My Path to Magic mptm-1

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  How the hell could I become one of NZAMIPS people?!

  Part 5. DEVIL’S DISCIPLE

  Chapter 25

  Snowflakes danced slowly outside: flew to the window, sparkled shortly, and hid in the darkness. I tried to project for a second, to save their flight in my mind, but failed time after time.

  “Tangor!”

  Yes, yes, I was there. Where could I go now? What madness made me believe the speech of the dark magician and sign the damn contract? It must have been the trauma inflicted by Rustle, and the monster will answer for that! For about a month, I was in blissful ignorance of the trouble that I had gotten myself into—exactly until the moment I finished taking the course of the inhibitors. And then Mr. Satal called me, ordered to take Max out of the “quarantine” vivarium, and explained the content of the contract again.

  For example, one of its points was about “training, free of charge”, meaning that in order to withdraw from the course, I would have to pay a lot.

  “Tangor, why are you slacking?!”

  I had made a mistake: I would rather have gone to jail; they would have treated me with the course of inhibitors anyway. They didn’t have a choice. In the end, to help victims of the supernatural was their duty! And now I was under the contract for five years and, quite likely, I would have to sign it again. Dark magicians always have to work pro bono for the public good. In the sense that society always thinks the dark owe it something.

  I could have tried sabotage, but something was telling me that would make things worse.

  “I’ve already finished, sir.”

  “You will be done when you report on the execution of the job!”

  “Sir, I’m done.”

  “Good.”

  When Satal swears, it’s normal; the foul language in his performance doesn’t need to be taken seriously. When Satal becomes really dangerous, he begins to express himself in exquisitely literary language, with the hard-to-pronounce accent of a noble gentleman that treads his enemy into the dirt with his white gloves on. I had a vague suspicion that because of his high position, the coordinator pinched his dark nature too tightly before strangers, and his thirst for informal communication poured out on me. A sort of manifestation of his trust. What was I supposed to do? I just started taking responsibility for my white family and then turned again to the position of a disciple. Satal perceived my apprenticeship in the most archaic sense of that word (when apprentices endured beatings and washed their master’s socks).

  I wondered whether killing the senior coordinator would aggravate my punishment. Even if it would, I didn’t care. The only problem was that I didn’t have confidence in the success of my attempt—that bastard was too good in combat. I decided to act like a genuine assassin—hide my intentions until I could accumulate sufficient power and skills.

  “Not bad,” Satal noticed casually, examining my scheme (I spent over two hours on it!). We had not started practical training yet, because, in his opinion, I had to “polish my knowledge of theory”.

  “That’s all for today. Dismissed!”

  “Excuse me, sir,” I had to be polite, “Christmas holidays are coming. I would like to leave Redstone for two weeks—is this possible?”

  He frowned: “Why?”

  “I promised my brother that we’d spend winter holidays together. My brother is white.”

  That was an important comment: all children would be upset when they are promised something and the promises don’t come true, but a little white would take it hard.

  “I got it. Apply in writing!”

  In writing?! Wasn’t I a “freelancer”?! What would happen next, then? Likely, he would start sending me on assignments!

  I needed to learn how to make undetectable poisons.

  “Goodbye, sir,” I was able to leave the room, keeping myself icy calm. I learned how to hide my feelings well!

  The empath met me in the hallway, smiling. They must work in tandem.

  “Hi, Thomas! How are you doing?”

  “All is wonderful, Ms. Kevinahari. I have made great progress!”

  For example, I managed to lie while looking straight into the eyes of an empath.

  “Yes, dear,” she confirmed. “But if your smile is sincere, the outer corners of your eyes should go slightly down!”

  I needed to learn the art of poisons and try it out on her.

  The second, “authoritative” floor was quiet and dark. By the end of my classes, most of the staff in the police headquarters was gone; only officers of the night remained along with workaholics that were ready to sit until midnight. That bastard senior coordinator ordered the freelancer to work at least two days a month—that is, whole sixteen hours. Satal was not going to spend his weekends on me. I wouldn’t get credit for my work for him, so I went to NZAMIPS on my more or less free weekday, Wednesday, and worked for four hours until my brains refused to accept any more information.

  He should not treat another dark like that!

  In return, Satal covered up the killings I had committed and the zombie I created, as well as my vast illegal practice of magic. From the point of view of justice, I was a persistent repeat offender, unworthy of mercy. The coordinator did not know about the rewritten memory crystal yet; collusion between a magician and a representative of the supervisory bodies was regarded as a very serious offense. And there was yet a whole six months until graduation…

  The only thing that I stopped worrying about was my acquaintance with Rustle. Long ago, the clever otherworldly wight had found a way to interest itself in the most dangerous of its opponents, the dark magicians. The one who overcame the monster and didn’t lose his mind would get a benefit: knowledge. Given that Rustle’s age was at least ten thousand years, and its infernal body was present everywhere in the world, the prospects this situation opened up for me were exciting. Unfortunately, the statistics of the survivors was approximately one to forty-three: the majority became insane in the first one and a half or two years. No wonder, taking into account how the monster mocked me. The only way to avoid the increase in the number of senseless victims was to hide that interesting benefit of Rustle from the curious mages, and NZAMIPS was doing exactly that via rigid censorship.

  In my opinion, the benefit of the long-lived monster was questionable. First, Rustle was illiterate, which meant it wasn’t able to recognize words, letters, and symbols, unless it had dealt with the subject in some way. I could read Uncle’s book, because the monster ate a few people who had read it before and was now capable of precisely reproducing the sensations associated with each word. Second, that freak of nature had no idea what the calendar meant and what the date and time were today or in the past. There was no way to get any details from the monster. Responding to a question, Rustle used to dump a pile of random associations on the inquirer, the validity of which was almost impossible to check, and the monster wanted some interest for its work. I wasn’t going to risk my sanity for such nonsense as some doubtful information from Rustle, and I immediately announced that to all interested persons.

  Still at the mercy of gloomy misanthropy, I put a student jacket on top of a standard student suit and pulled down a typical student cap over my ears; it snowed, after all. Even my shoes were standard for a student now. I could, of course, come to NZAMIPS wearing an expensive black suit, but then Satal would certainly mock me. Did I need it? No, not until the poison would be ready.

  “What’s up? Is the boss pressing you?” Captain Baer, another workaholic, was coming down from the top floors.

  I shrugged uncertainly.

  “If you can’t stand him, complain to the empath—she will reprove him.”

  The best piece of advice ever.

  Having shouldered a typical student bag, I walked to the door, feeling with the soles of my feet the heat of protective spells under the carpet. I ought to think of something neutral—spells like that responded to hostile intent; it would be shameful to get arrested for the intended murder of the senior coordinator b
efore even attempting it. There is a bright side to everything. In the end, I could forget about this nest of vipers until next semester—freedom!

  I perked up and went to the tram stop, alone as always. The police headquarters were located in the commercial area and stretched for nearly a block, with one side facing Park Road and the other - Carriage Alley. A few more separate buildings (including the mortuary and a parking garage) were situated in the yard, but the majority of government officials worked till exactly 5:30 p.m. and then instantly disappeared. As the saying goes, only fools and horses work. There were neither pubs nor restaurants nearby, for obvious reasons, and I did not expect any company. Naturally, two men hiding in a gateway caught my eye, at least on a magic level. In one of the strangers I surprisingly recognized Quarters. Interesting: why did the lover of comfort suffer through heavy snow at night? Maybe he was driving a car?

  I paused, waiting for the strange couple. Ron’s friend was very short; the back of his head was hardly up to my chin and below Quarters’ shoulder. I held a vulgar joke about bad weather at the tip of my tongue, because the small fry turned blue from the cold (with his body weight he should have given serious consideration to the choice of his clothes), but Ron was not in the mood to listen to new stories and didn’t even say “hello.”

  “What are you doing at the police headquarters?” he demanded aggressively.

  I raised my eyebrow—it was weird interest on his part, but replied, “I take lessons in combat magic.”

  “Give me a break! From whom?”

  “From a visiting specialist. Edan Satal, have you heard of him?”

  “He’s the senior coordinator of the region!” Shorty sighed.

  I wondered how come he knew so much. As for me, I hadn’t been aware of Satal’s rank until Kevinahari enlightened me.

  “Well, he is not bad as a combat mage.”

  Though he was the worst teacher I ever had.

  “You’re lying!” the short guy said flatly. “Did you really come for some stupid magic at this time?! I would have believed it easier had you said that came to have tea there!”

  I lost my breath from his statement.

  I suffered, and he saw that as a cause for jokes!

  My mind still struggled to come up with a killing derogatory response, but the dark nature already started acting; my fist met the offender’s jaw. Of course, I was in no position for a good swing, and my hit spared his nose, but made him fly backward to the ground. That is, onto the pavement; that is, onto the rocks. Only his hat and high collar saved Shorty from instant death.

  Again, my reaction overtook my thinking. At least, I was in complete agreement with myself. That’s how a dark magician ought to respond!

  Ironically, Quarters hurried to help his fellow.

  “What’s wrong with you? What are you doing?” he was outraged.

  I shrugged, “What did you expect from me? If he wants to be rude to a dark magician, he should wear a helmet. Anyway, I don’t recommend that you communicate with this goon. He is one of the artisan, obviously.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Because!”

  Never before had I witnessed paralysis of the brain in Ron. On the other hand, what should I expect from an ordinary person? Let him kiss his new boyfriend. If he started protesting, I would fight him. Before Ron was able to defeat me, but now Quarters wouldn’t stand a chance; I was taking classes in martial arts and had already achieved some progress. Don’t get me wrong, the inborn skills of the dark were usually enough to live a good life. But Satal had a picture on the wall where he held some shiny thing, wore a wrestling suit, and looked very pleased. That is, had I started a fistfight with him, he would have made mincemeat out of me.

  I hate to fear people!

  Suddenly Quarters came to senses; he decided not to run up on the cuffs and fully concentrated on the short guy who clapped his eyes in confusion. I turned around and walked to the tram stop, feeling sudden bitterness: when I was beaten up, Ron did not fuss so much.

  My nerves became completely shattered. Imagine, I had a desire to go back and explain what was going on. But Rustle reprovingly protested, and a shameful moment of weakness safely passed.

  I decided to instill respect in the monster.

  I’ve got a box. What an amazing box I have! What a mysterious box! And what’s inside the box? I sensed that the naive creature was sticking its long nose into my thoughts. “And inside the box is… lightning!” Rustle disappeared as if it were blown away by the wind. If the otherworldly doesn’t get brains from birth, then age won’t fix the problem.

  I came up to the tram, already feeling heated, angry, and perky.

  * * *

  Ms. Kevinahari was having mint tea in the office of the senior coordinator. From windows she did not see what was happening in the square, but something made her sadly shake head.

  “Have you read your student’s file carefully?”

  Mr. Satal threw the last papers in the drawers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He grew up in a house with a white mage and saw his dark relatives only occasionally. That affected his character.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t you push him too hard?”

  Satal rolled his eyes up: “What are you talking about? He is dark; if he is not shaken like a pear, he won’t be doing anything!”

  “There are other approaches…”

  “For other approaches he’s too old! Only in my way can I make something of him.”

  “Oh Dan, it seems you will get more than you expect.”

  “No problem; I’ll survive,” Satal grinned. “He asked permission to visit relatives on holidays. I will let him go to restore emotional balance.”

  The idea of ​​mental equilibrium in a dark magician seemed to amuse the coordinator.

  “Let’s hope that their contact doesn’t cause conflicts,” the empath pursed her lips.

  Satal, as is always the case with the dark, took into account interests of only one side; how the disturbed combat mage would be perceived by the juvenile white did not bother him.

  Chapter 26

  Students sat in the last lectures with martyrs’ faces, but the spirit of Christmas holidays was hovering over the university: the white hung in the hallways traditional paper ornaments (very much like real flowers, just not fading), the walls were full of many-colored advertisements for parties, and magicians with artistic inclinations competed in the creation of ice sculptures. I took a hand in the holiday preparations, too - designed a device igniting the lights on the Christmas tree before the Faculty of Combat Magic. One might think that a dark magician and volunteering are incompatible things, but my desire to see how people would gasp with surprise proved irresistible. The Christmas tree was a live spruce; when they started to hang light bulbs on it— God knows; it took me a lot of time to find all of the control circuits. But now the garlands flashed in seven different algorithms, and the dean of the white mages bit his lip with envy.

  With great satisfaction I looked at the fiery spirals, waves, and hieroglyphs dancing on the bushy branches. If Quarters had not stopped talking to me, he would have learned that the City Hall paid for the second such device, and it fully compensated me for all expenses related to the project. The trick was that the bulbs were contacting each other by chance for creation of the ornament; the sole task of the decorators was to hang them as tightly as possible. I noticed that some students tried to guess where the ornament would appear the next moment, and what its form and color would be. Useless! The process was controlled by genuine dark magic—spontaneous and unpredictable.

  A surprise awaited me directly beneath the Christmas tree. I recognized the recent friend of Quarters by the back—his figure had a very characteristic shape. Once again the dolt wasn’t dressed for the weather and had a freshman as company. The fact that he dealt with freshmen seemed strange; for a beginner, Shorty was a bit old. He looked like a frozen chicken: a white bird wi
th blue legs.

  I abruptly changed my course, came closer, and kicked him in the ass with my knee - I had an urge to see what his face turned into after my hit. Shorty turned around, intimidated. Oddly enough, he had no bruises on his face.

  “Hi!” I greeted him, smiling very nastily. “How’s your health? Don’t you feel sick? Doesn’t your head spin?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “That means you aren’t pregnant.”

  Gladdening him with the conclusion, I went on my way, whistling.

  I wasn’t aware where that fool came from (likely, from the very same Southern Coast where Quarters enjoyed going), but if he didn’t get a scarf at least, he would not last until his return home. However, did I care about his pneumonia? A minute later I forgot about the frozen gnome, but he clearly remembered me. And took measures…

  During a break between classes, I sat in the lobby of the lecture building and studied the rarity I recently bought in the bookshop: the work Toxicology by Master Tiranidos. I must say that the last distinguished inquisitor of Ingernika was a pharmacist, and his book could be read as a reference guide for a poisoner. I did not know how he managed to gather such factual material, but I heard that his grateful contemporaries tore him with their bare hands for it. Of course, the master did not describe the methods of poisons’ manufacture, but it wouldn’t take much skill to produce an extract of foxglove. I was reading in excitement about the symptoms of poisoning by toadstool (it seemed to be an almost perfect means, though I did not know where to pick the mushrooms), when Quarters showed up. He approached me indirectly, walking in circles with atypical nervousness for five minutes, looking at me and muttering something. Did he think that the dark magician would not notice him?