“Just before dawn the abominable cloud-pinnace landed on Rime Isle on the headland between Salthaven and the Maelstrom and Fafhrd was given a mock funeral which was secretly observed by his long-lost daughter Fingers."
The girl, her eyes still downcast, nodded twice, rapidly.
“With derisive ceremony and soft music,” Afreyt went on, “Fafhrd was laid to rest — abandoned — on a bed of new-sprung mushrooms wet with dew, naked in the dawn's chill save for some ribbons the color of the underclothes of Frix's whores tied in unsightly mockery around his limp member, his flaccid Wand of Eros."
“Lovers’ Mementos,” Fingers explained, “a custom observed in—” she began, then broke off. “Oh pardon me, Lady Afreyt, I didn't mean to speak, I got carried away…."
“I am glad to hear you say so,” that one observed neutrally. “When the sinister funmakers had departed, Fingers's first action was to enrobe her father decently, then guide him still in a stupor to Cif's abode and make her hypnotically-enforced attempt upon his life, which was providentially foiled by Captain Mouser's most timely emergence, as I'm sure you've all heard by now."
“Yes indeed, we've had quite enough of that,” the Gray One said modestly. Then, bowing low, “Thank you, Lady Afreyt, for answering my questions as fully as was possible for you, I'm sure.” Then turning to Fafhrd, “And now, old friend, could you not be induced to add a few words of your own, sort of wrap the whole matter up, as it were?"
Setting his hands on his hips, Fafhrd replied, “Listen, little man, we've had enough of this nonsense. I recall something you said last winter at the dinner we had for you at the Sea Wrack to celebrate your successful trading voyage to No-Ombrulsk. Cif was teasing you about your erotic involvement (bondage and discipline, et cetera) with the Simorgyan sea demoness Ississi, who almost scuppered you and Seahawk.
“You replied to her teasing — manfully, it seemed to me (you blushed) — that you had attempted something somewhat beyond your powers.
“Well, so had I, I confess most emphatically, in this business of Frix and her ladies! I met total defeat in a war of pleasure! So let's have no more of it! For today, at least! I'm sorry, Afreyt, but that had to be said."
“I think so too,” she told him. “Let's all cool down."
“Before some fresh surprises refire our interest,” Rill put in, who was standing close behind the Mouser in the somewhat crowded section of tunnel.
Her words were prophetic, for just then Pshawri, coming from the shaft, edged his way into the press. He was still stripped for running, wearing only loincloth, belt, and pouch, carrying over one arm a robe he'd been handed above but not yet donned. When he saw the Mouser, the young lieutenant's weary face lit up wonderfully, but it was Cif to whom he first spoke.
“Lady,” he said, bowing, “at midnight, following your instructions, I threw into Darkfire's lava pool the talismanic Whirlpool Queller I'd won from the Maelstrom and with which we'd dowsed for Captain Mouser. There was an eruption from which I barely escaped, racing the ensuing weather change south and losing badly. When I crossed the headland I noted Maelstrom had calmed once more."
“That's wondrous news, brave lieutenant,” Cif replied in a ringing voice. Then turning to the Mouser, who was frowning, she dipped rapidly into her pouch. “Before you say anything, Captain, here's something you should read."
The Mouser spread the worn violet-inked sheet, but had not got very far before he motioned Fafhrd to come view Freg's letter with him. So they read it side by side and line by line.
When they got to the bit about the Mouser's tricksiness, Fafhrd muttered, “I always suspected you got at her, you dog,” and he replied, “Cheer up, at least she recognizes your moral superiority."
“Is that my uncouthness or my love?” the big man grumbled.
And when they got to the “triads of moles,” Rill, who'd been sneaking glances, could not resist touching with three fingers the three shoulder moles that showed clearly by leviathan light through the worn-to-gossamer fabric of the Mouser's jerkin. When he glared at her, she laughed and said, “Look at mates to these on Pshawri's side. We're packed too close here to hide anything."
Afreyt lifted the robe from Pshawri's arm and held it for him, saying, “You have my thanks too, Lieutenant.” He thanked her back and let her help him don it.
The reading done, the Mouser gazed quizzically at Pshawri a long moment.
“Still want to work for me, son, now I'm your father? I suppose I could pay you off in some way, if that's your choice."
“Most certainly, sire,” the young man responded. The Mouser spread his arms and they embraced, quite formally to start with.
“Come,” said Cif, moving past them, “it's time we told the others the good news."
They followed her, the Mouser admiring her dragon's breath system of ventilation and going on to praise the bucket lift in the shaft.
Halfway along this route, at the floor of the shaft, Mikkidu appeared, bearing one of the Mouser's gray house robes. The Mouser donned it and thanked him, then stepped in the bucket and was drawn up.
Fafhrd emerged from the tunnel followed by Afreyt and the rest. He drew his hood over his shaven pate, then mounted the shaft swiftly by the ladder of pegs.
As the Mouser swung off at the top, his loosely assembled men gave a cheer. Fafhrd's joined in, redoubling their shouts as their captain came into view and stood beside the Mouser. As the cheering ebbed, they were able to exchange a few words in private as the late summer midday sun shone down from low in the south.
Mouser (indicating the shallow mound of dug earth near where they stood): Mikkidu tells me there's talk of renaming Goddess Hill (formerly Gallows Hill), Mount Mouser.
Fafhrd (a shade resentfully): That's losing no time.
Mouser: Should I suggest Mount Faf-Mou?
Fafhrd: Forget it. I must say, you're looking remarkably fit after your incredibly long sojourn buried.
Mouser: I don't feel that way. I died down there so many times, I doubt I'll ever trust life again.
Fafhrd: For every time you died, you were reborn. Contrariwise, I think you have become Death's dearest friend.
Mouser: That's a most dubious distinction. I'm tired of killing.
Fafhrd: Agreed. Fingers is a joy. She came along barely in time to rescue me from boredom.
Mouser: I'm doubly fortunate — to have been able to instruct my son before I knew he was one.
Fafhrd: I think we can expect more of these strays.
Mouser: Perish the thought!
29
That day the chief topic of gossip in Godsland was the mysterious vanishment of the troublesome stranger divinity Loki. One of the few deities to know the true explanation was the spider-god Mog.
On a whim Death had sought Mog out to inform him of the continued survival of his chief worshipper, the Gray Mouser, who'd been under Loki's curse, and to boast a bit of the trickery by which he'd managed this, for even Death is vain.
“Actually,” Death confided, “the one to consign Loki firmly to the lava lake was none other than the Gray Mouser's son, who promises also to become a very useful character to me."
“I've good news too of my man Fafhrd, my lapsed Lankhmar acolyte,” limp-wristed Issek, who'd been listening along with Kos, Fafhrd's barbarian father-god, interrupted impudently. “He's had himself shaved entire — in my honor, I presume, as once befell him in Lankhmar."