Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [27]
There were stirrings in the hall, the Beggar Court moved in closer: the click of a crutch, the scrape of a staff, the shuffle of misshapen feet. Even the oily smoke from the braziers seemed to menace him as it drifted reluctantly into the darkness of the roof.
King Urish put one hand upon Hackmeat and the other upon his chin. Broken nails caressed stubble. From somewhere behind Theleb K’aarna a beggar woman let forth an obscene noise and then giggled.
Almost as if to comfort himself the sorcerer placed the scented kerchief firmly over his mouth and nostrils. He began to draw himself up, prepared to deal with an attack if it came.
“But you still have your powers now, I take it,” said Urish suddenly, breaking the tension. “Or you would not be here.”
“My powers increase . . .”
“For the moment, perhaps.”
“My powers . . .”
“I take it you come with a scheme which you hope will result in Elric’s destruction,” continued Urish easily. The beggars relaxed. Only Theleb K’aarna now showed any signs of discomfort. Urish’s bright, blood-shot eyes were sardonic. “And you desire our help because you know we hate the white-faced reaver of Melniboné.”
Theleb K’aarna nodded. “Would you hear the details of my plan?” Urish shrugged. “Why not? At least they may be entertaining.”
Unhappily, Theleb K’aarna looked about him at the corrupt and tittering crew. He wished he knew a spell which would disperse the stink.
He took a deep breath through his kerchief and then began to speak . . .
CHAPTER TWO
The Stolen Ring
On the other side of the tavern the young dandy pretended to order another skin of wine while actually taking a sly look towards the corner where Elric sat.
Then the dandy leaned towards his compatriots—merchants and young nobles of several nations—and continued his murmured discourse.
The subject of that discourse, Elric knew, was Elric. Normally he was disdainful of such behaviour, but he was weary and he was impatient for Moonglum to return. He was almost tempted to order the young dandy to desist, if only to pass the time.
Elric was beginning to regret his decision to visit Old Hrolmar.
This rich city was a great meeting place for all the imaginative people of the Young Kingdoms. To it came explorers, adventurers, mercenaries, craftsmen, merchants, painters and poets for, under the rule of the famous Duke Avan Astran, this Vilmirian city-state was undergoing a transformation in its character.
Duke Avan had been a man who had explored most of the world and had brought back great wealth and knowledge to Old Hrolmar. Its riches and its intellectual life attracted more riches, more intellectuals and so Old Hrolmar flourished.
But where riches are and where intellectuals are, then gossip also flourishes, for if there is any breed of man who gossips more than the merchant or the sailor then it is the poet and the painter. And, naturally enough, there was much gossip concerning the doom-driven albino, Elric, already a hero of several ballads by poets not over-talented.
Elric had allowed himself to be brought to the city because Moonglum had said it was the best place to find an income. Elric’s carelessness with their wealth had made near-paupers of them, not for the first time, and they were in need of provisions and fresh steeds.
Elric had been for skirting Old Hrolmar and riding on towards Tanelorn, where they had decided to go, but Moonglum had argued reasonably that they would need better horses and more food and equipment for the long ride across the Vilmirian and Ilmioran plains to the edge of the Sighing Desert, where mysterious Tanelorn was situated. So Elric had at last agreed, though, after his encounter with Myshella and his witnessing of the destruction of the Noose of Flesh, he had become weary and craved for the peace which Tanelorn offered.
What made things worse was that