The excellent cloak that had been a gift of Akter Khan was where he had left it, folded on the unusually comfortable bed. Spreading it, he began collecting his treasures; coins and the gold cup—which rolled off cloak and bed and rang onto the floor.
'Damn!'
Heedless now of stealth, Conan squatted to snatch it up and drop it amid the things spread on the cloak, which he swiftly folded in to form a bag. As he turned with it to the window, the door opened from the hall, and the flickery light of a glim flared yellow and bright in the darkness.
Conan's sword was in his hand by the time the brand and one of its bearer's feet were in the chamber.
'Who's in here?'
The man entered; a helmeted soldier. He squinted into the darkness and lifted high his brand. Its yellow light wrought eeriness on his face—and found Conan. The Cimmerian stood in a half-crouch, makeshift bag in left hand, sword in right, bareheaded, armoured though bare of arm. And he stared with an awful balefulness.
'Ha! A thief, is it? Caught y—it's THAT CONAN!'
'Loudmouth,' Conan snarled, and his sword came around and up as he pounced.
Out in the corridor other voices rose, and feet pounded heavily up steps. More soldiers reached the doorway. The first stumbled over his fallen companion who had been so misfortunate as to discover the Cimmerian and call out before clearing his sword arm of the door, which opened into the room. The second and third got themselves alacritously out of the way of the roaring fireball that rushed at them, streaming flame. It whooshed through the doorway to slam into the wall across the corridor. Both men, and now a third, scrambled again when it bounced and endangered their feet. One snatched it up; it was the torch formerly borne by the man keeping vigil outside the foreigner's door. Holding it high, he led his fellows into the room.
The first soldier lay ungroaning in his blood; the second was at the window, peering out and down. A taut-stretched rope ran from a beam behind him, past his shoulder, and over the sill. He turned.
'He has gone out the window!'
One of his fellows was sufficiently nimble of mind to strike the rope with his sword. The rope merely sagged; it was slack.
'I'll get him,' the man at the window said, and swung out.
'No! Zakum, wait! I cut—'
Zakum was already swinging heroically out, clutching the rope partially cut by the other man's blade. As Zakum's booted feet struck the side of the building with a jolt, the weakened rope gave up. It parted and leaped away out the window like a striking snake. Zakum's cry was followed by the crash of his impact with the alley's hard-packed earth.
'Hamunan's devils!' With those words, another man peered out and down.
Zakum was writhing, twisting, holding one leg with both hands. 'My leg, my leg…'
'That brainless rectum has broken his leg! Out of here and down the steps, men. It is liable to be worse than our legs if we let that foreigner escape—the khan wants him!'
They rushed from the room. Down the steps they stormed like a rumbling crash of summer thunder, and across the main room and outside. Seeing no sign of Conan, they separated to seek him on every street roundabout.
A half-hour later, a disgruntled soldier was just approaching a doorway up the street and across from the inn, on his way back without the quarry. An apparition emerged from the gloom of the hall beyond the doorway. The soldier half cried out and his sword came up before he saw that it was a man; a big, bent hunchback in a drab cloak of dun, with a ragged strip of cloth over his head in a makeshift kaffia. A large but quivery hand came out of the cloak.
'A coin, Captain?'
'I'm no captain, damn you, and you know it! Go snivel someplace else, damned beggar!' The soldier half-bent to squint at the hunchback's face, which was deeply shadowed by his 'kaffia.' 'Set's black devils! And get someone to trim that ridiculous moustache for you, fellow!'
Emptyhanded, the soldier returned to the Royal Turan. Conan, with his bag on his back beneath Jelal's cloak and a strip ripped from Balad's gift tunic over his head, went the other way, grinning. The soldier was fortunate to be slow of thought and dull of wit; Conan's other hand, under Jelal's cloak, was fisted about the hilt of his drawn dagger.
Hunched, he headed for One Ox Hill.
XVIII
The Key to Zamboula
Balad had backing. Balad was organised, with followers; Balad felt himself ready ('I and the people of Zamboula!' as he put it) to move against Akter Khan. He needed only a key; an incident or trick that had not yet occurred to him or presented itself.
A large body of soldiers was quartered in the barracks on the east side of Zamboula. A broad thoroughfare provided a speedy route across the city to the palace. There, in the royal house itself and in the inn-like barracks adjacent, were another two hundred soldiers. Some called them the Chosen; they had been dubbed officially the Khan-Khilayim or Khan's Thorns. They were presumed to be loyal to Akter, no matter his offenses or the mood of some or even most people. The Thorns were well-paid, -housed, and -fed. They were kept adequately supplied with salt, beer of an excellent quality, and feminine companionship. Any palace was a fort, the defensible home of the ruler and his people's ultimate refuge and keep, and the palace of Zamboula was no exception. The chosen two hundred could prevail against a long siege by a far, far superior force. Too, mounted reinforcements from the barracks across town could mobilize, arm, mount, and reach the scene within an hour; this fact was now and again proven by mock alarms and practice mobilizations. Thus did the khan keep watch against attacks from without the city's wall—and guard himself against the uprisings against which no ruler was proof. While spies in the palace could and would open doors to Balad's force, they must get past the Thorns—as must the attackers.
Thus Balad, with no army or exterior allies and no magic to equal that of the khan's wizard, needed the trick or incident he called The Key. Something was needed to occupy the barracks troops, the army—and perhaps suck from the palace some of the Khan-Khilayim, as well.
The blue-eyed foreigner from the far north saw that he could provide that key. .
Conan would never have joined Balad. Zamboula was hardly his city and these were hardly his people. He was of no mind to aid or hinder their, doings. They had naught to do with Conan. Had he been given employment in Akter Khan's Thorns, he would have been loyal, and surely put brains and skills to use against Balad and company. Instead, Akter Khan had him to dinner, wined and rewarded him, praised him, heard his story, and then proved treacherous to a man who had provided a most valuable service; who thought him friend and good enough ruler, given what he knew and assumed of rulers in general.
Whether the Eye of Erlik was of value to Akter Khan or no, he believed it so, and that made it of value. It was presumably true that it could be used against him—the very fact of its being stolen nigh terrified the man.
'I wish I'd handed it directly to you, Balad,' the Cimmerian growled.
'So do I, Conan,' the plotter said, not without some wistfulness before he returned to pragmatic plottery.
Never mind that Conan had been serving his own interests the while, and had hardly entered into this whole long series of events with any view toward helping Akter Khan of Zamboula. He had put that out of his mind. He substituted righteous bitterness and anger. He had given much of himself to provide a service to this treacherous and ungrateful man. Indeed he had given Akter Khan several months of his life; a half year, were he to set out now to return to Zamora. So had Isparana given much, sacrificed much. And the khan, her khan, had proven an egregiously ungrateful lord indeed! Now Isparana was his prisoner, somewhere within the palace—if she yet lived—and Conan was free only through chance and Balad.
Thus Conan was bitter, and angered, and disappointed in himself for suspecting nothing of Akter Khan. He must have satisfaction; vengeance. Thus he joined Balad. Nor had it taken him long to become aware of Balad's problems.
He would help Balad. And thus, he had no need of telling himself, he
would nobly and heroically aid the people of Zamboula. Akter was no worthy ruler— if such existed, which Conan doubted; Akter, in any event, was even worse than most of those who grew callous of brain and soft of backside by sitting thrones. Indeed it was the khan himself who provided Balad's key. Conan merely saw how to employ it. Akter had committed a worse than reprehensible crime, in murdering the adolescent who'd been a gift of the chieftain of the Shanki. As it turned out, that murder had also been stupid. It provided the key.
It was Conan the Cimmerian who caused Hajimen of the Shanki to be escorted to the keep of Balad the revolutionary, whose agreement Conan had secured: Hajimen would confer alone with Conan in this room.
They spoke quietly together, the trousered man of the desert and the Cimmerian in the newly made tunic of plain russet.
'You know that the Shanki cannot hope to conquer Zamboula,' Conan said to the son of Akhimen Khan, 'or even breach its walls. The Shanki are not enough.'
'One young warrior among the Shanki is worth five Yoggites,' —Hajimen spat—'and three of the Zamboulans, in all their coats of iron rings!'
Conan nodded. 'True. I know that. It is not enough. The best warriors among the Zamboulans outnumber those among the Shanki far more than three to one—and are within these walls besides.'
Hajimen sighed, rose to pace, returned to sink into the cushion before the one on which Conan sat. He had elected to interview the Shanki in the Shanki mode, though his impatience with their divagative manner of address was making itself more and more plain. Indeed, his efforts had succeeded somewhat, with this young son of the khan; he was actually able, now and again, to call Conan 'you' and 'Conan.' Not this time:
'Conan knows that I know the truth of what he says,' Hajimen said, looking gloomy as a priest at a state funeral. 'Nevertheless, there is Shanki honour and my father's pride. Does he know that it were foolish to attack this place?'
'The point is, will he understand and accept that not Zamboula, but Akter and his mage, slew your sister? There is no need of war with the Zamboulans, who do not like or respect their khan. The quarrel is between the Shanki—no; between your father and Akter, and Zafra.'
'And I, Conan! Yes, I see that. I know it. Best that I do not go to tell my father. Best that I remain here and avenge my sister myself—somehow,' he added, cheerlessly, 'and then bear the news of her death and our vengeance to the Khan of the Shanki, both at once.'
Conan shook his head. 'That is not best. That is brave, and foolish, and both of us know it.'
Hajimen glowered at the other man in this chamber in the villa of Count Shihran; the villa now of Balad the plotter who would be Balad Khan. After a few moments Conan put out a hand to touch the other's arm, in warmth; the proud warrior of the desert drew away. Seeing that, and inwardly sighing as he recognised it as foolish, Conan learned something of himself, and honour, and pride.
'Come, Hajimen. You know what I mean. Neither of us believes that you would get so close to Akter as to be able to kill him. And if you did, somehow, as you said, you would never live to tell your father of it. Then he would be without a daughter and his son. You know what he would do then. Attack, and die.'
His face working, Hajimen stared. Then he swung away, paced to a slitted, open window. 'Conan has wisdom. Theba's name—how old are you, Conan?'
The Cimmerian smiled. 'Old enough to give advice I probably would not have sense enough to take!'
His back turned, Hajimen snorted. 'What would Conan have us do? Act as if nothing had happened at all? This man accepted my sister as gift of our father, and slew her as if she had been a thief or a Yoggite!' Hajimen spat, and continued to show Conan his broad, yellow-shirted back.
'No. Heed me, now. The very biggest a man could be would be to keep it to himself, to prevent his father's acting foolishly in honour and pride, and knowing, that vengeance is impossible—but may someday be possible. I know that neither Hajimen nor Conan is that big! No, Hajimen son of Akhimen, I speak you direct. Attend me. Not even the soldiers of Zamboula favour Akter Khan. I would have you see that your sister's death is avenged, Hajimen! At the same time, the Shanki can be heroically aiding the Zamboulans in ridding themselves of this unworthy creature who habits their palace. Hajimen! Listen! I would have you—I would beg you ride to your father fast as you can, and return with warriors. Let them be girded for war, on the swiftest of your camels. All should pause well outside the city's walls, and send arrows at the walls, not loft them over into Zamboula. And all the while, bellow charges and challenge to Akter Khan!'
Hajimen had whirled back to face the big man with the blue eyes. 'Ah!' His face showed excitement and hope; yet the question lurked in his eyes below the tribal scar of the fierce and twice-proud Shanki. 'But —such a man will not come forth!'
'No, he will not. He will sit in his palace and know that his soldiers will soon beat off this ridic—this unwise attack. The soldiers from the garrison will turn out against you, happy for the action and eager to slay. And then the Shanki must do that which is brave, and noble—and difficult. You must flee.'
'Flee!' In horror Hajimen spat the word alien to his nature.
'Aye, Hajimen!' Conan let his voice rise excitedly; he had to enlist the Shanki to this plan. 'Aye! Let them come forth, and charge you. Give them a running fight. Flee, and flee. When at last they desist from following, as they will, halt and form up to watch them take a good lead in returning to the city. Then race after them!'
'Ah! And then, we pursue those jackals, and fall on them from behind, and slash them on the run! Thus can we reduce the odds!'
Conan heaved a great sigh, and made sure that Hajimen saw. 'They are not jackals, Hajimen my friend. They are young men and youths as we are, brave, and serving a bad khan. No, they will turn, form to meet your charge. You must then swerve and ride away again without slowing, so that they follow. If it is possible, a small party of Shanki should race toward a city gate. That will create some fear in those who will be watching from the walls. They may call for reinforcements—from the palace.'
'In none of this do I see honour, or the way of the Shanki, Conan. What is the purpose of all this harmless racing about on the plain outside these walls?'
'Ah! Hajimen, you are big! That you can ask, rather than bluster; that is the mark! You will succeed Akhimen indeed, Hajimen, and the Shanki will be well led! Consider. The Shanki can gird and put into the saddle… what? Perhaps three hundred men, if we include boys just past puberty and men well past prime?'
'And a hundred women and girls! Our women are not weak playthings such as those I have seen in this encampment of walls!'
'—While there are over two thousand soldiers quartered here. So many would slay you all, and women and girls too, while Akter sat safe in his palace—and later commanded the annihilation of the Shanki. Thus I am showing you that you must ally yourself with those who would topple Akter. They can do so only with the help of the Shanki, Hajimen!'
Khanson Hajimen regarded him thoughtfully. 'Conan and Balad.'
'And others, aye,' Conan said, nodding with energy. 'I can get into the palace. I will. Balad can attack, and prevail, and depose Akter Khan… if the khan's warriors are busy chasing phantoms on the desert.'
'Phantoms? Shanki!'
'Aye!' Conan cried, seeing and hearing Hajimen's excitement and talking faster and higher of voice to spur it. 'And then Balad will recall the troops, and reveal that the Shanki are allies—and your people will be beloved in Zamboula, and allies of its new ruler.'
'Ha! The horse-warriors of the Zamboulans chase the Shanki phantoms, while our friends Conan and Balad invade the palace! Balad gains the crown; and Zamboulans gain a new and better ruler—and Conan and Hajimen gain vengeance; justice!'
Conan's grin was nothing that made his face handsome. 'Aye, warrior.'
Hajimen came to him, and then of a sudden stood stiff and put on a stony face. 'And Akter Khan, if he lives, must be turned over to the Shanki for punishment!'
Such a p
romise Conan knew he could not make, and he knew he could be in trouble. He found a way to put it: 'Hajimen! You should be riding to the tents of your people, right now! Instead… would the Shanki turn Akhimen Khan over to the Zamboulans for punishment, did he offend them, no matter how grievously? Consider! Akter Khan has committed more offenses against his people than against yours. They must punish him. He is theirs, of them. I have no doubt he will be executed… if he survives our attack. Certainly the allies of Balad Khan will be present to see him die!'
After a long while, Hajimen nodded. 'You did not have to say all that. You could merely have said 'Aye,' and sought to persuade me later.'
'True. Shall I lie to my friend who is the son of my friend?'
Within an hour, Hajimen and his party were riding out of Zamboula. With them, in Shanki garb, went Balad's man Jelal. His own clothing was in the pack of his sumpter-beast and his Shanki kaffia shadowed the face someone at the gate might recognise. A few days hence, when Shanki outriders found them within less than a day of Zamboula, Jelal would return: horse-mounted and in his own clothing. He would report to Balad. Thus would the diversion from the desert be coordinated with the true attack from inside Zamboula's walls.
After the departure of Jelal and the Shanki, Conan spent most of an afternoon conferring with Balad and his co-conspirators. This did not sit well with the Cimmerian who, afflicted with the wispy patience of both youth and the barbarian, preferred less plotting and the more direct approach of sharp-edged action. In this endeavor, Hajimen's headstrong insistence on being nobly foolish had forced Conan into a new, more thoughtful and persuasive role. He who would one day captain bands and then squadrons and then armies and then an entire nation was not yet eighteen, and he was learning, and ageing.
The Conan Chronology Page 50
