Ill Met in Lankhmar and Ship of Shadows

by Leiber, Fritz;

  “We saw brave thieves flee from that room,” the Mouser answered pat. “Fearing that some danger threatened the Guild, my comrade and I investigated, ready to scotch it.”

  “But what we saw and heard only perplexed us, great sir,” Fafhrd appended quite smoothly.

  “I didn’t ask you, sot. Speak when you’re spoken to,” Krovas snapped at him. Then, to the Mouser, “You’re an overweening rogue, most presumptuous for your rank.”

  In a flash the Mouser decided that further insolence, rather than fawning, was what the situation required. “That I am, sir,” he said smugly. “For example, I have a master plan whereby you and the Guild might gain more wealth and power in three months than your predecessors have in three millennia.”

  Krovas’ face darkened. “Boy!” he called. Through the curtains of an inner doorway, a youth with dark complexion of a Kleshite and clad only in a black loincloth sprang to kneel before Krovas, who ordered, “Summon first my sorcerer, next the thieves Slevyas and Fissif,” whereupon the dark youth dashed into the corridor.

  Then Krovas, his face its normal pale again, leaned back in his great chair, lightly rested his sinewy arms on its great padded ones, and smilingly directed at the Mouser, “Speak your piece. Reveal to us this master plan.”

  Forcing his mind not to work on the surprising news that Slevyas was not victim but thief and not sorcery-slain but alive and available—why did Krovas want him now?—the Mouser threw back his head and, shaping his lips in a faint sneer, began, “You may laugh merrily at me, Grandmaster, but I’ll warrant that in less than a score of heartbeats you’ll be straining sober-faced to hear my least word. Like lightning, wit can strike anywhere, and the best of you in Lankhmar have age-honored blind spots for things obvious to us of outland birth. My master plan is but this: let Thieves’ Guild under your iron autocracy seize supreme power in Lankhmar City, then in Lankhmar Land, next over all Nehwon, after which who knows what realms undreamt will know your suzerainty!”

  The Mouser had spoken true in one respect: Krovas was no longer smiling. He was leaning forward a little and his face was darkening again, but whether from interest or anger it was too soon to say.

  The Mouser continued, “For centuries the Guild’s had more than the force and intelligence needed to make a coup d’état a nine-finger certainty; today there’s not one hair’s chance in a bushy head of failure. It is the proper state of things that thieves rule other men. All Nature cries out for it. No need slay old Karstak Ovartamortes, merely overmaster, control, and so rule through him. You’ve already fee’d informers in every noble or wealthy house. Your post’s better than the King of Kings’. You’ve a mercenary striking force permanently mobilized, should you have need of it, in the Slayers’ Brotherhood. We Guild-beggars are your foragers. O great Krovas, the multitudes know that thievery rules Nehwon, nay, the universe, nay, more, the highest gods’ abode! And the multitudes accept this, they balk only at the hypocrisy of the present arrangement, at the pretense that things are otherwise. Oh, give them their decent desire, great Krovas! Make it all open, honest and aboveboard, with thieves ruling in name as well as fact.”

  The Mouser spoke with passion, for the moment believing all he said, even the contradictions. The four ruffians gaped at him with wonder and not a little awe. They slackened their holds on him and on Fafhrd too.

  But leaning back in his great chair again and smiling thinly and ominously, Krovas said coolly, “In our Guild intoxication is no excuse for folly, rather grounds for the extremest penalty. But I’m well aware your organized beggars operate under a laxer discipline. So I’ll deign to explain to you, you wee drunken dreamer, that we thieves know well that, behind the scenes, we already rule Lankhmar, Nehwon, all life in sooth—for what is life but greed in action? But to make this an open thing would not only force us to take on ten thousand sorts of weary work others now do for us, it would also go against another of life’s deep laws: illusion. Does the sweetmeats hawker show you his kitchen? Does a whore let average client watch her enamel-over her wrinkles and hoist her sagging breasts in cunning gauzy slings? Does a conjurer turn out for you his hidden pockets? Nature works by subtle, secret means—man’s invisible seed, spider bite, the viewless spores of madness and of death, rocks that are born in earth’s unknown bowels, the silent stars a-creep across the sky—and we thieves copy her.”

  “That’s good enough poetry, sir,” Fafhrd responded with undertone of angry derision, for he had himself been considerably impressed by the Mouser’s master plan and was irked that Krovas should do insult to his new friend by disposing of it so lightly. “Closet kingship may work well enough in easy times. But”—he paused histrionically—“will it serve when Thieves’ Guild is faced with an enemy determined to obliterate it forever, a plot to wipe it entirely from the earth?”

  “What drunken babble’s this?” Krovas demanded, sitting up straight. “What plot?”

  “’Tis a most secret one,” Fafhrd responded grinning, delighted to pay this haughty man in his own coin and thinking it quite just that the thief-king sweat a little before his head was removed for conveyance to Vlana. “I know naught of it, except that many a master thief is marked down for the knife—and your head doomed to fall!”

  Fafhrd merely sneered his face and folded his arms, the still slack grip of his captors readily permitting it, his (sword) crutch hanging against his body from his lightly gripping hand. Then he scowled as there came a sudden shooting pain in his numbed, bound-up left leg, which he had forgotten for a space.

  Krovas raised a clenched fist and himself half out of his chair, in prelude to some fearsome command—likely that Fafhrd be tortured. The Mouser cut in hurriedly with, “The Secret Seven, they’re called, are its leaders. None in the outer circles of the conspiracy know their names, though rumor has it that they’re secret Guild-thief renegades representing, one for each, the cities of Ool Hrusp, Kvarch Nar, Ilthmar, Horborixen, Tisilinilit, far Kiraay and Lankhmar’s very self … It’s thought they’re moneyed by the merchants of the East, the priests of Wan, the sorcerers of the Steppes and half the Mingol leadership too, legended Quarmall, Aarth’s Assassins in Sarheenmar, and also no lesser man than the King of Kings.”

  Despite Krovas’ contemptuous and then angry remarks, the ruffians holding the Mouser continued to harken to their captive with interest and respect, and they did not retighten their grip on him. His colorful revelations and melodramatic delivery held them, while Krovas’ dry, cynical, philosophic observations largely went over their heads.

  Hristomilo came gliding into the room then, his feet presumably taking swift, but very short steps, at any rate his black robe hung undisturbed to the marble floor despite his slithering speed.

  There was a shock at his entrance. All eyes in the map room followed him, breaths were held, and the Mouser and Fafhrd felt the horny hands that gripped them shake just a little. Even Krovas’ all-confident, world-weary expression became tense and guardedly uneasy. Clearly the sorcerer of the Thieves’ Guild was more feared than loved by his chief employer and by the beneficiaries of his skills.

  Outwardly oblivious to this reaction to his appearance, Hristomilo, smiling thin-lipped, halted close to one side of Krovas’ chair and inclined his hood-shadowed rodent face in the ghost of a bow.

  Krovas held palm toward the Mouser for silence. Then, wetting his lips, he asked Hristomilo sharply yet nervously, “Do you know these two?”

  Hristomilo nodded decisively. “They just now peered a befuddled eye each at me,” he said, “whilst I was about that business we spoke of. I’d have shooed them off, reported them, save such action might have broken my spell, put my words out of time with the alembic’s workings. The one’s a Northerner, the other’s features have a southern cast—from Tovilyis or near, most like. Both younger than their now-looks. Freelance bravos, I’d judge ’em, the sort the Brotherhood hires as extras when they get at once several big guard and
escort jobs. Clumsily disguised now, of course, as beggars.”

  Fafhrd by yawning, the Mouser by pitying head shake tried to convey that all this was so much poor guesswork.

  “That’s all I can tell you without reading their minds,” Hristomilo concluded. “Shall I fetch my lights and mirrors?”

  “Not yet.” Krovas turned face and shot a finger at the Mouser. “How do you know these things you rant about?—Secret Seven and all. Straight simplest answer now—no rodomontades.”

  The Mouser replied most glibly: “There’s a new courtesan dwells on Pimp Street—Tyarya her name, tall, beauteous, but hunchbacked, which oddly delights many of her clients. Now Tyarya loves me ’cause my maimed eyes match her twisted spine, or from simple pity of my blindness—she believes it!—and youth, or from some odd itch, like her clients’ for her, which that combination arouses in her flesh.

  “Now one of her patrons, a trader newly come from Kleg Nar—Mourph, he’s called—was impressed by my intelligence, strength, boldness, and close-mouthed tact, and those same qualities in my comrade too. Mourph sounded us out, finally asking if we hated the Thieves’ Guild for its control of the Beggars’ Guild. Sensing a chance to aid the Guild, we played up, and a week ago he recruited us into a cell of three in the outermost strands of the conspiracy web of the Seven.”

  “You presumed to do all of this on your own?” Krovas demanded in freezing tones, sitting up straight and gripping hard the chair arms.

  “Oh, no,” the Mouser denied guilelessly. “We reported our every act to the Day Beggarmaster and he approved them, told us to spy our best and gather every scrap of fact and rumor we could about the Sevens’ conspiracy.”

  “And he told me not a word about it!” Krovas rapped out. “If true, I’ll have Bannat’s head for this! But you’re lying, aren’t you?”

  As the Mouser gazed with wounded eyes at Krovas, meanwhile preparing a most virtuous denial, a portly man limped past the doorway with help of a gilded staff. He moved with silence and aplomb. But Krovas saw him. “Night Beggarmaster!” he called sharply. The limping man stopped, turned, came crippling majestically through the door. Krovas stabbed finger at the Mouser, then Fafhrd. “Do you know these two, Flim?”

  The Night Beggarmaster unhurriedly studied each for a space, then shook his head with its turban of cloth of gold. “Never seen either before. What are they? Fink beggars?”

  “But Flim wouldn’t know us,” the Mouser explained desperately, feeling everything collapsing in on him and Fafhrd. “All our contacts were with Bannat alone.”

  Flim said quietly, “Bannat’s been abed with the swamp ague this past ten-day. Meanwhile I have been Day Beggarmaster as well as Night.”

  At that moment Slevyas and Fissif came hurrying in behind Flim. The tall thief bore on his jaw a bluish lump. The fat thief’s head was bandaged above his darting eyes. He pointed quickly at Fafhrd and the Mouser and cried, “There are the two that slugged us, took our Jengao loot, and slew our escort.”

  The Mouser lifted his elbow and the green bottle crashed to shards at his feet on the hard marble. Gardenia-reek sprang swiftly through the air.

  But more swiftly still the Mouser, shaking off the careless hold of his startled guards, sprang toward Krovas, clubbing his wrapped-up sword. If he could only overpower the King of Thieves and hold Cat’s Claw at his throat, he’d be able to bargain for his and Fafhrd’s lives. That is unless the other thieves wanted their master killed, which wouldn’t surprise him at all.

  With startling speed Flim thrust out his gilded staff, tripping the Mouser, who went heels over head, midway seeking to change his involuntary somersault into a voluntary one.

  Meanwhile Fafhrd lurched heavily against his left-hand captor, at the same time swinging bandaged Graywand strongly upward to strike his right-hand captor under the jaw. Regaining his one-legged balance with a mighty contortion, he hopped for the loot-wall behind him.

  Slevyas made for the wall of thieves’ tools, and with a muscle-cracking effort wrenched the great pry-bar from its padlocked ring.

  Scrambling to his feet after a poor landing in front of Krovas’ chair, the Mouser found it empty and the Thief King in a half-crouch behind it, gold-hilted dagger drawn, deep-sunk eyes coldly battle-wild. Spinning around, he saw Fafhrd’s guards on the floor, the one sprawled senseless, the other starting to scramble up, while the great Northerner, his back against the wall of weird jewelry, menaced the whole room with wrapped-up Graywand and with his long knife, jerked from its scabbard behind him.

  Likewise drawing Cat’s Claw, the Mouser cried in trumpet voice of battle, “Stand aside, all! He’s gone mad! I’ll hamstring his good leg for you!” And racing through the press and between his own two guards, who still appeared to hold him in some awe, he launched himself with flashing dirk at Fafhrd, praying that the Northerner, drunk now with battle as well as wine and poisonous perfume, would recognize him and guess his stratagem.

  Graywand slashed well above his ducking head. His new friend not only guessed, but was playing up—and not just missing by accident, the Mouser hoped. Stooping low by the wall, he cut the lashings on Fafhrd’s left leg. Graywand and Fafhrd’s long knife continued to spare him. Springing up, he headed for the corridor, crying overshoulder to Fafhrd, “Come on!”

  Hristomilo stood well out of his way, quietly observing. Fissif scuttled toward safety. Krovas stayed behind his chair, shouting, “Stop them! Head them off!”

  The three remaining ruffian guards, at last beginning to recover their fighting-wits, gathered to oppose the Mouser. But menacing them with swift feints of his dirk, he slowed them and darted between—and then just in the nick of time knocked aside with a downsweep of wrapped-up Scalpel Flim’s gilded staff, thrust once again to trip him.

  All this gave Slevyas time to return from the tools-wall and aim at the Mouser a great swinging blow with the massive pry-bar. But even as that blow started, a very long, bandaged sword on a very long arm thrust over the Mouser’s shoulder and solidly and heavily poked Slevyas high on the chest, jolting him backward, so that the pry-bar’s swing was short and whistled past harmlessly.

  Then the Mouser found himself in the corridor and Fafhrd beside him, though for some weird reason still only hopping. The Mouser pointed toward the stairs. Fafhrd nodded, but delayed to reach high, still on one leg only, and rip off the nearest wall a dozen cubits of heavy drapes, which he threw across the corridor to baffle pursuit.

  They reached the stairs and started up the next flight, the Mouser in advance. There were cries behind, some muffled.

  “Stop hopping, Fafhrd!” the Mouser ordered querulously. “You’ve got two legs again.”

  “Yes, and the other’s still dead,” Fafhrd complained. “Ahh! Now feeling begins to return to it.”

  A thrown knife whisked between them and dully clinked as it hit the wall point-first and stone-powder flew. Then they were around the bend.

  Two more empty corridors, two more curving flights, and then they saw above them on the last landing a stout ladder mounting to a dark, square hole in the roof. A thief with hair bound back by a colorful handkerchief—it appeared to be a door guards’ identification—menaced the Mouser with drawn sword, but when he saw that there were two of them, both charging him determinedly with shining knives and strange staves or clubs, he turned and ran down the last empty corridor.

  The Mouser, followed closely by Fafhrd, rapidly mounted the ladder and without pause vaulted up through the hatch into the star-crusted night.

  He found himself near the unrailed edge of a slate roof which slanted enough to have made it look most fearsome to a novice roof-walker, but safe as houses to a veteran.

  Crouched on the long peak of the roof was another kerchiefed thief holding a dark lantern. He was rapidly covering and uncovering, presumably in some code, the lantern’s bull’s eye, whence shot a faint green beam north to where a red po
int of light winked dimly in reply—as far away as the sea wall, it looked, or perhaps the masthead of a ship beyond, riding in the Inner Sea. Smuggler?

  Seeing the Mouser, this one instantly drew sword and, swinging the lantern a little in his other hand, advanced menacingly. The Mouser eyed him warily—the dark lantern with its hot metal, concealed flame, and store of oil would be a tricky weapon.

  But then Fafhrd had clambered out and was standing beside the Mouser, on both feet again at last. Their adversary backed slowly away toward the north end of the roof ridge. Fleetingly the Mouser wondered if there was another hatch there.

  Turning back at a bumping sound, he saw Fafhrd prudently hoisting the ladder. Just as he got it free, a knife flashed up close past him out of the hatch. While following its flight, the Mouser frowned, involuntarily admiring the skill required to hurl a knife vertically with any accuracy.

  It clattered down near them and slid off the roof. The Mouser loped south across the slates and was halfway from the hatch to that end of the roof when the faint chink came of the knife striking the cobbles of Murder Alley.

  Fafhrd followed more slowly, in part perhaps from a lesser experience of roofs, in part because he still limped a bit to favor his left leg, and in part because he was carrying the heavy ladder balanced on his right shoulder.

  “We won’t need that,” the Mouser called back.

  Without hesitation Fafhrd heaved it joyously over the edge. By the time it crashed in Murder Alley, the Mouser was leaping down two yards and across a gap of one to the next roof, of opposite and lesser pitch. Fafhrd landed beside him.

  The Mouser led them at almost a run through a sooty forest of chimneys, chimney pots, ventilators with tails that made them always face the wind, black-legged cisterns, hatch covers, bird houses, and pigeon traps across five roofs, four progressively a little lower, the fifth regaining a yard of the altitude they’d lost—the spaces between the buildings easy to leap, none more than three yards, no ladder-bridge required, and only one roof with a somewhat greater pitch than that of Thieves’ House—until they reached the Street of the Thinkers at a point where it was crossed by a roofed passageway much like the one at Rokkermas and Slaarg’s.