Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Часть4 Глава 1

Part four

RUSTLES AND WHISPERS

Life is like a game of billiards. You can't see the hole, you seem to roll by yourself, and then - oop! Yu in......

From a recruit's revelations

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Chapter 1

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I have never been fond of reading the biographies of famous battle mages, but I have heard the opinion that all of them in their careers had an external stimulus. Usually, our kin somehow finds a compromise between their natural instincts and a reasonable opportunity to satisfy them (if they don't get into a big mess the first time) and then achieve a kind of balance with existence.

People get used to everything. Even to the squabbling, pugnacious, vindictive, and heartless black mages, and life gets better sooner or later. But some people are unlucky. Some irresistible flow of circumstances prevents them from settling into a warm nest, prompting a painful and unnatural effort like fighting for power, defending the fatherland, or perfecting the art of black magic. And the point? Instead of something as simple as wanting to be in charge, there appears responsibility for the fate of the nation, taking care of the home front or (perversion, phew, phew!) safety rules. Some twist in the psyche requires the unfortunate to show character in an extremely intricate way, poetically speaking - they hear the voice of Destiny.

Well, no one hears any such voice. It all started quite mundane for me, with a funeral.

A telegram came from home. It was strange since I wasn't expecting any correspondence. Joe had written me twice at the beginning of the summer, asking me to come over, but I had blurted it out, blaming it on a new job. Had he decided to try again?

The telegram was written without any attempt to save punctuation (my mother must have sent it), and it very neatly announced that Uncle Gordon had died. The funeral was in two days. Not that this event seemed improbable. We are all mortal. It just didn't make sense. Why now? Last summer, the old man had looked pretty chipper, and mages, in general, live a long time. Blacks can't grieve too much, and what's the point? We're all going to be there, sooner or later. Another thing was that I had some plans with my uncle and all of them were to be changed. And here's another thing: Would Chief Harlick agree to tell me what he had promised to find out for me?

I arrived at work in this philosophical mood, barely answered greetings, and sat down to meditate on my papers. All the drawings had been finished a week before, the calculations had been checked and rechecked, and Carl personally supervised the making of the units, and I was bored and wanted to follow Polak's example of secluding myself somewhere and taking a nap. It must have given the impression of grim detachment from the outside point of view.

"Is something not working?" Johan got worried.

"No," I said, "my uncle died."

I shouldn't have told him that. White began to peck around me, and in a minute, the whole office knew what had happened. They were more saddened by the death of a stranger than I was by knowing him all my life.

Polak ruled that I had to take immediate leave and go to the funeral. I didn't care about funerals, but I wanted a vacation. It was summer!

"But how are you here without me?" I should have been worried, at least for appearance's sake.

"Family comes first!" My boss sternly interrupted me. "The model works, it's just a matter of installation, and we'll take care of that."

Great! And if they fail again, I'll be far away, and I won't get caught in the crossfire.

To get there on time, I had to leave right away. Along the way, it turned out that there was only one ticket left for the Krowhard Express, in a deluxe compartment, for a wild hundred and twenty crowns, but with lunch. I sighed in relief, and the cashier raised an eyebrow in surprise. What's not to understand? Well, if I had grabbed a plane ticket out of greed, then the zombie dog would have had to be left behind in Redstone, and who knows how long the reanimation spells I had cast would have lasted. To come back and find the city quarantined would be... unpleasant.

Max got on the train in no time at all - under the guise of a bale of fur (it's incredible how tightly you can pack an animal when it doesn't fight back), and before the right station, it was enough just to throw it out the window. After packing quickly, I was already on the express train to Krowhard the next morning. I was on time for the funeral, tick to tick.

Again the fog, the empty platform, but something has changed, yes. No one could say that the black mage was dismissive of a relative's death! I adjusted the lapel of a deliberately light, without a single black thread, jacket in this season's fashionable beige and plaid color with a slightly inappropriate bright red tie. Tribute to tradition! Black, as well as white, is not considered mournful in Krowhard. No one bothered with this question before, but in the end, people settled on purple and red. Elegant and practical. In addition, red was a symbol of pure death that was not defiled by the touch of the otherworldly (those who saw the ghoul will understand). But it was not customary to flaunt mourning colors.

The tribute was paid by arranging lavish funerals and taking the deceased's relatives (primarily underage children) into custody; pets (horses, dogs, or cats) also received special rights. And what is typical: if no one argued with the latter, the Krowhard wake served as a favorite cause for jokes. All because the newcomers often confused them with a wedding: externally there is almost no difference, except that the songs are different and there are no sweets on the table. What's so strange about that? Both are events that require the relatives to be somewhat optimistic. I, for example, have always honestly failed to understand the popularity of mourning and grief among the white - tell me, what normal person would like to see their loved ones weeping and tearing at their hair? Only a pervert! What's the point of burying such a person at all...

Uncle Gordon had no close relatives, at least no one knew about them, and the village alchemist had never kept livestock, so the only thing left on the list was booze. That, in fact, was what I was counting on.

The gloves-wearing steward, imbued with a sense of the moment, carrying a large leather suitcase with small iron wheels onto the platform. I gave him a crown.

"Oh, Thomas!" Mama spluttered. "You so handsome!"

"Hello," I said modestly, pushing back a smug smile.

Joe scratched at the back of his head, trying to figure out where to put such a fancy suitcase.

"Throw it behind," I decided of his hesitation. "Then I'll use a spell to clean it up."

The main thing is to keep the appearance until noon, that is, until the time when the guests invited to the funeral are still capable of noticing something. A student's successes do honor his mentor!

The whole valley sent Gordon Ferro off for his last journey. We got there in time for the removal of the body, walked to the cemetery in the morning chill, waited for the clergyman to perform all the rituals necessary for final repose, and threw a pinch of salt on the coffin. I looked like a walking advertisement for the benefits of education and even managed to make a speech of gratitude to my first teacher. They all nodded understandingly and started walking back to the tables set up in the machine yard in the open air. The first songs were sung, someone began to beat a rousing rhythm on a tambourine, and the prettiest girl in the village, the headman's daughter, was holding a pennant symbolizing the black mage's funeral. The street festivities were also part of the tradition: whatever deity now decides the fate of the deceased it must know how many relatives he had benefited and take their opinion into account.

Uncle Gordon's wake was bright: cheer was made and wishes were heard: "Good luck to the old scribbler, wherever he goes," and some, especially the bitter ones, recalled that the old man had gone off to a better world without fixing some important thing (I took note of these - it is considered good form to keep promises from deceased relatives). On the whole, people were optimistic about their uncle's soul and their own future - someone had to replace the deceased alchemist. I was asked to take my place, but the excuse I gave was that I was still learning. The tradition was upheld at its best.

My tablemate described with fascination the mischief Uncle Gordon had gotten himself into when he was a young man. These adventures did not fit with the image of the acrimonious and pedantic alchemist.

"By the way, why was the coffin closed?" I asked.

The neighbor gave a hum:

"Well, he died suddenly, in the outdoors. The animals ate a little bit of the body."

Strange. There were always spells around my uncle's house to repel small animals - the alchemist didn't like furry neighbors.

"Where did he die?"

"They found it over there, behind the workshop!"

Even more strange. What could he be doing there at all?

The party would not last until dark - it is customary to spend the night at home in Krowhard. It is another local exotic - everyone drinks, but there are almost no drunkards, otherwise, the next day the funeral could be organized all over again. Thoughts of the otherworldly are very disciplining. The wives slowly led the swaying husbands away, and my tablemate was taken away in a wheelbarrow.

I managed to make it to the end without falling under the bench or getting salad all over myself (I'm not very good at cleaning spells). Apart from me, Joe and the valley headman, an exceptionally proper man for Crowhard, were sober. Naturally, we were approached with requests for help. I caught the moment just in time, so I pretended to go to the toilet and hid behind the outbuildings unnoticed. I did not want to be vomited at the end! I should have waited half an hour to be sure, for example, to walk to the spot where Uncle Gordon had died and find out what had happened to his repelling spells.

There was a pleasant humming noise in my head. The houses on the other side of the valley were bathed in sunlight, but it was already cold and quite dark on the northern slope. Good thing there were no bushes around, or I would have gotten lost in them. There was no way to tell where the old alchemist had died, all the stones looked the same, but the repellent spell was really not felt. Why was that, I wondered. Perhaps that was why my uncle had climbed up here - he didn't usually suffer from a passion for climbing.

I decided to go up the slope a little more and look for seals - the kind of round granite pucks that usually serve as anchors for domestic magic. Guess why granite and not lead, glass, or gold? I couldn't figure it out until Rakshat blurted out, "So they wouldn't steal it." Though, silver and copper are the best at taking spells. Rough stone rounds were found almost immediately, each with runes to repel, which means theoretically, no little creature could approach the alchemist's dwelling and defile his corpse. There could only be one explanation: the circuit wasn't closed somewhere. The line of seals was laid out quite frequently, so the absence of one or two pieces should not have affected the workability of the spell. I was eager to go around the perimeter, but a twinkle of common sense told me that another day would be better.

For example, when there will be more time before sunset because overconfident black mages in Krowhard do not live long. And in general, one should drink less...

I sighed, marveling at how quickly life in the city had weaned me from caution, and slowly began to make my way back. A warm bed loomed before my eyes. If I sang Joe the song about the poor boy tired from the road, surely he would be willing to take me home in the cart. A wheelbarrow would do as well... I came across two strange-looking men as I neared the house, picking at some junk machinery, but I had eaten and drunk too much to know what they were doing there or why their faces were unfamiliar to me. But is that so? There were a lot of people here. Muttering something like, "Excuse me, folks," I pushed past them, but as soon as the strangers were behind me, it was like my side was stung. What the...? Then my legs buckled, and my limp body collapsed, not on the ground, but in the clinging hands of the couple. I was quickly dragged behind the garage.

"So?" one asked tensely.

"Nothing," said the other as he carefully searched my pockets.

"Goddamn, it! So why was he snooping around?"

"Hell know. What are we gonna do? Two in one place is already suspicious, and we don't need cops."

The first one thought for a second.

"Let's throw him into the ravine," he ruled. "No one's going to figure it out when they're drunk."

All my senses howled in protest. There was a scour just beyond my uncle's property, a miniature gorge, all covered in narrow cracks and wet boulders. If I fell down there, I would have nothing whole left in me, and they would only find me in three days, by smell. Alas, despite the roaring power of the Source, my muscles remained sluggish and immobile, and focusing on the spell was quite impossible. Oh, my God...

Max saved the day: without waiting for me to remember his presence, he raised his voice.

The growl of the zombie dog sounded like music to me. I don't know what the two of them saw, but in a moment the only thing that reminded me of them was the fast fading of the stomping in the distance, and I was left lying there, slowly realizing the nightmare of my predicament. I couldn't send Max for help - anyone in Krowhard would recognize him as undead, and it was scary to think what drunken men could do on such an occasion. I had only to wait for the potion to wear off. Maybe everything will be all right! You remember how arrogant black magicians can be. I mentally sent Max away to keep an eye on the couple and braced myself for patience.

The minutes dragged on slowly. It was getting darker, or it was getting darker in my eyes. It was getting harder and harder to breathe, and the Source's power wasn't enough to chase the nasty, lingering cold from my body, which was stubbornly creeping up on my heart. And then I knew: this was how Uncle Gordon died - alone, on the cold stones, knowing that the crime he had committed would be mistaken for death from senile infirmity. And these two were the cause of his death. Kill them!!! But now they were far away, and I was lying here, and Max didn't seem to hear me.

The cold was turning into dull pain, and the fear of suffocation was starting to bother me. Would they miss me soon? Joe, when they drove back and forth and realized I was nowhere to be found, might think I'd walked home... They wouldn't look for me until morning - a black mage had a better chance of surviving the darkness than an inebriated rescue party. It makes sense.

I tried not to panic and occupy my mind with something life-affirming. I remembered my work, focused on my plans (I had so many plans for the future!), on my freaky family, who could not do without the help of a sober black one. I wish I didn't fall asleep. The rustle of blood in my ears is so sweetly lulling... Wait. Since when does blood rustle? I was able, by some unbelievable effort of will, to turn the eyes in my eye sockets, drying without blinking. Something vaguely resembling a pile of wind-whipped leaves was rattling over the edge of the crevice.

That's it. The end has come, welcome.

An encounter with the otherworldly was exactly what I was missing right now, right now. It is not without reason that they say: the Rustler does not forget those whose heart he has heard. The undead had come for me, and I was so young! It would not take long to relive my memories, and that was a good thing. Above all, I could not show him my fear. If my illegal practice had taught me anything, it was that the undead could tell the strength of their foes by how much they were afraid. Could it be that Rustler had come to avenge his fallen comrades? Silly thoughts ... I did not intend to surrender without a fight, but was clearly aware that my suppressed poison abilities are enough only for a friendly slap. He could eat me, but he would choke on it. I'd give him heartburn!

I should think of something pleasant. What was nice about me? My motorcycle, my anonymous fame, the zombie dog, the cute beast, Lucik wanting to tell me something, jumping around me all day. These two bastards were looking for something here, but what exactly? Family honor demands that I find the treasure and take possession of it. Every beat of my heart was now a sharp pain in my breast, my dry eyes stung, and my mind was flooded with pictures of the past day (so bright!), of the stormy past year, of the circumstances of the summer, and of that first meeting with Shoroh.

It was only after I realized that I was looking at myself from the ruins, from the bottom up, that I became frightened.

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP