Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (11 page)

This is carrying kinship too far,
the Mouser thought. About to shoo the creature away, he froze abruptly to listen as the conversation below took a more interesting turn.

"Damn this fog," one of the voices said. "There's beer and warmth back at the barracks."

The stoop creaked as someone shifted. "Quench your thirst at the fountain," said the second voice in a weary tone.

The Mouser pursed his lips in a thoughtful frown. Any number of Lankhmar's nobles quartered their own private guards, but surely such a casual reference to
barracks
indicated the involvement of the city's guards. His frown deepened.

Shifting position, Fafhrd sat down near the edge and proceeded to stroke the cat again. Fickle as only a cat can be, it rose, flexed one claw in the Mouser's right buttock, then transferred itself to the Northerner's lap once more.

The pale gleam of lanterns penetrated the thick fog. Six tall men in nondescript cloaks emerged from the mist, walking south on Nun Street. Without a word to the others, two separated from the party and approached the laceworks shop.

"Report," said one of the newcomers.

A now-familiar voice answered wearily. "All's quiet from this station."

"Take the lantern then," said the newcomer, "and remember you're celebrants, albeit quiet ones. Return by a roundabout course to the Rainbow Palace."

With the lantern's light to guide them through the fog, the men on the stoop walked around the corner to Cash Street while the newcomers made themselves comfortable in the doorway below.

Putting the cat aside, Fafhrd rose and beckoned the Mouser away from the roof's edge. But he didn't stop when they were safely out of hearing. Indeed, not until they had reached Cash Street, themselves, and dropped to the ground did Fafhrd speak.

There was no sign of a lantern's glow in the fog, which continued to grow ever thicker. "These are the Overlord's men," he stated, adjusting the grapnel, which was now slung by its coiled line over his shoulder.

"Your ears are sharp as ever," the Mouser answered.

A gray streak leaped from the roof, rebounded from the rim of a rain barrel, and landed between their feet. The Mouser jumped back, his narrow blade flashing out of its sheath.

Unimpressed, the cat blinked and gave a quiet meow before it rubbed against Fafhrd's ankle.

Grinning at his partner’s startled reaction, Fafhrd shrugged. "Think of him as a mascot," he suggested.

The Mouser slammed his sword back into its sheath. "Think of him as victuals," he responded. He wagged a finger at the cat. "One more time ..."

Fafhrd drew the Mouser against the wall. A dull amber glimmer, coming from the direction of Nun Street, warned of someone's approach. Drawing up his hood, the Mouser crouched down by the rain barrel. When he glanced back for his friend, Fafhrd was simply gone.

The lantern and still another pair of men passed right by the Mouser's hiding place. He might have put out one foot and tripped them, they came so close. Unaware, they wandered on until the night swallowed them.

The cat rubbed its head against the Mouser's rump.

Fafhrd swung lithely down from the rooftop, where he had taken refuge. "Why would the Overlord keep a round-the-clock watch on a forbidden temple?" he asked.

  
"Why are the guards out of uniform?" the Mouser replied.

Fafhrd rubbed his bearded chin. "To trap and apprehend Malygris?" Fafhrd suggested uncertainly.

An ugly scowl settled over the Mouser's face as suspicion filled him. He picked up the cat and hugged it close. His dark eyes, narrowing to slits, burned almost as luminously as the feline's. "Or to protect him?" he said sharply. Pushing the cat into Fafhrd's arms, he started down Cash Street again. "Come on, there's nothing more we can do here tonight."

The black shapes of buildings loomed as Fafhrd and the Mouser made their way through the thickening fog back toward the Silver Eel. Here and there, the silhouette of a minaret or an obelisk jutted up half-seen. In the murk, a statue affixed to a fountain at the intersection of Cash and Gold Streets took on a menacing appearance. To the north, the ten-story Spire of Rhan, the tallest structure in Lankhmar, rose barely visible over the shadowy rooftops to stand like a spear upon which the misty night had impaled itself. Over it all hung the palest silvery moon, its weakening light causing the air to glisten and sparkle.

Voices, then the high-pitched sound of a woman's laughter came out of the fog near the corner of Cheap Street. Fafhrd and the Mouser paused to watch in silence as four men and two ladies, all in cloaked finery, passed by with lanterns to light their way to the Festival District. Their gay spirits were a distinct contrast to the depressing weather.

An unexpected beam of frosty light suddenly lit the street, causing the Mouser and Fafhrd to glance skyward. A brief rent widened in the mist and clouds, and the moon, like some brightly turning pupil in an arcane eye, stared down upon the city. The clouds moved in again, and the rent sealed from the top to the bottom, as if that godlike eye had slowly closed.

The cat in the Mouser's arms gave a soft meow, and he gently scratched the soft fur beneath its chin. The greedy creature encouraged his strokes by lifting its head to give him freer access to the tender parts of its throat as it began audibly to purr.

Fafhrd glanced up toward the sky again, then his gaze seemed to comb the shadowy mists as if he were watching for something. The Mouser thought he had never seen his friend quite so tense.

"That woman's laughter," Fafhrd explained slowly. "Coming out of the fog like that. It..." he paused, and when he spoke again there was an odd note in his voice. "... reminded me of someone."

"Lord Hristo's whorish wife?" the Mouser guessed.

Fafhrd offered no response, just started forward again. With a puzzled shrug, the Mouser followed, but before they took ten paces, another sound caused them to stop in their tracks and stare northward.

The deep tone of a huge bell sent a chill creeping up the Mouser's spine. Once, twice, three times it rang, and still it did not stop. Precisely spaced and measured, those dreadful tones echoed across the city. Not even the thick fog could muffle the lonely sound, and the air seemed to shiver with every mournful stroke.

"... nine . . . ten . . . eleven ..." Fafhrd counted, murmuring each number.

Even the cat in the Mouser's arms pricked up its ears. No longer purring, it arched its back, as if aware of the bell's significance. "The Voice of Aarth," the Mouser said reverently, speaking the name of the great bell, which resided in the highest minaret of Lankhmar s most important temple. "A priest has died."

The doleful chime continued, but Fafhrd stopped counting and shook his head. "Not even those egotistical shave-heads would disturb the city in the dead of night for a mere priest."

"The Patriarch?" the Mouser wondered aloud.

The grim look on Fafhrd's face was agreement enough, and the Mouser admitted his companion was probably correct. The bell continued for twelve more strokes while they stood listening, unwilling to move, as if frozen by the sound.

Then Aarth's Voice went silent. For a long moment, the night seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved, not even the fog; the dense vapors ceased to swirl and eddy, and lay leaden in the streets.

From far across the city, a new sound came, shrill and sharp as a blade, to tear the stillness. A lone voice cried out a trilling zaghareet. Before the eerie cry died, another voice joined it, then another, and another as the priests and followers of Aarth took to the streets to fill the night with the almost inhuman sounds of their mourning.

Fafhrd drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. "If there are any ghosts in this fog tonight," he muttered half to himself, "that noise will surely drive them away."

The Mouser frowned. "The death knells have not yet faded from my ears," he scolded, "and you talk of ghosts. You'll bring bad luck with your careless words."

"Superstition, Mouser?" Fafhrd mocked. "From a son of the civilized south?"

The Mouser squared his shoulders and drew a hand along the gray-furred spine of his newfound pet. The cat resumed its purring. "You northern barbarians are not the only ones that pick up pins and study the way the crow flies at dawn," he said defensively. "You have no corner on irrational beliefs."

The light-hearted exchange brought a certain sense of relief. Both friends breathed sighs and clapped each other's arms. "Back to the Silver Eel?" Fafhrd suggested, shouldering the weight of the grapnel and its line under his cloak.

The Mouser nodded. "That finely seasoned lamb Cherig served for dinner was exquisite," he said, trying to relieve the tension with small talk. "I could barely taste the near-rot. Perhaps he has some left."

"I leave the lamb to you," Fafhrd answered. "Nothing but a keg, or even two, of our host's strongest beer will settle me this night."

The mournful zaghareets of Aarth's faithful, spreading southward from the Street of the Gods, served to hasten the footsteps of Fafhrd and the Mouser as they hurried toward Cheap Street. Like the muffled cries of wind demons, the weird sound bounced among buildings, echoed from rooftops and towers. Distorted by distance and the fog, it chilled the blood and fueled the imagination until every shadow became a crazed and menacing shape poised to attack.

A gray, misty sea hid the plaza where Cash and Cheap Streets intersected. The shops and apartments on the far side of the square could not be seen at all. Hesitating, the Mouser looked down and bit his lower lip. The mist curled with intimate familiarity about his thighs. He could not see his own knees.

"Give me your hand, that we might not get separated," Fafhrd said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Am I some maiden?" the Mouser answered curtly. "As if I could lose a mountain like you, even in this soup. Lead on, Mountain."

They moved up Cheap Street, nearly missing the entrance to Dim Lane, down which lay the Silver Eel. Wishing for a lantern, the Mouser tugged at Fafhrd's sleeve. "This way," he insisted, turning into the narrow lane.

A muted percussion reached their ears. Dumbek drums rumbled under furious hands, brass zills clashed, and tambourines rattled. Up ahead, a weak lantern lit the sign above the Silver Eel's entrance.

"Sounds like a celebration," the Mouser commented, quickening his step now that their destination was in sight.

But Fafhrd caught a piece of the Mouser's cloak and jerked him backward. With a sweep of his other arm, the huge Northerner intercepted a spreading rope net that dropped from a rooftop. Catching its edge, he flung the net aside and reached for his sword.

Four men stepped out of the shadows before them. Crouching for action, they brandished clubs or short swords—darkness and fog made it impossible to tell which. "Four more behind us," Fafhrd whispered. His huge sword made a whisking sound as he whipped it from its sheath. The Mouser glanced upward. On the rooftop, two more men stood in plain sight, silhouetted against the gray-black sky.

"These walls are too close for that great skewer," the Mouser murmured to his companion as he calmly stroked the cat and watched the eight men on the ground advance menacingly. He turned ever so slightly so that he could keep a better eye on the men at their back while Fafhrd watched the four at their front. The pair on the roof offered no immediate threat unless they decided to jump.

Down the lane, behind the thin door of the Silver Eel, the dumbeks and zills and tambourines strained toward a feverish tempo.

With his own weapon still sheathed, the Mouser murmured again, "Be ready, my friend. They are almost upon us."

Taking a two-handed grip on Graywand's hilt, Fafhrd responded with sarcasm. "Some might think it impolite of you to greet such gentlemen with empty hands."

"Tut, tut, my dear Fafhrd," the smaller man said. "My hands are full of weapons."

With that, he spun suddenly about and flung the cat, which let out a horrible screeching as it found itself flying through the air. Claws dug deeply into the face of the nearest man, who let out a shriek to match the cat's. "Demons!" he screamed in terror. Wrestling with the beast that ripped his flesh, he leaped back into two of his comrades, sending them toppling.

The Mouser hit the fourth man with his shoulder, smashing him into the wall before he could recover from his surprise. The Gray One ran toward Dim Lane's entrance into Cheap Street.

One of the figures on the roof leaped into Fafhrd's path. Before his feet even quite touched the ground, a heavy pommel broke his jaw. A huge hand caught the shoulder of a rough tunic and hurled the slack-faced man into the paths of the other team of four as they rushed forward.

"Amateurs!" Fafhrd called, taunting them as they scrambled to get up. A knife whished by his ear suddenly, and his grin vanished. Spinning about, he ran back up the lane, pausing long enough to put a boot in the face of the man the Mouser had downed, and to sweep up the cat.

The Mouser waited for him at the mouth of the lane, his narrow sword drawn now, his breathing quick, his eyes bright with excitement.

"I think this belongs to you," Fafhrd said, delivering the cat into his arms. But the beast gave a growl, leaped away, and disappeared into the fog.