Selected Stories by Fritz Leiber (15 page)

“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 closet 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 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. 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?”
“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 grease paint, 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 crouching on his right leg got a good handful of muck himself. Heaving himself up with a mighty effort, he wiped the stuff off on the Mouser’s cloak and grey silken jerkin too.
The small man cursed, but,“Dramatic consistency,”Fafhrd reminded him. “Now come on, while our fires and our stinks 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 overshoulder to shatter noisily.
They hop-shuffled across Cheap Street and without pause up the two worn steps and through the doorway, past the exceptionally thick wall. Ahead was a long, straight, high-ceilinged corridor ending in a stairs and with doors spilling light at intervals and wallset torches adding their flare, but empty all its length.
They had just got through the doorway when cold steel chilled 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. 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 fingerends dug his shoulder warningly. They moved along somewhat more naturally, so far as Fafhrd’s tied-up leg allowed. Truly, thought Fafhrd, Kos of the Dooms seemed to be leading him direct to Krovas and perhaps head-chopping