Revenge of the Rose (8 page)

 
          
“And
so it is, sir,” said Wheldrake with approval. “You are of the Liberal
persuasion, evidently. One hears so much Toryism as one travels throughout the
rea—that is, the world.”

 
          
“We
believe in enlightened self-interest, sir, as I think do all civilized peoples.
It is in the interest of the community and that larger community beyond to
ensure that all are courteously and properly enabled to make what they wish of
themselves. Will you eat, sir? Will you eat?”

 
          
Elric
was aware of the woman’s moody eyes regarding them as they spoke together and
remarked to himself that he had not seen a face more lovely and more determined
since Cymoril had lived. Her wide blue eyes were steady and unselfconscious as
she chewed slowly, her thoughts unreadable. And then, suddenly, she smiled once
before she gave her full attention to her food, leaving Elric with more of a
mystery than before.

 
          
Having
helped their deep plates to the stew, which gave off a delicious smell, they
found themselves places at the table and ate for a while in silence until at
last the woman spoke. There was unexpected warm humour in her voice and a
certain heartiness which Elric found attractive. “What lie brought you this
free meal, boys?”

 
          
“A
misunderstanding, lady, rather than a lie,” said Wheldrake diplomatically, licking
his spoon and wondering whether to take a second trip to the cauldron.

 
          
“You
are no more traders than am I,” she said.

 
          
“That
was the chief misunderstanding. Apparently they can imagine no other kind of
traveler here.”

 
          
“Apparently
so. And you are recently here in this realm. By the river, no doubt.”

 
          
“I
do not understand the means,” said Elric, still cautious.

 
          
“But
you both seek the three sisters, of course.”

 
          
“It
seems that everyone does that,” Elric told her, letting her believe whatever
she wished. “I am Elric of Melniboné and this is my friend Master Wheldrake,
the poet.”

 
          
“Of
Master Wheldrake I have heard.” There was perhaps some admiration in the lady’s
voice. “But you, sir, I fear are unknown to me. I am called the Rose and my
sword is called Swift Thorn while my dagger is called Little Thorn.” She spoke
with pride and defiance and it was clear that she uttered some kind of warning,
though what she feared from them Elric could not guess. “I travel the time
streams in search of my revenge.” And she smiled down at her empty bowl, as if
in self-mocking embarrassment at a shameful admission.

 
          
“And
what do the three sisters mean to you, madam?” asked Wheldrake, his little
voice now a charming trill.

 
          
“They
mean everything. They have the means of leading me to the resolution of all I
have lived for, since I swore my oath. They offer me the chance of
satisfaction, Master Wheldrake. You are, are you not, that same Wheldrake who
wrote
The Orientalist’s Dream
?”

 
          
“Well,
madam—” in some dismay—“I was but newly arrived in a new age. I needed to begin
my reputation afresh. And the Orient was all the rage just then. However, as a
mature work—”

 
          
“It
is exceptionally sentimental, Master Wheldrake. But it helped me through a bad
hour or two. And I still enjoy it for what it is. After that comes
The Song of Iananthe
, which is of course
your finest.”

 
          
“But
Heavens, madam, I have not yet written the work! It is sketched, that’s all, in
Putney.”

 
          
“It
is excellent, sir. I’ll say no more of it.”

 
          
“I’m
obliged for that, madam. And—” he recovered himself—“also for your praise. I,
too, have some affection for my Oriental period. Did you read, perhaps, the
novel which was just lately published—
Manfred;
Or, the Gentleman Hoorii
?”

 
          
“Not
part of your canon when I last was settled anywhere, sir.”

 
          
And
while the pair of them talked of poetry, Elric found himself leaning his head
upon his arms and dozing until suddenly he heard Wheldrake say:

 
          
“And
how do these gypsies go about unpunished? Is there no authority to keep them in
check?”

 
          
“I
know only that they are a nation of travelers,” said the Rose quietly, “perhaps
a large nomad horde of some description. They call themselves the Free
Travelers or the People of the Road and there is no doubt that they are powerful
enough for the local folk to fear. I have some suggestion that the sisters rode
to join the Gypsy Nation. So I would join it, too.”

 
          
And
Elric remembered the wide causeway of beaten mud and wondered if that had any
connection with the Gypsy Nation. Yet they would not league themselves, surely,
with the supernatural? He became increasingly curious.

 
          
“We
are all three at a disadvantage,” said the Rose, “since we allowed our hosts to
assume we were victims of the gypsies. This means we cannot pursue any direct
enquiries but must understand elliptically what we can. Unless we were to admit
our deception.”

 
          
“I
have a feeling this would make us somewhat more unpopular. These people are
proud of their treatment of traders. But of non-traders, we have not learned.
Perhaps their fate is less pleasant.” Elric sighed. “It matters not to me. But
if you would have company, lady, we’ll join forces to seek these sisters.”

 
          
“Aye,
for the moment I see no harm in such an alliance.” She spoke sagely. “Have you
heard anything of them?”

 
          
“As
much as have you,” said Elric, truthfully. Within him now a voice was speaking.
He tried to quiet it but it would not be silent. It was his father’s voice.
The sisters. Find them. They have the box.
They have the
box
. The voice was
fading now. Was it false? Was he deceived? He had no other course to follow, he
decided, so he might as well follow this one and hope, ultimately, it might
lead him to the rosewood box and his father’s stolen soul. Besides, there was
something he enjoyed in this woman’s company that he felt he might never find
again, an easy, measured understanding which made him, in spite of his careful
resolve, wish to tell her all the secrets of his life, all the hopes and fears
and aspirations he had known, all the losses; not to burden her, but to offer
her something she might wish to share. For they had other qualities in common,
he could tell.

 
          
He
felt, in short, that he had found a sister. And he knew that she, too, felt
something of the same kinship, though he were Melnibonéan and she were not. And
he wondered at all of this, for he had experienced kinship of a thoroughly
different kind with Gaynor—yet kinship, nonetheless.

 
          
When
the Rose had retired, saying she had not slept for some thirty-six hours,
Wheldrake was full of enthusiasm for her. “She’s as womanly a woman, sir, as I’ve
ever seen. What a magnificent woman. A Juno in the flesh! A Diana!”

 
          
“I
know nothing of your local divinities,” said Elric gently, but he agreed with
Wheldrake that they had met an exceptional individual that day. He had begun to
speculate on this peculiar linking of fathers and sons, quasi-brothers and
quasi-sisters. He wondered if he did not sense the presence of the Balance in
this—or perhaps, more likely, the influence of the Lords of Chaos or of Law,
for it had become obvious of late that the Dukes of Entropy and the Princes of
Constancy were about to engage in a conflict of more than ordinary ferocity.
Which went further to explaining the urgency that was in the air—the urgency
his father had attempted to express, though dead and without his soul. Was
there, in this slow-woven pattern that seemed to form about him, some
reflection of a greater, cosmic configuration? And, for a second, he had a
glimmering of the vastness of the multiverse, its complexity and variousness,
its realities and its still-to-be-realized dreams; possibilities without end—wonders
and horrors, beauty and ugliness—limitless and indefinable, full of the
ultimate in everything.

 
          
And
when the grey-haired man came back, a little better dressed, a little neater in
his toilet, Elric asked him why they did not fear direct attack from the
so-called Gypsy Nation.

 
          
“Oh,
they have their own rules about such things, I understand. There is a status
quo, you know. Not that it makes your circumstances any more fortunate …”

 
          
“You
parley with them?”

 
          
“In
a sense, sir. We have treaties and so forth. It is not Agnesh-Val we fear for,
but those who would come to trade with us …” And again he made apologetic
pantomime. “The gypsies have their ways, you know. Strange to us, and I would
not serve them directly, I think, but we must see the positive as well as the
negative side of their power.”

 
          
“And
they have their freedom, I suppose,” said Wheldrake. “It is the great theme of
The Romany
Rye
.
”

 
          
“Perhaps,
sir.” But their host seemed a trifle doubtful. “I am not aware of what you
speak—a play?”

 
          
“An
account, sir, of the joys of the open road.”

 
          
“Ah,
then it would be of gypsy origin. We do not buy their books, I fear. Now,
gentlemen, I do not know if you would take advantage of what we offer
distressed travelers by way of credit and cost-price equipment. If you have no
money, we will take kind. Perhaps to be sure one of
those
books, if you like, Master Wheldrake, for a horse.”

 
          
“A
book for a horse, sir! Well, sir!”

 
          
“Two
horses? I regret I have no notion of the market value. Book-reading is not a
great habit among us. Perhaps we should feel ashamed, but we prefer the passive
pleasures of the evening arena.”

 
          
“As
well as the horses, perhaps a few days’ provisions?” suggested Elric.

 
          
“If
that seems fair to you, sir.”

 
          
“My
books,” pronounced Wheldrake through gritted teeth, his nose seeming more
pointed than ever, “are my—my
self
,
sir. They are my identity. I am their protector. Besides, though through the
oddity of some telepathy we all enjoy, we can
understand
language, we cannot
read
it. Did you know that, sir? The ability does not extend to that. Logical, in
one sense, I suppose. No, sir, I will not part with a page!”

 
          
But
when Elric had pointed out that Wheldrake had already explained that one of the
volumes was in a language even he did not know and suggested that their lives
might depend upon acquiring horses and throwing in with the Rose, who already
had her horse, Wheldrake at last consented to part with the
Omar Khayyam
he had hoped one day to
read.