The Stranger - Max Frei [69]
The beast knew very well that the situation was hopeless, and knew what awaited him. It didn’t even try to put up a fight. Suddenly, I got an uneasy feeling. I think I was beginning to sympathize with this unknown beast, who was not even here of its own will; it was merely trying to survive in the only way it knew how. What if some crazy Magician summoned me? And with my talent for getting into trouble, even in my sleep . . . I felt a chill, and shivered.
Five snow-white rays raced toward the motionless couple. Sir Lonli-Lokli’s left hand smote the double-bodied beast quickly and efficiently. Painlessly, as well, I hoped.
“Juffin?” I asked in the ringing silence. “Is there anything left of the Enns themselves? A soul, I mean, or whatever the scientific word for that is . . .”
“No one kno—Oh, Max!”
Quick as lightening, he struck the back of my knees, and I collapsed to the floor. As I was falling, I realized there was something wrong with the nape of my neck. I felt a painful incision in the very place where the hair turns into frivolous fluff. Then a cold sensation spread over my neck. I cried out, and then lost consciousness.
After a few seconds of total darkness, I realized I was still alive. A sharp pain in my right knee and chin witnessed to that. The back of my neck was numb, as though from a shot of Novocain. Something warm was dripping down my neck. If that’s blood, then it’s goodbye to my favorite looxi, I thought darkly.
I felt a hot hand on the back of my neck. It was an extremely pleasant sensation. I relaxed and floated away into a land of tender forgetfulness. But I didn’t stay there for long.
When I opened my eyes, I felt better, though far from ideal. My knee and chin admitted that they had been badly mistreated and were on the road to recovery now. But my neck and the back of my head worried me. Sir Juffin Hully looked around fastidiously for something to wipe off his bloodied hands.
“The curtains,” I said, surprised at my own falsetto croak. “I doubt the heirs will sue you.”
“Good boy, Max! What would I do without you?”
“Drink kamra quietly in your office without a worry or care. What was that, Juffin?”
“It was the comprehensive answer to several theoretical questions that armchair philosophers sometimes feel compelled to examine. See for yourself. Come on, you can turn your head. I’ve stopped the bleeding, and the wound has closed. And it wasn’t such a bad injury to begin with. Your head didn’t fall off, anyway. And if it did, I’d sew a new one on you, even better than the last.”
“Very funny. So where is this comprehensive answer?”
“Here it is, Sir Max,” said sir Lonli-Lokli, and he kneeled down to show me two small objects, which he held in his right, less dangerous hand. It was a figurine broken in half, the figure of a small woman with a trident. The face, though not attractive, was extremely lifelike, and full of a threatening intensity that made it unforgettable. An impressive trinket.
“Sinning Magicians! What is it?”
“One of the masterpieces from the beginning of the Epoch of Orders,” he explained. “An amulet to protect the household. And a powerful thing it was. I think the ghost of Lady Feni picked it up randomly at one of those places at the market where prices start at several hundred crowns. As for the craftsman who made the thing—Sinning Magicians, may werewolves bite off his ears!”
“It is striking,” I agreed, “And look at the face . . . Was it a magical object?”
“Well, yes. In her time, this damsel protected the house from thieves and other unexpected visitors. And she did a good job of it, too; she was no less fierce than an armed thug. It’s all right as long as amulets like that end up in ordinary households of ordinary families. But in a house inhabited by a Phetan, anything can happen to a magical object. This is an age-old truth that is every so often called into