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"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