Sounds of merry music and rollicking laughter drifted to the Cimmerian from across the pavilion. Ahead, then, lay the taverns and wineshops where villagers—workmen and merchants alike— doubtless celebrated the lifting of Balvadek’s boot-heel from their windpipes. The narrowing road took the pair through this district, where a festival of sorts jammed the way to the citadel. Doe-eyed, dark-haired vixens, clad in naught but scanty shifts and narrow strips of colourful cloth, strutted boldly among the revellers, hawking their fleshy wares. Men with barrels strapped to their backs sold their private blends of wine or ale for varying prices; others carried trays of sweetmeats giving off aromas that tantalized Conan’s nostrils and awakened his palate.
They shoved their way through the throng, which was thickest near a group of musicians who played pipes and sang for an audience of laughing, dancing village folk. Conan seldom saw this side of Shemitish life. They were a people of extremes—they warred with as much abandon as they revelled. He shook his head and pushed by an asshuri he recognized from the ride, who smiled at Conan, guzzled from a clay jar, belched, and called for more.
When the two passed the last of the crowded taverns and neared the narrow, open gate at the base of the citadel, Conan saw severed dozen asshuri in attendance. They sat atop their mounts and regarded Conan with sombre expressions as he followed Sivitri into the tall, square tower. More leather-armoured warriors stood in the courtyard within, watching with unveiled interest. A grey-bearded man worked the iron-bound inner door with his key and held it open as Conan and Sivitri stepped into the citadel’s great hall.
Immense tapestries nearly covered the roughly hewn blocks of grey stone that comprised the walls. These ivory-hued hangings, embroidered with colourful, intricate designs, hung from the high ceiling and nearly reached the hard-packed dirt floor. Dour-faced fighting men and some few women sat on narrow benches at scarred wooden tables, conversing, eating and drinking. When the two strangers arrived, everyone paused awkwardly to stare with curious but not unfriendly faces. Presently, some of the occupants looked away or spoke in hushed voices.
Sivitri ignored them all, approached the far wall, and began to ascend a stair, its risers so narrow that Conan had to turn sideways and press his back against the wall as he followed her up. Citadel builders often limited access to upper levels in such a way, for these scant ledges prevented a large body of invaders from bringing their numbers to bear. Archers could repel intruders easily, and one skilful swordsman could wreak havoc at the top of the steps.
The keep’s upper level featured other fortifications. The stairway led to the mouth of a long corridor, wherein narrow slits provided archers or other defenders ample opportunity to do away with trespassers. There were but four doors along the hallway, each closed. Sivitri proceeded calmly and stopped midway down the corridor, before an iron-banded portal carved with Balvadek’s royal insignia. Set into the wood were sizeable amethysts that formed points for the carving. Sivitri looked carefully over her shoulder, then turned and pressed her thumb against one of the gems. She maintained the pressure as she pushed open the door. A dull clank, like the drawing of a heavy bolt, issued from the vicinity of the jamb.
Conan duly noted this. He suspected that by merely pushing open the door and not applying pressure to the amethyst, some trap might be triggered. He appraised the gemstone. As a pirate captain, he had learned well the market value of precious stones. If sold in any city from Messantia to Aghrapur, a cut and polished amethyst of such size would be worth a hefty purse of gold.
“Narsur was good enough to show me how this works,” Sivitri explained. “The Amethyst Room,” she added unnecessarily as they entered. “Ah! True to his word, he has set a table bounteous enough for even your appetite.”
“We shall see,” Conan replied. He looked around the room, which was as sparsely furnished as the hall below. Naught lay within but a table, its length half again Conan’s height. Six matching chairs with well-cushioned seats and arms and high, padded backs awaited them. No windows or vents had been cut into any of the walls. More tapestries—smaller versions of those in the hall below—covered most of the wall space. The thickness of their fabric, Conan noted, was such that it would absorb all but the loudest of sound. An ornate silver candelabra sat atop the table. All nine of its tapers burned, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Conan recognized this chamber as one well-suited for private discussions. He let his gaze wander casually across the floor and along the ceilings, noting that every gap or seam had been carefully plugged with mortar.
Sivitri systematically lifted each tapestry and examined the wall behind. She breathed a sigh of relief when she let the last hanging drop back in place. “’Tis said that one of these walls is false, affording a niche for eavesdropping—though only the dead may know the truth of this. We must carefully consider our every move from this moment forward, or Toj will find me. What a strange mix of ill luck and good fortune that you encountered him here, outside the gates, in time to thwart Balvadek’s vengeance.” She dropped herself onto a chair and stared morosely at the platter of boiled venison and potatoes, thick slices of cheese, baskets of apples and bunches of grapes heaped upon the table. “Eat your fill, then, while I relate the tale of how our fates became entangled. Will you not take a seat?”
Conan helped himself to a generous chunk of meat, which he wolfed down before answering Sivitri. “Why should I believe any more of your lies?” he asked. He reached for a pitcher, poured wine into a large clay jar, and set it down in front of her. “Here. You drink
first.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she drank deeply from the vessel, then pushed it back across the table. “You think I would poison you? If I wanted you dead, at my command the asshuri would have slain you days hence, ere I staged your ‘rescue’ of me and our escape from their encampment. And with one word to Narsur and his archers at the gates, I could have ordered your death.”
Conan gulped down a draught of the sweet apple wine, but its taste somehow turned bitter in his mouth when he thought on her words. He was no man’s—or woman’s—puppet, by Crom! Yet he could not refute her claims. He bit into a potato and chewed noisily, waiting for her to continue and actually anxious to hear her explanation. Across from him sat a woman of mystery, to be sure.
“I need you alive, man of Cimmeria,” Sivitri went on. “Bel knows why, but she whom I serve is convinced that only you can retrieve the greatest relic from the Age of Acheron—from the sandy ruins of the Brass City.”
Conan mouthed a protest, but she quickly quashed it.
“Oh, deny not that you seek it, barbar. Be you a pirate at sea or a thief upon land, your thoughts turn ever to the next haul of loot. You see, I know something of pirates and thieves, for she whom I serve rules over the greatest empire of them—an empire that spans a dozen kingdoms from Aquilonia to Turan, Iranistan to Zingara, and to the Sea of Vilayet and the Western Ocean.”
“Jade, empress of a half-continent of rogues and scum,” Conan said through a mouthful of potato.
Sivitri’s eyes flashed in sudden anger. “I cautioned you once and I do so again—do not name her outside these walls. By habit, I do not say it, though here we may speak freely enough. Still, you besmirch her name when you rasp it across your barbarous tongue. Were it not for her long reach, we might be chained in a dungeon. I recognized Narsur as one of her chief Shemitish agents, a man who operates Hyboria’s richest wine-smuggling ring... from this very village.
“When I spoke the secret words to Narsur, he acknowledged me as one of her Council of Three. He told me that she had suffered Balvadek’s boorish reign only long enough to drain the duke’s treasury and complete the building of the wall and this citadel to protect the smuggling base. Narsur timed the ‘rebellion’ here to coincide with Balvadek’s attack on Varhia. Now Narsur is magistrate of a walled fortress; no Shemitish kinglet will dare to attack Saridis again. And gold from the trading of stolen wine pours from Shem into her
coffers.”
“How came you to be in Shem so quickly after spying on me in the tavern?” Conan lifted a slice of venison, his eyes never leaving Sivitri’s face.
“A sleepless night that was, to be sure—for me. While you brawled that night and slept off your ale that morning, I rode to intercede.”
“Why?” Conan leaned white-knuckled fists against the heavy tabletop.
“For six years—in fact, since the very day she learned of its existence—my mistress has sought a long-lost treasure said to lie within the vanished walls of the Brass City. You see, when I first knew her, she was young, perhaps my age.” Sivitri smiled wistfully. “She took me in and showed me kindness that none would believe of her now.” Her smile faded as quickly as it had come. “She survived her father, who had been Guild master of Thieves in Arenjun... a position of great wealth and power. With diplomats of gold and armies of guile, she expanded her borders until they encompassed other guilds. Those guild masters who did not acquiesce faced dwindling profits or daggers in the dark—she is not averse to working with assassins.
“Her influence grew, but her success seemed to feed upon itself. Still she craved more wealth, more guilds... enough to hold sway over Hyboria’s mightiest kings. What I tell you now, Cimmerian, none know but me. She confided in me that when she was a girl of but eighteen summers, a baron captured her and... took her, by force. He used her brutally, for vengeance against her father. Of course, the swine was eventually caught and put to death in a most suitable manner—”
Conan grimaced at Sivitri’s gruesome description. He had heard tales of Arenjun’s guild master., a cruel and ruthless man by all accounts. None had wept at that old villain’s deathbed!
“Anyway, the man himself died, but her loathing of men burned hotter and hotter over the years. The memory of that ordeal, or rather of the man who had subjected her to it, stoked the coals of that blaze until it could never be extinguished. I think it is the same fire that drives her to dominate men of power—kings, dukes, and such like.
“As you might know, my mistress trusts none but women. I am one of her Council of Three. The other two are queens—of which lands you need not know, though their names would no doubt startle you. This woman employs men, whom she uses as tools. They are discarded when their work is done. She has chosen you as a tool— she intends to take from you the treasure that you now seek. But I tell you that one of her most effective tools is Toj Akkhari, Guild-master of Assassins in Zamboula. Never did a murderer live whose blood was colder than his, or whose daggers were quicker.”
“By Erlik, you may speak truly enough on this matter,” Conan nodded. That be-robed acrobat had danced nimbly past him as if he were standing still—a claim few men could make.
Sivitri reached for the jar of wine. As she sipped from it, her hand shook. “My ruler may suspect my treachery, Conan. She may have sent Toj to slay me.”
“What treachery? Crom, woman! Seek you to overthrow Jade?” Sivitri’s face paled and she sloshed wine over the rim of the jar when she laid the vessel upon the table. “Mother of Mitra, never! I love her, Conan, as only a sister can love another.” With her words came an unexpected burst of tears. She wiped at her face and turned away in shame.
After an awkward pause, Conan nudged the wine jar toward her. “Steady yourself with a drink... Sivitri. Crom take me for a bigger fool than any village idiot, but I believe your tale thus far. Now finish it, if you can.”
She inhaled deeply and rubbed at her eyes. “My quest is one of treachery, but also one of love. I would save my mistress from herself, Cimmerian, though it cost me my life. She must never have the treasure that might await discovery in the ruins of the Brass City. It would destroy her—strip away the threadbare cloth of the woman who took me in when I most needed help.
“What she seeks is an ancient talisman whose secrets neither man nor woman was meant to discover. It is said to be older than Acheron, as old as Atlantis, perhaps. Legends have given it many names: the Dark Pearl of Atlantis... the Ashen Bane of Kull... the Grim Grey God.”
Conan snorted. “The dust of superstition lies thickest upon the more valuable of ancient treasures. Wipe the dust from gold and it is Still gold.”
“So say you. But I have read of the Grim Grey God in a tome that the guild mistress procured when she began her search for the god. Though it is said to be carved from an immense pearl, the god is no mere treasure. She seeks it for the powers it is rumoured to possess. Long ago, a lesser god of Atlantis goaded two greater gods—who had ever been rivals—to make war upon each other. Soon, all but mighty Ibis fought bitterly. The cataclysm that followed nearly ripped the world asunder, and it destroyed many of the very people who worshipped those gods.
“Ibis stopped the gods before they could destroy the world. He punished the lesser god, who had started the conflict, imprisoning him within a pearl from one of the gargantuan oysters of Atlantis. Ibis charged his priests with the task of guarding that pearl, which had taken on the ugly form of the lesser god, who slept restlessly within: Ibis whispered that god’s true name to his high priest. If uttered, that name will awaken the slumbering god and free him, though the god be bound by the one who knows his name.
“The tablets did not say why Ibis did not simply slay the lesser god, but—”
“I have heard that one god cannot destroy another without destroying himself. A priest once tried to explain this to me, though I paid little attention to his ravings.”
“Perhaps so,” mused Sivitri. “But whatever the reason, it matters not. The ruler of thieves has somehow learned the secret name of the Grim Grey God, and she intends to awaken him. With a god—even a lesser one—to do her bidding, none shall stand in her way. She means for you to recover the god from the Brass City, then she will take it from you. Often has she worked a scheme thusly... Bel!” Sivitri’s face paled suddenly, and she rose from her chair.
“What?” Conan instinctively reached for his sword-hilt as he rose to face the door behind them, his muscles tensing.
“Toj is not after me, Cimmerian. Do you not see? He was sent to slay you. That murdering Turanian has stalked you since you left Messantia, I doubt it not, and after you find the ruins and retrieve the god, he—”
“He will find that a Cimmerian is no easy prey,” Conan rumbled. His hand lifted from the hilt to the jar of wine. He sat upon a comer of the table, scowling fiercely as he drummed his huge fingers on the polished wood of the tabletop. In spite of his outward bravado, he knew the wiry assassin to be a deadly foe. There were few precautions a man could take against those strange knives, which the assassin hurled with such lethal speed and precision. And the way he had vanished into the trees... Conan would have an easier time sighting a snake in the grass than the wily Turanian.
Sivitri settled back into the chair and took another sip of wine. She rubbed her lips together and frowned, as if the taste were not to her liking. “She craves the god more than I thought. It must never reach her, Conan. Even though she knows its true name, the god is evil beyond reckoning. I have seen the tablets, scribed by the long-dead high priest of Ibis who first guarded the idol. His etchings foretell events most dire. After the god first awakens, the speaker of his name will succumb wholly to evil and suffer a fate more horrible than a thousand lifetimes of agony in the deepest Acheronian torture-pits. My sister scoffs at this prophecy, and I cannot convince her to set aside her obsession. I would spare her from this, Conan. We must find the god, that I may take it to Caranthes, priest of Ibis. Only within his temple can it be safely kept.”
“If it be made of naught but pearl, why not destroy it?” Conan frowned, bemused.
Sivitri laughed cheerlessly. “Were it only so simple. The tablets also say that no one can destroy the god, unless he knows the six parts of its full and true name. The priests of Ibis knew but half of the name—that is why they could do naught but guard the relic for centuries.”
Conan settled into a chair with a sigh of exasperation. “I ca
re not what happens to Jade. Why in the Nine Hells of Zandra should I continue on this mad quest to the Brass City? If I risk my neck to seek the treasure—and defeat Toj before he sinks a dagger in my neck—I would not just hand over the relic to you. Crom Such a pearl, even without the legends that embellish it, would fetch a king’s hoard of gold. And for all I know, that is your game, Sivitri. Perhaps you seek it for yourself—for wealth, or maybe for its powers. For if you know the secret name, what would stop you from usurping your ruler?”
. “Gold?” Sivitri asked indignantly. “Gold! Is that all that can move you, barbar? Your heart is as cold as the snowy hills of your Cimmeria. I am not surprised, but I thought—”
“Thought what? That you could dupe me again—”
Sivitri interrupted. “No motive of profit compelled you to save me from the asshuri jailer, before you knew my hidden purpose. And you could have deserted me in Varhia. I am in your debt, Conan. Those events at the Grape and Thistle were no part of my plan. So if gold is all that you seek, then you shall have it.” She rose from her chair, plucked a lit taper from the candelabra, and walked stiffly toward a tapestry. “And if you believe not my tale, then take the god to Caranthes yourself. I did not presume that you would wish to journey to Hanumar, for it is common knowledge that Caranthes never departs his temple there. I wished to accompany you only to be certain that the accursed statue would reach him safely.”
Conan drained the last of the wine—smacking his lips at the unexpectedly bitter after-taste—and looked at the assortment of victuals. Though he had eaten infrequently of late, the food seemed to have lost its appeal.
Sivitri knelt to gently push the candle’s base onto the floor, then rose and pulled aside the tapestry to expose the wall of stone blocks behind it. As her fingers probed the seam near the floor, she withdrew her stiletto from her boot and wedged the point into a tiny gap in the mortar. Leaving the blade embedded, she shoved her heel against the lowest stone in the floor, directly below the gap. From somewhere within the wall came the muted clank of metal, like the drawing of an immense bolt. The stone slid backward, into the wall, with a dull thud. “Follow me, then,” she said, turning to face Conan, “that you may name your price for the god.” She pulled her stiletto free from the seam in the stones and shoved her shoulder against the centre of the wall, which soundlessly swung inward. Beyond it, a narrow, steep stairwell led upward.
Conan and the Grim Grey God Page 16