by Max Frei
When the last bright headband disappeared behind the doors, I stood up and looked around, trying to find my colleagues. Sir Juffin Hully was already walking toward me.
“Good job,” he said. “Lean and mean. His Majesty King Gurig will have to take a few lessons in court etiquette from you. And he considers himself to be so democratic. He should’ve seen you crouching on the threshold. Now that’s what I call humility.”
“Glad you liked it. But did you see what these guys did to my hand?” I showed the letters on my left palm to Juffin.
“Yes, now your name is the only thing it bears, Max,” said Juffin. “Hey, look! It’s the ancient alphabet of Xonxona. It was used back in the days when the entire population on our blessed landmass was as nomadic as your subjects are now. It turns out that there are still keepers of ancient knowledge among the people of Xenxa. Funny.”
“Is it?” I said. “So, is this writing not going to come off?”
“I’m afraid not. But it’s all for the better. One couldn’t wish for a better protective amulet than his own True Name written in a forgotten language. You’re in luck, my boy.”
“Right, but . . . I don’t think this inscription can be my True Name. I’m sure this name belongs to the true king of Xenxa, the poor child who once got lost in the steppes, the last of the Fanghaxras. It has nothing to do with me.”
“If it weren’t your name, it couldn’t possibly be imprinted on your paw. Plus, what makes you so sure you’re not ‘real’? I happen to think that getting lost in the steppes is just the thing you would do,” said the boss.
“Oh, come on, Juffin! You know better than anybody where I come from. If there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that I never got lost in the steppes.”
“If I were you, I’d try not to think I was too sure about anything,” said Juffin, winking at me. “Anything but this one fact: that your True Name is exactly what that esteemed old gentleman said it was.”
“Well, I’ll be,” I said, laughing. “Ayot Mo-a . . . Ma-o . . . There’s no way I’m going to remember it.”
“You don’t have to remember it, nor should you try to say it out loud. It’s a mystery, Max, remember? Back in the good old days, you would have had to kill that wise old man personally so that the secret of your True Name belonged to you and you alone. It’s only in the past millennium that people have become so frivolous about such things. If you don’t remember your name, don’t lose sleep over it. When Eternity wants to get acquainted with you, your palm will always be at its service. Eternity, you know, is a highly educated and sophisticated lady. Forgotten languages are her hobby. But I doubt you’ll need your True Name under any other circumstances. ‘Sir Max’ will do just fine.”
“Never a dull moment,” I muttered. “Just what I need—an introduction to Ms. Eternity. Maybe I should try it out on the ambassadors first. Do you think these gentlemen will live through it if I thrust my mystical palm under their noses and skip the small talk?”
“They’ll get over anything as long as they can get out of here as soon as possible,” said Juffin. “There’s no catering at official ceremonies such as your coronation, and no one wants to hang around here with an empty stomach until midnight.”
“So how come they’re not running away?” I said. “By the way, I’m already feeling a little peckish myself.”
“You can eat—you’re home. Okay, here’s a good piece of advice for you: go ahead and quickly make the acquaintance of each one of them. These gentlemen have come here with a single purpose in mind: to get introduced to the new king. As soon as they have spoken their inimitable names to you, their missions will be over. Then we can all have dinner here, provided you’ll grant me and Melifaro an invitation.”
“Dream on. You’ll empty my coffers in no time.” I made a face that expressed an extreme form of stinginess, bordering on insanity.
“Sometimes you look too much like Grand Magician Nuflin,” said Juffin, laughing. “Now I get it: you’re not a sovereign of Fanghaxra, you’re Moni Mak’s illegitimate grandson. What if I told you that all the expenses in this house are on the tab of His Majesty Gurig VIII?”
“Really? Oh, but that’s wonderful,” I said, smiling a hospitable smile. “How can I pass up the opportunity of sharing my humble royal meal with my friends!”
“How quaint,” said Juffin. “Then go ahead and announce to these nice folks that you’re dying to learn their names, and make it quick. My belly is as empty as the Corridor between Worlds.”
“You mean the Xumgat?” I said, sighing. And then I decided it was indeed time to face my guests.
A little man was already standing behind me. His head barely reached my waist. The midget’s attire was an elegant compromise between the fashion of the Capital and the garments of my people. Underneath his classical black looxi, he wore wide pants that reached down to his knees. His tiny torso was clad in chain mail, and on his head he wore a beautiful shawl, the ends of which dangled down and swept the floors.
“I see you as though in a waking dream. I am happy to say my name: Rixxiri Gachillo, Count Vook. I’m sorry we never became neighbors, Sir Max. They say you’re one of a kind,” said the gnome in a low voice.
“That’s what they say about you, too,” I said, staring at my new acquaintance.
I had no idea that the infamous Count Dark Sack, the former mentor of the late King Gurig VII and one of the most odious personages in the Unified Kingdom, would be so compact.
“And it is true,” said Count Vook. “But let us not despair prematurely. Perhaps we will have the opportunity to entertain each other in the future. Your subjects are a very unreliable people. Well, good night to you, fellow countryman. I have to admit that I’ve grown weary of this reception: tons of people and nothing to drink.”
“Good night,” I said, unable to take my eyes off this fellow.
Count Vook nodded, turned around, and headed toward the exit. Watching the retreat of his haughty figure, I found myself wondering whether he was a midget, or whether the rest of us were all just deformed giants.
Then a rather motley crowd surrounded me. First Sir Rep Kibat and Count Kayga Atalo Vulx, ambassadors from Irrashi, one of the few countries that has its own language, introduced themselves to me. I had managed to learn a few Irrashian words in my days as a habitué of the Irrashi Coat of Arms Inn, so I conquered the hearts of the ambassadors once and for all by saying, “Xokota!”—a traditional Irrashian greeting.
Tol Goyoxvi, an amicable representative of Tulan, smiled at me. I remembered how Sir Manga Melifaro reminisced about that distant country with great tenderness. Then there was Verlago Gabayoxi, Prince Gorr, the ambassador from the County Xotta, which bordered with my land. This whole business of my coronation was in fact merely a pretext for annexing that province. He was dressed almost exactly like my unsophisticated subjects but looked as serious as a professor’s widow. Next there was Marquis Niiro Uvilguk Van Baunbax from Loxri, wearing something that looked like an extravagant warm evening gown. Then Sir Burik Pepezo from Tarun appeared before me. He was the head of the artists’ guild of that distant land. A good half of its inhabitants were artists, so his position, however humble it may have seemed at first glance, gave him power over almost the entire adult population. If I understood correctly, he had come to the Unified Kingdom with the sole purpose of collecting some guild tax from the numerous Tarunian artists who decorated our lives for a living. The ambassador from the distant Kumon Caliphate, Sir Maniva Umonary—who, as chance would have it, was passing through Echo and had dropped by my house—shocked me to the core. He was lying on something that looked like a giant divan. Almost a dozen servants moved the “divan” whenever the man wished to change his location. He looked much more kingly that I did. His obese body reeked of the vulgar luxury of the Arabian Nights.
A tanned pirate’s face distracted me from my contemplation of the blissful luxuriance of the Kumonian. My first impression had not deceived me: it was the ambassador fro
m Ukumbia, Sir Chekimba the Beaten Horn. I found out that Beaten Horn wasn’t his surname or nickname; it was the name of his ship. It turned out that the right to replace an ancestral name with the name of a ship was a privilege of the eldest and most honored citizens of that pirate state.
Then I was swarmed by the honored citizens of Tasher: Sir Zunakki Chuga Tlax and Sir Chumochi Droxa Vivvi. My head was spinning from the unfamiliar faces and names, but I managed to remember about my friend Anday, who had been dreaming of moving to Tasher, and introduced him to the Tasherian ambassadors—just in case.
Finally my eyes alighted upon a familiar sight: brightly colored tights, short jackets, and oversized fur hats. These attributes belonged to Mr. Ciceric, Mr. Maklasufis, and Mr. Mikusiris, the happy citizens of beautiful Isamon, the very same three people poor Melifaro had once thrown out the window of his living room. They attempted (rather poorly) to pretend we’d never met. They announced their titles to me. Mr. Ciceric was the head of the fur industry tycoons of Isamon, Mr. Maklasufis was Mr. Ciceric’s personal Wise Mentor, and Mr. Mikusiris was the Grand Specialist in questions of culture for the Unified Kingdom, something of a technical expert. I had no idea what these Isamonian furriers were doing at my reception—my royal reception—but at the end of the day, I didn’t mind. Their silly colorful tights livened up the atmosphere.
I looked around for Melifaro. I thought it would be an interesting experiment for the Isamonians and him to come face to face and look one another in the eye, just to see what would happen. Melifaro was standing nearby in the company of two pleasant-looking gentlemen whose appearance didn’t betray anything exotic at first glance. Only when one of them flung back his burdensome hood—a sartorial detail characteristic of the winter looxi of Shimarian highlanders, who still considered our turbans to be too frivolous a form of headgear—did I open my mouth in amazement. And my amazement was justified. The intricate and colorful structure on the stranger’s head was truly a masterpiece of the art of hairdressing.
Later I learned that ordinary human hair was completely unsuited for achieving such impressive results. More serious materials were needed: pet hair, bits of wild animal fur, even feathers, not to mention the numerous magic spells that were required to hold together all these foreign materials and to make them take root on the human skull.
I carefully threaded my way through the colorful crowd of foreigners, who had begun to tire me, and approached my colleague.
“This is Sir Ayonxa and Sir Jiffa, the fairy-tale princes of the County Shimara, whose deputy I could have become a dozen years ago if I hadn’t been such an idiot,” said Melifaro. “Right, guys?”
“It’s all right, buddy. I’m sure you’ll reconsider,” said one of the princes. The other just shrugged. He looked too grown-up and serious to enjoy any prolonged exposure to our Sir Melifaro. It was probably Sir Jiffa, the younger of the princes.
I tried to embellish my official smile with as much charm as possible and gave the sovereigns of the County Shimara a low bow.
“Actually, I was going to reintroduce you to some other old friends of yours,” I said to Melifaro. “Remember your Isamonian buddies? The ones you launched out of your window?”
“Whoa! Are they here, too?” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for repeating the show, but I can’t help but feel for the poor fellows. The first time was enough for them, I think.”
“Enough is enough,” I said. “Do you know that His Majesty and I are going to shell out some funds and feed you and Juffin?” I turned to the Shimara princes and said, “If you truly enjoy the company of this monster, I will be happy to see you at our table.”
Prince Ayonxa burst out laughing, and Prince Jiffa looked at me with poorly concealed amazement. He probably had his own notions of how a king should behave. Me, I simply couldn’t behave myself when I was standing just three feet away from Melifaro: he would never have forgiven me.
I spent the next half hour being introduced to the grandees of the remaining provinces of the Unified Kingdom. Among them were the Venerable Head of Gugland, Valiba Valibal; Lord Eki Banba Uriux of Uryuland; the Venerable Head of Uguland, Yorix Malivonis; and two burgomasters of the free city of Gazhin, Sir Valda Kunyk and Sir Zebi Xipilosis. Gazhin, one of the wealthiest seaports in the land, is one heck of a place—a single burgomaster just didn’t cut it. Valda Kunyk, a big, jolly red-haired guy, was apparently the protégé of the ancient shipbuilding aristocracy, and the lively gray-haired Zebi Xipilosis protected the interests of the town merchants. Or was it the other way around? No idea.
Following the burgomasters was Sir Yoka Yoxtoxop, the sheriff of the Island of Murimak. I remembered Juffin telling me that this man had perfect memory and could see things “the way they were,” just like our Lookfi—although, unlike Lookfi, the sheriff of Murimak resembled a warrior rather than a mad scientist. Even the amusing Murimak slang wasn’t enough to make him funny.
Just as the reception was ending, Togi Raxva the Golden Eye, Venerable Head of Landaland, approached me. One of his eyes was indeed a bright amber-yellow, just like our Kurush’s. The other eye was plain gray. I remembered that it was the wonderful yellow eye that had led to the appointment of Sir Togi Raxva to his position of utmost responsibility: it is a common belief in the Unified Kingdom that one should never disregard such a good sign. By the way, the belief had turned out to be correct. Once an arid country, Landaland had suddenly become the wealthiest agricultural province of the Unified Kingdom. The famous fair in Numban alone was a sight to behold. And if one were to believe the rumors, Togi Raxva was by no means a financial wizard. Rather, under his magical golden eye, the once barren soil of Landaland had become so fruitful that crops could be harvested almost half a dozen times a year.
The official part of the coronation finally reached its last gasp and fizzled out. My honorable guests disappeared one after another through the front door, no doubt to wander around Echo looking for a place to have a good meal. I had worked up a heck of an appetite myself, but I still had to go into seclusion with my subjects and receive my gifts. If only they had baked me some pies—but no, they were sure to start flinging some inedible precious stones at my feet. Drat it.
I approached Juffin, who seemed to be enjoying the social whirlwind. “It would be great if you took the responsibility for the remaining part of the evening into your own hands,” I said. “You’re good at it. Tell the servants to show you to the pantry and help yourself. I’m going to join you a little later: I have a romantic rendezvous with my people. See, my people want to give me some souvenirs for keepsakes. I’m afraid I’m looking forward to receiving the decaying remnants of my ancestors’ throne.”
“Receiving gifts is a sacred tradition,” said Juffin. “Grab whatever they give you as long as it’s free.”
“Right. Will you make sure the servants leave me a small crust of bread or something? I’ve been meaning to learn more about the royal diet, and here’s the opportunity.”
“A small crust of bread I can guarantee you. If worse comes to worst, I’ll break off a piece of my own heart. You’ll choke on it and then go around telling stories to naive young women about how kings live on dried crusts of bread alone.”
I had to cut short our highly intellectual exchange and go to the former archive. A few dozen representatives of the people of Xenxa were consuming pastries there. The stern-looking nomads were covered in cream from head to toe, just like Kurush, our wise connoisseur of all things sweet.
When they saw me, the fellows tried to swallow whatever they had in their mouths and stand at attention.
“That’s all right,” I said like a loving grandmother. “Keep on chewing. It makes me happy to see my people eat heartily, so do give me the pleasure of contemplating it.”
The subjects dutifully grabbed two pastries each and began consuming them with great relish. They took my token of hospitality for a command. Amazing discipline for a bunch of nomads.
“Barxa! Fairiba! Could you come
here for a second?” I said. “I need to talk to you about how we are all going to live from now on. You can stay here until you leave, of course. I sleep at another place anyway. Speaking of which, when did you say you were leaving?”
“Whenever you tell us to leave, sire,” said Barxa Bachoy. He looked puzzled, as though surprised that a king would ask such a thing.
“Splendid. Then make it tomorrow,” I said. “Tell my people the good news. Okay, now I’m ready for some gifts, if you insist.”
I grabbed a pastry from the nearest tray. Normally I wasn’t too crazy about honey balls with rainbow cream, but I was starving. I hadn’t been king for a day and was already suffering from deprivation.
“May I speak with you first, O Fanghaxra,” old Fairiba said diffidently.
“Sure,” I said. “You can talk to me anytime. You’ll be surprised to learn how easy it is to strike a deal with me.”
“It is also easy to strike a deal with Death,” said the old man. “Day after day, for centuries, we beg him, ‘Not today!’ He agrees and retreats. It’s a pleasure doing business with him. Only once does he have it his way, but this one time is all it takes.”
“Never a truer word spoken, Fairiba,” I said, smiling. “What you just said about Death is dead right, if you’ll pardon the pun. And it’s probably true about me, too.”
“Yes, about you, as well,” said the old man. “But I wanted to talk about something else. Your people have brought gifts. They know not of your preferences and, if I understand this correctly, you have no need for our gifts. But we merely do as our customs tell us. I wish to ask you to accept our gifts even if you don’t like them. When a king rejects gifts from his people, a curse is cast upon them. I know you would never mean to harm your people, but you have grown up among barbarians and do not know all the laws of your land. We have become weary of living with the burden of curses—such a life is not worthmuch. Please avoid bringing another curse upon us, O Fanghaxra.”