“In regard to your segments, I believe that the first of the three is scheduled for delivery in perhaps a week, and the others soon after.”
“That is good news indeed! Now, Sir Cugel, as to your boots?”
“I have long admired those worn by Nisbet. Please make me exact duplicates.”
Dame Tadouc looked at him in bafflement. “But Sir Nisbet’s feet are two inches longer than yours, and somewhat more narrow, and as flat as halibuts!”
Cugel paused to think. The dilemma was real. If the magic resided in Nisbet’s boots, then only exact replicas would seem to serve the purpose.
Nisbet dissolved the quandary. “Naturally, Dame Tadouc, cobble the boots to fit! Why would Cugel place an order specifically for ill-fitting boots?”
“For a moment I was perplexed,” said Dame Tadouc. “Now I must run home to cut leather. I have a hide taken from the back of an old bull bauk and I will make you boots to last your life’s span or until the sun goes out, whichever is the sooner. In either case, you will lack all further need for boots. Well then, to work.”
On the following day the boots were delivered, and, in response to Cugel’s specifications, they matched Nisbet’s boots in every particular save size.
Nisbet examined the boots with approval. “Dame Tadouc has applied a dressing which is good enough for common folk, but as soon as it wears off and the leather acquires a thirst, we shall apply ossip wax and your boots will then be as strong as my own.”
Cugel enthusiastically clapped his hands together. “To celebrate the arrival of these boots I suggest another gala evening!”
“Why not? A fine pair of boots is something to celebrate!”
The two dined on broad-beans and bacon, marsh-hens stuffed with mushrooms, sour-grass and olives and a hunch of cheese. With these dishes they consumed three bottles of that Xei Cambael wine known as ‘Silver Hyssop’. Such was the information supplied by Nisbet, who, as an antiquarian, had studied many of the ancient scripts. As they drank, they toasted not only Dame Tadouc, but also that long-dead wine-merchant whose bounty they now enjoyed, though indeed the wine seemed perhaps a trifle past its prime.
As before, Nisbet became fuddled and lay down on the couch for a nap. Cugel unclasped the five-sided amulet and returned to his experiments.
His new boots, despite their similarity to those of Nisbet, lacked all useful effect, save that for which they were intended, while Nisbet’s boots, alone or in conjunction with the amulet, defeated gravity with ease.
Most peculiar! thought Cugel, as he replaced the amulet on Nisbet’s chain. The only difference between the two pairs of boots was the dressing of ossip wax — from berries gathered in the garden of Makke the Maugifer.
To ransack the clutter of generations in search of a pot of boot-dressing was not a task to be undertaken lightly. Cugel went off to his own couch.
In the morning Cugel told Nisbet: “We have been working hard, and it is time for a little holiday. I suggest that we stroll over to yonder bluff and there survey the gardens of Makke the Maugifer. We can also pick ossip berries for boot-dressing, and — who knows? — we might come upon another amulet.”
“A sound idea,” said Nisbet. “Today I too lack zest for work.”
The two set off across the plain toward the bluff: a distance of a mile. Cugel towed a sack containing their needs which Nisbet had touched with his amulet and kicked, in order to negate the weight.
By an easy route they climbed the bluff and approached Makke’s garden.
“Nothing is left,” said Nisbet sadly. “Save only the ossip tree, which seems to flourish despite neglect. That heap of rubble is all that remains of Makke’s manse, which was built five-sided like the amulet.”
Cugel approached the heap of stones, and thought to notice a wisp of vapor rising through the cracks. He went close and dropping to his knees moved several of the stones. To his ears came the sound of a voice, and then another, engaged in what seemed an excited dialogue. So faint and elusive were the voices that words could not be distinguished and Nisbet, when Cugel summoned him to the crevice, could hear no sounds whatever.
Cugel drew back from the mound. To move the rocks might yield magical treasures, or, more likely, some unimaginable woe. Nisbet was of a like mind and the two moved somewhat back from the ruined manse. Sitting on a slab of mouldering stone, they ate a lunch of bread, cheese, spiced sausage and onions, washed down with pots of village-brewed beer.
A few yards away the ossip tree extended heavy branches from a gnarled silver-gray trunk five feet in diameter. Silver-green berries hung in clusters from the end of every twig, each berry a waxy sphere half an inch in diameter.
After Cugel and Nisbet had finished their lunch, they plucked berries sufficient to fill four sacks, which Nisbet caused to float in the air. Trailing their harvest behind them, the two returned to the quarry.
Nisbet brought out a great cauldron and set water to boiling, then added berries. Presently a scum formed on the surface. “There is the wax,” said Nisbet, and skimmed it off into a basin. Four times the process was repeated, until all the berries had been boiled and the basin was filled with wax.
“We have done a good day’s work,” announced Nisbet. “I see no reason why we should not dine accordingly. There are a pair of excellent fillets in the larder, provided by Dame Petish who is butcher to the town. If you will kindly lay a fire I will look through the closet for appropriate wine.”
Once again Cugel and Nisbet sat down to a repast of heartening proportions, but as Nisbet worked to open a second flask of wine, the sound of slamming doors and the thud of heavy footsteps reached their ears.
An instant later a woman tall and portly, massive in arm and leg, with a bony jaw, a broken nose and coarse red hair, entered the room.
Nisbet laboriously heaved himself to his feet. “Dame Sequorce! I am surprised to see you here this time of night.”
Dame Sequorce surveyed the table with disapproval. “Why are you not out shaping my segments which are long overdue?”
Nisbet spoke with cool hauteur: “Today Cugel and I attended to important business, and now, as is our habit, we dine. You may return in the morning.”
Dame Sequorce paid no heed. “You take your morning meal far too late and your evening meal far too early, and you drink overmuch wine. Meanwhile my husband huddles well below the husbands of Dame Petish, Dame Haxel, Dame Croulsx and others. Since kindliness has no effect, I have decided to try a new tactic, for which I use the term ‘fear’. In three words: if you do not gratify my needs in short order, I will bring my sisters here and perform a serious mischief.”
Nisbet employed the gentle voice of pure reason: “If I acceded to your request —” “Not a request; a threat!” “— the other women of the town might also try to intimidate me, to the detriment of orderly business.”
“I care nothing for your problems! Provide my segments, at once!”
Cugel rose to his feet. “Dame Sequorce, your conduct is singularly gross. Once and for all, Nisbet will not be coerced! He will provide you your segments in his own good time. He now demands that you leave the premises, and on quiet feet!”
“Nisbet now makes demands, does he?” Striding forward, Dame Sequorce seized Nisbet’s beard. “I did not come to listen to your braggadocio!” She gave the beard a sharp tweak, then stepped back. “I am going, but only because I have delivered my message, which I hope you will take seriously!”
Dame Sequorce departed, leaving behind a heavy silence. At last Nisbet spoke in falsely hearty tones: “A dramatic incursion, to be sure! I must have Dame Wyxsco look to the locks. Come, Cugel! Return to your supper!”
The two continued with their meal, but the festive mood could not be recaptured. Cugel at last said: “What we need is a stock, or repository, of segments ready for raising, so that we can gratify these prideful women on demand.”
“No doubt,” said Nisbet. “But how is this to be done?”
