The Second Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  She glanced over several shelves of blown-glass figurines long enough to decide that the most delicate and costly-looking was, almost needless to say, that of a slim girl in boots and scanty jacket wielding a long whip. She flicked it off its shelf, so that it shattered on the polished floor and the whip went to powder.

  What could they do to her that they weren’t planning to do already?—she asked herself with a tight smile.

  She climbed into the bed, where she stretched and writhed luxuriously, enjoying to the full the feel of the fine linen sheets against her barbered limbs, body, and head, and now and again trickling from the crystal flagon a few nectarous drops between her playfully haughty-shaped lips. She’d be damned, she told herself, if she’d drink enough to get dead drunk before the last possible instant. Thereafter Samanda and Glipkerio might find themselves hard-put to torment a limp body and blacked-out mind with any great pleasure to themselves.

  13

  The Mouser, reclining on his side in his litter, the tail of one of the fore-rats swaying a respectful arm’s length from his head, noted that, without leaving the Fifth Level, they had arrived at a wide corridor stationed with pike-rats stiffly on guard and having thirteen heavily curtained doorways. The first nine curtains were of white and silver, the next of black and gold, the last three of white and gold.

  Despite his weariness and grandiose feeling of security, the Mouser had been fairly watchful along the trip, suspecting though not very seriously that Skwee or Lord Null might have him followed—and then there was Hreest to be reckoned with, who might have discovered some clue at the water-privy despite the highly artistic job the Mouser felt he had done. From time to time there had been rats who might have been following his litter, but all these had eventually taken other turns in the mazy corridors. The last to engage his lazy suspicions had been two slim rats clad in black silken cloaks, hoods, masks, and gloves, but these without a glance toward him now disappeared arm-in-arm through the black-and-gold curtains, whispering together in a gossipy way.

  His litter stopped at the next doorway, the third from the end. So Skwee and Siss outranked Grig, but he out-ranked Lord Null. This might be useful to know, though it merely confirmed the impression he had got at the council.

  He sat, then stood up with the aid of his staff, rather exaggerating his leg cramp now, and tossed the fore-rat a corn-wreathed silver coin he had selected from Grig’s purse. He assumed that tips would be the custom of any species of being whatever, in particular rats. Then without a backward look he hobbled through the heavy curtains, noting in passing that they were woven of fine soft gold wire and braided fine white silk threads. There was a short, dim passageway similarly curtained at the other end. He pushed through the second set of curtains and found himself alone in a cozy-feeling but rather shabby square room with curtained doorways in each of the other three walls and lit by a bronze-caged fire-beetle over each doorway. There were two closed cupboards, a writing desk with stool, many scrolls in silver containers that looked suspiciously like thimbles from the human world, crossed swords and a battle-ax fixed to the dingy walls, and a fireplace in which a single giant coal glowed redly through its coat of white ash. Above the fireplace, or rather brazier-nook, emerged from the wall a bronze-ringed hemisphere about as big as the Mouser’s own rat-size head. The hemisphere was yellowish, with a large greenish-brown circle on it, and centered in this circle a black one. with a qualm of horror, the Mouser recognized it as a mummified human eye.

  In the center of the room was a pillowed couch with the high back support of one who does a lot of reading lying down, and beside the couch a sizable low table with nothing on it but three bells, one copper, one silver, and one gold.

  Putting his horror out of mind, for it is a singularly useless emotion, the Mouser took up the silver bell and rang it vigorously, deciding to see what taking the middle course would bring.

  He had little more time than to decide that the room was that of a crusty bachelor with studious inclinations when there came backing through the curtains in the rear wall a fat old rat in spotless long white smock with a white cap on his head. This one turned and showed his silver snout and bleared eyes, and also the silver tray he was carrying, on which were steaming plates and a large steaming silver jug.

  The Mouser pointed curtly at the table. The cook, for so he seemed to be, set the tray there and then came hesitantly toward the Mouser, as if to help him off with his robe. The Mouser waved him away and pointed sternly at the rear doorway. He’d be damned if he’d go to the trouble of lisping in Grig’s own home. Besides, servants might have a sharper ear than colleagues for a false voice. The cook bowed bumblingly and departed.

  The Mouser settled himself gratefully on the couch, deciding against removing as yet his gloves or boots. Now that he was reclining, the latter bothered him hardly at all. However, he did remove his mask and placed it close by—it was good to get more than a squinty view of things—and set to at Grig’s dinner.

  The steaming jug turned out to contain mulled wine. It was most soothing to his raw, dry throat and wearied nerves, though excessively aromatic—the single black clove bobbing in the jug was large as a lime and the cinnamon stick big as one of the parchment scrolls. Then, using Cat’s Claw and the two-tined fork provided, he began cutting up and devouring the steaming cutlets of beef—for his nose told him it was that and not, for instance, baby. From another steaming plate he sampled one of the objects that looked like small sweet potatoes. It turned out to be a single grain of boiled wheat. Likewise, one of the yellowish cubes about as big as dice proved a grain of coarse sugar, while the black balls big as the end joint of his thumb were caviar. He speared them one at a time with his fork and munched, alternating this with mouthfuls of the beef. It was very strange to eat good tender beef, the fibers of which were thick as his fingers.

  Having consumed the meaty portions of Grig’s dinner and drunk all the mulled wine, the Mouser resumed his mask and settled back to plot his escape to Lankhmar Above. But the golden bell kept teasing his thoughts away from practical matters, so he reached out and rang it. Yield to curiosity without giving the mind time to get roiled, was one of his mottoes.

  Hardly had the sweet chinks died away when the heavy curtains of one of the side doors parted and there appeared a slim straight rat—or ratess, rather, he judged—dressed in robe, hood, mask, slippers and gloves all of fine lemon yellow silk.

  This one, holding the curtains parted, looked toward him and said softly, ‘Lord Grig, your mistress awaits you.’

  The Mouser’s first reaction was one of gratified conceit. So Grig did have a mistress, and his spur-of-the-moment answer to Skwee’s ‘Wife?’ question at the council had been a brilliant stroke of intuition. Whether human-large or rat-small, he could outsmart anyone. He possessed Mouser-mind, unequaled in the universe.

  Then the Mouser stood up and approached the slender, yellow-clad figure. There was something cursedly familiar about her. He wondered if she were the ratess in green he’d seen leading short-leashed the brace of shrews. She had a pride and poise about her.

  Using the same stratagem he had with the cook, he silently pointed from her to the doorway that she should precede him. She acquiesced and he followed close behind her down a dim twisty corridor.

  And cursedly attractive too, he decided, eyeing her slender silhouette and sniffing her musky perfume. Rather belatedly, he reminded himself that she was a rat and so should waken his uttermost repugnance. But was she necessarily a rat? He had been transformed in size, why not others? And if this were merely the maid, what would the mistress be? Doubtless lard-fat or hag-hairy, he told himself cynically. Still his excitement grew.

  Sparing a moment’s thought to orient himself, he discovered that the side door they’d gone out by led toward the black-curtained apartments of Lord Null—presumably—rather than to those of Siss and Skwee.

  At last the yellow-clad ratess parted gold-heavy black drapes, then light violet silken ones. The Mo
user passed her and found himself staring about through the notched eye-holes of Grig’s mask at a large bedroom, beautifully and delicately furnished in many ways, yet the weirdest and perhaps the most frightening he had ever seen.

  It was draped and carpeted and ceilinged and upholstered all in silver and violet, the latter color the exact complement of the yellow of his conductress’ gowning. It was lit indirectly from below by narrow deep tanks of slimy glow-worms big as eels, set against the walls. Against these tanks were several vanity tables, each backed by its large silver mirror, so that the Mouser saw more than one reflection of his white-robed self and his slim cicerone, who had just let the silken violet curtains waft together again. The tabletops were strewn with cosmetics and the tools of beauty, variously colored elixirs and tiny cups—all except one, near a second silver-draped door, which held nothing but two score or so black and white vials.

  But between the vanity tables there hung on silver chains, close to the walls and brightly lit by the glow-worm’s up-jutting effulgence, large silver cages of scorpions, spiders, mantises, and suchlike glittering vermin, all large as puppy dogs or baby kangaroos. In one spacious cage coiled a Quarmall pocket-viper huge as a python. These clashed their fangs or hissed, according to their kind, while one scorpion angrily clattered its sting across the gleaming bars of its cage, and the viper darted its trebly forked tongue between those of its own.

  One short wall, however, was bare except for two pictures tall and wide as doors, the one depicting against a dusky background a girl and crocodile amorously intertwined, the other a man and a leopardess similarly preoccupied.

  Almost central in the room was a large bed covered only by a tight-drawn white linen sheet, the woven threads looking coarse as burlap, yet inviting nonetheless, and with one fat white pillow.

  Lying supine and at ease on this bed, her head propped against the pillow to survey the Mouser through the eye-holes of her mask, was a figure somewhat slighter than that of his guide, yet otherwise identical and identically clad, except that the silk of her garb was finer still and violet instead of yellow.

  ‘Well met below ground. Sweet greetings, Gray Mouser,’ this one called softly in a familiar silvery voice. Then, looking beyond him, ‘Sweetest slave, make our guest comfortable.’

  Softest footsteps approached. The Mouser turned a little and saw that his conductress had removed her yellow mask, revealing the merry yet melancholy-eyed dark face of Frix. Her black hair this time hung in two long plaits, braided with fine copper wire.

  Without more ado than a smile, she began deftly to unbutton Grig’s long white robe. The Mouser lifted his arms a little and let himself be undressed as effortlessly as in a dream, and with even less attention paid the process, for he was most eagerly scanning the violet-masked figure on the bed. He knew to a certainty who it must be, beyond all contributing evidence, for the silver dart was throbbing in his temple and the hunger which had haunted him for days returned redoubled.

  The situation was strange almost beyond comprehension. Although guessing that Frix and the other must have used an elixir like Sheelba’s, the Mouser could have sworn they were all three human size, except for the presence of the familiar vermin, scuttlers and slitherers, so huge.

  It was a great relief to have his cramping rat-boots deftly drawn off, as he lifted first one leg, then the other. Yet although he submitted so docilely to Frix’s ministrations, he kept hold of his sword Scalpel and of the belt it hung from and also, on some cloudy impulse, of Grig’s mask. He felt the smaller scabbard empty on the belt and realized with a pang of apprehension that he had left Cat’s Claw behind in Grig’s apartment along with the latter’s ivory staff.

  But these worries vanished like the last snowflake in spring when the one on the bed asked cajolingly, ‘Will you partake of refreshment, dearest guest?’ and when he said, ‘I will most gladly,’ lifted a violet-gloved hand and ordered, ‘Dear Frix, fetch sweetmeats and wine.’

  While Frix busied herself at a far table, the Mouser whispered, his heart a-thump, ‘Ah, most delectable Hisvet—For I deem you are she?’

  ‘As to that, you must judge for yourself,’ the tinkling voice responded coquettishly.

  ‘Then I shall call you Hisvet,’ the Mouser answered boldly, ‘recognizing you as my queen of queens and princess of princesses. Know, delicious Demoiselle, that ever since our raptures ’neath the closet tree were so rudely broken off by an interruption of Mingols, my mind, nay, my mania has been fixed solely on you.’

  ‘That were some small compliment—’ the other allowed, lolling back luxuriously, ‘if I could believe it.’

  ‘Believe it you must,’ the Mouser asserted masterfully, stepping forward. ‘Know, moreover, that it is my intention that on this occasion our converse not be conducted over Frix’s shoulder, dear companion that she is, but at the closest range. I am fixedly desirous of all refreshments, omitting none.’

  ‘You cannot think I am Hisvet!’ the other countered, starting up in what the Mouser hoped was mock indignation ‘Else you would never dare such blasphemy!’

  ‘I dare far more!’ the Mouser declared with a soft amorous growl, stepping forward more swiftly. The vermin hanging round about moved angrily, striking against their silver bars and setting their cages a little a-swing, and clashing, clattering, and hissing more. Nevertheless the Mouser, dropping his belt and sword by the edge of the bed and setting a knee thereon, would have thrust himself directly upon Hisvet, had not Frix come bustling up at that moment and set between them on the coarse linen a great silver tray with slim decanters of sweet wine and crystal cups for its drinking and plates of sugary tidbits.

  Not entirely to be balked, the Mouser darted his hand across and snatched away the vizard of violet silk from the visage it hid. Violet-gloved hands instantly snatched the mask back from him, but did not replace it, and there confronting him was indeed the slim triangular face of Hisvet, cheeks flushed, red-irised eyes glaring, but pouty lips grinning enough to show the slightly overlarge pearly upper incisors, the whole being framed by silver-blonde hair interwoven like that of Frix, but with even finer wire of silver, into two braids that reached to her waist.

  ‘Nay,’ she said laughingly, ‘I see you are most wickedly presumptuous and that I must protect myself.’ Reaching down on her side of the bed, she procured a long slender-bladed gold-hilted dagger. Waving it playfully at the Mouser, she said, ‘Now refresh yourself from the cups and plates before you, but have a care of sampling other sweetmeats, dear guest.’

  The Mouser complied, pouring for himself and Hisvet. He noted from a corner of his eye that Frix, moving silently in her silken robe, had rolled up Grig’s white boots and gloves in his white hood and robe and set them on a stool near the floor-to-ceiling painting of the man and the leopardess and that she had made as neat a bundle of all the rest of the Mouser’s garb—his own garb, mostly—and set them on a stool next the first. A most efficient and foresighted maid, he thought, and most devoted to her mistress—in fact altogether too devoted: he wished at this moment she would take herself off and leave him private with Hisvet.

  But she showed no sign of so doing, nor Hisvet of ordering her away, so without more ado the Mouser began a mild love-play, catching at the violet-gloved fingers of Hisvet’s left hand as they dipped toward the sweetmeats or plucking at the ribbons and edges of her violet robe, in the latter case reminding her of the discrepancy in their degree of undress and suggesting that it be corrected by the subtraction of an item or two from her outfit. Hisvet in turn would deftly jab with her dagger at his snatching hand, as if to pin it to tray or bed, and he would whip it back barely in time. It was an amusing game, this dance of hand and needle-sharp dagger—or at least it seemed amusing to the Mouser, especially after he had drained a cup or two of fiery colorless wine—and so when Hisvet asked him how he had come into the rat-world, he merrily told her the story of Sheelba’s black potion and how he had first thought its effects a most damnably unfair wizardly joke, bu
t now blessed them as the greatest good ever done him in his life—for he twisted the tale somewhat to make it appear that his sole objective all along had been to win to her side and bed.

  He ended by asking, as he parted two fingers to let Hisvet’s dagger strike between them, ‘How ever did you and dear Frix guess that I was impersonating Grig?’

  She replied, ‘Most simply, gracious gamesman. We went to fetch my father from the council, for there is still an important journey he, Frix, and I must make tonight. At a distance we heard you speak and I divined your true voice despite your clever lispings. Thereafter we followed you.’

  ‘Ah, surely I may hope you love me as dearly, since you trouble to know me so well,’ the Mouser warbled infatuatedly, slipping hand aside from a cunning slash. ‘But tell me, divine one, how comes it that you and Frix and your father are able to live and hold great power in the rat-world?’

  With her dagger she pointed somewhat languidly toward the vanity table holding the black and white vials, informing him, ‘My family has used the same potion as Sheelba’s for countless centuries, and also the white potion, which restores us at once to human-size. During those same centuries we have interbred with the rats, resulting in divinely beautiful monsters such as I am, but also in monsters most ugly, at least by human standards. Those latter of my family stay always below ground, but the rest of us enjoy the advantages and delights of living in two worlds. The inter-breeding has also resulted in many rats with human-like hands and minds. The spreading of civilization to the rats is largely our doing, and we shall rule as chiefs and chieftesses paramount, or even goddesses and gods, when the rats rule men.’

  This talk of interbreeding and monsters startled the Mouser somewhat and gave him to think, despite his ever more firmly gyved ensorcelment by Hisvet. He recalled Lukeen’s old suggestion, made aboard Squid, that Hisvet concealed a she-rat’s body under her maiden robes and he wondered—somewhat fearfully yet most curiously—just what form Hisvet’s slim body did take. For instance, did she have a tail? But on the whole he was certain that whatever he discovered under her violet robe would please him mightily, since now his infatuation with the grain-merchant’s daughter had grown almost beyond all bounds.