“If you go to Faucelme, be wary of his tricks! A fat merchant survived by singing lewd songs the whole night long and never turning his back on Faucelme.”
One of the farmers came around the wagon, to halt in annoyance at the sight of Cugel. “What are you doing here? Be off with you and stop annoying the mermelants.”
Deigning no reply, Cugel set off along the road. With the sun scraping along the forested sky-line, he came to Faucelme’s manse: a rambling timber structure of several levels, with a profusion of bays, low square towers with windows all around, balconies, decks, high gables and a dozen tall thin chimneys.
Concealing himself behind a tree, Cugel studied the house. Several of the windows glowed with light, but Cugel noted no movement within. It was, he thought, a house of pleasant aspect, where one would not expect to find a monster of trickery in residence.
Crouching, keeping to the cover of trees and shrubbery, Cugel approached the manse. With cat-like stealth he sidled to a window and peered within.
At a table, reading from a yellow-leafed book, sat a man of indeterminate age, stoop-shouldered and bald except for a fringe of brown-gray hair. A long nose hooked from his rather squat head, with protuberant milky golden eyes close-set to either side. His arms and legs were long and angular; he wore a black velvet suit and rings on every finger, save the forefingers where he wore three. In repose his face seemed calm and easy, and Cugel looked in vain for what he considered the signals of depravity.
Cugel surveyed the room and its contents. On a sideboard rested a miscellany of curios and oddments: a pyramid of black stone, a coil of rope, glass bottles, small masks hanging on a board, stacked books, a zither, a brass instrument of many arcs and beams, a bouquet of flowers carved from stone.
Cugel ran light-footed to the front door, where he discovered a heavy brass knocker in the form of a tongue dangling from the mouth of a gargoyle. He let the knocker drop and called out: “Open within! An honest wayfarer needs lodging and will pay a fee!”
Cugel ran back to the window. He watched Faucelme rise to his feet, stand a moment with head cocked sidewise, then walk from the room. Cugel instantly opened the window and climbed within. He closed the window, took the rope from the sideboard and went to stand in the shadows.
Faucelme returned, shaking his head in puzzlement. He seated himself in his chair and resumed his reading. Cugel came up behind him, looped the rope around his chest, again and again, and it seemed as if the rope would never exhaust the coil. Faucelme was presently trussed up in a cocoon of rope.
At last Cugel revealed himself. Faucelme looked him up and down, in curiosity rather than rancor, then asked: “May I inquire the reason for this visit?”
“It is simple stark fear,” said Cugel. “I dare not pass the night out of doors, so I have come to your house for shelter.”
“And the ropes?” Faucelme looked down at the web of strands which bound him into the chair.
“I would not care to offend you with the explanation,” said Cugel.
“Would the explanation offend me more than the ropes?”
Cugel frowned and tapped his chin. “Your question is more profound than it might seem, and verges into the ancient analyses of the Ideal versus the Real.”
Faucelme sighed. “Tonight I have no zest for philosophy. You may answer my question in terms which proximate the Real.”
“In all candour, I have forgotten the question,” said Cugel.
“I will re-phrase it in words of simple structure. Why have you tied me to my chair, rather than entering by the door?”
“At your urging then, I will reveal an unpleasant truth. Your reputation is that of a sly and unpredictable villain with a penchant for morbid tricks.”
Faucelme gave a sad grimace. “In such a case my bare denial carries no great weight. Who are my detractors?”
Cugel smilingly shook his head. “As a gentleman of honour I must reserve this information.”
“Aha indeed!” said Faucelme, and became reflectively silent.
Cugel, with half an eye always for Faucelme, took occasion to inspect the room. In addition to the side-board, the furnishings included a rug woven in tones of dark red, blue and black, an open cabinet of books and librams, and a tabouret.
A small insect which had been flying around the room alighted on Faucelme’s forehead. Faucelme reached up a hand through the bonds and brushed away the insect, then returned his arm into the coil of ropes.
Cugel turned to look in slack-jawed wonder. Had he tied the ropes improperly? Faucelme seemed bound as tightly as a fly in a spider-web.
Cugel’s attention was attracted by a stuffed bird, standing four feet high, with a woman’s face under a coarse mop of black hair. A two-inch crest of transparent film rose at the back of the forehead. A voice sounded over his shoulder. “That is a harpy from the Xardoon Sea. Very few remain. They are partial to the flesh of drowned sailors, and when a ship is doomed they come to keep vigil. Notice the ears —” Faucelme’s finger reached over Cugel’s shoulder and lifted aside the hair “— which are similar to those of a mermaid. Be careful with the crest!” The finger tapped the base of the prongs. “The points are barbed.”
Cugel looked around in amazement, to see the finger retreating, pausing to scratch Faucelme’s nose before disappearing into the ropes.
Cugel quickly crossed the room and tested the bonds, which seemed at adequate tension. Faucelme at close range took note of Cugel’s hat ornament and made a faint hissing sound between his teeth.
“Your hat is a most elaborate confection,” said Faucelme. “The style is striking, though in regions such as this you might as effectively wear a leather stocking over your head.” So saying, he glanced down at his book.
“It well may be,” replied Cugel. “And when the sun goes out a single loose smock will fulfill every demand of modesty.”
“Ha ha! Fashions will then be meaningless! That is a droll notion!” Faucelme stole a glance at his book. “And that handsome bauble: where did you secure so showy a piece?” Again Faucelme swept his eyes across the pages of his book.
“It is a bit of brummagem I picked up along the way,” said Cugel carelessly. “What are you reading with such avidity?” He picked up the book. “Hm … ‘Madame Milgrim’s Dainty Recipes’.”
“Indeed, and I am reminded that the carrot pudding wants a stir. Perhaps you will join me for a meal?” He spoke over his shoulder: “Tzat!” The ropes fell away to a small loose coil and Faucelme rose to his feet. “I was not expecting guests, so tonight we will dine in the kitchen. But I must hurry, before the pudding scorches.”
He stalked on long knob-kneed legs into the kitchen with Cugel coming doubtfully after. Faucelme motioned to a chair. “Sit down and I will find us a nice little morsel or two: nothing high nor heavy, mind you, no meats nor wines as they inflame the blood and according to Madame Milgrim give rise to flactomies. Here is some splendid gingle-berry juice which I recommend heartily. Then we shall have a nice stew of herbs and our carrot pudding.”
Cugel seated himself at the table and watched with single-minded vigilance as Faucelme moved here and there, collecting small dishes of cakes, preserves, compotes and vegetable pastes. “We shall have a veritable feast! Seldom do I indulge myself, but tonight, with a distinguished guest, all discipline goes by the boards!” He paused in his work. “Have you told me your name? As the years advance, I find myself ever more absent-minded.”
“I am Cugel, and originally of Almery, where I am now returning.”
“Almery! A far way to go, with curious sights at every step, and many a danger as well. I envy you your confidence! Shall we dine?”
Cugel ate only from the dishes which Faucelme himself ate, and thought to feel no ill effects. Faucelme spoke discursively as he ate from this or that plate with prim little nips: “… name has unfortunate antecedents in the region. Apparently the nineteenth aeon knew a ‘Faucelme’ of violent habit indeed, and there may have been another ‘Faucelme’ a hundred years later, though at that distance in time lifetimes blur together. I shudder to think of their deeds … Our local villains now are a clan of farmers: angels of mercy by comparison, nevertheless with certain nasty habits. They give their mermelants beer to drink, then send them out to intimidate travellers. They dared to come up here one day, stamping up and down the porch and showing their bellies. ‘Beer!’ they shouted. ‘Give us good beer!’ Naturally I keep no such stuff on hand. I took pity on them and explained at length the vulgar qualities of inebriation, but they refused to listen, and used offensive language. Can you believe it? ‘You double-tongued old wowser, we have listened long enough to your cackle and now we want beer in return!’ These were their very words! So I said: ‘Very well; you shall have beer.’ I prepared a tea of bitter belch-wort and nuxium; I chilled it and caused it to fume, in the manner of beer. I called out: ‘Here is my only beer!’ and served it in ewers. They slapped down their noses and sucked it up in a trice. Immediately they curled up like sow-bugs and lay as if dead for a day and a half. Finally they uncoiled, rose to their feet, befouled the yard in a most lavish manner, and skulked away. They have never returned, and perhaps my little homily has brought them to sobriety.”
Cugel tilted his head sidewise and pursed his lips. “An interesting story.”
