The Second Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  ‘So you’re coming up at once with me. There’s a new matter we must discuss alone. Gale! Take over here at the face. Fingers can help you—it’s a sort of work her deft hands should be good at.’

  ‘Oh good!’ said Gale.

  Fingers: ‘You honour me.’

  Cif made no demur, accepting support but asking, ‘What new matter?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  Just past the jog they encountered Mikkidu returning with empty pails. Afreyt addressed him, ‘I’m taking the lady Cif home for long-needed rest. You’re in charge now. Gale and our new friend Fingers are working the face. See that they aren’t kept at it too long and are both sent to Cif’s house by midnight.’

  When he shot Cif a look of inquiry, she nodded and then remembered to give him Fafhrd’s ring.

  Aboveground the dogcart had been unloaded and Skullick was greeting Mannimark and Faf’s berserk Gort as they came loping in.

  Afreyt poured Cif a mouthful of hot soup and directed, ‘Hitch up fresh dogs. I’m driving the lady Cif home. She needs rest badly. No other load. Here Mikkidu has the ring.’

  ‘Mara and May were due to go this trip,’ Skullick pointed out. The blond girls waved from where they huddled in the shelter tent.

  ‘I’ll take them, of course,’ Afreyt said. ‘Girls, climb aboard! And take a blanket with you. And another for Lady Cif.’

  Returning to Salthaven, they all had the wind at their backs, which was some improvement. None was inclined to talk. Midway Cif asked suspiciously, ‘Was there poppy dust in the watered brandy you fed me? It has a sickly, bitter aftertaste.’

  ‘Only enough to induce tranquillity and encourage sleep, but not enforce it.’

  Afreyt drove straight to Cif’s and had the girls return the cart to the barracks before wending to their own homes. She warmed a solid meal while Cif got comfortable, saw it consumed, then poured them both brandy and handed Cif the letter Pshawri had entrusted to her, saying, ‘I’ve read it, of course. Matter of import for you, certainly.’

  Cif studied the broken green seal and the violet-inked address as she unfolded it. ‘This sheet was in the Captain’s last mail bag from Lankhmar,’ she averred, ‘before he distributed the letters to his men.’

  Then she was silent while she read to herself the following:

  Dear Son Pshawri,

  I hope this finds you alive and continuing to prosper on your northern adventure in service of that notable rogue the Gray Mouser.

  I am to tell you he has more reason to make you his lieutenant than even he weens.

  When you were young I pointed him out to you among other noteworthy Lankhmarts. But I did not see fit to tell you (or him) that he was your father. Such tactics seldom work out, to my knowledge and experience, and I would scorn to curry favour in such a way.

  It happened in my salad days, before I became a professional woman, and while I was body maid to the dancer Ivrian and we were all caught up in a supernal intrigue involving the Thieves Guild, some of its jewelled relics, and the Mouser’s uncouth barbarian comrade Fafhrd.

  They vied with each other to seduce me. Fafhrd loved me the more, but the Mouser was tricksier and measured his drinks more carefully—and mine. The best of what I know of the uses of evil and falsity was taught me by that devil.

  But now you find yourself by chance in service of the very same man, you may find the knowledge of advantage to you. Use it as you see fit. Luckily the relationship is supported by evidence. Triads of equidistant moles run in his family.

  Thanks for the silver ring and seven rilks.

  Prosper,

  your loving mother Freg

  Cif lifted her eyes to Afreyt’s. ‘That letter rings true to me,’ she said, nodding soberly.

  ‘You think so too?’ the other replied.

  ‘By Skama’s scales, what else! It is man’s nature to plant his seed where’er the soil looks good.’

  ‘A hero’s doubly so…’ Afreyt chimed, ‘whence else his deeds of daring?’

  Cif mused, ‘When we told Mou and Faf of our courting of the stranger gods Odin and Loki in Rime Isle’s service and even setting sexual lures and ties for them, I recall they hinted of their own conquests among female divinities—the viewless Stardock princesses, some nixies of the sea, the rat queen Hisvet, and some princess of the air who served her as a maid.’

  Afreyt pointed out, ‘This woman claiming Pshawri as her son would seem to have no noble blood at all, let alone divine. How would you feel should he claim son-right of Captain Mouser?’

  Cif looked up sharply. ‘Pshawri has served Mou faithfully and may do more than that in this now quest! I favour Pshawri’s claim. The resemblances between them run deep—Mou bears upon his hip a triad of dark moles.’

  ‘Another question,’ Afreyt went on. ‘Has your Gray lover ever professed to you any out-of-way sexual tastes?’

  ‘Has your red-haired barbarian?’ Cif countered.

  ‘I don’t know if you could rightly call it out-of-way,’ the other said with a wry laugh, ‘but once when we were playing somewhat listlessly abed, he suggested inviting Rill to join us. I told him I’d strangle him first and indeed tried to. In the excitement of the delirium this led to, the original proposal was forgotten at the time and just how playful or serious it had been at the time of it being made.’

  Cif laughed, then grew thoughtful in turn. ‘I once recall the Mouser pestering me as to whether I’d ever felt an attraction to the same sex as my own. At the time I put him in his place, of course, telling I had no truck with any such filthy practices, but since I have wondered once or twice about his curiosity.’

  Afreyt looked at her quizzically. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘so you didn’t tell him about our…’ She left her words hanging.

  ‘But we were barely more than girls when that happened,’ Cif protested.

  ‘True indeed,’ Afreyt said. ‘Barely fourteen, as I recall. But you are drowsing off, I plainly see. And so, to tell the truth, am I.’

  25

  Next time the Gray Mouser came first to consciousness, he had forgotten not only who but what he was.

  He wondered why a darkness-dwelling creature that was no more than a limp fleshy pocket not moist enough for its own comfort and occupied by two hard, smooth, pointy semicircular ridges that fit together neatly and by a sort of blind sessile snail busy exploring itself and its container endlessly and scavenging life-giving air from the dry grainy outside, should be equipped with a mighty mind capable of mastering whole worlds of life and experience.

  The sentient pocket with in-dwelling restless mollusk knew of its mind’s might from the variety and rapid sequence of its inscrutable mysterious thoughts and memories which threatened momently to burst into clarity and stain the omnipresent dark with flaring colours. It knew its dry, grainy, closely packed immediate surroundings by a dull yellow glow so dim as hardly to deserve the name of light at all. It was a sort of dim seeing locked in solidity.

  Without preamble or warning there blazed up for this buried mind the moving picture of a brilliantly lamp-lit room, lined with a great map of Nehwon-world and shelves of ancient books, wherein a venerable, kingly, seated biped beast silently discoursed to a considerably smaller version of itself standing attentively before it.

  Memory told the sentient pocket that the beast was man, and then in a flash of insight it realized that behind the handsome full red mobile lips known as mouth lay such a moist pocket as itself with pale pointy smooth ridges called teeth and an indwelling anchor named tongue, and that as a consequence of all this there must be attached to it a body such as that of the beast under view and itself be man also, however cabined and confined in grainy earth.

  Instantly his mind began to get a host of little messages from this attached body, which turned out to be in foetal position with both hands tenderly cupping its genitals, rag-limp after their torture by stangury-style orgasm in the skeletal embrace of blue-pied Sister Pain.

  Memory of that terrible
triggering made him wonder for a moment if he were not simply gazing into another room in the apartments of Hisvet in Lankhmar Below, perhaps that of her sorcerer-father Hisvin, with Foursie due to burst in naked the next moment chattering out her demon alarm—and the dread blue lady once again centipede-walk her bone hand round his waist from behind as he lay trapped and confined by dirt.

  But, no! The very earth that clasped him so intimately had changed profoundly in texture and in reek. The rocks from which nature had ground it had been igneous and metamorphic rather than sedimentary, he could tell. The moisture in it was not Salt Marsh and Hlal-mouth brackish, but had the icy bite of the mineralized streams rivuleting from the mountains of Hunger, a thousand Lankhmar leagues to the south of that metropolis. The commingled effluvia were not those of polyglot Lankhmar but of some more intense and secret community with a pervading mushroom odour. Toadstool wine!

  A second contemplation of the new buried room and its occupants made much clear. However had he for a moment confused schoolmasterish, peevish Hisvin with this imperious figure discoursing to the crafty-looking lad who stood before him—the beaky nose, the wattled cheeks, the proud hawklike visage, but above all the ruby-red eyeballs with white irises and glittering jet pupils—those last alone should have told him (but for lingerings of his torture-wrought amnesia) that this could be none other than Quarmal, Lord of Quarmall, on numerous counts his and friend Fafhrd’s dearest enemy.

  As soon as this realization struck him he noted other clues to the scene’s identity and locale, such as a curtain of dangling cords bellowing inward at the room’s far end, and behind that, dimly glimpsed, a thick-thighed, short-armed human monster walking without moving forward—one of the almost mindless slaves specially bred to work the treadmills that spun the great wooden fans that sucked down air into the many ramp-joined levels of the buried city and its low-ceilinged mushroom fields.

  Unquestionably he was half again as far from Rime Isle as he’d been when overtaken by Sister Pain while spying on Hisvet’s remedy for boredom on tedious afternoons in Lankhmar Below, the distance demi-doubled—a prodigious feat of subterranean transversing, one must admit. Unless, of course, both experiences were incidents in a lengthy nightmare dreamed while shallowly buried on Gallows Hill—which more and more seemed the explanation of choice for all this underground hugger-mugger, provided he were eventually rescued from it, to be sure.

  Coming out of this reverie, the Mouser checked that his shallow breathing of earth-trapped air was still unlaboured and then scanned anew the long room lined with books and charts and philosophic instruments. How characteristic of most of his life, he told himself, was his present situation! To be on the outside in drenching rain or blasting snow or (like now) worse and looking in at a cozy abode of culture, comfort, companionship, and couth—what man wouldn’t turn to thieving and burglary when faced at every turn with such a fate?

  But back to the business at hand, he told himself, resuming his scanning of the spacious room with its two-and-one-half occupants (the half being for the monstrous treadslave, laboring behind the wavy curtain of cords at the far end).

  The soundlessly lecturing Lord Quarmal perched on a high stool beside a narrow table, and the attentive lad (whose dutiful answers or replies were likewise inaudible) were like a study in old and young skinniness…and wariness, to judge by their expressions. He also noted a family resemblance in their features although the lad’s eyes had no sign of the old man’s ruby-red balls and white irises, while the latter’s long-hair tufts between his shrivelled ears and bald pate had no greenish cast such as that shown by the other’s short-cropped locks.

  What were they being cagey about? he asked himself. Damn it, why was this talk blocked off? Recalling he’d had the same trouble hearing Hisvet and Company at first, he focused his attention, (or, rather, the occult auditory) in one effort to make it come through to him as clearly as the visual did.

  Failing to achieve any results, he decided shortly he must be pressing. He relaxed his concentration and let his mind drift. A gesture of Quarmal with the long thin stiff wand or rod he carried turned his attention to the big Nehwon map, the handsome craft of which tempted the Mouser to scan it almost idly for a while. The colours were mostly naturalistic, with blues representing seas and lakes, yellow for deserts, white for snow and ice, and so forth. Close to the west edge, near the dark blue of the Outer Sea, Quarmall stood out in royal purple as clearly as if there’d been a sign reading ‘You are here.’

  Just north of it were several small white ovals—the peaks of the Mountains of Hunger. Then a great space of pale brown with the blue thread of the Hlal winding through it—the grainfields. Then Hlal mouth with the city of Lankhmar on its east bank, and above those the paler blue expanse of the Inner Sea.

  Next above that, the dark green Land of the Eight Cities ending in the white-topped wall of the Trollstep Mountains and, everywhere north of that, the white of the Cold Waste. And, off in the Outer Sea deep blue of the top-west corner, something he’d never seen on a map before, Rime Isle. It looked very small. The Mouser shivered to see depicted the distance between his home port and Quarmall. This had all better be a nightmare dream, he told himself.

  His gaze next travelling east beyond the Cold Waste, it came to the Sea of Monsters and, beyond that, another shiversome first in his experience of charts: an elliptical black blotch with a glowing sapphire blue spot at its centre that had to be the Shadowland, Abode of Death. Why, in the Empire of the East it meant execution by torture for a cartographer to limn that land.

  Scattered across the map, but mostly near cities, were enigmatic glowing small purple dots, along with a lesser number of gleaming red ones, as though it had been generously arrayed with amethyst-headed pins, sparsely with ruby ones. What might they signify? The Mouser frowningly noted that one of the reds marked Rime Isle at its Salthaven corner.

  At this point the Gray One became aware he had been hearing for some time a faint but steady whispering roar, like that of an array of monster seashells, and realized that it was the hollow noise of the treadslave-driven fans that kept Quarmall from suffocating. It was more than ten years since he’d been employed here bodyguarding Prince Gwaay and heard that sound, but once one heard it, one didn’t forget.

  Then he began to get strange hissing modulations of the soft roar corresponding with the more vigorous shapings of old Quarmal’s lips. They were like the sinister whispers of vindictive ghosts. The Mouser felt a thrill of accomplishment when he provisionally identified the language as High Quarmallese and a surge of triumph when he caught the first indisputable phrase in that sibilant tongue, ‘treasure caravans of Kush,’ while Quarmal ticked off with his long rod on the map that jungle kingdom far south of the buried city he himself ruled. Next thing the Mouser knew, he was hearing the entire dialogue with perfect clarity and comprehension. It seemed like a miracle, a wondrous witchcraft, despite his high opinions of his own linguistic skills.

  QUARMAL: While it is true, dearest Igwarl, son of my loins and heir of my caverns, that the taking of revenge on injurers and traducers of Quarmall is the chiefest duty of a Lord of Quarmall, it must never be achieved at risk of breaching Quarmall’s secrecy. That is why the purple points on the map representing our spies and hidden allies are many more than the crimson ones, marking our assassins.

  IGWARL: So the brave wielders of the knife, revered parent, must always be outnumbered by the softspeakers and double-dealers?

  QUARMAL: Not many of my assassins employ the knife. Some steal away priceless life by poisons sweet as sleep or lulling deathspells fair as a dream of love.

  IGWARL: Why must things never be done forthrightly, as in war!

  QUARMAL: Ah, the impetuosity of youth. Quarmall tried war and lost, now works a surer way. Let me pose you a question. Whom may a Prince of Quarmall trust in furthering his designs?

  IGWARL: You, sire. Not my mother. A brother, never! But he may trust his playmate concubines, if they be sisters and
he has had the training and command of them.

  From his close-buried coign of vantage the Mouser saw the in-blown cords part as a naked girl entered the long chamber past the toiling treadslave. She was of Igwarl’s age, looked his wiry double, had the same greenish-blond hair close-cropped, and bore before her like a sword at thrust a slender two-edged knife as she advanced inexorably upon the unperceiving boy. She moved rhythmically yet with a limp, favouring her left foot. The expression on her face was that of a sleepwalker—blank, serene.

  QUARMAL: What of a sister? Issa, say. She’s to be trusted?

  IGWARL: Better than lesser playmate concubine—since she has been like trained even more carefully.

  QUARMAL: I am glad to hear so. Look behind you.

  Igwarl turned. And froze.

  Quarmal let him come to full realization of his plight. The old man’s eyes were as intent as those of a leopard. He held the rod ready in his right hand. He shook his left hand free from its sleeve and poised it at head level a foot from his face.

  The girl reached striking distance.

  Swift as a snake, Igwarl drew a dagger from his belt.

  His aged parent rapped his knuckles with the rod and the weapon clattered on the rock floor.

  This second betrayal rendered Igwarl moveless.

  Quarmal snapped the fingers of his left hand thrice with measured rapidity, slipping his spatulate middle finger off his thumb and bringing it down precisely upon the crevice between his ring finger and his thumb’s root with a crack loud as that of a carter’s whip. And again. And yet again.

  At the first crack the girl halted her forward movement with her knife a handsbreadth short of Igwarl’s belly and her eyes widened.

  At the second crack realization grew in them of the enormity of the deed she had attempted. She paled.

  At the third crack their pupils rolled upward and they fluttered shut as self-horrified unconsciousness enwrapped her. The knife slipped from her fingers and dashed on the rock floor. She swayed forward. Quarmal’s rod darted past the bemused boy’s shoulder and its brass ferrule took her a handsbreadth below a point midway between the nipplets of her budding breasts. She winced shut-eyed and went a shade paler.