Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (5 page)

At mention of the Thieves' Guild, Fafhrd's face clouded over with a mixture of anger and sadness. "We settled our score with them, didn't we, Mouser?" he said grimly. "Remind me that we indeed settled it, lest I give thought to settling it again."

"We settled our score with them, Fafhrd," the Mouser answered as old memories came surging back upon him. "But they may not have settled theirs with us."

"That is good," Fafhrd said, rising to his full seven-foot height and clenching his fist as he stared out from the alley’s shadowy gloom into the bright street. "It will make me very happy if they learn we are here and try to settle them."

THREE

THE SILVER EEL

T
he Mouser stared out through the open shutters of the only window in their small room above the Silver Eel. The black towers and minarets of Lankhmar stabbed at the star-speckled sky. Midsummer’s Moon, waxing toward fullness, hung like a solemn, disapproving frown above the tallest spire.

A tendril of pale mist wafted across the sky, diffusing the moon's light. In the street below, a thicker, white fog rolled slowly through the city, southward and eastward from the Inner Sea and the River Hlal.

A lone figure, barely visible in the darkness, waded quietly through the fog down the narrow road called Bones Alley and entered the rear door of the Silver Eel. Laughter from the inn below suddenly penetrated up through the floorboards. The Mouser cast a glance toward the only bed, but the sound failed to disturb Fafhrd, who lay sprawled on his belly like a great starfish, taking up the entire mattress.

The Mouser had slept but little, himself, clinging to the very edge of the bed lest he be smothered or crushed in Fafhrd s unconscious embrace. Adding to his restlessness was the sullen afternoon heat that had lasted into the early evening. They had been lucky to get this room for only five coppers, but it had been a mistake for the Mouser to try to catch up on lost sleep.

Still, he felt rested enough. It was not yet near midnight, he reckoned, but he could abide the room no longer. His mind churned with thoughts of Malygris, Sadaster, and the strange creature called Sheelba. Folding his arms across his bare chest, he gazed out the window again and drew a deep breath.

The rising mist half-obscured the moonlight now, and the silvery fog glimmered in the weakening light. Somewhere out there, the Mouser thought glumly, a terrible enchantment crept through the city as silently and surely as the night-mist, stealing under closed doors, pressing against shuttered windows.

Involuntarily, he edged back into the room’s shadows, his gaze never quite leaving the soft, white tendrils and wisps that eddied just beyond the sill. Then, with crisp, abrupt movements, he stepped forward, leaned out the window, seized and drew the shutters, and latched them tight.

For a long moment, he stood in the darkness, aware of nothing but the frantic beat of his heart and the dryness in his mouth. "I need a drink," he muttered, disgusted with himself for the undeniable fear he felt.

Groping his way around the room, he snatched his garments from a narrow rope line strung up high near the ceiling. Cherig One-hand, the owner of the Silver Eel, had provided them with a basin and water enough to wash their clothes and themselves at no extra charge for the service. Though still slightly damp, his things were dry enough to pull on. Quietly, he eased into his boots by the door, fastened his weapons belt around his waist, and slipped out into the hallway.

A lantern mounted on a sconce at the end of the narrow hall provided the only light. The Mouser paused long enough to reach into the purse on his belt and draw out a small strip of leather, which he used to tie back his lengthy black hair. Then, determined to forget about spells and wizards for a while, he squared his shoulders and went downstairs to the tavern.

The Silver Eel was arguably one of the most notorious dives in Lankhmar. Here, on almost any night between the right hours, a man could expect to fence a pretty bauble or contract out a murder. Yet, such was Cherig One-hand's reputation for keeping the peace in his establishment that one could find the city's most ruthless denizens rubbing elbows with some of the more adventurous-minded nobles whose tastes ran to "slumming."

A small crowd was gathered tonight. Some of the customers paused in their conversations to see whose soft tread creaked on the seventh stair. While most resumed their talk after a casual glance, a few watched, suspicious and steely-eyed, until the Mouser settled on a stool behind a rough table in the tavern's farthest corner.

The Silver Eel's owner strode to the Mouser's table, an earthen mug dangling from the hook where his right hand used to be, and a pitcher of dark beer clutched in his good left hand. With practiced ease, he set the mug upright before his customer and filled it to the brim. "First one’s on the house for renters," he grumbled good-naturedly. "How do you like my fine suite, Gray One?"

The Mouser grinned. "Most excellently," he said, raising the mug to his lips. "The rats bowed with exquisite grace to welcome us, and the fleas waited a full hour before biting us in our bed, which, by the way, is too small."

Cherig One-hand laughed. "It's not the bed that's too small, but your companion, Fafhrd, who is too large."

The Mouser swallowed a cool draught and smacked his lips. Cherig's home-made brew was legendary in Lankhmar, another reason for the Silver Eel's popularity. "Hmmm," he murmured with a roll of his eyes, "a complaint he often attributes to his wenches."

Cherig topped off the Mouser's mug as he set it down. "Well, now you and me are men of the world, are we not? And we've taken the measure of such boasts before."

A short cough sounded somewhere in the tavern. The Mouser momentarily forgot Cherig, and his gaze roamed around until he spied a trio casting dice at another table. A mustachioed bravo, dice clutched in a frozen fist, seemed in some distress. He gave a second, sharper cough as he lifted his mug with his free hand and took a quick, deep drink. Then, his discomfort apparently eased, he returned to his gaming.

Cherig resumed his serving duties, and the Mouser, his spirit sinking even lower, tilted his stool on its rear legs to lean his back against the wall. Raising his vessel to his lips, he drained half its contents.

The tavern door opened. Fingers of white mist curled around the edges, preceding a small girl-child with tangled yellow-gold hair and a haggard, dirty face. On her hip, she carried a shallow basket. Shyly, she approached the table nearest the door. "Would you like to buy one of my poppets for your sweetheart?" she asked in a weary, high voice as she reached into the basket and held up a doll made of braided and woven straw in a handmade scrap of a dress.

Deep in his cups, the lone figure who sat at the table growled and waved her away without looking up. Wisely, the child backed off and turned to make her pitch at another table.

Again, the door opened. Though the hour was well before midnight, the Mouser recognized the corporal from the Marsh Gate. The fog rose like smoke off the shoulders of the man's red cloak as he closed the door and looked around the tavern.

Raising his mug, the Mouser cried, "Ho, Captain! Can this be the hour of our appointment, already?"

The corporal strode through the crowd, unlacing his cloak as he came. Tossing the garment carelessly across one end of the Mouser's table, he then removed his helmet and set that down, too. "I was afraid if I waited until midnight," he said, seating himself unceremoniously across from his host, "that you'd have spent my bribe on ale and women by eleven."

The Mouser, suddenly glad for company, grinned. "I, sir?" he said, feigning offense. "Have I not dealt with you honestly?"

"Aye, sir," the corporal answered smartly. "And though you obviously have coin now when you had none before, I shall not ask with whom you have dealt dishonestly."

Laughing, the Mouser slapped the table. "I like you well, Captain. Tell me your name, and I shall buy you a drink." He beckoned to Cherig on the other side of the tavern.

"Nuulpha is my name," the corporal said. Then he paused as Cherig set a mug of beer before him. Lifting the beverage, he drained it to the last drop and ran his tongue around the rim before he placed it back on the table. "Nuulpha, the long-suffering," he continued. "But, gods willing, a few more of these, and I'll be suffering a little less."

"Your head may suffer the more," the Mouser responded as he motioned for Cherig to refill both their mugs. "Our host brews a devilish strong potion."

Cherig shrugged as he poured. "Consider the devils who make up my clientele," he grumbled in a voice dripping with good-humored sarcasm. "I get few such honest gentlemen as yourselves."

Nuulpha raised an eyebrow, smirking as the Silver Eel's owner departed. Then, he lifted his mug in salute. "If I may?" he asked, and when the Mouser politely nodded, he continued with gracious formality. "To my host. Though diminutive in stature, his generosity is larger than his guest's fat and spendthrift wife— and that is no small compliment."

With a low chuckle, the Mouser raised his own mug and added, "Let's hope it’s as large as your capacity for this fine beer."

Putting his elbows on the table, the corporal leaned forward and rubbed one hand over his grizzled chin. A weary look passed over his face, then faded. "Speaking of things large, where is your red-bearded companion?"

An exaggerated sigh slipped from the Mouser's lips as he lowered his beverage. "Sleeping like a babe, but with nothing more than a pillow on which to suckle." He leaned forward as well, laying his hands on either side of his beer, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I would ask you a question, Captain."

A grin turned up the corners of Nuulpha's mouth. "So the brew has a price, after all," he said, lifting his drink. He swallowed noisily and smacked his lips with satisfaction as he set the mug down again.

"Not so," the Mouser assured. "Your company averts a dark mood that earlier besieged me, and no matter your answer, I'll pay for the privilege of drinking you under the table."

Nuulpha casually glanced around the tavern before speaking again. "You must have robbed a rich man, indeed," he said.

Preparing to drink, the Mouser spoke nonchalantly over the rim of his mug. "Three members of the Thieves' Guild," he answered.

His guest's eyebrows shot up. "I salute you once again," he said, lifting his drink. Swallowing, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "They're a dangerous lot to trifle with, however. I'd be remiss not to advise you to watch your step where they are concerned." He drank again, and shrugged. "But I forget you are not new to Lankhmar. Ask your question, good host."

The Mouser called for Cherig to refill their mugs yet again, and waited quietly while the owner poured. Cherig eyed them closely, then as if sensing some business was underway, he departed without comment.

The Mouser leaned forward again. "Do you know of a wizard named Malygris?"

Nuulpha sputtered and spewed half a mouthful of beer across the table before he slammed his mug down and clapped a hand over his face to stop the spray. "Abject apologies!" he muttered hastily when he could draw a breath. Red-faced, he pushed his stool back slightly from the table as if he expected trouble.

The tavern grew silent as all eyes turned their way. Cherig, pitcher and tray balanced on one hand, turned, stern-faced. The little girl with the basket of dolls scurried down between a pair of tables for safety.

With icy calm, the Gray Mouser dabbed a finger at his dripping eyebrows. "Think nothing of it, Captain," he said, and if there was a bit more emphasis on the last word, it was purely unintentional. "I shall take care not to startle you again."

When trouble failed to start, the tavern patrons resumed their conversations. The little girl crawled out to continue her enterprise, and Cherig disappeared momentarily to return with a clean, soft towel, which he deposited wordlessly at the Mouser's elbow.

Embarrassment still coloring his cheeks, Nuulpha leaned forward again and spoke in a nervous whisper. "That's not a name one speaks aloud these days in Lankhmar."

"Perhaps that was the reason I spoke it in such an exceedingly low voice," the Mouser suggested pointedly as he wiped the towel over his face and set it aside.

Before either could say more, once again fingers of pale mist pushed open the tavern door, admitting a pair of roguish-looking Ilthmarts whose tattered cloaks could not hide the long swords they wore. The pair swaggered toward the last empty table, sat down, and swept the Silver Eel with sullen glares.

Nuulpha turned his attention back to his host. Leaning close over his beer, he whispered, "If I may ask, what is your interest in this person you named?"

The Mouser wondered just how much to explain, but his thoughts were interrupted when the little girl ventured shyly up to his elbow. "Please, sir," she said. "Would you like to buy one of my poppets for your sweetheart?" She held up a tiny straw doll. "Guaranteed to bring good luck to her kitchen or . . ." she hesitated, then blinked her eyes, "... or your bedchamber, should she place it there."

A sudden cough caused the Mouser to look past the child toward the table where the dice game was still in progress. The same mustachioed bravo coughed violendy into his fist, his face reddening. With a visible effort, he controlled himself and tossed down the remains of his beverage, but the coughing seized him again. When he moved his hand away from his mouth, a green phlegm smeared his chin. With barely muttered apologies to his two companions, he cast down the dice, rose and fled the Silver Eel.