The Stranger

Chapter 1 Debut in Echo

YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU’LL LUCK OUT. TAKE IT FROM ONE WHO knows. For the first twenty-nine years of my life, I was a classic loser. People tend to seek (and find) all manner of excuses for their bad luck; I didn’t even have to look.

From earliest childhood I couldn’t sleep at night. As soon as morning rolled around, though, I slept like a lamb. And as everyone knows, this is exactly the time when they hand out the lucky tickets. Each morning at dawn, fiery letters spanned the horizon spelling out the most unfair of all possible proverbs, “The early bird catches the worm.” Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed!

The horror of my childhood was waiting, night after night, for the moment when my mother would tell me, “Sleep tight—don’t let the bedbugs bite.” Time seemed to drop its anchor under my blanket; endless hours were eaten away by my vain attempts to fall asleep. To be sure, there are also happy memories, of the sense of freedom that descends upon you when everyone else is asleep (provided, of course, that you learn to move around quietly and cover the traces of your secret activities).

But most tormenting of all was to be woken up in the morning right after I had finally dozed off. This was what made me despise kindergarten, and eventually all my years at school. True, I did get assigned to the afternoon shift two years in a row. For those two years, I was nearly an A student. That was my final (and only) brush with glory as a star pupil—until I met Sir. Juffin Hully, of course.

With time, not surprisingly, the habit that prevented me from merging harmoniously with polite society became more firmly entrenched. At the very moment when I was absolutely convinced that an inveterate night owl like me would never shine in a world ruled by larks, I met him. Sir Juffin Hully.

With a wave of his hand he put me at the maximum possible distance from home, and I found a job that corresponded absolutely to my abilities and ambitions: I became the Nocturnal Representative of the Most Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force of the city of Echo.

The story of how I came to occupy this position is so curious that it deserves a space of its own. For the time being, I will limit myself to a brief account of those distant events.

I should begin by saying, I suppose, that dreaming has always constituted an important part of my existence. Waking up from a nightmare, I was always certain deep down that my life was truly in grave danger. Falling in love with a girl from a dream could easily make me break up with my real-life girlfriend (in my youth, my heart couldn’t accommodate more than one passion at a time). If I read a book in a dream, I would quote from that book to my friends as if I had read it in real life. And once, after I had a dream about a trip to Paris, I felt no compunction about claiming that I had actually been there. It wasn’t that I was liar; I simply didn’t see, nor did I understand, nor even feel, the difference.

I should add that I met Sir Juffin Hully in my dreams. Little by little, you could say, we became acquainted.

Sir Juffin could easily be taken for Rutger Hauer’s older brother. (If your imagination stretches that far, try to augment his striking image with a pair of light, slightly slanting eyes.) This effervescent gentleman, with the mannerisms and flair of an emperor of the Orient or a ringmaster in a circus, immediately won the heart of the boy I once was, the boy I remember still.

In one of my dreams we began nodding hello to each another. Soon we would chat about the weather, like regulars in a café. Such superficial banter continued for several years, when out of the blue Sir Juffin offered to help me find employment.

He announced that I had, as he put it, an extraordinary bent for magic, which I simply had to develop if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in an asylum. He then offered his services as a coach, employer, and considerate uncle, all rolled into one. This absurd announcement was nevertheless very attractive, considering that until then I hadn’t discovered a single latent talent in myself. Even in my dreams I realized that no matter how you looked at it, my career wasn’t going anywhere. Sir Juffin, inspired by my apparent willingness, plucked me out of reality like a dumpling from a bowl of soup. Up until then, I was certain that I had been a victim of my own imagination—how strange we humans are, when all is said and done!

I will, I think, postpone the saga of my very first journey between worlds—if only because I remembered almost nothing during the earliest days of my sojourn on Echo. In fact, I couldn’t make sense of anything that had happened. Quite frankly, I suspected that it was all a protracted dream, if not a convoluted hallucination. I tried not to analyze the situation, but to concentrate on solving the problems at hand, since there seemed to be plenty of them. For a start, I had to undergo an intensive period of adaptation to my new life, for I had arrived in this World far less prepared than an ordinary newborn. From the first moments of their lives babies squall and dirty their diapers without disrupting the local traditions. But from the very first I did everything all wrong. I had to sweat like a horse before I could even pass for the village idiot.

When I found myself in the home of Sir Juffin Hully for the first time, he was absent from the premises. Indeed, being the Most Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force of the Capital of the Unified Kingdom was a busy job, and my protector had been detained somewhere.

The Head Butler, Kimpa, who had strict instructions from his master to give me the red-carpet treatment, was somewhat perplexed. Until now he had welcomed only respectable people to the house.

I began my new life with a question: where to find the bathroom. Even this turned out to be a faux pas. Every citizen of the Unified Kingdom older than two knows that the bathroom facilities of every dwelling occupy the basement and are reached by a special staircase.

And my attire! Jeans, a sweater, a vest made of thick un-dyed leather, and heavy blunt-nosed boots, all succeeded in shocking the old gentleman, usually as unflappable as an Indian chieftain. He looked me up and down from head to foot for ten seconds at least. Sir Juffin swears that Kimpa hadn’t fixed his stare on anyone for so long since the day of his wedding, two hundred years before, to the now-departed Mrs. Kimpa. The result of this inspection was that he suggested I change my clothes. I didn’t object—I simply couldn’t disappoint the expectations of the old fellow with ruffled feathers.

What happened next was painfully awkward. I was given a pile of colored fabric. I bunched up these masses of formless material in my hands, damp from agitation, and blinked my eyes wildly. Luckily, Mr. Kimpa had led a long and undoubtedly colorful life. In his time he had seen many wonders, not excluding cretins like me who lacked the most rudimentary of skills. So as not to bring shame upon the good name of his “Most Venerable Master” (as he called Sir Juffin), Kimpa set to work. In ten minutes, I looked fairly presentable from the point of view of any local resident of Echo; though, in my own humble opinion, I looked and felt extremely clumsy. When I was convinced that all these drapes and folds wouldn’t inhibit my movements, and wouldn’t tumble to the floor when I took a step or two, I regained my composure.

We then undertook the next test of my nerves: dinner. In a noble gesture, Kimpa deigned to keep me company at the meal. The time was thus put to good use. Before tasting each of the dishes, I would observe the performance of my teacher. After I had scrutinized the spectacle, I attempted to put the accumulated wisdom into action; that is, I dispatched toward my mouth the corresponding utensils filled with the necessary ingredients. I even went so far as to copy the expressions on his face, just in case.

At last I was left to my own devices, and was advised to take a look around the house and gardens. This I gladly did, in the company of Chuff, a charming creature who looked like a shaggy bulldog. Chuff was my guide. Without him I would most likely have gone astray in the huge, half-empty house, and been unable to find the door that led into the dense, overgrown garden. When I reached it I lay down in the grass and finally relaxed.

At sundown the elderly butler marched ceremoniously to a diminutive, elegant shed at the end of the garden. He soon emerged from it on a small wonder of technology, which, to judge from its appearance, could only be propelled by a team of horses. Nevertheless, it moved forward on horsepower of its own. Kimpa maneuvered this contraption with a speed that, it seemed to me, corresponded to his age. (Later I learned that at one point in his long life Kimpa had been a race-car driver, and the speed at which he drove the amobiler—this was the name of the peculiar vehicle—was the maximum of its capacity.)

Kimpa was not alone when he returned: my old friend, denizen of my wondrous dreams, Sir Juffin Hully himself, was enthroned on the soft cushions of this motorized carriage.

Only then did I realize that everything that had happened had, indeed, happened. I rose to greet him, and in the same movement dropped to my knees in the grass, rubbing my eyes, my mouth hanging open in wonder. When my vision returned, I saw two smiling Sir Juffins coming toward me. With an intense effort of will, I merged them into one, pulled myself up on my feet, and even managed to close my jaw. This may have been the most courageous act of my life.

“That’s all right, Max,” Sir Juffin Hully said soothingly. “I’m not quite myself, either, and I have a tad bit more experience in these matters. I’m glad to finally make your acquaintance, body and soul!” After these words he covered his eyes with his left hand and announced solemnly: “I see you as though in a waking dream!” Then he removed his hand from his eyes and winked at me.

“This is how we make someone’s acquaintance, Sir Max. Repeat after me.”

I did as I was told. It turned out that my performance was “not bad for a start,” after which I had to repeat the whole thing about seventeen times. I felt like the dull-witted heir to a throne, for whom they finally must enlist the help of an accomplished mentor in good manners.

Alas, the training in local etiquette didn’t stop there. The fact is that Echo, from time immemorial, has been inhabited by magicians. I suspect that all Echo natives are magicians, to some degree. Luckily, exactly one-hundred fifteen years before my arrival here, the ancient rivalry between the innumerable Orders of Magicians ended in the triumph of the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover and King Gurig VII. Since then, citizens of Echo are permitted to indulge in only the simplest kinds of magic, mainly of a medicinal or culinary nature. For instance, magic is used in the preparation of kamra, a substance that serves as the local alternative to tea or coffee, and is intolerably bitter without some magic to ease the effect. A touch of magic is also useful for warding off grease from plates—a groundbreaking achievement, in my opinion!

So I simply can’t describe the sincere gratitude I feel for the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover. Thanks to their scheming intrigues that determined the course of history, I didn’t have to learn, say, the two-hundred thirty-fourth degree of White Magic—which experts consider to be the apex of human capability. I decided that as far as I was concerned, the officially permitted tricks were the limit of my meager abilities. In a sense, I am a virtuoso-invalid, not unlike the legless British flying ace, Douglas Bader. Sir Juffin insists, by the way, that my greatest virtue is that I belong to the world of wizardry, albeit not that I know how to cope with it . . .

On the evening of the first day of my new life, I stood before the mirror in the bedroom assigned to me and studied my reflection. I was wrapped up like a mannequin in the thin folds of the skaba, a long roomy tunic, and the heavy folds of the looxi, an overgarment that resembled a delightful compromise between a long raincoat and a poncho. The extravagant turban, strange as it may seem, looked very becoming on me. Maybe in this guise it was easier to preserve my equilibrium while straining to grasp just what was happening to me, for that guy in the mirror could be just about anybody in the world—except a close acquaintance of mine by the name of Max.

Chuff came up and began yapping and nudging my knee with his nose. You’re big and kind! I suddenly thought, in a voice not my own. Then I realized that the thought was not mine, but his. The intelligent dog became my first teacher of Silent Speech in this World. If I am even mildly adept at White Magic of the Fourth Degree, which includes this kind of communication, I would kindly ask you to direct all compliments toward this remarkable canine.

The days reeled quickly by. I slept away the mornings. Toward evening I got up, dressed, ate, and then hovered around Kimpa with endless questions and observations. Luckily, I was never troubled by any linguistic barriers between myself and the other residents of the Unified Kingdom—why, I don’t know to this day. All I found it necessary to do was master the local pronunciation and take note of a few new idioms, but that was just a matter of time.

My training progressed under the gentle but rigorous supervision of Kimpa, who had been entrusted with the task of making a “true gentleman out of this barbarian, born on the border of the County Vook and the Barren Lands.” Such was the “legend” of my origins for Kimpa and all the others.

It was a very cleverly concocted legend, as I now know: a true masterpiece on the part of Sir Juffin Hully, in the genre of improvised falsification. See, County Vook is the part of the Unified Kingdom most distant from Echo. These Borderlands are sparsely populated plains that gently merge into the endless, inhospitable expanses of the Barren Lands, which are not under the domain of the Unified Kingdom. Almost no one from the capital had ever been there, as there was no point in taking such a trip, one that was not without danger. Those who dwell there—the good half of whom (according to Sir Juffin) were ignorant nomads, and the rest, runaway rebel magicians—don’t lavish their praises on the capital, either.

“However quirky you may seem,” Sir Juffin Hully mused, rocking cozily in his favorite chair, “you won’t have to make any excuses for yourself. Your origins are the best explanation for anything that constitutes a blunder in the eyes of the local snobs. Take it from me: I myself arrived in the capital from Kettari, a small town in the county of Shimara. That was long ago, but they’re still expecting outlandish pranks from me. I sometimes think they feel affronted that I behave with such aplomb.”

“Excellent, Sir Juffin! Then I’ll go ahead and start acting like one right here and now!” With that I did what I had been longing to do—I snatched up a tiny warm tart from my plate, without the aid of the miniature hook that looked more like an instrument of torture from a dentist’s arsenal than silverware. Sir Juffin smiled indulgently.

“You’ll make a first-class barbarian, Max. I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

“That doesn’t bother me in the least,” I said with my mouth full. “You see, Juffin, all my life I’ve been absolutely certain that I’m fine just as I am, and that I’m immune to the consequences of a bad reputation. That is to say, I have too much self-love to trouble myself with the torments of self-doubt and the search for self-affirmation, if you know what I mean.”

“But you’re a true philosopher!”

Sir Juffin Hully seemed to be quite satisfied with me.

Let me return to describing my studies. My passion for the printed word had never been as useful to me as it was during those first days. At night I devoured books by the dozens from Sir Juffin’s library. I learned about my new surroundings, at the same time grasping the idiosyncrasies of the locals and cramming my head full of colorful turns of phrase. Chuff tagged along at my heels and was fully engaged in my schooling for he gave me lessons in Silent Speech. Evenings (the middle of the day, by my personal clock), I reported to Sir Juffin. He kept me company at dinner and unobtrusively monitored all aspects of my progress. An hour or two later, Sir Juffin would disappear into his bedroom and I would move on to the library.

One evening, roughly two weeks after my abrupt arrival in Echo, Sir Juffin announced that I now fully resembled an ordinary person, and thus deserved a reward.

“Today we’re dining in the Glutton, Max! I’ve been looking forward to this moment.”

“Dining where?”

“The Glutton Bunba, the most elegant mangy dive of them all: hot pâtés, the best kamra in Echo, the splendid Madam Zizinda, and not a single sourpuss to be seen at this hour of day.”

“What do you mean, not a single sourpuss?”

“Actually, not a single unpleasant face of any kind—but you know this place better than most Echoers!”

“How’s that?”

“You’ll see. Put on your shoes and let’s go. I’m as hungry as an armless thief.”

And so for the first time I changed from my house slippers into tall moccasins that aspired to look like real boots. I also had a driver’s test—ha! As if that was anything to worry about! Having mastered the rusty heap that had belonged to my cousin, and even inherited it when he hit the big time and treated himself to some swanky new wheels, driving the amobiler didn’t pose any problem for me. Several days before, Kimpa had demonstrated for me the simple steps of operating the car, carried out with the help of a single lever. After a short ride in my company, he announced, “You’re going to be fine,” and left. Now Juffin was admiring my professionalism, saying: “Take it easy, young man! Life’s short enough as it is!” After a few minutes he added: “Too bad I don’t need a chauffeur. I’d hire you in a minute.” I swelled with pride right then and there.

Driving did not distract me from my first real encounter with Echo. First we threaded our way through narrow lanes weaving through the magnificent gardens of the Left Bank. Each yard was illumined in keeping with the taste of its owner, so we rode through bright dappled patches of color, yellow, pink, green, and lilac. I had often admired the nighttime gardens of the Left Bank from the roof of our house, but floating from one lush lake of color to another—it was something else entirely!

Then we entered what appeared to be a broad avenue lined with the bright little lights of stores still open. It turned out though that I hadn’t understood a thing about this particular urban landscape. This wasn’t an avenue, but rather, Echo Crest, one of the many bridges that connected the Left Bank with the Right. The waters of a river declared the finest in the Unified Kingdom, the Xuron, sparkled in the spaces between buildings. Halfway across the bridge I even slowed down, struck by the splendor of the view on both sides. To my right, on a large island in the middle of the river, was Rulx Castle, the royal residence, glittering with all the hues of a rainbow, while on the left another island gleamed with a steady sapphire light.

“That’s Xolomi, Max. The Xolomi prison is there. A splendid little place!”

“Splendid?”

“From the point of view of the Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force, such as I am, if you will remember, it is the most exquisite place in the World!” Juffin gave a short snort.

“Oh, I forgot who I was contending with . . .”

I glanced at Juffin. He twisted his face into an evil grimace, winked, and we both burst into laughter.

After we composed ourselves, we continued on our way until there it was, the Right Bank. Juffin began issuing abrupt commands: “Right, right, now to the left!” in response to which I assumed the dignified bearing of an army chauffeur, though where that particular bent came from I have no idea. A bit farther and we were on the Street of the Copper Pots.

“Over there is our House by the Bridge,” Juffin remarked, waving his hand toward the orange mist under some street lights. “But your visit there is yet to come. As for now—stop! We’re here.”

I halted the amobiler and stepped onto the mosaic sidewalk of the Right Bank for the first time. Oh, was it really the first time? But I suppressed the dangerous dizziness, nipped it square in the bud, and passed over the threshold of the Glutton Bunba Inn. Of course—it was the pub from my dreams, the very place I had met Sir Juffin Hully and frivolously accepted the strangest job offer anyone could ever imagine!

Without even thinking, I walked over to the familiar spot between the bar and a window onto the yard. A plump brunette smiled at me as though I was an old customer (this was Madam Zizinda herself, granddaughter of the original glutton named Bunba). But why “as though”? I was, indeed, an old, a very old, customer.

“This is my favorite little spot,” Juffin announced. “I’ll tell you a basic principle for choosing future colleagues. If they like the same food and, in particular, the same table you like, psychological compatibility with the team is guaranteed.”

Madam Zizinda, in the meantime, had placed pots with hot pâté on our table. As for the other events of the evening that followed, someday I will commit them to paper, when I sit down to write my tourist guidebook: The Finest Taverns of the City of Echo.

My second foray into society took place two days later. Sir Juffin returned home very early, even before dusk. I was just about to have breakfast.

“Tonight is your debut performance, Max!” Juffin declared, confiscating my mug of kamra without waiting for Kimpa to pour him his own. “We’re going to test your progress on my favorite neighbor. If old Makluk still says hello to me after our visit, we may conclude that you are ready for independence. In my view, you can already manage very well on your own. But I’m not being objective: I’m too eager to put you to work.”

“But just think, Juffin; he’s your neighbor! You’ll have to live with him afterward.”

“Makluk is kind and inoffensive. Moreover, he’s practically a hermit. He found society so unbearably cloying while he was the Long Arm for the Elimination of Irksome Misunderstandings at the Royal Court that now he can endure the company only of me and a few elderly chatterbox widowers—and that very seldom.”

“Are you a widower?”

“Yes, more than thirty years now; so it’s not a forbidden topic. For the first twenty years or so, though, I preferred not to talk about it. We marry at a ripe age, and, generally (we hope), for a long time. But we are accustomed to suppose that fate is wiser than the heart, so don’t fret!”

And so that I would fret as little as possible, he seized the second mug of kamra, which, I must admit, I had wanted very much myself.

We arrayed ourselves in formal dress and set off to pay our visit. Fortunately, visiting costume differed from everyday dress only in its richness of hue and ornament, and not in its cut, to which I had already grown accustomed. I was on my way to an exam, and my heart leapt about in my chest, looking for the shortest route to my heels.

“Max, what’s with the serious face?” Juffin asked in a knowing tone. He always could tell what I was feeling; I supposed that for him, my emotional state was like the headline on the front page of a tabloid: utter nonsense, but written in boldface type that makes glasses superfluous.

“I’m getting into the role,” I improvised. “Any barbarian from the Borderlands would be nervous before meeting someone who had gotten cuffs on the ear from His Royal Highness all his life.”

“Ingenuity, B; erudition D-plus: ‘Barbarians from the Borderlands,’ as you phrase it, are supercilious, proud, and ignorant. They scoff at our public servants and officials in the capital. Intuition, A-plus! How else could you have guessed that once, under the reign of Gurig, Sir Makluk really did earn a royal box on the ears when he trod on the hem of the royal robe?”

“To be honest, I was trying to joke, not playing a guessing game.”

“That’s what I meant when I mentioned intuition. Just like that, apropos of nothing, you let something slip, and it’s right on the nose!”

“Okay, suppose I am a prodigy. Also, according to your legend, I’m a barbarian who has serious intentions of settling down in Echo and embarking on a career. So I must be somewhat different from my ignorant but proud countrymen. And when a person wears a veneer of studied hauteur, shyness is usually lurking underneath. I know: I’m the same way. Do you take back your D-plus?”

“All right, you’ve convinced me. I’ll take back the ‘D,’ and you can keep the ‘plus.’”

We crossed our garden and entered the neighbor’s through a side gate. Then we were at the front door, with an inscription that read “Here lives Sir Makluk. Are you sure you’ve come to the right place?” I laughed halfheartedly, as I was not at all sure. On the other hand, Sir Juffin had enough conviction for both of us.

The door opened silently, and four servants in identical gray uniforms invited us in chorus to enter. A quartet that was nothing if not professional; I had to hand it to them.

And so began that for which I was not prepared; but then, Juffin claims that no one is ever prepared for a reception by Sir Makluk, except inveterate society lions—the most important and useless creatures in the world.

A horde of strapping young fellows advanced ominously upon us from the corner, with two palanquins atilt. At the same time, the servants in gray handed us each a pile of multihued rags of ambiguous purpose. There was only one thing for me to do: watch Juffin and try to mimic all his actions.

First I had to take off the looxi, without which I felt somewhat naked: the thin skaba that gave my body a high-definition contour did not at the moment seem appropriate dress for appearing in public. Then I began studying the garments I had been given and determined it wasn’t a pile of varied rags, but a one-piece construction—a large crescent made of thick fabric, with enormous patch pockets. The inner edge of the crescent was adorned with a kind of necklace made from bright scraps of sheer material. I stared at Sir Juffin. My only guide through the labyrinth of good manners donned his crescent with a careless gesture like it was a baby’s bib. Shuddering, I repeated his performance. The band of butlers remained expressionless. Juffin wasn’t putting on an act for me, apparently; we were doing just what was expected of us.

When we were finally appropriately decked out, the fellows with the palanquins went down on their knees before us. Sir Juffin mounted the contraption and reclined gracefully upon it. I gulped and clambered onto my own glorified stretcher in turn. We were carried along in this way for quite some time, gazing down deserted corridors as broad as streets as we progressed. The sheer spaciousness of Sir Makluk’s dwelling made an indelible impression on me, and judging by the outside of the house, you’d never have known—it appeared to be just an ordinary house of modest dimensions.

Finally we arrived at a large hall, half-empty, like all the rooms in the only house in Echo with which I was acquainted. But the similarity to Sir Juffin’s interiors stopped there. Instead of a normal dining table and comfortable armchairs, my eyes beheld something quite extraordinary.

A narrow and seemingly endless oval table cut through the length of the room. Its centerpiece was a fountain, surrounded by a thick paling of low podiums. On one of the podiums was a palanquin that resembled those in which we had just had the distinct pleasure of arriving. A lively-looking gray-haired old man, who didn’t appear in the least like a grandee, peered out of the palanquin. This was Sir Makluk, our hospitable host. When he saw me he covered his eyes with his hand and greeted me:

“I see you as though in a waking dream!”

I reciprocated his gesture: Juffin and I had gone through this one. Then the little old man held out his hand to Juffin, doing this with such ardent warmth that he nearly tumbled off the podium, together with his dubious means of transportation.

“Hide the food, here comes Sir Hully the Hun!” he exclaimed gleefully. I readily concluded that this was an official form of greeting, and stored it away for future reference. It turned out I was mistaken, however: the host was in the mood for joking. I was more than a little insulted. I tried to grin and bear it, but, come what may, one’s emotional health is more important than emotional equilibrium. Did you wish to spend the weekend in the company of Mad Max, dear Juffin? Well, that’s just what’s in store for you! Here goes nothing . . .

But nothing came of it, for again I was thrown into a state of bewilderment when a very young creature of indeterminate sex came up to me. To distinguish a girl from a boy here, you need a keen eye and a great deal of experience, since they dress identically, and the hair of both sexes is allowed to grow as it will and then bound up, so that it doesn’t get in the way. The child was holding a basket with appetizing little bread rolls, which I had already grown fond of while devouring the breakfasts prepared by Kimpa. As fate would have it, I was the first stop for the little peddler of delicacies. No one was there to save me, as Juffin had been steered to the other end of the room to join the hospitable host. I helped myself silently to one bread roll. The little creature seemed surprised, but quickly slipped away. When it took the offerings to the gentlemen who had more experience in such matters than I, I realized what had caused the reaction—my very modesty and restraint! Juffin, and Sir Makluk, following suit, began raking up bread rolls by the handfuls and stuffing them into the roomy pockets of their “bibs.” It looked like I was going to starve.

In the meantime, my stretcher-bearers had begun shifting their feet, as though they couldn’t figure out where to deposit me. Judging by their blank faces, I was supposed to make this decision myself.

Raise your thumb, resounded someone else’s thought through my poor brain, and they’ll start walking. When you want to stop, show them your fist.

Thank you, Juffin, I answered, trying with all my might to address my mute message with maximum accuracy to its destination. You just about saved my life. I wish you always would!

Excellent. You’re getting the hang of Silent Speech, he declared happily.

I carried out the first part of his instructions and found myself floating in the direction of my dinner companions. When I was close enough to observe their actions, I threatened the bearers with my fist; they stopped, and raised me up onto a podium. I sighed with relief; finally, I had a moment to catch my breath.

Altogether, we journeyed around the table several times. The system was as follows: opposite every podium stood one dish. Having tasted it and wiped your mouth with one of the bright scraps that decorated the “bib,” the idea was to raise your thumb and travel around the table at a leisurely pace. When you came upon a dish that aroused the interest of the taste-buds, you were supposed to drop anchor for a spell.

For the first half-hour I was still rather timid, and stayed put even when the food in front of me did not deserve such a lengthy pause. Finally, with a “what the hey,” I got into the swing of things. I tasted everything there was to taste, some things more than once. After downing some “Jubatic Juice,” the local firewater, with its unassuming, yet somehow fitting name, I even ventured to join in the conversation of the old friends—and judging from Sir Makluk’s jovial demeanor, not without some success.

In short, the dinner went off without any untoward surprises.

As soon as we left Sir Makluk’s, I could no longer constrain my curiosity.

“Well, how did it go? You discussed me with your neighbor, didn’t you? Of course, Silent Speech allows you to do that in your victim’s presence—”

“My fabrication unraveled completely!” Sir Juffin said, grinning with fiendish pleasure. He paused dramatically, during which time I berated myself for being a miserable, dull-witted imbecile. Then he rescued me from my despair: “The old man kept trying to weasel out of me where I had dug up such well-mannered specimen of barbarian! Much more, and he would have offered you a position at court.”

“Oh no! What will happen now?”

“Nothing much. In a week or two we’ll find you an apartment and furnish it according to your inclinations, after which I’ll get you off my back and you’ll get down to work. For the time being, you still have a few lessons left with me.”

“What kinds of lessons?”

“Very interesting ones. Don’t worry, the lessons in dining etiquette are over. It’s time to get down to business. At long last, I’ve acquired an assistant who has a distinct proclivity for Invisible Magic. You’ll be surprised to discover how easily it comes to you.”

“Wherever did you get the idea that I—?”

“Whenever did you stop trusting me?”

“The moment we stepped inside the home of your neighbor Sir Makluk! You never warned me about the palanquins and all the rest. I nearly died right there on the spot!”

“But you didn’t!” Sir Juffin Hully said. “Who would have thought!”

That night I not only retired to bed long before dawn, but slept like a log, to the great surprise of little Chuff. He already took it for granted that life only starts to get really interesting after midnight.

The next two days were busy and pleasant. During the day I read old newspaper files from the Royal Voice and Echo Hustle and Bustle. Sir Juffin had immodestly marked all the enthusiastic articles that had to do with the affairs of the Secret Investigative Force.

This made for far more exciting reading than the most piquant literature. It was the first time I had read newspapers in which dull announcements about the misuse of forbidden magic far exceeded stories about everyday murder, revenge, and extortion—though such things happen here, too, of course. I quickly learned the names of my future colleagues: Sir Melifaro (for some reason his first name was never mentioned), Sir Kofa Yox, Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli, Lady Melamori Blimm, and Sir Lookfi Pence. They pretty much made up the entire Minor Secret Investigative Force—and a fairly diminutive one it was.

Here in Echo, photography had still not been discovered, and portrait artists would not condescend to squander their talents on newspapers. Thus, I put my imagination to work, summoning up portraits of them in my head. (Whatever Sir Juffin might have said about my intuition, it turned out that I hadn’t guessed right a single time!)

At sunset, I took the amobiler and set off for the Right Bank. I got out and meandered along mosaic-laden sidewalks, gazing this way and that, made brief stops at cozy inns, and got a feel for the topography. Indeed, what kind of figure would I cut as a Nocturnal Representative of the Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force if I couldn’t even track down the street where my own department was located? It turned out to be fairly easy, however. I’ve never heard of a wolf getting lost in the woods, even if they’re not the woods in which he was born. I suspect the existence of some as-yet-undiscovered “urban instinct,” whereby if you can navigate one city, you won’t feel daunted by any other metropolis.

Then I was on my way home. As it had ever been in my life, nighttime still proved to be the most enchanting time of day. Sir Juffin, by his own admission, had had a temporary quarrel with his blanket. After dinner, he didn’t retire, but steered me into his study, where we undertook to “meditate on the memory of things.” This aspect of Invisible Magic, the most abstract and obscure science of this World, was the simplest and most indispensable one for my future profession.

There are few in the World who have any inkling of its existence. A knack for Invisible Magic, as far as I understand it, is in no way linked to the wondrous qualities of the Heart of the World. Indeed, this talent had been discovered in me, an alien. Sir Juffin himself, the undisputed expert in this area, hails from Kettari, a small town in the county of Shimara. The residents of that place lag significantly behind residents of the capital when it comes to knowing how to enhance their lives by means of magic.

But back to the lessons. I discovered very quickly that if you let your eyes rest on an inanimate object with a “special gaze” (I don’t know how else to describe it), the object would reveal its past to the observer—that is to say, events that happened in its presence. Sometimes these events were quite horrific, as I learned after an encounter with a pin for a looxi that had belonged long ago to a member of the Order of the Icy Hand, one of the most sinister and wicked of the ancient orders of magic. The pin showed us the rite of passage into the Order: a frenzied, exultant bear of a fellow voluntarily hacked off his left hand from his arm, after which a handsome, spry old fellow in a shiny turban (the Grand Master of the Order, as Juffin informed me) launched into some bizarre, incomprehensible fumblings with the amputated piece of anatomy. During the finale, the hand was presented to its former owner in the center of a glittering ice crystal. It turned my stomach.

Juffin explained that as a result of this procedure the fresh-baked invalid had gained an eternal inner fountain of marvelous youthful energy, and his missing digits would become a kind of “supersponge” that provided him with the powers indispensable to that occupation.

“Does he really need that?” I asked in naïve wonder.

“People will do strange things to sate their hunger for power and glory,” Juffin replied with a shrug. “You and I are lucky. We live in a much more moderate age. The opposition is complaining about the tyranny of the King and the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover, yet they forget the true tyranny of several dozen omnipotent orders of magic, of which almost none has ever chosen the path of rejecting vice and ambition altogether.”

“Why didn’t they tear the World to shreds?”

“They almost did, Max. They almost did . . . But we’ll have time to talk about that later. This is the night when you to begin your studies in earnest. So, grab that cup there . . .”

This was all too good to be able to last for very long. The idyll was shattered on the evening of the third day, when Kimpa announced the arrival of Sir Makluk.

“Strange,” Juffin said. “In the ten years we have been neighbors this is the first time Makluk has ever honored me with a visit. And so casually! Too casually, by far. My heart fears that there is some business to take care of.”

Little did he know how right he was.

“I’m afraid circumstances force me to request a service of you!” Makluk exclaimed, still standing in the threshold, holding one hand to his chest, and gesticulating wildly with the other. “I beg your pardon, Sir Hully, but I am in great need of your help and advice.”

They exchanged a long, meaningful glance; the old fellow had switched to Silent Speech. A moment later, Juffin frowned, and Sir Makluk shrugged, looking a bit shamefaced.

“Let’s go,” Juffin said abruptly, and stood up. “And you, Max, come with us. Don’t bother to dress up. This is business.”

For the first time I was witnessing Juffin Hully on the job—or, more precisely, on the verge of one. The speed at which he crossed the garden exceeded in all likelihood the cruising speed of the amobiler. I automatically undertook to pacify Sir Makluk, who clearly felt a bit unmoored without the four heavyweights who carried his palanquin. We reached the finish without breaking any records—but also without doing any damage to his weak knees. Along the way, Sir Makluk took advantage of the opportunity to confide in the “Gentle Barbarian.” He seemed to need to get it off his chest.

“I have—or, rather, had—a servant named Krops Kooly, a good lad. I had even planned to secure a place for him at court in fifteen or twenty years, when he had some experience under his belt . . . But I digress. A few days ago, he disappeared. Disappeared—just like that. He had a sweetheart on the Right Bank. Naturally, his colleagues decided that since you’re only young once, they wouldn’t make a fuss about it. You know, simple people are also capable of noble discretion . . . His disappearance was reported to me only today. My cook ran into his girlfriend at Linus Market, and the girl asked him why Krops hadn’t been to see her in so long—didn’t they allow him any Days of Freedom from his professional commitments? Then everyone began to panic. How could Krops just up and leave? Where had he gone, and why? About an hour and a half ago, Maddi and Shuvish went to clean the room of my late cousin, Sir Makluk-Olli, as they always did at that time. Yes, Sir Max, I had a cousin, a big bore, I’ll have you know. It even took him ten years to die. He finally decided to go at the beginning of the year, soon after the Day of Foreign Gods. Yes . . . and in there, in the room of my late cousin Olli, they found poor Mr. Kooly; and in what condition!”

Sir Makluk shivered visibly, as if to say that he had never expected such antics from poor Krops Kooly, even posthumously.

In the meantime, we had arrived at a small door—the backdoor of Sir Makluk’s luxurious living quarters. The old fellow had grown somewhat calmer after relating the recent events. Silent Speech is all well and good, but it’s not for nothing that psychotherapists make their patients talk out loud.

Without wasting time to call for a palanquin, we made our way into the late Sir Olli’s bedroom. Almost half the room was taken up by a soft floor. Here in Echo this is the way beds are constructed. A few tiny marquetry tables were scattered haphazardly around the giant lair. One wall was an enormous window onto the garden. On the opposite wall there was an ancient mirror with a small vanity table to the side.

It would have been preferable if this had about summed things up, but there was another element of the room’s interior. On the floor, between the mirror and the window, lay a corpse, a dead body that resembled, more than anything else, slobbery chewing gum. The spectacle was not even grisly; it was, rather, awkward, even absurd.

Somehow, it didn’t fit my notions of a crime victim—no streams of blood, spattered brains, no icy gaze of a dead man. Just some sorry, rubbery ABC gum.

I didn’t see Juffin at first. He had retreated to the farthest corner of the room. His slanting eyes shone phosphorescent in the dusk. When he saw us, he abandoned his post and came up to us with a deeply troubled expression.

“For the time being, two pieces of bad news; I daresay more will follow. First, this is no ordinary murder. You don’t end up with someone looking like that with your bare hands alone. Second, I’ve not discovered any signs of Forbidden Magic. I’m very suspicious of the mirror, as it seems to be too close to the body. This looks like a case of Black Magic of the Second Degree; the Third Degree, at most. And, it already happened long ago.” In his hands Juffin was pensively rotating a pipe with a built-in gauge, which conveyed precise information about the degree of magic that it detected. Now the arrow pointed to the number “2” on the black half of the round dial. Sometimes it shuddered visibly, trying to crawl up to “3”; but the kind of magic locked in the ancient mirror wasn’t strong enough for that.

“My advice to you, neighbor, is to go get some rest. Just, tell your vassals that Max and I will still snoop around here. Have them assist us in the investigation.”

“Sir Hully, are you sure I can’t help you?”

“I’m positive,” Juffin sighed. “It’s possible that your people can—so give them your orders, and retire to bed. Whatever has happened, it’s no reason to neglect your own health.”

“Thank you,” the old man said, drawing his lips into a troubled smile. “I’ve truly had all I can handle for one day.”

Sir Makluk turned toward the door with an expression of relief. At the threshold he met someone who looked to be the same age as he, though a very colorful character. The face of the stranger resembled that of some Grand Inquisitor—putting him under the gray turban of a servant that he wore was an inexcusable waste. But I wasn’t the one who made this World, and I was certainly in no position to change the way things are.

“Dear Govins,” Sir Makluk said, addressing the “Grand Inquisitor.” “Be so kind as to assist these superb gentlemen in all their efforts. This is our neighbor, Sir Juffin Hully, and he—”

“How could I, an inveterate reader of the Echo Hustle and Bustle, not know Sir Most Venerable Head?” A servile smile spread over the Inquisitor’s face.

“Splendid,” Sir Makluk, said almost in a whisper. “Govins will take care of everything. He’s still stronger than I am, though he fussed over me in the blessed days when I was too small to sneak a little bowl of jam from the kitchen.”

On that sentimental note, Sir Makluk was hoisted onto the palanquin by the eager stretcher-bearers and borne away to his bedchamber.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll have a few words with you in a minute. I hope in your wisdom you’ll agree that our first acquaintance could have taken place in more . . . er . . . less messy circumstances!” Juffin said to Govins, smiling with irresistible aplomb.

“The small parlor, the best kamra in the capital, and your humble servant await you whenever you wish.” With these words, the elderly gentleman seemed to dissolve into the half-gloom of the corridor.

We were left by ourselves, not counting the chewed up fellow on the floor, and he didn’t really count any more.

“Max,” Juffin said, turning to me, his joie de vivre suddenly snuffed out. “There’s another bit of bad news. Not a single thing in this room wants to reveal the past. They—how should I put it to you . . . No, let’s try it again, together! You’ll see what I mean.”

And try we did, concentrating our attention on a round box with balsam soap, randomly selected from the dressing table. Nothing! More to the point, worse than nothing. I was suddenly stricken with a fright, the kind you feel in a nightmare when your feet are planted to the ground and they are creeping upon you out of the darkness. My nerves gave out; I let go of the box. At almost the same time, Juffin’s fingers released it, and the box fell to the floor. It bounced rather awkwardly, turned over on its side, and instead of rolling in the direction of the window, it seemed to try to slip into the corridor. Halfway there, it stopped short, clattered plaintively, and made a comical little leap. We stared at it spellbound.

“You were right, Sir Juffin,” I said, whispering for some reason. “The things are silent, and they’re . . . scared!”

“What are they afraid of, is what I’d like to know! It is possible to find out—but for that we need magic of at least the hundredth degree. But in this case—”

“Wait, what degree was that?”

“You heard right! Come along, let’s have a talk with the leader of the local serfs and his underlings. What else can we do?”

Mr. Govins was waiting for us in the “small parlor” (which was actually just slightly smaller than your average football field). Mugs of kamra were steaming on a miniscule table. Juffin relaxed ever so slightly.

“I must know everything concerning these premises, Govins. And I mean everything! Facts, rumors, tall tales. And, preferably, first hand.”

“I am the oldest resident of this house,” the old man began pompously, then broke into a disarming smile. “Wherever you might turn, I’m the oldest! Well, in Echo there are a few old stumps that are even more ancient than I am. I assure you, Sir Venerable Head, it’s a very ordinary chamber. No wonders or miracles—whether permitted or outlawed. For as long as I can remember, that has always been someone’s bedroom. At times, it was occupied, at times it stood empty. But no one ever complained about family ghosts. Moreover, before Sir Makluk-Olli, no one had ever died there. And even he lived five years longer than he was expected to.”

“How did he die?”

“There were a number of causes. He had been ailing since childhood. A weak heart, delicate digestion, nerves. And about ten years ago, he lost the Spark.”

“Sinning Magicians! Do you mean that?”

“Absolutely. But he had amazing tenacity of spirit. For you know, of course, that people without the Spark seldom hold out longer than a year. Sir Olli was told that if he remained immobile and refused to take food he would live another five years or so, provided there was a good Seer in attendance on him. For ten years, he didn’t leave his room. He fasted, hired a dozen mad but powerful old crones who guarded his shadow in voluntary confinement with him all those years . . . As you see, Olli established a kind of record. But the old crones did their spells at their own homes, so in Olli’s bedchamber nothing out of the ordinary went on.”

Sir Juffin didn’t neglect to send me a Silent Message: To lose the Spark means to lose the ability to protect oneself from whatever might happen. Even ordinary food may be poisonous for the unlucky person, and a common cold can kill him in a few hours. And that the crones guarded his shadow . . . well, it’s quite complicated. I’ll explain later!

“Old Sir Makluk-Olli led the quietest of lives. A year before his death he gave one sign of life when he threw a washbowl at Maddi, who was waiting on him that day. The water he had drawn was a tad warmer than it ought to have been. I gave Maddi compensation for the blow, but even without the money he wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss. Sir Olli made a pitiful spectacle. The servants never made any more mistakes like that. As for Sir Olli, he didn’t get up to any mischief again, and nothing unusual, it would seem, ever occurred . . .”

Juffin frowned.

“Don’t hide anything from me, old man. I admire your loyalty to the house, but I’m the one who helped Sir Makluk hush up the unpleasantness half a year ago, when that young fellow from Gazhin cut his own throat. So do give me some balm to ease my aching heart: did that happen in the bedchamber?”

Govins nodded.

If you think that Govins’ confession solves the case, you’re mistaken , Juffin said soundlessly, with a wink in my direction. It only confuses the matter, though, further down the line . . . This all smacks of magic from the time of the Ancient Orders, but the blasted magic gauge, a hole in the heavens above it . . . Then again, that’s what makes life worth living: you never know what to expect!

He turned to Govins.

“I want to see: the person who first discovered the poor blighter today, the person who discovered the bloody fountain last time, the crones hired by Sir Olli, and a mug of your excellent kamra for everyone present. Oh, and just to be sure, ask the unhappy victim of domestic tyranny to come, as well. The one who was wounded by the washbowl.”

Govins nodded. A middle-aged man in gray with a proud bearing appeared at the door carrying a tray of mugs. This was Mr. Maddi himself, victim of the erstwhile fury of Sir Makluk-Olli; and, as if by design, the primary witness of today’s crime. That’s true organizational genius! Take note, gentlemen—one person entered the room, and three of five requests had already been carried out!

Maddi was burning with embarrassment, but good bearing never served a man amiss. Eyes cast down, he reported without undue circumlocutions that this evening he had entered the room first, looked out the window at the sunset, then looked down to see something one couldn’t miss. He quickly realized that it was best not to touch it and instead to send for Mr. Govins. Which he did.

“I asked Shuvish to stay in the corridor. He’s still too young to see the likes of that,” Maddi said, hesitating, as though he might have overstepped his bounds.

“You didn’t hear any noise?”

“The bedchamber was soundproofed, Sir Olli ordered that it be made so. What I mean is, even if you were screaming fit to burst, no one would hear. Nor would you hear any noise, naturally.”

“Fine. That all makes sense. But what was this fight you had with Sir Olli? They say he really let you have it.”

“No fight, Sir Venerable Head. A sick man doesn’t want to die; he’s unhappy about everything. He always explained to me how he wanted the water for his bath. But then the next day he wanted the water to be another way altogether. Every time I went and did as he ordered, but one day Sir Olli got mad and threw the washbowl at me. And you should’ve seen the man throw! He never should have died,” Maddi let out a low whistle of admiration.

I was sure that if he had been a basketball coach, he would have tried to recruit Sir Olli onto his team without a second thought.

“The bowl hit me straight in the face, the edge gouging my eyebrow. It started to bleed, and like an imbecile, I tried to turn away, and crashed into the mirror with all my might. Luckily, it was a sturdy thing. Old craftsmanship! I was soaking wet, my face covered in blood, the mirror all bloodied up, too. Sir Olli panicked, he thought he had killed me. Raised quite a commotion. And when I washed my face, it turned out that it was nothing at all—a scratch half a finger’s length long. It didn’t even leave a scar! It never entered my head to complain—you can’t let yourself get insulted by an old man. He didn’t even have the Spark anymore; he was all but dead already—and I’m still strong and kicking. I can grin and bear it.”

“Fine, fine, my friend. That’s all we needed to know. Don’t worry—you did just what you were supposed to do.”

Maddi was dismissed, and went off to contemplate his dreams—and simple and innocent dreams they were, of that I’m certain. Sir Juffin glanced at Govins questioningly.

“The crones have been sent for. I hope they’ll all be found. They have the same sort of nomadic profession that you have. For the time being, I may be able to assist you myself, since the death of Nattis, that unfortunate young man, took place right under my nose.”

“That’s news to me! How did you manage that?”

“Such was the order of things. The boy was my ward. You see, Nattis wasn’t a servant in the house. An ordinary servant, that is. Two years ago he came to Echo from Gazhin. He arrived with a note from his grandfather, one of my oldest friends. The old man wrote that his grandson was an orphan, and was still wet behind the ears. The kind of knowledge he could pick up in Gazhin wasn’t much use here in Echo. But the boy was quick-witted—that was plain as day. My friend asked me to help his grandson in any way I could. Sir Makluk promised to give him the highest recommendation. He even intended to set him up with someone at the Court. You understand, it’s a real privilege to be offered a place at Court! But in the interim, I taught him to the best of my abilities. Believe me, I had just as much reason to praise him when he was still alive. Occasionally we gave him a Day of Freedom from Some Chores. On those days he wasn’t free to go off on his own, as he was on ordinary Days of Freedom, but stayed home. He was relieved of his duties, however, and was expected to live the life of a gentleman.”

At this point, I couldn’t repress a sigh of sympathy. Poor guy!

Govins interpreted my sigh in his own way, shook his head sadly, and continued: “What I mean is that if you wish to go far in life, you need know not only how to work, but also how to give orders. On those days, Nattis got up in the morning, called for a servant, bathed and groomed himself, dressed like a gentleman, ate like a gentleman, read the newspaper. Then he would go for a walk on the Right Bank, and there he also did his best to look like a young gentleman of the capital rather than a young upstart from Gazhin. And on those days he was permitted to use Sir Olli’s bedchamber—the poor bloke had just died when Nattis arrived and began his apprenticeship. The fellow would sleep in that bedroom, and in the morning would call for a servant—and the servant was me! The idea was not only to put on a charade, but to be able to observe all his shortcomings and mistakes, and so to correct them. In short, on those days I was inseparable from the lad, and this was both instructive and pleasant . . . So on that fateful morning, I answered his summons, as usual. I brought in the bath water. Of course, this was only a ceremonial ritual—there is a bathroom attached to the bedchamber. But a real gentleman begins his morning by demanding his rightful portion of warm water for a bath!”

At this point in the narrative I became a bit glum. I’d never become a “real gentleman”; and Sir Juffin wouldn’t either, I’m afraid. The finicky Sir Govins, in the meantime, went on with his story: “Nattis washed and went into the bathroom to shave. But the poor lad remembered all of a sudden how I had scolded him for this. As long as you’re god-knows-who, whether you shave in the bathroom or don’t bother to shave at all is no one’s business but your own. But if you’re a gentleman, you must shave in front of a proper looking glass! It turned out that my efforts hadn’t been for nought. The young chap came back into the room and very contritely requested a shaving kit. I feigned not to hear. Then he drew himself up, his eyes sparking—and I was there with the shaving kit and a towel, on the double! And then—how it could have happened, my mind simply cannot fathom. That a hale and hearty young fellow could cut his throat with a razor in a split second! I was standing a few steps away from him, as is the custom, with a towel and some balsam soap; but I had no time to do anything. I didn’t even realize what had happened . . . and what happened afterward! Well, you know as well as I do, if you’ve been trying to hush up this sorry affair.”

“You’re a wonderful raconteur, Mr. Govins!” Juffin nodded approvingly. “So I will with great satisfaction hear the ending of the story from your lips. I was, of course, very busy during those days. All I could manage to do (and it was enough for me!) was to pick up the ‘suicide file’ from the department of General Boboota Box, whose subordinates so pestered everyone in this house. I had no time to delve into the matter more deeply.”

The door opened, and fresh kamra was served to us. Govins cleared his throat, and resumed speaking. “There’s really nothing more to add. Of course, Sir Malkuk informed the House by the Bridge about what had happened. It was a straightforward case, so they sent it to General Box, Head of Public Order. Then his subordinates inundated our house—”

“Listen, Govins, maybe you can tell me. Did they check the level of magic present in the room?”

“It never even occurred to them. At first they thought it was all clear and simple: the man was drunk. When I told them that Nattis had never once been drunk in his whole short life, they decided again that it was all clear and simple: I had killed him. And then they just disappeared. As I understand, now, Sir Venerable Head, through your intercession.”

“How typical that is of Boboota’s boys,” Juffin groaned, clasping his hand to his forehead. “Sinning Magicians, how very typical!”

Our interlocutor remained tactfully silent.

Just then, three of the twelve wise crones arrived. It was revealed that six more of them were keeping watch over patients, two were simply nowhere to be found, and one old woman, according to the messenger, refused point-blank to return to “that black house.” She’s gone off her rocker, poor thing, I thought compassionately.

Juffin thought for a moment, then ordered all three of them at once to come in. I received a silent explanation about this from him: When you want to interrogate several women, it’s best to question them all together. Each of them will try so hard to outdo the other that they will end up telling you more than they intended. The only problem is trying not to lose your mind in the hubbub!

And so the ladies entered the parlor and seated themselves ceremoniously at the table. The eldest was called Mallis. The two others, by no means young, were Tisa and Retani. I grew a bit sad. For the first time I was in the company of otherworldly ladies, and just my luck—the youngest of them was pushing 300!

Juffin’s behavior deserves separate commentary. First, he sculpted his face into the gloomiest frown that you can imagine. Then, in addition to the mournful expression of his physiognomy, the grannies were fated to witness him cover his eyes with the palm of his hand in a pathetic gesture, and further to hear the emotionally burdened recitative of his initial greeting. His intonations were wracked with a wailing of the spirit, more akin to the cadences of tragic drama than an interrogation. The order of his words and sentences started slipping around in the most peculiar way. Of course, in Echo one must address wisewomen with due respect and solemnity, as one would be expected to address a university professor in my homeland. In my opinion, however, Mr. Venerable Head went a little overboard. But my opinion would hardly have interested any of those present, which is why I modestly lowered my eyes and kept my mouth shut. Actually, I returned to my kamra, which I had clearly drunk too much of already, since it was there for the taking.

“Excuse my haste and the inconvenience I may have caused you, my wise ladies,” Juffin declaimed with lofty precision. “But without judicious counsel, my life has no meaning or purpose. I have heard that your wondrous powers were able to extend the measure of life of an inhabitant of this house, one who had lost the Spark, to a most remarkable degree.”

“Ah, yes; Olli, one of the young Makluks,” Tisa replied knowingly.

One of the young Makluks? I must admit, I thought the old woman had gotten it all wrong, but Juffin nodded right back at her. Then again, she had most likely known their common grandfather. (Later I found out that the crones were far older than I could ever have imagined. Here in Echo, the lifespan of an ordinary person is three hundred years, and greater longevity is a matter of personal stamina. So in their line of work, at the age of five hundred you’re still a spring chicken!)

“Olli was very strong,” Lady Mallis announced. “And if you think about the fact that the twelve strongest ladies in Echo guarded his shadow, you will understand that his life was too short by far! We, of course, thought that the Spark would return to him. In days long ago, that happened often, though you young ones don’t believe it. Young Olli didn’t believe it, either; but that wasn’t necessary. He still had a chance to get back the Spark!”

“I’ve never heard the likes of it, my Lady!” Juffin declared, his curiosity piqued. (Later he admitted to me that he had lied—“just to liven up the conversation.”) “I thought the poor fellow had lived surprisingly long, but it turns out that he died before he should have!”

“No one dies too early or too late; everyone dies in his own time. But you, a Kettari man, should know that! You look into the darkness, don’t you? But it wasn’t our fault that Olli died.”

“Of course, I have never had any doubt on that score, my Lady!”

“You doubt everything, you sly old fox. And that’s as it should be. I can tell you one thing—we don’t know why Olli died. And we should know. We need to know.”

“Braba knows, but won’t tell,” Lady Tisa broke in. “That’s why she refused to come to the house of the Makluks. And she won’t come. But there’s no need for this. Retari visited her the day after Olli’s death. Tell them, Retari! We never asked you about it, because we had other worries. But now, it seems the Kettarian has only one worry—to find out why Braba is afraid to come here. And until he finds out, he’s not going to give us a moment’s peace.”

Silence reigned. Then Juffin bowed graciously to Lady Tisa.

“You read my heart like an open book, my Lady!”

The old wisewoman smiled coquettishly at Juffin and winked. After this interlude of gallantry, everyone present stared intently at Lady Retari.

“Braba doesn’t understand a thing herself, but she’s mortally afraid. She hasn’t been able to work since then, so fearful is she—like a young girl. She says someone lured away Ollie’s shadow and nearly snatched her own. We were all sure that his shadow had departed on its own. We didn’t know why; but it departed. Quickly—like a woman who doesn’t want to give her love. But Braba says someone lured it away. Someone she couldn’t discern. But she was so frightened that we decided, why bother asking? You can’t get the shadow back. Why take on someone else’s fear?” and Lady Retari fell silent, at least a year, it seemed.

The witches sipped kamra in the stillness and crunched their cookies daintily. Sir Juffin meditated. Mr. Govins was portentously silent. I gazed at this quaint group of people in innocent admiration. Without warning, however, I felt the air in the room had grown so thick that it was impossible to breathe. Something horrible and disgusting entered for a moment, then instantly retreated, not touching anyone in the room except myself. And even I hadn’t time to realize what was happening; but a viscous lump of absolute terror penetrated my lungs when I breathed in as the shadow of some vile enigma encroached upon me, and then to my great relief disappeared as abruptly as it had come. It was probably “someone else’s fear,” as the old crone had just mentioned; but at the time I considered the episode to be a groundless mood shift—something very familiar to me. I didn’t even consider sharing this silly inner anxiety with Sir Juffin.

Later, I understood that I had been imprudently reticent. Those “silly inner anxieties” were an extremely important part of my future occupation, for it is the sacred duty of an employee of the Secret Force to report every vague presentiment, nightmare, skip of a heartbeat, or other spiritual tremor (though analysis of the situation and other deductions you can and ought keep to yourself). At the time, though, I just tried to forget about this unpleasant lump of someone else’s fear. My efforts met with almost immediate success.

“I know how a shadow departs,” Juffin finally announced. “Tell me wise Ladies, did none of you except Braba really sense that something was amiss?”

“We all sensed it,” Lady Mallis said. “Sensed it—and that was that. None of us knows what it was we sensed. We can’t always say what it is. It’s too strenuous a task for us, and it will be for you, though you peer into the darkness much more often than we do. And the lad there won’t be any help, either.”

I suddenly realized with horror that the old woman had focused her undivided attention on me.

“’Tis a secret, Sir. Just someone else’s bad secret,” Lady Tisa said, saving me. “None of us likes it. We didn’t wish to talk about it, for it’s pointless to talk about what you don’t know. But when you’re in the company of two gentlemen whose fate it is to peer into the darkness—well, we decided to tell all, though it won’t be of any benefit to you.”

And the three old crones, with the gracefulness of young felines, disappeared through the door.

Juffin! I started badgering him with my Silent Speech as soon as they were gone. What was that business about “two gentlemen peering into the darkness”? What did that mean?

Don’t concern yourself with nonsense. That’s just how these ladies see you and me. They know precious little about Invisible Magic; that’s why they imagine it to be “darkness.” It’s simpler for them that way. In general, you shouldn’t attach too much importance to what they say. Those old wisewomen aren’t too bad in practical matters—but in matters of theory, they’re no great shakes.

And with that Sir Juffin Hully stood up from the table.

“We’re leaving, Govins. We’ve got to do some thinking. Tell the master that he need not send anyone to the House by the Bridge. I’ll take care of all that myself. In the morning I’ll send you written permission allowing you to bury the poor fellow. But I can’t promise that everything else can be taken care of as quickly as the bothersome paperwork. You’ll just have wait it out, and moreover, I’ll be very busy in the next few days. And make sure no one hangs around in that bedchamber. Let it remain untidy, for Magicians’ sake! If I don’t show up for a time, Sir Makluk shouldn’t worry; I won’t forget about this matter, even if I wish I could . . . but if—”

“Yes, Sir. If something happens?”

“Let’s just hope nothing does. Better not go in there, all the same. See to it, dear Govins.”

“You can rely on me, Sir Venerable Head.”

“Wonderful. Sir Max, are you still alive? And you haven’t turned into a jug of kamra? Because that stuff can do that to you, you know . . .”

“Juffin, may I go into the room one last time?”

He raised his brow in surprise.

“Of course, although . . . all right, we’ll go together.”

We entered the twilit bedchamber. Everything was quiet and tranquil. The needle on Sir Juffin’s pipe jerked, and began again to seek a compromise between the “2” and the “3.” But that wasn’t why I wanted to return. Looking around, I immediately found the box with balsam soap that we unsuccessfully tried to charm earlier in the evening. It was still lying on the floor, halfway to the corridor. I lifted the box and put it in the pocket of my looxi, praise to the skies, an opportunity furnished by the local fashion.

I looked at Juffin guiltily. He chuckled. Never mind, Juffin would be none the worse for it; and he certainly deserved some light entertainment.

“What do you need that thing for, Max?” Juffin asked, when we had gone out into the garden and were traipsing toward home. “Do you always clean up the premises when you’ve been on a visit? Why did you rob my neighbor—’fess up!”

“You’ll laugh . . . you’re already laughing, Magicians be with you! But you saw yourself how scared it was! I just couldn’t abandon it there.”

“A box? You’re talking about a box?”

“Yes, the box. Why? I felt its fear, I saw it try to roll away, and if things can remember the past, it means that they are sentient, they are able to perceive and feel. That means they live their own inscrutable lives, doesn’t it? In that case, what’s the difference whether one rescues a damsel in distress or a box?”

Juffin burst out laughing. “I suppose it’s a matter of taste, of course! What an imagination you have, young man! Good going! I’ve lived a long time on this earth, but I’ve never taken part in the rescue of a box!”

He teased me until we reached the gate, then grew suddenly serious.

“Max, you’re a genius! Fantastic! I’m not sure about the inscrutable lives of boxes, but if you remove it from a zone of fear . . . Sinning Magicians! You’re absolutely right, Max! Of course we may be able to charm at home! Not right away, of course, but perhaps it may remember something, your sweet little thing. You thief you! And the old crone can eat her skaba! As if you and I can’t solve this case together! We’ve had harder nuts to crack, and we managed.”

I decided to take advantage of the fortuitous moment and inquire cautiously: “But still—what do you think they meant when they were talking about the darkness we peer into? That all makes me a bit uneasy.”

“And you should be uneasy about it,” Juffin snapped. “It’s completely understandable. Remember how you got here?”

“I do,” I murmured. “But I try not to think about it.”

“Very well. You’ll have plenty of time to think. But you have to agree, it doesn’t happen to everyone—to flit from one world to another, with all your wits about you and your body in one piece! You and I are the kind that happens to—and that’s not all that happens to us. The old crones practice magic, but not like everyone else here—once a year in their own kitchens. They practice very long and hard. You might say it’s the only thing they do. And experience tells them there’s something not quite right about us. That ‘not quite right’ is what they call ‘darkness.’ Understand?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“Okay, let me put it this way, then. Are you sometimes scared, or happy, just like that, out of the blue, apropos of nothing? You hurry out on some stupid errand, and suddenly you feel a thrill of improbable, intense, boundless joy? Or it happens that everything seems to be in its rightful place, your beloved is sleeping sweetly next to you, you’re young and full of as much energy as a puppy—and suddenly you feel you are suspended in emptiness, and a leaden sorrow clamps down on your heart, as though you were dead. Not only that, but as though you had never been alive. And sometimes you look at yourself in the mirror, and you can’t remember who that chap is, or why he’s there at all. Then your own reflection turns around and walks away, and you watch silently as it retreats. You don’t have to say anything. I already know that this happens to you from time to time. The same thing happens to me, Max; only I’ve had enough time to get used to it. It happens because something ineffable is reaching for us—we never know where and when it will show up and start tugging on our sleeve. The fact is, you and I have a talent for a strange craft that no one really understands. And, frankly, I can’t tell you anything about it that makes any sense. You know, it’s not customary to talk about this aloud. And it’s dangerous. Things like this should stay secret. There is one person here in Echo who understands more than we do about these things. You’ll meet him at some point. But until then—nary a word. Agreed?”

“Who am I going to talk to, I wonder, besides you? Chuff?”

“Well, yes—you can talk to Chuff, of course. And to me. But soon you’ll embark on a much stormier existence.”

“You’re always threatening that . . .”

“Wasn’t tonight enough proof for you? I would be glad to take you with me to the House by the Bridge, but things move slowly in Echo. I submitted the request for your appointment to the Court . . . yes, the day after our trip to the Glutton. As all matters in my department are decided with maximum efficiency and promptness, everything should be settled within two or three dozen days.”

“You call that ‘maximum efficiency and promptness’?”

“Yes, and so must you.”

Then we were home. Juffin went to his room, and I stayed behind, alone, just the time to think about the darkness into which I was peering. Those dames had given me a scare! And then Juffin, with his lecture about the secret reasons behind the jumps and starts in my moods . . . arghhh!

When I was in my own room, I pulled out the salvaged “box-in-distress” from the pocket of my looxi. Take it easy, sweetheart, Uncle Max may not be all there, but he’s kind and good! He’ll protect you from all misfortune; he’s just going to peer into the darkness . . . But at the very moment of the deepest flowering of my honestly acquired phobia, a warm clump of fur jumped out this very darkness: Max sad—don’t be sad! My little friend Chuff wagged his stumpy tail so violently that the devilish darkness scattered into little bits. I relaxed, banished from my mind the paranoid murmurings of the matronly sirens, and Chuff and I went to the living room to find something to eat while we read the evening news.

As it turned out, I didn’t go to sleep before dawn that day. I waited for Juffin to talk over the events of the evening one more time over a mug of kamra. I must admit, I expected that from that moment on, Sir Juffin would be wracking his brains over the mysterious murder. In other words, like good old Sherlock Holmes, or the equally old and good Commissioner Maigret, he would suck on his pipe for hours on end, and wander about at the scene of the crime. And at the end of yet another sleepless night, and not without my help, he would crack the case of the “ABC Gum Corpse.” Then everyone dances with delight.

I was sorely disappointed. Our morning conference lasted all of twenty minutes. The entire time, Sir Juffin speculated about my lonely future—that is, how I would survive the next three days without him. It turned out that the time for his annual friendly visit to the Royal Court had rolled around, and as this joyful occasion is granted by King only a few times a year, he was generally in no hurry to release his charming vassal. On average, according to Sir Juffin’s calculations, these forced circumstances lasted about three or four days. Then the cries of distress of his subjects, abandoned temporarily to the caprices of fate, would force the monarch to loosen his embrace and return his captive to the World again.

I must say, I understand His Majesty. In the literature of the Unified Kingdom, the detective novel does not seem to exist at all, and newspaper articles and dry accounts of the courtiers about all the other courtiers cannot compete with the juicy worldly gossip of Sir Juffin Hully, Venerable Head of all that transpires.

For my part, I coped fairly well with the loneliness. I walked a lot, gazed at passersby, learned the names of streets. At the same time I inquired about the prices of houses for lease. I was very particular about my choice of a future home. I wanted it to be close to the Street of the Copper Pots, at the end of which stood the House by the Bridge, the residence of the Headquarters of Perfect Public Order. At night I “did my homework”—again and again I grilled the objects of material culture about their past. It was pleasant to realize that I could already perform these tricks without Juffin’s guidance. Objects were increasingly willing to share their memories with me. Only the box from the bedchamber of the late Sir Makluk-Olli held its tongue with the obstinacy of a partisan of the Resistance, we observed no more outbursts of uncontrollable fear in it. Thank goodness for that!

Late on the evening of the fourth day, Sir Juffin Hully returned, laden with royal gifts, fresh news (to me all quite abstract), and problems from work that had accumulated in his absence. In short, neither that evening, nor the next, did we return to the subject of the Mysterious Murder in the Empty Room.

Eventually, life began to resume its normal pattern. Juffin started coming home earlier. We took up our leisurely dinner discussions again, and even our evening seminars. Two weeks had passed since the event of the murder in Sir Makluk’s house. That is to say, two weeks by my count—the locals don’t divide the year into weeks and months. They count days by dozens, and define their temporal coordinates very laconically—around such and such a day in about such and such a year. That’s all. So if we use the local method of calculating time, more than a dozen days had passed since our nocturnal visit to our neighbor’s house. This was too long to sustain the flame of my curiosity: it sparks like lightning, but it dies just as quickly if it finds no immediate sustenance.

Oh, if only the balsam-filled box that I rescued had begun to talk before I forgot about it and turned my attention to more garrulous objects! Then Sir Juffin gradually began to teach me more captivating things. Who knows how humdrum this silly matter could have ended up, had it not been for my own amnesia?

Somehow or other, the next sign of a fast-approaching tempest caught up with me early in the evening of what had otherwise been a delightful day. I was enjoying the masterpieces of the ancient poetry of Uguland, having dared for the first time to drag the weighty folio out of the dust of the library into the garden. I scrambled onto the branch of a spreading Vaxari tree, a wonderful variety of tree exceptionally well-suited for climbing by men of middle age who have fallen back into the habits of childhood.

From this vantage point, I noticed a man in gray hurrying over to our grounds from the direction of Sir Makluk’s house. I remembered immediately the circumstances of our prior visit, and decided to go inside the house just in case. Sir Juffin had still not returned, and I was determined to hear the news firsthand. I descended the tree too slowly for my own taste; but all the same I crossed the threshold before Sir Makluk’s servant reached the home stretch—the path of transparent colored pebbles that led up to the house.

In the hall I ran into Kimpa, who was already hurrying to admit the visitor. As soon as the door was opened, I declared:

“Sir Juffin Hully isn’t here at the moment, so I’m the one to talk to!”

Sir Makluk’s emissary was somewhat nonplussed, perhaps because at that time I still hadn’t gotten rid of the accent that so grated on the ears of the capital-dwellers. But my debonair appearance and deliberate manner, and maybe a sign from old man Kimpa that went unnoticed by me, had the desired effect.

“Sir Makluk requests that I inform Sir Venerable Head that old Govins has disappeared. In fact, no one has seen him since morning, something which hasn’t happened in more than 90 years! In addition, Sir Makluk commanded me to report that he is troubled by dark forebodings.”

I dismissed the emissary with a stern nod of my head. There were no two ways about it: I had to alert Juffin immediately. I had had no experience with this kind of situation until that moment, and while it isn’t so hard to use Silent Speech when your interlocutor is sitting right next to you, communicating with him when his whereabouts are unknown is an entirely different game. Sir Juffin had once tried to convince me that it didn’t make any difference. If it had worked once, the next time it would work just as easily. I was of another opinion, but perhaps I just lacked the experience or imagination.

Of course, I could have asked Kimpa’s help. There were no obstacles to this—it was not classified information, and my own ambition wouldn’t have stood in the way.

The truth is, it just didn’t occur to me to turn to Kimpa. And Kimpa, the most tactful of servants, wouldn’t have dared interfere in my affairs.

And so I tried to establish contact with Sir Juffin. Within the space of three minutes, I was wet with perspiration, disheveled, and on the verge of despair. It wasn’t working! I felt I was pinned up against a wall. That’s a short route to the conclusion that you’re a worthless nothing.

When I had given up all but the faintest of hopes, I tried one last time. And suddenly—it worked! I made the connection with Sir Juffin, though I can’t imagine how.

Juffin had summed up the situation in no time. What gives, Max?

He had tried many times in the past, always unsuccessfully, to challenge me to this metaphysical problem for “the advanced learner.” So he had reached a corresponding conclusion—“If this blockhead has finally managed to get through to me, the circumstances that prompted it must be dire, indeed!”

I gathered my wits about me and tried to explain it all in a single thought.

Good, Max. I’m on my way. Juffin was almost curt—generously sparing my depleted energies.

Having done my part, I sighed with relief and went to change—I hadn’t sweated like that in a blue moon! Kimpa looked at me with indulgence, but he tactfully refrained from making any remarks, God bless him!

By the time Juffin had arrived, I was completely ready—but still I neglected our “witness number one”: the little box with balsam. I would probably have remembered it with time, but Juffin wasn’t alone when he arrived and I got distracted. He was with his second-in-command, Sir Melifaro, and believe me, meeting this gentleman is like being at the epicenter of an earthquake that registers 5 to 6 on the Richter scale. Sir Melifaro is not only the Diurnal Representative of the Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force—he is the main traveling show of Echo. I’m sure you could get people to pay to see him. I’d buy a ticket myself once every dozen days if I weren’t forced to have this pleasure on a daily basis free of charge, as a bonus for good work.

On that day, though, I still didn’t know what was in store for me.

Into the living room rushed a handsome, dark-haired fellow—judging by appearances, of the same age as me. He was a “type” that was much coveted in postwar Hollywood, the kind that was recruited to play the “good” boxer or detective. However, the stranger’s attire made an even stronger impression on me than his face. Underneath his bright red looxi, an emerald-green skaba was just visible. His head was piled high with an orange turban, and bright yellow boots the color of egg yolk adorned his feet. I’m sure that if the daily costume of Echo-dwellers consisted of a hundred pieces, this clotheshorse would have chosen for himself every imaginable color and shade. But social custom did not yet permit him to blossom in his full glory.

The newcomer flashed his dark eyes, and raised his eyebrows so high that they disappeared under his turban. He covered his face with his hands in a theatrical gesture, and wailed, “I see you as in a waking dream, O marvelous barbarian, and I fear that your image will haunt me in my nightmares!” Then he turned a complete pirouette on the shaggy carpet, as though it were made of ice, and collapsed into an armchair, groaning from the exertion. After that, he froze as still as death (he even seemed to stop breathing), and studied me with a penetrating gaze, unexpectedly serious and somehow empty, completely at odds with his recent acrobatics.

I realized I had to greet him in some manner, too, so I covered my eyes with the palm of my hand, as one is supposed to do. But all I could utter was: “Okay.”

Melifaro grinned and unexpectedly (as everything he did was unexpected) winked at me.

“You, Sir Max, are quite a guy! The future nocturnal backside of our ‘Venerable Head.’ Don’t worry, I’m his diurnal backside, have been for sixteen years now. A person gets used to everything, you know.”

“It’s just a matter of time before the reputation of our office is toppled once and for all in the eyes of Sir Max!” Juffin hurried to intervene. “All my labors will turn to dust. He’ll realize that I’m a humble director of a Refuge for the Mad and rush back to the Barren Lands, suddenly seeing the advantages of life in the fresh air.”

I blinked helplessly.

“Was that everything you knew?” Juffin asked me. “No more news?”

“That wasn’t enough for you?”

“Of course it wasn’t, old chap!” Melifaro retorted. “They failed to tell you where the fellow disappeared to, what happened to him, and who’s to blame in all of this. And they didn’t take the trouble to bring the criminal to justice. So now we have to do their work for them!”

“Melifaro! Sir Max has already figured out that you’re the wittiest, the most irresistible, and the most magnificent of them all. He is beside himself with joy, having discovered the very source of the glory and might of the Unified Kingdom. And now we’re going to get down to work,” Sir Juffin commanded, somehow very calmly and tenderly. Melifaro snorted, then started issuing instructions.

“Max, you’re coming with us. Three is a crowd. I signed an order granting Sir Lonli-Lokli and his magic hands five Days of Freedom from Chores, and he wisely left town yesterday morning. Melamori is relieved of duty, as her influential daddykins missed her. And Sir Kofa Yox is keeping watch at our Pleasure Factory by the Bridge, instead of methodically chewing a steak in some Sated Skeleton or other, the poor bloke. But we ourselves will have a little snack, otherwise Sir Melifaro will lose the ability to think once and for all. And you are always up for that, as far as I’ve been able to find out, aren’t you?”

We snacked abundantly, but in great haste. Sir Melifaro, by the way, attempted to make it into the Guinness Book of Records in that category of strapping fellows who consume sources of nourishment in huge quantities before you could say Jack Robinson.

All the while, he regaled us with questions, asking me whether it was difficult to get along without sun-cured horsemeat, and asking Sir Juffin whether it might be possible to get a sandwich with the meat of some pickled mutinous Magician or other. (I was able to appreciate this joke only later, when Sir Kofa Yox gave me a comprehensive lecture about the most enduring urban legends.)

We walked over to Sir Makluk’s house in silence. Sir Juffin was thinking troubled thoughts, Melifaro whistled a tune absently, and I waited expectantly for my first slice of true adventure. I’ll say right off that I got much more than I had bargained for.

The usual man in gray admitted us at a small side door. I immediately felt ill at ease—not so much frightened as sad and disgusted. I had experienced something like this before, in those rare cases when I had to visit my grandmother. In that hospital there had been a special ward for the terminally ill and dying. Sweet little place . . .

Juffin cast a warning glance at me. Max, do you notice it, too?

“What is it?” I asked aloud, confused. Melifaro turned away in amazement, but said nothing.

Juffin preferred Silent Speech. It’s the smell of a foul death. I’ve come across this before. None of this bodes any good. He then continued out loud.

“All right, let’s go into the bedchamber. My heart tells me that the old man couldn’t resist and popped in this morning to tidy up. Melifaro, today you’ll take Lonli-Lokli’s place.”

“I won’t be able to pull it off. I can’t puff out my chest like he does.”

“Never mind. You don’t have to, just throw yourself into the scorching fire; that’s all there is to it. According to instructions, I can’t subject you to the risk of being deprived of my company. And Sir Max doesn’t have a clue about what to do after you enter the room.”

“So in that case, you won’t miss me, will you? I know, I know, you got sick of me a long time ago. Maybe you can just kick me out of the service and you’ll have a clean conscience? Think about it before it’s too late!” Sir Melifaro said with a smirk.

“Yes, you see, I’m planning to take your place,” I explained. “And for your boss, it’s easier just to kill someone than to offend him without cause. So—”

“Well, fine,” Melifaro replied with a sigh of resignation. “Of course, otherwise why would he have fed me? He was granting me my last wish.”

“Gentlemen, could you perhaps be so kind as to shut up?” said Juffin.

We bit our tongues and fell in step behind our stern leader until he halted by the door to the bedchamber.

“It’s here, Melifaro. Welcome.”

Melifaro didn’t try to pull any stunts in the tradition of a brave storm-trooper from the movies. He simply opened the door and entered the empty chamber. The epicenter of the “smell of a foul death” was right here—judging by how unwell I felt. But what must be done, must be done! And so I followed right behind Melifaro.

For a brief moment it seemed to me that I had died many years before. Then I began to feel wracked with a longing for death—a peculiar kind of nostalgia; but a tiny part of the phlegmatic, sensible Max was still alive in me. So I got a grip on myself—or, rather, the sensible kid gathered up all the rest of the Maxes, all howling in a frenzy of morbid longing.

Sir Melifaro, who until that moment had remained blissfully ignorant, was now also on the alert. He mumbled gloomily, “Not the cheeriest place in Echo, Chief. Why did you drag me in here? Bring on the music and the girls!”

Then Sir Juffin spoke in a voice that sounded like it came from someone else:

“Back off, boys! This time my pipe is going off the scales!”

The dial on the pipe was calibrated to detect magic up to the hundredth degree. This should be plenty, as even during the romantic Epoch of Orders, masters who had greater abilities were few and far between. So if the wand was going “off the scales,” the magic here must be greater than the hundredth degree—say, the 173rd or 212th. From my perspective, it was all the same at that point.

“What’s going—?” Melifaro tried to ask, but Juffin shouted:

“Clear out! On the double!”

In the same instant, he tugged me by the leg, and I crashed onto the floor, just in time to notice Melifaro’s legs flying up in a bizarre somersault as he jumped out of the window. Well, almost jumped out. The sound of shattering glass rang out, and shards flew everywhere, but Melifaro’s flight was broken off abruptly. He slid down onto the floor, turned around, and started walking slowly away from the window.

“Where are you going, you fool! Get out, I say!” Juffin shouted, but without much hope. Even I understood that the fellow wasn’t walking of his own accord. I thought I could see a spiderweb, glistening like cold crystal, envelop Melifaro. His face became completely childlike and helpless. He looked at us from someplace far away, from a dark, intoxicated distance. He smiled awkwardly, blissfully. Slowly, he walked toward the source of the web that had ensnared him, toward what had recently been the large, antique mirror.

Juffin raised his hands above his head. It seemed to me that a warm yellow light flared up inside him, and he began to glow like a kerosene lamp. First the spiderweb that enveloped Melifaro became illuminated; then Melifaro himself grew bright. He stopped and turned toward us. Now he’ll be all right, I thought. But the warm yellow glow faded, and died. Melifaro, still smiling his beatific smile, took another step toward the mirror’s dark maw.

Juffin bunched himself up into a tight mass and started hissing. The spiderweb shuddered, and several threads broke off with a strange sound that made my stomach churn. In the darkness, the thing we took to be a mirror started to shimmer and shift. Two empty eyes were staring at us, gleaming with the same crystalline chill as the spiderweb. Something that looked like the face of a dead ape materialized around the brilliant, fiery eyes. In the place where mammals usually have a mouth, a gaping, moist darkness appeared, repulsive and yet captivating. The cavernous black hole was framed by what appeared at first to be a beard, but peering closer, I saw with horror that the “beard” was alive. Around the creature’s hideous mouth, hairy growths like spider legs wriggled madly, writhing of their own accord. The creature gazed at Melifaro with a cold curiosity; it didn’t seem to notice us at all. Melifaro smiled, and said quietly, “You can see that I’m on my way.” And he took another step.

Juffin tore off like a whirlwind. Screaming in an unnatural, strangled voice, and beating the floor rhythmically with his feet, he crossed the room at a diagonal, then again, and yet again. The rhythm of his stamping and shouting, oddly enough, comforted me. I stared transfixed at this dizzying shamanic frenzy. The spiderweb trembled, then faded and went dark. I watched the mirror creature follow Juffin’s every move with its fading gaze.

It’s dying, I thought calmly. It was always dead; but now it’s dying—how very odd.

Juffin quickened his pace; the pounding of his feet became louder and louder, his cries became a roar that drowned out all my thoughts. His body seemed disproportionately large and dark to me, like a huge shadow, and the walls of the room shone with an azure light. One of the small tables suddenly rose up into the air and dashed toward the mirror, but burst into pieces halfway there. The splinters of wood mixed with the shards of broken glass.

Then I realized that I was falling asleep . . . or dying. If there was one thing I had never had any intention of doing, it was dying in the presence of a dead ape with a hairy mug.

Then, from somewhere in the depths of the room, an enormous candlestick flew out with a shrill whistle. It seemed to be aimed directly at my forehead. I was suddenly possessed with fury. I jerked violently, and the candlestick crashed down, an inch from my head. Then it was all over.

Well, to say that it was “all over” was an exaggeration. But the light, the spiderweb, and even the “smell of a foul death” were gone. The mirror again looked like a mirror—but it didn’t reflect anything. Sir Melifaro stood motionless in the center of the room among the domestic ruins. His face was now a sad, lifeless mask. The crystalline spiderweb drooped in dull, stringy, but completely real fibers that looked like spun sugar. Melifaro, poor fellow, was completely wrapped up in the sticky mess. Sir Juffin Hully sat next to me on his haunches and examined my face intently.

“You okay, Max?”

“I don’t know. Better than him, anyway,” I said, nodding at Melifaro. “What was that?”

“That was magic of the 212th degree, my friend. What did you think of it?”

“What do you think I think!”

“I think it’s all very strange. Technically, you should be in the same condition he’s in.” We both turned around to gaze at the frozen figure of Melifaro.

“Tell me, you did begin to fall asleep, didn’t you? What happened next?”

“To be honest, I didn’t know whether I was falling asleep or dying. I thought . . . I didn’t want to die in the company of that monkey. Dumb, wasn’t it? And when the candlestick flew at me, I finally got furious—at the stupid piece of iron, at the monster in the mirror, even at you, for some reason. And I decided, no way, I’m not dying here! And, that’s about it.”

“Well, you’re a piece of work, kid! Until now it was thought to be absolutely impossible; and then he up and gets offended! And refuses to die, to spite all his enemies . . . Funny. But all the same, how do you feel?”

Suddenly I wanted to laugh. Who does he think he is, Doctor Dolittle? But paying attention to my sensations, I realized that I really didn’t feel quite right. For example, I understood perfectly what had happened here. I didn’t need to question Juffin. I already knew that twice he had tried, unsuccessfully, to conquer the strange power that resided in the mirror. The third time he simply made the world in the room stand stock-still. I even knew how he had done this, although I couldn’t have repeated it even to myself. I also understood that now it was impossible to destroy the creature in the mirror without harming Melifaro—the spiderweb had bound them together like Siamese twins.

At the same time . . . at the same time I was tormented by other, unrelated, questions. For example, how would Sir Juffin look if I took a splinter of glass from the broken window and dragged it across his cheek? And what would his blood taste like? And . . .

I licked my parched lips.

“Max,” Juffin ordered sternly. “Get a grip on yourself, or else you’ll crack up. I can help you when we leave this room, but it would be better if you managed on your own. Compared to what you’ve already done, it’s a piece of cake!”

I fumbled around in the basement of my soul in search of the small, sensible fellow who often comes to the rescue during emergencies. It looked like he wasn’t home.

Suddenly, I thought of some old B-movie about vampires. The main characters had faces white with greasepaint and mouths unappetizingly smeared with blood—like babies left with a good-for-nothing nanny and jam for breakfast. I imagined myself in that guise: Max, the regular guy, beloved of girls and house pets. At first I felt ashamed; then I burst out laughing. Juffin joined in.

“What an imagination you have, lad! Oh, you kill me!”

“It’s not my imagination, I just have a good memory. If only you could see that movie!” I cut myself off abruptly, and asked, “Wait, you read my thoughts, too?”

Juffin, unperturbed, confirmed my suspicions. “Sometimes. If it’s necessary for the task at hand.”

But by then I wasn’t even listening to him. I was consumed again by the desire to take a sip of his blood. One small sip. My stomach knotted up in a spasm of hunger. I couldn’t think of anything but the taste of Juffin’s blood. Ugh, how vile! I’m getting obsessed!

“Am I losing my mind?”

“Something like that, Max. But it’s doing you good, it seems. You know, I think that if you were able to withstand my curse, you can certainly deal with your own madness! I can cure you, so if you’re in trouble, let me know. But . . . you know . . .”

I did know. Along with madness came the secret knowledge, which I had so suddenly come to possess. And the circumstances were such that the qualified help of a psychologically unbalanced vampire were far more useful to Sir Juffin than the confused bleating of the normal, ignorant Max. On the other hand, if he accidentally cut his hand, I could . . . again, I started to drool. I feverishly swallowed my bitter saliva, grabbed a shard of glass, and slashed my own palm. Sharp pain, the salty taste of blood—it brought me an unprecedented sense of relief.

“Could you help me up, Juffin. My head’s spinning . . .”

He smiled, nodded, and held out his hand. I stood up, wondering how I could have spent my whole life at such dizzying heights. The floor was on the other side of the universe, if anywhere. Leaning on Juffin for support and carefully shuffling my benumbed feet, I moved out into the corridor.

I knew what was in store for us. The powers summoned to life by the curse of my protector had upset the balance of the World. Nothing to write home about, even by the standards of the Left Bank—but on the scale of the house! Any closed space is immediately saturated through and through with this harmony-destroying radiation. We had to “stop life” in the place right away, already gradually losing its contours, to restore order to it. There was no time to spare.

All that happened is still right before my very eyes, though at the same time the memory is vague.

At first we seemed to roam aimlessly through the enormous house. The people in gray tried to run away from us, although some of them snarled at us and bared their teeth.

Sometimes they behaved even more bizarrely. In the large salon with the fountain, where Sir Makluk had received us the first time, two boys executed an intricate ritual dance in complete silence. They gracefully ensnared themselves in what looked like neon streamers. When we approached them, however, we saw with horror that the streamers were their own intestines, which the boys were pensively drawing from their own stomachs. There was no blood—and no pain, either, apparently. The viscera glistened in the twilight of the huge hall, reflected in the streams of water from the fountain.

“There’s nothing we can do to save them,” Juffin whispered. With a careful gesture he suspended the scene. Now that the curse that stopped the World had been carried out, there was no need to start the whole process all over each time. The curse followed behind Juffin like the train of a garment, and I, in some way, helped him carry it. The only thing to do was to wrap each room as we came to it in the shadow of the curse, forcing people to freeze in the most eccentric poses.

We wandered through the house; our journey seemed to have no end. Sometimes I was beset by the thirst for blood, but I was too preoccupied by warding off the attacks of the frenzied household items hunting us down. More than anything else, I was insulted by the attack of a thick volume of the Chronicles of Uguland.

“Hey! I read you, you jerk!” I shouted indignantly, fending off the assault of the savage fount of knowledge with a weighty cane with which I had sensibly armed myself at the start of our campaign. Sir Juffin put a stop to this scene, as well.

In one of the rooms I saw my own reflection in a mirror and shuddered. Where had those burning eyes and sunken cheeks come from? When had I become so emaciated and haggard? I had eaten not so very long ago! Actually, from Count Dracula’s point of view, I had never eaten anything worthwhile. Ugh! How disgusting! But it wasn’t too difficult to keep myself in check. A person grows used to everything. We’ll leave it at that.

We roamed through the house. It seemed that was the way it would always be from now on: time had stopped, we had died, and ended up in our individual, honestly earned purgatory. In one of the rooms, we came upon Sir Makluk himself. He was occupied with domestic duties: he was industriously rolling up an enormous bookcase, with all the books inside it. The most amazing thing was that he was already halfway finished. The old man turned to us and asked amiably how we were doing. “Soon everything will be well,” Juffin promised, and Sir Makluk froze in the middle of his monstrous labors. Yet another statue in this newly established wax museum. A youth in gray was shuffling around on the threshold, quietly snarling and clapping his hands rhythmically. In a moment, he froze, too.

Then we walked through the empty corridor, and it seemed to me that I was lagging behind ourselves, because for a fraction of a second I observed the backs of two heads. One belonged to Sir Juffin, and the other was my own.

“Are you tired, Sir Max?” Juffin asked with a smile.

“Let’s get out of here,” I replied mechanically.

“Sure. What is there left for us to do here? Get ready. Soon you’ll be fine.”

“I already feel pretty normal. Everything has passed, except for the nausea.”

“That’s just hunger. A couple bucketfuls of my blood and it will disappear like magic!”

“Very funny.”

“If I didn’t laugh I’d retch at the sight of you. Have you looked in the mirror?”

“You think you looked any better when you hissed at the monster in the bedchamber?”

“Yes, I can only imagine. Onward, Max! We both truly deserve a breather.”

We went out into the garden. It was already getting dark. The bright round orb of the moon lit up Juffin’s weary face; his light eyes shone yellow. The yellow light enveloped me, and I thought stupidly, surprised: Why do people need eyes! Aren’t lanterns enough for them? That was my last thought. To be honest, I could have gotten along without that one, too . . .

Then I looked at my wounded hand, and blacked out.

Do you think I came to a week later in a soft bed, holding the hand of a pretty nurse? Think again! You still don’t understand what it means to work for Sir Juffin Hully. Do you think he’d let me lie around unconscious? Not he!

They brought me around immediately; true, in a very pleasant way. I found myself slumped against a tree with my mouth full of some amazing potion. Kimpa was kneeling at my side with a cup, which I reached out for eagerly. Another gulp of the reviving liquid was administered to me.

“Yum!” I said. And then demanded, “More!”

“That’s enough!” Juffin insisted. “I’m not stingy, but Elixir of Kaxar is the strongest tonic known to our science. Black Magic of the Eighth Degree! But I didn’t tell you that.”

“And who could I possibly tell? You, I suppose.”

“You never know . . . Well, still hankering after a little blood?”

I listened attentively to my body’s voice. It wasn’t calling out for blood. Then I turned my attention to the other aspects of my existence. Hm, newly acquired wisdom also nowhere in evidence. Although . . .

“Looks like there’s still something left from all that happened—though not like back there, of course.”

Juffin nodded.

“That shake-up did you good, Max. You never know what’s coming. Boy, what a day it was! But all joking aside, Melifaro is in deep trouble.”

“Those pathological specimens back at the fountain are in it even deeper.”

Sir Juffin waved his hand indifferently.

“It’s too late for them already. Helping the others will be as easy as one-two-three. But Melifaro, poor lad, has only a small chance. Let’s go home, Sir Max. We’ll feast, mourn, and think.”

At home, the first thing we did was to consume everything in sight in the kitchen. This revived me even more. The process of meditative mastication stimulates mental activity. My own, at least.

Just before dessert a belated ray of enlightenment visited me. I sat suddenly upright in the armchair, swallowed a piece of something that went down the wrong way, started coughing, and reached for a glass of water. To top off all the other misfortunes and mishaps of the day, I mistook a jug of the strongest Jubatic firewater for regular water, and chugged it down in one burning swig.

Juffin observed me with the interest of a research scientist.

“Whence this sudden passion for alcohol? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m an idiot,” I admitted despondently.

Juffin rushed to console me. “Naturally, but don’t be so hard on yourself. You have plenty of other abilities.”

“I completely forgot about our witness! The little box! I had planned to chat with it at my leisure, but—”

Sir Juffin’s face underwent a sudden change.

“I also have plenty of other abilities. And now is just the time to think about them. An inexcusable blunder! You had every right to forget about the box—but me! I always suspected that the dimwittedness of Boboota Box was contagious. All the symptoms are there—I’m terribly sick. Go get your treasure and bring it here, Max. Let’s see what it can tell us.”

I went to my room. One of my slippers was lying on top of my pillow. On top of it, Chuff was dozing peacefully. I gingerly touched his shaggy ruff. Chuff smacked his lips, but didn’t wake up. And he was right not to—this was no time for waking up.

I found the little box at the bottom of one of the drawers, and tip-toed back out. My hands trembled slightly, for some reason. I felt a foreboding in my heart. What if it didn’t want to talk this time, either? Never mind, Juffin would think of something. He would shake the soul loose from it. I wonder what the soul of a box looks like? I cleared my throat, and the heavy feeling in my chest began to dissipate.

The dessert that goodhearted Kimpa decided to regale the exhausted heroes with exceeded my wildest expectations. This meant that the interrogation of the box was postponed for another quarter of an hour.

Finally, Sir Juffin made his way into the study. I followed behind, squeezing the smooth body of our singular and precious witness in my cold, moist hands. No denying, I was nervous. Something told me the little box was ready to talk to us, and this unnerved me all the more. I had always been fond of horror films, but now I would have been glad to watch The Muppet Show. Just for the sake of variety.

This time, the preparations for communicating with the box were far more elaborate than before. Sir Juffin rummaged around for a long time in the drawer where he kept the candles. Finally, he chose one, bluish-white, with an intricate design formed by tiny dark-red smatterings of wax. For five minutes or so he tried to start a fire using some kind of awkward flint stone, the workings of which I couldn’t fathom. At long last his efforts met with success. Placing the candle by the far wall, Juffin lay on his stomach in the opposite corner and gestured to me to join him. This I did. The floor in the study was bare and cold; there were no rugs. I thought: perhaps these inconvenient little rituals qualify as a kind of bribe to the “powers of the unknown.” Are the “powers of the unknown” really so petty?

Everything was ready. The little box occupied a spot exactly in the middle, between us and the candle. I had to exert very little effort to reach the little box’s memory. The box seemed even to have been pining for the opportunity to talk to someone. The “picture show” began with a bang—we just had to watch.

Sometimes my attention wandered. I had never had to perform this feat of concentration for more than an hour at a time in the past. When this happened, Juffin silently handed me a cup of Elixir of Kaxar. Once in a while he also took a nip of the herbal infusion. I don’t know whether he really needed it, or was just taking advantage of the situation.

The box, a clever little thing, showed us only what we were really interested in! True, Sir Juffin had often said that objects are inclined to remember first those events in which magic is present. He must have been right. But I liked to think that the little box was very much aware of what we were seeking. They say that we become sincerely attached to someone we help without expecting anything in return. Judging by my involuntary tenderness toward the box pilfered from Makluk’s bedchamber, this was certainly the case.

It started with the fracas involving the tub, which the injured party had told us about recently. There was the fragile old man with the handsome, weary face of an ascetic, the capricious expression of a spoiled child frozen on it. Our acquaintance Maddi is holding the washbowl. The old man’s little finger dips into the water. His lips curl in displeasure. The servant gets up off his knees, goes toward the door. The face of the sick man, contorted with rage, assumes a kind of demonically cheerful expression . . . he pitches and scores! The washbowl made from the finest china (we must presume) strikes the forehead of the unlucky fellow and smashes to smithereens.

Stunned, blinded by water and a thin stream of his own blood, Maddi executes an agile sideways leap worthy of an Olympic medal—if the Olympic Committee recognized the sideways leap as a full-fledged sport. The fatal mirror lay in the direct path of the poor Maddi, and blocked his flight. Nevertheless, everything turns out all right—no broken noses or missing teeth. No irreparable damage has been done—Maddi just bumps his face against the mirror, smeared it with his blood mixed with the water, and that is all.

Astonished, he turns to Sir Olli. At the sight of his face covered with blood, the fury of the old man turns to fear; the capricious grimace to an expression of shamefaced guilt. Peace negotiations get underway.

None of those involved in the event noticed what we were able to see. About the surface of the old mirror skittered a light ripple, like a sigh. In the places where the unlucky servant’s daubs of blood had touched the ancient glass, something began to pulsate and move. In a moment, it was all over. Only the mirror had become slightly darker, and deeper. But who pays attention to things like that? Sir Olli’s lips began to form sounds, a timid smile of relief appeared on Maddi’s bloodstained face. From behind the door someone’s head appeared. End of scene. The gloom thickened in front of us for a moment.

In a few seconds this gloom became the cozy darkness of the bedchamber. The weak light from a sliver of moon played over the sunken cheeks of Sir Olli. Something woke the old man up. I could tell that he was frightened. I felt his fear with my whole body—his helplessness and despair. I heard how he tried calling out to the servants; I felt that for the first time in his life something didn’t happen when he wished it to; just like today, when I couldn’t reach Juffin with my call. But in my case, I just lacked experience, though I had enough strength. Plus, in the end, I did manage to get through. Sir Olli, however, no longer had the strength to use Silent Speech. He was overcome by an icy horror. Something utterly alien and uncanny, which he could neither control nor understand, was in the room with him. For a moment it seemed to me that I saw a tiny object crawling along the old man’s cheek. I was seized by a shudder of disgust.

“Max, do you see that tiny vile thing?” Juffin asked in a whisper.

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Don’t look directly at it. Even better, don’t look at it at all. It’s a very powerful nasty little thing! The Master of the Mirror can take away your shadow, even now, when it is just a vision. Now I understand why old Lady Braba was frightened out of her wits—she’s the most gifted Seer in Echo. Not everyone has the strength to discern something like that—thank goodness! Take a sip of the elixir Max; a bit of protection wouldn’t hurt you at this point . . . There—the monster is going back into the mirror. In the places where the blood had smudged the mirror, he now has a door. You can look now. Have you ever seen a shadow disappear? Look, look!”

My trembling passed; my fear, as well. I concentrated again, and almost immediately saw the familiar outlines of the bedchamber. A semi-transparent Sir Makluk-Olli, looking younger but deathly scared, stood beside the mirror and looked at the other Sir Makluk-Olli, lying immobile in the bed. The surface of the mirror shuddered. The shadow (apparently, it was a shadow) sobbed helplessly, turned to the mirror, then tried to step back, to no avail. It didn’t melt, but seemed to disperse into the air in thousands of little shimmering flames of light. The flames burned out quickly, but I had time to notice that several of them disappeared into the mirror’s glassy surface. Five little flames: the exact number of poor Maddi’s spots of blood on the mirror.

Then the fear subsided, sharply and absolutely. The darkness of the bedroom became cozy and comforting—although there was now a dead man in the room. After all, death is something natural and predictable, unlike Magic of the 200th and Something Degree, be it black, white, or gray-brown-raspberry colored.

I realized I had stopped distinguishing the outline of our vision. Sir Juffin nudged me with his elbow. The show went on.

It was light again in the bedchamber. I saw a nice-looking young man in a festive bright-orange skaba. That was, of course, the hapless Nattis, the apprentice-courtier, who regrettably had not stayed home in the grand city of Gazhin. The young fellow smiled shyly, revealing the childish dimples in his cheeks. Then he concentrated hard and assumed a comically threatening countenance. Just then, Mr. Govins appeared in the frame—there was no longer any doubt in my mind about his sad fate. The mentor handed the pupil a razor, the handle of which might have inspired a nervous tic in any antique collector. Even I appreciated it.

I became hopelessly distracted and reached for the miracle elixir. Sir Juffin looked at me slightly askance, and not without suspicion.

“Just a drop,” I whispered guiltily.

“Never mind me, boy! I’m simply very envious . . . Well, give me a slug, too!”

When my vision returned to me, Nattis had already gotten down to work. He dragged the razor carefully over his cheek, smiling slightly at his own thoughts. The razor gradually crawled closer and closer to the pulsing, bluish vein on his slender boyish neck. Nevertheless, there was nothing unusual about it—it was an ordinary shaving routine.

But the mirror was not sleeping. At a certain moment, several points on its surface shuddered, and the icy horror again gripped my heart, fastened on it like an old Lovelace eyeing the appetizing derrière of a young girl.

Sir Juffin tweaked my chin gently.

“Turn away. Another improper scene. I myself try not to watch things like this. You know, they told me about these kinds of things long ago. And at the end of the story they hinted at the fact that it was better to make peace with such a creature than to struggle against it . . . Mmm, my neighbor has nice furniture, you can’t deny it! And yet he looks like such a nice man . . . Well, the boy, of course submitted to its whispering . . . Ah, Max! Now you must look very carefully. I’ve never seen anything like it! Only, be careful—don’t overrate your own strength.”

The first thing I saw was a helpless grin on the fellow’s face that closely resembled the awkward smile on our unfortunate Melifaro. The dimples froze forever in his cheeks, the smooth left one, and the unshaven right one. And blood, a great deal of blood. Blood poured over the mirror, which shivered in excitement under its spurting. This is how the breath of an inexperienced diver quickens as he struggles to reach the surface. There was no longer any doubt: blood returned life to the mirror, which only seemed to be a mirror, but was really a slumbering door to another, very foul place, to such a vile little place I sensibly averted my eyes and took a deep breath, as I had begun to give in to the nauseating rhythm in a very unpleasant way. Again I peeked cautiously. Nattis, of course, was already lying on the floor; Govins stared at his face, transfixed, and didn’t see how the bloody mirror, sated now, shuddered one last time, then grew dark and quiet—for the time being, of course. People crowded into the room. The vision disappeared.

“Juffin,” I said quietly. “So you know what this is?”

“I know what there is to know, insofar as it’s possible to know at all. This, Max, is a legend, you see. And it’s a legend I haven’t allowed myself to believe up until now. Well, I mean, whether I believed it or not—that’s not the point. I just didn’t bother to give it much thought. And lo and behold . . . well, never mind. Look! Now comes the most interesting part.”

“I wouldn’t mind something slightly more boring, Juffin. I’m feeling sick already.”

“What did you expect? Sure it’s sickening . . . It’s okay, though. After a debut like this, your job in the service will seem like a piece of cake! Things like this don’t happen every day, you know. Generally they don’t happen at all.”

“I hope not. Though I am lucky when it comes to entertainment.”

Next episode. We saw how Krops Kooly appeared in the bedchamber, another nice-looking young fellow with hair the color of an orange—which, by the way, is considered to be an undisputed sign of masculine strength and beauty in Echo. In the case of Krops Kooly, this belief was absolutely justified. There are many attractive people here, I thought suddenly. Many more than where I come from. Although they themselves aren’t aware of it, they have completely different esthetic norms. I wonder if I am considered to be attractive here, or a total scarecrow? Or what?

A very relevant question, indeed.

Meanwhile, the redhead went robustly through the motions of tidying the room. What else can you do if someone sends you to clean up a long-empty room, which is nevertheless cleaned up every day? He busied himself in every corner, menacingly waving his feather duster about—the only tool of his trade. Several minutes later it wasn’t even worth going through this. The room was in a pristine state. Then young Krops apparently decided that he had earned a rest. He stopped in front of the mirror and studied his face. With his fingers he pulled the corners of his eyes slightly. Then he let them go with a sigh of regret. It seemed that the almond-shaped variety had been tried before many times, and each time he found it more to his liking. Then he examined his nose with a critical air. (Show me a young person of either sex who is satisfied with his or her nose.)

I’m afraid that this trifling dissatisfaction was the last feeling he experienced in this life. The transparent spiderweb was already glistening on his sleeve. In a few seconds the boy ended up in the middle of an almost invisible cocoon. I felt in my stomach the dull relief that gripped the poor fellow—everything became irrevocably simple. YOU MUST GO THERE! And orange-haired Krops Kooly stepped into the depths of the looking glass. His helpless smile again resembled the expression on the petrified Sir Melifaro.

I turned away when I realized that my feelings coincided unpleasantly with the experiences of young Krops: I already almost felt how I was being consumed; and most disgusting of all, I felt I could easily grow to like it! The decomposing ape face appeared before me. The cavernous orifice of the mouth surrounded by squirming spider legs seemed so calm and inviting, such a desirable haven . . .

I took a bracing gulp of Elixir of Kaxar. Yes, Magic of the Eighth Degree—it’s really something! It’s devilishly delicious, and all your delusions seem to blow away like a puff of smoke! Since childhood I had been taught that only the bitterest, most foul-tasting concoctions could do you any good—and here I had discovered that it was all poppycock! Good news!

Convinced that my good sense was still in working order, I forced myself to return to the vision. Again, the empty bedchamber, tidy and clean.

“You see, Max?” Juffin’s elbow jabbed my long-suffering side. “You see?”

“What?”

“That’s exactly it—there is ab-so-lute-ly nothing there! Everything ended right then and there, like it had been switched off. It’s no wonder my gauge read only two to three that evening.”

It suddenly dawned on me. Evidently, the cheerful adventure in loving memory of Count Dracula really had raised my poor little IQ.

“After it eats, it sleeps . . . right? And nothing happens, because the mirror sleeps with its victims inside. And there’s no magic! Right?”

“Right. That’s how it fooled us. All our suspicions came to naught with one glance at the indicator on my pipe. Magic usually exists in the object in which it is invested. It either exists or it doesn’t. But this monstrous piece of furniture—it’s alive. And a living creature is sometimes wont to go off into the world of dreams. When a magus sleeps, all gauges fall silent. Most likely they are going crazy in other worlds, if such gauges were to exist in other worlds. Which, frankly speaking, I doubt. Well, let’s go back into the living room, Sir Max.”

“You know me—always ready for a snack!”

Sir Juffin got up off the floor, cracked his knuckles, and stretched. I carefully picked up the little box and put it in my pocket. I had always wanted a talisman. Now, it appeared, I had one at last. This one was plenty.

The candle, in the meantime, had burned out. I reached out mechanically to lift the stub up off the floor. There was nothing there. Nothing! By then, I wasn’t surprised, and I just filed it away.

We returned to the living room. The sky was growing light behind the window. We had a nice little sit-down, I remarked to myself indifferently. It had been twelve hours since Sir Makluk’s messenger arrived! Think of that!

The kamra was exquisite. The imperturbable Kimpa brought us a plate with tiny cookies that melted in the mouth. A sleepy Chuff came out to join us, wagging his tail. Right away, Juffin and I began a silent contest: who could feed Chuff the most cookies? Chuff succeeded in pleasing and amusing both of us, flying through the room like a small, shaggy torpedo. Having eaten his fill, he settled down between us under the table.

“Max,” Juffin said, suddenly sad. “Now I’m not sure whether Melifaro has even the slightest chance. We can’t just grab him by the scruff of the neck, pull him out of the room, and then bring him to his senses. He already belongs to the mirror, and it’s impossible to break those kinds of ties while life is on hold. When the mirror comes to life again, it will demand its victim, and take it anywhere it can get it—even from another world. I could, of course, destroy the monster. Shurf Lonli-Lokli can, too. But I’m not sure that anyone will be able to kill it fast enough to keep Melifaro on this side of life. And I can’t let everything remain as it is now. That can’t go on indefinitely. I must put an end to the mirror and its ravenous Master. But you can’t just destroy anything you want to while the world stands still! To kill the monster, I need to wake him up. And that means sacrificing Melifaro to him after all. You understand that that isn’t a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I don’t even want to consider the possibility! It’s a vicious circle, Max, a vicious circle.”

I reached for another cookie absently. I was sad. Before this, it would never even have entered my head that Sir Juffin, a man who had transferred me from one world to another in his spare time (tell me, what could be more improbable!) could grow so despondent and weary. I understood that there were limits to his might. This made me feel lonely and uncomfortable. I crunched my cookie loudly in the quiet room. A vicious circle . . . suddenly, an idea took my breath away. No, it couldn’t be as simple as that! If it had been that simple, Sir Juffin would certainly have thought of it himself. And yet . . .

“Juffin!” I called out hoarsely. I stopped, cleared my throat, and began again. “This is probably very stupid—but you said ‘a vicious circle.’ So, when one mirror is placed opposite another, that’s also a vicious circle. I was thinking—maybe if the monster sees its own reflection, they’ll want to feast on each other?” I finally plucked up the courage to look Juffin in the eye. He was looking at me, his mouth agape. Then the dam burst.

“Sinning Magicians! Do you have any idea what you’ve just said, lad? Are you aware of what a unique specimen you are? Tell me honestly!”

I must admit, I never expected such a storm of enthusiasm. The first few seconds I enjoyed the effects of my performance; then I began to feel embarrassed. I hadn’t made any shocking discovery. And it wasn’t even certain whether it would work, though something told me it would. A similar presentiment seemed to flood Juffin’s heart. “It will work—and how, it will work!” he cried jubilantly.

I stood up from the table, stretched, and went over to the window. The beauty of the sunrise could compensate for any sleepless night. I’ll tell you, the dawn is much more impressive when it comes as a surprise than when you dread its arrival.

“Go to sleep, Max,” Juffin urged me. “I’ve summoned Lonli-Lokli. He’ll be here in a few hours. Sir Shurf and his wonder-working hands. You’ll like him. But now you can rest awhile. I’m not going to let this chance slip by, either.”

“What do you mean by ‘wonder-working hands’?”

“You’ll see, Max, you’ll see. Sir Lonli-Lokli is our pride and joy. Try not to garble his name—he’s a real stickler in the matter of his own moniker . . . and not just that. I can’t begin to convey to you the pleasure that’s in store. But now—beddie-bye!”

In no mood to protest, I headed for my room. I fell onto the soft floor and wrapped myself in a furry blanket, as happy as I had ever been. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until that moment. All the same, something interfered in my bliss. I raised my head with difficulty; I almost had to pry open my eyelids with my fingers. Of course—on the pillow lay a single slipper, left there by a small fetishist named Chuff. The soft tap-tap of paws warned me that the culprit wasn’t far. I put the footwear back in its proper place. Then Chuff decided there was room for two on the pillow. I had no objections.

“Wake me up when this handyman Lonli-Lokli shows up, okay?” I asked, turning away from the excessively moist nose.

Chuff gave a conciliatory snuffle. Max sleeping. Tomorrow guests. Need to get up. Wake him. The logical deductions of this understanding dog drifted through my brain. And then I wasn’t there.

Strangely enough, I woke up without any help an hour before I needed to. I felt amazingly well. It was probably the aftereffects of that bracing Elixir of Kaxar. Wonderful stuff!

Chuff wasn’t around. He was probably wandering about in the hall, eager not to miss the arrival of Sir Lonli-Lokli so that he could carry out his instructions. For another ten minutes I just lolled around, stretched, and lazily indulged in the morning thoughts that afford real pleasure only when you’ve have a good night’s sleep. Then I got up, washed with enjoyment, and even made myself shave—a man’s daily forced labor; only the bearded are truly happy and free. I confess that the bathroom mirror awakened no unpleasant associations in me. It wasn’t that I was so thick-skinned; I just knew that it was an ordinary mirror. And I had come to know a bit more about things in my midst after my metamorphosis into a vampire the day before. Hm, yet another glorious page in my biography. I’ll definitely have something to talk about with girls—if only there were any girls. As for bedtime stories, there’s no shortage of those.

I went into the living room. Kimpa materialized by the table, a tray in his hands. Then Chuff appeared, surmising correctly that a good half of the breakfast would be coming his way. I gathered the dog in my arms, settled him on my lap, took my first cup of kamra, opened yesterday’s paper, and fished a cigarette from my domestic supply out of my pocket. I hadn’t had any luck trying to switch to the local pipe tobacco, the taste of which threatened to cast a pall over my existence. In this sense I am very conservative. It seems that it’s far easier for me to change my profession, my place of domicile, and even my perception of reality, than to get used to a new kind of tobacco.

“It’s good you didn’t remain a vampire, Max!” Juffin said by way of greeting. “Or I wouldn’t know what to feed you! I’d say to Kimpa in the morning: ‘Please, dear fellow, kamra and some toast for me, and a ladle of blood for Sir Max!’ I’d have to exterminate the neighbors one by one, use the privileges of office, cover up the tracks. I wouldn’t want to drive away such a clever and useful chap over such paltry nonsense. I just praised you, did you notice?”

“You’re just rubbing salt into the wounds!” I smiled, automatically examining the palm that had been hurt yesterday, which I had completely forgotten about. It wasn’t hard to forget, since the hand was almost completely healed already. The very faint, thread-like scar, which could pass for an extension of my lifeline, looked like it had been there for a few years already.

Juffin noticed my surprise.

“It’s just Black Magic of the Second Degree. That salve isn’t half bad! Kimpa rubbed it on your hand yesterday while you were making up your mind whether to return to consciousness. Why are you so surprised?”

“Oh, because of everything.”

“That’s your right. Oh, look! We’re all here.”

Sir Lonli-Lokli, whose absence had grieved his colleagues more than me, seemed to have been created with the specific purpose of shaking me down to the soles of my shoes. Me, and no one else, mind you! The indigenous people of Echo will never be able to appreciate the fellow’s merits until the Rolling Stones have played this World. Therefore, no one but me will be surprised at the remarkable likeness of Sir Lonli-Lokli to drummer Charlie Watts.

Add to that the stony immobility of his facial muscles; the exceptional height, combined with exceptional leanness, of his physique; wrap the result in the white folds of a looxi; crown him with a turban the color of alpine snow; and top it off with enormous leather gloves adorned with the local version of ancient runes . . . Well, you can imagine my surprise!

On the other hand, the ceremony of introduction to my future colleague unfolded without any deviations from the protocol. Having just finished with the formalities and sat down decorously at the table, Lonli-Lokli consumed his due portion of kamra. I kept waiting for him to draw some drumsticks out from under his armpits; I was on pins and needles in anticipation.

“I’ve heard all about you, Sir Max!” my new acquaintance exclaimed courteously, turning to me. “In my spare time, I often delve into books, and so I am in no way surprised at your upcoming appointment. Many authoritative sources mention the remarkable traditions of the inhabitants of the Barren Lands, which foster the development of certain magic skills that we, inhabitants of the Heart of the World, are deprived of. Sir Manga Melifaro himself called attention to your countrymen in the third volume of his Encyclopedia of the World.”

“Melifaro?” I cried out in astonishment. “You mean to say that that chap also wrote for the Encyclopedia? I would never have suspected that!”

“If you mean my colleague, I completely endorse your suspicions. Sir Melifaro hardly has a bent for systematic scholarly labor,” Lonli-Lokli agreed. Then he went quiet, not bothering to explain himself.

“Manga Melifaro, the author of the Encyclopedia of the World, is the father of the candidate for the position of forever being in your debt,” Juffin explained. “If the imminent adventure ends well, I’ll make Melifaro promise to present us each with a set. He’ll be delighted—the poor man’s house is so stuffed with his father’s scribblings there’s no room to turn around.”

“You didn’t allow me to finish, gentlemen. I had intended to say that in the third volume of his Encyclopedia Sir Manga Melifaro wrote, ‘The border area of the Barren Lands is inhabited by the most diverse, sometimes extraordinarily powerful people, and not just wild barbarians, as capital-dwellers are sometimes inclined to believe.’ Therefore, I am glad to see you here, Max.”

On behalf of all the inhabitants of the Borderlands, I expressed my gratitude to the magnanimous Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Lives. (Such was the official name of the position held by this gentleman, extraordinary in every way.)

“The time has come, gentlemen!” Juffin said finally, getting up from the table. “By the way, Sir Shurf, we need to take a mirror with us. The largest one is hanging in the hall. I bought it at the Murky Market, at the very beginning of our Codex Epoch, when antique stores in the Old City weren’t yet open and the demand for luxury goods was just starting to grow. Best time to buy. I’m afraid it was the most expensive mirror in the whole Left Bank—I gave a whopping five crowns for it. And now look—ah, the sacrifices one has to make!”

We all went into the hall. The mirror was truly gigantic, and it seemed to me that it was worth every bit of five crowns, though at the time I wasn’t very knowledgeable about the local economy.

Well, we’ve got our work cut out for us! How are we going to haul it over there? I wondered in dismay. Although, with the three of us . . . maybe.

But Juffin had something else in mind.

“Pick it up, Sir Shurf, and let’s get a move on!”

I was about to conclude that this ceremonious Sir Lonli-Lokli had a mystical weightlifting gift. That would have come in handy. But the fellow had no intention of lifting a finger to carry it. Instead, he casually ran his hand, encased in its huge glove, over the surface of the mirror from top to bottom. The mirror disappeared—as far as I could tell—into his hand. My jaw dropped.

Jufffin, could you teach me that?

I had enough presence of mind not to shout it out loud, but to use the opportunity for Silent Speech—just in case.

Sure, Juffin replied calmly. Or Sir Shurf will teach you. Remind me sometime, when we’re taking it easy.

Upon return, Makluk’s house resembled a huge, abandoned crypt. Sir Lonli-Lokli, observing official protocol, opened the door and was the first to step over the threshold to the bedchamber. We followed close behind. The room was exactly as we had left it.

At the sight of poor motionless Melifaro, I must admit that my spirits plummeted. How could I have been so certain that I could save the day? What if my idea didn’t work? What would that make us, then—murderers? Or just fools? Good question. Rather, a moral dilemma. Bring on the anguish!

Sir Lonli-Lokli took a simpler view of things. “It’s a good thing he’s silent,” said this compassionate man, nodding in Melifaro’s direction. “If only he were always like this!”

In his tone there wasn’t a trace of spite—it was just a factual observation that he liked Melifaro more when he was quiet than when he was chatty. A purely aesthetic preference. Nothing personal.

Having expressed his opinion, Lonli-Lokli shook his fist vigorously, then opened it up and spread out his hand. The huge mirror from Juffin’s hallway dropped neatly to the floor between the Statue Melifaro and the secret entrance to another, baneful dimension.

“It’s a little crooked,” Juffin remarked. “Let’s try moving it a bit to the right, the three of us together.”

“Why all together, Sir?” the magnificent Lonli-Lokli asked. “I can manage on my own.” And with stunning carelessness, he shifted the huge bulk of the mirror with just his left hand. It turned out that the “mystical weightlifting gift” existed after all. I looked at him and held my breath in wonder, like a scrawny adolescent looking at a real-life Hercules.

Juffin looked over the layout critically. Everything was ready: the reflection of the bedchamber mirror fit snugly into ours, with even a bit of surplus around the edges. And the most important thing—the valuable antique of Sir Juffin’s completely concealed Melifaro.

The Chief of the Secret Investigative Force threw a parting glance at his treasure and began issuing commands.

“Get ready, Shurf! Max, get behind my back. Or, better yet, go stand by the door. You’ve already done everything you could. Your job now is to stay alive. I’m serious, Max!”

I took up position by the door. I had no objections to staying alive.

Sir Lonli-Lokli finally deigned to remove his gloves. Only then did I realize that what everyone said about Lonli-Lokli’s “capable hands” was not just a pretty expression. My eyes beheld two hands that were semi-transparent, and shone brilliantly in the midday sun. The long sharp nails cut through the air, then took refuge under the snow-white looxi. I blinked my eyes, dumbstruck, unable to express my admiration in any other way. Then I suddenly remembered—I had seen something like this, and not so very long ago. Where, I wondered, in a nightmare, perhaps? Sir Juffin took pity on my poor head and prompted in a whisper, “Remember we were studying the memory of a pin? The ceremonial severing of a hand? The Order of the Icy Hand—remember?”

I remembered, and opened my mouth to ask how the severed hands had become the hands of our esteemed colleague. But Juffin had anticipated my question:

“They’re gloves. I’ll explain later. Now it’s time to get down to work!”

With these words Juffin approached the motionless Melifaro. He stood at a vantage point that allowed him to observe the reflections of both mirrors. Then he stood absolutely still, on tiptoe. I held my breath, waiting.

This time there was no dance. But Juffin’s face and stance betrayed an unbelievable tension. Then, suddenly relaxing, Juffin made a slight gesture, as if he were removing a delicate covering from a priceless vase. At almost the same moment, and with all his might, he shoved the poor Melifaro. The body, immobile at first, then bent over convulsively, flew to the other end of the room, and collapsed onto the soft floor that served as a bed. Sir Lonli-Lokli immediately rushed over to him. Hiding his left hand behind his looxi, with his right hand he seemed to be rummaging about the figure of the stunned Melifaro. I realized what he was doing: Lonli-Lokli was destroying the glistening fibers that had enveloped the unlucky fellow. This was no small task; it was like looking for fleas on a stray dog. Sir Juffin stood out of the way, not taking his eyes off the mirror.

“Max!” he shouted all of a sudden. “We’re quite a pair! Amazing! It’s working! You can take a look—but be careful, even more careful than yesterday.”

Not everything was visible from where I stood, but I sensibly decided not to step any closer.

The mirror began to move. The newly awakened mirror-dweller was hungry and cranky; but its double was already stirring to life in the second mirror. The two monstrosities groped toward each other in curious wonder. I stared at the heavy, formless body of the creature, which looked more like the body of a huge, white frog suffering from obesity than anything else. The creature’s body was covered in the same disgusting, living hair that surrounded its mouth—dark, moist, drawing me in with a magnetic attraction . . .

I averted my eyes, but the mouth still stayed in the inmost depths of my consciousness. Then I forced myself to remember the bracing taste of Elixir of Kaxar. That helped, but only somewhat. If only a flagon of the potion was within reach!

To rid myself of the hallucination, I boxed my own ears and screamed silently, get a grip on yourself, man! After a few seconds I was so sober and clear-headed that curiosity got the upper hand. I looked again at the mirrors.

The first thing I saw was the silhouette of Lonli-Lokli, hanging over a sticky, mucous-like ball between the two grappling monsters. The powers were evenly matched. The double—I have to give him that—was not to be outdone by its original. The vile little ball rolled along the floor, and I went faint at the thought that it might make a rush for my leg. I didn’t even think about the danger, so great was my feeling of revulsion.

Lonli-Lokli’s left hand swept upward, slowly and solemnly—it was a strikingly beautiful gesture, laconic and powerful. The tips of his fingers shot out sparks, like sparks from a welder’s arc. A shrill scream, undetectable by the human ear, which nevertheless seared my insides, forced me to bend over in pain. Then the scream stopped just as abruptly as it had begun. The creatures erupted into white flames. I thought that these fireworks signaled the successful end of the operation; but then something happened that was completely not of this world. The mirrors themselves actually began to move. The abyss behind the mirror and its reflection attracted each other like magnets. Their collision, I understood, threatened us with unpredictable consequences.

“Max, get down on the floor!” Juffin barked. “NOW!”

I flung myself down, as he had ordered. He himself somersaulted over to the window that had been smashed the day before, then stood stock-still and alert. Sir Lonli-Lokli retreated backwards in one smooth motion, over to Melifaro’s body. There he sat on his haunches, clasping his hands prudently in front of him.

A quiet, but clearly hostile rumble started up from the matching depths. The glass in the mirrors buckled and grew convex, like sails billowing in the wind.

It seemed to me that we were in no real danger, for the mirrors had absolutely no interest in us. Instead, each revolting infinity advanced on its copy, until they merged into a kind of rabid Möbius strip, as each tried to swallow the other, just as the Mirror Monsters had just done. When it was finished, a dark, twisted up clump of some dark sticky substance was all that remained.

“Well, Sir Shurf, that last piece was your job, I suppose,” Juffin observed with obvious relief.

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

Another moment, and nothing was left of the nightmare.

Juffin jumped to his feet. The first thing he did was to go over and examine Melifaro, who was writhing around in the blankets.

“An ordinary faint,” he reported cheerfully. “The most common, everyday sort of fainting spell. He should be ashamed of himself! Let’s go, Max. Help me put this house in order. And you, Sir Shurf, deliver this priceless piece of meat into the arms of Kimpa. Let Kimpa bring him around, prepare oceans of kamra, and no less than a hundred sandwiches. Scarf down the food as soon as it’s served, and we’ll come and join you. Come on, Sir Max! Do you realize what has just happened? We did it! Sinning Magicians, we did it!”

Sir Shurf pulled on his thick protective gloves, grabbed up Melifaro, and carried him off under his arm like a rolled-up carpet.

And Juffin and I set out on a new journey through the house as it shrugged off the curse slowly, step by step. The spell of petrifaction that reigned over its dwellers merged into a deep sleep. It was far better this way. Sleep smoothes out the alien grimaces of another world. All would be forgotten; none of the survivors would be marked for the rest of their lives by the curse of the previous night. Tomorrow morning everything in this big house would be almost back to normal. The only thing that remained to do was to bury the unfortunate fellows who had been capering about the hall by the fountain, organize a spring cleaning, and call in a good medicine man to administer a calming herb to all members of the household for the next two dozen days.

It could have been worse. It could have ended very badly, indeed.

We went out into the garden.

“How nice it is out here!” I said with a sigh with relief.

Sir Juffin Hully took the liberty of patting me on the back, which is only allowed to the closest of friends in the Unified Kingdom.

“You turned out to be a wild wind, Sir Max! Much wilder than I expected. And I already had a high opinion of you, you may be quite sure!”

“A ‘wild wind’? Why ‘wind,’ Juffin?”

“That’s what we call people who are unpredictable. The kind about whom you never know what they might pull off next, how they’ll behave in a fight, what kind of effect magic will have on them—or Jubatic Juice! You never even know how much such a person will eat: one day he’ll empty the whole pot, and the next he’ll start preaching moderation . . . That was exactly what I needed: a wild wind, a fresh wind from another world. But you turned out to be a real hurricane, Sir Max! Lucky me!”

I was about to feel embarrassed, but then I thought—why should I? I really was pretty good; at least my part in the story of the mirrors. I’ll start indulging in modesty once the number of my exploits exceeds one hundred.

At home we found not only Lonli-Lokli waiting for us, decorously sipping his kamra, but also Melifaro, pale but quite lively, devouring the sandwiches from a tray resting on his lap. Chuff followed all his motions with great interest. Judging by the crumbs that had collected abundantly around the dog’s mouth, Sir Melifaro also had a soft spot in his heart for him.

“It’s too bad you saved me,” Melifaro said, grinning from ear to ear and bowing to Juffin. “Your pantry is running low with me around!”

“As if that matters! My pantry has long been in need of an airing. By the way, Max is the one you should thank. He was your main rescuer.”

“Thank you,” Melifaro purred, his mouth full of food. “So you, my fine friend, ate up the frog? And I thought it was our baleful sorcerers who took care of it.”

“Shurf and I, of course, worked with our hands,” Juffin explained modestly. “But only after Sir Max worked with his head. If it hadn’t been for his crazy idea about a second mirror, you would have been someone’s sandwich. Do you remember anything at all, you lucky devil?”

“Not a thing. Loki-Lonki described the scenario briefly—but his account lacked picturesque detail. I require a literary description!”

“You’ll get your picturesque detail. Chew up, first, or you’ll choke!” Sir Juffin said, shaking his head sternly.

“Sir Melifaro, my name is Lonli-Lokli. Please oblige me by learning how to pronounce it. It’s high time. There are only ten letters; it’s not such a daunting task!”

“That’s what I’m saying—Lonki-Lomki!” And Melifaro turned to me abruptly. “So in fact you’re my main rescuer? Well, what do you know, Sir Nocturnal Nightmare! I owe you one.”

That was the moment of triumph for me. I had been preparing my acceptance speech on the way over.

“Nonsense. Where we live, in the Barren Lands, every beggarly nomad has a mirror like Makluk’s in his household. I don’t understand why here, in the capital, people make such a big fuss over something so trivial.”

Shurf Lonli-Lokli expressed polite surprise. “Really, Sir Max? It’s strange that scholars make no mention of this.”

“There’s nothing strange about it.” I snapped, putting on a malevolent leer. “The ones who could have told the story are now forever silent. We have to feed our favorite house-pets somehow!”

Sir Juffin Hully burst out laughing. Melifaro raised his eyebrows in surprise, but realized almost immediately that I was just teasing and let out a guffaw. Lonli-Lokli shrugged indulgently and reached again for his mug.

“Save your strength, gentlemen,” Juffin warned. “Today in the Glutton a public holiday has been declared: it’s Melifaro’s resurrection. You do as you wish, but Max and I are going out to carouse. We’ve earned it! Sir Shurf, you’re coming too; and that’s an order! Melifaro, you’re probably still too weak. You stay here and get better. We’ll carouse for you!”

“Me, weak? You can just drive me to the Glutton.”

“Well, all right. We’ll drive you right to the doorstep. But you don’t know how Sir Max drives the amobiler! He’ll keep you in check—he’ll shake the living daylights right out of you!”

“Sir Max? You mean to say you’re a real racer?”

“I didn’t think so,” I said proudly, “but Sir Juffin was very dissatisfied when he came for a spin with me. He kept asking me to slow down, even though I was virtually crawling. Actually, everyone here drives slowly. Why is that I wonder?”

Melifaro leaped out of his chair.

“If that is true, then you’re perfect! Why is it that you haven’t conquered us yet?”

“The military potential of border-dwellers is extremely low,” Sir Lonli-Lokli remarked pedantically. “On the other hand, their intellectual capabilities are without doubt higher than ours. Unlike you, Sir Max learned to pronounce my name on the first try. An impressive debut, wouldn’t you say?”