“Finesse is not the same as cheat,” the Lady pointed out. “It implies some artifice or devious mechanism, not dishonesty.”
“Vodlevile is a very forthright person,” Hulk said. “No tricks in him. Still, he helped me. He told me that most of the metal tools and weapons and musical instruments of Phaze are made by the Little People, the tribes of Dark Elves, and that some worked with bone, and some with wood, and some with silver, or with gold, or with platinum. So probably if thou canst find the right tribe of elves—“
“The Little Folk are not easy to find,” the Lady Blue said. “They dwell mainly in the Purple Mountains, and they dislike normal men and deal with them seldom. Most of all they detest Adepts. When my lord desired an excellent musical instrument, he could not go to them, but had to trade with a hawkman who had a connection across the curtain. He said he would like to be in touch with the Little Folk, but that they wanted naught he had to offer.”
“So Vodlevile informed me,” Hulk said. “That’s what I meant about danger. It seems that the more precious the metal a tribe works with, the less use that tribe has for men, because men try to steal the artifacts. Especially they hate big men. I’d be dead the moment I set foot in their territory. And the Blue Adept—“ He shook his head. “So my Oracle answer isn’t much use either. But I report it to thee, for what it’s worth, and hope this doesn’t cause mischief.”
Stile was already deep in thought. “The advice of the Oracle is always practical, if obscure. One has to work to understand it, usually. But it surely makes sense—for both me and the vampire. And him I may be able to help, in return for his help to thee.”
“I had hoped thou wouldst see it that way,” Hulk admitted. “It really is thy mission he tried to facilitate.”
“I like this not,” the Lady said. “Thou meanest to go among the Little Folk.”
“Perhaps,” Stile agreed. “That’s the mischief Hulk feared, knowing mine inclination. But first I must tackle the matter nearer at hand. It will take me a moment to devise a suitable spell. Let’s meet in the courtyard in ten minutes.”
“No spell will take thee safely to the fastness of the Little Folk,” she protested. “Like the unicorns, they resist magic. Better thou goest among trolls or goblins; there at least thou wouldst have a fair chance.”
“I had in mind summoning the Yellow Adept.”
“The Yellow Adepti” she cried, horrified. “In these Demesnes?”
“I swore never to return to her Demesnes, so must needs she visit mine. Thus do I finesse the restriction. Come on—we have to give Hulk a chance to get dressed.” Stile led the way out. The Lady was spluttering, but offered no further resistance.
They met in due course in the courtyard. The Lady had evidently communicated the situation to the unicorn, for Neysa was moving her horn about angrily and snorting just beneath the level of meaning.
Stile played his harmonica to bring the magic ambience. Then he intoned: “Yellow Adept, I ask of thee, come to the Blue Demesnes, to me.”
Abruptly the yellow hag was there before them. “Blue, methought we were at quits!” she snapped. “Seekest thou war between Adepts?”
“By no means. Yellow. I only wish to bargain with thee, to mutual advantage, and may not invade thy Demesnes again.”
Her somewhat beady eyes peered about. “There is that, my handsome. Thou’rt a man of thy literal word. But I am not garbed for socializing. Give me leave to freshen up first.” And she felt about her baggy old dress, searching for a potion.
“Allow me, since thou’rt my guest.” Stile played a bar of music, then intoned: “While Yellow visits Castle Blue, grant her youth, image and hue.”
In place of the old crone stood a ravishingly beautiful young woman with an hourglass configuration and long golden-yellow tresses, wearing a marvelously fetching evening gown. Hulk’s jaw fell, and the Lady Blue’s eyes widened. Neysa merely snorted disparagingly; she had seen it before.
Lovely Yellow brought out a vial, shook out a drop, and caught it as it formed into a mirror. “Oh, thou shouldst not, thou darling man! Yes, thou hast recaptured it perfectly, my delicious!”
“Yet she remains a witch,” the Lady Blue said tightly. Neysa snorted agreement.
Yellow shot a glance at them. “Witch, thou sayst? And aren’t we all, regardless of our shapes or magic? What chance does any man have, against a vamp of whatever color?”
“None,” Hulk muttered. Neysa made as if to stab him with her horn, and he hopped out of the way.
“What I wish is this,” Stile said briskly. “There is a vampire man, Vodlevile, whose son is allergic to blood. The Oracle told him to finesse Yellow. He refuses to deal—“
“Aye, I have a potion to cure that malady,” Yellow agreed. “But what does he offer in return?”
“Nothing,” Stile said. “The vampire folk are wary of thee, for what reason I do not pretend to comprehend.”
