Conan the Rogue

by John Maddox Roberts

  I

  The Small Man

  The cup of hardened leather slammed down upon a table stained with spilled wine and scarred with the nicks and gouges of a hundred bar-room brawls. The hand that gripped the cup was equally scarred, the thick wrist banded with a broad bracelet of coral-studded bronze, as much a defence as an ornament. The hand snatched up the cup to reveal four dice, each showing a different face: the serpent, the dog, the skull, and the dagger.

  'The beggar!' crowed a voice, naming the lowest score in dicing. 'You lose, Cimmerian!'

  'Set!' cursed the unfortunate gambler. He addressed the ivory cubes. 'All the gods curse you and the beast from whose teeth you were carved!'

  The winner, a sharp-faced man whose red hair was cropped close to his scalp, scooped up his winnings: a pile of silver coins, amid which the torchlight winked from a few thin golden coins of Nemedia. More luridly gleamed the many golden chains depending from his neck and the jewels that flashed upon his fingers, the trophies of a long winning streak.

  'That cleans me out,' the loser said, staring glumly into the interior of the dice cup. Its ridged surface ensured that the dice would tumble correctly. He saw no signs that it had been tampered with. And he knew that the dice were honest. They were as honest as dice could be, at any rate. The man who sat across from him was hard, but he knew better than to cheat Conan the Cimmerian, who had somehow lately been deserted by fortune.

  The Cimmerian set the cup on the table and leaned back against the carved wooden pillar behind him. He brooded upon the many vicissitudes of fortune. He and his companions had hired on for a minor campaign when a border satrap rebelled against the king of Nemedia. They had been in the storming party when the border lord's citadel had been taken, and came through the fight with few losses and rich loot.

  With purses bulging, they had come here, to Belverus, and settled down at The Sword and Sceptre to drink, carouse and gamble for their takings. One by one, as they lost their loot, the others had left to seek employment for their swords. It had come down to Conan and the red-haired man, whose name was Ingolf. Now Ingolf was the final winner.

  'You've still your sword,' Ingolf pointed out. 'Do you want to wager it on another roll of the dice?'

  Conan touched the weapon that leaned in its leather sheath against the pillar. It was a long, straight-bladed brand, with hilt and pommel of plain steel, its hand-grip of unornamented bone. It was severely plain, the way Conan liked all his weapons.

  'Nay, for with this I will win yet more gold.'

  Ingolf shrugged. 'As you will. Let me stand you to a final mug of ale before you go forth to seek your fortune.' It was a traditional gambler's courtesy, and Conan nodded assent.

  The serving wench who brought the ale had shown Conan much favour in the past few days, but now that he was clean of cash, she had not so much as a smile for him. Ingolf she treated as if he were her long-lost lover, suddenly returned from the wars.

  Like the dice cup, the ale mug was made of leather, and it smelled faintly of the pitch with which its interior was water-proofed. Leaning against the pillar, the Cimmerian hooked a thumb into his broad, nail-studded belt as he raised the jack and drank. His sleeveless vest revealed strongly muscled arms and a neck corded like a great ship's anchor cable. His baggy knee-breeches and fur-topped boots showed long service and now, along with the sword, were his only possessions. Days before, he had gambled away horse and saddle, bow and arrows, lance, shield, even his dagger. It was nothing. He enjoyed the profligate life, and he would always find a means of livelihood with his warrior skills. As long as he had those, everything else was replaceable.

  He set down the half-empty cup and studied his surroundings, as if seeking inspiration by which to restore his fortunes. The prospect was not promising. The hour was late and the cookfires had burned to embers. The few remaining patrons of The Sword and Sceptre drank or gambled with little fervour Most of the paid-off veterans of the recent campaign had been picked clean days before. At one table sat a lone man whose trousers, jacket and head scarf were made of silk and dyed a strange shade of violet. He seemed to be watching Conan intently, but the Cimmerian ignored him. He wanted nothing to do with any man who would wear clothes of such a colour

  It was a typical soldiers' den, decorated with obsolete weapons and painted wooden busts of famous Nemedian generals from past centuries. Many of these busts showed signs of having served as targets for dagger-throwing contests. The serving women were at least as attractive as the wooden generals. Conan finished his ale and rose. He hooked the sword's hanger to the rings on his belt.

  'Farewell, Ingolf. Perhaps we'll meet again and I will be as lucky in gaming as in war, for a change.'

  The red-haired man nodded. 'Wars are many and good warriors few. We'll meet again.' The two gripped wrists. Left unspoken was the likelihood that, next time, they might be on opposite sides. That meant nothing to professionals.

  The Cimmerian made his way between the tables and went up the steps to street level. As he always did when going from the illuminated indoors to the night-gloomed outdoors, he stepped to one side of the doorway and waited with his back against a wall while his eyes adjusted to the change. Most men needed minutes for their eyes to adjust, Conan only seconds. But he knew full well that a man could die in seconds and that often that sort of thing happened to men who walked forth blind. There was no sound on the street save the creaking of the pot-house sign overhead. In the distance, he could see a light. It was one of the city torches. These were planted at every corner and were supposed to be tended by the night watch. In practice, it was remarkable for one in four to be burning after midnight.

  He tensed slightly as another patron emerged from the tavern. The man stood beneath the sign and stared down the street, first one way and then the other, as if he were looking for someone. He stepped into the street, stumbling slightly, then scanning in both directions once more. He vented a frustrated sigh and walked off toward the torch. Quietly, Conan fell in behind him. The man hurried, taking mincing steps on slippered feet. He stopped by the torch and peered down the side streets, then released another sigh. Conan's sword hissed from its sheath.

  'Were you looking for me?'

  The man whirled and his eyes bugged as he saw the blade levelled at his throat. As Conan had suspected, it was the fellow in the violet-silk garments.

  'Peace, peace!' the man said hurriedly, his palms outward. 'Indeed I came seeking you, but only to talk, not to rob!' His voice was quiet and breathy. Conan laughed at the thought of this effeminate little man, who stood no higher than his chest, trying to rob him,.

  'In that case, I have been spared a terrible fate.' Then his voice lost its humour and he snapped: 'Now, what do you want?'

  'I could not help overhearing your conversation with that so fortunate mercenary back inside. Am I correct in understanding that you are a fighting man and that you are presently without either employment or funds?''

  'Right on all counts,' Conan said. 'But I've never been destitute enough to come to the likes of you for assistance.'

  The long-lashed eyes lowered and the man seemed to flush. 'You misapprehend. I wish to hire you for a mission. It is a mission for a warrior of strength, skill, and courage. Are you not such a man?'

  'I am,' Conan agreed. He sheathed his sword smoothly, without looking down at his sheath. 'Why did you not come to me back there?' He jerked his black-haired head toward The Sword and Sceptre

  'This is a matter requiring great discretion, great confidentiality. I could not speak where others might overhear.' He came close and looked up at Conan. The Cimmerian immediately regretted that they were no longer separated by the sword's length; the man wore scent. Conan's revulsion was washed away by the man's
next words: 'I am willing to pay most handsomely for this service.'

  'Speak on,' Conan growled. He had served stranger men than this one in his time. Gold was always the same, no matter whose hand bestowed it.

  'Not here. Even here, there might be listeners. Besides,' he hugged himself and shivered, 'the night grows cold.'

  Conan, who was far more lightly dressed, ignored the chill breeze. 'I am comfortable enough. Well, if you must, I have a room not far from here. Come along.'

  Without looking back, the Cimmerian strode from the circle of torchlight. Surprised by the abrupt departure, the little man stood for a second before scurrying after him. Then a cloaked form detached itself from the shadow of a doorway and followed the two of them on silent feet.

  Conan turned down a short alley and his ears told him that the small man was still behind him. He stopped at a torch that burned in a sconce next to a door. Just beyond, wider doors identified the establishment as a stable. From within could be heard the quiet shufflings and snorting of horses.

  From a box nailed just within the smaller doorway Conan took a candle and lit it from the torch. 'Come on,' he said, stepping inside. He ascended a flight of creaking steps and entered a tiny, cramped room. The candlelight revealed its sparse furnishings: a bed, a chair, and a small table.

  The little man entered and wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'This is a vile-smelling place.' From a sleeve he took a kerchief and held it over his nose and mouth.

  'Any stable smells better than that scent you've bathed in,' Conan said. He unlatched the shutters of the room's sole window and threw them open. 'There. All the fresh air you can breathe.' He unhooked the sword's hanger from his belt and sat on the bed with the weapon across his knees. 'Now, let's hear your story.'

  The other man sat on the spindly chair, first brushing the seat with his kerchief. 'Very well. My name is Piris. I come from Shadizar, in Zamora. I am in search of a... a certain object that was stolen from me.'

  'What sort of object?' Conan asked.

  'All in good time, my friend. I have looked long for this object, and there are others who would like to find it. The original thieves are dead, and it has been through more than one set of hands since they died.'

  'And you think it is here, in Belverus?'

  'It was, but it is no longer. I have strong reason to suspect that it is now on its way to Sicas, in Aquilonia, if it is not there already.'

  'I've never heard of the place,' Conan said.

  'It is not a great city, but it is said to be a wicked one. It lies a few miles off the king's high road between Tarantia and Shamar, at the confluence of two rivers, the Ossar and the Fury. Its wealth comes mainly from its nearby silver mines, and this wealth has attracted persons of a rough sort. The royal officials there are, it is said, of an understanding and forgiving nature.'

  'Bribe-takers, eh?' Conan knew the breed.

  'I would not wish to judge harshly on the strength of mere hearsay,' Piris protested. 'However, that does seem to be the impression. You can understand that I would not wish to search

  for my property in such a place, among rapacious and violent men, without the aid of one who is both strong and skilled in the combative arts.'

  'That is reasonable,' Conan agreed. 'Now, just what is this thing you are looking for?'

  Piris hesitated. 'Ah, my friend—Conan, is it? Yes, Conan, this is something I am reluctant to—'

  'Set take it, man, can you not speak plainly?' Conan all but barked.

  'You see, I will wish you to go ahead of me to Sicas and learn something of the place. I will follow in a day or two. I have some inquiries to make here. In Sicas, I will tell you all you need to know.''

  'I do not like this secrecy. I've a mind to toss you down the steps. No, perhaps out the window would be better.' He gazed at the window as if measuring it for the throw.

  'I am willing to pay one thousand golden dishas for this task, the sum payable in full upon the recovery of my property.'

  Conan was mollified instantly. 'I'll need something on account. I'll have to outfit myself for the journey.'

  Piris smiled, revealing small, perfect, white teeth. 'Of course.' He took a fat purse from within his jacket and extended it. 'You will take, say, one hundred dishas for your travelling expenses?'

  Conan dumped the purse on the table. The coins that spilled out bore the likeness of the king of Koth, and each was worth ten dishas. He quickly separated twenty of them, scooping the rest back into the purse and tossing the bag to Piris, who caught it adroitly.

  'I will take, say, two hundred dishas for my travelling expenses. How will you find me in Sicas?'

  Piris hefted the bag, which was now far lighter than it had been. Sighing sadly, he returned it to his jacket. 'Very well. Somehow, I do not think that you will be difficult to find, even in a city of scoundrels. Just take lodging in an inn near the main gate of the town. I will find you.'

  'Then I think that concludes our business,' Conan said.

  'Until we meet again, in Sicas.' Piris bowed, touching spread fingertips to his violet-sheathed breast. He left behind a dissipating cloud of flowery scent.

  Conan shut the door and barred it. Fortune had turned again. Almost he was tempted to go back to The Sword and Sceptre to re-enter the game with a new stake, but he shook off the temptation. His gaming luck had deserted him in Belverus and it would not come back. He crossed to the window to draw in some unscented air. He did not see Piris in the alley, but for a moment he thought he saw a shadowy form moving amid deeper shadows. He stared, but his keen eyes descried no more movement. Deciding that fatigue and drink had made him see that which was not there, he closed and bolted the shutters. Blowing out the candle, he lay back on the narrow, hard bed and wondered why he had never heard of Sicas. He thought that he had heard of every city with a reputation for wickedness. Well, doubtless he would find out all about it when he got there. It sounded like his sort of city.

  The next day Conan betook himself to the markets of Belverus to outfit himself for the journey. First he went to the armourers' quarter to furnish himself with suitable weaponry. In a cutler's stall he found a dagger to replace the one he had lost gaming. He chose a wooden-hafted weapon with a foot-long blade three fingers wide at the hilt, its thick spine and razor edge tapering to a slender point.

  He wandered among the shops and stalls, admiring the long, slender lances and the powerful bows, but then, reluctantly, leaving them behind. He was headed for a city, not for a battlefield. Likewise he bypassed the shops of the shield-makers. Beneath a great awning erected in a small square, he found a bazaar selling soldiers' armour. This was a place where mercenaries between hires sold off their unneeded arms and to which they repaired when they needed to rearm at a reasonable price.

  He tried on a knee-length hauberk of blackened mail, but rejected it as too heavy. The merchant tried to sell him the full-plate harness of an Aquilonian man-at-arms, but the panoply of a heavy cavalryman would be of no use to him in the dangerous alleyways of a city. On a table of light cuirasses he found just what he needed.

  It was a brigantine that fit him perfectly. It was made of stout leather backed with thick canvas. Between leather and canvas were sandwiched hundreds of small, overlapping plates, fastened to the leather by rivets. The rivet heads showed on the outside and were gilded, making a brilliant show against the glossy black of the leather. It made an excellent defence, lighter than mail and almost as flexible. Had he been going to war, Conan might have worn it as a reinforcement over a hauberk. By itself, it was just what was called for when dealing with the daggers and swords common to dangerous cities. Best of all, it was a far more handsome garment than a shirt of mail. The brigantine was tailored to fit tightly at chest and waist, and its martial appearance announced that the wearer was not a man to be trifled with.

  He examined a display of helmets, hoping to find suitable headgear. There were visored helms of Aquilonia and Poitain, spired casques from Turan, crested Nemedian helmet
s, even a horned helm from faraway Asgard. Conan chose a close-fitting steel cap lined with velvet. It was unpadded save for the cloth, and thus was smaller and lighter than the battle helms. It would turn a sword and save his crown from a wooden cudgel, although the lack of padding would mean a ringing headache the next day.

  Satisfied that he was properly armed, he went to the clothiers' quarter for some new garments. The year was waning, the days were shortening, and the coming winter rode upon the north wind. Conan was inured to stern weather, but there was no point in suffering. He bought winter clothes and padded boots and fleece-lined gloves. He found a cloak of fine Shemitish wool that would serve as both garment and blanket on the journey. It was a broad, semicircular mantle, dyed red with madder.

  Thus newly attired, he went to the horse market. Here he found every sort of horseflesh, from humble plodders suitable for the plough to fiery destriers so fierce that only experienced trainers could display them, working in pairs. There were hunters and race horses, and palfreys for noble ladies.

  He mounted and tried out a dozen, settling on a bay gelding that was sound of wind and limb and capable of good speed when asked. It was well-trained and responsive, and Conan had to bargain for much of the morning to obtain a reasonable price. He took the beast to a blacksmith's to have it re-shod and watched the process carefully to make sure that it was done properly. The best horse in the world could be ruined by a botched shoeing, and a lame horse was of less use than a dog when a swift flight was called for.

  Satisfied that the horseshoes would stay on for a long journey, he led the animal to the saddlers' district and found there a Brythunian saddle that was satisfactory both to him and to the horse. The saddler threw in a set of worn saddlebags and a bridle when they had struck a bargain.

  For the rest, Conan bought such items as were always useful on a journey: flint and steel for fire-making, ropes and picket pins, and a waterskin. He put these items in his saddlebags and went in search of a mapmaker.

  The shop he sought was in a district catering to scholars and the practitioners of arcane arts. Sellers of books abounded, and a sound of steady scraping came from the shops of parchment makers. Many sorts of scribes plied their skills here, from the humble letter-writers, who sat at folding tables and indited missives for the illiterate, to copyists, who busily scribbled away copying manuscripts, to calligraphers, who grandly crafted official documents and certificates in the ornate styles of the powerful or the wealthy. There were illuminators who could spend days painting and decorating a single letter.