“Thank you.” Faucelme nodded and smiled as if musing over pleasant memories. “Cugel, you are a good listener; also you do not swill down your food with chin in plate, then look hungrily here and there for more. I appreciate delicacy and a sense of style. In fact, Cugel, I have taken a fancy to you. Let us see what we can do to help you along the road of life. We shall take our tea in the parlour: the finest Amber Moth-wing for an honoured guest! Will you go ahead?”
“I will wait and keep you company,” said Cugel. “It would be rude to do otherwise.”
Faucelme spoke heartily: “Your manners are those of an earlier generation. One does not see their like among the young folk of today, who think of nothing but self-indulgence.”
Under Cugel’s watchful eye Faucelme prepared tea and poured it into cups of egg-shell porcelain. He bowed and gestured to Cugel. “Now to the parlour.”
“Lead the way, if you will.”
Faucelme showed a face of whimsical surprise, then shrugged and preceded Cugel into the parlour. “Seat yourself, Cugel. The green velour chair is most comfortable.”
“I am restless,” said Cugel. “I prefer to stand.”
“Then at least take off your hat,” said Faucelme with a trace of petulance.
“Certainly,” said Cugel.
Faucelme watched him with bird-like curiosity. “What are you doing?”
“I am removing the ornament.” Protecting his hands with a folded kerchief, Cugel slipped the object into his pouch. “It is hard and sharp and I fear that it might mar your fine furniture.”
“You are most considerate and deserve a little gift. This rope for instance: it was walked by Lazhnascenthe the Lemurian, and is imbued with magical properties. For instance, it responds to commands; it is extensible and stretches without loss of strength as far as you require. I see that you carry a fine antique sword. The filigree of the pommel suggests Kharai of the eighteenth aeon. The steel should be of excellent quality, but is it sharp?”
“Naturally,” said Cugel. “I could shave with the edge, were I of a mind to do so.”
“Then cut yourself a convenient length of the rope: let us say ten feet. It will tuck neatly into your pouch, yet it will stretch ten miles at your command.”
“This is true generosity!” declared Cugel, and measured off the stipulated length. Flourishing his sword, he cut at the rope, without effect. “Most peculiar,” said Cugel.
“Tut, and all the time you thought your sword to be sharp!” Faucelme touched two fingers to a mischievous grin. “Perhaps we can repair the deficiency.” From a cabinet he brought a long box, which, when opened, proved to contain a shining silver powder.
“Thrust your blade into the glimmister,” said Faucelme. “Let none touch your fingers, or they will become rigid silver bars.”
Cugel followed the instructions. When he withdrew the sword, it trailed a fine sift of spangling glimmister. “Shake it well,” said Faucelme. “An excess only mars the scabbard.”
Cugel shook the blade clean. The edge of the sword twinkled with small coruscations, and the blade itself seemed luminous.
“Now!” said Faucelme. “Cut the rope.”
The sword cut through the rope as if it were a strand of kelp.
Cugel gingerly coiled the rope. “And what are the commands?”
Faucelme picked up the loose rope. “Should I wish to seize upon something, I toss it high and use the cantrap ‘Tzip!’, in this fashion —”
“Halt!” cried Cugel, raising his sword. “I want no demonstrations!”
Faucelme chuckled. “Cugel, you are as brisk as a tittle-bird. Still, I think none the less of you. In this sickly world, the rash die young. Do not be frightened of the rope; I will be mild. Observe, if you will! To disengage the rope, call the order ‘Tzat’, and the rope returns to hand. So then!” Faucelme stood back and held up his hands in the manner of one who dissembles nothing. “Is this the conduct of a ‘sly and unpredictable villain’?”
“Decidedly so, if the villain, for the purposes of his joke, thinks to simulate the altruist.”
“Then how will you know villain from altruist?”
Cugel shrugged. “It is not an important distinction.”
Faucelme seemed to pay no heed; his mercurial intellect was already exploring a new topic. “I was trained in the old tradition! We found our strength in the basic verities, to which you, as a patrician, must surely subscribe. Am I right in this?”
“Absolutely, and in all respects!” declared Cugel. “Recognizing, of course, that these fundamental verities vary from region to region, and even from person to person.”
“Still, certain truths are universal,” argued Faucelme. “For instance, the ancient rite of gift exchange between host and guest. As an altruist I have given you a fine and nutritious meal, a length of magic rope and perduration of the sword. You will demand with full vigor what you may give me in return, and I will ask only for your good regard —”
Cugel said with generous spontaneity: “It is yours, freely and without stint, and the basic verities have been fulfilled. Now, Faucelme, I find myself somewhat fatigued and so —”
“Cugel, you are generous! Occasionally, as we toil along our lonely path through life we encounter one who instantly, or so it seems, becomes a dear and trusted friend. I shall be sorry to see you depart! You must leave me some little memento, and in fact I will refuse to take anything other than that bit of tinsel you wear on your hat. A trifle, a token, no more, but it will keep your memory green, until the happy day of your return! You may now give over the ornament.”
“With pleasure,” said Cugel. Using great care he reached into his pouch and withdrew the ornament which had originally clasped his hat. “With my warmest regards, I present you with my hat ornament.”
Faucelme studied the ornament a moment, then looked up and turned the full gaze of his milky golden eyes upon Cugel. He pushed back the ornament. “Cugel, you have given me too much! This is an article of value — no, do not protest! — and I want only that rather vulgar object with the spurious red gem at the center which I noticed before. Come, I insist! It will hang always in a place of honour here in my parlour!”
Cugel showed a sour smile. “In Almery lives Iucounu the Laughing Magician.”
Faucelme gave a small involuntary grimace.
Cugel continued. “When I see him he will ask: ‘Cugel, where is my “Pectoral Skybreak Spatterlight” which was entrusted into your care?’ What can I tell him? That a certain Faucelme in the Land of the Falling Wall would not be denied?”
“This matter bears looking into,” muttered Faucelme. “One solution suggests itself. If, for instance, you decided not to return to Almery, then Iucounu would not learn the news. Or if, for instance —” Faucelme became suddenly silent.
A moment passed. Faucelme spoke in a voice of affability: “You must be fatigued and ready for your rest. First then: a taste of my aromatic bitters, which calm the stomach and refresh the nerves!”
