The Stranger

We’ve earned it! Sir Shurf, you’re coming too; and that’s an order! Melifaro, you’re probably still too weak. You stay here and get better. We’ll carouse for you!”

“Me, weak? You can just drive me to the Glutton.”

“Well, all right. We’ll drive you right to the doorstep. But you don’t know how Sir Max drives the amobiler! He’ll keep you in check—he’ll shake the living daylights right out of you!”

“Sir Max? You mean to say you’re a real racer?”

“I didn’t think so,” I said proudly, “but Sir Juffin was very dissatisfied when he came for a spin with me. He kept asking me to slow down, even though I was virtually crawling. Actually, everyone here drives slowly. Why is that I wonder?”

Melifaro leaped out of his chair.

“If that is true, then you’re perfect! Why is it that you haven’t conquered us yet?”

“The military potential of border-dwellers is extremely low,” Sir Lonli-Lokli remarked pedantically. “On the other hand, their intellectual capabilities are without doubt higher than ours. Unlike you, Sir Max learned to pronounce my name on the first try. An impressive debut, wouldn’t you say?”

Chapter 2 Juba Chebobargo and other nice folks

“MAX, ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE GOING TO BE COMFORTABLE here?” asked Juffin. He himself looked rather uncertain. “Or have you not yet come to terms with the fact that the King will be paying for your lodgings now?”

It all seemed quite funny to me: just yesterday the very idea that I could move into this massive empty house made my head spin. Sure, it was only two stories high, with one room on each story; but each room was the size of a small stadium. For some reason, they don’t seem to feel the need to economize on space in Echo. Local architecture features only low buildings, two or three stories high, which are, nevertheless, incredibly spacious. The house that I chose on the Street of Old Coins was smaller than its neighbors, which I rather liked about it. Judging by Juffin’s expression, however, it seemed I was enchanted to be living in a slum.

“We Border Dwellers are slaves to habit,” I said proudly. “If only you could see the yurts we inhabit in the Barren Lands.” This secret ethnographic reference was for the benefit of the house’s owner, who stood deferentially to the side. After all, you can’t very well tell a respectable citizen that the person who wants to rent his house is an émigré from another world. The poor fellow was, of course, delighted by his good fortune, but not enough to let this intriguing information about my origins slip by unnoticed.

“And besides, I made my choice out of a sense of duty. The more wretched my conditions at home, the more time I will spend at work.”

“Sounds reasonable, Sir Max. Very well, you can sleep upstairs and entertain guests on the first floor. But where do you propose to keep the help?”

I decided it was time to stand my ground with my boss.

“I don’t approve of keeping servants. I can’t have strangers walking around in my house—closing books that I leave open, going through my private belongings, stealing my cookies, and looking into my eyes with devotion while waiting for me to give orders. I should pay money for that? No, thank you.”

“I see, Sir Max. You’re suffering from a bad case of asceticism, complicated by pathological stinginess. How do you plan to spend the money you’ve saved?”

“I’ll collect amobilers. With my driving habits, I’ll go through them in no time.”

Sir Juffin sighed. For him, forty miles an hour was insufferable recklessness, and perhaps that wasn’t too far from the truth. Before my arrival, people in Echo were under the impression that thirty miles per hour was the absolute limit for this cutting-edge miracle of local technology. That was how I first became something of an attraction in those parts.

“You really are an oddball, Sir Max, moving into a house with only three bathing pools!”

Here I had to admit I had slipped up. In Echo, the bathroom is a special place. Having five to six small swimming pools with water of varying temperatures and aromas is considered not a luxury, but the norm. But even that wasn’t enough to turn me into a sybarite. In Sir Juffin’s house, where there were eleven such baths, I felt that bathing was hard work, and not something to be enjoyed. So I was quite sure that three baths would be more than enough for me.

“I suppose you’re right,” Sir Juffin said. “What difference does it make where you make your bed at night? Oh, well, it’s your life and you can indulge in self-deprivation if you wish. Let’s go over to the Glutton, Sir Max. It would be great if we made it over there an hour before everyone else.”

The amobiler sent by the Ministry of Perfect Public Order was already waiting for us. The owner of the house had us sign the rental papers, and, still unable to believe his luck, disappeared before we could reconsider.

We were given a warm welcome at the Glutton Bunba, the best pub in Echo. We sat down at our favorite table between the bar (they say it’s the longest in the whole city) and the courtyard window. I sat facing the unprepossessing landscape. Sir Juffin sat across from me, with a view of the bar and Madame Zizinda’s unbelievable bust thrown into the bargain.

As we had hoped, we were the first to arrive. Today was to be my official introduction to my colleagues, and Sir Juffin traditionally held such meetings at the Glutton. The protocol would be somewhat simplified, as I had already become acquainted with two combat units of the Minor Secret Investigative Force. I had met Sir Melifaro, the Diurnal Representative of Sir Juffin Hully, and Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli, the Master Who Snuffs Out Unnecessary Lives (a delightful little job that fellow has, I must say), when we had to restrain Sir Makluk’s berserk mirror. My new acquaintances were more than willing to share the story with listeners over a cup of kamra. Juffin’s remarks would only fan the flames of interest.

As a result, I got the reputation of being some sort of superman. That was enjoyable, of course, but it also gave me certain responsibilities to live up to. I was nervous and grateful to Juffin for suggesting we arrive at the Glutton before the others. At least I would have a warm seat beneath me before my colleagues arrived, and I might even be in high spirits if someone offered me a glass of Jubatic Juice.

It turned out, however, that Jubatic Juice was not considered the acme of liquid perfection. They brought us some excellent kamra and a jug of aromatic liqueur, the name of which—Tears of Darkness—gave me an uneasy feeling. As I soon found out, though, that this was just a poetic name given to the drink by its ancient inventor, and had nothing to do with its taste.

“Take it easy, Max,” said Juffin. “Melifaro and I talked about you at such length, and Sir Lonli-Lokli was so eloquently silent, that the poor fellows are going to show up here draped in protective amulets of every kind.”

“Yes, I thought as much . . . Juffin, that old lady at the next table—is she by any chance one of your crew? She seems to be eyeing me suspiciously.”

To my surprise, Juffin stared at me with a nearly threatening gaze. I didn’t know what to think.

“Why do you say that, Max?”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to be funny. That sweet lady definitely had her eye on me. She still does.”

“You surprise me, Sir Max.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that tomorrow I’ll be wearing protective amulets too, just in case.”

Meanwhile, enveloped in the folds of her dark looxi, the sweet lady, who was in fact a large old woman, stood up gracefully from her table and approached us. The woman’s face underwent a transformation as she made her way over to us. By the time she arrived at our table, she was an elderly gentleman of ample and squat build. I blinked my eyes, unable to grasp what was going on.

“I see you as in a waking dream, Sir Max,” he said politely, covering his eyes with the palm of his hand, as one does upon first being introduced. I automatically returned the gesture.

“I’m glad to speak my name: I am Kofa Yox, Master Eavesdropper. Congratulations, son. You saw right through me.”