Gwaay laughed, a shade high-pitched, and cried lightly, “I must curb my excitement! I must! I must! Sudden recovery from two dozen deaths—or twenty-three and the Nose Drip—is no reason for a philosopher to lose control. Oh, I’m a giddy fellow!”
Ivivis cried suddenly, “The room swims! I see silver fish!”
The Mouser felt dizzy himself then and saw a phosphorescent green hand reach through the archway toward Gwaay—reach out on a thin arm that lengthened to yards. He blinked hard and the hand was gone—but now there were swimmings of purple vapor.
He looked at Gwaay and that one, frowny-eyed now, was sniffling hard and then sniffling again, though no new drop could be seen to have formed on his nose-end.
Fafhrd stood three paces behind Hasjarl, who looked in his bunched and high-collared robe of earth-brown toweling rather like an ape.
Beyond Hasjarl on the right there trotted on a thick wide roller-riding leather belt three slaves of monstrous aspect: great splayed feet, legs like an elephant’s, huge furnace-bellows chests, dwarfy arms, pinheads with wide toothy mouths and with nostrils bigger than their eyes or ears—creatures bred to run ponderously and nothing else. The moving belt disappeared with a half twist into a vertical cylinder of masonry five yards across and reemerged just below itself, but moving in the opposite direction, to pass under the rollers and complete its loop. From within the cylinder came the groaning of the great wooden fan which the belt whirled and which drove life-sustaining air downward to the Lower Levels.
Beyond Hasjarl on the left was a small door as high as Fafhrd’s head in the cylinder. To it there mounted one by one, up four narrow masonry steps, a line of dusky, great-headed dwarves. Each bore on his shoulder a dark bag which when he reached the window he untied and emptied into the clamorous shaft, shaking it out most thoroughly while he held it inside, then folding it and leaping down to give place to the next bag-bearer.
Hasjarl leered over his shoulder at Fafhrd. “A nosegay for Gwaay!” he cried. “’Tis a king’s ransom I strew on the downward gale: powder of poppy, dust of lotus and mandragora, crumble of hemp. A million lewdly pleasant dreams, and all for Gwaay! Three ways this conquers him: he’ll sleep a day and miss my father’s funeral, then Quarmall’s mine by right of sole appearance yet with no bloodshed, which would mar the rites; his sorcerers will sleep and my infectious spells burst through and strike him down in stinking jellied death; his realm will sleep, each slave and cursed page, so we conquer all merely by marching down after the business of the funeral. Ho, swifter there!” And seizing a long whip from an overseer, he began to crack it over the squat cones of the tread-slaves’ heads and sting their broad backs with it. Their trot changed to a ponderous gallop, the moan of the fan rose in pitch, and Fafhrd waited to hear it shatter crackingly, or see the belt snap, or the rollers break on their axles.
The dwarf at the shaft-window took advantage of Hasjarl’s attention being elsewhere to snatch a pinch of powder from his bag and bring it to his nostrils and sniff it down, leering ecstatically. But Hasjarl saw and whipped him about the legs most cruelly. The dwarf dutifully emptied his bag and shook it out while making little hops of agony. However he did not seem much chastened or troubled by his whipping, for as he left the chamber Fafhrd saw him pull his empty bag over his head and waddle off breathing deeply through it.
Hasjarl went on whip-cracking and calling, “Swifter, I say! For Gwaay a drugged hurricane!”
The officer Yissim raced into the room and darted to his master.
“The girl Friska’s escaped!” he cried. “Your torturers say your champion came with your seal, telling them you had ordered her release—and snatched her off! All this occurred a quarter day ago.”
“Guards!” Hasjarl squealed. “Seize the Northerner! Disarm and bind the traitor!”
But Fafhrd was gone.
The Mouser, in company with Ivivis, Gwaay and a colorful rabble of drug-induced hallucinations, reeled into a chamber similar to the one from which Fafhrd had just disappeared. Here the great cylindrical shaft ended in a half turn. The fan that sucked down the air and blew it out to refresh the Lower Levels was set vertically in the mouth of the shaft and was visible as it whirled.
By the shaft-mouth hung a large cage of white birds, all lying on its floor with their feet in the air. Besides these tell-tales, there was stretched on the floor of the chamber its overseer, also overcome by the drugs whirlwinding from Hasjarl.
By contrast, the three pillar-legged slaves ponderously trotting their belt seemed not affected at all. Presumably their tiny brains and monstrous bodies were beyond the reach of any drug, short of its lethal dose.
Gwaay staggered up to them, slapped each in turn, and commanded, “Stop!” Then he himself dropped to the floor.
The groaning of the fan died away, its seven wooden vanes became clearly visible as it stopped (though for the Mouser they were interwoven with scaly hallucinations), and the only real sound was the slow gasping of the tread-slaves.
Gwaay smiled weirdly at them from where he sprawled, and he raised an arm drunkenly and cried, “Reverse! About face!” Slowly the tread-slaves turned, taking a dozen tiny steps to do it, until they all three faced the opposite direction on the belt.
“Trot!” Gwaay commanded them quickly. Slowly they obeyed and slowly the fan took up again its groaning, but now it was blowing air up the shaft against Hasjarl’s downward fanning.
Gwaay and Ivivis rested on the floor for a space, until their brains began to clear and the last hallucinations were chased from view. To the Mouser they seemed to be sucked up the shaft through the fan blades: a filmy horde of blue-and-purple wraiths armed with transparent saw-toothed spears and cutlasses.
Then Gwaay, smiling in highest excitement with his eyes, said softly and still a bit breathlessly, “My sorcerers … were not overcome … I think. Else I’d be dying … Hasjarl’s two dozen deaths. Another moment … and I’ll send across the level … to reverse the exhaust fan. We’ll get fresh air through it. And put more slaves on this belt here—perchance I’ll blow my brother’s nightmares back to him. Then lave and robe me for my father’s fiery funeral and mount to give Hasjarl a nasty shock. Ivivis, as soon as you can walk, rouse my bath girls. Bid them make all ready.”
He reached across the floor and grasped the Mouser strongly at the elbow. “You, Gray One,” he whispered, “prepare to work this mighty tune of yours which will smite down Hasjarl’s warlocks. Gather your simples, pray your demonic prayers—consulting first with my twelve arch-magi … if you can rouse the twelfth from his dark hell. As soon as Quarmal’s lich is in the flames, I’ll send you word to speak your deadly spell.” He paused, and his eyes gleamed with a witchy glare in the dimness. “The time has come for sorcery and swords!”
There was a tiny scrabbling as one of the white birds staggered to its feet on the cage-bottom. It gave a chirrup that was rather like a hiccup, yet still had a note of challenge in it.
All that night through, all Quarmall was awake. Into the Ordering Room of the Keep, a magician came crying, “Lord Flindach! The mind-casters have incontrovertible advertisements that the two brothers war against each other. Hasjarl sends sleepy resins down the shafts, while Gwaay blows them back.”
The warty and purple-blotched face of the Master of Magicians looked up from where he sat busy at a table surrounded by a small host awaiting orders.
“Have they shed blood?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“It is well. Keep enchanted eyes on them.”
Then, gazing sternly in turn from under his hood at those whom he addressed, the Master of Magicians gave his other orders:
To two magicians robed as his deputies: “Go on the instant to Hasjarl and Gwaay. Remind them of the obsequies and stay with them until they and their companies reach the funeral courtyard.”
To a eunuch: “Hasten to your master Brilla. Learn if he requires further materials or assistance building the funeral pyre. Help will be furnished him at once and without stint.”
To a captain of slingers: “Double the guard on the walls. Yourself make the rounds. Quarmall must be entirely secure from outward assaults and escapes from within on this coming morn.”
To a richly-clad woman of middle years: “To Quarmal’s harem. See that his concubines are perfectly groomed and clad, as if their Lord himself meant to visit them at dawn. Quiet their apprehensions. Send to me the Ilthmarix Kewissa.”
In Hasjarl’s Hall of Sorcery, that Lord let his slaves robe him for the obsequies, while not neglecting to direct the search for his traitorous champion Fafhrd, to instruct the shaft-watchers in the precautions they must take against Gwaay’s attempts to return the poppy dust, perchance with interest, and to tutor his sorcerers in the exact spells they must use against Gwaay once Quarmal’s body was devoured by the flame.