Lyonesse II - The Green Pear and Madouc (55 page)

“Thank you, sir! I am much relieved.” The time was still two hours short of sundown. Yossip opened the booth, arranged the flowers in vases and, after some hesitation, placed the green pearl on display, in a dish on one of the back shelves. “It is a wondrous gem,” he told himself. “Still, what use is it to me? I am not one for earrings nor other adornments. Well, we shall see. The gem must bring a good price or I will not sell.”

In the morning Melancthe appeared early and looked here and there. She noticed the flowers and gave a glad cry. “Where is the good Zuck?”

“He is searching out new merchandise,” said Yossip. “The booth is in my care.”

“At least he has found flowers for me! Bring them forward; they are mine alone and must never be sold elsewhere!”

“As you wish, lady.”

Melancthe took possession of the flowers. They were indeed of startling distinction, with colours that seemed to shudder with the force of their nature. Each was different; each projected a unique personality. The first: pungent orange, mingled with vermilion, plum-red and black. The second: seagreen with purple glowing under a luster of beetle-back blue. The third: black glossy-harsh with spikes of strident ocher-yellow, and a scarlet tuft at the center. The fourth: a dozen concentric rings of small petals, in turn white, red and blue.

Melancthe asked no price. She tossed down four golden crowns. “When will you have more of these blooms?”

Yossip at once saw how the wind blew. Zuck had been deceitful by an order of magnitude larger than Yossip had imagined. Still, whether for good or for bad, he could not be punished a second time. Yossip reflected. “Tomorrow, lady, I may have more flowers.”

“Remember, they must be reserved for me alone! I am fascinated by their bizarre complication!”

Yossip said smoothly: “To ensure yourself full ownership, I advise that you pay over at this moment a sufficiency of gold coins; otherwise someone may be quicker than you tomorrow morning.”

Melancthe contemptuously flung down five more crowns of yellow gold, and the transaction was thereby validated.

Dusk fell over the meadow. Lamps hung in the trees and a variety of folk who preferred night to day came to stroll among the booths and to chaffer for articles which aroused their interest.

At the inn Melancthe dined modestly upon a chicken wing and a turnip cooked with honey and butter. She sat with her flowers set out in four vases, that she might admire each in turn, or all together, as she chose.

A saturnine dark-haired gentleman in splendid garments, distinguished by a neat mustache, a small beard, and keen features, approached her table. He bowed, doffed his hat, and without further ceremony seated himself.

Melancthe, recognizing Tamurello, made no comment. He inspected the flowers with curiosity. “Most fascinating, and, I would think, unique! Where do such extraordinary blossoms grow?”

“As to that, I cannot be sure,” said Melancthe. “I buy them from a booth at the fair. Smell, them, one after the other. Each is different; each purports with its odor an entire cascade of meaning, and meanings of meanings; each is a whole pageant of subtle and nameless aromas.”

Tamurello smelled each bloom in turn, and then each once again. He looked at them with lips pursed. “The odors are exquisite. I am reminded of something to which I cannot now put a name… . The thought hangs in a far comer of my mind and refuses to stir. A maddening sensation!”

“You will recognize it presently,” said Melancthe. “Why are you here, where you come so rarely?”

“I am here by curiosity,” said Tamurello. “Only a few moments ago there was a tremble at Twitten’s Post. It might mean much, or it might mean little, but such a tremble is always worth the investigation… . Aha! Look then, who has just entered the inn! It is Visbhume, and I must confer with him at once.”

Visbhume stood by the counter, looking this way and that for Hockshank, who at this moment was busy elsewhere.

Tamurello went to stand beside him. “Visbhume, what do you do here?”

Visbhume peered at the black-bearded grandee who addressed him so familiarly. “Sir, you have the advantage of me.”

“I am Tamurello, in a guise I often use while going abroad.”

“Of course! Now I recognize you, by the clarity of your gaze! Tamurello, it is a pleasure to see you!”

“Thank you. What brings you here at this season?”

Visbhume puffed out his cheeks and gave his forefinger a wag. “Now then, who can explain the foibles of a vagabond? One day here, the next day there! Sometimes the way is rude, sometimes it is rough, and sometimes one must tramp onward through the rain and the dark compelled only by the gleam of one’s own far star! But for now, I wish only for Hockshank, that he may find me a comfortable chamber for the night.”

“Your wants will not be satisfied, or so I fear. The inn is full.”

Visbhume’s face fell. “In that case I must find a tuft of hay in the barn.”

“Unnecessary! Step outside a moment.”

Somewhat reluctantly Visbhume followed Tamurello out the door and into the road. Tamurello looked up into the sky. He pointed aloft to where the moonlight shone on a floating manse of three towers, a terrace and a surrounding balustrade.

“That is where I shall take my rest this night,” said Tamurello. “But before I say more, I am curious as to why you are here when you were on last accounts hard at work in the service of King Casmir, upon my recommendation.”

“True, true! With your usual acuity you understand the exact state of affairs! I believe that I will now take a bite of supper. If you will excuse me-”

“In a moment,” said Tamurello. “Tell me, how went your business with Casmir?”

“Tolerably well.”

“He is pleased with your information?”

“In truth, I have not yet reported to him. The knowledge I have gained is so footling that I may not even trouble to do so.”

“What, in fact, did you learn?”

“Sir, I feel that I should best retain these few trivialities for Casmir’s ears.”

“Forsooth, Visbhume! Surely you have no secrets from me?”

“All of us have our little areas of privacy,” said Visbhume primly.

“In some areas and at some times and with certain persons,” stated Tamurello. “Not at Twitten’s Corners by moonlight, in converse with Tamurello.”

Visbhume made nervous flourishes of the hand. “Well then, if you insist, you shall know.” And Visbhume added heartily: “After all, who referred me to Casmir but my good friend Tamurello?”

“Exactly so.”

“I learned this much. Casmir is troubled by a prediction in regard to Suldrun’s first-born son.”

“I know of this prediction, by Persilian the Mirror. I know of Casmir’s concern.”

“The fact is simple yet most poignant! Suldrun’s first-born son was sired by Aillas, King of Troicinet. The son’s name is Dhrun, and in one year at the fairy shee he attained the age of nine Earthly years.”

“Interesting!” said Tamurello. “And how did you come by this information?”

“I worked with vast toil and cunning. I took Glyneth to the world Tanjecterly, and there I would easily have had the knowledge had not Shimrod sent down a great monster to harass me. But I am nothing if not indomitable; I gained my information, I killed the beast, and I came up from Tanjecterly with my information.”

“And the Princess Glyneth?”

“She remains in Tanjecterly, where she cannot tell tales.”

“A wise precaution there! You are right! Knowledge of this sort is best kept secret, and reserved to the fewest possible number of minds. Indeed, Visbhume, one mind is enough, for knowledge of this sort.”

Visbhume drew back a step. “Two minds are quite as secure.”

“I fear not. Visbhume-”

“Hold!” cried Visbhume. “Have you forgotten my loyalty? My relentless efficiency? My aptitude for performing impossible services?”

Tamurello considered. “These arguments carry genuine weight! You are both loquacious and cogent, and so you have earned your life. Henceforth, however …” Tamurello made a gesture and uttered a phrase. Visbhume’s garments slumped to the ground. From the dark tumble crawled a black and green snake. It hissed once at Tamurello and darted away into the forest.

Tamurello stood quiet in the road, listening to the sounds from within the inn: the mutter of voices, the clink of glass and earthenware, Hockshank’s occasional call to his serving boy.

Tamurello’s thoughts went for a moment to Melancthe. Her flowers, for a fact, were intriguing; he would explore them further in the morning. As for the attractions of Melancthe’s person, his moods were ambiguous and to a certain degree defensive. He had been the lover of her brother; now she showed him a cool half-smiling detachment, in which Tamurello often thought to sense the flavor of contempt.

Tamurello listened a final moment to the sounds from the inn, glanced toward the forest, where he knew a black and green snake watched him with passionate eyes. Tamurello chuckled for the sheer logic of the situation, then held his arms wide, fluttered his fingers and was wafted high through the moonlight to his floating manse.

Five minutes later Shimrod appeared in the road. Like Tamurello he paused a moment to listen, then, hearing nothing but sounds from within, he entered the inn.

SHIMROD WENT TO THE COUNTER, and Hockshank leaned forward to attend his wants. “Again, Sir Shimrod, I am filled to capacity; still I notice that the beautiful Dame Melancthe again visits the fair and already has bought a fine bouquet which is the envy of everyone. Perhaps she might again share her accommodations with a dear and trusted friend.”

“Or even with a total stranger, should the mood be on her. Well, we shall see. Tonight I came prepared and in fact I have no need for her hospitality. Still, who knows how the evening will go? In the name of gallantry, I will at least pay my respects and possibly take a cup of wine with her.”

“Have you dined?” asked Hockshank. “Tonight the civet of hare is tasty, and my woodcocks are beyond reproach. Hear how they sizzle on the spit!”

“You have tempted me,” said Shimrod. “I will test one of the woodcocks, along with half a crusty loaf.”

Shimrod joined Melancthe at her table. She said: “Only minutes ago Tamurello sat in that very chair and admired these same flowers. Is this the reason for your presence?”

“The flowers, no. Tamurello, perhaps. Murgen sent me to investigate a tremble of Twitten’s Post.”

“Twitten’s Post is all the rage,” said Melancthe. “Tamurello came at the same tremble.”

Shimrod looked around the room. “His guise must be unusual; I see no one here who might be Tamurello, unless it is yonder youth with the copper ringlets and the green jade eardrops.”

“Tonight Tamurello is an austere grandee, but he is not here. He noticed his crony, Visbhume, and took him outside, and neither has returned.”

Shimrod strove to keep his voice casual. “How long ago was this?”

“Minutes only.” Melancthe held up one of her flowers. “Is this not glorious? It quivers with the very essence of its being; it tells a provocation for something I cannot even surmise! See how the colours glow against each other! The odor is intoxicating!”

“Yes, perhaps so.” Shimrod jumped to his feet. “I will be back in a few moments.”

Shimrod left the inn and went out into the road. He looked right and left; no one was in sight. He cocked his head to listen, but only sounds from within the inn came to his ear. He walked quietly to Twitten’s Corners; he looked north, east, south and west; the four roads stretched away from the crossing, empty and pale in the moonlight, with trees standing somber to the side.

Shimrod returned toward the inn. To the side of the road, half in the ditch, he noticed a tumble of clothes. Shimrod approached slowly. He knelt and so discovered a tall gray book with a golden rod engaged in the web.

Shimrod took the book to the light streaming from the windows of the inn and read the title. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silver bell, which he tapped with his fingernail.

A voice spoke. “I am here.”

“I am standing beside the inn at Twitten’s Corners. Just before I arrived Visbhume came into the inn. If the post trembled, he was the cause. Tamurello met him and took him outside. I fear that Visbhume is gone: either dead or dissipated. He left behind his garments and his ‘Twitten’s Almanac’, which now I hold in my possession.”

“And Tamurello?”

Shimrod, raising his eyes, saw Tamurello’s manse silhouetted across the moon. “He has brought a floating castle; I see it now in the sky.”

“I will come, but early in the morning. Meanwhile, take full precautions! Do nothing at Melancthe’s behest, no matter how innocent! Tamurello’s mood is reckless; he suffered at Khambaste and now he learns that he has gained nothing. He is ready to perform any act, be it desperate or irrevocable, or merely tragic. Be wary.”

Shimrod returned inside the inn. Melancthe, for whatever reason, had departed.

Shimrod consumed his supper and for a period sat watching the folk of the forest at their revels. At last he went outside, and going to a nearby clearing put down a miniature cottage much like the one Visbhume had carried in his wallet.

“House, grow large!” said Shimrod.

He went to stand on the porch.

“House, stand tall!”

The house grew cabriolet legs at the corners, each terminating in claws grasping a ball, so that the house stood at a secure height of sixty feet above the clearing.

The night passed and dawn came to the Forest of Tantrevalles. As the sun raised above the trees, Shimrod came out on his porch. “Down, house!” called Shimrod, and then: “House, grow small!”

Tamurello’s manse still floated in the sky. Shimrod went into the inn and made his breakfast.

Melancthe came quietly into the room, demure as a young shepherdess of Arcady in her knee-length white frock and sandals. She paid Shimrod no heed, and went to sit in an inconspicuous corner, which suited Shimrod very well.

Melancthe wasted little time at her breakfast. Departing the inn, she went to the meadow where the fair was already in full progress.

Shimrod followed casually behind her. As she entered the meadow he joined her side. “What do you look for today?”