World.
“What’s strange is that these unfortunates are getting weaker only gradually, whereas a person usually loses the Spark suddenly, without any alarming symptoms,” said Janira. “In spite of that, our wisemen are absolutely sure of the diagnosis. They say that they can still save them, but medicines don’t seem to be helping.”
“Well, why don’t you try this: move the poor souls to other cells—the farther from cell 5-Ow-Nox the better—and let their cells remain empty until I can discover the cause of this misfortune. You can manage that, I hope?”
“Yes, certainly,” said the Comforter of Sufferers, nodding. Then he added apprehensively, “Are you certain it will help?”
“Almost certain. But that’s always how it is. I can never be completely sure of anything. In any case, give it a try. And do it right now. We may still be able to save them. I don’t know what they did before that landed them in Xolomi, but not a single person deserves such a terrible punishment as sleep filled with nightmares. I’m speaking as a longtime expert in this field.”
“Do you know how to prevent nightmares, Sir Max?”
“I do,” I said, and grinned. “My own, anyway.”
I went back to my cell. It looks like I’ll have my fill of bad dreams here, I mumbled to myself.
I had hardly returned to my senses after the nightmares from the house next door had paid a call, when I was treated to another round in Xolomi, where prisoners are tormented by bad dreams. A plugged up backside, for instance . . .
Nevertheless, I had slept excellently during the day myself. Perhaps it was
Now I was burning with impatience. Would the “transparent man” appear tonight—and what would he do if I didn’t fall asleep? I was absolutely sure that I wouldn’t. I had slept too soundly and well during the day. What would you have done?
I began waiting for events to unfold, which, in their turn, they didn’t exactly hasten to do. The night brought no answers to my questions. On the other hand, it was generous with strange experiences and sensations.
I felt neither fear nor anxiety, but I constantly sensed I was being scrutinized by somebody’s gaze. And it was so intense it tickled. The tickling irritated me like a caterpillar that had crawled under the covers. I grumbled and scratched and ran to take a bath three times—but it was no use.
At dawn, everything stopped, and I tumbled into sleep. During the night, however, I had a bright idea— though putting it into practice could wait until dinner. (Putting things off until later is a hobby of mine. From morning to evening all I do is put things off.)
I woke up from the rumble of the cell door. My food was brought in to me. Tasting the cheese soup, I started seriously contemplating what kind of crime against the state I should commit. Being held captive for twenty years in these conditions—not a single Royal Honor could compete with “punishment” like this!
When I had finished my soup, I asked to go for a “walk” to Mr. Commander’s office. The time had come to consult Juffin. That night I had realized that the part of the story of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox I knew about only went back to the first of the seven deaths. Since then three years had passed. What had happened there before? Who had been kept in the cell? That was what I meant to find out. In Echo you have to be on top of things like that. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find out that a few thousand years ago, some shady Grand Magician or other had been held here, and that today’s misfortunes were a logical consequence of that.
I didn’t doubt that Sir Juffin knew every detail of the history of this little place. But in sending me to Xolomi he kept as quiet as a fish—either out of perversity, or because he was just waiting for me to ask the right questions. (In the interests of professional training, of course!)
But look at me! Instead of pedantically collecting information, I wasted time and energy on gathering personal amorous experience. It’s my own fault! I concluded, and settled myself more comfortably in the commander’s chair. After beating myself up like this for a while, I sent a call to Juffin.
I had already forgiven him, of course. I was as happy as a pig in a puddle. Praising me is definitely the right strategy. Someone who praises me in good conscience can twist me around any number of little fingers.
In any case, I received an exhaustive answer to my question, and a half hour later I was home. In Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox, that is. I sat sprawled out in a soft arrestee’s chair. I was trying to digest the information I had received. Naturally, you couldn’t get around the requisite crazy Magician—that was as clear as day. Maxlilgl Annox, Grand Magician of the Order of the Sepulchral Dog, and one of the fiercest opponents of the reform, served a prison term in Xolomi during the height of the Troubled Times. According to Juffin, the combined efforts of a dozen of the best practitioners of the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover were needed to imprison his person, remarkable in all respects. At the same time, even the Grand Magicians of other Orders, who had long ago lost any capacity for fear, trembled before him.
He wasn’t such a madman, though, this head of the Order of the Sepulchral Dog. Of course, he had traveled a strange and winding road. But if you believed the historical chronicles, which I devoured by the dozens in my spare time, you’d discover that few of the Grand Magicians were guilty of banality and lack of imagination in their chosen paths.
And so, Mister Annox was deeply preoccupied with the problem of life after death. Not only there, where I was born, but here in the World, as well, no one really knows the answer to the question of what awaits us after death. There are myriad hypotheses—murky, frightening, and seductive—but not a single one of them has much value for someone who isn’t inclined to take a stranger’s word on faith alone.
Of course, the interest in immortality wasn’t solely theoretical for the prisoner of Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox. Those Magicians of yore, one must realize, were serious fellows and didn’t waste their precious time.
As far as I could understand, Sir Annox expended unimaginable effort trying to continue ordinary earthly existence, even after death, in the human body so dear to his heart. In simple terms, he wanted to be resurrected. I didn’t doubt that this old geezer had discovered a sneaky way of returning to the land of the living. But then he died. In this very Cell No. 5-Ow-Nox.
The victors never meant to kill him. It seems they very reluctantly killed their enemies, supposing that every death was an irreversible event. And the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover maintains the belief that an irreversible event should occur as seldom as possible. This so that the World can become stronger—or something like that . . . I hadn’t yet had time to figure out all the fine points of the local eschatology.
Nevertheless, the Grand Magician Maxlilgl Annox had died. It wasn’t a suicide in the ordinary sense of the word; I think this death was some sort of “laboratory experiment” essential to his research.
The fact that the walls of Xolomi were the most impenetrable barrier for magic of any degree did not infuse me with optimism. On the contrary, it forced me to think that the posthumous existence of Sir Annox was limited to the walls of his cell. It was evident that proximity to the dead Magician didn’t have a beneficial effect on his latter- day cellmates. Being condemned to life in this cell was a kind of death sentence. That was no good, I decided.
