FIFTEEN
When the soldiers who held Talisman in charge at last received the necessary signal from inside the building, and motioned for him to go in alone, he found only four people waiting for him inside. The building was a great hall, built of timber and thatch, and no bigger than some of the bedroom suites would doubtless be in the reconstructed castle on the Sauk. Behind a long trestle table, three men and a woman sat perched upon tall stools, the nearest thing to thrones, probably, that could be found in the whole island. By now it was deep night. A fire in the clay hearth smoked the air, and there were a pair of torches. Stray gleams of light caught on the slender gold or silver circlets worn on the heads of all the four.
No one spoke immediately. From the invading army camped about this building on all sides there drifted in some sentry’s call.
Comorr the King—a king, rather, within a hundred miles of here you might find a dozen men calling themselves king of this or that—Comorr, Breton invader of what would one day be England, Comorr, mass murderer, bluebeard, sat watery-eyed and ineffectual-looking upon the highest stool, his by reason of claimed royal rank. He held a piece of fruit, on which he chewed with difficulty, as if his teeth were bad.
At the right hand of Comorr there perched in fine robes the foul magician Falerin. In his countenance he was as handsome as a god, and there hung about him the sense of devilish evil. At the left of Comorr there sat Medraut, the bastard son of Artos. Medraut was short and burly, wearing fine chain mail, and though he was very young his eyes were a haggard pale blue, a traitor’s haunted eyes.
At the other end of the row, at the right hand of the handsome magician Falerin, there perched the woman who was his aide in magic.
As soon as talk began, it was apparent that there would be a language difficulty. The conversation proceeded only slowly back and forth, with many repetitions and rephrasings on both sides. Comorr for the most part only waited, listening, watching with watery eyes, gumming the fruit, content to let those who could apply a touch of magic to the translation do the talking. Medraut for the most part waited too, more dully.
Talisman began by bowing to them all. “My Lords Comorr, Falerin, Medraut. My Lady—?”
Her red lips parted, “Nimue.”
Thus Talisman addressed them all: “My lords and lady, I do not know that I am here at any summoning of yours; and yet for all I know it may be so. I do know that there is enmity between myself and a certain old man who is a friend of Artos; and that that old man has cursed me, that I must wander far from my proper land.”
There was a shade of alarm in the lovely dark eyes of the Lady Nimue. “He launches curses still? I thought that I had well disabled him.”
Talisman looked at her. For the barest instant the look was purely sexual. “And so you have, my lady. The launching of this curse was many years—away in time.” He did not say in which direction.
Falerin smiled at him; the teeth of Apollo. “You are obviously of high birth, Sir Talisman, wherever you are from. Let us get down to cases. What can you do for us? And what rewards do you expect in return? While some fighting remains to be done, our battle against Artos is virtually won, now that old Ambrosius is, as you say, well disabled.”
Medraut roused himself from silence with a cough, and leaned forward to point at Talisman with a thick forefinger. “You are ————,” he said, concluding with a word that Talisman did not know. But from the way they were all looking at him now he knew it meant that in some way he was not human.
“As much human as any of you, dishonorable scum,” he replied, smiling, in modern English that no one would understand. “Nay, more.” And then he bent and took up the dead deer from where the reporting huntsmen must have left it on the floor. It was as heavy as a child nearly grown, and Talisman lifted it casually in one hand, as a man might hold a mutton chop. Before the four pairs of watching eyes he bit surely into the great blood vessels of the deer’s neck, neatly piercing hair and hide with his very adaptable teeth. He was hungry, and the deer’s blood would start to spoil if it were left much longer in the body. Even now the blood was not as good as it would have been when the heart still pumped; but it would do. The good taste was reassuring; half a doubt had been raised in his mind, about chilled emerald wine.
The eyes of Medraut widened to see this feeding; he’d have a tale to tell his fellow swordsmen, over wine. To the watery eyes of Comorr, it appeared that all marvels were about equally uninteresting. The eyes of Falerin—they had seen it all already, seen everything at some time in a long past; he was obviously much older than his face would indicate, his youth and beauty maintained by means of magic.
The eyes of Nimue ignored Talisman’s peculiarities, and subtly promised much. They said that perhaps nothing would be too good for Talisman if he were her close friend and ally. But he was too old and experienced by far for such a casual seduction to tempt him seriously against his will; even so he knew a pang of regret on deciding that it would not be wise to accept the challenge.
In a minute Talisman had finished taking nourishment, and tossed the drained meat casually upon the table. “This share in your dinner for tonight is the first part of the reward I claim. As for the rest—” Oh, it was impossible to try to be witty and subtle, when everything had to be repeated, and at best he and his audience could barely understand each other. “—to see my enemies suffer. That will be enough.”
Falerin leaned forward. “But what can you do for us, to earn your gorge of blood?”
Talisman had learned here all that he needed or expected to learn. “I go this very night to scout the camp of Artos. Your men tell me that it lies within two hours’ walk.”
Medraut: “And if we do not release you, to go anywhere?”
“Consult with your wizard colleague here, Sir Swordsman. He might not be able to prevent my departure from this camp before dawn. Or, if he could, he might see why the effort would be unwise.”
“You know then,” asked Medraut, “in which camp my father is?”
“I can discover that.”
“I know,” said Nimue. “Beside my lake. I am, I was, the Lady of the Lake.”
SIXTEEN
Up on the third floor of central headquarters on South State they had a few special cells known informally as VIPs, along with a couple of specially equipped interrogation rooms nearby. The man called Feathers was already lodged in one of the special cells before Joe Keogh got to see him for the first time. Some patrolmen indoctrinated by Charley Snider had been alert to the fact that the old man was wanted for serious questioning in the Carados case, and had picked him up almost as soon as he’d got back to the Street.
He hadn’t been hard to spot.
The patrolmen had picked up Feathers at about eight-thirty in the evening, and it was only a little after nine when Joe arrived at headquarters with Charley Snider. Fortunately the two of them had been together, working not far away, when the word about Feathers reached them.
The old man, still wearing the gaily decorated robe in which he’d come back from somewhere to Skid Row, was sitting in one of the interrogation room’s comfortable chairs, staring at nothing, when the two police lieutenants arrived. There were two or three other chairs in the room, and a sort of desk, and some other more special equipment, most of it not visible.
“Yo, Feathers,” said Charley Snider easily. The instant he entered the room he slowed down enormously from the rush he’d been in to reach it. “Looks like somebody’s been givin’ you a hard time the past few days.”
Actually, thought Joe Keogh, closing the door behind them, the old man waiting to be questioned by them looked quite hale; apart from his bizarre garment he looked very good indeed for a supposed Skid Row bum.
The gray blue eyes, wary and weary, looked up at both detectives. “I’m through with that name,” the old man told them in a raspy voice.
This is no long-term wino, Joe thought to himself again. This old man was too healthy. If the overall physical description were not so completely different, he could more readily have believed—from something about the eyes —that this was Carados himself.
In one wall was a small mirror, actually a one-way glass through which an observer in the next room could watch this one; and Joe shifted his position by a step, enough to catch the old man’s reflection clearly in the glass. That, as he understood the matter, was a simple and foolproof test for one exotic oddity at least, one which he was
