Swords and Ice Magic - By Fritz Leiber Page 0,40
of the northern world.
“I am Groniger, harbor master of Salthaven. I estimate your ships will be a good week repairing and revictualling. We will feed and board your crew ashore in the traders' quarter.” He gestured toward the squalid red and yellow buildings.
“Thank you,” Fafhrd said gravely, while the Mouser echoed coolly, “Indeed, yes.” Hardly an enthusiastic welcome, but still one.
Groniger thrust out his hand, palm uppermost. “The charge,” he said loudly, “will be five gold pieces for the galley, seven for the tub. Payment in advance.”
Fafhrd's and the Mouser's jaws dropped. The latter could not contain his indignation, captain's dignity or no.
“But we're your sworn allies,” he protested, “come here as promised, through perils manifold, to be your mercenaries and help save you from the locust-swarm invasion of the raptorial Sea-Mingols counseled and led by evilest Khahkht, the Wizard of Ice.”
Groniger's eyebrows lifted. “What invasion?” he queried. “The Sea-Mingols are our friends. They buy our fish. They may be pirates to others, but never to Rime Isle ships. Khahkht is an old wives' tale, not to be credited by men of sense.”
“Old wives' tale?” the Mouser exploded. “When we were but now three endless nights harried by Khahkht's monstrous galley and sank it at last on your very doorstep. His invasion came that close to success. Did you not observe the universal blackness and hell-wind when he conjured the sun out of heaven three days running?”
“We saw some dark clouds blowing up from the south,” Groniger said, “under whose cover you approached Salthaven. They vanished when they touched Rime Isle ― as all things superstitious are like to do. As for invasion, there were rumors of such an eruption some months back, but our council sifted 'em and found 'em idle gossip. Have any of you heard aught of a Sea-Mingol invasion since?” he asked loudly, looking from side to side at his fellow Rime Islers. They all shook their heads.
“So pay up!” he repeated, jogging his outthrust palm, while those behind him wagged their quarterstaves, firming their grips.
“Shameless ingratitude!” the Mouser rebuked, taking a moral tone as a leader of men. “What gods do you worship here on Rime Isle, to be so hardhearted?”
Groniger's answer rang out distinct and cool. “We worship no gods at all, but do our business in the world clearheadedly, no misty dreams. We leave such fancies to the so-called civilized people: decadent cultures of the hot-house south. Pay up, I say.”
At that moment Fafhrd, whose height permitted him to see over the crowd, cried out, “Here are those coming who hired us, harbor master, and will give the lie to your disclaimers.”
The crowd parted respectfully to let through two slender, trousered women with long knives at their belts in jeweled scabbards. The taller was clad all in blue, with like eyes, and fair hair. Her comrade was garmented in dark red, with green eyes and black hair that seemed to have gold wires braided in it. Skor and Pshawri, still stupid with fatigue, took note of them and it was impossible to mistake the message in the sea-dogs' kindling eyes: Here were the northern angels come at last!
“The eminent councilwomen Afreyt and Cif,” Groniger intoned. “We are honored by their presence.”
They approached with queenly smiles and looks of amiable curiosity.
“Tell them, Lady Afreyt,” said Fafhrd courteously to the one in blue, “how you commissioned me to bring Rime Isle twelve ― ” Suppressing the word “berserk,” he smoothly made it, “ ― stout northern fighters of the fiercest temper.”
“And I twelve ... nimble and dextrous Lankhmar sworders and slingers, sweet Lady Cif,” the Mouser chimed in airily, avoiding the word “thief.”
Afreyt and Cif looked at them blankly. Then their gazes became at once anxious and solicitous.
Afreyt commented, “They've been tempest-tossed, poor lads, and doubtless it has disordered their memories. Our little northern gales come as a surprise to southerners. They seem gentle. Use them well, Groniger.” Looking intently at Fafhrd, she lifted her hand to adjust her hair and in lowering it hesitated a finger for a moment crosswise to her tightly shut long lips.
Cif added, “Doubtless privation has temporarily addled their wits. Their ships have seen hard use. But what a tale! I wonder who they are? Nourish them with hot soup ― after they've paid, of course.” And she winked at the Mouser a green dark-lashed eye on the side away from Groniger. Then the two ladies wandered on.
It is a testimony to the fundamental levelheadedness and growing self-control of the