I had made a fireball instead of sparks. Before, I had revived a zombie, without any special effort. Something was wrong with me. We were lectured on what magicians’ “errors” could look like. It was scary even without pictures. Obviously, my troubles were related to the spontaneous Empowerment, and now, on top of it, the white had performed some rituals on me! My inflamed sense of responsibility required to find the culprits and explain their wrongdoings, to teach them a little with my feet.
But where to look for them?
Something crackled cozily inside the building, and a white streak of smoke stretched over the roof. Firemen and NZAMIPS would be here soon. Did I want to deal with NZAMIPS? A stupid question.
I hobbled along the chipped pavement, logically assuming that a bridge to the mainland should be somewhere close. There was a road, and it should lead somewhere, right? Soon I noticed the arch of a beautiful stone bridge with a double-crossed banner at the entrance: “The College of St. Johan Femm.” I had heard something about that place, but didn’t have time to think—I was almost running into the fire crews.
I thought I needed to check whether they had robbed my apartment and, if not, take some money from the cache. Redstone is a big town and I could not reach my home on foot, but cab drivers wouldn’t give me a ride on trust. Though the thought of a cab gave me a brilliant idea. What was the cab company that served the banquet yesterday? I recalled that on standby there were mainly the dark blue carriages of “Rimmis and Sons”; they would hardly allow an outsider to pick up a customer. I needed to inquire with them about the yesterday’s carriage! I decided to pay them a visit right away.
The first cab driver that caught my eye told where their stables were, and I got to the place on the steps of a tram, like I used to ride when being a freshman. The rest was “simple”—to find a man, whose face I had not seen, and learn from him what the name of the forbidden ritual was.
I could have begged and offered money for the information, but it was not my style. I undid a couple buttons on the shirt, pushed the belt to one side, uncombed my hair, and in that disheveled appearance walked into the office.
“Hello!” I began with aggressive pressure right from the door. “Where is your master?”
All of the people inside saw a dark mage in a militant mood, wearing expensive—albeit dusty—clothes and, obviously, suffering from a hangover. A walking nightmare.
“May I help you?” an office girl chirped.
I stared at the receptionist, trying to catch her gaze, but she stubbornly looked aside. Okay, apparently she had dealt with the dark mages as clients before.
“Help?” I asked mockingly. “Your guy left with my wallet! What else can you do for me?”
“What an unfortunate misunderstanding!” the girl sang in a high-pitched voice. “He did not do it on purpose. Are you sure you have not forgotten your things in a different place?”
“I’m not drunk!” my expressive objection raised knowing smiles on the faces of those present. “I do not like booze at all, and I had none of it yesterday. He picked me up at the restaurant ‘The Black Dole’, and I need my wallet back!”
“You will get it, sir, don’t doubt,” the noise and cries attracted the owner of the stables. “Who was on duty at the ‘Dole’ yesterday?”
The girl quickly checked her records: “Laurent, Mitchell, and Barto, sir.”
“Sir,” the owner turned to me, “can you describe the man who was driving your cab?”
I frowned and pretended to be carefully straining my memory: “Young. And looked… like a fish.”
“Laurent!” the girl could not refrain from commenting.
“When is his shift?” the owner frowned.
“In the morning, but he did not show up, sir. Pinot has replaced him.”
“The pilferer!” I said pathetically. “The damned thief. I demand that the police come to his house before he gets rid of my stuff.”
“There is no need for the police!” the owner hurried up. “I will go to him immediately and personally deliver your wallet to you. Perhaps directly to your home?”
He wasn’t making a fuss over anything—the main income of such stables was from the contracts with restaurants and pubs. Restaurateurs called certain cab companies in advance, depending on the number of customers, and kept the hired carriages on hold in the assigned parking spots. That was slightly more expensive than hiring independent cab drivers, but the restaurants relied on “their own” carriages’ safe and sound delivery of a drunken customer. And suddenly—a theft. The owner needed time to look into the situation - fine with me! The fact that I had learned the name of my enemy was already a big success. I barely remembered him, and they could have recognized no one based on such meager description..
“Okay, you may deliver it to my home,” I dictated the address to the girl (by the way, I live in a respectable area). I described the missing item—a wallet with keys. “If by this evening I don’t get my wallet back, the police will hear my complaint against you!”
After all, I liked that wallet, and my landlady would kill me for losing the keys.
I waited near the gate of the stables, as if looking for something in the pockets. My patience was rewarded: I caught the moment when the boss departed in one of his carriages to Laurent’s home.
“Quay Barco,” he growled the address to the cab driver.
Excellent! That’s how a real dark magician works! Just a couple of hours ago I had not known anything about my enemy, and now it remained only to clarify its house number.
I pondered if I should go and meet the guy in person. Had I gone home now, the concierge would’ve wrangled with me for the lost keys; then the landlord would’ve joined us and we would’ve argued the whole day. No, I wanted to know now what my enemy looked like!
I was ordered to get off the tram and threatened to be taken to the police (I hadn’t bought a ticket). Misers! Well, it wouldn’t seriously affect my plans—Laurent’s work was close to his home. I walked to the waterfront of Quay Barco, gazing with interest at the column of black smoke billowing over the river—the College of St. Johan Femm was still on fire.
The buildings with Quay Barco’s address formed the second line, hiding behind the hangars and warehouses of the North Creek, a relatively shallow harbor favored by owners of yachts and small boats and by amateur fishermen (imagine—people were fishing in that dirty river!). The blue carriage stood in front of a dull five-story building; I noted its number in my mind. To wait for Laurent outside could be waste of time. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he feigned sickness and went out for some business? The marina, the island, the boats gave me some ideas. The shortest way from Laurent’s place to the college was by boat. And he smelled of fish…
I turned to the docks. North Creek is not a commercial port: people in such places are kind of slow, know each other (even if they are not formally acquainted), and don’t interfere in each other’s business, but they always know who went with whom and where to.
Cozily nestling among the boxes and empty barrels, a group of fishermen was having breakfast on the dock. My stomach reminded loudly of itself at the sight of fresh bread and roach (yesterday’s feast had already left my body). I needed to end this manhunt!
“Where is Laurent?” I confidently asked them, not bothering with a salute.