Ill Met in Lankhmar and Ship of Shadows

by Leiber, Fritz;

  “You’re both drunk,” Vlana said harshly. “Silly drunk—and that way you’ll get naught in Thieves’ House but your deaths. Fafhrd, where’s that heartless reason you employed to slay or ice-veined see slain a clutch of mighty rivals and win me at Cold Corner and in the chilly, sorcery-webbed depths of Trollstep Canyon? Revive it! And infuse some into your skipping gray friend.”

  “Oh, no,” Fafhrd told her as he buckled on his sword. “You wanted the head of Krovas heaved at your feet in a great splatter of blood, and that’s what you’re going to get, like it or not!”

  “Softly, Fafhrd,” the Mouser interjected, coming to a sudden stop and drawing tight the sack’s mouth by its strings. “And softly you too, Lady Vlana, and my dear princess. Tonight I intend but a scouting expedition. No risks run, only the information gained needful for planning our murderous strike tomorrow or the day after. So no head-choppings whatsoever tonight, Fafhrd, you hear me? Whatever mayhap, hist’s the word. And don your hooded robe.”

  Fafhrd shrugged, nodded, and obeyed.

  Ivrian seemed somewhat relieved. Vlana too, though she said, “Just the same you’re both drunk.”

  “All to the good!” the Mouser assured her with a mad smile. “Drink may slow a man’s sword-arm and soften his blows a bit, but it sets his wits ablaze and fires his imagination, and those are the qualities we’ll need tonight. Besides,” he hurried on, cutting off some doubt Ivrian was about to voice, “drunken men are supremely cautious! Have you ever seen a staggering sot pull himself together at sight of the guard and walk circumspectly and softly past?”

  “Yes,” Vlana said, “and fall flat on his face just as he comes abreast ’em.”

  “Pish!” the Mouser retorted and, throwing back his head, grandly walked toward her along an imaginary straight line. Instantly he tripped over his own foot, plunged forward, suddenly without touching floor did an incredible forward flip, heels over head, and landed erect and quite softly—toes, ankles, and knees bending just at the right moment to soak up impact—directly in front of the girls. The floor barely complained.

  “You see?” he said, straightening up and unexpectedly reeling backward. He tripped over the pillow on which lay his cloak and sword, but by a wrenching twist and a lurch stayed upright and began rapidly to accouter himself.

  Under cover of this action Fafhrd made quietly yet swiftly to fill once more his and the Mouser’s mugs, but Vlana noted it and gave him such a glare that he set down mugs and uncorked jug so swiftly his robe swirled, then stepped back from the drinks table with a shrug of resignation and toward Vlana a grimacing nod.

  The Mouser shouldered his sack and drew open the door. With a casual wave at the girls, but no word spoken, Fafhrd stepped out on the tiny porch. The night-smog had grown so thick he was almost lost to view. The Mouser waved four fingers at Ivrian, softly called, “Bye-bye, Misling,” then followed Fafhrd.

  “Good fortune go with you,” Vlana called heartily.

  “Oh be careful, Mouse,” Ivrian gasped.

  The Mouser, his figure slight against the loom of Fafhrd’s, silently drew shut the door.

  Their arms automatically gone around each other, the girls waited for the inevitable creaking and groaning of the stairs. It delayed and delayed. The night-smog that had entered the room dissipated and still the silence was unbroken. “What can they be doing out there?” Ivrian whispered. “Plotting their course?”

  Vlana, scowling, impatiently shook her head, then disentangled herself, tiptoed to the door, opened it, descended softly a few steps, which creaked most dolefully, then returned, shutting the door behind her.

  “They’re gone,” she said in wonder, her eyes wide, her hands spread a little to either side, palms up.

  “I’m frightened!” Ivrian breathed and sped across the room to embrace the taller girl.

  Vlana hugged her tight, then disengaged an arm to shoot the door’s three heavy bolts.

  In Bones Alley the Mouser returned to his pouch the knotted line by which they’d descended from the lamp-hook. He suggested, “How about stopping at the Silver Eel?”

  “You mean and just tell the girls we’ve been to Thieves’ House?” Fafhrd asked, not too indignantly.

  “Oh, no,” the Mouser protested. “But you missed your stirrup cup upstairs and so did I.”

  At the word “stirrup” he looked down at his ratskin boots and then crouching began a little gallop in one place, his boot-soles clopping softly on the cobbles. He flapped imaginary reins—“Giddap!”—and quickened his gallop, but leaning sharply back pulled to a stop—“Whoa!”—when with a crafty smile Fafhrd drew from his robe two full jugs.

  “Palmed ’em, as ’twere, when I set down the mugs. Vlana sees a lot, but not all.”

  “You’re a prudent, far-sighted fellow, in addition to having some skill at sword taps,” the Mouser said admiringly. “I’m proud to call you comrade.”

  Each uncorked and drank a hearty slug. Then the Mouser led them west, they veering and stumbling only a little. Not so far as Cheap Street, however, but turning north into an even narrower and more noisome alley.

  “Plague Court,” the Mouser said. Fafhrd nodded.

  After several preliminary peepings and peerings, they staggered swiftly across wide, empty Crafts Street and into Plague Court again. For a wonder it was growing a little lighter. Looking upward, they saw stars. Yet there was no wind blowing from the north. The air was deathly still.

  In their drunken preoccupation with the project at hand and mere locomotion, they did not look behind them. There the night-smog was thicker than ever. A high-circling nighthawk would have seen the stuff converging from all sections of Lankhmar, north, east, south, west—from the Inner Sea, from the Great Salt Marsh, from the many-ditched grain lands, from the River Hlal—in swift-moving black rivers and rivulets, heaping, eddying, swirling, dark and reeking essence of Lankhmar from its branding irons, braziers, bonfires, bonefires, kitchen fires and warmth fires, kilns, forges, breweries, distilleries, junk and garbage fires innumerable, sweating alchemists’ and sorcerers’ dens, crematoriums, charcoal burners’ turfed mounds, all those and many more…converging purposefully on Dim Lane and particularly on the Silver Eel and perhaps especially on the ricketty house behind it, untenanted except for attic. The closer to that center it got, the more substantial the smog became, eddy-strands and swirl-tatters tearing off and clinging to rough stone corners and scraggly-surfaced brick like black cobwebs.

  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. “Give 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 c
hilled 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.