"How did you get that plum over your eye?" the Mouser asked, returning to his ablutions.
As if in a daze, Fafhrd reached up and gingerly explored the red bruise that showed just below his hairline. Then, throwing back the blanket, he ran a hand over his trousers. "It wasn't a dream," he murmured distantly. His face screwed up with an expression of confusion as he patted the bed. "Or was it?" Staring toward the window, he became pensive and silent.
Wadding up his tunic, the Mouser dipped it in the basin and used it to wash under his arms, over his chest and neck and back. He scrubbed until his dusky skin turned red, and still he scrubbed. Liara's soft face seemed to stare up at him from the water in the basin, and her words echoed in his mind.
...I will show you the finest perfection of love, she said.
He scrubbed some more, forgetting about Fafhrd, gritting his teeth until he threw the wet tunic forcefully into the basin, shattering the image he imagined there, splashing water across the table and floor. Struck by a wet sleeve, the lamp pitched over the table's edge. Lunging, the Mouser caught it and set it safely upright again.
A little oil had leaked over his fingers. For a brief moment, he noted how the faint morning light played in the oil on his skin, how it shone like the cold light in Liara's eyes.
He pushed his hands into the basin and washed them thoroughly.
"Fog or no fog," he said suddenly, his jaw firmly set, "we search that tower tonight and find Malygris. This corrupt city will taint our souls if we linger here. We're made for open skies, you and I, and for carefree adventure."
Fafhrd spoke with uncharacteristic softness and regret. "I can't leave, my friend," he said from the bed. He wore a haunted look, and his gaze seemed fixed on something beyond the open window, something the Mouser couldn't see. "I have a new mystery, and I'm compelled to solve it." Pausing, he swallowed hard. "Twice, I've seen Vlana—or her ghost. Truly, I know not which. But she, or her spirit, walks in the fog."
"In the fog?" the Mouser said doubtfully.
"I believe it was she that saved us from the Ilthmarts."
The Mouser scoffed. Turning back to the basin, he took up his shirt and wrung it, his arms bulging, knuckles turning white with the effort he exerted. "Ghosts don't wield witchly powers," he said. Unwinding the garment, he shook it violently, snapping out the wrinkles, flicking droplets everywhere.
"I know what I have seen," Fafhrd answered stubbornly.
"You know what you've dreamed," came the Mouser's harsh reply. "Or what the bottom of some wine bottle has shown you." He spread the tunic over the back of the only chair and moved it next to the window so the sun would dry the cloth quickly.
Fafhrd shook his head. "I can't get her out of my mind, Mouser. I swear to you. Vlana, or her spirit, walks the streets of Lankhmar."
Agitated, the Mouser began to pace about the room. Abruptly, he stopped. Liara's face seemed to float in the air before him, though he knew he only imagined it. . . . The finest perfection of love, she seemed to say to him, her voice drowning Fafhrd's earnest insistences.
"All night I wandered in the Plaza of Dark Delights," he said suddenly, his voice a bare, choking whisper, "through that mist-filled maze of hedges and topiaries. Over white-pebbled walkways, down grassy paths slick as ice with dew. For hours I sat, then reclined, on a marble bench and stared into the gray limbo overhead where stars used to burn so brilliantly." He paused, and for a moment, he stood unmoving as a statue before he continued. "Not another soul ventured through the plaza all night. I was utterly alone. I felt so empty—"
"Maybe our souls are already tainted," Fafhrd said, "not by the city, but by our own memories."
The two men looked at each other for a painful moment. Then Fafhrd grinned and smacked his palm on the bed so hard the blanket leaped up around him. "Come and lie down on something softer than a marble bench," he invited. "When we wake up again, these black moods will have melted with the fog."
The Mouser drew a deep breath and shrugged. Bending down, he pulled off a boot and cast it aside. "Later, I'll sneak into the kitchen and forage for breakfast."
"You distract Cherig," Fafhrd said, holding back a corner of the blanket for the Mouser to slip under. "I've got a bigger appetite and deeper pockets in which to stuff his delicious victuals."
The Mouser chuckled. "Just don't hog the bed," he warned as he stretched out.
Huddled under the single blanket, the two turned their backs to each other and grew quiet. After a while, Fafhrd's snore broke the silence, rising in volume until it rocked the bed. Snatching the only pillow, the Mouser covered his head and stoppered his ears with his hands.
Gradually, he relaxed. As sleep crept over him, he thought of Liara, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of the finer perfections of love.
A knock at the door awakened them. Without waiting for a response, Cherig One-hand walked into the room and strode to the foot of the bed. In his arms, he carried a large bundle wrapped in black cloth.
"Move your smelly feet, my favorite of guests," he said to Fafhrd with a subtle grin as he dropped the bundle on the mattress. "The Lady Sharmayne has sent you a token of her, shall we say, appreciation."
Throwing back his part of the blanket, Fafhrd sat up. "She seemed sufficiently appreciative last night," he said, reaching for the large bundle. Rolled inside an expensive black cloak, he found a complete set of new clothes.
He found a note pinned to the cloak. "For Fafhrd's large shoulders," he read aloud. A sleeveless tunic of black silk and a black jerkin trimmed with the soft white fur of the snow bear bore another note. "For Fafhrd's broad, powerful chest and back," the note said. Among a pair of studded arm bracers, he found still another note. "For Fafhrd's strong arms."
The Gray Mouser reached toward the bundle and curiously lifted a studded leather groin guard. Swinging it from one finger, he started to read the note attached. "For Fafhrd's great..."
Fafhrd snatched the guard from his partner, and flipped a corner of the blanket over the smaller man's head. "Unhand my trousseau, you cad." He picked up a wide, studded belt that matched the bracers and the groin guard and raised it admiringly. "I think I'm in love!"
"Mostly with yourself, I suspect," Cherig said with a chuckle as he prepared to take his leave. Pausing at the door, he winked at the Mouser. "For a giant, he is too pretty by half."
The Gray Mouser rose out of bed as the door closed behind Cherig. Going to the chair by the window, he picked up his tunic, sniffed it, and satisfied that it was clean enough, pulled it over his head. "You must have made quite an impression on the Lady Sharmayne," he grinned.
Fafhrd continued to admire his new finery. "Her teeth made quite an impression on me," he said, rubbing a shoulder. "And Ayla..."
Hesitating as he reached for his boots, the Mouser raised an eyebrow. "Ayla?" he asked.
Fafhrd regarded him innocently. "The dark-haired dancer," he explained.
The Mouser's other eyebrow went up. "Both?"
The Northerner gave a sheepishhalf-embarrassed shrug.
"You filthy sod! Say no more!" The Mouser, stamping quickly into his boots, continued, muttering, "Lest I throw myself from the window in a fit of envy." Seizing up his gray cloak and weapons belt, he crossed to the door. "I'll be downstairs scaring up some breakfast."
"Good, I'm hungry!" Fafhrd called as he fitted one of the bracers around a tanned, brawny forearm.
"Your hungers have been sated," the Mouser called back as he tossed his light cloak around his shoulders. "It's my own belly I'm working for now."
The Mouser passed quietly down the narrow hallway and descended the stairs to the tavern below. Cherig One-hand paused from mopping the floor, wiped sweat from his brow, and glanced toward him. "Bread, sausage, and fruit on the table in the kitchen," he said gruffly. Returning to his task, he dipped the mop in a wooden bucket and pushed a veritable tide of water across the old boards, scrubbing them until they gleamed.
The Mouser pushed open the kitchen door. Cherig's
dog, curled up by the hearth, opened one disinterested eye and closed it again. The Mouser stepped over him and piled an earthen plate with food, which he carried back into the tavern.
As the Mouser straddled a stool and sat down at a table, Fafhrd descended the stairs. In his new clothes, his black cloak flowing and braided red hair shining, he looked almost regal. In his left hand, he carried his lute.
Cherig paused from his mopping again and smirked. "Sharmayne always pays well for her nights of pleasure," he said.
Fafhrd took a stool opposite the Mouser, rested his instrument against the table’s edge, and helped himself to half the loaf of bread and one of the two apples on the Mouser's plate. "Cherig's been very generous," he whispered as he twisted the apple and broke it neatly into two pieces. "Our funds are starting to run low, however, so I'm going to spend this afternoon playing the minstrel over by the wharves and in the River District. I can pick up a few coins and keep an ear out for any clue to Malygris's whereabouts."
"Keep an eye on that tower," the Mouser said. "I'll prowl around some of the shops and merchants. See if I can pick up any useful information. I may need some lubrication."
Fafhrd grinned around a mouthful of breakfast. "Lubrication," he repeated. "A pretty word for bribe money."
The Mouser shrugged. "Grease a few palms, loosen a few tongues." He didn't need to explain to his partner how he would obtain his lubrication.
A chorus of screams interrupted as he lifted a bite of sausage to his lips. The tidbit fell untasted on the table; he reached for his sword, half-rising from his stool.
The Silver Eel's door stood open and the window shutters were flung back to air the place after the night's festivities. Outside, a score of Aarth's followers ran shrieking through the streets, their saffron robes in dirty tatters, sunlight gleaming on their shaven heads and sweat-streaked faces. Past the tavern they ran, their shrills fading after them.
Easing his sword back into its sheath, the Mouser sat down with a scowl. "Fanatics," he muttered, reaching for the sausage again.
Cherig pushed his wet mop around the floor, speaking without looking at his guests. "That's twice today they've serenaded me with that damn song," he said. "You must've slept through their first pass. Sharmayne's servant, when he brought your new clothes, claimed that things were pretty tense up in the Temple District. Half of Aarth's priests are runnin around the city like bloody shriekin' idiots, and the other half are schemin' to take Attavaq's place and become the next Patriarch."
Grabbing the neck of his lute, Fafhrd rose. With his mouth still wrapped around a chunk of bread, he grinned and nonchalantly tossed his apple into the air, catching it again. "Be careful where you put your sticky fingers, Mouser," he said, sputtering crumbs as he headed for the door. "I don't want to have to break you out of the Overlord's prison."
"And you be careful where you stick your ..." The Mouser paused, then waved his friend away. "Never mind. You just earned a new set of clothes with it."
Fafhrd's smile widened. With a flourish of his new cloak, he left the Silver Eel.
Alone, the Mouser stared at the empty breakfast plate and let go a soft sigh. The swishing sound of Cherig's busy mop and the drone of a fly somewhere in the room were the only sounds. The tavern dog padded noiselessly over, curled up at his feet, and closed its huge, moist eyes.
The Mouser shut his own eyes and rested his head on his hands. Unbidden, a vision of Liara floated through his mind. Her cruel eyes sparkled with the cold fire of diamonds, and he imagined he heard her taunting laughter. She held out a hand to him, and blood dripped from her slender fingers.
Snapping his eyes open, he expelled the vision. The dog whined and lifted its head, as if sensing the Mouser's change of mood. "Lie down, pooch," the Mouser murmured, scratching the homely mutt between the ears until it relaxed again.
A frown creased the Mouser's lips. If his fingers were sticky, as Fafhrd had said, it was with blood. He thought bitterly of the men he killed last night to protect the Dark Butterfly. He did not like killing. A smart thief, or any man with wit or cleverness, could usually achieve his ends without stooping to murder.
But when those rowdies threatened Liara, a deep crack in his heart suddenly opened wide, and rage spilled out. He had seen, endangered in that street, not Liara, but Ivrian, whom he had failed to save before, and who, in his dreams, time and time again, he had failed to save, and suddenly his sword was in his hand.
He had neglected to tell Fafhrd of the killings, and he realized he had no intention to do so. They shared much, he and Fafhrd, but he would not share this shame. He wanted only to forget the incident as he planned to forget Liara. For all her outward beauty, he perceived now the petty blackness that filled her soul, and he resolved never to see or think of her again.
Rising, he nodded to Cherig and went through the doorway into Dim Lane. Drawing up the light hood of his cloak, he set a brisk pace and hurried northward while he kept an eye out for a fat merchant or a plump nobleman with a foolishly exposed purse.
The main thoroughfares of the city teemed with people. Creaking carts inched their way through the masses. Beggars and entertainers worked the street corners. With loud voices, merchants hawked their wares from open doorways or kiosks, from hastily spread blankets scattered with trinkets or basketry. Wide-eyed farmers and peasants from the outlying villages and towns, arriving for the Midsummer Festival, rubbed elbows with Lankhmar's elegantly clad nobility.
A trio of dirty-faced children raced suddenly through the crowd, laughing merrily. A little blond girl, whose hair was a tangled mess and whose face was streaked, collided with a shopper. Though uninjured, the huge man took offense. Scowling angrily, he caught the girl's hair with a meaty hand and flung her into the street.
Sent sprawling in the dust, the child squealed with pain and fear.
The Mouser's eyes narrowed as the shopper's light cloak parted to expose an elaborate toga of black silk and silver embroidery. A nobleman, then. He studied the man's face with its neatly trimmed and oiled beard, pinched eyes and bulbous nose.
Two servants hovered near, well-armed, but heavily burdened with their master's packages.
As if blind to the tableau, the crowd parted subtly and moved on. On the ground, the frightened child cried. Cursing her and all children, the shopper beckoned to his servants and turned away, only to collide again with a short, gray-hooded man.
"Pardon me," the Mouser said gently.
"Idiot!" the shopper shouted. For an instant his face clouded with rage, and he raised his fist, but then his gaze fell on the hilt of a slender sword, which just peeked from under the fold of a gray cloak, and he thought better of it. Lifting his misshapen nose skyward, he moved on.
The Mouser watched him disappear in the human tide. Then his right hand emerged from under his cloak and lightly tossed a plump, blue velvet purse. The purse's contents jingled and clinked. "Pardon you," the Mouser muttered.
Extracting a smerduk from the purse, he bent and offered it to the child. "No more crying, little one," he said, putting on a smile for her benefit.
She stared at him with doubtful eyes, though her tears ceased and her fear abated somewhat.
The Mouser pressed the silver coin into her pudgy hand. "Find your friends and buy them all honey cones. It's too nice a day for weeping."
The Mouser helped her to her feet and brushed the dust from her threadbare dress. She opened her hand, as if disbelieving she really held the coin. Then, making a tight fist around the silver piece, she made a short curtsy. "Thank you, sir," she murmured in a barely audible voice before she took off running up the busy street.
With a sigh, the Mouser added the coins in the velvet purse to his own and tucked his new wealth under his belt. Resuming his course toward the Temple District, he whistled pleasantly to himself.
Fewer people congested the Street of the Gods. In deference to the passing of Attavaq, many of the shops were closed. The pedestrians who walked there kept their voices and
their heads lowered. In contrast to the celebratory mood that filled the rest of the city, a muted and funereal atmosphere dominated.
Wandering slowly up the street, the Mouser entered the first shop he found open. Rings and necklaces and bejeweled ornaments glimmered upon counters covered with black velvet. The proprietor, a thin, elderly man in plain, but well-made garments, emerged through a curtain at the rear of the shop to greet his customer, and the Mouser made a show of taking out his heavy purse and bouncing it on his palm.
The proprietor smiled with subtle greed as he noted the purse. "The sweetest music ever played by man," he said as the Mouser shook the purse again and set the coins to jingling. "And you, sir, are obviously a maestro."
The Mouser bent over one of the counters, frowning as he pretended to study the workmanship of a diamond pendant. "What is obvious," he said to the proprietor in a petulant tone, "is that this stone is glass, and the setting is of poor quality." He jingled his purse. "Have you nothing better?"
The proprietor scrutinized him, then eyed the purse again. "I can see you know quality, sir," he said. He waved a hand around the shop. "I display these trinkets for the casual shopper. You are a connoisseur." He crooked a finger, beckoning. "Come into my back room."
The Mouser followed him through the curtain into a room lit with several oil lamps. Jewelers' tools, bits and flakes of stone, pieces of chain, shards of metal lay scattered chaotically about a long worktable. The proprietor turned the wicks of the lamps higher, and the room brightened with golden firelight. Going to a chest in one corner, he took a key from a ring on his belt, bent over a massive trunk, and put it into the lock. A soft click. Standing aside, gesturing grandly, he raised the lid.
The Mouser's eyes snapped wide. Wildly colored fire flashed as the lamplight touched the contents. The proprietor lifted a flat tray upon which was displayed half a dozen elaborately jeweled necklaces. Beneath that tray lay another covered with bracelets and rings, all held in appropriate place by loops of thin wire.
Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) Page 12
