The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail) (15 page)

W
e had won! National newspapers informed us about the
Incident at the Island of Horta
in a couple of lines, but the army alchemists celebrated the event for three days.

In the
reports about the field tests of our gadgets (they were very touching - combat mages attempted to write in literary language), the new ammunition was praised by the majority of soldiers. This happened for the first time in twenty years! You bet! Our amulets made the Army men look so monstrous that they didn't need to use operational curses: the enemies were dying from fear. Only the Army commanders were unhappy: the gags in their mouths didn't let them swear. I wondered what they would have said about a hoodie with a proboscis.

I
congratulated my team on their success and recommended them for promotions. I myself was going to leave the Kerpan labs. First, I had to find Max.
Rustle
commiserated with me and gave some hints in which direction to look for my zombie - in the far south. How Max reached the Southern Coast was a mystery, and I was afraid to think what my dog was doing there.

My
risky trip required thorough preparation: the Southern Coast of Ingernika was almost alien territory for me. If I was caught in something semi-illegal, Larkes would not help, because the chief of Southwestern NZAMIPS was Axel, a squalid old man, who began hating me at first sight. Orthodox dark magicians like him were unable to like people. If you managed to attract their attention - you were out of luck, and I inherited from my father a propensity to show off.

Ideally,
I would have been well-equipped to meet Axel, if I had taken from Suesson my bug-golems and collection of alchemical potions, but it was a bad idea. Of course, artisans weren't watching my grave, but a rumor about a dark magician raised from the dead would have spread and reached them. Then all my troubles disguising myself were in vain! I decided to appropriate some stuff from the Kerpan labs - they had to compensate me for my inconveniences. I "borrowed" from their warehouse so many valuable ingredients that it would have sufficed for an average "cleaner" for two years. No one in the labs really minded my misuse of government assets. For my alchemical work I earned a hundred thousand crowns and, as a bonus, three sets of documents in different names (a gift from Larkes). One was my original passport, and the two others were into obscure dark and white names. Should I view the white name as recognition of my acting talent or as a subtle insult? I decided to travel under my own name and hid the ambiguous gift at the bottom of my roomy gripsack - the only piece of luggage in my possession at the moment.

I still needed
to get rid of the heron from support services, stubbornly following me everywhere. I knew it was against the rules to flee from your curator, but they would need to catch me first and then read out these same rules against me - what if I, stupidly, wasn't aware of them? I guessed the guy was my personal curator, but why were we not introduced to each other officially? Regrettably, the gloomy bastard did not want to get drunk or swallow tea with a laxative.

Time was
ticking. After finding my dog, I needed to search for my father's missing library, not to mention the mysterious ancient artifact. I was close to just beating the curator, when fortune smiled on me: I found out that both labs of highest magic safety had two exits, and from one you couldn't see another. The rest was trivial. The drunken and happy director signed my resignation letter, which I cleverly wrote on a quarter of a sheet, so it looked like a requisition form for ordering supplies. I put the letter on the secretary's desk five minutes before the end of the work day. My curator was sitting on a bench in front of the lab, when I left through another exit without saying farewell to my coworkers.

A n
ight train picked me up at an unnamed station and drove to the south. The trip was going to take a whole week, as opposed to travelling on the transcontinental express that could have delivered me in four days. Longer was actually better - I needed to heal my nerves.

A
beaten-by-life locomotive steadily pulled the train through the populous northwestern region, across eastern Suesson, and through the western edge of Inner Desert and Polisant, where we were making noticeably fewer stops: it was a hot, deserted area. After Mihandrov we stopped just once, and it was a forced break - conductors had to inspect the wheels. While their voices and hammers clanked outside, twilight fell, and a colored glow began to play over the flat hills. I saw a similar harmless illumination in Krauhard, but here it made conductors nervously look around and hurry up. I was told that strange things often occurred in this part of Polisant: all the water from a lake could disappear in one day, or minus twenty Celsius frost could hit in the middle of summer. This mess was viewed as the weather after-effects of White Halak.

The
Southwestern division of "cleaners" was based somewhere nearby, but they couldn't tightly control the situation with the otherworldly on such a godforsaken territory. So a barrier was established to separate Polisant from the Southern Coast, which was a tourist attraction. The Barrier was a masterpiece of dark magic and the most powerful warding curse in the world.

I looked forward to encountering this gimmick.
They said it was created by a team of over forty magicians, and some of them were sacrificed at that. I had never participated in a ritual with sacrifices! The university did not teach us that. I learned about forbidden magic practices by accident - when I rummaged through Uncle Gordon's rarities. Artisans kill people as they see fit, while decent dark mages aren't even taught the principle.

Conductors
went through all carriages and advised passengers to stay calm. The locomotive, spitting dense steam, crept into the Golden Gate Canyon (literally "golden"; gold is one of the best known materials to hold magic). The outer layer of the Golden Gate barrier consisted of regular warding spells, but the core was many orders more complex, unbelievably intricate and transcendentally intellectual. For a moment I felt someone's attention and managed to say
Hello
, but the feeling was quickly gone - the artifact identified me as one of its own kind and let me go. I wondered what options were available to the Golden Gate, if the Barrier didn't like somebody.

The train accelerated -
we had successfully passed the check. For the next few hours, conductors walked through the carriages again, gently calling out the names of the passengers, as if congratulating their arrival. Yeah, we were about to arrive in the Golden Harbour - the dream of all the bums of Ingernika.

Railroad tracks
abruptly ended almost over the precipice; from there a usual serpentine road went down to the shore. Stunning views of the Golden Harbour, the largest city on the Southern Coast, opened up from the rocky peak, right where the station was situated. The height of the peak concealed the distance, and water seemed to be within a hand's reach. City streets, houses, and gardens chaotically terraced down to the embankment. A thickly-purple armada of storm clouds rolled towards them - it was the end of the velvet season. The praised azure sea waters had already become lead from the first winter storm; sharp gusts of wind fiddled with my clothing and tried to snatch the gripsack out of my hands; the air was warm, despite the late fall.

The passengers bustled, pushed each other at the baggage car,
and nervously looked at the low-flying clouds. I immediately went to the exit: travelling light had its advantages. Looking at my black suit, the gripsack, and an umbrella-walking stick, not even one son-of-a-bitch tried to come closer than five steps to me, not to mention robbery attempts.

I
needed to find a hotel before it started raining. A few open horse-driven carriages waited for passengers, as did one limousine-taxi. The driver courteously opened the door for me - he didn't doubt my choice.

"Would you prefer a
waterfront hotel? Many are vacant now."

"No, some place
quieter and closer to downtown." And drier – the first rain drops had already plopped on the window shield. The car was half-way through the serpentine route, when somebody in the sky turned on the shower.

I was impressed with the rain
- Krauhardian rains were like a dog's piss by comparison. Roads immediately turned into rivers, visibility was reduced to a couple of steps, and real waterfalls came down from the roofs. I thought we would have to wait at the curb for the rain to pass by (or it would wash us away), but the driver somehow managed to navigate in a continuous curtain of water. We arrived at the hotel that had a covered courtyard; through the back door, I made it inside without getting a drop of rain. The taxi driver had earned his tips.

I planned to start m
y search for the zombie in a couple of days. Max had been waiting for me for six months, and a few more days wouldn't change anything. I needed to look around; the main thing was not to forget the purpose of my trip in the abundance of new experiences. I wrote "Max" on a piece of napkin and attached the note to the most prominent spot - the toilet door. Now I could relax and do something that ordinary people did when they had plenty of money.

* * *

In mid-summer Edan Satal's wife gave birth to a son. The magician was very proud, as if the gender of the baby was exclusively his achievement, and aggressively shared his joy with coworkers. Realizing that such behavior destabilized the team rather than contributed to more productive work, the senior coordinator sent his subordinate on vacation (for the two prior years plus the current year). Taking care of his screaming child, the mage quickly came back to reality and returned to work ahead of time.

Satal planned
an expansion of his department - he thought to add retrospective animation (who would dare say that it was not practical?). Unfortunately, attempts to engage necromancers in the work of NZAMIPS resembled catching a black cat in a coal shed, but Satal did not give up hope. Periodically, rumors about his activity reached the senior coordinator's office to the deep displeasure of the latter.

Once Satal lingered after a
routine meeting with his boss to ask about his former student, "Do you know where Tangor is now?"

"
He worked for the Army, but then disappeared."

"Why?"

"Because he is a pussy. I'm disappointed with him. He realized that the disk amulets from Haino's estate didn't match his interpretation of the ritual's scheme, but his character did not allow him to admit that he was wrong," Larkes said, sorting out papers with Tangor's handwriting on it.

"
Do you have any ideas where he would go?"

"How
do I know?"

"Did
his curator not follow him?" Satal was astonished.

"
They didn't feather in," the senior coordinator tried to be diplomatic, though he wanted to kill the bunglers from the support services.

"
Ha!" his cheeky subordinate grinned, lounging in the armchair and clearly intending to give his colleague a piece of advice.

Larkes'
eyebrow started twitching - the senior coordinator's self-restraint had its limits. The impending duel was prevented by an agitated secretary who broke into his chief's office: "Sabotage in the Kerpan labs!"

"
Poisoning?" Larkes suspected negligence at work with Sa-Orio's gas.

"
Explosion!"

"
What happened?" Satal became interested.

"
It will be your job to find out," Larkes jumped at the opportunity to be rid of the troublesome mage - he could not stand overly independent employees. "You're the chief of practical magic!"

Alex unlocked the door of
his office. The office previously belonged to Professor Nursen. Carefully cleaned quill pens patiently waited for the return of the previous owner (Jim Nursen loved antique things), but the inkwell had already dried up - three months passed since the tragic death of the archeologists. Alex looked through the titles of folders lying on his table.

"
We are very grateful for your help sorting out the professor's archive," an unpretentiously dressed man watched closely the actions of the white.

Alex shrugged. H
e couldn't leave his mentor's works unknown to society.

"Without you, it would be impossible to
finish his last manuscript," the man went on, not embarrassed by the silence of his interlocutor.

Alex nodded.
He promised to the publisher to finalize the book before the fall - otherwise the contract would have been terminated, leaving Jim's widow without any money. The tragedy deeply affected the white: he became withdrawn and lost his desire to communicate with people. For the white, his deceased friend didn't disappear completely, but rather lagged in time, entrusting Alex with continuing his deeds.

"I thought that your view of history differed from Nursen's."

"N-not in this area." Nursen's manuscript wasn't about White Halak, the theme of Alex's dissertation.

That
fall the white magician was awarded a doctoral degree. At the defense he was opposed by a visiting professor from Ekkverh, a respected scientist, who knew none of the subtleties of the candidate's research subject. Now Alex proudly added Doctor of Science to his name; regrettably, he had no friends with whom to celebrate the occasion.

"Do y
ou plan to continue your archeological research?"

The white glanced at the i
nterlocutor in astonishment. Wasn't it obvious?

"I am authorized to offer you the
position of senior scientist under the auspices of our brotherhood. In the group studying paleocivilizations."

Alex frowned suspiciously,
"W-why me?"

"Who would
be better than you? You are familiar with the findings of the Sixth Detachment and the results of the expedition to Polisant; you defended a dissertation in ancient history. Specialists in this subject are exclusively archival theorists, unable to appreciate the importance of field work. Some time ago we…lost our lead archaeologist, and our research in this area stalled."

Alex
didn't hurry to reply. The white walked over to the shelf where he stored modest souvenirs from his previous expeditions: a fragment of a transparent glass bottle (there were plenty of them in Capetower's excavations), a mysterious terrazzo, arguably of the artificial variety, and a pale amateur daguerreotype from the Bird Islands, on which a young necromancer was sunbathing (Pierre Akleran just could not pass up this scene).

"I heard about your
b-brotherhood from my Mom, Mr. S-siton."

"I hope
it was only good things. Please accept my condolences."

The white nodded
curtly. "You are unscrupulous."

"It'
s in the past. The Brotherhood's politics has changed; you'll see for yourself. You'll be the head of the group. You'll be choosing methods and means."

The white
turned on Nursen's kinematic sculpture, which stood on his desk: the balls started clicking. Alex's mother, when dying, revealed many secrets of her past to her son. She strongly advised against the Salem Brotherhood. On the other hand, what could be worse than accusations of madness that he heard behind his back? A teaching career was now closed to him.

"If I
f-find out…"

"Then you'll immediately report
on us to the authorities, as befits a responsible citizen. Sometimes our brothers lose their sense of proportion in a passionate search for the truth. It's extremely important for us that the head of the group will be of high moral principles."

Alex looked at the recruiter
, who smiled good-naturedly.

"What's yo
ur problem? Due date nearing?" the white sighed sympathetically.

Mr. Siton lost his pomposity
. "Yes, it is. We've gathered materials up to our necks, but we can't make any sense of them. Recently, NZAMIPS seized a unique library from the artisans. We were asked to provide a conclusion regarding the intentions of sectarians. By the way, respected Maitre Haino was one of them: we found a tomb and a crematorium in his estate. Would you agree to the death of a person - let it be a volunteer - in order to uncover some mysteries of the past?"

Alex shrugged,
"It's easier to hire a necromancer."

"That's true," admitted Mr. Siton.
"What have you decided?"

"I
will take the job."

"Welcome to the club!"

* * *

I always wanted to know what drew
vacationers to the Southern Coast. Quarters claimed that summer heat was soft here. To me any heat was evil. I would have understood if people wanted to extend the summer season by going to the south, but fall in the Golden Harbour was "off season" because of rain. To me, the fall weather was perfect: warm with a cool breeze and a two-hour downpour every afternoon.

On my first day in the city, after the rain,
I went for a walk to the beach and nearly died. The slopes weren't steeper here than in Krauhard - it was my poor physical shape: I hadn't fully recovered after the incident at the Finkaun ritual. So, next day I leisurely strolled around the city, without fanaticism searching for my zombie-dog, in harmony with the locals, who never seemed to rush. A shortage of customers afflicted restaurants: some were out of business, most of them cut the number of tables - extra furniture towered under the eaves or in the yards. However, I didn't see unhappy faces.

Everybody's
leisurely mood changed my plans. Once in a lifetime I could afford myself a few days of loafing. The Southern Coast instilled a sense of lightness of existence, though the townsfolk weren't careless - I saw plenty of sensors of instrumental control, and most houses had protective perimeters. Local beggars spoiled my feeling of idyll: skinny and tanned ragamuffins, wearing minimal clothes, looked out of place against the backdrop of neat houses - like slop dogs at the party. Among them were no crippled, elderly, or children.

One
house aroused my suspicions: it was on a wild cliff, from the top and on all sides surrounded by bushes, too far from the sea. Who lived in there? I decided to check. I sensed from afar the first touch of alien magic. The two-story building was sitting on an unkempt lot. Its inhabitants did not care about aesthetics and convenience, and only thorny bushes grew behind its fence.

Spells in
the security perimeter looked familiar…Who else could steal my zombie, if not a necromancer? Beware of me, thief! I feared nobody and jumped over the fence, spitting on the protective curses.

The door was
unlocked. In the spacious kitchen Charak was making tea. Max sat in the corner, on a folded blanket, grinning in a friendly manner and slapping his tail on the floor.

"What
?!"

"
Will you have tea?"

"What the hell is my zombie doing here?"

Max pursed his guilty ears and drummed his tail harder. I called him up and checked his condition (revivifying curses were in place).

"Did y
ou want to lose your dog? Did you think collectors of 'magic waste' would appreciate the beauty and complexity of a no-man monster? Be thankful that your little dog was smart enough to pretend to be lifeless. Or he would have gone straight into the oven!"

I didn'
t think of it…But I couldn't admit that I played the fool. "Do you want me to believe that you had pitied my dog?"

Charak winced,
"I knew you were alive and sooner or later would come for your dog."

I proudly
kept silence.

"
Do you remember our last talk? Have you decided what you want as compensation?"

"Yes
. I want to know the locations of ancient constructs with unclear or unknown functions."

"
Too late!" the necromancer grinned. "Sectarians have already seized the amulets."

"I
don't care. Do you know that the scheme you gave to me is a bit distorted?"

"
Why do you think so? The drafter looked reliable," Charak sadly shook his head and poured tea into our cups.

"
I saw the original," I shrugged, trying to choose the cup with more tea. Charak also offered little iced cakes.

"
Did you figure out the meaning of the ritual?" the necromancer's voice was deliberately indifferent, but I knew better!

"I
did; that's why I've asked for the locations of ancient constructs."

Charak bit
his lip, washing down with his tea his disappointment at my reluctance to talk, "Perhaps, you'll share your guess with your old teacher?"

What a different story!
What a pleasure to feel yourself the most intelligent! Besides, there was no point in keeping this secret from him: "The amulets are just the Keys to a bigger device," I spoke with meaning. "The functional part - the device - is somewhere else."

"
An interesting theory," Charak stretched thoughtfully, sniffing his ice cake. "By the way, sectarians always performed their rituals in the northwest, and never in the south or east."

I
pulled out a folded map: "Can you show me the locations?"

Charak sighed,
"I wish I could say 'yes' to you. Wait a minute - I know whom you can ask! A connoisseur, a great lover of antiquities, lives in a nearby town. He owes me a favor. I'll talk to him about you."

"
Thanks!"

Love for antiquities wa
s a hobby that required plenty of money or power or both. On the phone, Charak referred to the connoisseur as "Phil," so I had been in blissful ignorance until I read his address on a piece of paper.

"Don't be shy,"
the necromancer advised me. "Phil is a weirdo, but he can afford such behavior. We have known each other for two hundred years; he's got guts. I gave you an excellent recommendation. You are my most talented disciple, and I owe you. Phil said he had heard your name. He promised to help."

That'
s when I looked in Charak's crib and realized that his friend was the Senior Coordinator of the Southwestern Region, Mr. Phil Axel. It was too late to retreat. Axel knew that I was on my way to him; it would be cowardice to change my plans suddenly.

W
hy not, after all? He made a joke of me, and I did not laugh it off. The events of last year that injured my pride were revived in my memory. Mr. Axel had to pay for them.

I spent
an entire evening straining my brain in order to come up with something original. I gave up on a thought to use magical tricks - there was a great chance to make a fool of myself. Besides, he could incriminate me in something (I ought to find spare time to learn the existing legislation). How could I put the dark in an awkward position and not run into a fist fight? Well, Axel, beware of me!