Swords Against the Shadowland

A gilt palanquin born on the shoulders of four slaves approached, surrounded by four more servants bearing torches. At a quietly spoken command from the palanquin's occupant, the bearers came to a crisp halt. Slender, well-manicured fingers parted the vehicle's gauzy curtains, and a face peered out. The torchlight reflected on an oiled beard and sharp features.

"Liara," a voice said smoothly.

The bearers lowered the palanquin until it rested on ornately carved legs, then stood at silent attention. One of the torch-bearers hurried forward, unrolled a small carpet on the ground and set a step stool upon it. The speaker parted the curtains a bit more, but did not get out. "By what strange whim of the gods do I find you alone and unescorted on this dreadful night?" Without waiting for an answer, he offered, "Come, give me your company, and let's see if we can't make it pass more pleasantly."

The expensive, silver-trimmed black toga that enwrapped the man's shoulders revealed him as one of Lankhmar's highest ranking nobles. Only the Ten Families, the descendants of Lankhmar's ancient founders, were allowed the honor of the garment.

Liara seemed unimpressed. "I am not alone, Belit," she answered in a familiar manner, disdaining even to call him lord. Such impudence from any other citizen would have brought a public whipping in Punishment Square. "I am protected by my shadow."

Belit gave her a strange look, then leaned out of his vehicle to search the fog with his gaze. Shrugging, he straightened. "Another time, then," he said without further questioning. "But be careful. Attavaq has died this night, and his damned priests are running like hysterical demons through the city."

Hidden in the fog, the Mouser listened and rubbed his chin. So it was Aarth's Patriarch, after all, for whom the great bell had rung.

Belit waved a hand casually through closing curtains, and his bearers once more lifted his palanquin onto broad shoulders. A light-bearing servant expertly rolled up the carpet, snatched up the stool, and fell into step with the others as they proceeded into the mist.

"You have powerful friends," the Mouser whispered as they resumed their journey.

"I have no friends," Liara said coldly. "But I have the goods on powerful people." She laughed again, harshly. "Lankhmar is a marvelous place. A clever whore can excel here."

The Mouser's voice dropped a note lower as he gazed upon her from the shadows. "I will never call you such a name."

The Dark Butterfly laughed again and drew her purple silk cloak closer about her throat. "You have already proven yourself a fool," she said. "By following me thus."

Leaving Carter Street, she turned up the narrow way that led to the entrance of the Plaza of Dark Delights. White gravel shifted softly under her slippered footsteps. Cautious as ever, the Mouser followed far to the side of the path, making no noise, hiding in the fog just beyond the flickering border of her torchlight.

Tall, immaculate hedges and fantastically shaped topiaries dominated the plaza, which was actually a park on the edge of the Festival District. Secluded niches with marble benches offered privacy and solitude for lovers and philosophers alike, and in truth, at night the plaza was known more for debate and discourse than as a place for illicit assignations. The carefully maintained greenery blocked any view of the towers and rooftops of the city, nor did the hubbub of the city penetrate into the park. Indeed, a citizen could stop for a while to meditate and utterly forget that the greatest city on Nehwon swirled around them.

By tradition, no one carried more than the dimmest of lanterns into the park. Liara's torch would have drawn scowls and curses had there been anyone in the plaza to complain, but only the mist occupied the niches tonight.

"One should not pass this way," the Mouser whispered, "without speaking or hearing some sage word."

Liara seemed not to hear, or chose not to answer. Or perhaps, the Mouser considered, her silence was an answer, and if so, there was wisdom of a sort in it. He peered around at the giant topiaries that stood along the pebbled path. The fog and mist lent them a menace that made his skin crawl. They reminded him of tendrils rising up from the mist of another plaza; they reminded with a sudden shivering fear that the fog concealed something more than just himself.

He stopped with an abrupt realization. Those tendrils had reached out only for the Ilthmarts. The fog had spared Fafhrd and himself—or saved them.

"Why do you stop, my defender?" Liara said, turning. The torchlight lit up her features. Her eyes shone with reflected fire, and the amethyst at her throat gleamed as her cloak gaped open.

Surprise prevented the Mouser from responding at once.

She laughed that small, tinkling laugh. "Did you think I couldn't hear you? Oh, you're an excellent sneak, little defender, but I have sharp ears." She laughed again. "As every official in Lankhmar knows."