Laying hold of the double bow, he swung it smoothly, pointing it at imaginary targets. “Nephet Ali, is there a bowstring handy, and some arrows? I would speed a few into yonder islet.” He pointed out at one of the sandbars flanking the channel entry several hundred paces distant.
“Nay, Mustafar, I fear not. Extra-thick cables are still being woven, large-sized arrows fletched, and heavy iron darts forged as well.” Nephet Ali spread his palms regretfully. “The weapon trials may not be announced for some time yet, thought I, for one, plan to attend.” He turned to the others. “Let Mustafar’s inventiveness be an inspiration to you all.”
“He is clever, obviously.” Zalbuvulus, the white-robed sage, solemnly stroked his long beard. “However, if I may pose a question... your contrivance occupies five men, consuming their entire effort to operate two bows. Is that really an efficiency, when compared to having all five of them plying crossbows or heavy, leg-drawn bows, and loosing simultaneously?”
The point struck Alaph as being an eminently sensible one; roused from his close, admiring examination of the mechanism, he turned and waited for the response.
“A most interesting question,” Mustafar said, addressing his elder rival with the unruffled air of an academy tutor. “Is there anyone else who would like to undertake to answer?” Smiling around at the contestants’ expectant looks and the Vizier Nephet Ali’s magnanimous hand-flourish, he proceeded. “Very well then, I will explain. What my weapon achieves is the height of efficiency... namely, to magnify the power of a single man. The four who turn the windlass are not archers; they do not need training, nor to speak Turanian, nor even to possess tongues or ears in their heads. They provide only raw, dumb power. Indeed, even if my device should require the services of a sixth crewman to lay a lash across the backs of the four, it will still be an advance in efficiency, and terribly feared. It empowers one skilled fighter, an elite technician, to hurl death with the strength and speed of four! No common rabble of ill-trained bowmen can perform so efficiently or to the purpose. This, my good friends, is where the future lies.”
His speech was greeted with hand claps from Nephet Ali and huzzahs from Tambur Pasha. Zalbuvulus did not seem impressed by the performance; he merely deepened the scowl-lines of his face, answering solemnly:
‘ ‘I find your words most illuminating as to the direction of your efforts, Mustafar, granting that all our invention is based on the muscle-power and obedience of slaves and subjects. My own ideas are aimed at securing a higher level of performance from all crew members, skilled and unskilled alike. It will be interesting to see our relative successes.”
“If it is efficiency you seek,” Tambur Pasha proclaimed, “I have already solved that problem.” The astrologer dug a hand into the broad blue sash circling his paunch and fished there a moment. “Here it is, designed by my stylus and tested on my own kitchen-slaves.” His plump hand drew forth a short stick braided with leather thongs. “Five times the obedience guaranteed.”
“What is it, a riding crop?” Mustafar asked. The philosopher Zalbuvulus eyed the object with a look of sceptical disdain.
“See here,” Tambur Pasha said, separating the leather braids between his plump fingers. “Instead of a single whiplash, it lays down five at once. Shorter and lighter than your standard cattle whip, and less clumsy to use in confined spaces. It yields quicker and more intense pain, but with far less permanent damage. It promotes better endurance, too, for both flogger and victim. I call it the Hand of Tarim, though some might find that blasphemous.”
“A superb idea, under whatever name.” The Vizier Nephet Ali accepted the whip from the hand of its inventor, proceeding to flick the knotted ends back and forth in the air. “Why, such an item could be in use throughout the fleet in the space of one year! We must work out some form of commission for you on its acceptance, as we have done with Mustafar’s highly promising weapon. But come, my friends,” he called, waving the supple Hand of Tarim overhead to beckon them back along the quay. “We must all go to the harbour master’s garrison now, to make arrangements for our particular needs.”
Alaph stayed behind to help Mustafar draw the canopy over his invention and retie it in place. Hurrying to catch the others, they found themselves at the rear of the group alongside Tambur Pasha, who resumed speaking as if there had been no interruption.
“It is a mere trifle, of course, this five-taloned whip of mine... just a petty household convenience of the sort I dream up incessantly.” The astrologer patted his spangled turban straight with a self-satisfied air. “My idea for the contest, now... that will be something unique. I plan to command the wind itself, by means of an engine carried on the ship. In place of oars, the crew will operate a pair of giant bellows. In that way, a steady breeze can be directed against the sail at the commander’s will, regardless of weather.” He preened himself again confidently. “Now that the contest is under way, I fancy there can be no harm in talking of it. Prince Yezdigerd was dubious about the idea at first; he could not seem to see the merit in it. Fortunately, good Ninshub, the finance minister, was present; he has a keen mind for efficiencies and economies of this sort. Now it remains only to put my plan to work on a large scale, with adequate manpower to show its merit value.”
Alaph blinked in uncertainty. Something vaguely disturbed him about Tambur Pasha’s idea... though he had faith, of course, in the famed astrologer’s wisdom. He looked to Mustafar, who smiled bemusedly, rolled his eyes upward, and answered, “My researches of late have involved finding a better means of throwing fire into enemy vessels.”
Alaph silently debated broaching the subject of his own invention. He hesitated out of fear that to these accomplished innovators, his steam-dervishes might seem wildly impractical, little more than children’s toys. Then at once it was too late; the maw of the Naval Garrison loomed on either hand as the group followed Nephet Ali across the drawbridge into the vast pile. Their way wound through a set of defensive courts and alleys arrayed under the view of battlements and loopholes.
Within the fort, a narrow stair led up to a vaulted chart-room, three sides of which overlooked the harbour. Before the rows of lancet window stood lookouts watching ships in the harbour and recording their sightings with ready styluses and clay tablets. Along the rear wall was a broad map-table presided over by the seated harbour master, garbed in trim naval turban and tunic.
With this officer Nephet Ali conferred, drawing the contestants over one by one and discussing the requirements of goods, labour, and ship usage for each planned project.
Alaph could tell that most of the contestants were making forthright, extravagant demands—both by their gestures and by the pained attitude of the harbour master. Yet in each case he evidently gave in to the vizier’s urgings... for Nephet Ali, on the contrary, seemed inclined to push forward and enlarge on the inventors’ plans, regardless of cost.
Even so, the young alchemist felt sheepish and awkward as he set forth his own needs: a small or medium vessel of but a single oar-bank, a good quantity of light firebrick, and larger and costlier amounts of bronze or hammered copper, with suitable kettles and vats—plus solder, rivets, charcoal and so forth, and the services of smiths, shipwrights, slaves, overseers, a pilot, and a trial crew. As he spoke, it all seemed impossible in view of his youth and low station.
“I see no problem, lad,” Nephet Ali assured him. “It sounds most reasonable to me. Are you sure you will not need a larger ship to bear the weight of all that brick and metal?” He shot a glance to the frowning officer as he made out his list.
“No, sire. This should be enough to test out my idea.” He stepped back bashfully. “If it works, of course, the device could possibly be refined and enlarged...”
“Very good, then. And what of you, Crotalus?” Nephet Ali looked past Alaph to the tall, lean Zembabwan. “You are the last one left, and we have heard no word from you this morning. What will you be needing for your plan?”
At this, the other contestants muted
their talk, presumably out of curiosity. Alaph, too, stayed close by to hear the nature of the black seer’s wants.
Looming near in his yellow-fringed, darkly embroidered robe, the shaven-headed prophet answered in a deeply accented voice, “I have need of a ship.”
“Only a ship,” Nephet Ali prompted, “and nothing to go into it?” He glanced to the harbour master, who made marks on his tablet. “How large a vessel do you want?” “A ship to cross the Vilayet,” came the strange accents from the dour, pursed mouth. “And a crew who will go where I tell them.”
“You mean to undertake a voyage, then,” the harbour master ventured. “That will require ship stores and guards as well. Exactly where will you fare to?”
“I cannot discuss such matters.” The tall sorcerer’s earnest, steady-eyed stare seemed to make the port official uneasy. “I will know when I arrive there. It lies across the sea.”
‘ ‘Take two ships for the mission you have described to me,” Nephet Ali volunteered. “A light, fast rower and a well-armed escort.” He glanced again to the harbour master, who shrugged to confirm the decision. “That should discourage pirate attacks.”
“A voyage oversea,” the harbour master mused aloud, “around the South Bight, I should imagine. That will call for some days’ provisions between friendly ports—”
“I will not go south,” Crotalus cut him off, “nor into port. I will go...” the hawk-nosed seer extended a long, knobby finger toward the eastern wall of bright-lit lancet windows... that way.”
“East? East by north?” Nephet Ali shook his head uncertainly. “You mean straight across the Vilayet? Ships normally follow the coastline, my dear fellow, because of storms and other unknown hazards—”
“I will go that way,” the prophet firmly declared, his bony finger unwavering. “There lies the object I seek.”
VI
Sails Out of the West
Djafur, notorious as a thieves’ den, served also as a brokerage for information and for ill-gotten wares. Pirate captains and chieftains of the local sea-tribes, if their course took them near, found it advisable to put in there for news and barter and to quench their salt-rimed thirst in the Red Hand Inn’s gloomy interior.
“Two vessels, you say; Turanian warships.” Thoughtfully, Conan swirled the dregs of his ale, tilting the wooden jack on the scarred tabletop. “Bound into the north Vilayet, wouldst guess?”
“Aye, most certainly—an Imperial dromon and a light penteconter, with the smaller ship slacking off oars to let the heavy one keep up.” The chieftain Hrandulf looked earnestly from Conan to the other captains around the table. “What was strangest about it was the course they followed. We stood almost out of sight of land, steering by the Aetolian peaks, but these two hove into view far a-seaward, where lies no island... as if they had rowed themselves straight across the water from Turan.”
“Hmm.” Conan examined the silty dregs in his cup one last time, then tipped them out onto the floor. “The winds have been mild in recent days. They could well have made such a voyage.”
“Mild hereabouts, perhaps—” Knulf the Vanirman laughed gruffly “—but out there on the Vilayet’s stormy bosom?” He smirked in disbelief “—where midsummer ice-squalls can blind a captain, and freeze the oars into their tholes and the rowers to their oars? Can you really inkle what weather the sea-gods may be conjuring just over the horizon?” The piratical innkeep shook his shaggy head. “Imperial ships have but seldom been known to shave comers and venture into pathless waters, even in the mild southern straits of Shangara. They fear to capsize in a storm, or to be broken apart on an anvil-wave—as you, too, must fear if you are a fit captain.”
Frowning, Conan shoved his cup forward to be filled by Philiope, who sat close within his reach. “On the Western Seas, we took greater risks than that.”
“Aye, he speaks true,” the idler Ferdinald put in from an adjoining table. “There, to be sure, our ships were heavier-built, with higher, more weatherly poops and forecastles. A line of low-cut oarports is an invitation to swamping. Whereas a strong, flat stem, fixed with gudgeon and pintle—”
“Enough, fellow,” Conan growled aside to him. “What errand might these Turanians be on, I wonder, to strike so deeply into hostile waters?”
“Hmph.” Knulf Shipbreaker shrugged. “Whatever it may be, ’tis of slight interest to us.” The Vanir waved a hand to dismiss the matter. “Some diplomatic mission, most likely, bound for the northern Hyrkanian baronies.”
“Bearing rich bribes or armaments, perhaps,” Conan pondered aloud, “to suborn their rebellion from the southern empire.”
“I doubt it,” Knulf said. “If any plunder is on board, it is too well-guarded.”
“Aye, mayhap,” Conan said. “But why, I ask you, two ships so ill matched?” He guzzled his ale contemplatively, then set down the mug. “The big one is too large to beach easily, if it is a true Imperial dromon, with five banks of rowers pulling three sets of oars on a side. But the penteconter is a shallow-draft vessel, good for working close inshore. If they mean to deliver or carry away some treasure, quite likely the two will have to separate. Where the little one goes, the big one cannot follow.” He wiped ale-foam from his lips. “A penteconter holds but fifty oarsmen, no more than one of our galliots.”
Knulf shook his head in disbelief. “What, then? You propose to set upon them and plunder a Turanian military squadron?”
“With a squadron of our own, why not?” Conan looked around at the assembled captains. “Follow them at least, and learn their business. It is time we of the Brotherhood began to hold sway in these waters! The dromon could never catch us anyway, not on open sea.”
“Aye, ’tis true,” Ferdinald volunteered, “and shadowing them unseen with two or more ships should not be difficult. A galliot could follow their sailtops with its mast unstepped, staying hull-down beneath the horizon, and the other ships might then follow the galliot.”
“It is a good plan—aye, to be sure,” Conan avowed. “At their destination, we could close in with a chance of seizing loot or hostages.” The Cimmerian shrugged. “There has been little else worthwhile to do of late.” “Survival is always worthwhile, compared to reckless adventuring.” The Vanirman turned away in his chair, scowling in businesslike disdain. “Amra, if you undertake this mad scheme, do not expect me and the Victrix to join in.” “Nor my Tormentress, either.” Santhindrissa, who had listened in silence, sat unmoved in her masculine way, with one booted leg cocked over a bare knee, and black-gloved thumbs hooked through the straps of her leather halter. “There are easier, surer ways to lay hold of profits and captives.”
Conan shrugged. “If need be, I will go alone with my two ships. Then I will not have to share out the spoils.” He looked back to the man of the sea-tribes. “You say the Imperials stood off the south Aetolians at early dusk?” “Aye.” The chieftain nodded. “They would have laid up overnight—needing rest, and not knowing well the reefs hereabouts. If you take the North Strait this morning, you could catch them, though I advise against it—”
“Many thanks. Here, Ivanos!” Arising, Conan called across the tavern to the tall Corinthian, who was gambling near the door. “Assemble our crew on the beach without delay, and ready the Vixen to launch! Check on water, provisions, and weapons. Ferdinald, come with me.” He smote the Zingaran on the shoulder. After nodding farewell to the other captains, he put an arm around Philiope and led the way out the inn’s back archway onto the pier.
Tramping wordlessly to the end of the dock, the three lowered themselves into the Hyacinth’s launch. Conan and Ferdinald each took an oar, while the woman sat in the bows with a line. The cog lay but a short pull away, at anchor; in a matter of minutes, Philiope had tied up alongside and they were clambering over the rail.
“Dogs, look you lively! Olivia, we are going to make sail!” Crossing to the cabin door, stoutly if crudely repaired under Ferdinald’s supervision, Conan thumped with a fist and heard bolts rattling inside.
>
The unpainted panel opened wide—on the Ophirean beauty in her morning disarray. She wore a loose, open nightdress, her hair pinned up partially, with but a few raven curls left dangling alongside her bosom. “Conan, you come to me so late!” she breathed sleepily to him. “What were you saying just now?” Her brown eyes, soft in the early light, looked past him to Philiope and at once flashed hard. Frowning, she drew her nightdress closed. “She has come with you, I see. The insolent slave-wench Sulula. Have you not sold her back to her rightful owners yet?”
“Olivia—” Conan shook his head with a laugh, moving forward “—it is too soon, and I can hardly leave such as her alone with drunken pirates! ’Tis hard for you, I know—” “Yet you leave me here! Why favour her over me?” Turning from the door, she strode away on graceful bare feet, her silk-draped hips twitching in anger. “You do not care.”
“Olivia, you are safest here on the Hyacinth, with a few picked men and a stout cabin door.” He thumped the panel with his hand. “But you refuse to share these lodgings with Philiope, so I must watch her constantly—”
“It is a miserable life here, I tell you!” she interrupted him. “Your precious picked crew dares not speak a word to me, out of fear of your bloody scimitar! ’ ’ With impulsive disdain, she tore the nightdress off over her head. Careless of her momentary nudity in the dim-lit cabin, she set about wriggling into a more substantial gown of Turanian design.
“Then come and drink with me for once... but nay, it does not matter now.” Striding after her, Conan laid a consoling hand on her uncovered shoulder. “Olivia, I was delayed by news of a prize that has been sighted. We are putting to sea at once.”
Conan of the Red Brotherhood Page 7