The Other Tales of Conan

by Howard, R. E.

  3. THE GOD IN THE BOWL

  Conan’s grim adventures in the Tower of the Elephant and in the ruins of Larsha leave him with an aversion to the sorcery of the East. He flees northwestward through Corinthia into Nemedia, the second most powerful of the Hyborian kingdoms after Aquilonia. In the city of Numalia, he resumes his professional activities as a thief.

  Arus the watchman grasped his crossbow with shaky hands and felt beads of clammy perspiration ooze out upon his skin, as he stared at the unlovely corpse that sprawled on the polished floor before him. It is not pleasant to come upon Death in a lonely place at midnight.

  The watchman stood in a vast corridor lighted by huge candles set in niches along the walls. Between the niches, these walls were covered with black velvet wall-hangings, and between the hangings hung shields and crossed weapons of fantastic make. Here and there, too, stood figures of curious gods images carved of stone or rare woods, or cast in bronze, iron, or silver dimly mirrored in the gleaming black floor.

  Arus shuddered. He had never become used to the place, although he had worked there as watchman for some months. It was a fantastic establishment, the great museum and antique house that men called Kallian Publico’s Temple, with its rarities from all over the world and now, in the lonesomeness of midnight, Arus stood in the great silent hall and stared at the sprawling corpse that had been the Temple’s rich and powerful owner.

  It entered even the dull brain of the watchman that the man looked strangely different, now, from the way he had when he rode along the Palian Way in his gilded chariot, arrogant and domineering, with his dark eyes glinting with magnetic vitality. Men who had hated Kallian Publico would scarcely have recognized him now as he lay like a disintegrated tun of fat, his rich robe half torn from him and his purple tunic awry. His face was blackened, his eyes started from his head, and his tongue lolled from his gaping mouth. His fat hands were thrown out as in a gesture of curious futility. On the thick fingers, gems glittered.

  “Why did they not take his rings?” muttered the watchman uneasily. Then he started and stared, the short hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. Through the dark silken hangings that masked one of the many doorways, opening into the hall, came a figure.

  Arus saw a tall, powerfully-built youth, naked but for a loincloth and sandals strapped high about his ankles. His skin was burned brown as by the suns of the wastelands, and Arus glanced nervously at his broad shoulders, massive chest, and heavy arms. A single look at the moody, broad-browed features told the watchman that the man was no Nemedian. From under a mop of unruly black hair smoldered a pair of dangerous blue eyes. A long sword hung in a leather scabbard from his girdle.

  Arus felt his skin crawl. He fingered his crossbow tensely, of half a mind to drive a bolt through the stranger’s body without parley, yet fearful of what might happen if he failed to inflict death at the first shot.

  The stranger looked at the body on the floor more in curiosity than surprise. “Why did you kill him?” asked Arus nervously.

  The other shook his touseled head. “I did not kill him,” he answered, speaking Nemedian with a barbaric accent “Who is he?”

  “Kallian Publico,” replied Arus, edging back.

  A flicker of interest showed in the moody blue eyes. “The owner of the house?”

  “Aye.” Arus had edged his way to the wall. Now he took hold of a thick velvet rope, which hung there, and jerked it violently. From the street outside sounded the strident clang of the bell that hung before all shops and establishments to summon the watch.

  The stranger started. “Why did you do that?” he asked. “It will fetch the watchman!”

  “I am the watchman, knave!” answered Arus, bracing his courage. “Stand where you are. Do not move or I’ll loose a bolt through you!”

  His finger touched the trigger of his arbalest; the wicked square head of the quarrel pointed straight at the other’s broad breast. The stranger scowled, his dark face lowering. He showed no fear but seemed to hesitate, whether to obey the command or to chance a sudden break. Arus licked his lips and his blood turned cold as he plainly saw caution struggle with murderous intent in the foreigner’s cloudy eyes.

  Then he heard a door crash open and a medley of voices, and he drew a deep breath of grateful amazement. The stranger tensed and glared with the worried look of a startled beast of prey as half a dozen men entered the hall. All but one wore the scarlet tunic of the Numalian police. They were girt with short stabbing swords and carried bills long-shafted weapons, half pike, half ax.

  “What devil’s work is this?” exclaimed the foremost man, whose cold gray eyes and lean, keen features, no less than his civilian garments, set him apart from his burly companions.

  “By Mitra, Demetrio!” exclaimed Arus. “Fortune is assuredly with me tonight. I had no hope that the watch would answer the summons so swiftly or that you would be among them!”

  “I was making the rounds with Dionus,” answered Demetrio. “We were just passing the Temple when the watch-bell clanged. But who is this? Ishtar! The master of the Temple himself!”

  “None other,” replied Arus, “and foully murdered. It is my duty to walk about the building steadily all night, because, as you know, there is an immense amount of wealth stored here. Kallian Publico had rich patrons scholars, princes, and wealthy collectors of rarities. Well, only a few minutes ago I tried the door that opens on the portico and found it only bolted, not locked. The door is provided with a bolt, which works from either side, and also a great lock, which can be worked only from without. Only Kallian Publico had a key to that, the very key that now hangs at his girdle.

  “I knew something was amiss, for Kallian always locked the door with the great lock when he closed the Temple, and I had not seen him since he left at close of day for his villa in the suburbs. I have a key that works the bolt; I entered and found the body lying as you see it. I have not touched it.”

  “So.” Demetrio’s keen eyes swept the somber stranger. “And who is this?”

  “The murderer, without doubt!” cried Arus. “He came from that door yonder. He is a northern barbarian of some sort perhaps a Hyperborean or a Bossonian.”

  “Who are you?” asked Demetrio.

  “I am Conan, a Cimmerian,” answered the barbarian.

  “Did you kill this man?”

  The Cimmerian shook his head.

  “Answer me!” snapped the questioner.

  An angry glint rose in the moody blue eyes. “I am no dog, to be spoken to thus!”

  “Oh, an insolent fellow!” sneered Demetrio’s companion, a big man wearing the insignia of prefect of police. “An independent cur! I’ll soon knock the impudence out of him. Here, you! Speak up! Why did you murder him?”

  “Just a moment, Dionus,” ordered Demetrio. “Fellow, I am chief of the Inquisitorial Council of the city of Numalia. You had best tell me why you are here and, if you are not the murderer, prove it.”

  The Cimmerian hesitated. He showed no fear but rather a slight bewilderment, as a barbarian does when confronted by the complexities of civilized systems, the workings of which are so baffling and mysterious to him.

  “While he thinks it over,” rapped Demetrio, turning to Arus, “tell me: Did you see Kallian Publico leave the Temple this evening?”

  “No, my lord; but he’s usually gone when I arrive to begin my sentry-go. The great door was bolted and locked.”

  “Could he have entered the building again without your having seen him?”

  “Why, it is possible but hardly probable. If he had returned from his villa, he would of course have come in his chariot, for the way is long and whoever heard of Kallian Publico traveling otherwise? Even if I had been on the other side of the Temple, I should have heard the wheels of the chariot on the cobblestones. And I’ve heard no such thing.”

  “And the door was locked earlier in the night?”

  “I’ll swear to it. I try all doors several times during the night. The door was locked on the
outside until perhaps half an hour ago that was the last time I tried it ere I found it unlocked.”

  “You heard no cries or sounds of struggle?”

  “No, sir. But that’s not strange, for the walls of the Temple are so thick that no sound can pass through them.”

  “Why go to all this trouble of questions and speculations?” complained the burly prefect. “Here’s our man, no doubt about it. Let’s take him to the Court of Justice. I’ll wring a confession from him if I have to smash his bones to a pulp.”

  Demetrio looked at the barbarian. “You understand what he said?” asked the inquisitor. “What have you to say?”

  “That any man who touches me will quickly be greeting his ancestors in Hell,” the Cimmerian ground between his powerful teeth, his eyes glinting angry flames.

  “Why did you come here, if not to kill this man?” pursued Demetrio. “I came to steal,” sullenly answered the other.

  “To steal what?”

  Conan hesitated. “Food.”

  “That’s a lie!” said Demetrio. “You knew there was no food here. Tell me the truth or – “

  The Cimmerian laid his hand on his sword hilt, and the gesture was as fraught with menace as the lifting of a tiger’s lip to bare its fangs. “Save your bullying for the cowards who fear you,” he growled. “I’m no city-bred Nemedian to cringe before your hired dogs. I’ve slain better men than you for less than this.”

  Dionus, who had opened his mouth to bellow in wrath, closed it again. The watchmen shifted their bills uncertainly and glanced at Demetrio for orders. Speechless at hearing the all-powerful police thus defied, they expected a command to seize the barbarian. But Demetrio did not give it. Arus glanced from one to the other, wondering what was going on in the keen brain behind Demetrio’s hawk face. Perhaps the magistrate feared to arouse the barbaric frenzy of the Cimmerian, or perhaps there was an honest doubt in his mind.

  “I have not accused you of killing Kallian,” he snapped. “But you must admit that appearances are against you. How did you enter the Temple?”

  “I hid in the shadows of the warehouse behind this building,” Conan answered grudgingly. “When this dog,” he jerked a thumb at Arus, “passed by and rounded the corner, I ran to the wall and scaled it “

  “A lie!” broke in Arus. “No man could climb that straight wall!”

  “Have you never seen a Cimmerian scale a sheer cliff?” asked Demetrio. “I am conducting this investigation. Go on, Conan.”

  “The corner is decorated with carvings,” said the Cimmerian. “It was easy to climb. I gained the roof before this dog came around the building again. I found a trap door, fastened with an iron bolt that went through it and was locked on the inside. I hewed the bolt in twain “

  Aras, remembering the thickness of the bolt, gasped and moved back from the barbarian, who scowled abstractedly at him and continued:

  “I passed through the trap door and entered an upper chamber. I did not pause but came straightway to the stair “

  “How did you know where the stair was? Only Kallian’s servants and his rich patrons were ever allowed in those upper rooms.”

  Conan stared in stubborn silence.

  “What did you do after you reached the stair?” demanded Demetrio.

  “I came straight down it,” muttered the Cimmerian. “It let into the chamber behind yonder curtained door. As I came down the stairs, I heard the opening of another door. When I looked through the hanging, I saw this dog standing over the dead man.”

  “Why did you come from your hiding place?”

  “Because at first I thought him another thief, come to steal that which –” The Cimmerian checked himself.

  “That which you yourself had come after!” finished Demetrio. “You did not tarry in the upper rooms, where the richest goods are stored. You were sent here by someone who knows the Temple well, to steal some special thing!”

  “And to kill Kallian Publico!” exclaimed Dionus. “By Mitra, we’ve hit it! Seize him, men well have a confession before morning!”

  With a foreign curse Conan leaped back, whipping out his sword with a viciousness that made the keen blade hum.

  “Back, if you value your curs’ lives!” he snarled. “Because you dare to torture shopkeepers and strip and beat harlots to make them talk, don’t think you can lay your fat paws on a hillman! Fumble with your bow, watchman, and I’ll burst your guts with my heel!”

  “Wait!” said Demetrio. “Call off your dogs, Dionus. I’m still not convinced that he is the murderer.” Demetrio leaned towards Dionus and whispered something that Arus could not catch, but which he suspected of being a plan to trick Conan into parting with his sword.

  “Very well,” grunted Dionus. “Fall back, men, but keep an eye on him.”

  “Give me your sword,” said Demetrio to Conan.

  “Take it if you can!” snarled Conan.

  The inquisitor shrugged. “Very well. But do not try to escape. Men with crossbows watch the house on the outside.”

  The barbarian lowered his blade, although he relaxed only slightly the tense watchfulness of his attitude. Demetrio turned again to the corpse.

  “Strangled,” he muttered. “Why strangle him when a sword stroke is so much quicker and surer? These Cimmerians are born sword in hand, as it were; I never heard of their killing a man in this manner.”

  “Perhaps to divert suspicion,” said Dionus.

  “Possibly.” Demetrio felt the body with experienced hands. “Dead at least half an hour. If Conan tells the truth about when he entered the Temple, he could hardly have slain the man before Arus entered. True, he might be lying he might have broken in earlier.”

  “I climbed the wall after Arus made his last round,” growled Conan.

  “So you say.” Demetrio brooded over the dead man’s throat, which had been crushed to a pulp of purplish flesh. The head sagged awry on splintered vertebrae. Demetrio shook his head in doubt. “Why should a murderer use a cable thicker than a man’s arm? And what terrible constriction could have so crushed his neck?”

  He rose and walked to the nearest door opening into the corridor.

  “Here is a bust knocked from a stand near the door,” he said, “and here the floor is scratched, and the hangings in the doorway are pulled awry. Kallian Publico must have been attacked in that room. Perhaps he broke away from his assailant, or dragged the fellow with him as he fled. Anyway, he staggered out into the corridor, where the murderer must have followed and finished him.”

  “And if this heathen isn’t the murderer, then where is he?” demanded the prefect.

  “I have not exonerated the Cimmerian yet,” said the inquisitor. “But we’ll investigate that room.”

  He halted and wheeled, listening. From the street sounded a rattle of chariot wheels, which approached and then abruptly ceased.

  “Dionus!” barked the inquisitor. “Send two men to find that chariot. Bring the driver here.”

  “From the sound,” said Arus, who was familiar with all the noises of the street, “I should say that it stopped in front of Promero’s house, just on the other side of the silk merchant’s shop.”

  “Who is Promero?” asked Demetrio.

  “Kallian Publico’s chief clerk.”

  “Fetch him here with the driver,” said Demetrio.

  Two guardsmen clomped away. Demetrio still studied the body; Dionus, Arus, and the remaining policemen watched Conan, who stood sword in hand like a bronze figure of brooding menace. Presently sandaled feet echoed outside, and the two guardsmen entered with a strongly-built, dark-skinned man in the leather helmet and long tunic of a charioteer, with a whip in his hand, and a small, timid-looking individual typical of that class which, risen from the ranks of artisans, supplies right-hand men for wealthy merchants and traders. The small man recoiled with a cry from the sprawling bulk on the floor.

  “Oh, I knew evil would come of this!” he wailed.

  Demetrio said: “You are Promero, the chief
clerk, I suppose. And you?”

  “Enaro, Kallian Publico’s charioteer.”

  “You do not seem overly moved at the sight of his corpse,” observed Demetrio.

  The dark eyes flashed. “Why should I be moved? Someone has only done that which I longed to do but dared not.”

  “So!” murmured the inquisitor. “Are you a free man?”

  Enaro’s eyes were bitter as he drew aside his tunic, showing the brand of the debtor slave on his shoulder.

  “Did you know your master was coming here tonight?”

  “Nay. I brought the chariot to the Temple this evening as usual. He entered it, and I drove toward his villa. However, before we came to the Palian Way, he ordered me to turn and drive him back. He seemed much agitated.”

  “And did you drive him back to the Temple?”

  “No. He bade me stop at Promero’s house. There he dismissed me, ordering me to return for him shortly after midnight.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Shortly after dusk. The streets were almost deserted.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I returned to the slave quarters, where I remained until it was time to go to Promero’s house. I drove straight there, and your men seized me as I talked with Promero in his door.”

  “Have you no idea why Kallian went to Promero’s house?”

  “He didn’t speak of his business to his slaves.”

  Demetrio turned to Promero. “What do you know about this?”

  “Naught.” The clerk’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

  “Did Kallian Publico come to your house as the charioteer says?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Only a short while. Then he left.”

  “Did he go from your house to the Temple?”

  “I do not know!” The clerk’s voice was shrill.

  “Why did he come to your house?”

  “To to talk matters of business with me.”

  “You lie,” said Demetrio. “Why did he come to your house?”