Chapter Nine

THE NINE-DAY-SPELL

The taxi driver’s car was quite old. A yellow ‘Daimler’ with red leather seats worn almost to holes. The light in the cabin was dimmed. But the city streets were well-lit enough for me to make out the interior of the cabin or the driver in his cap as we drove. Shadow-light, shadow-light, the illumination changed with the frequency of passing under lampposts or neon advertising. The evening city was sparsely populated in this part. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it!

Why was I here? It felt as though I had been transported somewhere else. Just a moment ago, I was with Shani. We had dinner. I went upstairs to my room, and opened the door. And... What then? I found myself in a taxi speeding through the narrow streets of Bridgeport. It seemed to be the port district. But why? How did I end up here? Some kind of inexplicable lapse in memory?

I swallowed hard. My tongue was dry. My forehead and temples ached. It used to happen back home, on Earth, when I spent too long at the computer or after partying until three in the morning.

I leaned over the seat, trying to get a look at the driver's face.

A Ronka! And a huge one! Even for these brutes. I shook his shoulder, demanding:

“Hey, you! Where are you taking me? How did I get here?”

The Ronka turned for a moment, flashing a broad smile with horse-sized teeth:

“I don’t know, master. You told me to drive here. Right before you collapsed. Hit your head hard. Maybe you lost your memory?”

I sighed and slumped back into the seat. Strange. Very strange.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked. This was suspicious. Could he have hit me? Ronkas are notorious for their gangster ways. True, they lack the brains to be a gang leader. Catastrophically lacking, I would say.

“To a restaurant. You instructed me to take you there before you hit your head. You’re expected there. You said it was a very important meeting. A matter of life and death.”

I pondered this new information. What nonsense? Why would I confide in a taxi driver? It’s unlikely I would say such a thing. So, he’s lying, probably. Time to take control of the situation. Unless he disarmed me before I passed out.

I patted my body and felt two revolvers in my underarm holster, of my own making.

Why two? Was I heading to some job? What job? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I need to act.

“Stop the car.”

“But you said to take you to ‘The Singing Sirens’ restaurant. They’re waiting for you there!”

His obstinacy didn’t faze me. I pulled out one of the revolvers, magically bringing it into my hand, and pressed it to the driver’s head.

“I’m not joking, stop the car,” I repeated the command quietly but with a threat.

The taxi driver sighed and glided to the curb. He stopped the taxi abruptly, almost kissing the sidewalk.

I got out, slamming the door behind me. But the driver didn’t think of leaving. Instead, he got out and followed me.

I aimed the gun at him again.

“What do you want? Money? How much did the meter run up?”

The Ronka spread his arms, palms open towards me, apparently trying to show the harmlessness of his intentions.

“Master, please!”

I pulled out my wallet and drew a twenty, ignoring his words.

“Is this enough?” I extended the bill to him.

“Maxim! Maxim Svyatlyakov! Master, I don’t need payment! You must do something!”

There was a strange desperation in his voice. The desperation of a man who is afraid of something. My jaw dropped. No one here knew my real name except Shani. Absolutely no one! It was completely confidential information here. And Shani wasn’t someone who would talk about it to anyone, especially some random taxi drivers.

“There!” With this word, the Ronka hastily pulled out a packet from the inner pocket of his shabby grey jacket, which I casually noted was of poor quality.

I mechanically took the thick packet.

“You must open this at the restaurant. Take a table near the exit. Near the place where they confiscate weapons not more than twenty steps away. This letter was written by you! Before you lost your memory.”

Did I write it? To myself? Why? I began to open the packet, but the Ronka’s desperate cry stopped me:

“Please, master. Don’t open it here! You’ll spoil everything. This is your plan!”

I hesitated:

“Where did you get my name?”

“You told me yourself.”

“Nonsense! More likely, you knocked me out, and some mage rummaged through my brain!”

“But this is your handwriting!” Ronka desperately objected pointing at the packet.

I turned the envelope over and encountered a message written with a chemical pencil:

“You, goddam fool! Don’t open this letter until you’re seated at the restaurant! You’ll ruin all my efforts with your stubbornness. I know how strong this trait is in you. Or rather, in me. Because THIS is written by me to myself. Or to you. Or... never mind!

“This isn’t a set-up. It’s necessary, Maxim. Just act. And trust Tus.”

“Yes, and take care of those creatures. Definitely. I’m counting on you.”

The most foolish letter. But I must admit, the handwriting is mine. Apparently, I am up to something.

“What’s your name?”

“Tus, master.”

“What’s next, Tus?” I asked, slipping the unopened letter into my pocket.

“Whew!” Ronka’s face transformed with that exclamation. Relief, as if he had lifted a thousand tons off his shoulders.

“Get in the car, master. I’ll explain everything. What I can, of course.” I got back in the car.

“I can’t explain everything to you, master. You will go to the restaurant. Take a table near the exit, as I instructed. Have dinner. When you’re done, leave through the exit on the dockside. Another one of your assistants and I will be waiting for you there. You don’t know her now. But she’s a telepathic girl. We’ll bring a boat there to pick you up. Done.”

“A dumb plan,” I noted. “What’s the purpose?”

“It’s your plan, master. I can’t tell you anything more. Oh yes! One more thing. You have a special weapon. It jumps into your hand from twenty-thirty steps away when you say ‘ace’.”

“Really? Never heard of such a trick. It’s unlikely that a high-level mage would enchant a firearm with telekinetic spells,” I said, full of skepticism. “Mages hate firearms. And those who carry them too.”

“Yes, master. But that’s not all. You had only one such revolver. But you bought an identical one and, by disassembling them, made two. Mixing the parts.”

I chuckled.

“A clever idea.”

“Very, master. I already respect you greatly. You shoot like a Lyceum demon. Though I doubt even he could match your skill. But you’re also very cunning. I wouldn’t have thought of that in a thousand years! I even asked you why you didn’t assemble a third revolver the same way. Do you know what you told me?”

“Probably that I don’t have a third hand, and I haven’t learned to shoot with my feet yet.”

Ronka turned back for a second, flashing a grin.

“Exactly, master! That’s what you said! You haven’t changed!”

“Alright. What else?”

“Nothing, master. I can’t say more. You think too well and will guess everything immediately. Then it’ll all fall apart. Assume nothing is happening. Have your dinner. Read what’s in the packet, and come out. We’ll pick you up.”

I nodded, finally accepting the rules of the game. I had gotten myself into something big. That's obvious.

“How many days of my memory have been erased, Tus?”

“The last nine days.”

“Will the memory come back?”

“No, master. It won’t. The spell is irreversible. I'm sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

I rubbed my temples, still aching, probably from the effect of an unusually powerful dark spell. So, a one-way ticket? What a situation! What had I gotten myself into that I agreed to something like this? A time machine set nine days back into my consciousness. What was I so desperately in need of that I agreed to this?

Tus stopped the car quite far away... About three hundred meters from the restaurant, Tus stopped the car. At my questioning look, he just shrugged – it had to be done!

I walked the remaining distance to the most opulent restaurant in Bridgeport. Rumor had it that it was owned by the Hariyans, or more precisely, by the head of the Hariya clan. It was also said to be his headquarters. Zingaru of Hariya spent almost all his time there. According to whispers, he lived there with his entire clan. But frankly, it was none of my concern. It’s best to steer clear of Zingaru. They’re too powerful in Bridgeport. This tiny island of civilization in a world of magic and enchantment is too corrupted to escape the clutches of influential groups: be it the Bridgeport Technical Corporation or the Zingaru Mafia. What was I doing here? Damn it. This wasn’t a place for a financial nobody like me! Maybe some interesting investigation? Lately, I’ve been caught up in trivialities.

The restaurant was constructed like a castle – a castle of glass and reinforced concrete. Dozens of pristine white towers. Docks with boats. Insane, colorful lighting from discharge lamps, is an anachronism in this medieval world.

I walked through the main entrance. Several upscale jewelry shops were on the first floor. The hall was unguarded. Everyone carried weapons here, and they weren’t confiscated. Just at the entrance to the restaurant itself, there was a counter with an armed attendant and a long rack with shelves neatly lined with the arsenal of the guests. I leisurely ascended the stairs leading to the restaurant on the second floor.

“Is there a table that has been reserved for you, master?” the waiter asked me. The maître d’ at the entrance turned out to be the Zingaru. Lion-faced, as I had dubbed them when I first saw them. Encountering Zingaru, unless you’re intentionally seeking them out, is quite rare. They usually don’t wander the streets. And there aren’t many of them, no more than some exotic community in Japan.

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“No. I would prefer a seat closer to the exit, if available.”

The maître d’ didn’t show any emotion. Although he surely ‘downgraded’ me in his internal hierarchy – the seats closer to the exit were the cheapest.

“There will be a double charge for not having a reservation. You understand this, master?”

“Yes. No problem,” I replied with a broad smile. Let him choke on his greed.

“Your weapons,” he said in a hoarse Zingaru accent, devoid of emotion. One could listen to that voice forever. Such a pleasant low-frequency bass from such a vile and terrifying race.

I handed over both revolvers. He stepped aside, letting me inside.

A waiter, summoned with a wave of his hand – impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and blue vest – led me to my table.

I looked around with curiosity. The restaurant was quite large, with exotic trees in big pots at the corners. An orchestra pit and a pool in the center. From there, mermaids emerged. No kidding. Real mermaids. With very melodious voices. Their opera singing was enchanting. Occasionally, inebriated patrons attempted to jump into the pool with them. Quite dangerous, by the way. The sirens had sharp teeth, vampire-like, and were perfectly capable of killing other animals including humans. Yet, they looked like beautiful women, up to the waist. What lay below, I didn’t know. Wasn’t interested. But not a fishtail like mermaids. I don’t think there were any of those here. Though who knows what lies beyond the Wall? It’s a big planet.

Aside from the main hall, the restaurant had many unique booths, arranged around the hall at an elevated level. They were designed so that it was impossible to see from below who was lounging deep in the booths. But it was there that the salt and cream of Bridgeport society gathered. The wealthy and politicians. In some, newspaper owners and other important figures, came to indulge their refined hearing with the siren’s songs and discuss significant political matters. Somewhere there, perhaps, even Zingaru of Hariya himself. They say he’s mad about the sirens’ singing. That’s why he built this restaurant in the first place.

What agreement they had with the restaurant’s owner was anyone’s guess. As was what they fed them.

I’d been here once before. But it seemed I had business to attend to and no time to linger. I quickly placed a rather modest order and opened the letter. The waiter left, his lips curling disdainfully. He obviously didn’t expect a big tip from me. I decided to heck with it.

I tore open a corner of the packet and pulled out, surprisingly, a small book. The kind sold at street kiosks. A pocket edition. Some collection of legends. The cover boasted a bearded face with a crown on its head. Behind him loomed the figure of a charming princess in a pristine white dress, adorned with what seemed like an entire mobile jewelry store. There was also a faceless figure of a mage in a hooded cloak, the shadow of which completely hid his face. Mysterious, like the faces of Siths hidden under hoods in Star Wars.

The title read: 'LEGENDS OF KING NIMODE.'

It’s not that it intrigued me. I wasn’t a fan of local literature. Only non-fiction for me. Travel and the like. Perhaps the presence of magic makes fiction dull in comparison to reality. But since it was necessary, I had to read the book. Or at least skim through it. Probably, there was some hint in it. About my next move.

I began to flip through it. A series of rather dull parables about a cruel conqueror king. Like: how King Nimode cheated death, or how the aforementioned monarch defeated a dragon, and other such nonsense, hardly claiming any authenticity. Nothing special, except maybe for the fact that all these feats and miracles were constantly aided by a mage. Nameless mage. Simply referred to as Nameless one. Despite the fact, that this mage developed all these plots and spells aiding the king, a definite fascist and sadist, he received no laurels as a reward. It seemed like selfless assistance to the king was some kind of hobby for him. This aspect made the story seem even more unrealistic.

So, I was flipping through this nonsense without much interest, when suddenly, it hit me like a sledgehammer. The parable was titled: “THE NINE-DAY CURSE.”

I began to read. Even the hushed silence in the hall, caused by the sirens arriving for their evening performance, left me utterly indifferent. The orchestra clamored with their instruments, settling into their seats. The audience watched with sighs and growing tension as the silvery bodies of the sirens entered through a special entrance connected to the sea, gliding into the depths of the pool, while I read about Nimode, his genius unnamed mage, and the innocent princess. The essence of the story was about King Nimode, a typical cruel conqueror, battling on all fronts, subjugating one country after another. His mage, for reasons unknown, actively helped him. Logically, the mage was so powerful he probably could have managed without the king, but logic is usually absent in such tales. Anyway, they conquered another kingdom after a bloody siege. Killed the entire royal family except for the princess. Nimode fell hopelessly in love with her. He couldn’t just take her, being under the spell of this infatuation. The princess, of course, hated him as the murderer of her family, and certainly couldn’t reciprocate his feelings. So, the king suffered for three days, unable to control himself, until he called his mage for a private talk and fell before him, begging to be freed from his love obsession or to persuade the princess. Naturally, the mage spouted the usual – love is stronger than magic and other such clichés – but that time agreed to think about it. And he came up with the 'Nine-Day Curse!' Essentially, the princess was thrown back in time by nine days, to when her family was alive, kept in the dark while the vile monarch tried to win her heart with sweet words and gallant courtship. They lied to the princess, saying she lost her memory in a hunting accident and was visiting the tyrant monarch for an engagement, as her father had sent her. The spell worked, but the princess was in no hurry to fall for the suitor, whom she had heard terrible things about, and asked to be taken back to her father. Whenever the princess somehow learned the truth or became too suspicious, they repeated the spell. Moving her back in time, over and over, until it all ended in tragedy.

In the end, the princess discovered she had been deceived in such a way and took her own life. The monarch went mad with love. Doubtful, of course, such monsters don’t go mad over such nonsense...

“Reading about King Nimode?”

I jolted internally at the unexpected interruption. I looked up. Standing near my table was a plump little man with a greasy, reddish face. He was very well-dressed: in a white suit with a hat, a lilac tie, and a white lute flower – a local blossom – on his jacket lapel.

He smiled, cheekily peering into my book with what he thought was heartfelt simplicity.

“Yeah,” I replied coldly. I didn’t like this guy. And I immediately guessed why. ‘I understand people; I am exceptionally unique because nature endowed me with the gift of sensor telepathy.’ That was the thought process written all over his face. What did he want from me?

“May I sit?” he asked, ignoring my unfriendly tone. “I see you’re not touching your modest meal anyway.”

“Sit down,” I nodded towards the chair opposite of my table.

He sat down and fell silent for a moment, apparently waiting for me to continue the conversation, but when I didn’t, he sighed.

“My name is Kmarri. Sometimes they call me Fat Kmarri. You guessed?” he asked.

“Yes, I also figured out you’re fat,” I said mockingly.

He beamed, not at all offended by my flat and admittedly rather crude joke.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean...”

He paused significantly, raising his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue. I sighed. The guy was annoying.

“Of course. You’re the empathic telepath responsible for the security of this establishment. Why are you bothering me? Am I planning to kill someone here?”

“No, not at all! I expect nothing like that from you, master! I’ve been observing you for the past half an hour. You’re acting suspiciously. You came to the restaurant, aren’t eating, not listening to the singing. Just reading some silly fairy tales about a king who never even existed to begin with. Besides, I sense some confusion in your mind, as if you don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

I shrugged and told the truth sincerely, knowing it’s impossible to deceive a sensor telepath:

“Indeed, I don’t know what I need to do. I have a meeting scheduled here, but my acquaintance is late.”

Kmarri sighed again and stood up.

“Yes, you’re not lying. You’re waiting for something or someone. Definitely. May I take my leave?”

“Please do. I must say, I feel a great relief at your departure,” I noted, eliciting his approving smile. The more truth you tell; the better telepaths treat you. The less interesting they find you. But they do enjoy messing with those who try to hide their thoughts. Very much so.

Fat Kmarri began to walk away, and I lowered my gaze back to the nearly finished booklet. And I found what I was looking for. On the penultimate page, there was a message written in tiny font between the lines:

“Read and think quickly. The Zingaru of Hariya wants you to kill the politician guarded by the telepath. They’ve also cursed you with an absolute curse and took Shani and Pars as hostages. You have three seconds. Don’t delay! Call your enchanted weapons! Say: Ace!”

I read the last part almost in a whisper, but that was enough. Almost instinctively, I spread my arms, catching the two .45 caliber revolvers that had inexplicably flown to me. They have not just flown, as Tus stated. They had teleported into my hands!

Time began to crawl, thick and slow. The screams hushed. Telepath Kmarri froze as if someone had suddenly plunged a knife into his back. Adrenaline pumped in massive doses into my bloodstream. My brain switched to ‘combat’ mode. I began to shoot the unsuspecting guards, catching them completely off guard.

Four fell before the audience in the hall had even grasped what was happening. Then screams and panic ensued. And all the while, the sea sirens kept singing in falsetto, so high-pitched they could easily outdo even the singer Vitas renowned for his high-pitched voice. Our gunfire, seemed, was no match for silencing them. Perhaps they even thought this was how humans normally behaved, from time to time. It was almost comical – a shootout with musical accompaniment. Like a movie. A very chaotic and fast-paced movie.

I raced, leaping over tables, chairs, and the restaurant’s patrons, knocking over dishes, heading for the staircase that led upstairs – to the booths. Two Ronka guards rushed out from the adjoining rooms. I took them down before they could even make sense of what was happening. And on the run, I changed my plan; the staircase was too far. I couldn’t afford to lose even half a second. I tossed the revolvers high up, jumped onto a table at the edge, pushed off, and using a classic Jackie Chan move, ‘flew’ to the second floor. And again, I called my weapons, “Ace!” The revolvers teleported back into my hands.

I probably wouldn’t have had the time to find the right booth in that wild and insane attack and likely would have met with failure in this mad plan. But fortunately, the right booth revealed itself. Guards burst out of the ‘main booth’ and immediately began shooting at me. Or, at least, they tried. I was so elated that I simply pumped large-caliber bullets into their heads while on the move, bullets that carry devastating energy at such close range. Two of them managed to fire back and nearly hit me. Their bullets whistled just centimeters above my head. But the guards were already being thrown backward and downward, like wooden dolls. One fell right onto the sirens’ heads, disrupting their tune. The sirens agitatedly churned the water in the pool with their tails, and out of the corner of my eye, I finally saw what they had below their waists. Why were they so slow to react? Didn’t expect it? They had let their guard down! Who would be such an idiot to attack in the Zingaru’s den?

I halted my breakneck pace at the door of the booth. The door was closed. But that was just a mockery of them. I smashed the lock, and burst into the room like a special forces assault squad, only to freeze at the scene before me:

I had expected anything – people cowering under tables and chairs. Zingaru pressed against the wall, trying to melt into it. But no. These were sitting at the table of their luxurious booth with a view of the pool below, utterly calm. Three Zingaru and two humans. The humans had grim and bewildered faces. The Zingaru, complete stone-cold serenity. Or so it seemed to me, as I couldn’t discern their alien, to us humans, emotions. Surely, they had them. They weren’t robots, after all. Living beings are made of organic matter.

I decided to play along in the same vein. Indeed, why should I be any worse than them? I slammed the door shut, and propped it with a chair. Then pulled up another chair for myself and sat down, positioned to watch both them and the blocked entrance.

“Hello! I’m Max Light. Private detective, at your service,” I declared cheerfully, keenly observing their reactions.

The eyes of both humans widened in surprise. In one of the Zingaru, I think a facial muscle twitched. I couldn’t distinguish who was who. Perhaps Zingaru Hara – merely a title for the chief Zingaru, not a name – sat in the middle. Maybe on the left, or the right. Who knows. It wasn’t important. What mattered was getting Shani back. Only that.

“How did you fool the telepaths?” asked a rather elderly man who I recognized after a moment as the head of the Bridgeport Technical Corporation. A well-known politician. His face often appeared in newspapers and on campaign posters. Harrison Bray was his name. And as he claimed, he was a direct descendant of the engineers. Allegedly, his surname was inherited from them. That was a lie. As an Earthling, I knew this very well. Local women can’t conceive with an Earthman. Some minor but significant genetic differences in that respect.

“A secret,” I replied, boldly examining his eyes. “Now be quiet, I need to speak with the hosts.”

I turned to the Hariyans.

“Where is Shani?”

They didn’t answer. I shot the one sitting on the left in the forehead. The gunshot was deafening. A .45 caliber in a closed room is no joke. New screams erupted outside. The Zingaru sitting on the left reflexively covered his face with his hands. The humans recoiled against the wall. The second person, considerably younger, even pressed himself back against the wall with force, as if trying to merge with it and avoid a deadly situation, just as I had imagined before invading their lair.

I aimed the gun at the second one from the right and repeated my question:

“Where are Shani and Pars?”

The latter was just an unfamiliar name to me. I didn’t remember any Pars. But since he was a hostage, he too needed to be freed. The note in the book insisted on it.

The mouth of the second Zingaru twitched slightly, but he said nothing.

“You’re insane!” exclaimed Harrison, pointing to the one sitting in the middle. “They’ll kill us all. He can’t speak unless Tana Muris allows it. He’s the head Zingaru here.”

I shifted my revolver to the central figure:

“Fine. If I kill him, can he then? The dead don’t count as leaders, right? Wanna move up the ranks, pal?”

“They’re in the basement,” the lower-ranked Zingaru finally said, deciding I was completely mad.

Tana Muris said nothing at all. Speaking with some unknown human person was beneath his dignity. As he was fearing him.

Harrison began to grasp the situation. His face started to redden. Or maybe he was just pretending. Politicians are usually good actors no matter on which planet they live:

“What does this mean, Muris? Are you betraying your friends in the government? Why are you kidnapping people?”

“She’s not human, she’s a Shainarian fairy,” the younger Zingaru hastily replied. Muris seemed to have retreated into unconsciousness. Or it could very well be that he didn’t personally deal with such ‘trivialities’ as abductions and thus was not informed.

“It doesn’t matter. If I’m killed here, your community will be expelled from Bridgeport! Why did you terrorize this man?”

The Zingaru didn’t answer. I did it for him.

“They wanted me to kill a politician, guarded by telepaths. Possibly you. They took my landlord hostage, and threatened her life. I had no choice. In addition, they cursed me with an absolute curse, as if that wasn’t enough!”

“Terrible! This is... terrible! Why didn’t you come to me? It could have been avoided!”

Internally, I found it amusing how this guy was trying to distance himself from Zingaru. However, they weren’t my concern.

“Drop it,” I interrupted Harrison’s stream of sympathetic accusations. “I don’t have time for this. Order them to bring Shani here. Then you’ll give us a corridor to the pier. We’ll all get on a boat and take a little trip somewhere. It’s the old good game of hostages, terrorists, and a plane with money.”

“But you’re not planning to take me hostage, are you? I’m not involved in this!”

“Why not? It significantly increases the chances of success for the operation. Don’t you think?”

Harrison fell silent. Such ‘villainy’ from me – a fellow man and tribesman – was apparently unexpected. I smirked. I know you politicians all too well! You’d sell your mother. This is the only way to deal with you...