Since childhood I have been catching hints well, but my case did not require special subtleties: I ought to put a big, bold cross on my underground business. That was, perhaps, for the better: how much longer could I risk my life? Yes, I still owed money for the motorcycle (five hundred crowns) and needed to help my family. I could not leave them without money—Lyuchik was going to a new school. In a pinch, I could sell some stuff; the business suit was worth no less than a hundred crowns.
It was time to get more serious about my life—in the next month I would be twenty-one. No more allowances for non-age. At this stage, good students looked to make contacts with future employers and earn work experience instead of riding a motorcycle around the county with a magic gripsack at the ready. It was time to decide which was closer to my souclass="underline" magic or alchemy. Mr. Darkon was right: the majority of initiated dark mages chose the career of a combat mage (it was always easier to earn a living with one’s hands, not one’s brains), but I tested it and discovered that the job of a “cleaner” was rather monotonous. To my chagrin, I did not have any employer in sight for a career in alchemy.
What about Quarters?
“Hey Ron, how is our patent doing?” I asked my friend.
“Excellent! If Dad doesn’t show a bit of generosity, I’ll sell your invention to Domgari Motors. Old hags still think that a student is a sort of free slave. Don’t piss! You will be rich.”
“What do you think: can I mention the patent in my resume?”
“You aren’t going to be an alchemist, are you?”
“I have always been planning to become an alchemist.”
“Weren’t you going to learn magic?”
“So what?”
Quarters shrugged and immediately perked up: “How about making some money?”
“Don’t even ask!”
“I’ve got some friends,” Quarters hesitated. “In short, they started a business…”
“Do they need a draftsman?”
“They need brains! Oh, and a draftsman too. They’ve signed a big contract: the optimization of gas generators.”
“Shit tanks, you mean?”
Ron chuckled: “Tom, you have no idea what dough swirls in this business! Do you know how much shit this town produces a day?”
I snorted. Wow, what a start to my life! Though, why not?
“What are the terms?”
“You’ll like them.”
Of course, compared to the income of a dark magician, it was no money at all, but I certainly couldn’t become too choosy. From a student’s perspective, everything looked damn attractive, and from the point of view of a wanted criminal, the job was excellent camouflage. Ron shared a common belief that alchemy was not the place for an initiated dark mage.
Edan Satal’s career as the senior coordinator of the Northwestern Region began with resounding failure and public humiliation. The excuse that it took some time to gain full control of the situation was poor consolation. Had Satal caught the ill-starred mage in the heat of the moment, tortures and a murder would have been added to the other sins of the coordinator. But the hero of Satal’s humiliation was wisely hiding somewhere.
Care for the mental health of decision makers was the direct responsibility of empaths in the public service. Ms. Kevinahari was confident that, whatever passions boiled in the soul of the dark magician, two or three weeks of hard work would melt them in dry pragmatism. If nothing else happened. So far, the only side effect of the scandal was the transfer of the regional NZAMIPS’ office from Gerdana to Redstone.
Ms. Kevinahari presented an investigatory report on the Fitsroten Estate to the coordinator personally: “In some sense, we have been lucky this time—he drew a pentagram on the ground. But some… dog… dug all around and even peed all over. Having examined… this, our best expert… I don’t even know such words! In short, he came to a conclusion: the power channel of our mage is nonstandard. That’s it.”
“Perhaps, I’d better speak to the expert myself?”
“No, no! You would kill each other. Seriously.”
Mr. Satal kept silence, and even the empath could not say whether the coordinator thought of the emerging issue or cherished his annoyance.
“Would you like me to communicate the results to Captain Baer?” Ms. Kevinahari disturbed the quiescence.
“No!” the coordinator startled.
The empath refrained from commenting, but Mr. Satal sensed some disagreement (or his teamwork skills improved) and found it necessary to explain: “Weren’t you surprised that he switched transportation methods at exactly the time that we set up the ambush at the railroad station?”
“Yes, I was,” Ms. Kevinahari admitted. “Prior to that, he used trains so often that conductors thought up a nickname for him. But Captain Baer is not a traitor, that’s for sure!”
“I didn’t mean him. Lots of people work in his office. I want to close all channels that information could leak from.”
The empath reluctantly nodded, admitting that he was right, and immediately livened up: “Do you think that our mage has a support group?”
“Rather, a nonsupport group,” Mr. Satal grimaced. “Talks of the Artisans started again in some circles, meaning there will be sacrifices. But I am not Larkes! I’ll be sentimental with no one. If they stick out, they will pay dearly for that!”
Ms. Kevinahari conciliatorily shook her head: “The rrebirth of the sect requires a certain incubation period, if there is still anybody left. Or do you think the incident at the estate was their work?”
“You mean Grokk?” the coordinator raised eyebrow. “Nonsense! The old knucklehead ran in the ghouls’ jaws to cover up his wrongdoing. When he was in charge, seven (that we know about) were lost in that place. He had to prove to everybody that the danger was exaggerated.”
His brief analysis perfectly complemented the image of a fattened and brazen dark magician, who was introduced to Ms. Kevinahari as the chief of Redstone County’s Division for the Liquidation of Supernatural Phenomena.
“Perhaps I should try to establish connections with the local white,” the empath decided. “Also, I need information about Redstone’s artisans, if they were here.”
“Tell my secretary to prepare a request; I’ll sign it…” the coordinator suddenly faltered. “There is one more thing, Ms. Kevinahari…”
“Rona…Rona, for short,” the empath smiled.
“Oh?… Thanks! Then… I am just Dan.”
Rona Kevinahari smiled at him and left the senior regional coordinator’s office that was temporarily stationed in the Redstone division of NZAMIPS.
That day they took an important step forward: the move to informal communication meant that Satal no longer perceived her as a suspicious spy. Trust has been established! Perhaps the higher-ups weren’t mistaken on the new coordinator, for a change. The dark could control himself, he was easily appeased, he was ready to adapt to teamwork, and his excessive aggressiveness in the current situation was more of a bonus than a disadvantage. She needed to reflect this in her report!
In the hallway, Ms. Kevinahari exchanged bows with Captain Baer, noting that the chief of Redstone’s NZAMIPS looked particularly melancholic (no doubt he was hiding something), and hurried to the door—she was going to visit the university and give two review lectures today.
Locomotive followed the empath with an indifferent glance. When he was told that the regional coordinator would occupy his office, the captain could not believe his ears at first. Was the complex of buildings, taken away from Grokk’s “cleaners”, too small for the coordinator? It had so much room—you could let a rail line run through. Alas! The captain had to reshuffle and condense his staff in a smaller space, because the senior coordinator wanted to take over Baer’s office, and the captain was forced to move to the former accounting room. In a sense, the idea proved not to be so bad: women-bookkeepers started aggressively courting the single man, and some of them were such beauties that o-ho-ho! But losing his office pained Baer anyway!