Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [12]
By morning the fever was gone and Elric knew he was but a short hour or two from the end. He opened misted eyes to see the shaft of sunlight, soft and golden now, no longer glaring directly in as it had the previous day, but reflected from the glittering walls of the palace beside which his hovel had been built.
Feeling something suddenly cool upon his cracked lips he jerked his head away and tried to reach for his sword, for he feared that steel was being positioned against him, perhaps to cut his throat.
“Stormbringer …”
His voice was feeble and his hand was too weak to leave his side, let alone grip his murmuring blade. He coughed and realized that liquid was being dripped into his mouth. It was not the filthy stuff he had bought with his emerald but something fresh and clean. He drank, trying hard to focus his eyes. Immediately before him was an ornamental silver flask, a golden, soft hand, an arm clothed in exquisitely delicate brocade, a humorous face which he did not recognize. He coughed again. The liquid was more than ordinary water. Had the boy found some sympathetic apothecary? The potion was like one of his own sustaining distillations. He drew a ragged, grateful breath and stared in wary curiosity at the man who had resurrected him, however briefly. Smiling, his temporary saviour moved with studied elegance in his heavy, unseasonable robes.
“Good morning to you, Sir Thief. I trust I’m not insulting you. I gather you’re a citizen of Nadsokor where all kinds of robbery are practised with pride?”
Elric, conscious of the delicacy of his situation, saw fit not to contradict him. The albino prince nodded slowly. His bones still ached.
The tall, clean-shaven man slipped a stopper into his flask. “The boy Anigh tells me you have a sword to sell?”
“Perhaps.” Certain now that his recovery was only temporary Elric continued to exercise caution. “Though I would guess ‘tis the kind of purchase most would regret making …”
“But your sword is not representative of your main trade, eh? You have lost your crooked staff, no doubt. Sold for water?” A knowing expression.
Elric chose to humour the man. He allowed himself to hope for life again. The liquid had revived him enough to bring back his wits, together with a proportion of his usual strength. “Aye,” he said, appraising his visitor. “Maybe.”
“So ho? What? Do you advertize your own incompetence? Is this the way of the Nadsokor Thieves’ Company? Thou art a subtler felon than thy guise suggests, eh?” This last was delivered in the same canting tongue Anigh had used on the previous day.
Now Elric realized that this wealthy person had formed an opinion of his status and powers which, while at odds with any actuality, could provide him with a means of escape from his immediate predicament. Elric grew more alert. “You’d buy my services, is that it? My special prowess? That of myself and possibly my sword?”
The man affected carelessness. “If you like.” But it was clear he suppressed some urgency. “I have been told to inform you that the Blood Moon must soon burn over the Bronze Tent.”
“I see.” Elric pretended to be impressed by what to him was pure gibberish. “Then we must move swiftly, I suppose.”
“So my master believes. The words mean nothing to me, but they have significance for you. I was told to offer you a second draft if you appeared to respond positively to that knowledge. Here.” And he held out, smiling more broadly, the silver flask, which Elric accepted, drank sparingly and feeling still more strength return, his aches gradually dissipating.
“Your master would commission a thief? What does he wish stolen that the thieves of Quarzhasaat cannot steal for him?”
“Aha, sir, you affect a literal-mindedness I cannot believe in now.” He took back the flask. “I am Raafi as-Keeme and I serve a great man of this empire. He has, I believe, a commission for