Готовый перевод Житие Мое / Life of Mine: Глава 11

Chapter 11

* * *

These confusing holidays were finally over, and my unfortunate business trip was coming to an end. I could have stayed a couple of days (they wouldn't eat me for it!), but then I would have had to attend Fox's funeral. It was Mrs. Hemul's idea - the late head teacher should not remain a dark spot in the children's memory.

"Anyway, he was their teacher. They learned a lot from him. A child cannot be told: "Remember this and don't remember that." Children themselves must understand the ambiguity of his personality and divide good and evil in their minds. I know you see this as excessive complacency, but death closes all debts, and forgiveness is necessary for us to live on."

Okay, maybe that's true for white people, but I couldn't imagine myself grieving for the Artificer, even after a liter of beer.

Also, Mrs. Hemul wanted to know the outcome of the investigation because seeking clarity. This is a fundamental characteristic of white ones. They physically can't just ignore everything and forget about it like black ones. The wise principal chose the simplest way to achieve her goals - she invited all interested parties to dinner at the very same pub at her own expense. The Claymore eagles flew in in full force to show off. I didn't want to go, honestly, I'm proud, but Clarence asked me to be. Max came with me - he'd already been introduced to the cleaners, and extra teeth during the conversation wouldn't hurt.

The petty officer was eager to present the results of the investigation, half of which he had not conducted. The main achievement of the cleaner was the identification of the humble Fox, which provided a material basis for my ramblings about the Artificers (for which I was very grateful to him):

"Provincials love sonorous nicknames! Upon entering the community, he adopted the pseudonym Sigismund Salaris, under which he became somewhat famous. He was the mastermind behind the branch of the cult that dared to openly defy the authorities and establish a community in Nintark. Naturally, he was then presumed dead and searched for without fanaticism, and he's been sitting here the whole time."

Mrs. Hemul received the news of the Artificer with a surprising calmness, behind which one could sense long practice. I wondered who she had been before she came to Mihandrov.

"I confess that I had always thought of the Artificers as mentally ill, but now I realize that my ideas were too primitive. Fox was able to reason sensibly and consistently, but he could do absolutely unthinkable things. And most importantly - why?!"

"Why, that's pretty clear," I couldn't help myself. "He wanted, so to speak, to sacrifice the little to protect the greater."

"Protect from who?"

I had some thoughts on the matter, but to say them in full would mean revealing my sources, and do I need to? In a shortened form, the idea looked like this:

"Did you know that Petrick's father was killed during an armed bank robbery?"

Clarence frowned slightly.

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, that one! Three months before the birth of her firstborn, by the way. The first victim disappeared a few days after the incident. Dig through the archives if you want, a lot of strange things happened at the time. I don't know what Fox was trying to fend off with that shield, but he obviously liked the effect. And so, grieving and weeping, he began to put his students under the knife, of course, choosing those whose death would affect as few people as possible. The loners, in short. A kind of happiness on blood."

The petty officer nodded in agreement:

"Typical Artificer's logic."

"But the children! Why did he try to poison them?"

"That's understandable, too. Fox must have known what an otherworldly phenomenon was from Nintark. He had lost control of the situation: his students were killing themselves, the shield was failing, sacrifices were required more and more often, the leadership had changed and control was tighter. White ones don't handle stress well! Toward the end, I show up and start spoiling his flock, instilling a modicum of common sense in them, and generally doing what he couldn't handle for so long. Where you saw hope, he saw only corruption and degradation. Again, grieving and weeping, he made the decision to save everyone from facing the real world - put them to sleep like sick mongrels, purely out of mercy."

"They all come to that sooner or later," Claymore muttered. "It's the only logical conclusion of their whole philosophy."

"Better be glad," I advised, "that everything ended so well."

"Well?" The principal didn't understand.

"Uh-huh. The kids are alive. Fox is not. You think what would have happened if he'd gone to jail!"

"No one has ever canceled execution by burning," Gorchik put in very appropriately.

"There'll be another scandal," sighed Mrs. Hemul.

"This is to your advantage! The situation is critical, and if NZAMIPS doesn't send a normal team here, all of Fox's fears will be realized. Besides, it's not just your trainees that need to be fixed. It's the city as a whole. You need the help of empaths and additional funding, which in the current situation can be achieved either after mass casualties or on the wave of public scandal. If I were you, I would team up with city officials and work proactively. The best treatment is prevention!"

Mrs. Hemul nodded slowly:

"Yes, I understand."

"Don't expect me to sign all this," the petty officer muttered. "While all this talk about the shield is your personal opinion, and whether the background around the city is there or not, I'm not an expert, I'm not going to lie. There is a representative of NZAMIPS in the city," he nodded at Clarence, "we've eliminated the phenomenon, found the killer, sent the report, and now we're waiting for the order. Whatever they say, we'll do, and any complaints are for Mr. Coordinator."

Clarence was silent, though his jaw clenched so tight that his cheekbones turned white, and I only shrugged melancholy:

"Well, Mr. Axel is not suicidal either, and he understands that if he loses the city after two calls, an official investigation, and a report from his subordinates, he won't get off with the Shackles of Deliverance, and he can only emigrate to the Moon."

"And who's going to tell him that?" Claymore snorted.

I smiled affectionately at the petty officer of the cleaners:

"You. And you've already said so."

He clearly didn't get it, so I explained:

"Did you write your report to your boss yesterday? Just as I was coming in. And you didn't reread it before you put it in the envelope."

"But how..."

Max gave him a satisfied doggy grin. What does it mean for a zombie dog to jump through a second-story window?

Petty Officer Claymore quickly put two and two together.

"Such a freak!" The battle mage said with expression.

I pretended it was him about the zombies.

"What's this," Rispin was startled, "are we stuck here?"

"We'll see," the petty officer said glumly.

Mrs. Hemul hid a satisfied smile behind her cup. A white one should not be happy about other people's misfortune.

Fortunately, I didn't have to experience the humor of annoyed battle mages. I was leaving Mihandrov that evening. Without Lucik. Mrs. Hemul long and fervently convinced me that now everything would be fine at the boarding school, that Petrik would be taken care of. Even if Mrs. Kormalis could not be found, it was very important for my brother to see a happy ending to this story and the triumph of justice. I thought about it and turned back. It wasn't such a good thing to babysit a white kid, though I doubted much about justice.

I didn't take Lucic to the station. A zombie dog was waiting for me under Mrs. Parker's supervision. What if the kids got the idea of petting him? The lieutenant personally came to pick me up in the automobile, which now moved without squeaks and squeals, with a soft predatory murmur, and in the back seat came Gorchik and Rispin. Evidently, they were going to the station for vodka. The petty officer was still hanging on the phone, trying to catch his report before it got to Senior Coordinator Axel's desk. Good luck to him! I wasn't interested in anyone or anything anymore, just the екфшт - wagon - horn.

The escort threw my luggage on the step, Madame Parker waved her hand, and the blacks shouted inarticulately and gesticulated vigorously. What jerks... Having saluted them all, I followed the luggage, longingly preparing for the "put the animal in the cage" performance. All the stewards are predictable: no matter how much you pay for the ticket, they still try to put your dog in the luggage compartment. If I was going to do that, would I pay that much for a second seat?

The attendant rolled my suitcase into the compartment and smiled a sweet, idiotic smile:

"Let's put the doggie in the house!"

I looked at him like he was an idiot. He kept that strange expression on his face for a couple of seconds, and then he turned slightly pale:

"My bad, sir! I beg your pardon! We usually have white ones traveling with the animals, and here I am....."

Ups!

The issue of Max's placement was no longer discussed.

In a state of quiet astonishment, I locked myself in my compartment and started biting my nails.

What the hell is going on?! I'm starting to be mistaken for a white one! What a shame... It is good that no one has heard this yet, and I will hardly ever return to Mihandrov.

I had to fix this. I'd go back to Redstone, confront Quarter first, and tell him that homosexuals were the scum of the earth. I could also catch Sam if he wasn't down with a cold and stuff feathers down his neck.

The platform was behind me, and Rustle was rumbling quietly in my head, trying to figure out what I'd been doing without him. Life was gradually returning to normal. In my suitcase, I had five kilograms of dried fish and two dozen wax paper bags with rather unharmless ingredients - souvenirs from Mihandrov.

And there was a letter from a dead man hidden in there: the day after Fox died, I received a package with no return address, no note inside, but there was no doubt about the identity of the sender. At the top of the weighty package were yellowed newspaper clippings from ten years ago, with reports of strange events (bee decline, disappearance of gerbils, horse rabies) and articles about a bank robbery committed with extreme cruelty. Remember when I wondered how they were going to get away with it? It got worse: two farmers shot their family members and continued the fun in town, mimicking characters from a recently acclaimed action movie. The locations of the incidents lay on the map along a single straight line, unmistakably centered on the Mihandrov. I don't know, maybe I couldn't stand it either.

Why didn't he take his suspicions to the Watchdogs? Maybe it was his habit of secrecy, or maybe Fox, like me, was confronted with the incompetence of the local authorities. And you know, I don't care about his circumstances, especially since he didn't want to discuss them with the investigators. I've never yet encountered a situation that a well-trained magician couldn't break through, turn around. From the point of view of a black one, the Artificer just once again flushed the conflict (once in Nintark, the second time - in Mihandrov) and for understanding and sympathy - to empaths.

* * *
Gorchik regarded the departing train with a characteristic goat squint. The black mage was habitually indignant:

"He could have finished the job, slacker! His zombie only marked six graves. Where are we supposed to find two more?!"

"I wonder what group he's from?" Rispin was thoughtful. "I have not met him before. I'd really like to get a better look at his creation."

"That's okay. I'll meet him at the office! Axel should be happy this time."

Lt. Clarence decided to show his awareness. He was tired of playing the vegetable in the presence of boorish guests.

"He's from Redston."

Gorczyk turned to him with exactly the kind of expression one looks at a talking zucchini:

"What does this have to do with Redston?"

"He came from Redston," explained the lieutenant patiently, already regretting getting into the conversation.

"And what Rustle was he doing there?" Rispin wondered.

"I don't know," White tried to adopt an independent look, "but the Redston office issued the travel authorization."

For a while the interlocutors were silent.

"Why did they send him?" Gorchik asked cautiously.

"To study the work of educational institutions. I'm not kidding! That's what it said."

An expression appeared on the faces of the battle mages that Lt. Clarence could not understand.

"M-yes," summarized Rispin, "we won't get the bonus again."

"What's the big deal? We've cleaned up the Bane!" resented Gorchik, but his colleague looked at him with compassion, and he had to face the truth: "At least the boss won't fight."

Lieutenant Clarence tried to keep his composure and made a vow to himself never to get involved in the affairs of this psychotic company. And let them do what they want to each other!

* * *

EPILOGUE.

The monotonous clatter of the wheels was uninterrupted day and night - the transcontinental express hardly ever stopped. The steward, who had realized his mistake, was impeccably polite and courteous. I rustled through the dead mage's journals, which for some reason he didn't want to leave to NZAMIPS, and tried to make sense of my feelings.

I felt a little fuzzy as if something had been stolen from me, and I couldn't figure out what it was. Among the pages of journals, the last entry which had been made twenty years ago, was a large yellowed photograph. The faded sheet held images of people posing against a strange pedestal; the photographer must have captured the graduation of some school: three teachers and eight students. First to the left of the teachers sat a young and cheerful Fox in a light-colored coat with a handkerchief in his pocket; next to him, behind the backs of those sitting in the front row, a girl and a boy whose face had been carefully obscured were hugging. The guy wore a stylish black suit, and the girl seemed vaguely familiar; the caption on the back said it was Milicent McCoran, my mother. Joe wasn't in the picture.

There are too many oddities to be ignored.

I don't think I would have believed a word of it if the Artificer had told me anything, but now I needed to know who my father was and how he died. Why had my mother gone with me to the countryside? What had Uncle Gordon been silent about, and what was this stupid book that had gotten him killed?

The black nature protested against fruitless thinking, demanding to forget about everything and put stupid questions out of my head. There was one more year left at the university and a diploma! It's time to get back to studying, and everything will become simple, logical, and textbook, and all the incomprehensible things will be dealt with by an assault curse and a zombie dog. That's what real black mages do!

But there was no firm confidence.

Outside the express train window, the rain was turning to wet snow, and I was heading back to Redston.

* * *

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP