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pouch and swiftly pressed a coin against the Mouser's palm and closed
his fingers on it, then took his head between her palms and kissed him
sweetly on the lips before letting herself be dragged on.
"Take good care of the little fellow, old man," she called fondly
back to Fafhrd while her companion grumbled muffled reproaches at
her, of which only "perverted bitch" was intelligible.
The Mouser stared at the coin in his palm, then sneaked a long
look after his benefactress. There was a dazed wonder in his voice as
he whispered to Fafhrd, "Look. _Gold_. A golden coin and a beautiful
woman's sympathy. Think you we should give over this rash project
and for a profession take up beggary?"
"Buggery even, rather!" Fafhrd answered harsh and low. That "old
man" rankled. "Onward we, bravely!"
They upped the two worn steps and went through the doorway,
noting the exceptional thickness of the wall. Ahead was a long,
straight, high-ceilinged corridor ending in a stairs and with doors
spilling light at intervals and wall-set torches adding their flare, but
empty all its length.
They had just got through the doorway when cold steel chilled the
neck and pricked a shoulder of each of them. From just above, two
voices commanded in unison, "Halt!"
Although fired -- and fuddled -- by fortified wine, they each had wit
enough to freeze and then very cautiously look upward.
Two gaunt, scarred, exceptionally ugly faces, each topped by a
gaudy scarf binding back hair, looked down at them from a big, deep
niche just above the doorway and helping explain its lowness. Two
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bent, gnarly arms thrust down the swords that still pricked them.
"Gone out with the noon beggar-batch, eh?" one of them
observed. "Well, you'd better have a high take to justify your tardy
return. The Night Beggarmaster's on a Whore Street furlough. Report
above to Krovas. Gods, you stink! Better clean up first, or Krovas will
have you bathed in live steam. Begone!"
The Mouser and Fafhrd shuffled and hobbled forward at their most
authentic. One niche-guard cried after them, "Relax, boys! You don't
have to put it on here."
"Practice makes perfect," the Mouser called back in a quavering
voice. Fafhrd's finger-ends dug his shoulder warningly. They moved
along somewhat more naturally, so far as Fafhrd's tied-up leg allowed.
"Gods, what an easy life the Guild-beggars have," the other niche-
guard observed to his mate. "What slack discipline and low standards
of skill! Perfect, my sacred butt! You'd think a child could see through
those disguises."
"Doubtless some children do," his mate retorted. "But their dear
mothers and fathers only drop a tear and a coin or give a kick. Grown
folk go blind, lost in their toil and dreams, unless they have a
profession such as thieving which keeps them mindful of things as they
really are."
Resisting the impulse to ponder this sage philosophy, and glad
they would not have to undergo a Beggarmaster's shrewd inspection --
truly, thought Fafhrd, Kos of the Dooms seemed to be leading him
direct to Krovas and perhaps head-chopping _would_ be the order of
the night -- he and the Mouser went watchfully and slowly on. And now
they began to hear voices, mostly curt and clipped ones, and other
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noises.
They passed some doorways they'd liked to have paused at, to
study the activities inside, yet the most they dared do was slow down a
bit more. Fortunately most of the doorways were wide, permitting a
fairly long view.
Very interesting were some of those activities. In one room young
boys were being trained to pick pouches and slit purses. They'd
approach from behind an instructor, and if he heard scuff of bare foot
or felt touch of dipping hand -- or, worst, heard _clunk_ of dropped
leaden mock-coin -- that boy would be thwacked. Others seemed to be
getting training in group tactics: the jostle in front, the snatch from
behind, the swift passing of lifted items from youthful thief to
confederate.
In a second room, from which pushed air heavy with the reeks of
metal and oil, older student thieves were doing laboratory work in lock
picking. One group was being lectured by a grimy-handed graybeard,
who was taking apart a most complex lock piece by weighty piece.
Others appeared to be having their skill, speed, and ability to work
soundlessly tested -- they were probing with slender picks the keyholes
in a half dozen doors set side by side in an otherwise purposeless
partition, while a supervisor holding a sandglass watched them keenly.
In a third, thieves were eating at long tables. The odors were
tempting, even to men full of booze. The Guild did well by its members.
In a fourth, the floor was padded in part and instruction was going
on in slipping, dodging, ducking, tumbling, tripping, and otherwise
foiling pursuit. These students were older too. A voice like a sergeant-
major's rasped, "Nah, nah, nah! You couldn't give your crippled
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grandmother the slip. I said duck, not genuflect to holy Aarth. Now this
time -- "
"Grif's used grease," an instructor called.
"He has, eh? To the front, Grif!" the rasping voice replied as the
Mouser and Fafhrd moved somewhat regretfully out of sight, for they
realized much was to be learned here: tricks that might stand them in
good stead even tonight. "Listen, all of you!" the rasping voice
continued, so far-carrying it followed them a surprisingly long way.
"Grease may be very well on a night job -- by day its glisten shouts its
user's profession to all Nehwon! But in any case it makes a thief
overconfident. He comes to depend on it and then in a pinch he finds
he's forgot to apply it. Also its aroma can betray him. Here we work
always dry-skinned -- save for natural sweat! -- as all of you were told [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]