The First Book of Lankhmar

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 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 furrowed his broad wide forehead. His green eyes glanced quickly from side to side. Putting his hand on the little man's shoulder, he whispered:
           "I don't like the looks of this, Gray Mouser."
           "Tcha!  The place always looks like this, as you well know," retorted the Gray Mouser sharply, his mobile lips sneering and dark eyes blazing. "They just do it to scare the populace. Come on, Fafhrd! We're not going to let that misbegotten, double-dealing Fissif escape after the way he cheated us."
           "I know all that, my angry little weasel," the barbarian replied, tugging the Mouser back. "And the idea of Fissif escaping displeases me. But putting my bare neck in a trap displeases me more. Remember, they whistled."
           "Tcha!  They always whistle. They like to be mysterious. I know these thieves, Fafhrd. I know them well. And you yourself have twice entered Thieves' House and escaped. Come on!"
           "But I don't know all of Thieves' House," Fafhrd protested. "There's a modicum of danger."
           "Modicum! They don't know all of Thieves' House, their own place. It's a maze of the unknown, a labyrinth of forgotten history. Come on."
           "I don't know. It awakens evil memories of my lost Vlana."
           "And of my lost Ivrian! But must we let them win because of that?"
           The big man shrugged his shoulders and started forward.
           "On second thought," whispered the Mouser, "there may be something to what you say." And he slipped a dirk from his belt.
           Fafhrd showed white teeth in