"They will become unmanageable," Zertak growled.
Larkes nodded; he observed this effect in Sa-Orio after civil unrest: combat mages demonstrated a lack of self-control, a lack of constructive cooperation, vocabulary reduced to a few words just to express one's own desires, a fireball response to the slightest discontent.
The audience caused a ruckus. Mr. Michelson knocked on the table; he did not like that the debate started ahead of time. "Mr. Oleman, did your group prepare any recommendations?"
"Yes, yes, of course," the speaker cleared his throat. "The best thing for Ingernika would be to help Sa-Orio solve its problems on the spot and stop their emigration. To pay a premium to hundreds of our dark mages for their work would be cheaper than to deal with the aftermath of the war. Unfortunately, the imperial authorities do not listen to the voice of reason."
"You bet. They will view our help as occupation!"
"Another solution can be preventive raids on Sa-Orio to destroy their ships and other transportation means."
The audience liked the idea. Minister Michelson nodded encouragingly.
Mr. Oleman outlined his plan: "Redeployment to the West Coast will begin immediately. We'll use steamers - their speed doesn't depend on the wind. Our target will be sailing boats rather than coastal fortifications. According to our intelligence, ninety percent of Sa-Orio's boats with displacement of over a ton are now concentrated in the bays of the East Coast. Their destruction will make the threat of mass emigration insignificant."
"Where will all these people go to, then? Won't we condemn them to death?" Mrs. Savanti shouted angrily.
"They will have to stay in the empire," Oleman smiled nervously. "We'll help them, if their government becomes more amenable."
"A good plan," Minister Michelson approved.
Mr. Oleman cheered, "The main naval base for the raids will be…" The speaker glanced at General Zertak and stopped talking. The general's face was pale. "Eh…General? Are you all right?"
"He recalled something," Larkes explained politely.
Zertak's lips moved, but he couldn't utter a word.
"There are now fifteen hundred combat mages on the Outer Islands and only four curators," Larkes helped the general. "The whole winter they watched crowds of Sa-Orio's immigrants sailing to Ingernika. Certainly, they talked to refugees. Our combat mages already know the situation overseas. And we have a fleet of steamboats in the south."
"If they figure out…" Zertak croaked.
"…that within their reach there is a land which no one defends, the most enterprising groups will go overseas for the spoils, and then what honorable Mr. Oleman described will begin," Larkes summed up.
"Immediately ban…"
"It will have the same effect as distributing encouraging leaflets. I think the process has already started." Larkes wondered whether the trap with enchanted refugees was created intentionally. The combat mages - the basis of Ingernika's military power - threatened to become the country's gravediggers. "We can't ban the raids or fence off of the empire. And there are artisans on top of it all…Sectarians always argued that the dark should be chained." Larkes saw only one acceptable way out - to clean up the East Coast of the empire and then liquidate the liquidators.
Minister Michelson stood up, rising above the gathered people like a terrible deity: "If the mess cannot be prevented, it has to be controlled and guided! Hint to some officers the opportunity to make money overseas. The main condition will be the presence of a civilian curator in the group. Any dark without a curator on Sa-Orio territory will be considered a traitor and punished by Ingernika's laws."
"It might work," Zertak muttered.
"With a curator witnessing their actions the dark will behave reservedly," Larkes added.
"But what will the Sa-Orio authorities say to this?" Mr. Oleman's way of thinking was stereotypical - he was a civilian, after all.
"We'll help them without asking their permission. We don't expect their gratitude, anyway," said Zertak.
The minister ordered the creation of a secret circular and sent it out to all southern garrisons. Larkes - as the smartest, Axel - as the host of the territory affected by refugees, and Zertak - as the head of the army mages were appointed to lead the operation. Apparently, something flashed in the looks of the three dark magicians, so Minister Michelson diluted their gang with Alia Savanti. The seasoned empath was highly experienced in managing large disorderly groups. The first two mailings of the circular were blocked by some overly greedy army ranks. When half of the commanders requested individual curators for their groups, Larkes understood that their operation succeeded. The expeditionary corps of volunteers was ready for action.
Chapter 30
In the morning, full of self pride, I took Fiberti out to show off the gimmick I had found. Ha ha! The entire cemetery was cordoned off by the police, visitors being turned away at the gate.
"I want to cry at my father's grave!" I tried to break through, but the policemen turned a deaf ear to my indignation. To turn down a dark mage! They were courageous men, this crowd of imbeciles!
Fiberti gently took me by the elbow: "Edward, we should leave. I believe they are still looking for you. What if the police use dogs?"
We slowly turned around and rushed away. The dogs are creatures without fantasy. I myself felt like a dog that lost a sandwich.
"I need to get there!"
"Pull yourself together. Soon they will let visitors in again."
"Do you really think they will let me in with a shovel, a lantern, and a rope?"
"Maybe not."
"There should be another entrance to the catacombs. Besides, I feel the place is too small to serve as the shelter, described in The Word."
Fiberti raised her eyebrows, "What are you talking about, Thomas?"
"I suspect there is an ancient construction deep down, the tip of the World Axis, God damn it!"
"Promise you'll take me with you when you go there."
"But Clara…"
"Promise, and I'll give you a tip."
"I promise! I swear on my Mom!"
"Get a map of the aquifers from the municipality. Subsoil waters are a continuous problem of any catacombs."
"It's a brilliant idea! Thanks!"
Fiberti went for the required document, as the more charming of the two of us. A roll of thin tracing paper cost us fifteen crowns; I carefully examined it. I searched for places lacking aquifers up to three hundred feet down.
"Great job, Clara. I found three suitable areas. The first is under the cemetery; the second beneath the city dump, and the biggest of the three is on the territory of the Academy of Empaths."
"I rummaged through the library and found that previously the Academy was a sanctuary, viewed as an entrance to the Lower World. It was guarded by the Order of Celestial Knights; their emblem was a profile of a soaring bird on a starry background. However, after the abolition of the Order, no gate to the otherworldly was discovered in the Academy."
Clara helped me again. Since no sane dark would seek treasures under the gaze of curious empaths, I eliminated that way. I would have to climb down through the city dump.
The dump was surrounded by a forest, which was completely out of place there. Developers didn't dare to build anything (not even industrial warehouses) nearby.
Fiberti couldn't join me because of her asthma. "Do not be upset, Clara!" I tried to comfort her. "I'll just look around. When access through the cemetery opens up, we will climb down together."
She calmed down a bit.
I took a deep breath and immediately realized my mistake - I needed to breathe very shallowly, through the mouth. The air acquired a fetid and nasty taste. My work at Biokin hadn't prepared me for what I sensed: STINK hung above the dump. Wind brought fumes in waves, sated crows cawed on branches of trees, but there were no flies - it was winter.
As we approached the dump, my determination was disappearing. I pondered whether the artisans' secret was worth my suff
ering. At the end of the road, like an insult to common sense, we came across a chic wrought-iron gate with a polished gold-plated signboard. But the chicness ended right behind the fence. A watchman readily pointed out the direction of the office.
Long piles of rotting refuse, shamefully covered with a waxed cloth, stretched along pathways. Despite the winter season, the air was warm (and stinking); whitish liquid manure glittered in shallow ditches. Immediately behind the piles of garbage I saw barns, green from mold, long gas pipes, and cylinders of obsolete fermenting vats.
I paused before the door into a moldy barn, not daring to touch the handle covered with emerald green stains. The appearance of a local worker saved me - he went out of the door towards me, holding a large tin tray with something white and stirring.
"Good day!" I greeted him.
"Really?" he was surprised.
"Have a bad day, if you wish," I allowed. The staff matched this place well. "How can I find a director?"
"Over there," he gestured with his tray, almost showering me with its contents.
The boss of the dump had his nest in a neat brick house. A cheerful pink-cheeked fat man was drinking coffee and eating a sandwich with meat and herbs. I felt sick from looking at him. A Biokin brochure with fermenting vats on the cover lay before him.
"Are you interested in our products? I was one of the developers of these babies."
The director jumped up and shook my hand (the hand of a dark mage!). He was still holding the sandwich in the other hand.
"Andrew Flea, at your service! Are they really good?"
"Yes. An unbeatable design! Be sure to purchase installation and tuning services."
I wondered how to get permission from the boss to dig into his rotten fiefdom.
"Are you a representative of Biokin?"
"No, I'm managing a new project now." It suddenly dawned on me how to get him to help: "It's about the control of odors."
The director's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Is it feasible?"
"Of course. Our invention is suitable for relatively small spaces. It's not commercially available yet."
Mr. Flea's eyes began glistening with lust. He was mine now.
"I can arrange a pilot test here, if you let me do research on your premises."
"Yes, yes, of course! And how much will it cost?"
"Free for you, as a bonus for the trouble with the tests." And we shook hands.
I made initial measurements of dark magic emanations around the director's office and hurried away. As I was halfway to the gate, the dump workers removed a cover from one of the piles and shoveled its contents onto the long carts. An amulet against Sa-Orio poison would be very handy here. Though, the disturbed brown mass generated such thick fumes that the amulet would break from overloading.
Upon seeing me, Fiberti slightly frowned. "Please don't take the tram. You stink."
"I don't care! My eyes are still watering!"
At the hotel I foisted all my clothes, desecrated by the dump fumes, on washerwomen. Flea's facility was protected from intrusion by the dark better than the Academy of Empaths: no magician would go there twice. But I had no choice, because the very existence of such a disgusting place was a challenge to me. The smelly dump insulted me by its stink! I started working on the promised invention immediately.
To design a device that could deter odors was twice as complex as to develop an amulet for the military. I pored over the flow diagrams for three days, almost without breaks for sleep and food. Larkes showed up from nowhere and offered his help. I demanded access to the testing ground of the local "cleaners" and immediately received it. Not willing to share my secrets with him, I pretended to be working on an urgent commercial project.
Larkes probably did not believe a word. Looking at my charts, the senior coordinator casually asked if I was taught multi-contour spells at the university. No, I had never heard of them. Larkes shrugged and walked away, and I checked with Rustle if the monster saw anything similar in Axel's library. Rustle was very skeptical about my project; however, he found a few helpful books. I realized that the multi-contour spells were used in protective amulets for banks, and if you knew the basics, its creation was amazingly easy. In the past, I thought of them as unbelievably complex. For an average "cleaner" they would be difficult, but for a necromancer it was a mere exercise in concentration. The complexity was in determining the resulting vector of the interacting spells; to a large extent, I guessed it intuitively.
The amulet and spells were ready in a week. I wasted on them half of the ingredients, stolen from the Kerpan Labs (they would have expired soon, anyway). A pilot test at the dump took half a day, and the result was so great that I wouldn't be ashamed to demonstrate my amulet even to the creators of the Project.
The subtle lace of the three-dimensional perimeter twined round the office building. It was barely sensed, harmless for massive bodies, and impenetrable for fine suspensions. It remained to deodorize the inside of the building. I took out of my suitcase a glass tube with absorber. Ten minutes later the air became odor-free. I plugged the tube with a wooden stopper and put it back.
"The tube is a deodorizer. When the sorbent darkens, wash it with soap and let it dry. Call a magician once a year to check the perimeter."
How much a dark magician would ask for a visit to the dump, I was afraid even to guess.
The director could not appreciate the beauty of my magic - he didn't see it. Mr. Flea cautiously sniffed his office, then walked to the window and, with an effort, threw it open. Surely, he opened the window for the first time in many years. Cold tasteless air hit us in the face, but in comparison with the stench of the dump it was a breakthrough.
"A miracle!" the boss whispered in astonishment.
"It's just magic," I corrected him. Of course, I did not mention how many people in the Kerpan Labs worked for my small triumph.
He clasped his hands, "What can I do for you?"
"I would like to explore your dump, take soil and product samples for studying…"
"Take all you want!"
And I began my investigation. The staff was willingly helping me. You bet! The most active helpers I rewarded with a "clothespin" on the nose, eliminating the stench.
As I feared, the entrance to the catacombs was located under one of the piles. I begged the boss to clean the spot of refuse, saying nonsense about the need to measure the potential fluctuations of fumes. He asked me to wait until the compost ripened. Mr. Flea agreed to everything.
I met this year's Christmas alone, waiting for the removal of compost. Fiberti was busy with something. I celebrated it in a snowy whirlwind, watching the townsfolk's attempts to make fireworks. I was bored and ready to disclose my secrets to the senior coordinator in order to obtain access to the catacombs through the cemetery. A message from the dump saved me from shameful capitulation; Mr. Flea informed me that the spot I was interested in was free for research.
My acquaintance with the Project moved to an active phase.
* * *
The Director of Recycling and Recovery of Municipal and Household Waste for Finkaun was in excellent spirits. A basket of homemade pastries and a cup of freshly brewed coffee with a pinch of cardamom waited for him on the desk. The subtlest flavors mingled in the air, making a winter's day brighter and warmer. Until recently he had been chewing his breakfast like a horse its hay, moving his jaws and trying not to sniff!
But a miracle happened recently: the society finally turned its face to the faithful children. The director was not selfish: abusing his position, he ordered fifty amulet-"clothespins" for his personnel sent to Master Tangor. Mr. Flea did not fear being accused of peculation; the health and well-being of his people justified spending extra money! From now on, the "clothespins" would become an integral part of their safety equipment. His workers voted for the amulet with both hands, and even misers from the city council did not dare to object.
Some stir outside distracted the director from his gleefu
l thoughts: an unexpected visitor stood before the office building, pressing a handkerchief to his face and popping out his glassy eyes. Mr. Flea hastily pulled on his rubber boots, zipped his jacket, and with a habitual gesture set the protective "clothespin" on his nose. It was time to make acquaintance with the guest.
"Good day, sir. Are you here to see me?" Mr. Flea recognized a dark mage in the visitor.
The stranger's gaze focused on the director, and Mr. Flea realized that the magician had studied the perimeter set around the house. The dark showed his NZAMIPS badge.
"I am here to see Thomas Tangor."
"Follow me, I'll show you the way! But he requested not to be bothered." Mr. Flea didn't dare to argue with this dark. He doubted that Master Tangor conceived something illegal; such a brilliant young man would not waste his time on trifles.
An improvised tent of waxed linen and wooden sticks was set in a narrow passage between the hills of waste. The NZAMIPS officer stared at Tangor's tent for a while.
"Thanks, I've seen everything I need."
The visitor turned around and walked toward the gate. A small tornado spun above the magician's head, fiddling with his cloak and handkerchief. "The dark are so nervous," Mr. Flea pitied the officer.
Larkes left the city dump nearly in a panic. The senior coordinator heard from Axel that the young mage searched for the World Axis, but he couldn't understand why Tangor started from the most inappropriate spot. Especially because Toder wasn't noticed visiting such dubious places.
'The entire city, even the entire region, was at his disposal, but he chose the dump! What sense does that make? Though it looks like he succeeded with his search: the tent is empty.' The senior coordinator walked through the thicket to his car, listening to crows' cries and sensing that someone mockingly stared at him. Larkes made a mental note to get the funny nasal device for himself; it would be useful, as victims of forbidden magic usually smelled disgusting.
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