The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail)

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "My dear Gregory," the bearded magician smiled, "I am confident, soon you will have another opportunity to conduct your tests, and more than once." After the Order's victory there would be enough dark captives.

  "Excellent, Master Haino, our ranks have been cleared. What's next?" the healer recognized the rightness of the patriarch with a gesture.

  "First of all, we need to get rid of all problematic followers."

  People looked at each other, and Patrick Mylo sensed once again that not only common faith guaranteed their loyalty to the sect, but something else, more powerful, kept them dedicated. 'Perhaps, some sort of bewitchment," he assumed for a moment and then dismissed the thought in fright.

  A discussion of plans, which looked a bit like joint meditation, lasted until the evening. After remaining for a proper interval at the meeting, Lord Evergreen politely took his leave: if the board wanted something from him, they would find a way to pass along their message.

  Chapter 3

  The route to Finkaun I chose myself: I bought a ticket for a direct train. I could afford a more expensive trip, now that the government paid for all my travel costs. A first-class compartment was equipped with a heat pump, and the swelter of midsummer was not felt inside. Watching through the window people exhausted by heat made me enjoy every minute of my trip. I was heading into the core of the western industrial area, where the boundaries of old settlements had long merged into one huge city with factories, warehouses, residential and administrative buildings, and little droplets of parks, so dear to the hearts of the white.

  When we left the suburbs behind, buildings began to rise up sharply; they looked a bit dusty, with peeling paint, but solid. The train stopped in the newer part of Finkaun, away from the downtown area. The city reminded me of Redstone, stretched in height and length. Finkaun grew three-dimensionally and now bristled with flyovers, towered on pillars, dived into the ground. This city was short of light and land, air and space. Everything moved continuously, in different directions and layers: trams, cars, bikes, horse carriages, pedestrians. And an ancient castle, decorated with vulgar lustrous flags, grimly watched all this mess from a high hill in the centre. It once served as a residence of the monarchs, in the later years - as the headquarters of the Inquisition, and now it belonged to the local division of NZAMIPS. The shrewd urbanites dubbed the old fortress the King House, and in every sense it was the dominating building of Finkaun.

  My hotel was not far from the train depot, near the marshalling yard; through the window I could enjoy a stunning view of the King House through the fumes of locomotives. A guide provided by NZAMIPS apologized for no vacancies in a more decent hotel, but I barely heard him - I counted the whistles of passing locomotives. Each whistle represented a sound identification of the machinery. I recognized three small shunting trains (a three-act whistle) and something much bigger with a solid six-act roar - it was the latest achievement of alchemy, a mighty locomotive with a steam generator and an electric powertrain. The speed of this monster was limited only by the carrying capacity of the rails!

  I quickly pushed the annoying officer out of the door and fell asleep under the sound of wagon wheels. All night I watched my favorite childhood dream: I was driving a locomotive, pulling a colored train over the hills of Krauhard at improbable angles, and the roar of its engine suspiciously resembled the sounds of Uncle Gordon's truck. Then Rustle decided to take part in my sleep, and an ancient flying machine swept with the bass rumble over the valleys of my dream.

  In the morning I realized that I missed what the officer from NZAMIPS told me to do next. Then one name popped into my head: the Dryden House. The place turned out to be a luxury banquet hall, where a reception for NZAMIPS employees was about to start. I parked my motorcycle in front of it and in quiet desperation looked at myself: working pants and hiking boots versus the expensive tailcoats and cocktail dresses of guests. Even if I'd come back to change clothes, I'd have looked vulgar. They say necromancers are weirdo men - I decided to prove it. It wasn't my fault that yesterday's idiot failed to convey his message to me.

  I cleaned myself with a curse, tied motorcycle glasses to the top button of my waistcoat, and decisively walked to the door. Apparently, eccentricity was expected from some guests, because the doorman bowed to me as stiffly as to all others, "Welcome to the Third Annual Symposium on Applied Magic, sir. Registration for participants is at the check-in counter on the right."

  I came up to the counter and received a badge with my name on it and the label "Section Number Five." A horrible thought dawned on me: what if I had to make a presentation? A festive atmosphere reigned around. People walked in groups, discussing something. The epicenter of their movement was a long row of tables, filled with snack plates, salad bowls, and sparkling crystal stemware. I started liking what I saw! No welcoming speeches: buffet first, verbiage last. I piled tarts with salad on my plate and noticed a stand at the wall with the location and timing of section meetings. The fifth section was called "The Problems of Retrospective Animation".

  Satal sneaked up on me from behind. "How have you been?"

  My favorite teacher looked gorgeous in his dark gray tailcoat (surely I was the only fool here in leather pants). I was glad that no one commented on my appearance, except a weird elderly man, who stared at me as if he saw a rat.

  I challenged him by returning his gaze, with quiet glee expecting that he would step back - no reasonable dark mage would begin a duel in a crowded place. The old moron pouted and walked toward us.

  "Mr. Satal."

  "Mr. Axel: this is my disciple - Thomas Tangor."

  The old man's eyes narrowed and he said to Satal, "Arrogant as his father, though they did not know each other."

  "Heredity," my favorite teacher shrugged.

  The old man snorted, turned, and without saying a word to me went to fray the nerves of other people. I always come across strange acquaintances…

  "He is jealous," Satal commented. "His people worked in Mihandrov for years, and you managed to uncover a conspiracy in two weeks."

  "Sadly, nobody knows about my role."

  "Are you kidding? Axel will never admit that he had accepted help from Tangor! He'd rather strangle himself!"

  "Why?" I felt hurt by such an attitude in the old moron.

  Satal turned his back to the others and began enlightening me in whispers. "Your grandfather kept him in chains for some crimes a couple of years. Axel has been sickeningly law-abiding since then, but no former inquisitor could stay in his region for long. Your father had been appointed a senior coordinator at the same time as him. Got it?"

  Satal suddenly relaxed and raised his voice, "You are booked for a presentation."

  "About what?"

  "No difference! The fifth section is gathering for the first time. It would be enough if you just go to the podium and stand there for some time."

  Ah-ha! Let people watch a live necromancer! As if I didn't have other troubles…

  I had to remind my teacher, "I am an alchemist!"

  "Yeah, sure! By the way, why did you ask for a high-level security lab?"

  "To test another amulet for my vehicle," I deftly wriggled. I promised myself to curse the asshole who ratted on me.

  Satal skeptically chuckled.

  Suddenly a hoarse howl came from the street - it was the security alarm of my bike. All conversations in the hall fell silent; a few people rushed to the emergency exit. Some idiot tried to steal my motorcycle again!

  "Are you going to check your bike?" Satal asked.

  "I will give the thief another chance," I retorted and activated the switch to shut off the alarm from a distance. The nasty sound went off.

  A minute later, four combat mages in military uniform walked in with an independent air.

  "What?! Is the army here, too?"

  "Of course! They've booked a whole section, number two."

  The rest of the day I spent eating delicacies and listening with half an ear to the speeches of
the conference leaders uttered right there, at the table. Vile Axel walked around the hall and alerted everyone to the presence of a necromancer. ("That boy, do you see him? The howling bike is his, too.")

  I did not expect such pettiness from a regional coordinator.

  * * *

  The old mansion at Long Lake presented Lavender Kilozo with plenty of interesting opportunities: residents of the Evergreen Estate spoke freely, without fear of being overheard.

  The spy pressed an enchanted wineglass to a decorative monogram on the wall - it let her clearly hear every word spoken in the adjoining room. Its door was guarded by two servants with obvious signs of altered consciousness. Lavender promised herself to report on the owner of the estate - spiritual patronage was a crime since the Inquisition. Behind the wall Derik was having a meeting with one of the leaders; Lavender hadn't yet figured out his name.

  "I am glad to be back, Teacher," her glass started rattling.

  "I am too. Have some tea and tell me what's bothering you, Derik."

  All of Septonville's escapees lived on the same floor and spent entire days together. To out-argue the "naive" Ms. Tabret became a matter of honor for Derik. Lavender felt involuntary compassion for him: the cultist had been a firm believer for many years, until some ninny started asking him awkward questions he couldn't answer. She should stop torturing the poor fellow!

  "Perhaps it's from idleness, Teacher. Give me a worthy task, and my anxiety will be gone."

  "Wrong! Peace of mind should be sought before taking on a task, not after. What's your problem?"

  There was a pause - Derik collected his thoughts. "We want to rid our society of dark magicians, because they bring the supernatural into our world. But the best defense against the supernatural is dark magic. The damn dark Source denies itself!"

  "I see…"

  Lavender's imagination vividly drew a handsome old man, sadly nodding his head.

  "You make a mistake typical of ordinary people - measure everything by its benefits to mankind. The deeds of Light aren't governed by mercenary motives of worms, who imagined themselves to be kings of nature."

  Derik didn't reply.

  Meanwhile, his teacher continued, "God's design works in the interests of all creatures, not just the biped. It's a dangerous heresy to assume that something which already exists doesn't please God. Treading the Path of Light, we must accept the world as it is and the creatures of darkness, too. They are tools in His hands. Evil is humans, who pettily oppose themselves to the Creator's design!"

  The voice of the patriarch murmured more confidentially. "The dark Source is a symbol of perverted desires. It is alien to nature, and people who possess it are carriers of all sorts of vices. Mages affected by evil spread it around and give a noxious example to people with pure souls. The dark have to be uprooted first!"

  Derik kept silence.

  "Humankind will spread like mildew, if its reproduction isn't limited by the otherworldly," the teacher rounded out his speech. "The world has to be cleansed, and the Liturgy of Light is our first step towards our goal."

  Derik was silent. Lavender heard strange sounds through her glass: a clatter of a falling cup, a thump. The teacher pulled the bell cord. "Take care of Derik," the artisan ordered to an enchanted servant.

  "What about his companions?" the servant asked calmly.

  "They will join him later."

  A light chill touched Lavender's nerves, her thoughts fussed like frightened rabbits - Derik was probably dead. The scout rushed to her bedroom, feeling a strong urge to flee immediately. But a green hell grew around the estate, access to the lake was blocked by two rows of bushes (the only path that went through was guarded), and enchanted servants were everywhere, especially around the guests, destined for slaughter.

  Lavender took a seat on the bed, unwittingly fulfilling the advice given to Derik by his teacher. She shouldn't panic! Derik was killed because he exposed himself in Septonville. A ghostly chance for the scout to turn the situation to her advantage still remained.

  Over dinner she heard an announcement that Derik had left for some urgent business.

  Chapter 4

  The fifth section opened up later than any others - on the evening of the second day. Nobody expected sensation: the schedule listed a couple of overview presentations and a report on new developments in forensic practice. A professor from Ho-Carg gave a long account of unverified historical information from private archives on necromancy. From his words it followed that necromancy was the most ancient branch of the magical craft. Our forefathers widely used necromantic spells, while not even being aware of that: they believed that their questions were answered by "spirits". They didn't go beyond the examination of bones. Attempts to revive dead bodies were rare and usually ended tragically. At the end of his presentation, the lecturer mentioned rituals practised by the Salem Brothers and pointed out that the sacrifices they made created a halo of intolerance around necromancy.

  Listening to his "apparently", "likely", and "probably" was boring. He talked with a straight face about stuff he could not prove. Some of the spells he described were theoretically impossible. And he didn't say a word about safe methods of raising corpses.

  A jolly fat man in police uniform climbed on the podium second; he called himself a commissioner of public intercourse - or maybe I misheard. According to him, necromancers were never chased, but detained shortly, pending investigation. Most of the time, he talked about their main problem: expert police animators were able to extract memories only from a relatively well-preserved corpse. Only about thirty necromancers in the entirety of Ingernika could question bare bones, including mages over a hundred years old.

  It quickly became clear that none of those present at the conference could teach me necromancy. Needless to say, the next day I left after a free breakfast.

  I met my favorite teacher near the snack tables.

  "Why are you not attending your section?"

  What a bugger! "Teacher, nowhere in my contract did I see a requirement to speak at some retarded conference!"

  If I had known that they would make me do such things, I would have requested twice as much money. They would have gone bankrupt.

  "Are you not a NZAMIPS employee anymore?" Satal asked reasonably.

  He got me. What an asshole!

  "Listen," the teacher frowned, "I won't accept your objections! We must show the army and the police that NZAMIPS is ahead of all. Read this!"

  And he gave me a strange piece of paper stating that I was the owner of item number three hundred and ten prime with the blessing of Rem Larkes.

  "What's this?"

  "We have legalized your creativity. Are you going to thank me?"

  "Thanks!" Now I was an officially recognized zombie-owner. If something awful, attributable to a zombie, ever happened, they would come to me first.

  "Show your zombie to the public, explain how he moves and what he eats. The rest is at your discretion."

  "Not enough time for preparation!"

  "Preparation for what? To show your dog and say a couple words about him? Do not make me laugh! Your presentation is tomorrow at ten am."

  Why didn't he tell me about it yesterday? What a jerk! I was so upset that could barely swallow free grab. Tomorrow I would make a fool of myself in front of the most prominent magicians of Ingernika. Even the army mages presented finger-licking reports on the optimization of instrumental control depending on the area's topography, with power charts and surveying data.

  Axel was sitting at the far table, sipping tea and breaking off tiny pieces of cake with a fork. I guessed my presentation was his initiative - the old fogey was looking forward to my failure.

  By the end of the day my revenge plan took its final shape. They wanted a necromancer's show? I was determined to give it to them, to the fullest.

  After the conference, I went shopping, bought a whole pack of white silk, ink, and pens for calligraphy, and then all night, without rest, drew picture
s for my epoch-making report. Perhaps, my hard work affected the brains of people nearby, because a hotel receptionist knocked on my door soon after 2 a.m. to say that my train would depart in half an hour. He was very lucky that I did not sleep! I sent the guy for a cup of coffee.

  By next morning I looked like a role model of a tough magician from movies about the Middle Ages: no urban nonsense like a tie or a collar, but a knitted vest over a naked body, wide straps across the chest, and a leather coat. I decorated myself with a sign-hub on my cheek and Uncle Gordon's beads on my belt. Max was wearing a neat scarlet cloth with a carelessly written embalming rune. The hotel doorman shied away from us, thus letting me know that both my zombie and I looked chic!

  I approached the podium in ringing silence. Silk banners on thin bamboo poles, which I prepared overnight, looked like martial flags; the black and scarlet ink on them was like splashes of blood and stains of darkness. Max, touched by the moment, seated himself on the edge of the stage and took a deep breath.

  An indescribably cheerful Satal grabbed a chair in the first row; Axel sat behind my teacher.

  I began my speech with a boring introduction, which I ruthlessly plagiarized from the author of the very first report, and then I switched to the description of the operational use of zombies in police work and combat, from the corner of my eye watching how the room was gradually filled. My posters were superb – drawing charts and diagrams was always a piece of cake for me; my exhibit was sitting nearby, drooling and yawning. I didn't fear any criticism from the audience: dark mages initiated the creation of combat zombies just before Girane's kingdom, and their methods were lost when the Inquisition burned books en masse. To explain what miracle had created my zombie-dog, I had to vaguely refer to mysterious ancient grimoires. My brainwashing of the audience lasted for over an hour, and nobody dared to remind me of the time limit! When the entire military section in full complement filled the aisles in the room (there were no vacant seats left), I understood I needed to finish this farce.