by ich du
With a supreme effort I stepped back from the table. "Get to the point, Eladriel. What's in the bottle?"
"Bottle?" he asked innocently. "Which bottle? Do you know what he's talking about, Aloma?"
My hostess cackled like a blocked drain. "What-t boss-tie?" she slurred.
"Oh, very funny," I snapped. "What a double act."
Eladriel nodded calmly, still smiling. "I think you already know what's in there, Sam. Can't you feel it? Aren't you drawn to it? Haven't you been feeling a little - not all there?"
Aloma sniggered. I held myself still, dreading his answer.
"You are in there, Sam," he said in a matter-of-fact way. "The rest of you. Now listen carefully. That bottle is sealed. And I've put another of my old battlefield spells on it, an aura of invulnerability. Do you know what that means? The glass can't be broken; it will resist any blow. Only I can open the bottle, release you and make you whole, you see. And any time I want I can do this."
Blank.
I was lying on the floor. I must have hit the table on my way down; my forehead throbbed.
"Easy as snapping a finger," Eladriel said softly. "Neat, isn't it?"
I tried to keep my voice level. "What do you want, Eladriel?"
"I can tell you what I don't want. And that's to waste my strength holding half a mind that was a bit lightweight to start with. Tell you what, why don't we trade?"
He turned and began to pace about the room, glancing over objects stacked around the walls on shelves and low tables. There was a painting of a bowl of flowers; Eladriel ran his finger around the edge of its frame. Then he moved to a sculpture of a girl's face, turned up to the sky; Eladriel cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand.
"See this stuff?" he asked. "Human art, you know. It has an element of... vividness that's missing from Elven work, I always feel. A rawness, perhaps. I'm a collector, you see." He coughed modestly. "I've gained a certain reputation in some circles as a connoisseur of early Tilean belt buckles. Perhaps you've seen my monograph on the subject - "
"Oh, of course," I said. "During a hard night in the Apron my mates and I talk about nothing else. Tilean bloody belt buckles."
Eladriel raised a manicured eyebrow but otherwise ignored me. "There is quite a little community of us, you know. Collectors of human art. And some of us," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "go a little further."
"Further?"
"Some go so far as to - ah... collect, shall we say - the artists as well. Do you understand? Poets, painters, dancers..."
I couldn't believe it. "Elves running a market in humans? Eladriel, there are five hundred elves in this city... and about twenty thousand humans. If they ever find out there's a human slave market they'll kill you in your beds."
He looked shocked. "Slave? What a sordid word. These little creatures are well cared for and are free to practice their art before an appreciative audience. What more could they ask?"
I considered. "Freedom? Choice?"
He ignored me. "And of course, it makes economic sense. Why buy eggs if you can own the goose? Besides, those humans who do know about it will make sure the rest don't find out. Elven money means a lot to this city."
"As I was saying. There was one particular artist. A singer. A girl called Lora... quite lovely, apparently. Well, she came up for auction one day, and there was quite a buzz in the circle. Even to hear her sing, just once... But there was a pre-emptive bid. From Periel." He spat the name.
"The Periel? The Elven Lord who owns the island close to High Bridge?"
"He may." Eladriel sniffed. "Well-to-do, I understand."
"Right," I said. "Probably as 'well-to-do' as the rest of you Elven Lords put together."
Eladriel sniffed again, looking carefully indifferent. "Well, because of Periel no other elf got to hear Lora sing."
I laughed. "And I bet that must have driven you wild."
Eladriel sighed. "Lora may be the finest singer of her generation. I really must hear her voice."
"Oh, sure. Purely for aesthetic reasons. Tweaking Periel's nose has nothing to do with it."
"Even just once, a single song. Well, then. So sorry to see you go." He moved his arms in a brushing motion. The hideous Aloma grunted and began to shuffle towards the door. "So is that clear?"
I was baffled. "What?"
"Why, what I want you to do for me, of course. Arrange for me to hear Lora sing."
There was a lump of ice forming in my stomach; I heard my breathing go shallow. "Steal her from Periel? The most powerful elf in the city? But... how?"
He looked elegantly surprised. "Why are you asking me? You're supposed to be the resourceful investigator. That's your problem, isn't it? Here." He handed me another bottle, identical to the one containing a bit of me. "This also has the protective aura. Maybe you'll find it handy."
I stared at the bottle. "I suppose there's no point asking for my usual thirty crowns a day plus expenses - "
Blank.
I was on the floor again, " - but in the circumstances I'll be happy to waive the fee," I said as I picked myself up and pocketed the bottle. "Don't bother, Aloma, I'll show myself out. By the way. Lay off the eyeshadow. Be subtle..."
It wasn't easy getting to Periel. As one of the city's most successful Sea Lord merchants he's rich enough to have bought layers of privacy.
My first problem was that he doesn't even live in the Elven Quarter. So I chose a shapeless old coat and a red woollen hat, and I set off into the lowlier human districts of Marienburg, working my way towards the mouth of the Reik.
It wasn't a pleasant experience. Not everyone welcomes strangers, even halflings. So I walked through stench-ridden streets with my shoulders hunched and my head down, enduring suspicious stares.
Second problem. Periel lives on one of the rocky river-mouth islands. He likes his privacy. The island's not the biggest piece of rock in the Reik - but it's all Periel's, it has a great view of the open sea, and there are no bridges to it. You wouldn't think that was possible in this city of bridges; but so it is.
So I needed a boat.
I found a depressing little tavern on Riddra Island, at the west end of the Suiddock. There were rusty fishhooks and patches of damp on the walls; the tables were sticky with dirt and the ale was gritty. I never thought I'd miss the Apron, but this place was even worse.
(Joke, Jasper. Joke.)
There were three customers in there, sitting in gloomy silence at separate tables. I selected the cleanest-looking of them, bought two tankards of damp grit, and sat down.
The fisherman eyed me warily - he couldn't take his eyes off my red hat - but gradually, in grunts and half-sentences over more tankards, he began to talk.
His name was Kurt. He was a wiry man with a shock of black hair. He survived by scraping herring out of the Sea of Claws. His boat's timbers had a creeping fungus, the herring catch was down that year, and his wife was having it off with a cod-grader called Norbert.
Boys, he was the conversational equivalent of a case of piles.
But he was due to take his boat out at high tide that evening; and - after a little encouragement - he agreed to carry a passenger on a small detour.
And so I found myself rowing - yes, rowing - Kurt's creaking boat through the straits of Marienburg. Kurt sat at the stern, picking at a net with black fingernails. The light was fading but it was still brighter than the inside of that tavern at midday. Kurt began to stare at me. I stared back.
"You've got a secret," he said at length, "and I know what it is."
My heart thumped. "Oh, yes?"
"Yes." He eyed me shrewdly.
I sized up the situation. Kurt was not much taller than me but a lot broader - and, thanks to Eladriel, I wasn't all there. If Kurt had felt like it he wouldn't have had much trouble taking my purse and dumping me over the side.
"What are you going to do about it, then?" I asked, eyes locked with his.
Surprisingly he shrugged. "Nothing. Don't worry. Your secret
's safe with me."
"It is?"
"Yes." He turned his face away from the wind, spat out a chunk of green phlegm, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I know why you're wearing that hat," he grunted at length.
"Hat?" I put a hand to my red woollen cap.
He placed his hand on his scalp, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled the whole black mass right off his head. The afternoon sunlight glinted off his skull. "See?" he said, waggling his wig. "You're as bald as an egg under that stupid hat, aren't you?"
I agreed enthusiastically and kept rowing.
Periel's island was a stub of rock a few hundred paces across. A few scrubby trees clung to nooks in near-vertical cliffs. A tower, simple but well-built, stood to attention at the peak of the island.
We circled the cliffs until we came to a tiny harbour. There was a small, well-kept boathouse at the top of a beach of pebbles. The place was deserted.
His toupee jammed back on his head, Kurt tied up against a jetty. He agreed to wait until dawn, winking and staring at my head.
I walked up the beach, footsteps crunching. There was a narrow staircase cut into the rock behind the boathouse and I climbed a hundred steps to the island's flat summit.
The wind off the sea scoured that plateau and made me pull my coat close. The last of the western light picked out the tower's clean lines, and I could see a door. It looked ajar.
I stared for a while, wondering. Could it be that easy? I took a few tentative steps forward -
I heard a snuffling breath, like a pig digging for truffles, a footstep thumping into the soft earth.
No, it wasn't that easy, I decided. I stood stock still, hands empty and at my side. And round the curve of the tower came the last barrier around Periel's privacy.
He was four times my height and about as broad - and that was just his chest. Stumpy legs thumped into the earth. A breechclout swaddled a thick waist. His head was small and pig-like, and little eyes peered at me with suspicion. He hefted a club from one huge hand to the other. The club was tipped with iron bolts. His skin was the colour of dung, and matted with sweat, like a horse's. Let me tell you, boys, his personal hygiene left a lot to be desired.
I smiled. Well, I tried to. "How do you do?"
The creature hissed softly.
"You're an ogre, aren't you?"
His voice was like a wooden box full of gravel. "And you are not invited."
"I'm here to see the Lord Periel," I said briskly.
The ogre ran a rope-like finger over the tip of his club. "Shall I brain you," he mused, "before throwing you into the sea?" His shoulders moved in a grotesque shrug. "Why make a mess?" And he laid his club delicately on the ground and advanced on me, hands spread.
Anyway after I'd got the ogre's club off him and had knocked him unconscious, I made my way to the open door and -
What do you mean, you don't believe it? You really want the boring details? Oh, very well...
That ogre came closer, muscles working in his shoulders. Frantically I tried to concentrate, to think through the cobwebs Eladriel had left around my senses. I remember thinking that I'd finally run out of cards to play - And that gave me a clue.
Quick as a flash I dragged my battered pack of cards from my pocket. "Wait!" I said.
The ogre kept coming, his feet leaving craters in the ground. I began shuffling the cards and working simple tricks. Gradually the boar-like eyes were attracted by the flashing colours. The ogre slowed to a stop, staring at the cards; and those huge hands dropped reassuringly.
"Before you so justifiably throw me off the cliff," I said smoothly, still working the cards, "please let me make you a gift."
The ogre looked at me, and at the cards. "Thanks," he said, and reached down for the pack with one hand and for my throat with the other.
"Hold on," I cried, skipping back. "I have to show you how to use them."
The ogre studied me doubtfully, probing a mouth-sized navel with one finger. Rapidly I dealt out two hands of three cards. "Let me show you a game. It's called Three Card Pegasus.
It usually ends in a fight, and you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? We both take three cards. Now then, I look at my hand... Not bad. What have I got to stake? How about this - " I took off my woollen hat and laid it on the ground between us.
The ogre ran a puzzled thumb over his cards.
"And what's your stake?" I asked brightly.
He growled menacingly.
"Well, let's make this a demonstration hand, shall we?" I went on rapidly. "Now show me your cards... Oh," I exclaimed happily, "I only have Eagle high, but you have a pair of Dragons! You've won! Here." I held out the hat. "It's yours."
The ogre took the hat, poked at it dubiously, and then jammed it over his skull.
"Yes, well, the red wool clashes a bit with your dominant pigshit brown," I observed, "but never mind. Now, another hand?"
The ogre nodded his great head. He hissed over the cards and stamped his thick feet in a kind of dance.
Well, it took about half an hour, I suppose. By the end of that time I'd not only got my hat back; I also owned the ogre's breechclout, his unique collection of the droppings of the Giant Bat, the right of marriage to his first-born daughter... and his club.
The ogre sat on the damp ground staring miserably out to sea, picking at the breechclout I'd loaned him back. "Never mind," I said, feeling almost sorry for him, "that's the way the cards run sometimes." And, with all my strength, I smashed the club into the back of his neck.
All right? Can I get on with the story now?
As I was saying... I made my way to the tower's open door. Heart thumping a bit, I stepped out of the wind and into musty darkness.
Torches cast blobs of light over bare stone walls. I was in a corridor which led to a patch of brightness. I stopped to listen, let my eyes adjust to the gloom. Then I heard the song, drifting along the corridor:
...the laughter of children can never be held
By silver box or golden band;
The bird's song dies in the ornate cage
And the snowflake melts in the palm of the hand...
It was the voice of a girl. I stood there, transfixed. How can I describe it? ...Well, perhaps I shouldn't try. I can only say that even in my misty state that song of trapped beauty reduced me to tears.
Blinking, I took silent steps along the corridor. At the end I stopped, still in shadow, and peered into the central chamber.
Torches high on the walls cast a gloomy radiance. A fire flickered in an iron grate. A table stood at the centre of the carpeted floor, and on it rested a half-empty pitcher of wine, a single glass goblet, the remains of what must have been a rich meal.
And in a large, leather-covered chair reclined the Lord Periel himself. He was taller than Eladriel, his hair perhaps a little thinner, but he was dressed rather more sumptuously in a cloak of soft leather. As he listened his fingers were steepled before his face and his eyes were closed. I thought I could see a single tear glinting on his eyelid, and my respect for him rose a little.
Half-hidden to me in my shadowed nook, the girl singer stood meekly before the Lord's table. She entered the chorus of her song again -
...silver box or golden band...
- and, fearful not only of detection by Periel but also – oddly - of confronting the source of all that beauty, I stepped forward.
She was human, but with an almost Elven slimness. Her hair was night dark and plaited around a silver comb. She wore a dress of the purest white silk, and held her hands before her as she sang.
Her face was downcast... the face of a prisoner, I thought. She can't have been more than seventeen. Her beauty was of an inner, almost ethereal type, and I wanted to cherish her.
Now the song reached its climax and her voice soared:
And the snowflake melts in the palm of the hand...
She reached a high note that seemed almost beyond my hearing, and there was an odd ringing -
- and th
e goblet shattered into a thousand pieces. Periel opened his eyes with a start.
I stepped back quickly. The merchant Lord toyed with the fragments on the table. "Lora," he said softly, "your voice is perfect beyond the dreams of mortals."
She bowed her head.
He stood, stretched, gathered his cloak tight around him. "Well, I must retire. Another day haggling with the City Fathers over trade agreements tomorrow. If only I could spend more time at home with my treasures... of which the most exquisite is my Lora. Goodnight, my dear." And he made his way up a staircase that led from the back of the chamber into darkness. I heard a door close softly, somewhere above.
The girl Lora relaxed once her master had gone. She sat on a stool at the table and began picking at a bowl of fruit, humming softly to herself in that gorgeous voice. As her hands flickered over the fruit I saw how her fingers were encrusted with jewellery. She made a delicate tableau in that gloomy place, a work of art as fine as any of Eladriel's. I just stood there for a while, hardly daring to breathe, drinking in that beauty (and no, Maximilian, I did not notice the sort of detail you're interested in.)
At last I stepped into the light, fingers to my lips. She kicked over her stool and stumbled backwards, eyes wide. Grapes dropped from her fingers to the carpet. She crammed one tiny fist into her mouth.
I mimed hush. If she screamed I was finished. I took another step into the room, trying to smile. "I won't harm you," I whispered. "I'm your friend. I'm here to help you."
She seemed to relax a little. She dropped her hand from her face but kept her blue eyes fixed on mine.
My blood rushed like a waterfall; and the nearness of that beauty nearly overwhelmed me.
"Who... who are you?" she asked.
I sighed. Even her speech had a quality like... like the finest lyre which -
(All right, all right, I'll get on with it.)
"My name's Sam Warble," I said. I raised my hat.
"What do you want?"
"Another Lord called Eladriel knows that you're being kept here by Periel. And he sent me to you." I sat on her stool, and kept smiling. I told her the tale of my recruitment by Eladriel, and gradually she came forward into the light.
