“They've no right to. I can buy the lot of them! Just wait until they see you wearing my gift. It's a jewel that the wife of the Overlord would give her eyeteeth to possess!”
At mention of the word “jewel” the Mouser sensed a subtle shiver of anticipation run through the room. More than that, he saw one of the silken hangings stir in a way that the lazy breeze could hardly account for.
He edged cautiously forward, craning his neck and peered down sideways into the space between the hangings and the wall. Then slowly a smile of elfish amusement appeared on his compact, snub-nosed face.
Crouched in the faintly amber luminescence that filtered through the draperies were two scrawny men, naked except for dark breechcloths. Each carried a bag big enough to fit loosely over a human head. From these bags leaked a faint soporific scent that the Mouser had noticed before without being able to place.
The Mouser's smile deepened. Noiselessly he drew forward the slim fishpole at his side and inspected the line and the stickily-smeared claws that served for a hook.
“Show me the jewel!” said Atya.
“I shall, my dear. At once,” answered Muulsh. “But don't you think we'd first best close the sky-window and the other ones?”
“We'll do nothing of the kind!” snapped Atya. “Must I stifle just because a lot of old women have given way to a silly fear?”
“But, my dove, it's not a silly fear. All Lankhmar is afraid. And rightly.”
He moved as though to call a slave. Atya stamped her foot pettishly. “Stop, you fat coward! I refuse to give way to childish frights. I won't believe any of those fantastic stories, no matter how many great ladies swear to them. Don't you dare have the windows closed. Show me the jewel at once, or — or I'll never be nice to you again.”
She seemed close to hysteria. Muulsh sighed and resigned himself.
“Very well, my sweet.”
He walked over to an inlaid table by the door, clumsily ducking past several bird cages, and fumbled at a small casket. Four pairs of eyes followed him intently. When he returned there was something in his hand that glittered. He set it down on the center of the table.
“There,” he said, stepping back. “I told you it was fit for an empress, and it is.”
For a space there was breathless silence in the room. The two thieves behind the draperies edged forward hungrily, quietly loosening the drawstrings of the bags, their feet caressing the polished floor like cats’ paws.
The Mouser slid the slim fishing rod through the sky-window, avoiding the silver chains of the cages, until the pendant claw was poised directly above the center of the table, like a spider preparing to drop on an unsuspecting large red beetle.
Atya stared. A new dignity and self-respect crept into Muulsh's expression. The jewel gleamed like a fat, lucent, quivering drop of blood.
The two thieves crouched to spring. The Mouser joggled the rod slightly, gauging his aim before he dropped the claw. Atya reached out an eager hand and moved toward the table.
But all these intended actions were simultaneously interrupted.
There was a beat and whirr of powerful wings. An inky bird a little larger than a crow flapped through a side window and skidded down into the room, like a fragment of blackness detached from the outer night. Its talons made arm-long scratches as it hit the table. Then it arched its neck, gave a loud, shuddering squawk, and launched itself toward Atya.
The room whirled with chaotic movements. The gummed claw halted midway in its drop. The two thieves fought ungracefully to keep their balance and avoid being seen. Muulsh waved his arms and shouted, “Shoo! Shoo!” Atya collapsed.
The black bird swept close past Atya, its wings brushing and striking the silver cages, and beat out into the night.
Again there was momentary silence in the room. The gentle songbirds had been quite stilled by the incursion of their raptorial brother. The rod vanished through the sky-window. The two thieves scuttled behind the draperies and noiselessly edged toward a door. Their looks of bafflement and fright were giving way to professional chagrin.
Atya rose to her knees, dainty hands pressed to her face. A shudder tightened around Muulsh's fleshy neck and he moved toward her.
“Did it — did it hurt you? Your face. It struck at you.”
Atya dropped her hands, revealing an unmaimed countenance. She stared at her husband. Then all at once the stare changed to a glare, like a pot suddenly come to a boil.
“You big useless hen!” she cried out. “For all you cared, it might have pecked out both my eyes! Why didn't you do something? Yelling ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ when it struck at me! And the jewel gone forever now! Oh, you miserable capon!”
She rose to her feet, taking off one of her slippers with a wildly determined air. Muulsh retreated, protesting, and bumped into a whole cluster of bird cages.
Only Fafhrd's tossed-aside cloak marked the spot where the Gray Mouser had left him. Hastening to the roof-edge, he made out Fafhrd's large form some distance away across the roofs of the adjoining warehouses. The barbarian was staring at the moonlit sky. The Mouser gathered up the cloak, leaped the narrow gap, and followed.
When the Mouser reached him, Fafhrd was grinning with great satisfaction so that his big white teeth showed. The size of his supple, brawny frame and the amount of metal-studded leather he wore in the form of armbands and broad belt were as much out of tune with civilized Lankhmar as were his long, copper hair, handsomely rugged features, and pale Northern skin, ghostly in the moonlight. Firmly clutching his heavy hawking glove at the wrist was a white-capped eagle, which ruffled its feathers and made a disagreeable gargling noise in its throat at the Mouser's approach.
“Now tell me I can't hawk by full moon!” he cried out in great good humor. “I don't know what happened in the room, or what luck you had, but as for the black bird that went in and came out — Lo! It is here!”
He pushed at a limp bundle of black feathers with his foot.
The Mouser hissed the names of several gods in quick succession, then asked, “But the jewel?”
“I don't know about that,” said Fafhrd, brushing the matter aside. “Ah, but you should have seen it, little man! A wondrous fight!” His voice regained its enthusiasm. “The other one flew swift and cunningly but Kooskra here rose like the north wind up a mountain pass. For a while I lost them in the fray. There seemed to be something of a fight. Then Kooskra brought him down.”
The Mouser had dropped to his knees and was gingerly examining Kooskra's quarry. He slipped a small knife from his belt.
“And to think,” continued Fafhrd, as he adjusted a leather hood over the eagle's head, “that they told me these birds were demons or fierce phantasms of darkness! Faugh! They're only ungainly, night-flying crows.”
“You talk too loudly,” said the Mouser. Then he looked up. “But there's no gainsaying that tonight the eagle beat the fishpole. See what I found in this one's gullet. He kept it to the end.”
Fafhrd snatched the ruby from the Mouser with his free hand and held it up to the moon.
“King's ransom!” he cried. “Mouser, our fortune's made! I see it all. We shall follow these birds as they rob and let Kooskra rape them of their booty.” He laughed aloud.
This time there was no warning beat of wings — only a gliding shadow which grazed Fafhrd's upraised hand and slid silently away. It almost came to rest on the roof, then flapped powerfully upward.
“Blood of Kos!” cursed Fafhrd, waking from his dumbfounded amazement. “Mouser, he's taken it!” Then, “At him, Kooskra! At him!” as he swiftly unhooded the eagle.
But this time it was apparent from the first that something was wrong. The beat of the eagle's wings was slow, and he seemed to have difficulty gaining height. Nevertheless he drew near the quarry. The black bird veered suddenly, swooped, and rose again. The eagle followed closely, though his flight was still unsteady.
Wordlessly Fafhrd and the Mouser watched the birds approach the massive, high-reared tower of the deserted temple, until their feathered forms were silhouetted against its palely glowing, ancient surface.
Kooskra seemed then to recover full power. He gained a superior position, hovered while his quarry frantically darted and wheeled, then plummeted down.
“Got him, by Kos!” breathed Fafhrd, thumping his knee with his fist.
