My Path to Magic

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  * * *

  An encoded telegram bearing the name of Satal came at the last moment; the senior coordinator intended to leave Redstone for the capital and was nervous and swore all morning. Sparing the nerves of his subordinates, Captain Baer personally delivered the telegram to the boss—a half-sheet of text; obviously, the sender didn't try to save money on the letters. As soon as the coordinator read it through, his face brightened, and lips twisted in an arrogant smirk.

  "That's another story! A priest that was making human sacrifices got caught and decimated in Mihandrov. The central database identified him as Sigismund Salaris, an artisan; he was wanted for fifteen years."

  The captain gasped: "The same Salaris? Nintark's confessor?"

  "Yeah," Satal good-naturedly allowed his subordinate to read the telegram. "By the way, your Larkes swore that he saw him dead."

  "Why is he mine?" Locomotive was offended.

  "He ruled here all this time, the talentless parasite let business slide!" the dark mage became a bit gloomy. "They will say that it's Axel who caught the artisan."

  "Not a big deal," Locomotive comforted his boss, "you have caught two artisans."

  "True, but no one believes that they were the artisans," Satal objected reasonably. "However, I am sure that the center of their interest is not Polisant. The death of the living legend of the cult will make them more active," the senior coordinator rubbed his palms in anticipation, "now they'll come to us in flocks!"

  Locomotive pictured artisans thronging to Redstone and shivered. God save us, no!

  Chapter 35

  The rambling holidays were finally over; my ill-fated trip had come to an end. I could stay for a couple more days (nobody would kill me for that), but then I would have to attend the funeral of Mr. Fox. That was Mrs. Hemul's idea—the deceased assistant principal should not remain in the memory of the children as an evil person.

  "Anyway, he was their teacher; they learned a lot from him. You cannot say to a child, 'Remember this and do not remember that.' The children must realize the ambiguity of his personality themselves, separate in their minds the right and the wrong. I know you see this as over-complacency, but his death closes all accounts, and we need forgiveness for ourselves in order to live on."

  Well, maybe for the white it is so, but I could not picture myself grieving about artisans—even after a liter of beer.

  And yet, Mrs. Hemul wanted to know the results of the investigation, because the achievement of clarity is a fundamental feature of the white; they physically cannot disregard or forget something important. The wise directrix chose the easiest way to reach her goal; she invited all interested parties to dinner at that same pub, at her own expense. Claymore's eagles came in full strength. I did not want to go, honestly; I was too proud for that. But I was asked by Clarence to be there. Max came with me: I had already introduced it to the "cleaners", and an extra set of teeth during the meeting would be helpful.

  The sergeant expounded readily and in detail the results of the investigation, half of which was done by someone else. The main achievement of the "cleaner" was identification of Fox—the nice nelly—which provided an objective basis for my fanatical ravings about the artisans (I was very grateful to him for that). "By joining the artisans' cult, he took the alias Sigismund Salaris, under which he became famous, in some way. He was the mastermind behind the branch of the cult that decided to openly challenge the authorities and establish a community in Nintark. Of course, later he was considered dead and was searched for without passion, but all the time he was hiding here."

  Mrs. Hemul took the news of the artisans with amazing composure, having practiced for years approaching horrific news with a stone face. I wondered what she was before she came to Mihandrov.

  "I confess I always perceived the artisans as mentally ill, but now I see that my ideas were too primitive. Fox talked sensibly and consistently, but he was able to do absolutely unthinkable things at the same time. And most importantly: why? For what purpose?"

  " 'Why' is clear," I could not refrain, "he wanted to protect bigger things by sacrificing the smaller ones, so to speak."

  "To protect them from whom?"

  I had my thoughts on this topic, though to voice them in their entirety meant to reveal my sources. Did I need it? In abbreviated form, my speculation looked like this: "Do you know that Petros' father - Fox's relative - was killed during an armed bank robbery?"

  Clarence slightly frowned.

  "Yeah, yeah, that same robbery! Three months before the birth of his first and last child, among other things. The first victim had gone missing a few days after the incident. You can rummage through the archives—a lot of strange things happened at that time. I do not know what Fox was trying to fight off with that shield, but he obviously liked the effect and, grieving and weeping, began to let his pupils die under the knife. Of course, he selected those whose death would affect as few people as possible. Orphans, in short."

  The sergeant nodded: "A typical artisan's logic."

  "But the children! Why did he try to poison them?"

  "That is clear, too. What the otherworldly phenomenon was Fox knew well, I suppose, from his experience in Nintark. He lost control of the situation: his followers were killing themselves, but the shield did not hold for long, human sacrifices were required more and more frequently, but the school's leadership had changed, control had tightened. The white tolerate stress poorly! Eventually I showed up and started spoiling his flock, planting a bit of common sense into the children, and I helped Petros in a way he could not. Where you saw hope, he saw only depravity and degradation. Mourning and weeping again, he decided to save everyone from a collision with the real world—to put them to sleep like terminally ill pets, purely out of compassion."

  "All of them come to this, sooner or later," Claymore growled. "This is the only logical conclusion of their philosophy."

  "You'd better cheer up," I suggested, "that everything ended so well."

  "Well?" the directrix did not understand.

  "Uh-huh. The children are alive, and Fox's suffering has ended. Just think what would have happened if he had been jailed!"

  "Execution by burning has not been abolished yet," Gorchik commented to the point.

  "A scandal will start again," Mrs. Hemul sighed.

  "It's in your favor! The situation is critical: if NZAMIPS does not send a regular team to Mihandrov, all of Fox's fears will be realized. In addition, we must knock some sense into the heads of the townsfolk. You need help of empaths and additional funding, but under the current circumstances you will get these either after a massacre or in the wake of a public scandal. In your shoes, I would cooperate with the town authorities and pursue a preemptive tactic. The best treatment is prevention!"

  Mrs. Hemul slowly nodded. "I see your point."

  "I don't think that I'll sign it," the sergeant growled. "So far, all this talk about the shield is your personal opinion. As for the dark magic background around the town—maybe it's there, maybe it's not, I'm no expert, I won't lie. The town has a NZAMIPS representative," he nodded at Clarence, "we have liquidated the phenomenon, the killer is found, the report is sent out; now we are waiting for the order. What they say, we'll do. Address your complaints to the coordinator."

  Clarence was silent, although he clenched his jaw so hard that his cheeks became white. I only shrugged melancholically: "Well, Mr. Axel is not suicidal and understands that if he loses the town after two warnings, the official investigation, and his subordinates' report, the shackles of deliverance will be a lucky escape. The moon will be the only place for him to emigrate to."

  "Who is going to tell him about this?" Claymore chuckled.

  I kindly smiled to the sergeant.

  "You, and you have already told him."

  He didn't get it, and I explained: "You sent off your report to the authorities yesterday, didn't you? Right when I was there. Likely, you didn't count pages before putting them in an envelope."

/>   "Right, but how..."

  At that moment Max sent him a contented canine grin. It wasn't difficult for the zombie-dog to jump into the window of the second floor, was it?

  Sergeant Claymore quickly put two and two together.

  "You fag!" the sergeant exclaimed.

  I pretended that it was about my zombie.

  "What does it mean?" Rispin got frightened. "We're stuck here?"

  "We'll see," the sergeant sullenly broke him off.

  Mrs. Hemul hid a contented smile behind a cup—a white mage was not supposed to rejoice at other people's misfortune.

  Luckily, I did not have to experience the anger of the combat mages on myself; that evening I left Mihandrov. Without Lyuchik. Mrs. Hemul tried to convince me fervently and at length that all would be well at the school from now on; Petros would be taken care of even if they didn't find Mrs. Kormalis. For my brother, it would be very important to see a happy ending of the story and the triumph of justice. I thought about it and backed off; after all, it wasn't such a joy to coddle a white youngster. I was doubtful, though, regarding the triumph of justice.

  I didn't take Lyuchik to the station. My zombie-dog waited for me there under the supervision of Mrs. Parker. What if the kids would want to cuddle him? The lieutenant personally gave me a lift in the car that now moved without squeaks or squeals, but with a soft predatory murmur. Gorchik and Rispin were in the back seat (surely they were going to the train station for vodka). The sergeant apparently still hung on the phone, trying to catch his report before it would reach the desk of Senior Coordinator Axel. Good luck to him! I was interested in nobody and nothing anymore, except for the train and the departure horn.

  My escort barely lifted my luggage onto the steps of the sleeper, Mrs. Parker waved, and the combat mages burst into indistinct cries and vigorous gestures. Assholes... After saluting everybody, I followed to my compartment, longingly poised for the conductor's usual show: "Please put your animal in a cage." All conductors are terribly predictable: no matter how much you pay for the ticket, they still try to lock your dog in the baggage car. Why would I buy the second ticket, if I intended to follow their advice?

  The conductor rolled my suitcase into the compartment and broke into a saccharine, idiotic smile. "Let's put your dog in a doggy house!"

  I looked at him as if he were a birdbrain. His face maintained a strange expression for a couple of seconds, and then he turned a bit pale. "Excuse me, sir! I beg your pardon! The white usually travel with pets, and I decided that you were...

  Oops!

  The question of placing Max in the cage was no longer debated.

  In the state of quiet madness, I locked myself in the compartment and started biting my nails.

  What was going on? People had started taking me for a white! What a shame... I was lucky that none of my friends witnessed that. I would hardly ever come back to Mihandrov.

  I must urgently undertake something to improve my image: the first thing in Redstone I would have a good fight with Quarters. Also, I could catch Sam (if he wasn't in bed with the flu) and cram in feathers behind his collar. Oh! I could also piss on the steps of the police headquarters. Will they identify me by a puddle of urine?

  The platform and my escort left behind; Rustle gently tossed in my head, trying to figure out what I had been busy with in its absence. My life was slowly getting back to normal. In the suitcase I carried five kilos of dried fish and two dozen bags of wax paper with quite harmful ingredients: souvenirs from Mihandrov.

  One more thing hid inside the suitcase: a letter from the deceased artisan. The next day after the death of Fox, I received a mail with no return address, no note inside, but the sender's identity could not be doubted. At the top of the weighty package there were yellowed newspaper clippings a decade old with reports of strange events (the mass death of bees, the disappearance of gerbils, the rabies of horses) and an article about a bank robbery committed with extreme cruelty. Do you remember that story with the robbery in Mihandrov? I wondered how they were going to slip away. They weren't: two farmers shot their families and continued having fun in town, imitating the characters of a then recently acclaimed thriller. The locations of the incidents from the clippings fell on the map along a straight line, accurately pointing to Mihandrov. I do not know; maybe in his shoes, I would not stand it either.

  Why did he not turn in his allegations to NZAMIPS? Perhaps his habit of conspiracy let him down, or Fox, like myself, was confronted with incapacity of the local authorities. And you know, I couldn't care less about his circumstances, especially because he did not want to discuss them with the investigators of the robbery. I have never encountered a situation that could not be turned around in the direction a trained magician wanted. From the perspective of the dark, the artisan just lost his battle again (once in Nintark, the second time in Mihandrov), and if anybody wants understanding and sympathy, go to an empath.

  * * *

  Gorchik looked at the departing train with a characteristic goat squint. The dark magician was habitually outraged. "He could have finished the job, that hack! His zombie marked only six graves, and where can we find two more?"

  "I wonder which group he belongs to?" Rispin was thoughtful. "I had never met him before. I would like to have a better look at his zombie..."

  "No problem, we'll meet him in the office! Axel must be happy this time."

  Lieutenant Clarence decided to demonstrate his knowledge of the situation (he was tired of the boorish guests, treating him as a speechless vegetable). "He's from Redstone."

  Gorchik turned to him, surprised, as if a zucchini had started speaking. "What does Redstone have to do with us?"

  "He came from Redstone," the lieutenant explained patiently, already regretting that he had gotten into the conversation.

  "What the hell did he do there?" Rispin wondered.

  "I do not know," the white tried to look independent, "but his traveling document was issued by Redstone's division."

  For some time they stayed silent.

  "Why was he sent in?" Gorchik cautiously clarified.

  "To study the work of educational institutions. I'm not kidding! It said so in his papers."

  Lieutenant Clarence could not decipher the expression that showed up on the faces of the combat mages.

  "Hmm," Rispin summed up, "we won't get our bonuses again."

  "Why? Witch's baldness has been cleaned out well!" Gorchik got angry, but his colleague looked askance at him with compassion, and the former was forced to face the truth. "Well, at least the boss will not beat us this time."

  Lieutenant Clarence tried to keep a straight face and vowed to himself never to deal with that nutty company again. Let them do with each other what they wanted!

  EPILOGUE

  The monotonous rumble of wheels continued day and night—the transcontinental express barely made any stops. The conductor was perfectly polite and attentive after realizing his mistake. I flipped the pages of the deceased artisan's notebooks, which Fox did not want to leave to NZAMIPS for some reason, and I tried to sort out my feelings.

  My soul was dull, as if something had been stolen from me, but I could not understand what exactly. Amidst the pages of the notebooks, the last record in which was made twenty years ago, I discovered a large yellowed photograph. The age-faded picture rescued images of people posing on the background of a strange pedestal. A photographer must have captured the graduation moment of some educational institution: three teachers and eight students. Fox, young and cheerful, in a light coat with a handkerchief in the upper pocket, sat first to the left of the teachers. Behind the backs of those in the front row, a girl and boy were hugging; the boy's face was carefully painted out. He wore a stylish black suit, and the girl looked vaguely familiar; the note on the reverse side read: Millicent MakKoran. It was my mother. Joe was not in the picture.

  I couldn't ignore so many oddities.

  I thought if the artisan had told me anything, I would have not belie
ved a word from him. But now I needed to know who my father was and how he died. Why had mother run with me into the backwoods? What was Uncle Gordon silent about, and what was that moronic book about, over which he was killed?

  Outside the window rain transformed into wet snow—I was returning to Redstone.