Conan and the Emerald Lotus Part 16

Ethram-Fal frowned, then waved a hand in dismissal. "There will be no fire of any kind inside the palace. I touched a petal of the lotus to a candle and it burned faster than dry pine. Tell the men that any who break this rule will pay with their lives."

"Yes, milord."

"And why the concern about my light-globes? Are the superst.i.tious fools afraid of them?"

"Some said that they were unnatural and feared to touch them. I proved that they were harmless by holding several at once. All seem to accept them now."

"By Set's shining coils," Ethram-Fal chuckled dryly, shaking his head.

"These warriors are a weak-minded lot. The light-globes are merely a sea plant sealed in crystal. The magical enhancement is minimal. Well then, are they otherwise content? Do they quarrel amongst themselves?"

"No quarrels, milord. But I've added an additional' guard to each shift after nightfall."

"Two men per shift? That's of little consequence. But why? Does the night watch grow lonely?"

"Not lonely enough, milord. The past two nights the sentries of the third shift reported that something was skulking among the rocks at the canyon mouth." Ethram-Fal sat up straight.

"Something or someone?" he demanded, "What did they see?"

"By Derketo's ivory teats, milord, I had hoped not to tell you of this.

I am shamed to say that the men simply grow fearful when left on guard alone after dark, so I added an extra man to each shift."

"What did the guards see or hear, Ath? Answer my question now or know great pain." The sorcerer's voice was taut with displeasure.

"Y-yes," stuttered the soldier, dropping his jug so that it sank into the pool. "I do not mean to displease you, milord. The first night Teh-Harpa thought that he heard something moving in the rocks and, when he went to investigate, thought he saw two shining eyes."

"An animal," declared Ethram-Fal.

"Just so," said Ath, bending to pick up his jug once again. "The second night Phandoros heard sounds of movement and thought that he heard a voice speaking."

"A voice?" The sorcerer came to his feet. "Who was there?"

Ath flinched, holding the water jug before his chest as if it were a talisman against his master's imperious gaze.

"No one, milord. Phandoros scoured the canyon mouth with a torch and found nothing. He was too ashamed to tell me of his fear. I only learned of the matter when I overheard the men discussing it among themselves. All agreed that Phandoros was mistaken and that it was an animal foraging in the dark. I added the second sentry so that these stories would not work upon the imagination of guards left all alone."

"Yes," said Ethram-Fal, sitting down once again. "That was wise, Ath."

The tall soldier breathed easier and went back to the safe business of filling water jugs. He labored without speaking for some time, but the silent scrutiny of his master grew onerous.

"Our supply of water was quite good, milord. Do you need all these extra jugs filled for some great magic?"

Ethram-Fal laughed condescendingly, smoothing his caftan over bony knees. "It is my intention not to return to this oasis for some time. I wish us to be well supplied with water."

Ath hoped that his master would elaborate, but the sorcerer said nothing more. At last the final jug was sealed and lashed into place upon the s.h.a.ggy back of an unhappy camel. Ath squatted beside the pool, sipping water from a cupped palm and catching his breath.

Ethram-Fal stood and stretched himself in the shade of the date palm.

Hitching the strap of his wineskin over a shoulder, he walked to the pool's edge and pointed into the shallows.

"Ath, use your dagger to dig a small hole in the sand there."

"Milord?" The soldier obediently, drew his dagger, but looked into the water quizzically.

"There," snapped Ethram-Fal impatiently, "beneath the surface before you."

Ath stepped into the pool, splashing diamond droplets in the sun as he hastened forward. Knee deep, he bent and used the blade of his dagger to carve a pit in the sandy mud of the pool's bottom.

"Deeper," commanded the sorcerer, peering over Ath's bent shoulder.

"Not wide, but deep." Swirling particles clouded the water as the soldier worked, obscuring his progress, but in a moment Ethram-Fal seemed satisfied.

"Good enough. Now out of the way." Ath stepped back and climbed out of the pool, thrusting his dagger into the sand to dry. He regarded his master with wary curiosity.

Ethram-Fal waded awkwardly out into the water, his oversize caftan floating out behind him. He stopped beside the hole Ath had dug and pulled something from a pocket. He held it out in an open palm, and Ath saw that it was a flattened, black ovoid with a thick seam running around its edge. It filled the sorcerer's hand and had the organic appearance of a monstrously overgrown seed. Ath had never seen anything like it before.

Ethram-Fal whispered words in a language dead thirty centuries, and the black seed twitched in his palm. Bending slowly and reverently, the sorcerer lowered his hand to the smooth surface of the pool and whispered once again. The words rasped together like dry bones. A tangled network of veins appeared on the glossy, sable surface of the seed. Ethram-Fal thrust it under the water, pushing it into the hole and using his hands to bury it. Then he drew back, lifted his dripping hands from the pool, and moved them in a slow, circular pattern over the planted seed. He whispered a final time, turning his hands over abruptly before him. Lurid crimson glyphs blazed brilliantly upon each palm for an instant and vanished.

The Stygian sorcerer slogged out of the pool with a twisted smile on his face. His captain stared with intent apprehension at the spot where Ethram-Fal had planted the seed, as if expecting something horrible beyond words to burst from the waters at any moment.

"Come then, Ath, let us be gone," said Ethram-Fal jovially. He pulled himself atop his squatting camel and clung to its saddle as it rose to its feet. Ath tore his eyes from the pool and mounted his own beast hurriedly, as his master looked on in apparent amus.e.m.e.nt.

The camels snorted in distaste as they were forced to file out of the only patch of greenery on the parched expanse of desert. They moved steadily, if reluctantly, up the sifting side of the huge dune that flanked the oasis. A hot wind tore sand from the dune's crest and hurled it into the faces of the two men leading the column of camels.

Ethram-Fal noticed that the sun had already dried his caftan, which had been dripping wet only a moment past. Once over the dune, Ath drew up short, cursing.

"Set's scales! I left my best dagger stuck in the sand back there." The soldier pulled on the reins of his mount and prepared to turn about to retrieve his weapon.

"No," said Ethram-Fal firmly. "You must do without it. The next visitor to that oasis is in for a terrible surprise."

Chapter Twenty.

Pesouris the ferryman lounged in a well-padded chair set out upon his dock. At the end of a long day's toil he often found it pleasant to relax here for a time before repairing to his house and the diligent attentions of his concubines. At times like this, when the sun had just dipped below the earth's rim and the breeze came cool and bracing down the twilit Styx, he felt it only proper that he should reflect upon his good fortune and perhaps offer up a discreet prayer of thanks to Father Set. It was the servants of the serpent G.o.d, after all, who had made his present prosperity possible. If he had not been granted a ferryman's seal by the Stygian authorities of Bel-Phar, he would still be competing for his livelihood with all manner of motley would-be ferrymen. Now that he alone was authorized to transport travelers across the Styx to Bel-Phar, his wealth and status had exceeded his fondest wishes. A fortnight ago he would have been unable even to rent this dock, and today it belonged to him. Paying even a single full-time concubine would have been beyond his meager means.

Pesouris heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction, his burgeoning paunch straining at his silken girdle. He locked stubby fingers together behind his thick neck and leaned back in the chair. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He wondered which of the two he should select tonight. An idea burst upon him, causing his thickly thatched eyebrows to raise abruptly. Couldn't they be made to compete for his affections?

Of course they could. Why hadn't he thought of this before?

The sudden stream of fantasies unleashed by this new inspiration was cut short by the nearly inaudible scuff of a boot sole on the dock behind him. The interruption displeased Pesouris, who twisted about in his padded chair to face the intruder.

Night and the shadows of two tall palms conspired to make the base of the dock a thick ma.s.s of impenetrable shadow. There was someone there, though; Pesouris could just make him out.

"Ahptut? Is that you?" The ferryman called the name of his hired servant and was dismayed at the weak sound of his voice. Bristling a little, he sat up and stared into the darkness.

"You! Who's there!"

The figure of a tall man was barely visible, standing motionless on the dock. A chill fluid seemed to course down the ferryman's back. He fumbled at his waist for the curved dirk on his belt, his mind awhirl with panicked surmise. Was it that drunken fool Temoten come to claim vengeance? Or a thief out to rob him of his hard-won riches?

Pesouris was still groping for his dagger when the man on the dock took two steps forward, emerging from the shadow of the palms into the pale starlight. He was a big man, standing tall and stiffly straight in a loose caftan that rippled gently in the night breeze. He said nothing, but his presence less than ten feet from the ferryman was mutely threatening. Pesouris finally got his hand on his hilt but did not draw the weapon. He looked into the blackness within the caftan's hood.