The Mouser hurried to help his fat landlord, as did Fafhrd. Together, they pulled him up, walked him to a stool, and propped him against the wall.
With bleary red eyes, Cherig studied both their faces, seeming not to recognize them. Then, he clapped Fafhrd's shoulder. "Oh, it's you, Fafhrd," he mumbled, his words slurring. He shook a finger under the Northerner's nose. "You better be careful. Some of the Overlord's men have been asking about that gray partner of yours, and if you ask me, I think they're watching the place."
"I'll warn him," Fafhrd said, waving a hand under his nose to disperse the foul odor of Cherig's breath.
"You do that," Cherig answered, nodding. He closed his eyes and slid sideways off the stool, his back still to the wall. A loud snore escaped his parting lips as his jaw sagged.
"He must have had an interesting night," Fafhrd commented.
The Mouser looked at him sharply. "You don't know?"
Fafhrd shook his head. "The party was over when I came home. Now tell me what you did to raise the ire of the constabulary."
It took only a few moments for the Mouser to explain his capture outside the Tower of Koh-Vombi and his subsequent escape from Rokkarsh's dungeon into the tunnels below the city. Of the Temple of Hates and its conversion into a sanctuary for homeless victims of Malygris's curse, he told more, giving details of his meetings with Demptha Negatarth and his daughter, Jesane. Lastly, his mood turning darker, he told of Demptha's disappearance.
"Demptha has a jeweler's shop just north of the Street of the Gods," the Mouser said. "If you're not too sotted from all that wine, I want to go there."
Fafhrd wiped a hand over his brow. "Exercise has a way of clearing the head," he said.
A muffled crash followed by a loud groan and a curse sounded from upstairs. The voice was plainly that of the scarfaced corporal.
"Now might be a good time to seek your shop," Fafhrd suggested.
"It would be more fun to stay and bash him again," the Mouser muttered, but he led the way from the Silver Eel into Dim Lane.
At the corner of Cheap Street, they encountered a lone pedestrian. Hurrying along hunched over in a hooded cloak, the man nearly ran into Fafhrd. Glancing up suddenly, he gave a sharp gasp and stepped back. His right hand flew out from under the cloak, and a slender knife flashed. Beneath the hood, fearful eyes snapped wide.
For a moment, the man stared at the pair. Then, putting the knife back under his cloak, he murmured a hasty apology, ran to the far side of the street and continued on his way.
"What was that all about?" Fafhrd asked, scratching his chin as he stared after the pedestrian. Then he swept his gaze up and down the street. "Where is everyone? It's morning, and the street is virtually empty!"
"Did you see how his hand trembled?" the Mouser commented in a low voice. He drew his own cloak closer about his shoulders. "Scarface's soldiers were afraid, too."
"Of course they were afraid!" Fafhrd laughed. "Are we not a fearsome pair? Why, all by itself that dusky face of yours could scare. . . !
The Mouser jabbed an elbow against Fafhrd's hip. "Do not besmirch my porcelain beauty," he warned with mock-gravity. He turned serious once more. "They badly outnumbered us. But if those soldiers were already afraid, before even knocking at our door, no wonder we defeated them easily."
"Afraid! Afraid!" Fafhrd said testily. "Afraid of what?"
Stepping slowly into the center of the street, the Gray Mouser gazed up and down. Cheap Street at this time of morning should have been busy with early shoppers, merchants on the way to their businesses, delivery carts laden with fresh wares.
Not so much as a dog prowled through the gutters.
As he turned back toward his partner, from the corner of his eye the Mouser noted a window directly above them. Its shutter hung slightly open; a nervous pair of eyes peered down at them, drawn perhaps by their voices.
Fafhrd followed the Mouser's gaze. Putting on a big smile, he raised a hand and wiggled his fingers at the peeper.
White fingers curled around the shutter's edge and drew it quietly closed.
Staring at the closed shutter, the Mouser sniffed the air. "You don't feel it?" he whispered to his partner. "Something intangible, indefinable, like a cold breath on the back of your neck?" He paused and swallowed. Once before, he had felt fear such as this, but stronger—in the tunnels under Lankhmar. "A strange wind is blowing, Fafhrd."
The Northerner frowned. "I don't feel any wind," he said. "Nor this fear you speak of, whatever it is."
"Do you not feel it, my stubborn friend?" the Mouser said, starting northward up the street. "Then tell me truly why I found you deep in your second bottle before the sun was even over the rooftops?"
Quickly overtaking the Mouser, Fafhrd started to protest. Instead, he fell silent, and his face took on an expression as grim as his companion's, and his eyes began to minutely search the alley entrances and shadowed places as they made their way.
From Dim Lane to Craft Street they encountered no more than five people. None spoke or offered any greeting. Averting their eyes, those citizens hurried past, clutching parcels or purses or daggers concealed beneath their cloaks.
At the Craft Street intersection, only two merchants had opened their shops. One of them stood in the doorway, glaring suspiciously up and down the road. In one hand, he gripped a wooden mallet that might have been a tool of his trade.
On the Street of Thinkers, the university bells tolled, calling students to study. Today, the bells carried a lonely quality and their summons went unheeded.
The Street of Silk Merchants normally bustled with trade even at the earliest hours. It was totally empty. Shop doors remained closed, windows shuttered.
"If Laurian cast a powerful spell last night," the Mouser said, "I think every citizen must have felt it. Something's left them cowed and hiding in their homes."
Fafhrd put a hand to his mouth and coughed, a soft explosion that rose from deep in his lungs. "If you're right," he said, wiping a trace of spittle from his lips, "then this is a city of the damned."
The Mouser stared at his partner, and he paled. "Malygris's curse," he said with a sudden dreadful understanding. "It may have touched every person affected by Laurian's magic."
A look of infinite sadness settled upon Fafhrd's face. "I wonder if she knew what she did?" He shook his head forcefully. "I can't believe she would doom so many innocents."
Gray-gloved hands curled into fists at the Mouser's sides. "I wonder if Laurian is responsible at all," he murmured. "Or even Malygris, for that matter."
"Malygris killed Laurian last night," Fafhrd snapped. "He's no innocent."
The Mouser only half-listened as, privately, he dealt with a bitter realization. Magic had compelled him to seek out the Dark Butterfly and suffer her humiliations. He felt sure of that, but the surety brought no consolation. Instead, it brought danger, threat, and uncertainty. Would he, too, now fall victim to the horrible, wasting sickness?
"I don't know what that wizard is," the Mouser muttered, "but I swear, Fafhrd, there's some greater mystery here that we've not yet touched upon."
The same hushed quiet filled the Street of the Gods, but on this most major of major thoroughfares, braver souls ventured. The clip-clop of a horse caused Fafhrd and the Mouser to turn and watch as a black carriage, its small drapes drawn to conceal the occupant, passed them by. The driver kept his gaze straight ahead, studiously ignoring them.
At the Temple of Mog, a squad of armed priests stood guard by the entrance and along the surrounding wall, a clear reminder of their battle with the priests of Aarth and the violence that had taken place only days before. They glared with dark suspicion at the few citizens wandering among the open shops and businesses.