'I'll search for him myself. I can't rely on subordinates with this. A dark disguised as a white! If it leaks to the media, real bedlam will begin." So he headed straight to the house of the woman who had testified for pseudo-Kitoto. Her name was Clara Fiberti.
Chapter 16
I sincerely believed that we wouldn't stay in Ho-Carg for long, but when did something happen exactly as it was planned?
Hemalis gave us a list of one hundred forty-three names of book dealers. ("I might have missed some newbies.") Soon we figured out that most of them considered the books "ancient," written a hundred years ago. What we needed they called "legendary rarities". Okay, if the rarities didn't exist anymore in original, there should be books telling about them. Alas! Drawn by a vague suspicion, I went to educational and esoteric bookstores. As it turned out, this season it was fashionable to read about Kashtadar's claims on Arango and Sa-Orio's intervention in the internal affairs of neighboring countries. Our society wasn't interested in legendary rituals or former civilizations; disasters of the past were pushed back by the acuteness of modern events, as if to be slaughtered by the imperial commandos was more horrible than to be eaten by the otherworldly (though the war with the empire was yet in the planning stage, while the threat from the otherworldly was permanent).
I thought of talking to historians and hoped to renew acquaintance with Alex. Alas, his name wasn't in the phone book. Nobody at the metropolitan university knew an archaeologist with a defect of diction, though I called the faculty of archeology for an entire whole day. I called Dr. Nursen - he was on the list of university professors, but his phone was silent, too.
After visiting a dozen of booksellers, we learned that there existed three major private collections of "literary rarities" in Ingernika: one of the collectors preferred religious texts, another - manuscripts, and the third's interests matched mine. Unfortunately, the owner of the last collection was a highly respected white mage, a member of government, a philanthropist, a fighter against the Inquisition and so on…Pronouncing his name, the booksellers slightly lowered their voices. I didn't have any desire to seek help from such a colossus.
The time oozed through my fingers. Hemalis was busy with his translations and did not pester his guests, and when he wanted to communicate, Clara took the stage. A couple times dust storms covered the city, and we were forced to stay at home; on these days I tried to involve Rustle in our search. The monster was willing to help, but he needed to know exactly what I was looking for, and I couldn't formulate it.
After two weeks of fruitless searching, Hemalis "pleased" me with news: "My acquaintances wondered if I knew the two people who were interested in ancient books. I said that they hadn't approached me yet. Did I reply correctly?"
Thank god, the white had learned a lesson to be suspicious!
"Yes, Master Hemalis, you've answered absolutely correctly. You haven't met us yet!"
I surely didn't want to make acquaintance with the people who looked for us. It was time to leave the hospitable capital.
Necessity is the mother of invention, and when someone is puffing at your back, your thoughts get a wonderful acceleration. I made one last attempt: I drew on a paper a symbol from the underground lair of the golem in Undegar and bluntly asked in the antique store if an artifact with such a sign would interest them. The owner urged me for two hours to bring the artifact to him, but I replied steadfastly that I had to find out what it was first. In the end, for a modest fee of twenty crowns, he handed me the address of an expert who should be able to tell me more about the symbol.
Explaining to us how to get to the place, Hemalis frowned: "It's not a nice area. It's the Settlement, a place where indigenous people reside. They don't deal with newcomers. Do you trust the address is correct?"
"I have to go there. It is a matter of life and death." To me, it seemed logical that the expert lived in the inexpensive area: the book dealer wouldn't send me to a competitor who could afford to buy up the mysterious artifact.
It took us a long time to reach that place: the cab driver refused to go to the Settlement. True, the Settlement's streets were so narrow that a cab wouldn't be able to get in. Zigzag-shaped courtyards and the dark doorways of its houses were sterile, like dunes in the desert; a subdued smell of food pointed to the existence of pubs; public baths smelled of lavender. The very first settlement of nitrate miners started from here and gave rise to the township, later turning into Ingernika's capital on someone's whim. The expert lived in a half-burned house; its walls, plastered from the outside, struck one's imagination by their thickness. The house was barely habitable; the stench of its long-clogged sewer pipes mingled with the smell of cooking food from a nearby pub, leaving a nasty bitter taste on our tongues.
"Rasmus Iberli, Appraiser of Antiquities," the inscription on the door read. The bell did not ring, so I had to knock.
"Go away," somebody shouted inside and added, "It's not locked."
I decided to follow the second part of the welcoming phrase. The residence was soaked in cheap sterilizing potions - the dweller didn't want to die from the gray plague, but to bathe daily seemed to be too expensive for him. With a robe over his naked body, he sprawled on a pile of greasy pillows next to a huge hookah, which exuded smarmy sweetness.
The guy strangely stared at me. Perhaps, Rasmus Iberli knew my father. He threw a doubting glance at the mouthpiece of the hookah, probably thinking that he was hallucinating.
"My name is Thomas Tangor."
"Man, are you real?" He put the hookah aside and sat up straighter. "What the hell do you want?"
"To ask you a few questions."
Clara pinched me and pointed to a more or less tidy corner of the room. A large daguerreotype - a woman, a man, and a charming kid - lay on a bedside table; one of its angles was carefully blackened. I barely recognized the man in the picture in the man before me.
Rasmus Iberli vigorously rubbed his face, trying to regain a fraction of sanity: "You are still alive," he said in a strange tone.
"When did your family pass away?" I blurted out.
"At the same time," he clenched his teeth.
I instantly recalled Larkes' story about murdered booksellers and their families: "Did you lose them because of The Word about the King?"
"F*ck off!" he swore dirtily and grabbed the hookah. "Monsters. All of you. You can't calm down. Leave me alone…"
I shrugged, "I have the book. Don't be so nervous. I came to ask about another thing."
My words finally drew his attention. Rasmus' eyes began glittering feverishly: "Have you…read it?"
"It's not readable," I said politely. "The text is absolutely non-translatable. But the contents of The Word can be learned via magic methods." I hoped Rustle did not mind that I called him a "magic method".
Rasmus left the hookah and gazed at me with interest.
I was lucky to find him alive. People loaded so heavily with narcotics typically live two-three years. Rasmus probably tried to fight his dependency, maybe went to healers, and then took up his old ways.
The alleged associate of my father shook his head vigorously in denial: "Do you think I'll get myself involved into it again? Kiss your ass!" His voice oozed scorn. "Because of your damned curiosity, I lost everybody…everything…"
The impression was that he was making no distinction between me and my deceased dad. His drug was surely strong! An empath would find a way to bring him back to reality, but what could I do?
I met Rasmus' glance - it was the hopeless look of a dead man; I can't explain it better. He did not want to part with his past. I knew what to say to this living corpse, "You are mistaken. My goal isn't a satisfaction of curiosity. I'll destroy their dream, which is dearer than life to them! I'll make impossible what they strive to repeat for centuries! I'll tear out their sting! Never again will they make people suffer."
In the twilight, his toothless smile looked like the grimace of a gargoyle: "He was tough, but they killed him."
"I am not him. I am stronger and I have friends…" I refrained from adding 'among otherworldly'. "They tried to kill me thrice, but I am still alive, as you see."
"You are self-confident, as are all of you dark," his laugh turned into coughing.
"I am an alchemist."
He fell into thought for a while: "If you are an alchemist, you might have a chance to accomplish what you want. Dark power alone won't work here. Good brains are needed, too. Toder was very strong - he could defeat an army of alien mages, but he wasn't the best strategist. Do you see my point?"
I nodded. Wisdom comes to dark mages at the twilight of our lives, and even then - not to everyone.
"What do you want to know?"
"In White Halak they ran the ritual of The Liturgy of the Light. I have the scheme of the ritual, but it lacks a very important part. I know this, because the ritual's energy expenditures and the scale of the expected impact do not match. What is this part?"
"You really know your stuff," he grimaced, pulled out from under the pillows a flat flask, and took a couple of sips from it. "Okay, I'll tell you what I remember. Bear in mind that I don't know much: some of your father's books were left untranslated. Connoisseurs of ancient languages were rare at that time and even more so now." And Rasmus Iberli started talking.
I gestured to Clara; she took a notebook and a pencil and began writing - she was a good stenographer.
The ancient books, which Rasmus translated for my father, talked about civilization that didn't know magic. As he continued his story, memories of Messina Fowler, the deceased woman from the City of Nabla, refreshed in my mind. Her civilization had made amazing discoveries in alchemy, but died from phoma. Rasmus said that they called the invasion of the supernatural an "unknown evil." Eventually, survivors invented a "weapon" against the otherworldly enemy. I wondered in what epoch that happened. Not in Nabla's time, for sure. Was the "weapon" developed by the Bekmark or the Capetower civilizations? Deceased Mr. Flap was from Capetower, but his memories had never surfaced in my mind.
"The weapon was developed by so called 'celestial knights'. I saw their emblem in a few manuscripts: wings on a starry background," Rasmus groped for the hookah's mouthpiece; to focus on the story was all the more difficult for him. "Then, for an unknown reason, people decided to get rid of this weapon - either they didn't like the result or there were some side effects. Authors of books urged not to mess with the 'knights', no matter what they promised. Toder thought that another name for the celestial warriors was 'artisans.' "
Rasmus' information was better than nothing, but insufficient for my purposes. "Where are the books that you had translated?"
"They belonged to Toder. He bought them and paid me for their translation. Nothing surfaced on the market after he had been killed. I had thought the collection was inherited by his widow, but now I believe the books were destroyed."
It's not easy to destroy the enchanted grimoires, I could have assured him. More likely, my dad put them in a clever cache, like Uncle Gordon - I recalled his cache in Krauhard. It was a good moment to find out where father could keep his treasures.
"Do you know if he visited other towns before bringing you books, or after picking them up from you?"
"Hard to say. We both lived in Finkaun, but he was traveling all the time."
I decided I would start my search for dad's inheritance from Finkaun. "Thank you, Rasmus," I reached into the pocket and wrote a check on one of my anonymous accounts. "Please take it and get well. I might need your help in the future."
We went out of his stinking apartment and left the crookedly grinning Rasmus to crumple my check in his hands. My silly conscience was clear. Let god decide whether anything humane remained in him. With the money he had now, healers would get him back into shape. The rest was not up to me.
Nothing more kept me in Ho-Carg.
"Thomas, do you think it is for real? The weapon against supernatural?" Clara asked me in an undertone.
"Nonsense," I walked through a maze of dark houses, lost in thought. "If this weapon did work against the otherworldly, why do we fight with the supernatural up until now? Surely it was invented for some other use."
"Like what?"
I shrugged, "Who knows? Maybe the word for this has vanished from our language. Or our civilization hasn't encountered such a problem yet."
"What will we do next?"
"We'll seek the primary source - my father's collection." Now I understood where all the family fortune went to. Dad spent the Tangors' money well. If he had left cash, my mother wouldn't have dared to use it, and inflation would have eaten it all.
It was high time to finish our family's fight with the artisans. They lingered too long in this world! I must find and destroy their nest!
* * *
Larkes' search for the prodigal necromancer moved on slowly, but only death could stop the senior coordinator - he took the orders of his superior very seriously. The first item on his agenda was to identify the personality of pseudo-Kitoto, and it suddenly became a problem. Many people saw the pretender, but all of them described him as a white mage ("the white, beyond doubt"). The coordinator's only hope was Inspector Graft.
The policeman was willing to help. The case was closed, and the inspector didn't mind sharing some minor details with his superiors.
But the inspector's success was of no interest to Larkes. "Initially you hypothesized the involvement of a white mage in the murder. You must have interrogated all the whites on the train."
"So we did."
"Was Johan Kitoto among the questioned?"
"Yes, he was! He had been a great help in the investigation."
"Describe the man to me."
And the policeman, whose profession was to unmask the criminals, described the appearance of a WHITE mage. The inspector's eye noticed features that were relevant only for the white.
"Enough," Larkes resolutely stopped the guy. "Now imagine that Mr. Kitoto was an ordinary man, and try to describe him again."
Inspector Graft frowned, surprised by such an unusual task. When he spoke again, the height, complexion, and facial features of pseudo-Kitoto proved to be identical to Tangor's. "And he is very educated!" the policeman added suddenly. "He knows so much about…eh…retrospective animation. I see why Ms. Fiberti managed to create such a realistic plot in her book."
Larkes inquiringly bent his head, and the policeman elaborated: "Yes, the very same Fiberti, sir. The author of The Dark Knight! They were together."
The word "writer" in Larkes' mind was firmly associated with "scribbler", and "journalist" - and the senior coordinator pathologically hated them. They always muddied the water! What were Fiberti's interests? There was nothing in common between the two. Tangor and Fiberti together was a puzzle, the more so because they seemed to dissolve in the air after their arrival in Ho-Carg. They managed to escape registration in hotels, hostels, and bed and breakfasts, no matter under the guise of a dark or white, or any other color. Despite the fact that registration rules in the capital were strictly enforced as of late!
In a fit of intuition, Larkes bought the book referred by the inspector: a hefty volume with a grotesque dark figure on the cover. As he was reading through it, his hair stood on end. Where was the censor?! The tabloid novel disclosed to the general public the secret features of dark magic practice, as well as the special habits of the otherworldly that not every "cleaner" even knew of! Soon the main character in the book started looking very familiar…The coordinator figured out who blabbed to a complete stranger about the combat magic techniques. Once again Larkes regretted that senior Tangor wasn't alive - otherwise he would have instilled in his son the due respect to their craft. The magician put the questionable book in his case, making a mental note to withdraw the book from the sale. He should solicit a personal curator for the boy. Usually, magicians under thirty didn't know enough to represent a serious danger to society, but this case was particular: a talented necromancer with gaps in upbr
inging, a victim of multiple magic diversions, and a strong fighter with a quarrelsome character. The coordinator recalled Satal - the feebleminded "cleaner" - taught the boy combat techniques, instead of etiquette. Of course, it wasn't the young magician's fault that he didn't know tradition - Larkes himself grew up in the same situation. The main thing was to not let him continue to wander in darkness. Larkes pondered on things, which he, as a dark, would never do when visiting a city. Tangor's next move became obvious to him.
* * *
Hemalis was having green tea. At the peak of the midday heat he always took a break from business and devoted this time to the tea ritual. The doorbell rang. His customers could visit him even at this time. Wealthy people, they were able to afford a ride in a limousine with a heat pump. The old man hastily dragged his feet to the door.
A dark magician of indeterminate age, of short stature, stood at the door with a completely impervious expression on his face: "Mr. Hemalis?"
Hemalis felt an irresistible urge to slam and lock up the door in front of the visitor's nose. But it would be impolite, so the old white nodded timidly.
"Does Thomas Tangor live here?"
The old guy sighed with relief, "He moved out! He drove away in the morning, and I do not know where to."
"Thank you." The dark mage turned around and walked toward the elevator.
"And you have a cool day, sir." The white carefully locked the door behind his unwelcome guest.
Chapter 17
Alex Clement would have told a lot about White Halak and The Liturgy of the Light, but Thomas Tangor didn't catch him in the capital - the young researcher set off for an expedition to Polisant.
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