unaccomplished villain sobbed restrainedly; he began falling into hysterics. Baer pictured the kid in prison, packed with real cultists…

  "Go home. I'll call you later."

  The mage nodded resignedly.

  "Let me walk you home, Leon!" Kevinahari appeared from nowhere. "The inhibitor could have some side effects."

  Baer stared at the empath angrily. While he bent over backwards doing her job, she was eavesdropping from around the corner!

  Kevinahari completely ignored her colleague's indignation.

  Men in uniform crowded at the cafe's doors. Baer was pestered by a young detective, who was full of official zeal. "Sir, how will you classify his arrest: as an act of terrorism or an attempted murder?"

  The captain eyed the nerd gloomily, intending to vent his anger on him. "Did you see personally who committed the unlicensed spell casting?"

  "No, but the imprint of his aura…"

  "Have you already taken it?"

  "No, sir," the detective effaced, finally realizing the captain's irritation.<
br />
  "Then go back to your business! And let me do mine."

  The following day Baer received a call from Larkes. His boss reminded him of detainees in the bullpen and explicitly forbade any field work until the end of the artisan investigation. The captain was back in the interrogation room.

  Baer experienced deadly boredom. He disdained conversing on insignificant topics with arrestees, but asking Antoine Rizolti about anything meaningful was useless. One of the leaders of Redstone's sect stood firmly for his people. However, this time Rizolti behaved differently - he fidgeted a bit and started speaking. "I heard Leon got in trouble with NZAMIPS yesterday."

  'From whom? I need to replace the guards. Apparently, detained empaths make them talk,' Baer made a mental note.

  "That's right. Unlicensed spell casting. Your son harmed two boys and damaged property," he kindly explained to Rizolti. ('Though one can argue about the damage: the cafe is now packed with customers. They say the plates are still flying.')

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Me? His victims did not accuse him. The owner won't complain if Leon covers the cost of repairs." Frankly speaking, the decency of the people involved in the incident was a pleasant surprise for Baer. "You are wealthy, so the case won't go to court. But your son has earned himself NZAMIPS oversight for life."

  "This will make my son's career problematic…"

  "Your kid was about to destroy half of a downtown block! A dark mage would have gotten himself Shackles of Deliverance or an army contract for life. And you are whining about his career prospects!"

  Rizolti was silent for a moment. "It's because of me," he muttered at last.

  "Of course! But not in the sense you have in mind. You made Leon believe that it's okay to break the law for a good reason. Now he will be tempted to repeat it, and our oversight is the lesser evil for him. Hopefully, our help didn't come too late."