The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail)

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  Matthew understood, 'They totally overlooked such dreadful horror. We've lived like we're on a volcanic mountain.' His faith in NZAMIPS became seriously shaken.

  On the same day one more unthinkable event happened - Mrs. Archer, a widow, was burglarized. Before, Tanur had never heard of thieves - apart from kids stealing green peaches. The widow lost two old bed sheets, a towel, and patched pants; they were hung out to dry after washing. All things were accurately removed from pegs and carried away. Mrs. Archer was embarrassed to bother the police with her torn pants, but when she heard that thieves stole stock fish from old Paffet's shed, she reported her loss to the city authorities.

  The police stared in bewilderment at empty clotheslines and counted fish to determine the exact damage total. Tangor enjoyed the spectacle of general confusion from the outdoor terrace of the pub. Some locals looked at him with suspicion - he was a stranger, but a dark magician stealing lady's pants would be nonsense!

  Old Paffet enjoyed free drinks from sympathizers, volunteers walked the streets looking for the dropped scales of stolen fish (in a seaside village!), and most suspicious residents discovered the mass disappearance of their socks, glasses, and teaspoons. Tanur was seething for three days.

  "Wouldn't it be easier to find the stolen with magic?" the curator hinted to Tangor.

  "To use expensive magic for the stockfish?" the magician was astonished. "Only if it is made of gold!"

  But next day he met Matthew with conspiratorial look, "I was walking Max in the evening. My dog has an extraordinary flair, and he sensed something." And Tangor dragged him to some uncared-for place up hill in Tanur's outskirts.

  Amidst sea-buckthorn bushes someone's skillful hand had built a hut out of branches, debris, and the missing linen of Mrs. Archer. Matthew cautiously peered into it. An elderly white lay on a bed of grass, covered with a towel. His appearance and a clan's tattoo on the arm left no doubt of his nationality. Only the empire labeled people as a livestock. The unfortunate guy remained unconscious.

  "It is unlikely that he is the burglar," Matthew muttered.

  "Sure!"

  Pebbles started rolling down the slope, and a sunburned young man in long johns showed up from the bushes, holding a bag made of towels. The rest happened in a flash: the stranger grinned fiercely, grabbed a stone, and threw it into the newcomers. The curator instinctively closed his eyes, but the rock didn't flow far: purple lace appeared in the air and turned the stone into dust.

  "I am a combat mage, by the way," Tangor said to the stranger.

  For a moment the eyes of the alien flashed with hatred, and then he silently kneeled.

  Tangor grunted - this demonstration of humility did not impress him. The magician shoved his elbow into the curator. "Call the police! No, wait, I'll send Max with you - in case there are three of them."

  In less than an hour, the strange vagrants were delivered to the Tanur police. The townsfolk didn't see the attack of the militant guy and experienced sincere sympathy for the tramps. Mrs. Archer was ready to forgive them for her linen, but the stern policemen called "cleaners", and they took both aliens to the old fortress.

  The head of the "cleaners" gave a heartfelt speech to the townsfolk as to how happy the aliens would live under his watchful eye. The Tanur policemen sighed with relief and went to the shallow spit: the sea threw another corpse on the rocks. Clouds gathered on the horizon; they were harbingers of the next winter storm. 'What's going on? It is as if we've been cursed! Or bewitched,' Matthew asked himself.

  On the following day, when the curator came to the guesthouse to enjoy the company of Tangor, the senior coordinator and a vaguely familiar officer from the old fortress had already been waiting for his ward in the lobby. The officer stood up and bowed to greet Tangor, "I am honored to meet you, Mr. Tangor! NZAMIPS lost a very valuable employee in you. Given your deep knowledge of the controlling magic, you are the only one we can turn to…"

  "In other words, you have a problem," Tangor dryly noted.

  "Yes, and you've seen it. Sa-Orio's white magician, according to the clan's tattoo, belongs to the Imperial House. We can't use inhibiting potions on this mage."

  "What do I have to do with it?" the dark quipped.

  The officer forced a smile, "As you probably noticed, the white is accompanied by an enchanted servant. Our experts fear that if the mage dies, the young guy will be gone, too. The curse that links them together is dark."

  "On the white mage?" Tangor was struck.

  "Imperial specifics," Mr. Axel muttered from his chair. "Dark magic controls the white mages and vice versa."

  "So what if they die?"

  "So what?!" Axel slapped the armrests of his chair. "The entire coast is full of refugees from Sa-Orio. They are used to obedience from childhood; a single mage can mobilize this entire herd and create a bloodbath here! We need both of them for interrogation!"

  Tangor's gaze became tense - the dark hated when he was pressured.

  Matthew decided to intervene: "Should we draw on a few empaths for the interrogation?"

  Both dark mages seemed to not like the idea that they might be replaced with white empaths.

  "If there are no other suggestions, I'll do exactly that," the officer understood the curator's trick. "We know that you are very busy, Master Tangor. If we do the routine part to save you time, will you be able to carve out an hour for us?"

  The necromancer bit his lip, counted something with his fingers, and looked at Mr. Axel: "I want to learn about the 'imperial specifics' in detail. And not for free."

  "You are asking too much. No money," Axel immediately interjected.

  "Money is sacred," the officer disagreed. "When can you start?"

  "Right away," the necromancer sighed. "Later I might get busy again."

  This time Matthew wasn't allowed into the old fortress for reasons of secrecy. The curator politely bowed to Tangor and went to a nearby pub, where he spent three hours with a pitcher of young wine, staring at the waves rolling onto the shore. At other tables elderly fishermen discussed the catch and the weather. Matthew listened to the afternoon rain and children's hubbub on the beach and pondered over his life. When he was young and frivolous, he left Tanur to conquer the world with a cloth bag of modest belongings and traveled all over Ingernika. He tried dozens of jobs and got in trouble with a dark mage. That's when NZAMIPS appeared in his life. Matthew accepted an offer to work as a curator in a heartbeat. In a year the prodigal son of Tanur returned home, this time as an intern in the Support Services. Melancholic and benevolent, Matthew soothed everyone, including dark mages. He earned a good reputation and good money; his dreams were coming true one by one. Matthew could afford to settle in a bigger city, but the small seaside town was ingrained in his bones too much; he liked its safety and permanence. But now his picture of the world had shattered: there was no security in Tanur.

  That night the curator was tossing and turning for a long time, and then went out to the veranda to have a glass of wine with spices. His dear town sleepily mumbled beneath the terrace's railing; rare lights mysteriously glimmered through the branches of evergreen trees; the surf phosphoresced, delineating the border of Tanur's spit. The place misleadingly seemed a paradise. A feeling of impending disaster peaked; his cozy world was shadowed by the coming evil.

  His wife put on a morning gown and went out after him, "Problems at work, dear?"

  Matthew felt her gentle fingers massaging his neck and smiled blissfully, "No, sweetie, everything's all right. I recalled we haven't visited your relatives for long. You should go to Aunt Laura in Kinrem. And take the children with you."

  The woman moved closer, "What's wrong, dear?"

  "Riots could start on the coast in spring," Matthew confessed.

  His wife kissed him on the back of the head: "Tomorrow I'll call my aunt and see if she can take us."

  "Thank you, sweetie!"

  Matthew felt some relief and promised himself to pay more attention to Tangor. A uniq
ue man, able to hear the voices of people who passed away epochs ago, was entrusted to his care. He wondered what was more critical for Ingernika: refugees from the empire or Tangor's business. Eventually, he decided that Tangor's work was more important - the non-human dark Source was really scary. Sa-Orio's were mortal, at least. Matthew finished his wine and went to sleep.

  Chapter 27

  My work for the "cleaners" didn't take much time. Mysterious spiritual patronage was nothing more than a very intricate magic compulsion. The young alien, having freed himself from the coercive curse, let out imperial secrets so quickly that the "cleaners" instantly showed me the door.

  In Tanur's ambiance my interests shifted from artisans to the ancient artifact from the Word. In my spare time I made kites from strips and paper. A strong wind from the sea carried my kites to an unattainable height. Tanur's children were ready to lean over backwards for me. With their help I found and examined the ruins of the settlement of the ancient builders of the artifact. Tanur had nothing more to offer, but I had no desire to hit the road.

  Axel was about to leave for a meeting of the Ministerial Circle. He requested that I take a break in my study at his library for two weeks.

  "I think I am done," I replied.

  The old mage frowned, shuffled his lips, and took a deep breath: "What you were doing is important for all dark and for the safety of all Ingernika. So, could you…would you consider me worthy of…sharing the results of your research? Such knowledge shouldn't be kept in one head!"

  I was touched by his ceremonial politeness: "Okay. Listen: one of the past civilizations - it existed after the City of Nabla - developed the grandest artifact. There are sixty-four anchor points. The design of the artifact fully matches the ritual of The Liturgy of the Light. I haven't figured out yet what the artifact does and how, whether harm will be done by launching it or shutting it down, but I do know with certainty three of its anchor points - King's Island, Suesson, Polisant - and can guess another fifteen." I showed him a globe with red marks.

  "In a circle," Axel muttered, "they circumscribe a circle."

  "Two circumferences," I corrected. The smaller one lies entirely within our country. The bigger one crosses Sa-Orio. They have the same center. The World Axis goes through that center."

  Axel read the name on the globe and pursed his lips skeptically: "It is impossible! Finkaun is an old town. If there'd been anything, it would've been found long ago. The more so, the World Axis."

  "The anchor point in Suesson is at the depth of a thousand feet. The Finkaun center could also be underground. Besides, the anchors are watched by technomagic guards. Do you remember how the expedition to Polisant ended?"

  "Did you take into account the anchors' level above the mean sea level?" Axel asked briskly.

  "What?"

  After rummaging through the bookshelf, the senior coordinator pulled out a modern Ingernika map, lined with intricately curving contours. We leaned over the map.

  "Suesson's land is at one thousand feet, on average, above sea level, and Finkaun's at three hundred feet," Axel figured out. "So, your world center is three hundred feet underground, if its builders were interested in the pressure altitude at all. But nobody had discovered any anchor in Finkaun so far."

  "We don't know," I chuckled. "The Vale of the Doomed on King's Island is built on the remains of ancient buildings as its foundation. The same might have been done in Finkaun."

  Axel bit his lip, "Thank you for your insight."

  I decided to reinforce the informal style of our talk. A rare magician could call himself a friend of senior coordinator Axel! "Have any books on Finkaun?"

  "No, not my area of interest. But your grandfather had a good library. Toder probably inherited it."

  "Where could he hide the books, if there was nothing in his house? I've been racking my brain over this for a year!"

  "I have no idea. Toder was raised in Finkaun; he knew this city better than you know your alchemy."

  "Will you go with me to Finkaun?" I asked for the sake of asking. Needless to say, I didn't want to share my family treasures with someone else.

  "No, I'll have enough trouble with the Circle of Morons. Ask your coordinator Larkes for help. Believe me, kid, you won't get any profit from solving the world's problems!"

  "I think so, too."

  "Ask Rayhan to book you a ticket. Want me to send him along with you?"

  "No, no! Larkes will appoint someone to me, anyway." I couldn't stand two curators at once.

  I had one more folio to go through, when Axel returned to the library and started interrogating me: "Does anyone know that you are here?"

  "No, nobody."

  "Why did Larkes call me to pass on a message to you?" I opened and closed my mouth.

  "It's damned Harlik! Peached on his countryman!"

  "What does he have in common with Larkes?" Axel did not understand.

  "I called my family. In our village only he has a phone line."

  Axel frowned, "So, kid, Larkes wants you to come to Finkaun. He has something of yours. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't. This guy is very sneaky."

  To ignore the call and lose my valuables? What if Larkes had found my diary?!

  I packed up my stuff and prepared to leave in two hours. To the express train I was escorted by my curator.

  "I have a question, sir," Matthew cleared his throat. "May I write an article about you? Necromancers are of great interest now."

  He uttered the forbidden word in a low voice.

  "Yes, you may!" I generously allowed. One book had already been written about me.

  Matthew cheered up, "Come again, sir! Summers are great here."

  "I will. When you sort things out with Sa-Orio."

  "Good luck, sir!" the curator said emotionally.

  I chuckled and boarded the train. I was on the way to Finkaun, where I would pick up my possessions from Larkes, find out the familial cache and the world center, and then…I would make artisans' life nasty!

  Matthew bought me a ticket in economy class, but I was alone in the compartment; not so many people traveled from the Southern Coast in winter. Polisant hills became green and pretty after the fall storms. White Halak reminded me of itself with a small tornado, persistently circling around an unremarkable elevation. I realized that Ingernika was covered with the footprints of old magic catastrophes.

  My thoughts stubbornly whirled around an oddity, of which Axel wasn't aware. I didn't mention it in order to avoid unnecessary questions. The creators of the Project knew dark magic, but not even once did the authors of The Word mention magicians. Notorious Salem was dark, but not a magician. Some of the ancient darks could go through the Initiation accidentally, but apparently they didn't receive any magic training. How could these people build the giant artifact, if they weren't magicians? In my opinion, this fact completely struck the value of The Word, no matter what Rustle thought of it.

  * * *

  Alex visited the Golden Harbor in the middle of winter. The city was quiet and boring, and an empty funicular's chairs slowly floated past the windows of the local NZAMIPS office, where two men conversed with Alex.

  "I would l-like to t-try the f-funicular," the white admitted.

  "It's a crown per round. If you buy a weekly pass, one way will cost you a quarter. An outstanding view opens up from there," said his curator.

  "Unlikely that I'll h-have t-time for it," the white regretfully looked over the papers on his desk.

  A conservatively dressed gentleman with a cane and suitcase drifted in a funicular past the office window.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Rion," the curator greeted him.

  The gentleman lazily lifted his eyebrow and wiggled his forefinger in response.

  When the curator left the room, Mr. Oakley, a representative of the Salem Brotherhood, glanced into Alex's papers and asked, "Are you going to Tanur?"

  "It's p-pointless. I'll wait t-till Thomas c-comes back and ask him."

  "W
ill Tangor share his results with you for nothing?"

  The white stared at his companion in amazement, "Why for n-nothing? We'll a-acknowledge his help! D-do not worry ab-bout my relations with T-tangor."

  "Why not?" Mr. Oakley frowned.

  "B-because you won't understand them, anyway."

  Someone knocked on the door and immediately walked in. It was the senior coordinator of the Southwestern region.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Axel," the white affably bowed.

  Another guy floated by the window, peering into the office. The monorail was at about a fifteen-foot distance. NZAMIPS couldn't stop long-nosed people from spying.

  "Developer of the funicular must be jailed for life!" roared the senior coordinator. "People hang over your head, peering into your papers! We'll have to put shields on the windows." And he continued without transition, "Have you read the report?"

  "Yes, thank you!"

  "Keep in mind, I won't allow the Salem Brothers to do anything illegal in my region!"

  "N-never even t-thought about it."

  "And if such thoughts appear," the dark mage turned to Oakley, "I'll deal with you personally."

  The senior coordinator left the room. Despite his relatively subtle body build, his presence always put heavy pressure on the people around him.

  "What did he mean?" Alex inquired.

  "Never mind," Oakley winced. "Our brothers from the northwest weren't careful."

  "It's a g-good lesson f-for you," the white said instructively. "The law must be respected."

  Alex returned to studying Curator Rayhan's report. It was a dramatic tale about a hero with minor flaws in character, who acted single-handedly. From lengthy descriptions Alex tried to squeeze out additional information that Senior Coordinator Axel didn't share with him. A vague contour of a Great Mystery, worthy of sacrificing one's life for, began to emerge before him.

  PART V. THE SAVIOR

  Chapter 28

  I arrived in Finkaun under the accompaniment of endless rain. Winter, damn it! The contrast with the Southern Coast was stunning; I plunged into the dim twilight, crowds, and heavy urban smell. I felt temptation to postpone my investigations till spring.