'You continue direct.'
'You continue stating the unnecessary.'
'We are not enemies, Conan. You have no reason to be hostile. Is that all you know of Balad?'
'Evidently I am here to learn more. Speak.'
'You will listen to words about Balad, O friend of Akter Khan?'
Conan shrugged. 'favoured, not friend. Akter Khan owes me. I do not owe him. Indeed, his damned amulet has cost me considerable. To listen costs little and implies nothing.' That was true—and also, he thought, sounded good. Very good. Approached by plotters! Aye, he would hear what they had to say. Would they dare try to treat with one so favoured of Akter? In that case, they were either passing foolish or brave indeed, and Conan would like to know which. Silently, his face showing nothing, he waited.
'Balad believes that Akter Khan is not the best ruler for Zamboula, and certainly not best for its people.'
The man paused to observe the effect on Conan of that statement; Conan showed him nothing. The two plotters exchanged a look. 'Best you return to the inn.'
Conan's guide left them. 'My name is Jelal, Conan. He who brought you here does not know it.'
Conan knew that he was to be impressed that Jelal gave him his name. He was cynically aware that 'Jelal' might not be this wight's name at all. Besides, he did not believe the man. The guide surely had some name by which to call his superior in the organization of Balad, and why would the man give Conan a different name? He remained silent. His face remained immobile.
'Akter Khan is fearful of his shadow,' Jelal said. 'He is becoming a drunken sot and doing nothing that a ruler should. His vizir is a good and wise man, but he's been supplanted by that youthful wizard, Zafra. He murdered the mage to whom he was apprenticed, did you know that?'
No, Conan thought, and I didn't know there was aught wrong with being a youth, either.
'In the dungeons of Zamboula's palace,' Jelal said on, 'people die to no purpose, for no reason.'
The fellow's eyes showed surprise when Conan came alive with a question. 'How did the Shanki girl meet her death?'
'You do know considerable,' Jelal said and, when Conan made no comment, went on: 'She was slain. Akter Khan's pride was sore hurt by her; what woman does not wish to lie with a man of power? Yet he did not slay her in rage. One day two spies from Iranistan were slain in the dungeon, by Zafra and Akter alone, after Zafra had performed some… strange rite, over a sword. The Shanki was sent for, and conveyed to the dungeon. Not under arrest, you understand; merely to her lord, who was there. She was left there. Only she and Akter and Zafra were present. Soon Akter left, alone. Zafra and the girl remained. She was never seen again. No one saw her corpse. What I have just said is fact, Conan. Of what I say now we cannot be sure: some believe that she was butchered and that her body was the one that caused such excitement down in Squatters Alley, where it was found. The dismembered corpse of a young woman or girl, neatly packed in several containers, is so shocking a discovery that it was noteworthy even in such a hole as Squatter's Alley —which Balad would clean up, by the way.'
Conan ignored the campaign phrase. 'You say that her murder is fact.'
'Yes.'
'How do you know this?'
'I cannot tell you, Conan. That is, I will not.'
'You have a spy in the palace.'
'Balad has, of course. Many and many are those who believe Akter Khan no fit ruler, Conan—and see Zafra as a terrible danger to us all.'
'Why Balad, then? Plot, for so men do, and no ruler but slays, and has dungeons. Slay Akter, and put his son Jungir on the throne. With strong advisors— even Balad, perhaps.'
'Jungir is only a boy, Conan, but he would know what happened to his father and eventually, with age and the strength of power, he would seek his vengeance.
Balad is a strong man, a scion of an old and noble house, and a liberal. Too, he has a sense of Zamboulan destiny. We cannot merely remain here, to stagnate and rot under a 'ruler' who does nothing save drink himself to sleep each night.'
After a time, the Cimmerian realised that this time Jelal intended to say nothing until Conan had spoken. He spoke.
'I have heard your words, Jelal. They are interesting. I doubt there is anything new in them; there are always bad rulers and those who plot against them. Even good rulers—I have heard that some exist—have those who plot against them. I will not tell Akter Khan of this meeting, or anyone else. Remember that I am no Zamboulan, and do not plan to remain here. The affairs of Zamboula are of little concern to me.'
'You could be of aid to us, Conan.'
'Doubtless. As I could be of aid to Akter Khan. Isparana and his Captain Jhabiz feel that he may well offer me some sort of position as what I am: a man of weapons.'
'Those who serve under Akter Khan are seldom respected and never loved, Conan. You are a man of prowess, and young, without wealth. Were Balad to become ruler of Zamboula, you would assuredly receive a command.'
'At my age?'
Jelal cocked his head. 'What is your age?'
'Never mind. That is interesting, Jelal. Yet at present I find myself rewarded, favoured by Akter Khan. In Cimmeria people say that in winter when one has an empty belly and slays a good elk, one should not long for spices and wine.'
As if reminded—or perhaps symbolically—Jelal turned away to pour wine. After offering some to Conan with a gesture, he drank, looking at the foreigner across the cup's rim. 'In Zamboula, people say that the man who aspires but does not take action is an unburied corpse.'
Conan shrugged.
'Conan: Akter Khan will fall. Balad will rule. Turan will accept him, for the Emperor-king wants only a strong man on the throne here, and those things Zamboula sends to Aghrapur as revenues. We have friends in Aghrapur—'
'Agents?'
'Friends, let us say. Those who oppose Akter are assumed to be friends of Balad. Those who aid him will be favoured. Strong men of prowess are needed.'
'To fight. Your Balad means to bathe Zamboula in blood?'
'Hardly. None in Zamboula will fight for Akter Khan! The palace may have to be fought for,' Jelal replied evenly. 'His own guards, I mean; the Khan's Thorns.'
Conan nodded. 'I have not said nay, Jelal. I have said that you have not convinced me that I should throw in my lot with Balad, a name. I do not know him, or much of him.'
'You could meet Balad, Conan. Those who know of him and are not with him are assumed to be against him.'
Conan's stomach tightened; so did his lips. This was the second time he had heard such words, and in a way he had heard them three times. They were an implied threat. Join us or we assume you're against us, and you will take the consequences when we succeed. He had the feeling that such words were common throughout the world, and that he'd hear them again ere he died.
While he reflected on his reply—and kept note of Jelal's weapon hand, for the man was a plotter, and a big man, disguised in that brownish-yellowish robe, and a plotter was devious, and Jelal held his wine cup in his left hand—be heard something other than words. Someone was ascending the steps outside the door, and with no care for stealth. Now excited words were exchanged just without, in two voices. Conan saw Jelal's face change, saw his hand reach behind his right hip for the dagger he wore there, out of casual sight. Conan took a few paces to his left before turning; he placed himself thus in position to see both Jelal and the door. Even in his apprehension that doubtless had his heartbeat speeded, Jelal noted the clever fighter's manoeuvre.
The door was thrust violently inward; Conan and Jelal drew weapons; the guide entered, alone.
'No less than twenty guardsmen from the palace have just left the Royal Turan. They sought you, Conan, and Isparana. They are taking her away right now.'
Conan stared at the man, and the Cimmerian's face showed that he was truly surprised and shocked. With his sword still naked in his hand, he whirled to peer from the window.
Across and down the dark street the Royal Turan's doorway splashed light outward. On its ste
p, a little clot of patrons stood gazing up the street. He could not see what they stared after. Watching them take her away, Conan thought, in a mind gone terribly grim. Nor, because of the angle, could he have seen had he slashed through the scraped sheet of pig's intestine that covered the window-slit.
He swung from it, and two men saw how a youth's face could go ugly and feral and the eyes from slices of sky to chips of ice.
'Treachery,' he snarled, and napes prickled at the sound; not the word, but the animalistic sound of the northerner's voice. 'That treacherous dog—I'll show him that he ca—twenty. You said twenty men.'
'Aye. armoured guardsmen. Akter Khan's best. The Thorns.'
Conan still looked indecisive, as though he might rush on out, to attempt to wrest Isparana from her custodians. The sword jutting from his fist made his arm a killing instrument nearly six feet long.
'Conan,' Jelal said quietly. He had sheathed his long wedge of a dagger. 'You may well be a match for five men. I have heard things of you and your prowess, and you are bigger than any man in Zamboula, sure. But you cannot succeed against twenty. They would only kill you—or put wounds on you and then have both you and the woman, rather than only her. With you alive and free, she has hope. And you—you have friends in Zamboula, Conan.'
That brought a questioning look from icy blue eyes beneath hovering black brows.
'Those who have reason to be enemies of Akter Khan,' Jelal told him, 'have reason to be friends of one another.'
Conan blinked; stared in revelation. He had just heard a restatement of Jelal's earlier words, and yet how much better they sounded, put this way! Gone was threat; now was only comforting promise!
With his lips moving tightly over clenched teeth, Conan said, 'I would like to meet Balad.' And he reached for the wine.
XVII
Conan Thief
'Give him the cloak,' Jelal said.
When his former guide began immediately to remove that long, dun-hued garment, Conan realised that they had planned well. They could not have known that men were coming for him and Isparana, surely; they had merely hoped to be successful in piquing his interest this night. Aye, and they had planned better than that:
'Turth!' Jelal called.
Through the open doorway came a third man; the lookout, Conan realised. Beneath his big nose bushed a black moustache that dangled down past both corners of his mouth. As he approached Conan, he lifted his hand to that moustache—and, with a wince of his facial muscles, he tugged it off.
'What held it on?' Conan asked, while Turth extended the moustache to him; it was indeed hair, he saw, and seemed human, not coarse enough to have been drawn from a horse's mane or tail.
'The same wax that will hold it beneath your nose, Conan,' Jelal said. 'Wearing it and the cloak, and with the blue of your eyes not noticeable in the darkness outside, you will not be recognised. You can lay wager that Akter's men will be searching for you, armed with your description. Here, let me.'
Conan stood very still and hardly comfortable while Jelal took aim, adjusted, and carefully pressed the moustache in place. Oman's nose twitched. Accepting the cloak from the other man, he swung it about him. He was acting on excitement, on adrenaline; now he remembered.
'My room! My property!'
The slender, now cloakless man shook his head. 'Several of the khan's men stayed behind, busked for combat. They sought you in your room at the inn. They will await your return—out of sight.'
Conan swore. Eyes narrowed, the moustache wriggling as he continued to mutter curses, he returned to the narrow window. He peered contemplatively across and down the street at the Royal Turan, and the buildings on either side the inn.
'How far must we go to reach Balad?' he asked, without turning.
'A way,' Jelal said.
'Don't play the obscure oracle with me! I want to know how far!'
'A goodly walk. And we shall offer you hospitality there, as well. You now need a place to stay, Conan.'
Conan swung back from the window. Briefly the others saw that ugly animal snarl that would have sent a child screaming for its mother. 'Let us be on our way, then. I have other plans for this evening!'
Nevertheless Jelal left first; a few minutes later the other two escorted the impatient Cimmerian. Even at night in this city strange to him, he took careful note of their course, and his hardly civilised instincts prevailed.
Dogs, he thought, clenching his teeth. They were leading him on a circuitous trek, and he knew they sought deliberately to disguise from him the way and the distance to Jelal's. Though they twice asked, he was as devious; he would not tell them his 'plans for this evening.'
A water clock might well have dripped away a full glass before they had left the close-set buildings and mounted One Ox Hill among the villas of Zamboula's wealthy. Past two sprawling hillside estates they led the Cimmerian, who saw guards and lanterns. Dogs barked and challenges were called and answered. On up the hill they went, past a tree on which a sign hung by a crossbow quarrel; it advised that wayfarers would be considered thieves. They passed it, and fared upward, and stopped between two tall stone posts. Jelal had left them a shibboleth, which Turth now called out:
'Free Isparana!'
A whistle replied; the trio advanced. Pots atop broad, flat-topped poles set into the ground spouted flame and poured greasy smoke skyward. Conan and his guides were challenged again, this time by men who showed themselves. Lights bobbed in the night. These men bore crossbows. When their armoured commander recognised Conan's escorts, he nodded.. He studied the head and face rising above the cloak—which was hardly so long and encompassing on Conan as it had been on Jelal's messenger.
'He is a big one,' the helmeted, steel-corseleted guard chief said.
'He also,' Conan said low, 'does not like to be talked about as if he isn't present.'
The fellow evidently deemed it wise to make no reply, or was shocked silent. They entered the porticoed villa, whose door was huge, and thick, and iron-bound.
'Cook has some good meat laid back for you, Jelal,' the estate guard said.
'Ah, good. I've had naught since noon.' That from the man who had acted as messenger and guide.
'Jelal?' the Cimmerian repeated, in demanding tone. 'You are Jelal too?'
'Only I,' the slender man said, smiling.
'Then who—'
'I am Balad, Conan.'
At that voice Conan turned, to face the man he had first met as Jelal. He had come directly here, of course, and so arrived well before them; he had not changed clothing. 'I am sorry. Plotters must of necessity lie, you understand.'
'Damn!' the Cimmerian said, hurling the true Jelal's cloak angrily to the gleaming marble floor. 'Had you told me that an hour and more ago rather than play this snake-walking game over half of Zamboula, we could have saved a lot of trouble for both of us!'
'I am a marked man,' Jelal-Balad said, 'and such snake-walking games are as necessary as are the guards outside, and watchwords. You noted your route, did you?'
'I know when I have made three turns to my offhand, soon followed by four more to the weapon-side!'
Balad smiled; the chief plotter against the throne of Zamboula. 'You are indeed a dangerous man, Conan of Cimmeria. We regret having caused you trouble. But —how could bringing you here direct have saved me trouble? Our design is to insure my security—our security.'
'Because now we just have to go all the way back into the city for the key to your success, Balad—a man named Hajimen.'
'Hajimen? The Shanki? We felt him out, of course, when we contemplated approaching you—'
'And I must either be guided,' Conan went on as if Balad had not spoken, 'or find my own way back to the Royal Turan.'
'The Royal Turan! Do you not understand that you cannot go back there? Akter Khan's soldiers await you!'
'I'll not be staying long,' Conan said.
Balad shook his head. 'You will not be going back there this night, Conan!'
Conan s
tared at the other big man. 'Balad: I am. And it must be alone. Don't try to prevent me.'
For a long while Balad stared at his presumed new recruit, a giant foreigner who glared balefully back with surely the strangest eyes in Zamboula.
'Conan: Why?'
Conan's false moustache twitched in the merest intimation of a smile. 'You know about my ability with weapons,' he said. 'There is also another trade I am good at.'
A long dun-coloured cloak formed a crumpled wad at the base of the building next the Royal Turan inn. Beneath it was a pair of buskins, large. And on the nigh-flat roof of that building, a barefoot man crouch-walked. His sword was strapped on his back; a thong snubbed the hilt tightly to the hitch-ring near the sheath's mouth. He was a big man. At the apex of the roofs gentle slope, he paused to wind around his waist the rope with which he'd scaled the building. He gazed across five feet of space to the inn's roof. It was flat, and at nearly the same level as the ridge whereon he stood. The light of a lowering moon caught the flash of his teeth; his smile was wolfish.
The rope secured around him, he crouch-walked back down the roof's slope, as if louting.
His calves bulged when he came to pause and levered himself up and down with the fluid suppleness of a stalking cat. Then, though he was tall and unusually broad of shoulder and powerful of build, he ran up the roof and kicked himself off its apex. His legs did not chum in air and drew up only a little while he soared through space and onto the roof of the adjacent building. Both legs doubled up when he alit, so that his bare heels punched into his buttocks. The thump of his landing was incredibly faint for one of his size.
The Royal Turan's roof provided no means for anchoring his rope. He knew which window he wanted; the only way he could devise to reach it and its upper sill was to hang from the roofs edge by his knees, with his back to the building. He did.
Thus, hours past midnight, did Conan gain entry to his own room in the Royal Turan.
The chamber was dark and empty, as it should have been. He unslung his sword, attached it to his belt, and loosed the hilt of its restraining thong. Next he secured his rope to a beam and paid it out the window until it nearly brushed the ground. By feel, he found his long vest of clinking chainmail. He unstrapped his sword but stood it against the wall so that he could snatch its hilt in an instant. Heedless of the dark, too-tight tunic loaned him by Balad, Conan shrugged and wriggled into the mailvest. He buckled on the sword again.
The Conan Chronology Page 49