"A present for my mother," Malcolm replied, amazing himself with his own inventiveness.
"Does she like cats?" Wellgunde suggested. "Most mothers do."
"Yes, she does."
"Then how about a spaghetti-jar with a cat on the front, or a tea-cosy in the shape of a cat, or a little china cat you can keep paperclips in, or a cat-shaped candle, or a Cotswold cat breadboard? We haven't got any framed cat woodcuts at the moment, but we're expecting a delivery this afternoon if you're not in a hurry."
"That's a lot of cats," said Malcolm startled.
"Cats and Cotswolds," said the Rhinedaughter, brightly. "You can sell anything with a cat or a Cotswold on it, although some people prefer rabbits."
She smiled again, so brightly that Malcolm could feel the skin on his face turning brown. He began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.
"I'd better have one of those oven-gloves," he mumbled.
"With a cat on it?"
"Yes, please."
The girl seemed rather hurt as she took Malcolm's money, and he wondered what he had said.
"If she doesn't like it, I can change it for you," said the girl. "No trouble, really."
"I'm sure she'll like it. She's very fond of cats. And cooking."
"Goodbye, then."
"Goodbye."
Wellgunde watched him go, and frowned. "Oh well," she said to herself, "bother him, then."
She smiled at the shop, and just to please her it vanished into thin air. Then she walked down to the banks of the Tone and dived gracefully into its khaki waters.
"Well," said one old lady to another as a chain of silver bubbles rose to the surface, "you don't see so much of that sort of thing nowadays."
* * *
Confused, Malcolm turned up Hammet Street. It was not surprising, he said to himself, that a girl, even a pretty one, should want to smile at someone looking exactly like Siegfried the Dragon-Slayer. And it was Siegfried's appearance, not his, that she had been smiling at, so really the smile was nothing to do with him. Besides, it was probably just a smile designed to sell cat-icons, in which it had succeeded admirably. He felt in his pocket for the ovenglove, but it didn't seem to be there any more. He must have dropped it. What a pity, never mind.
At the junction of Hammet Street and Magdalene Street, there was a health-food shop which had not been there yesterday. Of that Malcolm was absolutely certain, because he had parked his car beside the kerb on which the shop was now standing. He stood very still and frowned.
"Did I do that?" he said aloud. "And if so, how?"
He knew the song about the girl who left trees and flowers lying about wherever she had gone; but trees and flowers are one thing, health-food shops are another. Either it had been built very, very quickly (after his recent experiences with builders at the Hall, Malcolm doubted this) or else it had appeared out of nowhere, or else he was hallucinating. He crossed the road and went in.
"Hello there," said the bewilderingly pretty girl behind the counter. "Can I help you?"
It was probably the dazzling smile that made Malcolm realise what was going on. "Hang on a moment, please," he said, and walked out again. Next door was a furniture shop with a big plate-glass window. Fortunately, the street was deserted, and Malcolm was able to turn himself into the three Rhinedaughters without being observed. He found that he recognised two of them immediately. As an experiment, he smiled a Rhinedaughter smile at a chest of drawers in the shop window. It seemed to glow for a moment, and then its polyurethane finish was changed into a deep French polish shine.
"That explains it," he said to himself, and did not allow himself to think that although that explained the smiles he had been getting, it did not explain the shops that had appeared from nowhere. Take care of the smiles, after all, and the shops will take care of themselves. He understood that the Rhinedaughters, the original owners of the gold from which the Ring was made, were after him, and their smiles were baits to draw him to his doom. Not that there weren't worse dooms, he reflected, but he had the world to consider.
Instead of walking away, however, he turned and went back into the health-food shop. Now that he knew that the smiles were only another aspect of this rather horrible game that Life was playing with him, and not genuine expressions of interest by pretty girls, he felt that he could deal with the situation, for he had a supreme advantage over the previous owners of the Nibelung's Ring. He had no vanity, no high opinion of himself which these creatures could use as the basis for their attack. All that remained was for him to deal with them before they did anything more troublesome than smiling.
"Hello again," said Woglinde.
"Which one are you, then?" he replied, smiling back. Woglinde looked at him for a moment, and then burst into tears, burying her face in her small pink hands. Instinctively, Malcolm was horrified; then he remembered Hagen, Alberich's son, whom the three Rhinedaughters had drowned in the flood, singing sweetly all the while.
"Thought so," he said, trying to sound unpleasant (but he had lost the knack). "So which one are you?"
"Woglinde," sobbed the girl. "And now you're all cross."
The Rhinedaughter sniffed, looked up angrily, and smiled like a searchlight. A carnation appeared in Malcolm's buttonhole, but his resolve was unaffected.
"You can cut that out," he said.
"Oh, well," said Woglinde, and Malcolm could see no tears in her deep blue eyes. He could see many other things, but no tears, and the other things were rather hazardous, so he ignored them.
"Where did the shop come from?" he asked.
"Shan't tell you," said Woglinde, coyly frowning. "You're beastly and I hate you."
"Girls don't talk like that any more," said Malcolm. "A thousand years ago perhaps, but not in the nineteen-eighties."
"This girl does," replied Woglinde. "It's part of her charm. You've been looking for a nice old-fashioned girl all your life and now you've found one."
Put like that, the proposition (accompanied by the brightest smile yet) was somewhat startling, and Malcolm turned away and looked at a display of organic pulses.
"You've been to a lot of trouble," he said.
"I spent ages making it all nice for you," said Woglinde.
"I don't like health food. Especially organic rice."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said Woglinde, petulantly. "If I'd known, I'd have built you a chip-shop instead." She checked herself; she was letting her temper interfere with business. "I still can, if you'd rather."
"I wouldn't bother, if I were you," said Malcolm. "I expect you're sick of the sight of fish."
"If you asked me to I would."
"Forget it, please. I know what you want, and you can't have it."
"Usually that's our line," said the Rhinedaughter casually. Malcolm blushed. "Oh go on," she continued, "it's our Ring, really."
Perhaps the smiles had a cumulative effect. Malcolm suddenly felt a terrible urge to give her the Ring. He had already taken it off his finger before he knew what he was doing, and it was only when he caught sight of her face, like a kitten watching a beetle it intends to eat, that he felt the sense of danger. He thrust the Ring back on, so fiercely that he cut the skin between his fingers.
"I can't," he said, sadly. "I'd love to, but I can't. You wouldn't want it, really."
Woglinde suddenly laughed, and Malcolm felt as if he was being smothered in gossamer, like a fly trapped by a spider. "Don't be silly," she cooed, "I'd like it more than anything in the whole wide world. I think you're mean."
Again there was a hideous temptation to give in, so strong that the Ring seemed to burn his skin. Malcolm could stand it no longer, and tried to command the Tarnhelm to take him away. But his mind could not issue the order; the smiles had got into it, as light gets into photographic film, and blurred all the edges. "Stop that!" he shouted, and Woglinde winced as if he had slapped her. He tightened his hand round the Ring, and her face seemed to collapse. Suddenly, she was not pretty at all; she looked like a thousand-year-o
ld teenager who wanted something she knew she couldn't have. Then, just as suddenly, she was lovelier than ever, and Malcolm knew that she had given up.
"Sorry," he said, "but there it is."
He turned and walked out of the shop, trying not to look back, but the urge was too strong. When he did look back, however, the shop was gone. He had won this bout, then; but was that all? It would probably be unwise to go swimming for a week or so...
After the fight, Malcolm needed a drink. He walked swiftly up Canon Street, heading for his favourite pub. But it wasn't there any more; instead, there was one of those very chic little wine-bars that come like shadows and so depart all over England. He had a horrible idea that he knew where this one had come from.
The wine-bar ("Le Cochonnet") was empty except for a quite unutterably pretty girl behind the bar, tenderly polishing a glass.
"You can put it all back exactly as it was," said Malcolm, sternly.
The girl stared at him in amazement, and for a moment Malcolm wondered if he had made a mistake. But he looked at the girl again, and recognised the third Rhinedaughter. There couldn't be two girls like that in the world, unless he was very lucky.
"So which are you," he said, "Wellgunde or Flosshilde?"
"Flosshilde," said the girl, carelessly. "You've met the other two?"
"That's right." He held up his right hand, letting the light play on the ring, "And I'm not going to give it to you, either. It's not a toy, you know."
Flosshilde studied the glass in her hand for a moment. "All right," she said. "If you insist. Would you like a drink?"
* * *
Flosshilde had been rather proud of her wine-bar, and it was with great reluctance that she had agreed to change it back into the French Horn. But she did so with a smile.
"Won't the landlord and the customers be a bit disorientated?" Malcolm asked.
"Not really," said Flosshilde. "All I did was change them into chairs and tables, and they won't have felt anything. For some reason, when I smile at people and change them, they don't seem to mind."
"I can understand that," said Malcolm. "Let me buy you a drink."
"I'll have a Babycham," said Flosshilde. "No ice."
When he returned with the drinks, Flosshilde leaned forward and whispered, "Your Liz is over there in the corner with her boyfriend. The one you threw in the water."
"So what?" said Malcolm coldly. "She's not my Liz."
"I could turn him into a frog for you, if you like," whispered Flosshilde. "Or I could smile at him without turning him into a frog. Your Liz wouldn't like that at all."
"I'd rather you didn't," said Malcolm. "I'm not allowed to be malicious any more."
"That sounds awful." Flosshilde seemed genuinely sorry for him. "Would it count if I did it?"
"Probably. But it's kind of you to offer."
"Any time. I might just do it anyway. I don't like him, he's stuffy. I don't like stuffy people."
"I'd better be careful, then," said Malcolm. "I've become very stuffy since..."
"That's not your fault," said the Rhinedaughter.
"I shouldn't be doing this," said Malcolm. "Fraternising with the enemy."
"I'm not really the enemy, am I?" Flosshilde smiled, but it wasn't a serious smile, just a movement of the lips intended to convey friendliness. Malcolm was intrigued.
"I mean, you're not going to give me the Ring, and why should you? That doesn't mean I hate you."
"Doesn't it?"
"Course not."
"Woglinde burst out crying."
"She does that," said Flosshilde. "She's very bad-tempered. I'll tell her to leave you alone."
"Would you?" Malcolm felt a strange sensation at the back of his head, a sort of numbness. He hadn't chatted like this to anyone for a long time.
"Are you staying in England long?" he asked, trying to sound uninterested.
Flosshilde grinned. "If you like. It's the same for us, you know. We're all in the same boat. Of course, I've got the other two for company, but you know what it's like with sisters. They get on your nerves."
"I know, I've got a sister."
"Then we'll be company for each other," Flosshilde said. "I mean, we can go for drives in the country, or maybe take a boat up the river."
Malcolm remembered Hagen, and said he didn't like boats.
"Won't your sisters mind?" he added nervously.
"Oh bother them," said Flosshilde. "Besides, I can tell them I'm working on you."
"Will you be?"
"You'll have to wait and see," said Flosshilde, carefully not smiling. "Now, why don't you buy me lunch? I'm starving."
* * *
Malcolm drove back to Combe Hall in a rather bewildered frame of mind, and nearly rammed a flock of sheep outside Bagborough. Over lunch, Flosshilde hadn't mentioned the Ring once, except in passing (she knew some very funny stories about the Gods, especially Wotan) and seemed to be making no effort at all to lead him to his doom. That, of course, might simply mean that she was being subtle; but Malcolm had taken the precaution of reading her thoughts, and although he knew that one shouldn't believe everything you read in people's minds, he had been rather taken aback by what he had found. Of course, it was possible that she had deliberately planted those thoughts there for him to read, but somehow he didn't think so.
It seemed that Flosshilde had reconciled herself to the fact that the Ring wasn't going to be given to her, and she didn't really mind. Instead, she rather liked the Ring-Bearer. Nothing more than that, but never mind. Nor was it simply his assumed shape that she liked; she had seen that shape before when it had had the original Siegfried inside it, and besides, she didn't judge by appearances. That, it seemed, was not the way these curious other-worldly types went about things, for in the world they inhabited, so many people could change shape as easily as human beings changed clothes, and so you could never be sure whether a person was really handsome or simply smartly dressed. Flosshilde, however, thought that she and the Ring-Bearer might have something in common, and she wanted someone nice to talk to and go out with. There had been more than this, but Malcolm hadn't read it. He was saving it up, to read over lunch tomorrow...
* * *
"Well?" said Woglinde. "And where have you been?"
"Having lunch," said Flosshilde, "at Carey's."
"But you haven't got it?" said Wellgunde abruptly.
"True." Flosshilde lay back on the bed of the Tone and blew bubbles. "But who cares?"
Wellgunde stared at her sister, who closed her eyes and let out a rather exaggerated sigh. "I think I'm in love," said Flosshilde.
"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Wellgunde. "You can't be. You aren't allowed to be."
"Oh, all right then, I'm not. But the next best thing. Or the next best thing to that. He's nice, in a quiet sort of way."
"You should be ashamed of yourself," said Woglinde, fiercely; but Wellgunde smiled, confusing a shoal of minnows who happened to get in the way. "If it makes it easier for you to get the Ring," she said softly, "then you go ahead."
"I'm not interested in the silly old Ring," yawned Flosshilde. "It's supremely unimportant."
Wellgunde nodded. "Of course. But it would be nicer to have it than not to have it, now wouldn't it?"
"I suppose so."
"And there's no point in your liking him if he doesn't like you."
Flosshilde made a vague grab at a passing roach, which scuttled away. "I don't know. Is there?"
"And if he likes you, he'll be pleased to give you the Ring, now won't he?"
"I don't know and I don't care," replied Flosshilde. "We're just good friends."
"You've only met him once," said Woglinde. "There's no need to get soppy."
"There's every need to get soppy. I like being soppy. What's for dinner?"
"Trout with almonds," said Wellgunde.
"Not fish again."
Wellgunde perched on the edge of a broken wardrobe, one of many that furnished the riverbed. "Nobody says
you shouldn't make friends," she said gently. "But what about us? We want our Ring back."
"Once you've got it back, you can be friends with who you like," said Woglinde, inspecting her toenails, "though personally... They need doing again," she added. "There's something nasty in this river that dissolves coral pink."
"Oh, be quiet, both of you," said Flosshilde angrily. "I'm sorry I told you now."
There was silence at the bottom of the Tone for a while, with both Flosshilde and Woglinde sulking. Finally, Woglinde requested Wellgunde to ask her sister Flosshilde if she could borrow her coral pink nail varnish, and Flosshilde asked Wellgunde to tell her sister Woglinde that she couldn't.
"Be like that," said Woglinde. "See if I care."
Flosshilde jumped up and floated to the surface.
"Now look what you've done," hissed Wellgunde. "You've offended her."
"She isn't really in love, is she?" asked Woglinde nervously. "That would be terrible."
"I don't think so. She's just in one of her moods."
"What'll we do?"
"Don't worry," said Wellgunde calmly. "Leave her to me."
8.
"OH, FOR CRYING out loud," said Wotan, putting down his fork with a bang, "what do you want now?"
"Sorry," panted Loge, breathless and sopping wet. "I didn't realise you were still having breakfast."
Wotan smiled wanly. "Raining outside, is it?"
"Yes," said Loge. "Very heavily."
"So what was so important it couldn't wait?"
"I think I'm on to something," said Loge, sinking into a chair. The dining-room of Valhalla, the castle built by Fasolt and Fafner for the King of the Gods, was furnished in spartan but functional style. It had that air of grim and relentless spotlessness that is described as a woman's touch.
The Lord of Tempests looked at him suspiciously. "If this turns out to be another wild goose chase," he said, "I'll turn you into a reservoir and stock you with rainbow trout."
Loge shuddered. "I'm sure there's something in this," he managed to say. "The ravens have sighted Alberich, and..."
"Aren't you going to offer your guest a cup of coffee?" Schwertleite the Valkyrie had come in with a crumb-brush and was ostentatiously brushing the table. "I do wish you wouldn't bring work home with you."
Expecting Someone Taller Tom Holt Page 9
