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part that's strange. The priests bray nonsense, the people groan and pray, and
then something comes into existence. I don't know what that something is -- I
wish I did, I think -- but it's strange." He shook his head. "Makes any man
wonder. So drink your wine, son -- watch his cup, girl, and don't let it empty
-- and talk to me about Issek. I'm interested in 'em all, but right now I'd
like to hear about him."
He did not in any way hint that for the past two months he had been watching
the services of Issek for at least five nights a week from behind a veiled
window in various lightless rooms along the Street of the Gods. And that was
something that not even the Mouser knew about Pulg.
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* * * *
So as a pinkly opalescent, rose-ribboned dawn surged up the sky from the black
and stinking Marsh, the Mouser sought out Fafhrd. Bwadres was still snoring in
the gutter, embracing Issek's cask, but the big barbarian was awake and
sitting on the curb, hand grasping his chin under his beard. Already a few
children had gathered at a respectful distance, though no one else was abroad.
"That the one they can't stab or cut?" the Mouser heard one of the children
whisper.
"That's him," another answered.
"I'd like to sneak up behind him and stick him with this pin."
"I'll bet you would!"
"I guess he's got iron skin," said a tiny girl with large eyes.
The Mouser smothered a guffaw, patted that last child on the head, and then
advanced straight to Fafhrd and, with a grimace at the stained refuse between
the cobbles, squatted fastidiously on his hams. He still could do it easily,
though his new belly made a considerable pillow in his lap. He said without
preamble, speaking too low for the children to hear, "Some say the strength of
Issek lies in love, some say in honesty, some say in courage, some say in
stinking hypocrisy. I believe I have guessed the one true answer. If I
am right, you will drink wine with me. If I am wrong, I will strip to my
loincloth, declare Issek my god and master, and serve as acolyte's acolyte. Is
it a wager?"
Fafhrd studied him. "It is done," he said.
The Mouser advanced his right hand and lightly rapped Fafhrd's body twice
through the soiled camel's hair -- once in the chest, once between the legs.
Each time there was a faint _thud_ with just the hint of a_clank._
"The cuirass of Mingsward and the groin-piece of Gortch," the Mouser
pronounced. "Each heavily padded to keep them from ringing. Therein lie
Issek's strength and invulnerability. They wouldn't have fit you six months
ago."
Fafhrd sat as one bemused. Then his face broke into a large grin. "You win,"
he said. "When do I pay?"
"This very afternoon," the Mouser whispered, "when Bwadres eats and takes his
forty winks." He rose with a light grunt and made off, stepping daintily from
cobble to cobble. Soon the Street of the Gods grew moderately busy and for
awhile Fafhrd was surrounded by a scattering of the curious, but it was a very
hot day for Lankhmar. By midafternoon the Street was deserted;
even the children had sought shade.
Bwadres droned through the Acolyte's Litany twice with Fafhrd, then called for
food by touching his hand to his mouth -- it was his ascetic custom always to
eat at this uncomfortable time rather than in the cool of the evening.
Fafhrd went off and shortly returned with a large bowl of fish stew.
Bwadres blinked at the size of it, but tucked it away, belched, and curled
around the cask after an admonition to Fafhrd. He was snoring almost
immediately.
A hiss sounded from the low wide archway behind them. Fafhrd stood up and
quietly moved into the shadows of the portico. The Mouser gripped his arm and
guided him toward one of several curtained doorways.
"Your sweat's a flood, my friend," he said softly. "Tell me, do you really
wear the armor from prudence, or is it a kind of metal hair-shirt?"
Fafhrd did not answer. He blinked at the curtain the Mouser drew aside.
"I don't like this," he said. "It's a house of assignation. I may be seen and
then what will dirty-minded people think?"
"Hung for the kid, hung for the goat," the Mouser said lightly.
"Besides, you haven't been seen -- yet. In with you!"
Fafhrd complied. The heavy curtains swung to behind them, leaving the room in
which they stood lit only by high louvers. As Fafhrd squinted into the
semidarkness, the Mouser said, "I've paid the evening's rent on this place.
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It's private, it's near. None will know. What more could you ask?"
"I guess you're right," Fafhrd said uneasily. "But you've spent too much rent
money. Understand, my little man, I can have only one drink with you. You
tricked me into that -- after a fashion you did -- but I pay. But only one cup
of wine, little man. We're friends, but we have our separate paths to tread.
So only one cup. Or at most two."
"Naturally," purred the Mouser.
The objects in the room grew in the swimming gray blank of Fafhrd's vision.
There was an inner door (also curtained), a narrow bed, a basin, a low table
and stool, and on the floor beside the stool several portly short-necked
large-eared shapes. Fafhrd counted them and once again his face broke into a
large grin.
"Hung for a kid, you said," he rumbled softly in his old bass voice,
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