Part 4. RUSTLES AND WHISPERS
Chapter 16
Reading biographies of famous combat mages didn’t fascinate me, but I heard that all of them were motivated by external stimuli. Typically, we, dark magicians, find a compromise between our natural instincts and reasonable opportunities to satisfy them (if we can’t, we die) and reach a certain balance in our existence. Ordinary people get used to everything—even to ugly, pugnacious, vindictive, and heartless dark magicians, and life gets back to normal. But some dark have no such luck. Certain unavoidable circumstances don’t let them settle a warm nest, prompting painful and unnatural efforts such as a struggle for power, defense of the fatherland, or perfection of the art of dark magic. What’s the point? Instead of a simple desire to be at the top of their local hierarchy, they take responsibility for the future of the nation, the sovereignty of economics, or (god save me from such fate!) health and safety. Some quirk of the psyche fancifully changes the nature of the unfortunate guys; poetically speaking, they hear the Voice of Destiny. That’s the story people tell about the celebrities.
I need to confess: I didn’t hear any such voices. In my case, it all began quite casually, with a funeral.
I was notified of a telegram from home. It was strange, because I did not expect any correspondence: at the beginning of summer Joe wrote to me twice, asking to come home, but I excused myself, referring to the new job. Did he decide to try again?
The telegram was drafted without any attempt to save money on punctuation marks (most likely, my mother sent it); it briefly stated that Uncle Gordon had passed away, and the funeral would be in two days. Not that the message was incredible (we are all mortal). I just couldn’t understand why he died now. Last summer the old man looked quite cheerful—magicians generally live long. The dark mages cannot grieve keenly in principle; we all will meet out there sooner or later. But I had some plans for Uncle, and they would have to be changed now. And one more thing: will Chief Harlik agree to tell me what he promised to find out for the old man?
In this philosophical mood I came to work, barely responded to the greetings of my coworkers, and sat down to meditate over the bills. All of my drawings were finished a week ago, the calculations - checked and rechecked. Carl personally controlled the assembly of the modules; I was bored and wanted to follow Polak’s example: hide somewhere and take a nap. Perhaps I looked gloomily detached.
“Something isn’t working?” Johan began to worry.
“No,” I waved my hand dismissively, “my uncle passed away.”
I shouldn’t have said it to him. The white began clucking around me, and within a minute the whole office knew of my loss. They grieved over the death of a stranger more than me, who had known him all my life.
Mr. Polak decided that I must urgently take some time off and go to the funeral. I didn’t care about the obsequies, but didn’t mind a few days away. It was summer after all!
“Will you be okay without me?” I put on an act that I did not want to go.
“Family is your first priority!” the boss cut me short. “The model works--what’s left is the assembly—and we’ll sort it out.”
Excellent! And if they fail, I will be away—nobody could blame me.
To get to the funeral in time, I had to leave right away. It turned out that only one ticket was left for the Krauhard Express. It was in first class, for the outrageous sum of one hundred and twenty crowns, but dinner was included. I sighed with relief, and the cashier raised his eyebrow in surprise. He didn’t know that, given availability in economy class, greed would have forced me to buy the cheapest ticket. Then my zombie-dog would have to stay in Redstone, and the revivifying curses I imposed on it could fall off before my return. To come back to realize that the city was quarantined because of my dog would be… unpleasant.
For Max to get on the train was a piece of cake: under the guise of a bale of fur (it was incredible how tightly you could pack an animal when it did not resist). In order to get the dog off the railcar at the desired station, it was enough to just throw the bale out of the window. The next morning I sat on the express train, riding in the direction of Krauhard. I was going to arrive at the funeral just in time.
Krauhard met me with its usual fog and empty platform, but some things did change, yes. No one could say that a dark magician takes the death of a relative lightly! I adjusted the lapel of a deliberately fashionable, beige-plaid jacket without a single black thread, but with a bright red tie. Tribute to tradition! Black, as well as white, is not considered a mourning color in Krauhard. In the past, people didn’t think much about funeral colors, but they settled on purple-red in the end. It was elegant, practical and, on top of that, red was the symbol of “pure death”, death not defiled by a supernatural touch. (Anyone who saw ghouls would understand my point.) But Krauhardians don’t practice a parade of mourning colors. A tribute to passed away is paid by arranging a lavish funeral and taking custody of dependents of the deceased (especially young children); his or her pets (horse, dog, or cat) receive special treatment as well. Krauhardian funerals served as a favorite subject for jokes: newcomers often confused them with weddings. From a stranger’s viewpoint, they were almost the same, except that people sang different songs and had no cake on the table. To me, there is nothing wrong with the similarity of the events—both require some optimism from the family. I, for instance, never understood the popularity of mourning and grieving at the white funeral. Would a normal deceased want his or her relatives to weep and tear their hair? Only a pervert would like that, and what would be the point of crying about him at all then? Uncle Gordon didn’t have close relatives, especially underage; at least, we knew none of them. The village alchemist did not keep pets or cattle, so that simplified the entire list of things to do. Just the booze. In fact, I had hoped for that.
Touched by the moment, the gloved conductor passed onto the platform my large leather suitcase with small iron wheels. I gave him a crown.
“Oh, Thomas!” mother clasped her hands. “You look beautiful!”
“How are you,” I shyly welcomed them, hiding a smug smile.
Joe scratched his head, trying to decide where to put my luxurious case.
“Throw it in the back,” I solved his problem. “I’ll clean it by spell later.”
The main thing was to preserve my polished look for the occasion, while invited funeral guests were still coherent enough to notice anything—that would be until afternoon. The success of Uncle Gordon’s apprentice would honor his deceased mentor!
In his last journey Gordon Ferro was escorted by all of Krauhard. I managed to arrive at the time of the bearing out, walked to the cemetery in the morning chill, waited until the priest had performed all the rituals for the final rest, and threw a pinch of salt on the coffin. I looked like a walking advertisement of the benefits of education, and even threw off a speech to thank my first teacher Gordon. Those present nodded understandingly and embarked on a return trip to the tables, set in the machine yard in the open air. First songs and the rousing rhythm of a tambourine sounded; the most beautiful Krauhardian girl—the daughter of the village’s headman—raised a pennant symbolizing the funeral of a dark magician. The street festivity was also part of the tradition: whatever deity was in charge of the now deceased, it ought to take into account how many relatives the dead had done favors for.
Uncle Gordon’s funeral feast passed with enthusiasm: toasts and wishes of luck to the old man in hell or heaven were heard everywhere. Some recalled with especially acrimonious toasts that he left important stuff of theirs unrepaired (I took note of them; it would be a good dead on my part to fulfill the promises of the passed away). In general, people were optimistic regarding the destination of uncle’s soul and the prospects of their village (after all, someone was going to replace the deceased alchemist). They offered me to take his vacant place, but I pleaded that I was still studying. The tradition was observed at its best.