Conan the Rogue

by John Maddox Roberts

  'I will send invitations to all of the greatest sorcerers of this decadent age, to the Order of the White Peacock in Khitai, to Thoth-amon, and to all the others. I expect to realize the best offer from the current priest-king of Stygia. He is not the equal of his predecessors, the god-kings, but he is still the richest man in the world, and has a notable stake in things sorcerous.'

  'Then why not sell to the priest-king,' Conan asked, 'and forget about the others?'

  'Because, sir, sorcerers may often have the power to summon and offer things of unique value. It is not unthinkable that a man like Thoth-amon, who is no king but is yet a much greater sorcerer than the priest-king of Stygia, might be able to offer far more than that king, especially since earthly wealth is of little account to him, whereas sorcerous power is everything.' Once again he slapped fat hands to fat knees. 'In short, sir, I intend to transform the black scorpion into wealth incalculable, sir, wealth incalculable!'

  'And what,' Conan demanded impatiently, 'has all this to do with me?'

  'I was just about to come to that, sir.'

  'And none too soon,' the Cimmerian grumbled.

  'In recent years I have traced the scorpion through a long and tedious list of thieves and buyers. An art dealer such as your humble servant establishes many contacts helpful in such a quest. Upon several occasions I have been within days of laying my hands upon it, only to find that it was stolen or sold just before I got within reach of it. Last month, in Belverus, I tracked it to the home of a wealthy dilettante in the sorcerous arts. He would not let me see it and scorned my generous offer. Mind you, the man had no idea of its true worth, and any attempt on his part to employ it sorcerously would inevitably have brought about his own most painful and colourful demise, therefore rendering my acquisition of the image a veritable act of charity. Failing this, I employed an, ah, an agent, as it were, to obtain it for me.'

  'And was your thief successful?' Conan asked.

  'Sir!' Casperus protested. 'You use an ugly word.'

  The outlander shrugged. 'I have been a thief in my time. I do not find the word distasteful.!'

  'Well, in answer to your question, my agent was all too successful, not only obtaining the scorpion, but fleeing with it. I have reason to believe that it is now, or soon will be, in this very city!'

  'And you want me to find the thing for you?' Conan asked.

  'Exactly, sir!'

  'Then why didn't you say so in the first place?'

  For a moment the fat man was nonplussed. 'Why, sir, how could one broach such a subject without the fullest preparation? Even to discuss so wonderful a treasure without first conveying a sense of the full majesty of its origin and powers seems to me little less than sacrilege, sir, sacrilege!'

  Conan knew better than to talk sense to a man obsessed. 'Who is this thief, and how should I find him?'

  Casperus waved a dismissive hand. 'That is irrelevant. The

  idol has changed hands at least twice in the interim. My agent had partners and these, it seems, fell out. However, in this town there is only one possible buyer for the image. He is a man who calls himself Andolla and claims to be a sorcerer. In truth, I suspect him to be a mere charlatan, albeit a rich one. I must keep myself concealed here, or whoever has the image now will flee before even approaching Andolla. I need a man who is. clever, who is a mighty man of arms, and who has a sensible wariness of magical things. In short, sir, I would like to employ you.'

  'Now we come to the truly important part of all this,' Conan said. 'How much?'

  'I am prepared to offer fifty thousand golden marks of Aquilonia upon delivery of the image into my hands.'

  It was a princely sum, but Conan affected to be unimpressed. 'That is paltry if the thing is worth what you say.'

  'Only to me, sir, only to me. Were you to seek to sell it to the likes of Thoth-amon, he would have it from you by force or by sorcery, whereas I know the proper safeguards. The idol has been the death of many men over the millennia. No, sir, I will not be paying you for the image, for it is already mine, and mine alone. I will be paying you for the performance of a few days' work, and fifty thousand golden marks should be more than adequate recompense for such a task. A man of your accomplishments should find it a simple matter. You will not be dealing with great sorcerers, after all, but with mere thieves. I have no doubt that they will have swordsmen in their employ, and it is because of this that I require a champion such as yourself. My bodyguard, Gilmay, is competent to defend me from the common footpads who would prey upon a man of my obvious prosperity, but as you have already discovered, this about exhausts his realm of expertise.'

  'Very well,' Conan said. 'I accept your commission. I will need five thousand now. In this town the authorities alone have set a high standard for bribe-taking.'

  Casperus nodded. 'Done. And may I say, sir, that you fulfil my highest expectations as a man of decisive action.' The fat man rose and crossed to the pile of effects on the floor. He uncovered a strongbox and opened it with a key that hung from his neck on a golden chain. From the box he extracted five clinking bags of soft leather. Relocking the box, he returned to his chair.

  'Each of these bags contains ten golden imperials of Aquilonia, each coin worth a hundred marks.'

  Conan took the weighty bags and placed them in his belt pouch. 'Now describe the thing to me. I know that it is a woman-headed scorpion, but how large is it? Will I need help to move it? Is it heavy enough to require an ox cart?'

  Casperus chuckled. 'By no means, sir. The value of the object is in its beauty and the sorcerous art of its making. It is only about thus long,' he held his hands nearly a foot apart, 'and perhaps half as high.'

  'So small?' Conan said, astonished.

  'That is what makes it so easy to hide and transport. Had it been the size of a great sphinx of Stygia, it would never have been stolen. Its colour, as I have said, is black, and the lacquer itself is beautiful in its own Way. You would think it made of obsidian until you should lift it. It is quite weighty for its size. This is not the weight of the base metal alone, but also the burden of its sorcerous power and its many curses.'

  Conan felt an involuntary shiver. 'Do not speak so much of sorcerous things.'

  'Then just consider it a valuable object, sir, and fetch it for me.'

  Conan rose. 'I will return when I have the thing in my hands. Good evening to you.'

  Casperus rose and bowed. 'And the best of fortune to you, sir, the very best of fortune!'

  The Cimmerian left the upper chamber and descended the stair to the street below. He was cheerful as he wended his steps toward the inn, the bags making a comfortable weight at his waist. Surely, his fortune had turned since he departed Belverus.

  Within his room at the inn, Conan noticed something subtly wrong. He held his candle high and surveyed his surroundings. The scanty furniture was as he remembered it. Then he saw that one of his saddlebags lay on the floor a bit to one side of a crack in the wall. He distinctly remembered placing it directly against the crack on the previous night, to block a draft. He was sure he had not touched it since. He crossed to the bag and examined it. Nothing had been taken. There had been nothing in it of any value. The Cimmerian knew better than to leave valuables in a hired room. He shrugged. Doubtless, he thought, some thieving inn servant had rifled his goods in search of loot. He turned at scratching from the adjoining door. He kept his hand on his sword hilt until he was certain that it was Brita.

  'Ah, there you are!' she said. 'I grew worried, with you away for so long. Where did you go?'

  'First, tell me what you've been doing,' Conan said.

  She sat on the bed, her look despondent. 'Since the perfumer's, I have had no luck. It is as if Ylla has vanished into the air.'

  'Well, do not lose heart. This is not a large city, but it has more than enough room for one girl to hide herself for some time. As for me, I had an invitation to dinner and I accepted it.' He began to unbuckle his brigantine, turning slightly to slip it off h
is shoulders. 'It was from a strange man, an unbelievably fat fellow named Casperus.' He turned back to see that her face had gone deathly pale. 'What is it, lass?'

  She shook herself and the look vanished. 'Oh, nothing. I but had a fleeting memory of a fat man I detested when I was a girl.' The strange look had disappeared so quickly that Conan thought it might have been a trick of the flickering candlelight. She smiled at him brightly. 'And please, take no note of my changing moods. I do not want you to think that I am some flighty girl who does not appreciate all you have done for her.' She stood and came closer, smiling. 'I am, in fact, a grown woman, and very grateful.' Of a sudden, her face was no longer as innocent as its wont, and the Cimmerian was acutely aware of the ripe beauty he had admired upon first seeing her.

  'And,' she went on, 'I did say that I would find some way to repay you.' She came into the circle of his arms and he crushed her to him as eagerly as she drew his lips down to her own.

  VI

  The Richest Man in Sicas

  Another day in the city, and still no sign of Piris. Conan decided, that he had waited long enough. If the strange little man still' wished to employ him, he would just have to await his turn to claim the Cimmerian's services.

  He had left Brita sleeping blissfully and gone below to lay in his usual substantial breakfast. Afterwards he checked with the gate guard, to learn that there was still no sign of Piris. Next he headed for the Square. He now had a sufficient working knowledge of the town, and he knew where to go for information. He idled the morning away among the stalls and beggars, until he saw the person he wanted, standing before a dressmaker's shop.

  Delia turned and smiled broadly at his approach, 'I knew that you would seek me out.'

  She was a comely woman, but Conan's night with Brita had left him desirous only of information. For a girl raised in a sheltered home, Brita was most ardent and most eager to experiment. He gestured toward an open-fronted wineshop.

  'Have you had your midday meal yet?' he asked.

  She threw back her head and laughed lustily. 'I just got up! Hut I'll let you buy me breakfast. Come on.' She walked ahead of him, rolling her hips as if her spine had more bones than a snake's. She chose a table next to the low wall that separated the wineshop from the plaza and shouted for a server. The day was cool but a bronze bowl of hot coals stood in the centre of the able. The server brought heated wine and returned minutes later with laden platters.

  Delia picked up a fowl and bit into it, leaning with her elbows on the table. After swallowing a large mouthful, she spoke.

  'Well, what drew you back to me, Cimmerian? Was it my face or my body? Both are unsurpassed in this city.'

  'Tell me about a man named Andolla,' Conan said.

  She choked slightly, then looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. 'What are you up to now?'

  'Business.' he said.

  'That being the case, I am accustomed to being paid for my services.' The Cimmerian placed a handful of silver coins on the table and Delia scooped them up expertly, dropping them into her ample cleavage. Still holding the fowl in one hand, she pointed with the other. 'You see that temple?'

  Conan looked to where she indicated. The building was an imposing one, set back from the Square by the width of a broad terrace and a ceremonial stairway. Its columns were red and black marble. Smoke from an altar fire seeped through an opening in the roof.

  'That's the old Temple of Mitra. People here care so little for the state gods that the priests closed it down years ago. A short time back, this man Andolla came to town and took charge of it. He dedicated it to Mother Doorgah, a Vendhyan goddess with breasts almost as splendid as mine.' She shook her shoulders to emphasize her endowments.

  'I saw this goddess yesterday, carried in a procession,' Conan said. 'For the money, I expect more information.'

  'Don't be so impatient,' she grinned. 'Don't you want to see if I compare favourably to her?'

  He grinned back. 'Later, perhaps. Business now. What is this Andolla's brand of knavery?'

  She pouted. 'Oh, very well. This procession you saw was made up of young people, was it not?' The Cimmerian nodded. 'Perhaps you also noticed that they were well dressed. That is because Andolla seeks followers who share three qualities: youth, wealth, and stupidity. He seems to find many such. Once, they attend his rituals, they act like his slaves. They squander their inheritances upon him, and some rob their parents, occasionally with violence.'

  'And do these parents take no action?' Conan asked.

  She wiped her mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. 'People who raise such children are usually worthless themselves. Oh, a few have gone to the temple to confront Andolla, but his guards I expel them, and one or two have died because he cursed them, or at least so he claims.'

  Conan rubbed his chin as he stared at the temple with calculation. 'So this religious rogue has grown very rich, has he?'

  'Extremely.' She smiled slyly. 'What are you planning? You can tell me.' She feigned a look of innocent sincerity, causing Conan to laugh aloud.

  'Delia, if I have something in my mind that I wish to keep to myself, you are the last person I would inform.'

  She laughed as raucously. 'Be careful of him, Conan. He is most suspicious of people who seem both strong and clever and have no wealth to bring him.'

  'Know you of a good lever with which I can pry that place open?' he asked.

  She picked up a small apple and bit it in two, chewing it slowly, seeds and all, before swallowing. 'There is a rich man of this town named Rista Daan, a spice merchant. He has a daughter named Rietta. She has been taken under Andolla's spell and has fled to the temple with a great sum of money. The father wants her back and has tried to hire bravos to go there and take her, but the gang leaders have been paid off by Andolla and refuse to

  rouble him. That might be a good place to start, whatever you have in mind.'

  'Well, well,' drawled a voice the Cimmerian had heard before. 'Look at who is consorting with Maxio's slut!' Conan turned slightly to see the three thugs clad in red leather whom he had encountered on his first day in Sicas: the tall one, the short one, and the one with the stringy yellow beard. It was the tall one who had spoken. 'Still in town, eh, Cimmerian?'

  'It would be pointless to deny it,' Conan answered.

  'Barbarians should not pretend to wit,' said the bearded one.

  'Half-wit boys should not pretend to manhood, however long their swords,' Conan returned. He felt Delia's restraining hand upon his corded forearm.

  'Leave us in peace,' Delia said. 'We want no trouble with you.'

  'We might have done so,' said the short one. 'But now this savage has insulted us. We do not tolerate such insolence.'

  Conan turned to Delia. 'These three have baited me since I arrived in town. I think that three times should be sufficient for anyone to endure them.' His tone was easy and conversational. Her expression was a near-comic mixture of apprehension and excitement.

  'Don't be foolish,' she urged. 'There are three of them.'

  He shrugged. 'That still won't make it an even fight.' He glanced beyond the three. On the other side of the Square was the temple. A short distance away from it was the house of the rich man named Xanthus. He beckoned to a server, who came running, his expression fearful. The Cimmerian pointed to the platter of hot breads and meat on the table before him. 'Fetch a cover for this. I do not want it to get cold while I attend to this matter.' Then he rose. 'I will be back shortly,' he said to Delia, who goggled at him in disbelief.

  The Cimmerian sprang lightly over the low wall and pointed to a spot near the centre of the Square. 'Let's go over there and fight,' he suggested.

  The thugs stared in amazement. They had lost a little of their confident swagger. The tall one shrugged. 'You may die anywhere you like, foreigner.'

  Conan walked easily, followed by the three, his hands well away from his weapons. He did not expect a fair fight, having seen them kill before, but he doubted that their vanity would l
et them cut him down from behind. Even so, he kept far enough in advance of them to be safe. The slightest rasp of blade unsheathing would be all the warning he would need.

  He stopped in a decorative circle formed of coloured paving stones. He was within easy view of the temple, the Reeve's headquarters, and the palace of Xanthus. Word of the impending fight had spread with uncanny swiftness. People were already coming out onto stairs, balconies, and rooftops to witness the show.

  'This seems a good spot,' the Cimmerian announced.'Plenty of room to fight.'

  'However you choose to perish, barbarian,' said the bearded one.

  Conan turned to face them. The three came forward slowly, the short one and the bearded one edging away from the tall one, who stood in the centre. Each grasped his sheath in one hand, the long grips positioned almost vertically. Conan knew that they would draw straight up and cut straight down, the quickest way to attack with such a weapon, and the most efficient for three men standing so close. A horizontal or an oblique cut might foul a companion's blade.

  'How will you have it, then?' asked Conan. 'One at a time, or all at once?' He caught a glimpse of armour among the quickly forming crowd. It was Ermak, the mercenary leader, come to judge the new talent.