The Stranger tloe-1 Read online

  “Which has never prevented you from accepting fees for your, let us say, ‘consultations,’” Juffin interposed drily.

  “Of course not. I love money. It’s so pretty. Actually, as for your personal Tipfinger, Max—you’ll have to kill it sooner or later. It’s not good to litter the Universe with any old thing. Besides, a Tipfinger in the Door between Worlds is an unprecedented outrage. There you have my consultation; and just try to accuse me of taking money from the King’s coffers without deserving it!”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. Suddenly he’s the guardian of the State Treasury!”

  “How does one kill a Tipfinger?” I asked.

  “When you kill it, you’ll know it. Don’t worry, Max. Theoretically, the matter can wait for a few hundred years. But sooner or later, you just won’t have any other choice. Life is very wise. By that time, you’ll certainly know what to do.”

  “Well, if you say so, then I will,” I said. “You have confused me once and for all.”

  “That’s how every good story must end, Max. When a person stops understanding something, he’s on the right track,” Juffin assured me. “We won’t take any more of your valuable time, Maba. All the more since we’ve already eaten everything up. Don’t forget: you promised to dream me up tonight.”

  “I won’t forget. Farewell.”

  I was expecting some kind of escapade or outburst, but nothing of the sort happened. Sir Maba Kalox left the living room by the same door he had entered, and we went out into the front hall.

  “Have I been promoted?” I asked. “Have I been accepted into the ranks? Somehow there don’t seem to be any more surprises in store.”

  “Are you sure, Max?” Juffin said, smiling, as he threw open the door into the garden.

  “Of course, I—” I stepped over the threshold and froze. Instead of the garden we found ourselves in our own office.

  “Well, what do you think of that?” Sir Juffin Hully winked at me. “Never let down your guard when you’re dealing with Maba Kalox.”

  I sat down in my chair and started to practice those very breathing exercises that the unflappable Sir Lonli-Lokli had taught me. I had only the faintest hope that they would help.

  Chapter 5 King Banjee

  IN MY HOMELAND, WE CELEBRATE THE NEW YEAR. HERE IN ECHO, AT the end of winter, they see the old year out. At home we say, “Happy New Year!” Here they say, “Another Year Has Passed.”

  About a dozen days before the year ends, the citizens of Echo begin to recall that life is short, and they try to do everything they didn’t get around to in the past 288 days: fulfill the promises they have to others or themselves, to pay off their debts, receive what they are owed, and even willingly plunge into all kinds of unpleasantness so as not to sully the bright vista of life that awaits them (so they think) just on the other side of the “terrible year” now coming to an end. Practicality taken to an absurd extreme. In a word, the Last Day of the Year is no celebration, but a ridiculous excuse to begin—and just as suddenly to cease—mind-boggling activity.

  This frenzy passed me by completely. Sir Juffin Hully was drawing up the annual report. After rushing around tearing his hair out for two days, he transferred this task onto the iron shoulders of Lonli-Lokli. The only thing I had to do was pay the debt I had run up at the Sated Skeleton, which took exactly fifteen minutes. In other establishments I always paid right away in cash, not so much out of contempt for local superstition, but rather in the hope that “touching metal” really would cool off love. In my case, however, it was ineffectual.

  Troubles, it seemed, were not on the horizon for me. The bad habit of making promises didn’t apply to me, either. The only thing left to do was to pick up the rest of my annual salary from Dondi Melixis, the Treasurer of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order, who, it must be said, parted with the treasury funds with such a display of relief that it seemed they were burning a hole in his hands.

  After wrapping up my affairs, I was forced to contemplate the haggard faces of my colleagues. They glanced enviously at my healthy pink glow, that of a lay-about who got more than enough sleep. Sir Melifaro was the most assiduous of all during these trying days. His exuberance disappeared, and he even seemed to get thinner.

  “It’s not just a matter of work and other troubles. I have too many relatives, too many friends, I’m too goodhearted to refuse them anything, and there are too few Days of Freedom from Care for me to be able fulfill my promises! Only orphaned ascetics like you, friend, are happy and free,” Melifaro said bitterly.

  It was after midnight, about four days before the End of the Year. I had arrived, as usual, for night duty. Melifaro, working practically since dawn, had just finished putting in order the next of a pile of self-inscribing tablets, wherein records of 300-year-old interrogations, and letters from one Lady Assi, peacefully coexisted. (Melifaro swore on the health of his own mama and all departed Magicians that he had no clue who she was.) He dragged himself to my office to drink some kamra in more comfortable surroundings. About eighteen distant relatives from all corners of the Unified Kingdom, who had long ago been invited to visit, had descended on Melifaro’s house. I knew I had to save the poor guy.

  “Send them a call and tell them . . . Well, for example, that someone is planning to assassinate Grand Magician Moni Mak, and no one but you can prevent this dastardly deed. Make something up. Then go to my place and get some sleep. True, I have merely four bathing pools as well as two cats, but when it comes to the lesser of two evils—”

  Melifaro wouldn’t let me finish.

  “O Lord of the Endless Plain! My savior! From this day onward I am forever in your debt. Max, you’re a genius. Now I know the value of true male bonding.”

  The pale shadow of Melifaro began again to resemble that natural disaster to which I was accustomed. He even bounced slightly in his chair—a far cry from his normally unmitigated exuberance, but it was better than nothing.

  “Nonsense,” I said, making light of Melifaro’s praise. “You can hit the sack as soon as you get there, and sleep as long as you like. I’ll stand in for you in the morning until you show up for work.”

  “You’ll stand in for me? No offense, Max, but I’m irreplaceable. Although . . . maybe. Why not? Yes, of course! Oh, thank you!”

  “I’m doing it for myself. I’m a person of habit. When I see you in this state, I feel like the World’s caving in. My offer is valid until your relatives pack up and leave for their respective homes.”

  “The day after tomorrow. They’re leaving for the estate to torment my papa and mama. But that’s no longer my problem. Gosh, Max! I’m going to cry.”

  “Cry in the morning when you want to take a bath. Don’t forget, I have only four bathing pools: just one more than a prison cell has.”

  “Shall I let you in on a secret, Max? I have nine washtubs, but I usually finish after the second. I’m a terrible slob. Well, I’m off. To sleep, a hole in the heavens above, to sleep!”

  I stayed alone with the slumbering Kurush, somewhat abashed by my own magnanimity.

  An hour later I had left the bird all alone and was hurrying to the outskirts of the Old City, to a tavern with the gothic name of Grave of Kukonin. Sir Kofa Yox had sent a call for help.

  The matter was more funny than serious. It struck me as some kind of “pre-holiday fireworks.” The unpleasant moment of paying the bill had arrived for a certain Mr. Ploss, one of the regular patrons of the Grave. A bill for the whole previous year, no less! He had no money on his person. Mr. Ploss would have had to wait only until the next day to get his salary for work and to discharge his debts.

  If he had just explained this to the innkeeper of the Grave, everything would have been fine. People in Echo are peaceable and compassionate. But the chap had downed a few too many. I suspect that he just felt awkward asking for an extension in the presence of a dozen of his acquaintances. Mr. Ploss took the risk of casting a spell that required magic of the 21st degree. That’s a serious overdose of
the stuff. He made the innkeeper “remember” that he had already paid off his debt the day before. The misled innkeeper even began apologizing for his mistake, saying it was a result of the confusion of that time of year. The scoundrel humbly accepted the apology.

  Mr. Ploss could have gotten away with his little prank in the pre-holiday madness if Sir Kofa Yox hadn’t blown into the Grave of Kukonin like an ill wind. Our Master Eavesdropper has the unique talent of appearing just in that place where his presence might spoil the lives of basically good people to the maximum degree. The magic-meter on Sir Kofa’s miniature snuff box reported to him that someone was dabbling in Forbidden Magic. Discovering the fledgling sorcerer was just a matter of technique.

  When Mr. Ploss realized that his naïve practical joke and the twenty crowns he saved were worth a decade in Xolomi, he figured he had nothing to lose, knocked back another glass of Jubatic Juice, and decided to do battle rather than surrender. To this day, I don’t understand whether it was courage or imbecility that drove him to this reckless act.

  Locking himself in the bathroom, Ploss began to heckle the other patrons, claiming that his esoteric skills would suffice to turn everyone there into swine, which he could sell to the neighboring tavern for good money.

  The other visitors, just in case, quickly fled from the establishment, and the innkeeper, in tears, began begging Kofa not to destroy his family, moreover right before the End of the Year. Then, at the request of numerous members of the public, Sir Kofa Yox summoned me. Our Master Eavesdropper could make short shrift of a dozen amateur Magicians like Ploss, but not with a gaggle of kitchen-boys sobbing in terror.

  Wrapping myself tighter in the black and gold Mantle of Death, and twisting my face into a terrifying grimace, I burst into the tavern. The bells on my boots tinkled like a Christmas carol. My mouth kept twisting into a crooked smile. Unruly locks of hair stuck out every which way from under my turban. I didn’t resemble Death in the Service of the King so much as the victim of a pre-holiday tussle. But the innkeeper of the Grave sighed in relief. His workers gazed at me like intellectually backward adolescents ogling Arnold Schwarzenegger. Now that’s what reputation can do for you!

  Stopping on the staircase that led to the bathroom, I sent a silent call to the hapless criminal. Sir Max here, pal. You’d best come out now, before I get real mad. Don’t play any games with me; the food in Xolomi is first-rate!

  That worked. To my indescribable astonishment, Mr. Ploss abandoned his lavatory hideout then and there. He was so frightened that Sir Kofa and I had to bring him to his senses again. I even turned my pockets out for him, standing him a glass of Jubatic Juice. Actually, he had afforded me great pleasure. I think the owner of the Grave of Kukonin cherishes the coin he got from me to this day, certain that it is the most potent of protective amulets.

  Finally, the officials from Xolomi arrived, summoned by Kofa Yox. We handed over our quarry, who by this time was in a hopelessly gloomy state of mind. It was the first time I had been present at the ceremony of taking someone into custody and it proved to be quite a show!

  One of the officials, the Master of Accomplishment, raised a small, but weighty staff over the head of the arrestee. I was afraid that he was going to brain the poor fellow: bam! and that would be that. But that wasn’t what happened. What I witnessed was magic, not crude corporeal reprisal. The staff burst into scarlet flames above the head of the suspect, and a fiery number 21 hung in the air momentarily. This was precisely the degree of magic Mr. Ploss had used, according to Sir Kofa’s evidence.

  Then an unwieldy tome of the Code of Krember in a snow-white binding was produced. On this “bible” of the Unified Kingdom, Kofa, myself, the innkeeper, and three kitchen-boys solemnly swore that we had truly witnessed the aforementioned silent fireworks. In fact, one witness is enough, but when there are more, servants of the Chancellery of Rapid Justice note down all of them. An abundance of names attests to their professional dedication. Your everyday bureaucratic tricks, in other words.

  After these legal procedures, they led the poor, half-crazed fellow away. I was pleased to see Sir Kofa again, and I would gladly have prolonged the happy reunion, but . . .

  “At the End of the Year there’s so much to do, Max. You understand,” our Master Eat-Drink-and-Be-Merry Eavesdropper replied to my innocent suggestion that we go together to the House by the Bridge to share some gossip over a jug of kamra. “But something is telling me, ‘Drop by the Tipsy Bottle, Kofa!’ So I am forced to decline your invitation.”

  “Of course. Go, Sir Kofa, do what you must. Thank you for remembering Mr. Bad Dream. Was I ridiculous? My grand entrance, I mean.”

  “Ridiculous? It was terrifying! Just like the good old days. I almost teared up with emotion.”

  I went back to the Ministry.

  An hour later Sir Kofa sent me a call, Max, I was right! Magic of the seventh degree. A lady tried to pass off a one-crown coin for a whole dozen. She was also trying to pay off her debt for the year, blast it! I’m going to the Hunchback Itullo to enjoy myself. My heart tells me it’s going to be hopping there tonight, too.

  I was taken aback.

  That’s the most exclusive establishment in Echo! It’s frequented only by highly respectable gourmets who don’t know what to do with all their money. Do you think they’ve started getting stingy?

  The End of the Year is the End of the Year, Max. In any case, be on your guard. Over and out.

  All the Secret Investigators had latched on to that expression, making Silent Speech feel like communicating via walkie-talkie.

  Sir Kofa no longer needed my help, not because the Echo-dwellers had suddenly become more sensible, but because they simply didn’t put up such a fuss when they were being arrested. It allowed them to hope that they could get away with only a fine and a warning.

  Juffin arrived at the House by the Bridge just before daybreak, and only for a moment. He didn’t even drink any kamra—an event hardly less significant than the end of the world. He took numerous parcels out of the drawer of the desk, told me confidentially that he was determined to lose his mind, and dashed off with a speed that Melifaro couldn’t fathom even in his wildest dreams.

  Then Lady Melamori appeared in the doorway and began complaining about life.

  “Sir Max. Just Max, I mean. You can’t imagine!” (The poor thing still stumbled over my name.) “You can’t imagine how awful it is to have a big family!”

  “I can imagine it very well,” I sighed. “As we speak, another unhappy victim of family ties is snoozing over at my house, while his three million relatives think he’s saving the Unified Kingdom.”

  “You mean Melifaro? Lucky man! I have it worse. My relatives are influential enough to free me from duty if duty interferes with family gatherings. So there’s no one who can save me. I’m glad the End of the Year doesn’t come every dozen days!”

  “Have a mug of kamra,” I suggested. “Sit down with me for half an hour. It won’t be the most exciting adventure in your life, but you’ll be able to relax. Maybe you’ll even be inspired to comb your hair.”

  Melamori stared at her reflection in the convex side of the glass mug.

  “Oh, how embarrassing! You’re right, Max. A half hour of ordinary life wouldn’t hurt right now.” She took off the small lilac turban she was wearing and began arranging her wild tresses. “Well, never mind. In three days it will all be over.”

  “I suggest celebrating your return to ordinary existence with the most exhausting of strolls.” I had decided that a little pressure wouldn’t hurt. “Crowded places, brightly lighted streets, and no monkey business.”

  “Not necessarily,” Melamori said with an unexpected smile. “I mean, crowded places aren’t absolutely necessary. Who, I wonder, could protect me from Sir Max, the Terror of all of Echo? Boboota’s boys? Anyway, it’s bad form to promise something at the End of the Year. So I make no promises. When the year ends, though—”

  “I get it. Next year I’ll try to make
as many promises to as many different people as possible so I won’t feel I’ve just escaped from a Refuge for the Mad. I’ll be just like everyone else.”

  “Thanks for the kamra, Max. I’ve got to run. My parents have finagled Days of Freedom for me—alas, not Freedom from Care, but from ordinary human existence. If they discover that I’ve come here only to wish you good morning rather than fulfilling the duties of a son—”

  “You mean daughter.”

  “No, I made no mistake. I meant what I said: a son. My father, Korva Blimm, desperately wanted a boy. He is sure to this day that I was born a girl purely out of stubbornness. Someday I’m going to run away to your Wild Lands, I swear by the World.”

  Melamori, gloomy again, gave a dispirited wave and left the office and the House by the Bridge.

  I yawned, more out of a feeling of helplessness than from want of sleep. The World was clearly at sixes and sevens.

  Even the indestructible Sir Lonli-Lokli was destined to drink of the bitter cup at the end of the year. Even if the report Juffin had dumped on him appealed to his lower bureaucratic instincts, the guy still had worries piled up over the year waiting on his doorstep back home. And everyone needs to sleep, even Lonli-Lokli.

  So he wasn’t looking his best. It was the first time his impassive face had looked completely human to me. It seemed to suggest that the fellow was sick of everything.

  After he had downed my kamra as well as his own, Sir Shurf boldly embarked on the last part of the report.

  I wasn’t the only normal person in this pre-holiday bedlam, though. The life of our Master Curator of Knowledge, Sir Lookfi Pence, didn’t seem to have suffered any change. Before it was even noon he dropped by for a chat. Well, if the chap has time for this, it must mean everything is as it should be, I surmised.