“How did he die?”
“There were a number of causes. He had been ailing since childhood. A weak heart, delicate digestion, nerves. And about ten years ago, he lost the Spark.”
“Sinning Magicians! Do you mean that?”
“Absolutely. But he had amazing tenacity of spirit. For you know, of course, that people without the Spark seldom hold out longer than a year. Sir Olli was told that if he remained immobile and refused to take food he would live another five years or so, provided there was a good Seer in attendance on him. For ten years, he didn’t leave his room. He fasted, hired a dozen mad but powerful old crones who guarded his shadow in voluntary confinement with him all those years . . . As you see, Olli established a kind of record. But the old crones did their spells at their own homes, so in Olli’s bedchamber nothing out of the ordinary went on.”
Sir Juffin didn’t neglect to send me a Silent Message: To lose the Spark means to lose the ability to protect oneself from whatever might happen. Even ordinary food may be poisonous for the unlucky person, and a common cold can kill him in a few hours. And that the crones guarded his shadow . . . well, it’s quite complicated. I’ll explain later!
“Old Sir Makluk-Olli led the quietest of lives. A year before his death he gave one sign of life when he threw a washbowl at Maddi, who was waiting on him that day. The water he had drawn was a tad warmer than it ought to have been. I gave Maddi compensation for the blow, but even without the money he wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss. Sir Olli made a pitiful spectacle. The servants never made any more mistakes like that. As for Sir Olli, he didn’t get up to any mischief again, and nothing unusual, it would seem, ever occurred . . .”
Juffin frowned.
“Don’t hide anything from me, old man. I admire your loyalty to the house, but I’m the one who helped Sir Makluk hush up the unpleasantness half a year ago, when that young fellow from Gazhin cut his own throat. So do give me some balm to ease my aching heart: did that happen in the bedchamber?”
Govins nodded.
If you think that Govins’ confession solves the case, you’re mistaken , Juffin said soundlessly, with a wink in my direction. It only confuses the matter, though, further down the line . . . This all smacks of magic from the time of the Ancient Orders, but the blasted magic gauge, a hole in the heavens above it . . . Then again, that’s what makes life worth living: you never know what to expect!
He turned to Govins.
“I want to see: the person who first discovered the poor blighter today, the person who discovered the bloody fountain last time, the crones hired by Sir Olli, and a mug of your excellent kamra for everyone present. Oh, and just to be sure, ask the unhappy victim of domestic tyranny to come, as well. The one who was wounded by the washbowl.”
Govins nodded. A middle-aged man in gray with a proud bearing appeared at the door carrying a tray of mugs. This was Mr. Maddi himself, victim of the erstwhile fury of Sir Makluk-Olli; and, as if by design, the primary witness of today’s crime. That’s true organizational genius! Take note, gentlemen—one person entered the room, and three of five requests had already been carried out!
Maddi was burning with embarrassment, but good bearing never served a man amiss. Eyes cast down, he reported without undue circumlocutions that this evening he had entered the room first, looked out the window at the sunset, then looked down to see something one couldn’t miss. He quickly realized that it was best not to touch it and instead to send for Mr. Govins. Which he did.
“I asked Shuvish to stay in the corridor. He’s still too young to see the likes of that,” Maddi said, hesitating, as though he might have overstepped his bounds.
“You didn’t hear any noise?”
“The bedchamber was soundproofed, Sir Olli ordered that it be made so. What I mean is, even if you were screaming fit to burst, no one would hear. Nor would you hear any noise, naturally.”
“Fine. That all makes sense. But what was this fight you had with Sir Olli? They say he really let you have it.”
“No fight, Sir Venerable Head. A sick man doesn’t want to die; he’s unhappy about everything. He always explained to me how he wanted the water for his bath. But then the next day he wanted the water to be another way altogether. Every time I went and did as he ordered, but one day Sir Olli got mad and threw the washbowl at me. And you should’ve seen the man throw! He never should have died,” Maddi let out a low whistle of admiration.
I was sure that if he had been a basketball coach, he would have tried to recruit Sir Olli onto his team without a second thought.
“The bowl hit me straight in the face, the edge gouging my eyebrow. It started to bleed, and like an imbecile, I tried to turn away, and crashed into the mirror with all my might. Luckily, it was a sturdy thing. Old craftsmanship! I was soaking wet, my face covered in blood, the mirror all bloodied up, too. Sir Olli panicked, he thought he had killed me. Raised quite a commotion. And when I washed my face, it turned out that it was nothing at all—a scratch half a finger’s length long. It didn’t even leave a scar! It never entered my head to complain—you can’t let yourself get insulted by an old man. He didn’t even have the Spark anymore; he was all but dead already—and I’m still strong and kicking. I can grin and bear it.”
“Fine, fine, my friend. That’s all we needed to know. Don’t worry—you did just what you were supposed to do.”
Maddi was dismissed, and went off to contemplate his dreams—and simple and innocent dreams they were, of that I’m certain. Sir Juffin glanced at Govins questioningly.
“The crones have been sent for. I hope they’ll all be found. They have the same sort of nomadic profession that you have. For the time being, I may be able to assist you myself, since the death of Nattis, that unfortunate young man, took place right under my nose.”
“That’s news to me! How did you manage that?”
“Such was the order of things. The boy was my ward. You see, Nattis wasn’t a servant in the house. An ordinary servant, that is. Two years ago he came to Echo from Gazhin. He arrived with a note from his grandfather, one of my oldest friends. The old man wrote that his grandson was an orphan, and was still wet behind the ears. The kind of knowledge he could pick up in Gazhin wasn’t much use here in Echo. But the boy was quick-witted—that was plain as day. My friend asked me to help his grandson in any way I could. Sir Makluk promised to give him the highest recommendation. He even intended to set him up with someone at the Court. You understand, it’s a real privilege to be offered a place at Court! But in the interim, I taught him to the best of my abilities. Believe me, I had just as much reason to praise him when he was still alive. Occasionally we gave him a Day of Freedom from Some Chores. On those days he wasn’t free to go off on his own, as he was on ordinary Days of Freedom, but stayed home. He was relieved of his duties, however, and was expected to live the life of a gentleman.”
At this point, I couldn’t repress a sigh of sympathy. Poor guy!
Govins interpreted my sigh in his own way, shook his head sadly, and continued: “What I mean is that if you wish to go far in life, you need know not only how to work, but also how to give orders. On those days, Nattis got up in the morning, called for a servant, bathed and groomed himself, dressed like a gentleman, ate like a gentleman, read the newspaper. Then he would go for a walk on the Right Bank, and there he also did his best to look like a young gentleman of the capital rather than a young upstart from Gazhin. And on those days he was permitted to use Sir Olli’s bedchamber—the poor bloke had just died when Nattis arrived and began his apprenticeship. The fellow would sleep in that bedroom, and in the morning would call for a servant—and the servant was me! The idea was not only to put on a charade, but to be able to observe all his shortcomings and mistakes, and so to correct them. In short, on those days I was inseparable from the lad, and this was both instructive and pleasant . . . So on that fateful morning, I answered his summons, as usual. I brought in the bath water. Of course, this was only a ceremonial ritual—there is a bathroom attached to the bedchamber. But a real gentleman begins his morning by demanding his rightful portion of warm water for a bath!”