“We might,” the smaller purred.
“Provided you let Rime Isle pay for the drinks,” the taller concluded in tones bright and swift as running snow water.
At the words “Rime Isle,” the faces of the two men grew thoughtful and wondering, as if in another universe someone had said Atlantis or El Dorado or Ultima Thule. Nevertheless they nodded agreement and drew back chairs for the women.
“Rime Isle,” Fafhrd repeated conjuringly, as the Mouser did the honors with cups and jars. “As a child in the Cold Waste and later in my adolescent piratings, I've heard it and Salthaven City whispered of. Legend says the Claws point at it — those thin, stony peninsulas that tip Nehwonland's last north-west corner.”
“For once legend speaks true,” the electrum-haired woman in blue and gray said softly yet crisply, “Rime Isle exists today. Salthaven, too.”
“Come,” said the Mouser with a smile, ceremoniously handing her her cup, “it's said Rime Isle's no more real than Simorgya.”
“And is Simorgya unreal?” she asked, accepting it.
“No,” he admitted with a somewhat startled, reminiscent look. “I once watched it from a very small ship when it was briefly risen from the deeps of the Outer Sea. My more venturesome friend' — he nodded toward Fafhrd—'trod its wet shale for a short space to see some madmen dance with devilfish which had the aspect of black fur cloaks awrithe.”
“North of Simorgya, westward from the Claws,” briskly said the red- and brown-clad woman with black hair shot with glistening dark bronze and gold. Her right hand holding steady in the air her brimming wine cup where she'd just received it, she dipped her left beneath the table and swiftly slapped it down on the arabesquery of circle-stained oak, then lifted it abruptly to reveal four small rounds gleaming pale as moons. “You agreed Rime Isle would pay.”
With nods abstracted yet polite, the Mouser and Fafhrd each took up one of the coins and closely studied it.
“By the teats of Titchubi,” the former breathed, “this is no
“Rime Isle silver?” Fafhrd asked softly, lifting his gaze, eyebrows a-rise, from the face of the coin toward that of the taller woman.
Her gaze met his squarely. There was the hint of a smile at the ends of her long lips, back in her cheeks. She said sincerely yet banteringly, “Which never tarnishes.”
He said, “The obverse shows a vast sea monster menacing out of the depths.”
She said, “Only a great whale blowing after a deep sound.”
The Mouser said to the other woman, “Whilst the reverse depicts a ship-shaped, league-long square rock rising from miles-long swells.”
She said, “Only an iceberg hardly half that size.”
Fafhrd said, “Well, drink we what this bright, alien coinage has bought. I am Fafhrd, the Gray Mouser he.”
The tall woman said, “And I Afreyt, my comrade Cif.”
After deep draughts, they put down their cups. Afreyt with a sharp double tap of pewter on oak. “And now to business,” she said cliptly, with the faintest of frowns at Fafhrd (it was arguable if there was any frown at all) as he reached for the wine jars. “We speak with the voice of Rime Isle—”
“And dispurse her golden monies,” Cif added, her green eyes glinting with yellow flecks. Then, flatly, “Rime Isle is straitly menaced.”
Her voice going low, Afreyt asked, “Hast ever heard of the Sea Mingols?” and, when Fafhrd nodded, shifted her gaze to the Mouser, saying, “Most Southrons misdoubt their sheer existence, deeming every Mingol a lubber when off his horse, whether on land or sea.”
“Not I” he answered. “I've sailed with Mingol crew. There's one, now old, named Ourph—”
“And I've met Mingol pirates,” Fafhrd said. “Their ships are few, each dire. Arrow-toothed water rats — Sea Mingols, as you say.”
“That's good,” Cif told them both. “Then you'll more like believe me when I tell you that in response to the eldritch prophecy, ‘Who seizes Nehwon's crown, shall win her all-'”
“For crown, read north polar coasts,” Afreyt interjected.
“And supremely abetted by the Wizard of Ice, Khahkht, whose very name's a frozen cough—”
“Perchance the evilest being ever to exist—” Afreyt supplemented, her eyes a sapphire moon shining frosty through two narrowed, crosswise window slits.
“The Mingols have ta'en ship to harry Nehwon's northmost coasts in two great fleets, one following the sun, the other — the Widdershin Mingols — going against it—”
“For a few dire ships, believe armadas,” Afreyt put in, still gazing chiefly at Fafhrd (just as Cif favored the Mouser), and then took up the main tale with, “Till Sunwise and Widdershins meet at Rime Isle, overwhelm her, and fan out south to rape the world!”
“A dismal prospect,” Fafhrd commented, setting down the brandy jar with which he'd laced the wine he'd poured for all.
“At least an overlively one,” the Mouser chimed in. “Mingols are tireless raptors.”
Cif leaned forward, chin up. Her green eyes flamed. “So Rime Isle is the chosen battleground. Chosen by Fate, by cold Khahkht, and the Gods. The place to stop the Steppe horde turned sea raiders.”
Without moving, Afreyt grew taller in her chair, her blue gaze flashing back and forth between Fafhrd and his comrade, “So Rime Isle arms, and musters men, and hires mercenaries. The last's my work and Cif's. We need two heroes, each to find twelve men like himself and bring them to Rime Isle in the space of three short moons. You are the twain!”
“You mean there's any other one man in Nehwon like me — let alone a dozen?” the Mouser asked incredulously.
“It's an expensive task, at very least,” Fafhrd said judiciously.
Her biceps swelling slightly under the close-fitting rust-red cloth, Cif brought up from beneath the table two tight-packed pouches big as oranges and set one down before each man. The small thuds and swiftly damped chinkings were most satisfying sounds.
“Here are your funds!”
The Mouser's eyes widened, though he did not yet touch his globular sack. “Rime Isle must need heroes sorely. And heroines? — if I might make suggestion.”
“That has been taken care of,” Cif said firmly.
Fafhrd's middle finger feather-brushed his bag and came away.
Afreyt said, “Drink we.”
As the goblets lifted, there came from all around a tiny tinkling as of faery hells; a minute draft, icy chill, stole past from the door; and the air itself grew very faintly translucent, very slightly softening and pearling all things seen — all of which portents grew light-swift by incredible tiger leaps into a stunning, sense-raping clangor of bells big as temple domes and thick as battlements, an ear-splittingly roaring and whining polar wind that robbed away all heat in a trice and blew out flat the iron-and-lead-weighted door drapes and sent the inhabitants of the Silver Eel sailing and tumbling, and an ice fog thick as milk, through which Cif could be heard to cry, “'Tis icy breath of Khahkht!” and Afreyt, “It's tracked us down!” before pandemonium drowned out all else.
Fafhrd and the Mouser each desperately gripped moneybag with one hand and with the other, table, glad it was bolted down to stop its use in brawls.
The gale and the tumult died and the fog faded, not quite as swiftly as it all had come. They unclenched their hands, wiped ice crystals from brows and eyes, lit lamps, and looked around.
The place was a bloodless shambles, silent too as death until the frightened moaning began, the cries of pain and wonder. They scanned the long room, first from their tables, then afoot. Their slender tablemates were not among the slowly recovering victims.
The Mouser intoned, somewhat airily, “Were such folk here as we've been searching for? Or have we drunk some drug that—”
He broke off. Fafhrd had taken up his fat little moneybag and headed for the door. “Where away?” Mouser
