Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (10 page)

"Pissing on me last night, that I can forgive," the Mouser warned. "Knocking me into this slime, however, would have required retribution."

Fafhrd peered carefully around the edge of the alley before stepping out again. The way was clear. At the end of the new street where they found themselves the tall masts of a sailing ship rocked gently to and fro. On the wharf, half-naked men busily loaded barrels and sacks of grain onto the vessel.

Halfway down the street, the line of warehouses parted, yielding to the cracked marble tiles of an old courtyard. Surrounded by an iron fence that offered no gate, a slender, black-stoned tower rose three stories high. Only the third and highest story offered any windows or apparent openings. Birds flew in and out, having made their nests in its shadowed recesses. The courtyard, even the side of the tower, was stained with centuries of droppings.

The Mouser approached the fence, walked back and forth before it, ran his fingers along the spear-pointed iron bars. Fafhrd stood back. His gaze climbed the stones, noting the crumbling mortar, the gaping rent in the structure near its parapet, the way the birds cooed in their nests while their mates circled.

"He's not here," he said in a low voice to the Mouser. When his partner turned toward him, he explained. "The birds are too carefree. The nests would be empty if the tower were inhabited."

Nodding agreement, the Mouser backed away from the fence.

Returning to Nun Street, they worked their way south through the growing throngs that choked the busy thoroughfare. Exerting itself, the sun made slight headway through the clouds, and though the sky remained gray, the air warmed.

A pair of temples stood side by side on Sailors' Row. The taller one stood two stories and loomed over the second temple, which was a low, square building. The tower, badly crumbled on one side, leaned at an unlikely angle.
Slumped over,
Fafhrd thought to himself,
as if the god it was built for had died.
The box-like temple appeared ageless, seamless in construction. Neither structure showed doors or windows. They shared a common courtyard, and in the center of that lay the shattered ruins of an ancient fountain. A common iron fence separated the grounds from the rest of the city.

The feeble sun slipped toward the horizon, and twilight stole quietly through Lankhmar. The sounds of industry lessened in the riverfront district, and the streets slowly emptied of shoppers and workers.

Frustration gnawed at Fafhrd as he wandered with the Mouser to the southern end of the wharves and stared across the glimmering water of the wide Hlal. A rising wind played an eerie tune in the riggings of ships moored in their berths. He listened, noting also the creaking of the boards beneath his feet as the river lapped at the pilings. It all made a strange, lonely music.

"I think I have never felt so thin as now," Fafhrd murmured to himself.

Overhearing, the Mouser raised an eyebrow. "Thin?"

Far across the river, a black-cloaked old man poled a flat skiff patiently across the dappled water. Fafhrd watched with an odd foreboding, that he attributed to fatigue. "The wind blows," he said cryptically to the Mouser, "but it blows through me. The music, too, seems to pass through me."

"Music?" the Mouser repeated. "What music?"

Fafhrd continued to watch the skiff. Though the boatman worked his pole with practiced skill, he progressed but slowly over the darkening waves. "I can't explain it, my friend," he said without looking at the Mouser. "I feel . . ." he hesitated and hugged himself against a chill before finishing his thought. "Insubstantial."

A small sharp pain flashed suddenly through Fafhrd's rump. Giving a yelp, the Northerner jumped a foot in the air and clutched his backside.

The Mouser smiled wickedly as he held up thumb and forefinger and made a pinching motion. "So much for insubstantiality," he said. "Now come on."

The Mouser turned his back to the river and started away. Fafhrd followed, but before they rounded the corner of yet another warehouse, he glanced around abruptly and stopped.

The air became dead still, without a breath of wind. The guy wires and riggings of the moored ships hummed no more, but fell suddenly silent, as if struck dumb. Even the constant creaking of the wharves seemed to cease.

Fafhrd studied the river. Nowhere upon that gently swirling surface was there a sign of a skiff or boatman.

"Blood of Kos," Fafhrd muttered, taking long strides to catch up with the Mouser. "This city is getting to me."

Where Nun Street joined Cash Street, yet another temple stood. The four-storied black structure cast its shadow over a neighborhood composed mostly of small shops and the estates of wealthy merchants and ship-owners. Taller and more slender than most of the forbidden towers, and leaning at a riverward angle, it looked to Fafhrd like some stygian sword thrust by a giant hand into the earth. Narrow balconies beneath windows on either side even gave the impression of tines.

A fair number of citizens still ventured abroad in this part of town even as night drew close. Many still carried their shopping baskets as they drifted from door to door. Others, dressed in finery and accompanied by servants or personal guards, on foot or in palanquins, headed east on Cash Street toward Carter Street, bound for the Festival District or the Plaza of Dark Delights.

Fafhrd started toward the iron fence that surrounded the ancient tower, but the Mouser's hand closed firmly around his arm and steered him in a new direction.

"Pull up your hood," the Mouser whispered sharply, his dark eyes darting suspiciously from side to side.

Without seeming haste, Fafhrd covered his head and continued down the street past the temple. A fountain and public drinking well gurgled prettily at the center of the intersection of Nun and Cash Streets. Fafhrd allowed the Mouser to guide him there, and the two men dipped their hands in the water to drink.

"So, gray friend," Fafhrd said as he brought his cupped hands toward his mouth, "what spurred this sudden fondness for my elbow?"

"Glance toward the lace-maker's shop across the way," the Mouser said as he pretended to drink. "What do you see leaning in the doorway?"

Smacking his damp lips, Fafhrd wiped his hands on his trousers. "Why, nothing but two fellows in idle conversation," he answered, scrutinizing the pair. Under the cloaks they wore, however, he thought he detected the outlines of swords.

"Now, over by the white wall of that estate," the Mouser continued, dipping his hands for another drink. "Just down the road to your left."

Splashing a little water on his face, Fafhrd wiped at his eyes with one sleeve. As he did so, he gazed where his partner directed. "Another pair of fellows," he noted. "Also in idle conversation."

"Also cloaked and armed," the Mouser said. "Also shaven of face and trimmed of hair, like the pair by the shop. Four sturdy men without an ounce of merchants' fat around their bellies or on their bare cheeks. Their eyes sweep everywhere."

"Private security?" Fafhrd suggested. "Perhaps they are positioned to keep the neighborhood safe from crime."

The Mouser snorted. "Let's continue casually around the tower," he suggested. "For the moment, observe it without approaching it."

By the time they finished their reconnaissance, night had fully settled. "How many did you count?" Fafhrd asked as they drank once more from the fountain at the intersection of Nun and Cash.

"Twenty-two," the Mouser answered quietly, "lounging in various doorways and gateways, under trees, on rooftops."

From the doorway of the lace shop, a pair of stout men paused in their conversation and glanced their way. They were a different pair, but acting out the same conversation, striking the same nonchalant poses. Their eyes, though, gave them away, for they watched everything.

"The guard has changed," Fafhrd murmured.

"The question is," his companion said, "what are they guarding? My money is on the tower."

Together, they left the fountain and started eastward on Cash Street away from the forbidden temple. "Why this particular temple and not the others?”
 
Fafrd wondered aloud.
 
Then the obvious idea occurred to him.
 
“Could they be seeking Malygris as well?”
 

The Mouser gave a low chuckle.
 
“So many curious questions,” he said.
 
“And if your archery skills are sufficient to put an arrow and a climbing line through one of those upper windows, perhaps after midnight we can find some answers.

SIX

 
DEATH KNELLS

F
og once again moved through the streets of Lankhmar. Tendrils of mist crept up every lane, poured into every plaza, seeped through the smallest alleys. The heavy gray blanket extinguished the moon and stars, dimmed the watchfires that burned atop the city walls, threatened to swallow even the tiny flames in the lanterns of the few citizens who dared to venture forth.

Once more crouched in a shadowed doorway near the intersection of Cash and Nun streets, the Mouser growled a low curse. The midnight hour was far off; the deepening fog had forced them to hasten their plans.

In the shadows beside him, Fafhrd stood ready with a newly purchased line and iron grapnel. "Getting over the fence would be easy," the Northerner whispered. "But in this pea soup, I can’t even see the tower, let alone pitch a hook through a third-story window."

Fafhrd exaggerated their predicament only slightly. Only the lower portion of the tower remained visible, and that was little more than a silhouette. The fog thoroughly concealed the upper half.

The Mouser cursed again, marveling at how swiftly the damned stuff had moved up from the river and into the city. Even as he watched, it seemed to swirl languidly around the forbidden tower, engulfing it.
 
The lower portion, too, vanished from sight.
 

"There's no adventure for us here this night," Fafhrd muttered, shifting nervously in the doorway.

A sharp cough from the far side of the street caught the Mouser's attention. He tugged the hood of his cloak over his head as he rose from his crouched position. "Not so," he answered. "If we can't get into the temple, let's see if we can discover the identities of its guardians."

With Fafhrd close on his heels, he darted to the far side of Cash Street and pressed himself against a wall. An upward glance told his companion what he planned. In cupped hands, Fafhrd accepted the Mouser's foot and boosted him to the low roof. Once secure in his perch, the Mouser reached down and took the grapnel his partner extended to him. Then, with a powerful jump, Fafhrd caught the edge of the gutter. For an instant, he hung there. Then, silently he muscled his huge body upward.

A moment later, the two squatted side by side. "A fine pair of gargoyles we make," Fafhrd murmured as he took the grapnel and line back from the Mouser.

"I'm too good-looking for a gargoyle," the Mouser whispered in reply. "You're just about right, though." Rising with a grin on his face, he quickly tip-toed away over the rooftop before Fafhrd could form a rejoinder.

The shops in this part of the city stood close together, many sharing adjoining walls. Moving carefully over the mist-slick tiles, the pair of adventurers crouched down again and peered over the edge of a certain lacework establishment facing Nun Street. Needlessly, the Mouser glanced at Fafhrd and, holding a finger to his lips, cautioned silence.

Soft, muttering voices rose up from the doorway just below their rooftop perch. Stretching out on his belly, pushing back his hood, the Mouser crawled forward as far as he dared and peeked downward. Two cloaked men sat on the small stoop, casually swapping stories of fishing in the Hlal. One balanced a sheathed sword across his knees.
 

The Mouser crawled away from the edge and sat up again. Farther up on the roof, a patient Fafhrd sat cross-legged, lovingly stroking a thin gray cat that was curled up in his lap. Luminous eyes blinked as the beast settled its head upon a brawny thigh and purred.

  
"Where did that come from?" the Mouser dared to whisper.

Fafhrd drew his fingers gently between the cat's ears, down its neck, along its furry spine. "I seem to attract gray mousers," he answered. Then he put a finger to his lips exactly as the Mouser had done earlier, but whether to warn against disturbing the cat or the men below, the Mouser wasn't sure.

Leaving Fafhrd with his newfound friend, the Mouser crawled back to the roof's edge and stretched out on his belly again. Perhaps if he listened long enough he might learn something from the conversation on the stoop. The voices droned boringly on about the weather, the fog, the river, the coming midsummer celebration.

Without warning, a weight suddenly landed in the middle of the Mouser's back. Every hair on his neck stood on end, and he barely stifled an outcry. On his belly, he could reach neither sword, nor dagger.

The sound of purring touched the Mouser's ears. His attacker was none other than Fafhrd's cat. The impudent little animal walked in a circle on the Mouser's spine before curling up comfortably in the small of his back.