Swords Against Wizardry

by Fritz Leiber

  “They came through too,” Fafhrd answered, swinging the pouch lightly out of his sleeve and then back in again. “And I get my money tomorrow night…the full amount of my asking price, just like you.”

  As he named those coincidences, his eyes went thoughtful.

  They stayed that way while he took two large swallows of wine. The Mouser watched him curiously.

  “At one point,” Fafhrd finally mused, “I thought she was trying the old trick of substituting for mine an identical but worthlessly filled pouch. Since she’d seen the pouch at our first meeting, she could have had a similar one made up, complete with chain and bracelet.”

  “But was she—?” the Mouser asked.

  “Oh no, it turned out to be something entirely different,” Fafhrd said lightly, though some thought kept two slight vertical furrows in his forehead. “That’s odd,” the Mouser remarked. “At one point—just one, mind you—the Eyes of Ogo, if she’d been extremely swift, deft, and silent, might have been able to switch boxes on me.”

  Fafhrd lifted his eyebrows.

  The Mouser went on rapidly, “That is, if my box had been closed. But it was open, in darkness, and there’d have been no way to reproduce the varicolored twinkling of the gems. Phosphorus or glow-wood? Too dim. Hot coals? No, I’d have felt the heat. Besides, how get that way a diamond’s pure white glow? Quite impossible.”

  Fafhrd nodded agreement but continued to gaze over the Mouser’s shoulder.

  The Mouser started to reach toward his box, but instead with a small self-contemptuous chuckle picked up the jug and began to pour himself another drink in a careful small stream.

  Fafhrd shrugged at last, used the back of his forefingers to push over his own pewter cup for a refill, and yawned mightily, leaning back a little and at the same time pushing his spread-fingered hands to either side across the table, as if pushing away from him all small doubts and wonderings.

  The fingers of his left hand touched the Mouser’s box.

  His face went blank. He looked down his arm at the box.

  Then to the great puzzlement of the Mouser, who had just begun to fill Fafhrd’s cup, the Northerner leaned forward and placed his head ear-down on the box.

  “Mouser,” he said in a small voice, “your box is buzzing.”

  Fafhrd’s cup was full, but the Mouser kept on pouring.

  Heavily fragrant wine puddled and began to run toward the glowing brazier.

  “When I touched the box, I felt vibration,” Fafhrd went on bemusedly. “It’s buzzing. It’s still buzzing.”

  With a low snarl, the Mouser slammed down the jug and snatched the box from under Fafhrd’s ear. The wine reached the brazier’s hot bottom and hissed. He tore the box open, opened also its mesh top, and he and Fafhrd peered in.

  The candlelight dimmed, but by no means extinguished the yellow, violet, reddish, and white twinkling glows rising from various points on the black velvet bottom.

  But the candlelight was quite bright enough also to show, at each such point, matching the colors listed, a firebeetle, glowwasp, nightbee, or diamondfly, each insect alive but delicately affixed to the floor of the box with fine silver wire. From time to time the wings or wingcases of some buzzed.

  Without hesitation, Fafhrd unclasped the browned-iron bracelet from his wrist, unchained the pouch, and dumped it on the table.

  Jewels of various sizes, all beautifully cut, made a fair heap.

  But they were all dead black.

  Fafhrd picked up a big one, tried it with his fingernail, then whipped out his hunting knife and with its edge easily scored the gem.

  He carefully dropped it in the brazier’s glowing center. After a bit it flamed up yellow and blue.

  “Coal,” Fafhrd said.

  The Mouser clawed his hands over his faintly twinkling box, as if about to pick it up and hurl it through the wall and across the Inner Sea.

  Instead he unclawed his hands and hung them decorously at his sides.

  “I am going away,” he announced quietly, but very clearly, and did so.

  Fafhrd did not look up. He was dropping a second black gem in the brazier.

  He did take off the bracelet Nemia had given him; he brought it close to his eyes, said, “Brass…glass,” and spread his fingers to let it drop in the spilled wine. After the Mouser was gone, Fafhrd drained his brimming cup, drained the Mouser’s and filled it again, then went on supping from it as he continued to drop the black jewels one by one in the brazier.

  Nemia and the Eyes of Ogo sat cozily side by side on a luxurious divan. They had put on negligees. A few candles made a yellowish dusk.

  On a low, gleaming table were set delicate flagons of wines and liqueurs, slim-stemmed crystal goblets, golden plates of sweetmeats and savories, and in the center two equal heaps of rainbow-glowing gems.

  “What a quaint bore barbarians are,” Nemia remarked, delicately stifling a yawn, “though good for one’s sensuous self, once in a great while. This one had a little more brains than most. I think he might have caught on, except that I made the two clicks come so exactly together when I snapped back on his wrist the bracelet with the false pouch and at the same time my brass keepsake. It’s amazing how barbarians are hypnotized by brass along with any odd bits of glass colored like rubies and sapphires—I think the three primary colors paralyze their primitive brains.”

  “Clever, clever Nemia,” the Eyes of Ogo cooed with a tender caress. “My little fellow almost caught on too when I made the switch, but then he got interested in threatening me with his knife. Actually jabbed me between the breasts. I think he has a dirty mind.”

  “Let me kiss the blood away, darling Eyes,” Nemia suggested. “Oh, dreadful…dreadful.”

  While shivering under her treatment—Nemia had a slightly bristly tongue—Eyes said, “For some reason he was quite nervous about Ogo.” She made her face blank, her pouty mouth hanging slightly open.

  The richly draped wall opposite her made a scuttling sound and then croaked in a dry, thick voice, “Open your box, Gray Mouser. Now close it. Girls, girls! Cease your lascivious play!”

  Nemia and Eyes clung to each other laughing. Eyes said in her natural voice, if she had one, “And he went away still thinking there was a real Ogo. I’m quite certain of that. My, they both must be in a froth by now.”

  Sitting back, Nemia said, “I suppos

  Eyes shrugged. “I have my five Mingol swordsmen.”

  Nemia said. “And I have my three and a half Kleshite stranglers.”

  “Half?” Eyes asked.

  “I was counting Ixy. No, but seriously.”

  Eyes frowned for half a heartbeat, then shook her head decisively. “I don’t think we need worry about Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser raiding us back. Because we’re girls, their pride will be hurt, and they’ll sulk a while and then run away to the ends of the earth on one of those adventures of theirs.”

  “Adventures!” said Nemia, as one who says, “Cesspools and privies!”

  “You see, they’re really weaklings,” Eyes went on, warming to her topic. “They have no drive whatever, no ambition, no true passion for money. For instance, if they did—and if they didn’t spend so much time in dismal spots away from Lankhmar—they’d have known that the King of Ilthmar has developed a mania for gems that are invisible by day, but glow by night, and has offered half his kingdom for a sack of star-jewels. And then they’d never have had even to consider such an idiotic thing as coming to us.”

  “What do you suppose he’ll do with them? The King, I mean.”

  Eyes shrugged. “I don’t know. Build a planetarium. Or eat them.” She thought a moment. “All things considered, it might be as well if we got away from here for a few weeks. We deserve a vacation.”

  Nemia nodded, closing her eyes. “It should be absolutely the opposite sort of place to the one in which the Mouser and Fafhrd will have their next—ugh!—adventure.”

  Eyes nodded too and said dreamily, “Blue skies and rippling water,
spotless beach, a tepid wind, flowers and slim slavegirls everywhere…”

  Nemia said, “I’ve always wished for a place that has no weather, only perfection. Do you know which half of Ilthmar’s kingdom has the least weather?”

  “Precious Nemia,” Eyes murmured, “you’re so civilized. And so very, very clever. Next to one other, you’re certainly the best thief in Lankhmar.”

  “Who’s the other?” Nemia was eager to know.

  “Myself, of course,” Eyes answered modestly.

  Nemia reached up and tweaked her companion’s ear—not too painfully, but enough.

  “If there were the least money depending on that,” she said quietly but firmly, “I’d teach you differently. But since it’s only conversation…”

  “Dearest Nemia.”

  “Sweetest Eyes.”

  The two girls gently embraced and kissed each other fondly.

  The Mouser glared thin-lipped across a table in a curtained booth in the Golden Lamprey, a tavern not unlike the Silver Eel.

  He rapped the teak before him with his fingertip, and the perfumed stale air with his voice, saying, “Double those twenty gold pieces and I’ll make the trip and hear Prince Gwaay’s proposal.”

  The very pale man opposite him, who squinted as if even the candlelight were a glare, answered softly, “Twenty-five—and you serve him for one day after arrival.”

  “What sort of ass do you take me for?” the Mouser demanded dangerously. “I might be able to settle all his troubles in one day—I usually can—and what then? No, no preagreed service; I hear his proposal only. And…thirty-five gold pieces in advance.”

  “Very well, thirty gold pieces—twenty to be refunded if you refuse to serve my master, which would be a risky step, I warn you.”

  “Risk is my bedmate,” the Mouser snapped. “Ten only to be refunded.”

  The other nodded and began slowly to count rilks onto the teak. “Ten now,” he said. “Ten when you join our caravan tomorrow morning at the Grain Gate. And ten when we reach Quarmall.”

  “When we first glimpse the spires of Quarmall,” the Mouser insisted.

  The other nodded.

  The Mouser moodily snatched the golden coins and stood up. They felt very few in his fist. For a moment he thought of returning to Fafhrd and with him devising plans against Ogo and Nemia.

  No, never! He realized he couldn’t in his misery and self-rage bear the thought of even looking at Fafhrd.

  Besides, the Northerner would certainly be drunk.

  And two, or at most three, rilks would buy him certain tolerable and even interesting pleasures to fill the hours before dawn brought him release from this hateful city.

  Fafhrd was indeed drunk, being on his third jug. He had burnt up all the black jewels and was now with the greatest delicacy and most careful use of the needle point of his knife, releasing unharmed each of the silver-wired firebeetles, glowwasps, nightbees, and diamondflies. They buzzed about erratically.

  Two cupbearers and the chucker-out had come to protest, and now Slevyas himself joined them, rubbing the back of his thick neck. He had been stung and a customer too. Fafhrd had himself been stung twice, but hadn’t seemed to notice. Nor did he now pay the slightest attention to the four haranguing him.

  The last nightbee was released. It careened off noisily past Slevyas’ neck, who dodged his head with a curse. Fafhrd sat back, suddenly looking very wretched. With varying shrugs the master of the Silver Eel and his three servitors made off, one cupbearer making swipes at the air.

  Fafhrd tossed up his knife. It came down almost point first, but didn’t quite stick in the teak. He laboriously scabbarded it, then forced himself to take a small sip of wine.

  As if someone were about to emerge from the backmost booth, there was a stirring of its heavy curtains, which like all the others had stitched to them heavy chain and squares of metal, so that one guest couldn’t stab another through them, except with luck and the slimmest stilettos.

  But at that moment a very pale man, who held up his cloak to shield his eyes from the candlelight, entered by the side door and made to Fafhrd’s table.

  “I’ve come for my answer, Northerner,” he said in a voice soft yet sinister. He glanced at the toppled jugs and spilled wine. “That is, if you remember my proposition.”

  “Sit down,” Fafhrd said. “Have a drink. Watch out for the glowwasps—they’re vicious.” Then, scornfully, “Remember! Prince Hasjarl of Marquall—Quarmall. Passage by ship. A mountain of gold rilks. Remember!”

  Keeping on his feet, the other amended, “Twenty-five rilks. Provided you take ship with me at once and promise to render a day’s service to my prince. Thereafter by what further agreement you and he arrive at.”

  He placed on the table a small golden tower of precounted coins.

  “Munificent!” Fafhrd said, grabbing it up and reeling to his feet. He placed five of the coins on the table and shoved the rest in his pouch, except for three more, which scattered dulcetly across the floor. He corked and pouched the third wine jug. Coming out from behind the table, he said, “Lead the way, comrade,” gave the squinty-eyed man a mighty shove toward the side door, and went weaving after him.

  In the backmost booth, Alyx the Picklock pursed her lips and shook her head disapprovingly.

  IV

  The Lords of Quarmall

  The room was dim, almost maddeningly dim to one who loved sharp detail and the burning sun. The few wall-set torches that provided the sole illumination flamed palely and thinly, more like will-o’-the-wisps than true fire, although they released a pleasant incense. One got the feeling that the dwellers of this region resented light and only tolerated a thin mist of it for the benefit of strangers.

  Despite its vast size, the room was carved all in somber solid rock—smooth floor, polished curving walls, and domed ceiling—either a natural cave finished by man or else chipped out and burnished entirely by human effort, although the thought of that latter amount of work was nearly intolerable. From numerous deep niches between the torches, metal statuettes and masks and jeweled objects gleamed darkly.

  Through the room, bending the feeble bluish flames, came a perpetual cool draft bringing acid odors of damp ground and moist rock which the sweet spicy scent of the torches never quite masked.

  The only sounds were the occasional rutch of rock on wood from the other end of the long table, where a game was being played with black and white stone counters—that and, from beyond the room, the ponderous sighing of the great fans that sucked down the fresh air on its last stage of passage from the distant world above and drove it through this region…and the perpetual soft thudding of the naked feet of the slaves on the heavy leather tread-belts that drove those great wooden fans…and the very faint mechanic gasping of those slaves.

  After one had been in this region for a few days, or only a few hours, the sighing of the fans and the soft thudding of the feet and the faint gaspings of the tortured lungs seemed to drone out only the name of this region, over and over.

  “Quarmall…” they seemed to chant. “Quarmall…Quarmall is all…”

  The Gray Mouser, upon whose senses and through whose mind these sensations and fancies had been flooding and flitting, was a small man strongly muscled. Clad in gray silks irregularly woven, with tiny thread-tufts here and there, he looked restless as a lynx and as dangerous.

  From a great tray of strangely hued and shaped mushrooms set before him like sweetmeats, the Mouser disdainfully selected and nibbled cautiously at the most normal looking, a gray one. Its perfumy savor masking bitterness offended him, and he spat it surreptitiously into his palm and dropped that hand under the table and flicked the wet chewed fragments to the floor. Then, while he sucked his cheek sourly, the fingers of both his hands began to play as slowly and nervously with the hilts of his sword Scalpel and his dagger Cat’s Claw as his mind played with his boredoms and murky wonderings.

  Along each side of the long narrow table, in great high-back
ed chairs widely spaced, sat six scrawny old men, bald or shaven of dome and chin, and chicken-fluted of jowl, and each clad only in a neat white loincloth. Eleven of these stared intently at nothing and perpetually tensed their meager muscles until even their ears seemed to stiffen, as though concentrating mightily in realms unseen. The twelfth had his chair half turned and was playing across a far corner of the table the board-game that made the occasional tiny rutching noises. He was playing it with the Mouser’s employer Gwaay, ruler of the Lower Levels of Quarmall and younger son to Quarmal, Lord of Quarmall.

  Although the Mouser had been three days in Quarmall’s depths he had come no closer to Gwaay than he was now, so that he knew him only as a pallid, handsome, soft-spoken youth, no realer to the Mouser, because of the eternal dimness and the invariable distance between them, than a ghost.

  The game was one the Mouser had never seen before and quite tricky in several respects.

  The board looked green, though it was impossible to be certain of colors in the unending twilight of the torches, and it had no perceptible squares or tracks on it, except for a phosphorescent line midway between the opponents, dividing the board into two equal fields.

  Each contestant started the game with twelve flat circular counters set along his edge of the board. Gwaay’s counters were obsidian-black, his ancient opponent’s marble-white, so the Mouser was able to distinguish them despite the dimness.

  The object of the game seemed to be to move the pieces randomly forward over uneven distances and get at least seven of them into your opponent’s field first.