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which Socrates drank the hemlock; fourthly, a sprig from the original
Tree of Life, and lastly..." He hesitated as if his memory had failed him,
dipped up a potsherd from the pile, and read from it: "And lastly, you must
procure the woman who will come when she is ready."
"What woman?"
"The woman who will come when she is ready." Ningauble tossed back the
fragment, starting a small landslide of shards.
"Corrode Loki's bones!" cursed Fafhrd, and the Mouser said, "But, Father, no
woman comes when she's ready. She always waits."
Ningauble sighed merrily and said, "Do not be downcast, children. Is it ever
the custom of your good friend the Gossiper to give simple advice?"
"It is not," said Fafhrd.
"Well, having all these things, you must go to the Lost City of Ahriman that
lies east of Armenia -- whisper not its name -- "
"Is it Khatti?" whispered the Mouser.
"No, Blowfly. And furthermore, why are you interrupting me when you are
supposed to be hard at work recalling all the details of the scandal of the
Friday concubine, the three eunuch priests, and the slave girl from Samos?"
"Oh truly, Spy of the Unmentionable, I labor at that until my mind becomes a
weariness and a wandering, and all for love of you." The Mouser was glad of
Ningauble's question, for he had forgotten the three eunuch priests, which
would have been most unwise, as no one in his senses sought to cheat the
Gossiper of even a pinch of misinformation promised.
Ningauble continued, "Arriving at the Lost City, you must seek out the ruined
black shrine, and place the woman before the great tomb, and wrap the shroud
of Ahriman around her, and let her drink the powdered mummy from the
hemlock cup, diluting it with a wine you will find where you find the mummy,
and place in her hand the sprig from the Tree of Life, and wait for the dawn."
"And then?" rumbled Fafhrd.
"And then the mirror becomes all red with rust. I can see no further, except
that someone will return from a place which it is unlawful to leave, and that
you must be wary of the woman."
"But, Father, all this scavenging of magical trumpery is a great bother,"
Fafhrd objected. "Why shouldn't we go at once to the Lost City?"
"Without the map on the shroud of Ahriman?" murmured Ningauble.
"And you still can't tell us the name of the adept we seek?" the Mouser
ventured. "Or even the name of the woman? Puppy dog problems indeed! We give
you a bitch, Father, and by the time you return her, she's dropped a litter."
Ningauble shook his head ever so slightly, the six eyes retreated under the
hood to become an ominous multiple gleam, and the Mouser felt a shiver crawl
on his spine.
"Why is it, Riddle-Vendor, that you always give us half knowledge?"
Fafhrd pressed angrily. "Is it that at the last moment our blades may strike
with half force?"
Ningauble chuckled.
"It is because I know you too well, children. If I said one word more, Hulk,
you could be cleaving with your great sword -- at the wrong person. And your
cat-comrade would be brewing his child's magic -- the wrong child's magic. It
is no simple creature you foolhardily seek, but a mystery, no single identity
but a mirage, a stony thing that has stolen the blood and substance of life, a
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
nightmare crept out of dream."
For a moment it was as if, in the far reaches of that nighted cavern,
something that waited stirred. Then it was gone.
Ningauble purred complacently, "And now I have an idle moment, which, to
please you, I will pass in giving ear to the story that the Mouser has been
impatiently waiting to tell me."
So, there being no escape, the Mouser began, first explaining that only the
surface of the story had to do with the concubine, the three priests, and the
slave girl; the deeper portion touching mostly, though not entirely, on four
infamous handmaidens of Ishtar and a dwarf who was richly compensated for his
deformity. The fire grew low and a little, lemurlike creature came edging in
to replenish it, and the hours stretched on, for the Mouser always warmed to
his own tales. There came a place where Fafhrd's eyes bugged with
astonishment, and another where Ningauble's paunch shook like a small mountain
in earthquake, but eventually the tale came to an end, suddenly and seemingly
in the middle, like a piece of foreign music.
Then farewells were said and final questions refused answer, and the two
seekers started back the way they had come. And Ningauble began to sort in his
mind the details of the Mouser's story, treasuring it the more because he knew
it was an improvisation, his favorite proverb being, "He who lies
artistically, treads closer to the truth than ever he knows."
Fafhrd and the Mouser had almost reached the bottom of the boulder stair when
they heard a faint tapping and turned to see Ningauble peering down from the
verge, supporting himself with what looked like a cane and rapping with
another.
"Children," he called, and his voice was tiny as the note of the lone flute in
the Temple of Baal, "it comes to me that something in the distant spaces lusts
for something in you. You must guard closely what commonly needs no guarding."
"Yes, Godfather of Mystification."
"You will take care?" came the elfin note. "Your beings depend on it."
"Yes, Father."
And Ningauble waved once and hobbled out of sight. The little creatures [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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