'You're the worst friend I ever made, Ajhindar of Iranistan.'
'Aye, I suppose. And dead, too. Damn! All because I slipped . . . Well, that's that. Friend Conan, you know I've minutes, only. Do give listen without question. My employer is Kobad Shah, king of Iranist-oh!'
Ajhindar shuddered and leaned back against the door of death. Conan saw that already the asps' particularly nasty venom, so potent it was milked for use on assassins' daggers and some arrowheads, was at work. The little trickle from a thumb-thick swelling that ran up Ajhindar's neck showed that one set of hollow teeth had sunk directly into his jugular.
Minutes? No, Conan thought. The man had seconds.
'Kobad Shah will pay much for what you seek, lad. Much. Don't be foolish enough to deal with a common Arenjuni fence. You know you have to - uh!' Again a shudder seized the stricken man. His face was darkening even as it swelled. His arms twitched, '-have to flee,' he said in a lower voice, and words were becoming harder for him to form and expel. 'Aren--junn . . . take the Eye ... to -to Kobad . . . straight down this h-hall . . . the dainty little blade you s-sseeek is ... in a case ... in the gr-gre-e-eennn . . . rooommmmkh.'
Ajhindar of Iranistan slid down the door, purple-black of face, his tongue out, his dark eyes huge and staring. The hand he had tried to raise to his chest had never got there.
Conan gusted a sigh. 'Kobad Shah didn't give you much, friend. Just death far from home, by Morrigan! We will see who I deal with.' He glanced about. 'Meanwhile,' he muttered low, 'we've been about as soundless as a herd of horses '
And barefoot, the Cimmerian stepped across and around blood and four human corpses, to seek out the amulet called Eye of Erlik. In his brain as a question lingered Ajhindar's phrase: '. .. the dainty little blade you seek . . .?' Meaningless. Whatever it might mean, and whatever form the Eye took, it would be his, and a dear price; it had cost the lives this night of one good man and three . . . others.
III
In the Green Room
Following the path that had been Ajhindar's, Conan of Cimmeria reached the end of the corridor and faced a panelled door. This one had no low-set lock such as that which had resulted in the Iranistani's death, but the Cimmerian was wary nevertheless. He sword-prodded the door's handle and the panel around it ere he pulled up the brass handle and kicked the door open with the ball of his foot. His sword remained in his hand, unwiped.
The room he revealed was sprawling huge, floored with tiles like leaves shaken from trees before their time.
Dark tapestries clung to pale green walls. From a ceiling supported by columns of green-shot porphyry twinklingly alive with feldspar crystals, velvet drapes hung to the floor. They were the colour of cedar trees, save for one wine-red one in the corner.
Towards the centre of the room squatted a long low table mid a longer, high one topped with a stone slab. On that clustered a seeming hodgepodge of formidable crucibles. The rune-encrusted aludels formed of ochre earthenware; a crucible seemingly of gold and alembics foully coloured by the noxious-looking fluids they contained. A little square casket of crystal, braced with brass, had been broken into a thousand shards that gleamed and glittered in the light of a hanging triple lamp moulded in the form of genitalia.
Against the wall squatted an athanor, black and dull like a comminatory dwarf of iron. Conan saw that the room cut by one window, covered by a heavy drape of pine needles.
Round about loomed strange and horrific statues of night-like onyx and porphyry and mica-glittering basalt. Even the anthropomorphic ones were not quite representative of human subjects. They were kept company by a loathly mummy, umber with age and standing propped erect, gaunt and menacing of titanic face and inanimate form. On the long table two purulent-looking tapers had been lit, and they burned with a stench as if their tallow came from the inhabitants of tombs.
Here was no adyton of gods; here was the inner domain and trove of a sorcerous wizard and his dark gods or otherworldly demons.
Here too were two people.
They did not belong. Both were tawny of skin, black of hair and eyes. The man wore a dark red tunic over a long-sleeved shirt of black, and black leggings vanishing into soft black boots. The dull garb of a night-thief more cautious than the barbarian he stared at, and a nose like a hunting falcon.
The woman's shirt, too, was black, and her tunic a deep forest green. Its border was fretted with scarlet and she, like Conan, was barefoot. Huge wire circles swung silver from the tiny rings piercing her ears and her eyes were darkly coloured above a straight nose and lips red as cinnabar and liquid-looking as the strange metal it produced. Her brocaded belt was clasped with agate.
In her right hand she held a small hammer, its head cloth-wrapped. From her left, on a circle of gold chain, swung a tiny golden sword. A pendant —or an amulet.
The dainty little blade you seek . . .
'Erlik's beard!' she gasped. 'Is that one of his guardians? He's big enough to stalk bears with naught but a thorn as weapon!'
Conan hefted his sword. Their stares swerved to the red-smeared blade.
'It's a three-foot thorn, Isparana. I am not anxious to use it more this night. Crom, what a house full of rogues this is! Just throw that bauble over here, along the floor,. and I'll stand still and watch you two leave. Best make tracks for Zamora this very night.' He could not resist showing off his knowledge. 'Tell your khan I have another offer for his amulet . . . and whilst I decide between it and his doubtless generous one, he'd best have Balad slain. Just in case.'
'You know very much, blue-eyes,' the man said. He drew his sword and his knees bent. 'Enough to know that we cannot give you the . . . 'bauble'.'
The Cimmerian sighed, a bit elaborately. 'I've no quarrel with you, Karamek. Is there to be no end of killing here, this night?'
The man looked thirty; the woman five or more years less. Her eyes were very wide. She was well constructed and a bit more than pretty.
'Erlik's name,' she whispered, 'you have slain Hisarr Zul!'
'No. Just three of his sentries . . . and another thief.'
'Bent on gaining the Eye?'
'That,' Conan said, 'is no concern of yours.'
Elbow crooked, sword up and ready, he paced into the room. He extended his left hand, though only a little, with his elbow at his side. Karamek's sword was after all drawn. 'Just toss the amulet.'
She clutched it the tighter. 'Karamek -'
'Hush, Ispa. Back to the door we used. Out, down, and away. If I'm not at the gate within an hour - ride!'
'Karamek —' she was unsure, though she'd started to back. The prise swung from her tight-clenched fist. '
Conan started his charge.
Karamek pounced into his path, knees bent, face ugly. Conan had gained momentum; Karamek slashed. Only the Cimmerian's fair hurling himself aside saved him from that hard-swung, drawing stroke. Behind him, Isparana turned and ran. She passed through an open doorway in the room's far leftward corner. Conan, with a wild slash in Karamek's direction, followed at the run. He reached the door just as it slammed with a double thump. His only choices now were to whirl or be slain from behind.
He wheeled about just in time to parry Karamek's running slash.
The Zamboulan's racing momentum and the force of his blow carried him past. Slamming a hand against the wall for balance, Conan thrust a leg out. The Zamboulan tripped, crashed into the wall. A tapestry of blood-coloured velvet came loose in his hand and dropped over him. Conan stabbed into that moving lump of tapestry, three times, and his blade was newly smeared and again dripping.
The falling Karamek pulled the tapestry the rest of the way down, atop his twitching, kicking body. A shinier red oozed out from beneath the wine-hued velvet.
The Cimmerian was already trying the slab of a door through which Isparana had fled. It was locked. With a snarled curse, he threw his shoulder against it. From the way it sprang back after yielding only a little, he knew the door was stoutly barred against him.
T
he word for excrement streamed from the Cimmerian's lips in three languages as he turned and ran across the green room towards its single narrow window. Thought she'd escape him by barring a door, did she? He would damned well —
A section of floor slipped away beneath his feet and, erect, he dropped three feet on to a surface below. The fact that the apparent thickness of the second-story's floor had been explained was of no interest to the grunting Cimmerian. The trap door closed on his thighs-and held him fast.
Even while he struggled, Conan knew that Isparana had made good her escape, with the Eye. Nor did it seem likely that he'd be there in time to find her waiting at the city's gate. He could not free himself. His attempts to gain freedom by lunging, twisting, and at last prying at the resolutely closed panel succeeded only in bloodying his thighs-and costing him die last two inches of his sword's blade. That brought more curses.
He was caught in a superbly designed trap, set to catch anyone coming in the window by which the Cimmerian had sought to exit. Calling up the name of every god he could think of, Conan snarled a litany of curses and obscenities.
For what seemed hour upon tortoise-crawling hour, Conan remained trapped. The while, he cursed himself and Hisarr Zul and the two Zamboulans with equal zeal.
And then a man came into the room. He examined the tables, and came to stand staring at the Cimmerian.
'By Hanuman, see what I've caught-a bear-sized wolf in my little trap!' .
Conan glowered in silence. Swears by Hanuman the Accursed of Zamboula, does he? Well, come closer, old dog, and even pointless my sword will . . .
But no, it would not. Slay this man and Conan might
never leave the place. The prospect of remaining here, the led iron of the flooring pinning his thighs, while he grew delirious with hunger and thirst and eventually died the slack-tongued death . . . no. Conan would gladly pass his sword over hilt-first and take his chances weaponless but with his legs free.
Eyes stared down at him, eyes deep and dark as the interstellar gulfs that yawned black and infinite between the wan far stars.
A long tunic of ochre samite covered Hisarr Zul to the ankles. Its chest was bedight with fretted scrollwork of gold thread, set here and there with opals and some gleaming stones of a warm saffron. His strapless sandals were the colour of earth; his bracelet was multiply punctured gold; and five rings flashed from his fingers, four with .stones of as many hues.
He was slender of shoulder and hip, was Hisarr Zul, and only the beginning of a paunch slightly rounded the drape of his body-formed, ungirt tunic. His eyes were large and dark and exigent, a bit protuberant and starey. Above a wide, high forehead hair like gleaming jet sprang back in grey-shot waves from a central point like an inverted spearhead.
Hands behind his back, Hisarr Zul paced about his trapped guest.
His skin was smooth in appearance, with an amber-like sheen, as if glazed. His age was indeterminate; he was above forty. A small, neat moustache seemed to spring directly from his nostrils and was side-trimmed so as to form a flattened triangle from upper lip to nose. His beard, too, was geometric though rounded; it formed a thick-hafted spear of black, aimed downward.
The slightly exophthalmic eyes stared at Conan. Behind, Hisarr Zul's hair showed an unruly curl or two, for all his back-sweeping of it. He was of average height and his voice was a sonorous baritone.
'So. You slew my guards and my pretty snakes, after they'd removed your partner.'
'I came alone. So did the Iranistani.'
'Ah, everyone came to visit Hisarr Zul tonight, eh? And where is the amulet?'
'On its way to Zamboula, in the hands of a woman.'
'A third thief ' Hisarr Zul's brows rose so that his dark eyes bulged the more. 'And it's she who succeeded, eh?'
'Four,' Conan corrected. 'There lies another - her partner.'
'Hanuman's . . . head,' the wizard breathed, on a descending note. He followed the direction of Conan's nod, and paced over to the velvet-draped corpse. On his face was an expression of considerable distaste, but he squatted to draw back the cloth until he had bared the pain-frozen face of Karamek of Zamboula.
'Of Zamboula?'
Yes.'
'Hmm.' Hisarr rose and turned to gaze on Conan, one hand raised, toying with his little beard. 'You and the Iranistani slew the guards. Did you two--fight?'
'Yes.'
'Ah. And you downed him. I wondered how the fool had got himself bitten in the face and neck. And so you account for his death, too. And for this one. Doubtless there would be another corpse outside, too, a woman's, had you not fallen afoul of my trap.'
Conan said nothing, but stared.
'Hmm. A young man, a youth, but big, and ruthless. A man of prowess, youth or no I'
They gazed in silence, each at the' other. Measuring. Considering. One seemed infinitely patient; the other had to be.
'Northerner . . , you have cost me considerable, but the Zamboulan costs me more. You must be my agent, now. As such, and for certain compensations . . . beginning with my activating the mechanism that releases you . . . you will go after her, and return the Eye of Erlik to me.'
Conan would have promised anything to get out of this manse and not be turned over to the city watch. He said, 'Aye, Hisarr Zul. I am your man. I'll gladly chase down the Zamboulan wench, for a merciful and generous employer.'
'Umm,' Hisarr said, studying him thoughtfully. Then he walked around Conan, to the longer table. 'Of course every second we delay gives her a longer lead, doesn't it? Surely she has a fast horse or camel.'
'Surely, Lord Zul. We must hurry-and I'll need a faster horse.' I may well have to ride a hundred or two leagues just in overtake her, the Cimmerian thought. After that, with the amulet and your fast horse, I may as well continue along that same route-to Zamboula.'
Smiling, again pacing with his arms behind his back, Hisarr Zul returned to stand before Conan. Then, smiling, bent forward, revealed that one hand held a thin copper tube, and set it to his lips. He blew a fine yellow dust into the Cimmerian's face. Hisarr then moved hurriedly away.
Conan collapsed in seconds, unable to breathe.
For once, Conan of Cimmeria awoke as civilised men do, drowsy and dull. Too, he felt strangely apprehensive; empty. The fact that he seemed physically unimpaired did not allay his unease and sensation of malaise, of emptiness. He hardly noted that he no longer held his sword. An inexplicable and undeniable feeling of loss and sadness was on him.
'Tell me your name.'
Conan looked into the dark, starey eyes of Hisarr Zul. ' I am Conan,' he said low, 'a Cimmerian.'
'So, Conan of cold Cimmeria. You have just become acquainted with the powder of the black lotus, a delightful and useful blossom from the lost jungles of yellow Khitai.'
'I know of it. It is death. Why am I alive?'
'Paralysis is almost instantaneous, Conan of Cimmeria. It comes in two minutes. I provided an antidote of my own making; to my knowledge, I alone know how to counteract the Yellow Death powder. You have but lain unconscious whiles the antidote aided your-very strong-system in throwing off the venom. Nevertheless, you do not feel . . . quite normal, do you?'
Conan would not answer.
Smiling, Hisarr set his foot at the edge of the panel that held Conan fast. He pressed down with his sandalled toes. The panel opened at once, as simply as that. Conan groaned with the tingling agony kindled in his legs by the return of full circulation. Blood had dried on his thighs in two horizontal lines.
'Get up out of there,' Hisarr said.
His face clenched in pain, Conan sat back, pressed with both palms, and backed on his buttocks out of the trap. The wizard lifted his foot. The tile-bonded iron sprang back into place to conceal the trap. Not even the Cimmerian's eyes could see any difference in that section of the floor.
'You might want to rub your legs,' Hisarr said, pacing to the higher, longer table. 'You might also want to look into this.'
He returned to hold before the
floor-seated Cimmerian a mirror no longer than Conan's hand, thickened by a small dome of glass or quartz. Conan stared.
'Why would I care about a ... mir . . . ror . . .'
He stared into the reflective glass. First he'd seen his own face, as he had expected. Almost immediately, shifting patterns began to obscure it. The glass seemed to swirl, to liquesce, so that he blinked and could not look away. Then he was gazing upon a tiny man, trapped and fearful, seeking escape from the mirror, seemingly looking beseechingly at him from the other side of a pane of clear glass.
Conan stared. His armpits went prickly. He knew that face; he'd seen the face on that tiny man before ... it was his own!
'That, Cimmerian, is your soul. It is mine, now. Do I have said and I will return it to you on the return of property to me—the amulet called Eye of Erlik. Try to' betray me, and I will break that mirror. And -'
Hisarr Zul did no more than tap the mirror. Conan felt an inward wrench. He neither knew nor cared whether it was imagined or a result of those long fingers' tapping of the container of his . . . soul.
'Be still. If this is broken,' Hisarr said, 'your soul is lost forever. Nor can anyone but me remove it from this glass. Would you carry your own soul about with you forever like baggage, Conan of Cimmeria, ever fearful lest someone break the glass and . . .'
Conan shivered. Then revelation came. 'The guards Blast you for a-your guards!'
Clearly identified now as a sorcerer, a thinly smiling Hisarr Zul straightened. Conan's eyes remained fixed on the fragile piece of glass in one of those long, thin, amber-sheened hands.
'Aye, Conan. Now you know their secret. My guards were mini less. They too came here as thieves in the night, my thief of cold Cimmeria. I took their souls, and broke mirrors that contained them' What was left served me thereafter.' Hisarr went back to the table of his necromancy. Anxious blue eyes watched him set down the mirror, and t man breathed a little easier. Only a little.
The Conan Chronology Page 19
