While half Death’s mind was busy with these matters, he saw his Sister Pain slinking toward him from the corridor’s end on bare silent feet, her avid red eyes fixed on his pale slate cool-gray ones. She was slender as he and like-complected, except that here and there her opalescence was streaked with blue—and to his great distaste she padded about, as was her wont, in steamy nakedness, rather than decently robed and slippered like himself.
He prepared to stride past her with never a word.
She smiled at him knowingly and said with languorous hisses in her voice, “You’ve a choice morsel for me, haven’t you?”
.4.
While these ominous Nehwonal and supernal events were transpiring that so concerned them, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser were relaxedly and unsuspectingly sipping dark brandy by the cool white light, which Rime Islers call history, of a leviathan-oil lamp in the root-and-wine cellar of Cif’s snug Salthaven abode while that lady and Afreyt were briefly gone to the lunar temple at the arctic port-town’s inland outskirts on some business involving the girl acolytes of the Moon Goddess, whose priestesses Cif and Afreyt were, and the girl acolytes their nieces.
Since their slaying of their would-be killers and the lifting of the old-age curse, the two captains had been enjoying to the full their considerable relief, leaving the overseeing of their men to their lieutenants, visiting their barracks but once a day (and taking turns even at that—or even having their lieutenants make report to them, a practice to which they’d sunk once or twice lately), spending most of their time at their ladies’ cozier and more comfortable abodes and pleasuring themselves with the sportive activities (including picnicking) which such companionship made possible and to which their recent stints as grumpy and unjoyous old men also inclined them, abetted by the balmy weather of Thunder and Satyrs Moon.
Indeed, today the last had got a bit too much for them. Hence their retreat to the deep, cool, flagstoned cellar, where they were assuaging the melancholy that unbridled self-indulgence is strangely apt to induce in heroes by rehearsing to each other anecdotes of ghosts and horrors.
“Hast ever heard,” the tall Northerner intoned, “of those sinuous earth-hued tropical Kleshite ghouls with hands like spades that burrow beneath cemeteries and their environs, silently emerge behind you, then seize you and drag you down before you can gather your wits to oppose it, digging more swiftly than the armadillo? One such, it’s said, subterraneously pursued a man whose house lay by a lich-field and took him in his own cellar, which doubtless had a feature much like that.” And he directed his comrade’s attention to an unflagged area, just behind the bench on which they sat, that showed dark sandy loam and was large enough to have taken the passage of a broad-shouldered man.
“Afreyt tells me,” he explained, “it’s been left that way to let the cellar breathe—a most necessary ventilation in this clime.”
The Mouser regarded the gap in the flagging with considerable distaste, arching his brows and wrinkling his nostrils, then recovered his mug from the stout central table before them and took a gut-shivering slug. He shrugged. “Well, tropic ghouls are unlikely here in polar clime. But now I’m reminded—hast ever heard tell?—of that Ool Hrusp prince who so feared his grave, abhorring earth, that he lived his whole life (what there was of it) in the topmost room of a lofty tower twice the height of the mightiest trees of the Great Forest where Ool Hrusp is situated?”
“What happened to him in the end?” Fafhrd duly inquired.
“Why, although he dwelt secure two thousand leagues from the edge of the desert southeast of the Inner Sea and with all that water between to distance him, a monstrously dense sandstorm born on a typhoon wind sought him out, turned the green canopy of the forest umber, sifted his stone eyrie full, and suffocated him.”
From upstairs came a smothered cry.
“My story must have carried,” the Mouser observed. “The girls seem to have returned.”
He and Fafhrd looked at each other with widening eyes.
“We promised we’d watch the roast,” the latter said.
“And when we came down here,” the other continued, “we told ourselves we’d go up and check and baste it after a space.”
Then both together, chiming darkly, “But you forgot.”
There was a swift patter of footsteps—more than one pair—on the cellar stairs. Somehow five slender girls came down into the cool historic glow without tripping or colliding. The first four wore sandals of white bearhide, near identical knee-length tunics of fine white linen and yashmacks of the same material, hiding most of their hair and all of their faces below their eyes, whose merry flashing nevertheless showed they were all grinning.
The fifth, who was the slenderest, went barefoot in a shorter white-belted white tunic of coarser weave and wore a yashmack of reversed white unshorn lamb’s hide and, despite the weather, gloves of the same material. Her gaze seemed grave.
All but she tore off their yashmacks together, showing them to be Afreyt’s flaxen-haired nieces May, Mara, and Gale, and Cif’s niece Klute, who was raven-tressed.
But Fafhrd and Mouser knew that already. The two had risen. May danced toward them excitedly. “Uncle Fafhrd! We’ve had an adventure!”
Following at her heels, Mara cut in, “We were almost kidnapped aboard an Ilthmar trader that was a secret slaver!”
“Anything could have happened to us!” Gale exulted, taking her turn. “Imagine! They say Eastern princes will pay fortunes for twelve-year-old blond virgins!”
“Only, our new friend escaped from the trader and warned Aunts Cif and Afreyt,” black-haired Klute topped her triumphantly, looking back toward the fifth girl, who hadn’t come forward or unyashmacked. “She’d been kidnapped herself at Tovilyis and been a prisoner on Weasel all Satyrs Moon!”
Gale grabbed back the news-telling with, “But she’s a novice of Skama just like us. Tovilyis coven. Her mother was a priestess of the moon.”
“And she’s a princess herself too!” May topped them all. “A really-truly princess of south Lankhmar land!”
“You can tell she’s a princess,” Mara fairly shrieked, “because she always wears gloves!”
“Don’t squeal like a piglet, Mara,” May reproved, seeing a surer way to hog attention, and for a longer time. “Girls, we have omitted to introduce our new friend and rescuer.” And when that one still hung back, dropping her eyes demurely, May placed herself beside her and gently impelled her forward.
“Uncle Fafhrd,” she said gravely, “may I introduce you to my new friend and rescuer of all of us, the princess Fingers of Tovilyis? And, dear Princess, my friend, may I tender your hand to our most honored guest Captain Fafhrd, a great hero of Rime Isle, my Aunt Afreyt’s lover, and my own dearest uncle?”
The strangely yashmacked girl dropped her eyes still farther and seemed to shiver slightly all over, yet let her left hand be drawn forward.
Fafhrd took it and, bowing ceremoniously low and looking straight into the hooded and half-averted face, said, “Any friend of May’s is a friend of mine, most honored Princess Fingers, while as the rescuer of her and all my other friends here, I owe you eternal gratitude. My sword is yours.” And he kissed the lamb’s hide for three heartbeats. Her head tipped up a trifle and her eyelashes fluttered.
All the other girls ooh’ed and aah’ed, though there was a hard expression on Klute’s face, while the Mouser’s gaze grew somewhat sardonic.
May repossessed herself of the gloved hand and swung it toward the Mouser.
“Dear Uncle Mouser,” she intoned, her voice speeding up just a little because of the repetition, despite her efforts to vary her speech, “could I introduce you to my new friend and benefactress of all us girls, the princess Fingers of south Lankhmar land? Princess dear, my friend, could I entrust your precious hand to our honored guest Captain Mouser, Klute’s Aunt Cif’s lover and my own good, beloved, honorary uncle—and hero of Rime Isle second only to Fafhrd?”
The Mouser’s eyebrows lifted formidably. “Her left hand? No, you may not,” he dismissed May harshly, setting his fists upon his hips and standing as tall as possible, which involved leaning back a little. Then, looking sneeringly down his nose at the scrawny figure cowered before him, he made a fearsome face and barked commandingly, “Manners, child!—for it is a child you are, an ill-bred and conceited snit of a girl-child, whatever else you may be.”
The other girls gasped in consternation at this turn of talk, while Fafhrd gave his comrade an unfriendly glare, but the one addressed swiftly drew off her gloves and unyashmacked, revealing a piquant face blushing almost the same hue as her close-cropped hair as she tucked the three lambskin items inside her belt.
Lifting her eyes to the Mouser, she said in a low clear voice, “You rebuke me well, sir. I most humbly apologize.” She spoke (though with a strange lisping accent) the same Low Lankhmarese the others all had used, which was the common trade language of most of Nehwon. Then she extended up toward him palm down a slender pale right hand.