Thunder take the Preacher! thought Malachi. What the hell did he expect to achieve, attempting summonings and disappearing without a by-your-leave when:
Especially Tertius.
What are the chances of Dethorm and me covering it up? None, that's what. Thanks a lot Elijah --- remind me to return the favour some day...
"Ahem. Err. We seem to have lost the Preacher."
<><><>
So we're lost --- tell us something we don't know, Kolvorok. And stand still, sod you --- stop wringing your hands like a lost soul --- ah. Ahem. Watch what you're thinking, Malachi. You could be closer to the truth than you think there and what you think matters in this place...
And that's why the Preacher's actions (no, thoughts --- but then, what's the difference?) were so irresponsible. Couldn't the man understand you can't afford passions here? Hellfire, we all have passions or we wouldn't be here instead of safe in Helstadt, but you've got to be careful where they lead you. Think of yourself, you're the centre, you're what's important. Look after yourself first, then think about the others. Never had to shoot a friend yet, but...
Alfric's a Power. Well that's no surprise; he had to be something special to entrap the Hunter. I don't think I regret that. It saved my bacon later when I was dead meat... But the debt's paid and it's in the past. There are no ties there. I wonder how much Alfric bears a grudge?
The Hunter, yes. The one I'd have laid money on. The Lord of the Lower Places? I wonder... She of the Mountain? Not a clue.
<><><>
All very interesting, but it doesn't do much for the problem in hand. Where to now? The obvious answer... There must be an alternative surely? The hobgoblin ridge? It's probably where the Richters have gone but do we want ourselves in the same mess? The gate at the crossroads? It's sure to be there, but where's there? It may not be where we remember it. Precious little is the same.
Well, it looks as if we have to invite ourselves to visit Duke Alfric. Strange, I turned him down last time --- now here I go asking favours. Ticklish. Maybe I can stand at the back.
<><><>
"Ahem, you know what the Quiverer was saying about Powers? We all know about Alfric and Captain Hörne but has anyone heard of the Lord of the Lower Places? I have an idea... Well, it's not first hand but it's near as da... It's as near as it could be. Must have been 8 years ago, back in '45 if that means anything at all here. That young chap Göring was just back from the west and found life in town too boring, came out with a couple of trips of mine. He was far too sure of himself, no proper caution in dealing with the works of the Enemy --- headlong in and hang the consequences. Well, we know where that got him.
"Anyway, one of these trips, we found ourselves on the north side of the river, not far from Boris' place. There are hills there, with cliffs facing the Jordan --- just off the edge of the map here, look. There's a door at the foot of one of the cliffs. No, just an ordinary everyday wooden door, quite normal apart from where we found it.
"We couldn't leave it without investigating --- it was only about three days march from town, as well to know something about it. It opened easily enough, and inside were broad steps descending into the bowels of the earth. You know the sort of thing. If we were quite as pious as we should have been we'd have taken an armful of grenades and blown the roof in. I'm sure we've all found something of the sort. But it wasn't rough-hewn like some of the holes I've seen and it wasn't Elven as far as I could tell. It certainly wasn't Dwarven. It was all square, and spotless --- functional, I suppose you could say, though I couldn't tell you what the function might be. I was carrying my candle lantern (never liked those oil contraptions --- one leak or a spill and you've lost the lot, not to mention the extra expense) with enough candles to last us several hours, so we set off into the pit.
"We went down, and down, and down still further. Quarter of an hour by the candle, half an hour. That's another advantage of the candles, you try telling time by the weight of your lamp, or guessing when it's about to go out. Never a turning, never a change. Three-quarters done. More than a few of us were thinking of the broad straight road to Hell... An hour, and no sign that we weren't still by the door except that we couldn't see the daylight behind us any more. That was enough for me. There's bravery and there's foolishness, and carrying on into the very mouth of Hell comes under foolishness in my book. I gave the order to turn back and head for the light while we still had the candles to do it comfortably.
"But Göring wasn't having it. He'd been to the west and seen a lot worse in the wars than a flight of stairs, and what was more he wasn't going to let me order a member of the cartwrights' family about. If the rest of us must turn back and leave the depths unexplored he was going to continue until he found what lay at the bottom of the stairs.
"Well, we eventually agreed that it was his soul he was putting in peril. The rest of us would wait for one day at the top for him. If by that time he hadn't returned he was lost through his own foolishness and if in fact he survived he could make his own way to town without endangering the lives of good New Jerusalem men. I also pointed out that he wasn't the only one who'd been to the west, and eight years fighting for my faith had instilled in me a healthy regard for my own body and soul. Experience and caution aren't the same as cowardice by any measure.
"It took us at least twice as long to climb back up to the fresh air, and we were exhausted by the time we made it. We set up camp for the night a short distance away and kept a nervous watch on the doorway, left open behind us.
"The night passed, and the better part of the next day. We were packing to move further away before night fell when the man on watch (I forget who it was) shouted that something was coming up the stairs. We prepared to meet it, guns and other arms ready for whatever ravening fiend should burst from the depths. In the light of what happened later, we may not have been so wrong in our expectations, but at the time we were relieved to find that it was only Göring, shaking and exhausted from his climb. He wouldn't talk about what he'd found.
"At the time I let it pass, as whatever it was plainly wasn't for the ears of our companions, but later I insisted on a report of his findings as they could be vital to the safety of New Jerusalem.
"It seemed I had been right and that this doorway, unassuming as it looked, was indeed the entrance to Hell. For a length of time he was unable to define, Göring had carried on down the stairs which remained square, straight and unvarying. At last he reached the foot and was confronted by a hellish sight; a plain of ash and cinders stretching grey before him to the limits of his vision, while above him flitted the dark shapes of Satan's winged servitors. At this point what senses the man had returned to him and he fled back up the stairway towards the cleaner air of a better Creation. On his way he was pursued by strange machines like unto the things we know of as the Deadly Toys of The Toymaker. It appeared that they were cleaning the stairway and may well have removed Göring for the inspection of their Master and, as it later turned out, his had he not outpaced them on the climb.
"Now I cannot help wondering whether what I assumed were the pits of Hell were in fact the lands of the Lord of the Lower Places."
<><><>
Well that's given them something to think about, even if it doesn't help us directly. Nice place this, just like the old days. Might be nicer with better weather instead of this mist... it's a bit overcast. Ah, but I must remember it's not where it was, it's probably not when it was. And it's all the East now, the utter East. The best bit --- The fair road between the other two...
You know, it's looking more like a road all the time with these flowers. Strange how they're not crushed when I tread on them. It's lovely --- a garden, a paradise. The fountains --- are they fountains? --- the little arbours, the rock gardens. Do rocks grow? That one's a flower, the amethyst crystal. I'm not sure what that one is --- it looks like it could move. Could this be Eden?
Snap out of it! If you were ever in danger it's now! Remember you're in Færie; it's not safe, especially when it's nice. Trust no-one; Glory and Cunning, Glory and Cunning, Glory and Cunning. Don't believe the lies, it's never safe, never safe, never safe... Remember who you are...
<><><>
A mantichore! Now I know we're in trouble. Does he miss the last one? Is there a way out now or can we only go on? Oh no...
"Well, gentlemen, we go on or we go back, but we make up our minds now. I'm for on but (oh God!) let's be careful... "
The rider made a fine sight as the beast bounded towards them, gallant, errant, bold. The Captains eyed the vision thoughtfully, then turned at a metallic click behind them. Müller's face was set in an expression of happy anticipation. Fingers nimble at the lock of what was, even to their jaundiced eyes, a Very Big Gun Indeed.
"Ah, here comes the bouncer", said Grimmelshausen. "Better be polite to him", he added, putting a restraining hand on Müller's arm, "You don't get into a brothel by shooting the doorman". Although Dethorm already had his immoderately large, giant-killing musket on its stand, he seemed sufficiently impressed with this line of reasoning to content himself with checking the priming. For the time being.
Meanwhile, Stark was doing his best to look inconspicuous. Indeed, Stark the man was looking considerably smaller than Stark the guilty conscience.
"Mind you", the Captain continued, "I don't suppose he's kitted out like that just to take our coats. Odds on he's going to deliver some sort of challenge".
It would not create a favourable impression to refuse a challenge, even if they managed to enter Ælfheim without accepting. The consequences of losing, would be at least embarrassing and certainly involve loss of face, if not life. Grimmelshausen fancied his chances, or those of any of his companions, in single combat against the knight. The abomination underneath him was another matter. There was always the option of gunning them down on the spot, but Grimmelshausen was reluctant. Powder was unreliable in Faerie and anyway he wasn't that keen to jog memories around here. Who knew who might be watching?
So, how to separate the knight from his steed? And if they managed to do so, to whom among them should the business of the fight fall? Müller, Stark and he were all pretty evenly qualified, though of course the others did not have the advantage of using a real weapon. Müller was already proclaiming his keenness for the fight. However, there was much to be said for the Dutchman. One arm or no he was pretty handy with a rapier. If he lost they would lose less face; if he won the glory would be all the greater.
"Well, Pieter. Reckon you can take him if I get him afoot?" asked Grimmelshausen as the paragon of Elven chivalry hove into hailing distance. The Dutchman took a swig from his gin flask, dexterously re-corking it with one hand.
"Reckon so", he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and belching.
"Good morrow to you, fair sir" called Grimmelshausen. "We seek the Halls of Duke Ælfric. Pray, are we upon the right path?"
The White Knight's steed padded to a halt some thirty paces away. Its burden raised his visor to reveal a visage of proud, inhuman beauty. "Indeed you are, strange knight. This bridge marks the boundary of his realm. However, no company of knights may cross without they prove their fittingness to do so."
"And how may that be achieved", enquired Grimmelshausen, already knowing the answer.
"One of them must best me in single combat", said the elf.
"Single combat, is it? So you will then dismount and fight one of us afoot?"
"Afoot! Indeed no. You are knights, are you not?!" exclaimed the elf.
"Ah, yes... uh, knights. Yes, of course. But as you can see we have mislaid our mounts. You could surely not wish to sully your honour by fighting us with such an unfair advantage.
"Or have I spoken too hastily? Oh cursed, unworthy, thought. You have another mount, the equal of the magnificent steed that you sit upon, waiting in yonder pavilion for the use of knights unhorsed by cruel fortune. Of course! I do pray you sir, forgive me for doubting, even for a second, your chivalry and sense of fair play," said the Captain, praying that it was not in fact true. By God, he'd rather fight one of those things, halberd in hand, than try ride one.
The elf opened his mouth to reply and shut it again. He tried again, but again words failed him, the bubble of his composure burst. It was several moments before he managed to frame a suitable answer:
"Ah, yes. Well, unfortunately you understand such steeds are rare. Of course, I would not dream of using an unfair advantage, but I am unaccustomed to fighting afoot. I am after all, a knight."
"Quite so, quite so. I perfectly understand your reluctance, and I realise that it stems not from cowardice", A slight pause here was rewarded with a definite wince from the elf.
"Far from it", the Captain continued mercilessly, "It merely represents an unwillingness to be seen at less than your magnificent best. A thousand pardons fair sir for being the cause of such inconvenience. In recognition of this and the very great concession that you make to your dignity in dismounting, I propose that your opponent in this combat should be Sir Pieter here.
"Yes, as you can see Sir Pieter is sadly maimed in both body and spirit. The loss of his good right arm in gallant defence of his house and lands has tragically diminished him. Once a knight of great nobility and renown he is now given over entirely to drink, dissipation and despair. But he demands the honour of this combat --- the opportunity to die bravely to prove his worth to himself and his comrades. I know that you, as I, cannot find it in your heart to deny him."
"Yes. Well, no, of course not". The elven knight seemed quite dazed Grimmelshausen's oleaginous outpourings, almost mesmerised. He seemed on the point of dismounting immediately, but rallied himself sufficiently to demand an undertaking that the company would not interfere in the single combat.
"Certainly, certainly. On my honour, by neither flesh nor steel, will any of us intervene", oiled the Captain.
"I fear that that formula will not suffice", replied the elf. "I do not for a moment doubt your probity, but I have encountered men of your ilk before." Stark looked uncomfortable. "I recognise the implement that that gentleman there holds", indicating Muller. "It spits fire and lead, does it not?"
Grimmelshausen silently cursed the moral victory he had just handed the elf. A pointless effort anyway. He was quite sure that all this was not going unwitnessed. If they were going to use guns at all they might as well blow the abomination away here and now. And if it looked as if the elf was going to dispatch Pieter the guns would be out promises notwithstanding.
"Ah, yes. An oversight. We do of course promise not to interfere in any way. I trust that we can expect the same undertaking from yourself on behalf of your mount", he said in an effort to regain the moral initiative. But the elf evidently had no treachery in mind and easily spoke the words, dismounting and sending the thing back to the pavilion.
Meanwhile van Rijn was preparing himself for the fight, making clumsy passes with his rapier and generally trying to look inept. The elf observed with interest. Grimmelshausen watched the elf, waiting for the moment to apply the coup de grâce. The elf drew his sword and stuck it in the earth in front of him. He also put down his shield, evidently intending to make some slight adjustment to his armour. Grimmelshausen pounced.
"No, no! I beg of you sir. Please on no account consider it. No-one could suggest that you had not already done as much as courtesy requires to accommodate your opponent. Only the most fastidious would ever suggest honour demanded that you fight as your opponent does, left-handed and shieldless. Please, I beg you: reconsider."
The flower of elven chivalry stood for a moment bemused. He could see before him the bait. He could see the hook. He could not help himself. It was in his nature. He pulled his sword from the turf with his left hand and leaving his shield as it lay, stepped forward to meet his doom.
They faced each other: the elf in its gleaming armour the picture of storybook chivalric perfection against the dull armour and maimed figure of the Dutchman as mortality's essence. The elf took in the his opponent's stance, his overlong and thin sword. It would only be necessary to lay the elven brand squarely on it to shatter it and win without needing to harm the lord's guests physically, while leaving them severely disadvantaged in standing. And perhaps the clod could be goaded into a real fight later to seek his 'revenge' for humiliation now...
"Are you ready Sir?" A graceful bow to show up the difference between them should be enough to push the mortal.
"Get on with it." Growled the Dutchman. So be it. The elf leapt forwards, twisting his wrist to bring his sword against the long steel point that was so obligingly being thrust at him, but the mortal saw the trap at the last moment and moved his own blade the fraction needed for the blades to slide ringingly apart rather than meet square and shatter one. Discomforted by the speed of the attack Van Rijn staggered back, his cloak slipping round to tangle his stump. A second pass, again the attempted thrust of the longer weapon too slow to touch an elf and barely converted to a defence of the blade itself in time. The elf blade shrieked down the length of steel to part a fold of cloak like gossamer.
"Please, do excuse me --- I feared that the garment might hamper you, Sir."
"That cost me twenty marks you damned abomination! I'll have you for that!" Bellowing in rage the mortal lunged forward. Laughing the knight skipped lightly to the cripple's stump side, swinging down on the irretrievably extended rapier but it wasn't there as Van Rijn threw himself bodily toward the knight in a desperate attempt to save the sword. Automatically the the elf cut, the sword ripped through the cloak again at the point that would have taken a whole man's arm off at the elbow. Entirely unaffected Pieter whirled the stump to tangle the elf's sword arm in the ribboned remains of the cloak...
The elf's blue eyes crossed, trying to focus on the rapier point that had appeared at his Adam's apple. Van Rijn smiled sardonically from the hilt end.
"Were I in your shoes, I might consider the manifold advantages of yielding."
"Thing is," remarked Van Rijn sadly. "I'm naturally left handed. Thought you could take a one armed cripple easily didn't you? Well don't worry son. You're not the first to make that mistake. Just a little advantage, but its all a really cunning swordsman ever needs. And you couldn't leave well alone could you? 'I challenge thee, varlet' and all that other crap. Defender of the bridge eh? Well, Horatius, this is it. All the glory you could ever want."
It seemed for a moment that the elf might choose death before dishonour and the attendant lecture but he ground out the single magic word "Yield". Pieter stepped back, dropping the sword, and turned away before allowing himself to wince and feel at the end of his stump. His fingers came away red and damp. The damnable elf had pinked him after all. A fraction further up and the Serg... Grimmelshausen would have had another chance to boast about his surgical skills. Lovely stump he thought to himself, bitterly.
"Glory and cunning, eh?" remarked Stark, as Pieter strode by to his pack and a bottle of medicinals. "We've got the cunning, now all we need is the glory!" Pieter stopped and looked at him. The smell of blood in his nostrils brought it back to him suddenly. Once again, he saw the bold plumes of the Immortals flutter in the breeze as they built up to the pas de charge across the heath. The cheering, the rattle of swords as the finest cavalry in Europe thundered home. The screaming of the maimed horses once the Swedish guns had done their terrible, efficient, work. Glorious!
"Glorious? It means Dead! You see, the real nature of glory is, it involves getting your bliddy arse shot off! Bravery, Courage. To charge home against insuperable odds --- that's glory! Oh, your name will live for evermore in the annals of valour. Trouble is, you yourself are, well, Dead." He spat. Why waste his breath, he thought sourly. Prosing away like this. Still, best finish it.
"Cunning, now, is dirty and treacherous. It's pumps and dykes; glory is sweeping the spring high tide back with a broom. If I'd thought he might win, I'd have let Dethorm blow him into rags. But here we are. Alive. Intact, near enough. Ready for the Captain here to use his undoubted gift for storytelling. He can now make of this encounter --- well, anything he wants. See, that's the moral. Winners make the tales, and glory? It's only a tale, in the end.
"Now where's that whoreson gin?"
<><><>
The defeated knight bowed his head as they crossed his bridge. Of the Mantichore there was no sign.
From the other side it seemed a short journey. The hints of misty towers resolve into large, misty towers. Ælfheim is a hotchpotch of towers, spires, high-arched windows, floating bridges and flying buttresses, all done in mist and glowing pastels. There is something of a feeling of insubstantiality about it in other words, as if turning one's back for a moment then looking again might find the towers had all softly and silently moved in that moment, what was once a bridge now a buttress, the great tower there a spire. But here now is the wall, white and smooth, broken only by the great gate to which the road leads.
"Now, remember, lads," lectured the Captain --- suddenly an authority on elven etiquette, "Be wary but be courteous. Lets try not to eat or drink anything, not until we know a bit more anyway, but no outright refusals. Pretend they're inviting you to a prayer meeting or something --- you know."
As he spoke, the great door swung open, as if by magic, on silent hinges, and they found themselves at the entrance of a great white marble and gilt hall which ended in a wide sweeping staircase. From above wafted the sounds of music and laughter. There were a number figures standing around, talking in couples and small groups. The party gasped in consternation and amazement as they realised that every one of them had the head of an animal.
One smartly dressed, with the head of a white rabbit, approached them, wringing his hands. "Welcome, welcome," he said, "You are expected. Duke Ælfric expressly commanded that I should be here to meet you. He will receive you himself in due course. In the meantime I am to escort you, suitably attired, of course, up to the masque."
"The... the... a masque," stammered Grimmelshausen.
"Well, yes a masque. What else? You don't think I always wear the head of a rabbit do you?" the Rabbit replied somewhat tersely. "Now come along, you don't want to miss the dancing, do you."
In fact none of the New Jerusalemers could think of anything they would rather miss. But too dazed to resist, they fell in behind the officious rabbit. They were led through a door on the left of the hall into a short corridor ending in a spiral staircase. Half a dozen turns and their guide stopped on a landing with a door. They were ushered through into a large wood panelled room, looking for all the world as if it were the main room of a wealthy New Jerusalem merchant's house. There they were given over to the charge of a bevy of servants with instructions to change as quickly as they might into their costumes.
Stifling a touch of panic at the thought of being separated from his companions even briefly. Grimmelshausen allowed himself to be chivied into what proved to be a very well appointed bedroom by a plump bustling woman with the head of a goose.
"Now don't just stand there," she said. "Off with all that ironmongery, for a start. Then we'll see about having a wash --- no time for a bath --- more's the pity. Then into your costume. Oh do come along, sir."
And so Grimmelshausen was coaxed out of his armour and travel-stained clothes and, hands and face washed, into a perfectly fitting smart grey suit, such as he might have chosen for himself, with the finest shoes he had ever worn. After observing his progress and finding it satisfactory the Goose left him to get on with it. Taking advantage of her absence, Grimmelshausen slipped a flask of schnapps into his coat pocket. Finally he took up his mask, a huge grey wolf's head --- remarkably realistic --- and placed it upon his head.
Immediately a wave of panic hit him. This was no mask. It had become his head. He had been ensorcelled. Howling he raised his hands to his head in a desperate effort to tear the thing off. He knew it would be to no avail. It pulled off easily. Gasping with relief Grimmelshausen staggered across the room to stand in front of the mirror. Gingerly, he replaced the mask. Yellow eyes stared back at him. Slowly, he closed an eye. The wolf winked at him. He licked his lips. A great pink tongue lapped around razor sharp teeth. He threw back his head and howled with laughter. A sorcerous toy! Grimmelshausen felt strangely elated by his blasphemous headpiece. This was certainly the most entertaining sorcery he'd ever encountered.
"Now whatever is the matter, sir," scolded his returning servant. "Do hurry up, sir. Everyone's waiting."
"Just one a moment." With a wistful glance towards his halberd, Grimmelshausen snatched up his swordbelt, strapping on rapier and dagger, to the evident disgust of Mother Goose. "A gentleman should never be without a sword," he said, with a wolfish grin.
In the main room were van Rijn in black and white with a badger's head, and Muller in brown with a bear's. Both had kept their rapiers. Both looked ill at ease with their sorcerous masks, but evidently less concerned with their immortal souls than with the scorn of Mother Goose. There was a commotion coming from the fourth room. A small, shapely woman with a mouse's head scampered out.
"Ooh, sir! Please have some respect for an honest woman," she squeaked, running to the ample bosom of Mother Goose. "He says he' going a-courting ma'am."
Out of the fourth room swaggered a figure dressed in green, with the head of a frog. Into his sword belt was tucked a double-barrelled horse pistol. "Tradition," croaked Stark. "Just a tradition."
"Well, you all look quite splendid, if I may say so," said Mr Rabbit. "Let us join the other guests."
He led them back down to the great hall. Four abreast, behind the Rabbit, they mounted the steps and entered a hall even greater than the one they hand left, lit by chandeliers of glass and candles hung from the lofty ceiling. It was throng with beast-headed people. Several broke away from their groups to greet the new arrivals.
Grimmelshausen was button-holed by a rat. "May I congratulate you on your splendid victory over poor old Trintillian. Such an entertaining duel. We were all enthralled. Some cunning strokes indeed."
"I'm afraid you are mistaken," replied Grimmelshausen, "it was my comrade Pieter van Rijn who overcame the White Knight." He gestured over to where the Dutchman was being lionised by a variety of fauna.
"Ah, yes, of course." The rat winked broadly. "You need say no more."
"A dance, my gallant captain?" A handsomely built woman with the head of a lynx took him by the arm. "I think the band is about to start."
Grimmelshausen was about to frame a polite refusal when the music caught him. Its tug was so strong that for an instant he feared that it would overwhelm Boris's ring. He reasserted control and the moment passed but he found himself clinging to the lynx's arm for support. She looked at him a little strangely and to cover his confusion he accepted. The ensuing dance was one of the strangest experiences of Grimmelshausen's strange experience laden life. Praise-the-Lord was no dancer. Dancing was not a highly prized social skill in New Jerusalem. However, following the steps was the least of his problems. The music spoke to his very soul. The steps came naturally - or would have if it were not for the business of keeping body and soul together. It was a work of utmost concentration to keep his soul from just leaving his all too solid flesh behind. But while his spirit soared and his body stuck grimly to its task, his mind was doggedly attending to its own business. He had heard this melody before --- and he knew where.
At last the dance ended and Grimmelshausen could make feeble, but evidently welcome, excuses to his partner and sidle up to the drinks table. Servants were pouring wine into silver goblets. Grimmelshausen quietly filched an empty one and, with a facility borne of long practice planting contraband on unwary merchants, unobtrusively charged it from his own flask. He then made his way over to where the musicians were tuning up for the next dance.
There in the front row sat a familiar figure. Unmistakable, despite his jay's head, if for no other reason than his harp and his strange outlandish (even here) garb. He looked up as Grimmelshausen approached.
"Och weell, if it isn't the Sergeant. I did see that you'd turn up."
"It's Captain to you, MacGregor. And be careful with that bloody harp around me. So, how the devil are you? And how did you end up here?"
"I find my art appreciated and understood in these parts. There is a proper respect shown. As for being here, you're lucky to find me in some ways --- I am not part of my lord duke's household you understand but was asked to perform at this ball --- I go where my art requires or where I see the need." He briefly raises his hand to the blind eye of the Jay's head. "As a bard and a seer of course. Normally though I move from place to place to play and collect songs, or subjects --- put a fine polish on events, as it were.
"When the darkness came to the old world, I saw it coming, of course, and decided it was time to move on. I headed east."
"Where else do you play? We had enough trouble finding our way here and didn't find anywhere else."
"You'll be knowing that a bard is welcome anywhere of course, and will play anywhere he's welcome, but I see you mean the greater houses: My Lady of the Mountain, in Mountain King's Halls, the house of the Hunter, and then there's the various towers of the wise, in fact no end of other little places --- though only by comparison you understand."
"Hmm, Do you know of a power known as 'The Eye'?"
"Did I not myself play a victim from out of his clutches?" McGregor took a bardic pose and prepared to strike a chord on his instrument and tell the full story, before Grimmelshausen hurridly broke in.
"Yes, yes. Ah, She's back. And gone again. As far as we know both the Preacher and his wife --- yes, he made an honest woman of her eventually --- are in the clutches of the Eye. Do you know where it is to be found?"
"I regret that I've received no invitation to play for an Eye."
"Not a music lover then." Grimmelshausen's wolfhead bared its teeth in what was probably a smile.
"Aye, maybe, but it has no ear for music." returned the impassive Jay.
"I suppose you'll know that we're searching for the borders again. Have you any idea where to find them?"
"West? Or rather back the way we came when it meant anything to talk of walking a direction to get in and out. Or you might try across the sea. Which sea? Och, somewhere past the Lady's mountain. I heard of it a while ago and went to see for myself --- there are some villages of people such as ourselves, seemingly their forebears were trapped in some previous movement of the borders, but they were an unmusical, unimaginative bunch and knew nothing of their own history, save for mentioning a name you'll remember perhaps --- a couple of human knights, one by name of Trummenburg, ran away from a sea horse that was troubling those shores."
"Oho! Limpy Trummenburg and Faceless Leibnitz. So they'd come this way. Sounds like them certainly. The good old days, eh?
"So if you've not found the borders, who'd be likely to be able to help?"
"The Duke might, if there is a favour you an do him. Or Hrelja, that's the Lady of the Mountain, she may be interested in the quest for its own sake, which I doubt myself the Duke will be. Where is she? Why if you take yourself out onto the balcony and look out you'll see a distant mountain and a light on top, which is where you'll find her, if at all.
A tall gentleman dressed in russet and gold with a fox head approached. MacGregor got to his feet and made an elaborate bow. "My Lord Duke Ælfric."
"Captain Grimmelshausen, is it not? I bid you welcome to my court. I trust you enjoy yourself. You have partaken of my wine at least, I see."
"Thank you, sire for your welcome. May I toast your hospitality." Grimmelshausen raised his goblet of good German schnapps with a wolfish grin.
"My compliments on your skilful handling of the test, and my thanks for the lack of damage to my guardians --- perhaps I should send a hollow man against you next time."
"If my lord chooses to use overwhelming force..."
"Ah, but it is the contest that is the entertainment, not the result. We shall see."
"As my lord wishes of course. In the meantime may I congratulate you on this splendid ball and these excellent masks..."
"You like the mask? You may keep it. No don't thank me, it is a small thing. I shall speak to you later about your quest, when you are rested from your travels. In the meantime enjoy the ball, and leave it when you will or it'll be on for the next century or so..."
And the Duke drifts off, smiling a sly, foxy smile.