The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail) (27 page)

I needed
to ensure
Rustle
's safety. It was no longer my personal vendetta against artisans; I wouldn't calmly watch as some schizophrenics destroyed dark magic.

To
disassemble the artisans' construction without the help of other people was impossible. What other options did I have? To dissolve it with acid? To break it into pieces with a hammer? And there remained a chance that the destroyed breaker would affect
Rustle
's condition and the stability of the Dark Source. The best option would be to tweak a bit the launching contour of the breaker, jam it in its current inactive state, and get away unharmed.

I walked around the
breaker again, examining its design and mentally testing different variants of its flow of magic. One option looked promising. I needed a metal crosspiece bigger than a pin. A suitable thing was in my pocket: a massive chronometer in the platinum case that I bought as a graduation gift for myself. It was an expensive, show-off thing, with engraving on the back, and I dreamed for so long of just getting rid of it. Centuries, thousands of years, will pass, I'll be gone, all will be gone, only
Rustle
and my chronometer will stay as an anchor in the ocean of time, forever linking the unique creature and me. How poetic!

I
fixed my chronometer between two arcs; its heavy platinum case would break the symmetry of power lines, and energy would surge along a new path. The breaker could still be activated remotely, but the ritual of
The Liturgy of the Light
would need a different, very bizarre pentagram. White mages, performing the ritual, would have to be aware of the change I made. Surely, I wasn't going to tell them.

Rustle
was deeply moved and sent one of his golems to me with a gift - a flat metal box without pages. The deceased guard knew how to activate this thing, so I should be able to figure it out, too.

Together with the golem we blocked the broken wall by
beams, in case some diggers would go through that tunnel again, and locked and jammed the emergency door behind ourselves. It was time to leave the place, while
Rustle
was still in a good mood.

I
climbed up for no less than an hour:
Rustle
's nest was three hundred feet below the surface! When, panting, I crawled out of the elevator shaft, Clara and a golem idyllically communicated via gesture. The "cleaner" watched them, trying not to laugh. Having noticed me, the golem calmly strode back to the elevator and disappeared in the shaft. That was it.
Rustle
didn't need me anymore. I guessed it was his "thank you and get out".

Enough of
me solving global problems. Axel was right when he predicted that I wouldn't enjoy my triumph - I experienced a bitter feeling because of human and nonhuman ingratitude (I didn't believe the metal box was adequate appreciation for my feats). I saved the world and secured the future for dark magicians. It was time to think about myself!

* * *

Permission to visit Finkaun's catacombs cost Alex dearly. The archeologist was adamant - he saw no other way to verify the reports of participants in the last Magic Circle. He sensibly argued that if ancient guards had been really hostile, half of Finkaun would have laid in ruins already.

The
underground fortress was dark, silent, and frightening. Alex saw ruins of churches and castles, remains of peasant huts and nomadic camps, and they all bore traces of human logic in their design (like living rooms separated from the kitchen and pantry, a closed off spot for the bed). The ancient complex in Finkaun resembled a honeycomb, whimsically partitioned in accordance with the needs of developers; the place seemed to be built by aliens.

A
monster-guard showed up in a turn of the hallway; the white politely nodded to him, "Hello!"

The creature stood still as if
he was a statue. Alex came closer and fingered the glassy and rigid armor of the monster. Mr. Oakley sweated profusely; the "cleaner" accompanying them looked morose: he was probably inventing a particularly sophisticated curse for the curious white.

"
Weird. I think t-this one has s-soul," the white magician cocked his head to the side. "The one t-that attacked us on B-bird Island l-lacked it."

The floor
started trembling from approaching steps. Another humanoid monster appeared from a side passage and stretched out one of his limbs to the white mage. He handed to Alex something looking like a Christmas ball: a turbid glass frame enclosing a picture with hieroglyphs and a strange bird. The ball lacked seams, and Alex wondered how the picture was placed inside.

"Where is my gift?"
the "cleaner" perked up.

The golem
showed him a middle finger.

"Okay, time is up.
If we can't go farther, let's come back," said the offended "cleaner".

Alex suppressed a smile.

"Thank you. I've always liked the stories in which a monster turned into an enchanted hero. I hope it will happen to you, too," he said, addressing them both.

At parting,
Alex and the guard waved farewell to each other.

M
agic guards didn't allow the archeologist to see the core of the ancient artifact.

I remember
ed Axel's words that important knowledge must not be kept in only one head. Well, now my conscience was clear: I worked all night writing into
The Word about the King
. And the ancient chronicle acquired a finished look. Not every dark mage could leave such a mark on history!

For a while
I pondered what language to use and then recalled that the book wouldn't be readable without
Rustle
anyway, so the language was unimportant - the monster would translate my thoughts. I just needed to
write my chapter in simple and precise
words. My carefully composed story took less than two sheets of paper protected by the magic of
The Word
. Every dark magician who came to terms with
Rustle
can read my report about the origin of the otherworldly.

Next morning
the ill-fated book was mailed as a parcel from Mr. Salem to the NZAMIPS headquarters in Redstone. On the same day the hotel manager politely asked me to vacate the suite. I left my modest belongings in a locker at the train station; it was time to decide where to go next. It was still cold and muddy in Suesson, Krauhard would be boring, and the Southern Coast had declared a state of emergency.

I
sat in a cafe at the station square, chewing a donut and sipping coffee. Max lay on the floor under my chair; I combed the dog's hair to hide his eyes, so that passers-by wouldn't recognize a zombie in him.

A gang
of familiar looking army mages took the next table. Oh, Ridzer got more stripes! They immediately spotted me and my furry zombie.

"Hey, Tangor, didn't you die
?"

"I was
very sick, but eventually recovered."

Without asking permissio
n, they moved to my table. "There is a profitable business," Captain Ridzer said in a conspiratorial whisper, pulling up his chair closer to mine than was allowed by propriety.

"
Indeed?" I did not believe that anything legitimate would come to their minds.

"It's
all legit, don't worry! It's in Sa-Orio."

"What'
s wrong with the empire again?"

"
Nothing. The otherworldly had eaten all their people. There is plenty of nobody's stuff: gold, silver, gems. Come and take it."

"Just come and take
it?"

"
If you can find it," the captain clarified. "We need a seeker."

"
Well, I can do that."

"
Join us!"

I threw a cautious look at
an unremarkable man, accurately perching himself on a chair at the door.

"
Are you taking him along? The curator?"

"Why not
? He is useful - he speaks Imperial. Zertak said not to come back without him."

T
he general let them go looting under supervision.

"H
ow much will this cost?" I meaningfully pointed at the ceiling, hinting at the general.

"Ten percent
."

Their
boss will make good money on the initiative of his juniors! "Uh-huh. I'll seek, he'll translate, and what will you do?"

"
We'll fight with ghouls!"

It wa
s logical. There should be as many otherworldly freaks as dirt on the abandoned lands. The captain with his crew chased the supernatural around Arango for a year; they surely acquired solid experience.

I need
ed money, a lot of it. Of course, I was far from having to sell my father's legacy. I had enough to cover my living expenses for the next year or so. NZAMIPS paid me for the ritual, and the dividends from the ore bacteria ought to come soon, but it wouldn't be enough to build my personal tower. And the deceased guard showed me pictures of flying machines heavier than air, and I needed money to undertake that project. More money…

"
I agree!"