My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "It's a pleasure to see that young talents show interest to our ancient craft," Sir Charak smiled kindly.

  I decided to dispel his illusions:

  "Actually, I'm going to be an alchemist."

  "Did you have any luck with it?" he asked skeptically.

  "I am graduating this fall!" I said boastfully.

  Such news bewildered him.

  "Dual specialization," Satal intervened quickly (my boss was a little nervous). "It is permitted by the regulations."

  "What is combat magic to you, young man?" the oldie asked me a bit smugly.

  I shrugged and blurted out the first thing that came to my mind:

  "It is my hobby. I love spending time with vim and fire!"

  The corporal's eyes flickered uneasily from side to side, Mr. Pearson sighed sadly. I concluded that I had done something wrong and began to chafe.

  The old magician pursed his lips; he was apparently offended by such a flippant attitude to the ancient art.

  "Let's get back to business in that case."

  He called the Source and with angry haste formed some exotic weaving - incredibly vibrant, delicate, and so strange in the magical sense that looking at it made me want to sneeze. His curse fell on the green tarp, causing the corpse to stir lazily under the fabric. A zombie?

  This just couldn't be happening in the presence of the curator, who peacefully watched the forbidden magic.

  "You are a necromancer," I tried to speak calmly and not poke my finger.

  "Yes!" the old goat agreed proudly.

  "And I am an alchemist!" They ought to accept it.

  "You are doing your graduation thesis under my supervision," Satal reminded me quietly.

  "In order to defend it in jail? Let me remind you, 'The Application of magic to human corpses in order to simulate life is punishable by seven years in prison, the shackles of deliverance, and lifelong surveillance.' "

  "No, no," the curator startled, "this work is sanctioned by the government. Have a look at the papers!"

  He pulled out of his folder a stamped sheet and handed it to me. I looked over the lines:

  "Forced animation? What an interesting designation! But it lacks my name."

  "For what?" the corporal could not refrain from commenting.

  "For that! The imprint of the aura on the corpse would be mine."

  They conspired. Clearly, they wanted me to be tried by a tribunal. What had I done wrong?

  "Don't be so nervous, young man," Sir Charak smiled indulgently. "Today we'll just do a small test of your abilities."

  "Thanks, I already have one zombie!"

  I still had to disentangle the consequences of the necromancer's appearance.

  The old mage pulled at his gray eyebrow.

  "A zombie-dog," Satal hastily explained, "a corollary of the duplication of a ghoul."

  I did not like the way they spoke of my dog so disrespectfully.

  "It was unwise, young man," the magician clanked his tongue in reproach. "Not only did you waste your magic power on an animal, but you brought to life a poor quality zombie, made from dead flesh on the spur of the moment."

  Yeah, as if I had time to work on a zombie when a crowd of ghouls attacked me. An expert, my ass!

  "Teach your grandsons, old man, not me!"

  I shouldn't have said that. The eyes of the old magician ominously blackened; the presence of another Source scratched my nerves. I ought to learn how to be modest…

  "The young man is a little reticent," Satal tried to rescue me. "He will concentrate and produce the required spell. Of course, he realizes that it is to his advantage to show his best."

  "Master, you have an appetite the size of Rustle. What will you want from me next: sex in public places?"

  Even the sky became gloomy after my words. I guess they did not understand my humor.

  Satal and the necromancer began cornering me; the corporal made a few steps toward me with a maniacal grin. Only the corpse did not join in their fun.

  It was pure suicide to fight three professionals at once, when each of them was stronger and more experienced than I. Duels between dark magicians almost always end fatally at least for one side - too mighty powers are called for the fight. But I did not care at the moment; I managed to inflate my Source, and that was my biggest mistake. My ability to think sensibly fled, self-preservation took a day off. 'If you kill me, old goats, I will come after you from the other world, you, ghouls in power!' I said to myself.

  "Enough!" the curator Pearson spoke firmly. "We should move this conversation to some other day. We will meet again on Tuesday, to start afresh."

  "Seconded," Satal announced suddenly, turning to his colleagues. The corporal squinted at the senior coordinator; it seemed he didn't agree with Satal.

  The elderly necromancer frowned: the alignment of two v. two did not suit him. "Are we going to wipe up his snot further?"

  "You have to decide," a polite smile appeared on Satal's lips, while his eyes remained cold as ice. "Do you want to train a necromancer or kill a competitor?"

  A moment later I was the only one who had not calmed down his Source yet. I never knew that combat mages could possess such self-control. That's what real mastery meant! My dark nature still demanded blood, but I overcame myself and deactivated my Source. From the produced efforts I shook and sweated like a mouse.

  The crazy company eyed me with some medical interest.

  "Yes," Charak agreed with some delay, "it does make sense to postpone our talk."

  Wishing you all to die! Speaking of poisons…

  "Goodbye, Mr. Tangor," the curator politely bowed to me. "I hope you'll think about our offer at your leisure."

  I decided not to turn my back to them and walked backwards right up to the river bank, taking the risk to awkwardly plop my butt down. Nobody was looking at me anymore: Curator Pearson spoke quietly, the mages exchanged brief remarks. When dunes hid me from my enemies, I relaxed a bit and ran the rest of the way to my motorcycle.

  I wanted to leave this accursed place immediately, but I waited for a quarter of an hour until my hands stopped shaking. It would be foolish to lose my life to a traffic accident after escaping death in the conflict with the mages. Meanwhile, the corporal whistled to two nurses from the van, and the indifferent-to-everything corpse was carried off the training ground. By the time I was ready to drive, I thought over the mages' offer and became horrified; no, not because I was too close to die today.

  When I was a child, my teachers told me about situations in which our instinctive bodily reactions could prevail over our reasoning, and they advised us not to drive ourselves into this. What I witnessed today flatly contradicted their teaching: the three adult dark mages could not give in to an impudent youngster, once the matter descended into direct threats and calling upon the Sources. But when a non-mage voiced a rational argument, they agreed with him and called their powers off, despite the fire in their blood, the drumbeat of their hearts, the rage obscuring their eyes. They simply twisted their essence inside out like they rung out a wet rag. One cannot mock oneself like that!

  My way back to town took longer than usual: I needed to think, and a leisurely drive from point A to point B was best for that. The extension they granted to me till Tuesday simply meant that next time they wouldn't accept my rejection, unless, of course, I found a patron mightier than the senior coordinator within the next two days. I was given time to "ripen". I pictured how I would surprise them with a poisonous aerosol. The only thing that would stop me from applying it was a lack of control over the poison once it was in the air. What if the wind would suddenly change?

  After rolling my motorcycle into the garage and bowing to the regulars of the junk yard, I realized that I had some kind of leverage: they needed something from me, and they would not be able to get it by force. I could negotiate some acceptable terms or, in the worst case, dig in my heels. My mood immediately improved.

  * * *

  The reddish glow o
f gas lamps and bright flashes of magic advertisements from across the street diluted the darkness outside the windows of the police headquarters. There was no sense in closing the curtains; the fourth floor was above the roofs of neighboring houses.

  Conrad Baer glanced over the room again, making sure everything was ready for tomorrow's work: current papers were stacked accurately on the edge of the desk; folders with files took their place on the shelves of bookcase; sharpened pencils and a gold-plated "eternal" pen rested in the pen holder. He had a passion for order, so his forced move to a smaller office did not affect the quality of his work. Except, perhaps, for meetings: his subordinates had to carry chairs from the accounting department.

  The captain sighed: soon he would have to change his habits. If his relationship with Ms. Oakley developed further, his future wife would be unlikely to allow her husband to work 24/7, despite all her patience and understanding. Did he really need to work so hard?

  He had already opened the door and stepped over the threshold when the phone on the desk rang. He did not expect any calls: not many people knew the captain's habit to work on weekends, especially at such a late hour. After some hesitation, Locomotive picked up the call.

  "Captain Baer."

  "Hello, my friend, am I too late?"

  The captain recognized the voice in the tube. All of the alarm bells in his soul began to ring at once: he disbelieved that dark magicians could remember any good you did to them, especially the magician who called him tonight. It was Larkes, the former senior coordinator and head of Redstone's NZAMIPS. Baer knew that Larkes was skilled in the art of mental trickery and could portray a good friendship, never really experiencing it himself. The fact that Larkes called his subordinate for the first time in the year and a half since he left the region meant he needed something. Judging by his attempt to invoke the captain's sympathy, that something was not quite legitimate.

  "You caught me by chance; I was going home," the captain muttered in a friendly voice into the phone, noting on a sheet of paper the exact time of the call.

  "I heard you are having guests from the capital?"

  "Yeah, some auditors," the captain replied a little carelessly. "They haven't talked to us yet."

  "I see," the other end of the line replied calmly. "Why now?"

  "I have no idea. Is there any problem?"

  "No, no. Can you find out what they want?"

  "I would prefer to stay low," Baer said sincerely. "My hair hasn't grown back yet from the last time."

  He heard a low chuckle in the tube, "I understand. Well, I am not going to keep you any longer. Call me, if anything."

  The captain waited till he heard some short beeps and hung up. The offer to call was a formality, like any mention of "favors" or "I owe you" that Larkes threw out thoughtlessly, not interested in whether the callee actually knew his phone number to call back. His former boss was one of the reasons why Baer portrayed himself as a stupid policeman - for self-preservation.

  He wrote on a piece of paper the end time of the call and immediately dialed the operator: "It is Baer. Find out where the last call came from, but without fanaticism. Report to me by tomorrow morning."

  The policeman hesitated for a few more moments, then locked the room and went down two floors. He knew that his boss was still working; Satal was too agitated from arguing with his capital counterpart to go home. He was about to spend the night in the office in order to not frighten his three children by the looks of a brutalized dark. Satal had already thrown a prudently stored blanket over two pushed-together chairs and changed his official suit to soft jersey pants and a knit jacket. The office smelled of mint.

  "What's up?"

  "Perhaps it's nothing serious…"

  "Go straight to the point. I am about to sleep."

  "Larkes just called me: he wondered what the visitors from the capital wanted."

  The sleepiness in the coordinator's eyes changed to sharp concentration:

  "What did you reply?"

  "I said I did not want to be involved, I had enough trouble last time."

  "Good. Where did the call come from?"

  "We are working on that."

  Satal fiercely rubbed his face, trying to gather his thoughts. "No, I am too tired today. We'll think about it tomorrow morning. Be very careful with this guy!"

  "I know. I worked with him for fifteen years, although we rarely saw each other. By the way, what position does he hold now?"

  "Funny, but no one knows it. As soon as I start asking this question, people poke and roll their eyes up. For fifteen years of distinguished service as a senior coordinator, he managed to let our business slide way down. And yet he resigned in a very timely manner."

  "I thought so, too," the captain admitted.

  "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Seriously. I have no idea what bothers Larkes. But I do know that artisans will not turn a blind eye to the loss of their financial adviser…"

  Chapter 4

  All Monday morning I nurtured the idea of becoming a necromancer in order to raise my father from his grave and tell him what I thought of him. Why the hell did he leave his own clan?! If the Tangor family had my back, no one would have dared to talk to me in a raised voice; dark mages' clans value their reputation and do not care about justice.

  Of course, I could send my half-witted teachers to hell and forget about a dark mage career. But neither my job at Biokin, nor the cash flow from my patented inventions, would feed me forever; I would have to say farewell to my wealthy future and the limos with the leather seats. And the mudslingers from NZAMIPS would not forget me. The alternative was to flee the country without a degree and the seal of a mage when only a few months remained till graduation. In the whole world there were only three countries where a dark magician could live relatively safely: our Ingernika, Kashtadar, and I'Sa-Orio-T. In Kashtadar, all combat mages were united in a special order with military hierarchy and discipline, which I didn't like, and in the Sa-Orio Empire a foreigner could not make a decent career - all the good jobs were taken by natives. Other countries seemed pygmies compared to the first three and always rushed from one powerful patron to another; even if there was a place for a lonely outcast there, I did not know of such a place. And my alchemic classes would come to an end. My innate dark talent shaped my fate no worse than a curse.

  Though there was still Krauhard. I could always go back home and stay there for good. It would not be the first time the gloomy county hid someone from the outside world. I would flee and become nobody, a countryside alchemist, a mechanicus in a village of twenty-two houses, a respected owner of the machine yard, never leaving his home for more than a week. Could I put up with Uncle Gordon's "career", having already tried so many different things?

  The telepathy does not exist, but all people are empaths to some extent: looking at my calm face, my schoolmates tried not to touch me and would not even come close. When our classes ended, they ran away from me in all directions like charges of the same polarity: as far as possible via the shortest path. Well, I did not care. One more day remained till my meeting with the necromancer; I urgently needed to make up my mind: to flee or to stay.

  I came home, put myself in order, and dressed in my best clothes; my shoes shined as if for an appointment with Quarters' uncle. The time to pretend to be someone else was over - either they would accept me for who I was or we would break up. I was going to start with curator Kevinahari as the weakest link.

  The work day in the police headquarters was not over yet, business bustle reigned all over. The empath's office was in the so-called "new wing", which NZAMIPS staff shared with the criminal police. The wing was bright, with spacious rooms and an elevator, though not as elegant as the floor of superiors. My fascination with the elevator was a cause of great displeasure in the elevator attendant - the man refused to carry passengers down, referring to some stupid rules, and I never had time to check the accuracy of his words.

  I slipped into the elevator booth, calle
d the last - fifth - floor, and enjoyed the creaks of the winch and the roar of the well-oiled machine. No one attempted to take it down. The staff followed the rules! In the police headquarters, where half of the employees worked with dark magicians and another half were them, I was never nudged or sworn at, so the local culture of communication was up to the mark.

  Kevinahari worked in her office. I always wondered what the empath did when she was alone; it turned out, she was making records – she probably drew up detailed dossiers on all the people with whom she had a chance to talk that day. I broke into her room without knocking; Kevinahari looked at me over her heavy horn rimmed glasses and immediately made the right conclusion. She put down her pen and moved the massive ledger to the edge of her desk.

  "What happened, Thomas?"

  "Something awful. I lost my patience, and it was really scary. Do you know that some damned necromancer from the capital harassed me? I am a respected dark mage, I obey the law," well, most of the time, "and I do not commit crimes!" In a systematic way, at least.

  "I understand," the empath cheerfully climbed out of her desk. "Follow me!"

  And she promptly flew out of the office. In order to say anything else I had to catch her first.

  We rolled down the stairs and raced down a couple of passages, reaching Satal's office on the shortest path. The senior coordinator, not expecting a thunderstorm, was quietly reading some papers.

  "How long is this going to continue?" the empath tragically ushered herself in over the threshold and dragged me into Satal's office, though I would have preferred to stay outside. "I work hard, like a squirrel in a cage, and you nag each other's nerves! You are destroying all my work!"

  "Ehh, Rona," Satal began, but the empath did not let him continue.

  "I've been Rona for thirty years!" she screamed, while falling into a chair for visitors with somnambulistic accuracy; her voice was filled with tears.

  Oh shit…Our curator was hysterical; I had never seen her so agitated before. I began figuring out how to disappear without losing my dignity.