My Path to Magic

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  The junkyard itself (the junkyard, not a dump!) was quite a remarkable place. On a space the size of a small field, there were long piles of incredible stuff that was sorted by a gang of idiotic personalities, though they were quite friendly. What exactly their business was like I didn't know, but the junkyard owner shipped carts of various items daily and immediately filled the freed space with a new batch of stuff. Part of the territory was occupied by illegal housing—junkmen's sheds, workshops of amateur alchemists, as well as garages of car enthusiasts, less wealthy than I was. Knowledgeable people found the place very convenient: in the junkyard one could get parts to almost any obsolete device, starting with a wall clock and ending with a locomotive (for the first time I came here for that very reason). The owner of the junkyard charged a few copper coins for the right to own a squalid tin can and watched that no one lived there seriously; despite the cheap dilapidated gates and fence, the junkyard was well guarded.

  That day, the maze of rickety ruins was particularly quiet—the local old-timers sensed troubles well. The captain stood beside the familiar garage and looked at me expectantly.

  "Have you been inside?" I asked.

  "I looked through the crack."

  I sighed and opened the door. It was never locked. In the garage there was my huge black motorcycle; my merry dead dog sat right next to it. Well, of course! Why would it be somewhere else?

  Max, wagging its tail, ran toward me and began to swirl around my legs (that's right, the captain and I came together as friends, and the zombie did not have any reason to worry about the stranger). I patted Max on the back, routinely refreshing the revivifying spell. No point in hiding it! The chief of Redstone's NZAMIPS calmly watched the spectacle. The man had iron nerves!

  "Why did you make this zombie?"

  I shrugged: "Not on purpose, it just happened so!" Max shoved its ears into my hand to stroke and looked at the stranger in a quite friendly manner. "The dog saved my life. And it was also a victim of the ghouls."

  By the way, the dog resisted death much longer than the afflicted people.

  "Okay, what's done is done," somebody grimly announced behind me.

  That was a mage. A dark. An adult. Something clicked in me, and to the very roots of my being I realized the truth: I'd better not start a fight with him—I would lose. Max pressed tightly to my knee, folding its ears as if making a house of cards.

  "Calm the beast, hold it by the collar. I do not like dogs."

  I firmly grabbed Max by the skin, though I was sure that without my word it would not move from the spot. Scenes in which I had dealt with other dark magicians face-to-face flashed through my mind. There were not many of them: Uncle, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Rakshat, that was about all. None of them was really tough, but this guy was truly strong—no need to go to an empath. It wasn't easy to assess his age, but I felt that the mage was no older than forty, and my imagination persistently pictured him in general's epaulets. An abundance of power gives a dark mage's face a specific expression... Who did Captain Baer bring along?

  The magician stared at Max. "Are you interested in necromancy?" he asked calmly, without shuddering, as if someone's interest in necromancy was nothing out of the ordinary!

  "No way! I just felt sorry for the dog."

  It sounded silly. They would think that I was a nutcase and send me for treatment.

  The magician raised his eyebrow: "Have you asked its opinion?"

  Max and I exchanged bewildered looks: "The dog did not seem to be opposed."

  "What did you use?"

  It was the hardest question. If I was not prepared in the necromantic ritual, then how did I manage to accomplish it? I had no other option but to shrug: "It happened somehow."

  Captain Baer expressively snorted.

  The magician turned his attention from the zombie to me. In principle, it is difficult to find something that will scare a dark mage, but there were so many minor sins in my heart (starting with the same Rustle) that I couldn't meet his gaze imperturbably. He enjoyed my embarrassment. What a bastard! I had to endure his sassy staring in silence, because all my skills were nothing against a real combat mage. Max would hold against him for about ten seconds; meanwhile, Captain Baer would attack me from behind and strangle to death—such a hulk could not be stopped by a curse. It was unbearable to stand like that knowing that you couldn't even hit him in the face!

  It must have been something like a test. Assured that I was not going to start a suicidal attack, the magician lost his interest in me and melancholically nodded to his accomplice.

  "Well," Captain Baer began, "by the end of the week you'll report about your adventures in detail to me personally. Got it? If I see even one deviation from my own data, you'll be arrested."

  "And then what?" I clarified cautiously.

  "At this moment we... how do I put it... don't want more sensations. We will watch for you, you son of a bitch!"

  Why did they give no rest to my family? I made a valiant effort to conceal a sigh of relief. All turned out well! I did not feel myself guilty, but I was a little worried about Max.

  "One more thing," the magician added quietly and softly.

  All my hair stood on end.

  "If you come into the spotlight once again or some rumors will start, then blame yourself!"

  A faint dark shadow gently touched my skin.

  I quickly nodded and the mage, contented with the effect he produced, slowly went somewhere, dodging around piles of rusty scrap. Amazing that two dark magicians parted without a duel! The unnatural simplicity of the incident made me a little dizzy.

  "Come on, I'll give you a ride to your apartment," Locomotive chuckled.

  "Thank you, I'll manage myself."

  "What, you'll manage your suitcase as well?"

  Yes, the suitcase was a problem. Very well then, he had brought me in, let him take me out of here. I slapped Max, sending the dog back inside the garage, pinned the door with a wooden leg, and returned to the car.

  * * *

  The meeting the captain promised to Mr. Satal didn't go as planned. During the operation, Locomotive did not doubt his superior's orders, but when they got back to the office he couldn't preserve his composure: "We have to..."

  "No."

  "Well, at least..."

  "No."

  "Sir, necromancy is the most heinous of all the crimes that a dark magician is capable of doing. And to ignore it would be just... just..."

  "Want me to give you a written order?"

  Satal was the captain's first superior, who suggested taking some responsibility off of Baer's shoulders.

  "No, Dan," Locomotive was deeply moved, "I do not mean that! The guy went too far, seriously, and not for the first time. He cannot live like everyone else; we either ought to recruit him or apprehend—there are no other options."

  "Don't fret!" the dark magician ordered calmly. "Everything is under control. As the senior coordinator of the region I can authorize the use of necromancy, in particular, for operational purposes, of course, if he signs a contract, albeit retroactively. He has nowhere to go but to us—a dark mage cannot change his nature. The kid exposed himself twice, and he will do it again—that's when we'll recruit him. He won't feel pushed into the corner and will be thankful to us. And considering that even his zombie frolics like a sweet puppy, I am not afraid for the innocent people. Have you seen a frolicking zombie before?"

  Captain Baer snorted: "It's impossible! The degeneration into a zombie cannot be stopped in the middle. It does not matter how fresh the corpse is."

  "Let's say it is feasible, but very difficult to accomplish; that's why it is almost impossible. I will take him as my disciple! Why not? He has talent, the basics are excellently provided by the university; what remain are the details that I will help him to master. He will call me 'Sensei'..."

  Locomotive gazed at the dreaming magician and rolled his eyes. The dark! He needed to tell Ms. Kevinahari about their conversation and let her do her th
erapy.

  Chapter 20

  For the rest of my vacation I scribbled reports for NZAMIPS. For the first time in my life. I punctually expounded events, checking and rechecking my field notes. I dared not lie, but strongly suspected that the truth would seem like first-class taradiddle to most. And then what? Surely, I did not want to finish my days in the jail for especially dangerous magicians; according to rumors, it was an abominable institution. On the other hand, there was seemingly no reason to break into a run...

  An ordinary man would have gained a myocardial infarction from such an experience (not to mention a white mage!), but I was just tormented by hopeless irritation. I felt angry that NZAMIPS so quickly got to the bottom of my case. I should have gone into denial mode! Confess nothing: that wasn't me, the motorcycle was mine but the dog—no, no, though it could all take a turn for much worse than now. Now only my self-esteem suffered. I would survive. However, the strange pliancy of the unfamiliar mage suggested some kind of a trap.

  Anyway, the captain received the folder with my report in time and did not even read me the moral code. The latter frightened me—the policeman knew the nature of the dark magician. The absence of a strong reaction confuses us, dark magicians, and produces a feeling of permissiveness—virtually guaranteeing a relapse. Did they want to provoke me to commit a crime? I decided to act out of spite and not succumb. I would be quiet, polite, and modest, at least until graduation—about a year was left to wait. I had a lot of money, nobody asked questions about my Empowerment, and nothing else kept me from fully focusing on alchemy. I wanted just that! As a bonus, I received four typewritten sheets with guidelines for "zombie upkeep". The guide advised one to give a zombie a special mineral broth periodically. It was time to visit my favorite firm and ask Johan for the necessary chemicals.

  Had I known how it would end, I would have surrendered the zombie to NZAMIPS for experiments, and let them feed it with what they wanted.

  At BioKin’s office, I met a sobbing Bella (the blue-eyed brunette). What was going on now? The design seemed to be working. Carl and Johan danced with a tambourine around it, day and night, so that my presence wasn't necessary. And I didn't believe that she would be crying because of issues with the fermentation vat.

  I decided to stay away from the secretary's problems (I have little experience in dealing with weeping women), but no such luck. Her sobs reached me everywhere in the huge office and stabbed my brain like red-hot nails. I sensed that Rustle was having a blast, exacerbating my ill feelings, and for half an hour I meditated, trying to isolate myself from the alien's influence. I wasn't going to allow some otherworldly stinker to teach me how to live! Nothing positive came out of it: the place in my body that had been taken by Rustle was not available to my conscious mind yet (I became a real magician only a year ago, after all). The cry even intensified in my mind, overshadowing all other sounds.

  I pondered if I should perhaps take some time off. Less than two weeks remained until the end of the conditional quarantine; if I locked myself up in the apartment and drank, I would hold out. But then some ominous purple glow came under my eyelids, and I understood that playing the fool because of some stupid chick did not make any sense. I sighed and went to show my consolation for others, the hell with them.

  The girl carefully concealed the tear-reddened eyes with her palm.

  "So, what happened?" I muttered, trying to sound friendly.

  She did not answer, turning to the window.

  "Maybe I can help."

  "No..."

  "How do you know? Do the dark magicians often offer you help?"

  It sounded convincing.

  Soon she started talking. As it turned out, she was worried about her fiancé, a guy named Uther. I saw him a couple of times in the office; he worked part-time as a courier—a typical uninitiated dark mage, restless and boisterous, but with a sense of humor, a rare feature in people of our kind. Bella's mother was against the guy; she requested that he get medical treatment with some doctor she knew—and who wasn't even an empath—to "correct his character". The fiancé was truly noisy and quarrelsome, but the girl liked him, and his excessive obstinacy wasn't vicious. Uther agreed (I could not believe it); together they went to the clinic, and Bella watched him sleeping after the procedure, being so calm. Two days passed by. Yesterday he had to return home but could not be found anywhere, and the girl was no longer allowed in the clinic, and they didn't answer her questions. What else could she do to help him?

  "What did they mean by the 'treatment'?" Something in her story alerted me.

  The charming secretary did not know anything about magic. She tried to recall diligently the explanations given to her, using terms like "dissection of the contour" and "setting the axis". I carefully listened, gradually realizing a nasty thing: she could say goodbye to Uther. When the poor girl, biting her lower lip from effort, drew on a piece of paper the sign used in the "procedural room", my doubts were confirmed.

  "They used the shackles of deliverance on the uninitiated magician," I concluded. "Your boyfriend is already gone."

  Her eyes opened wide in indignation.

  "There's nothing you can do about it, dear, that's life. You may think of him as passed away, and if he is still breathing, it is not an indication that he will live. Any mage will say the same thing to you."

  "No, they would not harm..."

  "This is another issue: how they dared to perform that on him. What kind of a doctor was that, who didn't know the basics? Have you seen his license?"

  She visibly shivered and timidly shook her head: "No, I haven't. It was Mrs. Melons' Medical School..."

  "I do not care about the school—the license of the healer is what is important. Magic is as much a part of the human being as is the liver or the heart. An initiated magician is taught how to separate the Source from himself; magic is like his third hand, so it can be cut off. That would be unpleasant, but not deadly. For an uninitiated mage, an attempt to remove the Source is equivalent to a strike by a hammerhead in the chest: the mind and personality get broken into debris and the body is still breathing, but the mind isn't functioning. The body without the soul does not live long."

  Bella seemed to grasp the meaning of what had occurred.

  "Yeah, dear, they killed him. I do not know purposefully or not. It was like hitting him with a knife, only there was no blood. If his relatives have not yet reported the case to NZAMIPS, being in your shoes, I would have done it immediately so that those charlatans won't kill someone else."

  She became very pale and began to fuss, grabbing her purse, then her phone, then her purse again.

  "Go, I'll let Polak know," my generosity knew no bounds. "NZAMIPS head office is on Park Road; tell their chief that I referred you."

  She sniffled, jumped up, and ran away.

  Blessed silence!

  I got back to my desk, habitually rubbed my cup to warm the coffee, and braced to familiarize myself with the shape the sewage tank had acquired in my absence. My enjoyment was spoiled by waves of approval from Rustle. Can you imagine—the revenant wight had demonstrated high ethics norms! Had I known how, I would have killed it. By the way, I should delve into the literature; perhaps there is a way to get rid of the monster.

  It was mind-boggling how the brainless creature managed to find the only weak spot in the dark magician. If Rustle had dared to pester me with visions of burning cities and the walking dead, I would have laughed. But since childhood I have been told that helping people is a must! Normally, I more or less ignored the unnatural impulses, pretending not to see anything heartrending, but Rustle pitilessly poked me into a conflict between my white upbringing and my dark nature.

  Too bad to be a dark raised in a white family.

  I didn't see Bella the next day—she picked up her stuff from the office and disappeared forever. Quarters said that the girl burst into asceticism and devoted her spare time to studying; she was going to be a doctor. A useful thing to do!

  B
ut my involuntary humanism resulted in some consequences.

  Surprisingly, NZAMIPS reacted vigorously to the incoherently mumbling girl: when the assault squad broke into the dubious clinic, the ill-fated Uther had already been dead and prepared for cremation, and there were two other dark children waiting in line for "treatment". NZAMIPS apprehended everyone from the director to the floor cleaner, but most of the staff were peaceful herbalists, unaware that the owner of the establishment was playing with forbidden divination. The tabloids came out with headlines like "Revival of the Inquisition" and "Police Lawlessness"; however, that did not stop the prosecution. Authorities announced that the clinic would be closed and demolished, as the building had been desecrated by the sacrifice.

  "Can you imagine—I had been there," the unusually serious Quarters twisted an almost full glass in his hands, "and saw that woman."

  "Wanted to get a treatment?" I was sarcastic.

  "Bite your tongue!" Ron got angry. "You're in a better position than me—your folks are far away, but mine see me every day. Mother was a girlfriend of Melons’; they're now organizing a club of supporters."

  "Supporters of whom? Bella or Uther?"

  "You won't understand," he brushed me off. "Melons was... well... a typical white!"

  "White is not synonymous with good," I said instructively.

  "I know," Quarters frowned, "I did not think that everything had gone that far."

  "Rent an apartment!" I advised sincerely. "There is nothing better than life without neighbors."

  Especially when you have the financial resources for that.

  Uther was buried on the first day of the new school year, and not even one f*cking newspaper put a line in about him! It was outrageous!

  We railed in unison with Rustle; the result was frightening. I did not know what Rustle was going to do, but I went to the university and personally asked every dark magician whose name I was able to recall (it turned out that I remembered quite a lot of them) whether he was aware that a white mage had killed a dark. And guess what? Everyone showed the liveliest interest to the case. That was when I first heard the strange word "Artisan". The oldest teachers spoke the word through clenched teeth with such hatred that I was ready to believe in the reality of a war between the dark and white. By the end of the day, someone had painted on the walls of the central building the distinctive sign of a blood feud with the words, "Nintark is not forgotten!" I wondered where that was.