Shimrod cut loose the rings, washed them well, tucked them into his pouch and returned to sleep.
In the morning Shimrod reduced the hut and proceeded along the trail, which stopped short on the banks of the River Tway; Shimrod crossed at a single bound. The trail continued beside the river, which at intervals widened into placid ponds reflecting weeping willows and reeds. Then the river swerved south and the trail once more north.
Two hours into the afternoon he arrived at the iron post which marked that intersection known as Twitten's Corner. A sign, The Laughing Sun and The Crying Moon hung at the door of a long low inn, constructed of rough-hewn timber. Directly below the sign a heavy door bound with iron clasps opened into the common-room of the inn.
Entering, Shimrod saw tables and benches to the left side, a counter to the right. Here worked a tall narrow-faced youth with white hair and silver eyes, and—so Shimrod surmised—a proportion of halfling blood in his veins.
Shimrod approached the counter. The youth came to serve him.
"Sir?"
"I wish accommodation, if such is available."
"I believe that we are full, sir, owing to the fair; but you had best ask of Hockshank the innkeeper. I am the pot-boy and lack all authority."
"Be so good, then, as to summon Hockshank."
A voice spoke: "Who pronounces my name?"
From the kitchen came a man of heavy shoulders, short legs and no perceptible neck. Thick hair with much the look of old thatch covered the dome of his head; golden eyes and pointed ears again indicated halfling blood.
Shimrod responded: "I spoke your name, sir. I wish accommodation, but I understand that you may be full."
"That is more or less true. Usually I can supply all grades of accommodation, at varying prices, but now the choice is limited.
What did you have in mind?"
"I would hope for a chamber clean and airy, without insect population, a comfortable bed, good food and low to moderate rates."
Hockshank rubbed his chin. "This morning one of my guests was stung by a brass-horned natrid. He became uneasy and ran off down the West Road without settling his account. I can offer you his chamber, along with good food, at moderate cost. Or you may share a stall with the natrid for a lesser sum."
"I prefer the room," said Shimrod.
"That would be my own choice," said Hockshank. "This way, then."
He led Shimrod to a chamber which Shimrod found adequate to his needs.
Hockshank said, "You speak with a good voice and carry yourself like a gentleman; still, I detect about you the odor of magic."
"It emanates, perhaps, from these rings."
"Interesting!" said Hockshank. "For such rings I will trade you a high-spirited black unicorn. Some say that only a virgin may ride this creature, but never believe it. What does a unicorn care about chastity? Even were he so nice, how would he make his findings? Would maidens be apt to display the evidence so readily?
I think not. We may dismiss the concept as an engaging fable, but no more."
"In any case, I need no unicorn."
Hockshank, disappointed, took his departure. "
Shimrod shortly returned to the common-room, where He took a leisurely supper. Other visitors to the Goblins Fair sat in small groups discussing their wares and transacting business. Little conviviality was evident; there was no hearty tossing back of beer, nor jests called across the room. Rather, the patrons bent low over their tables muttering and whispering, with suspicious glances darted to the side. Heads jerked back in outrage; eyeballs rolled toward the ceiling. There were quivering fists, sudden indrawn breaths, sibilant exclamations at prices considered excessive. These were dealers in amulets, talismans, effectuaries, curios and oddments, of value real or purported. Two wore the blue and white striped robes of Mauretania, another the coarse tunic of Ireland. Several used the flat accents of Ar-morica and one goldenhaired man with blue eyes and blunt features might have been a Lombard or an Eastern Goth. A certain number displayed the signals of halfling blood: pointed ears, eyes of odd color, extra fingers.
Few women were present, and none resembled the maiden Shimrod had come to meet.
Shimrod finished his supper, then went to his chamber where he slept undisturbed the night through.
In the morning Shimrod breakfasted upon apricots, bread and bacon, then sauntered without haste to the meadow behind the inn, which was already enclosed within a ring of booths.
For an hour Shimrod strolled here and there, then seated himself on a bench between a cage of beautiful young hobgoblins with green wings, and a vendor of aphrodisiacs.
The day passed without notable event; Shimrod returned to the inn.
The next day also was spent in vain, though the fair had reached its peak of activity. Shimrod waited without impatience; by the very nature of such affairs, the maiden would delay her appearance until Shimrod's restlessness had eroded his prudence—if indeed she elected to appear at all.
Midway through the afternoon of the third day, the maiden entered the clearing. She wore a long black cloak flared over a pale tan gown. The hood was thrown back to reveal a circlet of white and purple violets around her black hair. She looked about the meadow in a frowning reverie, as if wondering why she had come. Her gaze fell upon Shimrod, passed him by, then dubiously returned.
Shimrod rose to his feet and approached her. He spoke in a gentle voice: "Dream-maiden, I am here."
Sidelong, over her shoulder, she watched him approach, smiling her half-smile. Slowly she turned to face him. She seemed, thought Shimrod, somewhat more self-assured, more certainly a creature of flesh and blood than the maiden of abstract beauty who had walked through his dreams. She said: "I am here too, as I promised."
Shimrod's patience had been tried by the wait. He made a terse observation: "You came in no fury of haste."
The maiden showed only amusement. "I knew you would wait."
"If you came only to laugh at me, I am not gratified."
"One way or the other, I am here."
Shimrod considered her with analytical detachment, which she seemed to find irksome. She asked: "Why do you look at me so?"
"I wonder what you want of me."
She shook her head sadly. "You are wary. You do not trust me."
"You would think me a fool if I did."
She laughed. "Still, a gallant reckless fool."
"I am gallant and reckless to be here at all."
"You were not so distrustful in the dreaming."
"Then you were dreaming too when you walked along the beach?"
"How could I enter your dreams unless you were in mine? But you must ask no questions. You are Shimrod, I am Melancthe; we are together and that defines our world."
Shimrod took her hands and drew her a step closer; the odor of violets suffused the air between then. "Each time you speak you reveal a new paradox. How could you know to call me Shimrod? I named no names in my dreams."
Melancthe laughed. "Be reasonable, Shimrod! Is it likely that I should wander into the dream of someone even whose name I did not know? To do so would violate the precepts of both politeness and propriety."
"That is a marvelous and fresh viewpoint," said Shimrod. "I am surprised that you dared so boldly. You must know that in dreams propriety is often disregarded."
Melancthe tilted her head, grimaced, jerked her shoulders, as might a silly young girl. "I would take care to avoid improper dreams."
Shimrod led her to a bench somewhat apart from the traffic of the fair. The two sat half-facing, knees almost touching.
Shimrod said: "The truth and all the truth must be known!"
"How so, Shimrod?"
"If I may not ask questions, or—more accurately—if you give me no answers, how can I not feel uneasiness and distrust in your company?"