What were they looking for? Certainly they had not found it, or wouldn’t come for a second time. Small, lightweight, measuring just over the size of a notebook—that was how Chief Harlik seemed to describe the thing. My fantasy didn’t go further than a hundred thousand crowns in bonds or a confession from the Prime Minister’s wife, though hardly anyone would be killed over the latter. The poison still reared its ugly head in my weakness and difficulty in concentrating attention. I got tired on the short trip home, as though I were walking on foot through all of Krauhard from end-to-end. Joe even had to help me undress. I hadn’t experienced such weakness since I was seven years old! Yes, I was obviously sick, and home care would not hurt; perhaps it would be a good idea to rest for a week or two—home cooking, full relaxation, and no visits to the shit factory. As a typical dark, I couldn’t care less about the doctor’s ban on spellcasting; as to Rustle, I was inclined to think that it had missed its chance to reach out for me.
A man can hope for the best, can’t he?!
The last week of vacation was horrible—my own weakness angered me, and the thought of a valuable treasure being found by others led me into frenzy, as if I were going to give away something of my own. All my spare time was split between the hunt for a cache in Uncle’s house (under the pretext of sorting out his stuff) and the interrogation of witnesses. Not every police officer was capable of obtaining a simple answer to a specific question from a resident of Krauhard (whether dark or not), but I was relentless, like a runny nose. The fact that I was the only alchemist in the valley now was helping me in the investigation; with all their problems, the villagers were forced to go to me. The postman remembered that the parcel Uncle received two days before his death had Ho-Carg’s address. An old tippler who confided in me at the funeral feast said that Uncle had lived in the capital for some time and returned to the village about twenty years ago, without explaining his circumstances.
Mom was upset, saying, “You work too hard,” and Joe gently assented to her. I smiled sweetly and asked my stepfather to join me in doing everything that I could think of. It was my little revenge for the insects that were still flying around the garden. The little beasts could not bite me anymore because I prudently stocked up on an amulet that turned away bees, mosquitoes, bugs, and all other creatures that could attack the human body; even Quarters lost desire to pat me on the shoulder. That was the true power of magic!
Max had the best time of all; the zombie-dog felt blissfully happy in the tall grass, having fun studying rodent burrows and chasing butterflies.
The murderers did not show up anymore.
Uncle Gordon’s house was gradually emptied. First of all, I dragged his large oak table to our attic. I loved its beautiful design. In Uncle’s toolbox I found a chic set of lock picks; in the bedroom—cute cupronickel beads, the mandatory attribute of a dark magician: each bead could hold a couple of spells, easily capable of replacing a combat curse. Uncle must have been unable to manipulate the flow of Power. My booty was his workbooks, the last record in which was made twenty years ago. I hoped to find inside a recipe of the potion that inhibited magic power and pour it into Mr. Rakshat’s tea. To delve into Uncle’s stuff was not tedious, just a little sad. That kind of work reveals the true nature of death: you can change nothing after you have passed away; all that was dear to you is left at the mercy of the alive. I sorted out my findings into three piles: stuff that would go to the trash, commemorative things that I would keep in memory of Uncle, and the rest that could have a useful application. In the end, the house would become devoid of any individual touch; it was about to be occupied by a new alchemist in a week. I did not want to wait for the newcomer just out of precaution, because I did not know if my pernicious nature would accept an outsider. My huge suitcase was ready for the trip and the chic suit waited on the rack for its hour, but my conscience was burdened by a small, though urgent, task: fixing up the ward-off spells around Uncle’s home. Their absence was becoming noticeable—mice appeared in the garage. That would be the last thing I could do in honor of Uncle to observe his traditions.
On the day of my departure, I woke up very early from a sleep in which I was fixing some strange alchemical devices capable of flying without wings. I was awakened by the smell of fresh pancakes and by Lyuchik, of course. My grown-up brother was running around the garden with a problem, the gist of which could be grasped only by a white. Maybe he worried that the burrow had gotten too narrow for the mice? I should bring him a cat as a present next time…
I was not given a chance to stay in bed.
“Breakfast!” mother’s voice came from downstairs.
Squeals and clatter signaled that I would not be the first at the table. Not good! Having pulled on my pants hastily, I left my bedroom.
Despite the early hour, the entire family was at the table.
Joe was sipping milk from a beer mug with a satisfied air. Little Emmy used pancakes as an excuse—she licked jam off of them and asked to put more on. Hopefully Mom would be able to wash her off afterwards. Lyuchik, excited, did not see what he was eating—a surprisingly active child. Bees left the sugar bowl with a displeased buzz upon my appearance.
“Are we going to the station together?” I wanted to clarify, just in case.
“Yeah,” Joe nodded genially.
I needed to change plans. I wouldn’t dare load Max on the train for all my family to view. Joe was unlikely to poke his nose into my business, but little Emmy would want to flatter my “fur” pet for sure. I sensed my zombie-dog would have to run home on foot. It should be okay as Max was a clever beast (I sometimes wondered why he was so highly intelligent), and the dog could cope alone with the trip.
Lyuchik barely managed to finish his meal and started telling me a story about his new school, friends, and some white mage (or was it just beard of his teacher that was white?). That became almost a ritual at the table. I nodded with a straight face and enjoyed quickly decreasing hillock of pancakes. My little brother wasn’t embarrassed by the fact that he had told me all his stories about twenty times already. We had just approached the most disappointing part—his classmates did not believe that his brother was a dark magician, when a truck wearing the NZAMIPS logo raced with a terrible roar past the passage into the valley. All of us, without saying a word, fixed our eyes on the truck.
What was that? New clowns or Chief Harlik to visit us? And my zombie was running around out there…
“Good for you!” I habitually complimented Lyuchik (little white mages should be praised frequently). “I’ll drop in at Uncle Gordon’s; I forgot to fasten a padlock on his door.”
All nodded understandingly.
My first worry was Max, who had saved my life twice already. The dog met me at the edge of the village: it rustled in the grass, patrolling and snapping its jaw in an attempt to catch butterflies. I hobbled slowly down the path, enjoying the overall harmony of life. The truck that I had spotted in the morning shone with its emblems halfway to the passage to the valley. That was for better: I did not want a company of combat mages.
So, mice were on the agenda. Because of them I had to climb into the gully: the ward-off spells at the bottom of the slope were in order. I deliberately delayed the ascent, trying to catch if some kind of unhealthy interest in Rustle’s temporary lair would arise in me. It didn’t. That day was remarkably clear for Krauhard; at such an early hour the sun slightly touched the roof of the garage, slipping into a crack between rocks. After fastening the padlock on the barn, I whistled to Max and reluctantly plodded to the place where I had endangered my life so stupidly. A typical dark won’t let such things happen to him, even when he is drunk!