Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [39]
“Persevere, Master Wheldrake,” the Rose was grim, “for we must find our sisters and it’s my guess a village that will admit them will also have something in common with a village that will welcome us.”
It was poor logic, reflected the albino, but logic, at least, of a sort, and he had nothing better to offer.
Five more villages inspected them and five more times they were rejected until, out of a village that seemed smaller and perhaps a little better-kept than most of the others, sauntered a tall man whose somewhat gaunt appearance was tempered by a pair of amused blue eyes, his attention to costume suggesting a pleasure in life belied by his features. “Good evening to you, gentlefolk,” he said, his voice musical and a little affected, “I am Amarine Goodool. You have something interesting about you. Are you artists, by any chance? Or perhaps story-tellers? Or you have, possibly, some affecting story of your own? As you see, we grow a trifle bored in Trollon.”
“I am Wheldrake, the poet.” The little coxcomb stepped forward without reference to his companions. “And I have written verse for kings, queens and commoners. I have published verse, moreover, in more than one century and have pursued the vocation of poet in more than one incarnation. I have a facility with metre, sir, which all envy—peers and my betters, sir, as a matter of fact. And I also have a certain gift for spontaneous versification, of sorts. In Trollon, elegant and slow, dwelled Amarine Goodool, famed for his costume and his wit. To friends so valuable was he, they even saved his—”
“And I am called the Rose and travel upon a quest for vengeance. My journey has taken me through more than one realm.”
“Aha!” said Amarine Goodool. “You have followed the megaflow! You have broken down the walls between the realms! You have crossed the invisible barriers of the multiverse! And you, sir? You, my pale friend? What skills have you?”
“At home, in my own quiet town, I had some reputation as a conjuror and philosopher,” said Elric meekly.
“Well, well, sir, but you would not be with this company if you had not something to offer. Your philosophy, perhaps, is of an unusual sort?”
“Fairly conventional, sir, I would say.”
“Nonetheless, sir. Nonetheless. You have a horse. Please enter. And be welcome to Trollon. I think it very likely you will find yourselves amongst fellow spirits here. We are all a little odd in Trollon!” And he raised his head in a friendly bray.
Now he led them through the skirts of the village, into a musky darkness lit by dim lamps so that first it was possible to perceive only the vaguest of shapes. It was as if they had entered a vast stable, with row upon row of stalls disappearing into the distance. Elric smelled horses and human sweat and as they passed up a central aisle he could look down the rows and see the glistening backs of men, women and adolescents, leaning hard against poles reaching to their chests and pushing the huge edifice forward, inch by inch. Elsewhere horses were harnessed in ranks, also, trudging on heavy hoofs as they hauled at the thick ropes attached to the roof beams.
“Leave your horses with the lad,” said Amarine Goodool, indicating a ragged youth who held out his hand for a small coin and grinned with pleasure at the value of what he received. “You’ll be given receipts and so on. You’ll be at ease for at least a couple of seasons to be sure. Or, if you are otherwise successful, for ever. Like myself. Of course,” he lowered his tone as he swung up a wooden stairway, “there are other responsibilities one must accept.”
The long staircase led them, spiral by spiral, to the surface until they clambered out into a nondescript narrow sidestreet from whose open windows people looked idly down without breaking their conversation. It was a picture of such ordinariness that it contrasted all the more with the scenes below.
“Are those people down there slaves, sir?” Wheldrake had to know.
“Slaves! By no means! They are