"Hassem, you greedy fool! I told you to peddle those trinkets in Shadizar, where they could not be tracedhnot in this city! Instead, you sell one of the bracelets to this barbarian, and try to collect the reward without my finding out about it. You told me you would leave the city two nights ago. I know how treacherous you thieving Zamorans can be, but I did not expect your greed to overcome your intelligence."
"Honored General, you misinterpret my motives," Hassem began, having just hatched a plan to get himself out of his current predicament. He had planned to leave last night for Zamora, but unforeseen, the city gates had been closed to trap the Cimmerian, and he had been told by Salvorus to collect his reward the next day, at the palace. Clearing his throat, he steadied his voice. "I have provided you with a scapegoaththe foreigner Conan. Everyone believes he is guilty, even your stalwart do-gooder, Captain Salvorus. The barbarian has no alibi; I have already made certain that he would be the perfect one to blame for the crime. Without him, the death of the princess would remain unsolved; a stain on your spotless record, a debt to Eldran that you could never truly repay. Surely the reward money is the least you would give me for this service before I return to Shadizar. You are right, of course. I am not foolish enough to try to trick you. I thought you would appreciate this final brush stroke on the plan you have painted so masterfully."
Valtresca's frown disappeared, and he began to chuckle. "Hassem, you are amusing, even when you lie. I admire your resourcefulness, but I caution you to be more careful of what you do in the future, without first consulting your bettershyou will live longer."
The General ceased chuckling, walked over to a tall oak cabinet with crystal doors, and removed a dusty bottle of wine and two ornately embellished silver wine goblets. From a chest next to the cabinet, he took a small pouch. "We need discuss this no further. I am satisfied.
Let us enjoy a goblet of the finest wine of Kyros and raise a toast to the death of this Cimmerian rogue. You have done the city a great service, and the king would express his gratitude personally were he in better spirits today." Eyes glinting cruelly with sarcasm, he poured the wine sparingly into each goblet, handing one to Hassem.
The Zamoran eyed the vessel suspiciously, but Valtresca raised his with enthusiasm, ignoring Hassem's distrustful expression. 'To the death of the savage who slew the princess!" The general drank deeply. Relaxing, Hassem also sipped from his goblet. Then he took a long pull of it, realizing that it was indeed a surpassing vintage, from a land of world-renowned vineyards.
Valtresca smiled with satisfaction and tossed the pouch to the floor beside Hassem's chair. It clinked loudly, and a glint of gold was visible from within. Hassem knelt to pick up the pouch, then coughed and clutched at his throat, dropping the goblet. "Bry-Brythunian d-dog," the spluttering thief cursed as he reached feebly for the dagger in his belt, fumbling at the hilt and drawing it out unsteadily.
Valtresca deftly slid out his sword and stepped toward Hassem. At that moment, a loud knock sounded at the door.
"General Valtresca? I heard the sounds of a struggleh" said Salvorus, who had been approaching from the far end of the hall outside the general's antechamber. The wooden door, which had not been latched firmly, swung inward from the considerable force behind Salvorus's knock. Reacting quickly as the door opened, Valtresca savagely kicked Hassem in the face with his boot. The Zamoran's mouth erupted in a spray of blood and teeth before he passed out on the hard stone floor.
"Salvorus!" the general panted, pointing at the fallen Hassem. "I have learned that this scum was the Cimmerian's accomplice. He turned Conan in after an argument over how the princess's jewels were to be split up. The fool tried to knife me! If he still lives, take this subhuman slime down to the dungeon and chain him. At dawn, the headsman will have two necks to cleave!"
Valtresca smiled again, congratulating himself on the improvisation that he had just executed so perfectly. An hour before, he had taken a draught of a special oil that would prevent the poisoned wine from affecting him. The poison was not deadly anyway; he had purchased it from a Khitan merchant who told him when imbibed, it would only temporarily cut off the flow of air into a man's lungs, long enough to render him unconscious. On the morrow, the last men who could connect him with the death of the princess would be silenced forever. Only he and Lamici would know the secret.
The general looked down with irritation at his polished boots; Hassem had soiled them with his bloody face. He contemptously wiped the blood on the fallen Zamoran's tunic. A pity that the lying miscreant had decided to cheat him. Valtresca had hired Hassem to spy on Lamici, and to make sure that the eunuch disposed of the princess's corpse as planned, without trying to implicate Valtresca. He had paid Hassem generously for this task.
In the past, he had used Hassem for many similar schemes; the Zamoran had always proved reliable. Hassem's payment for spying on the eunuch was to be the bracelet and the amulet from the princess's body, to be fenced in the wicked city of Shadizar after Hassem left for Zamora.
When Valtresca had learned that the avaricious Hassem had broken his part of the pact, he knew that he must find the treacherous Zamoran and silence him forever. Valtresca stood quietly as Salvorus leaned over the fallen thief, checking for signs of life.
The huge captain extracted the daggers with which Hassem had liberally equipped himself, then picked up the unconscious Zamoran. Salvorus thought it strange that the Cimmerian would work with Hassem, and even stranger that Hassem would be fool enough to attack Valtresca in the general's own chambers. However, he reasoned that his experience with the Zamorans and Cimmerians was limited, and he had seen many strange and inexplicable actions during his tour of duty in the city. Shaking his head, he slung Hassem over one burly shoulder and began his trek to the unpleasant depths of the palace dungeons. He never ventured into their stinking halls and cells unless he was personally responsible for a prisoner interred there.
Only an hour before, he had hauled Conan into one of the small dungeon's dank and mildewy cells, and had chained the barbarian securely to the wall. He had marveled at Conan's size and physique; these Cimmerians were a hardy folk indeed. Salvorus's own strength had been great enough for him to lift Conan without aid, but his arms had felt the strain by the time he reached the dungeon. Salvorus had never met a man stronger than himself; much of his fame in soldiering had been brought about by feats of strength impossible for most men.
His father had been a stonecutter, and Salvorus had worked as an apprentice, lifting heavy slabs of rock, often holding them in place while a difficult cut or chip was made. Later, Salvorus had labored in rock yards, chiseling stone out of quarries and bearing it to wagons, carting it to a future site of some nobleman's wall or fortress.
When Salvorus had come of age, he had taken up soldieringhpartially for the excitement it offered, but mostly for the opportunity to set aright the grievances his family had suffered at the hands of invading armies.
Slavers had caught his mother while he and his father were off at a quarry. Afterward, his father had never been the same man, gradually sinking into a listless depression that lasted until his death, some eight years later. Salvorus had no brothers or sisters, so for a while, the Brythunian army had become his family.
For years after joining the army, he had courted women steadily, seeking the hot embraces of sensual, full-bodied, lusty Brythunian women. His career as a soldier took him away from his amorous encounters before they could develop into relationships; as a result, he had found no woman to settle down with and have a family. His rapid rise in the ranks of the army had prevented him from making close friends with many of his fellow soldiers since he moved about the region, serving under various commanders. His best friends were back in the border legion he had commanded as lieutenant. The city guards were a sort he had trouble mingling with. They were men who had been given "preferred" positions, not because of their fitness for the work, but rather, because of their relationship to nobles, or because of the favors owed
to their families by the aristocracy.
Yes, he mused, he was a loner. He still enjoyed the caresses of many willing women he had met in the city, and he had filled many a night with bouts of lovemaking. While enjoyable, these encounters offered only short-lived companionship. He believed that several of the women would have accepted a proposal of marriage gladly, but he avoided seeing them repeatedly, deliberately letting any bonds of friendship dissipate.
He supposed that he preferred to be a loner, free to pursue his career without being tied down to the docile life of a typical city soldier, who gripped an ale mug far more often than the hilt of a sword. He knew of such men, who eventually retired, spending their evenings in taverns, swilling cheap wine and making exaggerated claims of their prowess in battle.
Such an end would be undignified, Salvorus felt. He would retire when his sword was pried from his dead hand, perhaps after having fallen in battle. The death of a soldier should be a death with honor and purpose. He would continue to serve, taking risks because he must to feel alive. As he descended into the palace dungeon with Hassem draped over his shoulder, he reflected on this thought, realizing that his recent move to the city had probably been a mistake. His only way out would be to prove himself worthy as a leader of men, fit to command as colonel, or even as general. Perhaps he would try drilling these sluggards who served him as city guards, and begin instructing them in the arts of proper soldiery.
Salvorus mentally planned a regimen of drills to improve the performance of his company of guards, so preoccupied that he did not notice that Hassem was regaining consciousness. The shifty-eyed Zamoran assessed his position as he bounced uncomfortably on one of the massive captain's brawny shoulders. His head, arms, and upper body dangled down over Salvorus's back, while his legs were gripped securely by one of the huge man's arms. Hassem felt weak; his breath came in uneven wheezes as the poison coursed through his body. His jawbone throbbed in agony, and the thick, oily taste of blood filled his mouth. Small droplets of blood trickled out between his smashed lips occasionally, falling to the cold stone floor. When he ran his swollen tongue along his gums, he could feel jagged stumps where several of his teeth had been. Risking a glance at his surroundings, he guessed that he was being carried to the dungeons below the palace. He had escaped from them once, years before, but not without help. They were constructed in a confusing maze of corridors, like a labyrinth.
He noticed that his daggers were missing, but he could see their hilts protruding from a bag that dangled temptingly from Salvorus's broad belt. If he could just reach one of them, he could slip it right between his captor's shoulder blades, then try to find the pathway he had once used to escape. He concentrated on feigning unconsciousness, while judging the right moment to make his move.
He focused on one particular dagger, his "black dragon," which had been rubbed generously with a paste made from the deadly leaves of the black lotus. One scratch from his black-dragon dagger would be enough to bring down a man and kill him swiftly with its poisonous bite.
Valtresca had not kicked out all of Hassem's teeth, he thought grimly; the general would find that Hassem could still bite. Waiting patiently, the Zamoran maintained his ruse of immobility, like a serpent coiled to strike.
Unmindful of the imminent danger from behind, Salvorus continued his long march to the cells. The dungeon's mazelike corridors were lit by sparsely placed lamps, burning dimly. Salvorus knew the secret of the maze, a simple method of navigating its endlessly branching pathways by interpreting symbols marked on the lamps, cleverly disguised as part of each lamp's ornamentation. He was nearing the cellblock; he could tell this by the smell permeating the area: a strong odor of urine, feces, and decay. As he turned a corner, he saw that his nose had not lied to him.
The cramped compartments were arranged side by side along one long wall of the dungeon corridor; each was narrow and long, designed to hold up to a half-dozen occupants. The corridor providing access to them was only three feet wide. Conan had been placed in the first cell. Through the bars, the captain could see that the barbarian was still hanging in heavy shackles, suspended from the wall by stout iron bolts. Salvorus reached for his key ring and selected a large, rusty iron key, which he fitted into the cell door's lock. Just before he turned the key, he felt a sharp, deep pain in his side.
"By Erlik's beard!" he cursed in shock, dropping Hassem. His hand went to his left side, where he could see a thin-bladed dagger protruding.
The Zamoran must have regained his senses! For the second time in the last few days, he had underestimated an opponent. Roaring in anger, he swept his heavy-bladed sword from its well-oiled scabbard and aimed a vicious cut at the groggy thief, still dazed from his tumble to the hard floor. Salvorus's murderous stroke never descended; without warning, he toppled over as if poleaxed.
Shaking the cobwebs from his aching head, Hassem got unsteadily to his feet. He could barely walk; his dagger-thrust had taken all the energy he could muster. Even then, the stroke had gone wide of its intended target, its thin, serrated blade sliding miraculously into a tiny unmended patch in the mail shirt. He noticed for the first time that his captor had been none other than Captain Salvorus himself. If his wits had not been so hazy from the poison and his injury, he would have recognized this sooner. Hassem cared not who he killed. He had slain many men less deserving than this buffoon.
Hassem's skill with the dagger had served him well. As he stood, he pulled his black dragon roughly from the fallen captain's side, its serrated blade making a rasping noise as several more links of chain mail were torn loose. Salvorus lay motionless on the floor; the black lotus was sending him into a slumber from which he would never awaken.
One final detail remained: Hassem must arrange the body to create the illusion that Conan had struggled with Salvorus and fatally stabbed him. The jailer would find the corpses in the cell, each clutching a dagger in his hand. He turned the key in the cell door and stepped in.
The commotion had roused Conan. Hassem was pleased to see the barbarian shackled tightly, without slack, in chains fastened to thick iron rings set solidly in the stone wall. Conan looked very much the worse for wear; his dirt-encrusted body was an aching mass of bloody contusions.
Nevertheless, the Zamoran approached him cautiously, his dagger ready.
"We meet again, witless brute," Hassem taunted. His normally deep, tonal voice had degenerated to a rasping, guttural growl. "This time, I will have the personal pleasure of sending you to hell, or whatever black pit the souls of barbarians are sent to," he continued, gloating.
"Now I will finish what I began, after I convinced this dull-witted foolh" he gestured to the prone form of Salvorus "hthat the princess died by your hand. If only this dog knew that his master, his precious general, was the one who really had her killed!" His laughter came in short, choked bursts. Coughing, he spat a mouthful of blood and tooth fragments into Conan's face.
Conan struggled to break free of the chains, but he knew that in his weakened condition, he would need hours to snap their stout iron links.
He strained with all his might, chest heaving, cords standing out on his bulging arm and leg muscles, but to no avail. "Erlik take you, Zamoran gutter-rat! Send me to hell, but know that I will be waiting for you there!" He spat a curse at Hassem, drew in a breath, and made a final effort to break out of the chains.
Hassem stepped forward, assuming an expert knife-fighter's stance. He lowered the dagger, preparing for a disemboweling slash at Conan's unprotected belly. "Your death will be slow and painful, barbarian pighuuungh!"
Conan watched in astonishment as Hassem pitched forward onto the cell floor. A heavy, iron-hilted throwing-knife protruded from the thief's back, buried to the hilt squarely between his shoulder blades. Hassem had fallen on his own serrated dagger; its thin blade had passed completely through him, sticking out next to the hilt of the iron throwing-knife.
Salvorus knelt at the door to the cell, his arm still extended from throwing the bl
ade. Leaning against the door frame for support, he raised himself slowly to his feet. He felt certain that the Zamoran's dagger had been poisoned; his side was afire with its venom. The puncture made by Hassem's dagger was minor; Salvorus had suffered far worse injuries in the border wars. Whatever the poison was, its potency was considerable. He fought its effects, but he did not know how long his strength would last.
"By Crom and Mitra!" Conan burst out when he saw that Salvorus had saved him. "That was a mighty throw! I had not looked forward to our next meeting, but now I say well-met, Captain Salvorus." He saw that Salvorus was off balance, and eyed the rent that Hassem's dagger had made in the mail shirt. Blood seeped from it slowly, staining Salvorus's tunic and pooling on the floor.
"Conan," the captain began, "I now believe you are innocent foul treachery of the worst kind, treason in a high place, here at the palace! Hard to believe, General Valtresca a traitor" His voice was unsteady, as if he were in great pain. "I must bring news of this to the king, news of this" he faltered, as though forgetting what he was going to say " will free you, then come with me to see King Eldran and Kailash."
Fumbling, Salvorus took the keys from the cell door and unlocked one of the shackles on Conan's ankles. He blinked his eyes as if to clear them, and shook his head slightly. He began unlocking another shackle, but his great strength finally failed him, overcome by the lethal black lotus blossoms of far-off Khitai. A lesser man would have been killed instantly, but Salvorus possessed a vitality not unlike that of the Cimmerian. He lived, but he was in the sleep of the black lotus, a sleep of strange dreams that ended in death.
Guessing rightly that Hassem had poisoned Salvorus, Conan cursed the ill luck that continued to plague him. Now the only man who could exonerate him of the crime he was accused of lay dying on the floor of the dungeon cell. If only he could reach the keys that lay by Salvorus's outstretched hand! At least one of his legs was freed. He bent it at the knee, bracing himself, and pressed off the brick wall with all his might. His tortured body ached with the effort, but he knew he must keep trying.
The Conan Compendium Page 53
