"Demptha would never have left those behind," Nuulpha said with certainty. "He painted them, himself." Bending, the corporal scooped up the fallen cards. Placing them with the others on the table, he assembled them once more into a neat deck. "Maybe he'll come back for them," Nuulpha added doubtfully.
On an impulse, the Mouser turned over the top card. The miniature painting revealed a long banquet table piled high with bones and skulls and body parts. In elaborate high-backed chairs sat a trio of skeletons clutching goblets of blood.
"The Feast of Fear," the Mouser said, dropping the card with a grunt. He went cold inside as a sudden black irony hit him. "I was bringing them a bag of food."
Nuulpha seized a torch from a sconce behind the table and lit it with his candle. "I'll go to Demptha's shop in the morning. Perhaps he'll turn up there."
The Mouser held out no such hope.
They returned with torch and lantern through the tunnels. Neither spoke. The Mouser's thoughts churned. He felt Fafhrd's absence acutely. With the Northerner beside him, he would have known his next move—or they would have figured it out together.
Instead, he felt defeated, stripped of important allies, and no closer to Malygris.
They came to the bag of food where Nuulpha had dropped it. Scowling, the Mouser gave it a savage kick and stormed on. Nuulpha quietly collected it and swung it over his shoulder. Food, after all, was food even in Lankhmar.
At last, they climbed the narrow wooden steps and went through the trap door into the warehouse on Hardstone Street. "Back where we began," the Mouser grumbled while Nuulpha closed the hidden entrance.
"What now, my gray friend?" Nuulpha asked.
The Mouser shrugged in frustration. "Go home to your wife, Nuulpha," he said. "I need time to think. Look for me tomorrow at the Silver Eel."
They left the warehouse together and strode up the alley to Hardstone Street. There, they paused once more, gazing up and down the empty avenue. A thick white fog had descended upon the city while they were underground. "More of this damnable stuff," Nuulpha said with an irritated frown. He poked his torch at the mist. "At least I've a light to find my way home."
The Mouser watched Nuulpha walk northward, his light growing fuzzier and fainter, finally vanishing. Sheathing his sword, he started southward toward the Festival District, lantern swinging at his side.
The fog swirled about him, feather-soft, cool on his face. Its damp touch seemed to dampen his mood as well. Morose, suddenly lonely, he drew up his hood. Nuulpha had a home, a wife and a warm bed waiting. What had the Gray Mouser?
Once in this very city such good fortune had been his. Ivrian, his one true love, had waited for him each evening in the small apartment they had shared above Bones Alley. Laughter and joy had been theirs and love such as he had never known before or since. How delicate and beautiful had been his Ivrian, child-like in her innocence and easy delight. She had showered him with her affection, and he missed her with a pain that threatened to break his heart.
How lucky Nuulpha was and how seemingly oblivious to the blessings that were his.
A sound disturbed his glum meditations. Curiously, he shone his light upon a hay wagon parked in the shadows near an old smithy shop. A handful of hay flew into the air, and a small cascade fell off the end. The wagon's boards commenced a merry creaking.
Extinguishing his light, creeping closer, the Mouser listened to the soft gasping and sharp breaths that rose from the unseen couple in the wagon. With darkness and fog concealing his actions, he approached them. He thought of peering over the side, but instead, he crouched down by a wheel, listened for a moment to their lovemaking, and then quietly slunk away, feeling lonelier than ever.
He thought of Ivrian, his one true love, and remembered her warmth, her sweet beauty. How he missed her! But when his lips formed her name, the sound that came out said, "Liara."
He stopped in the middle of the street, shocked at his mistake, feeling that he had just betrayed Ivrian's memory. But not far behind him, he could still hear the sounds of the couple in the hay wagon. And from that alley just ahead—did he hear another couple?
The fog swirled through the lane like a white river, sweeping him into the Festival District. He walked in a dream-like state, senses alternately muffled and sharp. A woman danced out of the fog, turning elaborate pirouettes, laughing hysterically. Spying the Mouser, she flung herself at him and tried to press her lips against his face. He tolerated her touch briefly, then pushed her away.
"You're not Liara," he said, his voice sounding distant in his own ears.
Torches and lanterns began to glimmer weakly through the fog. In that crippled light he spied couples rutting on the doorsteps of shops, in the alleyways. Through the open doors of a tavern he paused to witness the orgy underway on its tables and floor.
He moved inside. Unnoticed, he collected coin purses and necklaces, rings and bracelets, cash from the till, a fine crimson cloak with large pockets to carry it all. At the next tavern, he did the same, robbing the place and its customers of every last copper and earring.
In the street, he found many of the kiosks and vending booths untended. If he found a cash box he emptied it into the cloak's pockets. Finding a particularly large and handsome leather purse, he traded the cloak for it and transferred his booty. With the weighty purse over one shoulder, he continued on.
On a stage, an athletic couple wrestled with impressive enthusiasm. From the edge of the proscenium, the Mouser paused to offer appropriate and well-deserved accolades while he rifled the clothes they had cast aside. He also claimed the jeweled necklace with the broken catch that had slipped from the woman's throat during their exercise.
At last, he found himself on the district's southern edge, having pilfered his way from one end of it to the other. No street lamps lit this part of town, and he regretted leaving his lantern somewhere. Adjusting his bag of loot on his shoulder, he walked on.
Liara occupied all his thoughts. The memory of her brief kiss burned in his mind. Her voice whispered musically in his ears, and the soft night wind hinted at her perfume as it stirred the fog. His heart cried out for her, and nothing and no one but Liara could ease its aching.
Abruptly he stopped. With sudden clarity, he found himself on Face-of-the-Moon Street. Appalled, he touched the bag, pushed his hand inside, and lifted out a handful of the treasure within. Coins and jewelry sifted through his fingers, and he burned with shame.
Then the fog eddied around him again. On the verge of retreating, filled with trepidation, he nevertheless continued down the dark lane until he stood before the House of Night Cries.
White gravel crunched under his footsteps. The sculptures on the lawn seemed to turn menacingly as he passed, barring escape—a fancy of his mind, he knew. Strange dread filled him, and stranger anticipation. An unexplainable fever heated his blood, wrung sweat from his brow. One by one he climbed the marble steps to the door. Trembling, nervous fingers seized the brass knocker.
The flat sound of the ring striking the plate reminded him of bones snapping.
For long minutes he waited, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Just as he reached for the knocker again, the door slowly opened. A heavy-set bald man with eyes like cold gray stones and a boulder for a face glared down. Bare arms and chest bulged with impressive muscle; a huge leather belt constrained an immense belly.
The Mouser stared at the unlikely doorman. "The Dark Butterfly," he muttered, hugging his bag of booty beneath his gray cloak. "Tell her—" he hesitated. Licking his lips uncertainly, he exposed the bag. "Say that her defender has brought a gift."
The doorman betrayed no emotion. "Wait here," he said, closing the door firmly in the Mouser's face.
Turning, the Mouser stared across the fog-enwrapped lawn toward the street and the park barely visible beyond. He warred with himself, wishing to run, not daring to depart. Liara's promise held him like a chain. The finer perfections of love— she said she would show him.
> The door opened again, and the doorman beckoned.
Soft lanterns, their wicks turned very low, lit an opulently furnished hallway. The Mouser paid little attention. The fever gripped him completely now. His guide paused and rapped gently on a door, then opened it. He closed it again as the Mouser stepped across the threshold.
She stood in the center of the room, elegantly posed, legs slightly apart, back arched, her head at a haughty, mocking angle. A thin robe of black silk, barely covering her shoulders and the fine curves of her breasts, gaped open. Blond hair spilled loosely down her spine.
Her eyes laughed at him.
The Mouser pushed back his hood. His gaze flickered away from Liara to the veiled bed. Without speaking, he turned the bag upside down and emptied the contents—enough wealth to keep a noble household in style for a year—on the plush carpet.
"Is it enough?" he asked. His voice revealed both a desperation and a bitter edge that reflected the war still raging in his mind.
She sneered, yet her voice was a cat's purr. "For the finer perfections of love?" Coming closer, she stirred the glittering pile with one painted big toe. Her eyes fastened on her guest. "Barely." She turned toward the bed. "Undress."
Swiftly, the Mouser stripped off his garments. Standing at the foot of the bed, Liara watched him, a look of seeming impatience on her face. Her robe gaped open wider as she planted one hand on her hip. In the dim light, her eyes flashed.
The Mouser moved to her side. He drew his fingertips down the ivory flesh of her arms, eliciting no reaction until he tried to embrace her. She put a hand on his chest. "You are not on the Street of Red Lanterns," she said harshly.
A chill passed through him, then a wave of heat as she held back the veils that surrounded the bed. The Mouser gazed up at the tall framework over the bed, eyeing the manacles suspended from above.
Her calculating look dared him. He stared back at her. In that icily beautiful face he saw his one true love, sweet Ivrian, and this other woman, Liara the whore. In his mind, their identities merged and blurred.
His senses reeled. Like a drunken man, he climbed up onto the bed. Struggling to keep his balance on the pile of expensive down mattresses and slick silken sheets, he placed his own wrists in the manacles and waited, his mind awhirl with confusing memories and thoughts, his body on fire with unfettered dark lusts.
Ivrian or Liara climbed up on the bed behind him. He could feel the cool fabric of her robe on his buttocks and calves, but he felt the stab of her bare nipples against his back as she reached up and snapped the manacles' locks.
"Welcome to the House of Night Cries," she breathed into his ear.
She laughed a cruel, taunting laugh as she backed away from him.
"Ivrian," the Mouser whispered. The sound he heard was not laughter, but the voice of the woman he had failed to protect. It came to him like a condemning wind across the years. His knuckles cracked as he gripped his chains. "Forgive me, Ivrian."
He cast a glance back over his shoulder. And he knew with a drunken man's clarity that the woman behind him was Ivrian, or some part of her.
Closing his eyes, he arched his back and prepared himself.
Liara laughed again, then hissed like a cat.
A velvet whip lashed across the Mouser's flesh. For nine strokes, he bore it silently. Still her arm rose and fell with amazing strength. Five more strokes. In his mind, he tried to hold an image of Ivrian, but it kept changing into Liara, and with every stroke it mocked him. He bit his lip. A thin string of drool oozed from the corner of his mouth and over his chin.
The whip came down again, shattering the image and his silence. At last, he knew why they called it the House of Night Cries.
SIXTEEN
CITY OF THE DAMNED
As dawn broke over Lankhmar, a dispirited Gray Mouser pushed open the door to the Silver Eel. Pausing on the threshold, he stared at the overturned tables and broken stools, the spilled mugs and empty bottles that littered the place. A couple of drunks, slumped shoulder to shoulder on the floor, snored noisily in one corner.
A shirtless Cherig One-hand lay sprawled upon the bar, snoring as loudly as his two unconscious patrons. Someone had folded the tavern-owners arms upon his chest in funereal manner and stuck a wilted flower between his fingers. A copper tik-coin rested upon each of his closed eyes. His boots had been removed, and his toenails as well as his fingernails had been painted bright scarlet as a woman would do. Likewise, his cheeks had been rouged and his lips berry-brightened.
The Mouser's mood lightened immediately, and he felt a little less the fool than when he entered. Thus decorated, Cherig made quite the comical sight. Obviously, the madness that had passed through the Festival District had come this way, too.
The Mouser tiptoed past the sleeping tavern owner, careful not to wake him, and climbed the stairs to the sleeping rooms above. Reaching the door to his own room, he put a hand to the knob, then paused.
A cough sounded from within.
The Mouser pushed the door inward. "Fafhrd?" he called, glancing eagerly toward the bed.
The Northerner sat upon the mattresses with his back against the wall. He looked thoroughly miserable, not to mention drunk. His clothes were rumpled, and his face wore a long expression. Between his knees, he held a half-empty bottle of wine. Another empty bottle rested on the table nearby.
Sitting forward, Fafhrd pushed at the sheets with his bootheels, grinning stupidly as he waved the bottle at the Mouser. "Hey, welcome home!" he cried with feigned excitement. Then his face turned grave. "Guess what? Vlana's haunting me, did you know that?" He waved the bottle in the air again, then took a deep swig. "Chased her half the night, I did, through every damned street and alley in the district."
The Mouser froze. Then softly he closed the door and turned away so Fafhrd couldn't see his face. Vlana's name reminded him of Ivrian and of what he'd surrendered himself to at the House of Night Cries. He felt the lashes and welts underneath his soft silk shirt, and his face burned with shame. Had Liara wielded a leather whip instead of a velvet one, his back would be a bloody mess.
But worse than the shame, he felt again a powerful confusion. Liara and Ivrian—somehow, in some impossible manner, he felt sure they were one and the same. Yet, in personality they were utterly different.
Now Fafhrd spoke of ghosts.
"Vlana?" the Mouser said without looking at his friend. He unfastened his weapons belt and hung it over the back of the only chair.
The bed creaked as Fafhrd shifted his weight and leaned back against the wall again. "She was waiting for me in an alley when I left Laurian."
The Mouser whirled. "Sadasters wife? Is that where you've been these past two days?"
Fafhrd snapped his fingers, or rather tried to snap them. For a moment, he stared at his thumb. A second time he tried and achieved a faint pop. "Snatched me right out of the air, she did. She's got Sadaster’s power, you know. At least she did." Fafhrd took another drink before adding morosely, "She's dead."
Abruptly, Fafhrd lurched off the bed and across the room to the table. Knocking the empty wine bottle aside, he poured water from a pitcher into a basin and splashed his face. "Malygris killed her," he said bitterly, "and I couldn't stop him." Gritting his teeth, he pounded one fist on the table. The basin jumped, spilling water over its side, and the pitcher teetered dangerously before righting itself.
The Mouser moved softly away from the table and into a corner near the bed, giving his friend a respectful space. A wise man didn't crowd Fafhrd when such dark moods were upon him. Without comment, he noted the huge new sword sheathed and leaning nearby. No doubt that, too, had a part in Fafhrd's story, and he would unfold the tale in time.
Then he would tell all he knew and suspected of the Dark Butterfly and the House of Night Cries, yes, even of how her doorman had pitched him insensate into the street when Liara had finished her vile humiliations and subtle tortures. He would tell even that and risk Fafhrd's scorn or laughter.
Rubbing his stubbled chin, he eyed Fafhrd warily and watched him tremble with silent, barely controlled anger. While he waited for Fafhrd to resume the story, his mind worked. Vlana's ghost. Ivrian and Liara. More mysteries to trouble him. Mysteries upon mysteries.
All Sheelba had sent them to do was find one wizard.
The Mouser's mouth slowly gaped. "Oh, gods," he murmured, suddenly filled with a dreadful realization. He uttered another low, horror-filled curse. "Mog's black soul! Fafhrd, look at me!" He waited until the Northerner turned. "Did Malygris cast some great magic last night? Something to affect the entire city?"
Fafhrd frowned in puzzlement.
The Mouser smashed one fist against a palm, ignoring Fafhrd now. "It had to be magic! Nothing else could explain the madness! And everyone touched by it. . . !" He stared wide-eyed at Fafhrd again as he thought of Malygris's wasting spell flashing like some invisible lightning bolt among last night's unsuspecting celebrants.
"The fog!" he whispered, thinking hard, remembering how it rolled so unnaturally through the streets.
"Laurian controlled the fog," Fafhrd offered, seeming to shake off his drunken state. "She used it somehow to find Malygris."
"Laurian?" the Mouser questioned. That didn't make sense. "Why would Laurian ..."
He didn't get a chance to finish.
The door smashed open. Corporal Scarface leaped into the room, sword drawn. More soldiers filled the corridor beyond the threshold. "Now you little runt, I've trapped you!" Scarface froze in mid-threat and stared up at Fafhrd's seven-foot height and at the pitcher hurtling down toward his head.
"I don't think you've met my partner," the Mouser said as the pitcher shattered on Scarface's helmet, showering him with water and ceramic fragments. With a loud groan, the corporal sank to his knees.
"Next!" Fafhrd cried, seizing the basin and flinging its contents at the soldiers who pushed through the door. Next, he flung the basin, itself.
Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) Page 22