Swords Against the Shadowland

Now four, Liara's party continued down Carter Street surrounded by a wavering circle of amber radiance. Concealed by the fog, the Mouser followed a few paces behind, his sword once more in its sheath. The smoke of the pitch torch tickled his nose, and he pressed a finger against his nostrils to stifle a sneeze.

She even walked like Ivrian. Her laughter, speech, her smallest movement reminded him of his dead love. The color of her hair, her eyes, her face was Ivrian's. Only in her boldness, her disdain for the dangers of the night, did she differ, and in her open, flagrant flirtation.

Drawn almost against his will, the Mouser crept along just past the edge of the light, a shadow of her shadow, haunted and mesmerized.

Suddenly, as they passed the mouth of a narrow alley, another pair of shadows sprang out. The torch-bearer whirled, shoving fire into the face of Liara's largest suitor. In the fire-gleam, daggers flashed. The remaining suitor, his dagger free, slashed at the torch-bearer, and the torch went spinning into the street. The burned man’s screams turned into a bloody, choking gurgle. Then the second suitor went down, too.

Liara struck with her own dagger at one of the shadows, but the figure caught her wrist and twisted it. The blade flew out of her fist, but with her other hand she clawed at his eyes and hurled herself upon him like a hellion.

The second attacker slit the burned suitor’s throat to silence him, then tangled a hand in Liara's hair, jerked her head back and slapped her hard enough to knock her sprawling into the street.

"Strip 'em of any valuables," the second man said gruffly to his partner, who wiped blood from several oozing scratches. "Then we'll strip this whore, an' have some fun."

Liara rose up on one elbow, rubbing her smarting cheek. As a rough hand reached to rip her gown, a slender dagger suddenly sprouted from the man's neck. His eyes snapped wide, and with a choked cry, he fell upon her.

The second thief had no more opportunity. Gray-gloved hands caught either side of his head and twisted sharply. A loud crack resulted, and the thief fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The Mouser moved swiftly into the concealing fog again, certain that Liara had not seen him. With a string of curses that would have made Fafhrd grin, she pushed the first thief's body off, and got to her feet. With another curse, she put a delicate slipper forcefully into the dead torch-bearer's face.

"Pick up the torch," the Mouser whispered, pressed out of sight near a wall. "I will see you safely to your home."

"You'll see me?" Liara shot back nervously with nothing to address but a voice in the fog. "I can't see you."

"Pick up the torch," he repeated. "I'll protect you. A beautiful woman should not walk these streets undefended."

Liara snorted as she recovered the sputtering torch and lifted it. "Well, that at least tells me you're no god or spirit. Only a man would concern himself with my looks." Using the light, she glanced down at her murdered companions and picked up one of the thieves' daggers, a larger and more dangerous-looking blade than her own tiny sticker. "I thank you for this, mysterious defender. For all their vanity, these were good servants, undeserving of treachery and slaughter."

"Servants?" the Mouser said with surprise. "I thought they were your paramours."

She drew herself stiffly erect, her eyes blazing with pride. For a moment, the Mouser thought she might be able to see him where he hid. "I treat my servants as well as my paramours," she answered. "They give much better service for it."

Turning, she started down Carter Street again, her blond hair mussed, her cloak ripped, but her bearing regal. There was no fear in her voice, only a hint of mockery and amusement when she whispered, "Are you still there, defender?"

"Lead the way, lead the way," the Mouser answered softly, imitating the torch-bearer’s song as he withdrew Catsclaw from the thief's throat and wiped it clean.

Liara gave a small, scoffing laugh. "And how much will I pay?" she asked, finishing the rhyme.

The Mouser swallowed, his thoughts full of Ivrian, his eyes full of the Dark Butterfly. His heart pounded in his chest. Why did he hide in the fog when he might walk close beside her? He couldn't tell. The confusion that filled him swirled thicker than any mist in the street. Still, he dared a brazen response. "You may keep your tik-pennies," he said. "I will take the kiss."

Liara laughed again, nodding to herself. "Yes," she murmured. "Though you conceal yourself, you are certainly a man."

They walked in silence after that, the Mouser alert for any threat, Liara seemingly unconcerned. At Barter Street a throng of pedestrians crossed their path, swinging lanterns, singing as they headed toward the Festival District. Another pack of Aarth's maddened followers ran screaming after the celebrants, overtaking them, passing them, and disappearing in the fog.