Conan stepped within. The room beyond was a cluttered mess, but its furnishings were expensive. It was illuminated by a dozen candles and half as many oil lamps. On a table stacked with unwashed dishes, a black-and-white cat lapped milk from a silver

  bowl.

  'Welcome to my abode, Conan.' Delia scooped a striped yellow cat from a chair. 'Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Few men have been honoured with an invitation to my home.'

  Conan sincerely doubted that the woman's favours were as exclusive as she implied, but he accepted the chair vacated by the striped cat and propped his booted feet on a hassock.

  'I am honoured,' he said with a straight face.

  She took a pair of silver goblets and a chased pitcher of the same metal and poured both cups full, spilling some wine in the process. Clearly, she had been making inroads on the wine before. Conan arrived. He took the offered cup and drank. It was an excellent vintage. The woman was as prodigal with drink as she was with illumination. He wondered what Maxio thought of his woman's spending habits.

  'I knew you could not stay away from me for long,' Delia said, slurring her words slightly. 'Once a man has taken my eye, I will see to it that he comes to me.'

  'It is not my way to chase another man's woman,' Conan said. 'What of your Maxio?'

  'Maxio!' she said indignantly. 'He does not appreciate me. I am too good for the likes of him. Do you not find me beautiful?'

  'I'll not deny it,' Conan assured her.

  'Yet he treats me like some cheap woman of the streets whose

  looks came from a paint pot and whose hair rightfully belongs to some barbarian woman who sold her yellow tresses to the wig-maker!' She took a long drink of the wine, as if she needed it to extinguish an internal blaze. 'Why do I waste my love and loyalty on a man like that?' She finished the cup and poured herself some more, then offered the same service to Conan, but he shook his head.

  'You have told me of the enmity that lies between Maxio and Bombas,' Conan said. 'But there is something deeper between the Reeve and Xanthus. Know you anything of this?'

  'What kind of man are you?' she demanded sulkily. 'Why do you want to talk about those dreary men? Wouldn't you rather talk about me?'

  'First the Reeve and Xanthus,' Conan said. 'Then, perhaps, we shall talk about you and about me.'

  'Oh, very well.' She ran her fingers through her splendid hair, then noticed that her cup was empty once more. Quickly, she rectified the situation. 'I know little of the matter, and I doubt that any do, save the two men themselves. Many years ago, when both were young men, they were close partners. But they fell out, over a woman.'

  'A woman!' Conan laughed. 'Those two?'

  'Even old men were once young,' she asserted, 'and young men value nothing so highly as women, and rightfully so. Anyway, the story is that they both pursued the same woman but were too cowardly to fight for her. At any rate, she died. Perhaps she killed herself. Each blames the other for her death, and black enmity has lain between them ever since.'

  'What a pair!' Conan said. 'Divided by ancient hatred, yet bound together by guilt and villainy.' He thought over the implications for a while. 'Tell me, Delia, who is the town's main fence? All the thieving hereabouts must mean that there is a receiver for stolen goods. Or do the fences here fight one another as everyone else does?'

  A cat sprang into Delia's lap and she stroked it. 'In the Pit

  there is an old Temple of Bes, an Ophirian god. Bes has few worshippers here, but he has the richest temple in Sicas, because the priest is the town's most prosperous fence. He used to be the only one, under Lisip's protection, but now there are others.'

  'Is the temple near one of the rivers?' Conan asked.

  'Yes. It is built against the Fury wall. Why do you ask?'

  'I just like to know about these things,' Conan said.

  'Are you planning a job?' she asked. Her look grew sly, although she was having difficulty in keeping her eyes focused. 'Because if you are, I know of something being planned that you might get in on. There will be a big payoff, and not much risk.'

  'I am interested,' Conan said.

  'Well, Maxio and his boys plan to break into the royal storehouse. It's up near the north end of town, not far from the wall. It's where the town's tax yield is stored, along with the king's share from the silver mine. Maxio plans to make a fabulous haul and get out of town.'

  'If he robs a royal storehouse, he should get out of Aquilonia entirely,' Conan commented. 'Isn't it heavily guarded?'

  She laughed. 'Oh, aye. By Bombas's men. How much trouble can they be to deal with?'

  'I see. When is the raid to be, and how does Maxio plan to move his loot out of town?'

  She yawned hugely, all but dislocating her jaw. 'What did you say? Oh, yes. I don't know when it will be, exactly. In the next few days. And he didn't tell me his escape plans. It almost seems as if he doesn't trust me anymore, the sneaking rat!'

  'He is unworthy of you,' Conan said.

  'That is very true.'

  'When you know that Maxio is about to make his move, will you tell me?'

  She was not too drunk to remember her greed. 'That is the sort of information I expect to be paid well for. After all, it will gain you a great deal of loot, and Maxio never gives me anything!'

  'I promise to be generous,' Conan assured her.

  'Well, then, all right ...' Slowly, her head nodded, her eye-lids dropped, and she began to snore.

  The Cimmerian rose. Before leaving, he thoughtfully extinguished all but a single candle. Between the woman and her cats, he thought, it was a wonder the block had not been burned to the ground.

  VIII

  Lilac Perfume

  When the Cimmerian returned to the inn, all was silent. The last of the late drinkers had vacated the common room, and when he entered the courtyard, his was the only shadow cast by the silvery moon overhead. Swiftly, he climbed the steps to the third Boor, and for all his bulk, he ascended as silently as a ghost.

  Outside his door he paused. Another man might not have noticed, but his sensitive nose detected a scent of lilacs. Brita had not used scent since he had encountered her. He drew his dagger and thrust the door open. The inside of the room was inky black.

  'Come out, Piris,' Conan commanded.

  'How did you know I was here?' asked the breathy, tremulous voice.

  The Cimmerian laughed. 'Piris, somehow I just do not need the evidence of my eyes to know you in the dark, even through a closed door.' His voice hardened. 'Now, tell me why you are in my room hiding instead of calling upon me by daylight, like an honest man.'

  The little man came out onto the balcony. Even by moonlight, his robes were lurid. 'I did not reach town until after nightfall. The gate guard told me where you lodged, and I came hither immediately. Was it my fault that you were out somewhere when I arrived?'

  'And who let you in?'

  Piris reached into his robes. His hand emerged holding a small ring of tiny tools. 'This let me in. These inn locks are childishly simple to open.'

  Conan had to smile at the man's shamelessness. 'And you saw no point in standing outside the door in the dark, eh?'

  'There, I knew you to be a reasonable man. You do understand.'

  'Fetch us a candle, and we will go inside and talk.'

  Piris ducked back into the room and emerged with the candle, which he carried a few paces to a torch that sputtered dimly in a sconce overhanging the courtyard. The Cimmerian stepped into the chamber and stood silent for a few seconds. No sound came from the next room. Either Brita had left again or she had no! returned. The silly fool was probably wandering around in the Pit, calling her sister's name.

  Piris returned with the candle and set it into its pewter holder. Conan divested himself of weapons and armour and stretched himself upon the bed. Piris took the room's single chair.

  'Now tell me,' Conan said. 'Where have you been?'

  'I would have arrived sooner,' the little man said, 'but I was clapped into a dungeon in Belverus!' His voice quivered at the injustice.

  'How came that about?' Conan asked.

  'As I left the city, I was detained at the guardhouse and my belongings were searched. Clearly, someone had told the guards to watch for me. In my baggage they found an exquisite amber necklace belonging to a certain priestess of the city. An enemy had planted the thing on me and tipped the guard!'

  'Are you quite certain that it was planted?' asked Conan, scepticism tingeing his voice.

  'Sir!' Piris said indignantly. 'Credit me with some wit. I

  would never leave a town by the main gate while carrying stolen property.'

  ' 'And just who was this enemy who treated you so treacherously?' Conan queried.

  'I cannot be certain, but I believe it was a woman named Altaira, with whom I had dealings. The wench is an accomplished thief and quite capable of such a thing. We had had a ... a dispute, and she was looking to revenge herself upon me.'

  'Describe her.' Conan said.

  'A black-haired bitch who paints her nails and lips the most shocking shade of scarlet. She has the manner of a she-wolf and much the same reputation. She has slain many men who crossed her. Have you seen such a woman here?' The little man shuddered at the thought.

  'None like that,' Conan said. 'How did you get out of the dungeon?'

  'When they locked me up, they took everything from me, but I had secreted some valuables, ah, very privily upon my person. With a small jewel, I bribed a keeper to return my clothes, complaining that the dungeon was very cold and damp. This the fool did, not knowing that I had my little ring of tools concealed cunningly within the padding of my sash. With this I let myself out just before dawn, when all were snoring unsuspectingly. I recovered my belongings and left by way of a window, then lowered myself over the city wall by means of a rope. I could not recover my horse, naturally, but I acquired another.'

  'You are very resourceful,' said Conan, who had graced many a dungeon himself, including the one in Belverus.

  'And how have you fared here?' Piris asked.

  'You were not wrong when you said that this is a wicked city,' Conan said. 'It is divided among a half-score of rival gangs. Authority is contested between a corrupt Reeve named Bombas and a crooked old miser named Xanthus. The main hangout of the rogues is an area called the Pit, at the south end of town, but now the whole place is wide open. The principal fence is a priest

  of Bes, whose temple is in the Pit.' Conan saw no reason to tell Piris of his doings since his arrival.

  The little man rubbed his palms together. 'This sounds like a place where one can do business.'

  'Speaking of business,' Conan said, 'you have yet to explain ours. You said you would tell me when you joined me here. Do so now. I have had a long day, and I must sleep sometime.'

  'Very well. Know, then, that I come of a very ancient and prominent family of Shadizar. For a hundred generations, we have been counsellors to kings and benefactors of the great temples of our land. We are a priestly family, and I myself am an initiate of the Third Order of the Servants of Asura.' If he expected Conan to be impressed by this revelation, he was wrong. The Cimmerian yawned.

  'At any rate,' Piris went on, 'as a result of our prominence, my family is the custodian of many famed treasures. Deep within the vaults beneath our palace in Shadizar is kept the vase, carved from a single huge ruby, containing the sacred oil with which . every Zingaran monarch is anointed upon accession. Our border fortress in the Kezankian mountains houses the great idol of Sutra, which will cure the afflictions of any petitioner who will but ascend the nine thousand steps up the mountainside upon his knees. Many a bloody-kneed supplicant has found solace at the feet of this god, whose sole priests are members of my family.'

  'Will you not get to the point, man?' Conan asked impatiently.

  'As you will. In my own house in Shadizar is a small temple, dedicated to a god so ancient that none remembers his name. The temple, which lies far underground, is far more ancient than the house, which is tolerably old itself, about seven hundred years. Within the temple crypt reposed one of the family treasures. This treasure was stolen some years ago, and I have pursued it ever since, unable for shame to return to my family. I cannot return to take up my rightful station in life until it is within my hands once more.'

  'And the nature of this treasure?' Conan asked, sensing where his was leading.

  Piris drew a deep breath, as if about to impart something both vital and secret. 'It has the likeness of a scorpion with the head of a beautiful woman, carven from a stone like obsidian.'

  Somehow, Conan was not surprised. He was glad of the flickering, deceptive light cast by the lone candle, for Piris would not be able to read the many expressions he knew to be crossing his countenance in rapid succession, consternation and amusement predominating.

  'And what is it that makes this stone insect so valuable?' Conan asked.

  'For my family, its value is incalculable. Our fortunes are bound up with it, and it has long been held that should we lose it, our house would surely fall. I shudder to think what may be happening to my kinsmen this very moment, occasioned by its loss. But if I can restore it to its pedestal beneath my house, likewise will our fortunes be restored.'

  'Then what makes it valuable enough for someone else to steal it?'' Conan demanded.

  'The scorpion is a thing of great mystery and magic,' Piris said, his voice gone even lower and breathier than usual. 'In the hands of a sorcerer, its powers would be immense! And its substance is absolutely unique. The stone from which it is carved is not obsidian, although it has rather that appearance. It was carved from a huge black diamond that fell from the heavens upon ancient Atlantis. It is said that a shadowy priesthood of that fabulous kingdom toiled for many generations to carve the image from the strangely shaped gem, which was even harder than earthly diamonds. During the last century of its shaping, a wonderful temple was built to house the scorpion. When the final stroke of the polishing was done, so was the temple finished, and the image was placed therein.

  'Ten days and nights of fearful ceremonies inaugurated the temple, and at midnight of the tenth night, when the moon shone through an aperture in the temple roof upon the last trickle of

  blood that dripped from the idol's pedestal, the island shook with the blasts of a thousand volcanoes, and Atlantis sank beneath the waves of the ocean, with all of its gleaming cities.' The voice quivered with awe. '

  'But the scorpion seems to have survived this untimely wetting,' Conan observed.

  'Do not speak flippantly of so sacred an object!' Piris admonished. 'It is said that the scorpion walked from its sunken temple and came thus to Stygia, were it was revered for many centuries until it was given into the keeping of my family in recognition of our mastery of certain religious rites. These rites are of a most esoteric nature and are crucial to the proper ordering of the universe. Terrible cosmic consequences could result from this theft!'

  'I see,' Conan said. 'And what makes you think the scorpion is here in Sicas?'

  'It may not be here yet, but in Belverus an informant told me that it was in the possession of a certain caravan master, one Mulvix, and that this man was bound for Sicas. That was why I bade you come hither.'

  'You think this Mulvix will try to sell the scorpion here?' ' Conan asked.

  'Very likely. I think the man is just a smuggler. As such, the idol must very soon make him most uncomfortable. It is true of all magical objects that the uninitiated cannot bear their presence for long. By now he will be anxious to get rid of it. He may simply try to dispose of it as a valuable art object, or as a unique jewel, but it is more likely that he will seek out a wizard, a very rich one, if there is such a person here in this benighted city.'

  'There is just such a man,' Conan proclaimed, 'and I know of a way to ingratiate myself with him.'

  'Excellent! If we watch both this wizard and the fence you spoke of, we must soon find the scorpion.'

  'That is how I see it. I shall set about it tomorrow. Now, Piris, just where do you expect to sleep?'

  The little man's eyes widened. 'Sleep? Why, it is too late to find a room of my own. Surely there is room for me here, even if on a mere pallet on the floor.' He gestured, as if to demonstrate the spaciousness of the accommodations.

  'Phis,' the Cimmerian growled, 'under no circumstances are you and I going to sleep in the same room. There is a fine stable attached to this inn. The straw is clean.'

  'The stable!' Piris's voice achieved a near squawk. 'How could I endure such a place?'

  'Easily, and you will smell the better for it.'

  'But might I not—'

  'Good night to you, Piris,' Conan said firmly.

  Piris emitted a heartfelt sigh as he walked to the door. 'I should have known you were a cruel man when I hired you.' He left, shutting the door behind him.

  Conan grinned up at the ceiling. In a lifetime spent among the most lawless people in the world, never had he encountered so many villainous schemers in so short a time. Mercenaries, thieves, corrupt officials, religious frauds, would-be wizards, and killers of every stripe were drawn to the town like iron filings to a lode-stone. By now he knew better than to trust anything told to him by his employers. Henceforth he would trust only their gold.

  Conan rose early and found Piris in the common room. The little man had secured quarters on the ground floor but clearly he resented his night in the stable. Conan ignored the reproach in the dog-like protuberant eyes as he breakfasted with his usual gusto.

  'This morning I visit the Temple of Bes,' the Cimmerian said when he was satisfied. 'Do you want to go with me? It is in the Pit.'

  'That sounds like a worthwhile visit,' Piris said. 'I would like to . . .'He fell silent as the door opened, and his expression was one of alarm. Conan turned to see a man enter. He was hugely fat, with legs bulging his hose like overstuffed sausages. Greasy black hair framed his jowly face. Conan turned back to Piris.

  'What is wrong?' he demanded.

  'Oh, nothing, nothing. I but thought for a moment that that man was someone else. Pay it no heed.'

 

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