My Path to Magic (11 page)

"What will happen next?"

The assistants tinkered with something in the corner, while the instructor examined me with the look of a professional surgeon.

"You will acquire Power."

I tried to discern what they were doing, but failed.  It drove me crazy.

"There won't be anything cruel, right?  Nothing special?"

The instructor's eyes met mine, and he declared solemnly: "There will be!"

"You have no right!" I tried to speak decisively, but my voice trembled and broke.

He leaned closer to me and winked conspiratorially: "We do."

My dear mother!  I had fallen into the hands of maniacs.  The police persuaded them, and they would kill me right here and now and blame the ritual.  What could I do?  SOS!

The assistants mounted a few black candles along the altar and lit them, murmuring indistinctly.  I started feeling an uncomfortable tingling in my hands and feet.

"The spell is called 'Odo Aurum', " the instructor told me amiably.  "It will help you to call your Source as soon as possible.  We'll wait  until the spell starts operating."

I instantly recalled where I had heard that name.  The spell was used by inquisitors to increase the sensitivity of their victims to pain, making obtaining any confession trivial.  I broke out in cold sweat at the discovery.

Please understand me correctly: I did not hesitate to jump into a fight, and I never worried about skinning my knees.  But being tied to the table, helpless...

Wait.  Helpless?  I was practicing all summer!

"Hey,  freak, let off me now, or I'll slam you with a curse!"

"Try it!" the instructor smirked.

I hesitated for a moment, feeling a disgusting tingling that climbed along my spine, remembering pictures of the injured from the police collection, and fighting with a feeling of mercy and humanism, awakened at the wrong time.  Should I try to contain my temper further?  No, damn it!  With familiar effort, I mentally squeezed my Source and drove the Power outward, trying to crush any malicious magic or, at least, break the damn bracelets.  A white shroud flashed before my eyes for a second, and when it had faded, all the unpleasant sensations disappeared at once.

"Not bad.  Very good, actually!" the instructor's voice lost its threatening tone.  "Fourth level on your first attempt.  Now dismiss the Source!"

I gently released the Source—my feet had already been freed.

"What, is that all?"

"Yes," the instructor announced cheerfully, "but I have to remind you that you must not disclose to anyone the essence of the ritual.  If our actions lose their surprise factor, we would have to go much further, up to the actual harm.  Do you understand me?"

At that time I was ready to understand anything in order to cut and run.  One of the assistants offered me water and energizers, and another advised me not to hurry, but I brushed off their help and broke through to the door.  Already at the exit, I ventured to ask: "Why we are not allowed doing it ourselves?"

"If you hadn't noticed, a modulating spell is set on the room.  It directed the energy of your call and helped create a secure channel for your Power.  The first time the control is very important; after the Empowerment had happened, it would be almost impossible to change the characteristics of the Source.  Don't worry!  The ritual took place almost without deviations."

"Deviations?" I instantly tensed up.

"Judging by what I've seen, you will show one particular talent."

"Which one?"

"If you attend your classes regularly, I will tell you at the end of the year."

What a bastard!  It must be a common feature for those who teach dark magic—the ability to drive a student into frenzy.  Oh, yeah, I will be attending his lectures!  And he will regret that.

That was it—no more secret rituals.  Screw that!  Having climbed the steep stairs, I literally tumbled out  into the hall.  I was greeted with ceremonious applause.  Quarters smirked brazenly behind the backs of the university authorities.  Who let him in on the event for the dark?  Dean shook my hand; the instructor slipped me some sort of paper to sign and a numbered token that would be exchanged for a magician's seal upon graduation.  I no longer had to fear wearing the
shackles of deliverance
.

The goblin in the uniform gloomily watched the process of my legalization.  I smiled.  A smiling dark mage is quite a sight!  He couldn't do me any harm now!  Officially, I had just been initiated; to prove the opposite he would have to bring the memory crystal and explain why he had not done that before.  This subtle psychological point was taken into account by Uncle Gordon and me.  Had the brave cop's sense of duty prevailed over his selfish interests, we would have found ourselves up a creek without a paddle.  But the dark mages are quite selfish and measure others' corn by their own bushel.  In short, we bet on his cowardice and didn't lose.

The goblin waved at me, calling me over.  Others sharply stepped aside.

"How are you," I welcomed him.

"Fine...  Captain Baer."

With some delay, I realized that the captain was him.

"What can I do for you?" I inquired politely.

"I... would like to offer you an apology."

"For what?" I replied lively.

"You know!" the captain-goblin cut me off.

I shrugged: "I forgive everyone!"

Goblin looked me up and down, and then pulled out a plain business card with NZAMIPS logo.  "If you have a problem," he nodded meaningfully, "do not hesitate to contact me."

"Thank you, Officer!" I grinned.

He paused for a moment, thinking (I was prepared to use the instructor as a shield), then nodded and returned to his place. 

I looked around, trying to determine what effect I produced on others.  They all stared at me somewhat strangely.  Assured that there wouldn't be any speeches given, Quarters took me by the arm and dragged away.  I didn't have the strength to protest.  Everyone wanted to lay a hand on me that day...

The assistants with businesslike looks tramped past us—went to search for another victim.  At this point I clearly saw why the secret of the famous ritual had remained veiled to date.  The thought that every past and current dark magician had been tricked into this, and that every future magician would be, filled my heart with inexpressible satisfaction.  You forget your own troubles, enjoying others' misfortunes.  Psychotherapy, damn it!

Quarters wasn't perceptive enough to understand these subtleties.

"Wow!" he exclaimed.  "Do you know who he is?"

"Captain Baer."

"Chief of Redstone's NZAMIPS!  You were rude to the inquisitor!"

I shrugged and said what I thought about Captain Baer, generously employing Krauhard's folklore and many other slang expressions.  Quarters gaped after me, trying to remember the phrase that took his fancy.

"Well, as you wish!" he concluded.  "Let's have beer."  Seeing me tensing up, he generously added, "My treat!"

* * *

A dark magician in the police uniform was righteously indignant: "As I said, it was idiocy to go there!  A mage from Tangor's family is not so easy to catch!  He went to the Trunk Bay for a reason.  It's Krauhard!  They cover for each other, all stand united; there is no tripping him up."

Conrad Baer listened to him half-heartedly, briskly looking around.  They marched to the gates of the university, and the majority of oncoming students abruptly changed course at the sight of the police officers.  All were guilty!

"Come on, stop it," the captain dismissed his subordinate.  "The guy worked hard on self-control, found himself a mentor.  I think he won't be trouble."

"A nonstandard channel of power will manifest itself during his training.  Two years of intensive practice, and he will be off his rocker!"

"Hardly," the captain did not support his coworker.  "Larkes examined his crystal, and the configuration was quite stable."

The magician chuckled, "Sir, I think Coordinator Larkes has his own stake in it."

"We'll see!"

A student standing in a group of people that gathered at the university gates suddenly took to flight, having discovered the presence of the police.  Captain Baer barely suppressed the desire to pursue the fleeing man.  NZAMIPS must strengthen intelligence work at the university!  So many cases could be closed at once.

Chapter 8

Believe me, not every magician can become an instructor in combat magic!  One must have a special talent to make a gang of young dark beasts nauseate and sweat their guts out.  Precisely a gang, because the university's program did not provide private lessons, and precisely to the point of sickness, because practice with the Source required incredible effort at the beginning.  I, thank god, passed that stage.  In my case, dearest Uncle Gordon stimulated my brain with pebbles, but a university instructor could not afford to beat up his students; otherwise, he wouldn't leave the auditorium alive.  However, Mr. Rakshat coped with the task well: he cursed like a drill sergeant, thrashed his cane on students' desks (making a sudden incredible noise over your ear-- it's an unforgettable feeling), threatened to put you in the
shackles
, and hoarsely whispered what fate would befall you at the slightest mistake.  I admit, I used to have a finger tremor after three hours of such training.

That was why we had so few dark magicians!  No one in his right mind would agree to such a travesty—if he had a choice, of course.  From this reasoning followed a sad conclusion that all those present, except for me, were insane.

Mr. Rakshat wasn't particularly spiteful with me, but he did not improve my mood; perhaps, I was the only dark in the university's history who fell into the autumn depression.  My finances were dwindling like golden leaves falling off trees; it didn't matter how frugal I was; money could not multiply in the absence of income.  Add to that the cost of supplies, essential for a novice magician, payment to the "chatterbox"—my answering service, a fine for the violation of municipal bylaws (for drinking with Quarters), and you will understand that I was on the rocks long before the foliage had flown off.

My mulishness did not allow me to ask for help from the family.  I had already borrowed from Ron and a few other friends with the promise to pay it back at the end of the month.  Students were short of money after summer vacations and lent with reluctance.  The day that I went to bed hungry for the first time in my life inevitably came.  That fact impressed me deeply.  No room left to maneuver; reluctantly, I set a date for an appointment at Gugentsolger's Bank and tried to figure how much money they would snooker from me.  Apparently, I would give them back twice as much as I would borrow.

The first call came at the peak of my desperation.

The "chatterbox" handed me a piece of paper with the address and name of the client.

"I said that your next free day would be Saturday, and they didn't mind.  I don't know what you're gonna do, but good luck to you."

I laid out a course on the map and was making a detailed plan of the campaign all of Friday; a trip through the fields and communication with the client needed to be thoroughly prepared for.  That day I ate only two pies stolen from a  freshman's bag (shame on me); hence, I approached the preparation with the uttermost care.

My bitter experience suggested that it was not enough to be a dark magician—you ought to look like one.  So when I approached the farm gate, I was dressed in a shiny black raincoat (on a perfectly clear day), official business attire from a rental shop, and wore black dance shoes (brand new; it was a gift from my mother on admission to the university).  That was exactly how a classic dark mage should look.  One my hand played with a bunch of keys from storage lockers with a shiny nickel-plated pendant shaped like a car, another held a spacious gripsack, borrowed from the university's amateur theater.  Let people think that I came here by car rather than guess that I walked ten miles from the station!

A little girl sat on the grass before the gate and played with a rag doll.

"Good afternoon," I hissed coldly, "how can I find Mr. Larsen?"

She squeaked and ran away.  A minute later a middle-aged gentleman in traditional farmer clothes (plaid shirt, homespun overalls) came out from the house (I suspected an uninitiated white mage in him).  He looked at me childishly, with a mixture of fear and admiration.  "Wow!  A genuine dark magician!"

I smiled sternly and condescendingly, imitating the most hostile teacher from my school, and then demonstrated a silver business card with my initials and indistinct logo (I had a whole five of them with me).

"Have you called our firm?"

"Yes!" he breathed out, stunned.

" 'Neklot & Sons': we will solve all your problems!" I proudly announced.  "I understand that you believe your house is cursed.  Can I take a look around?"

"Yes, yes, of course!  Will you allow me to take it?" he held out his hand toward my gripsack.

With pleasure, I handed my heavy baggage to him and added strictly: "Be careful with it!  Inside are my tools."

Just one look at the interior of the house was enough to understand—this task was beyond my skill level.  The supernatural was certainly present there: all corners were covered with thin black gossamer, visible on the walls in some spots and translucent on the glass.  That was
phoma
, one of the simplest manifestations of the otherworldly, a brainless mold.  It was dangerous if it struck roots—in that case it was easier to burn the house than to clean it.  Almost no time remained until the moment when all isolated pockets of
phoma
would merge in a deadly black cocoon.

"Has anyone died already?" I tried to stay as indifferent as possible.

"No, no," he shook his head.

Well, it would not stand true for long.  In any other circumstances, I would have smiled sweetly and buzzed off, but the money wasted on renting the suit was big enough to make me cry.  And then, the
phoma
was primitive; I knew curses to expel it (though I never used them—Chief Harlik taught me the basics, but he was not stupid enough to teach the youngster anything serious).