Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) Read Online Free PDF

of tomatoes after them, striking some innocent citizens, who turned irate and decided to approach the vendor.
    A pair of old women wrestled over a dusty head of cabbage one of them had dropped. The Mouser swore to himself he'd never heard such language from ladies of such mature years. He watched as both women suddenly got hands on the unfortunate vegetable. Leafy greenery flew in all directions. The pair looked stunned with surprise for a moment, then went for each other's throats.
    In little time at all a full brawl was underway. A merchant's kiosk collapsed under the weight of a trio of men bent on pummeling each other. A goose pen smashed; fowl ran squawking in goose-hysterics.
    The Mouser quick-stepped to catch up with Fafhrd, who had advanced a little before him as they left the tumult behind. It was only then as he reached Fafhrd's side that he noticed the small rosewood lute his companion was clutching to his chest.
    "Pardon me," the Mouser said politely, "but a lute seems to have attached itself to your hands."
    "Has it, indeed?" Fafhrd answered curiously. "Why, I believe you're right, Mouser. You have a keen eye."
    The Mouser grunted. "When last my keen eye spied such an instrument, it was hanging on a peg on a tent-post by the counter of a lettuce merchant."
    Fafhrd said nothing, but his fingers brushed lightly over the lute-strings, not strumming, but picking out a small flurry of individually harmonic notes.
    "You have nimble fingers, my friend," the Mouser said, knowing the double-entendre would not be lost on Fafhrd.
    The Northerner grinned. "We'll need food and lodgings," he said, "not to mention coins to pay a certain gate guard his bribe at the Silver Eel tonight. I've decided to sing for our supper."
    Rubbing his chin, the Mouser cast another look over his shoulder. "That's well enough," he answered. "But first let's move a little farther from the lettuce merchant and all that annoying, noisy calamity."
    Three blocks farther along, by a public fountain at the intersection of Cheap Street and Vintner's Lane, Fafhrd struck a pose, lifted the lute and prepared to give out with a tune. The Mouser elbowed him in the ribs before he could loose a note.
    "A bowl, you great idiot," he whispered, watching the crowd around them. "A begging bowl or a cup. What do you expect them to put their coins in?"
    Fafhrd lowered the lute and scratched his short red beard with a puzzled expression. Then without further hesitation he removed his right boot and perched it before him. Lifting the lute again, he struck an introductory chord and began to sing.
     
    "Oh, the northern women
    are sour as lemons,
    and make for miserable wives.
    They're bitchly witches,
    and with spells and switches
    They rule their menfolk's lives."
     
    During his youth in the icy land called the Cold Wastes, Fafhrd had received training as a bard. His voice was as fine as any the Mouser had ever heard, and as the Mouser listened, he watched Fafhrd's hands, as well, marveling that they could wield sword and dagger with such deadly skill, yet dance with a gentle, almost bewitching surety over the strings of a lute.
    Pedestrians, hearing Fafhrd's song and fine playing, drifted closer and stopped to listen. Ever the ham performer, Fafhrd stepped up onto the low wall that surrounded the fountain so that he could be better seen, mindless of his somewhat ridiculous, one-boot appearance.
     
    "Oh, it's ice for dinner
    to keep them thinner—
    They like a look that's lean,
    But I'll tell you, pal,
    till you've had my gal
    you don't know what frigid means!"
     
    An appreciative chuckling went up from the audience. Fafhrd's size and red-gold hair gave away his origin and heritage, and his listeners seemed to enjoy the song more for his poking fun at his own people. A number of hands made passes over the top of the empty boot; a few even dropped coins. One man dropped a rosy apple.
    The Mouser screwed up his face in muted horror. No man in his right mind would sink