Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock Page A

was possible to perceive only the vaguest of shapes. It
was as if they had entered a vast stable, with row upon row of stalls
disappearing into the distance. Elric smelled horses and human sweat and as
they passed up a central aisle he could look down the rows and see the
glistening backs of men, women and adolescents, leaning hard against poles
reaching to their chests and pushing the huge edifice forward, inch by inch.
Elsewhere horses were harnessed in ranks, also, trudging on heavy hoofs as they
hauled at the thick ropes attached to the roof beams.
                 “Leave
your horses with the lad,” said Amarine Goodool, indicating a ragged youth who
held out his hand for a small coin and grinned with pleasure at the value of
what he received. “You’ll be given receipts and so on. You’ll be at ease for at
least a couple of seasons to be sure. Or, if you are otherwise successful, for
ever. Like myself. Of course,” he lowered his tone as he swung up a wooden
stairway, “there are other responsibilities one must accept.”
                 The
long staircase led them, spiral by spiral, to the surface until they clambered
out into a nondescript narrow sidestreet from whose open windows people looked
idly down without breaking their conversation. It was a picture of such
ordinariness that it contrasted all the more with the scenes below.
                 “Are
those people down there slaves, sir?” Wheldrake had to know.
                 “Slaves!
By no means! They are free gypsy souls, like myself. Free to wander the great
highway that spans the world, to breathe the air of liberty. They merely take
their turn at the marching boards, as most of us must for some time in their
lives. They perform a civic duty, sir.”
                 “And
should they not wish to perform such duty?” asked Elric quietly.
                 “Ah,
well, sir, I can see that you are indeed a philosopher. Things so abstruse are
beyond me, I fear, sir. But there are people in Trollon who would be only too
pleased to debate such abstractions.” He patted Elric amiably upon the
shoulder. “Indeed, I can think of more than one friend of mine who will gladly
welcome you.”
                 “A
prosperous place, this Trollon.” The Rose looked through the gaps in the buildings
to where similar villages moved at a similar pace.
                 “Well,
we like to preserve certain standards, madam. I will arrange for your receipts.”
                 “I
do not think we plan to trade our horses here,” said Elric. “We need to travel
on as soon as possible.”
                 “And
travel you shall, sir. Travel, after all, is in our blood. But we must put your
horses to work. Or, sir,” he uttered a little snigger, “we shall not be
traveling far at all, eh?”
                 Again
a glance from the Rose stilled Elric’s retort. But he was growing increasingly
impatient as he thought of his dead father and the threat which hung over them
both.
                 “We
are only too happy to accept your hospitality,” said the Rose diplomatically. “Are
we the only people to join Trollon in recent days?”
                 “Did
you have friends come ahead of you, lady?”
                 “Three
sisters, perhaps?” suggested Wheldrake.
                 “Three
sisters?” He shook his head. “I should have known if I had seen them, sir. But
I will send enquiry of our neighbouring villages. Meanwhile, if you are hungry,
I shall be only too happy to loan you a few credits. We have some wonderful
restaurants in Trollon.”
                 It
was clear that there was little poverty in Trollon. The paint was fresh and the
glass sparkling, while the streets were neat and clean as anything Elric had
ever seen.
                 “It
seems all the squalor and hardship is kept out of sight