Shimrod pushed through the iron gate and entered the fore court. The gryphs glared hot-eyed over their pronged shoulders. Each ordered the other to rise up and kill Shimrod; each demurred. "Do you take me for a fool?" demanded Vuwas. "In my absence, you would make three illicit moves and no doubt abuse my pieces. It is you who must do your duty, and at this very moment."
"Not I!" said the moss-green Vus. "Your remarks merely indicate what you yourself have in mind. While I killed this sheep-faced fool, you would push my reignet into limbo and baffle my darkdog into the corner."
Vuwas growled to Shimrod over his shoulder: "Go away; it is simpler for everyone. We avoid the trouble of killing you, and you need not worry about arranging your affairs."
"Out of the question," said Shimrod. "I am here on important business. Do you not recognize me? I am Murgen's scion Shimrod."
"We remember nothing," grunted Vuwas. "One earthling looks much like another."
Vus pointed to the ground. "Wait where you stand until we finish our game. This is a critical juncture!"
Shimrod sauntered over to inspect the chessboard. The gryphs paid him no heed.
"Ludicrous," said Shimrod after a moment.
"Hist!" snarled Vuwas, the maroon-red gryph. "We will tolerate no interference!"
Vus looked around challengingly: "Do you intend insult? If so, we will tear you limb from limb on the spot!"
Shimrod asked: "Can a cow be insulted by the word ‘bovine'? Can a bird be insulted by the word ‘flighty'? Can a pair of bumbling mooncalves be insulted by the word ‘ludicrous'?"
Vuwas spoke sharply: "Your hints are not clear. What are you trying to tell us?"
"Simply that either of you could win the game with a single move."
The gryphs glumly examined the board. "How so?" asked Vus.
"In your case, you need only conquer this bezander with your caitiff, then march the arch-priestess forward to confront the serpent, and the game is yours."
"Never mind all that!" snapped Vuwas. "How might I win?"
"Is it not obvious? These mordykes stand in your way. Strike them aside with your ghost, like this, whereupon your caitiffs have the freedom of the board."
"Ingenious," said Vus the mottled green gryph. "Those moves, however, are considered improper on the world Pharsad. Further, you have called the pieces by their wrong names, and also you have disarranged the board!"
"No matter," said Shimrod. "Simply replay the game, and now I must be on my way."
"Not so fast!" cried out Vuwas. "There is still a small task to be accomplished!"
"We were not born yesterday," stated Vus. "Prepare for death."
Shimrod put the reed baskets on the table. Vuwas the dark red gryph asked suspiciously: "What is in the baskets?"
"They contain honeycakes," said Shimrod. "One of the cakes is somewhat larger and more tasty then the other."
"Aha!" said Vus. "Which is which?"
"You must open the baskets," said Shimrod. "The larger cake is for whichever of you is the most deserving."
"Indeed!"
Shimrod sauntered off across the forecourt. For a moment there was silence behind him, then a mutter, then a sharp remark, an equally sharp retort, followed by a sudden outburst of horrid snarls, bellows, thuds and tearing sounds.
Traversing the forecourt, Shimrod climbed three steps to a stone porch. Stone columns framed an alcove and a ponderous black iron door, twice his height and wider than his arms could span. Black iron faces looked through festoons of black iron vines; black iron eyes watched Shimrod with sardonic curiosity. Shimrod touched a stud; the door swung open to the grinding of iron on iron. He stepped through the opening, into a high-ceilinged entry hail. To right and left pedestals supported a pair of stone statues, of exaggerated attenuation, robed and cowled so that the gaunt faces remained in shadow. No servitor appeared; Shimrod expected none. Murgen's servitors were more often than not invisible.
The way was familiar to Shimrod. He passed through the entry hall into a long gallery. At regular intervals, tail portals opened into chambers serving a variety of functions. There was no one to be seen nor any sound to be heard; an almost unnatural stillness held Swer Smod.
Shimrod walked along the gallery without haste, looking into the chambers on either side to discover what changes had been made since his last visit. Often the chambers were dark, and usually empty. Some served conventional purposes; others were dedicated to a use less ordinary. In one of these chambers Shimrod discovered a tall woman standing before an easel, back turned to the doorway. She wore a long gown of gray-blue linen; cloud-white hair was gathered at the nape of her neck by a ribbon, then hung down her back. The easel supported a panel; using brushes and pigments from a dozen clay pots, the woman worked to create an image on the surface of the panel.
Shimrod watched a moment, but could not clearly define the nature of the image. He entered the chamber, that he might observe at closer range and perhaps with better understanding, but had no great success. The pigments looked to be an identical heavy black, allowing the woman small scope for contrast, or so it seemed to Shimrod. He moved a step closer, then another. At last he was able to perceive that each pigment, anomalous and strange to his eyes, quivered with a particular subtle luster unique to itself. He studied the panel; the shapes formed by the black oozes swam before his vision; neither their definition nor their pattern were at all obvious.
The woman turned her head; with blank white eyes she looked at Shimrod. Her expression remained vague; Shimrod was not sure that she saw him, but it could not be that she was blind! The case would be self-contradictory!
Shimrod smiled politely. "It is an interesting work that you do," he said. "The composition, however, is not quite clear to me."
The woman made no response, and Shimrod wondered if she might also be deaf. In a somber mood he left the chamber and continued along the gallery to the Great Hall. Again, no foot man or other servitor stood on hand to announce him; Shimrod passed through the portal, into a chamber so high that the ceiling was lost among the shadows. A line of narrow windows halfway down one of the walls admitted pale light from the north; flames in the fireplace provided a more cheerful illumination. The walls were panelled with oak but bare of decoration. A heavy table occupied the center of the room. Cabinets along the far wall displayed books, curios and miscellaneous oddments; to the side of the mantelpiece a glass globe, charged with glowing green plasma, hung by a silver wire from the ceiling; within huddled the curled skeleton of a weasel, skull peering through high haunches.
Murgen stood by the table, looking down into the fire: a man of early maturity, well-proportioned but of no particular distinction. Such was his ordinary semblance, in which he felt most comfortable. He acknowledged Shimrod's presence with a glance and casual wave of the hand.
"Sit," said Murgen. "I am glad that you are here; in fact, I was about to summon you, that you might deal with a moth."
Shimrod seated himself by the fire. He looked around the chamber. "I am here, but I see no moth."
"It has disappeared," said Murgen. "How was your journey?"
"Well enough. I came by way of Castle Sarris and Lyonesse Town, in company with Prince Dhrun."
Murgen settled into a chair beside Shimrod. "Will you eat or drink?"
"A goblet of wine might calm my nerves. Your devils are more horrid than ever. You must curb their truculence."
Murgen made an indifferent gesture. "They serve their purpose."
"Far too well, in my opinion," said Shimrod. "Should one of your honoured guests be late in arrival, do not be offended; it is likely that the devils have torn him to bits."