House. We'll be new members, who've gone out by day, so it'll not be expected that the Night Beggarmaster and any night watchmen know our looks.'
“But we don't look like beggars,” Fafhrd protested. “Beggars have awful sores and limbs all a-twist or lacking altogether.'
“That's just what I'm going to take care of now,” the Mouser chuckled, drawing Scalpel. Ignoring Fafhrd's backward step and wary glance, the Mouser gazed puzzledly at the long tapering strip of steel he'd bared, then with a happy nod unclipped from his belt Scalpel's scabbard furbished with ratskin, sheathed the sword and swiftly wrapped it up, hilt and all, in a spiral, with the wide ribbon of a bandage roll dug from his sack.
“There!” he said, knotting the bandage ends. “Now I've a tapping cane.'
“What's that?” Fafhrd demanded. “And why?'
“Because I'll be blind, that's why.” He took a few shuffling steps, tapping the cobbles ahead with wrapped sword — gripping it by the quillons, or cross guard, so that the grip and pommel were up his sleeve — and groping ahead with his other hand. “That look all right to you?” he asked Fafhrd as he turned back. “Feels perfect to me. Bat-blind, eh? Oh, don't fret, Fafhrd — the rag's but gauze. I can see through it fairly well. Besides, I don't have to convince anyone inside Thieves’ House I'm actually blind. Most Guild-beggars fake it, as you must know. Now what to do with you? Can't have you blind also — too obvious, might wake suspicion.” He uncorked his jug and sucked inspiration. Fafhrd copied this action, on principle.
The Mouser smacked his lips and said, “I've got it! Fafhrd, stand on your right leg and double up your left behind you at the knee. Hold! Don't fall on me! Avaunt! But steady yourself by my shoulder. That's right. Now get that left foot higher. We'll disguise your sword like mine, for a crutch cane — it's thicker and'll look just right. You can also steady yourself with your other hand on my shoulder as you hop — the halt leading the blind, always good for a tear, always good theater! But higher with that left foot! No, it just doesn't come off — I'll have to rope it. But first unclip your scabbard.'
Soon the Mouser had Graywand and its scabbard in the same state as Scalpel and was tying Fafhrd's left ankle to his thigh, drawing the rope cruelly tight, though Fafhrd's wine-anesthetized nerves hardly registered it. Balancing himself with his steel-cored crutch cane as the Mouser worked, he swigged from his jug and pondered deeply. Ever since joining forces with Vlana, he'd been interested in the theater, and the atmosphere of the actors’ tenement had fired that interest further, so that he was delighted at the prospect of acting a part in real life. Yet brilliant as the Mouser's plan undoubtedly was, there did seem to be drawbacks to it. He tried to formulate them.
“Mouser,” he said, “I don't know as I like having our swords tied up, so we can't draw ‘em in emergency.'
“We can still use ‘em as clubs,” the Mouser countered, his breath hissing between his teeth as he drew the last knot hard. “Besides, we'll have our knives. Say, pull your belt around until yours is behind your back, so your robe will hide it sure. I'll do the same with Cat's Claw. Beggars don't carry weapons, at least in view, and we must maintain dramatic consistency in every detail. Stop drinking now; you've had enough. I myself need only a couple swallows more to reach my finest pitch.'
“And I don't know as I like going hobbled into that den of cutthroats. I can hop amazingly fast, it's true, but not as fast as I can run. Is it really wise, think you?'
“You can slash yourself loose in an instant,” the Mouser hissed with a touch of impatience and anger. “Aren't you willing to make the least sacrifice for art's sake?'
“Oh, very well,” Fafhrd said, draining his jug and tossing it aside. “Yes, of course I am.'
“Your complexion's too hale,” the Mouser said, inspecting him critically. He touched up Fafhrd's features and hands with pale gray greasepaint, then added wrinkles with dark. “And your garb's too tidy.” He scooped dirt from between the cobbles and smeared it on Fafhrd's robe, then tried to put a rip in it, but the material resisted. He shrugged and tucked his lightened sack under his belt.
“So's yours,” Fafhrd observed, and stooping on his right leg got a good handful of muck himself, ordure in it by its feel and stink. Heaving himself up with a mighty effort, he wiped the stuff off on the Mouser's cloak and gray silken jerkin too.
The small man got the odor and cursed, but, “Dramatic consistency,” Fafhrd reminded him. “It's well we stink. Beggars do — that's one reason folk give ‘em coins: to get rid of ‘em. And no one at Thieves’ House will be eager to inspect us close. Now come on, while our fires are still high.” And grasping hold of the Mouser's shoulder, he propelled himself rapidly toward Cheap Street, setting his bandaged sword between cobbles well ahead and taking mighty hops.
“Slow down, idiot,” the Mouser cried softly, shuffling along with the speed almost of a skater to keep up, while tapping his (sword) cane like mad. “A cripple's supposed to be
Fafhrd nodded wisely and slowed somewhat. The ominous empty doorway slid again into view. The Mouser tilted his jug to get the last of his wine, swallowed awhile, then choked sputteringly. Fafhrd snatched and drained the jug, then tossed it over shoulder to shatter noisily.
They hop-shuffled into Cheap Street, halting almost at once for a richly clad man and woman to pass. The richness of the man's garb was sober and he was on the fat and oldish side, though hard-featured. A merchant doubtless, and with money in the Thieves’ Guild — protection money, at least — to take this route at this hour.
The richness of the woman's garb was garish though not tawdry and she was beautiful and young, and looked still younger. A competent courtesan, almost certainly.
The man started to veer around the noisome and filthy pair, his face averted, but the girl swung toward the Mouser, concern growing in her eyes with hothouse swiftness. “Oh, you poor boy! Blind. What tragedy,” she said. “Give us a gift for him, lover.'
“Keep away from those stinkards, Misra, and come along,” he retorted, the last of his speech vibrantly muffled, for he was holding his nose.
She made him no reply, but thrust white hand into his ermine pouch and swiftly pressed a coin against the Mouser's palm and closed his fingers on it, then took his head between her palms and kissed him sweetly on the lips before letting herself be dragged on.
“Take good care of the little fellow, old man,” she called fondly back to Fafhrd while her companion grumbled muffled reproaches at her, of which only “perverted bitch” was intelligible.
The Mouser stared at the coin in his palm, then sneaked a long look after his benefactress. There was a dazed wonder in his voice as he whispered to Fafhrd, “Look.
“Buggery even, rather!” Fafhrd answered harsh and low. That “old man” rankled. “Onward we, bravely!'
They upped the two worn steps and went through the doorway, noting the exceptional thickness of the wall. Ahead was a long, straight, high-ceilinged corridor ending in a stairs and with doors spilling light at intervals and wall-set torches adding their flare, but empty all its length.
They had just got through the doorway when cold steel chilled the neck and pricked a shoulder of each of them. From just above, two voices commanded in unison, “Halt!'
Although fired — and fuddled — by fortified wine, they each had wit enough to freeze and then very cautiously look upward.
Two gaunt, scarred, exceptionally ugly faces, each topped by a gaudy scarf binding back hair, looked down at them from a big, deep niche just above the doorway and helping explain its lowness. Two bent, gnarly arms thrust down the swords that still pricked them.
“Gone out with the noon beggar-batch, eh?” one of them observed. “Well, you'd better have a high take to justify your tardy return. The Night Beggarmaster's on a Whore Street furlough. Report above to Krovas. Gods, you stink! Better clean up first, or Krovas will have you bathed in live steam. Begone!'
The Mouser and Fafhrd shuffled and hobbled forward at their most authentic. One niche-guard cried after them, “Relax, boys! You don't have to put it on here.'
“Practice makes perfect,” the Mouser called back in a quavering voice. Fafhrd's finger-ends dug his shoulder warningly. They moved along somewhat more naturally, so far as Fafhrd's tied-up leg allowed.
“Gods, what an easy life the Guild-beggars have,” the other niche-guard observed to his mate. “What slack discipline and low standards of skill! Perfect, my sacred butt! You'd think a child could see through those
