The Stranger's Woes

  We were shown into the living room, where I was in for yet another surprise.

  I was already familiar with the practice in Echo of cultivating luminous mushrooms in vessels that function as lampshades. These fungi are used to illuminate both streets and living spaces. When something irritates them, the mushrooms begin to glow. The light switch simply activates some bristles that gently but insistently tickle the caps of the mushrooms. General Boboota preferred this form of lighting, and it wouldn’t have surprised me, but . . .

  An enormous translucent vessel occupied the center of the living room. I suppose your average whale might have found it a bit cramped, but the whale still would have been able to fit inside it. The vessel contained a radiant mushroom of truly mammoth proportions. The ones I had seen before this were seldom larger than a three-year-old child. This enormous specimen not only cast a warm orange glow but also buzzed like an angry bumblebee. I was astonished. By the looks of it, Melifaro was as unsettled by the thing as I was.

  “Are you impressed? This is my pride and joy.” General Boboota was grinning from ear to ear. “I grew it myself. It’s so smart, you can’t imagine. You see, gentlemen, it began to glow as soon as we came in. And I didn’t even have to go near the switch. It just knows when to light up.”

  “I’m afraid that mushroom simply hates my husband,” Lady Box whispered to me. “When anyone else enters the room, glowing is the last thing on its mind. I always have to flick the switch.”

  “I believe my mushroom is the only one of its kind in the World,” Boboota said, glowing himself.

  “You, sir, are also the only one of your kind,” Melifaro said with unfeigned enthusiasm.

  “Thank you,” Boboota said, making a deep bow. “And here, gentlemen, is another family heirloom.”

  He gestured toward a huge canvas that covered almost the entire wall. It depicted a battle scene. The foreground was dominated by General Boboota Box himself, decked out in some bizarre uniform and dripping with medals and bric-a-brac. His manly chest blocked from view a smallish elderly man with a bright expression and wind-tousled snow-white hair. Some claw-like fingers on a pair of emaciated dark hands were reaching out toward Boboota from the nether regions of the painting, while the General threatened them with his broadsword. In the background, a flock of wholesome, fresh-faced youths were cheerfully vanquishing some unattractive, unkempt gentlemen.

  The painting struck me as horrible. It was pitiful to look at poor Melifaro, though—he was fighting a losing battle against his urge to guffaw.

  Our host, in the meantime, launched into a lecture.

  “This masterpiece is the work of Galza Illana himself. I was very lucky. Sir Illana was the Senior Master of Depiction at the court of His Majesty Gurig VII, may the Dark Magicians protect him. And who, if not he, could preserve the spirit of this outstanding and memorable event? It is an excellent rendering, is it not, gentlemen? Not like the work of our modern paint slingers. They may as well be smearing their backsides with their own crap.”

  The most striking thing was that good old General Boboota, our hospitable host, uttered this phrase in such a quiet and colorless voice that it sounded like an intelligent, even eloquent, critique.

  “And what are those medals?” I said, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Amulets?”

  “Right you are, Sir Max. Protective amulets made for us, the Royal Guard, by the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover, the Single and Most Beneficent. In those days it would have been impossible to get along without them. We were up against the Orders of Magic! And a sharp sword and brave heart aren’t going to get you very far against an enemy like that. If it weren’t for those amulets, I wouldn’t have had the joy of—”

  “Joy of my heart,” Lady Ulima interrupted him gently. “Don’t you think it’s time to feed the guests? That is why they’re here, you know—to eat.”

  “Of course, my dear.” Boboota turned to us, somewhat abashed. “Do you like the painting, gentlemen?”

  Melifaro and I nodded silently. We were a hair’s breadth away from desecrating the idyllic vision with a most irreverent explosion of laughter, but we managed to contain our glee.

  For this we were rewarded with the call to dine. Dinner wasn’t as unexpected as the prelude to the meal. Everything was comme il faut. The presentation of the dishes was lovely, Lady Ulima’s society gossip was engaging, and the gallant Boboota deferred politely to her.

  Weary of suffering in silence, I sent a call to Melifaro.

  I wonder if he’s always so proper when he’s at home? Or could this be a lingering symptom of poisoning?

  With such a sweet and affectionate wife around, it’s possible he’s always like this at home, Melifaro answered in Silent Speech. The guy still can’t figure out how he landed such a paragon of womanhood. For Lady Ulima, Boboota will refuse to speak above a whisper. He’ll go down on his knees to put her dainty slippers on her little feet. At work, though, he cuts loose from the bottom of his soul, and it’s no holds barred.

  Here I was forced to admit that the harebrained Melifaro understood people far better than I did.

  My body has its own notions of what constitutes good manners. For some reason that I can’t fathom, it feels that when you are invited to dinner, halfway through the feast it’s time to head for the john. Over the course of many years I struggled heroically against this urge, but I finally tossed in the towel. It was a losing battle.

  The formal dinner at General Boboota’s was no exception. In any case, I didn’t have to worry too much. In this house, a little detour of that nature could only inspire indulgent approval on the part of my host. I left the dining room without troubling to invent all kinds of excuses.

  Downstairs there was yet another surprise in store for me.

  I had long before grown used to the fact that every house in Echo has at least three or four bathing pools. Usually there are many more. This could turn bathing into a complicated affair.

  But a dozen toilets of various heights gurgling a discordant welcome to the visitor—well, this I was seeing for the first time. Even Sir Juffin Hully, the unsurpassed sybarite of all nations and epochs, gets along with just one, not to mention ordinary Echoers. I couldn’t deny that Boboota Box was one of a kind.

  I must have been looking somewhat bewildered when I finally returned to the dining room. My colleagues, especially the irreproachable Sir Lonli-Lokli, were always trying to persuade me to disguise my feelings, or at least not to wear them on my sleeve (right next to my heart). But my facial muscles gave me away every time.

  Lady Ulima threw me a sharp glance, then burst out laughing.

  “Take a look, dear! It seems that even gentlemen Secret Investigators can be caught by surprise.”

  “You’re bringing shame on our organization, Sir Max,” Melifaro said with a sniff. “Is this the first time it’s ever happened to you? Didn’t you know that all people do that sort of thing from time to time?”

  “Very funny,” I said. “Go have a look yourself.” Here I switched to Silent Speech. He’s got a dozen toilets in there, I kid you not!

  Melifaro raised his eyebrows in disbelief and shut up. Just in case.

  “No secrets, gentlemen,” Lady Ulima said, smiling all the while. “It’s a perfectly appropriate subject for conversation—even at the dinner table, by way of exception. Tell them, dear.”

  Boboota began his story as if on cue. “When I was a young lad and had just entered the Royal Guard, about two hundred years ago, I lived in the barracks. They were glorious times, I’m not complaining. But something happened once—”

  Lady Ulima chortled again. She clearly knew this saga by heart and was anticipating what was to come. General Boboota grew tongue-tied.

  “You won’t be shocked by hearing such an . . . unappetizing story during dinner, gentlemen? I can tell you the story later, over dessert, if you’d prefer.”

  Melifaro and I exchanged glances, then guffawed, unable to suppress our merriment any longer
.

  “You see? No need to mince words with these boys,” Lady Box said, urging him on. “I’m not sure they’d be shocked even if you showed them. But do go on, please.”

  “Well, it wasn’t even something you’d call an event,” Boboota continued shyly. “I had a buddy in the service, one Shartzy Nolla, an excellent fellow. A real giant—a head taller than me, and with the physique to match. One day he and I received a Day of Freedom from Care and went to visit his aunt, Madam Catalla. Back then she was the proprietor of an excellent tavern, so our Shartzy was a lucky dog—and he was fed like a king. Since we were together that day, I lucked out, too. You might say we outdid ourselves, so much food did we consume. The next morning we returned to the barracks, and Shartzy made for the outhouse. He beat me to it, the old crapper!

  “Back then we lived in barracks. There were four of us to a room, and we all shared one outhouse, if you can believe it. Well, I held it in, and held it in. Half an hour. An hour. The joker still wouldn’t come out. He later claimed he was constipated, but I think he took his time on purpose. Anyway, holding it in any longer was beyond my control.”

  Melifaro made a terrifying spectacle. He was bright red from suppressed laughter. I even feared for his life, if not just for his sanity.

  “Just let it out, Sir Melifaro,” Lady Ulima said. “Why not? It’s a funny story!”

  “And that’s when I decided,” Boboota said in a solemn voice, “I decided that if I ever got rich, I’d have a dozen blasted toilets at my disposal at any given time.”

  Melifaro and I exploded into wild fits of laughter. We sounded like madmen. The General and his wife looked on benevolently. We were probably not the first guests who had laughed themselves silly after being regaled with this venerable tale.

  The dinner finally came to an end. Out of the folds of the Mantle of Death I ceremoniously drew a box of Cuban cigars. I had come by these rare delights when I was in Kettari. I had fished them out from the Chink between Worlds, where up until then I had found only cigarettes. Since that day I’ve never known what I would find when I reach my hand into that sinning Chink. In any case, I’ve learned that everything comes in handy sooner or later. Well, nearly everything.

  To my shame, I had never liked cigars—or, rather, I had never really known how to smoke them. My coworkers had turned out to be even more clueless in this department than I was. Boboota was my last hope.

  “What are these, Sir Max?” Boboota said.

  “They’re meant for smoking,” I said. “I just received them from Kumon, the capital of the Kumon Caliphate. I’ve got kinfolk there, you see.”

  I was already in the habit of referring to the Kumon Caliphate whenever I had to explain the origin of the strange objects that turned up in my poor pockets more and more often. The Kumon Caliphate is so far away that the only person who might have caught me in the lie was Sir Manga Melifaro, author of the famous eight-volume Encyclopedia of the World (and of the infamous Ninth Volume, Melifaro Junior).

  “You don’t say! The Kumon Caliphate?” said Lady Ulima.

  “Yes.” I sighed. “Whenever I discover new relatives, it seems they always manage to migrate to the outer reaches of the World.”

  General Boboota, in the meantime, had lit up a cigar. “Sir Max!” The erstwhile victim of my cruel experiment gave a sigh of delight. “Even in my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined that such things exist. Are they really all for me?” His hands were trembling.

  “They’re all yours,” I said, nodding. “I’ll have my relatives send more if you like. They’re too strong for me, but it’s a matter of taste, of course. Glad you enjoy them.”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .” He couldn’t seem to find an uncensored word to describe his euphoria. Neither could I. The scoundrel with a big fat cigar between his teeth—that was a sight to behold. And Melifaro’s restraint (he hadn’t said a word through all of this) deserves a special word of praise. That was what you call a surprise.

  Just before we were about to leave, I recalled that the fellows from the Police Department had begged me to find something out for them.

  “Sir Box,” I began cautiously. “Have you fully recovered from your illness?”

  “Yes, Sir Max. Thank you for asking after my health. I’m in tip-top shape now.”

  I sighed. Poor gentlemen police officers—though Boboota seemed to have become quite harmless. “So you plan to return to the House by the Bridge soon?”

  “Yes, in a dozen days or so. Ulima, you see, thinks I should take it easy and not rush things.”

  I sighed again, this time in relief. Everything was sorting itself out without any help from me.

  “You’re quite right, Lady Ulima.” I could have kissed the General’s sweet wife then and there. “King Banjee is no joke. The slightest overexertion, or, let’s say, nervous strain, can lead to a relapse. I can vouch for it.”

  “Vouch for it?” Lady Ulima said, confused. “Did you eat some of that dreadful mess, too, Sir Max?”

  “Praise be the Magicians, no. But I have spent a great deal of time investigating the consequences of others’ misfortunes.”

  “Did you hear that, dumpling?” said this wonderful woman. “I don’t think you should return to work until Midyear’s Day, if not later.”

  Boboota nodded obediently.

  Kamshi and Shixola’s upcoming two-man antiterrorist campaign in the Magaxon Forest had been saved.

  “Will you drop me off at home, Max?” Melifaro said, plunking down wearily in the back seat of the amobiler. “Juffin has no choice now but to free us from work for half a dozen days. I’ve never been so exhausted in my life.”

  “Really? What wore you out? Counting all Boboota’s toilets? That’s understandable—you don’t have enough fingers to count them on.”

  “Are you making fun of me? That’s not fair. I can’t bear these formal dinners. They drive me to distraction. In my family, everyone eats when they please, including guests. So there’s always someone at the table enjoying a meal or a snack, except at night, of course. That’s what I was used to when I was growing up. But here, you sit in one spot for three hours with your mouth full, making polite conversation. I thought our hosts would be amusing, but they turned out to be such bores. Although Lady Ulima, of course, is charming. And the mushroom—that was something else!” Melifaro livened up a bit just thinking about it. “Yes, that mushroom is something to write home about.”

  “And the portrait?” I chuckled. “And the dozen toilets? And the family lore about how the youthful Boboota filled his pants? Holy crap!”

  Melifaro brayed so violently that the amobiler jumped up and down.

  Fifteen minutes later I deposited him in front of his door on the Street of Gloomy Clouds, in the center of the Old City. I watched him with envy as he went inside, then turned toward the House by the Bridge. I still had to go to work.

  The job that awaited me wasn’t an easy one. It consisted of arranging my posterior more on the chair than off, placing my feet on Sir Juffin Hully’s sacred desk, and imbibing an endless stream of kamra. The poor couriers would be running their feet flat, beating a path to the Glutton and back.

  Relief came just in time. Kurush was pecking listlessly at his third pastry. His fondness for sweets seemed to be diminishing. At about the same time, I was beginning to fear that I might explode. Just then, in the doorway appeared the object of my long-standing envy: the splendid nose of Captain Shixola. He was on tenterhooks, awaiting my detailed report about our visit to the deathbed of General Boboota Box, Chief of Public Order.

  I beamed at him. “Come in, come in. I can offer you a sea of kamra and some good news.”

  “You aren’t busy, Sir Max?” the owner of the nose inquired tactfully.

  “See for yourself,” I said, grinning. “I’m swamped. The kamra is tepid, the mug heavy, and there’s no end in sight to this hard manual labor. Don’t you feel for me?”

  Captain Shixola finally appeared in full. In spit
e of his unusual height and athletic build, he still seemed like an unnecessary afterthought to his own fathomless nose.

  “But where is Sir Kamshi? Maybe he finally wore himself out with worry and headed for the Xuron to put a watery end to it. Too bad. Hope is supposed to die last.”

  “He’s so tired after the last few days that he no longer cares. He just went home to sleep.”

  Shixola had the habit of responding to my wildest statements with a half-smile. It was universally applicable to all situations. If I was really joking—well, here’s a smile for you. But if that Sir Max uttered something unbelievably stupid or outrageous—well, it wasn’t a real smile after all.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let him sleep. Looks like you’ll be the one to get all the good news. And all the kamra, too. I can’t bear to look at it anymore, much less drink it.”

  “That’s what Max always says,” said Kurush. “Then he orders another jug of it. You people are extraordinarily contradictory creatures.”

  “You got that right, smarty,” I said. Then I turned to Shixola again. “You owe me one, my friend.”

  “Do you mean that General Boboota—”

  “You wouldn’t even recognize him! He’s the sweetest-tempered, most soft-spoken person on earth. He doesn’t speak above a whisper. Is he always like that at home?”

  “Quite the contrary. Lady Ulima is the only one who can tame him, and only half the time at that. But you know yourself how he treats us, Sir Max.”

  “Yes. What happened tonight was truly beyond belief. When the conversation turned to toilets, he inquired whether the subject was too shocking for us.”

  “That really is beyond belief,” Shixola said, looking bewildered. “Is it possible he has changed that much?” He clearly couldn’t believe his luck.

  “Well, if I were you I wouldn’t hold my breath. It might just be the consequences of the poisoning. And he has every chance of fully recovering. Be that as it may, for now the Dark Magicians are on your side. Boboota himself decided not to return to work for another dozen or so days. And after my little song and dance, Lady Ulima will keep him at home until Midyear’s Day, I think.”