by Fritz Leiber
‘Look, Fafhrd,’ the Mouser said on the third of such occasions, meanwhile pretending to study a skinny-limbed pot-bellied beggar girl as if trying to decide whether a diet of lean meat and certain calisthenics would bring out in her a rare gaminesque beauty. ‘Look, Fafhrd, right here you have what you want, whatever that is—I think it’s a chance to patch up poetry and squeak it at fools—but whatever it is, you must have it here near the Marsh Gate, for the only thing in the world that is not near the Marsh Gate is money, and you tell me you don’t want that—the more fool you!—but let me tell you something: if you let Bwadres get any nearer the Citadel, yes even a pebble’s toss, you will get money whether you want it or not, and with that money you and Bwadres will buy something, also willy-nilly and no matter how tightly you close your purse and shut your ears to the cries of the hawkers. That thing which you and Bwadres will buy is trouble.’
Fafhrd answered only with a faint grunt that was the equivalent of a shoulder shrug. He was looking steadily down past his bushy beard with almost cross-eyed concentration at something his long fingers were manipulating powerfully yet delicately, but that the large backs of his hands concealed from the Mouser’s view.
‘How is the old fool, by the by, since he’s eating regularly?’ the Mouser continued, leaning a hair closer in an effort to see what Fafhrd was handling. ‘Still stubborn as ever, eh? Still set on taking Issek to the Citadel? Still as unreasonable about…er…business matters?’
‘Bwadres is a good man,’ Fafhrd said quietly.
‘More and more that appears to be the heart of the trouble,’ the Mouser answered with a certain sardonic exasperation. ‘But look, Fafhrd, it’s not necessary to change Bwadres’ mind—I’m beginning to doubt whether even Sheelba and Ning, working together, could achieve that cosmic revolution. You can do by yourself all that needs to be done. Just give your poetry a little downbeat, add a little defeatism to Issek’s Creed—even you must be tired by now of all this ridiculous mating of northern stoicism to southern masochism, and wanting a change. One theme’s good as another to a true artist. Or, simpler still, merely refrain from moving Issek’s altar up the street on your big night…or even move down a little!—Bwadres gets so excited when you have big crowds that the old fool doesn’t know which direction you’re going, anyhow. You could progress like the well-frog. Or, wisest of all, merely prepare yourself to split the take before you hand over the collection to Bwadres. I could teach you the necessary legerdemain in the space of one dawn, though you really don’t need it—with those huge hands you can palm anything.’
‘No,’ said Fafhrd.
‘Suit yourself,’ the Mouser said very very lightly, though not quite unfeelingly. ‘Buy trouble if you will, death if you must. Fafhrd, what is that thing you’re fiddling with? No, don’t hand it to me, you idiot! Just let me glimpse it. By the Black Toga!—what is that?’
Without looking up or otherwise moving, Fafhrd had cupped his hands sideways, much as if he were displaying in the Mouser’s direction a captive butterfly or beetle—indeed it did seem at first glimpse as if it were a rare large beetle he was cautiously baring to view, one with a carapace of softly burnished gold.
‘It is an offering to Issek,’ Fafhrd droned. ‘An offering made last night by a devout lady who is wed in spirit to the god.’
‘Yes, and to half the young aristos of Lankhmar too and not all in spirit,’ the Mouser hissed. ‘I know one of Lessnya’s double-spiral bracelets when I see it. Reputedly given her by the Twin Dukes of Ilthmar, by the by. What did you have to do to her to get it?—stop, don’t answer. I know…recite poetry! Fafhrd, things are far worse than I dreamed. If Pulg knew you were already getting gold…’ He let his whisper trail off. ‘But what have you done with it?’
‘Fashioned it into a representation of the Holy Jug,’ Fafhrd answered, bowing his head a shade farther and opening his hands a bit wider and tipping them a trifle.
‘So I see,’ the Mouser hissed. The soft gold had been twisted into a remarkably smooth strange knot. ‘And not a bad job at all. Fafhrd, how you keep such a delicate feeling for curves when for six months you’ve slept without them against you is quite beyond me. Doubtless such things go by opposites. Don’t speak for a moment now, I’m getting an idea. And by the Black Scapula!—a good one! Fafhrd, you must give me that trinket so that I may give it to Pulg. No—please hear me out and then think this through!—not for the gold in it, not as a bribe or as part of a first split—I’m not asking that of you or Bwadres—but simply as a keepsake, a presentation piece. Fafhrd, I’ve been getting to know Pulg lately, and I find he has a strange sentimental streak in him—he likes to get little gifts, little trophies, from his…er…customers, we sometimes call them. These curios must always be items relating to the god in question—chalices, censers, bones in silver filigree, jeweled amulets, that sort of thing. He likes to sit looking at his shelves of them and dream. Sometimes I think the man is getting religion without realizing it. If I should bring him this bauble he would—I know!—develop an affection for Issek. He would tell me to go easy on Bwadres. It would probably even be possible to put off the question of tribute money for…well, for three more squares at least.’
‘No,’ said Fafhrd.
‘So be it, my friend. Come with me, my dear, I am going to buy you a steak.’ This second remark was in the Mouser’s regular speaking voice and directed, of course, at the beggar girl, who reacted with a look of already practiced and rather languorous affright. ‘Not a fish steak either, puss. Did you know there were other kinds? Toss this coin to your mother, dear, and come. The steak stall is four squares up. No, we won’t take a litter—you need the exercise. Farewell—Death-seeker!’
Despite the wash-my-hands-of-you tone of this last whisper, the Gray Mouser did what he could to put off the evil night of reckoning, devising more pressing tasks for Pulg’s bullies and alleging that this or that omen was against the immediate settling of the Bwadres account—for Pulg, alongside his pink streak of sentimentality, had recently taken to sporting a gray one of superstition.
There would have been no insurmountable problem at all, of course, if Bwadres had only had that touch of realism about money matters that, when a true crisis arises, is almost invariably shown by even the fattest, greediest priest or the skinniest, most unworldly holy man. But Bwadres was stubborn—it was probably, as we have hinted, the sole remaining symptom, though a most inconvenient one, of his only seemingly cast-off senility. Not one rusty iron tik (the smallest coin of Lankhmar) would he pay to extortioners—such was Bwadres’ boast. To make matters worse, if that were possible, he would not even spend money renting gaudy furniture or temple space for Issek, as was practically mandatory for gods progressing up the central stretch of the street. Instead he averred that every tik collected, every bronze agol, every silver smerduk, every gold rilk, yes every diamond-in-amber glulditch!—would be saved to buy for Issek the finest temple at the Citadel end, in fact the temple of Aarth the Invisible All-Listener, accounted one of the most ancient and powerful of all the gods in Lankhmar.
Naturally, this insane challenge, thrown out for all to hear, had the effect of still further increasing Issek’s popularity and swelled his congregations with all sorts of folk who came, at first at least, purely as curiosity seekers. The odds on how far Issek would get up the Street how soon (for they regularly bet on such things in Lankhmar) began to switch wildly up and down as the affair got quite beyond the shrewd but essentially limited imaginations of bookmakers. Bwadres took to sleeping curled in the gutter around Issek’s coffer (first an old garlic bag, later a small stout cask with a slit in the top for coins) and with Fafhrd curled around him. Only one of them slept at a time, the other rested but kept watch.
At one point the Mouser almost decided to slit Bwadres’ throat as the only possible way out of his dilemma. But he knew that such an act would be the one unforgivable crime against his new profession—it would be bad for business—and certain to ruin him forever w
ith Pulg and all other extortioners if ever traced to him even in faintest suspicion. Bwadres must be roughed up if necessary, yes even tortured, but at the same time he must be treated in all ways as a goose who laid golden eggs. Moreover, the Mouser had a presentiment that putting Bwadres out of the way would not stop Issek. Not while Issek had Fafhrd.
What finally brought the affair to a head, or rather to its first head, and forced the Mouser’s hand was the inescapable realization that if he held off any longer from putting the bite on Bwadres for Pulg, then rival extortioners—one Basharat in particular—would do it on their own account. As the Number One Racketeer of Religions in Lankhmar, Pulg certainly had first grab, but if he delayed for an unreasonable length of time in making it (no matter on what grounds of omens or arguments about fattening the sacrifice), then Bwadres was anybody’s victim—Basharat’s in particular, as Pulg’s chief rival.
So it came about, as it so often does, that the Mouser’s efforts to avert the evil nightfall only made it darker and stormier when it finally came down.
When at last that penultimate evening did arrive, signalized by a final warning sent Pulg by Basharat, the Mouser, who had been hoping all along for some wonderful last-minute inspiration that never came, took what may seem to some a coward’s way out. Making use of the beggar girl whom he had named Lilyblack, and certain other of his creatures, he circulated a rumor that the Treasurer of the Temple of Aarth was preparing to decamp in a rented black sloop across the Inner Sea, taking with him all funds and ample valuables, including a set of black-pearl-crusted altar furnishings, gift of the wife of the High Overlord, on which the split had not yet been made with Pulg. He timed the rumor so that it would return to him, by unimpeachable channels, just after he had set out for Issek’s spot with four well-armed bullies.
It may be noted, in passing, that Aarth’s Treasurer actually was in monetary hot waters and really had rented a black sloop. Which proved not only that the Mouser used good sound fabric for his fabrications, but also that Bwadres had by landlords’ and bankers’ standards made a very sound choice in selecting Issek’s temple-to-be—whether by chance or by some strange shrewdness co-dwelling with his senile stubbornness.
The Mouser could not divert his whole expeditionary force, for Bwadres must be saved from Basharat. However, he was able to split it with the almost certain knowledge that Pulg would consider his action the best strategy available at the moment. Three of the bullies he sent on with firm instructions to bring Bwadres to account, while he himself raced off with minimum guard to intercept the supposedly fleeing and loot-encumbered treasurer.
Of course the Mouser could have made himself part of the Bwadres-party, but that would have meant he would have had personally to best Fafhrd or be bested by him, and while the Mouser wanted to do everything possible for his friend he wanted to do just a little bit more than that (he thought) for his own security.
Some, as we have suggested, may think that in taking this way out the Gray Mouser was throwing his friend to the wolves. However, it must always be remembered that the Mouser knew Fafhrd.
The three bullies, who did not know Fafhrd (the Mouser had selected them for that reason), were pleased with the turn of events. An independent commission always meant the chance of some brilliant achievement and so perhaps of promotion. They waited for the first break between services, when there was inevitably considerable passing about and jostling. Then one, who had a small ax in his belt, went straight for Bwadres and his cask, which the holy man also used as altar, draping it for the purpose with the sacred garlic bag. Another drew sword and menaced Fafhrd, keeping sound distance from and careful watch on the giant. The third, adopting the jesting, rough-and-ready manner of the master of the show in a bawdy house, spoke ringing warnings to the crowd and kept a reasonably watchful eye on them. The folk of Lankhmar are so bound by tradition that it was unthinkable that they would interfere with any activities as legitimate as those of an extortioner—the Number One Extortioner, too—even in defense of a most favored priest, but there are occasional foreigners and madmen to be dealt with (though in Lankhmar even the madmen generally respect the traditions).
No one in the congregation saw the crucial thing that happened next, for their eyes were all on the first bully, who was lightly choking Bwadres with one hand while pointing his ax at the cask with the other. There was a cry of surprise and a clatter. The second bully, lunged forward toward Fafhrd, had dropped his sword and was shaking his hand as if it pained him. Without haste Fafhrd picked him up by the slack of his garments between his shoulder blades, reached the first bully in two giant strides, slapped the ax from his hand, and picked him up likewise.
It was an impressive sight: the giant, gaunt-cheeked, bearded acolyte wearing his long robe of undyed camel’s hair (recent gift of a votary) and standing with knees bent and feet wide-planted as he held aloft to either side a squirming bully.
But although indeed a most impressive tableau, it presented a made-to-order opening for the third bully, who instantly unsheathed his scimitar and, with an acrobat’s smile and wave to the crowd, lunged toward the apex of the obtuse angle formed by the juncture of Fafhrd’s legs.
The crowd shuddered and squealed with the thought of the poignancy of the blow.
There was a muffled thud. The third bully dropped his sword. Without changing his stance Fafhrd swept together the two bullies he was holding so that their heads met with a loud thunk. With an equally measured movement he swept them apart again and sent them sprawling to either side, unconscious, among the onlookers. Then stepping forward, still without seeming haste, he picked up the third bully by neck and crotch and pitched him a considerably greater distance into the crowd, where he bowled over two of Basharat’s henchmen who had been watching the proceedings with great interest.
There was absolute silence for three heartbeats, then the crowd applauded rapturously. While the tradition-bound Lankhmarians thought it highly proper for extortioners to extort, they also considered it completely in character for a strange acolyte to work miracles, and they never omitted to clap a good performance.
Bwadres, fingering his throat and still gasping a little, smiled with simple pleasure and when Fafhrd finally acknowledged the applause by dropping down cross-legged to the cobbles and bowing his head, the old priest launched instantly into a sermon in which he further electrified the crowd by several times hinting that, in his celestial realms, Issek was preparing to visit Lankhmar in person. His acolyte’s routing of the three evil men Bwadres attributed to the inspiration of Issek’s might—to be interpreted as a sort of foretaste of the god’s approaching reincarnation.
The most significant consequence of this victory of the doves over the hawks was a little midnight conference in the back room of the Inn of the Silver Eel, where Pulg first warmly praised and then coolly castigated the Gray Mouser.
He praised the Mouser for intercepting the Treasurer of Aarth, who it turned out had just been embarking on the black sloop, not to flee Lankhmar, though, but only to spend a water-guarded weekend with several riotous companions and one Ilala, High Priestess of the goddess of the same name. However, he had actually taken along several of the black-pearl-crusted altar furnishings, apparently as a gift for the High Priestess, and the Mouser very properly confiscated them before wishing the holy band the most exquisite of pleasures on their holiday. Pulg judged that the Mouser’s loot amounted to just about twice the usual cut, which seemed a reasonable figure to cover the Treasurer’s irregularity.
He rebuked the Mouser for failing to warn the three bullies about Fafhrd and omitting to instruct them in detail on how to deal with the giant.
‘They’re your boys, son, and I judge you by their performance,’ Pulg told the Mouser in fatherly matter-of-fact tones. ‘To me, if they stumble, you flop. You know this Northerner well, son; you should have had them trained to meet his sleights. You solved your main problem well, but you slipped on an important detail. I expect good strategy from my lieu
tenants, but I demand flawless tactics.’
The Mouser bowed his head.
‘You and this Northerner were comrades once,’ Pulg continued. He leaned forward across the dinted table and drew down his lower lip. ‘You’re not still soft on him, are you, son?’
The Mouser arched his eyebrows, flared his nostrils and slowly swung his face from side to side.
Pulg thoughtfully scratched his nose. ‘So we come tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Must make an example of Bwadres—an example that will stick like Mingol glue. I’d suggest having Grilli hamstring the Northerner at the first onset. Can’t kill him—he’s the one that brings in the money. But with ankle tendons cut he could still stump around on his hands and knees and be in some ways an even better drawing card. How’s that sound to you?’
The Mouser slitted his eyes in thought for three breaths. Then, ‘Bad,’ he said boldly. ‘It gripes me to admit it, but this Northerner sometimes conjures up battle-sleights that even I can’t be sure of countering—crazy berserk tricks born of sudden whim that no civilized man can anticipate. Chances are Grilli could nick him, but what if he didn’t? Here’s my reed—it lets you rightly think that I may still be soft on the man, but I give it because it’s my best reed: let me get him drunk at nightfall. Dead drunk. Then he’s out of the way for certain.’
Pulg frowned. ‘Sure you can deliver on that, son? They say he’s forsworn booze. And he sticks to Bwadres like a giant squid.’
‘I can detach him,’ the Mouser said. ‘And this way we don’t risk spoiling him for Bwadres’ show. Battle’s always uncertain. You may plan to hock a man and then have to cut his throat.’
