Conan the Victorious

by Robert Jordan

  “Another time,” he said, and she squealed as he pinched a plump buttock.

  In short order a sailor in a tar-smeared tunic and a bearded warehouseman had repeated Zara’s warning. A slender wench with a virgin’s face and innocent eyes—and a cutpurse’s curved blade with which she constantly toyed—echoed both warning and offer. None knew where Hordo was to be found, however. Conan almost accepted the slender woman’s offer. The glass had been turned, he knew, and the sands were running out on him. Did he not find Hordo quickly, he must go to ground.

  A short, wiry man, bent under the weight of a canvas sack on his shoulder, suddenly caught the Cimmerian’s eye. Conan snagged the man’s bony arm with one hand and hauled him out of the stream of people.

  “What are you doing?” the Cimmerian’s captive whispered between teeth clenched in a wooden smile. His sunken eyes darted frantically above a pointed nose, giving him the image of a mouse searching for a hole. “Mitra, Cimmerian! I stole this not twenty paces from here, and they’ll see it’s gone in another moment. Let me go!”

  “I am looking for Hordo, Tarek,” Conan said softy.

  “Hordo? He’s at Kafar’s warehouse, I think.” Tarek stumbled a step as Conan released him, then rotated his shoulder in a broad gesture. “You should not grab a man so, Cimmerian. It could be dangerous. And don’t you know the City Guard—”

  “—is seeking a big outlander,” Conan finished for him. “I know.”

  A shout rose from the direction Tarek had come, and the little man darted away like the rodent he resembled. Conan went the other way, soon passing by a stall where a salt peddler in voluminous robes seemed to dance with his helpers, they jumping about to dodge while he tugged at his beard and kicked at them and shouted that the gods were unmerciful to send the same man blind apprentices and thieves as well. While the salt vendor leaped and screamed, two girls of no more than sixteen years hefted one of his canvas sacks between them and disappeared, unseen by him, into the throng.

  Twice more the Cimmerian was forced to turn aside for a patrol of the City Guard, but Kafar’s warehouse was not far, and he reached it quickly. It was not one of the long stone structures owned by merchants, but rather a nondescript building of two stories, daubed in flaking white clay, that might once have held a tavern or a chandler’s shop. In truth it was a warehouse of sorts. A smugglers’ warehouse. Gold in the proper palms kept the guardsmen away, for the time at least. When the bribes failed, though, because higher authority decided an example must be made, or more likely because someone decided the reward for confiscated contraband outweighed the bribes, the smugglers of Sultanapur would not be slowed for an instant. Scores of such warehouses could be found near the harbor, and when Kafar’s was no more, two others would spring up in its place.

  The splintery wooden door from the street let into a windowless room dimly lit by rush torches in crude iron sconces. Two of the torches had guttered out, but no one seemed to notice. A small knot of men, dressed in mismatched garb from a dozen countries, squatted in a semicircle, casting dice against a wall. Others sat on casks at a table of boards laid on sawhorses, engrossed in whispered talk over clay mugs of wine. A Kothian in a red-striped tunic sat off by himself on a three-legged stool near a door at the back of the room, idly flipping a dagger to stick up in the rough-hewn planks of the floor. The air in the room was hot and close, not only because of the torches, but because few of the half-score men there ever made acquaintance with water and most thought soap a fine gift for a woman, if nicely perfumed, but not a thing to be used.

  Only the Kothian looked up at Conan’s entrance. “Do you not know—” he began.

  “I know, Kafar,” Conan said curtly. “Is Hordo here?”

  The Kothian jerked his head at the door behind him and returned to flipping his dagger. “The cellar,” he said as the blade quivered in the floor once more.

  It was the custom in such places to store the goods of each smuggler in a separate room, for no man among them trusted those not of his band to the point of letting him know what kind of “fish” he carried or to where. Closed doors, iron-bound and held shut with massive iron locks, lined the corridor in the rear of the building. At the end of the corridor, beside a wide door leading to the alley behind the warehouse, were stone stairs leading down.

  As the Cimmerian started down the stairs, Hordo opened the door at the bottom. “Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells have you been?” the one-eyed smuggler roared. “And what in Mitra’s name have you been doing?” He was nearly as big as Conan, though his muscles were overlaid with fat and the years had weathered his face. Large gold hoops hung from his ears and a jagged scar ran from under his eye-patch of rough leather down into the thick black thatch of his beard, pulling the left side of his mouth into a permanent sneer. “I leave word with Tasha and the next thing I hear…. Well, get on down here before the Guard seizes you right in front of me. If that fool wench failed to tell you I needed you, I’ll have her hide.”

  Conan winced ruefully. So Tasha had been speaking the truth. If he had not thought she was lying from jealousy, he would have left the Golden Crescent before the captain arrived, and the City Guard would not be seeking his head. Well, it was far from the first time he had gotten into trouble from misreading a woman. And in any case, a man who used pain to frighten a woman to his bed deserved killing.

  “It was not her fault, Hordo,” he said, pushing past the bearded man into the cellar. “I had a trifle of trouble with—” He cut off at the sight of a stranger in the room, a tall, skinny man in a turban who stood beside a score of small wooden chests, like the tin-lined chests in which tea was shipped, stacked on the dirt floor against a dusty stone wall. Here, too, light came from rush torches. “Who is he?” the Cimmerian demanded.

  “He’s called Hasan,” the one-eyed man replied impatiently. “A new ‘fisherman.’ Now! Is there any truth to these rumors, Cimmerian? I do not care if you’ve killed Tureg Amal; that old fool is no loss to the world. But if you have, you must get out of Sultanapur, perhaps out of Turan, and quickly. Even if you killed no one, you had best remain out of sight until they catch who did.”

  “The High Admiral?” Conan exclaimed. “I heard it was a general, though now that I think of it, someone did say a prince. Hordo, why would I kill the High Admiral of Turan?”

  The lanky man spoke up suddenly. “The rumors say it was hired done. For enough gold I suppose a man might kill anyone.”

  Conan’s face became stony. “You seem to be calling me liar,” he said in a deadly quiet tone.

  “Easy, Cimmerian,” Hordo said, and added to the other man, “Are you trying to get yourself killed, Hasan? Offer this man coin for a killing, and ’twill be luck if you escape with no more than broken bones. And if he says he killed no one, then he killed no one.”

  “I did not say that exactly,” Conan said uncomfortably. “There was a Guard captain, and two or three guardsmen.” He glared at the turbaned man who had made a sound in his throat. “You have a comment about that as well?”

  “You two fighting cocks settle your ruffs,” Hordo snapped. “We have a load of ‘fish’ to carry. The man who wants it shipped will be here any instant, and I’ll have no bloodshed, or snarling either, in front of him. He’ll seek elsewhere if he thinks we will slay each other before delivering his chests.” His bearded head swung like that of a bear. “I need my whole crew if we are to get the accursed things to the mouth of the Zaporoska in the time specified, and the only two who have heeded my call squabble like dockers with their heads full of wine.”

  “You told me we’d not sail again for three or four days,” Conan said, walking over to examine the chests. Hasan moved warily out of his way, but it was the finely crafted boxes that interested him. “The crew are scattered among the taverns and bordellos,” he went on, “hip deep in women, and with wine fumes where their wits were four hours gone. I could enjoy a quick journey out of Sultanapur now, but if we find all twenty by nightfall, I’ll become an Erlikite
.”

  “We must sail by dark,” Hordo said. “The gold is more for being faster than agreed, but less for being slower.” The scar-faced smuggler moved Hasan farther away from them with a look, then stepped closer to the Cimmerian and dropped his voice. “I do not doubt your word, Conan, but is it you the guardsmen seek? For this captain, perhaps?”

  Conan shrugged, but did not stop his study of the chests. “I do not know,” he replied for Hordo’s ears alone. “The rumors say nothing of Murad, and my name is not mentioned.” The largest dimension of the chests was the length of a man’s forearm. Their sides were smooth and plain, and the flat, close-fitting lid of each was held by eight leaden seals impressed with the image of a bird he had never seen before. “The tongues of the street speak of Tureg Amal. Still, somewhere words have been spoken concerning what occurred at the Golden Crescent, or there would be no big northlander in the tale.” He hefted one of the boxes, trying its weight. To his surprise, it was light enough to have been packed with feathers. “Men from the northern lands are not so common as visitors in Sultanapur for that.”

  “Aye,” the one-eyed man agreed sagely. “And it is said that when two rumors meet, they exchange words. Also that a rumor changes on each journey from mouth to ear.”

  “Do you begin to quote aphorisms in your old age, Hordo?” Conan chuckled. “I know not the how or why of what has happened, but I do know that trouble sits on my shoulder until it is all made clear.”

  “I am not too old to try breaking your head,” Hordo growled. “And when was the day trouble did not sit on your shoulder, Cimmerian?”

  Conan ignored the question; he had long since decided a man could not live a free life and avoid trouble at the same time. “What is in these chests?” he asked.

  “Spices,” came an answer from the doorway.

  The Cimmerian’s hand went to his sword-hilt. The newcomer wore a dark gray cloak with a voluminous hood. As soon as he had closed the cellar door behind him, he threw back the hood to reveal a narrow, swarthy face topped by a turban twice as big around as was the fashion in Turan, fronted by heron feathers held by a pin of opal and silver. Rings covered his fingers with sapphires and amethysts.

  “A Vendhyan!” Hasan burst out.

  Hordo motioned him to silence. “I was afraid you were not coming, Patil.”

  “Not coming?” The Vendhyan’s tone was puzzled, but then he smiled thinly. “Ah, you feared that I was involved with the events spoken of in the streets. No, I assure you I had nothing to do with the very unfortunate demise of the High Admiral. Such affairs are not for me. I am but a humble merchant who must avoid paying the custom both of your King Yildiz and of my King Bhandarkar if I am to make my poor profit.”

  “Of course, Patil,” Hordo said. “And you have come to the proper men to see that Yildiz’s excisemen take not a single coin of yours. The rest of my crew is even now preparing our boat for a swift passage. Conan, go see that all is in readiness.” He half-turned his back to the Vendhyan and made small frantic gestures that only Conan and Hasan could see. “We must be ready to sail quickly.”

  Conan knew very well what the gestures meant. He was to go upstairs and intercept any of Hordo’s crew who came staggering in with their brains half-pickled in wine. Five or six sots stumbling in and making it clear to this Patil that they were part of the crew would do little to convince him they could make good on Hordo’s promise of sailing quickly. But Conan did not stir. Instead he hefted the chest again.

  “Spices?” he said. “Saffron, pepper, and all the other spices I could name come across the Vilayet from the east. What spice crosses from the west?”

  “Rare condiments from islands of the Western Sea,” Patil replied smoothly. “They are considered great delicacies in my country.”

  Conan nodded. “Of course. Yet despite that, I’ve heard nothing of such being smuggled. Have you, Hordo?”

  The bearded man shook his head doubtfully; worry that Conan was putting the arrangement in jeopardy creased his face. Patil’s face did not change, but he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Conan let the box fall, and the Vendhyan winced as it thudded on the packed earth.

  “Open it,” Conan said. “I would see what we carry across the Vilayet.”

  Patil let out a squawk of protest directed at Hordo. “This is not a part of our agreement. Kafar told me that you were the most trustworthy of the smugglers, otherwise I would have gone elsewhere. I offer much gold for you to deliver my chests and myself to the mouth of the Zaporoska River, not for you to ask questions and make demands.”

  “He does offer a great deal of gold, Conan,” Hordo said slowly.

  “Enough to carry kanda leaf?” the Cimmerian asked. “Or red lotus? You have seen the wretches who would choose their pipes over wine, or a woman, or even over food. How much gold to carry that?”

  Breathing heavily, Hordo scratched at his beard and grimaced. “Oh, all right. Open the chests, Patil. I care not what they contain so long as it is not kanda leaf or red lotus.”

  “I cannot!” the Vendhyan cried. Sweat made his dark face shine. “My master would be furious. I demand that—”

  “Your master?” Hasan cut him off. “What kind of merchant has a master, Vendhyan? Or are you something else?”

  Conan’s voice hardened. “Open the chests.”

  Patil’s eyes shifted in a hunted way. Suddenly he spun toward the door. Conan lunged to catch a handful of the Vendhyan’s flaring cloak, and the swarthy man whirled back, his fist swinging at the Cimmerian’s face. A tiny flicker of light warned Conan, and he leaped back from the blow. The leaf-shaped blade that projected from between Patil’s fingers sliced lightly across Conan’s cheek just below the eye. Conan’s foot came down on the dropped chest, which turned and sent him sprawling on his back on the dirt floor.

  The instant he was free of Conan’s grasp, Patil darted to the door, flung it open and dashed through. Straight into three men who seemed each to be supporting the others as they walked, or rather staggered. All four went down in a thrashing, cursing heap.

  Scrambling to his feet, Conan hauled the struggling men out of the tangle, heaving each aside as soon as he saw that it was one of Hordo’s crew. The last was Patil, and the Vendhyan lay without moving. His large turban was knocked askew, and it came off completely as the Cimmerian rolled him onto his back. It was as Conan had feared. Patil’s dark eyes stared at him emptily, twisted with pain, and the Vendhyan’s teeth were bared in a frozen rictus. The would-be killer’s fist was jammed against the center of his chest. Conan had no doubt the push-dagger’s blade had been just long enough to reach the heart.

  He brushed a hand across his cheek. The fingertips came away red, but the cut was little more than a scratch. It was luck, he thought, that the fellow had not simply stabbed at him. He might never have been aware of the small dagger until it found his own heart.

  “Not the outcome you expected, is it?” he told the corpse. “But I would rather have you alive to talk.”

  Hordo pushed past him to grab the Vendhyan’s robes. “Let us get this out of sight of anyone who wanders by the stairs, Cimmerian. No need to flaunt matters, especially as I’d not like anyone to think we killed this fool for his goods. Things like that can ruin a man’s trade.”

  Together they dragged the body into the cellar and shut the iron-strapped door. The three smugglers who had inadvertently stopped the Vendhyan’s escape lay sprawled against a wall, and two of them stared blearily at the corpse when it was dropped at their feet.

  “ ’S drunker ’n us,” muttered an Iranistani wearing a stained and filthy headcloth.

  “ ’S not drunk,” replied the man next to him, a Nemedian who might have been handsome had his nose not been slit for theft at some time in the past. “ ’S dead.”

  The third man emitted a snore like a ripping sail.

  “All three of you shut your teeth,” Hordo growled.

  Conan touched his cheek again. The blood was already congealing. He wa
s more interested in the chest he had dropped, though. He set it upright on the floor and knelt to study the lead seals. The bird impressed in the gray metal was no more familiar now than before. Vendhyan, perhaps, though seemingly the chests went in the wrong direction for that. The seals could be simply a means of keeping the chests tightly closed or a way to tell if they had been opened. He had also seen such used as triggers to launch venom-tipped needles or poisonous vapors at those who pried where they were not wanted. Such were not usually found on smuggled goods, but then again, these were apparently no ordinary “fish.”

  “I’ll take the chance,” he muttered. His heart pounded as he pushed the point of his new dagger under one seal.

  “Wait, you fool,” Hordo began, but with a twist of his wrist, Conan sliced through the soft lead. “Some day your luck will be used up,” the one-eyed man breathed.

  Without replying, the Cimmerian quickly broke the other seals. The dagger served to lever up the tight-fitting lid. Both stared in disbelief at the contents of the chest. To the brim it was filled with small, dried leaves.

  “Spices?” Hasan said doubtfully.

  Conan cautiously stirred the leaves with his dagger, then scooped up a handful. They cracked brittlely in his grasp and gave off no aroma. “A man does not try to kill to hide spices,” Conan said. “We’ll see what is in the other chests.”

  He half-rose from his knees, swayed and sank back down. The heavy thumping in his chest continued unabated. He touched the cut on his face once more; it felt as though a piece of leather lay between fingers and cheek. “That blade.” His tongue felt thick around the words. “There was something on it.”

  The blood drained from Hordo’s face. “Poison,” he breathed. “Fight it, Cimmerian. You must fight it! If you let your eyes close, you’ll never open them again!”

  Conan tried again to rise, to go over to the other chests, and again he almost fell. Hordo caught him, easing him to a sitting position against the wall.