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talk to you about, Fissif -- the getting hold of Ohmphal."
"Oh, but there are -- difficulties, as you, Krovas our master, must surely
know," said the fat thief, quickly singing another tune. "Even today, after the
passage of centuries, men still shudder when they speak of the crypt of Votishal,
with its lock and its beast. There is no one in the Thieves' Guild who can -- "
"No one in the Thieves' Guild, that's true!" interrupted the black-bearded
thief sharply. "But" -- and here his voice began to go low -- "there are those
outside the Thieves' Guild who can. Have you heard that there is recently
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returned here to Lankhmar a certain rogue and picklock known as the Gray
Mouser? And with him a huge barbarian who goes by the name of Fafhrd, but is
sometimes called the Beast-Slayer? We have a score as you well know, to settle
with both of them. They slew our sorcerer, Hristomilo. That pair commonly hunts
alone -- yet if you were to approach them with this tempting suggestion..."
"But, Master," interposed the fat thief, "in that case, they would demand at
least two-thirds of the profits."
"Exactly!" said the black-bearded thief, with a sudden flash of cold humor.
The red-haired wench caught his meaning, and laughed aloud. "Exactly! And that
is just the reason why I have chosen you, Fissif, the smoothest of double-crossers,
to undertake this business."
* * * *
The ten remaining days of the Month of the Serpent had passed, and the first
fifteen days of the Month of the Owl, since those three had conferred. And the
fifteenth day had darkened into night. Chill fog, like a dark shroud, hugged
ancient stony Lankhmar, chief city of the land of Lankhmar. This night the fog
had come earlier than usual, flowing down the twisting streets and mazy
alleyways. And it was getting thicker.
In one street rather narrower and more silent than the rest -- Cheap Street, its
name -- a square yellow torchlight shone from a wide doorway in a vast and
rambling house of stone. There was something ominous in a single open door in a
street where all other doors were barred against the darkness and the damp.
People avoided this street at night. And there was reason for their fear. The house
had a bad reputation. People said it was the den in which the thieves of
Lankhmar gathered to plot and palaver and settle their private bickerings, the
headquarters from which Krovas, the reputed Master Thief, issued his orders --
in short, the home of the formidable Thieves' Guild of Lankhmar.
But now a man came hurrying along this street, every now and then looking
apprehensively over his shoulder. He was a fat man, and he hobbled a little, as if
he had recently ridden hard and far. He carried a tarnished and ancient-looking
copper box of about the size to contain a human head. He paused in the doorway
and uttered a certain password -- seemingly to the empty air, for the long hall
ahead of him was empty.
But a voice from a point inside and above the doorway answered, "Pass,
Fissif. Krovas awaits you in his room." And the fat one said, "They follow me close
-- you know the two I mean." And the voice replied, "We are ready for them." And
the fat one hurried down the hall.
For a considerable time, then, there was nothing but silence and the
thickening fog. Finally a faint warning whistle came from somewhere down the
street. It was repeated closer by and answered from inside the doorway.
Then, from the same direction as the first whistle came the tread of feet,
growing louder. It sounded as if there were only one person, but the effulgence of
the light from the door showed that there was also a little man, who walked softly,
a little man clad in close-fitting garments of gray -- tunic, jerkin, mouseskin cap
and cloak.
His companion was rangy and copper-haired, obviously a northern barbarian
from the distant lands of the Cold Waste. His tunic was rich brown, his cloak
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green. There was considerable leather about him -- wristbands, headband, boots,
and a wide tight-laced belt. Fog had wet the leather and misted the brass
studding it. As they entered the square of light before the doorway, a frown
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