by Max Frei
“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.”
&nbs
p; “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.”
