The Stranger

  “What is this, Shurf? Why aren’t you on duty? Good golly, what’s this all about?”

  Sir Lonli-Lokli coughed, unfazed.

  “Is something wrong Max? Did I pick the wrong song?”

  “The song is wonderful, but . . . let’s go into the living room, Shurf. They’ll bring us some kamra from the Sated Skeleton, and you’ll explain everything to me. All right?” I was ready to cry from bewilderment and vexation.

  Dismissing the musicians with an expansive gesture, my “official friend” followed me into the house. Beside myself with relief, I collapsed onto an armchair and sent a call to the Sated Skeleton. Not the worst pub in Echo, it was, moreover, the closest to home.

  “I’m not on duty, since they offered me a Day of Freedom from Care and Chores,” Lonli-Lokli began calmly. “And so I decided to use this opportunity to carry out my duty to you.”

  “What duty?”

  “The duty of friendship!” Now it was his turn to be surprised. “Have I done something wrong? But I consulted the handbook . . .”

  “What is this handbook, and where did you get it?”

  “You see, Sir Max, after you and I became friends, I started thinking that the customs of the places you spent your youth might differ from ours. I didn’t want to offend you accidentally, out of ignorance. So I turned to Sir Melifaro, since his father is the preeminent specialist on the subject of the customs of peoples that inhabit the World.”

  “Aha! Sir Melifaro!” I exclaimed, beginning to understand.

  “Yes, insofar as the books yielded no information about this aspect of the lives of your countrymen. The only reliable source for this information is Sir Manga Melifaro. Considering that we are both acquainted with his son—”

  “Yes, we are acquainted. And Melifaro told you that you must regale me with romantic folk ballads?”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or to be angry. Someone knocked on the door. The delivery boy from the Sated Skeleton had arrived just on time.

  “Sir Melifaro told me about this particular custom of the Barren Lands, and about a few others, as well. He said that at the full moon, you and I had to exchange blankets, and on the Last Day of the Year—”

  “Yes? And what, in his opinion, must we do then?”

  “Visit each other and clean the bathing pools with our own hands. As well as other hygienic spots, including the toilets. Was he mistaken about that, Max?”

  I tried to master my emotions. I realized that I needed to spare Lonli-Lokli’s feelings. It would be unpleasant for him to find out that he had become the victim of a practical joke.

  “Of course not, Shurf. That’s all basically true. Only, you don’t have to do any of this anymore. I’m an ordinary, civilized person who ended up living in a strange place for a time. Much stranger to me than you can even imagine. But I’ve never held fast to the barbaric customs of my homeland. So, for one thing, friendship means the same thing there that it means here—straightforward, good relations between two people who are sympathetic to each other and wish each other the best. Exchanging blankets or mutual toilet-cleaning isn’t necessary. Agreed?”

  “But of course, Max. I hope I haven’t offended you in any way. I simply wished to show my respect for the customs of your forebears and to please you.”

  “You have pleased me with your considerate attentions and companionship, in any case. I assure you.”

  After feeding and reassuring my guest, I ushered him out the door and was left alone with my own fully justified indignation. The first thing I did was to send a call to Melifaro.

  You’re forgetting that I can fly into a terrible rage, pal! I growled fiercely (insofar as it’s possible to growl fiercely using Silent Speech).

  What’s wrong? he asked innocently.

  What’s wrong! Lonli-Lokli was just here with a whole orchestra!

  Are you upset? Melifaro asked in a sympathetic tone. My father said that was the custom where you come from. You didn’t like it? Does our Lonli-Lokli have a bad voice? I’d always heard his voice was most pleasant.

  Well, that beats all!

  I still didn’t know whether to laugh or to get angry. So I decided to take refuge in dreamland.

  And it was the right thing to do. As it turned out, it was my last chance to get some sleep. That evening I went off to work—and ended up being detained for several days, embroiled in one of the most desperate of classic criminal cases.

  The nightmare began suddenly, and coincided precisely with my arrival at the House by the Bridge. A block away from the Ministry, I heard a familiar bellowing:

  “Buffalo tits! If those bony-butts can’t find their own crap in an outhouse full of it, they can eat it until the hole is empty! Give the case to those Secret Investigative Crapsuckers? Those Generals of Steppe Outhouses who can’t extricate themselves from their own crap without a horde of bare-butt barbarians?”

  I was amused. The old geezer was waxing so eloquent that he didn’t hear the warning bells on my boots.

  You just wait, my fine fellow! I’ll fix you, I thought with irrepressible glee, as I neared the Secret Entrance to the Ministry of the Perfect Public Order.

  Right, “Secret” . . . as if! The door was wide open, and at the threshold stood General Boboota Box, no longer red, but purple with malevolent rage.

  “Now those bare-butt denizens of barren outhouses will be wiping the foam from my crap!”

  At this point, Boboota noticed me, and he shut up so fast it seemed that the World had stopped.

  I looked wonderful, in my own humble opinion, my Mantle of Death unfurled and my face bright with fury. I summoned all my meager acting abilities so that my malice appeared convincing. The nervous tic—which, according to my directorial method, was supposed to strike Boboota with fear that my venomous spit was headed his way—was particularly effective. I don’t know how believable I really was, but it worked on Boboota. Fear hath a hundred eyes.

  There are many grounds for reproach of the Dashing Swordsman Boboota Box, though cowardice is usually not one of them. But there is an immutable law of human nature: all people are mortally afraid of the unknown. My newly acquired gift, which had caused so much speculation in the city, belonged to the realm of the unknown. So you could understand the poor guy.

  General Boboota gulped frantically. Captain Shixola, his hapless audience, looked at me almost with hope. I advanced toward them steadily. I wanted to push the joke to its bitter conclusion, to spit at him just to see what would happen. Theoretically, my spit didn’t threaten the life of the Chief of Police, since I was neither angry nor afraid. But I stopped myself just in time. I decided that it might put too great a strain on the poor fellow, and I would be left to clean up the mess afterward. So I traded malice for mildness, and smiled good-naturedly.

  “Good evening, Sir Box! Good evening, Captain!” My politeness dealt the final blow to Boboota, though it seemed to disappoint his subordinate. I left them to their perplexity and sailed off to Sir Juffin Hully’s office, which was considered a safe haven for me, his right-hand man.

  Juffin was there, and in high spirits.

  “Have you heard, Max? We’ve just been assigned a very unusual murder case. It’s really not our department, but Boboota’s boys can’t cope with it. He’s aware of that himself. That’s why the poor fellow just isn’t himself today. You probably heard his harangue out there. Well, let’s go look into this murder.”

  We went out into the corridor. There we were joined by Lady Melamori, gloomy as I’d never seen her before. Strange, for I had cheered her up considerably that very morning. Or was it the murder that had gotten her upset? Doubtful. For me a human death was an event—for Melamori it must have already been routine.

  “Why is it so quiet?” Juffin wondered aloud, listening to the whispering behind the wall that separated our rooms from those of the City Police. “I thought Boboota was going to keep up his ranting until dawn. Could it be that he has lost his voice? I don’t believe it. It would be t
oo good to be true.”

  “Well, I was just passing by, and I pretended to be angry,” I announced modestly.

  Juffin stared at me in amazement.

  “Sinning Magicians! I’ll arrange it so that your salary is bigger than my own. You’re worth it!”

  Melamori didn’t even smile. It was as if the brave General Boboota had never even been her favorite butt of jokes. Rather, she looked as though she were about to cry. I put my hand on her shoulder and was about to make some lighthearted, offhand remark, but I didn’t get a chance. When I touched her I understood everything. I can’t imagine how the secret mechanisms were set in motion, but now I knew exactly what Melamori was feeling as well as she knew it herself. Our Master of Pursuit was temporarily out of order. The unsuccessful attempt to trail me had upset the delicate balance of her dangerous gift.

  She needed time to put things to rights again.

  It’s like the flu, which, thankfully, is unknown to the people of Echo. Whether or not you want to admit it, getting better takes time. And now Melamori was going to the scene of a crime as though to her own funeral, for she already sensed what the outcome would be—failure, and a new blow to her self-confidence. But she was going anyway, because she was not used to backing down, even before insurmountable obstacles.

  And however foolish, I would most likely have done the same. I was starting to like the damsel more and more.

  I sent Juffin a call.

  Melamori can’t work today. She won’t be able to do her stuff. And she knows it. Why did you call her here? To teach her a lesson?

  Juffin stared at me intently, then at Melamori, and suddenly smiled his blinding smile:

  “Go home, on the double! March, my lady!”

  “Why on earth should I?”

  “You know why. Your gift belongs not to you alone, but to the Secret Investigative Force of the Unified Kingdom. And if there is something that endangers your gift, you must take measures to protect it. That’s also a talent, like all the rest of it. And no shifting your problems onto the shoulders of a tired old boss, who will inevitably forget about them. Is that clear?”

  “Thank you,” Melamori murmured. It was painful even to look at her.

  “You’re welcome,” Juffin snorted. “Go home, Melamori. Better yet, drop by to see your Uncle Kima. He’s a great Master. He’ll patch you up in no time. In a few days you’ll be right as rain. The sooner the better.”

  “How will you find the murderer?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Sir Max, this lady is insulting us,” the chief said with a grin. “She considers our intellectual faculties to be on the wane. She thinks that we’re good-for-nothing nincompoops who can only cling to the skirt-tails of the Master of Pursuit, hot on the trail of the criminal. Shall we get offended, or kill her on the spot?”

  “Oh, please, I didn’t mean it that way,” said Melamori, and a timid smile spread across her face. “I’ll get better. I’ll bring you something from Uncle Kima. And please forgive me, won’t you?”

  “I will forgive you, of course,” Juffin assented. “But Sir Max, here—they say he’s terrible when he’s angry. General Boboota completely lost his bearings!”

  “I’ll make it up to Sir Max somehow,” Melamori assured him.

  Understandably, I was beside myself with joy.

  The darling of my demise graciously retreated and disappeared around the corner, toward the parking lot for official amobilers.

  Her parting smile was the last pleasant moment of the day. The rest of it was too lousy for words.

  A woman had been killed a few steps away from our favorite pub, the Glutton Bunba. Young, beautiful, though not quite to my taste. A rich brunette with large eyes, generous lips, and broad hips. In Echo, this kind of female beauty is particularly prized. But this woman had had her throat slit—a second horrific grin that reached from ear to ear.

  If Juffin is to be believed, this is not how people are killed in Echo, neither women nor men. No one. As a matter of fact, murder of any description is exceedingly rare (unless, of course, one of the banned Orders of Magic is involved—then anything can happen). But this didn’t smell like magic, whether forbidden or permitted. No magic at all.

  “To be honest, the thing that surprises me most about this whole mess is the location of the crime,” I said when Juffin and I returned to the office. “It’s common knowledge that the Glutton Bunba is your favorite haunt, Juffin. Not even a crazy paranoiac would get up to no good within a dozen blocks of the place.”

  “Well, whoever it was sure did,” the chief said with a sniff.

  “Maybe it’s a newcomer?”

  “Most likely. In Echo, even in the Troubled Times, damsels weren’t treated like that. How inconvenient! We need Melamori now more than ever. She’d solve it in an hour. But here we sit, dwelling on every little piece of nonsense.”

  While we sat, a second murder occurred, this time not far from the Street of Bubbles. The same bloody “smile,” but this time the Mona Lisa was a bit older (three hundred years of age). She was the local wisewoman, old Xrida, whom everyone on the street consulted for toothaches or all manner of bad luck. She was still youthful, energetic, and, in contrast to many of her colleagues, a very sweet lady. The residents of all the neighboring quarters had loved her, and the Echo Hustle and Bustle published letters of gratitude several times a year from people she had healed.

  I should add that neither of these murders was carried out with the goal of robbery, since no valuables belonging to the victims had been touched. As for money, the women probably didn’t have any with them. Here in Echo, it is thought that touching coins cools off love. For this reason, no woman will ever take money into her hands, and only the boldest consider gloves to be sufficient protection. Men, too, prefer to take precautions; but ladies are especially superstitious in this regard.

  By the way, this is why the inhabitants of the Unified Kingdom gradually introduced the custom of using various kinds of bonds and IOUs. Several days at the end of the year are set aside for clearing these debts. I myself prefer to pay with cash, and have occasionally gotten into awkward situations because of this. You hand your money to the bartender, and he glares at you because, you see, he’s left his gloves in the kitchen and now he has to run hither and thither all on account of you.

  Thus, in the space of an hour, we had two corpses on our hands. And very few fresh ideas. The night was generous: we received five more “smiles” that were the spitting image of each other, while the victims differed significantly in age, appearance, and social standing. They even lived in distant regions of the city. The criminal seemed to be mixing work with pleasure—grisly murders cum nocturnal excursion: “Echo by Night.”

  Close to morning we had a breathing spell. The murders seemed to have ceased. Most likely the protagonist was exhausted and had decided to take a nap. Juffin turned the matter over to Melifaro and Lonli-Lokli for the time being. Sir Kofa Yox went to gather information about the murders in the pubs, and our Venerable Head ordered me to stay right by his side. So far I had been of no use to him whatsoever. Maybe I provided him with inspiration—his muse, so to speak? In that case, I was a pretty lame muse; Juffin hadn’t been visited by a single interesting notion the entire night.

  The seventh murder was bequeathed to us at noon, with the same “signature” and no return address.

  Strictly speaking, this was what we knew: the killer was probably a man (the tracks he had left in the dust had all but disappeared, but the size was impressive); he was in all likelihood a newcomer (quite unconventional behavior); he possessed a knife of extraordinary size by local standards; he was indifferent to the property of his victims; and he seemed to have no connection with the rebellious Orders, since he didn’t even practice traditional magic in his own gruesome kitchen.

  Moreover, he wasn’t insane, since madness in this World leaves behind a weak but distinct stench. Sir Juffin Hully detected no trace of it at any of the crime scenes.

 
“Max, you seem to be present at a historic moment,” Juffin said, putting aside his pipe, which he had been turning around and around in his hands for the last five hours. “This time I am absolutely baffled. We have seen seven corpses in the past twenty-four hours, a slew of clues that don’t add up to anything, and no magic to speak of, whether outlawed or permitted. It’s time to give the case back to Boboota’s department and try to live down our shame.”

  “But you yourself know that—” I began cautiously.

  “I know. But it doesn’t smell like there is any kind of sorcery afoot here. And using True Magic for such bestial murders? Highly unlikely. I can’t even imagine it. Unless he’s mad—but it didn’t reek of any kind of madness.”

  “You know best,” I sighed. “Let’s go eat, Juffin. These walls need a rest from us.”

  Even the Glutton was gloomy. Madame Zizinda looked like she had been crying. The food exceeded all expectations, as usual, but we weren’t in any mood to appreciate its merits. Juffin ordered a glass of Jubatic Juice, sniffed it critically, and pushed it away.

  This was perhaps the most incoherent, senseless night I had experienced in all the time I had been here. Hm. In all the time I had been here. It hadn’t been too long, to be honest. It wasn’t at all hard to imagine that in addition to tourists from neighboring cities, inhabitants of other worlds had made their way to Echo, just as I had done. Sinning Magicians!

  “Juffin,” I whispered. “What if it’s a countryman of mine?”

  My boss raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly.

  “Let’s go to the Ministry. A conversation like this isn’t for strangers’ ears. Tell Madame Zizinda to send kamra and something harder to my office. Only not this stuff,” he added, looking at the liquid distastefully.

  In the office the chief stared at me with his penetrating gaze.

  “Why?”