Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Part Five APPRENTICE OF THE DEVIL Chapter 1-2

Part five

APPRENTICE OF THE DEVIL

Whoever said that children are the flowers of life either did not fully think through his association, or had little idea of the gardener's work.

Father of seven children

Chapter 1

The snowflakes danced slowly outside the window. They flew up to the window, shimmered, and then hid in the darkness. I tried to guess for a second, to hold their flight in my mind, but I couldn't.

"Tangor!"

Yes, yes, here. Where am I going to go? What damage to my mind caused me to believe the black mage's talk and sign that damned contract? It must have been the trauma Rustle inflicted on me, and he would answer for that as well. For about a month, I was happily unaware of what I had gotten myself into until the course of blockers was finished. Then Mr. Satal summoned me, told me to get Max out of the vivarium, and explained the contents of the document again.

For example, the clause where "training is free" in the sense that to refuse this training, you must pay a lot of money.

"Tangor, what are you doing?!"

I should have agreed to prison; they would have given me the block anyway - it wouldn't have gone anywhere. After all, it's their duty to help people affected by the otherworldly! And now I am bound by contract for five years, and I will have to work hard not to sign it again - there is always a public duty hanging over black mages. I mean, society always thinks we owe them something.

I could have tried to sabotage it, but my gut told me it would only make things worse.

"I've already finished, sir."

"You'll be finished when you report on the mission!

"Sir, I'm done."

"Good."

When Satal swears, it's normal, but it's better not to take foul language seriously. When he gets really dangerous, he speaks in exquisitely literary language, with the hard-to-remember accent of a noble gentleman who tramples his interlocutor in the mud without taking off his white gloves. I had a vague suspicion that because of his high position, Mr. Coordinator is too clamped black nature in front of strangers, and the lack of informal communication he makes up for with me. Sort of a show of trust. What am I supposed to do? I just felt the head of the family! I tasted, so to speak, the desired fruit and immediately found myself back in the position of an apprentice, and Satal perceived apprenticeship in the most archaic sense of the word. It is when apprentices endured beatings and washed the master's socks.

I wonder if killing a senior region coordinator will somehow increase the punishment I face. Whatever. The only problem was that I had no certainty of success - he was a very good bastard at what he did. I decided to act like a real assassin - to hide my intentions until I had enough power.

"All right," Satal threw back nonchalantly, looking at the schematic I'd been working on for two hours. We hadn't started the practical exercises yet, because he felt I should have polished up the theory. "That's all for today. Dismissed!"

"Excuse me, sir," I had to be polite, "New Year's vacation is about to begin. I'd like to leave Redstone for two weeks. Is that possible?"

He grudgingly grimaced:

"Why for?"

"I promised my brother I would visit him. My brother is white."

This is an important addition: all children worry when something is promised to them and not done, but for a little white kid, it's just a shock.

"I see. Write a report!"

Report! And this is called a "freelancer"?! What happens next? What happens next is that he starts sending me on missions.

I have to learn how to make poison.

"Goodbye, sir." I managed to leave the office with an icy calm. That's how I am able to!

In the corridor, the empath stood smiling. They must be working in pairs.

"Hello, Thomas! How's it going?"

"Everything is wonderful, Miss Keweenaharie. I'm making great progress!"

For example, in lying to an empath's eyes

"Yes, my boy," she confirmed. "But with a sincere smile, the outer corners of the eyes droop a little!"

I have to learn how to make poison and try it out on her.

The second floor was quiet and dark. By the time my class was over, the only people left in the police department were the night watchmen and the maniacs who were willing to stay on the job until eight. And why is that? Because some bastard had prescribed that a freelancer had to perform his duties at least two days a month, that was as much as sixteen hours. Satal wasn't going to waste his weekends on me, and I had to come here on the only day of the week that was more or less free, Wednesday, and study for four hours straight until my brain was in a knot.

You can't do that to blacks!!!

But Satal covered up the murders I'd committed and the zombie I'd created, as well as the large-scale illegal practice of magic. From the point of view of normal justice, I was a vicious recidivist, unworthy of leniency. And this despite the fact that Mr. Coordinator was not yet aware of the overwritten crystal: collusion between a mage and a representative of the controlling authorities is considered a very serious misdemeanor. And I was still six months away from graduation...

The only thing I didn't have to worry about was acquaintance with Rustle. As it turned out, the cunning undead had long ago found a way to interest his most dangerous opponents, the black mages. Whoever overcame the monster and did not go insane could benefit from it - knowledge. Given that Rustle was at least ten thousand years old and that his infernal body was present everywhere in the world, the prospects were exciting. Unfortunately, the survival rate was about one in forty-three - most went mad in the first year and a half or two. No wonder, remembering how he'd mocked me. The only way to avoid senseless casualties was to hide this peculiarity of Rustle from the curious, which NZAMIPS did through strict censorship.

In my opinion, the usefulness of the long-ago monster was doubtful. First of all, Shorokh was illiterate. That is, he was incapable of recognizing words, letters, and symbols at all unless he had seen this particular object somewhere. The only reason I could read Uncle's book was that the undead had eaten several people who had read it before, and now he could reproduce exactly the feelings associated with its every sign. Secondly, this freak had no idea what a calendar was. One wonders how anything, in particular, could be learned from him. He would hurl a great many random associations which were almost impossible to verify, and he did it not for nothing but for interest. I was not going to risk my sanity for the sake of such nonsense, which was immediately announced to all interested persons.

Still, in the grip of gloomy misanthropy, I put on my typical college jacket over my typical college suit and pulled my typical college cap over my ears - it was snowing. Even my shoes were now typical college shoes. I could have come to class in a black suit, but then Satal would be all over me. Did I really need to? Not until the poison was ready.

"What, is the boss pushing on you?" Captain Ber, another workaholic, was coming down from the upper floors.

I shrugged vaguely.

"If things get really bad, complain to the empath. She'll fix him up."

The only sound advice I've ever heard.

I shouldered my typical student bag and staggered toward the exit, the soles of my feet feeling the fire of the protective spells under the carpet. I tried to think of something neutral. These things react to hostile intentions, and it would be a shame to go to jail for trying to kill a senior coordinator without trying. There is a bright side to everything. At the end of the day, we can forget about the viper house until after the holidays - next Wednesday is already a day off. Freedom!!!

Cheered up, I staggered to the streetcar stop, alone, as usual. The police department was in a block of office buildings and occupied almost a block in itself: one façade faced Park Road, the other Carriage Alley. Several other separate buildings, including a morgue and a garage, were located in the courtyard, but the overwhelming number of government employees was present until exactly five-thirty, and then they instantly evaporated. As the saying goes, there are no idiots. For obvious reasons, there were no hotspots nearby, and I had no companions in sight. Naturally, in such a situation, two people hiding in the alleyway were striking, at least - on a magical level. In one of the strange types, I recognized Quarter, not without surprise. I wonder why this lover of comfort in this weather on the street at night. Maybe he has a car?

I stopped to wait for the odd couple. Ron's friend was exceptionally short. The back of his head barely reached my chin, and he was below Quaternary's shoulder. I had a dirty bad-weather joke on the tip of my tongue. The little guy was blue in the face from the cold (with his body weight, you have to be more serious about what you wear), but Ron wasn't in the mood for more jokes, and he didn't even say hello.

"What are you doing at the police department?" he insistently demanded an explanation.

I twitched an eyebrow, a strange interest, but I answered:

"I'm taking lessons in combat magic."

"Yeah! And who?"

"A visiting specialist. Edan Satal, have you heard of him?"

"That's the senior region coordinator!" exhaled the short guy.

I wonder how he knows so much. I, for one, was not aware of it until Keweenahari enlightened me.

"Well, as a combat mage he's not bad."

And as a teacher, it's not enough to strangle him.

"He's lying!" declared the short man flatly. "Gathering because of some silly magic at a time like this. He would have said he was here for tea."

That statement even took my breath away.

I'm suffering so much, and he sees it as a joke!

My mind was still trying to formulate a murderously derogatory response, but my black nature was already at work. My fist finished on the assailant's jaw. Of course, my position was unfortunate. There was no opportunity to swing, and I did not hit him in the nose, but even such a poke was enough to make the runt fall over on the ground. I mean, on the pavement, I mean, on the rocks. I think it was the hat and the high collar that saved him from instant death.

Again, my reaction overtakes my thought. However, in this case, I was in complete agreement with myself. That's exactly what a true black mage does!

Oddly enough, Quarter rushed to the aid of his buddy.

"What are you doing? What are you doing?" He was indignant.

I shrugged:

"What did you expect? If he wants to be rude to black mages, let him wear a helmet. And in general, I do not advise you to communicate with this freak - a clear Artificer."

"What the heck?"

"It's loose!"

I'd never noticed Ron's brain paralysis before. On the other hand, what could I take from a normal person? He could make out with his new friend, but if he got agitated, I'd kick his ass. If before there were options in this regard, now there was no chance for the Fourth - I have arranged to attend the hand-to-hand combat section and have already achieved some success. Don't get me wrong, blacks usually have enough natural skills to live on, but Satal had a picture hanging on his wall of him dressed in wrestling pajamas, holding some shiny thing in his hands, and very happy. That is to say, if I came at him with my fists, he'd make a cutlet out of me.

I hate it!

But Quatermass was suddenly sensible. He didn't take any of the blows. He concentrated entirely on the runt, who was flapping his eyes in confusion. I turned and walked toward the streetcar stop, feeling a sudden bitterness - when I'd been punched in the face, Ron hadn't made such a fuss.

However, my nerves were completely frayed. I was in a mood to go back and explain what had happened. But then Rustle began to mutter reproachfully, and the moment of shameful weakness was safely over.

I'm going to teach that thing some respect!

//"I have a box. Oh, what a box I have! What an interesting box. What's inside the box? - I could just feel the naive undead pulling his long nose to my thoughts. - And in the box, we have... lightning!!!" Rustle was blown away like the wind. If a creature isn't given a brain, age won't fix it.

I approached the streetcar stop, quite in control of myself, angry and self-confident.

Miss Keweenahari was sitting in the senior coordinator's office, drinking mint tea. She could not see what was going on in the square, but something made the empath shake her head sadly.

"Have you done a good study of your student's record?"

Mr. Satal was putting the last of his papers in the drawers of his desk.

"What are you talking about?"

He grew up in the home of a white mage and met his black relatives only occasionally. This has an impact on his character.

"So?"

"Aren't you putting too much pressure on him?"

Satal rolled his eyes:

"What are you talking about? He's black. If you don't shake him like a pear, he won't do a damn thing!"

"There are other approaches..."

"He is too mature for other approaches! This is the only way to get results from him."

"Oh, Dan, I think you're going to get more than you expect."

"It's okay, I'll survive," Satal grinned. "And besides, he's asking to visit his relatives for the holidays. He'll have to go there to restore his equilibrium."

The thought of a black mage's spiritual equilibrium seemed to cheer the coordinator up.

"Let's hope that their communication will be without excesses," she pressed her lips empath.

Satal, as is typical of blacks, took into account the interests of only one side. How an agitated combat mage would look among underage whites was of no concern to him.
* * *

Chapter 2
* * *

The students were martyring their last lectures, but the spirit of New Year's Eve was already all over the university: the whites were hanging the traditional paper flowers in the hallways (they looked just like real flowers, except they didn't wilt), the walls were covered with party announcements, and the mages, not without artistic tendencies, were competing to create ice sculptures. I, too, had a hand in the holiday decorations: I conjured up a device that lit the lights on the Christmas tree in front of the Faculty of Combat Magic. It would seem that a black mage and community service are incompatible things, but the desire to see everyone say, "Uh-oh!" proved irresistible. The spruce was alive, the lights had begun to hang on it God knows when, and it took a lot of work to find all the control circuits, but now the lights were flashing in seven different algorithms, and the dean of white mages was biting her lips off with envy.

I looked at the fiery spirals, waves, and hieroglyphs dancing on the mossy branches with a sense of profound satisfaction. If Quarter hadn't stopped talking to me, he would have known that a second such device had gone to Redstone City Hall and that it had completely offset all my expenses for the project. The kicker was that the bulbs found their neighbors to create the pattern. The only job of the decorators was to hang them as tightly as possible. I noticed that some students were trying to guess where the next ornament would appear and what shape and color it would be. A useless thing! The process was ruled by black magic - spontaneous and unpredictable.

It was just under the Christmas tree that the surprise awaited me. I recognized Quarter's friend from behind, even from the back. It was a very distinctive figure. The oaf has dressed out of the weather again, and he was hanging out with the freshmen. Strange, for a freshman, he was too old. He looked like a frozen chicken - white carcass, blue feet.

I changed course abruptly, walked over, and kicked him below the waist with my knee - I was dying to see what I'd done to his face. The little man looked around in hysterics. Strangely enough, there were no bruises on his face.

"Hi!" I said, smiling wickedly. "How's your health - no nausea, no dizziness?"

"Thanks, no."

"So.you not pregnant.

I encouraged him with this conclusion and, whistling, went on my way.

I don't know where this fool came from (he must be from the south coast, where Quarter likes to go), but if he doesn't get at least a scarf, he won't live long enough to get home. But why should I care about his pneumonia? In a minute, I had already forgotten about the frozen dwarf, but he clearly remembered me. And he took action...

I was sitting in the lecture hall during recess studying a rarity I had recently bought from a bookseller: Master Tyranidos' Toxicology. I must say, the last Inquisitor of Ingernika was a great pharmacist, and his book read like a poisoner's handbook. I don't know how he managed to collect such factual material, but I heard that grateful contemporaries tore him apart for it with their bare hands. Of course, the master did not describe the methods of making poisons, but how much intelligence does it take to make an extract from Foxglove? I was moping over the symptoms of Pale Toad poisoning (which seemed almost perfect, and I wish I could pick mushrooms) when Quarter came up to me. That is. He did not come at once, but for five minutes, he paced in circles with uncharacteristic nervousness, glancing in my direction and muttering something. He thought the black mage didn't notice him!

"Hey, Ron! Haven't seen you in a while."

In fact, four days. In a way, it's a record.

"Hi. You are... this..."

I watched with interest as Quarter was at a loss for words. I didn't know there was such a thing!

"Don't bother with Sam anymore!" finally blurted out Ron.

"With whom?"

"The guy who was with me..."

"Oh, that one! You'd better tell me why he dragged you to the Police Department. It was his idea, wasn't it? I, for one, don't care what you do in the evenings."

"What's that got to do with it?" began to anger Quatermass. "I was taking a walk."

"Sure."

Why would Ron defend some squishy kid who wasn't even related to him? And then an unbelievable hunch entered my brain. It's not like he's...

"Are you in love with him?" I blurted out.

Quarter flapped his eyes incomprehensibly.

"Don't think. There's nothing shameful about it. We live in an enlightened country..."

And then Ron's face became such that any black mage would be strangled with annoyance.

"Cretin!!!" he blurted out, turned around, and almost ran toward the entrance to the lecture hall.

He is nervous, and a painful reaction to criticism is a characteristic sign. Was I right? He didn't seem to have any such tendencies before, but I don't look like a criminal, either. Let them do what they want with each other. They're adults! As I was leaving the university, I noticed Sam with some sophomores. The little guy looked at me with some challenges, and I winked back conspiratorially. I thought it scared him half to death.

Unlike Ron's preoccupation with my leisure time, I didn't care about his problems in general or until after the vacations in particular. I'd already arranged a vacation with Polak, which was easy; the unpleasant part was left: making one more visit to NZAMIPS.

The Police Department looked... strange on the eve of the holidays. The hall breathed austere and almost cosmic emptiness, with a glittered bonsai tree on the front desk, one to a hundred in scale. Enhanced by white magic, the plant exuded a strong scent of pine needles. No one was to be seen on the management floor, but from somewhere one could distinctly hear the clinking of wine glasses. Probably the wing where the offices of the inspectors and operatives were situated was still very busy, but I did not go there - why spoil my mood? The sight of people busy doing their job awakens unhealthy reflexes in me.

I decided to go to Captain Ber first with my report to make sure it was correct. At least he would advise me, not mock me right away. For some unknown reason, the head of Redstone was sitting on the fourth floor, which was reserved for all sorts of non-core personnel. The holiday feeling was stronger here-the tinsel glittered in the windows, and the treacherous aromas of cucumber salad, freshly baked goods, and vanilla wafted in the air. I walked to the right office under the interested glances of ladies-accountants, who are not exhausted by work (each time I pass through here, they are always drinking tea). The main thing - pretend to be terribly busy, the last time I was tempted by the offer to eat cake and then barely escaped - mad without a man lady doesn't care, black in front of them, white or striped, as long as the adult. Fuck it, fuck it!

The captain took my appearance favorably, removed the cake plate from the table, studied the text, and tapped his finger on the cap of the document:

"Don't go to Satal. He's scary now."

"I thought that was the norm for him."

"You just don't know what you're talking about. Check it out: we got a petition demanding that Laurent Pierrot be found missing."

"Oh!"

"Oh-ho-ho! The boss is making up an answer now, so that it doesn't contradict the facts and doesn't look like the truth."

"Damn!"

"By the way, I'm officially your boss. You work in the Redstone office."

"So... I could go?"

"Back home for the holidays?" The captain asked good-naturedly, putting his visa in the upper left corner.

I noded:

"To my brother."

The captain hesitated, pressing the paper with his palm.

"Where is he?"

"Studying at Mihandrov."

"It's not our county, is it?"

I nodded, but not quite sure.

"And even another region... Don't go anywhere. Wait for me here." Captain Ber raked the report from the table and left.

I sat there, fighting the urge to disappear without saying goodbye. Curiosity won out - I wanted to know what he was up to. The captain returned in about half an hour, holding a stack of sheets and a large paper bag. Judging by the distinct smell of cognac, he had already had a drink somewhere and generally had a good time.

"Vacation is canceled! You're going on a business trip."

"???"

"Here's the order, here's the assignment, here's the prescription to the Watchdogs there. Sign it!"

I studied the contents of the papers with suspicion:

"To study the experience of institutions of secondary and primary education?"

"Exactly. Keep this in mind. You'll write a report later."

I groaned.

"It's nothing! Have you thought about what would happen to Satal if you did something crazy there and your past came out?"

"I wasn't going to..."

"Yeah, yeah. With zombies, I take it, you weren't going to do any of that either. It was either that or stay in town."

How much more of this moral terror can I take?! A normal black one would have rebelled long ago. On the other hand, if I went to complain to Satal now, he might beat me up. Where do I want to go more: on vacation or to the hospital? With a sigh, I signed my name. The captain, meanwhile, shook a lot of interesting things out of the bag.

"This is a temporary ID for you. It doesn't give you any powers, but it discourages people from asking questions. If you show it to any civilian, I'll lock you in the basement for a week!"

My God, what austerities!

"Exorcist's camping kit: chalk emulsion marker, salt shaker, compass, mirror taps, set of candles. And I want you to return everything you took, understand? I'm only giving it to you because of the instructions."

I nodded eagerly - well, I understand candles and mirrors, but how will he determine how much emulsion is left in the marker?

"The special kit is elixirs. You know it! Blue is a blocker, green is a restorative, and red is a stimulant. If you want to live, don't touch it."

Um... Well said.

"One last thing: an Amulet of Emergency Call, simply put, a caller. You press here and here or bite off this little button, whichever you can, and the nearest Watchdogs office sends out a rapid-response team. And don't you dare check - you're liable to serious penalties for making a false call.

It's a shame. And you can't tell that you dropped it.

"Now, the instruction. If you get in trouble, I'll turn you over to Satal, and you can do what you want with each other!

How cruel! Is he really so heartless? But he looks like the sweetest man.

"That's it. Have a nice rest!"

I picked up my things and rolled out into the corridor - no more bosses for me. I had a lot to do. I had three reports I'd finished yesterday, buy some presents for Lucy, make a deal at the junkyard to guard the bike, and give Max a bath - the zombie would ride with me again, and that fur rug would take a long time to dry.

It was another unexpected benefit of having a good relationship with the Watchdogs: the cleaners, devoid of piety for the dead, had Max's skin mended, his claws trimmed, and a special spell put on his collar that forced the hair on the dead body to grow. On the plus side, the wavy grayish-red locks hid all the zombie features, making a cute, hairy overgrown poodle. The disadvantages of this disguise were the need to regularly comb the long hair, bathe Max in a special preservative, and pour egg whites down his throat - the zombie wasn't very good at gulping and swallowing. I never thought a dead dog would be so much trouble!

I skipped past the aunts, rolled down the stairs to the superior floor, and tiptoed up the marble stairs to the lobby. Satal's office was literally a stone's throw away, and I could even see the door, but this time I was lucky. Now get out of here before my favorite teacher nails me to death!

Senior Coordinator came to Ber at the end of the day, black and terrifying as an unburied dead man, with somnambulistic precision found the unfinished bottle of whiskey behind the bedside table and began to pour its contents into a teacup. Either he forgot about the possibility of summoning his subordinate by phone, or he decided to walk around and let his irritation subside before speaking to him.

"Where's that little asshole? He was supposed to come by today." Satal tipped the contents of the cup into himself as if it were a sink.

Steamtrain grimaced: a drunken black mage was just what he'd dreamed of getting for the holiday.

"He came by me."

"And you let him go?!"

"No, I sent him on a mission trip." Steamtrain decided that logical reasoning was irrelevant now.

"Where's that?"

"To Mihandrov."

Satal squinted his almost sober eyes suspiciously:

"And how do you know about Mihandrov?"

"From the dossier. He's got a brother there."

"Ahh!" Satal leaned back in his chair with a satisfied look on his face, immediately losing his fighting spirit.

It was Ber's turn to squint suspiciously:

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing." The mage swung away vigorously, almost knocking the empty bottle to the floor. "I... no, you better call them tomorrow and let them know our employee is coming. Let them meet him."

"Is it worth it?" Steamtrain hesitated, suspecting some kind of creepy meanness.

"Worth it!" announced Satal with drunken nonchalance. "I have to go to the capital after the holidays. At least Axel will be on my side. Did he need a mage? We sent the best!" The coordinator hiccupped loudly, and with some effort, he uttered, "Confidential."

Steamtrain estimated how much alcohol Satal had per unit weight and decided that another five minutes would be enough for the boss, and then we would have to drag him to the guardhouse and put him up for the night.

"Can the kid handle it?"

Satal grunted thoughtfully:

"I can't deal with white ones. They piss me off. And Fatoune, he's a completely... This one's got a brother who's white? Oh, yeah! That's what we need. If he didn't kill his brother when he was a kid, he can handle it."

* * *

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