The Second Book of Lankhmar

her horrid last transformation, had produced reactions of wonder and amazement —and some thoughtful frowning. Afreyt had asked some difficult questions about his motives for following the Sea Wrack woman, while Rill had smiled knowingly.
           As for the identity of Cif's ghost, only Mother Grum had strong convictions. "That'll be somewhat from sunken Simorgya," she'd said, "come to repossess their pirated baubles."
           Groniger had disputed that last, claiming the ikons had always been Rime Isle's, and the old witch had shrugged.
           Now Gale asked him as they collected arrows, "And the fish-lady bit your hook off just like that?"
           "Yes, indeed," he assured her. "I'm having Mannimark forge me a new one — of bronze. You know, that hook saved me twice — I'm getting to feel quite fond of it — once from the blue essence of lightning bolt coursing through the sea monster's extremities, and once from having another chunk of my left arm bitten off."
           Gale asked, "What was it that made you suspicious of the fish-lady, so that you followed her?"
           "Come on with those arrows, Gale," he told her. "I've thought of a new way to shoot around corners."
           This time he did it by aiming into the wind so that it carried his arrow in a sidewise curve behind the gray standing stone hiding the red bag. Gale said it was almost as much cheating as dropping an arrow in from above, but later they found he'd hit his target.

         II: The Mer She
         1
           The ripening new-risen moon of the world of Nehwon shone yellowly down on the marching swells of the Outer Sea, flecking with gold their low lacy crests and softly gilding the taut triangular sail of the slim galley hurrying northwest. Ahead, the last sunset reds were fading while black night engulfed the craggy coast behind, shrouding its severe outlines.
           At Seahawk 's stern, beside old Ourph, who had the tiller, stood the Gray Mouser with arms folded across his chest and a satisfied smile linking his cheeks, his short stalwart body swaying as the ship slowly rocked, moving from shallow trough to low crest and to trough again with the steady southwest wind on her loadside beam, her best point of sailing. Occasionally he stole a glance back at the fading lonely lights of No-Ombrulsk, but mainly he looked straight ahead where lay, five nights and days away, Rime Isle and sweet Cif, and poor one-hand Fafhrd and the most of their men and Fafhrd's Afreyt, whom the Mouser found rather austere.
           Ah, by Mog and by Loki, he thought, what satisfaction equals that of captain who at last heads home with ship well ballasted with the get of monstrously clever trading? None! he'd warrant. Youth's erotic capturings and young manhood's slayings — yea, even the masterworks and life-scrolls of scholar and artist — were the merest baubles by compare, callow fevers all.
           In his self-enthusiasm the Mouser couldn't resist going over in his mind each last item of merchant plunder —and also to assure himself that each was stowed to best advantage and stoutly secured, in case of storm or other ill-hap.
           First, lashed to the sides, in captain's cabin beneath his feet, were the casks of wine, mostly fortified, and the small kegs of bitter brandy, Fafhrd's favorite tipple — those assuredly could not be stored elsewhere or entrusted to another's overwatching (except perhaps yellow old Ourph's here), he reminded himself as he lifted a small leather flask from his belt to his lips and took a measured sup of elixir of Ool Hruspan grape; he had strained his throat bellowing orders for Seahawk 's stowing and swift departure, and its raw membranes wanted healing before winter air came to try them further.
           And amongst the wine in his cabin was also stored, in as many equally stout, tight barrels, their seams tarred, the wheaten flour — plebeian stuff to the thoughtless, but all-important for an isle that could grow no grain except a little summer barley.
           Forward of captain's cabin — and now with his self-enthusiasm at glow point, the Mouser's mused listing-over turned to actual tour of inspection, he first speaking word to Ourph and then moving prow-wards catlike along the moonlit ship — forward of captain's cabin was chiefest prize, the planks and beams and mast-worthy rounds of seasoned timber such as Fafhrd had