Conan The Defender Part 5

"That curse," Hordo continued conversationally. "Gethenius took ill a fortnight after the planting, and as soon as he took to his bed the rains stopped. It rained in Ophir. It rained in Aquilonia. But not in Nemedia. The sicker Gethenius got and the closer Garian came to the throne, the worse the drought grew. The day he took the throne the fields were dry as powdered bone. And they gave about as much harvest.

Tell me that's not proof of a curse."

They reached the alley; Conan side-stepped into its shadows, motioning Hordo to go on. The burly one-eyed man shambled on into the dark ahead, his words fading slowly.

"With the crops gone, Garian bought grain in Aquilonia, and raised tariffs to pay for it. Fool brigands on the border starting burning the grain wagons, so he raises tariffs again to hire more guards for the wagons, and to buy more grain, which the fools on the border still burn. High tariffs make for good smuggling, but I'd just as soon he...."

Conan waited, listening. Briefly he considered unwrapping the madman's blade, but he could still feel the taint to it, even through the cloak.

He propped it behind him against the wall. The following footsteps came closer, hurrying, yet hesitant. But one set, he was sure now.

A slight, cloak-shrouded shape moved into the alley crossing, pausing in the dark, all its attention on Hordo's faintly receding footsteps.

Conan took a quick step forward, left hand coming down on the figure's shoulder. Spinning the shape, he slammed it against the wall. Breath whooshed out of his opponent. Blade across the figure's throat, he dragged it down to the alley to a pool of light. His mouth fell open as he saw the other's face. It was the girl who had seemed so out of place at the Gored Ox.

There was fear in her large, hazel eyes, but when she spoke her voice was under control. "Do you intend killing me? I don't suppose killing a woman would be beyond you, since you abandon them with such ease."

"What are you talking about?" he rasped. "Are you working with footpads, girl?" He found it hard to believe she could be, but he had seen stranger things.

"Of course not," she replied. "I'm a poet. My name is Ariane. If you don't intend to cut my throat, could you take that sword away? Do you know what they were doing when I left? Do you have any idea?"

"Crom!" he muttered in confusion at her sudden torrent. Still, he lowered his blade.

She swallowed ostentatiously, and fixed him with a level gaze. "They were casting dice for who would have the first... turn with her. Every man there intended to take one. And in the meanwhile they were pa.s.sing her about, beating her b.u.t.tocks till they looked like ripe plums."

"The blonde thief," he exclaimed. "You're talking about the blonde thief. Do you mean to say-you followed me into h.e.l.lgate just to tell me that?"

"I didn't know you were coming into h.e.l.lgate," she said angrily. "I do things on impulse. But what business is it of yours where I go? I'm not a slave. Certainly not yours. That poor girl. After you let her go I thought you had some sympathy for her, thought you might be different from the rest despite your rather violent appearance, but-"

"You knew she was a thief?" he broke in.

Her face turned defensive. "She has to live, too. I don't suppose you know about the things that drive people to become thieves, about being poor and hungry. Not you with your great sword, and your muscles, and-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, and immediately dropped his voice, taking a quick look up and down the alley. It was well not to attract attention in a place like h.e.l.lgate. When he looked back at her she was staring at him, open-mouthed. "I know about being poor," he said quietly, "about being hungry, and about being a thief. I was all of them before I was old enough to shave my face."

"I'm sorry," she said slowly, and he had the irritating feeling that it was as much for his youthful hunger as for what she had said.

"As for the girl. She threw away the chance I gave her. I told her her luck was gone, and it was, if I caught her, and you saw her."

"Maybe I should have spoken to her when I saw her," Ariane sighed.

Conan shook his head. "What kind of woman are you? A poet, you say. You sit in a tavern on the Street of Regrets, worrying about thieves. You dress like a shopkeeper's virgin daughter, and speak with the accents of a n.o.blewoman. You chase me into h.e.l.lgate to upbraid me." He laughed, deep in his chest. "When Hordo returns we'll escort you back to the Street of Regrets, and may Mitra save the doxies and cut purses from you."

A dangerous light kindled in her eyes. "I am a poet, and a good one.

And what's wrong with the way I dress? I suppose you'd rather I wore a few skimpy strips of silk and wriggled like-"

He clamped a hand over her mouth, not breathing while he listened. Her eyes were large and liquid on his face. It came again, that sound that had p.r.i.c.ked his ear. The rasp of steel sliding from a sheath.

Shoving the girl further up the narrow confines of the dark alley, Conan spun just as the first man rushed him. The Cimmerian's blade slashed out his throat even while his sword was going up.

The first of the three following on his heels stumbled against the collapsing body, then shrieked as Conan's steel sought the juncture of shoulder and neck. From behind the men came a scream that ended in a gurgle, and a cry of "The Red Hawk!" told the Cimmerian youth that Hordo had joined the fray. The man facing Conan dropped into a guard position, nervously eyeing to see the combat behind him without taking his eyes from the ma.s.sive youth.

Suddenly Conan shouted, shifting his shoulders as if he intended an overhand blow. His opponent's sword flashed up to block. Conan's lunge brought them face to face, the Cimmerian's blade projecting a foot through the other's back. He stared into the dying man's eyes, even in the darkness able to see the despair that came with the realization of death. Then only death was there. He tugged his blade free and wiped it on the dead man's cloak.

"Are you hurt, Conan?" Hordo called, stumbling past the bodies in the narrow alley.

"Just wiping my-" A foul odor filled Conan's nostrils. "Crom! What is that?"

"I slipped in something," Hordo replied sourly. "That's why I was so long getting back. Who's the wench?"

"I'm not a wench," Ariane said.

"Her name's Ariane," Conan said. He raised his eyebrows as he watched her slide a very efficient-looking little dagger inside her dress. "You didn't draw that against me, girl."

"I had it," she replied. "Perhaps I didn't think to need it with you.

Are these friends of yours?"

"Footpads," he snorted.

Hordo straightened from examining one of the corpses. "Mayhap you ought to take a look, Conan. They're dressed well for h.e.l.lgate."

"Some of h.e.l.lgate's better citizens." The Cimmerian's nose wrinkled.

"Hordo, as soon as we return Ariane to the Street of Regrets, you're going to find a bathhouse. That is, if you intend to keep drinking with me."

Hordo muttered something under his breath.

"If it doesn't have to be a bathhouse," Ariane began, then stopped, chewing her full lower lip in indecision. Finally, she nodded. "It will be all right," she said to herself. "There's an inn called the Sign of Thestis, just off the Street of Regrets. It has baths. You can come as my guests, for the night at least."

"Thestis!" Hordo crowed. "Whoever heard of an inn called after the G.o.ddess of music and such?"

"I have," Ariane said with some asperity. "If you are invited, the bed, food and wine are free, though you're expected to contribute if you can. You'll understand when you see it. Well? Do you come, or do you stink until you can pay two silver pieces to a bathhouse?"

"Why?" Conan asked. "You sounded not so friendly a minute or two gone."

"You interest me," Ariane said simply.

Hordo snickered, and Conan suddenly wished the one-eyed man smelled just a little better, so he could get close enough to thump him.

Hastily the Cimmerian gathered up the ancient sword in the cloak.

"Let's get out of here," he said, "before we attract more vermin."

Hurriedly they picked their way back out of h.e.l.lgate.

Chapter IV.

Alba.n.u.s angrily jerked the cord of his gold-embroidered dressing robe tight about his waist as he stalked into the carpeted antechamber of his sleeping apartments. Golden lamps cast a soft light on the walls, where basrelief depicted scenes from the life of Bragoras, the ancient, half-legendary King of Nemedia from whom Alba.n.u.s claimed pure and unsullied descent through both his father and mother.

The hawk-faced lord had left orders to be called from his bed whenever the two men now awaiting him arrived. Neither Vegentius nor Demetrio appeared to have slept at all. The soldier's surcoat, worked with the Golden Leopard, was wrinkled and damp with sweat, while the eyes of the slender youth were haggard.