by Max Frei
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 t
his,” 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!”
