Conan the Rogue

by John Maddox Roberts

  Conan groaned loudly. The jailer's eyes opened slightly.

  'Water!' Conan cried. 'Bring me water, for the love of Mitra!'

  'Why should I bring you water, scum?' the jailer asked. 'I love neither you nor Mitra.' 'I die of thirst!'

  'You'll not live long enough to die of thirst,' the man assured him. 'Julus will be back soon, and then he will resume his sport. That is what you will die of.'

  'I will pay you,' said the Cimmerian.

  'With what?' The jailer gestured toward a heap of clothing and arms in a corner. 'We already have your belongings. The money in your purse has long since been divided, though I got none.' The man's tone was resentful, and Conan saw a place wherein to drive a wedge.

  'I have more, much more,' he said.

  'Where?' the jailer demanded, his face animated with greed. 'First bring me water.'

  Grumbling, the man left. He returned a few minutes later with a pail of water and a dipper. He filled the dipper and held it to the Cimmerian's mouth.,Conan drank thirstily. Two dippers satisfied him.

  'Now pour the rest over my head,' he instructed. Shrugging, the jailer did as he was told. The water sluiced over the matted black locks, washing away some of the blood from Conan's eyes and reviving him somewhat.

  'Where is this money?' the jailer demanded.

  'One more thing,' Conan said. 'Lower me to the floor. I am nigh dead from the pain in my arms.'

  'You said money for water. Do not play games with me.'

  'Lower me, or I will not tell you,' Conan said.

  'One more chance,' the jailer warned. He went behind Conan. Seconds later, the rope went slack and Conan dropped to the cold Mime floor. There he writhed, all but howling with the renewal 'I the torture. The jailer prodded him with a booted toe, then grasped a handful of the black mane and jerked Conan around to lace him.

  'Now, dog, the money! Julus is not the only man here who can make you scream.'

  'He did not make me scream, and neither did you!' Abruptly, Conan's bound legs lashed sideways, kicking the jailer's feet from beneath him: The man fell with a thud, squalling. He tried to get up but the Cimmerian's bound legs slipped over his head and the knees locked around his neck. Slowly, inexorably, the barbarian squeezed. The jailer flopped like a beached fish, but he could neither get loose nor make an outcry. He gave up his futile attempt to pry the iron legs from his throat and snatched at his knife. But already the man was weakening. Before he could cut, Conan slammed him against the floor with a violent wrench. The knife flew through the air.

  The jailer lay inert. Just in case it was a ruse, Conan increased the pressure and held it for a few minutes longer. Then he released the neck and lay still for a while. Coming on top of the beating, this exertion had drained him. But he knew that it was no time to tarry. He crawled across the floor in search of the knife.

  He pawed at the weapon, but his numbed fingers would not close around the grip. He managed to get the butt of the knife between his teeth and brace its point against the floor. By sawing his wrist bindings against the edge of the blade, he contrived to cut through his bonds with a few minutes' exertion. When his hands were free, he waved his arms in circles, forcing blood into the extremities. Now the agony was even greater than what had gone before. Gritting his aching teeth, he waited it out. The pain threatened to go on forever, but in time it passed. With his hands now functioning, the Cimmerian quickly cut his ankle bindings and stood. He was shaky and weak, but he could stay upright after a fashion.

  He re-donned his clothing and armour and belted on his weapons. This made him feel immeasurably better, although he was aware that he could not wield arms with anything approaching his usual power. He needed to rest and recover.

  Slowly, he climbed the stair, leaning against the wall as waves of dizziness swept over him. Before entering the headquarters' main floor, he waited and listened. All was quiet. He saw no guards flanking the front door. Apparently Bombas had taken even his worthless guards on his expedition. Conan had no doubt that they had ridden out to the fort to survey the carnage. He must be in safe hiding when they returned.

  From Julus's questioning, the Cimmerian knew that they were unaware of his presence in the temple. He guessed that Rista Daan was too important a man for them to interrogate, so they knew nothing of his own mission to rescue the man's daughter. Even in the midst of his pain and peril, Conan felt a stab of concern for the girl. He had been too long away from the temple.

  He staggered outside and stood within the shadow of the doorway. The night was dark and he saw no one in the Square. He did not walk across the plaza, but kept to the shadows of the buildings surrounding it. He was unmolested except for stray dogs that approached him hopefully, then slunk away at his unpromising look. When he passed the house of Xanthus, he went into the alley that separated it from the Temple of Mother Doorgah. In the rear of the temple he found the gate unbarred and passed through into the court.

  Crossing the kitchen, he went into the main temple. There the acolytes chanted. Something seemed different about the chant, as if it were somehow deeper, more resonant, sending a vibration throughout the spacious structure. He decided that the ringing in his head was confusing him. Disoriented, he finally found a stair and ascended. He stepped off a landing and found himself before a door.

  'Conan!' He turned to see Oppia standing there. She wore a filmy nightdress and an expression of consternation. 'Where have you bee—what has happened to you?' The Cimmerian realized that in his addled condition, he had come to his former quarters, on the same floor as the apartment of Andolla and Oppia. She hurried to his side and studied him by the light of her lamp.

  'You look more dead than alive! Who has done this? These are not the marks of a brawl!'

  'The henchmen of Bombas,' he said, belabouring his sluggish brain to come up with a story that would convince her to keep him hidden. 'The Reeve wants to know what goes on in this temple. He thinks that you hoard treasure. I would tell nothing. Some alarm called them all away and I managed to escape.'

  'Come, we must get you cleaned up and bandaged.' Her voice sounded somehow different, lower and more vibrant. He decided that his hearing was still defective from the beating.

  'I just need to lie down and rest for a day or two. I will heal by myself.'

  'Nonsense,' she insisted. 'If nothing else, I do not want you bleeding all over the temple. Come with me.' She tugged at his hand and he followed her around the corner to the red door. Not only did she sound different, but it seemed to him that she appeared different as well. She had been a comely woman before, but now her beauty was in some way enhanced. As she walked before him, her hips seemed to have a fuller rondure and she swayed enticingly. Her already-slender waist looked even smaller. He shook his head; perhaps his vision had been affected also.

  She unlocked the door and led him within. The anteroom held images of the goddess festooned with precious gems. The floors were covered with costly carpets, and the walls with hangings of equal value. The lamps were works of art. Conan saw no sorcerous paraphernalia. Apparently, Andolla kept all such materials in his study below. He followed the woman into a small room with a floor of green tile in which was sunk a deep tub of purple marble. Hot water gushed from the mouth of a golden dolphin at one end and drained from another into a catch basin.

  'Get in there,' Oppia ordered. She began to tug at his clothing. Feeling no special inclination to resist, the Cimmerian stripped and climbed into the tub. With a grateful sigh, he lowered himself until the hot, steaming water lapped at his shoulders.'

  'All the way under,' she ordered. Obediently, he submerged himself. When he came back up, she scrubbed at his scalp with a coarse sponge. He winced as it scraped over the lacerations, but he knew that he would heal the swifter for the cleansing. Oppia sat on the edge of the marble tub and laved industriously at his shoulders.

  'Do not flatter yourself,' she warned. 'I am not your bath attendant. I would send one of the acolytes for this task, but I do not wa
nt an acolyte to see you looking thus. I want no tongues wagging. I had thought you a fine figure of a man, but just now you are something with which to discipline children. You are so bruised that your body is as black as a Kushite's, and your face is so swollen I would not have recognized you save for that black thatch and your armour.'

  She shifted herself to his front to sponge his chest, and he studied her. The steam had caused her thin nightdress to cling to her every curve, and she might as well have been naked. Her breasts looked larger and fuller than before, and her belly, despite her tiny waist, was gently rounded. Impossibly, her face seemed to have broadened, without losing any of its beauty. The look reminded him of something, but he could not bring to mind what it might be.

  'I want you to recover quickly,' she said. 'Strange things are happening here, and I grow afraid. My husband's spells have gained great strength, know not why. Things are not as they were, and I want a strong man close at hand to deal with trouble. Even I...' She stopped herself, perhaps fearing to reveal too much.

  'Just keep me hidden away for a day or two,' Conan said. 'I shall be as good as new, and you need fear no enemies.'

  'Wait here,' she said, rising. She swayed from the room and Conan relaxed in the water, letting the hot bath draw some of the

  sting from his wounds. She returned a few minutes later, bearing

  a large cup.

  'Drink this,' she ordered. 'It is watered wine with herbs. It will help your injuries heal.' He took the cup and drank. For once, he did not suspect drugs or poison. When he had finished the potion, she signalled for him to stand. She helped him dry himself, then rubbed unguents into his cuts and abrasions.

  'There,' she said. 'That is all we can do now. Get dressed and return to your quarters, if you think you can negotiate the stairs.'

  'I can do it,' he said. 'I've been hurt far worse than this.' 'I will send acolytes to check upon you from time to time. Tell them if you need anything.'

  'I thank you,' Conan said. 'Are you sure that Andolla does not mind you bathing hired swordsmen in his private bath?'

  'My husband,' she said, 'is too busy of late to pay much heed to what I do. Go now. I will visit you in the morning.'

  Dressed only in his loincloth, the rest of his belongings bundled beneath an arm, he left the apartment and walked to the stair. He ascended to his floor and went into his quarters, which seemed to be as he had left them. Leaving his clothes and arms, he crossed the hall and entered Rietta's chamber. She was sleeping peacefully, and she looked far less frail than before. There was no smell of smoke in the room.

  It seemed that the new developments had caused Andolla and Oppia to neglect their charge. He went to the window and determined that the wax plug had not been tampered with. He left, closing the door silently.

  He went into his own room, fell upon his bed and slept like a corpse.

  He awoke feeling as if his body were carved from wood, stiff and unyielding. Groaning, he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs off the bed. He forced himself to stand, then stretched his limbs until he had worked some of the stiffness from his joints and muscles. As agonizing as the effort was, he knew that he would be fit the sooner for it. There came a knocking at the door, and he placed a hand on his sword hilt.

  'Come in,' he said. An acolyte entered, his eyes widening at the sight of the near-naked, massively bruised swordsman.

  'My mistress bade me see if you were awake and had need of aught, sir,' said the youth, bowing over clasped hands. The Cimmerian wanted nothing more than sleep, but he had someone else to look after.

  'Bring me food,' he demanded. 'Bread and meat and some strong broth, and whatever fruit the kitchen has.' The acolyte bowed again and left. Truly, he was not very hungry, but he knew that Rietta had not eaten decently in at least two days. When the viands arrived, he dismissed the acolyte and crossed the hall.

  'Conan!' Rietta was sitting in her bed. The eyes that widened at his appearance were bright and clear for the first time. 'Where have you... what happened to you?'

  'I grow tired of that question,' he said, setting the tray on the bed before her bare toes. 'Here, you need some of this after two days of gruel.'

  'Yesterday they forgot even the gruel,' she said, snatching at a loaf and tearing into it.

  'I would have been here, but I spent the day in a dungeon.' He watched as she ate. Her appetite had returned and she absorbed the food swiftly. He nodded, satisfied.

  'Now,' he said, 'get up and walk around the room.' She obeyed and he studied the way she moved. She was not yet fully recovered by any means, but her steps were firm and steady. He knew that he could not wait until she regained full strength. Strange things were happening in the temple, and he had a feeling that they would soon become even stranger.

  'You cannot stay here longer,' he told her. 'I will take you to your father's house tonight. Be ready.'

  'Tonight?' The smile that spread across her face was the first sane expression of joy he had seen in this place. Then the smile faded. 'Oh, but how can I face him? I stole from him and let these dreadful people use me like a puppet. How could I have allowed them to do such things?' Her face flushed with shame.

  'They took advantage of your grief at your mother's death,' lie told her. 'Then they weakened you with their accursed drugs, until you had no will of your own. The fact they had to isolate you and starve you and drug you heavily shows that you were far stronger than the others here. Your father will forgive you, girl, else he would not want you back.'

  'I hope you are right,' she said. 'I will be ready when you come for me.'

  'It will be very late,' he told her. 'Perhaps not until just before dawn.'

  'I will be ready,' she promised.

  The Cimmerian returned to his own room and fell upon his bed. When he awoke again, it was almost dusk. Again he rose and stretched. Already his body was mending itself. He touched his face and knew that the swelling was almost gone. The rugged northland-bred people could surfer terribly and heal swiftly.

  He smiled at the thought of catching up with Julus. Though the man had shrewdness, he lacked foresight. At the very least, he should have thought to cripple the Cimmerian's sword hand, but the lackey was too arrogant to anticipate the outlander's escape. He would have cause to regret it.

  Armed and muffled in his cloak, Conan left the temple. With the light fading, people were scurrying from the Square, as if afraid to be caught in the streets after dark. In this hardened place, their haste seemed unusual. In return for some information, Conan assisted a stall-keeper in disassembling and folding his booth.

  'Have you not heard?' the man said. 'There is full-scale war in town now! This-morning Lisip's men invaded Ingas's headquarters in the Iron Skull. Ingas and every one of his men were slain! There will be battles in all the streets tonight!'

  'Excellent!' Conan said.

  'What's that you say?' The stall-keeper looked, but the big foreigner was gone.

  Conan made his way through the streets until he reached an imposing house, where he went up the outside stair to the second floor. There he rapped at the door. Gilmay opened, his hands going to his hilts. Conan ignored him and walked inside.

  'Where is Casperus?' he asked.

  'Cimmerian!' the fat man cried, waddling from a back room. 'I did despair of ever seeing you again! I have been plunged into a mood most melancholy, sir, most melancholy. And now you must at once render me the fullest accounting of your doings about the scorpion. You will apprehend, sir, that I do not ask for an account of all your doings, for I fear, sir, that I might-not live long enough to hear it out! For I suspect, sir, I deeply suspect, that you have not devoted the entirety of your time, and efforts upon my behalf.'

  'You said you wanted the scorpion,' Conan told him.

  'Indeed I did, sir.'

  'I have it.'

  'Splendid! I cannot help but notice, however, that you have omitted to bring it hither, sir. Where might it be?'

  'I have it hidd
en, in a very safe place. It is extremely heavy for its bulk, and just now it would be unwise for me to go about the streets of Sicas carrying it. At any moment I may need both hands for fighting.'

  'Indeed, sir, indeed,' Casperus said, his jovial mask slipping, allowing his seething anger to show through. 'You have been most busy, have you not? These pitched battles between the street gangs have been your doing, not so?'

  Conan shrugged. 'They never needed my encouragement to kill one another.''

  'And there is word in the town of a veritable storming and massacre at a fort near here. Do I detect your warlike expertise in this incident?'

  'It is of no consequence to our business,' he answered.

  'Oh, but it is, sir, it is! This town, which was merely disorderly when you arrived, is now chaotic! No one may move about freely save, perhaps, an expert warrior like yourself. I have no

  choice save to trust your word, sir, since I may not go out and see for myself what you are up to.'

  'You may always trust a Cimmerian's word,' Conan growled.

  'Oh, aye, sir, that I may. I had expected integrity from you, and courage, and perhaps a certain species of low cunning, but never, sir, never did I expect subtlety!'

  'I choose not to be insulted. I will send for you within two days, at which time I will lead you to where the scorpion is hidden. Bring the rest of my money.'

  'Sir, you are an impudent scoundrel!' Casperus proclaimed.

  'I shall be called many names far worse ere I die,' the Cimmerian said. As he turned to go, he found Gilmay blocking his way.

  'There must be a reckoning between us soon, barbarian,' the youth said.

  'Aye,' said Conan, pushing past him. 'Pray that you do not have to pay it.'

  XVII

  Things In The Temple

  The moon was setting when he returned to the temple. He had spent much of the night prowling the town's taverns, collecting information. Screams, shouts, and the clash of arms seemed to come from every alley. There was a reddish glow in the sky above the Pit, where a number of fires burned. There was no longer any talk of peace. Every gang was at war with every other, and the Reeve huddled in his headquarters, completely unnerved. For years he had robbed the king of warriors' wages, and now he was paying for his greed. He had no men worthy of the name to call upon to restore order.