Swords Against the Shadowland

The Mouser frowned. "Why do you say little?"

"I hear the length and quickness of your stride," she answered. "Take it as no insult."

"The wound," the Mouser admitted, "is to my pride, for I thought no man could hear my tread when I crept with earnest intent."

"No man did," she said with dignified emphasis. Turning again, she continued through the park, from which they shortly emerged.

Face-of-the-Moon Street made a paved crescent around the southeastern corner of the park. Elegant manses on one side of the street faced the great circling hedge that defined the park's circumference. These were not the dwellings of nobles or wealthy merchants, however, but houses of pain-pleasure where men could experience darker enjoyments than those commonalities found on Whore Street.

Such a place was the House of Night Cries. In keeping with the park across the way, a hedge separated the manse's grounds from the street. Among its leafy greenery bloomed black-petaled and white-tipped mooncrisps, called by some Roses of the Shadowland. Droplets of mist shimmered on the petals under Liara's torchlight.

At the entrance, she paused.

"Step into my light," she commanded.

The Mouser hesitated, licking his lower lip uncertainly, suddenly nervous. Yet, he obeyed. She stood a few inches taller than he, and he gazed up into the brightness of her eyes, his heart hammering, his loins full of desire.

Perfunctorily, she leaned forward and kissed his right cheek. "I have paid your hire," she said, straightening, turning to leave him.

He caught her hand.

Liara jerked away, anger contorting her beautiful features as she raised the torch like a weapon and backed a step. "You are paid!" she shouted, clutching the hand he had grabbed to her breast as if he had injured her.

"I only touched..."

She lowered the torch, but her anger did not subside. "No man touches me for free!" she cried. "No man!"

Hurt, surrendering to his own rising anger, the Mouser shoved a hand into his purse, found a coin and tossed it at her feet.

The torchlight gleamed on a silver smerduk, and she laughed again with a harsh sound. "That would not get you in my door." Then, Liara seemed to relent somewhat. Snatching a black mooncrisp from the hedge, she flung it into the Mouser's hands. "I cannot be courted with coins, my gray defender," she said with softer gentility. "If you wish, bring me a gift, and I will not turn you away. But when you choose your gift, be mindful that I have entertained the wealthiest men in Lankhmar. Then, come to me again. Come to me, and I will show you the finest perfections of love."

The Mouser opened his hands and let the mooncrisp fall into the street. "The Dark Butterfly," he said with bitter sadness. "You are only a harlot with a fancy nick-name."

Her eyes narrowed again. "You said you would never call me a whore."

Turning away, he spoke over his shoulder as he started back toward the park. "And I kept my word," he said specifically.

EIGHT A SHIP ON THE SEA OF MISTS

Fafhrd kissed Ayla and patted the belly-dancer's backside playfully as he opened his room's door and let her out into the dimly lit hallway. Flashing a smile, she wrapped herself in her veils and hurried downstairs.

In the darkness near the bed, Sharmayne fastened a blue silken cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood to conceal her face. Approaching the big Northerner, the noblewoman rose on tiptoe and lightly pressed her lips against his. "That was what I call a midsummer celebration," she whispered before she, too, hurried away.

Grinning, smugly pleased with himself, Fafhrd closed the door. Alone, with only a tiny lamplight for illumination, he drew a deep breath and sighed. Idly, he wondered where the Gray Mouser had gone and if his partner's evening had proved as pleasant.

Throwing the covers over the rumpled bed, he discovered a small quantity of wine remaining in one of the three bottles on the floor. With a single pull, he drained the last drop. Then gathering the empty bottles, he carried them to the window, pushed back the shutters, and cast them into the narrow alley below.

He lingered at the window, taking mischievous pleasure in the shattering crashes as the bottles exploded. The feather-soft touch of a random breeze played over his bare chest. Drawing a deep, refreshing breath, he sighed.

The fog still blanketed the city. As he watched, a thick finger of mist stole across the sill, dissipating even as it seemed to spill down the wall and flow over the floor. Abruptly, he stepped back, heart hammering, his brows knitting with suspicion and dread.

The wisp of fog in his room, no more than a tenuous vapor now, rose ghost-like into the air, like a spirit uncurling itself to stand erect. A shiver ran up Fafhrd's spine. Then some unlikely draft swirled through the room, caught the vapor, and bore it back outside.