Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) by Robin Wayne Bailey Read Free Book Online Page A

make this last, fashion no more poppets”.
    The child nodded. Slowly, she set her basket on the edge of the table. With surprising speed, she shot out one hand and snatched the gleaming bit of gold, lest it should disappear again. "Now, master," she said, breathless with excitement, "you have the market to yourself, for I'm out of the business for a month or so at least—a lady of leisure!"
    With that, she spun about and ran for the door, flung it open, and vanished into the foggy night of Lankhmar.
    Cherig stomped across the tavern, scowling and waving his hand to disperse the fog that poured through the door the child had neglected to close. A kick from his booted foot sent it slamming shut.
    When the Silver Eel's owner turned, the Mouser beckoned him over.
    "Do you have a stove or hearthfire in your kitchen?" he asked, waiting for Cherig to nod before he put the basket of dolls into that one hand. "Burn these," he instructed. "They're probably harmless, but burn them, anyway. Every one of them." He tapped the rim of his mug with a fingertip. "Then we'll have another cup of your fine, delicious piss."
    "At the rate you're consuming it," Cherig answered as he walked away, "I'll just bring the chamber pot, and you can serve yourselves."
    When they were alone again, Nuulpha leaned once more across the table and whispered, "I'm impressed, not just with the generosity of my host, but with his wizardry. Why buy the dolls if you meant to destroy them?"
    The Mouser looked askance, once more taking note of the Silver Eel's clientele. The volume of the conversations had risen to match the intake of liquor, and the clatter of dice elicited curses and growls with increasing frequency. In the too-easy laughter that issued from several knots of customers, there was a strained quality. The Mouser, a cautious man, observed it all and turned back to his guest.
    "No wizardry," he answered quietly. "Just some simple sleight-of-hand." He raised his mug, adding with a brief smile before he drank, "it's a useful skill for impressing children and officers of the Overlord's Guard." Lowering his nearly empty mug again, he continued. "Your question brings our conversation back to the person whose name we shall not mention for fear of once again engaging your gag reflex."
    Cherig reappeared long enough to place a full pitcher of beer between them.
    "I can tell you only this," Nuulpha said in a voice turned serious. "Few men have ever seen Malygris, but his name is considered a curse in some quarters of the city. In the darkest dives and gutters, grown men shiver and turn away at mention of it."
    "He could be Death's personal valet," the Mouser said, un-fazed, as he refilled his guest's mug, then his own, from the pitcher. "I still must find him."
    "God's balls, man!" Nuulpha hesitated, then gulped from his beer. A quite audible thump sounded when he set it down again, and his gaze locked with his host's for a long moment, as if he were trying to probe the workings of the Mouser's mind.
    The volume of the crowd seemed to rise around them, and yet, huddled over their table, isolated in the farthest shadow-filled corner, they might have been an island in a sea of noise.
    With scant subtlety, wrapping his hands nervously around his mug, Nuulpha glanced over both his shoulders. "Most of the populace is too stupid or too complacent to notice the things that happen in this town,” he said, his voice a mixture of fear and bitterness, "but the common, lowly guards who work the streets have eyes and ears, nor are we fools." He took a short drink. "Three of Lankhmar's most powerful wizards have died of sickness this past year, and this even our great bloat of an Overlord knows. Yet, along with the rest of this city's pampered nobility, he disdains to observe that others have died—fortunetellers, charm peddlers, priests. Also common merchants, shopkeepers, housewives and whores ..."
    He paused and looked sharply around again before continuing. "In the