The White Wolf's Son by Michael Moorcock

primarily in the French language. Are you fluent?”
    “Not really. Maybe you’ve
something
in English?”
    “We’ll go there and we shall see,” he promised. He took a key from his waistcoat and moved slowly towards a room he had not
     yet shown me. Almost with reverence, he unlocked the door and opened it, walking to the far wall and drawing back a pair of
     curtains to allow a dim light to shine upon the orderly shelves of a large and impressive library. I loved the smell of old
     vellum and paper, the faintly glinting titles. I took some pencils and paper, intending to note down titles that interested
     me. Unfortunately, when I came to look at them more closely, they were all very old or, as Lord Renyard had warned, mostly
     in French or German. What weren’t in those languages were as often as not in Greek or Latin. I eventually found a translation
     by Henry Fielding of
Gil Bias,
but frankly it was a bit stuffy. I hadn’t by that time become a fan of Smollett and Fielding. The only old books I had read
     were John Bunyan’s
Pilgrim’s Progress
and children’s versions of
Gulliver
and
Robinson Crusoe.
    After going up and down the ladders for a while I gave up. Thanking the fox politely, I kept the pencils and paper and wrote
     down what had happened since I’d left home. I didn’t know it then, but I was starting what became a journal and the basis
     of this account. While it didn’t take my mind off my problems, it did help me focus on the situation and put it in some perspective.
    Lord Renyard prepared to leave after a while, begging me to remain, as he put it, under his protection. I promised,though I longed for a telephone just so I could reassure my parents that I was okay. He told me that he was doing his best
     to get a message to them somehow. “But I would guess your grandparents’ friends are here looking for you. I mentioned the
     rumors.” He picked up his elaborate feathered hat, took a firm grip on his long cane, and bent to pass through the low door,
     closing it behind him.
    While he was gone I heard a lot of activity in the tavern below, and a few words, and these sounded like nonsense. I heard
     a great deal of high-pitched laughter from the women. They scared me. Again I found myself wondering whether Lord Renyard
     was on Klosterheim’s side or Monsieur Zodiac’s.
    When the fox came back he was in good humor. He hadn’t heard that newcomers were looking for me. It was thought they were
     in audience with the Sebastocrater, the city’s ruler. What they intended to do when they left his palace, Lord Renyard didn’t
     know, but he had men watching the palace, and they would contact my friends (if that was who they were) as soon as they could.
     Meanwhile someone else wished to see me. She might be able to help.
    Who else could know I was here? I was baffled. She?
    Lord Renyard bowed, offering me his arm. “Would you mind coming with me, mademoiselle? It is only a short way from here.”
    My head filled with questions I couldn’t voice. I replied lamely. “I’ll be glad to,” I said, “thanks.” Hand on paw, we left
     the tavern and went out into the pleasant evening air. As we walked, Lord Renyard tried to tell me something of the history
     of the City in the Autumn Stars, why it was called what it was, who had founded it, who now ruled it and so on. It was a huge
     city, very well orderedin the main. “The center alone is reserved for the criminal and bohemian classes and all those associated with us. I am the
     acknowledged chief of those classes. Nowhere else is wickedness allowed to thrive.” He seemed faintly embarrassed. “You should
     know that I am a monster but never had any choice in my calling.”
    We went down another alley, emerging into a wide courtyard.
    On the far side of the courtyard stood a small, picturesque house with two windows and a door. The roof was thatched, and
     a white lattice supported a huge mass of pink and white roses, which gave the