The only confusing moment left was behavior of the goblin-like officer (of course, he was not an actual victim of a secondary magic mutation, but a striking similarity to a goblin in appearance was there). What did he really want from me, and why did he give up? It was unlikely that my fainting had caused him to stop; if he feared accusations of police brutality, he would not have called witnesses while I lay unconscious. Personal prejudice against dark magicians? Then NZAMIPS wouldn’t keep him—if he were not expelled by coworkers, then customers would beat him up for sure. But do I really care for the issues that cops might have?
My tamed Source was devotedly licking my wounds, while I quietly enjoyed the happy ending. Only the dark magicians are able to relax while sitting on a busy intersection. All the white mages familiar to me were obsessed with face-to-face contacts and personal space and could loosen up only in tranquil surroundings. But to me, the impersonal, mechanical movement of the masses had a more profound calming effect. The never-ending city noise I perceived as music.
Carthorses pulling a covered wagon emblazoned with the logo of a famous transportation company sullenly marched along the pavement. The huge beasts, almost three meters at the withers, were bred by magic and controlled by it. An abundance of “horse power” was typical for Redstone. For those who liked speed and weren’t burdened with luggage, a merry tram rang along the rails. A rumbling limousine propelled by an “alcoholic’s dream” engine had crossed the intersection. I had sniffed after it, hoping to catch a familiar scent of spirits, and enviously watched the car passing by. No comparison with the tram! I had great respect only for the steam engines, but within the city boundaries the trains were not allowed: too many university students were white magicians, for whom a clash with a hissing and steaming iron horse caused severe stress and nervous disorders. Give them any authority, and they would make all of us change back to horses! The municipality was very proud of the fact that all of the power plants had been relocated to the suburbs.
I smiled dreamily, imagining myself in a limousine. A successful dark magician could afford more than that. So far, I hadn’t committed any fatal missteps, hadn’t been charged with anything, and didn’t need to run away. In essence, two ideas were crowding my mind: first, I could be congratulated on becoming a full-fledged magician, and second… how was I supposed to make money now?
The current chief of the Department of Magic Affairs, Conrad Baer, was a cop of the sixth or even seventh generation. His ancestors began to serve the law shortly after the last king had left Ingernika. They had steadfastly safeguarded their fellow citizens during the awful years of plague and in the times of trouble at the turn of the millennium, occasionally distracted by civil wars and revolutions. The key to the success of the dynasty was the unique physical characteristics of the Baer family: the look of the Department’s chief could discourage even the most boisterous dark magicians. Since his college days, Conrad proudly carried the nickname “Locomotive” and was the first member of his dynasty to be promoted to captain. This latter fact was considered a source of pride, but sometimes with a touch of bitterness.
With noticeable relief, the captain took off his anti-magic protective suit. Government specialists made this thing look like a regular police uniform, but it weighed as heavy armor. But wouldn’t you put on anything for the sake of saving your own life? Contact with young magicians, possessing unknown powers and temperament, demanded extreme precautionary measures.
Wiping sweat from his neck with a paper towel, Locomotive pulled out a phone and dialed a familiar number. The massive apparatus with brass handle and a pearl insert on the disk liked to play tricks on the captain, but it always connected him to this number on the first attempt.
“Lucky you!” the captain announced to an invisible interlocutor. “I met your godson today.”
“How did it go?” someone on the other end wondered vaguely.
“Hard to say. Initially I thought they had messed up his file, attributing him to the mages. He fainted, can you imagine?”
A quiet chuckle came out of the phone.
“Yes, his father was also very reserved. He will become a powerful magician!”
“Strong, that’s for sure. I have recorded his aura; drop by when you have time, take a look. We’ll pray together.”
“Thanks!” the tube commented. “I owe you.”
The captain waited until he heard a dial tone but did not put the phone back. Instead, he took a bottle of malt whiskey out of a drawer and measured a cup. Usually, he did not drink during work hours, but today was especially nerve-wracking.
Conrad Baer was not a magician and did not feel magic powers. He understood what had happened in the cell only after viewing a record on a crystal that permanently engraved this event for his superiors. It was then that he decided to have a drink. Due to the proximity of Redstone University, his department had a special covert function: to tease dark magicians in order to get an imprint of their aura. The not-quite-so legitimate procedure was helpful in avoiding problems with their identification later on, but it was recommended before the initiation of a magician and certainly not during it.
The captain, being a knowledgeable police officer with fifteen years of experience, stupidly and foolishly put himself under the attack of the combat magician; any anti-magic protection would not have saved him if the kid had lost consciousness three seconds earlier. It was hard to tell what the thing rushing toward him from the transcendent depths was willing to incarnate into, but the consequences of such events the captain had seen before. The glitter of the walls fused into glass, puffy bluish dead bodies in the police uniform, green pools of slime in the spots where people stood a minute before—that was only a small part of the surprises that dark magic concealed! The boy kept control over his power, and for that he deserved if not full forgiveness of his sins then at least a good discount.
But one couldn’t trust the phone with such revelations, so nobody knew about Captain Baer’s second birthday, and he had to celebrate it alone.
Chapter 2
An echo of the encounter with NZAMIPS reached me on Tuesday, during a lab on alchemy. I had already handed in my notebook with finished lab assignment and idly wondered if I could remotely ignite magnesium shavings in a flask on the professor’s desk. Close connection with the Source inside provided me with interesting possibilities… One thing stopped me: I was the only magician in the classroom. That wasn’t a joke! Half of the students at the University of Higher Magic were not magicians; our school became well-known for its Faculty of Alchemy instead. It is believed that the alchemic talent is as inborn in people as a talent for magic, only it is harder to find. By the way, I received a scholarly grant from Ronald the Bright’s Fund for winning an alchemical tournament. I always liked to watch the pendulum swing, play with lens light refraction, and mess around with chemicals, especially with those that had a propensity for burning and exploding. Unfortunately, due to that, lab classes turned for me into a real torture—I could hardly keep myself from trifling.
Before I had a chance to pull off something nasty, a freshman had opened the door without knocking and cried out: “Provost calls for Tangor!” and ran away.
My mood went sour immediately.
A dark magician in a bad mood is the worst curse possible. Dying of curiosity, my classmates pretended to rifle through their notebooks, but they hesitated to offer any comments. After the bell had rung, Ronald Rest, known as Ron Quarters, burst into the classroom, almost knocking the professor down. Clearly, he wasn’t scared of mages, either dark or white.