Now he crossed to the corner of the room and picked up the cloth-wrapped package. It was astoundingly heavy for its size. He turned it over and over, examining the wrappings. Broad, bloody hand prints stained the cord bindings, as well as the cloth beneath them, so he knew that the wrappings had not been tampered with,
'But how could he know to bring it to me?' Conan mused aloud.
'What did you say, Conan?' Brita asked, wringing pinkish water into the bucket.
'Nothing. I must decide what to do with this.'
'What is it?' She stood and came closer, but he would not let her take the thing from him. The less she knew, the better.
'You need not concern yourself. But you have seen that it ii something men kill for. I must conceal it until I know where it should go.'
'Where will you hide it?'
'That is another thing you need not concern yourself about,' he said. Noting her downcast expression, he added, 'I do this only for your own good. This is an evil thing; the less you have to do with it, the safer you will be.'
'Oh, very well,' she said, pouting.
'I must be away. Soon it will be light. I will come back before long. Have you everything you need?'
'Yes. My wants are few. I wish that you were more in my company, though. Have I displeased you?'
'No, but who can keep up with you, the way you disappear for days on your mad quest? I have many things to do, and many enemies to avoid, and I cannot be lumbered with a woman.'
'Lumbered!' she said hotly. 'Is that what I am now, a mere impediment? Something that might get in the way of that sword arm of yours? Well, I can care for myself!'
'I've no time for this. Farewell until the next time, Brita.' He left, muttering imprecations against women and their too-easily hurt feelings.
In the high street, Conan paused. This was one mission that had to be kept absolutely secret. He found a street grate and lifted it. Returning to the inn's courtyard, he took a torch from a bundle by the stable door and returned to the street. He waited by the grate until he was certain that he was unobserved. Then he dropped into the Great Drain. Reaching overhead, he slid the grate back into place. At least the recent rains had washed the drainage system clean.
The air was dank, but it was not foul. He walked a few paces from the grate, then set the heavy package upon the damp stones. Sitting upon the bundle, he took flint and steel from his belt pouch and from his tinderbox he drew a bit of charred cloth.
Striking a light thus, working entirely by touch, was a tedious Business, but he had patience. After several minutes of striking, a spark took hold in the tinder, and its glow began to spread as the Cimmerian blew gently upon it. He pressed it into the oil-soaked tow that wrapped the end of the torch, blowing all the while. Soon he had a flame sufficient to illuminate his way through the Great Drain.
He emerged from the sewer into the theatre and ascended to the roof, whence he crossed to the roof of the temple, taking great care, for the thing he carried was weighty. He did not go to his chamber; rather, he descended the rear wall of the temple, his burden lashed to his back by his sword belt.
He entered the deserted kitchen and from it took the stair that led to the cellar. The cellar of the temple was cavernous, containing storage bins full of wood for the sacrificial and warming fires, unused furniture, offerings accumulated over the years, and much oilier debris. Here were also the furnaces, used for warming the water for ritual baths and for heating the entire temple by a system of pipes. A fire was kept burning at all times in one of the furnaces, and Conan first made sure that no acolyte was in attendance before he crossed the floor. He swung the furnace door wide, and by the light of the fire within, he unwrapped his parcel and tossed the bloodied bindings into the flames. Then he held up and admired the object of so much greed, intrigue, and bloodshed.
Despite the lurid red of the flames, the thing was blacker than the blackest night. It seemed to gleam brilliantly, yet at the same time it seemed to suck up all light and cast none back. Its body was that of a scorpion, so realistically portrayed that he would not have been surprised had it begun to crawl upon its six legs and snatch at him with its pincers. The tip of its stinger glistened as if with a special liquid blackness.
Its head was that of a woman, her beauty as serene as the insectile body was grotesque. Her eyes were open, black within black. They showed neither pupil nor iris, yet they gazed keenly, and he did not like to think what they might be seeing. Whatever its true origin, whether the image of Selkhet carved by the sculptor Ekba, as Casperus had said, or the nameless Atlantean idol carved from a diamond that fell from the heavens, as in Piris's tale, or something else entirely, he could not deny that the object had great magical force. Conan was sensitive to such things, and he hated them. The image's very weight was unnatural. It could not have weighed more had it been made of pure gold.
At least, he thought, he had a perfect place to hide the thing, right here in the temple. He carried his prize to the great chamber that lay beneath the nave. Near one end was a solid, rectangular structure of masonry that reached from the stone-flagged floor to the ceiling. It was a pedestal, and when this had been a Temple of Mitra, it had supported the colossal stone statue of the god that had stood in the temple above. Now it supported the trick statue of Mother Doorgah.
Once, many years before, Conan had performed a very special service for a renegade priest of Mitra. In gratitude, the man had revealed to the Cimmerian a secret of the ancient priesthood from which he had been expelled. In every Temple of Mitra, it was said, there was a place concealed within the pedestal of the god's statue where treasures, or even the priests themselves, could be hidden in moments of extreme danger. Then he had explained how one might enter such a crypt.
Conan went to the rear of the pedestal. Once more he looked around to be sure that he was unobserved. Counting carefully from the floor, he pressed certain stones; each moved a fraction of an inch. These stones were in appearance identical to all the others, and only one who knew the formula with which to find their positions, and who also knew the proper order in which they had to be pushed, could open the secret crypt. At Conan's final push, a section of the stones, almost man-high, swung smoothly, noiselessly, inward.
He stooped and went inside. Within, he groped at the wall to the right of the doorway until he found a niche in which were stacked a number of candles. He took one over to the furnace and lit it, then returned to the crypt. The chamber within was empty. Its walls were lined with niches, but nothing now stood in them save for the one reserved for candles. There were unobtrusive ventilation slots in the floor and ceiling. Otherwise, it was completely sealed except for the doorway.
A small stone pedestal rose from the centre of the floor to waist height. In the old days, a small statue of Mitra, identical but for size to the colossus above, would have stood on the stone post. Now the Cimmerian set the black woman-headed scorpion in its place. The thing gleamed balefully in the light of his candle. He blew out the candle, replaced it in its niche and re-entered the cellar. Then he reached back and touched a single stone near the opening. The stone portal swung shut. In an instant, it was undetectable. For the first time since finding the dead man in his chamber, Conan breathed easily. He would be supremely happy when he had this treasure off his hands.
He left the cellar, and as he passed through the kitchen, he did not forget to appropriate some viands for Rietta.
XIV
The Rogue's Conference
He had come to an agreement with Lisip, and Bombas wanted him for a bodyguard at the peace conference, should that ever take place. Maxio was neutral for the moment, as was Ermak. That left only Ingas and his gang as immediate enemies. Conan decided that he might as well go out in daylight.
The blustery, rainy weather of past days had given way to bright skies and warm sunshine. The Square was thronged, for most of the townspeople had not ventured out in the rain and now needed to replenish their larders, as well as to trade the latest
gossip. Conan found the Square abuzz with talk of a number of killings that had taken place the night before. He asked a stall-keeper for details.
'Sometime after midnight, Maxio and his men staged a raid on Ermak's headquarters and killed three of Ermak's men. They missed Ermak, though.'
'Maxio?' Conan said. 'But his men are burglars, not warriors.'
'They went in fast, when everyone there was asleep. Burglars
are good at that sort of thing. Killed a few and ran. Sometime later, a pack of Ingas's men caught five of Lisip's in an alley in the Pit and cut them down. Then there was a caravaneer found dead this morning not far from here, but nobody knows if that was a part of the gang-fighting.'
The Cimmerian wended his way to the inn and took his horse from the stable. He rode out through the city gate to give the beast some exercise and make sure that it was sound of wind and limb. He planned to be using it in the next day or two. Before riding back into the city, he stopped by the pasture where the recently arrived caravan had picketed its beasts and unloaded its goods for the local merchants to bid on. He noticed several caravaneers sitting around a camp fire and dismounted.
'Is this the caravan of Mulvix?' he asked.
'Aye,' said one, looking up at the big foreigner. 'But Mulvix is dead. We buried him this morning.'
'How came he by his death?' Conan inquired.
The man shrugged. He wore a dirty cloth knotted around his head and he scratched in his beard. 'Mulvix was a man who carried many a dangerous cargo. I think that this time his luck deserted him. He took his latest treasure into the town last night, but he did not come back. Most likely somebody decided to kill him and take the thing instead of paying.'
'What was it he carried?' Conan asked.
The man shook his head. 'Mulvix was never one to let on about his little secret burdens. And we all knew better than to ask.''
'We are sorry to lose Mulvix; he was a good man,' said another. 'But we arc happy to have that thing gone from our midst. I think it was no honest smuggler's load.'
'How so?' Conan asked.
'Ever since we left Belverus,' he said, 'we've had bad luck. Accidents. Animals lost. And every one of us has had trouble sleeping, and we were plagued by bad dreams.'
'That is true,' said the man with the rag around his head. 'And the beasts have been all but uncontrollable; biting, kicking,
running away, and fighting their loads every morning as we packed up. And since last night, look at them!' He pointed to where about fourscore mules placidly munched grass. 'Like little lambs, just as they were before we stopped at Belverus.'
Mulvix trifled with something he never should have touched,' said a grey-bearded muleteer.
'He said nothing about who was to receive this thing?' the Cimmerian asked.
'Not a word,' said the first speaker. 'Mulvix never spoke of such things.' He looked Conan over suspiciously. 'Why do you ask?'
'I am working for the Reeve,' Conan said, half-truthfully.
'When did that fat rogue ever care for aught save his pay-off?' asked the grey-bearded one. 'We've always paid him the king's share plus his own payment, to keep him happy. What does he want now? Is there a tax to be paid for dying in his cursed town?'
'If so,' said the one with the head cloth, 'he can try to get it from Mulvix, or from whoever slew him. Not a coin more will he get from us. We may never come this way again. This town lies under a curse worse than the one on whatever it was that Mulvix bore hither.'
Conan smiled. 'Come back next time your path brings you close,' he advised. 'I think you will find a different, and much quieter, town.'
'Eh?' said the greybeard, but the Cimmerian had already remounted and was riding back toward the city gate. As he rode, he fell in with a group of forty or more men with the same destination. All were hard-looking specimens. The faces of some were deeply stamped with villainy. Others wore battle armour and were clearly mercenaries. Conan reined in beside a man who wore city clothes but whose sword and dagger looked well used.
'How is it that such a company rides into Sicas?' Conan asked.
'Word came to Shamar that Sicas is a lively place, and that any man with a sword to hire out can find good employment there. All the prominent leaders are hiring, and the pay is high.'
Conan turned to a little group of mercenaries. 'Do you come to join Ermak?'
'Aye,' said one. 'We were here until last year, when things grew too quiet to support so many good fighting men. We rode out for the wars in Ophir, but now Ermak sends word that we are needed once more.'
'How are things in Ophir?' asked Conan with professional interest.
'Bad,' said a man who wore a high-spired Zingaran helm. 'The war has gone on too long. There is plenty of fighting, but nothing left to plunder.'
Conan decided that when he -left Sicas, he would not ride to Ophir. While the newcomers were paying their gate duties, he rode on into the city. It seemed that the night's excitement had extended into the day, for there was a street fight in progress before the inn. Two bands of men were having it out with steel, battling in earnest. At the courtyard entrance, the inn's male workers blocked the way with sword and stave.
He saw Brita striving to press herself into a wall as the men fought just a few steps from her, their flailing weapons passing within inches of her. Conan cursed and spurred his horse forward. Could the woman not stay clear of trouble? He snatched a club from one of the stablemen and hefted its three-foot, knotty-headed length, waving it as easily as another man might handle a willow wand. He rode among the brawlers, flailing like a madman. The club rang on steel cap or cracked into bare pate indifferently. The result was always the same: a man stretched senseless on the cobblestones. Soon the standing men backed away, bewildered by this unexpected fury.
'Take your fight elsewhere!' the Cimmerian shouted. 'This inn is under the protection of Conan of Cimmeria. Are there any of you who wish to challenge me?' He dropped the cudgel and drew his sword. 'Speak up, dogs! I've not slain a man all day and my blade is athirst!' There were a few mutters, then the hiss of weapons being re-sheathed. Men stooped to lift their wounded
comrades, and the whole crowd, so fierce minutes before, turned and made its way down the high street.
'Why, sir,' said the innkeeper, 'I thank you for this.'
Conan dismounted. 'Well, let the scum curse me for a spoilsport, but a man must have one place in this town where he can find some quiet.' He went to Brita. 'Are you well, girl?'
'I am unhurt,' she said, brushing at some flecks of blood that decorated her mantle. 'None of this blood is mine; it flew from their weapons. I might have been killed, though, had it not been for you. I never saw a single man put an end to a fight like that!' Her eyes shone with admiration. 'Once again, I must thank you for rescuing me.'
'That is because I was the only man in the fight.' He turned to the innkeeper. 'Who were those dogs? I have not seen them ere today.'
'Two of the smaller gangs,' the man told him. 'One group has thrown in with Lisip. The others were old rivals, and now the first pack feels strong enough to attack them.'
'Well, things are about to get worse,' Conan said. He nodded toward the upper end of the street, where the newcomers were riding toward them.
'Mitra, be our aid!' the innkeeper moaned. 'More of them!' He summoned a slave. 'Go to the Square. Purchase extra fire buckets. Until I say otherwise, the men will sleep in shifts, with some on watch at all times for fire and riot.'
They passed into the courtyard and Conan handed his mount over to a hostler. He turned to enter the common room. 'Come, Brita, you can tell me of your...'but she drew back from the door.
'We will speak later,' she said. 'I have learned of a place where my sister may be hiding. I must go there now. I will rejoin you before long. Farewell, and thank you again for my rescue.'
He was about to call out to her when he was accosted by a man who stood just inside the common room. Within the dimness he could make out the figure of a youn
g man wearing a brigantine belted with a matched pair of swords.
'I would have some words with you, Cimmerian,' Gilmay
'Make them brief,' Conan said. 'I've much to do.'
'Aye, you have been doing much these past days, but little of it seems to be the service for which my master engaged you.'
'I've not eaten today and am famished nigh unto death,' Conan said. 'If we must talk, then let's eat while we're at it. liven the sight of your face cannot spoil my appetite.' He saw the youth's countenance darken.
'You'll not provoke me into fighting,' Gilmay said. 'I know better than that.'
'Then you've more brains than ere now I credited to you,' Conan answered, taking a seat. 'Now, what is your business?'
Gilmay sat across from him. 'After so many days, you have not yet tendered a single report.'
'I've nothing to report yet,' said Conan.
'But my master knows the thing is now in the city! Through his arts, he can detect its presence.'
'Then will his scrying glass not tell him where it lies?' the Cimmerian inquired.
'If it could do that, would there be any need to hire a barbarian lout to find it?' Gilmay asked hotly. 'The thing's sorcerous nature makes it immune to such spying.'
'That is unfortunate,' Conan said, reaching for a platter of meat pasties. 'Casperus will just have to wait until I have something to report to him.'
'He grows impatient,' Gilmay said. 'You have been swaggering all over this town, getting into fights, making a nuisance of yourself, and doing us no good at all. Sometimes you stay here at this inn, other times you disappear. Where are you hiding out, Cimmerian?'
'If I told you that, I wouldn't be hiding, would I?' Conan took a pull at his ale, eyeing the youth warily through the glass bottom of the pewter tankard. He could see that he had pushed Gilmay as far as was advisable and that it was time to relent, just a little. He set the tankard on the table.
'Listen, Gilmay. There is soon to be a peace conference, and the King's Reeve has asked me to attend him there as bodyguard, Nobody, not even I, can make a decent search of this town until things quiet down. Everyone is too nervous and wary. Tell your master that I have made arrangements with the priest of Bes, who is the town's main fence, and I have ingratiated myself at the Temple of Mother Doorgah, whose priest fancies himself a sorcerer. If either of them lays hands upon the idol, I will know of it.'
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