Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [40]
“And should they not wish to perform such duty?” asked Elric quietly.
“Ah, well, sir, I can see that you are indeed a philosopher. Things so abstruse are beyond me, I fear, sir. But there are people in Trollon who would be only too pleased to debate such abstractions.” He patted Elric amiably upon the shoulder. “Indeed, I can think of more than one friend of mine who will gladly welcome you.”
“A prosperous place, this Trollon.” The Rose looked through the gaps in the buildings to where similar villages moved at a similar pace.
“Well, we like to preserve certain standards, madam. I will arrange for your receipts.”
“I do not think we plan to trade our horses here,” said Elric. “We need to travel on as soon as possible.”
“And travel you shall, sir. Travel, after all, is in our blood. But we must put your horses to work. Or, sir,” he uttered a little snigger, “we shall not be traveling far at all, eh?”
Again a glance from the Rose stilled Elric’s retort. But he was growing increasingly impatient as he thought of his dead father and the threat which hung over them both.
“We are only too happy to accept your hospitality,” said the Rose diplomatically. “Are we the only people to join Trollon in recent days?”
“Did you have friends come ahead of you, lady?”
“Three sisters, perhaps?” suggested Wheldrake.
“Three sisters?” He shook his head. “I should have known if I had seen them, sir. But I will send enquiry of our neighbouring villages. Meanwhile, if you are hungry, I shall be only too happy to loan you a few credits. We have some wonderful restaurants in Trollon.”
It was clear that there was little poverty in Trollon. The paint was fresh and the glass sparkling, while the streets were neat and clean as anything Elric had ever seen.
“It seems all the squalor and hardship is kept out of sight below,” whispered Wheldrake. “I shall be glad to leave this place, Prince Elric.”
“We might find ourselves in difficulties when we decide to end our stay.” The Rose was careful not to be overheard. “Do they plan to make slaves of us, like those poor wretches down there?”
“I would guess they have no immediate intention of sending us to their marching boards,” said Elric, “but I have no doubt they want us for our muscles and our horses as much as for our company. I do not intend to remain long in this place if I cannot quickly discover some clue to what I seek. I have little time.” His old arrogance was returning. His old impatience.
He tried to quell them, as signs of the disease which had led to his present dilemma. He hated his own blood, his sorcery, his reliance upon his runesword, or other extraordinary means of sustenance. And when Amarine Goodool brought them into the village square (complete with shops and public buildings and houses of evident age) to meet a committee of welcome, Elric was less than warm, though he knew that lies, hypocrisy and deception were the order of the moment. His attempt to smile did not bring any answering gaiety.
“Gweetings, gweetings,” cried an apparition in green, with a little pointed beard and a hat threatening to engulf his entire head and half his body. “On behalf of the Twollon weins-men and -morts, may we vawda yoah eeks with joy. Or, in the common speech, you must considah us all, now, your bwothahs and sistahs. My name is Filigwip Nant and I wun the theatwicals …” Whereupon he proceeded to introduce a miscellaneous group of people with odd-sounding names, peculiar accents and unnatural complexions whose appearance seemed to fill Wheldrake with horrified recognition. “It could be the Putney Fine Arts Society,” he murmured, “or worse, the Surbiton Poetasters—I have been a reluctant guest of them both, and many more. Ilkley, as I recall, was the worst …” and he lapsed into his own gloomy contemplations as, with a smile no more convincing