The Stranger's Woes

  “A sad story,” said Juffin, “but I’m interested in something else. Tell me, Naltix Ayemirik, have you met Mudlax here in Echo?”

  “Yes, I have met him and his men. They came here seventeen years ago. At that time I was helping your people maintain the peace at Customs. The pay was decent, so I was not disgusted by the labor involved.”

  “Excellent.” Juffin was pleased. “Say, would you happen to know where he may be now?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. Mudlax bought himself a new face, just as I did. He does not wish to be found. That is why he parted with me before he changed his countenance.”

  “I see. And do you know who helped Mudlax to change his countenance?”

  “I do, but I gave my word of honor never to tell this secret. I am truly sorry, sir.”

  Juffin gave Kurush a desperate look. “Help me out here, friend.”

  “Is this important?” said Kurush.

  “This is very important.”

  “All right.” Kurush blinked his round yellow eyes and flew over to Naltix Ayemirik’s shoulder. Naltix almost fainted from excitement.

  “You must break your promise,” said the bird. “This is an order.”

  “I will do as you say,” said Naltix Ayemirik rapturously. “My duty is to obey the Almighty Bird.” He turned to Juffin. “Hear me then. I took Mudlax and his men to the Street of Bubbles, to Varixa Ariama. He was the one who changed my countenance. He is very competent. Unlike others, who can only change your face temporarily, his magic is permanent. Mudlax and I parted on the porch of Ariama’s house. I have never seen my king since then.”

  “You bet you haven’t,” said Juffin. “Sir Varixa Ariama, the former Senior Magician of the Order of the Brass Needle—goodness me! What people won’t do to make money these days. I’d never have thought that—Hey, what on earth are you doing?”

  Juffin’s cry startled me. I looked at our visitor and froze in horror: the old man was clenching his throat with his own hands. He was literally strangling himself. How was that even possible? And yet there was no doubt that he would finish what he had started.

  “Don’t try to stop him,” said Kurush. “He must do it. If you stop him now, he will try to do it again at another time. A man of Arvarox who has broken his word of honor must die. Nothing can be done about it.”

  “A funny custom,” said Juffin, turning away to the window. “Max, is this too shocking to you?”

  “Not too shocking,” I said, my lips numb. “Just shocking enough.”

  “My sentiments exactly . . . Is he dead now?”

  “I think he is. Or will be in a minute.”

  “He is dead,” said Kurush. “People of Arvarox can die quickly. Don’t be upset. Such things happen frequently in Arvarox. Besides, this man died happy. He has seen me, fulfilled my command, and died as a true warrior of Arvarox. To him this was more important than living a long life.”

  “Right, right,” said Juffin. “You might not believe me if I tell you that I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life. I had no idea I could still be knocked out of my saddle that easily. In any case, we have received some important information. Let’s go back to the Hall of Common Labor, Max. I think we can stand to have a cup of kamra while they clean up here. I’ve already sent a call to Skalduar Van Dufunbux, our Master of Escorting the Dead. By the way, Kurush, what’s the proper way of burying him? I mean so that we can please him.”

  “To the people of Arvarox it doesn’t matter,” said the buriwok. “Nothing matters after a man dies.”

  “That’s a very healthy attitude,” said Juffin.

  We went to the Hall of Common Labor. Skalduar Van Dufunbux, a good-natured, portly gentleman who carried out the responsibilities of a coroner, hurried into the office with a preoccupied air, nodding to Juffin on the way. Sir Shurf lifted his head from his book, sized up the situation, gave a sympathetic nod, then went on with his reading. I grabbed a mug of kamra and took a sip, but couldn’t taste anything. Then I remembered a good method to improve my mood and come to my senses: chatting with my colleagues. Sure beats staring at the same spot in utter silence. Fortunately, I had a lot of questions.

  “There’s something I don’t understand. If Arvaroxians are so indifferent to death, why is Mudlax hiding from his pursuers so diligently? And why did he flee to begin with? I mean, he could have chosen to die fighting or to strangle himself, like that other hero, and called it a day. As Sir Aloxto Allirox put it, ‘It’s easier to die,’ right?”

  I was counting on an answer from Juffin, but the boss was not forthcoming. Lonli-Lokli, on the other hand, put down The Pendulum of Immortality and said, “Oh, that’s a very good question. Naturally, this isn’t about saving one’s life. No Arvaroxian would put so much effort into staying alive. This is clearly a matter of honor. It is one thing for a warrior on the side of the victors to accept death and die in battle. That is an honorable death. When a vanquished warrior dies, however, it means his complete and ultimate defeat. Robbing the victor of the opportunity to take your life is the last chance of the defeated to even the score, his last chance to gain a small but memorable victory.”

  “This is true,” said Kurush. The buriwok was pleased to play his new role of chief expert on Arvaroxian psychology.

  “I see you have soaked up some of their philosophy, Sir Shurf,” said Juffin. “You’re not planning to emigrate to the land of Toila Liomurik, Conqueror of Arvarox, are you? Don’t get too carried away.”

  “I never get carried away. I am simply stating a few facts that I already knew,” said Lonli-Lokli. “It’s amazing the information contained in some books . . .”

  “Gentlemen, something unbelievable has just happened!”

  Lookfi Pence, tangled in the folds of his looxi and grabbing the railing, ran down the stairs.

  “It’s the first time this has happened as far back as I can remember.” He was almost shouting. “I read that it was almost impossible!”

  “What? What happened?” said Juffin.

  “The buriwoks in the Main Archive had a nestling! It happened just now! Can you believe it? The strangest thing is that I hadn’t even seen the egg. How did they manage to hide it from me all this time?”

  “They didn’t hide it. It is extremely rare for people to spot a buriwok egg. One moment there’s nothing there, and the next thing you know there’s a nestling and some broken pieces of eggshell. That’s just the way it is,” said Kurush. He paused for a moment and then added, “I told you that an Arvaroxian can sometimes fulfill his dream and become reborn as a buriwok nestling when he dies. I don’t know how the people do it, but they do.”

  “Not a bad ending to the story, huh?” I said.

  “Yes, Max, such things happen,” said Kurush.

  “Do you think I can take a look at it?”

  “I think you can. But not for too long. Little creatures get tired of too much ogling.”

  With Kurush’s blessing I went up to the Main Archive. Sir Lookfi Pence followed me up.

  “This is amazing, simply amazing,” he kept saying. “Buriwoks rarely lay eggs, and they need to be left alone for a long time to be able to do so. They almost never have offspring even in their natural habitat, not to mention when they live among people. No one would ever have thought that something like this could happen here in the House by the Bridge.” He opened the door of the Main Archive and threw me a questioning glance. “Would you mind waiting here for a moment, Max? I’m going to walk in first and ask them if you can come, too.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll do whatever they say. No offense taken.”

  A moment later Lookfi poked his head out. “They say they don’t mind. They say that you can come in.”

  I smiled from ear to ear and went inside the Main Archive. I said hello to the buriwoks and hesitated, looking around.

  “The nestling is in that corner,” said Lookfi. “You can come up a little closer.”

  And come up a little closer I did. A tiny flu
ffy ball was crawling around on a soft mat. Unlike the adult buriwoks, the nestling was white and had touchingly cute little pink legs. Its large yellow eyes, however, were as wise and indifferent as those of the adult birds.

  The nestling looked at me, blinked its eyes, and turned away. I could have sworn it looked at me as though it knew me. No particular emotions, though. It just recognized me, nodded, and turned away. That made sense: I hadn’t been friends with Mr. Naltix Ayemirik, the late shaman of King Mudlax. We didn’t even know each other very well. My frightened face was the last thing he saw before he died.

  I gasped. Whew, it looked like I had just brushed against a mystery so incredible that my recent trip between Worlds seemed like nothing more than a walk in the country by comparison.

  Lookfi tugged on the fold of my looxi. I nodded and tiptoed toward the exit.

  “Well?” Juffin said with unconcealed impatience.

  “It’s him. I swear it’s him.”

  I tried to describe my impressions of the newly hatched buriwok for Juffin. It turned out that words for describing it in human language were lacking, but Juffin understood me anyway. He nodded and stared at his empty mug for a long time while he processed the information.

  “To die and be reborn. An unusual and strange endeavor,” said Lonli-Lokli.

  “Indeed. What hoops people are willing to go through to entertain themselves,” I said.

  We might have gone on talking about life and death for a long time, but a courier rushed into the Hall. “Sir Max, your . . . they say they are your subjects. They’ve come to see you,” he said.

  “My subjects?” I said. “Sinning Magicians! That’s all I need.” I turned to Juffin. “Have you already released that—what’s his name? Not Mudlax but—”

  “Jimax. Yes, yesterday already. I think they came to thank you. Let them in, then. The more the merrier.”

  “Whatever you say,” I said. “Although I don’t find them particularly merry.”

  The nomads came in—babushkas, brightly colored shorts, large rucksacks and all. This time they didn’t kneel, praise be the Magicians. That’s right, I thought. I had told them not to kneel before anyone anymore. The proud inhabitants of the Barren Lands simply made a deep bow. The gray-haired old man from before, the head of this small horde, pushed forward a tall, wide-shouldered middle-aged man. “Thank your king, Jimax,” he said sternly.

  The man opened his mouth, then shut it, bowed so that his head almost touched the floor, and finally mumbled, “You have saved a man of your people, Fanghaxra. From now on, my soul belongs to you, and my body belongs to you, and my horses belong to you, and my daughters—”

  “Thank you, thank you, but I’ll do fine without your soul, body, horses, and daughters,” I said dryly. “Keep them and be happy.”

  “Did you hear that?” said Jimax, turning to his companions. “Fanghaxra told me to be happy!”

  The nomads looked at him as though he were a saint. The indefatigable old man stepped up and said, “We’ve come to ask for your mercy, O Fanghaxra. Your people have been cursed ever since the day we lost you. Forgive us, Fanghaxra!”

  “Okay, okay. You are forgiven,” I said.

  That was easy, I thought.

  “And please return to us,” the old man went on. “You must rule your people, O Fanghaxra. You are the law!”

  I gave Juffin an imploring look. He was treacherously silent. I knew I had to deal with it on my own.

  “I will not return to you,” I said. “I have unfinished business here in Echo. I am the law, so submit.”

  “We will wait for you to finish your business,” the old man assured me.

  “I will never finish my business. My business is simply impossible to finish. You know, I am Death in the Royal Service. Have you ever heard of Death finishing his business? So go back home and live in peace.”

  I’m afraid my monologue left them cold. Perhaps the guys weren’t too keen on listening to what I had to say and just enjoyed the sound of my voice. I gave Juffin another look of desperation. He was smiling from ear to ear, but he wasn’t going to interfere. Lonli-Lokli had closed his book and was watching my sufferings very attentively.

  “Your people cannot live without you, Fanghaxra,” said the old man with the tone of an experienced blackmailer.

  “Of course my people can,” I said. “My people have been living without me all this time. Don’t tell me you just dug yourselves up out of your graves.”

  It was clear that my “compatriots” had no sense of humor. They looked at each other and then stared back at me. Pleadingly.

  “Goodbye, gentlemen,” I said firmly. “Finish up your business and go home. Say hello to the boundless steppes of the County Vook, follow the command of His Majesty Gurig, and you’ll be all right. M’kay?”

  My “subjects” bowed and left in silence. To my horror, I noticed an expression of hope mixed with stubbornness on their faces.

  “I fear this is only the beginning,” I said gloomily after the heavy door had closed behind them. “Now they’ll find out where I live and pitch their tents under my windows.”

  “Funny.” Juffin looked as happy as a kid who had just seen the traveling circus. “I don’t know why, but I liked all of this very, very much.”

  “That’s because you’re a very, very mean person,” I said, “and it makes you happy to see other people suffer.”

  “Right you are,” said Juffin. “Look, Max, could you do me a favor? Since you’re their king, could you tell them to change their headgear? Those headscarves are truly a shame. Why can’t they at least wear turbans or hats?”

  “The lower the cultural level of a people, the stronger they cling to traditions,” said Lonli-Lokli.

  “Perhaps,” said Juffin absently. “Well, this is all fine and dandy, but let’s get back to work. You two go ahead and bring me that master of disguise, Varixa Ariama. I want him alive and kicking, but if you scare the pants off of him—all the better.”

  “Okay,” said Lonli-Lokli. “Let’s go, Max. Or do you prefer your royal name? After all, you chose it.”

  “Oh, look who’s talking,” I grumbled, getting up from the chair. “You know that I’m no Fanghaxra.”

  “That is irrelevant,” said Shurf. “If those people consider you their king, you are their king to a certain degree, and you have to accept the consequences.”

  “To heck with the consequences,” I said. “Let’s go, already, philosopher.”

  When we were outside, I hailed one of the official amobilers of the Ministry. The driver sighed and got out. All our employees had gotten used to the fact that I always drove the amobiler.

  Then I heard some loud singing, coming from far away:

  He came at dusk.

  The Surf Thorn foamed the ocean,

  To the city where

  Filthy and cunning Mudlax hid.

  Many a Sharptooth came with him,

  Thirsty for Mudlax’s blood.

  “What is it, Shurf?” I said.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard it before? That’s our good friend Aloxto Allirox singing a new song about his feats to Lady Melamori Blimm on the Royal Bridge, if my sense of direction isn’t deceiving me.”

  “What?” I was completely dumbfounded. “And she likes it?”

  “I think she does. If she didn’t, she’d ask him to shut up. You know how Lady Blimm is.”

  “I guess I do,” I said. “He’s a beautiful man, that ‘Master of two times fifty Sharptooths,’ but I couldn’t stand to listen to his singing.”

  “To each his own,” said Lonli-Lokli. “Let’s go, Max. You say you don’t like the song, and yet you are standing here listening to it with your mouth agape. Don’t you think that’s a little inconsistent?”

  “I do,” I said, laughing. “You’re so wise you scare me, Shurf.”

  I grabbed the levers of the amobiler and we took off under the lyrical outpourings of Aloxto the scribbler:

  . . . he came and met a girl,
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  But his sword is not rusting in its sheath.

  “Un-be-lievable,” I said. “This is an ordinary case of disturbing the peace.”

  “Is it upsetting you?” Shurf said cautiously.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. This Aloxto is a great fellow. I’m happy that he and Melamori are not too bored with one another, and all that. But when I hear bad poetry I get furious.”

  “Really?” said Shurf. “Is it really that bad? Frankly, I like Arvaroxian poets. Their poetry is marked by a peculiar masculine innocence, which endows their creative verses with palpable, primeval authenticity.”

  I sighed. To each his own, indeed. It was useless to argue about taste with Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli. He was equally versed in snuffing out “unnecessary lives” and unnecessary opinions. I had much to learn.

  A few minutes later we stopped by a yellow two-story house on the Street of Bubbles. Lonli-Lokli carefully took off his protective gloves, revealing the death-dealing gloves underneath, gleaming in the twilight. The mad blue eye stared at me out of his left palm. I shivered—I still couldn’t get used to this novelty.

  “Come on, Max. I hope he’s home. Lady Melamori won’t be too happy if she has to come here and step on his trace.”

  “Right,” I said. “She won’t have the chance to listen to the end of the song.”

  We entered the house trying to make as much of a racket as we could. It is thought that representatives of law enforcement organizations must be rude and have poor coordination. Only when these two conditions are met people do people agree to fear and respect us.

  We did our best. I was so eager to make noise, stomping around with my boots, that my heels began to hurt.

  An elegant young man looked out of the farthest room on the second floor. When he saw Lonli-Lokli, his jaw dropped in horror. Then he saw me and caved in completely. Frankly speaking, one of us would have sufficed for arresting Varixa Ariama, the former Senior Magician of the Order of the Brass Needle—he wasn’t such a big shot, after all—but the boss had the habit of going overboard from time to time.