Conan The Defender Part 14

Chapter IX.

By one gla.s.s past midday the Street of Regrets had begun its revelry, though slowly, yet building for the climax of night. A hundred jugglers tossed b.a.l.l.s, batons, rings, knives and flaming wands where a thousand soon would. A hundred strumpets, rouged, perfumed and bangled, lightly draped with brightly colored silks, postured where two thousand would strut at dark. Through them strolled scores of richly tunicked n.o.bles and merchants, each convoyed by his sword-bearing man or pair, vanguard for the mult.i.tudes to follow. Litters in dozens, borne by well-muscled slaves, bounded by armored guards, carried sleek, hotbreathed women seeking in advance of their sisters the vices offered by the desperate.

And among them all the beggars wheedled in their rags.

Conan, making his way down the street, indifferent to its sights and sounds, found himself laughing when at last he spied the Sign of the Full Moon. On a slab of wood hanging above the entrance was painted a naked woman, kneeling and bent, her back to the viewer, and her b.u.t.tocks glowing as if reflecting the sun. This spoke of the raucous delights that Hordo would choose.

Suddenly one of the litters caught his eye, scarlet curtained, its black poles and framing worked with gold. Of a certainty it was the litter he had seen his first day in Belverus, the litter of the veiled woman who had looked at him so strangely. The scarlet curtain twitched aside, and once again he was looking into the eyes of the woman veiled in gray. Over that distance he could discern not even so much as their color, yet those tilted eyes were familiar to him. Hauntingly so; if he could but bring back the memory.

He shook his head. Memory and imagination played tricks. A hundred women he had known and a thousand he had not could have eyes exactly alike. He turned to enter the Full Moon.

From behind, sweeping over the murmur of the street, came a sound, a woman's laugh, half sob. He spun, an icy chill running up his spine.

That laugh had seemed so familiar that he was almost sure if he opened his mouth a name would emerge to match it. But no woman was there, save the wh.o.r.es. The litter was swallowed up in the throng.

The Cimmerian eased sword and belt dagger in their sheaths, as if that easing would ease his mind. He was too much on edge for worry of Ariane, he told himself. It would do good to lose himself for a time with Hordo in drink and ogling of this fabulous dancer. He plunged into the Full Moon.

The common room of the Full Moon smelled of sour wine and stele perfume. The rough wooden tables were not more than a third filled at this hour, with men who hunched over their drinks, nursing their wine and their own dark fears together. Seven women danced to two shrill flutes and a zither, each carrying a strip of transparent red silk used now to cover the face, now to conceal bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. From thin gilded girdles worn low on rounded hips depended curved bra.s.s plates that covered the juncture of their thighs, each plate marked with the price for which she who wore it could be enjoyed in the rooms above.

Though all the dancers were nicely curved, Conan saw none he believed would have excited Hordo's imagination the way the message indicated.

Perhaps they had other dancers, he thought, who would appear later. As he took a table close to the narrow platform where the dancers writhed, a plump serving wench appeared at his elbow, a single twist of muslin about her hips.

"Wine," he said, and she darted away.

As he settled to enjoying the women on the stage he became aware of someone staring at him. Hesitantly the thin philosopher, Leucas, approached his table.

"I need... may I talk with you, Conan?"

The thin man looked about him nervously as he spoke, as though afraid of being overheard. The only other men not concentrating on their wine were three dark-skinned Kothians, their hair braided into metal rings and Karpashi daggers strapped to their forearms. They appeared to be arguing as to whether the dancers were worth the prices they bore.

Still, Leucas half fell onto the stool across from Conan, leaning across the table and pitching his voice in an urgent whisper as if he expected someone to stop him, violently, at any second.

"I had to talk to you, Conan. I followed. Your sword. When I saw it, I knew. You're the one. You are the kind of man who can do this sort of thing. I... I am not. I'm just not a man of action." Sweat poured down his narrow face, though the tavern was shadowed and cool. "You do understand, don't you?"

"Not a word," Conan said.

Leucas squeezed his eyes shut, muttering under his breath, and when he opened them he seemed to have gotten a grip on himself. "You agree that Garian must be removed, do you not?"

"That's what you're planning," Conan replied noncommittally.

"But. . ." Leucas' voice rose alarmingly; he pulled it down with visible effort. "But that has to be changed, now. We can wait no longer. What happened these few days past. The sun darkening. The ground trembling. The G.o.ds have turned their faces from Nemedia. That was a sign, a warning that we must remove Garian before they remove him, and with him all of Belverus."

Conan's own G.o.d, Crom, Dark Lord of the Mound, gave a man life and will and nothing more. Conan had seen little evidence that other G.o.ds did any more. As for the darkened sky and the trembling ground, it was his opinion that someone in Belverus worked at sorcery, despite Garian's prohibitions. He had no love of such, but for once he was not involved, and he intended to remain that way.

All he said was, "You think your plans should be advanced, then? But why speak to me of it?"

"No, you don't understand. Not those plans. Something different. More immediate." The thin man's face had a sheen now, from the sweat that covered it, and his voice shook, though he kept it low. "We are to be introduced into the palace, you see. With knives. Garian must die.

Immediately. But I cannot. I am not that sort of man. You are a man of violence. Take my place."

"I'm no a.s.sa.s.sin," Conan growled.

Leucas yelped, eyes darting frantically. "Keep your voice down," he almost sobbed. "You don't understand. You have to-"

"I understand what you ask," Conan said coldly. "Ask again and I'll give you my fist in your teeth." A sudden thought struck him: "Does Ariane know of this?"

"You must not tell her. You must not tell anyone. I should never have spoken to you." Abruptly Leucas stumbled to his feet. Backing away from the table, he made vague and futile gestures. "Consider it, Conan. Will you do that? Just consider it."

The Cimmerian made as if to rise, and with a yelp the philosopher scrambled away, almost diving into the street.

Conan's mouth twisted angrily. How dare the man consider him so, an a.s.sa.s.sin, a murderer? He had killed, surely, and likely would again, but because he had to, not because he had been paid to. But more important than his feelings was Ariane. Conan could see no way for a man like Leucas, smelling of fear-sweat, to enter the Royal Palace without being taken. And once given a whiff of hot irons and pincers, the philosopher would babble every name he knew back to his mother. The Cimmerian could escape if worse came to worst, but Ariane would be a fawn in a snare. Would Hordo appear, he decided, they would find Ariane, and he would warn her about Leucas.

Thinking of Hordo reminded him of his wine. Where could that serving girl be? Nowhere in sight, that was certain. In the entire tavern no one was moving except the dancers and the three Kothians, apparently ambling closer for a better inspection of the wares.

Conan started to rise to go in search of the girl, and as he did one of the Kothians suddenly shouted at him, "I told you she is my woman, barbar!"

With practiced moves the three crossed their wrists and drew their forearm daggers. The flutes ceased their play, and the dancers ran screaming as the Kothians plunged at the muscular Cimmerian, a blade in each fist.

One-handed, Conan heaved his table over to crash before them. "Fools,"

he shouted as he sprang to his feet, "you have the wrong man."

Two of the Kothians danced aside, but one fell, rolling to his knees before Conan, daggers stabbing. Conan sucked in his belly, and the blades skittered off his jazeraint hauberk, one to either side. Before the attacker could move, Conan's knee had smashed into his bony chin, splintering teeth in a spray of blood. Even as the man's blades fell from nerveless hands, and he followed them unconscious to the filthy floor, Conan's own steel was in his grasp, broadsword and belt dagger held low at the ready.

"You have the wrong man," he said again. The remaining two split, gliding in the feline crouch of experienced knife fighters. Noise picked up at the tables as men took wagers on the outcome. "I've never seen you before, nor your woman."

The two men continued to move, flanking the Cimmerian, blades held low for the thrust that would slip under the overlapping metal plates of hit hauberk.

"You are he," one said, and when Conan's eyes flickered to him, the other attacked.

The Cimmerian had been expecting it, though. Even as his eyes shifted, so had his sword slashed. The attacking Kothian screamed, a fountain of blood where his right hand had been. Desperately clutching the stump of his wrist, the man staggered back, sinking to the floor with the front of his tunic staining deeper red with every spurt.

Conan spun back to face the third man, but that one was of no mind to continue the business. Dismay writ large on his dark face, he stared at his two fellows on the floor, one senseless and one bleeding to death.

The big Cimmerian pointed at him with his sword. "Now. You will tell me-"

Suddenly the door of the tavern was filled with City Guardsmen, a dozen of them, crowding through with swords in hand. The first one pointed at Conan. "There he is!" he shouted. In a ma.s.s the Guardsmen surged forward, plowing through onlookers and toppling tables in their haste.

"Crom!" Conan muttered. They looked to have no mind for asking who had begun the fighting, or why. Springing onto the narrow stage, he dashed for the door the dancers had used. It was latched.

"Take him!" a Guardsman howled. "Cut him down!" Bursting through the tavern's patrons-most of whom would gladly have gotten out of the way had they been given a chance-the Guardsmen rushed for the stage.

Conan took a quick step back and hurled himself against the rough wooden door, smashing through in a shower of splinters. Dancers, shrieking now again, huddled in the narrow pa.s.sage, at the end of which he saw a doorway letting onto the outside. Hurriedly he forced his way through the scantily clad dancers. At the doorway he paused, then turned, waving his sword overhead, and roared, making the most horrible face he could. Screaming with renewed energy, the dancers stampeded back onto the stage. Shouts of consternation rose as the Guardsmen found themselves caught in a deluge of hysterical female flesh.

That should hold them, Conan thought. Sheathing his steel he hurried out into an alley behind the tavern. Little wider than his shoulders and twisting like a snake, it smelled of old vomit and human excrement.

He chose a direction and started off through the buzzing flies.

Before he reached the first turning, a shout rose behind him. "There he goes!"

A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the Guardsmen were pouring into the alley. The G.o.ds must have tainted his luck, he thought, to send him the only Guardsmen in Belverus with a mind for duty. Perhaps they did not like women. Shouting and slipping in the filth, the black-cloaked squad rushed after him.

Conan set out at a run, keeping his balance as best he could, half falling against the walls at every twisting of the alley, his ma.s.sive shoulders knocking more stucco from the flaking, mildewed buildings.