The Second Book of Lankhmar

quavering sweet flute. “What happy chance brings you here?”
    “ You know!” Fafhrd said harshly, striding forward until he was glaring across the leaping green flames at the black oval defined by the forward edge of the hood. “How am I to save the Mouser? What's with Lankhmar? And why, in the name of all the gods of death and destruction, is the tin whistle so important?”
    “You speak in riddles, Gentle Son,” the fluty voice responded soothingly, as its owner went on sorting his scraps. “What tin whistle? What peril's the Mouser in now?—reckless youth! And what is with Lankhmar?”
    Fafhrd let loose a flood of curses, which rattled impotently among the stalactites overhead. Then he jerked free from his pouch the tiny black oblong of Sheelba's message and held it forward between finger and thumb that shook with rage. “Look, Know-nothing One: I dumped a lovely girl to answer this and now—”
    But the hooded figure had whistled warblingly and at that signal the black bat, which Fafhrd had forgot, launched itself from his shoulder, snatched with sharp teeth the black note from his finger-grip, and fluttered past the green flames to land on the paunchy one's sleeve-hidden hand, or tentacle, or whatever it was. The whatever-it-was conveyed to hood-mouth the bat, who obligingly fluttered inside and vanished in the coally dark there.
    There followed a squeaky, unintelligible, hood-muffled dialogue while Fafhrd sat his fists on his hips and fumed. The two skinny boys gave him sly grins and whispered together impudently, their bright eyes never leaving him. At last the fluty voice called, “Now it's crystal clear to me, Oh Patient Son. Sheelba of the Eyeless Face and I have been on the outs—a bit of a wizardly bicker—and now he seeks to mend fences with this. Well, well, well, first advances by Sheelba. Ho-ho-ho!”
    “Very funny,” Fafhrd growled. “Haste's the marrow of our confab. The Sinking Land came up, shedding its waters, as I entered your caves. My swift but jaded mount crops your stingy grass outside. I must leave within the half hour if I am to cross the Sinking Land before it resubmerges. What do I do about the Mouser, Lankhmar, and the tin whistle? ”
    “But, Gentle Son, I know nothing about those things,” the other replied artlessly. “'Tis only Sheelba's motives are air—clear to me. Oh, ho, to think that he—Wait, wait now, Fafhrd! Don't rattle the stalactites again. I've ensorceled them against falling, but there are no spells in the universe which a big fellow can't sometimes break through. I'll advise you, never fear. But I must first clairvoy. Scatter on the golden dust, boys—thriftily now, don't waste it, ‘tis worth ten times its weight in diamond unpowdered.”
    The two urchins each dipped into a bag beside them and threw into the feet of the green flames a glittering golden swirl. Instantly the flames darkened, though leaping high as ever and sending off no soot. Watching them in the now almost night-dark cavern, Fafhrd thought he could make out the transitory, ever-distorting shadows of twisty towers, ugly trees, tall hunchbacked men, low-shouldered beasts, beautiful wax women melting, and the like, but nothing was clear or even hinted at a story.
    Then from the obese warlock's hood came toward the darkened fire two greenish ovals, each with a vertical black streak like the jewel cat's eye. A half yard out of the hood they paused and held steady. They were speedily joined by two more which both diverged and went farther. Then came a single one arching up over the fire until one would have thought it was in great danger of sizzling. Lastly, two which floated in opposite directions almost impossibly far around the fire and then hooked in to observe it from points near Fafhrd.
    The voice fluted sagely: “It is always best to look at a problem from all sides.”
    Fafhrd drew his shoulders together and repressed a shudder. It never failed to be disconcerting to watch Ningauble send forth his Seven Eyes on their apparently indefinitely extensible eyestalks. Especially on occasions when he'd been coy as a virgin in a bathrobe about keeping them hidden.
    So much time passed that Fafhrd began to snap his fingers with impatience, softly at first, then more crackingly. He'd given up looking at the flames. They never held anything but the tantalizing, churning shadows.
    At last the green eyes floated back into the hood, like a mystic fleet returning to port. The flames