by Max Frei
I had nothing to lose—I was virtually a dead man. Sir Shurf was already taking off his left protective glove. Fortunately, he was doing it slowly and carefully, which was a usual safety measure. Unfortunately, however slowly he was fiddling with his gloves, I still didn’t have a chance in hell for survival.
All I could do was try to have a good time dying, and to go out in style. Why not? My scant but sad postmortem experience suggested that I wouldn’t have much time for it after the fact.
I laughed like a madman and jumped onto my feet, not quite realizing why I was doing it. Was I going to challenge my friend Shurf to play a game of chase? Then again, knowing me . . .
The next thing I knew, my feet were no longer touching the ground. The wonderful lightness that had poured into me after the ritual with the holey cup had finally overflowed. A moment later I was contemplating the spiky rooftops of the Old City with surprise. The street lamps were glowing somewhere down there. I hadn’t merely levitated; I had shot up into the sky: a merry lightweight force had jolted me, then launched me upward like a cork from a bottle of champagne.
I was still laughing like crazy. Maybe I was crazy. What else would happen to a man if his most trustworthy and predictable friend was going to kill him? The fact that I was hovering above the Echo night like Winnie-the-Pooh at the end of his balloon complemented the crazy events of the evening very nicely.
A piercing white flash somewhere down below brought me to my senses. Until that moment, I had had no idea of the range of Lonli-Lokli’s deadly left hand. For a moment, I thought it was curtains for me. Yet I was about to learn some good news: the distance to the target mattered. The snow-white lightning flashed and fizzled out somewhere above the roofs of the Old City. I was much higher and, apparently, completely beyond reach.
Gotta see Juffin right now, I thought. What I really need now is to curl up and shelter under Sir Juffin Hully’s wings. I don’t think I can solve this problem myself.
I clutched at this thought like a drowning man grasping hold of someone else’s lifebelt. For a few moments, I thought only about how desperate I was to see Juffin: I rehearsed my performance, imagined the boss’s possible reaction, and prayed to the indifferent heavens to arrange this meeting for me. When I finally forced my mind to shut up and made myself look down, I saw that the ground was much closer than it had been before. If Sir Lonli-Lokli wanted to give his longrange shooting experiment another go, he had a very good chance—a hundred percent chance, rather—to complete it and tuck it under his belt as the crowning glory of his brilliant career.
Then I realized that neither Lonli-Lokli nor the remains of my favorite amobiler were anywhere to be seen. This was a different street. I was just a few blocks away from the Ministry of Perfect Public Order, and it was in my best interests to be on the ground—the sooner the better.
No sooner had I thought about it than my feet touched the sidewalk. I didn’t even try to understand how I had managed first to defeat gravity and then to join the Greater Pedestrian Community as though nothing had happened. I dashed to the House by the Bridge. Quite possibly, I beat the sprint record that night, however meaningless it was under the circumstances. Fortunately, my heart, though indignant at the inexcusable overexertion, hadn’t blown up in my chest, although I have to admit it tried to the best of its ability. My other heart—the mysterious one—simply ignored the situation, which was either below its dignity, beyond its comprehension, or simply out of its jurisdiction.
When I crossed the finish line on the Street of Copper Pots, I remembered that the boss’s shift had long been over, so I didn’t bother going inside Headquarters and instead sank into the driver’s seat of one of the company amobilers. Praise be the Magicians, I didn’t have to explain anything to the driver. The fellow had probably gone off to have a cup of kamra in the company of his colleagues. That was very wise (and timely) of him: I could not possibly have uttered a single comprehensible word at that moment. I’d no doubt have scared him to death if I tried.
I grabbed the lever and tore along to the Street of Old Coins: Juffin had said that I could find him there tonight. I really hoped I would. I seriously doubted that I could use Silent Speech: it would have been as difficult as making a phone call under general anesthesia.
I hit the brakes by the door of my old apartment on the Street of Old Coins almost as hard as I had a few minutes before when I had to save my own precious skin. Well, maybe not quite that hard.
I didn’t have to get out of the amobiler: Juffin was standing in the doorway. I nearly died from relief when I saw him. I was so happy, I was about to demonstrate a mixture of hysterics and a swoon, but I got a grip on myself just in time.
It’s not over yet, I said to myself. Far from it. If you think about it, it’s just the beginning.
“Someone tried to kill you,” said Juffin. He didn’t ask—he stated it.
I nodded. I still couldn’t speak: I needed a little more time to come to my senses. Praise be the Magicians, I could use the breathing exercises that—oh, the irony—Lonli-Lokli had taught me.
Juffin watched me very calmly, and I think I even detected a hint of curiosity in his gaze. He noticed the effort I was making to calm down and recover, nodded in approval, and got into the amobiler beside me.
“Let’s go to the House by the Bridge,” he said. “It’s the best place to solve any problem. Actually, that’s what it was built for.”
I nodded again, and we drove back. Now I was driving at a normal, human speed, maybe even a little slower than usual: Sir Juffin Hully’s presence, along with the breathing exercises, had a most salutary effect on me.
The boss was lost in thought all the way back. He spoke only when we were already in the hallway leading to our office: “I still don’t understand who was trying to kill you.”
“Shurf,” I said in a wooden tone. Then again, a wooden tone is better than none.
“I see. Are you certain it was him?”
“If there’s anything I’ve ever been really certain about, it’s that it was him when we left the Vampire’s Dinner. And it was him sitting next to me in the front seat of the amobiler. And then the person sitting next to me in the amobiler tried to kill me. Logic suggests that it was Shurf who tried to kill me. There was no one else there. Yet I refuse to accept this kind of logic,” I said, sinking into my armchair.
“So do I,” said Juffin. “All the more since this is not the only kind of logic known to me. Just the most primitive. I’m afraid that the fellow is in even deeper trouble than you are, if being in deeper trouble is even possible.”
“It is,” I said, shuddering at the thought of what might have happened to my friend. “After all, I’m still alive, as far as I can tell. I’m even sitting here talking to you. I wish Shurf could say the same about himself.”
Juffin nodded a slow, thoughtful nod and stared somewhere behind me with a motionless gaze.
“I have good news,” he said suddenly. “Sir Shurf can say the same about himself—or, more precisely, will be able to very soon. He just sent me a call and will join us in a few minutes.”
My body tensed up in an unnatural way, and then I felt the already familiar sensation of supernatural lightness. I had to exert an enormous amount of effort not to float up toward the ceiling. The only thing that stopped me was the fear of piercing the roof of the House by the Bridge with my tender head.
Juffin contemplated my inner struggle with visible pleasure. “Come on, Max. Everything is all right,” he said. “It is Sir Shurf Lonli-Lokli and not some crazed channeler. And do you really think I couldn’t put a stop to anything untoward that might happen in my presence?”
“Sure you can. Maybe. It’s just that it’s a bit too much for me.”
“Oh, shush. Stop your whining,” said Juffin. “‘Too much for me.’ You’d be surprised if I told you how many surprises you could gobble down before you have the right to wince.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Okay, you know best. I have a
business proposal for you, though. First you treat me to a big cup of kamra and offer me one free psychoanalysis session. Then you can present me a ceremonial dessert spoon.”
“A dessert spoon? What are you talking about, Max?” said Juffin.
I swear he was ready to take his words back. He probably thought he had overestimated the strength of my poor mind.
“You thought I’d agree to ‘gobble down’ your surprises with my bare hands?” I said. “Please, Juffin, I do have some dignity. Ask your butler.”
The joke was below average, but Sir Juffin laughed so loud that the windows trembled. I think he was just glad that I had recovered so quickly. I was pretty glad about it myself: marvelous are thy deeds.
Boomshakalaka.
The courier came in and placed a tray with kamra on the desk. Juffin stuck the huge mug right under my nose. “Now, in return, you’re going to tell me everything that happened to you. Be clear, concise, and take it from the top please. Can you manage that?”
“I think I can.” And I began telling Juffin about the dreams Shurf and I were having. It was the confession that, as it had turned out, I should have hurried to make from the very start.
I made another amazing discovery, perhaps the most amazing discovery of the entire crazy evening: I could recount my thoughts in a coherent and concise manner if I really wanted to. By the time I finished my improvised lecture on the mysteries of dreams, the kamra in my cup was still hot, and I didn’t even need to put it on the burner.
“Quite a story,” said Juffin. “Especially the ending. Just like in the good old days. No, I take that back: it’s even too much for the Epoch of Orders. I wonder how many lucky stars were shining on you when you were born?”
The door opened and slammed shut. I shivered. Juffin, on the other hand, smiled a broad, friendly smile.
“Oh, come in, Sir Shurf,” he said. “I’m dying to interrogate you under torture. I’m under the impression that some bastard has decided to sneak through Xumgat on your back. Am I right, or am I right, eh?”
“You are most certainly right. I have been asking myself why I could not guess what had been happening to me,” said Lonli-Lokli. “And I am not the only one in trouble here. I was straddled while I was asleep—or, rather, while I was taking a stroll through Sir Max’s dream, which, according to his latest conjecture, is a ‘real place’ in another World. My Rider had to get there somehow in the first place.”
He stopped by my armchair and carefully put down a box covered in faded runes on the desk. Then he cautiously put his hand on my shoulder. I saw that he wasn’t wearing either the outer protective gloves or the inner death-dealing ones.
“I never thought you would be able to escape from me, Max. But you did, praise be the Magicians! I can just imagine how disappointed that monster must be. He was so confident in his success.”
“I would be, too, if I were him,” said Juffin. “By the way, why did you say ‘he’?”
“I am not sure,” said Shurf, sitting down beside me. “As far as I can trust my own feelings, the creature is most certainly male. I think you should put away this box with my gloves, sir, the sooner the better. My guest might return any moment. You know as well as I do that Riders who have taken a fancy to wandering through Xumgat do not like to leave their steeds for long.”
“‘Riders’? ‘Xumgat’? ‘Wandering through’?” I said. “You guys should tone down your metaphors. I don’t understand a thing.”
“It is actually quite simple,” said Juffin. “Xumgat is the ancient name of the Corridor between Worlds. I don’t particularly like using that term: it smacks of some ancient mystical posturing. It’s much easier to call things by their actual names, right? But then the Corridor between Worlds—it’s still an open question who knows more about that place.”
“You, naturally,” I said. “Sure, I ran around there a bit, but I definitely lack the theoretical background.”
“Naturally. But in these matters, you need theory like a buriwok needs an amobiler,” said Juffin, laughing. “The question is: Can you get to that place or not? Most people can’t, including the powerful ancient Magicians. Among the few who can are our mutual friend Maba Kalox, Sir Loiso Pondoxo (a vampire under his blanket!), and such brilliant fellows as you and me. One either has the gift of practicing Invisible Magic—which is what brings us to that mysterious place—or one doesn’t. There’s no in between. It’s a gift. Some can multiply twelve-digit numbers in their heads and some can’t, all their university education notwithstanding.”
“True, but an education helps you manage even when you have no talent whatsoever,” I said. “One can learn to do long multiplication tables on paper, for instance—or, better yet, to use a calculator.”
“Do such things really exist?” said Lonli-Lokli.
“Shurf, you wouldn’t believe the magical things in the World,” I said. For the first time since he had arrived, I found the courage to look him in the eye. I smiled from an immense sense of relief: it truly was the old Shurf Lonli-Lokli—strong and imperturbable, never passing up the opportunity to add something else to his already huge encyclopedic knowledge. And that meant that life was wonderful. That meant that maybe, just maybe, there would be a tomorrow for you, Sir Max, if you were lucky enough, and if destiny would agree to keep putting up with your silly ass, and if you could learn this lesson well: you can’t offload your own heavenly vault onto someone else’s shoulders. You can trust anyone you want to, but you can only rely on yourself. Everyone has his own vault to carry; everyone is the Atlas of his own world. It’s no one else’s fault that you were only beginning to understand the rules of the game after thirty-something years.
Juffin pried me away from my thoughts.
“You know, Max, you yourself just came up with a brilliant metaphor with those calculators of yours. That is approximately what is going on here. When a powerful Magician realizes he cannot enter the Corridor between Worlds by himself, he can turn into what is called a Rider. He finds a person who is capable of traveling between Worlds, and then he captures that person’s spirit. For someone who has mastered the higher degrees of Apparent Magic, this is a piece of cake. Ideally, of course, you’d want to capture the spirit of some madman: they are often very talented, and what’s more, they have no clue about their own talents or the possible uses thereof. Besides, their spirits don’t belong to anyone anyway.”
Juffin fell silent and took a good look at Lonli-Lokli. Apparently he liked what he saw, so he continued. “Given enough magical power, one can capture or possess not just someone’s spirit but also his body. The body of someone who was born for magical travels. Now, if one really tries, one can also capture all the powers of one’s captive. The captive then dies, and the lucky captor keeps a great deal of the victim’s talent. People like you or me are of no interest to him: we are too dangerous to deal with since we know what we do, more or less, and can put up resistance.”
Another pause. Now the boss was looking at me.
“Although . . . You know, I wasn’t going to tell you this so as not to scare you beforehand. Now you know, and this knowledge might come in handy. One such clever fellow already tried to straddle you when you traveled back to your home World. He failed, but you almost lost your memory, thanks to him: the bastard really stunned you. So, how do you like them apples?”
I was shocked and dismayed, but recovered quickly. No doubt I had begun getting used to unpleasant surprises.
“So that’s why I couldn’t remember anything about my life in Echo! If I were a little weaker, I’d have thought I’d just seen a wonderful dream. But you should have told me sooner, Juffin. I should know such things about myself.”
“What’s the point? If I’d told you, you might have been too scared to even try traveling between Worlds again,” said Juffin. “I was going to look for your fellow traveler, but then I got hooked on your ‘cartoons’ and thought I could put off looking for the Rider for a while. You weren’t in any immediate dang
er: after such a crushing defeat, the Rider wouldn’t have tried to bother you—believe me, I know his kind.”
“Fine,” I said. “Magicians be with you and that failed tourist.” I turned to Lonli-Lokli. “So does this mean you can travel between Worlds, too, Shurf?”
“Not yet. But I will someday. That time has not yet come. In my life, everything happens slowly. It is my destiny.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to get used to the thought that that time has already come,” said Juffin. “Don’t you get it? It didn’t go exactly how you and I had planned it, Sir Shurf. This fidgety fellow”—he nodded in my direction—“stirred you up a bit sooner than he should have and was punished for it.”
“Hey! I didn’t stir anyone up,” I said. “Quit speaking in riddles.”
“If there’s anything I’m really certain about, it’s that I’m tired of speaking in riddles,” said Juffin, mocking my earlier line. “Fair enough, I’ll explain. You accidentally, one might say out of sheer idiocy, dragged Shurf into your dreams. I believe you both know what I’m talking about. Then there were your joint walks around the outskirts of Kettari. All of this resulted in Sir Shurf being in dangerous—or, I should say, dubious—situations: he is already quite capable of journeying between Worlds, but he is not yet ready to consciously put his talents to good use. Currently, he’s no better than some of the inhabitants of the Refuge for the Mad . . . Hold on, boys. That’s where we need to sniff around a bit. I have no idea where we will find our client, but we have a pretty good chance of encountering a couple of his victims in the Refuge for the Mad. You’re absolutely right, Shurf—there’s no way you could have been his first prey. You are way too tough for a novice traveler through Xumgat. What we’ve got here is a very, very experienced Rider.”