In fact, I could have every other weekday off—the Roland Fund’s awardees were eligible for benefits for the first six months after the Empowerment. But they wouldn’t have done me any good. Had I not alternated magic practice with alchemy courses, I would have lost my mind. After the painful efforts of practicing with the Source, alchemy was like a balm—cool, clear, sincere. Predictability and accurate calculations, beauty of formulas and knowledge of the true essence of things, tamed power of the elements loaded my hands with work and didn’t strain the brain. My admiration for alchemy reached the stage that I shed tears watching the delightful precision of the work of the turret lathe. Quarters sympathetically patted me on the shoulder. Perhaps, other students did not get tired so much, because they were smart enough not to become engaged in illegal practice.
Meanwhile, my underground business gained momentum. I wasn’t greedy, I did not have to advertise at all, but people were calling and calling. My previous clients put a bug in their neighbors’ ears; that system worked especially effectively among rural residents. It just boggled my mind how many terrible secrets were hidden amidst peaceful bucolic landscapes! Phomas, birth curses, water spuns, anchutkas, brownies, quiet plague, and even predatory echoes. It seemed that somebody multiplied the supernatural there. Once or twice a week the answering service received a call from a customer, tearfully pleading to save his or her Uncle Peabody or Aunt Triffani. I mean to save in a literal sense, since not even once I came across a case of primitive psychosis that I used to see so much in Redstone. A couple of times I was called when the clients had a death in the family. It was not about the money any more—I did not have time to spend it. Even if I were a dark magician in the power of three, hard-hearted and tough, I could not fence-sit on a woman, sobbing into the phone, whose son had picked up bone rot at the cemetery. It would be physically impossible, at least for me.
Not good to be a dark, having grown up in a white family.
My “chatter-box”, Ms. Fiberti, responded to my problems with surprising understanding. I obtained a corner in her apartment to keep an escritoire with filing cabinets and workbooks, a rack for my gripsack, and a hanger for my business suit (the suit and the gripsack were my own now). Every evening the hostess made amazingly delicious strawberry tea and allowed me to speak out, and I was immensely grateful to her for that.
I approached the rate of “two calls per weekend”, and geography of my trips became more and more complicated. Leisure time disappeared—I hardly slept enough those days. Long walks and lengthy waiting times for the train turned into a sophisticated form of torture. After falling asleep on the platform and almost freezing to death while waiting for a train, I realized that I needed my own transportation.
I couldn’t choose which one. A horse was no good—I had no place to hold it, and horses would die from such loads. Alas, I wasn’t able to afford a large black limousine with leather seats; the only other option that came to mind was a bicycle. After counting my savings and finding the crazy amount of fifteen hundred crowns, I decided to become more creative in my search - to show off, putting it simply.
The only car dealer I knew was located across the river, just opposite the dormitory, and from a distance it looked like a long shed with a skylight. I didn’t intend to buy anything there—just to get an idea of what was on the market. That place seemed like the right one to start with. I wanted to stretch the nerves of the salespeople, touch and test-drive the machinery, and then buy secondhand through classifieds and hope that I was lucky enough not to get a lemon.
I took a day off from my studies, slipping away from a lecture on magic theory; I didn’t anticipate any problems with that discipline. The sun was shining, light frost hardened the dirt, and a feeling of unexpected freedom intoxicated me as in spring. I wasn’t dressed officially (that business suit and tie were making me sick), and I looked like a funny anomaly strolling among well-dressed crowd. Middle-aged gentlemen, women with children, and old ladies with dogs leisurely sauntered along the promenade. Skinny, cheeky students didn’t belong there.
Was there a festival of some kind that day? Or was it just a popular place?
A lightly renovated barn displayed the proud name of “Plaza”. Most of the visitors, like me, came there just to browse. All of the car models could be viewed right in the hall, without going outside. The sunlight beat through the windows, and the room was surprisingly warm.
Two dozen brand-new cars were lined up against the long wall. Frustration gripped me when I looked at this exhibition of harlequins. Surely, I knew that cars were toys for wealthy townsfolk (rural residents preferred horse-powered carts and carriages, and for seasonal work they used awfully smoking tractors, powered by rapeseed oil), but I had no idea how far it had gone. All cars had been puffed and curved with an abundance of chrome and gold, in cheerful colors, and some came without a top. Just looking at them caused subconscious aversion. In addition, they all had a very low clearance; such toys were of no use in the places where my clients dwelled. A dark magician who had to be pulled out of potholes with a rope would become a disgrace for the whole profession! I felt an unbearable urge to buy a tractor and drive it back and forth all over the “Plaza”.
“Do you have anything military for sale?” without much hope I asked a pimply young guy with the badge of sales consultant. “For rural areas?”
He pursed his lips stiffly.
“We do not sell agricultural machinery!”
Look at that, a self-conceited flea!
“I know where I can buy trucks,” I smiled dryly. “I wonder if there is anything worth viewing at your place.”
“Hello! How are you?” his boss immediately smelled a brewing conflict. The young guy caught his glance and quietly disappeared. “Are you interested in anything special? Not everything that we sell is on display in the hall.”
I sighed. The dark mage profession had its advantages and drawbacks.
“I need an off-road vehicle that I could drive everywhere, small and black.”
“Would you like to browse our catalogs?”
I reluctantly agreed; his suggestion to look at the pictures meant that there were no suitable vehicles on display. The boss took me into his office behind the garage. The place turned out to be quite remarkable; all the walls were plastered with posters bearing images of machinery: engines and steam engines, cars of all makes, racing bolides, squared-off army trucks and tractors—anything that moved without the use of muscle power. A glass cabinet was filled with tiny copies of the most prominent models. I paused at a moped, resembling my own like two peas in a pod, and even blinked with pleasure—the owner had good taste.
“To find what you want,” the salesman said busily, putting thick binders of magazines on the table, “you need to articulate what you want. What you expect your vehicle will do, its operating conditions, fuel, your financial means, all of it. We will get you any model for the right price.”
“I frequently travel to the countryside. There are no roads there, none at all. I need to move quickly. Comfort doesn’t matter. I figured I could buy some used military equipment.”
“It’s feasible,” the salesman nodded, “but the military flogs their vehicles to the ground. You’ll get financially broken fixing their cars, but a brand new unit will cost you a fortune—their machines aren’t in demand among civilians. It ought to be a custom order.”