Lyonesse II - The Green Pear and Madouc

by Jack Vance

  At the inn known as ‘The Laughing Sun and the Crying Moon’, hard by Twitten’s Corners, the night was known as ‘Freamas’, and meant a spate of incessant toil for Hockshank the innkeeper. Even before Freamas the inn was crowded with folk of many sorts who had come to mingle in unconventional camaraderie, to sell, to buy, to trade, or only to watch and listen, or perhaps to seek out some long-lost friend, or some defaulted enemy, or to recover an item of which they had been deprived; the yearnings were as disparate as the folk themselves.

  Among these folk was Melancthe, who had arrived early to take up the apartment reserved for her use.

  For Melancthe the fair was surcease from introspection, an occasion where her presence aroused little attention and less curiosity. Hockshank the landlord was casual in regard to his clientele, so long as they paid in good silver and gold, caused no nuisance, and exuded no vile, foul nor arresting odors, and his common room knew a wide variety of halflings and hybrids, oddities and nonesuches, as well as persons, like Melancthe, apparently ordinary in their qualities.

  Arriving early on the day before Freamas, Melancthe went to watch construction of the booths around the periphery of the meadow. Many merchants already displayed their wares, hoping to engage the visitor of limited means before he spent all his coin elsewhere.

  Melancthe went slowly from booth to booth, listening without comment to the excited calls of the hucksters, showing a faint smile when she saw something which pleased her. Along the eastern edge of the meadow she came upon a sign painted in green, yellow and white:

  HERE ARE THE PREMISES OF THE NOTABLE AND SINGULAR ZUCK

  DEALER IN OBJECTS UNIQUE UNDER THE FIRMAMENT!

  MY PRICES ARE FAIR; MY GOODS ARE OFTEN REMARKABLE!

  NO GUARANTEES; NO RETURNS; NO REFUNDS;

  Zuck himself stood behind the counter of his booth: a person short, plump, roundfaced, near-bald, with an innocent inquiring expression. A button of a nose and round plum-coloured eyes pointed at the comers hinted of halfling blood in his heritage, as did a sallow green cast to his complexion.

  Zuck regularly sold at the fair, and specialized in materia magica: the substances from which potions and elixirs were generally compounded. Today his wares included a novelty. Between a tray of small bronze bottles and cubes of clear gum a single flower stood displayed in a black vase.

  Melancthe’s attention was instantly attracted. The flower was notable both for its odd conformation and its colours, so vivid and intense as to be almost palpable: brilliant black, purple, frosty blue and carmine red.

  Melancthe could not remove her gaze from the flower. She asked: “Zuck, good Zuck: what flower is that?”

  “Lovely lady, that I cannot say. A fellow of the forest brought me this single bloom that I might gauge the mood of the market.”

  “Who might be this wonderful gardener?”

  Zuck laid his finger beside his nose and showed Melancthe a knowing grin. “The person is a falloy and of a distant nature; he insists upon anonymity, so that he will not be subjected to lengthy theoretical discussions, or stealthy attempts to learn his secret.”

  “The flowers, then, must grow somewhere in the forest nearby.”

  “Quite so. The flowers are sparse and each is more magnificent than the next.”

  “Then you have seen others?”

  Zuck blinked. “As a matter of fact: no. The falloy is a great one for hyperbole, and avaricious to boot. However, I have insisted upon moderate prices for the sake of my reputation.”

  “I must buy the flower; what, in fact, is your price?” Zuck looked blandly up toward the sky. “The day is almost done, and I like to end with an easy sale, to serve as an omen for tomorrow. For you, lovely lady, I will quote an almost trifling sum: five crowns of gold.”

  Melancthe looked at Zuck in innocent surprise. “So much gold for a single flower?”

  “Ah bah, does the price seem high? In that case, take it for three crowns, as I am in a hurry to shutter my booth.”

  “Zuck, dear Zuck: I seldom carry coins of gold!”

  Zuck’s voice became somewhat flat. “What coins then do you carry?”

  “Look! A pretty silver florin! For you, good Zuck, for your very own, and I will take the flower.”

  Melancthe reached across the counter and lifted the flower from the vase. Zuck looked dubiously at the coin. “If this is for me, what remains for the falloy?”

  Melancthe held the flower to her nose and kissed the petals. “We will pay him when next he brings us flowers. I want them all, every one!”

  “It is a poor way to do business,” grumbled Zuck. “But I suppose that you must prevail.”

  “Thank you, dear Zuck! The flower is superb, and its perfume likewise! It exhales a draught from the very shores of paradise!”

  “Ah well,” said Zuck. “Tastes differ, and I sense only a rather disreputable chife.”

  “It is rich,” said Melancthe. “It opens doors into rooms where I have never looked before.”

  Zuck mused: “A bloom of such evocation is definitely undervalued at a single silver bit.”

  “Then here is another, to guarantee my interests! Remember, all the flowers must be sold to me, and me alone!”

  Zuck bowed. “So it shall be, though you must be prepared to pay the fair price!”

  “You shall not find me wanting. When does the gardener come again?”

  “As to that, I cannot be sure, since he is a falloy.”

  III

  WHEN DUSK FELL OVER THE MEADOW Melancthe returned to the inn, and presently appeared in the common room. She went to a table in the shadows. For her supper she was served a tureen bubbling with a stew of hare, mushrooms, ramp, parsley and wine, with a crust of new bread, a conserve of wild currants, and a flask of currant wine. A mote of dust drifted down from above to settle into the wine, where it formed a bubble.

  Melancthe, observing the event, instantly became still.

  From the bubble issued a small voice, so faint and soft that she bent forward to hear it.

  The message was brief; Melancthe sat back, her mouth drooping in annoyance. With a touch of the forefinger she broke the bubble. “Once again,” she muttered to herself. “Once again I must use my purple fire to warm this icy seagreen monument to decorum. But I need not mix one with the other-unless the caprice comes on me.” She contemplated her flower and inhaled its perfume, while far away at Trilda, Shimrod, studying an ancient portfolio in his workroom, was visited with a shudder of uneasiness.

  Shimrod set the portfolio aside and slowly stood erect. He closed his eyes, and into his mind drifted the image of Melancthe, as if she floated in dark water, nude and relaxed, hair drifting loose beside her face.

  Shimrod frowned off across the room. At a basic and elementary level, the image was stimulating; on another level, It aroused only skepticism.

  Shimrod pondered a moment or two in the silence of his workroom, then reached out and tapped a small silver bell.

  “Speak!” said a voice.

  “Melancthe has come floating along a dark stream and into my mind,” said Shimrod. “She wore a minimum of garments, which is to say, none at all. She broke into my studies I and started my blood to moving; then she departed, smiling in a manner of cool insolence. She would not have troubled herself without a purpose.”

  “In that case, discover her purpose. Then we will know better how to respond.”

  “Tonight is Freamas,” said Shimrod. “She will be at Twitten’s Comers.

  “Go then to Twitten’s Corners.”

  “Very well; I will do so.”

  Shimrod brought other books and portfolios to his work-table and by the light of a single fat candle, turned the heavy parchment pages until he came upon the text he sought. He read in all concentration, storing the acrid syllables in his mind, while a moth circled the candle flame and finally died in a puff of dust.

  Shimrod packed a wallet with articles of convenience and necessity. His preparations were complete. He we
nt out to the road before Trilda, spoke a few words, closed his eyes and stepped three paces backward. When he opened his eyes he stood beside the tall iron post which marked Twitten’s Corners, at the very heart of Forest Tantrevalles. Twilight had given way to night; soft white stars shone down through gaps in the foliage. Fifty yards to the east cheerful yellow light poured from the windows of the Laughing Sun and the Crying Moon into the road, and Shimrod bent his steps in this direction. The iron-bound door had been propped open to admit the airs of the night. At one side Hockshank stood behind his counter, carving a haunch of venison; elsewhere were tables, benches and chairs, tonight occupied to capacity. In a far shadowed corner Shimrod noted the quiet shape of Melancthe, where she apparently sat absorbed in the reflections on the surface of her wine, seemingly oblivious to Shimrod’s presence. Shimrod approached the counter.

  Hockshank glanced at him from the side of his golden eyes; halfling blood ran in Hockshank’s veins. His hair was like fur the colour of decaying straw; he stood with a slight forward stoop; his feet were covered with gray-yellow fur and instead of toenails he had small black claws. Hockshank said: “I seem to recognize you from past custom, but I have no head for names, and in any case, should you be seeking accommodation, there is none to be had.”

  “I am Shimrod, from Trilda. In the past, by dint of careful thought, or again, by housing certain of your guests in the stable, we have discovered a chamber for my use and your own profit, and both of us have been the happier men for the effort.”

  Hockshank never paused in his work. “Shimrod, I recall you of old, but tonight the stable is already full. If you put down a purse of gold, I still could not find you a room.”

  “A small purse, or a large purse?”

  “Tonight either will buy you a bench in the common room, but nothing better. Custom presses in on all sides; already I have made some difficult compromises.”

  Hockshank pointed his knife. “Notice at the table yonder the three sturdy matrons of imposing mien?”

  Shimrod turned to look. “Their dignity is impressive.”

  “Just so. They are Sacred Virgins at the Temple of Dis, in Dahaut. I have assigned them to a dormitory of six beds along with the three gentlemen yonder with the grape-leaves in their hair. I hope that they may reconcile their philosophical differences without disturbing others in the inn.”

  “What of the lady sitting alone in the corner?”

  Hockshank glanced across the room. “She is Melancthe the demiwitch and occupies the apartments behind the Door of the Two Green Lizards.”

  “Perhaps you might induce her to share her apartments with me.”

  Hockshank paused in his carving. “If only all were so deftly done, I would be there myself, and you could share the top of the oven with Dame Hockshank.”

  Shimrod turned away and went to a table at the side of the room, where he dined on venison, with currants and barley.

  Melancthe at last chose to notice his presence. Crossing the room, she slipped into the chair opposite him. In a light voice she asked: “I have always considered you a very paragon of gallantry! Am I so wrong in my judgment?”

  “In most respects: yes. How is my gallantry at fault?”

  “Since it was I who called you here, surely you might have joined me at my table.”

  Shimrod nodded. “What you say is valid, in the abstract. Still, in the past I have found you unpredictable, and sometimes pungent in your recriminations; it is one of your little quirks. I hesitated to make a public demonstration of our acquaintance and perhaps cause you embarrassment. I therefore waited upon your signal.”

  “Good modest self-effacing Shimrod! I was right after all! Your chivalry is irreproachable!”

  “Thank you,” said Shimrod. “Furthermore, I wanted to dine before you told me something to destroy my appetite.”

  “Now are you replete?”

  “I have dined well, though the venison was somewhat tough, and meanwhile you decided what you wished to tell me.”

  Melancthe smiled down at the flower she held in her fingers. “Perhaps I have nothing whatever to tell you.”

  “Why then was I summoned by so explicit a signal? Unless at this moment thieves are ransacking Trilda.”

  Melancthe’s smile, as she twirled the flower in her fingers, became vague. “It might be that I merely wanted to be seen in company with the famous Shimrod, to enhance my reputation.”

  “Bah! Not a person here knows me, except Hockshank.”

  Melancthe looked around the room. “For a fact, no one seems to be noticing. The reason is simple: your modesty. Tamurello’s dramatic guises are for the most part self-defeating. You are more clever; you conceal yourself in a form which allows you great advantage.”

  Shimrod looked blankly across the table. “Indeed? How so?”

  Melancthe inspected Shimrod through half-closed eyes with her head tilted sidewise. “You simulate the universal man with total conviction! Your hair is hacked short across your face peasant-style, and is even the colour of well-used stable-straw. The features of your face are bony and gaunt, but you relieve their coarseness by a simpleton’s drollery which reassures everyone. You wear what appears to be a peasant’s smock, and as you dine, elbows high, you display the appetite of one who has toiled long hours among the turnips. All these aspects make for a great advantage, as well you realize! No adversary would ever associate what purports to be a gaunt, blinking loon for the dangerous and debonair Shimrod! It is a cunning disguise.”

  “Thank you!” said Shimrod. “Your compliments are hard to come by; I accept them all with pleasure… . Boy! Bring more wine!”

  Melancthe smiled down at her flower. “Has Hockshank found you a chamber for the night?”

  “He has offered me a bench here in the common room. Something better may still come to light.”

  “Who knows?” murmured Melancthe.

  The boy brought wine in a gray faience decanter decorated with blue and green birds, and a pair of squat faience goblets. Shimrod poured both goblets full. “Now then: you have called me here; you have characterized me as a boor and a loon; you have distracted me from my work. Was there any other purpose in your signal?”

  Melancthe shrugged. Tonight she wore a dark brown robe, in which she seemed childishly slight. “I might have called you because I was lonely.”

  Shimrod raised high his eyebrows. “Among all these quaint folk? They are your familiars and the songsters who join you out on the rocks!”

  “Truly, Shimrod, I wanted to see you that I might ask your opinion of my flower.” She displayed the blossom; the petals, black, purple, ice-blue and carmine-red, seemed as fresh now as if the flower had just been plucked. “Smell! The odor is unique.”

  Shimrod sniffed and looked askance at the flower. “Certainly it is vivid, and its petals are nicely shaped. I have never seen another like it.”

  “And the perfume?”

  “I find it a trifle too heady. I am reminded of …” Shimrod paused and rubbed his chin.

  “Of what?”

  “A strange picture came into my mind: a scene of flowers at war and a great carnage. Flowers with green arms and legs lay dead or mortally wounded; others tall in pride and cruelty cut down at those who were doomed, and so smelled the battlefield.”

  “That is a complex and subtle way to describe a scent.”

  “Perhaps so. Where did you come by the flower?”

  “At the booth of the trader Zuck, who will tell me nothing as to its source.”

  Shimrod drank from the goblet. “We have discussed my disguise and your flower; what other topics interest you?”

  Melancthe gave her head a rueful shake. “When first we met you lacked all suspicion. Now you dart cynical glances over your wine-cup.”

  “I am older,” said Shimrod. “Is that not the ordinary course of life? When I first knew myself as Shimrod, I felt an exuberance I cannot describe! Murgen despaired of me, and would not so much as hear my voice. I cared nothing;
I frolicked like a young goat, and travelled the land with a new adventure at every turning.”

  “Aha, tonight your secrets are emerging. Do they include a spouse from this time of rashness, along with a bevy of sons and daughters?”

  Shimrod laughed. “There is definitely no spouse. As for children, who knows the truth, if all were sorted out? I enjoyed a vagabond’s life; I was as careless as a bird, and only too susceptible to the charms of winsome maidens, be they fairy, falloy or human. If I fathered children, how many or how they fare today is unknown to me. Sometimes I wonder but in those days I never gave thought to such things. All is past; tonight here sits Shimrod, sedate and crafty, in his peasant disguise. Meanwhile, how goes your life?”

  Melancthe sighed. “Tamurello is back from Mount Khambaste and the air is immediately rife with intrigue and rumor, which might or might not interest you.”

  “I am willing to listen.”

  Melancthe studied the flower as if seeing it for the first time. “I pay little heed. Occasionally I hear a name I recognize; then I turn my head to listen. For instance, are you acquainted with the magician Visbhume?”

  “Not by such a name. What of this Visbhume; why is he notable?”

  “For nothing in particular. Apparently he was at one time apprentice to a certain Hippolito, now dead.”

  “I have heard of Hippolito. He lived in the north of Dahaut.”

  “Visbhume approached Tamurello with some mad scheme, and Tamurello sent him packing.” And Melancthe added primly: “Visbhume lacks all principle.”

  “How so?”

  “Oh-this way and that. Lacking Tamurello’s support he declared himself ready to serve King Casmir of Lyonesse. They think to attack King Aillas of Troicinet.”

  Shimrod tried to feign disinterest. “And so: what are his intentions?”

  “There was talk of using the Princess Glyneth in their plans… . You appear to be stunned by this little rumor.”