Abolhassan stroked his sharp-stubbled chin, preened his black mustache, and shook his head. "Nay, I cannot think it! He made one insinuation which took me aback at first, about my entertaining more than one purpose at a time. But I must conclude that he is pathetically ignorant, chattering just to hear the sound of his own voice. Court gossips have ingratiated themselves with him by pointing out the obvious; now he tries to overawe me by throwing it back in my face. He struts and postures to make it appear that he is in control, when in truth all know he is not."
"Aye, General," a rasping voice added, "great Tarim knows, the complaints which the hated one mouths are the selfsame moanings of the effete noble faction at court―those who would parcel out the rule of empire and shackle the power of the True Faith!" The brown-robed speaker, bald and waxy-pale, was the high priest Tammuraz, known to all as a fanatic, yet secure as the emperor himself in the church's time-honored hierarchy. "All such quibblers will be justly dealt with," the
holy man continued, "once righteousness is enthroned again in Aghrapur.
Yildiz is weak because he places more trust in courtiers, soothsayers, and black magicians than in the Shining Prophet himself!"
"Truly, the nobles and courtiers of Aghrapur are not to be feared,"
Dashibt Bey said, taking a pomegranate from his basket, "except to the extent they can enlist Yildiz's aid. Their household troops are weak, and the real allegiance of city and army alike is to the church."
"And to the eunuchs," Abolhassan added with an ironic smile. "Do not forget your own ubiquitous sect, Dashibt Bey! That pompous fool Yildiz was most emphatic about not offending your brothers and disrupting the smooth running of his empire."
"He is right to that extent only, in saying the real power lies with us."
Smiling, the courtier tore the dark-rubied flesh of the pomegranate, twisting its innards outward with his beringed, stubby-fingered hands.
"Fortunately, I can guarantee that my brethren will follow my lead staunchly, with only the standard amount of haggling and intriguing among ourselves. I defer to you, General, because even deft administrators need a plausible figurehead. The hour is not yet ripe for us eunuchs to raise up our own champion and follow him to mastery of the empire."
Dashibt Bey's declaration was received by the others as a bold jest, with condescending laughter all around. Smiling, Abolhassan proceeded to list the various military units that could be counted on to shift their loyalty to him, ticking off factions on the dusky fingers of one hand: the southern and eastern expeditionary legions, the Aghrapur city garrison, most of the civil guard, the armies of the rural shahs, and miscellaneous troops under arms in the Ilbarsi province and Hyrkania. He finished by hooking his thumb back with a forefinger, displaying to the others a broad, battle-scarred hand capable of considerable grasp. "That leaves us to face the sharife of Aghrapur, the Imperial Honor Guard, a few deluded loyalists and courtly fops―no one of consequence. And yet, regrettably, our forces are scattered, and mobilization for civil war is always chancy. It will require careful planning."
"Is it realistic, then, to think that the land will be ripe for revolt in the near future?" This question was posed by a richly arrayed nobleman, Philander by name.
"Without a doubt!" Abolhassan replied, looking dangerously ruffled.
"Time favors us in that wise. Remember, the same colonial wars and uprisings which strengthen our military hand in the provinces make conditions gradually worse here at home. Yildiz takes the blame for levying more troops and taxes, and being a greedy ruler or an inept one, while we reap the bounty in men and equipment."
"Truly, 'tis so," the priest Tammuraz chimed in, "or so my agents tell me! Only pray to Tarim that this war drags on longer, and that Yildiz continues to sustain it."
"Have no fear; he dotes on these petty wars, especially the Venjipur campaign!" Rubbing his hands together, Abolhassan smiled triumphantly around at the group. "He justifies us to his critics, blandly denying our treacheries and iniquities. Most recently he has grown enamored of one of the troopers he saw in Ibn Uluthan's window―a hulking northern oaf called Conan. My plan is to cultivate this barbarian, feed Yildiz stories of his prowess, false or true, and so play on his weaknesses, until our plans have ripened sufficiently. If we are careful, if we remain sly, we can lead the fatuous tyrant to his doom!"
Chapter 5
Court at Arms
"Did it ever enter your thick northern skull that you were sent here to kill your emperor's sworn enemies, not your fellow Turanian officers?"
Pacing beneath the palm-leaf awning of the staff barrack, Jefar Sharif halted abruptly to keep within the limit of the shade. He pivoted to glare at Conan, who stood waiting in the open yard. Beyond the young sharif loomed Conan's immediate superior, Captain Murad, gray and motionless in the dark doorway.
Sharif resumed his stalking. "And all in a fight over a woman, one of these low Venji slatterns. Three days past―you were lucky I was away when it happened! And thank your birth-stars that you are of officer rank, and so cannot be flogged!" The hereditary officer's golden spurs scraped the hard earth, his rolled cavalry gloves slapping the leg of his riding-breeches as he paced. His thin-mustached lip curled up in a sneer.
"I have always said that, because of ill habits like this brawling, foreign troops should not be allowed rank in Turanian units. A shameful
incident!" He wheeled on Conan again. "Well, fellow, have you anything to say for yourself?"
Conan, standing in the hot sun, with murderous impulses surging the length of his sword-arm, searched for some way to translate them into civil speech. When first summoned to this dressing-down, he had not been disarmed by Jefar's subalterns; now the two guards stood at separate corners of the barrack, too far away to intervene if he should decide to take personal offense. And yet, he reminded himself, he was a military officer.
The Cimmerian, with his yataghan hanging heavy at his side, decided at last that this foppish sharif could hardly understand what danger his curt language placed him in. Conan forced his rebellious gaze down to dusty earth. "I killed the swi… the trooper, in my own defense, Sharif." He managed to speak acceptably, ending with the officer's correct title, though it nearly gagged him.
"You did, did you? Well, at least I can see that you are repentant."
Ceasing to pace, Jefar flashed a righteous look from the older, wary-eyed Murad back to Conan. "But tell me, did it ever pass through your dim barbarian consciousness that―"
"Sergeant, what is your age?" Stepping forward from the deeper shadow, the captain came to Conan's rescue―or, perhaps, to his rash commander's. Murad's gray-bearded face crinkled in a hard squint beneath his weathered gray-green turban. "And where do you hail from?"
A hot, airless moment passed in the courtyard as Conan fought down his ill-temper and resorted to hasty mental calculations. "Nineteen winters, by my reckoning, sir. I am Cimmerian."
"Nineteen, a mere boy!" exclaimed Jefar Sharif, who had at best a year or two more than that to his own earthly sum.
"And already warranted an officer," Murad continued purposefully.
"Most unusual! I see that you survived this duel with but slight damage."
His eye moved to Conan's injured hand, poulticed and bound with long, fibrous leaves of a medicinal jungle plant. "How else, Sergeant, have you distinguished yourself under Turanian arms?"
Conan leveled blue eyes at his questioner, speaking with careful
frankness. "Captain, I was the last survivor of the battle of Yaralet. I saw the rebellious satrap Munthassem Khan destroyed by his own sorcerous dabblings, and the city restored to Turan's rule."
"So I heard." Murad stroked his sleet-tinged beard. "Yaralet―a bloody encounter, was it not, with thousands slain in both hosts?"
"True, good Captain, perhaps!" Jefar Sharif silenced his elder subordinate with a wave of an imperious hand. "But if this northerner was really the sole survivor―why, then, we have only his account of the affair.
"Whatever the case, he volunteered for Venjipur duty," Murad said, sharply interrupting his commander, flashing a warning look at the scowling Cimmerian. "And until this incident, he struck me as a capable soldier. Understand me, Conan: A good officer is a valuable item, a piece of property the Turanian Army would rather not see wasted in brawls and agonizing punishments. Nor in insubordination and mutiny." This last he said with a pointed glance at Conan's side―and in response, the Cimmerian's hand reluctantly, longingly relinquished its grip on his yataghan's flared hilt. "We need men like you alive in the field, Sergeant,"
the captain finished, "ready to slaughter the enemy!"
"Aye, fellow!" Jefar Sharif still, apparently, felt it necessary to add his counsel. "If this affair had been somewhat more dignified―say, a duel between noble officers, or a summary execution in the heat of battle, intended to prevent desertion or bolster morale―why, that would be another matter! There is seldom any problem with the killing of an enlisted man, or even a noble, if one is of creditable birth oneself. But a brother warrant officer of an elite unit… you must learn to be more careful of appearances, Sergeant!" Jefar concluded, bestowing on Conan a fatherly look that ill befit his stripling age.
"Enough―I mean excellent, Sharif. Now remain here a moment, Sergeant, while we decide the disposition of your case." Murad turned with the young noble to step inside the shaded doorway. Conan waited in sweltering heat, feeling the tropic sun scorching through his thin-shirted shoulders all the way to his gizzard, or so it seemed.
The only sound in the midafternoon doldrums was the swishing of palm
leaves in the nearby stables, where Venji servants fanned the Turanian officers' steeds. The desert-bred beasts had to be ventilated to survive the damp noon heat, and even so they performed sluggishly on the mildest of days. But the half-dozen staff officers, cavalrymen all, continued to regard horses as necessary appurtenances of command, practically a part of their uniform.
The captain and Jefar Sharif, nodding together and stepping back outside, regarded Conan solemnly. "Sergeant, here is our finding," Murad announced at last. "Your punishment will be reflected in a harsher schedule of duties, beginning with a hill patrol tomorrow morning. That will benefit not only our beloved emperor but also, perhaps, your own unruly spirit."
The sharif would not allow Murad the last word. "We would levy a harsher penalty on you, Sergeant, if we thought it could possibly satisfy the wrath of those you have offended by this ill-advised murder. But the Red Garrotes will seek vengeance regardless of our verdict. And I wager you'll find their methods more discreet; learn from them if you can."
"Jefar Sharif is right, Conan." Murad nodded gravely from the porch.
"We will issue a stern warning to the stranglers, but I cannot guarantee their obedience. Now go forth, give sober thought to the responsibilities of your command, and watch your back!"
With a nod and grunt of salute, Conan turned to exit the staff compound. The punishment had, indeed, been fiendishly cruel; at his side he felt his sword fist slowly unclenching. Passing the guard dozing at the gate, he slowed to take stock of those waiting outside.
There were loungers aplenty, ubiquitous idlers who guaranteed the fast spread of news through the fort. Gossip was the coin of the invading army, and betting was its commerce. As Conan watched, a pair of troopers detached themselves from fence-rails and strode off in opposite directions, doubtless to spread the word of his release. Others eyed him speculatively, whispering between themselves and probably setting stiff odds against his longevity. To Conan, the most welcome watcher proved to be Juma, who strode from beneath an awning, hailing him loudly and fearlessly before the watchers. In his enthusiasm, the black giant dragged along a couple of half-willing troopers to meet him.
"Conan! Well, Sergeant, how went the court-martial?" He relinquished
one of his companions' necks to clap Conan's shoulder resoundingly. "If Sergeant is still your rank, after this affair?"
"Aye, it is." Conan grinned back at him. "Extra duty and a few hill patrols, Murad has decreed. Nothing severe―at least not yet."
"Sergeant, sir." One of the troopers, a fresh-faced boy, interrupted them. "Will they really transfer you back to Aghrapur for punishment, as Sergeant Juma was telling us?"
Conan laughed resoundingly. "Nay, Hakim!―and do not spread that false rumor, lest half the garrison murder the other half in hope of suffering the same penalty!"
Their noisy gesticulating gathered a few more watchers to them, some even offering Conan guarded congratulations. But most seemed to shun him, aware that he now possessed dangerous enemies. And after a few moments of banter, the Cimmerian took his leave, drawing Juma along and promptly asking him about Sariya.
"I left her at the hut with Babrak, Conan. I came because there is surely more danger to you than to her. Now we must go back, so the child of Tarim can return to his camp duties."
Together they headed for the main gate of the fort. Conan insisted on going by way of the mess tent, braving baleful stares and ironic whispers for the sake of openly advertising his freedom. They walked on to the main formation of troopers' tents, stopping by the campfire of Conan's detachment. Announcing the next morning's patrol, he was greeted by anonymous groans and curses from beneath the bleaching canvas canopies. But it was not his practice to try to enforce morale. He and Juma passed on out the gate of the compound, heading for the unfortified village and the scatter of makeshift dwellings along the jungle's fringe.
Two days of grumbling exertion by Conan's and Juma's troopers, aided and bullied by their sergeants' burly arms, had raised a good-sized bungalow at the edge of the trees. Split hardwood timbers borrowed from the fort's supply squared up its corners; the walls were lattices of bamboo and bough, interlaced with tough palm fronds. A frame of elbow-thick bamboo trunks formed a basis for the shaggy, palm-thatched roof.
Sariya's graceful fingers taught the resting troopers to weave mats of split bamboo for the floor; her simple jests and childish laughter even made
them enjoy it.
While gathering bamboo in the jungle, the warriors scared up a wild pig. At cost of a deep gore to one man's thigh, the raging sow was speared to provide a feast for the night of the hut's completion. The wounded soldier, doctored and pampered by Sariya, lived to share the animal's succulent flesh with the others; she made him eat its heart, so that its vengeful spirit would not haunt him and sicken his wound. Now the grimacing, razor-tusked skull bleached atop the roof-peak of the bungalow, warding off ghosts and other evils.
Beneath its protection, they found Babrak studying one of his many scrolls of Tarim's teachings. As Conan and Juma approached from the fort road, they could see him lounging in the shade of the open porch, which was already more lived in than either of the hut's two rooms. Sariya, wrapped in a length of blue cloth from the village market, knelt over a smoking fire in the middle of the yard. She arose to greet her protectors with eager embraces. Upon Conan she lavished kisses, but no questions.
"You walk proudly, and I see no stripes of the lash. Well enough, then!"
Babrak, leaving the porch, pressed up beside Sariya to administer a stiff, formal embrace to Conan, though his field-green turban barely brushed the taller man's chin. "You have weathered your court-martial well, by grace of the One God."
"And by sufferance of them all, it would seem." Conan returned his friend's clasp wholeheartedly, making Babrak grunt. "My officers have resolved to leave my punishment to the Red Garrotes."
"Fear not, Conan," Babrak told him. "If need be, I will stand with you against a whole regiment of those assassins! Tarim teaches us to protect the righteous."
"I do not ask it. I can protect myself." Conan moved with them into the shade of the porch. "But if aught happens to me, I leave it to you, my friends, to care for Sariya. Sh
e has no family and no other home than this, so she tells me."
"Is that so, lass?" Juma asked, showing frank concern. "What of your tribe and your clan?"
"I have none." The maid seated herself beside the hut's bamboo door,
doubling her trim knees on the rough matting before her. "Since earliest memory, I have been raised in jungle camps of Mojurna's devotees. Mere months ago I learned, to my horror, that I was destined for sacrifice." She told the story with affecting frankness. "Now that I have escaped my ordained fate, my old teachers and sister acolytes would only mock or revile me."
"Even so," Conan said, "'tis a good thing you were spared." He settled down beside her, his bandaged hand finding its way around her waist.
"Oh, yes, Conan! It is far better to live!" She twined against him, pressing a kiss on the side of his neck. "I have seen so little of life! There is much more I want to see, much good that I can do." She fell silent abruptly, glancing at the fire; then she arose and left the porch, kneeling to tend the covered copper and clay pots steaming on smokeless coals.
"A fine girl," Juma said, gazing after her with the others.
"Truly, she must have put an enchantment on me," Conan whispered earnestly. "Already she has emptied my purse, and I do not even mind!
The trifles she buys for the hut are of use, or at least pretty. She has a way of making life comfortable."
"Aye, yours is a house blest by heaven, I can see." Babrak arose from his cross-legged crouch. "But forgive me, I must return to my duty. The half-bell struck long since, and I dare not be late for drill. I leave you to your repast." He turned away, smiling. "I trust you will enjoy it, or at least pretend to your woman that you do." With a passing farewell to Sariya, he left the yard.
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