The Cimmerian made his way between the tables and went up the steps to street level. As he always did when going from the illuminated indoors to the night-gloomed outdoors, he stepped to one side of the doorway and waited with his back against a wall while his eyes adjusted to the change. Most men needed minutes for their eyes to adjust, Conan only seconds. But he knew full well that a man could die in seconds and that often that sort of thing happened to men who walked forth blind. There was no sound on the street save the creaking of the pothouse sign overhead. In the distance, he could see a light. It was one of the city torches. These were planted at every corner and were supposed to be tended by the night watch. In practice, it was remarkable for one in four to be burning after midnight.
He tensed slightly as another patron emerged from the tavern. The man stood beneath the sign and stared down the street, first one way and then the other, as if he were looking for someone. He stepped into the street, stumbling slightly, then scanning in both directions once more. He vented a frustrated sigh and walked off toward the torch. Quietly, Conan fell in behind him. The man hurried, taking mincing steps on slippered feet. He stopped by the torch and peered down the side streets, then released another sigh. Conan's sword hissed from its sheath.
'Were you looking for me?'
The man whirled and his eyes bugged as he saw the blade levelled at his throat. As Conan had suspected, it was the fellow in the violet-silk garments.
'Peace, peace!' the man said hurriedly, his palms outward. 'Indeed I came seeking you, but only to talk, not to rob!' His voice was quiet and breathy. Conan laughed at the thought of this effeminate little man, who stood no higher than his chest, trying to rob him,.
'In that case, I have been spared a terrible fate.' Then his voice lost its humour and he snapped: 'Now, what do you want?'
'I could not help overhearing your conversation with that so fortunate mercenary back inside. Am I correct in understanding that you are a fighting man and that you are presently without either employment or funds?''
'Right on all counts,' Conan said. 'But I've never been destitute enough to come to the likes of you for assistance.'
The long-lashed eyes lowered and the man seemed to flush. 'You misapprehend. I wish to hire you for a mission. It is a mission for a warrior of strength, skill, and courage. Are you not such a man?'
'I am,' Conan agreed. He sheathed his sword smoothly, without looking down at his sheath. 'Why did you not come to me back there?' He jerked his black-haired head toward The Sword and Sceptre
'This is a matter requiring great discretion, great confidentiality. I could not speak where others might overhear.' He came close and looked up at Conan. The Cimmerian immediately regretted that they were no longer separated by the sword's length; the man wore scent. Conan's revulsion was washed away by the man's next words: 'I am willing to pay most handsomely for this service.'
'Speak on,' Conan growled. He had served stranger men than this one in his time. Gold was always the same, no matter whose hand bestowed it.
'Not here. Even here, there might be listeners. Besides,' he hugged himself and shivered, 'the night grows cold.'
Conan, who was far more lightly dressed, ignored the chill breeze. 'I am comfortable enough. Well, if you must, I have a room not far from here. Come along.'
Without looking back, the Cimmerian strode from the circle of torchlight. Surprised by the abrupt departure, the little man stood for a second before scurrying after him. Then a cloaked form detached itself from the shadow of a doorway and followed the two of them on silent feet.
Conan turned down a short alley and his ears told him that the small man was still behind him. He stopped at a torch that burned in a sconce next to a door. Just beyond, wider doors identified the establishment as a stable. From within could be heard the quiet shufflings and snortings of horses.
From a box nailed just within the smaller doorway Conan took
a candle and lit it from the torch. 'Come on,' he said, stepping inside. He ascended a flight of creaking steps and entered a tiny, cramped room. The candlelight revealed its sparse furnishings: a bed, a chair, and a small table.
The little man entered and wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'This is a vile-smelling place.' From a sleeve he took a kerchief and held it over his nose and mouth.
'Any stable smells better than that scent you've bathed in,' Conan said. He unlatched the shutters of the room's sole window and threw them open. 'There. All the fresh air you can breathe.' He unhooked the sword's hanger from his belt and sat on the bed with the weapon across his knees. 'Now, let's hear your story.'
The other man sat on the spindly chair, first brushing the seat with his kerchief. 'Very well. My name is Piris. I come from Shadizar, in Zamora. I am in search of a ... a certain object that was stolen from me.'
'What sort of object?' Conan asked.
'All in good time, my friend. I have looked long for this object, and there are others who would like to find it. The original thieves are dead, and it has been through more than one set of hands since they died.'
'And you think it is here, in Belverus?'
'It was, but it is no longer. I have strong reason to suspect that it is now on its way to Sicas, in Aquilonia, if it is not there already.'
'I've never heard of the place,' Conan said.
'It is not a great city, but it is said to be a wicked one. It lies a few miles off the king's high road between Tarantia and Shamar, at the confluence of two rivers, the Ossar and the Fury. Its wealth comes mainly from its nearby silver mines, and this wealth has attracted persons of a rough sort. The royal officials there are, it is said, of an understanding and forgiving nature.'
'Bribe-takers, eh?' Conan knew the breed.
'I would not wish to judge harshly on the strength of mere hearsay,' Piris protested. 'However, that does seem to be the impression. You can understand that I would not wish to search
for my property in such a place, among rapacious and violent men, without the aid of one who is both strong and skilled in the combative arts.'
'That is reasonable,' Conan agreed. 'Now, just what is this thing you are looking for?'
Piris hesitated. 'Ah, my friend—Conan, is it? Yes, Conan, this is something I am reluctant to—'
'Set take it, man, can you not speak plainly?' Conan all but barked.
'You see, I will wish you to go ahead of me to Sicas and learn something of the place. I will follow in a day or two. I have some inquiries to make here. In Sicas, I will tell you all you need to know.''
'I do not like this secrecy. I've a mind to toss you down the steps. No, perhaps out the window would be better.' He gazed at the window as if measuring it for the throw.
'I am willing to pay one thousand golden dishas for this task, the sum payable in full upon the recovery of my property.'
Conan was mollified instantly. 'I'll need something on account. I'll have to outfit myself for the journey.'
Piris smiled, revealing small, perfect, white teeth. 'Of course.' He took a fat purse from within his jacket and extended it. 'You will take, say, one hundred dishas for your travelling expenses?'
Conan dumped the purse on the table. The coins that spilled out bore the likeness of the king of Koth, and each was worth ten dishas. He quickly separated twenty of them, scooping the rest back into the purse and tossing the bag to Piris, who caught it adroitly.
'I will take, say, two hundred dishas for my travelling expenses. How will you find me in Sicas?'
Piris hefted the bag, which was now far lighter than it had been. Sighing sadly, he returned it to his jacket. 'Very well. Somehow, I do not think that you will be difficult to find, even in a city of scoundrels. Just take lodging in an inn near the main gate of the town. I will find you.'
'Then I think that concludes our business,' Conan said.
'Until we meet again, in Sicas.' Piris bowed, touching spread fingertips to his violet-sheathed breast. He left behind a dissipating cloud of flowery scent.
/> Conan shut the door and barred it. Fortune had turned again. Almost he was tempted to go back to The Sword and Sceptre to re-enter the game with a new stake, but he shook off the temptation. His gaming luck had deserted him in Belverus and it would not come back. He crossed to the window to draw in some unscented air. He did not see Piris in the alley, but for a moment he thought he saw a shadowy form moving amid deeper shadows. He stared, but his keen eyes descried no more movement. Deciding that fatigue and drink had made him see that which was not there, he closed and bolted the shutters. Blowing out the candle, he lay back on the narrow, hard bed and wondered why he had never heard of Sicas. He thought that he had heard of every city with a reputation for wickedness. Well, doubtless he would find out all about it when he got there. It sounded like his sort of city.
The next day Conan betook himself to the markets of Belverus to outfit himself for the journey. First he went to the armourers' quarter to furnish himself with suitable weaponry. In a cutler's stall he found a dagger to replace the one he had lost gaming. He chose a wooden-hafted weapon with a foot-long blade three fingers wide at the hilt, its thick spine and razor edge tapering to a slender point.
He wandered among the shops and stalls, admiring the long, slender lances and the powerful bows, but then, reluctantly, leaving them behind. He was headed for a city, not for a battlefield. Likewise he bypassed the shops of the shield-makers. Beneath a great awning erected in a small square, he found a bazaar selling soldiers' armour. This was a place where mercenaries between hires sold off their unneeded arms and to which they repaired when they needed to rearm at a reasonable price.
He tried on a knee-length hauberk of blackened mail, but rejected it as too heavy. The merchant tried to sell him the full-plate harness of an Aquilonian man-at-arms, but the panoply of a
heavy cavalryman would be of no use to him in the dangerous alleyways of a city. On a table of light cuirasses he found just what he needed.
It was a brigantine that fit him perfectly. It was made of stout leather backed with thick canvas. Between leather and canvas were sandwiched hundreds of small, overlapping plates, fastened to the leather by rivets. The rivet heads showed on the outside and were gilded, making a brilliant show against the glossy black of the leather. It made an excellent defence, lighter than mail and almost as flexible. Had he been going to war, Conan might have worn it as a reinforcement over a hauberk. By itself, it was just what was called for when dealing with the daggers and swords common to dangerous cities. Best of all, it was a far more handsome garment than a shirt of mail. The brigantine was tailored to fit tightly at chest and waist, and its martial appearance announced that the wearer was not a man to be trifled with.
He examined a display of helmets, hoping to find suitable headgear. There were visored helms of Aquilonia and Poitain, spired casques from Turan, crested Nemedian helmets, even a horned helm from faraway Asgard. Conan chose a close-fitting steel cap lined with velvet. It was unpadded save for the cloth, and thus was smaller and lighter than the battle helms. It would turn a sword and save his crown from a wooden cudgel, although the lack of padding would mean a ringing headache the next day.
Satisfied that he was properly armed, he went to the clothiers' quarter for some new garments. The year was waning, the days were shortening, and the coming winter rode upon the north wind. Conan was inured to stern weather, but there was no point in suffering. He bought winter clothes and padded boots and fleece-lined gloves. He found a cloak of fine Shemitish wool that would serve as both garment and blanket on the journey. It was a broad, semicircular mantle, dyed red with madder.
Thus newly attired, he went to the horse market. Here he found every sort of horseflesh, from humble plodders suitable for the plough to fiery destriers so fierce that only experienced trainers
could 'display them, working in pairs. There were hunters and race horses, and palfreys for noble ladies.
He mounted and tried out a dozen, settling on a bay gelding that was sound of wind and limb and capable of good speed when asked. It was well-trained and responsive, and Conan had to bargain for much of the morning to obtain a reasonable price. He took the beast to a blacksmith's to have it re-shod and watched the process carefully to make sure that it was done properly. The best horse in the world could be ruined by a botched shoeing, and a lame horse was of less use than a dog when a swift flight was called for.
Satisfied that the horseshoes would stay on for a long journey, he led the animal to the saddlers' district and found there a Brythunian saddle that was satisfactory both to him and to the horse. The saddler threw in a set of worn saddlebags and a bridle when they had struck a bargain.
For the rest, Conan bought such items as were always useful on a journey: flint and steel for fire-making, ropes and picket pins, and a waterskin. He put these items in his saddlebags and went in search of a mapmaker.
The shop he sought was in a district catering to scholars and the practitioners of arcane arts. Sellers of books abounded, and a sound of steady scraping came from the shops of parchment makers. Many sorts of scribes plied their skills here, from the humble letter-writers, who sat at folding tables and indited missives for the illiterate, to copyists, who busily scribbled away copying manuscripts, to calligraphers, who grandly crafted official documents and certificates in the ornate styles of the powerful or the wealthy. There were illuminators who could spend days painting and decorating a single letter.
Conan was more accustomed to the quarters frequented by adventurers like himself, and he felt a certain interest in the place. He saw a shop selling the paraphernalia of the wizard's trade and stopped to gaze in its front window. What appeared to be a tiny demon capered among the wands, rune-engraved swords, celestially spangled robes, and crystal spheres. The creature had a
body shaped like an egg set atop spindly bird's legs. The larger end of the egg had a fanged mouth above which were three red eyes on short stems. Its nether end was armed with a long barb. Conan noticed that as the thing jumped about, from time to time it would wink out of existence; at other times it became transparent. It was just a clever illusion.
By asking at various shops, he was directed to a small cul-de-sac at the end of which, wedged between an ink-maker's shop and a parchment seller's, he found the mapmaker he needed. The establishment's only sign was a pair of gilded dividers fastened to the wall above the low door. Ducking his head to clear the lintel, Conan went inside.
The interior was not as dim as he had anticipated. Light came in through a front window, and a good deal more was admitted by a skylight overhead. The place was scrupulously clean and it was full of maps, but there was no sense of clutter. The maps and charts were rolled neatly in leather tubes, all of them carefully racked, the racks bearing labels. At the rear of the shop was a low dais at which an elderly man sat, working meticulously at a tilted drawing table. He looked up as the Cimmerian entered.
'How may I serve you, sir?'
Conan walked back to the dais, glancing at the large display maps decorating the walls. 'I need to find a certain place, a city named Sicas, in Aquilonia. I must fare thither and I wish to set out as soon as possible.'
'Sicas,' said the old man. 'Let me see. I know the name, although it is scarcely a legendary metropolis.' He rose from his chair and crossed to a rack from whence he selected a map tube. He extracted the rolled parchment and carried it to a flat table, where he spread it out and weighted its corners. While he did this, Conan examined some of the maps on the walls. These were of great antiquity, depicting nations that no longer existed. The mapmaker noticed him studying a particularly age-darkened specimen. The lettering was none Conan knew, and the outlines of the coasts were equally mysterious.
'Is this some land across the western sea?' he asked.
'No, but it might as well be, for its remoteness,' the old man said. 'In truth, the continent you see depicted there is the same as that upon which you now stand, but so long ago that the very oceans have changed their shape in the
time since. I believe that to be one of the oldest maps in existence, and it is itself a copy of a far, far more ancient map. The written language is one no longer spoken, but I believe this to be a depiction of the western world as it was when the nations of Valusia and Commoria were supreme and the lands of the Picts were a string of islands in the western sea.'
'Valusia and Commoria,' Conan mused. 'These are names from legend. The Picts I know, though. I learned to fight them from my earliest youth. Even the Vanir did not plague us as did the Picts.''
'You are a man of Cimmeria, then?' queried the mapmaker. 'I thought so, from your aspect. I have seen fewer than a half-score of your countrymen in my life.'
'My countrymen like to stay close to home,' Conan said, 'but I was ever a wanderer.'
'Come see this.' Conan joined the shopkeeper at the table. With a spidery hand, the old man indicated the map before him. 'This is a map of southeastern Aquilonia. Can you read the Ne-median letters?'
Conan nodded. 'Fairly well, although the skill is new to me. These names are simple enough to make out.' He pointed to a serpentine blue line at a spot where a tiny, stylized fort was drawn. 'This is the Tybor River, and this is the crossing at Shamar.'
'Exactly. And there,' the mapmaker pointed to a tiny dot midway between Tarantia and Shamar, 'is Sicas. From here, there are two easy routes to Sicas. The southern road will take you into northwestern Ophir; then it swings north and crosses the Tybor at Shamar. From there, you could take the royal high road toward Tarantia. About halfway to Tarantia, a road branches southwest-ward, and Sicas lies only a few miles beyond. However, there is civil war in Ophir just now and the border crossings are heavily guarded.' His neatly manicured forefinger traced another route.
'You would be best advised to take the northerly route. The high road between Belverus and Tarantia is a good one, with many towns, villages, and wayside inns along the way. It intersects the Aquilonian high road just south of Tarantia, and from there you may proceed southward to Sicas.'
The Conan Chronology Page 541