Elric Swords and Roses - Michael Moorcock [59]
And the poor little fellow looked suddenly wan. He sat himself down upon a bench, his shoulders slumped, even his shock of red hair limp upon his avian head, his fingers screwing up miscellaneous pieces of paper in some unconscious pantomime of self-disgust.
“Why, then, I must commission a work from you,” said Elric descending. He put a sympathetic hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “After all, did you not tell me once that patronage of the artist was the only valuable vocation to which a prince might aspire?”
At which Wheldrake grinned, cheered by this confirmation of a friendship he believed gone for ever. “It has not been easy for me, sir, just lately, I must admit.” There was a wealth of recent horror in the poet’s eyes and Elric did not tax him on it. He knew himself that all Wheldrake wished to do at present was rid his mind of the memories. The poet had a momentary recollection and smoothed out the last piece of paper he had crumpled. “Yes, the Ballade Memoriam, I recall—I suppose it is a somewhat limited form. But for parody, sir—unexcelled! A warrior rode death’s lonely road, No lonelier road rode he …” Again this brief revival of his old spark failed to ignite, as it were, the flashpan of his soul. “I am rather wanting, sir, I think, of food and drink. This is the first human settlement I have seen in several months.”
And then Elric had the pleasure of ordering food and ale for his friend and watching him come slowly back to something like his old self. “Say what you will, sir, no poet ever did his best work starving, though he may have starved himself whilst doing the work, that I’ll grant. They are different things, however.” And he sat back from the bench, adjusting his bony bottom upon the boards, and belched discreetly before letting out a great sigh, as if only now could he afford to allow himself to believe that his fortunes had changed. “I am mighty glad to see you, Prince Elric. And glad, too, of your aristocratic conscience. I hope, however, you’ll allow me to discuss the technicalities of the commission in the morning. As I remember, sir, you have only a passing interest in the profession of versification—questions of metre, rhyme—Licence, Poetic Combination, Mixed Metre—Orthometry in general—do not concern you.”
“I’ll take your advice on all of that, my friend.” Elric wondered at his affection for the little man, his admiration for that strange, clever mind so thoroughly lost to its proper context that it must be for ever grasping at the only constancies it had, those of the poetic craft. “And there is no haste. I would be glad of your company on a voyage I expect to be undertaking. As soon as a likely ship is free. Failing that, I might be forced to employ a little sorcery …”
“As a last resort, sir, I beg you. I’ve rather had my fill of wizardry and wild romance for the moment.” Master Wheldrake took a conclusive pull upon his ale-pot. “But I seem to recall such stuff is as familiar to you, Prince Elric, as the Peckham Omnibus is to me, and I would rather link my fortune with one like yourself, who has at least some understanding of Chaos and her whimsical eruptions. So I shall be glad to accept both commission and companionship. I am mighty glad to see you again, sir.” And with that he fell upon his own arm, snoring.
Then the albino prince took the