“Depressiac!” Daphne said, with alarm looking at the cat, which, swinging on the drapes, was thoughtfully examining Methodius. “I warn you! If you, like last time, allow Mr. Buslaev to pet you and at the same time don’t scratch his face, I’ll have to wash you with bleach. Moreover, both inside and out.” Tukhlomon, inflating his cheeks and, simultaneously slapping them with both hands – a sound “puff!” came out – guffawed fawningly, appraising the scope of the fantasy of the guard of Light. “I don’t need your cat!” Methodius said, offended. “Wonderful. Because I was serious about the bleach. I don’t want your microbes on my cat,” said Daph.
“Ah, what imagination! Uncle Tukhlomon is having fun from head to toe! If you want to realize your dreams, Light, Tukhlomon will climb with pleasure into a washer so that you could start it! Can pour bleach into my ears! Can even spank with a shoe! Let’s agree on a payment! Besides your wings, I don’t need anything!” the agent started to babble cautiously. Daph looked at him with loathing. Meanwhile, Tukhlomon, having jumped to his feet, was already leaping around Methodius, exactly like a baboon out of the zoo. “My usual compliments to the future sovereign! Have you decided to wipe your feet on me? Or a fist to the forehead? It’s soft, won’t hurt your fist! Or the cheek. I’ll puff up the cheek!”
“Stop!” Methodius said. Tukhlomon was not a bit offended. “Well no, then no. It’s never too late for one good person to hit another. And indeed I, must admit, regard the matter with favour. I recently came from Ligul to Ares and to you all. Literally dashed here in a minute: one leg here, the other already there. Hurried with the speed of light!” “Consider that I’m already fainting from joy! What next?” Julitta muttered. “What do you mean ‘what next’? I came from Ligul!” Opening his eyes wide like a picture of bewilderment, Tukhlomon repeated.
“I already heard this. What does the hunchback want from us?” the witch said. Tukhlomon looked at her with mocking reproach. “What hunchback-eh is he? Yes, his stature is small, stooping a little, but not this. Is it really nice to reproach him for this? Is it really moral-eh? And where’s the heart of kindne-ss, where’s the patien-ce? Tut-tut! I have to tell Ligul how you appreciate him here! Oh, I have to!” “You mean to squeal?” Daph refined in an icy voice. “What bad words you use, girl! Squeal, fie! Not squeal but inform in the name of triumph of law-eh and order-eh!” Quick to take offence, the agent corrected.
“Tukhlomony, my little dead fish, cut the sound! Else, I’ll force a woollen sock down your throat! You know me!” Julitta frowned. “It won’t help. Indeed, I’ve swallowed many socks in my century! Nowadays everyone has rich fantasies! Here even Daph, our darling guard, wants the cat to scratch Methy, the sovereign of Gloom! And fill the cat up to its eyes with bleach! And now a sock! Here a moth eats it and doesn’t choke!” the agent brushed it off. “So, does it mean you’ve eaten socks? And how are they, tasty?” Daph asked with curiosity. “Not tasty, but possible to consume!” the agent willingly answered.
“And now the main thing. The purpose of the visit, so to speak. I have to deliver an invitation! Ligul summons Ares, Methodius, and Julitta to England. To William the Conqueror, head of the British division of Gloom. William gathers his own to an exclusive party on the occasion of the anniversary of the Norman invasion. There will be the most noble bigwigs ever existed!” “When is it?” “Tomorrow.”
“Of course, I’m not summoned?” Daph mockingly asked. Tukhlomon shrugged his shoulders, expressing regret with his whole appearance. “Not supposed to, my beautiful. Gloom assembles there, and though you’re a fugitive, you’re Light nevertheless! No good! Here if you let me have your wings, then no problem, this very second! Will you, huh?” Daphne silently reached for the flute, forcing the agent to end the propaganda instantly.
“Clear. What time?” Julitta asked. “Midnight tomorrow. Will you deliver the invitation to Ares yourself, my sweet, or will you consent to give me a kick to attend to him? Under the fieriest eye-eh?” Tukhlomon asked maliciously. “I’ll do it. Off limits for you there. Stay here and wait.” Julitta disappeared into the office, closing the door behind her.
In a couple of minutes, Ares came out of the office and stopped in the middle of reception – stout and breathing heavily. A deep scar lined his swarthy face, dividing it into two unequal halves. “Since when does Ligul send Tukhlomon to summon us to William? Does William not have messengers?” Ares asked with displeasure. “Indeed it so happened. The two of them summoned together. Communicating. When I turned up, William was Ligul’s guest. They were sitting, steaming in lava. They wanted to send a messenger, but I volunteered. Messengers, I think, are also forced labour! Must feel sorry for them out of the kindness of one’s heart,” answered Tukhlomon, bowing. He spoke humbly and flatteringly; however, his alert blinking eyes were literally frozen on the bridge of Ares’ nose: this way they would catch any indiscretion.
The swordsman stretched out his hand and, taking Tukhlomon by the plasticine ear, pulled him towards himself. If Tukhlomon had not gotten on his toes, his ear would have remained in Ares’ fingers. “So you feel sorry? Oh, don’t lie! Perhaps you’re sniffing around for Ligul? You want to be both here and there – to get on well everywhere?” Ares asked with disgust. “Indeed no!” Tukhlomon was insulted. “I come to you with my whole soul… Sigh! For what?” “Parchments handed in, stamped, prolonging the stay? Swell. Now get out of here! Julitta, my sword!” “Why the sword? No need for a sword! As I understand, it’s such an elegant hint-eh that it’s time for me to depart? Uncle Tukhlomon precisely intended to say that he’s in a great hurry! Anything for Ligul? No? Well, don’t, don’t! I was simply asking…” the agent began to bustle. Looking back in a cowardly manner, Tukhlomon hurriedly dragged himself to the doors, pasting on the slightly torn ear on the way.
“Stop!” Ares unexpectedly ordered him. The agent stopped, moving slowly in alarm on fragile plasticine legs. “Come back!” Tukhlomon sadly returned. “Agent, recall: did Ligul tell you about the small chests? Only before you start lying now, think, is it worthwhile for this to be your last lie,” Ares said threateningly. Tukhlomon clearly became ill at ease. He unhurriedly reached for a red kerchief covered in polka dots, unfolded it, and blotted his forehead in the same efficient movement with which a hostess sweeps crumb off the kitchen table. “Eh-eh… well… There was something like that. I sorta heard,” the agent mumbled indistinctly. “Clever boy! If you were to lie, you would be leaving for Tartarus. I can make it so that for ten centuries you won’t be able to move into a single most pitiful plasticine body. And no Ligul will stop me.” “This I know-eh. You can-eh,” despondently nodded Tukhlomon.
“Excellent. If you’re so all-knowing, then another question: have they found the chest yet? Who has it?” Tukhlomon opened wide his loyal eyes. “I cannot know-eh! This is the secret, hidden by Gloom-eh!” “Really? How annoying! Julitta, did you bring the sword?” Tukhlomon began to tremble. He already considered that after saying A, he had to say B. Otherwise in a spell it was easily possible to turn up in Tartarus forever. “No need for the sword! I remember-eh. There are all of two chests, in which it can turn out to be. The chests are precisely twins. A moronoid by the name of Anton Ogurtsov has the first. This we already sniffed out.” “Does the moronoid suspect what’s in it?” “How is it possible? Moronoids are complete fools. How would he know about the secret bottom?” Tukhlomon giggled. Ares slightly inclined his head and quietly repeated “Anton Ogurtsov.” Nothing changed on his face. Methodius was ready to swear that, on barely hearing the name, he already knew everything about this moronoid. From the first cry to the last sigh.
“And who has the second?” Ares quickly asked. “With the second one it’s more comple-x. It constantly changes position in the moronoid world. We’re totally knocked off our feet! Better if the hiding-place turns out to be in Ogurtsov’s chest!” the agent stated. Ares looked inquisitively and menacingly at him. “You’re not lying?” “No. That is, in general, it happens, I lie-eh. Can’t do without it. But now – no-eh,” Tukhlomon began to tremble.
The swordsman of Gloom encouragingly slapped him on the cheek.