Swords Of Lankhmar

A blue curtain had billowed wide, but it was only Glipkerio's niece Elakeria in a gray silk dress that threatened momently to burst at the seams. The plump and lascivious girl had grown fatter than ever the past few days from stuffing herself with sweets to assuage her grief at her mother's broken neck and the crucifixion of her pet marmoset, and even more to still her fears for herself. But at the moment a weak anger seemed to be doing the work of honey and sugar.

"Uncle!" she cried. "You must do something at once! The guardsmen are gone. Neither my maid nor page answered my bell, and when I went to fetch them, I found that insolent Reetha — wasn't she to be whipped? — inciting all the pages and maids to revolt against you, or do something equally violent. And in the crook of her left arm sat a living gray-clad doll waving a cruel little sword — surely it was he who crucified Kwe-Kwe! — urging further enormities. I stole away unseen."

"Revolt, eh?" Samanda scowled, setting Glipkerio aside and unsnapping whip and truncheon from her belt. "Elakeria, look out for Uncle here. You know, boat trips," she added in a hoarse whisper, tapping her temple significantly. "Meanwhile I'll give those naked sluts and minions a counter-revolution they'll not forget."

"Don't leave me!" Glipkerio implored, throwing himself at her neck and lap again. "Now that Hisvin's forgot me, you're my only protection."

A clock struck the quarter hour. Blue drapes parted and Hisvin came in with measured steps instead of his customary scuttling. "For good or ill, I come upon my instant," he said. He wore his black cap and toga and over the latter a belt from which hung ink-pot, quill-case, and a pouch of scrolls. Hisvet and Frix came close after him, in sober silken black robes and stoles. The blue drapes closed behind them. All three black-framed faces were grave.

Hisvin paced toward Glipkerio, who somewhat shamed into composure by the orderly behavior of the newcomers was standing beanpole tall on his own two gold-sandaled feet, had adjusted a little the disordered folds of his toga, and straightened around his golden ringlets the string of limp vegetable matter which was all that was left of his pansy wreath.

"Oh most glorious overlord," Hisvin intoned solemnly, "I bring you the worst news" — Glipkerio paled and began again to shake — "and the best." Glipkerio recovered somewhat. "The worst first. The star whose coming made the heavens right has winked out, like a candle puffed on by a black demon, its fires extinguished by the black swells of the ocean of the sky. In short, she's sunk without a trace and so I cannot speak my spell against the rats. Furthermore, it is my sad duty to inform you that the rats have already, for all practical purposes, conquered Lankhmar. All your soldiery is being decimated in the South Barracks. All the temples have been invaded and the very Gods _of_ Lankhmar slain without warning in their dry, spicy beds. The rats only pause, out of a certain courtesy which I will explain, before capturing your palace over your head."

"Then all's lost," Glipkerio quavered chalk-pale and turning his head added peevishly, "I _told_ you so, Samanda! Naught remains for me but the last voyage. World, adieu! Nehwon, farewell! I seek a happier — "

But this time his lunge toward the porch was stopped at once by his plump niece and stout palace mistress, hemming him close on either side.

"Now hear the best," Hisvin continued in livelier accents. "At great personal peril I have put myself in touch with the rats. It transpires that they have an excellent civilization, finer in many respects than man's — in fact, they have been secretly guiding the interests and growth of man for some time — oh 'tis a cozy, sweet civilization these wise rodents enjoy and 'twill delight your sense of fitness when you know it better! At all events the rats, now loving me well — ah, what fine diplomacies I've worked for you, dear master! — have entrusted me with their surrender terms, which are unexpectedly generous!"