The Stranger - Max Frei [11]
“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