The Conan Chronology, page 416
Abruptly, Conan dropped her and she landed with a thump upon the cushions. 'I think …' he mumbled, swaying back and forth as if his ankles were poorly designed hinges. 'I think …' Slowly, majestically, like a great tree falling, the Cimmerian toppled over and landed on his face, not putting forth his bands to slow his fall. With a cry, Omia scrambled away from his trajectory, but not swiftly enough to prevent her feet from being pinned beneath his great torso.
With a jerk, the woman got her feet free and stood. She then employed them in locking her fallen, would-be paramore. 'Wretch! Sot! Drunken brute!' Each epithet was punctuated by a sound kick to the ribs. She elicited but a few grunts from the collapsed warrior and discovered that she was accomplishing nothing but the bruising of her delicate feet.
Conan did not change expression during her frustrated tirade, thinking only that these people had grown truly degenerate in their antlike existence. Achilea would have smashed his ribs in half with one kick. In time, soreness of foot and shortness of wind caused her to desist. She clapped her hands and Conan heard someone enter the room. By the lightness of the tread, he guessed that it was one of the slave girls. Words were whispered and the slave left. While she was waiting, Omia assayed a kick to his head. It made his ear sting, but from her outcry, he knew that it hurt her foot far worse.
Heavier steps announced a newcomer of greater heft. 'This is the great warrior who slew the crocodile?' The voice belonged to Abbadas.
'He had the woman’s help,' she answered. 'This one is an animal, and a stupid one at that! What sort of man prefers wine to the body of a queen?' The scorn in her voice would have raised blisters on the back of a man more sensitive than Conan.
'After all. Omia,' Abbadas said, sounding vastly amused, 'it was not for their great culture and polish that we wanted them. I am sure that I will waste neither time nor wine trying to get the big woman into a receptive frame of mind.'
'Of that I had no doubt. I had thought this one more intelligent, at first.'
'I had not thought you brought him here for conversation.' The sneer was plain in his voice, 'How often do I find someone new to speak with?' she asked peevishly. She gave him a brief summation of their talk.
'You told him far more than necessary,' Abbadas chided. 'This snoring hulk did not need to know all that. Now I must keep even closer watch upon him.'
'Why?' she asked. 'We will have our way with him and then dispose of him. What little may have lodged in that thick skull will be of no use to him.'
'Still, I do not like it,' Abbadas said. 'Hopelessness of escape is the best shackle for binding a prisoner. Best he were not to harbour futile thoughts.'
'Away with him,' she ordered. 'He defiles my chambers. I shall try him again when he is sober.
Next time, I’ll not waste words upon him. Haul this vast carcass out of here.'
'As my queen commands,' Abbadas said insolently. 'Guards!'
Moments later, the chamber filled with footsteps and the Cimmerian was rebound. Then, amid much puffing and groaning, he was lifted and carried through the labyrinthine warren that was underground Janagar. A short time subsequent, he was dumped unceremoniously upon the floor of his cell and his wall chain reattached. Then the guards shuffled out. Unsure of the cell’s occupancy, Conan waited.
'Your friend provided us little entertainment this time,' Abbadas taunted. 'Best you be not so remiss, else you shall suffer for it. Be ready for my summons, woman. Soon.' The only reply was a spitting sound. Then he heard Abbadas leave the cell, and the further sound of his steps diminishing down the hallway without.
'Conan, have they slain you?' Achilea queried, her voice full of concern. 'Nay, I can see you breathing. But they must have tortured you sorely to render you senseless. Oh!' He heard her chains
rattle and felt the frustration in her voice.
'These will not let me reach you. Oh, Conan, I …' Her voice hesitated and trailed off. Then he heard the sound of sniffing. 'What is this?' Concern changed to anger as if by magic. 'Wine? You are drunk! You Cimmerian fool, did you get hauled away to a tavern instead of a torture chamber? Only you could accomplish such a thing!'
An edge of suspicion crept into her voice. 'That evil woman wants to breed, eh? So she plied you with wine to overcome scruples she fancied you to have? Well, she needn’t have bothered! Wake up, damn you! I want you to hear me cursing you!'
Abruptly he sat up and she jerked back.
'Actually. I am not even drunk. It does me good to know that you were worried about me.' He grinned insolently and her beautiful face flushed scarlet.
'You think I care about your miserable hide and its welfare?' she said lamely. 'I but need you to help get us out of here!'
'Aye, I’ll believe that'
'If you will,' she said, hissing, her eyes narrowed, 'then I will agree to believe you when you tell me what happened between you and the queen of the degenerates.'
Stretching out on his pallet and pillowing his head upon his interlaced fingers, Conan recited the tale of Janagar as he had heard it from Omia, This he interlarded with descriptions of the queen and her slaves and the furnishings of her chambers. With sidelong glances, he satisfied himself that Achilea was clenching her teeth each time he mentioned the queen’s beauty.
'And so you feigned drunkenness,' she said at last, 'and naught else passed between you? Not that it means anything to me.'
'Aye, it is true,' he said, amused.
'Very well then. Now we know that the river is truly here someplace and that by means of it, we can reach the outside world.'
'One other thing bothers me,' Conan said.
'What is that?'
'The crocodile. What did they do with it?'
The crocodile?' she said, exasperated. 'What care we, so long as it is dead?'
'Truly, it is the crocodile’s tail that plagues my thoughts,' he told her.
'Its tail? Did the queen put something in your wine that weakened what little wit you have? What care you about its tail?'
He went on, unperturbed. 'Skinned and properly cooked, crocodile tail makes fine eating. Crom’s bones, but I am weary of the food in this wretched place!'
XIII
Time did not weigh heavily upon them. When Conan awoke, he knew instantly that he had been asleep for little more than two hours. Even in this underworld where night and day did not exist, his time sense had not deserted him. A sound had disturbed his slumber, and he waited in utter stillness to hear it again. Nearby, Achilea lay on her side, breathing deeply and steadily, sound asleep. He doubted that her instincts were less sharp than his own. But she had never spent time in a dungeon before. Like most inexperienced persons, she probably assumed that thick walls, bars and chains meant that at the very least, she could sleep without danger.
Conan, with his broad experience of dungeons, jails, village lockups, ships’ brigs, slave-pits, coffles, chain gangs and other means of confinement, knew that all prisons were savage places, where men confined like animals under the care of brutal guards and whimsical wardens could turn on one another like starving rats in a cage. And a man was most vulnerable in his sleep. Conan could scarcely count the times he had awakened to find a fellow prisoner stabbed in his sleep with a makeshift dagger, strangled with his own chains, brained with a rock or pitched overboard for the sharks, and the murder always
committed by enemies within the prison. He had frequently awakened in such places to find disgruntled brothers of the chain thirsty for his own blood. Thus he knew to sleep even more lightly than usual when he wore shackles.
He heard the sound again. Someone was in the hall outside the cell. He knew by the trod of the steps that it was not one of the regular guards, nor was it Abbadas returning. His ears were sensitive to such subtleties. The tread was light, stealthy. Even before the figure appeared in the door of the cell, the Cimmerian was almost sure who it was.
He lay nearly as still as a corpse, his breathing as deep and steady as Achilea’s. He knew better than to try faking a snore. Such ruses were rarely convincing to an experienced trickster, and he knew this one to be a veteran. Through slitted eyes he saw me figure crouch and come into the cell on all fours. The flickering light of the smokeless torch outside gleamed momentarily upon something in its right hand: an object of bright metal.
The figure drew nearer, nearer yet, and then the Cimmerian’s brawny left arm shot out and powerful fingers snapped around a sinewy neck so swiftly that the movement would have been a mere blur in broad daylight. In the gloom of the cell, it was wholly invisible. A high-pitched squawk was cut off abruptly by the pressure of Conan’s thumb.
Achilea jolted to a sitting position amid a rattle of chains. 'Conan! What … who is that?' She blinked rapidly,
'Why, this is our old friend, Amram. As to why he is here, he is about to tell us. Of course, it may be that he would rather die than speak. He is about to make that choice!' Amram’s frantically flailing hands pantomimed a deep desire to speak. Conan relaxed his grip fractionally, allowing the man to drag a little air into his shocked lungs.
'My friends!' he squealed, the wind whistling through his constricted windpipe. 'I mean you no harm! I am here to offer you salvation!'
'Yon do this by creeping like a reptile?' Conan asked coldly. 'You do this by sneaking up to my side with a weapon in your fist?' His hand began to tighten again.
'No weapon! Look?' He held forth his right hand. Indeed, in its palm lay not a dagger, but a key shining in the uncanny light.
'Much better,' Conan growled 'But still not good enough. Why did you desert us in the sandstorm, you rogue? Where are the twins? What are you to these ant-people, and why did you lure us here with your lying story?'
'Please, my friend, these is no time!' Amram wailed.
'Oh, but a prisoner has little but time,' Conan said. 'I am eager to hear your story. Only now, I shall be alert for lies. The first lie I think I hear, I shall break your scrawny neck!'
'But, my Cimmerian companion,' Amram said, 'I had not thought you to be a man so fond of talk!'
'I care not what his story is,' Achilea said impatiently. 'Just loose us, little man!'
'I do not like this,' Conan said sullenly. 'What does this insect ever do except lead people into traps?'
Achilea glared at him in exasperation. 'Traps? We are chained in a dungeon, you dolt! What is he going to do to us that is worse?'
'You have not seen much of the world, woman,' he retorted, 'if you think this is the worst it has to offer.'
'My good friends,' Amram said soothingly, his voice obsequious, 'let us not bicker. I can see that you two have a certain difference of opinion, but this is not the time or the place to sort things out. Allow me to present you with your freedom, and you may discuss matters at greater length when you have the leisure.'
'Very well,' Conan said, 'but I am not deceiving myself.
In this place, being without chains does not mean freedom. We wore no chains in the pit when we fought the crocodile.'
'I think it will mean an improvement in our condition,' Achilea said, almost frantic with impatience.
'Unlock these bonds, Amram, before I go mad!'
'At once, my lady. Thai is, if my good friend the Cimmerian will be so good as to release me.'
'Conan!'
'Oh, very well.' With ill grace, he relaxed his grip, only to clamp his hand around the man’s bony ankle. 'You get your foot back when we are out of these chains,' he said with a dangerous frown.
Amram clucked. 'Such a hard man to please. And here I expected gratitude. Kind words at the very least'
'When we are free and well away from here,' Conan said, 'I will sing your highest praises. I will name a son after you if you want, but do not betray us again.'
For a few minutes, Amram was busy with the locks on their various neck rings and shackles.
Apparently his key was not made specifically for their fastenings, but was a skeleton type that required considerable skill to manipulate.
'Good thing they didn’t use rivets on these things,' Conan groused. But soon the chains fell away and they were on their feet, rubbing at sore flesh, flexing their freed limbs.
'Now we go and release my women,' Achilea said.
'There is no time,' Amram said, shaking his head emphatically. 'They are just servants. Leave them.'
Now it was Achilea’s turn to be unreasonable. She grasped him by the neck as Conan had. 'If I were not a queen and therefore conscious of every debt of gratitude, I would wring your neck this very second. My companion here is more than familiar with things like locks and shackles. I would wager that he knows how to use your key.'
'Aye, it is a simple device,' Conan affirmed, smiling grimly.
'Oh, very well, then!' said Amram, gritting his teeth at their seemingly suicidal calmness. 'I will unchain them. But the time may cost us dear'
'Just get us out of here,' Conan said. 'Get us to our weapons, and we will see to it that all the cost is borne by the ant-people.'
'You speak overconfidently,' the little man grumbled as they walked the few steps to the other cell.
They went inside and Achilea woke her women, placing a palm across the mouth of each as she shook them. The three wore joyous expressions, but their discipline was perfect and they asked no questions as their chains were removed. Clearly, their captors did DM mink they were as dangerous as were the two leaders, for here each wore only a single neck ring attached to the wall by means of a chain.
'Now.' Conan said when all were loosed, 'lead us to our weapons, then lead us to the river.'
'Do you think this is a casual tour, that I may lead you to whichever attraction takes your fancy?'
'Just our weapons, then,' Achilea said. 'We will make our own way to the river. And our belongings from the camel packs, too, I want my drinking horn.'
'Your drinking horn?' Conan said, raising a sardonic eyebrow. He had not seen the elaborate, silver-mounted thing since Leng, where she had carefully packed it away for the journey.
'Aye, it is an ancestral treasure of my people. I’ll not depart without it.'
'The last I heard, your people had done with you. But if you must have it, that suits me. I’ll settle for my sword and dirk.'
Amram looked back and forth from one to the other of them as if at two exotic beasts. 'You are mad, the both of you, am among madmen.'
'For some time,' Conan commented. 'But it seems to me that you know how to make the best bargain for yourself no matter where you find yourself, so continue on that course and do as we bid you.
I take it that you would be away from this awful place?'
'I desire that almost as much as life itself!' Amram said fervently.
'Aye,' Achilea put in. 'You are plainly a man willing to endure much for the sake of life itself. Do as
we say.' She patted him on the shaven head, but her caress was as menacing as the Cimmerian’s blunter threats.
Amram sighed deeply. 'Very well, then. Come with me and be very, very quiet. Our lives depend upon it.'
'Lead on,' said Conan, grinning.
In the anteroom, they found the guards on duty. They were either dead or drugged, and the fleeing prisoners did not bother to ascertain which. Conan stooped to gather up a Stygian short sword, and Achilea took a dagger. Ekun was about to lift a long-handled combination spear and axe with a wicked hook on one side, but Achilea stopped her with a motion.
'No pole-arms,' she instructed, her voice scarcely above a whisper. 'They are too awkward in these passages and they may make noise. One-hand weapons only, should we come upon more.' The women nodded as Amram leaned out the doorway and looked both ways.
'There is no one without,' he said in a loud whisper. 'Follow me.'
'Have no concern about that,' Conan admonished as he came up behind the little man with stealthy tread. 'I shall be right at your back.'
'One would think you did not trust me,' Amram said in tones of hurt.
The Cimmerian ignored the comment. 'Why is it so quiet?' he asked. They passed through an area he knew from earlier experience to be devoted to manufactures. All was silent, the chambers deserted.
'It is night. Even down here, where sun and moon are unknown, there must be day and night.
People must sleep, and for the most efficient organization of labour, all sleep at the same time. Only the ventilation staff and a few very necessary services continue through this ‘night.'
Achilea came up behind him. 'What sort of necessary services?'
'Hisst!' Amram raised a hand and signaled them to silence. 'One of diem comes even now. In here!' He chivvied them into a side chamber where cleaning supplies were stored. Amid brooms, brushes, mops and pails, they stood packed tightly together.
'What is it?' Achilea demanded in a whisper. Her body was pressed closely against Conan’s back.
'I care not,' said the Cimmerian with a smile. 'I like it here.' She swatted him on the back of the head.
'Quiet!' Amram commanded. 'It is the fire patrol.'
The curtain of the closet had been drawn so that only a slit was open. Two slaves came walking down the corridor outside. At every flame tube, they paused. Conan had noted in passage that only each third tube was flaming, doubtless because it was 'night.' These men adjusted the flames of the lighted fixtures. At each darkened tube, one of the slaves leaned over its flared end and sniffed, then went on. At one such, the slave sniffed, frowned, and made a silent signal. The other slave took a bronze tool from a pouch at his belt and made some small adjustment to the fixture. The other slave sniffed once more, then nodded. They passed on.
When the two were out of sight around a comer, the fugitives and their guide left the closet. 'That has cost us time,' Amram fretted.
'What were they doing?' Conan asked.
'The lighting fixtures must be monitored constantly,' Amram told him. Having something to explain seemed to relieve his nerves. 'They bum a natural vapor that comes from deep within the earth. It bums cleanly, with no smoke and no scent, but in its unburned state, it is deadly poison. If a flame goes out, the vapor continues to gush forth. It can kill many if it is not shut off quickly. And if enough of it should accumulate, the instant a flame is touched to it. the whole mass erupts like a volcano. In the past, entire districts of the underground city have perished thus.'
