Elric_ The Stealer of Souls - Michael Moorcock [75]
Elric pushed his heavy riding cloak back from his shoulders and said lightly: “We shall mention your kindness to our masters.”
The Court was a place of gloomy halls and false laughter and although Elric put many questions to Gutheran, the king would not answer them, or did so by means of ambiguous phrases which meant nothing. They were not given chambers wherein they could refresh themselves but instead stood about for several hours in the main hall of the citadel and Gutheran, while he was with them and not giving orders for the banquet, sat slumped on his throne and chewed at his nails, ignoring them.
“Pleasant hospitality,” whispered Moonglum.
“Elric—how long will the effects of the drug last?” Zarozinia had remained close to him. He put his arm around her shoulders. “I do not know. Not much longer. But it has served its purpose. I doubt if they will try to attack us a second time. However, beware of other attempts, subtler ones, upon our lives.”
The main hall, which had a higher roof than the others and was completely surrounded by a gallery which ran around it well above the floor, fairly close to the roof, was chilly and unwarmed. No fires burned in the several hearths, which were open and let into the floor, and the walls dripped moisture and were undecorated; damp, solid stone, timeworn and gaunt. There were not even rushes upon the floor which was strewn with old bones and pieces of decaying food.
“Hardly house-proud, are they?” commented Moonglum looking around him with distaste and glancing at brooding Gutheran who was seemingly oblivious of their presence.
A servitor shambled into the hall and whispered a few words to the king. He nodded and arose, leaving the Great Hall.
Soon men came in, carrying benches and tables and began to place them about the hall.
The banquet was, at last, due to commence. And the air had menace in it.
The three visitors sat together on the right of the king who had donned a richly jeweled chain of kingship, whilst his son and several pale-faced female members of the royal line sat on the left, unspeaking even among themselves.
Prince Hurd, a sullen-faced youth who seemed to bear a resentment against his father, picked at the unappetizing food which was served them all.
He drank heavily of the wine which had little flavour but was strong, fiery stuff and this seemed to warm the company a little.
“And what do the gods want of us poor folk of Org?” Hurd said, staring hard at Zarozinia with more than friendly interest.
Elric answered: “They ask nothing of you but your recognition. In return they will, on occasions, help you.”
“That is all?” Hurd laughed. “That is more than those from the Hill can offer, eh, father?”
Gutheran turned his great head slowly to regard his son.
“Yes,” he murmured, and the word seemed to carry warning.
Moonglum said: “The Hill—what is that?”
He got no reply. Instead a high-pitched laugh came from the entrance to the Great Hall. A thin, gaunt man stood there staring ahead with a fixed gaze. His features, though emaciated, strongly resembled Gutheran’s. He carried a stringed instrument and plucked at the gut so that it wailed and moaned with melancholy insistence.
Hurd said savagely: “Look, father, ’tis blind Veerkad, the minstrel, your brother. Shall he sing for us?”
“Sing?”
“Shall he sing his songs, father?”
Gutheran’s mouth trembled and twisted and he said after a moment: “He may entertain our guests with an heroic ballad if he wishes, but…”
“But certain other songs he shall not sing…” Hurd grinned maliciously. He seemed to be tormenting his father deliberately in some way which Elric could not guess. Hurd shouted at the blind man: “Come Uncle Veerkad—sing!”
“There are strangers present,” said Veerkad hollowly above the wail of his own music. “Strangers in Org.”
Hurd giggled and drank more wine. Gutheran scowled and continued to tremble,