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that everyone does that,” Elric told her, letting her believe whatever
she wished. “I am Elric of Melniboné and this is my friend Master Wheldrake,
the poet.”
                 “Of
Master Wheldrake I have heard.” There was perhaps some admiration in the lady’s
voice. “But you, sir, I fear are unknown to me. I am called the Rose and my
sword is called Swift Thorn while my dagger is called Little Thorn.” She spoke
with pride and defiance and it was clear that she uttered some kind of warning,
though what she feared from them Elric could not guess. “I travel the time
streams in search of my revenge.” And she smiled down at her empty bowl, as if
in self-mocking embarrassment at a shameful admission.
                 “And
what do the three sisters mean to you, madam?” asked Wheldrake, his little
voice now a charming trill.
                  

 
     
                 “They
mean everything. They have the means of leading me to the resolution of all I
have lived for, since I swore my oath. They offer me the chance of
satisfaction, Master Wheldrake. You are, are you not, that same Wheldrake who
wrote The Orientalist’s Dream ?”
                 “Well,
madam—” in some dismay—“I was but newly arrived in a new age. I needed to begin
my reputation afresh. And the Orient was all the rage just then. However, as a
mature work—”
                 “It
is exceptionally sentimental, Master Wheldrake. But it helped me through a bad
hour or two. And I still enjoy it for what it is. After that comes The Song of Iananthe , which is of course
your finest.”
                 “But
Heavens, madam, I have not yet written the work! It is sketched, that’s all, in
Putney.”
                 “It
is excellent, sir. I’ll say no more of it.”
                 “I’m
obliged for that, madam. And—” he recovered himself—“also for your praise. I,
too, have some affection for my Oriental period. Did you read, perhaps, the
novel which was just lately published— Manfred;
Or, the Gentleman Hoorii ?”
                 “Not
part of your canon when I last was settled anywhere, sir.”
                 And
while the pair of them talked of poetry, Elric found himself leaning his head
upon his arms and dozing until suddenly he heard Wheldrake say:
                 “And
how do these gypsies go about unpunished? Is there no authority to keep them in
check?”
                 “I
know only that they are a nation of travelers,” said the Rose quietly, “perhaps
a large nomad horde of some description. They call themselves the Free
Travelers or the People of the Road and there is no doubt that they are powerful
enough for the local folk to fear. I have some suggestion that the sisters rode
to join the Gypsy Nation. So I would join it, too.”
                 And
Elric remembered the wide causeway of beaten mud and wondered if that had any
connection with the Gypsy Nation. Yet they would not league themselves, surely,
with the supernatural? He became increasingly curious.
                 “We
are all three at a disadvantage,” said the Rose, “since we allowed our hosts to
assume we were victims of the gypsies. This means we cannot pursue any direct
enquiries but must understand elliptically what we can. Unless we were to admit
our deception.”
                 “I
have a feeling this would make us somewhat more unpopular. These people are
proud of their treatment of traders. But of non-traders, we have not learned.
Perhaps their fate is less pleasant.” Elric sighed. “It matters not to me. But
if you would have company, lady, we’ll join forces to seek these sisters.”
                 “Aye,
for the moment I see no harm in such an alliance.” She spoke sagely. “Have you
heard anything of them?”
                 “As
much as have you,” said