The Tournament, or There's Nothing Like Magic

1. Amid the night's silence, the increasingly distinct

smacking sounds of necromancers could be heard, signaling that the cemetery was

close. On my way back to town, I always tried to distinguish

the sounds of hungry necromancers from those

of necrophiles, but the state of the corpses always prevented such

a subtle analysis. Tonight, the bandit Madey was buried,

beheaded for raping a maiden destined for a dragon, and

I had pinned some hopes on this fresh corpse. Unfortunately, I

was not able to complete my observations. Some emaciated vampires

had made a cheap overnight stay, hanging bat-like from

the branches, and I had accidentally woken them, not without

the standard defensive spells. Apart from these incidents, the journey

through the forest was uneventful. After crossing the bridge over the Pawka River,

a river of rather mysterious consistency, I stood before the gate

in the city wall. The guard was asleep, drunk as usual.

"Open the gate!" I boomed.

Nothing helped.

"Open it, or I'll break it down, and then I'll go after you,

like Abracadabror!

" "You're a devil..."

He must have been a novice. All the guards knew that

I, or my apprentices, went out at night to gather herbs, and none of

them had yet dared to deny us entry to the city.

"Wake up, rat!" I tripled my voice.

"Siiichourwa... you know, here's the roschas? Brame...

otffierasie... schorośfit...

" This was too much. I cast a lengthening spell on

my neck and right arm and began to lift my head along the wall. I also

fixed a spelling mistake in the graffiti that had been irritating me for a while now

: "Dwarves are dicks." I squeezed

through the battlements and grabbed the drunk by his tailcoats.

"Do you know what a 'Threading' is?! A spell that turns you inside out

! Do you prefer it through the mouth or the ass? "

I hadn't seen such a sudden sobering up in a long time.

There's nothing like magic.

The inn "At the Hobbit's, or Here and with a Twist" didn't enjoy

a good reputation - like all the inns in the city. No wonder,

the city itself didn't care much about its reputation, as it was secured by

the annual Tournament, but more on that later.

The inn's calling card was an unsupported axe

hanging from the smoky ceiling. I came here from time to time

under the pretext of renewing the spell binding the axe, even though I was

I was absolutely convinced it was unnecessary. Bulbulbo,

the pub owner, was a different story.

"Ah... a salute to your wizardry!" I don't know how

he spotted me as I entered the swirling crowd and smoke.

It was a hobbit, sitting astride a stupid goblin

who served him with his weight and an extra pair of hands, for which reason he was

also known as Sitting Bulbulbo. The old trick with symbiosis—little cunning

, big idiot.

I approached the innkeeper.

"Got the goods, master?" he whispered.

I nodded. We both left the main room for the kitchen.

I unpacked the bag of herbs. Bulbulbo scooped up a handful of leaves,

expertly rubbed them on his hands, and gave them to the goblin to smell.

"Yikes, raycownyca, first-rate sort," the beast pronounced.

Bulbulbo smiled and offered me his hand.

"Many thanks, mighty Abracadabror." I trust it will last

a month. Many thanks, Your Magic—

” “Five hundred!” I cut him off.

“But of course, Your Magic!” Bulbulbo approached

the cash register and turned away, obscuring

the complicated task of opening the vault with the goblin’s massive bulk.

“Ah, Your Magic, pardon my memory, as

usual, I invite you to—

” “The usual, where usual,” I finished.

“But of course, the place is waiting untouched!” assured

the hobbit, and after paying for my clerk’s note, he gestured invitingly

toward the door leading from the kitchen to the guest room.

And again, I was struck by a dense wall of

vodka and tobacco fumes.

“Damocles!” I growled.

I was right. The axe, after releasing the spell, still hung

from the smoky ceiling. Meanwhile, Bulbulbo, fending off

half-drunk and impatient guests, had reached

the table I’d reserved for me.

A werebrown was snoring on it.

"Hey, you," the goblin's thick paws shook the sleeper, "go!"

The awakened werebrown bared its yellow fangs and roared mightily.

The goblin returned the favor, despite Bulbulb's protests, who

was trying to prevent a confrontation between such creatures in

his own establishment.

"I'll handle this," I muttered, and clasped my hands in the Sign,

paradoxically called the Heart Sign, because it involved skillfully

clenching all the fingers except the ring finger, which

pointed upward.

Not a trace of the werebrown remained. There was nothing like magic.

"Twice the usual today," I said to the stunned

Bulbulb.

"But of course, your magic!" He came to, and,

wiping the sweat from his and the goblin's foreheads, began to make his way

through the crowded tables to the kitchen.

I settled comfortably and surveyed the room.

Apart from mine, all the other benches were packed with

customers. Nearest me sat six silent

dwarves, whose dull and shifty eyes once again

convinced me of the councilwoman's growing popularity. A seventh

dwarf lay unconscious under the table. The further seats were occupied by City Guard soldiers, and behind them a motley group of vagabonds, adventurers, ADD players, and science fiction magazine sellers

were swarming . Bulbulbo's assistants were constantly bustling around the soldiers and visitors – a kitchen boy and a disgustingly fat girl, whose corpulence was ignored, in keeping with the motto "there are no ugly women, only sometimes there's a lack of wine." And it was this woman who saw to it that there was no shortage of wine. I couldn't complain either; Bulbulbo immediately brought me a double serving of my favorite "Bloody Mary" in a chalcedony goblet. So I took a sip, closed my eyes, and, after a self-examination, noted with pleasure that the drink contained what it should. Suddenly, I realized something was wrong. It became as quiet as a poppy seed, until I could hear the murmur of the second dwarf sliding under the table. I opened my eyes, and, piercing the translucent atmosphere, I saw the reason for the general silence. A girl stood in the doorway, and firstly, she was absolutely gorgeous; secondly, she was scantily clad; thirdly, she was alone. Most of them dropped their jaws in amazement and delight. "At the hobbit's, or here and there" was no place for lonely girls. But I noticed, invisible to others, the slight undulation of the protective shell of a standard amulet above her beautiful, half-elven head, hidden well below her neck. Sure. Only a witches' apprentice could dare such a visit. With a quiet spell, I adjusted my vision, neutralizing the outer garments, and my eyes were met with sights capable of softening even the toughest of men, and

. There's nothing like magic.

"Is there a place for me here?"

the young witch asked, unabashed.

It was unheard of – in the packed inn ,

empty benches appeared at almost

every table in the blink of an eye. Only the dwarves didn't move, even though

a third of them was already preparing to sleep on the ground.

"Please, please!

" "Come join us, you won't regret it!

" "Peek! Here!"

Invitations multiplied, full of all sorts of gestures and

glances. The girl hesitated, until she finally sat down with

the non-residents, much to the guards' dismay.

The hall became noisy again; I took another sip

of Bloody Mary, and another dwarf collapsed under the table.

The beautiful witch tried to summon the host, but

the fishermen sitting opposite her vied with politeness,

shouting at the hobbit.

"What can I get you?" the busy Bulbulbo choked out.

"Something to eat," the witch said.

"We have bigos and tripe.

" "Tripe is fine," she decided.

"Come on, get moving, little one!" the protective

fishermen urged.

"What's your name, pretty?" asked the man sitting

next to her.

"They call me Albumina," she replied, coughing. "What

a stuffy place!" she huffed, and before I could protest, she

silently cast a standard cosmetic charm, purifying the air in

the immediate vicinity.

The spell wasn't very well executed, but it was enough

to reduce the smoke by half. The axe, unsupported,

fell straight onto the head of one of the guards.

The entire inn roared with laughter. Luckily, I telekinetically deflected the blade at the last

moment, and the soldier took

a blow, but several of his companions immediately rose from their seats.

"Who wants to laugh?!" they asked menacingly.

"What?" came the reply.

"Calm down!" squeaked a frightened Bulbulbo, carrying a bowl of

tripe, and the goblin glared at

the hot-headed warriors.

Albumina accepted the meal, took the spoon in one hand,

and with the other slapped the bravely prodding hand

of the man sitting next to her.

"You filthy bastard, you think you can do anything?!"

"Call me Snake," the gentleman replied calmly. "You're staying here."

For longer?

"None of your business!" the witch huffed, but after eating a few

bites, she said with a hint of pride in her voice, "I came for

the Tournament.

" "It's not a spectacle for women," Snake smiled.

"I won't watch." She turned to face him. "

I'll fight!

" The man laughed.

"Now that's something! Have you heard? She wants to fight in the Tournament!

" "You think I can't?" Albumina gasped, looking at

the laughing faces of her fellow guests.

Suddenly, she jumped from behind the table with a spectacular stalt, shouting,

"Shhh karrrrate kingbrusli kozanostra vendetta karrrrrambaa!" and

landed with a spectral sword in her hands. The trick worked

well for her; after all, they'd been teaching it since first year, but

it evoked mixed reactions. Her tablemates began applauding. The guards were a different

story.

"She's a witch!

" "Witch's spawn, ugh!"

Snake stood up demonstratively.

"Yes, a witch. Don't you like something?

" "Yes!" One of the soldiers jumped up sarcastically, but

the other stopped him.

"Come on, he has the witcher's mark."

And the brawl didn't break out again. Everything went on as

usual. The fifth dwarf sank under the bench,

the pair that had been groping behind me also sank under the bench, but for a different reason. The rest

were drinking, and the plump waitress was comforting the angry guards with herself.

Tired of constantly monitoring the area around Albumina, I released

the Amplifony spell, drained my goblet, and contented myself

with visual observation of the object I was interested in.

Nothing interesting was happening; the persistent witcher repeatedly

tried to get to the witch, unfortunately to no avail. Finally ,

Albumina couldn't take it anymore and stood up without finishing her meal.

"I'm leaving!" she announced.

Snake stood up too and took her arm.

"Let's go then. You don't want to wander around

the city at night, do you? I've booked a comfortable room here." He pointed to the stairs

leading to the sleeping chambers.

"I'm not going anywhere with you, you impudent rascal, let me go!

" "What do you mean?" the witcher asked in surprise, then grabbed her and

lifted her up in his arms. "We're going!

" "I warned you. Ghahathahtaettehahthgh!!!" she cried.

I grimaced in disgust. She was using a

Fantasy Level I Spell Matrix, where words don't matter, but the envelope.

The phonetic, and in particular the number of velar consonants

(g, k, h). The witcher, of course, remained unscathed.

"Talk to me again," he cheered up.

"Arrtahagahtghterhntgtghhh!" she wheezed.

"Or better yet, don't say anything, save your strength for later."

Terrified Albumina, seeing the ineffectiveness of her probably

strongest defensive spells, began to kick and

bite in a feminine manner, while the witcher, unfazed, was already mounting the steps.

Most of the soldiers jumped up and grabbed their weapons, ready

to do something unheard of in their profession—defend virtue.

"Shame! They beheaded Madey, and this vagabond will

act here with impunity?! I stopped them with a single wave of my hand. At least they felt proper respect

for me . "I'll bet three to one she'll get away with it," I said. The sixth dwarf was close to collapsing, but he still managed to come out and puke, right under the inn's sign , where it said "with a return," and Snake disappeared upstairs with the screaming, spark-throwing witch. I believed that in the face of real danger, she would recall the basics of true Word Magic, drilled into her mind for years , such as the rules for II-matrix spells, written down by the schoolrooms of Ursula LeGumin and Howard the Duck. The door to the upstairs room slammed shut. "Five to one he'll find her," Bulbulbo suddenly said, always on the lookout for money. The room came alive and for a moment transformed into a stock exchange. "Ten to one he'll just find her! " "Fifteen to one he'll do more!" And so on. After a while, I became seriously concerned, but my fears were quickly dispelled. The partially undressed witcher tumbled down the same stairs to the very bottom, and at the entrance to the upper floor stood a slightly battered Albumina, with, as they say, a heaving breast and flowing hair. She looked so beautiful that I was speechless. "Ha!" The power of true Word Magic was evident in her voice. She raised her arms and cried out resonantly, "Get the hell out of here, you miserable little prick, you son of a bitch!" The last dwarf slumped under the bench, despite the witcher's inhuman scream. Bulbulbo later had to scrape the remains of the organ Albumina mentioned from the walls. There's nothing like magic.

3. No one really knows the origins of the Tournament and

why it was even created. There are many different hypotheses, but

the one I favor is the most common. It

stemmed from a number of

geopolitical, climatic, socioeconomic, and cultural factors. In other words, the place

where our city later grew was just begging to

be punched in the face. Surrounding it were forests and marshes,

through which ran two narrow roads, which intersected right

here, near the Pawka River. This natural stopping place for

merchant caravans, and consequently, bandit packs, undoubtedly

fostered the exchange of goods and serious arguments. Furthermore,

the dragon's presence nearby tempted all sorts of daredevils and

skirmishers to embark on disastrous yet spectacular expeditions. Over

time, a trading settlement aptly named Blubo arose here.

Finally, someone came up with the idea of ​​not only dealing with

the problem of banditry, but also making money.

The area where the most common fights took place was fenced off, a short set of rules was quickly drawn up

, and from then on, anyone who wanted to smash heads

could do so legally, after agreeing on a date with the authorities.

After a few years, the settlement transformed into a town, and

the makeshift ring into a large arena.

Only true athletes were allowed to attend the Tournament. Blubo became famous, with

crowds of ardent fans flocking annually to witness

the competition of the most distinguished fighters, who came from all over

the world. The Tournament's revenue often exceeded the revenue from

the town's other sources of income. Three years ago

, the ruler of Blubo, Duke Ellington, son of Yueh Vickers

Wellington, appointed me as the Tournament's Arbitrator

. Since then, I've made a few minor adjustments

to the Rules, but overall, they differ little from the original.

Matches are held in a knockout format. The rules are simple:

male only, one-on-one, conventional weapons, and

magic up to the Fantasy Level II Spell Matrix. The Grand Prize was

previously half a castle and the prince's daughter, but at my suggestion,

some changes were made – the winner, yes, learns that

they get half a castle and the princess, but only for one night. I concluded

that the victor, exhausted beyond measure and

happy with their survival, would not seek revenge or pursue

His rights; having seen the princess, he won't even touch her, and

he won't have time to organize a profitable plunder of the castle in one night.

Besides, after the stay of his predecessors, there won't be anything to plunder, and the savings will be enormous. After all, the weight of victory in the Tournament should be

sufficient laurel ! The third one, which I'm judging, and in general the Twenty- fifth Blubock Tournament, had been going on for over a week. The entire city was buzzing with activity , the inns, taverns, and brothels were working at full speed, accommodating masses of guests, and Duke Ellington and the City Council were rubbing their hands with glee at how many ducats were flowing into the treasury. As Chief Judge, I was obligated to attend all the duels, from the quarterfinals upwards; the previous ones had been successfully conducted by my deputies and subordinates. Two years ago, right after my appointment, I considered it a point of honor to attend as many bouts as possible; Human (and not only human) ingenuity in slaughtering one another knows no bounds, so it seemed highly interesting to me. However, this year I had other things on my mind, so I skipped the initial sparring. The weather was wonderful. A uniform cloud cover prevented the hot sun from touching the ground, a light, refreshing breeze blew, and there was no sign of rain. From early morning, a veritable flood of people streamed toward the stage to watch the first semifinal match. My sedan chair struggled to make its way through the crowds of thrill-seeking fans. I thought that at the next City Council meeting, a motion would have to be brought forward to widen the streets and create dedicated lanes for pedestrians and horse-drawn vehicles (I wonder which category my sedan chair would fall into). Finally, I leaned out the window and shouted at the porters to stop, then cast the spell of Aviation on the entire cabin and lifted into the air. I didn't get my Junior Archmage diploma for beautiful eyes, after all. I landed near the back of the Central Amphitheater and clapped my hands. My students—Hocus and Pocus—arrived immediately. "We're here, Master!" they sang. "Very well," I replied, and stepped out of the sedan chair. "How much time do we have left? " "Two moments and three-quarters of an instant, according to the hourglass here." Hocus frowned. "You're making progress," I smiled, turning to Pocus.

"Temptation, do you have what I asked for?

" "Sure, Master!" he confirmed eagerly, and pulled

a roll of parchment from its sleeve. "Here's the list. "

I unrolled the scroll and began to peruse the list,

much more extensive than I had expected. It was a list of

stallholders and inns who refused to accept and distribute

the scoundrel and her preserves.

"'The Oakenshield'... the whole network... well, look...

'Excalibur'... I've had my eye on that one for a long time... I know that one... that

one too... 'Jabba the Hutt'? And that's a pig, I didn't know... '

Dragon's Den'... oh yes... 'MacDonald's'? Where is it?"

"On the corner of Town Hall and Thorgalla Streets, right by Roke Square.

They serve some disgusting pies with meat and salad, plus

a nut broth that foams terribly," Pokus replied.

"We'll investigate that, but not now," I replied, rolling up the roll.

"Master, one of the vendors listed in the index has

a stand at the entrance to the arena. I saw it myself. We could...

teach mores," Hokus suggested. "

You say at the entrance... how much longer do we have left? " "Temptation, jump and find out how things are going," I pointed to the ticket booths. "And you, Hokus, go to this..." I glanced at the list, "..."Srajmarilion" and use the Offer They Can't Refuse spell." I watched my newcomers and sank into laziness. Unfortunately, less than a minute, a quarter of a second, passed before I felt someone trying to contact me mentally. "I'm calling Abrakadabrora, this is Czarymary, over." Czarymary and I had known each other almost since childhood. He was a Junior Archmage , like me, and was currently handling the organizational and technical aspects of the Tournament. "This is Abrakadabror, I'm glad I'm thinking of you, over." "I'm glad too. I have a small request. I heard the crowds were terrible, and I've been making some security arrangements on the sly. Could you please inspect all the barriers and fences and reinforce the spells where necessary, over?" "No problem, I'll do it, over." "Thanks a hundred times, think of me if you need anything, over." "Thank you, I'm signing off, no answer." "Now speak," I ordered Pokus, who had arrived in the meantime. - Master - he panted - The tickets are all sold out, at the horses'

"Well, well," I smacked my lips and suddenly turned into a teacher. "What

should we remember when changing or neutralizing someone's spell?

" I pointed a finger at Pokus.

"Uh... let's remember," Pokus stammered, frightened. "That...

that spells of the first and second levels are best annihilated with

an equivalent counterspell. With higher-level spells,

this method doesn't yield results because a - the astral energy needed

to cancel the spell exceeds the energy input, and this dependency

increases exponentially with the spell level, b - the design

of spells above the third-level matrix takes into account the possibility

of revocation with a pre-defined negative password...

" "No, that's not the point," I interrupted his chatter.

Pokus became stunned.

"More generally," I suggested.

"Xe... reversing other people's spells is generally inadvisable and

can disturb... well... this... Balance...

" "What are you talking about?

" "I have it!" he exploded. "There's nothing like magic!

" "Finally!" I brightened, but then my face grew

even more severe. "You were mentally eavesdropping again!

So you know what Czarymary asked me for. Go to the square and get to work!

There's nothing like having apprentices.

" 4. "...A woman comes to a healer and prickles her ears. The healer

asks, "What's wrong with you?" "And she says, "Striga! Over."

"Good, but I heard this. And this: a magician comes to a healer with

a steering wheel up his ass. What are you? Magister! Over.

" "I don't understand. What's a steering wheel, over?"

"Never mind. Listen to this: Abrakadabror comes to

the healer...

Mental eavesdropping from a distance is atrocious, but this

time my little darlings went too far. I gave them a good

psionic slap and broadcast:

"Shut up, sorcerers! Hocus, did you slip the

"Srajmarilion" trick like I told you, over?"

"Yes, Master, over."

"I'll hear one more joke and I'll cast a spell on you.

You'll have thin voices for a week, not to mention

the rest. No reception."

I dismissed the dwarf who was wandering between the rows

selling popcorn and looked at the box of honor, where

the royal family and city councilors were just settling in.

"Zoom!" I muttered.

This simple spell allowed me to gaze intently at

gracious rulers. I paid particular attention to

Princess Hermenegilda, whose ugliness was slowly

inspiring monstrous spells. Rumors circulated that

she was the only virgin in the city and should be

fed to the dragon Saturn. This was, of course, an exaggeration; besides,

I would never allow such abuse of this poor

creature (I mean a dragon, of course). However, I concluded

that a

more permanent spell would have to be applied to Hermenegilda, as a scandal might erupt. After all, she is

one of the main prizes of the Tournament.

Meanwhile, preparations for the first semifinal match

were drawing to a close. The orchestra had already left the field, and

the technicians were bustling about, making final adjustments

to the drawn lines. The sound systems had also been set up. It was one of

Czarymary's brilliant inventions – over fifty

boys with spell-enhanced telepathic abilities

simultaneously shouted into the horns a text mentally transmitted to them

by the commentator.

"Your Majesties, Lords of the Council, Honored Guests!"

Fifty voices thundered. "Today marks the seventeenth day of the Twenty-fifth Blubocki Tournament! The first semifinal duel

awaits us, featuring fourth-seeded Onan of Mizeria!!! Also known as Condon Barbarossa or Schwarccharrakterr due to his violent temper and truly barbaric imagination! Bravo to Onan!!! "O-nan-onan-ba-onanbarba-rossa!!!!" the audience chanted. "The eleventh seed will be the magnificent Rumbo Bossanoga!!! He owes his nickname to his contempt for all armor and sophisticated weapons! Bravo to Rumbo!!!" "Oleeeeoleoleoleeee!!! Rumbo, don't give up!!!" sang Bossanoga's fans. Both wrestlers entered the arena, covered in silver, champion cloaks advertising the "Czar Blubo" drink, which, incidentally, was the most heavily laced with the hype. The commentator, surrounded by a double ring of City Guards and protective spells, approached the fighters. "Attention, I appeal for silence! According to the regulations, both fighters are called upon to exchange ritual greetings! " Onan took a deep breath and spoke: "Fuck you! " "Fuck you!" Rumbo replied thunderously.

With this, the final formalities were completed and the commentator

quickly withdrew from the arena, where only the competitors remained.

The chronicler later wrote beautifully about the fight they fought:

[...] both sons of Ares and Mars, bravely wielding the contents of the sheath,

approached each other easily [...] and often resorted to flowery greetings in

a foreign language [...] and they fought three

Hail Marys and half a Father, and without pissing the ground with

blood, they did not make the crowd happy [...] and

having deprived themselves of armed power, the sharp-edged mighty ones gathered in a tangle of

clinging members, and like those Amazons from Lesbia when

caught in an embrace, they too embraced each other without a tight grip, but an iron

grip [...] and they grabbed each other very indecently and

impolitically [...] and they imagined themselves and threw each other to the ground and

hit each other on the heads, until the hollow and empty thuds resounded on all

sides, as if you were striking an empty barrel [...] and

there seemed to be no more forces Having magic, they were using [...]

It wasn't magic. Onan simply pulled from his belt what

so proudly suggested his power in completely different wrestling situations,

which turned out to be a .44 Magnum revolver. The next moment, Rumbo

was already holding a Kalashnikov. It didn't end there –

I witnessed probably the shortest arms race ever;

a minute later, both opponents were firing at each other from pipes that would make an UZI

look like a suction-cup gun.

"I summon Abrakadabror, this is Czarymary, over."

"This is Abrakadabror, over."

"What to do, by the dark side?! They're about to blow up the entire

stadium, over!

" "Remove it while there's still time, over.

" "Remove it? And what next, over?"

"I'll take care of it, don't panic. We better

concentrate hard. The Teleportation Spell is no small feat, over."

"I understand, we'll teleport them, over."

The spell that teleported almost the entire arena (because

tanks and helicopters had already arrived) took some time, even

for us, the Junior Archmages. Fortunately, just before the launch of two

ballistic missiles, a dull smack sounded, and the only

remnants of the combatants were the explosion craters.

The audience fell silent for a moment, then expressed their utter

disapproval, whistling, howling, and stamping their feet.

"There you go, now what, over?" thought Czarymary.

Prepare some performances, or something; the square needs to be cleaned up.

I'll make a statement. Think it over to the commentator, over."

"You're on the line, no reception."

- Attention, attention, arbitrary announcement from the referee! Due to

the violation of the Tournament regulations by using

unconventional weapons and creating a direct threat to the lives

of spectators, competitors number four and eleven, namely: Onan z

Mizerii and Rumbo Bossanoga, have been disqualified and

teleported out of town!

A shower of stones and bottles fell onto the ring. I thought it over to

Czarymary.

"Czarymary, we need to placate them, what can I promise them,

over?"

"Everything. In the worst-case scenario, the costs will be borne by the city budget anyway

, collection.

" "Your words, no collection."

- Attention, attention!!! Due to the current situation, the next

duel will be, attention, the Final of the Twenty-Fifth

Blubo Tournament!!! Everyone gathered here, you have the opportunity to see this wonderful spectacle today

!!! Those who purchased tickets

for tomorrow's expected final will have their money refunded, and

tomorrow there will be a festival combined with a thirty

percent discount on drinks above thirty percent!!! The

Blubo charm, this is it!!!

"Abrakadabror, this is already surreptitious advertising. I'm getting on the line,

over."

"Come in, I'm disconnecting, no reception."

- And now - the same multiplied voice amplified

Czarymary's thoughts - Let's while away a moment of impatient waiting

admiring the always wonderful youth of Blubo!!!

A swarm of charming girls ran into the arena, waving

colorful fur balls. They were the beloved

Blubo bunnies, frolicking to the rhythm of Modern Tolkien music.

"This is Abrakadabror, this is Abrakadabror, I call Pokusa, over."

"...stay a moment, you are beautiful, more, further, deeper..."

"Pokusa, think again, over."

"...this convulsive flutter of red is blood from my

pupils, black pain, you laugh, the distorted mask of a meditating

Buddha, can you cover the curtain of malachite occlusions, oh, if you were

an arthropod, I will curse you into eternity of springing bliss."

interstellar prairies of the extinguished suns of Aquilonia I drink nectar

from the orchid of your lips is this the existential insubstantiality

of being hold me I'wanna feel your body Jesus I'm going crazy..."

I regretted,that I did not fulfill my recent threat

And I didn't deprive my little ones of their manhood, even for a few days.

And in the arena, framed by a circle of gracefully

bouncing bunnies, the Blubocki Ballet danced excerpts from

"Rusalcze Lake"—a particularly thrilling scene of

the rusalki's morning toilet, performed with exceptional realism.

I decided to take a nap, concocted a suitable

spell, and closed my eyes.

The spell worked properly, and I woke up exactly as

the announcer was announcing the finalists' entrance.

"Number eighty-three—Rabbi Redhood!!!

A militant magician, astonishing in his cunning and cleverness!!! Bravo to

Redhood!!!

"Down with Jewish communism!" someone said.

"Red Hoods to Grandma!

" "Bravo!

" "His opponent," the announcer continued, "will be

seeded number thirty—Cyberpunk!!! A warlike creature

from the distant land of Digitalia!!! Bravo to Cyberpunk!!!"

The meager applause and blunt shouts confirmed the widespread

dislike for both competitors. For my part, the sight of a

fellow wizard, a red hood over his head, engaging in

a vile fight with some completely uncivilized IBM PC

was utterly disgusting. This wasn't how I imagined the finals of

the Twenty-Fifth Blubocki Tournament.

"Competitors are requested to exchange ritual greetings!"

After some thought, Redhood boomed,

"Tin Man! May your knife crack and shatter!"

Cyberpunk responded immediately at a speed of

sixty-four kilobytes per second. I didn't

even have time to prepare the spell to understand, but it must have

been quite a whirlwind.

The opponents faced each other, striking such

strange poses that the curious audience fell silent, so silent

you could hear the cooling fan of the high-speed hard drive inside

Cyberpunk's body.

Redhood traced the Sign of the Left Hand of Darkness, placing his right

hand, fist clenched, on the crook of his left. The cyberpunk didn't

move, glaring intently at the scanner. The rabbi reinforced the Sign

by tracing two Fig Signs with his hands alone, then changed

the configuration of his hands, joining them into the Sign of the Grate. In

response, the cyberpunk tapped his mouse on the monitor, drawing hilarity

from the audience, and immediately fired a series of three-and-a-half-

inch disks. The rabbi dodged just in time, but one of the projectiles plowed through the area.

a large furrow in his hood. The theater exhaled loudly.

I wasn't sure if throwing disks like that, even

flexible ones, wasn't a violation of the rules, but

interrupting this fight would be madness. However, I preferred

to see if Cyberpunk didn't have something worse up its sleeve.

I concocted a Turbo Debugger spell and took a look at

Cyberpunk's software.

BEGIN {of main program Attack}

UNTIL opponent:= dead DO

BEGIN

In the face;

Kick in the balls;

IF me:= foul THEN Withdrawal to pre-selected

positions;

END;

END; {of until}

END. {of main program Attack}

There was nothing suspicious about it. In fact, the duel

seemed completely harmless. Redhood, yes, cast spells

left and right, appeared and disappeared, multiplied, but it was

one thing to fool sword-wielding brutes susceptible to

cheap magic, and quite another to attempt this trick with

a device with an absolutely materialistic outlook. Cyberpunk

refused to be surprised, only occasionally displaying

provocatively lewd images on the screen to the delight of the crowd.

He also frequently went on the offensive, ripping with a red-hot

twenty-four-pin printer head and snapping its manipulators.

Knowing Cyberpunk's software, I belatedly noticed that

the "Kick in the Balls" procedure had never been executed.

Reflecting on this, I concluded

there were only three reasons for this: damage or

corruption of the internal system, defeating the opponent, or

the opponent lacking balls. Cyberpunk's activity on the battlefield contradicted

the first assumption, the senselessness of the second was obvious (for

now), and there remained the third possibility.

I cast a spell of Throughsight, then Zoom, and took a

closer look at the Rabbi.

"Albumina!!

Yes, it was her, the same ambitious witch from

the Bulbulba Inn. Thanks to spells of a quality inversely proportional to

her beauty, she had reached the final! There was nothing like magic. Even bad

magic. But this completely changed the complexion of things.

"This is Abrakadabror, summoning Czarymary, over."

"This is Czarymary, think, over."

"Rabbi Redhood number eighty-three is a disguised

woman. What to do, over?

" "You're the referee, over.

" "So disqualify, over?

" "I repeat, you're the referee. I can only imagine that

the blacks are very irritated. Madey was their favorite, and

he was beheaded before the Tournament, you stopped the Onan-Rumbo fight.

If you repeat this, there will be riots in the city, over."

"Okay, for now, only the two of us and her know about it.

So let's try to keep it that way. No reception."

That summed up the career of the Arbitrary

Tournament Judge nicely! This meant that in both cases – if Rabin

won and if he lost – the secret would have to be kept. If

he lost… I looked once more, armed with spells, at

the witch, who was currently wrestling with the sword sucked into

Cyberpunk's disc reader – no, he couldn't lose.

I focused and started preparing spells in case

Albumina got into trouble, but deep down I

hoped she would manage. I still remembered the scene from "At

the Hobbit's, or There and with a Twist."

Something lit up and suddenly crashed. Frightened,

I looked around the stage and the audience, but it turned out that

the source of the explosion was far beyond the city, where the billowing

smoke was forming a giant mushroom cloud. It was the teleported Onan and

Rumbo who had probably reached the end of the struggle.

However, in the arena, nothing indicated an imminent end

to the match, and only after a good hour Cyberpunk skillfully

managed to set up a stand, knock

Rabin/Albumina over, and pin him/her to the ground.

In an instant, I tensed, with a few

strengthening spells on the tip of my tongue. But something strange began to happen to Cyberpunk

—his aggression completely disappeared, he went limp,

his screen fogged over, and the interface slowly opened. Well

, with such a body beneath him, he couldn't stand it anymore. He pulled out the INPUT

jack and searched for a long time under his opponent's armor for what he undoubtedly

thought was the OUTPUT socket. Anyone in his place would have done the

same. Touched by a professional premonition, I resorted again to

the Turbo Debugger.

Unknown HIV virus detected

Program infected

----------

Bad command or file name

Dave, don't do it!

FATAL ERROR C:/????????????????????????????

Hello, my name is HALL 9000, Dr. Chandra has taught me a song

"Daisy, Daisy, tell me you loveeeoooouuuuu

Insert system disc then press any key

I had no doubt - Cyberpunk was dying. Albumin

turned out to be a carrier of AIDS. Deprived of an immune system,

Cyberpunk's system was attacked by previously

harmless computer viruses that he had

contracted earlier. It was a sad end for a warrior. But I no longer

wondered whether bacteriological and informatic weaponry

should be considered acceptable or not. Albumin, that is - Rabbi

Redhood - was the winner of the Twenty-Fifth

Blubocki Tournament. With a raised hand, she performed the obligatory lap around

the battlefield, accompanied by fanfare and the commentator's delight,

which disappeared in the shrill scream of the entire amphitheater.

There's nothing like magic.

6. At that very moment, Pokus was sweating at a party thrown

by Duke Ellington, dressed as a victor

The Twenty-Fifth Blubocki Tournament and endured the lascivious

glances of Princess Hermenegilda. A heady

night awaited him, but first I had equipped him with sturdy amulets and

protective spells, because I actually felt sorry for the boy. Hokus, on the

other hand, was running around the taverns, repeating his routine from

"Srajmarilion." And me? A heady night awaited me too.

"They won't reach this far, surely?" Albumina asked timidly,

looking out my tower window at the street riots

of Onan and Rumbo's supporters.

And that was the Tournament champion speaking!

"Homemade protective spells. I think it's the second semester.

You didn't go to lectures...

" "Oh, Kadabruś..." she approached me and took me under

the chin. "Don't pretend to be a professor. You're not some old,

decrepit magic teacher, are you, little bear? You don't look

like one...

" Of course I don't, what are they for? witchcraft? If only this

little fluttering girl knew how old I was!

"You're charming," I murmured, and gently embraced her. "

Are all witches this charming?

" Albumina gracefully freed herself from my grasp.

"Shall we have a drink?" she asked, looking around my

room, as empty as Onan's head. I snapped my fingers, and a round table, covered with a white tablecloth,

appeared in the center of the room . "Now it's your turn," I said. Conjuring two, not very impressive, in truth

It took her a few minutes to find the cups. I sighed. In

witch schools, there are two groups of students – those who pass

exams using their heads, and those who pass using

all their other body parts. I was convinced

Albunina belonged to the latter, but I was curious if

she received straight A's.

"What do you like best?" I asked.

"Jagodzinska."

A bottle full of burgundy liquid appeared on the table in a flash.

"Now look," I said, and snapped my fingers again.

The drink foamed, and the cork popped out with a bang.

"Ouch!" Albumina jumped.

I laughed and went over to pour

the wine into the glasses myself.

"Cheers to the Tournament Champion!" I raised a toast. "Cheers

to the Arbitrary Tournament Arbiter!" she reciprocated.

We drank it all down.

"You know, Kadabruś..." she said after draining the cup. "

Your wine tastes different somehow... I'm not saying it's worse, quite

the opposite..." She thought for a moment, then poured herself

a second glass.

I didn't have to wait long to notice her face

flush and her eyes sparkle. There's nothing like

a good old fashioned woman.

"Kadabruś..." she cooed.

"Well?

" "And conjure something else for me...

" "What?

" "Something... to keep us soft..." she whispered and lunged

at me.

I didn't expect her to get to the point so quickly.

I think I broke the record for casting the spell, so

we ended up not on the floor but on a fluffy bed.

"Because I'm such... such a cat... meow..."

she purred and bit my ear.

Everything pointed to me overdoing the good old fashioned woman.

"Come on, tiger..." she panted.

I began by restoring

the position I deserved based on my age and office. Then, mindful of Cyberpunk's fate, I began composing

an anti-AIDS spell.

"Ah, enchant me, my sorcerer..." she moaned.

"No magic needed for that," I assured.

"Master, aaah... and where is your sorcerous staff?

" "Find it yourself."

Her hands began a frantic search, and I didn't

remain idle either. A moment later, blissful satisfaction was reflected on the witch's face

, while mine showed the complete

opposite. I jumped up.

"What's that?!

"Eh?" Albumina blinked her eyes half-consciously.

"That!" I pointed to the cause of my outburst.

"Ah..." she lowered her head. "They put this on us after we finish

school... it opens with a spell, but I don't know...

A chastity belt with a spell! That's the kind of education

young magicians are raised in!

" "Why the hell do they do this to you?

" "To encourage progress in spellcasting. Kadabrus, you

can handle it, right?

I've never taken to magic with such zeal.

I immediately cast a Third Degree Fantasy Matrix spell, which

unties everything, including shoelaces, tongues, and

unwanted pregnancies. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Those jealous old

witches must have put a lot of effort into making that belt. " I've always believed that only the worst, most degenerate sorcerers and witches with no future

get into teaching , and then they cure their insecurities by venting their frustrations on their charges in precisely this way. Disgusting! I constructed a Level Four spell based on the Rectangular Matrix of Higher Order Spells I'd recently devised, and the lock wouldn't budge. "Damn it!" I shouted, forgetting, to make matters worse, that a working magician shouldn't waste words. When the smoke cleared, I saw that, thankfully, nothing had happened , though Albumina was trembling. "Is this serious?" she gasped. "No way!" I grinned. "I'm just... getting ready; it'll all be over soon!" I lied brazenly, and quietly cast a slowing spell on her. Now, when each real hour seemed like a second to her, I could calmly begin my work without fear of jeopardizing my prestige. Things weren't looking good. The lock opened with an acoustic password. All my tricks were useless. I would have preferred Cyberpunk and its computing power, but after losing the fight, it was scrapped. "Damn spell!" I cursed. "Fucking hell!" I snorted, and for a moment I looked hopefully at the belt. It probably wasn't that kind of password. I examined the device closely. It was made of hardened steel, and any attempt to cut it, even with magic,

I, a Certified Junior Archmage, couldn't handle

a piece of scrap metal! A scandal!

"There has to be a way," I tried to remain calm. "There are no

miracles, you have to create them. Just take it easy. You want it right away,

but here you have to figure it out. You have two options – either thorough

analysis or analysis. There's no spell that ca

n't be uncursed. You just have to find the password. The keyword.

The entry code. Enter the password and enjoy yourself. Just

take it easy...

I began constructing an intricate network of

concurrent spells, loops and conditional trees, feedback loops, and

other little wonders.

And shit.

" "Wait a minute, what about other people's spells?

I questioned Pokusa. Wait a minute. I think I have...

I HAVE IT!!!!

It was so obvious!

The password was...

Ha! Guess it yourselves!"