I nodded, “To my brother.”
The captain paused, holding the document in his palm.
“Where does he reside?”
“He is at school in Mihandrov.”
“It’s not our district, is it?”
I nodded, though not quite confidently.
“And not even our region… Don’t go anywhere; wait for me,” Captain Baer grabbed my report from the desk and walked out.
I sat and wrestled with desire to disappear. Curiosity eventually won—I eagerly wanted to know what he was up to. The captain came back in about half an hour; he carried a bunch of sheets and a large paper bag. Judging by the distinct smell of brandy, he had managed to nip somewhere and spent his time well.
“Your vacation is canceled. You’re going on a business trip instead.”
“What?!”
“Here are your travel assignment and the order to Mihandrov’s NZAMIPS. Sign it!”
I looked through the documents suspiciously. “‘To investigate the work of primary and secondary educational institutions’?”
“That’s it. Bear in mind, you owe me a report.”
I groaned.
“Don’t dare say no! Have you thought what would happen to Satal if you mess up there, and your past pops up?”
“I’m not going to mess—”
“Yeah, yeah. With your zombie you also weren’t going to do anything special, as I understand. Either my way or no way; just stay in town.”
For how long will I have to suffer from the moral terror? A normal dark would have rebelled long ago. On the other hand, had I gone to complain to Satal now, he could have beaten me up. What did I want more: to go on vacation or go to the hospital? Sighing, I signed the papers. Meanwhile, the captain emptied the bag.
“This is your temporary identity card—it does not give you any power but discourages others from asking questions. If you show it to any civilian, I will lock you in the basement for a week!”
How strict, my god!
“A traveling kit of a sorcerer: a marker with chalk emulsion, a salt shaker, a compass, mirror taps, a set of candles. You’ll have to replenish everything you’ve used, got it? I give it to you, because it’s in the rules, but I need it back.”
I nodded vigorously; I understood about candles and mirrors, but how could he determine how much of the emulsion remained in the marker?
“A special emergency kit: elixirs. Well, you know that! Blue—inhibitors, green—supporting potions, red—stimulants. If you want to stay alive, do not touch them.”
Hmm. Well put.
“The last one: an emergency call amulet; simply put, a “whistle”. Click here and there, or bite off the nibble here (whatever you are capable of at the moment), and the nearest NZAMIPS division will send a quick response team. Do not even think about testing it—a false alarm will rack up a serious penalty.”
What a pity. It would be fun to check it in action.
“Follow my instructions. If you go looking for trouble, I will turn you in to Satal, and you do what you want with each other!”
It was so cruel of him. Was he always so cold-hearted? He looked like a sweet man.
“That’s all. Happy holidays!”
I briskly picked up my stuff and went out into the hallway. Enough of my bosses. A great deal of work was ahead of me: submit the three theses I finished yesterday, buy gifts for Lyuchik, make arrangements at the junkyard to have the motorcycle guarded, and bathe Max; the zombie would go with me again, and drying out that fur rug takes a long time.
That was another unexpected benefit of good relations with NZAMIPS: devoid of piety toward the undead, the “cleaners” darned Max’s skin, trimmed his nails, and laid on its collar a special spell that compelled fur to grow on the dead body. The advantage was that the gray-red wavy hair hid under itself all of the characteristic features of a zombie, and we got a nice hairy poodle-like shepherd. The disadvantage of that camouflage was the need to regularly comb the long hair, bathe Max in a special preservative mix, and pour the egg protein into his throat (the zombie was not very good at licking and swallowing). I never thought that a zombie-dog would require so much fuss!
Slipping past the lady accountants, I walked down the stairs to the floor of the superiors and crept on tiptoes to the marble staircase that led to the entrance hall. Satal’s office was just a few steps away; I saw his door but passed it unnoticed. It was time to run away, while my favorite teacher was busy with his report!
The senior coordinator came to Baer in the late afternoon, black and as fearsome as an unrested corpse; with somnambulistic precision he found an unfinished bottle of whiskey behind the cabinet and began to pour its contents into a teacup. Angry Satal either forgot that he could just call his subordinate on the phone or decided to walk before he would talk and let his irritation subside.
“Where is this underage fag? He was supposed to come today,” Satal tipped the contents of his cup in his mouth, as into a sink.
Locomotive winced: a drunken dark magician wasn’t exactly what he wanted for Christmas.
“He came to me.”
“Did you let him go?!”
“No, I did not. I sent him on assignment,” Locomotive decided that logical arguments wouldn’t work at this moment.
“Where to?”
“To Mihandrov.”
Satal suspiciously squinted his almost sober eyes. “How do you know about Mihandrov?”
“From the files. He’s got a brother there.”
“Ah!” Satal leaned back in his chair with a pleased countenance, immediately losing his battle fervor.
It was now Baer’s turn to narrow his eyes suspiciously: “Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing,” the magician waved vigorously, almost knocking the empty bottle onto the floor. “I will… no, better you call them tomorrow and alert that our employee is coming. Let them meet him.”
“Is it worth it?” Locomotive hesitated, suspecting some kind of terrible villainy in that.
“Yes, it is!” Satal announced with drunken peremptoriness. “I’ll go to the capital after Christmas. I hope that at least Axel will be on my side. Did he need a magician? We’ve sent the best one!” The coordinator hiccupped loudly and uttered with some effort: “Confidentially.”
Locomotive figured out how much alcohol Satal had taken on per pound of weight and decided that his boss would last for five minutes, but then he would have to drag him to the guardhouse for the night.
“Do you think our guy will cope?”
Satal thoughtfully breathed through his nose. “I cannot deal with the white; they drive me crazy. Is his brother white? Yes! Exactly what we need. If Tangor did not kill his brother growing up, he will handle this.”
Chapter 27
Protected by magic from any weather, the transcontinental express looked as if it had just rolled out of the train depot, as though it hadn’t experienced the snowstorms of continental Ingernika, desert winds blowing over the capital’s neighborhoods, and alternating sun, rain, and frost in between. Against the backdrop of Polisant’s grassy hills, the train looked like a beautiful toy; only tiny human figures, bustling around the sleepers, betrayed its true scale. Hired carriages had already harvested newcomers and driven them through the hills to where the expanse of a great lake sharply glittered. Mihandrov was ready to welcome strangers who tired of snow and cold weather, and the express flew further into the arms of the humid tropics of the Southern Coast.
“Disgrace, what a disgrace!” a well-dressed gentleman lamented; he wore a pin, “Thirty Years in the Police Service,” that he had obviously inherited.
“Do not worry, sir,” a whiskered driver habitually comforted his boss. “It’s not your fault! The station attendant on duty misled you.”