The Ilthmarts stared in disgust at their leader. Nevertheless, they now had something more than mere honor to avenge. Gripping their weapons, they stalked forward with fiercely determined expressions.
Then, from the foggy sea, dense tendrils of mist snaked languidly upward, surrounding the Ilthmarts. Like the tentacles of some horrid sea squid, those tendrils coiled about the terrified men with such impossible power that some were lifted from the very ground. The Ilthmarts screamed, those whose throats were not gripped. Spines and ribs, arms and necks cracked with brittle snapping.
Back to back with Fafhrd, even the Mouser cried out in fear and horror. Cold sweat ran down his neck; wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, he watched the killing, his ears ringing with screams, his hammering heart near to bursting. He shrank from the arcane tendrils, cowering against his trembling partner, his sword useless in a fear-numbed hand.
The last scream ended with a strangulated gurgle and a gasp. Not a single Ilthmart remained alive. Their deadly work completed, the tendrils lost their seeming solidity, dissolved, and melted away into the murky night.
The Mouser turned slowly to stare at Fafhrd. The Northerner, pale of face, shivering like a child in the cold, stared briefly back. As if with one thought, they ran from the plaza, ran up Cheap Street, ran as fast as their legs would carry them down Dim Lane for the warmth and light of the Silver Eel. Bursting through the door, the Mouser tripped over the threshold and spilled full upon the floor. Fafhrd slammed the door shut. Ignoring his small partner's plight, he braced his muscled frame against the wood as if to hold it against a pursuing foe.
The Mouser raised his head, suddenly aware of a powerful quiet. Every pair of eyes in the hotly crowded tavern locked on them. Around the room, men half-risen from their chairs put hands to swords or daggers. A dancer, raven hair plastered to her bare, sweating shoulders, stood frozen in the middle of a movement. Behind her, a band of drummers hesitated in mid-beat over now-silent dumbeks. Another trio of scantily clad women ceased to shake tambourines.
On the far side of the inn, Cherig waved his hook in the smoky air. "It's only my favorite tenants," he called merrily to his customers. "Play on! Play on!"
Like a tableau come back to life, the drummers struck their hides, and the dancer resumed without seeming to miss a step. Gruff men pushed their weapons back into sheaths, sat down again, and turned their gazes once more to shimmying hips and breasts, some clapping appreciatively to the throbbing beat of the dumbeks, others sipping beer or thin wine. Near the door, a comely woman leaned on the arm of a pot-bellied noble, but the wink she gave Fafhrd held no subtlety.
Red-faced with embarrassment, the Mouser banged his forehead on the floor three times before he drew a deep breath, got to his feet, and sheathed his slender blade. "I pray," he said to Fafhrd, summoning an air of bravado as he straightened his cloak and tunic and patted his stomach with one hand, "let Cherig have some of that seasoned lamb ..."
He didn't finish the thought. Across the tavern in the gloomy corner near the rear door, standing between a pair of handsome young men, he spied the Dark Butterfly.
SEVEN
THE DARK BUTTERFLY
In the gloomiest corner of the inn, the Mouser leaned his back against the wall and ate cold lamb and gravy on a trencher of bread. He chewed slowly without appreciating the taste at all, dripping sauce on the front of his gray tunic without noticing.
The percussion continued, but the music turned softer with the addition of Fafhrd's lute-playing. The dark-haired dancer worked the center of the floor, her movements slow and sensuous to match the more romantic mood created by the lute's strings. Her audience watched, entranced, but her flashing eyes glowed only for the red-bearded Northerner.
Between her two paramours, Liara paid little attention. She sipped her violet wine, sometimes lifting a small, ivory-skinned hand to hide a smile or quiet a laugh as one of the men whispered some secret in her ear. The deep purple of her silken gown and cloak shimmered in the inn's lantern light, and with her every slight movement, golden threads woven throughout the fabric seemed to spark with fire. A huge amethyst, depending from a golden chain, blazed at the opening of the valley between her breasts.
The Mouser watched her, frowning at the intimate way the two men touched her, whispered to her, pressed themselves against her in their dark corner as if they were about to take her, standing, right there. Liara laughed, drew down the face of one of them, kissed his nose, then his lips, before she pushed him away again. The other moved in then, bending close, expecting similar treatment, and she gave it.
Casting the remains of his meal on the floor, the Mouser wiped his hands on his trousers and tried to look away. She drew him, though, as if she were a flame and he a helpless moth. With his gaze turned from her, he still felt her there. Her presence called to him, demanded all his attention. Try as he might, he could not resist for long.
Just looking at her filled him with a fire, a heat he had not known since his beloved Ivrian held him last. Mog's blood! How could one woman look so much like another?
She laughed again, a sharp little sound, and stroked her own breast while her companions grinned hungrily down upon her.
The Mouser could stand her teasing no more. Leaving his place by the wall, he chose a spot where he could better watch his partner's playing. The blond noblewoman who had earlier winked at Fafhrd had sidled closer to him while the dancer bent backward before him, letting her hair brush over his feet as her breasts spilled nearly out of their cups. With soft percussion for accompaniment, Fafhrd played sweetly, enjoying the attention it won him.
Cherig One-hand appeared suddenly by the Mouser's side and pushed a mug of beer into his hands. "Perhaps the barbarian isn't such a barbarian, after all," he said with a hint of drunkenness. The Silver Eel's owner snatched another mug from a startled customer's hand and swallowed from it. "I think he's good for business, and I'd like to have a drink with his manager." Without thanks or apology, he handed the vessel back to the same customer.
The lantern light reflected in the amber contents as the Mouser swirled the liquid thoughtfully without drinking. "No," he murmured, more to the beer than to Cherig. Without even looking, he could sense Liara in the corner as he passed the beer back. "I'd like a small glass of Tovilyis wine."
Cherig raised an eyebrow. "Your boy's popular for one night, and already you're making demands!" He lifted the Mouser's mug to his lips and drained it, spilling some of the contents down his bare chest and into his apron. "I'll get it then to make you happy," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "Festival comes, and all my friends must be happy!"
The music ended, and the percussionists took over. A wild, frenzied beat filled the inn. A different woman leaped up onto a table and began to gyrate, uncaring when someone snatched at her clothing. Indeed, she began to cast it off, herself, throwing blouse and then skirts into the air to fall where they would while the rest of the customers clapped and called encouragement.
She was indifferent-looking, however, and the Mouser's gaze strayed toward the tavern's rear door. Did he imagine it, or was Liara watching him, too? She raised her glass and sipped the wine. Her eyes, catching the liquor s color, shot violet fire.
Then Cherig blocked his view. The tiny crystal goblet he held for the Mouser was not much bigger than a thimble, yet the rare wine's bouquet blossomed like the finest perfume. Accepting the drink, the Mouser closed his eyes and inhaled delicately, letting old memories wash gently over him.
Ivrian had loved this wine of Tovilyis. On the first night of their lovemaking in Lankhmar she had poured a bottle over him and, laughing, licked it off. "To my noble father, who tried and failed to keep us apart," she had toasted as she filled his armpit and drank from it. "To my father's soldiers, who couldn't find their own arses, let alone the two of us in this huge city," she had said with her head between his legs.