Swords Against the Shadowland

Fafhrd exaggerated their predicament only slightly. Only the lower portion of the tower remained visible, and that was little more than a silhouette. The fog thoroughly concealed the upper half.

The Mouser cursed again, marveling at how swiftly the damned stuff had moved up from the river and into the city. Even as he watched, it seemed to swirl languidly around the forbidden tower, engulfing it. The lower portion, too, vanished from sight.

"There's no adventure for us here this night," Fafhrd muttered, shifting nervously in the doorway.

A sharp cough from the far side of the street caught the Mouser's attention. He tugged the hood of his cloak over his head as he rose from his crouched position. "Not so," he answered. "If we can't get into the temple, let's see if we can discover the identities of its guardians."

With Fafhrd close on his heels, he darted to the far side of Cash Street and pressed himself against a wall. An upward glance told his companion what he planned. In cupped hands, Fafhrd accepted the Mouser's foot and boosted him to the low roof. Once secure in his perch, the Mouser reached down and took the grapnel his partner extended to him. Then, with a powerful jump, Fafhrd caught the edge of the gutter. For an instant, he hung there. Then, silently he muscled his huge body upward.

A moment later, the two squatted side by side. "A fine pair of gargoyles we make," Fafhrd murmured as he took the grapnel and line back from the Mouser.

"I'm too good-looking for a gargoyle," the Mouser whispered in reply. "You're just about right, though." Rising with a grin on his face, he quickly tip-toed away over the rooftop before Fafhrd could form a rejoinder.

The shops in this part of the city stood close together, many sharing adjoining walls. Moving carefully over the mist-slick tiles, the pair of adventurers crouched down again and peered over the edge of a certain lacework establishment facing Nun Street. Needlessly, the Mouser glanced at Fafhrd and, holding a finger to his lips, cautioned silence.

Soft, muttering voices rose up from the doorway just below their rooftop perch. Stretching out on his belly, pushing back his hood, the Mouser crawled forward as far as he dared and peeked downward. Two cloaked men sat on the small stoop, casually swapping stories of fishing in the Hlal. One balanced a sheathed sword across his knees.

The Mouser crawled away from the edge and sat up again. Farther up on the roof, a patient Fafhrd sat cross-legged, lovingly stroking a thin gray cat that was curled up in his lap. Luminous eyes blinked as the beast settled its head upon a brawny thigh and purred.

"Where did that come from?" the Mouser dared to whisper.

Fafhrd drew his fingers gently between the cat's ears, down its neck, along its furry spine. "I seem to attract gray mousers," he answered. Then he put a finger to his lips exactly as the Mouser had done earlier, but whether to warn against disturbing the cat or the men below, the Mouser wasn't sure.

Leaving Fafhrd with his newfound friend, the Mouser crawled back to the roof's edge and stretched out on his belly again. Perhaps if he listened long enough he might learn something from the conversation on the stoop. The voices droned boringly on about the weather, the fog, the river, the coming midsummer celebration.

Without warning, a weight suddenly landed in the middle of the Mouser's back. Every hair on his neck stood on end, and he barely stifled an outcry. On his belly, he could reach neither sword, nor dagger.

The sound of purring touched the Mouser's ears. His attacker was none other than Fafhrd's cat. The impudent little animal walked in a circle on the Mouser's spine before curling up comfortably in the small of his back.

This is carrying kinship too far, the Mouser thought. About to shoo the creature away, he froze abruptly to listen as the conversation below took a more interesting turn.

"Damn this fog," one of the voices said. "There's beer and warmth back at the barracks."

The stoop creaked as someone shifted. "Quench your thirst at the fountain," said the second voice in a weary tone.

The Mouser pursed his lips in a thoughtful frown. Any number of Lankhmar's nobles quartered their own private guards, but surely such a casual reference to barracks indicated the involvement of the city's guards. His frown deepened.

Shifting position, Fafhrd sat down near the edge and proceeded to stroke the cat again. Fickle as only a cat can be, it rose, flexed one claw in the Mouser's right buttock, then transferred itself to the Northerner's lap once more.

The pale gleam of lanterns penetrated the thick fog. Six tall men in nondescript cloaks emerged from the mist, walking south on Nun Street. Without a word to the others, two separated from the party and approached the laceworks shop.

"Report," said one of the newcomers.

A now-familiar voice answered wearily. "All's quiet from this station."