Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...

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barracks, Yissim, get more men, and reinforce our downward guards -- and while
you're there, I mind me now, bid them continue Friska's torture. Wring the truth
from her! She's in Gwaay's plots -- this night has made me certain. Gwaay knew
my father's death was imminent and laid invasion plans long weeks agone. Any of
you may be his purchased spies! Oh where's my champion? _Where are my
scarlet grommets?"_
Fafhrd, who'd been striding forward, quickened his pace at mention of Friska.
A simple inquiry at the torture chamber would reveal her escape and his part in
it. He must create diversions. So he halted close in front of pink wet steaming
Hasjarl and said boldly, "Here is your champion, Lord. And he counsels not
sluggy defense, but some swift stroke at Gwaay! Surely your mighty mind has
fashioned many a shrewd attacking stratagem. Launch you a thunderbolt!"
It was all Fafhrd could do to keep speaking forcefully to the end and not let
his voice trail off as his attention became engrossed in the strange operation now
going on. While Hasjarl crouched stock-still with head a-twist, an ashen-faced
bath-slave had drawn out Hasjarl's left upper eyelid by its lashes and was
inserting into the hole in it a tiny flanged scarlet ring or grommet no bigger than
a lentil. The grommet was carried on the tip of an ivory wand as thin as a straw,
and the whole deed was being done by the slave with the anxiety of a man
refilling the poison pouches of an untethered rattlesnake -- if such an action
might be imagined for purposes of comparison.
However, the operation was quickly completed, and then on the right eye too
-- and evidently with perfect satisfaction, since Hasjarl did not slash the slave
with the soapy wet lash still dangling from his wrist -- and when Hasjarl
straightened up he was grinning broadly at Fafhrd.
"You counsel me well, champion," he cried. "These other fools could do
nothing but shake. There _is_ a stroke long-planned that I'll try now, one that
won't violate the obsequies. Essem, take slaves and fetch the dust -- you know the
stuff I mean -- and meet me at the vents! Girls, sluice these suds off with tepid
water. Boy, give me my slippers and my toweling robe! -- those other clothes can
wait. Follow me, Fafhrd!
But just then his red-grommeted gaze lit on his four-and-twenty bearded and
hooded sorcerers standing apprehensive by their chairs.
"Back to your charms at once, you ignoramuses!" he roared at them. "I did
not tell you to stop because I bathed! Back to your charms and send your plagues
at Gwaay -- red, black and green, nose drip and bloody rot -- or I will burn your
beards off to the eyelashes as prelude to more dire torturings! Haste, Essem!
Come, Fafhrd!"
The Gray Mouser at that same moment was returning from his closet with
Ivivis when Gwaay, velvet-shod and followed by barefoot slaves, came around a
turn in the dim corridor so swiftly there was no evading him.
The young Lord of the Lower Levels seemed preternaturally calm and
controlled, yet with the impression that under the calm was naught but quivering
excitement and darting thought -- so much so that it would hardly have surprised
the Mouser if there had shone forth from Gwaay an aura of Blue Essence of
Thunderbolt. Indeed, the Mouser felt his skin begin to prickle and sting as if just
such an influence were invisibly streaming from his employer.
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