Swords and Deviltry fagm-1

by Fritz Leiber

  “I will not answer that,” she replied, eyeing him as coolly and confidently.

  “Is he—?” he began and then pressed his lips together, catching the name “Vellix” before it was uttered.

  She looked at him with undisguised curiosity as to what his next move would be. “Very well,” he said at last, dropping his hands from her shoulders and propping himself with them. “You have tried, I think, to act in what you believe to be my best interests, so I will return like with like. What I have to reveal indicts barbarism and civilization equally.” And he told her of Essedinex’ and Hringorl's plan for her.

  She laughed heartily when he was done, though he fancied she had turned a shade pale.

  “I must be slipping,” she commented. “So that was why my somewhat subtle mimings so easily pleased Seddy's rough and ready tastes, and why there was a place open for me in the troupe, and why he did not insist I whore for him after the Show, as the other girls must.” She looked at Fafhrd sharply. “Some pranksters overset Seddy's tent this midnight. Was it—?”

  He nodded. “I was in a strange humor, last night, merry yet furious.”

  Honest, delighted laughter from her then, followed by another of the sharp looks. “So you did not go home when I sent you away after the Show?”

  “Not until afterward,” he said. “No, I stayed and watched.”

  She looked at him in a tender, mocking, wondering way which asked quite plainly, “And what did you see?” But this time he found it very easy not to name Vellix.

  “So you're a gentleman, too,” she joked. “But why didn't you tell me about Hringorl's base scheme earlier? Did you think I'd become too frightened to be amorous?”

  “A little of that,” he admitted, “but it was chiefly that I did not decide until this moment to warn you. Truth to tell, I only came back to you tonight because I was frightened by ghosts, though later I found other good reasons. Indeed, just before I came to your tent, fear and loneliness — yes, and a certain jealousy too — had me minded to hurl myself into Trollstep Canyon, or else don skis and attempt the next-to-impossible leap which has teased my courage for years….”

  She clutched his upper arm, digging in fingers. “Never do that,” she said very seriously. “Hold onto life. Think only of yourself. The worst always changes for the better — or oblivion.”

  “Yes, so I was thinking when I would have let the air over the canyon decide my destiny. Would it cradle me or dash me down? But selfishness, of which I've a plenty whatever you think — that and a certain leeriness of all miracles — quashed that whim. Also, I was earlier half minded to trample your tent before pulling down the Show Master's. So there is some evil in me, you see. Aye, and a shut-mouthed deceitfulness.”

  She did not laugh, but studied his face most thoughtfully. Then for a time the enigma-look came back into her eyes. For a moment Fafhrd thought he could peer past it, and he was troubled, for what he thought he glimpsed behind those large, brown-irised pupils was not a sibyl surveying the universe from a mountaintop, but a merchant with scales in which he weighed objects most carefully, at whiles noting down in a little book old debts and new bribes and alternate plans for gain.

  But it was only one troubling glimpse, so his heart joyed when Vlana, whom his big hands still held tilted above him, smiled down into his eyes and said, “I will now answer your question, which I would and could not earlier. For I have only this instant decided that my lieutenant will be… you. Hug me on it!”

  Fafhrd grappled her with eager warmth and a strength that made her squeal, but then just before his body had fired unendurably, she pushed up from him, saying breathlessly, “Wait, wait! We must first lay our plans.”

  “Afterward, my love. Afterward,” he pleaded, straining her down.

  “No!” she protested sharply. “Afterward loses too many battles to Too Late. If you are lieutenant, I am captain and give directions.”

  “Harkening in obedience,” he said, giving way. “Only be swift.”

  “We must be well away from Cold Corner before kidnap time,” she said. “Today I must gather my things together and provide us with sleigh, swift horses, and a store of food. Leave all that to me. You behave today exactly as is your wont, keeping well away from me, in case our enemies set spies on you, as both Seddy and Hringorl are most like to do—”

  “Very well, very well,” Fafhrd agreed hurriedly. “And now, my sweetest—”

  “Hush and have patience! To cap your deception, climb into the roof of Godshall well before the Show, just as you did last night. There just might be an attempt to kidnap me during the Show — Hringorl or his men becoming overeager, or Hringorl seeking to cheat Seddy of his gold — and I'll feel safest with you on watch. Then when I exit after wearing the toga and the silver bells, come you down swiftly and meet me at the stable. We'll escape during the break between the first and second halves of the Show, when one way or another all are too intent on what more's coming, to take note of us. You've got that? Stay far away today? Hide in the roof? Join me at the halves break? Very well! And now, darlingest lieutenant, banish all discipline. Forget every atom of respect you owe your captain and—”

  But now it was Fafhrd's turn to delay. Vlana's talk had allowed time for his own worries to rouse and he held her away from him although she had knit her hands behind his neck and was straining to draw their two bodies together.

  He said, “I will obey you in every particular. Only one warning more, which it's vital you heed. Think as little as you can today about our plans, even while performing actions vital to them. Keep them hid behind the scenery of your other thoughts. As I shall mine, you may be sure. For Mor my mother is a great reader of minds.”

  “Your mother! Truly she has overawed you inordinately, darling, in a fashion which makes me itch to set you wholly free — oh, do not hold me off! Why, you speak of her as if she were the Queen of Witches.”

  “And so she is, make no mistake,” Fafhrd assured her dourly. “She is the great white spider, while the whole Cold Waste, both above and below, is her web, on which we flies must go tippy-toe, o'erstepping sticky stretches. You will heed me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! And now—”

  He brought her slowly down toward him, as a man might put a wineskin to his mouth, tantalizing himself. Their skins met. Their lips poised.

  Fafhrd became aware of a profound silence above, around, below, as if the very earth were holding her breath. It frightened him.

  They kissed, drinking deeply of each other, and his fear was drowned.

  They parted for breath. Fafhrd reached out and pinched the lamp's wick so that the flame fled and the tent was dark except for the cold silver of dawn seeping in by cranny and crack. His fingers stung. He wondered why he'd done it — they'd loved by lamplight before. Again fear came.

  He clasped Vlana tightly in the hug that banishes all fears.

  And then of a sudden — he could not possibly have told why — he was rolling over and over with her toward the back of the tent. His hands gripping her shoulders, his legs clamping hers together, he was hurling her sideways over him and then himself over her in swiftest alteration.

  There was a crack like thunder and the jolt of a giant's fist hammered against the granite-frozen ground behind them, where the middle of the tent became nothing high, while the hoops above them leaned sharply that way, drawing the tent's leather skin after.

  They rolled into the racked garments spilling down. There was a second monster crack followed by a crashing and a crunching like some super-giant beast snapping up a behemoth and crunching it between its jaws. Earth quivered for a space.

  Then all was silent after that great noise and ground-shaking, except for the astonishment and fear buzzing in their ears. They clutched each other like terrified children.

  Fafhrd recovered himself first. “Dress!” he told Vlana and squirmed under the back of the tent and stood up naked in the biting cold under the pinkening sky.

  The great bough of the snow
sycamore, its crystals dashed off in a vast heap, lay athwart the middle of the tent, pressing it and the pallet beneath into the frozen earth.

  The rest of the sycamore, robbed of its great balancing bough, had fallen entire in the opposite direction and lay mounded around with shaken-off crystals. Its black, hairy, broken-off roots were nakedly exposed.

  All the crystals shone with a pale flesh-pink from the sun.

  Nothing moved anywhere, not even a wisp of breakfast smoke. Sorcery had struck a great hammerstroke and none had noted it except the intended victims.

  Fafhrd, beginning to shake, slithered under again. Vlana had obeyed his word and was dressing with an actress's swiftness. Fafhrd hurried into his own garments, piled so providentially at this end of the tent. He wondered if he had been under a god's directions in doing that and in snuffing out the lamp, which else by now would have had the crushed tent flaming.

  His clothes felt colder than the icy air, but he knew that would change.

  He crawled with Vlana outside once more. As they stood up, he faced her toward the fallen bough with the great crystal heap around it and said, “Now laugh at the witchy powers of my mother and her coven and all the Snow Women.”

  Vlana said doubtfully, “I see only a bough that was overweighted with ice.”

  Fafhrd said, “Compare the mass of crystals and snow that was shaken off that bough with those elsewhere. Remember: hide your thoughts!”

  Vlana was silent.

  A black figure was racing toward them from the traders’ tents. It grew in size as it grotesquely bounded.

  Vellix the Venturer was gasping as he stamped to a stop and seized Vlana's arms. Controlling his breathing, he said, “I dreamed a dream of you struck down and pashed. Then a thunderclap waked me.”

  Vlana answered, “You dreamed the beginning of the truth, but in a matter like this, almost is as good as not at all.”

  Vellix at last saw Fafhrd. Lines of jealous anger engraved his face and his hand went to the dagger at his belt.

  “Hold!” Vlana commanded sharply. “I had indeed been mashed to a mummy, except that this youth's senses, which ought to have been utterly engrossed in something else, caught the first cues of the bough's fall, and he whipped me out of death's way in the very nick. Fafhrd's his name.”

  Vellix changed his hand's movement into part of a low bow, sweeping his other arm out wide.

  “I am much indebted to you, young man,” he said warmly, and then after a pause, “for saving the life of a notable artiste.”

  By now other figures were in view, some hurrying toward them from the nearby actors’ tents, others at the doors of the far-off Snow Tribe's tents and not moving at all.

  Pressing her cheek to Fafhrd's, as if in formal gratitude, Vlana whispered rapidly, “Remember my plan for tonight and for all our future rapture. Do not depart a jot from it. Efface yourself.”

  Fafhrd managed, “Beware ice and snow. Act without thought.”

  To Vellix, Vlana said more distantly, though with courtesy and kindness, “Thank you, sir, for your concern for me, both in your dreams and your wakings.”

  From out a fur robe, whose collar topped his ears, Essedinex greeted with gruff humor, “It's been a hard night on tents.” Vlana shrugged.

  The women of the troupe gathered around her with anxious questions and she talked with them privately as they walked to the actors’ tent and went in through the girls’ door-flap.

  Vellix frowned after her and pulled at his black moustache.

  The male actors stared and shook their heads at the beating the hemicylindrical tent had taken.

  Vellix said to Fafhrd with warm friendliness, “I offered you brandy before and now I'd guess you need it. Also, since yestermorning I've had a great desire to talk with you.”

  “Your pardon, but once I sit I will not be able to stay awake for a word, were they wise as owls', nor for even a brandy swig,” Fafhrd answered politely, hiding a great yawn, which was only half feigned. “But I thank you.”

  “It appears I am fated always to ask at the wrong time,” Vellix commented with a shrug. “Perhaps at noon? Or midafternoon?” he added swiftly.

  “The latter, if it please you,” Fafhrd replied and rapidly walked off, taking great strides toward the trading tents. Vellix did not seek to keep up with him.

  Fafhrd felt more satisfied than he ever had in his life. The thought that tonight he would forever escape this stupid snow world and its man-chaining women almost made him nostalgic about Cold Corner. Thought-guard! he told himself. Feelings of eerie menace or else his hunger for sleep turned his surroundings spectral, like a childhood scene revisited.

  He drained a white porcelain tankard of wine given him by his Mingol friends Zax and Effendrit, let them conduct him to a glossy pallet hidden by piles of other furs, and fell at once into a deep sleep.

  After eons of absolute, pillowy darkness, lights came softly on. Fafhrd sat beside Nalgron his father at a stout banquet table crowded with all savory foods smoking hot and all fortified wines in jugs of earthenware, stone, silver, crystal and gold. There were other feasters lining the table, but Fafhrd could make nothing of them except their dark silhouettes and the sleepy sound of their unceasing talk too soft to be understood, like many streams of murmuring water, though with occasional bursts of low laughter, like small waves running up and returning down a gravelly beach. While the dull clash of knife and spoon against plate and each other was like the clank of the pebbles in that surf.

  Nalgron was clad and cloaked in ice-bear furs of the whitest with pins and chains and wristlets and rings of purest silver, and there was silver also in his hair, which troubled Fafhrd. In his left hand he held a silver goblet, which at intervals he touched to his lips, but he kept his eating hand under his cloak.

  Nalgron was discoursing wisely, tolerantly, almost tenderly of many matters. He directed his gaze here and there around the table, yet spoke so quietly that Fafhrd knew his conversation was directed at his son alone.

  Fafhrd also knew he should be listening intently to every word and carefully stowing away each aphorism, for Nalgron was speaking of courage, of honor, of prudence, of thoughtfulness in giving and punctilio in keeping your word, of following your heart, of setting and unswervingly striving toward a high, romantic goal, of self-honesty in all these things but especially in recognizing your aversions and desires, of the need to close your ears to the fears and naggings of women, yet freely forgive them all their jealousies, attempted trammelings, and even extremest wickednesses, since those all sprang from their ungovernable love, for you or another, and of many a different matter most useful to know for a youth on manhood's verge.

  But although he knew this much, Fafhrd heard his father only in snatches, for he was so troubled by the gauntness of Nalgron's cheek and by the leanness of the strong fingers lightly holding the silver goblet and by the silver in his hair, and a faint overlay of blue on his ruddy lips, although Nalgron was most sure and even sprightly in every movement, gesture, and word, that he was compelled to be forever searching the steaming platters and bowls around him for especially succulent portions to spoon or fork onto Nalgron's wide, silver plate to tempt his appetite.

  Whenever he did this, Nalgron would look toward him with a smile and a courteous nod, and with love in his eyes, and then touch his goblet to his lips and return to his discoursings, but never would he uncover his eating hand.

  As the banquet progressed, Nalgron began to speak of matters yet more important, but now Fafhrd heard hardly one of the precious words, so greatly agitated was he by his concern for his father's health. Now the thin skin seemed stretched to bursting on the jutting cheekbone, the bright eyes ever more sunken and dark-ringed, the blue veins more bulgingly a-crawl across the stout tendons of the hand lightly holding the silver goblet — and Fafhrd had begun to suspect that although Nalgron often let the wine touch his lips he drank never a drop.

  “Eat, father,” Fafhrd pleaded in a low voice taut with concern
. “At least drink."

  Again the look, the smile, the agreeable nod, the bright eyes warmer still with love, the brief tipping of goblet against unparted lips, the looking away, the tranquil, unattendable discourse resumed.

  And now Fafhrd knew fear, for the lights were growing blue and he realized that none of the black, unfeatured fellow-feasters were or had all the while been lifting so much as hand, let alone cup-rim, to mouth, though making an unceasing dull clatter with their cutlery. His concern for his father became an agony and before he rightly knew what he was doing, he had brushed back his father's cloak and gripped his father's right arm at forearm and wrist and so shoved his eating hand toward his high-piled plate.

  Then Nalgron was not nodding, but thrusting his head at Fafhrd, and not smiling, but grinning in such fashion as to show all his teeth of old ivory hue, whilst his eyes were cold, cold, cold.

  The hand and arm that Fafhrd gripped felt like, looked like, were bare brown bone.

  Of a sudden shaking violently in all his parts, but chiefly in his arms, Fafhrd recoiled swift as a serpent down the bench.

  Then Fafhrd was not shaking, but being shaken by strong hands of flesh on his shoulders, and instead of the dark there was the faintly translucent hide of the Mingols’ tent-roof, and in place of his father's face the sallow-cheeked, black-moustached one, somber yet concerned, of Vellix the Venturer.

  Fafhrd stared dazedly, then shook his shoulders and head to bring a quicker-tempoed life back into his body and throw off the gripping hands.

  But Vellix had already let go and seated himself on the next pile of furs.

  “Your pardon, young warrior,” he said gravely. “You appeared to be having a dream no man would care to continue.”

  His manner and the tone of his voice were like the nightmare-Nalgron's. Fafhrd pushed up on an elbow, yawned, and with a shuddery grimace shook himself again.

  “You're chilled in body, mind, or both,” Vellix said. “So we've good excuse for the brandy I promised.”

  He brought up from beside him two small silver mugs in one hand and in the other a brown jug of brandy which he now uncorked with that forefinger and thumb.