The Mouser screwed up his face in muted horror. No man in his right mind would sink his teeth into an apple that had rested at the bottom of Fafhrd's boot. Indeed it was luck that a stout, cleansing wind was blowing through the streets or Fafhrd, with one foot bare and fuming, would never have held his audience, but sent them running holding their noses and crying out for mercy.
The audience, having grown to a considerable size, roared with laughter, men and women alike. The Mouser drifted among them, studying their faces with sidelong glances as they gave Fafhrd their rapt attention. With one hand he fingered the hilt of his dagger, Catsclaw. With the other he supported the cumulative weight of the purses he had deposited down the front of his tunic.
Fafhrd threw himself into his performance, and the crowd cheered him on. The Mouser couldn't manage with a subtle nod or gesture to catch his eye and let him know it was time to move on. Finally, he gave up and slipped away from the fountain, trying not to jingle noticeably as he walked, taking up residence in the shadow of an alley a little distance away. Putting his back to the outside of a shop wall, he sank down on his haunches and prepared to wait.
Fifty-seven verses later, Fafhrd's song ended. The Mouser roused himself and peered out into the street to see the big Northerner climb down off the fountain wall, pick up his boot, and glance around. With the show over, Lankhmar's citizens went quickly about their business.
When Fafhrd glanced his way, the Mouser waved a hand, summoning him out of the sunny street and into the cooler shade of the alley. "I was beginning to think you were auditioning for court minstrel out there," the Mouser scolded as Fafhrd limped over. "I thought the day would end before your dainty little ditty did."
The Northerner leaned the lute against the wall and shook his boot, a disappointed look growing upon his face. Upending his odoriferous footwear, he spilled into his palm six copper tiks, a single silver smerduk, and a no-longer-quite-so-rosy apple. "These Lankhmarans truly are cheapskates and penny-pinchers," he grumbled. "In any other city this would buy us a bed and a decent bowl of stew with buttered bread, but in high-priced Lankhmar we'll be lucky to find a stall and a bag of oats!"
Disgusted, Fafhrd shook his head and absently took a bite of the apple.
The Mouser made a loud, retching sound.
"I still have the lute, and I still have the boot," Fafhrd announced in more optimistic tones as he lofted the core toward the alley's rear. "There's better profit waiting on a different corner perhaps."
"Spare your warbling throat," the Gray Mouser said, lifting his tunic to reveal one fat purse. He had poured all the others into it and hidden the empty purses back near where the apple core now lay.
Fafhrd's eyes lit up at the obvious weight of the purse. "Why, Mouser," he said with quiet admiration, "you are a cutpurse and a thief. The best in the business, from the looks of that."
"Thief? Cutpurse? Nonsense!" The little man in gray raised one eyebrow. "These coins are tribute to your incredible vocal talents. I've only aided your audience to suitably express the appreciation that a somewhat misplaced modesty prevented them from expressing on their own."
The Northerner grinned and proceeded to tug on his boot. "I trust your contributions came only from the well-heeled, who could afford it?"
The Mouser grunted. "The bulk of it came from a pair of heels, period," he answered. "A couple of Thieves' Guild amateurs were working the crowd, too. I saw no reason for them to benefit from your performance."
At mention of the Thieves' Guild, Fafhrd's face clouded over with a mixture of anger and sadness. "We settled our score with them, didn't we, Mouser?" he said grimly. "Remind me that we indeed settled it, lest I give thought to settling it again."
"We settled our score with them, Fafhrd," the Mouser answered as old memories came surging back upon him. "But they may not have settled theirs with us."
"That is good," Fafhrd said, rising to his full seven-foot height and clenching his fist as he stared out from the alley’s shadowy gloom into the bright street. "It will make me very happy if they learn we are here and try to settle them."
THREE
THE SILVER EEL
The Mouser stared out through the open shutters of the only window in their small room above the Silver Eel. The black towers and minarets of Lankhmar stabbed at the star-speckled sky. Midsummer’s Moon, waxing toward fullness, hung like a solemn, disapproving frown above the tallest spire.
A tendril of pale mist wafted across the sky, diffusing the moon's light. In the street below, a thicker, white fog rolled slowly through the city, southward and eastward from the Inner Sea and the River Hlal.
A lone figure, barely visible in the darkness, waded quietly through the fog down the narrow road called Bones Alley and entered the rear door of the Silver Eel. Laughter from the inn below suddenly penetrated up through the floorboards. The Mouser cast a glance toward the only bed, but the sound failed to disturb Fafhrd, who lay sprawled on his belly like a great starfish, taking up the entire mattress.
The Mouser had slept but little, himself, clinging to the very edge of the bed lest he be smothered or crushed in Fafhrd s unconscious embrace. Adding to his restlessness was the sullen afternoon heat that had lasted into the early evening. They had been lucky to get this room for only five coppers, but it had been a mistake for the Mouser to try to catch up on lost sleep.
Still, he felt rested enough. It was not yet near midnight, he reckoned, but he could abide the room no longer. His mind churned with thoughts of Malygris, Sadaster, and the strange creature called Sheelba. Folding his arms across his bare chest, he gazed out the window again and drew a deep breath.
The rising mist half-obscured the moonlight now, and the silvery fog glimmered in the weakening light. Somewhere out there, the Mouser thought glumly, a terrible enchantment crept through the city as silently and surely as the night-mist, stealing under closed doors, pressing against shuttered windows.
Involuntarily, he edged back into the room’s shadows, his gaze never quite leaving the soft, white tendrils and wisps that eddied just beyond the sill. Then, with crisp, abrupt movements, he stepped forward, leaned out the window, seized and drew the shutters, and latched them tight.
For a long moment, he stood in the darkness, aware of nothing but the frantic beat of his heart and the dryness in his mouth. "I need a drink," he muttered, disgusted with himself for the undeniable fear he felt.
Groping his way around the room, he snatched his garments from a narrow rope line strung up high near the ceiling. Cherig One-hand, the owner of the Silver Eel, had provided them with a basin and water enough to wash their clothes and themselves at no extra charge for the service. Though still slightly damp, his things were dry enough to pull on. Quietly, he eased into his boots by the door, fastened his weapons belt around his waist, and slipped out into the hallway.