The Stranger - Max Frei [98]
“Oh, and I thought your clothes were just a matter of personal taste. And what do your white clothes mean?”
Lonli-Lokli didn’t reply. He clearly didn’t want to discuss the subject.
“The times when Shurf was Death have passed,” Juffin announced solemnly. “Now he has become Truth. At least, that’s how his position is listed in the Secret Registry of Practicing Royal Magicians. To put it more simply, our Sir Lonli-Lokli isn’t capable of anger, fear, or taking offense—in contrast to you, for example. He can bring death, it’s true, but only when it’s absolutely necessary, not because he wants to himself. Not even when he is ordered to do it. If, let’s say, I order Sir Shurf to pulverize an innocent person, he will, in the line of duty, try to carry out my orders, but his hand will refuse to obey its master. So it turns out that our highly disciplined Sir Shurf, for the most part, answers to no one. That is why he is greater than death. He is Truth because he is, in the last instance, as impassive as the heavens. Whew! I’m getting carried away. All that is, of course, a shameless mixtures of naïve philosophy and bad poetry. But you understand the gist of it.”
“I’m glad I don’t have to wear orange or raspberry,” I said. “Still, I’m not crazy about this idea.”
“You don’t have to be crazy about it. Come to terms with it, and try to get some satisfaction out of it, at least. Case closed. You won’t be working tonight, at least, so let’s go to the Glutton. I’m starving, and so are you. Any questions?”
“Yes,” I muttered. “Who’s paying?”
By the end of the evening, all the Secret Investigators were sitting around the table. There was nothing unusual in this, of course. Juffin had probably sent out a silent call and told everyone to join our little feast, though it was nice to think that there was some mysterious connection between my colleagues and me, and that walking around the city, everyone inevitably gravitated toward the place where the others had gathered. We attract each other by some principle of collective magnetism: that’s how I imagined it.
When she took her leave, Lady Melamori, who hadn’t taken her eyes off me the whole evening, invited Melifaro and me to visit her at dawn to drink a mug of kamra. According to her strategic plan, we would arrive together and neutralize each other. I wondered whether she was making fun of us or—worse—whether she, herself, didn’t understand what she wanted.
“Spit at her, man!” Melifaro hissed. “Spit at her, I dare you. She deserves it!”
“No kidding,” I murmured. “But my spit is a matter of state. To use it for my own purposes is abuse of office. And I’m just out of Xolomi.”
I did finally make it home that night, and was greeted by Armstrong and Ella, looking sleek, well-fed, and well-groomed, as promised. I decided that from now on I would use the services of the courier, who had been charged with looking after my little beasts. Unlike me, the fellow was made for this kind of work.
All night I stuffed my furry friends with delicacies from the Glutton and was rewarded by their grateful purring. I at last grew weary of this pastime; but they wouldn’t leave me in peace.
I was awakened by a knock at the door. Only a civil servant of a fairly low rank would dare knock so boldly. Sleepy, grumpy, and befuddled, I crawled over to open the door. Armstrong marched beside me on my right, and Ella spun around in circles on my left, meowing indignantly. It must have been a sight to behold.
At the door stood an extremely proper-looking gentleman whose elegant, gold-rimmed glasses and graying temples cast an aura of intelligence over his pedigreed face.
“Please accept my apologies, Sir Max,” he said, bowing. “Allow me to introduce myself, Kovista Giller, Master Verifier of Sad News. I know that it isn’t entirely proper to appear at your door at this time of night, but His Majesty King Gurig VIII insisted on it.”
My innate sense of hospitality and the servile tone of the visitor conspired to make me invite him