The crowd parted respectfully to let through two slender, trousered women with long knives at their belts in jeweled scabbards. The taller was clad all in blue, with like eyes, and fair hair. Her comrade was garmented in dark red, with green eyes and black hair that seemed to have gold wires braided in it. Skor and Pshawri, still stupid with fatigue, took note of them and it was impossible to mistake the message in the sea-dogs’ kindling eyes: Here were the northern angels come at last!
“The eminent councilwomen Afreyt and Cif,” Groniger intoned. “We are honored by their presence.”
They approached with queenly smiles and looks of amiable curiosity.
“Tell them, Lady Afreyt,” said Fafhrd courteously to the one in blue, “how you commissioned me to bring Rime Isle twelve—” Suppressing the word “berserk,” he smoothly made it, “—stout northern fighters of the fiercest temper.”
“And I twelve … nimble and dextrous Lankhmar sworders and slingers, sweet Lady Cif,” the Mouser chimed in airily, avoiding the word “thief.”
Afreyt and Cif looked at them blankly. Then their gazes became at once anxious and solicitous.
Afreyt commented, “They’ve been tempest-tossed, poor lads, and doubtless it has disordered their memories. Our little northern gales come as a surprise to southerners. They seem gentle. Use them well, Groniger.” Looking intently at Fafhrd, she lifted her hand to adjust her hair and in lowering it hesitated a finger for a moment crosswise to her tightly shut long lips.
Cif added, “Doubtless privation has temporarily addled their wits. Their ships have seen hard use. But what a tale! I wonder who they are? Nourish them with hot soup—after they’ve paid, of course.” And she winked at the Mouser a green dark-lashed eye on the side away from Groniger. Then the two ladies wandered on.
It is a testimony to the fundamental levelheadedness and growing self-control of the Mouser and Fafhrd (now having, as captains, to control others) that they did not expostulate at this astounding and barely-tempered rebuff, but actually each dug a hand into his purse—though they did look after the two strolling females somewhat wonderingly. So they saw Skor and Pshawri, who had been dazedly following the two apparitions of northernly delight, now approach these houris with the clear intent of establishing some sort of polite amorous familiarity.
Afreyt struck Skor aside in no uncertain fashion, but only after leaning her face close enough to his head to hiss a word or two into his ear and grasp his wrist in a way that would have permitted her to slip a token or note into his palm. Cif treated Pshawri’s advances likewise.
Groniger, pleased at the way the two captains were now dragging gold pieces from their purses, nevertheless admonished them, “And see to it that your crewmen offer no affront to our Salthaven women, nor stray one step beyond the bounds of the traders’ quarter.”
Paying up took the last of the Rime Isle gold that Cif had given them back at the Silver Eel in Lankhmar, while the Mouser had to piece out his seven with two Lankhmar rilks and a Sarheenmar dubloon.
Groniger’s eyebrows rose as he scanned the take. “Rime Isle coinage! So you’d touched here before and knew our harbor rules and were only seeking to bargain? But what made you invent such an unbelievable story?”
Fafhrd shrugged and said shortly, “Not so. Had ‘em off an Eastern trading galley in these waters,” while the Mouser only laughed.
Nevertheless, a thought struck Groniger, and he looked after the two Rime Isle councilwomen speculatively as he said shortly, “Now you may feed your men.”
The Mouser called toward Flotsam, “Ho, lads! Fetch your bowls, cups, and spoons. These most hostful Rime Islanders have provided a feast for you. Orderly now! Pshawri, attend me.”
While Fafhrd commanded likewise, adding, “Forget not they’re our friends. Do ‘em courtesies. A word with you, Skor.” Never do to show resentment, though that “tub” still rankled with the Mouser, despite it being a very fine description of the broad-beamed, sweep-propelled Flotsam.
When the Mouser and Fafhrd had seen all their men eating and served a measure of grog to celebrate safe arrival, they turned to their somewhat doleful lieutenants, who with only a show of reluctance yielded up the notes they’d been slipped—as the Twain had surmised—along with the words, “For your master!”
Unfolded, Afreyt’s read, “Another faction controls the Rime Isle council, temporarily. You do not know me. At dusk tomorrow seek me at the Hill of the Eight-Legged Horse,” while Cif’s message was, “Cold Khahkht has sowed dissension in our council. We never met—play it that way. You’ll find me tomorrow night at the Flame Den if you come alone.”
“So she does not speak with the voice of Rime Isle after all,” Fafhrd commented softly. “To what fiery female politicians have we joined our destinies?”
“Her gold was good,” the Mouser answered gruffly. “And now we’ve two new riddles to solve.”
“Flame Den and Eight-Legged Horse,” Fafhrd echoed.
“Tub, he called her,” the Mouser mused bitterly, his mind veering. “What godless literal-minded philosophers are we now supposed to succor in spite of themselves?”
“You’re a godless man too,” Fafhrd reminded him.
“Not so, there was once Mog,” the Mouser protested with a touch of his old playful plaintiveness, referring to a youthful credulity, when he had briefly believed in the spider god to please a lover.
“Such questions can wait, along with the two riddles,” Fafhrd decided. “Now let’s curry favor with the atheist fishermen while we can.”
And accompanied by the Mouser, he proceeded ceremoniously to offer Groniger white brandy fetched from Flotsam by old Ourph the renegade Mingol. The harbor master was prevailed upon to accept a drink, which he took in slow sips, and by way of talk of repair docks, watering, crew dormitories ashore, and the price of salt fish, the conversation became somewhat more general. With difficulty Fafhrd and the Mouser won license to venture outside the traders’ quarter, but only by day, and not their men. Groniger refused a second drink.
* * * *
Inside Its icy sphere, which would have cramped a taller being, Khahkht roused, muttering. “Rime Isle’s new gods are treacherous—betray and re-betray—yet stronger than I guessed.”
It began to study the dark map of the world of Nehwon depicted on the sphere’s interior. Its attention moved to the northern tongue of the Outer Sea, where a long peninsula of the Western Continent reached toward the Cold Waste, with Rime Isle midway between. Leaning Its spidery face close to the tip of that peninsula, It made out on the northern side tiny specks in the dark blue waters.
“The armada of the Widdershins Sea-Mingols invests Sayend,” It chuckled, referring to the easternmost city of the ancient Empire of Eevamarensee. “To work!”
It wove Its thickly black-bristled hands incantingly above the gathered specks and droned, “Harken to me, slaves of death. Hear my word and feel my breath. Every least instruction learn. First of all, Sayend must burn! Against Nehwon your horde be hurled, next Rime Isle and then the world.” One spider-hand drifted sideways toward the small green island in ocean’s midst. “Round Rime Isle let fishes swarm, provisioning my Mingol storm.” The hand drifted back and the passes became swifter. “Blackness seize on Mingol mind, bend it ‘gainst all humankind. Madness redden Mingol ire, out of cold come death by fire!”
It blew strongly as if on cold ashes and a tiny spot on the peninsula tip glowed dark red like an uncovered ember.
“By will of Khahkht these weirds be locked!” It grated, sealing the incantment.
* * * *
The ships of the Widdershins Sea-Mingols rode at anchor in Sayend harbor, packed close together as fish in a barrel, and as silvery white. Their sails were furled. Their midships decks, abutting abeam, made a rude roadway from the precipitous shore to the flagship, where Edumir, their chief paramount, sat enthroned on the poop, quaffing the mushroom wine of Quarmall that fosters visions. Cold light from the full moon south in the wintry sky revealed the narrow horse-cage that was the forecastle of each ship and picked out the mad eyes and rawboned head of the ship’s horse, a gaunt Steppe-stallion, thrust forward through the wide-set irregular bars and all confronting the east.
The taken town, its sea-gate thrown wide, was dark. Before its walls and in its sea-street its small scatter of defenders sprawled as they’d fallen, soaked in their own blood and scurried over by the looting Sea-Mingols, who did not, however, bother the chief doors behind which the remaining inhabitants had locked and barred themselves. They’d already captured the five maidens ritual called for and dispatched them to the flagship, and now they sought oil of whale, porpoise, and scaly fish. Puzzlingly, they did not bring most of this treasure-trove down to their ships, but wasted it, breaking the casks with axes and smashing the jars, gushing the precious stuff over doors and wooden walls and down the cobbled street.