Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 1

Part two

PRIVATE PRACTICE

"The white mage seeks harmony with existence. For the black mage, it is natural to be in confrontation with reality" - theorists write this phrase from age to age without thinking at all about how the properties of magic affect specific people. The essence is that a white magician is carried through life in a furry glove, and a black magician is chased by a broom.

From the lawyer's speech

* * *

Chapter 1

* * *

The University of Redstone consists of two blocks, or territories, as it is commonly known. The new area is on the edge of the city, across the river. There is the bustling student dormitory and the huge factory-like laboratories of the alchemy department. It is said that somewhere behind the dormitory there are also greenhouses and a barnyard, but I have never come across these phenomena of university life.

The old campus and heart of the university were the Redstone School of Magic, the first institution to train black and white mages together. Until then, no one had ever managed to reconcile opposites. The Founders of the school found the magic formula: they introduced ordinary people to the student body and began teaching them alchemy and pharmaceuticals. While this arrangement is now standard, it was a revolution at the time. Since then, classical apprenticeship has been on the wane - graduates of specialized alchemical as well as magical institutions have fallen far behind university graduates in terms of ability.

The joint training was supposed to allow ordinary people to actually learn the logic of magic (an important life experience presented at the right time) and for mages to better integrate into society. And blacks, being in an absolute minority, had no opportunity to stifle whites, which was a nice bonus for the latter. The Redstone School quickly became a university, producing some of the most talented alchemists, the most powerful white mages, and the most powerful battle mages in the world. Now I would be joining them. This year twelve students have expressed a desire to take the Acquisition of the Power. If the statistics are to be trusted, there will be at least one master of the highest art, a couple of generals, and a real archmage among them.

I sat in the square in front of the faculty building, waiting my turn (three other people were taking the ritual today besides me) and getting annoyed over nothing. The fact was that my dearest uncle (goddamn him, the old bastard!) refused to explain the ritual to me after a whole summer of lessons with the Source. //If you know everything in advance, you're sure to give yourself away! Just remember, you must hold off using the Power for as long as possible. Do you understand? As long as possible!" - That was all I could get out of him. Now my peers were preparing for the most important event of their lives, fasting and taking special potions, which my uncle forbade me to touch, and I was sweating, anticipating trouble.

The hand of the sundial was creeping toward twelve when the guy who was supposed to be doing the ritual in front of me appeared on the path. I didn't know his name - blacks rarely got to know each other. He looked at me grimly and then, without saying anything, scurried off in the direction of the main building.

I am next.

The location of the Faculty of Black Magic is quickly recognized by all students. It's a place you don't want to go to in the evenings. Newcomers often mistake it for the outbuildings - the three-story box a la Abode of the Doomed looks wild against the main building with its tall lancet windows and multi-colored shimmering jeweled trim. The university is systematically considering relocating the faculty to a new site (the city administration is simply raving about the idea), but there is no movement. It takes a monstrous amount of money to create such an institution from scratch. The point is that the monstrous building is a unique magical construction capable of containing the consequences of fatal student errors inside, and it fulfills this function regularly. Because according to statistics, two percent of black mages die in the course of their studies. But today, the townspeople could sleep easy - for a whole week the building was at the disposal of the newcomers.

The black carpet was laid out in front of the doorway, and on the walls were posters with the wise sayings of famous battle mages (imagine that battle mages could speak culturally!), and on the roof, attracted by magical emanations, sat in rows the crows, companions of morality and battle. The vice-rector and the instructor, and their two assistants were waiting for me in the lobby of the building. The authorities-the same goblin policeman and the unfamiliar black mage in uniform - were just silently present. All quite expected.

"You decided to go through with the initiation after all." Mr. Darkon looked a little sad.

Before the incident at the police station, I was still thinking about it, but there was no point in showing off now.

"I'm not going to give up on alchemy."

"That's what everyone says."

The instructor coughed politely:

"If you are aware of the risks accompanying the Acquisition of the Power, please sign the papers!"

It was a waiver agreement - the university undertook to do everything possible to make the rite a success but was not responsible for the injuries sustained in the process. And before that was a handwritten and unmarked application, a letter from my next of kin, since I was still under twenty-one, a health certificate... At one time, just listing the necessary paperwork would have been enough to discourage me from becoming a mage. I hate bureaucracy! But there wasn't much choice now, so I signed the agreement without looking.

I was patted on the shoulder, wished me success, and escorted to the large black leather doors. I tried to find out what to do next, but the instructor started making a speech on the subject of historical parallels and high responsibility, the content resembling the babble of white teenagers. I did not want to make a fuss on such a day, so I had to wait for the flow of words to run out.

Just outside the doors, the corridor ended in a spiral staircase leading to the minus-second floor, which made sense: a ritual of this kind must be performed in a laboratory with the highest degree of protection, so such rooms are usually bricked up in the foundations. I had never been to one of these places before. I imagined a secret temple with torches and pentagrams, but life was more prosaic: there was a tiny locker room with a single bench and a coat rack beside a rattling iron staircase. Here I was offered a black pajama-type ritual costume, and from there, I walked barefoot, pretending to be hardened since childhood, for a black mage in leaky socks is not even funny.

The instructor pushed open the cast-iron door, like a safe, with effort. There was no temple behind it, just a small room without any sharp corners. The polished silver walls were glowing with the glow of bluish-white lamps. If there were any magic marks, they were not conspicuous. One of the assistants led the way, the other propped me up, and the instructor kept showing me the way, tugging at my sleeve occasionally and making me madly irritated.

I hate being grabbed!

The door behind us closed with a clanking sound that made my heart skip a beat. What was the purpose of locking myself in?

"...this important day for every black mage," the instructor muttered monotonously.

In doing so, he managed to maneuver so that I saw the target of our movement at the very last moment: it was a low iron table with four leather bracelets.

"I think..."

He took my hand, as if unintentionally, and began to roll my back onto the polished surface. All my instincts howled at once. I lunged for the door but was deftly intercepted by the second assistant and laid on the fucking altar. That it was an altar was clear as day.

"I've changed my mind! I don't want to!!!"

"Too late," the instructor informed me, catching his breath. "You will come out of this room a black mage or not at all."

"A-A-Ah!!

Damn, it! The walls in here are thick, and it's a basement. I tried to pull myself together (figuratively, because my hands were strapped behind my head). Two people had gone through the ritual before me today, and both had survived unharmed; I had even seen one myself. The color of his face, however, was...

"We shall see what we shall see?"

The assistants were jangling something in the corner, and the instructor was looking at me with the professional gaze of a surgeon:

"You will gain the Power."

I tried to see what they were doing there, but I couldn't. It was just driving me crazy.

"But there's nothing like that, is there? Nothing's going to happen?"

The instructor met my gaze and solemnly announced:

"There is!"

"You have no right!" I tried to speak with determination, but my voice trembled and snapped.

He leaned closer to me and winked conspiratorially:

"We have."

Mum! I have fallen into the hands of maniacs. The cops put them up to this. Now they're going to kill me here and blame it on the aftermath of the ritual. What is there to wish for? Help me!!!

The assistants placed several black candles along the altar and lit them, accompanying this action with inaudible muttering. My hands and feet began to tingle unpleasantly.

"This spell is called Odo Aurum," the instructor informed me in an almost friendly manner. "It will help you summon the Source as soon as possible. Let's wait for it to work."

I instantly remembered where I had heard the name. It was a spell used by the Inquisitors to heighten the sensitivity of their victims so that any confession would be a mere trifle. The discovery sent a cold chill down my spine.

Don't get me wrong. A black mage isn't born yet who's afraid of pain and injury. I've never hesitated to get into fights and never worried about keeping my knees safe, but to be tied to a table like that, in a helpless state...

Whoa. What do you mean, "helpless"? I'm a black mage, I've been training all summer!

"You freak, untie me now, or I'll hit you with a curse in your eye!"

"Try it!" grinned the instructor.

I hesitated for another minute, feeling a hideous tingling sensation climbing up my spine, remembering the pictures from the police collection and fighting the ill-timed sense of humanity that had awakened. Holding back further? Damn, it's all to hell! I clutched the Source with my habitual effort and thrust the Power outward, trying to dislodge the damaging magic or at least tear the damn bracelets. A white veil flashed before my eyes for a moment, and when it was gone, all the discomfort was gone at once.

"Not bad. Very good!" The instructor's voice lost its menacing tone. "Level four from the first try. Now leave the Power!"

I gently let go of the Source - my legs were already free.

"What, that's it?"

"Yes," the instructor announced cheerfully. "But I must remind you not to reveal the ritual to anyone. If we lose the element of surprise, we'll have to go much further, up to and including actual mutilation. Do you understand?"

Now I was willing to understand anything to get the hell out of there. One of the assistants offered me water and a sedative, and another told me not to hurry, but I managed to shake them off and make my way to the door. On my way out, I ventured to ask:

"Why can't we do it ourselves?"

"In case you haven't noticed, a modulating sign has been installed in the room. It directs the summoning energy and allows you to form a safe channel for the Power. First-time control is very important - once Acquisition has taken place, it's almost impossible to change the characteristics of the Source. Don't worry! The ritual went almost without deviation."

"Deviations?" I tensed up.

"From what I've seen, you're going to have one specific talent."

"Which one?"

"If you attend classes regularly, I'll tell you at the end of the year."

Bastard! It must be common for those who teach black magic to be able to drive a student to a frenzy. Oh, yes, I'll keep attending his classes! And he's going to regret it.

No more secret rituals. Screw it. Climbing up the steep stairs, I literally fell out into the hall. I was greeted with a standing ovation. From behind the university supervisors smirked stubborn Quater. Who let him into a black event? The Dean shook my hand, the instructor slipped a sheet of paper for me to sign, and handed me a numbered badge, which would be exchanged for a Mage's Seal upon graduation. The Shackles of Deliverance no longer threatened me.

The uniformed goblin frowned at my legalization process. I smiled serenely. A smiling black mage was a sight to behold! What could he do now? I was officially initiated only now, and to prove otherwise, they would have to present the crystal and explain why they hadn't done so before. Admittedly, it was a subtle psychological point that Uncle Gordon and I had considered in formulating our plan. If the sense of duty among the brave policemen had prevailed over self-interest, we'd both have been screwed. But black mages are selfish, and they measure everyone else by themselves. In short, my uncle and I had bet on the interest, and we'd been right.

The goblin waved his hand at me, beckoning me towards him. The others retreated sharply to the sides.

"Good day!" I said a friendly hello.

"Good... Captain Ber."

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

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

"I just... ahem... wanted to apologize."

"What for?" I asked vividly.

"You know it yourself!" cut off the goblin, who is the captain.

I shrugged:

"Forgiveness to all!"

The goblin looked down at me with a heavy stare, then took a simple business card with the NZAMIPS logo from his pocket.

"If you have any problems," he nodded meaningfully, "don't hesitate to get in touch."

"Thank you, uncle!" I grinned.

He paused thoughtfully for a second (I prepared to use the instructor as a shield), then nodded and returned to his seat.

That's how it is! I looked around to see what impression I had made on the people around me. They looked at me strangely. When I was sure there were no speeches, Quarter picked me up by the elbow and dragged me away. I no longer had the strength to complain. Everyone was groping me today...

The assistants strode past us with a businesslike look, looking for the next victim. At that moment, I understood very clearly why the secret of the famous ritual was still unknown. The thought that every black mage in existence had fallen for this trick and that every future mage would fall for it filled my heart with inexplicable satisfaction. My misfortunes were erased by the joy of others' misfortunes. Such psychotherapy.

But the Quarter would not have had the subtlety of a soul to realize this.

"You've got to be kidding me." he marveled. "Do you even know who it was?"

"Capitan Ber."

"Chief of Redstone Watchdogt! You're supposed to have been rude to the Inquisitor!"

I shrugged and said what I thought of Captain Ber, generously using Krowhard folklore and many other unprintable expressions. Quarter pursed his lips, trying to remember some turn of phrase that caught his fancy.

"Suit yourself!" he summed it up. "Let's go get a beer." And, noticing my tense expression, he added generously: "My treat!"

* * *
A black mage in a police uniform emitted righteous indignation:

"I told you it was dope to go there! The mage of the Tangors clan can't be caught so easily! Do you think he went to Trunk Bay for nothing? It's Krowhard! They're a tight-knit bunch. Everybody covers for everybody else! You can't get away with it!"

Konrad Ber listened to him half-heartedly and looked around with interest as they walked towards the university gates, and most of the students on their way changed course abruptly when they saw the police. Everyone is guilty!

"Come on," the captain dismissed his subordinate. "The lad's been trying. He worked on control. He found a mentor on his own. I don't think he'll be a problem."

"An unconventional channel will only make itself felt through practice. Two years of intensive practice and his marble start rolling!"

"I don't think so," the captain did not support his colleague. "Larkes looked at the crystal, and said the configuration was stable."

The mage hummed:

"I don't want to say anything, sir, but it seems to me that Coordinator Larkes is a person of interest."

"We shall see what we shall see!"

A student from the group gathered at the gate, suddenly aware of the presence of the police, turned to flee in a dash. Captain Ber could hardly suppress the urge to chase the fleeing man. It is necessary to strengthen the agent's work in the vicinity of the university. So many cases would be closed at once...
* * *

Chapter 2
* * *

Believe me, not every mage can become a combat magic instructor! It takes a special talent to make a gang of young black mages work up a sweat until they swoon until they are sick. It is a gang because the university's curriculum does not provide individual lessons. And work until sickness because the first experiments with the Source require an incredible effort. I, thank the ancestors, have already passed this stage. In my case, the kindest uncle used sea pebbles to stimulate my brain, and the instructor could not afford to beat up the students, for in this case, he would not come out of the classroom alive. But Mr. Rakshat coped with it. He swore like a drill sergeant, banged his cane on the desks with all his might, making unimaginable noise (suddenly, over the ear - an unforgettable sensation), threatened us with Shacles, and told us in a whisper what fate would befall us in case of the slightest mistake. I confess after three hours of this, my fingers began to tremble.

That's why there are so few black mages! No man in his right mind would agree to be subjected to such abuse. If they had a choice, of course. The conclusion was sad: everyone here, except me, was insane.

Mr. Rakshat didn't give me much of a hard time, but that didn't make me feel any better. I was probably the only black mage in history to fall into autumn melancholy. It was all because the leaves falling from the trees were golden, and rustling and also because there were fewer and fewer of them. Here my savings were also melting - no matter how strictly I saved, money could not multiply in the absence of income. Add to that the cost of supplies necessary for a novice sorcerer, the payment of the "chatterbox," the fine for disturbing the peace (I had the misfortune to get drunk with the Quarter!), and you can see that I got bankrupt long before the foliage was gone.

My donkey stubbornness kept me from asking my family for help. I had already borrowed money from Ron and a few other friends on the promise that I would pay them back at the end of the month - after the summer, the students were short of money, and they were reluctant to lend it out. Nevertheless, the day came when I went to bed hungry for the first time in my life. This made a strong impression on me. There was no room for maneuvering, so, with a heavy heart, I fixed a date for a visit to the Guggenzolgers, and now I was wondering how much they would charge me. As it was, I would get back twice as much as I would get.

And then, the first customer showed up.

"Chatterbox" handed me a piece of paper with the customer's address and name written on it.

"I told them your nearest free day was Saturday. They didn't mind. I don't know what you're going to do, but good luck."

All Friday, I studied the route I was to take on the map and drew up a detailed campaign plan. I had to prepare carefully for the trek across the fields and the contact with the client. I had only two cakes stolen from my freshman bag (what a shame!), so I took things very seriously.

Bitter experience had taught me that being a black mage wasn't enough; you had to look like one, too. So, as I approached the farmhouse gate, I wore a shiny black mackintosh (in perfectly clear weather), black dress shoes (my mother's university graduation present, never worn), and a sleek business suit I'd rented. This is exactly what a classic black mage should look like. I wiggled a bunch of brand-new keys (from the lockers in the locker room) with a shiny nickel-plated car keychain in one hand and clutched the handle of a roomy leather valise borrowed from the props of university amateur performers in the other. They'd rather think I came here in a car than guess I had walked fifteen kilometers from the station.

In front of the gate, a little girl was sitting in the grass, playing with a rag doll.

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

The child squeaked and ran away. A minute later, a middle-aged gentleman in traditional farmer's clothes - plaid shirt, homespun overalls - and with obvious signs of an uninitiated white one came out of the house. He looked at me with childishly naïve eyes, with a mixture of fear and admiration. Oh, yes! A real black mage.

I smiled sternly and condescendingly, imitating the nastiest teacher I had in school, and then showed him a silver-toned business card with my initials and a vague logo (I had five of them):

"Did you contact our company?"

"Yes!" he exhaled in exasperation.

"Neklot & Sons - we will solve all your problems!" I proudly announced. "I understand you think your house is cursed. May I see the cause of the trouble?"

"Yes, yes, of course! May I?" He held out his hand to my handbag.

I gladly handed him the heavy luggage, remembering to add sternly:

"Be careful! There are tools in it."

A quick look around the room was enough to know that I had gotten involved in this for nothing. There was definitely the undead here: thin black cobwebs wove around all the corners, protruding in places on the walls and shining through the glass. Phoma was one of the simplest of the elemental manifestations of the otherworldly, a brainless mold, but if you let it take root, it would be easier to burn the house down. Anyone who stays inside for long risks their life and health. It was only a matter of time before the individual foci would be locked together in a deadly black cocoon.

"Has anyone died yet?" I asked as indifferently as possible.

"No, no," the farmer shook his head frantically.

Well, it wouldn't be for long. I should have smiled nicely and shoved off, but the money I'd spent on the costume rental was stinging me to tears. And then, Phoma was primitive; I knew all the rituals necessary to exorcise him. Really, I'd never used them- Chief Harlick had taught me the basics, and he wasn't stupid enough to teach a young man anything serious.

"Do you know our rates?" I asked to buy time and collect my thoughts. "Do look into it! Your case is number five."

He accepted a sheet of paper from my hands, filled with letters in an elegant, gothic script.

"Three hundred crowns?"

I shrugged, inwardly rejoicing: if he said no, I could retreat without losing face.

"If you are not satisfied with the amount, I recommend calling a local Cleaning Service."

The farmer shook his head:

"They've already been here and done nothing. Let it be three hundred! Can you manage?"

If the local black has been here and hasn't found anything, he should be burned - not as a mage, but as a charlatan. So, if anything, he wouldn't notice my mistakes and wouldn't be able to track me down.

Besides, three hundred crowns...

I gave the nastiest smile I could.

"What do you take me for? Our firm guarantees the exorcism and no recurrence of the otherworldly phenomenon. Of course, if you manage to curse your home twice, we are not responsible for that."

The farmer nodded quickly:

"That's understandable! When can you start?"

"I would like to do everything today. I really don't want to have to travel twice this far. And spirit isn't cheap these days..."

"That's great! Is there anything you need?"

I am noded.

"You need to get all the people, pets, and plants out of the house. I will start work after dark, so you have time. It would be better if you spent the night somewhere you know."

All the inhabitants of the house, and there were many of them, were on the move. The farmer had put two heavy wagons into a big three-axle cart, and now the household was dragging everything they felt they could not survive the night without. Cats and kittens, puppies and dogs, ficuses, violets, two boxes of cacti, a cage of parrots, and an aquarium. People keep all sorts of rubbish at home! A mountain of hand-embroidered cushions, a porcelain set carefully packed in a basket, bundles of albums with family photographs, suitcases with linen, as if they were just waiting for the take-out command. Perhaps, subconsciously, people sensed the impending disaster and were glad to get out of there, at least for a while.

Ignoring the commotion, I watched Phoma carefully. It was a clear day, and the undead was asleep, but this kind of frenetic activity might have woken him up early. So far, all was quiet.

The sun had not yet touched the horizon, and the farmer's family was ready to leave. The owner came up to me:

"Are you sure?"

Should I tell him no?

"Don't worry. Come back after dawn, take over the job, and we'll settle up then. If you like, you can bring an expert with you, although I wouldn't recommend relying on the local cleaning service."

"Yes, indeed!" The farmer exhaled and galloped off to the cart where his family was seated. He was happy to have someone to blame for his problem.

I waited patiently until the squeaking of the wheels, the squealing of children's cries, and the barking of pugs subsided. I needed the silence to calm myself, to summon the Power, and to get the idea out of my head that the job would be easy: overconfident black mages die young, a slow and painful death. To fight any, even the most harmless undead, is a fight to the death, and that death may not be mine.

I took off and carefully folded the rented suit, wrapped it in a mackintosh, and hid it behind the farm gate, where the precious rags were safe. I was now wearing black sweatpants, a faded T-shirt, and rubber boots I had borrowed from the farm. Nothing of value. If I turned into a patch of black slime in the morning, my financial situation would not suffer. Mosquitoes were the only thing to worry about. I hate insects. When I get back to university, the first thing I'll do is learn a spell that will repel mosquitoes or better yet, incinerate them on arrival.

Now I had to restrict the area of conflict. I took an enchanted compass and a bunch of spokes with bits of shiny foil bolted to the blunt ends. Ideally, they would have been shards of the same mirror, but I hadn't yet figured out how to drill holes in the glass, and I didn't dare use store-bought accessories for reasons of secrecy. Following the compass arrow, I walked outside of the house, marking my path with spokes and cursing insects (neither waving my arms nor speeding up), then moved inside the house and marked all the windows I could reach with colored crayons. The battlefield was ready.

Once in the room, which seemed to be the center of the spread of the Phoma, I took out of my valise a portable altar (a simplified model, a variant for students) with an embossed coordinate grid, which made the construction of pentagrams much easier. It took no more than a minute to draw the exorcism symbol. Then I chose three candles from the set: white (don't mix up the colorless ones!), red, and black, and carefully smelted them on the altar. Tipping over candles is the main cause of injury among black mages. Even the undead are not so bad. Now all that was left was to wait for nightfall.

The sun had not yet fully set, and Phoma was already beginning to awaken to his mysterious non-life. He was big and hungry and irritated by the absence of his usual sources of food. When the clock struck eleven, I decided there was no point in waiting any longer and lit the first candle.

The flame was tiny, but it was pure white, as no ordinary substance produces when lit. Only white wizards could make such candles, and they were used to ward off the melancholy that so often plagued refined white souls. I found a better use for it. Touching the white tongue with my finger, I commanded:

"Flame of fire, listen to me! What I call, I want to see. Phoma. Phoma. Phoma!"

The problem with simple spells was not their effectiveness but their side effects. If there had been no Phomas around, the candle I had temporarily animated would have retaliated for my insolence: I would not have been able to conjure at all for days, and I would have seen Phomas everywhere. But in this room, a Phoma was guaranteed, so the candle's flame doubled in size and streamed upward in white glowing smoke, filling the outline of a monster invisible to the naked eye. I waited. After about half an hour, the picture of contamination was clear.

Lucky for that farmer, he had time to get out of the house! The undead was already nearly ripe, individual pockets of mildew beginning to emit thin tentacle-like cilia, preparing to merge into a cohesive trapping body. It was an achievement to get to this stage! They had grown too fat, too relaxed, too tired to think of the invisible threat. I should have left it at that, let the oafs get eaten.

However, three hundred crowns, yes...

Now the undead must be baited and sealed, and time was of the essence in this procedure. I couldn't activate the seal before the whole Phoma was within its range, and I couldn't have it gobble up the bait and fling itself outside. Concentrating and stirring up the Source of Power, I touched the red candle, commanding:

"Flesh, fire!"

The theory was that the candle was supposed to emit that inimitable unique scent that attracted otherworldly creatures to the living body. The scent of food irresistibly beckoned the mindless creature. Phoma had no real body of weight or volume, so what had filled the house with serpentine branches a moment before shrunk to the size of a ball of wool and tightly entangled itself in the bait. At the very moment that the last smoke sprout hit the pentagram, I grabbed my Source by the scruff of the neck and hurled it straight into the black candle:

"Dangemakharus!"

The true meaning of the word has been lost in the darkness of ages, but it is well known that there is nothing better for a brute-force attack. The black candle did not burst into flames but exploded into a ball of smoky flames that instantly filled the outline of the pentagram. Amid the jets of fire, the Phoma rushed as a chaos of black lines. I squeezed the Source as hard as I could, bringing to life the most destructive form of black magic - the Infernal Flame. It was a bit steep for petty undead, but I didn't have any other ways to exorcise them. No long hours of exhausting fight required: Phoma squeaked and vanished in a green blaze, more time to tame the fire and keep it from splashing on the floor. Just like that! I don't know if it's possible to kill something that wasn't originally alive, but it's not here now, so technically, it's dead.

I spent another hour making sure there were no other otherworldly phenomena in the house. I found out the source of the Phoma's appearance, an old, worn-out chest of drawers. I don't know where it came from, and I don't know why the undead had existed in it for so long without showing themselves, but I don't think I'll be going to any more flea markets. You never know what you might bring home!

While I cleaned the room, stripped the candles from the altar, and wiped the windows clean of the remnants of the magical signs, dawn broke. There was no point in going to bed. I stoked the wood cooker in the kitchen and brewed myself some coffee from the farmer's supply, then I scavenged the pots for leftovers and destroyed the pastries my hosts had carelessly left on the table. Life was getting better. All that was left was the money.

The hosts arrived at nine o'clock when the sun was already high. I met them at the door of the house (suit, cloak, boots, valise in hand), smiled politely at the farmer, and nodded coldly at his companion, a gaunt priest of an unknown denomination (frankly, matters of religion do not interest me).

"Well, your problem has been solved. Please examine the house!"

They entered, and judging by the immediate brightening of the farmer's face, he felt all was well now. The old man paced the rooms for a while but had to admit that the place had become quite safe. Embarrassed, Mr. Larsen handed me a weighty sack containing the reward.

"You have no idea how grateful we are! I thought this nightmare would never end."

Well, it would be over for them in a couple of days anyway, but why upset the one who was paying? I put a dry, cold, very black-magic smile on my face and nodded:

"Our staff make no mistakes! We are new to the market in this region, and we would be grateful if you could recommend us to people you know." I handed both of them a shiny business card each. "One small request: if it is possible, do not give our contact details to the subject who inspected your house before me. Black mages are very nervous about outsiders invading their territory. I fear he will try to hide his blatant incompetence behind an ugly scandal."

The farmer and the priest nodded so vigorously that I was sure the local cleaner had already demonstrated himself.

"Another advice. If you buy second-hand clothes, dip them in salt water or, as the case may be, rock salt and leave them there for a day. This will keep you out of trouble in the future. There's no need to escort me away!"

Proudly straightening my back and not turning around, I strode down the path winding through the hills and fields. Next time I would have to get a cane and learn how to use it. And the head of the cane must be in the shape of a skull.

It was going to be a full day's journey to the station, and I had classes at the university in the morning. The noticeably heavier valise was no longer irritating, and the thought of three hundred crowns warmed my heart.

A visit to the Guggenzolgers could be forgotten for the time being.
* * *

A black lacquered carriage pulled by a pair of sturdy trotters stopped in front of a large farmhouse. Outside the gate, four children of varying ages in the company of a brisk red dog and a melancholy pony were frolicking noisily. There were two of them sitting on the cart, and another passenger was sprawled out on a leather spring seat, bored.

The driver remained with the horses while his neighbor jumped to the ground and walked briskly towards the house. The man's appearance was not sympathetic: he was naturally lean and thin in the bones, but his face was puffy, his eyelids were puffy, and his nose and cheeks were blue with a network of burst vessels. His black overcoat was worn and shiny at the elbow, and his trousers looked crumpled and hung down in unkempt lanterns at the knees. The companion gave him a scornful glance, rose from the miserable creaking seat, and followed him leisurely. The gentleman was tall, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit of a civil officer, and bearing a resemblance of a Guard officer; at his arrival, the red-haired dog hid behind the children's feet and began to growl in displeasure.

The arrival of the guests did not make the landlord happy.

"Look, there's that cleaner again!" He whispered through his teeth as he watched the men approaching through a crack in the curtains.

"We didn't call him!" his wife jumped up.

"Exactly. Take the children, I'll meet these ones."

In the meantime, the wearer of the coat reached the porch but did not ascend it.

"Mr. Larsen!" he called out in a rattling falsetto. "Mr. Larsen, may I see you for a moment?"

The farmer came out on the porch, gloomily looking at the visitors. His wife slipped behind him, gathered the children in the yard and led them into the house.

"What is it, Mr. Kugel? We seem to have agreed that you have no business being in this house."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Larsen! I told you I couldn't help, but I have a colleague with me now who can..."

"We don't need your help!"

"You don't get it..."

"Shall I repeat it to you?"

"I beg your pardon," the tall gentleman intervened, pushing the hapless Kugel aside, "but if there is a phenomenon reported to me in your house, it poses a threat not only to your family but also to your neighbors. Such things don't go away on their own. They can't be ignored. Saving five hundred crowns will lead to the fact that your loved ones will suffer, and the house will have to be burnt down..."

"Don't you dare come near my house!!!"

A white mage in a rage is a rare and very atypical occurrence, and the consequences can be extreme! The tall gentleman held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture:

"I beg your pardon! I misspoke. Excuse me! I just want to make sure there is no threat. It's my duty. It's my duty to respond to the message. I just need to take a look. I won't cause anyone any trouble!"

With a visible effort, the farmer pulled himself together:

All right, you may come in. But I repeat: we do not have any problems, and we do not need your services.

The tall gentleman entered the house for just a moment and almost immediately, after bowing to his master, went back out. Mr. Kugel crumpled uncertainly on the porch:

"I don't understand. I was sure..."

The tall gentleman entered the house for just a moment and almost immediately, after bowing to his master, went back out. Mr. Kugel crumpled uncertainly on the porch:

"You half-assed bastard! What the fuck are you serving here for?! What are they paying you for?! He couldn't exorcise Phoma, the wretched sorcerer. He needed help. There wouldn't have been any bones left of these people by the time we got here! Today is your last day in this position. Write your resignation and pack your bags. And be lucky they found someone smarter than you, or I'd have had you in the mines for life. Degenerate!"

The gentleman kicked the man whimpering in the dust with his boot and headed for the gate. The charioteer did not wait for the latecomer, and Mr. Kugel had to walk home.

* * *

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/85505/549542

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP