The Stranger's Magic: The Labyrinths of Echo: Book Three (15 page)

Meanwhile, the ceremony had reached a lull: everyone was waiting for my commands and I had no idea what to occupy them with. For starters, I decided to wrap up the part where I deal with my
longsuffering people: “As you know, business forces me to stay here in Echo. I am happy that Fairiba and Barxa will be with you.”

I looked at my newly appointed deputies. They stood with arms akimbo, seeming almost taller now. Their companions also looked happy: despite fears to the contrary, the new boss had confirmed the
supreme status of his predecessors—everyone do a jig! Good, good. Hooray for the wise me.

“I want you to make these people happy,” I said to my chosen ones. “If you encounter an obstacle while doing so, do not hesitate to inform me by sending a messenger, since you
are averse to Silent Speech. I promise to answer you promptly. How long does a good rider need to reach Echo from the Barren Lands?”

“Forty days, if misfortunes do not follow him on his way,” said Barxa Bachoy.

“Not too bad,” I said. I was happy. It seemed that I wouldn’t be burdened by my royal obligations too often.

“We have brought gifts for you, Lord Fanghaxra,” said Fairiba. “Our customs demand that we give them to you alone, but if you wish to share your joy with your guests, I dare
not impede.”

“No need to break the customs. Alone it will be. That makes it even more interesting. But now I need to be with my guests. Take my gifts to the archive: it’s a large room to the
right down the hallway. Tell my servants to show you the way and bring you some food and refreshments. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The nomads picked up their bags and were off. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a good dozen servants following them. The generosity of His Majesty King Gurig, who had lent me this band of
loafers, knew no bounds, and his notion about my needs was in acute conflict with reality.

Today, however, it was all for the better. I was happy with my own idea of sending my exalted subjects away to another room, giving them their own “children’s table” with
cookies and candy so they didn’t get under the feet of the “grown-ups”—the grandees of the provinces of the Unified Kingdom and foreign ambassadors. I suspected that it
wouldn’t be easy for them to find common ground and interact with one another. Besides, I doubted that I myself would find much common ground with these important gentlemen—but then
again, there wasn’t much I could do about that.

When the last bright headband disappeared behind the doors, I stood up and looked around, trying to find my colleagues. Sir Juffin Hully was already walking toward me.

“Good job,” he said. “Lean and mean. His Majesty King Gurig will have to take a few lessons in court etiquette from you. And he considers himself to be so democratic. He
should’ve seen you crouching on the threshold. Now that’s what I call humility.”

“Glad you liked it. But did you see what these guys did to my hand?” I showed the letters on my left palm to Juffin.

“Yes, now your name is the only thing it bears, Max,” said Juffin. “Hey, look! It’s the ancient alphabet of Xonxona. It was used back in the days when the entire
population on our blessed landmass was as nomadic as your subjects are now. It turns out that there are still keepers of ancient knowledge among the people of Xenxa. Funny.”

“Is it?” I said. “So, is this writing not going to come off?”

“I’m afraid not. But it’s all for the better. One couldn’t wish for a better protective amulet than his own True Name written in a forgotten language. You’re in
luck, my boy.”

“Right, but . . . I don’t think this inscription can be my True Name. I’m sure this name belongs to the true king of Xenxa, the poor child who once got lost in the steppes, the
last of the Fanghaxras. It has nothing to do with me.”

“If it weren’t your name, it couldn’t possibly be imprinted on your paw. Plus, what makes you so sure you’re not ‘real’? I happen to think that getting lost
in the steppes is just the thing you would do,” said the boss.

“Oh, come on, Juffin! You know better than anybody where I come from. If there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that I never got lost in the steppes.”

“If I were you, I’d try not to think I was too sure about anything,” said Juffin, winking at me. “Anything but this one fact: that your True Name is exactly what that
esteemed old gentleman said it was.”

“Well, I’ll be,” I said, laughing. “Ayot Mo-a . . . Ma-o . . . There’s no way I’m going to remember it.”

“You don’t have to remember it, nor should you try to say it out loud. It’s a mystery, Max, remember? Back in the good old days, you would have had to kill that wise old man
personally so that the secret of your True Name belonged to you and you alone. It’s only in the past millennium that people have become so frivolous about such things. If you don’t
remember your name, don’t lose sleep over it. When Eternity wants to get acquainted with you, your palm will always be at its service. Eternity, you know, is a highly educated and
sophisticated lady. Forgotten languages are her hobby. But I doubt you’ll need your True Name under any other circumstances. ‘Sir Max’ will do just fine.”

“Never a dull moment,” I muttered. “Just what I need—an introduction to Ms. Eternity. Maybe I should try it out on the ambassadors first. Do you think these gentlemen
will live through it if I thrust my mystical palm under their noses and skip the small talk?”

“They’ll get over anything as long as they can get out of here as soon as possible,” said Juffin. “There’s no catering at official ceremonies such as your
coronation, and no one wants to hang around here with an empty stomach until midnight.”

“So how come they’re not running away?” I said. “By the way, I’m already feeling a little peckish myself.”

“You can eat—you’re home. Okay, here’s a good piece of advice for you: go ahead and quickly make the acquaintance of each one of them. These gentlemen have come here with
a single purpose in mind: to get introduced to the new king. As soon as they have spoken their inimitable names to you, their missions will be over. Then we can all have dinner here, provided
you’ll grant me and Melifaro an invitation.”

“Dream on. You’ll empty my coffers in no time.” I made a face that expressed an extreme form of stinginess, bordering on insanity.

“Sometimes you look too much like Grand Magician Nuflin,” said Juffin, laughing. “Now I get it: you’re not a sovereign of Fanghaxra, you’re Moni Mak’s
illegitimate grandson. What if I told you that all the expenses in this house are on the tab of His Majesty Gurig VIII?”

“Really? Oh, but that’s wonderful,” I said, smiling a hospitable smile. “How can I pass up the opportunity of sharing my humble royal meal with my friends!”

“How quaint,” said Juffin. “Then go ahead and announce to these nice folks that you’re dying to learn their names, and make it quick. My belly is as empty as the Corridor
between Worlds.”

“You mean the Xumgat?” I said, sighing. And then I decided it was indeed time to face my guests.

A little man was already standing behind me. His head barely reached my waist. The midget’s attire was an elegant compromise between the fashion of the Capital and the garments of my
people. Underneath his classical black looxi, he wore wide pants that reached down to his knees. His tiny torso was clad in chain mail, and on his head he wore a beautiful shawl, the ends of which
dangled down and swept the floors.

“I see you as though in a waking dream. I am happy to say my name: Rixxiri Gachillo, Count Vook. I’m sorry we never became neighbors, Sir Max. They say you’re one of a
kind,” said the gnome in a low voice.

“That’s what they say about you, too,” I said, staring at my new acquaintance.

I had no idea that the infamous Count Dark Sack, the former mentor of the late King Gurig VII and one of the most odious personages in the Unified Kingdom, would be so compact.

“And it is true,” said Count Vook. “But let us not despair prematurely. Perhaps we will have the opportunity to entertain each other in the future. Your subjects are a very
unreliable people. Well, good night to you, fellow countryman. I have to admit that I’ve grown weary of this reception: tons of people and nothing to drink.”

“Good night,” I said, unable to take my eyes off this fellow.

Count Vook nodded, turned around, and headed toward the exit. Watching the retreat of his haughty figure, I found myself wondering whether he was a midget, or whether the rest of us were all
just deformed giants.

Then a rather motley crowd surrounded me. First Sir Rep Kibat and Count Kayga Atalo Vulx, ambassadors from Irrashi, one of the few countries that has its own language, introduced themselves to
me. I had managed to learn a few Irrashian words in my days as a habitué of the Irrashi Coat of Arms Inn, so I conquered the hearts of the ambassadors once and for all by saying,
“Xokota!”—a traditional Irrashian greeting.

Tol Goyoxvi, an amicable representative of Tulan, smiled at me. I remembered how Sir Manga Melifaro reminisced about that distant country with great tenderness. Then there was Verlago Gabayoxi,
Prince Gorr, the ambassador from the County Xotta, which bordered with my land. This whole business of my coronation was in fact merely a pretext for annexing that province. He was dressed almost
exactly like my unsophisticated subjects but looked as serious as a professor’s widow. Next there was Marquis Niiro Uvilguk Van Baunbax from Loxri, wearing something that looked like an
extravagant warm evening gown. Then Sir Burik Pepezo from Tarun appeared before me. He was the head of the artists’ guild of that distant land. A good half of its inhabitants were artists, so
his position, however humble it may have seemed at first glance, gave him power over almost the entire adult population. If I understood correctly, he had come to the Unified Kingdom with the sole
purpose of collecting some guild tax from the numerous Tarunian artists who decorated our lives for a living. The ambassador from the distant Kumon Caliphate, Sir Maniva Umonary—who, as
chance would have it, was passing through Echo and had dropped by my house—shocked me to the core. He was lying on something that looked like a giant divan. Almost a dozen servants moved the
“divan” whenever the man wished to change his location. He looked much more kingly that I did. His obese body reeked of the vulgar luxury of the Arabian Nights.

A tanned pirate’s face distracted me from my contemplation of the blissful luxuriance of the Kumonian. My first impression had not deceived me: it was the ambassador from Ukumbia, Sir
Chekimba the Beaten Horn. I found out that Beaten Horn wasn’t his surname or nickname; it was the name of his ship. It turned out that the right to replace an ancestral name with the name of
a ship was a privilege of the eldest and most honored citizens of that pirate state.

Then I was swarmed by the honored citizens of Tasher: Sir Zunakki Chuga Tlax and Sir Chumochi Droxa Vivvi. My head was spinning from the unfamiliar faces and names, but I managed to remember
about my friend Anday, who had been dreaming of moving to Tasher, and introduced him to the Tasherian ambassadors—just in case.

Finally my eyes alighted upon a familiar sight: brightly colored tights, short jackets, and oversized fur hats. These attributes belonged to Mr. Ciceric, Mr. Maklasufis, and Mr. Mikusiris, the
happy citizens of beautiful Isamon, the very same three people poor Melifaro had once thrown out the window of his living room. They attempted (rather poorly) to pretend we’d never met. They
announced their titles to me. Mr. Ciceric was the head of the fur industry tycoons of Isamon, Mr. Maklasufis was Mr. Ciceric’s personal Wise Mentor, and Mr. Mikusiris was the Grand Specialist
in questions of culture for the Unified Kingdom, something of a technical expert. I had no idea what these Isamonian furriers were doing at my reception—my royal reception—but at the
end of the day, I didn’t mind. Their silly colorful tights livened up the atmosphere.

I looked around for Melifaro. I thought it would be an interesting experiment for the Isamonians and him to come face to face and look one another in the eye, just to see what would happen.
Melifaro was standing nearby in the company of two pleasant-looking gentlemen whose appearance didn’t betray anything exotic at first glance. Only when one of them flung back his burdensome
hood—a sartorial detail characteristic of the winter looxi of Shimarian highlanders, who still considered our turbans to be too frivolous a form of headgear—did I open my mouth in
amazement. And my amazement was justified. The intricate and colorful structure on the stranger’s head was truly a masterpiece of the art of hairdressing.