Swords in the Mist

it, but this Northerner sometimes conjures up battle-sleights that even I can't be sure of countering — crazy berserk tricks born of sudden whim that no civilized man can anticipate. Chances are Grilli could nick him, but what if he didn't? Here's my reed — it lets you rightly think that I may still be soft on the man, but I give it because it's my best reed: let me get him drunk at nightfall. Dead drunk. Then he's out of the way for certain.'

Pulg frowned. “Sure you can deliver on that, son? They say he's forsworn booze. And he sticks to Bwadres like a giant squid.'

“I can detach him,” the Mouser said. “And this way we don't risk spoiling him for Bwadres’ show. Battle's always uncertain. You may plan to hock a man and then have to cut his throat.'

Pulg shook his head. “We also leave him fit to tangle with our collectors the next time they come for the cash. Can't get him drunk every time we pick up the split. Too complicated. And looks very weak.'

“No need to,” the Mouser said confidently. “Once Bwadres starts paying, the Northerner will go along.'

Pulg continued to shake his head. “You're guessing, son,” he said. “Oh, to the best of your ability, but still guessing. I want this deal bagged up strongly. An example that will stick, I said. Remember, son, the man we're really putting on this show for tomorrow night is Basharat. He'll be there, you can bet on it, though standing in the last row, I imagine — did you hear how your Northerner dumped two of his boys? I liked that.” He grinned widely, then instantly grew serious again. “So we'll do it my way, eh? Grilli's very sure.'

The Mouser shrugged once, deadpan. “If you say so. Of course, some Northerners suicide when crippled. I don't think he would, but he might. Still, even allowing for that, I'd say our plan has four chances in five of working out perfectly. Four in five.'

Pulg frowned furiously, his rather piggy red-rimmed eyes fixed on the Mouser. Finally he said, “Sure you can get him drunk, son? Five in five?'

“I can do it,” the Mouser said. He had thought of a half dozen additional arguments in favor of his plan, but he did not utter them. He did not even add, “Six in six,” as he was tempted to. He was learning.

Pulg suddenly leaned back in his chair and laughed, signing that the business part of their conference was over. He tweaked the naked girl standing beside him. “Wine!” he ordered. “No, not that sugary slop I keep for customers — didn't Zizzi instruct you? — but the real stuff from behind the green idol. Come, son, pledge me a cup, and then tell me a little about this Issek. I'm interested in him. I'm interested in ‘em all.” He waved loosely at the darkly gleaming shelves of religious curios in the handsomely carved traveling case rising beyond the end of the table. He frowned a very different frown from his business one. “There are more things in this world than we understand,” he said sententiously. “Did you know that, son?” The Great Man shook his head, again very differently. He was swiftly sinking into his most deeply metaphysical mood. “Makes me wonder, sometimes. You and I, son, know that these' — He waved again at the case—'are toys. But the feelings that men have toward them… they're real, eh? — and they can be strange. Easy to understand part of those feelings — brats shivering at bogies, fools gawking at a show and hoping for blood or a bit of undressing — but there's another part that's strange. The priests bray nonsense, the people groan and pray, and then something comes into existence. I don't know what that something is — I wish I did, I think — but it's strange.” He shook his head. “Makes any man wonder. So drink your wine, son — watch his cup, girl, and don't let it empty — and talk to me about Issek. I'm interested in ‘em all, but right now I'd like to hear about him.'

He did not in any way hint that for the past two months he had been watching the services of Issek for at least five nights a week from behind a veiled window in various lightless rooms along the Street of the Gods. And that was something that not even the Mouser knew about Pulg.

* * *

So as a pinkly opalescent, rose-ribboned dawn surged up the sky from the black and stinking Marsh, the Mouser sought out Fafhrd. Bwadres was still snoring in the gutter, embracing Issek's cask, but the big barbarian was awake and sitting on the curb, hand grasping his chin under his beard. Already a few children had gathered at a respectful distance, though no one else was abroad.

“That the one they can't stab or cut?” the Mouser heard one of the children whisper.

“That's him,” another answered.

“I'd like to sneak up behind him and stick him with this pin.'

“I'll bet you would!'

“I guess he's got iron skin,” said a tiny girl with large eyes.

The Mouser smothered a guffaw, patted that last child on the head, and then advanced straight to Fafhrd and, with a grimace at the stained refuse between the cobbles, squatted fastidiously on his hams. He still could do it easily, though his new belly made a considerable pillow in his lap. He said without preamble, speaking too low for the children to hear, “Some say the strength of Issek lies in love, some say in honesty, some say in courage, some say in stinking hypocrisy. I believe I have guessed the one true answer. If I am right, you will drink wine with me. If I am wrong, I will strip to my loincloth, declare Issek my god and master, and serve as acolyte's acolyte. Is it a wager?'

Fafhrd studied him. “It is done,” he said.

The Mouser advanced his right hand and lightly rapped Fafhrd's body twice through the soiled camel's hair — once in the chest, once between the legs. Each time there was a faint thud with just the hint of aclank.

“The cuirass of Mingsward and the groin-piece of Gortch,” the Mouser pronounced. “Each heavily padded to keep them from ringing. Therein lie Issek's strength and invulnerability. They wouldn't have fit you six months ago.'

Fafhrd sat as one bemused. Then his face broke into a large grin. “You win,” he said. “When do I pay?'

“This very afternoon,” the Mouser whispered, “when Bwadres eats and takes his forty winks.” He rose with a light grunt and made off, stepping daintily from cobble to cobble. Soon the Street of the Gods grew moderately busy and for awhile Fafhrd was surrounded by a scattering of the curious, but it was a very hot day for Lankhmar. By midafternoon the Street was deserted; even the children had sought shade.

Bwadres droned through the Acolyte's Litany twice with Fafhrd, then called for food by touching his hand to his mouth — it was his ascetic custom always to eat at this uncomfortable time rather than in the cool of the evening.

Fafhrd went off and shortly returned with a large bowl of fish stew. Bwadres blinked at the size of it, but tucked it away, belched, and curled around the cask after an admonition to Fafhrd. He was snoring almost immediately.

A hiss sounded from the low wide archway behind them. Fafhrd stood up and quietly moved into the shadows of the portico. The Mouser gripped his arm and guided him toward one of several curtained doorways.

“Your sweat's a flood, my friend,” he said softly. “Tell me, do you really wear the armor from prudence, or is it a kind of metal hair-shirt?'

Fafhrd did not answer. He blinked at the curtain the Mouser drew aside. “I don't like this,” he said. “It's a house of assignation. I may be seen and then what will dirty-minded people think?'

“Hung for the kid, hung for the goat,” the Mouser said lightly. “Besides, you haven't been seen — yet. In with you!'

Fafhrd complied. The heavy curtains swung to behind them, leaving the room in which they stood lit only by high louvers. As Fafhrd squinted into the semidarkness, the Mouser said, “I've paid the evening's rent on this place. It's private, it's near. None will know. What more could you ask?'

“I guess you're right,” Fafhrd said uneasily. “But you've spent too much rent money. Understand, my little man, I can have only one drink with you. You tricked me into that — after a fashion you did — but I pay. But only one cup of wine, little man. We're friends, but we have our separate paths to tread. So only one cup. Or at most two.'

“Naturally,” purred the Mouser.

The objects in the room grew in the swimming gray blank of Fafhrd's vision. There was an inner door (also curtained), a narrow bed, a basin, a low table and stool, and on the floor beside the stool several portly short- necked large-eared shapes. Fafhrd counted them and once again his face broke into a large grin.

“Hung for a kid, you said,” he rumbled softly in his old bass voice, continuing to eye the stone bottles of vintage. “I see four kids, Mouser.” The Mouser echoed himself.

“Naturally.'

By the time the candle the Mouser had fetched was guttering in a little pool, Fafhrd was draining the third