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Chapter Six
VINYA-RUMINAS
Next morning Swin and the Punchkins all awoke somewhat late, and well refreshed after their night’s rest. They kicked off their dewy blankets and looked with pleasure at the not-so-distant prospect of the great City. Towers and battlements, roofs and dome shone and glinted, reflecting the light of the risen sun. Swin stripped off his clothes and plunged into the cold river. Only Fortinbras dared to follow him. Swin emerged two hundred yards downstream and ran back to the camp; on the way a thought seemed to strike him: he stopped and looked at the river, his stance expressing uncertainty or puzzlement. He walked slowly back to the camp, broad-chested and narrow-hipped, oblivious of the cold spring breeze and the river water that was still dripping off him. Still naked, he squatted down by the ashes of the camp-fire. The smooth curves of his back and arm gleamed as he reached forward to pick up the frying-pan. He sniffed at it.
‘Fish,’ he said. ‘We had fish for supper last night, didn’t we?’
‘Yes,’ said the Punchkins.
‘I caught them in the river.’
‘That’s right, old boy,’ said Mr. Proudfoot.
‘The river,’ agreed Waltrot, combing his wiry dark hair. His eye met Swin’s in a glance of shared perplexity. But none of the others seemed to have noticed anything amiss; indeed, nothing was amiss. Fortinbras’s wounded cheek had settled down to heal well, and Waltrot’s fever had passed. Only Aldred’s hand, where he had been shot, was still tender and badly swollen. But he could hold the reins of his pony with the other hand while Waltrot continued to ride in the cart. And so they covered the last few miles to Vinya-Ruminas.
But now Aldred, the one who is writing this history, has a sense of inadequacy, and his pen falters. Momentous things happened during the Company’s sojourn in the great City; he has not yet begun the most important part of his narrative; he should press on. However, it seems appropriate to pause here, to give some account of first impressions. Yet he remembers so much, so many details of that first overwhelming hour, that he would write pages and pages in doing justice to the Punchkins’ and also Swin’s astonishment, excitement, bewilderment and even nausea – so much did Ruminas affect them like an overload, an inundation of the senses. What would the reader have? They passed along the magnificent stone street that led into Treatygate West, entered the City an hour before noon, then made their slow and wandering way to the sign of the Dragon’s Head in Oldgarth Street, frequently asking directions of passers-by. They met the innkeeper, Mr. Bentliman Gough, who looked exactly like his twin brother in Tregg, had no difficulty in getting rooms, and at two o’clock were sitting down to a late lunch. By then, however, it seemed as if many hours had gone past.
The great grey square-capped pillars, set into the massive city wall, the enormous black grilles of cunningly-wrought iron, the quarter-circles of the grooves for the gate-wheels sunk into the pavements; the wheels of carts, drays, wagons, coaches, carriages of all kinds, the leather-shod feet, the clip-clopping hooves of many horses and donkeys, the flat masses and piles of horse-dung smeared on the flat stones, and the dog-shit in gutters, and the many traces of other animals, and the nutshells and peel and papers and swept-up refuse in corners, and the flies, and the dust, and the shadows, and the bright light, and the blue sky, and the glitter of windows and gilt spikes and spires and finials, and always the great golden dome towering high above all. And the noise, the multitudinous clatter and rumble of wheels and hooves, and the chatter of tongues, and always the farther sound of the City itself like a deep distant throbbing roar. And the persistent smell of stale smoke, and the crowded pavements, and the unwashed people, and the braziers, and the smell of hot chestnuts; and the water-sellers, and the sweet-sellers, and the markets, and the produce laid out on endless stalls: great banks of greens and cabbages and purple cabbage-flowers, forests of salt pork and venison, gardens of shining silver fish. And then the great arcades and buildings, the columns and pediments, the cliff-faces of long, high-stacked windows, and the immense thoroughfare of the Elessarmen with its giant statuary at which the Punchkins gaped in wonder, and the narrow lanes and alleys leading off from the main streets, crammed with taverns and factories and every kind of fascinating shop: jewellers, toymakers, instrument-makers, glassblowers, bookbinders, sellers of parchments, paper scrolls and codex books, which last almost haled Aldred’s heart from his body as he rode along. And the people again, the heavy boots and baskets, the constant turning of heads and the occasional collision; and the resplendent guards outside the King’s palace with their plumes and spears, the servants in livery, the peasants in their dark clothes, the limbless beggars lying around like unvalued but usable rubbish, the streetwalkers who so shocked poor Egwise with their painted smiles and jingling ornaments, and the proud city guards directing the traffic, and the artisans and craftsmen in their drab grey and blue, and the priests with their round hats, and the smart townswomen, and the drunken carters, and the great lord riding past in a painted coach, and the town crier with his bell and tricorn hat, and the bells of the City, and the pigeons, and the starlings, and the flocks of sparrows, and the glorious public gardens, and at last the taverns along Oldgarth Street, the swinging signs and the waiters wiping tables, and the welcoming smell of roast meat, and the green dragon-mask fixed over one of the doorways, which Swin didn’t like at all.
‘Is that it?’
‘The Dragon’s Head,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, half dazed. ‘Yes. Yes, here we are.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Swin said. ‘Let’s find another one.’
‘Why? For Heaven’s sake, let’s go in,’ said Fortinbras impatiently.
‘I don’t like masks. They frighten me.’
The dragon-mask was the inn-sign. It was solid and well-made, and probably quite lifelike if a little weathered, with the red and green paint having started to peel off. It was fixed to the brick wall by two large bolts through its ears. The eyes were empty slits. Swin was looking at them apprehensively. ‘It’s weird,’ he said. ‘Unlucky.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, ‘we have much appreciated you being with us, we are truly grateful and we would regret to lose you, but I think I speak on behalf of all this Company when I pronounce that this establishment looks like a perfectly reasonable inn; and it was recommended to us, and we are all feeling exhausted and have no mind to go looking for another, although there are indeed others close at hand, which you may well prefer for yourself. Come on in, my friends.’
With that he strode forward through the dark doorway. The other Punchkins followed. Swin glanced nervously up and down the street, and at the cart with its morose occupant, and then at the beggars who had followed along. He had had to take in too much, as has been said; his instincts and his responses had become confused. He remained there irresolutely, guarding the horse and the ponies, which he thought might be stolen if left unattended for a single second. Presently he heard voices, and the Punchkins came out again, talking with the innkeeper.
‘No, no, my Dwarves,’ said Mr. Bentliman Gough, Goodwort’s twin brother, ‘your gold’s all right and that’s what matters. Lunch and rooms for five Dwarves and a barbarian hero, certainly, as long as he behaves himself, stabling for their beasts, yes of course, food and drink as soon as possible, naturally; but secure accommodation for a forest bandit I cannot provide. Take him to the guard-house.’
‘Where’s that?’ asked Fortinbras. ‘And we’re Punchkins, sir, if you please, not Dwarves. And this is Mr. Swin Guma’s son, our friend.’
‘High,’ said the innkeeper, or seemed to say. ‘On down the street, second right, right again and you’re in Goldstream Square with the guard-house in front of you.’
‘All right, I’ll take him,’ said Swin. ‘There’s no reason for anyone else to go.’ There was a tense awkward pause; no-one knew why it had happened, nor how to break it, until Swin turned and said, ‘Right, you, Melda, on your feet.’
The prisoner scrambled out of the cart. He was very pale, and he blinked and cringed in the sunlight; but there was a perceptible glitter in his eye. Swin tapped his sword-pommel threateningly, and the two set off, Swin holding Melda’s rope.
Fortinbras, Waltrot and Mr. Proudfoot went back inside with the innkeeper, while Tim and Aldred led the animals down the side-passage that was the mews of the street. The smell of the stables, at least, was just the same as at home, and the ostlers were friendly. Having seen to the horse and ponies and stowed the cart in a large shed, the two then hurried back to wash and then to join the others. The dining-room of the inn was low and somewhat dark, but it gave on to a verandah along one side of the inn-yard. Bright daffodils were growing in long boxes below the windows, and the curtains were crimson velvet, and for the moment, while the travellers were quenching their thirst with mugs of the innkeeper’s best, all was quiet and peaceful. Then Mr. Gough came hastening back, holding his head with one hand and looking more perturbed than before.
‘Mr. Proudfoot! Mr. Dyer! Mr. Sherling! What have you been doing? I’ve got half the beggars in town sitting on my doorstep!’
‘Pray be seated,’ responded Mr. Proudfoot, ‘and explain to us what the matter is.’
Bentliman Gough grabbed a stool and sat down at their table. ‘Why is all the scum of the streets washed up outside, tell me? What have you been doing to the beggars?’
‘Why, nothing,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘I merely bestowed a few gold pieces among them, on our way here, as I suppose the custom is in your town, and as they seemed to expect. They certainly look as if they need some charity.’
‘Gold pieces. I see,’ said the innkeeper heavily. ‘Well, Mr. Proudfoot, Egwise, is it? Well, Egwise, let me recommend to you, not to do that. They all of ’em know each other, d’you see? If you want to be followed by every wretched loafer, every drunken fellow that lacks the price of a pint – which means about a tenth of the City – then just go on handing out the gold coins, all right, very well, but don’t stay here at the Dragon! I don’t know what your business is, and it’s not for me to judge the Dwarves’ ways; you must have your own charity and your own poor-laws –’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, interrupting: ‘Permit me to inform you once again that we are not Dwarves. We are Punchkins of the King’s Demesne.’
‘The Demesne? Oh, would that be…Punchkinland?’
‘It would, although we prefer the other name.’
‘Well, there’s a thing now! Punchkins! Hundreds of years it is, since they’ve been seen in our City! So then, let me try a few guesses. You don’t have beggars in your land, am I right?’
‘Very few,’ said Mr. Proudfoot.
‘And your custom is to treat ’em generous, I don’t doubt… See here now, Egwise, I don’t need to know your purpose here, but whatever it is, it might possibly benefit from some guidance as to the folk-ways of this fair City of ours. Now I’m a busy man, but just one piece of your gold would buy a couple of hours of my time; just supposing any questions should arise in your minds. Any little problems. Any advice I can give. Now don’t get up: I’ll shoo away the riff-raff. Lunch in ten minutes.’
He bustled out, leaving the five companions in thoughtful silence. They heard him shouting loudly from the front parlour. Then peace returned. Mrs. Gough, plump and comely, came in with plates and knives and forks, and soon a large platter of steaks and chops and sausages was set on the table. The Punchkins devoured the food speedily, finding it pleasant but insubstantial, and asked for the same again. After the disbelieving Mrs. Gough had supplied a fourth round, and a third of beer, the Punchkins began to discuss plans. Swin came back into their thoughts, and they wondered what was keeping him.
But they all felt they needed a quiet space of time in which to digest their meal and the multitudinousness of the City; and so it was past four o’clock in the afternoon when four of them re-emerged from the front doorway of The Dragon’s Head. Waltrot, who was still in some pain, had been left behind in case Swin should return. They had changed out of their travel-stained clothes and donned the garb that the Demesne used on very formal occasions: dark cloaks, dark broadcloth tunics with silver buttons, bright neckerchiefs, dark breeches and wide-brimmed high-crowned hats. Their polished boots were topped with rolls of cloth, matching the red or blue of their neck-cloths; and the formal hats had small tinkling bells on, hanging all round the brims; the Punchkins thought this made a solemn but agreeable impression. They now attracted much more attention from passers-by than they had done earlier. There were many amused smiles and, alas, more than a few jeers. On the other hand the four now had more self-possession. They gave no more money to beggars, and found Goldstream Square without difficulty. They planned to call at the guard-house and ask about Swin before proceeding to the royal palace. Mr. Proudfoot, who carried a large black satchel, thought it likeliest that Swin had gone on to the house of his friend, Lord Melohtar. However, as he cautioned the others, the King might very well be occupied that evening, so they must not be too disappointed if the Embassy’s business had to be deferred until the morrow.
They climbed up the broad grey steps of a colonnaded building. Two guards stood before the main door, holding long spears. They probably mistook the Punchkins for children at first; no doubt it was hard, from above, to see much below the wide hats. Be that as it might, both guards started violently when Mr. Proudfoot addressed them in his confident, expansive tones, and one dropped his spear.
‘Good afternoon, my man,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘We are Punchkins from Kingsdemesne, who are come on an embassy to the King. At the moment, however, we seek a friend of ours, one Swin, or Eofor Guma’s son to give him his right name. He left us on an errand to this guard-house, intending to entrust to the process of your law a certain felon whom we captured on our way hither.’
The guard who had dropped his spear let out a loud guffaw. He then collapsed and sat down against the plinth of a column, laughing helplessly. The other guard had more of soldierly self-control, or perhaps his emotion was sheer astonishment rather than hilarity. He kept his spear levelled in the correct position of challenge, though its point made large wandering circles and figures. Glancing over their shoulders, Fortinbras and Tim noticed that a small crowd was watching them from the bottom of the steps. The second guard cleared his throat several times, and at last was able to reply with the requisite gruffness:
‘Hah. Yes. H’m. Well, Mr. Punchkin, sir, this ain’t the guard-house. That is.’ He pointed out a dingy ill-favoured building at the opposite corner of the square. In the middle of the pavement before it stood a short pillar, on which stood a tarnished gilt image, an eagle with folded wings. ‘This here is the City Court of Justice. But as it happens you’ve come to the right place. Your friend’s been brought here. In you all go, then, lads.’
The Punchkins, though quite free from vanity or undue sense of personal importance, had begun to feel themselves subject to hurtful ridicule. They were glad to pass in through the doors. Only Mr. Proudfoot lingered behind.
‘But what is this place?’ he enquired. ‘Why is our friend here?’
‘What, don’t you know?’ was the reponse. ‘He’s up before the Lady Magistrate. On trial for murder. Go on in, sir.’
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