Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [31]
When the Rose had retired, saying she had not slept for some thirty-six hours, Wheldrake was full of enthusiasm for her. “She’s as womanly a woman, sir, as I’ve ever seen. What a magnificent woman. A Juno in the flesh! A Diana!”
“I know nothing of your local divinities,” said Elric gently, but he agreed with Wheldrake that they had met an exceptional individual that day. He had begun to speculate on this peculiar linking of fathers and sons, quasi-brothers and quasi-sisters. He wondered if he did not sense the presence of the Balance in this—or perhaps, more likely, the influence of the Lords of Chaos or of Law, for it had become obvious of late that the Dukes of Entropy and the Princes of Constancy were about to engage in a conflict of more than ordinary ferocity. Which went further to explaining the urgency that was in the air—the urgency his father had attempted to express, though dead and without his soul. Was there, in this slow-woven pattern that seemed to form about him, some reflection of a greater, cosmic configuration? And, for a second, he had a glimmering of the vastness of the multiverse, its complexity and variousness, its realities and its still-to-be-realized dreams; possibilities without end—wonders and horrors, beauty and ugliness—limitless and indefinable, full of the ultimate in everything.
And when the grey-haired man came back, a little better dressed, a little neater in his toilet, Elric asked him why they did not fear direct attack from the so-called Gypsy Nation.
“Oh, they have their own rules about such things, I understand. There is a status quo, you know. Not that it makes your circumstances any more fortunate …”
“You parley with them?”
“In a sense, sir. We have treaties and so forth. It is not Agnesh-Val we fear for, but those who would come to trade with us …” And again he made apologetic pantomime. “The gypsies have their ways, you know. Strange to us, and I would not serve them directly, I think, but we must see the positive as well as the negative side of their power.”
“And they have their freedom, I suppose,” said Wheldrake. “It is the great theme of The Romany Rye.”
“Perhaps, sir.” But their host seemed a trifle doubtful. “I am not aware of what you speak—a play?”
“An account, sir, of the joys of the open road.”
“Ah, then it would be of gypsy origin. We do not buy their books, I fear. Now, gentlemen, I do not know if you would take advantage of what we offer distressed travelers by way of credit and cost-price equipment. If you have no money, we will take kind. Perhaps to be sure one of those books, if you like, Master Wheldrake, for a horse.”
“A book for a horse, sir! Well, sir!”
“Two horses? I regret I have no notion of the market value. Book-reading is not a great habit among us. Perhaps we should feel ashamed, but we prefer the passive pleasures of the evening arena.”
“As well as the horses, perhaps a few days’ provisions?” suggested Elric.
“If that seems fair to you, sir.”
“My books,” pronounced Wheldrake through gritted teeth, his nose seeming more pointed than ever, “are my—my self, sir. They are my identity. I am their protector. Besides, though through the oddity of some telepathy we all enjoy, we can understand language, we cannot read it. Did you know that, sir? The ability does not extend to that. Logical, in one sense, I suppose. No, sir, I will not part with a page!”
But when Elric had pointed out that Wheldrake had already explained that one of the volumes was in a language even he did not know and suggested that their lives might depend upon acquiring horses and throwing in with the Rose, who already had her horse, Wheldrake at last consented to part with the Omar Khayyam he had hoped one day to read.
So Elric, Wheldrake and the Rose all three rode back down the white road beside the river, back