“What’s up, Thomas?” Quarters yelled. “Dragon summons you!”
Thomas Tangor is me. I categorically do not accept any nicknames, because “Tangor” is already short enough.
“Hi,” I muttered, unwilling to develop the conversation further.
“What have you done?” Quarters poked about.
“Got into a fight.”
“Ooh,” he stretched the sound out in disappointment and left.
Yes, a fight involving a dark mage student is corny, boring, and uninteresting. Fits the dark magician image too closely. In contrast to the faint-hearted white enchanters, we love open conflicts, and the sight of blood pleasantly excites us. Not of our blood, naturally. University administrators have always been faced with a tragic dilemma: to order the dark to behave the same way as other students is useless, but to leave such behavior unpunished is untenable. And then some smartass (if I had known who, I would have raised him from the grave!) had found the perfect solution: correctional work. Something like scraping pots in the university canteen or cleaning stables and toilets. To refuse meant a discharge from the university for breach of the discipline code. For three years I was able to avoid this dubious “joy”, but yesterday’s visit to NZAMIPS seemed to put an end to my fortune…
No, I have nothing against discipline, but I would like to note that some of the so-called “mere humans” turned out to be bigger assholes than any dark magician. Look at Ronald Rest, who got his nickname because each time before getting piss drunk he demands “just a quarter” of booze and, having loaded up, begins harassing all males and flirting with all females. Taught by bitter experience, his classmates learned to leave a pub at his appearance. Well, Quarters perceived correctional work as an outrageous indulgence for the dark magicians.
Anything but the stables…
I came up to the door of the Vice Chancellor’s Disciplinary Office for problematic students (a euphemism used at the university to name the dark mages), feeling apprehensively sick in advance. A brass plate on the door announced that Prof. Darkon dwelled behind it.
Contrary to my expectations, the prorector did not look angry or irritated.
“I was told that you spent a couple of hours in our favorite facility yesterday,” he winked conspiratorially, while I shuddered at the memory. “Do not take the incident to heart.” In response to my puzzled look he explained, “All dark magicians are brought to the police at least once during their studies. This is another law of nature, and you are not the one to break it.”
Personally, I did not care about the statistics, but keen interest flashed in the prorector’s eyes:
“Did you try your magic on the cop?”
I shook my head frantically. “How could I dare?! An assault on a law enforcement officer with application of magic would be pure suicide.”
“Congratulations! Therefore, the first record in your file will be ‘very trustworthy’. Believe me, for your career it will mean more than the best references,” the professor switched to a confidential tone. “With years of experience behind my back I believe that they aim at driving detainees out of their wits; perhaps, it’s the only way to understand a magician’s potential. A rather risky way, though.”
I parted with the prorector; we shook hands as people united by the injustice we both experienced. I was dying to learn what offense he had committed in his time. After leaving the office, I recalled that I did not mention that Empowerment had already happened to me. Okay, maybe next time. I will just be a little more careful.
Now that my affairs with NZAMIPS had been settled, another problem loomed: making cash. Recount and rigorous calculation of my expenses showed that my savings would last for a month or two. My acquaintance with the goblin was still too fresh in the memory, and I did not dare to earn money illegally.
I had to find a job.
As a man of action, I walked around the neighborhoods adjacent to the campus, looking for a vacancy that would open by summer. The University of Higher Magic was a special school; it did not impose any exams, except at admission and graduation, which was quite logical. The art of magic could not be mastered in a hurry. Education was divided into many, many intermediate control points; however, following an ancient tradition, teachers took a break twice a year: two months in summer and three weeks in winter. During winter breaks, most of my classmates stayed in town, but in summer the university was almost deserted. The time just before the summer vacation was best to grab someone else’s place…
Alas! Most vacancies implied a job for white magicians; in rare cases, for ordinary people, but no employers wanted problems with a dark mage student, especially on the eve of Empowerment. Despicable discrimination! If you are a dark magician, do you not need money?
The only real option was to clean the floors in the tram depot at night. No, thank you, when would I sleep then? In the third year, students began specializing. Since I had already been initiated, it made sense to take the full course of witchcraft. To cerebrate over a pentagram after physical work, risking my life? No way, better to hit myself in the head with a stone.
I had two choices: to apply for a credit from Gugentsolger’s Bank or ask my family for assistance. The problem had to be solved fast. I decided to start with the family. What the hell? A lineage of hereditary dark magicians could not be poor! I didn’t need much—just 50-60 crowns a month; my mother was sending me 20, or occasionally 30 (on Christmas), and sincerely believed that was sufficient. We needed to talk seriously in person, not through the mail. For the first time in two years I decided to use one more privilege of the Roland the Bright’s Fund fellowship—a paid roundtrip home.
Actually, summer visits home are more typical for the white mages. I always wondered how they managed to come back on time, if they did not travel in an “iron horse.” Ron Quarters was about to leave for the Southern Coast accompanied by two sophomore girls and invited me along, but I stubbornly declined his invitation and spread rumors that I had some serious business to do at home. I desperately did not want to look like a poor beggar in the eyes of my friends.
Purchasing a ticket was easy—the first railcar in the train was not popular among passengers. Very few people traveled to our region in summer, just like in any other season for that matter. For starters, the mountainous plateau at the western extremity of the continent was famous for the worst climate throughout Ingernika. It was neither cold nor hot, the number of sunny days in a year could be counted on one’s fingers, and fog was very common. Second, the inhabitants were kind of savages: Krauhard’s peasants were full of prejudices and superstitions, they interweaved silver threads into horses’ manes and dark cat fur into their blankets, and they nailed ram’s horns over the gates. A place of depression, with icy rain and squally winds—the white mages would not be able to stand it. Furthermore, this was the place for the otherworldly creatures. The supernatural manifestations occurred here much more frequently than in any other place. To the local folks, it was a matter of pride and a source of permanent anxiety. Even children knew of the simplest rituals of expulsion; ancient, covered with cryptic signs and stelae were on every street corner, and on clear days one could see from the shore the frightening and alluring King’s Island. Hardly a surprise, then, that one in five Krauhardians was a dark magician.
I sat on the bench of a railroad car alone and mindlessly gazed at the passing landscape through puffs of smoke. The thick greenery of the windbreak looked like a tunnel; fields, cows, white cottages, and enormous straw bales flashed through the rare breaks in the trees. With hidden impatience I waited for the evergreen trees to be replaced with low-lying shrubs and weeds, and fields with rocky wastelands and deep ravines, but the first greeting from the motherland came as rain. Of course.