Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 3

Chapter 3

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I was saved by Lucik.

Our novice white mage and his buddies sneaked into the wake to watch the drunks. Don't get me wrong. We don't get drunk to the point of blue. He saw me go behind the garage, but he didn't see me come back. Disregarding the risk of being punished for prying, Lucik went to the elders and demanded to find me. When the delegation, with their enchanted lanterns (which are indispensable in the Krowhard), arrived at the barn, Rustle was long gone. So the brother saved the brother.

Then there was Joe, who gave me CPR and heart massage for forty minutes nonstop (anyone who's tried it would have understood, I'd have lasted a quarter of an hour at most) while the headman's truck made its way to the county hospital. I woke up two days later in the ICU, and for the first five minutes, I was sure I had reached the other side - everything was so white and shiny and slightly hazy. And it even looked like angels... I could only imagine that!

No one here understood the depth of my problems. I went out of my way to convince everyone that I was completely healthy, while the doctor took a perverse pleasure in proving me wrong. And he called himself white! By the end of the week, this "sir" was getting on my nerves. He was partly right: for a couple of days, my vision was intermittently impaired, and when I tried to stand up, my muscles were pierced with sharp pain, but then everything went away.

"Don't argue with me, sir," the healer whispered good-naturedly, tapping me on the knee with his hammer. It's a good thing he didn't stick needles under my nails! "A normal person would have been killed on the spot with such a dose, but black magicians are exceptionally tough bastards.

And if a doctor says so, you have to believe him. In the end, he forbade me to do magic for at least two more months and even wrote a statement to the university.

"What's your hurry?" Chief Harlick, who came to interrogate me personally, was perplexed. "We called your boss, and he was very understanding, so you're free to walk around until the semester starts. I wish I had a boss like that!"

Was it worth explaining to the man that if I didn't renew the reanimation spells, Max would bite half of Krowhard? I didn't want to train the dog to be a cannibal.

"So, what happened?"

He listened attentively to my story and nodded to confirm the suspicion of my uncle's poisoning but did not share the progress of the investigation.

"We're sure to find those two. It's a pity you didn't get a better look at them. Do you know what they were looking for?"

I have no idea. I thought my uncle told you something.

He chewed his lips.

"We'll come back to that. Two days before he died, Gordon received a package. Something small and light. Do you know who it was from?" I guess he got the answer from the look on my face. "Well, get some rest. I'll see you later."

And then I decided to ask a very important question for me:

"How do people die from a Rustle attack? I've been meaning to ask for a long time."

He shrugged:

"It's hard to say. There are no witnesses. Usually, there's a skeleton and lots and lots of brown foam."

That's when I remembered the keeper of King's Island. On the other hand, he didn't rip his own jaw off, did he?

"And how do you treat victims?"

"We're not treating them at all! We wait for them to settle down. A positive reaction to contact with the otherworldly remains for life. You know, Rustle doesn't forget the marked ones. I hope that's a rhetorical question, isn't it?"

I twitched an eyebrow:

"Professional. We had a lecture at the university on the otherworldly."

"Oh, yes, I heard!" He came to life. "Some brat have fun in Radstone, hasn't he?"

I grimaced:

"But then everyone was so steamed."

"That's okay, it's good for our kin!"

He went away, and I was left to ponder the futility of all things. If I told them about Rustler, they would just lock me up for forty days. During that time, the zombie dog would go berserk. On the other hand, no one else has seen the monster. If I were to get a positive reaction later, I could always say it was the result of my visit to King's Island. Prove it! The main thing is to be careful and get away as quickly as possible; skeleton and brown foam are not my styles.

The next day I was released, and it was clear that I couldn't go to Redstone right away.

My relatives all came to pick me up in the headman's roomy jalopy. Lucic rejoiced as if I'd come back from the dead, which was almost true. My mother wept on my chest. I'm black, of course, and certainly heartless, but I couldn't just say "ciao!" to everyone. The sudden departure didn't fit the situation in a purely logical way. I should have stayed home for at least a week. And not go anywhere at night.

"Such a horror!" I don't know how many times my mother repeated this. She calmed down a little on the way, but she clung to my hand like I was about to be taken away. "And someone tried to get into Gordon's house, broke the windows, and left."

And I even know what scared them off. You have to have the fantastic nerve to show up twice in a place guarded by zombies.

What were they looking for? Surely they hadn't found it, or they wouldn't have tried a second time. Small, light, a little bigger than a notebook. That's what I think Chief Harlick described it as. That's where my imagination failed me. It might have been a hundred thousand in bonds, or a confession from the Prime Minister's wife, though I don't think they would have killed for the latter. The poison still reminded me of it with a weakness in my body and a distraction in my attention. On the short journey home, I was as tired as if I had walked all the way from end to end, and Joe had even had to help me undress. This had not happened to me since I was seven years old! Yes, I was obviously ill, and it would do me no harm to rest for a week or two. Home-cooked food, complete peace, and no need to go to the shitty factory. I took the doctors' prohibition on witchcraft as a black one ought to; I did not care for it. As for Rustle, I was inclined to think that he had not had time to reach me.

A man can hope for the best!

The last week of rest had cost me a lot of nerves. My weakness made me angry, and the thought of a valuable thing that could go to someone else was frenzied. It was like giving up my own. My spare time was divided between searching for hiding places in my uncle's house under the pretext of sorting out junk and interviewing witnesses. Not every policeman can get a definite answer to a particular question from a resident of Krowhard, but I was as relentless as a runny nose. The inquiry was aided by the fact that there was no other alchemist in the valley, and the villagers had to come to me with all their problems, and there was nowhere to go. The postman remembered that the parcel my uncle had received two days before he died bore the address of the capital. The old boozer, who had been frank with me at the wake, said that my uncle had lived in the capital for some time and had returned to his native village about twenty years before without explaining the circumstances.

Mom would get upset, saying: "You're working too hard," Joe gently assented. I smiled sweetly and involved my stepfather in everything I could think of. It was my little revenge for the insects that were still flying around in the garden. They couldn't hurt me since I'd made sure I had an amulet that repelled bees, mosquitoes, bedbugs, and any creature that might invade a human body, and even Quarter had lost the urge to pat me on the shoulder. There it was, the true power of magic! But it was about principles.

Max had the best time - the zombie dog was blissfully in the tall grass, lounging around exploring rodent burrows and chasing butterflies.

The killers did not appear again.

The old alchemist's house was gradually emptying. The first thing I did was drag a large oak table into our attic. I liked it purely aesthetically. In the toolbox was a fancy set of lock picks. In the bedroom, there was a lovely set of chalk rosaries, a must-have for the black mage: they could hold a spell or two that could take the place of an operative curse with no trouble at all. My uncle must not have known how to manipulate streams. My loot was the old wizard's work journals. The last entry there had been made twenty years ago. I hoped to find in them a recipe for an antimagic remedy and slip it into Mr. Rakshat's tea. Digging through my uncle's things was not tiresome, only a little sad. It's the kind of hassle that reveals to us the true nature of death. You go away, and there is nothing you can change. Everything you hold dear is left at the mercy of the living.

I concentrated on arranging my findings into three piles. Things that would go in the trash, things that would be memorable, and things that could be put to good use. In the end, all that was left was a sterile house devoid of any individuality, in which a new alchemist would move in the next week. I did not wait for that to happen, for who knows how my wicked nature would react to a stranger? The huge suitcase was already packed, the fancy suit was waiting on the rack, and my conscience was burdened with one small but urgent matter: to put in order the repellent spells around my uncle's house. Their absence was becoming noticeable - there were mice in the garage. After that, the matter of tradition was closed.

On the day of departure, I woke up very early after a detailed dream in which I was setting up some strange alchemical constructions that could fly without wings. How, I wondered? I was awakened by the smell of fresh pancakes and Lucik. My visibly grown brother was running around the garden with some problem that only the white one could understand. Maybe he thought the mice were too cramped for space. We should get him a cat...

But they wouldn't let me stay in bed.

"Breakfast!" My mother's voice came from downstairs.

Yes, yes, I'm on my way... The screeching and stomping announced that I would not be the first one at the table. That's too bad! I hurriedly pulled on my pants and rolled briskly out of the room.

Despite the early hour, everyone was in place.

Joe sipped milk from his beer mug with a contented look. For little Emmy, the pancakes were just an excuse - she'd lick the jam off them and ask for more. Hopefully, her mother would be able to wash her off afterward. Lucik, in his excitement, didn't even notice that he was eating; he was an amazingly active child. The bees left the sugar bowl at my appearance with a disgruntled "bzz-z".

"Are we going to the station together?" I asked, just in case.

"Uh-huh," nodded Joe good-naturedly.

Plans were changing. I didn't dare load Max onto the train in front of everyone. Joe wasn't likely to pry into my business, but little Emmy would probably want to touch the furry thing. I think the zombie dog's gonna have to walk home. That's okay. Max is a smart animal (I sometimes wonder how smart he is).

Lucik shoved the contents of his plate down his throat and began a story about his new school, his friends, and some white mage (or was it his white beard?) that had become almost ritualistic. I nodded smartly and gorged myself on the hot food. The pile of pancakes was shrinking fast. It didn't bother my brother that he had told me everything he was going through twenty times already; we had just come to the most offensive part (his peers did not believe his brother was a black mage) when a truck with the NZAMIPS emblem dashed down the street with a terrible rumble. Everyone stared at the truck as it rumbled down the street.

Is that the new clowns, or has Chief Harlick come to visit? And I got a zombie running around...

"You're good!" I announced to Lucik, as I used to do, You should praise little white people more often. "I'll run to my uncle's. I forgot to put the lock on."

Everyone nodded understandingly.

The first thing was Max. My two-time savior met me at the edge of the village. The zombie dog was rustling in the grass - keeping watch - and flicking his mouth at butterflies while I waddled leisurely down the path, enjoying the overall harmony of existence. The truck from the day before was flashing its emblems at the entrance to the valley. It was for the best - it was one of those occasions when I didn't need the company of combat mages at all.

Okay, so mice are on the agenda. And I would have to go into that ravine because of them - the seals at the bottom of the slope were perfectly fine. I deliberately procrastinated, trying to see if I would have any morbid interest in the place that had for a time become the lair of the Rustle. It did not seem to. It was a surprisingly clear day for Krowhard, and at this early hour, the sun was just barely touching the roof of the garage, slipping through the gap between the rocks. After hanging the lock on the shed, I whistled Max over and reluctantly wandered to where I had so foolishly allowed my life to be endangered. No black one would let that happen, even when he was drunk!

Now it was easy to find the place where my uncle had been killed: yellow flags appeared on the rocks - the police were trying their best to mark the position in which the witnesses had found the body. I could see why those two men were worried - it was twenty paces from where they'd attacked me. It looked as if the old man had fallen while walking up the slope, that is while walking back from the ravine to the garage. On the other hand, he could have just been dumped there.

I looked down, straining to see if I would get the involuntary urge to keep going. The hole was deep and dark, and a place where the sun never reaches, by Crowhardt's standards, is definitely not a good place, even if Rustle hadn't shown up. Maybe the cause of the damage to the spell is there, and then what the hell did I need the spell for?

But mice are the eternal enemies of alchemists. They gnaw at the wiring, make nests in the most important parts of machines, and shit in the fuel oil, thus spoiling it irrevocably. That's not counting the stomping and squeaking at night. I'll never forget the time I found a dead mouse in the milk - I'm still sick of white liquids.

Mice to hell!

I walked back and forth along the ravine. The line of seals was clearly visible, even from above, and among the old cobblestones there was a newer one, made of a different material-someone was clearly asking me to go down there. Who? Why did I think it was my uncle? I couldn't get into a corner like that by accident - sane children don't play in such places, and there are no insane children in Krowhard. Maybe I should call Harlick.

And lose the treasure if it's there. Ha!

I did what I could to make sure. I went to the house, described the situation on a piece of paper, and shoved it in Max's mouth, telling him to take it to the men if I wasn't back by noon. Perhaps it was the call of the Rustle, but if so, my will tightened its grip on the Source, and it vibrated nervously. And if it does, then the creature will be very sorry she ever messed with me!

As I cautiously descended the scree, I lifted the stone to examine it, and the repellent spell closed around me with a rustling sound.

I didn't get it. I really didn't.

So Uncle didn't come down here to fix the spell but to break it? But that's ridiculous! Why would anyone want to ruin a cure for mice? I examined the seal. There was an arrow scrawled on the back of it, and in its original state, it pointed toward the mountainside, to where a scour converged into a narrow crevice oozing a thin trickle of moisture. If this was a hint, by whom was it made and to whom? I did not believe that anyone who had not studied the spell in the field was capable of breaking it so cleverly, which meant that only the previous owner of the house could have left such a strange message.

And then I thought hard.

Couldn't my uncle have been under the influence of the Rustle when he did this? The fact that he was a black mage is not in itself a defense against the undead. And how is this place a better hiding place than the attic or the cellar? Because only another mage could have found the clue, and those two weren't mages. So I'd have to go down there. If the mystery seal is just a silly joke, I'll spit in the comedian's grave. The old fool will laugh.

Repeating Max's order, I stepped carefully onto the slippery rocks. I managed to get to my destination without hurting myself, except for the event itself, which was the result of total damage to my sanity. To think of climbing up such an asshole, laying dumb hints, and ending up dead on the way back! The thing he hid here must be really valuable, or I am not responsible for myself. And this is the worst place to hide it. The only thing worse is a crypt. No wonder Rustle got in here.

Two steps away from the crack, planks had been placed on the rocks, and a rope was hanging from the top, but I did not grab for it. Who knows who had hung it and what it was attached to? After soaking wet and soiling, I finally reached my destination and froze in surprise.

Holy crap!

Just beyond the narrow mouth of the cave, the crevice widened to the size of a small cave. There was hardly any light at all, only at the very center. So there was perpetual darkness in the corners and behind the rocks. In the center of the bright spot, on a stone washed by water, stood a huge trunk. Judging by its size, it must have been assembled on the spot. The place reeked of black magic at its most ancient and darkest.

I cautiously approached. The stash had been set up a long, long time ago and not by my uncle. And there must be something otherworldly nearby because my hair stood on end. Even the most superficial examination of the chest revealed three layers of magic - from water, fire, and all living things, and on the lid was a key amulet with an ornate monogram "T."

Wow, the secret lair of the Tangors!

My mother and I lived apart from my father's branch of the family, so I did not know family lore. Who and when had set up the stash, and how my uncle knew about it was unclear. Curiosity overpowered reason, so I took the key and went into the trunk.

Two-thirds of it was filled with all sorts of creepy things - knives with strange shapes, polished inlaid human skulls, and bone whistles. If I'd shown up at the university with one of these things, I'd have been arrested for necromancy. In a separate alcove, lay books. All were written on parchment, bound in suspiciously thin leather, with meaningful runes on the covers. Indeed! The treasury of a black mage and necromancer, and the ancient. What they did in those days - I do not know such words. But that's old stuff. By today's standards, the whole collection is meaningless, except it's valuable as an antique. On top of the dubious treasure was a postal package tied with twine. I took it, and then slowly and carefully, with my back to the exit, I left the lair. I never thought there was such a lousy place in our valley! And now it was mine alone.

The zombie dog watched with interest as his master climbed the rocks, trying to use only one hand. Eventually, my nerves failed (I could now see how far down the slope ended), and with a well-aimed throw, I sent my find against the wall of the barn. Not glass, after all! I began to gut my prey immediately. I untied the twine and unwrapped the wrapping. The return address! The postman was not mistaken. The parcel came from the capital. Inside the package were a few folded sheets - a letter - and a small book of a very old kind, and I immediately grabbed it and opened it...

Nothing is clear.

The incredibly thin, translucent pages were protected by so many layers of magic that they were like sheets of metal: resilient and hard. Blue squiggles of handwritten text ran across the yellowish background; no magical runes, diagrams, or signs were there, some of the letters resembled something, but the meaning of the words was still a mystery. It must have been one of those ancient relics Mrs. Clements spoke of - the same hundred thousand but in one piece, not in cash. I didn't know my uncle was a dealer in rarities! The explanation was to be in the letter, but I had no time to study it now that the NZAMISS lorry had gone from the pass to the village, and some fidgety kinsman would be here any minute, waiting for me at home. It was time to go back.

But something had to be done about that book. A man had been killed for it. They were trying to kill me, and who knows what else they might do. I desperately didn't want to carry it in my luggage, but there was another way... I put the papers and the address torn from the wrapper between the magically protected pages, rewrapped it, and put it in Max's mouth, telling him to take it to my garage in Redstone. This method of transportation seemed to me the safest. No one would notice the dog among the bushes and rocks, and if they did, they wouldn't catch him. Besides, the zombie didn't say whose it was.

Now I could leave! With peace of mind and a clear conscience, however, with bad nerves - all the way to the village, my palms itched, itched between my shoulder blades, and I wanted to jump up and down, like Lucik, white enthusiasm is contagious. And I can't tell anyone...

When I returned home, I found Chief Harlick drinking tea on the veranda with the remains of cold pancakes ("bdz-z" - the bees had fled). Outrageous! In my absence, my mother takes a strange man home and feeds him my food! But before I could sass the head of NZAMIPS, my mother deftly put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. My black nature immediately backfired - my piece was bigger. Harlick looked sourly at the plate, but he didn't argue: yes, he was older, but I was at home.

"I see you've recovered."

I allowed myself to swallow a bite and only then answered:

"Quite a bit!"

"And we found those killers," Harlick paused meaningfully. "Too bad we couldn't interrogate them."

I felt an omelet stick in my throat. Um... I wonder what Max was doing yesterday? I don't keep track of my zombie at all.

"Wolfs?"

"No, Rustle."

So the bastard didn't go far. He must have been waiting for me, the bastard!

"They must have been outsiders," Harlick explained without waiting for my reaction, "They came in the evening, hoping to go into the village at night. The undead had got them."

Yes, only a wild townie would go to action at night in Krowhard. Well, now those who saw my dog won't tell anyone about it. All right!

"Oh, that's unfortunate," I murmured, turning back to my food.

"You're not too upset," Harlick remarked.

"I'm not sad at all," I affirmed without stopping to chew. My mother sighed softly, and I had to explain my position to her: "I know how Uncle felt before he died. The Ruste is even too humane!"

Just don't blab to the chief that I know Rustle.

Joe glanced cautiously out on the veranda: two black mages at a time was too much for his nerves.

"Well, I'm off." Harlick got up. "You're welcome if you need anything."

Mom nodded cautiously.

"What is he talking about?" I asked suspiciously when the back of the chief of NZAMIPS disappeared from view.

"He's afraid that the interest in Gordon will turn on us," she replied serenely.

Not convincing. Although why would my mother lie?

And I put Harlick out of my mind - I had too many experiences today.

Steamtrain didn't succeed in organizing the meeting requested by the coordinator: the enterprising student left town just when his superiors expressed interest in him. The captain even considered contacting the Krowhard branch of NZAMIPS but did not. There is considerable merit in these fables of collusion and cooperation among the blacks there. Not a single mage had been caught there in the history of Krowhard. He waited for the misunderstanding to return to Redstone.

Mr. Satal reacted emotionally to the failure:

"Oh...! Next time I have to be the first to know, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Steamtrain didn't argue.

Meetings at the highest level became regular, and Captain Ber had to go to them alone. After a conversation with the senior coordinator, his subordinates lost their ability to work for a long time.

It is hard to say whether these meetings were of any use. The coordinator wanted to know everything that was going on in Redstone, only in Redstone and nowhere else. Sometimes Conrad Ber wondered if the situation in his city was unique. And hadn't something like this happened before?

The new informant has made it possible to reach the Elder who operated in the southwestern area. The Elder, aka Godovan Beaverry, was detained for illegal magical practices. He was a distinctive priest and had several disciples, three of whom we apprehended.

The coordinator nodded, satisfied.

"The source of the rebirth rumors has not yet been found. The analyst emphasizes a high degree of elaboration of the basic theory and expresses the opinion that they will soon move from words to deeds. He recommends paying attention to the corpses of young people, including those with signs of accidents and suicide - there may be attempts to hide the cause of death."

Mr. Satal grumbled unhappily:

"This topic has already been discussed at the ministry. We are advised to remain calm, which means that information resources can be connected only after three or four cases. Try not to miss them!"

Captain Ber did not swear, though he was sure he could teach the young black one to work. Anyway, wasn't he the one who complained that the management wasn't interested in his business?

"A print run of the "New Path" brochure was confiscated, the wording being "propaganda of dangerous magical practices". The owner of the printing house was arrested, and the editor-in-chief is under investigation. We find out how they dared to print a publication without the permission of the censor of NZAMIPS."

The coordinator sighed:

"Share the responsibility! If the censors are overloaded, pass some of the work to our department. Ms. Keweenahari has six specialists in her group; it would be good for them to stretch out."

"Thank you, sir!" Steamtrain made a note to contact the empath. The censors were really stuttering.

And not only them. The events of the week more than overlapped the summary of the whole month of a year ago.

"Now the weirdness."

The coordinator leaned on the table with his hands folded in a Gendo gesture, a gesture that signified an extreme degree of interest and attention.

"There is a connection between the Elder and the Fire Mage apprehended two weeks ago. Both feature a trusted helper with similar appearances. The names and the style of dress are different, and the concepts of the two groups are very different, but two of the white devotees emotionally describe a man with a piercing look who "smelled strange." What is characteristic: In the case of the Fire Mage, this helper insisted on sacrifices of something more serious than candles."

"Great!" The black mage echoed. "I think we're getting to the bottom of this."

Steamtrain nodded grimly:

"All these "elders" are a protective fog around some group that is more than serious. The minnows are expended faster than they bargained for, and they have to let proxies in."

The black mage's eyes turned pensive:

"We have to find them, Conrad. Before they're ready. We have to step up our work at the university. Tell your people there. The freshmen from the province will be the first target."

"You're thinking what I'm thinking," said the captain with a frown.

Mr. Satal's voice broke into a whistling whisper:

"Artificers! Or someone like that, just calling themselves by a different name. All in theme. Ideas that it is possible to change human nature, to make some other creature out of it. Just eat or drink something, say "yes" in the right place, and voila! - You're clean in body and soul. First, some kind of threat is invented. Then sacrifices are required to eliminate it. And the more sacrifices are made, the more adherents are convinced of the existence of the threat, and at the end, no one remembers what it was all about."

"And irresponsible witchcraft," said Steamtrain on the subject.

"Naturally!" The coordinator brushed it aside. "If they can't consider the limitations of their own nature, how can they limit themselves in the use of other elements? The notion of responsibility does not apply to the insane. But we'll get them, Conrad, I'll prove it can be done!"

"Are you going to declare a Theological Threat?" practically clarified the captain.

The black mage could hardly come back to reality:

"No. Then they'll just start with the same lineup but in a different place. And learn from the mistakes they made in Redstone. Do we need it?"

Steamtrain did not respond.

"Have you read the materials of the Redstone case of Artificers?" the coordinator inquired.

Captain Ber nodded:

"I was involved in compiling some of this material."

"Then you know that the Inquisitors couldn't get their hands on the senior initiates. There should have been five or six of them, but after Nintark, they went into hiding. Our job is to lure them out of the shelter."

Steamtrain liked the idea. It was the location that confused him.

"Do you want to let them frolic free?"

"No," Mr. Sattal shook his head indignantly. "We'll beat them, but we'll do it... clumsily. Win by showing our helplessness, as if by accident. Look ridiculous, as if all that separated them from success was the competence of the lower command staff."

"And you think a normal person would buy such nonsense?"

"Do you think a normal person can be an Artificer?"

Steamtrain shrugged:

"Well, since we're going to beat them after all, I'm in!"

"I didn't doubt it for a second!" Mr. Sattal grinned. By the way, you can just call me Dan, but not in public."

Steamtrain was always amused by Black's ceremoniousness, displayed at the most inopportune times.

"And I'm just Conrad," he offered good-naturedly.

* * *

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