My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  His cup-carrying hand fell on the tea table, his eyes suspiciously glistened: "It's my fault…"

  Please, no tears! If I let him cry, he would not stop until midnight, and we were short of time. "It's life, Mr. Hemalis; dark magicians don't die of old age. The bottom line is that I don't want to leave unpunished the murder of my relative; the people of Krauhard won't understand me. The perpetrators are dead, but I need to know who gave them this order. Do you see my point? Who did you talk to?"

  His lips started trembling, "I…I…"

  What a nervous old man. I stretched out my arm and covered his hand with mine: "It's all right. I know they are dangerous. It won't stop me. Help me if you can, otherwise…I run the risk of losing the content of the parcel."

  He started and looked at me in fear; I remained calm and friendly.

  "I do not know their names," he said. "They…behaved horribly! I had to promise that I would read the book for them; otherwise they would have killed me."

  "Can you deliver on your promise?" Larkes asked.

  "No. But I agreed, anyway." The old man started crying.

  "It's okay. It's okay. Everything will be fine from now on. Did they leave something behind? Did they talk about any events, people?"

  "Yes, they did…" Hemalis lowered his voice; his eyes widened. "It is here, behind the wardrobe. I am afraid to touch it!"

  Half of the window was blocked by an old wardrobe. I initially thought it was done for protection from the sun. Now I saw the real reason: the wardrobe was a shield against a large dusty stuffed bird on the window sill.

  "Why don't you throw this thing out?"

  "They told me I would die, if I did."

  It was a nightmare for the white to reside in a house with a dead bird. These bastards were really cruel. I promised myself to get their skins! And maybe I would even be awarded for liquidating them!

  "Listen, in a week you will be able to throw this dead stuff out and move to a quieter area. Do you believe me?"

  He sobbed and nodded.

  "Please have patience for one more week."

  While I was saying goodbye to the white, Larkes kept silence, but when we came out, he could not resist and twitched his face: "How do you plan to search for a man with no name, who was here a year ago?"

  "There is one way. Do you know any decent restaurant with good local cuisine?"

  The meal I needed was served only in authentic restaurants. It was an oily brown paste made of beans, which I had hated since childhood; all the ingredients in the dish were frayed beyond recognition. The paste was to be scooped with a slice of bread. Dennis advised me against eating this dish: a northerner would not like this, he said.

  "Are you going to eat it?" Larkes asked suspiciously. "You know, northerners don't like…"

  I hissed at him with annoyance. I could not confess that it was for Rustle - the monster wanted to refresh the taste of this meal that he had long forgotten. Rustle was curious to see how recent generations had changed its recipe. I hated the thought of taking the paste into my mouth and suggested a compromise: I would taste it if he would help me find a man who put the bird dummy on the bookseller's windowsill. Rustle agreed. I bravely tore away a piece of fresh pita bread and scooped up a mixture of beans…

  It didn't taste too bad; spicy, but edible; Krauhardian horseradish was spicier. The abundance of onion, garlic, and herbs completely suppressed the bean's flavor, and sliced vegetables for a garnish helped me eat the oily dish without choking. When I took the last piece of the paste and the bottom of the bowl became visible, a familiar gray picture started developing in my mind: Rustle advised me to check the northern part of the plague blocks.

  "And now what?" Larkes diligently watched how I was finishing this brown crap and appeared to analyze something in his mind.

  I blissfully leaned on the back of a low sofa: "We'll have our tea and go for a guy who had beaten up the old man. Now I know where to find him."

  Larkes did not comment, but I could see from his frozen face that thoughts were rapidly rushing in his mind and making him woozy. I wondered what conclusions he came to. I'd better be more cautious with him: my subordinate or not, Larkes was a representative of the government, and I intended to kill one bastard…

  I was overly optimistic thinking it would be a simple task. Returning to the New Blocks, we met a crowd of agitated people; Rustle confirmed the villain was hiding somewhere among them.

  "Get off," I said to Larkes, preparing to act.

  "I'm with you," he refused. "You are a necromancer; if something happens to you, I would be skinned alive."

  He was right! We drove up closer, pretending to be tourists. A small square at the intersection of three streets of the plague block was filled with refugees. Neither policemen, nor normal city folks, were seen around. The pedestal of an unnamed equestrian statue was turned into a platform for speakers, who gave nonsensical monologues. I suspected the artisans in them.

  "NZAMIPS must do its duties!" yelled one of them. "NZAMIPS lives off our taxes, but doesn't do its job! The otherworldly devour our children in Arango!"

  If there was a sure way to discourage the magicians from doing their job, it would be to tell them they MUST do something for someone.

  I snorted and loudly commented: "Isn't it funny?"

  Larkes did not answer, but a man from the public asked me assertively, "Don't you agree?"

  "Dark magicians are no plumbers," I cut him off. "You can't call them when they are needed and send them off when they are not. Did you protest when authorities closed down Arango's NZAMIPS? Or did you vote for it to save money?"

  The guy muttered something, appealing to Larkes, but my subordinate said masterfully: "Wha-at?" and our discussion withered. Some people from the crowd started approaching us, but I did not care: if they attacked, I would have an excuse to end this gathering and get closer to the guy I wanted to catch.

  Larkes pinched my waist: "Let's go."

  "Wait, I'd like to listen to them. What if they say something interesting?" I didn't want to beg Rustle to intuit further information - that was the real reason why I stayed there.

  A decently dressed white mounted the improvised platform, followed by applause from the crowd. The police hadn't arrived yet.

  "Ladies and Gentlemen! The refugees are in a desperate situation. Authorities should…" I almost immediately stopped listening. What was the use in talking? It would be better if people like him chipped in and hired a few dark magicians for Arango. If the poor residents of Krauhard could afford to pay for dark magic services, then the refugees should be able to find money, too. But they did not look for simple ways; they preferred to sit in the shit and urge the authorities to take responsibility for them. Why else did they settle in Ho-Carg?

  "You are wrong, young man," the same guy from the crowd started pestering me again. "Do you know that Arango has never experienced such a high frequency of the otherworldly before?"

  I sighed, "Do you want to hear the truth or just something pleasant?" Larkes pinched my back again, and I kicked him in reply with my elbow. "Are you aware that thousands of otherworldly creatures cross the threshold between our worlds every night? Most of them dissipate at dawn, burned by the sun. While a supernatural being is young, it's weak, and any fool with a salt shaker could dispel it. It was your huge mistake - to close down NZAMIPS. You need dark magicians constantly, not only when ghouls rush you out of your house. Preventive maintenance should be carried out on a regular basis. Special new legislation was passed to ensure this!"

  Why did I cast pearls before swine? My opponent continued chanting something, but another thing captured my attention: I sensed that the speaker on the platform started casting a white spell. There were no other magicians among the audience to sense this (the white usually flee on the appearance of an aggressive mob), but I felt the subtle vibrations of his magic. He seemed to use his spell to heat up the crowd. No wonder people got wound up with such methods of agitation. What a bastard
! Opening up his white Source, he turned all his senses into a sheer bare nerve…

  I smiled, called my Source, and formed above my head a meaningless weaving that looked nervously-necromantic. It was as if I teased him by showing my tongue. The speaker fell flat on the platform without any sound. "Look, he is epileptic!" I chuckled, poking my finger at him.

  Larkes sighed - he saw my tricks, but said nothing. Of course! I called my Source, but did not touch anyone.

  The meeting came to a halt. There was a fuss at the platform; people were trying to bring the white back to his senses. Theoretically, he should recover in a day. Another guy started yelling something. Oh, he seemed to see a dragon! He certainly had a sick imagination; I guessed he was one of the artisans.

  Then a kickback from the collapsed white spell hit the crowd, and people began to disperse. I put protective eyeglasses on and clamped into my fist a simple paper cone with two potions: bright orange (which could be easily washed or shaken off) and colorless (this one tightly bonded with your skin). Humans couldn't sense the colorless potion, but it attracted zombies like a beacon. I prepared this mix from herbs harvested in Mihandrov. And now I could finally test some of them!

  Shouting "All power to the Chaos!" I drove closer to the platform, threw a paper cone at the human tagged by Rustle, and sped away on my motorcycle, engine roaring. Larkes accusingly breathed down my neck. Did I do anything wrong? I didn't think so. I just painted all morons at the meeting in orange!

  Chapter 11

  When the darkness fell, I was ready to finalize my vengeance. Larkes knew that I was plotting something, but he did nothing to stop me; perhaps the former Redstone coordinator thought that my report on Arango was more important than a couple of unidentified corpses.

  I got out of my room through the backdoor. The night view of the city from our building was stunning: an ocean of lights - thousands of gas and electric lanterns, colorful flashes of spells and fireworks - lapped far down, but a watchful eye could also see faint bands of avenues, dividing the capital into sectors, and a halo around the borders of the plague blocks. What a bleak place…

  Max was happy, and he enjoyed our walk. But I hesitated: "Who needs my vengeance?" I wouldn't be able to boast about it anyway; my superiors would punish me severely fearing that my example would be contagious for other dark mages. Uncle didn't care - he passed away; his murderers too. Hemalis? Yes, this white deserved a restful life. The thought that the old man would stay in the condemned block along with the ugly scarecrow dispelled my doubts.

  It took time to find the "homegrown taxidermist" who frightened Hemalis, even with my zombie: in half a day the man made a dozen miles around Ho-Carg. Two hours went down the drain. Finally, after midnight the trace brought us to the block of railroad warehouses and small workshops. I pulled a dark green gown on top of my dress (under the gas lanterns my clothes looked black) and bandaged my head with a scarf in the style of a rickshaw driver - little details always help to distract unwanted attention. Traces of my enemy led to a large gate. Behind the gate one could see plain thatched roofs, none of them adjoined closely to the fence.

  A night express drove by in the distance, rattling and hissing steam.

  This bastard managed to entrench well! He even set a protective perimeter. Only three hours remained till dawn. I could not resort to magic: the city was crammed with tracking amulets, which were more responsive to unlicensed magic than to the otherworldly, by the way. The artisans would excuse themselves in court one way or another, but Themis gave no discounts to the dark mages. I did not doubt my right to deprive my enemy of life, but I remembered well the circumstances of Ron's rescue. I shouldn't give out reasons for any accusations against myself.

  I approached the security booth at the gates and knocked decisively, "Hey, neighbors, are you on fire?"

  "What?" a sleepy voice came from behind the door.

  "I see smoke on your property! Is it fire or are you burning leaf litter?"

  "Where is it?" a sleepy watchman stuck his head out.

  I silently squirted spray into his face - his unconscious body collapsed on me - and threw a smoke bomb inside the room; the rest of security began to cough, but they quickly stopped. The first guard peacefully snorted on my shoulder. The least harmful weapon from my arsenal proved to work brilliantly. I covered my nose with a handkerchief, let my zombie go first, and stepped on the territory occupied by the enemy.

  Where should I go? The larger part of the warehouse must have been a completely legitimate enterprise. Safety lights above the barn gate were on; heaps of unidentified rubbish was piled up in the darkness. It smelled of horse manure and machine oil. Max maneuvered between deserted lifts, trolleys, and piles of pallets. A homemade wall of boxes fenced off the distant part of the territory with another building; a footpath led to it.

  Well, I found their lair.

  The second building, which hid behind the crates, also portrayed itself as a warehouse. Why did it have so many windows then? The windows - small barred openings - were right under the roof, as in the stables; they barely provided any light, just dust and insects. I cautiously walked round and couldn't find an unlocked door. I mulled over the idea of sticking up boxes before the doors and setting the house on fire. It would be a cardinal solution, but I would lose control over the situation. What if there was an underground pass to get out?

  I pondered more delicate ways…then seated my zombie in the yard and hid myself to the left of the door.

  "Speak, Max, let your voice be heard!"

  My dog looked at me in bewilderment.

  "Please, Max! Speak!"

  People say that zombies obey necromancers unquestioningly. Ha ha! Max hesitated for a bit, but my authority prevailed. He filled his lungs with air for the first time in many days and barked in a trembling falsetto, "Haw!"

  "Good for you, Max! Again! Speak!"

  "Haw, ha-aw, how-oo-oo!"

  His howls sounded like the creaks of cracked floorboards, the whining of a saw through metal, the hoarse rattle of a drill, only a LOT LOUDER.

  "Shut up, you jerk!" somebody yelled from behind the door.

  My dog tripled his efforts.

  The door swung open; an angry guy with a stick jumped out of it. He could not see clearly what kind of a dog he was about to beat, because I immediately treated him with the spray I had already tested on security. His unconscious body was a perfect prop to keep the door open.

  Forward! I stepped inside. Stacks of dusty boxes were piled everywhere; no one had moved them, perhaps, for decades. A murmur was heard from the far left, but I didn't go there right away; the man that I put to sleep was probably the gatekeeper - his absence shouldn't alarm conspirators immediately. I looked around.

  Max took a position at the door - no one would pass by my dog now. I walked the aisles, trying to find fresh tracks in the dust. Not without reason, people say that cleanliness is next to godliness; if not for the distinct trails of shoes, I wouldn't have checked the back rooms. One of them was obviously frequently visited, and I opened the door slightly. What I saw in it made my face twitch almost like Larkes'.

  Crossbows again; the artisans had some sort of crossbow mania! Well, I could imagine stealing three or four of them from the army depots, but where did they get hundreds of them? There were numerous rows of combat crossbows in a room. I took one, cocked the bow, and fitted an arrow into the groove. No, I wasn't a good shooter, but this stuff could be a good temporary alternative to spell casting - the range of my spray was too small. Ready to meet the conspirators, I was about to leave the room when I heard a suspicious rustling. A guard dog? Having noticed a big cage in one of the aisles, I looked into it with spray at the ready. A human was inside! A teenage white boy stared at me from the darkness: he was incredibly filthy and covered with bruises. I vividly recalled the broken nose of old Hemalis and squeezed the crossbow tighter.

  Beating the white was the same as torturing babies to me. I did not talk to the kid - he seemed
to be out of his mind - and went to get the skulls of these miracles of nature, speaking ghouls, bastard-artisans.

  I was guided by the sounds of their voices and quickly discovered a door leading to an illuminated room. Instead of breaking in with crossbow at the ready, as the dark mages' tradition prescribed, I glanced through the keyhole first. The visibility was limited: I saw a room similar to the one with the crossbows, the face of one man, a back of another, and a third, invisible to me, was talking.

  Putting aside the crossbow, I pulled out of my pockets all the paper cones with smoke bombs - I had six of them. What was the likelihood of an overdose in a closed room? I did not care! I kicked the door open (these idiots left it unlocked), threw my cones inside, then slammed the door, and pinned it with my foot. A burst of swearing and coughing proved that many more people gathered in the room than I spied through the keyhole.

  The moment of truth came: if anyone crawled out of the room, I would have to forget about the secrecy and call my Source. Falling furniture thundered, a heavy body struck the door once, and that was it, no more attacks. I waited ten more minutes for the air inside to clear of smoke and ventured to check on my prey.

  There were eight of them. Unfortunately, they looked like ordinary people, though I was almost sure that they would have fangs or some other ghoulish qualities.

  I didn't even kick my defeated enemies – they couldn't feel anything. Rather decent townsfolk, reasonably grimy, neither white, nor dark. At the time of my attack, they were sitting at the table and discussing the schemes of buildings unfamiliar to me; a large map of Ho-Carg hung on the wall (I immediately wrote an obscenity on it). A heat pump hummed against the wall; bottles with drinking water were in the corner. Even a phone line was present in this comfortable nest of snakes. I hesitated for a second, and then dialed the number of the city police: "I'd like to report a kidnapping and a murder," I purred into the phone. "Who am I? An unknown well-wisher!"