"In most respects: yes. How is my gallantry at fault?"
"Since it was I who called you here, surely you might have joined me at my table."
Shimrod nodded. "What you say is valid, in the abstract. Still, in the past I have found you unpredictable, and sometimes pungent in your recriminations; it is one of your little quirks. I hesitated to make a public demonstration of our acquaintance and perhaps cause you embarrassment. I therefore waited upon your signal."
"Good modest self-effacing Shimrod! I was right after all! Your chivalry is irreproachable!"
"Thank you," said Shimrod. "Furthermore, I wanted to dine before you told me something to destroy my appetite."
"Now are you replete?"
"I have dined well, though the venison was somewhat tough, and meanwhile you decided what you wished to tell me."
Melancthe smiled down at the flower she held in her fingers. "Perhaps I have nothing whatever to tell you."
"Why then was I summoned by so explicit a signal? Unless at this moment thieves are ransacking Trilda."
Melancthe's smile, as she twirled the flower in her fingers, became vague. "It might be that I merely wanted to be seen in company with the famous Shimrod, to enhance my reputation."
"Bah! Not a person here knows me, except Hockshank."
Melancthe looked around the room. "For a fact, no one seems to be noticing. The reason is simple: your modesty. Tamurello's dramatic guises are for the most part self-defeating. You are more clever; you conceal yourself in a form which allows you great advantage."
Shimrod looked blankly across the table. "Indeed? How so?"
Melancthe inspected Shimrod through half-closed eyes with her head tilted sidewise. "You simulate the universal man with total conviction! Your hair is hacked short across your face peasant-style, and is even the colour of well-used stable-straw. The features of your face are bony and gaunt, but you relieve their coarseness by a simpleton's drollery which reassures everyone. You wear what appears to be a peasant's smock, and as you dine, elbows high, you display the appetite of one who has toiled long hours among the turnips. All these aspects make for a great advantage, as well you realize! No adversary would ever associate what purports to be a gaunt, blinking loon for the dangerous and debonair Shimrod! It is a cunning disguise."
"Thank you!" said Shimrod. "Your compliments are hard to come by; I accept them all with pleasure... . Boy! Bring more wine!"
Melancthe smiled down at her flower. "Has Hockshank found you a chamber for the night?"
"He has offered me a bench here in the common room. Something better may still come to light."
"Who knows?" murmured Melancthe.
The boy brought wine in a gray faience decanter decorated with blue and green birds, and a pair of squat faience goblets. Shimrod poured both goblets full. "Now then: you have called me here; you have characterized me as a boor and a loon; you have distracted me from my work. Was there any other purpose in your signal?"
Melancthe shrugged. Tonight she wore a dark brown robe, in which she seemed childishly slight. "I might have called you because I was lonely."
Shimrod raised high his eyebrows. "Among all these quaint folk? They are your familiars and the songsters who join you out on the rocks!"
"Truly, Shimrod, I wanted to see you that I might ask your opinion of my flower." She displayed the blossom; the petals, black, purple, ice-blue and carmine-red, seemed as fresh now as if the flower had just been plucked. "Smell! The odor is unique."
Shimrod sniffed and looked askance at the flower. "Certainly it is vivid, and its petals are nicely shaped. I have never seen another like it."
"And the perfume?"
"I find it a trifle too heady. I am reminded of..." Shimrod paused and rubbed his chin.
"Of what?"
"A strange picture came into my mind: a scene of flowers at war and a great carnage. Flowers with green arms and legs lay dead or mortally wounded; others tall in pride and cruelty cut down at those who were doomed, and so smelled the battlefield."
"That is a complex and subtle way to describe a scent."
"Perhaps so. Where did you come by the flower?"
"At the booth of the trader Zuck, who will tell me nothing as to its source."
Shimrod drank from the goblet. "We have discussed my disguise and your flower; what other topics interest you?"
Melancthe gave her head a rueful shake. "When first we met you lacked all suspicion. Now you dart cynical glances over your wine-cup."
"I am older," said Shimrod. "Is that not the ordinary course of life? When I first knew myself as Shimrod, I felt an exuberance I cannot describe! Murgen despaired of me, and would not so much as hear my voice. I cared nothing; I frolicked like a young goat, and travelled the land with a new adventure at every turning."
"Aha, tonight your secrets are emerging. Do they include a spouse from this time of rashness, along with a bevy of sons and daughters?"
Shimrod laughed. "There is definitely no spouse. As for children, who knows the truth, if all were sorted out? I enjoyed a vagabond's life; I was as careless as a bird, and only too susceptible to the charms of winsome maidens, be they fairy, falloy or human. If I fathered children, how many or how they fare today is unknown to me. Sometimes I wonder but in those days I never gave thought to such things. All is past; tonight here sits Shimrod, sedate and crafty, in his peasant disguise. Meanwhile, how goes your life?"
Melancthe sighed. "Tamurello is back from Mount Kham-baste and the air is immediately rife with intrigue and rumor, which might or might not interest you."
"I am willing to listen."
Melancthe studied the flower as if seeing it for the first time. "I pay little heed. Occasionally I hear a name I recognize; then I turn my head to listen. For instance, are you acquainted with the magician Visbhume?"
"Not by such a name. What of this Visbhume; why is he notable?"
"For nothing in particular. Apparently he was at one time apprentice to a certain Hippolito, now dead."
"I have heard of Hippolito. He lived in the north of Dahaut."
"Visbhume approached Tamurello with some mad scheme, and Tamurello sent him packing." And Melancthe added primly: "Visbhume lacks all principle."
"How so?"
"Oh—this way and that. Lacking Tamurello's support he declared himself ready to serve King Casmir of Lyonesse. They think to attack King Aillas of Troicinet."
Shimrod tried to feign disinterest. "And so: what are his intentions?"
"There was talk of using the Princess Glyneth in their plans... . You appear to be stunned by this little rumor."
"Truly? I admit to affection for the Princess Glyneth. I would do my best to ward her from harm."
Melancthe leaned back in her chair and thoughtfully sipped wine from her goblet. Presently she spoke, in a soft even voice, though a subtle ear might have detected nuances of mockery and annoyance. "Amazing how chaste little virgins like Glyneth can excite such wild extravagances of gallantry, while other persons of equal worth, perhaps blemished by a goiter or a pock-mark or two, can lie suffering in the ditch, eliciting little if any notice."
Shimrod uttered a melancholy laugh. "The fact is real! The explanation derives from day-dreams and ideal concepts far more powerful than justice, truth and mercy all combined. But not in the case of Glyneth. She spills over with kindness; and she would never ignore those lying in the ditch. She is always merry; she is clean and fresh as the sunlight; she brings pleasure to the world by her sheer existence."
Melancthe seemed taken aback by the fervor of Shimrod's remarks. "In Shimrod she has a dedicated champion. I was unaware of your devotion."
"I know her well, and I love her as I would my own daughter."
Melancthe rose to her feet, mouth drooping. "I had forgotten; the subject bores me."