Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Does a black mage need much to be happy? Actually, a lot, but there is a certain minimum that makes life bearable. This summer could be considered a successful one.

I said goodbye to my family on the platform, vowed three times to Lucik to come to his school in the winter, and gave Joe a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Look out for yourself here. The visibly heavy suitcase was dragged, with difficulty, onto the train.

The circumstances of the eventful morning had not yet settled in my head (it was unreal in Lucik's presence to collect my thoughts), so I had to act intuitively. I put the big suitcase in the luggage with deliberate carelessness and took with me in the compartment only the basket with food - a large, open, and almost openwork, amenable to inspection from any side and even to the light. Anyone, even someone not endowed with magic, could tell that I had no ancient artifact. The train clanked its buffers and drifted slowly through the beginning drizzle - the Krowhard summer was over. My family waved from the platform after me.

Still, having relatives is a plus, especially when those relatives have understanding.

I sat cross-legged on the couch and meditated, not for witchcraft (my doctor had forbidden it), but simply to clear my mind. It is not often that I have such a need.

This summer was very special. It frightened, it surprised, it angered, it delighted me. I never thought a black one could experience such a wide range of feelings! I was dying and saved, tormented by helplessness and triumphant, outraged, and intrigued. And I ended up being more. Wider. Longer. Or something like that. It is very important for a mage to see and perceive the world, and for a black mage it is also very difficult. We constantly impose our idea of reality and do not want to accept objections, so it invades our life only this way by force and without asking.

In a rush of emotion, I promised myself I would live my life anew. I would pay more attention to what was going on around me, if only so that no enemy would ever come up behind me again. I will begin to think more than just about myself... it almost sounds like an anecdote. And in general, until graduation is one year left, the practice does not count, and I know all the fun only those to which I was introduced by Quarter. That's a shame! Don't get me wrong. It never occurred to me to put any deeper meaning into that promise; it was a moment's gloom. A moment's weakness, brought on by thoughts of my white family. With my thoughts thus directed toward spiritual perfection, I moved the basket to me and began to find out what my mother had put in there that was most delicious. I could not have eaten everything at once anyway.

That night the alchemical constructs were not in my dreams. I saw Redstone, but not as I always did, but in some strange, completely alien way. Everything - the colors of dust and dirt, the trembling outlines of buildings, as if drawn by a terrified hand, almost indistinguishable from one another. The acrid smoke, like a ghost, wafting over the sidewalk, the hot stuffiness and lack of shadow. Perhaps that's how a feral white mage should see the city. It's unhealthy to think of white mages at night!

I even liked the feeling of sleep - a nice touch of the exotic. It's funny. But what kind of brains it takes to imagine all the buildings tilted sideways? They couldn't stand up like that, could they? And that orange stench... A piquant point: in the residential neighborhoods, the fireplaces are stoked by pressed briquettes, and they give a bluish, slightly tart smoke with the smell of straw and manure. The closest to orange is the yellowish, sour fumes of small workshops (smithies, tanneries) on the southeast outskirts. That is, it's like confusing red with blue; only a white one can do that. In a burst of rare complacency, I tried to fix the picture by running cars and streetcars into the streets of the cardboard layout, and I think I spent the rest of the night doing it.

And then the dream continued in reality.

I stood silently on the platform, hugging my suitcase and basket, and realized I did not recognize the station where I had been many times. I didn't recognize it at all. And it was not that I had forgotten the details, but I simply could not see them. The usual bustle of the day was raging around me, but the crowd looked strange now: instead of people there were some blurred outlines, shimmering in flashes of untitled colors (either shadows of emotions or a reflection of intentions). No, they did not merge. They did not lose their individuality, but I would not be able to tell which of these people was wearing what, even at the risk of death.

Maybe I ate something wrong?

Everything was moving and stirring, exchanging impulses, lighting up and going out. Among the shimmering sea of complex natures, two almost monotonous figures caught my eye-one of them got off the same train as me, and the other was waiting for the first one at the end of the platform. For some reason, it seemed to me that it would be unwise to stare at them.

What's this all about, huh? And I think I know whose art it is. I was glad too soon that Rustle didn't make himself known. I thought I was having such interesting dreams, and it was he who was trying to get at me. The Trunk Bay patients' behavior is now much clearer to me. It's the sort of thing that makes you go crazy. It makes you go round in circles. But there's no need to panic. The station itself has not changed a bit, and I can guess where the exit is by the movement of the crowd. We just have to stick together with everyone else...

And then I noticed an animatedly pulsating silhouette headed straight for me. I didn't know many people of that size, but only one, to be exact.

"Hello, lad!" the silhouette announced in the voice of Captain Ber.

"Good morning, sir." The effort required to say the words allowed me to concentrate and pull myself together.

It took a few seconds for the familiar outlines of buildings and platforms to emerge from the shroud of strange entities. Not bad now!

"I heard you were in trouble," the NZAMIPS chief remarked good-naturedly.

He arrived at the station dressed in his fancy uniform.

"They were," I didn't argue.

"Let me give you a ride!" He generously offered.

Very lucky! I will not go home in such a state, but straight to the nuthouse - no one will be ceremonious with a black mage who does not understand where he is.

He took my suitcase by the handle and walked forward, pointing the way, while the crowd parted before him as the waves parted before a ship. I stomped along, trying diligently to clear my mind of foreign influence. What an abomination! I had the uneasy feeling that what had happened had something to do with my promise to think of others. Who does that all the time? I've been dreaming about white mages all night! If they saw the world even partially this way, I don't know how they survived in the first place. But it might have been an illusion, pure and simple, put into my head by Rustle's pernicious nature.

I must keep myself in check! Forty days are not out yet. It looks like the most interesting thing is ahead.

When we left the station, only a slight tremor of the right eyelid reminded me of the strange incident.

Captain Ber ignored the line of cabbies and headed toward the parking lot. I was expecting to see a striped service vehicle, but no. It turned out he had his own car.

That thought made me feel as if I had been kicked in the gut.

"Get in!" Chief NZAMIPS clicked the lock and took the basket from me, not noticing I was morally destroyed.

Oh, what a car! Certainly not a black limousine, but still impressive. Big, shiny, conservative blue, not a scratch on the mirror polish. Captain Behr effortlessly lifted my suitcase and placed it in the roomy trunk on some neat terry cloth. I wasted no time in getting into the interior. Leather seats! The back one is like a couch. You can sleep in the middle, and there's a little extra strap, probably for the kids. The subtle echo of a cleaning spell suggested it was used here regularly. Not a cheap treat, by the way. I was impressed. No, I was shocked - my dream had gone to someone else. I mean, the Watchdogs is certainly not a poor office, but I always thought that government officials were deliberately gray mice. And suddenly, such a surprise...

I fidgeted on the seat, trying to soak up the scent of luxury on my skin. Yes, my bike is pretty stylish, too, but it doesn't have the same comfort. And no one around me was surprised that my luggage was being loaded by the chief of the Redstone branch of NZAMIPS. I guess the general public mistook his uniform for some kind of chauffeur's uniform. For a moment, I imagined that was it: my own car, my own driver - good! The captain finished with the basket and got behind the wheel.

"Do you know?.."

"I know."

Whatever. It would have been strange if the chief of Watchdogs had not been able to get my new address. The captain was concentrating on steering out of the pandemonium of the station square and onto the boulevard, and I was savoring my new impressions.

You could drive a car like that and drink champagne without risking breaking your teeth or even spilling it. There was definitely magic at work here: the suspension was too soft to ride on the sidewalk, the streetcar tracks, and the central alleys, cobblestone pavements. Nothing in common with my uncle's jalopy, to say the least. That's the one I'm going to buy! No matter what I do, I'll buy one for sure.

It was like a magical dream, but about halfway through, I realized we were going to the city dump site.

Ups.

Yes, Thomas, you were afraid of the wrong people.

Foolish thoughts flitted feverishly through my clever head. Should I scare him with the crystal? No, it wouldn't work. I'd have to kick him in the head and jump out! Then start burying myself in the ground; two meters would do it. Assaulting an NZAMIPS officer would look good on the list of my sins. Maybe it wasn't so bad. He didn't come to me with the Special Forces, but politely, without a beating, and maybe we can still come to an agreement. Maybe he just wants money.

If only Max had not had time to run home...

When the car stopped at the crooked wooden gate, I decided not to take the initiative and followed him silently - if a man wants to put on a show, it's worth helping him do it.

The Recycling site itself (a Recycling site, not a garbage dump!) was quite remarkable. In a space the size of a small field, long piles of incredible junk were piled up, sorted by a team of idiotic individuals, who were, however, quite friendly. I do not know the basics of this business, but the proprietor of the place was daily shipping out whole cartloads of junk to fill the space with a new load of junk.

Part of the area was used for self-build-junkers' sheds, amateur alchemists' workshops, and the garages of enthusiasts less wealthy than myself. People in the know found this place very convenient: at the site, you could get spare parts for almost any used machine, from clockwork to steam locomotives (I first came here for this very reason). The landfill owner collected small coins for the right to own a shabby little cell and made sure that no one moved in here seriously: despite the unpresentable gate and the shabby fence, the landfill was not severely guarded.

It was particularly quiet today among the maze of ramshackle buildings - the locals have a knack for trouble. The captain stopped next to the familiar barn and looked at me expectantly.

"Ahem..."

He wait.

"And did you go in there?"

"I looked through the gap."

I sighed and opened the door; there had never been a lock on it. There was a huge black motorcycle in the barn and a cheerful dead dog sitting next to it. Of course, he was! Why would he be anywhere else?

Max ran out toward me, wagging his tail, and started twirling around my feet. That's right, the two of us came as friends, and the zombie had no reason to worry. I patted him on the back, renewing the resuscitation spell as usual. Now, too late for regrets. The chief of Redston's NZAMIPS was contemplating the spectacle in cold blood. The man's got some nerve!

"Why did you make him?"

I shrugged:

"That's how it happened!" Max tucked his ears in for me to scratch and looked at the stranger in a friendly enough way. "He saved my life. And he's a victim of those Ghouls, too."

If you think about it, the dog resisted reincarnation for much longer than the affected humans did.

"Okay, what's done is done," was announced grimly behind my back.

Mag. Black. A grown-up. Something clicked in me, and I realized the truth to my bones: I'd better not start a fight with him - he'd kill me. Max pressed tightly against my knee. His ears perked up.

"Hold the beast down, take it by the collar! I don't like dogs."

I gripped Max tightly by the scruff of the neck, though I was sure he wouldn't budge without my command. My mind flashed back to the episodes when I'd come face-to-face with other black wizards. Not much: Uncle, Smith, Mr. Rakshat, that's about it. None of them were really badass, and this guy was badass. You wouldn't need to be an empath for that conclusion. Determining a mage's age is an ungrateful task, but it seemed to me that he was no older than forty, with my imagination insisting that he had a general's shoulder straps. The power of the black mage's face had that peculiar expression... Who had Captain Ber dug up on my head?

The mage stared at Max:

"Are you interested in necromancy?"

Just asked without flinching, as if being interested in necromancy was like collecting stamps.

"No way! I just felt sorry for the dog."

It sounds silly. The black mage, you see, liked the noble animal. They'll say he's crazy, and then they'll start treating him.

The mage raised an eyebrow:

"Did you ask his opinion?"

Max and I exchanged a slightly confused look.

"He didn't seem to mind."

"What did you use?"

That was the hardest part. If I hadn't prepared for the necrotic ritual, how had I managed to perform it? I had no choice but to shrug:

"It just sort of worked itself out."

Captain Ber snorted expressively.

The mage turned his attention from the zombies to me. It's hard to scare black one, but I had so many little sins under my belt (starting with Rustle) that I couldn't meet his gaze unperturbed. And he loved it. What a bastard! And I was forced to silently tolerate his impudent scrutiny because for a real combat mage, all my skills for one tooth, Max against him will hold for ten seconds, but Captain Ber, in the meantime, attack me from behind and kill me - such a carcass even a spell can not stop fast. I couldn't bear to stand there when I couldn't even punch him in the face!

It must have been some kind of exam. When he made sure I wasn't about to launch a suicide attack, the mage lost interest in me and gave a melancholy nod to his sidekick.

"So," began Captain Ber, "by the end of the week, you will describe all your adventures in detail and bring them to me personally. Understood? If there's a single discrepancy with my information, I'll put you in jail.

"And then what?" I cautiously clarified.

"We don't need... how should I put it... another sensation. We'll be watching you, goddamn it!"

And that they all have a problem with my relatives? I made a titanic effort to hide a sigh of relief. It had all worked out so well! I didn't feel guilty, but I feared for Max's life.

"And another thing," the mage added quietly and ingratiatingly.

My hair stood on end.

"If you show up again, or if there are any rumors, you're to blame!"

A barely perceptible black shadow touched my skin affectionately.

I nodded quickly, and he, satisfied with the effect he'd had, walked leisurely away, navigating between the piles of rusty scrap. Amazingly, the two black mages parted without a duel! The unnatural simplicity of what had happened made me a little dizzy.

"Come on, I'll give you a ride back to your apartment," said Steamtrain.

"Thank you, I'll on my own."

"What, are you going to carry the suitcase yourself?"

Yes, the suitcase was a problem. Well, he brought me here, so he should take me out! I slapped Max back into the barn, bolted the door shut with a wooden stick, and walked back to the car.

* * *

The meeting promised to Mr. Satal did not go according to plan, to say the least. During the operation, Steamtrain did not question the orders of his senior officer - a habit - but on his return to the office, he failed to maintain his composure:

"We must...

"No."

"At least..."

"No."

"Sir, the elements of necromancy are the most serious crime a black mage can commit. And to ignore it would just... just..."

"Do you want an order with my personal signature?"

Satal was the first superior who suggest Ber relinquish responsibility.

"Don't, Dan," said Steamtrain, "that's not what I mean! The guy's on fire, and it's not the first time he's been carried away. He can't live like the others. He must either be recruited or put in jail. There's no way out."

"Hold still!" calmly ordered the black mage. "Everything is under control. As Senior Regional Coordinator, I can authorize the use of necromancy, say, for operational purposes, of course, if he signs the contract, albeit retroactively. But in this case, he cannot get away from us - he cannot be against his nature. If he's done it twice, he'll do it a third time, and then we'll recruit him: he won't feel cornered, and he'll be grateful to us. And considering that he even has a zombie frolicking like a puppy, I'm not afraid for innocent citizens. Have you often seen a picture like this?"

Captain Ber snorted:

"Pathology! The degeneration cannot be stopped in the middle. It doesn't matter how fresh the corpse is."

"Well, let's say it's possible, it's just that it's rarely possible, and therefore it's equally impossible. I'll take him as an apprentice. Why? He has the abilities, the university provides an excellent foundation, and there are all sorts of little things that not everyone can come up with with their own brains. He'll call me Sensei..."

Steamboat looked at the dreaming mage and silently rolled his eyes. Blacks! Give them free rein and they will write history for three hundred years to come - it is useless to argue. He should tell Miss Keweenhare to take care of the therapy.

* * *

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