The Stranger's Woes

  “Sir Max, it’s no wonder you’re the stuff of legend around here. You—”

  “What kinds of legends are they telling about me, Shixola?” I said, interrupting him.

  “Oh my, hasn’t Sir Kofa told you?” He was quite perplexed. “I can’t repeat these silly things in front of Kurush.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m asleep,” the buriwok said dryly.

  I laughed. Kurush may be the wisest of birds, but the things he comes out with sometimes! Too much exposure to people can’t lead to any good, it seems.

  “You see? Kurush is asleep. And I need to hear the bitter truth, so spit it out. Sir Kofa only wanted to spare my feelings.”

  “Well, they say you are Sir Juffin Hully’s illegitimate son,” Shixola said, after some hesitation. “But you must know that already without my telling you. And they say that you were imprisoned in Xolomi for five hundred years for the murder of the entire ancient royal dynasty that abdicated the throne in favor of the first of the Gurigs. That crime, by the way, is a historical fact, but the guilty parties were never found, no matter what people may think. They also say that you are the very first of the ancient Grand Magicians. You came back to life, dug your way out of the grave, stole one of Sir Juffin’s numerous souls, and—”

  “Wow, curiouser and curiouser!” The quote, which was known to me alone, sprang unbidden to my lips. “I see. What else?”

  “More of the same. They say you are even more powerful than Loiso Pondoxo, but that you haven’t yet come into your full powers since you first have to kill all the living Magicians—former Magicians, I mean. The ones that are left. That’s why you entered the Secret Investigative Force, they say.”

  “Yikes! More powerful than Loiso Pondoxo? Oh, come on! I’m such a fine, upstanding guy. Sweet and inoffensive as a stuffed animal. Not without my little eccentricities, mind you, but even those are completely innocent. Come on, do people really believe all that nonsense?”

  “Of course they do,” Shixola said. “There’s nothing they like better than being on intimate terms with a miracle, at least in their imaginations. Otherwise life is so monotonous, so dull.”

  “You’re all right, Shixola. You have a clear and simple explanation for everything. I wish I did.”

  “Are you making fun of me, Sir Max?” Shixola said guardedly.

  “Not in the least. But tell me about these outlaws of yours. Better yet, about their predecessors. Is it a tale of derring-do?”

  “It’s the stuff of romance and adventure, all right. Red Jiffa’s men were known as the Magaxon Foxes. Those fellows were determined to become legends right from the start. Take Sir Jiffa Savanxa. He hailed from a very distinguished family—distant relatives of the king himself. It’s not every day that gentlemen like him run off to become outlaws.

  “His story began during the Troubled Times, but things were different at first. Back then, the Magaxon Foxes hunted down Mutinous Magicians who were fleeing to Echo from the Residences of the provincial Orders of Magic. (These were the Junior Magicians, of course—the Senior Magicians were more than they could handle.) The Foxes were thus performing a service for the king, and for those who remained loyal to him.

  “After the Code was introduced, Sir Jiffa refused to return to the Capital to collect his laurels. I think he had simply found his true calling. That happens, you know.”

  “You got that right, Shixola,” I said grinning. “And what did these wholesome kids do next?”

  “That’s easy to guess. They kept on hunting. Only now they were more interested in ordinary people. Ordinary and rich. Merchants, for instance. At first the king tried to reason with Jiffa. Huntsmen from the Royal Court tried bringing him back into the fold for at least a dozen years. Finally the late king realized it was a lost cause. Jiffa and his brigands were declared outlaws, and the huntsmen had to try to chase them down out of other motives. Sir Jiffa was a master in the arts of secrecy and camouflage, and he taught his people all he knew. The Foxes knew how to make themselves invisible. Literally. Finally they were captured and their hideouts were discovered. You know, Sir Max, they hid underground, and Jiffa had his own palace down there. There was a whole system of passageways that led into the Magaxon Forest. The Foxes really did live like foxes, in lairs. It’s no wonder that the huntsmen gave chase for five dozen years.”

  “What did they do with the stolen goods?” I said, naively recalling the legend of Robin Hood I had been so fond of as a child.

  “They stuffed the corners of their lairs with the loot. What else can you do with treasure if you live in a forest? Actually, that slyboots Jiffa had the temerity to come sniffing around Echo. He managed to squander some of the fortune before they were hot on his trail. After that, Red Jiffa buried himself in his lair for good.”

  “Well, well,” I said. There was no hint in the account of anything that smacked of robbing from the rich to give to the poor. And even in Robin Hood’s case, I had my doubts.

  “During the reign of the old king, things stayed pretty quiet,” Shixola went on. “But when the present monarch, King Gurig VIII, took the throne, he decreed a Royal Hunt for the Magaxon Foxes. This time His Majesty enlisted the help of a bunch of former Magicians, though not Mutinous Magicians, of course. These fellows had their own issues with Red Jiffa. Back in the day he had cut down a number of their close friends. And so we add yet another detail to his portrait: he adored wielding cold steel. It made him dizzy with rapture.”

  “How vile,” I said sincerely, recalling my own meager but unfortunate experience with dangerous sharp objects. “So tasteless.”

  “You must admit, though, Sir Max, that there’s a certain fascination in it,” Shixola said.

  Touché! Live and learn, Max, I reminded myself. And don’t forget for a minute that you are surrounded by intensely interesting people.

  “So how did this tale of romance and adventure end?” I said.

  “The only way it could end. The Magicians received special permission to resort to some unheard-of degree of magic. So the foxcubs crawled out of their lairs at a whistle, ready to be shot. You have to hand it to Jiffa—he wasn’t an easy target. He and a few others held out till the end. Jiffa is a man of the old school, so he was able to counter every spell with one of his own. But there were many Magicians and only one of him. The fellows who held out with him were no great shakes. Capturing them was just a matter of time. In the end, they were able to lure Jiffa out of his den, too, but not before he killed four of the huntsmen. They did finally manage to quell his unruly soul, though.”

  “A happy ending for someone who wants to become a living legend, of course,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, though, it’s better to live a long and happy life, completely devoid of romance and adventure.”

  “It’s a matter of taste,” Shixola said. “Aren’t you being a tad disingenuous, Sir Max?”

  “Certainly not. I’m a cautious and practical individual, very typical as far as they go. Haven’t you noticed? Well, Captain, go forth and round up the Magaxon Foxes Fan Club. You won’t be bothered by the good intentions of Boboota the Terrible any time soon. And be sure to fill me in on new installments of the legend, all right? You’re quite a raconteur.”

  “Thank you, Sir Max. I’ll keep you posted on developments if you’re truly interested.”

  “I am interested in everything. Up to a point, that is. Good night, Captain. I see I’ve worn you out. You’re so tired you can barely stand up. Go visit dreamland and put life on hold for a while.”

  Shixola, considerably more cheerful now than when he had arrived, drank the last of my kamra and went off to get some shuteye.

  I looked at Kurush. “Did he tell the story right?”

  “For the most part,” the buriwok said. “Although he did leave out some important details.”

  “Details are the last thing I need right now,” I said. “I’m fine without them.”

  I spent the rest of the night even more idly. I couldn’t even get my h
ands on a fresh newspaper. For a dozen days I had been wondering which of the junior staff cleaned up the office. The fellow had a bad habit of chucking out the unread copies of the Royal Voice along with the trash. Of course, I kept forgetting to get to the bottom of it.

  Just before dawn, Kofa Yox put in an appearance. This time, he had chosen such an absurdly round, snub-nosed face for his pub peregrinations that I couldn’t help laughing out loud.

  “Give me a break,” Kofa protested. “It’s a perfectly ordinary physiognomy. We can’t all look handsome and debonair.” Then he passed his hands slowly over his face, and his own countenance returned to where it belonged. “Go home, Max. Feed your cats, milk them, clip their fur—or whatever it is you novice farmers do to your farm animals at sunrise. I’ll be here until Juffin arrives, anyway.”

  “All right,” I said. “Whatever you say. You have secrets to tell him?”

  “No secrets. I’m just tired, that’s all. There’s a fury of a woman waiting for me at home. I’ve got to sleep sometime, somewhere, don’t I?”

  “A fury of a woman? At home?” I was surprised. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t the slightest clue about my colleague’s personal life. I knew about all the others, but up until then Sir Kofa Yox had been a blank spot in my personal gossip column.

  “That’s right. My cleaning lady. Yesterday I refused to marry her again. She claims my refusal was an anniversary—the sixtieth. Atili is a wonderful woman, of course, but I hate ceremonies. And some people are foolish enough to think they guarantee the longevity of feelings.”

  “Sir Kofa,” I said. “I’m on your side, believe me.”

  “I guessed as much. Aversion to officially enshrined customs is written all over your face. In letters this big.” Here he stretched out his arms to demonstrate. “Go home, Max. You’re a perpetual party in my uneventful life, but, honestly, I’m so tired.”

  “I get the picture. I’m gone.”

  And I flew headlong out the door. Let him rest, poor guy. I had to catch my luck by the tail. Who knew when I’d get another chance to tidy up my own apartment?

  The need for a thorough spring cleaning was growing more urgent by the day. Armstrong and Ella, my cats, have a knack for turning everything upside down. Of course, I could have called in one of those unlucky people who have to earn a living by scraping the crap off other people’s backsides, but the idea didn’t sit well with me. Some mournful soul would traipse into my house, crawl around the living room on hands and knees, and slosh around a wet rag. I’d give instructions and then, feeling disgusted with myself, set out for the nearest tavern. After which the professional scrubber would breathe a sigh of relief, rummage through my desk and closets, throw away important papers, break a few things, and put everything else in places it didn’t belong. No thanks.

  Now the hour of reckoning had arrived, though. I’d have to pay for my convictions. You don’t want to keep a servant, you don’t have to, but keep your house in order, at least, I had told myself every morning since my return from Kettari. Then I would tell myself patiently, I’ll clean it up later, when I have a bit more time.

  In the meantime, the mess was entering a new phase. Chaos, plain and simple, reigned in my apartment. Life was becoming intolerable.

  So it was now or never. With this in mind I drove home more slowly than usual—even more slowly than the local speed demons. Eventually I arrived home, though. Some things just can’t be avoided.

  I hadn’t been able to get used to my new apartment on the Street of Yellow Stones. There was too little of me for six huge rooms. One of them became my living room, another one—on the second floor—my bedroom, and the other four constituted a testing range for all manner of experiments involving my cats. After a time, I concluded that two well-fed one-year-old cats can remain in a state of constant rapid and random motion for up to a dozen hours. Strange, when we lived in two rooms on the Street of Old Coins, Armstrong and Ella had been inveterate couch potatoes. Apparently, limitless expanses really do lead to an increase in uncivilized behavior in living species. I even caught myself in the secret wish to play tag, but I lacked suitable like-minded anthropomorphic playmates.

  I took care of the empty rooms in record time. You get a real power surge when you’re armed with a wet rag.

  My bedroom looked fairly decent. That’s where I spent most of my free time, after all, so the malignant mess hadn’t been able to take hold there. I find that a small degree of disorder in my surroundings adds to the coziness. I just had to give the dusty windowsill a swipe and open the window to let in the fresh breeze . . . along with a million tiny particles of dust. It’s a vicious circle.

  I looked at the bed longingly, sighed, then told myself sternly, No you don’t, buddy. There’s still one more room in your palace. Have you forgotten?

  Shocked by my own cruelty, I headed downstairs to the living room, which was the initial cause of all this madness. Along the way, it occurred to me that a small but amply packed tray of delicacies from the Fat Turkey would provide sustenance for a weary hero, and I sent a call to the tavern. Strictly speaking, the Fat Turkey was still closed at this hour. What people won’t do for a regular patron, though, particularly if that patron had a habit of staggering down the street in the Mantle of Death.

  Speaking of my Mantle, it finally dawned on me that it wasn’t a bad idea to change my clothes if I was cleaning my house, so I had to go back upstairs. A thin everyday skaba decreased my discomfort considerably.

  In the living room, I was greeted by the forlorn spectacle of the traveling bag I had taken to Kettari. It was planted in the middle of the room, just where I had left it when I returned home from the trip. Armstrong was merrily chasing after my magic pillow, without the least concern for the powerful spells of Maba Kalox. Ella was intent upon shredding the edges of the valuable Kettarian rug (which, to my shame, was still rolled up in a corner of the room). This, of course, did not exhaust the list of my domestic misfortunes.

  The harsh working conditions at the Ministry had turned me into a real hero of labor. A few years ago I would have shuddered at the sight of this disorder and averted my eyes. Now I just swore under my breath a few times and got down to work. A half hour later, the table was as clean as a desert sky. This was a good start. Only minutes before, the surface had been evenly covered with a thick layer of debris. Since I lacked the courage simply to throw all the useless junk away, I had had to sort through it.

  There was a knock at the door. It was my breakfast, accompanied by a terrified, sleepy delivery boy from the Fat Turkey. I had the presence of mind to thank him, so he carried out his delivery without completely falling apart. That was a good thing—I’m very lucky to have a Fat Turkey as my only neighbor.

  After snacking a bit, I succumbed to another cruel onslaught of laziness. Then I gritted my teeth and started brandishing the rag again. I was waging the Battle for Cleanliness. Two hours later, when my work really was about done and I felt as though I had spent the past millennium voluntarily breaking rocks, there was another knock on the door.

  “Come in! It’s unlocked,” I shouted. “I’m not your doorman.”

  Physical labor had never been known to improve my character. Besides, what’s the use of being sweet and kind when the whole population of Echo takes you for an undead monster? The instructive chat with Captain Shixola had left an indelible impression on the tender surface of my soul. I heard the door slam, then the rapid clip of footsteps in the hall. In the doorway stood a strange creature. Even the heavy folds of an unseasonably warm looxi couldn’t conceal its penguinesque rotundity. A rather pleasant face looked out from under a dark blue turban. I had seen that face somewhere before . . . Yes, of course! The stranger bore a striking resemblance to the poet Apollinaire, whom no one in this World had ever heard of. I wonder whether he’s also a poet, I thought. Well, we’ll soon find out. The last thing I need is a poet around the house.

  “Are you in the service of Sir Max, young man?” my guest
inquired amiably.

  Sinning Magicians, he had a French accent to boot! And it was rather charming.

  “How did you land it? Catch?”

  “Land what?” I said, then launched into the penultimate cleaning ritual of the day: a quick dash around the almost pristine room with the wet rag.

  “No catch? You don’t understand?”

  “Oh! I dig.”

  Now it was his turn to bat his lovely almond-shaped eyelids in consternation. This was tit for tat. Slang from two different Worlds, mutually unintelligible. I wanted to take my hat off to such a singular historical encounter, but, alas, I wasn’t even wearing a turban.

  “Who might you be, my dear chap?” I said, starting in on about the eighth windowsill. A hole in the heavens above this sinning palace of an apartment, and above Sir Juffin Hully who had found these “humble lodgings” for me!

  “I am Sir Anday Pu, senior reporter for the Royal Voice,” the stranger said. “Catch? Not from any old Echo Hustle and Bustle, but—”

  “You’re really a senior reporter?” I said, doubtfully. The last name wasn’t familiar to me. Considering my passion for accumulating newsprint, this was rather strange. But I did have a bad memory for names.

  “Well, one of the seniors. What’s the diff?” my penguinesque friend said with a shrug. “Our editor, Sir Rogro Jiil, has asked me to do a story on Sir Max’s cats, who will eventually become the parents of the first Royal Felines. I decided I simply had to meet Sir Max in person. My colleagues, those cowardly plebs, whisper terrible tales about your master behind his back. By the way, could you stand me a mug of kamra, pal?”