The Cimmerian took another drink, walking past the warrior. "I just bought it." He put a hand on the heavy door and pushed through.
Chapter Two
The room beyond the door was long and narrow, dominated by a lengthy rectangular table set with three brass candelabra. All four walls were hung with dark curtains thickly woven with brocade to deaden sound. At the table's far end the man in the green-velvet cowl sat motionless in a high-backed chair. The candle flames danced briefly in the draft from the opened door. Conan strode into the room, stopped at the base of the table, and looked down its length at the man who had summoned him.
"You are Conan of Cimmeria." The voice was strong and masculine, yet possessed a peculiar underlying tremor, as if it took an effort to speak.
"I am," rumbled the barbarian. "And who are you?"
The dark-armored warrior pushed the door closed behind him and stepped up beside the Cimmerian.
"Dog," gritted the bearded warrior, "you are here to answer questions, not to ask them."
"Gulbanda!" The cowled man raised a green-gloved hand and Conan saw that it trembled. "Come stand beside me. I'll make a few indulgences for a simple barbarian." The warrior stalked to his master's side and stood there sullenly, mailed arms crossed over his deep chest.
"Who I am is of little importance to you. It is important only that you know that if you perform a service for me, I shall make you a rich man," said the man in green.
"Why me?"
Hoarse, wheezing laughter came from within the velvet hood. The green man gestured to Gulbanda beside him.
"My bodyguard spotted you coming into Akkharia and recognized you. I have since done some investigating of my own and found that you may well live up to your distinctive reputation."
"Recognized me?" Conan's blue eyes shifted hotly from one man to the other.
"Some years ago I saw you taken by the City Guard of Shadizar. Men knew you as a great thief." Gulbanda spoke with reluctance, apparently finding even secondhand praise of the Cimmerian distasteful. The man in velvet leaned forward intently, placing both hands flat upon the table.
"It is said that you stole the Eye of Erlik and the Hesharkna Tiara. An old Zamoran thief even told me that you had taken the Heart of the Elephant from Yara's tower in Arenjun."
"That's a lie," said Conan flatly.
"No matter," purred the man in green. "No matter. Let us simply agree that you are a thief among thieves and that I need such a man. I will pay you a hundredfold more for one night's work than you would receive for a full month of selling your sword as a lowly mercenary for King Sumuabi."
Conan dragged a chair away from the table and sat down heavily. He drank from his wine jug and leaned back in the chair.
"What is it that you would have me do?"
The green man produced a rolled scroll of parchment from a sleeve and slid it down the length of the table to Conan, who caught and unrolled it.
"That is a precise map of the mansion of Lady Zelandra. Do you know of her?"
"She is a sorceress seeking position in King Sumuabi's court, is she not?" Conan's tone was skeptical.
"That is true. Since the death of King Sumuabi's court wizard, several pretenders to his position have come forward. Lady Zelandra is among them. Be assured that her skills are greatly overrated."
The barbarian frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Talk of magic set him ill at ease.
"Cimmerian," continued the man in green, "tonight you shall break into the house of the Lady Zelandra. There you will slay her and steal for me a silver box. The box is the twin of this one."
A delicately chased silver casket, the size of a man's fists held together, was placed upon the table. It gleamed in the yellow candlelight.
"I am told by a most reliable source that Zelandra's box is like my own in every detail. It is vital that you secure this small casket and bring it directly to me. You may take anything else in the mansion that catches your eye. Anything else is yours. The casket will be kept in her inner chambers, probably beside her bed. I must have it."
As he spoke, the man in green's voice grew louder, and his words tumbled urgently over one another. When he stopped, "his breathing was raggedly distinct in the soundproofed room. His gloved, hands twitched where he held them on the table.
Conan drew himself up straight in his chair. A corded forearm slid slowly along its armrest until the Cimmerian's right hand hung idly over the worn hilt of his broadsword.
"For all your studies you seem to know me not at all," Conan said tersely. "I am not an assassin, nor do I make war upon women. Seek another for this task." The green-cowled man flinched as if slapped.
Beside him, Gulbanda's features hardened into a mask of rage.
"I will pay," croaked the green man in a strangled voice, "a roomful of gold. You'll never need to work again. You could be a rich man, with the leisure to wench and carouse the rest of your life."
Gulbanda's arms dropped to his sides and Conan's hand fell upon his hilt. A deadly tension coiled in the closed room, poisonous as an adder.
"Seek another for this task," repeated the barbarian.
"You would deny me?" The cowled man's tone fell to a caustic hiss. "So be it. Think you that my investigations halted with your career as a thief? I know well your whereabouts these past few years, Amra! There is no city in Shem that would not gleefully hang the bloodiest pirate of the Western Ocean from a gibbet! You will do as I say or I'll see that you spend your last days in the hands of King Sumuabi's Sabatean torturers!"
Conan's response was an explosive burst of action that sent his chair hurtling back against the door as he sprang forward, toward the two men, his blade whistling from its scabbard. The man in green cried out in wordless shock, falling sideways from his chair even as Gulbanda stepped in to shield him from the infuriated barbarian. The bodyguard's blade came out just as Conan's came down. Steel rang on steel as Gulbanda blocked the heavy broadsword's stroke, staggering under the terrific impact. The warrior had barely time to be astonished at his adversary's strength before he found himself frenziedly fending off a flurry of savage blows. Wielding his massive blade as lightly as if it were a slender rapier, the Cimmerian put the bodyguard on a desperate defensive, driving him back against the curtained wall and holding him there. Gulbanda, trapped in a relentless storm of steel, saw Conan's face go grim with intent and felt a chill lance his bowels. The bodyguard blocked each sledgehammer blow by inches, hoping that the barbarian's strength would falter or that the raging attack would flag, if only for a moment.
Abruptly, his wishes were granted as Conan seemed to overextend himself. A hard horizontal slash glanced from Gulbanda's guard and swung wide, leaving the barbarian's torso open to a thrust. As the bodyguard lunged forward to transfix the Cimmerian on his point, Conan's sword reversed itself with impossible speed. The barbarian's blade struck the hilt and the fist that gripped it, tearing the sword and two fingers from Gulbanda's hand on a flying ribbon of blood. The warrior fell back against the wall with a howl of animal agony, clutching his mangled hand and tangling himself in the drapery. With feline suppleness Conan spun about to face his second foe.
The man in the green cowl stood weaponless beside his chair. His right hand made a sudden throwing motion and something tinkled against the mail over Conan's chest. The barbarian recoiled.
He looked down and saw that there was moisture shining on his breast and broken slivers of glass glittering upon the floor. A wave of dizziness swept through his frame and a sharp, sweet odor filled his nostrils. Conan took a staggering step forward, raising a sword grown almost too heavy to hold. His foe had become an emerald blur.
"Damn you," he whispered through lips gone numb. The earth tilted violently beneath his feet, and he never felt himself hit the floor.
Chapter Three
-
Shamtare sat in the corner of a bar he didn't know and drank wine without tasting it. He stared into his chipped ceramic mug, taking no notice o
f those around him. The mercenary had walked into the first tavern he had found, sat down, and commenced drinking in earnest. Since then his fear had faded, replaced by a searing shame.
Shamtare the Shemite had been a mercenary for almost twenty-five years and feared no combatant who would confront him with muscle and steel.
He had seen violence aplenty in more battles than he could remember.
But ever since he had watched half his troop.swallowed screaming by a black cloud conjured up by a Zuagir shaman, Shamtare had no love of sorcery. It was unnatural, unmanly, and it turned his bones to water.
The mercenary took another deep pull at his wine, feeling a little less than manly himself.
"Ho, white brother." A dark figure sat at his table, pulling up a chair and leaning forward confidentially. Shamtare blinked, setting his cup down. The newcomer was a slim Kushite in the brightly decorated armor of the mercenary company of Atlach the Mace. A thick cluster of fat braids was bound behind his head. Crimson-dyed ostrich feathers were woven into the shoulders of his white cloak.
"Have you looked about yourself, friend?" The black's voice was deep and vaguely amused. 'This tavern is frequented by those riding for Atlach the Mace. Do you see anyone from Mamluke's outfit except yourself?"
Shamtare took in his surroundings for the first time. His stomach clenched.
"Indeed," continued his new companion, "do you see anyone of your color at all?" He waited for the Shemite to shake his head in response. "Now, all's the same to me. We fight for the same king, and against the same enemies, yet there are those who see all freelance troops as rivals. In fact, some of the men here are of such a mind. Thus far only your graying hair has kept you from being accosted by these characters. Be wise, white brother, and take your thirst elsewhere."
Shamtare stood, touched his brow in a salute, and headed for the door.
The night breeze was cool along the dim street. He walked to the corner and found himself looking for a tall barbarian among the passersby. He could stand no more. Setting his teeth, Shamtare walked back to the tavern in which he had met Conan the Cimmerian. He thrust thoughts of the green-clad man from his mind as he strode in the door.
The tavern was quieter now, as the dinner hour was past and the greater revels of the evening were yet to commence. The roast pig was gone from its table, and many of the torches had been allowed to burn low. The gamblers in the corner were still busy, but now they wagered in softer, more earnest tones. Shamtare saw no sign of the barbarian. He hailed the barkeep.
"Good evening. Might I have a word with you?"
"If you don't dally about it. I've a tavern to run." The barkeep mopped at his balding pate with a greasy rag. A tattered yellow beard could not obscure his sagging jowls and sour expression.
"There was a tall, black-haired barbarian in here earlier. Did you see him leave?"
"I saw no barbarian. It's bad business to carry tales about customers."
The barkeep turned as if to walk away from Shamtare, but the mercenary's hand fell upon his shoulder and arrested his progress.
"A moment more," said Shamtare quietly. "What is that room in the back for?"
"Private parties for paying customers. Take your hand off me."
"Who paid for its use tonight?"
"Take your hand off me, mercenary, or I'll tell my sons to call the city guard." Shamtare's hand dropped away from the barkeep's shoulder and fell upon the hilt of his sword.
"I don't know the man's name," continued the barkeep hastily. "I just know that he has had his way in this part of the city for almost three moons. He is said to be a wizard, and his gold is good. These are reasons enough for me to rent him the room and leave him in peace."
Shamtare turned from the barkeep and made his way to the rear of the tavern. His sword whispered from its sheath as he hit the door to the back room. He almost tripped over a fallen chair that lay just within.
Three brightly lit candelabra were set upon the room's central table.
Their warm glow revealed an empty chamber.
Dark blood shone wetly on the carpet, and more spattered the woven curtains. The point of Shamtare's sword lowered to the floor. He made his way quickly across the room, to where the drapes hung awry behind the high-backed chair. A door was concealed there, obscured by the curtains. It swung open at his touch, revealing a black alley, choked with stinking refuse. Shamtare thrust his head into the dark passage, looked about, and swore foully.
"Lose your barbarian friend?" The barkeep had followed him into the chamber. His voice was not unsympathetic. "It wouldn't be the first time that someone had audience with the Green Man and wasn't seen again. I won't even let the serving girls come back here anymore. It is said that the Green Man wishes to become King Sumuabi's new mage and will let nothing stand between himself and his goal. I'm sorry about your friend. A wise man doesn't trifle with sorcery."
"I know that," said Shamtare.
"Come, there is nothing to be done now. Perhaps the Green Man hasn't slain him. I'll buy you a mug of wine."
"Damn." Shamtare sheathed his sword.
"That's better," said the barkeep. "Was the barbarian an old friend of yours?"
"No, a new friend who'll never get to be an old one."
"Forget him, then. His turn today, our turn tomorrow. Come on."
The stout mercenary followed the barkeep from the back room to the bar.
He took a seat and accepted the man's offer of a mug of wine. Shamtare recognized the vintage as one of the best out of Ghaza, yet it seemed, at that moment, strangely bitter.
Chapter Four
The first thing that Conan became aware of was a sultry breeze smelling of moist earth. He blinked and a vortex of nausea roiled in his guts.
He was seated in a heavily built steel chair. Metal bands held his ankles, calves, wrists, and belly tightly in place. Slouched forward, his head hanging, Conan focused his bleary eyes and saw that the chair was bolted to the chamber's glossy marble floor. He had vague memories, little more than disjointed impressions, of being dragged along a noisome alleyway before being tossed bodily into a wagon full of damp straw.
A gust of warm air stirred his hair, and he raised his head with ponderous effort in order to look about. Before him, bronze-bound double doors of glass opened out into the night, revealing a shadowed garden that sloped down and away. Beyond, through a screen of trees, the lights of Akkharia lay spread out like spilled gems on an ebony table. There was no moon, but the stars told him that it was almost midnight.
"Awake, dog?" There were footfalls behind him. It was Gulbanda, his right hand bound in a white bandage. He walked a leisurely circle around the helpless Cimmerian, who silently set all of his strength to testing his bonds. The bodyguard saw the powerful muscles of Conan's arms and legs leap out into ridged relief and laughed humorlessly. His dark eyes flashed in the dim room.
"You cannot break free. Your efforts would be better spent begging me to make your death swift and easy." Gulbanda drew to a halt in front of the.barbarian and pulled a dagger from its sheath with great deliberation. Conan relaxed, staring straight ahead in stoic silence.
The bared blade made a silvery flourish before the Cimmerian's expressionless face.
"Speak." The dagger came forward until its point indented the skin beneath Conan's right eye. "You have nothing to say?"
Gulbanda moved the blade to the barbarian's forearm and lay the cold steel on bronzed skin. "Why don't you beg your heathen gods for rescue?
They might answer if you cried out to them loudly enough."
The razor-sharp edge drew slowly across flesh and a thin scarlet stream broke free in its wake. Conan bared his teeth in a feral snarl, fixing his eyes upon Gulbanda with such elemental hatred that his tormentor withdrew the knife and took an involuntary step backward.
"Gulbanda, you are mistreating our guest." The dagger made a hasty return to its sheath as the warrior retreated to a dark corner of the room.
"I did him
no harm," he said in a voice thick with frustration.
"I should hope not," said the man in the green cowl. "He has important work to do tonight." The robed man stood over Conan, inspecting the shallow but painful gash inflicted by his servant. The hood lay in heavy folds about his shoulders, baring his head. He was a black man with sharp, aristocratic features. A high-domed forehead and a strong jaw might have made him handsome, but there was a weathered, weary aspect to his face that belied his obvious youth. The eyes were as rheumy and reddened as those of an old man. The skin of his face appeared to hang on his skull, slack and dull as a mask. Conan noticed a greenish smear beneath his captor's lower lip. Under the barbarian's gaze, he turned away as if ashamed, wiping his mouth on a velvet sleeve.
"You must learn to show restraint, Gulbanda. This man is a valuable tool. If you treat your tools well, they will serve you well." The black man turned back to Conan, pulled a lace handkerchief from his robe, and daubed it gently in the blood on the Cimmerian's forearm.
Folding the cloth with care, he replaced it in his pocket. He gazed down at Conan, his eyes dark wells of fathomless emotion.
"I am Shakar the Keshanian. Do you know me?"
"No, but you must be another who seeks to become King Sumuabi's toy mage. What did you do to me?"
"You have some wit for a barbarian. I broke a glass ball upon your breast. The ball was filled with a weak distillate of the Black Lotus.
The fumes produce unconsciousness but do no lasting harm. You will feel dizzy and ill for a time, though. I hope that this will not inconvenience you on your mission tonight."
Conan spat at Shakar's feet. "Get your lapdog to run your errands." He jerked his head toward Gulbanda. "I'll not serve you."
Shakar nodded absently, pressing gloved hands together and turning away from his prisoner. He strode to a low chest of drawers set against one of the marble walls.
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