Conan grunted as if satisfied. They left the inn and walked southward. As they passed the Square, Conan pointed out Andolla's temple and gave Piris a sketchy account of the man's activities.
'If he is very rich and posing as a mage,' the Zamoran said, 'he would be a logical buyer for the scorpion.' He looked bemused, then spoke once more. 'Tell me, Conan; since you have been here, have you encountered a man who is quite tall and very handsome, with wavy blond hair and an easy manner?'
'Not to notice. Why do you ask?'
'He was once an associate of mine, and I thought I might encounter him here. This is the sort of place to attract him. He is a gambler and fancies himself a ladies' man.' The latter quality seemed to displease Piris.
'I've met no one like that here,' Conan said, thinking that he had not actually met such a one. But the description sounded suspiciously like Asdras, whose rat-gnawed corpse he had seen in the alley behind the Wyvern. And, just where was Brita keeping herself?
After much wandering about in twisting streets and blind alleys, they found the Temple of Bes. It was an old and shabby building, much in need of painting. The doorway was flanked by a pair of statues of the grotesque god, who had the body of a bandy-legged dwarf and a lion-like face. His tongue protruded from his comically wide-stretched mouth. The Ophirian god was popular among the lower classes in many lands. He was a god of jollity and good times, a defender against evil spirits and, oddly enough, a protector of women in childbirth. Like most gods, he had a darker side. Bes was also a god of drunkards and thieves.
The Cimmerian and the Zamoran passed within. A priest hurried from the back of the temple to greet them. He wore Ophirian robes, headgear and slippers, and upon his breast was a jewelled pectoral depicting his god.
'How may I help you sirs?' His clothing might have been Ophirian, but his accent was local. 'Do you wish to offer a sacrifice? Have you a wife in labour?' He eyed Piris sceptically. 'Well, perhaps not the latter. Is it, shall we say, a business matter?'
'Business,' Conan said. 'We are looking for—' Piris thrust an elbow sharply into his ribs, hard enough for the Cimmerian to feel the jab through his brigantine.
'We are in the market for art objects,' Piris said smoothly. 'We were informed that you are a dealer in such matters.'
'In my small fashion,' said the priest. 'What sort of art do you fancy? Paintings? Ivory carving? Jewel work?'
'Might we have a look at your stock?' Piris asked.
'But of a certainty! If you gentlemen will come with me, I will show you my inventory.'' He led them past the altar and to a door that opened upon a flight of stairs. These descended to a room where a pair of slaves guarded a heavy door. The slaves were men of Shem, huge and hook-nosed, with black beards almost concealing the spiked collars that encircled their necks.
From his girdle the priest took a heavy key and thrust it into the door. Massive as the portal was, it opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. 'Bring lamps,' the priest ordered. The slaves complied, and moments later Conan and his companion were admiring a fine stock of valuables: jewelled swords, fine portraits, small statues carved from precious materials, jewellery of every description. At the far end of the vault there was a second door. This Conan had expected, and it was the main reason he had wanted to have a look at the temple.
'What lies beyond that portal?' he asked.
'Just the river,' said the priest. 'Sometimes goods must be moved in and out without bothering the authorities, if you take my meaning. Well, gentlemen, do you see anything such as takes your fancy?''
Piris caressed a ruby-eyed figurine of a rearing lion. 'Oh, much of this is most attractive, and rest assured that in time I shall come to make you an offer upon some of these items. However,
just now we have a more specific desire. It would be a small statue made of a most curious black stone. It will be quite unlike anything you have ever encountered before. Should this unique specimen come before you, and I think it well might within a very few days, you should find it very rewarding to inform us.'
'Ah, a specific item!' said the priest conspiratorially. 'It is not uncommon for me to be asked to keep watch for a specific item that someone is desirous of obtaining. I have seen nothing thus far such as you seek, but be assured that I shall let you know instantly should it come my way. At one time this would have been inevitable, but business has been greatly damaged of late by all these amateurs who have come to town. Where might you be contacted, good sirs?'
Phis gave the man the name of their inn, and for a while the two conversed professionally upon the subject of property acquired extralegally. While they did so, the Cimmerian examined the vaulted chamber in which they stood. The walls were of brick, curving to form the roof overhead. The bricks did not sweat moisture, which meant that they were well above the level of the river.
As soon as he had heard that the temple abutted the river wall, he had assumed that there would be a river access. In past times, when Sicas had been governed by Reeves more conscientious than Bombas, the priests of this temple would have required a convenient means of moving their nefariously acquired goods.
Conan had long ago learned that it is unwise to enter any house without first noting where all the possible exits lie. The same held true for towns. In a tight situation, it would be good to know that there was a convenient way out of the town that did not necessitate use of the gates.
Their business concluded, Conan and Piris returned to the streets of the Pit. They made a strange pair, the huge, savage-looking Cimmerian and the small, delicate and effeminate Zamoran, but in the Pit they did not rate so much as a second glance from passers-by. The inhabitants of the Pit were rarely of the conventional sort themselves.
As they made their way up a winding alley, Conan noticed that
they were being followed. This was the Pit, not the Square. He knew that there would be no challenge to an open fight. Without so much as a word, the Cimmerian whirled, his sword hissing from its scabbard. The men behind them halted, unnerved by the abrupt move. Somewhat to Conan's surprise, Piris neither panicked nor ran. He whirled an instant after, drawing a long, thin-bladed stiletto.
'Whose dogs are you?' Conan snarled. One wore the red leather of Ingas's gang, but the rest were nondescript thugs of the Pit. There were six of them, each with drawn sword. Just above and behind them Conan noticed someone watching from a rooftop, but he had no attention to spare for the watcher.
'What matters that?' asked a man whose woollen cap covered holes once graced by ears. 'You and your pretty friend will be fish food ere dark.'
'It was to deal with such rascals that I hired you, Cimmerian,' Piris reminded him. 'Please attend to them.'
'You heard him,' Conan said to the six. 'Either begone or attack. I do not want to tarry in this stinking alley.'
As one man, the six attacked. The Cimmerian met them halfway, his sword shearing through an unguarded thigh as he ducked past a clumsy blow. He struck a bearded man in the chest with his shoulder, sending him smashing into a wall. The long sword of the man in red leather struck Conan's side, but its keen edge merely split the cover of the brigantine and skittered across the steel plates beneath. Conan's left fist crashed into that one's jaw and the man dropped with a sound of splintering bone. A cutlass glittered toward Conan's face, but he interposed his own blade and the steel rang. The instant the cutlass-wielder's blade halted, Conan grabbed his wrist, disengaged his own blade and smashed his pommel into the bridge of the man's nose. As that one fell, a man with a short sword leaped over the body, his weapon darting for Conan's side. The Cimmerian leaned aside and as the sword went past, clamped the attacker's arm between his own left arm and side. With his pommel, he smashed the elbow joint. Shoving the man off, he placed his back to a wall, his eyes sweeping the
alley for more enemies. He was just in time to see the watcher dash away from the rampart of the nearby house. It was only a glimpse, but he had the impression that it was a woman, a woman with black hair and a mouth r
ouged scarlet.
Conan surveyed the men, who either lay still or groaned and writhed upon the filthy paving stones of the alley. The man he had knocked into the wall and one other, a man of Stygian countenance, lay shivering and jerking, their mouths drawn back in convulsive grins. He looked at Piris.
'I but scratched them,' the thief said, gesturing with his stiletto. Its point was stained lightly with blood but heavily with a green substance. He re-sheathed the weapon.
'Halt, you rogues!' They turned to see Bombas, his bulk almost blocking the alley, fisted hands on his hips. Behind him stood his three close henchmen and a half-dozen of his worthless guards.
'You are a long way from your headquarters, Reeve,' Conan said.
The fat man smiled evilly. 'And yet I am duty-bound to go forth and arrest those who would defy the law. Your weapons, please.'
Conan fumed, but Piris nudged him. 'We had best comply, my friend. We have business to conclude in this town.'
With ill grace, the Cimmerian complied, handing his weapons-belt to the Reeve. The man took Piris's stiletto and examined it, then looked upon the two men whose heels had ceased to drum upon the stone. He clucked ruefully.
'Did you not know that possession of an envenomed weapon is a violation of royal law?'
The Zamoran's eyes went wide in a parody of injured innocence. 'But I bought that weapon believing it to be an honest dagger! Am I an apothecary, to know that its tip was poisoned?'
Bombas did not deign to answer. He looked at the fallen men distastefully and turned to his guards. 'Drag this offal down to the river.'
'But some of them are still alive,' said a guard who carried a bill slanting over his shoulder.
'What of that?' demanded Bombas. 'Cut their throats and all will be corrected.' Shrugging, the guards drew their daggers.
'Now come with me,' Bombas ordered. Conan and Piris, closely followed by Julus and the two Zingarans, began to trudge toward the Square. Conan said nothing to his companion about the black-haired woman. He was not even certain that he had seen her; the impression had been too fleeting. As they passed through the Square, they drew many looks and some laughter, but Conan decided that most of this was due to the unaccustomed sight of Bombas, out of his headquarters for once.
The Cimmerian knew it was no coincidence that the fat Reeve had just happened to be in the vicinity where the two were set upon, in a part of town that Bombas probably had not visited in years. It was just one more among the multitude of conspiracies that had come to surround Conan. He had no doubt that this, too, would become clear in time.
Within the Reeve's palace, they were marched down a flight of stairs and into a stone-walled cell guarded by an iron-barred door. The door shut behind the two with a resounding clank and the jailer, an ox-like, bald-headed man, twisted a heavy key in the lock.
'Leave us,' said Bombas, addressing the jailer and his three henchmen.
'How long are we here for?' Conan asked.
Bombas shrugged. 'Perhaps for a short time, perhaps for the rest of your lives. I am always amenable to reason.'
'How much reason do we need to get out of here?' the Cimmerian demanded.
'Ordinarily fifty marks' worth of reason is sufficient, but with you two, I am not so sure.'
'This is an outrage!' Piris sputtered. 'I shall protest to the Zamoran ambassador, who is a personal friend.'
At this, Bombas laughed hard enough to set his fat jiggling.
'In the first place, little man, the Zamoran ambassador is in Tarantia, which is quite some way from here. You lack the aspect of a wizard, so I doubt that you can communicate with him from my dungeon. In the second place, I deal with people like you every day, and I think that the last thing you want is to come to the attention of the Zamoran authorities.'
'Will we be tried?' Conan asked.
'If I wish. But the next court day is not for many weeks. Even so—' he came close to the bars '—you two need not endure this at all. Tell me what you are in Sicas for. If it is something to my advantage, perhaps we can work out an arrangement. Remember that you are foreigners and have no rights here. I need not try you at all. What is your business?' Neither prisoner said a word. Bombas stepped back, frowning. 'Very well, then. I will release you upon payment of five hundred gold marks. Each!'
'Where would we get such a sum?' Piris wailed.
'What concern is that of mine?' Bombas said. He turned and stalked back up the stairs.
'Who set that swine upon us?' Piris asked.
Conan shrugged his massive shoulders. 'It's my guess that he was bribed to kill us if the thugs failed to do so. His men took one end of the alley, the thugs took the other. We killed the thugs first. He had not stomach for a fight with me, and he scents riches in keeping us alive. As to who hired him, the field is growing crowded. Incidentally, I think I might have espied your black-haired wench watching the ambush from a rooftop, but I cannot be sure.'
'That slut! If she has followed me here—'
'And is she, too, in search of the black scorpion?' Conan demanded.
'Cimmerian, you ask too many questions. My dealings are my own. I have retained your services to aid me, not to be my partner.' The little man fretted for a few minutes, then: 'By the way, my friend, have you enough gold handy to procure our freedom?'
At this Conan laughed. 'You remember my condition when
you found me! You advanced me two hundred dishas, much of which I spent in outfitting and travelling expenses.'
The Zamoran sat on a hard bench depending upon chains from a wall, his every line eloquent of despondency. 'Oh. I was hoping that your luck at gaming might have returned, or that you might have, well, acquired a bit of wealth through other means since you left Belverus.'
Conan strode close to Piris and looked down upon him with a thunderous glare. 'And what of the rest of the thousand dishas you promised me?'
'I told you that my departure from Belverus was precipitate. I was forced to leave much behind.' He looked up and smiled eagerly. 'But if we can just recover the scorpion, our fortunes will be restored!'
Conan glanced at the stairway. The ox-like jailer had not yet returned. 'Do you have your ring of picks?' he asked.
'Yes,' said Piris in a low voice. 'But I would rather not use it. We need to be able to move freely about this town, perhaps for several more days. Who knows when the scorpion may arrive?'
Conan went to the door and grasped the bars. He had been clapped in jail many times but he could never become accustomed to the sensation of confinement. His mind worked over the possibilities.
'Something may turn up,' he said. Now Piris released an annoying giggle. 'What is so funny, little man?' Conan demanded.
'Did you not say that under no circumstances would you sleep in the same room with me?'
Conan set his head against the bars and groaned. 'Crom has deserted me!'
IX
The Temple of Doorgah
Conan lay back upon his hard bench, fingers laced behind his head, and pondered the problem of five hundred marks. He had no intention of revealing where he had hidden his gold. He did not want to tap any of his current employers. Piris was already penniless, or claimed to be. Xanthus would have nothing to do with Bombas, and Casperus wished to retain anonymity. Anyway, it might cause them to lose confidence in him if they were forced to spring him from prison. He decided that he needed another employer, one willing to invest five hundred marks to secure the services of a champion swordsman.
He glanced at the next bunk and saw that Piris snored away amid a cloud of lilac fumes. The ox-like jailer was gone, replaced by a younger man who hobbled about on a crutch. The Cimmerian rose and walked to the door. 'Psst! Would you like to earn some money?' he whispered.
The man looked up from the table where he was carving a model of a river barge. 'I'll not unlock you!' he said, then amended, 'Not for less than a thousand marks.'
'Nothing like that. I just want you to deliver a message. Know you the house of Rista
Daan?''
'Who does not?' the keeper said.
'When you get off duty, go to him and say this: 'If you wish to have your daughter back from the hands of Andolla, come to the Reeve's headquarters and buy Conan of Cimmeria out of jail.' Can you remember that? It is worth five marks to you.'
The man repeated the message. 'Where are my five marks?'
'Do I look like I have money?' Conan said impatiently. 'Daan will pay you.'
An hour later the lame man was replaced by the bald one. The Cimmerian knew better than to fret or grow impatient. Piris wheedled a gaming board from the jailer, and for a while they killed time playing 'King is Dead,' at which Piris cheated adroitly. Conan had lost his third straight game when Julus came down the stairs, escorting a man dressed in hose and tunic of sumptuous cloth, over which he wore a coat trimmed with rich white fur.
'Which of you is the Cimmerian?' the man asked.
'Would you mistake me for a savage?' Piris retorted indignantly.
'I am Conan.'.The Cimmerian stood and approached the bars, making the most of his intimidating size and appearance. The rich man looked him up and down, then turned to Julus.
'I would speak with this one privily.' Julus nodded to the jailer, who unlocked the door.
As the Cimmerian followed the others up the stair, Piris called after him, 'Conan! Get me out, too!'
Julus led them to a small room off the building's main hall. 'My lord,' he said, 'you had better let me stay in here with you. This one is a savage and has killed several men since coming to town.'
'I think not,' said the man. 'The town seems none the worse off for his activities. Pray leave us.'
'As you command.' Julus bowed and left, shutting the door behind him.
'Now, explain quickly the meaning of your message. Why should it be worth five hundred marks for me to procure your freedom?''
'How many thousands has Andolla cost you already?' Conan countered. 'Are you not Rista Daan?'
'I am, and what know you of me?'
'I was told that your daughter was one of those who have fallen under the spell of Andolla and now spends her days in the Temple of Mother Doorgah.'
The Conan Chronology Page 553
