The Knight and Knave of Swords fagm-7

by Fritz Leiber

  “But she only did it in order to—” Cif began furiously.

  Afreyt said simultaneously, “Captain Mouser, with all respect, you are impossible!"

  Cif rebegan, “She only employed the tricksy guile you would yourself in like situation."

  “That's pure truth,” Fafhrd confirmed. “Guest Fingers, you are the Princess of Plotters. I never heard a braver tale.” Then, sotto voce to Afreyt, “I declare, Mouser gets more stubborn-cranky every day. He can't have shaken the old-age curse. That would explain it."

  Mara piped up, “You wouldn't really have enjoyed beating us, would you, Fingers?"

  Klute: I bet she would. With a dogwhip! The pursuit hound's.

  Gale: No, she wouldn't, she'd think of something worse, like putting boreworms up our noses.

  May: Or in our ears!

  Klute: Or maybe in our salad.

  Gale: Or up our—

  Afreyt: Children! That's quite enough. Go and fetch out our dinners, all of you. Quickly. Fingers, please help them.

  They trooped off excitedly, beginning to whisper as they reached the kitchen.

  7

  Afreyt said, “And while we're eating our dinners, Mouser, I hope you won't—"

  But he interrupted, “Oh, I know well enough when you're all against me. I'll be wordless willingly. Let me tell you, it's hard work being the voice of prudence and good sense when you're all being noble and generous and riding your liberal hobby horses recklessly."

  Cif smiled with a shrug and one eye toward heaven. “Just the same, I'd feel better if you'd go a little further than just being quiet and—"

  “Why not?” he demanded hugely with the ghost of a growl. “Break one, break all. Princess Fingers,” he called, “would your majesty please approach me?"

  The girl put down the covered tray of hotcakes she'd just carried in and turned toward him with eyes lowered respectfully. “Yes, sir?"

  He said, “My friends here tell me I should take your right hand.” She extended hers. He took it, saying, “Princess, I admire your courage and cunning, in which latter quality they tell me you resemble myself. Good guesting and all that!” and he squeezed. She hid a wince as she smiled up at him. He held on. “But hear this, royalty: no matter how clever you are, you're not as clever as I am. And if, through you, any of these girls, or any of my other friends should come to harm, remember you will have me to answer to."

  She replied, “That's a proviso I'll accept and abide by most happily, sir,” and with a little bow she hurried back to the kitchen.

  “Bring out four more settings,” Afreyt called after her. “I see Groniger coming in company from the headland. Who are those walk beside him, Fafhrd?"

  “Skullick and Pshawri,” he told her, scanning the group moving down toward them out of the last sunset gleam, “come to make report to us of the day's accomplishments. And old Ourph — these days the ancient Mingol often suns his old bones up there where he can scan both the harbor to the south and the sleepy Maelstrom to the east beyond."

  The last sun patch upon the headland darkened and the misty moon at once seemed to grow brighter above the four oncomers.

  “They hurry on apace,” Cif commented. “Old Ourph as well, who commonly lags behind."

  Afreyt assured herself the girl's task was done and extra places set. “Then fall to, all of you, with the Goddess's blessing. Else we'll never start feeding."

  They had sampled the pickled and spiced and nibbled garden-fresh radishes and were chomping roast lamb and sweet mint conserves by the time the four striders drew nigh. Simultaneously the cloud ceiling swiftly went lemon pale with reflected light from the setting or set sun, like a soft sustained trumpet peal of welcome. Their faces showed sudden clear in the afterglow, as if they'd all unmasked.

  Groniger said laconically, “Weasel left harbor. Dappled sky to the north presages a wind to speed her on her way. And there's news of a rather greater interest,” he added, glancing down toward bent and wrinkle-visaged Ourph.

  When that one didn't speak at once, or anyone immediately ask, “What is it?” Pshawri launched out with, “Before Weasel got off, Captain Mouser, I traded deer pelts and a sable for seven pine planks, two slabs of oak, and peppercorn Cook wanted. We harvested the field of ear-corn and whitewashed the barn. Gilgy seems healed of his sunstroke."

  “The wood was seasoned?” Mouser asked testily. Pshawri nodded. “Then next time say so. I like conciseness, but not at the expense of precision."

  Skullick took up. “Skor had us careen Seahawk, Captain Fafhrd, it being Satyrs’ lowest tide, what with moon's full tomorrow night, and we finished copper-sheathing her steerside. There was a wildfowl hunt. I took Kringle fishing. We caught naught."

  “Enough,” Fafhrd said, waving him silent. “What's this news of import, Ourph?"

  Afreyt arose, saying, “It can wait on courtesy. Gentlemen, join us. There are places set."

  The three others nodded thanks and moved to the well to rinse up, but the ancient Mingol held his ground, bending on Fafhrd a gaze black as his long-skirted tunic and saying portentously, “Captain, as I did take my watch upon the headland, in midafternoon, the sun being halfway descended to the west, I looked toward the great Maelstrom that for this year and half year, this last six seasons, has been still as mountain lake, unnaturally so, and I saw it ‘gin to stir and keep on stirring, slowly, slowly, slowly, as though the sea were thick as witch's brew."

  To everyone's surprise, the Mouser cried out a long loud "What?" rising to his feet and glaring direly. “What's that you say, you dismal dodderer? You black spider of ill omen! You dried-up skeleton!"

  “No, Mouser, he speaks true,” Groniger reproved him, returning to take his place prepared next to the women. “I saw it with my own eyes! The currents have come right again at last and Rime Isle's whirlpool is spinning sluggishly. With any luck — and help of northern storm that's gathering — she'll spin ashore the rest of the Mingol wrecks for us to salvage, along with other ships have sunken since. Cheer up, friend."

  The Mouser glowered at him. “You calculating miser greedy for gray driftwood gain! No, there are things sea-buried there I would not have fished up again. Hark ye, old Ourph! Ere the ‘pool ‘gan spin, saw ye any ill-doers sniffing about? I smell wizard's work."

  “No wizards, Captain Mou, no one at all,” the ancient Mingol averred. “Pshawri and Skullick—” he waved toward the two taking places farther down the table “—took Kringle there earlier and anchored for a while. They will confirm my statement."

  "What?" Again that low-shrieking, long-drawn-out accusatory word sped from the Mouser's lips as he swung glaring toward the two Ourph had mentioned. “You took out Kringle? Meddled in the Maelstrom?"

  “What matter?” Skullick retorted boldly. “I told you we went fishing. We anchored for a while. And Pshawri did one dive.” Old Ourph nodded. “Nothing at all."

  “Fafhrd can deal with you,” the Mouser told him dismissingly. Then, focusing on his own man, “What mischief were you up to, Pshawri? What were you diving for? What did you hope to find? Plunging in Maelstrom's midst without my order or permission? What did you bring up with you from the dive?"

  Flushing darkly, “Captain, you do me wrong,” Pshawri replied, looking him straight in the eye. “Skullick can answer for me. He was there."

  “He brought up nothing,” Skullick said flatly. “And whatever he might have brought up, I'm sure he would have saved to give to you."

  “I do not believe you,” the Mouser said. “You're insubordinate, both of you. With you, Lieutenant Pshawri, I can deal. For the rest of this moon you are demoted to common seaman. At new moon I will reconsider your case. Until then the matter is closed. I wish to hear no more of it."

  Fafhrd spoke from mouth's corner to Afreyt beside him. “Two temper tantrums in one evening! No question, the old-age curse still grips him."

  Afreyt whispered back, “I think he's taking out on Pshawri what's left of his strange anger at the Fingers girl
."

  Pshawri: Captain, you wrong me.

  Mouser: I said “No more!"

  Ourph: Cap Mou, I singled out your lieutenant and Fafhrd's sergeant to bear me witness, not accuse ‘em of aught.

  Groniger: We of Rime Isle abhor wizardry, superstition, and ill-speaking all. Life's bad enough without them.

  Skullick: There have been some accusations made this eve and ill words spoken-

  Fafhrd: An’ so let's have no more of them. Pipe down, Sergeant!

  During these interchanges the Mouser sat scowling straight ahead and, save for his curt admonition, with lips pressed tightly together.

  Afreyt got to her feet, drawing Cif up with her, who sat on her other side. “Gentlemen,” she said quietly, “this evening you would all gratify me by following Captain Mouser's wise advice, which as you can see he follows himself, setting us good example, of no more words on this perplexing matter.” She looked the table around with a particularly asking eye toward Pshawri.

  Cif said, “And after all, it is Full Moon Day's Eve."

  “So please eat up your dinner,” Afreyt went on, smiling, “or I shall think you do not like our cooking."

  “And replenish your mugs,” Cif added. “In wine's best wisdom.” As they sat down, Fafhrd and Groniger applauded lightly in approval and the girls all clapped imitatively.

  Old Ourph croaked, “It's true, silence is silver."

  Sitting beside Fingers, May told her, “I've an extra white tunic I can lend you for tomorrow night."

  On her other side Gale said, “And I have a spare yashmack. And I believe Klute has—"

  “Unless, of course,” May interrupted, “you'd want to wear your own things."

  “No,” Fingers hastened to say, “now I'm on Rime Isle, I want to look like you.” She smiled.

  Cif whispered to Afreyt, “It's a strange thing. I know the Mouser's behaved like a monster tonight, and yet I can't help feeling that in some way he's right about Fingers and Pshawri, that they both lied to us in some way, maybe different ways. She was so cool about it all, almost the way a sleepwalker would talk.

  “And Pshawri — he's always trying to impress the Mouser and win his praise, which rubs Mouser the wrong way. But a fortnight back, when the last Lankhmar trader came in — the Comet, she was — she carried a letter with a green seal for Pshawri, and since then there's been something new about his clashes with Mouser, something new and heavy."

  Afreyt said, “I've sensed a different mood in Pshawri myself. Any idea what was in the letter?"

  “Of course not."

  “Then tell me this: This strange feeling you have about the Mouser and the other two, does it come from your own thinking and imaginings, or from the Goddess?"

  “I wish I were sure,” Cif said as the two of them looked out together at the misted and ghastly bare gibbous moon.

  Afreyt: Perchance at tomorrow night's ceremony she'll provide an answer.

  Cif: We must press her.

  8

  That night Rime Isle most unaccountably grew wondrous cold and colder still, a blizzardly north wind blowing until the massive driftwood chimes in the leviathan-jaw arch of the Moon Temple clanked together dolefully and all sleepers suffered heavy sense-drugging nightmares, some toilsome and shivery heaving ones. When dawn at last came glimmering through swirls of powder snow, it was revealed that Fafhrd in ill nightcrawler's grip had somehow worked his way, dragging the covers after, up the maze of silver and brazen rods heading Cif's grand guest bed until the back of his head pressed the ceiling and he hung as one crucified asleep, while she below, hugging his ankles, dreamt they wandered a wintry waste embraced until a frigid gust parted them and whirled the Northerner high into the ice-gray sky until he seemed no bigger than a struggling gull, and that a like Morphean bondage had drawn the Gray Mouser, naked save for hauled-with sheet, out of and then under the second-best guest bed whereon he and Cif had gone excitingly to their slumbers, and she dreamed that they endlessly traversed shadowy subterranean corridors, their only light an eerie glow emanating from the Mouser's upper face, as if he wore a narrow glowing mask in which his eyes were horrid pits of darkness, until the Gray One slipped away from her through a trapdoor whereon was writ in phosphorescent Lankhmarese script, “The Underworld."

  But all such personal plights and predicaments, ominous night-sights and sleepwalks, were soon almost forgot, became hazy in memory, as the extent of the general calamity was realized and a desperate rush to correct it began.

  There were loved ones to be chafed, lost sheep to be succored — aye, and half-frozen shepherds too and other sleepers-out — cold ovens to be cleared of summer stowage and fired, kindling cut and seacoal shoveled, winter clothes dug from the bottoms of chests, strained moorings doubled and trebled of ships tossing at their docks and anchors, hatches battened in roofs and decks, lone dwellers visited.

  When there was time for talk and wondering, some guessed that Khahkht the Wizard of Ice was on a rampage, others that the invisible winged Princes of lofty Stardock were out raiding, or — alarmist! — that the freezing glacial streams had at last tunneled through Nehwon's crust and dowsed her inner fires. Cif and Afreyt looked to find answers at the full moon ceremony, and when Mother Grum and the Senior Council canceled it on grounds of inclement weather (it being held outdoors), went on with their preparations anyway. Mother Grum raised no objections, believing in freedom of worship, but the Council refused it formal sanction.

  So, it was no great wonder that the congregation that gathered before the chimes-arch of the open Moon Temple, with its twelve stone columns marking the year's twelve moons, was such a small one: in the main, exactly those who had dined at Afreyt's the previous evening and been pressed to attend by her and Cif. Those two were there, of course, being ringleaders of the outlaw rite, snug in their winter-priestess garb of white fur-hooded robes, mittens, and wool-lined ramskin boots. The five girls came as obedient novices, though it would have been hard to keep them away from what they considered a prize adventure. They wore like gear, only with shorter capes, so that from time to time their rosy knees showed, and the weird weather made Fingers's lamb's hide yashmack and gloves highly appropriate. Fafhrd and Mouser came as their ladies’ lovers, although they'd spent a hard day working, first at Afreyt's, then at their barracks. Both looked a little distant-minded, as though each had begun to remember the nightmares that had accompanied their strange nightcrawlings. Skullick and Pshawri turned up with them. Presumably their captains had reinforced with commands the entreaties of their captains’ mistresses, though Pshawri had an oddly intent look, and even the carefree Skullick a concerned one.

  Ourph had not been pressed by anyone to attend, in view of his great age, but he was there nevertheless, close-wrapped in dark Mingol furs, with conical black-fur cap and sealskin boots to which small Mingol snowshoes were affixed.

  Harbormaster Groniger too, whose atheism might have been expected to keep him away. He said in explanation, “Witchery is always my business. Though arrant superstition, three out of four times it's associated with crime-piracy and mutiny at sea, all manner of ill-workings on land. And don't tell me about you moon priestesses being white witches, not black. I know what I know."

  And in the end Mother Grum showed up herself, fur-bundled to the ears and waddling on snowshoes larger than Ourph's. “It's my duty as coven mistress,” she grumbled, “to get you out of any scrapes your wild behavior gets you into and to see that in any case no one tries to stop you.” She glared amiably at Groniger.

  With her came Rill the Harlot, also a moon priestess, whose maimed left hand gave her a curious sympathy (unmixed with lechery, or so ‘twas thought) with Fafhrd, who'd lost his entirely.

  These fifteen, irregularly grouped, stood looking east across the sharp-serrated snow-shedding gables of the small, low, close-set houses of Salthaven, awaiting moonrise. They rapidly shuffled their feet from time to time to warm them. And whenever they did, the massy gray slabs of the sacred wind ch
ime chain-hung from the lofty single-bone leviathan-jaw arch seemed to vibrate faintly yet profoundly in sympathy, or in memory of their earlier hollow clanking when the gale had blown, or perhaps in anticipation of the Goddess's near apparition.

  When the low glow of that approach intensified toward a central area above the toothed roofs, the nine females drew somewhat apart from the six males, turning their backs on them and crowding together closely, so that the invocatory words Afreyt whispered might not be overheard by the men, nor the holy objects Cif drew from under her wide cloak and showed around be glimpsed by them.

  Then, when a dazzlingly white fingernail clipping of the orb's self, serrated by the teeth of the central-most roof, showed, there was a general sigh of recognition and fulfillment which was echoed inanimately by an intensification of the chimes’ real or imagined low vibrations, and the groups broke up and intermingled and joined hands in one long line, the girls leading with May at their head, the rest linked at random, and the whole company began a slow rhythmic circling of the Temple, twice all the way around, then interweaving the carven stone moon pillars — that of the Snow, the Wolf, the Seed, the Witch, the Ghost, the Murderer, the Thunder, the Satyr, the Harvest, the Second Witch, the Frost, and the Lovers — by sixes, by fours, by threes, by two, and individually.

  The girls wove their way one after the other, linked hand to hand, gracefully as in a dream. Old Ourph footed it agilely, stamping out the time, while Mother Grum moved briskly for all her fat and with a surprisingly sure rhythm. Rill brought up the rear, swinging a leviathan-oil lamp, unlit, from her maimed hand.

  As the moonlight slowly strengthened, Fingers marveled somewhat fearfully at the strange Rimish runes and savage scenes carved in the thick moon pillars. Gale squeezed her hand reassuringly and told her in whispered snatches how they represented the adventures of the legendary witch queen Skeldir when she descended into the Underworld to get the help that enabled her to turn back the three dire Simorgyan invasions in the Isle's olden days.