“They were a pretty wild, lawless lot, Aunt Afreyt says — sort of like Captain Mouser's men before they became soldiers, or your berserks before you tamed them down.” She went on with growing enthusiasm, “They certainly didn't believe in any Golden Arrow of Truth, or Golden Ruler of Prudence, or Little Gold Cup of Measured Hospitality — mighty liars, whores, murderers, and pirates, I guess, all of them."

Fafhrd nodded. “Maybe Cif's ghost was one of them,” he said. A tall, slender woman came toward them from a violet-toned house. When Afreyt neared them she called to Gale, “So that's where you were. Your mother was wondering.” She looked at Fafhrd. “How did the archery go?"

“Captain Fafhrd hit the target almost every time,” Gale answered for him. “He even hit it shooting around corners! And I didn't help him a bit fitting his bow or anything."

Afreyt nodded.

Fafhrd shrugged.

“I told Fafhrd about Cif's ghost,” Gale went on. “He thought it might be one of the old Rime goddesses — Rin the Moon-runner, one of those. Or the witch queen Skeldir."

Afreyt's narrow blond eyebrows arched. “You go along now, your mother wants you."

“Can I keep the target for you?” the girl asked Fafhrd.

He nodded, lifted his left elbow, and the big ball dropped down. Gale rolled it off ahead of her. The target-bag was smoky red with dye from the snowberry root, and the last rays of the sun setting behind them gave it an angry glare. Afreyt and Fafhrd each had the thought that Gale was rolling away the sun.

When she was gone he turned to Afreyt, asking, “What's this nonsense about Cif meeting a ghost?"

“You're getting skeptical as an Isler,” she told him unsmiling. “Is something that robs a councilman of his wits and half his strength nonsense?"