The Stranger: The Labyrinths of Echo, Part One

by Max Frei

  Then I was on my way home. As it had ever been in my life, nighttime still proved to be the most enchanting time of day. Sir Juffin, by his own admission, had had a temporary quarrel with his blanket. After dinner, he didn’t retire, but steered me into his study, where we undertook to “meditate on the memory of things.” This aspect of Invisible Magic, the most abstract and obscure science of this World, was the simplest and most indispensable one for my future profession.

  There are few in the World who have any inkling of its existence. A knack for Invisible Magic, as far as I understand it, is in no way linked to the wondrous qualities of the Heart of the World. Indeed, this talent had been discovered in me, an alien. Sir Juffin himself, the undisputed expert in this area, hails from Kettari, a small town in the county of Shimara. The residents of that place lag significantly behind residents of the capital when it comes to knowing how to enhance their lives by means of magic.

  But back to the lessons. I discovered very quickly that if you let your eyes rest on an inanimate object with a “special gaze” (I don’t know how else to describe it), the object would reveal its past to the observer—that is to say, events that happened in its presence. Sometimes these events were quite horrific, as I learned after an encounter with a pin for a looxi that had belonged long ago to a member of the Order of the Icy Hand, one of the most sinister and wicked of the ancient orders of magic. The pin showed us the rite of passage into the Order: a frenzied, exultant bear of a fellow voluntarily hacked off his left hand from his arm, after which a handsome, spry old fellow in a shiny turban (the Grand Master of the Order, as Juffin informed me) launched into some bizarre, incomprehensible fumblings with the amputated piece of anatomy. During the finale, the hand was presented to its former owner in the center of a glittering ice crystal. It turned my stomach.

  Juffin explained that as a result of this procedure the fresh-baked invalid had gained an eternal inner fountain of marvelous youthful energy, and his missing digits would become a kind of “supersponge” that provided him with the powers indispensable to that occupation.

  “Does he really need that?” I asked in naïve wonder.

  “People will do strange things to sate their hunger for power and glory,” Juffin replied with a shrug. “You and I are lucky. We live in a much more moderate age. The opposition is complaining about the tyranny of the King and the Order of the Seven-Leaf Clover, yet they forget the true tyranny of several dozen omnipotent orders of magic, of which almost none has ever chosen the path of rejecting vice and ambition altogether.”

  “Why didn’t they tear the World to shreds?”

  “They almost did, Max. They almost did . . . But we’ll have time to talk about that later. This is the night when you to begin your studies in earnest. So, grab that cup there . . .”

  This was all too good to be able to last for very long. The idyll was shattered on the evening of the third day, when Kimpa announced the arrival of Sir Makluk.

  “Strange,” Juffin said. “In the ten years we have been neighbors this is the first time Makluk has ever honored me with a visit. And so casually! Too casually, by far. My heart fears that there is some business to take care of.”

  Little did he know how right he was.

  “I’m afraid circumstances force me to request a service of you!” Makluk exclaimed, still standing in the threshold, holding one hand to his chest, and gesticulating wildly with the other. “I beg your pardon, Sir Hully, but I am in great need of your help and advice.”

  They exchanged a long, meaningful glance; the old fellow had switched to Silent Speech. A moment later, Juffin frowned, and Sir Makluk shrugged, looking a bit shamefaced.

  “Let’s go,” Juffin said abruptly, and stood up. “And you, Max, come with us. Don’t bother to dress up. This is business.”

  For the first time I was witnessing Juffin Hully on the job—or, more precisely, on the verge of one. The speed at which he crossed the garden exceeded in all likelihood the cruising speed of the amobiler. I automatically undertook to pacify Sir Makluk, who clearly felt a bit unmoored without the four heavyweights who carried his palanquin. We reached the finish without breaking any records—but also without doing any damage to his weak knees. Along the way, Sir Makluk took advantage of the opportunity to confide in the “Gentle Barbarian.” He seemed to need to get it off his chest.

  “I have—or, rather, had—a servant named Krops Kooly, a good lad. I had even planned to secure a place for him at court in fifteen or twenty years, when he had some experience under his belt . . . But I digress. A few days ago, he disappeared. Disappeared—just like that. He had a sweetheart on the Right Bank. Naturally, his colleagues decided that since you’re only young once, they wouldn’t make a fuss about it. You know, simple people are also capable of noble discretion . . . His disappearance was reported to me only today. My cook ran into his girlfriend at Linus Market, and the girl asked him why Krops hadn’t been to see her in so long—didn’t they allow him any Days of Freedom from his professional commitments? Then everyone began to panic. How could Krops just up and leave? Where had he gone, and why? About an hour and a half ago, Maddi and Shuvish went to clean the room of my late cousin, Sir Makluk-Olli, as they always did at that time. Yes, Sir Max, I had a cousin, a big bore, I’ll have you know. It even took him ten years to die. He finally decided to go at the beginning of the year, soon after the Day of Foreign Gods. Yes . . . and in there, in the room of my late cousin Olli, they found poor Mr. Kooly; and in what condition!”

  Sir Makluk shivered visibly, as if to say that he had never expected such antics from poor Krops Kooly, even posthumously.

  In the meantime, we had arrived at a small door—the backdoor of Sir Makluk’s luxurious living quarters. The old fellow had grown somewhat calmer after relating the recent events. Silent Speech is all well and good, but it’s not for nothing that psychotherapists make their patients talk out loud.

  Without wasting time to call for a palanquin, we made our way into the late Sir Olli’s bedroom. Almost half the room was taken up by a soft floor. Here in Echo this is the way beds are constructed. A few tiny marquetry tables were scattered haphazardly around the giant lair. One wall was an enormous window onto the garden. On the opposite wall there was an ancient mirror with a small vanity table to the side.

  It would have been preferable if this had about summed things up, but there was another element of the room’s interior. On the floor, between the mirror and the window, lay a corpse, a dead body that resembled, more than anything else, slobbery chewing gum. The spectacle was not even grisly; it was, rather, awkward, even absurd.

  Somehow, it didn’t fit my notions of a crime victim—no streams of blood, spattered brains, no icy gaze of a dead man. Just some sorry, rubbery ABC gum.

  I didn’t see Juffin at first. He had retreated to the farthest corner of the room. His slanting eyes shone phosphorescent in the dusk. When he saw us, he abandoned his post and came up to us with a deeply troubled expression.

  “For the time being, two pieces of bad news; I daresay more will follow. First, this is no ordinary murder. You don’t end up with someone looking like that with your bare hands alone. Second, I’ve not discovered any signs of Forbidden Magic. I’m very suspicious of the mirror, as it seems to be too close to the body. This looks like a case of Black Magic of the Second Degree; the Third Degree, at most. And, it already happened long ago.” In his hands Juffin was pensively rotating a pipe with a built-in gauge, which conveyed precise information about the degree of magic that it detected. Now the arrow pointed to the number “2” on the black half of the round dial. Sometimes it shuddered visibly, trying to crawl up to “3”; but the kind of magic locked in the ancient mirror wasn’t strong enough for that.

  “My advice to you, neighbor, is to go get some rest. Just, tell your vassals that Max and I will still snoop around here. Have them assist us in the investigation.”

  “Sir Hully, are you sure I can’t help you?”

  “I’m
positive,” Juffin sighed. “It’s possible that your people can—so give them your orders, and retire to bed. Whatever has happened, it’s no reason to neglect your own health.”

  “Thank you,” the old man said, drawing his lips into a troubled smile. “I’ve truly had all I can handle for one day.”

  Sir Makluk turned toward the door with an expression of relief. At the threshold he met someone who looked to be the same age as he, though a very colorful character. The face of the stranger resembled that of some Grand Inquisitor—putting him under the gray turban of a servant that he wore was an inexcusable waste. But I wasn’t the one who made this World, and I was certainly in no position to change the way things are.

  “Dear Govins,” Sir Makluk said, addressing the “Grand Inquisitor.” “Be so kind as to assist these superb gentlemen in all their efforts. This is our neighbor, Sir Juffin Hully, and he—”

  “How could I, an inveterate reader of the Echo Hustle and Bustle, not know Sir Most Venerable Head?” A servile smile spread over the Inquisitor’s face.

  “Splendid,” Sir Makluk, said almost in a whisper. “Govins will take care of everything. He’s still stronger than I am, though he fussed over me in the blessed days when I was too small to sneak a little bowl of jam from the kitchen.”

  On that sentimental note, Sir Makluk was hoisted onto the palanquin by the eager stretcher-bearers and borne away to his bedchamber.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a few words with you in a minute. I hope in your wisdom you’ll agree that our first acquaintance could have taken place in more . . . er . . . less messy circumstances!” Juffin said to Govins, smiling with irresistible aplomb.

  “The small parlor, the best kamra in the capital, and your humble servant await you whenever you wish.” With these words, the elderly gentleman seemed to dissolve into the half-gloom of the corridor.

  We were left by ourselves, not counting the chewed up fellow on the floor, and he didn’t really count any more.

  “Max,” Juffin said, turning to me, his joie de vivre suddenly snuffed out. “There’s another bit of bad news. Not a single thing in this room wants to reveal the past. They—how should I put it to you . . . No, let’s try it again, together! You’ll see what I mean.”

  And try we did, concentrating our attention on a round box with balsam soap, randomly selected from the dressing table. Nothing! More to the point, worse than nothing. I was suddenly stricken with a fright, the kind you feel in a nightmare when your feet are planted to the ground and they are creeping upon you out of the darkness. My nerves gave out; I let go of the box. At almost the same time, Juffin’s fingers released it, and the box fell to the floor. It bounced rather awkwardly, turned over on its side, and instead of rolling in the direction of the window, it seemed to try to slip into the corridor. Halfway there, it stopped short, clattered plaintively, and made a comical little leap. We stared at it spellbound.

  “You were right, Sir Juffin,” I said, whispering for some reason. “The things are silent, and they’re . . . scared!”

  “What are they afraid of, is what I’d like to know! It is possible to find out—but for that we need magic of at least the hundredth degree. But in this case—”

  “Wait, what degree was that?”

  “You heard right! Come along, let’s have a talk with the leader of the local serfs and his underlings. What else can we do?”

  Mr. Govins was waiting for us in the “small parlor” (which was actually just slightly smaller than your average football field). Mugs of kamra were steaming on a miniscule table. Juffin relaxed ever so slightly.

  “I must know everything concerning these premises, Govins. And I mean everything! Facts, rumors, tall tales. And, preferably, first hand.”

  “I am the oldest resident of this house,” the old man began pompously, then broke into a disarming smile. “Wherever you might turn, I’m the oldest! Well, in Echo there are a few old stumps that are even more ancient than I am. I assure you, Sir Venerable Head, it’s a very ordinary chamber. No wonders or miracles—whether permitted or outlawed. For as long as I can remember, that has always been someone’s bedroom. At times, it was occupied, at times it stood empty. But no one ever complained about family ghosts. Moreover, before Sir Makluk-Olli, no one had ever died there. And even he lived five years longer than he was expected to.”

  “How did he die?”

  “There were a number of causes. He had been ailing since childhood. A weak heart, delicate digestion, nerves. And about ten years ago, he lost the Spark.”

  “Sinning Magicians! Do you mean that?”

  “Absolutely. But he had amazing tenacity of spirit. For you know, of course, that people without the Spark seldom hold out longer than a year. Sir Olli was told that if he remained immobile and refused to take food he would live another five years or so, provided there was a good Seer in attendance on him. For ten years, he didn’t leave his room. He fasted, hired a dozen mad but powerful old crones who guarded his shadow in voluntary confinement with him all those years . . . As you see, Olli established a kind of record. But the old crones did their spells at their own homes, so in Olli’s bedchamber nothing out of the ordinary went on.”

  Sir Juffin didn’t neglect to send me a Silent Message: To lose the Spark means to lose the ability to protect oneself from whatever might happen. Even ordinary food may be poisonous for the unlucky person, and a common cold can kill him in a few hours. And that the crones guarded his shadow . . . well, it’s quite complicated. I’ll explain later!

  “Old Sir Makluk-Olli led the quietest of lives. A year before his death he gave one sign of life when he threw a washbowl at Maddi, who was waiting on him that day. The water he had drawn was a tad warmer than it ought to have been. I gave Maddi compensation for the blow, but even without the money he wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss. Sir Olli made a pitiful spectacle. The servants never made any more mistakes like that. As for Sir Olli, he didn’t get up to any mischief again, and nothing unusual, it would seem, ever occurred . . .”

  Juffin frowned.

  “Don’t hide anything from me, old man. I admire your loyalty to the house, but I’m the one who helped Sir Makluk hush up the unpleasantness half a year ago, when that young fellow from Gazhin cut his own throat. So do give me some balm to ease my aching heart: did that happen in the bedchamber?”

  Govins nodded.

  If you think that Govins’ confession solves the case, you’re mistaken , Juffin said soundlessly, with a wink in my direction. It only confuses the matter, though, further down the line . . . This all smacks of magic from the time of the Ancient Orders, but the blasted magic gauge, a hole in the heavens above it . . . Then again, that’s what makes life worth living: you never know what to expect!

  He turned to Govins.

  “I want to see: the person who first discovered the poor blighter today, the person who discovered the bloody fountain last time, the crones hired by Sir Olli, and a mug of your excellent kamra for everyone present. Oh, and just to be sure, ask the unhappy victim of domestic tyranny to come, as well. The one who was wounded by the washbowl.”

  Govins nodded. A middle-aged man in gray with a proud bearing appeared at the door carrying a tray of mugs. This was Mr. Maddi himself, victim of the erstwhile fury of Sir Makluk-Olli; and, as if by design, the primary witness of today’s crime. That’s true organizational genius! Take note, gentlemen—one person entered the room, and three of five requests had already been carried out!

  Maddi was burning with embarrassment, but good bearing never served a man amiss. Eyes cast down, he reported without undue circumlocutions that this evening he had entered the room first, looked out the window at the sunset, then looked down to see something one couldn’t miss. He quickly realized that it was best not to touch it and instead to send for Mr. Govins. Which he did.

  “I asked Shuvish to stay in the corridor. He’s still too young to see the likes of that,” Maddi said, hesitating, as though he might have overstepped his
bounds.

  “You didn’t hear any noise?”

  “The bedchamber was soundproofed, Sir Olli ordered that it be made so. What I mean is, even if you were screaming fit to burst, no one would hear. Nor would you hear any noise, naturally.”

  “Fine. That all makes sense. But what was this fight you had with Sir Olli? They say he really let you have it.”

  “No fight, Sir Venerable Head. A sick man doesn’t want to die; he’s unhappy about everything. He always explained to me how he wanted the water for his bath. But then the next day he wanted the water to be another way altogether. Every time I went and did as he ordered, but one day Sir Olli got mad and threw the washbowl at me. And you should’ve seen the man throw! He never should have died,” Maddi let out a low whistle of admiration.

  I was sure that if he had been a basketball coach, he would have tried to recruit Sir Olli onto his team without a second thought.

  “The bowl hit me straight in the face, the edge gouging my eyebrow. It started to bleed, and like an imbecile, I tried to turn away, and crashed into the mirror with all my might. Luckily, it was a sturdy thing. Old craftsmanship! I was soaking wet, my face covered in blood, the mirror all bloodied up, too. Sir Olli panicked, he thought he had killed me. Raised quite a commotion. And when I washed my face, it turned out that it was nothing at all—a scratch half a finger’s length long. It didn’t even leave a scar! It never entered my head to complain—you can’t let yourself get insulted by an old man. He didn’t even have the Spark anymore; he was all but dead already—and I’m still strong and kicking. I can grin and bear it.”