by Fritz Leiber
At that, her loving gaze grew fiercely desirous and her smile widened and grew wild and she tugged sharply back on the arrow so that it bent acutely at its midst, and the blue component of the aurora flaring behind her seemed to enter into her body and flash in her gaze and glow along her arms and hands, and the golden arrow glowed brighter still, a blue aura all around it, and Fafhrd’s hook glowed equally, and there was a dazzling shower of blue sparks where hook and shaft met. Glad was Fafhrd then for the wooden wrist between his stump and his hook, for his every hair rose on end and he felt a prickling, tickling strangeness all over his skin.
But still his hook dragged blindly at the arrow, and now it came away with it, sharply bent but no longer blue-glowing. He snatched it off the hook with forefinger and thumb of his right hand, which still clutched the bag. And then as he backed away into his dory, he saw her loving countenance lengthening into a snout, her green eyes bulging and moving apart, swimming sidewise across her face, her pale skin turning to silvery scales, while her sweet mouth widened and gaped to show row upon row of razorlike triangular teeth.
She darted at him, he thrust out his left arm to fend her off, her jaws met with a great snap, while those dreadful teeth closed on his hook with a wrench and a clash.
9
And then all was tumult and swirling confusion, there was a clangour and a roaring in his ears, the solid water gave way and he and his craft plunged down, down, down, gut-wrenchingly, to the sea’s surface and without check or hindrance as far again below it—until he and his dory were suddenly floating in a great tunnel of air floored, walled, and roofed by water, as far below the sea’s surface as the water-wall had risen above it—and extending up to that surface just as the wall had stretched down to it. This incredible tunnel was lit silver by the misshapen moon glaring down it and greenish-yellow by a general phosphorescence in its taut, watery walls, from within which monstrous fish-faces moped and mowed at him and nuzzled the dory’s hull. The other craft and the metamorphosing woman were gone.
The weirdness of the scene (together with the horrid transformation of the Sea Wrack woman) had banished his bewitchment and brought all his mind alive. He knelt in the dory’s midst, peering about. And now the roaring in his ears increased and a great wind began to blow up the tunnel from the deeps, filling the dory’s small sail and driving it along toward the mad moon. As this infernal gale swiftly grew to a hurricane, Fafhrd threw himself flat, anchoring himself by gripping the base of the dory’s mast in the bend of his left elbow (for his hook was gone and his right hand had other employment). Silvery-green water flashed by, foam streamed back from the prow. And now a steady thunder began to resound from the deeps behind, adding itself to the tumultuous roaring, and it flashed through his frantic thoughts that such a sound might be caused by the tunnel closing up behind him, further increasing the might of the wind blowing him up this great silvery throat.
Space opened. The dory leaped like a flying fish, skiddingly struck roiled black water, righted itself, and floated flat—while from behind came a final thunderous crack.
It was as if the sea herself had spat them forth, then shut her lips.
10
In shorter space of time than he’d have thought possible without magic, before even his breathing had evened out, the sea calmed and the dory rode lonely and alone on its dark surface. Southward the moon shone. Its rays gleamed on the fracture where his hook had been bitten off. He realized that his right hand still gripped the neck of the bag he’d grabbed from Cif’s ghost (or the Sea Wrack woman, or whatever), while still clipped between his thumb and forefinger was a bent gold arrow.
Northward a ghostly aurora was glimmering, fading, dying. And in the same direction the lights of Salthaven gleamed, closer than he’d have guessed. He got out the single oar, set it across the stern, and began to scull homeward against the steady breeze, keeping wary watch on the silent black waters all around the dory.
11
Fafhrd was once more at archery practice on the heath of gray standing stones, companioned by Gale. But today a brisk north wind was singing in the heather and bending the gorse—forerunner more than likely of winter’s first gale…and still no sign of Sea Hawk and the Mouser.
Fafhrd had slept late this morning and so had many another Rime Isler. It had been past midnight when he’d wearily sculled up to the docks, but the port had been awake with the theft of civic treasures and his own disappearance, and he’d been confronted at once by Cif, Groniger, and Afreyt—Rill too, and Mother Grum, and several others. It turned out that after Fafhrd’s vanishment (none had noted his actual departure—an odd thing, that) a rumour had been bruited about (though hotly denied by the ladies) that he had made away with gold ikons. Great was the rejoicing when he revealed that he had got them all safely back (save for the sharp bend in the Arrow of Truth) and an extra one besides—one which, as Fafhrd was quick to point out, might well be the lost Cube of Square Dealing, its edges systematically deformed to curves. Groniger was inclined to doubt this and much concerned about both deformations, but Fafhrd was philosophic.
He said, ‘A crooked Arrow of Truth and a rounded-off Cube of Square Dealing strike me as about right for this world, more in line with accepted human practices.’
His account of his adventures on, above, and below the sea, and of the magic Cif’s ghost had worked and her horrid last transformation, had produced reactions of wonder and amazement—and some thoughtful frowning. Afreyt had asked some difficult questions about his motives for following the Sea Wrack woman, while Rill had smiled knowingly.
As for the identity of Cif’s ghost, only Mother Grum had strong convictions. ‘That’ll be somewhat from sunken Simorgya,’ she’d said, ‘come to repossess their pirated baubles.’
Groniger had disputed that last, claiming the ikons had always been Rime Isle’s, and the old witch had shrugged.
Now Gale asked him as they collected arrows, ‘And the fish-lady bit your hook off just like that?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ he assured her. ‘I’m having Mannimark forge me a new one—of bronze. You know, that hook saved me twice—I’m getting to feel quite fond of it—once from the blue essence of lightning bolt coursing through the sea monster’s extremities, and once from having another chunk of my left arm bitten off.’
Gale asked, ‘What was it that made you suspicious of the fish-lady, so that you followed her?’
‘Come on with those arrows, Gale,’ he told her. ‘I’ve thought of a new way to shoot around corners.’
This time he did it by aiming into the wind so that it carried his arrow in a sidewise curve behind the gray standing stone hiding the red bag. Gale said it was almost as much cheating as dropping an arrow in from above, but later they found he’d hit his target.
II
The Mer She
1
The ripening new-risen moon of the world of Nehwon shone yellowly down on the marching swells of the Outer Sea, flecking with gold their low lacy crests and softly gilding the taut triangular sail of the slim galley hurrying northwest. Ahead, the last sunset reds were fading while black night engulfed the craggy coast behind, shrouding its severe outlines.
At Sea Hawk’s stern, beside old Ourph, who had the tiller, stood the Gray Mouser with arms folded across his chest and a satisfied smile linking his cheeks, his short stalwart body swaying as the ship slowly rocked, moving from shallow trough to low crest and to trough again with the steady southwest wind on her loadside beam, her best point of sailing. Occasionally he stole a glance back at the fading lonely lights of No-Ombrulsk, but mainly he looked straight ahead where lay, five nights and days away, Rime Isle and sweet Cif, and poor one-hand Fafhrd and the most of their men and Fafhrd’s Afreyt, whom the Mouser found rather austere.
Ah, by Mog and by Loki, he thought, what satisfaction equals that of captain who at last heads home with ship well ballasted with the get of monstrously clever trading? None! he’d warrant. Youth’s erotic capturings and young manhood�
��s slayings—yea, even the masterworks and life-scrolls of scholar and artist—were the merest baubles by compare, callow fevers all.
In his self-enthusiasm the Mouser couldn’t resist going over in his mind each last item of merchant plunder—and also to assure himself that each was stowed to best advantage and stoutly secured, in case of storm or other ill-hap.
First, lashed to the sides, in captain’s cabin beneath his feet, were the casks of wine, mostly fortified, and the small kegs of bitter brandy, Fafhrd’s favourite tipple—those assuredly could not be stored elsewhere or entrusted to another’s overwatching (except perhaps yellow old Ourph’s here), he reminded himself as he lifted a small leather flask from his belt to his lips and took a measured sup of elixir of Ool Hruspan grape; he had strained his throat bellowing orders for Sea Hawk’s stowing and swift departure, and its raw membranes wanted healing before winter air came to try them further.
And amongst the wine in his cabin was also stored, in as many equally stout, tight barrels, their seams tarred, the wheaten flour—plebeian stuff to the thoughtless, but all-important for an isle that could grow no grain except a little summer barley.
Forward of captain’s cabin—and now with his self-enthusiasm at glow point, the Mouser’s mused listing-over turned to actual tour of inspection, he first speaking word to Ourph and then moving prow-wards catlike along the moonlit ship—forward of captain’s cabin was chiefest prize, the planks and beams and mast-worthy rounds of seasoned timber such as Fafhrd had dreamed of getting at Ool Plerns, south where trees grew, when his stump was healed and could carry hook, such same timber won by cunningest bargaining maneuvers at No-Ombrulsk, where no more trees were than at Rime Isle (which got most of its gray wood from wrecks and nothing much bigger than bushes grew) and where they (the ’Brulskers) would sooner sell their wives than lumber! Yes, rounds and squares and planks of the precious stuff, all lashed down lengthwise to the rowers’ benches from poop to forecastle beneath the boom of the great single sail, each layer lashed down separately and canvassed and tarred over against the salt spray and wet, with a precious long vellum-thin sheet of beaten copper between layers for further protection and firming, the layers going all the way from one side of Sea Hawk to the other, and all the way up, tied-down timber and thin copper alternating, until the topmost layer was a tightly lashed, canvassed deck, its seams tarred, level with the bulwarks—a miracle of stowage. (Of course, this would make rowing difficult if such became needful, but oars were rarely required on voyages such as the remainder of this one promised to be, and there were always some risks that had to be run by even the most prudent sea commander.)
Yes, it was a great timber-bounty that Sea Hawk was bearing to wood-starved Rime Isle, the Mouser congratulated himself as he moved slowly forward alongside the humming, moonlit sail, his softly shod feet avoiding the tarred seams of the taut canvas deck, while his nostrils twitched at an odd, faint, goaty-musky scent he caught, but it (the timber) never would have been won except for his knowledge of the great lust of Lord Logben of No-Ombrulsk for rare strange ivories to complete his White Throne. The ’Brulskers would sooner part with their girl-concubines than their timber, true enough, but the lust of Lord Logben for strange ivories was a greater desire than either of those, so that when with low drummings the Kleshite trading scow had put into ’Brulsk’s black harbour and the Mouser had been among the first to board her and had spotted the behemoth tusk amongst the Kleshite trading treasures, he had bought it at once in exchange for a double-fist lump of musk-odorous ambergris, common stuff in Rime Isle but more precious than rubies in Klesh, so that they were unable to resist it.
Thereafter the Kleshites had proffered their lesser ivories in vain to Lord Logben’s major-domo, wailing for the mast-long giant snow serpent’s white furred skin, that was their dearest desire, procured by Lord Logben’s hunters in the frigid mountains known as the Bones of the Old Ones, and in vain had Lord Logben offered the Mouser its weight in electrum for the tusk. Only when the Kleshites had added their pleas to the Mouser’s demands that the ’Brulskers sell him timber, offering for the unique snow serpent skin not only their lesser ivories but half their spices, and the Mouser had threatened to sink the tusk in the bottomless bay rather than sell it for less than wood, had the ’Brulskers been forced by their Lord to yield up a quarter shipload of seasoned straight timber, as grudgingly as the Mouser had seemed to part with the tusk—whereafter all the trading (even in timber) had gone more easily.
Ah, that had been most cunningly done, a masterstroke! the Mouser assured himself soberly.
As these most pleasant recollections were sorting themselves to best advantage within the Mouser’s wide, many-shelved skull, his noiseless feet had carried him to the thick foot of the mast, where the false deck made by the timber cargo ended. Three yards farther on began the decking of the forecastle, beneath which the rest of the cargo was stowed and secured: ingots of bronze and little chests of dyes and spices and a larger chest of silken fabrics and linens for Cif and Afreyt—that was to show his crew he trusted them with all things except mind-fuddling, duty-betraying wine—but mostly the forward cargo was tawny grain and white and purple beans and sun-dried fruit, all bagged in wool against the sea-damp: food for the hungry Isle. There was your real thinking man’s treasure, he told himself, beside which gold and twinkling jewels were merest trinkets, or the pointy breasts of young love or words of poets or the pointed stars themselves that astrologers cherished and that made men drunk with distance and expanse.
In the three yards between false deck and true, their upper bodies in the shadow of the latter and their feet in a great patch of moonlight, on which his own body cast its supervisory shadow, his crew slept soundly while the sea cradle-rocked ’em: four wiry Mingols, three of his short, nimble sailor-thieves with their lieutenant Mikkidu, and Fafhrd’s tall lieutenant Skor, borrowed for this voyage. Aye, they slept soundly enough! he told himself with relish (he could clearly distinguish the bird-twittering snores of ever-apprehensive Mikkidu and the lion-growling ones of Skor), for he had kept tight rein on them all the time in No-Ombrulsk and then deliberately worked them mercilessly loading and lashing the timber at the end, so that they’d fallen asleep in their tracks after the ship had sailed and they had supped (just as he’d cruelly disciplined himself and permitted himself no freedom all time in port, no slightest recreation, even such as was desirable for hygienic reasons), for he knew well the appetites of sailors and the dubious, debilitating attractions of ’Brulsk’s dark alleys—why, the whores had paraded daily before Sea Hawk to distract his crew. He remembered in particular one hardly-more-than-child among them, an insolent skinny girl in tattered tunic faded silver-gray, same shade as her precociously silver hair, who had moved a little apart from the other whores and had seemed to be forever flaunting herself and peering up at Sea Hawk wistfully yet somehow tauntingly, with great dark waifish eyes of deepest green.
Yes, by fiery Loki and by eight-limbed Mog, he told himself, in the discharge of his captain’s duties he’d disciplined himself most rigorously of all, expending every last ounce of strength, wisdom, cunning (and voice!) and asking no reward at all except for the knowledge of responsibilities manfully shouldered—that, and gifts for his friends. Suddenly the Mouser felt nigh to bursting with his virtues and somehow a shade sorry about it, especially the ‘no reward at all’ bit, which now seemed manifestly unfair.
Keeping careful watch upon his wearied-out men, and with his ears attuned to catch any cessation of, or the slightest variation in their snorings, he lifted his leathern pottle to his lips and let a generous, slow, healthful swallow soothe his raw throat.
As he thrust the lightened pottle back into his belt, securely hooking it there, his gaze fastened on one item of cargo stored forward that seemed to have strayed from its appointed place—either his concentrated watching or else some faint unidentified sound had called it to his attention. (At the same instant he got another whiff of the musky, goaty, stran
gely attractive sea odour. Ambergris?) It was the chest of silks and thick ribbons and linens and other costly fabrics intended chiefly for his gift to Cif. It was standing out a little way from the ship’s side, almost entirely in the moonlight, as if its lashings had loosened, and now as he studied it more closely he saw that it wasn’t lashed at all and that its top was wedged open a finger’s breadth by a twist of pale orange fabric protruding near a hinge.
What monstrous indiscipline did this signify?
He dropped noiselessly down and approached the chest, his nostrils wrinkling. Was unsold ambergris cached inside it? Then, carefully keeping his shadow off it, he gripped the top and silently threw it wide open on its hinges.
The topmost silk was a thick lustrous copper-coloured one chosen to match the glints in Cif’s dark hair.
Upon this rich bedding, like kitten stolen in to nap on fresh-laundered linens, reposed, with arms and legs somewhat drawn in but mostly on her back, and with one long-fingered hand twisting down through her tousled silvery hair so as to shadow further her lidded eyes—reposed that self-same wharf-waif he’d but now been recalling. The picture of innocence, but the odour (he knew it now) all sex. Her slender chest rose and fell gently and slowly with her sleeping inhalations, her small breasts and rather larger nipples outdenting the flimsy fabric of her ragged tunic, while her narrow lips smiled faintly. Her hair was somewhat the same shade as that of silver-blond, thirteen-year-old Gale back on Rime Isle, who’d been one of Odin’s maidens. And she was, apparently, not a great deal older.
Why, this was worse than monstrous, the Mouser told himself as he wordlessly stared. That one or two or more of all of his crew should conspire to smuggle this girl aboard for his or their hot pleasure, tempting her with silver or feeing her pimp or owner (or else kidnapping her, though that was most unlikely in view of her unbound state) was bad enough, but that they should presume to do this not only without their captain’s knowledge but also in complete disregard of the fact that he enjoyed no such erotic solacing, but rather worked himself to the bone on their behalf and Sea Hawk’s, solicitous only of their health and welfare and the success of the voyage—why, this was not only wantonest indiscipline but also rankest ingratitude!
