Quarmal raised his hand a little, reprovingly, as if such speaking were unnecessary and somewhat out of place, and smiling thinly at Fafhrd and the Mouser said, “It shall be as you have spoken. I am neither ungenerous nor unperceptive. Know that it was not altogether by chance that my late sons unbeknown to each other hired you two friends—also mutually unknowing—to be their champions. Furthermore know that I am not altogether unaware of the curiosities of Ningauble of the Seven Eyes or of the Spells of Sheelba of the Eyeless Face. We grandmaster sorcerers have a—But to speak more were only to kindle the curiosity of the gods and alert the trolls and attract the attention of the restless hungry Fates. Enough is enough.”
Looking at Quarmal’s slitted eyes, the Mouser was glad he had not boasted, and even Fafhrd shivered a little.
Fafhrd cracked whip above the four-horse team to set them pulling the high-piled wagon more briskly through this black sticky stretch of road deeply marked with cart tracks and the hoofprints of oxen, a mile from Quarmall. Friska and Ivivis were turned around on the seat beside him to wave as long a farewell as they might to Kewissa and the eunuch Brilla, standing at the roadside with four impassive guardsmen of Quarmall, to whom they had but now been released.
The Gray Mouser, sprawled on his stomach atop the load, waved too, but only with his left hand—in his right he held a cocked crossbow while his eyes searched the trees about for sign of ambush.
Yet the Mouser was not truly apprehensive. He thought that Quarmal would hardly be apt to try any tricks against such a proven warrior and sorcerer as himself—or Fafhrd too, of course. The old Lord had shown himself a most gracious host during the last few hours, plying them with rare wines and loading them with rich gifts beyond what they’d asked or what the Mouser had purloined in advance, and even offering them other girls in addition to Ivivis and Friska—a benison which they’d rejected, with some inward regrets, after noting the glares in the eyes of those two. Twice or thrice Quarmal had smiled in too tiger-friendly a fashion, but at such times Fafhrd had stood a little closer to Kewissa and emphasized his light but inflexible grip on her, to remind the old Lord that she and the prince she carried were hostages for his and the Mouser’s safety.
As the mucky road curved up a little, the towers of Quarmall came into view above the treetops. The Mouser’s gaze drifted to them, and he studied the lacy pinnacles thoughtfully, wondering whether he’d ever see them again. Suddenly the whim seized him to return to Quarmall straightway—yes, to slip off the back of the load and run there. What did the outer world hold half so fine as the wonders of that subterranean kingdom?—its mazy mural-pictured tunnelings a man might spend his life tracing … its buried delights … even its evils beautiful … its delicious infinitely varied blacks … its hidden fan-driven air….Yes, suppose he dropped down soundlessly this very moment…
There was a flash, a brilliant scintillation from the tallest keep. It pricked the Mouser like a goad and he loosed his hold and let himself slide backward off the load. But just at that instant the road turned and grew firm and the trees moved higher, masking the towers, and the Mouser came to himself and grabbed hold again before his feet touched the road and he hung there while the wheels creaked merrily and cold sweat drenched him.
Then the wagon stopped and the Mouser dropped down and took three deep breaths and then hastened forward to where Fafhrd had descended too and was busy with the harness of the horses and their traces.
“Up again, Fafhrd, and whip up,” he cried. “This Quarmal is a cunninger witch than I guessed. If we waste time by the way, I fear for our freedom and our souls!”
“You’re telling me!” Fafhrd retorted. “This road winds and there’ll be more sticky stretches. Trust a wagon’s speed?—pah! We’ll uncouple the four horses and taking only simplest victuals and the smallest and most precious of the treasure, gallop across the moor away from Quarmall straight as the crow flies. That way we should dodge ambush and outrun ranging pursuit. Friska, Ivivis! Spring to it, all!”