Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [33]
“Look, gentlemen,” says the Rose, letting her horse break into a bit of a canter, “there’s a settlement ahead. Can it be an inn, by any happy chance?”
“It would seem an appropriate place for one, madam. They have a similar establishment at Land’s End, in my last situation …” says Wheldrake, cheering.
The sky was overclouded now, dark and brooding, and the sun shone only upon the far-off lake, while from the chasm beside them came unpleasant booming noises, sounds like wailing human voices, savage and greedy. And all three joked nervously about this change in the landscape’s mood and said how much they missed the easy boredom of the river and the wheat and would gladly return to it.
The unpainted, ramshackle collection of buildings—a two-storey house with crooked gables surrounded by about a dozen half-ruined outhouses—did, indeed, sport a sign—a crow’s carcass nailed to a board. Presumably the indecipherable lettering gave a name to the place.
“ ‘The Putrefied Crow’ is good enough for me,” says Wheldrake, seemingly in more need of this hostelry than the other two. “A place for pirate meetings and sinister executions. What think you?”
“I’m bound to agree.” The Rose nods her pale red curls. “I would not choose to visit it, if there were any choice at all, but you’ll note there’s none. Let’s see, at least, what information we can gain.”
In the shadow of that causeway, on the edge of that abyss, the three unlikely companions gave their horses somewhat reluctantly up to an ostler of dirty, though genial, appearance, and stepped inside “the Putrefied Crow,” to look with surprise upon the six burly men and women who were already enjoying such hospitality as the place offered.
“Greetings to you, gentlemen. My lady.” One of them doffed a hat so trimmed in feathers, ribbons, jewels and other finery its outline was completely lost. All these folk were festooned in lace, velvet, satin, in the most vivid array, with caps and hats and helmets of every fanciful style, their dark curls oiled to mingle with the blue-black beards of the men or fall upon the olive shoulders of the women. All were armed to the teeth and clearly ready to address any argument with steel. “Have you traveled far?”
“Far enough for a day,” said Elric, stripping off his gloves and cloak and taking them up to the fire. “And you, my friends. Do you come far?”
“Why,” says one of the women, “we are the Companions of the Endless Way. We are travelers, always. Pledged to it. We follow the road. We are the free auxiliaries of the Gypsy Nation. Pure-bred Romans of the Southern Desert, with ancestors who traveled the world before there were nations of any sort!”
“Then I’m delighted to meet you, madam!” Wheldrake shook his hat into the fire, causing it to hiss and spit. “For it’s the Gypsy Nation we seek.”
“The Gypsy Nation requires no seeking,” said the tallest man, in red and white velvet. “The gypsies will always come to you. All you must do is wait. Put a sign upon your door and wait. The season is near-ended. Soon begin the seasons of our passing. Then you shall see the crossing of the Treaty Bridge, by which we keep to our old trail, though the land has long since fallen away.”
“The bridge is yours? And the road?” Wheldrake was puzzled. “Can gypsies own such things and still be gypsies?”
“I smell walkerspew!” One of the women rose, a threatening fist upon her dagger’s hilt. “I smell the droppings of a professor-bird. There’s nonsense in the air and the place for nonsense isn’t here.”
It was Elric who broke that specific tension, by moving easily between the two. “We are come to parley and perhaps to trade,” he said, for he could think of no other excuse they might accept.
“Trade?” This caused a general grinning and muttering amongst the gypsies. “Well, gentlemen, everyone’s welcome in the Gypsy Nation. Everyone who has the taste for wandering.”
“You’ll take us