Conan the Rogue

by John Maddox Roberts

  'This was splendidly done, Cimmerian,' she said. 'Think you he will try again?'

  'It is very likely,' he told her. 'Or perhaps Rista Daan will approach one of the other leaders. If Ingas betrayed you for gold, why not the others? Next time there may be more than two to contend with.'

  'Curse them all!' she said. 'I long to be away from this place. It was a fertile field before, but now it is like some savage beast that has gone mad and has begun to devour itself. All these mobs of predatory men, banding together to prey upon the carcass of this town, no longer content to share the meat of the kill. Now they will turn and rend each other.' She looked up at the towering barbarian. 'But you are different. Though you are a man of blood and violence, you are not a mindless pack animal. You are like a lion among hyenas.'

  'I am like them, Priestess. But I am a better fighting man than they.'

  'I think it is more than that. Continue to give me loyal service and you may be destined for better things, just as the holy Andolla and I are so destined.' There came a commotion from behind. The female acolytes were manoeuvring their mops and buckets out through the window.

  'I must supervise this,' she told the Cimmerian. 'Our devoted followers have perfect faith, but they cannot even do something as simple as cleaning up blood or disposing of bodies without someone to watch over them.' She paused. 'You were right, Conan. Tomorrow I shall have another room prepared for you, a room directly across the hall from Amata's.'

  He nodded, satisfied. 'Very good, Priestess. I think I shall be able to accomplish more that way.' He looked up at the girl's barred window, wondering whether she had taken any notice of the night's doings.

  XII

  The Demon and the Curse

  The day was blustery, with the fitful wind blowing sheets of rain across the Square. Conan left the temple swathed in his great cloak, its hood drawn over his head against the weather. Thus attired, he was distinguished by nothing except his size and tiger-like gait, and in this town there were no few men of his size, men who moved dangerously.

  He knew that things were about to erupt in Sicas and that he could accomplish nothing if he remained aloof in the temple. He had a need to know what was going on in the town. To that end, he turned his steps toward the Pit. There were yet several places in the lower city where his presence was unlikely to precipitate immediate violence.

  Just beyond the line where the old city wall had once stood was a small tavern called the Bear and Harp, and he had heard that it was frequented by the storytellers and minstrels, both those of the city and those just passing through. These were men and women whose livelihoods depended upon their knowing all about what was going on, and he could think of no better place to inform himself.

  As he entered the tavern, he heard a woman's voice proclaiming a new poem, verses by the mad Tarantian poet, Caprio. It was well known throughout Aquilonia that Caprio only feigned madness, so that he could get away with his outrageously scurrilous verses defaming various highly placed personages of the kingdom. There was an ancient tradition that mad poets were under the special protection of the gods; therefore, there was little the authorities could do about the man, who in their eyes had earned death many times over.

  In the entranceway the Cimmerian divested himself of his cloak, shook the worst of the rain from it, and hung it on a peg by a half score of similar garments. As he went into the common room, the patrons turned from the singer to study the newcomer. All were armed, as was only prudent in times like these, but they were not, for the most part, the professional fighters and criminals such as thronged the town. He saw two or three whose armour or general look of furtiveness identified them as part of the rougher clement, but they had probably come for the entertainment.

  He went to the bar and ordered mulled ale. The barkeep took a pitcher from the hearth, where a crackling fire of well-seasoned hardwood logs gave forth a cheering warmth. As the Cimmerian drank from the tarred leather tankard, the woman singer's place was taken by a storyteller, who began to tell of events in the far provinces of the land. From all indications, Aquilonia was breaking up as the feudal lords, disgusted with King Numedides, reverted to their old ways and set up as independent suzerains, neglecting to send their annual tribute to Tarantia. Some defied the king openly; others were being more subtle, testing the power of the throne without risking an open breach. Only the frontier provinces of Bossonia and Gunderland remained firmly loyal. 'Those two provinces, although not populous, contained some of I he best fighting men of the kingdom.

  Conan listened with interest. He would be finished in this town soon, and for a professional soldier, news of impending civil war was the finest of music. The civil strife in Ophir had been going on for years and the land was a picked-over carcass. Aquilonia was matchlessly rich and had been at peace for many decades. The loot of a city such as Tarantia would be incalculable. And that was just the largest of Aquilonia's many rich cities. Even the harrying of a minor province could give a common soldier wealth enough to retire from the wars. Not that Conan was ready to retire just yet.

  'Let me stand you to your next tankard,' said a man next to him. This one was a small one, dressed in colourful hose and doublet. Atop his head was a long velvet cap, with several drooping feathers forming a somewhat bedraggled cockade. Slung over his shoulder was a small harp in a bead-decorated leather cover.

  'Gladly,' said the Cimmerian. The harper beckoned to the barkeep, who hurried over with the pitcher.

  'You are the northerner who has the hard men of this town, chasing their own tails with perplexity. You must have a fine story to tell.'

  'I am just a humble warrior, minding my own business,' Conan said solemnly.

  The harper guffawed. 'And I am the long-lost prince of Khitai, about to return home to reclaim my rightful throne. I expect more than that for a tankard of this exceptionally fine mulled ale, flavoured as it is with exotic spices of the east.'

  'Story for story, then?' Conan inquired.

  'It is a bargain. What do you want to know?' the harper asked, his eyes glowing with curiosity.

  'I have been keeping out of sight all day. What has been happening among the gangs these last hours?'

  'Well—' the man leaned close '—Maxio has let it be known that he is after Ermak and will kill him, even if he has to use poison to do it. The King's Reeve says it was Maxio who burned down the royal storehouse to escape after he'd looted the place. Something has Ingas's men all worked up, and they go about glowering, their hands on their hilts as if they want to cut anything that moves. Ermak says he will be happy to fight anyone who feels that he and his men should be run out of town. All the little gangs are hiring themselves out to anyone who seems to feel the

  need of reinforcement. Lisip is growing worried that all this chaos IN apt to bring the royal troops down upon the city, and he is Ming for a peace conference, to settle matters without open war in the streets.'

  'Is there any word that royal forces are on their way?' Conan asked.

  'Not so much as a breath, but who can say? There may be royal spies in town. There are some who think that you are one such.' The harper raised his eyebrows and angled his head as if expecting to hear an admission from the Cimmerian. He got no such confession. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'you heard that last minstrel. The royal authority is in such disarray that it might be a very long time before the king takes note of this little corner of his domain. Now, what is your tale?'

  Conan leaned close. 'You understand that you must not let it lie known where you heard this.' He did not make it a question.

  The man reached into the breast of his doublet and brought out a tiny image that he wore around his neck on a chain. It was a medallion bearing the likeness of a god with a harp. He bestowed a kiss upon the image.

  'I swear by lias of the Golden Fingers, patron god of all harpers.' He tucked the medallion away.

  'Very well. I have been sent by one whose name I cannot reveal, even in the strictest confidence, to learn which way
the wind blows here.' The harper nodded, hanging upon the outlander's every word. 'Bombas is looting the royal tax revenues, and has been at it for years, in league with Xanthus, the royal mine factor. To break the Miners' Guild, Xanthus brought in Ermak's mercenaries. They abducted the women and children from the mining village and hold them hostage for the miners' obedience. was Bombas who set fire to the royal storehouse to destroy evidence of his theft.'

  The harper's mouth dropped open. 'And I thought was good at gathering news.'

  Conan clapped a hand upon the man's shoulder. 'You gather information with your ears. I do it with my sword arm. My way

  is faster, and it gleans many facts that men will not yield in ordinary conversation.'

  'Such information,' the harper said, 'is worth more than a single mug of ale. Allow me to buy you another.'

  The two drank and talked for a while, but the harper's look grew abstracted, and from time to time his lips moved silently. The Cimmerian knew that the man was working this new information into a song. When- the harper soon departed, Conan sat at a table, drinking mulled ale and listening to the singers and storytellers. He was well content with his work just accomplished. In the strange, swift way that minstrels had, this news would be all over Tarantia sooner than a swift horse could have borne it there. It was another stir to the boiling-over pot that was Sicas.

  The rain had tapered off by the time Conan left the Bear and Harp. The wind blew less gustily as he made his way through the dim streets. The weather was depressing, and it seemed to have damped the fighting belligerence of the gangs. He knew it was but temporary. The gangs were, at most, unsettled and disoriented by the sudden changes and betrayals. Soon they would be ready for rampage, and then the blood would flow plentifully.

  'Conan!' The voice was an urgent hiss, and he turned to see a cloaked, veiled figure in a doorway. At first he thought it was Brita, but then he saw that this woman was far too large for that. 'Come here,' she urged.

  'Good evening, Delia,' he said, smiling. The woman all but hauled him through the door as she drew aside her veil. Inside was a perfumer's shop..At a glare from Delia, the elderly proprietor retired discreetly to an inner chamber.

  'You treacherous dog! What have you done! Maxio is alive and free. He is hiding out from Bombas and Ermak, but he will come out soon!'

  'Yes? But what of that? Surely you did not expect me to kill him for you?'

  She looked around as if afraid of being overheard. 'I thought we had an agreement!' she hissed. Her face was a mask of terror.

  'We did,' Conan said. 'I agreed to pay you money for information. I was to use that information however I saw fit, and whenever.'

  'But now he will kill me for betraying him,' she wailed.

  Nothing of the sort,' Conan assured her. 'He thinks that Ermak learned of the job and sold him out. I told him that you Inn I got wind of it and sent me to warn him. She closed her eyes and almost fainted with relief. After a few more breaths, she regained her composure and then glared at the Cimmerian as if her beautiful eyes could set him aflame.

  What game are you playing, you scheming wretch? I've all but cast myself at your feet and you use me to further some plan of your own.'

  'What did you expect?' he countered. 'You sold your lover for your own purposes.'

  Of course I did,' she said, bewildered. 'But I put him in your hands because I wanted to be in your hands. It is not as if I handed him in to the authorities for a reward. I would never stoop In such a thing!' She seemed honestly indignant.

  'I did not mean to impugn your honour,' Conan said.

  'Well, you could at least have warned me,' she said, her anger dissipating with relief.

  'I have been very busy, and also trying to keep out of sight.'

  'I can well believe that you have been busy. Ever since you have lived in town, the place has been in turmoil. All the gangs had worked out agreements, and things went along with only a little howling and an occasional murder. Now nobody knows where anybody stands; they are all suspicious of one another. What are you doing?'

  'Nothing that will endanger you,' he assured her, 'so long as you are careful.'

  'Very well, I believe you,' she said, somewhat mollified.

  Another question occurred to him. 'Delia, what know you of a Mack-haired woman, newly in town and most likely searching for someone, or some thing. She may be calling herself Altaira.'

  That one!' she said. 'I have seen her in the Pit, where she goes about alone after dark as fearlessly as a pack of warrior armed to the teeth. And none dare molest her, either. I never saw a man who looks half so deadly as that woman. What want you with her?'

  'Nothing. I but want to know what she is doing. I think she may be looking for someone or some thing, and possibly it is a matter with which I am concerned.'

  'I heard that she is waiting for Mulvix,' Delia said. 'And who is Mulvix?' Conan asked, remembering where he had heard the name.

  'He is a caravan master who visits Sicas once or twice a year. I Like many such, he is a smuggler. I've no doubt that he and the woman have some sort of smuggling business together.' Her boldly flirtatious look returned. 'Do you want me to find out! what I can about her? I can get close to her as no man in this town can. She would not see me as a rival in some scheme.'

  'No!' Conan said. 'Stay away from that woman, and do not even ask questions about her. She has a way of disposing of any- one who arouses her suspicions.'

  Delia pouted. 'Oh, very well, if you scorn my help...' She left him an opening to protest, which he refused to exploit.

  'You would be best advised to patch up matters with Maxio,'! he said.

  She stamped her expensively shod foot. 'I do not understand you at all!' She stormed from the shop.

  A sweet aroma reminded Conan that this was a perfumer's shop, and he summoned the proprietor from the rear. He asked the old man if Brita had been in.

  'Aye, near every day,' the man answered. 'She was in just this morning, asking about that sister of hers. Seems a decent, well-bred girl, although I think she is a little mad on this subject of her sister.' With a bony finger he tapped his grey temple portentously.

  Conan nodded, musing. The presence of the black-haired woman Altaira and the imminent arrival of the caravan master Mulvix tied in with Piris's story. Whatever other truth his tale did contain was doubtful at best. These musings supplied Conan with inspiration. 'Have you any lilac scent?' he asked the perfumer.

  Hut of course, sir.' The man went to a shelf and took down a flask. 'The very finest pressings from this year's harvest in Khemi, where the richest lilac blossoms are grown. Is it for the... ah... the lady who was just here with you?'

  No,' Conan said. 'It is for another friend. I will want it delivered.'

  That is no difficulty,' the shopkeeper said, taking quill and attachment from a desk. 'The recipient?' 'Piris of Shadizar,' Conan said. 'And this person's lodgings?' 'The city dungeon,' answered the Cimmerian. The poised quill faltered in its plunge toward the parchment. 'Did I her you aright, good sir? I almost thought that you said 'the city dungeon.''

  'That is indeed what I said,' affirmed Conan. The old man shrugged philosophically. 'As you will. Any message?'

  'Just say, 'Conan has not forgotten you. This is the very least I can do. It is almost in my hands.'' 'What is almost in your hands?' asked the old man. 'He will know what I mean.' Conan paid for the costly scent and left the perfumer's.

  As he crossed the rain-washed Square, the Cimmerian all but inn into a fat figure waddling in another direction. It was the Reeve, who gasped as he recognized the face within the cowl. 'Cimmerian! You are alive!'

  'Aye, no thanks to you!' His hand went to his hilt. He had wished to avoid the Reeve, and he disliked the idea of cutting the man down in full view in the middle of the Square, but he might have no choice in the matter. Amazingly, the man's fat face recovered what might only have been called delight, even though he was, for once, not backed by his remaining henchmen. 'Hut I thought t
hat Maxio and his men had slain you! We saw you cross the bridge to the storehouse, and then there was nothing, no call from you and no sounds of a fight. We were sure that Maxio or one of his men had dirked you in the back as you dropped into the storehouse, so I resolved to show the villains no mercy. I rejoice to see you alive!'

  'And well you should,' said Conan, 'considering that you set fire to the storehouse while I was in it.'

  The Reeve looked around as if to see whether anyone stood near enough to hear his words. 'That was an accident. One of my blundering men knocked over an oil lamp with the butt of his glaive. The oil poured onto a great heap of the woven wicker they use to bale the wool for transport. The fire was out of control in seconds. Of course, in my official report I said that the burglar had set the fire to cover their escape. You understand these things do you not? They were truly at fault, anyway. Ah, my friend, did Maxio escape?'

  The Cimmerian grinned. 'He was very much alive when last I saw him.'

  'The gods curse the man! Conan, we have matters to discus Come back with me to my headquarters and we will talk.'

  'I think not,' Conan said, unwilling to step into a trap. 'Over here.' He stepped into a small kiosk that housed a statue of long-dead benefactor of the town.

  The Reeve followed closely. 'Conan, my friend, things in the city are getting far out of hand. You may have heard that Lisip has called a peace conference in hopes that things may be sort out before the whole town is aflame.'

  'I've heard,' he affirmed.