The Stranger

Chapter 3 Cell No. 5-OW-NOX

THERE’S A SIGN I ALWAYS WATCH FOR: BEFORE EVERY MAJOR CASE, everything goes quiet in the House by the Bridge. If I find myself dozing for several nights in a row in my armchair, my feet up on the desk, it means that some hullabaloo or other will soon be in full swing.

And, in point of fact, I don’t mind. Serving in the Secret Investigative Force isn’t yet just a routine for me. And if everything continues the way it’s going now, it’s unlikely that it ever will be.

When urgent matters crop up (and there are more of them than there are agents), my personal time-frame stops coinciding with the pace of the hands on the clock. Sometimes I seem to live through a few years in just one day; but at the end of the day I’m not any older.

I like this. I’m hungry for life. Even those several hundred years that are almost guaranteed to every inhabitant of this World seem like a very short allotment of infinity to me. I admit, hand on heart, that I just want to live forever—preferably without becoming too decrepit, though being old doesn’t really frighten me. If you take one look at Juffin or at Sir Kofa, you understand that solid old age is rather an advantage than a burden.

That morning Sir Kofa Yox showed up exactly ten seconds earlier than Juffin. During that time he managed to sit down in a chair, wipe the workaday mask off his face (low forehead; long, fleshy nose; high cheekbones; sensitive lips; double chin), and stretch sweetly, with a bit of creaking here and there.

As though agreeing with his colleague, Sir Juffin gave a leisurely yawn in the doorway. He planted himself in his chair, and yawned again—a protracted one, mingled with a little squeal. These things are highly contagious: I too started to yawn, although I hadn’t slept too poorly on the job that night. In fact, I felt completely rested. Finding a night job was all it took to help a night owl like me switch to the ordinary schedule of most of humanity.

I could have gone home if I wanted to. I even should have. But I had already decided beforehand to drink a mug of kamra in the company of my senior colleagues, because I know how they work: as soon as I leave, they start talking about The-Most-Interesting-Things-In-The-World. No more missing out on that! These days you had to drag me off duty by force.

“Judging by what a rotten sleep I had last night, we could arrest the entire population of Echo for abuse of forbidden magic,” Juffin spluttered angrily, gulping down half the mug of kamra at one go. “Only where could we lock them all up? There aren’t that many free cells in Xolomi.”

“That bad?” Kofa asked, frowning skeptically.

“Worse than bad. Every time I started to doze off, another misuse of magic signal would sound, and I’d just about jump through the roof. I was cursed to be born with such sensitive ears. What’s been going on, Kofa, do you have any idea? The Let’s Make Potions Festival, featuring members of all the Ancient Orders?” The boss drank down the rest of his kamra with an indignant slurp, then proposed with obvious relish, “Is it possible that I have slept through a government revolt?”

From the depths of his chair, Sir Kofa observed Juffin’s fuming with paternal benevolence. He waited until he was quiet then permitted himself to launch into an explanation.

“I feel for you, Juffin, but it wasn’t really that entertaining. In fact, it was rather sad.”

“It sure must have been. Well, don’t keep me on tenterhooks! What happened?”

“What’s there to say that you don’t know already? Old Sir Fraxra is in very bad shape. The wisemen are absolutely powerless to help—after all the fellow’s already over 1,000 years old. Not every magician lives that long and Fraxra was just a young novice of some bedraggled Order. They booted him out of there pretty quickly, too, and found him a position at Court. That’s where the matter ended.”

“Yes, I know all that. Did the old man really decide to try to prolong his existence? There’s something suspicious about it. He’s a sensible man, and he’s well aware of his own limits.”

“He is, indeed, a very sensible man. Sensible enough to understand that there are things you have to part with in due course in the World before leaving it. The household staff and servants adore him. Including the cook.”

Juffin’s face brightened.

“Ah, yes. Sir Shutta Vax, the youngest son of the legendary Vagatta Vax, Head Chef of the Court of Gurig VII. The one who retired after the Code of Krember was introduced.”

“And right he was to do so, too. Old Cuisine is Old Cuisine, after all. A kitchen wizard like Vagatta Vax—what would he do without magic of the 20th or 30th degree? Boss around the kitchen boys? I think not.”

“But Shutta learned a thing or two from his daddy, from what I understand,” Juffin mused.

“But of course. You know that Shutta Vax would go through hell and high water for his old master. And to break the law a little for the dying Sir Fraxra with a speciality of the family house is the least he could do. In short, last night a Chakkatta Pie was born. And the nocturnal merrymakers kept their noses to the wind without knowing why themselves.”

“I forgive him for my troubled sleep,” said Juffin. “The young fellow, of course, found you and asked you to put in a good word for his blasted noggin?”

“Shutta Vax did, in fact, find me and warn me that he was going to break the law,” said Sir Kofa. “His loyalty to the King, of course, is hereditary, not a matter of conviction. The fellow decided to save us the extra trouble. He said that if we considered it necessary to send him to Xolomi, he was ready for it. He requested only that we wait until morning, so he could feed the old man—then off to the executioner’s block he’d go.”

“That wily old fox knows that Juffin will never lay a hand on a kitchen magician. Well, I only hope that Sir Fraxra dies happy. I wish I could be in his shoes!”

“Shutta really is counting on your kindness. And as a sign of his gratitude, he decided to share responsibility with you,” said Sir Kofa. He drew a box out from the folds of his looxi and handed it to Juffin.

Juffin accepted the box as though it were a priceless treasure. I swear I have never seen such a reverent expression on his face! He lifted the lid and carefully folded down the sides of the box to reveal an enormous piece of pie. It looked like a neat triangle of the purest amber, gleaming from the inside with a warm light. Juffin’s hands trembled, honest to Magicians! With a sigh, he took a knife and sliced off a thin piece.

“Take it, Max. You can’t imagine how lucky you are!”

“You can’t imagine what an honor this is,” Kofa said with a smile. “If Juffin gave his life for you, I could understand it. But to share a piece of Chakkatta Pie! What’s gotten into you, Juffin?”

“I don’t know. He’s just lucky,” Juffin said. “I’m not sharing anything with you, Kofa. I’m sure that you already had your share.”

“That’s right. So don’t let your conscience bother you.”

“And I’m sure that slice was even bigger than this one.”

“Your eyes are bigger than my stomach! My slice was almost half as big as yours.”

I fingered the piece of pie as though enchanted. What kind of pie could this be? I carefully bit off a corner of the shining baked wonder.

There are no words to describe, in any human language, what happened in my mouth that wondrous morning. And if you think that you have already experienced all the pleasures that could possibly tantalize your taste buds . . . well, then, you are living in blissful ignorance. I will seal my lips, because the taste of Chakkatta Pie is simply beyond words.

When the tasting orgy was over, we fell silent for a time.

“Are you sure the ban can’t be lifted, at least for cooks?” I asked plaintively, shaken by the injustice of the ways of the World. If this is one of the dishes of Old Cuisine, I simply can’t imagine what the rest of it was like. My senior colleagues sadly cast down their eyes. Their faces wore the expressions of people whose dearest possessions have been irretrievably lost.

“Unfortunately, Max, it is thought that the world can come to ruin even through this,” Juffin said somberly. “Moreover, we weren’t the ones who wrote the Code of Krember.”

“The one who wrote it had probably been on a strict diet for about a hundred years, and hated humanity to boot,” I grumbled. “Is it really possible that His Majesty and Grand Magician Nuflin can’t allow themselves a piece of Chakkatta Pie for breakfast? I don’t believe it.”

“You do have excellent intuition. Regarding the King, I have my own doubts, while in the city there is talk of a secret kitchen, hidden in the basements of Jafax, the Main Residence of the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover,” Sir Kofa remarked with studied indifference.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have joined the Secret Investigative Force at all,” I said, gazing at Juffin reproachfully. “Put in a good word for me at your Seven-Leaf Clover, will you? Maybe they’ll take me on as a janitor.”

Juffin nodded absently, chugged down the rest of his kamra, then turned a dazzling smile on us.

“Life goes on,” he announced. “Therefore, tell me, my dear friend: a pie is a pie is a pie, but did anything else happen here?”

“Everything, one might say, that falls under General Boboota’s jurisdiction,” Kofa said. “Trifles. Simply too many to count for one night. That’s why you couldn’t sleep. For example, the idiot smugglers tried to hide their contraband from Customs by applying black magic of the fifteenth degree. Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” Juffin said drily, nodding his head. “Exceptionally dull-witted. You might as well steal an old skaba, and then blow up the whole Right Bank so no one will find out.”

“Then there was a counterfeit job. Black magic of only the sixth degree. And there was an awkward amateur attempt to mix a sleeping potion. Piffle . . . Oh, here’s something of a more serious order. Belar Grau, former apprentice of the Order of the Secret Grass, has become a pickpocket. A real professional, by the way! They just about caught him last night . . . see for yourself.”

He handed Juffin several self-inscribing tablets. These are an extraordinarily convenient little invention, let me tell you. Just think a thought or two, and it up and writes them down. It must be said that some people think less than grammatically—but there it is. That’s one thing you can’t change.

Juffin studied the tablets with respectful concentration.

“What I’d like to know is what Boboota Box does all day during working hours. And what part of his body does he use for thinking, when it becomes absolutely unavoidable. I doubt it’s his behind—it’s so big that it would be capable of coming to some weighty conclusions eventually. Okay, then. We’ll let him deal with the bungling sorcerers and smugglers. The counterfeiter and pickpocket we’ll keep for later.”

Sir Kofa nodded gravely.

“With your permission, I’d like to take my leave. I want to drink some kamra in the Pink Buriwok on my way home. They don’t know how to make it worth a darn, but the biggest tongue-waggers in Echo gather there early in the morning on their way from the market. I don’t think . . . although . . .”

Sir Kofa fell silent and almost mechanically passed his hand over his face, which underwent a sudden change. Rubbing his nose, which was growing before our very eyes, he went off to squander the remains of the treasury.

“Juffin,” I began in confusion. “Tell me, why don’t you give Boboota Box all the cases at once? He’s a jerk, of course; but a criminal at large—that’s not right, is it? Or have I misunderstood something again?”

“Have you misunderstood something? You’ve understood absolutely nothing! A petty criminal at large is a mild inconvenience, but a Boboota running around the House by the Bridge is a disaster! And I do have to try to get along with him. To my way of thinking, that means ‘taking charge of the situation.’ And ‘taking charge of the situation’ means that Sir Boboota Box will be forever in our debt. It’s the only state of mind that allows for constructive dialog. At the same time, we always need to have something up our sleeves that Boboota doesn’t know. What if we suddenly have to give him a present; or, on the contrary, to give him a scare? The gratitude of Boboota Box is as loud as the gases he lets out at his leisure—and as fleeting as their odor.”

“How complicated it all is!” I exclaimed ruefully.

“Complicated? It’s very simple, boy. And, by the way, what’s a ‘jerk’?”

“A jerk is—Sir Boboota Box. But you, sir, are a true Jesuit!”

“You can cuss a mouthful when you’re in the mood,” Juffin said admiringly.

“Excuse me,” said the stranger formerly known as Sir Kofa, peeping into the study. “That blasted pie made me completely forget about the most important thing. All night rumors have been circulating through the city that Burada Isofs died in Xolomi. I checked up on it—it’s true. He was in cell No. 5-Ow-Nox. How do you like them apples, Juffin!”

“I’m just wondering,” the boss muttered, “how do nighttime revelers find out things like that? All the more since it happened in Xolomi.”

“You said yourself that Echo is full of two-bit clairvoyants,” I reminded him.

“So I did. Thanks, Kofa! You’ve made me happy. How many people have expired in that cell over the last few years, Kurush?”

The sleepy Buriwok raised his head reluctantly, but starting recounting information about the 225th day of the 115th year.

“Dosot Fer died on the 114th day of the 112th year in cell No. 5-Ow-Nox in the Royal Prison of Xolomi. Tolosot Liv died on the 209th day of the 113th year in the same place. Balok Sanr died on the 173rd day of the 114th year. Tsivet Maron died on the 236th day of the 114th year. Axam Ann died on the 78th day of the 115th year. Sovats Lovod died on the 184th day of the 115th year. Burada Isofs died in the same cell on the 224th day of the 115th year, if I have understood Sir Kofa correctly. Somebody give me some peanuts,” Kurush concluded, on an unexpectedly informal note.

“Certainly, my dear fellow!” Juffin reached into the desk drawer for the peanuts, which were far more abundant than secret documents.

“You can be on your way, Kofa. Good work, for remembering to report that to me. Think about what our next step should be.”

Our incomparable Master Eavesdropper-Gobbler, as Melifaro had christened him, nodded, and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. The door closed silently behind him. I shivered under the penetrating gaze of Sir Juffin Hully.

“Well, Max, what do you think? Will you take the case?”

“How do I get a handle on something like this?”

“You look for the only handle we have. You set out for Xolomi, and you sit in the cell yourself. If you throw yourself into the fray, you’ll find out what’s going on there. And circumstances will instruct you about how to proceed.”

“Me? In Xolomi?!”

“Where else, my dear friend. That’s where they’re dying. You’re leaving tomorrow. Oh, don’t look so alarmed! All things considered, it doesn’t look like it will take too long for events to unfold. And I’m certain no one can manage this case better than you can.”

“Manage how? By staying in prison?”

“That, too,” Sir Juffin said with an acid smile. “What’s wrong with you, Max? Where’s your sense of humor?”

“Somewhere out there. I’ll go look for it,” I said, with a dismissive wave of the hand, as if to show that things weren’t really that bad.

“Listen carefully, Max. Sooner or later it would have happened anyway.”

“What, you mean that sooner or later they’d clap me in Xolomi prison?”

“Enough already about the prison! I’m serious now. Sooner or later you’re going to have to start acting on your own. So it’s better that it happened now. It’s not a matter of earth-shattering importance for the World. And it’s not the most difficult case, it appears. I can jump to your aid at any moment, though I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’m at your disposal, Max: day, night, tomorrow morning, and in between. Think, make a plan. Everything you need will be made available to you. And this evening, instead of reporting to duty, come to see me. The last supper for the future prisoner. Your every gastronomical wish will be fulfilled.”

“Thank you, Juffin.”

“You’re very welcome!”

“But now maybe you’ll explain to me—”

“No explanations, don’t even ask! Treating you to dinner—I’m always ready to grant that wish.”

At that we parted.

In the evening I set out for the Left Bank, armed with the hope that someone would finally tell me what the devil I was supposed to do in Xolomi. But what do you think—would that monster change his mind? Not on your life! You came here to eat, he’ll say. Well, make me happy, Max, and move your jaws. All this talk about work, work, work—that’s what I’m fed up with!

According to Kimpa, dinner had been personally prepared by his Master, the Venerable Head.

As it turned out, Sir Juffin Hully was an excellent cook. But I hungered for something completely different. I wanted instructions.

“Take it easy, Sir Max, relax. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Besides, I’m absolutely sure that once you get there, some silly thing will pop into your head, and it will turn out to be the only real solution to the problem. Take a bite of this, I dare you . . .”

Chuff, Juffin’s little dog and my best friend, began to whimper sympathetically under the table. Max worried. Bad, the dog’s compassionate Silent Speech reached me. Only you love me and understand me, I answered.

And I whined out loud, “Juffin, instead of compliments from you I would have preferred a piece of paper with the steps I should take carefully detailed and numbered, and with every action I should perform printed in bold block letters.”

“You’d still get confused. Eat up, Max! It’s the pinnacle of my accomplishments. For forty years already I’ve been dreaming of retiring and opening a restaurant. It would even outdo The Glutton.”

“I don’t doubt it. Only the King won’t let you retire.”

“That, of course, is only a matter of time.”

“Does it ever occur to you that people might be afraid of eating at a restaurant like that? And what rumors will start up about the food you serve there? They’ll say you slice up carcasses of rebel magicians and add them to all the dishes; that you siphon the blood of innocent children into the soup!”

“Good golly, boy, that’s the best kind of advertisement! But innocent children—that’s a new one. I’ll have to start up a rumor about it.”

I didn’t expect to get anything more concrete out of him. There was one idea that dawned on me that night just before I left, though.

“I’ve decided to take Lonli-Lokli with me,” I announced, shocked at my own genius. “That’s possible, I hope?”

“Actually, the cell is just meant for one. Will you sleep locked in his embrace? Then again, with your notions of comfort—”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m planning on shrinking him and hiding him in my fist. Sir Shurf taught me that himself a few days ago. He says I’m quite good at it. True, I haven’t had the opportunity to use it on living people, yet,” I added uncertainly. Suddenly my confidence dried up like a puddle in the desert.

“Objects or people, it works just the same,” Juffin said. “It’s a fine idea, Max. I told you that no one could handle this case better than you.”

“That remains to be seen. Will Lonli-Lokli agree, do you think?”

“In the first place, Shurf will be flattered by your confidence in him. He takes you far more seriously than you might imagine. And, second, his opinion is beside the point. An order is an order. You’d better get used to it, by the way. You are second in command, and giving orders isn’t a choice, but a duty.”

“Sinning Magicians! If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s giving orders,” I said with a grimace.

“Is that so? And who frightened the junior clerks out of their wits with his menacing growls in our half of the House by the Bridge? And who nearly drove Boboota into a conniption fit? Don’t sell yourself short, Sir Max. You’ll make an excellent tyrant—one of those who kills with pleasure during palace coups.”

“The first few times I had the opportunity to give orders, I must admit I enjoyed it,” I said sheepishly. “Then I realized that it just wasn’t for me. Even when I send the errand boy for kamra I feel that I cease to be that sweet, kind Max I’ve known all these years. So I feel like it’s someone else who gives orders. And I can’t say I like that someone else.”

“How fastidious we are,” Juffin said with a sniff. “Fine. Don’t worry. I’ll send for Shurf myself and explain everything to him. Any other requests?”

“None for now. I just know that I’ll feel much safer in the company of Lonli-Lokli. Juffin, have I ever told you that I’m a rather cowardly fellow? Keep it in mind.”

“If you can believe it, I’ll feel safer myself,” Juffin admitted. “Have I ever told you that I’m a sly old fox, but careful beyond measure? Learn the art of description, Max. I said almost the same thing you did—but how much more flattering to my pride!”

I left the hospitable home of my boss in a tumultuous state of mind. I told myself that if Juffin were foolish enough to entrust the operation to me, I wasn’t going to answer for the consequences. But a newly awakened A-student syndrome prompted me to do everything to the max (as it were), or to die of shame. Where was it, this A-student syndrome, when I had been going to school, I’d like to know?

However much I grumbled, I knew all too well that when it was over I’d be happy to see the smile on Sir Juffin Hully’s face, and to hear the proud exclamation to his protégé (an exclamation, which could buoy up someone who had just fallen off a mountain). “You see Max? I told you everything would work out! And you didn’t believe me.” I just had to reconcile myself to the thought that I would undertake any exploit to earn the indulgent smile of my mentor. That’s how far things had come!

It was a cold night, one of the coldest that winter. In my homeland, the thermometer would probably have read around 32°F. The climate in Echo is more than moderate. There are neither hard frosts, nor heat waves—which, to be sure, is fine with me. The romance of a snowy winter never did capture my imagination. I can’t stand going to work in the dusky morning twilight, shuffling along a dirty white sidewalk, feet completely benumbed in soaking boots, and contemplating how much a pair of new ones would cost. And in the heat of summer, I’m ready to sell my soul for a breath of fresh, cool air. So the mild climate of Echo suited me down to my toes. Well, at least something makes me happy, praise be the Magicians.

I was driving home, trying to think not about tomorrow, but about something else—namely, whether I would get the chance to see Lady Melamori in the morning. By that time, my interest in Lady Melamori had begun to assume dangerous proportions. The worst thing was that for the life of me I couldn’t figure her out. Since the evening we had met the first time, she had looked at me with undisguised adoration—sometimes even with slight fear. But excessive admiration, as far as I’ve been able to judge, rarely gives rise to true intimacy. So I didn’t know myself whether I should still have hope, or simply get a grip on myself before it was too late. Whether it was already too late—of this I wasn’t sure.

Then several days ago she had thoroughly disarmed me by saying, “Come to my place this evening, Sir Max. You don’t know where I live yet? It’s very easy to find. I live next to the Quarter of Trysts. Amusing, isn’t it?”

My head started spinning. I took a deep breath, scrubbed myself in the baths for about two hours, and donned the best looxi from my modest collection. I almost started powdering my nose, since here in Echo men are not ashamed to use makeup—at least on special occasions. But my conservative upbringing restrained me from taking that last fateful step.

I ordered Kurush to guard the office—that bird really beats all! When I got to Melamori’s house, though, I found the Minor Secret Investigative Force assembled nearly in its entirety. At first I couldn’t get over my disappointment:

“My lady, you could have warned me that this would be business as usual. Do we not see enough of each other during working hours?”

When I’m upset I always grow tactless. Luckily, I didn’t offend anyone.

“On the upside, I don’t have Boboota here, Sir Max,” the hostess boasted proudly. “What’s more, he’s not in any of the neighboring houses, either! Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Ah, but that’s a shame, my lady! Who am I to converse with? I was planning on talking with a competent expert about everything that floats in the swamps and outhouses. Let me just drop in on Lady Melamori, I thought. I’m sure General Boboota is already there.”

I tried to make light of the situation. My colleagues were clearly amused by this. At last I cheered up, too—but there was no glimmer of a romance that would eventually burst into flame that night. The iconoclastic Lady Melamori flirted with Sir Melifaro and Sir Kofa, but to me she only threw tender glances from a distance of a dozen steps, no fewer.

I realized I was becoming despondent, and I tried to distract my thoughts from her. But how could I distract myself right there in her presence! The vagueness of our relationship tore me apart. If she had just told me where to go, everything would at least have become clear. No means no. The interested parties hang themselves in the outhouse; life goes on. But every time we met, she stuck to me like a leech, like a five-year old girl to a three-foot tall Mickey Mouse. She stood up on her tiptoes, batted her eyelashes in rapture, and all but called over all her girlfriends to take a look. My heart, obviously, melted from her attentions. And I sank in deeper and deeper . . .

Fie on you, devil! I awoke from these sad meditations when I noticed all at once that I had been sitting for a long time in my own dining room, chewing my food mechanically. My stomach groaned, letting me know that I had already gone overboard. Sinning Magicians, how much had I stuffed in? And why!

The bells were ringing in the city. Morning was breaking. Time for certain gentlemen Secret Investigators to extricate themselves from their armchairs and head for Xolomi prison to while away the hours in a cell where prisoners had a habit of dying.

I still didn’t want to go to Xolomi—but not because prisoners kept dying in that cell. After all, that was their problem. I was embarrassed to admit it, but it was the very prospect of being locked up in jail that worried me. Until then, it had never entered my head that I might end up in prison. Especially here, in Echo! It was in the interests of my profession, of course—but, still. Frankly, my knees started shaking when I thought about myself in prisoner’s garb, standing before the bars of a window.

By the way, are there any barred windows in Xolomi at all? Actually, why would you need bars, when the jailers have magic of every description and degree at their disposal?

Juffin had been very vague about the term that Lonli-Lokli and I were supposed to be serving. Come back once you’ve completed the mission—or something to that effect. What did that mean? If we don’t complete the blasted thing we’ll stay there forever? What a future!

It’s one thing for me to be there, but why should poor Lonli-Lokli have to suffer? On the other hand, if they refuse to let us out, we’ll tear the whole island of Xolomi to pieces! The very second that Sir Shurf starts missing his neglected wife, we’ll start right in.

I had met Lonli-Lokli’s wife at the party at Melamori’s. Marvelous woman! Brilliant, beautiful, and very amusing. Her good nature probably determined her choice of her significant other. There is nothing more amusing than seeing the two of them together. She is diminutive and plump, and hardly reaches the belt of the spindly Sir Shurf. Moreover, with his lady at his side, Lonli-Lokli, always the butt of many jokes, is incapable of taking offense. She learned to pronounce his name only after many years of conjugal life.

They appeared to me to be very much still in love with each other. When Sir Shurf looked at his wife, his impenetrable gaze became very human. Well, it was a good thing that Lonli-Lokli had a happy family life. The personal welfare of a professional killer promotes social tranquility and equilibrium. After reaching that conclusion, I cheered up a bit.

I could have stayed in that armchair forever. Everyone wants to postpone unpleasant fuss and bother until tomorrow. But it was already tomorrow. It was time to archive the cozy, festive “yesterday” and forget about it. The short, warm “today” was still in the soft armchair, right under my backside. It couldn’t last forever.

I stood up and started getting ready. Armstrong and Ella, my erstwhile kittens who by this time were no spring chickens, let me know, in no uncertain terms, that it was time for their breakfast. I was generous, even profligate, before my departure.

“From now on it will be our errand boy Urf who feeds you,” I told the beasts, filling up their bowls to the brim. “They say he’s a good person and grew up on a farm, where he also fed fat furry creatures like you. And I’ll be back soon. I’m just going to jail for a while, and then I’ll return.” I laughed, aware of the flatness of my own joke.

Armstrong and Ella looked at me with their thoughtful blue eyes, as impenetrable and deep as Sir Juffin Hully’s.

The morning was just as cold as the night had been. I walked to the House by the Bridge, appreciating every step along the way. The thought that I could expire prematurely like my predecessors at Xolomi honed all my senses and perceptions. Although . . . maybe it was just a chain of improbable coincidences? Could be!

But you can’t fool the heart. My heart, at least. And slowly, but surely, it seemed to fill up with lead. What would happen when I showed up at Xolomi? I was getting more and more unnerved by the minute. Even the thought that the terrifying Lonli-Lokli would be hiding in my fist, that I was keeping him in reserve so that I could thumb my nose at danger, gave me only the slightest comfort. I still had to manage to let him out at the right moment, if need be.

Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli was waiting for me in the Hall of Common Labor—unruffled, dependable, as always. He was noting down something in his “work diary” so as not to waste time. Looking at him, I livened up a bit.

“Are you ready to become my victim, Sir Shurf?”

“Victim? Sir Max, you clearly overestimate the significance of the impending event,” he objected phlegmatically. “Believe me, I have no cause for alarm—and you even less.”

“Well, thanks for the reassurance.”

And I made a motion with my left hand, undetectable to the prying eyes of others. Lonli-Lokli disappeared. In theory, I knew that he hadn’t disappeared, but was to be found between the thumb and the index finger of my hand. But this useful knowledge somehow didn’t fit into my head.

“Dandy, Mr. Nightmare!” Melifaro beamed, emerging from his office. “Tell me, might you not be persuaded to keep him there for the next two hundred years or so?”

“Lady Lonli-Lokli would object, and I wouldn’t want to grieve her,” I replied, smiling. “And why are you here so early?”

“Juffin woke me up. Sent me a message that he wouldn’t be here before midday. He ordered me to see you off. He wants me dead! Usually he’s here at the crack of dawn, but today . . . Well, there you are.”

“He’s hiding from me,” I informed him proudly.

“From you? You’re making progress! To my knowledge (and I do know something about the history of the Unified Kingdom), Juffin Hully hasn’t hidden from anyone for the past one hundred years. Well, in the Epoch of Orders there was a case—and it wasn’t the only one. Then again, everyone ran from each other during the Epoch of Orders. How did you scare him?” asked Melifaro and sat down in front of me.

“Give me some kamra and I’ll tell you,” I said, crossing my feet and placing them carefully on the table. It’s frightening to think of the number of dumb movies that inspired me to assume this pose. “You’re here to see me off, so you must see to it that I leave here happy. Thus, you must bribe me with every possible means at your disposal.”

“Well, that’s the limit! Bribing a jailbird!” Melifaro grumbled. “Fine. Take advantage of my generosity.” He sauntered into the office and brought out a jug of kamra and two mugs of completely improbable dimensions.

“So why is our ‘Sir Venerable Head’ running away from you?”

“I ask too many questions. Actually, that’s why he decided to stick me in Xolomi.”

“Oh, is that all? Questions! And here I was thinking that yesterday you tried to get him drunk on Elixir of Horse Dung, the national drink of your Barren Lands.”

“That actually did happen,” I admitted. “But Juffin said that his Diurnal Backside usually does the dirty work. Thanks for reminding me—I’ll have to treat you to some!”

“No thanks!” Melifaro screwed up his face in anxious trepidation, and he shot into his office like a bullet. Several times he peeped out timidly; then the joke grew stale, and he returned.

I killed another half-hour in this pleasant manner. Lady Melamori, for whose sake I was dragging it out, didn’t appear. Finally, I got behind the wheel of the amobiler and set off for Xolomi to turn myself in.

“I see you as though in a waking dream!” The senior commander of Xolomi covered his eyes respectfully, in the ritual of a first meeting. “I’m happy to speak my name: Sir Marunarx Antarop.”

I introduced myself, and they led me off to be served breakfast.

“You’re so skinny, Sir Max! They really work you hard in the Secret Investigative Force. I know all about it! You need to eat more!” Sir Marunarx exclaimed, refilling my plate over and over again. “Never mind. You’ll fill out here with us, I promise you that!”

The sumptuous breakfast was suspiciously reminiscent of a formal banquet. The commander fussed over me like a doting uncle. I thought I was going to prison, but it looked like I had ended up in a resort. And so, it turned out, I had.

“Whew, I’ve already filled out! By about ten pounds,” I said an hour later. “Thank you, Sir Marunarx. I should go to the cell now, I suppose. That’s why I came, after all.”

“I’m so sorry, Sir Max! I’m afraid it will be uncomfortable for you there! But Sir Hully requested that I put you not in the guest quarter, but in a prison cell. What do you think—could it have been a joke?”

“You never know with him,” I laughed. “No, Sir Marunarx, I’m really supposed to go to the cell. No one has died in your guest quarters, I hope?”

“I understand,” the old man said with a sigh. “Well, let’s go then. By the way, Sir Max, you know that when you’re in the cell you can’t use Silent Speech? I can’t change that for you, I’m afraid. The prison is built that way. You know yourself, Xolomi is a magical place. It’s not for us, the employees, to decide what is permitted here and what isn’t.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“So if you need to get in touch with Sir Hully or anyone else, tell the guards that you wish to take a walk, and they’ll bring you to me, at any time of day or night. Here you can do anything your heart desires. My people have already been informed about you, of course.”

“Excellent!” I nodded. “And now, arrest me, please!”

Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox seemed to be quite a cozy little place. And, by the way, in my homeland you’d have to plunk down several suitcases of greenbacks for a pad like this! But for a native of Echo, it would probably be difficult to reconcile oneself to such cramped quarters—only three “small” (by local standards, miniscule; by ours, enormous) rooms, all on one floor. And also a bathroom with a toilet one floor below, as is the custom here. In the bathroom there were only three tubs, the same number I had at home. Now I began to understand why my landlord had been unable to find a tenant for so long. When I got home, I’d have him put in a fourth tub. I can’t live like I’m in prison!

But praise be the Magicians I had still not completely adapted to local customs, so the modest prison cell seemed to me to be the height of luxury. A half-hour later I realized I had already gotten used to being there.

Actually, I get used to things very quickly. If I move my belongings to a new home in the morning, by evening I feel I have lived there my whole life. It even occurred to me that in a few days I’d grow so used to Xolomi that I’d “remember” why they had thrown me in prison. And then I’d repent, and try to reform with all my might!

And so I sat in my cell and gazed at the ceiling. The marvelous Lonli-Lokli lived some sort of ineffable life between my thumb and the index finger of my left hand. I was terribly curious—what was he feeling about all of this? In any case, the fellow had taken his “work diary” with him. How he could comfortably pass the time away with that notebook is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

Finally, I decided it was time to go to sleep. I’d have to rest, since the most interesting things would happen at night, I assumed, if they were to happen at all.

I was still afraid that nothing untoward would happen. I wondered how much time I would have to spend in Xolomi before I realized that seven deaths in the space of three years was very sad and awkward, if not idiotic—but finally, that it was just a coincidence after all. Would I be here a year? Two? More? Well, never mind. The gentlemen Secret Investigators would be able to survive for about twelve days without us, after which they’d be the ones raising hue and cry to get us released themselves. Sir Juffin would no doubt be the first to decide that our business trip had dragged on too long.

I slept remarkably well. When I woke up, it was already dark. I received a prisoner’s meal, which tasted curiously like the recent festive breakfast. Why do Juffin and I always eat at the Glutton Bunba? The food is great there, of course, but prison fare seemed to be more refined. We’d have to introduce the tradition of carousing at Xolomi: purely out of professional considerations, of course. Or perhaps we could spend Days of Freedom from Care on the premises—it’s quiet, cozy, and there’s nobody to bother you.

Night was coming on. So as not to waste precious time, I tried to do what I truly know how to do well (and it wasn’t much): to chat with the objects around me, and to see that part of the past that they “remembered.”

It was hopeless. All the prison flotsam and jetsam that surrounded me answered my appeals with surging waves of fear. We had seen that before!—in Makluk’s bedchamber, where the little balsam box had sent out the same currents of terror. There was no doubt about it. I had stumbled upon a real story, not a chain of awkward coincidences.

Just then a guard appeared to “convoy” me to a business meeting. One of my guards, by the name of Xaned Janira, had been dying to meet me since morning, but the good commander had tried to preserve my peace and quiet, and ordered him to wait until I woke up.

Mr. Janira bears the title of Master Comforter of Sufferers. As I came to understand it, he was a sort of psychotherapist. He visits the prisoners regularly, asks them how they slept, what they are anxious or worried about, and what messages they want to send home. In Echo, prisoners are treated very humanely. It is thought that if a person has landed in Xolomi, he has no farther to fall, and to subject a prisoner to further discomfort and inconvenience is senseless and cruel. The psychological and emotional comfort of a prisoner is a matter of great concern, and this is, of course, only proper.

“I thought you’d be interested, Sir Max, in some information I possess,” Xaned Janira said, after the ritual greeting was over.

He turned out to be an exceedingly youthful fellow, with a round face and a melodic voice, and narrow green eyes that settled on me with a penetrating gaze.

“Strange things have been happening here recently,” he said. “I suppose this is the reason for your stay. It seemed only right that before investigations get underway you should hear me out. I’ve been waiting all day for you to call me, but I finally could wait no longer. At the risk of being importunate, I decided to take the initiative.”

“I ate too much for breakfast, Sir Janira! So much that I just couldn’t think straight,” I said, trying to excuse my behavior. “I should have turned to you as soon as I crossed the threshold, but I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I just collapsed in my cell right after breakfast. Forgive me. Thank you for inviting me to talk with you.”

From the expression on Xaned Janira’s face, I understood that at that moment he was prepared to go through hell and high water for me.

I don’t know what it was in me that won him over—the respectful “sir,” a form of address not warranted by the station of junior psychotherapist, or my willingness to admit my mistakes. Somehow or other, though, I had traversed the path to his heart without much trouble.

“Not at all, Sir Max! You had every right to rest before getting down to work. I just wanted to explain to you the reasons for my own persistence—I thought I might be able to assist you. Maybe my information will prove useless, but . . . well, just listen to what I have to say, and then you decide. Two days ago the prisoners from cells 5-Soya-Ra, 5-Tot-Xun, and 5-Sha-Pui, which are adjacent to cell 5-Ow-Nox, complained to me about bad dreams. Strangely enough, the content of all their dreams was very similar.”

“I can only sympathize with them, poor fellows! And what did they dream?”

“All three of them dreamed about a ‘small, transparent man,’ as they described it. He came out of the wall, and they all experienced inconceivable horror. From then on their versions of the dreams diverged. Malesh Patu claims that the transparent man wanted to poke his eyes out, and Sir Alarak Vass complained that he ‘was groping for his heart.’ The third case is rather amusing,” Janira related with downcast eyes. “The prisoner insists that he tried to plug up his backside. His biggest fear is that his next dream will see the attempt succeed.”

“Goodness! I wouldn’t want to be in his place.”

It sounded to me as though the prisoners’ nightmares had been an eccentric combination of real dangers and individual phobias. This transparent fellow had most likely done something wicked to all of them, but each of them had a personal interpretation of the events. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was where this creature who haunted all their dreams had come from in the first place. Sorcery was not supposed to be possible in Xolomi; that’s why it had become a prison for those who had a penchant for forbidden magic.

“How is their overall health?” I asked. “Have you shown them to the wiseman?”

“Yes, of course. We cannot just ignore complaints like that, all the more since the trouble began simultaneously with three prisoners. These gentlemen hadn’t been acquainted before, and here in Xolomi, you understand, they couldn’t organize any kind of conspiracy. And why should they? It turns out that the health of all three of them is hardly anything to brag about, but the organs that the transparent ‘dream man’ allegedly targeted are in perfect condition.”

I noted with pleasure that my theory about the influence of personal phobias on the interpretation of nightmares wasn’t so far from the mark. Not bad for a dilettante like myself.

“What could be wrong with them, then?”

“All three of them are gradually losing the Spark,” Janira said in a portentous whisper. Then he went quiet, waiting for the significance of what he had just said to sink in.

I let out a low whistle. To lose the Spark means to suddenly lose the life force, becoming so weak that death comes like sleep after a hard day, when you cannot resist it and don’t even want to. According to my competent colleagues, this mysterious condition is the most dangerous thing that can befall a person born in this World.

“What’s strange is that these unfortunates are getting weaker only gradually, whereas a person usually loses the Spark suddenly, without any alarming symptoms,” said Janira. “In spite of that, our wisemen are absolutely sure of the diagnosis. They say that they can still save them, but medicines don’t seem to be helping.”

“Well, why don’t you try this: move the poor souls to other cells—the farther from cell 5-Ow-Nox the better—and let their cells remain empty until I can discover the cause of this misfortune. You can manage that, I hope?”

“Yes, certainly,” said the Comforter of Sufferers, nodding. Then he added apprehensively, “Are you certain it will help?”

“Almost certain. But that’s always how it is. I can never be completely sure of anything. In any case, give it a try. And do it right now. We may still be able to save them. I don’t know what they did before that landed them in Xolomi, but not a single person deserves such a terrible punishment as sleep filled with nightmares. I’m speaking as a longtime expert in this field.”

“Do you know how to prevent nightmares, Sir Max?”

“I do,” I said, and grinned. “My own, anyway.”

I went back to my cell. It looks like I’ll have my fill of bad dreams here, I mumbled to myself.

I had hardly returned to my senses after the nightmares from the house next door had paid a call, when I was treated to another round in Xolomi, where prisoners are tormented by bad dreams. A plugged up backside, for instance . . .

Nevertheless, I had slept excellently during the day myself. Perhaps it was because it had really been daytime? The heavy cell door closed behind me and . . . disappeared. Here in Xolomi every door exists only for the person in the corridor. From the vantage point of the prisoner, it isn’t there at all. Amazing!

Now I was burning with impatience. Would the “transparent man” appear tonight—and what would he do if I didn’t fall asleep? I was absolutely sure that I wouldn’t. I had slept too soundly and well during the day. What would you have done?

I began waiting for events to unfold, which, in their turn, they didn’t exactly hasten to do. The night brought no answers to my questions. On the other hand, it was generous with strange experiences and sensations.

I felt neither fear nor anxiety, but I constantly sensed I was being scrutinized by somebody’s gaze. And it was so intense it tickled. The tickling irritated me like a caterpillar that had crawled under the covers. I grumbled and scratched and ran to take a bath three times—but it was no use.

At dawn, everything stopped, and I tumbled into sleep. During the night, however, I had a bright idea—though putting it into practice could wait until dinner. (Putting things off until later is a hobby of mine. From morning to evening all I do is put things off.)

I woke up from the rumble of the cell door. My food was brought in to me. Tasting the cheese soup, I started seriously contemplating what kind of crime against the state I should commit. Being held captive for twenty years in these conditions—not a single Royal Honor could compete with “punishment” like this!

When I had finished my soup, I asked to go for a “walk” to Mr. Commander’s office. The time had come to consult Juffin. That night I had realized that the part of the story of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox I knew about only went back to the first of the seven deaths. Since then three years had passed. What had happened there before? Who had been kept in the cell? That was what I meant to find out. In Echo you have to be on top of things like that. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that a few thousand years ago, some shady Grand Magician or other had been held here, and that today’s misfortunes were a logical consequence of that.

I didn’t doubt that Sir Juffin knew every detail of the history of this little place. But in sending me to Xolomi he kept as quiet as a fish—either out of perversity, or because he was just waiting for me to ask the right questions. (In the interests of professional training, of course!)

But look at me! Instead of pedantically collecting information, I wasted time and energy on gathering personal amorous experience. It’s my own fault! I concluded, and settled myself more comfortably in the commander’s chair. After beating myself up like this for a while, I sent a call to Juffin.

Now tell me how it all started, I demanded. What happened here before the 114th day of the 112th year? One of your mutinous Grand Magicians was held in the cell, I’m guessing?

Very good, Max! Juffin was ecstatic about my knack for putting two and two together.

I have no idea why you’re praising me, I grumbled. Well, yes, I asked the question that I should have started with only today, and not a year later. For an idiot like me, that’s probably an achievement.

I have any number of acquaintances who would have needed not one, but two hundred years, if they needed a day. You’re angry at me; but you’re even angrier at yourself. But I meant it when I said “very good.”

I don’t recognize you, Juffin. Such compliments! You must miss me or something.

I had already forgiven him, of course. I was as happy as a pig in a puddle. Praising me is definitely the right strategy. Someone who praises me in good conscience can twist me around any number of little fingers.

In any case, I received an exhaustive answer to my question, and a half hour later I was home. In Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox, that is. I sat sprawled out in a soft arrestee’s chair. I was trying to digest the information I had received. Naturally, you couldn’t get around the requisite crazy Magician—that was as clear as day. Maxlilgl Annox, Grand Magician of the Order of the Sepulchral Dog, and one of the fiercest opponents of the reform, served a prison term in Xolomi during the height of the Troubled Times. According to Juffin, the combined efforts of a dozen of the best practitioners of the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover were needed to imprison his person, remarkable in all respects. At the same time, even the Grand Magicians of other Orders, who had long ago lost any capacity for fear, trembled before him.

He wasn’t such a madman, though, this head of the Order of the Sepulchral Dog. Of course, he had traveled a strange and winding road. But if you believed the historical chronicles, which I devoured by the dozens in my spare time, you’d discover that few of the Grand Magicians were guilty of banality and lack of imagination in their chosen paths.

And so, Mister Annox was deeply preoccupied with the problem of life after death. Not only there, where I was born, but here in the World, as well, no one really knows the answer to the question of what awaits us after death. There are myriad hypotheses—murky, frightening, and seductive—but not a single one of them has much value for someone who isn’t inclined to take a stranger’s word on faith alone.

Of course, the interest in immortality wasn’t solely theoretical for the prisoner of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox. Those Magicians of yore, one must realize, were serious fellows and didn’t waste their precious time.

As far as I could understand, Sir Annox expended unimaginable effort trying to continue ordinary earthly existence, even after death, in the human body so dear to his heart. In simple terms, he wanted to be resurrected. I didn’t doubt that this old geezer had discovered a sneaky way of returning to the land of the living. But then he died. In this very Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox.

The victors never meant to kill him. It seems they very reluctantly killed their enemies, supposing that every death was an irreversible event. And the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover maintains the belief that an irreversible event should occur as seldom as possible. This so that the World can become stronger—or something like that . . . I hadn’t yet had time to figure out all the fine points of the local eschatology.

Nevertheless, the Grand Magician Maxlilgl Annox had died. It wasn’t a suicide in the ordinary sense of the word; I think this death was some sort of “laboratory experiment” essential to his research.

The fact that the walls of Xolomi were the most impenetrable barrier for magic of any degree did not infuse me with optimism. On the contrary, it forced me to think that the posthumous existence of Sir Annox was limited to the walls of his cell. It was evident that proximity to the dead Magician didn’t have a beneficial effect on his latter-day cellmates. Being condemned to life in this cell was a kind of death sentence. That was no good, I decided. Unjust. In this sense, prisoners are far more vulnerable than ordinary citizens. They can’t change their place of domicile, even when they feel it is urgent to do so. I wouldn’t want to be in their place . . . but, in fact, I already was.

I whiled away the night reading the next volume of Manga Melifaro’s Encyclopedia, which I was able to find, to my delight, in the prison library. Nothing supernatural happened, except that I again felt someone’s attentive eyes prickling me. They were even more ticklish this night than they had been the night before. Several times I heard a quiet, dry coughing, which seemed more like an auditory hallucination than the real thing.

Toward morning I got another strange sensation—I felt as if my body hardened like the shell of a nut. So much so that the tickling, to which I was already accustomed, felt not like something touching my skin, but like a slight trembling of the air around me. This wasn’t very pleasant, but I felt that the invisible being who monitored my every move all night long was even less pleased. His displeasure translated itself in part to me. Soon I would start berating myself for not letting the possessor of the powerful gaze tickle me to his heart’s content. What spiritual callousness and disrespect for a stranger’s desires, I would say to myself in reproach!

I couldn’t explain these events with any originality. Maybe I’m just imagining it? Or maybe Juffin put a protective spell on me, without my knowing it? He very well could have. And what if the true explanation was that I was a creature from another World—almost like a space alien?

I was so tired from all these conjectures that I went to sleep before dawn. I wonder how poor Lonli-Lokli is spending his time, I thought when I was dozing off. He’s probably bored. And hungry. What a jam he’s in!

But I had no opportunity to be bored. I had no opportunity to sleep, either. I woke up at noon from the familiar tickling sensation. I was amazed. Was this creature, whoever he might be, really able to operate during the day? On the other hand, why not? All of the most terrible things I had witnessed during my sojourn in Echo had happened in broad daylight. It’s possible that assuming nightmares lie in wait for us only at night is the most foolish of superstitions, born in that long-distant past when our forebears finally lost the ability to see in the dark.

I washed myself, drank a mug of kamra, and began to go over things in my mind. My predecessors in the cell had died only at night. A coincidence? Or was the reason much simpler—they died at night because they slept at night, like all normal people? And because of me the local ghouls had had to change their schedule? Questions, questions, and no answers.

But what unnerved me most of all was my own equanimity. For some reason, I was still not afraid of anything. Not of what had already happened, not of what, theoretically, could happen still. Somehow I had become certain that nothing bad would ever happen to me. Not here, nor in any other place. Never. Bravery verging on lunacy. Until recently I had never suffered from such a syndrome. Maybe the secret of my courage was the trick up my sleeve—or at the end of my fingertips: the well-concealed Sir Lonli-Lokli. But maybe the person whose identity I was interested in discovering derived some advantage from dealing with a myopic daredevil? And he was boosting my mood, unbeknown to me?

For whatever reason, I didn’t fall asleep again that day. Until twilight, I kept pouring myself mugs of kamra, and I read my beloved Encyclopedia, which made me smarter with every line.

Then I came to understand that events were unfolding precisely in the tradition of fairy tales. The first and second nights I was just teased mildly. Predictably, the real horror was postponed until the “fateful” third night.

When dusk set in, I was overcome by a heavy somnolence. This was more than strange, since I usually experience an excess of liveliness and energy at that time, regardless of how I spent the day.

Now, though, I had to stave off sleep, and I didn’t manage very well. I tried to spook myself by summoning up the lurid horrors that lay in wait for me on the far side of my closed eyelids. No use. Even thinking about the unprecedented shame that would cover me if I failed didn’t work. Melifaro’s stinging remarks, Juffin’s consoling gestures, and (the apotheosis) Lady Melamori’s contemptuously pursed lips. Even that didn’t help. A blissful drowsiness enveloped me like a downy pillow, the weapon of choice of a gentle strangler. I was just one wink away from the land of nod.

A bottle of Elixir of Kaxar saved me from slumber. It was pure luck that I had decided to bring it with me. I had to drink quite a bit. But I’m not complaining—Elixir of Kaxar is not only a powerful tonic, but darned tasty, too.

Afterward, Juffin explained that drinking the elixir galvanized the force into action. Apparently, the mysterious being decided that if I was using magic only of the eighth degree for self-defense, I was-n’t a force to contend with. My seeming helplessness forced it to take the most thoughtless course of action in all its strange career.

I didn’t want to argue with Juffin; all the same, it seemed to me that this malevolent chap, fairly unhinged by the loneliness of his transparent existence, just couldn’t wait anymore. It wasn’t a matter of logic at all. The dead Magician wanted to take my life. He was compelled to try—the sooner, the better. Most likely, my “Spark,” or whatever it is, was just the amount or intensity he needed. He had been moving toward his goal for so long already! Drop by drop he had absorbed the strength of those who had ended up in that cell. The time came when Maxlilgl Annox was strong enough to take the first life of another—a life he needed to redeem his own, partly spent, life. Then he was able to claim another, and another . . .

The last portion made the ghost of the Grand Magician so powerful that he was able to invade the dreams of the inhabitants of the neighboring cells, who were soundly protected by impenetrable walls (for magic of the living, but not for him—the dead). He wanted just one thing: to take as many lives as he needed so that he could resurrect himself once and for all. He was already on the threshold of completing this experiment that lasted a lifetime, with a death thrown into the bargain. He needed only a final gulp of the mysterious and precious substance that goes by the name of the Spark. And for the third night in a row, his tantalizing “gulp” had been almost within his grasp—but wouldn’t fall asleep. Naturally, the old geezer tried to go for broke. I would no doubt have done the same if I had been in his shoes.

What’s more, no matter what Sir Juffin Hully said, my opponent was very close to getting what he wanted. Much too close for comfort!

When the silhouette of the intruder materialized like a shadow in the corner of my prison boudoir, I froze in horror. Of course, I had enough information at my disposal to prepare myself for this eventuality. But I wasn’t ready. I was completely unnerved.

To be absolutely honest, I was terrified. And I didn’t know how to bring myself to my senses, even though the appearance of the intruder was more funny than fearsome. The ghost of the Grand Magician was exceedingly small in stature. This was the result of his disproportionate physique—an enormous head; a powerful, muscular torso; and stumpy little legs with feet as small as a child’s.

A comical figure, to be sure; but the brown, wrinkled face of the intruder made an entirely different impression. He had huge blue eyes, a high forehead, and the finely chiseled nose and nostrils of a predator. His long hair, and a beard of the same length, branched out in a multitude of tiny braids—most likely, an ancient fashion. Well, it’s hard to keep up with the trends from a prison cell. Especially for a ghost, I thought. This observation was very much in my style, and it suggested that things weren’t really so bad.

Having mastered my fear, though, I realized that something worse was happening. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t budge. I stood there gazing dully at the reluctant recluse—I was lucky I didn’t fall flat on my face. Do something, you moron! shouted the clever little fellow inside me. Unfortunately, he didn’t have much influence over the rest of me. Do something already! This is for real! Move it!

Nothing helped.

I knew exactly what I needed to do: free Lonli-Lokli with a few energetic shakes of my hand. But even this rudimentary action was too much for me—this fatal thumbing my nose, so to speak, at the night visitor. I was helpless in this situation. It was no longer up to me. I realized that I was goner.

“Your name is Perset. You are a piece of life. I’ve been looking for you,” the ghost whispered. “I have come to you down a long road—one end was prison, the other the grave. And only the wind cried ‘Oooooooh!’; but still I came.”

He came, you understand. I’d rather he not speak at all, this unsung symbolist poet. A person who burdened his interlocutor with such trite and highfalutin turns of phrase upon first meeting was absurd. I decided to refuse the burden. Besides, I had written better dialogs when I was eighteen. I didn’t know how, but I was determined to get the better of him.

At that moment, something utterly bizarre began happening to me. I felt that I was starting to “harden” again. It seemed to me that I had turned into a small, hard apple—one of those that only a seven-year-old boy can munch on (since boys that age are known to chew on everything that comes their way).

Then I had a completely mad thought—I began thinking that there was no way a grownup man like my opponent was going to munch on the hard, bitter apple that I had somehow become. This delirious notion seemed to me to be so self-evident that there was no way around it. And this restored my belief in my own powers. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about my human nature and about the human problems that beset me. We sour green apples live our own inscrutable, carefree lives . . .

My guest began to grimace. He wore the expression of a person who has been wandering around for the last twenty-four hours with a mouthful of vinegar and unripe persimmon. The ancient fellow grew quite upset—and at that very moment the little green apple became a person again. And the person acquired the ability to act. He gave his left hand a good shake—a single deft motion was all it took. In the middle of the prison cell stood Sir Lonli-Lokli.

“You brought Thumbkins!” Maxlilgl cried with indignation.

It was as if we had agreed on the rules of battle beforehand, and I had breached the hypothetical contract.

“You’re not Perset!” the ghost added vehemently. Evidently, he was still hoping that I would feel ashamed of my behavior and stuff Sir Shurf back in the closet. I think Sir Annox had become considerably softer over the past years of associating only with defenseless, frightened inmates.

“Don’t ‘Perset’ me!” I growled.

The ghost’s confusion was palpable. Sir Shurf needed time to peel off his protective gloves, covered with runes. While the dead Magician and I were squaring off, Lonli-Lokli managed to carry out the necessary preparations. The brilliant light from his death-dealing hands illuminated the cell walls, and life seemed all of a sudden to be a devilishly simple and precious matter. A story with an untold number of happy endings—take your pick.

I didn’t even suspect that my chances for staying alive were still approaching zero.

It was my own fault, of course. I had never had to deal with retired Grand Magicians. I foolishly assumed that there was no hurry in killing him. My vanity demanded that I deliver this mistake of nature to the House by the Bridge and drop it screaming and kicking at Sir Juffin’s feet. How I was going to capture a ghost I had no idea. But then again, I had had a miserable, third-rate education. I didn’t have classes in the foundations of metaphysics, either in high school—which I got through on a wing and prayer—or in college, from which I was unceremoniously expelled. I shared my half-baked thoughts on the matter with my colleague—but Sir Shurf is the most disciplined creature in the universe. As he saw it, I was the leader of the operation. Consequently, my orders had to be summarily carried out. Even the most half-baked ones.

Lonli-Lokli’s paralyzing right hand did not achieve the desired effect. Instead of freezing submissively to the spot, the ghost began to increase in size, threatening to assume gigantic proportions. At the same time, he became increasingly transparent. It all happened so quickly that within the fraction of a second his indistinct head was hovering somewhere up near the ceiling.

“Stupid Thumbkins!” Maxlilgl Annox screeched. “He knows not how to kill! Begone, Thumbkins!”

And without paying any more heed to Lonli-Lokli, the thick mist, which by now had almost lost its human form, lunged at me. It managed to touch me—a cold, damp, sticky pudding—that’s what it felt like. The touch left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, for some reason, and the cold pain that shot through my body was such that I still can’t imagine how I survived it.

I didn’t even lose consciousness. Instead, I screamed at the top of my lungs:

“Liquidate him!”

Sinning Magicians! Where was my head?

As though from a great distance, I watched Lonli-Lokli join his remarkable hands together and cross his forefingers. This promising gesture had no visible consequences, though. Another tormenting second passed. I didn’t understand a thing. Why didn’t Shurf kill him? The human pudding was already thickening around me.

And then another improbable thing happened. It was like the icing on the cake of this bewitched night. The shining fingers of Lonli-Lokli drew the outline of a wondrous curve in the darkness, and a waterfall came crashing down on us. Tons of cold water swallowed up the transparent silhouette. I still didn’t understand what was happening, but I turned my face to the refreshing streams of water. A good wash was surprisingly welcome right then.

Our opponent, however, turned out to have a very tenacious vitality. Of course, the water wasn’t able to do serious harm to him, although it did engender another metamorphosis. After his bath, the ghost began shrinking at an alarming rate. As huge and transparent as he had just been, he now became tiny and dense.

My insights into astronomy are catastrophically limited. I don’t even know what super-dense heavenly bodies are called. That they are “dwarves” I know for certain. But whether they’re “white,” or “black” I have no clue. Our dwarf was, in any case, white, a miniscule homunculus, shining with the same blinding whiteness as Lonli-Lokli’s hands reaching out for him. In spite of his miniature stature, he looked very threatening.

“You were mistaken, Sir Max,” my imposing partner remarked evenly. “Water can’t harm him.”

“I, mistaken?! Wherever did you get the idea that water would do the trick?!”

“But you yourself told me to liquify him!”

“Sinning Magicians, Shurf! Liquidate, not liquify! It means to kill! And the sooner the bet—”

I broke off in mid-sentence. Suddenly I couldn’t go on. I wasn’t up to talking anymore. The tiny creature glittered in the air, very close to my face. It was muttering something. The bastard’s putting a spell on me, I thought indifferently. I didn’t have the strength to resist him . . .

. . . I was blinded by the bright light of the sun. I was standing beneath the spreading branches of a tree, and an unkempt girl, milky-white, as short in stature as Sir Maxlilgl Annox, was offering me an apricot. “Accept the gift of a fairy, Perset!” Why, I don’t know myself, but I took it and bit into it. The fruit was worm-ridden. A pale little caterpillar slipped into my wide-open mouth and dove into the tender depths of my gullet. I felt its sharp jaws pierce the sensitive membranes. Poison began coursing through my body, filling me with weak nausea. I should probably have died of pain and disgust, but a blinding hatred filled me, and I began to shout. I shouted so violently and fiercely that it set a rushing wind in motion. Leaves, scorched dry, began falling from the tree, and the milk-white girl, her face distorted from horror, slithered through the withered grass, hissing like a viper. Finally, I spit out the poisonous caterpillar at the feet of Lonli-Lokli, who wasn’t in that garden at all; and then the glaring light began to subside.

What I really admire in our Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Lives is his unflappability. He won’t be caught out! While I was wandering through the sunny fields of my nightmare, the guy did what had to be done. He finally put his death-dealing left hand into action—something he should have done straight off. In such cases, everything goes off without a hitch. Whether you’re a human being, or a ghost, or a Magician-knows-what, death will be easy and instantaneous.

Then this remarkable fellow pulled on his protective gloves, and with the dexterity of a professional nurse poured the remains of the Elixir of Kaxar into my mouth.

“It’s very helpful in cases like this, Max, so drink up. I regret that I didn’t understand your order properly. I concluded that you were talking about a new method of destruction by water. It cost me considerable effort to get him wet. Here in Xolomi, even I have a hard time working wonders—although Sir Juffin, naturally, gave me special training.”

From the Elixir of Kaxar I not only came to, I also cheered up—a clear sign of an overdose.

“A method of destruction by water—Sinning Magicians! How could that be expected to work? Why water? You should have just pissed on him! That would have killed him, I’m sure! Loki, have you never tried pissing on a ghost?”

“Sir Max,” my savior protested in an injured tone, “my name is not Loki, but Lonli-Lokli. Until now you have always managed to pronounce it correctly. I would hope that the ability will return to you in the near future.”

The poor chap had decided, apparently, that I was as big a dunderhead as Melifaro.

“That was no slip of the tongue, Sir Shurf. I was simply reminded of a menacing god whose name resembles yours. Please don’t take offense, my friend.”

“I’ve never heard of a god by the name of Loki,” he admitted in surprise. “Do your fellow tribespeople worship him?”

“Some of them, anyway,” I didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. “We of the Barren Lands have a multitude of divinities, you know. Everyone believes whatever he wants to. Every second nomad is a high priest. And some chaps, myself included, don’t believe in anything in particular, but take a lively interest in everything.”

“It isn’t secret knowledge, is it?” Lonli-Lokli inquired. “You could enlighten me about these matters?”

“Yes, I can,” I nodded resolutely. “For you—I’d do anything.”

For the next hour and a half, over the cold remains of the excellent prison kamra, I waxed eloquent on the subject of Scandinavian mythology, passing it off as legend of the Barren Lands.

I must give Sir Shurf his due—the Scandinavian epic was very much to his liking. He especially liked Odin, the chief of the gods and dead heroes, who brought the honey of poetry to earth. The Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Lives viewed poetry with profound reverence, if not outright trepidation.

Inspired either by the unexpectedness of our shared literary passions or by overindulgence in Elixir of Kaxar, I patted my imposing colleague on the back. I had forgotten that in the Unified Kingdom this gesture is only allowed to close friends. Luckily for me, Sir Shurf didn’t object to this official acknowledgment of our newly established friendly footing. Indeed, he seemed very flattered.

Then it occurred to me that I had no idea what obligations my status as close friend of Sir Lonli-Lokli would entail. Here in Echo there must be myriad peculiar rites and customs surrounding true friendship. I decided I’d have to consult Juffin about it. Let him teach me how to be a friend here. And I’d write it down in my notebook and try to check every move I made against it. I just hoped that in the next hour and a half I wouldn’t offend him; that would be just like me.

Finally we finished our divinity tutorial and began sending signals to the world outside the cell. We were immediately released and led to the commander’s office. They fed us an excellent breakfast and plied us with fresh, hot kamra. It was wonderful. When I began to feel quite chipper again, I hastened to relieve my curiosity.

“Tell me, Shurf. How did you pass the time when you were small? I’m not asking about your childhood, of course. I mean when you were hidden from prying eyes in my tightly clenched fist.”

“Time?” Lonli-Lokli asked with a shrug. “Time, Sir Max, passed as it always does. During these few hours I even managed to work up an appetite.”

“What? Few hours!”

“Do you mean to say that I miscalculated?”

“We’ve spent three days and nights here!” I exclaimed.

“A curious effect,” Lonli-Lokli concluded impassively. “But it’s for the better. Three days and nights is too long an interval to go without sandwiches. One might call it a lucky thing that my temporal perception was distorted.”

I would have liked to delve into many more details about his existence in the palm of my hand, but Sir Shurf said that in matters like this you have to take it as it comes—you can’t learn about it secondhand. Then he generously offered to give me the experience firsthand—but I decided I’d had enough excitement for one day, and tactfully changed the subject.

After breakfast, we took our leave of the hospitable Sir Marunarx. It was time to head back to the House by the Bridge. I felt superb—though my body felt a bit weightless under the effects of the outsize portion of Elixir of Kaxar. I was tempted to fill my pockets with rocks to prevent inopportune levitation.

“I really don’t think you should sit behind the levers, Max,” Lonli-Lokli announced, getting into the amobiler. “You are the best driver I know, but even in former times, when it was possible to buy Elixir of Kaxar in any store, driving the amobiler in such a condition was strictly prohibited.”

I had to reconcile myself to it.

“Nevertheless, you Borderland dwellers are marvelous creatures,” said Lonli-Lonkli, driving onto the wooden planks of the ferry that traveled between the island of Xolomi and the Old City. “I must admit that I can’t quite put my finger on what it is that distinguishes you, but you are not at all like other strangers. Unfortunately, I am a poor theoretician.” With these words, the fellow buried his nose in his famous “work diary”—to register his fresh impressions, I could only suppose.

“What do you mean by that, Shurf?” I asked with unfeigned interest.

“Don’t take offense, Sir Max. It’s just that some are of the opinion that Elixir of Kaxar, like ordinary cheering beverages, acts as a depressant on the psychological state of so-called barbarians—please forgive the crudeness of the term. Some wisemen even claim that Elixir of Kaxar endangers the mental balance of your countrymen. It is thought that only natives of Uguland can cope with the effects of magic drinks. But you don’t seem to suffer any harm from it. On the contrary, this beverage has a much milder effect on you than it does on many representatives of ‘Civilized Peoples.’ That is what I meant to say. Again, forgive me for my tactlessness.”

“Have you forgotten, Sir Shurf? You are now my friend, and you can say anything you wish.”

Needless to say, I heaved a sigh of relief. When Lonli-Lokli started talking about my idiosyncrasies, I almost thought I had given away my true origins, and that all Juffin’s labor had been dust in the wind. But no—he was just amazed that I didn’t dance naked on the table after a few gulps of Elixir. Well, next time I’d have to make him happy.

Sir Juffin Hully himself was quite happy when he saw us, alive and triumphant, and all in one piece.

“I doubt that the problem of life after death is still relevant for the Grand Magician Maxlilgl Annox,” I quipped from the doorway. “If we had killed him when he was alive, anything could have happened. But we killed him after he had already died. Sinning Magicans, what am I saying! Stop me!”

“In any case, I’m sure his research is finished once and for all,” Juffin assured me.

“One hopes so. I didn’t much like your Grand Magician. By the way, I wanted to deliver him to you alive—well, as alive as it was possible to consider him to be. But it just didn’t work out.”

“Magicians be with you, my boy! You might not have come back alive yourselves!”

“That’s what I assumed,” Lonli-Lokli observed. “But an order is an order.”

Juffin shook his head reproachfully. I couldn’t figure out which of us he was more dissatisfied with.

“I was an idiot. I’ll mend my ways,” I repented. I collapsed in a chair, and right away realized I was falling asleep. Just as my eyes were closing, I muttered, “Don’t forget to tell him about the water, Shurf. That was something else!”

I was still feeling the beneficial effects of Elixir of Kaxar, and so I awoke only an hour later. I felt as light as a feather, and surprisingly chipper. My colleagues were drinking kamra that they had ordered in the Glutton, and were conversing quietly.

“Aha, he’s up and about,” said Juffin.

He stared at me with suspicious enthusiasm, as though I were a holiday pudding that may just have reached the proper consistency. It wouldn’t have surprised me if his mouth were watering.

It didn’t. But he did launch into a medical examination, though this didn’t really resemble an ordinary medical procedure.

Juffin asked me to stand by the wall, and for some time I felt his motionless, light eyes drilling into me—not a very pleasant sensation, I’ll have you know. For the first time since I had made his acquaintance I felt uncomfortable under his gaze. Then he told me to turn my face to the wall, which I did with relief. For a time, the boss studied my backside and its environs. Not satisfied with a visual examination, he began patting me on the back. This massage, in contrast to the “I spy” game, was enjoyable. Then his relentless hands—the sizzling hot right one and the ice-cold left one—were on my head, and I felt wretched. It was as if I had died and nothing was left of me. Nothing at all. And then I began shouting—not from pain, but to prove to the whole world that it wasn’t true. I shout, therefore I am. A stupid phrase, but it worked.

“Easy, Max,” Juffin said, his voice full of sympathy and concern, helping me into the nearest armchair. “Unpleasant, I know; but it’s over now.”

Almost immediately I felt better physically, but I couldn’t vouch for my emotional equilibrium.

“What was that all about?”

“Nothing, really. The ordinary dialog between the body of a healer and the body of a patient. Not everyone likes it. You, for example, didn’t. But you have to grow accustomed to these things, and you haven’t yet. Are you ready for some news?”

“Depends,” I answered cautiously. “Is it good? Bad? Or what?”

“Or what. Depends on your sense of humor.”

“Well, that’s never been too much of a problem for me.”

“We’ll put it to the test now. You see, Max, your . . . how can I put it most accurately . . . your physiology has undergone a change.”

“What kind? Have I become a woman? Or do I just never have to go to the bathroom again? What do you mean, Juffin?”

“No, everything is fine below the belt,” Juffin said with a chuckle. “As for the bathroom and other little joys of life—there’s no need to worry.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“Nothing really terrible has happened. But you do have to know, all the same. You’ve become poisonous.”

“Poisonous? Me?” Juffin’s revelation sounded simply absurd. “Do you mean to tell me that if someone eats me he’ll die? Alert the local cannibals, on the double! They may become victims of their own appetites,” I laughed like it was the last laugh of my life.

“No, eating you is no problem. Neither is touching. Someone could even use your silverware or a towel after you with no dire consequences,” said Juffin. “There’s just one danger. If you become angry or scared, your saliva will become poisonous. The most deadly kind of poison, I might add. It kills instantaneously if it so much as touches the skin—of a person, at least. And you will spit this venom at your offender come what may. Let me assure you that self-discipline and training is of no use here. No amount of willpower will change the situation. It’s not a matter of choice. You’ll spit even if you decide not to. The only thing you can do if you wish to avoid the instantaneous destruction of your offender is to spit off to the side somewhere. So look to your character, boy. Don’t let trifles annoy you, or you’ll spit the whole of Echo into oblivion.”

“It’s not all that bad,” I observed uncertainly. “I’m not malicious. If something like this happened to Boboota, humanity really would be in grave danger. Of course, it would be nice to try, at least once. If you don’t watch out, I’ll leave to become Sir Shurf’s assistant.”

“Well, that wouldn’t hurt,” Lonli-Lokli remarked, maintaining his placid, unruffled demeanor. “You know yourself, Max, that I sometimes have more work than I can handle.”

“And what about my personal life, Juffin?” I sighed. “No girl will want to kiss such a monster! Maybe we should keep the news a secret?”

“Explain to the girls that kissing you is completely harmless. As long as you’re not angry, at least,” Juffin shrugged. “As for keeping it secret—I wasn’t intending to call a press conference about it, but you know that—”

“. . . that Echo is full of two-bit clairvoyants,” I finished his thought.

“Precisely.”

“But why did this happen to me, anyway?”

“It’s your fate, boy. When you’re mixed up in magic at high levels, it affects you differently from how it would affect . . . let’s just say ‘normal people.’” Juffin then glanced over at Lonli-Lokli meaningfully.

Sir Shurf is as trustworthy and reliable as a cliff inside a safe inside a Swiss bank, but it was perhaps not worth announcing to him that I was a refugee from another World. Besides, everything was already as clear as day to me.

“You never know beforehand what or how something will affect you,” Juffin added. “Remember what happened when we were at my neighbor’s house?”

“But I was only very briefly a vampire,” I objected plaintively. “After a few hours everything was back to normal.”

“Right. Because my spell was the kind that is only short-term. But the ghost wanted to kill you. That’s why the spell he put on you worked like a charm, so to speak—a very permanent one. What can be more permanent than death?”

“Well, you’ve consoled me. Thanks a million!”

“Deal with it, Max. Don’t think this incident is the last one in your life. Everything is for the best! At Makluk’s house you became a bit wiser. Now you have a useful weapon at your disposal. Who knows what’s next?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

For a few seconds I sincerely tried to feel sorry for myself. Then I shook my head and burst out laughing.

“Maybe I just need to see a wiseman. I’ll come to him and say, ‘Doctor, I have poisonous saliva. What should I do?’ And he’ll say, ‘No problem. A strict diet, a walk before bedtime, and an aspirin for the night. In five hundred years, you’ll be right as rain!’”

“Aspirin? What’s that?” Lonli-Lokli asked.

“Oh, it truly is a magic potion. It’s made from horse dung, and it helps everything!”

“Well, I’ll be! And our scholars write that in the Borderlands sorcery is very backward. It does seem to be the case that reason often falls victim to prejudice.”

Sir Juffin clutched at his head.

“Stop, gentlemen! I can’t laugh anymore. My face will become permanently contorted. A last piece of advice, Max. I suggest you consider yourself to be very lucky. You have plenty of useless and inoffensive habits. It’s about time you acquired some dangerous ones. Your new acquisition might come in very handy in our profession. And if some hysterical lady refuses to kiss you, just spit in her direction and all will be well. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Excellent.” With that, he threw open the door, took a sizable package from the hands of a courier, and tossed it on my lap. “Now try this on.”

I opened the package, and out fell a black looxi embroidered in gold, a black skaba, a turban in the same style, and a pair of marvelous boots. On the boots were stylized heads of toothy dragon-like creatures; the black boot-tops were strewn with tiny golden bells. Of course, I would never wear anything like that in my homeland—but here in Echo, I was stylin’!

“Is this a gift, Juffin?”

“Something like that. But please do try it on.”

“Thanks!” I started pulling on the boots.

“You’re very welcome. Do you like these?”

“I’ll say!” I plunked the black turban on my head. It was decorated with the same tiny gold bells.

“And the looxi?

“Just a second.”

I wrapped myself up in the black and gold garment and looked at myself in the mirror. It turned out that the gold patterned embroidery formed glittering circles on my chest and back, like targets.

“It’s great! Fit for a king.”

“Well, as a matter of fact it is for a king. I’m glad you like it, Sir Max. Now you have to wear it.”

“Gladly. But why do I have to? And it’s a pity to wear such finery on a daily basis.”

“You’ll get as many outfits as you need. You still haven’t understood the main thing. These are your work clothes, so to speak. Your uniform. You’ll have to wear it all the time from now on.”

“Fine, but I still don’t understand. You yourself said that in contrast to the police, members of the Secret Investigative Force don’t wear uniforms. What is this, some kind of innovation?”

“Not exactly. This uniform is just for you. You, Sir Max, have become Death. Death in the service of the King. And for such occasions, one must wear the Mantle of Death.”

“And when people see me passing by, they’ll run from me like the plague. Is that it?”

“It’s not all that bad. When they see you, they’ll tremble blissfully and think with nostalgia about the good old Epoch of Orders, when people in garments like this were much more common. Your social stature is so high that . . . to put it bluntly, you are a Very Important Person of the highest rank. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Ah, a ‘big boss,’ eh? Well, I can deal with that. But why don’t you wear a uniform like this, Shurf? You of all people should be wearing one.”

“At one time I really did wear the Mantle of Death,” Lonli-Lokli confirmed with a nod. “But times change. The time for white garments has come for me now.”

“Oh, and I thought your clothes were just a matter of personal taste. And what do your white clothes mean?”

Lonli-Lokli didn’t reply. He clearly didn’t want to discuss the subject.

“The times when Shurf was Death have passed,” Juffin announced solemnly. “Now he has become Truth. At least, that’s how his position is listed in the Secret Registry of Practicing Royal Magicians. To put it more simply, our Sir Lonli-Lokli isn’t capable of anger, fear, or taking offense—in contrast to you, for example. He can bring death, it’s true, but only when it’s absolutely necessary, not because he wants to himself. Not even when he is ordered to do it. If, let’s say, I order Sir Shurf to pulverize an innocent person, he will, in the line of duty, try to carry out my orders, but his hand will refuse to obey its master. So it turns out that our highly disciplined Sir Shurf, for the most part, answers to no one. That is why he is greater than death. He is Truth because he is, in the last instance, as impassive as the heavens. Whew! I’m getting carried away. All that is, of course, a shameless mixtures of naïve philosophy and bad poetry. But you understand the gist of it.”

“I’m glad I don’t have to wear orange or raspberry,” I said. “Still, I’m not crazy about this idea.”

“You don’t have to be crazy about it. Come to terms with it, and try to get some satisfaction out of it, at least. Case closed. You won’t be working tonight, at least, so let’s go to the Glutton. I’m starving, and so are you. Any questions?”

“Yes,” I muttered. “Who’s paying?”

By the end of the evening, all the Secret Investigators were sitting around the table. There was nothing unusual in this, of course. Juffin had probably sent out a silent call and told everyone to join our little feast, though it was nice to think that there was some mysterious connection between my colleagues and me, and that walking around the city, everyone inevitably gravitated toward the place where the others had gathered. We attract each other by some principle of collective magnetism: that’s how I imagined it.

When she took her leave, Lady Melamori, who hadn’t taken her eyes off me the whole evening, invited Melifaro and me to visit her at dawn to drink a mug of kamra. According to her strategic plan, we would arrive together and neutralize each other. I wondered whether she was making fun of us or—worse—whether she, herself, didn’t understand what she wanted.

“Spit at her, man!” Melifaro hissed. “Spit at her, I dare you. She deserves it!”

“No kidding,” I murmured. “But my spit is a matter of state. To use it for my own purposes is abuse of office. And I’m just out of Xolomi.”

I did finally make it home that night, and was greeted by Armstrong and Ella, looking sleek, well-fed, and well-groomed, as promised. I decided that from now on I would use the services of the courier, who had been charged with looking after my little beasts. Unlike me, the fellow was made for this kind of work.

All night I stuffed my furry friends with delicacies from the Glutton and was rewarded by their grateful purring. I at last grew weary of this pastime; but they wouldn’t leave me in peace.

I was awakened by a knock at the door. Only a civil servant of a fairly low rank would dare knock so boldly. Sleepy, grumpy, and befuddled, I crawled over to open the door. Armstrong marched beside me on my right, and Ella spun around in circles on my left, meowing indignantly. It must have been a sight to behold.

At the door stood an extremely proper-looking gentleman whose elegant, gold-rimmed glasses and graying temples cast an aura of intelligence over his pedigreed face.

“Please accept my apologies, Sir Max,” he said, bowing. “Allow me to introduce myself, Kovista Giller, Master Verifier of Sad News. I know that it isn’t entirely proper to appear at your door at this time of night, but His Majesty King Gurig VIII insisted on it.”

My innate sense of hospitality and the servile tone of the visitor conspired to make me invite him in. Moreover, there was nearly a full jug of kamra from the Glutton and a pretty assortment of tidbits, as well. I just had to find some clean mugs. In a large house that’s not so easy.

“What happened?” I inquired when the objects of my search were found. “What is this ‘sad news’ you wish to verify? Did someone finally rat on me? We’ll have to celebrate that.”

“I’ll explain everything to you, Sir Max, but please don’t be alarmed. Nothing untoward has happened, I assure you.”

“Judging from what you’ve just told me, you already know about my new position,” I remarked acidly. “To be honest, I wasn’t about to get alarmed. Whatever may have happened, the death penalty is not held in high repute here, and I just returned from Xolomi. I had a lovely stay there, I hasten to add . . .”

“Generally speaking, my main occupation is to verify the legitimacy of denunciations that make their way to the Royal Court. That really is true,” my guest admitted, somewhat abashed. “But I beg you, Sir Max, do not think that the King gave any credence to General Boboota Box’s memo. I’m here about another matter altogether.”

“Well, well, well! Our conversation has taken a much more interesting turn! Do me a favor, sir, and tell me what kind of memo that might have been. I haven’t been at the Ministry for three days. I was carrying out an investigation on the orders of the Venerable Head. What, according to General Box, was I up to?”

“I’m embarrassed even to mention such trifling matters to you, Sir Max. General Box found out that in your absence one of the junior staff members of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order visited your home and—”

“And fed my animals,” I nodded. “It’s the truth. He groomed them, too. What else are junior staff for?”

“I agree with you one hundred per cent, Sir Max. I’ll let you in on a secret: General Box always forgets that the Secret Investigative Force and his Police Force are very different organizations, that what is acceptable in his half of the House by the Bridge is not necessarily so in yours. Boboota Box has not seldom delivered denunciations about the behavior of the Venerable Head himself, not to mention your other colleagues.”

“And what exactly does Boboota object to?”

Kovista Giller broke into a shy smile.

“Well, he objects to everything. For instance, that Sir Kofa Yox doesn’t show up at work when he should be on duty, because he rarely leaves the tavern.”

“Well, yes,” I agreed. “That truly is bad form! He should just stay in his office, occasionally making a trip to the john to hear Boboota’s underlings rake him over the coals in secret. Instead, he haunts all the dives in town.”

My visitor nodded in satisfaction.

“The King even collects letters of denunciation about your department. He sticks them in a special album and illustrates them personally. He says he’s going to give the album to Sir Juffin Hully when the pages run out. That’s why His Majesty read General Box’s letter carefully before adding it to the others. The King was curious: why do you keep beasts at home, and what kind of pleasure do you derive from this?”

“See for yourself,” I smiled tenderly. “Look how beautiful my Armstrong and Ella are. And so smart!”

The instigators of social discord heard their names and clambered into my lap. I groaned under their bulk, which was nothing to joke about. The long, carefully groomed fur flowed down almost to the floor. Blue eyes peered out from fuzzy cheeks, and their plume-like tails tickled my nose. I had reason to be proud of them!

“If you only knew how sweet it is to sleep to the sound of their purring,” I murmured dreamily. “That, if you will permit me, is pure delight.”

“Where did you get them, Sir Max?” my guest asked.

To this very day I don’t know what made me tell a fib. I think I felt the cats would be hurt if I admitted to a complete stranger the secret of their plebeian origins.

“These cats are the direct descendants of wild cats of the Barren Lands and a mysterious, wild black beast that inhabits the land where the sun sets.”

I tried my best to imitate the speech of an exultant savage until I could no longer restrain myself. I burst out laughing, then said in a normal tone of voice:

“At least that’s what it said in the note I found in the basket when the little critters were delivered to me by a merchant. They were a present from an old friend.”

“To think of it!” the Royal Messenger exclaimed. “His Majesty guessed correctly! He told me right off, ‘I’m sure that this Sir Max has cats that are as unusual as he is. Go over and find out—I’m dying with curiosity!’ Now I see with my own eyes, Sir Max, that your cats don’t resemble in the least the cats that live on our farms.”

“If His Majesty considers Armstrong and Ella to be such marvels, I will be the first to agree with him,” I declared, pressing the heavy mounds of fur closer to me. “They are nothing if not extraordinary.”

The local farmers simply don’t have the time or the strength to groom the resplendent fur of their animals, I thought to myself. My cats, it was true, looked nothing like the scraggly, matted specimens that lurked about the peasants’ gardens in search of extra scraps of food.

The Master Verifier of Sad News apologized profusely for taking up my valuable time, and sent out a call to Rulx Castle, the main Royal Residence. Evidently, such a serious matter requires lengthy deliberation—the fellow remained silent for nearly an hour.

Finally, Kovista Giller again turned his attention to me. I was already dozing off in my armchair.

“Sir Max,” he began in a respectful whisper. “The King would like some cats just like these. Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that His Majesty intends to take your own beasts from you. But you do have a girl and a boy, and it stands to reason that that will eventually result in offspring. Might we have the honor of receiving a cat from the litter?”

This was a sensible solution to an impending problem. Kittens were in the bargain sooner or later, there was no getting around it. I had been planning on sending the Armstrong-and-Ella descendents to the same place their parents hailed from—Melifaro’s estate. But the Royal Palace was more convenient. And it was closer to home.

“Of course! When the little ones arrive, I’ll be happy to send the King the pair of them with the chubbiest paws!” I promised solemnly.

Kovista Giller showered me with thanks, apologies, and compliments, and then disappeared out the door. I went off to bed.

I didn’t have a chance to sleep in the next morning, though. A few hours later my new acquaintance sent me another call. It seemed all the courtiers had to have Armstrong and Ella’s future offspring, too. Kovista Giller insisted that we meet again.

That evening I held in my hand a note with the names of all the eager recipients of this “rare” (and with Royal stamp of approval!) breed. It was a list of ninety names. And I suspected this was only the beginning.

Poor Ella, even a very long lifetime was too short to produce that many litters. But all these men of the world hungered to appear on the glorified waiting list, if nothing else.

Naturally, Juffin found out about my dealings with the Royal Court in no time, and summoned me for a meeting. I set out for the House by the Bridge anticipating the amusement to come.

“What are you doing to my World, Max? What kinds of transformations are you unleashing?” demanded the Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force with mock severity. “And, be so good as to tell me: why only cats? You should have inspired them to take horses into their homes and to ride from the living room to the bedroom! Why were you so grudging?”

“I can still try, if you wish,” I replied, giving the matter some thought. “The size of the apartments in the capital would certainly allow it.”

“I don’t doubt that you’d succeed! The Royal Courtiers are so eager for novelties . . . but wait a few years, why don’t you? At my age, it’s hard to get used to newfangled notions.”

“I’ll wait. But never mind the horses. Let’s just stick to cats.”

“Really? Well, thank you for that, at least. Sinning Magicians, sometimes I really start believing myself that you grew up in the Borderlands. You don’t even take offense anymore!”

“Just watch how I can take offense! Just see me spit!” I grimaced madly.

“I might otherwise be struck with terror, but my position won’t allow it,” Juffin said, grinning. “It is widely believed that I fear nothing and no one. I can’t just up and fly in the face of the honored traditions of the Secret Investigative Force.”

“By the way, apropos of traditions,” I said, recalling recent events. “What are so-called close friends expected to do for one another? I’m not joking, I really need to know.”

“What are you talking about, Max? Who are you calling your ‘close friends’? Give me some background.”

“Well, last night I overindulged in Elixir of Kaxar and patted Sir Shurf on the back. He seemed perfectly happy with this, so everything’s fine. There must be some friendship traditions I have to uphold so as not to offend him, though. Am I guessing right?”

“No, I don’t recall anything of that nature,” Juffin said, furrowing his brow. “I don’t think anyone is required to do anything in particular. You don’t have to address him as ‘sir’ anymore, although you seem to have stopped doing that already anyway. Sinning Magicians! What am I trying to explain? Friendship is friendship! By the way, if you recall, I once did the same to you.”

“Yes, but—”

I grew confused and fell silent. It’s awkward to admit to a person that you consider him to be the Great Exception to all possible rules. It’s too close to crude flattery.

But Juffin understood already anyway.

“You mean to say that I’m just one of the guys, but Lonli-Lokli is a true gentleman? Yes, that’s one way of looking at it, but you’re in luck, Max! There are no particular rituals for such a situation. Well, except for the fact that now when you visit Shurf, you have the right to take a bath at his house and spend the night. And he has the same right—though I question whether he would take advantage of it. All right, Sir Max, a few Days of Freedom from Care are no less than you deserve, so I won’t detain you any longer.”

“That sounds like you’re showing me the door,” I said with a smile. “I even feel a bit hurt. Not show up on duty for two days? I’ll die of boredom!”

“I’m glad you like your job. Now you’ve got to get some rest, though. And no adventures! I’m saying that to you as a healer. Understand?”

In the corridor of the Ministry I ran into General Boboota Box. He bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile, his face crimson. The poor chap seemed to be on the verge of fainting. When he saw my Mantle of Death, the illustrious General Boboota understood that he had acquired a very dangerous enemy. I could only sympathize.

Joking aside, passing by the Sated Skeleton I heard two middle-aged ladies in heated argument. If I’m not mistaken, they were playing Krak, the local version of poker. And, inevitably, they were both cheating. They made so much noise that they couldn’t hear the melodious tinkle of the bells on my boots. “May Sir Max spit on you!” one of them screamed at the other.

Unbelievable! I plunked myself down on the mosaic sidewalk and let my head fall into my hands. I sat like that for ten minutes or more. I kept repeating, like a mantra, Juffin’s advice: “Get used to it, and try to enjoy it.”

Then I got up and walked home. What else could I do?