Conan the Defender

by Robert Jordan

  She shifted in the cushions so that her head was toward him, her hips twisted to emphasize their curve against the smallness of her waist. “I am no risk,” she said softly. “I wish only to serve you.”

  “Why?” he persisted. “At first I meant you only for my bed, but of your own will you began to spy in the palace, coming to kneel at my feet and whisper of who did what and who said what. Why?”

  “Power,” she breathed. “It is an ability I have, to sense power in men, to sense men who will have power. I am drawn to such men as a moth to the flame. I sense the power in you, greater than the power in Garian.”

  “You sense the power.” His eyes lidded, and he spoke almost to himself. “I can feel the power inside, too. I’ve always felt it, known it was there. I was born to be king, to raise Nemedia to an empire. And you are the first other to realize it. Soon the people will take to the streets of Belverus with swords in hand to demand that Garian abdicate in my favor. Very soon. And on that day I will raise you to the nobility, Sularia. Lady Sularia.”

  “I thank my king.”

  Suddenly he unbelted his dressing robe and threw it off, turning so that the man in the crystal—if he were actually able to see from it—would have a clear view of the bed. “Come and worship your king,” he commanded.

  Mouth curving in a wet-lipped smile, she crawled to him.

  V

  As Conan made his way down to the common room at the Sign of Thestis the next morning, he wondered again if he had fallen into a nest of lunatics. Two lyres, four zithers, three flutes and six harps of assorted sizes were being played, but by musicians scattered about the room, and no two playing the same tune. One man stood declaiming verse to a wall with full gesticulations, as if performing for a wealthy patron. A dozen young men and women at a large table covered with bits of sculpture shouted over the music, telling one another in detail what was wrong with everyone else’s work. Three men at the foot of the stairs also shouted at one another, all three simultaneously, about when morally reprehensible action was morally required. At least, that was what he thought they were shouting about. All the men and women in the room, none past their mid-twenties, were shouting about one thing or another.

  He and Hordo had been made welcome the night before, after a fashion. There had been but a score of people in the inn then. If it was an inn. That was another thing the Cimmerian doubted. The lot of them had stared as if Ariane had brought back two Brythunian bears. And among that lot, with no more weapons than a few belt knives for cutting meat, perhaps they had seemed so.

  While Hordo had gone out back to the baths—wooden tubs sitting on the dirt in a narrow court, not the marble palaces to cleanliness and indolence found elsewhere in the city—the odd youths had crowded around Conan, refilling his cup with cheap wine whenever it was in danger of becoming empty and prodding him to tell stories. And when Hordo returned they pressed him, too, for tales. Long into the night and the small hours of the morning, Conan and the one-eyed man had vied to top the other’s last tale.

  Those strange young men and women—artists, some said they were, others musicians, and still others philosophers—listened as if hearing of another world. Oft times those who called themselves philosophers made comments more than passing strange, not a one of which Conan had understood. It had taken him a while to realize that none of the others understood them either. Always there was a tick of silence punctuating each comment while the rest watched him who made it to see if they were supposed to nod solemnly at the pontification or laugh at the witticism. A time or two Conan had thought one of them was making fun of him, but he had done nothing. It would not have been proper to kill a man when he was not sure.

  At the foot of the stairs he pushed past the philosophers—none of the three even noticed his passing—and stopped in astonishment. Ariane stood on a table in the corner of the room. Naked. She was slim, but her breasts were pleasantly full, her waist tiny above sweetly rounded hips.

  He swung his cloak from his shoulders—the wavy-bladed sword was safely hidden in the tiny room he had been given for the night—and stalked across the room to thrust the garment up to her.

  “Here, girl. You’re not the sort for this kind of entertainment. If you need money, I’ve enough to feed both of us for a time.”

  For a moment she looked down at him, hands on hips and eyes unreadable, then astounded him by throwing back her head and laughing. His face reddened; he little enjoyed being laughed at. Instantly she dropped to her knees on the table, her face a picture of contrition. The way her breasts bounced within a handspan of his nose made his forehead suddenly grow beads of sweat.

  “I’m sorry, Conan,” she said softly, or what passed for softly in the din. “That may have been the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

  “If you want to exhibit yourself naked,” he replied gruffly, “why not go to a tavern where there’s a bit of money in it?”

  “Do you see those people?” She pointed out three men and two women seated near the table, each with a piece of parchment fastened to a board and a bit of charcoal in hand, and each glaring impatiently at the girl and him. “I pose for them. They don’t have the money to hire someone, so I do them a favor.”

  “Out in front of everybody?” he said incredulously.

  “There isn’t much room, Conan,” she said, amusement plain in her voice. “Besides, everyone here is an artist of one sort or another. They do not even notice.”

  Eyeing her curves, he was willing to wager differently. But all he said was, “I suppose you can do what you want.”

  “You suppose right.”

  She waved to the people sketching and hopped down from the table, producing any number of interesting jiggles and bounces. He wished she would stop leaping about like that while she had her clothes off. It was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder and take her back up to his room. Then he noticed a twinkle in her eye and a slight flush on her cheek. She knew the effect she had on him.

  Deftly she took the cloak out of his hands and wrapped it chastely around her. “At the moment I would like to have some wine. With you.” He looked at the cloak, raising an eyebrow questioningly, and she giggled. “It’s different up there. There I’m posing. Down here I’m just naked. Come, there’s a table emptying.”

  She darted away, and he followed, wondering what difference the distance from the table to the floor made, wondering if he would ever understand women. As he slid onto a stool across a small, rough-topped table from her, someone thrust a clay jug of wine and two battered metal cups in front of them, disappearing while Conan was still reaching for his pouch.

  He shook his head. “’Tis the first tavern I’ve ever seen, where payment was not demanded before a cup was filled.”

  “Did not anyone explain last night?” she laughed.

  “Perhaps they did. But there was more than a little wine being passed around.”

  “Did you really do all you talked about last night?” She leaned forward with interest, the top of the cloak gaping to expose the upper slopes of her cleavage. A part of his brain noted that that glimpse was almost as erotic as her fully exposed bosom had been. He wondered if she knew that and did it on purpose.

  “Some of them,” he answered cautiously. In truth he did not remember which stories he and Hordo had told. There had been much more than a little wine. He filled their cups from the clay jug.

  “I thought so,” she said in tones of satisfaction. “As to the money, you give what you can. Everyone staying here does, though some who only come in the day give nothing. Some of us receive money from our families, and of course we all put that in. They don’t approve—the families that is—but they approve less of having us nearby to embarrass them. Whatever we have left over we use to distribute bread and salt to the hungry in Hellgate. It’s little enough,” she sighed, “but a starving man appreciates even a crumb.”

  “Some of these have families rich enough to give them mone
y?” he said, looking around the room in disbelief. Suddenly her cultured accents were loud in his head.

  “My father is a lord,” she said defensively. She made it sound a crime, both being a lord and being the daughter of one.

  “Then why do you live here, on the edge of Hellgate, and pose naked on tables? Can you not write poetry in your father’s palace?”

  “Oh, Conan,” she sighed, “don’t you understand that it’s wrong for nobles to have gold and live in palaces while beggars starve in hovels?”

  “Mayhap it is,” Conan replied, “but I still like gold, though I’ve had little enough of it. As for the poor, were I rich, unless I misdoubt me I’d fill many a belly with what I spent.”

  “What other answer did you expect?” a lanky man said, pulling up a stool. His long face wore a perpetual scowl, made deeper by thick eyebrows that grew across the bridge of his nose. He scooped up Ariane’s cup and drank half her wine.

  “It is an honest answer, Stephano,” Ariane said. Stephano snorted.

  Conan remembered him now. The night before he had named himself a sculptor, and been free with his hands with Ariane. She had not seemed to mind then, but now she took back her winecup angrily.

  “He is a generous man, Stephano, and I think me he’d be generous were he rich.” She shifted her direct gaze back to Conan. “But can you not see that generosity is not enough? In Hellgate are those who lack the price of bread, while nobles sit safe in their palaces and fat merchants grow richer by the day. Garian is no just king. What must be done is clear.”

  “Ariane!” Stephano said sharply. “You tread dangerous ground. School your tongue.”

  “What leave have you to speak so to me?” Her voice grew more heated by the word. “Whatever is between us, I am none of your property.”

  “I have not named you so,” he replied, matching heat for heat. “I ask but that you let yourself be guided by me. Speak not so to strangers.”

  Ariane tossed her pretty head contemptuously, her big eyes suddenly cold. “Art sure there is no part of jealousy in your words, Stephano? No intent to rid yourself of a rival?” The sculptor’s face flamed red. “Stranger he may be,” she continued remorselessly, “yet he is the kind of man we seek. A warrior. Have I not heard Taras speak so to you a hundred times? We must needs have fighters if—”

  “Mitra’s mercy!” Stephano groaned. “Have you mind at all for caution, Ariane? He is a northern barbarian who likely never knew his father and would sell his honor for a silver piece. Guard your tongue!”

  With his left hand Conan slid his broadsword free of its scabbard, just enough so that the edge of the blade below the hilt rested against the side of the table. “When I was still a boy,” he said in a flat voice, “I saw my father die with a blade in his hand. With that blade I killed the man who slew him. Care you to discuss it further?”

  Stephano’s eyes goggled at the sword, his scowl momentarily banished. He touched his lips with his tongue; his breath came in pants. “You see, Ariane? You see what kind of man he is?” His stool scraped on the floor as he rose. “Come away with me, Ariane. Leave this man now.”

  She held out her winecup to Conan. “May I have some more wine?” She did not look at Stephano, or acknowledge his presence. Conan filled the cup, and she drank.

  Stephano looked at her uncertainly, then took a step backwards. “Guard your tongue!” he hissed, and darted away, almost crashing into another table in his haste.

  “Will you guard your tongue?” Conan asked quietly.

  She peered into her wine a time before answering. “From the stories you told, your sword goes where the gold is. Do you choose only by who can pay the most gold?”

  “No,” he told her. “I’ve ridden away from gold rather than follow unjust orders.” Sighing, he added truthfully, “But I do like gold.”

  Clutching his cloak about her, she rose. “Mayhap … mayhap we’ll speak of it later. They wait for me to finish posing.”

  “Ariane,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “Stephano thinks he has a claim on me,” she said quickly. “He has not.” And she left almost as quickly as Stephano had.

  Conan emptied his cup with a muttered curse, then turned to watch her drop his cloak and climb back to her pose on the table. After a moment her eyes shifted to him, then away, quickly. Again she met his gaze and tore hers away. Her rounded breasts rose and fell as her breathing became agitated. Spots of red appeared on her cheeks, growing, her face flushing hotter and hotter. Abruptly she uttered a small cry and leaped down, snatching up the cloak from the floor without looking again at Conan. She pulled the fur-trimmed garment about her as she ran, darting between the tables, feet flashing up the stairs.

  The Cimmerian smiled complacently as he poured more wine from the clay jug. Perhaps things were not as bad as they seemed.

  Hordo dropped onto the stool across the table, a frown creasing his eye. “Have you listened to what’s said in this place?” he asked quietly. “Was there a Guardsman about, there’d be heads on pikes for sedition before many more dawns.”

  Conan looked casually to see if anyone was listening. “Or for rebellion?”

  “This lot?” the one-eyed man snorted derisively. “They might as well march to the block and ask to have their heads chopped. Not that the city’s not ripe for it, mind. But these have as much chance as a babe sucking a sugar-tit.”

  “But what if they had money? Gold to hire fighting men?”

  Hordo had raised his cup as Conan spoke; now he choked on the wine. “Where would this lot get gold? If one of them had a patron, you can wager your stones he’d not be living on the rim of Hellgate.”

  “Ariane’s father is a lord,” Conan said quietly. ‘And she told me some of the rest come of rich men, too.”

  The one-eyed man chose his words carefully. “Do you tell me they actually plan rebellion? Or think they do?”

  “Stephano and Ariane, between them, as much as told me so.”

  “Then let us be gone from here. They may have some talents, but rebellion is not among them. If they met you last night and tell so much today, what have they told others? Remember, our heads can decorate pikes as easily as theirs.”

  Conan shook his head slowly, although Hordo was right, on the face of it. “I like it here,” was all he said.

  “You like a round-bottomed poet,” Hordo said heatedly. “You’ll die for a woman yet. Remember the blind soothsayer.”

  “I thought you said he was a fool,” the Cimmerian laughed. “Drink, Hordo. Rest easy. We’ll talk of our Free-Company.”

  “We’ve no gold yet that I can see,” the other said sourly.

  “I’ll find the gold,” Conan said with more confidence than he felt. He had no idea whence it might come. Still, it would be well to have his plans in order. A delay of days could mean the difference between being sought after and all who could afford such companies already having hired. “I’ll find it. You say we can, ah, borrow weapons from the storehouses of the smuggling ring you serve. Are they serviceable? I’ve seen smuggled mail so eaten with rust it fell apart in a good rain, and blades that snapped at the first blow.”

  “Nay, Cimmerian. These are of good quality, and of any sort you want. Why, there are as many kinds of sword bundled in those storehouses as I’ve ever heard named. Tulwars from Vendhya, shamshirs from Iranistan, macheras in a dozen patterns from the Corinthian citystates. Fifty of this sort and a hundred of that. Enough to arm five thousand men.”

  “So many?” Conan murmured. “Why would they keep so much in their storehouses, and in such variety? There’s no profit in storing swords.”

  “I bring what I’m told from the border to Belverus, and I’m paid for it in gold. I care not if they grow barley in the storehouses, so long as I get a fat purse each trip.” Hordo tipped the jug over his cup; a few drops fell. “Wine!” he roared, a blast that brought dead silence to the room.

  Everyone turned to stare in amazement at the two burly men. A slende
r girl in the same sort of plain neck-to-ankles cotton robe that Ariane wore approached hesitantly and placed another clay jug on the table. Hordo fumbled in the purse at his belt and tossed her a silver piece.

  “The rest is for you, little one,” Hordo said.

  The girl stared at the coin, then laughed delightedly and dropped a mockingly deep curtsey before leaving. Conversation slowly resumed among those at the tables. The musicians struck up their various tunes, and the poet orated to the wall.

  “Pretty serving girls,” Hordo muttered as he refilled his battered metal cup, “but they dress like temple virgins.”

  Conan hid a smile. The one-eyed man had drunk deeply the night before. Well, he would discover soon enough that he did not have to pay for his wine. In the meantime, let him contribute for the both of them.

  “Consider, Hordo. Such a motley collection of weapons is just the sort of thing these artists would put together.”

  “That again?” the other man grumbled. “In the first place, whoever runs the ring, I can’t see him wanting Garian overthrown. Those fool tariffs might be starving the poor, but they make good profits for smuggling. In the second place … .” His face darkened, the scar below his patch standing out whitely. “In the second place, I’ve been through one rebellion with you. Or have you forgotten riding for the Venhyan border half a step in front of the headsman’s sword?”

  “I remember,” Conan said. “I’ve said naught of joining their rebellion.”

  “Said naught, but thought much,” Hordo growled. “You’re a romantic fool, Cimmerian. Always were, likely always will be. Hannuman’s Stones, man, you’ll not mix me in another uprising. Keep your mind fixed on the gold for a Free-Company.”

  “I always keep my mind on gold,” Conan replied. “Mayhap I think on it too much.”

  Hordo groaned, but Conan was saved having to say more by the appearance of the slender girl who had brought the wine jug. Tilting her head to one side, she favored the big Cimmerian with a look, half shyness, half invitation, that made the room suddenly too warm.