Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (9 page)

With the mildest of creaks, the door opened and shut. It was Fafhrd's turn to look up. An orange glow surrounded the Mouser as he held high one of the taverns lanterns. In his other hand, he bore a pitcher. Placing the lantern beside the wash basin on the room's only table, he handed the pitcher to Fafhrd, then crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Rough night?" the Mouser asked. "Looks like you spent it in a pig sty."

Fafhrd took a long pull from the pitcher. The beer tasted warm and bitter, but it drove the chill from his body, and lifted his spirits a little. "Nice of you to wait up," he said.

With the strings looped around his first finger, the Mouser twirled the purse around and around until the speed of its motion made a small humming sound and the purse, itself, blurred. "I gather you encountered the Ilthmart of questionable character?"

Fafhrd only nodded as he rose and went to the table. Setting aside the pitcher of beer, he cast off his cloak and began to wash himself with an old cloth using the water that already half-filled the crude earthenware basin. The sound of gentle splashing filled the room.

The Mouser put aside the purse. "Did you kill him?" he inquired carefully. "Is that why your mood seems bleaker than this crippled daylight?"

Fafhrd cleaned mud from his feet and shins. "He preferred to be reasonable," he answered. "As for my mood—" he paused in his ablutions and glanced toward the shutters before rinsing the cloth with a violent effort. Water splashed from the basin, spilling onto the table and floor. Fafhrd ignored it. "Blame it on this fog-haunted city. I wish we were away from here."

A strangely grim expression shadowed the Mouser's face. Fafhrd looked away from his friend as he gnawed his lower lip. He wondered if he should speak of Vlana's ghost. Yet, could he be sure he had, indeed, seen the spirit of his one true love? Perhaps it was only his imagination or the fog playing tricks with his head. Perhaps it was only his grief catching up with him.

The Mouser patted the mattress. "Let us take a few hours' sleep," he suggested, "then, we'll rise and begin this evil quest. The sooner begun, the sooner done."

Fafhrd scowled as he threw the cloth back into the basin, splashing more water. "Sleep," he said, turning down the lantern's wick. Crossing to his side of the bed in the near-darkness, he crawled under a corner of the only blanket. "Then rise and head to work like good common little hirelings."

The Mouser's boots clunked onto the floor as he cast them off. His tunic followed, and he claimed his own piece of the blanket. "You should never go to bed angry," he said in a lighter tone.

"You are not my wife," Fafhrd grumbled as he turned onto his side, a movement that dragged the entire blanket to his half of the bed. "Shut up."

The Mouser snatched it back again, beginning a silent war that would continue until well past noon.

A drizzling rain fell from slate-gray skies, turning the backstreets and alleyways to ribbons of mud, slicking the cobblestones and paving tiles of the better thoroughfares. Along the Street of the Gods, the gutters roiled with dirty, refuse-strewn water. Huddled under hooded cloaks or brightly dyed parasols, pedestrians hurried in and out of the many elaborate temples that gave the way its name.

Impatiently watching the traffic, Fafhrd waited outside the columned gates of the Temple of Mog, the spider god. The droning intonations of Mog's priests reached his ears, muffled only slightly by the rain's steady pitter-patter. The temple was actually a huge amphitheater with a cone-shaped administration building at its center. Come rain or shine, from dawn until sundown, priests and acolytes and worshippers ranged about the grounds singing the praises of their deity.

Huddled under a single blue and yellow parasol, a pair of old women passed by Fafhrd and through the columned entrance. Immediately, they began to sing, weaving their voices in a squeaky, tuneless harmony. Drawing the folds of his hood closer about his face, the Northerner turned his back to the gate and shook his head. How, he wondered, could any god abide such prayer?

He resumed watching the traffic until the Mouser emerged from the temple gate and tapped his shoulder. Fafhrd look down at his comrade. "I didn't hear your dulcet tones soaring among the voices of Mog's heavenly choir," he said with unveiled sarcasm.

The Mouser, looking miserable in his sodden gray cloak, took Fafhrd's elbow and steered him through the street in the direction of the riverfront. "You know I sing like a frog with a fly stuck in its throat," he answered. "Instead I convinced the priests of my piety by making an offering of the Ilthmart's ring."

Fafhrd grunted. To his mind, the ring was now wasted wealth. If Mog ever saw the pretty bauble, it would be adorning the finger of one of his priests. But above all the other gods of Ne-hwon, the Mouser worshipped the spider god, and when asked for permission to donate the ring, Fafhrd could not deny his partner.

"With such business as we are upon," the Mouser said, almost apologetically, "currying a little favor with the gods cannot hurt."

"Can't it?" Fafhrd said, giving a sidelong glance toward a line of saffron-robed priests of Issek as they marched down the middle of the rainy street, shaking chipolis and bells in accompaniment to some chant. "What is prayer, but a poor man's magic-making? What if it also attracts Malygris's deadly curse?"

The Mouser stopped in his tracks and pushed back the edge of his hood to regard his companion. His face seemed paler than usual. He looked up and down the Street of the Gods at all the citizens entering and exiting the various temples. "All these people ..." he said. Wiping rain from his eyes, he pulled up his hood again and resumed the course. He muttered to Fafhrd, "You have a talent for making a gloomy day gloomier."

Where Silver Street intersected the Street of the Gods, a team of four brawny slaves bearing a gaily draped palanquin momentarily blocked the way. The white wood frame, carved in relief with small figures of animals, resembled expensive ivory. Even in the rain, its cloth-of-gold and red silk curtains shimmered, and tiny golden bells on the bearing poles jingled in rhythm with the bearers' steps.

As the palanquin passed them by, delicate fingers with long, painted nails parted the curtains ever so slightly. A wisp of blond hair flashed, and kohl-blackened eyes focused briefly on them. Then the curtain closed again.

"Liara," the Mouser whispered, staring after the vehicle as it hurried on.

Never had Fafhrd seen such a strange expression on his partner's face. The Mouser's jaw hung, and his eyes seemed glazed, nor did he show any inclination to move. "Who?" he said. "You know that pretty dish?"

The Mouser seemed to shake himself, but still he stared after the palanquin, finally tearing his gaze away. "The Dark Butterfly," he said gruffly, abruptly leading the way across the busy intersection. With a note of scorn, he added, "Some whore, who happened into the Silver Eel last night. On her way to some assignation, no doubt."

The rain abruptly stopped. Fafhrd glanced up at the sky and observed the thick clouds that rolled and rumbled above the city. The sun, barely visible through the pall, floated like a pale, blinking eye, watchful and vaguely ominous.

A pair of shepherds drove a bleating flock of sheep through the intersection. Small hooves rang on the cobbled pavement, and a dog barked and nipped at the ankles of woolly stragglers. A wagon, pulled by two oxen and laden with heavy barrels, trundled noisily on huge wheels of solid wood after the shepherds, the driver scowling and cursing the slowness of the procession.

"Watch your step," Fafhrd said to the Mouser when the way was clear and they started forward again. He wrinkled his nose. "That's not mud, where you're about to plant your boot."

The Mouser did a dainty dance around a series of small sheep pies. "Brag now about the sharpness of your barbarian senses," he said in a nasal voice, his mood lightening again, as he pinched his nostril shut with a finger and thumb.

They made it across Silver Street at last. Continuing down the Street of the Gods, they passed the five-storied Temple of Aarth, the largest and most lavish of all the Lankhmaran temples. A semi-circle of white-washed columns formed its gate, and white-robed neophytes with shaven heads greeted the lines of worshippers that filed through.

In all his travels, never had Fafhrd seen a city with so many gods and temples. The Street of the Gods ran from one side of the city to the other, from the Marsh Gate to the River Hlal, with nothing but temples on either side of it, or shops selling incense, herbs, or other offering materials to hurried worshippers. Every god or goddess in Lankhmar had a temple on this street, as did many gods from other nations.

Only Godsland itself, in the far north where the gods lived, could have more temples, Fafhrd figured.

Aarth's temple marked the end of the Street of the Gods, but it was not the last of the temples in Lankhmar. Turning south, they started down Nun Street, and Fafhrd spied the first of the seventeen black towers of Lankhmar's forgotten gods.

No one knew the names of the gods those black structures had been erected to honor, nor when they had been built. Already ancient and abandoned when the first Lankhmaran settlers came to this land, they were places of crumbling mystery, foreboding and forbidden. Some stood slender and tall, like thin claws thrust up from the earth to rake the sky, while others sat squat and low, like dark-skinned frogs watching the river.

Despite the oppressive shadows those temples cast, a bustling commerce flourished all along the riverfront. Lankhmar sat near the mouth of the River Hlal, which opened into the Inner Sea. Trading ships from Ilthmar, the Land of the Eight Cities, and even the far-off Cold Wastes from where Fafhrd hailed regularly docked at Lankhmar's busy wharves, and Lankhmar's own merchant navy stood second to none.

Shops and industries lined the streets of the riverfront. In addition, many of the city's nobles had built their homes and established fine estates in the district.

Another palanquin passed them, jangling with scores of tiny golden bells, born by four powerful men in red liveries who wore long dirks sheathed on their belts. Crimson and silver draperies fluttering somewhat in the breeze allowed no clue as to the occupant. A trio of servants, dressed in the same red garments, followed hurriedly after it, bearing packages and covered baskets.

Fafhrd scratched his short red beard. "She had a familiar face," he said thoughtfully.

"Who?" the Mouser asked, glancing from Fafhrd to the palanquin and back again.

"Your whore," he answered.

A dark look clouded the Mouser's face. Wordlessly, he strode off toward the first of the forbidden towers, stepping off Nun Street and taking Fishbloat Lane, which ran straight to the wharves. With long-legged strides, a puzzled Fafhrd easily caught up with his smaller companion.

"I want a look at each of the towers," the Mouser said quickly, as if preventing Fafhrd from reviving the previous subject. "If necessary, all seventeen."

Fafhrd nodded agreement. "Will Malygris be waving a hanky prettily out a window, or are we just reacquainting ourselves with the city's sights?"

"I don't know," the Mouser snapped with uncharacteristic rudeness. "Nuulpha's rumor may be just a rumor. But it's also a place to start. Do you have a better suggestion?"

Stung by his partner's tone, Fafhrd hesitated. "No," he finally admitted.

Forcing a path through a crowd of shoppers at an outdoor fish market, the Mouser spoke over his shoulder. "Then do me two favors," he said. Pulling back a corner of his hood, he forced a grin. "First, forgive me for my harsh speech." He held up one finger, then another as he abruptly stopped. "Second, look over the heads of this rabble and tell me where in Mog's name is the tower?"

Fafhrd laughed, his hurt forgotten. A narrow street, the shops and warehouses that lined Fishbloat Lane formed virtual walls on either side of the way, and so thick were the crowds, now that the rain had ended, that his short friend was nearly engulfed in a sea of humanity. Even with the advantage of his height, Fafhrd could barely see the tip of the forbidden tower that marked their goal.

"Through here," he said suddenly, catching the Mouser's gray-clad arm and jerking him into an alley. The passage was barely worthy to be called such. The rough wooden walls on either side, so close that they forced the two friends to walk sideways, scraped their backs and chests as they inched along. Mud squished under their boots, and the smell of rancid fish seemed trapped in the air.

Fafhrd dared to look down. The thin ribbon of ground glimmered with fish scales, old and new. It was not mud alone they walked on, but mud mixed with fish guts. Rolling his eyes, he uttered a short prayer to Kos that no merchant dumped more garbage until he and the Mouser reached the other end.

"Come here often?" the Mouser muttered sarcastically as he shook a fish-head off his toe.

Fafhrd didn't answer. The alley joined another street where the shoppers were fewer. Fafhrd stepped out and let go the breath he'd been holding. Instantly, he jumped back as an ox pulling a cart nearly ran him down. His sudden lunge for safety caused him to collide with the Mouser, who was not yet clear of the alley. The Mouser gave an awkward cry and clutched frantically at Fafhrd's borrowed cloak with one hand, at the wall with the other.

The big Northerner caught his friend's arm and apologetically set him on his feet again.