Madouc

CHAPTER FIVE

Shimrod rode in company with Dhrun to Lyonesse Town, where Dhrun, with Amery, took passage to Domreis aboard a Troice cog. Shimrod watched from the quayside until the tawny sails dwindled across the horizon, then went to a nearby inn and seated himself in the shade of a grape arbor. Over a platter of sausages and a mug of ale he considered the possibilities of the next few days and what might lie in store for him.

The time had come when he must take himself to Swer Smod, that he might confer with Murgen and learn whatever needed learning. The prospect did not lift his spirits. Murgen's dreary disposition blended well with the somber and darkling atmosphere of Swer Smod; his sour smile was equivalent to another man's wild frivolity. Shimrod knew well what to expect at Swer Smod and prepared himself accordingly; had he discovered good cheer and merrymaking, he would have wondered as to Murgen's sanity.

Shimrod left the arbor and went to a baker's booth, where he bought two large honeycakes, each packed in a reed basket. One of the cakes was sprinkled with chopped raisins, the other was cast over with nuts. Shimrod took up the cakes and stepped around to the back of the booth. The baker, assured that Shimrod had gone to relieve himself, ran out to remonstrate. "Hold hard, sir! Go elsewhere for such business! I want no great chife in the air; it is poor advertisement!" He halted, looking right and left. "Where are you, sir?" He heard a mutter, a whimper, a rush of wind. Something whisked up at a blur and away from his vision, but of Shimrod there was naught to be seen.

Slow of foot the baker returned to the front of his booth but told no one of the event, for fear of being thought over-imaginative.

II

Shimrod was transported to a stony flat high on the slopes of the Teach tac Teach, with the panorama to the east swathed under the Forest of Tantrevalles out to the edge of vision. The walls of Swer Smod rose at his back: a set of massive rectangular shapes, meshed and merged, stacked and layered, with three towers of unequal height rising about all, like sentinels surveying the landscape.

Shimrod's approach to the castle was obstructed by a stone wall eight feet high. At the portal hung a sign he had not seen before. Black symbols conveyed a daunting admonition:

WARNING!

TRESPASSERS! WAYFARERS! ALL OTHERS!

ADVANCE AT RISK!

If you cannot read these words, cry out ‘KLARO!' and the sign will declare the message aloud.

PROCEED NO FARTHER, AT PERIL OF DEATH!

In case of need, consult Shimrod the Magician, at his manse Trilda, in the Great Forest of Tantrevalles.

Shimrod halted at the portal and surveyed the yard beyond. Nothing had changed since his last visit. On guard were the same two gryphs: Vus, mottled moss-green, and maroon-red Vuwas, whose color was that of old blood, or raw liver. Both stood eight feet tall, with massive torsos clad in plaques of horny carapace. Vus displayed a crest of six black spikes, to which, in his vanity, he had affixed a number of medals and emblems. Vuwas wore across his scalp and down the nape of his neck a stiff brush of black-red fibers. Not to be outdone by Vus, he had attached several fine pearls to this bristle. Vus and Vuwas, at this moment, sat beside their sentinel box, hunched over a chessboard wrought from black iron and bone. The pieces stood four inches high, and cried out as they were moved, in derision, shock, outrage, or occasionally approval. The gryphs paid no heed to the comments and played their own game.

Shimrod pushed through the iron gate and entered the fore court. The gryphs glared hot-eyed over their pronged shoulders. Each ordered the other to rise up and kill Shimrod; each demurred. "Do you take me for a fool?" demanded Vuwas. "In my absence, you would make three illicit moves and no doubt abuse my pieces. It is you who must do your duty, and at this very moment."

"Not I!" said the moss-green Vus. "Your remarks merely indicate what you yourself have in mind. While I killed this sheep-faced fool, you would push my reignet into limbo and baffle my darkdog into the corner."

Vuwas growled to Shimrod over his shoulder: "Go away; it is simpler for everyone. We avoid the trouble of killing you, and you need not worry about arranging your affairs."

"Out of the question," said Shimrod. "I am here on important business. Do you not recognize me? I am Murgen's scion Shimrod."

"We remember nothing," grunted Vuwas. "One earthling looks much like another."

Vus pointed to the ground. "Wait where you stand until we finish our game. This is a critical juncture!"

Shimrod sauntered over to inspect the chessboard. The gryphs paid him no heed.

"Ludicrous," said Shimrod after a moment.

"Hist!" snarled Vuwas, the maroon-red gryph. "We will tolerate no interference!"

Vus looked around challengingly: "Do you intend insult? If so, we will tear you limb from limb on the spot!"

Shimrod asked: "Can a cow be insulted by the word ‘bovine'? Can a bird be insulted by the word ‘flighty'? Can a pair of bumbling mooncalves be insulted by the word ‘ludicrous'?"

Vuwas spoke sharply: "Your hints are not clear. What are you trying to tell us?"

"Simply that either of you could win the game with a single move."

The gryphs glumly examined the board. "How so?" asked Vus.

"In your case, you need only conquer this bezander with your caitiff, then march the arch-priestess forward to confront the serpent, and the game is yours."

"Never mind all that!" snapped Vuwas. "How might I win?"

"Is it not obvious? These mordykes stand in your way. Strike them aside with your ghost, like this, whereupon your caitiffs have the freedom of the board."

"Ingenious," said Vus the mottled green gryph. "Those moves, however, are considered improper on the world Pharsad. Further, you have called the pieces by their wrong names, and also you have disarranged the board!"

"No matter," said Shimrod. "Simply replay the game, and now I must be on my way."

"Not so fast!" cried out Vuwas. "There is still a small task to be accomplished!"

"We were not born yesterday," stated Vus. "Prepare for death."

Shimrod put the reed baskets on the table. Vuwas the dark red gryph asked suspiciously: "What is in the baskets?"

"They contain honeycakes," said Shimrod. "One of the cakes is somewhat larger and more tasty then the other."

"Aha!" said Vus. "Which is which?"

"You must open the baskets," said Shimrod. "The larger cake is for whichever of you is the most deserving."

"Indeed!"

Shimrod sauntered off across the forecourt. For a moment there was silence behind him, then a mutter, then a sharp remark, an equally sharp retort, followed by a sudden outburst of horrid snarls, bellows, thuds and tearing sounds.

Traversing the forecourt, Shimrod climbed three steps to a stone porch. Stone columns framed an alcove and a ponderous black iron door, twice his height and wider than his arms could span. Black iron faces looked through festoons of black iron vines; black iron eyes watched Shimrod with sardonic curiosity. Shimrod touched a stud; the door swung open to the grinding of iron on iron. He stepped through the opening, into a high-ceilinged entry hail. To right and left pedestals supported a pair of stone statues, of exaggerated attenuation, robed and cowled so that the gaunt faces remained in shadow. No servitor appeared; Shimrod expected none. Murgen's servitors were more often than not invisible.

The way was familiar to Shimrod. He passed through the entry hall into a long gallery. At regular intervals, tail portals opened into chambers serving a variety of functions. There was no one to be seen nor any sound to be heard; an almost unnatural stillness held Swer Smod.

Shimrod walked along the gallery without haste, looking into the chambers on either side to discover what changes had been made since his last visit. Often the chambers were dark, and usually empty. Some served conventional purposes; others were dedicated to a use less ordinary. In one of these chambers Shimrod discovered a tall woman standing before an easel, back turned to the doorway. She wore a long gown of gray-blue linen; cloud-white hair was gathered at the nape of her neck by a ribbon, then hung down her back. The easel supported a panel; using brushes and pigments from a dozen clay pots, the woman worked to create an image on the surface of the panel.

Shimrod watched a moment, but could not clearly define the nature of the image. He entered the chamber, that he might observe at closer range and perhaps with better understanding, but had no great success. The pigments looked to be an identical heavy black, allowing the woman small scope for contrast, or so it seemed to Shimrod. He moved a step closer, then another. At last he was able to perceive that each pigment, anomalous and strange to his eyes, quivered with a particular subtle luster unique to itself. He studied the panel; the shapes formed by the black oozes swam before his vision; neither their definition nor their pattern were at all obvious.

The woman turned her head; with blank white eyes she looked at Shimrod. Her expression remained vague; Shimrod was not sure that she saw him, but it could not be that she was blind! The case would be self-contradictory!

Shimrod smiled politely. "It is an interesting work that you do," he said. "The composition, however, is not quite clear to me."

The woman made no response, and Shimrod wondered if she might also be deaf. In a somber mood he left the chamber and continued along the gallery to the Great Hall. Again, no foot man or other servitor stood on hand to announce him; Shimrod passed through the portal, into a chamber so high that the ceiling was lost among the shadows. A line of narrow windows halfway down one of the walls admitted pale light from the north; flames in the fireplace provided a more cheerful illumination. The walls were panelled with oak but bare of decoration. A heavy table occupied the center of the room. Cabinets along the far wall displayed books, curios and miscellaneous oddments; to the side of the mantelpiece a glass globe, charged with glowing green plasma, hung by a silver wire from the ceiling; within huddled the curled skeleton of a weasel, skull peering through high haunches.

Murgen stood by the table, looking down into the fire: a man of early maturity, well-proportioned but of no particular distinction. Such was his ordinary semblance, in which he felt most comfortable. He acknowledged Shimrod's presence with a glance and casual wave of the hand.

"Sit," said Murgen. "I am glad that you are here; in fact, I was about to summon you, that you might deal with a moth."

Shimrod seated himself by the fire. He looked around the chamber. "I am here, but I see no moth."

"It has disappeared," said Murgen. "How was your journey?"

"Well enough. I came by way of Castle Sarris and Lyonesse Town, in company with Prince Dhrun."

Murgen settled into a chair beside Shimrod. "Will you eat or drink?"

"A goblet of wine might calm my nerves. Your devils are more horrid than ever. You must curb their truculence."

Murgen made an indifferent gesture. "They serve their purpose."

"Far too well, in my opinion," said Shimrod. "Should one of your honoured guests be late in arrival, do not be offended; it is likely that the devils have torn him to bits."

"I entertain seldom," said Murgen. "Still, since you are so definite, I will suggest that Vus and Vuwas moderate their vigilance."

A silver-haired sylph, barelegged, drifted into the hall. She carried a tray on which rested a blue glass flask and a pair of goblets, twisted and worked into quaint shapes. She placed the tray on the table, turned Shimrod a quick sideglance and decanted two goblets of dark red wine. One of these she offered to Shimrod, the other to Murgen, then drifted from the hall as silently as she had come.

For a moment the two drank wine from the blue glass goblets in silence. Shimrod studied the suspended green-glowing globe. Black glittery beads in the small skull seemed to return his scrutiny. Shimrod asked: "Is it yet alive?"

Murgen looked over his shoulder. The black beads again appeared to shift to meet Murgen's gaze. "The dregs of Tamurello perhaps still exist: his tincture so to speak, or perhaps the verve of the green gas itself is responsible."

"Why do you not destroy the globe, gas and all, and be done with it?"

Murgen made a sound of amusement. "If I knew all there was to be known, I might do so. Or, on the other hand, I might not do so. Consequently, I delay. I am both wary and chary of disturbing what seems a stasis."

"But it is not truly a stasis?"

"There is never a stasis."

Shimrod made no comment. Murgen continued. "I am warned by my instincts. They tell me of movement, furtive and slow. Someone wishes to catch me as I drowse, complacent and bloated with power. The possibility is real; I cannot look in all directions at once."

"But who has the will to work such a strategy? Surely not Tamurello!"

"Perhaps not Tamurello."

"Who else, then?"

"There is a recurrent question which troubles me. At least once each day I ask myself: where is Desmei?"

"She disappeared, after creating Carfilhiot and Melancthe; that is the general understanding."

Murgen's mouth took on a wry twist. "Was it all so simple?

Did Desmei truly entrust her revenge to the likes of Carfilhiot and Melancthe-the one a monster, the other an unhappy dreamer?"

"Desmei's motives have always been a puzzle," said Shimrod. "Admittedly, I have never studied them in depth."

Murgen gazed into the fire. "From nothing came much. Her malice was kindled by what seems a trivial impulse: Tamurello's rejection of her erotic urge. Why, then, the elaborations? Why did she not simply revenge herself upon Tamurello? Was Melancthe intended to serve as her instrument of vengeance? If so, her plans went awry. Carfilhiot ingested the green fume, while Melancthe barely sensed its odor."

"Still, the memory seems to fascinate her," said Shimrod.

"It would seem a most seductive stuff. Tamurello consumed the green pearl; now he crouches in the globe, and the green suffusion surrounds him to a surfeit. He gives no evidence of Joy."

"This in itself might be considered the vengeance of Desmei."

"It seems too paltry. For Desmei, Tamurello represented not only himself but all his kind. There are no gauges to measure such malice; one can only feel and wonder."

"And cringe."

"It is instructive, perhaps, to note that Desmei in her creation of Melancthe and Carfilhiot used a demon magic derived from Xabiste. The green gas may itself be Desmei, in a form imposed upon her by the condition of Xabiste. If so, she is no doubt anxious to resume a more conventional shape."

"Are you suggesting that Desmei and Tamurello are bottled together in the globe?"

"It is only an idle thought. Meanwhile I guard Joald and soothe his monstrous hulk, and ward away whatever might disturb his long wet rest. When time permits, I study the demon magic of Xabiste, which is slippery and ambiguous. Such are my preoccupations."

"You mentioned that you were about to call me here to Swer Smod."

"Quite so. The conduct of a moth has caused me concern."

"An ordinary moth?"

"So it would seem."

"And I am here to deal with this moth?"

"The moth is more significant than you imagine. Yesterday, just before dusk, I came through the door and, as always, took note of the globe. I saw that a moth had apparently been attracted by the green light and had settled upon the surface. As I watched, it crawled to where it could look into Tamurello's eyes. I immediately summoned the sandestin Rylf, who informed me that I saw not a moth but a shybalt from Xabiste."

Shimrod's jaw dropped. "That is bad news."

Murgen nodded. "It means that a strand of communication is open-between whatever resides in the globe and someone else where."

"What then?"

"When the moth-shybalt flew away, Rylf assumed the form of a dragonfly and followed. The moth crossed the mountains and flew down the Vale of Evander to the city Ys."

"And then, along the beach to Melancthe's villa?"

"Surprisingly, no. The shybalt might have become aware of Rylf. At Ys it darted down to a flambeau on the square, where it joined a thousand other moths, all careening around the flame, to Rylf's confusion. He remained on watch, hoping to identify the moth he had followed from Swer Smod. As he waited, considering the swirling myriad, one of the moths dropped to the ground and altered its form to that of a human man. Rylf had no way of knowing whether this was the moth he had been following, or a totally different insect. By the laws of probability, as Rylf reckoned them, the moth of his interest remained in the throng; therefore Rylf took no special note of the man, although he was still able to provide a detailed description."

"That is all to the good, certainly."

"Just so. The man was of average quality, clad in ordinary garments, wearing a proper hat and shod with the usual sort of shoes. Rylf also noticed that he took himself to the largest of the nearby inns, beneath the sign of the setting sun."

"That would be the Sunset Inn, on the harbour."

"Rylf continued to keep watch on the moths, among them- according to the probabilities, as he calculated them-was the moth he had followed from Swer Smod. At midnight the flambeau burned out, and the moths flew off in all directions. Rylf decided that he had done his best and returned to Swer Smod."

"Hmf," said Shimrod. "And now I am to try my luck at the Sunset Inn?"

"That is my suggestion."

Shimrod reflected. "It cannot be coincidence that Melancthe is also resident close by Ys."

"That is for you to verify. I have made inquiry and I learn that we are dealing with the shybalt Zagzig, who lacks good repute even on Xabiste."

"And when I find him?"

"Your task becomes delicate and even dangerous, since we will wish to question him with meticulous precision. He will ignore your orders, and attempt a sly trick of some kind; you must drop this circlet of suheil over his neck; otherwise he will kill you with a gust from his mouth."

Shimrod dubiously examined the ring of fine wire which Murgen had placed upon the table. "This ring will subdue Zagzig and make him passive?"

"Exactly so. You can then bring him back to Swer Smod, where our inquiries can be made at leisure."

"And if he proves obstreperous?"

Murgen went to the mantelpiece and returned with a shortsword in a scabbard of worn black leather. "This is the sword Tace. Use it for your protection, though I prefer that you bring Zagzig submissively to Swer Smod. Come now into the tire room; we must arrange a guise for you. It is not fitting that you should be identified as Shimrod the Magician. If we must violate our own edict, at least let us do it by stealth."

Shimrod rose to his feet. "Remember to counsel Vus and Vuwas, so that they extend me a more civilized welcome upon my return."

Murgen brushed aside the complaint. "First things first. At the moment, Zagzig must be your only concern."

"As you say."

III

The River Evander, where it met the Atlantic Ocean, passed by a city of great antiquity, known to the poets of Wales, Ireland, Dahaut, Armorica and elsewhere as ‘Ys the Beautiful', and ‘Ys of the Hundred Palaces', and ‘Ys of the Ocean': a city so romantic, grand and rich that all subsequently claimed it for their own.

Still and all, Ys was not a city of great ostentation, nor magnificent temples, nor public occasions of any kind; Ys, indeed, was steeped in mysteries, old and new. The single concession the folk of Ys made to prideful display were the statues of mythical heroes ranked around the four Consancts, at the back of the central plaza. The inhabitants, in the language spoken nowhere else, called themselves ‘Yssei': folk of Ys. By tradition they had come to the Elder Isles in four companies; over the course of history the companies had maintained their identities, to be come, in effect, four secret societies, with functions and rites more fiercely guarded than life itself. For this reason, and others, the society was controlled by intricate customs and delicate etiquette, subtle beyond the understanding of alien folk.

The wealth of Ys and its people was proverbial, and derived from its function as a depot of trade and trans-shipment between the known world and far places to the south and west. Along the Evander and up the slopes to either side the Yessei palaces gleamed white through the foliage of the old gardens. Twelve arched bridges spanned the river; avenues paved with granite flags followed each bank; with tow-paths skirting the shore, that barges laden with fruits, flowers, produce of all kinds, might be conveyed to the folk living at a distance from the central market. The largest structures of Ys were the four Consancts at the back of the plaza, where the factors of the four septs transacted their business.

The waterfront was considered a separate community by the folk of Ys; they called it ‘Abri', or ‘Place of Outlanders'. In the harbour district were the shops of small merchants, chand leries, foundries and forges, shipyards, sail-makers' lofts, rope-walks, warehouses, taverns and inns.

Of these inns, one of the largest and best was the Sunset Inn, identified by a sign showing a red sun sinking into an ultramarine ocean, with yellow clouds drifting above. In front of the Sunset Inn tables and benches served the convenience of those who might wish to take food or drink in the open air, while observing events in the square. Beside the door, sardines grilled over glowing coals, emitting a delectable odor and attracting customers who might otherwise have passed by unheeding.

Late in the afternoon Shimrod, in the guise of an itinerant man-at-arms, arrived at Ys. He had darkened his skin and his hair was now black, while a simple cantrap of eighteen syllables had altered his features, causing him to appear hard-bitten, crafty and saturnine. At his side hung the shortsword Tace and a dagger: weapons adequate to the image he wished to project. He went directly to the Sunset Inn where, as it might seem from Rylf's report, Zagzig the shybalt had gone to keep a rendezvous. As Shimrod approached, the odor of grilling sardines reminded him that he had not eaten since morning.

Shimrod passed through the doorway and into the common room, where he halted to take stock of the company. Which of these persons, if any, would be the shybalt from Xabiste? None sat brooding alone in a corner; none hunched watchfully with hooded eyes over a goblet of wine.

Shimrod went to the service counter. Here stood the inn keeper-a person short and plump, with cautious black eyes in a round red face. He nodded his head politely. "Your needs, sir?"

"First, I want accommodation for a day or so," said Shimrod. "I prefer a quiet chamber and a bed free of vermin. Then I will take my supper."

The innkeeper wiped his hands on his apron, meanwhile taking note of Shimrod's well-worn garments. "Such arrangements can be made, and no doubt to your satisfaction. But first: a detail. Over the years I have been robbed right and left, up and down, by ruthless scoundrels, until at last my natural generosity became sour and now I am excessively provident. In short, I wish to see the color of your money before taking the transaction any farther."

Shimrod tossed a silver form upon the counter. "My stay may be of several days. This coin, of good silver, should adequately cover my expenses."

"It will at least open your account," said the innkeeper. "As it happens, a chamber of the type you require is ready for occupancy. What name shall I write into my general register?"

"You may know me as ‘Tace'," said Shimrod.

"Very well, Sir Tace. The boy will show you to your chamber. Fonsel! At once! Show Sir Tace to the large west chamber!"

"One moment," said Shimrod. "I wonder if a friend of mine arrived at about this time yesterday, or perhaps a bit later. I am not sure as to what name he might be using."

"Several visitors came yesterday," said the innkeeper. "What is your friend's appearance?"

"He is of average description. He wears garments, covers his head with a hat and is shod with shoes."

The innkeeper reflected. "I cannot recall this gentleman. Sir Fulk of Thwist came at noon; he is grossly corpulent, and a large wen protrudes from his nose. A certain Janglart arrived during the afternoon, but he is tall and thin as a switch, very pale and a long white beard hangs from his chin. Mynax the sheepdealer is average in quality, but I have never known him to wear a hat: always he uses a cylindrical sheepskin casque. No one else took rooms for the night."

"No great matter," said Shimrod. It was probable, he thought, that the shybalt had perched the long night through on a high gable rather than enduring the confinement of a room. "My friend will arrive in due course."

Shimrod followed Fonsel upstairs to the chamber, which he found satisfactory. Returning downstairs, he went out to the front of the inn and seated himself at a table, where he took his supper: first, a dozen sardines sizzling and crackling from the grill, next a platter of broad-beans and bacon with an onion for relish, along with a hunch of new bread and a quart of ale.

The sun sank into the sea. Patrons entered and left the inn; none aroused Shimrod's suspicions. The shybalt might well have done its work and departed, thought Shimrod. His attention must then inevitably focus upon Melancthe, who lived in a white villa less than a mile up the beach and who had previously acted at the behest of Tamurello, for reasons never made clear to Shimrod. Apparently, he had never been her lover, having preferred her sibling Faude Carfilhiot. The relationship might or might not have pleased Desmei-had she been alive and aware. It was, Shimrod reflected, truly a tangled skein of barely plausible possibilities and shocking realities. Melancthe's role, rather than having been clarified by events, was as ambiguous now as ever, and probably not even known to herself. Who had ever plumbed even the most superficial level of Melancthe's consciousness? Certainly not himself.

Twilight descended upon Ys of the Ocean. Shimrod rose from his table and set off along the harbour road, which after leaving the docks struck off to the north beside the white beach.

The town fell behind. Tonight the wind was gone from the sky and the sea was calm. Listless surf rolled up the beach, creating a dull soothing sound.

Shimrod approached the white villa. A chest-high wall of whitewashed stone enclosed a garden of asphodel, heliotrope, thyme, three slim cypresses and a pair of lemon trees.

The villa and its garden were well known to Shimrod. He had seen them first in a dream, which recurred night after night. In these dreams, Melancthe had first appeared to him, a dark-haired maiden of heart-wrenching beauty and contradictions beyond number.

On this particular evening Melancthe seemed not at home. Shimrod walked through the garden, crossed the little strip of tiled terrace, rapped at the door. He awoke no response, not even from the maid. From within came no glow of lamps or candle. Nothing could be heard but the slow thud of the surf.

Shimrod left the villa and returned down the beach to the town square and the Sunset Inn. In the common room, he found an inconspicuous table beside the wall and seated himself.

One by one, Shimrod scrutinized the occupants of the room. In the main, they seemed local folk: tradesmen, artisans, a few peasants from the surrounding countryside, a few seamen from ships in the harbour. None were Yssei, who kept themselves apart from the ruck of the townspeople.

A person sitting solitary a few tables away attracted Shimrod's attention. He appeared stocky of physique, but of middle stature. His garments were ordinary: a peasant's smock of coarse gray weave, loose breeches, buskins with pointed curled-over toes and triangular ankle-tabs. Pulled down upon his shock of brown hair was a narrow-brimmed black hat with a tall back- sloping crown. His face was bland and still, enlivened only by the glitter and constant shift of his small black eyes. On the table before him rested a full mug of ale, which he had not tasted. His posture was stiff and queer: his chest moved neither in nor out. By these and other signs, Shimrod knew that here sat Zag zig the shybalt from Xabiste, uncomfortably disguised as a denizen of Earth. Shimrod noticed that Zagzig had carelessly failed to divest himself of the moth's middle two legs, which jerked and stirred from time to time under the gray blouse. The nape of Zagzig's neck also glistened with moth-scale, where he had failed to provide himself a proper integument of human skin.

Shimrod decided that, as usual, the simplest of available options was the best: he would wait and watch and discover what eventuated.

Fonsel the serving boy, passing close to Zagzig with a tray, by chance jostled Zagzig's tall-crowned black hat, knocking it to the table, to reveal not only Zagzig's mat of brown hair but also a pair of feathery antennae which Zagzig had forgotten to remove. Fonsel stared with mouth agape, while Zagzig angrily clapped the hat back upon his head. He uttered a terse command; Fonsel grimaced, bobbed his head and hurried away with only a confused glance back over his shoulder. Zagzig darted glances this way and that to see who might have noticed the incident. Shimrod quickly averted his eyes and pretended an interest in a rack of old blue plates hanging on the wall. Zagzig relaxed, and sat as before.

Ten minutes passed. The door was pushed ajar; in the door way stood a tall man in black garments. He was spare, broad-shouldered, taut and precise of movement, with a pallid complexion and black hair cut square across his forehead and tied in a rope at the back of his head. Shimrod studied the newcomer with interest; here, he thought, was a man of quick and ruthless intelligence. A scar across the gaunt cheek accentuated the menace of his already grim visage. From the evidence of his hair, his pallor and his manner of contemptuous self sufficiency, Shimrod assumed the newcomer to be a Ska,* from Skaghane, or the Ska foreshore.

The Ska looked around the room. He glanced first at Shimrod, then at Zagzig, then once again around the room, after which he chose a table and seated himself. Fonsel came at a run to inquire his needs, and brought him ale, sardines and bread, almost before the order had been placed.

The Ska ate and drank without haste; when he had finished, he sat back in his chair and once again appraised first Shimrod, then Zagzig. Now he placed on the table a ball of dark green serpentine, an inch in diameter, attached to a chain of fine iron links. Shimrod had seen such baubles before; they were caste- markers worn by Ska patricians.

At the sight of the talisman, Zagzig rose to his feet and crossed to the Ska's table.

Shimrod signalled Fonsel to his own table. Shimrod asked quietly: "Do not turn your head to look, but tell me the name of that tall Ska sitting yonder."

"I can make no sure assertion," said Fonsel. "I have never seen him before. However, across the room, I heard someone, in very confidential tones, use the name ‘Torqual'. If this is the Torqual of evil reputation, he is bold indeed to show his face here where King Aillas would be grateful to find him and stretch his neck."

Shimrod gave the boy a copper penny. "Your remarks are interesting. Bring me now a goblet of good tawny wine."

By a sleight of magic Shimrod augmented the acuity of his hearing so that the whispers of two young lovers in a far corner were now clearly audible, as were the innkeeper's instructions to Fonsel in regard to the watering of Shimrod's wine. However, the conversation between Zagzig and Torqual had been muted by a magic as sharp as his own, and he could hear nothing of its content.

Fonsel served him a goblet of wine with a fine flourish. "Here you are, sir! Our noblest vintage!"

"That is good to hear," said Shimrod. "I am the official inspector of hostelries, by the authority of King Aillas. Still- would you believe it? I am often served poor stuff! Three days ago in Mynault, an innkeeper and his pot-boy conspired to water my wine, which act King Aillas has declared an offense against humanity."

"Truly, sir?" quavered Fonsel. "What then?"

"The constables took both innkeeper and the pot-boy to the public square and tied them to a post, where they were roundly flogged. They will not soon repeat their offense."

Fonsel snatched up the goblet. "Suddenly I see that, by mistake, I have poured from the wrong flask! One moment, sir, while I put matters right."

Fonsel, in haste, served a fresh goblet of wine, and a moment later the innkeeper himself came to the table, wiping his hands anxiously on his apron. "I trust that all is in order, sir?"

"At the moment, yes."

"Good! Fonsel is sometimes a bit careless, and brings our good name into disrepute. Tonight I will beat him for his mistake."

Shimrod uttered a grim laugh. "Sir, leave poor Fonsel be. He thought better of his mischief, and deserves a chance at redemption."

The innkeeper bowed. "Sir, I will ponder your advice with care." He hurried back to the counter, and Shimrod resumed his observation of Zagzig the shybalt and Torqual the Ska.

The conversation came to an end. Zagzig tossed a purse upon the table. Torqual loosened the drawstring and peered at the contents. He raised his eyes and treated Zagzig to a stony stare of displeasure. Zagzig returned an indifferent glance, then rose to his feet and prepared to depart the inn.

Shimrod, anticipating Zagzig's move, had preceded him, and waited in the front yard. The full moon had risen to illuminate the square; the granite flags showed almost as white as bone. Shimrod sidled into the deep shade of the hemlock which grew beside the inn.

Zagzig's silhouette appeared in the doorway; Shimrod readied the loop of suheil wire which he had received from Murgen.

Zagzig moved past; Shimrod stepped from the shade and attempted to drop the loop over Zagzig ‘s head. The tall black hat interfered. Zagzig jerked aside; the suheil wire scraped his face and caused him to whine in shock. He spun around to face Shimrod. "Villain!" hissed Zagzig. "Do you think so to halter me? Your time has come." He opened wide his mouth, in order to expel a gust of poison. Shimrod thrust the sword Tace into the aperture; Zagzig uttered a groan and collapsed upon the moonlit pavement, to become a pile of green sparks and flashes, which Shimrod fastidiously avoided. Presently nothing remained but a gray fluff so light that it drifted away on a cool air from the sea.

Shimrod returned into the common room. A young man dressed in the mode currently popular in Aquitaine had perched himself on a high stool with his lute. Striking chords and melodic passages, he sang ballads celebrating the deeds of lovelorn knights and yearning maidens, all in the mournful cadences imposed upon him by the tuning of his lute. Of Torqual there was no sign; he had departed the common room.

Shimrod summoned Fonsel, who sprang to his service on the instant. "Your wishes, sir?"

"The person named Torqual: is he lodged here at the Sunset Inn?"

"No, Your Honour! He left only a moment ago by the side door. May I bring your lordship more wine?"

Shimrod made a stately affirmative sign. "Needless to say, I thirst for no water."

"That, sir, goes without saying!"

Shimrod sat for an hour drinking wine and listening to the sad ballads of Aquitaine. At last he became restless and went out into the night, where the moon now floated halfway up the sky. The square was empty; the stone flags glimmered white as before. Shimrod strolled to the harbour and along the esplanade to where it joined the shore road. Here he halted and looked up the beach. After a few minutes he turned away. At this time of night Melancthe would not be likely to receive him graciously.

Shimrod returned to the inn. The Aquitanian jongleur had departed, along with most of the patrons. Torqual was nowhere to be seen. Shimrod went up to his chamber, and composed himself to rest.

IV

In the morning Shimrod took his breakfast at the front of the inn, where he could look out across the square. He consumed a pear, a bowl of porridge with cream, several rashers of fried bacon, a slice of dark bread with cheese and pickled plums. The warmth of the sunlight was pleasantly in contrast to cool airs from the sea; Shimrod breakfasted without haste, watchful yet relaxed. Today was marketday; a confusion of movement, sound and color enlivened the square. Everywhere merchants had set up tables and booths, from which they cried out the quality of their wares. Fishmongers held aloft their best fish and beat on iron triangles so that all might turn to look. Among the booths swirled the customers, for the most part housewives and servant girls, chaffering, haggling, weighing, judging, criticizing, occasionally clinking down their coins.

Other folk, as well, moved across the square: a quartet of melancholy priests from the Temple of Atlante; mariners and traders from far lands; an occasional Yssei factor on his way to inspect a cargo; a baron and his lady down from their dour mountain keep; herdsmen and crofters from the moors and glens of the Teach tac Teach.

Shimrod finished his breakfast but remained at the table eating grapes, wondering how best to proceed with his investigation. Even as Shimrod pondered, he noticed a dark-haired young woman marching across the square, her orange-brown skirt and a rose-pink blouse glowing in the sunlight. Shimrod recognized her for Melancthe's housemaid. She carried a pair of empty baskets and was evidently on her way to market.

Shimrod jumped to his feet and followed the young woman across the square. At a fruit-vendor's booth she began to select oranges from the display. Shimrod watched a moment, then approached and touched her elbow. She looked around with a blank expression, failing to recognize Shimrod in his present guise.

"Come aside with me a moment," said Shimrod. "I want a few words with you."

The maid hesitated and drew away. Shimrod said: "My business is in connection with your mistress. No harm will come to you."

Puzzled and reluctant, the maid followed Shimrod a few steps out into the square. "What do you want of me?"

Shimrod spoke in what he hoped was a reassuring voice. "I do not remember your name-if, indeed, I ever knew it."

"I am Lillas. Why should you know me? I have no recollection of you."

"Some time ago I called upon your mistress. You opened the door for me. Surely you remember?"

Lillas searched Shimrod's face. "You seem somehow familiar, though, in truth, I cannot place you exactly. The occasion must have been long ago."

"So it was, but you are still in the service of Melancthe?"

"Yes. I have no fault to find with her-at least none that would prompt me to leave her."

"She is an easy mistress?"

Lillas smiled sadly. "She hardly notices whether I am here or there, whether I am in the house or gone. Still, she would not want me to stand here gossiping about her affairs."

Shimrod produced a silver form. "What you tell me will travel no farther, and cannot be considered gossip."

Lillas dubiously took the coin. "For a fact, I am concerned for the lady. I understand no single phase of her conduct. Often she sits for hours looking out to sea. I go about my work and she pays me no heed, as if I were invisible."

"Does she often receive visitors?"

"Seldom. Still, just this morning-" Lillas hesitated, and looked over her shoulder.

Shimrod prompted her. "Who was her visitor this morning?"

"He came early-a tall pale man with a scar on his face; I think he would be a Ska. He knocked at the door; I opened to him. He said: ‘Tell your mistress that Torqual is here.'"

"I drew back and he came into the hall. I went to Lady Me lancthe and gave her the message."

"Was she surprised?"

"I think she was perplexed and not well-pleased, but perhaps not altogether astonished. She hesitated only a moment, then went out into the hall. I followed, but remained behind the curtain, where I could watch through the crack. The two stood looking at each other a moment, then Torqual said: ‘I am told that I must obey your commands. What do you know of this arrangement?'"

"The Lady Melancthe said: ‘I am not sure of anything.'"

"Torqual asked: ‘Did you not expect me?'"

‘An intimation came-but nothing is clear and I must ponder,' said my lady. ‘Go now! If I find commands for you, I will let you know.'

"At this Torqual seemed amused. ‘And how will you do this?'"

"By means of a signal. If I am prompted in this direction, a black urn will appear on the wall by the gate. Should you see the black urn, then you may come again."

"At this, the man Torqual smiled, and bowed, so that he seemed almost princely. Without another word he turned and left the villa. That is what happened this morning. I am happy to tell you, since Torqual frightens me. Clearly he can bring the Lady Melancthe only distress."

"Your fears are well-founded," said Shimrod. "Still, she may choose not to deal with Torqual."

"So it may be."

"She is now at home?"

"Yes; as usual she sits looking out to sea."

"I will call on her. Perhaps I can set matters straight." Lillas spoke anxiously: "You will not reveal that we have discussed her affairs?"

"Certainly not."

Lillas went back to the fruit-seller's booth; Shimrod crossed the square to the harbour road. His suspicions had been validated Melancthe's involvement in the affair might so far only be passive and might remain so, still Melancthe's only sure trait was her unpredictability.

Shimrod looked to the north, toward the white villa. He could find no reason for delay, save his own reluctance to confront Melancthe. He set off to the north along the beach road, walking with long deliberate strides, and soon arrived at the white stone wall. No black urn, so he noted, was visible.

Shimrod crossed the garden, went to the door He raised the knocker and let it fall.

There was no response.

Shimrod knocked a second time, with the same result as before.

The villa, so it seemed, was empty of its occupants. Shimrod turned slowly away from the door, then went to stand by the side of the gate. He looked up the road to the north. In the near distance he discovered Melancthe, approaching without haste. He felt no surprise; so it had been in his dreams.

Shimrod waited, with the sunlight glaring down upon the sand of the road. Melancthe drew near: a slender dark-haired maiden wearing a white knee-length frock and sandals. With only a brief impassive stare for Shimrod, she turned through the gate; as she passed, Shimrod sensed the faint odor of violets which always accompanied her.

Melancthe went to the door. Shimrod followed soberly and entered the villa behind her. She went along the hall and into a long room with a wide arched window overlooking the sea. Moving to the window, Melancthe stood gazing pensively toward the horizon. Shimrod stood in the doorway, looking here and there, appraising the room. Little had changed since his last visit. The walls were washed white; on the tiled floor three rugs showed bold patterns of orange, red, black, white and green. A table, a few heavy chairs, a divan and a sideboard were the only furnishings. The walls were innocent of decoration; nowhere in the room were objects to indicate Melancthe's point of view or to suggest the bent of her personality. The rugs were vivid and vital, and would seem to be imports from the Atlas Mountains; almost certainly, so Shimrod surmised, they had been purchased and laid down by Lillas the maid, with Melancthe taking no particular notice.

Melancthe at last turned to Shimrod, and showed him a curious twisted smile. "Speak, Shimrod! Why are you here?"

"You recognize me, despite my disguise?"

Melancthe seemed taken aback. " ‘Disguise'? I notice no disguise. You are Shimrod, as meek, quixotic and indecisive as ever."

"No doubt," said Shimrod. "So much for my disguise; I cannot conceal my identity. Have you decided upon an identity for Melancthe?"

Melancthe made an airy gesture. "Such talk is beside the mark. What is your business with me? I doubt that you have come to analyze my character."

Shimrod pointed to the divan. "Let us sit; it is dreary work talking on both feet."

Melancthe gave an indifferent shrug and dropped down upon the divan; Shimrod seated himself beside her. "You are as beautiful as ever."

"So I am told."

"At our last meeting you had developed a taste for poisonous blossoms. Is this inclination still with you?"

Melancthe shook her head. "There are no more such blossoms to be found. I think of them often; they were wonderfully appealing; do you not agree?"

"They were fascinating, if vile," said Shimrod.

"I did not find them so. The colors were of great variety, and the scents were unusual."

"Still-you must believe me!-they represented the aspects of evil: the many flavors of purulence, so to speak."

Melancthe smiled and shook her head. "I cannot understand these tedious abstractions, and I doubt if the effort would yield any amusement, since I am easily bored."

"As a matter of interest, do you know the meaning of the word ‘evil'?'"

"It seems to mean what you intend it to mean."

"The word is general. Do you know the difference between, let us say, kindness and cruelty?"

"I have never thought to notice. Why do you ask?"

"Because, for a fact, I have come to study your character."

"Again? For what reason?"

"I am curious to discover whether you are ‘good' or ‘bad'." Melancthe shrugged. "That is as if I were to ask whether you were a bird or a fish-and then expect an earnest answer."

Shimrod sighed. "Just so. How goes your life?"

"I prefer it to oblivion."

"How do you occupy yourself each day?"

"I watch the sea and the sky; sometimes I wade in the surf and build roads in the sand. At night I study the stars."

"You have no friends?"

"No."

"And what of the future?"

"The future stops at Now."

"As to that, I am not so sure," said Shimrod. "It is at best a half-truth."

"What of that? Half a truth is better than none: do you not agree?"

"Not altogether," said Shimrod. "I am a practical man, I try to control the shape of the ‘nows' which lie in the offing, instead of submitting to them as they occur."

Melancthe gave an uninterested shrug. "You are free to do as you like." Leaning back into the cushions, she looked out across the sea.

Shimrod finally spoke. "Well then: are you ‘good' or ‘bad'?"

"I don't know."

Shimrod became vexed. "Talking with you is like visiting an empty house."

Melancthe considered a moment before responding. "Perhaps," she said, "you are visiting the wrong house. Or perhaps you are the wrong visitor."

"Ha hah!" said Shimrod. "You seem to be telling me that indeed, you are capable of thought."

"I think constantly, day and night."

"What thoughts do you think?"

"You would not understand them."

"Do your thoughts bring you pleasure? Or peace?"

"As always, you ask questions I cannot answer."

"They seem simple enough."

"For you, no doubt. As for me, I was brought naked and empty into the world; it was only required that I imitate humanity, not that I should become human. I do not know what sort of creature I am. This is the subject of my reflections. They are complicated. Since I know no human emotions, I have contrived an entire new compendium, which only I can feel."

"That is very interesting! When do you use these new emotions?"

"I use them continually. Some are heavy, others are light, and are named for clouds. Some are constant; others are fugitive. Sometimes they come to thrill me and I would like to keep them forever-just as I longed to keep the wonderful flowers! But the moods slip away before I can name them, and cherish them in my heart. Sometimes, often, they never come back, no matter how I yearn."

"How do you name these emotions? Tell me!"

Melancthe shook her head. "The names would mean nothing. I have watched insects, wondering how they name their emotions and wondering if perhaps they were like mine."

"I should think not," said Shimrod.

Melancthe spoke on unheeding. "It may be that instead of emotion, I feel sensation only, which I think to be emotion. This is how an insect feels the moods of its life."

"In your new set of emotions, do you have equivalents for ‘good' and ‘bad'?"

"These are not emotions! You are trying to trick me into talking your language! Very well; I shall answer. I do not know what to think of myself. Since I am not human, I wonder what I am and how my life will go."

Shimrod sat back and reflected. "At one time you served Tamurello: why did you do so?"

"That was the behest built into my brain."

"Now he is pent in a bottle, but still you are asked to serve him."

Melancthe frowned at Shimrod, mouth pursed in disapproval. "Why do you say so?"

"Murgen has informed me."

"And what does he know?"

"Enough to ask stern questions. How do these orders come to you?"

"I have had no exact orders, only impulses and intimations."

"Who prompts them?"

"Sometimes I think that they are my own contriving. When these moods come on me, I am exalted and I am fully alive!"

"Someone is rewarding you for your cooperation. You must be careful! Tamurello sits in a glass bottle, nose between his knees. Do you want the same for yourself?"

"It will not happen so."

"Is that how Desmei has instructed you?"

"Please do not utter that name."

"It must be spoken, since it is another word for ‘doom'. Your doom, if you allow her to use you as her instrument."

Melancthe rose to her feet and went to the window.

Shimrod spoke to her back: "Come with me once again to Trilda. I will purge you entirely of the green stench. We will thwart Desmei the witch. You will be wholly free and wholly alive."

Melancthe turned to face Shimrod. "I know nothing of any green stench, and nothing of Desmei. Go now."

Shimrod rose to his feet. "Today-think upon yourself and how you might want your life to go. I will return at sunset, and perhaps you will come away with me." Melancthe seemed not to hear. Shimrod left the room and departed the villa.

The day passed, hour by hour. Shimrod sat at his table before the inn watching the sun cross the sky. When it hung its own diameter above the horizon he set off up the beach. Presently he arrived at the white villa. He went to the front door and raising the knocker, let it fall.

The door opened a crack. Lillas the maid looked out at him.

"Good evening," said Shimrod. "I want to speak with your mistress."

Lillas looked at him large-eyed. "She is not here."

"Where is she? Up the beach?"

"She is gone."

" ‘Gone'?" Shimrod spoke sharply. "Gone where?"

"As to that, who can say?"

"What has happened to her?"

"An hour ago I answered to a knock at the door. It was Torqual the Ska. He walked past me, along the hall and into the parlour. The mistress was sitting on the divan; she jumped to her feet. The two looked at each other for a moment, and I watched from the doorway. He spoke a single word: ‘Come!' The mistress made no move, but stood as if irresolute. Torqual stepped forward, took her hand and led her away down the hall and out the front door. She made no protest; indeed, she walked like a person in a dream."

Shimrod listened with a weight pressing at the pit of his stomach. Lillas spoke on in a rush: "There were two horses in the road. Torqual lifted my mistress into the saddle of one and mounted the other. They rode away to the north. And now I do not know what to do!"

Shimrod found his voice. "Do as usual; you have not been instructed otherwise."

"That is good advice!" said Lillas. "Perhaps she will be home in short order."

"Perhaps."

Shimrod returned south along the beach road to the Sunset Inn. In the morning he took himself once again to the white villa, but found only Lillas on the premises. "You have had no word from your mistress?"

"No, sir. She is far away; I feel it in my bones."

"So do I." Shimrod reached to the ground for a pebble. He rubbed it between his fingers and handed it to Lillas. "As soon as your mistress returns, take this pebble out of doors, throw it into the air and say: ‘Go to Shimrod!' Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"What will you do?"

"I will throw the pebble into the air and say: ‘Go to Shimrod!'

"That is correct! And here is a silver florin to assist your memory."

"Thank you, sir."

V

Shimrod conveyed himself up over the mountains to the stony flat in front of Swer Smod. Entering the forecourt, he discovered the two gryphs sitting down to their morning meal, which included two great joints of beef, four roast fowl, a pair of suckling pigs, two trenchers of pickled salmon, a round of white cheese, and several loaves of new bread. At the sight of Shimrod they jumped up from the table in a rage and ran forward as if to rend him limb from limb.

Shimrod held up his hand. "Moderation, if you please! Has not Murgen instructed you to milder manners?"

"He approved our vigilance," said Vuwas. "He advised a trifle more restraint toward persons of patently good character."

"You do not fit that description," said Vus. "Hence we must do our duty."

"Stop! I am Shimrod, and I am here on legitimate business!"

"That remains to be seen!" said the mottled green Vus. With one claw he scratched a line across the stone pavement. "First we must be convinced of your bona fides, which we will look into as soon as we dine."

"We have been hoodwinked before," said Vuwas. "Never again! Step one inch past that line and we will devour you for an appetizer."

Shimrod performed a small spell. "I would prefer to pass by your investigation at once, but no doubt you are anxious to join your guests."

" ‘Guests'?" demanded Vuwas. "What guests are these?" Shimrod pointed; the gryphs turned to discover a troop of eight baboons wearing red trousers and round red hats making free with their repast. Some stood at one side of the table, others opposite, while three stood on the table itself.

Vus and Vuwas roared in full outrage, and ran to chase off the baboons, but they were not so easily discouraged, and hopped with agility here and there, walking in the pickled salmon, and throwing food at the gryphs. Shimrod took advantage of the disturbance to cross the forecourt, and so arrived at the tall iron door. He was admitted and made his way to the great hall.

As before, a fire blazed in the fireplace. The glass globe hanging from the ceiling glowed sullen green. Murgen was not in evidence. Shimrod seated himself beside the fire and waited. After a moment, he turned his head and glanced up at the suspended globe. Two black eyes glittered at him through the green murk. Shimrod turned his gaze back to the fire.

Murgen entered the room and joined Shimrod at the table. "You seem a bit dispirited," said Murgen. "How went events at Ys?"

"Well enough, in certain respects." Shimrod told of what had transpired at the Sunset Inn and at Melancthe's villa. "I learned little that we did not already suspect, except the fact of Torqual's involvement."

"It is important and signifies a conspiracy! Remember, he first came to Melancthe to learn her commands."

"But on the second occasion he ignored her commands and forced her to his will."

"It is perhaps cynical to note that he did not need to force very hard."

Shimrod stared into the fire. "What do you know of Torqual?"

"Not a great deal. He was born a Ska nobleman who became a renegade, and is now an outlaw living by plunder, blood and terror. His ambitions may well extend farther."

"Why do you say that?"

"Is that not implied by his conduct? King Casmir wants him to incite revolt among the Ulfish barons; Torqual takes Casmir's money and goes his own way, with no real advantage to Casmir. If Aillas loses control of the mountains, Torqual will hope to become the ruler, and who knows what then? North and South Ulfiand? Godelia? East Dahaut?"

"Luckily, it is an unlikely prospect."

Murgen stared into the fire. "Torqual is a man without mercy. It would be a pleasure to hang him in a bottle alongside Tamurello. Alas! I cannot violate my own law-unless he gives me cause. This cause may well be forthcoming."

"How so?"

"The propulsion to this affair, so I tell myself, can only be Desmei. Where has she taken herself? She is either using some unexpected semblance or hiding where she cannot be discovered. Her hopes flourish and fester! She has revenged herself sweetly upon Tamurello, but not upon the race of men; she is not yet sated."

"Perhaps she lives passive inside Melancthe, waiting and watching."

Murgen shook his head. "She would be constricted and far too vulnerable, since I would know at once. On the other hand, Melancthe, or a construct just like her, may be the vessel Desmei ultimately plans to fill."

"Tragic that a thing so beautiful must be put too such humil-iating uses!" said Shimrod. He sat back in his chair. "Still, it is nothing to me."

"Just so," said Murgen. "Now, for a space I must put this matter aside. Other affairs press at my attention. The star Achernar is rife with odd activity, especially in the far outer tracts. Meanwhile Joald stirs in the depths. I must discover if a linkage exists."

"In that case, what of me?"

Murgen rubbed his chin. "I will set out a monitor. If Torqual uses magic we will interfere. If he is only a bandit, no matter how cruel, King Aillas and his armies must take him in charge."

"I would favor more direct action."

"No doubt; still our goal is minimal involvement! The Edict is a fragile force, if we are discovered in violation its inhibition may dissolve into smoke."

"One last word! Your devils are as horrid as ever! They might well frighten a timid person. You must definitely teach them a more polite etiquette."

"I will see to it."