by Fritz Leiber
But the Mouser and Fafhrd merely exclaimed in mild, muted amazement at the stars, muggily mused as to how much the improved visibility would increase the risk of their quest, and cautiously crossing the Street of the Thinkers, called Atheist Avenue by moralists, continued to Plague Court until it forked.
The Mouser chose the left branch, which trended northwest.
‘Death Alley.’
Fafhrd nodded.
After a curve and recurve, Cheap Street swung into sight about thirty paces ahead. The Mouser stopped at once and lightly threw his arm against Fafhrd’s chest.
Clearly in view across Cheap Street was a wide, low, open doorway, framed by grimy stone blocks. There led up to it two steps hollowed by the treadings of centuries. Orange-yellow light spilled out from bracketed torches inside. They couldn’t see very far in because of Death Alley’s angle. Yet as far as they could see, there was no porter or guard in sight, nor anyone at all, not a watchdog on a chain. The effect was ominous.
‘Now how do we get into the damn place?’ Fafhrd demanded in a hoarse whisper. ‘Scout Murder Alley for a back window that can be forced. You’ve pries in that sack, I trow. Or try the roof? You’re a roof man, I know already. Teach me the art. I know trees and mountains, snow, ice, and bare rock. See this wall here?’ He backed off from it, preparing to go up it in a rush.
‘Steady on, Fafhrd,’ the Mouser said, keeping his hand against the big young man’s chest. ‘We’ll hold the roof in reserve. Likewise all walls. And I’ll take it on trust you’re a master climber. As to how we get in, we walk straight through that doorway.’ He frowned. ‘Tap and hobble, rather. Come on, while I prepare us.’
As he drew the skeptically grimacing Fafhrd back down Death Alley until all Cheap Street was again cut off from view, he explained, ‘We’ll pretend to be beggars, members of their guild, which is but a branch of the Thieves’ Guild and houses with it, or at any rate reports in to the Beggarmasters at Thieves’ House. We’ll be new members, who’ve gone out by day, so it’ll not be expected that the Night Beggarmaster and any night watchmen know our looks.’
‘But we don’t look like beggars,’ Fafhrd protested. ‘Beggars have awful sores and limbs all a-twist or lacking altogether.’
‘That’s just what I’m going to take care of now,’ the Mouser chuckled, drawing Scalpel. Ignoring Fafhrd’s backward step and wary glance, the Mouser gazed puzzledly at the long tapering strip of steel he’d bared, then with a happy nod unclipped from his belt Scalpel’s scabbard furbished with ratskin, sheathed the sword and swiftly wrapped it up, hilt and all, in a spiral, with the wide ribbon of a bandage roll dug from his sack.
‘There!’ he said, knotting the bandage ends. ‘Now I’ve a tapping cane.’
‘What’s that?’ Fafhrd demanded. ‘And why?’
‘Because I’ll be blind, that’s why.’ He took a few shuffling steps, tapping the cobbles ahead with wrapped sword—gripping it by the quillons, or cross-guard, so that the grip and pommel were up his sleeve—and groping ahead with his other hand. ‘That look all right to you?’ he asked Fafhrd as he turned back. ‘Feels perfect to me. Bat-blind, eh? Oh, don’t fret, Fafhrd—the rag’s but gauze. I can see through it fairly well. Besides, I don’t have to convince anyone inside Thieves’ House I’m actually blind. Most Guild-beggars fake it, as you must know. Now what to do with you? Can’t have you blind also—too obvious, might wake suspicion.’ He uncorked his jug and sucked inspiration. Fafhrd copied this action, on principle.
The Mouser smacked his lips and said, ‘I’ve got it! Fafhrd, stand on your right leg and double up your left behind you at the knee. Hold! Don’t fall on me! Avaunt! But steady yourself by my shoulder. That’s right. Now get that left foot higher. We’ll disguise your sword like mine, for a crutch cane—it’s thicker and’ll look just right. You can also steady yourself with your other hand on my shoulder as you hop—the halt leading the blind, always good for a tear, always good theater! But higher with that left foot! No, it just doesn’t come off—I’ll have to rope it. But first unclip your scabbard.’
Soon the Mouser had Graywand and its scabbard in the same state as Scalpel and was tying Fafhrd’s left ankle to his thigh, drawing the rope cruelly tight, though Fafhrd’s wine-anesthetized nerves hardly registered it. Balancing himself with his steel-cored crutch cane as the Mouser worked, he swigged from his jug and pondered deeply. Ever since joining forces with Vlana, he’d been interested in the theater, and the atmosphere of the actors’ tenement had fired that interest further, so that he was delighted at the prospect of acting a part in real life. Yet brilliant as the Mouser’s plan undoubtedly was, there did seem to be drawbacks to it. He tried to formulate them.
‘Mouser,’ he said, ‘I don’t know as I like having our swords tied up, so we can’t draw ’em in emergency.’
‘We can still use ’em as clubs,’ the Mouser countered, his breath hissing between his teeth as he drew the last knot hard. ‘Besides, we’ll have our knives. Say, pull your belt around until yours is behind your back, so your robe will hide it sure. I’ll do the same with Cat’s Claw. Beggars don’t carry weapons, at least in view, and we must maintain dramatic consistency in every detail. Stop drinking now; you’ve had enough. I myself need only a couple swallows more to reach my finest pitch.’
‘And I don’t know as I like going hobbled into that den of cutthroats. I can hop amazingly fast, it’s true, but not as fast as I can run. Is it really wise, think you?’
‘You can slash yourself loose in an instant,’ the Mouser hissed with a touch of impatience and anger. ‘Aren’t you willing to make the least sacrifice for art’s sake?’
‘Oh, very well,’ Fafhrd said, draining his jug and tossing it aside. ‘Yes, of course I am.’
‘Your complexion’s too hale,’ the Mouser said, inspecting him critically. He touched up Fafhrd’s features and hands with pale gray greasepaint, then added wrinkles with dark. ‘And your garb’s too tidy.’ He scooped dirt from between the cobbles and smeared it on Fafhrd’s robe, then tried to put a rip in it, but the material resisted. He shrugged and tucked his lightened sack under his belt.
‘So’s yours,’ Fafhrd observed, and stooping on his right leg got a good handful of muck himself, ordure in it by its feel and stink. Heaving himself up with a mighty effort, he wiped the stuff off on the Mouser’s cloak and gray silken jerkin too.
The small man got the odor and cursed, but, ‘Dramatic consistency,’ Fafhrd reminded him. ‘It’s well we stink. Beggars do—that’s one reason folk give ’em coins: to get rid of ’em. And no one at Thieves’ House will be eager to inspect us close. Now come on, while our fires are still high.’ And grasping hold of the Mouser’s shoulder, he propelled himself rapidly toward Cheap Street, setting his bandaged sword between cobbles well ahead and taking mighty hops.
‘Slow down, idiot,’ the Mouser cried softly, shuffling along with the speed almost of a skater to keep up, while tapping his (sword) cane like mad. ‘A cripple’s supposed to be feeble—that’s what draws the sympathy.’
Fafhrd nodded wisely and slowed somewhat. The ominous empty doorway slid again into view. The Mouser tilted his jug to get the last of his wine, swallowed awhile, then choked sputteringly. Fafhrd snatched and drained the jug, then tossed it over shoulder to shatter noisily.
They hop-shuffled into Cheap Street, halting almost at once for a richly clad man and woman to pass. The richness of the man’s garb was sober and he was on the fat and oldish side, though hard-featured. A merchant doubtless, and with money in the Thieves’ Guild—protection money, at least—to take this route at this hour.
The richness of the woman’s garb was garish though not tawdry and she was beautiful and young, and looked still younger. A competent courtesan, almost certainly.
The man started to veer around the noisome and filthy pair, his face averted, but the girl swung toward the Mouser, concern growing in her eyes with hothouse swiftness. ‘Oh, you poor boy! Blind. What tragedy,’ she said. ‘G
ive us a gift for him, lover.’
‘Keep away from those stinkards, Misra, and come along,’ he retorted, the last of his speech vibrantly muffled, for he was holding his nose.
She made him no reply, but thrust white hand into his ermine pouch and swiftly pressed a coin against the Mouser’s palm and closed his fingers on it, then took his head between her palms and kissed him sweetly on the lips before letting herself be dragged on.
‘Take good care of the little fellow, old man,’ she called fondly back to Fafhrd while her companion grumbled muffled reproaches at her, of which only ‘perverted bitch’ was intelligible.
The Mouser stared at the coin in his palm, then sneaked a long look after his benefactress. There was a dazed wonder in his voice as he whispered to Fafhrd, ‘Look. Gold. A golden coin and a beautiful woman’s sympathy. Think you we should give over this rash project and for a profession take up beggary?’
‘Buggery even, rather!’ Fafhrd answered harsh and low. That ‘old man’ rankled. ‘Onward we, bravely!’
They upped the two worn steps and went through the doorway, noting the exceptional thickness of the wall. Ahead was a long, straight, high-ceilinged corridor ending in a stairs and with doors spilling light at intervals and wall-set torches adding their flare, but empty all its length.
They had just got through the doorway when cold steel chilled the neck and pricked a shoulder of each of them. From just above, two voices commanded in unison, ‘Halt!’
Although fired—and fuddled—by fortified wine, they each had wit enough to freeze and then very cautiously look upward.
Two gaunt, scarred, exceptionally ugly faces, each topped by a gaudy scarf binding back hair, looked down at them from a big, deep niche just above the doorway and helping explain its lowness. Two bent, gnarly arms thrust down the swords that still pricked them.
‘Gone out with the noon beggar-batch, eh?’ one of them observed. ‘Well, you’d better have a high take to justify your tardy return. The Night Beggarmaster’s on a Whore Street furlough. Report above to Krovas. Gods, you stink! Better clean up first, or Krovas will have you bathed in live steam. Begone!’
The Mouser and Fafhrd shuffled and hobbled forward at their most authentic. One niche-guard cried after them, ‘Relax, boys! You don’t have to put it on here.’
‘Practice makes perfect,’ the Mouser called back in a quavering voice. Fafhrd’s finger-ends dug his shoulder warningly. They moved along somewhat more naturally, so far as Fafhrd’s tied-up leg allowed.
‘Gods, what an easy life the Guild-beggars have,’ the other niche-guard observed to his mate. ‘What slack discipline and low standards of skill! Perfect, my sacred butt! You’d think a child could see through those disguises.’
‘Doubtless some children do,’ his mate retorted. ‘But their dear mothers and fathers only drop a tear and a coin or give a kick. Grown folk go blind, lost in their toil and dreams, unless they have a profession such as thieving which keeps them mindful of things as they really are.’
Resisting the impulse to ponder this sage philosophy, and glad they would not have to undergo a Beggarmaster’s shrewd inspection—truly, thought Fafhrd, Kos of the Dooms seemed to be leading him direct to Krovas and perhaps head-chopping would be the order of the night—he and the Mouser went watchfully and slowly on. And now they began to hear voices, mostly curt and clipped ones, and other noises.
They passed some doorways they’d liked to have paused at, to study the activities inside, yet the most they dared do was slow down a bit more. Fortunately most of the doorways were wide, permitting a fairly long view.
Very interesting were some of those activities. In one room young boys were being trained to pick pouches and slit purses. They’d approach from behind an instructor, and if he heard scuff of bare foot or felt touch of dipping hand—or, worst, heard clunk of dropped leaden mock-coin—that boy would be thwacked. Others seemed to be getting training in group tactics: the jostle in front, the snatch from behind, the swift passing of lifted items from youthful thief to confederate.
In a second room, from which pushed air heavy with the reeks of metal and oil, older student thieves were doing laboratory work in lock picking. One group was being lectured by a grimy-handed graybeard, who was taking apart a most complex lock piece by weighty piece. Others appeared to be having their skill, speed, and ability to work soundlessly tested—they were probing with slender picks the keyholes in a half dozen doors set side by side in an otherwise purposeless partition, while a supervisor holding a sandglass watched them keenly.
In a third, thieves were eating at long tables. The odors were tempting, even to men full of booze. The Guild did well by its members.
In a fourth, the floor was padded in part and instruction was going on in slipping, dodging, ducking, tumbling, tripping, and otherwise foiling pursuit. These students were older too. A voice like a sergeant-major’s rasped, ‘Nah, nah, nah! You couldn’t give your crippled grandmother the slip. I said duck, not genuflect to holy Aarth. Now this time—’
‘Grif’s used grease,’ an instructor called.
‘He has, eh? To the front, Grif!’ the rasping voice replied as the Mouser and Fafhrd moved somewhat regretfully out of sight, for they realized much was to be learned here: tricks that might stand them in good stead even tonight. ‘Listen, all of you!’ the rasping voice continued, so far-carrying it followed them a surprisingly long way. ‘Grease may be very well on a night job—by day its glisten shouts its user’s profession to all Nehwon! But in any case it makes a thief overconfident. He comes to depend on it and then in a pinch he finds he’s forgot to apply it. Also its aroma can betray him. Here we work always dry-skinned—save for natural sweat!—as all of you were told first night. Bend over, Grif. Grasp your ankles. Straighten your knees.’
More thwacks, followed by yelps of pain, distant now, since the Mouser and Fafhrd were halfway up the end-stairs, Fafhrd vaulting somewhat laboriously as he grasped curving banister and swaddled sword.
The second floor duplicated the first, but was as luxurious as the other had been bare. Down the long corridor lamps and filigreed incense pots pendant from the ceiling alternated, diffusing a mild light and spicy smell. The walls were richly draped, the floor thick-carpeted. Yet this corridor was empty too and, moreover, completely silent. After a glance at each other, they started off boldly.
The first door, wide open, showed an untenanted room full of racks of garments, rich and plain, spotless and filthy, also wig stands, shelves of beards and such, and several wall mirrors faced by small tables crowded with cosmetics and with stools before them. A disguising room, clearly.
After a look and listen either way, the Mouser darted in and out to snatch up a large green flask from the nearest table. He unstoppered and sniffed it. A rotten-sweet gardenia-reek contended with the nose-sting of spirits of wine. The Mouser sloshed his and Fafhrd’s fronts with this dubious perfume.
‘Antidote to ordure,’ he explained with the pomp of a physician, stoppering the flask. ‘Don’t want to be parboiled by Krovas. No, no, no.’
Two figures appeared at the far end of the corridor and came toward them. The Mouser hid the flask under his cloak, holding it between elbow and side, and he and Fafhrd continued onward—to turn back would look suspicious, both drunkenly judged.
The next three doorways they passed were shut by heavy doors. As they neared the fifth, the two approaching figures, coming on arm-in-arm, yet taking long strides, moving more swiftly than the hobble-shuffle, became distinct. Their clothing was that of noblemen, but their faces those of thieves. They were frowning with indignation and suspicion too at the Mouser and Fafhrd.
Just then—from somewhere between the two man-pairs, it sounded—a voice began to speak words in a strange tongue, using the rapid monotone priests employ in a routine service, or some sorcerers in their incantations.
The two richly clad thieves slowed at the seventh doorway and looked in. Their progress ceased altogether. Their necks st
rained, their eyes widened. They visibly paled. Then of a sudden they hastened onward, almost running, and bypassed Fafhrd and the Mouser as if they were furniture. The incantatory voice drummed on without missing a beat.
The fifth doorway was shut, but the sixth was open. The Mouser peeked in with one eye, his nose brushing the jamb. Then he stepped forward and gazed inside with entranced expression, pushing the black rag up onto his forehead for better vision. Fafhrd joined him.
It was a large room, empty so far as could be told of human and animal life, but filled with most interesting things. From knee-height up, the entire far wall was a map of the city of Lankhmar and its immediate surrounds. Every building and street seemed depicted, down to the meanest hovel and narrowest court. There were signs of recent erasure and redrawing at many spots, and here and there little colored hieroglyphs of mysterious import.
The floor was marble, the ceiling blue as lapis lazuli. The side walls were thickly hung, by ring and padlock. One was covered with all manner of thieves’ tools, from a huge thick pry-bar that looked as if it could unseat the universe, or at least the door of the Overlord’s treasure-vault, to a rod so slim it might be an elf-queen’s wand and seemingly designed to telescope out and fish from distance for precious gauds on milady’s spindle-legged, ivory-topped vanity table; the other wall had on it all sorts of quaint, gold-gleaming and jewel-flashing objects, evidently mementos chosen for their oddity from the spoils of memorable burglaries, from a female mask of thin gold, breathlessly beautiful in its features and contours, but thickly set with rubies simulating the spots of the pox in its fever-stage, to a knife whose blade was wedge-shaped diamonds set side by side and this diamond cutting-edge looking razor-sharp.
All about were tables set chiefly with models of dwelling houses and other buildings, accurate to the last minutia, it looked, of ventilation hole under roof gutter and ground-level drain hole, of creviced wall and smooth. Many were cut away in partial or entire section to show the layout of rooms, closets, strongrooms, doorways, corridors, secret passages, smoke-ways, and air-ways in equal detail.
