Swords Against the Shadowland

Cherig pushed his wet mop around the floor, speaking without looking at his guests. "That's twice today they've serenaded me with that damn song," he said. "You must've slept through their first pass. Sharmayne's servant, when he brought your new clothes, claimed that things were pretty tense up in the Temple District. Half of Aarth's priests are runnin around the city like bloody shriekin' idiots, and the other half are schemin' to take Attavaq's place and become the next Patriarch."

Grabbing the neck of his lute, Fafhrd rose. With his mouth still wrapped around a chunk of bread, he grinned and nonchalantly tossed his apple into the air, catching it again. "Be careful where you put your sticky fingers, Mouser," he said, sputtering crumbs as he headed for the door. "I don't want to have to break you out of the Overlord's prison."

"And you be careful where you stick your ..." The Mouser paused, then waved his friend away. "Never mind. You just earned a new set of clothes with it."

Fafhrd's smile widened. With a flourish of his new cloak, he left the Silver Eel.

Alone, the Mouser stared at the empty breakfast plate and let go a soft sigh. The swishing sound of Cherig's busy mop and the drone of a fly somewhere in the room were the only sounds. The tavern dog padded noiselessly over, curled up at his feet, and closed its huge, moist eyes.

The Mouser shut his own eyes and rested his head on his hands. Unbidden, a vision of Liara floated through his mind. Her cruel eyes sparkled with the cold fire of diamonds, and he imagined he heard her taunting laughter. She held out a hand to him, and blood dripped from her slender fingers.

Snapping his eyes open, he expelled the vision. The dog whined and lifted its head, as if sensing the Mouser's change of mood. "Lie down, pooch," the Mouser murmured, scratching the homely mutt between the ears until it relaxed again.

A frown creased the Mouser's lips. If his fingers were sticky, as Fafhrd had said, it was with blood. He thought bitterly of the men he killed last night to protect the Dark Butterfly. He did not like killing. A smart thief, or any man with wit or cleverness, could usually achieve his ends without stooping to murder.

But when those rowdies threatened Liara, a deep crack in his heart suddenly opened wide, and rage spilled out. He had seen, endangered in that street, not Liara, but Ivrian, whom he had failed to save before, and who, in his dreams, time and time again, he had failed to save, and suddenly his sword was in his hand.

He had neglected to tell Fafhrd of the killings, and he realized he had no intention to do so. They shared much, he and Fafhrd, but he would not share this shame. He wanted only to forget the incident as he planned to forget Liara. For all her outward beauty, he perceived now the petty blackness that filled her soul, and he resolved never to see or think of her again.

Rising, he nodded to Cherig and went through the doorway into Dim Lane. Drawing up the light hood of his cloak, he set a brisk pace and hurried northward while he kept an eye out for a fat merchant or a plump nobleman with a foolishly exposed purse.

The main thoroughfares of the city teemed with people. Creaking carts inched their way through the masses. Beggars and entertainers worked the street corners. With loud voices, merchants hawked their wares from open doorways or kiosks, from hastily spread blankets scattered with trinkets or basketry. Wide-eyed farmers and peasants from the outlying villages and towns, arriving for the Midsummer Festival, rubbed elbows with Lankhmar's elegantly clad nobility.

A trio of dirty-faced children raced suddenly through the crowd, laughing merrily. A little blond girl, whose hair was a tangled mess and whose face was streaked, collided with a shopper. Though uninjured, the huge man took offense. Scowling angrily, he caught the girl's hair with a meaty hand and flung her into the street.

Sent sprawling in the dust, the child squealed with pain and fear.

The Mouser's eyes narrowed as the shopper's light cloak parted to expose an elaborate toga of black silk and silver embroidery. A nobleman, then. He studied the man's face with its neatly trimmed and oiled beard, pinched eyes and bulbous nose.

Two servants hovered near, well-armed, but heavily burdened with their master's packages.

As if blind to the tableau, the crowd parted subtly and moved on. On the ground, the frightened child cried. Cursing her and all children, the shopper beckoned to his servants and turned away, only to collide again with a short, gray-hooded man.

"Pardon me," the Mouser said gently.

"Idiot!" the shopper shouted. For an instant his face clouded with rage, and he raised his fist, but then his gaze fell on the hilt of a slender sword, which just peeked from under the fold of a gray cloak, and he thought better of it. Lifting his misshapen nose skyward, he moved on.