'Here girl, where -'
Despite his big hands on her arms, the chestnut-skinned easterner writhed away, ducked, and hurried on past him. The youth did not even turn. With a little snort and a whimsical jerk of his head, he walked on. His hand left his dagger and his eyes squinted as he scanned upper-storey windows.
'Boy. Ho there, big one!'
He half turned to look back. A slim hunting panther to Ins black-maned lion, the girl stood in the centre of the mid-section, where it was safest. Her hands rode bare hips mid she faced him.
'Don't go that way unless you don't mind blundering into anyone else's trouble!'
A young male addressed a young female: 'You think I'm wearing this sword to pare my toenails?'
She snorted and tossed her head so that purplish-black hair flew. 'Huh! No, and you're big enough. It's just that smart folk avoid others' troubles, and you're headed for some. Three or four blades, at least. Where came you by that barbarous accent?'
'Not on the other side of the Vilayet like you, girl.' I le glanced around, a broad-shouldered near-giant whose massive chest strained the cloth of a tunic not made for him. lie was bronzed by the sun and the tunic was the colour f desert sand. 'Why warn me?'
He was wary, and justifiably. He knew Arenjun well, and Shadizar's reputation was little better. Such a helpful and tempting young woman could easily be distracting his attention whilst a silent confederate stole upon him with cudgel or club or worse. He saw no one. The Street of Erlik Unthroned was quiet and apparently untenanted. The cult's adherents either did not meet this night in that big building they had converted into a temple, or they were quiet about the conducting of their rites.
She shrugged. It was a jerky gesture, boyish save for the movement it imparted to her bosom, which was more bared than clothed; less clothed than adorned. Homespun and gauze indeed; she was poor as a temple cockroach!
'I ran into you, and you didn't grab me or try to pin me up against a wall. Why not?'
'Not because I did not find you attractive,' he said, perhaps hopefully, for the city was new to him and she was comely. 'Show me the way to a place to get better acquainted, then.'
Her reply was a scornful chuckle. You haven't that which attracts me, fellow!'
'I'm a year or so older than you, and strong enough to protect such a girl as you!' Even as his chest swelled a bit,
he checked again down the Street of Erlik Enthroned. It remained empty, in the darkness.
'Huh! So are scores of others, hill-boy, and all with bid hot hands that want to roam like stray dogs! It's good coin, that require.'
'Go your way then, and find a. fat grease-headed merchant with coins to spend on a girl so poor she can't afford silk.' I require good coin too.'
She started to say something else-perhaps to remind him that he was bent in a way opposite the city's moneyed area - but changed her mind. With another of those interesting shrugs and a toss of her long thick hair, she turned and padded away along Bazaar Way, towards the sprawling inner city plain that made up the Bazaar. He noted that she contrived to add an exaggerated sway and grind to her girlish hips.
'Women.' he muttered, in the manner of a man of experience, and he disregarded her advice. He resumed his prowl away from the better-lighted, patrolled area. He knew this city was wicked. Perhaps he was, too. He was confident.
The capital of Zamora was not idly called the City of Wickedness, Conan mused.
In the Bazaar that was the city's culmination of the great caravan route called Road of Kings, every commodity was available from produce to baubles both of stone and metal and flesh and blood. Above that sprawling market flanked by stalls and shops with brightly striped awnings, every manner of vice was readily available and even hawked like goods —for a price. Most of the vices were exotic and unbridled; the prices were high. No matter how curious he waxed, no matter how tempted by his eyes and the murmurs of extolling hawkers - and tales told in his inn - Conan eschewed the expensive esoterica of Shadizar the Wicked.
True, the strapping, almost hulking youth was a man of property, with two horses in a guarded stable behind the inn. Yet he cherished those possessions; they were hard-gained. Nor was his business in Shadizar to spend. Conan had other business. It involved his soul . . . and profit, rather than expenditures.
Having set up as a thief in Arenjun once he'd worked his way down here from the hills of Cimmeria, he had just spent the better part of two months to little profit. Indeed, he had suffered the loss of not only that fraction of his life, but of a prized part of himself as well. Though blessed with an easygoing barbarian insouciance and the open-eyed optimism of his few years, he was hardly the happiest in Shadizar of Zamora, or without cares.
I le had come here with ambivalent hopes and goals. While he cherished a desire to gain audience with the sorcerer-laiden king, he sought too to vanish. He'd soon learned that the lord King of Zamora was not seen by some foreign youth without the laying out of a good deal of money to various intermediaries in fine robes. Too, he'd not needed to investigate or query to know that he could not long I lord to stay in the Upper City. He'd found lodgings on the other side of the bazaar, in that area of the walled capital known as the Desert. He stopped at the inn under the sign of the Foaming Jack, as often called the Leering Jackal.
This night, as on the night before, he prowled.
His pacing was not aimless; Conan moved ever uptown, out of the Desert. Why then had he turned down Erlik Enthroned? He was not certain. Here were companions, and anonymity unto invisibility, but no real attractions for an ambitious thief. And so he must be, to gain the wherewithal to bribe the robed slime that oozed between king and those who hoped to gain his ear.
The winding, narrow streets of the Lower City were dim - even by day. The dingy human-constricted caves shadowing them were tenanted by refugees from the authorities and angry rulers of a dozen lands and other cities and city-states. Here were thieves whose activities had made other abodes far too unhealthy for their continued tenancy and newly-bearded mercenaries and deserters or newly-shaven, had they worn beards afore fighting off the shakes ere they sought new employment; here brooded shadowy, unworthy temples of a score of cults whose adherents would be unwelcome in most of the rest of the world. The cults of Shadizar were often artificial, manufactured to feature and support various vices in lascivious rites. In the Desert, night-companions ranged in age from the just-nubile to time-ravaged, pitifully old whores. They swayed among
cultists and pleasure-seekers and the merely curious drawn by Shadizar's reputation; and deviants, refugees, and out-l laws of every ilk and persuasion, predilection, and unrepentant reputation. Cut-purses and armed bullies prowled the streets and infested hallways dark as their souls. So too did cult-shills, temptresses and others: women of all ages more than ready to sell themselves by the hour, or for the time necessary to travel elsewhere with a protector strong of thews, or purse, or guards and reputation. For many who remained in the City of Wickedness were not all that happy; they just could not or dared not seek to betake themselves somewhere else.
Last night the big Cimmerian youth had said nay to nine women one of whom was sixty if she was a day, while! another was surely not yet nubile, four boys and two men. One of the latter pair had been so obstreperously insistent that he'd had to be refused with vehemence and finally with strength. 'You should be flattered!' he had told Conan, who wasn't.
During the course of the same evening Conan had heard described the most abominable rites of the Temple of Set-Ishtar Reformed and United, and the unequivocally voluptuous ones of the Temple of Derketa Cloaca. Too, he had seen a swaggering big Nemedian mercenary neatly and swiftly knifed by a boy of no more than thirteen, and him face to face with his victim. Later Conan witnessed the upending and sound spanking, in a public inn, of a young woman attired first in wisps of violently red silk and then in nothing save her brace of bangles. Afterwards she was tossed - aye, literally tossed - easily to two sombre, black Stygians who swi
ftly hauled the blonde to their dingy quarters.
Conan had eschewed involvement. This was solemn resolve. He was here on important business: theft, and the regaining of his soul. He would not involve himself in the problems of others. And he would have care as to whom he sought to rob!
He had been too much involved in too much of late. A few too many persons down in Arenjun desired his company if not companionship. Events and his own straightforwardness had resulted in his reducing Arenjun's sorcerer population by two, and in destroying both their abodes. 'ensconced in the Mall where thieves held revel by night-which in Arenjun was only a lawless section, while it seemed to comprise half of Shadizar the Wicked-he had got word ..I those who sought him.
There were men of the City Watch, of whose number he had slain one, wounded another, and destroyed both dignity and commission of an officer, all on one night some two months ago. The former prefect and his friends quietly..left the huge hillman with his smouldering blue eyes and hurt temper. So did uniformed men of the Watch, and one in-uniformed agent. Next came intelligence that a trousered, dial-wearing man of far Iranistan was also asking guarded and knowledgeable questions as to a certain Cimmerian youth's habits and whereabouts.
At that point Conan decided that Arenjun had grown lamentably small.
With his new possessions, he had departed the city by night. He rode north to Shadizar. He could have bought willing a female friend, Conan did not share her willingness.
Oddly, he had taken a longish route, avoiding the Road of Kings that directly connected the two Zamoran cities.
Though Shadizar was the capital and its gate sentries suspicious, few questions were asked of anyone by anyone, once a newcomer was within the walls. Too many here had too much to conceal; 'Best not to ask, lest one be asked,' was a common phrase in Shadizar. In Arenjun one never knew who was plotting and who might be deadly danger. In Shadizar, one assumed: all plotted, all were lovers of vice and probably bent on wickedness. Conan preferred Shadizar. It was not difficult for him to be on his guard at all times. Walking now that city's nighted streets, he smiled grimly. Purely as practice, he let his right hand dart across his muscular midsection to snatch out his sword. It sheared the air before him within a second, and he returned the blade to its oiled home with another smile. All in the space of a few heartbeats.
'Nothing worth stealing here,' he muttered, in a sound that approached a growl, from the throat. 'Best head back uptown.'
He had come out of the affair of the Eye of Erlik - which was not finished - and of the mage Hisarr Zul - with some small wealth. He'd left the wizard's burning keep with several weapons and a bolt of good cloth, hastily snatched. Too, he had acquired two horses and a like number of camels, along with a few stolen goods from far Samara. The horses remained. A youngish girl of astonishing skills and an older, far more crafty woman of Arenjuii had assisted the youthful mage-slayer in relieving himself of the surly camels and the silver they brought, along with a few other items. He was left with memories and a new philosophy concerning women, and a vow he honestly believed he would keep, as had many a youth and man before him.
The guards at Shadizar's gates and the proprietor of the Foaming Jack had accounted for the rest of the Samaratan, booty which Conan had gained as a result of defending himself against their possessor, who had stolen them. And now he had been in the City of Wickedness for two days. For two nights, departing his inn just after sundown, he had wandered the Zamoran capital.
He had not been challenged. Though obviously a youth with his erect posture, smoothly muscled arms and face free of lines, he was nevertheless manifestly formidable. The sheath of worn shagreen leather at his left hip was not new. It showed wear. The hilt standing from it was not ornamented, hinting at a serviceable sword. Neither was there ornamentation on the bone handle of his dagger. A glance into his eyes, a swift appraisal of his posture, his gait, his, roving gaze, his huge, ready hands and their thick wrists below extraordinary biceps; these told potential accosters they were better advised to seek prey elsewhere. Something I about this young man bespoke that the dagger had been I used on meat other than cooked. Surely the sword would ' be sharp, and wielded with expertise and power, and had in past been wiped of scarlet smears.
Conan was reconnoitring, seeking. He was about his business.
Part of that business was stealing, and he felt himself above mere footpads and cut-purses. He was swift, and could climb and be stealthy. An integral part of his chosen profession involved sniffing, observing and reconnoitring that would have made him a good general or military spy. He could be still, eventually; just now he was not quite eighteen, and still learning.
He was an agile and facile thief who had learned a certain quickness and cleverness - not without cost. Certainly he wished he'd never sought to rob the Elephant Tower of Vara the priest or the keep of Hisarr Zul the wizard.
He reached the end of the Street of Erlik Enthroned, and he saw that which the nameless girl had fled, and warned him against.
Why the cross-street was called Khauran he did not know; who owned the decorated and curtained litter resting against the far north-west wall he could not say. Nor did In: care. He knew not whether the litter was occupied —or if it were, whether that person was alive or dead, wounded or swooned. Conan did know that the foreigner who had himself carried about this part of the city at night was stupid: two men had borne the litter while one guarded. In the Desert of the Lower City, three were not enough, mid doubly so when two of them were not trained men of weapons.
One bearer was down, twitching in his blood when Conan came upon the scene. The other fled up Khauran Way in the manner of one who'd not even pause for breath until he was somewhere in the eastern hills of Brythunia, Zamora's northward neighbour.
None of the four attackers pursued him. Three beset the mailed, helmeted guard, who'd got his back against a wall and was sweeping his sword in horizontal figure-eights low enough to keep from being skewered. He could not maintain that rapid exertion forever, and his assailants knew it. Now the fourth was leaving the body of the downed bearer, to join them. He carried a trencherman's dagger and another; the second had a blade as long as his forearm. It dripped. Two of the others had swords, no matter that such were so expensive; the fourth, to the beleaguered guard's right, was also armed with two daggers.
'Never mind,' one of the attackers told the fourth. We have him-just drag the rabbit out of its burrow and start stripping it of jewels. If it resists--see if it bleeds! Uh!'
The speaker had said too much, partially turning his head
towards his companion of the bloody dagger. No pool fighter, the guard swiftly altered his sweeping defence just enough, advanced one foot just enough, to send the firm inch of his blade slicing through the man's throat. He staggered back, unable to speak, and dropped his weapon to clutch his neck. It was leaking badly. Making hideout gargling noises, the man continued to stagger away. Conan watched him sag.
I salute you, warrior, the Cimmerian thought, and decided it was time he took a stranger's advice and followed him back up towards the Upper City.
It was then that the man with the bloody dagger laid hand on the curtains concealing the litter's interior. A beringed and braceleted wrist flashed from within. The thief cried out in shock and pain as his hand was slashed by the short blade of a dagger whose jewels flashed even in the dimness of the street and the flickering light of a pole set lamp.
A woman, Conan realised - and one of wealth! That bracelet was of gold. Even so it was gem-set, and the rings were surely not glass. She even stabbed at an attacker with a jewelled knife! To aid such a person might be more profitable than stealing-and surely little more dangerous, judging from the ragged appearance of the three assailants.
A complication arose even as the Cimmerian arrived at that intelligence. Bleeding from one hand, the thief clamped' it against his tunic while he obviously prepared to send his long blade stabbing through the curtain into the litter.
What Conan bawled out did not matter; perhaps it was 'KAWAAAH!' or some such. Only the sound was important, and he was on the move even as he shouted. Naturally, the man beside the litter interrupted his activity to look around.
He saw six or so feet of broad-shouldered, thickly muscled man rushing at him, black hair blowing about his head. His long sword was carried at the waist with wrist turned slightly outward. Even so the fellow was foolish enough to stand and meet that rush, and it was necessary that Conan strike twice rather than once. The first blow clanged his swordblade against the other's dagger with such force that the man grunted in pain and the weapon went flying to clang off a stone wall, striking sparks, and clunk in the street. There it skittered and fetched up against the mill', base with another clang.
The man's second stroke was in truth merely the backswing of the first: it sliced the man open from right hip to left. The thief hadn't even dropped to his knee ere Conan was winding away, knowing him done, and turning his icy gaze on the other two thieves.
Neither had as yet got past the guard's defence - which, Conan was impressed to note, was not yet faltering. Nor had either been so much as wounded.
Which one shall I run through from behind?'
The horrible question was snarled in Conan's most vicious tones. Had there been twenty with their backs to him, they might have turned. One of the attackers was wise enough in slip several paces aside while he turned; the other forgot it and twisted his head about to snatch an over-the-shoulder look.
Once again the litter's guard saw opportunity, and swiftly took it. In truth it was beautifully done; he took this man just as he had the other, with the very tip of his blade cross the throat. It was enough; bone and vital artery were exposed, and another man gushed blood on to the street of Khauran.
Grinning like a snarling wolf, Conan pounced to within three feet of the other, showing the guard his unprotected side. He stared into the eyes of a sword-wielding thief in a dirty brown tunic-who had set out this night with three companions and was now ineffably alone.
The Conan Chronology Page 27