“‘Hathor.’ It’s a completely baffling sort of animal god from another World. I can’t figure it out. I don’t know whether anyone can. One thing for sure—it has the head of a bull.”
“A cow,” I corrected him. “‘Hathor’ is female, so her head is that of a cow, not a bull.”
“Where did you study, boy?” Sir Kofa asked in astonishment. “The things you know!”
“Well, I certainly didn’t learn it in school,” I admitted. “I just read everything I that came my way. A good way of fighting insomnia.”
“Everything that came your way! Do you go out of your way, by any chance, to dip into the forbidden library of the Seven-Leaf Clover? Come on, you’ll never get me to believe that!”
I thought that informing Sir Kofa that the goddess Hathor was one of the many zoomorphic figures in the Egyptian pantheon probably wouldn’t be such a good idea. What if it was some kind of sacred mystery?
This time two hefty kitchen boys plunked down a huge platter on our table. On the platter was a horned bull’s head. A “braised” turkey’s carcass hovered between the horns. At first I thought it must be resting on a skewer, but then I realized that the delicacy really was floating weightless in the air.
“Don’t even think of putting the turkey on a plate,” Sir Kofa whispered. “It has to stay right where it is. Slice the meat with a knife using a fork to hold it steady . . . And don’t touch it with your hands. You’ll ruin the taste!”
I obeyed for that would truly have been a sin.
After the fourth tavern, I began to beg for mercy. I felt there was a good chance I would share the sad fate of the Tallaboona family.
“What a weak stomach you have, boy! I never would have expected it. There’s one more excellent establishment I want to show you. They have delicious desserts, and very small portions. Honest!”
“All right,” I grumbled. “But this is the last one. For today, anyway.”
The tavern was called the
“Who’s Irrashi?” I asked without thinking.
“Come off it, lad! You know who Hathor is, but forget the name of the neighboring country?”
“I just ate so much I can’t think straight anymore.”
I felt ashamed. Even though the eight-volume
Sir Kofa Yox shook his head disdainfully, and we entered.
“Xokota!” a friendly bartender called to us in greeting.
“Xokota!” Sir Kofa answered solemnly.
“What did you just say?”
“Ah, that’s one of the the nice customs of this place. The proprietors are all locals, from Echo. But the cuisine is Irrashi, and they try to speak to the customers in broken Irrashi, to the best of their abilities. It’s funny— Irrashi is one of the few countries where they don’t speak in normal human language. Our homegrown snobs consider their babbling to be the height of refinement.”
“Right. And you just greeted each other, as I understand it.”
“Of course. Look over there, Max. You see that fellow in the gray looxi? He’s dressed very strangely, don’t you think?”
“Strangely? Why do you say that, Kofa?”
I looked over at the modestly clad, middle-aged stranger who was hunched over his mug at the bar.
“You didn’t notice? And the belt?”
“I can’t see any belt from where I’m sitting. Move over! Ah! Sinning Magicians, that’s beautiful!”
The stranger was wearing an elegant, broad belt under his looxi—a remarkable thing that glistened like bright mother-of-pearl.
“That’s what I was talking about. Hm, it really is quite strange. The fellow is dressed modestly in the extreme. He couldn’t be dressed worse, in fact. His skaba is downright tattered, did you see?”
“What a nit-picker you are, Kofa!”
“That’s my job. Oh, here’s our dessert.”
The portions were indeed quite small. We were each served a piece of weirdly oscillating pie. It didn’t resemble jelly—the pie seemed to move of its own accord, not as a result of its internal consistency. And the spoons they gave us! They were gigantic. I couldn’t imagine how we were supposed to eat our dessert with them. They would never fit into a human mouth.
“Excuse me, my fine friend,” I said to the young waiter. “This is not a spoon; it’s a travesty, a mockery of a spoon at best. Couldn’t you find some other kind of utensil for us?”
“Xvarra tonikai! Okir blad tuu.”
After this utterance, the fellow disappeared. I looked quizzically at my dinner companion.
“What was he saying, Kofa?”
“Magicians only know. I’m no Irrashi interpreter. First he apologized, then . . . I think he said he’d go look for something. But you’re selling yourself short, Max. These amusing ladles are one of the charms of the
“I can do without the ‘charms.’ There’s no way I’m going to eat with that shovel! I’d rather eat with my fingers. Oh, where is my Mantle of Death when I need it? If I were wearing it, the proprietor of this place would have pulled out the family silver passed down from his great-grandmother. Sir Kofa, my old face hasn’t returned yet, has it? I’m about to start raising a ruckus.”
I was having fun. So was Sir Kofa, judging by the look on his face.
“Is it hard being an ordinary mortal? Nuflin was right when he warned you. Oh, well, go ahead, kick up a fuss. And I’ll eat. I like these spoons.”
But I didn’t have to make a scene. The fresh-faced waiter was already hurrying over, waving a small spoon above his head victoriously. It was just what I imagined an ideal dessert-eating instrument to be.
“Shoopra Kon!” the fellow said, bowing obsequiously, and handed me the wonderful utensil. Then he turned to Sir Kofa and mumbled: “Xvarra tonikai! Prett.”
“Never mind,” Sir Kofa mumbled back. “Get along now, you poor fellow.” Then he turned to me. “Well, you’ve really done it now, boy. You don’t even need the Mantle of Death. People are afraid of you without it. Instinct, most likely. For Sir Max they find a spoon; but not for me, it seems. Incredible . . .”
I felt very satisfied with my petty victory. And the dessert lived up to my highest expectations.
“Don’t look now, Max!” Sir Kofa nudged me. “There’s another one. I don’t understand: is this some kind of new fashion?”
“Another what? I don’t—” I was brought up short.
I only had to glance toward the entrance, and everything was clear to me. A handsome young man in a splendid yellow looxi froze on the threshold. Underneath his elegant overcoat was a tattered skaba and a magnificent mother-of-pearl belt, the same kind that the fellow at the bar was wearing.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Kofa said with a sniff. “It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever seen anything like that—and, suddenly, along comes his twin! Look, they’ve spotted each other! Well, well, well . . .”
The belted ones did a double-take, staring intently at one another. The face of the youthful newcomer in yellow registered surprise, fear, and, it seemed, even sympathy.
He opened his mouth, made a step as if he was going up to the bar, then turned on his heels and left. The first fellow was getting ready to rise, but he waved over the proprietor, instead. The tavern-keeper placed another mug in front of him, and the fellow began studying its contents again with great intensity.
“How do you like them apples, Max?”
“It is strange,” I replied uncertainly. “Oh, he’s leaving! Shall we follow him?”
“Hold your horses, hero! We don’t need to follow him.”
“Why not, Kofa?”
“Because . . . how can I explain it? It’s just not done. Secret investigators don’t go rushing around Echo, chasing down every suspicious Tom, Dick, or Harry that comes along. Preventing crime is not our job. But if something happens and they ask us politely to look into it—well, that’s another story. In short, we’re not going
