“Unless he steals from you the box itself,” Fafhrd agreed. “As for myself, I keep my share of the jewels chained to me.”
And after such precautionary glances as the Mouser had made, he thrust back his loose left sleeve, showing a stout browned-iron bracelet snapped around his wrist. From the bracelet hung a short chain which both supported and kept tightly shut a small, bulging pouch. The leather of the pouch was everywhere sewed across with fine brown wire. He unclicked the bracelet, which opened on a hinge, then clicked it fast again.
“The browned-iron wire’s to foil any cutpurse,” Fafhrd explained offhandedly, pulling down his sleeve.
The Mouser’s eyebrows rose. Then his gaze followed them as it went from Fafhrd’s wrist to his face, while the small man’s expression changed from mild approval to bland inquiry. He asked, “And you trust such devices to guard your half of the gems from Nemia of the Dusk?”
“How did you know my dealings were with Nemia?” Fafhrd asked in tones just the slightest surprised.
“Because she’s Lankhmar’s only woman fence, of course. All know you favor women when possible, in business as well as erotic matters. Which is one of your greatest failings, if I may say so. Also, Nemia’s door lies next to Ogo’s, though that’s a trivial clue. You know, I presume, that seven Kleshite stranglers protect her somewhat overripe person? Well, at least then you know the sort of trap you’re rushing into. Deal with a woman!—surest route to disaster. By the by, you mentioned ‘dealings.’ Does that plural mean this is not your first interview with her?”
Fafhrd nodded. “As you with Ogo…. Incidentally, am I to understand that you trust men simply because they’re men? That were a greater failing than the one you impute to me. Anyhow, as you with Ogo, I go to Nemia of the Dusk a second time, to complete our deal. The first time I showed her the gems in a twilit chamber, where they appeared to greatest advantage, twinkling just enough to seem utterly real. Did you know, in passing, that she always works in twilight or soft gloom?—which accounts for the second half of her name. At all events, as soon as she glimpsed them, Nemia greatly desired the gems—her breath actually caught in her throat—and she agreed at once to my price, which is not low, as basis for further bargaining. However, it happens that she invariably follows the rule—which I myself consider a sound one—of never completing a transaction of any sort with a member of the opposite sex without first testing them in amorous commerce. Hence this second meeting. If the member be old or otherwise ugly, Nemia deputes the task to one of her maids, but in my case, of course…” Fafhrd coughed modestly. “One more point I’d like to make: ‘overripe’ is the wrong expression. ‘Full-bloomed’ or ‘the acme of maturity’ is what you’re looking for.”
“Believe me, I’m sure Nemia is in fullest bloom—a late August flower. Such women always prefer twilight for the display of their ‘perfectly matured’ charms,” the Mouser answered somewhat stifledly. He had for some time been hard put to restrain laughter, and now it appeared in quiet little bursts as he said, “Oh, you great fool! And you’ve actually agreed to go to bed with her? And expect not to be parted from your jewels (including family jewels?), let alone not strangled, while at that disadvantage? Oh, this is worse than I thought.”
“I’m not always at such a disadvantage in bed as some people may think,” Fafhrd answered with quiet modesty. “With me, amorous play sharpens instead of dulls the senses. I trust you have as much luck with a man in ebon darkness as I with a woman in soft gloom. Incidentally, why must you have two conferences with Ogo? Not Nemia’s reason, surely?”
The Mouser’s grin faded and he lightly bit his lip. With elaborate casualness he said, “Oh, the jewels must be inspected by the Eyes of Ogo—his invariable rule. But whatever test is tried, I’m prepared to out-trick it.”
Fafhrd pondered, then asked, “And what, or who are, or is, the Eyes of Ogo? Does he keep a pair of them in his pouch?”
“Is,” the Mouser said. Then with even more elaborate casualness, “Oh, some chit of a girl, I believe. Supposed to have an intuitive faculty where gems are concerned. Interesting, isn’t it, that a man as clever as Ogo should believe such superstitious nonsense? Or depend on the soft sex in any fashion. Truly, a mere formality.”
“’Chit of a girl,’” Fafhrd mused, nodding his head again and yet again and yet again. “That describes to a red dot on each of her immature nipples the sort of female you’ve come to favor in recent years. But of course the amorous is not at all involved in this deal of yours, I’m sure,” he added, rather too solemnly.
“In no way whatever,” the Mouser replied, rather too sharply. Looking around, he remarked, “We’re getting a bit of company, despite the early hour. There’s Dickon of the Thieves Guild, that old pen-pusher and drawer of the floor plans of houses to be robbed—I don’t believe he’s actually worked on a job since the Year of the Snake. And there’s fat Grom, their subtreasurer, another armchair thief. Who comes so dramatically a-slither?—by the Black Bones, it’s Snarve, our overlord Glipkerio’s nephew! Who’s that he speaks to?—oh, only Tork the Cutpurse.”
“And there now appears,” Fafhrd took up, “Vlek, said to be the Guild’s star operative these days. Note his smirk and hear how his shoes creak faintly. And there’s that gray-eyed, black-haired amateur, Alyx the Picklock—well, at least her boots don’t squeak, and I rather admire her courage in adventuring here, where the Guild’s animosity toward freelance females is as ill a byword as that of the Pimps Guild. And, just now turning from the Street of the Gods, who have we but Countess Kronia of the Seventy-seven Secret Pockets, who steals by madness, not method. There’s one bone-bag I’d never trust, despite her emaciated charms and the weakness you lay to me.”
Nodding, the Mouser pronounced, “And such as these are called the aristocracy of thiefdom! In all honesty I must say that notwithstanding your weaknesses—which I’m glad you admit—one of the two best thieves in Lankhmar now stands beside me. While the other, needless to say, occupies my ratskin boots.”
Fafhrd nodded back, though carefully crossing two fingers.
Stilling a yawn, the Mouser said, “By the by, have you yet any thought about what you’ll be doing after those gems are stolen from your wrist, or—though unlikely—sold and paid for? I’ve been approached about—or at any rate been considering a wander toward—in the general direction of the Eastern Lands.”
“Where it’s hotter even than in this sultry Lankhmar? Such a stroll hardly appeals to me,” Fafhrd replied, then casually added, “In any case, I’ve been thinking of taking ship—er—northward.”
“Toward that abominable Cold Waste once more? No, thank you!” the Mouser answered. Then, glancing south along Silver Street, where a pale star shone close to the horizon, he went on still more briskly, “Well, it’s time for my interview with Ogo—and his silly girl Eyes. Take your sword to bed with you, I advise, and look to it that neither Graywand nor your more vital blade are filched from you in Nemia’s dusk.”
“Oh, so first twinkle of the Whale Star is the time set for your appointment too?” Fafhrd remarked, himself stirring from the wall. “Tell me, is the true appearance of Ogo known to anyone? Somehow the name makes me think of a fat, old, and overlarge spider.”
“Curb your imagination, if you please,” the Mouser answered sharply. “Or keep it for your own business, where I’ll remind you that the only dangerous spider is the female. No, Ogo’s true appearance is unknown. But perhaps tonight I’ll discover it!”
“I’d like you to ponder that your besetting fault is overcuriosity,” said Fafhrd, “and that you can’t trust even the stupidest girl to be always silly.”
The Mouser turned impulsively and said, “However tonight’s interviews fall out, let’s rendezvous after. The Silver Eel?”
Fafhrd nodded, and they gripped hands together. Then each rogue sauntered toward his fateful door.
* * * *
The Mouser crouched a little, every sense a-quiver, in space utterly dark. On a surface before him—a table, he had felt it out to be—lay his jewel box, closed. His left hand touched the box. His right gripped Cat’s Claw and with that weapon nervously threatened the inky darkness all around.
A voice which was at once dry and thick croaked from behind him, “Open the box!”
The Mouser’s skin crawled at the horror of that voice. Nevertheless, he complied with the direction. The rainbow light of the meshed jewels spilled upward, dimly showing the room to be low-ceilinged and rather large. It appeared to be empty except for the table and, indistinct in the far left corner behind him, a dark low shape which the Mouser did not like. It might be a hassock or a fat, round, black pillow. Or it might be … The Mouser wished Fafhrd hadn’t made his last suggestion.