The Sword of Skelos (4 page)

Conan chuckled. “I have. And so once you were sure that I knew nothing of this thing you seek, you would have slain me.”

“That I deny. Once I learned where you had hidden the Eye of Erlik, I’d have taken it and departed posthaste for Iranistan. I’d have seen no need to murder you—unless forced, of course. Such is not our way, Conan, or my way. Come with me now and I still feel the same. My only concern is putting that amulet into the hands of my employer.”

Though he did indeed have the amulet, for which he had gone to a great, great deal of trouble, Conan reflected now that there was surely still that which he did not know about it. Would a man call his ruler “my employer,” for instance?

“The amulet is more important to my ruler than my life, Conan,” Khassek said, speaking directly to Conan’s eyes. “If I knew you were taking it to him, I’d be happy. If I know you will not, I must fight you.”

“Best I slay you here and now, then.”

“Killing me now would be very unwise. Four men of the City Watch just entered the inn. Departing this place might be wise.”

Only the men of the Watch of Arenjun had reason to want him, Conan mused—dead or alive. Up here in Shadizar… well, better he had never left the comparative safety of The Desert, which was Shadizar’s equivalent of Arenjun’s Maul. He said, “Why?” with a perfectly open face. “You are the foreigner. I need have no fear of the local Watch-men.”

“A Royal Dragoner is with them, and they are looking for someone.”

“Certainly I have no quarrel with the King of Zamora!”

“Umm. Unless he has had a complaint from Arenjun. I had heard that down there you wounded two and disgraced another,
uptown
—a certain former Watch-sergeant. I am glad that you have no fear of any friends he might have in Shadizar, or of Arenjun’s governor making complaint to the king, because the five are coming over here now.”

“One was killed, too, in Arenjun,” Conan said. “I did the wounding—it was Ajhindar who accounted for the dead one.”

“One of these has a crossbow. Hm… Conan… it may be true that I am the foreigner and you of course, nine feet tall and with your blue eyes, are a native of Zamora… but the crossbow quarrel is aimed at you.”

“Damn.”

Khassek stared. “You—that’s just the way Ajhindar said it!”

“I know. What else is there to be said? I came in here all swaggery and smug, to brace you. I forgot an important Zamoran saying: “When thou wouldst enter, think first how thou wilt find a way out again.” A rule I must remember to hold to is ‘Never sit with your back to the door’! What’s all that scuffling?”

“Most of the other patrons are departing with haste. Here they come, king’s men first. By the way, in Iranistan the sages say ‘Wherever thou wouldst enter, ascertain if there is another door.’ “

“Sensible.” Conan started to rise.

“Do not move, Cimmerian! You can not dodge the crossbow quarrel aimed at your back, and three swords are drawn!”

The speaker stepped past Conan to face him, smiling, from Khassek’s side of the table. The man was not tall, and he was slim, though his face showed some signs of high living. His glossy brown-black hair was neatly banged, curling slightly under all across his forehead. The large gold pendant on the breast of his gold-broidered blue tunic—which Conan saw was of silk—bore the arms of the King of Zamora, lately a drunk dominated by a sorcerer of Arenjun.
The bastard should be grateful to me for getting rid of Yara
, Conan thought morosely. This man’s perfectly trimmed, thin mustache twitched as he smiled. Conan saw a flash of gold in his mouth. Dental work, by Crom— and the fellow no more than thirty!

“Conan of Cimmeria, lately of Arenjun, you are my prisoner in the king’s name. You will come quietly?”

Conan stared at him. Nice pretty blue leggings; polished black boots, tight-fitting. A lovely fancily tooled belt supporting sheaths; from them thrust up the jeweled hilt of a dagger and a sword whose pommel was a lion head—and surely was of silver.

Conan glanced at Khassek, who sat below the king’s man, just beside him; looking shocked, he was staring at Conan. The Cimmerian glanced around. He saw an inn nearly emptied—and uniforms. Swords, naked. Aye, and the crossbowman, moving slowly in, the tip of his nasty little shaft trained on Conan.

“You mean—you mean this man is a
criminal
!” Khassek exclaimed. “Oh!”

The king’s Dragoner looked down at him with a contemptuous lifting of his brows. “You are not his friend?”

“Hardly! I am here on the queen’s business of Koth.”

“Koth! You look like one of those… you look as if you came from well to the east, not the
west
!”

Khassek heaved a great sigh. “It is true. My mother was a slave, from Aghrapur.”

“Aghrapur!” The king’s dandified agent was astonished anew.

“Aye,” Khassek sighed sadly. “She was kidnapped in her youth by an armor pedlar of Koth. Carried her back with him, he did. As the gods would have it, he found by the time of their arrival that he loved her. I was born. He had me educated. Now—well now I am here representing the queen herself! As for
this
fellow —he seems clean, and when he walked so boldly into this good inn—this is a good inn, isn’t it, my lord?”

The Zamoran smiled, nattered. “Aye. There are better, in Shadizar—but there are many worse! Agent for the queen, you say?”

“Uh—my lord Ferhad—” One of the men of the Watch began.

The Dragoner jerked his head to give the man a blazing stare. “In time! Do not disturb a man on the King’s Business!”

“Well, he offered me the ring he wears, saying it was his mother’s,” Khassek said, while Conan wondered at all this elaborate tale, and where it was taking them. “And dropped these gold coins on the table to show that he was not penurious. He gave me this strange sword as good faith, and said he needed two more gold pieces to get to Nemedia—”

Predictably, Lord Ferhad said, “Nemedia!”

“So he said. Now… now oh my lord… is’t possible this fellow sought to peddle stolen goods to me, me, the queen’s own buyer of jewels and cosmetics?”

“Entirely possible,” Ferhad said. “This one is a desperate and lawless man. He is responsible for a great deal of mischief down in Arenjun—and dares fly here, to the very capital, to take refuge!” Ferhad fixed his lionish gaze on Conan again, standing tall with his chin high, looking down his considerable nose and being considerably more officious now, with such a distinguished audience of one; the queen’s own buyer of jewels and cosmetics, of Koth!

“It is a royal offense to interfere with men of the City Watch anywhere in our kingdom, barbarian! Now rise, slowly, and let us be off with you—to some accommodations I fear you will not like so well as this fine inn wherein you have tried to mislead a distinguished foreign visitor!”

“Aye,” Khassek petulantly said, “and take-this awful sword with you!” Half-turning, he brought up the great Ubarsi knife. An instant later, he was standing behind Ferhad, the sword-arm across the man’s chest and his other tawny hand holding a dagger at his throat.

“None of you move! Lord Ferhad: Give order that all swords and that crossbow are to be placed on that table to your right!”

“Wha—wha—you can’t—let me g—ah! Careful with that dagger, man!”

“Aye, it is honed to razor-sharpness, as I have tender skin and use it to shave, daily. The order, Ferhad!”

Ferhad gave the order. The crossbowman raised the point that his weapon was cocked and dangerous. Khassek advised the man to shoot the quarrel into the wall just below the ceiling, and Ferhad confirmed. Soon the quarrel thunked home and remained there, high above the floor, quivering only a little; a souvenir for the Red Lion’s owner.

“Conan,” Khassek said, “do persuade our host to show us his cellar.”

“Cellar!” Ferhad echoed in a yelp, and his adam’s apple bobbed against the chill blade of Khassek’s knife. Trying not to swallow, Ferhad stood as tall and stiff as a military recruit, and said no more.

Imraz, the large-eyed proprietor of the Red Lion, lifted a squared trap in the floor of his pantry. One by one, the four men of Shadizar’s City Watch grumblingly descended into darkness. Each shot a last dark look at the huge barbarian who stood above, grinning just a bit as he leaned on a sword—their sergeant’s.

“My dear lord Ferhad,” Khassek said, “I am grievously sorry, but see no way out of this other than to beg you to join those men below.”

“Below!”

“Try to look on the good side,” Conan said. “Maybe our host Imraz keeps his best vintages down there.”

“Morelike rotting turnips, spiderwebs and mushrooms,” Ferhad said tightly, which was the only way he could speak with his head tilted back. “Why not tie me and leave me up here? Pent in the dark with those common soldiers—”

“—who doubtless know many fine stories for your entertainment, my good lord.” Khassek released the man, easing out his handsome sword as he did. “Below, and I wish you a good good evening.”

“Me too,” Conan said as the fancily dressed fellow gingerly set foot on the top of the seven old wooden steps that led down into earth-smelly darkness. Conan neatly plucked Ferhad’s gem-winking dagger from its sheath.

“You will both be very, very sorry for this,” the descending Ferhad promised.

“Well, just you come up to Brythunia and talk with us about that,” Khassek said affably.

“Brythunia!”

Khassek kicked the trap down. “Doesn’t lock, does it,” he muttered, and looked up to see the Red Lion’s owner backing slowly.

Conan took four quick steps. “No no Imraz, no running off now. Here, help us to move that big full keg over atop the trap, there’s a good man.”

With a bit of grunting, the three men accomplished the barrel’s moving and placement. Conan glanced through the pantry doorway to see several faces gazing interestedly in at the front door.

“Ho!” he cried. “Hand me that crossbow!”

The faces vanished and Khassek trotted lightly through the inn to slam and bar the door. When he turned back, he was frowning. “Just realized… Imraz! Where is that serving wench of yours?”

His host blinked. “Why—I know not—”

“Damn! Gone by a rear door to fetch even more brave soldiery—the King’s Own this time, I have little doubt. Conan—”

“We take all these swords and daggers, and the crossbow,” Conan said. “We take him with us.” He nodded at the taverner. “We go out the back, and we
run
!”

“I doubt Imraz can roll this huge keg off the trap all by himself,” Khassek said, scooping up the crossbow.

“No, but he can open the front door and let others in to help him!”

“Ah, too true. I think I have quit thinking clearly. If only you had brought back the length of cord I gave those two fellows, along with the gold and my little sticker! Come Imraz—you must accompany us for a little way.”

While the taverner looked profoundly reluctant and even larger of large mournful eyes, Khassek opened his pouch and brought forth five more pieces of gold. “Two still lie on the table, and we have drunk no more than a few coppers’ worth of wine. Here, take these. Think what fun to see such a pompous fop as that Ferhad dealt with—and think of all the business the telling of this wonderful story of the comeuppance of the king’s Dragoner will bring in! Why, customers will flock in like flies.
Come
.”

In silence Imraz accompanied them. Conan dropped five swords and four daggers into a smallish empty keg, while the owner of that little barrel made five pieces of gold vanish even more efficiently. He led them through a doorway into an alley that was very different from those of The Desert, and they hurried along like three friends.

“Right, here,” Conan grunted, carrying his keg with both arms enwrapping it, and they turned right; at the next intersection he muttered “left.”

“You look a bit loutish lugging that armory-in-a-keg,” Khassek pointed out. “Do you think we really need them?”

“One can never have too many weapons,” Conan assured him, and walked on, his back arched and his belly thrust out under the keg he bear-hugged. Its contents rattled and clinked.

After another turn, they bade good evening to their former host, and hurried on whilst Imraz turned back.

“What’s this about Brythunia?” Conan asked.

“I gave him the names of several places—”

“I noticed!”

“—none of them our destination,” Khassek patiently finished. “Let him wonder. Who knows an Iranistani on sight? We do share a destination, Conan, do we not?”

“We’re an unlikely pair,” Conan said.

“Trio; forget not your barrel of blades. But not so, not so. We are both very clever fellows who’d have tried to slay all five of those wights had I not been even cleverer and Ferhad so easy, and we both know it. Conan… does it also occur to you that all the while you’ve been carrying that keg I could have stuck a knife or two into you?”

“We are walking deeper into The Desert, Khassek. Assume that we are being watched, though you see no one. I have friends down here. They don’t look upon
me
as a foreigner.”

“Hmm. You don’t happen to own a few camels, do you?”