“I’m sorry, Fafhrd,” Hringorl said gruffly. “I did not know you had saved the dancer’s life. You have done me a great service. Here.” He unclasped from his wrist one of the heavy gold bracelets and held it out.
Fafhrd kept his hands at his sides. “No service whatever,” he said. “I was only saving my mother from committing a wrong action.”
“You’ve sailed under me,” Hringorl suddenly roared, his face reddening though he still grinned somewhat, or tried to. “So you’ll take my gifts as well as my orders.” He caught hold of Fafhrd’s hand, pressed the weighty torus into it, closed Fafhrd’s lax fingers on it, and stepped back.
Instantly Fafhrd knelt, saying swiftly, “I am sorry, but I may not take what I have not rightly won. And now I must keep an engagement with my mother.” Then he swiftly rose, turned, and walked away. Behind him, on an unbroken crust of snow, the golden bracelet gleamed.
He heard Hringorl’s snarl and choked-back curse, but did not look around to see whether or not Hringorl picked up his spurned gratuity, though he did find it a bit difficult not to weave in his stride or duck his head a trifle, in case Hringorl decided to throw the massive wristlet at his skull.
Shortly he came to the place where his mother was sitting amongst seven Snow Women, making eight in all. They stood up. He stopped a yard short. Ducking his head and looking to the side, he said, “Here I am, Mor.”
“You took a long while,” she said. “You took too long.” Six heads around her nodded solemnly. Only Fafhrd noted, in the blurred edge of his vision, that the seventh and slenderest Snow Woman was moving silently backward.
“But here I am,” Fafhrd said.
“You disobeyed my command,” Mor pronounced coldly. Her haggard and once beautiful face would have looked very unhappy, had it not been so proud and masterful.
“But now I am obeying it,” Fafhrd countered. He noted that the seventh Snow Woman was now silently running, her great white cloak a-stream, between the home tents toward the high, white forest that was Cold Corner’s boundary everywhere that Trollstep Canyon wasn’t.
“Very well,” Mor said. “And now you will obey me by following me to the dream tent for ritual purification.”
“I am not defiled,” Fafhrd announced. “Moreover, I purify myself after my own fashion, one also agreeable to the gods.”
There were clucks of shocked disapproval from all Mor’s coven. Fafhrd had spoken boldly, but his head was still bent, so that he did not see their faces, and their entrapping eyes, but only their long-robed white forms, like a clump of great birches.
Mor said, “Look me in the eyes.”
Fafhrd said, “I fulfill all the customary duties of a grown son, from food-winning to sword-guarding. But as far as I can ascertain, looking my mother in the eyes is not one of those duties.”
“Your father always obeyed me,” Mor said ominously.
“Whenever he saw a tall mountain, he climbed her, obeying no one but himself,” Fafhrd contradicted.
“Yes, and died doing so!” Mor cried, her masterfulness controlling grief and anger without hiding them.
Fafhrd said hardly, “Whence came the great cold that shattered his rope and pick on White Fang?”
Amidst the gasps of her coven, Mor pronounced in her deepest voice, “A mother’s curse, Fafhrd, on your disobedience and evil thinking!”
Fafhrd said with strange eagerness, “I dutifully accept your curse, Mother.”
Mor said, “My curse is not on you, but on your evil imaginings.”
“Nevertheless, I will forever treasure it,” Fafhrd cut in. “And now, obeying myself, I must take leave of you, until the wrath-devil has let you go.”
And with that, head still bent down and away, he walked rapidly toward a point in the forest east of the home tents, but west of the great tongue of forest that stretched south almost to Godshall. The angry hissings of Mor’s coven followed him, but his mother did not cry out his name, nor any word at all. Fafhrd would almost rather that she had.
Youth heals swiftly, on the skin-side. By the time Fafhrd plunged into his beloved wood without jarring a single becrystalled twig, his senses were alert, his neck-joint supple, and the outward surface of his inner being as cleared for new experience as the unbroken snow ahead. He took the easiest path, avoiding bediamonded thorn bushes to left and huge pine-screened juttings of pale granite to right.
He saw bird tracks, squirrel tracks, day-old bear tracks; snow birds snapped their black beaks at red snowberries; a furred snow-snake hissed at him, and he would not have been startled by the emergence of a dragon with ice-crusted spines.
So he was in no wise amazed when a great high-branched pine opened its snow-plastered bark and showed him its dryad—a merry, blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl’s face, a dryad no more than seventeen years old. In fact, he had been expecting such an apparition ever since he had noted the seventh Snow Woman in flight.
Yet he pretended to be amazed for almost two heartbeats. Then he sprang forward crying, “Mara, my witch,” and with his two arms separated her white-cloaked self from her camouflaging background, and kept them wrapped around her while they stood like one white column, hood to hood and lips to lips for at least twenty heartbeats of the most thuddingly delightful sort.
Then she found his right hand and drew it into her cloak and, through a placket, under her long coat, and pressed it against her crisply-ringleted lower belly.
“Guess,” she whispered, licking his ear.
“It’s part of a girl. I do believe it’s a—” he began most gayly, though his thoughts were already plunging wildly in a direly different direction.
“No, idiot, it’s something that belongs to you,” the wet whisper coached.
The dire direction became an iced chute leading toward certainty. Nevertheless he said bravely, “Well, I’d hoped you hadn’t been trying out others, though that’s your right. I must say I am vastly honored—”
“Silly beast! I meant it’s something that belongs to us.”
The dire direction was now a black icy tunnel, becoming a pit. Automatically and with an appropriately great heart-thump, Fafhrd said, “Not?”
“Yes! I’m certain, you monster. I’ve missed twice.”
Better than ever in his life before, Fafhrd’s lips performed their office of locking in words. When they opened at last, they and the tongue behind them were utterly under control of the great green eyes. There came forth in a joyous rush: “O gods! How wonderful! I am a father! How clever of you, Mara!”
“Very clever indeed,” the girl admitted, “to have fashioned anything so delicate after your rude handling. But now I must pay you off for that ungracious remark about ‘trying out others.’” Hitching up her skirt behind, she guided both his hands under her cloak to a knot of thongs at the base of her spine. (Snow Women wore fur hoods, fur boots, a high fur stocking on each leg gartered to a waist thong, and one or more fur coats and cloaks—it was a practical garb, not unlike the men’s except for the longer coats.)
As he fingered the knot, from which three thongs led tightly off, Fafhrd said, “Truly, Mara dearest, I do not favor these chastity girdles. They are not a civilized device. Besides, they must interfere with the circulation of your blood.”
“You and your fad for civilization! I’ll love and belabor you out of it. Go on, untie the knot, making sure you and no other tied it.”
Fafhrd complied and had to agree that it was his knot and no other man’s. The task took some time and was a delightful one to Mara, judging from her soft squeals and moans, her gentle nips and bites. Fafhrd himself began to get interested. When the task was done, Fafhrd got the reward of all courteous liars: Mara loved him dearly because he had told her all the right lies and she showed it in her beguiling behavior, and his interest in her and his excitement became vast.
After certain handlings and other tokens of affection, they fell to the snow side by side, both mattressed and covered entirely by their white fur cloaks and hoods.
A passerby would have thought that a snow-mound had come alive convulsively and was perhaps about to give birth to a snowman, elf, or demon.
After a while the snow-mound grew utterly quiescent and the hypothetical passerby would have had to lean very close to catch the voices coming from inside it.MARA: Guess what I’m thinking.FAFHRD: That you’re the Queen of Bliss. Aaah!MARA: Aaaah back at you, and ooooh! And that you’re the King of Beasts. No, silly, I’ll tell you. I was thinking of how glad I am that you’ve had your southward adventurings before marriage. I’m sure you’ve raped or even made indecent love to dozens of southern women, which perhaps accounts for your wrongheadedness about civilization. But I don’t mind a bit. I’ll love you out of it.FAFHRD: Mara, you have a brilliant mind, but just the same you greatly exaggerate that one pirate cruise I made under Hringorl, and especially the opportunities it afforded for amorous adventures. In the first place, all the inhabitants, and especially all the young women of any shore town we sacked, ran away to the hills before we’d even landed. And if there were any women raped, I being youngest would have been at the bottom of the list of rapists and so hardly tempted. Truth to tell, the only interesting folk I met on that dreary voyage were two old men held for ransom, from whom I learned a smattering of Quarmallian and High Lankhmarese, and a scrawny youth apprenticed to a hedge-wizard. He was deft with the dagger, that one, and had a legend-breaking mind, like mine and my father’s.MARA: Do not grieve. Life will become more exciting for you after we’re married.FAFHRD: That’s where you’re wrong, dearest Mara. Hold, let me explain! I know my mother. Once we’re married, Mor will expect you to do all the cooking and tent-work. She’ll treat you as seven-eighths slave and—perhaps—one-eighth my concubine.MARA: Ha! You really will have to learn to rule your mother, Fafhrd. Yet do not fret, dearest, even about that. It’s clear you know nothing of the weapons a strong and untiring young wife has against an old mother-in-law. I’ll put her in her place, even if I have to poison her—oh, not to kill, only to weaken sufficiently. Before three moons have waxed, she’ll be trembling at my gaze and you’ll feel yourself much more a man. I know that you being an only child and your wild father perishing young, she got an unnatural influence over you, but—FAFHRD: I feel myself very much the man at this instant, you immoral and poisoning witchlet, you ice-tigress; and I intend to prove it on you without delay. Defend yourself! Ha, would you—!