The Second Book of Lankhmar

than the digging up of a corpse. But I question your logic. Since there are other trails — and Groniger and I both attest to that — trails promising a more useful sort of success, if any, why not expend at least half our efforts on those? Nay, why not all?"
           "That appears to me to be most closely reasoned," Groniger put in, seconding.
           "You think I was guided by logic and reason in what I did?" Fafhrd asked with a shade of impatience, even contempt, shaking his hook at them. " I saw him sink, I tell you. So did others. Cif felt him go straight down."
           "I too," from Ourph. "We saw one miracle, why not expect another?"
           Afreyt took up, "Yet all of you who saw him sink have admitted, at one time or another since, that he grew insubstantial toward the end. And so did he to Gron and I, I freely admit, in his flight toward Elvenhold. But does not that equality argue for us giving an equal weight to both possibilities?"
           Fafhrd replied, a little tiredly. "I'm bothered myself by those impressions of the Mouser fading. In view of them, the idea of also searching for him elsewhere on Rime Isle seems sensible, and when I sent Gib the Mingol back with the second dogcart for more lumber, you heard me tell him to fetch some rag of the Mouser's and the two scent dogs if available."
           Cif spoke up. "I keep wondering if there's not some way to use, in hunting Mou, the golden queller Pshawri brought up from the Maelstrom. It's enwedged with the black cinder of god Loki, whom I'm convinced is responsible for Mou's present plight. A most treacherous and madly malevolent deity, as I learned in my dealings with him."
           "You're right about that last," Mother Grum agreed darkly, but before she could say more, Skor yelled up from the hole, "Captain, I've uncovered something buried seven feet deep you'll want to see. Will send it up."
           Fafhrd moved quickly to the rim, took something off the top of the next bucketload drawn up, shook it out and then closely inspected it.
           "It's the Mouser's cowl which he wore tonight," he announced to them all triumphantly. "Now tell me he didn't sink straight down into the ground here!"
           Cif snatched it from him and confirmed the identification.
           Afreyt called "Snowtreader!" and knelt by the shoulder of the white bearhound who came up, working her fingers deep in his great ruff and speaking earnestly in his shaggy ear. He took a thoughtful snuff of the dirt-steeped garment and began to move about questingly, muzzle to the ground. He came to the hole, gazed down into it searchingly for a long moment, his eyes green in the lampglow, then sat down on the rim, lifted his muzzle to the moon and howled long and dolorously like a trumpet summoning mourners to a hero's funeral.
         13
           It was well that the Gray Mouser had the lifelong habit, whenever he woke from slumber, of assessing his situation as fully as possible before making the least move. After all, there might always be murderous enemies lurking about waiting for him to betray his exact location by an unguarded movement or exclamation, so as to slay him before he had his wits about him.
           And it attests to his presence of mind that when he discovered himself to be everywhere confined by grainy dirt and simultaneously recalled the stages by which he had arrived at this dismal predicament, he did not waste energy and invite inquiry by frantic reactions, he simply continued to pursue his thoughts and explore his surroundings, so far as the latter was possible.
           To the best of his recollection his second downward slide or glide through the ground had not lasted long, and after coming to rest a second time, he had concentrated so exclusively on the task of breathing a sufficiency of earth-trapped air to stay alive and hold at bay the impulse to gasp that the dark monotony of his occupation had by gradual stages hypnotized him into sleep.
           And now, awake again and feeling somewhat refreshed, though perceptibly chilled, he was still breathing regularly, shallowly, slowly — no impulse to pant — with his tongue busy at intervals, keeping his barely parted lips moist and fending off intrusive dirt. Why, this was good! It showed that the whole operation had become sufficiently automatic for him safely to gain the rest he might well need if his incarceration