I submitted this short story in August of 1995 to White Wolf publishing for "Lankhmar: New Adventures of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser" which was meant to be a collection of tales written by a variety of authors set within the sword and sorcery world of fantasy legend Fritz Leiber. My story was selected for the publication but unfortunately the project was cancelled before going to print. Nevertheless, it was a labor of love to write for one on my all time favorite fantasy series. If you have read Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, I sincerely hope that you will enjoy my take on it.
“The Hapless Debut”
by Kevin R. O'Hara
There was a small, two-story building on the corner of Darkwood Avenue and Slick Street within the Tenderloin district of the Eastern section of the city of Lankhmar in the world of Nehwon, which existed in some small universe that has somehow been overlooked by most of the other universes. The top floor of the smoke gray building once housed a private shop for illegal incenses and opium, and on the floor beneath it resided a troupe of unregistered thieves, so far as the mighty Guild was concerned. It was not long before snitches were paid handsomely, by the standard of lower class Lankhmar, for information of the practices that went about within the wooden walls. Whether by the hidden hand of the Thieves Guild, the greedy paw of the local Alliance for Incense and Burning Foliage Merchants or by the swift sword of the City Garrison in one of their covert details, the building was vacant and awaiting a new owner when Oli-Ogho came to Lankhmar.
For far too many years, Oli-Ogho worked as a cook and barkeep for his cruel brother, Fohgoth, in the Ilthmar Royal Inn. The Inn, despite its name, was not meant for royalty and to this day had never housed anyone with the slightest shade of blue coursing their veins. Only the dredges of Nehwon would stay within her walls, and Fohgoth would never miss an opportunity to let his customers know that they were just that. Fohgoth had an even lower opinion of his staff and in particular, his brother.
Knowing that he could manage a better, more profitable house, Oli frequently dreamed of owning an establishment of his design, and less so frequently, made trips out of Ilthmar to locate possible sites. He would tell his brother that he was overseeing the quality of taverns elsewhere in the world in order to utilize new ideas for the Ilthmar Royal Inn. Fohgoth had little interest in how others ran their inns, but pleasured himself at letting Oli-Ogho know how little he would be missed on these journeys. However, when Oli-Ogho returned, the brutish brother would often scold and thrash him for ignoring his duties in order to galivant around the countryside. Oli-Ogho meekly acquiesced every time. This was how things went for far too many years.
It was on a sunny day in Lankhmar, which was indeed a rarity, that Oli-Ogho came upon the vacant building on the corner of Darkwood and Slick in all of the aforementioned locales. Upon investigation, he found the price slightly too high, yet he could manage it with a little added help from his brother. Charity, if you will, in its purest sense … blind charity. Of course, within Lankhmar, the grandest of cities, Oli-Ogho would soon profit immensely and then return the charity, in its second best form, under cover of night. It took little time at all to lay a claim fee to the property manager and sign necessary writs of agreements. Needing only to return with the rest of the sum, how generous his unknowing brother was being, Oli-Ogho would be the beaming owner of Lankhmar’s newest and therefore, he thought, most chic pub.
Seven nights later, he parted from the Ilthmar Royal Inn when all the dredges and those who served them had gone to bed. He took with him only the rilks he needed, a few bottles of Ilthmarian wine, two kegs of ale, and some assorted furnishings. All of which, he would return or repay once he was properly in business. He told no one of his plans, not even the local bread maker’s daughter who often cast eyes at him. Perhaps he could have brought her along, but he long suspected her flirtations towards him were just practice for some bigger fish. Lankhmar would have its fill of fetching daughters of bread makers and other professions too. He did leave word with a stable boy that he would bring him something back from the Cold Wastes. When questioned about Fohgoth’s brother’s sudden absence, the squeaky boy’s misguided information would throw the trail far, far from Lankhmar.
Oli-Ogho spent five days setting up his new establishment before alerting the general public to its locale. The first night, he put a few things away in the back room, but otherwise stayed quiet. A tinge of fear gripped him that eve that if he strayed outside too much, or left the lamp lit at night, his brother would somehow find where he was and exact revenge with his horse whip. Nightmares of his heinous brother filled his sleep and woke him several times through the dead still night.
On the second day, he went out for a bit, having come to his senses that his brother was many leagues away and had no way of possibly finding him so quickly. As of yet, he had little contact with anyone, so there was little chance of word spreading.
On the third night, a new fear entered him, originated by the loose tongues of the neighborhood gossips. Some said that thieves used to own these walls. The idea of cutthroats returning to claim their hideout did not sit well with Oli-Ogho and replaced Fohgoth as the focus of his nightmares. The local locksmith received several days of work from the new inn owner.
The fourth day proved to the Ilthmarian that he had made an auspicious move. Hidden behind the planks of an old bench that was wrong for his decor, he discovered a small satchel. It contained one hundred silver smerduks. Possibly hidden by the former, underhanded inhabitants, but now his good fortune. His initial thought was to repay his brother immediately and beg for forgiveness. That soon gave way to the thought of properly stocking his bar, which in the long run would bring in higher paying customers and allow him to pay his brother back when he was established. Oli-Ogho bought all of the best wines he could afford the next day, took extra effort in readying the establishment, even so far as to set up several curtained booths with dividers made only of thick ivy which he heard was the current rage of Lankhmar, and proudly opened the door one hour before sunset.
He stood basking in the glow of the drowning sun. This was what he was born for. This was good. He let the smile linger on his puffy-cheeked face as he swept around the front and adjusted the sign over the door. It read ‘The Lankhmar Royal Inn.’
Shortly, delight filled him to the brim as seven men made their way into his pub. Holding the door open, he bowed to each one, and gave what he considered a polite but professional greeting. Oli-Ogho had no idea of who these men were, or what trouble they brought in with them this evening.
The leader, a tall, crooked man in a black four layered garment squinted down at the round innkeeper and rasped, “A private booth, and we don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“You?!” exclaimed the tall barbarian, “I should have expected as much.”
At the end of a dark alley, the Gray Mouser crouched facing Fafhrd, his razor sharp sword Scalpel drawn. The smaller man cocked his head and quickly scanned from side to side as if expecting an ambush. Gloomy shadows were the only other inhabitants of this desolate and claustrophobic alleyway. A wet layer of muck and slime covered the ground and clung part way up the rough walls enclosing it. The only light came from a dim lantern on nearby Cheap Street.
“I should be equally unsurprised by this all too common turn,” the Gray Mouser retorted. “To Hell with these plotting wizards! Why must they exact such secrecy of us from each other when we invariably cross paths whilst running their errands.”
“Sheelba tasked you here?”
“Surely as Ningauble quested you.” The Mouser looked about again, then with an angry sigh, sheathed his weapon. Fafhrd did likewise with his mighty sword, Graywand.
“And worse, we are here where we should be and our task is not,” Fafhrd huffed. “I expected a fight against odds of seven to one, and with a magician to boot.”
“And I drew upon all my wits to evade the eyes of seven, actually that would be fourteen eyes, and any additional senses of likely the same said wizard.”
“The night is a loss and we will be reprimanded for our enemies’ absence.”
“While I agree, Fafhrd, that our enemies discourteous act of not being our victims will bring the reproach of our meddling mentors, I believe the evening can still be salvaged.”
Fafhrd smiled broadly and clasped the small man on the back. “Then you also noticed the new tavern on your way to this desolate alley.”
“The lamp was just lit as I passed her by.” The Mouser gave a wry smile and lead the winding way through the cobblestone streets of twilight Lankhmar.
Oli-Ogho paced behind his bar. He was tired of pretending to wipe the wooden table top and inspect the cleanliness of his mugs. All had been cleaned hours ago, and since then no new dirt or liquid soiled either. Irritation gently took hold of the pudgy blonde inn-keeper; he had been open since before the sun vanished from above Lankhmar’s sky and still he had but the same seven customers. If indeed they could be called that, for as of yet they ordered nothing to drink. Oli-Ogho cared little for what secret conversations they might be having in one of his more private booths. He only bitterly wondered how they could be so rude as to not order even a cheap ale. Being the austere inn-keeper that he wished to be, he would give them ‘til the next hour before interrupting them again.
Where were all the other customers? Was this not Lankhmar, best known for its thirsty rogues and ale-starved sailors? Perhaps he should have never left Ilthmar. But to go back to his brother now, that would entail much more than mere shame; it would be … painful.
The door swung wide and with a gust of night wind, in came Fafhrd and his eternal companion, the Gray Mouser. The two took a moment to appraise the establishment and, mildly satisfied, nodded to one another.
Oli-Ogho’s heart leapt. These two looked as though they would easily make up in drinks what those other, sober customers had not purchased. He headed the two off and presented them with the seating options. Fafhrd shrugged and Mouser smiled his interest in the ivy laden booths.
After quickly seating them, Oli-Ogho delightfully skirted back to the bar to fill his first ever order, two large mugs of mingol mead. And trying not to seem overeager, yet failing, Oli-Ogho placed the mugs in front of them before either man could get settled into the booth. After a short bow, he returned to the bar to wipe the table top clean.
“Let’s hope the service remains this good.” Fafhrd stated before gulping down half of his mug.
“Let’s hope it slows down, or we shall be drunk before the night has begun.” Mouser sipped a small sip of his, then liking the taste swallowed more.
After a few moments of taking in the quaint decorations, Mouser drew his attention back to Fafhrd. “Tell me, great friend, what would your wizard have of you this eve?”
Fafhrd finished his drink and banged it on the table, gaining the immediate attention of Oli-Ogho and a refill. “Ningauble told me to find this powerful wizard named Gruumack in his hideout on Slug Alley and kill him, but not in so few words.”
Mouser smirked, “And Sheelba told me to steal a black ring from this wizard, but not in as many words.”
Fafhrd gave a hearty chuckle at that and drew his mug back to his lips, hardly aware that it had been refilled so quickly.
To the cornermost private booth, one of the seven men crept back. The tall, crooked man in black snarled at him without looking up from his stack of parchments. “What is it, Drulav? Speak, boy.”
Drulav, the smallest of the sordid lot, quivered as he spoke, “My lord Gruumack, I have a most distressing word for you.”
Gruumack glared contemptuously at the shaking man with his good right eye. His left eye could see perfectly, it’s just that it was glossed with a yellow-white ichor and wandered to one side without the company of the right eye. “I said speak, boy. Tell me your word and I will judge whether it distresses me, or not.”
“Two men just now entered this inn. I do not mistake their identities, I swear. They are the ones you spoke of.”
“I speak of many men. Kings, warriors, mayors, lords, barons, wizards, dead men. Whom would you describe now?”
“Your enemies. Not the wizards, sir, but their servants. I speak of the men who come to take your life, I speak of the rogues of the wizards’ revenge, I speak of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser.”
Gruumack’s stubbled eyebrows rose at the names as if he had read his own name on a gravestone. He grabbed Drulav close to him with an unsteady hand, “Quiet yourself you infantile fool. Keep your voice low.”
With the small man’s head close to his spitting mouth, Gruumack whispered, “How dare you imply that I fear these men.”
“I apologize, sir” was all Drulav could squeak out.
“They must have followed us. I know not how. So Sheelba does indeed wish to regain the Black Ring of Grim Rule,” Gruumack looked down at the large onyx marked by a crimson roach that fit awkwardly on his misshapen finger, then croaked through a crooked sneer. ”And Ningauble finally acknowledges my claim to sorcerous reign over Nehwon. Well, their heroes are about to taste my bitter poison. Havarch, Wrimwal, they might not know where we are. I want you two to dispatch of them quickly. Drulav, tell me their exact whereabouts?”
“Three booths from here.”
“Ivy curtains drape it. Get to either side. I will extinguish their light and you slit their throats or stab their hearts, or do whatever it takes to make them expire.”
Mouser raised an eyebrow along with his cup, “Your wizard was where?”
“I don’t even think the Gods would know, but I followed that cave for hours. At times, it became so thin that I had to remove my sword and sometimes more. I do curse your small frame, Mouser. I climbed down into utter darkness, and waded through pools of lichen covered underground streams, past chambers filled with, at my best guess, tentacled bats, and climbed a nearly sheer wall of frozen rock. And when all was done, I found the seven eyed sadist sitting on the edge of a cave which sat but a rock toss from the cave opening I had been instructed to enter originally.”
“Infamous!” cried Mouser, “And I spent the whole night chasing after Sheelba’s hut in the marsh. I kept sighting it, just out of sling’s range, and then it would be gone again, only to be sighted again from whence I just came. Do these wizards have nothing more pressing to occupy themselves than playing us for fools?”
Once again, Oli-Ogho hovered over them and refilled their third, nay fourth, mug of mead in so many minutes. For the first time, Mouser really noticed the inn-keeper beside him. Oli-Ogho was the same height as Mouser, with the addition of one half of another Mouser in weight. He had short blonde hair that curled into an unusual mat on his head, and large eyes the color of seaweed. A tan leather apron hid his well worn grimy trousers, though his shirt was brilliantly yellow and as clean as new, which it was.
At the discerning once-over by the Gray Mouser, Oli-Ogho became aware that he may have been overstepping his bounds by lingering. “If there is anything else you gents desire, I’ll be over there, at the bar.”
Fafhrd looked at him, “More mead!” He raised his mug and then with a silent “oh” he realized it was already full.
“We’ll wave when we have need,” the Mouser remarked. As Oli-Ogho turned to go, Mouser continued, “although, we could use a different booth. I don’t care for the aroma of this ivy.”
“Right away, milord.” Oli-Ogho turned to prepare another table.
“And, if it’s not too much trouble, my throat begs for Black Taloaf wine. A taste it has missed for many months.” the Mouser finished.
In his back room, Oli-Ogho frantically searched and searched. The day before he had stocked up on as many wines as his surprise cache would allow, but somehow he had neglected to purchase even one bottle of Taloaf wine of any color. Surely he had something here that could pass for the distinctive licorice root flavor.
Oli-Ogho slumped to the floor, nearly spouting tears. It was his first night, his first customers, if you don’t count the non-drinking pack, and he could not fill a simple request. What sort of tavern owner could he be if he couldn’t inspire customers to return.
He would simply have to let the gray clad rogue know that he did not possess the wine, but would stock it as soon as possible if requested. No, that was not the first impression he wished to make. The folks of Lankhmar must see him as prepared if he was to excel.
He grabbed two fine bottles of bubbly Ilthmarian wine and headed to the main room. After filling two more mugs of mead for Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, he excused himself to unpack his rather large cellar of spirits and liquors. In the mean time, they should be so kind as to accept two rounds of mead on the house for their simple patience.
With that, Oli-Ogho slipped out the back door and sprinted as fast as his stout legs would go to the nearest tavern, hoping a trade could be made for one, or two if need be, of Ilthmar’s finest for a sweet bottle of Black Taloaf and the security of at least two returning customers.
Fafhrd settled his large frame down in front of the table on the other side of the bar. Mouser habitually amused himself by making serving men scurry. The barbarian tolerated such behavior from the little megalomaniac, yet despised it when it interrupted his comfort.
Mouser again took special interest in his surroundings. His keen eyes observed a slight breeze which blew ever so slightly from a corner booth; the closed curtains swaying open then closed again as if an spectral bat flew out. It wasn’t the air that Mouser saw, rather the trail it made as it ruffled some table mats, flickered a candle, parted the curtain of the ivy booth he formerly occupied and extinguished the lamp within. His head full of mead, Mouser simply commented, “There are strange air currents within these walls.”
Fafhrd studied him for a moment, looked about, then chose not to reply to the words of a drunken Mouser.
A few heartbeats later, a stifled ruckus and scuffle and two thuds sounded from the now dark booth. Both heroes looked up to see an arm flop out from the curtain followed by a dark red pool of liquid which quickly soaked into the floor boards. The curtain lay open, revealing the gruesome mess within.
“Looks as those two didn’t agree on something.” Fafhrd commented.
“Isn’t that the booth that we occupied just now?” asked Mouser, somewhat rhetorically.
“The place is busier than we thought.” Fafhrd wondered for a moment, merely a fantasy, if that was how he and Mouser were destined to meet their ends, killing one another at a bar. A smile crept across his long mouth.
Drulav winced once again, crouched before the dark wizard. He spoke in a meek voice, “Havarch and Wrimwal were deceived and now they are deceased. The Northerner and his companion anticipated their attack and caused them to unknowingly kill one another. These two are crafty, milord.”
“I will not be toyed with in such a fashion.” spoke the wizard as he rapped his twisted knuckle on the oaken table, “You four will engage them immediately. Bring the fight to them.”
“And you, sire?”
“What I do is not your concern,” glared the wizard, this time with his putrid eye, “Should they escape this place, I will ensure that their death awaits them outside. This Fafhrd and Gray Mouser will now meet the greatest adversary of their lives!”
A black mist surrounded Gruumack as he rose from his seat. The four rogues drew their weapons and readied themselves.
“I will swear that a plot is afoot; Those two killing one another in our booth, only moments after a phantom breeze blew through the curtain and killed the light. The Slayers’ Brotherhood, I’ll wager.”
“And in this story you tell, Mouser, from where did this breeze come?” Fafhrd cajoled.
Mouser traced the route with his finger, ending on the curtained booth in the corner. At that moment, the curtain parted and spewed forth four sword wielding rogues.
Fafhrd was to his feet with Graywand unsheathed before the first could reach them. Mouser hopped on top of the table, throwing his empty mug at one of their heads. For a moment, he thought he noticed a suspicious black cloud float out the front door.
The northern barbarian used his size and reach to engage the first three attackers. The fourth, Drulav, stumbled as he dodged Mouser’s cup, which he took to be a dirk. The three swords came dangerously close to Fafhrd’s head, and might have struck if not for a broad parry which afflicted each.
The Gray Mouser whipped Scalpel forth as he vaulted over a blue clad rogue and engaged him from the side. The man retreated back to Drulav, not trusting his back to the barbarian. Fafhrd and the Mouser used this tactic to push the swordsmen into each other’s paths. Although greater in number, the four swordsmen had to be more conscientious of their attacks, lest they strike one another.
Taking full advantage of their shifting attention, Fafhrd succeeded in removing a sword, and the hand that held it, from the blue rogue as he lunged at Mouser. The man howled in pain.
Mouser gave Fafhrd a nasty scowl as if to say, “he was mine,” and aimed his dagger Cat’s Claw at Fafhrd. The barbarian flung his head back as the knife flew past him and into the left eye of the rogue flanking him. A “touché” smirk formed on Mouser’s lips as this man crumpled to the floor.
The other swordsman in front of Fafhrd pressed him back against the table top with a furious attack. At the same time, Drulav scored a lucky hit to Mouser’s arm causing him to lose grip of Scalpel.
Seeing Mouser without a weapon, Fafhrd loosed Heartseeker, his dirk, into his opponent’s gut. Although injured, the swordsman continued on the offense, forcing the barbarian back, helpless to aid his companion.
Mouser quickly whirled around to avoid an over extended thrust. In the same move, he unclasped his mouse skin cape and wrapped it around Drulav’s upper torso and head. He finished the pirouette with a kick to the small rogue’s back, sending him crashing out the front door.
The swordsman on Fafhrd did not hold his advantage for long. With his left hand, Fafhrd shoved the table behind him away. The open space allowed for his broader, more dangerous swings. Fafhrd took the offense, with strong slashes that left the man’s sword ringing at each parry.
“Shall I skewer him from behind, Fafhrd?” Mouser shouted as he bent to retrieve his thin sword.
This distracted the swordsman fatally, as Fafhrd third swing caught him between his throat and shoulder. With a spray of blood, he fell backwards and to the floor, rolling a bit before expiring.
“You need not help me so, little man.” Fafhrd said while wiping clean his sword.
“We may be pressed for time, my large friend.”
Outside, Gruumack spent this time preparing. He had been waiting many years for an opportunity to enact this certain spell. Having crushed the ingredients in both his hands, carcasses of fire ants, a dried red pepper and lichen from the Parched Mountains, he waited outside the inn, silently reciting the ancient words of magic.
And when from the inn sprang a man dressed in the gray, mouse skin cloak, he let loose a terrible display of magic and fire. The ground erupted with a blazing path straight to the hapless man. Drulav screeched as he was overcome with searing heat.
Gruumack recognized the cry, then the man, as Drulav, who in a last effort of confused pain and hatred, flung himself onto the wizard. The burning flames caught hold of the outer most black layer of Gruumack’s cloak and rippled along his exposed flesh. With frantic gestures, Gruumack caused the fires to abate but not before scorching himself, destroying Drulav, and blistering the front of the inn.
These two mortal enemies were far more than he expected from his rival wizards, Ningauble and Sheelba. Regardless, they certainly would be no match for the Daemons of Old. Gruumack braced himself for the mammoth task of Summoning.
Fafhrd checked other booths for more possible surprises as Mouser examined the dead.
“I don’t recognize them,” said Mouser, “and where has our innkeeper gone?”
“I know not, but we best slip out the back, else we may be expected to pay for the damages done this place.” Indeed several tables were broken and blood soaked the wooden floor boards.
Agreeing, Mouser grabbed their last two mugs. The heroes quickly drank them down, and exited.
Dark winds rushed over mist laden Lankhmar. Ghostly electricity rippled in a mazy pattern along the cobblestones of Slick Street. Eerie shadows rose from the ground, unaccompanied by the horrific forms that would have no doubt created them. Gruumack sat entranced, burned and wearied from his unholy sorcery. Grotesque voices raked over him, demanding sacrifice of his dealings.
With a sullen rasp, the wizard of the foulest Black Magic said, “I offer the blood, bones and souls of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. Tear that place apart and within feast upon their juices. This I command!”
Evil forces burst through the wooden walls. A wave of unearthly destruction ravaged forth. Tables were crushed, swordsmen’s bodies torn apart, walls rotted, ale flamed, ivy withered, and bottles shattered. In the end, only the sign out front survived the hideous onslaught.
Hungry and unabated, the Daemons turned towards their summoner. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser were not within, and they had been robbed of their fee. One way or another, they would take it from the wizard.
“It can’t be. They must be within. Look again. For the hate of Gods, look again.” Gruumack pleaded as he prepared himself for one final battle of sorcery.
Oli-Ogho trotted back down Darkwood Avenue, pleased with his frugality. He had traded but two bottle of Ilthmarian wine for two bottles of Black Taloaf wine and one bottle of Kvarch Nar whiskey. Truly, he was meant to head a tavern, or perhaps even several.
At first, he walked by the now vacant funereal lot on the corner of Darkwood and Slick. Still new to Lankhmar’s winding streets and especially with the pitch of night, he walked for two additional blocks before realizing he should have come upon his tavern. He retrace his steps back to the notorious corner.
Before he let shock take hold over him, he checked twice more the street signs, and three more times the fallen ‘Lankhmar Royal Inn’ sign. Only shredded, lackluster timber and a dreary burnt hole occupied the lot. Shock set in.
First he thought of his brother Fohgoth’s fat face laughing. Then he thought of his brother scolding him. Then he thought of his brother’s horse whip. In fact, all of his thoughts until the sun rose again, were of nasty Fohgoth.
Except one. This night was to be Lankhmar’s finest inn’s successful debut. Ever the prudent inn-keeper, Oli-Ogho protected his two remaining bottles of wine. Something to start over with. The whiskey, he had other plans for this gloomy night.
It was nearly first light when a twisted, blistered, broken and blackened body crawled its way into Slug Alley. Nearly spent of life, the formerly potent wizard curled up in a dewy corner and shivered. He was meant to be Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser’s greatest enemy. The mighty Black Wizard who would bring them before death’s throne, on their knees and whimpering. He was meant to use their empty bodies as hosts for Daemons to destroy the foremost wizards of Nehwon. He was meant to rule this world and many thereafter. Tonight was to be Nehwon’s greatest evil’s grand debut.
His feeble body cowered as he heard soft footfall enter Slug Alley. Over him stood the unmistakable forms of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. Panic wracked his macabre frame as he tried to mumble a spell through his mucus crusted and seared face. Empty of phantasmic power, his castings went unfulfilled.
“I was told Gruumack was powerful, with many men to back him up.” stated the tall northerner. “I will not let pot bellied Seven Eyes have me kill helpless old men.”
To wit the Gray Mouser responded, “And I would rather steal from a crying child, than do as Faceless One bids.”
Fafhrd knelt down by the quivering wretch of a wizard and patted him on the head. His broad smile seemed to say, “This is your lucky day, poor old man.”
The two rogues turned and swaggered away, each feeling good about their merciful choice.
Gruumack unsheathed his dagger. A tear came to his good eye as it watched them leave. He placed the knife to his chest, measuring out his heart, taking into account its withered and pruned size, and with some effort completed Fafhrd’s task.
Several days later, Crowek the thief stumbled upon the wizard’s rotting remains and stole from it the Black Ring. That night he met with the wrong end of a dirk owned by Joorl of the Slayer’s Brotherhood. In their brief encounter, Joorl lost two buttons from his crimson jerkin and sought the services of Nattick Nimblefingers, perhaps the finest tailor in all Lankhmar. For the quick and expert services, Joorl paid with the Black Ring. Shortly thereafter, the Gray Mouser called upon Nattick to sew him a new mouse-skin cape and overpaid him with an opal the size of one of Fafhrd’s thumbnails. Nattick fabricated the cape and as change, gave with it the Black Ring.
Remembering his quest, the Mouser figured a wizard without eyes could tell no difference between this ring and the one he sought, and so was the Gray Mouser’s task completed.
* * *