Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 9

Chapter 9
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I arrived at the Mihandrov Watchdogs office at half past ten, like a well-mannered person. To be honest, I wanted to have a word with the lieutenant, but the tiny room was already occupied by blacks.

Gorchik flaunted a broken face. To find trouble in a quiet town like Mihandrov in one day, you'd have to be a real battle mage! I knew from Madame Parker, with whom we were now getting along well, that the incident had taken place in the one and only local beer house, which was not open after sundown. A visiting black man of unusually slim build had quarreled with the owner of the establishment, who was surprisingly melancholy by nature and had been thrown by the scruff of his neck into the street to cool off. Gorchik could only use battle magic against the burly brewer, but he was fixed in time by his colleagues. I think the thought of having to become sober for the rest of their business trip was a much better incentive than the prospect of Shackles of Deliverance for their buddy. There was a bitter crease in the unfortunate mage's brow as he tried to think of a way to reappear in the establishment without losing his dignity.

There were not enough chairs, so Lieutenant Clarence stood. It's a very disadvantageous position psychologically. I carefully removed the pots of flowers from the windowsill and gestured for him to sit next to me.

"Well," the petty officer squirmed, trying to get comfortable in the stiff chair of the master of the office, "shall we get acquainted?"

I poked the lieutenant discreetly with my finger and waited for him to continue. The cleaner didn't notice the pause and introduced himself first:

"Petty Officer Otto Claymore, my assistants are Philip Gorczyk, Keane Rispin, Polisant Regional Rapid Response Team."

"Not an Artrom?" I clarified. It was important.

"For civilians, it's Artrom, and we're sitting in Polisant," Gorchik grinned contentedly.

Apparently some kind of local thing, and they still have Axel as their Regional Coordinator.

"Thomas Tangor," I introduced myself modestly, "a freelancer."

"What do you mean?" The petty officer didn't understand.

"That means I work two days a month."

The cleaners were silent, pondering such a blatant injustice

"Neat," the petty officer commented, "I hope what we've seen isn't an example of your work?"

I shrugged my shoulders and didn't make any meaningless excuses: he understood the situation without me, and I let him keep his jokes to himself. Claymore finally felt the pressure and sat up straighter:

"I take it this case is closed."

It's so typical - he's just arrived, and he's on his way back. He will leave if I give him even half a chance to leave the work to others.

"О? So have you found all the missing people yet?"

"It's just a matter of time to find the corpses. You don't need a battlegroup for that."

"Pardon me, but how was your task formulated?"

"What's it to you? We took out the undead."

"What does this have to do with the undead? The undead go to hell. You'll be responsible for the Artificer."

"Are you being rude?"

"Yes!"

Clarence's desk, where Claymore had come willingly, now prevented the petty officer from simply walking over and grabbing me by the chest. Besides, I was sitting so that I had all three of the cleaners in front of me, with the door next to me. Very disadvantageous to the conflict, nevertheless the petty officer tried it. He stood up. I stood up, too. The petty officer stared defiantly at me and received the same blatantly defiant look in return. We were the same height, and that made it easy.

The further mattered only for blacks: it was a question of whose will was primary, who was ready to cause the enemy more trouble and go to the end. As a matter of fact, most blacks were interested in this, not in any nonsense like law and duty. The petty officer had seen a white one in the office and thought he could just call it a day and get away without fear of repercussions. But now Mihandrov was my town, and a black one would tear up anyone for his territory and hang them in shreds. Gorchik fidgeted uneasily in his chair, but I was sure I could awaken the Source faster than he could. And don't talk to me about arrogance! That asshole has never seen anything scarier than a Bane, and I've taken down three Ghouls - that's awesome! I'm gonna put a zombie dog on them too. I'll bury them alive in the ground, and whoever comes next will be looking for eleven corpses.

And Claymore flinched. He didn't want to challenge the ownership - it would be a hassle - but he couldn't afford to retreat in front of his subordinates - it was bad for discipline. Everything said that the petty officer was looking for a way out of the conflict: his posture, his body language - one shoulder slightly forward, as if taking a blow, his gaze was not averted, but he looked askew and kept his head low. Fuck him! I closed my eyelids, breaking the confrontation, which Claymore took advantage of immediately:

"Uh, kid, don't get so worked up. We'll find the scumbag, we'll clean up the neighborhood, and then we'll do what the bosses tell us to do. We're men of the service."

I nodded, accepting the new terms. The petty officer was absolutely right - there was no reason for them to go against orders. So we'll keep working, and I had a lot of interesting ideas about it.

The cleaners filed toward the exit, eyeing me warily. I poked Clarence with my finger again. He better not start apologizing! It would spoil the whole situation - as long as they felt they were in foreign territory, they wouldn't be tempted to slip up.

"Quiet, sit back down," I whispered to the lieutenant as soon as the door closed behind Rispin.

We sat in silence for a few minutes while I wondered if Gorchik would dare to eavesdrop. Should I peek out? I'd never gotten to this stage in my relationship with my own kind, and I'd just drained the conflict with Satal.

The first one who couldn't take it was the lieutenant:

"It's outrageous!"

"What is it?" I didn't get it.

"That's all this is!"

"They wanted you to write a waiver?" I guessed.

"Exactly!"

The poor guy was offended in the best of feelings.

"Hey, Rudy, did you know any black ones at all?"

He jerked his shoulder vaguely.

"I see. Remember, or better to write down: the first thing a black mage who has been assigned a job does is to try to get rid of it. It is useless to scare or appeal to his sense of duty, but it is necessary to outline the possible consequences and emphasizing personal responsibility."

The lieutenant frowned uncertainly. Naive child!

"Don't look at me. I was raised in a white family. I'm like a cripple. That's the way a real black one should act. Why should they have to clean up a mess they didn't make?"

"But... What to do now?"

"What we planned, only now you know why. Our target is still your main coordinator, so look for a way out to the journalists and shake up the principal of the boarding school - she doesn't look like a simple woman. As long as they know they're being watched, they'll do their best. And don't you dare show your weakness - they'll sit on your neck."

Poor Clarence flapped his eyes in confusion, trying to turn his brain so that he could understand my logic. I don't think whites can do that, though... empaths do it somehow.

"It's amazing," he finally summarized. "I took a course, even attended a seminar. Nothing to do with reality."

"Theory without practice is dead! Get to work."

A striped police ribbon picked out a large rectangle from the monotonous landscape, the grass inside of which had been either mowed short or burnt to a crisp. Who can tell now...? In the dense thickets of thorny bushes cut a wide comfortable passage. The three battle mages were busy doing what they were best suited for.

Rispin rustled his brush at the secret burial site. The exhumed corpse had already been thoroughly examined, described, and wrapped piece by piece in packing paper. An experienced forensic scientist could make a dead man talk even without the aid of necromancy, and the fact that he worked for the Watchdogs rather than the police was solely the merit of Axel's coordinator - the mage had been offered double salary.

Petty Officer Claymore was concentrating on drawing a detailed plan of the crime scene on a sheet of paper, sketching a future report as the findings of his subordinates flowed to him.

"The bastard was right. Gorchik came out of the bushes, wearing overalls and glasses, the lenses of which made his face look like an aquarium. Needless to say, the black one did not like to wear glasses.

"Did anyone call out the Rustle?"

Gorchik wrinkled his nose - naming the only undead that could obey the spellcasters' calls was considered bad form among battle mages.

"A shield modified for mortal sorcery and strictly for White Source."

Claymore twitched an eyebrow. An interesting picture! If the Black Source could exist outside the organism for some time, the White Source could not be fixed to the pump-sign. There was a time when inquisitors managed to cause spontaneous manifestations of white magic, but the consequences were so...

"It's not like they're trying to hex a possessed person here."

"Doesn't look like it at all," Gorczyk confirmed. "The guy followed his killer here without resistance, volunteered to summon the Source during a ritual, and then was killed. That requires either extreme selflessness or an extreme degree of trust in the killer."

"Given the victim's age," the petty officer nodded at the lovingly wrapped remains, "one doesn't rule out the other."

"Which means our client will be a very respectable man. You can't approach him without a warrant."

Claymore grimaced:

"It's disgusting! It's starting to look more and more like the Artificers. I thought we couldn't have them - it's been so many years, and Axel's always scouring the white community."

"This place smelled bad a year ago, but the empaths thought it was a collective outcry. I'm gonna get these smartasses in trouble."

Black exchanged gloating smirks.

"What, are we done?" Rispin broke away from his digging.

"What about you?" The petty officer glanced at his watch.

The criminalist shrugged:

"Nothing. The bastard was exceptionally careful. The bones are intact, apparently, death was caused by a puncture in the soft tissues. The murder weapon and method are now unidentifiable - a spell to accelerate decomposition was used. If the first victim died ten years ago, it will be very difficult to find the remains. The aura print is unidentifiable."

"I've got a better one!" boasted Gorczyk. "There are fragments suitable for identification, but without the big picture."

"Shit," the petty officer said. So they can't use magic to find the intruder, so they'll have to use good old-fashioned police methods. "Can you identify the victim?"

"Yes."

"Make a portrait. We'll show it at the boarding school - since he's young, he must be one of theirs. We're done for today. We'll start looking for the rest tomorrow. Does anyone know how to ride?"

To urban blacks, the very idea of climbing onto a horse seemed unnatural.

"I see," sighed the petty officer. "So we'll walk."

Rispin muttered something cursive under his breath that rhymed well with Tangor. The Petty Officer could hardly keep the curse on his tongue. He understood the importance of catching the murderer and the seriousness of their mission but in his heart... Claymore wished with all his heart that the little slacker would die in agony and be covered with shingles. He had to find such a nefarious job for three respected wizards! The foreman had no doubts about the success of the investigation - no villain had ever escaped from their team - but the thought of how long the search would take made him want to get drunk immediately.

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