Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 7

Chapter 7

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Boring. And you can't get drunk, except at home. It's safe, but it's no fun at all.

The biggest problem of any black one is how to occupy his free time, especially if a reliable source of livelihood has already been found.

The work at Biokin, not hard enough as it was, came to a pause. Polak was negotiating with the customer about the acceptance of the gas generator prototype, and everyone was waiting for the result. Johan was writing an article about a new approach to the use of improved microorganisms and pestered me with questions on the alchemical side during working hours. Carl abused the fermenting vat with all sorts of crap to try it out. We both knew that a unit with these parameters would grind any effluent with the equanimity of a cog and that all this testing was like spitting into a steam engine. Quarter's redheaded relative had gone on maternity leave, the father was to be the alchemist's assistant, also a fiery redhead, and their child, as I understand it, would only be carried in mittens. The boy was present at work only for furniture. His thoughts were somewhere far away.

I was making my own coffee and counting the days until I could do magic again. I never thought I'd miss it! I could have quit my job now, of course, and quit the whole shitty business, but there was a triumph ahead, and it would be a shame not to be there for it.

What is peculiar is that the new entertainment was my third wish that Rustle heard, but it was the one he did not fulfill.

I decided to act swiftly - I bought a ticket to the theater for a play with the neutral title "The Road of Exile". I didn't miss it. I loved it. After three scenes, I started giggling quietly. By the end of the first act, I was giggling all the way, and by the middle of the second act, the attendant came up to me and asked me to keep my voice down.

"I don't know what you find so amusing about drama, young man!" After the play, an elderly gentleman sitting next to me remarked.

I, still twitching convulsively, explained to him the state a black mage must be in in order to start talking to his staff. And the staff again! A purely phallic symbol. The idea of its magical powers must have been introduced to the masses by combat mages, but I knew that the only real use for such a thing was to beat my enemies on the head, which is probably what they did back then. I knew that the only real use for such a thing was to hit enemies over the head, which was probably what I was doing in those days. For the storage of spells an ideal round (maximum cylindrical) object, and putting in simultaneously two spells still would not work, so the really cool mage - a man, hung with silver beads from head to toe, but on stage, it would take for an idiot.

I could have given the theater a plus, but the next play was called "Rose of the Winds", and it made me think of white ones. Screw it!

Should I go to the races? It's a pity about the money.

I decided to join a student club. A year before graduation. What's the big deal? They wouldn't let me into the Green World Club at all. They kicked me out the door. Quarter advised the yacht club, but I refused. I didn't like the humidity. Went to a meeting of lovers of vintage mechanics - wow. For two days, I dreamt about cogs. The history club was organizing a series of lectures on the origins of magic - I went to ask about Roland and why he was called like that. I got into an argument about the northern shamans, inserted a quotation from a book I'd seen the text of "The Testimony of the King," and got everyone off. Good!

Captain Ber came and spoiled the mood:

"I know you don't care, but consider this: Melones' trial is over, but she still has friends. They used to want to look fluffy, but now they're going to get revenge. Keep your eyes open!"

And after that, how do you treat the police?

Once again, I bought a ticket to the theater again for a tragedy called King George XIV. I wonder what it's about?

Polak saved me from strange escapades with unpredictable consequences. One day near the end of the working day, the boss appeared in the office shining like a copper candelabrum and informed me that Biokin had successfully delivered the gas generator to the customer. The concept was approved, and the firm received an order for the development of two variants of industrial units of the same type, and the final of the team's two-year ordeal would be a grand banquet. At last!

Nothing warms a black one's heart like lots and lots of free food, drinks of the kind you would never spend money on, and the opportunity to perform in front of a gathering of culturally burdened people when no one will be rude or pick a fight. The only price I paid for attending was to listen in silence to a forty-minute solemn speech alternately given by the Owner of a sludge factory and the Mayor of Redstone, an unusually well-to-do figure who had been invited to join in. No one else was allowed to speak. I knew from talking to Quarter that his uncle wished to emphasize that he had rubbed the naysayers' noses in it. He had the right!

Then everyone drank, and then it was on. I methodically tasted the contents of the bottles and decanters on the table, realizing how much I had missed in this life. What did I know about my Krowhard? Beer, mead. I tasted moonshine once at the fair. My uncle told me that in our valley someone also tried to brew moonshine, but after the first drink, he was badly kissed by a Charik (it's undead) and did not take any more risks. There's no demand for hard liquor in Krowhard! Come to think of it, even in Redstone, I did not develop a taste for heavy drinking. I do not like to lose consciousness. In our area, it's led to consequences. I had a taste for white, red, apple, and wormwood... Though I must admit that after the third glass, the difference was blurred. The people around me could not find out what the drunken black mage was capable of.

"Hey, Tom, don't drink anymore." Quarter took the glass out of my hands.

I was taken aback:

"What the heck?!"

"I caught a glimpse of a guy who used to hang out with Melons, but I don't know what he's doing here. He wasn't invited! I don't know what's gonna happen..."

Oh, man, it's about time! Why am I so unlucky with banquets?

Quarter was already tipsy, and his concern for his friend looked amazingly touching.

"Okay!" I sincerely promised and switched exclusively to appetizers, which the sanitation magnate was also good at.

The party was no worse than at home: the snobbery quickly faded away, the guests danced with and without music, discussed, and laughed noisily. Johan, who had been drinking only apple juice all evening, entertained the group of whites with a deeply philosophical conversation, and Polak was duking it out with another sponsor. Some little round guy kept trying to ask me if I was getting paid enough, and I tried to put it politely that only a prostitute could spit in the ceiling for a lot of money.

It was long after dark, and it was getting close to midnight when the waiter came over and said the carriage I'd called was here. It must have been Quaкter. I'd intended to spend the night with my face in the salad. They said the room was rented until twelve o'clock the next day, but since they'd come for me, I had to go. After all, the featherbed is softer than the parquet. What if I got sick on the floor?

I sighed and carried my heavy body to the stroller that stood by the entrance, pricked myself painfully against something in the darkness, cursed the driver foully, emitting the scent of a fishing basket, and fell asleep almost immediately.

The moment of falling asleep and the dream itself was not felt, there were no twilight flashes of consciousness, no visions, nothing. I closed my eyes and opened them, finding a high ceiling and a glass dome above me. A blue sky could be seen through the empty openings in the openwork frames, and it was not summer now. It was cold!

I shuddered and realized the fact that I was, first of all, not at home, secondly, in the unknown where, and thirdly, completely naked.

And then my nature powerfully demanded to get up.

"Lay still!" it said from somewhere on the side. "The dreaded spell won't let you move a finger."

I cautiously groped myself, found nothing (no pants either!), and sat down. I wonder who they wanted to buy with that stupid joke?

The two looked at me stunned, white for all intents and purposes but chewy. And a mage's physical health depends on his mental health. The guy closest to me looked especially bad. His eyes gleamed feverishly, his cheeks were sunken, his hair disheveled, and he was holding a spear. I'm not kidding; it was a natural, rare-looking spear, but he was holding it like a broomstick.

"We are not afraid of you, sorcerer! The teacher killed your magic, so now you can't hurt anyone."

What a clowning.

There was something painfully familiar about them, and the zombies of White Halak suddenly came to my mind. Of course, it did! Which meant that he would stab me with a spear if I let things get ugly, but on the other hand, it didn't have to happen. What was it the captain said about them? Gullible, suggestible, docile.

I never thought the need to go to pee would be so stimulating to the thinking process.

"Unfortunates, you have given up your souls!" I proclaimed in a tragic voice. "You are as good as dead, and the dead are at the mercy of the black mages. Obey! I spell you with the first star, the grave mist, and the guts of a black cat! Ooh! May you lose your true vision and be unable to distinguish illusion from reality! Here."

I said and snapped my fingers, wishing I could cause a shower of colorful sparks, but instead, a huge ball of fire blew up over my palm. I quickly shook it off under the table. It smelled like smoke.

In short, I have to get out of here.

As expected, the enchanted were unable to think critically about the situation. While the idiots clapped their eyes, trying to decide what to believe, I gathered up my clothes and was gone. And let them burn. It's their own fault.

I got out into the cluttered courtyard, pulled on my wrinkled clothes, and looked around. Behind me was a sturdy but clearly demolished public building (leaves on the marble steps, a peeling colonnade, a dome with no glazing), and the greenish murky waters of the river around it-we were on an island. I could see why no one had noticed these idiots' studies-water obstructions greatly attenuate the secondary magical background.

I felt surprisingly well. There was no hint of a hangover, my head was fresh, my body was alert, and I had a pleasant itch. I wanted to either punch someone in the face or do a magic trick. If this is the effect of "killing magic," give me three. And I did not believe that amateurs could invent something fundamentally different from the centuries-old practice of the Inquisition. It remained only to find out what the human name for what they had done was, but it was necessary to find out. Black magic is too serious a thing to rely on chance.

Again, the fireball was not a small one.

I had already had to effortlessly revive zombies, and they gave us a whole lecture on what all kinds of " magicians' mistakes" looked like. It was creepy, even without pictures. And then, I had made a big deal out of my spontaneous Acquisition, and they were doing rituals on me! My inflamed sense of responsibility demanded that I find the culprits and explain everything to them, and do it with my feet.

But where to look them?

There was a cozy crackle inside the building and a white stream of smoke over the roof. Not for demolition, but soon the fire departments will be here, and the NZAMIPS agents won't be far behind. Do I want to explain myself to them? Silly question.

I waddled quickly up the potholed sidewalk, figuring logically that there had to be a bridge to the mainland somewhere. If there was a road, there must have been somewhere to go, right? It didn't take long to walk. Under the arch of the beautiful stone bridge roared a manmade rift, and a double-crossed banner protruded at the entrance: "St. Johannes Femme College." I had heard something about this place, but I had no time to remember. I barely missed the fire crews.

I should have gone back to the apartment, checked to see if I'd been robbed, and taken some money from my stash. Redstone wasn't a small town, you couldn't find much on foot, and cabbies didn't give you credit. But just the thought of cabbies gave me a brilliant idea. Outside the building where yesterday's event took place, there were mostly the dark blue carriages of Rimmis and Sons, and it was unlikely that the carriers would let an outsider near the client. What if I asked them about what happened yesterday? I did not put it off: I found out from the first horse-drawn carriage that caught my eye where their stables were, and I got to the place on the foot of the streetcar, remembering the old student days. It was a mere trifle to find a man whose face I had not even seen and to find out from him what the name of the crime he had committed was.

You could walk around whining and offering money for information, but that was not my style. I unbuttoned a couple of the top buttons on my shirt, shifted the belt to one side, ran my fingers through my hair, and entered the office in a disheveled state.

"Hello!" I began with an aggressive assertion right from the door. "Where is your master?"

Everyone turned toward me and saw a belligerent black one, in an expensive, though dusty suit, and clearly distraught. It was a walking nightmare.

"Perhaps I can help you?" Chirped the receptionist girl.

I glared at her, catching her gaze, but she stubbornly looked away. Great, so they've dealt with this kind of clientele before.

"Help?" I mockingly interjected. "Your man left with my bag! What else is there to help?"

"What an unfortunate misunderstanding!" sang the maiden thinly. "He didn't do it on purpose. Are you sure you didn't forget your things elsewhere?"

"I'm not drunk!" My expressive objection elicited understanding smiles from those present. "I don't drink at all, and I didn't drink yesterday. He was driving me from the Black Dol restaurant, and I need my bag back!"

"And you'll get it, sir, don't doubt it." At the noise and shouting, the stable master appeared. "Who was on duty at the Dol yesterday?"

The girl quickly checked the logbook:

"Laurent, Michel and Barto, sir."

"I hope," the boss turned to me, "you can describe the person who drove you?"

I frowned and pretended to strain my memory:

"Young. And so... like a fish."

"Loran!" the girl couldn't help herself.

"When is his shift?" the master frowned.

"This morning, but he's not out, sir. Pino is replacing him."

"Crook!' I declared dramatically. "Silly thief. I demand that the police come to his house before he gets rid of my things.

"There's no need for the police!" hurried the host. "I'll go there at once and deliver the missing thing to you personally. Perhaps right to your place?"

He did not fuss for anything - the main income of such stables comes from contracts with restaurants and drinking establishments. The restaurateurs call for carriage drivers in advance, focusing on the number of customers, and allocate a parking space for hired carriages. It is slightly more expensive than catching a private driver, but their carriers will surely deliver a drunken client home and will not clean his pockets on the way. And suddenly - theft. The owner needed time to sort out the situation. No problem! The fact that my enemy had a name was a good thing - no one could have been identified at all from such scant signs.

"Okay, deliver to my house." I dictated my address to the girl (not a bad neighborhood, by the way) and at the same time described the only missing item after yesterday, a purse with keys. "But if I don't get my bag back by tonight, the police will have a complaint against you!"

After all, I liked the purse, and my landlady would give me a hard time about the keys. What if they found it?

Near the gates of the carriage garage, I lingered, with drunken insistence looking for something in my pockets. My patience was rewarded: I waited for the moment when the owner went to the delinquent worker in one of his carriages.

"Barco Boardwalk," he said curtly to the charioteer.

Great! This is how real black mages do things. A few hours ago, I knew nothing about my enemy, and now I only have to check the house number.

Should I go and get acquainted? If I go home now, the concierge will start squabbling over the keys, the landlady will show up, and the fuss will drag on for the rest of the day. And I have a class at the university tomorrow. At this rate, the insult to the black mage will go unrevenged. I need to know at least what the one who owes me looks like!

They threw me off the streetcar and threatened to take me to the station. Stiffs! But no big deal - this Loren guy worked close to home. I took my time walking to the Barco Boardwalk, looking at the column of black smoke rising over the river. The St. Johannes College was still being extinguished.

The address I was interested in was in the houses behind the hangars and warehouses of the Northern Jetty, a relatively shallow wharf favored by boat owners, small boats, and recreational fishermen (just imagine, there's also fishing in that river). The blue stroller was parked on the street in front of a dull five-story building, and I remembered the license plate number. But keeping an eye on Loran outside the apartment was a hassle. What if he never went back there? What if he called in sick and went out on business? I wonder where. Actually, it suggested a wharf, an island, and ships. It was closer to the burning college by river than by shore. And the smell of fish...

On second thought, I turned to the docks. The Northern Jetty is not a commercial port, people in such places are quiet, and everyone knows each other (even when you do not want to get acquainted). They may not pry into business, but where they went with whom - is necessarily noted.

Nestled between crates and empty barrels, a company of fishermen was snacking on the pier. At the sight of fresh bread and fish, my stomach loudly reminded me yesterday's snacks had already left it. I must give up this search!

"Where's Loran?" I called confidently to the boatmen, not bothering to say hello.

"Over there!" They waved their hands toward the long barns.

As you can see, it's fate. Maybe I could at least ask him for some money - I'd hate to have to walk home. The little side door was open, and I could hear loud voices coming from inside. Loran was not alone.

"Hey, assholes!" I started right from the door. "You weren't expecting me?"

Two of the muscular young men looked at me in surprise. The third, a blond-haired, good-looking man in a white captain's jacket, just pursed his lips in a barely perceptible expression of profanity.

"Same to you, Loren!" I nodded to him. "What else shall we say?"

He looked at me with a mixture of nastiness and bewilderment, which made my black nature immediately adopt a fighting stance. I hate snobs masquerading as captains! If you want to walk on my roof, show me your claws.

"And you had the nerve to come here..." he began tiredly.

"What can I do?" I shrugged. "These junkies of yours can't pronounce the word 'mother,' and I need specifics. I had to walk here, teacher. On foot, by the way, I hurt my foot!"

Who can tell me now why I was in such a hurry? There are three Artificers standing in front of me, the same ones who have stirred up the whole of Redstone and crippled the university. What's more: one of them must be a mage and not the last one in his gang. Am I in the position of the man who (in the Krowhard version of the tale) caught the Earthman and couldn't drag him home?
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But it was too late to retreat. Where strength would not save us, insolence would.

"Well, spill it, what have you done, craftsmen - crooked hands!"

Loren covered his eyes, demonstrating the abyss of patience he was forced to exercise in conversation, and tried to remain silent. He did not know the character of the blacks well.

"Don't tell me you're a mage-inventor because I wouldn't believe it anyway. You have the wrong face."

"Oh, of course, nothing original," the Artificer couldn't stand it, "just the Shackles of Deliverance! I hope that term is familiar to you?"

"You didn't mess anything up?" I asked sternly, which shocked him completely.

I did not feel any discomfort (coldness, emptiness, loneliness) from the loss of Source. Strange. I was far from seriously equating magic with a bodily limb, but I assumed that the infamous Shackles were perceived differently. Could it be the same thing that most black mages feared to the point of hiccups? What a laugh!

"Don't doubt it," he assured me. "It must be sad to be present at the end of your own career?"

I wonder who he thinks I am? I shrugged:

"Not really. I was going to be an alchemist. But I'm going to inform Warchhdogs anyway."

They became dramatically sadder.

"It seems," sighed Laurent, "you don't understand the favor we've done you by freeing you from the corrupting influence of the Darkness."

I answered him with an obscene gesture.

"Or is the vice too deeply rooted in your soul? You are forcing us to resort to extreme measures!"

Is he threatening a black one? White ones have got some nerve! Even if I really didn't have magic, I might just as well punch him in the face and badly. That's what I told Laurent. The jocks, instead of answering, scowled and strode toward me.

In a good fight, three opponents at a time are guaranteed to fail. If I had an angry city punk in front of me, I'd turn around and run. Blacks weren't afraid to retreat on time, either. But it was the jocks - the well-bred boys who'd decided to get tough with weights. Their fighting skills were not polished in dozens of small fights, with broken noses and black eyes. Against a ragamuffin from the Krowhard countryside, they were like pets against a street cat.

While Loran's friends were stalling, I tipped a barrel under their feet. Now they had to attack me one by one. Also, the floor was very badly swept. Pretending to take a low stance, I scooped up a pinch of sand and threw it in the face of my approaching foe. He staggered for a second, recoiled to protect his eyes, and then got kicked in the shin with my boot. It's an indescribable sensation, I know.

"!!!"

What kind of a claim do they have against my relatives! There was no time to respond to the insult. The second jock went on the attack. I don't know who they were taking lessons from, but it was money wasted. A one-on-one, unarmed fight was no fight, but a tavern brawl. And the moves were appropriate. I grabbed him by his clothes, pulled him along, and in a couple of seconds he was head over heels on one of the crates. I could've tried a corner, but then I'd have a warm corpse on my hands, and I wasn't used to killing people.

Who I underestimated was Loran. He was very sober about his chances against a black one, even if he wasn't a mage. While his comrades were getting punched in the face, he was in the back room, ready to show shine:

"It's the end of you. You damned sorcerer!"

Nothing exotic from the white mage's arsenal. Loran was holding a construct that could land a private citizen in jail for three years without looking into the circumstances. A huge crossbow with a bolt as thick as a finger on the bowstring. It was almost no different from battle magic, except that it took longer to load, but it left no aura prints and didn't require any special abilities. The smooth arrowhead was stained with something greasy, and I didn't want to find out if it was oil or poison.

Forgetting everything, I created a simple repellent weave and threw it at my opponents.

A bright light burst forth. There was a smell of heat and a rancid stench. When I blinked my eyes out, it was very quiet, and only black flakes of soot were settling on the floor. My opponents were nowhere to be seen. There were no frightened screams or footsteps, no creaking of floorboards or slamming of doors. Only the black dust that covered everything around me... When I realized what had happened, the blood poured from my brain, and my heart sank in my heels. I rushed out of the hangar, not really knowing where or why I was running.

There were flakes of soot and yellowish vapor dispersed under the ceiling. That was all left of the three men who had dared to argue with the black mage and one battle crossbow.

It wasn't even that I had taken someone's life (I hadn't realized that fact yet), but that everything had happened so quickly and without any conscious effort on my part. My uncle's words about weapon curses came to mind. Was it really just now that my unconventional channel of the Powers had made itself manifest? But it was the same spell I had repeated many times in class! And all it did was make the balls bounce sideways!

I reached home, which is at least ten kilometers, and on the other side of the river, I ran in one breath. The concierge looked at me and gave me the spare keys without a sound (she wasn't suicidal). I wanted to eat, but I couldn't from the excitement. Total sublimation of thoughts.

I took a sedative and went to bed. I did not sleep for long. The doorbell rang. The owner of the carriage house stood on the doorstep and, smiling, handed me my purse:

"As I said, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding. In the darkness, my man did not immediately notice the thing you forgot and was going to return it today, but he got sick."

Since Loran could be picked up with a dustpan by the time of their supposed conversation, the man was lying, of course. It is hard to say how the enterprising boss managed to get into the apartment of the deceased Artificer, but he took from there the only thing that could point to my connection with the murdered man.

"Thank you!" I thanked him sincerely.

"Do you have any questions?"

"None! I'm very grateful to you."

I took another sedative and went to bed. The doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Captain Ber, in some black overalls, smelling awfully of garbage and breathing heavily. Said to him, "Yuck!" - and closed the door.

I went to bed, the bell rang, and my uncle was standing at the door, smiling, wanting to come in. I screamed and woke up. What a mess I'd see!

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