Elder Isles 2: The Green Pearl (45 page)

Hockshank glanced at him from the side of his golden eyes; halfling blood ran in Hockshank’s veins. His hair was like fur the colour of decaying straw; he stood with a slight forward stoop; his feet were covered with gray-yellow fur and instead of toenails he had small black claws. Hockshank said: “I seem to recognize you from past custom, but I have no head for names, and in any case, should you be seeking accommodation, there is none to be had.”

“I am Shimrod, from Trilda. In the past, by dint of careful thought, or again, by housing certain of your guests in the stable, we have discovered a chamber for my use and your own profit, and both of us have been the happier men for the effort.”

Hockshank never paused in his work. “Shimrod, I recall you of old, but tonight the stable is already full. If you put down a purse of gold, I still could not find you a room.”

“A small purse, or a large purse?”

“Tonight either will buy you a bench in the common room, but nothing better. Custom presses in on all sides; already I have made some difficult compromises.”

Hockshank pointed his knife. “Notice at the table yonder the three sturdy matrons of imposing mien?”

Shimrod turned to look. “Their dignity is impressive.”

“Just so. They are Sacred Virgins at the Temple of Dis, in Dahaut. I have assigned them to a dormitory of six beds along with the three gentlemen yonder with the grape-leaves in their hair. I hope that they may reconcile their philosophical differences without disturbing others in the inn.”

“What of the lady sitting alone in the corner?”

Hockshank glanced across the room. “She is Melancthe the demiwitch and occupies the apartments behind the Door of the Two Green Lizards.”

“Perhaps you might induce her to share her apartments with me.”

Hockshank paused in his carving. “If only all were so deftly done, I would be there myself, and you could share the top of the oven with Dame Hockshank.”

Shimrod turned away and went to a table at the side of the room, where he dined on venison, with currants and barley.

Melancthe at last chose to notice his presence. Crossing the room, she slipped into the chair opposite him. In a light voice she asked: “I have always considered you a very paragon of gallantry! Am I so wrong in my judgment?”

“In most respects: yes. How is my gallantry at fault?”

“Since it was I who called you here, surely you might have joined me at my table.”

Shimrod nodded. “What you say is valid, in the abstract. Still, in the past I have found you unpredictable, and sometimes pungent in your recriminations; it is one of your little quirks. I hesitated to make a public demonstration of our acquaintance and perhaps cause you embarrassment. I therefore waited upon your signal.”

“Good modest self-effacing Shimrod! I was right after all! Your chivalry is irreproachable!”

“Thank you,” said Shimrod. “Furthermore, I wanted to dine before you told me something to destroy my appetite.”

“Now are you replete?”

“I have dined well, though the venison was somewhat tough, and meanwhile you decided what you wished to tell me.”

Melancthe smiled down at the flower she held in her fingers. “Perhaps I have nothing whatever to tell you.”

“Why then was I summoned by so explicit a signal? Unless at this moment thieves are ransacking Trilda.”

Melancthe’s smile, as she twirled the flower in her fingers, became vague. “It might be that I merely wanted to be seen in company with the famous Shimrod, to enhance my reputation.”

“Bah! Not a person here knows me, except Hockshank.”

Melancthe looked around the room. “For a fact, no one seems to be noticing. The reason is simple: your modesty. Tamurello’s dramatic guises are for the most part self-defeating. You are more clever; you conceal yourself in a form which allows you great advantage.”

Shimrod looked blankly across the table. “Indeed? How so?”

Melancthe inspected Shimrod through half-closed eyes with her head tilted sidewise. “You simulate the universal man with total conviction! Your hair is hacked short across your face peasant-style, and is even the colour of well-used stable-straw. The features of your face are bony and gaunt, but you relieve their coarseness by a simpleton’s drollery which reassures everyone. You wear what appears to be a peasant’s smock, and as you dine, elbows high, you display the appetite of one who has toiled long hours among the turnips. All these aspects make for a great advantage, as well you realize! No adversary would ever associate what purports to be a gaunt, blinking loon for the dangerous and debonair Shimrod! It is a cunning disguise.”

“Thank you!” said Shimrod. “Your compliments are hard to come by; I accept them all with pleasure… . Boy! Bring more wine!”

Melancthe smiled down at her flower. “Has Hockshank found you a chamber for the night?”

“He has offered me a bench here in the common room. Something better may still come to light.”

“Who knows?” murmured Melancthe.

The boy brought wine in a gray faience decanter decorated with blue and green birds, and a pair of squat faience goblets. Shimrod poured both goblets full. “Now then: you have called me here; you have characterized me as a boor and a loon; you have distracted me from my work. Was there any other purpose in your signal?”

Melancthe shrugged. Tonight she wore a dark brown robe, in which she seemed childishly slight. “I might have called you because I was lonely.”

Shimrod raised high his eyebrows. “Among all these quaint folk? They are your familiars and the songsters who join you out on the rocks!”

“Truly, Shimrod, I wanted to see you that I might ask your opinion of my flower.” She displayed the blossom; the petals, black, purple, ice-blue and carmine-red, seemed as fresh now as if the flower had just been plucked. “Smell! The odor is unique.”

Shimrod sniffed and looked askance at the flower. “Certainly it is vivid, and its petals are nicely shaped. I have never seen another like it.”

“And the perfume?”

“I find it a trifle too heady. I am reminded of …” Shimrod paused and rubbed his chin.

“Of what?”

“A strange picture came into my mind: a scene of flowers at war and a great carnage. Flowers with green arms and legs lay dead or mortally wounded; others tall in pride and cruelty cut down at those who were doomed, and so smelled the battlefield.”

“That is a complex and subtle way to describe a scent.”

“Perhaps so. Where did you come by the flower?”

“At the booth of the trader Zuck, who will tell me nothing as to its source.”

Shimrod drank from the goblet. “We have discussed my disguise and your flower; what other topics interest you?”

Melancthe gave her head a rueful shake. “When first we met you lacked all suspicion. Now you dart cynical glances over your wine-cup.”

“I am older,” said Shimrod. “Is that not the ordinary course of life? When I first knew myself as Shimrod, I felt an exuberance I cannot describe! Murgen despaired of me, and would not so much as hear my voice. I cared nothing; I frolicked like a young goat, and travelled the land with a new adventure at every turning.”

“Aha, tonight your secrets are emerging. Do they include a spouse from this time of rashness, along with a bevy of sons and daughters?”

Shimrod laughed. “There is definitely no spouse. As for children, who knows the truth, if all were sorted out? I enjoyed a vagabond’s life; I was as careless as a bird, and only too susceptible to the charms of winsome maidens, be they fairy, falloy or human. If I fathered children, how many or how they fare today is unknown to me. Sometimes I wonder but in those days I never gave thought to such things. All is past; tonight here sits Shimrod, sedate and crafty, in his peasant disguise. Meanwhile, how goes your life?”

Melancthe sighed. “Tamurello is back from Mount Khambaste and the air is immediately rife with intrigue and rumor, which might or might not interest you.”

“I am willing to listen.”

Melancthe studied the flower as if seeing it for the first time. “I pay little heed. Occasionally I hear a name I recognize; then I turn my head to listen. For instance, are you acquainted with the magician Visbhume?”

“Not by such a name. What of this Visbhume; why is he notable?”

“For nothing in particular. Apparently he was at one time apprentice to a certain Hippolito, now dead.”

“I have heard of Hippolito. He lived in the north of Dahaut.”

“Visbhume approached Tamurello with some mad scheme, and Tamurello sent him packing.” And Melancthe added primly: “Visbhume lacks all principle.”

“How so?”

“Oh… this way and that. Lacking Tamurello’s support he declared himself ready to serve King Casmir of Lyonesse. They think to attack King Aillas of Troicinet.”

Shimrod tried to feign disinterest. “And so: what are his intentions?”

“There was talk of using the Princess Glyneth in their plans… . You appear to be stunned by this little rumor.”

“Truly? I admit to affection for the Princess Glyneth. I would do my best to ward her from harm.”

Melancthe leaned back in her chair and thoughtfully sipped wine from her goblet. Presently she spoke, in a soft even voice, though a subtle ear might have detected nuances of mockery and annoyance. “Amazing how chaste little virgins like Glyneth can excite such wild extravagances of gallantry, while other persons of equal worth, perhaps blemished by a goiter or a pock-mark or two, can lie suffering in the ditch, eliciting little if any notice.”

Shimrod uttered a melancholy laugh. “The fact is real! The explanation derives from daydreams and ideal concepts far more powerful than justice, truth and mercy all combined. But not in the case of Glyneth. She spills over with kindness; and she would never ignore those lying in the ditch. She is always merry; she is clean and fresh as the sunlight; she brings pleasure to the world by her sheer existence.”

Melancthe seemed taken aback by the fervor of Shimrod’s remarks. “In Shimrod she has a dedicated champion. I was unaware of your devotion.”

“I know her well, and I love her as I would my own daughter.”

Melancthe rose to her feet, mouth drooping. “I had forgotten; the subject bores me.”

Shimrod also rose to his feet. “Melancthe, are you retiring for the night?”

“Yes; the common room grows noisy. You may join me if you like.”

“Lacking all better alternative, I accept.” Shimrod took Melancthe’s arm and the two retired to the apartment behind the Door of the Two Green Lizards.

Shimrod put light to the candles in the candelabra on the table. Melancthe, standing in the center of the room, fixed the flower into her hair, watching Shimrod all the while. She let fall her brown robe and stood nude in the candlelight. “Shimrod: am I not beautiful?”

“Beyond all doubt; beyond all question! But put aside the flower; it detracts from you.”

Melancthe pouted. “But I like it! Shimrod, come kiss me.”

“Put aside the flower! I find it repellent.”

“As you like.” Melancthe tossed the flower to the table. “Now will you kiss me?”

“I will do better than that,” said Shimrod, and so passed the first hours of the night.

At midnight, as the two lay pressed close together, Shimrod said: “I have an uneasy feeling that you were about to tell me something more of the wizard Visbhume.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Then why will you not tell me?”

“Because I feared that you would become agitated and perform some instant and unnecessary act.”

“What sort of act might that be?”

“There is nothing you can do now; Visbhume has already gone to Watershade and departed, for one of his private bolt-holes: a place known as Tanjecterly.”

A cold chill came over Shimrod. “And he took Glyneth with him?”

“That is the rumor. But you can do nothing to prevent it.

The deed is done.”

“Why did Visbhume do this?”

“He worked at Casmir’s behest. Also, if Tamurello is to be believed, such projects are dear to Visbhume’s heart.”

“He must know that he has just put a short term to his life,” said Shimrod.

Melancthe held him close. “I like you best when you are like this.”

Shimrod thrust her away. “You should have told me at once, if you meant to tell me at all.”

“Ah Shimrod! You must remember my mixed feelings for you. I am at ease and even happy with you, but soon I find that I want to hurt you and cause you every conceivable pain.”

“You are lucky that I lack similar yearnings, even though you provoke them.” Shimrod dressed himself.

“It is exactly as I feared,” said Melancthe. “The impractical Shimrod hurries off to Tanjecterly and there rescues his dainty Glyneth.”

“Where is Tanjecterly? How does one get there?”

“The route is detailed in the rarest of all books: one which Visbhume stole from Hippolito.”

“And the name of the book?”

“Twitten’s Almanac, or some such thing… . Shimrod! Are you truly going?”

The only response was the sound of the door closing behind Shimrod. Melancthe shrugged and presently fell asleep.

In the morning Melancthe went in great anticipation to the booth of Zuck the trader, where she was disappointed anew.

“I have spoken to the falloy,” said Zuck. “There will be no more flowers at this fair; the plants yielded only the single blossom. There will be more in the fall, as the buds are already forming, and the falloy says that you must bring gold, as silver is not enough for wares so heady.”

Melancthe spoke a soft sound under her breath. “Zuck, I will come in the autumn, and you must reserve the blooms for me alone! Is it agreed?”

“So long as you pay in gold.”

“There will be no difficulty here.”

RETURNING TO TRILDA, Shimrod went at once to the workroom. In the Pantological Index he discovered a reference to Tanjecterly’

The source of information in regard to Tanjecterfy is derived from, the exceedingly not and somewhat suspect ‘Twitten’s Almanac’. Tanjecterfy is described as one of a set, or cycle, of ten superimposed worlds, which, includes our own. Interconnections are difficult to find and evanescent in nature.

According to Twitten, Tanjecterfy, similar in certain ordinary respects to our world, is notaofy different in others. The inhabitants are said to be various and include even tribes of human-seeming folk, and others in which the similarity is at Best cursory. The environment of Tanjecterfy is described as noxious, and indeed lethal to those persons who would travel here without making adaptations. Again, Tanjectafy may be no more than one of Twitten’s idle fables; his caprices and pranks are well documented elsewhere. On the other hand, the ‘Almanac’ is said to be a work of great complexity and inner coherence, which would seem to lend the volume credence.