Swords Against the Shadowland

"On a fateful night
When the world was white
I crawled into our bed—
took her in my arms
to taste her charms
and discovered she was dead.

Now I'm a filthy sod,
and you'll cry, 'My God!'
But I'll confess it true and well—
It wasn't nice,
but I had her twice,
and no difference could I tell!"

The audience, having grown to a considerable size, roared with laughter, men and women alike. The Mouser drifted among them, studying their faces with sidelong glances as they gave Fafhrd their rapt attention. With one hand he fingered the hilt of his dagger, Catsclaw. With the other he supported the cumulative weight of the purses he had deposited down the front of his tunic.

"Then, damn my eyes!
I had her thrice!
I know I'm bound for hell—
Four times, then five!
When she was alive,
She never fucked so well!"

Fafhrd threw himself into his performance, and the crowd cheered him on. The Mouser couldn't manage with a subtle nod or gesture to catch his eye and let him know it was time to move on. Finally, he gave up and slipped away from the fountain, trying not to jingle noticeably as he walked, taking up residence in the shadow of an alley a little distance away. Putting his back to the outside of a shop wall, he sank down on his haunches and prepared to wait.

Fifty-seven verses later, Fafhrd's song ended. The Mouser roused himself and peered out into the street to see the big Northerner climb down off the fountain wall, pick up his boot, and glance around. With the show over, Lankhmar's citizens went quickly about their business.

When Fafhrd glanced his way, the Mouser waved a hand, summoning him out of the sunny street and into the cooler shade of the alley. "I was beginning to think you were auditioning for court minstrel out there," the Mouser scolded as Fafhrd limped over. "I thought the day would end before your dainty little ditty did."

The Northerner leaned the lute against the wall and shook his boot, a disappointed look growing upon his face. Upending his odoriferous footwear, he spilled into his palm six copper tiks, a single silver smerduk, and a no-longer-quite-so-rosy apple. "These Lankhmarans truly are cheapskates and penny-pinchers," he grumbled. "In any other city this would buy us a bed and a decent bowl of stew with buttered bread, but in high-priced Lankhmar we'll be lucky to find a stall and a bag of oats!"

Disgusted, Fafhrd shook his head and absently took a bite of the apple.

The Mouser made a loud, retching sound.

"I still have the lute, and I still have the boot," Fafhrd announced in more optimistic tones as he lofted the core toward the alley's rear. "There's better profit waiting on a different corner perhaps."

"Spare your warbling throat," the Gray Mouser said, lifting his tunic to reveal one fat purse. He had poured all the others into it and hidden the empty purses back near where the apple core now lay.

Fafhrd's eyes lit up at the obvious weight of the purse. "Why, Mouser," he said with quiet admiration, "you are a cutpurse and a thief. The best in the business, from the looks of that."

"Thief? Cutpurse? Nonsense!" The little man in gray raised one eyebrow. "These coins are tribute to your incredible vocal talents. I've only aided your audience to suitably express the appreciation that a somewhat misplaced modesty prevented them from expressing on their own."

The Northerner grinned and proceeded to tug on his boot. "I trust your contributions came only from the well-heeled, who could afford it?"

The Mouser grunted. "The bulk of it came from a pair of heels, period," he answered. "A couple of Thieves' Guild amateurs were working the crowd, too. I saw no reason for them to benefit from your performance."

At mention of the Thieves' Guild, Fafhrd's face clouded over with a mixture of anger and sadness. "We settled our score with them, didn't we, Mouser?" he said grimly. "Remind me that we indeed settled it, lest I give thought to settling it again."

"We settled our score with them, Fafhrd," the Mouser answered as old memories came surging back upon him. "But they may not have settled theirs with us."

"That is good," Fafhrd said, rising to his full seven-foot height and clenching his fist as he stared out from the alley’s shadowy gloom into the bright street. "It will make me very happy if they learn we are here and try to settle them."

THREE THE SILVER EEL