The Fixer Of God's Ways (retail) by Irina Syromyatnikova Page A
Authors: Irina Syromyatnikova
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their fuss with the indifference of a castrated cat: no desires, no dreams, no plans. One thing I knew for sure - I was done with necromancy.
* * *
About fifteen years ago, after the death of Tangor Sr., Larkes was approached by a peppy man with piercing eyes and offered…everything for ridding Ingernika of artisans. Larkes was able to foresee the behavior of people better than any empath, and Minister Michelson chose the uncommunicative dark among hundreds of other promising officers, entrusting the Department of Theological Threats to a man, whose eagerness to exterminate the sinister cult to its last member he knew and appreciated.
The group for the functional design of object strategies now met with its permanent leader twice as frequently as before. Mr. Geniver reported their recent findings, occasionally turning to the map on the far wall, labeled with push pin flags of assorted colors.
" The artisans are ridding the area of ballast," his boss summed up.
Geniver nodded, "And making a pantheon of martyrs. Obviously, they decided to sacrifice part of their sect. I am afraid they'll become stronger!"
L arkes kept silence. The presence of a seer among the artisans upset all their plans. They had a few moles in the sectarian core, but their people were dying for no apparent reason. Colonel Kilozo, who had infiltrated into the sect, hadn't contacted them yet, either.
" We'll detain their agent in the ministry and make noise," Larkes finally decided.
"What's the point?" Geniver retorted. "The guy is totally under our control!"
"The point, my dear, is to make our actions look haphazard."
The analyst grimaced, "As you wish. You are the boss."
Larkes nodded mech anically, thinking about how the blind could corner the sighted, and he couldn't come up with a solution offsetting the artisan-seer. The dark mage decided to wait for Fate to say its word, bewildering the sectarians in the meantime.
* * *
People in the courtyard of a large white mansion watched a grass frog and laughed. They were forced to live in a confined space week after week, but their relationships remained warm and friendly. All this was due to a woman over fifty, a compassionate and merciful white. From time to time, she cautiously glanced at the windows of the mansion and then smiled at her companions again.
Inside the mansion, a bearded white mage enjoyed a play of her aura: it was a rare combination of subtle shades, and even he, the acknowledged master, experienced difficulty in interpreting them.
"I miss Derik, " the old mage said to a man sitting across the table from him. The chair of the Council of the Order of the Celestial Knights and his new aide met daily.
"Yeah , he was a deft liquidator," the aide nodded.
The interlocutor didn't see the face of the white patriarch - otherwise he would understand that Derik wasn't just a skillful killer for the old mage, but rather a thoughtful companion and a younger friend, whom the mage had known for over twenty years. Could that white girl in the courtyard replace Derik? The patriarch closed his eyes, trying to decipher modulations of light, not visible to a mere eye. Her aura was pierced by bizarre cascades of flashes of emotions, and none of them were primary; a purple haze near the nape of her neck indicated a sharp mind. In the deeper layers of her consciousness he found a wandering shadow of doubt or mystery, lit by a golden fire of faith. He felt the urge to win her trust!
T he mage shook off his pensiveness, "The young necromancer must die."
"Is he worthy of your worry?" the interlocutor questioned his boss' order. "His injury is deadly. He won't ruin our plans anymore."
The patriarc h turned away from the window and looked straight into the eyes of his aide, "This mage has accomplished the unimaginable - something that was considered theoretically impossible. We must make sure - I stress it - absolutely sure that he is dead. One Roland-destroyer was enough!"
The aide to the patriarch
* * *
About fifteen years ago, after the death of Tangor Sr., Larkes was approached by a peppy man with piercing eyes and offered…everything for ridding Ingernika of artisans. Larkes was able to foresee the behavior of people better than any empath, and Minister Michelson chose the uncommunicative dark among hundreds of other promising officers, entrusting the Department of Theological Threats to a man, whose eagerness to exterminate the sinister cult to its last member he knew and appreciated.
The group for the functional design of object strategies now met with its permanent leader twice as frequently as before. Mr. Geniver reported their recent findings, occasionally turning to the map on the far wall, labeled with push pin flags of assorted colors.
" The artisans are ridding the area of ballast," his boss summed up.
Geniver nodded, "And making a pantheon of martyrs. Obviously, they decided to sacrifice part of their sect. I am afraid they'll become stronger!"
L arkes kept silence. The presence of a seer among the artisans upset all their plans. They had a few moles in the sectarian core, but their people were dying for no apparent reason. Colonel Kilozo, who had infiltrated into the sect, hadn't contacted them yet, either.
" We'll detain their agent in the ministry and make noise," Larkes finally decided.
"What's the point?" Geniver retorted. "The guy is totally under our control!"
"The point, my dear, is to make our actions look haphazard."
The analyst grimaced, "As you wish. You are the boss."
Larkes nodded mech anically, thinking about how the blind could corner the sighted, and he couldn't come up with a solution offsetting the artisan-seer. The dark mage decided to wait for Fate to say its word, bewildering the sectarians in the meantime.
* * *
People in the courtyard of a large white mansion watched a grass frog and laughed. They were forced to live in a confined space week after week, but their relationships remained warm and friendly. All this was due to a woman over fifty, a compassionate and merciful white. From time to time, she cautiously glanced at the windows of the mansion and then smiled at her companions again.
Inside the mansion, a bearded white mage enjoyed a play of her aura: it was a rare combination of subtle shades, and even he, the acknowledged master, experienced difficulty in interpreting them.
"I miss Derik, " the old mage said to a man sitting across the table from him. The chair of the Council of the Order of the Celestial Knights and his new aide met daily.
"Yeah , he was a deft liquidator," the aide nodded.
The interlocutor didn't see the face of the white patriarch - otherwise he would understand that Derik wasn't just a skillful killer for the old mage, but rather a thoughtful companion and a younger friend, whom the mage had known for over twenty years. Could that white girl in the courtyard replace Derik? The patriarch closed his eyes, trying to decipher modulations of light, not visible to a mere eye. Her aura was pierced by bizarre cascades of flashes of emotions, and none of them were primary; a purple haze near the nape of her neck indicated a sharp mind. In the deeper layers of her consciousness he found a wandering shadow of doubt or mystery, lit by a golden fire of faith. He felt the urge to win her trust!
T he mage shook off his pensiveness, "The young necromancer must die."
"Is he worthy of your worry?" the interlocutor questioned his boss' order. "His injury is deadly. He won't ruin our plans anymore."
The patriarc h turned away from the window and looked straight into the eyes of his aide, "This mage has accomplished the unimaginable - something that was considered theoretically impossible. We must make sure - I stress it - absolutely sure that he is dead. One Roland-destroyer was enough!"
The aide to the patriarch
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