Only one block northward, however, Temple Street appeared abandoned. The south side of the street consisted of temple walls and back gates, but small closely crowded shops lined the opposite side. With no good idea exactly where Demptha's business stood, the Mouser scratched his chin and wondered which way to go. He chose the riverward direction and began scrutinizing the merchants' signs carefully.
Finally, he stopped and peered upward at an elaborately painted sign. Portrayed upon it in vibrant colors was a wild peacock, its tail feathers displayed, an emerald clutched in one talon, a ruby in the other. " The Bird of Jewels, from the Lankhmaran tarot," the Mouser said, putting his hand upon the door. "I should have expected it."
Fafhrd put a hand on his companion's arm. "Can you be sure you have the right shop?"
The Mouser nodded. "I recognize the style of his art." The door swung open at his touch. "Unlocked," he said with some surprise.
They slipped inside and hesitated while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. A large worktable with various tools for gem-cutting and delicate metal-shaping scattered upon it occupied most of the visible interior. Several cupboards and empty display cases stood against a wall. A fine layer of dust covered everything.
"Demptha?" the Mouser called softly. Then louder, "Demptha?"
Fafhrd pointed to a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. With the tip of one finger, he pushed back the edge and peeked through. He beckoned for the Mouser to follow.
The rear room was larger, but empty of furniture. A few tools hung on pegs on the walls, and an empty chest stood with its lid open. A broken chair leaned in one corner. In another corner, a narrow wooden staircase led to an attic.
With one hand on Catsclaw's hilt, the Mouser crept up the stairs. Carefully, he eased up the horizontal door. "Mog's blood!" he exclaimed. "Fafhrd, come see this!"
The Northerner climbed the stairs while the Mouser waited open-mouthed at the top. With only his head and shoulders above the attic floor, Fafhrd gave a low whistle.
It was hardly an attic at all. Plush scarlet carpets covered the floor. Paintings done by Demptha's hand adorned the wall. A gold samovar stood close by. Another large table dominated the center of the room. Upon it, an array of flasks and alembics glimmered in the light from a pair of candles. A deck of cards lay scattered between the candles.
The bookshelves that covered the wall behind the table revealed an impressive collection of volumes.
"I suspect this is Demptha's real work room," the Mouser commented.
A barely audible groan quivered up from the shadows behind the table.
"Demptha?" Taking a tighter grip on his dagger, the Mouser seized one of the candles and moved around the table. Fafhrd came around the other side.
The light fell on a lined and wrinkled face, on a mass of gray hair, and shriveled breasts. Horror and revulsion gripped the Mouser at this unexpected sight, for in that aged visage he recognized another. "Jesane!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees.
Fafhrd raised an eyebrow. "The daughter?"
Jesane rolled rheumy eyes toward the Mouser. Then her gaze shifted to a book that lay open on the floor just beyond her reach. She strained for it, but the Mouser gathered her up in a cradling embrace. She felt brittle in his arms, this woman who had saved his life, like old parchment.
"What happened to you?" the Mouser cried as he brushed strands of hair from her brow. He searched that face for traces of her former beauty, recalled the sparkle in those once-bright eyes, the strength and vitality of a once-supple body that he had desired. "By all the gods, what happened?"
Jesane's mouth trembled and opened. A thin string of spittle hung suspended between her cracked lips. A brown tongue licked it weakly away. "Shadowland," she whispered, her eyes widening at some horror. She tried to roll free of the Mouser's embrace, tried to reach with twig-like fingers for the book on the floor. "Shadowland is here!"
A dry rattle issued from her throat, and she went limp.
"Dead," the Mouser said, his voice heavy with sadness as he laid her gently down. He picked up the fallen book, intending only to place it on the table. Yet the distinctive calligraphy caught his eye. He lingered over the page where the book was opened.
Before he could read a word, the page exploded in violent flame. The flash singed the Mouser's eyebrows and, but for his glove, would have burned his hand. Instinctively, he dropped the book with a howl.
With unnatural speed, the flames devoured the book and spread to the thick carpet. A streamer of fire shot across the floor straight for the bookshelves.
"No!" Fafhrd shouted, leaping up. He snatched volumes off the shelves, attempting to save them, but each one burst into new flame in his grasp.
The Mouser pulled him away.
"What a loss!" Fafhrd cried. "All that knowledge!"
"We've got to get out of here!" the Mouser insisted, shielding his face from the heat. "This whole place is going to burn!"
They ran down the stairs and out into the street. They didn't stop there. Neither wanted to be found lingering around a sudden fire when soldiers were already seeking the Mouser. They ducked around the next corner. Emerging onto the Street of the Gods, they headed toward the river.
Ahead, drifting over the southwestern rooftops, a column of black smoke climbed into the blue sky. Fafhrd eyed it with a strange expression, then began walking faster and faster. Finally he ran with the Mouser pursuing.
Still a block from this second fire, Fafhrd stopped. "Sadaster's estate," he said, nodding toward the crackling flames. "Another library destroyed."
The Mouser let go a long sigh. The streets were no longer deserted. People thronged the way, watching the great house burn. A water line had formed, not to douse the flames engulfing Sadaster's house, but to protect the buildings around it. Fortunately, the estates in this part of town were well-spaced. There was little chance this fire would spread.
"I wish you could have seen it," Fafhrd whispered. "Such a collection of books."
"Nothing like a fire to draw a crowd," the Mouser muttered. He turned away from the inferno to witness the column of smoke rising over Temple Street.
Let Fafhrd mourn the books. He would mourn Jesane.
SEVENTEEN
WIZARD'S RAGE
Squads of soldiers came racing down Nun Street, drawn by the crackling flames that engulfed Sadaster's estate. Mindful of the Mouser's status as a wanted man, Fafhrd caught his partner's elbow and quickly pushed him into the thick of the spectators.
The Mouser understood and drew his hood closer about his face. Without drawing attention to themselves, they slipped through the crowd into a narrow, serpentine alley and quick-footed away from the scene, emerging some blocks eastward in Crypt Court.
Tall ramshackle apartment buildings, mostly abandoned, rose on all sides of the square. The structures were among the oldest in Lankhmar, and they showed it, leaning at crazy angles on their ancient, eroded foundations. Sunlight streamed through holes in the roofs, through cracked and weathered walls.
Only the poorest and most desperate Lankhmarans, those at the very nadir of their luck, came here to live. The individual apartments were no more than tiny, cheerless cells—hence the name, Crypt Court. The floorings were treacherously rotten and the windows shutterless. A good wind could raise a creaking and a groaning from the wooden beams and set the structures to swaying.
Such was the nature of Lankhmar that its worst tenements stood side by side with its wealthiest neighborhoods, connected sometimes by no more than a narrow road or a few alleyways. At the center of the court, a small cracked fountain gurgled softly. Water from a ceramic pipe trickled into a round pool whose bottom was covered with a mossy, dark green growth. Pushing his cloak back over his shoulders, Fafhrd dipped a hand into the water, and wiped his face and neck. Though he declined to say so to the Mouser, a dull ache banged at the back of his head from the wine he had drunk.