'That was wise. In fact, coming back here was the only wise thing you've done since taking a bath. Well, go in and get some sleep. In the morning, we'll—'
'But I cannot wait until morning!' Brita said. 'Now that I know where Asdras is, I must confront him tonight! Who knows what he might do if he learns that I am in town seeking Ylla? He might run, or he might hide her some place.'
'Brita, this matter will keep until tomorrow,' Conan said. 'A known warrior walks abroad in this town after dark at grave risk. It is far worse for a woman, even if escorted. And if the Pit lives up to its name, it is that much worse.'
She stood. 'Well, if you will not go with me, I must go alone. I will find a torch or a lantern and I will go down into the Pit by myself.'
'And what do you hope to accomplish beyond your own death?' Conan demanded.
'I only know that I must try,' she said.
Conan began to haul on his boots. 'I can see that it is useless to try to get a night's sleep.' He stood and buckled on his brigantine
'Oh, I knew you would help,' she exclaimed.
'Then you know me better than I know myself. I never en now took myself for a fool.' He strapped on his weapons-belt and clapped his steel cap on his head. 'I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be. Let's go.'
They went down the stairs, and in the courtyard Conan appropriated a lantern from its hook. By its light, they walked into the street. The night was chill, but Conan had not donned his cloak. Tonight he might have to fight or run or both, and neither activity would be improved by the voluminous garment.
All was quiet on the main street of the town. The buildings to either side blocked most of the moon's light, and they walked in the middle of the road to avoid unpleasant surprises. If anyone lurking in the shadows felt tempted by the couple out for a midnight stroll, the lamplight glinted on enough metal adorning the big Cimmerian to discourage any predatory thoughts.
The street passed along the eastern side of the Square. The spacious public plaza was flooded with moonlight, casting enough glow to reveal the colonnades and fine buildings around the periphery, although their details remained cloaked in obscurity.
Beyond the Square, the street narrowed. It was no longer straight, but began to twist this way and that. This was the oldest part of the town, Conan guessed, and had probably stood here before the silver mine brought fleeting prosperity, at which time the Square and the finer areas to the north had been erected.
'The Wyvern is down here some place,' Brita said, peering from side to side. The light of the lamp was quickly swallowed in the deep shadows on every hand. 'Yes, there!'
Conan raised the lantern in the direction she pointed. A pole protruded over a low doorway. The pole was decorated with the head of a Wyvern, cut from thin bronze. Its mouth smiled sardonically and its barbed tail, after making several loops, pointed toward the door.
'There is no sense in waiting out here in the cold,' Conan said. 'Let us go in.'
The tavern was below street level and they descended three steps to the door. Thrusting the portal open, Conan ducked his head low and went inside, closely followed by Brita. The door opened onto a landing, from which further steps descended to the floor. Conan stood on the landing and surveyed the scene before proceeding onward. Perhaps a score of patrons huddled around tables, and the predominant sound as the two entered was the rattle of dice and the slamming of leather cups onto tabletops.
Upon the opening of the door, all faces turned toward the landing to study the newcomers. Nearly every countenance was decorated, with cropped ears, slit nostrils and various fanciful brands dominating. These were not the scars of combat but of punishments inflicted by public torturers. Half-naked women walked between the tables, plying their ancient trade. They eyed the Cimmerian with interest until they saw Brita step from behind him.
'Hold this.' Conan handed Brita the lantern. He leaned forward, both hands braced against the wooden rail of the landing.
'We are searching for a man named Asdras,' he announced, he is a newcomer to this town, and his companion is a young woman named Vila. Has any here seen him or the woman?' Alter staring at the outlander for a moment, the gamblers returned their attention to their gaming. No one said a word. Brita stepped closer to Conan and whispered: 'Perhaps if I offer money . . .' He silenced her with a raised hand.
The Cimmerian descended the steps to the floor, and Brita followed him as he made his way among the tables. He stopped at one where three men sat. The fourth seat was vacant, but a pair of gloves and a half-empty cup lay upon the abandoned space. Conan pointed to them.
'Where did he go?' Conan demanded. A man looked up at him with a sneer. This one had travelled far in his pursuit of villainy. A great character from the Khitan language had been tattooed across his face in scarlet.
'Wherefore should we tell you anything, dog?' He spat copiously upon the filthy floor next to Conan's boots. Smiling, the Cimmerian leaned across the table and bunched the front of the man's leather tunic in one great fist. Hauling the tattooed man over the tabletop, he slammed him against the wall, holding him with his feet well clear of the floor. Conan drew his dirk and laid, its keen edge against the man's jugular.
'You will tell me,' Conan said, 'because you want to live.'
'Peace, my friend!' cried the tattooed one. 'I meant no discourtesy! Asdras was here, but he left more than an hour ago. He sat there all evening, but the cleaning boy brought him a note. He read it and said that he must go out back to see someone but! would return soon. He did not come back, which seems passing strange since he was winning.'
Conan dropped the man. 'Where is the boy?' Wordlessly the man pointed to the bar, where a stunted youth listlessly plied a mop, moving the accumulated filth about without removing any of it. Conan walked over to the lad.
'Who gave you a note to deliver to Asdras, boy?'
The boy stared at him vacantly, his mouth half-open and tongue! lolling. After a while he spoke, in the slow monotone of a halfwit.
'I went out back to dump the slops. Someone gave me a paper and said to give it to Asdras.'
'Who was it? A man or a woman?' Brita asked. The thought for a while, clearly a difficult process.
'Don't know. It was dark.'
'This is useless,' Conan said. 'He's gone now.'
'Let's go out back,' Brita said. 'They may still be there.'
'If it will set your mind at ease,' Conan said resignedly, 'Show us, boy.'
The two followed the half-wit through a curtain at the rear the public room and passed through a storeroom full of barrels and smashed furniture. The boy pointed to a door in the wall and Conan opened it. The alley behind the building reeked of a hundred years' worth of garbage. Rats scurried away from their feet as they went outside. They could hear pigs rooting in the muck.
'No one here,' Conan reported. 'Let's go back to our inn.'
'Wait,' she said, raising the lantern higher and pointing.
What is that?' Holding her skirts well clear of the filth, she stepped daintily toward a rat-swarming heap a few paces from the door.
Conan stepped over to the mound and gave it a kick, causing it to shift slightly. The rats scurried away, squealing. Brita gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. There lay a dead man, his eyes lolling, his mouth agape in surprise. The rats had only begun to nibble at him, so his features were still handsome despite his repression. His hair was yellow and spread around his head in a broad fan.
'Asdras!' Brita cried.
A dagger protruded from his chest. Asdras had been neatly skewered through the heart.
IV
The King's Reeve
Conan rose late and breakfasted mightily. Before leaving his, room, he looked into the adjoining chamber. It was vacant. He told himself that the woman was probably safe while the sun shone, although her incredible penchant for putting herself in danger and her tendency to go off without informing him were annoying. Then he cursed himself for caring. What was the innocent, addle-headed woma
n to him, anyway? Still, having aided her thus far, he felt a certain responsibility. Annoyed with himself for suffering this unwanted sentimentality, he buckled or his accoutrements and descended the stairs.
The public room was deserted except for a serving woman who at his order brought a great platter of meats, eggs and bread. Polishing off this spread put Conan in a far better temper, and he went forth to see what he could learn of the town. Firs he walked to the city gate. The man on guard there was not the! one who had greeted them the day before, but he was just as unsoldierly looking: a fat, aged man who limped as he paced before the gate.
'Has a man came through today who is—' Conan thought for a moment of how to describe Piris '—well, womanish-looking, and fond of clothes that would look well on a courtesan?'
'Nay. I see some odd types, but none like that has passed this way today.'
Conan tossed the man a coin, which was caught neatly. 'If he should arrive on your watch, tell him that Conan of Cimmeria is staying at the first inn on the street.'
The watchman looked at Conan as if wondering what business a foreigner could have with such a man, but knowing better than to ask. 'Aye, sir, I shall tell him.'
Conan thanked the guard and walked back down the street. It was his first good appraisal of the town in full daylight, and what IK- could see of it looked fair enough. The local architecture was ! the sort favoured in this district of Aquilonia. Most of the buildings' lower stories were of a rough-cut grey fieldstone, and the upper stories were half-timbered.
One street was lined on both sides by the headquarters of various guilds. These were imposing edifices, but one was a fire-rutted hulk, looking like a rotted tooth in an otherwise healthy IHW. Over its door were a pair of crossed picks, identifying the place as the Guildhall of the Miners' Guild.
From one large building Conan heard a familiar music: the . lashing of swords. The rhythmic sound of the weapons told him that this was a lesson in progress, not a fight. He wandered in and saw a good hundred men being put through their paces by a master and his assistants. The students stood in pairs facing one .mother, alternately attacking and defending as the master called out the moves. All wore padded coats and stout helmets. The .words were blunt and had basket hilts to protect the hands.
The walls were hung with a great variety of practice weapons and small bucklers, but the favoured implement seemed to be the one-handed sword. It was the best weapon for fighting in city streets. The men had a grimly determined look, but Conan quickly .saw that few of them had much aptitude. The master, a wiry man
in his forties, called a rest and then noticed the Cimmerian. HI walked toward Conan, looking him over with quick calculation.
'You've the look of a man who needs no instruction from me,' he said by way of greeting.
'I heard the sound of arms and came to have a look,' Conan said. 'I never saw an arms school with so many overaged burglars as students.'
The master's smile was a white flash in his dark countenance 'I heard about this town a year ago and came hither. It seemed to me that a frightened town would be a good place in which t practice my profession, and I was right. Cutlers and armourers d well here, too. The citizens wear so much iron beneath their clothes that the streets draw lightning.'
'Do you teach the scoundrels as well as the respectable citizenry?' Conan asked.
Again the swift smile. 'Them I teach in the evenings.'
'How do they rate?'
'Few are good fighters. All are killers.'
'Is that true of Ermak's men?' Conan knew that it was seldom difficult to get a professional swordsman to talk shop.
'Professionals. They are mostly competent second-rat swordsmen. Battlefield soldiers are seldom truly expert at the art of single combat. Ermak's men are far better than any of the others, but their real skills are with pike and halberd.'
'How about the followers of Ingas, the ones who wear red leather?'
'They never come here. They have small skill, but they an the most vicious. They favour those Khorajan slashers because with one, you can inflict a terrible wound with very little skill. But the Khorajan two-hander lacks defensive quality, so if you don't wan to be killed in the midst of cutting down your man, you have to be very quick, well armoured, or else do all of your fighting it packs. Ingas's men prefer the latter.'
'I have noticed that about them.'
'Do you seek employment with Ermak?' the scoutmaster asked.
'I have no such plans at present.'
'Then consider coming to work with me. As you can see, I have more students than I can comfortably handle with just three assistants. I teach three classes every day. One class is even made up of women!'
'I will think about it. But you know as well as I that the knowing of technique is of no use to a man who is not a real fighter.'
The master shrugged. 'It makes them feel safer and they pay well for the instruction.'
Conan bade the master farewell and walked outside. Behind him, the clashing of metal resumed.
Another few minutes of walking brought him to the Square. It was a large public area for a city so small, surrounded by splendid wildings and decorated with a number of fine statues. Some of die buildings were temples, others were mansions. One had the royal lions of Aquilonia over its main gate. This, he decided, must lie the headquarters of the King's Reeve.
He began to wander among the numerous stalls set up by vendors. Although he had taken no particular path through the town, lie did not meander aimlessly. He was exploring, fixing the plan if the town in his mind so that he would not become lost should lie have to flee. It would be disastrous to run into a blind alley were there a large group of armed and angry men at his heels.
A number of beggars lounged in the shade of the colonnade Brita had mentioned. Apparently it was too early yet for the ladies lo parade their wares. He was passing the statue of an Aquilonian king dead for a hundred years when he heard a commotion nearby. People began to flee past him, looking back over their shoulders.
With the agility of a mountain goat, Conan sprang up onto the pedestal of the statue. From his vantage point he stood above the heads of the crowd, which now had drawn back to leave a broad, clear space at the western end of the Square. Within the cleared space two groups of men shouted at each other, separated by about a dozen paces. The sun flashed on drawn weapons. It seemed that a fine brawl was in the making.
'Hey up there!' It was a woman's voice. 'You, the black haired foreigner! Help me up. I want to see!''
Conan looked down to see a handsome, brown-haired whose expensive gown was styled to show her lush figure to be advantage. He stooped to grasp her hand and with a tigerish surge of muscle, he hauled her onto the pedestal beside him.
'My, you are a strong one!' She smiled at him boldly, thought I knew all the rogues in this town. Who are you?'
'Conan of Cimmeria. If you know them all, who are the! men making all the fierce noises?'
She surveyed the scene before them. 'The bigger band over there on the right are Lisip's men. The others are Ermak's.'
Now he saw Nevus, his drinking companion of the night before. Nevus stood with about fifteen comrades, all of them hat men like himself. Most of these wore light armour and carried drawn short swords or cutlasses, although one had a light, straight two-hander and another a quarterstaff. They were heavily outnumbered but stood unafraid, smiling and hurling insults.
Facing them were at least thirty men dressed in a motley assortment of garments, most of them marked like the men he ha seen the night before in the Wyvern. They carried an equally grotesque assortment of weapons. At a glance, Conan identified a double-bladed axe from Shem, a Bossonian archer's bill, eight different types of sword, and an iron flail. One man was armed with a pair of steel gauntlets with three-inch spikes over the knuckles.
'Which one is Lisip?' Conan asked.
'You won't see him here,' the woman said. 'He rarely leaves the Pit, and he's too old and fat to fight anyway.'
'This will be enjoyable,' the woman said, 'but they'll take a age to get started. We might as well be comfortable.' She sat on the pedestal, her legs dangling over one edge. Conan sat beside her and gave her an admiring examination. If she noticed, she was totally unembarrassed by it. She was a large woman, but so well proportioned that every line of her was graceful. Her facial features were of the same proportions, but too finely formed to considered heavy.
'Who are you?' Conan asked, 'and how do you come to know so much about these men?'
'I'm Maxio's woman. My name is Delia.' She stuck two fingers against her lower lip and vented a shrill whistle. A vendor looked around and she waved him over to the pedestal. She tossed him a coin and he held up a broad leaf that had been cleverly folded to form a pouch. She took a few nuts from the pouch and popped them into her mouth, then held out the leaf to Conan. He look some of the nuts. They were still warm from the oven.
'And who might Maxio be?' he asked.
'You are new here. Maxio is the leader of his own little band. I freelance, mostly, but sometimes they side with one of the other gangs. They specialize in housebreaking.'
'And Maxio is your husband?'
She laughed heartily. 'Husband? What would I want with a husband? I said I was his woman, but that is a matter that could change.' She gave him an appraisal as open as he had given her. 'It could change very soon, if the right man should appear.'
The Conan Chronology Page 545
