Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 3

Chapter 3

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I remember that winter in bits and pieces, and some of the episodes looked as if they were not happening to me.

Everyone knows that the first six months after Acquiring the Power are the most difficult period for a black mage. The adept's search for balance with Source changes internally and externally (I don't mean hooves and horns), which is true for blacks and whites alike. I used to be amused by the sight of four-students wandering around the university with goofy smiles, hopping around, or, say, 'saving' autumn leaves from a puddle. A mage in a period of temporary insanity is a favorite subject for student anecdotes. Now I realized that only whites were the target of jokes; fortunately for me, none of the jokers saw a black mage after class. But the persistent rumors of zombies being bred in the Combat-Magic department had an unexpected explanation.

The future Magisters and Generals were sprawled out of the faculty building in complete darkness, not lowering themselves to vulgar good-night wishes. Real blacks in a circle of their own should behave like that! But years of habit were so strong that I could barely keep from making a farewell gesture. Some wise man had written that bad character develops in blacks out of a sense of self-preservation - the only way to withstand day after day the pressure of a hostile Source. Bitchiness was definitely something I lacked. Probably the only thing that kept me from a complete breakdown was the blind belief that I could not lose.

It's bad enough to be a black who grew up among whites.

When I left the gloomy walls of the faculty, I would wander into the nearest café, where I ate without tasting and drank without getting drunk, and then the experienced owner would put me in a carriage. Yes, now I could afford to go to the hostel instead of walking! I don't know how the others managed to find their way in such a state. The thought that the next day would be all about alchemy helped me fall asleep without nightmares.

Actually, I might as well have made every other day a day off. For the first six months after the Acquisition, Roland Scholars are entitled to benefits. Why would I want to do that? If I didn't alternate between alchemy classes and training, I was bound to get mentally damaged. After the excruciatingly demanding work with the Source, alchemy was like a balm, cool, transparent, and sincere. Predictability and precise calculations, the beauty of formulas, and knowledge of the true essence of things tamed power of elements that loaded my hands with work instead of straining my mind. It got to the point where observing the admirable precision of the revolver machine. Quarter patted me sympathetically on the shoulder. Perhaps the other apprentices were not so tired, but that was because they had the good sense not to take up the illegal practice.

Meanwhile, my underground business was gaining momentum. I did not get greedy. I did not advertise at all, but people kept calling and calling. The OGS (One Guy Said) system works effectively amongst the villagers. It was unbelievable how many terrible secrets lurked among the peaceful scenery! Phomas, family curses, water spirits, anchovies, house-dwellers, the silent pestilence, and even the Predatory Echo. It was as if someone was breeding them there. Once or twice a week another client would call into the office, begging tearfully to save Uncle Peabody or Auntie Tryphany. Literally saved. There were none of the primitive psychoses to which I had become so accustomed in Redstone had come my way. A couple of times I'd already been called in after the first death. It wasn't even about the money - I just didn't have time to spend it. No matter how many times you were a black mage, you couldn't send a woman weeping into a phone whose son had contracted bone rot in a cemetery.

It's so bad to be black growing up in a white family.

My "chatterbox", Miss Fiberty, was unexpectedly understanding. I had a corner in her flat with a filing cabinet and work magazines, a valise stand, and a suit rack (I now had my suit and valise). In the evening, the landlady made me a delicious strawberry tea and let me talk to her, for which I was immensely grateful.

I was approaching a two-call-per-weekend mode of operation, with the geography of my journeys becoming more and more confusing. Leisure time disappeared as a phenomenon. There was barely enough time to sleep, and long walks and waits for the locomotive turned into elaborate torture. Having once fallen asleep on a platform waiting for a train and nearly frozen to death, I realized I needed my own transport.

The question was which one? A horse was out of the question: there was no place to keep it, and it would die from such exertion. A big black limousine with leather seats was, alas, unaffordable. The only other option I could think of was a bicycle. After counting my savings and finding the insane sum of fifteen hundred crowns, I felt the need to get creative.

To show off, to put it simply.

The only car shop I knew was across the river, just opposite the student dormitory, and from a distance, looked like a long hangar with an overhead light. I did not intend to buy anything there, but it was a good place to get an idea of the goods. Get on the sellers' nerves. Check out the machines and buy something second-hand from an ad in the newspaper. What if I get lucky?

I didn't want to wait for a free day, so I took the day off on my own, ducking out of a lecture on the theory of Sorcery. I had no problem with that discipline. The sun was shining, the light frost had caught the dirt, and the feeling of unexpected freedom was quite spring-like. I did not put on my work suit and tie for the occasion, and among the glamorous walking crowd, I was an amusing anomaly. There were middle-aged gentlemen, ladies with children, and old ladies with dogs strolling along the promenade. There were no skinny, cheeky students among them.

Is it a festival or something? Or is it just a crowded place?

The slightly renovated barn was proudly called "The Plaza". Most of the visitors, like me, came here just to gawk; the chic thing was that all the samples could be viewed indoors without having to go outside. The sunlight shone through the lantern, and the shop was unexpectedly warm.

Along the long wall, two dozen brand-new cars lined up. The disappointment I felt at this harlequin exhibition is indescribable. No, in principle, I knew that cars were toys for rich city dwellers (the villagers preferred horse-drawn vehicles and for seasonal work, desperately smoky tractors running on rapeseed oil), but I had no idea how bad it was. Most of the cars were gaudy, with plenty of chrome and gilding, in cheerful colors, and some with no top at all. I was subconsciously disgusted by the sight of them, and they all had very low seats. There was no way to get into the places where my clients lived with such toys. A black mage who had to be dragged out of a pothole on a cord would be a disgrace to his profession! I felt an unbearable urge to buy a tractor and drive it back and forth over the barn.

"Do you have any military products?" I asked the pimply young man with the consultant badge without much hope. "For the countryside?"

The lad pressed his lips together primly.

"We do not sell agricultural machinery!"

Such a worm with an ego!

"I know where trucks are sold," I smiled dryly, feeling the fur on my scruff rise. "I wondered if you had anything worth having?"

"Good afternoon!" At the smell of a brewing conflict, an elder of the hall instantly appeared. The young man caught his gaze and quietly evaporated. "Is there something, in particular, you're interested in? Not everything we sell is on display in the hall."

I sighed. Being a black mage has its pros and cons.

"I need a car that will pass everywhere, a small, black one."

"Would you like to see the catalogs?"

I reluctantly agreed - looking at the pictures meant they did not have the goods I needed in their finished form. The salesman took me to his office behind the garage. The place was quite remarkable: all the walls were covered with posters depicting machinery. Steam trains and locomotives, cars of all brands, racing cars, angular army trucks, and tractors - anything that moved without the use of muscle power. In the glass cabinet, there were tiny copies of the most outstanding models. I looked at a scooter model that looked just like my own, and I squinted in pleasure - this man had good taste.

"In order to satisfy your request," said the salesman, busily laying out thick trays of magazines on the table, "we need to formulate it clearly. The intended use of the machine you require, the operating conditions, the fuel type, your financial means, and so on. We can get you any model for an appropriate fee!"

"I need to travel frequently from the city to the countryside. There are no roads there, not at all. I need to travel quickly. Comfort is not important. I thought I could buy something left over from the sale of military property."

"You can," the seller nodded, "but the military only sells vehicles after they've driven them half to death. You'll go broke on repairs alone, and it will cost a fortune to rip them a brand-new unit - there's no demand for such vehicles among civilians. You have to work on demand."

Damn blood... As expected, I was caught in the fork of the needs of the city and the countryside. No one, no one thinks about the talented black mages forced to work literally to the bone! But the merchant was already staring up at the ceiling, digging hard at his memory. It seemed it was a matter of honor for him to satisfy an exotic customer request.

"Let's go!" He suddenly perked up. "It's a sight to see."

We left the garage under the interested stares of visitors and staff.

"My reasoning is that a "spirit burner" will not work for you. It's a problem to get dry fuel in the countryside, and with diluted spirit, the engine will shut down after each kilometer."

I remembered my experiences with the scooter and heartily agreed with him.

"So we'll look for something on oil," the salesman concluded. "Diesel is more difficult to operate, but I assume you have experience."

The peddler drove the yellow two-seater around town in a nimble fashion, while he filled me in on the details of the car industry:

A couple of years ago, Domgari Motors was marketing cars with diesel engines, but it didn't work - apart from the military, no one was interested in them. It is noisy, difficult to service, poor starting in cold weather, and large. In short, the promising development was stalled. But the company managed to make prototypes.

There was a hunting excitement in me. Was there anything in this world that could serve me, me, and only me?

We drove into the suburbs, into a block of warehouses and workshops.

"There! Our illiquidity."

The dusty shed was densely packed with five units representing small trucks, limousines with abnormally elongated bonnets, and even a minibus.

"What's the catch? Why weren't they bought?"

"I'll start it up, and you'll see." The salesman went in search of fuel oil.

I stayed to look around the collection. All the cars were a bit big against the usual, and at least three of them had a high enough ride to fit the definition of an off-road vehicle. Oil was cheaper than spirit and more widespread, meaning there would be no problems with refueling. In a corner, covered by a dusty tarpaulin, was another smaller unit looming in the corner. The thing reeked strongly of black magic.

"Oh, that!" A salesman stealthily approached. "A perfect monster. Check it."

I pulled down the tarp. There was a motorbike underneath, so big it made my jaw drop.

"A dead end, and it's a pity." The salesman shook his head in sincere chagrin. "It's not even the size of it. The engine works by means of black magic. One single malfunction and it would be cheaper to throw it away than to repair it. You know how much black magic costs!"

I knew as I had provided it myself.

"Can I try it?"

The merchant grinned:

"Do it!"

The machine was expertly mothballed, just wiping the outside and filling the tank to get it started. The black spell that gave the engine a semblance of pseudo-life spewed out half the oil and fairly gurgled. Goddamn, it's a mechanical zombie!

"Just don't go into town," the merchant asked.

I nodded and pressed the starter. The engine didn't growl - it roared. The vibration was such that the bike almost bounced, the shields covering the rider's face and knees deployed in a sparkling cloud of magic. I grinned, turned the throttle, and rolled out of the hangar.

The effect was terrific! The peacefully conversing tradesmen paled and turned around. The sleepy technicians dropped their tools, and the heavy truck drivers frantically clung to their control belts, preparing to tame the rampaging beasts.

I drove around the hangar, causing frightened shouts and unhealthy commotion everywhere.

The monster was capable of killing a white magician with its mere sight, not to mention its sound. So no more driving in the city; all I needed was a fine for disorderly conduct. I'd have to get a garage somewhere in the suburbs and leave the monster there... Because there was no longer any question of choice.

When I returned, the merchant's face expressed both annoyance and delight.

"Man! How much is it worth?!" I yelled, blocking out the roar of the engine.

"Four thousand!" he shouted back. "But we will give an installment for two years!"

"I'll take it!!!"

That's how I became the owner of the worst vehicle in all of Ingernik. One word - blacks are cool!

The motorbike was that breath of air. It was the fresh stream that allowed me to emerge from my black magic-induced stupor. It combined the old and the new, the life before and the life now, the power I had gained, and the freedom I had gained. I seemed to be the last one in the group who hadn't yet regained consciousness. Seeing me awake and angry, Mr. Rakshat breathed a sigh of relief and began to train us with redoubled vigor - there was no "natural withdrawal" in our group.

The monstrous machine, cleverly painted black by the makers, had taken up residence in a shed at the city dump. The caretaker there owed me some money. It was convenient for everyone. First, no one could see. Second, no one could hear. And finally, the parking was cheap, and the inhabitants of the junkyard would not dare to steal from a black mage even on pain of death - an extremely superstitious crowd. It was perfect, all in all, except for the stench. I was hampered in my happiness by the restrictions of the night drive by the noise of the engine; my route could be traced by the sound, which was not conducive to secrecy (remember, remember the NZAMIPS). There was no question about changing cars, so I had to think about what I could do to improve it. Am I an alchemist or not?

Pure alchemy was not going to solve the problem. Unless you count a big pile of pillows as an option, but my gut feeling was that there was a way out. The very design of the mechanical zombie was what made me think of it. Using a spell to control the engine was an ingenious solution that saved the owner the trouble of starting and idling. The design fell just a little short of perfection. It's a shame, isn't it?

I spent a week digging through The Battle Mage's Workbook, amusing myself by counting the euphemisms that could replace the phrase "black magic". In three hundred and twenty pages, I counted twenty-four possibilities. The word "curse" appeared only once. It was pathological... The solution came as I was driving back to Redstone from another client. It was evening, it was getting dusky, and the headlight refused to go on. The spell controlling the engine had decided to ignore the dynamo. It didn't like it! The engine warmed up like an oven, and it could not glow one little hair of metal - the intervening links in the form of windings and wires were rejected.

The problem was one of principle. The black spell is not an alchemical construct created by a master once and for all. It existed as an equilibrium of flows, a constant movement, a pseudo-life. The engine was a single organism with its own rhythm of work, while the dynamo was an alien overlay with a different logic of being. The strong organism rejected the foreign element. In a good way, they should have been made as two separate modules, independent of each other and communicating via a simple material buffer. Having pondered over the design of the lighting unit, I inevitably came to the question of the power source. And then it struck me. Alternating current!

I made the alchemical parts of the new construction myself in the workshops. I was hesitant about the magic part, but I did not risk drawing the pentagram in the garage, so I went to Mr. Rakshat to ask him for a place in the laboratory. The instructor was clearly impressed by the extent of my responsibility, and he gave me a place and even advised me on the result.

"I don't know why you want the amulet," he hinted meaningfully.

"Oh," I glowered, "this is going to be a muffler revolution!"

Let him be tortured by curiosity.

Quarter was called upon to appreciate my exceptional skill and unique talent. By that time, the unit had not only been assembled but had also been field-tested twice - the ride was much more comfortable.

Quarter looked at my machine with respect:

"Cool bicycle! Is it fast?"

I brush it off.

"Look!"

Better yet, listen. I turned the starter, and the ground shook.

"Whoa!" the unaccustomed Quater shook his head at my vehicle.

I smirked and turned the inconspicuous lever on the hull. The rumble was cut off, the roar turned into a bassy grunt, and a wave of blinding light shot out of the steering wheel-mounted headlight.

"Whoo-hoo!" It was like Quarter sticking to my bike. "How'd you do it?"

"Black magick."

Quarter raised an eyebrow.

"How can I explain it... The movement of the pistons creates a light wave instead of a sound wave."

"Patent it!"

"What?" I didn't understand.

"Patent! It!" He repeats it slowly. "If someone sees it, they steal it immediately."

"Come on..." I didn't want to get involved in such an activity. I don't like bureaucracy!

Quarter caught my mood instantly:

"Do you want me to do it? We'll split the profits."

"Deal!"

Half is better than nothing, isn't it? Quarter knows better about this sort of thing; his daddy is some kind of tycoon, and my mate had a theory that it's inherited to have a flair for money. We'll see about that.

Life for me began to play with colors again. Indeed, it rained gold. Money, lots of money, the fury of fighting, the taste of victory, and the knowledge that I, according to Quarter, was a genius! What more does a black mage need to be happy? Silly question! The news that NZAMIPS had been closed down and Captain Ber had been hanged, naturally.

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