“Guards!” Samarides screamed. “To me! Guards!”
Muscles corded and knotted in calves and thighs, back, shoulders and arms, as Conan strained against the huge wooden bar. By the thickness of a fingernail it lifted. Sweat popped out on his forehead. The thickness of a finger. The width of a hand. And then the massive bar was clear of the support irons.
Three slow, staggering steps backwards Conan took, until he could turn and heave the bar aside. Mosaic tiles shattered as it landed with a crash that shook the floor.
“Guards!” Samarides shrieked, and pounding feet answered him.
Conan dashed to the thick, iron-studded doors and heaved one open to crash against a wall. As he darted through, another quarrel slashed past his head to gouge a furrow in the marble of Samarides’ portico. Tumult rose behind him as guards rushed into the entry hall, shouting to Samarides for instructions, and Samarides screamed incoherently back at them. Conan did not look back. He ran. Mind filled with anger at a young woman thief with a too-witty tongue, he ran until the night of Shadizar swallowed him.
II
That quarter of Shadizar called the Desert was a warren of crooked streets reeking of offal and despair. The debaucheries that took place behind closed doors in the rest of the city were performed openly in the Desert, and made to pay a profit. Its denizens, more often in rags than not, lived as if death could come with the next breath, as it quite often did. Men and women were scavengers, predators or prey, and some who thought themselves in one class discovered, frequently too late, that they were in another.
The tavern of Abuletes was one of the Desert’s best, as such was accounted there. Few footpads and fewer cutpurses were numbered among its patrons. Graverobbers were unwelcome, though more for the smells that hung about them than for how they earned their coin. For the rest, all who had the price of a drink were welcome.
When Conan slapped open the tavern door, the effluvia of the street fought momentarily with the smell of half-burned meat and sour wine in the big common room where two musicians playing zithers for a naked dancing girl competed unsuccessfully with the babble of the tavern’s custom. A mustachioed Nemedian coiner at the bar fondled a giggling doxy in a tall, red-dyed wig and strips of green silk that did little to cover her generously rounded breasts and buttocks. A plump Ophirean procurer, jeweled rings glittering on his fingers, held court at a corner table; among those laughing at his jokes—so long as his gold held out, at least—were three kidnappers, swarthy, narrow-faced Iranistanis, hoping he would throw a little business their way. A pair of doxies, dark-eyed twins, hawked their wares among the tables, their girdles of coins clinking as their hips swayed in unison.
Before the Cimmerian had taken a full step, a voluptuous, olive-skinned woman threw her arms around his neck. Gilded brass breastplates barely contained her heavy breasts, and a narrow girdle of gilded chain, set low on her well-rounded hips, supported a length of diaphanous blue silk, no more than a handspan in width, that hung to her braceleted ankles before and behind.
“Ah, Conan,” she murmured throatily, “what a pity you did not return earlier.”
“Have some wine with me, Semiramis,” he replied, eying her swelling chest, “and tell me why I should have come back sooner. Then we can go upstairs—” He cut off with a frown as she shook her head.
“I ply my trade this night, Cimmerian.” At his frown, she sighed. “Even I must have a little silver to live.”
“I have silver,” he growled.
“And I cannot take coin from you. I will not.”
He muttered an oath under his breath. “You always say that. Why not? I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re not a woman.” She laughed softly and traced a finger along his jaw. “A thing for which I am continually grateful.”
Conan’s face tightened. First Lyana had made a fool of him this night, and now Semiramis attempted the same. “Women never say their minds straight out. Very well. If you’ve no use for me tonight, then I’m done with you as well.” He left her standing with her fists on her hips and her mouth twisted in exasperation.
At the bar he dug into his purse and tossed coppers onto the cracked wooden surface. As he had known it would, the sound of coins penetrated the wall of noise in the room and drew Abuletes, wiping his fat fingers on the filthy apron he wore over a faded yellow tunic. The tavernkeeper made the coins disappear with a deft motion.
“I want wine for that,” Conan said. Abuletes nodded. “And some information.”
“ ’Tis enough for the wine,” the tavernkeeper replied drily. He set a wooden tankard, from which rose the sour smell of cheap wine, before the big youth. “Information costs more.”
Conan rubbed his thumb over a gouge in the edge of the bar, made by a sword stroke, drawing the fat man’s piggish eyes to the mark. “There were six of them, as I recall,” he said absently. “One with his knife pricking your ribs, and ready to probe your guts if you opened your mouth without his leave. What was it they intended? Taking you into the kitchen, wasn’t it? Didn’t one of them speak of putting your feet in the cookfire till you told where your gold is cached?”
“I have no gold,” Abuletes muttered unconvincingly. He could spot a clipped coin at ten paces, and was reliably rumored to have the first copper he had ever stolen buried somewhere in the tavern.
“Of course not,” Conan agreed smoothly. “Still, it was Hannuman’s own luck for you I saw what was happening, when none else did. ’Twould have been … uncomfortable for you, with your feet in the coals and naught to tell them.”
“Aye, you saw.” The fat man’s tone was as sour as his wine. “And laid about you with that accursed sword, splintering half my tables. Do you know what they cost to replace? The doxies were hysterical for all the blood you splattered around, and half my night’s custom disappeared for fear you’d cut them down as well.”
Conan laughed and drank deeply from the tankard, saying no more. Never a night passed without blood shed on the sawdust-strewn floor, and it was no rare sight to see a corpse being dragged out back for disposal in an alley.
Abuletes’ face twisted, and his chin sank until his chins doubled in number. “This makes it clear between us. Right?”
The Cimerian nodded, but cautioned, “If you tell me what I want to hear. I look for a woman.” Abuletes snorted and gestured to the doxies scattered through the common room. Conan went on patiently. “She’s a thief, about so tall,” he marked with one big hand at the height of his chest, “and well rounded for her size. Tonight she wore black leggings and a short tunic, both as tight as her skin. And she carried this.” He laid the thowing knife on the bar. “She calls herself Lyana.”
Abuletes prodded the black blade with a grimy-knuckled finger. “I know of no woman thief, called Lyana or aught else. There was a man, though, who used knives like this. Jamal, he was named.”
“A woman, Abuletes.”
The fat tapster shrugged. “He had a daughter. What was her name? Let me see.” He rubbed at a suety cheek. “Jamal was shortened a head by the City Guard, it must be ten years back. His brothers took the girl in. Gayan and Hafid. They were thieves, too. Haven’t heard of them in years, though. Too old for the life now, I suppose. Age gets us all, in the end. Tamira. That was her name. Tamira.”
The muscular youth stared expressionless at Abuletes until the fat tavernkeeper fell silent. “I ask about a girl called Lyana, and you spin me a tale of this Tamira. And her entire Mitra-accursed family. Would you care to tell me about her mother? Her grandfather? I’ve a mind to put your feet in the fire myself.”
Abuletes eyed Conan warily. The man with the strange blue eyes was known in the Desert for his sudden temper, and for his unpredictability. The tavernkeeper spread his hands. “How hard is it to give a name not your own? And didn’t I say? Jamal and his brothers wore the black garments you spoke of. Claimed it made them all but invisible in the dark. Had all sorts of tricks, they did. Ropes of raw silk dyed black, and I don’t kn
ow what all. No, Tamira’s your female thief, all right, whatever she calls herself now.”
Black ropes, Conan thought, and suppressed a smile. Despite his youth he had had enough years as a thief to learn discretion. “Perhaps,” was all he said.
“Perhaps,” the tapster grumbled. “You mark me on it. She’s the one. This makes us even, Cimmerian.”
Conan finished his wine in three long gulps and set the empty tankard down with a click. “If she is the woman I seek. The question now is where to find her and make certain.”
Abuletes threw up his pudgy hands. “Do you think I keep track of every woman in the Desert? I can’t even keep track of the trulls in my own tavern!”
Conan turned his back on the tavernkeeper’s grinding teeth. Tamira and Lyana, he was sure, were one and the same woman. Luck must be with him, for he had expected days of asking to find a trace of her. Denizens of the Desert left as few tracks as the animals of that district’s namesake. Surely discovering so much so quickly was an omen. No doubt he would leave the tavern in the morning and find her walking past in the street. Then they would see who would make a fool of whom.
At that moment his eye fell on Semiramis, seated at a table with three Kothian smugglers. One, with his mustache curled like horns and big gilded hoops in his ears, kneaded her bare thigh as he spoke to her urgently. Nodding in sudden decision, Conan strode to the table where the four sat.
The Kothians looked up, and Semiramis frowned. “Conan,” she began, reaching toward him cautioningly.
The big Cimmerian grasped her wrist, bent and, before anyone could move, hoisted her over his shoulder. Stools crashed over as the Kothians leaped to their feet, hands going to sword hilts.
“You northland oaf!” Semiramis howled, wriggling furiously. Her fist pounded futilely at his back. “Unhand me, you misbegotten spawn of a camel! Mitra blast your eyes, Conan!”
Her tirade went on, getting more inventive, and Conan paused to listen admiringly. The Kothians hesitated with swords half drawn, disconcerted at being ignored. After a moment Conan turned his attention to them, putting a pleasant smile on his face. That seemed to unsettle the three even more.
“My sister,” he said mildly. “She and I must speak of family matters.”
“Erlik flay your hide and stake your carcass in the sun!” the struggling woman yelled. “Derketo shrivel your stones!”
Calmly Conan met each man’s gaze in turn, and each man shivered, for his smile did not extend to those glacial blue orbs. The Kothians measured the breadth of his shoulders, calculated how encumbered he would be by the woman, and tossed the dice in the privacy of their minds.
“I wouldn’t interfere between brother and sister,” the one with hoops in his ears muttered, his eyes sliding away. Suddenly all three were engrossed in setting their stools upright.
Semiramis’ shouts redoubled in fury as Conan started for the rickety stairs that led to the second floor. He smacked a rounded buttock with his open palm. “Your sweet poetry leads me to believe you love me,” he said, “but your dulcet tones would deafen an ox. Be quiet.”
Her body quivered. It took him a moment to realize she was laughing. “Will you at least let me walk, you untutored beast?” she asked.
“No,” he replied with a grin.
“Barbarian!” she murmured, and snuggled her cheek against his back.
Laughing, he took the stairs two at a time. Luck was indeed with him.
III
The Katara Bazaar was a kaleidoscope of colors and a cacophony of voices, a large, flagstone-paved square near the Desert where sleek lordlings, perfumed pomanders at their nostrils, rubbed shoulders with unwashed apprentices who apologized with mocking grins when they jostled the well-born. Silk-clad ladies, trailed by attentive slaves to carry their purchases, browsed unmindful of the ragged urchins scurrying about their feet. Some vendors displayed their goods on flimsy tables sheltered by faded lengths of cloth on poles. Others had no more than a blanket spread beneath the hot sun. Hawkers of plums and ribbons, oranges and pins, cried their wares shrilly as they strolled through the throng. Rainbow bolts of cloth, carved ivories from Vendhya, brass bowls from Shadizar’s own metalworkers, lustrous pearls from the Western Sea and paste “gems” guaranteed to be genuine, all changed hands in the space of a heartbeat. Some were stolen, some smuggled. A rare few had even had the King’s tax paid on them.
On the morning after his attempt at Samarides’ goblet—the thought made him wince—Conan made his way around the perimeter of the bazaar, searching without seeming to among the beggars. Mendicants were not allowed within the confines of the great square, but they lined its edges, their thin, supplicating cries entreating passerby for a coin. There was a space between each ragged man and the next, and unlike beggars elsewhere in Shadizar these cooperated to the extent of maintaining that distance. Too many too close together would reduce each man’s take.
Exchanging a copper with a fruitmonger for two oranges, the big Cimmerian squatted near a beggar in filthy rags, a man with one leg twisted grotesquely at the knee. A grimy strip of cloth covered his eyes, and a wooden bowl with a single copper in the bottom sat on the flagstones before him.
“Pity the blind,” the beggar whined loudly. “A coin for the blind, gentle people. Pity the blind.”
Conan tossed one orange into the bowl and began stripping the peel from the other. “Ever think of going back to being a thief, Peor?” he said quietly.
The “blind” man turned his head sightly to make sure no one else was close by and said, “Never, Cimmerian.” His cheerful voice was pitched to reach Conan’s ear and no further. He made the orange disappear beneath his tunic of patches. “For later. No, I pay my tithe to the City Guard, and I sleep easy at night knowing my head will never go up on a pike over the West Gate. You should consider becoming a beggar. ’Tis a solid trade. Not like thieving. Mitra-accursed mountain slime!”
Conan paused with a segment of orange half-lifted to his mouth. “What?”
Barely moving his head, Peor motioned to a knot of six Kezankian hillmen, turbanned and bearded, their dark eyes wide with ill-concealed amazement at the city around them. They wandered through the bazaar in a daze, fingering goods but never buying. From the scowls that followed them, the peddlers were glad to see their backs, sale or no. “That’s the third lot of those filthy jackals I’ve seen today, and a good two turns of the glass till the sun is high. They should be running for the rocks they crawled out from under, what with the news that’s about this morning.”
The beggar got little chance between sunrise and sunset to say anything beyond his pleading cry, and the occasional fawning thanks. It could not hurt to let him talk, Conan thought, and said, “What news?”
Peor snorted. “If it was about a new method of winning at dice, Cimmerian, you’d have known of it yesterday. Do you think of anything but women and gambling?”
“The news, Peor?”
“They say someone is uniting the Kezankian tribes. They say the hillmen are sharpening their tulwars. They say it could mean war. If ’tis so, the Desert will feel the first blow, as always.”
Conan tossed the last of the orange aside and wiped his hands on his thighs. “The Kezankians are far distant, Peor.” His grin revealed strong white teeth. “Or do you think the tribesmen will leave their mountains to sack the Desert? It is not the place I would chose, were I they, but you are older than I and no doubt know better.”
“Laugh, Cimmerian,” Peor said bitterly. “But when war is announced the mob will hunt for hillman throats to slit, and when they cannot find enough to sate their bloodlust, they’ll turn their attentions to the Desert. And the army will be there—’to preserve order.’ Which means to put to the sword any poor sod from the Desert who thinks of actually resisting the mob. It has happened before, and will again.”
A shadow fell across them, cast by a woman whose soft robes of emerald silk clung to the curves of breasts and belly and thighs like a caress. A belt woven
of golden cords was about her waist. Ropes of pearls encircled her wrists and neck, and two more, as large as a man’s thumbnail, were at her ears. Behind her a tall Shemite, the iron collar of a slave on his neck and a bored expression on his face, stood laden with packages from the Bazaar. She dropped a silver coin in Peor’s bowl, but her sultry gaze was all for Conan.
The muscular youth enjoyed the looks women gave him, as a normal matter, but this one examined him as if he were a horse in the auction barns. And to make matters worse a scowl grew on the Shemite’s face as though he recognized a rival. Conan’s face grew hot with anger. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first.
“My husband would never approve the purchase,” she smiled, and walked away with undulating hips. The Shemite hurried after her, casting a self-satisfied glance over his shoulder at Conan as he went.
Peor’s bony fingers fished the coin from the bowl. With a cackle that showed he had regained at least some of his humor, he tucked it into his pouch. “And she’d pay a hundred times so much for a single night with you, Cimmerian. Two hundred. A more pleasant way to earn your coin than scrambling over rooftops, eh?”
“Would you like that leg broken in truth?” Conan growled.
The beggar’s cackles grew until they took him into a fit of coughing. When he could breathe normally again, he wiped the back of his hand across his thin-lipped mouth. “No doubt I would earn even more in my bowl. My knee hurts of a night for leaving it so all day, but that fall was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Conan shivered at the thought, but pressed on while the other held his good mood. “I did not come today just to give you an orange, Peor. I look for a woman called Lyana, or perhaps Tamira.”
Peor nodded as the Cimmerian described the girl and gave a carefully edited account of their meeting, then said, “Tamira. I’ve heard that name, and seen the girl. She looks as you say.”
Conan Chronicles 2 Page 3
