Conan The Fearless (12 page)

Conan decided to sleep for a few hours so that he might be rested and fresh for his nocturnal business. While the others went to arrange for their travel supplies, the barbarian ascended the stairs to the rooms the group had rented. The pair of rooms could have been twins to the ones at the destroyed Milk of Wolves Inn. Conan picked one and entered, bolting the door behind him. He sprawled upon the ticking and soon fell fast asleep.

Djuvula followed the magic thread up the stairs of the inn. The glowing line ended at the door to one of the sleeping rooms. One or more of those she sought must be inside. It was important, however, that she find the beautiful barbarian alone. Her spell would do her little good if there were another woman within the man’s reach. How could she find out?

After a moment the idea came to her. Quickly, Djuvula descended the stairway and found a clean-up boy clearing tables. “Like to earn a few coppers, boy?”

“Aye, mistress. Whom shall I slay for you?”

“Not such a large task as that, boy. Just knock on the door of the room I point out and see how many people are within when you are answered. Say you have come to change the bedding.”

Djuvula handed the boy several coppers, and then followed him up the stairs. She pointed out the door, then moved back down the stairway, out of sight.

After a few moments the boy returned.

“Well?”

“There is but one in the room, mistress, and he seems an ill-tempered one at that. He said he would skewer me, were I to bother him again for such stupidity.”

“What did he look like, boy?”

“A giant of a man mistress. A barbarian.”

Djuvula smiled and gave the boy a handful of coppers. “Speak of this to no one, boy.”

“I should hope not,” the boy said. “Fat-arse the owner would take my money faster than flies locate dung.”

When she was alone in the hallway again, Djuvula brought forth from her silken robe a vial stoppered with cork and wax; inside this clear-walled vessel was a liquid that glowed faintly, like phosphorus. She pried the cork from the bottle’s mouth and bent to pour a line of the fluid along the base of the door. Vapor rose in a thick yellow cloud, and the sorceress hastily backed away from the smoke.

Conan awoke suddenly. Something was wrong. Some strange smell had invaded his dreams … . He sat up suddenly and stared. In the light admitted by the poorly fitted shutters he saw a thin haze of yellow smoke filling the room. He sniffed deeply, then coughed as the irritating fumes filled his nostrils. Was the inn on fire? No, this was like no odor he had smelled before; no wood fed this noxious vapor-

He suddenly found himself suffused with an emotion altogether different from curiosity: His body seemed about to burst-with lust.

There came a knock at his door. A female voice called to him. “Open the door, my beautiful barbarian.”

Conan felt confusion. The voice was seductive and carried the tones of warm honey, the promise of undreamed of fulfillment. His lust increased. He moved to the door, slid back the bolt, and jerked the door wide.

The woman who stood there was covered from head to toe in a deep blue robe of fine silk. As he watched, the figure raised pale hands to slip back the hood covering her face and head. By all the gods, she was beautiful! Her hair was flame, her skin unblemished white, her lips ruby and smiling.

“Am I to stand in the drafty hallway?” she said.

Conan took two hesitant steps backward, and the woman followed, gliding smoothly across the floor. She eased the door shut behind her and smiled at him. She stood motionless for a moment, then slowly brought her hands to the front of the robe. With a quick flip of her fingers she opened the front of the robe and shrugged it away.

Beneath the blue silk she was naked.

Conan licked suddenly dry lips. By Mitra, what a woman! She was glorious! Her legs, her breasts-her whole body was perfect!

The mysterious woman reached out toward him with both hands.

Conan’s desire knew no bounds. He stepped forward and wrapped his thick arms around the woman, hugging her to him, lifting her clear of the floor. He felt the stab of her fingernails, but such did not matter. Nothing mattered in all the world save taking his pleasure with this woman!

The boy pointed to the door of the sleeping room. “That is the room you seek, sir.”

Patch flipped a coin at the boy, a silver piece, but he begrudged it not. In a short while Patch would be thirty-five gold solons richer-what mattered a single silver? He waited until the boy was gone and he was alone in the hall; then Patch stole softly to the door of the barbarian’s room. Caution was called for despite his desire for revenge.

As Patch placed his ear against the door, the wooden plank moved a hair. Unbolted, by Set’s black hand! He grinned. The barbarian be foolish not to lock his door; he’d sealed his doom! Still moving quietly, the one-eyed man drew his sword.

A soft moan came from within the room. Patch paused, cocking his head to one side. What be this? Why, that sounded like-

The cutthroat grinned more widely. Ah, this be a stroke of good fortune, indeed! Asura smiled upon him, for the barbarian likely would not notice his entrance in that he seemed occupied with … other matters. Patch took a deep breath, lifted his blade to strike, and shoved wide the door.

Conan could not understand the reason for his sudden lust or the appearance of the woman who seemed bent on slaking it; neither, it must be said, did he try particularly hard to fathom it. But when the door to his room crashed open and a man sprang through the entrance waving a sword, Conan understood that well enough. The spell holding him broke.

The woman in his arms pulled back at the look on Conan’s face. “What-?” She twisted to ape Conan’s stare and beheld the assassin.

Conan thrust the naked woman away from him with a snarl. “So, dog-sister, you sought to occupy me for your butcher!”

“No!” the woman yelled.

There was no time for such a discussion, Conan knew. He rolled across the floor as the attacker brought his blade down. The sword cleaved the bed and not Conan. The Cimmerian grabbed his own blade and sprang to his feet, facing the cutthroat. By Crom, it was the patch-eyed man he’d fought in the tavern before the windstorm!

Behind the two men, the woman cursed with a command of invective Conan had seldom heard, even from soldiers or seamen. The Cimmerian grinned wolfishly at Patch and moved half a pace toward him. “Back for more of the same, One-eye?”

“The bells will toll your dirge, barbarian,” Patch snarled. “Alive, you be wanted, but no man taunts me and lives! You be a dead man.”

Conan’s grin remained in place. “When last we met, I survived-we will see whose dirge plays, assassin.”

Patch lunged, feinted with his blade, then swept a fanlike stroke across his body, aimed at decapitating Conan. Conan gave no ground, however, but instead moved toward the other man, holding his blade in a grip of iron. The one-eyed brigand’s sword clanged against Conan’s and rebounded. Patch cursed.

The Cimmerian raised his sword overhead to split his opponent from skull to crotch: before he could strike, however, Patch pulled a short dagger from his belt with his free hand and slashed at Conan. The bigger man leaped back, but the dagger drew a furrow across his thigh; blood welled and ran downward.

Conan reached down and touched the redness of his blood with the fingertips of his left hand. Lifting the salty fluid to his lips, he tasted it, and laughed at the sudden flash of fear on Patch’s face. Suddenly, he flicked the blood left on his fingers at the cutthroat, aiming for his eyes.

Patch cursed and leaped back. Conan circled to his left, then sprang, his sword doing its steely dance. The one-eyed man stabbed at him with the dagger as he swung his own sharp blade, but the brigand’s defenses served him poorly. Patch left an opening. Conan took the offer. With a yell the big Cimmerian drove his broadsword at Patch, as he would a spear. The point took the would-be assassin just under the breastbone, slicing through his heart and out his back, between two vertebrae.

“D-d-damn you!” Patch managed as he fell.

With a powerful contraction of his upper back and shoulder, Conan jerked his blade free of the dying man. Turning his attention away from Patch, he spun, looking for the woman who had bewitched him.

She was gone.

The innlord had removed the body and replaced the bloody bed upon which it had finally fallen, being careful to keep his eyes respectful when he chanced to gaze at the Cimmerian. Conan offered the man a silver coin for his effort-his last such coin-with instructions to keep the Senate’s Deputation at bay for a few hours. After that he would be gone, and they could whistle for him.

As he cleaned his blade and honed the nicks in its edge, Conan considered the attack. It was unfortunate that he and the woman had been unable to complete their liaison before One-eye had interrupted. The man’s appearance had certainly been a surprise; more, the woman had seemed surprised as well. If that were true, then perhaps the slain cutthroat had not been associated with her after all. Strange.

Of course, she had enspelled him somehow. That foulstinking smoke, most likely. But if she were not part of the plot to slay him, then-who was she? Stranger and stranger. Some of the stink remained in his nostrils, and he felt the smell was less of the vapor and more associated with the reek of magic he so distrusted. This was no place for a man of honor wrapped in some mystical web peopled with magicians, demons, and witches. The sooner he was shut of this business, the better. On the morrow, all things going as planned, he would ride from the west gate of Mornstadinos. Then all he would have to worry about would be an evil magician ensconced in a castle.

Conan shook his head, and continued to clean his blade.

Djuvula sat in her chamber full of black rage. Who had that one-eyed fool been? He had spoken of taking the barbarian alive, therefore he had been in the employ of someone else. Who? Who dared to interfere with her in this manner’? The person responsible would be most unhappy when Djuvula found out. Most unhappy.

Loganaro shook his head as he stared at Patch’s corpse. The fool had paid for his arrogance in thinking he could take the barbarian alone. Now what was he going to do?

Sovartus waved one hand at Djavul. “Go and find the girl and this greater-than-ordinary man who guards her,” he said. “I shall contact you when I am ready.”

“By your leave,” Djavul grated. And he disappeared.

In the dining room of his palace Lemparius declined other than dabbling with his food. He would, he reasoned with a smile, eat something later in the evening. Something-or someone … .

Mornstadinos lay deep in night’s embrace when finally Conan approached the wall surrounding the estate of Lemparius, Center Strand of the Senate’s Treble Whip. The Cimmerian moved easily despite the bound cut upon his thigh. The wound was shallow, and it caused him little concern; he had suffered much worse and survived. The man who had inflicted the injury no longer walked in the land of the living, and the slight pain Conan felt from his limb was small enough coin to pay for that privilege.

The wall was of smooth stones, set in an adobe mortar and covered with more of the claylike mud; in height, the wall was easily thrice Conan’s own span. The tall youth grinned. Child’s play, he thought, looking at the cracks in the adobe. To an ordinary man the wall might appear smooth; to a Cimmerian there might as well have been a ladder scaling the side. If Lemparius depended upon this wall for his primary protection, the man prepared himself ill for unsolicited night visitors.

It was but the work of a few moments for Conan to spider his way up the wall. At the top, shards of broken pottery had been set, along with splinters of rock. Were a climber fool enough to throw himself upon these jagged edges, certainly he could do himself injury. Conan laughed softly. Anyone adept enough to climb the wall was also likely to be adept enough to bypass the ragged points set in the top. He did so easily, undaunted by such small precautions on the part of the builder. He worked his way down the inner wall until he reached his own height from the ground, then dropped, landing lightly for such a big man. Easy enough.

The palace stood a hundred paces away. Perhaps palace was too pretentious a word, Conan thought. Certainly, the manse was large, but it seemed less than imposing when compared to some of the structures he had seen in Shadizar. No comparison could be made with the destroyed Tower of the Elephant in Arenjun, to be certain; still, if the place held that which he sought, that would be enough.

The manse, too, was of adobe over stone, with gaps where the overlay had sloughed away to reveal the rock. Conan saw there was no moat; neither did there seem to be watch animals, dogs, or birds. He thought the last a bit strange; he had come prepared for either, with drugged meat and grain in a small sack tied to his belt.

Conan approached the house boldly, hoping to confuse any guards who might see him. If seen, he would try to get close enough to knock the guard senseless before alarm could be raised.

No guards materialized from dark recesses, however. Nor did Conan see any signs of guardhouses or posts. He shook his head, starlight gleaming from his blue eyes. This Lemparius was a gift from Bel to thieves, he thought. A wonder there stood no sign proclaiming invitation to steal.

Despite the ease of his entrance so far, he remained cautious. He was tempted to simply stride to the front entrance and enter the manse that way, but he decided against such audacity. Best not to press his luck; a window would do just as well.

From the ease of his work so far, Conan expected the window to be unlatched; he was not disappointed. The shutters swung wide easily, allowing him to clamber inside the building. Inside, he found himself in a storeroom laden with fowl hung to ripen for future meals, lit dimly by tapers in the hall beyond. He moved among the dangling carcasses gracefully, avoiding contact with the pungent flesh. He peered out into the hall.

Once again the young Cimmerian grinned widely. Empty. This was too easy. He began to relax. Such a man as owned this place deserved to be robbed; surely he must be swimming in arrogance?