“Time is short,” Conan agreed, though he did not back away from Balvadek’s body. An ugly suspicion had begun to take shape in his thoughts. “Tell me, Toj, are you embroiled in some wizardly matter? Your dagger seems to possess powers beyond those of an ordinary blade—”
“Aye, ’tis no common dirk, con—” Toj bit off his reply as he cleared his throat “-Cimmerian.” He paused, his gaze flickering back and forth between Conan’s fierce face and the hilt that jutted from Balvadek’s thick neck. “Indeed, a spell most dire imbues the weapon. Avoid touching any part of it, lest you fall dead beside this unworthy offal-heap. I first learned of the Red Asp’s powers from a spell caster in Pelishtia who told me of the implement—of the icy death that awaits whoever touches that blade.”
Conan’s face tightened, and his muscles tensed. Not 'yet had he spoken his own name, but the stranger had known it. And if this Toj were Argossean, then Conan was a Pict! A trace of Turanian laced the man’s otherwise flawless Argossean accent. Had Conan not recently been among Argosseans, he would not have noticed this. But why would a Turanian seek to protect him from Balvadek? Like the stranger’s face, his purpose lay hidden in shadows. “What gain seek you—an Argossean—from Balvadek’s demise?” Conan challenged.
“Vengeance... and gold,” Toj replied evenly, gliding closer. “This rubbish murdered my father in one of his raids. My brother—the mage who magicked my dirk—offered our services to Duke Reydnu. He, being a reasonable fellow, agreed to reward us after we deterged Shem of this sub-human stain.” He spat again.
Conan deliberately dipped the point of his sword and glanced sideways, inviting Toj to come, even closer. Faster than a swooping hawk, Toj dived low and closed the gap to Balvadek’s body. In that instant, Conan grabbed for the robes and simultaneously swung the sword’s pommel toward Toj’s skull. But the Cimmerian underestimated the robed man’s speed. Smooth fabric slipped between his fingers, and the hilt connected with naught but air. Toj plucked free his dagger, rolled away, and vaulted neatly upon his feet, not off balance in the least.
Crom again! A circus acrobat would have envied Toj’s agility. Even so, Conan Had a trick or two up his sleeve. He feinted a leap to the right, shifting his shoulders in the same direction. Masters of hand-to-hand combat often taught pupils to observe the shoulders, which so often betrayed an opponent’s intentions. Toj took the bait this time, stepping to his left as he tucked the dagger carefully inside his robes.
The Cimmerian hopped forward and spun, extending his left foot. He caught Toj squarely in the midriff and bowled him over. Conan’s bare toes throbbed from the blow, for the muscles in that midsection were as hard as steel plating.
As he fell, Toj caught Conan’s foot, dug his thumb into a spot near the ankle, and pulled. The Cimmerian felt his whole leg go numb, and he was scarcely able to tug it free of Toj’s grasp. A burning sensation travelled from his foot to his thigh, and he hopped awkwardly backward on his good leg. Toj flexed his knees and jumped straight toward Conan. His heels thudded into ribs, and a chop from his fist knocked the sword from Conan’s hand.
The Cimmerian staggered and sank to one knee, cursing. Last night’s gruelling battle and today’s bruising ride had taken their toll. This wily Turanian would not easily be overcome. Conan braced himself for the next assault.
Toj’s hood had fallen away in the scuffle.
The scarred face beneath startled Conan and caused him to rise hastily and step backward. Pale and drawn it was, the eyes fierce, shiny-black slits. Half of the small, flat nose had been sliced away long ago; the scar from the wound travelled across the cheekbone to the jawline. His lips were thin and cruel-seeming, his forehead high. The assassin’s visage was at once repulsive and fearsome.
He regarded Conan with an expression of disdain. “Thick-witted Cimmerian! Have you naught but a clod of dirt in your skull? I have no quarrel with you—if I did, you would have met your Crom already. Against me, a lumbering, muscle-bound buffoon is as helpless as a babe.”
He flipped his cowl forward over his head, but not before Conan caught sight of a strange scar, or perhaps it was a deformity. Toj’s left ear had been notched from lobe to centre. Three hoops of brushed silver, or some similar metal, held together both pieces of the ear.
“The pain you feel will soon abate. Then take you this advice: Leave at once. Tarry not in the village, for Reydnu has warned me that many of Balvadek’s asshuri are mustered therein. Go about your business, whatever it might be. I am bound for Pelishtia—with this.” A long, curved knife—not the ensorceled blade—seemed to appear in his hand. He bent and beheaded the lifeless duke with two swift slashes. Then he swathed the grisly object in fabric cut from Balvadek’s ivory cape, knotted the wrapping and slung the bundle over his shoulder.
Conan felt some of the pain subside from his benumbed leg, but he dared not trust the muscles to bear his weight. He knelt and glared at Toj, his blue irises burning like those of a trapped wolf.
The Turanian scurried from corpse to corpse and dug his spiked metal discs from the flesh of the fallen. Some of the discs had sunk so deep that he was obliged to cut them free, which he did with the precision of a butcher in a slaughterhouse. He wiped his dripping hands on the tunic of an asshuri as he watched Conan seethe. “I would say well met,” he offered. “But a lie told to a stranger is an ill farewell. If we meet again, it may be as enemies, man of Cimmeria.”
Toj spun and disappeared into the trees, as silently as a breeze that stirred not a single leaf. The Turanian’s stealth made Conan’s flesh creep.
Conan rose, grunting from the fire that burned within his leg. He retrieved the huge sword and loosened the belt from the duke’s headless body. Balvadek’s coin purse was tied to it, and the Cimmerian would have need of its contents when he reached the nearest village—that is, the nearest that lay outside of the late Balvadek’s domain. Conan needed no admonishment of Toj’s to make haste away from Saridis. He shook his head, sorely vexed that the Turanian had so easily bested him. But the man claimed involvement with wizards, and only a fool knowingly meddled in the schemes of sorcerers. Conan would ponder the strange encounter later, when the gong-like throbbing in his head had subsided.
As he hobbled toward the trees, he wondered what had become of Sivitri. Her motives were as mysterious as Toj’s. By Crom, this simple treasure-hunting trip had become a complicated affair. Conan cursed the urge that had driven him from the flesh-pots of Messantia to seek whatever loot might lie in the place indicated on his map.
Muddled though his mind might be, Conan could not help but correlate his quest to the storm of troubles he had weathered. He had told only Rulvio of his intent to follow the map... and he knew his mate well enough to be certain of his loyalty. Could there be a connection between Sivitri’s elaborate plan and Toj’s inexplicable—if timely—intervention? He was more determined than ever to uncover the secret bounty in the Brass City.
Behind him, he heard enormous hinges creak. The gates were opening! “Set take these Shemites,” he muttered as he hopped toward the trees.
“Halt!” a shrill and familiar voice commanded.
Sivitri!
As if to emphasize the command, a bow twanged, and the arrow from it plunged into the soil at Conan’s feet. Slowed as he was by his nerveless leg, he could not risk a sprint for the cover of branches and leaves. He spun to face the speaker, sword at ready.
The gates swung all the way open, and Sivitri strolled out.
Behind her stood a short, heavyset man. His ill-fitting, gilt-edged robes sloped forward over his large belly and stopped just below his knees, where hosiery covered his spindly shanks. Four arbalesters flanked him—a pair to each side, bows held at readiness.
“Be at ease,” Sivitri said as she strutted toward him. Conan noted that she had changed into fresh garments: a tunic of black- and crimson-striped velvet, and leather breeks that clung tightly to her supple curves.
“Crom, woman! What in Zandru’s Nine Hells—”
He swallowed, his throat drying at the sight of the generous cleavage that rose from her plunging neckline.
“Curb your tongue and sheathe your sword.” Her imperious tone had returned, haughtier than ever. “Or should I say the late duke’s sword, may Erlik roast his soul. And worry not, you are welcome to the weapon—indeed, you have earned it.”
The heavyset man cleared his throat. “We all rejoice that the oppressor is slain,” he added, in a lilting, nervous tone. “And I, Narsur, Magistrate of Saridis, welcome you on behalf of my people.”
“What of your asshuri?" Conan growled.
“Those who were loyal to the oppressor are fled or slain,” Narsur replied. “The others will bear you no grudge... without cause. Lay down your arms, honoured guest. Saridis is a free village again, safe for travellers—and tradesmen,” he added, rubbing his hands together. “But many spoke of a demon... does such a beast lurk nearby, or did you slay it?”
Conan shrugged and belted his sword. “What I saw was no demon.” He strode nonchalantly toward Sivitri, knowing that the crossbows could have riddled his guts with bolts anyway, if Narsur’s intent was to slay him. He yearned to know how the wench had gotten into the good graces of this paunchy old goat.
“Address me not as Sivitri,” the woman whispered when he neared her. “In Saridis, I am known as Zeganna. I shall explain all presently, in the late duke’s private dining hall—beyond Narsur’s prying eyes and keen ears.”
Nodding, Conan walked beside her toward the magistrate. If he could hear the tale while he slaked his thirst and satisfied his hunger, so much the better. “So, Zeganna" he said with a sigh of exasperation, “how did you escape from the asshuri?"
“It seems that a rebellion began to brew here, not long after Balvadek’s asshuri seized Saridis by main force. Narsur told me that the duke, worried by the rumours of rebels in the area, rode personally to Saridis, which is how he happened to be present. Narsur’s agents would have killed him this night, had he not died outside the gates.” She glanced back at the duke’s sprawled carcass. “Did you behead him, then?”
“Nay,” Conan answered gruffly. “Uthan’s demon—actually a man of flesh and blood—did us all that favour.”
“What man?”
“He named himself Toj, though I wonder—”
“Toj? Was he Turanian? Did his ear bear a strange scar?” Sivitri asked querulously.
“Aye—on both counts,” Conan said. He took no comfort in knowing that Sivitri knew about Toj... as he had speculated. “You know him?”
“I know o/him.” She shivered, though the early evening air was warm enough. “This—” she gestured sweepingly “—has the look of his work. Uthan was more right than you know. Toj may be a man in the flesh, but his blood is as cold and cruel as a demon’s.”
“He rained death upon the asshuri” Conan said, scratching his chin. “Twice he saved me, though I know not why. I tried to detain him, but an eel is less slippery than he. While he lingered afterward to collect his strange weaponry, he spoke to me of revenge upon Balvadek.”
“We are in more dire trouble than ever, Conan. But say no more— speak not of this to Narsur!”
“What has he to do with—”
“Later!” she whispered tersely as they neared the magistrate.
Narsur smiled vapidly at Conan. “Will your stay in Saridis be for one night, or perhaps for two, honoured guest? Doubtless you have urgent business elsewhere, with which the oppressor interfered.” His tone indicated quite clearly that the sooner Conan left, the better.
Sivitri spoke sharply to Narsur. “Arrange two of the finest asshuri horses for us—and provisions for a seven-day ride. Conan and I shall depart at first light tomorrow.”
“As you wish, Lady Zeganna.” Narsur promptly delegated this task to one of the bowmen at his side, who nodded and walked swiftly through the gates. “Need you aught else?”
“Yes—privacy," Sivitri snapped. “Is the table in the Amethyst Room yet laid with the fare I requested? And the wine from the reserve stock in the citadel’s cellar?”
“My personal servants were seeing to this. Everything has been arranged,” he replied, miffed. Whirling, he walked away with his archers in tow.
Conan wondered exactly what had been arranged, and if it might involve more than dinner. “Seven days?” he snorted. “By Crom, I’ll not ride with you for one! I am no dog of yours, Lady Zeganna, that you may pull me about on a leash. Conan does as he chooses. Tonight I choose to sup with you, and tomorrow I take my horse, my provisions, and my leave of you and your schemes.”
Sivitri’s expression would have soured new milk. She lowered her voice and stared into his eyes. “Choose you, then, to ride onward to the Brass City? It slumbers like a sand-covered giant, three-days’ ride from Saridis. Seven days, Cimmerian. Three days to reach the giant, one to pilfer his treasure, and three again to return here.” Conan slapped his hand onto his sword’s pommel and gripped the hilt until his knuckles whitened. “Bel’s beard, wench! Where I ride is no business of yours, and I know not of any Brass City.”
“You are fortunate that your skill in battle far surpasses your skill in lying,” Sivitri said with a faint smile. “You spoke to Rulvio of the Brass City, when you drank with him in Messantia.” Her smile widened at the surprise written clearly upon Conan’s face. “Yes, I heard nearly every word you spoke in that wharf-rat’s hovel. For in Messantia, many know me by another name—Rubinia, a mere serving-wench.”
Conan sputtered as he summoned Rubinia’s image from his memory. He recalled mostly the generous swell of her bosoms and her delightful backside. With effort, he envisioned her smooth, oval face and high cheekbones... but moreover, the similarity was in the eyes. Her irises seemed to shift colours with her mood, from a blue as bright as the Southern Sea on a cloudless summer day to a pure green like that of emeralds sparkling in a torch-lit treasure-vault. And Sivitri’s blond tresses, if darkened by dyes and styled differently, could match Rubinia’s ebon plaits. Aye, were they not the same person, be-like they were twins?
Sivitri said nothing more, but her smug look did little to brighten Conan’s mood. The Cimmerian followed her through the gates and into the village, his mind awhirl from the events of the past few days. He made no effort to converse, and she seemed content to let him ponder.
Toj tossed aside the gory, cloth-wrapped bundle that held Balvadek’s head. He hoped that the Cimmerian would believe his tale. The impromptu meeting had been necessary but unfortunate—Toj had taken such pains to hide his presence thus far. It was the woman’s fault, really, else the Cimmerian would already have reached Nithia.
Now was the time to eliminate her. But he must do so without raising the Cimmerian’s suspicions and causing further delays. A slow poison would be best, one that bore the symptoms of a pestilence, albeit one that took 5 while to set in. And here was an opportunity to introduce it, without risk of confronting the Cimmerian again. Toj moved swiftly through the woods toward the outer wall of Saridis. Its rough surface, though sufficient to repel an encumbered soldier, was pocked with enough footholds for him to scale it with little difficulty.
From atop the wall, he watched Narsur hasten toward the citadel that rose from the centre of Saridis. Toj knew this corrupt little noble, who had once paid the Zamboulan assassin’s guild handsomely to eliminate a rival. Waiting until the street below was deserted, Toj slid down the inner wall and hurried into the village to intercept Narsur. Moments later, he stepped from the shadows and stood before his quarry.
Narsur jerked backward in surprise. “Eh? Toj—what, er, why are you here?”
“Merely to ask a simple favour., before I leave for Zamboula,” the assassin replied. “A small service.” He sifted through his robes, digging out a cloth packet and a clay phial. From the packet he took two small crystals, one dull red and the other clear. He shook a drop from the phial, which both crystals soaked up immediately. Then he folded the crystals back into the cloth and held the packet out.<
br />
Narsur eyed it dubiously. “What favour. do you need?”
“The woman who is with the Cimmerian—she asked you to prepare food and wine? And if I guess rightly, she will need horses and provisions tomorrow.”
The paunchy Shemite’s expression clouded. “She wanted a table set, yes. But—know you who she is?”
“Indeed I do. Think you that I do this blindly?”
“By Erlik, are you asking me to—”
“To save yourself from a lingering and painful death.” Toj’s face seethed with menace. “A small service, one without repercussions for you—if you perform it promptly. Fail me, and die in agony before sunrise.”
Narsur gulped. His shoulders slumped. “Tell me what to do.”
Toj dropped the packet into the Shemite’s outstretched hand and sealed the doom of the meddlesome woman.
XII
The Amethyst Room
Beyond its outer wall, Saridis resembled most of the larger villages found in Shem’s wine-producing region. Its chief peculiarity was the wall itself, the raising of which must have taxed Balvadek’s treasury. The stone barrier encircled a sprawling settlement, sparse of any sizeable buildings save those surrounding the citadel in the centre. The wide road led past a profusion of wooden shacks and tiny, lopsided stone houses. No inns or shops lined the road for some distance from the gate.
Finally, as Conan and Sivitri neared the tall citadel, Conan saw tent-stakes and trampled grass that marked a large area where all trade took place. Wagon-tracks led away, to the other side of the village. After sunrise, the merchants and peddlers would hawk their wares from carts, shaded beneath striped canopies. Shemites and foreigners would haggle in a dozen languages over bronze chits or copper bits, buying or trading all manner of goods: fruits and meats from farmers, lumber from woodcutters, and metal goods that ranged from pots of iron to weapons of steel. Conan doubted that in Saridis this common trafficking amounted to a tenth of the commerce in Shemitish wine.
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