Selected Stories by Fritz Leiber

by Fritz Leiber

  “I know all about that, and my plight is worse even than yours,” Fafhrd retorted, and after pledging the Mouser to secrecy, told him the tale of Vlana’s vendetta against the Guild and her deadly serious dreams of an all-encompassing revenge.

  During his story the four jugs came up from the cellar, but the Mouser only ordered that their earthenware mugs be refilled.

  Fafhrd finished, “And so, in consequence of a promise given by an infatuated and unschooled boy in a southern angle of the Cold Waste, I find myself now as a sober—well, at other times—man being constantly asked to make war on a power as great as that of Lankhmar’s overlord, for as you may know, the Guild has locals in all other cities and major towns of this land. I love Vlana dearly and she is an experienced thief herself, but on this one topic she has a kink in her brains, a hard knot neither logic nor persuasion can even begin to loosen.”

  “Certes t’would be insanity to assault the Guild direct, your wisdom’s perfect there,” the Mouser commented. “If you cannot break your most handsome girl of this mad notion, or coax her from it, then you must stoutly refuse e’en her least request in that direction.”

  “Certes I must,” Fafhrd agreed with great emphasis and conviction. “I’d be an idiot taking on the Guild. Of course, if they should catch me, they’d kill me in any case for freelancing and highjacking. But wantonly to assault the Guild direct, kill one Guild-thief needlessly—lunacy entire!”

  “You’d not only be a drunken, drooling idiot, you’d questionless be stinking in three nights at most from that emperor of diseases, Death. Malicious attacks on her person, blows directed at the organization, the Guild requites tenfold what she does other rule-breaking, freelancing included. So, no least giving-in to Vlana in this one matter.”

  “Agreed!” Fafhrd said loudly, shaking the Mouser’s iron-thewed hand in a near crusher grip.

  “And now we should be getting back to the girls,” the Mouser said.

  “After one more drink while we settle the score. Ho, boy!”

  “Suits.”

  Vlana and Ivrian, deep in excited talk, both started at the pounding rush of footsteps up the stairs. Racing behemoths could hardly have made more noise. The creaking and groaning were prodigious, and there were the crashes of two treads breaking. The door flew open and their two men rushed in through a great mushroom top of night-smog which was neatly sliced off its black stem by the slam of the door.

  “I told you we’d be back in a wink,” the Mouser cried gayly to Ivrian, while Fafhrd strode forward, unmindful of the creaking floor, crying, “Dearest heart, I’ve missed you sorely,” and caught up Vlana despite her voiced protests and pushings-off and kissed and hugged her soundly before setting her back on the couch again.

  Oddly, it was Ivrian who appeared to be angry at Fafhrd then, rather than Vlana, who was smiling fondly if somewhat dazedly.

  “Fafhrd, sir,” she said boldly, her little fists set on her narrow hips, her tapered chin held high, her dark eyes blazing, “my beloved Vlana has been telling me about the unspeakably atrocious things the Thieves’ Guild did to her and to her dearest friends. Pardon my frank speaking to one I’ve only met, but I think it quite unmanly of you to refuse her the just revenge she desires and fully deserves. And that goes for you too, Mouser, who boasted to Vlana of what you would have done had you but known, all the while intending only empty ingratiation. You who in like case did not scruple to slay my very own father!”

  It was clear to Fafhrd that while he and the Gray Mouser had idly boozed in the Eel, Vlana had been giving Ivrian a doubtless empurpled account of her grievances against the Guild and playing mercilessly on the naive girl’s bookish, romantic sympathies and high concept of knightly honor. It was also clear to him that Ivrian was more than a little drunk. A threequarters empty flask of violet wine of far Kiraay sat on the low table next the couch.

  Yet he could think of nothing to do but spread his big hands helplessly and bow his head, more than the low ceiling made necessary, under Ivrian’s glare, now reinforced by that of Vlana. After all, they were in the right. He had promised.

  So it was the Mouser who first tried to rebut. “Come now, pet,” he cried lightly as he danced about the room, silk-stuffing more cracks against the thickening night-smog and stirring up and feeding the fire in the stove, “and you too, beauteous Lady Vlana. For the past month Fafhrd has by his highjackings been hitting the Guild-thieves where it hurts them most—in their purses a-dangle between their legs. Come, drink we up all.” Under his handling, one of the new jugs came uncorked with a pop, and he darted about brimming silver cups and mugs.

  “A merchant’s revenge!”Ivrian retorted with scorn, not one whit appeased, but rather enangered anew. “At the least you and Fafhrd must bring Vlana the head of Krovas!”

  “What would she do with it? What good would it be except to spot the carpets?”the Mouser plaintively inquired, while Fafhrd, gathering his wits at last and going down on one knee, said slowly,“Most respected Lady Ivrian, it is true I solemnly promised my beloved Vlana I would help her in her revenge, but if Mouser and I should bring Vlana the head of Krovas, she and I would have to flee Lankhmar on the instant, every man’s hand against us. While you infallibly would lose this fairyland Mouser has created for love of you and be forced to do likewise, be with him a beggar on the run for the rest of your natural lives.”

  While Fafhrd spoke, Ivrian snatched up her new-filled cup and drained it. Now she stood up straight as a soldier, her pale face flushed, and said scathingly, “You count the cost! You speak to me of things—” She waved at the many-hued splendor around her, “—of mere property, however costly—when honor is at stake. You gave Vlana your word. Oh, is knighthood wholly dead?”

  Fafhrd could only shrug again and writhe inside and gulp a little easement from his silver mug.

  In a master stroke, Vlana tried gently to draw Ivrian down to her golden seat again. “Softly, dearest,” she pled. “You have spoken nobly for me and my cause, and believe me, I am most grateful. Your words revived in me great, fine feelings dead these many years. But of us here, only you are truly an aristocrat attuned to the highest proprieties. We other three are naught but thieves. Is it any wonder some of us put safety above honor and wordkeeping, and most prudently avoid risking our lives? Yes, we are three thieves and I am outvoted. So please speak no more of honor and rash, dauntless bravery, but sit you down and—”

  “You mean they’re both afraid to challenge the Thieves’ Guild, don’t you?” Ivrian said, eyes wide and face twisted by loathing. “I always thought my Mouser was a nobleman first and a thief second. Thieving’s nothing. My father lived by cruel thievery done on rich wayfarers and neighbors less powerful than he, yet he was an aristocrat. Oh, you’re cowards, both of you! Poltroons!” she finished, turning her eyes flashing with cold scorn first on the Mouser, then on Fafhrd.

  The latter could stand it no longer. He sprang to his feet, face flushed, fists clenched at his sides, quite unmindful of his down-clattered mug and the ominous creak his sudden action drew from the sagging floor.

  “I am not a coward!” he cried. “I’ll dare Thieves’ House and fetch you Krovas’ head and toss it with blood a-drip at Vlana’s feet. I swear that by my sword Graywand here at my side!”

  He slapped his left hip, found nothing there but his tunic, and had to content himself with pointing tremble-armed at his belt and scabbarded sword where they lay atop his neatly folded robe—and then picking up, refilling splashily, and draining his mug.

  The Gray Mouser began to laugh in high, delighted, tuneful peals. All stared at him. He came dancing up beside Fafhrd, and still smiling widely, asked, “Why not? Who speaks of fearing the Guild-thieves? Who becomes upset at the prospect of this ridiculously easy exploit, when all of us know that all of them, even Krovas and his ruling clique, are but pygmies in mind and skill compared to me or Fafhrd here? A wondrously simple, foolproof scheme has just occurred to me for penetrating Thieves’ House, every clos
et and cranny. Stout Fafhrd and I will put it into effect at once. Are you with me, Northerner?”

  “Of course I am,” Fafhrd responded gruffly, at the same time frantically wondering what madness had gripped the little fellow.

  “Give me a few heartbeats to gather needed props, and we’re off!” the Mouser cried. He snatched from shelf and unfolded a stout sack, then raced about, thrusting into it coiled ropes, bandage rolls, rags, jars of ointment and unction and unguent, and other oddments.

  “But you can’t go tonight,” Ivrian protested, suddenly grown pale and uncertain-voiced. “You’re both… in no condition to.”

  “You’re both drunk,” Vlana said harshly.“Silly drunk—and that way you’ll get naught in Thieves’ House but your deaths. Fafhrd! Control yourself!”

  “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 may hap, 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.”

  Vlana eyed him dubiously.

  Under cover of this confab 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.

  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, then followed Fafhrd.

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

  “Oh, be careful, Mouser,” 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 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.

  “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.

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

  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,” 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, and then north into an even narrower and more noisome alley.

  “Plague Court,” the Mouser said.

  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 in swift-moving black rivers and rivulets, heaping, eddying, swirling, dark and reeking essence of Lankhmar from its branding irons, braziers, bonfires, 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 the rickety house behind it. The closer to that center it got, the more substantial the smog became, eddy-strands and swirl-tatters tearing off and clinging like black cobwebs to rough stone corners and scraggly surfaced brick.

  But the Mouser and Fafhrd merely exclaimed in mild, muted amazement at the stars and cautiously zigzagging across the Street of the Thinkers, called Atheist Avenue by moralists, continued up Plague Court until it forked.

  The Mouser chose the left branch, which trended northwest.

  “Death Alley.”

  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 the wide, low, open doorway of Thieves’ House, 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.

  There was no porter or guard in sight, not even a watchdog on a chain. The effect was ominous.

  “Now how do we get into the damn place?” Fafhrd demanded in a hoarse whisper. “That doorway stinks of traps.”

  The Mouser answered, scornful at last,“Why, we’ll walk straight through that doorway you fear.” 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 reports in to the Begggarmasters at Thieves’ House. We’ll be new members, who’ve gone out by day, so it’ll not be expected that the Night Beggarmaster will 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, spirally, 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?”

  The Mouser laid a flimsy black rag across his own eyes and tied it fast behind his head.

  “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 do
n’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. 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-numbed nerves hardly registered it. Balancing himself with his steel-cored crutch cane as the Mouser worked, he swigged from his jug and pondered deeply.

  Brilliant as the Mouser’s plan undoubtedly was, there did seem to be drawbacks to it.

  “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 your knife 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. 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?”