Swords Against the Shadowland

The fog swirled through the lane like a white river, sweeping him into the Festival District. He walked in a dream-like state, senses alternately muffled and sharp. A woman danced out of the fog, turning elaborate pirouettes, laughing hysterically. Spying the Mouser, she flung herself at him and tried to press her lips against his face. He tolerated her touch briefly, then pushed her away.

"You're not Liara," he said, his voice sounding distant in his own ears.

Torches and lanterns began to glimmer weakly through the fog. In that crippled light he spied couples rutting on the doorsteps of shops, in the alleyways. Through the open doors of a tavern he paused to witness the orgy underway on its tables and floor.

He moved inside. Unnoticed, he collected coin purses and necklaces, rings and bracelets, cash from the till, a fine crimson cloak with large pockets to carry it all. At the next tavern, he did the same, robbing the place and its customers of every last copper and earring.

In the street, he found many of the kiosks and vending booths untended. If he found a cash box he emptied it into the cloak's pockets. Finding a particularly large and handsome leather purse, he traded the cloak for it and transferred his booty. With the weighty purse over one shoulder, he continued on.

On a stage, an athletic couple wrestled with impressive enthusiasm. From the edge of the proscenium, the Mouser paused to offer appropriate and well-deserved accolades while he rifled the clothes they had cast aside. He also claimed the jeweled necklace with the broken catch that had slipped from the woman's throat during their exercise.

At last, he found himself on the district's southern edge, having pilfered his way from one end of it to the other. No street lamps lit this part of town, and he regretted leaving his lantern somewhere. Adjusting his bag of loot on his shoulder, he walked on.

Liara occupied all his thoughts. The memory of her brief kiss burned in his mind. Her voice whispered musically in his ears, and the soft night wind hinted at her perfume as it stirred the fog. His heart cried out for her, and nothing and no one but Liara could ease its aching.

Abruptly he stopped. With sudden clarity, he found himself on Face-of-the-Moon Street. Appalled, he touched the bag, pushed his hand inside, and lifted out a handful of the treasure within. Coins and jewelry sifted through his fingers, and he burned with shame.

Then the fog eddied around him again. On the verge of retreating, filled with trepidation, he nevertheless continued down the dark lane until he stood before the House of Night Cries.

White gravel crunched under his footsteps. The sculptures on the lawn seemed to turn menacingly as he passed, barring escape—a fancy of his mind, he knew. Strange dread filled him, and stranger anticipation. An unexplainable fever heated his blood, wrung sweat from his brow. One by one he climbed the marble steps to the door. Trembling, nervous fingers seized the brass knocker.

The flat sound of the ring striking the plate reminded him of bones snapping.

For long minutes he waited, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Just as he reached for the knocker again, the door slowly opened. A heavy-set bald man with eyes like cold gray stones and a boulder for a face glared down. Bare arms and chest bulged with impressive muscle; a huge leather belt constrained an immense belly.

The Mouser stared at the unlikely doorman. "The Dark Butterfly," he muttered, hugging his bag of booty beneath his gray cloak. "Tell her—" he hesitated. Licking his lips uncertainly, he exposed the bag. "Say that her defender has brought a gift."

The doorman betrayed no emotion. "Wait here," he said, closing the door firmly in the Mouser's face.

Turning, the Mouser stared across the fog-enwrapped lawn toward the street and the park barely visible beyond. He warred with himself, wishing to run, not daring to depart. Liara's promise held him like a chain. The finer perfections of love— she said she would show him.

The door opened again, and the doorman beckoned.

Soft lanterns, their wicks turned very low, lit an opulently furnished hallway. The Mouser paid little attention. The fever gripped him completely now. His guide paused and rapped gently on a door, then opened it. He closed it again as the Mouser stepped across the threshold.

She stood in the center of the room, elegantly posed, legs slightly apart, back arched, her head at a haughty, mocking angle. A thin robe of black silk, barely covering her shoulders and the fine curves of her breasts, gaped open. Blond hair spilled loosely down her spine.

Her eyes laughed at him.

The Mouser pushed back his hood. His gaze flickered away from Liara to the veiled bed. Without speaking, he turned the bag upside down and emptied the contents—enough wealth to keep a noble household in style for a year—on the plush carpet.