Swords Against the Shadowland

Throwing back his part of the blanket, Fafhrd sat up. "She seemed sufficiently appreciative last night," he said, reaching for the large bundle. Rolled inside an expensive black cloak, he found a complete set of new clothes.

He found a note pinned to the cloak. "For Fafhrd's large shoulders," he read aloud. A sleeveless tunic of black silk and a black jerkin trimmed with the soft white fur of the snow bear bore another note. "For Fafhrd's broad, powerful chest and back," the note said. Among a pair of studded arm bracers, he found still another note. "For Fafhrd's strong arms."

The Gray Mouser reached toward the bundle and curiously lifted a studded leather groin guard. Swinging it from one finger, he started to read the note attached. "For Fafhrd's great..."

Fafhrd snatched the guard from his partner, and flipped a corner of the blanket over the smaller man's head. "Unhand my trousseau, you cad." He picked up a wide, studded belt that matched the bracers and the groin guard and raised it admiringly. "I think I'm in love!"

"Mostly with yourself, I suspect," Cherig said with a chuckle as he prepared to take his leave. Pausing at the door, he winked at the Mouser. "For a giant, he is too pretty by half."

The Gray Mouser rose out of bed as the door closed behind Cherig. Going to the chair by the window, he picked up his tunic, sniffed it, and satisfied that it was clean enough, pulled it over his head. "You must have made quite an impression on the Lady Sharmayne," he grinned.

Fafhrd continued to admire his new finery. "Her teeth made quite an impression on me," he said, rubbing a shoulder. "And Ayla..."

Hesitating as he reached for his boots, the Mouser raised an eyebrow. "Ayla?" he asked.

Fafhrd regarded him innocently. "The dark-haired dancer," he explained.

The Mouser's other eyebrow went up. "Both?"

The Northerner gave a sheepishhalf-embarrassed shrug.

"You filthy sod! Say no more!" The Mouser, stamping quickly into his boots, continued, muttering, "Lest I throw myself from the window in a fit of envy." Seizing up his gray cloak and weapons belt, he crossed to the door. "I'll be downstairs scaring up some breakfast."

"Good, I'm hungry!" Fafhrd called as he fitted one of the bracers around a tanned, brawny forearm.

"Your hungers have been sated," the Mouser called back as he tossed his light cloak around his shoulders. "It's my own belly I'm working for now."

The Mouser passed quietly down the narrow hallway and descended the stairs to the tavern below. Cherig One-hand paused from mopping the floor, wiped sweat from his brow, and glanced toward him. "Bread, sausage, and fruit on the table in the kitchen," he said gruffly. Returning to his task, he dipped the mop in a wooden bucket and pushed a veritable tide of water across the old boards, scrubbing them until they gleamed.

The Mouser pushed open the kitchen door. Cherig's dog, curled up by the hearth, opened one disinterested eye and closed it again. The Mouser stepped over him and piled an earthen plate with food, which he carried back into the tavern.

As the Mouser straddled a stool and sat down at a table, Fafhrd descended the stairs. In his new clothes, his black cloak flowing and braided red hair shining, he looked almost regal. In his left hand, he carried his lute.

Cherig paused from his mopping again and smirked. "Sharmayne always pays well for her nights of pleasure," he said.

Fafhrd took a stool opposite the Mouser, rested his instrument against the table’s edge, and helped himself to half the loaf of bread and one of the two apples on the Mouser's plate. "Cherig's been very generous," he whispered as he twisted the apple and broke it neatly into two pieces. "Our funds are starting to run low, however, so I'm going to spend this afternoon playing the minstrel over by the wharves and in the River District. I can pick up a few coins and keep an ear out for any clue to Malygris's whereabouts."

"Keep an eye on that tower," the Mouser said. "I'll prowl around some of the shops and merchants. See if I can pick up any useful information. I may need some lubrication."

Fafhrd grinned around a mouthful of breakfast. "Lubrication," he repeated. "A pretty word for bribe money."

The Mouser shrugged. "Grease a few palms, loosen a few tongues." He didn't need to explain to his partner how he would obtain his lubrication.

A chorus of screams interrupted as he lifted a bite of sausage to his lips. The tidbit fell untasted on the table; he reached for his sword, half-rising from his stool.

The Silver Eel's door stood open and the window shutters were flung back to air the place after the night's festivities. Outside, a score of Aarth's followers ran shrieking through the streets, their saffron robes in dirty tatters, sunlight gleaming on their shaven heads and sweat-streaked faces. Past the tavern they ran, their shrills fading after them.

Easing his sword back into its sheath, the Mouser sat down with a scowl. "Fanatics," he muttered, reaching for the sausage again.