Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (24 page)

THIRTEEN

SHROUDCLOTH

F
rom the depths of sleep's black ocean, Fafhrd floated slowly toward wakefulness. Pain throbbed in the back of his head, a distant awareness at first, a mere discomfort. It grew sharp and constant as it spread down the right side of his face. Even his teeth ached. He fought waking, tried to sink back into blissful unconsciousness. Pain buoyed him upward.

Opening one eye, he winced at the sunlight that streamed through an open window. With a low groan, wondering where the hell he was, he opened the other eye. Too quickly, he sat up.

A lightning bolt of pain shot through his skull, and a wave of disorientation seized him. For a moment, the room whirled. He clutched at the side of the bed in which he found himself. Fearful, confused, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the wave to pass. The pain subsided somewhat, and when he dared to open his eyes again, the room remained still.

He ran a palm over the colorful, finely pieced quilts that covered him as he took note of the thick feather mattress that made his bed. Seldom had so sumptuous an accommodation supported his head. Gilt-threaded embroidery decorated the pillow cases, and the sheets were of exquisite red silk.

The bed and all the room's furnishings betokened wealth. Plush carpets dyed a deep, royal blue covered the floor. Two matched intricately carved chairs fashioned from rare seahawk wood stood in opposite corners. A wardrobe and a desk, each of Quarmallian thorn-wood, stood against one wall.

Yet, a closer look revealed a fine patina of dust on the furnishings and carpets, and despite the open window, a vaguely stale odor lingered.

Fafhrd pushed back the blankets and carefully swung his legs over the bedside. The room began to spin ever so slightly, and he hesitated. Then, naked, he stood. Pain hammered the inside of his skull again. Raising a hand, he probed delicately at a goose-egg knot on the back of his head, wincing at the blood-crusted cut he found there.

He remembered the forbidden tower, the leeches and fire, falling. . . . Nothing beyond that. He scratched his chin, then his crotch, pompously pleased with himself that he had survived a plummet guaranteed to crack a lesser man open like an egg.

But where was he? Where, for that matter, was the Mouser?

With measured steps, he walked to the window, gaining confidence as the vertigo subsided. Leaning on the narrow sill, he peered out.

Below lay the ruins of a formal garden. Now weeds strangled the flowerbeds. Oranges, lemons, pears and
 
persimmons hung brown and unpicked from untended fruit trees, or rotted on the ground. Flies and gnats swarmed. Marble fountains that once flowed with sweet water stood dry and stained, covered with bird shit and filth. Decayed leaves from the previous winter half-concealed the pebbled walkways while dead, broken limbs thrust up from the earth like old black bones.

From the trees hung rusted wind chimes and broken bells. When the breeze touched them, they played a plaintive, sad music—whisperings and murmurings of music, really—ghostly memories of once-happy melodies. The wind rose, yet they played quietly, as if ashamed that anyone might hear.

Fafhrd turned away, disturbed by the sight. Something stirred in his mind, a memory, some image. No, some dream. He turned back to the window. Peering out, a chill passed through him. He knew with a certainty where he was.

Once more, he turned, noting the bed, the red sheets, the carpets, the arrangement of the room.

Sadaster's bed.

  
Sadaster's sheets.

Fafhrd swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. On that bed, Sadaster had slept, his wife in his arms. Through this window—Fafhrd jerked his hand away from the sill—had come Malygris's evil spell.

Fafhrd had seen it all in his dream. A renewed rage at Malygris's treachery filled him. Fear filled him, also, and set his heart to racing. How had he come here? What hand had brought him? Surely not the Mouser's.

Nudity caused him no shame, but an overwhelming sense of vulnerability propelled him toward the wardrobe in search of garments. Ignoring his headache, he flung open the thorn-wood doors and found his clothes neatly cleaned and hung on pegs fashioned in the shape of little hands.

"My lord!" a woman's high voice called behind him. "You should not be out of bed!"

Fafhrd whirled, and the room whirled with him. Unexpectedly, his vision blurred. He struggled to regain focus as he clutched one of the wardrobe's doors to keep his balance.

A young girl moved swiftly from the entrance and set a tray containing steaming bowls upon the thorn-wood desk. "My lord!" she cried again, alarm in her voice as she took his arm to steady him. "You are not yet well. Come, lie down."

The vertigo passed again, but Fafhrd let the girl slip her arm around his waist, and he put his arm around her shoulder. He dared not lean on her, though. Her head barely rose to his chest, and she was slender as a willow branch.

She looked up at him with a worried expression as she tried to steer him toward the bed. Her eyes were green as a cat's, her face round and white as the full moon. He ran a hand boldly through the black sweep of her hair.

She hesitated, as if sensing that he didn't need her help. Her gaze ran down his torso. A blush colored her cheeks. Averting her eyes, she stepped away. "My lord, you should get back in bed. Your poor head ..."

Out of consideration for the girl, Fafhrd drew his black cloak out of the wardrobe and wrapped it around himself. "I'm not a superstitious man," Fafhrd interrupted. He reached for the rest of his clothes and, turning his back to the girl, began pulling them on under the cloak. "But I'm damned if I'll crawl willingly into a dead man's bed."

He glanced back at her, acutely aware of how silly he looked wiggling and struggling into his garments with only the cloak to screen him from her eyes. "It would be easier if you turned around," he suggested. "Who are you, anyway? How did I get here?"

The blush deepened on her cheeks as she turned quickly around. "I am Sameel," she answered. "My mistress will answer all your questions. If you feel well enough, I'll take you to her."

Fafhrd put his cloak back onto a peg long enough to draw on his tunic and lace his jerkin over it. "Is that hot gahveh I smell?" he said, casting his gaze toward the tray with its steamy bowls.

Sameel went to the thorn-wood desk and picked up a small bowl. "Most of these contain aromatic herbs to ease your slumber and speed healing," she answered. With a quick, nervous glance to assure herself that Fafhrd was decent, she carried the bowl to him. "But I brought gahvey to drink while I sat by your bedside. Please take it." She made a small curtsey as she offered it to him.

Draping the cloak over his right arm, Fafhrd took the cup with his left hand and drained half its contents. Satisfaction lit up his face, and he exhaled a dramatic sigh. "The nectar of the gods," he proclaimed. "Or it would be if the gods had any taste."

Sameel's face lit up. "I grow the beans myself, lord."

Taking a smaller sip, he smiled. "Now lead me to your mistress, Sameel," he said with a gracious bow, careful not to spill his precious beverage. For an instant, the room spun a little. Fafhrd righted himself and touched the tender place on the back of his head. A vaguely crooked grin flickered over his lips, and he added in a self-mocking tone, "But perhaps at not too swift a pace."

She led him from Sadaster's bedroom through a hallway made airy by numerous narrow windows that overlooked the once-beautiful garden. At the opposite end of that corridor stood a pair of tall double-doors ornately carved with figures of trees and flowers, birds and deer, and such.

Catching hold of gold knobs, Sameel pushed open the doors.

Fafhrd caught his breath, struck by two wonders at once.

Never had he seen so many books, nor even dreamed of so many! From floor to ceiling, books lined three walls. On a stand in one corner, a thick tome lay open. On a table in another corner stood more books neatly stacked. In all the rest of Lankhmar, an awestruck Fafhrd thought, there could not be so many books.

However, in the very center of the room, waited another, more mysterious wonder. Fafhrd moved a step closer, treading carefully upon the room's rich carpet with its lushly embroidered vines, flowers, and garden motifs to marvel at a silver sarcophagus, nine feet tall and fashioned in strange form.

Upon its polished front, the gleaming shape of a nude woman, eyes closed as if in slumber, emerged in carefully sculpted relief. Three pairs of graceful silver arms reached as if from behind the amazing box to modestly embrace her. The fingers of those hands clasped tightly over her breasts, her navel, her most private region.

No lid or seam showed to mar the perfect finish.

Fafhrd walked slowly around the device, admiring it. How it shimmered in the beam of sunlight that speared in through the only window!

Sameel knelt down before the carven figure. Her black hair spilled forward over one shoulder as she bent lower still to press her head upon the elaborately woven carpet. "Mistress?" she whispered.

A moment of silence passed as Fafhrd watched. Without warning, a metallic creak sounded. A single finger on the topmost pair of hands twitched. One by one the interlocked digits stirred to impossible life. The second pair of hands, then the lowest pair, also came alive, trembling and shifting eerily, as if unlimbering. Three sets of fingers wiggled, creaking and groaning in a cacophony of straining metal.

Suddenly the hands let go of each other. Once more silence dominated. Then with a soft hiss of escaping air, a seam appeared down the front of the sarcophagus, and a feathery vapor leaked out.

"Aarth's blood," Fafhrd muttered, retreating a step as that pale fog glided upon the carpet and crept around his ankles. The hackles rose on the back of his neck.

"Do not fear," Sameel said, rising from her knees and stepping aside. Her gaze fixed expectantly on the silver construct.

Fafhrd gulped the last of his gahvey. Another loud metallic groan filled the room, and a narrow beam of white light lanced forth from the widening seam. Startled, Fafhrd let the empty cup fall from his hand. It shattered on the carpet. Embarrassed, he shot a glance toward Sameel, but the gleaming box held her rapt attention. Surreptitiously, he bent and picked up one jagged shard.

With that poor weapon, he prepared to greet the unexpected.

The sarcophagus yawned open, splitting in half. White fog spilled out in a rush, revealing the still form of a dark haired woman swathed from neck to foot in folds of white linen. A strip of the same material covered her eyes, and a chilly rime paled her red lips.

A vision of strange loveliness, Fafhrd thought, noting how regally the woman sat upon her narrow, cushioned chair. He stared, an odd sadness filling him. Death sat gently upon that perfect face, diminishing none of its beauty.

Off to one side, Sameel bowed again.

From within the sarcophagus, the woman spoke. "Welcome, son of Mor and Nalgron." An amused smile turned up the corners of her lips. "Be careful not to cut yourself with that piece of crockery."

Fafhrd's heart lurched as the corpse spoke. Then he realized the woman was not dead, as he had thought. Casting a brief glance at the shard he held, he wondered how she could have seen it through her blindfold. With an embarrassed shrug, he dropped it, brushed his hands with an exaggerated motion, and clutched them before him. "You have the advantage of me, Lady."

"I have not saved your life twice to take advantage of you, Northerner," she answered calmly. "I am Laurian ..."

Surprise compelled Fafhrd to interrupt. "Sadaster's wife?" He took a step closer, peering at her face. Even through the mask of her blindfold he recognized her from his dream. "You say you've saved me twice?"

A delicate ivory hand rose from one of the chair's armrests. A slender finger slowly extended upward. Every motion Laurian made seemed unnaturally slow through the thin veil of mist that lingered about her. "Once," she said, "when thugs attacked you and your companion in the Carter Street Plaza."

Fafhrd stiffened, remembering tendrils of mist that had risen out of the night-fog to crush and strangle the Ilthmarts, who sought to kill both him and the Mouser. He noted with sudden nervousness the pale vapor that wafted about his feet, like a cat rubbing him as it wandered between and around his legs.

Laurian lifted a second finger. "Twice when you fell from the window of Malygris's tower." Her hand sank slowly back to the armrest. "Unfortunately, I acted too slowly and snatched you from midair. You struck my floor awkwardly with all your accumulated momentum. I apologize."

Fafhrd touched the goose-egg on the back of his head. "Not to sound ungrateful," he said, wincing, "but why save me at all? Of what interest to you can I be?"

"We shall be allies," Laurian answered. "I saw you in a dream, Fafhrd, and your friend the Mouser, too. I have watched for you and watched out for you."

"Sheelba," Fafhrd muttered under his breath.

"Sheelba?" Laurian echoed. She looked thoughtful, as if searching her memory. Her gaze strayed past Fafhrd toward the bookshelves. "Yes, Sheelba of the Eyeless Face—one of the Transfigured, who are so steeped in magic that their bodies, their very souls have twisted into arcane shapes. Their ways are as unfathomable as the gods. Why do you speak of him?"