Fritz Leiber - Swords and Deviltry

The Mouser told the tale of counter-thievery well, acting it out in part, and with only the most artistic of embellishments — the ferret-marmoset before escaping ran up his back and tried to scratch out his eyes — and he was interrupted only twice.

When he said, “And so with a whish and a snick I bared Scalpel—” Fafhrd remarked, “Oh, so you've nicknamed your sword as well as yourself?"

The Mouser drew himself up. “Yes, and I call my dirk Cat's Claw. Any objections? Seem childish to you?"

“Not at all. I call my own sword Graywand. All weapons are in a fashion alive, civilized and nameworthy. Pray continue.”

And when he mentioned the beastie of uncertain nature that had gamboled along with the thieves (and attacked his eyes!), Ivrian paled and said with a shudder, “Mouse! That sounds like a witch's familiar!"

“Wizard's,” Vlana corrected. “Those gutless Guild villains have no truck with women, except as fee'd or forced vehicles for their lust. But Krovas, their current king, though superstitious, is noted for taking all precautions, and might well have a warlock in his service."

“That seems most likely; it harrows me with dread,” the Mouser agreed with ominous gaze and sinister voice. He really didn't believe or feel what he said — he was about as harrowed as virgin prairie — in the least, but he eagerly accepted any and all atmospheric enhancements of his performance.

When he was done, the girls, eyes flashing and fond, toasted him and Fafhrd for their cunning and bravery. The Mouser bowed and eye-twinklingly smiled about, then sprawled him down with a weary sigh, wiping his forehead with a silken cloth and downing a large drink.

After asking Vlana's leave, Fafhrd told the adventurous tale of their escape from Cold Corner — he from his clan, she from an acting troupe — and of their progress to Lankhmar, where they lodged now in an actors’ tenement near the Plaza of Dark Delights. Ivrian hugged herself to Vlana and shivered large-eyed at the witchy parts — at least as much in delight as fear of Fafhrd's tale, he thought. He told himself it was natural that a doll-girl should love ghost stories, though he wondered if her pleasure would have been as great if she had known that his ghost stories were truly true. She seemed to live in worlds of imagination — once more at least half the Mouser's doing, he was sure.

The only proper matter he omitted from his account was Vlana's fixed intent to get a monstrous revenge on the Thieves’ Guild for torturing to death her accomplices and harrying her out of Lankhmar when she'd tried freelance thieving in the city, with miming as a cover. Nor of course did he mention his own promise — foolish, he thought now — to help her in this bloody business.

After he'd done and got his applause, he found his throat dry despite his skald's training, but when he sought to wet it, he discovered that his mug was empty and his jug too, though he didn't feel in the least drunk; he had talked all the liquor out of him, he told himself, a little of the stuff escaping in each glowing word he'd spoken.

The Mouser was in like plight and not drunk either — though inclined to pause mysteriously and peer toward infinity before answering question or making remark. This time he suggested, after a particularly long infinity-gaze, that Fafhrd accompany him to the Eel while he purchased a fresh supply.

“But we've a lot of wine left in our jug,” Ivrian protested. “Or at least a little,” she amended. It did sound empty when Vlana shook it. “Besides, you've wine of all sorts here."

“Not this sort, dearest, and first rule is never mix ‘em,” the Mouser explained, wagging a finger. “That way lies unhealth, aye, and madness."

“My dear,” Vlana said, sympathetically patting Ivrian's wrist, “at some time in any good party all the men who are really men simply have to go out. It's extremely stupid, but it's their nature and can't be dodged, believe me."

“But, Mouse, I'm scared. Fafhrd's tale frightened me. So did yours — I'll hear that big-headed, black, ratty familiar a-scratch at the shutters when you're gone, I know I will!"

It seemed to Fafhrd she was not afraid at all, only taking pleasure in frightening herself and in demonstrating her power over her beloved.

“Darlingest,” the Mouser said with a small… hiccup, “there is all the Inner Sea, all the Land of the Eight Cities, and to boot all the Trollstep Mountains in their sky-scraping grandeur between you and Fafhrd's frigid specters or — pardon me, my comrade, but it could be — hallucinations admixed with coincidences. As for familiars, pish! They've never in the world been anything but the loathy, all-too-natural pets of stinking old women and womanish old men."

“The Eel's but a step, Lady Ivrian,” Fafhrd said, “and you'll have beside you my dear Vlana, who slew my chiefest enemy with a single cast of that dagger she now wears."

With a glare at Fafhrd that lasted no longer than a wink, but conveyed “What a way to reassure a frightened girl!” Vlana said merrily, “Let the sillies go, my dear. ‘Twill give us chance for a private chat, during which we'll take ‘em apart from wine-fumy head to restless foot."

So Ivrian let herself be persuaded and the Mouser and Fafhrd slipped off, quickly shutting the door behind them to keep out the night-smog. Their rather rapid steps down the stairs could clearly be heard from within. There were faint creakings and groanings of the ancient wood outside the wall, but no sound of another tread breaking or other mishap.

Waiting for the four jugs to be brought up from the cellar, the two newly met comrades ordered a mug each of the same fortified wine, or one near enough, and ensconced themselves at the least noisy end of the long serving counter in the tumultuous tavern. The Mouser deftly kicked a rat that thrust black head and shoulders from his hole.

After each had enthusiastically complimented the other on his girl, Fafhrd said diffidently, “Just between ourselves, do you think there might be anything to your sweet Ivrian's notion that the small dark creature with Slivikin and the other Guild-thief was a wizard's familiar, or at any rate the cunning pet of a sorcerer, trained to act as go-between and report disasters to his master or to Krovas or to both?"

The Mouser laughed lightly. “You're building bugbears — formless baby ones unlicked by logic — out of nothing, dear barbarian brother, if I may say so. Imprimis , we don't really know the beastie was connected with the Guild-thieves at all. May well have been a stray catling or a big bold rat — like this damned one!” He kicked again. “But, secundus , granting it to be the creature of a wizard employed by Krovas, how could it make useful report? I don't believe in animals that talk — except for parrots and such birds, which only… parrot — or ones having an elaborate sign language men can share. Or perhaps you envisage the beastie dipping its paddy paw in a jug of ink and writing its report in big on a floor-spread parchment?

“Ho, there, you back of the counter! Where are my jugs? Rats eaten the boy who went for them days ago? Or he simply starved to death while on his cellar quest? Well, tell him to get a swifter move on and meanwhile brim us again!

“No, Fafhrd, even granting the beastie to be directly or indirectly a creature of Krovas, and that it raced back to Thieves’ House after our affray, what could it tell them there? Only that something had gone wrong with the burglary at Jengao's. Which they'd soon suspect in any case from the delay in the thieves’ and bravos’ return."

Fafhrd frowned and muttered stubbornly, “The furry slinker might, nevertheless, convey our appearances to the Guild masters, and they might recognize us and come after us and attack us in our homes. Or Slivikin and his fat pal, revived from their bumps, might do likewise."