Laurian's voice trailed away, and her head turned a little as if she had fallen asleep. Fafhrd watched her, uncertain of what he should do. Wait? Leave? He still had unanswered questions. He studied her face, so beautiful but for her ravaged eyes and the faintest lines of grief etched across her brow.
He found himself admiring Laurian. Love and vengeance, and the desperations to which they drove a person, were things he understood well. He thought of his own Vlana. Had he not stormed Thieves' House with all its traps and horrors to slay the thrice-cursed sorcerer, Hristomilo, who had killed Fafhrd's one true love?
He looked with a potent sympathy upon Laurian, who dared to claim Sadaster's magic for herself, caring not if Malygris's spell claimed her life so long as she found the power to take that hated wizard in the bargain. Fafhrd nodded approvingly.
Aye, he understood Sadaster's widow.
Sameel nudged his arm and offered him another cup of steaming gahvey. He accepted with surprise, unaware that the girl had slipped from the library and returned. Her moist gaze settled upon Laurian as she passed the cup into his hands.
"My mistress is dying," she whispered sadly. "Only the box sustains her life force, and in it she lingers, seeing beyond sight, hearing beyond hearing, pursuing her vengeance. I fear her time is short."
As if waking, Laurian's head snapped forward. "I am not dead yet, child," she said.
Fafhrd held his cup without drinking. "How is it that you see?" he asked.
Lifeless eyes turned his way. "The mist and the fog tell me things," she answered, waving a hand with slow grace, setting the mist that yet lingered in the sarcophagus to swirling. "We are great friends, the fog and I. The fog touched you in the street, and the one you call the Mouser. It overheard you and whispered to me that you also seek Malygris." A hard smile turned up the corners of her mouth. "And by my dream I knew that I could trust you. The enemy of my enemy. . . . I'm sure you've heard."
Fafhrd sipped his beverage. "Has the fog told you where to find Malygris?"
"I've found several of his hiding places," Laurian answered, her hands curling into small fists, "but never Malygris, himself."
"I can sense your disappointment," Fafhrd said, attempting a bit of levity while he considered. "I thought that Malygris loved you. In my dream, he slew Sadaster out of jealousy."
Laurian's face reddened. "I met the fool but one time, Northerner—at the celebration of my engagement to Sadaster. He and my husband once were friends. In his warped mind, he fancies that he's loved me ever since, and that only some black spell of Sadaster's kept me from returning that love."
Fafhrd shrugged as he took another sip of the hot, strong-tasting beverage. Beneath his calm demeanor, his thoughts churned with schemes and possibilities. "Still," he said slowly as he fingered the rim of his cup, "sometimes the simplest plans are best. Have you invited him over for gahvey?"
Laurian started. "What?"
"He's a man, isn't he?" Fafhrd said, raising his cup in a mock-toast. "Open your window, wave a hanky, and call yoo-hoo." Fafhrd quickly swallowed the rest of his gahvey and handed the cup back to Sameel. "Trust me," he added. "If he's in love, he'll come."
Laurian touched a fingertip softly to her lips as she considered. "I could set traps, magical snares ..."
Fafhrd interrupted. "Just stick a knife in him."
Laurian froze, her mouth half-open, facing Fafhrd as if she actually saw him. "Have I been such a fool?" she whispered disbelievingly. "Could it be so easy?"
"It's never easy to knife a man," Fafhrd answered gravely, "no matter how much you hate him. That's why I'll be hiding behind a curtain with a sword." He clapped a hand to his side where Graywand should have been, abruptly remembering— he'd lost it in the Tower of Koh-Vombi. He looked up sheepishly. "I seem to have misplaced my weapon."
"... right into my very bedchamber," Laurian ruminated, murmuring to herself. She paused again, then she gestured toward her handmaiden. "Sameel, fetch Sadaster's sword."
Obediently, the girl hurried from the room.
"You will have my husband's sword, Northerner," she said, her voice firm with determination. "But do not doubt. If Malygris proves fool enough to walk into my home, it will be my dagger that drinks his heart blood."
Fafhrd paced to the open window and stared outward. In the distance, Rhan's spire rose above all the rooftops of Lankhmar. Behind it, the sun sank slowly toward the horizon. Soon darkness would fall.
Where, he wondered, was the Mouser?
"Dagger or sword," Fafhrd said quietly, vaguely troubled by the impending night. "It matters not, so long as I have a drop of that blood."
"A gruesome request," Laurian said. Then she spoke a name as if it were a question. "Sheelba?"
Fafhrd nodded, his back to her. His gaze still upon the horizon, he covered his mouth with a fist and allowed the small cough he had been resisting. A chill and a shiver of dread rattled through him. Squeezing his eyes shut briefly, he mastered himself. Now was not a time for fear.
Realizing Laurian had not seen his nod, he explained. "With that last ingredient Sheelba can cast the counter-spell to end this nightmare Malygris has dreamed for us."
Laurian's voice softened again as she leaned back within her silver sarcophagus. "A counter-spell?" She sighed as she tied the white linen blindfold once more over her ravaged eyes. "Then more than vengeance will guide my blade. Lankhmar is my city, and I know the suffering of its people."
With a second sigh, she folded her fragile hands upon the shroudcloth that draped her lap, and her head sagged forward upon her bosom.
Fafhrd moved around the room again to face her. Once more, she seemed to sleep. No matter how he tried to deny it, a troublesome fear grew within him. He whispered a question. "Why didn't you bring the Mouser, too?"
Laurian did not stir. Even the thin mist that surrounded her seemed to hold perfectly still.
Fafhrd repeated, strangely unable to raise his voice. Did he want her to hear? Did he want an answer?
"She dared not snatch your friend," Sameel said, standing nervously behind him. In her hands, she carried a magnificent great-sword in an elegantly crafted leather scabbard. "She had only strength enough for one of you. And your friend has not yet been touched by Malygris's curse."
Fafhrd's mouth went dry. He stared at Sameel's moistening eyes, reading the fear and uncertainty he suddenly saw in those limpid green pools. Groping beyond his own uncertainty, his heart went out to her. "You, too?"
Wordless, she nodded.
A cold anger filled Fafhrd, and his hand went to the sword. He curled his fingers around its hilt. It fit his grip as if it had been made for him. Grimly, he drew the blade. Streaming through the window, the last sunlight touched the keen edge with a glittering fire.
Red fire, Fafhrd thought, turning the sword in the light— deep and rich as the color of blood.
FOURTEEN
PIECES OF DREAMS, NIGHTMARE SHARDS
Fafhrd slipped naked between the sheets of Sameel's bed and eased his head carefully down upon the pillow. The vertigo troubled him less than before, and the constant hammering inside his skull had eased somewhat. Still, he saw the wisdom of resting a while. Later, he would rise, go out and search for the Mouser.
Turning on his side, his gaze fell upon his new sword, which leaned against a chair where his clothes were hung. Sameel's room had no windows, and the lambent flame from an oil lamp lent the polished black pommel stone a starlight glow.
Sameel entered the room quietly, bearing another tray of fresh herbs and steaming bowls. Noting the direction of his gaze, she said, "My master called the sword, Payday.''