Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock

by trial,” said the Rose, pushing her hair back from her face and
flexing a strong hand as she rode towards the next slow-moving mass, to find a
head poked out at her and a red-capped woman glancing at them without much
curiosity before turning back in. Another and another followed. A fellow in a
painted leather jerkin and a brass helmet was more interested in their horses
than themselves, but eventually jerked his thumb to dismiss them, making Elric
murmur that he would have no more to do with these barbarians but would find
some other path and fulfill his quest that way.
                 The
next village sent out a well-to-do old gypsy in a headscarf and embroidered waistcoat,
his black velvet breeches tucked into white stockings. “We need the horses,” he
said, “but you seem like intellectuals to me. The last thing this village
requires are trouble-makers of that sort. So I’ll bid thee fare-thee-well.”
                 “We
are valued neither for our looks nor our brains,” said Wheldrake with a grin, “and
only a little, it seems, for our horses.”
                 “Persevere,
Master Wheldrake,” the Rose was grim, “for we must find our sisters and it’s my
guess a village that will admit them will also have something in common with a
village that will welcome us.”
                 It
was poor logic, reflected the albino, but logic, at least, of a sort, and he
had nothing better to offer.
                 Five
more villages inspected them and five more times they were rejected until, out
of a village that seemed smaller and perhaps a little better-kept than most of
the others, sauntered a tall man whose somewhat gaunt appearance was tempered
by a pair of amused blue eyes, his attention to costume suggesting a pleasure
in life belied by his features. “Good evening to you, gentlefolk,” he said, his
voice musical and a little affected, “I am Amarine Goodool. You have something
interesting about you. Are you artists, by any chance? Or perhaps
story-tellers? Or you have, possibly, some affecting story of your own? As you
see, we grow a trifle bored in Trollon.”
                 “I
am Wheldrake, the poet.” The little coxcomb stepped forward without reference
to his companions. “And I have written verse for kings, queens and commoners. I
have published verse, moreover, in more than one century and have pursued the
vocation of poet in more than one incarnation. I have a facility with metre,
sir, which all envy—peers and my betters, sir, as a matter of fact. And I also
have a certain gift for spontaneous versification, of sorts. In Trollon, elegant and slow, dwelled
Amarine Goodool, famed for his costume and his wit. To friends so valuable was
he, they even saved his— ”
                 “And
I am called the Rose and travel upon a quest for vengeance. My journey has
taken me through more than one realm.”
                 “Aha!”
said Amarine Goodool. “You have followed the megaflow! You have broken down the
walls between the realms! You have crossed the invisible barriers of the
multiverse! And you, sir? You, my pale friend? What skills have you?”
                 “At
home, in my own quiet town, I had some reputation as a conjuror and
philosopher,” said Elric meekly.
                 “Well,
well, sir, but you would not be with this company if you had not something to
offer. Your philosophy, perhaps, is of an unusual sort?”
                 “Fairly
conventional, sir, I would say.”
                 “Nonetheless,
sir. Nonetheless. You have a horse. Please enter. And be welcome to Trollon. I
think it very likely you will find yourselves amongst fellow spirits here. We
are all a little odd in Trollon!” And he raised his head in a friendly bray.
                 Now
he led them through the skirts of the village, into a musky darkness lit by dim
lamps so that first it