The Second Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  ‘Catch Issa ere she falls,’ Quarmal directed his son. To his credit Igwarl managed to comply swiftly enough, supporting her supine slim form with one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under her thighs.

  ‘Dispose her here,’ said Quarmal, indicating the narrow table.

  Igwarl did that too. The ability to act in crisis with a certain precision and a minimum of fuss seemed to run in the family, it occurred to the Mouser.

  QUARMAL: You were not expecting an instructive demonstration. (Quarmal pointed this out matter-of-factly, almost casually.) Ensconced in our cavern world, you were not on guard against assault. A sister, no matter how well trained, is not to be fully trusted if there are those can undercut your training. To teach you a lesson I entranced Issa to attack you without her conscious knowledge, then countermanded her before the end.

  IGWARL: Your sinister fingers’ treble snap? (Old Quarmal nodded.) What if the countermand had failed to work?

  QUARMAL: You saw the celerity and sureness with which I used this rod, both to stay Issa’s fall and prevent you from shortening your lesson and wasting one of Quarmall’s more promising female servants.

  IGWARL: But what if the rod had failed also?

  QUARMAL: Why, there are always more where you came from, youngster. Do you suppose a father who for Quarmall’s good would let your gifted elder brothers kill each other, would spare you in like circumstance? Besides, my demonstration was designed to teach you not to trust me overmuch.

  IGWARL: You have proven your point, devious parent.

  QUARMAL: (lifting Issa’s left foot to display angry red circles upon heel and toe) And why this damage and disfigurement to Quarmall’s precious property?

  IGWARL: (sulkily) It was needful to correct. Those are not regions normally seen, contributing to beauty.

  QUARMAL: A limp’s a beauty mark? There was the instep to be considered, not to mention the armpits.

  IGWARL: I bow to your superior wisdom, sire. Impart to me the skill of enchantment.

  QUARMAL: All in good time, my son. I must reassure Issa.

  The old man tweaked her left breast sharply, bringing her awake with a gasp. But when he would have spoken to her, his red eyes lifted away and went distant. His right hand fixed on Igwarl’s shoulder and bore down. The boy grimaced with the pain.

  ‘A hostile force is in the rocks surrounding us,’ the old man hissed. ‘It came on whilst I was rapt instructing you.’

  His two children, looking up, quaked at what they saw in his ruby orbs.

  In his grainy retreat the Mouser was aware of the intrusion. The pressure of the earth around him on his body increased, reached a breath-stopping maximum, then slackened off till he felt almost free to shoot off at the speed of light and reach the ends of Nehwon in a trice, then began to tighten up again. It happened over and over in a vast chthonian pulse, as though a giant were pacing overhead.

  In his spell-casting map room and library, red-orbed old Quarmal found words. ‘It’s my old enemy of twelve years back, Gwaay’s champion, that cutpurse of empires and spoiler of dominions, the Gray Mouser. He’s somehow learned of my plot against his pal and (mayhap with aid from his wizards Sheelba and Ningauble) come to spy upon me. Loose the boreworms and poison moles against him! The rock-tunneling spiders and the acid slugs that eat through stone!’

  These dire threats, clearly heard by the Mouser and half believed, were too much. When the next surge of tremendous pressure came together with the dizzy pulse of freedom, he blacked out.

  26

  Since Pshawri’s self-rule was to do the necessary with least effort, he laid no plans, looking to find inspiration and allies in the developing situation. So when he surmounted Darkfire’s crater rim and felt the full force of the north blast, having climbed her by her moonlit east face, he anticipated nothing.

  The first thing his eyes lit on was a black rock the size and shape of a narrow man-skull. He reached forward crouching and budged it. Instead of being foamed or clear wave volcanic rock, it was something far heavier, leadstone at least—which explained its being free yet staying where it was in the gale.

  Bracing himself, he scanned around the cloud-streaked night, again sensing menace to the southwest—something on tall invisible legs or shouldering down out of the sullied moonshine.

  He advanced three paces and peered down into the volcano’s narrow-throated fire pit.

  The tiny rose-red lake of molten lava flooring it looked very far down and startlingly still, yet on his windchilled cheeks and chin he felt the prick of its radiant heat.

  His hands shot toward the pouch between his legs so he might take from it the strange talisman of the foreign god who was his captain-father’s foe and hurl it down before hostile night could gather its powers.

  But the next instant, as if it had read his mind, the small massy Whirlpool Queller came alive and dashed back and forth, this way and that, seeking escape, outdinting the pouch confining it, drubbing him about the thighs and genitals, inflicting jolts of sickening pain.

  His actions shaped themselves without pause to this supernatural flurry. His horny hands closed on the dodging Queller in its bag. He turned around, lunged to the leadstone skull-rock, and pressed tightly against it the encindered and empouched (and certainly ensorcelled!) gold talisman. It shook strongly. He was glad it had no teeth. He felt night’s awfulest powers looming over him.

  He did not look up. Keeping the vibrating Queller confined against the leadstone with left hand and knee, he used his right to draw his dirk and cut the straps by which his pouch hung from his belt. Then, holding his dirk in his teeth by its cork-covered grip, he used the coil of thin climbing line hanging at his side to bind together firmly the skull-rock and the tight-woven wool pouch along with its frantic contents—with many a thoughtful look and hardest knots.

  While concentrating on this job with blind automatism, steadily resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, his mind roved. He recalled what his co-mate Mikkidu had told him about how Captain Mouser had had them double the lashing of the deck cargo of Sea Hawk so that the galley retained its integrity and buoyancy when foundered by leviathan dive beside it, and how he’d lectured them on a man’s need to bind securely all his possessions to be sure of them, and how he was guessed to have treated the same a beauteous slim she-demon who had sought to enthrall him and secure the ship.

  Next came the memory of a tranquil twilight hour when the day’s work ashore was done and Captain Mouser, wine cup in hand and in a rare mood of philosophizing familiarity, confided, ‘I distrust all serious thought, reasoned analysis, and such. When faced with difficulties, it is my practice to dive but once, deeply, into the pool of the problem, with supreme confidence in my ability to pluck up the answer.’

  That had been before Freg’s letter had transformed his captain and mentor into his hero and sire—and set him seeking special ways to prove himself. And in so seeking he’d loosed, poor fool, his father’s fellest foe.

  Where was his father now?

  And could he now recoup?

  His task was done, the last loop drawn tight, the last knot tied, bag firmly lashed to stone. Again, without one instant’s hesitation, he tightly gripped the weighty package in both hands, turned, took two steps into the icy gale and toward the pit, lifted it to its apex, and then very suddenly (and with the feeling that if he took one moment more, something very big above him would snatch it from him) hurled it straight down at the rosy-red target.

  He ended in a low crouch on the rim, which he immediately gripped, shooting his legs back so that he lay flat—prone with his face thrust over, peering down. And it was well that he effected this additional descent for he was smitten by a chill gust from above which else had knocked him after his projectile—and crosswise brushed by a huge wing which would have done the same had he been inches higher.

  He kept his eye upon the black grain of the plummeting skull-rock package. From it two tiny, whitely incandescent eyes glared up at him. One of
them winked. He saw the grain enter the molten pool, from which a single like-sized red drop rebounded, whereupon the whole small lake ’gan to seethe and shake and churn and coruscate, its level crawling upward, as if a dam had burst. The speed of this ascent of the lava pool ’gan to increase as he watched. The crawl became a scramble, then a rush. And what did this portend? Had he saved the Gray Mouser? Or doomed him?—if there were connection between man and talisman.

  A blast of hot air travelling ahead of the upgushing lava near seared his slitted eyes. Without pause, groping thought gave way to arrow-swift action. Escape was the one word or he’d not live to think. Pushing himself to his feet and twisting around, he began a skipping moonlit descent of the black cone he’d but now laboriously climbed. Perilous to the point of madness and beyond, yet utterly necessary were he to live to tell.

  His eyes were fully occupied spotting the landing points of the successive leaps toward which he steered his feet. The moonlight turned bright pink. There was a giant hissing. He smelled sulphur and brimstone. There was a mighty roar, as if a cosmic lion had coughed, and a hot gust clapped his back heartily, turning three of his leaps into one, speeding his flight. Red missiles flashed past him and burst on impact to either side his course ahead of him like angry stars. The steep slope gentled. His leaps became a lope. The leonine coughing reechoed like thunder rolling away. The pink moonshine paled and darkened.

  At last he risked a backward look, expecting scenes of destruction, but there was only a great wall of sooty darkness that reeked of acid smoke and billowed overhead to besprinkle Skama with black.

  He shrugged. For good or ill, his work was done and he was headed south on the front of a second monstrous weather change.

  27

  Fingers knew she was dreaming because there was a rainbow in the cave. But that was all right because the six colours were more like those of pastel chalk than light and there was a blackboard at which she was being taught to pleasure Ilthmar sailor-men by her mother and an old, old man, both wearing long black robes and hoods which hid their upper faces.

  For teaching, her mother bore her witch’s wand and the old man a long silver spoon with which he managed the cleverest demonstrations.

  But then, perhaps to illustrate some virtue—persistence?—he began to tap the bowl of his spoon on the hollow top of the desk at which they all three sat. He beat softly with a slow funeral rhythm that fascinated her until that doleful sound was all that was left in the world.

  She woke to hear water a-drip, in the same slow beat as the dream-spoon, upon the thin horn pane of a slanting roof window close overhead.

  She realized she had grown warm and thrown back her blanket, and as she listened to the drip she thought, The frosty spell has broken. It’s the thaw.

  From the pillow beside her, Gale, who’d also thrown back her bedclothes, murmured urgently in exactly the same rhythm as the water drops: ‘Faf-hrd, Faf-hrd, Un-cle Fafhrd.’

  Which told Fingers that the drops were a message from the engaging red-haired captain, boding his return. And she told herself that she had a closer relationship to him than Gale’s or even Afreyt’s and must bestir herself and venture out and assure his safe return.

  This decision once made, she wormed her way off the bed—it seemed important to make no stir—and drew on her short robe and soft fur boots.

  After a moment’s study and thought, she dropped the thin sheet back across Gale’s frowsy supine sprawl and stole from the room.

  Passing the bedroom where Cif and Afreyt lodged, she heard sounds of someone rising and turned down the stairs, tiptoeing next the wall to avoid the treads creaking.

  Arriving in the banked warmth of the dark kitchen, she smelled gahveh heating and heard footsteps above and behind her. Without haste she made her way to the door of the bath and concealed herself behind Fafhrd’s robe of coarse towelling hanging beside it, in such a way as to be able to observe without herself being seen, she trusted.

  It was Cif descended the stairs, dressed for the day’s work. The short woman threw wide the outer door and the sounds of the thaw came in and the low white beams of the setting moon. Standing in them, she set to her lips a thin whistle and blew—without audible results, but Fingers judged a signal had been sent.

  Then Cif went to the banked fire, poured herself a mug of gahveh and took it back to the doorway where she sipped and waited. For a while she gazed straight at Fingers. But if Cif saw the girl, the woman made no sign.

  With a jingle of bells but no other sound, a dogcart and pair drew up beyond her—without driver, so far as Fingers could see.

  Cif walked out to it, stepped aboard, took the whip from its vertical socket and, sitting very erect, cracked it once high in the air.

  Fingers came out from behind Fafhrd’s robe and hurried to the door in time to see Cif and her small vehicle moving west beneath the barely diminished descending disk of Satyrs Moon as the two big dogs bore them off toward the spot where they sought Captain Mouser. For a long moment Fingers enjoyed the feeling of being a member of this household of silently occupied witchwomen.

  But then the drip of the thaw reminded her of her own quest. She fetched Fafhrd’s robe from its peg, and hanging it over her left arm and leaving the house door open behind her, as Cif had, Fingers circled the dwelling and headed out across the open field toward the sea, treading the steaming grass and feeling the caress of the soft south wind that set its seal on the great change of weather.

  The moon was directly behind her now. She walked straight up the long shadow of herself it cast, which stretched to the low moondial. Overhead the brighter stars could be discerned, though dimmed by their moon mistress. To the southeast a cloud bank was rising to cover them.

  As Fingers watched, a slender single cloud separated itself from the bank and headed toward her. It came coasting down out of the night sky, moving a little faster than the balmy breeze which drove on its fellows and lightly stroked her. The last of the moonlight shone brightly on its swan-rounded prow and sleek straight sides—for it truly did look more like a delicate ship of the air than any proper cloud of aqueous vapour should, so that a spider-webbing shiver of wonder and gossamer fear went along Fingers’s rosy flesh beneath her belted robe and she crouched a little and went more softly.

  She was nearing the moondial now, passing it just to the south. Where its curving gnomon did not shadow it, its moon-pale round crawled with Rimic runes and half-familiar figures.

  Beyond the dial, a bare spearcast distant, the eerie ship-cloud came coasting down, moving in a direction opposite to the girl, and settled to a stop.

  At the same instant, almost as if it were part of the same movement, Fingers spread Fafhrd’s robe across the wet grass ahead of her and gently stretched herself out upon it so that the moondial’s low curb was sufficient to conceal her. She held still, intently studying the strange cloud’s pale hull.

  The last bright splinter of Satyrs Moon vanished behind Rime Isle’s central peaks. At the opposite end of the sky the dawn glow grew.

  From a direction midway between out of the cloud ship there came the doleful music of a flute and small drum sounding a funeral march.

  Simultaneously and silently there thrust down out of the heart of the cloud and touched down a third of the distance between it and Fingers a light gangplank which appeared broad enough for two to go abreast.

  Then down this travelway as the dawn lightened and the music swelled there came slowly and solemnly a small procession headed by two slim girls in garments of close-fitting black, like pages, and bearing the flute and small drum from which the sad notes came.

  Following these there came two by two and footing with a grave dignity six slender women in the black hoods and formfitting robes of the nuns of Lankhmar whose plackets showed the pastel tints of underthings of violet, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red.

  Upon their shoulders they bore with ease and great solicitude a black-draped, wide-shouldered, slender-hipped tall male for
m.

  Following these there strolled a final slim, tall, black-clad female figure in brimless conical hat and veils of a priestess of the Gods of Lankhmar. She bore a long wand tipped with a tiny, glowing pentagram, with which she sketched an endless row of hieroglyphs upon the twilit air.

  Fingers, watching the strange funeral from her hidden point of vantage, could not name their language.

  As the procession debouched upon the meadow, it swung west. When the turn had been fully completed, the figure of the priestess lifted her wand in a gesture of command, bringing the dim star to a stop. Instantly the girl-pages stopped their playing, the nuns their dancing forward march, and Fingers felt herself seized by a paralysis that rendered her incapable of speech and froze her every muscle save those controlling the direction in which she looked.

  In a concerted movement the nuns lifted the corpse they carried on high, brought it down to the grass with an uncomfortable swiftness, and then twitched aloft the empty shroud.

  The point where they had deposited the corpse was just out of Fingers’s range of vision, but there was nothing the girl could do about that except grow cold and shiver.

  Nor did it help when the priestess lowered her wand.

  One by one the nuns knelt with hands out of view and performed a not overlong manipulation, then each dipped her head briefly out of sight and finally all rose together.

  One by one the six nuns did this thing.

  The priestess touched the last nun’s shoulder with her wand to attract her attention and handed her a white silken ribbon. The latter knelt, and when she rose no longer had the ribbon in her hand.

  With more speed than solemnity, the priestess once again raised her star-tipped wand, the page-girls struck up a jolly quick-step, the nuns briskly folded the shroud they’d borne so solemnly, the whole procession about-faced and quick-marched back aboard the cloud ship no less swiftly than it takes to write it down, and the crew set sail.