Free The Dragon in the Sword by Michael Moorcock Page A

Now, my men, lead us on to your masters. Prince Flamadin is not used to such tardiness.”
    Greatly embarrassed by his bad manners and attempting to show our hosts that I did not endorse his remarks, I followed the greeting party up a series of ramps which led to the outer decks. Here, too, a thriving town existed, with twisting streets, flights of stairs, taverns, food shops, even a theatre. Von Bek muttered his approval but Armiad beside him and just behind me said in a loud whisper that he observed signs of decadence everywhere. I had known certain Englishmen who associated cleanliness with decadence and whose opinion would have been confirmed by the additional evidence of thriving arts and crafts on the
New Argument.
I, however, attempted to make conversation with the greeting party, all of whom seemed pleasant enough young men, but they were evidently reluctant to respond to me, even when I praised the appearance and beauty of their hull.
    We crossed a series of catwalks to what had the appearance of a large civic building. This possessed none of the fortified appearance of Armiad’s palace and we passed through high, pointed arches directly into a kind of courtyard which was surrounded by a pleasant colonnade. From the left side of this colonnade there now emerged another group of men and women, all of them in middle to late years. They wore long robes of rich, dark colours, slouch hats, each of which bore a differently coloured plume, and gloves of brightly dyed leather. Their faces were dimly visible through fine gauze masks which they now removed, placing them over their hearts in a version of the same gesture we had first encountered from Mopher Gorb and his Binmen. I was impressed by their dignified features and surprised, too, that all but two of them, a man and a woman, were brown-skinned. The party greeting us had all been white-skinned.
    Their manners were perfect and their greetings elegant, but it was more than plain that they were pleased to see none of us. They clearly did not distinguish between von Bek and myself and Armiad (which I, of course, found wounding to my pride!) and although not directly rude gave the impression of Roman patricians suffering the visit of some coarse barbarian.
    “Greetings to you, honoured guests from the
Frowning Shield
. We, the Council to our Baron Captain Denou Praz, Rhyme Brother to the Toirset Larens and our Snowbear Defender, welcome you in his name and beg that you join us for light refreshment at our Greeting Hall.”
    “Gladly, gladly,” replied Armiad with an airy wave which he was forced to halt in mid-flight in order to restore his hat to its original position. “We are more than honoured to be your guests, Prince Flamadin and I.”
    Again their response to my name was not in any sense flattering. But their self-discipline was too great for them to make any open display of distaste. They bowed and led us under the archways, through doors panelled with coloured glass, into a pleasant hall lit with copper lamps, its low ceiling carved with what were evidently stylised versions of scenes from their hull’s distant past, largely to do with exploits on ice-floes. I remembered that the
New Argument
was from the North where evidently it sailed far closer to the pole (if indeed this realm possessed a pole as I understood it!).
    Rising from a brocaded chair at the end of a table, an old man raised his gauze mask from his face and placed it to his heart. He seemed very frail and his voice was thin when he spoke. “Baron Captain Armiad, Prince Flamadin, Count Ulric von Bek, I am Baron Captain Denou Praz. Please advance and seat yourselves by me.”
    “We’ve met before once or twice, Brother Denou Praz,” said Armiad in a tone of blustering familiarity. “Perhaps you remember? At a Hull Conference aboard the
Leopard’s Eye
and last year on
My Aunt Jeroldeen
, for our brother Grallerif’s funeral.”
    “I remember you well, Brother Armiad. Is your hull