Read Online Revenge of the Rose by Michael Moorcock - Free Book Online

Elric was
moved, obscurely, to apologize and enquire if he had come to the right place.
                 “It’s
the place that you face, sir, by Our Watcher’s Grace, my lord. Come for
charity, have you? For charity and some smart advice?”
                 “Hospitality,
sir, is what we were offered!” There was an edge to Wheldrake’s outraged chirrup.
“Not, sir, charity!” He resembled an angered grouse, his face almost as red as
his hair.
                 “I
care not what fancy words dress the action, my good lords,” and the creature
rose, folding and collapsing and extending itself in such a way as to bring
itself upright, “I call it charity !”
Tiny diamond-lights glittered from cavernous sockets and ill-fitting teeth
clacked in flaccid lips. “I care not what dangers you have faced, what
calamities have befallen you, what hideous losses you have sustained, what rich
men you were, what poor men you have become. Had you not considered these
risks, you would not have come this far and ventured across the Divide! Thus
you have yourselves alone to blame for your misfortunes.”
                 “We
were told we might find food at this house,” said Elric evenly. “Not
ill-tempered crowfrighters and discourtesy.”
                 “Hypocrites
that they are, they lied. The House is closed for redecoration. It is being
converted to a restaurant. With luck, it should soon turn a profit.”
                 “Well,
sir, we have put such narrow notions of accountability behind us in my world,”
said Wheldrake. “However, I apologize for disturbing you. We have been
misinformed, as you say.”
                 Elric,
unused to such behaviour and still a Melnibonéan noble, found that he had
gripped his sword-hilt without his realizing it. “Old man,” he said, “I am
discommoded by your insolence …” Then Wheldrake’s warning hand fell upon
the albino’s arm and he collected himself.
                 “The
old man lies! He lies! He lies!” From behind them, up the hill, a large key
ready in his hand, bustled a stocky fellow of fifty or so, his grey hair
bristling from beneath a velvet cap, his beard half-tangled, his robes and
suitings all awry, as if he had dressed in a hurry from some half-remembered
bed. “He lies, good sirs. He lies. (Be off with you, Reth’chat, to plague some
other institution!) The man is a relic, gentlemen, from an age most of us have
only read about. He would have us judged by our wealth and our martial glory
rather than our good will and tranquility of spirit. Good morrow, good morrow.
You’ve come to dine, I hope.”
                 “Cold
and tasteless is the bread of charity,” grumbled the Relic, scuttling down the
street towards a group of playing children and failing to scatter them with his
stick-insect arms. “Accountability and self-sufficiency! They will destroy the
family. We shall all perish. We shall serve at the marching boards, mark my
words!”
                 And
with that he turned the corner into Old Museum Gate and disappeared with a
final display of miraculous angularity into an arcade of shops.
                 The
genial middle-aged man waved his key before inserting it in the ancient door. “He
is an advertizement for himself only. You’ll find such blowhards in every town.
I take it that our gypsy friends exacted a ‘tax’ from you. What would you have
been bringing us?”
                 “Gold,
mostly,” said Elric, understanding at last the manners and ready lies of a
mercenary and a thief, “and precious jewels.”
                 “You
were brave to make the attempt. Did they find you this side of the Divide?”
                 “It
would seem so.”
                 “And
stripped you of everything. You are lucky to have your clothing and weapons.
And ’tis as well they did not catch you crossing