My Path to Magic

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  And then the strange faded scrawls formed in my mind a clear sentence: "The perimeter leaks in three spots."

  A wave of panic swept over me. Throwing the book off, I retreated to the far end of the bed, but the mysterious squiggles still danced in my mind. The perimeter leaks in three spots. The perimeter of what?

  Maybe I dreamt that because I was nervous? It happened to me sometimes, like a short circuit in the brain. I opened the book randomly and looked at another page.

  "Salem assures us that there is no threat," the anonymous author had written in haste. "His ability to anticipate the attack is scary, but it's our only hope."

  It seemed that if I wanted, I could see the unknown author, look over his shoulder, admire his mysterious perimeter, and maybe even move there, becoming a hero of the past and living his life, again and again. I wrapped the book in three layers—with my shirt, a blanket, and a bed sheet—and shoved it in the darkest corner of the cabinet.

  I felt reluctance to learn anything from the book.

  Childish curiosity touched my consciousness, as if the monster wanted to understand why.

  Because!

  And I realized that stupid tricks weren't all that Rustle was capable of.

  I heard a kettle whistling in the kitchen. I had no habit of drinking tea and didn't use the main gas (Quarters' uncle's business) at all. Hot drinks weren't a tradition in Krauhard—our ancestors had no stoves to make them. Their meal was simple and artless. Surprised, I dragged my slippers to the kitchen and turned off the burner under the tinkling kettle. Pinch me, but I knew I was seeing that roundside copper kettle for the first time in my life.

  And then, abruptly, without any transition, I found myself standing on the balcony. High railings saved me! Slowly, touching the walls, I got back into the room and began violently poking myself with the accumulator's electrodes. My arm ached displeasingly—I needed to find a less self-destructive remedy. I imagined a huge, droning electric arc and suddenly realized that I was poking my arm with a fork, and the accumulator lay on the table. At lightning speed I corrected the error. Also, I understood why I ended up on the balcony—the kitchen and balcony doors had been reversed.

  My God...

  I could not even imagine that such things were possible. Let's face it: the magic skills of the creature were impressive. And what would it do at night then? This thought made me freeze in my tracks. I couldn't sleep under the electric current every night for God knows how long. I would die from the nervous tension alone!

  My deceased Uncle advised to go to an empath with any problem, but they belonged to the white and didn't know much about the otherworldly creatures. Now, when he passed away, nobody in my family would help me—even if I managed to reach Krauhard, refraining from sleep for two days. Chief Harlik was Uncle's friend, not mine, and it didn't make any sense to go that far to ask NZAMIPS for help. In any case, I would not dare to approach any people dear to me in that condition. God knows what the angry monster was capable of.

  And the accumulator would be drained soon.

  What did that beast want from me? The answer came instantly: its cold sticky tentacles greedily reached out to my mind, to the spot where memory is stored, where the source of my desires was, where the threads of my feelings converged. I plunged the electrode plates into the skin until it bled and kept it so until a chilling emptiness started reigning in my head. I'd rather die then yield to it!

  I needed to hurry up.

  I took Captain Baer's card out of my desk. My hands shook—I couldn't turn the door key on the first try. There was no sense regretting and repenting now. I wouldn't have time to find any other help; I would be lucky if I reached NZAMIPS sane.

  I did not dare to catch a tram—I was afraid that I would go in circles, but any cab driver in Redstone knew the building on Park Road. I had never thought that I would call that address of my own free will.

  The entrance to the police headquarters looked impressive: its glass windows weren't broken and the copper was not faded. There were surprisingly few people in the lobby. Last time I ran out of there so fast that the interior was not imprinted in my memory, and Captain Baer was taking me in through the service entrance. They were obviously well-funded! A beautiful blue-gray carpet lay on the floor. Why not? Redstone's police headquarters is not a municipal police station; they don't deal with drunken revelers there. But my imagination stubbornly put under the carpet a few protective pentagrams. I was practically sure that if I lifted up the rug's corner, I would see them.

  I approached the wall with the hanging office plan and realized that most of them belonged to the staff of the fiscal service. Oh, yes, besides NZAMIPS, there were also the criminal police, customs, the vice squad, and the alchemical control; all of them live their own very intense life, and bribe-takers and prostitutes are of no less concern to the society than the mages. That thought, for some reason, cheered me up. But I needed to find my captain.

  "Are you looking for someone, sir?" the officer of the day asked.

  I mutely put the captain's card on the reception desk.

  "Do you need particularly Captain Baer? He just left for an assignment."

  My resentment broke the bonds of depression for a second. It was outrageous! I came to report on myself, and he was absent. What were they doing here?

  The officer on duty did not wait for my answer and dialed some internal number: "Sir, I have a visitor to the captain," he said into the phone. "I don't know; he doesn't say. Will do, sir!" And to me: "Please take a seat! Mr. Satal will be with you in a moment."

  I hesitated, deciding whether the soft leather chair could be dangerous. In that condition I was afraid of everything...

  A group of tough men in gray business suits walked by, politely moving me aside. Their leader should have carried colors of the Guard of Arak, if only his hands hadn't been occupied by a plump leather bag. The strange detachment marched silently up the marble stairs to the second floor. Watching them, I did not notice right away that the same dark magician I saw in the junkyard, in a similar suit but of a darker tone, appeared in the foyer. Mr. Satal, yeah. He carefully gazed round me, stared without irony at the accumulator, and calmly nodded to the officer on duty: "Thank you, Officer Kennikor. Please find Captain Baer and ask him to contact me. I'll be in the office. Come on, young man, we'll wait for the captain in my office. Do not be afraid; I will not bite!"

  I wasn't afraid of him at all! Reluctantly dragging behind, I was figuring out once again how to start the conversation. Confessing right away about Laurent seemed undiplomatic. Some blurry silhouettes flickered on the border line of my vision, and on the suspicion that Rustle was ready to take its revenge, my hair began to stir with horror.

  Perhaps one look at me was enough for the magician to draw conclusions. He searched in the drawers and pulled out an elaborate bottle with a blue label; not hiding it, he dipped the potion into a glass, splashed water from a carafe to top it off, and handed it to me. I emptied the glass. Why would I play the fool? The flickering in my eyes abruptly stopped.

  "You are so upset because of Locomotive?" the magician asked gently. "He's gone to you; have you met him?"

  I shook my head: "Missed him."

  Hearing my reply, the magician visibly brightened: "That's excellent! He is not a compassionate man: plays by the book. You'd better tell me what's bothering you; maybe I can help."

  What was going on? A dark mage expressed sympathy to another dark, offering help and support?! I even shed a tear.

  And then I confessed everything to him. About Rustle, about the book, about the black flakes in the boat hangar... everything. I only hoped my death would be painless.

  Instead, he sighed and said, "Forget it!"

  "What?"

  "It would not be a bad idea to interrogate those morons, but it's okay as it is now: for the attempted theft of the Source they would be sentenced to death anyway. Also, they tortured to death two more people before you. Let's consider that the executi
on had been done onsite. Or you thought that the law worked only against the dark?"

  "What are you talking about?! I have a monster sitting inside me. When I try to cast a spell, it throws them at people. And it seems to be trying to eat me, too."

  "That's normal. It's a standard response when contact between Rustle and a dark magician is reinforced with the shackles. Don't panic! You're not the first infected mage, nor the last one. With regard to the shackles: if the curse is not re-imposed at least three more times during the first month, its blocking effect will dissipate in three weeks. Then the behavior of your Source will be predictable again. As I remember, your doctor has forbidden you to conjure? Let's say the ban is extended for another month, I will guarantee to you the absence of magic. As to Rustle, you will have to get used to it; it is impossible to completely shut down its access to your mind. You had coped with the Source; you will manage Rustle as well. Most importantly, do not play up to the monster."

  I expected a totally different reaction from the dark mage. My white upbringing skewed my perception of the world.

  "That means you won't penalize me?"

  "Why not? We will," he was surprised. "We'll leave records in your file; when Locomotive returns, you'll testify. Right after that we'll prepare a contract—you will work for me."

  "No!" I was horrified. "I have one more year until graduating from the university and a contract with Roland the Bright's Fund thereafter. I want to be an alchemist."

  "Who's stopping you? You'll serve as a magician-reservist—you'll be set in motion when necessary; that way it'll be easier for you, and NZAMIPS will save some money. I will settle the issue with the Roland's Fund; I'm on close terms with the guys from there. Do you," he frowned sternly, "seriously want me to institute criminal proceedings against you?"

  I did not want to know what that meant!

  In less than an hour I had become a NZAMIPS freelancer with the nickname "Dark Knight", and Captain Baer, with a deep sense of satisfaction, glued my photo to the folder of the illegal combat magician. Had I been sentenced, I would have served three lifetimes or had two death penalties. I didn't feel or observe the magic giving me shivers anymore. A very familiar looking lady earnestly congratulated me on a decent start of my career and tried to get details of the triple murder. She wondered whether I felt a little lonely. I dully replied, pondering what had been the turning point at which my fate took such a steep curve. Did it all start with Bella from BioKin? Or with Uncle's book? Or with the record of the first crystal? Or maybe from the moment I was born?

  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."