Swords Against the Shadowland

The old woman rearranged the items in her basket. Kneeling down again, she took another garment and dipped it in the river. Gathering it wet, she scrubbed it determinedly between her gnarly knuckles, her face stern, almost impassive, as she returned to her common task.

Fafhrd lifted his head and drew a deep breath. If she was an omen, she also represented a lesson. Life, however short, went on. He felt a slight tightening in his chest, the threat of a cough, a barely perceptible weakness, but he chuckled to himself. Despite her newly gained wealth, the old woman went on with her job. He also had a job to do, a task to complete.

And suddenly he knew how he would do it.

Turning, he began to whistle as he walked toward the wharves. The morning sun warmed his face, and the sweet smell that rose off the water refreshed his spirit. Even the breeze that played in the ropes and cables of the ships at dock, and the lapping of the waves that set the boards to creaking, sounded like music—the music of life.

If the merchants at the heart of Lankhmar were too timid to venture out and open their shops, not so the common laborers who worked the riverfront. A line of sweaty, bare-chested workmen loaded barrels aboard a waiting bireme. A captain called commands to his crew. A teary-eyed girl, blond hair sparkling in the sunlight, blue cloak stirring about her like gossamer in the wind, waved a hanky at her sweetheart.

A half block eastward from the wharves on curvy Eel Street, Fafhrd used a thin gold ring to purchase a quantity of hot, buttered fish, which the pinch-faced old merchant carefully rolled in the stout, broad mint leaves that grew south of Lankhmar. At another shop across the road, he paid several tik-pennies for two loaves of bread and a round of pale cheese. For another tik-penny, the proprietor's wife offered him a worn cloth sack to carry his purchases.

At yet another shop, he bought an earthen jug and several beans of precious gahvey. Back at the wharves, he lingered for a final time inside a shop that sold ships' supplies, purchasing two pitch torches, an oil lamp, and a tinder box.

With his shopping in the sack slung over his shoulder, he made his way back to Crypt Court. The Mouser hailed him with a wave from a third-floor window.

Fafhrd beckoned his companion to join him by the fountain, where he spread out his feast. The fish, though cool, still smelled with a mouth-watering richness as he set them on the fountain's low wall. Next, he gathered handfuls of dry grass that grew between the court's flagstones and added bits of old twigs and rotten splinters of wood that he found in the shadows of the buildings. Using the tinderbox, he soon had a small fire going.

"You're in a good mood," the Mouser noted as he reached Fafhrd's side.

"I feel good," Fafhrd answered as he filled the jug he'd bought with water from the fountain. He placed it in the flames to boil and gestured toward the sack. "Carve us some cheese and slice the bread."

Lifting the cheese close to his hawkish nose, the Mouser inhaled deeply and let go a noisy sigh. Catsclaw came out of its sheath. Carving a thin slice, the Mouser popped it into his mouth, closed his eyes, and sighed again. Then, noticing Fafhrd's actions, his jaw gaped.

"Is that gahvey?" he asked eagerly.

Fafhrd nodded as he ground the precious black beans vigorously between his palms and sprinkled them into the jug of water. "Did you find us an apartment?"

"With a solid floor, as your Lordship requested," he said, carving a slice of bread. "But watch the stairs as you go up, and don't put any weight at all on the bannisters."

Leaning their backs against the fountain wall, they ate, savoring the minty butter-flavored fish, the strong cheese, and the fresh bread. When the gahvey was ready, they pulled it from the fire with gloved fingers and waited for it to cool sufficiently. They drank, passing the jar between them.

"We're not alone," Fafhrd whispered suddenly as he cast a subtle glance toward an upper-level window where a small face had appeared briefly and quickly disappeared.

"They're quick," the Mouser said, sipping the gahvey. "I noticed them earlier. I believe we've discovered where the city's street urchins spend their nights."

With a bite of bread at his lips, Fafhrd hesitated. He'd spent his own youth in the comparative luxury afforded by his mother's high station in the Cold Wastes. As the leader of the Snow Clan, and a Snow Witch herself, her tent had never lacked for heat, nor furs to wear, nor food to eat. In his own distant land, he was practically a prince.

Slowly he lowered the morsel from his mouth and placed it beside the remains of their meal. There was still some fish left, some bread, and plenty of cheese. Taking his own dagger, he carved the cheese and bread into neat slices and arranged it all along the fountain's wall.

"What are you doing?" the Mouser asked, setting the gahvey jar aside and reaching for another bite of fish.