Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [52]
“Let us hope so.”
The Phoenician turned his old twisted face towards Simon. The brazier light stained it a reddish brown, showing the wrinkles of mingled cynicism, fatalism and good nature. Hano said at length: “Very well.”
He got up and moved about the crowded room taking a pot from one shelf, a skin of wine from another.
Soon the smell of herbs came from the pot on the brazier as Hano brewed wine for his guest.
“You’ll help,” Simon said.
“Alexander owes me a favour. But he has strange ways of repaying debts and I’d not normally be foolish enough to remind him of this one.”
“What did you do for him?”
“Set the handle of a star-metal blade with black opals.”
“That was a favour!” Simon laughed.
Hano scowled, but genially. “Know you not what that meant? It meant he could not directly handle iron or anything likely to conduct its force to his body. Black opal is one of the few gems which will serve to negate the flow.”
“So?”
“So Alexander has a weakness. Iron will harm him.”
“If I had such a secret I would kill the man who held it,” Simon said reflectively.
“Not if you were Alexander and the man was dear to Olympias.”
“You know Queen Olympias!”
“Olympias wishes me kept alive so I can feed her with secrets.”
“Dark secrets, I’ll warrant, if the stories of her are half-true.”
“They do not touch the real truth about her.”
“Does she really sport with snakes at these rites?”
“Aye—and black goats are present too.”
Simon swore.
Hano handed him a cup of hot wine. As he drank he said: “I’m impatient to meet the God-King—how will you help?”
“I’ll give you a letter and a token to take to Alexander. But be wary, my boy. Be wary.”
CHAPTER TWO
Though he rarely admitted it, the idea of a supernatural world of gods and spirits disturbed Simon. Had it been practicable he might have become a militant atheist but instead he kept his opinions secret for the most part and did his utmost not to question them or even think of them.
When he reached the great golden palace of Alexander he paused and stared up at it with admiration. It was illuminated by hundreds of torches many of which, on long poles, surrounded the palace. Others flared on its many ramparts.
Two guards came forward. They were Babylonians in high helmets with oiled hair and beards. Their javelins threatened him.
In poor Babylonian Simon said:
“I come to see King Alexander—I have a token and a letter for him.”
They treated him with some respect, though they divested him of his sword and led him to the main gate where, after conversation, he was admitted.
He was made to wait several times, being studied and questioned by a variety of viziers and minions of the king, but at last he was ushered into a large chamber.
Big windows let in the flickering torchlight. A great bed of brass, silver, and gold, heaped with silks and furs, was in the centre of the room.
Alexander was sitting up in bed. He had been sweating, Simon could see. His nose told him the same story.
The odour, in fact, was bad. Far worse than ordinary perspiration. Simon couldn’t place the smell.
With a degree of nervousness Simon approached the huge bed.
Suddenly, King Alexander grinned and stuck out a handsome hand.
“You have a letter for me, I hear—and a token?”
“I have, sire.” Simon gave the letter and the little talisman to Alexander, studying the king’s strange face. In a way it was boyish, in another ancient and sensuous. He had a long nose and thick lips, heavily lidded eyes and brown, curly hair. Simon was taken aback by the king’s lack of ceremony, by his friendly grin. Was this the God-King? The spawn of evil?
Alexander read the letter quickly, nodding to himself.
“Did Hano tell you of my debt to him?”
“No, sire,” Simon said tactfully.
“He has many secrets, Hano—but he’s an old man and, in his generosity, keeps few to himself, I’ve heard.”
“He seems curiously tight-lipped, sire,” Simon replied, anxious for his friend’s life, “and even I who saved his life one time in Thebes can never get a full reply to any question I ask him.”
Alexander looked up sharply,