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Once more at the Black Bull, Carfilhiot seated himself at a table in front of
the inn. He sprawled out his legs, drank the yellow wine of muscat grapes, and
reflected upon the circumstances of his life. In recent days, his affairs had
not gone well. Images thronged his mind: he smiled at some and frowned at
others.
Thinking of the Dravenshaw ambush, he uttered a small moan and clenched his
hand on the goblet. The time had come to destroy his enemies once and for all.
In his mind he saw them in the semblance of beasts: snarling curs, weasels,
boars, black-masked foxes.
Melancthe's image appeared to him. She stood in the shadows of her palace,
nude save for a wreath of violets in her black hair. Calm and still, she
looked through him, past and away... Carfilhiot straightened sharply in his
chair. Melancthe had always treated him with condescension, as if she felt a
natural ascendancy, apparently on the basis of the green fume. She had
preempted all of Desmei's magical apparatus, allowing him none. From
compunction, or guilt, or perhaps only to stifle his reproaches, she had
beguiled the magician Shimrod, so that Carfilhiot might plunder his magical
appurtenances which, in any event, due to
Shimrod's cunning lock, had brought him no benefit. Upon his return to Tintzin
Fyral he must surely... Shimrod! Carfilhiot's instincts prickled. Where was
Rughalt, who had limped forward so
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from Dr. Fidelius?
Shimrod! If he had taken Rughalt, who would be next? Carfilhiot felt cold and
his bowels went queasy, as if they needed relief.
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Carfilhiot rose to his feet. He looked out across the common.
There was no sign of Rughalt. Carfilhiot cursed between his teeth.
He had neither coin nor gold, and would have none till the morrow.
Carfilhiot worked to regain his composure. He drew a deep breath and clenched
his fist. "I am Faude Carfilhiot! I am I, the best of the best! I dance my
perilous dance along the edge of the sky! I
take the clay of Destiny in my hands and shape it to my will. I am
Faude Carfilhiot, the nonpareil!"
With a firm light step, he set off across the common. Lacking a weapon of any
sort, he halted to pick up a broken tent-stake: a length of ash something over
a foot long, which he concealed under his cape, then proceeded directly to the
wagon of Dr. Fidelius.
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Once behind Dr. Fidelius' wagon, Rughalt spoke in a reedy voice:
"You have mentioned sore knees, which I have in abundance, to the number of
two. They creak and click and on occasion bend in reverse direction, causing
me discomfort."
"Interesting!" exclaimed Dr. Fidelius. "Interesting indeed! How long have you
been so troubled?"
"Forever, or so it seems. It came upon me during the course of my work. I was
subjected to alternating heat and cold, dampness and dry. Meanwhile I was
forced to great exertions, twisting, turning, pushing, pulling, and I feel
that I weakened my knees in the process."
"Precisely so! Still, your case shows peculiarities. It is not typical of the
Avallon sore knee."
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"I then resided in South Ulfland.''
"I am vindicated! For the South Ulfland disease we will need certain medicines
which I do not keep in the wagon." Shimrod called to Glyneth; she approached,
looking back and forth between the two men. Shimrod took her somewhat aside.
"I'll be in conference with the gentleman for perhaps an hour. Close up the
wagon, put the horses to their traces. Tonight we may be on the road to
Lyonesse."
Glyneth nodded her head in assent and went back to Dhrun with the news. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]