Land of Unreason (6 page)

            "Hm," said the
tailor. "Ye're an unco great stirk of a mortal. But I'll fit ye; I'll
jacket ye and breek ye and cap ye." He began pulling clothes from the
bag-underwear and a shirt and a pair of trunks that bulged around the hips. All
went well till Barber began trying on jackets with pinched waists and
leg-of-mutton sleeves. His squarish, straight-lined torso had no median joint
to speak of. The elf grunted, "Too muckle wame," thrust the largest
of the jackets back into the bag, muttered something, and took it out again.

            This time the waist was all
right, but Barber complained: "It's still tight across the back of the
shoulders."

            The elf helped him take the
jacket off and felt of his shoulder blades. Barber was conscious that the
probing fingers touched a little point of no-sensation, like an incipient boil,
on each scapula. The tailor whistled. "Heuch! Ye'll be having a rare pair
o' wings afore ye're mickle older. I maun make ye a wingity coat."

           
"What?"
The
weight came back to his mind with a bump, and for a moment he felt bitter at
human adaptability, which had deceived him into acceptance of a situation
that—contradicted itself. The elf was speaking: "—wear that ane until I
get your wingity jacket made. Noo the collar." The tailor pulled from the
bag a starched ruff that was probably ten inches in diameter, though it looked
thirty.

            "Is that a collar or do
I wear it around my middle?" demanded Barber.

            The wrinkled countenance
showed no appreciation of this attempt at humor. "A collar. It buttons tae
your sark. It's a coort regulation."

            "Oh, well," said
Barber. "I've taken off my shoes for the Son of Heaven, worn white tie and
tails at noon for the President of the Third Republic, and silk knee-britches
in Spain. I guess I can stand it." The tailor put the ruff on him,
standing on tiptoe to button it. "How the devil do you eat in one of these
things?"

            "Tip your head weel
forward, and 'ware the gravy."

            A flat cloth cap with a
stiff brim all round came out of the bag and went on a table beside the bed.
The elfin tailor whipped out a metal mirror and held it up before Barber, who
surveyed himself with satisfaction and the thought that Francis Drake must have
looked like that. He turned to the tailor. "What's your name?"

            "Angus, sir."

            "How old are you,
Angus?" (If he could keep talking, plunge himself deeply enough in the
objective world, however irrational that objective world might at the moment
seem, the real, rational world in which he was actually living must break
through to the level of consciousness.)

            "Twelve hundred and
fifty, sir."

            Once more, stronger than
ever, Barber experienced the sensation of being in the presence of a lie. He
grinned: "How old are you really, Angus?"

            The respectful look became a
grimace of uneasiness. "Weel, your young lairdship mustna gie me awa, but I'll
be fifteen hundred and ninety-ane years auld, come—"

            "That's all right. You
don't look a day over a thousand." The small victory gave Barber a
comforting sense of superiority. "Suppose you tell me something about this
country. What are we bounded by?"

            "Fat's that?"

            "What's north of here?
Ditto with east, south and west."

            "That depends on which
way north is, sir. Maist times, 'tis straight up. The last time 'twere doon,
'twas in the direction of the Kobold Hills."

            "And what are the
Kobold Hills?"

            Angus shifted his feet and
tucked the mirror into his jerkin, where it disappeared without leaving a
bulge. "The hills where the kobolds be," he said.

            "Who are the
kobolds?" (Fairies of some sort, he remembered from youth, but the word
might have a special meaning.)

            "I dinna really ken,
sir." His eyes avoided; the falsehood was so obvious that the elf himself
felt it. "If your clothes are satisfactory, sir, I'll tak my leave."
Without waiting for more he whisked out of the room.

            Barber called after him:
"How about a razor—" but too late. A fingertip assured him of the
stubble on his chin, but none of the furniture contained anything that was the
least use in such an emergency, so he shrugged and went into the entry hall to
look for the King.

            The archway to the royal
rooms showed nothing, but from another came the sound of voices and Barber
rightly guessed this must be the breakfast room. It was long and
high-ceilinged, with huge, arched glassless windows—didn't it ever rain or get
cold here, he wondered?—and the astonishing bright moonlight of fairyland
streaming in. He was conscious of fantastic polychrome decoration and piled
glass chandeliers that must be utterly useless amid the regular procession of
sunlight-moonlight. But the center of his eye was taken up by the table and its
occupants.

            It was twenty feet or more
long, covered with a damask cloth that dripped to the floor, and from the far
end Titania faced him, regal and smiling. Behind her stood Gosh and the brownie
philosopher; uniformed footmen bustled about. At the other end, with his back
to Barber, sat Oberon, also with two attendants. The King had just finished
eating something; one of the footmen whisked a gold plate from under his nose,
and four tall goblins with spindling legs and huge puffed cheeks, standing
stiffly midway down the table, lifted silver trumpets and blew. Their music was
like that Barber had heard from the gallery at the coronation of George VI.

            Titania had seen him and
indicated his direction through the music with a wave of her hand. Oberon
turned. "Ho, it's the Barber fellow!" he cried. "Ha, slugabed!
Approach, approach."

            Another dish had appeared
before him. He transferred part of the contents to a plate and handed it to a
footman. "To Barber, with our royal compliments," he said. Instantly
one of the trumpeters blew a blast like an elaborated version of an army mess
call. The footman's nose was flattened back till it resembled a pig's snout,
and he had prick ears that pointed like the horns of a cow as he bowed before
Barber.

            "You're in high favor,
Sir Changeling," he whispered quickly, handing over the plate. "Speak
a word for me about the pixie Amaranthe; I'll do as much for you one day. I am
called Gryll."

            "Will if I can,"
answered Barber out of the corner of his mouth and bowed toward Oberon, who was
watching him. He looked around for a chair. There were none in the room except
those occupied by the King and Queen, so he supposed he would have to eat
standing up. The food was pale blue in color and strongly flavored with violet;
Barber, who had never been able to get used to the English habit of sweets with
breakfast, found it perfectly abominable. Fortunately, he was spared the worst
effects of the King's generosity, for no sooner had he taken a couple of
mouthfuls than Oberon was beckoning him to the table.

            "Harkee, Barber,"
he said. "You're a fine springald; full of inches, thewed like an ox, and
with a heart of oak, I'll warrant. Is't not so?"

            Barber bowed and managed to
get rid of the plate of blue goo. "Your Radiance is too kind." This
was like being in the service; when they wanted something from you they always
began by spreading the oil good and thick.

            "If you're as kind to
our wishes you shall ride high in our favor. We have a deed to lay on you, a
commission to execute—"

            Whatever else he was going
to say was drowned in another outburst from the goblin trumpeters. Titania had
changed plates. Oberon's face writhed, he brought his fist down on the table,
but the Queen was quicker in catching the precise moment when the tooting
stopped.

            "My very dear lord and
gossip," her bell-like voice rang out, "you do forget your guest. A
wight that casts his shadow wants nourishing." She handed a plate to one
of her footmen. "Our royal compliments to Master Barber, and may he prefer
this to the last dish." He did; it tasted like steak.

            Oberon slapped his forehead
with an open palm. "Oh, apologies, Barber; we crave your grace. Now on the
matter of this achievement: it's the kobolds."

            "What about them?"
asked Barber, munching away.

            "We fear they're making
swords again to ruinously vex our realm. The beat of forging hammers comes from
their hills, and has a droll ring to it, as though they were not working good
honest bronze but—iron."

            He let the last word drop
slowly; as he did so the footmen started and one of them dropped a plate.
"I still don't see—"

            "Why, halt 'em, thwart
'em, confound their knavery! You're mortal; plainly you can handle the
stuff."

            The brownie philosopher at
the other end of the table was bowing like a jack-in-the-box. Titania said:
"You have our permission. For two minutes only, though."

            "Gracious lord,
gracious lady," he piped. " 'Tis clear to my arts that this
changeling stands before you uncomprehending, like a bull in a buttery. What's
to do, a asks, and Your Radiance but gives him commands, when it's a sapient
babe that will see to the heart of the millstone."

            He bowed to Barber and
squeaked on: "These kobolds are a race that consort not with us, loving
labor like Egyptians. Yet we would not be without them, for they are natural
like ourselves, and how says Protagoras: 'All things in nature are good and
have their place; and if the least attractive be removed the lack will
ultimately be felt by all.' Which I take it to be—"

            "Ahem!" said
Oberon loudly.

            The brownie philosopher
bowed three times, hurriedly. "Now the minds of these kobold-cattle are so
fashioned that since they alone, of all Fairyland, have the power of touching
iron, they make of fashioning that metal an inordinate vainglory, preferring it
to all others—"

            Titania silently held up two
fingers.

            "Yes, gracious lady ...
And would therefore forge swords at every opportunity. Which swords, being
distributed, do set all Fairyland at the most horrid strife and variance, with
bloodletting and frequent resultant shapings—"

            Bang! Oberon's fist came
down. "A truce to babble! Here's the riddle: we of pure fairy blood cannot
go to the Kobold Hills, which stink of the curst metal. Thus you're our
emissary."

            Barber's ears had caught the
slight accent on the word "pure."

            "Because I'm of impure
fairy blood, I suppose?" he questioned lightly.

            "Wherefore else, good
Barber?"

            He laughed, but it died out
against the unaltered faces around him. "Who was your mother's mother,
sir?" asked Titania's clear contralto.