I smiled dreamily, imagining myself in a limousine. A successful dark magician could afford more than that. So far, I hadn't committed any fatal missteps, hadn't been charged with anything, and didn't need to run away. In essence, two ideas were crowding my mind: first, I could be congratulated on becoming a full-fledged magician, and second… how was I supposed to make money now?
* * *
The current chief of the Department of Magic Affairs, Conrad Baer, was a cop of the sixth or even seventh generation. His ancestors began to serve the law shortly after the last king had left Ingernika. They had steadfastly safeguarded their fellow citizens during the awful years of plague and in the times of trouble at the turn of the millennium, occasionally distracted by civil wars and revolutions. The key to the success of the dynasty was the unique physical characteristics of the Baer family: the look of the Department's chief could discourage even the most boisterous dark magicians. Since his college days, Conrad proudly carried the nickname "Locomotive" and was the first member of his dynasty to be promoted to captain. This latter fact was considered a source of pride, but sometimes with a touch of bitterness.
With noticeable relief, the captain took off his anti-magic protective suit. Government specialists made this thing look like a regular police uniform, but it weighed as heavy armor. But wouldn't you put on anything for the sake of saving your own life? Contact with young magicians, possessing unknown powers and temperament, demanded extreme precautionary measures.
Wiping sweat from his neck with a paper towel, Locomotive pulled out a phone and dialed a familiar number. The massive apparatus with brass handle and a pearl insert on the disk liked to play tricks on the captain, but it always connected him to this number on the first attempt.
"Lucky you!" the captain announced to an invisible interlocutor. "I met your godson today."
"How did it go?" someone on the other end wondered vaguely.
"Hard to say. Initially I thought they had messed up his file, attributing him to the mages. He fainted, can you imagine?"
A quiet chuckle came out of the phone.
"Yes, his father was also very reserved. He will become a powerful magician!"
"Strong, that's for sure. I have recorded his aura; drop by when you have time, take a look. We'll pray together."
"Thanks!" the tube commented. "I owe you."
The captain waited until he heard a dial tone but did not put the phone back. Instead, he took a bottle of malt whiskey out of a drawer and measured a cup. Usually, he did not drink during work hours, but today was especially nerve-wracking.
Conrad Baer was not a magician and did not feel magic powers. He understood what had happened in the cell only after viewing a record on a crystal that permanently engraved this event for his superiors. It was then that he decided to have a drink. Due to the proximity of Redstone University, his department had a special covert function: to tease dark magicians in order to get an imprint of their aura. The not-quite-so legitimate procedure was helpful in avoiding problems with their identification later on, but it was recommended before the initiation of a magician and certainly not during it.
The captain, being a knowledgeable police officer with fifteen years of experience, stupidly and foolishly put himself under the attack of the combat magician; any anti-magic protection would not have saved him if the kid had lost consciousness three seconds earlier. It was hard to tell what the thing rushing toward him from the transcendent depths was willing to incarnate into, but the consequences of such events the captain had seen before. The glitter of the walls fused into glass, puffy bluish dead bodies in the police uniform, green pools of slime in the spots where people stood a minute before—that was only a small part of the surprises that dark magic concealed! The boy kept control over his power, and for that he deserved if not full forgiveness of his sins then at least a good discount.
But one couldn't trust the phone with such revelations, so nobody knew about Captain Baer's second birthday, and he had to celebrate it alone.
Chapter 2
An echo of the encounter with NZAMIPS reached me on Tuesday, during a lab on alchemy. I had already handed in my notebook with finished lab assignment and idly wondered if I could remotely ignite magnesium shavings in a flask on the professor's desk. Close connection with the Source inside provided me with interesting possibilities… One thing stopped me: I was the only magician in the classroom. That wasn't a joke! Half of the students at the University of Higher Magic were not magicians; our school became well-known for its Faculty of Alchemy instead. It is believed that the alchemic talent is as inborn in people as a talent for magic, only it is harder to find. By the way, I received a scholarly grant from Ronald the Bright's Fund for winning an alchemical tournament. I always liked to watch the pendulum swing, play with lens light refraction, and mess around with chemicals, especially with those that had a propensity for burning and exploding. Unfortunately, due to that, lab classes turned for me into a real torture—I could hardly keep myself from trifling.
Before I had a chance to pull off something nasty, a freshman had opened the door without knocking and cried out: "Provost calls for Tangor!" and ran away.
My mood went sour immediately.
A dark magician in a bad mood is the worst curse possible. Dying of curiosity, my classmates pretended to rifle through their notebooks, but they hesitated to offer any comments. After the bell had rung, Ronald Rest, known as Ron Quarters, burst into the classroom, almost knocking the professor down. Clearly, he wasn't scared of mages, either dark or white.
"What's up, Thomas?" Quarters yelled. "Dragon summons you!"
Thomas Tangor is me. I categorically do not accept any nicknames, because "Tangor" is already short enough.
"Hi," I muttered, unwilling to develop the conversation further.
"What have you done?" Quarters poked about.
"Got into a fight."
"Ooh," he stretched the sound out in disappointment and left.
Yes, a fight involving a dark mage student is corny, boring, and uninteresting. Fits the dark magician image too closely. In contrast to the faint-hearted white enchanters, we love open conflicts, and the sight of blood pleasantly excites us. Not of our blood, naturally. University administrators have always been faced with a tragic dilemma: to order the dark to behave the same way as other students is useless, but to leave such behavior unpunished is untenable. And then some smartass (if I had known who, I would have raised him from the grave!) had found the perfect solution: correctional work. Something like scraping pots in the university canteen or cleaning stables and toilets. To refuse meant a discharge from the university for breach of the discipline code. For three years I was able to avoid this dubious "joy", but yesterday's visit to NZAMIPS seemed to put an end to my fortune...
No, I have nothing against discipline, but I would like to note that some of the so-called "mere humans" turned out to be bigger assholes than any dark magician. Look at Ronald Rest, who got his nickname because each time before getting piss drunk he demands "just a quarter" of booze and, having loaded up, begins harassing all males and flirting with all females. Taught by bitter experience, his classmates learned to leave a pub at his appearance. Well, Quarters perceived correctional work as an outrageous indulgence for the dark magicians.
Anything but the stables...
I came up to the door of the Vice Chancellor's Disciplinary Office for problematic students (a euphemism used at the university to name the dark mages), feeling apprehensively sick in advance. A brass plate on the door announced that Prof. Darkon dwelled behind it.
Contrary to my expectations, the prorector did not look angry or irritated.
"I was told that you spent a couple of hours in our favorite facility yesterday," he winked conspiratorially, while I shuddered at the memory. "Do not take the incident to heart." In response to my puzzled look he explained, "All dark magicians are brought to the police at least once during their studies. This is another law of nature, and you
are not the one to break it."
Personally, I did not care about the statistics, but keen interest flashed in the prorector's eyes:
"Did you try your magic on the cop?"
I shook my head frantically. "How could I dare?! An assault on a law enforcement officer with application of magic would be pure suicide."
"Congratulations! Therefore, the first record in your file will be 'very trustworthy'. Believe me, for your career it will mean more than the best references," the professor switched to a confidential tone. "With years of experience behind my back I believe that they aim at driving detainees out of their wits; perhaps, it's the only way to understand a magician's potential. A rather risky way, though."
I parted with the prorector; we shook hands as people united by the injustice we both experienced. I was dying to learn what offense he had committed in his time. After leaving the office, I recalled that I did not mention that Empowerment had already happened to me. Okay, maybe next time. I will just be a little more careful.
Now that my affairs with NZAMIPS had been settled, another problem loomed: making cash. Recount and rigorous calculation of my expenses showed that my savings would last for a month or two. My acquaintance with the goblin was still too fresh in the memory, and I did not dare to earn money illegally.
I had to find a job.
As a man of action, I walked around the neighborhoods adjacent to the campus, looking for a vacancy that would open by summer. The University of Higher Magic was a special school; it did not impose any exams, except at admission and graduation, which was quite logical. The art of magic could not be mastered in a hurry. Education was divided into many, many intermediate control points; however, following an ancient tradition, teachers took a break twice a year: two months in summer and three weeks in winter. During winter breaks, most of my classmates stayed in town, but in summer the university was almost deserted. The time just before the summer vacation was best to grab someone else's place...
Alas! Most vacancies implied a job for white magicians; in rare cases, for ordinary people, but no employers wanted problems with a dark mage student, especially on the eve of Empowerment. Despicable discrimination! If you are a dark magician, do you not need money?
The only real option was to clean the floors in the tram depot at night. No, thank you, when would I sleep then? In the third year, students began specializing. Since I had already been initiated, it made sense to take the full course of witchcraft. To cerebrate over a pentagram after physical work, risking my life? No way, better to hit myself in the head with a stone.
I had two choices: to apply for a credit from Gugentsolger's Bank or ask my family for assistance. The problem had to be solved fast. I decided to start with the family. What the hell? A lineage of hereditary dark magicians could not be poor! I didn't need much—just 50-60 crowns a month; my mother was sending me 20, or occasionally 30 (on Christmas), and sincerely believed that was sufficient. We needed to talk seriously in person, not through the mail. For the first time in two years I decided to use one more privilege of the Roland the Bright's Fund fellowship—a paid roundtrip home.
Actually, summer visits home are more typical for the white mages. I always wondered how they managed to come back on time, if they did not travel in an "iron horse." Ron Quarters was about to leave for the Southern Coast accompanied by two sophomore girls and invited me along, but I stubbornly declined his invitation and spread rumors that I had some serious business to do at home. I desperately did not want to look like a poor beggar in the eyes of my friends.
Purchasing a ticket was easy—the first railcar in the train was not popular among passengers. Very few people traveled to our region in summer, just like in any other season for that matter. For starters, the mountainous plateau at the western extremity of the continent was famous for the worst climate throughout Ingernika. It was neither cold nor hot, the number of sunny days in a year could be counted on one's fingers, and fog was very common. Second, the inhabitants were kind of savages: Krauhard's peasants were full of prejudices and superstitions, they interweaved silver threads into horses' manes and dark cat fur into their blankets, and they nailed ram's horns over the gates. A place of depression, with icy rain and squally winds—the white mages would not be able to stand it. Furthermore, this was the place for the otherworldly creatures. The supernatural manifestations occurred here much more frequently than in any other place. To the local folks, it was a matter of pride and a source of permanent anxiety. Even children knew of the simplest rituals of expulsion; ancient, covered with cryptic signs and stelae were on every street corner, and on clear days one could see from the shore the frightening and alluring King's Island. Hardly a surprise, then, that one in five Krauhardians was a dark magician.
I sat on the bench of a railroad car alone and mindlessly gazed at the passing landscape through puffs of smoke. The thick greenery of the windbreak looked like a tunnel; fields, cows, white cottages, and enormous straw bales flashed through the rare breaks in the trees. With hidden impatience I waited for the evergreen trees to be replaced with low-lying shrubs and weeds, and fields with rocky wastelands and deep ravines, but the first greeting from the motherland came as rain. Of course.
I slept through most of the trip, and the time of our arrival—despite its early hour—was cheerful and fresh. Luggage-wise, I had almost nothing: a small backpack and a wicker basket. I also could not resist the temptation and had bought a couple of gifts for my mom and younger siblings, firmly sending my finances into the red. The conductor, heroically restraining his urge to yawn, courteously unfolded a ladder onto the platform. He helped me off and sincerely wished me a good trip, while thick, milky fog reigned all around.
As soon as I dove into the moist, faintly roiling haze, I realized how badly homesick I was. All that I liked in urban settings—the fumes of vehicles and their never-ending movement—was only a poor surrogate for this mysterious, enveloping pseudo-existence. The steam engine, invisible in the fog, whistled pitifully, the departing train faintly clanged, and I strode along the platform, past the "Wildlife Outpost," trying to remember the location of the descending path.
The fog started barely breaking away from the ground; in an hour there would be no trace of it. Thanks to its lift, I first noticed feet of people meeting me and only later discerned their faces. I was greeted by a pair of ladies' shoes on low heels (simple and worn-out), men's boots of the type "not afraid of mud," and four horse hooves. It was the hooves that I recognized—you do not often see a horse with all four legs of different colors.
"Hi, Mom!"
A woman in a black knitted jacket rose out of the fog. I would have recognized her anytime and anywhere. She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.
"Hi, Tommy! How are you? How was your trip?"
"Excellent!"
"Hello, Thomas. The children have been waiting for you for three days; all the neighbors know that their brother is coming back. Don't be alarmed."
Before turning to the speaker, I took a deep breath, bringing myself into the state which I commonly used when communicating with my clients: detached benevolence, respect without familiarity. I was sure I was better at it now than two years ago. He stood next to my mother, smiling, one of only three white magicians in Krauhard. My stepfather.
"Let's go," my mother hurried me to a horse carriage.
I caught myself thinking that, while imagining this meeting, my memory had been skipping over, in some tricky way, a man I had known for more than ten years; that is to say, not even a sole thought of him had arisen in my mind. Perhaps the brain cannot remember what it does not understand. My stepfather climbed onto the coach box, and my mother sat down next to me, while I, smiling, was still striving for a sense of recognition.
Dark and white magicians cannot unite in a single family. These are two different species of people, different universes. As common interests, we had food only; indeed, we even slept in different ways. Regarding to my upbringing, my s
tepfather could not argue with me at all, and punishing me was completely unrealistic. Since our first acquaintance (me—eight, him—thirty-two) he was just Joe to me, but I was Thomas to him (at first, even Mr. Thomas). I always considered myself senior to him. The reason did not lie in any magical metaphysics, because my dark talent was still asleep, and his white one was never too strong. Personalities, attitudes, perception of the world—everything was different between us as night and day.
He liked to sit by the fire and read a book, while I showed up at home only long enough to eat. He tended and nurtured flowerbeds with exotic daisies; I repaired a lawn mower in the barn. He brought a good-natured rough-legged horse to our house that took pleasure in carrying our family to the market and to neighbors on weekends. I had bought a scooter on my first salary, awfully rattling and reeking of alcohol, and, whenever I had time, rolled it out to the driveway in front of the house and cleaned, adjusted, and fine-tuned. That way, we grated on each other's nerves for long six years after his marriage to my mother. Only now, after studying at Redstone University for two years, did I understand the nightmare he had been living in. The day I received a scholarship from Roland the Bright's Fund must have been the happiest day of his life.
My Path to Magic Page 2