My Path to Magic mptm-1

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  I felt surprisingly well: no trace of hangover, my head was fresh and body was energetic and pleasantly itching. I experienced an urge to start a fight or do some trick. If it was an effect of the white “killing magic”, then give me more of it. I strongly disbelieved that the white hobbyists were able to invent something fundamentally different from the centuries-old practices of the Inquisition. It remained to discover what their ritual was called in plain English to make sure it was nothing outstanding.

  I had made a fireball instead of sparks. Before, I had revived a zombie, without any special effort. Something was wrong with me. We were lectured on what magicians’ “errors” could look like. It was scary even without pictures. Obviously, my troubles were related to the spontaneous Empowerment, and now, on top of it, the white had performed some rituals on me! My inflamed sense of responsibility required to find the culprits and explain their wrongdoings, to teach them a little with my feet.

  But where to look for them?

  Something crackled cozily inside the building, and a white streak of smoke stretched over the roof. Firemen and NZAMIPS would be here soon. Did I want to deal with NZAMIPS? A stupid question.

  I hobbled along the chipped pavement, logically assuming that a bridge to the mainland should be somewhere close. There was a road, and it should lead somewhere, right? Soon I noticed the arch of a beautiful stone bridge with a double-crossed banner at the entrance: “The College of St. Johan Femm.” I had heard something about that place, but didn’t have time to think—I was almost running into the fire crews.

  I thought I needed to check whether they had robbed my apartment and, if not, take some money from the cache. Redstone is a big town and I could not reach my home on foot, but cab drivers wouldn’t give me a ride on trust. Though the thought of a cab gave me a brilliant idea. What was the cab company that served the banquet yesterday? I recalled that on standby there were mainly the dark blue carriages of “Rimmis and Sons”; they would hardly allow an outsider to pick up a customer. I needed to inquire with them about the yesterday’s carriage! I decided to pay them a visit right away.

  The first cab driver that caught my eye told where their stables were, and I got to the place on the steps of a tram, like I used to ride when being a freshman. The rest was “simple”—to find a man, whose face I had not seen, and learn from him what the name of the forbidden ritual was.

  I could have begged and offered money for the information, but it was not my style. I undid a couple buttons on the shirt, pushed the belt to one side, uncombed my hair, and in that disheveled appearance walked into the office.

  “Hello!” I began with aggressive pressure right from the door. “Where is your master?”

  All of the people inside saw a dark mage in a militant mood, wearing expensive—albeit dusty—clothes and, obviously, suffering from a hangover. A walking nightmare.

  “May I help you?” an office girl chirped.

  I stared at the receptionist, trying to catch her gaze, but she stubbornly looked aside. Okay, apparently she had dealt with the dark mages as clients before.

  “Help?” I asked mockingly. “Your guy left with my wallet! What else can you do for me?”

  “What an unfortunate misunderstanding!” the girl sang in a high-pitched voice. “He did not do it on purpose. Are you sure you have not forgotten your things in a different place?”

  “I’m not drunk!” my expressive objection raised knowing smiles on the faces of those present. “I do not like booze at all, and I had none of it yesterday. He picked me up at the restaurant ‘The Black Dole’, and I need my wallet back!”

  “You will get it, sir, don’t doubt,” the noise and cries attracted the owner of the stables. “Who was on duty at the ‘Dole’ yesterday?”

  The girl quickly checked her records: “Laurent, Mitchell, and Barto, sir.”

  “Sir,” the owner turned to me, “can you describe the man who was driving your cab?”

  I frowned and pretended to be carefully straining my memory: “Young. And looked… like a fish.”

  “Laurent!” the girl could not refrain from commenting.

  “When is his shift?” the owner frowned.

  “In the morning, but he did not show up, sir. Pinot has replaced him.”

  “The pilferer!” I said pathetically. “The damned thief. I demand that the police come to his house before he gets rid of my stuff.”

  “There is no need for the police!” the owner hurried up. “I will go to him immediately and personally deliver your wallet to you. Perhaps directly to your home?”

  He wasn’t making a fuss over anything—the main income of such stables was from the contracts with restaurants and pubs. Restaurateurs called certain cab companies in advance, depending on the number of customers, and kept the hired carriages on hold in the assigned parking spots. That was slightly more expensive than hiring independent cab drivers, but the restaurants relied on “their own” carriages’ safe and sound delivery of a drunken customer. And suddenly—a theft. The owner needed time to look into the situation - fine with me! The fact that I had learned the name of my enemy was already a big success. I barely remembered him, and they could have recognized no one based on such meager description..

  “Okay, you may deliver it to my home,” I dictated the address to the girl (by the way, I live in a respectable area). I described the missing item—a wallet with keys. “If by this evening I don’t get my wallet back, the police will hear my complaint against you!”

  After all, I liked that wallet, and my landlady would kill me for losing the keys.

  I waited near the gate of the stables, as if looking for something in the pockets. My patience was rewarded: I caught the moment when the boss departed in one of his carriages to Laurent’s home.

  “Quay Barco,” he growled the address to the cab driver.

  Excellent! That’s how a real dark magician works! Just a couple of hours ago I had not known anything about my enemy, and now it remained only to clarify its house number.

  I pondered if I should go and meet the guy in person. Had I gone home now, the concierge would’ve wrangled with me for the lost keys; then the landlord would’ve joined us and we would’ve argued the whole day. No, I wanted to know now what my enemy looked like!

  I was ordered to get off the tram and threatened to be taken to the police (I hadn’t bought a ticket). Misers! Well, it wouldn’t seriously affect my plans—Laurent’s work was close to his home. I walked to the waterfront of Quay Barco, gazing with interest at the column of black smoke billowing over the river—the College of St. Johan Femm was still on fire.

  The buildings with Quay Barco’s address formed the second line, hiding behind the hangars and warehouses of the North Creek, a relatively shallow harbor favored by owners of yachts and small boats and by amateur fishermen (imagine—people were fishing in that dirty river!). The blue carriage stood in front of a dull five-story building; I noted its number in my mind. To wait for Laurent outside could be waste of time. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he feigned sickness and went out for some business? The marina, the island, the boats gave me some ideas. The shortest way from Laurent’s place to the college was by boat. And he smelled of fish…

  I turned to the docks. North Creek is not a commercial port: people in such places are kind of slow, know each other (even if they are not formally acquainted), and don’t interfere in each other’s business, but they always know who went with whom and where to.

  Cozily nestling among the boxes and empty barrels, a group of fishermen was having breakfast on the dock. My stomach reminded loudly of itself at the sight of fresh bread and roach (yesterday’s feast had already left my body). I needed to end this manhunt!

  “Where is Laurent?” I confidently asked them, not bothering with a salute.

  “There!” they waved in the direction of the long sheds.

  Luck was with me that day. Maybe I could get my money back—I desperately did not want to trudge home on foot.
A small side door was open, and loud voices could be heard inside—Laurent was not alone.

  “Hey, morons!” I started talking right from the door. “Haven’t expected me?”

  Two athletic guys gazed at me in surprise. The third, a blond hunk in a white captain’s jacket, lightly pursed his lips. Apparently, he swore to himself.

  “The same to you, Laurent!” I nodded to him. “What else can you say?”

  He looked at me with a mixture of disgust and perplexity, and my dark character immediately took a fighting stance. I hated snobs and copycatting captains! If you want to walk on my roof, show me your claws.

  “You have a lot of nerve to come here…” he started wearily.

  “What choice do I have?” I shrugged. “Your half-baked morons can’t talk, and I need specifics. I had to drag myself here, teacher. On foot. By the way, I rubbed my feet sore!”

  Who can tell me why I was in such a hurry? There were three artisans before me, the very same that had alarmed all of Redstone and stirred up the university. Moreover, one of them was certainly a magician, and not the last one in his gang. Wasn’t I in the position of a lapdog barking at an elephant?”

  But it was too late to retreat. Where power doesn’t save, audacity will help!

  “Confess what you have done, assholes!”

  Laurent closed his eyes, as if demonstrating an abyss of patience, and tried to keep silence. He seemed to know little about the nature of the dark.

  “Do not tell me that you are a magician-inventor. I won’t believe you—you don’t have the right physiognomy.”

  “Of course, I used nothing out of ordinary,” the artisan refrained, “Only the shackles of deliverance! Is this term familiar to you?”

  “Didn’t you mess something up?” I asked strictly and shocked him completely.

  I felt no discomfort (neither cold, nor emptiness, nor loneliness) from the loss of my Source. It was strange. I hadn’t seriously considered magic as one of my limbs, but I thought that the infamous shackles should be sensed somewhat differently. Was that really the very same thing that dark magicians feared the most, to the point of hiccups? Enough to make a cat laugh!

  “Do not doubt,” he assured me. “You must feel sad about ending your magician’s career so early?”

  I wondered if he mistook me for someone else.

  I shrugged. “Not really. Actually, I am going to be an alchemist. But I’ll report on you to NZAMIPS anyway, as a warning.”

  They abruptly saddened.

  “It looks,” Laurent sighed, “like you do not understand what favor we have done to you by releasing from the pernicious influence of the Evil…”

  I replied to him with an obscene gesture.

  “…Or has the vice too deeply rooted in your soul? You’re forcing us to resort to extreme measures!”

  Did he threaten a dark mage? What a brazen white! Even if I did not have access to magic, I could still give him a fistfight, and I immediately told Laurent as much. Instead of a reply, the two muscles scowled and moved in my direction.

  Look at them, half-baked goblins of the dwarf species!

  In a good fight three adversaries at a time would be a guaranteed defeat. If these were wicked city teens before me, I would turn around and run—the dark are not afraid to retreat timely. But these were just musclemen—cultured boys who decided to become cool through weight training; their combat skills hadn’t been polished in dozens of minor skirmishes with broken noses and dark blue bruises. Against the ragamuffin from Krauhard’s backwoods, they were like well-groomed pets against a stray alley cat.

  While Laurent’s friends clucked their beaks, I knocked off a barrel at their feet—they had to attack me one at a time now. The floor was swept very poorly, much to my advantage. Pretending to take a lower stand, I scraped a pinch of sand from the floor and threw it in the face of the approaching enemy. He was taken aback for a moment and recoiled, protecting his eyes, and immediately got a shoe kick on the knee from me—an inexpressible feeling, I knew for myself.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  They really had a bee in their bonnet about my relatives! I didn’t have time to respond to the insult—the second opponent rushed to attack. I did not know where they took their combat lessons from, but the money was spent in vain: a one-on-one fight, without weapons, is not a fight but a pub brawl. And the techniques should be appropriate for the brawl. I grabbed him by the clothes, pulled toward myself, and in a couple of seconds he glided down on one of the boxes. I could have applied more skill to make his head meet the corner, but then there would be a warm corpse on my hands, and I wasn’t accustomed to killing people.

  I had underestimated Laurent; he had realistically assessed his chances against the dark—even if the latter wasn’t a magician anymore. While his comrades were getting their asses kicked, he ran into the back room and was now ready to show his skill: “It’s all over for you, accursed sorcerer!”

  Laurent was holding an object, for the possession of which he could be jailed right on the spot for three years: a huge crossbow with an arrow, thick as a finger. Quite an exotic arsenal for a white magician. That thing hardly differed from the armory of a combat mage, except that the crossbow took more time to charge, and it did not leave aural imprints or require special abilities. The smooth arrowhead was stained with something greasy; I had no desire to test whether it was oil or poison.

  Forgetting everything, I made the simplest ward-off weaving and threw it at my opponents.

  A bright light ignited. I sensed a puff of heat and a rancid stench. When I was able to see again, it was very quiet around, and black flakes of soot were falling on the floor. My opponents could not be seen anywhere. I heard neither frightened screams, nor footsteps, nor creaking floorboards, nor slamming doors. Only black dust was powdered all around… When I understood what had happened, my blood drained from the brain, and the heart retreated to my heels. I rushed headlong from the hangar without looking to where I was running.

  Yellowish smoke that scattered at the ceiling and flakes of soot were all that remained of a combat crossbow and three people who dared to argue with a dark magician.

  The problem was not that I deprived someone of life (I wasn’t cognizant of that fact yet)—things just happened very quickly and without any conscious effort on my part. Uncle’s words about the armory curse surfaced in my memory. Was that a manifestation of my non-standard channel of power? But I had repeated that same curse many times in the classroom, and it only made balls bounce!

  I rushed home like crazy: my apartment was at least six miles away, on the other side of the river. The concierge looked at me and silently gave a spare set of keys (she wasn’t suicidal, apparently). I was hungry but couldn’t eat. I was too emotional. Totally shocked.

  I took a spoon of valerian and went to bed but didn’t sleep for long. The doorbell rang; it was the owner of the stables. Smiling, he handed me my wallet: “As I said, it was an unfortunate misunderstanding. My guy did not notice in the darkness the thing you had forgotten. He had gotten sick.”

  By the time of their alleged conversation, Laurent was dead and could only be collected by shoveling. So the owner surely lied. I don’t know how the enterprising boss managed to get into the apartment of the dead artisan, but he took out the only thing that could point to my relationship with the victim.

  “Thanks!” I was sincerely gratified.

  “Any more questions for us?”

  “No! I’m really thankful to you.”

  I took more valerian and went to bed again. The doorbell rang; this time it was Captain Baer in black overalls, smelling horribly of smoke and breathing heavily. I said, “You stink,” and closed the door.

  I went to bed again, the bell rang again, and Uncle was at the door, smiling, wanting to enter. I screamed and woke up. What an eerie dream!

  Chapter 23

  The infamous College of St. Johan Femm burned vigorously and for a long time.

  Locomotive went there
for the second time: two years ago, when Larkes was in charge, a few young scumbags castrated a kid—an uninitiated white—and were killed by the elemental curse, first and last in the short life of the white boy. Sixty-four students and attendants were slaughtered along with them, all of whom the dying wizard managed to douse with his rage. Who says that the white magic is harmless?

  Firefighters poured nearly half of the river on the island, but if it had not been for the sake of the investigation, Conrad Baer would have let the fire frolic freely. It was a place nobody wanted to buy. Being a privileged school not long ago, the college was completely abandoned now. Sooner or later, the abandoned buildings always become infested with some yuck. Though Locomotive did not expect that it would be the warm-blooded yuck.

  In the yard flooded with water and trampled by firefighters, healers calmed down a heavily burned white. He did not want to leave and assured everyone that he had lost his soul “here, exactly right here”, and begged to help him with the search.

  “Another fool got hit by a beam,” the healer said to Locomotive with cynicism, typical for the police practitioners. “Perhaps, it will be better for him that way.”

  “Dragon tears?” the captain pointed to the injured white.

  “No, more like a lobotomy. I will give more details after the examination—if he stays alive until then.”

  Locomotive nodded and went inside the building blackened by soot. It smelled disgustingly of smoke, water squelched under his feet and dripped on his head.

  “Yours are there,” a firefighter stowing a tarpaulin sleeve waved in the direction of the hall.

  He found the senior coordinator in the hall that had clearly been an epicenter of the fire. The floor boards were burned through to the rocky foundation there, and Locomotive moved via flimsy footbridges, thrown by the firefighters over the structures that survived the fire. Everybody’s attention was focused on the crumpled skeleton of a surgical table: around it, buried in black trash almost to the elbows, magician-experts and Mr. Satal personally crawled on their knees in search of evidence. All were unhealthily agitated.