“Enough,” Fafhrd said, waving him silent. “What's this news of import, Ourph?"
Afreyt arose, saying, “It can wait on courtesy. Gentlemen, join us. There are places set."
The three others nodded thanks and moved to the well to rinse up, but the ancient Mingol held his ground, bending on Fafhrd a gaze black as his long-skirted tunic and saying portentously, “Captain, as I did take my watch upon the headland, in midafternoon, the sun being halfway descended to the west, I looked toward the great Maelstrom that for this year and half year, this last six seasons, has been still as mountain lake, unnaturally so, and I saw it ‘gin to stir and keep on stirring, slowly, slowly, slowly, as though the sea were thick as witch's brew."
To everyone's surprise, the Mouser cried out a long loud "What?" rising to his feet and glaring direly. “What's that you say, you dismal dodderer? You black spider of ill omen! You dried-up skeleton!"
“No, Mouser, he speaks true,” Groniger reproved him, returning to take his place prepared next to the women. “I saw it with my own eyes! The currents have come right again at last and Rime Isle's whirlpool is spinning sluggishly. With any luck — and help of northern storm that's gathering — she'll spin ashore the rest of the Mingol wrecks for us to salvage, along with other ships have sunken since. Cheer up, friend."
The Mouser glowered at him. “You calculating miser greedy for gray driftwood gain! No, there are things sea-buried there I would not have fished up again. Hark ye, old Ourph! Ere the ‘pool ‘gan spin, saw ye any ill-doers sniffing about? I smell wizard's work."
“No wizards, Captain Mou, no one at all,” the ancient Mingol averred. “Pshawri and Skullick—” he waved toward the two taking places farther down the table “—took Kringle there earlier and anchored for a while. They will confirm my statement."
"What?" Again that low-shrieking, long-drawn-out accusatory word sped from the Mouser's lips as he swung glaring toward the two Ourph had mentioned. “You took out Kringle? Meddled in the Maelstrom?"
“What matter?” Skullick retorted boldly. “I told you we went fishing. We anchored for a while. And Pshawri did one dive.” Old Ourph nodded. “Nothing at all."
“Fafhrd can deal with you,” the Mouser told him dismissingly. Then, focusing on his own man, “What mischief were you up to, Pshawri? What were you diving for? What did you hope to find? Plunging in Maelstrom's midst without my order or permission? What did you bring up with you from the dive?"
Flushing darkly, “Captain, you do me wrong,” Pshawri replied, looking him straight in the eye. “Skullick can answer for me. He was there."
“He brought up nothing,” Skullick said flatly. “And whatever he might have brought up, I'm sure he would have saved to give to you."
“I do not believe you,” the Mouser said. “You're insubordinate, both of you. With you, Lieutenant Pshawri, I can deal. For the rest of this moon you are demoted to common seaman. At new moon I will reconsider your case. Until then the matter is closed. I wish to hear no more of it."
Fafhrd spoke from mouth's corner to Afreyt beside him. “Two temper tantrums in one evening! No question, the old-age curse still grips him."
Afreyt whispered back, “I think he's taking out on Pshawri what's left of his strange anger at the Fingers girl."
Pshawri: Captain, you wrong me.
Mouser: I said “No more!"
Ourph: Cap Mou, I singled out your lieutenant and Fafhrd's sergeant to bear me witness, not accuse ‘em of aught.
Groniger: We of Rime Isle abhor wizardry, superstition, and ill-speaking all. Life's bad enough without them.
Skullick: There have been some accusations made this eve and ill words spoken-
Fafhrd: An’ so let's have no more of them. Pipe down, Sergeant!
During these interchanges the Mouser sat scowling straight ahead and, save for his curt admonition, with lips pressed tightly together.
Afreyt got to her feet, drawing Cif up with her, who sat on her other side. “Gentlemen,” she said quietly, “this evening you would all gratify me by following Captain Mouser's wise advice, which as you can see he follows himself, setting us good example, of no more words on this perplexing matter.” She looked the table around with a particularly asking eye toward Pshawri.
Cif said, “And after all, it is Full Moon Day's Eve."
“So please eat up your dinner,” Afreyt went on, smiling, “or I shall think you do not like our cooking."
“And replenish your mugs,” Cif added. “In wine's best wisdom.” As they sat down, Fafhrd and Groniger applauded lightly in approval and the girls all clapped imitatively.
Old Ourph croaked, “It's true, silence is silver."
Sitting beside Fingers, May told her, “I've an extra white tunic I can lend you for tomorrow night."
On her other side Gale said, “And I have a spare yashmack. And I believe Klute has—"
“Unless, of course,” May interrupted, “you'd want to wear your own things."
“No,” Fingers hastened to say, “now I'm on Rime Isle, I want to look like you.” She smiled.
Cif whispered to Afreyt, “It's a strange thing. I know the Mouser's behaved like a monster tonight, and yet I can't help feeling that in some way he's right about Fingers and Pshawri, that they both lied to us in some way, maybe different ways. She was so cool about it all, almost the way a sleepwalker would talk.
“And Pshawri — he's always trying to impress the Mouser and win his praise, which rubs Mouser the wrong way. But a fortnight back, when the last Lankhmar trader came in — the Comet, she was — she carried a letter with a green seal for Pshawri, and since then there's been something new about his clashes with Mouser, something new and heavy."
Afreyt said, “I've sensed a different mood in Pshawri myself. Any idea what was in the letter?"
“Of course not."
“Then tell me this: This strange feeling you have about the Mouser and the other two, does it come from your own thinking and imaginings, or from the Goddess?"
“I wish I were sure,” Cif said as the two of them looked out together at the misted and ghastly bare gibbous moon.
Afreyt: Perchance at tomorrow night's ceremony she'll provide an answer.
Cif: We must press her.
8
That night Rime Isle most unaccountably grew wondrous cold and colder still, a blizzardly north wind blowing until the massive driftwood chimes in the leviathan-jaw arch of the Moon Temple clanked together dolefully and all sleepers suffered heavy sense-drugging nightmares, some toilsome and shivery heaving ones. When dawn at last came glimmering through swirls of powder snow, it was revealed that Fafhrd in ill nightcrawler's grip had somehow worked his way, dragging the covers after, up the maze of silver and brazen rods heading Cif's grand guest bed until the back of his head pressed the ceiling and he hung as one crucified asleep, while she below, hugging his ankles, dreamt they wandered a wintry waste embraced until a frigid gust parted them and whirled the Northerner high into the ice-gray sky until he seemed no bigger than a struggling gull, and that a like Morphean bondage had drawn the Gray Mouser, naked save for hauled-with sheet, out of and then under the second-best guest bed whereon he and Cif had gone excitingly to their slumbers, and she dreamed that they endlessly traversed shadowy subterranean corridors, their only light an eerie glow emanating from the Mouser's upper face, as if he wore a narrow glowing mask in which his eyes were horrid pits of darkness, until the Gray One slipped away from her through a trapdoor whereon was writ in phosphorescent Lankhmarese script, “The Underworld."