The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail)

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  "Why not? I personally knew one compassionate dark. My book is about him!" Clara replied, knowing that she spoke on my behalf. Whether I would keep myself in hand depended on her eloquence.

  Everybody's eyes turned to the army magician. The dark straightened up. He was drunk, and it could end in fist fighting.

  "Unlike you, lady, I knew a lot of dark," the gray-haired gentleman did not give up, but I was ready to forgive him for outvoicing Nancy. "You can't lure them out of home to do their job, if it's rainy and night-time. Only, perhaps, under the threat of death. There will be a thousand and one reasons why bad weather interferes with magic. The worse the weather, the more you will have to drive them out personally. And not less than five of them at once will be needed for any problem."

  He was right and wrong at the same time. Such behavior was typical for "cleaners" due to safety issues, not because of their laziness or lack of skill. The gray-haired disputant didn't try to draw a chalky pentagram in the rain and fight with the otherworldly without life insurance. Natural selection eliminated fools from our business at the stage of studentship! If it hadn't been my own life, I would've called the book idiotic, too.

  "As for his magic actions, I wouldn't judge their credibility. However, I am sure that half of his adventures simply could not happen…" The gray-haired made a mistake, appealing to the army mage.

  The mage, who had long forgotten about his burger, suddenly blossomed, "It surely could! Once I myself…"

  And he got carried away much more than poor Nancy. Lieutenant Traych was returning to Arango from his deserved vacation. He unleashed on unprepared passengers all the power of the army's folklore. In his stories, lightning flashed, the ground shook, victims cried out for help, ghouls got killed in bunches, malicious curses fell off as chaff. Even if we had halved all that the gallant lieutenant said, he would have deserved the highest honor award for rescuing the entirety of Ingernika at least five times. The revelations of the drunken magician smoothly switched to physiological details, and I needed to stop this. Otherwise, this bastard would cover with shame my Dark Knight character! I quietly stood up and approached his table.

  "Sir, may I have your autograph?"

  The lieutenant puffed up with pride and left his signature on the back of the restaurant menu. He must have felt the dark Source in me, he had to; but he was too drunk to pay attention to the discrepancy between my clothing of a white mage and my dark core. However, something confused the lieutenant, because he stopped chattering and set off to his compartment with a bottle of port in hand.

  Nancy, with her mouth full of food, continued to devote her attention to all who were careless enough to meet her gaze. I mentally groaned, cursing the spoiled dinner. At that time, I didn't know what a great service the talkative girl provided to all of us by staying in the restaurant.

  Clara and I drew different conclusions from this incident.

  "I did not think that dark magicians were so sociable," said Fiberti.

  "What?"

  "That lieutenant."

  I chuckled, "Clara, the dark are truly not very sociable, but don't confuse it with bragging - we'll boast as much as others can tolerate. He just couldn't allow another magician to look better! I hope you did not believe him."

  She smiled thinly, "I thought he embellished his stories a little bit."

  "What?"

  I spent an hour spoiling the reputation of all army mages and Lt. Traych, in particular. I wanted her to know the truth about them! Clara got tired of giggling and scribbled notes at a breakneck pace, when a broad-shouldered policeman suddenly opened the compartment door.

  "Show your papers, please."

  The temperature in the room dropped by twenty degrees at once, without any magic. I began tensely digging through my bag, wondering where I failed. Then I heard as the officer demanded documents from other people, too. Obviously, he did not come here for me!

  I calmly handed him my fake passport. He checked the seal, made some notes, and returned the document to me. From this point on, I became a criminal, because I presented myself to the authorities under the name of another person.

  "May I ask you what is happening, sir?" Clara got ahead of me with the same question.

  The policeman returned her passport and hesitated for a bit, deciding how frank he could be. "A crime's been committed on the train. We ask all passengers to stay in their compartments. You are not allowed to leave the train without notifying Inspector Graft. You can find him in the dining car."

  When we were left alone, Fiberti advised me, "Johan, you'd better stay in your compartment."

  Yes, I knew, as a white I wasn't supposed to actively demonstrate my curiosity. "I won't," I promised.

  There was no reason to go out of the compartment - hardly anybody knew what happened. But by tomorrow rumors would spread, and we would learn all the details from the very same Nancy.

  Chapter 13

  All night people talked in low voices in the aisle, and I kept waking up. In the morning I realized that our express train stopped on the dead end side of a nameless station. Right outside our window was a hedge of blossoming cherry, disgruntled passengers buzzed, and all this invoked a feeling that we were sitting in a beehive. When I poked my nose out of the compartment, I found a policeman in the aisle.

  Breakfast was served directly in our compartment. As a white, I was supposed to ask for a glass of milk, but Fiberti pitied me and ordered herself a beer. As soon as the waiter was gone, we exchanged our drinks.

  "What would I have done without you, Clara?"

  "You would've become the prime suspect," Fiberti giggled.

  The police were taking passengers for interrogation, starting from the tail of the train. What happened there? Grand theft? A forbidden divination? Artisans again?

  Our turn came at lunch time. In the meantime, our transcontinental express, which had never been late by more than half an hour, didn't move!

  They called me first. I mentally prepared myself - half-plunged into a trance. Honestly, I was scared: to fool passersby was one thing, but to lie to the police investigator, another.

  The investigators made themselves comfortable in the dining car: piles of papers towered on the tables and the floor; here and there my eye ran across the invariable attributes of any office - emptied cups of coffee. There was one vacant chair, and I seated myself in it.

  An ordinary man in plain clothes, with the sad face of a funeral agent, but lacking the proper gloss, stared at me. I didn't fall for his modest look and stayed focused. If I could blush, that would be even better…

  "Johan Kitoto?" the policeman asked wearily.

  I shyly nodded. As a child, Johan was probably bullied for his surname.

  "I am Inspector Graft. I have to ask you a few questions."

  "About what?"

  The white were meticulous, honest, and direct - I kept that in mind. They perceived theidea ofsubordination with difficulty and hopelessly garbled communication rituals with their superiors, seeing no sense in them. It wasn't easy for me to reproduce such behavior.

  "For example, about animals. Do you like animals?"

  "It depends," I replied. It was a myth that the white loved everyone and everything. "Once I was bitten by a dog. I was eight; the old mastiff was blind in one eye and did not see that he was approached by a child…"

  "Do you have experience handling animals?" the inspector continued impartially.

  I pursed my lips; the white usually do not like to be knocked off their train of thought. Should I shed tears now?

  "Yes. My father had a farm, and I spent holidays and vacations there…"

  In his spare time Johan liked to talk about his family. Now it came in very handy.

  "Will you be able to force the animals to do something?"

  The conversation became unpleasant. I opened my mouth to decisively deny everything, but I suddenly recalled one thing.

  "Yes, of course. I am Master of Natural Magic."

 
'Well, Johan, you'll pay me for that!' I said to myself.

  The investigator's eyes started glistening. "Can you say what this is?" With a conjuror's gesture the inspector pulled a large glass tube from his pocket and put the catch under my nose.

  He was lucky that I wasn't a real white - Johan would faint, I guarantee it. A hefty dried beetle dangled in the tube. I carefully examined it.

  "This creature is not endemic to the Northwest of Ingernika." When I worked on the golem, I studied the literature on bugs. "You'd better consult with a professional entomologist. My area of specialization is different."

  "What is your area of specialization?"

  I gently smiled, took a deep breath, and began retelling in my own words the first chapter of Anthology of the Invisible by Master Kinluori - the book which was the top reference in all articles on ore bacteria in Johan's folder. Inspector Graft tried to interrupt my monologue, and a look of melancholy appeared in his eyes, but he didn't dare to silence the garrulous white mage. I decided to be lenient to the unfortunate man.

  "Sorry, I can talk for hours about my work," I let him know what he could have expected. "But you wanted to ask me about something else, didn't you, inspector?"

  "Yes!" Graft livened up. "From your point of view, can anybody consciously control the behavior of bugs?"

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to figure out if white magic was capable of that. "It depends on what is required of the bugs: if it falls within the scope of their natural behavior, then yes. Also, it hinges on how many objects are under control."

  "Let's say, three hundred critters. Is it feasible to incite them to attack a man?"

  "Critters like this one?" I was surprised: the beetle looked too desiccated; it died long ago. "Three hundred? How did you catch them after the attack?" The tiny assassins should now be under each pillow on the train.

  "The ones we found were dead."

  It sounded very suspicious. I examined the bug again, this time with magic. Thank god, there were no dark among the investigators, and they couldn't feel my manipulations with the Source. The small corpse exuded a barely noticeable flavor - a faint shadow - of necromantic curses. It wasn't the work of white mages! I hesitated for a moment whether to disclose my observation to the police.

  I scratched my nose and blabbed: "Isn't it strange that they all died at once? As if the beetles were enlivened with retrospective animation before being sent to attack. I wonder if there is a necromancer on the train." I didn't mean myself, of course.

  Oh, poor dark magicians! A simple allusion was enough for the police to move on with predatory enthusiasm to another victim. The white mages were instantly forgotten, and I was unceremoniously sent back.

  So, I cursed Nancy, but it hit another person. The brutal murder on the train did occur. I imagined what the hefty jaws of the beetles did to human flesh. Clearly, the train wasn't moving because authorities feared the creatures would run away - live insects would have done exactly that. Luckily, Fiberti and I spent the whole evening dining in front of a dozen people, so we had a provable alibi. It remained to find out who was responsible for my stress. Why didn't these freaks find another train on which to play their dirty tricks?!

  A half hour after my conversation with the inspector the train continued on its way.

  "People say somebody was killed in the last carriage," Fiberti retold the gossip. "He was hacked to death with an ax. A sea of blood all around! His poor wife found the corpse, when she returned from the restaurant."

  "Who was the victim?" The method of murder was too exotic for a professional killer. Perhaps, it was a personal revenge.

  "A state alchemist."

  They killed an alchemist! I felt outrageous and decided to facilitate the investigation, out of professional solidarity. I recounted to Clara what I learned from the inspector, hoping for her fresh eye.

  "So he was murdered by a dark mage!" she became agitated.

  I didn't support her unhealthy enthusiasm, "Stabbing him with a knife would have been much safer for the killer."

  I told Clara about the vile NZAMIPS habit of recording and keeping imprints of the aura of all initiated dark magicians. Of course, spontaneous Empowerment occurred sometimes; however, without schooling, dark magic abilities wouldn't develop, and sooner or later many a dark became registered by the police.

  "The imprint of his aura was taken by the investigators, and the killer won't be able to hide - he will be chased across the entire country."

  Clara came up with a few options of escape for the necromancer, though they were feasible only if NZAMIPS didn't have an imprint of his aura. I thought that it might well be arranged, if the villains had a mole in NZAMIPS.

  On a wave of curiosity, I walked to the last carriage and looked at the sealed doors of two compartments. The residual emanation of dark magic was felt even in the aisle. Surely, the investigators recorded an imprint of an aura of such strength. On the way back, I passed by the familiar army mage. Lt. Traych was as grim as death and on duty, judging by the abundance of amulets on him.

  My interest in the murder quickly faded.

  * * *

  White rats were dying in a sealed glass box: their short pink paws frantically scraped the air; their bodies shuddered, soiling fresh sawdust with liquid feces and saliva. But the painful agony of the animals caused no sympathy in five men, who grimly gazed at them. In three minutes all rats in the cage were dead.

  "A hundred-per-cent mortality from one thousandth of a gram," stated an experimenter in the uniform of an army healer.

  "It's in a confined space," his counterpart in civilian clothes retorted.

  "It does not matter - the poisonous gas is heavier than air, it will hang low. Worst of all, it's imperceptible, until it reaches lethal concentration."

  "Will magic help to slow the diffusion of the poisonous gas?" Minister Michelson asked the chief army expert.

  The alchemist glanced up from his contemplation of the cage, "In theory - yes. But we don't have specialists who would be able to solve this problem. It requires a complete reworking of the principles of instrumental control."

  "You promised us an alchemist, Shinner," Michelson turned to the fifth man, who kept silence. "Where is he?"

  "Our specialist was murdered," the deputy minister reported. "By an unknown necromancer. We suspect a saboteur from Sa-Orio."

  "Foreigners!" the chief army expert hissed.

  The dark mages of Ingernika were against NZAMIPS, but they would never work against their country. The murderer challenged all of them.

  "General Zertak will help NZAMIPS to find the necromancer," Minister Michelson expected no objections. People thought of him as the most powerful man in Ingernika.

  "Just tell us how we can help," the army expert pulled himself together.

  "Shinner will send you an official request," the minister nodded.

  "The murder happened on the train; we believe that the killer is still there. We need to catch him alive, but even more important is not to let him into Ho-Carg. A battle in the capital is the last thing we need!" the Deputy Minster explained.

  "Blow up the train if you have to and blame it on artisans," Minister Michelson decided.

  All present men nodded in agreement and reached for the door. No one wanted to be in the room when the technicians air and clean the cage with the poisonous gas.

  Chapter 14

  For the rest of the day our transcontinental train made two short stops; at one of them the police got off, though the murderer hadn't been caught yet. Losers! After they left, my mood immediately improved: I decided to fully enjoy the remainder of my trip: sleep till noon, drink beer, and study the schemes left by Charak.

  In the middle of the night, a disgusting sensation, as if somebody scraped glass with an iron stick nearby, woke me up. It turned out that Rustle urgently wanted to talk.

  "What do you want, nature's mistake?" I barely restrained myself from swearing at the annoying monster. Though, when he got the se
cond magician to play with, the monster almost stopped bothering me - he was having fun at the expense of Satal.

  The monster worried about me. Something awful was placed under the tight magic shields far ahead in the way of our train. Rustle didn't know what it was. I sent him to hell; a dark magician who had not had enough sleep was worse than any curse. When I was grumpy, even a drunkard could not take me for a white. I asked Clara to order breakfast in her name and many cups of coffee and started to ponder.

  If those who were hiding under the magic shields were interested in this particular train, it could be only because of the mage-killer! The police screwed up and left. What else would authorities do to catch the criminal? They could set a roundup, but not when the train was moving at full speed. It would be wiser to gather more soldiers, stop the train, push all passengers out of the carriages, and check them one by one. I wondered whether the ambush ahead was set for that. Then they would inevitably identify all dark mages on the train. Surely, the imprint of the aura at the crime scene wasn't mine, but they would make a laughing-stock of me. A dark disguised as a white! If the ambush was held by the army mages, the news would spread across the entirety of Ingernika in one day, and artisans, for whom my masquerade was intended, would continue threatening my family and me…god save me, please!

  I had to find the villain before we would get into an ambush and catch him alive so he could sign his confession. My time was running out.

  I requested from Rustle, "You must show me the mage who killed the alchemist!"

  The monster pointed at the first two carriages. He couldn't be more specific as the killer was hiding under a protective shield. I had to go there and find him myself. I knew that any necromantic ritual had after-effects, so raising the zombie-beetle would affect the psyche of the mage-killer. Usually, the after-effects dissipated in eight hours, but with a bit of luck I could see a trace of the ritual his eyes.