“Ho, Gwaay, that was easily won!” the Mouser called out cockily. “Why not take on two of them together? The oldster must be a sorcerer of the Second Rank to play so weakly—or even a doddering apprentice of the Third.”
The ancient shot the Mouser a venomous gaze. “We are, all twelve of us, sorcerers of the First Rank and have been from our youth,” he proclaimed portentously. “As you should swiftly learn were one of us to point but a little finger against you.”
“You have heard what he says,” Gwaay called softly to the Mouser without looking at him.
The Mouser, daunted no whit, at least outwardly, called back, “I still think you could beat two of them together, or seven—or the whole decrepit dozen! If they are of First Rank, you must be of Zero or Negative Magnitude.”
The ancient’s lips worked speechlessly and bubbled with froth at that affront, but Gwaay only called pleasantly, “Were but three of my faithful magi to cease their sorcerous concentrations, my brother Hasjarl’s sendings would burst through from the Upper Levels and I would be stricken with all the diseases in the evil compendium, and a few others that exist in Hasjarl’s putrescent imagination alone—or perchance I should be erased entirely from this life.”
“If nine out of twelve must be forever a-guarding you, they can’t get much sleep,” the Mouser observed, calling back.
“Times are not always so troublous,” Gwaay replied tranquilly. “Sometimes custom or my father enjoins a truce. Sometimes the dark inward sea quiets. But today I know by certain signs that a major assault is being made on the liver and lights and blood and bones and rest of me. Dear Hasjarl has a double coven of sorcerers hardly inferior to my own—Second Rank, but High Second—and he whips them on. And I am as distasteful to Hasjarl, oh Gray Mouser, as the simple fruits of our manure beds are to your lips. Tonight, furthermore, my father Quarmal casts his horoscope in the tower of the Keep, high above Hasjarl’s Upper Levels, so it befits I keep all rat-holes closely watched.”
“If it’s magical helpings you lack,” the Mouser retorted boldly, “I have a spell or two that would frizzle your elder brother’s witches and warlocks!” And truth to tell the Mouser had parchment-crackling in his pouch one spell—though one spell only—which he dearly wanted to test. It had been given him by his own wizardly mentor and master Sheelba of the Eyeless Face.
Gwaay replied, more softly than ever, so that the Mouser felt that if there had been a yard more between them he would not have heard, “It is your work to ward from my physical body Hasjarl’s sword-sendings, in particular those of this great champion he is reputed to have hired. My sorcerers of the First Rank will shield off Hasjarl’s sorcerous billets-doux. Each to his proper occupation.” He lightly clapped his hands together. A slim slavegirl appeared noiselessly in the dark archway beyond him. Without looking once at her, Gwaay softly commanded, “Strong wine for our warrior.” She vanished.
The ancient had at last laboriously shuffled the black-and-white counters into their starting positions, and Gwaay regarded his thoughtfully. But before making a move, he called to the Mouser, “If time still hangs heavy on your hands, devote some of it to selecting the reward you will take when your work is done. And in your search overlook not the maiden who brings you the wine. Her name is Ivivis.”
At that the Mouser shut up. He had already chosen more than a dozen expensive be-charming objects from Gwaay’s drawers and niches and locked them in a disused closet he had discovered two levels down. If this should be discovered, he would explain that he was merely making an innocent preselection pending final choice, but Gwaay might not view it that way and Gwaay was sharp, judging from the way he’d noted the rejected mushroom and other things.
It had not occurred to the Mouser to preempt a girl or two by locking her in the closet also, though it was admittedly an attractive idea.
The ancient cleared his throat and said chucklingly across the board, “Lord Gwaay, let this ambitious sworder try his sorcerous tricks. Let him try them on me!”
The Mouser’s spirits rose, but Gwaay only raised palm and shook his head slightly and pointed a finger at the board; the ancient began obediently to think a piece forward.
The Mouser’s spirits fell. He was beginning to feel very much alone in this dim underworld where all spoke and moved in whispers. True, when Gwaay’s emissary had approached him in Lankhmar, the Mouser had been happy to take on this solo job. It would teach his loud-voiced sword-mate Fafhrd a lesson if his small gray comrade (and brain!) should disappear one night without a word … and then return perchance a year later with a brimful treasure chest and a mocking smile.
The Mouser had even been happy all the long caravan trip from Lankhmar south to Quarmall, along the Hlal River and past the Lakes of Pleea and through the Mountains of Hunger. It had been a positive pleasure to loll on a swaying camel beyond reach of Fafhrd’s hugeness and disputatious talk and boisterous ways, while the nights grew ever bluer and warmer and strange jewel-fiery stars came peering over the southern horizon.
But now he had been three nights in Quarmall since his secret coming to the Lower Levels—three nights and days, or rather one hundred and forty-four interminable demi-hours of buried twilight—and he was already beginning in his secretest mind to wish that Fafhrd were here, instead of half a continent away in Lankhmar—or even farther than that if he’d carried out his misty plans to revisit his northern homeland. Someone to drink with, at any rate—and even a roaring quarrel would be positively refreshing after seventy-two hours of nothing but silent servitors, tranced sorcerers, stewed mushrooms, and Gwaay’s unbreakable soft-tongued equanimity.
Besides, it appeared that all Gwaay wanted was a mighty sworder to nullify the threat of this champion Hasjarl was supposed to have hired as secretly as Gwaay had smuggled in the Mouser. If Fafhrd were here, he could be Gwaay’s sworder, while the Mouser would have better opportunity to peddle Gwaay his magical talents. The one spell he had in his pouch—he had got it from Sheelba in return for the tale of the Perversions of Clutho—would forever establish his reputation as an archimage of deadly might, he was sure.
The Mouser came out of his musings to realize that the slavegirl Ivivis was kneeling before him—for how long she had been there he could not say—and proffering an ebony tray on which stood a squat stone jug and a copper cup.
She knelt with one leg doubled, the other thrust behind her as in a fencing lunge, stretching the short skirt of her green tunic, while her arms reached the tray forward.
Her slim body was most supple—she held the difficult pose effortlessly. Her fine straight hair was pale as her skin—both a sort of ghost color. It occurred to the Mouser that she would look very well in his closet, perhaps cherishing against her bosom the necklace of large black pearls he had discovered piled behind a pewter statuette in one of Gwaay’s niches.
However, she was kneeling as far away from him as she could and still stretch him the tray, and her eyes were most modestly downcast, nor would she even flicker up their lids to his gracious murmurings—which were all the approach he thought suitable at this moment.
He seized the jug and cup. Ivivis drooped her head still lower in acknowledgment, then flirted silently away.
The Mouser poured a finger of blood-red, blood-thick wine and sipped. Its flavor was darkly sweet, but with a bitter undertaste. He wondered if it were fermented from scarlet toadstools.
The black-and-white counters skittered rutchingly in obedience to Gwaay’s and the ancient’s peerings. The pale torch flames bent to the unceasing cool breeze, while the fan-slaves and their splayed bare feet on the leather belts and the great unseen fans themselves on their ponderous axles muttered unendingly, “Quarmall … Quarmall is downward tall … Quarmall … Quarmall is all…”
In an equally vast room many levels higher yet still underground—a windowless room where torches flared redder and brighter, but their brightness nullified by an acrid haze of incense smoke, so that here too the final effect was exasperating dimness—Fafhrd sat at the table’s foot.
Fafhrd was ordinarily a monstrously calm man, but now he was restlessly drumming fist on thumb-root, on the verge of admitting to himself that he wished the Gray Mouser were here, instead of back in Lankhmar or perchance off on some ramble in the desert-patched Eastern Lands.
The Mouser, Fafhrd thought, might have more patience to unriddle the mystifications and crooked behavior-ways of these burrowing Quarmallians. The Mouser might find it easier to endure Hasjarl’s loathsome taste for torture, and at least the little gray fool would be someone human to drink with!