"As you command, Great Lord," the Khitans murmured together.
All would be well, Jhandar told himself. He had come too far to fail now. Too far.
Chapter XIV
Gray seas rolled under Foam Dancer's pitching bow, and a mist of foam carried across her deck. The triangular sail stood taut against the sky, where a pale yellow sun had sunk halfway from zenith to western horizon. At the stern a seaman, shorter than Conan but broader, leaned his not inconsiderable weight against the steering oar, but the rest of the crew for the most part lay sprawled among the bales of trade goods.
Conan stood easily, one hand gripping a stay. He was no sailor, but his time among the smugglers of Sultanapur had at least taught his stomach to weather the constant motion of a ship.
Akeba was not so fortunate. He straightened from bending over the rail-as he had done often since the vessel left Aghrapur-and said thickly, "A horse does not move so. Does it never stop?"
"Never," Conan said. But at a groan from the other he relented. "Sometimes it will be less, and in any case you will become used to it. Look at the Hyrkanians. They've made but a single voyage, yet show no illness."
Tamur and the other nomads squatted some distance in front of the single tail mast, their quiet murmurs melding with the creak of timbers and cording. They passed among themselves clay wine jugs and chunks of ripe white cheese, barely interrupting their talk to fill their mouths.
"I do not want to look at them," Akeba said, biting off each word. "I swear before Mitra that I know not which smells worse, rotted fish or mare's milk cheese."
Nearby, in the waist of the ship, a few of the sailors listened to Sharak. "... Thus did I strike with my staff of power," he gestured violently with his walking staff, "slaying three of the demons in the Blue Bull. Great were their lamentations and cries for mercy, but for such foul-hearted creatures as they I would know no mercy. Many more would I have transmuted to harmless smoke, blown away on the breeze, but they fled before me, back to their infernal regions, casting balls of fire to hinder my pursuit, as I...."
"Did he truly manage to harm one of the creatures?" Conan asked Akeba. "He has boasted of that staff for years, but never have I seen more from it than support for a tired back."
"I know not," Akeba said. He was making a visible effort to ignore his stomach, but his dark face bore a greenish pallor. "I saw him at the first, leaping about like a Farthii fire-dancer and flailing with his stick at whatever moved, then not again till we had fled to the street. Of the fire, however, I do know. 'Twas Ferian. He threw a lamp at one of the demons, harming the creature not at all, but scattering burning oil across a wall."
"And burned down his own tavern," Conan chuckled. "How it will pain him to build anew, though I little doubt he has the gold to do it ten times over."
Muktar, making his way aft from the necessary-a plank held out from the bow on a frame-paused by Conan. His beady eyes rolled to the sky, then to the Cimmerian's face. "Fog," he said, then chewed his thought a moment before adding, "by sunset. The Vilayet is treacherous." Clamping his mouth shut as though he had said more than he intended, he moved on toward the stern in a walk that would have seemed rolling on land, but here exactly compensated for the motion of the deck.
Conan grimly watched him go. "The further we sail from Aghrapur, the less he talks and the less I trust him."
"He wants the other half of his gold that you hold back. Besides, with the Hyrkanians we outnumber his crew."
Mention of the gold was unfortunate. After he paid the captain, Conan would have exactly eight pieces of gold in his pouch. In other times it would have seemed a tidy sum, but not so soon after having had a hundred. He found himself hoping to make a profit on the trade goods, and yet thoughts of profits and trading left a taste in his mouth as if he had been eating the Hyrkanians' ripest cheese.
"Mayhap," he said sourly. "Yet he would feed us to the fish and return to his smuggling, were he able.
He- What's the matter, man?"
Eyes bulging, Akeba swallowed rapidly, and with force. "Feed us to-" With a groan he doubled over the rail again, retching loudly and emptily. There was naught left in him to come up.
Yasbet came hurrying from the stern, casting frowns over her shoulder as she picked her way quickly among coiled ropes and wicker hampers or provisions. "I do not like this Captain Muktar," she announced to Conan. "He leers at me as if he would see me naked on a slave block."
Conan had declared her saffron robe unsuited for a sea voyage, and she had shown no reluctance to rid herself of that reminder of the cult. Now she wore a short leather jerkin, laced halfway up the front, over a gray wool tunic, with trousers of the same material and knee-high red boots. It was't man's garb, but the way the coarse wool clung to her form left no doubt there was a woman inside.
"You've no need to fear," Conan said firmly. Perhaps he should have a talk with Muktar in private. With his fists. And the captain was not the only one. His icy gaze caught the leering glances of a dozen sailors directed at her.
"I've no fear of anything so long as you are with me," she said, and innocently pressed a full breast against his arm. At least, he thought it was innocently. "But what is the matter with Akeba, Conan?" She herself had showed no effects from the roughest seas.
"He's ill."
"I am so sorry. Perhaps if I brought him some soup?"
"Erlik take the woman," Akeba moaned faintly.
"I think not just now," Conan laughed. Taking Yasbet's arm he led her away from the heaving form on the rail and seated her on an upturned keg before him. His face was serious now.
"Why look you so glum, Conan?" she asked.
"An there is trouble," he said quietly, "here or ashore, stay close to me, or to Akeba if you cannot get to me. Sick or not, he'll protect you. Does the worst come, Sharak will help you escape. He is no fighter, but no man lives so long as he without learning to survive."
A small frown creased her forehead. When he was done, she exclaimed, "Why do you speak as if you might not be with me?"
"No man knows what comes, girl, and I would see you safe."
"I thought so," she said with a warmth and happiness he did not understand. "I wished it to be so."
"As a last resort, trust Tamur, but only if there is no other way" He thought the nomad was the best of the lot, the least likely to betray a trust, but it was best not to test him too far. As the ancient saying held, he who took a Hyrkanian friend should pay his burial fee beforetime. "Put no trust in any of the rest, though, not even if it means you must find your way alone."
"But you will be here to protect me," she smiled. "I know it."
Conan growled, at a loss to make her listen. By bringing her along, for all he had done it for the best, he had exposed her to danger as great as Jhandar's, if different in kind. How could he bring that home to her? If only she were capable of her own protection. Her own....
Rummaging in the bales of trade goods, the Cimmerian dug out a Nemedian sica, its short blade unsharpened. The Hyrkanian nomads liked proof that a sword came to them fresh from the forge, such proof as would be given by watching the first edge put on blunt steel.
He flipped the shortsword in the air, catching it by the blade, and thrust the hilt at Yasbet. She stared at it wonderingly,
"Take it, girl," he said.
Hesitantly she put a hand to the leather-wrapped hilt. He released his grip, and she gasped, almost dropping the weapon. "'Tis heavy," she said, half-laughing.
"You've likely worn heavier necklaces, girl. You'll be used to the weight in your hand before we reach Hyrkania."
"Used to it?"
Her yelp of consternation brought chortles and hoots from three nearby sailors. The Hyrkanians looked up, still eating; Tamur's face split into an open grin.
Conan ignored them as best he could, firmly putting down the thought of hurling one or two over the side as a lesson for the others. "The broadsword is too heavy," he said, glowering at the girl. "Tulwar and yatag
han are lighter, but there is no time to teach the use of either before we land. And learn the blade you will."
She stared at him silently with wide, liquid eyes, clutching the sword to her breasts with both hands.
Raucous laughter rolled down the deck, and Muktar followed close behind the sound of his merriment.
"A woman! You intend to teach a woman the sword?"
Conan bit back an oath, and contented himself with growling, "Anyone can learn the sword."
"Will you teach children next? This one," Muktar crowed to his crew, "will teach sheep to conquer the world." Their mirth rose with his, and their comments became ribald.
Conan ground his teeth, his anger flashing to the heat of a blade in the smith-fire. This fat, lecherous ape called itself a man? "A gold piece says in the tenth part of a glass I can teach her to defeat any of these goats who follow you!"
Muktar tugged at his beard, the smile now twisting his mouth into an emblem of hatred. "A gold piece?"
he sneered. "I'd wager five on the ship's cook."
"Five," Conan snapped. "Done!"
"Talk to her, then, barbar." The captain's voice was suddenly oily and treacherous. "Talk to the wench, and we'll see if she can uphold your boasting."
Already Conan was wishing his words unsaid, but the gods, as usual in such cases, did not listen. He drew Yasbet aside and adjusted her hands on the sword hilt.
"Hold it so, girl." Her hand was unresisting-and gripped with as much strength as bread dough, or so it seemed to him. She had not taken her eyes from his face. "Mitre blast your hide, girl," he growled. "Clasp the hilt as you would a hand."
"You truly believe that I can do this," she said suddenly. There was wonder in her voice, and on her face.
"You believe that I can learn to use a sword. And defeat a man."
"I'd not have wagered on you, else," he muttered, then sighed. "I have known women who handled a blade as well as any man, and better than most. 'Tis not a weapon of brute muscle, as is an axe. The need is for endurance, and agility and quickness of hand. Only a fool denies a woman can be agile, or quick."
"But-to defeat a man!" she breathed. "I have never even held a sword before." Abruptly she frowned at the blade. "This will not cut. Swords are supposed to cut. Even I know that."
Conan mouthed a silent prayer. "I chose it for that reason, for practice. Now it will serve you better than another. The point can still draw blood, but you'll not kill this sailor by accident, so I'll not have to kill Muktar."
"I see," she said, nodding happily. Her face firmed, and she started past him, but he seized her arm.
"Not yet, wench," he laughed softly. "First listen. These smugglers are deadly with a knife, especially in the dark, but they are no warriors in the daylight." He paused for that to sink in, then added. "That being so, were this a true fight, he would likely kill you in the space of three breaths."
Dismay painted her face. "Then how-"
"By remembering that you can run. By encouraging his contempt for you, and using it."
"I will not," she protested hotly. "I have as much pride as any man, including you."
"But no skill, as yet. You must win by trickery, and by surprise, for now. Skill will come later. Strike only when he is off balance. At all other times, run. Throw whatever comes to hand, at his head or at his feet, but never at his sword for those objects he will easily knock aside. Let him think that you are panicked.
Scream if you wish, but do not let the screaming seize you."
"I will not scream," she said sullenly.
He suppressed a smile. "It would but make him easier to defeat, for he would see you the more as a woman and the less as an opponent."
"But the sword. What do I do with the sword?"
"Beat him with it," he said, and laughed at her look of complete uncomprehension. "Think of the sword as a stick, girl," Understanding dawned on her features; she hefted the sica with both hands like a club. "And forget not to poke him" he added. "Such as these usually think only to hack forgetting a sword has a point. You remember it, and you'll win."
"How long will you talk to the wench?" Muktar shouted. "Your minutes are gone. An you talk long enough, perhaps Bayan will grow old, and even your jade can defeat him."
Beside the bearded sea captain stood a wiry man of middle height, his sun-darkened torso stripped to the waist. With his bare tulwar he drew gleaming circles of steel, first to one side then the other, a tight smile showing yellowed teeth.
Conan's heart sank. He had hoped Muktar would indeed choose his fat ship's cook, or one of the bigger men of the crew, so as to intimidate Yasbet with her opponent's sheer size. Thus Yasbet's agility would count for more. Even if it meant eating his words, he could not allow her to be hurt. A bitter taste on his tongue, he opened his mouth to end it.
Yasbet strode out to meet the seaman before Conan could speak, shortsword gripped in her two small hands. She fixed the man with a defiant glare. "Bayan, are you called?" she sneered. "From the look of you, it should be Baya, for you have about you a womanish air."
Conan stood with his mouth still open, staring at her. Had the wench gone mad?
Bayan's dark eyes seemed about to pop from his narrow head. "I will make you beg me to prove my manhood to you," he snarled.
"Muktar!" Conan called. Yasbet looked at him, pleading in her eyes, and despite himself he changed what he had been about to say. "This is but a demonstration, Muktar. No more. Does he harm her, you'll die a heartbeat after he does."
The bearded man jerked his head in a reluctant nod. Leaning close to Bayan he began whispering with low urgency.
The wiry sailor refused to listen. Raising his curved blade on high, he leaped toward Yasbet, a snarling grimace on his face and a terrible ululating cry rising from his mouth.
Conan put a hand to his sword hilt.
Bayan landed before her without striking, though, and it was immediately obvious that he thought to frighten her into immediate surrender. His grimace became a gloating smile.
Yasbet's face paled, but with a shout of her own she thrust the sword into the seaman's midsection. The unsharpened blade could not penetrate far, but the point was enough to start a narrow stream of blood, and the force of the blow bulged Bayan's eyes.
He gagged and staggered, but she did not rest. Clumsily, but swiftly, she brought the blunted blade down like a club on the shoulder of his sword arm. Bayan's scream was not of his choosing, this time. His blade dropped from a hand suddenly useless. Before the tulwar struck the deck Yasbet caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head, splitting his scalp to the bone. With a groan Bayan sank to his knees.
Conan watched in amazement as the wiry sailor tried desperately to crawl away. Yasbet pursued him across the deck, beating at his shoulders and back with the edgeless steel. Yelping, Bayan found himself against the rail. At one and the same time he tried to curl himself into a ball and claw his way through the wood to safety.
"Surrender!" Yasbet demanded, standing above him like a fury. She stabbed at Bayan's buttocks, drawing a howl and a stain of red on his dirty once-white trousers.
Hand on his dagger, Muktar started toward her, a growl rising in his throat. Suddenly Conan's blade was a shining barrier before the captain's eyes.
"She won, did she not?" the young Cimmerian asked softly. "And you owe me five gold pieces. Or shall I shave your beard at the shoulders?"
Another shriek came from Bayan; the other buttock of his trousers bore a spreading red patch as well, now.
"She won," Muktar muttered. He flinched as Conan caressed his beard with the broadsword, then almost shouted, "The wench won!"
"See that this goes no further," Conan said warningly. He got a reluctant nod in reply. When the Cimmerian thrust out his palm, the gold coins were counted into it with even greater reluctance.
"I won!" Yasbet shouted. Waving her shortsword above her head, she capered gaily about the deck "I won!"
Conan sheathed his blade and swept her
into the air, swinging her in a circle. "Did I not say that you would?"
"You did!" she laughed. "Oh, you did! On my oath, I will believe anything that you tell me from this moment. Anything."
He started to lower her feet to the deck, but her arms wove about his neck, and in some fashion he found himself kissing her. A pleasant armful, indeed, he thought. Soft round breasts flattened against his broad chest.
Abruptly he pulled her loose and set her firmly on the deck. "Practice, girl. There's a mort of practice to be done before I grind an edge on that blade for you. And you did not fight as I told you. I should take a switch to you for that. You could have been hurt."
"But, Conan," she protested, her face falling.
"Place your feet so," he said, demonstrating, "for balance. Do it, girl!"
Sullenly she complied, and he began to show her the exercises in the use of the short blade. That was the problem, he thought grimly, about setting out to protect a wench. Sooner or later you found yourself protecting her from you.
Chapter XV
Squatting easily on his heels against the pitching of the ship as it breasted long swells, Conan watched Yasbet work her blunted blade against a leather-wrapped bale of cloaks and tunics. Despite a freshening wind, sweat rolled down her face, but already she had gone ten times as long as she had managed the first day. She still wore her mannish garb, but had left off the woolen tunic, complaining that the coarse fabric scratched. The full curves of her breasts swelled at the lacings of her jerkin, threatening to burst the rawhide cords at her every exertion.
Sword arm dropping wearily, she looked at him with artistic pleading in her eyes. "Please, Conan, let me retire to my tent." That tent, no more than a rough structure of grimy canvas, had been his idea, both to keep her from the constant wetting of sudden squalls and to shelter her sleep from lustful eyes. "Please?
Already I will be sore."
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