Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

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And so my forty days of quarantine were over. No, not like that.

They're over!!!

The last two days were especially difficult. The damn undead had gotten into my head and was having as much fun as he could. I was in no condition to stay at home. The clock began to tick deafeningly, and on the street, a glance at any living object evoked a rapid succession of images of its past, present, and occasionally future. Why should I know what the neighbor's dog ate in the morning, why the kitten was hungry, or how Mr. Rakshat was hungover? And one last point: I could not read the book about the exorcism of Rustle - my eyesight was failing me.

I never would have believed that a black one could seriously contemplate suicide.

I was barely strong enough, but as soon as the magical date passed, my problems with the undead abruptly disappeared. Was it the body adjusting? The faint visions and moments of acute hearing made me wince a couple more times, but then I realized that I'd won. In the end, the thought of white ones made me shiver nervously, and I knew that the memories I had made of Rustle would stay with me forever.

Why, you tell me, do I need their problems?! I have plenty of my own.

I am bliss quietly, gradually tying up the torn threads of plans and events. I pondered where to find a buyer for my uncle's rarity and almost fondly anticipated the terrible revenge I would unleash on the wretched monster. The encyclopedia said that Rustle was almost the only otherworldly phenomenon that a black mage could summon at will; there were precedents. I wonder how many there are, and how do I choose the right one? I'll summon them one by one, and I'll beat them, beat them, beat them... Good!

The people around me, who didn't know what my problems were, decided that I wasn't getting enough sleep. I didn't care - let them think what they wanted. I didn't see or hear their thoughts, and that made me feel immensely happy.

But the world had lost its usual simplicity. The euphoria and the temporary insanity that Rustle had bestowed upon me could not conceal the unpleasant fact that I was being looked at strangely. Is there any sign of my face? I asked Quarter directly and got an unexpected answer:

"You crossed the path of Artificers."

"When?"

"Don't you get it yourself?"

I thought deeply as I recalled the events of those difficult days. Well, if I had a pretty sick imagination, the spreading of rumors about Uther might be mistaken for a hostile attack. On the other hand, no evil force could beat Rustler in its villainy. It was unreal. I did not care about anything simpler than that, which was stated to Quarter.

"Whatever you say, Tom," he shook his head. "Still, I don't understand you, blacks."

The brave badass Quarter...scared?

As it turned out, he wasn't the only one. White men now moved outside the university only in groups of three or four. They'd had some kind of safety training of their own, after which everyone became uncharacteristically suspicious. Freshmen were counted twice a day, morning and evening. Among the students there appeared some kind of numerous ringleaders and duty officers, and a curfew was imposed in the dormitory. I wonder how they were going to make blacks abide by all these rules. Especially the freshly-acquired mages, who finish classes before midnight and by then are in such a state that no Artificers are needed.

It turned out to be elementary. They hired a cab driver and organized a free dinner. With beer. It was free! All the blacks showed up at midnight. Even I was tempted to go back to the dormitory and suppressed it with difficulty. Are we really so predictable?

Such extraordinary measures put me in a serious mood. For a while, I honestly tried to scare myself by imagining maniacs were stalking me and wanted to stab me, but I couldn't go on like this for long - it was boring. And then, what could they do to me? Kill me? The worst thing I could imagine was a burned-out lightbulb in the entryway and Rustle waiting for me at the door, but that couldn't happen in the city because there were too many repellent spells around, and the police also ate gruel for a reason. At most, I managed to get myself in the habit of looking around on the street and not getting drunk in unfamiliar places.

I wasn't allowed to take black magic classes. The Krauchardian doctor had somehow informed the university authorities of my injury. A miserable snitcher, one word - white! I spent all my free time in the library, like a decent student.

I had two interests. First, I had to plan carefully a campaign against Rustle. Sure, I was not the first black mage to be harmed by him, so there must be some record of his successes. For our brother to do a nasty thing and not boast? It cannot be! However, there was surprisingly little material on the most dangerous otherworldly phenomenon. There might be two reasons for this: either no one but me was interested in it (nonsense!), or the results were marked "not for mere mortals". That is what I should have asked the captain about, and I was asking him about some white idiots.

Second, my hands were burned by my uncle's book. After a sly twist and rubbing with Johan, I learned that the address marked on the parcel was not even a building but a botanical garden. The name also seemed dubious, for Piero Sojane was a character in a rather famous fable. In combination, the two facts pointed to a white mage living in seclusion and maintaining neutrality. He was obviously not a merchant because a merchant wouldn't call a customer "my precious friend" and complain that "I didn't expect to find you alive". And he certainly won't convince me in a letter that he "without any low thought solemnly kept" the unnamed something "for the sake of continuity only". The mere rhythm of these phrases made my ears prick up, and I had no desire to meet the "insignificant master of mirrors". Thus, it was necessary to understand what I have in my hands, or else at the first attempt to sell a rarity, I will simply be killed. And then, what if the book was stolen?

Identifying my find was no easier than pinning down Rustle. No known style of writing matched, and it could not be ruled out that the text was simply encrypted. The only recognizable element was the numbers at the beginning of each chapter, though if they were dates, they would be there in another two thousand years. In the end, a similar script appeared in only one place, in a copy of the legendary "Testimony of the King," but that was the oldest surviving chronicle, and my treasure looked more like an expensive notebook. To search more accurately, it was necessary not just to look through the illustrations but to delve into the subject thoroughly. I honestly tried and realized that it would be easier to throw the problem in the trash.

Of all the historical nonsense, there was one interesting fact that pleased me: it turns out that Roland the Light was a saint black mage. Oh, great - "light"! At least it wasn't "white". How a man lived with a nickname like that was unbelievable. Become a saint after that.

* * *
The Senior Regional Coordinator sat in his office, content and satisfied, like a big black cat. The shadows of thinning foliage rippled on the walls, creating a jungle feel. Steamtrain realized he would never be able to occupy this room again - the associations would be too strong.

"We got one," rumbled Mr. Satal.

Captain Ber shook his head cautiously:

"What makes you think Melons is an Initiate? She was convicted of illegal practices and murder, but that's just one episode. There is no indication that the group was behind her. What if she's another distraction?"

"She confessed too easily exactly to murder," the coordinator sniggered. "Conducting a Shackle on the first try might be, but why would a peaceful herbalist place a pump-sign on the lid of a table?"

"'Inorganic channel fixing agent,' habitually corrected Steamtrain.

"I don't care about the terms!" brushed off Satal. "There's only one use for a Source ripped away from its controlling will: a weapon curse. And a very powerful one at that. A peaceful herbalist? Ha!"

"Are you suggesting interrogation?"

"Do you want to bet?" Satal snorted. "She'll die in our arms if we try to influence her, and the newspapers will howl: Police brutality." The coordinator clearly mocked someone and was satisfied with it. "Let things run their course."

"The unauthorized use of the Shackles," stated Steamtrain, "and the abduction of the Source."

"Death sentence," the coordinator affirmed. "And I won't let anyone find extenuating circumstances in this case. She's a trained mage, she couldn't physically unrealize what she was doing, and the fact that the guy died before they found a use for his Source was pure luck. Our luck."

The black mage was enjoying what was happening, this invisible hunt among the stone jungle. The beast was following the trail of the beast, and both were only partly human... Steamtrain blinked, chasing away the ugly image. Black could not do otherwise, but Ber was an ordinary man, so he had to take care of people instead.

"Our lad flashed is on the case."

The coordinator was a little distracted from his triumph:

"Leave it alone. You won't do anything."

Steamtrain frowned:

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"You know what I mean," Satal brushed him off. "He's black; you can't tell him, 'Go this way, don't go that way. If you start patronizing him, he'll resist, and you'll make it worse. Hopefully, without Melons, they'll be disoriented, and we'll get them before they're ready to make any serious moves. We've got to work, we've got to work!"

Captain Ber shook his head cautiously again.

He had participated in the arrest of Madame Melons and had seen her at the very moment when all her plans had collapsed. The face of that woman, the face of a white mage who had deliberately committed murder, was etched in his memory, and the first thought that flashed through his mind at the time was, "A witch!" The captain had long ago grown accustomed to the intricate logic of blacks, to the feverish delirium of street preachers, but a man who looked ordinary but lived as if in another dimension - this was new to him. The relativity of good and evil is taken to the point of absurdity when the measure of good is not even profit but some unattainable and unknowable ideal that somehow justifies any crime. He was present at the moment when the decision was made that determined Melons' further behavior and led to her confession, and he was ready to swear that there would be no simple end to this story

A weapon curse? God forbid...

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP