Макс Фрай - The Stranger

We both stared at the little bundle lying in the pile of ashes. Carefully I unfolded the fine cloth. A pea the color of dark cherry was hidden inside. I rolled it around on the palm of my hand.

“What is it?”

Juffin smiled pensively.

“That, Sir Max, is a myth. Something that doesn’t exist. It is a Child of the Crimson Pearl of Gurig VII. The funny thing is that no one, not even the late King himself or his heir who now reigns, has ever seen the ‘mother’ of this pearl. Her presence in the palace was discovered by a wise old Magician—a good friend of mine, by the way. He decided not to tell anyone the exact location of this miracle. He said he didn’t know; but I think he could have come up with something a little more convincing. Her children turn up regularly in all the palace’s nooks and crannies. His Majesty gives the ‘orphans’ to citizens who have proven themselves worthy. I have three of them already. But you got yours very quickly. I’m not saying you don’t deserve it, though. You had a rough time of it at my neighbor’s house the other day.”

“Are they magic pearls?”

“Yes and no. It’s clear that they have some power. But what exactly is it? Someday we’ll find out; but for the time being, no one has discovered it. You can keep it at home or have the jeweler mount it for you, whatever suits your taste.”

“I suppose I’ll go for the first option. I never much cared for baubles.”

“A typical sentiment for a barbarian, you scourge of couriers, you!” said Juffin with a laugh.

After this I was left to the winds of fate. Juffin left me in charge and headed for the Glutton Bunba to have dinner with Melifaro.

“Tell him he owes me one!” I called after my boss as he slipped away. “A whole helicopter of humanitarian aid; and it had better be on him!”

“Humanitarian aid? Is that a hot appetizer?” asked Sir Juffin.

“That just means a whole lot of food at the right moment,” I explained.

That night was so uneventful that I was slightly disappointed. Kurush amused me as best he could. The wise bird turned out to be just as much of a night owl as myself. As a kindred spirit, I was obliged to tell the buriwok my life story. But before I did, I made Kurush take a dreadful oath to keep the information confidential and file it under Far More Secret Than Top Secret. The buriwok bore himself like an Indian chieftain, which greatly impressed me.

The following morning began with a visit from Kofa Yox, who arrived before the first light. He, too, often worked at night, since his main job was to listen to the idle talk in Echo’s taverns and glean grains of useful information from the idle chitchat. When the Master Eavesdropper showed up at the House by the Bridge most mornings, he would transform his ever-changing countenance into one appropriate to the harsh realities of life. He would share these intriguing facts, and occasional brilliant ideas, with Sir Juffin Hully over a cup of kamra.

“In the city they’re saying that you’re the King’s illegitimate son, my boy!” Kofa Yox greeted me. “My conclusion is that you received a royal honor on your first day at work. Juffin and I even made a bet. He wagered in your favor, and I against. The old fox earned six crowns on your luck and His Highness Gurig VIII’s sentimental mood. No matter though, I won several handfuls at dice, so at least I have something to pay him with.”

“Where do rumors come from, Sir Kofa?” I was truly curious to know the answer.

“Where don’t they come from? I suppose the majority of rumors are a combination of leaked information and the astounding imaginations of numerous storytellers. And, of course, the hope that things aren’t really as boring as they seem on the surface. I don’t know, Max, I just don’t know . . .”

“People love to talk,” Kurush noted condescendingly.

“Do you know what sorts of things people say about our Most Venerable Head?” Kofa asked. “We start half of those rumors ourselves: the Secret Investigative Force has to inspire superstitious fear in the general populace. Did you know, for example, that Sir Juffin Hully is said to have a ring called the Master of Lies that lets off invisible deadly rays? Anyone who tells a lie in his presence soon dies a painful death. The first version was far more modest. It went something like this: Sir Juffin can tell a liar with the help of a magical object. We owe the story’s terrifying details to the common folk.”

“What else?” I asked.

“That Juffin eats the dried flesh of rebellious Magicians, whom he holds captive in his basement. One should never look directly into his eyes, or one will lose the Spark forever and pine away. Oh, and of course, Juffin takes the Spark for himself. Hmm, what else . . . That he is immortal; that his parents are two ancient Magicians who modeled our boss out of sand and their own saliva; that he had a twin brother whom he ate; that he becomes a shadow at night, and—”

“Gossiping about me again?” asked the hero of urban folklore, as he fell into his armchair.

“I’m just trying to warn the poor young man,” Kofa said and smiled.

“‘Poor young man?’” You should see him when he turns into a vampire! So how was the night, hero?”

“Boring,” I complained. “Kurush and I chatted and rummaged through the gifts that you and Melifaro have received. Terrible.”

“My night was nothing to write home about, either,” said Sir Kofa. “Just a few small house robberies in rich neighborhoods. The thieves took the most valuable possessions; but it’s a case that even Boboota can solve. The boy is right, it’s terrible! Echo, for so long a stronghold of criminal romance, is becoming a provincial swamp.”

“That isn’t terrible, it’s wonderful! It’s terrible when things really start hopping here. Go get some rest, Sir Max. Take advantage of the opportunity.”

So I set off to get some sleep. When I got near the main doors to the street, I heard a roar coming from outside.

“Bull’s tits! You can save that for your own tail end in the latrine!” A powerful bass, sometimes breaking into a shrill falsetto, shook the old walls. “I’ve been in this cesspit for sixty years, and not one single butt—”

I threw the door open. A bearded goon of impressive stature draped in crimson silk, who looked like a cross between a sumo wrestler and an athlete, was hanging over the frightened driver of the official amobiler of the Ministry of Perfect Public Order.

“Silence!” I barked menacingly. “The Most Venerable Head of the Minor Secret Investigative Force has vowed to smite anyone who dares disturb him! And don’t you yell at the coachman; he is in the King’s Service!”

I pulled the aged hooligan off the driver and got into the amobiler. I had wanted to walk home, but now I would have to help the driver out: I couldn’t just leave him there to be tormented by that bully.

“Bull’s tits! So who is this new turd in my cesspit?” It seemed that the gift of speech had returned to the brute.

“You must have had a bit too much to drink, sir.” I was having fun. “Your latrine is at your house; this > is the Ministry of Perfect Public Order of the capital of the Unified Kingdom. Do yourself a favor and think about that, because there are quite a few angry men around here who didn’t arrest anyone last night, and are raring to go. Let’s move it!” I said, addressing the driver, and we rode off to the sound of another volley of improvisations on the topic of latrines.

“Thank you, Sir Max,” said the old coachman, and bowed to me.

“Why did you let him yell at you like that? The guy looks frightening and all, but you work for the King and Sir Juffin Hully. You’re an important person, my friend.”