Djavul looked from Conan toward Vitarius and Eldia, then back at the Cimmerian. "I think not, wasp."
"The magician stays out of it," Conan said inching forward slightly.
Mud squished under his boots.
Djavul laughed. "Trusting the words of men has led more than one night-child into foolishness. This is not the time or place. But I will see you again wasp." Djavul flicked a red-eyed glance back at Vitarius.
"And you as well, White one."
Abruptly, there came a clap of noise that rivaled the storm's thunder, and Djavul vanished.
With the rain still falling upon them, Conan turned to glare at Vitarius. "It would seem that I have made an enemy for myself. "
"The fault is mine," Vitarius said.
"It would seem you have made more than one enemy, Conan." This from Kinna, who stood staring at the spot where Djavul had vanished.
The Cimmerian looked at her. "How so?"
"Those men who attacked us as we left the inn. They came for you, not for us. Recall what the patch-eyed man said?"
Conan brought the memory forth: There he be, boys. Come to save us a climb, l reckons. Kinna was right. But-why had they come for him? He had no enemies in this place save the hellspawn, Djavul. The devil wanted him, to be sure, but it seemed unlikely he would have sent human cutthroats to do his bidding. Who had sent them, then? It was a puzzle, a mystery, and Conan liked such things not.
"Perhaps we would be better served to get out of the rain," Vitarius said. "We might sort things out just as well dry as wet."
"Aye," Conan said, but his disquiet remained.
Djuvula watched her brother rage at the beautiful man with the sword, smiling as she did so. Ah, yes, this one was surely the one she sought.
Her gaze covered the barbarian lovingly, despite the rainy darkness.
Such thick, smooth muscle he had, and such a wonderful rage simmered in his flashing blue eyes as he faced Djavul with only a sword. His heart would drive her Prince as no other heart had been able to move him.
Yes.
Djavul vanished to Gehanna. Djuvula slid back into the cover of soaked hay bales, stacked head-high. It would not do for them to see her just yet. For a moment Djuvula's mind warred with itself: so much to have!
Here was the girl, the essence of Fire: the child glowed with it as a beacon lit to guide ships in fog-at least to one able to see such things, as a witch of power could. And the barbarian with the beautiful body, ah, how she wanted him!
Her smile increased. Perhaps she might allow this man that which she had given up on in other men, before she excised his mighty heart. Who knew? Such a barbarian might be possessed of vital energies beyond ordinary limits. She could . . . utilize him for a time before animating her Prince. Certainly he looked capable . . . .
Djuvula shook her head, as if to clear away the fantasy within by her action. She should think of the girl first. Then she laughed softly to herself. Why not slay two birds with the same stone? If she exercised care, she could have the girl and the man together. It would not be easy; the White Mage had demonstrated his power to Djavul before, and the witch could see the fear in her brother's eyes as he faced the old man again. No, it would have to be carefully done, using guile instead of force. Even as she thought it, Djuvula began to think of a plan.
Yes, a plan that would allow her to use her very special talents . . .
.
Senator Lemparius shed his wet clothes and went directly to the hot bath-kept ever so, awaiting his pleasure. As he sank into the water the warm vapors swirled around his head, bringing the scent of crushed mint to his nostrils. Ah . . .
One of the deputies scurried into the room, bowing as he came. "My lord Senator," the man began, "a terrible windstorm has wreaked much damage to the city, killing dozens of citizens."
Lemparius shrugged within the womb of blissful heat. "So? What is done is done; why disturb my bath for such?"
The deputy appeared undisturbed by the senator's lack of concern. "The man who brought this news awaits without, to speak to you of a matter related to this disaster."
"Send him away." Lemparius managed to raise one hand languidly to wave at the deputy; vapor rose from his skin into the cooler air of the bathchamber.
"As you command, my lord. The man would have you know his name, however. He calls himself Loganaro."
Senator Lemparius smiled. "Ah, there is a beast of a different strain.
Admit him."
As the deputy left, Lemparius sank yet deeper into the perfumed water, until his nose was barely clear of the liquid. A shame cats hated the water so.
Loganaro entered the chamber. The man was muddy and bedraggled, his face filled with a mix of ratlike cunning and fear.
The senator bobbed up slightly, clearing his mouth. "Where have you deposited my barbarian? You have collected him by this time?"
"Honored Senator, there was a complication-"
"Complication? Speak not of such! Complications in my service most often lead to ultimate simplification, if you understand my meaning?"
The fat man swallowed. Water still dripped from his gray hair. "It-it could not have been foreseen, lord! A windstorm arose even as my minions collected the barbarian. The inn containing them was demolished, smashed, and scattered; there was nothing to be done!"
Lemparius sat up in the bath and pointed one sharp fingernail at his agent. "I hope you are not telling me my prey was sucked up by a storm."
"N-nay, Honored Senator. My . . . collectors were; somehow, the Cimmerian and his friends escaped."
"Where, then, are they?"
"My agent follows them currently; he will report back to me as soon as they alight."
Lemparius relaxed a little, sinking into the massive tub. "Then I see no complication. Merely a delay. As soon as this man settles; you shall simply . . . retrieve him, eh? Only take care that this Cimmerian stays within your grasp, Loganaro mine. Otherwise there is that simplification of which I spoke. A state of being ever so much more simple than one so complex as, say, living and breathing."
Loganaro swallowed and nodded, his damp pale face going more ghostly.
When he had gone, Lemparius smiled. He took a deep breath and sank beneath the water, staying long enough for the warmth to caress his closed eyes and soak his hair. When he came up for air, he was still smiling.
Castle Slott rang with the shouts of its master. "Set curse them all!
By the Eternal Fires, I will have her!"
The three children iron-linked to the cold wall shrank back, as if they could sink into the stone away from Sovartus's wrath.
Sovartus flashed a grimace filled with hatred at the three, concentrating his gaze particularly upon Luft, the boy of Air. "You resisted me somehow," the magician said. "Else that wind would have drawn my quarry up and delivered her to me. I shall remember this, never fear."
With that, Sovartus stalked away from the three, his mind whirling with schemes for achievement of his goal. He muttered to himself as he moved. "Where rests my demon? If he cannot win the girl, he can at least find her and watch her! And what have I done with my casting sphere? Ah, may the Black-Souled Ones take everyone!"
The place was a shed for storage of dried meat and fish, hardly fit accommodations for men; still, it was dry under the solid roof. Crowded into the small cleared space beneath hanging racks of jerky and smoked fish, Conan stood glowering at Vitarius. The old man spoke.
"I cannot say who sent the assassins, if that was their intent. Because of the ropes they carried, I suspect the unfortunates intended to capture you."
Conan shook his head, fanning his damp black hair away from his face.
"There is no sense to that," he said. "I am unknown in these parts; no one would have reason to hold me."
"An old enemy, perhaps?" Kinna said this as she tried to light a stub of candle from a flint-and-steel she worked. Sparks flared in the shed, falling like shooting stars.
"Most of my enemies lie
dead," Conan said. "None who live would bother to follow me this far from where I earned their enmity."
One of Kinna's sparks touched the greasy wick of the candle, appeared to smolder for a moment, then went out. Conan thought she uttered a curse, but her voice was too quiet for even his ears to understand what she said.
Almost absently. Eldia raised her finger and pointed it at the candle.
The stub of wax and string lit seemingly of its own accord, casting shadows to the walls and ceiling of the shed.
"So," Kinna said, looking away from the candle at Conan, "what will you do now?"
He considered his choices. He still cared little for practitioners of sorcerous arts. White. Black, or any other color: a quick exit from this city would serve his purposes well enough. Numalia beckoned, and there was certainly no profit to be had in staying here to contest with demons and magicians, not to mention the unknown master of the cutthroats dispatched by wind and blade to their destinies.
On the other hand, Conan felt a perverse stubbornness rising in him, a feeling of rage at being threatened. No matter that the hellish demon had reason for anger, nor that the master of the cutthroats now had similar reasons-his minions were scattered meat, no more. Conan had been minding his own affairs and had been provoked; such provocation deserved no less than he had given. Likely a prudent man would interpret such attacks as a sign from his patron gods to travel elsewhere at a goodly pace. Cimmerians were not, however, always prudent. Conan's anger at those responsible for causing him such discomfort was great; those who held Crom as their deity could not be faint-hearted. Crom was a hard god who offered little to his followers: he was savage, gloomy and dealt in death; more, Crom hated weaklings and cowards above all. Crom dispensed courage and will, taken in with life's first breath from out the womb. A man did not honor Crom by running from danger, no matter how great.
Conan stared at the trio gathered around the light of the single candle. He was bound for Nemedia, to be certain, and he did not like magicians, but there were matters to be attended to here.
The others waited for Conan to speak. At last, he did.
"It seems as if we are allies for a time," the Cimmerian said. his voice nearly a growl. He liked it little, but there it stood. He focused on Vitarius. "I trust you have some plan for defeating our mutual enemy?"
The old mage smiled. "Of a sort, Conan. Of a sort."
Chapter Nine
Loganaro found himself beset by a large problem: Where was the barbarian? That he had lied to Lemparius bothered Loganaro not a whit; he had seen Conan flee the destroyed inn, even as he had made good his own escape. Unfortunately, there had been no agents following the Cimmerian in the midst of that tempest.
Such a lie was simply an elementary precaution Loganaro had long since learned to take when dealing with powerful men. Conan had somehow escaped and still lived; therefore, he could be located, in time. If, however, Lemparius had suspected that Loganaro had lost the barbarian, events might have taken a decided turn in the direction of . . .
simplification, a term that left no doubt in Loganaro's mind as to its meaning.
The short figure hurried through the dampness of the early morning, only now beginning to be awash in the rays of the rising sun. The storm had done much to rearrange whole streets and alleys; Loganaro picked his way toward what had been the Milk of Wolves Inn.
Even though the full might of the whirlwind had not struck the inn, there was left little to proclaim it so. The wooden bones of the inn lay mostly scattered; only a single wall remained, standing guard over the pile of rubble. Loganaro felt drawn to this wall, even as he wondered why he had returned to this place. He had a network of informants second to no other free agent in Mornstadinos; he should be locating runners to put forth the word on the barbarian, alerting his eyes and ears to the search. For some reason, however, he was here.
A few stunned men and women wandered about in the wreckage, searching for survivors and, perhaps, lost possessions. Loganaro watched them for a short while, then decided his own time was being wasted here. He turned to leave.
The rubble issued a groan. Or, rather, someone under the rubble moaned.
Mildly curious, Loganaro moved toward the source of the sound. As he neared an overturned table, the free agent saw a hand scrabble up and shove at the remains of what had been a wall.
While Loganaro seldom performed any act without considering the gain for himself, he did so now. He bent and pulled at the impedimenta covering the owner of the hand. After a moment the face of the man under the debris became visible: It was Patch, one of Loganaro's cutthroats. Loganaro helped the man dig free, noticing that the Zamorian seemed unscathed save for a swollen jaw.
"What happened?" Patch mumbled painfully.
"You do not know?"
"I remember nothing but the big man. He be a formidable foe, right enough. Where be the others?"
"There was a twisting storm which took them. It did this." Loganaro waved one fat arm at the ruined inn.
"Got the barbarian, this twister?"
"Nay. He escaped with his friends."
Patch nodded, gently rubbing his swollen jaw. "Then you be still seeking the big man." It was not a question.
"Aye. And the reward has been raised." Loganaro had not thought of this before he said it, but he had no desire to leave life just yet. He had accumulated a great deal of ill-gotten monies, and the thought of profit on this venture no longer drove him as much as the fear of joining his ancestors prematurely. "Thirty pieces of gold."
Patch nodded, wincing. "Aye, a goodly sum, but who claims it shall have to earn it. Two, maybe three of my men lay dead 'fore the big man felled me. The whirlstorm claimed more dead than living here. This one you be seeking owes me."
"Alive," Loganaro said. "He must be taken alive."
"Aye, alive it be, but maybe some damaged."
Loganaro nodded. Patch was reputed to be one of the best men in Mornstadinos at this kind of work; it would not hurt for him to have a personal stake in retrieving Conan.
"Collect him within the next two days and there will be a bonus of five solons for you personally," Loganaro said.
Patch tried to grin, then apparently thought better of it as he clapped a hand to his swollen jaw. "Aye, pursemaster, you'll have your barbarian. Alive."
"Since it would seem that others seek us, in addition to Sovartus and his demon-thrall, it might be best if we stayed out of sight as much as possible until we can implement our plan," Vitarius said.
Conan leaned against a rack of dried fish and chewed with less than enthusiasm on a chunk of jerky. The meat was salty and dry; he wished for some wine to wash the leathery beef down. Might as well wish for a palace in Shadizer while you are at it, Conan thought. Aloud, he said, "I see flaws in your plan, old one."
Kinna took a piece of dried fish from the point of her sister's blade and regarded it with mild distaste. She said, "What flaws?"
"Our master magician purports that we leave the city soonest, mounted and well-supplied, for a journey to beard the lion in his den. A direct assault is to my liking, but I question how we are to become affluent enough to afford this journey. Have we gold or silver of which I am unaware?"
Conan looked at the three faces in turn, seeing negative shakes and raised eyebrows for his answer.
"I thought not. How, then, do you propose we obtain fine horses, saddles, and sundry supplies? Will you create such with your magic'?"
"Ah," Vitarius said, "unfortunately, no. White spells generally allow the worker little for personal gain."
"A pity. If one must deal with magic, it is too bad one cannot benefit." Conan grinned and picked at his teeth with his dagger's point, clearing away bits of meat. "Now it seems we come to something that falls into my area of expertise. "
Eldia speared a chunk of dried fish with her blade, flipped it into the air, and caught it in her mouth. She chewed lustily, obviously enjoying the tidbit. "How so, Conan?"
Conan p
aused long enough to open the door of the drying shed, to allow the morning's light into the dank room. The sun shone brightly from an ice-blue, cloudless sky. He looked back at the trio. "Tell me, who are the richest two or three men in the city?"
Vitarius scratched his cheek, considering. "Well, Tonore the rug merchant certainly would be one; then either Stephanos of Punt, the landlord, or Lemparius the Whip, I would think. Why?"
Conan ignored the question, asking yet another instead: "How do these men keep their wealth? Gold? Jewels?"
"Tonore's money is tied up in his wares mostly. He has a collection of carpets from as far away as Iranistan and Zembabwei. Too, he collects works of art, statues and paintings mostly. Stephanos is a landowner, and I would say most of his wealth consists of inns, brothels, and other such properties. Likely somewhat reduced since last eve's devilish storm. "
"What of Lemparius the Whip? And what does that mean?"
"He is the Center Strand of the Senate Flail, the most powerful of all the senators. In the city-states of Corinthia there are a few kings, but in Mornstadinos the people are ruled by a Senate. Many of the senators are wealthy, Lemparius probably more so than most."
"And how does he hold his money?"
"He has a palace, very opulent, so I understand. And he has a fondness for magical and mechanical toys, upon which he spends no small amount; by and large, though, I suspect Lemparius has more than a few sacks of gold and silver within his walls."
Conan's grin increased. "Ah, good."
Kinna spat a fish bone onto the dirt floor. "But-why are these things important, Conan?"
Conan faced the young woman, taken again by her beauty despite the dingy surroundings. "Because, Kinna, we need horses and supplies and cannot afford the time or effort needed to earn such things honestly."
Eldia understood more quickly than did her sister. She said, "You mean we're going to-?"
"-steal from the senator?" Conan finished. "Aye, Firechild, that we are."
One of the items in a witch's arsenal was a simple spell to create a magical, invisible thread of great length and strength. After she watched the beautiful barbarian and his friends enter the ramshackle shed, Djuvula created such a thread. Moving with all the stealth at her command, she stretched a section of this thread across the doorway, anchoring it lightly on either side of the entrance. When the inhabitants left the shed, the thread would entangle one or more of them, stretching to follow them from the shed as far as they might travel. The caster of the spell need only follow the glowing line, a line unseen by all without magically enhanced vision. There was a chance the old wizard might discover it, but such a possibility seemed unlikely: The spell was so simple and unthreatening, it almost always passed unnoticed save by one searching specifically for it.
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