'From the way you have described them,' she said, 'they do not sound like the sort of men who would let their personal feelings for one another stand in the way of their pursuit of wealth.'
'Very true,' Conan said. 'There is something deeper here, and I will find the bottom of it, be sure of that.'
'And yet,' she protested, 'you have accepted commissions from that man Piris in Belverus, from the fat man Casperus, and now from the rich miser Xanthus. Do you truly intend to carry through for all of them?''
'I do not accept pay under false pretences,' he assured her. 'Have no fear. Mayhap a common thread runs through all these things, and when I have found it, I think I will have accomplished all that I have undertaken to everyone's satisfaction, although it may be to their everlasting regret.'
'You have much confidence.'
'Aye. Tell me, girl, what gods do you worship?'
She was taken aback by the sudden change of subject. 'Why, I attend services at the Temple of Mitra, like most Tarantians, and I used to sacrifice to the minor deities of my father's guild, although not lately. Why do you ask?'
'Well, Crom is my god and the god of my people. He is old, grim, and stern. When we are born, he gives us a fierce warrior's heart and the great strength, endurance, and hardihood that are the birthright of every Cimmerian. But he is not a caring god. Unlike the gods of the south, he takes no delight in sacrifice; he gives us no help and we ask him no favours, because he would grant none.'
'And so?' she asked, frowning in puzzlement.
'If he were the sort of god men pray to, I would send him a prayer of thanks right now, for sending me to Sicas.' Hands still laced behind his head, Conan grinned up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. 'Everyone in this town seems determined to make me rich!'
VII
The Silver Mine
Conan rode from the inn in the light of morning, his iron-bound wooden coffer strapped to the saddle behind him. In the socket that would ordinarily have held his lance, he had placed a spade borrowed from the stable. The hooves of his horse rang loudly on the cobbles as he made his way through the nearly deserted streets, heading southward. If the upper city was but waking as he rode through it, the Pit was as a city of the dead. Not a living soul did he see, although in the alleys he saw a few corpses, soon destined for the river.
Just above the confluence of the rivers, he passed through the Ossar River gate, where the guard merely accepted his proffered coin and did not bother with stupid formalities such as his name, destination, or time of possible return. The bridge he crossed was a good one, made of stone and built upon arches high enough to allow river barges to pass beneath. On the other side was cultivated land, now lying untended after the harvest. The road took him to hilly terrain, first past vineyards but soon into wild country. He guided his horse off the road and into the hills, following no path.
In a wooded dell the Cimmerian dismounted and tethered his mount to a sapling. He stood absolutely still and silent for several minutes, moving nothing but his head as he slowly scanned the skyline and strained his ears for any slightest noise. He heard no sound save those of nature.
Leaving horse and chest, he climbed to the highest ground nearby, his springy hillman's stride making the rugged terrain as easy a traverse as the level pavement of a city. Atop the hill, he found a dead tree, killed by lightning some years before, its leaves gone but its wood sound. This he climbed with the agility of a monkey, and from a convenient limb he enjoyed an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. There he sat for an hour, his keen eyes missing nothing, until he was satisfied that no one followed him, that no woodcutter worked nearby, that no rustic lovers in search of privacy spied upon him. Only then did he descend and return to his horse.
He took the chest from his saddle, the spade from his lance-socket, stripped off his armour and set to work. The spot he had selected was far enough from the nearest trees that he was not likely to encounter troublesome roots. First he measured his proposed excavation by eye; then he spread a blanket upon the ground next to it. Kneeling on the grass, he drew his dirk and carefully cut a rectangular outline in the ground. With swift sawing cuts of his blade, he separated the turf from the underlying soil, rolling it up as he cut. When it was fully separated, he lifted it gently onto the blanket. Then he stood and picked up the spade. He dug energetically but carefully, lifting each spadeful of dirt and depositing it upon the blanket, taking care not to heap it atop the preserved turf.
When the hole was about a yard deep, Conan lowered the chest into it. He began to cover the coffer with dirt, tamping it down with his boots after every few spadefuls, so that the ground would not subside over the next few days, leaving a tell-tale depression. When only about three inches of excavation remained, he carefully relaid the turf, smoothing it with his hands when it was in place.
There still remained a heap of dirt atop the blanket: soil displaced by the chest. This he tied up in the cloth, to be scattered far away from this place. He packed the bundle on his saddle and replaced the spade, then went back to examine his cache. From a few paces away, the site was invisible. Within days it would be indiscernible even to his own eye. Satisfied, he remounted. He did not bother with a treasure map. Conan's sense of direction was flawless. Should he not return for ten years, he would be able to walk unerringly to the spot where he had buried his gold.
That took care of one task. Now he had another. He rode from the wild hills, ever watchful for observers. Near the road he shook the dirt from the blanket, then folded the heavy wool and tied it to his cantle. He headed back toward the town, but just before he came within sight of the river wall, he noted a side road he had passed earlier in the day. It was marked by a grey stone stele carved with the rampant royal lions of Aquilonia, defining what lay beyond as royal property. He reined his horse onto the road. Ahead of him he saw columns of smoke ascending skyward. As he drew nearer, he began to hear a continuous thudding, clinking sound, and a grinding as of many stones being broken. He rode over a lip of ground and there, spread out before him, was a grimly busy scene. At the edge of a vast, open pit, hundreds of men wielded sledgehammers to break great stones into smaller chunks, while others pushed long poles that rotated huge, vertical stone wheels in endless circles, pulverizing the smaller chunks, reducing them to coarse sand.
The Cimmerian knew this for an ore-crushing operation. Women and children carried baskets of the coarse sand upon their backs to dump them into great iron crucibles that were in turn thrust into beehive-shaped ovens, whence ascended the smoke. Others stood in lines at long handles, monotonously raising and lowering them to power immense bellows.
Somewhere beyond, he knew, would be men toiling with pick and shovel to wrench the ore from the grudging bones of the earth. He surveyed the scene with some disdain. Conan could never understand how freeborn men could blight their lives thus with grinding toil. The fierce excitement of battle was what he loved, and if it was terminated abruptly by a swift, bloody death, so much the better. This sort of toil seemed to be mere degradation to him, and it lacked even the consolation of security and long life. He knew that wounds and early death must be as common among these labouring people as among professional soldiers, hut without the compensating loot and excitement.
'Hey, you!' He turned to see a man emerging from a wooden booth by the road. 'Who sent you here?' The Cimmerian studied the man. He wore a leather jerkin studded with bronze and identically studded wristbands encircled each wrist, lie wore a close-fitting steel cap, and in lieu of a sword, a pair of long, slightly curved knives were sheathed at his belt. His weasel face was full of suspicion.
'I came to have a look around,' Conan said. The man seemed out of place, somehow. On a sudden inspiration, Conan added, 'On orders.'
The man's face cleared. 'Oh, Lisip sent you, then? I did not recognize you. You must be new. Well, tell the boss that all is well here. The dogs are causing no trouble and work as hard as ever, although sullenly.'
'Then
why not use the whip?' Conan asked.
'You are new, aren't you? Aye, I'd love to stripe their backs, but you don't do that with these half-tamed brutes. They are not like born slaves. It's other threats that keep them in line, if you take my meaning.' The man chuckled, smirking with an insinuating familiarity.
'Aye, I know,' said Conan, knowing nothing of the sort but determined to find out. 'I think I'll ride down there and have a look around. I was told to familiarize myself with the operation.'
The man looked at him suspiciously. 'I cannot think why, but if that is what Lisip wants, so be it.' He gestured toward the mining operation as if offering it to the Cimmerian, who nudged his horse down the hill.
As Conan drew nearer, he began to make out details he had missed. The men wielding sledgehammers to break the rock wore light greaves to protect their shins from stone chips. Many of the men who pushed the millstones or worked the bellows were blind. Rock dust and flying chips of stone took a heavy toll of eyes. The miners wore coarse, heavy clothing, and most of them were gnarled, powerfully built men with massive hands. They watched him with narrow-eyed suspicion.
A short distance from the ore-crushing area was a cluster of huts. Here Conan dismounted near a well and began to haul up buckets of water, emptying them into a trough for his horse. As the beast drank, a group of men gathered around him, gripping tools as they would weapons, their mien sullen and truculent. One came a little forward. He was a squat, square-built knot of muscle, red-eyed from rock dust, his clothes and hair grey with it. He gripped a pick in hands swathed in rags save for his blunt fingers.
'What want you here?' the man growled, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. These people must breathe rock dust, the Cimmerian thought. 'We have met our quota every day this last turning of the moon. It was agreed that as long as we meet our, quota, we are not to be harassed.'
Conan took a dipper and drank from the last bucket he had drawn. More people were gathering. There were men and boys of all ages, and some women well past their prime, but he saw no young women, nor did he see any infants. A grey-haired woman pushed to the fore and pointed toward his armoured breast.
'This is he, the one I spoke of! Yesterday, when I went to the Square to trade for produce, I saw this one slay Ingas's three killers without even drawing his sword!'
'Good,' said the man who had spoken. 'Even better had they slain him while he was doing it. Are Lisip's men and those of Ingas at war, foreigner? And if so, why should we care?'
'Why do you think I work for Lisip?' Conan asked:
The man's eyes narrowed yet further. 'Who else could it be? Lisip was given the power to— Just who are you, stranger?'
'My name is Conan. I work for none of the gang leaders of. Sicas, and it may be that I can be of aid to you.'
'Don't trust him!' said a man with a face seamed like the bed of a dry creek. 'He must be Lisip's man, sent to spy on us, to Hi-e if we are keeping our part of the bargain.' He spat. 'As if we could do otherwise.'
Conan nodded toward the slope he had descended. 'Is that man in the shack your only guard? You must be a spiritless lot to let yourselves be controlled by a single thug.' The crowd growled
ii his words.
'He does not guard us,' said the first man. 'He just watches mid reports, as you well know. Lisip has no need to keep guards on us. Now, why are you here?'
Conan could see that these people would not talk to him. He would need to overcome their suspicion. As luck would have it, the opportunity he needed was already on the way. The thug from the guard shack came toward him with stiff, challenging strides. He pushed his way through the encircling crowd of miners and halted before the Cimmerian.
'If you are here to observe the operation,' he challenged, 'why are you talking to these dogs? You know full well that they lire to hold converse with no outsider. Are you truly one of Lisip's
men?'
'I made no such claim,' Conan pointed out. 'You did.' The man's face reddened with rage. 'Then begone, or I will
kill you!' Conan set the dipper on the lip of the well. 'Try,' he said
quietly.
Swift as a striking viper, the man drew one of his knives and lanced it toward the Cimmerian's belly, beneath the edge of the brigantine. Moving even more swiftly, Conan grabbed the man's wrist and stopped the point an inch from his flesh. Slowly, he squeezed. Beneath his machinelike grip, the hardened, bronze-studded leather crumpled inward. The bones of the forearm resisted; then they began to grind together. With a brutal twist, Conan snapped the man's wrist, sending the blade flying. Cursing loudly, the thug drew his other knife with his left hand and sent its keen edge slashing toward the Cimmerian's throat. With his free hand, Conan caught the left wrist and did likewise with it, the bones popping audibly. The thug dropped to his knees, his face white and sweaty, nauseous with pain and shock.
The Cimmerian gripped the front of the leather armour and hauled the man to his feet. 'Tell Lisip that Conan of Cimmeria does not tolerate being attacked, especially by worthless scum like you. Now go, while I am still in a good mood!' He shoved the man away and the thug began to stagger back up the hill, retching.
The miners looked at Conan in wonder. The one who had spoken first regarded him steadily. The faintest of smiles began to touch the mouth framed by its dust-greyed beard.
'First Ingas, now Lisip. You are a man who is not afraid to make enemies.'
Conan shrugged. 'Thus far I have encountered only one man worth drawing steel against.'
The miner nodded. 'Then you've met Ermak.' He gestured toward a long, low building nearby. 'Come, Cimmerian. We will talk.'
Conan followed the man into the building, which proved to be a communal eating place. Two long tables ran its length. At one end of the room, a huge pot bubbled over a fire, sending forth an insipid aroma. The perimeters were lined with shelves, but these were bare. A few baskets of vegetables and roots lay against the log walls. At the miner's gesture, Conan seated himself on a bench at the end of one table. The other took the seat opposite.
'I am Bellas,' the miner said. 'I am guild chief of the miners of Sicas. Now, who are you and what is your business here?'
'I am a warrior,' Conan told him. 'And I am about to become a troublemaker.''
The man looked at him sardonically. 'Sicas has not been lacking in trouble ere now.'
' 'The Reeve and Xanthus and the others have yet to learn about trouble. I will make them curse the day I arrived in this cesspit.'
' 'If you are going to make life hard for them, you are thrice
welcome,' Bellas said. 'I would offer you ale but we drink only
water these days.'
'I can see that you have fallen upon hard times,' Conan observed, looking around at the empty shelves. 'That is what I need to know about. How did this happen?'
'It is a long story, dating back many, many years, but recent events are what you want to know. Life was good here, once.'
'I cannot see how life could ever be good for a miner,' Conan
said.
'When silver was first discovered here,' Bellas went on, 'the ore was rich, and it lay near the surface. In those days the mine was a great, open pit and the miners could at least work beneath the sun. The labour was toilsome, mining work always is, but the pay was good, and our guild stood high in the royal favour. Our guildhall was the finest in Sicas.
'Over the years, the good ore played out and we had to pursue inferior ore that lay deeper, driving galleries far into the bowels of the earth. It was not as good as in the-old days, but we maintained a respectable yield. And we miners enjoyed a high reputation. We do the hardest, most dangerous work there is—hard rock mining. We are not slaves or convicts. We are free, proud men.' 'And yet you were brought low and now might as well be slaves,' Conan pointed out. 'How did that come to be?'
'It was Xanthus!' Fury edged the man's voice. 'He raised our quota, then raised it again. We protested. It was not just a matter of working harder to dig more ore.
If you try to work faster underground, there are more accidents, more rockfalls. Too many men died. We finally marched into the city to confront Xanthus. He would not yield, so we downed tools.'
'The mine is royal property, is it not?' Conan asked. 'Why did you not appeal to the Crown?'
'The guild sent a deputation,' Bellas said. 'One morning we came in here to find a bloody sack right here on this table.' He thumped the scarred, wooden surface with his fist. 'It contained the heads of the men we had sent. This time we seized our tools and went into the town. We found our guildhall burned out and
the house of Xanthus surrounded by Ermak's mercenaries. It was useless for us to fight them. We had no proper weapons. But we are not cowards. We have good smiths here, so we returned to our village to have our tools reforged into spears and swords and maces. Ermak's men may be skilled warriors, but we are strong and there are far more of us than there are of them.' 'But you did not confront them,' Conan said. 'Nay, we did not. When we returned here, we found that Ermak's horsemen had been ahead of us. While we men were in Sicas, they had rounded up our wives and children. We know not where they were taken, but we know they are hidden away somewhere. Any gesture of defiance from one of us and the rogues send us a head, just to remind us whose is the whip hand.'
'I thought it would be something like that.' The Cimmerian mused for a moment. 'Tell me, where stands the Reeve in all this?'
'That pig-eyed tub of suet! He gets paid for every act of knavery in Sicas, and the villainy of Xanthus is no exception.' The miner leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table before him. 'You see, the ancient arrangement with the Crown is that the mine factor—the position now held by Xanthus—receives one-fifth part of the refined silver yielded by the mine. In recent years Xanthus has taken more than half. He writes to the palace bewailing the declining yield of the ore while, at the same time, raising our quota so that the royal portion does not grow suspiciously low. Bombas takes his share of this, have no doubt of it. And there is a royal overseer of mines in Tarantia, a nobleman named Coreides. We now know that he must be in collusion with Xanthus. Had we known that from the first, we would never have sent our delegation to the palace. And even if we could get past Coreides—' he shrugged bitterly and pounded his fist once more upon the table '—what king would listen to honest working men when three of his officials have poured poison in his ear?'
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