by Fritz Leiber
Ningauble quivered like jelly at this tickling flattery.
‘Nevertheless,’ he piped, ‘today I am in a merry humor and will give ear to your question. But remember that it will almost certainly be too difficult for me.’
‘We know your great ingenuity in the face of insurmountable obstacles,’ rejoined the Mouser in the properly soothing tones.
‘Why doesn’t your friend come forward?’ asked Ningauble, suddenly querulous again.
Fafhrd had been waiting for that question. It always went against his grain to have to behave congenially toward one who called himself the Mightiest Magician as well as the Gossiper of the Gods. But that Ningauble should let hang from his shoulders two bats whom he called Hugin and Munin in open burlesque of Odin’s ravens, was too much for him. It was more a patriotic than religious matter with Fafhrd. He believed in Odin only during moments of sentimental weakness.
‘Slay the bats or send them slithering and I’ll come, but not before,’ he dogmatized.
‘Now I’ll tell you nothing,’ said Ningauble pettishly, ‘for, as all know, my health will not permit bickering.’
‘But, Schoolmaster of Falsehood,’ purred the Mouser, darting a murderous glance at Fafhrd, ‘that is indeed to be regretted, especially since I was looking forward to regaling you with the intricate scandal that the Friday concubine of the satrap Philip withheld even from her body slave.’
‘Ah well,’ conceded the Many-Eyed One, ‘it is time for Hugin and Munin to feed.’
The bats reluctantly unfurled their wings and flew lazily into the darkness.
Fafhrd stirred himself and moved forward, sustaining the scrutiny of the majority of the eyes, all six of which the Northman considered artfully manipulated puppet-orbs. The seventh no man had seen, or boasted of having seen, save the Mouser, who claimed it was Odin’s other eye, stolen from sagacious Mimer—this not because he believed it, but to irk his Northern comrade.
‘Greetings, Snake Eyes,’ Fafhrd boomed.
‘Oh, is it you, Hulk?’ said Ningauble carelessly. ‘Sit down, both, and share my humble fire.’
‘Are we not to be invited beyond the Great Gate and share your fabulous comforts too?’
‘Do not mock me, Gray One. As all know, I am poor, penurious Ningauble.’
So with a sigh the Mouser settled himself on his heels, for he well knew that the Gossiper prized above all else a reputation for poverty, chastity, humility, and thrift, therefore playing his own doorkeeper, except on certain days when the Great Gate muted the tinkle of impious sistrum and the lascivious wail of flute and the giggles of those who postured in the shadow shows.
But now Ningauble coughed piteously and seemed to shiver and warmed his cloaked members at the fire. And the shadows flickered weakly against iron and stone, and the little creatures crept rustling in, making their eyes wide to see and their ears cupped to hear; and upon their rhythmically swinging, weaving stalks pulsated the six eyes. At intervals, too, Ningauble would pick up, seemingly at random, a potsherd from the great pile and rapidly scan the memorandum scribbled on it, without breaking the rhythm of the eyestalks or, apparently, the thread of his attention.
The Mouser and Fafhrd crouched on their hams.
As Fafhrd started to speak, Ningauble questioned rapidly, ‘And now, my children, you had something to tell me concerning the Friday concubine—’
‘Ah, yes, Artist of Untruth,’ the Mouser cut in hastily. ‘Concerning not so much the concubine as three eunuch priests of Cybele and a slave-girl from Samos—a tasty affair of wondrous complexity, which you must give me leave to let simmer in my mind so that I may serve it up to you skimmed of the slightest fat of exaggeration and with all the spice of true detail.’
‘And while we wait for the Mouser’s mind-pot to boil,’ said Fafhrd casually, at last catching the spirit of the thing, ‘you may the more merrily pass the time by advising us as to a trifling difficulty.’ And he gave a succinct account of their tantalizing bedevilment by sow- and snail-changed maidens.
‘And you say that Chloe alone proved immune to the spell?’ queried Ningauble thoughtfully, tossing a potsherd to the far side of the pile. ‘Now that brings to my mind—’
‘The exceedingly peculiar remark at the end of Diotima’s fourth epistle to Socrates?’ interrupted the Mouser brightly. ‘Am I not right, Father?’
‘You are not,’ replied Ningauble coldly. ‘As I was about to observe, when this tick of the intellect sought to burrow the skin of my mind, there must be something that throws a protective influence around Chloe. Do you know of any god or demon in whose special favor she stands, or any incantation or rune she habitually mumbles, or any notable talisman, charm, or amulet she customarily wears or inscribes on her body?’
‘She did mention one thing,’ the Mouser admitted diffidently after a moment. ‘An amulet given her years ago by some Persian, or Greco-Persian girl. Doubtless a trifle of no consequence.’
‘Doubtless. Now, when the first sow-change occurred, did Fafhrd laugh the laugh? He did? That was unwise, as I have many times warned you. Advertise often enough your connection with the Elder Gods and you may be sure that some greedy searcher will come crawling from the pit…’
‘But what is our connection with the Elder Gods?’ asked the Mouser, eagerly, though not hopefully. Fafhrd grunted derisively.
‘Those are matters best not spoken of,’ Ningauble ordained. ‘Was there anyone who showed a particular interest in Fafhrd’s laughter?’
The Mouser hesitated. Fafhrd coughed. Thus prodded, the Mouser confessed, ‘Oh, there was a girl who was perhaps a trifle more attentive than the others to his bellowing. A Persian girl. In fact, as I recall, the same one who gave Chloe the amulet.’
‘Her name is Ahura,’ said Fafhrd. ‘The Mouser’s in love with her.’
‘A fable!’ the Mouser denied laughingly, double-daggering Fafhrd with a superstitious glare. ‘I can assure you, Father, that she is a very shy, stupid girl, who cannot possibly be concerned in any way with our troubles.’
‘Of course, since you say so,’ Ningauble observed, his voice icily rebuking. ‘However, I can tell you this much: the one who has placed the ignominious spell upon you is, insofar as he partakes of humanity, a man…’
(The Mouser was relieved. It was unpleasant to think of dark-haired, lithe Ahura being subjected to certain methods of questioning which Ningauble was reputed to employ. He was irked at his own clumsiness in trying to lead Ningauble’s attention away from Ahura. Where she was concerned, his wit failed him.)
‘…and an adept,’ Ningauble concluded. ‘Yes, my sons, an adept—a master practitioner of blackest magic without faintest blink of light.’
The Mouser started. Fafhrd groaned, ‘Again?’
‘Again,’ Ningauble affirmed. ‘Though why, save for your connection with the Elder Gods, you should interest those most recondite of creatures, I cannot guess. They are not men who wittingly will stand in the glaringly illuminated foreground of history. They seek—’
‘But who is it?’ Fafhrd interjected.
‘Be quiet, Mutilator of Rhetoric. They seek the shadows, and surely for good reason. They are the glorious amateurs of high magic, disdaining practical ends, caring only for the satisfaction of their insatiable curiosities, and therefore doubly dangerous. They are…’
‘But what’s his name?’
‘Silence, Trampler of Beautiful Phrases. They are in their fashion fearless, irreligiously considering themselves the coequals of destiny and having only contempt for the Demigoddess of Chance, the Imp of Luck, and the Demon of Improbability. In short, they are adversaries before whom you should certainly tremble and to whose will you should unquestionably bow.’
‘But his name, Father, his name!’ Fafhrd burst out, and the Mouser, his impudence again in the ascendant, remarked, ‘It is he of the Sabihoon, is it not, Father?’
‘It is not. The Sabihoon are an ignorant fisher folk who inhabit the hither shore of the far lake and worshi
p the beast god Wheen, denying all others,’ a reply that tickled the Mouser, for to the best of his knowledge he had just invented the Sabihoon.
‘No, his name is…’ Ningauble paused and began to chuckle. ‘I was forgetting that I must under no circumstances tell you his name.’
Fafhrd jumped up angrily. ‘What?’
‘Yes, children,’ said Ningauble, suddenly making his eye stalks staringly rigid, stern, and uncompromising. ‘And I must furthermore tell you that I can in no way help you in this matter…’ (Fafhrd clenched his fists) ‘…and am very glad of it too…’ (Fafhrd swore) ‘…for it seems to me that no more fitting punishment could have been devised for your abominable lecheries, which I have so often bemoaned…’ (Fafhrd’s hand went to his sword hilt) ‘…in fact, if it had been up to me to chastise you for your manifold vices, I would have chosen the very same enchantment…’ (But now he had gone too far; Fafhrd growled, ‘Oh, so it is you who are behind it!’ ripped out his sword and began to advance slowly on the hooded figure) ‘…Yes, my children, you must accept your lot without rebellion or bitterness…’ (Fafhrd continued to advance) ‘…Far better that you should retire from the world as I have and give yourselves to meditation and repentance…’ (The sword, flickering with firelight, was only a yard away) ‘…Far better that you should live out the rest of this incarnation in solitude, each surrounded by his faithful band of sows or snails…’ (The sword touched the ragged robe) ‘…devoting your remaining years to the promotion of a better understanding between mankind and the lower animals. However—’ (Ningauble sighed and the sword hesitated) ‘…if it is still your firm and foolhardy intention to challenge this adept, I suppose I must aid you with what little advice I can give, though warning you that it will plunge you into maelstroms of trouble and lay upon you geases you will grow gray in fulfilling, and incidentally be the means of your deaths.’
Fafhrd lowered his sword. The silence in the black cave grew heavy and ominous. Then, in a voice that was distant yet resonant, like the sound that came from the statue of Memnon at Thebes when the first rays of the morning sun fell upon it, Ningauble began to speak.
‘It comes to me, confusedly, like a scene in a rusted mirror; nevertheless, it comes, and thus: You must first possess yourselves of certain trifles. The shroud of Ahriman, from the secret shrine near Persepolis—’
‘But what about the accursed swordsmen of Ahriman, Father?’ put in the Mouser. ‘There are twelve of them. Twelve, Father, and all very accursed and hard to persuade.’
‘Do you think I am setting toss-and-fetch problems for puppy dogs?’ wheezed Ningauble angrily. ‘To proceed: You must secondly obtain powdered mummy from the Demon Pharaoh, who reigned for three horrid and unhistoried midnights after the death of Ikhnaton—’
‘But, Father,’ Fafhrd protested, blushing a little, ‘you know who owns that powdered mummy, and what she demands of any two men who visit her.’
‘Shhh! I’m your elder, Fafhrd, by eons. Thirdly, you must get the cup from which Socrates drank the hemlock; fourthly, a sprig from the original Tree of Life, and lastly…’ He hesitated as if his memory had failed him, dipped up a potsherd from the pile, and read from it: ‘And lastly, you must procure the woman who will come when she is ready.’
‘What woman?’
‘The woman who will come when she is ready.’ Ningauble tossed back the fragment, starting a small landslide of shards.
‘Corrode Loki’s bones!’ cursed Fafhrd, and the Mouser said, ‘But, Father, no woman comes when she’s ready. She always waits.’
Ningauble sighed merrily and said, ‘Do not be downcast, children. Is it ever the custom of your good friend the Gossiper to give simple advice?’
‘It is not,’ said Fafhrd.
‘Well, having all these things, you must go to the Lost City of Ahriman that lies east of Armenia—whisper not its name—’
‘Is it Khatti?’ whispered the Mouser.
‘No, Blowfly. And furthermore, why are you interrupting me when you are supposed to be hard at work recalling all the details of the scandal of the Friday concubine, the three eunuch priests, and the slave girl from Samos?’
‘Oh truly, Spy of the Unmentionable, I labor at that until my mind becomes a weariness and a wandering, and all for love of you.’ The Mouser was glad of Ningauble’s question, for he had forgotten the three eunuch priests, which would have been most unwise, as no one in his senses sought to cheat the Gossiper of even a pinch of misinformation promised.
Ningauble continued, ‘Arriving at the Lost City, you must seek out the ruined black shrine, and place the woman before the great tomb, and wrap the shroud of Ahriman around her, and let her drink the powdered mummy from the hemlock cup, diluting it with a wine you will find where you find the mummy, and place in her hand the sprig from the Tree of Life, and wait for the dawn.’
‘And then?’ rumbled Fafhrd.
‘And then the mirror becomes all red with rust. I can see no further, except that someone will return from a place which it is unlawful to leave, and that you must be wary of the woman.’
‘But, Father, all this scavenging of magical trumpery is a great bother,’ Fafhrd objected. ‘Why shouldn’t we go at once to the Lost City?’
‘Without the map on the shroud of Ahriman?’ murmured Ningauble.
‘And you still can’t tell us the name of the adept we seek?’ the Mouser ventured. ‘Or even the name of the woman? Puppy dog problems indeed! We give you a bitch, Father, and by the time you return her, she’s dropped a litter.’
Ningauble shook his head ever so slightly, the six eyes retreated under the hood to become an ominous multiple gleam, and the Mouser felt a shiver crawl on his spine.
‘Why is it, Riddle-Vendor, that you always give us half knowledge?’ Fafhrd pressed angrily. ‘Is it that at the last moment our blades may strike with half force?’
Ningauble chuckled.
‘It is because I know you too well, children. If I said one word more, Hulk, you could be cleaving with your great sword—at the wrong person. And your cat-comrade would be brewing his child’s magic—the wrong child’s magic. It is no simple creature you foolhardily seek, but a mystery, no single identity but a mirage, a stony thing that has stolen the blood and substance of life, a nightmare crept out of dream.’
For a moment it was as if, in the far reaches of that nighted cavern, something that waited stirred. Then it was gone.
Ningauble purred complacently, ‘And now I have an idle moment, which, to please you, I will pass in giving ear to the story that the Mouser has been impatiently waiting to tell me.’
So, there being no escape, the Mouser began, first explaining that only the surface of the story had to do with the concubine, the three priests, and the slave girl; the deeper portion touching mostly, though not entirely, on four infamous handmaidens of Ishtar and a dwarf who was richly compensated for his deformity. The fire grew low and a little, lemurlike creature came edging in to replenish it, and the hours stretched on, for the Mouser always warmed to his own tales. There came a place where Fafhrd’s eyes bugged with astonishment, and another where Ningauble’s paunch shook like a small mountain in earthquake, but eventually the tale came to an end, suddenly and seemingly in the middle, like a piece of foreign music.
Then farewells were said and final questions refused answer, and the two seekers started back the way they had come. And Ningauble began to sort in his mind the details of the Mouser’s story, treasuring it the more because he knew it was an improvisation, his favorite proverb being, ‘He who lies artistically, treads closer to the truth than ever he knows.’
Fafhrd and the Mouser had almost reached the bottom of the boulder stair when they heard a faint tapping and turned to see Ningauble peering down from the verge, supporting himself with what looked like a cane and rapping with another.
‘Children,’ he called, and his voice was tiny as the note of the lone flute in the Temple of Baal, ‘it comes to me that something in the distan
t spaces lusts for something in you. You must guard closely what commonly needs no guarding.’
‘Yes, Godfather of Mystification.’
‘You will take care?’ came the elfin note. ‘Your beings depend on it.’
‘Yes, Father.’
And Ningauble waved once and hobbled out of sight. The little creatures of his great darkness followed him, but whether to report and receive orders or only to pleasure him with their gentle antics, no man could be sure. Some said that Ningauble had been created by the Elder Gods for men to guess about and so sharpen their imaginations for even tougher riddles. None knew whether he had the gift of foresight, or whether he merely set the stage for future events with such a bewildering cunning that only an efreet or an adept could evade acting the part given him.
3 The Woman Who Came
After Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser emerged from the Bottomless Caves into the blinding upper sunlight, their trail for a space becomes dim. Material relating to them has, on the whole, been scanted by annalists, since they were heroes too disreputable for classic myth, too cryptically independent ever to let themselves be tied to a folk, too shifty and improbable in their adventurings to please the historian, too often involved with a riffraff of dubious demons, unfrocked sorcerers, and discredited deities—a veritable underworld of the supernatural. And it becomes doubly difficult to piece together their actions during a period when they were engaged in thefts requiring stealth, secrecy, and bold misdirection. Occasionally, however, one comes across the marks they left upon the year.
For instance, a century later the priests of Ahriman were chanting, although they were too intelligent to believe it themselves, the miracle of Ahriman’s snatching of his own hallowed shroud. One night the twelve accursed swordsmen saw the blackly scribbled shroud rise like a pillar of cobwebs from the altar, rise higher than mortal man, although the form within seemed anthropoid. Then Ahriman spoke from the shroud, and they worshipped him, and he replied with obscure parables and finally strode giantlike from the secret shrine.