Where was the rest of the crew? he asked himself. A-search forward below for the missing chest? Or otherwise busy? Or merely skulking? He'd see for himself! But as he strode forward across the taut canvas sheathing the timber treasure, the reason for his sudden depression struck him, and his steps slowed.
He did not like the thought of soon arrival or of the great gifts he was bringing (in fact, Seahawk's cargo had now become hateful to him) because all that represented ties binding him and his future to Cif and crippled Fafhrd and haughty Afreyt too and all his men and every last inhabitant of Rime Isle. Endless responsibility — that was what he was sailing back to. Responsibility as husband (or some equivalent) of Cif, old friend to Fafhrd (who was already tied to Afreyt, no longer comrade), captain (and guardian!) of his men, father to all. Provider and protector! — and first thing you knew they, or at least one of them, would be protecting him, confining and constraining him for his own good in tyranny of love or fellowship.
Oh, he'd be a hero for an hour or two, praised for his sumptuous get. But next day? Go out and do it again! Or (worse yet) stay at home and do it. And so on, ad infinitum. Such a future ill sorted with the sense of power he'd had since last night's sailing and which the girl-whore Ississi had strangely fed. Himself bound instead of binding others, and adventuring on to bind the universe mayhap and put it through its paces, enslave the very gods. Not free to adventure, discover, and to play with life, tame it by all-piercing knowledge and by shrewd commands and put it through its paces, search out each dizzy height and darksome depth. The Mouser bound? No, no, no, no!
As his feelings marched with that great repeated negation, his inching footsteps had carried him forward almost to the mast, and through the sail's augmented hum and the wind's and the water's racket against the hull, he became aware of two voices contending vehemently in strident whispers.
He instantly and silently dropped on his belly and crawled on very cautiously until the top half of his face overlooked the gap between timber cargo and forecastle.
His three sailor-thieves and the two other Mingols sprawled higgledy piggledy, lazily napping, while immediately below him Skor and Mikkidu argued in what might be called loud undertones. He could have reached down and patted their heads — or rapped them with fisted knuckles.
“There you go bringing in the chest again,” Mikkidu was whispering hotly, utterly absorbed in the point he was making. “There is no longer any chest on Seahawk! We've searched every place on the ship and not found it, so it has to have been cast overboard — that's the only explanation! — but only after (most like) the rich fabrics it contained were taken out and hid deviously in any number of ways and places. And there I must, with all respect, suspect old Ourph. He was awake while we slept, you can't trust Mingols (or get a word out of them, for that matter), he's got merchant's blood and can't resist snatching any rich thing, he's also got the cunning of age, and—'
Mikkidu perforce paused to draw breath and Skor, who seemed to have been patiently waiting for just that, cut in with, “Searched every place except the Captain's cabin. And we searched that pretty well with our eyes. So the chest has to be the draped oblong thing he sat behind and even thumped on. It was exactly the right size and shape—'
“That was the Captain's desk,” Mikkidu asserted in outraged tones.
“There was no desk,” Skor rejoined, “when Captain Fafhrd occupied the cabin, or on our voyage down. Stick to the facts, little man. Next you'll be denying again he had a girl with him.'
'There was no girl!' Mikkidu exploded, using up at once all the breath he'd managed to draw, for Skor was able to continue without raising his voice, “There was indeed a girl, as any fool could see who was not oversunk in doggish loyalty — a dainty delicate piece just the right size for him with long, long silvery hair and a great green eye casting out lustful gleams—'
“That wasn't a girl's long hair you saw, you great lewd oaf,” Mikkidu cut in, his lungs replenished at last. “That was a large dried frond of fine silvery seaweed with a shining, sea-rounded green pebble caught up in it — such a curio as many a captain's cabin accumulates — and your woman-starved fancy transformed it to a wench, you lickerish idiot—
“Or else,” he recommenced rapidly, cutting in on himself, as it were, “it was a lacy silver dress with a silver-set green gem at its neck — the Captain questioned me closely about just such a dress when he was quizzing me about the chest before you came.'
My, my, the Mouser thought, I never dreamed Mikkidu had such a juicy fancy or would spring to my defense so loyally. But it does now appear, I must admit, that I have falsely suspected these two men and that Ississi somehow did board Seahawk solo. Unless one of the others — no, that's unlikely. Truth from a whore — there's a puzzler for you.
Skor said triumphantly, “But if it was the dress you saw on's bunk and the dress had been in the chest, doesn't that prove the chest too was in the cabin? Yes, it may well have been a filmy silver dress we saw, now that I think of it, which the girl slipped teasingly and lasciviously out of before leaping between the sheets, or else your Captain Mouser ripped it off her (it looked torn), for he's as hot and lusty as a mink and ever boasting of his dirksmanship — I've heard Captain Fafhrd say so again and again, or at least imply it.'
What infamy was this now? the Mouser asked himself, suddenly indignant, glaring down at Skor's balding head from his vantage point. It was his own place to chide Fafhrd for his womanizing, not hear himself so chidden for the same fault (and boastfulness to boot) by this bogus Fafhrd, this insolent, lofty, jumped-up underling. He involuntarily whipped up his fist to smite.
“Yes, boastful, devious, a martinet, and mean,” Skor continued while Mikkidu spluttered. “What think you of a captain who drives his crew hard in port, holds back their pay, puritanically forbids shore leave, denies ‘em all discharge of their natural urges — and then brings a girl aboard for his own use and flaunts her in their faces? and then plays games with them about her, sends them on idiot's hunt. Petty—that's what I've heard Captain Fafhrd call it — or at least show he thought so by his looks.'
The Mouser, furious, could barely restrain himself from striking out. Defend me, Mikkidu, he inwardly implored. Oh the monstrousness of it — to invoke Fafhrd. Had Fafhrd really—'Do you really think so?” he heard Mikkidu say, only a little doubtfully. “You really think he's got a girl in there? Well, if that's the case I must admit he is a very devil!'
The cry of pure rage that traitorous utterance drew from the sprung-up Mouser made the two lieutenants throw back their heads and stare, and brought the nappers fully awake and almost to their feet.
He opened his mouth to utter rebuke that would skin them alive — and then paused, wondering just what form that rebuke could take. After all, there was a naked girl in his cabin with her legs tied wide — in fact, spread-eagled. His glance lit on the lashings of the chest of fabrics still lying loose on the deck.
“Clear up that strewage!” he roared, pointing it out. “Use it to tie down doubly those grain sacks there.” He pointed again. “And while you're at it—” (he took a deep breath) “double lash the entire cargo! I am not satisfied that it won't shift if hurricane strikes.” He directed that last remark chiefly at the two lieutenants, who peered puzzledly at the blue sky as they moved to organize the work.
“Yes, double lash it all down tight as eelskin,” he averred, beginning to pace back and forth as he warmed to his task. “Pass the timber's extra ropings around belaying pins set inside the oarholes and then draw them tight across the deck. See that those wool sacks of grain and fruit are lashed really tight — imagine you're corseting a fat woman, put your foot in her back and really pull those laces. For I'm not convinced those bags would stay in place if we had green water aboard and dragging at them. And when all that is done, bring a gang aft to further firm the casks and barrels in my cabin, marry them indissolubly to Seahawk's deck and sides. Remember, all of you,” he finished as he danced off aft, “if you tie things up carefully enough — your purse, your produce, or your enemies, and eke your lights of love — nothing can ever surprise you, or escape from you, or harm you!'
