The Stranger - Max Frei [146]
“Do you think that she would filch something from her uncle to give to me, as if to a bosom buddy? No way. We just had a bet, and I won hands down.”
“You were betting?”
“Well, yes. She loves taking a gamble. But you must be aware of this.”
“I never attached any significance to it. What was the bet?”
“I told her I could talk to General Boboota for fifteen minutes without him using the words butt, crap, and gaseous expulsions, as it were. She didn’t believe it was possible. Then I went to Boboota and began discussing the latest news. As you can imagine, he listened, snorted, and nodded his head. In the privacy of his own thoughts he probably cursed me a thousand times. I simply took advantage of the situation. Melamori hadn’t been around for a few days and wasn’t aware that relations between me and Boboota had taken a new turn.”
“I heard about it, though. Some say he’s developed a nervous tic. Whenever Boboota begins to express the fruits of his contemplation out loud, he keeps glancing around furtively to see if you’re anywhere nearby. Gosh, Max, I never expected you could make me so happy!”
“There might have been an easier way—just hire some werewolf.”
“Life has proven that you are far more terrifying. So you won the bet?”
“There’s the evidence,” I said, nodding at the bottle. “Dark Essence, one of the best varieties, according to Melamori. She said that it was a fair exchange.”
“The girl is absolutely right, on both counts. You surprise me, Max. Wines like this are meant to be drunk in solitude, behind locked doors in a distant room, so that an evil wind doesn’t blow your best friends over on an inopportune visit.”
“And I’m sucking up to you. I gather that in your cellar you keep not only the skinned hides of magicians, but also a couple cases of Elixir of Kaxar.”
“Why should I store it away? I can make that stuff myself! It’s not forbidden to disregard the Code in the interests of the Crown. Grand Magician Nuflin Moni Mak thinks the same.”
“All the more. I share those views completely. It’s too bad I’ll never learn how to make it myself.”
“No, you probably won’t. You can’t even learn to make kamra, poor boy,” Sir Juffin Hully seemed to feel truly sorry for me.
“I have to have at least one fault,” I consoled my long-suffering teacher, and pushed the bottle of Dark Essence toward him.
By the time I got back to the office, I felt more like a human food vendor cart than a human being. I needed to stretch my legs and wiggle my toes.
Despite Sir Juffin Hully’s optimistic prognosis of a quiet night ahead of me, a matter awaited that wasn’t exactly business as usual. In the Chair of Despond in the Hall of Common Labor, a charming, middle-aged lady, wearing an expensive looxi that she had pulled on right over her everyday skaba, was wailing and keening. The damsel was in that stage of shock when incoherent mumbling is over, but the gift of speech has yet to return. For that reason I didn’t dispute the citizens’ right of our guest to quiet moaning, but obeyed some latent instinct and handed her the mug of kamra I had tried to make myself earlier. I decided that such liquid muck would restore her emotional equilibrium no worse than smelling salts—which, by the way, are prohibited here as magic of the third degree.
She gulped the stuff down mechanically and finally grew quiet. Even her sobs ceased. It was surprising that she was still alive at all.
Kurush was the only one capable of giving a full account of what had happened to the unfortunate visitor before she came to her senses. He was the sole witness of her surprise visit. I turned to him expectantly, and the buriwok conveyed the following information without a moment’s hesitation:
“My husband turned into a piece of meat, my husband turned into a piece of meat, my husband turned into a piece of meat.”
I looked at Kurush mournfully, then at the damsel, then at Kurush again, then—at the ceiling, which got in the way of the sky. Why, O Dark Magicians? I’m not