Irina Syromyatnikova
MY PATH TO MAGIC
Edited by Amanda Bosworth
Translated by Irina Lobatcheva, Vladislav Lobatchev
Illustrated by Nick Mingaleev
“Dark magicians often write memoirs. Usually we either boast of our incredible toughness or complain about repressions. (Have you ever attempted to repress a dark magician? Don’t even try!) In reality, our life is pretty boring and mundane. But who would write about its prose?”
Part 1. THE KING’S ISLAND
Chapter 1
Please do not think that I am making excuses; dark magicians are really very respectable people! And well provided for, by the way. Our world is full of odd, inexplicable powers and chilling phenomena that white wizards are helpless against. Commoners want safety and security that is unattainable without the dark magic power. Therefore, a dark magician is a highly paid and scarce specialist; in most counties, for every twenty and even thirty white enchanters, there is only one dark mage. Such was the consequence of an unwise policy of previous years that impaired that particular heritage in the nation. At least their descendants have realized it and repented. Therefore, the situation currently is like this: a genuine, professional dark magician is a very respectable man, but any self-taughts and amateurs are heavily persecuted. This is fair: while a white idiot’s mistake results in scorched cookies or hail instead of rain, a screwed up dark spell will trigger a disaster. Zombies, vampires, invisible beasts, ever-burning fires and an epidemic of lethargic sleep are some of the most innocuous consequences of our mistakes. That’s why we are all conscripted to serve in the army and almost entirely employed by the government; that’s why dark magic is often shamefully called “combat.” Our craft is not a good job for idiots!
Now, tell me how a student dark mage is supposed to develop his skills—not to mention some cash on the side—so needed by every college student?!
Well, in my first year I allowed myself to moonlight as a dishwasher and a waiter in a pub, but I gradually learned that wasting so much time to earn scraps was an unacceptable luxury. For the sake of a miserable couple hundred crowns in the present, I risked ruining my “bright” dark future. I had to find a job that for a couple hours a week would earn me the same money; otherwise, I would have looked forward to six years of penance, fasting, and abstinence. A grant from Ronald the Bright’s Fund covered tuition and housing, but the cash allowance from my dear family wasn’t enough for anything better than bread and milk in the big city where I lived. I could, perhaps, take a credit from the Gugentsolger’s Bank secured by my future earnings, as many students did, but that meant I would belong to these crooked penny-pinchers for a whole ten years after graduation from Redstone University of Higher Magic. Hands off me!
Of course, I meant to use my natural talent in the dark arts. I wasn’t going to call forth any filth or to flirt with the supernatural, but I could handle some magic. Small otherworldly phenomena were vulnerable to even the most ordinary rituals. I knew when to stop, never took up what I couldn’t manage, and even played it safe, relying on spontaneous curses: “donkey ears,” “loser’s tail,” “eviction of violent hobgoblins”—anything that did not carry deadly threat but made life difficult. (In our trade it was called “taking out the garbage”.) I charged little and did a thorough job, always taking into account the client’s wishes. Alas, it had ended stupidly. One bozo had fantasized that I cheated him out of his pitiful twenty crowns and reported me to the cops. He thought I tried to con him because I called him on the phone, imagine it! As it often happened with the commoners, he was convinced that all magicians were the same, and an image of a decent mage in his mind was that of an ordinary white magician. There were more of them, after all. All the white wizards actively dislike technology since it is unnatural, they think. I am dead serious! They prefer to drag themselves to a client through the whole city or send a courier. But the dark magicians coexist perfectly with any machinery: animated nonlife is right up our alley.
Mad with boredom, the cops had found me right away, but, fortunately, before I did anything. It’s not that easy to catch a dark mage with his pants down! I had never worried about a police ambush before, but my common sense has always directed me to carefully consider my surroundings before venturing into something. Thus, they had found no evidence. However, any possible conviction for illegal spellcasting would put an end to my future career, and I had no choice but to deny everything.
Despite my exuberant character, typical for a dark magician, I had never even been to the police before, much less to the Special Department of Magic Affairs. And yet it seemed to me that the government agency should have looked somewhat different. That is, not a filthy basement with furniture bolted to the floor and light bulbs hanging loose on the cords. However, there was no mistake: everyone who worked there sported a badge with the abbreviation NZAMIPS. As far as I knew, this designation wasn’t decrypted in any official document, letting your imagination fly. Both the magicians and the townsfolk called this office simply, “NZAMIPS”.
At first, as we walked through the corridors, everything looked fine and civilized: inspectors spoke with visitors, couriers scurried back and forth, typewriters snapped, potted ficus trees blossomed. But then we went down to the basement and walked into that room: muddy plaster with brown stains, crumbling tiles on a concrete floor, dim light bulb flickering on the ceiling, iron table against the far wall and no chairs. This place had the refined atmosphere of the times when people could be burned alive just on a suspicion of being a magician. I felt as if I had been dunked into a tub of cold water.
Wasting no time, my convoy pushed me to the center of the room and handcuffed me to a chain hanging from the ceiling. Dear mother! There was a real iron chain with magic bracelets. I had seen such in a movie before. No, this couldn’t be real; I was sleeping.
The door had creaked nastily, and a new character showed up.
The new policeman was an ordinary man, not a magician, but with such a build that simply glancing at him made me uneasy. ‘That’s why all the books depict wizards as weaklings!’ whirled in my mind.
“Well, punk, are you gonna squeal?” this cross of a goblin and a steam train smiled sinisterly at me, rubbing his hairy paws.
Typically, the dark magicians are hostile, but even our militancy has some limit. In abject fear, I forgot everything that I was intending to say.
“Didn’t do anything!” I voiced my last argument.
In half of the cases, problems that people bring to magicians are purely of a psychological nature. A soulful conversation and an aromatic candle are usually enough to cure their woes. No wonder that a lot of university courses have nothing to do with magic! Among my clients there were no mages, so the cops couldn’t prove the fact of my witchcraft. I just was not sure anymore that they needed any proof.
The investigator slammed his fist on the table, and it became clear to me why the table was made of iron.
“Don’t try to lie to me! I see right through you!”
He grabbed me by the shirt and lifted me off the floor.
“Confess!”
It’s been a long time since someone dared to touch me without my permission—to a dark magician that was an invitation to fight. Was it any other guy, I would slam his face with my fists regardless of his body size. Even with my hands tied up, I would have chewed off his nose. But not with that cop! Everyone knew the gruesome nature of the dark magicians; no one would believe that I was not at fault. I tried to swallow a curse rushing from my tongue and smother the flames of my Source. To cast a spell on the policeman would be exactly the opposite of what I needed at the moment. Even not being a full-fledged mage, I would have chopped this idiot up like wood.