Robert Silverberg: Dark Times at the Midnight Market

“If the potion worked,” said the Vroon in the calmest tone he was capable of mustering, “there is no certainty that what took place between the marquis and the princess will become known to anyone else. And if it does, the marquis will have to look to the consequences of his deed on his own. We are mere merchants, protected by law. But if the potion has failed—and how can it have failed, unless he blundered with the spell?—we owe him twenty royals, to fulfill my guarantee. Where will we get twenty royals, Shostik-Willeron? Conjure them out of the air? Look here.” He opened the cash drawer of his desk. “This is what’s left of it. Three royals, two crowns, and sixty—no, seventy weights. The rest is gone. Let us pray that the potion has done its work, for our own sakes, if nothing else.”

“A princess of Muldemar—a descendant of the great Presti-mion—a beautiful lass, innocent, pure, betrothed to the son of the Coronal—”

“Stop it, Shostik-Willeron. For all we know, she’s no more innocent and pure than that ox of a Skandar who works for us, and everybody at the Castle from the Coronal on down knows it and doesn’t care. And even if this tale of royal betrothals should be true—but do we know that it is? Only this kinsman of yours says so—we are in no danger ourselves. We are here to serve the public by making use of our skills, and so we have. We bear no responsibility for our client’s interference in other people’s arrangements. In any case, this blubbering of yours achieves nothing. What’s done is done.” Ghambivole Zwoll made shooing gestures with his outermost ring of tentacles. “Go. Go. If you keep this up you will jangle my nerves tonight to no useful purpose.”

The Vroon’s nerves were indeed already thoroughly jangled, however much he tried to put a good face on the matter. He wished most profoundly that Mirl Meldelleran had never shared with him the identity of his inamorata. It would have been sufficient to know her age, her approximate height and weight, and, perhaps, some inkling of her degree of experience in the wars of love. But no, no, the braggart Mirl Meldelleran had had to go and name her, besides; and if this rumor of a royal marriage truly had any substance to it, and the marquis’s seduction of the princess caused any disruption of that marriage, and the tale of how the marquis had managed to achieve his triumph came out, Shostik-Willeron quite possibly was correct: the magus who had compounded the dastardly potion might very well be made a scapegoat in the hubbub that ensued. Ghambivole Zwoll felt sure that the law would be on his side in any action against him, but a lawyer’s fee for defending him against an outraged Prince of Muldemar or, even worse, the Coronal’s son would be something more than trifling pocket-change, and he was on the verge of bankruptcy as it was.

Still, there was nothing he could do about any of this now. The potion had been made and delivered and, in all likelihood, used, and, as he had said, whatever had happened after that had happened, and he could only wait and see what consequences befell. He mixed himself a mild calming elixir, and after a time it took effect, and he went about his business without giving the matter farther thought.

The next evening, half an hour or so before the official opening time of the Midnight Market, Ghambivole Zwoll was moodily going over his accounts when he heard a disturbance in the hall outside, shouting and clatter, and then came the hammering of a fist on the door of his shop; and, looking up, he beheld the gaudy figure of the Marquis Mirl Meldelleran gesturing at him through the time-dimmed glass.

The marquis looked furious, and he was brandishing his bared sword in his right hand, swishing it angrily back and forth. Ghambivole Zwoll had never seen anyone brandishing a drawn sword before, let alone one that was being waved threateningly in front of his own beak. It was a dress sword, ornate and absurd, intended only an ornamental appurtenance—the fad for swordplay in daily life had long ago ended on Majipoor—but its edge looked quite keen, all the same, and Ghambivole Zwoll had no doubt of the damage it could work on the frail tissues of his small body.

He was alone in the shop. The Skandar woman had already finished her nightly chores and gone, and Shostik-Willeron had not yet arrived. What to do? Darken the room, hide under the desk? No. The marquis had already seen him. He would only smash his way in. That would entail even more expense.

“We are not yet open for business, your grace,” said the Vroon through the closed door.

“I know that. I have no time to wait! Let me in.”

Sadly Ghambivole Zwoll said, “As you wish, sir.”

The Marquis Mirl Meldelleran strode into the shop and took up a stance just inside the door. Everything about him radiated anger, anger, anger. The Vroon looked upward at the figure that rose high above him and made a mild gesture to indicate that he found the bared sword disconcerting.

“The potion,” he said mildly. “It was satisfactory, I trust?”

“Up to a point, yes. But only up to a point.”

The tale came spilling out quickly enough. The lady had trustingly sipped the drink the marquis had put before her, and the marquis had managed even to recite the spell in proper fashion, and the potion had performed its function most admirably: the Lady Alesarda had instantly fallen into a heated passion, the Marquis Mirl Meldelleran had swept her off to bed, and they had passed such a night together as the marquis had never imagined in his most torrid dreams.

Ghambivole Zwoll sensed that there had to be more to the story than that, and indeed there was; for the next night the marquis had returned to Muldemar House, anticipating a renewal of the erotic joys so gloriously inaugurated the night before, only to find himself abruptly, coolly dismissed. The Lady Alesarda had no wish to see him again, not this evening, not the next evening, not any evening at all between now and the end of the universe. The Lady Alesarda requested, via an intermediary, that the Marquis Mirl Meldelleran never so much as look in her direction, should they find themselves ever again in the same social gathering, which was, unfortunately for her, all too likely, considering that they both moved in the same lofty circles among the younger nobility of Castle Mount.

“It was,” said the marquis, smouldering with barely suppressed rage, “the most humiliating experience of my life!”

Ghambivole Zwoll said mildly, “But you came to me seeking, so you said, a night of pleasure with the woman you most desired in all the world. By your own account, my skills have provided you with exactly that.”

“I sought a continuing relationship. I certainly didn’t seek to be spurned after a single night. What am I to think: that when she looked back on our night together, she thought of my embrace as something vile, something loathsome, something that had left her with nothing but black memories that she longed to purge from her mind?”

“I have heard tell that the lady is betrothed to a great prince of Castle Mount,” said the Vroon. “Can it be that when she returned to her proper senses she was smitten by a sense of obligation to her prince? By guilt, by shame, by terrible remorse?”

“I had hoped that her night with me would leave her with no farther interest in that other person.”

“As well you might, your grace. But the potion was specifically designed to obtain her surrender on that one occasion when it was administered, and so it did. It would not necessarily have a lingering effect after it had left her body.”

As he spoke the door opened behind the marquis and Shostik-Willeron, arriving for the night, stepped into the shop. The eyes of the Su-Suheris flickered quickly from Ghambivole Zwoll to the Marquis Mirl Meldelleran to the marquis’s unsheathed sword, and a look of terrible dismay crossed his faces. The Vroon signalled to him to be still.