If Sulula heard, she acknowledged it only by a tremor of her already-hunched shoulders. She had never yet had the courage to speak to anyone but her mistress, and then only in faint, anguished whispers.
“’Tis no use bargaining with this mad Cimmerian, Drissa, ’ ’ Knulf Shipbreaker announced to his fellow captains. “I offered him a small fortune for the handsome Turanian there—” he leered at Philiope, who kept her face coolly averted “—but he would not hear of it, says his reputation is at stake! He prefers to weather the shoals and squalls of three women’s temper, like a ship tossed between the reefs of the Aetolian Straits! It can be no easy matter—”
“Frankly, I cannot understand it either.” Conan, leaning away from his womenfolk, put the best face on the matter before his fellow captains. “How do you Easterners manage it? There is not a pasha or a petty sharif along this coast but has several wives to his name, or a full harem—”
“Aye, a harem,” Drissa agreed with him matter-of-factly. “There is much to be said for it.”
Conan did not pause to ask whether she meant a female harem or a male one. “And yet,” he went on, “thrice-blast all this strife and skirmishing! I always expected less warring in a household than on an embattled quarterdeck! But since a second woman and a third have come under my protection, there is no peace.” He ruefully accepted the others’ pitying laughs.
As the captains spoke on and the day progressed, the scene at the inn became even wilder, fuelled by the unruly antics of the women. Pirates drank, gambled, and danced; they gambled at drinking and at dancing, and at their ability to dance while drinking. Fights erupted, most of them to be taken outside into the street, whence strident wagers and bloodthirsty cheers could be heard. On the pier, the sea-jigging was continuous, marked by the monotonous tweedling of flutes and brass whistles and the incessant thump of sea-boots, hard heels, and peg legs on worn timber.
Within the tavern, the gaiety consisted mainly of roaring, bawdy chanties and of hurling taunts and insults at rivals. Some female pirates lounged in the laps of their male counterparts in drunken, languorous undress; at the other extreme, one of Knulf’s pirates was seen escaping a band of the Tormentress's crew with his shirt and breeks shredded to ribbons by their daggers. The captains’ table remained an isle of relative calm, though the less piratical females seated there were the inevitable object of leers and remarks from nearby brigands.
“Twenty talents, the captain is asking? I would wager she has more talents than that, if she could be made to show them off! Come here, lass, I’ll trim your spanker for you!”
“And what about the little maid? What is she worth, a half-guilder? Why, I can pay the captain a higher ransom! Come over and fetch a pretty coin, missy, if you want to move up in the world!”
On the same rickety bench as the taunters there sprawled a female pirate, none other than Brylith, winner of the recent knife fight on the dock. In speech now slurred with drink, she mused aloud to the long-moustached Ilbarsi who cradled her head in his greasy lap. “I hear that in some of the great mainland towns, there are women who earn such a ransom for themselves every day—not as slaves or captives, but by sporting with different men, and giving pleasure to them. Now, there is something I would like to try!” Raising one listless hand, she caressed the stubbled cheek of the swarthy, sweaty pirate above her. “To receive money all the time, merely for letting men kiss and embrace me! That would be something!”
The Ilbarsi laughed, causing her lank-haired head to bounce in his lap. “Haw, are you jesting, Brylith?” He elbowed the ale-swilling Keshanian at his side, who guffawed in return. “What man in his right mind would pay a silver groat to roll and wallow with such as you? Who could believe such a thing?”
“Truly,” the Keshanian grinned, “’twould be a wonder fit to surpass the Golden-homed Bull of Luxur! Myself, I would never believe it!”
“Enough, now!” the girl Brylith protested. With her fighting spirit satiated and drowned in ale, she slapped only feebly at the Ilbarsi’s bristled cheek and, floundering in his lap, raised her head halfway up his hairy chest. “It is base and heartless of you pigs to ridicule a young girl’s romantic dreams! Just because I think of someday rising in this world and bettering myself—”
At that moment the conversation was interrupted by a hoarse, inarticulate scream—a cry violent and guttural enough to stand out even in the turmoil of the inn. While pirates glared around for its source, the serving-maid Sulula sprang up from her place at Philiope’s side and darted away, through the back archway and out onto the pier. In a trice her mistress was up and after her, followed closely by Conan, who vaulted over a table to beat the noble girl to the exit.
Even so, he was late. Outside, pirates crowded to the pier’s edge to watch a turmoil in the water below. In the sudden surcease of piping and dancing, they commented on the figure that had flashed through their midst.
“The lass had a hankering for a swim, so ’twould seem.”
“’Pears she found the company more to her liking.” Conan, stopping at the curb, drew out his heavy scimitar and cast it down on the planks. He was poised to leap off the pier when he felt Philiope lay hold of his arm, sobbing. While he tried to shake her off, another pair of arms twined about his neck, and Olivia remonstrated, “Conan, it is too late! Do you not see?”
Gazing down, he saw the harbour aswirl with sinister life of its own. A half-score of the striped sharks, dog-sized, circled and darted into a patch of red foam. Others swam away in diverse directions, their wedge-shaped fins and pointed tails trailing red in the dirty water. Of the maid Sulula, no other sign remained.
“Why—what would make her do it?” Conan asked dully, shaking his head in wonder.
Philiope, wiping her damp face on Conan’s sleeve, replied bitterly, “Maybe she thought it a better fate to be tom apart by sharks, kinder by far... than to remain a slave to cutthroats, whose highest aspiration might someday be to become prostitutes. But come away, please. I cannot bear to look!”
Inside the inn, over tankards of ale, Philiope elaborated further once her grief had subsided. “Sulula was far less used to a rough, subservient life than I was. She was delicate, never really very skilled as a maid, as your Olivia observed..” She nodded across the table to her frowning counterpart. “She even feared our transport to far-off Hyrkania, and the marriage that impended. For you see, she was in truth the noble lady, and I the servant.” “What? You mean it was an imposture?” Conan kept his voice low; this was a private discussion at a comer table separate from the other captains, and he sensed that the talk was becoming financial. “Why would you ever—”
“When your pirates stormed the Hyacinth's decks, and we waited in fear below, my mistress made me swear to impersonate her. She had heard dreadful tales of Amra the Corsair; she feared you would rape her and ruin her for life, perhaps even kill her. So I played the noble Philiope and threw myself in your way to distract you, while she disguised herself as the poor, cringing maidservant. Sulula is my real name—it is Zamoran. I was a slave taken in a border raid by Imperials.”
“So,” Olivia said, her eyes bright with discovery, “I knew you were no aristocrat. Smart little imposter!” “Aye.” Conan nodded admiringly. “A clever ploy, most bold indeed.” He looked quizzically at the girl. “But why admit to it now, at the risk of your life?”
“I know you well enough to trust you, Captain Amra... I think. ’ ’ The Zamoran kept her gaze fixed firmly on Conan. “This tragedy, untimely as it is, will also affect your business dealings. I would not want it to cause a débâcle and get us all slain. And, in truth, I have no great desire to return to Turan as a slave... and be punished, like as not, for my mistress’s death. This pirate life is harsh, but I prefer it to a kitchen or a harem. ’ ’
“Oh, really?” Olivia asked spitefully. “It will not be so easy for you now, though perhaps you will prove a more skilful servant than your predecessor.”
“Olivia, enough. Speak no more of
it!” Conan leaned forward, keeping his eyes on the Zamoran maid. “To all those who know us, you will remain Philiope and continue to be treated as a captive noble. It will be safer that way. An alias can do you no harm in this business, anyway.” He frowned in careful thought. “The nobleman Khalid Abdal knew of your ruse, I see now... but he does not know that his cousin is dead, and he would not care overly about it, I think. Both she and he tried to deceive me, which was sore unfair. So if he brings a ransom, I will have it anyway, be our hostage alive or dead!”
V
The Hand of Tarim
“And so we aspire ever higher.” Striding toward the broad, heavy iron portcullis set in the granite wall, Nephet Ali gestured. A guard atop the wall relayed his signal, and moments later, with a creaking of chain pulleys, the spiked metal curtain began to rise. Alaph the alchemist watched expectantly, wondering what magnificent opportunities lay beyond the portal.
“This defensive gate, according to our forward-looking design, is lifted by the force of counterweights in the tower above.” The brisk little engineer gestured up at the gate-bastion, broadest of the towers set at intervals in the battlemented stone wall. “The weights, of course, are raised by slaves—but it is better to use muscle-power only at morning and eventide to raise the weights to the top, rather than to keep slaves idle all day to work the gate as loads of timber and shipwares arrive.” He smiled at his guests. “For this little group of ours, a humble postern entry would have sufficed, of course. But I wanted to demonstrate the principle of efficiency that is so important to our naval operations.”
As the cullis clanked to a halt overhead, the Imperial engineer led the way beneath it. “Here—” he waved a hand broadly before him “—is the Navy Yard, the heart of Turan's power and influence throughout the known world. These facilities will be at your disposal over the months to come.”
He led the visitors clear of the dangling gate, which immediately began trundling down behind them, and stood surveying the broad expanse of docks, sheds, and ship-berths before them. None of the party spoke—neither Nephet Ali nor his half-dozen guests, the final qualifying applicants for the Naval Prize.
The contestants, for their part, gazed about with alert eyes, watching each other almost as intently as they observed the wonders of the Navy Yard. They comprised a sampling of the keenest thinkers in Aghrapur, ranging from respected astrologers and wizards to lowly alchemists and draughtsmen; but each one present had some singular insight or attainment to recommend him to Prince Yezdigerd’s discerning judgement.
Here was Tambur Pasha, the noted astronomer and philosopher, sleek and rotund in a dark blue cape, his matching turban atwinkle with star-bright jewels and pinned with a heavy, gold moon-crescent. Beside him stood the seer and hypnotist Zalbuvulus, the lordly Northern prophet and philosopher, clad in long, Corinthian-style robes whose whiteness and length matched that of his down-turned moustache and fierce, shaggy eyebrows.
Swarthy-complected, genial Mustafar was present as well. As the renowned designer of a repeating catapult already being tested by the Imperial Navy, he favoured the rest of the group with his strong-toothed smiles and penetrating glances.
Also present was the lean, black-skinned foreigner known only as Crotalus, a tall, mysterious traveller from a far and barbarous clime. Zembabwan by origin, so it was said, he gave an impression of youth and brisk energy in spite of his bald, wrinkled dark skull and wry, vulpine expression. He was well-received in the capital, ever more so by virtue of the deft entrail-readings and confidential counsels he offered prosperous Turanians. His clientèle was said to include high members of the Imperial Court.
Amid this distinguished company, young Alaph felt out of place. His status as a mere alchemist and tinkerer scarcely warranted mingling with such pre-eminent sages. Their knowledge of the arcane arts was far beyond his humble experience; yet even so, he felt that he might be able to contribute to the matter at hand, and possibly earn a share of the tremendous prize that had been offered.
Alaph, while carrying on his father’s trade as a bun-maker, had always reserved his main enthusiasm for his private alchemical experiments. The notion of transmuting base metals such as lead and tin into pure, peerless gold had long enthralled him. Coincidentally, and luckily, the hearth and ovens used in his baking trade made it easy for him to conduct metallurgic trials in his shop after-hours. Indeed, years of such efforts, carried on since late boyhood, had gained him a passing knowledge of metals and of related mineral smokes, stenches, and residues.
Yet his most intriguing discovery, made just recently, was not even remotely the result of his alchemic pursuits. It came instead from observing a copper teapot that he had hung by a string over the hearth, where it twirled and hissed madly, as if possessed by an angry djinn. The kettle had been dropped, as it happened, the accident bending its pouring-spout to one side and giving its lid a tighter fit. It did not take Alaph long to guess that the vessel’s unnatural excitation came from water-spirits trapped within, vexed by the assault of fire-demons and striving to escape; exiting to one side, the ghostly vapours drove the kettle in a circular path, twisting it upon its string... until the last of the water-spirits escaped, allowing the pot to unwind and dangle loose.
Enthralled by this event, Alaph soon put his ingenuity to work. He soldered together pots with two and three bent spouts, mounted them on pivots and loose couplings, and made them whirl briskly over scorching coals. He invented a spinning top which, once heated over a fire and set moving with a twirl of its stem, would spin interminably on a hollow iron base amid ghostly spirals of vapour.
He learned, at his peril, the treacherous spite of the fleeing water-spirits, and how to salve and dress painful scalds; he also invented a spoutless, tight-sealed brass kettle which, when filled and heated, demolished itself and the oven around it with a deafening report.
His command of the water-spirits had gained him some minor notoriety among the philosophers and spell-casters of Aghrapur. Although none of his whirligigs toys had yet found any function more useful than driving a flue fan, they were nevertheless applauded as valuable proofs of the existence of djinni and demons. A high priest of Tarim had even approached him about the possibility of creating a spinning-dervish statue above the altar fire at the city’s main temple.
It was this latter honour, perhaps—along with the slim scroll he had submitted to the city library detailing his experiments—that had brought him to the attention of the prince of the empire. A special palace messenger, the very same who had visited Zalbuvulus and Mustafar, brought him news of the contest—by Yezdigerd’s personal commandment, he was assured.
But his head was not turned; even while reeling from this lofty recognition, he began to imagine ways in which his devices might be employed in the naval realm... for instance, a ship which, instead of rowers, contained a hearth of light bricks and a giant kettle whose spouts vented out at the sides, backward along the hull. Such a vessel, instead of spinning from its inner heat, might instead be driven forward through the water, propelled at untold speeds by the power of the escaping spirits. The notion was thrilling, and Alaph’s account of it—rendered bashfully the previous morning to Prince Yezdigerd himself—had sufficed to gain him a chance at the prize, along with these others.
“This place is a marvel, far richer in its way than the city wharves with their merchant vessels and tradegoods.” The speaker was the astronomer Tambur Pasha; as heads turned to him, he waved a purple-robed arm toward the splendour of the military harbour: the heavy, triple-masted Imperial dromons plying the sound; the trim biremes swaying alongside the stone piers; the countless vessels drawn up onto the beach, or waiting unseen in lines of closed sheds beyond; the kegs, bales, and stacks of naval supplies and timber standing on the docks or sheltered under roofs and canopies; the troops of marines and gaggles of workers marching or standing ready on every hand; the thickets of pikes and forests of masts, the raw hulls under construction; the whistles, drumbeats, and shout
ed commands.
“Few land-dwellers ever set eyes on these docks,” Corinthian prophet Zalbuvulus solemnly intoned. “Except, that is, at the beginning of a long, arduous journey.” Alaph, gazing about at the high stone walls, could well agree that this was true. Yet were these land walls really necessary for defence, lying as they did within the taller and broader circuit of Aghrapur’s city wall? Thoughtfully he examined the defences, the guard posts and sheer inner bastions extending well out into the harbour; and the compound’s largest building, the Naval Garrison, guarded by moat, drawbridge, and iron-grated windows. Eyeing the bands of slaves and conscript troops who filed to and from ships or performed various tasks ashore, the young alchemist decided that the walls were intended to keep people in rather than out.
“Yonder is the first model of my rapid-firing catapult,” the inventor Mustafar enthusiastically informed those around him. Seizing hold of Nephet Ali’s arm, he led the group down the cobbled ramp way to the docks and out onto a short stone quay. At its end stood a tall, irregular object shrouded by a fresh tarpaulin. Undoing the bindings and dragging the canopy aside, Mustafar displayed his contrivance to the others.
The double crossbow mounted two heavy, recurved bows of wood and horn, one stacked atop the other. The double bowstock rested on a swivel post, with a rotating shaft up the middle and gear-wheels at either side. The whole stood on a circular platform raised knee-high off the ground; from beneath this platform radiated four poles of a capstan, upward-slanting. Chain wheels, driven by the turning of the capstan below, engaged the slides of both crossbows, furnishing them the power to draw the bowstrings taut.
“Here, you see,” Mustafar said, stepping up onto the platform. “The archer stands aloft, free to point the weapon in any direction. Below, four men tread in a continuous circle, pushing the capstan poles to keep the carriage gears turning. The archer depresses this lever to loose the bow—” he worked a trigger at the side of the pivot “—and this one to draw it taut again, by re-engaging the slide.” He touched another toggle arm. “While the mechanism is forcing back one bow, the archer is free to load, aim, and discharge the other one.”
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