Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [13]
“Wise advice, I would guess.” Elric rose in his bed and put his feet upon the flagging. Already the liquid’s strength was ebbing. “Perhaps you would outline the nature of the task you have for me, sir?” He reached for the flask but it was withdrawn into Raafi as-Keeme’s sleeve.
“By all means, sir,” said the newcomer, “when we have discussed a little of your background. You steal more than jewels, the boy says. Souls, I hear.”
Elric felt some alarm and looked suspiciously at the man whose expression remained bland. “In a manner of speaking …”
“Good. My master wishes to make use of your services. If you’re successful you’ll have a cask of this elixir to carry you back to the Young Kingdoms or anywhere else you desire to go.”
“You are offering me my life, sir,” said Elric slowly, “and I am willing to pay only so much for that.”
“Ah, sir, you have a streak of the merchant’s bartering instinct I see. I am sure a good bargain can be struck. Will you come with me now to a certain place?”
Smiling, Elric took Stormbringer in his two hands and flung himself back across the bed, his shoulders against the wall and the source of the sunlight. Placing the sword upon his lap he waved his hand in mockery of lordly hospitality. “Would you not prefer to stay and sample what I have to offer, Sir Raafi as-Keeme?”
The richly clad man shook his head deliberately. “I think not. You have doubtless become used to this stink and to the stink of your own body, but I can assure you it is not pleasant to one who is unfamiliar with it.”
Elric laughed as he accepted this. He rose to his feet, hooking his scabbard to his belt and slipping the murmuring runesword into the black leather. “Then lead on, sir. I must admit I’m curious to discover what considerable risks I am to take that would make one of your own thieves refuse the kind of rewards a lord of Quarzhasaat can offer.”
And in his mind he had already made a bargain: that he would not allow his life to slip away so easily a second time. He owed that much, he had decided, to Cymoril.
CHAPTER TWO
“The Pearl at the Heart of the World”
In a room through which mellow sunlight slanted in dusty bands from a massive grille set deep into the ornately painted roof of a palace called Goshasiz whose complicated architecture was stained by something more sinister than time, Lord Gho Fhaazi entertained his guest to further draughts of the mysterious elixir and food which, in Quarzhasaat, was at least as valuable as the furnishings.
Bathed and wearing fresh robes, Elric possessed a new vitality, the dark blues and greens of his silks emphasizing the whiteness of his skin and long, fine hair. The scabbarded runesword leaned against the carved arm of his chair and he was prepared to draw it and use it should this audience prove an elaborate trap.
Lord Gho Fhaazi was modishly coiffed and clad. His black hair and beard were teased into symmetrical ringlets, the long moustachios were waxed and pointed, the heavy brows bleached blond above pale green eyes and a skin artificially whitened until it resembled Elric’s own. The lips were painted a vivid red. He sat at the far end of a table which slanted down subtly towards his guest, his back to the light so that he almost resembled a magistrate sitting in judgment on a felon.
Elric recognized the deliberateness of the arrangement and was not put out by it. Lord Gho was still relatively young, in his early thirties, and had a pleasant, slightly high-pitched voice. He waved plump fingers at the plates of figs and dates in mint leaves, of honeyed locusts, which lay between them, pushed the silver flask of elixir in Elric’s direction with an awkward display of hospitality, his movements revealing that he performed tasks he would usually have reserved for his servants.
“My dear fellow. More. Have more.” He was unsure of Elric, almost wary of him,