The cold snapped that thought chain. The Mouser longed to stamp his feet, flail his hands cross-front against his sides, or—best!—warm himself with a great burst of anger, but he perversely held off, perhaps so ultimate relief would be greater, and set to analyze his disgusted weariness.
First off, there’d been the work of finding, winning, and mastering twelve fighter-thieves—a rare breed to begin with. And training ‘em!—half of ‘em had to be taught the art of the sling, and two (Mog help him!) swordsmanship. And the choosing of the likeliest two for corporals—Pshawri and Mikkidu, who were now sleeping snug below with the double squad, damn their hides!
Concurrent with that, there’d been the searching out of Old Ourph and gathering of his Mingol crew of four. A calculated risk, that. Would Mingol mariners fight fiercely ‘gainst their own in the pinch? Mingols were ever deemed treacherous. Yet ‘twas always good to have some of the enemy on your side, the better to understand ‘em. And from them he might even get wider insight into the motives behind the present Mingol excursions naval.
Concurrent with that, the selection, hire, patching, and provisioning of Flotsam for its voyage.
And then the study needed! Beginning with poring over ancient charts filched from the library of the Lankhmar Starsmen and Navigators Guild, the refreshing of his knowledge of wind, waves, and celestial bodies. And the responsibility!!for no fewer than seventeen men, with no Fafhrd to share it and spell him while he slept—to lick ‘em into shape, doctor their scurvies, probe underwater for ‘em with boathook when they tumbled overboard (he’d almost lost thumb-footed Mikkidu that way the first day out), keep ‘em in good spirits but in their places too, discipline ‘em as required. (Come to think of it, that last was sometimes delight as well as duty. How quaintly Pshawri squealed when shrewedly thwacked with Cat’s Claw’s scabbard!—and soon would again, by Mog!)
Lastly, the near moon-long perilous voyage itself!!!Northwest from Lankhmar across the Inner Sea. Through a treacherous gap in the Curtain Wall (where Fafhrd had once sought sequined sea-queens) into the Outer Sea. Then a swift, broad reach north with the wind on their loadside until they sighted the black ramparts of No-Ombrulsk, which shared the latitude of sunken Simorgya. There he had nosed Flotsam due west, away from all land and almost into the teeth of the west wind, which blew a little on their steerside. After four days of that weary, close reach, they had arrived at the undistinguished patch of troubled ocean that marked Simorgya’s grave, according to the independent cipherings of the Mouser and Ourph, the one working from his stolen charts, the other counting knots in grimy Mingol calculating cords. Then a swift two-day broad reach north again, while air and sea grew rapidly colder, until by their reckonings they were half-journey to the latitude of the Claws. And now two days of dismal beating about in one place await for Fafhrd, with the cold increasing steadily until, this midnight, clear skies had given way to the ice fog in which Flotsam lay becalmed. Two days in which to wonder if Fafhrd would manage to find this spot, or even come at all. Two days in which to get bored with and maddened by his scared, rebellious crew and dozen soldier-thieves—all snoring warm below, Mog flog ‘em! Two days to wonder why in Mog’s name he’d spent all but four of his Rime Isle doubloons on this insane voyage, on work for himself instead of on wine and women, rare books and art objects, in short on sweet bread and circuses for himself alone.
And finally, superlastly, the suspicion growing toward conviction that Fafhrd had never started out from Lankhmar at all!!!that he’d strode so nobly, so carkingly high-minded, out of the Silver Eel with his bag of gold—and instantly begun to spend it on those very same delights which the Mouser (inspired by Fafhrd’s seeming-good example) had denied himself.
In a pinnacle of exasperation, a mountaintop of rage, the Mouser seized the padded striker from its mainmast hook and smote the ship’s gong a blow mighty enough to shatter the gelid bronze. In fact, he was mildly surprised that Flotsam’s frosty deck wasn’t showered with sharp-edged frozen shards of brown metal. Whereupon he smote it again and again and again, so that the gong swung like a signboard in a hurricane, and meanwhile he jumped up and down, adding to the general alarm the resounding thuds of his feet (and haply warming them).
The forward hatch was flung back from below and Pshawri shot up out of it like a jack-in-the-box, to scurry to the Mouser and stand before him mad-eyed. The corporal major was followed in a pouring rush by Mikkidu and the rest of the two squads, most of them half-naked. After them—and far more leisurely—came Gavs and the other Mingol crewman off watch, thonging their black hoods closely under their yellow chins, while Ourph came ghosting up behind his captain, though the two other Mingols properly kept to their stations at tiller and prow. The Mouser was vastly surprised. So his scabbard thwackings had actually done some good!
Measuredly beating the padded striker head in the cupped palm of his right hand, the Mouser observed, “Well, my small stealers”—(all of the thieves were in fact at least a finger-breadth shorter than the Gray One)—”it appears you’ve missed a beating, barely,” his face in a hideous grin as he closely surveyed the large areas of bare flesh exposed to the icy air.
He went on, “But now we must keep you warm—a sailorly necessity in this clime, for which each of you is responsible on pain of flogging, I’ll have you know.” His grin became more hideous still. “To evade night ramming attack, man the sweeps!”
The ragged dozen poured past him to snatch up the long, slender oars from their rack between mainmast and mizzen, and drop their looms into the ten proper locks, and stand facing prow at the ready, feet braced against sweeping studs, oar handles against chests, blades poised overside in the fog. Pshawri’s squad was stationed steerside, Mikkidu’s loadside, while major and minor corporals supervised fore and aft.
After a quick glance at Pshawri, to assure himself every man was at his station, the Mouser cried, “Flotsamers! One, two, three—sweep!” and tapped the gong, which he steadied and damped by its edge gripped in his right hand. The ten sweepsmen dipped blades into the unseen salt water and thrust heavily forward against the tholes.
“Recover!” the Mouser growled slowly, then gave the gong another tap. The ship began to move forward and the wash of the swell became tiny slaps against the hull.
“And now keep to it, you clownish, ill-clad cutpurses!” he cried. “Master Mikkidu! Relieve me at the gong! Sir Pshawri, keep ‘em sweepin’ evener!” And as he handed the striker to the gasping corporal minor, he dipped his lips toward the cryptic wrinkled face of Ourph and whispered, “Send Trenchi and Gib below to fetch ‘em their warm duds on deck.”
Then he allowed himself a sigh, generally pleased yet perversely dissatisfied because Pshawri hadn’t given him excuse to thwack him. Well, one couldn’t have everything. Odd to think of a Lankhmar second-story man and Thieves Guild malcontent turned promising soldier-sailor. Yet natural enough—there wasn’t that much difference between climbing walls and rigging.
Feeling warmer now, he thought more kindly of Fafhrd. Truly, the Northerner had not yet missed rendezvous; it was Flotsam, rather, that’d been early. Now was the time appointed. His face grew somber as he permitted himself the coldly realistic thought (of the sort no one likes) that it would indeed be miracle if he and Fafhrd did find each other in this watery waste, not to mention the icy fog. Still, Fafhrd was resourceful.
The ship grew silent again except for the brush and drip of the sweeps, the clink of the gong, and the small commotions as Pshawri briefly relieved oarsmen hurrying into the clothes the Mingols had fetched. The Mouser turned his attention to the part of his mind that kept watch on the fog’s hiddenmost sounds. Almost at once he turned questioningly toward Old Ourph. The dwarfish Mingol flapped his arms slowly up and down. Straining his ears, the Mouser nodded. Then the beat of approaching wings became generally audible. Something struck the icy rigging overhead and a white shape hurtled down. The Mouser threw up his right arm to fend it off and felt his wrist and forearm strongly gripped by something that heaved and twisted. After a moment of breathless fear, in which his left hand snatched at his dirk, he reached it out instead and touched the horny talons tight as gyves around his wrist, and found rolled around a scaly leg a small parchment, the threads of which he cut with sharpened thumbnail. Whereupon the large white hawk left his wrist and perched on the short, round rod from which the ship’s gong hung.