The hell with them! It was time to tackle the problem of my strange manuscript more closely. Now, when I could ride my motorcycle, I had a chance to inspect all suspected sites in one day, travelling in comfort and not wasting money on carriages. After fiddling with the bike's controls, I gave the daisies a gentle blue color.
Dennis frowned, "Could you paint them in black?"
"Why?"
He did not reply.
My importunate curator took a seat on the trunk, and we began a methodical inspection of the places on my list, starting with the most distant.
The capital city was big and chaotic; even Mihandrov had a more logical plan, despite its antiquity. The capital's architecture seemed lacking any general idea, although one or two attempts were made to put new real estate developments in some order, but then the situation went out of control again. As a result, a wide avenue that separated blocks of antique buildings could end in a cul-de-sac; narrow streets, wrapped around the hills, were punctuated by staircases. Centers of business activity from different eras - palaces, temples, and government buildings made of mud brick and stylized as modern - were embedded in the array of plain apartment boxes, usually built from the same brick, but of poorer finishing. And far to the east, the titanic arches of the aqueduct hung over the horizon like a strange dream. This complex combination of otherness and uniformity, almost at right angles and unexpected hurdles, blunted my sense of direction; I had to use a map every fifteen minutes, even though I usually did not suffer from topographical cretinism.
We drove to the old salt marshes converted into greenhouses, circled around a sewage disposal factory (I will never get accustomed to the idea of using recycled water for drinking or bathing), and looked from afar at the New Blocks, populated by refugees from Arango. (The area smelled like a fermentation tank. If the answer to my riddle was hidden there - the hell with it).
My search didn't go well. Basically, the addresses I tagged didn't provide me with any hints. I sought for something botanical, related to the famous white mage Pierrot Sohane. But if a place I visited had something to do with a theater, it lacked anything botanical, even plain plant ornamentation. If it had some greenery, it had no connections with the eccentric white recluse. At lunch time I took a four hour break, following the local tradition. I intended to spend the hottest part of the day in the metropolitan library searching for literature on ancient manuscripts, but then I spotted the word "technomagic" in the catalog and got lost in the books, desperately wanting to find out what exactly technomagic meant. As a result, I postponed my search for the mysterious botanical-theatrical destination. Dennis peacefully snuffled in a chair, and I diligently waded through incomprehensible terms. Dreams about flying machines, inspired by Rustle, did not let me relax: I wondered whether such machines existed in reality. The remainder of the day quietly flew by over the books.
A surprise awaited me at the hotel. It was getting dark. A few cheeky guys, whose faces already looked familiar to me, hung around my porch; some other boobies competed in artistic whistling under my windows, hoping to see my zombie. I went up to my room, picked up my slippers and a towel, and suddenly noticed a stranger sitting in my chair. Max, fanged and silent, stood between him and the door. I turned on a light; the intruder was Rem Larkes.
"What do you want from me, man?"
He cautiously rose from his chair: "Good evening, sir. I need to talk to you."
I tried to meet his glance, but he persistently looked at something in the corner. He stood sideways, kept his head low, did not look into my eyes - these were obvious signs of submission. Was he really so fearful of Max? He, the dark mage? Impossible! Then why? Finally, I grasped it: Larkes treated me as a senior. Me! Good heavens! I was respected! For that, I could forgive him anything! And his face did not seem as unpleasant as before. Any man is allowed to have a few oddities! "Okay," I muttered without my previous push, "what do you want from me?"
He took a deep breath, "I am ordered to recruit you."
"To recruit?"
"To the state security services."
"No way."
"It wouldn't cost you anything!" he started moaning. "No one would know. Your status as an agent wouldn't be recorded anywhere."
"Why do you need my consent then? Just say that you have recruited me, and let us be done with it."
"The minister needs a status report on the eastern province from an independent source."
"What do I have to do with it?"
"You're going to Gilead, and it's right there."
Well, well…"Nobody has told me yet where I'll go."
His face experienced a strange convulsion. I understood: he tried to pull on his eyebrow.
"Felister is waiting for a confirmation from Arango's NZAMIPS. It can take some time. We have no direct communication with them."
Shit! My contract had no time limits, but my exams were in August.
"Can you speed it up?"
"I'll do my best."
Perhaps, having an acquaintance in the capital wouldn't hurt me. Subordination among the dark is more reliable than human friendship. Larkes wouldn't go against me, and I would have my own man in the ministry…
"I'll think how to help you," I relented.
I pondered on the pros and cons of the commitment he asked for and the usefulness of Larkes as my hand and concluded:
"Not for free."
"How much?" the former coordinator sighed.
"I don't care about money! You'll do some work for me."
Larkes musingly shuffled his lips (I understood that he frowned that way): "Elaborate, please."
"My uncle was murdered; artisans tried to kill me, too. There is one man in the capital who must know something about this. If you help me find him, you'll get your report on Arango."
"What exactly happened to you?"
I wouldn't have told anyone about Uncle's book, but my subordinate was a different story. Hierarchy is sacred for the dark; we are not used to digging into our superiors, because duels between us end in death too often. So I didn't expect Larkes would play any mean tricks on me. But if his power would increase…but it couldn't happen to a man like him.
"Can I see the object?" the former coordinator asked after listening about the ill-fated package.
I took my treasure out of its cache in the suitcase. He examined the book, turned over a few pages, and studied its protective spells. His face acquired a business-like, concentrated expression. He found the location of secret signs in the book much faster than I did.
"I can say right away why he was killed," Larkes shuffled his lips. "Your copy of the Word About the King is very old. I dare to guess that it's the original."
"Go on."
He sighed, either in surprise or ironically (I did not like that I could not read him clearly): "It is the oldest manuscript in the world; I cannot date it more exactly. The ancient believed that the Word About the King explained how the supernatural originated in our world. According to one legend, if the Word is read by a white mage, our civilization will be in terrible danger, but this is doubtful: the language the manuscript is written in is untranslatable. There exist a few copies of it, but they are useless. It is believed that only the original is suitable for reading."
I recalled Rustle: the monster did not know letters, but he could "read" some books by playing back memories of dark mages he was in contact with, if they read these books in their lifetime.
"The manuscript was declared a national treasure twenty years ago, but government agents failed to discover in whose possession it was. Given its redemption price, no wonder the Word became an object of a hunt. And when artisans joined the search for it, blood was spilled."
The artisans again! It was amazing how they always got under my skin. Larkes pointedly tapped the cover: "It does not matter whether the book is the original or a copy; you can be killed for both. Five years ago, at the peak of interest in the Word, eighteen book collectors were murdered! I strongly discourage you
from showing the manuscript to specialists and advise you to stay away from any ancient literature."
"I do not care much about the book," I took the letter and the envelope, which came with the book. "The one who sent this may know the name of the person who tried to kill me."
Larkes solved my puzzle right away; he really was a good analyst. "I think you need a bookseller, whose hobby is gardening and who lives in a place that is mentioned in a comedy about Pierrot," the mage suggested. "The reverse order of meanings is less likely, as it would be too simple."
"If you find him, I promise I'll do your report. But I won't sign my real name under it."
"No problem. You are well educated and will easily collect good quality material for the primary analysis," Larkes rubbed his hands in anticipation. It looked strange; he rejoiced too early. "I'll come back tomorrow, around three p.m. The streets are less crowded at this time."
"How will you get in?"
He beckoned me to the closet and showed a hidden door, presumably leading to the stairs and a backdoor.
"Some magicians refuse to live in a suite, if it doesn't have an alternative exit," he hemmed (perhaps it was his laughter). "But don't let others know about this," he nodded to the window, hinting at combat mages having fun outside.
I totally agreed with him on that; I didn't want to be attacked by them from two sides.
Waking up the next morning, I realized that I was sick of the capital's exoticism. However, the blood feud for the dark was above all! I diligently stuffed my pockets with bags of tiny poison balls - to be armed if the right moment would come - and set off for lunch and a meeting with my curators. Felister didn't rent storage for my vehicle (I knew it was expensive). Though I didn't mind keeping my motorcycle near my room at hand, I poured my discontent on him anyway, for appearances' sake, colorfully describing my vehicle to the outrageous interest of the army mages.
I came back to my room feeling like a winner. It was about three p.m. Larkes already waited for me inside. He watched what was happening on the street from behind the curtains. The army mages tried to pull off the cap from the fuel tank of my bike with a fishing hook.
"What are they searching for in the gas tank?"
"I do not know. Do they think I keep fish inside?"
I brought a glass carafe with cold tea from the dining hall and gestured for Larkes to join me at the table. "Have you found the sender of the letter?"
The former coordinator twitched his face: "Tamur Hemalis, a bookseller, lives on Maitre Kebersen Street. The street was named after the playwright of a comedy about Pierrot." Larkes didn't expect me to be well educated. "His building has a greenhouse on the roof. He wasn't involved in the machinations with the Word. The man earns extra income translating from Sa-Orio languages. A year ago he had a health problem: the old man was badly beaten. Otherwise, he is unremarkable."
Bingo! The white, engaged in the translation from Sa-Orio, certainly could call himself a "worthless master of mirrors" - those crazy Sa-Oriots wrote from right to left.
"Let's go visit him!"
"Right now?"
"No, we need to disguise you first. You see, your face is too memorable."
He got nervous. "What are you going to do with my face?"
"Do not worry. Nothing that would hurt you. Have you ever been to the theater?"
I lured Larkes into the hallway, to the mirror, and asked him to make faces: "Do it like this!"
"I will not! I'll look like an army mage!" he was offended.
"That's the whole point! If something happens, people will blame the army."
Under such a pretense Larkes accepted my idea. We spent an entire evening working on three basic facial expressions: arrogant contempt, dreamy detachment, grim smile.
"And now I'll tell you the most important thing: if anyone starts bugging you with nonsense, you reply like this, 'Wha-at?' Then I'll come and solve your problem."
Saying "wha-at?" correctly was the most difficult part for Larkes.
"Okay, go home, practice! Tomorrow we will meet near the central train station. We'll visit your bookseller around three p.m."
"Wha-at?" came out of Larkes by itself. "Do you know how hot it is outside at this time? Especially in the sun!"
"If we drive fast, it will be cooler. And we will have fewer witnesses."
We parted on that note. Larkes left with a pensively distracted look. Perhaps, he was trying to figure out whether our collaboration was becoming overly costly for him. In my opinion, he made a very bad bargain with me.
Chapter 10
Being fed up with surprises, I prepared with utmost care for the visit to the bookseller. In particular, I took along my alchemical arsenal - I wanted to see if my poisons worked. Getting rid of the importunate cicerone was easy - Dennis did not watch his food. A small ball of special potion added to his drink forced this poor guy to urgently rush away. I expressed my sympathy and told him that I suspected food poisoning. I promised that I would go to the hotel and rest. Strictly speaking, I didn't lie - it would be true in a couple of hours.
I picked up Larkes in the familiar wine cellar. He showed me the bookseller's home on the map, and we raced, trying to offset the unbearable heat with the high wind speed. Our destination turned out to be in the notorious New Blocks.
I left my motorcycle two streets away from the New Blocks: I was not afraid of thieves, I just did not want to wash the wheels after the visit. It quickly became clear why the area stank: a man stood and pissed into the gate in plain view, and what flowed from him fell onto ground that was covered with the same shit. Do you know what happens to human waste in the heat if there is no rain to wash it away?
No, normal people could not live in a place like that. At least, I would not. "Did the city campaign for cleanliness?"
Larkes said with disgust: "This propaganda hangs on every corner. But most of refugees are villagers, wild people. They are afraid of toilets."
Well, given that local folks used recycled water for almost all their home needs, I was not quite comfortable with that in the beginning. The streets in the area were full of people despite the midday heat, but no one seemed to be busy: older men sat under the thin shade of homemade awnings, a company of tipsy young people chatted loudly. The strong smell of sweat hit our noses.
"Do they not wash and bathe at all?"
"The problem is more complex. The capacity of the aqueduct supplying the city with water is limited; there is not enough fresh water for everything; that's why we widely use recycled water. But refugees from Arango do not want to bathe in recycled water (in their thinking, it is not water at all). They wash their hands from water bottles! Naturally, the municipality does not want to pay for their prejudice."
I remembered the recent conversation with Dennis about the deadly spores. "Aren't they afraid of the gray mold?"
Larkes habitually twitched his face: "This block is unofficially called Plague; in the past, it was demolished and rebuilt thrice. You see, wide avenues separate this area from the rest of the city. If an epidemic begins, these avenues will be used as quarantine cordons. Refugees from all other suburbs, if they cannot adapt, are displaced and end up here."
I immediately realized that the area was like a gas chamber. Time to flee from the capital. And the sooner the better!
Fortunately, we did not have to go deep into the plague block; the needed address was on the border of the area. The four-story house had known better days; it was built long before the arrival of refugees from Arango. Steps in the stairwell were made from imported marble, the wooden door of the gates had a groove, and a garden on the roof had a tracery grating. But the crumbled plaster exposed clay walls, and some windows of the ground floor were boarded. Apparently, the owner did not want to invest in the building that soon would be bulldozed anyway.
An untidy concierge snored behind his desk in the lobby. I made a sign to Larkes to keep quiet, and made it inside, noticed by no one. The elevator, naturally, did not work. We clim
bed up to the fourth floor; apartment number fifteen had a plate on the door: "Tamur Hemalis, Archival Research, Consulting, Translations from Sa-Orio". I turned the bell; it clicked and twittered musically. We had to wait for a bit until we heard shuffling steps and a trembling old voice from behind the door: "Who's there?"
"I am from Gordon Ferro. Please open the door."
Locks clicked, chains rattled; I got the impression that it was rather a bank vault than a flat. Finally, the door slightly opened, and a disheveled old man glanced anxiously through the gap. His nose was broken. I had never seen a white mage with a broken nose before.
When the old man made out who was on the stairs, he suddenly became very pale.
"I am Thomas Tangor," I tried to speak soothingly and gently. "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
The old man took a deep breath and nodded: "Yes, of course! Come in, please."
Such stupid behavior was typical for the white. A normal person would not let two suspicious dark mages step into his house. Inside, the apartment was surprisingly decent (in metropolitan style), with low sofas, carpets, and a bunch of bookcases.
"Please follow me into the living room. I'll make tea for you."
Naturally, we didn't mind tea after such heat, but I felt sorry for the old white and went to the kitchen to help him. Yes, I know it was odd for a dark mage to feel sorry for somebody, but I was brought up in a white family. Fifteen minutes later we sat on a low couch in the spacious living room with a heat pump, enjoying cool shade and drinking green tea with mint. It felt really good!
"I confess I expected to hear from your uncle much earlier."
So, he knew about my relationship with Uncle Gordon. "My uncle was murdered last year, and I hope to find out from you: who else knew that you sent him a parcel?"
My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist Page 10