Life is full of surprises

A dark room, a low ceiling, one wall at a steep angle, on which hung countless cobwebs. A desk stood next to a small window, on which lay numerous books, scrolls, cards, and stamps. Against the opposite wall was a small laboratory, with many colorful substances and elixirs. Clothes were scattered throughout the room, the greatest concentration of which was, surprisingly, near an empty wardrobe. Right next to the wardrobe was a bunk on which a young man slept. He was not an imposing figure, his skin stretched taut over his skeleton, his ribs protruding, his blond hair a shock of greasy hair. His face was pressed into the bed, his long arms sprawled haphazardly, his back covered with moles. His posture suggested extreme exhaustion.

The hangover had awakened him with a powerful thirst, gripping the back of his head with its forceps, and stirring the ladle in his stomach. Jeremi, for that was his name, stood up, jumped to the window, and vomited out a stream of the slush that had been yesterday's edible dinner.

"Damn you!

" "You boor!" He heard the shouts of the outraged people, covered in his vomit.

He turned, spotted a basin of water, and immediately emptied it. The suds stung his throat slightly.

He sat down at his desk, his hands cupping his temples. "What was I doing yesterday?" Lines etched his forehead, signaling intense concentration. He remembered the conflict at the Carpenter's; he'd bet Bosy the nonexistence of magic. The argument had the usual air of a group of intoxicated youths arguing. They'd broken one important rule: controversial topics weren't discussed in the tavern. It always led to unnecessary arguments. They settled on a bet of ten jons, a considerable sum. Jeremi had already had a plan yesterday to win the bet. From the shelf, he pulled out a book called "Magic for Beginners - Transportation Spells." He grabbed a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, opened the first chapter of "The Basics," changed K to R in the first formula, o to o... He calmly cosmeticized the crucial entries. It took him until noon.

"Well, done." He leaned back from the counter. He stood up and remembered he hadn't eaten yet. The excitement of the impending triumph prevented him from attending to such mundane matters as food. He closed the window, kicked the clothes blocking his path toward the closet, slammed the door, and headed up the rickety steps to the street. He looked around, the daylight blinding him. He headed toward the informal entertainment center, a short street lined with establishments of all kinds, from casinos to brothels. He passed the unusual architecture of Kobaltan, a developing town, a mix of tenement houses and ordinary cottages. For the locals, goats, chickens, ducks, and geese roamed the roads, a common sight. Cobblestones were only a few. Numerous planks allowed for dry-footed passage through the cesspool, creating a smooth carpet on the road. There was no town or borough; the mayor lived on the outskirts of town. The whole thing was a cacophony of urban and rural styles.

Jeremi reached the dive called "U Stolarza." He asked the innkeeper,

"Bosego wasn't there?

" "No."

"One beer per line, please."

"You can get a small one per line, and that'll be the last you owe me. Hmmm." He glanced at the counter and counted the bumps on the board. "30 bumps."

"I'll give it back." He grabbed a small mug. Another bump, of normal length, appeared on the board. Honesty wasn't a virtue of the inhabitants of Cobaltan. The bartender was cleaning mugs with a dirty cloth, whistling under his breath. He stopped abruptly.

"And as for your establishment yesterday, I don't want you to be a pigsty. This is a decent inn."

"An inn like many others, and my presence graces it." And if anyone starts making noise, I'll be the first to calm them down." He felt his belt to make sure he had the purse with him. "The debt, I'll pay it back, today." He smiled at the thought of such easy money. He recalled hours of trying to work magic. Despite his unearthly efforts, he hadn't managed to move the wooden block. He languished for days, studying various accents, hand positions, improvising. Once, in anger, when he was about to give up, he carelessly threw out a formula, waved his hands, and… the block, a moment later, fell. He was surprised, set it down, and tried again, and again, and again, and again. Thus, he became a staunch skeptic, an opponent of magic. Nothing happened.

He returned to work in the stinking crematorium.

There were no cemeteries in the area anymore; the authorities had closed them down as breeding grounds for aberrations. The dead were cremated or mummified. Depending on the property qualification.

His train of thought was interrupted by Barefoot's barge into the inn:

"Hi. Ready? Show me, purse.

" "I showed you when I was little. I was first, so you show me." They examined the purses and, as agreed, deposited them with the innkeeper.

"Where are the witnesses?" Jeremi asked.

"Outside." They left, joining a group of four people. They walked through narrow streets, through the newest district. Futuristic buildings, two- and three-story tenement houses towering over the street like steep cliffs over a ravine. The facades were painted in various colors, the brighter the colors, the wealthier the household. They entered one of the gates, and a small courtyard opened up before them, surrounded by gray walls and a few windows. In the center was a pile of garbage, next to a latrine and a shed—everything was covered in a gray-green coating.

"We're here," announced one of the twin brothers, named Arvin, the other called Orvin. Barefoot already held a book in his hand, which, to Jeremy's horror, looked very familiar. The gilded letters struck him in the very core of his consciousness, materializing in the hated form of "Magic for Beginners - Transportation Spells." He swallowed.

"Where did you get this book?" he asked

. "My sweet secret. Do you think I'd trust your secondhand textbooks?"

"Why would I need to go through the textbook if I don't believe in this nonsense?" He asked himself the same question. Man is one big enigma.

"After all, I prefer to use my sources. Never mind, I'm starting. I'm going to knock over that stick leaning against the wall." He pointed to a charred stick that used to be a broom handle

. "Wait." Orvin, Jeremy's henchman, walked over, picked it up, and tossed it in front of him. One of Bose's factotums, a grimace of pain on his face, reached out towards where the stick had fallen; red covered his index finger. The thread snapped silently.

"New string magic! That's something you bloody dogs have." Orvin couldn't hide his anger. "I consider the bet a winner."

"Wait, whoever gave you this power, you haven't gotten anywhere yet, you bastard." Arvin tried to settle the matter diplomatically.

"Shut your mouth, you horse." The brothers were at each other's throats. As is often the case in family, a physical clash broke out. A scuffle erupted in the square. They decided to resolve the dispute in an alternative way. Jeremy was cornered by three adversaries in this discussion. Two held him, twisting his arms, while Bosy, striking, appealed to reason. This was how scientific disputes always ended. The argument of force over the force of argument. A thinker, too, must maintain physical strength. Caught, he remembered a single spell. A blow. "How did that go?" A blow. Hmm. A blow. He tried finger movements. A blow. Anger welled up inside him. A blow. He began muttering a spell. A blow to the jaw. Again. A blow. Nothing. Again. A blow. Nothing. A blow. A blow. A blow. A grating sound, he felt warmth, and a strange sensation in his arms. The tall guys flew in opposite directions, one blending into the latrine; the floorboards gave way. Barefoot, speechless, froze for a moment. A moment was all it took. A surge of power invigorated Jeremi, and he unleashed a barroom sequence: a pointed kick to the groin, a knee to the face, a pair of boots for general cosmetics. He stopped. "Damn, I used magic." He kicked again, snatched the book from Barefoot, and tossed his own. He looked up, the twins, bloodied, were beating each other with poles. He would have helped, but he didn't know which was which. "He'll manage." He kicked again and hobbled out of the yard. No one realized they were being watched. Through one of the few windows, a hooded figure watched the entire incident.

He burst into the inn as if on fire, slamming the heavy oak door, making everyone jump. He went to the tavern, spoke briefly with the owner, took his purse, and left, dragging his right leg. He was almost constantly holding his stomach, and blood was trickling down his face and drying on his neck.

Thoughts were racing in his head, a rare phenomenon. He was already thinking it was over. "Bosy was supposed to prove the existence of magic, he failed, he lost. A cosmic paradox, he failed, but I did. The guards had probably caught everyone by now; that noise was bound to attract someone's attention." He had enormous difficulty getting to his room, having to come up with an alibi. He opened the door and threw himself backward onto the bunk. His torso and head ached unmercifully, his face was a paste

. "I'll have to recover for a long time." "I only came here for a few days, and lo and behold, among the armless trunks I found a master harp player. This little country never ceases to amaze me." A man stood behind the door, leaning against the wardrobe. He had large blue eyes, a black headband holding back his shoulder-length rusty hair. He had pale skin, a small scar under his right eye, and he wore a black cloak buttoned at the neck. The whole thing created a haunting effect.

"Who are you? And what the hell..." The last words hung in the air, Jeremi's lips moving for a moment. He felt the air being sucked from his mouth, and he stopped moving them.

"That's better. Excuse me, where are my manners? My name is Wensley Rock. And you're Jeremi. I'm glad I witnessed your performance. Whoever taught you to wield the Cree like that is impressive. Just the kind of apprentice in the craft, excuse me, art, it needs. What do you think?"

Two guards with wooden batons ran into the room. They looked around.

"Jeremi?

" "Yes.

" "You'll come with us." Wensley gave them a look full of contempt. Then he said,

"Jeremi isn't here, and he never was. Go find Żwirek." They looked at each other, then at the name on the card.

"Indeed, Żwirek." We apologize for the intrusion." They ran down the unlit corridor. There had been stairs before, but one step gave way, snapping under the obese guard's foot. A terrible commotion ensued, the fat man fell and lost consciousness, only for a moment. The landlady emerged, cursing everything the world stands for in her shrill voice. She revived him by whipping him with a cloth.

"I guess they'll never find him, what an idiotic name. And back to you." He waved his wrist carelessly, the suction effect vanishing. "What do you think of my offer?

" "Ugh." Incredible. He'd been doubting himself in the morning, used magic at noon, and in the evening received an offer of an apprenticeship with a real magician. Life is full of surprises.