‘Let us sit down for a moment,’ said Lord Engwe. ‘Let us sit – Mr. Gumasson, are you unwell? Mr. Gumasson? Pray sit down, do. You appear to be somewhat overwhelmed, and therefore I must offer an apology. I had not the least expectation of your being so much moved.’
‘No apologies, please,’ said Swin through his tears. ‘This is such a kindness and it’s so unexpected.’
‘On the contrary, my good sir, my wife and I would take it as the greatest of kindnesses from you, should you be inclined to honour us with your company.’
‘Of course. Of course!’
Engwe led the way towards an alcove halfway down the room. There was a small door there. Under his dark cloak Engwe wore a suit with a white shirt-frill, a very old-fashioned style still followed by a few of the older and wealthier citizens. Over the folds of this frill, on fine cords and chains below his ruffled collar, hung a number of small objects: a whistle, a pair of medallions, a scent-bottle and a key. He took this key off its cord and used it to open the shadowy door. ‘I’m a holder-in-ordinary,’ he explained with a smile. ‘It’s not much of an honour, but it does carry the privilege of this private door: we can get out of the palace much more easily this way, and then it’s a short cut to my house. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to ride through the streets?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Swin. They passed through the door and went down a cobwebby spiral staircase.
‘You had a nasty meeting with some footpads shortly after you came here,’ said Engwe, ‘but I gather that you acquitted yourself very well. Still, have you your sword?’
‘Yes,’ said Swin, checking it, ‘though I hardly dare to use it any more. The Queen will clap me in a dungeon if I do.’
‘Ah, the scolding minx! Over dinner, Mr. Gumasson, I shall request a great favour of you: that you give me an account, as full as you are able to give, of how you managed to capture her and of how she was restored to human form. Lord Melohtar and the Bishop have preserved a perfect discretion – very commendable of them, to be sure, but I’m simply agog for a few more details. I’m in a small way an historian, as you may have heard, and I do like to gather news of events as they arise... Nothing at all against Her Majesty’s honour, of course.’
‘Of course not,’ agreed Swin.
From the foot of the staircase another inconspicuous door led out from between a couple of piers, to a path across a dim courtyard with small trees and a sunken garden. Engwe closed the door behind him and locked it carefully. From the farther side of the courtyard there were two more gates to be gone through. Both of these were guarded, but the guards saluted Engwe and opened them without fuss. As Engwe led Swin on through the deserted grounds, his manner became preoccupied. He hummed a tune under his breath. Swin looked round at the grass and the flowers, fresh after the rain and glowing in the dusk. One last challenge, one last salute and unbarring; and then Swin stood with Engwe on a narrow pavement below the high-frowning outer wall of the palace. Opposite them was another wall, much lower, with more grey buildings beyond it and a single small doorway fifty yards off. ‘That’s the way into my house,’ said Engwe.
‘So near, my lord? It really is a short cut.’
‘Yes. You don’t need to go on my-lording me. Call me Engwe.’
‘Of course, Engwe. Call me Swin, if you like. I had the impression that you prefer the older formalities.’
Engwe laughed abruptly. ‘That is quite true! But in this regard I’m a creature of a bygone age.’
They entered Engwe’s grounds. A puddled path led through a fringe of trees and shrubs, past the side of his house and round to the front steps. Two handsome wrought-iron lamp-posts stood beside the steps, but the lamps were unlit. ‘Looks a little gloomy, don’t it?’ observed Engwe. ‘There’s no oil for them, I’m afraid. These wretched shortages... But I trust you’ll find us quite homelike inside.’
The door opened and a friendly light streamed out. Engwe’s butler was there, ready to take his master’s cloak, and a fire was burning in the hearth of the entrance-hall. ‘Show Mr. Gumasson into the front parlour,’ said Engwe. ‘Vornis will greet you there, Swin, and I’ll join you presently.’
By now Swin was feeling quite nervous about meeting this lady who must have such intimate memories of himself. He wondered if it would be possible to ask her about the encounter. He also wondered if the shit-stench that still hung about him was real, a tenacious legacy, or just imaginary. At his request the butler took him to the washroom, where he stripped and washed himself thoroughly, using a lot of soap, as he had been doing repeatedly for many days. Then he followed the butler again. But just as they were entering the parlour Swin was struck by a sudden thought: Where have I seen that fellow before?
The parlour gave an impression of bleakness tempered with insufficient warmth. A fire was burning in the grate, and a thick woollen rug was spread before it, but most of the floor was draughty bare flagstones. Rich damask curtains covered the windows, and an arras hid part of the longest wall, but the wall-surfaces were cracked and whitewashed mortar. Swin had no leisure to examine the other fixtures and furniture, nor to think about the butler, for almost at once the door opened again, and Lady Vornis entered. She was followed by a nursemaid with not one but two white-swathed bundles in her arms.
Swin had been dreading and longing to see these children. His mind was full of the meeting on Breglin Bridge; but for various reasons the present meeting was to be much less painful. Actually there are one or two things that Aldred ought to point out now, even though they did not become known to Swin until later. Vornis came in, bowed her head to him with her arms crossed over her breast, and then for good measure dropped him a very deep curtsey, her dress spreading wide over the floor. In mid-curtsey she remained low, crouched before him with her head down: the pale vulnerable neck and the tight-braided hair presented their own eloquent appeal:
Spare me, lord: be gentle, have mercy. The nursemaid was Wencela, Vornis having accepted her after the Queen’s dismissal of the Wardrobe. She knew who Swin was, although she had not met him before, and she still had cause to feel kindly to him, as to the Punchkins, for defeating Ayarg’s band and assisting her mother. But this old adventure was not uppermost in her mind at that moment, while for Swin it was still swathed in a double thickness of oblivion.
‘Rise, Lady,’ said he. ‘Why do you not rise?’
She rose. He took her cold fingers, touched them with his lips. Her dark hair was streaked with silvery-grey; her dark eyes were full of grief and fear and longing, mingled with a strange desperate triumph.
‘Welcome, Lord Eofor,’ she said.
‘That’s too grand a title, Lady Vornis. I’m still trying to get used to “Mr. Gumasson”.’
‘It’s very unexpected to see you again, after what we heard. But it is a pleasure.’
‘A pleasure for me also, Lady. You may also have heard that I’ve lost all recollection of my first visit to this City; but fear not, I won’t question you about it.’
Her face relaxed into not-quite a smile. ‘No lord, but a gentleman. I thank you. Here are the little ones.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Carahir and Caraneth.’
Swin took the two babies into his arms, one after the other. Caraneth, the little girl, was still asleep; but Carahir smiled with blue eyes, and cooed and muttered. ‘He’s talking to you,’ said Vornis.
‘Why, hello to you, little man,’ said Swin, this time sufficiently able to bear the heartache, the desolation, the sense of appalling distance. He talked to Carahir for three or four minutes, until, lacking a whole lifetime, there seemed to be no point in keeping him any longer. ‘Many thanks, Lady,’ he said, ‘for letting me...’
Wencela took the babies onto the hearthrug.
‘You must thank my husband,’ Vornis replied sadly. ‘The suggestion was his.’
The butler came in with a loaded tray, followed by Engwe himself. Engwe was carrying a painted wooden duck. He handed it to Carahir, who accepted it with eagerness. The butler poured wine into silver wine-cups, offered one each to Vornis, Swin and Engwe, then placed a bowl of nuts and a bowl of light salt biscuits on a low table. The good wine did something to ease the conversation. Engwe and Swin discussed politics, Vornis now and then asking a question, and the talk was interesting: Engwe knew a lot about the affairs of the realm and seemed also to be genuinely interested in Swin’s observations. However, all was not well. Swin was distracted by his yearning for the children and by the torment of a guilt that his baptism had not fully assuaged; meanwhile he must attend to the talk and play his sociable part; even so, he was vaguely aware that the scene had a quality of falseness. The cosy fire, the sweet babies, the moderate, well-deserved luxuries of an aristocratic home, with his own presence as an honoured guest or friend of the family: these were elements of an arranged picture, an elaborate pretence. But the room was too large and there were too many sharp draughts.
Dinner was announced. Vornis kissed her children goodnight and Wencela took them away. The dining-room was lit by firelight and candle-light, the table sumptuously prepared. Engwe said a long elvish grace. Vornis took up a shining ladle and raised the lid of the soup-tureen, from which came an appetising smell. Then she raised her hand to her forehead.
‘Oh,’ she said faintly.
Engwe raised his eyebrows. ‘Is something wrong, my dear?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got one of my headaches,’ said she.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said he. ‘Has it been coming on for some time?’
‘Yes, it has.’ Her head drooped. ‘Perhaps you gentlemen will excuse me. I am sorry.’
‘Of course,’ said her husband, echoed by Swin. Engwe opened the door to allow her to leave. They sat down, and Engwe passed Swin the bread-basket. ‘I’m the host, then, it seems,’ he said. ‘This is evidently a mushroom soup. Rich fare for my poor invalid stomach, but may I offer you –? Do begin. One can hardly mention mushrooms without thinking of the unfortunate Punchkins. Still, I trust that there will always be plenty for them to gather.’
‘This planned invasion,’ said Swin, ‘do you really think it will come off?’
‘I see no reason why not,’ answered Lord Engwe. ‘The precedents, it is true, are not encouraging, but when we examine them closely no really formidable obstacles are to be discovered. The Punchkins are noted for their valour, for their skilled self-concealment and for their archery. Asuldo took no account of any of these. His first force, numerically insufficient by any sensible standard, was routed in a couple of days. His second force, a splendid and numerous array, ought to have succeeded, but was not well led. The Punchkins’ general, Ferumbras, proved himself as great a master of tactics as of strategy. The third expedition was more numerous still, and far better equipped, and would undoubtedly have succeeded... May I refill your bowl?’
‘Thank you,’ said Swin. ‘It’s most delicious.’
‘Or perhaps, if we should move this beside your place, you would be able to help yourself? Excellent.’
‘Still,’ said Swin, ‘Lord Ostendil’s considered as good a general as we’re likely to find.’
‘Nor was his object the invasion of their land. But you are right: we have to reckon with this recent defeat. Indeed, Their Reverences the Priests of the Temple have been doing so. Their conclusion is that the Punchkins have somehow got hold of a cut-price wizard, some withered survival of the previous Age, of inferior powers and incoherent purpose – one, to pursue the metaphor, who should long ago have been taken down from his shelf and sold. Such at least is my lord Ar’s conclusion, and believe me, my friend –’ Engwe leaned forward and tapped the table for emphasis – ‘I myself am no devotee of our religion, yet when the High Priest looks me in the eye, and tells me such and such a thing, I find it impossible to disbelieve him. Do you ride with the army?’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Swin. ‘What exactly did you mean, may I ask, when you said that you are no devotee? Are you like Melohtar in not believing in the Gods at all?
‘Lord Melohtar and I have not conversed upon this subject,’ said Engwe. ‘I should like to ascertain his opinions. Broadly speaking, you are correct; yet to the historian it is also a subject of absorbing interest: not only the religion of Dru as it has developed here, but also the cults and traditions that have sprung up in other countries. The druidical mysteries, for instance – these are, I dare say, familiar to you?’
‘Like you, my lord, I’m hardly a devotee,’ answered Swin. ‘And I can speak only of what I learned from our own druid.’
‘Yet pray indulge me: may I question you?’
‘Ask away.’
‘There are the two chief gods of the Nibyth, as I have heard: Orom the great hunter, and Metod, or Dryghten, Lord of the Underworld.’ At this point, servants came in to clear away the remains of the first course. The second was brought in. Saddle of mutton with capers was the chief dish. When Engwe had carved the joint, which he did skilfully, and both plates were well filled, he resumed the subject. ‘Orom corresponds to Oriom of our own pantheon, who, however, occupies a less prominent position. For the Nibyth he is the great Hunter, the god of blood, wine, ecstasy, fertility and sacrifice.’ ‘Also of healing,’ interjected Swin. ‘Of healing, good. And he is honoured as the founder of the order of the Druids, which, however, is dedicated not to him but to Metod. What is the reason for this, Mr. Gumasson? Can you shed light on this obscurity?’
His face had lit up with a childlike eagerness. It was a new aspect of him, a disarming one. Swin responded fairly readily, and there ensued an animated conversation which carried them comfortably through the next two courses. By the time the servants had cleared away the pudding and brought in the cheese, Swin had forgotten all his earlier misgivings and was feeling very contented; apart from a bit of stomach-ache. He must have eaten too much. But why not indulge himself after all? Even at the Palace – or rather, especially at the Palace, under the new regimen of Gauriel – meals had tended to be scanty and plain.
Or indigestion, perhaps.
Ow!
‘You passed through Tregg on your way to Dunbury, did you not?’ asked Engwe, cutting a sliver of red cheese with a small sharp knife. ‘What is the latest news from Turmal?’
Swin tried to think of what he had heard. Yes, there had been talk of Turmal at
The King’s Head. He pulled together a few threads of recollection, odds and ends, and plaited them into some sort of sensible answer to the question. It was difficult, but he managed it. There was sweat on his brow and he was feeling suddenly chilly.
‘The cessation of manufactures in Lhygost,’ commented Engwe, ‘is calamitous for us. I doubt if the dragon will ever be persuaded to return there. It may in the longer term be the worst consequence of the present crisis. Yet we should also bear in mind the economic effect upon Turmal herself, whose position is in some respects more precarious even than Thandor’s. Er, h’mm, is all well with you?’
‘No, my lord,’ said Swin evenly. ‘I’ve been taken ill. I need to use a privy at once.’
‘Dear me! Dear me!’ Engwe rang the bell. ‘I hope it is nothing serious. Vornis has these headaches – Ah, Theostan, show Mr. Gumasson to the, er, and see that he has all he needs.’
It was the same washroom that Swin had been in three hours earlier. He glanced round it wildly.
‘Something to be sick in!’
Theostan opened a cupboard and took out a large chamber-pot. ‘Thanks,’ gasped Swin. ‘Please leave me.’
He threw up. There was a succession of painful spasms. ‘What a pity,’ crossed his mind, ‘to lose such an excellent dinner.’ And then, ‘Whatever’s wrong with me?’ For not only his stomach, but his guts also were wrenching and clamouring. There was no time to do anything but place the vessel on the floor, half-full as it was, sit down on it and defecate. The combined stench was beyond anything, unspeakably sickening: he gagged and retched again, spewing feebly even while the horrible flux continued to pour out of his lower body. He was afflicted with more spasms, agonizingly racked, as if a rack-wheel were being turned in violent jerks. His heart stopped for about half a minute, then crashed and bounded against his ribs like a mad beast in a frail wooden cage. Struck rigid, he fell sideways on to the stone floor, upsetting the pot as he did so. Its contents flowed all around him and saturated his clothes. He lay on the floor, unable to move, trying to breathe. Time passed excruciatingly.
There was a gentle knock on the door. He heard Engwe’s voice: ‘How is it with you, Mr. Gumasson?’ His throat was cramped; he uttered a weak gurgle. The door opened. Engwe and Theostan were there. They both took a step back from the smell. Engwe’s manner was bland and regretful but his face was now twitching uncontrollably. Theostan was a strong churl, wide-built and heavy; his head was bald, his mouth a thin line between puffy cheeks. ‘Send all the servants to their rooms,’ Engwe commanded him. ‘Get them right out of the way and make sure nobody comes back here. When all’s quiet, bring our friend’s body along to the scullery and rinse it down. He ought to be dead soon. When he’s clean, bring him up to the library before you clean up here.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ said the butler.
Both of them disappeared. The door was closed and locked. Swin was left alone in the wet, stinking darkness. He continued to experience a certain lucidity of thought. Slowly the cramp wore off. He began to shudder, to try to move. But then the fits of vomiting and shitting returned. His suffering was, unbelievably, more intense than on the first time round. His frame locked itself a second time; he slipped and fell down into the mess, striking his head on the floor and losing consciousness for some unknown interval. Later he found himself being dragged by strong hands under his armpits. He slid out of the wash-room, down stone passages and painful bumpy stairs, into another place of cold and smelly darkness. Then came bucketfuls of water, the washing-down, causing a second return of the cramp. Presently heartbeats, breathing and thoughts were resumed. Theostan seized him by the upper arm and lifted him onto his shoulder – a better way of carrying him, but one that must have seemed too distasteful before. Without a pause the butler carried him back to the upper part of the house, and then into the library.
Another library. Another damned
library. It was a smallish room – perhaps not small by ordinary standards, but seeming so, nonetheless, to Swin after his long days in the great library of the Kings. It was lined with shelves filled with large volumes, the walls covered even more completely than at the Palace. To Swin it seemed that the malevolent books, full of spells and verbiage, had closed in on him and caught him at last.
Theostan dropped him into a tall black chair with arms and a flat back, a hard uncomfortable throne. Engwe held out a handful of belts, cords and straps. Swin was secured to the heavy chair by his wrists, ankles, waist and neck. Another strap was pressed into his mouth and then pulled back on both sides, gagging him and forcing his head up. As the bonds were made complete Swin retched again. A little thin sour liquid trickled over his taut lower lip and dribbled down his chin.
Ever since then (he says) he has associated libraries, and the smell of books, musty leather and parchment, with a sensation of horrible choking.
‘Excellent, Theostan,’ said Engwe. ‘Very well done. You shall have a bonus. You may leave us now. Come back in an hour.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ said Theostan again, and retired. The door closed heavily behind him.
Engwe touched a taper to a candle and used it to light the two large ornate lamps that stood on his writing-desk. Carefully he replaced the glass mantles and turned up the wicks. Bright golden light, radiance of the precious rock-blood, filled the room. He then sat down in his own chair. Joining his hands at the fingertips, he gazed at his captive.
‘The common-or-garden Dwarf-cap mushroom, also known as –’ and here he reeled off a list of learned botanical names; but the quizzical, professorial manner was belied by the furious working of his face – ‘is a wholesome plant, yet easily confused with the much rarer Death-cap mushroom –’ another display of erudition – ‘which is deadly if consumed in even small amounts. A pig-ignorant barbarian will hardly have had opportunity to inform himself that a single ounce of the Death-caps is normally fatal to an adult human. After severe recurrent cramps, convulsions and sickness such as you have experienced, the victim faints into a deep lapse of awareness from which there is no recovery. Death may be expected from one to six hours after the eating of the mushroom.’
He paused, as if expecting Swin to reply. Swin was not able to say anything; in his mind, however, the words of a retort were promptly assembled:
We know all about the dwarfcaps and the deathcaps, you nasty murderous little gnome! They grow in the woods and meadows around Garholt, along with many other interesting toadstools and fungi! What I didn’t expect, being the mere barbarian that I am, ignorant and guileless, was to have them served up to me on purpose! ‘It would have been a sad mishap if you had died as a result of some such error; but an understandable one. The Death-caps, as I said, are rare. But you haven’t died, and I fancy you’re not going to. Actually there were half a pound of ’em in that soup, and you drank the lot. Enough to kill eight men, Mr. Gumasson! What a strong constitution you must have! Well now, time’s getting on, and it looks as if we may have to find some other way of dispatching you. We’ll give you another hour, just to ascertain, and then decide. Does that sound fair? I’ve some writing to finish, but just mention,’ he said, ending on a courteous note, ‘if there’s anything you require.’
He turned over a bronze hourglass. The sand began to run through. He picked up a sharpened quill, dipped it at the inkstand and began to write. He wrote steadily, now and then turning a page or consulting another volume. The scratching of the pen was the only sound in the room.
Swin sat still, perforce enduring his torments of body and mind. Occasionally he gave a violent shiver. Unanswerable question passed through his mind in a slow dreary procession, and the cold water dripped out of his clothes, and a tear or two stole down his cheeks. The noise of the quill seemed to get louder and louder in the silence. At last Swin noticed that it was not seeming to do so, but actually doing so. Engwe was writing faster and faster, flicking blots onto the page. His face was contorted. The sands of expectation were running out. While the level in the topmost bulb was still visible, the door opened and Theostan returned. He stood silently, waiting. There was a last short interval of violent scribbling. Engwe’s pen split and he threw it down.
‘A small point has occurred to me,’ he said in an unsteady tone. ‘Possibly not such a small point either, Mr. Gumasson; one at any rate worth checking. The comparative anatomy of races well merits the glance of an historian.’ He took up two more of the things on the desk-top. One was a thin, glittering dagger that looked extremely sharp. With a gulp, Swin contemplated his approaching death. But stabbing him did not seem to be Engwe’s immediate purpose. The blade was not thrust, but precisely applied to his lower garments. It cut and cut, never nicking Swin’s skin, until his genitals were revealed. Swin then found himself, with an amazed astonishment that almost displaced his grief and fear, being measured; for the other thing that Engwe had picked up was a ruler. The touch of his fingers was dry and clinical, despite the perversion of lust that must have been present in some form. ‘Most interesting,’ he said. ‘Most – ah – enviable. The folklore is not without some foundation of truth, I see. Excuse me, gentlemen, while I make a note of it.’
He went back to his desk. He added something to what he had been writing. He then snapped out of his dream. He looked at Swin with unconcealed hatred for the first time, and Swin realised that the end really had come at last.
‘Not an easy man to kill, are you, Swine Gumasson? Dragons can’t do it, bandits can’t do it, poison can’t do it; poor old Theostan and his men couldn’t manage it either! But let us not allow ourselves to be discouraged: let us try once more! Wouldn’t you agree, Theostan, that choking on vomit is a reasonably likely consequence of eating Death-caps?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘So let us asphyxiate the swine. You tip the chair over.’
‘My lord?’
Obeying Engwe’s orders, Theostan tilted back the chair and lowered it down to the floor. Swin was now lying on his back, his legs raised and still bound to the chair-legs. Engwe handed Theostan a large heavy cushion. The cushion was placed over Swin’s face and pressed down. Breathing ceased, and then the pressure became intolerable. He could not turn his head. He guessed that either Theostan or Engwe was standing on his face. After a few moments he saw, or else somehow otherwise perceived a white flash that seemed to reach his eyes through the crushing darkness. At once the weight was taken away. There was also a loud thud which seemed to come from above, followed by a fall and a tumbling as of various heavy objects. Steps came up to him, and the cushion was removed. There was Melohtar’s face, gazing into his, upside down but full of anguished concern. Swin fainted. He thus missed seeing, very much to his subsequent regret, the events that followed immediately.
Melohtar and Erum, having tacitly demarcated those parts of Swin’s personality which either of them might claim as lying within his own sphere of influence, had lately been enjoying a more comfortable friendship. Melohtar found time, now and then, to exchange a few words with Erum, for there was still much in their shared experience that required to be talked over. (And is that not interesting? Swin becomes weak and depressed, and these two are able to be friends again.) They had been enjoying a cup of wine late in the evening, unaware of Swin’s absence, when an urgent message for Lord Melohtar had been announced. The messenger, being a former member of the Household, had known how to surmount the difficulties of getting a word to the Prince Consort at that hour. He and Erum at once summoned half-a-dozen guards and hastened to the house of the Lord Secretary – bitterly reproaching themselves, as they ran, for not having seen sooner what was now obvious. An agitated Lady Vornis met them in the garden, let them in through the back door and showed them to Engwe’s library. A novice murderer, Engwe had believed himself safe from intrusion and had set no guards; or perhaps Theostan had been his only reliable henchman.
The library was well lighted, as has been described; even so, the coming of Erumardil was like the incoming of a sudden light into a dark place. He lifted up his hand and from it there shot a flare of white brilliance, a shaft that smote Theostan in the chest, carrying him upwards and backwards and off his feet, hurling him against the wall beyond. He crashed to the floor, already dead; a section of the book-case leaned forward, not collapsing but evacuating its contents on top of his body. This act of retribution, powerful as it was, did not satisfy the divine anger of Erumardil. While Melohtar hurried over to Swin and lifted the cushion from his face, saving his life at the last moment, Erum wheeled round, his arm still outstretched, to confront the miserable Engwe. The latter was backing away, gasping and jerking, clutching his chin in one clawlike hand and frantically gnawing on all four fingernails at once. ‘Mercy,’ he moaned indistinctly, and mercy of a sort he then obtained; for the second shaft of light that issued from Erum’s hand was edged with tiny fleeting squiggles of many-coloured light, reminiscent of the Witch’s magical powder. They flew towards Engwe, swirling about him, wrapping and containing him, forming a large cluster, a cloud of scintillating points. Something small and dark was in the midst of this cloud. The bright points burnt out and vanished. For the briefest of intervals the small dark thing remained suspended in the air. Then it fell. It hit the coloured tiles with a quiet little thump. Apart from Swin, all present saw what it was: Melohtar, Erumardil, Vornis, Wencela and the four palace guards saw the black lizardlike creature, six inches long, that lay still for a few seconds, as if stunned, and then very quickly scuttled over the patterned red-and-yellow tiles, homing in with immediate newfound instinct on a tiny crevice between two lengths of the book-cases. It ran into the little dark hole; its flicking tail remained visible for a split-second longer; and then it was gone.
So passed Lord Engwe Parmandur, Secretary of the King’s Council and official Historian of the Northern Realm. His fate was to be other than Princess Gauriel’s, for he was never seen again.
In awe, yet smiling or restraining smiles, the onlookers’ faces were turned back to Erum. Small and meek he appeared now, swaying a little on his feet as he breathed out a long sigh. The power that had been in him was spent. ‘Well,’ he said mildly, ‘that seems to get easier and easier. But how is our friend?’
Swin revived and started begging for water. Everyone bestirred themselves. Melohtar hastily cut through the bonds, and Wencela flew to the kitchen. A minute later Swin was sitting up on the floor, his body supported by Melohtar’s arm, his loins covered by Melohtar’s cloak. He slurped at the drinking-bowl that Wencela held to his lips. He drank and swallowed, drank and swallowed. An expression of pain came over his face. He retched, and back came most of the water he had just drunk. Wencela gently mopped him with a towel. She offered him the bowl again. He drank more moderately. A thought seemed to strike him. He lifted up his head and gazed at the books.
Now only one of those present, Vornis, had any idea at all about the trap that had been set for him, and no-one knew anything about the ordeal he had undergone. They were waiting to be told, waiting for the moment when he should choose to speak. This anticipation lent an extra impressiveness, the fascination of a mystery, to his next actions. Deadly pale, he freed himself from Melohtar’s hold and ponderously got up on his feet. He lurched, but did not fall. His eyes were narowed, his mouth bitterly compressed; he was making a superhuman effort. His breeches, which had been cut through, fell down and gathered themselves about his knees. The lower half of his boy was now bare, both in front and in the rear. This happening, which would have been laughable enough at any other time, detracted from his dignity by not one whit. Nor, among those who watched him, did any at all, either man or woman, feel the least touch of embarrassment. Transfixed, on the contrary, with pitying wonder, they saw him stagger up to the large desk and lean on it with one arm. With his left arm he reached for the nearer lamp. He lifted the hot glass mantle. He dropped it with a wince, and it smashed. He leaned forward a little more and blew out the flame. Then he lifted the lamp by its base and turned away from the table.
Moving now a little more easily, he shuffled across the floor to the untidy pile of books, from which protruded the feet and legs of Theostan. Swin inverted the lamp and tried to shake it over the pile. A few drops of oil fell. Then, with sudden discernment, he closed his hand over the hot wick-holder and unscrewed it. The pain of the burning was at that moment perhaps the least of his tortures. The wick-holder being off, and the wet wick taken out, it was simple for him to pour out all the rock-oil, about half a pint, which was in the lamp’s reservoir. The golden stream splashed over the sprawling, defenceless tomes, and the room was filled with its pungent smell.
‘Swin, dear friend –’ Melohtar’s voice was very calm, very kind – ‘what are you doing?’
Swin took no notice of the question. He sniffed the vapour of the rock-oil. His limbs loosened, his head tilted back and he fell to the floor in a half-faint. He did not lose consciousness. He raised himself up on his hands, took a few crawling paces and looked about him. Six yards away from him a pair of candles was burning on a polished wooden standard. He crawled towards it.
‘Swin: what are you doing?’
He was reaching for the standard, using it as a pole to pull himself up. It wobbled on its base. He was no longer able to stand upright. His hand shook wildly as he reached for one of the candles. He plucked the candle out of its socket. There was a little shower of wax. He fell back to the floor, this time in a controlled collapse, coming down on his elbows. The candle stayed alight in his hand.
He set off, crawling on his knees and elbows, carrying the flame back to the flammable pile of books.
‘No, my friend, no, my friend,
no,’ said Melohtar, moving across the room to stand in Swin’s path.
‘Yes,’ whispered Swin, ‘let me. Those things are poison.’
Melohtar squatted down on his heels. ‘No, truly they are not,’ he said earnestly. ‘They are an inheritance of priceless treasures. They are the true wealth of this Kingdom. Do you blame the gold for the evil of the creature that happens to have hoarded it? Please let me put out your candle.’
‘No,’ said Swin, ‘I’ll burn them.’
‘Swin, you cannot.’
‘I can!’
‘I say, then, that you
shall not.’
Fastidiously Melohtar licked the tips of his thumb and forefinger, reached for the flame and pinched it out. Swin’s eyes flashed. He glared at Melohtar, trying to kneel up, uttering incoherent words. Melohtar frowned. But Swin’s strength was at an end at last, and he sank down in a swoon.
The guards and Vornis’s servants made a stretcher for him, and on this, with considerable difficulty, he was carried back to the Palace. Erumardil watched over this progress, and put him to bed, and sat by his bedside, and gave him soothing drinks, and consoled him whenever he cried out in terror; for there were many nightmares and phantasms in Swin’s brain that night, the after-effects of his poisoning.
But Melohtar remained in the house of Engwe. He said that he himself desired to put the threatened books back in their proper places. He did make a start on this task, but when Vornis and her people came back to remove the body of Theostan they found it still half-buried in books, with Melohtar sitting behind the desk in Engwe’s own seat. He had read
Engwe’s last writing, and now he sat lost in thought; and the sombre frown had darkened on his face.