Conan the Victorious

by Robert Jordan

  “The chests,” Conan said. “If I’m dying, I want to know why.”

  “Mitra curse the chests!” Hordo snapped. “And you’re not dying! Not if we can get Ghurran here.”

  “I will go for him,” Hasan said, then subsided under Hordo’s glare.

  “And how will you do that, who’s never seen the man before? Prytanis!” Hordo stalked across the cellar, and with a hand the size of a small ham hauled the Nemedian to his feet by a fistful of tunic. His other hand slapped the slit-nosed fellow’s face back and forth. “Grab your wits, Prytanis! Can you hear me? Listen, Erlik take you, or I’ll break your skull!”

  “I am listening,” the Nemedian groaned. “By all the gods, do not hit my head so. It is breaking already.”

  “Then listen well if you do not want it shattered,” Hordo growled, but he stopped his slapping. “Get you to Ghurran and fetch him here. Tell him it is poison and tell him there’s a hundred gold pieces for him if he gets here in time. Do you understand that, you sotted spawn of a camel?”

  “I understand,” the Nemedian said unsteadily and staggered toward the door under the impetus of Hordo’s shove.

  “Then run, curse you! If you fail in this, I’ll slit your belly and hang you with your own guts! Where do you think you’re going?” the one-eyed man added as Hasan made to follow Prytanis from the cellar.

  “With him,” Hasan replied. “He’s so drunk he will not remember what he’s about beyond the first pitcher of wine he sees without someone to keep him to the task.”

  “He will remember,” Hordo rumbled, “because he knows I will do as I said. To the word. If you want to do something, put a cloak over Patil so we do not have to look at him.”

  “You do not have a hundred pieces of gold, Hordo,” Conan said.

  “Then you can pay it,” the smuggler replied. “And if you die on me, I will sell your corpse for it.”

  Conan laughed, but the laughter quickly trailed off in coughing, for he had no breath to spare. He felt as weak as a child. Even if the others got him to his feet, he knew it would be all he could do to stand. The fear and despair in his friend’s voice did not touch him, however. There was an answer he must have, and it lay there in the chests stacked against the wall. Or at least some clue to the answer must. The question was simple, yet finding the answer would keep him alive a while longer, for he would not allow himself to die without it.

  He would not die without knowing why.

  CHAPTER V

  One by one, five more of Hordo’s crew staggered into Kafar’s cellar, most as drunk as the first three. Decidedly sickly looks came over their faces as they heard what had happened. It was not the death of the Vendhyan, nor even his attempt on Conan, but rather the means of that attempt. They were used to an honest blade and could even understand the knife in the back, but poison was something a man could not defend against. Cups that changed color when poisoned wine was poured into them were in the realm of wizards, and of princes who could afford to pay wizards.

  Their green faces did not bother Conan, but the funereal glances they cast at him did. “I am not dead yet,” he muttered. The words came pantingly now.

  “Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells is Ghurran?” Hordo growled.

  As though to punctuate his words, the iron-strapped door banged open, and Prytanis led Ghurran into the cellar by a firm grip on a bony arm. The slit-nosed Nemedian appeared to have sobered to a degree, whether from his exercise in fetching Ghurran or from Hordo’s threats.

  A leather strap crossed the stooped herbalist’s heaving chest, supporting a small wooden case at his side. Freeing his arm with a jerk, he scowled about the room, at the swaying drankards and the still-snoring Iranistani and the cloak-shrouded mound that was the Vendhyan. “For this I was dragged through the streets like a goat going to market?” he grated breathlessly. “To treat men fool enough to drink tainted wine?”

  “Tainted wine on a blade,” Conan managed. He leaned forward and his head spun. “Once already today you helped me. Can you do it again, Ghurran?”

  The old man brushed past Hordo and knelt to peer into the Cimmerian’s eyes. “There may be time,” he murmured, then in a firmer voice said, “You have the poisoned blade? Let me see it.”

  It was Hasan who lifted the cloak enough to tug the push-dagger from the corpse’s chest. He wiped the leaf-shaped blade on the cloak before handing it to Ghurran.

  The herbalist turned the small weapon over in scrawny fingers. A smooth ivory knob formed the hilt, carved to fit the palm while the blade projected between the fingers. “An assassin’s weapon in Vendhya,” he said. “Or so I have heard such described.”

  Conan kept his eyes on the old man’s parchment-skinned face. “Well?” was all he said.

  Instead of answering, Ghurran held the blade to his nostrils and sniffed lightly. Frowning, he wet a long-nailed finger at his mouth and touched it to the blade. With even greater caution than he had shown before, he brought the finger to his lips. Quickly he spat, scrubbing the finger on his robes.

  “Do something!” Hordo demanded.

  “Poisons are something I seldom deal with,” Ghurran said calmly. He opened the wooden box hanging at his side and began to take out small parchment packets and stone vials. “But perhaps I can do something.” A bronze mortar and pestle, no larger than a man’s hand, came from the box. “Get me a goblet of wine, and quickly.”

  Hordo motioned to Prytanis, who hurried out. The herbalist set to work, dropping dried leaves and bits of powder into the mortar, grinding them together with the pestle. Prytanis returned with a rough clay goblet filled to the top with cheap wine. Ghurran took it and poured in the mixture from the mortar, stirring it vigorously with his finger.

  “Here,” the old man said, holding the wine to Conan’s mouth. “Drink.”

  Conan looked at the offering. A few pieces of leaf floated on the wine’s surface along with the sprinkling of varicolored powders. “This will rid me of the poison?”

  Ghurran looked at him levelly. “In the time it would take you to reach the docks and return, you will either be able to walk from this room, or you will be dead.” The listening smugglers stirred.

  “If he dies—” Hordo began threateningly, but Conan cut him off.

  “If I die, it will not be Ghurran’s fault, will it, Ghurran?”

  “Drink,” the old man said, “or it will be your own fault.”

  Conan drank. With the first mouthful a grimace twisted his face, becoming worse with every swallow. As the goblet was taken from his mouth, he gasped. “Crom! It tastes as if a camel bathed in it!” A few of the listeners, those sober enough, laughed.

  Ghurran grunted. “Do you want sweetness on the tongue, or the poison counteracted?” His eye fell on the opened chest. Face made even more hollow by a frown, he took some of the leaves, stirring them on his palm with a bony finger.

  “Do you know the leaf?” Conan asked. He was not sure if his breathing was easier, or if he just imagined it so. “The man who did this told us they were spices.”

  “Spices?” Ghurran said absently. “No, I do not think they are spices. But then,” he added, letting the leaves fall back into the chest, “I do not know all plants. I would like to look in the other chests. If there are herbs unknown to me in those also, perhaps I will take some of them in payment.”

  “Look all you want,” Hordo said eagerly. “Prytanis, help him open the chests.” The Nemedian and the herbalist moved toward the stacked chests, and Hordo dropped his voice to a whisper ranged for Conan’s ears. “If he will take herbs rather than a hundred gold pieces, then well enough, I say.”

  Conan drew a breath; they were coming easier. “Help me to my feet, Hordo,” he urged. “He said I would walk or die, and by Mitra’s bones, I intend to walk.”

  The two of them exchanged a long look; then the one-eyed man reached down. Conan pulled himself up, putting a hand against the wall to steady himself. Leaning against a wall would not do, though. He took a tottering
step. His bones felt ready to bend, but he forced himself to move the other foot forward.

  “It is too late for that one,” Prytanis’ voice came loudly from where he stood beside the chests, dagger in hand. Three already had their lids pried open. “I found some more of those leaves.”

  Ghurran let the cloak fall back over the corpse’s face. “I was curious as to the sort of man who uses a poisoned blade. But I suppose new herbs are more important than dead men. More of the leaves, you say?”

  Conan made another step, and another. The weakness was still on him, but he felt firmer in some fashion, less like a figure made of reeds.

  Hordo followed him, looking like an anxious bear. “Are you all right, Cimmerian?”

  “Right enough,” Conan told him, then laughed. “But moments ago I would have settled for living long enough to know the way of all this. Now I begin to think I may live a bit longer than that after all.”

  “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 be 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 grinned 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 slit-nosed 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 heav
e 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 wine. 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.