The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail)

by Irina Syromyatnikova

  Having met a harsh rebuke, Rizolti shut up. The captain saw that his words surprised the artisan. Perhaps, Rizolti didn't expect any compassion from a man with a gorilla-like appearance.

  "What would you like to know"? the white asked quietly.

  Baer was under no illusion; it was unlikely that the hardened sectarian would give away his accomplices for sentimental reasons. The captain had a question that had bothered him for a long time. "Why did you join the sect? I always wanted to ask."

  Rizolti smiled wryly, "You won't understand."

  "Try me!"

  "Imagine a world where the supernatural doesn't poison people's lives. A world without dark magic, simple and intuitive, where you can fearlessly walk on a moonless night and sleep without a protective perimeter…"

  Baer thought for a while, "Why do you think that a world without dark magic will be safer? If society does not have the resources to provide all its citizens with affordable housing and food, vagabonds and night bandits are bound to appear, and you won't safely walk in the moonlight, no matter whether there is dark magic or not."

  "You do not understand…"

  "I do! Such is the nature of people; it won't change from the disappearance of magic. Do people exist at all in your fairy tale?"

  The artisan did not answer.

  "Well," Locomotive slapped his knee; it was time to end this farce, "I am glad that we don't have to choose which world to live in. We are done with your sect!"

  "You are mistaken," the sectarian replied barely audibly. The captain became all ears. "NZAMIPS defeated the followers of Maitre Haino, but not all artisans shared his views. There are some who weren't in Haino's faction."

  "How many of them are there? Where are they hiding?" Baer asked hoarsely.

  "I don't have a clue. I heard that some live outside Ingernika, so you won't reach them. Our brotherhood will survive!"

  The sectarian looked at Baer with bittersweet triumph. An ice needle pricked the captain's temple again. He imagined his last twenty years repeating themselves again and again, and grinned, "This time we stopped you before you made a serious mess. If you have any hopes, remember: we're not going anywhere. We'll watch for you!"

  Rizolti's revelation about the artisans outside Ingernika was the only valuable fact that Baer obtained from the interrogations.

  * * *

  The main culprit was only a couple kilometers away from the captain. He sat on a bench at the rail station square. Years and years of troublesome life eventually caught up with the magician: wrinkles furrowed his face; his eyes lost their vigilance; his thin, almost transparent, wrists visibly trembled. A conveniently curved cane rested on the bench next to him.

  Two young men went out of the ticket office. It was difficult to recognize white mages in them: the guys walked too decisively, too confidently. When they came up to the old man, their behavior changed: they looked like two caring grandsons, seeing off their grandpa. A policeman wandering near the square did not pay attention to them.

  "There are available seats on the passing train, but in different carriages. Austin suggests buying tickets right before departure."

  The old man nodded, "Good, but you'll buy only one ticket. For me. We are partying here."

  "Why?" the young men were shocked.

  "I…erred. My mind lost clarity, my senses lost their acuteness. It's time for the younger to take over our sacred duty. It's your world, you were born into it, and you are responsible for its future. The deed of The Light and the Justice falls on your shoulders now."

  "What about you, Teacher?"

  "I want to avoid attracting attention to you. Everyone who spoke to me over the last year is now captured or on the run. We must not risk our last people. Do not worry, Austin, I can take care of myself. Perhaps when the noise settles, I'll return, but in the near future you'll have to rely on yourselves."

  The young white looked sad and disappointed.

  "As a teacher, I fulfilled my goal - I prepared my successor. It's you. Remember, the future depends on you. Be very careful."

  Half an hour later the decrepit old man, whose only luggage was a leather trunk mounted on a wooden cart, took a train heading south. The further the train went away from Finkaun, the sooner dull weariness left the patriarch. His power was returning to him, slowly but surely.

  Chapter 35

  The officer on duty at Finkaun's NZAMIPS warned me that the senior coordinator of the Northwestern region was far too busy to take any visitors. But my case couldn't wait.

  When I came in, Larkes fingered pages with the names of the artisans. I noticed that in the margins he was making marks: perhaps "to arrest" or "to invite for edifying conversation". I felt that he barely tolerated my presence and tried not to mock him; for a dark mage the moment of his triumph is sacred.

  "Let me climb down to the catacombs while they are not walled up."

  "For what?"

  "I want to show them to Clara. I promised her."

  "Why do you care about her?"

  "Are you kidding? She's a writer! What if she writes nasty things about me?"

  "Do you want access through the dump?"

  "I'd rather go through the Academy."

  Larkes signed a permit and gestured for me to get out. I left, letting him savor his victory. He would remain in history as the leader who inflicted a crushing blow to the sect. Frankly, without my help he would still be chasing gophers.

  The head of the academy's security examined with suspicion my permit and assigned a guard to Fiberti and me. A "cleaner", of course. I did not mind and immediately commissioned him to carry a coil of rope. He obeyed like a good little boy!

  It became easy to navigate through the maze of dark corridors, because I used as a guide the memory of the ancient guard that we raised. I saw the shelter as it was during his lifetime. The more I delved into his recollections, the more admiration I experienced for the genius of ancient people. Not because of the grandiose scale of the things they built, but because they created the greatest artifact in the world, knowing about dark magic only from books. That was a real miracle! They compelled the forces of nature and supernature to obey! I couldn't wait to view the artifact. In the ancient books they called it McCane's Generator of the Focusing Field or simply the Hole. Such a nickname caused unhealthy associations in me, so I decided to remain faithful to the habitual Project.

  A golem sent by Rustle waited for us at the entrance; its appearance came as a shock to both of my companions. Though Clara wasn't scared; she didn't know the true might of the golem. But the "cleaner" activated his Source and tried to choose who to attack first: the golem or me.

  "It's a catacombs' guard. He is on our side! By the way, the dark magic does not work on him," I leniently patted the golem on its "shoulder".

  "And what does?" Clara's curiosity knew no bounds.

  "It's funny but white magic can harm him; it temporarily breaks his integrity. And necromantic weavings, too. For example, I can control such creatures."

  I took the coil of rope off the "cleaner" and put it on the golem. This fully reconciled the combat mage with the monster. Without rushing we walked to the familiar elevator shaft, and I sensed no supernatural in the darkness.

  "Climb down!" I told Clara, tying the rope around her waist.

  "What do you mean 'down'?" she stepped back in fear.

  "The most interesting area is several levels below. This shaft is the only access to it."

  "Is it absolutely necessary, Thomas?" my aide was really scared.

  "There are recesses in the shaft's wall; they are like stairs, Clara," I showed her where they were.

  "How will we get back?" she asked in a hoarse voice.

  "Same way. If you find the stairs scary, this guy will lift you up on the rope!"

  The golem nodded, confirming my words. I would not trust my neck to the "cleaner"; he had no climbing experience. The golem was a safer choice.

  "I am sorry, Thomas, but…this is beyond me!"


  "No problem. Don't climb down. But I have to; I left my stuff there. Wait for me here, I'll be back soon."

  "Of course!"

  I began to descend. I was sure that the "cleaner" wouldn't follow me - he was too lazy. It's a pleasure to deal with dark magicians; we are so predictable.

  The memory of the ancient guard became more vivid at the bottom of the elevator shaft. Now I had to remind myself that it wasn't me for whom Bill and Bob waited in the staff room with beer, and it was not my shift starting in two hours.

  I was lucky to stumble upon the right corpse for the Circle: the guy knew all the exits, all the places I could access with my dad's Key, and he even guessed from whom the Key was stolen.

  I was not interested in the Grand Door; from the guard I knew what was behind it - a system of springs and shock absorbers for a focusing rod. The dead man's memory showed me a huge column made of black crystal (golem material, I guessed) going down for over a hundred feet.

  Soon I noticed on the floor two white stripes with symbols; they indicated major routes for employees - to the generator room and the hospital. (The guard feared local doctors, and I recalled what Ed Rooney mentioned in The Word: several survivors were taken for "treatment" to the hospital and never came back.)

  I chose the passage to the generator room. My guide was there once and remembered a spacious bright room with the focusing rod, strange aggregates, and tangled cables. The emergency exit in the generator room had a mechanical lock; I used my knife to open it and then jammed the door to prevent locking myself inside. My skin tickled from the presence of magic.

  I came in and nearly cracked my head on a beam. I trusted the memory of the ancient man too much, because the thousands of years that passed after his death had changed a lot of things. A huge hall was littered to the top. Broken stuff was seen everywhere: metal beams with gross welding defects, the cracked pillars of viewing platforms, piles of burnt lamps. Sand creaked under my feet, insulting the brilliant perfection of the Project by its very presence.

  I adjusted the wick on the lantern and looked around.

  The place was very impressive: in the middle of the hall, under the pointed end of the focusing rod, a humongous Dark Source oozed its power. The Source looked like a fountain of black gloom enveloped in bluish flashes; it was confined by a low barrier with pillars. The Source was luring me to plunge into its otherworldly glow. But I'm no moron!

  The dimensions of the hall were distorted, as if touched by the phoma; the wall opposite the door was broken open. The rails of a narrow-gauge road, along with two forgotten carriages, rusted on a dump of clay and gravel. Around the Dark Source's barrier was a construction of armored plates. I circumvented the Source twice and climbed on one of its surviving pillars for better visibility. The plate assembly looked absolutely out of place, and I understood that it was the artisans' breaker. It surely wasn't part of the original design!

  Before, I wondered why the artisans left the corpse of the guard where I found it; now I guessed - they simply hadn't been there. The artisans broke into the hall from another side. Perhaps, the artifact's guards weren't programmed to react to the diggers. The artisans (who else?) delivered the armored plates of the breaker via the railroad they built underground and assembled them near the Dark Source. What tedious work it was! Why did they fail? What went wrong?

  From the pillar, I could view only the upper part of the Dark Source; it began somewhere on the lower levels. To see its roots, I climbed down a bunch of cluttered stairs and finally reached the fountain's bottom: a mirror from an unknown alloy, above it four stone arcs holding something that unpleasantly reminded me a coffin. The "coffin" oozed black gloom.

  This place roused a familiar sensation in me. Was it in memory of the ancient people I raised? I experienced the same tingle when I passed through the Golden Gate. Black ripples started spinning in the air; the endless rustle scoured my ears. It was Rustle.

  "What are you doing, you damn monster?! I am engaged in business here, and you are flickering before my eyes!"

  He took into account my remark, and the room suddenly lightened up, the black ripples disappearing. My lantern brightly lit the large mirror, the stone arches, and the cocoon hanging among them in a whirl of black leaves. The cocoon and I looked at each other for a minute, and then for some reason Rustle became shy at his nakedness.

  My God! I thought that nothing in the world could surprise me anymore! I was so wrong!

  I recalled that the Golden Gate's stability was ensured by a group of dark mages, who sacrificed their lives so that their souls could monitor the integrity of the Gate's protective spells. My own zombie Max was "alive" because his dead body had embedded the dog's soul. The builders of the Project used the same principle!

  I grasped that control over the World Axis was entrusted to one of the people that ancient scientists were taking for "treatments". This person became one of the fundamental constants of our world. However, it wasn't a human anymore. It was that same monster, who could reach any dark in the world: Rustle!

  I touched one of the stone arcs and sensed fine vibrations of necromantic magic. These arcs belonged to the two worlds simultaneously. What an amazing device! "How does it feel - to keep the worlds together?"

  Rustle gave me a recollection, a compressed image from his incredible memory: a tube in the throat, arms and legs ceasing to exist, bundles of cables extending to the head, and a painful feeling of the inevitability of something horrible.

  "Calm down, man. It's long gone. Everything is okay now."

  Rustle did not like how I addressed him.

  "Do you mean it is a woman in the cocoon?"

  The poor monster fell into a stupor. He never thought of his (her?) past life in such a manner.

  "Do not worry. It doesn't matter who you were in the past. I, too, was once both sperm and egg."

  Rustle plunged into philosophical reflections on the primacy of the chicken and the egg. It should keep him busy for a while.

  I paused and pondered. The sinister HE had foreseen that people (even his former colleagues) could try to break the artifact, since his device lacked a switch to turn it off. Furthermore, a trap was prepared for renegades: the being, created to keep the two worlds connected, had his own will and did not want to die.

  I pressed myself to the arc, trying to absorb its strange magic. How could this artifact be broken in principle?

  Clearly, the single most important part of the artifact was Rustle, whom I perceived as an uninitiated magician, conscious of himself. That is, any attempt to shut down the fountain of Dark Magic should start from liquidation of Rustle, but the monster was very much alive. I didn't recognize in the breaker any weapon adequate to the task of killing the monster. Thus, the breaker of notorious "celestial angels" wasn't targeting Rustle directly. Congratulations, cretins! For so many years you didn't to figure out that the monster should have been destroyed first!

  Obviously, every activation of the breaker somehow affected Rustle (most likely, insignificantly). To maintain his integrity, the monster was falling asleep (thus reducing the power of the fountain of Darkness), and the contact between the two worlds was thinning out. But sooner or later the breaker used up its energy, and the monster returned from "sleep", overdoing his job of ensuring a connection between the worlds. And periods of low supernatural activity, launched by the artisans' breaker, were replaced with periods of hyperactivity.

  So the World Axis was Rustle, singlehandedly protecting our civilization from global catastrophes!

  Stupid, stupid me - just recently I had tried to exterminate the monster!

  I worried what would happen if artisans understood the root cause of their failure. Okay, all entries to this place would be blocked (Rustle would see to that), but The Liturgy of the Light launched the breaker remotely! I wished the genius who created this "wonderful magic add-on" would have died in the cradle. Besides, the immortal monster was vulnerable physically - his coffin looked quite fragi
le.

  I needed to ensure Rustle's safety. It was no longer my personal vendetta against artisans; I wouldn't calmly watch as some schizophrenics destroyed dark magic.

  To disassemble the artisans' construction without the help of other people was impossible. What other options did I have? To dissolve it with acid? To break it into pieces with a hammer? And there remained a chance that the destroyed breaker would affect Rustle's condition and the stability of the Dark Source. The best option would be to tweak a bit the launching contour of the breaker, jam it in its current inactive state, and get away unharmed.

  I walked around the breaker again, examining its design and mentally testing different variants of its flow of magic. One option looked promising. I needed a metal crosspiece bigger than a pin. A suitable thing was in my pocket: a massive chronometer in the platinum case that I bought as a graduation gift for myself. It was an expensive, show-off thing, with engraving on the back, and I dreamed for so long of just getting rid of it. Centuries, thousands of years, will pass, I'll be gone, all will be gone, only Rustle and my chronometer will stay as an anchor in the ocean of time, forever linking the unique creature and me. How poetic!

  I fixed my chronometer between two arcs; its heavy platinum case would break the symmetry of power lines, and energy would surge along a new path. The breaker could still be activated remotely, but the ritual of The Liturgy of the Light would need a different, very bizarre pentagram. White mages, performing the ritual, would have to be aware of the change I made. Surely, I wasn't going to tell them.

  Rustle was deeply moved and sent one of his golems to me with a gift - a flat metal box without pages. The deceased guard knew how to activate this thing, so I should be able to figure it out, too.

  Together with the golem we blocked the broken wall by beams, in case some diggers would go through that tunnel again, and locked and jammed the emergency door behind ourselves. It was time to leave the place, while Rustle was still in a good mood.

  I climbed up for no less than an hour: Rustle's nest was three hundred feet below the surface! When, panting, I crawled out of the elevator shaft, Clara and a golem idyllically communicated via gesture. The "cleaner" watched them, trying not to laugh. Having noticed me, the golem calmly strode back to the elevator and disappeared in the shaft. That was it. Rustle didn't need me anymore. I guessed it was his "thank you and get out".