Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [151]
The albino seemed almost amused, perhaps because, as he looked into her eyes, he detected beauty behind the veil, an unexpected intelligence he had not encountered since he had left Imrryr’s burning ruins behind him. How he had longed to hear the swift wit of his own people, the eloquent argument, the careless insults. All that and more had been denied him for too long. To himself he had become sluggish, almost as dull as the conniving princelings and self-important merchants to whom he sold his sword. Now, there was something in the music of her speech, something in the lilt of irony colouring each phrase she uttered, that spoke to his own sleeping intellect. “You know me too well, lady. Clearly, my fate is in your hands, for you’re able to anticipate my every attitude and response. I have good reason not to grant you a favour, yet you still come to ask one, so either you are prescient or I am already your servant.”
“I would serve you, sir,” she said gently. Her half-hidden lips curved in a narrow smile. She shrugged. “And, in so doing, serve myself.”
“I thought my curiosity atrophied,” he answered. “My imagination a petrified knot. Here you pick at threads to bring it back to life. This loosening is unlikely to be pleasant. Should I fear you?” He lifted a dented pewter cup to his lips and tasted the remains of his wine. “You are a witch, perhaps? Do you seek to revive the dead? I am not sure …”
“I am not sure, either,” she told him. “Will you trust me enough to come with me to my house?”
“I regret madam, I am only lately bereaved—”
“I’m no sensation-seeker, sir, but an honest woman with an honest ambition. I do not tempt you with the pleasures of the flesh, but of the soul. Something which might engage you for a while, even ease your mind a little. I can more readily convince you of this if you come to my house. I live there alone, save for servants. You may bring your sword, if you wish. Indeed, if you have fellows, bring them also. Thus, I offer you every advantage.”
The albino rose slowly from his bench and placed the empty goblet carefully on the well-worn wood. His own smile reflected hers. He bowed. “Lead on, madam.” And he followed her through a crowd which parted like corn before the reaper and he left a momentary silence behind him.
CHAPTER TWO
The Material
She had brought him to the depth of the city’s oldest quarter, where artists of every skill, she told him, were licensed to work unhindered by landlord or, save in the gravest cases, the law. This ancient sanctuary was created by time-honoured tradition and the granting of certain guarantees by the clerics whose great university had once been the centre of the settlement. These guarantees had been strengthened during the reign of the great King Alo’ofd, an accomplished player of the nine-stringed murmerlan, who loved all the arts and struggled with a desire to throw off the burdens of his office and become a musician. King Alo’ofd’s decrees had been law for the past millennium and his successors had never dared challenge them.
“Thus, this quarter harbours not only artists of great talent,” she told him, “but many who have only the minimum of talent. Enough to allow them to live according to our ancient freedoms. Sadly, sir, there is as much forgery practised here, of every kind, as there is originality.”
“Yours is not the only such quarter.” He spoke absently, his eyes inspecting the colourful paintings, sculptures and manuscripts displayed on every side. They were of varied quality, but only a few showed genuine inspiration and beauty. Yet the accomplishment was generally higher than Elric had usually observed in the Young Kingdoms. “Even in Melniboné we had these districts. Two of my cousins, for instance, were calligraphers. Another composed for the flute.”
“I have heard