My Path to Magic

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  Meanwhile, the owner of the coat reached the porch but did not step on it.

  "Mr. Larsen!" he called in a quavering falsetto. "Mr. Larsen, may I talk to you for a moment?"

  The farmer went out to the porch, staring gloomily at the visitors. His wife slipped behind him, gathered the children in the yard, and took them into the house.

  "What is it, Mr. Kugel? We seemed to agree that my house was none of your business."

  "You misunderstood me, Mr. Larsen! I said that I could not help, but today I have brought a colleague of mine who is able to... "

  "We do not need your help!"

  "You misunderstood..."

  "Do I need to repeat it?"

  "I apologize," the tall gentleman stepped in, pushing hapless Kugel aside, "But if your house does have a supernatural contamination, as it was reported, it is a threat not only to your family, but also to your neighbors. Such beings do not go away; they cannot be ignored. Saving five hundred crowns, you drive them to the stage when they become dangerous to your loved ones, and the house has to be burned down..."

  "Don't you dare come near my house!"

  A white magician in a fury was a rare and atypical phenomenon, and the consequences of that could be—oh-ho-ho! The tall gentleman raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

  "I beg your pardon! I used an incorrect expression, excuse me! I just want to make sure that the threat does not exist. It is my duty; I must react to the report. I only need to have a look; I won't give you any trouble!"

  The farmer pulled himself together with visible effort.

  "You may enter. But I repeat: we do not have any problem, and we do not need your services."

  The tall gentleman went into the house and almost immediately came out. Mr. Kugel still hemmed and hawed at the door: "I don't understand. I was sure..."

  Subtly swinging, the tall gentleman slapped him in the face with such force that the unfortunate guy flew to the ground head over heels.

  "What a knucklehead! Why the hell do you work here? What do they pay you money for? You could not expel a phoma; you needed help, yeah? Had it been the phoma, it wouldn't have left even the bones of these people, while we were driving here! This was your last day at the office. Gather your stuff; I fire you. Your luck that they found someone smarter than you; otherwise, you would be sentenced to life in the mines. What a muddle head!"

  The boss kicked the mage—who was crying in the dust—with the toe of his shoe and strode toward the gates. The coachman did not wait for the latecomer, and Mr. Kugel had to go home on foot.

  Chapter 9

  My memory saved that winter in torn half remembered fragments, with some episodes looking like they occurred to someone other than me.

  Everyone knew that the first six months after the Empowerment was the most difficult period for a dark magician. Searching for equilibrium with the Source, a mage changed internally and externally (I don't mean growing hooves and horns); this was true for both the dark and the white. Previously, I was amused by the looks of the third-year students, roaming the university with stupid smiles, hopping and skipping, or "saving" autumn leaves from puddles. A magician in the period of temporary insanity was a favorite topic in student jokes. Now I understood that the targets of jokes were only the white mages; no joker (fortunately for him or her) saw the dark ones in that state. Persistent rumors about zombies, circulated by the Faculty of Combat Magic, suddenly made sense.

  Future masters and generals headed home from the faculty late at night, in complete darkness, without stooping to offer vulgar wishes of "good night". That was the way the genuine darks had to behave in their own circle! But my old habits were so strong that I could barely keep myself from giving a parting gesture. One wizard wrote that the dark developed a nasty character as a means of self-preservation—that was the only way to withstand the day-to-day pressure of the hostile Source. I definitely didn't have enough bitchiness. Perhaps only blind faith in my invincibility protected me from a complete collapse of personality.

  Not good to be a dark, grown up among the white.

  Leaving the gloomy walls of the faculty, I used to drop into the nearest pub, where I ate, not tasting the food, and drank without getting drunk, and then the pub owner called me a cab. Yes, I could afford a ride, not a walk, to the hostel now! I did not know how other dark students managed to find their way in such condition. The thought that the next day would be entirely devoted to alchemy helped me to sleep without nightmares.

  In fact, I could have every other weekday off—the Roland Fund's awardees were eligible for benefits for the first six months after the Empowerment. But they wouldn't have done me any good. Had I not alternated magic practice with alchemy courses, I would have lost my mind. After the painful efforts of practicing with the Source, alchemy was like a balm—cool, clear, sincere. Predictability and accurate calculations, beauty of formulas and knowledge of the true essence of things, tamed power of the elements loaded my hands with work and didn't strain the brain. My admiration for alchemy reached the stage that I shed tears watching the delightful precision of the work of the turret lathe. Quarters sympathetically patted me on the shoulder. Perhaps, other students did not get tired so much, because they were smart enough not to become engaged in illegal practice.

  Meanwhile, my underground business gained momentum. I wasn't greedy, I did not have to advertise at all, but people were calling and calling. My previous clients put a bug in their neighbors' ears; that system worked especially effectively among rural residents. It just boggled my mind how many terrible secrets were hidden amidst peaceful bucolic landscapes! Phomas, birth curses, water spuns, anchutkas, brownies, quiet plague, and even predatory echoes. It seemed that somebody multiplied the supernatural there. Once or twice a week the answering service received a call from a customer, tearfully pleading to save his or her Uncle Peabody or Aunt Triffani. I mean to save in a literal sense, since not even once I came across a case of primitive psychosis that I used to see so much in Redstone. A couple of times I was called when the clients had a death in the family. It was not about the money any more—I did not have time to spend it. Even if I were a dark magician in the power of three, hard-hearted and tough, I could not fence-sit on a woman, sobbing into the phone, whose son had picked up bone rot at the cemetery. It would be physically impossible, at least for me.

  Not good to be a dark, having grown up in a white family.

  My "chatter-box", Ms. Fiberti, responded to my problems with surprising understanding. I obtained a corner in her apartment to keep an escritoire with filing cabinets and workbooks, a rack for my gripsack, and a hanger for my business suit (the suit and the gripsack were my own now). Every evening the hostess made amazingly delicious strawberry tea and allowed me to speak out, and I was immensely grateful to her for that.

  I approached the rate of "two calls per weekend", and geography of my trips became more and more complicated. Leisure time disappeared—I hardly slept enough those days. Long walks and lengthy waiting times for the train turned into a sophisticated form of torture. After falling asleep on the platform and almost freezing to death while waiting for a train, I realized that I needed my own transportation.

  I couldn't choose which one. A horse was no good—I had no place to hold it, and horses would die from such loads. Alas, I wasn't able to afford a large black limousine with leather seats; the only other option that came to mind was a bicycle. After counting my savings and finding the crazy amount of fifteen hundred crowns, I decided to become more creative in my search - to show off, putting it simply.

  The only car dealer I knew was located across the river, just opposite the dormitory, and from a distance it looked like a long shed with a skylight. I didn't intend to buy anything there—just to get an idea of what was on the market. That place seemed like the right one to start with. I wanted to stretch the nerves of the salespeople, touch and test-drive the machinery, and then buy secondhand through classifieds and hope that I was lucky enough not
to get a lemon.

  I took a day off from my studies, slipping away from a lecture on magic theory; I didn't anticipate any problems with that discipline. The sun was shining, light frost hardened the dirt, and a feeling of unexpected freedom intoxicated me as in spring. I wasn't dressed officially (that business suit and tie were making me sick), and I looked like a funny anomaly strolling among well-dressed crowd. Middle-aged gentlemen, women with children, and old ladies with dogs leisurely sauntered along the promenade. Skinny, cheeky students didn't belong there.

  Was there a festival of some kind that day? Or was it just a popular place?

  A lightly renovated barn displayed the proud name of "Plaza". Most of the visitors, like me, came there just to browse. All of the car models could be viewed right in the hall, without going outside. The sunlight beat through the windows, and the room was surprisingly warm.

  Two dozen brand-new cars were lined up against the long wall. Frustration gripped me when I looked at this exhibition of harlequins. Surely, I knew that cars were toys for wealthy townsfolk (rural residents preferred horse-powered carts and carriages, and for seasonal work they used awfully smoking tractors, powered by rapeseed oil), but I had no idea how far it had gone. All cars had been puffed and curved with an abundance of chrome and gold, in cheerful colors, and some came without a top. Just looking at them caused subconscious aversion. In addition, they all had a very low clearance; such toys were of no use in the places where my clients dwelled. A dark magician who had to be pulled out of potholes with a rope would become a disgrace for the whole profession! I felt an unbearable urge to buy a tractor and drive it back and forth all over the "Plaza".

  "Do you have anything military for sale?" without much hope I asked a pimply young guy with the badge of sales consultant. "For rural areas?"

  He pursed his lips stiffly.

  "We do not sell agricultural machinery!"

  Look at that, a self-conceited flea!

  "I know where I can buy trucks," I smiled dryly. "I wonder if there is anything worth viewing at your place."

  "Hello! How are you?" his boss immediately smelled a brewing conflict. The young guy caught his glance and quietly disappeared. "Are you interested in anything special? Not everything that we sell is on display in the hall."

  I sighed. The dark mage profession had its advantages and drawbacks.

  "I need an off-road vehicle that I could drive everywhere, small and black."

  "Would you like to browse our catalogs?"

  I reluctantly agreed; his suggestion to look at the pictures meant that there were no suitable vehicles on display. The boss took me into his office behind the garage. The place turned out to be quite remarkable; all the walls were plastered with posters bearing images of machinery: engines and steam engines, cars of all makes, racing bolides, squared-off army trucks and tractors—anything that moved without the use of muscle power. A glass cabinet was filled with tiny copies of the most prominent models. I paused at a moped, resembling my own like two peas in a pod, and even blinked with pleasure—the owner had good taste.

  "To find what you want," the salesman said busily, putting thick binders of magazines on the table, "you need to articulate what you want. What you expect your vehicle will do, its operating conditions, fuel, your financial means, all of it. We will get you any model for the right price."

  "I frequently travel to the countryside. There are no roads there, none at all. I need to move quickly. Comfort doesn't matter. I figured I could buy some used military equipment."

  "It's feasible," the salesman nodded, "but the military flogs their vehicles to the ground. You'll get financially broken fixing their cars, but a brand new unit will cost you a fortune—their machines aren't in demand among civilians. It ought to be a custom order."

  Shit... what I wanted was quite unique. Nobody, nobody thought of the needs of talented dark magicians, who had to work at the top of their bent! But the merchant already had his eyes fixed on the ceiling, digging hard into his memory; he seemed to be honored to satisfy the exotic request of his customer.

  "Come on!" he started up suddenly. "You must see it."

  We left the garage, watched by his staff.

  "I think an ethanol engine won't work for you; it's difficult to find dry alcohol briquettes in the countryside, and diluted spirit will stall the engine every other kilometer..."

  I remembered my own experience with the moped and wholeheartedly agreed with him.

  "So, we're looking for something that works on oil," he summarized. "Diesels are more complex in operation, but you have some experience, I believe..."

  The salesman artfully taxied around the complex in a yellow two-seater car, simultaneously introducing me to the particulars of the automotive industry: "A couple years ago, Domgari Motors promoted cars with diesel engines, but their vehicles did not do well: except for the military, nobody showed any interest in them. Noisy and expensive to maintain, they were difficult to ignite in the cold weather and had really large dimensions. In short, the design was stalled. But the company managed to produce some prototypes..."

  A hunting excitement awoke in me. Could it really be true that there was something in this world that could serve me and only me?

  We drove into the suburbs, an area of warehouses and workshops.

  "That's it! Our surplus stock."

  Five vehicles were tightly stuffed in a dusty barn: small trucks, limousines with abnormally elongated hoods, and even a mini-bus.

  "What's the catch? Why did nobody buy them?"

  "I'll start them up, and you'll understand," he went to search for fuel oil.

  I stayed to inspect the collection. All the cars were a bit too big compared to their usual counterparts, and at least three of them had a rather high clearance to fit the definition of an off-road vehicle. Oil was cheaper and more widespread than alcohol; consequently, there would be fewer problems filling up the gas tank. I noticed in one corner a smaller vehicle covered with a dusty tarp. The thing smelled strongly of dark magic.

  "Oh, that!" the salesman approached me unnoticed. "A perfect beast. See for yourself."

  I pulled off the tarp. There was a motorcycle under it, so hefty that I dropped my jaw.

  "A pitiful dead-end design," the guy shook his head in sincere sorrow. "It's not just the size. The engine is operated by dark magic; a single failure, and it would be cheaper to throw it away than to fix it. You know how expensive dark mages' services are!"

  I knew, because I provided those services myself.

  "May I test-drive it?"

  The salesman smiled: "Go ahead!"

  The unit had been conserved skillfully; one could just wipe the dust off and fill the tank to drive it. Dark magic that gave the engine a kind of pseudo-life ate half of the oil in the tank at once and contentedly rumbled. My God, it was a mechanical zombie!

  "Don't go to town," the guy asked.

  I nodded and pulled the starter. The engine didn't clatter, it roared. The motorcycle vibrated impatiently, almost jumping under my hand. I grinned, then turned on the gas and rolled out of the hangar.

  The effect was stunning! Quietly talking salespeople turned their heads toward me in shock, sleepy technicians dropped their tools, and drivers of heavy trucks frantically clanged to the steering wheels, preparing to tame their raging beasts.

  I toured around the hangar, creating terrified screams and unhealthy excitement.

  This monster was capable of killing a white mage by its mere appearance—all the more so by the sound of it. Therefore, I could not ride it around the town; the last thing I needed would be fines for violation of road safety regulations. I would have to rent a garage somewhere on the outskirts of town to keep that monster... because I had made my choice.

  The salesman welcomed my return with a mixture of irritation and excitement on his face.

  "Hey, man! How much does it cost?" I shouted, bellowing over the roar of the engine.

  "Four thousand!" he shouted in reply.
"But you could buy it with a two-year installment plan!"

  "I'll take it!"

  That was how I became the owner of the most monstrous vehicle in the whole Ingernika.

  The motorcycle became the breath of air, the fresh stream that allowed me to get out of the stupor caused by the Empowerment; the vehicle merged my old and current lives—the awakened Power and the acquired freedom. I think I was the last student in our group to recover. Seeing me brisk and angry, Mr. Rakshat sighed with relief and began drilling us with renewed energy—there should be no dropouts in our group anymore.

  My monstrous machine (prudently dyed black by the manufacturer) settled in a shed at a junkyard (the yardman owed me). The convenience was many-sided: first, no one could see it; second, no one could hear it; and finally, it was cheap. The junkyard dwellers would not dare steal from a dark magician, even under the death penalty; they were very superstitious people. So it all worked out splendidly, except for the yard's stench. The roar of the rumbling engine didn't let me fully enjoy my night rides—anybody could track my routes just by the sound. It did not help to keep the secrecy of my trips (remember, remember NZAMIPS!). Since buying another vehicle was out of the question, I had to modify the vehicle. I was an alchemist, after all! Though, my gut feeling was telling me that alchemy alone wouldn't be enough.

  The motorcycle was an advanced model that used a spell to operate the engine: it was a brilliant solution that relieved the owner of problems with the ignition and idling. The design fell short of perfect just a little bit. The solution came to me on the way to Redstone from a client's: it was getting dark, but the headlight refused to light up—the spell that controlled the engine decided to ignore the dynamo-machine. The spell just disliked the dynamo! The engine heated up like a stove, but it could not incandesce one little steel hair in the bulb—the spell was rejecting intermediates, the wires and coils. The problem was fundamental: the dark spell was not an alchemical structure, created by a sorcerer once and for all; the spell existed as an equilibrium of flows, in constant movement, pseudo-alive. The engine was like an organism with its own rhythm, but it perceived the dynamo as an alien structure with a wholly different logic of being; the stronger body cast off the foreign one. They had to be designed as two separate modules, independent of each other, but coming in contact through a simple material buffer. Thinking about the design of the lighting block, I inevitably came to the issue of energy source. And then it hit me: aalternating current!