Locomotive frowned: "I do not understand what you mean, sir."
"You do," Satal dismissed. "He is dark; you can't say to him, 'Go here but don't go there.' If you start taking care of him, he will resist and become less manageable. Hopefully, the sect will be disoriented without Melons, and we will apprehend them before they get ready for some serious steps. Let's go back to work, back to work!"
Captain Baer shook his head again.
He participated in the arrest of Mrs. Melons and watched the doctor at that very moment when all her plans were dashed. Her face, the face of a white magician who deliberately decided to kill, stuck in Locomotive's memory, and one word swirled in his head: "witch"! The captain was accustomed to the intricate logic of the dark, to the delirious talks of the street preachers—but a normal-looking person, behaving as if she lived in another dimension, was something new for him. The relativity of good and evil was brought to absurdity when the good was measured not even by profit, but by some unattainable and unknown ideal that, for some reason, justified any crime. He was there at the moment when Melons made a decision that determined her future behavior and confessions, and he could swear that this story wouldn't end well.
The armory curse. God save us...
Chapter 22
I was bored. I couldn't get drunk, unless I did it at home - it was safe in there, but the pleasure wasn't the same.
The biggest problem of any dark mage is what to do with his spare time, particularly if a reliable source of livelihood has been found already.
My work at BioKin had come to a halt: Polak negotiated the acceptance of the prototype of the gas generator with the client, and we all awaited the result. Johan, in his work time, scribbled an article about the new approach to the application of advanced micro-organisms and pestered me with questions about the alchemical part. Carl scoffed at the fermentation vat, throwing into it all sorts of rubbish to test. We both knew that a device with such parameters would thresh any sewage with the equanimity of a pinion, and all these "tests" for the machine were like spitting in the locomotive firebox. The red-haired cousin of Quarters went on maternity leave, the father was an alchemist's assistant (also red-haired), and their child would probably have fire-red hair that one could only touch with mittens. The future father was present at work only as a piece of furniture; his thoughts hovered somewhere far away.
I brewed coffee for myself and counted days until the moment that I would join my magic classes again. I never thought I would miss them! Of course, I could quit and forget the entire shit business, but I was expecting triumph ahead, and it would be a disappointment not to share it.
My third wish was to find new sorts of fun; Rustle heard it but did not fulfill.
I decided to act rapidly; I bought a ticket to the theater for a play with the neutral name "The Road to Exile". And I liked it. After the first three scenes I began quietly giggling, at the end of the first act I already roared with laughter, and in the middle of the second act the attendant requested that I be quieter.
"I do not know what you have found so funny about the drama, young man," an elderly gentleman, sitting right next to me, noted after the performance.
Still twitching convulsively, I explained to him in what condition a dark mage must have been to start talking with his crosier. Again, a crosier! A purely phallic symbol. The idea of its magic properties must have been introduced to the masses by combat mages, but I knew that the only real use of that thing was beating enemies on the head (which, probably, was widespread entertainment in the past). An ideal object to store spells has a round, at most cylindrical, shape; one object can't hold more than one spell at the same time. So, a really mighty magician is a man, adorned with silver beads from head to toe, but on the stage he would be mistaken for a homo.
I could give a thumbs-up to the theater as my new entertainment, but the next play was called "The Rose of the Wind" and created an unwelcome association with the white. Well, to hell with them!
To visit the horse race, maybe? But I had no spare money to waste.
I decided to join a student club; it was kind of late - a year left till my graduation. They didn't let me into the "Green World" club—pushed me out the door. Quarters suggested a yacht club, but I declined—I disliked moisture. I went to a meeting of fans of antique mechanics, and for two days I dreamed of gears. I even promised to find authentic weights for clocks. Surely, I could find something at the junkyard next time. The historic club offered a series of lectures on the origin of magic; I went there to ask about Roland (why he was nicknamed "the Bright"), got into a dispute about northern shamans—to prove my point I quoted an excerpt from the book "The Word About the King"—and made all feel jealous.
Captain Baer came to me and spoiled the mood: "I know that you do not care, but bear in mind: the Melons trial is over, but she has friends. Before, they wanted to appear good-natured, but now they will seek revenge. Watch out!"
And what am I supposed to think about the police after that?
I bought a ticket to the theater one more time, again for a tragedy—"King George XIV", and guessed it would be as laughable as the previous one.
But Polak saved me from the bizarre escapades with unpredictable consequences: once, closer to the end of the day, the boss came into the office shining like a brass chandelier and said that BioKin had successfully handed over the gas generator to the client. The concept had been approved, the firm was commissioned to design two versions of industrial-scale devices and soon, as the finale of the two-year ordeal, the team would have a grand banquet. Well, finally!
Nothing warms the heart of a dark mage more than plenty of free food and drinks of the sort that he cannot afford, and a chance to strut before a gathering of cultured people, knowing that they won't be rude or get into a fight. The only fee for participation in the event was the obligation to silently listen to the solemn forty-minute speech by the owner of the sewage factory and the invited mayor of Redstone. The floor was given to no one else; Quarters said that this way his uncle could emphasize that he had wiped the noses of all the skeptics. He had the right to!
Then all knocked back, and the party went on. I methodically tasted the contents of all bottles and decanters on the table, discovering how much I had missed of life. What could I taste in my Krauhard? Beer. Mead. Once-tried moonshine at the fair. Uncle told me a story: someone in our valley made homebrew once, but the drink had attracted chariks (a supernatural thing, plentiful as mosquitoes in Krauhard), and he no longer risked it. There was no demand for hard liquor in Krauhard! Even in Redstone, I acquired no taste for strong booze - did not like to lose consciousness. But there were white, red, fruity, wormwood drinks... Though, I must admit that after the third glass the difference between the drinks disappeared.
"Hey Tom, don't drink anymore," Quarters took the glass out of my hands.
I was stunned with surprise: "Why?"
"Because! I briefly saw one guy here. He used to hang out with Melons; I do not understand what he is doing at the party. He was not invited! You can get into trouble..."
Damn it, what bad timing! Why am I so unfortunate with banquets?
Quarters was already grogged; caring about me in his condition was surprisingly touching.
"No more!" I sincerely promised and switched exclusively to appetizers; they were also very good at the sewage tycoon's soiree.
The party proved to be no worse than at home: snobbishness quickly evaporated, the guests danced to music and without it, loudly talked and laughed. Johan, who drank only apple juice the entire evening, entertained a group of white mages in deeply philosophical conversation; Polak danced around another sponsor. Some plump little man pestered me with the question of whether I got paid enough.
It was close to midnight when a waiter came over with the message that the requested carriage had arrived. It must have been Quarters who ordered it for me. Actually, I intended to spend the night at the party—they said that the hall was rented until noon t
he next day. But if the carriage had arrived, I had to go. In the end, a feather bed at home was softer than flooring. What if I caught a cold on the floor?
Sighing, I moved my extra few pounds into the carriage that was waiting at the entrance, was painfully stung by something in the darkness, cussed out the cab driver (who smelled like a fishing tacklebox), and sharply fell asleep.
I didn't remember the moment I nodded off: there were neither twilight glimpses of consciousness, nor visions—nothing. I closed my eyes and then opened them under a high ceiling with a dome. The blue sky could be seen through broken fishnet windows without glass, and I felt cold. It was no longer summer.
Shivering, I realized first that I lay not at home, second that it was in an unknown place, and third that I was completely naked.
And then all the liquid I took imperiously demanded to be let out.
"Lie down quietly!" a voice commanded from the off-stage. "A horrible curse will not let you move."
I gently patted myself, found nothing (no pants, either!), and sat down. I wondered whether they really expected me to fall for such a stupid joke.
Two (white mages, by all indications) stared at me in shock. They were kind of chewed up, and because the body's physical health directly depends on the condition of the soul, I concluded that they were experiencing mental stress. Especially bad looking was the guy nearest to me with a spear in his hands. His eyes shone feverishly, his cheeks were sunken, and his hair tousled. The spear looked genuine and antique, though he held it as casually as a whisk.
"We do not fear thee, sorcerer! The teacher has killed your magic; now you cannot hurt anyone."
What a clown.
They looked painfully familiar, and the zombies of White Halak suddenly surfaced in my memory. Of course! That meant he would easily jab a spear into my chest without thinking twice, if I let the situation slip into fisticuffs. On the other hand, maybe they wouldn't dare. How could the captain say that they were "gullible, suggestible, and industrious"?
I had not known that the need to go to the bathroom could stimulate my thoughts that much.
"You betrayed your souls, miserable freaks!" I announced in a tragic voice. "You are the same as zombies, and the dead are at the mercy of dark magicians. Obey! I curse you on the first star, the sepulchral fog, and guts of a black cat! Ow-ow! Let you lose the true vision and skill to separate illusion from reality! Let it be!"
I said that and snapped my fingers, intending to cause a sheaf of colored sparks. Instead, I puffed up a huge ball of fire above my palm. I quickly shook it off under the table—it started smelling of smoke.
In short, it was time to get away.
As expected, the enchanted mages couldn't critically think of the situation. While the white fools clapped their eyelids at me, wasting time, I gathered an armful of clothes and was gone. I didn't care what was going to happen with them; it was their fault anyway.
I got out of the building into the junkyard, pulled on the crumpled clothes, and looked around. The place that I had left was a public use building, about to be demolished, but still quite sturdy (foliage on its marble steps, peeling colonnades, dome devoid of glass). A greenish-turbid river rolled its waters around: we were on the island in the middle of it. Now I understood why no one had noticed the hideout of those fools—water barriers greatly weaken magic background.
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, dependin
g 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...
My Path to Magic Page 22
