turns into frivolous fluff. Then a cold sensation spread over my neck. I cried out, and then lost consciousness.
After a few seconds of total darkness, I realized I was still alive. A sharp pain in my right knee and chin witnessed to that. The back of my neck was numb, as though from a shot of Novocain. Something warm was dripping down my neck. If that’s blood, then it’s goodbye to my favorite looxi, I thought darkly.
I felt a hot hand on the back of my neck. It was an extremely pleasant sensation. I relaxed and floated away into a land of tender forgetfulness. But I didn’t stay there for long.
When I opened my eyes, I felt better, though far from ideal. My knee and chin admitted that they had been badly mistreated and were on the road to recovery now. But my neck and the back of my head worried me. Sir Juffin Hully looked around fastidiously for something to wipe off his bloodied hands.
“The curtains,” I said, surprised at my own falsetto croak. “I doubt the heirs will sue you.”
“Good boy, Max! What would I do without you?”
“Drink kamra quietly in your office without a worry or care. What was that, Juffin?”
“It was the comprehensive answer to several theoretical questions that armchair philosophers sometimes feel compelled to examine. See for yourself. Come on, you can turn your head. I’ve stopped the bleeding, and the wound has closed. And it wasn’t such a bad injury to begin with. Your head didn’t fall off, anyway. And if it did, I’d sew a new one on you, even better than the last.”
“Very funny. So where is this comprehensive answer?”
“Here it is, Sir Max,” said sir Lonli-Lokli, and he kneeled down to show me two small objects, which he held in his right, less dangerous hand. It was a figurine broken in half, the figure of a small woman with a trident. The face, though not attractive, was extremely lifelike, and full of a threatening intensity that made it unforgettable. An impressive trinket.
“Sinning Magicians! What is it?”
“One of the masterpieces from the beginning of the Epoch of Orders,” he explained. “An amulet to protect the household. And a powerful thing it was. I think the ghost of Lady Feni picked it up randomly at one of those places at the market where prices start at several hundred crowns. As for the craftsman who made the thing— Sinning Magicians, may werewolves bite off his ears!”
“It is striking,” I agreed, “And look at the face . . . Was it a magical object?”
“Well, yes. In her time, this damsel protected the house from thieves and other unexpected visitors. And she did a good job of it, too; she was no less fierce than an armed thug. It’s all right as long as amulets like that end up in ordinary households of ordinary families. But in a house inhabited by a Phetan, anything can happen to a magical object. This is an age-old truth that is every so often called into question by certain armchair philosophers. The ancient object that attacked you went completely nuts. That’s what I call a comprehensive answer to theoretical questions. It was my fault, of course; you can never let your guard down in a place like this. If you and I had just waited a little longer with our conversation, then your neck would’ve been in much better condition now. Not to mention your morale. Anyway, let’s get out of here. The House by the Bridge is a good deal cozier. Or perhaps you want to go home and get some rest, Sir Max? You are injured, after all, and your house is just across the street.”
“Oh, right! Sleep is just what I need now, while you stuff yourselves with pastries and make a big fuss about our adventures today. The only way you’ll get rid of me is to kill me!”
“Curiosity and gluttony will be the death of you in this job,” Juffin said. “Well, then, let’s be off.”
Lonli-Lokli helped me stand up; but to do this he had to wrap his hand in the cloth of his cape, since he had forgotten his protective gloves in the amobiler. It occurred to me that leaning on the elbow of a fellow like him was probably as dangerous as passing the time by throwing a party at a nuclear power plant. So I tried to make it downstairs without assistance. I made my way down, not exactly bouncing, but energetic nonetheless.
We had just gotten to the amobiler when Juffin’s face suddenly looked like he had eaten a whole lemon.
“Dinner’s postponed, boys. Melifaro is screaming for help. I think they’re in big trouble. And if even Sir Melifaro is complaining, then it must be something serious. The poor fellow didn’t even have time to explain himself. He says an evil force is abroad, and it’s running amuck. Sounds like fun. So we’re heading for the Street of Little Generals. Get behind the wheel, Sir Max! We could use some of your reckless driving right now. As for you, son, get back to the House by the Bridge and read the paper there or something. Come on now, clear out!” said Juffin, and nudged the bewildered driver from the driver’s seat.
I took his place, and we were off. Juffin hardly managed to keep up with my driving, shouting “to the left, now right, now left again!” I believe that evening I was able to squeeze sixty miles per hour out of the technological miracle.
Our speed was justified, as the Street of Little Generals was all the way on the western edge of the city; but we made it there in about fifteen minutes. Juffin needn’t have taken the trouble to announce that we had arrived. To be honest, I didn’t doubt it for a minute.
I can’t say that Echo is the quietest place in the world in the evening. Even so, it’s unusual for locals to run around in groups of twenty to thirty, dressed only in their underwear and accompanied by their young children and hysterical domestic animals. As far as I know, shrieking so loud that the sound carries above the rooftops is not common, either. But that is precisely what everyone was doing at the moment.
“Juba Chebobargo’s house. It’s that dirty pink chicken shed over there,” said Juffin, pointing.
A barefoot man, whose firm body was only just covered by some pathetic scraps of a ragged tunic, ran out of the building just described to me in such unkind terms. A bright shiny object, too large to be a piece of jewelry, was attached to the hem of the tattered garment. The next instant I noticed that the “object” was alive.
A rat! I thought. Could it really be a rat? Ugh!
I’ve been afraid of rats since childhood. This common phobia even has a long scientific name, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it is.
A moment later I calmed down. I told myself that multicolored rats like that don’t exist in nature. The creature known as a rat has to be the same grayish or dun color, no matter what world it’s in. Besides, this thing had clearly anthropomorphic features.
“It’s a little man!” I shouted happily. “Just a little man! Exactly like the one the girl described!”
The white flame that leaped out of Lonli-Lokli’s left hand consumed the little man completely, leaving not even a pile of ashes. The sturdy fellow in the tattered tunic carried on, frightened but completely unhurt, his pale backside flickering mysteriously in the gathering twilight for the benefit of any incidental fans of male striptease.
“Should I stop him?” asked Shurf.
Juffin shook his head. “It’s not Juba. Let him run around, there’s no harm in that. And what on earth are you so pleased about, Max? Is it something to do with the little man?”
“Not exactly.” I felt myself blushing. “I was just glad it wasn’t . . . a rat.”
“A rat? What’s a rat?”
“You don’t have rats here?”
“I guess not, unless we call them something else. Let’s go see what’s going on inside the house. Sir Shurf, you go first; and you, Max, keep your wits about you. Today doesn’t seem to be your lucky day.”
That day I realized that I truly enjoyed being in the company of Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli. Shurf was a consummate killer. To be standing so close to death, and yet to be certain it won’t touch you, is a unique feeling. It gives you an unfounded but absolute confidence in your own powers. It made my head spin!
In the hallway of the pink chicken coop, my inappropriately buoyant mood hit the skids. Another little tot was smacking his lips and chewing happily as he sat on the stomach of an ample, middle-aged dead man, upon whose innards he was snacking. Lonli-Lokli quickly put an end to this grotesque scene. If it had gone on a second longer, I would have run the risk of parting with the pastries I myself had eaten only a short time before.
“Why, that’s Krelo Shir!” Juffin exclaimed, approaching the mutilated body. “What a shame! I never would have thought Juba could afford such an excellent chef. Poor artist my foot!”
We entered the living room. The scene before us deserved to be sculpted in bronze. The heroic Sir Melifaro, in a cloud of fluttering remnants of a turquoise looxi, was ripping apart a writhing, angry little body with his bare hands. A good ten miniature bodies lay motionless, strewn about like a splendid backdrop to this immortal exploit.
