My Path to Magic 2: A Combat Alchemist (16 page)

Gilead happened to get on the list of sea ports by
mistake - that part of Arango's coast line lacked deep-water bays. Its piers were crowded with battered fishing boats; large ocean liners with wind towers and smoking chimneys stayed a good mile away from the shore, entrusting cargo and passengers to nimble port tugboats. Gilead wasn't interested in grain - Arango's main export; the port lived exclusively on seafood, which didn't trade well lately. Fishermen and townsfolk, whose lives hadn't changed since the Reformation, began feeling a vague anxiety and looked around for other jobs.

On
one of the piers a group of strange people sorted out piles of boxes, bales and barrels, delivered by the last steamer. Schooners' owners wondered which of them would be hired by the eccentric treasure hunters - the locals had no doubt that the visitors would go to the Bird Islands. The fishermen studiously avoided discussions about the prospects of treasure hunting: sailing trips to the Bird Islands brought in steady income for the third year in a row. Outsiders, if they paid, were welcomed to search for whatever they wished, even for a sea dragon.

Today, a
new attraction awaited the regulars of the port. A strange construction of two wheels, two riders, huge bags, and a giant suitcase rolled with a bass rumble down the pier. A vehicle was barely discernible under the volume of cargo. Contrary to expectations, it didn't fall off the pier into the water, but turned to the dock and stopped near the treasure hunters. A skillful driver of this luggage on wheels was a little over twenty and looked neat and clean as if he just got off a cruise ship and had not ridden through Arango's dusty roads. The dog, running after them, was dirty and covered with thorns.

"
Take the steering wheel, thrifty boy!" the young man yelled, getting out of their piles of bags.

His
passenger took a firmer stand to hold the overloaded motorcycle in balance. Dark mages were a rare thing on the East Coast, especially in the last decade, but fishermen noticed something vaguely familiar and disturbing in the newly-arrived. The port folk postponed their affairs and started watching them closely.

Meanwhile, the newcomers began convers
ing with the treasure hunters. A long-haired young man, looking like a student in a sweatshirt with philosophical quotes printed on it, barely older than the driver of the striking vehicle, was in charge of the longshoremen. He quickly glanced at the strange travelers. "Hello, sir," said one of the strangers; his "sir" sounded sarcastic, more like "you, asshole". The long-haired man looked back, surprised. The guy in elegant trousers, compassionately staring at the philosopher in the sweatshirt as if the student was mentally crippled, pronounced, "Hey, you! Where is the sixth detachment?"

"Why do you care?" said the long-haired
philosopher.

The dapper
driver of the motorcycle cast a penetrating gaze at him and said condescendingly, "Call one of your superiors."

The
student's smile became strained; he tried to invent a witty reply. The situation was saved by one of the longshoremen, who immediately recognized a dark mage in the newcomer and hastened to stop conflict development.

"They checked in at the
Drunken Flounder
; go up and turn right after the bakery. If you need the chief, ask for Mr. Barray."

The arrogant young man nodded and
returned to his motorcycle.

"Hey, biker, turn off your
headlight! It's day time," the long-haired shouted into the mage's back.

T
he young dark switched something on the steering wheel. His motorcycle filled air with a frightening hoarse roar; clouds of birds billowed up from the pier. The port supervisor doused himself with beer, swearing like a drunken sailor.

* * *

In Arango, I discovered a new side of myself: I hated traveling! Well, driving for a day or two with a comfortable overnight stay in a hotel and an indispensable pair of clean socks was more or less okay.  But riding through the countryside day after day, not even knowing in advance where you would sleep the next time was pure perversion. The first couple of days I entertained myself by looking at the faces of my Arango countrymen, who feared my motorcycle, but then my dark nature prevailed, and I began to grumble and blame everybody and everything for life's inconveniences. Luckily, my companion could not fight back - he was under the influence of the inhibitor of magic.

The
blockade of his Source woke up in Sorcar an abyss of thriftiness and caution: the "cleaner" packed up so much junk for our trip that I dropped my jaw. Well, I understood his need for some personal belongings, but twenty pounds of grub, drugs against every possible illness, pots, blankets, and a hell of a lot of other "essential" stuff?  Though he knew the local specifics better than I did - Arango's backwoods were certainly not suited for travel. We had to stay overnight in private houses, as there were absolutely no hotels along the way, and peasants in Arango lived poorer than in Krauhard - they often had no spare blankets, and their linen was so worn that I was afraid to touch it. I preferred hay and a barn for sleeping at night. Sorcar once stayed inside a peasant house and then scratched himself almost to death. I wondered why the locals didn't exterminate the bugs in their dwellings. Okay, no magicians left in the province, but couldn't they use a plain bug killing powder? It would cost next to nothing!

I did not dare speed up
on my overloaded motorcycle; finding fuel oil to refill the tank was a big problem, too. Road signs were nowhere in sight.  I guess it made sense because most of the villagers were illiterate.

When we drove by an orchard, I decided to stop and pick up some apples for
lunch. It was a burned-down farm. I could see through the still-burning embers the contours of charred carcasses of human and animal remains. Sorcar and I pretended we saw nothing - we didn't want to go to the local police, give evidence, sign records, and whatever else would come across a constable's mind…Residents of the farm were dead, anyway. Later Sorcar told me that it was the dwelling of the only local dark discovered by Arango's "cleaners" - the son of the farm owner. By the end of our journey I thought of the conveniences of my apartment in Redstone as of a posh dream and blamed myself for not going with Captain Ridzer. I was sure that the army mages would make their living conditions quite comfortable on the march. We were driving for five days when Arango's steppe ended suddenly - as a nightmare. Hills imperceptibly appeared on the horizon and moved much closer to us. Behind layered ledges - an open chronicle of geological epochs – the Eastern Ocean rolled its waves of warm water. The color of its water was turquoise, and a misty haze smeared a boundary between the sky and the earth, making the ocean look like a piece of a fairy tale. I couldn't overcome a temptation to stop my motorcycle on the crest of the last hill and stupidly watched for a few minutes the movement of white foam on the blue-green waves. I recalled the stern cold mists of King's Island in Krauhard and realized how unfair life was: some reap all the benefits and others take all the losses.

"Awesome," Sorc
ar said behind my back, "though high waves and jellyfish make swimming difficult."

I chuckled.
Perhaps somebody enjoyed swimming, but in me saltwater inspired unhealthy associations.

The
road became noticeably busier; Gilead was at the end of it, stretching along the shore of a shallow bay. The city smelled of the indescribable odor of fish carrion. We arrived at the port at lunch time and found my employers rather easily. An organization, ambiguously called
the sixth detachment
, was temporarily housed in the inn
Drunken Flounder
. Well-wishers advised me to look for Mr. Barray, but according to my contract, the name of my employer was Dr. Nursen, and I was set on finding the latter.

A paramilitary truck with no markings
on it was parked in front of the inn; it was there for quite some time, judging by its windshield covered in gull droppings. We were immediately spotted (they were probably curious to see the source of the loud rumbling - it was my bike with muffler turned off). I left my motorcycle and zombie under Sorcar's watch and went to the inn, where somebody already waited for me on the porch.

"H-
hello!"

I squinted.
Bah, a familiar face! "Hi, Alex. Are you having articulation difficulty?"

The w
hite mage smiled shyly, "It's g-getting b-better n-now."

I
nodded in understanding. The old sayings were true; a get-together of a white and otherworldly always ended badly.

"Who is t-this
guy on the b-bike?"

"It'
s my brother, moron."

Probably
Sorcar's face displayed his ire with my answer, for Alex didn't dare to ask his name.

"Listen, is Nursen here?"

Alex nodded, "W-why d-do you ask?"

I took out of my pocket a fat envelope with
travel documents.

"I have to deliver some
papers to him!"

Unfortunately,
a problem with articulation didn't discourage Alex from talking. From the flow of his t-t-t-, v-v-v, s-s-s I captured one thing - my arrival was very timely, because tomorrow they would depart somewhere for at least a week.

Alex
broke into the room of his superiors without knocking (an interesting moment of subordination), and we were able to contemplate his bosses in exotic poses: they stared at my motorcycle, which stood under their window.

"Hello!"

They both jumped from an unfamiliar voice. Then we were introduced to each other.

Jim Nursen turned out to be a gray-haired gentleman,
a white mage of modest power and a member of the Archaeological Society of Ingernika. Second, a slightly better dressed man, was Mr. Barray (either an assistant warden, or a manager). Nursen was a science executive; with all our practical questions we had to go to Barray. The sixth detachment was an archaeological expedition. I wondered why they needed a necromancer.

After learning
who I was, the old gentleman became insanely happy that I never saw white mages, except in my close family, who would rejoice on the arrival of a dark magician. Jim said that we would sail to the island tomorrow, to do some field work. My attempts to get more detail about the expedition ended in nothing; it was a secret. As a compromise, I negotiated that Sorcar would stay in the city at their expense and look after my zombie and motorcycle.

"Is it t
-t-true that you are a n-n-n…"

"A specialist
in retrospective animation? Yes," I replied to Alex.

My conspi
racy failed almost immediately: helping unload my motorcycle, Alex touched my dog, fainted, and then asked in shock, "What is it?" I had to tell him everything. Well, almost everything.

"
How can you s-stand it?"

"It'
s a very perspective specialization. Rare, well-paid. I took a couple of lessons; they went well."

"B-but this is f-forbid-d…
"

"
Animation of human corpses is forbidden; the law is silent on animals," Satal made me promise to keep this subtlety secret. The people of Ingernika are very lucky that dark mages read so little.

"Hey, how can I get some writing
paper here?"

"F-for w-what?" he did not understand.

"I'll be taking notes for my r-report," I honestly admitted. This good idea came to me too late, as usual.  After driving around Arango for a week, I realized that I would forget all my observations sooner than I could get back to Ho-Carg to write a report for Larkes. Alex immediately presented me with a pencil and a brand new notebook, made of expensive lined paper.

"W-we
t-thought…at the end of t-the m-month…"

"
At the end of the month?" I did not understand.

"
You will c-come," Alex explained. "N-now we'll f-finish w-work…"

"…e
arlier," I ended for him.

Alex nodded happi
ly. Of course, the fact that they wanted to round off their expedition earlier pleased me.  About three weeks remained for me to finish all my university work for this year's graduation, plus my trip back to Redstone would take a few days. I went to my room in high feather: there was no need to beg Jim to shorten my practice. Our sailing was scheduled for tomorrow, and I would have no time to sleep tonight: Max needed combing. And washing…What a longhaired dog turns into, if you allow him to travel on his own paws, is impossible to describe; sometimes I wanted to de-incarnate and bury him forever. While I was busy with my zombie, Sorcar was napping like a pig. I was tempted to wake him up and force to help me, but then I thought that his Source would come back soon, and he would beat me back for it!

Needless to say,
next morning I was a bit out of shape.

Nursen generous
ly hired the best ship in Gilead - a modern steamboat. It was a flagship of progress in Arango, of course. An idiot-alchemist, who attached a propeller to a schooner, should have been drowned in a bathtub: just from glancing at the steamboat's engine my eyes started leaking tears. He used a belt transmission! In the ocean, with such a heavy load on the shaft! He did not adjust the shape of the blades at all! I sadly watched as the steamboat's crew was preparing to ignite the oil engine and realized that Arango's higher-ups chased away not only all dark mages, but alchemists, as well.