Inside the mansion, grey-masked servants showed Sarazin to his room. He tried to prevail on them to stay, for he had questions to ask. But they smiled and left. Vanished, almost. Grey cloaks swirling away. Soundlessly. Were they ghosts? Perhaps.
Still – the bath was real enough. It had limitless hot water pouring from a faucet of a kind Sarazin had once seen illustrated in a very ancient text preserved in a library in Voice. Sarazin soaked in the hot water, luxuriating in the warmth. Cleansed himself with sponges and strange perfumed soaps. Dressed himself in clean linen which had been laid out in his chambers. Then, overcome by weariness, he sank to his bed and slept.
He woke at dusk, and was delighted to find it was dinner-time. He ate with Zelafona at a table lit by a thousand candles gleaming in chandeliers. They had lamb, venison, beef, and three different kinds of fish. Then, for dessert, bananas topped with zabaglione. 'This is wondrous rare,' said Sarazin.
'What? The custard? My chef makes it from sugar, marsala and egg yolks.'
'No, I meant the bananas. I've seen them but twice before in my life.'
The bananas eaten in Selzirk came from Hexagon, one of the Scattered Islands far out in the Central Ocean. 'Think nothing of it,' said Zelafona.
Sarazin obeyed. He thought of her instead as he ate fruit salad, swilled red wine and slowly became tipsy.
He was not at all surprised when, after their meal, she led him to her private chambers, and there allowed him to seduce her. When he took her glimmering flesh he experienced a strange, unearthly ecstasy which he had never before experienced with a woman. She rode him until he was lathered. Yet still his lust did not diminish. Feverishly, he matched his man to her woman. Until, at last, dawn glimmered through the windows, and at last he slept. Much later, Sarazin woke. 'Zelafona?' he murmured.
Opening his eyes. To a horror-shock insult to soul and sensibility. He was lying beside a dead woman on a frowsty truckle-bed in a filthy cottage, a place of whispering dust and creaking spiders, of rustling shadows and grey- masked rats. 'Zelafona?' he cried.
Nobody answered his call. The haggard flesh of the crone beside him looked like old leather cracked by a thousand seasons of relentless weather. Her slack jaw gaped down revealing a jumble of decayed teeth. A swollen purple tongue furred with green and yellow. She stank of cat's piss.
Sarazin stumbled naked from the bed. He grabbed his mud-wet trousers, shuddering. Boots, where were his boots? In the corner, in a heap with the rest of his clothes, plus sword belt and sword. He dressed in haste, as if summoned to a battle. Then checked his pockets – and found his magic missing.
All his gifts from the druid Upical were gone. The silver ring of invisibility on its silver chain. The magic mudstone. The small bottle in which lurked the dragon Untunchilamon and eight other beasts almost as mighty. The green candle which was worth killing for. All stolenl
Floorboards creaked as he strode to the door. Which fell off its hinges as he yanked it open. He strode out into the mud, the drizzling rain, the dismal grey, looking around as if hunting for a murderer.
The cottage, which had a thatched roof, stood beside a ramshackle barn in a wasteland of waterlogged mud in which lay a dead dog and the corpse of a bullock. A paling of sorts ran round that field of mud, and on the fenceposts were some lumpy things which Sarazin realised were the heads of assorted men and animals.
Beyond the fence was the dark, brooding forest. Over- head, a louring sky. Sarazin trudged through the drizzle to the barn, where he found his pony, looking thoroughly miserable. Something stirred in a heap of decaying straw, then sat up. It was the dwarf, Glambrax, grinning like an open wound.
'How did you like your night of passion?' said Glambrax in a sly, insinuating voice.
Where is Zelafona?' said Sarazin, with murder in his voice. 'She's in bed, where you left her.' 'There's nothing in bed but a… a.. .'
That's her,' said Glambrax, grinning still. 'She knew she was going, so she wanted to go out in style.'
You mean… you… but… gods, this can't be true! She – she was a princess. She said so. An elven princess. That's what she said she was. She said she was a princess of the elven folk.'
'And you believed her!' said Glambrax scornfully. 'Aren't you a little old for fairy tales? She was no elf. There's no such thing as elves.' Then what was she?'
'A witch, of course,' said Glambrax. 'A death-hag. A nightwalker. You're lucky, oho, lucky you met her near death, my child.' 'Lucky! She – that-'
Sarazin thumped his head against the wall of the barn. This was intolerable!
'Doubtless you got a bit of a shock this morning,' said Glambrax. 'But, face it – -any woman you have will end up that way. There's no such thing as immortal youth. Only difference is, most decay so slowly you've got time to get used to it.'
'I don't understand this,' said Sarazin. 'How come she knew my name? How come the monster – was that part of her game?'
'Oh, she saw you coming, you might say,' said Glam- brax. 'Oh yes, she saw you coming.'
Then, whistling in a cheerful way, he quit the stable. Sarazin slumped down on the straw, cold, hungry, depressed, humiliated and disgusted with himself, with mortal flesh, with life, the world and the universe. He indulged himself in self-pity and despair until he was roused by the smell of smoke. Fire? Was something burning?
He quit the barn – and found the house aflame, with Glambrax capering up and down in front of it.
The house went up with a roar, vomiting smoke and spitting flame. A flight of blood-red bats burst from beneath the eaves, screaming in shrill, demented voices as they fled. Rats scarpered across the mud, making for the forest.
Sarazin ran towards the cottage, half-imagining he could extinguish the fire. He plunged into the billowing smoke. Its stench sent him staggering backwards, retching. Eyes bleared by smoke, he looked round wildly and saw Glambrax laughing.
You!' said Sarazin, in fury. Tell! How did the house catch fire?' 'I set it alight,' said Glambrax. 'I never told you to!' You never told me not to.'
There were things of mine lost somewhere within,' said Sarazin. What kind of things?' said Glambrax. 'There was – oh never mind.' 'A ring, perhaps?' said Glambrax.
There was – suddenly! – a silver ring on a silver chain dangling from his fingers. 'Give me that!' said Sarazin, grabbing for it. Glambrax jerked his hand away. 'First you have to promise,' said Glambrax.
'Promise? Promise what? Give me my property, mannikin!'
'Ah,' said Glambrax, darting away. 'Promise first. To honour your oath.' What oath?' 'See!' said Glambrax. You've forgotten already!'
Belatedly, Sarazin remembered. He had sworn to keep Glambrax with him as his servant. For life. A disastrous mistake! For, as he saw all too clearly, the dwarf was unlikely to be an asset to his lifestyle.
'I have given my oath on the matter already,' said Sara- zin. 'If you trust not my oath, what good is a promise?' 'So it remembers,' said Glambrax, cackling. 'It remembers!'
Yes,' said Sarazin, bitterly, 'and I remember this, too. My oath was extracted from me under false pretences.'
Was it?' said Glambrax. 'Oh no, I don't think so. I heard the lady say herself her time with you would be but brief. Your authority to think otherwise was but that of your own ego.' Sarazin thought back to the day before and remembered.
Yes,' he said. You're right. But I – I – oh, never mind. Give me my valuables.'
Satisfied, Glambrax handed over the ring of invisibility. And the magic mudstone. And the bottle. 'The candle!' said Sarazin. 'Give me the candle!'
What do you want with a stub of old candle?' said Glambrax. 'Never you mind about that. Give it!'
The dwarf rummaged in his pockets and yielded up the green candle which Sarazin treasured away. Then Sarazin asked: 'Why did Zelafona make you mine?'
'Oh,' said Glambrax, 'she wouldn't want me alone in the world. I'm her son, you see. Her first born. Her only born.' 'A likely story!' said Sarazin. 'But true,' said Glambrax. 'But true!'
Well,' said Sarazin, 'if you're to be my servant, then start making yourself useful. Make ready my horse.'
With that said, Sarazin sploshed away through the mud to the forest where he relieved his bowels and his bladder. When he returned, he found Glambrax standing atop the barn, looking around in all directions. 'What are you doing up there, clown?' said Sarazin. 'Searching for your horse, master,' said Glambrax. 'It's in the barn, half-
