Read Conan and the Spider God Online
Authors: Lyon Sprague de Camp
Conan and the Spider God (10 page)
“Last year, saying they had more work than they could accomplish, the priests appointed me to perform that task. But the first time I tried it, being new to the job, I spilled some bitumen, and the High Priest was furious. You’d have thought I had stolen one of the Eyes of Zath. Later he blamed me when the priest Mirzes set fire to his robe, claiming I had not cleaned up the oil sufficiently so that Mirzes slipped on the marble.”
“How could that start a fire?” asked Conan.
“Mirzes got careless during the Presentation of the Telesms—when they bring out the sacred key and mirror and so on—and waved his arm across the eternal flame. His fluttery sleeve caught fire, and there was much dashing about and shouting ere they beat the fire out.”
“What was the upshot?”
“Mirzes had his arm in bandages for a fortnight. As soon as he was well, the High Priest gave him the task of filling the reservoir, saying that he, if anyone, would appreciate the need for care. I did not mind escaping that chore, albeit I resented Feridun’s barbed comments on the stupidity of women.”
“Whence comes this oil?”
“I know not for certain, but one told me the pipe lies beneath the ground outside the temple and leads up to a gorge, wherein the bitumen seeps from the soil and forms a pool.”
Conan nodded his understanding. “And speaking of the Eyes of Zath, they must be gems of some sort—at least when Zath is in his stony form. Do you know what sort?”
“’Tis said they are eight matchless specimens of the Kambujan girasol, or as some say, fire opal. Their value must be as great as all the rest of the treasure of Zath.” Glancing around, Rudabeh suddenly stiffened and caught Conan’s hand in a convulsive grip. “Nial! We must flee!”
“Why? What’s up, lass?”
“See you that man who just entered?” She moved her head slightly to indicate direction. “Nay, do not stare; but that man is Darius, one of the priests! If he sees me, I am undone!”
The individual indicated was one of the younger priests, a slim, ascetic-looking man not much older than Conan, clad in an amber robe and an emerald turban. Paying no attention to the other patrons, Darius walked quietly across the floor to where sat the Stygian scholar. The two greeted each other with bows and stately gestures before the priest pulled up a stool and sat facing Psamitek. The priest and the Stygian spoke in low voices, while Psamitek made notes on a waxed wooden tablet.
“I’ve heard of this Stygian,” murmured Rudabeh. “He travels about, studying the cults of many gods; and now he wishes instruction in the theology of Zathism. I suppose Darius is imparting it to him. Now shall we go?”
Conan shook his head slightly. “We must not leap up and depart in haste, for that would draw attention. Besides, he seems completely absorbed in what he’s telling the Stygian.”
“At least,” breathed Rudabeh, “Darius is one of whom I have little fear. He is unworldly and idealistic, and gossip says he is at outs with the High Priest and the Vicar. Behold, here comes the harper. Dare we wait to hear him?”
“Surely!” said Conan. “I’ll order one more cup for each of us ere he begins.” He waved to Mandana.
Rudabeh yawned, then smiled through her veil. “I ought not to drink so much, but this wine is so refreshing. What is it called?”
“Wine of Kyros, from the coast of Shem. I hear the combination of climate and soil makes it the world’s best; and if there be a better, I have yet to taste it.”
T
he harper sat on his stool and tuned his instrument. Sweeping skilled hands across the strings, he sang a tragic lament in a voice quivering with despair. At the end he got a brief round of applause. He acknowledged it with a bow, then passed around the room, holding out his cap for donations.
he harper sat on his stool and tuned his instrument. Sweeping skilled hands across the strings, he sang a tragic lament in a voice quivering with despair. At the end he got a brief round of applause. He acknowledged it with a bow, then passed around the room, holding out his cap for donations.
His next song was a rollicking ballad about a fabled robber who stole from the rich but gave to the poor. But now a dispute broke out among the four Turanians, whose angry voices nearly drowned out the delicate chords of the harp and the fluting voice of the singer. Several patrons tried to quiet them, but they paid no heed. Since they were speaking Hyrkanian, Conan could follow the thrust of the dispute.
The Turanians were arguing over who should enjoy the favors of Mandana for the night. Conan had been discomfited to learn that Bartakes rented out his daughter for this purpose. Although he had shed most of the stern moral code of his barbaric homeland, Conan considered it dishonorable for any man to prostitute his kinswoman. But then, he told himself, what could one expect of decadent Zamorians? Besides, he admitted, before he met Rudabeh he had intended to avail himself of the tavern wench’s services.
The dispute was at length referred to the dice box, and for a while the twang of the harp competed with the rattle of dice. Then a shout announced the winner, and the other three congratulated him with loud, lewd jests.
Rudabeh, taking a sip of her wine, said: “It is—it is a shame we cannot hear the music. Nial, can naught be done to quiet those louts?”
Conan had resolved not to let himself be drawn into any brawls that night. He feared that either his identity or that of his companion might be exposed, or that—if nothing worse—Bartakes would forbid him the premises. On the other hand, it went against his nature to sit supinely by while a woman in distress appealed to him for aid.
Before he could decide which impulse to follow, one of the Turanians rose unsteadily to his feet and lurched across the common room to Conan’s table. He slapped Conan on the shoulders and barked in broken Zamorian:
“You, fellow! How much you take for loan of your woman for this night?”
Keeping a tight rein on his volcanic temper, Conan replied: “My woman, as you call her, is not for sale or rent. Besides, I thought you had already gained the innkeeper’s daughter?”
Swaying, the Turanian spat on the floor. “That was Tutush won her, not me. Here I am, randy as goat and no woman. What you take? I pay good money.”
“I have told you,” grated Conan, “the lady is not for sale.”
The Turanian gave Conan a cuff on the shoulder that was somewhere between a friendly pat and a hostile blow. “Oh, do not play great lord with me! I Chagor, mighty swordsman. When I want, by Erlik I take—”
Conan snapped to his feet and brought his fist up in a whistling arc to Chagor’s jaw. The fist connected with a jarring smack, and the Turanian fell backwards as if poleaxed. His face expressionless, Conan sat down and took a swallow of wine.
But the Turanian’s facilities soon returned to him. He reached out feebly, trying to regain his feet. Conan rose again, turned Chagor over with his boot, and grasped him by the slack of his jacket and trews. Carrying the man to the door, he kicked it open, strode out, and dropped the Turanian into the horse trough. After pulling him out of the water and dipping him back several times, he dropped him in the dirt and reentered the inn.
Scarcely had the door closed when he found himself facing Chagor’s three companions, each with scimitar bared. With the quickness of a pouncing panther, Conan swept out his own blade. He was about to launch a headlong attack, knowing that only by tigerish speed could he hope to keep his three adversaries from surrounding him and cutting him down. Then from behind the Turanians, a voice commanded in Hyrkanian:
“Hold! Put up your swords! Back to your table, clods!”
The graybeard with the skullcap had risen to thunder his orders in a voice like the crack of a whip. To Conan’s astonishment, the lumbering Turanians obeyed promptly. They backed away, sheathed their sabers, and returned, sullen and grumbling, to their table.
Conan scabbarded his own sword and strode back to his table. There he found that Rudabeh, sitting with her back to the corner, had dozed off and slept through the noisy confrontation.
The harper had disappeared. The young priest who had been in conversation with the Stygian scholar rose, nodded to his acquaintance, and hurried out.
C
onan took a draft of wine and looked up to see Parvez standing by his fable. The diplomat said: “Good even, Captain Conan! And how are things in Yezud?”
onan took a draft of wine and looked up to see Parvez standing by his fable. The diplomat said: “Good even, Captain Conan! And how are things in Yezud?”
Conan growled: “I thank you for stopping the brawl, sir, but I am Nial the blacksmith.”
With a chuckle, the Turanian pulled up a vacant stool and sat down. “So that is what you go by here, eh? Very well, you shall be Nial to me. But think not that I do not know you. By the way, what did you with Chagor?”
“I gave him a much-needed bath; you could smell him half a league upwind. Here he comes now.”
Chagor had staggered in dripping. He glared about the room; but when Parvez pointed a stern finger, he went meekly back to the table whereat sat the other three.
“At least, I am glad you did him no lasting harm,” said Parvez. “They are good enough fellows, but betimes the devil gets into them.”
Conan pushed Rudabeh’s goblet toward Parvez. “You may as well finish this, since my companion sleeps.”
Parvez sniffed and tasted. “Kyrian, eh? You must be in funds.”
“What are you doing here?” countered Conan.
“Diplomatic business.” Parvez lowered his voice and glanced around. “Perchance we can be of service to each other. I will tell you a thing or two, since I think I can trust you further than most of the wights hereabouts. I have a hold on you, and I know more about you than you suspect; so it behooves us to put some faith in each other. In Aghrapur you had the name of a man of his word, despite your proclivity for violence.”
Tensely, Conan growled: “I’ll keep your secrets exactly as well as you keep mine.”
“We agree, then? What know you of the abduction of Princess Jamilah?”
Conan told Parvez of his encounter with Harpagus in the Marshes of Mehar. Then he repeated what Rudabeh had told him of the veiled woman. The Cimmerian ended by saying: “How did you trace the lady hither?”
“That required no skill. The High Priest of Zath sent a message to His Majesty, stating that Her Royal Highness was safe and well and would be detained until Feridun’s plans had attained fruition.”
“But what in the nine hells,” asked Conan, “does the temple of Zath want with the princess? They already have all the wealth any mortals could desire. Would they force the worship of Zath upon the kingdom of Turan?”
“Nay—at least not for the nonce. I visited the High Priest this day for the answer to that very question. Feridun scornfully rejected any talk of ransom; and in the course of our speech he revealed more by his omissions than by his admissions. When I put his hints and blusters together, I was convinced that he plans to launch some sort of revolution in Zamora, to cast down the sovereign he terms ‘corrupt and effete.’ Apparently he seized the princess to make certain that King Yildiz shall not intervene to save his brother monarch, as called for by an ancient treaty. He assured me that the lady will be well cared for until his great ‘cleansing’ is accomplished.”
“I had naught to do with that abduction, as some may think,” said Conan gruffly. “I do not use women as counters in a game.”
Lord Parvez raised quizzical eyebrows. “I myself first thought that you had helped to carry off the lady, because of your simultaneous disappearance; and it was I who sent forth a warrant for your capture. It was fortunate that you made your escape, for now I think you innocent of that offense, although you remain in bad odor in Turan because of Orkhan’s slaying.”
“I killed in self-defense,” growled Conan, “whatever that bitch Narkia has averred.”
Parvez shrugged. “That concerns me not, whatever be the truth of it. High Priest Tughril swears to have your heart for the death of his son, but that is his affair, and yours.” Parvez rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I know about that, too,” said Conan, telling of the assassin Varathran’s attack on Catigern and the price that had been placed on Conan’s head.
“I don’t understand,” Conan continued, “why this scum should attack the Brythunian instead of me. We look not alike.”
“I can imagine it,” said Parvez. “Suppose Tughril sends a man to recruit a trusty murderer. In the gutters of Shadizar, his messenger finds Varathran and tells him: ‘Go slay Conan the Cimmerian, a great hulking fellow who has fled to Yezud, to seek service in the temple guard.’ With no further description to go by, Varathran arrives here and discovers two great, hulking men enmeshed in battle. One is a palpable civilian, whilst the other wears the habiliments of a captain of mercenaries. Naturally, he takes Catigern for his quarry.”
“You seem to have followed my every move hither,” said Conan uncomfortably.
“Gathering information is my trade, just as fighting is yours. And now, friend—ah—Nial, I have a proposal to make.”
“Well?” growled Conan, his blue eyes lighting with interest.
“I want Jamilah, unharmed. You are the one man whom I count upon to get her.”
Conan pondered, then said: “How am I supposed to do that? The lady is hidden in that maze of corridors within the temple, just where I know not. Even if I could locate her, how could I smuggle her past the Brythunian guards? There must be at least a score of those fellows on duty there, day and night.”
Parvez waved a negligent hand. “In your former and less respectable days—and don’t think I know not of them, too—you performed feats of stealth, daring, and cunning no whit the less.”
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