Conan The Valiant Part 10

"I will tell him all that the G.o.ds will permit me to say," Conan replied. "Now, is anything else lacking?"

"This food of the city folk is hardly food for men," the youngest man said. "But I do not suppose it will turn us into weaklings or women in a few days."

"It will not. And if you are needed for longer than that, I shall see that you have proper food. By what is known but may not be talked of, I swear it!"

The tribesmen made their gesture of respect as Conan turned and led a mystified Raihna out of the stable. In the courtyard between the stable and the inn, she turned to him with a bemused expression.

"Those were Hyrkanians, were they not?"

"Your eye improves each day, Raihna."

"They look as likely to steal our goods as to guard them."

"Not those, nor any of their tribe. We owe each other blood debts."

"The Hyrkanians honor those, or so I have heard."

"You have heard the truth."

Much to Conan's relief, Raihna did not seem disposed to pursue the matter further. His battle against the Cult of Doom in company with the tribesmen was not for the ears of anyone who might tell Mishrak.

Raihna strode across the courtyard and into the inn with her back even straighter than usual. As they climbed the stairs, Conan heard the jingle of her purse.

"How much have you left?" She told him. "I'd be happier with more, if we're going to buy horses for the mountains."

"Mishrak expects us to find them at the army outposts."

"Meaning he has his own men in the outposts? Likely enough. I'd still much rather have a second choice, one that won't take us close to the outposts. If Mishrak can put his men into them, why can't Houma do the same?"

"You see clearly, Conan."

"I'm still alive, Raihna. I've always thought being alive has it over being dead. If Mishrak will spend a little more of his gold, we may not have to spend our blood. Tell that to your mistress, since she seems to have his ear!"

They were at the door of her room. Mishrak's gold had bought them not only horses and gear, but separate rooms at one of Aghrapur's best inns. Of a certainty their enemies would hear of their presence, but could hope to do nothing. Between the watch and the inn's own guards, nothing could be attempted without a pitched battle.

Why attack a bear in his den, when you knew he would soon have to leave it?

"Sleep well, Raihna." She turned to unlock her door. As always, Conan's blood stirred at the swell of b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips, the long graceful lines of back and leg. Well, the inn did not ask a man to sleep alone-

Raihna gripped his hand and led him through the door. She kicked the door shut, and before he could speak had lifted her tunic over her head. The upper slopes of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were lightly freckled; their firm fullness seemed to cry out for a man's hand.

Conan's blood no longer stirred. It seethed, on the verge of boiling over.

"You wished me a sound sleep, Conan. Well, come here and let us both find it. Or must I disrobe you as well as myself? I warn you, if I must do that I may be too weary for bedsport-"

"Hah!" Conan said. His arms went around her, lifting her off her feet.

Desire thundered in him, and he felt the same in her. "If it's weary you want to be, Raihna, then I can give you the soundest sleep of your life!"

Five.

"ENTER IN MITRA'S name," Ivram said. Hinges long unoiled screamed as the priest opened the door for Bora. Bora followed Ivram inside. In the center of the chamber a hearth of bricks was at work on Ivram's dinner.

Pungent smoke tickled Bora's nostrils, as did the more appetizing odors of baking bread and bubbling stew. They reminded Bora that he had eaten not a bite since morning.

Around the hearth lay dyed fleeces and rugs of simple design but exquisite workmanship. More rugs hung on the wall above a richly-carved chest. The figure of Mitra on the lid had eyes of amber and coral.

From beyond the door to an inner chamber floated the soft murmur of a flute. The priest's "niece" Maryam was playing for the night's devotions and for whatever else might be expected of her during this night. Few in Crimson Springs could name her "niece" without smiling, at least when Ivram was elsewhere. Most suspected that she had learned the art of the flute in the taverns of Aghrapur.

"Sit, son of Rhafi," Ivram said. He clapped his hands and the flute was silent. "Maryam, we have a guest."

The woman who emerged from the inner room was barely half the priest's size or age. She bore a bra.s.s tray covered with a piece of embroidered linen. On the linen rested honeycakes and bits of smoked lamb. She knelt gracefully before Bora, contriving to let her robe fall away from her neck and throat. The neck was slender and the dark-rose throat firm and unlined. Bora knew other sensations than hunger.

"Wine?" Maryam asked. Her voice was rich and soothing. Bora wondered if this was another art of pleasing she had learned in taverns. If so, she had learned it well.

"Forgive me if I seem ungrateful for your hospitality," Bora said uneasily. "I need wise counsel more than anything else."

"My ears are open and my heart at your service," Ivram said. In another priest's mouth the ritual words might have rung hollow. In Ivram's, they could hardly be doubted. The villages around his shrine forgave him gluttony and a "niece" and would have forgiven him far more, because he listened. Sometimes he also gave wise counsel, but as often, the mere knowledge that he listened eased those who came to him.

"I know the secret of the mountain demons," Bora said. "Yet none will believe me. Some call me mad, some a liar. A few have sworn to have my blood if I do not cease to put them in fear.

"They say it is their women and children they do not wish frightened, but I have seen their faces. They think that if they do not know what the danger is, it will not come near them!"

"They are fools," Ivram said. He laughed, so that his jowls danced.

"They also do not care to have a boy be more of a man than they are."

"Do you believe me, ihen?"

"Something stalks these mountains, something reeking of uncleanness and evil magic. Any knowledge of that is more than we have had before." He took a honeycake between thumb and forefinger. It vanished in two bites.

Bora looked at the plate, to discover it half-empty already. "Maryam, I will be grateful for that wine."

"It is our pleasure," she replied. Her smile made Bora's head spin as though he had already emptied a cup.

Now that he had found someone of the hills ready to believe him, Bora could hardly credit his good fortune. Nor could he muster the courage to speak, without strengthening himself with drink.

Ivram scanted neither his guests nor himself in the matter of wine. By the time the second cup was half-empty, Bora had done more than tell his story. He had begun to wonder why he had ever been reluctant to tell it. Maryam was looking at him with wide, worshipful eyes. He had never dreamed of having such a woman look at him so.

"If you saw half what you describe, we are in more peril than I had dared imagine," Ivram said at last. "I almost understand those who did not care to hear you. Have you told anyone outside the village? This is not our secret, I think."

"I-well, there is one. Not quite outside the village, although he has gone to Aghrapur-" The wine now tangled Bora's tongue rather than freeing it. Also, he did not much care to talk of his sister Caraya's unmaidenly pa.s.sion for Yakoub.

"It is Yakoub the herdsman, is it not?" Ivram said gently. Bora nodded without raising his eyes, from the floor.

"You do not trust him?" Bora shook his head. "Who else do you know who would both listen to you and bear your tale to Aghrapur? Mughra Khan's soldiers have arrested your father. They will be slow to listen to you.

"The friends of Yakoub may not be in high places. Yet they will not be the men of Mughra Khan. Yakoub is your best hope."