Conan the Unconquered

by Robert Jordan

  Zutan pushed his way to the forefront of those watching. Four squat, bow-legged elders followed him, and the murmurs of the onlookers were stilled. “I present to you,” Zutan intoned, “the trader called Co-nan. Know, Co-nan, that you are presented to the chiefs of the four tribes here assembled, to Olotan, to Arenzar, to Zoan, to Sibuyan. Know that you are presented to men who answer only to the Great King. Know this, and tremble.”

  It was near impossible to tell the age of any man above five-and-twenty in those tribes, but these men had surely each amassed three times so many years, if not four. Their faces were gullied rather than wrinkled, and had the color and texture of a boot left ten years in the desert sun. The hair that straggled from under their filthy fur caps was as white as bleached parchment, beneath a coating of grease, and their mustaches, just as pale, were long and thin. One had no teeth at all, muttering through his gums, while the other three showed blackened stumps when they opened their mouths. Yet the eight black eyes that peered at him were hard and clear, and there was no tremor in the bony hands that rested lightly on the hilts of their yataghans.

  Conan raised his right hand in the greeting Tamur had used. What did traders say at these times, he wondered. Whatever he said, though, it had best come fast. Zutan was beginning to tug at his mustache impatiently. “I see you. I am honored to be presented to you. I will trade fairly with your people.”

  The four stared at him unblinkingly. Zutan’s tugging at his mustache became more agitated.

  What else was he supposed to say, Conan thought. Or do? Suddenly he turned his back on the chiefs and hurried back among the pack animals. Mutters sounded among the tribesmen, and the Hyrkanians who held the guide-ropes eyed him with frowns. Hastily he unroped a wicker hamper and drew out four tulwars, their hilts ivory and ebony. The blades had been worked with beeswax and acid into scenes of men hunting with bows from horseback, with silver rubbed across the etchings hammered till the argentine metal shone. Conan had raised a storm when he found the blades among the trade goods—he was still of a mind that Tamur had meant them for himself and his friends—but they had already been paid for. Now he was glad of them.

  As the Cimmerian returned, two swords in each huge fist, Tamur groaned, “Not those, northerner. Some other blades. Not those.”

  Conan reached the four chiefs and, after a moment, awkwardly sketched a bow. “Accept these, ah, humble gifts as a, ah, token of my admiration.”

  Dark eyes sparked avariciously, and the blades were snatched as if the squat men expected them to be withdrawn. The etched steel was fingered; for a time Conan was ignored. At last the chief nearest him—Conan thought he was the one called Sibuyan—looked up. “You may trade here,” he said. Without another word the four turned away, still fingering their new swords.

  Akeba put a hand on Conan’s arm. “Come, Cimmerian. We traders must display our wares.”

  “Then display them. I must see to Yasbet.”

  As he returned to her, Conan ignored the bustle of hampers being lifted from pack saddles, of pots and knives, swords and cloaks being spread for eager eyes. The throng pressed close, many calling offers of furs, or ivory, or gold as soon as items appeared. Some of Tamur’s followers began gathering the horses.

  Yasbet had sagged to her hands and knees on the hard-packed ground beside her mount. Muttering an oath Conan stripped off his cloak and spread it on the ground. When he had her lying on it, face down, he removed the sheepskin saddle-pad from her horse and put it beneath her head.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Can you stand at all?”

  “I do not need to be wrapped in swaddling,” she replied between clenched teeth.

  “Hannuman’s Stones, wench! I do not swaddle you. You must be able to ride when it is time to go.”

  She sighed, not looking at him. “I can neither stand nor ride. I cannot even sit.” She laughed mirthlessly.

  “It is possible we may have to leave suddenly,” he said slowly. “It may be needful to tie you across a saddle. And again I do not mean to mock you by that.”

  “I know,” she said quietly. Suddenly she grasped his hand and pulled it to her lips. “You have not only my body,” she murmured, “but my heart and my soul. I love you, Conan of Cimmeria.”

  Brusquely he pulled his hand away and stood. “I must see to the others,” he muttered. “You will be all right here? It may be some time before your tent can be put up.”

  “I am comfortable.”

  Her words were so soft he barely heard them. With a quick nod he strode to where the trade goods were displayed. Why did women always have to speak of love, he wondered. The most calloused trull would do it, given a fingerbreadth of encouragement, and other women took even less. Then they expected a man to act like a giddy boy with his first hair on his chin. Or worse, like a poet or a bard.

  He glanced back at Yasbet. Her face was buried in the sheepskin, and her shoulders shook as if she cried. No doubt her rump pained her. Growling wordlessly under his breath, he joined his fellows acting the trader.

  Sharak bounced from nomad to nomad, always gesticulating, here offering lumps of beeswax, there pewter cups from Khauran or combs of tortoise shell from Zamboula or lengths of Vendhyan silk. Akeba was more sedate in his demonstrations of the weapons, tulwars bearing the stamp of the Royal Arsenal of Turan, glaives from far Aquilonia, and even khetens, broad-bladed battleaxes from Stygia. Tamur and his men, on the other hand, squatted to one side, passing among themselves clay jars of the ale they had gotten from men of the tribes.

  Conan walked among the goods, stopping from time to time to listen to Akeba or Sharak bargain, nodding as if he agreed with what was being done. A merchant who had two men to do the actual peddling surely was not expected to do more.

  The trading was brisk, but Conan was soon thinking more of quenching his thirst with a crock of ale than of his playacting. It was then that he noticed the woman.

  Past her middle years, she was yet a beauty, tall and well-breasted, with large dark eyes and full red lips. Her fur-trimmed blue cloak was of fine wool, and her kirtle of green was slashed with panels of blue silk. Her necklace of intricate links was gold, not gilded brass; the brooch that held her cloak was a large emerald; and the bracelets at her wrists were of matched amethysts. And she had no eye for the perfumes or gilded trinkets that Sharak bartered away. Her gaze never left the muscular Cimmerian. An interested gaze.

  Conan judged her to be the woman of a wealthy man, perhaps even of a chief. That made her just the sort of woman he should avoid, even more so than the other women of the tribe. He made sure there was nothing in his expression that she could read as invitation, and turned away to make a show of studying the goods laid out on a nearby blanket.

  “You are young to be a trader,” a deep female voice said behind him.

  He turned to find himself face to face with the woman who had been watching him. “I am old enough,” he said in a flat tone. His youth was a touchy point with him, especially with women.

  Her smile was half mocking, half … something more. “But you are still young.”

  “A man must begin at some age. Do you wish to trade for something?”

  “I would think you would be demonstrating the swords and spears to the men, youngling.” Her gaze caressed the breadth of his shoulders, trailed like fingers across the tunic strained by the muscles of his deep chest.

  “Perhaps kohl for your eyes.” He snatched a small blue-glazed jar from the blanket and held it out to her. His eyes searched the crowd for a man taking an unfriendly interest in their conversation. This woman would have men after her when she was a grandmother.

  “From the way that sword sits on your hip, I would name you, not merchant, but …” she put a finger to her lips as if in thought “ …warrior.”

  “I am a trader,” he said emphatically. “If not kohl, perhaps perfume?”

  “Nothing,” she said, amusement in her eyes. “For now, at least. Later I will have something from you.” Sh
e turned away, then stopped to look at him over her shoulder. “And that is perfume. Trader.” Her laughter, low and musical, hung in the air after she had disappeared into the crowd.

  With a sudden sharp crack the small jar shattered in Conan’s grip.

  “Erlik take all women,” he muttered, brushing shards of glazed pottery from his hand. There was nothing to be done about the smell of jasmine that hung about him in a cloud.

  Grumbling, he resumed his pacing among the trade goods. Occasionally a man would glance at him in surprise, nose wrinkling, or a woman would eye him and smile. Each time he hurried furiously elsewhere, muttering ever more sulphurous oaths under his breath. A bath, he decided. When their camp was set he would bathe, and Mitra blast all the Hyrkanians if they thought it unmanly.

  XIX

  Throughout the day the trading continued briskly, goods from the west for goods looted from eastern caravans. As twilight empurpled the air Zutan returned. The bargaining tribespeople began to trail away at his appearance.

  “I will show you to your sleeping place,” the greasy-mustached Hyrkanian said. “Come.” And he stalked off in the rolling walk of one more used to the back of a horse than to his own feet.

  Conan set the others to repacking the trade goods, then scooped Yasbet into his arms. She was in an exhausted sleep so deep that she barely stirred as he carried her after Zutan, to a spot a full three hundred paces from the yurts.

  “You sleep here,” the nomad said. “It would be dangerous to leave your fires after dark. The guards do not know you. You might be injured.” That thought apparently caused no pain in his heart. Traders might be necessary, his expression said, but they warranted neither the hospitality of shelter nor trust.

  Conan ignored him—it was better than killing him, though less satisfying—and commanded Yasbet’s tent to be erected. As soon as the stakes were driven and the ropes drawn taut, he carried her inside. She gave but a sleepy murmur as he removed her garments and wrapped her in blankets.

  Perhaps sleep would help her, he thought. His nose twitched at the scent of jasmine that was beginning to fill the tent. Sleep would not help him.

  When he went outside, Zutan was gone. The sky grew blacker by the moment, and fires of dried dung cast small pools of light. The yurts could have been half a world away, for their lamps and fires were all inside, and the encampment of the tribes was lost in the dark. The horses had been tied to a picket line, near which the hampers of trade goods were shadowy mounds.

  Straight to those mounds Conan went, rummaging through them until he found a lump of harsh soap. Thrusting it into his belt pouch, he hefted two water bags in each hand and stalked into the night. When he returned an odor of lye came from him, and it was all he could do to stop his teeth from chattering in the chill wind that whipped across the plain.

  Settling crosslegged beside the fire where a kettle of thick stew bubbled, he accepted a horn spoon and a clay bowl filled to the brim.

  “I am not certain that lye improves on jasmine,” Akeba said, sniffing the air pointedly.

  “A fine scent, jasmine,” Sharak cackled. “You are a little large for a dancing girl, Cimmerian, but I do believe it became you more than your new choice.” Tamur choked on stew and laughter.

  Conan raised his right hand, slowly curling it into a massive fist until his knuckles cracked. “I smell nothing.” He looked challengingly at each of the other three in turn. “Does anyone else?”

  Chuckling, Akeba spread his hands and shook his head.

  “All this washing is bad for you,” Tamur said, then added quickly as Conan made to rise, “But I smell naught. You are a violent man, Cimmerian, to act so over a jest among friends.”

  “We will talk of other things,” Conan said flatly.

  Silence reigned for a moment before Sharak spoke up. “Trade. We’ll talk of trade. Conan, it is no wonder merchants are men of wealth. What we bargained for today will bring at least three hundred pieces of gold in Aghrapur, yet a full two-thirds of the trade goods remain. Mayhap we should give up adventuring and become traders in truth. I have never been rich. I think I would find it pleasing.”

  “We are here for more important matters than gold,” Conan growled. He set aside his bowl; his hunger had left him. “Know you that we have been followed since the coast?”

  Tamur looked up sharply. “Baotan? I thought he had an eye for more than he received for the horses.”

  “Not Baotan,” Conan replied.

  “You looked back often,” Akeba said thoughtfully, “but said nothing. And I saw no one.”

  Conan shook his head, choosing his words with care. “Nor did I see anyone. Still, someone was following. Or something. There was a feel … not human about it.”

  Sharak laughed shakily. “An Jhandar, or Baalsham, or whatever he chooses to call himself, has come after us to these wastes, I will think on journeying to Khitai. Or further, if there is any place further.”

  “Baalsham is a man,” Tamur said nervously. He eyed the surrounding darkness and edged closer to the fire, dropping his voice. “But the spirits—if he has sent dead men after us … .”

  A footstep sounded beyond the small pool of light from the fire, and Conan found himself on his feet, broadsword in hand. He was somewhat mollified to see that the others had drawn weapons as well. Even the old astrologer was shakily holding his staff out like a spear.

  Zutan stepped into the light and stopped, staring at the bared steel.

  Conan sheathed his blade with a grunt. “It is dangerous to leave your fires in the dark,” he said.

  The Hyrkanian’s mustache twitched violently, but all he said was, “Samarra will see you now, Co-nan.”

  “Samarra!” Tamur’s voice was a dry speak. “She is here?”

  “Who is this Samarra?” Conan demanded. “Mayhap I do not wish to see her.”

  “No, Conan,” Tamur said insistently. “You must. Samarra is a powerful shamaness. Very powerful.”

  “A shamaness,” Sharak snorted. “Women should not be allowed to meddle in such matters.”

  “Hold your tongue, old man,” Tamur snapped, “else you may find your manhood turned to dust, or your bones to water. She is powerful, I say.” He had turned his back to Zutan and was grimacing vigorously at Conan.

  The young Cimmerian eyed him doubtfully, wondering if Tamur’s fear of this woman was enough to unhinge him. “Why does Samarra wish to see me?” he asked.

  “Samarra does not give reasons,” Zutan replied. “She summons, and those she summons come. Even chiefs.”

  “I will go to her,” Conan said.

  Tamur’s groan was loud as Conan followed Zutan into the dark.

  They walked to the yurts in silence. The nomad would not deign to converse with a trader, and Conan had his own thoughts to occupy him. Why did this Samarra wish to speak with him? Her sorcerous arts could have told her the true reason for his presence in Hyrkania, but only if she had purposely sought it out. In his experience of such things nothing was found unsought, and nothing was sought casually. Knowledge had its price when gained by thaumaturgical means, and though he had met sorcery and magic in many forms, never had he known it used to satisfy mere curiosity.

  Had this Samarra been a man he could have first explained, then, an that did not work, slain the fellow. But it was not in him to kill a woman.

  Lost in the workings of his mind, Conan started when the other halted before a huge yurt and motioned him to enter. The structure of felt stretched on wooden frames was at least twenty paces across, fit for a chief. But then, he told himself, a shamaness who could summon chiefs would certainly live as well as they. Without another glance at Zutan, he pushed open the flap and went in.

  He found himself in a large chamber within the yurt, its “walls” brocaded hangings. The ground was covered by Kasmiri carpets in a riot of colors, dotted with cushions of silk. Gilded lamps hung on golden chains from the wooden frames of the roof, and a charcoal fire in a large bronze brazier provided wa
rmth against the chill outside.

  So much he had time to note, then his eyes popped as eight girls burst from behind the hangings. From lithe to full-bodied they ranged, and their skins from a paleness that spoke of Aquilonia to Hyrkanian brownness to the yellow of well-aged ivory. Gilded bells tinkled at their ankles as they ran giggling to surround him; such was the whole of their costume.

  His vision seemed filled by rounded breasts and buttocks as they urged him to a place on the cushions before the brazier. A scent of roses hung about them.

  No sooner was he seated than two darted away to return with damp cloths to wipe his face and hands. Another set a chased silver tray of dates and dried apricots by his side, while a fourth poured wine from a crystal flagon into a goblet of beaten gold.

  The music of flutes and zithers filled the chamber; the remaining girls had taken up the instruments and, seating themselves cross-legged, played. The four who had served him began to dance.

  “Where is Samarra?” he asked. “Well? Answer me! Where is she?” The music soared, and the dancers with it, but none spoke.

  He picked up the goblet, but put it down again untouched. Strong powders could be put in wine; he wagered that this shamaness knew of them. Best he neither eat nor drink till he was gone from Samarra’s dwelling place. And best he not eye the girls too closely, either. Mayhap the shamaness had a reason for wishing his attention occupied. He kept a close watch on the hangings, and a hand on his sword.

  But despite his intentions he found his eyes drifting back to the dancing girls. Graceful as gazelles they leaped, legs striding wide on air, then rolled to the carpets, hips thrusting in abandon. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he wondered if perhaps the fire in the brazier made the yurt too hot. Did this Samarra remain away much longer, he might forget himself. Even though they would not talk, these girls might be willing to disport themselves with a young northerner.

  A single sharp clap sounded above the music. Immediately the girls left off playing and dancing, and dashed behind the hangings. The grin that had begun on Conan’s face faded, and his hand returned to his sword as he sprang to his feet. The hangings parted, and the woman who had taunted him earlier appeared. The cloak was gone now, and long hair as black as night hung in soft waves about her shoulders. Her long kirtle clung to her curves.