The Conan Chronology, page 28
'See to your employer,' Conan said, without taking his eyes off his chosen foe.
'Ha!' the thief, a Kothian sure, struck at Conan, who sidestepped and watched the sword rush past. He watched the backstroke, too. It was awkward; the fellow had so little knowledge of combat that he began the necessary twisting of his wrist far too late. A fair enough thief, perhaps, Conan mused; but the fellow was a complete failure as a swordsman.
'You'd better run off,' the astonished Kothian was told.
'Here, that's my business,' the guard said. 'I'm paid to -'
'Tonight Conan snarled, staring at the thief but answering the guard, 'you were paid to die by an employer too
mean or too stupid to hire adequate protection for this part of town by day, much less at night! You were a dead man, Shemite; think on that! See to your heartless employer now, lest she cut herself on one of her precious damned jewels — hunh!'
The final grunt was occasioned by the remaining thief attempt to take off Conan's head with a magnificent sweep of his sword. That all-out beheading stroke made the Kothian's blade a speeding horizontal stripe of silver.
Both Conan's knees bent to drop him straight down into a squat below the mighty cut. He heard the wind-noise of the rushing blade, too close above his head. And then Conan showed the Kothian thief why such a mighty cut was unwise, too great a risk: straightening, the Cimmerian faced him and, before the now desperately begun backstroke was fair under way, struck the man straight through the middle.
The backstroke was never completed. The Kothian's arm twitched and wavered; his eyes went huge while he sucked in an audible sobbing gasp. Backing mechanically off the cold sliver of steel that had opened his stomach and belly and those organs it found within, he thumped against a mud-brick wall. It alone supported him. Glowering, his chest heaving, Conan waited.
The man's arm dropped. Slowly the swordhilt eased from the grip of fingers going helpless. Just as slowly, the Kothian thief of Shadizar slid down the wall. His head hung bowed while lifeless eyes stared at what came out of him, in shining bloody coils.
Conan paced over to his first foeman.
'Hurt?' the Cimmerian asked. 'It will never heal, but you needn't die slowly, in stench and pain.' He slew that man then, and wiped his sword with care on the hem of the corpse's tunic.
'Name of Ishtar,' the guard said in a low voice. 'You're a bloody one!'
Conan stared at a tall man, young and not unhandsome, in yellow-plumed helmet and a fine coat of Kothian mail, though he was no Kothian.
'It's called mercy,' Conan said quietly, and sucked in a great breath to still his voice's slight quiver of excitement;
Adrenaline still flooded his system. 'Is there no mercy in Shem? Would you leave a man to die slowly of so awful, a wound, with his guts starting to stink with green rot and him screaming in agony and smelling his own death?;
It was then that a ring-bedizened hand swept aside the litter's curtain from within, and the hand's owner thrust out her head to spew her vomit on the street. Conan stepped back two paces, mindful of the splash.
II
Employment for a Thief
Shaking his head, Conan glanced around. No one was astir on the streets of Khauran or Erlik Enthroned. Those within the buildings lining both avenues had heard the sounds of combat, and not only remained inside but had probably extinguished whatever glims they had lit. Naturally anyone who'd been approaching was now heading precipitately in the other direction.
Again he looked down at the woman who hung out of the grounded litter. Now she dry heaved over the noisome pool that had been her dinner. Her appearance was most unusual indeed, even to Conan. He knew he'd never been in her homeland, or seen another from there either.
Her black hair was so high-piled that he realised its glossy sheaves must be wrapped about a cone of some sort, perched atop her skull. Pearls were woven into the sheaves, and the star-like gleam of gems against hair black as the night sky meant they formed the heads of long pins. A carcanet of gold wire, cloth-of-gold, and what appeared to be a million pearls surrounded her neck and covered her upper chest. Its bi-oblate lower curves were carelessly trapped in a bandeau of white silk that revealed the flesh tints within. Her great heavy girdle was also jewelled, and supported a long and voluminous skirt of pale yellow, shockingly side-slit. The leg that emerged from the little chamber formed by framework, roof and curtains atop the litter poles was handsome, and narrowed into a small foot shod in a gilded sandal. Its lifted heel clacked when she set it down. Gold wire pierced each of her earlobes to dribble two strands of four large pearls. The lobes were elongated from years of bearing such gemmy weights, and the face that looked wanly up at Conan was that of a woman of perhaps two-score years. It was a handsome face, rather than pretty, with fine cheekbones and startling eyes under long black lashes stiff with lacquer.
Both her arms were half-covered with jewels.
'The bearer fled,' Conan blandly informed her, 'and the other is dead. No wonder; you came down here looking what looks like crown jewels, and guarded by only one man.'
She gazed up at him from beneath those long stiff lashes. They glistened.
'Why . . . you're very young, aren't you?'
Conan stared whimsically at her. 'That is what you have to say to me.' He gave his head a jerk and looked at her bodyguard;
'Who are you?' that man asked.
'And that is what you have to say. You both live because I ignored a warning to avoid this area, and you can say only that I am young and unknown to you.'
A movement caught his peripheral attention; he looked upside and down to see a hand extended up to him, a hand bearing four rings, though thumb and forefinger were bare. The nails were scarlet. Conan deliberately took his time sheathing his sword. Just when the extended hand started to waver, he took it and drew its owner up from her litter. Her Shemite guard was nigh as tall as Conan; even in her noisy heels, the woman was short. Perhaps all her people were, and thus the elaborate high coiffures.
'I am the Lady Khashtris, of Khauran. This is my personal guard, Shubal. And we are indeed very grateful to you. Tug my rings, and they will come off.'
'I am Conan, a Cimmerian. And I'll not strip your rings, Lady Khashtris.'
She released his hand and used her other to strip the light of three of its four rings. She held them out in her list; after a moment's hesitation, Conan accepted them as the price of her life.
'They are only baubles,' she said. 'You have saved my life, Conan, Cimmerian. Both our lives.'
He opened his big fist to inspect its flashing, faceted contents. 'You mean these are not gold and silver set with a topaz, and a moonstone, and a ruby?'
'Oh yes, Conan, they are that. And now they are only tokens of gratitude. We came up from Khauran to purchase cosmetics and other goods from eastern lands. Though nm of my guards lay ill, I was foolish enough to want to traverse this particular street - Khauran Way - ere we head for home on the morrow. Another guard fled when the attack began. You did not see him, I suppose. I am not it heartless and greedy, you see. And Shubal is easily one of the two bravest men in Shadizar; he stood against four which obviously meant his death. It would be my good fortune now if you were to be seeking employment, Conan the Cimmerian, at say twenty coins of the best silver for the next month, for then I should have both the bravest met in Shadizar to protect me from the lawless ruffians of the wicked city, of a land foreign to me and hardly so gently as Khauran.'
A bit long of wind and hyperbole, Conan thought - even while being charmed by Khashtris's pretty speech. In addition, she seemed sincere. It was only that she tended to speak at such length, he supposed. Khauran might be land a man might swiftly tire of. Within a month, perhaps . . . That she had cited his calling her heartless was nothing he saw as cause for embarrassment or concern. If she showed anger, he'd consider apology. She did not, and he did not. 'You are talking about employing us both,' he said, noting the dark look given him by Shubal of Shem. 'Of course.'
'And Shubal, who has seen me rewarded, of course ha a reward coming also, as the bravest man in Shadizar.'
The Lady Khashtris of Khauran nodded. 'Of course. You are forward in all things, aren't you, Conan of ... is it Cimmeria? Is that a city?'
'A country,' Conan told her with studied aplomb, 'north of Aquilonia . . . and the Border Kingdom. It is no more than twice Zamora's size,' he added, exaggerating. 'Is Khauran a city?'
The Shemite turned his face away lest his employer see his smile. In truth Cimmeria, Zamora and Khauran could have been stuffed into sprawling Shem, with room to spare for Khoraja and perhaps more territory as well.
'A country,' milady Khashtris said equably, 'about half the size of Zamora - and I am sorry not to know your land, Conan. But why not see for yourself, and enlighten me as well. We leave for Khauran on the morrow. Will you join me?'
'I suppose I could get my affairs in order by ... noon,' the man said, just as coolly. 'I have a pair of horses . . . but my chaincoat is being repaired.'
Khashtris of Khauran looked at him from beneath arched brows and lacquered lashes. 'We too have horses . . . and no bearers.'
You do not ride, Lady?'
I do not.' She looked at the litter, and back at her saviour, who noted she had not lowered her eyes to sweep the bodies around them. 'As for tonight . . .'
'Guardsmen to a noble lady,' Conan advised, 'do not often use carry litters. If you will walk, though, I shall carry the chair.' Stepping past his employer and ignoring her sound of surprise, he lifted her empty conveyance with ease, and soon had it adjusted on one shoulder. 'Shubal: well met. No bad blood exists between Shem and Cimmeria, or Cimmeria and Khauran.'
'Nor between us, Conan,' the tall Shemite said, for his dark looks had vanished with Conan's affirming their co-employment and pushing Khashtris to promise a reward.
'Milady,' Conan said, bending forward just a little and lilting rightward away from his load, 'well met. Do we go now to your inn?'
'Shubal,' she said, and then, 'No, wait; do you follow with me betwixt you. I shall guide Conan. Will you join us, Conan?'
'I have my own accommodations,' he said, realising that he was surely in for considerable walking. While the Foaming Jack was but a few streets away, the noblewoman must be staying in the Upper City, in far finer surroundings.
They set off up the Street of Erlik Enthroned. Mailed, helmeted Shemite bodyguard; huge, bronzed, black-maned Cimmerian thief carrying a side-turned sedan chair; and between them the short, heavily bejewelled woman with heels that clack-clacked loudly at every step and elaborate coiffure that stood nearly a foot above her head.
When they reached better lighted areas they found others abroad. Most stared. None, however, challenged or interfered with the strange trio. And Conan was right; the inn
at the sign of the Thirsty Lion was indeed far uptown and he had a long walk back. He spent the rest of tin evening squandering the topaz ring on a woman of Shadiz with more paint and cheap jewellery than clothing or culture. Still, she was beyond girlhood, and Conan learned much from her. As she was charmed by his youth and massiveness - as well as the ring of real gold set with real gem - the exchange was more than equal. Ring or not, bruises or no, both considered it a night well spent.
Next day Conan, who had no mailcoat at all, parted with Khashtris's ruby-set ring. Armour was not cheap. In addition to the peaked Turanian helmet, hug white cloak and a crotch-protector of woven chain over leather over cloth, he was able to purchase only a sleeveless mail-vest of no great length. Happy with the ring, the merchant made a to-do of adding a padded coat to be won under the thirty pounds of linked chain.
Conan advised the pleased merchant that he also required two bearers for the litter of a smallish noblewoman; he d not name her nationality or their destination. The man swiftly procured two Ophirean brothers down on their luck. Conan spent a few minutes carefully questioning them and several more assuring each that lack of loyalty would result! in their employer's having the unpleasant chore of wiping! a lot of blood off his blades.
The mailcoat was new arid the helmet had doubtless once, adorned the head of a bluish-bearded man now dead. Conan liked them well enough. There was something manly in their weight and sheen.
He cut quite the figure and knew it, riding so tall in his mail through Shadizar. He bestrode one horse while leading another, apparently accompanied by two retainers from the meadowlands of a nation whose knights oft wore gilded armour. These wore sleeveless shirts of saffron and of blue, breechclouts, long daggers, strapped sandals, and a good deal of hair.
Conan's chin tilted and his eyes automatically narrowed to appraise upper-storey windows. Stupid, he reminded himself. He was no longer a thief. He had a patron whose moonstone ring he wore on his left little finger; he was employed as guard to a noble lady. And what might he have done with himself otherwise? Broken into the soiled temple of Erlik Enthroned, where white kittens were used red in sacrifice to the yellow-eyed god of death? The edge of Conan's mouth twitched, though he did not smile.
Erlik.
His right hand rose to toy with the leathern cord about his neck. The amulet it supported, under tunic and haqueton and mail-vest, was nothing: a diamond-shape of moulded or glazed pottery set with a bit of glass; a barbarian's amulet that any would assume furthered some northern superstition. Anyone could see that it was a nothing, worthies.
Conan's mouth set grimly. Aye, a nothing . . . for which several had died including a mighty wizard, and which was Bought after by the rulers of several countries. The Cimmerian had cleverly disguised the valuable Zamboulan amulet called the Eye of Erlik. So it would remain, embedded in hardened clay, until he decided what to do with it, this thing he had of a sorcerer of Zamboula who was more lately of Arenjun . . . and still more lately deceased, with Conan's aid.
The Eye of Erlik, he mused. Well, just now it was of no importance to him or his needs. He had a far more serious need. It involved his very soul. His hand moved behind him, to touch the carefully-wrapped packet behind his saddle; apparently a leather-wrapped cushion in the Iranistani style. No cushion, surely, had ever been of such importance to any individual.
Thus reflected the Cimmerian while riding through Shadizar to the Thirsty Lion, accompanied by the two he had hired on behalf of his new employer. With both one guard and one bearer having run off last night, Lady Khashtris was of no great competence at choosing men, he thought -without taking into consideration her employment of him.
At the inn, he found Khashtris disappointingly swathed in travelling robes of white and yellow. She and Shubal were ready to depart-with two new bearers they had contracted with. Both men were of Shadizar, though a parent of one had certainly come here by way of Stygia.
'Good,' Conan said. We will need four bearers, to spell each other. Let us hope they can fight too, if need be.'
Arid that was that. He was outsized, and forceful, and not ill-favoured; the Lady Khashtris was wealthy and inclined to accept his word, even considering his youth. He had after all saved her life, and was beautiful in helmet and that arm-baring jerkin of linked chain.
Conan asked, 'And the guard who fled last night?'
'Not a sign of the white-livered dog,' Shubal said.
'Hmp! I'd not expected him to be here, to try to hire on again,' Conan said and he and the Shemite exchanged a look and a tiny smile: two men of weapons who had downed four, they would inspect the hue of the coward's liver if ever they laid eyes on him.
Milady's other guard remained ill. He must remain here and travel home alone when he could. Khashtris had to be back, for her cousin awaited some of the goods she'd purchased. Conan nodded, noting her four well-laden sumpter beasts. He appraised Shubal's horse, a handsome bay that would surely have been welcomed as mount by a knight of Aquilonia. The Cimmerian magnanimously announced that the off-duty bearers could take turns riding his sumpter-horse.
'Would be so much easier if women rode horses,' he said, while he and Shubal assisted Khashtris into her chair with its curtains of yellow, broidered with a red-fruited tree in green.
'A noble of Khauran does not bestride a horse,' she said, with a natural austerity that was not sententious or insulting. She drew in a bare leg.
'Not even the men, Lady?'
'Only to battle,' she assured him.
Conan nodded. 'Lady . . . might one ask if the Noble Khashtris knows the King of Khauran?'
She sighed and her face took on an expression of pensive sadness. 'Khauran of the Unhappy Queens has no king,' she said. 'The queen is daughter of my mother's sister.'
Elation leapt up in Conan like a cool spring. Cousin to a queen! And the horrid theft perpetrated on him by Hisarr Zul could be righted only by one who wore a crown. Aye, so had said the mage; a crowned person, he had said, not even man! Conan stared into her eyes and spoke earnestly.
'Lady Khashtris, there is that which only your cousin can help me. For her it is nothing; for me, everything. Aid mi in that and I will return your ring and serve you half a year without wage.' And he held out her moonstone-set made of graven silver.
She could not miss the intensity of his gaze or tone.
'Why, Conan . . . there is no need of such rash promises. I live today because of your bravery and sword-skill of last night. I will see that you meet my royal cousin, and I will intercede for you. You will tell me what it is that only she
in do; queen of a land you heard of only yesterday?'
'Noble Lady, I will!'
And he caught up her hand to press the ring on her. Dropping back then, Conan saluted the surprised woman with the loyalty sign he had offered no one since that day now two years ago when, just before the attack on the invaders in Venarium, he had been proclaimed warrior.
lie had far more reason than a few pieces of gold to protect the life of this woman; she represented the return of Ins soul!
