The Conan Compendium

by Robert E. Howard

  "This body is too frail," Ghurran said suddenly. "Too old!" He knelt, peering into one of the chests. All twenty had been opened, and some of their contents pulled out. There were more dried leaves, exactly like those in the first chest. There were saffron crystals that seemed, from the powder beneath the pile of them on the dirt floor, to crumble almost of their own weight, and tightly corded leather sacks, several of which had been sliced open to spill out what could have been salt except for its crimson color. Two of the chests contained clear vials filled with a verdant liquid and well-packed in linen bags of goose down.

  "What ails you?" Conan asked. "I walk, as you said I would, and I will see that you get the gold Hordo promised you." The one-eyed smuggler made a muffled sound of pained protest.

  "Gold," Ghurran snorted contemptuously.

  "If not gold, then what?" Conan asked. "If any of the herbs or other substances in those chests can be of use to you, take them, leaving only a little for me. It seems we will not be delivering them to the Zaporoska, but I still want to know why a man would try to kill to keep them hidden. A small portion of the leaves and the rest may help me find out."

  "Yes," the herbalist said slowly, "you will want to find out, won't you?" He hesitated. "I do not know exactly how to tell you this. If what I gave you had not been successful, there would have been no need to say anything. I hoped to find something in these chests, or more likely on the body. A man who carries a poisoned weapon will betimes also carry an antidote in case he himself is accidently wounded."

  "What need is there of antidotes?" Hordo demanded. "You have already counteracted the poison."

  Ghurran hesitated again, eying both Hordo and Conan in turn. "The treatment I have given you, northlander, has only masked the poison for a time."

  "But I feel no more than a slight ache in the head," Conan said. "In an hour I will wrestle any man in Sultanapur."

  "And you will continue to feel so for another day or two perhaps, then the poison will take hold again. A permanent cure requires herbs that I know, but that can be found only in Vendhya."

  "Vendhya!" Hordo exclaimed. "Black Erlik's bowels and bladder!" Conan motioned Ghurran to speak on, and the old man did so.

  "You must go to Vendhya, northlander, and I must go with you, for a daily infusion prepared by me will be necessary to keep you alive. The journey is not one I look forward to, for this old body is not suited to such travels. You, however, may find the answers you seek in Vendhya."

  "Mayhap I will," Conan said. "It will not be the first time my life has been measured out a day at a time."

  "But Vendhya," Hordo protested. "Conan, they do not much like folk from this side of the Vilayet in Vendhya. If you with your accursed eyes are thought strange here, how will they think you there? We'll lose our heads, like as not, and be lucky if we are not flayed first. Ghurran, are you sure there is nothing you can do here in Turan?"

  "If he does not go to Vendhya," Ghurran said, "he dies."

  "It is all right, my friend," Conan told the one-eyed man. "I will find the antidote there, and answers. Why are those chests worth killing for? Patil was Vendhyan, and I cannot think they were destined elsewhere. Besides, you know I have to leave Sultanapur for a time anyway, unless I want to hide from the City Guard until they find Tureg Amal's killer."

  "The chests," Hasan said abruptly. "They can still be taken to the Zaporoska. Whoever was to meet Patil will not know he is dead. They will be waiting there, and they may have answers to our questions. They may even have an antidote."

  " 'Tis better than Vendhya," Hordo said quickly. "For one thing, it is closer. No need to travel to the ends of the world if we do not need to."

  "It cannot hurt to try," Conan agreed. "An easier trip for your bones, Ghurran." The old man shrugged his thin shoulders noncommitally.

  "And if Patil's friends do not have what you need," Hordo added, "then we can think about Vendhya."

  "Hold there!" Prytanis strode, into the middle of the room, glaring angrily. The other smugglers were listening drunkenly, but he alone seemed sober enough to truly understand what had been said. "Take the chests to the Zaporoska, you say. How are we to find the men we seek?

  The mouth of the Zaporoska is wide, with dunes and hills to hide an army on both sides."

  "When I agreed to carry Patil's goods," Hordo said, "I made sure he told me the signals that would be given by the men ashore, and the signs we must give in return."

  "But what profit is there in it?" Prytanis insisted. "The Vendhyan cannot pay. Do you think his companions will when we arrive without him? I say forget these chests and find a load of 'fish' that will put gold in our purses."

  "You spineless dog." Hordo's voice was low and seemed all the more deadly for it. "Conan is one of us and we stand together. How deep is the rot in you? Will you now throw goods over the side at the sight of a naval bireme, or abandon our wounded to the excisemen?"

  "Call me not coward," the Nemedian snapped. "Many times I have risked having my head put on a pike above the Strangers' Gate, as you well know. If the Cimmerian wants to go, then let him. But do not ask the rest of us to tease the headsman's axe just for the pleasure of the trip."

  The jagged scar down Hordo's left cheek went livid as he prepared a blast, but Conan spoke first.

  "I do not ask you to come for the pleasure of the trip, Prytanis, nor even for the pleasure of my company. But answer me this. You say you want gold?"

  "As any man does," Prytanis said cautiously.

  "These chests are worth gold to the men waiting at the Zaporoska.

  Vendhyans, if Patil is a guide. You have seen other Vendhyans, men with rings on every finger and gems on their turbans. Did you ever see a Vendhyan without a purse full of gold?"

  Prytanis' eyes widened as he suddenly realized that Conan spoke not only to him. "But-"

  The big Cimmerian went on over the attempted interruption like an avalanche rolling over a hapless peasant. "The Vendhyans waiting on the Zaporoska will have plenty of gold, gold due us when we deliver the chests. And if they will not pay. . ." He grimed wolfishly and touched the hilt of his broadsword. "They'll not be the first to try refusing to pay for their 'fish.' But we did not let the others get away with it, and we'll not let the Vendhyans either."

  Prytanis looked as though he wanted to protest further but one of the smugglers cried out drunkenly, "Aye! Cut 'em down and take it all!"

  "Vendhyan gold for all of us!" another shouted. Others grunted agreement or laughingly repeated the words. The slitnosed Nemedian sank into a scowling silence and withdrew sullenly to a corner by himself.

  "You still have the gift of making men follow you," Hordo told Conan quietly, "but this time it would have been better to break Prytanis'

  head and be done with it. He will give trouble before this is done, and we'll have enough of that as it is. Mitra, the old man will likely heave his stomach up at every wave. He looks no happier at the prospect of this shorter journey than he did about traveling to Vendhya."

  Indeed, Ghurran sat slumped against the chests, staring glumly at nothing.

  "I will deal with Prytanis if I must," Conan replied. "And Ghurran can no doubt concoct something to soothe his stomach. The problem now is to find more men." Hordo's vessel could be sailed by fewer than those in the cellar, but the winds would not always be favorable, and rowing against tides and currents would require twice so many at least. The Cimmerian surveyed the men sprawled about the floor and added, "Not to mention sobering this lot enough to walk without falling over their own feet."

  "Salted wine," Hordo said grimly. Conan winced; he had personal experience of the one-eyed man's method of ridding a man of drunkenness. "And you cannot risk the streets in daylight," Hordo went on, "I will leave that part of it to you while I try to scrape some more crew out of the taverns. Prytanis! We've work to be done!"

  Conan ran his eye over the drunken smugglers once more and grimaced.

  "Hasan, tell Kafar we need ten pitchers of wi
ne. And a large sack of salt."

  The next hour was not going to be pleasant.

  Chapter VI

  The harbor quays were quiet once night had fallen, inhabited only by shadows that transformed great casks of wine and bales of cloth and coiled hawsers into looming, fearsome shapes. Scudding clouds dappled a dull, distant moon. The seaward wind across the bay was as cold as it had been hot during the day, and the watchmen paid by the Merchants'

  Guild wrapped themselves in their cloaks and found shelter within the waterside warehouses with warming bottles of wine.

  There were no eyes to see the men who worked around a trim vessel some sixteen paces long, with a single forward-raked mast stepped amidship.

  It was tied alongside a dock that leaned alarmingly and creaked at every step on its rough planks. But then the dock creaked whether there were steps or not. All the boats moored there were draped with nets, but few carried more than the faintest smell of fish. Actual fishermen sold small portions of their catch each day for the maintaining of that smell. King Yildiz's customs collectors would seize a fishing boat that did not smell of fish before they even bothered to search it.

  Conan stood on the rickety dock with the dark cloak he had from Ghurran pulled about him so that he blended with the night. He was the only one there besides Hordo who knew that the one-eyed man privately called that boat Karela, after a woman he had not seen in two years, but looked for still. Conan had known her, too, and understood the smuggler's obsession.

  While others loaded the ship, the Cimmerian kept an eye out for the rare watchman who might actually be trying to earn his coin or, more likely, for a chance patrol of the King's excisemen. A slight ache behind his eyes was the only remaining effect of the poison he could detect. "The old man's potion works well," he said as Hordo climbed up beside him from the boat. "I could almost think the poison was gone completely."

  "It had better work," his friend grunted. "You had to promise him those hundred gold pieces when he was ready to settle for herbs."

  "My life is worth a hundred gold pieces to me," Conan said dryly.

  Muffled cursing and thumping rose from the boat. "Hordo, did you truly take on every blind fool you could find for this voyage?"

  "We may wish we had twice as many blades before this is done. And with half my men vanished into wine pitchers, I had to take the best of what I could find. Or would you rather wait another day? I hear the City Guard cut an albino into dog meat just at twilight, mistaking him for a northlander. And they've set out to search every tavern and bordello in the city."

  "That will take them a century," Conan laughed. A soft cooing caught his ear, and he stared in amazement as a wicker cage of doves was lowered onto the boat, followed by another cage of chickens and three live goats.

  "One of the new men suggested it," Hordo said, "and I think it a good idea. I get tired of choosing between dried meat and salt meat when we are at sea."

  "As long as they are not more of the crew, Hordo."

  "The goats are no randier than some outlanders I know, and the-" The bearded man cut off as a light flared on the boat below. "What in Zandru's Nine Hells ... "

  Conan did not waste time on oaths. Leaping to the deck, he snatched a clay lamp from the hands of a tall, lanky Turanian and threw it over the side.

  The man stared at him angrily. "How am I to see where to put anything in this dark?" He was a stranger to Conan, one of Hordo's new recruits, in the turban and leather vest that was the ubiquitous garb of the harbor district.

  "What is your name?" the Cimmerian asked.

  "I am called Shamil. Who are you?"

  "Shamil," Conan said, "I will just assume you are too stupid to realize that a lamp could also be seen by others." His voice grew harder. "I will not even think you might be a spy for the excisemen, trying to draw their attention. But if you do that again, I will make you eat the lamp." Hordo appeared beside him, testing his dagger on a horny thumb.

  "And after he does, I will slit your throat. You understand?" The lanky man nodded warily.

  "Blind fools, Hordo," Conan said and turned away before his friend could speak.

  The Cimmerian's earlier mirth had soured. Men such as this Shamil might well get them all killed before they ever saw the Zaporoska. And how many others like him were among the newcomers? Even if they were not done in by foolishness like lighting a lamp where stealth was required, how many of the new could be trusted did matters come to a fight on the other side of the Vilayet?

  Muttering to himself, Ghurran stumbled his way down the dark deck and thrust a battered pewter cup into Conan's hands. "Drink this. I cannot be sure what effect the pitching of sea travel will have. It is best to have a double dose and be safe."

  Conan took a deep breath and emptied the cup in one gulp. "It no longer tastes of camel," he said with a grimace.

  "The ingredients are slightly different," the herbalist told him. "Now it tastes as though a sheep was dipped in it." Conan tossed the cup back to Ghurran as Hordo joined them.

  "The chests are lashed below," the smuggler said quietly, "and we are as ready as we are likely to be. Take the tiller, Cimmerian, while I get the men to the oars."

  "See if they can keep from braining one another with them," Conan said, but Hordo had already disappeared in the dark, whispering muted commands.

  The Cimmerian moved quickly aft, wincing at the clatter of oars as they were laid in the thole pins. As the craft was pushed out from the dock, he threw his weight against the thick wooden haft of the tiller, steering the boat toward open water. The sounds of Hordo quietly calling the stroke came over the creak of the oars. Phosphorescence swirled around the oar blades and in the wake.

  Scores of ships in all sizes were anchored in the harbor, galleys and sailing craft from every port on the Vilayet. Conan directed a zig-zag course that kept well clear of all of them. The navy's biremes were berthed in the northern-most part of the bay, but some of the merchantmen would have a man standing watch. None would raise an alarm, however, unless the smugglers' craft came too close. The watches were to guard against thieves or pirates-some of whom were bold enough to enter the harbor of Sultanapur, or even Aghrapur-not to draw unnecessary attention to ships whose captains often carried goods not listed on the manifest.

  The offshore wind carried not only the smells of the city, but picked up the harbor's own stenches as well. The aromas of spice ships and the stink of slavers blended with the smell of the water. Slops and offal were tossed over the side whether a ship was at sea or in port, and the harbor of Sultanapur was a cesspool.

  The vessel cleared the last of the anchored ships, but instead of relaxing, Conan stiffened and bit back a curse. "Hordo," he called hoarsely. "Hordo, the mole!"

  The long stone barrier of the mole protected the harbor against the sharp, sudden storms of the Vilayet that could otherwise send waves crashing in to smash vessels against the quays. Two wide ship channels, separated by more than a thousand paces, were the only openings in the great breakwater, and on either side of each channel was a tall granite tower. The towers were not yet visible in the night and would usually be manned only in time of war. What was visible, however, was the gleam of torchlight through arrow slits.

  Pounding a fist into his palm, Hordo slowly backed the length of the deck, staring all the while toward the slivers of light. They became less distant by the moment. He spoke quietly when close enough for Conan and no other to hear. "It must be this Mitra-forsaken assassination, Cimmerian. But if they've manned the towers . . ."

  "The chains?" Conan said, and the bearded man nodded grimly. The chains were another precaution for time of war, like the manning of the towers. Of massive iron links capable of taking a ramming-stroke blow from the largest trireme without breaking, they could be stretched, almost on the surface of the water, to effectively bar the harbor entrances even to vessels as small as the one the smugglers rode.

  Conan spoke slowly, letting his thoughts form on his tongue. "There is n
o reason for the towers to be manned unless the guard-chains have been raised. In the night they are little better than useless as watch posts. But there is no war, only the assassination." He nodded to himself. "Hordo, the chains are not to keep ships out, but to keep them in."

  "Keep them in?"

  "To try to keep the High Admiral's assassin from escaping," the Cimmerian said impatiently. "There are no city gates here to close and guard, only the chains."

  "And if you are right, how does it aid us?" Hordo grunted sourly.

  "Chains or gates, we are trapped like hares in a cage."

  "In war there would be a hundred men or more in each tower. But now ...

  They expect no attack, Hordo. And how many men are needed just to guard against someone trying to loose an end of the chain? As many as to guard a gate?"

  The one-eyed man whistled tunelessly between his teeth. "A gamble, Cimmerian," he said finally. "You propose a deadly gamble."

  "I have no choice. The dice will be tossed, one way or another, and my life is already wagered."

  "As you say. But do not ask me to like it, for I do not. We will have to try one of the towers on the part separated from land. Otherwise we might have a few score guardsmen to contend with before our business is done."

  "Not you," Conan said. "If we both go, how long do you wager the ship will wait for us? The new men will not outstay the old, and the old are not overly eager for this voyage."

  "They all know I would follow any man who left me, and in my own ship,"

  Hordo rumbled. "Follow him to the end of the world, if need be, and rip out his throat with my bare hands." But he took the tiller from the Cimmerian. "See who will go with you. You cannot do it alone."

  Conan moved forward to the mast and stood astride the yard on which the sail was furled, lying fore and aft on the deck. The pace of rowing, already ragged without Hordo to call a stroke, slowed further. Even in the dark he knew every eye was on him.

  "The trouble in the city has given us a problem," he said quietly. "The guard-chains are up. I intend to lower one and open a way out of the harbor for us. If it is not done, we have come this far for nothing. We will have a few chests of spices-or so I was told they were-that only the Vendhyans want, and the Vendhyans will keep their gold." He waited.