Conan the Invincible

by Robert Jordan

  As he strode through pitchy streets at once broader and less odoriferous than those of the Desert, he thought that this might be almost his last return to that squalid district. After tomorrow night he would be beyond such places. From the direction of the palace, a gong sounded in the night.

  V

  Conan woke early the morning after his foray into the palace. He found the common room empty except for Abuletes, counting his night’s take at the bar, and two skinny sweepers in rags. The fat tavernkeeper eyed Conan warily and put a protective arm about the stacked coins.

  “Wine,” Conan said, fishing out the necessary coppers. For all his celebration the night before there were still six of the dark man’s gold coins in his purse. “I don’t steal from friends,” he added, when Abuletes drew the money down the bar after him in the crook of his arm.

  “Friends! What friends? In the Desert, a brother in blood is no friend.” Abuletes filled a rough earthenware mug from a tap in a keg and shoved it in front of Conan. “But perhaps you think to buy friends with the gold you were throwing about last night. Where did that come from, anyway? Had you aught to do with what happened at the palace in the night? No, that couldn’t be. You were spending like Yildiz himself before ever it happened. You’d better watch that, showing your gold so free in the Desert.”

  The tavernkeeper would have gone on, but Conan cut him short. “Something happened at the palace?” He was careful to drink deep of the thin wine for punctuation, as if the question were casual.

  “And you call a king’s counselor dead something, plus others to the king’s household and a dozen guardsmen besides, then it did.”

  “A dozen!”

  “So I said, and so it was. Dead guardsmen at every hand, Yildiz’s gifts to Tiridates taken, and never a one who saw a hair of those who did it. Never a one in all the palace.” Abuletes rubbed his chins with a pudgy hand. “Though there’s a tale about that a pair of the sentries saw a man running from the palace. A big man. Mayhap as big as you.”

  “Of course it was me,” Conan snorted. “I leaped over the wall, then leaped back again with all that on my back. You did say all the gifts were taken, didn’t you?” He emptied his mug and thumped it down before the stout man. “Again.”

  “Five gemstones, five dancing girls and a golden casket.” Abuletes twisted the tap shut and replaced the mug on the bar. “Unless there’s more than that, they took all. I’ll admit you couldn’t have done it. I admit it. But why are you so interested now? Answer me that.”

  “I’m a thief. Someone else has done the hard part on this. All I have to do is relieve him of his ill-gotten goods.” Relieve whom, he wondered. Ankar had had no other plan beyond himself. Of that he was certain. That left guardsmen gone wrong, stolen away with the treasure and the slave girls after slaying their comrades, or slain themselves after letting someone else into the palace to do the theft.

  Abuletes hawked and spat on a varicolored rag, and began to scrub the bartop. “Was me,” he said absently, “I’d have naught to do with this. Those who did this thing aren’t of the Desert. Those who rob kings aren’t to be crossed. Necromancers, for all you know. There was no one seen, remember. Not a glimpse of a hair.”

  It could have been a mage, Conan thought, though why a mage, or anyone else, would go through the danger of stealing five dancing girls from the palace, he could not imagine. Too, magicians were not so thick on the ground as most men believed, and he was one who should know.

  “You begin to sound worried for me, Abuletes. I thought you said there were no friends in the Desert.”

  “You spend freely,” the tavernkeeper said sourly. “That’s all there is. Don’t think there’s more. You stay out of this, whatever it is. Whoever’s behind this is too big for the likes of you. You’ll end with your throat cut, and I’ll be out a customer.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Bel! I’m for a breath of air. This sitting around talking of other men’s thefts gives me a pain in the belly.”

  He left the fat tapster muttering darkly to himself and found his way to the street. The air in the Desert was anything but fresh. The stench of rotting offal blended with the effluvia of human excrement and vomit. The paving stones where they had not been ripped up to leave mudholes, were slick with slime. From the dim depths of an alley, barely wide enough for a man to enter, the victim of a robbery moaned for help. Or the bait for a robbery. Either was equally likely.

  Conan strode the crooked streets of that thieves’ district purposefully, though he was not himself sure of what that purpose was. A swindler with tarnished silver embroidery on his vest waved a greeting as he passed, and a whore, naked but for gilded brass bells and resting her feet in a doorway, smiled at the broadshouldered youth as she suddenly felt not so tired after all. Conan did not even notice them, nor the “blind” beggar in black rags, tapping his way down the street with a broken stick, who eased his dagger back under his soiled robes after a glance at the grim set of Conan’s jaw, or the three who followed him through the winding streets, the edges of their headcloths drawn across their faces, whiteknuckled hands gripping cudgels beneath their dingy cloaks, before the size of his arms and the length of his sword made them take another turning.

  He tried telling himself that the pendants were beyond his reach now. He had naught beyond glimmers of suspicion who had taken them, no idea at all where they were. Still, ten thousand pieces of gold was not a thing a man gave up on easily. And there was Velita. A slave girl. She would be happy with any master who was kind to her. But he had promised, sworn, to free her. By Bel and by Crom he had sworn it. His oath, and ten thousand pieces of gold.

  Suddenly he realized he was out of the Desert, near the Sign of the Bull Dancer, on the Street of the Silver Fish. A tree-lined sward of grass ran down the center of the broad avenue. Slave-borne sedan chairs vied in number with pedestrians, and there was not a beggar in sight. This place was far from the Desert, yet he had friends — or at least acquaintances—here. The tavern hoarding, a slender youth in a leathern girdle, vaulting between the needle horns of a great black bull, creaked in the breeze as he went in.

  Taverns, Conan reflected as he searched for a certain face, were much alike, in the Desert or out. Rather than footpads and cutpurses, plump merchants in purple silk and green brocade occupied the tables, but only the methods of stealing were different. In place of a coiner was a slender man holding a pomander before his prominent nose. He did not make the money he passed, rather buying it through the back door of the king’s mint. The panderers dressed like noblemen, in scarlet robes, with emeralds at their ears, and some of them were indeed noblemen, but they were panderers no less. The prostitutes wore gold instead of gilt, rubies instead of spessartine, but they were just as naked, and they sold the same wares.

  Conan spotted the man he wanted, Ampartes, a merchant who cared little if the king’s duties had been paid on the goods he bought, alone at a table against the wall. Whatever happened in Shadizar, Ampartes soon knew of it. The chair across the table from the plump merchant groaned in protest as Conan’s bulk dropped into it, a sound not far from that which rose in Ampartes’ throat. His oily cheek twitched as his dark eyes rolled to see who had noted the Cimmerian’s arrival. He tugged at his short, pointed beard with a beringed hand.

  “What are you doing here, Conan?” he hissed, and blanched as if in fear the name might have been overheard. “I have no need of … of your particular wares.”

  “But I have need of yours. Tell me of what happened in the city last night.”

  Ampartes’ voice rose to a squeak.

  “You … you mean the palace?”

  “No,” Conan said, and hid a smile at the relief on the merchant’s face. He grabbed a pewter goblet from the tray of a passing serving girl, a hand’s breadth strip of crimson silk low on her hips her only garb, and filled it from Ampartes’ blue-glazed flagon. The girl gave him a coy smile, then tossed her blonde head with a snort and hurried on sulkily when he did not give h
er a second glance. “But anything else unusual. Anything at all.”

  For the next two hours the merchant babbled in his relief that Conan was not involving him in the palace theft. Conan learned that on the night before in Shadizar a dealer in rare wines had strangled his mistress on discovering her with his son, and a gem merchant’s wife had put a dagger in her husband’s ribs for no reason that anyone knew. A nobleman’s niece had been taken by kidnappers, but those who knew said her ransom, to come from her inheritance, would pay her uncle’s debts. Thieves had entered the homes of five merchants and two nobles. One noble had had even his sedan chair and the robes from his back taken on the High Vorlusian Way, and a slave dealer’s weasand had been slit outside his own auction house, some said for the keys to his strongbox, others for not checking the source of his merchandise, thus selling an abducted noblewoman into Koth. A merchant of Akif, visiting a most specialized brothel called The House of the Lambs of Hebra, had … .

  “Enough!” Conan’s hand cracked on the tabletop. Ampartes stared at him open-mouthed. “What you’ve told me so far could happen on any night in Shadizar, and usually does. What occurred out of the ordinary? It doesn’t have to do with gold, or theft. Just so it’s strange.”

  “I don’t understand what you want,” the oily man muttered. “There’s the matter of the pilgrims, but there’s no profit there. I don’t know why I waste my time with you.”

  “Pilgrims?” Conan said sharply. “What was unusual about these pilgrims?”

  “In Mitra’s name, why would you want to know about … .” Ampartes swallowed as Conan’s steel blue eyes locked his. “Oh, very well. They were from Argos, far to the west, making a pilgrimage to a shrine in Vendhya, as far to the east.”

  “I need no lessons in geography,” Conan growled. “I’ve heard of these lands. What did these pilgrims do that was out of the ordinary?”

  “They left the city two full glasses before cock crow, that’s what. Something about a vow not to be inside a city’s walls at dawn, I understand. Now where’s your profit in that?”

  “Just you tell me what I want to hear, and let me worry about profit. What sort of men were these pilgrims?”

  Ampartes threw him an exasperated look. “Zandru’s Bells, man! Do you expect me to know more about a mere band of pilgrims than that they exist?”

  “I expect,” Conan said drily, “that on any given day you’ll know which nobles lost how much at dice, who slept with whose wife, and how many times the king sneezed. The pilgrims? Rack your brains, Ampartes.”

  “I don’t … .” The plump merchant grunted as Conan lay his left arm on the table. The forearm sheath was empty, and the Cimmerian’s right hand was below the table’s edge. “They were pilgrims. What more is there to say? Hooded men in coarse robes that showed not a hair of them. No better or worse mounted than most pilgrims. The bodies of five of their number who’d died on the way were packed in casks of wine on camels. Seems they’d made another vow, that all who started the pilgrimage would reach the shrine. Mitra, Conan, who can say much of pilgrims?”

  Five bodies, Conan thought. Five dancing girls. “There were fighting men with these pilgrims? Armed men?”

  Ampartes shook his head. “Not so much as a dagger in evidence, is what I heard. They told the sergeant at the Gate of the Three Swords that the spirit of their god would protect them. He said a good sword would do a better job, and wearing a soldier’s boots wasn’t enough.”

  “What about a soldier’s boots?”

  “For the love of … now I’m supposed to know about boots?” He spread his hands. “All right. All I know is one of them was wearing a pair of cavalryman’s halfboots. His robe was caught on his stirrup leather so one showed.” His tone became sarcastic. “Do you want to know what they looked like? Red, with some sort of serpent worked in the leather. Strange, that, but there it is. And that, Conan, is every last thing I know about those accursed pilgrims. Will you satisfy my curiosity now? What in the name of all the gods does a man like you want with pilgrims?”

  “I’m seeking a religious experience,” Conan replied, sheathing his dagger. He left the merchant laughing till tears ran down his fleshy cheeks.

  As Conan hurried across Shadizar to the stable where his horse was kept, he knew he was right. Not only the five bodies in casks told him, but also the Gate of the Three Swords. That gate let out to the northeast, toward the caravan route that ran from Khesron through the Kezankian Mountains to Sultanapur. Vendhya might only be a name to him, but he knew it was reached by leaving through the Gate of the Black Throne and traveling southeast through Turan and beyond the Vilayet Sea. As soon as he could put saddle to horse, he would be off through the Gate of the Three Swords after Velita, the pendants, and his ten thousand pieces of gold.

  VI

  The man in field armor contrasted sharply with the others in Tiridates’ private audience chamber. From greaves over his halfboots to ring mail and gorget, his armor was plain and dark, so as not to reflect light when on campaign. Even the horsehair crest on the helmet beneath his arm was russet rather than scarlet. He was Haranides, a captain of cavalry who had risen without patron or family connections. Now the hawk-nosed captain was wondering if the rise had been worth it.

  Of the four others in the ivory-paneled room, only two were worthy of note. Tiridates, King of Zamora, slouched on the Minor Throne—its arms were golden hunting leopards in full bound, the back a peacock feathered in emeralds, rubies, sapphires and pearls—as if it were a tavern stool, a golden goblet dangling from one slack hand. His amethystine robe was rumpled and stained, his eyes but half-focused. With his free hand he idly caressed the arm of a slender blonde girl who knelt beside the throne in naught but perfume and a wide choker of pearls about her swanlike neck. On the other side of the throne a youth, equally blonde and slender and attired the same, sulked for his lack of attention.

  The other man worth marking, perhaps more so than the king, stood three paces to the right of the throne. Graying and stooped, but with shrewd intelligence engraved on his wizened face, he wore a crimson robe slashed with gold, and the golden Seal of Zamora on its emeralded chain about his neck. His name was Aharesus, and the seal had fallen to him with the death of Malderes, the previous chief king’s counselor, the night before.

  “You know why you are summoned, captain?” Aharesus said.

  “No, my lord Counselor,” Haranides replied stiffly. The counselor watched him expectantly, until at last he went on. “I can suspect, of course. Perhaps it has to do with the events of last night?”

  “Very good, captain. And do you have any glimmering why you, instead of some other?”

  “No, my lord Counselor.” And this time, in truth, he had not a flickering of an idea. He had returned to the city only shortly after dawn that very morning, coming back from duty on the Kothian border. A hard posting, but what could be expected for a man with no preferment?

  “You are chosen because you were not in Shadizar this year past.” Haranides blinked, and the counselor chuckled, a sound like dry twigs scraping together. “I see your surprise, captain, though you conceal it well. An admirable trait in a military man. As you were not in the city, you could not be part of any … plot, involving those on duty in the palace last night.”

  “Plot!” the captain exclaimed. “Pardon, my lord, but the King’s Own has always been loyal to the throne.”

  “Loyalty to his fellows is another good trait for a military man, captain.” The counselor’s voice hardened. “Don’t carry it too far. Those who had the duty last night are even now being put to the question.”

  Haranides felt sweat trickling down his ribs. He had no wish to join those men enjoying the attentions of the king’s torturers. “My lord knows that I’ve always been a loyal soldier.”

  “I reviewed your record this morning,” Aharesus said slowly. “Your return to the city at this juncture was like a stroke from Mitra. These are parlous times, captain.”

  “Their heads,
” the king barked abruptly. His head swung in a muddled arc between the captain and the counselor. Haranides was shocked to realize that he had forgotten the king was present. “I want their heads on pikes, Aharesus. Stole my … my tribute from Yildiz. Stole my dancing girls.” Tiridates directed a bleary smile at the slave girl, then jerked his gaze back to Haranides. “You bring them back to me, do you hear? The girls, the pendants, the casket. And the heads. The heads.” With a belch the king sagged back into a sodden lump. “More wine,” he muttered. The blonde youth darted away and returned with a crystal vessel and a fawning smile.

  The captain’s sweating increased. It was no secret Tiridates was a drunkard, but being witness to it could do him no good.

  “The insult to the honor of the king is, captain, paramount, of course,” Aharesus said with a careful glance at the king, who had his face buried in .the goblet of wine. “On a wider view, however, what must be considered is that the palace was entered and the Chief King’s Counselor murdered.”

  “My lord counselor thinks that was the reason for it all, and the other just a screen?”

  The Counselor gave him a shrewd look. “You’ve a brain, captain. You may have a future. Yes, it makes no sense otherwise. Some foreign power wished the Counselor dead for some purpose of their own. Perhaps Yildiz himself. He has dreams of an empire, and Malderes often thwarted those plans.” Aheresus fingered the golden seal on his chest thoughtfully. “In any case, it’s doubtful that Yildiz, or whoever is responsible, would send his own people into the very palace. One of those being questioned screamed the name of the Red Hawk before he died.”

  “She’s just a bandit, my lord Counselor.”

  “And a man babbles when he’s dying. But she’s a bandit who will dare much for gold, and we have no other way to search. Until one of those being questioned loosens his tongue.” The chill in his tone promised the questioning would continue until many tongues were loosened; Haranides shivered. “You, captain, will take two companies of cavalry and hound this Red Hawk. Run her to ground and bring her here in chains. We’ll soon find if she had aught to do with this business.”