Swords Against the Shadowland

THREE THE SILVER EEL

The Mouser stared out through the open shutters of the only window in their small room above the Silver Eel. The black towers and minarets of Lankhmar stabbed at the star-speckled sky. Midsummer’s Moon, waxing toward fullness, hung like a solemn, disapproving frown above the tallest spire.

A tendril of pale mist wafted across the sky, diffusing the moon's light. In the street below, a thicker, white fog rolled slowly through the city, southward and eastward from the Inner Sea and the River Hlal.

A lone figure, barely visible in the darkness, waded quietly through the fog down the narrow road called Bones Alley and entered the rear door of the Silver Eel. Laughter from the inn below suddenly penetrated up through the floorboards. The Mouser cast a glance toward the only bed, but the sound failed to disturb Fafhrd, who lay sprawled on his belly like a great starfish, taking up the entire mattress.

The Mouser had slept but little, himself, clinging to the very edge of the bed lest he be smothered or crushed in Fafhrd s unconscious embrace. Adding to his restlessness was the sullen afternoon heat that had lasted into the early evening. They had been lucky to get this room for only five coppers, but it had been a mistake for the Mouser to try to catch up on lost sleep.

Still, he felt rested enough. It was not yet near midnight, he reckoned, but he could abide the room no longer. His mind churned with thoughts of Malygris, Sadaster, and the strange creature called Sheelba. Folding his arms across his bare chest, he gazed out the window again and drew a deep breath.

The rising mist half-obscured the moonlight now, and the silvery fog glimmered in the weakening light. Somewhere out there, the Mouser thought glumly, a terrible enchantment crept through the city as silently and surely as the night-mist, stealing under closed doors, pressing against shuttered windows.

Involuntarily, he edged back into the room’s shadows, his gaze never quite leaving the soft, white tendrils and wisps that eddied just beyond the sill. Then, with crisp, abrupt movements, he stepped forward, leaned out the window, seized and drew the shutters, and latched them tight.

For a long moment, he stood in the darkness, aware of nothing but the frantic beat of his heart and the dryness in his mouth. "I need a drink," he muttered, disgusted with himself for the undeniable fear he felt.

Groping his way around the room, he snatched his garments from a narrow rope line strung up high near the ceiling. Cherig One-hand, the owner of the Silver Eel, had provided them with a basin and water enough to wash their clothes and themselves at no extra charge for the service. Though still slightly damp, his things were dry enough to pull on. Quietly, he eased into his boots by the door, fastened his weapons belt around his waist, and slipped out into the hallway.

A lantern mounted on a sconce at the end of the narrow hall provided the only light. The Mouser paused long enough to reach into the purse on his belt and draw out a small strip of leather, which he used to tie back his lengthy black hair. Then, determined to forget about spells and wizards for a while, he squared his shoulders and went downstairs to the tavern.

The Silver Eel was arguably one of the most notorious dives in Lankhmar. Here, on almost any night between the right hours, a man could expect to fence a pretty bauble or contract out a murder. Yet, such was Cherig One-hand's reputation for keeping the peace in his establishment that one could find the city's most ruthless denizens rubbing elbows with some of the more adventurous-minded nobles whose tastes ran to "slumming."

A small crowd was gathered tonight. Some of the customers paused in their conversations to see whose soft tread creaked on the seventh stair. While most resumed their talk after a casual glance, a few watched, suspicious and steely-eyed, until the Mouser settled on a stool behind a rough table in the tavern's farthest corner.

The Silver Eel's owner strode to the Mouser's table, an earthen mug dangling from the hook where his right hand used to be, and a pitcher of dark beer clutched in his good left hand. With practiced ease, he set the mug upright before his customer and filled it to the brim. "First one’s on the house for renters," he grumbled good-naturedly. "How do you like my fine suite, Gray One?"

The Mouser grinned. "Most excellently," he said, raising the mug to his lips. "The rats bowed with exquisite grace to welcome us, and the fleas waited a full hour before biting us in our bed, which, by the way, is too small."

Cherig One-hand laughed. "It's not the bed that's too small, but your companion, Fafhrd, who is too large."

The Mouser swallowed a cool draught and smacked his lips. Cherig's home-made brew was legendary in Lankhmar, another reason for the Silver Eel's popularity. "Hmmm," he murmured with a roll of his eyes, "a complaint he often attributes to his wenches."

Cherig topped off the Mouser's mug as he set it down. "Well, now you and me are men of the world, are we not? And we've taken the measure of such boasts before."

A short cough sounded somewhere in the tavern. The Mouser momentarily forgot Cherig, and his gaze roamed around until he spied a trio casting dice at another table. A mustachioed bravo, dice clutched in a frozen fist, seemed in some distress. He gave a second, sharper cough as he lifted his mug with his free hand and took a quick, deep drink. Then, his discomfort apparently eased, he returned to his gaming.

Cherig resumed his serving duties, and the Mouser, his spirit sinking even lower, tilted his stool on its rear legs to lean his back against the wall. Raising his vessel to his lips, he drained half its contents.

The tavern door opened. Fingers of white mist curled around the edges, preceding a small girl-child with tangled yellow-gold hair and a haggard, dirty face. On her hip, she carried a shallow basket. Shyly, she approached the table nearest the door. "Would you like to buy one of my poppets for your sweetheart?" she asked in a weary, high voice as she reached into the basket and held up a doll made of braided and woven straw in a handmade scrap of a dress.

Deep in his cups, the lone figure who sat at the table growled and waved her away without looking up. Wisely, the child backed off and turned to make her pitch at another table.

Again, the door opened. Though the hour was well before midnight, the Mouser recognized the corporal from the Marsh Gate. The fog rose like smoke off the shoulders of the man's red cloak as he closed the door and looked around the tavern.

Raising his mug, the Mouser cried, "Ho, Captain! Can this be the hour of our appointment, already?"

The corporal strode through the crowd, unlacing his cloak as he came. Tossing the garment carelessly across one end of the Mouser's table, he then removed his helmet and set that down, too. "I was afraid if I waited until midnight," he said, seating himself unceremoniously across from his host, "that you'd have spent my bribe on ale and women by eleven."

The Mouser, suddenly glad for company, grinned. "I, sir?" he said, feigning offense. "Have I not dealt with you honestly?"

"Aye, sir," the corporal answered smartly. "And though you obviously have coin now when you had none before, I shall not ask with whom you have dealt dishonestly."

Laughing, the Mouser slapped the table. "I like you well, Captain. Tell me your name, and I shall buy you a drink." He beckoned to Cherig on the other side of the tavern.

"Nuulpha is my name," the corporal said. Then he paused as Cherig set a mug of beer before him. Lifting the beverage, he drained it to the last drop and ran his tongue around the rim before he placed it back on the table. "Nuulpha, the long-suffering," he continued. "But, gods willing, a few more of these, and I'll be suffering a little less."

"Your head may suffer the more," the Mouser responded as he motioned for Cherig to refill both their mugs. "Our host brews a devilish strong potion."

Cherig shrugged as he poured. "Consider the devils who make up my clientele," he grumbled in a voice dripping with good-humored sarcasm. "I get few such honest gentlemen as yourselves."

Nuulpha raised an eyebrow, smirking as the Silver Eel's owner departed. Then, he lifted his mug in salute. "If I may?" he asked, and when the Mouser politely nodded, he continued with gracious formality. "To my host. Though diminutive in stature, his generosity is larger than his guest's fat and spendthrift wife— and that is no small compliment."

With a low chuckle, the Mouser raised his own mug and added, "Let's hope it’s as large as your capacity for this fine beer."

Putting his elbows on the table, the corporal leaned forward and rubbed one hand over his grizzled chin. A weary look passed over his face, then faded. "Speaking of things large, where is your red-bearded companion?"

An exaggerated sigh slipped from the Mouser's lips as he lowered his beverage. "Sleeping like a babe, but with nothing more than a pillow on which to suckle." He leaned forward as well, laying his hands on either side of his beer, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I would ask you a question, Captain."

A grin turned up the corners of Nuulpha's mouth. "So the brew has a price, after all," he said, lifting his drink. He swallowed noisily and smacked his lips with satisfaction as he set the mug down again.

"Not so," the Mouser assured. "Your company averts a dark mood that earlier besieged me, and no matter your answer, I'll pay for the privilege of drinking you under the table."

Nuulpha casually glanced around the tavern before speaking again. "You must have robbed a rich man, indeed," he said.

Preparing to drink, the Mouser spoke nonchalantly over the rim of his mug. "Three members of the Thieves' Guild," he answered.

His guest's eyebrows shot up. "I salute you once again," he said, lifting his drink. Swallowing, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "They're a dangerous lot to trifle with, however. I'd be remiss not to advise you to watch your step where they are concerned." He drank again, and shrugged. "But I forget you are not new to Lankhmar. Ask your question, good host."

The Mouser called for Cherig to refill their mugs yet again, and waited quietly while the owner poured. Cherig eyed them closely, then as if sensing some business was underway, he departed without comment.

The Mouser leaned forward again. "Do you know of a wizard named Malygris?"

Nuulpha sputtered and spewed half a mouthful of beer across the table before he slammed his mug down and clapped a hand over his face to stop the spray. "Abject apologies!" he muttered hastily when he could draw a breath. Red-faced, he pushed his stool back slightly from the table as if he expected trouble.

The tavern grew silent as all eyes turned their way. Cherig, pitcher and tray balanced on one hand, turned, stern-faced. The little girl with the basket of dolls scurried down between a pair of tables for safety.

With icy calm, the Gray Mouser dabbed a finger at his dripping eyebrows. "Think nothing of it, Captain," he said, and if there was a bit more emphasis on the last word, it was purely unintentional. "I shall take care not to startle you again."

When trouble failed to start, the tavern patrons resumed their conversations. The little girl crawled out to continue her enterprise, and Cherig disappeared momentarily to return with a clean, soft towel, which he deposited wordlessly at the Mouser's elbow.

Embarrassment still coloring his cheeks, Nuulpha leaned forward again and spoke in a nervous whisper. "That's not a name one speaks aloud these days in Lankhmar."

"Perhaps that was the reason I spoke it in such an exceedingly low voice," the Mouser suggested pointedly as he wiped the towel over his face and set it aside.

Before either could say more, once again fingers of pale mist pushed open the tavern door, admitting a pair of roguish-looking Ilthmarts whose tattered cloaks could not hide the long swords they wore. The pair swaggered toward the last empty table, sat down, and swept the Silver Eel with sullen glares.

Nuulpha turned his attention back to his host. Leaning close over his beer, he whispered, "If I may ask, what is your interest in this person you named?"

The Mouser wondered just how much to explain, but his thoughts were interrupted when the little girl ventured shyly up to his elbow. "Please, sir," she said. "Would you like to buy one of my poppets for your sweetheart?" She held up a tiny straw doll. "Guaranteed to bring good luck to her kitchen or . . ." she hesitated, then blinked her eyes, "... or your bedchamber, should she place it there."

A sudden cough caused the Mouser to look past the child toward the table where the dice game was still in progress. The same mustachioed bravo coughed violendy into his fist, his face reddening. With a visible effort, he controlled himself and tossed down the remains of his beverage, but the coughing seized him again. When he moved his hand away from his mouth, a green phlegm smeared his chin. With barely muttered apologies to his two companions, he cast down the dice, rose and fled the Silver Eel.

The Mouser stared hard at the little blond-haired huckster by his table. When he pulled out a gold coin, the child's eyes grew large, and she stood still, trembling like a small bird.

The coin seemed to move of its own accord from between the Mouser s thumb and forefinger, pausing between the next set of fingers, then the next before it made the journey back to thumb and forefinger. Nuulpha, as well as the child, watched in amazement.

The Mouser passed his other hand over the coin, then held up both his hands, turning his empty palms outward. The gold was gone, seemingly vanished into air.

Nuulpha snorted. "My wife does that trick, only she makes money disappear even faster."

Winking, the Mouser reached toward the child's ear and retrieved his coin, eliciting a girlish giggle as he held it close to her large eyes. "Count nothing on luck, my young merchant," he told her. "Do not even speak of luck or magic. This is an ill time for such things. Now, I will buy not just one, but all these dollies you call your poppets, and you will take this single gold coin, which is wealth enough to feed you and your family for a month."

"All my dollies?" the child exclaimed, her gaze locked greedily on the coin.

"All," the Mouser affirmed. "In return, you must promise me to make no more of these so-called lucky trinkets."

The child clearly didn't understand his request, but her desire for the coin was plain. "Oh, master," she said, "supposing I promise to make no more poppets for as long as the value of this pretty metal feeds my tummy?"

Nuulpha thumped the table, hooting with mirth. "The little beggar would haggle with you!"

The coin disappeared once again, seeming to melt inside the Mouser's closed fist. The child looked crestfallen, but the Mouser, opening his empty hand, blew on his palm, and closed his fist once more. When he opened his hand again, the coin was back. "One cannot ask a pretty little girl to starve," he said, "but so long as you can make this last, fashion no more poppets”.

The child nodded. Slowly, she set her basket on the edge of the table. With surprising speed, she shot out one hand and snatched the gleaming bit of gold, lest it should disappear again. "Now, master," she said, breathless with excitement, "you have the market to yourself, for I'm out of the business for a month or so at least—a lady of leisure!"

With that, she spun about and ran for the door, flung it open, and vanished into the foggy night of Lankhmar.

Cherig stomped across the tavern, scowling and waving his hand to disperse the fog that poured through the door the child had neglected to close. A kick from his booted foot sent it slamming shut.

When the Silver Eel's owner turned, the Mouser beckoned him over.

"Do you have a stove or hearthfire in your kitchen?" he asked, waiting for Cherig to nod before he put the basket of dolls into that one hand. "Burn these," he instructed. "They're probably harmless, but burn them, anyway. Every one of them." He tapped the rim of his mug with a fingertip. "Then we'll have another cup of your fine, delicious piss."

"At the rate you're consuming it," Cherig answered as he walked away, "I'll just bring the chamber pot, and you can serve yourselves."

When they were alone again, Nuulpha leaned once more across the table and whispered, "I'm impressed, not just with the generosity of my host, but with his wizardry. Why buy the dolls if you meant to destroy them?"

The Mouser looked askance, once more taking note of the Silver Eel's clientele. The volume of the conversations had risen to match the intake of liquor, and the clatter of dice elicited curses and growls with increasing frequency. In the too-easy laughter that issued from several knots of customers, there was a strained quality. The Mouser, a cautious man, observed it all and turned back to his guest.

"No wizardry," he answered quietly. "Just some simple sleight-of-hand." He raised his mug, adding with a brief smile before he drank, "it's a useful skill for impressing children and officers of the Overlord's Guard." Lowering his nearly empty mug again, he continued. "Your question brings our conversation back to the person whose name we shall not mention for fear of once again engaging your gag reflex."

Cherig reappeared long enough to place a full pitcher of beer between them.

"I can tell you only this," Nuulpha said in a voice turned serious. "Few men have ever seen Malygris, but his name is considered a curse in some quarters of the city. In the darkest dives and gutters, grown men shiver and turn away at mention of it."

"He could be Death's personal valet," the Mouser said, un-fazed, as he refilled his guest's mug, then his own, from the pitcher. "I still must find him."

"God's balls, man!" Nuulpha hesitated, then gulped from his beer. A quite audible thump sounded when he set it down again, and his gaze locked with his host's for a long moment, as if he were trying to probe the workings of the Mouser's mind.

The volume of the crowd seemed to rise around them, and yet, huddled over their table, isolated in the farthest shadow-filled corner, they might have been an island in a sea of noise.

With scant subtlety, wrapping his hands nervously around his mug, Nuulpha glanced over both his shoulders. "Most of the populace is too stupid or too complacent to notice the things that happen in this town,” he said, his voice a mixture of fear and bitterness, "but the common, lowly guards who work the streets have eyes and ears, nor are we fools." He took a short drink. "Three of Lankhmar's most powerful wizards have died of sickness this past year, and this even our great bloat of an Overlord knows. Yet, along with the rest of this city's pampered nobility, he disdains to observe that others have died—fortunetellers, charm peddlers, priests. Also common merchants, shopkeepers, housewives and whores ..."

He paused and looked sharply around again before continuing. "In the barracks, a few have dared to whisper the word, plague." The corporal frowned. "Their superiors had them whipped. I, myself, believe it is no plague." Touching the tip of a finger to his temple, he added, "I've been around, my friend, and I know a candle from a quarter moon. Some sorcery haunts the streets of Lankhmar, and something evil stalks our footsteps."

Nuulpha picked up his mug again, drained it, and looked uncomfortably away. "My host knows this, too," he said as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice when he warned that child to have no traffic with luck or magic."

The Mouser narrowed one eye, impressed with his guest's perceptive powers, as he reached for the pitcher again. The handle appeared fuzzier than it should have, and it took two tries for him to close his fingers around it. When he refilled their mugs, some of the amber contents splashed onto the table.

"I'll tell you honestly, good Captain," the Mouser said. "I know precious little, save that I must find this Maly... Malygris, and I haven't a clue where to begin." With a heavy sigh, he raised his mug in another salute to his guest. "Come, the subject has made us a pair of humorless gargoyles. See how you sit hunched over your beer?" He slapped his palm against the table. "No more of this tonight. Cherig's cellar is not yet dry, I'll wager, and that should be challenge enough for a pair of good men."

Nuulpha’s expression remained gloomy. Both hands clasping his mug, he stared down into its contents. "I like you well, gray friend," he whispered, "but if some geas compels you to pursue this madness, then pay heed." He lifted his gaze to meet the Mouser's black-eyed stare. "There is a rumor—no more than that. In one of the forbidden temples of the Ancient Gods that stand near the riverfront, some hint that Malygris has taken residence, although in which of those accursed and abandoned structures . . ."—he shrugged—"no one says. Treat this as you will, but remember: if you are caught trying to enter or disturb those ruins, it's Lankhmar's law that your lives are forfeit."

Grinning, the Mouser touched his mug to his guest's. "Well, if I'm arrested and hauled off to your famous city dungeon, I'll trust in you to effect for me an escape of such breathtaking derring-do that the bards will sing of it throughout this and the entire next season."

Picking up his mug, Nuulpha returned the salute. "Indeed," he answered, "however, that will cost you a considerably larger and more ornate bribe than this milk of Cherig's."

Once again, the Silver Eel's door opened. Raucous laughter preceded a pair of slender young men, whose richly embroidered black cloaks marked them as noblemen or sons of noblemen. The fog swirled around their feet and clung to their garments like thick smoke as they entered, and to the Mouser's inebriated eye it seemed that a wispy tendril shifted and coiled with noose-like menace around the throat of one of them, but the door closed and the clinging mist swiftly diffused in the growing heat of the tavern.

With the young men came their paramours, two elegantly clad beauties, whose gowns of splendid silks shimmered in the Silver Eel's shadowy lamplight, whose arms and fingers sparkled with jeweled rings and bracelets. Both women wore their hair piled high on their heads and held in place with glittering pins and combs. One stood tall and dark as a raven's wing, but it was the smaller blonde who held the Mouser's eye. A child, really, no more than fourteen, she appeared thin as a willow wand, yet possessed of a grace an older woman would have envied. Her gaze swept around the tavern, and for a brief instant, her eyes met the Mouser's.

With his mug halfway to his lips, the Mouser's heart froze. "Ivrian," he muttered, for it was the face of his one true love staring back at him across the smoky room.

Then, she turned away again and threw her arms around the neck of her lover, laughing at some comment from him, as the four of them moved into a corner to call for drinks.

Slowly, the Mouser sipped from his mug and set it down. The beer tasted bitter in his mouth. With an effort, he swallowed, his eyes still on the blond woman, who never looked his way again.

"Stirs your blood, does she?" Nuulpha said, turning his head to regard the foursome.

"She ..." the Mouser hesitated, his voice dropping to a soft whisper, "... reminds me of someone."

Nuulpha grinned as he reached for the pitcher to refill his mug. "You can buy an evening with her for half again what you gave the child."

The Mouser's eyes widened. "She's a prostitute?"

"I'm a man of the streets," Nuulpha said proudly. "I know them all. Her name is Liara, called by some the Dark Butterfly, and she belongs to the House of Night Cries on Face-of-the-Moon Street."

The Mouser fell silent as he regarded Liara. All the tables in the tavern were occupied, so she and her friends leaned against the wall, their celebratory spirits undampened. No common beer for them; Cherig stood at their elbows with four rare and delicate crystal goblets balanced on his tray as he poured wine of Tovilyis from a slender brown bottle. The lamplight gleamed on the blood-red wine, and the glasses shone like huge fiery rubies as hands reached out to seize them.

Liara clinked the rim of her goblet with her companion's, then rose on tiptoe to lightly kiss his lips. Her dark eyes, subtly shadowed with traces of kohl, locked with his as she tasted the expensive liquor, while with one hand he stroked her breast.

The Mouser rose suddenly, accidentally knocking over his stool. Grabbing his mug, he drained the contents and slammed it down again. "Got to pee," he told Nuulpha, slurring his words as he pushed away from the table.

He weaved carefully through the crowd. Beneath the stairs that led to the sleeping rooms on the upstairs level stood a narrow door. The knob tried to dodge his grasp, but on the third attempt his fingers caught and turned it. Beyond was a narrow hallway, then another door that opened outward into Bones Alley.

The white fog hung like a pall in the air, eerily still and cool upon his face. When the Mouser paused to stare up and down the alley, neither end was visible. So thick was the mist that it even obscured the rooftops of the buildings opposite the tavern.

The Mouser pushed the outer door closed, muffling the laughter of the Silver Eel's customers. In the silence, he walked several paces down the alley and loosened the front of his trousers.

The door opened again. A silhouetted figure turned quickly to the wall, muttering to himself as he raised a mug to drink, while fumbling one-handed with his clothing. The soft sound of his urination joined the Mouser's. "Leaks out fast as I put it in," the man grumbled drunkenly.

The Mouser grunted noncommittally as he watched the dark stain he was making on the inn's wall grow. His thoughts were on the prostitute, Liara, who so resembled his dead love. A dull ache grew in his heart, and he began to spell Ivrian’s name wetly above the stain as a pair of sentimental tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

Through the alcohol that dulled his senses, the Mouser heard soft footsteps coming up the alley. Yet another figure approached, emerging ghostlike out of the fog. Dark eyes locked on the Mouser, and from under the edge of a cloak, rose the long, broad blade of a sword.

"I'll ha yer purse, shorty," the newcomer ordered, leveling his point near the Mouser's nose. "An any other bauble or bit o' value ye might be holdin'."

The Mouser shifted his lower, hidden hand. "The most valuable thing I've got for you," he said, turning his body away from the wall just enough to whip his own slender blade from its sheath in a high head parry that knocked his foe's point away from his face and sent the larger sword flying, "is this piece of advice ..." His riposte put his own point beneath the taller man's chin. Suddenly empty-handed, the fellow's eyes snapped wide with surprise and fear.

"Never interrupt a man in mid-stream." The Mouser finished his business on the man's boots.

Behind him, almost forgotten, the other man, who had relieved himself by the door, chuckled. "An never ferget that thieves are like the boots yer pissin' on."

At last, recognizing their Ilthmart accents, the Mouser reacted too late. An earthen beer mug came crashing down on his head. Red stars exploded behind his eyes. He staggered, then sagged against the wall where he'd written Ivrian's name.

"We usually come in pairs, little man."