Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [58]
“Dark haired, pale beauties, with such wonderful eyes—not unlike your own in shape, sir, though theirs were of such a dense blue as to be almost black. And exquisite clothes and traps! There’s not a woman in Ulshinir who did not turn out to get a glimpse of them. They took ship yesterday and their destination is the subject of considerable dispute amongst us, as you can imagine.” She smiled tolerantly at her own weakness. “Legend says they’re people from beyond our Heavy Sea. Were you a friend, perhaps? Or a relative?”
“They have a small thing that belonged to my father, that’s all,” said Elric casually. “They inadvertently took it with them. I doubt they know they have it! They had a boat, you say?”
“From the harbour yonder.” She pointed through the window to the grey water enclosed by two long quays, each terminated by a tall lighthouse. There were only fishing boats moored there now. “The Onna Peerthon, she was. She calls here regularly with a cargo of haberdashery and needle-goods, usually, from Shamfird. Captain Gnarreh normally refuses passengers, but the sisters offered him a price, we heard, that he would have been a fool to refuse. But as to their destination …”
“Captain Gnarreh will return?”
“Next year, almost certainly.”
“And what lies beyond your shores, lady?”
She shook her head and laughed as if she had never heard such a joke before. “First the island reefs and then the Heavy Sea. Should anything exist on the other side of the Heavy Sea—should it have a far side, indeed—then we have no knowledge of it. You are very ignorant, sir, if I may say so.”
“You might say so, madam, and I apologize to you. I have been lately under some little enchantment and my mind is clouded.”
“Then you should rest, sir, not be journeying towards the very edge of the world!”
“Which island might they have wished to visit?”
“Any one of a score, sir, would be my guess. If you like, I can find you an old map we have.”
Gratefully Elric accepted her offer and took the map up to his room, poring over it in the hope that perhaps some instinct would direct his attention to the appropriate island. After half-an-hour of this, he was no wiser and was about to prepare for bed when he heard a sound below, a raised voice, that he thought he recognized.
It was with lifting heart that Elric, who had thought he would never see the man again, ran to the top of the stairs and looked down into the inn’s main hall where a small red-headed poet, in frock-coat and trousers, waistcoat and cravat which looked as if they had come rather too close to a fire, declaimed some ode he hoped would buy him a bed—or at least a bowl of soup—for the night. “Gold was the colour Gwyneth gave to Gwinefyr. And coral for cheeks, eyes blue as the sea. And bearing so perfect, so gracious, so fine. And lips red as Burgundy grapes, lush on the vine. These were the gifts she gave unto her tragic Queen. Her Queen of Caprice, by Tragedy Redeem’d. Great Scott, sir! I thought you gone to perdition a year or more ago! It’s good to see you, sir. You can help me with your Memoriam. I had so few particulars. I am afraid you will not like it. If I remember, it is not your preferred style. It tends, I will admit, to the Heroic. And the ballade form is considered merely quaint by many.” He began to search his pockets for his