"To you, Ivrian," he whispered as he raised his small glass to the memory of his one true love and opened his eyes. To an observer, however, it might have appeared that it was Liara he toasted, for Cherig no longer stood between them.
Putting the crystal to his lips, he poured the thick, flowery nectar down his throat. Surely, the gods vinted no more wondrous beverage, he thought as he savored the burst of flavor.
When he lowered the glass, over the rim he spied the Dark Butterfly slipping out the rear door with her pair of suitors.
Fafhrd, in a generous effort to lower class barriers, had one arm wrapped around the dark-haired dancer and the other on the waist of the blond noblewoman. As the Mouser watched, the noblewoman held a mug to the Northerner's lips, and he drank deeply while the dancer kneaded the corded muscles in his neck.
Cherig passed by again to claim the precious glass. Without a word to his partner, the Mouser slipped through the crowd and exited through the rear door.
The fog swirled through Bones Alley. The moist air felt cool on his face, and he drew up his hood as he gazed up and down the narrow passage, hoping for a sight of the Dark Butterfly. The mist, of course, thwarted that desire, but a short, familiar laugh established his direction.
The haunting zaghareets of Aarth's followers still floated in the night, but the close walls of the alley muffled the weird cries. He felt his way along carefully until he reached Carter Street.
Rounding the corner, he caught just a flash of a silk cloak before the fog concealed Liara from his view again. Fortunately, her companions, made ebullient by liquor, gave forth with an endless stream of brags and jokes, as men too often did in the presence of beautiful women. Their voices made them easy to follow.
At the corner of Damp Street, a gaunt-faced man in a ragged cloak raised a smoking pitch torch as he called out to the trio. "Light your way!" he cried, his dirty face shining under the bright flare. "Light your way! Five tik-pennies is what you pay! Light your way!"
The Dark Butterfly laughed as she stopped before the enterprising fellow. "What a clever way to earn your bread, and a worthwhile service it is," she said. "Have you turned much business tonight?"
The torch-bearer bowed elegantly. "This damned fog, if your ladyship will pardon a poor man's language, keeps many folks inside. But Midsummer Festival approaches, and there's always them that likes to get an early start on their celebrating. I just walked a couple to the Plaza of Dark Delights." He winked salaciously.
A chorus of shrill zaghareets and a barely human scream ripped through the night. The torch-bearer shrank in fear, nearly dropping his money-maker. One of the paramours drew Liara protectively into his arms while the other whirled with a drawn dagger.
Unseen, the Mouser flattened against a wall, his sword whisking from its sheath. For a moment, all the horrors of the Cheap Street Plaza, forgotten in his desire for the woman he followed, surged through his mind.
A small mob of Aarth's priests and followers charged down the road, saffron robes flapping and torn, the light of tiny lanterns swinging in the mist as they ran. Again, they screamed zaghareets, and again one of their number, unable perhaps to make the intricate sound, answered with a blood-curdling scream. In only a moment they were passed and lost once more in the dense fog.
Liara's guardians gave a visible sigh of relief and sheathed their daggers, though Liara seemed quite calm, almost amused. "I have no fear of the night," she said to the torch-bearer, "but to soothe the nerves of these big strong men,"—she indicated her companions—"I will hire your services." She held up a finger. "One tik."
The torch-bearer scoffed, feigning offense. "Five tiks," he insisted. "But for such a beautiful lady, I will lower myself to accept four."
Liara held up another finger. "Two," she offered.
The torch-bearer rubbed his chin, looking stern. "Shall we say three and call it a bargain?"
"Two," Liara said firmly. Then she smiled. "And a kiss at the end of your hire."
The torch-bearer's eyes grew as bright as his flame.
"On the cheek," she added, folding her arms beneath her silken cloak.
"Left or right?" the torch-bearer grinned, unwilling to end the haggle.
Liara shrugged, reached out with a fingertip, and touched the left side of a broken-toothed mouth. "Here."
The little man smiled, then jumped up and clicked his heels. "Lead the way!" he sang. "Lead the way! Two tiks and a kiss is what you pay!"
Now four, Liara's party continued down Carter Street surrounded by a wavering circle of amber radiance. Concealed by the fog, the Mouser followed a few paces behind, his sword once more in its sheath. The smoke of the pitch torch tickled his nose, and he pressed a finger against his nostrils to stifle a sneeze.
She even walked like Ivrian. Her laughter, speech, her smallest movement reminded him of his dead love. The color of her hair, her eyes, her face was Ivrian's. Only in her boldness, her disdain for the dangers of the night, did she differ, and in her open, flagrant flirtation.
Drawn almost against his will, the Mouser crept along just past the edge of the light, a shadow of her shadow, haunted and mesmerized.
Suddenly, as they passed the mouth of a narrow alley, another pair of shadows sprang out. The torch-bearer whirled, shoving fire into the face of Liara's largest suitor. In the fire-gleam, daggers flashed. The remaining suitor, his dagger free, slashed at the torch-bearer, and the torch went spinning into the street. The burned man’s screams turned into a bloody, choking gurgle. Then the second suitor went down, too.
Liara struck with her own dagger at one of the shadows, but the figure caught her wrist and twisted it. The blade flew out of her fist, but with her other hand she clawed at his eyes and hurled herself upon him like a hellion.
The second attacker slit the burned suitor’s throat to silence him, then tangled a hand in Liara's hair, jerked her head back and slapped her hard enough to knock her sprawling into the street.
"Strip 'em of any valuables," the second man said gruffly to his partner, who wiped blood from several oozing scratches. "Then we'll strip this whore, an' have some fun."
Liara rose up on one elbow, rubbing her smarting cheek. As a rough hand reached to rip her gown, a slender dagger suddenly sprouted from the man's neck. His eyes snapped wide, and with a choked cry, he fell upon her.
The second thief had no more opportunity. Gray-gloved hands caught either side of his head and twisted sharply. A loud crack resulted, and the thief fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The Mouser moved swiftly into the concealing fog again, certain that Liara had not seen him. With a string of curses that would have made Fafhrd grin, she pushed the first thief's body off, and got to her feet. With another curse, she put a delicate slipper forcefully into the dead torch-bearer's face.
"Pick up the torch," the Mouser whispered, pressed out of sight near a wall. "I will see you safely to your home."
"You'll see me?" Liara shot back nervously with nothing to address but a voice in the fog. "I can't see you."
"Pick up the torch," he repeated. "I'll protect you. A beautiful woman should not walk these streets undefended."
Liara snorted as she recovered the sputtering torch and lifted it. "Well, that at least tells me you're no god or spirit. Only a man would concern himself with my looks." Using the light, she glanced down at her murdered companions and picked up one of the thieves' daggers, a larger and more dangerous-looking blade than her own tiny sticker. "I thank you for this, mysterious defender. For all their vanity, these were good servants, undeserving of treachery and slaughter."