Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (4 page)

"Refreshing," Fafhrd commented as he watched the man go, "to deal honestly with an honest guard."

"There are so few men of integrity left," the Mouser agreed.

The pair strolled south on Wall Street. The shadows of Lankhmar's towers and minarets drew dark hatchings across the dusty road. The massively stout wall on their left rose in stark contrast to the rickety wooden apartment buildings and old warehouses that stood jammed in too-close proximity on their right.

An ox-drawn cart loaded with rough barrels trundled by; the driver, a bone-thin old man, barely seemed to notice them. A raspy noise issued from his throat, and he coughed into his hand as he passed. The white parts of his eyes were as yellow as old parchment. From a leather cord around his neck depended a small monkey’s paw, considered a good-luck charm by the residents of the southern city of Tisilinit, and a bestower of virility by the men of Ilthmar.

The Mouser reflected glumly that the talisman had brought this poor workman neither luck, nor virility.

At Fafhrd s suggestion, they turned and headed west on Craft Street. The sounds of industry were a welcome change from the quietude of Wall Street. Blacksmiths and metalsmiths worked their trades, hammers ringing on anvils, hot steel hissing in tempering waters. Potters' wheels whirred merrily. The mingled smells of leather and fabric dyes wafted richly in the air. Basket weavers at their shops and kiosks sat cross-legged on carpets or short stools among piles of their products, working straws in their callused fingers, glancing up in hopeful expectation as the pair passed by, then giving their interest to their work again, sure that swordsmen had no use for their wares.

At Cheap Street the pedestrian traffic increased sharply. Silk-draped palanquins, borne on the shoulders of servants, ferried nobles up and down the wide avenue. Merchants stood before their shops and stalls, barking enticements to the throngs of shoppers. Old women bent over displays of fruits and vegetables, wrinkling their noses, complaining of quality, trying to haggle the venders down. Chickens, ducks and geese in wooden pens made a squawking cacophony as prospective buyers eyed and prodded them. Small plump dogs, hobbled and bound with leashes, sprawled in the dust beneath one particular tent, whining and hopelessly teary-eyed. Like the penned fowl, they were destined for someone's dinner table.

A pair of youthful, shirtless jugglers worked the corner at Cheap and Craft Streets while a young female assistant, her shiny black hair tied back with a bright bow, moved among the onlookers shaking a plain wooden bowl as she trawled for coins. Daggers flashed between the young men, who were plainly masters of their art. The hot sun glinted on their sweaty skin and on the flying steel, but the jugglers laughed and taunted each other and called distractions, each daring the other to miss.

Only a few coins fell into the young girl's bowl. The Mouser frowned and wished that he had even a single copper penny with which to reward such showmanship. "The audience is stingy," he commented. "They take pleasure from the entertainment and give nothing back."

They proceeded south, pushing their way through the crowded street, the sun hot on their heads and necks. Fafhrd licked his lips and craned his head left and right; the Mouser suspected his comrade was thinking of a tavern and a cool draught.

Suddenly, the huge Northerner bolted through an opening in the traffic, and an unsuspecting Mouser found himself dragged along by the front of his gray tunic. At the same time, an immense roll of carpet, precariously balanced on the shoulders of a lone bearer making his way down the road, aimed straight at his head and a half-starved hound dog, scavenging for scraps, tangled in his feet.

Fafhrd gave another yank, pulling his smaller partner out of the bearer’s path, and setting him on his feet again. With a frightened bark, the hound dog bolted the other direction, straight into the feet of the unseeing carpet-bearer. The bearer screamed, the dog yelped, and half a score of pedestrians shouted curses and obscenities. For a brief instant, the air was filled with a blaze of woven color. Carpet and bearer went flying, then sprawled in the dust, in turn causing other passersby to trip over them in the confusion. In full panic now, the dog leaped across the backs of the fallen, crashing into still other shoppers, sending bags and packages sailing.

Putting on an innocent expression, Fafhrd gave out with a musical whistle and turned away from the chaos. The Mouser glared at the Northerner’s broad back, following him, even as he kept one eye over his shoulder. The insanity in the street seemed to feed itself. A gang of street urchins took advantage of the confusion to snatch tomatoes from an unwary vendor. Noticing the theft too late to prevent it, the vender launched a handful of tomatoes after them, striking some innocent citizens, who turned irate and decided to approach the vendor.

A pair of old women wrestled over a dusty head of cabbage one of them had dropped. The Mouser swore to himself he'd never heard such language from ladies of such mature years. He watched as both women suddenly got hands on the unfortunate vegetable. Leafy greenery flew in all directions. The pair looked stunned with surprise for a moment, then went for each other's throats.

In little time at all a full brawl was underway. A merchant's kiosk collapsed under the weight of a trio of men bent on pummeling each other. A goose pen smashed; fowl ran squawking in goose-hysterics.

The Mouser quick-stepped to catch up with Fafhrd, who had advanced a little before him as they left the tumult behind. It was only then as he reached Fafhrd's side that he noticed the small rosewood lute his companion was clutching to his chest.

"Pardon me," the Mouser said politely, "but a lute seems to have attached itself to your hands."

"Has it, indeed?" Fafhrd answered curiously. "Why, I believe you're right, Mouser. You have a keen eye."

The Mouser grunted. "When last my keen eye spied such an instrument, it was hanging on a peg on a tent-post by the counter of a lettuce merchant."

Fafhrd said nothing, but his fingers brushed lightly over the lute-strings, not strumming, but picking out a small flurry of individually harmonic notes.

"You have nimble fingers, my friend," the Mouser said, knowing the double-entendre would not be lost on Fafhrd.

The Northerner grinned. "We'll need food and lodgings," he said, "not to mention coins to pay a certain gate guard his bribe at the Silver Eel tonight. I've decided to sing for our supper."

Rubbing his chin, the Mouser cast another look over his shoulder. "That's well enough," he answered. "But first let's move a little farther from the lettuce merchant and all that annoying, noisy calamity."

Three blocks farther along, by a public fountain at the intersection of Cheap Street and Vintner's Lane, Fafhrd struck a pose, lifted the lute and prepared to give out with a tune. The Mouser elbowed him in the ribs before he could loose a note.

"A bowl, you great idiot," he whispered, watching the crowd around them. "A begging bowl or a cup. What do you expect them to put their coins in?"

Fafhrd lowered the lute and scratched his short red beard with a puzzled expression. Then without further hesitation he removed his right boot and perched it before him. Lifting the lute again, he struck an introductory chord and began to sing.

"Oh, the northern women

are sour as lemons,

and make for miserable wives.

They're bitchly witches,

and with spells and switches

They rule their menfolk's lives."

During his youth in the icy land called the Cold Wastes, Fafhrd had received training as a bard. His voice was as fine as any the Mouser had ever heard, and as the Mouser listened, he watched Fafhrd's hands, as well, marveling that they could wield sword and dagger with such deadly skill, yet dance with a gentle, almost bewitching surety over the strings of a lute.

Pedestrians, hearing Fafhrd's song and fine playing, drifted closer and stopped to listen. Ever the ham performer, Fafhrd stepped up onto the low wall that surrounded the fountain so that he could be better seen, mindless of his somewhat ridiculous, one-boot appearance.

"Oh, it's ice for dinner

to keep them thinner—

They like a look that's lean,

But I'll tell you, pal,

till you've had my gal

you don't know what frigid means!"

An appreciative chuckling went up from the audience. Fafhrd's size and red-gold hair gave away his origin and heritage, and his listeners seemed to enjoy the song more for his poking fun at his own people. A number of hands made passes over the top of the empty boot; a few even dropped coins. One man dropped a rosy apple.

The Mouser screwed up his face in muted horror. No man in his right mind would sink his teeth into an apple that had rested at the bottom of Fafhrd's boot. Indeed it was luck that a stout, cleansing wind was blowing through the streets or Fafhrd, with one foot bare and fuming, would never have held his audience, but sent them running holding their noses and crying out for mercy.

"On a fatejul night

When the world was white

I crawled into our bed—

took her in my arms

to taste her charms

and discovered she was dead.

Now I'm a filthy sod,

and you'll cry, 'My God!'

But I'll confess it true and well—

It wasn't nice,

but I had her twice,

and no difference could I tell!"

The audience, having grown to a considerable size, roared with laughter, men and women alike. The Mouser drifted among them, studying their faces with sidelong glances as they gave Fafhrd their rapt attention. With one hand he fingered the hilt of his dagger, Catsclaw. With the other he supported the cumulative weight of the purses he had deposited down the front of his tunic.

"Then, damn my eyes!

 
I had her thrice!
 

I know I'm bound for hell—
 

Four times, then five!

When she was alive,
 

She never fucked so well!"

Fafhrd threw himself into his performance, and the crowd cheered him on. The Mouser couldn't manage with a subtle nod or gesture to catch his eye and let him know it was time to move on. Finally, he gave up and slipped away from the fountain, trying not to jingle noticeably as he walked, taking up residence in the shadow of an alley a little distance away. Putting his back to the outside of a shop wall, he sank down on his haunches and prepared to wait.

Fifty-seven verses later, Fafhrd's song ended. The Mouser roused himself and peered out into the street to see the big Northerner climb down off the fountain wall, pick up his boot, and glance around. With the show over, Lankhmar's citizens went quickly about their business.

When Fafhrd glanced his way, the Mouser waved a hand, summoning him out of the sunny street and into the cooler shade of the alley. "I was beginning to think you were auditioning for court minstrel out there," the Mouser scolded as Fafhrd limped over. "I thought the day would end before your dainty little ditty did."

The Northerner leaned the lute against the wall and shook his boot, a disappointed look growing upon his face. Upending his odoriferous footwear, he spilled into his palm six copper tiks, a single silver smerduk, and a no-longer-quite-so-rosy apple. "These Lankhmarans truly are cheapskates and penny-pinchers," he grumbled. "In any other city this would buy us a bed and a decent bowl of stew with buttered bread, but in high-priced Lankhmar we'll be lucky to find a stall and a bag of oats!"

Disgusted, Fafhrd shook his head and absently took a bite of the apple.

The Mouser made a loud, retching sound.

"I still have the lute, and I still have the boot," Fafhrd announced in more optimistic tones as he lofted the core toward the alley's rear. "There's better profit waiting on a different corner perhaps."

"Spare your warbling throat," the Gray Mouser said, lifting his tunic to reveal one fat purse. He had poured all the others into it and hidden the empty purses back near where the apple core now lay.

Fafhrd's eyes lit up at the obvious weight of the purse. "Why, Mouser," he said with quiet admiration, "you are a cutpurse and a thief. The best in the business, from the looks of that."

"Thief? Cutpurse? Nonsense!" The little man in gray raised one eyebrow. "These coins are tribute to your incredible vocal talents. I've only aided your audience to suitably express the appreciation that a somewhat misplaced modesty prevented them from expressing on their own."

The Northerner grinned and proceeded to tug on his boot. "I trust your
contributions
came only from the well-heeled, who could afford it?"

The Mouser grunted. "The bulk of it came from a pair of heels, period," he answered. "A couple of Thieves' Guild amateurs were working the crowd, too. I saw no reason for them to benefit from your performance."