The lieutenant frowned. What a naive kid!
"Do not look at me. I grew up among the white; consider me a cripple. The real dark behaves exactly the way I described. Judge for yourself: why would they want to clear up mess that wasn't their fault?"
"But... what can we do now?"
"Let's follow the plan as before; now you know why the plan was like that. Your senior coordinator remains our goal, so look out for journalists. Ask the directrix of the school for help; she seems to be smart. And forget about these guys: as long as they know they are being watched, they will do their job in the best possible way. Do not flirt with them, or they will instantly make you do their job."
Poor old Clarence rubbed his eyes in confusion, trying to make his brain understand my logic. I think the white are unable to grasp the subtleties of the dark character, though empaths seem to cope with that somehow.
"I'm stunned," he concluded finally. "I took a course on dark magicians—even attended a workshop. Nothing like reality."
"Theory without practice is dead! Go back to work."
* * *
Striped police ribbon carved out from the monotonous landscape a large rectangle, inside of which the grass was either mowed short or burnt out to the roots. A convenient wide passage was cut through dense thickets of thorns. The three combat mages were busy, each one doing the work that suited him best.
Rispin rustled through the brush in the location of the secret burial. The exhumed corpse had been thoroughly examined, described, and its parts wrapped in packing paper. He was an experienced criminalist, able to make the dead speak without the aid of necromancy. The credit for his hire by NZAMIPS, and not by the criminal police, should be given solely to Coordinator Axel; NZAMIPS doubled his pay.
Sergeant Claymore plotted on a sheet of paper a detailed plan of the crime scene, concurrently sketching a draft of his future report. His subordinates flocked to him with their findings.
"He was right, that kid," Gorchik came out of the bushes in overalls and goggles, the lenses of which made his face look like a fish tank. Needless to say, the dark did not like wearing glasses.
"What, someone called Rustle?"
Gorchik winced: naming the only monster that was more or less responsive to the call of the otherworldly liquidators was considered bad taste among combat mages.
"Shield, modified to specifically kill the white Source."
Claymore raised his eyebrow. An interesting picture! The dark Source could exist for some time outside the body, but the white one was not receptive to the fixation on the pump-sign. There was a time when inquisitors could induce spontaneous manifestations of white magic, but the consequences of that were so horrendous...
"It does not look like they tried to exorcise the possessed here."
"No, it doesn't," confirmed Gorchik. "The victim followed the killer to this place without any resistance, voluntarily called his or her Source during the ritual, and was murdered then. This requires either utmost dedication or an extreme amount of credibility to the murderer."
"Given the age of the victim," the sergeant nodded to the lovingly-wrapped remains, "one does not exclude the other."
"That means that our scum is a highly respected person. A man like this you won't approach without an order."
Claymore frowned. "Shit! It increasingly looks like the artisans. I hoped they weren't involved—so many years have passed, and Axel watches the white community thoroughly."
"The place already smelled bad a year ago, but the empaths decided that there was a collective magic resonance. I wouldn't want to be in the shoes of those nerds now!"
The dark mages exchanged malevolent grins.
"What, are you done?" Rispin broke away from the excavation.
"How about you?" the sergeant looked at his watch.
The forensics expert shrugged. "Nothing. The scoundrel works exceptionally accurately. The bones are not damaged; apparently, the victim died from a puncture to the soft tissue. I can't say anything more specific; the spell, accelerating decay, was applied. If the murders started ten years ago, it would be extremely difficult to find all the victims. The imprints of their auras will be hard to identify."
"I'm in a better situation!" Gorchik boasted. "There are some fragments suitable for identification, but they won't tell the overall picture."
"Shit," the sergeant spoke out. Hence, they couldn't find the murderer with magic. They would have to use good old police methods. "Can we identify the victim?"
"Yes."
"Compose his or her portrait, and we'll show it at school. He was young, so he must be one of theirs. We are done for today. Tomorrow we'll start to look for the rest. Can any of you ride a horse?"
For an urban dark, the idea of getting on a horse seemed unnatural.
"I see," the sergeant sighed, "that means we'll walk."
Rispin muttered under his breath something dirty that rhymed well with "Tangor." The sergeant himself could hardly refrain from swearing. No, in his mind he certainly understood the importance of catching the killer and the significance of their mission, but in his heart... Claymore wished with all his heart that the underage parasite would die in agony, infected with shingles. Well, he must have tried hard to find such a vile job for the three respected magicians! The sergeant did not doubt the success of the investigation—no villain escaped their team—but at the thought of how much time they would spend searching for the other corpses, he wanted to get drunk.
Chapter 34
A call from the school caught me lying under the car: I finally got into that squeaky vehicle! Of course, Alfred didn't let me work on the car right away; it was preceded by a thoughtful conversation about the benefits of front-wheel drive, the quality of local ethanol fuel, and the prospects of oil engines. Of course, he was not a professional alchemist and could not resist my obsessive charisma. I approached the adjustment of the carburetor with the piety that some people begin a prayer with, but then things got livelier. I started to feel great peace and happiness. The design of the machinery, clear and functional, was such a contrast to the intricacies of human existence that I sensed tears welling in my eyes. I officiated over the brake actuator (a critical part of cross-country driving) when I was interrupted.
Clarence came up, reporting, "Mrs. Hemul called and begged you to come to school. She seemed to sense that someone at the school cast spells this morning, and it highly disturbed her."
I almost threw a wrench at him. Could I have some personal time off? Which of us was the town's sheriff? Who was the head of Mihandrov's NZAMIPS? A unit of combat mages was grazing in the town, but he called for help a poor student on a business trip, a student who didn't even have a degree in magic!
But Lyuchik was at the school. I sighed and went to wash my hands off grease.
On the way to the school I was planning to tell the directrix all I thought of her. She hadn't known the words I was about to say! I had called her yesterday, but she discouraged me from coming, hinting that she did not want to provoke Fox. And now everything seemed okay with her "boyfriend". Just when I was finally back to doing interesting things, he was readying his excuses! I hated that!
My self-control thinned completely. Now I understood why Coordinator Axel did not want to send his people here; Claymore with his mates would lynch him after such a trip. Satal would neigh at me when I came back "well-rested". However, I was ready to solve the problem with Satal in three hours. Very interesting grass grew on the flowerbeds at the school; the master of poisons, Tiranidos, would hang himself in envy. A full herbarium from "Toxicology", no doubt. I have to admit, Milky Widow blooms beautifully and looks great in the ridges, but, in my opinion, the gardener should think a bit more on his selection of species before planting them. There were children all around! I already dried out enough plants to fill half of my suitcase with interesting roots and flowers, and the thought of Satal's surprise when he learned what he was dying from brought my good mood back.
Do not b
elieve the intuition of practicing magicians, no matter what people say about it. My gaze caught a narrow leaf with a distinctive silky sheen, because all the time I was searching for something like that. Not trusting my luck, I picked up the leaf and began looking around in search of the rest of the plant. Alas! Nothing like that grew on the nearby lawns, and a measly half a gram serving was obviously not enough for my goal. I was about to search the silage pit with the mowed grass. But the path where I found the treasure led to the back kitchen door instead of a park or a greenhouse. The cooks were busy with all their might and main: lunchtime was fast approaching. Not feeling any unrest in my soul, I mentally connected these three concepts: grass, food, poison. I shook the grass off my hands and wanted to go further on my business, but then a sense of duty prevailed. Perhaps that was nonsense, but the maniac that killed nine people was still at the school, and the artisans are like maniacs, in my opinion...
Clicking the "whistle" in my pocket (do not sleep, shitheads, do not sleep!), I burst into the kitchen door with a businesslike air, ignoring the blank stares and surprised faces; my eyes were fixed on the tables, and I did find on one of them the remains of the sliced green.
"Where is the rest?" I asked stupidly, thinking that I could still use some of the grass, perhaps.
The chef began to breathe air into his chest to make a perturbed retort, but my stupor was over; I pulled out my temporary certificate and jabbed it in his face. "The combat operation of NZAMIPS. This herb is poisonous. Where did you put it?"
Frightened eyes shifted toward a large soup pot.
I tossed a chromatic curse in the pot, which stained the contents with a threatening scarlet color (harmless, but impressive).
"Who brought this stuff here? Name!"
They did not know, could not recall, and became horrified with it. It was a typical reaction to the masking spell.
"All kitchen supplies (all, got it?) are arrested until the experts' arrival. I hope no one tasted it? It is deadly poisonous."
A portly cook got very pale and gripped her chest.
"Wash out your stomach, quickly! And pray that the poison hasn't been inside long enough to absorb into the blood."
I waited until all the cooks left the kitchen and tied the door handles for safety with a cord I had found right there.
"What is happening here?"
It was the directrix. I gave her the damned leaf; she frowned, trying to identify it. Mrs. Hemul seemed not to know much about poisons.
"It is Opal Buttercup. Someone brought it in the kitchen and made sure that the plant got into the soup."
She still did not understand.
"Did you hear about the potion of Red King? Opal Buttercup, the main component, is harmless, but after the heat treatment it is transformed into a lethal poison—the antidote to which does not exist."
By the way, the growing of that plant without a license was punishable by three years in prison.
Mrs. Hemul became very pale. "Who could have done..."
"I do not know, but I've got one person in mind, who has some explaining to do. Come on!"
The rapid response team was still responding. I suspected that the "cleaners" went to Clarence to get his car (the one that Alfred and I had dismantled) and now they were giving him a "concert". Poor people of Mihandrov!
"But who could..." Mrs. Hemul was stuck.
The white cannot tolerate stress well, and they take a long time to respond to threats. They try to understand the reasons, but the dark do not need reasoning; they just get hit in the face and move on.
"There is only one employee at the school who has worked here for over ten years. I'm not saying he's guilty; I mean he should give us an account of his today's activities."
Some understanding glimmered in the eyes of the headmistress.
Five minutes later we stood before the assistant principal's office. I knocked, pulled the handle—it was locked.
"Perhaps he is gone," Mrs. Hemul suggested.
I looked through the keyhole—the key was inserted from the inside! Indeed he left!
"Step aside!" I was not going to ask permission.
My kick broke off the lock along with part of the doorpost (I was not that strong, it was just a good curse), and we entered. Quite a large room: two tables, bookcases, chairs and a sofa, comfortable and modest, unlike our dean's office or Satal's. A completely dead Mr. Fox (face up) and Petros (in an unknown condition—face planted) lay on the worn carpet in the center of the room. I didn't think that my talk with Fox would turn out like that.
"Oh my lord!" Mrs. Hemul rushed to the child first. "How do you feel, my dear?"
The kid was breathing—that was a good sign. While she lamented, professionally checking his pulse and pupils, I feverishly looked around the room for the cause of death. No bloody knife, no empty glasses, no smoking censers could be seen, but there was surely something that killed the big guy and nearly killed the boy! Some black fragments crunched under my foot—that was my ward-off amulet. The realization dawned on me like lightning.
"It's magic! Mr. Fox has a spell on him. Find out which ritual he had used!"
Mrs. Hemul indignantly shook her head. "Fox was a white mage!"
"Was" was the appropriate word choice.
"I do not care who he was! Look for it, or let me do it."
"You are mistaken," she murmured through her tears, but the brooch on her jacket began to glow, "you are deeply mistaken. You just cannot imagine how wrong your idea of white magic is..."
Sergeant Claymore (no, he didn't break in - it would be unprofessional) cautiously peered through the door. Ensuring that there was no need to fight anyone right now, he came in, forcing me to make room for him. He nodded to Fox: "Your work?"
"No, he did it himself. Have you searched the kitchen?"
He chuckled. "It's not just a kitchen, it's a necromancer's dream—one could murder a whole army. We'll have to throw out all the contents and re-floor the room. As I see, the suspect kicked the bucket?"
"To hell with him!" I did not care that we had spoiled Artrom's crime statistics.
"This face looks familiar," the "cleaner" said thoughtfully, "though not from that angle."
Surely Fox developed his skills somewhere. I shrugged and attempted to leave the room.
"I'll be waiting for you at the office at nineteen hundred," the sergeant said to my back.
I nodded silently and went off to look for Lyuchik.
The square in front of the main entrance was crowded with frightened white kids. The teachers tried to calm the pupils, the staff and cooks were whispering—huddling at the fountain—and Gorchik grimly guarded them all. Lyuchik sat next to him on a bench with a very serious look, and I could see that he was there for a reason.
On seeing me, people became agitated.
"Stay still!" Gorchik barked.
"He says please to stay where you are, for the sake of your safety," my brother perked up.
Ah, he had latched onto the "cleaner" as an interpreter! Gorchik looked at me with grim doom; I smiled back without any sympathy.
I had some business to Lyuchik.
"Hey, they aren't serving lunch today. Let's go find something to eat in town?"
"Can we take Petros?"
At that moment, I realized that the kids should not know the details. "He will be fine; Mrs. Hemul is with him now."
The kids put their necks out to listen to our talk; someone could not resist saying, "What happened? What's going on?"
I cleared my throat diplomatically. "I cannot violate the confidentiality of the investigation. You'd better direct your questions to Sergeant Claymore; he is the boss. I am sure he wouldn't mind holding a press conference." I knew that one mention of the press conference would stall his brains. "I can only say that the danger is over, but the school is poised for change."
"We've been experiencing an entire year of 'changes', " one of the teachers muttered.
"You are mistaken; nothing has change
d since the commission's work. But there will be changes now, and I'm sure, for the better."
That was it. If they had any brains, they would understand the hint, and if not, it would be better for them to keep the state of blissful ignorance.
Lyuchik didn't go with me; he decided to stay with the white to support them morally. I made sure the "cleaners" understood the simple idea that Lyuchik was my brother and then portrayed myself as a battle-worn warrior and went off. I could no longer look at the white and the "cleaners" together! I came back to the garage and worked on the famous Mihandrov car until evening. I enjoyed the work as a cat delights in valerian, and I was late for a meeting with Claymore by half an hour.
By the time I arrived, the atmosphere at NZAMIPS had reached a fever pitch. Lieutenant Clarence was nowhere to be seen: he had either fled or gone to work with the townsfolk. It was twilight already: they could kill me and secretly throw in the lake.
"So, the press conference, you said?" the sergeant roared in place of a greeting.
It was my turn to stand awkwardly and look askance—I wasn't going to fight with him over nothing!
"I did not want to bypass the senior officer."
He pondered it and decided to forgive me. "Judging by the imprint of the aura, that corpse was Fox's work," the sergeant magnanimously told me. "Why we don't record imprints of the white magicians, too?!"
He was very cheerful; hence, they found a reason to flee from here.
"It's unfair," I agreed.
"Let's drink to this!"
Bottles of fresh beer and a bag of lovingly-packed snacks appeared from under the table, and my account of events gradually melded into the booze on the occasion of the successful completion of the case. It was the first time I shared a table with a company of combat mages, and their nasty reputation was not confirmed. Normal men, not any worse than Quarters! We knocked back, sang a few songs from the army's repertoire; Rispin told a few fresh anecdotes, Gorchik started to squint with both eyes, the beer was over, and we parted peacefully. They went to their hotel, and I - to Mrs. Parker's mansion. The naive sergeant could afford to sleep tight, but I had to get up at dawn tomorrow: a brain-twisting intrigue, spun by me with an eye on the coordinator, entered its final stage.
My Path to Magic Page 33
