Swords Against the Shadowland

SEVEN THE DARK BUTTERFLY

In the gloomiest corner of the inn, the Mouser leaned his back against the wall and ate cold lamb and gravy on a trencher of bread. He chewed slowly without appreciating the taste at all, dripping sauce on the front of his gray tunic without noticing.

The percussion continued, but the music turned softer with the addition of Fafhrd's lute-playing. The dark-haired dancer worked the center of the floor, her movements slow and sensuous to match the more romantic mood created by the lute's strings. Her audience watched, entranced, but her flashing eyes glowed only for the red-bearded Northerner.

Between her two paramours, Liara paid little attention. She sipped her violet wine, sometimes lifting a small, ivory-skinned hand to hide a smile or quiet a laugh as one of the men whispered some secret in her ear. The deep purple of her silken gown and cloak shimmered in the inn's lantern light, and with her every slight movement, golden threads woven throughout the fabric seemed to spark with fire. A huge amethyst, depending from a golden chain, blazed at the opening of the valley between her breasts.

The Mouser watched her, frowning at the intimate way the two men touched her, whispered to her, pressed themselves against her in their dark corner as if they were about to take her, standing, right there. Liara laughed, drew down the face of one of them, kissed his nose, then his lips, before she pushed him away again. The other moved in then, bending close, expecting similar treatment, and she gave it.

Casting the remains of his meal on the floor, the Mouser wiped his hands on his trousers and tried to look away. She drew him, though, as if she were a flame and he a helpless moth. With his gaze turned from her, he still felt her there. Her presence called to him, demanded all his attention. Try as he might, he could not resist for long.

Just looking at her filled him with a fire, a heat he had not known since his beloved Ivrian held him last. Mog's blood! How could one woman look so much like another?

She laughed again, a sharp little sound, and stroked her own breast while her companions grinned hungrily down upon her.

The Mouser could stand her teasing no more. Leaving his place by the wall, he chose a spot where he could better watch his partner's playing. The blond noblewoman who had earlier winked at Fafhrd had sidled closer to him while the dancer bent backward before him, letting her hair brush over his feet as her breasts spilled nearly out of their cups. With soft percussion for accompaniment, Fafhrd played sweetly, enjoying the attention it won him.

Cherig One-hand appeared suddenly by the Mouser's side and pushed a mug of beer into his hands. "Perhaps the barbarian isn't such a barbarian, after all," he said with a hint of drunkenness. The Silver Eel's owner snatched another mug from a startled customer's hand and swallowed from it. "I think he's good for business, and I'd like to have a drink with his manager." Without thanks or apology, he handed the vessel back to the same customer.

The lantern light reflected in the amber contents as the Mouser swirled the liquid thoughtfully without drinking. "No," he murmured, more to the beer than to Cherig. Without even looking, he could sense Liara in the corner as he passed the beer back. "I'd like a small glass of Tovilyis wine."

Cherig raised an eyebrow. "Your boy's popular for one night, and already you're making demands!" He lifted the Mouser's mug to his lips and drained it, spilling some of the contents down his bare chest and into his apron. "I'll get it then to make you happy," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "Festival comes, and all my friends must be happy!"

The music ended, and the percussionists took over. A wild, frenzied beat filled the inn. A different woman leaped up onto a table and began to gyrate, uncaring when someone snatched at her clothing. Indeed, she began to cast it off, herself, throwing blouse and then skirts into the air to fall where they would while the rest of the customers clapped and called encouragement.

She was indifferent-looking, however, and the Mouser's gaze strayed toward the tavern's rear door. Did he imagine it, or was Liara watching him, too? She raised her glass and sipped the wine. Her eyes, catching the liquor s color, shot violet fire.

Then Cherig blocked his view. The tiny crystal goblet he held for the Mouser was not much bigger than a thimble, yet the rare wine's bouquet blossomed like the finest perfume. Accepting the drink, the Mouser closed his eyes and inhaled delicately, letting old memories wash gently over him.

Ivrian had loved this wine of Tovilyis. On the first night of their lovemaking in Lankhmar she had poured a bottle over him and, laughing, licked it off. "To my noble father, who tried and failed to keep us apart," she had toasted as she filled his armpit and drank from it. "To my father's soldiers, who couldn't find their own arses, let alone the two of us in this huge city," she had said with her head between his legs.

"To you, Ivrian," he whispered as he raised his small glass to the memory of his one true love and opened his eyes. To an observer, however, it might have appeared that it was Liara he toasted, for Cherig no longer stood between them.

Putting the crystal to his lips, he poured the thick, flowery nectar down his throat. Surely, the gods vinted no more wondrous beverage, he thought as he savored the burst of flavor.

When he lowered the glass, over the rim he spied the Dark Butterfly slipping out the rear door with her pair of suitors.

Fafhrd, in a generous effort to lower class barriers, had one arm wrapped around the dark-haired dancer and the other on the waist of the blond noblewoman. As the Mouser watched, the noblewoman held a mug to the Northerner's lips, and he drank deeply while the dancer kneaded the corded muscles in his neck.

Cherig passed by again to claim the precious glass. Without a word to his partner, the Mouser slipped through the crowd and exited through the rear door.

The fog swirled through Bones Alley. The moist air felt cool on his face, and he drew up his hood as he gazed up and down the narrow passage, hoping for a sight of the Dark Butterfly. The mist, of course, thwarted that desire, but a short, familiar laugh established his direction.

The haunting zaghareets of Aarth's followers still floated in the night, but the close walls of the alley muffled the weird cries. He felt his way along carefully until he reached Carter Street.

Rounding the corner, he caught just a flash of a silk cloak before the fog concealed Liara from his view again. Fortunately, her companions, made ebullient by liquor, gave forth with an endless stream of brags and jokes, as men too often did in the presence of beautiful women. Their voices made them easy to follow.

At the corner of Damp Street, a gaunt-faced man in a ragged cloak raised a smoking pitch torch as he called out to the trio. "Light your way!" he cried, his dirty face shining under the bright flare. "Light your way! Five tik-pennies is what you pay! Light your way!"

The Dark Butterfly laughed as she stopped before the enterprising fellow. "What a clever way to earn your bread, and a worthwhile service it is," she said. "Have you turned much business tonight?"

The torch-bearer bowed elegantly. "This damned fog, if your ladyship will pardon a poor man's language, keeps many folks inside. But Midsummer Festival approaches, and there's always them that likes to get an early start on their celebrating. I just walked a couple to the Plaza of Dark Delights." He winked salaciously.

A chorus of shrill zaghareets and a barely human scream ripped through the night. The torch-bearer shrank in fear, nearly dropping his money-maker. One of the paramours drew Liara protectively into his arms while the other whirled with a drawn dagger.

Unseen, the Mouser flattened against a wall, his sword whisking from its sheath. For a moment, all the horrors of the Cheap Street Plaza, forgotten in his desire for the woman he followed, surged through his mind.

A small mob of Aarth's priests and followers charged down the road, saffron robes flapping and torn, the light of tiny lanterns swinging in the mist as they ran. Again, they screamed zaghareets, and again one of their number, unable perhaps to make the intricate sound, answered with a blood-curdling scream. In only a moment they were passed and lost once more in the dense fog.

Liara's guardians gave a visible sigh of relief and sheathed their daggers, though Liara seemed quite calm, almost amused. "I have no fear of the night," she said to the torch-bearer, "but to soothe the nerves of these big strong men,"—she indicated her companions—"I will hire your services." She held up a finger. "One tik."

The torch-bearer scoffed, feigning offense. "Five tiks," he insisted. "But for such a beautiful lady, I will lower myself to accept four."

Liara held up another finger. "Two," she offered.

The torch-bearer rubbed his chin, looking stern. "Shall we say three and call it a bargain?"

"Two," Liara said firmly. Then she smiled. "And a kiss at the end of your hire."

The torch-bearer's eyes grew as bright as his flame.

"On the cheek," she added, folding her arms beneath her silken cloak.

"Left or right?" the torch-bearer grinned, unwilling to end the haggle.

Liara shrugged, reached out with a fingertip, and touched the left side of a broken-toothed mouth. "Here."

The little man smiled, then jumped up and clicked his heels. "Lead the way!" he sang. "Lead the way! Two tiks and a kiss is what you pay!"

Now four, Liara's party continued down Carter Street surrounded by a wavering circle of amber radiance. Concealed by the fog, the Mouser followed a few paces behind, his sword once more in its sheath. The smoke of the pitch torch tickled his nose, and he pressed a finger against his nostrils to stifle a sneeze.

She even walked like Ivrian. Her laughter, speech, her smallest movement reminded him of his dead love. The color of her hair, her eyes, her face was Ivrian's. Only in her boldness, her disdain for the dangers of the night, did she differ, and in her open, flagrant flirtation.

Drawn almost against his will, the Mouser crept along just past the edge of the light, a shadow of her shadow, haunted and mesmerized.

Suddenly, as they passed the mouth of a narrow alley, another pair of shadows sprang out. The torch-bearer whirled, shoving fire into the face of Liara's largest suitor. In the fire-gleam, daggers flashed. The remaining suitor, his dagger free, slashed at the torch-bearer, and the torch went spinning into the street. The burned man’s screams turned into a bloody, choking gurgle. Then the second suitor went down, too.

Liara struck with her own dagger at one of the shadows, but the figure caught her wrist and twisted it. The blade flew out of her fist, but with her other hand she clawed at his eyes and hurled herself upon him like a hellion.

The second attacker slit the burned suitor’s throat to silence him, then tangled a hand in Liara's hair, jerked her head back and slapped her hard enough to knock her sprawling into the street.

"Strip 'em of any valuables," the second man said gruffly to his partner, who wiped blood from several oozing scratches. "Then we'll strip this whore, an' have some fun."

Liara rose up on one elbow, rubbing her smarting cheek. As a rough hand reached to rip her gown, a slender dagger suddenly sprouted from the man's neck. His eyes snapped wide, and with a choked cry, he fell upon her.

The second thief had no more opportunity. Gray-gloved hands caught either side of his head and twisted sharply. A loud crack resulted, and the thief fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The Mouser moved swiftly into the concealing fog again, certain that Liara had not seen him. With a string of curses that would have made Fafhrd grin, she pushed the first thief's body off, and got to her feet. With another curse, she put a delicate slipper forcefully into the dead torch-bearer's face.

"Pick up the torch," the Mouser whispered, pressed out of sight near a wall. "I will see you safely to your home."

"You'll see me?" Liara shot back nervously with nothing to address but a voice in the fog. "I can't see you."

"Pick up the torch," he repeated. "I'll protect you. A beautiful woman should not walk these streets undefended."

Liara snorted as she recovered the sputtering torch and lifted it. "Well, that at least tells me you're no god or spirit. Only a man would concern himself with my looks." Using the light, she glanced down at her murdered companions and picked up one of the thieves' daggers, a larger and more dangerous-looking blade than her own tiny sticker. "I thank you for this, mysterious defender. For all their vanity, these were good servants, undeserving of treachery and slaughter."

"Servants?" the Mouser said with surprise. "I thought they were your paramours."

She drew herself stiffly erect, her eyes blazing with pride. For a moment, the Mouser thought she might be able to see him where he hid. "I treat my servants as well as my paramours," she answered. "They give much better service for it."

Turning, she started down Carter Street again, her blond hair mussed, her cloak ripped, but her bearing regal. There was no fear in her voice, only a hint of mockery and amusement when she whispered, "Are you still there, defender?"

"Lead the way, lead the way," the Mouser answered softly, imitating the torch-bearer’s song as he withdrew Catsclaw from the thief's throat and wiped it clean.

Liara gave a small, scoffing laugh. "And how much will I pay?" she asked, finishing the rhyme.

The Mouser swallowed, his thoughts full of Ivrian, his eyes full of the Dark Butterfly. His heart pounded in his chest. Why did he hide in the fog when he might walk close beside her? He couldn't tell. The confusion that filled him swirled thicker than any mist in the street. Still, he dared a brazen response. "You may keep your tik-pennies," he said. "I will take the kiss."

Liara laughed again, nodding to herself. "Yes," she murmured. "Though you conceal yourself, you are certainly a man."

They walked in silence after that, the Mouser alert for any threat, Liara seemingly unconcerned. At Barter Street a throng of pedestrians crossed their path, swinging lanterns, singing as they headed toward the Festival District. Another pack of Aarth's maddened followers ran screaming after the celebrants, overtaking them, passing them, and disappearing in the fog.

A gilt palanquin born on the shoulders of four slaves approached, surrounded by four more servants bearing torches. At a quietly spoken command from the palanquin's occupant, the bearers came to a crisp halt. Slender, well-manicured fingers parted the vehicle's gauzy curtains, and a face peered out. The torchlight reflected on an oiled beard and sharp features.

"Liara," a voice said smoothly.

The bearers lowered the palanquin until it rested on ornately carved legs, then stood at silent attention. One of the torch-bearers hurried forward, unrolled a small carpet on the ground and set a step stool upon it. The speaker parted the curtains a bit more, but did not get out. "By what strange whim of the gods do I find you alone and unescorted on this dreadful night?" Without waiting for an answer, he offered, "Come, give me your company, and let's see if we can't make it pass more pleasantly."

The expensive, silver-trimmed black toga that enwrapped the man's shoulders revealed him as one of Lankhmar's highest ranking nobles. Only the Ten Families, the descendants of Lankhmar's ancient founders, were allowed the honor of the garment.

Liara seemed unimpressed. "I am not alone, Belit," she answered in a familiar manner, disdaining even to call him lord. Such impudence from any other citizen would have brought a public whipping in Punishment Square. "I am protected by my shadow."

Belit gave her a strange look, then leaned out of his vehicle to search the fog with his gaze. Shrugging, he straightened. "Another time, then," he said without further questioning. "But be careful. Attavaq has died this night, and his damned priests are running like hysterical demons through the city."

Hidden in the fog, the Mouser listened and rubbed his chin. So it was Aarth's Patriarch, after all, for whom the great bell had rung.

Belit waved a hand casually through closing curtains, and his bearers once more lifted his palanquin onto broad shoulders. A light-bearing servant expertly rolled up the carpet, snatched up the stool, and fell into step with the others as they proceeded into the mist.

"You have powerful friends," the Mouser whispered as they resumed their journey.

"I have no friends," Liara said coldly. "But I have the goods on powerful people." She laughed again, harshly. "Lankhmar is a marvelous place. A clever whore can excel here."

The Mouser's voice dropped a note lower as he gazed upon her from the shadows. "I will never call you such a name."

The Dark Butterfly laughed again and drew her purple silk cloak closer about her throat. "You have already proven yourself a fool," she said. "By following me thus."

Leaving Carter Street, she turned up the narrow way that led to the entrance of the Plaza of Dark Delights. White gravel shifted softly under her slippered footsteps. Cautious as ever, the Mouser followed far to the side of the path, making no noise, hiding in the fog just beyond the flickering border of her torchlight.

Tall, immaculate hedges and fantastically shaped topiaries dominated the plaza, which was actually a park on the edge of the Festival District. Secluded niches with marble benches offered privacy and solitude for lovers and philosophers alike, and in truth, at night the plaza was known more for debate and discourse than as a place for illicit assignations. The carefully maintained greenery blocked any view of the towers and rooftops of the city, nor did the hubbub of the city penetrate into the park. Indeed, a citizen could stop for a while to meditate and utterly forget that the greatest city on Nehwon swirled around them.

By tradition, no one carried more than the dimmest of lanterns into the park. Liara's torch would have drawn scowls and curses had there been anyone in the plaza to complain, but only the mist occupied the niches tonight.

"One should not pass this way," the Mouser whispered, "without speaking or hearing some sage word."

Liara seemed not to hear, or chose not to answer. Or perhaps, the Mouser considered, her silence was an answer, and if so, there was wisdom of a sort in it. He peered around at the giant topiaries that stood along the pebbled path. The fog and mist lent them a menace that made his skin crawl. They reminded him of tendrils rising up from the mist of another plaza; they reminded with a sudden shivering fear that the fog concealed something more than just himself.

He stopped with an abrupt realization. Those tendrils had reached out only for the Ilthmarts. The fog had spared Fafhrd and himself—or saved them.

"Why do you stop, my defender?" Liara said, turning. The torchlight lit up her features. Her eyes shone with reflected fire, and the amethyst at her throat gleamed as her cloak gaped open.

Surprise prevented the Mouser from responding at once.

She laughed that small, tinkling laugh. "Did you think I couldn't hear you? Oh, you're an excellent sneak, little defender, but I have sharp ears." She laughed again. "As every official in Lankhmar knows."

The Mouser frowned. "Why do you say little?"

"I hear the length and quickness of your stride," she answered. "Take it as no insult."

"The wound," the Mouser admitted, "is to my pride, for I thought no man could hear my tread when I crept with earnest intent."

"No man did," she said with dignified emphasis. Turning again, she continued through the park, from which they shortly emerged.

Face-of-the-Moon Street made a paved crescent around the southeastern corner of the park. Elegant manses on one side of the street faced the great circling hedge that defined the park's circumference. These were not the dwellings of nobles or wealthy merchants, however, but houses of pain-pleasure where men could experience darker enjoyments than those commonalities found on Whore Street.

Such a place was the House of Night Cries. In keeping with the park across the way, a hedge separated the manse's grounds from the street. Among its leafy greenery bloomed black-petaled and white-tipped mooncrisps, called by some Roses of the Shadowland. Droplets of mist shimmered on the petals under Liara's torchlight.

At the entrance, she paused.

"Step into my light," she commanded.

The Mouser hesitated, licking his lower lip uncertainly, suddenly nervous. Yet, he obeyed. She stood a few inches taller than he, and he gazed up into the brightness of her eyes, his heart hammering, his loins full of desire.

Perfunctorily, she leaned forward and kissed his right cheek. "I have paid your hire," she said, straightening, turning to leave him.

He caught her hand.

Liara jerked away, anger contorting her beautiful features as she raised the torch like a weapon and backed a step. "You are paid!" she shouted, clutching the hand he had grabbed to her breast as if he had injured her.

"I only touched..."

She lowered the torch, but her anger did not subside. "No man touches me for free!" she cried. "No man!"

Hurt, surrendering to his own rising anger, the Mouser shoved a hand into his purse, found a coin and tossed it at her feet.

The torchlight gleamed on a silver smerduk, and she laughed again with a harsh sound. "That would not get you in my door." Then, Liara seemed to relent somewhat. Snatching a black mooncrisp from the hedge, she flung it into the Mouser's hands. "I cannot be courted with coins, my gray defender," she said with softer gentility. "If you wish, bring me a gift, and I will not turn you away. But when you choose your gift, be mindful that I have entertained the wealthiest men in Lankhmar. Then, come to me again. Come to me, and I will show you the finest perfections of love."

The Mouser opened his hands and let the mooncrisp fall into the street. "The Dark Butterfly," he said with bitter sadness. "You are only a harlot with a fancy nick-name."

Her eyes narrowed again. "You said you would never call me a whore."

Turning away, he spoke over his shoulder as he started back toward the park. "And I kept my word," he said specifically.