Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) by Robin Wayne Bailey

cloak, took Fafhrd's elbow and steered him through the street in the direction of the riverfront. "You know I sing like a frog with a fly stuck in its throat," he answered. "Instead I convinced the priests of my piety by making an offering of the Ilthmart's ring."
    Fafhrd grunted. To his mind, the ring was now wasted wealth. If Mog ever saw the pretty bauble, it would be adorning the finger of one of his priests. But above all the other gods of Ne-hwon, the Mouser worshipped the spider god, and when asked for permission to donate the ring, Fafhrd could not deny his partner.
    "With such business as we are upon," the Mouser said, almost apologetically, "currying a little favor with the gods cannot hurt."
    "Can't it?" Fafhrd said, giving a sidelong glance toward a line of saffron-robed priests of Issek as they marched down the middle of the rainy street, shaking chipolis and bells in accompaniment to some chant. "What is prayer, but a poor man's magic-making? What if it also attracts Malygris's deadly curse?"
    The Mouser stopped in his tracks and pushed back the edge of his hood to regard his companion. His face seemed paler than usual. He looked up and down the Street of the Gods at all the citizens entering and exiting the various temples. "All these people ..." he said. Wiping rain from his eyes, he pulled up his hood again and resumed the course. He muttered to Fafhrd, "You have a talent for making a gloomy day gloomier."
    Where Silver Street intersected the Street of the Gods, a team of four brawny slaves bearing a gaily draped palanquin momentarily blocked the way. The white wood frame, carved in relief with small figures of animals, resembled expensive ivory. Even in the rain, its cloth-of-gold and red silk curtains shimmered, and tiny golden bells on the bearing poles jingled in rhythm with the bearers' steps.
    As the palanquin passed them by, delicate fingers with long, painted nails parted the curtains ever so slightly. A wisp of blond hair flashed, and kohl-blackened eyes focused briefly on them. Then the curtain closed again.
    "Liara," the Mouser whispered, staring after the vehicle as it hurried on.
    Never had Fafhrd seen such a strange expression on his partner's face. The Mouser's jaw hung, and his eyes seemed glazed, nor did he show any inclination to move. "Who?" he said. "You know that pretty dish?"
    The Mouser seemed to shake himself, but still he stared after the palanquin, finally tearing his gaze away. "The Dark Butterfly," he said gruffly, abruptly leading the way across the busy intersection. With a note of scorn, he added, "Some whore, who happened into the Silver Eel last night. On her way to some assignation, no doubt."
    The rain abruptly stopped. Fafhrd glanced up at the sky and observed the thick clouds that rolled and rumbled above the city. The sun, barely visible through the pall, floated like a pale, blinking eye, watchful and vaguely ominous.
    A pair of shepherds drove a bleating flock of sheep through the intersection. Small hooves rang on the cobbled pavement, and a dog barked and nipped at the ankles of woolly stragglers. A wagon, pulled by two oxen and laden with heavy barrels, trundled noisily on huge wheels of solid wood after the shepherds, the driver scowling and cursing the slowness of the procession.
    "Watch your step," Fafhrd said to the Mouser when the way was clear and they started forward again. He wrinkled his nose. "That's not mud, where you're about to plant your boot."
    The Mouser did a dainty dance around a series of small sheep pies. "Brag now about the sharpness of your barbarian senses," he said in a nasal voice, his mood lightening again, as he pinched his nostril shut with a finger and thumb.
    They made it across Silver Street at last. Continuing down the Street of the Gods, they passed the five-storied Temple of Aarth, the largest and most lavish of all the Lankhmaran temples. A semi-circle of white-washed columns formed its gate, and white-robed neophytes with shaven