Conan the Rebel

by Poul Anderson

  Conan's fist boomed on the tabletop. 'You have one!' he exclaimed.

  'No, not you, dearest,' Bêlit protested. She clutched his wrist, will go.'

  He shook his head. 'Impossible. You could never pass yourself as a noblewoman or a harlot – the only kinds of female who may wander freely about in Khemi, if it is true what I have heard Besides, though you are a bonny fighter, I shall have a better chancel in a heavy set-to – better than any of the crew, in fact. Also, they are none of them used to cities, right? Such a fellow would all too liken blunder and draw attention. Mainly, you call me your co-captain Bêlit, but the truth is that you are the one those wild blacks obey. I cannot even speak their language. We must keep Tigress ready for... for Jehanan.'

  She gulped, then said with steely realism: 'So be it, Conan. I will scuttle this ship and hold our galley near yonder isle. Akhbet, it is called, and I will teach you how to navigate your way between it and Khemi. It is unpeopled, a handy rendezvous.'

  The barbarian stroked his massive chin. 'Hm, you do understand there is no way of foretelling how long this will take? We don't want to be rash, Otanis and I. And sheer misfortune could delay us – maybe force us inland after we have Jehanan.'

  Bêlit nodded. 'Yes, surely I understand.' Her voice broke. 'Buy oh, Conan, never will I forsake you, in life or in death! I am torn between my love for you and my love for my brother – unwilling am I to see you go in to danger, even on his account, and yet he is the son of my father. No, never will I forsake. Here Tigress shall abide, off Akhbet isle. If you are long gone, we may have to steer off in search of supplies; or caution may send us away, if war-craft come by; but always, always we will return and wait.' She entered his embrace. 'Always, Conan!'

  Soon, though, she was calm enough that she could ask Otanis about Jehanan, how he fared and what he had had to tell. As she listened, an ardour kindled in her that flared high in Conan, too.

  VII

  Traitors' Tavern

  Night had fallen when a gig taken from the merchantman reached he mainland, but a gibbous moon gave ample light for eyes that had served their possessor in the darkness of Cimmerian forests.

  Hie beams glimmered on low, lapping waves and lateen sail. Ahead, Stygia stretched dim beneath the faintly gilded eastern sky.

  The breeze was still off the sea, and Conan felt the heat thicken as

  he neared his goal.

  That was not Khemi harbour. No craft entered it without permission, nor would Conan have wanted his to be in the view of police; his departure might have to be abrupt and violent. Otanis had suggested a cove south of the estuary, which Bêlit agreed on; she had noticed it on passages between her parents' trading post and their home city in former days. She gave Conan instructions in steering by the heavens, which he quickly mastered, for he had often guided himself overland in similar fashion. Her farewell yet thrilled in his spirit.

  The boat lost wind as she entered the little bay, screened by liana-clad mangroves and palms on its miry sides. 'Furl the sail,' Conan told Otanis, and took up a sweep. Water churned to the force of his sculling. Serpents and crocodiles glided off in alarm, shiny-scaled. 'Ho, you are a lubber, aren't you?' the barbarian added after seeing how clumsily his companion laboured. 'Let me do it when we make land.'

  That happened shortly. He secured the hull fore and aft to trees growing on a bank at the low-water line; it would be unwise to leave himself dependent on the tide. Their drooping branches and the vines growing leafily along these ought to protect the gig from observation by chance wayfarers. Having made things shipshape, he garbed his sweating form in kaftan, cowled mantle, and sandals that had been part of the booty. The cloak hid his illegal sword and dirk, and should enable him to pass casual inspection, at least by night. His size was unusual but not extraordinary among the generally tall Stygians, his skin was tanned to much the same hue as that of their aristocrats, and his blue eyes and foreign cast features were shadowed.

  'I envy you in your cool tunic,' he remarked to Otanis. A whine filled the sultry air. He felt a sting, swatted the mosquito, and chuckled. 'Or maybe I don't. Well, from here on, you are in charge, my friend.'

  In practice he found he must be the leader through the march, for the older man stumbled and fumbled. It struck Conan odd that one who had been a hunter and herdsman should be as inept as any city dweller. However, the Cimmerian supposed a native of highlands might well fare badly in this wet, entangled gloom. Few people had had As wide an experience of nature in all her aspects as he had.

  Otanis did take over after they emerged in cultivated fields. Dust-grey by moonlight, a road ran north beside an irrigation ditch, for them to follow. Twice they came by villages of serfs, miserable clusters of mud hovels. Starveling dogs yelped at them but did not rouse humans who slept the sleep of exhaustion.

  'Why do they live like this?' Conan wondered. 'What do they get from their lives but toil – for the good of their overlords, not themselves – and want and an overseer's lash across their backs if they flag?'

  'It is the only life they know,' Otanis replied.

  'But can they not even imagine something better? The only life I knew as a boy was that of my barbarian homeland. It was paradise set beside this, but nonetheless it grew wearisome to me, and I started out to see the greater world beyond.' Conan reflected. 'Oh, a single man or a single family who tried to run away from here would doubtless come to grief. But if enough of them gathered together, sworn to be free or else dead, they could cast that monstrous load of the state off themselves.'

  Otanis was shocked. 'Why, that would bring the end of civilization!'

  'So it would,' Conan agreed cheerfully.

  'The heritage of the ages – learning, art, refinement – abolished for the sake of – of those beasts of burden?'

  'I have been in many civilized realms, and it is true they had much to offer; but always the price was having a state and always that price was too high.' Conan threw a sharp glance at his associate. 'You talk rather strangely for a Taian, from what I have heard about Taians.'

  Otanis pinched his lips together. 'Best we do not discuss politics,' he said, and fell into a silence that Conan could not make him break. The Cimmerian finally shrugged and gave himself to remembering Bêlit.

  The distance to cover was just a few miles, and the travellers reached Khemi well before midnight. Walls and towers loomed mountainous above the darkly gleaming River Styx. Here and there a window shone, yellow and lonely, but otherwise the city was sheer murk that seemed to drink down what moonlight fell upon its stones. On a warm night like this most towns would have given forth a few sounds of revelry, but silence lay heavy on the capital of the wizard priests.

  Otanis led Conan toward the waterfront, by a paved road under the walls. That brought them in sight of the Great Pyramid, a hulk over-topping the loftiest battlements. This being high ground, Conan also glimpsed the pale jungle of old quarries and tombs below it, descending to the stream-side. He curbed a shiver of fear. Mortal foes of any sort he gloried in meeting, but he nursed a primitive dread of the supernatural, and folk whispered that the ghosts of uncounted centuries haunted yonder brae. As for Khemi itself – he had not told Bêlit what courage he must summon to enter such a place.

  Yet he was in truth the man best suited by far to accompany Otanis and fetch her brother back for his dearest. In his mind he stamped on his terrors; in his body he paced with tigerish steadiness.

  The gates were closed to traffic between sunset and sunrise, unless it was in the service of the hierarchy. But only a pair of flanking walls and watchtowers confronted the docks, which otherwise stood open. Anything else would have hampered the water-borne commerce on which Khemi, like most of Stygia, depended. For defence on that side, the city had the royal fleet, the steep upward approach, and ultimately the powers of its sorcerers. Not for hundreds of years had any hostile force been so foolish as to attack it. Even its landward fortifications were mainly for the purpose of enabling the hierarchy to keep
close control over its life.

  Thus Conan and Otanis could enter as belated fishermen might, though they did keep to the deeper shadows, and sometimes hunched waiting for the opportunity to advance a few more yards, lest the harbour police notice them and ask their business. In the streets beyond, they had no further need for stealth.

  'What a pit,' Conan muttered. 'Is not a single honest inn awake, for a horn of beer against this accursed heat?'

  'You can get that where we are bound, but few places else,' Otanis declared softly. 'Now be quiet. We do not want to draw the heed of certain things that go abroad after dark.'

  Beneath his cloak, Conan clapped hand on sword hilt. He had heard of the giant pythons sacred to Set, allowed to rove freely in the night when they grew hungry and take what prey they found. Almost, he would have welcomed such a monster, something real to fight. He was no Stygian, to let himself be crushed and devoured unresisting because that was the will of the god!

  Though the street was broad, high buildings on either side shut off the moon and most of the stars, making it a canyon of gloom.

  He appreciated, grudgingly, the absence of the filth common to thoroughfares elsewhere – until he glimpsed a party of the slaves who cleaned it up each night. They were the emaciated, the diseased, the insane, deemed worthless for any other duty in this last stretch of their lives, and it was as if nothing but their foremen's whips kept them tottering along. Elsewhere a flaring torch would show an occasional labourer of a slightly more fortunate kind, a messenger, a robed and bestially masked priest, or a courtesan naked save for the high, plumed headdress required of her. Those people were few and joyless. Aside from them, Khemi was an abyss wherein went slitherings and hissings.

  The blackness deepened as Otanis brought Conan into a meaner section. Here the ways were narrow, twisting, and foul, between crumbling walls of tenements and workshops. Flat roofs were lumpy with sleepers who had fled oven-like interiors. Once a pair of young men slunk close, spooky in their kaftans, and Conan saw knives glimmer forth. He drew his sword, and they thought better of whatever they had intended and slipped back into their alley.

  'Yes,' he said, 'this hyena's den has no right to rule over a country such as yours, Otanis.' His guide made no reply.

  Presently they stopped at a certain doorway. A withered palm frond proclaimed the house an inn, and light trickled faintly through cracks in panels and window shutters. Conan's keen ears caught sound from within, and among the stenches of the street he snuffed an odour of cooked meat. 'Have we found the hostel you bespoke?' he asked.

  Otanis nodded. 'Yes, Uminankh's.' Aboard the ship he had explained that, while unregistered foreigners were absolutely forbidden to be harboured in Khemi, there were landlords who would ask no questions if a person had payment. The purse at Conan's hip was well filled. He had inquired how Otanis, brought from the highlands to the service of a respectable merchant, knew about such things. The answer had been that the minions of Bahotep occasionally got curious assignments; then, too, gossip was rife in the household.

  Otanis knocked. The door, chained, opened an inch, and a surly face peered out. Conan grinned and held up a gold coin. The chain clacked loose, and the newcomers passed through.

  They found themselves in a tiny taproom, beneath whose ceiling the Cimmerian must lower his head. Rushes underfoot had not been changed for weeks, and stank of sour beer and uncollected offal. Stone lamps cast dull smoky light over a few wicked-looking men attired in kilts and dagger belts, who sat cross-legged on the floor. A harlot, hideous and pathetic in old age, huddled nearby, ignored. A haunch of pork on a skewer kept somewhat warm above a charcoal brazier that made the air still more stifling than outside.

  Otanis exchanged Stygian words with the one-eyed taverner, and passed money across. Glancing at Conan, he pointed to an inner doorway and said in Shemitish, 'You have a doss – to

  yourself, except for the vermin – in the first chamber on your right as you go through there. I have paid your keep for a week. Do not let Uminankh charge you for food or drink. He will try, of course.' Conan grimaced. 'A week, locked in this sty?' 'We talked that out before we set sail,' Otanis reminded him. 'Wandering loose, you would much too likely become suspect. Besides, how then could we find each other at need? No, stay hidden. I cannot say how long it will take me to get a message to Jehanan, or when he can safely leave after that. If the gods favour us, it may only be a day or two.'

  'And you will seek me here,' Conan agreed. 'Very well. Though if Bêlit could see where I must wait, she would have no doubt that I love her!'

  'I go now. Sleep well.'

  'Hm, better I sleep lightly. But are you leaving without rest or refreshment?'

  'I know where to find those near Bahotep's house, and can begin at once to scout the area.'

  Conan gripped Otanis by the shoulders. 'You are a good fellow,' the Cimmerian said gruffly. 'May luck fare beside you.'

  The dark man smiled, bowed a little, and departed. Uminankh chained the door behind him. Conan approached the meat. It was not especially appetizing, but he was hungry. As he drew his knife to cut off a slice or two, Uminankh scurried up. Conan did not know the words the landlord spoke, but clearly he was demanding money. Conan told him in Cimmerian, 'You have been paid,' and elbowed him off. Uminankh broke into an arm-waving tirade. He appealed to his patrons, two of whom rose with hands upon daggers. Conan flipped his cloak aside to show his scabbarded sword. One man promptly sat back down. The other held out his palm and whined, 'Baksheesh?' Half amused, Conan gave him a copper, and was immediately surrounded by everybody in the room. 'Baksheesh, baksheesh!' they clamoured. He had had less trouble hewing his way through an enemy troop than he did in winning to his bedchamber.

  That was scarcely the proper name for a such a dirty, windowless cubicle, but it did have a reed mat hung in the entrance, a mouldy

  straw pallet on the clay floor, and a pot. Conan undressed and spread his clothes to serve as a lower sheet. His weapons he placed on either side; and he would indeed sleep lightly, his fingers never far from their hilts. He drifted off into a dream of Bêlit.

  Noise woke him, harsh voices and metallic clatter. The air had cooled and filled with grey light, seeping in from dawn outside. He heard Uminankh expostulate – a thud that might be a fist as it struck the innkeeper, for it was followed by a whimper – barked commands, tramping feet. He bounded erect, armed.

  A short sword slashed across the curtain. It fell, dryly rustling, and revealed two Stygian soldiers. They were fully accoutred, in helmets, cuirasses, studded kilts, greaves, shields on arms, and blades in hand. Behind them massed the rest of their squad. And behind those stood Otanis.

  'Conan, yield!' he cried. 'You have no hope except the mercy of my lord Tothapis.'

  Rage whitened the barbarian's visage and thundered in his ears. 'Your lord, you jackal?' he roared. 'With what piece of carrion did he buy you last night?'

  Taller than the rest, the betrayer raised his head haughtily and replied: 'I was never bought. I am no Taian, but a true Stygian -Amnun my name, if you would know – and gladly did I set forth on my mission to entrap you for the priest Tothapis whom I serve. Set himself has ordained this, and potent sorcery has brought it about. Strive not against Him Who Is, Conan. Surrender and keep your life.'

  'Not along with yours, cur!' The Cimmerian braced his huge frame in a corner. His steel wove back and forth in menace. 'Come and get me.'

  Amnun spoke to the squad leader, who rapped orders to his men. They advanced into the room.

  They did so warily, professionally. Amnun must have cautioned them about the person they were to arrest. Shield nestled by shield, the front line made a walking wall to curtain the pikemen behind. Given more space, Conan could have bounded around them,

  killing two or three on his way. Here he was boxed in.

  He smote. A Stygian helmet rang. The wearer's head snapped back. Dazed by the pain in his neck, he faltered. His shield sank. Conan's sword screamed
as it swung into the upper spine of the soldier beside the first. Blood spouted. A third man stumbled over the falling corpse, and Conan slew him on the return swing.

  But their chief called the remainder toward the door. There they ' re-formed, and came forward again. This time the pikes of the second and third ranks jutted ahead of the advance. Suddenly Conan was caged among steel-tipped shafts. 'Yield, yield!' Amnun urged from the entrance. Conan bellowed. Right and left his sword flew, to knock pikes aside. Barely for a moment did he have a clear shot past them, but that was enough. His left hand rose and whipped through an arc. The dirk flew from it. Amnun screamed as that weapon pierced his throat; then he sank to earth, the lifeblood gushing out of him. 'Take your reward!' Conan bawled.

  He fully expected to die. He merely hoped to send a few more Stygians down hell-road before him. But the squad's orders were to bring him in alive. The officer called a new command. Several pikemen reversed their weapons and used them as clubs. Though Conan raged forth, striking, slaying two more and wounding nearly everyone else, the rain of blows to his skull became too much at last. He went down, on the floor and into darkness. The soldiers pounded him vindictively until their officer bade them stop.

  VIII

  Captives of the Black Ring

  Tothapis' vulture countenance drew into a scowl. His fingers lapped the right arm of his cobra throne. For a moment that tattoo was the solitary sound among the shadows bulking and swaying misshapen in his centrum.

  'I like it not,' he said finally. 'It is reckless.'

  Nehekba, seated on a stool at his feet, let great bronze-hued eyes go wider still. Catching the candlelight, they seemed to turn the entire loveliness of her face luminous. 'Why, what would you do, my lord?' she murmured.