Swords Against the Shadowland

His guest's eyebrows shot up. "I salute you once again," he said, lifting his drink. Swallowing, he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. "They're a dangerous lot to trifle with, however. I'd be remiss not to advise you to watch your step where they are concerned." He drank again, and shrugged. "But I forget you are not new to Lankhmar. Ask your question, good host."

The Mouser called for Cherig to refill their mugs yet again, and waited quietly while the owner poured. Cherig eyed them closely, then as if sensing some business was underway, he departed without comment.

The Mouser leaned forward again. "Do you know of a wizard named Malygris?"

Nuulpha sputtered and spewed half a mouthful of beer across the table before he slammed his mug down and clapped a hand over his face to stop the spray. "Abject apologies!" he muttered hastily when he could draw a breath. Red-faced, he pushed his stool back slightly from the table as if he expected trouble.

The tavern grew silent as all eyes turned their way. Cherig, pitcher and tray balanced on one hand, turned, stern-faced. The little girl with the basket of dolls scurried down between a pair of tables for safety.

With icy calm, the Gray Mouser dabbed a finger at his dripping eyebrows. "Think nothing of it, Captain," he said, and if there was a bit more emphasis on the last word, it was purely unintentional. "I shall take care not to startle you again."

When trouble failed to start, the tavern patrons resumed their conversations. The little girl crawled out to continue her enterprise, and Cherig disappeared momentarily to return with a clean, soft towel, which he deposited wordlessly at the Mouser's elbow.

Embarrassment still coloring his cheeks, Nuulpha leaned forward again and spoke in a nervous whisper. "That's not a name one speaks aloud these days in Lankhmar."

"Perhaps that was the reason I spoke it in such an exceedingly low voice," the Mouser suggested pointedly as he wiped the towel over his face and set it aside.

Before either could say more, once again fingers of pale mist pushed open the tavern door, admitting a pair of roguish-looking Ilthmarts whose tattered cloaks could not hide the long swords they wore. The pair swaggered toward the last empty table, sat down, and swept the Silver Eel with sullen glares.

Nuulpha turned his attention back to his host. Leaning close over his beer, he whispered, "If I may ask, what is your interest in this person you named?"

The Mouser wondered just how much to explain, but his thoughts were interrupted when the little girl ventured shyly up to his elbow. "Please, sir," she said. "Would you like to buy one of my poppets for your sweetheart?" She held up a tiny straw doll. "Guaranteed to bring good luck to her kitchen or . . ." she hesitated, then blinked her eyes, "... or your bedchamber, should she place it there."

A sudden cough caused the Mouser to look past the child toward the table where the dice game was still in progress. The same mustachioed bravo coughed violendy into his fist, his face reddening. With a visible effort, he controlled himself and tossed down the remains of his beverage, but the coughing seized him again. When he moved his hand away from his mouth, a green phlegm smeared his chin. With barely muttered apologies to his two companions, he cast down the dice, rose and fled the Silver Eel.

The Mouser stared hard at the little blond-haired huckster by his table. When he pulled out a gold coin, the child's eyes grew large, and she stood still, trembling like a small bird.

The coin seemed to move of its own accord from between the Mouser s thumb and forefinger, pausing between the next set of fingers, then the next before it made the journey back to thumb and forefinger. Nuulpha, as well as the child, watched in amazement.

The Mouser passed his other hand over the coin, then held up both his hands, turning his empty palms outward. The gold was gone, seemingly vanished into air.

Nuulpha snorted. "My wife does that trick, only she makes money disappear even faster."

Winking, the Mouser reached toward the child's ear and retrieved his coin, eliciting a girlish giggle as he held it close to her large eyes. "Count nothing on luck, my young merchant," he told her. "Do not even speak of luck or magic. This is an ill time for such things. Now, I will buy not just one, but all these dollies you call your poppets, and you will take this single gold coin, which is wealth enough to feed you and your family for a month."

"All my dollies?" the child exclaimed, her gaze locked greedily on the coin.

"All," the Mouser affirmed. "In return, you must promise me to make no more of these so-called lucky trinkets."

The child clearly didn't understand his request, but her desire for the coin was plain. "Oh, master," she said, "supposing I promise to make no more poppets for as long as the value of this pretty metal feeds my tummy?"

Nuulpha thumped the table, hooting with mirth. "The little beggar would haggle with you!"