Conan the Defender

by Robert Jordan

  “Interesting,” Conan said absently. In the dark his keen eyes picked out one shadow from another. There was a crossing alley ahead. And behind? Yes. That was the mutter of someone who had stepped in whatever had fouled Hordo’s boots. “Say on,” he said. His blade whispered on leather as it eased from its sheath.

  The one-eyed man lifted his eyebrow at what Conan had done, then he, too, drew his sword. Both men walked with steel swinging easily in their fists.

  “That curse,” Hordo continued conversationally. “Gethenius took ill a fortnight after the planting, and as soon as he took to his bed the rains stopped. It rained in Ophir. It rained in Aquilonia. But not in Nemedia. The sicker Gethenius got and the closer Garian came to the throne, the worse the drought grew. The day he took the throne the fields were dry as powdered bone. And they gave about as much harvest. Tell me that’s not proof of a curse.”

  They reached the alley; Conan side-stepped into its shadows, motioning Hordo to go on. The burly one-eyed man shambled on into the dark ahead, his words fading slowly.

  “With the crops gone, Garian bought grain in Aquilonia, and raised tariffs to pay for it. Fool brigands on the border starting burning the grain wagons, so he raises tariffs again to hire more guards for the wagons, and to buy more grain, which the fools on the border still burn. High tariffs make for good smuggling, but I’d just as soon he … .”

  Conan waited, listening, Briefly he considered unwrapping the madman’s blade, but he could still feel the taint to it, even through the cloak. He propped it behind him against the wall. The following footsteps came closer, hurrying, yet hesitant. But one set, he was sure now.

  A slight, cloak-shrouded shape moved into the alley crossing, pausing in the dark, all its attention on Hordo’s faintly receding footsteps. Conan took a quick step forward, left hand coming down on the figure’s shoulder. Spinning the shape, he slammed it against the wall. Breath whooshed out of his opponent. Blade across the figure’s throat, he dragged it down to the alley to a pool of light. His mouth fell open as he saw the other’s face. It was the girl who had seemed so out of place at the Gored Ox.

  There was fear in her large, hazel eyes, but when she spoke her voice was under control. “Do you intend killing me? I don’t suppose killing a woman would be beyond you, since you abandon them with such ease.”

  “What are you talking about?” he rasped. “Are you working with footpads, girl?” He found it hard to believe she could be, but he had seen stranger things.

  “Of course not,” she replied. “I’m a poet. My name is Ariane. If you don’t intend to cut my throat, could you take that sword away? Do you know what they were doing when I left? Do you have any idea?”

  “Crom!” he muttered in confusion at her sudden torrent. Still, he lowered his blade.

  She swallowed ostentatiously, and fixed him with a level gaze. “They were casting dice for who would have the first … turn with her. Every man there intended to take one. And in the meanwhile they were passing her about, beating her buttocks till they looked like ripe plums.”

  “The blonde thief,” he exclaimed. “You’re talking about the blonde thief. Do you mean to say you followed me into Hellgate just to tell me that?”

  “I didn’t know you were coming into Hellgate,” she said angrily. “I do things on impulse. But what business is it of yours where I go? I’m not a slave. Certainly not yours. That poor girl. After you let her go I thought you had some sympathy for her, thought you might be different from the rest despite your rather violent appearance, but—”

  “You knew she was a thief?” he broke in.

  Her face turned defensive. “She has to live, too. I don’t suppose you know about the things that drive people to become thieves, about being poor and hungry. Not you with your great sword, and your muscles, and—”

  “Shut up!” he shouted, and immediately dropped his voice, taking a quick look up and down the alley. It was well not to attract attention in a place like Hellgate. When he looked back at her she was staring at him, open-mouthed. “I know about being poor,” he said quietly, “about being hungry, and about being a thief. I was all of them before I was old enough to shave my face.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said slowly, and he had the irritating feeling that it was as much for his youthful hunger as for what she had said.

  “As for the girl. She threw away the chance I gave her. I told her her luck was gone, and it was, if I caught her, and you saw her.”

  “Maybe I should have spoken to her when I saw her,” Ariane sighed.

  Conan shook his head. “What kind of woman are you? A poet, you say. You sit in a tavern on the Street of Regrets, worrying about thieves. You dress like a shopkeeper’s virgin daughter, and speak with the accents of a noblewoman. You chase me into Hellgate to upbraid me.” He laughed, deep in his chest. “When Hordo returns we’ll escort you back to the Street of Regrets, and may Mitra save the doxies and cut purses from you.”

  A dangerous light kindled in her eyes. “I am a poet, and a good one. And what’s wrong with the way I dress? I suppose you’d rather I wore a few skimpy strips of silk and wriggled like—”

  He clamped a hand over her mouth, not breathing while he listened. Her eyes were large and liquid on his face. It came again, that sound that had pricked his ear. The rasp of steel sliding from a sheath.

  Shoving the girl further up the narrow confines of the dark alley, Conan spun just as the first man rushed him. The Cimmerian’s blade slashed out his throat even while his sword was going up.

  The first of the three following on his heels stumbled against the collapsing body, then shrieked as Conan’s steel sought the juncture of shoulder and neck. From behind the men came a scream that ended in a gurgle, and a cry of “The Red Hawk!” told the Cimmerian youth that Hordo had joined the fray. The man facing Conan dropped into a guard position, nervously trying to see the combat behind him without taking his eyes from the massive youth.

  Suddenly Conan shouted, shifting his shoulders as if he intended an overhand blow. His opponent’s sword flashed up to block. Conan’s lunge brought them face to face, the Cimmerian’s blade projecting a foot through the other’s back. He stared into the dying man’s eyes, even in the darkness able to see the despair that came with the realization of death. Then only death was there. He tugged his blade free and wiped it on the dead man’s cloak.

  “Are you hurt, Conan?” Hordo called, stumbling past the bodies in the narrow alley.

  “Just wiping my—” A foul odor filled Conan’s nostrils. “Crom! What is that?”

  “I slipped in something,” Hordo replied sourly. “That’s why I was so long getting back. Who’s the wench?”

  “I’m not a wench,” Ariane said.

  “Her name’s Ariane,” Conan said. He raised his eyebrows as he watched her slide a very efficient-looking little dagger inside her dress. “You didn’t draw that against me, girl.”

  “I had it,” she replied. “Perhaps I didn’t think to need it with you. Are these friends of yours?”

  “Footpads,” he snorted.

  Hordo straightened from examining one of the corpses. “Mayhap you ought to take a look, Conan. They’re dressed well for Hellgate.”

  “Some of Hellgate’s better citizens.” The Cimmerian’s nose wrinkled. “Hordo, as soon as we return Ariane to the Street of Regrets, you’re going to find a bathhouse. That is, if you intend to keep drinking with me.” Hordo muttered something under his breath.

  “If it doesn’t have to be a bathhouse,” Ariane began, then stopped, chewing her full lower lip in indecision. Finally, she nodded. “It will be all right,” she said half to herself. “There’s an inn called the Sign of Thestis, just off the Street of Regrets. It has baths. You can come as my guests, for the night at least.”

  “Thestis!” Hordo crowed. “Whoever heard of an inn called after the goddess of music and such?”

  “I have,” Ariane said with some asperity. “If you are invited, the bed, food and wi
ne are free, though you’re expected to contribute if you can. You’ll understand when you see it. Well? Do you come, or do you stink until you can pay two silver pieces to a bathhouse?”

  “Why?” Conan asked. “You sounded not so friendly a minute or two gone.”

  “You interest me,” Ariane said simply.

  Hordo snickered, and Conan suddenly wished the one-eyed man smelled just a little better, so he could get close enough to thump him. Hastily the Cimmerian gathered up the ancient sword in the cloak.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, “before we attract more vermin.”

  Hurriedly they picked their way back out of Hellgate.

  IV

  Albanus angrily jerked the cord of his gold-embroidered dressing robe tight about his waist as he stalked into the carpeted antechamber of his sleeping apartments. Golden lamps cast a soft light on the walls, where bas-relief depicted scenes from the life of Bragoras, the ancient, half-legendary King of Nemedia from whom Albanus claimed pure and unsullied descent through both his father and mother.

  The hawk-faced lord had left orders to be called from his bed whenever the two men now awaiting him arrived. Neither Vegentius nor Demetrio appeared to have slept at all. The soldier’s surcoat, worked with the Golden Leopard, was wrinkled and damp with sweat, while the eyes of the slender youth were haggard.

  “What have you discovered?” Albanus demanded without preliminary.

  Demetrio shrugged and sniffed at his ever-present pomander.

  Vegentius stiffened in tired anger at the peremptory tone, and spoke harshly. “Nothing. The sword’s gone. Let it be. We don’t need it, and you’ve already gotten Melius killed, giving him the thing in the first place. Though, Mitra knows, the man is little enough loss.”

  “How was I to know the accursed blade would seize his mind?” Albanus broke out. Hands knotted to keep them from shaking, he managed to regain control. “The sword,” he said in a somewhat calmer voice, “must be recovered. Another incident like today, another man going berserk with that blade in his hands, and Garian will know there’s sorcery loose in Nemedia again. Even with his dislike of majicks he might well bring his own sorcerer to court, for protection. Do you think I’ll so easily let my plans be thwarted?”

  “Our plans,” Demetrio reminded gently from behind his pomander.

  Albanus smiled slightly, a curving of the lips, nothing more. “Our plans,” he agreed. Then even that slight softness was gone. “The Guardsmen were put to the question, were they not, Vegentius? After all, they did kill Lord Melius.”

  Vegentius gave a short nod. “All except their sergeant, who disappeared from the barracks when my Golden Leopards came to make the arrests. ’Twas guilt sent him running, mark my words. He knows something.”

  “Most likely,” Demetrio murmured, “he knew what methods of questioning would be used.”

  “Unless he took the sword,” Albanus said. “What did they say of that under the question?”

  “Little enough,” Vegentius sighed. “For the most part they begged for mercy. All they knew was that they were ordered to stop a madman who was slaughtering people in the Market District. They found him fighting a northern barbarian and killed him. When they discovered they’d slain a lord, they were so terrified they had no thought for the sword. They didn’t even bring in the barbarian.”

  “He was still alive?” Albanus said, surprised. “He must be a master swordsman.”

  Vegentius laughed disparangingly. “Melius barely knew one end of a blade from the other.”

  “The skill is in the blade,” Albanus said. “Six masters of the sword were slain in the making of it, their blood used for quenching, their bones burned to heat it, the essence of their art infused into its metal.”

  “Slash and hack, that’s all Vegentius knows.” Demetrio’s voice dripped mockery. “But the art of steel … .” His blade whipped from its sheath. Knees bent, he danced across the colorfully woven carpet, his sword working intricate figures in the air.

  “That fancy work may be good enough for first-blood duels among the gently born,” Vegentius sneered, “but ’tis a different matter in battle, when your life hangs on your blade.”

  “Enough!” Albanus snapped. “Both of you, enough!” He drew a ragged breath. One day he would let them fight, for his entertainment, then have the winner impaled. But now was not the time. Thirty years he had worked for this. Too much time, too much effort, too much humiliating terror to allow it all to be ruined now. “That barbarian may have taken the sword. Find him! Find that blade!”

  “I’ve already started,” the square-faced soldier said smugly. “I sent word to Taras. He’ll have had his alley rats hunting all night.”

  “Good.” Albanus rubbed his hands together, making a sound like dry parchment rustling. “And you, Demetrio. What have you been doing to find the blade?”

  “Asking ten thousand questions,” the slender noble replied wearily. “From the Street of Regrets to the House of a Thousand Orchids. I heard nothing. If Vegentius had thought to let me know of this barbarian it would have made my searching easier.”

  Vegentius examined his nails with a complacent smile. “Who’d have thought to look for you in the House of a Thousand Orchids? They provide only women to their customers.”

  Demetrio slammed his sword back into its sheath as if he were driving it into the soldier’s heart. Before he could open his mouth, though, Albanus spoke.

  “There’s no time for his petty bickering. Find that sword. Steal it, buy it, I care not, but get it. And without attracting attention.”

  “And if its possessor has discovered its properties?” Demetrio asked.

  “Then kill him,” Albanus said smoothly. “Or her.” He turned to go.

  “One more thing,” Vegentius said abruptly. “Taras wants to meet with you.”

  Albanus turned back to face them, his eyes black flints. “That scum dares? He should be licking the paving stones in gratitude for the gold he’s given.”

  “He’s afraid,” Vegentius said. “Him and some of the others who know a little of what they really do. I can cow them, but even gold won’t put their guts back unless they see you face to face and hear you tell them it all will happen as they’ve been told.”

  “Mitra blast them!” Albanus’eyes went to the bas-relief on the walls. Had Bragoras had to deal with such? “Very well. Arrange you a meeting in some out-of-the-way place.”

  “It will be done,” the soldier replied.

  Albanus smiled suddenly, the first genuine smile the others had ever seen on his face. “When I am on the throne, this Taras and his daggermen will be flayed alive in the Plaza of Kings. A good king should be seen to protect his people against such as they.” He barked a laugh. “Now get you gone. When next I see you, bear a report of success.”

  He left with as little ceremony as he had come, for already he began to feel beyond the courtesies ordinary men offered one another. They were fools in any case, unable to realize that he saw them no differently than he saw Taras. Or that he would deal with them as harshly in the end. And if they would betray one king, they would betray another.

  Inside his dimly lit bedchamber he strode impatiently to a large square sheet of transparent crystal hung on the wall. The thin crystal was undecorated save for odd markings around its outer edge, markings that lay entirely within the crystal. In the light from a single, small gold tripod lamp the markings were almost invisible, but from long practice Albanus’ fingers touched the proper ones in the proper sequence, intoning words in a language three millenia dead.

  As his finger lifted from the last, the crystal darkened to a deep silvery blue. Slowly pictures formed within it. In the crystal men moved and gestured, talking though no sound could be heard. Albanus gazed on Garian, who thought himself safe in the Royal Palace, conferring with long-bearded Sulpicius and bald Malaric, his two most trusted councelors.

  The King was a tall man, heavily muscled still from a boyhood spent with the ar
my, but now beginning to show a smooth layer of fat from half a year of inactivity on the throne. His square-jawed face with its deep-set dark eyes had lost some of the openness it had once had. Sitting on the throne was responsible for that change as well.

  Albanus’ hands moved around the rim of the crystal again, and Garian’s face swelled until it filled the entire square.

  “Why do you do that so often?”

  The blonde who spoke watched him with sapphire cat eyes from the satin cushions of his bed. She stretched langorously, her skin gleaming like honeyed ivory in the dimness, her dancer’s legs seeming even longer as she pointed her toes. Her large, pear-shaped breasts lifted as she arched her slender back. Albanus felt his throat thicken.

  “Why do you not speak?” she asked, her voice all pure innocence.

  Bitch, he thought. “It’s as if he were here, Sularia, watching his mistress writhe and moan beneath me.”

  “Is that all I am to you?” Her tone was sultry now, caressing like warm oil. “A means of striking at Garian?”

  “Yes,” he said cruelly. “An he had a wife or a daughter, they would take their turns with you in my bed.”

  Her eyes drifted to the face in the crystal. “He has no time for a mistress, much less a wife. Of course, you are responsible for the many troubles that take his time. What would your fellows think, an they knew you took the risk of seducing the King’s mistress to your bed?”

  “Was it a risk?” His face hardened dangerously. “Are you a risk?”