“Wow, Ron! Long time no see.”
In fact, for four days. In some way that was a record.
“Hi. You don’t… eh…”
I watched for Quarters, who had lost his tongue. I never thought it could happen to him!
“Do not harass Sam anymore!” Ron blurted out finally.
“Who?”
“The guy who was with me…”
“Oh, that one! You’d better tell me why he brought you to the police headquarters. It was his idea, yeah? As for me, I am not concerned with what you do in the evenings.”
“Why do you ask?” Quarters started getting angry. “It does not matter where we walked.”
“You are saying that you always walk around the police headquarters? Ha!”
Why did Ron bug me about some shabby boy, not even a relative? An incredible guess lit up my mind.
“Are you in love with him?” I shouted.
Quarters clapped his eyes blankly.
“Do not worry, there’s nothing shameful in it. We live in a civilized country…”
Ron’s face became so fearsome that any dark magician would envy him.
“Idiot!” he yelled, turned around, and almost ran toward the door of the auditorium.
Quarters was nervous; his painful reaction to my criticism was typical for this type of relationship. Did I guess right? I observed no such inclinations in him before; however, I didn’t produce the first impression of a felon either. Let them do with each other what they want—they are adults! Already leaving the university, I noticed Sam in the company of some sophomores. What a sociable freak… Shorty glanced at me with some challenge, and I winked conspiratorially in response. It scared him half to death, I thought.
In contrast to Ron, preoccupied with my leisure time, I couldn’t care less about his problems. I had already made arrangements for my vacation with Polak (it was easy); it remained to get permission from NZAMIPS (the most unpleasant part).
The police headquarters before Christmas looked strange. Its hall breathed austerity and almost a void of space; on the desk of the on-duty officer there was a spangled Bonsai Christmas tree in a scale of one to a hundred. Enhanced with white magic, the plant exuded a strong odor of pine needles. On the floor of the superior officers I saw no one, but distinctly heard the clink of glasses. Perhaps, in the wing that housed the offices of inspectors and investigators, the work was still in progress, but I did not go there—why would I want to spoil mood? Seeing people at work awakens unhealthy reflexes in me.
I decided to drop by the captain first to show my report—wanted to make sure that the text was composed correctly. He would advise me instead of mocking. For some unclear reason, the chief of Redstone’s NZAMIPS had his office on the fourth floor - level designated for miscellaneous non-essential staff. There, holiday eve was felt strongly: windows shone with tinsel, and the air was full of the treacherous smells of cucumber salad, freshly baked pastries, and vanilla. To the captain’s office I marched under the interested gazes of lady accountants not overburdened by work (whenever I walked by their office, they were having a tea break). The main thing was to pretend that you were terribly busy; the last time I agreed to try a piece of cake I barely managed to run away. The brutal women, suffering without men, didn’t care whether I was dark or white, or striped; more importantly, I was of age.
The captain took my appearance graciously, removed a cake from his desk, reviewed the text, and tapped his finger on the title of my report.
“Don’t go to Satal; he’s in a terrible mood now.”
“I thought it was the norm for him.”
“You do not know what you are talking about. We have received a petition demanding to find missing Laurent Pierrot.”
“Oh!”
“O-ho-ho! The boss now writes a response that doesn’t contradict the facts and looks true.”
“Damn it!” I said “good bye” to my vacation.
“By the way, I am your boss officially. You work in Redstone’s division.”
“Can I go on holidays?”
“Go home for holidays?” the captain asked good-naturedly, putting his seal?? in the upper left corner.
I nodded, “To my brother.”
The captain paused, holding the document in his palm.
“Where does he reside?”
“He is at school in Mihandrov.”
“It’s not our district, is it?”
I nodded, though not quite confidently.
“And not even our region… Don’t go anywhere; wait for me,” Captain Baer grabbed my report from the desk and walked out.
I sat and wrestled with desire to disappear. Curiosity eventually won—I eagerly wanted to know what he was up to. The captain came back in about half an hour; he carried a bunch of sheets and a large paper bag. Judging by the distinct smell of brandy, he had managed to nip somewhere and spent his time well.
“Your vacation is canceled. You’re going on a business trip instead.”
“What?!”
“Here are your travel assignment and the order to Mihandrov’s NZAMIPS. Sign it!”
I looked through the documents suspiciously. “‘To investigate the work of primary and secondary educational institutions’?”
“That’s it. Bear in mind, you owe me a report.”
I groaned.
“Don’t dare say no! Have you thought what would happen to Satal if you mess up there, and your past pops up?”
“I’m not going to mess—”
“Yeah, yeah. With your zombie you also weren’t going to do anything special, as I understand. Either my way or no way; just stay in town.”
For how long will I have to suffer from the moral terror? A normal dark would have rebelled long ago. On the other hand, had I gone to complain to Satal now, he could have beaten me up. What did I want more: to go on vacation or go to the hospital? Sighing, I signed the papers. Meanwhile, the captain emptied the bag.
“This is your temporary identity card—it does not give you any power but discourages others from asking questions. If you show it to any civilian, I will lock you in the basement for a week!”
How strict, my god!
“A traveling kit of a sorcerer: a marker with chalk emulsion, a salt shaker, a compass, mirror taps, a set of candles. You’ll have to replenish everything you’ve used, got it? I give it to you, because it’s in the rules, but I need it back.”
I nodded vigorously; I understood about candles and mirrors, but how could he determine how much of the emulsion remained in the marker?
“A special emergency kit: elixirs. Well, you know that! Blue—inhibitors, green—supporting potions, red—stimulants. If you want to stay alive, do not touch them.”
Hmm. Well put.
“The last one: an emergency call amulet; simply put, a “whistle”. Click here and there, or bite off the nibble here (whatever you are capable of at the moment), and the nearest NZAMIPS division will send a quick response team. Do not even think about testing it—a false alarm will rack up a serious penalty.”
What a pity. It would be fun to check it in action.
“Follow my instructions. If you go looking for trouble, I will turn you in to Satal, and you do what you want with each other!”
It was so cruel of him. Was he always so cold-hearted? He looked like a sweet man.
“That’s all. Happy holidays!”
I briskly picked up my stuff and went out into the hallway. Enough of my bosses. A great deal of work was ahead of me: submit the three theses I finished yesterday, buy gifts for Lyuchik, make arrangements at the junkyard to have the motorcycle guarded, and bathe Max; the zombie would go with me again, and drying out that fur rug takes a long time.
That was another unexpected benefit of good relations with NZAMIPS: devoid of piety toward the undead, the “cleaners” darned Max’s skin, trimmed his nails, and laid on its collar a special spell that compelled fur to grow on the dead body. The advantage was that the gray-red wavy hair hid
under itself all of the characteristic features of a zombie, and we got a nice hairy poodle-like shepherd. The disadvantage of that camouflage was the need to regularly comb the long hair, bathe Max in a special preservative mix, and pour the egg protein into his throat (the zombie was not very good at licking and swallowing). I never thought that a zombie-dog would require so much fuss!
Slipping past the lady accountants, I walked down the stairs to the floor of the superiors and crept on tiptoes to the marble staircase that led to the entrance hall. Satal’s office was just a few steps away; I saw his door but passed it unnoticed. It was time to run away, while my favorite teacher was busy with his report!
* * *
The senior coordinator came to Baer in the late afternoon, black and as fearsome as an unrested corpse; with somnambulistic precision he found an unfinished bottle of whiskey behind the cabinet and began to pour its contents into a teacup. Angry Satal either forgot that he could just call his subordinate on the phone or decided to walk before he would talk and let his irritation subside.
“Where is this underage fag? He was supposed to come today,” Satal tipped the contents of his cup in his mouth, as into a sink.
Locomotive winced: a drunken dark magician wasn’t exactly what he wanted for Christmas.
“He came to me.”
“Did you let him go?!”
“No, I did not. I sent him on assignment,” Locomotive decided that logical arguments wouldn’t work at this moment.
“Where to?”
“To Mihandrov.”
Satal suspiciously squinted his almost sober eyes. “How do you know about Mihandrov?”
“From the files. He’s got a brother there.”
“Ah!” Satal leaned back in his chair with a pleased countenance, immediately losing his battle fervor.
It was now Baer’s turn to narrow his eyes suspiciously: “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing,” the magician waved vigorously, almost knocking the empty bottle onto the floor. “I will… no, better you call them tomorrow and alert that our employee is coming. Let them meet him.”
“Is it worth it?” Locomotive hesitated, suspecting some kind of terrible villainy in that.
“Yes, it is!” Satal announced with drunken peremptoriness. “I’ll go to the capital after Christmas. I hope that at least Axel will be on my side. Did he need a magician? We’ve sent the best one!” The coordinator hiccupped loudly and uttered with some effort: “Confidentially.”
Locomotive figured out how much alcohol Satal had taken on per pound of weight and decided that his boss would last for five minutes, but then he would have to drag him to the guardhouse for the night.
“Do you think our guy will cope?”
Satal thoughtfully breathed through his nose. “I cannot deal with the white; they drive me crazy. Is his brother white? Yes! Exactly what we need. If Tangor did not kill his brother growing up, he will handle this.”
Chapter 27
Protected by magic from any weather, the transcontinental express looked as if it had just rolled out of the train depot, as though it hadn’t experienced the snowstorms of continental Ingernika, desert winds blowing over the capital’s neighborhoods, and alternating sun, rain, and frost in between. Against the backdrop of Polisant’s grassy hills, the train looked like a beautiful toy; only tiny human figures, bustling around the sleepers, betrayed its true scale. Hired carriages had already harvested newcomers and driven them through the hills to where the expanse of a great lake sharply glittered. Mihandrov was ready to welcome strangers who tired of snow and cold weather, and the express flew further into the arms of the humid tropics of the Southern Coast.
“Disgrace, what a disgrace!” a well-dressed gentleman lamented; he wore a pin, “Thirty Years in the Police Service,” that he had obviously inherited.
“Do not worry, sir,” a whiskered driver habitually comforted his boss. “It’s not your fault! The station attendant on duty misled you.”
“Ah, Alfred, I could have seen him with my own eyes if I had looked around a little!”
The driver did not argue with that. The only car in all of Mihandrov rolled along the winding streets, cheerfully sneezing. Not too fast though, as Mr. Clarence had to exchange greetings with all the passers, and there were a lot of them on the eve of Christmas.
“Hello, Mr. Luhmann!… Uncle Barry… Aunt Melons… Happy holidays, Mr. Festor!”
Clarence knew half of Mihandrov’s inhabitants from his childhood, and the other half was related to him. If the only town’s policeman had not worn his famous badge, the trip would have ended almost immediately—he would be required to talk with each passer-by.
“It’s already after 2 p.m.,” the driver tried to reason with his superior (as a civilian employee, he wasn’t paid for overtime). “It’s Christmas Eve. Wouldn’t it be better if we search for our guest tomorrow?”
“You do not understand, Alfred! Dark mages are very quick to take offense. We have not met him at the station, and what if he doesn’t get the room because of his dog?”
“I think, sir, a dark magician can stand for himself.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of!”
The driver tried to hide his heavy sigh in the background noise of the engine; the car reached the intersection, and he had to deaden the engine: he could not afford to drive the wrong way—turning around on the narrow streets was simply not an option.
“Hello, Aunt Tusho!” Mr. Clarence called to a thin elderly woman in a bonnet with ribbons, mincing along the street with a plump parcel in her hands. “Have you seen a stranger with a dog?”
“Yes, yes!” Mrs. Tusho smiled, delighted by the attention of an important person. “They went to the Mrs. Parker’s B&B.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Clarence kindly smiled, and Alfred pressed the gas pedal right away; he didn’t want to waste half an hour, picking neighbors to pieces with the talkative old woman. Vain efforts! By the time they got out of town and reached the comfortable two-story mansion of Mrs. Parker, the guest was not there.
“The young man checked in and left,” said the landlady, a stout middle-aged woman with sparkles in her hair. “He did not say where to. If I knew it was important…”
“Do not worry, madam, our business can wait till tomorrow!” Alfred resolutely took matters into his own hands. Noticing that his boss was ready to object, he quickly added, “Sir, I think the magician is off on a personal matter, and he’ll not like it if we pursue him.”
“Yes, you are right, my friend,” Mr. Clarence gave up. “Nothing can be done today; we will have to come back tomorrow. Madam Parker, I rely on you! Our guest should not feel uncomfortable.”
“Don’t doubt even for a moment. Happy Christmas!” the hostess smiled coquettishly to Alfred and flew off to her own guests—the eldest son had brought her first grandchild for the holidays.
* * *
The boarding school of the town of Mihandrov looked impressive: delicately executed decoration on cast-iron gates (beyond comparison to the modern styles), heavily enchanted oil lamps (rare electric bulbs could shine so brightly), large light buildings, its own marina and park that even Quarters’ uncle could not afford in Redstone. From the gate I saw cobbled walks fleeing into the distance, trees of great girth, a strange grove where flowers and fruits quietly grew side by side, a garden of flower beds where everything (absolutely everything) was in bloom. No comparison with Krauhard… I wondered how Joe was able to send Lyuchik to such a place without recommendation. Or had he managed to get some?
I suddenly discovered that I knew little about my stepfather, even less than I knew about my deceased father. For a dark mage such lack of curiosity was normal; but it started annoying me—when I was ready to ask the right questions, something prevented me from finding the answers. I missed my chance to talk to Chief Harlik, for example…
Deep in thought, I entered the gate and stood still with the silliest look; a leopard ending up in antelope paradise by mistake must fe
el that way. In the square outside the gate people were bustling (probably getting ready for Christmas), and they were all white, every one: students, their teachers, and those parents who decided to spend holidays with their children at school. In fact, educational institutions were recommended to keep the ratio of mages to ordinary people at fifty-fifty, but either the rest of the pupils left for the holidays, or the administration could not scrape enough ordinary children to follow the correct proportion. One way or another, even the porter meeting the guests in a spangled jacket and a cap with a large pink bow was one of the white. That was crazy…
I must say that I had not thought through the moment of my meeting with Lyuchik. At the university, all white mages were adults, and at home the white were my own family. But a crowd of unfamiliar white kids with an unknown degree of sanity was a different story. How should I conduct myself with them? I felt like falling into hysterics! Having made two deep breaths and filled voice with as much honey as my tin student throat could withstand, I approached the porter: “Hello. How can I find Luciano Tamironi?”
Well, at least I had managed to recall his last name, and only because Joe wrote me letters.
The porter looked at me with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, which usually took place when a guess had not reached one’s consciousness yet but was already scary. Sweet. And I hadn’t done anything yet.
“Thomas!” it was a joyful cry from behind, and at the same moment Lyuchik jumped on my back (he seemed to put on weight).
“Hi, bro!” I said when I managed to regain my balance. “Here I am. Not too late?”
“Right on time! Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.” He already turned to the woozy porter, “This is my brother! He came to stay with me for the holidays.”
And Lyuchik pulled me around to scare people.
“This is Ms. Aster, a teacher of botany. My brother came to me for the holidays! Mr. Tanat, a teacher of math. My brother, for the holidays! My classmates. My brother!”
And wherever we went, a tail of shocked silence waved behind us.
My Path to Magic mptm-1 Page 27