She beamed. 'Oh, thank you!' She cast her arms around his neck and kissed his slightly bristled cheek. He had not shaved in several days.
Now it was Conan who sighed. He had always thought it foolish to take in wounded birds. At least, he thought, this time he had taken in a pretty one.
A tiny wayside market stood at the junction of the high road with the side road to Sicas. Conan questioned a seller of clothes about their route while Brita went to a fruit-seller's booth. She had pointed out, practically, that the produce here would certainly be cheaper than in the town.
'Aye, that is the road to Sicas,' said the clothier. 'And if I were you, I'd ride straight on to Shamar. Sicas is a wicked place.'
'I like wicked places,' Conan told him.
'So do I, within reason. But Sicas is more than just wicked.'
'What makes it so bad?' Conan asked.
'I could spend all day telling you, but since you're going there anyway, you'll find out all too soon. Good luck to you.'
Conan remounted and soon Brita rejoined him, her shawl now bulging with fresh fruits. He lifted her to the saddle before him and began to ride down the side road toward Sicas. Brita's eyes sparkled and she seemed exhilarated.
'What has changed your mood?' he asked.
'I spoke to some vendors back there,' she reported. 'They said that two people went toward Sicas a few days ago, riding from the direction of Tarantia. They match exactly the description of Asdras and Ylla.''
'Well, that's something, anyway,' Conan grumbled. He had few hopes for the success of the woman's mission.
In the late afternoon they stopped on a hilltop overlooking Sicas. The view was serene for a town with such an odious reputation. Its shape was triangular, with the two rivers joining at the apex. The base of the triangle was a wall built across the peninsula of land formed by the converging rivers. A moat had been dug at the foot of the wall, linking the River Fury on the east with the Ossar on the west. A stone bridge built on arches crossed the Fury just north of the wall. In the distance, on the other side of the Ossar, Conan could just make out a cluster of structures. This must be the silver mine, he thought.
'No sense waiting,' he said, heading the horse down the hill.
III
The City of Rogues
The stone bridge rang hollowly beneath the horse's steel-shod hooves as Conan rode across, Brita propped on the saddle before him. On the far side of the bridge the road turned right and ran a quarter-mile to the single gate in the town's wall. They stopped at the gate and were looked over by a singularly scruffy guard. The man wore a dingy cuirass and a dented helmet, and he leaned on a halberd that appeared to be at least a hundred years old.
'Who're you?' the man demanded.
'Conan of Cimmeria and Brita of Tarantia,' Conan answered. 'We come to Sicas on legitimate business.'
'D'you think anybody cares? All sorts of fools ride into this town. Some of them leave by way of this gate, but most of them leave by way of the river, floating.' Even from the height of his saddle, Conan could smell the sour wine on the man's breath.
'That being the case,' the Cimmerian said, 'you'll not mind standing aside to let us pass.'
'The fee's two silver marks,' the guard said sullenly.
'A mark for the town and a mark for you, eh?' Conan said.
'What's it to you? A man must make a living.'
'I will pay him,' Brita offered quietly. 'We do not want trouble with the authorities.'
'No, you'll not,' Conan grumbled. He reached into his pouch and withdrew four marks of silver, which he tossed to the guard. 'Now we've paid. Let us pass.'
The man stood aside and bowed with exaggerated courtesy. 'Welcome to our fair city, strangers. You'll pay gold to get out again.'
They passed beneath the lintel and into the town. 'This town is living up to its reputation already,' Conan muttered.
'It is just the sort of place to attract Asdras,' Brita assured him.
A single wide street led from the gate into the heart of the town. All of the side streets were narrow and twisted. They had not passed the length of two blocks when they came upon a violent commotion.
'Draw!' shouted a voice. Instinctively, Conan gripped the throat of his sheath and pressed his thumb against the hilt of his sword, loosening it from the slight grip of the scabbard. But the shout was not for him. Three young men dressed in red leather lad a fourth backed against a wall. The man at bay was a black-bearded, scar-faced fellow with a cast in one eye. He snatched forth a straight back-sword with a half-basket hilt. The three drew Khorajan sabres. These weapons had long, curving blades and handles long enough to grip with both hands.
'Cowards!' shouted the black-bearded man. He slashed at one of the youths, who jumped back, laughing. Another stepped in and slashed the lone man's exposed side. The man gasped and t lapped a hand to the wound, whirling to face this assailant. As ho did, he exposed his back to the third, who slashed him obliquely from shoulder to hip.
Screaming, the wounded man arched backward, trying vainly in keep his sword between himself and his attackers. One red-clad assassin struck the sword from his hand even as another thrust his blade into the man's belly. The bearded one collapsed to the cobbles writhing, his arms wrapped about his midriff. The laughing men ran him through a few more times, then walked away, wiping their blades. At last the victim was still as a pool of blood widened around him.
Brita shuddered and buried her face against Conan's armoured chest. 'Mitra! What kind of place is this?'
'At a guess,' Conan said, 'it's a place so lawless that men commit murder in public places in broad daylight with no fear of punishment.'
One of the men caught sight of the Cimmerian and halted, regarding him insolently. 'What are you looking at, outlander?'
'I always like to see experts at their work,' Conan said.
Another youth spoke. 'I think this black-haired barbarian saw something that displeased him. Is that so, foreigner?'
'Three, by my count, but rest easy. I fight for pay, so I've no quarrel with you.'
'See that you keep to that course, savage,' said the first speaker. 'No one lives long who earns our displeasure.' The three sheathed their swords and swaggered away. The people who thronged the street stepped quickly out of their way. Nobody took note of the corpse, except to avoid the pool of blood. Conan nudged his horse onward, and it shied sideways as it passed the corpse, upset by the smell of fresh-spilled blood.
Two streets beyond the fight scene, he saw an inn sign at the intersection of a narrow street. He turned the horse into the byway, which ran for no more than ten paces, then opened onto a broad courtyard. The courtyard was surrounded by three galleried stories of rooms. At street level there was a stable on one side and a tavern on the other. A hostler took the horse's reins as Conan lowered Brita to the pavement. Dismounting, the Cimmerian addressed the man.
'Hold the beast. I want a look at this place before I see to the animal's stabling.' They went into the tavern, where a chubby, white-haired man came forward wearing a professional smile but eyeing sceptically Conan's dangerous looks and ready weaponry.
'Welcome, sir and lady. Do you seek lodging?'
'We do,' Conan said. 'We need two rooms.'
'Have you two that adjoin?' Brita asked hastily.
'Aye. A silver mark per room each night. A quarter-mark each day for the horse's stabling and feed. The rooms you need are on the top floor.'
'Let's have a look at them,' Conan said. They followed the man outside and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The landlord opened two rooms that were connected by a low door; the quarters were reasonably spacious and comfortable looking. The Cimmerian went to a bed and abruptly threw back the covers.
'No bedbugs, sir,' said the host.
'Well, I see none, at any rate. I've stayed at inns where I had to fight the bed vermin off with a sword.' He looked up. There were skylights in the ceiling, admitting abundant light.
'We allow no brazier
s in the rooms,' the landlord said. 'If you wish, you may have extra blankets, and should you desire it, the cooks will heat a brick for you to set at your feet, but you may have no open fires save for candles.'
'We'll take these,' Conan said.
'Have you a bathhouse?' Brita asked.
'Aye, next to the kitchen.'
'Very well,' Conan said, handing him the money. 'Tell the hostler to stable the horse and bring up my saddle, pad and bags.'
'I shall. In the taproom, the first mug of ale is on the house. trust that all will please you here. If not, I am at your service.' The man bowed his way out.
Conan unbuckled his brigantine and tossed it onto his bed. 'I think I'll go in search of that ale.'
'And I will find that bathhouse,' Brita said. 'I will speak with you this evening.' She glanced at the skylight. 'I may have lime enough to go out and make some inquiries before dark.'
'Be careful, then,' Conan cautioned. When his saddle and hags were brought up, he stowed them before going down the stairs and into the tavern. He was not merely thirsty; he knew that there was no better place than a bar room in which to pick up the gossip of a town.
In the taproom, men and women sat at long wooden tables eating or stood at the bar drinking. At one end of the room, spits turned at an open hearth, where fat dripped hissing onto the coals. The air was full of a thin, savoury smoke. Conan crossed to the bar. Behind it, a bald man wearing an apron tended his taps, bottles and cups.
'A new guest?' he asked.
'Aye.'
'Light ale or dark? Or would you prefer wine?'
'Dark ale,' Conan said. The barkeep set a tall wooden tankard before him, crested with a thin foam. Conan raised it and drank deep. It was uncommonly good ale. He surveyed the room and its occupants, noting that all of the men were armed. He had observed the same thing out in the street. Even those who clearly were not fighting men were girded with steel, and many wore light armour. In the confines of the taproom, they were nervous as well, starting at every loud sound.
'This is a jumpy crowd,' Conan commented.
'With good reason,' the barkeep said. 'You've just arrived in Sicas?'
'Aye. Never been here before.' The door opened and everyone grew even more tense. Fingers tightened on hilts. The man who came in was fat and looked to be harmless. The patrons relaxed and conversation resumed. Conan turned back to face the barkeep.
'What does red leather mean to you?' he asked.
'It means trouble. Why do you ask?' The man devoted great attention to polishing a horn cup.
'Today, as I rode into town, I saw three overgrown boys dressed in red leather cut down a lone man. He never had a chance, and they laughed as they slew him. They let him draw his sword, but it was nonetheless plain murder.'
'The man they killed, what did he look like?' asked the bar-keep.
'A scar-faced man with a black beard and a cast in one eye.'
'That was one of Lisip's men. I do not know his name, but I
have seen him with that mob. The red-clad boys follow Ingas. They are a pack of young Poitainian thugs who came in town about a year ago. Give them wide berth. They love to use those two-handed Khorajan slashers they all carry.'
'Who is this Lisip?' Conan asked. He drained his mug and pushed it across the bar for more. The barkeep held it below a tap and refilled it.
'He used to boss all the town's scum, and he owns most of the bawdy-houses down in the Pit. Now he has a great deal of competition.'
'And Lisip has a feud with this Ingas?' Conan asked.
'They were at peace yesterday. It sounds as if that has changed.'
'So now these two gangs contend for control of the town's low life?' Conan asked.
'Two?' The barkeep chuckled. 'Stranger, there are at least four major gangs, plus a good dozen smaller packs that ally themselves now with one, now with another. The big gangs sometimes form alliances and break them as lightly.'
This sounded intriguing. 'How do they operate?'
'Sometimes they rob directly, but mostly they just get a piece of everything. The harlots have to pay a portion of their earnings, the gamblers of their winnings. Every merchant in the town must pay every month or have his shop and goods destroyed. Sometimes they hire themselves out as bullyboys. Businessmen hire them to wipe out their competitors. And all of them kill for money.''
'Is there no law?' Conan asked.
The man gave a snorting laugh. 'Law? There is the King's Reeve, Bombas. He is in the purse of every gang leader in this town, and he knows better than to trouble the wealthy men, those who hire the gangs for their dirty work.'
'This is a royal town. Has no one complained to the king?'
The barkeep glanced around to see if anyone was listening. 'No. But many have died just for speaking of it.'
Conan thanked the barkeep, turned and carried his mug to a table. He took a corner at the end of a bench, where he could keep the entirety of the room within his view. A server set bread and cheese and a platter of sizzling waterfowl before him and Conan tore into the viands.
As he ate, he thought over the barkeep's strange tale. He had been in many wide-open and roaring towns, where the authorities were happy to look the other way for a monetary consideration. But ordinarily they required that the wilder elements keep their drinking and brawling, their thieving, gambling, whoring and killing, to a single district. That way everybody made money and the respectable element of the city stayed happy.
Usually such a district was controlled by a vice-lord. Sometimes another gang came in and then there would be a fight for control. Never, though, had Conan encountered anything so wildly anarchic as here in Sicas. In such a town, he thought, there was a great deal of money to be made.
He had finished his meal and was enjoying another mug of ale when the door opened again. This time the diners in the room remained tense, their facial expressions strained. Hands stayed on hilts and all conversation ceased. Three figures swaggered in through the door. Three figures, each dressed in red leather. They surveyed the room haughtily, as if they had just entered a barnyard and saw nothing before them except pecking fowl.
The landlord scurried over to them, bowing. 'I did not expect you until the day after tomorrow,' he said. 'I have not yet—'
'Payment is due early this month,' said the tallest of the three, not bothering to look at the landlord as he spoke. 'And the amount has gone up. Fifteen gold royals instead of ten.'
'Fifteen?' sputtered the landlord. 'Instead often? And early? But I cannot pay that!'
A youthful thug with a stringy yellow chin-beard affected to ignore the man, reaching overhead to rap his knuckles on a heavy, soot-stained beam. 'Fine old timber here,' he remarked. 'Make a splendid fire. Probably take the whole block with it. Wouldn't your neighbours appreciate that?''
The landlord groaned, defeated. 'Very well, I will pay. But I
cannot pay today. I had not yet even gathered together the usual ten.'
The third youth patted the old man on the shoulder. 'Do not vex yourself, Grandfather. Moneylenders always have an open purse, even if they do ask for high interest. We shall come by tomorrow, early.'
'Bringing torches,' added the one with the thin beard.
The tallest nudged the other two. They looked at him and he nodded toward the rear corner of the room where Conan sat. Hands resting on the long hilts of their Khorajan swords, the three walked toward the Cimmerian with an insolent, loose-jointed amble.
'This is the second time today we have encountered you, barbarian. You are new here. Who have you come to join?'
'I work for nobody here.' He left his hands on the table, in plain view. He knew that they would think him less dangerous that way, the fools.
'But you said you fight for pay,' countered the bearded one.
'And no one is paying me to fight just now,' the Cimmerian answered.
'Then what is your business here?' demanded the bearded one.
'It is, as you say, my business
,' Conan said.
'We do not like people who refuse to answer to us,' said the third. He was a bit older than the other two, with quick, nervous brown eyes. Conan read him as the most dangerous of the three. If it came to a fight, he would kill this one first.
'Many people do not like me,' Conan said. 'I try not to let it grieve me too much.'
'We don't like your tone, either,' said the tall one. 'Why not come outside into the courtyard and discuss this with us?'
Conan knew why they wanted him outside. The cramped corner, the tables, and low beams would make it difficult for them to wield their long blades. He fumed at their insolence but reminded himself that he had eight hundred dishas yet to earn in
this town and becoming ensnared in gang politics would hinder him in that task.
'As I told you, I fight for pay. Come back and see me when somebody is willing to pay gold to see you dead.' The two shorter ones closed their fists around their hilts, but the tall one made a calming gesture.
'This one is afraid to fight. Come, brothers. We'll talk to Ingas about this... this... what sort of barbarian are you?'
'Cimmerian.'
'This Cimmerian. Then if our master wants his head, we'll come back and fetch it. Farewell, savage.' The three whirled and stalked out. Conan noticed that most of the room's inhabitants had either tiptoed out during the confrontation or had drawn back to the periphery. Now that there was to be no fighting, they resumed their places.
One man had not moved. He was a tough-looking specimen, and now he rose and approached Conan. He stood a little below medium height but was strongly built. He wore a vest of mail, old but clean and well oiled. Greying hair hung to his shoulders beneath the rim of a battle-nicked steel cap. Broad wristbands of studded leather encircled both wrists, and he carried his hands well away from his short cutlass and dagger as he drew near. From boots to steel cap, this one was every inch a professional.
'You handled those three well, Cimmerian. Do you mind if I join you?'
Conan gestured to the seat across from him. 'It is not taken.'
Conan the Rogue Page 4