"No problem. Will do," Quarters nodded solidly.
"May I include you guys as co-authors in the article?" Johan asked timidly.
"You may," I allowed, picturing how our names - of a typical dark and a white - would look together. "On one condition: you'll publish it after we have applied for a patent."
And everything was set in motion.
My life started acquiring its usual rhythm: supervising dredging, quarrelling with Quarters, writing project documentation, and ordering equipment and barrels of chemicals for Johan - all on the move.
Colonel Reich received a new trendy truck as compensation from the Salem Brotherhood and now proudly drove it around Suesson. Dick Kirchun, the most inquisitive of the Reich's "cleaners", invited himself to visit me to see my zombies. He brought a sausage for Max and tried to become friends with Mr. Flap, but they wisely kept away from the preoccupied mage. The sausage attracted Bandit, and the cat gladly left his hair on the mage's wool pants.
By fall we managed to dig out holes and constructed a chain of concrete pools. The pools were built at a slope, so water could drain naturally. After the first heavy rainfall we were ready for the field trial.
I dropped the test portion of ore into the pool (a hundred pounds), and Johan loaded it with our "workers".
Next day I didn't find any ore left - our critters had eaten all of it along with delivery bags made of iron wire! "Hey, Johan! Don't you think that our critters could be dangerous, say, for ships?"
"No, I don't. They are absolutely safe!" Johan's eyes flashed. "They are not active at low acidity."
I wasn't so sure. Well, not a big deal! People could revert to wooden ships, if anything.
Now we could start the trial. Polak and I loaded the pool with two tons of nobody-knew-what kind of rocks and began waiting for the result.
PART II. ADVENTURES OF A MAGICIAN-RECIDIVIST
Chapter 10
When writers want to heat up the atmosphere in their opuses, they say, "The shadow of the King touched his heart." In one play a hero uttered this sentence ten times. The phrase was probably borrowed from some magic folio, because when Charak showed up at the door of my house, a shadow of the King really touched me.
The old necromancer vividly reminded me of Uncle Gordon: he was dressed in a shabby rustic jacket, a faded shirt, and darned trousers. In Redstone he was painfully accurate! And he came alone, though a mage of his rank seldom left his home unaccompanied by security. Did his shadow remain in the car? Charak couldn't get here on foot. All in all, his appearance was quite odd.
"How have you been, kid? I've heard about your exploits."
"You know, teacher, I was nearly killed twice because of your damned necromancy!"
He wanted to protest, but changed his mind and took a deep breath: "Will you accept compensation for this?"
I dropped my jaw. A four-hundred-year-old magician apologized! Admitted his guilt!
"Yes, I will. If you could explain first, why were you gone so abruptly? Not only you, but all veterans!"
Charak frowned, collecting his thoughts, glanced in shock at Mr. Flap who brought us tea, and suddenly asked, "Had you experienced a reluctance to go to Finkaun?"
"Yes, I had," I nodded gravely.
"Then why did you go?"
"I am not a coward! Teacher, I asked first."
Charak sighed heavily, "You see, there are some necromantic traditions I had no time to tell you about - our class was so abruptly interrupted…Have you finished reading books from the list I gave to you?"
"I couldn't find them anywhere, not in any public library." Even the ministry's library, with restricted access, lacked them.
"I am sorry to hear that. Veterans of the Circle are like members of the clan; we trust each other with our lives, after all. Rivalry in our job is unacceptable: the stronger each of us is, the safer we feel. When authorities invited us to Finkaun, one of the members experienced a vague premonition, and he got in touch with the rest. It turned out that others were worried, too…"
So they didn't care about me: the geezers conspired to slip away and left me alone.
In the dark mages' community, "traditions" exist only within your own flock; your own clan is the maximum amount of people we can care about. These century-old dodderers hadn't considered the fresh graduate a member of their circle. My reverence to Charak's skill and experience vanished, but I let him speak out - to learn from where the wind blew.
"We decided to play safe," the old fogey rounded up.
I nodded sagely. Charak fidgeted in his chair - it was too tall for the magician's height. Johan usually sat there.
"I am very glad that all ended happily for you. But something else brought me to your house," he continued after a pause.
With the gesture of a trickster, he pulled from an inside pocket a pack of tissue paper with scribbles of colored ink on it and laid them before me in a semicircle. I glanced at the sheets; if he wanted to dissipate my anger with such a primitive red herring, it wouldn't work.
"These are the ritual schemes the artisans tried to perform in the North recently. The ritual is known: it's called The Liturgy of the Light. White Halak began with it once. You may ask why any description of it hasn't been wiped out. It's because we thought that the ritual couldn't be run without an ancient artifact, destroyed after the fall of Halak. But one genius has recreated the artifact…"
I looked at the schemes - just could not resist, it was a historical rarity, after all. The drawings seemed to be copied from the original onto tracing paper and then painted in colored ink by hand. I wasn't an expert in white magic, but something in the lines looked familiar.
"Where is the catch?" I couldn't refrain from asking Charak, despite my wish not to talk to him. "At a glance, there is nothing extraordinary."
"The catch, young man, is that The Liturgy of the Light sharply reduces the occurrence of otherworldly phenomena, but no longer than a hundred years. Did you hear about the unexplainable minimization in otherworldly activity in Ingernika that lasted for fifteen years? During the lull, the government laid off half of NZAMIPS combat mages; Arango's division was abolished entirely. Now we observe a surge of the supernatural. In Suesson it isn't so evident – the presence of mines did not let NZAMIPS relax. But in the central regions "cleaners" strain themselves to the utmost. Perhaps, government will summon the dark."
"What do I have to do with this?"
Charak pursed his lips and snorted angrily; clearly, he needed something from me. "My other colleagues are too old. You are the only able necromancer in decent physical shape. Will you prefer to wait for the official call up for service?"
He shouldn't have said that. "Yes, I will. This way I will get paid. And I'm no longer with NZAMIPS."
His Source awakened - the old man was angry with me; he barely kept himself in hand. He thought he would show up and play with the young puppy as he liked! I called my Source, too, and fully opened the power channel. My house was surrounded by a six-layer perimeter; even if we started a duel here, the sensors of instrumental control would register nothing but noise.
Charak sat still for about five minutes. Our Sources were of almost equal power. The old man was the strongest living necromancer, but a mediocre combat mage, or else he wouldn't have fled Redstone, fearing a stupid attempt on his life. I was trained by Edan Satal himself. And Charak knew that.
"I understand your feelings," Charak's voice did not show the slightest emotion. "Your superiors made you risk your life, and you were nearly killed. You are unhappy. What if I compensate you for this? Would you be willing to sign another agreement with NZAMIPS?"
"Here is my compensation - I do not want to see any of you again! Ever," I smiled meanly.
"That is unreasonable. I hope you'll change your mind. I'll wait." He stood up and went out without saying goodbye, leaving his colored drawings on my table. If he hoped to sow a shadow of doubt in my soul, he miscalculated. Did he think that at the word "artisan" I would go on the
warpath? He didn't know I had already avenged an attempt on me in Finkaun! Their local leader still saw giant roaches everywhere. Did Charak rely on my respect for him as a teacher? I was his disciple for two months; what kind of loyalty did he hope to earn in such a short time?!
I didn't discard his sheets with the ancient artifact schemes, due to my Krauhardian miserliness. Instead, I neatly folded them and tucked them into my diary. After all my misfortunes, which accompanied my work at NZAMIPS, I deserved a trouble-free life for a few years. I stopped thinking of Charak's visit and returned to my usual work - I was up to my neck in work.
My second winter in Suesson passed uneventfully. The moment of truth for our project was approaching - spring was the time to assess the results. The spring sun warmed up the water, the inhabitants of our pools came to life, and piles of rocks began to disappear rapidly.
On that day I was busy with pools, checking that urchins didn't gnaw through the concrete foundation. They were extremely energetic bastards! As it turned out, they relentlessly scratched any solid support, no matter if it was the ore or the concrete. Hopefully, our white mage would instill a sense of taste in the next generations.
When a loud bang reached my ears, I shuddered - it sounded like an explosion. Black smoke rose above the roof. I left the urchins and rushed home, fearing that someone was hurt.
Glistening fragments of shattered glass blinded my eyes. A cloud of ash from burning flesh and rubber hung in the air. Flame lazily licked my motorcycle's rim, and charred pieces of a human body were littered around.
A truck on wide tires, roaring, drove away through Suesson's impassable mud.
Stunned, I looked around for my companions and finally spotted Polak and Johan. They held on well. Ron was not at home; by elimination I figured that a leg in the middle of the yard belonged to Mr. Flap.
They killed my zombie! A timid, harmless creature! Who committed such barbarism? And why? I called my Source and probed the smoldering wreckage for the presence of any residual aura. Alas, only Mr. Flap's was sensed there! I needed to examine the place where they threw the bomb.
Johan noticed me, and his face reflected incredible relief, "Oh, Tom, we were so scared! We thought you were killed."
My friends were right: Mr. Flap looked like me and was dressed in my clothes. The murderers saw my motorcycle in the yard - another confirmation that I was at home. They took Mr. Flap for me - the bomb was meant to kill me! No need to ask who to blame for this - militants of the sect, of course!
My first impulse was to catch the villains. But to chase them on foot would be idiotic. My motorcycle was shattered, and I hadn't bought a truck yet. I needed to run to the nearest farm (it was five kilometers away from my house) and borrow a vehicle. They would be long gone in the meantime.
Poor Mr. Flap died a second time! He had a truly angelic nature: he meekly did what we told him to do; without a word of complaint he carried out all the hard work around the house (now his job would become my duty again). He helped Johan set a garden in the backyard. I think he enormously enjoyed simple household chores. Mr. Flap even volunteered to wash my motorcycle. He absolutely didn't deserve an incendiary bomb for all his suffering!
And then a sickening internal shudder pierced my body: I knew the enemies would come and still missed them. If I continued along the same lines, my family would be under attack. How long would it take for sectarians to kidnap my white bro or sis? I would punish them sooner or later! But what would guarantee the safety of my family? I cast an appraising glance at the scraps of flesh in the yard and decided: "I'll have to stage my own death."
* * *
Powerful dark mages preferred to live farther away from each other. More than a year had passed since Satal quit his senior coordinator job; however, he didn't undertake any steps to move out of Redstone. For some reason, the presence of the spirited Larkes in the same city suited him well. It was nonsense. It felt wrong, until Rustle finally explained that it was his sense of self-preservation that compelled him to become a part of the hierarchy, to endure discomfort for the sake of predictability in his children's future. Many long hours spent with Rustle changed the dark magician: his subconscious forever imprinted the feelings of mages, who lost their loved ones because they had nobody to help. Born in peaceful times, Satal thought and acted like a hundred-year-old wizard.
A premonition of trouble led the mage to the office of his boss. NZAMIPS staff was nervous, and this only reinforced Satal's suspicions.
Disheveled Larkes sat at the desk and looked at a decanter of a peculiar shape. The bottle was practically empty. The smell of alcohol hovered in the room. A broken glass lay on the floor - the senior coordinator threw it against the wall.
Satal didn't expect this from his boss and was afraid to guess what misfortune caused Larkes' grief.
The senior coordinator noticed Satal, though not right away. "It did not work out," he said with drunken gravity.
Satal wanted to call Kevinahari; but, according to her own words, Larkes pathologically hated empaths. He decided to wait until his boss would speak out.
Larkes pushed a piece of letterhead with a telephone message on it to his guest.
The Suesson NZAMIPS office reported that on such and such date, at about eleven o'clock a.m., a former NZAMIPS employee, a magician-animator named Thomas Tangor, was killed in his house by a powerful explosive device. The investigation was underway. Satal read the paper several times - he didn't feel that his former student was dead.
The senior coordinator sniffled. Satal glanced at him warily - dark magicians in such a condition behaved oddly: some writhed in hysterics, others went on a rampage. One thing was certain: after such a show Larkes wouldn't keep his job, but surprisingly Satal did not want him to go.
"What are you going to do?"
"What is here to do?" the drunken magician asked. "He's dead, he is no more."
"You have to find those responsible and avenge."
"I had been working on this for over twenty years. And he's killed again."
Satal decided not to focus on the strange phrase "he's killed again". Instead, he reached into the memories inherited from Rustle and grasped how he could manage to comfort Larkes.
"You are not alone! He will return! Strong spirits always come back. They are re-born into life time and again. We will wait for him together, you and me!"
"Yes!" Larkes roused suddenly. "It will be so, I know. I've seen the proof! We will try harder!"
Satal slightly moved away from the deranged mage. The senior coordinator didn't look like a strong combatant, but there were plenty of stories about his opponents, who died despite all their power.
After digging in his desk for a short while, Larkes pulled out a small bottle without a label, poured a few bright yellow droplets into his glass and, not finding anything to dilute the potion with, drank it all straight up. Judging by his face, the remedy was disgusting, but he immediately sobered.
"We are meeting in the small conference room in half an hour," he said, recovering from the bitterness of the potion. "Invite all department heads. This murder should not go unpunished!"
Chapter 11
At first glance, the idea to declare my death was awesome! But the more hours that had passed since the explosion, the more I understood Johan's doubts about its feasibility. To claim that the torn-to-shreds body was mine wasn't difficult - Mr. Flap's residual aura resembled its master's. But I, safe and sound, had to vanish without a trace.
"Do you understand that for a dark mage to pretend to be someone else would be nearly impossible? You are few, and you easily strike the eye. As soon as you go somewhere, people will spot a strange traveler. You will leave tracks, unless you start killing witnesses."
I couldn't challenge Johan's arguments. The white, when they begin reasoning, are horribly rational. "What if I masquerade as a commoner?"
The white mage pursed his lips and shook his head in denial. "It won't work! Many ordinary people are as sensitive
as empaths. They will unriddle you in five minutes, and the police will ask you to show your documents."
I started fearing that the only way to get out of Suesson for me would be on foot, sleeping on the ground and feeding on rodents and grass. Another brilliant plan came to my mind, "Can you send me as a parcel?"
"What?!"
Johan and Polak refused to discuss it, and I fell deep in thought. A premonition of upcoming troubles hadn't left me, and this time I did not want to neglect it. I needed to invisibly wade through Suesson to Larkes in Redstone. My eccentricity shouldn't attract anybody's attention. I gulped, sighed, and finally managed to say, "Hey, Johan, could you disguise me as a white?"
It was so crazy that it could actually work, but I needed Johan's help with its implementation. Especially because time was running out. My companions would have to inform the police the same day, as soon as Quarters returned home in his car and drove them back to the village.
At first, I changed clothes. Now I was dressed in Polak's spare sky-blue pants, comfortable but obscene looking. Johan donated a warm knitted sweater (given that the white was half a head taller than me, I drowned in his sweater like it was a tent). Quarters, stunned with my pitiful look, donated his used jacket. But it was not enough for a disguise. They bleached my hair to a nasty orange color. At least now I could wear the chic, stupid red sneakers I bought in Mihandrov.
There was no time for anything else: I had to disappear before my friends would report the incident to the police. I quickly signed a power of attorney in Polak's and Johan's names and dated it for the previous week. Johan made an amulet on the run, imitating an uninitiated white Source, and hung it on me, saying, "Nothing good will come of this!"
As if I didn't know that without him! The main thing was to hold on till Redstone. Larkes would help - I got into this horrible mess because of my employment with NZAMIPS. Another problem was Max: I had to leave him at home. I patted the dog's ears and hoped that Colonel Reich would take good care of him. The "cleaner" would surely feel that something was odd with my death, but he would keep silence. Perhaps, he would even be comforting Chief Brian to take this "loss" easily.
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