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again.
Fafhrd had been waiting for that question. It always went against his grain to
have to behave congenially toward one who called himself the
Mightiest Magician as well as the Gossiper of the Gods. But that Ningauble
should let hang from his shoulders two bats whom he called Hugin and Munin in
open burlesque of Odin's ravens, was too much for him. It was more a patriotic
than religious matter with Fafhrd. He believed in Odin only during moments of
sentimental weakness.
"Slay the bats or send them slithering and I'll come, but not before,"
he dogmatized.
"Now I'll tell you nothing," said Ningauble pettishly, "for, as all know, my
health will not permit bickering."
"But, Schoolmaster of Falsehood," purred the Mouser, darting a murderous
glance at Fafhrd, "that is indeed to be regretted, especially since
I was looking forward to regaling you with the intricate scandal that the
Friday concubine of the satrap Philip withheld even from her body slave."
"Ah well," conceded the Many-Eyed One, "it is time for Hugin and Munin to
feed."
The bats reluctantly unfurled their wings and flew lazily into the darkness.
Fafhrd stirred himself and moved forward, sustaining the scrutiny of
the majority of the eyes, all six of which the Northman considered artfully
manipulated puppet-orbs. The seventh no man had seen, or boasted of having
seen, save the Mouser, who claimed it was Odin's other eye, stolen from
sagacious Mimer -- this not because he believed it, but to irk his Northern
comrade.
"Greetings, Snake Eyes," Fafhrd boomed.
"Oh, is it you, Hulk?" said Ningauble carelessly. "Sit down, both, and share
my humble fire."
"Are we not to be invited beyond the Great Gate and share your fabulous
comforts too?"
"Do not mock me, Gray One. As all know, I am poor, penurious
Ningauble."
So with a sigh the Mouser settled himself on his heels, for he well knew that
the Gossiper prized above all else a reputation for poverty, chastity,
humility, and thrift, therefore playing his own doorkeeper, except on certain
days when the Great Gate muted the tinkle of impious sistrum and the
lascivious wail of flute and the giggles of those who postured in the shadow
shows.
But now Ningauble coughed piteously and seemed to shiver and warmed his
cloaked members at the fire. And the shadows flickered weakly against iron and
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stone, and the little creatures crept rustling in, making their eyes wide to
see and their ears cupped to hear; and upon their rhythmically swinging,
weaving stalks pulsated the six eyes. At intervals, too, Ningauble would pick
up, seemingly at random, a potsherd from the great pile and rapidly scan the
memorandum scribbled on it, without breaking the rhythm of the eyestalks or,
apparently, the thread of his attention. The Mouser and Fafhrd crouched on
their hams.
As Fafhrd started to speak, Ningauble questioned rapidly, "And now, my
children, you had something to tell me concerning the Friday concubine -- "
"Ah, yes, Artist of Untruth," the Mouser cut in hastily. "Concerning not so
much the concubine as three eunuch priests of Cybele and a slave-girl from
Samos -- a tasty affair of wondrous complexity, which you must give me leave
to let simmer in my mind so that I may serve it up to you skimmed of the
slightest fat of exaggeration and with all the spice of true detail."
"And while we wait for the Mouser's mind-pot to boil," said Fafhrd casually,
at last catching the spirit of the thing, "you may the more merrily pass the
time by advising us as to a trifling difficulty." And he gave a succinct
account of their tantalizing bedevilment by sow- and snail-changed maidens.
"And you say that Chloe alone proved immune to the spell?" queried
Ningauble thoughtfully, tossing a potsherd to the far side of the pile. "Now
that brings to my mind -- "
"The exceedingly peculiar remark at the end of Diotima's fourth epistle to
Socrates?" interrupted the Mouser brightly. "Am I not right, Father?"
"You are not," replied Ningauble coldly. "As I was about to observe, when this
tick of the intellect sought to burrow the skin of my mind, there must be
something that throws a protective influence around Chloe. Do you know of any
god or demon in whose special favor she stands, or any incantation or rune she
habitually mumbles, or any notable talisman, charm, or amulet she customarily
wears or inscribes on her body?"
"She did mention one thing," the Mouser admitted diffidently after a moment.
"An amulet given her years ago by some Persian, or Greco-Persian girl.
Doubtless a trifle of no consequence."
"Doubtless. Now, when the first sow-change occurred, did Fafhrd laugh the
laugh? He did? That was unwise, as I have many times warned you. Advertise
often enough your connection with the Elder Gods and you may be sure that some
greedy searcher will come crawling from the pit."
"But what is our connection with the Elder Gods?" asked the Mouser, eagerly,
though not hopefully. Fafhrd grunted derisively.
"Those are matters best not spoken of," Ningauble ordained. "Was there anyone
who showed a particular interest in Fafhrd's laughter?"
The Mouser hesitated. Fafhrd coughed. Thus prodded, the Mouser confessed, "Oh,
there was a girl who was perhaps a trifle more attentive than the others to
his bellowing. A Persian girl. In fact, as I recall, the same one who gave
Chloe the amulet." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
