[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 7

“The tradition of magical duels in Britain has largely fallen out of favor during the latter half of the twentieth century, yet it continues to be practiced—unlike in various European countries that have abandoned this custom in favor of settling disputes exclusively in court. 

“The rules for issuing a challenge… the rules for conducting a duel… the conditions… permissible weapons are solely a mystic code, that is, a wand or, far more rarely, a staff. Firearms are not employed, and melee weapons are used only occasionally. Hand-to-hand combat remains at an amateur level, more often preceding a duel rather than being used to inflict harm (slaps, blows to the face as part of a challenge, etc.). 

“There is no gender discrimination—a witch can challenge a wizard, and vice versa. Duels between wizards rely heavily on the wide application of shields, both full and localized, to absorb or reflect direct conceptual and elemental attacks. According to examples, an experienced duelist can, with a properly placed zonal shield of about a foot in radius, bounce a stunning, paralyzing, or igniting spell back at the opponent…”

“Mr. Murphy, Mr. MacDougal has arrived for you, just as agreed,” came the impeccably polite voice of Miss Stone from behind the laboratory door, after a light knock. She even managed to address the ten-year-old boy as “Mister” without breaking into laughter—professionalism at its finest.

Kayneth shut the guide to magical duels and slipped into a desk drawer the notebook in which he had been summarizing the most crucial points about how local wizards conducted combat. He had no doubt it would be useful sooner or later. Rising from his chair, he rolled his neck to relieve the stiffness, then went to the living room to greet his visitor. He hadn’t exactly forgotten about the meeting—he just hadn’t expected time to pass so quickly.

“You look awful,” the “trade operations specialist” greeted him cheerily, getting up from the couch. As always, Albert wore that same old coat, though late April had turned out rather warm. He held a small case in one hand, apparently unwilling to let it out of his sight even for a moment. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Day before yesterday… I think,” the magus answered, shrugging indifferently. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall. Indeed, his appearance was not good—dark circles beneath reddened eyes, wrinkled clothes (unchanged since his trip for books), a couple of scratches, and a small burn on his cheek. Anything but aristocratic, though it suited a ragged brat from a pathetic orphanage well enough. 

He had become so absorbed in newly discovered knowledge and tinkering with mystic codes that his appearance had slipped down his list of priorities. He would tidy himself up… later, once he had time. “But does it really matter to you if I’m here to sell you something unusual, or do you prefer pretty boys? I believe that wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Fair enough—business first,” Albert agreed with a flourish of his hands.

“Precisely. This way, please.” Turning around, the magus indicated the open door to another room. The passage was covered by opaque plastic, like something used in hospitals or labs. A magical curtain of mist would have raised more questions, and creating a believable everyday illusion behind the doorway, visible from the living room, would have required more effort and energy than he could spare. Hanging a makeshift curtain had been simpler.

After letting MacDougal enter ahead of him, Kayneth followed and locked the door, activating the barriers he had already set. They were not very powerful yet, but they would at least keep them from being overheard. The visitor peered around with interest, taking in the magic circles, the stacks of books piled against the wall (no time to acquire shelves), the table buried under scribbled pages, and a smaller folding table holding several puzzling items plus a jumble of spare parts—metal scraps, bits of wire, and similar refuse. Back in the living room, Albert had noticed that besides the bracelet he’d seen before on the boy’s wrist, the kid was now wearing an oversized metal cross on a cord over what had once been a white shirt.

The magus gestured toward the single chair, remaining on his feet near the worktable.

“On the phone, you mentioned you’d prepared a few things for sale and wanted my opinion. Here I am,” Albert said with polite interest. From his expression, it was unclear whether he genuinely expected anything from this arrangement or was humoring a cocky child. Then again, if he saw no chance of profit, he wouldn’t bother investing his time or money.

“In that case, let’s not waste time. First, something simple.” Archibald brushed aside some scraps and bits of trash. Into the cleared space on the table, he placed several small, gray lumps of metal. “Bullets. Plain lead, imbued with a modest spell that, on striking any part of the body and coming into contact with blood, liquefies and then continues traveling through the capillaries and, later, the vessels with the bloodstream. Once per second, it does this, then turns liquid again and keeps moving.”

Taking a scalpel from the table, the magus nicked his thumb and allowed a drop of blood to fall on one of the bullets. Almost immediately, it spread into a gray puddle on the surface, then formed a metallic hedgehog of long, spiky quills clanking on the tabletop—only to melt and reshape into tangles of razor-thin edges, repeating the transformation several times. Meanwhile, Kayneth rubbed his fingers, activating his magic circuits to seal the cut. This now came easier than a month ago—he had boosted his overall reserve a bit. 

“The spell lasts about ten seconds, but that’s enough to cause multiple internal and open wounds, damaging muscle, nerves, and likely reaching the heart. If it hits a leg or an arm, it will follow the venous flow. Should it strike the torso and be carried into the pulmonary circulation, it might circle it two or three times.”

“What a…” Albert shivered slightly, though the skepticism in his tone vanished. “…interesting invention. Strange that no one ever offered me this before.”

“Wizards don’t use guns, Mr. MacDougal,” Archibald remarked with haughty detachment. Privately, he noted that some former magi would. “We have far more convenient methods. Besides, there are obvious drawbacks—you still need to hit your target. And they’re useless against foes lacking blood.”

“Those exist?”

“There are all sorts—at least in our world,” Kayneth waved dismissively, hinting that this second flaw was irrelevant here. He carefully took hold of the interwoven set of tiny, now magic-less and thus brittle blades, lifting them for a clearer demonstration. It was a habit he had picked up after years of teaching. “But if some thug wants to make sure he, as you say, ‘finishes off’ another, this method offers a reliable approach with no chance of rescue. Even if there’s an ambulance nearby or a team of doctors, they won’t be able to do a thing.”

“Well, I’ll think about it. Some might decide that’s ‘not how things are done,’ but others will be interested, I’m sure. Anything else?” he asked, now genuinely intrigued.

“Of course, that’s not everything,” Kayneth replied, carefully placing the “bullet” back where it belonged. Adopting a lecturer’s tone—which, unfortunately, clashed with his rather high-pitched child’s voice—he went on:

“As far as I can tell, the people you associate with tend to die young and quite unpleasantly. They spend plenty on security, guard dogs, and high fences, to put it simply. All those modern gizmos with electronics and fancy locks”—the magus waved a hand vaguely in the air, never having bothered to learn such things and never regretting it—“once invented, they can be broken just as easily. But I can offer an alarm system no top-notch burglar can bypass in any way, even if they’re aware of its existence.”

“Interesting. And I hope it’s not just a line of salt on the doorstep?”

“I’m surprised by your folklore knowledge, Mr. MacDougal, but no—this is something more reliable,” Archibald replied. He touched the cross hanging around his neck and murmured something that, from the outside, might have sounded like a prayer. “Just the simplest possible ghost.”

“I… I see that it’s a ghost!” Albert blanched slightly, staring at some spot behind Kayneth’s shoulder. He fumbled beneath his coat, as though searching for a weapon.

“Really?” Kayneth glanced at the grayish, translucent figure that had appeared behind him, then turned back to Albert. “Ordinary people generally can’t see them. Evidently, you really do have a rather unusual lineage. And yes, a pistol won’t help you here, at least not with normal bullets. Well then, the ghost”—the magus waved his hand behind him—“it can guard a particular area, and if someone crosses the assigned boundary, it lets out an audio signal. 

“In short, it howls. This isn’t a banshee—just a feeble spirit from the nearest cemetery. Its howling won’t cause physical harm, but it can scare someone and alert the guards. Past that, it’s up to them. No burglar—‘Muggle’ or otherwise—will be sneaking by unnoticed if they have a soul. I doubt today’s thieves or killers typically bring an exorcist along just in case.”

“Are we not gonna get busted for this?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, won’t it get us caught…” Still seeing Kayneth’s bafflement, Albert drummed his fingers on his case, struggling to find simpler words. “As in, won’t they track us down? Your Aurors or whoever?”

“No. Ghosts aren’t particularly rare—just usually found in less-populated areas. If a random wizard, even an Auror, passes by a factory or a manor and spots a ghost, he’ll merely shrug,” Kayneth explained. He hadn’t read through all the books on magical creatures and monsters yet, but he’d studied the parts about spirits, ghosts, and how the wizarding world perceives them before heading to the cemetery to summon one himself. “And for ordinary people, it’ll just be some overly sophisticated sonic alarm.”

“Well, I’ll trust you on that. I’m sure there’ll be customers for that kind of thing.”

“Then let’s continue. This next item is best demonstrated in the lab,” the magus said, picking up a small object resembling an aluminum ashtray with a lid. He gestured for MacDougal to go first and locked the door behind them, setting off another barrier. The adjacent room was larger, nearly empty aside from the steel “antlers” of a magic reservoir in one corner and numerous magic circles on the floor, walls, and ceiling. Kayneth shuddered at the memory of how much hassle it had been to stand on a ladder, arms aching, drawing the ceiling’s circle overhead.

“Gradation Air,” he pronounced, conjuring a tripod in the middle of the room. He placed the ashtray on top, pricked his fingertip on the sharp edge of the lid, leaving a few drops of blood in a tiny groove. Then Archibald walked calmly to the wall, motioning Albert to stand beside him, and touched a chalk-drawn mark on the floor—a line that, upon closer inspection, was made up of countless rows of minuscule symbols. A grayish, nearly transparent barrier materialized between them and the object on the stand. And then… nothing happened.

“Er, so…”

“Another fifteen seconds… ten…”

At some point, most of the ashtray seemed to evaporate into fine dust, leaving only a small metal cone solid. Then a spark flickered atop it. The explosion was minor, but the building seemed to tremble; the tripod was blown to splinters, dust billowed up, and the shockwave threw Albert and Kayneth against the wall, leaving them deafened for a couple of seconds.

“Listen… you pint-sized shaman, wouldn’t it be better to test stuff like that outside the city?” demanded the indignant merchant, shouting over the ringing in his ears. He nervously glanced at the window, apparently undamaged by the blast. “They’re gonna call the cops, or the fire brigade, we won’t have time to run.”

“Mr. MacDougal, please don’t take me for an idiot,” Kayneth retorted scornfully, trying to smooth his hair back down. “The barriers in this room absorb sound, the shockwave, and any excess magic. For something this small, they can easily handle it. Nobody outside will even notice a thing—not the neighbors overhead or below. The better question is: do you think anyone would be interested?”

“So how does it work?” Albert asked, a little calmer now.

“The blood acts as a catalyst. You can set the timer in advance. A spell on the object breaks down nine-tenths of its material into dust, then ignites it. Ever heard of dust explosions?”

“I’ve even heard of thermobaric bombs,” Albert muttered, then coughed, trying to clear his throat of the dust swirling around. “What’s the advantage of this over a normal bomb?”

“No trace of explosives whatsoever, and no magical residue after about ten minutes. Just a perfectly ordinary object you can carry anywhere—an ashtray, a cigar box, maybe a trophy cup or a paperweight. The main requirement is that it be metal—iron or aluminum, for example. You place it, prick your finger, walk away—nothing ticks, no lights flash, and to any Muggle it’s just a harmless lump of metal, something you could only use to whack someone over the head.”

“Right, I’ll ask around, though don’t expect too much—stuff like this is usually desired by people who, let’s face it, you’d be unwise to cross even with magic if you value your life.”

“That’s your job. I deliver,” the magus said coolly. He opened the door to the laboratory and gestured for them to return to the “library.” Albert sat down once more, and Kayneth remained standing at the table.

“This is all just rushed work,” the magus continued. “After all, wizards and Muggles have very different needs, so it’s not easy to find items that will interest your clients and that they can’t get through ordinary science or technology. But I’m sure we can uncover other unique products over time. I have a few ideas, for instance using ghosts or familiars for reconnaissance. Let’s not rest on our laurels—there’s always scientific progress.”

“No argument there. Not all at once, though we don’t have years for research either.”

“I understand. Rent needs paying now, not in a decade. But research costs money, so we’ll start here and gradually move to more advanced developments.” The magus glanced at a dagger lying near the edge of the table, though he didn’t pick it up to show. Instead, he changed the subject: “By the way, I mentioned I need something too. Can you set up a meeting with one of your usual suppliers from the magical world?”

“I can arrange that. But what do you have in mind?”

“We could place an order with them. Ever heard of mandrake root? The real one, I mean. One can create several extremely interesting things from it, all involving magic, of course. People have always confused it with that ordinary plant with strange roots, useful for nothing but scopolamine. 

“But around this time, late April, the magical kind of mandrake ripens. We could buy some with ordinary money, and I’ll prepare a handful of potions that’re guaranteed to sell. Scar reduction, healing old injuries, restoring joint flexibility, and one elixir that, if it works, might even knock five or seven years off someone’s age—only for a Muggle, and only once. There’s also a pair of especially potent poisons, but that’s for very specific purposes,” Kayneth enumerated in a near-dreamy tone.

In his home world, true mandrake was insanely rare; even he, who’d become a Master in alchemy at the Clock Tower, had laid hands on it maybe half a dozen times in his life. Therefore, they only studied and recorded the most powerful recipes for it, the ones worth using such a rarity on where no substitution was possible. Of course, most formulas were meant for rituals or work on magic circuits, so fewer would be useful for normal people. But here, witches and wizards cultivated mandrake in greenhouses as though it were a common carrot, and its tincture didn’t cost its weight in gold. 

Archibald readily admitted he knew metals better than he did potions, but he was sure he could brew what he needed within three or four tries. And given the approximate ratio of the black-market price of those concoctions to the relatively trivial local cost of mandrake, they’d profit, even if three-quarters of the material ended up wasted.

“If you’re not exaggerating, it really might be worth the risk. How much do you need?”

“I’ll write down the going rates in legitimate apothecaries, so you’ll know where to start haggling.”

“If you can just walk into a magical apothecary and buy this stuff, why all the fuss?” Albert asked, puzzled.

“Mr. MacDougal, how much do you actually know about the wizarding world?”

“A bit, though clearly not enough. Magic and wizards exist for real, as do werewolves, ghouls, trolls. All of them stay hidden, and maybe a dozen top people know about it, plus people like me who run our little businesses but don’t get caught. Anyone who learns about magic—catches sight of a wizard or some gremlin—will have their memory wiped, and might forget even their own name or what year it is. 

“There’s something like a police force, your ‘Aurors,’ who punish criminal wizards and make sure people never find out magic is real. They’ve got a prison you go to for that—both regular folk and wizards. What else? 

“Wizards can be born among ordinary humans, but at eleven they get a wand and go off somewhere in Scotland for seven years to study. Also, they hardly ever use modern tech; for most of them, a TV or microwave is like…” he nodded at the cluttered table, “…your tricks with ghosts and exploding ashtrays is for me. It’s something they have no clue about. And apparently the aristocrats still run everything, plus there’s some big scandal about racism—didn’t get half of it, though.”

“In broad strokes, yes. Let me share a secret and clarify. I’m ‘Muggle-born,’ meaning I had no wizard ancestors—or none I’ve ever heard of. I knew nothing about magic until around five, when some wizard from outside Britain found me—he needed an assistant, figured it’d be easier to train a new kid than to re-educate an adult. So he taught me this and that for five years, then… he was gone, leaving me in a wizarding world I knew almost nothing about. I had to adapt. That’s how I came into contact with William, and from there you know the rest. 

“So for everyone in Britain, I’m just an orphan who doesn’t even know which end of the wand to hold. I’d prefer it stay that way. But I did learn some specific arts, and I’m willing to share that knowledge so I don’t have to sleep on a park bench and brawl with bums for a rotten morsel of food. Do you see why I can’t simply walk in somewhere and buy a bucket of mandrake without being pestered by pointless questions?” Kayneth had devised this story after reading through various books, a story that would explain both his lack of ties in the magical community and competence in certain specialized areas—and, if need be, ignorance of obvious things. Under thorough interrogation or close scrutiny, it wouldn’t hold up, but for now it would do, especially given how these magical countries in this world seemed self-absorbed with their own affairs.

“All right, I get it,” Albert said, giving no indication how much he believed. He neither contradicted nor argued. “But you said you need something else from my contact besides these plants?”

“Yes. A couple of books that aren’t for sale. But we’ll talk about that in person.”

“You’re planning to go with me?”

“Can you tell mandrake from turnips disguised by a spell?”

“What about your ‘image’?”

“I think that for someone in the contraband business, spreading rumors about me won’t exactly help them. And besides, in case of trouble, I can be useful. I doubt any of your bodyguards know how to exorcise hostile spirits or restless undead.”

“I’m skeptical anyone’s gonna bring a friendly ghost to the meeting.”

“That’s exactly why they generally should,” Kayneth observed, referencing his own experience.

__________________________________________

The night of April 26th turned out unusually cold, damp, and foggy, even by London standards. It did nothing to improve the mood of two individuals who stood at around midnight on a deserted construction site by the river. The work lamps were off; only a few streetlights behind the fence provided illumination, quickly blurred by the fog. They’d left their car by the gate, which had been simple enough to unlock using magic with minimal effort.

“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to find a more public and better-lit place?” MacDougal asked, shivering from the cold beneath his coat. “Plenty of 24-hour cafes lie empty this time of night—we could have sat down, made the exchange, parted ways. Better that than freezing here.”

“That’s fine for a repeat meeting when everything’s settled already. Here, I need to see the product, and you can’t do that in some random diner—unless you plan to chase out the whole staff first. Plus, it’s best not to flash money,” Archibald pointed at the small bag Albert held. Only ten grand in pounds, but the smuggler insisted on small bills, like a movie kidnapper. Likely he wanted to use them in the ordinary world instead of converting them to wizard gold. Both men understood this perfectly well, magus and merchant alike. But standing around doing nothing was tedious—they might as well chat about nothing. Kayneth, too, was shivering under the chilly wind despite wearing a hooded raincoat over his suit, and conversation provided a partial distraction. “He’ll definitely want to count it.”

“Certainly I will,” rasped a third voice, coming from the empty doorway of the half-built structure. He carried a similar bag in one hand and a wizard’s wand in the other. “Lumos.”

The bright glow flared at the tip of his wand, illuminating a wizard of moderate height wearing a wrinkled, tastelessly assembled ensemble, painfully trying to exude “luxury.” A gold chain glinted on his neck, along with a pair of rings on his fingers. To Kayneth’s eye, he looked like a pimp or a low-end drug peddler from a slum—just missing the cheap fake-fur coat. That attempt to look “flashy” with no more than twenty pounds in one’s pocket would earn anyone’s scorn.

“Good evening, Mr. Fletcher.”

“And the same to you, Mr. MacDougal. Afraid I don’t know your friend here.”

“This is Jimmy. He’s related to a client, one of yours. He needs something, so I figured I’d bring him along.”

“Oh, is that so?” Judging by his tone, the smuggler didn’t believe a word. Nevertheless, he approached them, lighting the way with his wand’s spell. “Well, as long as you’ve got Galleons or pounds, I’m all ears. But first, the main business.”

“Of course,” Albert agreed. After a pause, he added in a bored voice, “Mr. Fletcher, considering how long we’ve known each other, it’d be rude of me to remind you you’re the one who can vanish into thin air, while I can’t, so I always check the goods first. Right?”

“Damn, I totally forgot!” the wizard swore unconvincingly. He set his bag on the concrete and backed away a few steps. “Take a look. Exactly what was ordered—no junk here.”

MacDougal placed the bag on the ground, took a flashlight from his pocket, and peered inside. He jerked back slightly upon spotting a handful of leaf-rustling little roots wiggling in the gloom, but he steadied himself and beckoned the magus.

“What’s your verdict, Jimmy?”

“Let me see,” Kayneth answered, stepping forward and waving a hand over the bag. The mandrake looked genuine, but one glance at Fletcher told him to triple-check any product he sold. A couple of testing spells—standard in alchemical ingredient checks—surprisingly revealed nothing catastrophic. “It’ll do, more or less. A couple are on the brink of dying, one’s partly rotted, another five have wilted somewhat, but they’ll still go in the cauldron. Not top quality like we asked for, but your friend might not know enough herbology to notice. I’d say that just saved you maybe twenty percent off the full price.”

“You gonna argue?” Albert asked, almost condescendingly. Seeing the wizard merely shake his head—making no attempt to pass off stale goods as the freshest—Albert unzipped his own bag and transferred a few packs of pounds from it into his coat pocket. “All right then. The original terms still stand.”

He placed his bag on the concrete and likewise backed away, giving the smuggler room to step up and count. With a couple flicks of his wand—wordlessly—Fletcher sorted the bills by denomination, gritted his teeth, but finally nodded to show the deal was done.

“Good. And what’s the kid want, exactly? Perhaps a sack of Chocolate Frogs at a discount? I can arrange that.”

“I’m not much for sweets. But a wand with no Ministry tracking charms—I’d find that quite useful,” Archibald said, cutting to the main point of this meeting. Truth be told, he could’ve scraped up the necessary mandrake himself at pharmacies or shops over a couple of weeks, but he needed a fence for black-market wizard items as soon as possible. This was the perfect excuse for an introduction. “I have a genuine thirst for knowledge, you see. I like to study outside the school curriculum.”

“Uh-huh, and then someone tosses around ‘Avada’ with an untraceable wand, and guess who gets blamed—muggins here, your dealer. Don’t think you’re so clever, kiddo.”

“You really believe a nine-year-old knows the Unforgivables? You’ve got a high opinion of my skills, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I have a high opinion of our Auror Office, and I know anyone could be the dreaded Mad-Eye under Polyjuice.”

“And you’d sell contraband to him?” Kayneth had no clue who this ‘Mad-Eye’ was; he hadn’t yet read up on Britain’s modern wizarding history. Probably some legendary law-and-order wizard?

“Damn it, smuggling’s one thing. But an untracked wand is quite another. I do have principles, y’know!” the wizard cried indignantly, though not very convincingly—perhaps upping his price.

“More like fear for your own skin,” Albert interjected. “If I vouch for the boy, is that enough?”

“No. You’re just a Squib—there are a dozen ways to make you believe you’ve known him your whole life, that you are his dad or mom if he wanted, and you’d never know it wasn’t true.”

“And if I add that I want books on practical necromancy, and I’m prepared to pay double for them, same as for a wand?” Archibald interjected, recapturing attention.

“Okay, that’s intense, even for a Mad-Eye sting. Tell me, Jimmy—this wouldn’t happen to be because of your innocent childish prank that’s got the Aurors losing their minds for the last month?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Oh, really, now?”

“Oho, look who we’ve got here,” came a suddenly jovial voice to one side. “A Squib, a snot-nosed kid, and Dumbledore’s pet rat.”

“Bloody hell! Protego!” Fletcher spun around, wand raised, conjuring a faint translucent shield in front of him.

Albert and Kayneth did much the same, though the Squib drew a worn Browning from his pocket, while the magus raised a short dagger, aiming its blade at the newcomer. The lamplight from the wand and a few streetlights was enough to reveal a tall, lanky man in a grimy mackintosh and a ridiculous top hat, wand in hand pointed their way. A split second later, the air beside him seemed to distort and rip outward, clearing space for a second wizard with wand at the ready—this one dressed not in a quaint 19th-century style but in a cheap track suit of the kind favored by factory-town drifters. The first looked about forty, if cleaned up, the second hardly more than twenty-five.

The appearance of the second man nearly made Archibald drop his dagger. He’d read fleeting references in the books to “Apparition,” meaning a wizard’s ability to teleport from one point to another by sheer force of will, no incantations or mystic codes required—but he’d assumed it was either rare or mastered only by experts. Clearly, these men weren’t Aurors, nor refined aristocrats; they looked more like low-tier criminals from the underbelly of the wizarding world. Yet they freely wielded a mystery that, in his previous life, only a handful of people could manage, restricted by numerous conditions and limitations. And apparently this smuggler, going by Albert’s remarks, possessed it as well. If it was so commonplace here, Kayneth realized, he needed to figure out how it worked. Plus, he’d do well to remember in the future that a potential foe here might easily perform what, just six months ago, he would have considered near-True Magic.

“Competitors?” MacDougal asked Fletcher quietly, not taking his eyes off the newcomers.

“Something like that. Acquiring that much stock in a short time wasn’t simple. Someone might have noticed.”

“Half of Knockturn Alley already knows you’re selling mandrake to someone outside,” the wizard in the mackintosh informed them—he’d caught that bit of whispered conversation. “So we decided to join in, help you with your difficult task. Come on, prove you’re not a rat—share some with your old friends. These two losers won’t remember a thing tomorrow anyway, and you’ll be able to swindle them again, old man.”

“You’re only three years younger than I am, Ebbie,” Fletcher retorted, sounding genuinely offended. “And for the record, I don’t like where this is going…”

Instantly, the construction site turned dark—Fletcher had vanished, along with his wand and the light spell on it. And of course, with the money. All four of them stared in bafflement at the spot where he’d been standing, then slowly shifted their gazes from one to another. Albert cocked the hammer of his pistol with his thumb, while Kayneth shifted the dagger into both hands and triggered his magic circuits.

“Reinforcement. Reinforcement. Reinforcement,” he whispered, causing first his legs and then the blade to glow faintly.

For several seconds, nothing happened. Everyone waited to see who would make the first move. Then someone’s nerves snapped—maybe everyone’s at once.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Stupefy!”

“Surgere!”

Albert said nothing, forgoing incantations in favor of firing off a shot at one of the wizards while unexpectedly nimble for his build, dodging aside so as not to get hit by a stray spell. Kayneth was flung back five or so paces, feeling his magically reinforced legs flare with pain and the cross on his chest heat up. The second wizard’s spell beam passed straight through the ghost that had appeared in his place. The phantom ignored it, hung in place for a second, then floated toward the enemies. The mist around it condensed onto the ground as frost, and cold dew filmed over the damp concrete.

MacDougal’s bullet missed, as it was hard to aim on the move in the dark. But it did divert the wizards’ attention—they focused both their wands and at least half a dozen spells on slowing and then paralyzing the ghost. That gave Albert enough time to poke his head out from behind a heap of reinforced concrete blocks and fire three more shots. Two went wide, but the third clipped the arm of the wizard in the mackintosh, making him jerk; even injured, though, he kept his grip on the wand and swung it repeatedly, blurting incantations in panic.

“Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus!”

One of the three red beams managed to hit Albert, ripping the Browning from his hand and knocking him back a couple of meters. Cursing, the Squib rolled along the wet ground until he tumbled into some trench, going silent there. The wizard turned his head, letting the flying gun pass by without trying to catch it. Meanwhile, his partner was searching for the boy—and managed to spot him sooner than expected.

Kayneth waited for the wizard between a crane and the building’s wall. From the outside, he looked cornered. The dagger he held in both hands gave an image of someone desperate.

“Lumos. Hey, kid, why don’t you just drop that toy, and we’ll settle this peacefully, yeah? You’ll forget a couple of hours, that’s way better than dealing with broken bones or puking slugs for two days straight, isn’t it? I can Stupefy you right into the wall, might misjudge it a bit, then maybe toss in a few ‘fun’ curses on top. You get me?”

“And if I surrender, you’ll guarantee no harm comes to me?” the magus asked in feigned relief, taking one hand off the dagger and slightly lowering himself, as though preparing to lay the blade on the ground.

“Who do you think I am, eh? I wouldn’t hurt a f—”

“Scalp!”

The bracelet on the magus’s left wrist tore through the sleeve of his coat, lunging at the enemy as it stretched into three interwoven thin blades resembling a tangle of silvery snakes. Once they reached flesh, within seconds the man would be slashed and stabbed in a couple dozen places. But the wizard managed not only to spot them but to yank his wand sharply, fearfully shouting:

“Impedimenta!”

A pale-blue beam struck the twitching blades, freezing them almost motionless in midair. He hadn’t skimped on the power. “Depulso!” came a second flick, hurling them somewhere into the murk. Flicking his wrist to point the wand at the kid, he lacked the time to counter the new attack.

“Acuto!”

The dagger’s hilt split into about half a dozen coiled metal wires, snapping straight like springs and launching the blade at almost bullet speed. The knife pierced the wizard’s arm, nearly going straight through. He dropped his wand and clutched the wound, but then couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out, couldn’t even draw breath—he simply fell onto his back, utterly still. The alchemical poison embedded in the dagger’s blade was potent enough on its own, and the strengthening spell had multiplied its effect for a couple of minutes, while a second enchantment had made the blade sharp enough in that brief time to puncture even concrete.

“Altera vita,” the magus murmured, flicking a hand and triggering his magic circuits again to power the dagger. The symbols and runes inscribed on the blade glowed a weak gray. Nearly all his circuit reserves vanished in the process, but it was the lesser evil—Kayneth had run out of mystic codes, and trying to fight another presumably able-bodied wizard with just spells now would be suicidal. Having set things in motion, he tapped the copper ring on his finger, draining the small store of energy within and causing the ornament to crumble. He paused a moment, estimating the timing, then shouted:

“Hey, Mister! Your friend’s not looking so good! He’s lying there, not moving—maybe he’s dead already?”

“What?! Mort, what’s taking you so long?” a distant voice responded. About half a minute later, the tall wizard with a bullet-scarred arm emerged from behind the crane, lighting his path with his wand. To his credit, he carefully peeked out first, took a quick look around, and only then approached his partner’s body. Keeping one eye on the boy pressed against the wall, he prodded Mort’s side with his foot, then crouched. “Mortimer, you worthless… Hey, Mort, you—” he paused uncertainly, feeling for a pulse and finding none. He glanced at Mortimer’s face, twisted in a spasm and staring blankly, then raised his eyes again. “Hey, you runt, what’d you do to him?!”

“I haven’t done anything,” Kayneth replied icily, shrugging. At the same time, he kept a close eye on the opponent’s mystic code. He struggled to maintain his composure and not let the pain in his magic circuits show, now that they were working at full capacity. “He just fell on the knife all by himself.”

“That’s utter bullsh… Fulgari!”

“Nebulous clipeum,” the magus said almost simultaneously, lifting his arms and crouching low. From the drifting fog, a rectangular shield emerged roughly two feet by two, just enough to cover him at his height. This barrier, formed of water vapor dense with magic, withstood the first curse, then three more in rapid succession. The next one blasted it apart into clumps of mist when Archibald’s reservoir of energy finally ran dry.

This four-line incantation—Kayneth’s own barrier system—had many advantages, including the ability to be invoked in advance and shifted to active mode with a short aria, but it guzzled magic relentlessly. Once, that hadn’t mattered to him, but now…

“Stupefy!”

The spell, which he couldn’t dodge, slammed Kayneth into the wall, leaving him dazed for several seconds and defenseless. But once the colored spots cleared from his vision, the magus saw that Ebbie was preoccupied with his revived partner, who was clutching at his legs.

“Mort! Hey, Mort, what’s wrong? Everything’s fine—I got that little bastard. Now I’ll help you… Mort, wait! Mortimer! Stoooop!” The wizard’s shouting turned into unintelligible cries as the dead partner yanked him down with inhuman strength, toppling him to the ground and sinking teeth into his shoulder. “Stupefy! Petrificus! Incarcero! Confr— Aaaaah!”

Stunning and paralyzing spells had little effect on the undead. Perhaps, if the wizard had struck with something explosive or slicing straight off, he might have escaped with minimal harm. But he never expected to face an inferius here, let alone his own partner turned undead, well-suited to that name.

Staggering and clumsily trying to shake off the mud that covered his entire raincoat, Archibald got to his feet. He limped over to the corpse, who had already torn out the wizard’s throat. With a wave of his hand, he uttered the formula for cancelation, which required no direct infusion of energy:

“Requiescer.”

The undead fell still, reverting to a lifeless body permanently. The magus cast a glance at both corpses, then shook his head and hobbled back to their meeting place, supporting himself against the walls. The first spell had stretched the ligaments in his leg—he was lucky it was only one—and smashing against the wall didn’t seem to have broken anything, though he had plenty of bruises, contusions, and a mild concussion in this frail body. And that “harmless” stunning spell, in the local textbooks, was recommended for second-year wizard children. Perhaps Kayneth was too quick to assume these wizards coddled their youth.

“Hey, Albert, you alive? Do you still remember my name?” Archibald yelled into the fog.

“I remember, I remember—Jimmy, or James…” came the grumbling reply as MacDougal reappeared from behind the same pile of slabs. He, too, was caked in filth after tumbling into the trench and struggling out, half-dazed. “What about those two? Ran off?”

“They’re dead—both of them. I said I’d be useful. I got wounded, but not mortally. You?”

“I’m almost all right, though I wouldn’t put money on a couple of ribs. They cracked something nasty. And my fall was no fun. Everything’ll hurt like hell tomorrow…”

“That’s not so bad. If you don’t feel pain at all, then you’re either dead or undead yourself, and neither prospect is encouraging,” Kayneth replied, regarding his ghost, which had only just begun to stir after being pinned by spells. He noted the sack of mandrake, still lying on the concrete. “Get up, Mr. MacDougal. We need to find your gun in all this muck, and then we have to retrieve my dagger from the corpse before we vanish from here, or the police and the Aurors will be on us any minute.”

“And the bodies?”

“The river’s just past that fence. I’m counting on you for that.”

“Forgive me for being blunt, but aren’t you a little too casual about having just killed two men, especially for a ten-year-old brat? Guilt? Conscience? That sort of thing?”

“A magus’s path is always one walking hand in hand with death,” Kayneth stated the obvious. “Any spell—yours or someone else’s—can be your last. Once you accept that, it gets easier. And anyway, they wouldn’t have spared us. I see nothing wrong.”

“You know, I’m starting to regret dealing with you. Fletcher was shady, sure, and sold me crap sometimes, but at least I didn’t have to shoot anyone.”

“It’s all for profit.”

“The only reason I put up with you wizards at all. I’m a proper Catholic, mind you—my mom took me to church every week. Good thing she doesn’t see me now…”

“It’s also for the best that no one else sees us here tonight. Let’s go—time is money, and right now it’s also our freedom.”

________________________________________

By early morning, lying in bed and aching in every muscle while his magic circuit regenerated by mere crumbs, Kayneth reflected that once again, he had miscalculated and underestimated the danger—just like so many times this past month. His familiarity with local combat wizardry and dueling was purely theoretical. Teleportation could be dismissed as an unpredictable factor, but he hadn’t properly accounted for the lightning-fast reflexes needed in duels where shields are constantly in use, demanding you notice an enemy’s spell at once and form a defense right in its path.

One wizard had intercepted and deflected his blades mid-attack; another, in mere seconds, pummeled his barrier with half a dozen fairly strong spells in a row. These were criminals—riffraff from the wizarding underworld with stolen or scrap-made mystic codes. What about Aurors or even ordinary patrol wizards who were supposed to catch such thugs? And what about the aristocrats of the old families?

Archibald had never been big on sports or martial arts. He kept in shape more out of a noble’s sense of decorum—set an example for the lower classes, stay dignified, not let himself get fat. As for the trend among some young Clock Tower students to combine magic with fistfighting or, worse yet, gunplay—he found it barbaric. Let the brutes of the Fraga family amuse themselves with that. Kayneth had heard tales of that family’s heiress, rumored to smash brick walls with a fist by age ten—imagine what monster she’d become. Either way, speed and reflexes had never numbered among the best traits of the former Lord El-Melloi, but he had always excelled at using his head. That was precisely why he’d invented a protective mystic code able to outrun bullets and shield its master from attacks from behind or any other angle. But he wouldn’t be able to recreate or power Volumen Hydrargyrum for quite some time, and plain body-strengthening spells couldn’t fully offset his weaknesses.

Therefore, if he wanted to survive in this new wizarding world without moving into a gym and swapping books for dumbbells for the next seven years, he needed to find another way to adapt to local duels.

He fell asleep with that thought, drifting into his usual nightmares.