Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 8

Chapter 8

* * *

The infamous St. Johannes College burned hot and long.

This was the second time Steamtrain had come here: two years ago, back under Larkes. The teenagers, drunk with impunity, had dismembered the youngest boy here, an uninitiated white one, and then died of an elemental curse, the first and last of the mage's life. Sixty-four of the students and servants died with them, all of whom the dying mage had managed to douse with his fury. And who said white magic was harmless?

Fire hoses poured nearly half the river onto the island, but if it were not for the needs of the investigation, Conrad Behr would have gladly let the fire frolic free. No one was willing to buy the place anyway. The college, once a privileged educational institution, had been completely abandoned, and abandoned places would sooner or later be infested with some kind of crap. True, Steambtrain never expected it to be warm-blooded this time, either.

In the courtyard, flooded and trampled by firemen, the healers comforted a badly burned white man who did not want to leave and assured everyone that he had lost his soul "here, right here somewhere," and begged for help in finding it.

"Another idiot has been nailed by a beam," the doctor told Steamtrain with the usual police healer cynicism. "Maybe it's even better for him."

"Dragon's Tears?" The captain nodded at the casualty.

"No, something like a lobotomy. I'll tell you more specifically after the examination if he survives to it."

Steamtrain nodded understandingly and went inside the sooty blackened building. It smelled disgustingly of soot, water sloshing underfoot and dripping on his head.

"Yours over there," the fireman waved a hand as he reeled in his tarpaulin hose.

The region's senior coordinator found himself in a hall that was clearly the epicenter of the fire. The floorboards were burned through, and the only way to get around was on the flimsy bridges the firefighters had thrown over the surviving structures. Everyone's attention was focused on the mangled wreck of the surgical table, with the wizards and Mr. Satal himself crawling around on their knees, knee-deep in the blackened debris. There was an unhealthy buzz of excitement among the mages.

Steamtrain came closer, expecting to see the burned remains.

"Same style as last week," exhaled Satal, straightening up. "But there are differences."

The captain looked at the ashes with understanding, but the black mage only grinned:

"No, it wasn't them. The Ritual of the Shackles was performed last night successfully, perhaps, because this time their victim was an initiated mage."

Steamrtrai got a nasty tickle under his belly.

"The sign pump held steady for eight hours, but then something happened." Satal circled his hand around the naked walls of fire. "And it wasn't done by a human. The channel is so different from normal that a mage with that Source simply wouldn't have survived the Acquisition."

"Black mage," stated Steamtrain.

"More of an otherworldly phenomenon. A well-matured undead, energetically saturated, confidently navigating the material world, affecting its surroundings with sparing blows without wasting energy. Possibly has a material host."

Captain Ber tried to imagine such creepiness walking around his city and couldn't.

"The other thing I don't understand is how those two survived. They got hurt later, and only because they didn't think to get out of the fire." Satal nodded to the expert who had dug some crumpled round thing out of the embers, "To the lab - and let me know!"

"Did the weapon curse work?" With an inward shudder, the captain asked.

Satal grimaced:

"Unlikely. The sign-pump disintegrated from external influence, not from the release of Source energy. The disturbance was extremely local, at least this time.

Ber caught himself that he never saw the distinctive remains of a human body among the dirt:

"Where is the victim?"

"Obviously came to its senses and flew off," the black one shrugged indifferently. "There were no straps here. Only the sign pump was holding it in place. Pretty thoughtless of them."

"Crazy lunatics!" the captain couldn't stand it. "The third case. What are they after?"

"Probably the same thing Melones would have pursued if we hadn't taken her."

"Another Initiate?"

"I don't think so." The coordinator almost spat on a pile of evidence but managed to restrain himself. "Sounds to me like the bitch was coaching her successor. But she didn't train him well enough. He knows what to do and how to do it, but he's not careful enough, so the first two victims died during the ritual. And they didn't explain to him how risky it was to put a pump-sign on an initiated mage. That's the result!"

The coordinator took another look at the sooty walls.

"And the bastard is still on the loose," Ber added grimly.

"Now get to work!" Satal was furious. "Look for witnesses. He didn't fly here by air. I haven't finished yet!"

The steam locomotive did not bark back, though his patience was at its limit. You can't keep getting into someone's position all the time! He's Chief of Staff of NZAMIPS, he's got four hundred men under his command, and it's not his job to coddle a punk kid, even one of the Black Mages. He's not a donkey! But none of the emotions that raged in his soul was reflected in the face of Captain Ber. He turned and silently strode toward the exit, habitually pondering the reasons for his immediate retirement. Yes, he was still five years away from a full pension, but he had already served his officer's pay, and how much did an old bachelor need? Numerous relatives will gladly accept the city uncle, and you know, you won't get bored. Steamtrain saw only one obstacle: if he left, he would completely lose the ability to influence events.

A young policeman in motorcycle goggles and gloves was stomping on the college steps. When he saw the captain, he perked up and waved his arms. Not a moment's peace! Ber pushed past the firefighters rushing through the front door and walked over. The boy's face took on an embarrassed expression:

"Ahem, sir..."

Steamtrain looked under his feet and cursed in anger:

"Damn, it's all messed up here, too! What else?"

The motorcyclist handed the captain an envelope, and Ber realized he still had shit ahead. What could have happened in the city that the chief of NZAMIPS had to be notified by messenger? Steamtrain took the dispatch out of the thick envelope, read it, and wished he'd been carrying poison: In full compliance with the regulations, the Instrument Control Team was notifying his superiors of a powerful burst of magical activity in the Barco Bulwark area. Were they too late after all?

"You go ahead and give this to Senior Coordinator Satal, understand?"

The policeman saluted and briskly slapped on the wet floor. He didn't know what he had in his hands.

As the striped squad car beeped its way through the crowd of firefighters, Steamtrain tensely pondered the situation. None of his subordinates would have guessed that behind his usual mask of calm he was diligently suppressing the urge to panic. It was not for nothing that the Artificers were hiding on the river: magical surveillance in Redstone was traditionally well established, mostly because of the presence of the university. Amulets scattered around the city were officially considered protection against the otherworldly, but they could register any fluctuation in the magical background, regardless of the nature of its origin. Every day the control team recorded several dozen small bursts, but since there were plenty of magic artifacts on the streets, no one panicked about it. Records of the place and time of the event sometimes helped with investigations, that's all. If the magicians on duty at the amulets remembered the statute, it means the case smells of a tribunal.

The chauffeur drove the chiefs to Barco Boardwalk in a mere ten minutes. The chauffeur waited for signs of panic and destruction, but the street was quiet and sparsely populated, which, however, is no indicator of order in a magical attack. The sentry greeting the police cars waved, motioning for them to turn in the direction of the docks.

The scene was calm and somewhat mundane. The investigator was questioning a group of tipsy fishermen, and the crime-scene police van was parked off to the side, which meant there were victims. The cops had strung striped tape around the big boat shed and were now chasing away the curious. Steamtrain, without stopping, went inside.

Well, ordinary hangar. No blood on the walls, no putrid stench, no traces of fire, and no destruction, except for the destruction of an overturned barrel. And dust all around. Here, too, forensic mages were working, but of a lower class than Redston ones. One of them habitually saluted. Subordinates respected Steamtrain.

"The sentinel amulets recorded an outburst at fourteen thirty-two, level eight, no less. At the scene, the remains of several people, of sorts. Ashes. I can't tell you exactly how many are dead yet. And something else interesting, let's go!"

Cautiously, bypassing the rustling tassels and stacks of crates, the mage led the captain into the back room. Steamtrain whistled in surprise: there was a row of cocked crossbows ready to fire. On a long table, there were parts of three or four more that were in the process of assembly, and two opened boxes marked "hardware" gleamed with familiar details. The boards on the far wall were studded with bolts-the assembled weapons were being tested in action.

"Search everything," decreed the captain. "Are there enough men?"

"The Office sent everyone who didn't leave with Mr. Coordinator," the expert shrugged.

"That's all right, I'll get you some people from there!"

"And another thing, sir," the expert stopped him. "The aura print at the crime scene is very unusual. I haven't been able to identify it yet, but I've never seen anything like it before."

Steamtrain nodded silently and stepped out into the fresh air. The smell of burning and ashes followed on his heels. It seemed inconceivable that an undead creature, even one with a host, could have made it from St. Johann's College to the North Fork unnoticed, but two incidents of fire and a strange aura in one day... The timing was right. The frightening word "quarantine" was slowly drifting out of the captain's mind. Redstone isn't Nintark, it's a huge city, and it would take a lot more than four thousand men to cordon it off. Word would get out, there would be panic, and there would be casualties. Troops would have to shoot at people distraught with fear.

On the boardwalk, the young investigator was reporting to the Senior Coordinator, and people were jumping out of a truck with the NZAMIPS logo on it. Steamtrain quickly went that way. He doesn't want a black mage to terrorize his subordinates.

"I know what you're thinking," Satal said quickly. "Let's step back."

The word "quarantine" remained unspoken.

"Please, wait a bit!" muttered the coordinator quietly. "I know I can't give orders in a case like this. But it's not that simple."

"The creature walks around the town."

"Look, the witnesses claim that the suspect talked to them. Do you know what that means? A creature can't talk! The undead can think, but they're not capable of articulate speech - they have a different kind of nervous organization."

"What do you suggest?" the captain interrupted dryly.

"Give me 24 hours! A quarantine will sow panic in the town, and that's what the Artificers want. What happens if we play into their hands?"

"What will be different in 24 hours?"

"The host must be the victim, and there was no one else on the scene. We'll find him before he goes insane, I promise. The sign-pump retained the imprint of the Source, and we'll get a name from the crystal and catch the host before the undead completely subdues his will. Trust me!"

Trust the black one? Again?

"Maybe the victims have something to do with the underground," Steamtrain remarked, trying to gather his thoughts. "There's a large shipment of illegal weapons in the hangar."

"We need to search the hangar!" The coordinator became animated.

Captain Ber grimaced - maybe Satal should hire a secretary to take his place?

"Twenty-four hours. You have exactly twenty-four hours. After that, I inform the center that we have lost control of the situation."

* * *

Внимание! Этот перевод, возможно, ещё не готов.
Его статус: идёт перевод

Переведено на Нотабеноиде
http://notabenoid.org/book/85505/551020

Переводчики: Camrad_RIP