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.
The Mouser watched him disappear in the human tide. Then his right hand emerged from under his cloak and lightly tossed a plump, blue velvet purse. The purse's contents jingled and clinked. "Pardon you," the Mouser muttered.
Extracting a smerduk from the purse, he bent and offered it to the child. "No more crying, little one," he said, putting on a smile for her benefit.
She stared at him with doubtful eyes, though her tears ceased and her fear abated somewhat.
The Mouser pressed the silver coin into her pudgy hand. "Find your friends and buy them all honey cones. It's too nice a day for weeping."
The Mouser helped her to her feet and brushed the dust from her threadbare dress. She opened her hand, as if disbelieving she really held the coin. Then, making a tight fist around the silver piece, she made a short curtsy. "Thank you, sir," she murmured in a barely audible voice before she took off running up the busy street.
With a sigh, the Mouser added the coins in the velvet purse to his own and tucked his new wealth under his belt. Resuming his course toward the Temple District, he whistled pleasantly to himself.
Fewer people congested the Street of the Gods. In deference to the passing of Attavaq, many of the shops were closed. The pedestrians who walked there kept their voices and their heads lowered. In contrast to the celebratory mood that filled the rest of the city, a muted and funereal atmosphere dominated.
Wandering slowly up the street, the Mouser entered the first shop he found open. Rings and necklaces and bejeweled ornaments glimmered upon counters covered with black velvet. The proprietor, a thin, elderly man in plain, but well-made garments, emerged through a curtain at the rear of the shop to greet his customer, and the Mouser made a show of taking out his heavy purse and bouncing it on his palm.
The proprietor smiled with subtle greed as he noted the purse. "The sweetest music ever played by man," he said as the Mouser shook the purse again and set the coins to jingling. "And you, sir, are obviously a maestro."
The Mouser bent over one of the counters, frowning as he pretended to study the workmanship of a diamond pendant. "What is obvious," he said to the proprietor in a petulant tone, "is that this stone is glass, and the setting is of poor quality." He jingled his purse. "Have you nothing better?"
The proprietor scrutinized him, then eyed the purse again. "I can see you know quality, sir," he said. He waved a hand around the shop. "I display these trinkets for the casual shopper. You are a connoisseur." He crooked a finger, beckoning. "Come into my back room."
The Mouser followed him through the curtain into a room lit with several oil lamps. Jewelers' tools, bits and flakes of stone, pieces of chain, shards of metal lay scattered chaotically about a long worktable. The proprietor turned the wicks of the lamps higher, and the room brightened with golden firelight. Going to a chest in one corner, he took a key from a ring on his belt, bent over a massive trunk, and put it into the lock. A soft click. Standing aside, gesturing grandly, he raised the lid.
The Mouser's eyes snapped wide. Wildly colored fire flashed as the lamplight touched the contents. The proprietor lifted a flat tray upon which was displayed half a dozen elaborately jeweled necklaces. Beneath that tray lay another covered with bracelets and rings, all held in appropriate place by loops of thin wire.
With gaping jaw, the Mouser bent over the first tray as the proprietor placed it on the worktable and moved a lamp closer. The gems dazzled under the shifting light. He caught his breath and leaned nearer.
"I salute you, sir," he said at last to the proprietor. "Never have I beheld such remarkable fakes. How do you make them?"
The proprietor's face colored, and the muscles in his neck corded. For an instant, he swelled up like a man who'd taken a severe insult. Then he relaxed. "No sir," he said. "It is I who salute you. I see you are, indeed, a connoisseur who knows his stones, and I cannot fool you." He shrugged as he tugged a ring loose from its velvet backing and held it up. When he spoke again, it was with the voice of a man who took pride in his work. "I cut every piece, myself," he said, "and inject the smallest amount of dye into the glass. Rare is the man who can tell them from real stones. But tell me, how did you gain such a keen eye?"
The Mouser rubbed his chin as he continued to examine the trays. "I am a sometime-procurer of gems for a great northern prince," he said. Inwardly, he smiled, thinking of how Fafhrd would laugh at that. "I'm afraid I'm looking for something a bit more, shall we say, unusual. Perhaps even talismanic."
The proprietor shook his head and began to replace his trays within the trunk. Closing the lid and locking it, he turned once again to the Mouser. "As hungry as your fat purse makes me, I can offer you nothing. If it is precious objects of a religious nature you seek, may I recommend Demptha Negatarth. He runs a shop one block north on Temple Street, and some say he dabbles in minor sorcery, as well."
The Mouser led the way back through the curtain to the shop's outer room with its display cases of cheap baubles. At the door, he paused. "Since most men cannot discern the true nature of your wealth," he said, "how is it that you have no guards to defend it?"