"The flowers, then, must grow somewhere in the forest nearby."
"Quite so. The flowers are sparse and each is more magnificent than the next."
"Then you have seen others?"
Zuck blinked. "As a matter of fact: no. The falloy is a great one for hyperbole, and avaricious to boot. However, I have insisted upon moderate prices for the sake of my reputation."
"I must buy the flower; what, in fact, is your price?" Zuck looked blandly up toward the sky. "The day is almost done, and I like to end with an easy sale, to serve as an omen for tomorrow. For you, lovely lady, I will quote an almost trifling sum: five crowns of gold."
Melancthe looked at Zuck in innocent surprise. "So much gold for a single flower?"
"Ah bah, does the price seem high? In that case, take it for three crowns, as I am in a hurry to shutter my booth."
"Zuck, dear Zuck: I seldom carry coins of gold!"
Zuck's voice became somewhat flat. "What coins then do you carry?"
"Look! A pretty silver florin! For you, good Zuck, for your very own, and I will take the flower."
Melancthe reached across the counter and lifted the flower from the vase. Zuck looked dubiously at the coin. "If this is for me, what remains for the falloy?"
Melancthe held the flower to her nose and kissed the petals. "We will pay him when next he brings us flowers. I want them all, every one!"
"It is a poor way to do business," grumbled Zuck. "But I suppose that you must prevail."
"Thank you, dear Zuck! The flower is superb, and its perfume likewise! It exhales a draught from the very shores of paradise!"
"Ah well," said Zuck. "Tastes differ, and I sense only a rather disreputable chife."
"It is rich," said Melancthe. "It opens doors into rooms where I have never looked before."
Zuck mused: "A bloom of such evocation is definitely undervalued at a single silver bit."
"Then here is another, to guarantee my interests! Remember, all the flowers must be sold to me, and me alone!"
Zuck bowed. "So it shall be, though you must be prepared to pay the fair price!"
"You shall not find me wanting. When does the gardener come again?"
"As to that, I cannot be sure, since he is a falloy."
III
WHEN DUSK FELL OVER THE MEADOW Melancthe returned to the inn, and presently appeared in the common room. She went to a table in the shadows. For her supper she was served a tureen bubbling with a stew of hare, mushrooms, ramp, parsley and wine, with a crust of new bread, a conserve of wild currants, and a flask of currant wine. A mote of dust drifted down from above to settle into the wine, where it formed a bubble.
Melancthe, observing the event, instantly became still.
From the bubble issued a small voice, so faint and soft that she bent forward to hear it.
The message was brief; Melancthe sat back, her mouth drooping in annoyance. With a touch of the forefinger she broke the bubble. "Once again," she muttered to herself. "Once again I must use my purple fire to warm this icy sea-green monument to decorum. But I need not mix one with the other—unless the caprice comes on me." She contemplated her flower and inhaled its perfume, while far away at Trilda, Shimrod, studying an ancient portfolio in his workroom, was visited with a shudder of uneasiness.
Shimrod set the portfolio aside and slowly stood erect. He closed his eyes, and into his mind drifted the image of Melancthe, as if she floated in dark water, nude and relaxed, hair drifting loose beside her face.
Shimrod frowned off across the room. At a basic and elementary level, the image was stimulating; on another level, It aroused only skepticism.
Shimrod pondered a moment or two in the silence of his work-room, then reached out and tapped a small silver bell.
"Speak!" said a voice.
"Melancthe has come floating along a dark stream and into my mind," said Shimrod. "She wore a minimum of garments, which is to say, none at all. She broke into my studies I and started my blood to moving; then she departed, smiling in a manner of cool insolence. She would not have troubled herself without a purpose."
"In that case, discover her purpose. Then we will know better how to respond."
"Tonight is Freamas," said Shimrod. "She will be at Twitten's Comers.
"Go then to Twitten's Corners."
"Very well; I will do so."
Shimrod brought other books and portfolios to his work-table and by the light of a single fat candle, turned the heavy parchment pages until he came upon the text he sought. He read in all concentration, storing the acrid syllables in his mind, while a moth circled the candle flame and finally died in a puff of dust.
Shimrod packed a wallet with articles of convenience and necessity. His preparations were complete. He went out to the road before Trilda, spoke a few words, closed his eyes and stepped three paces backward. When he opened his eyes he stood beside the tall iron post which marked Twitten's Corners, at the very heart of Forest Tantrevalles. Twilight had given way to night; soft white stars shone down through gaps in the foliage. Fifty yards to the east cheerful yellow light poured from the windows of the Laughing Sun and the Crying Moon into the road, and Shimrod bent his steps in this direction. The iron-bound door had been propped open to admit the airs of the night. At one side Hockshank stood behind his counter, carving a haunch of venison; elsewhere were tables, benches and chairs, tonight occupied to capacity. In a far shadowed corner Shimrod noted the quiet shape of Melancthe, where she apparently sat absorbed in the reflections on the surface of her wine, seemingly oblivious to Shimrod's presence. Shimrod approached the counter.
Hockshank glanced at him from the side of his golden eyes; halfling blood ran in Hockshank's veins. His hair was like fur the colour of decaying straw; he stood with a slight forward stoop; his feet were covered with gray-yellow fur and instead of toenails he had small black claws. Hockshank said: "I seem to recognize you from past custom, but I have no head for names, and in any case, should you be seeking accommodation, there is none to be had."
"I am Shimrod, from Trilda. In the past, by dint of careful thought, or again, by housing certain of your guests in the stable, we have discovered a chamber for my use and your own profit, and both of us have been the happier men for the effort."
Hockshank never paused in his work. "Shimrod, I recall you of old, but tonight the stable is already full. If you put down a purse of gold, I still could not find you a room."
"A small purse, or a large purse?"
"Tonight either will buy you a bench in the common room, but nothing better. Custom presses in on all sides; already I have made some difficult compromises."
Hockshank pointed his knife. "Notice at the table yonder the three sturdy matrons of imposing mien?"
Shimrod turned to look. "Their dignity is impressive."
"Just so. They are Sacred Virgins at the Temple of Dis, in Dahaut. I have assigned them to a dormitory of six beds along with the three gentlemen yonder with the grape-leaves in their hair. I hope that they may reconcile their philosophical differences without disturbing others in the inn."
"What of the lady sitting alone in the corner?"
Hockshank glanced across the room. "She is Melancthe the demiwitch and occupies the apartments behind the Door of the Two Green Lizards."
"Perhaps you might induce her to share her apartments with me."
Hockshank paused in his carving. "If only all were so deftly done, I would be there myself, and you could share the top of the oven with Dame Hockshank."
Shimrod turned away and went to a table at the side of the room, where he dined on venison, with currants and barley.
Melancthe at last chose to notice his presence. Crossing the room, she slipped into the chair opposite him. In a light voice she asked: "I have always considered you a very paragon of gallantry! Am I so wrong in my judgment?"