'We have guards, albeit unarmed,' she pointed out.
'Like those two at the door?' Conan all but sneered. 'They are worthless, and you know it. What happens when the families of your acolytes hire bravos to come retrieve their young?''
She leaned back slightly, studying him from beneath lowered lids. 'Misguided persons sometimes wish to kidnap our followers, but we have arrangements with those who control the men of violence.'
'Then before long, the aggrieved families will go outside of town to hire their strong-arm men.' He could see that the thought concerned her. 'And are there not times when some of your followers grow reluctant to stay?''
'Sometimes, very rarely, an evil spirit, an enemy of Mother Doorgah's, infects one of the acolytes with an unreasoning urge to leave, but with patience and goodwill, we overcome these sacrilegious compulsions.'
Conan grinned. 'I can overcome them very quickly. I am good at that sort of work. Also, while I am sure that you have concerned yourself only with spiritual matters, you may have heard that the gangs in this city are fighting each other more and more. Your agreements with them may not hold for much longer. I am not affiliated with any of them.'
For the first time, she looked him over closely and quite openly. 'It may be that we... that is, that Mother Doorgah can use a man like you. And if you abide here a while, who knows but that we may be able to bring you to the way of goodness and light?'' A minuscule, secret smile curved the corners of her mouth. 'Come, I will show you Mother Doorgah's domain here in the benighted west.' She came from behind the desk and he followed her back to the gallery.
'Here the faithful chant the daily offices,' she said, gesturing toward the nave below.
'How many are there?' he asked. 'Faithful, I mean, not offices.'
'We now have more than one hundred,' she said. 'We offer he blessings of Mother Doorgah to all, but we accept only those whose faith and devotion are sincere.' By which, Conan assumed, she meant as long as they kept the money coming in. 'Great-souled Andolla, my husband, is the conduit through which lows the word of Mother Doorgah.'
She led him into a side chapel. Here was another statue of the goddess; this time she was black, her naked body splattered with tainted blood. A necklace of human skulls depended from her leek, and she waved a sword as she danced atop a heap of entrails and severed limbs.
'This is Mother Doorgah in her aspect of the Drinker of Blood and Devourer of Entrails. All Vendhyan gods have both the creative and destructive aspects. We worship her primarily in her nurturing, birth-giving persona.' She smiled at him frostily. 'But re must not overlook her darker side.'
'That would be unwise,' Conan agreed. He disliked the eastern gods almost as much as he detested the pantheon of Stygia. He came of a dynamic, self-reliant people, and he had only contempt for the apathetic, fatalistic followers of such gods, who held inertia and nothingness as the highest good, oblivion as the only desirable state of existence.
'This,' said Oppia as they entered another room, 'is where lose whose faith falters practice austerities to restore them to the true way.' There were shackles hanging from the walls, and in the centre of the room was an X-shaped frame fitted with manacles and leg irons. Hanging from one of its arms was a multi-shed scourge, each thong studded with brass barbs.
'This should restore their belief if nothing else will,' observed the Cimmerian.
'I can see that you are a man of little faith,' she sniffed. 'That is only to be expected of a barbarian. Still, Mother Doorgah scorns no one, however base. Come.'
She showed him the gardens, the workshops, the kitchens and laundries, where all the housekeeping of the establishment was done. The temple owned no slaves. Rather, Conan thought, the acolytes were the slaves. They performed all the work. The beauty of the system was that ordinarily one had to pay for slaves. These actually paid to be enslaved. Far from running away, they had to be restrained from running back to the temple.
Behind the temple proper was a large house of four stories, with many rooms. Oppia showed him the large chambers used as dormitories by the acolytes. They were perfectly bare except for sleeping pallets, all of which were neatly rolled against the walls while the acolytes were at services. She described the daily routine of the worshippers, and Conan realized that the wealthy young converts were kept under a discipline stricter than that of military recruits. The offices went on day and night, and the acolytes never had more than two hours of sleep at any time. When they were not chanting, they were working. In the kitchens, he had seen that their diet consisted mainly of boiled gruel. In a state of perpetual starvation and exhaustion, their minds and wills were numbed. Conan was revolted, although he was careful not to reveal his feelings. It made ordinary slavery seem a clean thing by comparison. And yet he was certain that he had not seen the worst of it.
Finally she took him to a spacious apartment on the third floor. 'You will lodge here,' she said. 'I am sure that it is more comfortable than your accustomed quarters.'
'It'll do,' Conan said. 'Where do you live?'
She regarded him coolly. 'Why do you need to know that?'
'Times are unsettled, and half of the unhung thieves in Aquilonia are in Sicas. Mysterious people attract rumours, and ignorant men may think you hoard wealth in this temple. If rogues should break into your-quarters and you should raise an alarm, I would need to know where to run to your rescue.'
'That makes sense,' she said. 'On this floor, if you turn left in the hall outside your door, then turn right at its end, you come to a red door. Within is our apartment. Never enter those chambers save at my command or that of my husband.'
'I shall not,' said Conan, determining to explore their chambers at first opportunity.
'Very good. There remains the question of payment.'
'No question about that,' Conan said. 'My fee is one thousand gold marks. You may pay me half now. Soon your affairs here will be settled one way or the other and you may then pay me the balance.'
'What do mean you by that?' she demanded.
Conan shrugged. 'Either the gang-fighting will be resolved, with one pack left in control, or you and your, husband will leave town.'
'Leave town?' Her eyes flashed. 'Why-fore should we do such a thing?'
He grinned at her. 'Somehow I feel that Mother Doorgah may call you elsewhere soon. I suspect that this has happened many times before. I also suspect that your departure will be sudden and will occur late at night. Be assured that will notice and will come for the balance of my pay.''
She glared at him for a moment; then, abruptly, she chuckled. She reached up and with the long, pointed nail of a forefinger, traced a line down the angle of his clean-shaven jaw. 'Cimmerian, I think that you and I shall get on well together.' She ran her tongue lightly across her lips, increasing their shine.
'And I think you should pay me five hundred marks now,' Conan said.
'Wait here,' she ordered, and with a surprisingly girlish giggle, she left the room. He noticed that she turned left in the hallway outside the door. She was going to her apartments. He waited for a few seconds, then looked outside the room. She was nowhere in sight, but from the angle of the hall, he heard a key turning in a lock. So she kept the key upon herself.
When he heard the door shut, he ran silently up the hallway and turned right. A few paces before him was a red-painted door of heavy timbers strapped with iron. The lockplate was a massive thing, but the shape of the keyhole told him that the lock itself, while strong, was of a primitive design. It should prove easy to pick at need.
The hallway was low-ceilinged, illuminated by oil lamps burning in niches. He lifted the chased bronze lid of one and saw that its reservoir was half full. This told him that the lamps were filled once each day, in the morning. He would not have to worry about encountering an acolyte oiling the lamps at any other time.
He listened for the sounds of a strongbox being opened, but the door was too thick to allow any faint noise to pass. Judging that caution would permit
him to stay no longer, he made his way silently back to his new quarters. He drew his dirk and was abstractedly sharpening it when Oppia returned.
She held a leather pouch in one hand. Her band-like garment had become artfully disarranged. It now exposed a narrow spiral of creamy flesh from her armpits almost to her ankles. She held out the pouch and Conan, sheathing his dirk, took it from her. The thin leather was stretched taut and held a satisfying solidity. He had no doubt that the woman would feel equally satisfying. But, he reflected, women were far more dangerous than gold.
'Perhaps I will convert you to the worship of Mother Doorgah after all,' she said, coming close.
'She's not my sort of goddess,' Conan said.
'Ah, but how do you know? I have told you that she has more than one aspect. Some of them are not for the ordinary acolytes. As Queen of Raptures and Unifier of the Flesh, her rites are such as you might find delight in. I am the sublime instructress in these rituals.'
'And the Great-souled Andolla?' Conan inquired. 'Does he take part in these ceremonies?'
She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. 'My husband is unduly occupied with his magical studies of late. We are not much in company, save when a ceremony of the Holy One requires the presence of us both.'
'Is the sanctified Andolla a master of sorcerous arts?' the Cimmerian asked.
' 'When he is not occupied with his devotions to Mother Doorgah, he seeks a deeper understanding of the supernatural world.' Her tone was faintly contemptuous. 'To that end he collects sorcerous tomes and other paraphernalia. His studies keep him long hours in solitude.'
'You must find that lonely,' Conan observed.
'Sometimes,' she admitted, 'the consolations of Mother Doorgah are not enough. And the male acolytes can be so boring.' She began to move toward him, but she stopped at the sound of a scream from above. It was a woman's voice, and it was a sound of utter terror.
'Crom!' Conan said, snatching at his hilt. 'Someone's being murdered!'
'The Mother curse her!' Oppia snarled. Then she placed a restraining palm upon his heavy arm. 'Be at ease. It is one of our female acolytes, and a most troublesome one. She is like this often. Come, she may need restraining.'
He followed her into the hallway and to the stair they had ascended before. This time she went up a final, narrow passage to the fourth floor. Though here the layout was the same as on the floor below, Conan noted that most of the doors stood open, the rooms beyond unoccupied. But one room was closed., bolted from the outside. At eye level it had a small window, shuttered so that it opened only from the outside, like that of a prison door.
Oppia opened the shutter and peered inside, then slid back the bar and tugged the door open. Conan went in behind her. As he entered the room, he noticed a smell so faint that it was barely detectable. In a second or two, with a faint outrushing of air, it was gone, but he knew he had not imagined it. Then his attention was drawn to a frail figure huddled in a corner of the room.
It was Rietta, the daughter of Rista Daan. He knew her from the miniature portrait, but she no longer greatly resembled that likeness. Her face was hollow and emaciated, her limbs shrivelled. Her once-lustrous hair hung lank and faded. She clearly had not been exposed to sunlight for months. Just now her eyes were wide with panic, staring at the corner of the room opposite that in which she cowered. One fist was against her mouth as she raised a skeletal arm and pointed toward the corner with her other hand.
'It was there! It came again! You promised that it would not come again! You promised!'
Oppia crouched and took the girl by the shoulders.
'I have told you that Mother Doorgah will protect you from the curse and that only Mother Doorgah can protect you. If your faith were strong, this thing could not trouble you. It is your own lack of belief that allows the thing to return every night. Why have you failed Mother Doorgah?''
'But I have tried to please the goddess,' the girl sobbed. 'I perform all the rituals, I chant night and day. I eat only the permitted foods, and I fast when I am commanded to. Why does it keep coming back?'
Oppia's voice dripped scorn. 'Mother Doorgah sees into your heart, and she knows that your faith is not true. She requires unquestionable proof of your sincerity.'
'What is left me to do?' the girl wailed. 'All I had I gave to her temple! My father is too hard-hearted to give me more.'
'If you had true faith,' Oppia said coldly, 'you would know how to make your father yield more.'
While the women conversed, the Cimmerian studied the room. It had the same plan as his own, but its only furnishing was a hard, narrow bed consisting of a wooden frame and a webbing of leather straps. The single window was covered by six upright bronze bars set into the stone. Its sole illumination was provided by an oil lamp burning behind a thick pane of glass. The lamp itself was in a room beyond.
Oppia beckoned to Conan. 'Place her on the bed.'
The Cimmerian lifted the girl and was shocked at her emaciation. He placed her on the webbing of leather straps and wrapped a thin blanket around her. The girl stared at him with fear-filled eyes and trembled.
'You must practice the Third-level Chant,' Oppia commanded, 'and meditate upon the Divine Nothingness. If that should prove too difficult, think upon how you may persuade your
father to send gifts to the temple. Mother Doorgah cares nothing for the wealth of this world, but in her infinite compassion, she will take you unto her bosom if you will prove your devotion. Think upon these things.'
They left the room, and the sound of the girl's sobbing followed them into the hallway. Oppia re-barred the door and closed the shutter.
'Who is that?' Conan asked.
'Her name among us is Amata. Her father is one of the richest men of the town. She is the victim of an ancient family curse, from which we seek to protect her.'
'There may be nothing left to protect before long,' Conan pointed out. 'The girl is nigh death from starvation.'
Oppia shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'What of that? It is all one to Mother Doorgah.'
'Is she dangerous?' Conan asked. 'You keep her confined.' 'Only to herself. That is why her window is barred. In her despair, she might hurl herself to the pavement, which is how her mother slew herself. And we permit her no fire, not even so much as a candle, lest she set fire to her room. She is a great bother, but there is yet much to be gained from her.' She smiled slyly. 'I refer, of course, to the otherworldly profit of saving another benighted soul for Mother Doorgah.'
Conan smiled back at her, but he refrained from telling her why he smiled. It was at the pleasant thought of destroying this place and how he might go about it. In the hall below, an acolyte ran up to them and fell to his knees, repeatedly knocking his brow against the floor at Oppia's feet.
'Holy Mother Oppia, the Beloved Father requests your presence at once for the ceremony of Blissful Adoration.'
Oppia sighed. 'Well, Cimmerian, another time. It seems that I am needed elsewhere. Keep in mind what I have said about the Holy One's more esoteric rituals. I know you will enjoy them.' 'I shall not forget,' Conan promised. She left, the acolyte dogging her scarlet heels. The Cimmerian noted with amusement that she had rearranged her garment so that the provocative display of flesh had disappeared. He went back into his quarters, giving the place a closer look now that he was free of distractions. The furnishings, while not lavish, were more than comfortable. Hangings covered the walls, and the floor was carpeted with thick Ophirean rugs. The lamps burned scented oil and this reminded him of something: When he had entered the room above, he had smelled smoke, yet the smell had disappeared almost instantly, and there had been not the slightest source of smoke within. There was not a single brazier, lamp or candle.
More significantly, it had not been any ordinary smoke. He had smelled its like before, and it was made by burning the dried stems and petals of the black lotus. This was used by certain students of the sorcerous arts to induce powerful visions. It was considered far too potent for any but
the most advanced of students, and it could be dangerous even for them if the intake were not closely monitored.
He crossed to the window and opened the shutters. Leaning outside, he assessed his position. The window looked out over the pitched roof of the temple proper. The ridge of the lead-tiled roof was about five feet below his windowsill. He craned his head around and looked up. The girl's barred window was just above him. He chuckled. So they were worried that she would cast herself down upon the 'pave below'? Rather, they were worried that she might escape.
Beyond the temple lay the Square, now quiet beneath the moon. To his right, a narrow alley separated the temple from the town-house of Xanthus. To the left, an even narrower path separated the temple from the roof of another building, which, he remembered, was a public theatre, and thus probably deserted between performances. It was another of the grandiose structures erected during the city's brief years of prosperity. Lightly, he sprang from his window onto the lead-tiled roof. From the nearby skylights he could hear the monotonous chanting of the worshippers below. Incense smoke drifted up as he walked along the roof, sure-footed as the mountain goats of his native Cimmeria.
The alley separating the temple from the theatre was no more than a long stride in width, and Conan stepped across it, onto a wide ledge running around the third floor of the theatre. The façade of the building was covered with high-relief carvings, and these the Cimmerian climbed until he stood upon the structure's flat roof. Walking its perimeter, he surveyed the prospect beyond. Like the temple, the theatre fronted on the Square. To its west side lay the temple. Its rear abutted another building, and along its east side ran the high street of the town. Conan knew that with a running leap, he could vault the high street to the rooftop on the other side. In fact, except for the broad, open space of the Square, he adjudged that he would be able to make his way to almost any part of the town by crossing rooftops. The route would be as easy as using any of the city streets, and undoubtedly a great deal cleaner.
Satisfied with his explorations, Conan returned to the roof of the temple. Looking up, he saw that the window directly above his was the only one on this side of the structure that was barred. Below his own window and the one above ran a narrow ledge that carried around the corners of the building to either side. He stepped onto the ledge outside his window and, pressing himself closely to the wall, began to edge his way toward the western corner. The ledge permitted little more than his toes and part of the ball of each foot, and on this building there was no high-relief carving to provide handholds. Only the rough surface of the stone allowed for a precarious grip. Few men would have been tempted to try such a manoeuvre, but Conan had been raised amid sheer stone and crumbling cliffs and he had no fear of heights.
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