The Mouser rose and turned with a questioning shrug toward Ivivis, who sat now at the long table hemming up two hooded black voluminous sorcerer’s robes, which she had cut down at the Mouser’s direction to fit him and herself. The Mouser had thought that since he now seemed to be Gwaay’s sole remaining sorcerer as well as champion, he should be prepared to appear dressed as the former and to boast at least one acolyte.
In answer to the shrug, Ivivis merely wrinkled her nostrils, pinched them with two dainty fingertips, and shrugged back. True, the Mouser thought, the stench was growing stronger despite all his attempts to mask it. He stepped to the table and poured himself a half cup of the thick blood-red wine, which he’d begun unwillingly to relish a little, although he’d learned it was indeed fermented from scarlet toadstools. He took a small swallow and summed up:
“Here’s a pretty witch’s kettle of problems. Gwaay’s sorcerers blasted—all right, yes, by me, I admit it. His henchmen and soldiery fled—to the lowest loathy dank dim tunnels, I think, or else gone over to Hasjarl. His girls vanished save for you. Even his doctors fearful to come nigh him—the one I dragged here fainting dead away. His slaves useless with dread—only the tread-beasts at the fans keep their heads, and they because they haven’t any! No answer to our message to Flindach suggesting that we league against Hasjarl. No page to send another message by—and not even a single picket to warn us if Hasjarl assaults.”
“You could go over to Hasjarl yourself,” Ivivis pointed out.
The Mouser considered that. “No,” he decided, “there’s something too fascinating about a forlorn hope like this. I’ve always wanted to command one. And it’s only fun to betray the wealthy and victorious. Yet what strategy can I employ without even a skeleton army?”
Ivivis frowned. “Gwaay used to say that just as sword-war is but another means of carrying out diplomacy, so sorcery is but another means of carrying out sword-war. Spell-war. So you could try your Great Spell again,” she concluded without vast conviction.
“Not I!” the Mouser repudiated. “It never touched Hasjarl’s twenty-four or it would have stopped their disease spells against Gwaay. Either they are of First Rank or else I’m doing the spell backwards—in which case the tunnels would probably collapse on me if I tried it again.”
“Then use a different spell,” Ivivis suggested brightly. “Raise an army of veritable skeletons. Drive Hasjarl mad, or put a hex on him so he stubs his toe at every step. Or turn his soldiers’ swords to cheese. Or vanish their bones. Or transmew all his maids to cats and set their tails afire. Or—”
“I’m sorry, Ivivis,” the Mouser interposed hurriedly to her mounting enthusiasm. “I would not confess this to another, but … that was my only spell. We must depend on wit and weapons alone. Again I ask you, Ivivis, what strategy does a general employ when his left is o’erwhelmed, his right takes flight, and his center is ten times decimated?”
A slight sweet sound like a silver bell chinked once, or a silver string plucked high in the harp, interrupted him. Although so faint, it seemed for a moment to fill the chamber with auditory light. The Mouser and Ivivis gazed around wonderingly and then at the same moment looked up at the silver mask of Gwaay in the niche above the arch before which Gwaay’s mortal remains festered silken-wrapped.
The shimmering metal lips of the statua smiled and parted—so far as one might tell in the gloom—and faintly there came Gwaay’s brightest voice, saying: “Your answer: he attacks!”
The Mouser blinked. Ivivis dropped her needle. The statua continued, its eyes seeming to twinkle, “Greetings, hostless captain mine! Greetings, dear girl. I’m sorry my stink offends you—yes, yes, Ivivis, I’ve observed you pinching your nose at my poor carcass this last hour through—but then the world teems with loathiness. Is that not a black death-adder gliding now through the black robe you stitch?”
With a gasp of horror Ivivis sprang cat-swift up and aside from the material and brushed frantically at her legs. The statua gave a naturally silver laugh, than quickly said, “Your pardon, gentle girl—I did but jest. My spirits are too high, too high—perchance because my body is so low. Plotting will curb my feyness. Hist now, hist!”
In Hasjarl’s Hall of Sorcery his four-and-twenty wizards stared desperately at a huge magic screen set up parallel to their long table, trying with all their might to make the picture on it come clear. Hasjarl himself, dire in his dark red funeral robes, gazing alternately with open eyes and through the grommeted holes in his upper lids, as if that perchance might make the picture sharper, stutteringly berated them for their clumsiness and at intervals conferred staccato with his military.
The screen was dark gray, the picture appearing on it in pale green witch-light. It stood twelve feet high and eighteen feet long. Each wizard was responsible for a particular square yard of it, projecting on it his share of the clairvoyant picture.
This picture was of Gwaay’s Hall of Sorcery, but the best effect achieved so far was a generally blurred image showing the table, the empty chairs, a low mound on the floor, a high point of silver light, and two figures moving about—these last mere salamanderlike blobs with arms and legs attached, so that not even the sex could be determined, if indeed they were human at all or even male or female.
Sometimes a yard of the picture would come clear as a flowerbed on a bright day, but it would always be a yard with neither of the figures in it or anything of more interest than an empty chair. Then Hasjarl would bark sudden for the other wizards to do likewise, or for the successful wizard to trade squares with someone whose square had a figure in it, and the picture would invariably get worse and Hasjarl would screech and spray spittle, and then the picture would go completely bad, swimming everywhere or with squares all jumbled and overlapping like an unsolved puzzle, and the twenty-four sorcerers would have to count off squares and start over again while Hasjarl disciplined them with fearful threats.
Interpretations of the picture by Hasjarl and his aides differed considerably. The absence of Gwaay’s sorcerers seemed to be a good thing, until someone suggested they might have been sent to infiltrate Hasjarl’s Upper Levels for a close-range thaumaturgic attack. One lieutenant got fearfully tongue-lashed for suggesting the two blob-figures might be demons seen unblurred in their true guise—though even after Hasjarl had discharged his anger, he seemed a little frightened by the idea. The hopeful notion that all Gwaay’s sorcerers had been wiped out was rejected when it was ascertained that no sorcerous spells had been directed at them recently by Hasjarl or any of his wizards.
One of the blob-figures now left the picture entirely, and the point of silvery light faded. This touched off further speculation, which was interrupted by the entry of several of Hasjarl’s torturers looking rather battered and a dozen of his guards. The guards were surrounding—with naked swords aimed at his chest and back—the figure of an unarmed man in a wolfskin tunic with arms bound tight behind him. He was masked with a red silk eye-holed sack pulled down over his head and hair, and a black robe trailed behind him.
“We’ve taken the Northerner, Lord Hasjarl!” the leader of the dozen guards reported joyously. “We cornered him in your torture room. He disguised himself as one of those and tried to lie his way through our lines, bumped and going on his knees, but his height still betrayed him.”
“Good, Yissim—I’ll reward you,” Hasjarl approved. “But what of my father’s treacherous concubine and the great castrado who were with him when he slew three of your fellows?”
“They were still with him when we glimpsed him near Gwaay’s realm and gave chase. We lost ‘em when he doubled back to the torture room, but the hunt goes on.”
“Find ‘em, you were best,” Hasjarl ordered grimly, “or the sweets of my reward will be soured entire by the pains of my displeasure.” Then to Fafhrd, “So, traitor! Now I will play with you the wrist game—aye, and a hundred others too, until you are wearied of sport.”
Fafhrd answered loudly and clearly through his red mask, “I’m no traitor, Hasjarl. I was only tired of your twitching and of your torturing of girls.”
There came a sibilant cry from the sorcerers. Turning, Hasjarl saw that one of them had made the low mound on the floor come clear, so that it was clearly seen as a stricken man covered to his pillowed head.
“Closer!” Hasjarl cried—all eagerness, no threat—and perhaps because they were neither startled nor threatened, each wizard did his work perfectly, so that there came green-pale onto the screen Gwaay’s face, wide as an oxcart and team, the plagues visible by the huge pustules and crustings and fungoid growths if not by their colors, the eyes like great vats stewing with ichor, the mouth a quaking bog-hole, while each drop that fell from the nose-tip looked a gallon.