I

The Small Man

The cup of hardened leather slammed down upon a table stained with spilled wine and scarred with the nicks and gouges of a hundred bar-room brawls. The hand that gripped the cup was equally scarred, the thick wrist banded with a broad bracelet of coral-studded bronze, as much a defence as an ornament. The hand snatched up the cup to reveal four dice, each showing a different face: the serpent, the dog, the skull, and the dagger.

'The beggar!' crowed a voice, naming the lowest score in dicing. 'You lose, Cimmerian!'

'Set!' cursed the unfortunate gambler. He addressed the ivory cubes. 'All the gods curse you and the beast from whose teeth you were carved!'

The winner, a sharp-faced man whose red hair was cropped close to his scalp, scooped up his winnings: a pile of silver coins, amid which the torchlight winked from a few thin golden coins of Nemedia. More luridly gleamed the many golden chains depending from his neck and the jewels that flashed upon his fingers, the trophies of a long winning streak.

'That cleans me out,' the loser said, staring glumly into the interior of the dice cup. Its ridged surface ensured that the dice would tumble correctly. He saw no signs that it had been tampered with. And he knew that the dice were honest. They were as honest as dice could be, at any rate. The man who sat across from him was hard, but he knew better than to cheat Conan the Cimmerian, who had somehow lately been deserted by fortune.

The Cimmerian set the cup on the table and leaned back against the carved wooden pillar behind him. He brooded upon the many vicissitudes of fortune. He and his companions had hired on for a minor campaign when a border satrap rebelled against the king of Nemedia. They had been in the storming party when the border lord's citadel had been taken, and came through the fight with few losses and rich loot.

With purses bulging, they had come here, to Belverus, and settled down at The Sword and Sceptre to drink, carouse and gamble for their takings. One by one, as they lost their loot, the others had left to seek employment for their swords. It had come down to Conan and the red-haired man, whose name was Ingolf. Now Ingolf was the final winner.

'You've still your sword,' Ingolf pointed out. 'Do you want to wager it on another roll of the dice?'

Conan touched the weapon that leaned in its leather sheath against the pillar. It was a long, straight-bladed brand, with hilt and pommel of plain steel, its hand-grip of unornamented bone. It was severely plain, the way Conan liked all his weapons.

'Nay, for with this I will win yet more gold.'

Ingolf shrugged. 'As you will. Let me stand you to a final mug of ale before you go forth to seek your fortune.' It was a traditional gambler's courtesy, and Conan nodded assent.

The serving wench who brought the ale had shown Conan much favour in the past few days, but now that he was clean of cash, she had not so much as a smile for him. Ingolf she treated as if he were her long-lost lover, suddenly returned from the wars.

Like the dice cup, the ale mug was made of leather, and it smelled faintly of the pitch with which its interior was water-proofed. Leaning against the pillar, the Cimmerian hooked a thumb into his broad, nail-studded belt as he raised the jack and drank. His sleeveless vest revealed strongly muscled arms and a neck corded like a great ship's anchor cable. His baggy knee-breeches and fur-topped boots showed long service and now, along with the sword, were his only possessions. Days before, he had gambled away horse and saddle, bow and arrows, lance, shield, even his dagger. It was nothing. He enjoyed the profligate life, and he would always find a means of livelihood with his warrior skills. As long as he had those, everything else was replaceable.

He set down the half-empty cup and studied his surroundings, as if seeking inspiration by which to restore his fortunes. The prospect was not promising. The hour was late and the cookfires had burned to embers. The few remaining patrons of The Sword and Sceptre drank or gambled with little fervour Most of the paid-off veterans of the recent campaign had been picked clean days before. At one table sat a lone man whose trousers, jacket and head scarf were made of silk and dyed a strange shade of violet. He seemed to be watching Conan intently, but the Cimmerian ignored him. He wanted nothing to do with any man who would wear clothes of such a colour

It was a typical soldiers' den, decorated with obsolete weapons and painted wooden busts of famous Nemedian generals from past centuries. Many of these busts showed signs of having served as targets for dagger-throwing contests. The serving women were at least as attractive as the wooden generals. Conan finished his ale and rose. He hooked the sword's hanger to the rings on his belt.

'Farewell, Ingolf. Perhaps we'll meet again and I will be as lucky in gaming as in war, for a change.'

The red-haired man nodded. 'Wars are many and good warriors few. We'll meet again.' The two gripped wrists. Left unspoken was the likelihood that, next time, they might be on opposite sides. That meant nothing to professionals.

The Cimmerian made his way between the tables and went up the steps to street level. As he always did when going from the illuminated indoors to the night-gloomed outdoors, he stepped to one side of the doorway and waited with his back against a wall while his eyes adjusted to the change. Most men needed minutes for their eyes to adjust, Conan only seconds. But he knew full well that a man could die in seconds and that often that sort of thing happened to men who walked forth blind. There was no sound on the street save the creaking of the pot-house sign overhead. In the distance, he could see a light. It was one of the city torches. These were planted at every corner and were supposed to be tended by the night watch. In practice, it was remarkable for one in four to be burning after midnight.

He tensed slightly as another patron emerged from the tavern. The man stood beneath the sign and stared down the street, first one way and then the other, as if he were looking for someone. He stepped into the street, stumbling slightly, then scanning in both directions once more. He vented a frustrated sigh and walked off toward the torch. Quietly, Conan fell in behind him. The man hurried, taking mincing steps on slippered feet. He stopped by the torch and peered down the side streets, then released another sigh. Conan's sword hissed from its sheath.

'Were you looking for me?'

The man whirled and his eyes bugged as he saw the blade levelled at his throat. As Conan had suspected, it was the fellow in the violet-silk garments.

'Peace, peace!' the man said hurriedly, his palms outward. 'Indeed I came seeking you, but only to talk, not to rob!' His voice was quiet and breathy. Conan laughed at the thought of this effeminate little man, who stood no higher than his chest, trying to rob him,.

'In that case, I have been spared a terrible fate.' Then his voice lost its humour and he snapped: 'Now, what do you want?'

'I could not help overhearing your conversation with that so fortunate mercenary back inside. Am I correct in understanding that you are a fighting man and that you are presently without either employment or funds?''

'Right on all counts,' Conan said. 'But I've never been destitute enough to come to the likes of you for assistance.'

The long-lashed eyes lowered and the man seemed to flush. 'You misapprehend. I wish to hire you for a mission. It is a mission for a warrior of strength, skill, and courage. Are you not such a man?'

'I am,' Conan agreed. He sheathed his sword smoothly, without looking down at his sheath. 'Why did you not come to me back there?' He jerked his black-haired head toward The Sword and Sceptre

'This is a matter requiring great discretion, great confidentiality. I could not speak where others might overhear.' He came close and looked up at Conan. The Cimmerian immediately regretted that they were no longer separated by the sword's length; the man wore scent. Conan's revulsion was washed away by the man's next words: 'I am willing to pay most handsomely for this service.'

'Speak on,' Conan growled. He had served stranger men than this one in his time. Gold was always the same, no matter whose hand bestowed it.

'Not here. Even here, there might be listeners. Besides,' he hugged himself and shivered, 'the night grows cold.'

Conan, who was far more lightly dressed, ignored the chill breeze. 'I am comfortable enough. Well, if you must, I have a room not far from here. Come along.'

Without looking back, the Cimmerian strode from the circle of torchlight. Surprised by the abrupt departure, the little man stood for a second before scurrying after him. Then a cloaked form detached itself from the shadow of a doorway and followed the two of them on silent feet.

Conan turned down a short alley and his ears told him that the small man was still behind him. He stopped at a torch that burned in a sconce next to a door. Just beyond, wider doors identified the establishment as a stable. From within could be heard the quiet shufflings and snorting of horses.

From a box nailed just within the smaller doorway Conan took a candle and lit it from the torch. 'Come on,' he said, stepping inside. He ascended a flight of creaking steps and entered a tiny, cramped room. The candlelight revealed its sparse furnishings: a bed, a chair, and a small table.

The little man entered and wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'This is a vile-smelling place.' From a sleeve he took a kerchief and held it over his nose and mouth.

'Any stable smells better than that scent you've bathed in,' Conan said. He unlatched the shutters of the room's sole window and threw them open. 'There. All the fresh air you can breathe.' He unhooked the sword's hanger from his belt and sat on the bed with the weapon across his knees. 'Now, let's hear your story.'

The other man sat on the spindly chair, first brushing the seat with his kerchief. 'Very well. My name is Piris. I come from Shadizar, in Zamora. I am in search of a... a certain object that was stolen from me.'

'What sort of object?' Conan asked.

'All in good time, my friend. I have looked long for this object, and there are others who would like to find it. The original thieves are dead, and it has been through more than one set of hands since they died.'

'And you think it is here, in Belverus?'

'It was, but it is no longer. I have strong reason to suspect that it is now on its way to Sicas, in Aquilonia, if it is not there already.'

'I've never heard of the place,' Conan said.

'It is not a great city, but it is said to be a wicked one. It lies a few miles off the king's high road between Tarantia and Shamar, at the confluence of two rivers, the Ossar and the Fury. Its wealth comes mainly from its nearby silver mines, and this wealth has attracted persons of a rough sort. The royal officials there are, it is said, of an understanding and forgiving nature.'

'Bribe-takers, eh?' Conan knew the breed.

'I would not wish to judge harshly on the strength of mere hearsay,' Piris protested. 'However, that does seem to be the impression. You can understand that I would not wish to search

for my property in such a place, among rapacious and violent men, without the aid of one who is both strong and skilled in the combative arts.'

'That is reasonable,' Conan agreed. 'Now, just what is this thing you are looking for?'

Piris hesitated. 'Ah, my friend—Conan, is it? Yes, Conan, this is something I am reluctant to—'

'Set take it, man, can you not speak plainly?' Conan all but barked.

'You see, I will wish you to go ahead of me to Sicas and learn something of the place. I will follow in a day or two. I have some inquiries to make here. In Sicas, I will tell you all you need to know.''

'I do not like this secrecy. I've a mind to toss you down the steps. No, perhaps out the window would be better.' He gazed at the window as if measuring it for the throw.

'I am willing to pay one thousand golden dishas for this task, the sum payable in full upon the recovery of my property.'

Conan was mollified instantly. 'I'll need something on account. I'll have to outfit myself for the journey.'

Piris smiled, revealing small, perfect, white teeth. 'Of course.' He took a fat purse from within his jacket and extended it. 'You will take, say, one hundred dishas for your travelling expenses?'

Conan dumped the purse on the table. The coins that spilled out bore the likeness of the king of Koth, and each was worth ten dishas. He quickly separated twenty of them, scooping the rest back into the purse and tossing the bag to Piris, who caught it adroitly.

'I will take, say, two hundred dishas for my travelling expenses. How will you find me in Sicas?'

Piris hefted the bag, which was now far lighter than it had been. Sighing sadly, he returned it to his jacket. 'Very well. Somehow, I do not think that you will be difficult to find, even in a city of scoundrels. Just take lodging in an inn near the main gate of the town. I will find you.'

'Then I think that concludes our business,' Conan said.

'Until we meet again, in Sicas.' Piris bowed, touching spread fingertips to his violet-sheathed breast. He left behind a dissipating cloud of flowery scent.

Conan shut the door and barred it. Fortune had turned again. Almost he was tempted to go back to The Sword and Sceptre to re-enter the game with a new stake, but he shook off the temptation. His gaming luck had deserted him in Belverus and it would not come back. He crossed to the window to draw in some unscented air. He did not see Piris in the alley, but for a moment he thought he saw a shadowy form moving amid deeper shadows. He stared, but his keen eyes descried no more movement. Deciding that fatigue and drink had made him see that which was not there, he closed and bolted the shutters. Blowing out the candle, he lay back on the narrow, hard bed and wondered why he had never heard of Sicas. He thought that he had heard of every city with a reputation for wickedness. Well, doubtless he would find out all about it when he got there. It sounded like his sort of city.

The next day Conan betook himself to the markets of Belverus to outfit himself for the journey. First he went to the armourers' quarter to furnish himself with suitable weaponry. In a cutler's stall he found a dagger to replace the one he had lost gaming. He chose a wooden-hafted weapon with a foot-long blade three fingers wide at the hilt, its thick spine and razor edge tapering to a slender point.

He wandered among the shops and stalls, admiring the long, slender lances and the powerful bows, but then, reluctantly, leaving them behind. He was headed for a city, not for a battlefield. Likewise he bypassed the shops of the shield-makers. Beneath a great awning erected in a small square, he found a bazaar selling soldiers' armour. This was a place where mercenaries between hires sold off their unneeded arms and to which they repaired when they needed to rearm at a reasonable price.

He tried on a knee-length hauberk of blackened mail, but rejected it as too heavy. The merchant tried to sell him the full-plate harness of an Aquilonian man-at-arms, but the panoply of a heavy cavalryman would be of no use to him in the dangerous alleyways of a city. On a table of light cuirasses he found just what he needed.

It was a brigantine that fit him perfectly. It was made of stout leather backed with thick canvas. Between leather and canvas were sandwiched hundreds of small, overlapping plates, fastened to the leather by rivets. The rivet heads showed on the outside and were gilded, making a brilliant show against the glossy black of the leather. It made an excellent defence, lighter than mail and almost as flexible. Had he been going to war, Conan might have worn it as a reinforcement over a hauberk. By itself, it was just what was called for when dealing with the daggers and swords common to dangerous cities. Best of all, it was a far more handsome garment than a shirt of mail. The brigantine was tailored to fit tightly at chest and waist, and its martial appearance announced that the wearer was not a man to be trifled with.

He examined a display of helmets, hoping to find suitable headgear. There were visored helms of Aquilonia and Poitain, spired casques from Turan, crested Nemedian helmets, even a horned helm from faraway Asgard. Conan chose a close-fitting steel cap lined with velvet. It was unpadded save for the cloth, and thus was smaller and lighter than the battle helms. It would turn a sword and save his crown from a wooden cudgel, although the lack of padding would mean a ringing headache the next day.

Satisfied that he was properly armed, he went to the clothiers' quarter for some new garments. The year was waning, the days were shortening, and the coming winter rode upon the north wind. Conan was inured to stern weather, but there was no point in suffering. He bought winter clothes and padded boots and fleece-lined gloves. He found a cloak of fine Shemitish wool that would serve as both garment and blanket on the journey. It was a broad, semicircular mantle, dyed red with madder.

Thus newly attired, he went to the horse market. Here he found every sort of horseflesh, from humble plodders suitable for the plough to fiery destriers so fierce that only experienced trainers could display them, working in pairs. There were hunters and race horses, and palfreys for noble ladies.

He mounted and tried out a dozen, settling on a bay gelding that was sound of wind and limb and capable of good speed when asked. It was well-trained and responsive, and Conan had to bargain for much of the morning to obtain a reasonable price. He took the beast to a blacksmith's to have it re-shod and watched the process carefully to make sure that it was done properly. The best horse in the world could be ruined by a botched shoeing, and a lame horse was of less use than a dog when a swift flight was called for.

Satisfied that the horseshoes would stay on for a long journey, he led the animal to the saddlers' district and found there a Brythunian saddle that was satisfactory both to him and to the horse. The saddler threw in a set of worn saddlebags and a bridle when they had struck a bargain.

For the rest, Conan bought such items as were always useful on a journey: flint and steel for fire-making, ropes and picket pins, and a waterskin. He put these items in his saddlebags and went in search of a mapmaker.

The shop he sought was in a district catering to scholars and the practitioners of arcane arts. Sellers of books abounded, and a sound of steady scraping came from the shops of parchment makers. Many sorts of scribes plied their skills here, from the humble letter-writers, who sat at folding tables and indited missives for the illiterate, to copyists, who busily scribbled away copying manuscripts, to calligraphers, who grandly crafted official documents and certificates in the ornate styles of the powerful or the wealthy. There were illuminators who could spend days painting and decorating a single letter.

Conan was more accustomed to the quarters frequented by adventurers like himself, and he felt a certain interest in the place. He saw a shop selling the paraphernalia of the wizard's trade and stopped to gaze in its front window. What appeared to be a tiny demon capered among the wands, rune-engraved swords, celestially spangled robes, and crystal spheres. The creature had a body shaped like an egg set atop spindly bird's legs. The larger end of the egg had a fanged mouth above which were three red eyes on short stems. Its nether end was armed with a long barb. Conan noticed that as the thing jumped about, from time to time it would wink out of existence; at other times it became transparent. It was just a clever illusion.

By asking at various shops, he was directed to a small cul-de-sac at the end of which, wedged between an ink-maker's shop and a parchment seller's, he found the mapmaker he needed. The establishment's only sign was a pair of gilded dividers fastened to the wall above the low door. Ducking his head to clear the lintel, Conan went inside.

The interior was not as dim as he had anticipated. Light came in through a front window, and a good deal more was admitted by a skylight overhead. The place was scrupulously clean and it was full of maps, but there was no sense of clutter. The maps and charts were rolled neatly in leather tubes, all of them carefully racked, the racks bearing labels. At the rear of the shop was a low dais at which an elderly man sat, working meticulously at a tilted drawing table. He looked up as the Cimmerian entered.

'How may I serve you, sir?'

Conan walked back to the dais, glancing at the large display maps decorating the walls. 'I need to find a certain place, a city named Sicas, in Aquilonia. I must fare thither and I wish to set out as soon as possible.'

'Sicas,' said the old man. 'Let me see. I know the name, although it is scarcely a legendary metropolis.' He rose from his chair and crossed to a rack from whence he selected a map tube. He extracted the rolled parchment and carried it to a flat table, where he spread it out and weighted its corners. While he did this, Conan examined some of the maps on the walls. These were of great antiquity, depicting nations that no longer existed. The mapmaker noticed him studying a particularly age-darkened specimen. The lettering was none Conan knew, and the outlines of the coasts were equally mysterious.

'Is this some land across the western sea?' he asked.

'No, but it might as well be, for its remoteness,' the old man said. 'In truth, the continent you see depicted there is the same as that upon which you now stand, but so long ago that the very oceans have changed their shape in the time since. I believe that to be one of the oldest maps in existence, and it is itself a copy of a far, far more ancient map. The written language is one no longer spoken, but I believe this to be a depiction of the western world as it was when the nations of Valusia and Commoria were supreme and the lands of the Picts were a string of islands in the western sea.'

'Valusia and Commoria,' Conan mused. 'These are names from legend. The Picts I know, though. I learned to fight them from my earliest youth. Even the Vanir did not plague us as did the Picts.''

'You are a man of Cimmeria, then?' queried the mapmaker. 'I thought so, from your aspect. I have seen fewer than a half-score of your countrymen in my life.'

'My countrymen like to stay close to home,' Conan said, 'but I was ever a wanderer.'

'Come see this.' Conan joined the shopkeeper at the table. With a spidery hand, the old man indicated the map before him. 'This is a map of south-eastern Aquilonia. Can you read the Ne-median letters?'

Conan nodded. 'Fairly well, although the skill is new to me. These names are simple enough to make out.' He pointed to a serpentine blue line at a spot where a tiny, stylized fort was drawn. 'This is the Tybor River, and this is the crossing at Shamar.'

'Exactly. And there,' the mapmaker pointed to a tiny dot midway between Tarantia and Shamar, 'is Sicas. From here, there are two easy routes to Sicas. The southern road will take you into north-western Ophir; then it swings north and crosses the Tybor at Shamar. From there, you could take the royal high road toward Tarantia. About halfway to Tarantia, a road branches southwest-ward, and Sicas lies only a few miles beyond. However, there is civil war in Ophir just now and the border crossings are heavily guarded.' His neatly manicured forefinger traced another route.

'You would be best advised to take the northerly route. The high road between Belverus and Tarantia is a good one, with many towns, villages, and wayside inns along the way. It intersects the Aquilonian high road just south of Tarantia, and from there you may proceed southward to Sicas.'

'That is how I will go, then,' Conan announced.

'Shall I make you a sketch-map? It will require only a few minutes. I will list the principal towns along the route, and the distances between them.'

'Do so,' Conan said. The old man opened a drawer and took from it a thin sheet. This was not the fine parchment he used for the detailed maps, parchment that, well cared for, could last for centuries. Rather, it was common paper, and upon it he began to sketch lines and letters with great skill, dipping his quill in ink made from lampblack.

'Know you aught of this place, Sicas?' Conan inquired.

'It is obscure, so there cannot be much to know,' said the mapmaker, 'but I will see what I can find.' He rinsed his quill in a beaker of water and placed it in a rack, then took up a canister made of horn and silver from which he shook a fine powder over the new sketch-map to aid in drying the ink.

'Now, let us see what is to be found.' He went to a tall case full of books and scrolls, some of them looking as ancient as the maps upon the walls. He selected a heavy tome and took it down. This book had a binding of brightly dyed Ophirean leather and appeared to be relatively new. The old man put it on the table and began to leaf through it.

'This is the most recent Annal of the Kingdom of Aquilonia,' he announced. 'Each king of that nation has one annal compiled in the early years of his reign. If he enjoys a long reign, he may have subsequent editions compiled. Although they are primarily used for purposes of taxation, they are invaluable to the cartographer as well. This one is but ten years old.'

Conan was intrigued. 'So this is how a king keeps track of who owes him what, eh?'

'That is the annal's purpose. It also records population, local

products, and livestock and, especially, which feudal lord has the right to what piece of land. This is always a subject of bickering and dispute.'

'That I know full well.' Conan had been involved in a great many such disputes.

'Here we are: Sicas. First its location is described. It lies at the confluence of two rivers, the Fury and the Ossar. From there the Ossar flows on to join the Khoratas a hundred leagues to the south-west.

'Sicas's population is about ten thousand. In the nearby countryside, the usual domestic livestock are raised: cattle, sheep, swine, and so on. Most of the land is cultivated, and there is river fishing. The major source of wealth, however, is from a great silver mine that lies near the city, just across the Ossar. When discovered three centuries ago, these silver deposits were vast, and for a while, Sicas was widely famed as the City of Silver. After a few decades, these early deposits played out, and ever since then, the ore has yielded a more modest but still quite respectable poundage of silver annually.

'This may be of some interest: As a source of precious metal, Sicas does not fall within any feudal fief, but rather is direct property of the Crown. As such, the local authority is a King's Reeve, who administers justice and is commander of the royal garrison. As commander, he is authorized to have one hundred men under his command.'

'No local lord, then?' Conan asked.

'So it would seem. There is little more: Sicas has a small local production of woven and dyed wool. All the usual crafts are practised. There are no ancient or famous public structures, although a few rather fine buildings were erected during the years of great prosperity when the silver was plentiful and fortunes were made. There are temples for the state cults, including a rather splendid Temple of Mitra.'

'It sounds a dull place,' Conan said.

'Did you expect otherwise?' the mapmaker asked.

Conan thanked the old man and paid him for the sketch-map.

Outside the shop, he unhitched his horse from a small statue and checked the angle of the sun. It was barely past noon. The day was young, and Conan decided that there was nothing to detain him longer in Belverus. He rode through the thronged streets to the west gate, an elaborate structure faced with purple marble, forty feet high and topped, like all the city gates, with a great, brazen alarm gong that gleamed like a second sun.

He rode out onto the high road, past the pens and camp grounds where late-arriving caravans spent the night when they found the gates barred. As the gleaming towers of Belverus disappeared behind him, the Cimmerian hoped that the bad luck that had plagued him there would likewise disappear.

II

A Lady in Distress

It felt good to be riding again on an open road with a good horse and a full purse, Conan thought. Then he corrected himself. His purse was no longer as heavy as when first he had filled it with the two hundred dishas he had extracted from Piris. Outfitting himself had taken nearly half the amount, and he had spent his nights on the road at decent inns. The map showed that towns and villages were many along this road, so there was no need to lay in a store of travel fare, nor to spend the nights beneath the sky. Conan had no taste for hoarding his money, so he spent freely as he went along. He was cautious enough to avoid the many games of chance that came his way at every halt. He had been given the gold on account against the completion of his task, after all. When he earned the other eight hundred dishas, he would be free to squander his money as he liked.

As he rode, women along the way cast many inviting smiles toward the big handsome Cimmerian. Nemedia was a land renowned for the beauty of its women. Conan smiled back, but rode on. The husbands of those women were equally renowned for the touchiness of their honour and their jealousy, and their readiness to fight anyone who should fall afoul of these qualities. It was not that Conan feared any Nemedian. It was just that he would never get to Sicas if he had to fight every one of them he met while journeying.

From time to time he passed patrols of Nemedian soldiers, and they eyed him suspiciously, this scarred barbarian with his black hair and blue eyes, in his gold-studded black brigantine and his steel cap. But they rode on and left him unmolested. His look and his well-used weapons were forbidding, and he was engaged in no outlawed activity.

Before he reached the Aquilonian border, a cold wind came whistling through the mountain passes to the north, and the sky grew leaden. In the borderland, the towns were father apart, and travellers tended to fare in groups for mutual protection. In this, as in every land, the farther one went from the centres of royal authority, the greater the abundance of outlaws.

Nemedia was noted for the strictness, even the cruelty, of its punishments, and in many areas the local lords grievously oppressed the peasantry. In result, many ruined men took to the hills and turned outlaw. Sometimes they formed powerful bands and descended on caravans or groups of travellers, leaving nothing behind save broken, mutilated bodies, stripped of valuables and even of bloodied clothes. A little questioning in the villages informed Conan that it had been many years since royal forces last swept these lands to clear out the bandits. He kept his attention on his surroundings and made sure that his sword was loose in its sheath.

One evening, still a half-day's journey from the border, darkness overtook the Cimmerian before he could reach the next village. He had resigned himself to a restless, wakeful night beneath the stars when he saw, not far away, the gleam of several camp fires. He approached them cautiously, ready to turn his horse and run at an instant's notice. More than once had he approached such friendly-seeming fires, only to find a trap set by outlaws to lure unwary travellers.

'......

As he neared a fire, a man approached him, bearing a spear obliquely before him in both hands. 'Who be you?' the man challenged.

'If I were any but a friend, you'd be nursing a split skull,' Conan answered. 'When you challenge a man, present your point to him, don't stand at high port like a recruit on inspection.' He saw that the fellow was nervous, and probably with good reason. 'I'm a soldier,' Conan announced, 'and it looks as if you could use one this night.'

Another, older man came forward. 'That is so. Come in, soldier, and share our fire.'

Conan rode into the clearing, where a few small tents had been erected near the fires. A miscellaneous group of travellers sat on logs or cushions, huddled near the flames for warmth. Most of them had the look of petty merchants, but there were a few entertainers and some families with children, and here and there the sort of ragged pilgrims who were always travelling from one temple or sacred site to another, seeking enlightenment but more often finding a grave along the way.

Conan found a spot where the grass was deep and drove a picket pin into the ground. After tethering his horse, he unsaddled and curried it, then left it to graze. He carried his saddle and bags to the fire where sat the man who had invited him. The man passed him a broad leaf bearing a half-loaf of bread and some sausage.

'This is a nervous-looking lot,' Conan said around a mouthful of food.

'Word is all over this area of a band of robbers just come across the border from Aquilonia. They were here last year, then went looking for richer pickings to the west, but they were pushed back into Nemedia a short while ago and now harry the district.'

Conan took a skin of wine offered by a woman and drank, then passed it on to the older man. 'How strong a band?' he asked.

'Reports vary from a mere five or six to two score. It may be a number of small bands who sometimes combine for larger raids.

Such men always infest borders, fleeing to the neighbouring country when the king's men finally make it too hot for them.'

' 'This has an ill sound,' Conan said. 'Am I the only fighting man here?'

The man nodded to a small fire where two men in rusty mail vests, belted with short swords, sat passing a wineskin back and forth between them. 'There are those two. They claim to be soldiers.'

Conan snorted. 'Those are such as hire out to watch over warehouses at night. Should bandits strike, they can be counted on to take to their heels, if they are not snoring drunkenly.'

'Well, you have the look of a real fighter, anyway,' the man said. 'I am Reshta of Asgalun, a dealer in spices.' He offered a hand and Conan took it.

'Conan of Cimmeria. My trade you already know. I journey to a place called Sicas, in Aquilonia. Have you ever heard of it?'

'I know only that it has gained an evil reputation these last few years. I have passed the road to that town many times but never was tempted to see the place. And you fare thither? I had not heard that there was war in Sicas.'

'There may be before long,' Conan said bemusedly.

Soon all save those appointed as sentries sought their beds as the night grew colder. Conan went a little way from the fire and unbuckled his brigantine It would take a greater threat than a few bandits to make him sleep in his armour. He lay down with his cloak wrapped about him and rested his head upon his saddle. Last of all, he slid his sheathed sword beneath the cloak. With his right hand resting on its bone grip, he slept.

'Bandits!'

The cry woke Conan instantly from a sound sleep. Without conscious thought, he was on his feet, the sword gleaming bare in his hand. There was no time to don his cuirass, but he snatched up his steel helmet and clapped it upon his tousled head. He saw figures struggling in the dimness, and someone had dumped dry brush on the fires so that, abruptly, they flared up, exposing both raiders and victims. He had an impression of eyes widened in

terror and of teeth flashing whitely as his ears were assaulted by the sounds of weapons thudding against bodies and the screams of women.

He thrust these things from his mind to concentrate on the attackers. A man saw Conan and charged him, yelling. With both hands gripping a spear, the bandit ran in, trying to impale the Cimmerian with the full weight of his body behind the weapon. Almost idly, Conan gripped the spear just beneath the head and jerked it sideways. Then, with a flicking slash of his sword, he severed both of the man's hands at the wrist. The outlaw ran screaming into the outer darkness.

The Cimmerian ran toward one of the fires. He passed another outlaw about to ax a man lying on the ground, and he skewered the attacker through the kidneys in passing. At the high-flaring fire, he turned so that the flames were at his back. This way, his enemies would have to come toward him well illumined, unless one was hardy enough to attack him through the flames.

'There he is!' shouted someone, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole band of rogues were bearing down upon him. He dodged a descending ax and halved the axeman's head. Before the man had a chance to fall, Conan snatched a handful of his coat and swung the corpse across his body like a ghastly shield, using it to catch the slash of a two-handed sword. The long, heavy blade bit sickeningly into the dead spine and Conan dropped the corpse. As it dragged the blade down, the sword-wielder tried vainly to free his weapon. Conan's blade split his shoulder, carving downward through lung and heart.

Now a pair of men bore down upon the Cimmerian from either side. From the left, a man darted in swinging a sword. From the right came a spear man. Conan whirled right, leaned aside as the spear lanced toward him and grasped the spear man’s arm. Hauling him across his front, Conan sent him colliding into the swordsman. As they smashed together, Conan gripped his hilt in both hands and slashed both men across the waist with a single mighty blow.

'That's enough!' shouted someone outside the circle of fire-light. 'Back, and away from here!' A sound of trampling feet announced the precipitate retreat of the bandits. Conan's trained ears told him that there were no more than four of them left.

In the sudden quiet there was no sound save the crackling of the fires. Then the sobbing of women, the groaning of wounded men, and the crying of children rose into the night sky. Reshta came near and surveyed the Cimmerian with something akin to awe.

'By all the Baalim!' exclaimed the Shemite. 'You spoke no falsehood when you proclaimed yourself to be a fighting man!'

'How many are dead?' Conan asked, bending to tear a strip of cloth from a slain bandit's tunic. 'Not counting these vermin, I mean.' With the cloth, he cleaned his blade while the merchant went to take a tally.

'Five of us were killed,' Reshta reported when he returned.

'Where were those two louts in rusty iron?' Conan asked.

'As you predicted, they never woke from their drunken stupor. Both had their throats cut. The other three dead tried to fight in the dark.'

'That is always a bad idea,' Conan said. 'Fighting in the dark leaves too much to chance. Many a fine warrior has died at the hand of a lesser man he could not even see.'

'Doubtless these unfortunate men lacked your experience,' said Reshta. After a moment of pondering, he spoke again. 'I think that like everyone else here except for you, I was confused in the early moments of the attack. Still, it seemed to me that these villains came in search of you.'

'I do not see how that could be,' said the Cimmerian. 'No man knows me in these parts. I have no wealth and no enemies. Doubtless they saw that I was the best fighting man here and that they would have to slay me first if they hoped to accomplish their aim.'

'Aye,' said Reshta, sounding doubtful. 'Perhaps that is how it was.' He walked away to oversee the disposal of the dead. Despite his own words, Conan remembered the voice from the outer dark. It had called: 'There he is!'

The next morning he parted company with the travelling band. He had no intention of reining his fine horse to the plodding pace of these merchants and mountebanks. Before he rode away, the Shemitish spice merchant came to him.

'Farewell, Cimmerian, and thanks for your aid. Even if those rogues were looking for you, I feel sure they would have descended upon us last night whether you were with us or not. They were in the district and we made a tempting target. I feel that when you reach Sicas, that town will grow very lively.'

He rode alone, and he knew that the bandits might be in wait for him somewhere ahead. But he was mounted and fully armed and armoured, and in such a state, Conan feared no four or five bandits in the world, in broad daylight. The sun had not yet reached zenith when he learned that he had no worries at all from that quarter.

No more than a mile from the border, he came upon a grim, ghastly, but not at all unusual sight. A small detail of Nemedian troops sat beneath a large tree, sipping at steaming cups of an herbal infusion. Above their heads dangled four bodies, each hanging by the neck from the same limb. Conan reined his horse toward the little group. A man whose helm bore the green plumes of a sergeant stood and approached him.

'A fine sight, eh, outlander?' said the sergeant.

'Are these the bandits who have made a nuisance of themselves here lately?' Conan inquired.

'Aye.' White teeth flashed in the dark face. 'We ran into these four this morning, captured them and hung them all in the same hour. You see that villain in the velvet coat?' He pointed to the corpse of a middle-aged man with a grey-speckled beard. 'That is Fabirio, who was once a good soldier of the king. He was my captain when I was a recruit; that is how I knew him for certain.' The sergeant spat upon the ground. 'He turned bad after he killed a comrade over a gambling debt. These last eight years he has plagued both sides of the border with his band. No longer, though.'

'Good work,' Conan commended. 'I was with a group of travellers last night when these rogues attacked. We slew five and the rest fled. The other travellers will be along later today and will confirm this.' Conan knew better than to boast of his own feats when he had no evidence for proof.

'Excellent!' exclaimed the sergeant. 'Perhaps that was the lot. Their numbers have been dwindling of late.'

'Did you have a chance to question them?' Conan asked. 'Did they say anything?'

'We did not bother,' said the sergeant. 'What could these scum say that might interest us? We ran them down, disarmed them and strung them up. Why do you ask?' A suspicious light came to the man's eye, a light with which Conan was all too familiar.

'No reason,' he said. 'Were there rewards on their heads?'

'Oh, assuredly,' said the sergeant. 'If you do not mind tarrying about here in Nemedia for months while all the office vermin go through their paces and if you can assemble enough witnesses and so forth. However, you have the look of a man with an itch to visit far lands, so I would not encourage you to cultivate any vain hopes in that direction.'

'I shall not,' Conan said. 'Greater rewards beckon me elsewhere.'

'Then ride forth with the blessings of the gods, outlander,' said the sergeant.

Conan rode away from the tree and its unnatural fruit, reflecting that this was not the first time that officers charged with enforcement had expressed an interest in seeing him out of their territory. He was quite sure that it would not be the last.

Just past noon, he crossed the border into Aquilonia. Two small forts marked the boundary, since at this point there was no natural feature such as a river or a mountain range to mark it. There had been peace between the nations for some time, and the border officials did no more than note his name and give him a wax tablet stamped with the date and the place of the border crossing. He was supposed to surrender this tablet to royal officers upon demand and give it back when he should leave the country. Conan accepted this process with the resignation with which he tolerated all such nonsense.

The border territories of Aquilonia were similar to those of Nemedia, but they were far more efficiently policed. The villages were, for the most part, cleaner and better ordered than those on the other side of the border, not that Conan considered this to be a great attraction. His own tastes ran to the colourful and the uproarious. If he had wanted a life that was calm and harmonious, as philosophers had assured him was that most to be desired, he would have stayed at home in Cimmeria. Life there could be brutal and ferocious, but most of the time it was dull. That was why he had left.

The high road was paved with cut stone, but Conan saw that there were gaps where weeds sprouted between the slabs of granite, and in places, pieces of the road had been washed out by storms. Clearly, the king of this place was failing. Conan was not a man of the civilized lands, but in his wanderings he had learned to read such signs. In the forested Cimmerian lowlands, the broken stub of a branch holding in its clefts strands of bristling black hair meant a wild bull grown old, clumsy and decrepit. Likewise, a fine road in such a state of neglect meant a king who was losing his grip.

Even in its deteriorated condition, the fine road brought him within a few days to the juncture of the high road leading to Tarantia. He would have liked to ride north and see the capital city, but instead, he rode south, toward Shamar.

This highway linked the two major cities of Aquilonia, and during the height of the travelling season, it would be thronged. With winter closing in, the traffic had dwindled, and for much of the time Conan could see no other travellers in either direction. The lands nearby were cultivated and had the look of great tales, with broad fields worked by peasants, and in the distance he could descry the fine villas of the wealthy. Standing near each country house was a fortified tower to which the owners could repair in unsettled times.

At intervals along the road stood shrines to the local gods, some of them bearing the remains of offerings: flowers, cakes, and incense. As he passed one of these shrines, Conan heard sounds from a copse of trees behind the structure. There were the growling voices of men, then the sharp, high scream of a woman. Without pausing for thought, he spurred his horse off the road and pounded for the trees.

Just inside the wood, three men looked up from their activity at the Cimmerian's arrival, hard-bitten men in ragged clothing, belted with swords and long daggers. They crouched over a struggling woman who was resisting the removal of her garments. Conan saw a flash of white limbs and grinned at this unexpected liveliness in the midst of his otherwise dull morning.

'Begone, fool,' snarled a man whose rat-trap mouth was framed by thin, drooping black moustaches. His greasy black hair was parted in the centre by a jagged scar. 'You've no call to interfere with our sport.'

'Sport, is it?' Conan said. 'You call three men attacking one woman sport?' He drew his sword and thumbed its edge. 'What I call sport is a three-on-one fight with a man who knows his business. Will you play with me?'

Setting spurs to his horse, Conan charged down upon them. The men looked at one another for an instant, then took to their heels as one man. Three to one was poor odds when the one was mounted and armoured. Laughing, Conan chased them as they scrambled among the trees. He was forced to manoeuvre carefully among the boles, ducking low to avoid limbs. The men reached the edge of the wood ahead of him, and there they scrambled onto their horses. Conan burst from the trees just in time to see three horses' tails presented to him, their riders galloping the mounts for all they were worth.

Hallooing like a hunter with a stag fleeing before him, Conan pounded toward them, his sword cutting great circles in the air around him. To his astonishment, the three horses put on a great burst of speed and the men began to draw away. His own horse was already running at top speed, and it was clear that he would not catch these three. He reined in and turned, then trotted his mount back to the copse behind the shrine.

He found the woman rearranging her clothing. Her face was a furious red, but her smile was dazzling when he rode up.

'Oh, sir, I cannot begin to thank you. Who knows what my fate might have been had you not arrived as you did?'

'I can guess,' Conan said. 'But you need not fear now. Those were the best-mounted cowards in Aquilonia. They were riding racehorses, else I'd have collected their heads.'

'If they were thieves, why should they not steal the best?' the woman said. 'I would think that men who spend their lives fleeing must prize fleet animals.'

'That makes sense,' Conan agreed. 'How came it about that you fell afoul of them?'

'I was travelling on the highway and stopped at this shrine to rest and make a small offering. When I emerged, they were waiting for me. I think they must have camped in these woods to catch lone travellers. They relieved me of my belongings, then dragged me here to make use of what I had left. I am sure that after that, they would have cut my throat.' She shuddered, then looked up with another smile. 'But you appeared, like a champion out of legend. I shall be grateful to you forever.'

Conan studied her as she spoke, and he liked what he saw. The woman was slender, with long, tapering legs and a willowy waist. Her breasts were high and full. Beneath a mane of somewhat disarrayed chestnut hair, her face was heart-shaped, with generous lips and wide blue eyes.

'Did they get away with your belongings?' Conan asked, forcing his mind back to practical matters.

'Let me see.' She looked around a little clearing. 'I think they tossed them somewhere when they set about to... to...'

'Rape you,' Conan finished for her. It was a simple enough word, he thought. The woman shouldn't have to fumble for it.

'Yes. Exactly. Here they are! They didn't get away with them.' She stooped and picked up a shawl wrapped around a small bundle. 'Not that there is all that much to steal.'

Conan noted that something within the bundle jingled. He was always alert for such sounds.

'Whither are you bound?' he asked.

'I fare to a town called Sicas,' she said. 'It is not far from here. The road to Sicas branches off this one a few miles to the south.'

'Sicas! That is my destination as well.'

'Say you so?' She lowered her eyes, blushing again. 'Sir, you have already done so much for me, I scarcely feel that I could implore you for another favour, but could you, of your kindness, allow me to travel along with you until we reach the city? I think that now I would be terrified to walk this highway alone.'

'Assuredly,' said Conan, who had had something of the sort on his mind since his first good look at her. 'This is no racehorse, but it is strong and will carry double with no undue strain.'

'Oh, thank you, sir! If you will let me take your hand, I will use your stirrup to mount behind you.'

'No need,' Conan said. He leaned low, grasped her about her slender waist and set her before him on his saddle.

She gasped. 'I have never known a man so strong! And you are not only brave, but generous. I do not know how to express my gratitude.'

'Doubtless we shall think of something,' he assured her.

At an easy walk, he rode back onto the highway and turned southward.

'You speak with a strange accent,' she said. 'What land do you hail from?'

'Cimmeria,' he said. 'I am Conan, a free warrior.'

'Cimmeria! It is almost a name from legend. I was just a girl when your countrymen sacked Venarium, but I remember the near panic that spread at the news. Aquilonia had been victorious for so long that it seemed unnatural for mere barbarians...' She clapped a hand across her mouth. 'Oh, forgive me! I did not mean to...'

'No matter,' Conan said. 'I've seen enough of civilized places to know that it is a fine thing to be a barbarian. Yes, I was

at Venarium. It was my first real battle, and it was a good one. Those we win are always good ones.' He smiled down at her. The top of her head barely reached his chin. 'Now, how do you happen to be travelling alone, on foot, to a place like Sicas?'

She sighed deeply. ' 'It is not a pretty story. My name is Brita, and my home is in Tarantia. My father was a Master of the Drapers' Guild. Both my parents died in the pestilence that swept the city five years ago. I was left with only my younger sister, Ylla.

'We were left with our house and a small stipend from the guild. I had many offers of marriage, but I had promised our mother on her deathbed that I would not marry until I saw my younger sister grown and wed. The times were hard for a while, yet we scraped by.

'But as she blossomed, Ylla grew wilder. Soon I could not manage her. She spent much time out in the city, in its less savoury quarters, with a string of male companions, each one more disreputable than the last. Finally she came home with a villain named Asdras.' She all but spat at the name. 'He was a handsome enough fellow, but he was a gambler and a thief, although a well-spoken thief. He was the ruined son of a prominent family and seemed to fancy himself some sort of raffish aristocrat, as if he followed his low pursuits only for the amusement.

'He demanded—not asked for, but demanded—my sister's hand in marriage. I banished him from our house, of course. For days there were terrible scenes between my sister and myself. She raged that I was ruining her life, that I sought to drive away the man she loved.' Brita brushed a pair of tears that made twin tracks down her pale cheeks. 'As if a man like Asdras could ever love anyone except himself.' She released yet another deep sigh.

'Well, it could not drag on forever. One day Ylla stormed out, claiming that she would run away with Asdras. I thought it was just another of her childish threats and I awaited her return. She did not come back that night, nor all the next day. I went seeking her, only to find that she had truly run away with the rogue. Some of his friends told me that Asdras had heard that the town of Sicas was a veritable paradise for men like himself, even more wicked than the lowest quarters of Tarantia. Naturally he had to see for himself, and he took Ylla with him.

'I thought that my heart would break, but I still love my sister, and I must honour my pledge to our mother, so I resolved to fare to this evil city and fetch my sister back. I sold what possessions I could to raise money, and I set out on foot, feeling that a horse would be an extravagance. I have no idea of how long I must search for my sister in Sicas, or of what bribes may be necessary.'

'I think that you had better go back to Tarantia,' Conan said. 'A city like Sicas is no place for a gently bred lass such as you. Go home and wait. I have known many girls like your sister, and a great many men like this Asdras. Sooner or later she'll tire of being a ne'er-do-well's woman and she'll come home. Just give the girl time.' He said this only to comfort the distressed woman. He knew full well that such girls almost always became harlots after they deserted their rogues, or the rogues tired of them. They almost never went home.

'Ah, but I cannot!' Brita raised her tearful face to his. 'I love my sister, and I am certain that her faults are merely those of headstrong youth. If I can bring her back home, I am sure that in time she will settle down and will wed decently.'

Conan had his doubts. It sounded as if the young slut had cut a swath through the dissipated youth of Tarantia and, as such, would make an unlikely match for some plodding guildsman. He forbore to express these thoughts.

Stifling her tears, Brita spoke again. 'I scarcely know how to ask this, since you have been so kind. But when we reach Sicas, could you help me search for my sister?' At his frown, she added hastily: 'Oh, I know it is presumptuous of me, but I am so desperate! I have a little money, and I can pay you for your trouble.'

The last thing Conan wanted was to be a woman's protector while he was in the city, and neither did he want to take from her what was undoubtedly a pitiful sum of money. Nor did he wish to dash her hopes, so he equivocated as best he could.

'Well, I've a task to perform in Sicas, and I've already accepted the hire, so that must come first. But when we arrive, I'll see what may be done. I'll see you settled there and perhaps talk to a few officials.'

She beamed. 'Oh, thank you!' She cast her arms around his neck and kissed his slightly bristled cheek. He had not shaved in several days.

Now it was Conan who sighed. He had always thought it foolish to take in wounded birds. At least, he thought, this time he had taken in a pretty one.

A tiny wayside market stood at the junction of the high road with the side road to Sicas. Conan questioned a seller of clothes about their route while Brita went to a fruit-seller's booth. She had pointed out, practically, that the produce here would certainly be cheaper than in the town.

'Aye, that is the road to Sicas,' said the clothier. 'And if I were you, I'd ride straight on to Shamar. Sicas is a wicked place.'

'I like wicked places,' Conan told him.

'So do I, within reason. But Sicas is more than just wicked.'

'What makes it so bad?' Conan asked.

'I could spend all day telling you, but since you're going there anyway, you'll find out all too soon. Good luck to you.'

Conan remounted and soon Brita rejoined him, her shawl now bulging with fresh fruits. He lifted her to the saddle before him and began to ride down the side road toward Sicas. Brita's eyes sparkled and she seemed exhilarated.

'What has changed your mood?' he asked.

'I spoke to some vendors back there,' she reported. 'They said that two people went toward Sicas a few days ago, riding from the direction of Tarantia. They match exactly the description of Asdras and Ylla.''

'Well, that's something, anyway,' Conan grumbled. He had few hopes for the success of the woman's mission.

In the late afternoon they stopped on a hilltop overlooking Sicas. The view was serene for a town with such an odious reputation. Its shape was triangular, with the two rivers joining at the apex. The base of the triangle was a wall built across the peninsula of land formed by the converging rivers. A moat had been dug at the foot of the wall, linking the River Fury on the east with the Ossar on the west. A stone bridge built on arches crossed the Fury just north of the wall. In the distance, on the other side of the Ossar, Conan could just make out a cluster of structures. This must be the silver mine, he thought.

'No sense waiting,' he said, heading the horse down the hill.

III

The City of Rogues

The stone bridge rang hollowly beneath the horse's steel-shod hooves as Conan rode across, Brita propped on the saddle before him. On the far side of the bridge the road turned right and ran a quarter-mile to the single gate in the town's wall. They stopped at the gate and were looked over by a singularly scruffy guard. The man wore a dingy cuirass and a dented helmet, and he leaned on a halberd that appeared to be at least a hundred years old.

'Who're you?' the man demanded.

'Conan of Cimmeria and Brita of Tarantia,' Conan answered. 'We come to Sicas on legitimate business.'

'D'you think anybody cares? All sorts of fools ride into this town. Some of them leave by way of this gate, but most of them leave by way of the river, floating.' Even from the height of his saddle, Conan could smell the sour wine on the man's breath.

'That being the case,' the Cimmerian said, 'you'll not mind standing aside to let us pass.'

'The fee's two silver marks,' the guard said sullenly.

'A mark for the town and a mark for you, eh?' Conan said.

'What's it to you? A man must make a living.'

'I will pay him,' Brita offered quietly. 'We do not want trouble with the authorities.'

'No, you'll not,' Conan grumbled. He reached into his pouch and withdrew four marks of silver, which he tossed to the guard. 'Now we've paid. Let us pass.'

The man stood aside and bowed with exaggerated courtesy. 'Welcome to our fair city, strangers. You'll pay gold to get out again.'

They passed beneath the lintel and into the town. 'This town is living up to its reputation already,' Conan muttered.

'It is just the sort of place to attract Asdras,' Brita assured him.

A single wide street led from the gate into the heart of the town. All of the side streets were narrow and twisted. They had not passed the length of two blocks when they came upon a violent commotion.

'Draw!' shouted a voice. Instinctively, Conan gripped the throat of his sheath and pressed his thumb against the hilt of his sword, loosening it from the slight grip of the scabbard. But the shout was not for him. Three young men dressed in red leather lad a fourth backed against a wall. The man at bay was a black-bearded, scar-faced fellow with a cast in one eye. He snatched forth a straight back-sword with a half-basket hilt. The three drew Khorajan sabres. These weapons had long, curving blades and handles long enough to grip with both hands.

'Cowards!' shouted the black-bearded man. He slashed at one of the youths, who jumped back, laughing. Another stepped in and slashed the lone man's exposed side. The man gasped and t lapped a hand to the wound, whirling to face this assailant. As ho did, he exposed his back to the third, who slashed him obliquely from shoulder to hip.

Screaming, the wounded man arched backward, trying vainly in keep his sword between himself and his attackers. One red-clad assassin struck the sword from his hand even as another thrust his blade into the man's belly. The bearded one collapsed to the cobbles writhing, his arms wrapped about his midriff. The laughing men ran him through a few more times, then walked away, wiping their blades. At last the victim was still as a pool of blood widened around him.

Brita shuddered and buried her face against Conan's armoured chest. 'Mitra! What kind of place is this?'

'At a guess,' Conan said, 'it's a place so lawless that men commit murder in public places in broad daylight with no fear of punishment.'

One of the men caught sight of the Cimmerian and halted, regarding him insolently. 'What are you looking at, outlander?'

'I always like to see experts at their work,' Conan said.

Another youth spoke. 'I think this black-haired barbarian saw something that displeased him. Is that so, foreigner?'

'Three, by my count, but rest easy. I fight for pay, so I've no quarrel with you.'

'See that you keep to that course, savage,' said the first speaker. 'No one lives long who earns our displeasure.' The three sheathed their swords and swaggered away. The people who thronged the street stepped quickly out of their way. Nobody took note of the corpse, except to avoid the pool of blood. Conan nudged his horse onward, and it shied sideways as it passed the corpse, upset by the smell of fresh-spilled blood.

Two streets beyond the fight scene, he saw an inn sign at the intersection of a narrow street. He turned the horse into the byway, which ran for no more than ten paces, then opened onto a broad courtyard. The courtyard was surrounded by three galleried stories of rooms. At street level there was a stable on one side and a tavern on the other. A hostler took the horse's reins as Conan lowered Brita to the pavement. Dismounting, the Cimmerian addressed the man.

'Hold the beast. I want a look at this place before I see to the animal's stabling.' They went into the tavern, where a chubby, white-haired man came forward wearing a professional smile but eyeing sceptically Conan's dangerous looks and ready weaponry.

'Welcome, sir and lady. Do you seek lodging?'

'We do,' Conan said. 'We need two rooms.'

'Have you two that adjoin?' Brita asked hastily.

'Aye. A silver mark per room each night. A quarter-mark each day for the horse's stabling and feed. The rooms you need are on the top floor.'

'Let's have a look at them,' Conan said. They followed the man outside and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The landlord opened two rooms that were connected by a low door; the quarters were reasonably spacious and comfortable looking. The Cimmerian went to a bed and abruptly threw back the covers.

'No bedbugs, sir,' said the host.

'Well, I see none, at any rate. I've stayed at inns where I had to fight the bed vermin off with a sword.' He looked up. There were skylights in the ceiling, admitting abundant light.

'We allow no braziers in the rooms,' the landlord said. 'If you wish, you may have extra blankets, and should you desire it, the cooks will heat a brick for you to set at your feet, but you may have no open fires save for candles.'

'We'll take these,' Conan said.

'Have you a bathhouse?' Brita asked.

'Aye, next to the kitchen.'

'Very well,' Conan said, handing him the money. 'Tell the hostler to stable the horse and bring up my saddle, pad and bags.'

'I shall. In the taproom, the first mug of ale is on the house. trust that all will please you here. If not, I am at your service.' The man bowed his way out.

Conan unbuckled his brigantine and tossed it onto his bed. 'I think I'll go in search of that ale.'

'And I will find that bathhouse,' Brita said. 'I will speak with you this evening.' She glanced at the skylight. 'I may have lime enough to go out and make some inquiries before dark.'

'Be careful, then,' Conan cautioned. When his saddle and hags were brought up, he stowed them before going down the stairs and into the tavern. He was not merely thirsty; he knew that there was no better place than a bar room in which to pick up the gossip of a town.

In the taproom, men and women sat at long wooden tables eating or stood at the bar drinking. At one end of the room, spits turned at an open hearth, where fat dripped hissing onto the coals. The air was full of a thin, savoury smoke. Conan crossed to the bar. Behind it, a bald man wearing an apron tended his taps, bottles and cups.

'A new guest?' he asked.

'Aye.'

'Light ale or dark? Or would you prefer wine?'

'Dark ale,' Conan said. The barkeep set a tall wooden tankard before him, crested with a thin foam. Conan raised it and drank deep. It was uncommonly good ale. He surveyed the room and its occupants, noting that all of the men were armed. He had observed the same thing out in the street. Even those who clearly were not fighting men were girded with steel, and many wore light armour. In the confines of the taproom, they were nervous as well, starting at every loud sound.

'This is a jumpy crowd,' Conan commented.

'With good reason,' the barkeep said. 'You've just arrived in Sicas?'

'Aye. Never been here before.' The door opened and everyone grew even more tense. Fingers tightened on hilts. The man who came in was fat and looked to be harmless. The patrons relaxed and conversation resumed. Conan turned back to face the barkeep.

'What does red leather mean to you?' he asked.

'It means trouble. Why do you ask?' The man devoted great attention to polishing a horn cup.

'Today, as I rode into town, I saw three overgrown boys dressed in red leather cut down a lone man. He never had a chance, and they laughed as they slew him. They let him draw his sword, but it was nonetheless plain murder.'

'The man they killed, what did he look like?' asked the bar-keep.

'A scar-faced man with a black beard and a cast in one eye.'

'That was one of Lisip's men. I do not know his name, but I

have seen him with that mob. The red-clad boys follow Ingas. They are a pack of young Poitainian thugs who came in town about a year ago. Give them wide berth. They love to use those two-handed Khorajan slashers they all carry.'

'Who is this Lisip?' Conan asked. He drained his mug and pushed it across the bar for more. The barkeep held it below a tap and refilled it.

'He used to boss all the town's scum, and he owns most of the bawdy-houses down in the Pit. Now he has a great deal of competition.'

'And Lisip has a feud with this Ingas?' Conan asked.

'They were at peace yesterday. It sounds as if that has changed.'

'So now these two gangs contend for control of the town's low life?' Conan asked.

'Two?' The barkeep chuckled. 'Stranger, there are at least four major gangs, plus a good dozen smaller packs that ally themselves now with one, now with another. The big gangs sometimes form alliances and break them as lightly.'

This sounded intriguing. 'How do they operate?'

'Sometimes they rob directly, but mostly they just get a piece of everything. The harlots have to pay a portion of their earnings, the gamblers of their winnings. Every merchant in the town must pay every month or have his shop and goods destroyed. Sometimes they hire themselves out as bullyboys. Businessmen hire them to wipe out their competitors. And all of them kill for money.''

'Is there no law?' Conan asked.

The man gave a snorting laugh. 'Law? There is the King's Reeve, Bombas. He is in the purse of every gang leader in this town, and he knows better than to trouble the wealthy men, those who hire the gangs for their dirty work.'

'This is a royal town. Has no one complained to the king?'

The barkeep glanced around to see if anyone was listening. 'No. But many have died just for speaking of it.'

Conan thanked the barkeep, turned and carried his mug to a table. He took a corner at the end of a bench, where he could keep the entirety of the room within his view. A server set bread and cheese and a platter of sizzling waterfowl before him and Conan tore into the viands.

As he ate, he thought over the barkeep's strange tale. He had been in many wide-open and roaring towns, where the authorities were happy to look the other way for a monetary consideration. But ordinarily they required that the wilder elements keep their drinking and brawling, their thieving, gambling, whoring and killing, to a single district. That way everybody made money and the respectable element of the city stayed happy.

Usually such a district was controlled by a vice-lord. Sometimes another gang came in and then there would be a fight for control. Never, though, had Conan encountered anything so wildly anarchic as here in Sicas. In such a town, he thought, there was a great deal of money to be made.

He had finished his meal and was enjoying another mug of ale when the door opened again. This time the diners in the room remained tense, their facial expressions strained. Hands stayed on hilts and all conversation ceased. Three figures swaggered in through the door. Three figures, each dressed in red leather. They surveyed the room haughtily, as if they had just entered a barnyard and saw nothing before them except pecking fowl.

The landlord scurried over to them, bowing. 'I did not expect you until the day after tomorrow,' he said. 'I have not yet—'

'Payment is due early this month,' said the tallest of the three, not bothering to look at the landlord as he spoke. 'And the amount has gone up. Fifteen gold royals instead of ten.'

'Fifteen?' sputtered the landlord. 'Instead often? And early? But I cannot pay that!'

A youthful thug with a stringy yellow chin-beard affected to ignore the man, reaching overhead to rap his knuckles on a heavy, soot-stained beam. 'Fine old timber here,' he remarked. 'Make a splendid fire. Probably take the whole block with it. Wouldn't your neighbours appreciate that?''

The landlord groaned, defeated. 'Very well, I will pay. But I

cannot pay today. I had not yet even gathered together the usual ten.'

The third youth patted the old man on the shoulder. 'Do not vex yourself, Grandfather. Moneylenders always have an open purse, even if they do ask for high interest. We shall come by tomorrow, early.'

'Bringing torches,' added the one with the thin beard.

The tallest nudged the other two. They looked at him and he nodded toward the rear corner of the room where Conan sat. Hands resting on the long hilts of their Khorajan swords, the three walked toward the Cimmerian with an insolent, loose-jointed amble.

'This is the second time today we have encountered you, barbarian. You are new here. Who have you come to join?'

'I work for nobody here.' He left his hands on the table, in plain view. He knew that they would think him less dangerous that way, the fools.

'But you said you fight for pay,' countered the bearded one.

'And no one is paying me to fight just now,' the Cimmerian answered.

'Then what is your business here?' demanded the bearded one.

'It is, as you say, my business,' Conan said.

'We do not like people who refuse to answer to us,' said the third. He was a bit older than the other two, with quick, nervous brown eyes. Conan read him as the most dangerous of the three. If it came to a fight, he would kill this one first.

'Many people do not like me,' Conan said. 'I try not to let it grieve me too much.'

'We don't like your tone, either,' said the tall one. 'Why not come outside into the courtyard and discuss this with us?'

Conan knew why they wanted him outside. The cramped corner, the tables, and low beams would make it difficult for them to wield their long blades. He fumed at their insolence but reminded himself that he had eight hundred dishas yet to earn in

this town and becoming ensnared in gang politics would hinder him in that task.

'As I told you, I fight for pay. Come back and see me when somebody is willing to pay gold to see you dead.' The two shorter ones closed their fists around their hilts, but the tall one made a calming gesture.

'This one is afraid to fight. Come, brothers. We'll talk to Ingas about this... this... what sort of barbarian are you?'

'Cimmerian.'

'This Cimmerian. Then if our master wants his head, we'll come back and fetch it. Farewell, savage.' The three whirled and stalked out. Conan noticed that most of the room's inhabitants had either tiptoed out during the confrontation or had drawn back to the periphery. Now that there was to be no fighting, they resumed their places.

One man had not moved. He was a tough-looking specimen, and now he rose and approached Conan. He stood a little below medium height but was strongly built. He wore a vest of mail, old but clean and well oiled. Greying hair hung to his shoulders beneath the rim of a battle-nicked steel cap. Broad wristbands of studded leather encircled both wrists, and he carried his hands well away from his short cutlass and dagger as he drew near. From boots to steel cap, this one was every inch a professional.

'You handled those three well, Cimmerian. Do you mind if I join you?'

Conan gestured to the seat across from him. 'It is not taken.'

The man sat. 'Let me buy your next mug.' He called to a server and in moments two tankards arrived. The two men clicked the tankards together and drank. The greying man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

'I am Nevus, from Tanasul. Your homeland I know. What is your name?'

'Conan.'

'You told those precious red-birds that you serve no one here. Does that mean that you have no wish to?'

Conan shrugged. 'Just now I wait to meet with a man who

has employment for me. The job should be finished in no great lime. After that, who knows?'

'Well, should you find yourself at loose ends, you could do worse than joining Ermak's band. We're a small troop, but we're the best. Ermak takes on only professional fighting men, no scum like those three. I cannot read letters, but I can read the years of experience on you.'

'I thank you for the offer, and I will think upon it. I noticed I hat the leather boys did not bother you.'

'Ermak and Ingas are at peace for the moment. There is so much profit to be had in this town that we don't need to fight all I he time.'

'So I hear. What sort of work do Ermak's men perform?'

'Weapon work, mainly. All the gangs know that we're the best lighters. When there's a dispute, the gang that is allied with us is the one that wins. Then it has to pay us a piece of everything it lakes.'

'That sounds agreeable,' Conan said. 'Where is Ermak head-quartered?'

'South-west of the Square there's a big warehouse built up against the Ossar River wall. It's two-storied, and we have the top floor. There are usually about twenty of us, although men come and leave frequently.'

'You say that Ermak is at peace with Ingas. Is he at war with anyone?'

'Lisip has been making noises of late. We should have a brawl with his men soon, but they are of no account, just scum and sweepings like Ingas's.' The man drained his tankard and stood. 'Think upon my words, Conan. There is more profit to be had in joining with Ermak than with any of the others. Better amusement, and far better company as well.'

'I shall think on it,' Conan said. 'Farewell.'

The Cimmerian finished his ale and climbed the outside steps to the third floor. In his room he lit a candle, for night had fallen. He knocked on the door linking the two rooms but heard no sound. Assuming that Brita was asleep, he pulled off his boots and stretched out on the bed. Before he knew that he was nodding, he was fast asleep.

He awoke to the sound of knocking at his door. A glance at the candle told him he had been asleep for two or three hours. Silently he rose and picked up his weapons-belt. He drew the dagger and went to the door. The pounding continued. Abruptly he threw the door open and hauled the person who stood without into the room, slamming the door shut.

'Conan!' screeched a woman's voice.

'Brita? What have you been doing? I thought you asleep in the other room.'

'When I went to the bathhouse, I spoke with the women attendants there, to learn something of the town. Conan, this is a dreadful place!' She sat on the chair and clasped her hands in her lap.

'I find it interesting, but then, you are a woman. So what did these gossips tell you?' He sat on his bed, first stripping off his weapons-belt.

'They said that this town is ruled by packs of savage, vile men who—'

'I've learned all about that this evening,' Conan interrupted. 'How did you come to be outside in the middle of the night?'

'Well, the bath-women said that if I sought some particular rogue, the place to inquire about him would be the Square. That is a public market and government centre in the middle of the town. I am so anxious to find my sister, and it was still light, so I went there.'

'You should have told me,' Conan grumbled. 'What did you find out?'

'I talked to a few stall-keepers who had not yet closed for the evening, and they told me that I should ask of certain ladies who lounge about in the south colonnade. I went there and spoke to some of them.' She lowered her gaze and seemed to be studying her clasped hands. 'I think that these women are not truly respectable.'

'I can promise you that they are not,' Conan affirmed. 'So what did these knowledgeable ladies of ill repute tell you?'

She looked up, her face alight. 'One of them saw Asdras this very day! She said that he has established himself in a house ailed the Wyvern. It is in a district known as the Pit.'

'The Pit? I heard the name spoken this evening. It does not sound good. Did she say where this might be?'

'It is the southernmost quarter of the town, where the two rivers join. It is a notorious place; all the lowest elements gather

there.'

'In this town, notoriety truly means something,' Conan commented.

'I know. It sounded so terrible that I was reluctant to go there.'

'Go there!' Conan exploded. 'You mean to tell me that you contemplated going to the Pit alone? After dark?'

'Well, it was not quite dark yet when I left the Square. I am concerned for my sister, Conan. I just had to go and see for myself. It is a small town, really, and the Pit is not far. But by the time I drew close to the Wyvern, it was pitch-black and I was terrified. I could not force myself to go on. I came back, sliding against walls and ducking into doorways at every sound of approaching footsteps.'

'That was wise. In fact, coming back here was the only wise thing you've done since taking a bath. Well, go in and get some sleep. In the morning, we'll—'

'But I cannot wait until morning!' Brita said. 'Now that I know where Asdras is, I must confront him tonight! Who knows what he might do if he learns that I am in town seeking Ylla? He might run, or he might hide her some place.'

'Brita, this matter will keep until tomorrow,' Conan said. 'A known warrior walks abroad in this town after dark at grave risk. It is far worse for a woman, even if escorted. And if the Pit lives up to its name, it is that much worse.'

She stood. 'Well, if you will not go with me, I must go alone. I will find a torch or a lantern and I will go down into the Pit by myself.'

'And what do you hope to accomplish beyond your own death?' Conan demanded.

'I only know that I must try,' she said.

Conan began to haul on his boots. 'I can see that it is useless to try to get a night's sleep.' He stood and buckled on his brigantine

'Oh, I knew you would help,' she exclaimed.

'Then you know me better than I know myself. I never en now took myself for a fool.' He strapped on his weapons-belt and clapped his steel cap on his head. 'I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be. Let's go.'

They went down the stairs, and in the courtyard Conan appropriated a lantern from its hook. By its light, they walked into the street. The night was chill, but Conan had not donned his cloak. Tonight he might have to fight or run or both, and neither activity would be improved by the voluminous garment.

All was quiet on the main street of the town. The buildings to either side blocked most of the moon's light, and they walked in the middle of the road to avoid unpleasant surprises. If anyone lurking in the shadows felt tempted by the couple out for a midnight stroll, the lamplight glinted on enough metal adorning the big Cimmerian to discourage any predatory thoughts.

The street passed along the eastern side of the Square. The spacious public plaza was flooded with moonlight, casting enough glow to reveal the colonnades and fine buildings around the periphery, although their details remained cloaked in obscurity.

Beyond the Square, the street narrowed. It was no longer straight, but began to twist this way and that. This was the oldest part of the town, Conan guessed, and had probably stood here before the silver mine brought fleeting prosperity, at which time the Square and the finer areas to the north had been erected.

'The Wyvern is down here some place,' Brita said, peering from side to side. The light of the lamp was quickly swallowed in the deep shadows on every hand. 'Yes, there!'

Conan raised the lantern in the direction she pointed. A pole protruded over a low doorway. The pole was decorated with the head of a Wyvern, cut from thin bronze. Its mouth smiled sardonically and its barbed tail, after making several loops, pointed toward the door.

'There is no sense in waiting out here in the cold,' Conan said. 'Let us go in.'

The tavern was below street level and they descended three steps to the door. Thrusting the portal open, Conan ducked his head low and went inside, closely followed by Brita. The door opened onto a landing, from which further steps descended to the floor. Conan stood on the landing and surveyed the scene before proceeding onward. Perhaps a score of patrons huddled around tables, and the predominant sound as the two entered was the rattle of dice and the slamming of leather cups onto tabletops.

Upon the opening of the door, all faces turned toward the landing to study the newcomers. Nearly every countenance was decorated, with cropped ears, slit nostrils and various fanciful brands dominating. These were not the scars of combat but of punishments inflicted by public torturers. Half-naked women walked between the tables, plying their ancient trade. They eyed the Cimmerian with interest until they saw Brita step from behind him.

'Hold this.' Conan handed Brita the lantern. He leaned forward, both hands braced against the wooden rail of the landing.

'We are searching for a man named Asdras,' he announced, he is a newcomer to this town, and his companion is a young woman named Vila. Has any here seen him or the woman?' Alter staring at the outlander for a moment, the gamblers returned their attention to their gaming. No one said a word. Brita stepped closer to Conan and whispered: 'Perhaps if I offer money...' He silenced her with a raised hand.

The Cimmerian descended the steps to the floor, and Brita followed him as he made his way among the tables. He stopped at one where three men sat. The fourth seat was vacant, but a pair of gloves and a half-empty cup lay upon the abandoned space. Conan pointed to them.

'Where did he go?' Conan demanded. A man looked up at him with a sneer. This one had travelled far in his pursuit of villainy. A great character from the Khitan language had been tattooed across his face in scarlet.

'Wherefore should we tell you anything, dog?' He spat copiously upon the filthy floor next to Conan's boots. Smiling, the Cimmerian leaned across the table and bunched the front of the man's leather tunic in one great fist. Hauling the tattooed man over the tabletop, he slammed him against the wall, holding him with his feet well clear of the floor. Conan drew his dirk and laid, its keen edge against the man's jugular.

'You will tell me,' Conan said, 'because you want to live.'

'Peace, my friend!' cried the tattooed one. 'I meant no discourtesy! Asdras was here, but he left more than an hour ago. He sat there all evening, but the cleaning boy brought him a note. He read it and said that he must go out back to see someone but! would return soon. He did not come back, which seems passing strange since he was winning.'

Conan dropped the man. 'Where is the boy?' Wordlessly the man pointed to the bar, where a stunted youth listlessly plied a mop, moving the accumulated filth about without removing any of it. Conan walked over to the lad.

'Who gave you a note to deliver to Asdras, boy?'

The boy stared at him vacantly, his mouth half-open and tongue! lolling. After a while he spoke, in the slow monotone of a halfwit.

'I went out back to dump the slops. Someone gave me a paper and said to give it to Asdras.'

'Who was it? A man or a woman?' Brita asked. The thought for a while, clearly a difficult process.

'Don't know. It was dark.'

'This is useless,' Conan said. 'He's gone now.'

'Let's go out back,' Brita said. 'They may still be there.'

'If it will set your mind at ease,' Conan said resignedly, 'Show us, boy.'

The two followed the half-wit through a curtain at the rear the public room and passed through a storeroom full of barrels and smashed furniture. The boy pointed to a door in the wall and Conan opened it. The alley behind the building reeked of a hundred years' worth of garbage. Rats scurried away from their feet as they went outside. They could hear pigs rooting in the muck.

'No one here,' Conan reported. 'Let's go back to our inn.'

'Wait,' she said, raising the lantern higher and pointing.

What is that?' Holding her skirts well clear of the filth, she stepped daintily toward a rat-swarming heap a few paces from the door.

Conan stepped over to the mound and gave it a kick, causing it to shift slightly. The rats scurried away, squealing. Brita gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. There lay a dead man, his eyes lolling, his mouth agape in surprise. The rats had only begun to nibble at him, so his features were still handsome despite his repression. His hair was yellow and spread around his head in a broad fan.

'Asdras!' Brita cried.

A dagger protruded from his chest. Asdras had been neatly skewered through the heart.

IV

The King's Reeve

Conan rose late and breakfasted mightily. Before leaving his, room, he looked into the adjoining chamber. It was vacant. He told himself that the woman was probably safe while the sun shone, although her incredible penchant for putting herself in danger and her tendency to go off without informing him were annoying. Then he cursed himself for caring. What was the innocent, addle-headed woman to him, anyway? Still, having aided her thus far, he felt a certain responsibility. Annoyed with himself for suffering this unwanted sentimentality, he buckled or his accoutrements and descended the stairs.

The public room was deserted except for a serving woman who at his order brought a great platter of meats, eggs and bread. Polishing off this spread put Conan in a far better temper, and he went forth to see what he could learn of the town. Firs he walked to the city gate. The man on guard there was not the! one who had greeted them the day before, but he was just as unsoldierly looking: a fat, aged man who limped as he paced before the gate.

'Has a man came through today who is—' Conan thought for a moment of how to describe Piris '—well, womanish-looking, and fond of clothes that would look well on a courtesan?'

'Nay. I see some odd types, but none like that has passed this way today.'

Conan tossed the man a coin, which was caught neatly. 'If he should arrive on your watch, tell him that Conan of Cimmeria is staying at the first inn on the street.'

The watchman looked at Conan as if wondering what business a foreigner could have with such a man, but knowing better than to ask. 'Aye, sir, I shall tell him.'

Conan thanked the guard and walked back down the street. It was his first good appraisal of the town in full daylight, and what IK- could see of it looked fair enough. The local architecture was the sort favoured in this district of Aquilonia. Most of the buildings' lower stories were of a rough-cut grey fieldstone, and the upper stories were half-timbered.

One street was lined on both sides by the headquarters of various guilds. These were imposing edifices, but one was a fire-rutted hulk, looking like a rotted tooth in an otherwise healthy IHW. Over its door were a pair of crossed picks, identifying the place as the Guildhall of the Miners' Guild.

From one large building Conan heard a familiar music: the clashing of swords. The rhythmic sound of the weapons told him that this was a lesson in progress, not a fight. He wandered in and saw a good hundred men being put through their paces by a master and his assistants. The students stood in pairs facing one another, alternately attacking and defending as the master called out the moves. All wore padded coats and stout helmets. The words were blunt and had basket hilts to protect the hands.

The walls were hung with a great variety of practice weapons and small bucklers, but the favoured implement seemed to be the one-handed sword. It was the best weapon for fighting in city streets. The men had a grimly determined look, but Conan quickly saw that few of them had much aptitude. The master, a wiry man in his forties, called a rest and then noticed the Cimmerian. HI walked toward Conan, looking him over with quick calculation.

'You've the look of a man who needs no instruction from me,' he said by way of greeting.

'I heard the sound of arms and came to have a look,' Conan said. 'I never saw an arms school with so many over-aged burglars as students.'

The master's smile was a white flash in his dark countenance 'I heard about this town a year ago and came hither. It seemed to me that a frightened town would be a good place in which t practice my profession, and I was right. Cutlers and armourers d well here, too. The citizens wear so much iron beneath their clothes that the streets draw lightning.'

'Do you teach the scoundrels as well as the respectable citizenry?' Conan asked.

Again the swift smile. 'Them I teach in the evenings.'

'How do they rate?'

'Few are good fighters. All are killers.'

'Is that true of Ermak's men?' Conan knew that it was seldom difficult to get a professional swordsman to talk shop.

'Professionals. They are mostly competent second-rat swordsmen. Battlefield soldiers are seldom truly expert at the art of single combat. Ermak's men are far better than any of the others, but their real skills are with pike and halberd.'

'How about the followers of Ingas, the ones who wear red leather?'

'They never come here. They have small skill, but they are the most vicious. They favour those Khorajan slashers because with one, you can inflict a terrible wound with very little skill. But the Khorajan two-hander lacks defensive quality, so if you don't wan to be killed in the midst of cutting down your man, you have to be very quick, well armoured, or else do all of your fighting it packs. Ingas's men prefer the latter.'

'I have noticed that about them.'

'Do you seek employment with Ermak?' the scoutmaster asked.

'I have no such plans at present.'

'Then consider coming to work with me. As you can see, I have more students than I can comfortably handle with just three assistants. I teach three classes every day. One class is even made up of women!'

'I will think about it. But you know as well as I that the knowing of technique is of no use to a man who is not a real fighter.'

The master shrugged. 'It makes them feel safer and they pay well for the instruction.'

Conan bade the master farewell and walked outside. Behind him, the clashing of metal resumed.

Another few minutes of walking brought him to the Square. It was a large public area for a city so small, surrounded by splendid wildings and decorated with a number of fine statues. Some of die buildings were temples, others were mansions. One had the royal lions of Aquilonia over its main gate. This, he decided, must lie the headquarters of the King's Reeve.

He began to wander among the numerous stalls set up by vendors. Although he had taken no particular path through the town, lie did not meander aimlessly. He was exploring, fixing the plan if the town in his mind so that he would not become lost should lie have to flee. It would be disastrous to run into a blind alley were there a large group of armed and angry men at his heels.

A number of beggars lounged in the shade of the colonnade Brita had mentioned. Apparently it was too early yet for the ladies lo parade their wares. He was passing the statue of an Aquilonian king dead for a hundred years when he heard a commotion nearby. People began to flee past him, looking back over their shoulders.

With the agility of a mountain goat, Conan sprang up onto the pedestal of the statue. From his vantage point he stood above the heads of the crowd, which now had drawn back to leave a broad, clear space at the western end of the Square. Within the cleared space two groups of men shouted at each other, separated by about a dozen paces. The sun flashed on drawn weapons. It seemed that a fine brawl was in the making.

'Hey up there!' It was a woman's voice. 'You, the black haired foreigner! Help me up. I want to see!''

Conan looked down to see a handsome, brown-haired whose expensive gown was styled to show her lush figure to be advantage. He stooped to grasp her hand and with a tigerish surge of muscle, he hauled her onto the pedestal beside him.

'My, you are a strong one!' She smiled at him boldly, thought I knew all the rogues in this town. Who are you?'

'Conan of Cimmeria. If you know them all, who are the! men making all the fierce noises?'

She surveyed the scene before them. 'The bigger band over there on the right are Lisip's men. The others are Ermak's.'

Now he saw Nevus, his drinking companion of the night before. Nevus stood with about fifteen comrades, all of them hat men like himself. Most of these wore light armour and carried drawn short swords or cutlasses, although one had a light, straight two-hander and another a quarterstaff. They were heavily outnumbered but stood unafraid, smiling and hurling insults.

Facing them were at least thirty men dressed in a motley assortment of garments, most of them marked like the men he ha seen the night before in the Wyvern. They carried an equally grotesque assortment of weapons. At a glance, Conan identified a double-bladed ax from Shem, a Bossonian archer's bill, eight different types of sword, and an iron flail. One man was armed with a pair of steel gauntlets with three-inch spikes over the knuckles.

'Which one is Lisip?' Conan asked.

'You won't see him here,' the woman said. 'He rarely leaves the Pit, and he's too old and fat to fight anyway.'

He did not need to ask which was Ermak. A tall, sandy-haired man stood a little before and to one side of the mercenaries dressed in half-armour of excellent quality. It was the best position for controlling a small unit, and the man had the bearing of an experienced under-officer. The sword he held casually in one ha bore a blade that measured about two inches wide at the hilt and had a perfectly straight taper to its needle point. It was a sword of a true blade artist, and its hilt was a complex steel basket of solid shape.

'This will be enjoyable,' the woman said, 'but they'll take an age to get started. We might as well be comfortable.' She sat on the pedestal, her legs dangling over one edge. Conan sat beside her and gave her an admiring examination. If she noticed, she was totally unembarrassed by it. She was a large woman, but so well proportioned that every line of her was graceful. Her facial features were of the same proportions, but too finely formed to considered heavy.

'Who are you?' Conan asked, 'and how do you come to know so much about these men?'

'I'm Maxio's woman. My name is Delia.' She stuck two fingers against her lower lip and vented a shrill whistle. A vendor looked around and she waved him over to the pedestal. She tossed him a coin and he held up a broad leaf that had been cleverly folded to form a pouch. She took a few nuts from the pouch and popped them into her mouth, then held out the leaf to Conan. He look some of the nuts. They were still warm from the oven.

'And who might Maxio be?' he asked.

'You are new here. Maxio is the leader of his own little band. I freelance, mostly, but sometimes they side with one of the other gangs. They specialize in housebreaking.'

'And Maxio is your husband?'

She laughed heartily. 'Husband? What would I want with a husband? I said I was his woman, but that is a matter that could change.' She gave him an appraisal as open as he had given her. 'It could change very soon, if the right man should appear.'

Lisip's men had drawn closer to Ermak's, who held their ground. They were still well out of weapons range. A crowd of guards now stood on the steps of the Reeve's headquarters, but they did not seem inclined to rush between the two bands and prevent violence.

'Will they do anything?' Conan asked, nodding toward the guardsmen. This time she laughed even louder.

'That bunch of spavined, knock-kneed ex-beggars? If they were horses, you couldn't boil them down for decent glue! You see that fat face peering out from behind them, as if they could somehow preserve it from harm?'

'I see the man,' Conan answered.

'That is Bombas, the King's Reeve, one of the two men who claim to own this city. He belongs to anyone who pays him. Hi lets the rogues have free run of the town, but he hates Maxio, s my man has to keep out of sight most of the time.'

'The royal guards don't look formidable enough to cause a man of spirit any fear,' Conan said.

'Bombas has three who are hard men, and he keeps them close, as his personal bodyguards. One is a local man named Julus. He was once Lisip's second-in-command, but Lisip expelled him for skimming more than his share. The other two are a pair of Zingarans whose names I do not know. They have orders to kill Maxio on sight.' She continued to much the roasted nuts as if the prospect of her paramour's imminent demise was not terribly upsetting. 'I wish they would hurry up and fight. This sun will bring out my freckles.'

Ermak's men had now formed a double line, with intervals between men and lines sufficient to allow free use of weapons but close enough that each would not have to face two enemies at once, except for the flankers. Conan noted with approval that the strongest-looking men stood on the flanks. Lisip's men stood in a disorderly mob, doing most of the shouting. 'Why this enmity for Maxio?' Conan asked. 'Bombas thinks that Maxio murdered his brother last month. This brother was heard arguing with someone in an upper room of the Wyvern. A little while later he was found with a dagger buried in his guts. The dagger was one that Maxio had been carrying for weeks; it had an ivory grip set with garnets.'

'The Wyvern?' Conan said, wonderment in his voice. 'What, was the Reeve's brother doing in that place?'

'Oh, Burdo—that was his name, Burdo—had a well-known taste for the women of that establishment.' She said this with the contempt of a well-placed courtesan for her lesser sisters. 'And

In- suffered from several of the consequent ailments. He was supposed to be meeting someone about a magical cure, but someone killed him instead.'

'Was it Maxio?' Conan asked.

She shrugged. 'I do not know. What is it to me if he did kill him? I know of no reason why he should, but he does not discuss everything with me.' She gave Conan another admiring appraisal. 'Just as I do not tell him everything.'

At that moment, Lisip's mob, their courage sufficiently worked up, charged at the smaller band of mercenaries. Instantly the air was filled with the sound of clashing arms. Shouts of rage vied with screams of anguish, and men began to fall. The mercenaries held their line, while most of Lisip's men could only wave their aims ineffectually. Any time one of Lisip's men tried to force a way through the front line, one of the men in the staggered second line repelled him.

'With that many men,' Conan commented, taking another handful of the nuts, 'they could easily turn a flank. They have numbers sufficient to make up for their lack of skill. It is cowardice that keeps them from doing it.'

'That is so,' she agreed. 'Everyone in town fears Ermak's reputation. He has killed ten men in single combats alone since he came to town, and who knows how many in brawls.'

Now Ermak shouted for the first time: 'Advance!' Smoothly, the second line stepped through the intervals in the first. These men were fresher and they plied their arms with fury, dealing wounds with nearly every blow, taking but few injuries in return.

'It won't be long now,' Delia predicted. 'Lisip's scum have no staying power.'

Conan saw that a number of the rearmost of Lisip's men were already slowly backing away from the mob, not wanting to run like cowards but having lost their taste for the fight.

'Advance all!' Ermak shouted. The former first line now stepped into the intervals, thus forming a single line. All of the mercenaries began to advance forcefully and steadily, dealing a blow with each short step. It was too much for Lisip's mob. After a brief, defensive flurry, they broke, starting with the mercenaries and quickly degenerating into a thinning crowd of fleeing men.

Ermak's professionals pursued them to the edge of the Square, then stopped at their leader's command. Laughing, they turned and walked back across the plaza, wiping their bloodied weapons. Some in the crowd cheered and clapped. Seven men, dead or mortally wounded, lay upon the pave. Some others dragged themselves away, favouring wounded limbs. All were Lisip's. Some of Ermak's men had taken minor wounds, but none needed the help of comrades to walk.

'Not much of a fight,' Delia complained. 'After a good one I've seen as many as two score dead on the Square or in the street.'

Conan was satisfied. It had been amusing, and he had learned! much about the respective merits of two of the town's gangs. 'You said that Bombas is one of two who claim to own the town. Who is the other?'

She pointed to a great mansion that hulked at the northern side of the Square, behind high, spike-topped walls. 'The man who lives in that house. His name is Xanthus and he owns the silver mine, or rather, he leases it from the Crown. He is far and away the richest man in Sicas, and like all of that breed, he can never; be rich enough. It was his problems with the miners' guild that started all this warfare between the gangs.'

At last, Conan thought, he was learning the reason behind this uproarious activity. 'The miners? How so?'

'The miners had a long dispute with Xanthus, and a number! of times they marched into the Square here and made a demonstration in front of his house, shouting and waving their picks and hammers. Finally, they refused to work.' 'What did they complain about?' Conan asked. She shrugged. 'I don't know. Pay or conditions at the mine or some such. I'll have nothing to do with any man who works for a living. That way, you die old and poor.'

' 'If the mine is Crown property, why did he not go to the king for aid?'

'I cannot say, but he did not. Instead, he went to Ophir, where the civil war has been dragging on for years, and he came back with Ermak and his men. Ermak had more than fourscore men with him then. They broke the miners and forced them back to work. That was when the miners' guildhall was burned.'

Conan could see where this was leading. 'But when the mercenaries had restored control, they were of no mind to leave?'

'Not when they found how agreeable life could be for them there. I think that Ermak has decided to retire from the wars and set himself up as a wealthy lord some place.'

'Of course, Lisip did not like all this. He had controlled the underworld activity in this town since before I was born, but he ways stayed in the Pit. Soon he was sending agents out to hire rogues and bring them back here to reinforce him. The word spread that Sicas is a town where anything can be had for a price id where you can do anything you want, as long as you decorate die right palms with silver and gold. Now not a day goes by without some new villain coming through the gate.' Again she gave Conan her bold stare. 'Like you.'

'I thank you for sharing this information with me,' Conan said.

'I'm sure you will put it to good use,' she replied with obvious amusement.

Conan boosted himself from his seat atop the pedestal and landed lightly on bent knees. He reached up and caught Delia by the waist as she pushed off from her own seat. Her waist was remarkably slender for so large a woman. She landed with her hands braced on his shoulders. They stayed there longer than absolutely necessary.

'Farewell, Cimmerian,' she said. 'I expect to be hearing from you soon. Should you wish to see me, I am always easy to find.'

'Before you go,' he said.

'Yes?'

'What do you know of a man named Asdras?'

She looked disappointed. 'The man who was found dead this morning behind the Wyvern? Just that he was a gambler who

came here a few days ago and established himself at a table there. As for his being found dead in the alley, it's a rare morning where a corpse isn't found there.'

'What about a woman who arrived here with him? Her name is Ylla, but she may be using another. She is very young.'

'I'd heard of no woman, but that is not unusual. Sporting men often keep their women hidden away someplace. Now that she's without a protector, she'll probably show up beneath the colonnade there.' She pointed to the structure, where the beggars had resumed their begging. 'The beggars have it in the mornings. The professional women show up as the sun lowers.' She smiled at him. 'You shouldn't have to go looking for a woman, though.' 'I'm not. Thank you again, and good day to you, Delia.' Still smiling, she turned and swayed away, contriving to make even her retreat an invitation.

'Who is that woman?' hissed a voice behind him. He whirled to see a small, feminine figure standing near him. Her head was scarved and her face veiled.

'Brita?'

'Of course it is I. Who else would it be? I came down here this morning while you snored away. I've been combing the town since sunrise, looking for my sister. I saw you come into the Square a while ago, but then I saw that a fight was about to start and I was frightened and fled. Just now I heard that the brawl was over and I came back. Who was that hussy?'

'Is it any business of yours?' he demanded, annoyed with her proprietary attitude.

'Well,' she stammered, the blush concealed behind her veil but plain in her voice, 'I... I... would think that you would not consort with such persons when we have a serious mission to perform.'

'We have, have we?' he said. 'I do not recall taking service with you. I said I would help you out while I wait to contact my employer.''

She was silent for a moment, then said primly, 'I am sorry. I assumed too much. I will not trouble you further.' She turned and began to walk away.

'Wait,' Conan said. She paused. 'As a matter of fact, that woman was telling me of how matters stand in this town. And I asked about Asdras and your sister.'

'What did she say?' Brita asked, hope bright in her voice.

'Not much,' Conan confessed. 'She knew of Asdras, but she knew nothing of your sister.'

'Oh. Well, I have heard from several people that she has been seen. There is a scent that she loves, and I asked among the perfumers until I found a shop where she purchased some of it a few days ago. And other vendors are sure that they saw her. There are not that many gently bred girls her age with a Tarantian accent in this town.'

'She would stand out,' Conan agreed. He was angered at himself for justifying his actions to the woman, as if she had some claim upon him. But there was something in her vulnerability, and in her hopeful courage in this cesspit of a city, that appealed to him. Then he glanced over her shoulder and saw three men walking toward him across the Square with measured, deliberate stride.

'Go back to the inn,' he told Brita. 'I will speak with you this evening.'

'What is it?' She turned to follow his gaze.

'I am about to be questioned by the royal authorities,' he said. 'Best that you do not attract their notice.'

'I see. I will speak with you later, then.' She left a few seconds before the three were within speaking distance. One was a huge, brute-faced man with black hair sprouting through the laces of his shirt. The other two were smaller, wearing the dress and ornaments of Zingara. The big man had a stout wooden club thonged to his belt, its knotty head studded with iron. The other two wore sleeveless vests of fine mail and boasted curved swords. They had the aspect of men handy with their weapons.

'Come with us,' said the big man. 'The King's Reeve wishes to speak with you.'

—is there some reason why I should go with you?' Conan asked. 'I have done nothing illegal in this town.'

'If you do not come with us,' said the largest of the three, 'you are resisting the Reeve's summons, and that is an offence.'

'Am I under arrest?' Conan asked, his hand near his hilt.

'He just wants to talk to you,' said the man in a bored tone. 'Do not make this difficult.'

'Then lead on,' Conan said. The hulking man turned and Conan followed him. The two Zingarans fell in behind the Cimmerian. They crossed the Square, where a cleaning crew loaded the bodies into wheelbarrows and men wielded mops to clean up the blood. Scavengers had already appropriated the fallen weapons.

Conan followed the big man up the steps of the Reeve's headquarters, at the top of which two guardsmen leaned upon their pikes as if they truly needed the support. One man had a crooked leg. The second was one-eyed, and he squinted with the remaining eye as if the orb were none too sound. Except for his escort, Conan noted, every king's man he had encountered in this town was fat, elderly, or physically infirm in some fashion. It seemed an odd standard of recruitment, but he had no doubt that it tied in with everything else that was wrong with this district. He remembered the decrepit state of the royal high road he had travelled in coining hither. This sorry excuse for a royal burgh was yet further proof that the King of Aquilonia was losing his grip.

He was ushered into an office of palatial proportions, and a man looked up at him from behind a desk of equally imposing size. The man himself was fat, with sagging flesh drooping in unhealthy folds, spilling over the tight collar of his embroidered tunic and hanging over his belt like a suspended waterfall. His flesh was greyish, and his small brown eyes peered from the folds ' as from behind ramparts.

'Here is the foreigner, Your Excellency,' the big man reported.

'Very well, Julus. You, barbarian, come here.' He gestured with a gloved finger. Over the gloves Bombas wore rings upon every finger. Even his thumbs sported large seal rings.

Conan stepped forward. 'Yes?'

'I saw you watching that fight a little while ago,' the Reeve

said.

'And I saw you watching it, too,' said the Cimmerian.

The Reeve's face gained a little colour. 'What is it to me if the riff-raff of this town murder each other? Good riddance is what I say to that. But I make it my business to know what new villains solicit my town. I knew you for a Cimmerian the moment saw you. I was a junior officer in Gunderland years ago, and I know your breed. You are all troublemakers, and there are still some of us who haven't forgotten Venarium.'

'I've made no trouble in your town,' Conan maintained, 'although I've seen very little but trouble since I rode through your gate.'

'What is your business here?' the Reeve demanded.

Conan decided that he had better say nothing about Piris. 'A way back on the road, I drove off some bandits about to victimize a woman. A respectable, Aquilonian lady. She was on her way either to find her sister, who had run away with a gambler, and I agreed to help her.''

There was no belief in the Reeve's expression. 'Knight-errantry is for aristocrats, not for a common sell sword like you.'

Conan shrugged, knowing better than to plead nobility of purpose. 'She is paying me.'

'Well, I will have my eye on you from now on. This is my city, and I like to regulate the comings and goings of the scoundrels who infest it. Get your business done and move on. I have no need for the likes of you in this city.'

Conan wanted to laugh in the face of this pig-eyed lout who would pretend to control this town when he was too fearful to leave his own palace.

'And further,' said Bombas, 'there is one man whose company you should particularly avoid. His name is Maxio. He murdered my brother, and the moment I see him, he draws his last

breath.' Now the Reeve's tone grew conciliatory. 'Still, so long as you keep to lawful employment, and stay not too long, you will have no trouble from me. You have been warned. However,' and now his voice became almost friendly, 'should you learn of where Maxio is hiding, that is information for which I will pay handsomely. Keep it in mind. And now, good day to you.'

Conan turned and went to the door, then turned back. 'Your, Excellency?''

The Reeve looked up from his papers. 'Yes?'

'As King's Reeve, you are empowered to have a hundred men-at-arms, all mounted, are you not?'

'That is so.'

'Yet I have seen only about a score, and none of them on horseback. Why is that?'

The Reeve looked at him coldly. 'When I need to consult with a penniless barbarian on matters of military policy, rest assured that I shall send for you instantly. Now, begone.'

Smiling, Conan turned and left.

V

The Fat Man

From the Reeve's palace, Conan continued his exploration of the city. South of the Square, the buildings were older and a great deal shabbier. By the time he reached the Pit, they were truly dilapidated. Here the streets were nearly deserted, and the few inhabitants bore the ragged look of poverty and drunkenness. This was a district of predators and scavengers, who slept by day and preyed by night.

Apparently the clean-up crews never strayed far south of the Square, for here the streets and alleys were slick with filth and the rats were as abundant in the day as at night. He found the Wyvern, its door bolted at this early hour.

He walked to the confluence of the rivers and arrived in time to see some bodies floating by, most likely those of the men who had been slain in the riot. All had been thoroughly stripped, and the river fish already nibbled at the ghastly mess of exposed organs floating next to one of the corpses.

Satisfied that he understood the basic layout of the town, Conan turned his steps back northward. This time he took a different route, and he noted that the more prosperous, newer section of the town had a system of sewers beneath the streets. He knew from experience that these could be handy for escape in time of need, and he made a mental note of every access hatch he passed.

Once, as he stood next to a clothes-seller's stall, a procession passed by. A score of men and women, most of them quite young, followed a man bearing the image of a large-breasted female deity that bore a Vendhyan look. The followers clashed tuneless instruments and chanted endlessly. Conan inquired of the vendor who these people might be, and the man made a sour face.

'Followers of Mother Doorgah. Their leader is a priest who came here a couple of years ago and moved into the old Temple of Mitra on the Square. They're a nuisance, but harmless enough.'

'Is that allowed?' Conan asked. 'I thought that only state deities were permitted to have temples in a royal burgh.'

The man looked at him pityingly. 'It seems that this goddess has money. That is all that is required in Sicas.'

Moving on, Conan checked with the gate guard and found that Piris had not yet made an appearance. Where was the man? Already, Conan was impatient with the waiting. Sicas was a town where a man of courage, strength, and enterprise could grow very { rich, and the Cimmerian had thought of several ways that he might hasten his own growth in that direction. The eight hundred dishas he had yet to earn from Piris, which had seemed a goodly fortune just a few days before, now seemed a paltry sum. He decided to give Piris one more day to contact him; failing that, he would commence operations on his own.

There were still two hours of daylight remaining, so the Cimmerian went to the inn and saddled his horse. Both he and the animal needed the exercise. He wanted the beast to be in top shape should his leave-taking of Sicas be precipitate and not lacking in company.

Outside the city, he put the horse through its paces, finishing with a hard gallop and then a leisurely, cooling walk on the return to the city gate. Back at the inn, he oversaw the animal's currying and gave the stable boy specific instructions as to the mount's care and feeding, tipping the lad handsomely to be sure that his orders were carried out conscientiously.

As he walked from the stable, his stomach reminded him that lie had not eaten since breakfast. His relatively active day had left him ravenous. He was striding toward the public room when a man stood in his way.

'Your pardon, sir,' said the man, who, Conan realized, was not much more than a boy, and one with a weakly pretty face. By way of compensation he wore a brigantine of brown velvet studded with brass, and his open cloak revealed that he wore not one, but two swords.

'Yes?' Conan grumbled. Hunger always put him in an ill temper.

'My master would speak with you.'

'Boy,' Conan said, 'I do not know your master, and I do not know you, and you stand between me and my dinner. Stand aside, and if your master wishes to speak with me, he may come here and ask for me within.'

'I am sorry, sir, but I must insist. My master desires most urgently to speak with you, and in fact, he invites you to share dinner with him.'

'That is better, but still not good enough. Stand aside.' He pushed past the youth and walked toward the common room. 'Sir!'

This time Conan whirled. 'Curse you, boy. What do—' He stopped when he saw the small crossbow that the youth levelled at him. He must have had it hooked beneath his cloak, already drawn and with a bolt fitted to the string. 'Now, sir, will you come with me?'

'Are you as good as you think you are? That thing lacks the power to punch through this armour, and I have slain many men while badly wounded.' His hand went to his hilt.

The youth smiled. 'Perhaps so. But do you truly want to get a bolt through your leg, or your arm, or perhaps even through an eye? That is a great annoyance to endure just to turn down an offer of dinner.''

'Your master had better be a very, very generous man,' Conan said. 'Let's go.'

The youth walked just behind Conan and directed his route. From the inn they walked but a short distance, then went around to the rear of a fine stone house. The boy indicated that he should™ climb an exterior stair to the house's half-timbered second story and Conan complied, halting at a landing facing a heavy door. 'This is the place,' the boy said. 'Now, knock.'

Conan knocked. Then he whirled and snatched the crossbow from the youth's hands and tossed it to the ground below. Cursing, the lad reached for his swords, but his hands closed on Co-nan's, which already gripped the hilts.

Conan grinned at him. 'Men who are not confident in their swordsmanship sometimes think that two swords make them twice as dangerous.' Abruptly the Cimmerian yanked the two blades free of their scabbards. Before the youth could even think to move,; Conan was behind him, and the blades crossed just beneath his; chin. 'But it is not true,' Conan concluded.

At that moment the door began to open and Conan barged through, pushing the boy before him. A man sprang back as they! entered. Conan braced a knee against the boy's back and shoved' him forward just as the blades snapped away from the lad's neck.

'Your boy is too young to be allowed to play with dangerous! toys,' Conan said, casting the twin swords at the man's feet. The I youth sprawled in a corner, holding a hand to his head, which I had made violent contact with the wall.

The man Conan addressed was immense, not only tall, but enormously fat. If Bombas was a wreck of sagging, pallid flesh, this man was a majestic monument of billowing fat, appearing to be constructed of spheres stacked one atop another. His immensity, poised on incongruously tiny feet, seemed to float weightlessly as he moved. He was dressed in richly ornate garments and wore many jewels; his fat face was as pink and cherubic as a babe's. But his eyes were as hard and sharp as sword points. He walked over to the youth and looked down sadly.

'Gilmay, Gilmay,' he sighed. 'What am I to do with you? I give you simple instructions. I say: 'Gilmay, go and ask, respectfully, mind you, that this Cimmerian gentleman come to meet with me, that we may break bread and hold converse together.' Hut do you follow my instructions? No, indeed you do not. Instead, you must measure yourself against a tried warrior. Simple courtesy is not sufficient, for you must play with swords. Well, this gentleman has very properly chastised you, and you should be grateful that he did you no harm in the process. Now, Gilmay, I adjure you to apologize to this gentleman.'

The boy looked up, furious, but he saw something in the fat man's face that cowed him thoroughly. He turned to Conan and bowed. 'I beg your forgiveness, sir.'

Conan stood thunderstruck throughout the strange performance. 'You did all the suffering,' he said.

'And that being the case,' said the fat man, 'let us all be friends and sit down and have dinner like civilized men.'

'I am not a civilized man,' Conan said.

'And yet,' the other said, 'you displayed the true, the inner... that is to say, the spiritual... quality of civilization and gentility. I cannot tell you, sir, how much I admire one who has not only the strength and spirit to conquer, but tempers these manly virtues with the qualities of compassion and the fine judgement, the delicate discrimination, to know when the proper amount of force has been applied and that no more need be exercised. I admire that, sir, indeed I do.'

Conan endured the torrent of words with equanimity. 'Get to the point.'

'The point? But, sir, is dinner not the very point of existence? Would any day be complete without it? And if not complete, how can any day be of profit? So let us to dinner, sir, and then we shall speak of other matters.'

'A bite of dinner would not come amiss,' Conan allowed.

'Gilmay, inform our host that we are to be served immediately.'

The fat man turned to Conan. 'And now, sir, that the air has been cleared between us, now that all hostility has been disperse, and an air of tranquillity prevails over all, I pray you be seated and allow me to pour you a cup of this excellent wine of Poitain,' laid down many years before either of us afflicted the ears of our fond parents with babyish squalls. This is a fine, full-spirited Altuga Red, its grapes grown on the southward-facing slopes of a vineyard of that province, brought to fullest maturity, picked by, stout yeomen and trampled by the shapely bare feet of the most beauteous peasant lasses of that fortunate land. Those feet, where they are not crumbled to dust, are now gnarled and cankered with age, but their former beauty remains enshrined in this most excellent vintage.' He poured two cups full and handed one to. Conan. The Cimmerian watched the other man drain his glass before doing likewise. It was splendid wine, he thought, even without all the build-up. He held out his glass and the fat man refilled both.

'And now, sir,' the man said, 'I know that you are a Cimmerian and that your name is Conan.'

'You're better informed than I in that matter,' Conan said. 'Then let us correct that at the outset. Your humble servant whom you see standing before you, and eager to offer hospitality, is Casperus, a scholar and minor, I say very minor, wizard of Numalia, in Nemedia. Do you know the city?' 'I've been there,' Conan nodded.

'A wonderful city. A place of scholars and artists, where even such an inept fellow as I could study and gain a humble reputation as a mage. The arts of magic, of course, are terrible and mysterious and require, alas, that one who would be a true master begin his studies in earliest youth, enduring all the sufferings and privations of the ascetic. Alas, I did not have the opportunity to do this, but instead came to study the mysteries only after reaching full maturity and, as you have no doubt observed,' he gestured self-deprecatingly at his rotund form, 'I lack the qualities of true

self-denial. No, I was trained and spent much of my life as an appraiser in art objects, rarities of which most persons cannot even assess the value.'

The Cimmerian nodded, evincing polite interest, giving half an ear to the man's incredibly voluble words but far more attention to matters of gesture and expression. Once, as a naive barbarian youth adrift in the bewildering world of the great cities and city-states and empires, Conan had been gulled by appearances, taken in by words. That was no longer true. He had long ago learned to look beyond outward demeanour and make a far shrewder judgement of his fellow men, although by his own admission, he was a good deal less canny where women were concerned.

The man wanted to give the appearance of a fat, eccentric, rather foolish dabbler in magical arts. That he was indeed fat was unassailable fact. The rest was not. Behind the aspect of softness and the flood of words, Conan perceived a ruthless, brilliant mind at work, and a will as strong as any he had encountered in his life. He said nothing of this, and that, too, was a lesson he had learned early and at great cost.

'Despite my late and, if the truth be told, quite superficial studies,' Casperus continued, 'I acquired enough mastery of the arts thaumaturgic to be able to find a man of many rare qualities, just such qualities as I require, residing within a close radius of my own location. Allow me to show you, sir.'

He walked to a low table, gesturing tor Conan to follow. The Cimmerian did so. He disliked sorcery, but he scented something far more than sorcery here, something far sweeter and far more to his taste. Conan scented money, in large amounts.

On the table rested a wooden object resembling an open book. The hinged cover lay back, revealing strange characters carved into its inner surface. Set into the other half was a round mirror made of what appeared to be black glass.

'Know you what this is, sir?' asked Casperus with amazing brevity.

'A scrying glass,' Conan said. It was a common device, used by sorcerers to discern distant or hidden matters.

'Exactly, sir, exactly. An elementary thing, but truly indispensable. I had but to concentrate my thoughts upon my requirements, speak a simple spell or two, and behold! There did my scrying glass reveal, in this very city, sir, just such a man as met my requirements. To wit: a warrior of Cimmeria, a bold and hardy son of that most notably bold and hardy race.'

Before Conan could seek more explanation, the servers appeared, coming from below-stairs. They wore livery and per- I formed their task with the swiftness and efficiency of well-trained I domestics, setting up a trestle table, covering it with a snowy cloth and loading it with serving platters. When the last platter I had been laid and the candles lighted, the table looked ready to I collapse with the weight of opulence. There was a profusion of delicacies, but the centrepiece was an entire roast pig, its eyes I replaced by cherries and in its mouth an apple studded with cloves. I 'Where are the others?' Conan inquired. 'What others, sir?' asked Casperus, seating himself. 'The other diners, of course.' Conan seated himself likewise. 'Surely all this is not for just the two of us?' 'And wherefore not, sir?' the mage demanded. Conan accounted himself a trencherman of no mean capacity, but he was certain that he could not have made his way through this spread in a week.

'As I have said, sir, I am at best a third-rate wizard, and before that, a most humble and obscure purveyor of works of art. I am upon no account an accomplished warrior, and to my chagrin, I must confess that in the arts amatory, my deeds must be accounted laughable. However, in the feats of the table, I yield second place to no man, sir, to no man! You and I, sir, each in his own way, possess qualities that border upon the heroic, so why should we feel ourselves bound by the cautions and the appearances of lesser men? Would you practice at arms with an untried youth who is no match for your strength and skill? Well, sir, neither will I face such a meal as would satisfy the paltry

appetite of a common burgher or labourer. And you, I can see, are a man of abounding appetite for all the things that make life worth living, so let us set to, sir, let us set to!'

Forthwith, the fat man seized a bone-handled carving knife and removed from the roast pig a slab of flesh sufficient to feed a small family. Conan could bear the delectable smells no longer and began to heap his own plate. In silence the two men attacked the banquet, occasionally refilling their cups from the numerous flagons that dotted the table.

The Cimmerian made a substantial dent in the spread, but when at last he leaned back replete, the fat man still tore into the viands as if he had not seen food in weeks. He emptied plates, stripped bones and sopped up gravies, ingested mounds of pastries and devoured slabs of bread spread thick with herbed butter. Since his own hunger was now sated, Conan found the sight repulsive. He studied the chamber surrounding him to avoid the sight of the gorging Casperus.

It was an extremely long room, with windows in every wall. Apparently the merchant-mage had let the entire upper floor of the house. The furnishings were few, but rich: a huge bed, some chairs, the trestle table. Bundles of what looked like travelling gear were neatly stacked in a corner. Most oddly, considering what the man claimed to be, the only piece of wizardly paraphernalia in sight was the scrying glass. Usually the quarters of wizards were replete with astrolabes, ancient books, vials of strange liquids and powders, and bubbling retorts. This one was travelling, he reflected, and was by his own admission not much of a wizard.

At last Casperus sat back and released a mighty belch. The table was devoid of all but scraps of food. Daintily he wiped his lips with a silken napkin and dipped his fingers into a bowl of scented water in which floated rose petals.

'Monstrous fine, sir, monstrous fine,' the fat man proclaimed. 'It is a repast such as this that gives true meaning to life. That, and the search for the ancient, the hidden and the truly valuable. It is of such a matter that we must speak, sir. If you will join me now, we shall discuss our business.'

Casperus rose from the table, moving as lightly as a Poitainian dancer despite the vast meal now lodged in his belly. He took his former chair and sat. He clapped his hands loudly and the servants entered to clear away the ruins of the feast. '

Conan took the chair opposite, and the two men sipped at their wine in silence as the servants went about their work.

'Now,' Conan said when the servants were gone, 'what is this all about?'

'It is a long story, sir, but bear with me. It is worth hearing,! for there is much profit in it.' He leaned forward and spoke in a I voice that was a virtual whisper. 'Now, sir, what do you know of Selkhet?'

Conan shook his head. 'I never heard the word.'

'Few have, outside of Stygia. It is not a word, sir, but a name. The name of a goddess of the Stygian pantheon.'

Conan shifted uncomfortably. He disliked Stygia. He loathed its priest-kings, its wizards, and its infernal collection of gods.

'For many centuries,' Casperus went on, 'Selkhet has been I a minor deity, a mere protector of the grave, her image carved I upon the grave-markers of the poor, or set as a statue atop the tombs of the wealthier. Like all Stygian deities, she has a tutelary animal. Selkhet's is the scorpion. Know you much of magic or godcraft, sir?'

'As little as I can safely manage,' Conan assured him. 'Crom is my god. One god is enough for any man.'

'Ah, yes, Crom of the northlands, the rival of Ymir. An interesting deity, but one with whom little of magic is associated. Well, sir, doubtless you have learned in your travels that most peoples are not of your religious frame of mind. Most prefer a plethora, a veritable multitude of deities, and none of all the earth are as god-besotted as the people of Stygia.' He sat back and smiled. 'Now, sir, I have told you that I am a magician in my I humble way, but that does not mean that I am superstitious. Matters of sorcery and divinity work according to certain immutable laws. These are laws studied and understood only by the highest of mages and priesthoods. Gods are not at all what most people fondly think them to be. To the typical worshipper, a god is just a sort of extremely puissant human being who must be placated, but gods are nothing of the sort, I assure you.

'Take this matter of the tutelary animals. Gods have their origins not upon this earth, but in the vast and awful gulfs of space, so why should they be represented by, or even take the form of, earthly animals? I will tell you why: because men want lo give these unfathomable creatures a form that is familiar to them. Selkhet, for instance. Grave-robbers perform their unclean labours at night. In prying into tombs, one will encounter two sorts of noxious creatures: serpents and scorpions. Serpents are torpid at night and rarely bite then. Scorpions are at their most lively in the hours of darkness. Any tomb-robber will be stung by scorpions, and some of the scorpions of Stygia can slay with a single sting. Therefore, to the vulgar mind, the scorpion is sacred to Selkhet, the guardian of tombs. Do you follow me, sir?'

'Thus far,' Conan said.

'Excellent, sir, excellent. Selkhet is an unthinkably powerful creature from who knows what distant star, but in Stygia she is portrayed in one of three ways: as a beautiful woman wearing a headdress crowned with the image of a scorpion, as a scorpion with the head of a woman, or simply as a scorpion. Now, what know you of Python?' He laced his fingers upon his capacious belly, and the candlelight winked luridly from the rings decorating the pudgy digits.

'A city of ancient legend, the capital of long-perished Acheron.'

'Very good. Now, the people of Acheron were close relatives of the Stygians of today. Both were descended from the people of yet more ancient Lemuria. Acheron was their northern kingdom, Stygia the southern. Ah, sir, if you could only have seen purple-towered Python! I have, in mystic visions, and I can assure you that the most gorgeous cities of today are but poor and shabby places compared to Python. Its extent was ten times that of Luxur, the greatest city of Stygia; its obelisks were high enough to pierce the moon! Its wealth was beyond imagining, and its mages and

priests the most powerful the world has ever seen.' His voice took on a tone of sadness, but it was the tone of a professional storyteller.

'As the millennia turned in their immemorial rotation, Acheron grew decadent, and most of its magical lore was forgotten.' The barbarian Hybori overwhelmed the degenerate heirs of a once-l great empire and scattered them like chaff before the storm. Many of the Acheronians fled south, to take refuge with their cousins, the Stygians. Stygia, unlike Acheron, was at the height of its! power and stopped the Hybori at the Styx, which they were never to cross in all the centuries since that time. Now we come to the meat of the matter.''

'And about time,' Conan grumbled. The merchant went on I as if he had not heard the rude comment.

'Much of the early part of this tale is related in the Book of Skelos, but you must understand that much of that most powerful I of tomes was writ down in a raving delirium, leaving considerable doubt as to sequence and meaning, although every bit of it is reliable, and is understandable to a great mage, which I haven already told you I am not.'

Conan suppressed a groan. This was just the early part of the tale?

'Among the Pythonian refugees were the priests of Selkhet. This once rich and powerful priesthood was sadly reduced, its temples and treasuries seized by the savage Hybori, able to bear away only such books as they could carry in their arms. These were sad times for them, but they found a protector in the god-king of that day, Khopshef the One Hundred Seventy-third. He gave them the town now known as Khet, the City of Scorpions, with broad lands extending from the river far into the desert. Of course their goddess had to accept a subordinate role. The cult of Set, the Old Serpent, was already predominant in Stygia and would brook no rival.

'In gratitude for this munificence, the priests of Selkhet crafted an image of their goddess as a gift to the god-king. It was to be no ordinary image. First, they set out to find the greatest sculptor

'I the age. This was a man named Ekba, who was a servant of die king of Budhra, a kingdom of that time of which nothing now is known save its name. He was quite mad and therefore suitable for the project. The priests ordered him to create an image of the Goddess as a scorpion with a woman's head, and they subjected him to many spells and rituals to provide him with the correct inspiration. He was to have whatever materials he desired, however rare or valuable.

'These materials proved to be most remarkable; two years were inquired just to assemble them all. Many heroes of the day, men whom I fancy must have been much like yourself, sir, occupied themselves with the quest for these items, and many of them died in the attempt. Ekba demanded the bones of a living princess, the organs of a certain dragon, a pearl of a sort found only in Khitai, and so on. All of these substances were reduced to powders and mixed with the metal of the idol. For ten more years Ekba laboured over the image, spending much time in prayer and ritual, seeking the true vision. He made many attempts to cast the figure, but was unsuccessful. The priests had to guard him at all times, for he frequently attempted suicide.

'At last, Ekba in his despair demanded that he be given a terrible decoction of the black lotus. It is a potion employed only by the greatest mages when attempting the most powerful of spells. With reluctance, the priests agreed and prepared the potion. Ekba drank it and fell into a swoon that lasted ten days and nights, dead to any but the practised eye of a mage.

'When he awoke, he was a man possessed. He ordered that all of his materials be taken from his studio to the very sanctuary of the goddess. There he shut and barred the doors and began his final labour. For twenty days he worked without food or drink, and many were the uncanny sounds that emerged from the temple, heard only by the ears of the priests who surrounded the building. On the final midnight, as the moon reached its zenith over the temple, a terrible scream was heard from inside.

'The priests battered open the doors and rushed within. There they found, on a pedestal, the superb image of their goddess.

Below the pedestal lay the body of Ekba, an expression of unspeakable horror upon its countenance. It had been injected so full of venom that within minutes of the discovery, it exploded from the internal pressure of its bloating.' The fat man seemed to take a certain satisfaction in this grisly revelation.

'Needless to say, the god-king found the image a wholly fitting gift, and he built a shrine in his palace to house it. Now, the image was not valuable for its material, for it was made of basal metal, mostly bronze. Many valuable substances had been incorporated into it, but they had been reduced to powders of no intrinsic worth. No, good sir, what made this image so precious was the tremendous magical power that infused it. For centuries, the god-kings of Stygia employed the scorpion image in their most I esoteric rites, and fora time, the priests of Selkhet enjoyed special! favour and patronage.

'However, even in that haunted kingdom, time goes on and nothing is immutable. The power of Set grew and that of other! gods waned. Less and less often was the image of Selkhet utilized, and her priests fell from power. The Years of Dissolution! came: three centuries when Stygia broke up into warring provinces, the leader of each claiming the mantle of god-king, and great battles were fought both on the ground and on the magical plane.

'The few priests who tended the palace shrine did not want the image to be captured by one of the warring factions, so they moved it to the royal crypt to replace the guardian figure of the goddess that previously resided there. Then, to disguise it, they covered it with a thick, black lacquer so that it would resemble a common figure of black stone. There they left it.

'In the course of the disruptions, the palace changed hands many times, and it is to be assumed that the priests were killed early in this period, because the true nature of the image was forgotten. In time, the palace was abandoned and the desert sands covered it.'

The fat man sat back and peered into his cup, which had grown empty. He remedied this situation, then performed the same service for Conan, who was fascinated with the tale despite his abhorrence of sorcery.

'At some time,' Casperus went on, 'robbers must have tunnelled into the palace to rob its crypts. There are whole villages in Stygia with no livelihood other than the robbing of tombs. They have a great mastery of the counter-spells necessary to protect them from the defensive curses laid upon all such sites. It is certain that about five hundred years ago, the black scorpion was in the possession of the wizard Ashtake of Keshan. He had no concept of its full power, but he knew that it was a talisman of importance. It passed to one of his apprentices upon his death and then it disappeared for more than a century. It resurfaced in the Annals of the Family Ashbaal. For many years it appears among the inventories of that family of merchant-princes of Shem. They had no knowledge of its history or of its magical nature, but even with its unsightly coating of lacquer, it is an exquisite work of art. It resided in their treasury for generations, for as valuable as it plainly was, there was that about it which made the most devoted collectors of art wary.

'The Annals report that the scorpion was stolen, along with much other treasure, when the Argosseans invaded Shem three hundred years ago. It is next mentioned in the memoirs of Elsin Ataro, a high-councillor of King Gitaro the Third of Zingara. This man Ataro was, like me, a dabbler in both art and magic. He knew that the scorpion was more than a fine work of art, wonderful as it was in that capacity. By consulting many rare and ancient tomes, he divined something of its true nature. He conjectured that it was the Selkhet image of the ancient god-kings, although of its origins and creation he knew little. When Ataro died, the scorpion was not among the inventory of his effects.

'Eighty years ago the scorpion reappeared in the possession of the famous wizard Shamtha of Shadizar. How the scorpion fared to Zamora is unknown. The mage became obsessed with the thing and spent many years seeking to unlock its secrets. He attempted numerous magical experiments with it, and he left behind a most unique manuscript detailing his efforts, which came into my possession some years ago. One evening, upon the rising of the gibbous moon, Shamtha attempted a last experiment, the nature of which is unknown since he did not survive to record the process. What is known is that his tower, which stood upon a rise of ground near his house and in which he conducted his wizardly labours, exploded like a mighty volcano, raining stones all over Shadizar. No trace of either wizard or scorpion was found amid the rubble.

'Fortunately, Shamtha kept his record book in his house, which was only slightly damaged. His heirs decided to have the unique document copied and to sell these copies to any student or practitioner of magic who could pay the rather steep price. It has been widely read in the years since, but only as a curiosity, for it was believed that the image of Selkhet was destroyed in the mighty upheaval that shattered the tower of Shamtha.' 'But it was not?' Conan asked.

'Decidedly not. Almost forty years ago the image came into the hands of Melcharus of Numalia, a dealer in antiquities and works of art.' Hands on knees, Casperus leaned forward and spoke with great emphasis. 'That man was my father, and as a boy, I actually saw the fabulous image in the strongroom of his shop! Even as a lad, I was fascinated by something about the image. It drew my thoughts and desires as if by some inner power of its own.' The fat man's eyes glazed and spittle gathered upon his infantile lips. He was a man speaking of his deepest, most secret lust. 'I would seize every chance to visit the strongroom. As often as I could, I volunteered to dust and polish every object therein. My father thought I was merely being dutiful, but I just wanted an excuse to touch it, to stroke its glossy flanks and gaze upon, even stroke lovingly, the beautiful face of the goddess.' His eyes cleared and he shook himself slightly, like a man emerging from a waking dream.

'One evening,' he went on, 'thieves broke into the strongroom. There were many treasures in that room, but the only thing taken was the scorpion. My father was relieved and thought that they must have been alarmed and fled without taking anything truly valuable, but I knew that they had found exactly what they had come for. I grieved for its loss, but I resolved to learn everything I could about the scorpion.

'To that end, I studied the arts of magic, although, as I have told you, with no ambition to become a great magician. No, I wished to recover the image of Selkhet. I tracked down every possible reference to this single end, and I became the world's greatest scholar of this one, obscure facet of magical lore. I set many spies and passed many bribes to divine the image's whereabouts. It has been through many hands since the thieves took it from my father's strongroom. It is restless because it has one sterling quality: It causes the death of any incompetent wizard who seeks to use it.'

'Then why,' Conan demanded, 'since it has been the death of great wizards, and you say you are none such yourself, do you wish to own the thing?'

Casperus, hands still on his knees, sat back and laughed until his fat rolled about in the chair as if independent of the man himself.

'Because, sir, when I describe the feelings I had for the object, I describe the feelings of a boy! I was then under its spell, and I thought its beauty and mystery the most desirable things in the world. But I learned better, sir! When I grew to manhood, I discovered that I would never be a great wizard, but I also learned that there is something even better than power, whether it be earthly or sorcerous. Even better than these is great wealth! As a dealer in art objects, I have trafficked with many of the wealthiest people in the world, and I know that they are above worldly laws. They are courted by kings and are the patrons of magicians, who are but their servants. And—' he leaned forward again and resumed his emphatic whisper '—I have determined that the ancient scorpion image of Selkhet is the single most valuable object upon this earth!'

Conan started to speak, but the mage overrode him.

'Think of it, sir. The black scorpion is three things.' He held up a fat hand with one finger extended. 'It is an unthinkably

ancient artefact of a long-dead kingdom, and perfect in every way.' A second, be-ringed finger joined the first. 'It is a work of art as great as any the world has ever known.' The third finger went up. 'It is, perhaps, the most powerful magical talisman in existence. I qualify this last only because it is believed by some that the legendary jewel called the Heart of Ahriman is as puissant, but I do not believe it to be so. In any case, the whereabouts of the Heart have been unknown for three thousand years. Now, when this scorpion is in my hands, I propose to hold a unique auction, an auction for sorcerers and art collectors and those rarefied few who combine both activities. I shall send out missives identifying the work in question, and I shall offer far more than the scorpion itself, sir. There is also the formidable library I have compiled over the years concerning the image. Without this, even a great mage could waste a lifetime seeking to divine the object's secrets. Among these documents is included the original manuscript of experiments compiled by Shamtha, not the imperfect copies hawked by his heirs,

'I will send invitations to all of the greatest sorcerers of this decadent age, to the Order of the White Peacock in Khitai, to Thoth-amon, and to all the others. I expect to realize the best offer from the current priest-king of Stygia. He is not the equal of his predecessors, the god-kings, but he is still the richest man in the world, and has a notable stake in things sorcerous.'

'Then why not sell to the priest-king,' Conan asked, 'and forget about the others?'

'Because, sir, sorcerers may often have the power to summon and offer things of unique value. It is not unthinkable that a man like Thoth-amon, who is no king but is yet a much greater sorcerer than the priest-king of Stygia, might be able to offer far more than that king, especially since earthly wealth is of little account to him, whereas sorcerous power is everything.' Once again he slapped fat hands to fat knees. 'In short, sir, I intend to transform the black scorpion into wealth incalculable, sir, wealth incalculable!'

'And what,' Conan demanded impatiently, 'has all this to do with me?'

'I was just about to come to that, sir.'

'And none too soon,' the Cimmerian grumbled.

'In recent years I have traced the scorpion through a long and tedious list of thieves and buyers. An art dealer such as your humble servant establishes many contacts helpful in such a quest. Upon several occasions I have been within days of laying my hands upon it, only to find that it was stolen or sold just before I got within reach of it. Last month, in Belverus, I tracked it to the home of a wealthy dilettante in the sorcerous arts. He would not let me see it and scorned my generous offer. Mind you, the man had no idea of its true worth, and any attempt on his part to employ it sorcerously would inevitably have brought about his own most painful and colourful demise, therefore rendering my acquisition of the image a veritable act of charity. Failing this, I employed an, ah, an agent, as it were, to obtain it for me.'

'And was your thief successful?' Conan asked.

'Sir!' Casperus protested. 'You use an ugly word.'

The outlander shrugged. 'I have been a thief in my time. I do not find the word distasteful.!'

'Well, in answer to your question, my agent was all too successful, not only obtaining the scorpion, but fleeing with it. I have reason to believe that it is now, or soon will be, in this very city!'

'And you want me to find the thing for you?' Conan asked.

'Exactly, sir!'

'Then why didn't you say so in the first place?'

For a moment the fat man was nonplussed. 'Why, sir, how could one broach such a subject without the fullest preparation? Even to discuss so wonderful a treasure without first conveying a sense of the full majesty of its origin and powers seems to me little less than sacrilege, sir, sacrilege!'

Conan knew better than to talk sense to a man obsessed. 'Who is this thief, and how should I find him?'

Casperus waved a dismissive hand. 'That is irrelevant. The

idol has changed hands at least twice in the interim. My agent had partners and these, it seems, fell out. However, in this town there is only one possible buyer for the image. He is a man who calls himself Andolla and claims to be a sorcerer. In truth, I suspect him to be a mere charlatan, albeit a rich one. I must keep myself concealed here, or whoever has the image now will flee before even approaching Andolla. I need a man who is. clever, who is a mighty man of arms, and who has a sensible wariness of magical things. In short, sir, I would like to employ you.'

'Now we come to the truly important part of all this,' Conan said. 'How much?'

'I am prepared to offer fifty thousand golden marks of Aquilonia upon delivery of the image into my hands.'

It was a princely sum, but Conan affected to be unimpressed. 'That is paltry if the thing is worth what you say.'

'Only to me, sir, only to me. Were you to seek to sell it to the likes of Thoth-amon, he would have it from you by force or by sorcery, whereas I know the proper safeguards. The idol has been the death of many men over the millennia. No, sir, I will not be paying you for the image, for it is already mine, and mine alone. I will be paying you for the performance of a few days' work, and fifty thousand golden marks should be more than adequate recompense for such a task. A man of your accomplishments should find it a simple matter. You will not be dealing with great sorcerers, after all, but with mere thieves. I have no doubt that they will have swordsmen in their employ, and it is because of this that I require a champion such as yourself. My bodyguard, Gilmay, is competent to defend me from the common footpads who would prey upon a man of my obvious prosperity, but as you have already discovered, this about exhausts his realm of expertise.'

'Very well,' Conan said. 'I accept your commission. I will need five thousand now. In this town the authorities alone have set a high standard for bribe-taking.'

Casperus nodded. 'Done. And may I say, sir, that you fulfil my highest expectations as a man of decisive action.' The fat man rose and crossed to the pile of effects on the floor. He uncovered a strongbox and opened it with a key that hung from his neck on a golden chain. From the box he extracted five clinking bags of soft leather. Relocking the box, he returned to his chair.

'Each of these bags contains ten golden imperials of Aquilonia, each coin worth a hundred marks.'

Conan took the weighty bags and placed them in his belt pouch. 'Now describe the thing to me. I know that it is a woman-headed scorpion, but how large is it? Will I need help to move it? Is it heavy enough to require an ox cart?'

Casperus chuckled. 'By no means, sir. The value of the object is in its beauty and the sorcerous art of its making. It is only about thus long,' he held his hands nearly a foot apart, 'and perhaps half as high.'

'So small?' Conan said, astonished.

'That is what makes it so easy to hide and transport. Had it been the size of a great sphinx of Stygia, it would never have been stolen. Its colour, as I have said, is black, and the lacquer itself is beautiful in its own Way. You would think it made of obsidian until you should lift it. It is quite weighty for its size. This is not the weight of the base metal alone, but also the burden of its sorcerous power and its many curses.'

Conan felt an involuntary shiver. 'Do not speak so much of sorcerous things.'

'Then just consider it a valuable object, sir, and fetch it for me.'

Conan rose. 'I will return when I have the thing in my hands. Good evening to you.'

Casperus rose and bowed. 'And the best of fortune to you, sir, the very best of fortune!'

The Cimmerian left the upper chamber and descended the stair to the street below. He was cheerful as he wended his steps toward the inn, the bags making a comfortable weight at his waist. Surely, his fortune had turned since he departed Belverus.

Within his room at the inn, Conan noticed something subtly wrong. He held his candle high and surveyed his surroundings. The scanty furniture was as he remembered it. Then he saw that one of his saddlebags lay on the floor a bit to one side of a crack in the wall. He distinctly remembered placing it directly against the crack on the previous night, to block a draft. He was sure he had not touched it since. He crossed to the bag and examined it. Nothing had been taken. There had been nothing in it of any value. The Cimmerian knew better than to leave valuables in a hired room. He shrugged. Doubtless, he thought, some thieving inn servant had rifled his goods in search of loot. He turned at scratching from the adjoining door. He kept his hand on his sword hilt until he was certain that it was Brita.

'Ah, there you are!' she said. 'I grew worried, with you away for so long. Where did you go?'

'First, tell me what you've been doing,' Conan said.

She sat on the bed, her look despondent. 'Since the perfumer's, I have had no luck. It is as if Ylla has vanished into the air.'

'Well, do not lose heart. This is not a large city, but it has more than enough room for one girl to hide herself for some time. As for me, I had an invitation to dinner and I accepted it.' He began to unbuckle his brigantine, turning slightly to slip it off his shoulders. 'It was from a strange man, an unbelievably fat fellow named Casperus.' He turned back to see that her face had gone deathly pale. 'What is it, lass?'

She shook herself and the look vanished. 'Oh, nothing. I but had a fleeting memory of a fat man I detested when I was a girl.' The strange look had disappeared so quickly that Conan thought it might have been a trick of the flickering candlelight. She smiled at him brightly. 'And please, take no note of my changing moods. I do not want you to think that I am some flighty girl who does not appreciate all you have done for her.' She stood and came closer, smiling. 'I am, in fact, a grown woman, and very grateful.' Of a sudden, her face was no longer as innocent as its wont, and the Cimmerian was acutely aware of the ripe beauty he had admired upon first seeing her.

'And,' she went on, 'I did say that I would find some way to repay you.' She came into the circle of his arms and he crushed her to him as eagerly as she drew his lips down to her own.

VI

The Richest Man in Sicas

Another day in the city, and still no sign of Piris. Conan decided, that he had waited long enough. If the strange little man still' wished to employ him, he would just have to await his turn to claim the Cimmerian's services.

He had left Brita sleeping blissfully and gone below to lay in his usual substantial breakfast. Afterwards he checked with the gate guard, to learn that there was still no sign of Piris. Next he headed for the Square. He now had a sufficient working knowledge of the town, and he knew where to go for information. He idled the morning away among the stalls and beggars, until he saw the person he wanted, standing before a dressmaker's shop.

Delia turned and smiled broadly at his approach, 'I knew that you would seek me out.'

She was a comely woman, but Conan's night with Brita had left him desirous only of information. For a girl raised in a sheltered home, Brita was most ardent and most eager to experiment. He gestured toward an open-fronted wineshop.

'Have you had your midday meal yet?' he asked.

She threw back her head and laughed lustily. 'I just got up! Hut I'll let you buy me breakfast. Come on.' She walked ahead of him, rolling her hips as if her spine had more bones than a snake's. She chose a table next to the low wall that separated the wineshop from the plaza and shouted for a server. The day was cool but a bronze bowl of hot coals stood in the centre of the able. The server brought heated wine and returned minutes later with laden platters.

Delia picked up a fowl and bit into it, leaning with her elbows on the table. After swallowing a large mouthful, she spoke.

'Well, what drew you back to me, Cimmerian? Was it my face or my body? Both are unsurpassed in this city.'

'Tell me about a man named Andolla,' Conan said.

She choked slightly, then looked at him in wide-eyed astonishment. 'What are you up to now?'

'Business.' he said.

'That being the case, I am accustomed to being paid for my services.' The Cimmerian placed a handful of silver coins on the table and Delia scooped them up expertly, dropping them into her ample cleavage. Still holding the fowl in one hand, she pointed with the other. 'You see that temple?'

Conan looked to where she indicated. The building was an imposing one, set back from the Square by the width of a broad terrace and a ceremonial stairway. Its columns were red and black marble. Smoke from an altar fire seeped through an opening in the roof.

'That's the old Temple of Mitra. People here care so little for the state gods that the priests closed it down years ago. A short time back, this man Andolla came to town and took charge of it. He dedicated it to Mother Doorgah, a Vendhyan goddess with breasts almost as splendid as mine.' She shook her shoulders to emphasize her endowments.

'I saw this goddess yesterday, carried in a procession,' Conan said. 'For the money, I expect more information.'

'Don't be so impatient,' she grinned. 'Don't you want to see if I compare favourably to her?'

He grinned back. 'Later, perhaps. Business now. What is this Andolla's brand of knavery?'

She pouted. 'Oh, very well. This procession you saw was made up of young people, was it not?' The Cimmerian nodded. 'Perhaps you also noticed that they were well dressed. That is because Andolla seeks followers who share three qualities: youth, wealth, and stupidity. He seems to find many such. Once, they attend his rituals, they act like his slaves. They squander their inheritances upon him, and some rob their parents, occasionally with violence.'

'And do these parents take no action?' Conan asked.

She wiped her mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. 'People who raise such children are usually worthless themselves. Oh, a few have gone to the temple to confront Andolla, but his guards I expel them, and one or two have died because he cursed them, or at least so he claims.'

Conan rubbed his chin as he stared at the temple with calculation. 'So this religious rogue has grown very rich, has he?'

'Extremely.' She smiled slyly. 'What are you planning? You can tell me.' She feigned a look of innocent sincerity, causing Conan to laugh aloud.

'Delia, if I have something in my mind that I wish to keep to myself, you are the last person I would inform.'

She laughed as raucously. 'Be careful of him, Conan. He is most suspicious of people who seem both strong and clever and have no wealth to bring him.'

'Know you of a good lever with which I can pry that place open?' he asked.

She picked up a small apple and bit it in two, chewing it slowly, seeds and all, before swallowing. 'There is a rich man of this town named Rista Daan, a spice merchant. He has a daughter named Rietta. She has been taken under Andolla's spell and has fled to the temple with a great sum of money. The father wants her back and has tried to hire bravos to go there and take her, but the gang leaders have been paid off by Andolla and refuse to

rouble him. That might be a good place to start, whatever you have in mind.'

'Well, well,' drawled a voice the Cimmerian had heard before. 'Look at who is consorting with Maxio's slut!' Conan turned slightly to see the three thugs clad in red leather whom he had encountered on his first day in Sicas: the tall one, the short one, and the one with the stringy yellow beard. It was the tall one who had spoken. 'Still in town, eh, Cimmerian?'

'It would be pointless to deny it,' Conan answered.

'Barbarians should not pretend to wit,' said the bearded one.

'Half-wit boys should not pretend to manhood, however long their swords,' Conan returned. He felt Delia's restraining hand upon his corded forearm.

'Leave us in peace,' Delia said. 'We want no trouble with you.'

'We might have done so,' said the short one. 'But now this savage has insulted us. We do not tolerate such insolence.'

Conan turned to Delia. 'These three have baited me since I arrived in town. I think that three times should be sufficient for anyone to endure them.' His tone was easy and conversational. Her expression was a near-comic mixture of apprehension and excitement.

'Don't be foolish,' she urged. 'There are three of them.'

He shrugged. 'That still won't make it an even fight.' He glanced beyond the three. On the other side of the Square was the temple. A short distance away from it was the house of the rich man named Xanthus. He beckoned to a server, who came running, his expression fearful. The Cimmerian pointed to the platter of hot breads and meat on the table before him. 'Fetch a cover for this. I do not want it to get cold while I attend to this matter.' Then he rose. 'I will be back shortly,' he said to Delia, who goggled at him in disbelief.

The Cimmerian sprang lightly over the low wall and pointed to a spot near the centre of the Square. 'Let's go over there and fight,' he suggested.

The thugs stared in amazement. They had lost a little of their confident swagger. The tall one shrugged. 'You may die anywhere you like, foreigner.'

Conan walked easily, followed by the three, his hands well away from his weapons. He did not expect a fair fight, having seen them kill before, but he doubted that their vanity would let them cut him down from behind. Even so, he kept far enough in advance of them to be safe. The slightest rasp of blade unsheathing would be all the warning he would need.

He stopped in a decorative circle formed of coloured paving stones. He was within easy view of the temple, the Reeve's headquarters, and the palace of Xanthus. Word of the impending fight had spread with uncanny swiftness. People were already coming out onto stairs, balconies, and rooftops to witness the show.

'This seems a good spot,' the Cimmerian announced.'Plenty of room to fight.'

'However you choose to perish, barbarian,' said the bearded one.

Conan turned to face them. The three came forward slowly, the short one and the bearded one edging away from the tall one, who stood in the centre. Each grasped his sheath in one hand, the long grips positioned almost vertically. Conan knew that they would draw straight up and cut straight down, the quickest way to attack with such a weapon, and the most efficient for three men standing so close. A horizontal or an oblique cut might foul a companion's blade.

'How will you have it, then?' asked Conan. 'One at a time, or all at once?' He caught a glimpse of armour among the quickly forming crowd. It was Ermak, the mercenary leader, come to judge the new talent.

The three faltered, and the tall one frowned. 'I thought you said you fought only for business,' he muttered.

'Now it is business,' Conan answered. 'Well, don't stand there all day. My food is getting cold.' Still they did nothing, clearly uneasy at the barbarian's seeming lack of concern. 'Will you laugh as you did when you murdered that man the other day? I hope so. It is always good to die laughing.'

With a muttered curse, the bearded one grasped his hilt. Too swiftly for the eye to follow, Conan snatched out his dirk and snapped its edge against the man's wrist. The arm came up for the expected vertical draw, but the blade did not follow, nor did lie hand, which remained where it was, gripping the hilt.

The tall one showed creditable speed, leaping back to give himself both time and distance as he drew, but Conan denied him the latter, springing past the now one-handed man and slamming the dirk upward beneath the tall one's chin, the point piercing the brain in an instant.

The short one had gone dead white, but his blade was clear of its scabbard. With his free hand, the Cimmerian gripped the man's wrist as he jerked his own blade free of the tall one. The short one's eyes widened with horror as he felt his arm held as immovable as if fixed in a vice. He had only an instant for reflection before the dagger crunched through his ribs, piercing the light mail armour he wore beneath his clothing.

Conan released the dirk and stepped back, his eyes wary. The tall one had dropped to the pave like a man beheaded. The short one tottered for a moment, still gripping his sword in one hand as with the other he plucked ineffectually at the hilt protruding from his side. Then the blade clattered to the stone and the man tottered and fell. The third gripped his severed wrist, glaring hate at the Cimmerian.

'Go find a leech with a searing iron and you might yet live,' Conan said in disgust. 'None of you was truly worth killing.'

The bearded man showed more fight than Conan would have given him credit for. With his left hand, he drew his sword straight up and wheeled around to his left, thrusting to his rear, trying to skewer Conan with his point. It was a tricky move, difficult even for an unhurt master swordsman, which the man was not. Conan simply stepped forward and turned along with the man, as if the two were dancing. He reached over the man's shoulder with one hand and gripped his chin. With the other he gripped the back of his opponent's head and twisted violently. The neck bones sheared audibly and the man dropped by the other two.

Before proceeding, Conan looked around. It was foolish t assume that just because he had slain his immediate enemies, there would be none of their friends nearby. The crowd was dead'. silent, and no man made a hostile move. Conan nodded grimly, stooped and wrenched his dirk free of the bearded one's corpses He wiped the weapon on the man's red-leather doublet and re-sheathed it, then strolled back toward the wineshop.

Delia tried to stammer a greeting when he resumed his seat, but she could not get the words out. He took the cover from his plate and began to eat, pleased to note that the food was still warm.

'I knew you were strong,' Delia stammered at last, 'when you hauled me up on the pedestal yesterday. I knew you were mad when you so easily accepted the challenge of those three killers. But I never thought any man could be so fast!'

Conan brooded into his cup of hot, spiced wine. 'A man of war who treads the world's roads alone, as I do, must be quick. Rarely do I have a trusted comrade to watch my back, or to fight by my side. Long ago I learned to strike swiftly and without scruple. I trouble no man without cause, but one who attacks me had best resolve to die.'

'And yet you would have spared the man you unhanded,' she said.

'He was no longer dangerous, alone and one-handed as he was. Considering that he was no warrior, he showed some heart at the end. I do not make such an offer twice.'

'Uh-oh,' Delia said, 'here comes Ermak. What does he want?'

'To talk to me,' Conan said, tearing open a loaf of bread.

The man in half-armour stopped at the table, his left hand resting easily upon the pommel of his basket-hilted sword. He did not bow or make any formal greeting, but only regarded Conan steadily with chill, grey eyes, the eyes of a professional killer.

'That was a remarkable show, Cimmerian,' he said.

Conan shrugged. 'It would have been remarkable had made me draw my sword.'

The man smiled grimly. 'Aye, it was not a fight. Rather, it was an extermination of vermin. Even so, only a real warrior could have done it so handily. My man Nevus told me of you. Are you seeking work? If so, there is a place for you in my band.'

'I am employed just now,' Conan answered. 'But that may change.'

'Then seek me out if it does. I am easy to find.' He turned to Delia. 'Where is Maxio hiding these days?'

She tilted her head back and lowered her lids as if she were looking down her nose at him. 'My man's whereabouts are his own concern. If he wants me to tell you, he will inform me so.'

'Good day to you both, then,' said Ermak.

Delia shivered slightly as she stared at his retreating figure. 'That one is no armoured fool with a sword he does not know how to use.'

'I can see that clearly enough,' Conan said.

She smiled ruefully. 'Aye, you hardly need me to tell you such a thing. A man like you knows another warrior when he sees him.'

'There is one thing you can tell me,' Conan said.

She gave him what was intended to be a coy look. 'And what might that be?'

'Do you not worry about what your man Maxio will think when he finds out you have been seen so much in my company?'

'I am neither his wife nor his slave,' she said haughtily. 'He cannot tell me where to go nor whom to see. I am my own woman.'

'I wonder that Bombas has not sent his henchmen to call upon me,' Conan commented.

She snorted contempt. 'What have you done to cause him any distress? He fears you, because he fears everyone. And he is unsure of why you are here. Be careful that he does not come to believe you a royal spy, sent to investigate him.'

Conan emptied his cup and set it on the table. 'I had not thought of that. To kill an investigator would merely bring another

— -

one in his place. Should he suspect that I spy for the king, he will just offer me a bribe.'

'And if he does that?'

'Why, I will accept, of course!'

Delia laughed raucously again and then rose. 'I must be on my way now. If you want to find me, I am usually here in the Square at this time of day. But should you want to see me privately,' she placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, letting her gown gape open, 'I am to be found in the Street of the Woodcarvers. My apartment is just above the Sign of the Sunburst. If I am alone, there will be a white cloth hanging from the window just over the sign.' She straightened, then added, 'White is easy to see at night.' With that, she turned and left him.

Conan was amused at the brazen invitation, but he had learned to be cautious. He would not take up her offer until he had had a look at this Maxio. He had a suspicion that the man was about to ', discard his woman and that she was looking about for a replacement. If so, all would be well. If not, there could be trouble.

He rose and left the wineshop. As he crossed the Square, a squad of bored-looking public slaves trundled their wheelbarrow toward the three inert bodies that lay in a widening pool of blood. The slaves carried buckets and bore mops over their shoulders. Nobody came toward him from the Reeve's headquarters, so – Conan assumed that he was free from official interference for the present.

He left the Square by way of an alley between the temple and the wall surrounding the house of Xanthus. He was not at all surprised when someone hissed at him from a gate in the wall around the rich man's house.

'You, outlander! Warrior! Come here.' The speaker was an elderly slave in old-fashioned livery.

'What do you want?' Conan asked.

The slave leaned out and looked up and down the alley, presumably to ascertain whether anyone was watching. He turned back to Conan. 'Come in here. My master craves converse with you.'

It seemed to the Cimmerian that never before had so many people invited him to confer in such a short time. At least this old slave did not try to persuade him with weapons. He ducked beneath the low lintel and entered a courtyard that must at one time have been fine, but now the remains of wilted plants stood in overgrown planters and the wind blew dry leaves over the cracked pavement. Pulped fruit dropped by ornamental olive trees made footing slippery.

The slave closed and barred the gate. 'Come this way,' he said. Conan followed the shuffling old man through a door in the rear of the house. It opened into a kitchen in which a pair of slave women toiled over a stove. They did not look up as he passed. The slave led him up a flight of stairs and down a hallway and into a spacious room lined with shelves bearing books and scrolls. A fire crackled on a stone hearth.

'Abide here a while,' the slave said. 'My master will be along presently.'

The slave left through a panelled door. Conan strolled to a floor-length window that opened upon a small balcony overlooking the Square; it was no more than fifty paces from where he had slain the red-clad murderers. Anyone who might have stood here, he thought, would have had an excellent view of the proceedings.

'Greetings, swordsman,' said a voice behind him. The Cimmerian turned to see an elderly man swathed in thick woollen garments. A mantle of rare white fur draped his shoulders, and atop that lay a chain of massive gold, studded with huge gems. His face was thin and ravaged by time, but his voice had strength.

Conan nodded curtly. 'Sir. What would you have of me?'

The old man crossed to the window and gazed out upon the slaves busily plying their mops. The bodies were gone.

'I was in my study when my man-slave told me there was about to be an amusing show in the Square. In the past, the rogues of the town slew each other in the alleys of the Pit, and at night. Now they fight pitched battles in the Square in broad daylight. I have come to treasure these little shows. My pleasures have been few of late. I witnessed your slaying of those three fellows in red leather. That was prettily done. Ingas's men are accounted dangerous in this town.'

'I am good at my work,' Conan said laconically.

'It is that very thing I wish to speak of. Will you work tor me and kill some rogues who need killing?'

Conan suppressed a smile. The man's direct, businesslike manner was refreshing: no offer of dinner or even of a cup of wine, ' no long, tedious story, just an offer of pay for service.

'What is your offer?' he asked.

'This was once a fine city, with myself as its leading citizen. Now it is a lawless place, dominated by the scum and sweepings of this and all the neighbouring lands. It needs a thorough cleansing, and I think you are just the man to do it.'

'One man?' Conan asked. 'To subdue a town full of outlaws?'

'I will pay generously. You may hire such bravos as you wish. Killers work cheap in this city. But it should not be necessary to exterminate the lot. A few leaders are causing all the trouble, slay the wolves, and the leaderless dogs will be easy to deal with.'

'I have heard,' the Cimmerian said, 'that it was you yourself who brought Ermak to town.'

'And what if I did? The miners' guild stirred up trouble and required putting down. Then the rogue would not leave town when I ordered him to.'

'Since this is a royal burgh,' Conan said, 'why did you not appeal to the Crown for help with the miners? Or for expelling the mercenaries?' Conan watched the man's face closely, but the old features displayed only overweening pride and self-confidence.

'My dealings with his majesty, King Numedides, are my own affair, nothing that a barbarian sell sword need concern himself with.'

'As you will,' Conan said. 'I can do the job for you. I will want twenty thousand golden marks of Aquilonia. Half now.'

To his astonishment, the ancient head nodded. 'Done.' Xanthus tugged on a cord and moments later the old servitor appeared. The master whispered in the slave's ear and gave him a massive key. Then he turned back to Conan.

'You will have your money presently. You need not render me reports of your progress. When the task is done, come to me for the balance of your pay. I think this concludes our business.'

'Not quite,' Conan said. He had walked to the window again and stood with his back to Xanthus, staring across the Square toward the Reeve's headquarters. 'Will you speak to the King's Reeve and see that he gives me no trouble or interference?' A small looking glass hung on the wall next to the window, and in it he saw the old man wince slightly, his arrogant composure slipping for the first time.

'You are to stay clear of him. I do not want him brought into this matter in any way, and I cannot intercede with him for you.'

'I thought you were the richest man in Sicas,' Conan said, 'and he is a bribe-taker.'

'Then bribe him yourself if he troubles you!' Xanthus spat. 'By Mitra, I am paying you enough to pass a few bribes! Matters old and ill lie between us, and I'll have nothing to do with Bombas. Now get to your work, swordsman. I expect to hear good things of you in the near future.' With that, the old man whirled and stalked out amid floating robes. Conan smiled coldly toward the fur-clad back.

Minutes later, the old butler tottered in, bowed beneath the weight of a leather sack as long as Conan's forearm and as thick as two of those arms held together. The gold coins the sack held were stuffed in so tightly that they did not even clink. Without a word, the Cimmerian picked up the bag and left the house.

With a light heart and a springy stride, Conan sought out the Street of the Woodcarvers. In one hand he clutched the weighty bag as lightly as another man would have held a pillow stuffed with down. He was careful not to give indication of the thing's true weight, for then the practised eyes of the town's numerous thieves would have discerned that he carried gold.

He saw the Sign of the Sunburst, its gilded rays shining brilliantly in the midday sunlight, but he did not seek Delia. Instead he went to a joiner's shop and bought a stout wooden casket well mounted with thick iron straps. This he carried to the Street of Locksmiths and purchased the strongest padlock he could find to fit the coffer's hasp.

He bore the coffer, with the bag now safely inside it, upon his shoulder as he returned to the inn. There he added to it most of the money he had received from Casperus. Already he had acquired more money than he could readily carry with him, and he had yet to accomplish a single one of his tasks. He knew that he could not leave his bounty unwatched at the inn, but the strongbox would do until he could cache his new wealth. He all but whistled as he turned the key in the lock. No sooner had he withdrawn the key than the door opened and Brita entered.

'Still no luck, eh?' he said, noting her downcast look.

'None. Oh, a few people have seen girls answering Vila's description, but who knows if this was her indeed. I myself have seen a score of small, yellow-haired girls her age here.' She sat on the room's single chair, knees together and hands clasped upon them. Once again she was the demure, well-bred girl she had at first seemed. Now Conan was not so sure. He knew himself to be less than astute when it came to women, but he was no fool.

Dropping the key into his pouch, he lifted the coffer by its side handles and deposited it upon the foot of his bed. He made the effort seem easy, but the great muscles sprang into prominence along his arms as he did it, earning him an admiring look from Brita. He stretched himself upon the bed, his feet crossed at the ankles atop the coffer, his fingers laced behind his tousled, black-haired head as he leaned back against a pile of cushions.

'Well, I have had a very good day indeed,' he said with satisfaction.

She smiled. 'I rejoice to hear it. Tell me all about it.'

Briefly, he did so. A look of unmistakable jealousy crossed her face when he told her of his luncheon with Delia, followed by a look of horror when he related the challenge by Ingas's three killers. Her hand flew to her open mouth when he told her how he had slain the three. Then he related his summons from the house of Xanthus.

'And you did this just to attract that man's notice?' she gasped, her eyes round with incredulity.

'I would have had to deal with them anyway. They were determined to call me out. Better the three of them before me in daylight than behind me in the dark. I was sure to be seen from the house of Xanthus and the temple both. It was just a question of who would summon me first. Xanthus was quicker.' Then he told her of his interview with the old man.

'But surely,' she said when he finished, 'you do not truly intend to kill or chase out every villain in this hideous town all by yourself?'

'We shall see how it falls out,' he said non-committally. 'What troubles me more is the old bandit's readiness to pay. I demanded half on account, expecting him to laugh in my face and offer perhaps one fifth, which I would have accepted. Instead, he agreed upon the half without a word of protest.'

'Then he is desperate,' she said.

Conan shook his head. 'No, it is not that. He is said to be the richest man in Sicas, but the only servants I saw were an old valet of all work and two slatternly women to cook and clean. He has what was once a fine courtyard, yet he has not even a gardener to keep it in order. His house is splendid, but he must have inherited that. Otherwise, the only things splendid about him are his clothes and his jewels, upon which he does not stint. No, the man is a miser as tight-fisted as any I have ever seen. Yet he handed me ten thousand gold marks without demur.'

'Why would he do such a thing?' she asked.

He grinned without mirth. 'Because he expects to get his money back. He is wrong. I will spend my wealth, or gamble it away, or give it away, or just throw it away, but no man takes

back what he has paid me when I have rendered him good service.'

'And will you do as he wants?' she asked uncomfortably.

'I took his money, did I not?' he said indignantly. Then, smiling, 'Of course, all may not fall out exactly as he thinks. But that often happens when one rogue tries to outwit another. I do confess, though, that I wonder what lies between him and the King's Reeve. Bombas is in every man's purse, so why not in that of the man with the biggest purse in Sicas?'

'From the way you have described them,' she said, 'they do not sound like the sort of men who would let their personal feelings for one another stand in the way of their pursuit of wealth.'

'Very true,' Conan said. 'There is something deeper here, and I will find the bottom of it, be sure of that.'

'And yet,' she protested, 'you have accepted commissions from that man Piris in Belverus, from the fat man Casperus, and now from the rich miser Xanthus. Do you truly intend to carry through for all of them?''

'I do not accept pay under false pretences,' he assured her. 'Have no fear. Mayhap a common thread runs through all these things, and when I have found it, I think I will have accomplished all that I have undertaken to everyone's satisfaction, although it may be to their everlasting regret.'

'You have much confidence.'

'Aye. Tell me, girl, what gods do you worship?'

She was taken aback by the sudden change of subject. 'Why, I attend services at the Temple of Mitra, like most Tarantians, and I used to sacrifice to the minor deities of my father's guild, although not lately. Why do you ask?'

'Well, Crom is my god and the god of my people. He is old, grim, and stern. When we are born, he gives us a fierce warrior's heart and the great strength, endurance, and hardihood that are the birthright of every Cimmerian. But he is not a caring god. Unlike the gods of the south, he takes no delight in sacrifice; he gives us no help and we ask him no favours, because he would grant none.'

'And so?' she asked, frowning in puzzlement.

'If he were the sort of god men pray to, I would send him a prayer of thanks right now, for sending me to Sicas.' Hands still laced behind his head, Conan grinned up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. 'Everyone in this town seems determined to make me rich!'

VII

The Silver Mine

Conan rode from the inn in the light of morning, his iron-bound wooden coffer strapped to the saddle behind him. In the socket that would ordinarily have held his lance, he had placed a spade borrowed from the stable. The hooves of his horse rang loudly on the cobbles as he made his way through the nearly deserted streets, heading southward. If the upper city was but waking as he rode through it, the Pit was as a city of the dead. Not a living soul did he see, although in the alleys he saw a few corpses, soon destined for the river.

Just above the confluence of the rivers, he passed through the Ossar River gate, where the guard merely accepted his proffered coin and did not bother with stupid formalities such as his name, destination, or time of possible return. The bridge he crossed was a good one, made of stone and built upon arches high enough to allow river barges to pass beneath. On the other side was cultivated land, now lying untended after the harvest. The road took him to hilly terrain, first past vineyards but soon into wild country. He guided his horse off the road and into the hills, following no path.

In a wooded dell the Cimmerian dismounted and tethered his mount to a sapling. He stood absolutely still and silent for several minutes, moving nothing but his head as he slowly scanned the skyline and strained his ears for any slightest noise. He heard no sound save those of nature.

Leaving horse and chest, he climbed to the highest ground nearby, his springy hillman's stride making the rugged terrain as easy a traverse as the level pavement of a city. Atop the hill, he found a dead tree, killed by lightning some years before, its leaves gone but its wood sound. This he climbed with the agility of a monkey, and from a convenient limb he enjoyed an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside. There he sat for an hour, his keen eyes missing nothing, until he was satisfied that no one followed him, that no woodcutter worked nearby, that no rustic lovers in search of privacy spied upon him. Only then did he descend and return to his horse.

He took the chest from his saddle, the spade from his lance-socket, stripped off his armour and set to work. The spot he had selected was far enough from the nearest trees that he was not likely to encounter troublesome roots. First he measured his proposed excavation by eye; then he spread a blanket upon the ground next to it. Kneeling on the grass, he drew his dirk and carefully cut a rectangular outline in the ground. With swift sawing cuts of his blade, he separated the turf from the underlying soil, rolling it up as he cut. When it was fully separated, he lifted it gently onto the blanket. Then he stood and picked up the spade. He dug energetically but carefully, lifting each spadeful of dirt and depositing it upon the blanket, taking care not to heap it atop the preserved turf.

When the hole was about a yard deep, Conan lowered the chest into it. He began to cover the coffer with dirt, tamping it down with his boots after every few spadefuls, so that the ground would not subside over the next few days, leaving a tell-tale depression. When only about three inches of excavation remained, he carefully relaid the turf, smoothing it with his hands when it was in place.

There still remained a heap of dirt atop the blanket: soil displaced by the chest. This he tied up in the cloth, to be scattered far away from this place. He packed the bundle on his saddle and replaced the spade, then went back to examine his cache. From a few paces away, the site was invisible. Within days it would be indiscernible even to his own eye. Satisfied, he remounted. He did not bother with a treasure map. Conan's sense of direction was flawless. Should he not return for ten years, he would be able to walk unerringly to the spot where he had buried his gold.

That took care of one task. Now he had another. He rode from the wild hills, ever watchful for observers. Near the road he shook the dirt from the blanket, then folded the heavy wool and tied it to his cantle. He headed back toward the town, but just before he came within sight of the river wall, he noted a side road he had passed earlier in the day. It was marked by a grey stone stele carved with the rampant royal lions of Aquilonia, defining what lay beyond as royal property. He reined his horse onto the road. Ahead of him he saw columns of smoke ascending skyward. As he drew nearer, he began to hear a continuous thudding, clinking sound, and a grinding as of many stones being broken. He rode over a lip of ground and there, spread out before him, was a grimly busy scene. At the edge of a vast, open pit, hundreds of men wielded sledgehammers to break great stones into smaller chunks, while others pushed long poles that rotated huge, vertical stone wheels in endless circles, pulverizing the smaller chunks, reducing them to coarse sand.

The Cimmerian knew this for an ore-crushing operation. Women and children carried baskets of the coarse sand upon their backs to dump them into great iron crucibles that were in turn thrust into beehive-shaped ovens, whence ascended the smoke. Others stood in lines at long handles, monotonously raising and lowering them to power immense bellows.

Somewhere beyond, he knew, would be men toiling with pick and shovel to wrench the ore from the grudging bones of the earth. He surveyed the scene with some disdain. Conan could never understand how freeborn men could blight their lives thus with grinding toil. The fierce excitement of battle was what he loved, and if it was terminated abruptly by a swift, bloody death, so much the better. This sort of toil seemed to be mere degradation to him, and it lacked even the consolation of security and long life. He knew that wounds and early death must be as common among these labouring people as among professional soldiers, hut without the compensating loot and excitement.

'Hey, you!' He turned to see a man emerging from a wooden booth by the road. 'Who sent you here?' The Cimmerian studied the man. He wore a leather jerkin studded with bronze and identically studded wristbands encircled each wrist, lie wore a close-fitting steel cap, and in lieu of a sword, a pair of long, slightly curved knives were sheathed at his belt. His weasel face was full of suspicion.

'I came to have a look around,' Conan said. The man seemed out of place, somehow. On a sudden inspiration, Conan added, 'On orders.'

The man's face cleared. 'Oh, Lisip sent you, then? I did not recognize you. You must be new. Well, tell the boss that all is well here. The dogs are causing no trouble and work as hard as ever, although sullenly.'

'Then why not use the whip?' Conan asked.

'You are new, aren't you? Aye, I'd love to stripe their backs, but you don't do that with these half-tamed brutes. They are not like born slaves. It's other threats that keep them in line, if you take my meaning.' The man chuckled, smirking with an insinuating familiarity.

'Aye, I know,' said Conan, knowing nothing of the sort but determined to find out. 'I think I'll ride down there and have a look around. I was told to familiarize myself with the operation.'

The man looked at him suspiciously. 'I cannot think why, but if that is what Lisip wants, so be it.' He gestured toward the mining operation as if offering it to the Cimmerian, who nudged his horse down the hill.

As Conan drew nearer, he began to make out details he had missed. The men wielding sledgehammers to break the rock wore light greaves to protect their shins from stone chips. Many of the men who pushed the millstones or worked the bellows were blind. Rock dust and flying chips of stone took a heavy toll of eyes. The miners wore coarse, heavy clothing, and most of them were gnarled, powerfully built men with massive hands. They watched him with narrow-eyed suspicion.

A short distance from the ore-crushing area was a cluster of huts. Here Conan dismounted near a well and began to haul up buckets of water, emptying them into a trough for his horse. As the beast drank, a group of men gathered around him, gripping tools as they would weapons, their mien sullen and truculent. One came a little forward. He was a squat, square-built knot of muscle, red-eyed from rock dust, his clothes and hair grey with it. He gripped a pick in hands swathed in rags save for his blunt fingers.

'What want you here?' the man growled, his voice little more than a hoarse croak. These people must breathe rock dust, the Cimmerian thought. 'We have met our quota every day this last turning of the moon. It was agreed that as long as we meet our, quota, we are not to be harassed.'

Conan took a dipper and drank from the last bucket he had drawn. More people were gathering. There were men and boys of all ages, and some women well past their prime, but he saw no young women, nor did he see any infants. A grey-haired woman pushed to the fore and pointed toward his armoured breast.

'This is he, the one I spoke of! Yesterday, when I went to the Square to trade for produce, I saw this one slay Ingas's three killers without even drawing his sword!'

'Good,' said the man who had spoken. 'Even better had they slain him while he was doing it. Are Lisip's men and those of Ingas at war, foreigner? And if so, why should we care?'

'Why do you think I work for Lisip?' Conan asked:

The man's eyes narrowed yet further. 'Who else could it be? Lisip was given the power to— Just who are you, stranger?'

'My name is Conan. I work for none of the gang leaders of. Sicas, and it may be that I can be of aid to you.'

'Don't trust him!' said a man with a face seamed like the bed of a dry creek. 'He must be Lisip's man, sent to spy on us, to Hi-e if we are keeping our part of the bargain.' He spat. 'As if we could do otherwise.'

Conan nodded toward the slope he had descended. 'Is that man in the shack your only guard? You must be a spiritless lot to let yourselves be controlled by a single thug.' The crowd growled

ii his words.

'He does not guard us,' said the first man. 'He just watches mid reports, as you well know. Lisip has no need to keep guards on us. Now, why are you here?'

Conan could see that these people would not talk to him. He would need to overcome their suspicion. As luck would have it, the opportunity he needed was already on the way. The thug from the guard shack came toward him with stiff, challenging strides. He pushed his way through the encircling crowd of miners and halted before the Cimmerian.

'If you are here to observe the operation,' he challenged, 'why are you talking to these dogs? You know full well that they lire to hold converse with no outsider. Are you truly one of Lisip's

men?'

'I made no such claim,' Conan pointed out. 'You did.' The man's face reddened with rage. 'Then begone, or I will

kill you!' Conan set the dipper on the lip of the well. 'Try,' he said

quietly.

Swift as a striking viper, the man drew one of his knives and lanced it toward the Cimmerian's belly, beneath the edge of the brigantine. Moving even more swiftly, Conan grabbed the man's wrist and stopped the point an inch from his flesh. Slowly, he squeezed. Beneath his machinelike grip, the hardened, bronze-studded leather crumpled inward. The bones of the forearm resisted; then they began to grind together. With a brutal twist, Conan snapped the man's wrist, sending the blade flying. Cursing loudly, the thug drew his other knife with his left hand and sent its keen edge slashing toward the Cimmerian's throat. With his free hand, Conan caught the left wrist and did likewise with it, the bones popping audibly. The thug dropped to his knees, his face white and sweaty, nauseous with pain and shock.

The Cimmerian gripped the front of the leather armour and hauled the man to his feet. 'Tell Lisip that Conan of Cimmeria does not tolerate being attacked, especially by worthless scum like you. Now go, while I am still in a good mood!' He shoved the man away and the thug began to stagger back up the hill, retching.

The miners looked at Conan in wonder. The one who had spoken first regarded him steadily. The faintest of smiles began to touch the mouth framed by its dust-greyed beard.

'First Ingas, now Lisip. You are a man who is not afraid to make enemies.'

Conan shrugged. 'Thus far I have encountered only one man worth drawing steel against.'

The miner nodded. 'Then you've met Ermak.' He gestured toward a long, low building nearby. 'Come, Cimmerian. We will talk.'

Conan followed the man into the building, which proved to be a communal eating place. Two long tables ran its length. At one end of the room, a huge pot bubbled over a fire, sending forth an insipid aroma. The perimeters were lined with shelves, but these were bare. A few baskets of vegetables and roots lay against the log walls. At the miner's gesture, Conan seated himself on a bench at the end of one table. The other took the seat opposite.

'I am Bellas,' the miner said. 'I am guild chief of the miners of Sicas. Now, who are you and what is your business here?'

'I am a warrior,' Conan told him. 'And I am about to become a troublemaker.''

The man looked at him sardonically. 'Sicas has not been lacking in trouble ere now.'

' 'The Reeve and Xanthus and the others have yet to learn about trouble. I will make them curse the day I arrived in this cesspit.'

' 'If you are going to make life hard for them, you are thrice

welcome,' Bellas said. 'I would offer you ale but we drink only

water these days.'

'I can see that you have fallen upon hard times,' Conan observed, looking around at the empty shelves. 'That is what I need to know about. How did this happen?'

'It is a long story, dating back many, many years, but recent events are what you want to know. Life was good here, once.'

'I cannot see how life could ever be good for a miner,' Conan

said.

'When silver was first discovered here,' Bellas went on, 'the ore was rich, and it lay near the surface. In those days the mine was a great, open pit and the miners could at least work beneath the sun. The labour was toilsome, mining work always is, but the pay was good, and our guild stood high in the royal favour. Our guildhall was the finest in Sicas.

'Over the years, the good ore played out and we had to pursue inferior ore that lay deeper, driving galleries far into the bowels of the earth. It was not as good as in the-old days, but we maintained a respectable yield. And we miners enjoyed a high reputation. We do the hardest, most dangerous work there is—hard rock mining. We are not slaves or convicts. We are free, proud men.' 'And yet you were brought low and now might as well be slaves,' Conan pointed out. 'How did that come to be?'

'It was Xanthus!' Fury edged the man's voice. 'He raised our quota, then raised it again. We protested. It was not just a matter of working harder to dig more ore. If you try to work faster underground, there are more accidents, more rockfalls. Too many men died. We finally marched into the city to confront Xanthus. He would not yield, so we downed tools.'

'The mine is royal property, is it not?' Conan asked. 'Why did you not appeal to the Crown?'

'The guild sent a deputation,' Bellas said. 'One morning we came in here to find a bloody sack right here on this table.' He thumped the scarred, wooden surface with his fist. 'It contained the heads of the men we had sent. This time we seized our tools and went into the town. We found our guildhall burned out and

the house of Xanthus surrounded by Ermak's mercenaries. It was useless for us to fight them. We had no proper weapons. But we are not cowards. We have good smiths here, so we returned to our village to have our tools reforged into spears and swords and maces. Ermak's men may be skilled warriors, but we are strong and there are far more of us than there are of them.' 'But you did not confront them,' Conan said. 'Nay, we did not. When we returned here, we found that Ermak's horsemen had been ahead of us. While we men were in Sicas, they had rounded up our wives and children. We know not where they were taken, but we know they are hidden away somewhere. Any gesture of defiance from one of us and the rogues send us a head, just to remind us whose is the whip hand.'

'I thought it would be something like that.' The Cimmerian mused for a moment. 'Tell me, where stands the Reeve in all this?'

'That pig-eyed tub of suet! He gets paid for every act of knavery in Sicas, and the villainy of Xanthus is no exception.' The miner leaned forward, his arms crossed on the table before him. 'You see, the ancient arrangement with the Crown is that the mine factor—the position now held by Xanthus—receives one-fifth part of the refined silver yielded by the mine. In recent years Xanthus has taken more than half. He writes to the palace bewailing the declining yield of the ore while, at the same time, raising our quota so that the royal portion does not grow suspiciously low. Bombas takes his share of this, have no doubt of it. And there is a royal overseer of mines in Tarantia, a nobleman named Coreides. We now know that he must be in collusion with Xanthus. Had we known that from the first, we would never have sent our delegation to the palace. And even if we could get past Coreides—' he shrugged bitterly and pounded his fist once more upon the table '—what king would listen to honest working men when three of his officials have poured poison in his ear?'

Conan leaned back against the log wall, his thumbs hooked into his studded belt, his fingertips drumming out a rhythm on its polished surface.

'When I came hither,' the Cimmerian began, 'I sought only information. I thought to find naught but cowed oxen working in this place. Now I have some hope. Tell me; if I were to stir up things in Sicas and bring about there such chaos that the royal authorities would have no choice save to intervene, would you aid me?'

'Foreigner,' said Bellas, 'if you can but find the place where they keep our women and children, you can leave all the killing to us. Xanthus set Lisip's men to watch us because Ermak's men think themselves above such duty. But the old miser miscalculated there, for Lisip's dogs are too lazy and too stupid to do a good job of it. Mostly they stay up in the guard shack, sodden with drink much of the time. They never bother to make a careful search of the village or of the mine workings. We have been forging every bit of iron we could spare into weapons, and now we have enough to arm every man here.'

'Can you use them?' Conan demanded.

Instead of answering, Bellas dipped his hand into a basket behind him and brought it out holding something round, which he tossed to Conan. 'This is what we have been living on.'

Conan caught the object and examined it. It was a turnip, plain and round and as hard as a stone. He tossed it back. 'Poor fare for men who must work as hard as you. And you did not answer my question.'

'We have not weakened on this fare,' Bellas said, studying the tuber in his hand. Abruptly, his hand tightened into a fist. Near-liquid pulp shot from beneath his fingers for several feet. Conan blinked. He accounted himself among the strongest of men, but this was an astonishing display. 'When the time comes,' Bellas said, 'you will not find us wanting.'

'Excellent,' Conan said. 'I will try to send word ahead, but if not, come when the uproar starts, and come armed. Will you know when things begin to break in Sicas?'

'Some of our old people go marketing every day. They miss little. Tell me something, foreigner.'

'What would you know?' Conan asked.

'What is your stake in all this? You are not from here. You are neither guildsman nor royal official, yet you wish to help us. Why?'

Conan rose from the bench. 'I am like everybody else in Sicas,' he said. 'I am here to grow wealthy.'

Bellas grinned, but there was no mirth in his face. 'You are more likely to be killed, but men die poor as easily as they die rich, and the gods will love you for robbing the likes of Xanthus and Bombas.'

'I care nothing about the gods,' Conan said, 'and those you named are just two among the villains of Sicas.'

He rode back to town whistling. This was turning out to be even better than he had hoped. So, the rich man and the Reeve were both skimming from the royal share? Robbing a king was a risky game, even when the king was a weak fool like Numedides. Surely there must be something here that he could turn to account. Now that he knew Bombas and Xanthus were partners in this particular bit of knavery, the question of their enmity became doubly intriguing.

The sun had all but set when he returned to the inn. After caring for his horse, Conan went to the common room and ate ravenously, for he had not eaten that day. He was given much space at his table, for word had spread that he was a dangerous man who made enemies readily.

He examined his quarters but found no further sign of intruders. Brita was nowhere to be seen, and Conan mentally cursed the woman's single-minded determination to locate her sister, no matter the hour or the danger. Still, there was nothing he could do about her at the moment, but he was not through seeking answers for the day. He went down the stairs and out into the street. This time he directed his footsteps toward the Street of the Woodcarvers.

Above the sign of the Sunburst, a square of white cloth was draped from a window. He ascended the stairs and knocked at a stout door. 'Who is it?' called a voice from inside.

'Conan,' he answered. A small panel slid aside and a blue eye studied him. The panel shut and there was a sound of sliding bolts before the door opened. Delia stood aside and gestured for him to enter.

'Come in, Cimmerian. I wondered how long you would take to come and visit me.'

Conan stepped within. The room beyond was a cluttered mess, but its furnishings were expensive. It was illuminated by a dozen candles and half as many oil lamps. On a table stacked with unwashed dishes, a black-and-white cat lapped milk from a silver

bowl.

'Welcome to my abode, Conan.' Delia scooped a striped yellow cat from a chair. 'Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Few men have been honoured with an invitation to my home.'

Conan sincerely doubted that the woman's favours were as exclusive as she implied, but he accepted the chair vacated by the striped cat and propped his booted feet on a hassock.

'I am honoured,' he said with a straight face.

She took a pair of silver goblets and a chased pitcher of the same metal and poured both cups full, spilling some wine in the process. Clearly, she had been making inroads on the wine before. Conan arrived. He took the offered cup and drank. It was an excellent vintage. The woman was as prodigal with drink as she was with illumination. He wondered what Maxio thought of his woman's spending habits.

'I knew you could not stay away from me for long,' Delia said, slurring her words slightly. 'Once a man has taken my eye, I will see to it that he comes to me.'

'It is not my way to chase another man's woman,' Conan said. 'What of your Maxio?'

'Maxio!' she said indignantly. 'He does not appreciate me. I am too good for the likes of him. Do you not find me beautiful?'

'I'll not deny it,' Conan assured her.

'Yet he treats me like some cheap woman of the streets whose

looks came from a paint pot and whose hair rightfully belongs to some barbarian woman who sold her yellow tresses to the wig-maker!' She took a long drink of the wine, as if she needed it to extinguish an internal blaze. 'Why do I waste my love and loyalty on a man like that?' She finished the cup and poured herself some more, then offered the same service to Conan, but he shook his head.

'You have told me of the enmity that lies between Maxio and Bombas,' Conan said. 'But there is something deeper between the Reeve and Xanthus. Know you anything of this?'

'What kind of man are you?' she demanded sulkily. 'Why do you want to talk about those dreary men? Wouldn't you rather talk about me?'

'First the Reeve and Xanthus,' Conan said. 'Then, perhaps, we shall talk about you and about me.'

'Oh, very well.' She ran her fingers through her splendid hair, then noticed that her cup was empty once more. Quickly, she rectified the situation. 'I know little of the matter, and I doubt that any do, save the two men themselves. Many years ago, when both were young men, they were close partners. But they fell out, over a woman.'

'A woman!' Conan laughed. 'Those two?'

'Even old men were once young,' she asserted, 'and young men value nothing so highly as women, and rightfully so. Anyway, the story is that they both pursued the same woman but were too cowardly to fight for her. At any rate, she died. Perhaps she killed herself. Each blames the other for her death, and black enmity has lain between them ever since.'

'What a pair!' Conan said. 'Divided by ancient hatred, yet bound together by guilt and villainy.' He thought over the implications for a while. 'Tell me, Delia, who is the town's main fence? All the thieving hereabouts must mean that there is a receiver for stolen goods. Or do the fences here fight one another as everyone else does?'

A cat sprang into Delia's lap and she stroked it. 'In the Pit

there is an old Temple of Bes, an Ophirean god. Bes has few worshippers here, but he has the richest temple in Sicas, because the priest is the town's most prosperous fence. He used to be the only one, under Lisip's protection, but now there are others.'

'Is the temple near one of the rivers?' Conan asked.

'Yes. It is built against the Fury wall. Why do you ask?'

'I just like to know about these things,' Conan said.

'Are you planning a job?' she asked. Her look grew sly, although she was having difficulty in keeping her eyes focused. 'Because if you are, I know of something being planned that you might get in on. There will be a big pay-off, and not much risk.'

'I am interested,' Conan said.

'Well, Maxio and his boys plan to break into the royal storehouse. It's up near the north end of town, not far from the wall. It's where the town's tax yield is stored, along with the king's share from the silver mine. Maxio plans to make a fabulous haul and get out of town.'

'If he robs a royal storehouse, he should get out of Aquilonia entirely,' Conan commented. 'Isn't it heavily guarded?'

She laughed. 'Oh, aye. By Bombas's men. How much trouble can they be to deal with?'

'I see. When is the raid to be, and how does Maxio plan to move his loot out of town?'

She yawned hugely, all but dislocating her jaw. 'What did you say? Oh, yes. I don't know when it will be, exactly. In the next few days. And he didn't tell me his escape plans. It almost seems as if he doesn't trust me any more, the sneaking rat!'

'He is unworthy of you,' Conan said.

'That is very true.'

'When you know that Maxio is about to make his move, will you tell me?'

She was not too drunk to remember her greed. 'That is the sort of information I expect to be paid well for. After all, it will gain you a great deal of loot, and Maxio never gives me anything!'

'I promise to be generous,' Conan assured her.

'Well, then, all right...' Slowly, her head nodded, her eye-lids dropped, and she began to snore.

The Cimmerian rose. Before leaving, he thoughtfully extinguished all but a single candle. Between the woman and her cats, he thought, it was a wonder the block had not been burned to the ground.

VIII

Lilac Perfume

When the Cimmerian returned to the inn, all was silent. The last of the late drinkers had vacated the common room, and when he entered the courtyard, his was the only shadow cast by the silvery moon overhead. Swiftly, he climbed the steps to the third Boor, and for all his bulk, he ascended as silently as a ghost.

Outside his door he paused. Another man might not have noticed, but his sensitive nose detected a scent of lilacs. Brita had not used scent since he had encountered her. He drew his dagger and thrust the door open. The inside of the room was inky black.

'Come out, Piris,' Conan commanded.

'How did you know I was here?' asked the breathy, tremulous voice.

The Cimmerian laughed. 'Piris, somehow I just do not need the evidence of my eyes to know you in the dark, even through a closed door.' His voice hardened. 'Now, tell me why you are in my room hiding instead of calling upon me by daylight, like an honest man.'

The little man came out onto the balcony. Even by moonlight, his robes were lurid. 'I did not reach town until after nightfall. The gate guard told me where you lodged, and I came hither immediately. Was it my fault that you were out somewhere when I arrived?'

'And who let you in?'

Piris reached into his robes. His hand emerged holding a small ring of tiny tools. 'This let me in. These inn locks are childishly simple to open.'

Conan had to smile at the man's shamelessness. 'And you saw no point in standing outside the door in the dark, eh?'

'There, I knew you to be a reasonable man. You do understand.'

'Fetch us a candle, and we will go inside and talk.'

Piris ducked back into the room and emerged with the candle, which he carried a few paces to a torch that sputtered dimly in a sconce overhanging the courtyard. The Cimmerian stepped into the chamber and stood silent for a few seconds. No sound came from the next room. Either Brita had left again or she had no! returned. The silly fool was probably wandering around in the Pit, calling her sister's name.

Piris returned with the candle and set it into its pewter holder. Conan divested himself of weapons and armour and stretched himself upon the bed. Piris took the room's single chair.

'Now tell me,' Conan said. 'Where have you been?'

'I would have arrived sooner,' the little man said, 'but I was clapped into a dungeon in Belverus!' His voice quivered at the injustice.

'How came that about?' Conan asked.

'As I left the city, I was detained at the guardhouse and my belongings were searched. Clearly, someone had told the guards to watch for me. In my baggage they found an exquisite amber necklace belonging to a certain priestess of the city. An enemy had planted the thing on me and tipped the guard!'

'Are you quite certain that it was planted?' asked Conan, scepticism tingeing his voice.

'Sir!' Piris said indignantly. 'Credit me with some wit. I

would never leave a town by the main gate while carrying stolen property.'

' 'And just who was this enemy who treated you so treacherously?' Conan queried.

'I cannot be certain, but I believe it was a woman named Altaira, with whom I had dealings. The wench is an accomplished thief and quite capable of such a thing. We had had a... a dispute, and she was looking to revenge herself upon me.'

'Describe her.' Conan said.

'A black-haired bitch who paints her nails and lips the most shocking shade of scarlet. She has the manner of a she-wolf and much the same reputation. She has slain many men who crossed her. Have you seen such a woman here?' The little man shuddered at the thought.

'None like that,' Conan said. 'How did you get out of the dungeon?'

'When they locked me up, they took everything from me, but I had secreted some valuables, ah, very privily upon my person. With a small jewel, I bribed a keeper to return my clothes, complaining that the dungeon was very cold and damp. This the fool did, not knowing that I had my little ring of tools concealed cunningly within the padding of my sash. With this I let myself out just before dawn, when all were snoring unsuspectingly. I recovered my belongings and left by way of a window, then lowered myself over the city wall by means of a rope. I could not recover my horse, naturally, but I acquired another.'

'You are very resourceful,' said Conan, who had graced many a dungeon himself, including the one in Belverus.

'And how have you fared here?' Piris asked.

'You were not wrong when you said that this is a wicked city,' Conan said. 'It is divided among a half-score of rival gangs. Authority is contested between a corrupt Reeve named Bombas and a crooked old miser named Xanthus. The main hangout of the rogues is an area called the Pit, at the south end of town, but now the whole place is wide open. The principal fence is a priest

of Bes, whose temple is in the Pit.' Conan saw no reason to tell Piris of his doings since his arrival.

The little man rubbed his palms together. 'This sounds like a place where one can do business.'

'Speaking of business,' Conan said, 'you have yet to explain ours. You said you would tell me when you joined me here. Do so now. I have had a long day, and I must sleep sometime.'

'Very well. Know, then, that I come of a very ancient and prominent family of Shadizar. For a hundred generations, we have been counsellors to kings and benefactors of the great temples of our land. We are a priestly family, and I myself am an initiate of the Third Order of the Servants of Asura.' If he expected Conan to be impressed by this revelation, he was wrong. The Cimmerian yawned.

'At any rate,' Piris went on, 'as a result of our prominence, my family is the custodian of many famed treasures. Deep within the vaults beneath our palace in Shadizar is kept the vase, carved from a single huge ruby, containing the sacred oil with which every Zingaran monarch is anointed upon accession. Our border fortress in the Kezankian mountains houses the great idol of Sutra, which will cure the afflictions of any petitioner who will but ascend the nine thousand steps up the mountainside upon his knees. Many a bloody-kneed supplicant has found solace at the feet of this god, whose sole priests are members of my family.'

'Will you not get to the point, man?' Conan asked impatiently.

'As you will. In my own house in Shadizar is a small temple, dedicated to a god so ancient that none remembers his name. The temple, which lies far underground, is far more ancient than the house, which is tolerably old itself, about seven hundred years. Within the temple crypt reposed one of the family treasures. This treasure was stolen some years ago, and I have pursued it ever since, unable for shame to return to my family. I cannot return to take up my rightful station in life until it is within my hands once more.'

'And the nature of this treasure?' Conan asked, sensing where his was leading.

Piris drew a deep breath, as if about to impart something both vital and secret. 'It has the likeness of a scorpion with the head of a beautiful woman, carven from a stone like obsidian.'

Somehow, Conan was not surprised. He was glad of the flickering, deceptive light cast by the lone candle, for Piris would not be able to read the many expressions he knew to be crossing his countenance in rapid succession, consternation and amusement predominating.

'And what is it that makes this stone insect so valuable?' Conan asked.

'For my family, its value is incalculable. Our fortunes are bound up with it, and it has long been held that should we lose it, our house would surely fall. I shudder to think what may be happening to my kinsmen this very moment, occasioned by its loss. But if I can restore it to its pedestal beneath my house, likewise will our fortunes be restored.'

'Then what makes it valuable enough for someone else to steal it?'' Conan demanded.

'The scorpion is a thing of great mystery and magic,' Piris said, his voice gone even lower and breathier than usual. 'In the hands of a sorcerer, its powers would be immense! And its substance is absolutely unique. The stone from which it is carved is not obsidian, although it has rather that appearance. It was carved from a huge black diamond that fell from the heavens upon ancient Atlantis. It is said that a shadowy priesthood of that fabulous kingdom toiled for many generations to carve the image from the strangely shaped gem, which was even harder than earthly diamonds. During the last century of its shaping, a wonderful temple was built to house the scorpion. When the final stroke of the polishing was done, so was the temple finished, and the image was placed therein.

'Ten days and nights of fearful ceremonies inaugurated the temple, and at midnight of the tenth night, when the moon shone through an aperture in the temple roof upon the last trickle of

blood that dripped from the idol's pedestal, the island shook with the blasts of a thousand volcanoes, and Atlantis sank beneath the waves of the ocean, with all of its gleaming cities.' The voice quivered with awe. '

'But the scorpion seems to have survived this untimely wetting,' Conan observed.

'Do not speak flippantly of so sacred an object!' Piris admonished. 'It is said that the scorpion walked from its sunken temple and came thus to Stygia, were it was revered for many centuries until it was given into the keeping of my family in recognition of our mastery of certain religious rites. These rites are of a most esoteric nature and are crucial to the proper ordering of the universe. Terrible cosmic consequences could result from this theft!'

'I see,' Conan said. 'And what makes you think the scorpion is here in Sicas?'

'It may not be here yet, but in Belverus an informant told me that it was in the possession of a certain caravan master, one Mulvix, and that this man was bound for Sicas. That was why I bade you come hither.'

'You think this Mulvix will try to sell the scorpion here?' ' Conan asked.

'Very likely. I think the man is just a smuggler. As such, the idol must very soon make him most uncomfortable. It is true of all magical objects that the uninitiated cannot bear their presence for long. By now he will be anxious to get rid of it. He may simply try to dispose of it as a valuable art object, or as a unique jewel, but it is more likely that he will seek out a wizard, a very rich one, if there is such a person here in this benighted city.'

'There is just such a man,' Conan proclaimed, 'and I know of a way to ingratiate myself with him.'

'Excellent! If we watch both this wizard and the fence you spoke of, we must soon find the scorpion.'

'That is how I see it. I shall set about it tomorrow. Now, Piris, just where do you expect to sleep?'

The little man's eyes widened. 'Sleep? Why, it is too late to find a room of my own. Surely there is room for me here, even if on a mere pallet on the floor.' He gestured, as if to demonstrate the spaciousness of the accommodations.

'Phis,' the Cimmerian growled, 'under no circumstances are you and I going to sleep in the same room. There is a fine stable attached to this inn. The straw is clean.'

'The stable!' Piris's voice achieved a near squawk. 'How could I endure such a place?'

'Easily, and you will smell the better for it.'

'But might I not—'

'Good night to you, Piris,' Conan said firmly.

Piris emitted a heartfelt sigh as he walked to the door. 'I should have known you were a cruel man when I hired you.' He left, shutting the door behind him.

Conan grinned up at the ceiling. In a lifetime spent among the most lawless people in the world, never had he encountered so many villainous schemers in so short a time. Mercenaries, thieves, corrupt officials, religious frauds, would-be wizards, and killers of every stripe were drawn to the town like iron filings to a lode-stone. By now he knew better than to trust anything told to him by his employers. Henceforth he would trust only their gold.

Conan rose early and found Piris in the common room. The little man had secured quarters on the ground floor but clearly he resented his night in the stable. Conan ignored the reproach in the dog-like protuberant eyes as he breakfasted with his usual gusto.

'This morning I visit the Temple of Bes,' the Cimmerian said when he was satisfied. 'Do you want to go with me? It is in the Pit.'

'That sounds like a worthwhile visit,' Piris said. 'I would like to...'He fell silent as the door opened, and his expression was one of alarm. Conan turned to see a man enter. He was hugely fat, with legs bulging his hose like overstuffed sausages. Greasy black hair framed his jowly face. Conan turned back to Piris.

'What is wrong?' he demanded.

'Oh, nothing, nothing. I but thought for a moment that that man was someone else. Pay it no heed.'

Conan grunted as if satisfied. They left the inn and walked southward. As they passed the Square, Conan pointed out Andolla's temple and gave Piris a sketchy account of the man's activities.

'If he is very rich and posing as a mage,' the Zamoran said, 'he would be a logical buyer for the scorpion.' He looked bemused, then spoke once more. 'Tell me, Conan; since you have been here, have you encountered a man who is quite tall and very handsome, with wavy blond hair and an easy manner?'

'Not to notice. Why do you ask?'

'He was once an associate of mine, and I thought I might encounter him here. This is the sort of place to attract him. He is a gambler and fancies himself a ladies' man.' The latter quality seemed to displease Piris.

'I've met no one like that here,' Conan said, thinking that he had not actually met such a one. But the description sounded suspiciously like Asdras, whose rat-gnawed corpse he had seen in the alley behind the Wyvern. And, just where was Brita keeping herself?

After much wandering about in twisting streets and blind alleys, they found the Temple of Bes. It was an old and shabby building, much in need of painting. The doorway was flanked by a pair of statues of the grotesque god, who had the body of a bandy-legged dwarf and a lion-like face. His tongue protruded from his comically wide-stretched mouth. The Ophirean god was popular among the lower classes in many lands. He was a god of jollity and good times, a defender against evil spirits and, oddly enough, a protector of women in childbirth. Like most gods, he had a darker side. Bes was also a god of drunkards and thieves.

The Cimmerian and the Zamoran passed within. A priest hurried from the back of the temple to greet them. He wore Ophirean robes, headgear and slippers, and upon his breast was a jewelled pectoral depicting his god.

'How may I help you sirs?' His clothing might have been Ophirean, but his accent was local. 'Do you wish to offer a sacrifice? Have you a wife in labour?' He eyed Piris sceptically. 'Well, perhaps not the latter. Is it, shall we say, a business matter?'

'Business,' Conan said. 'We are looking for—' Piris thrust an elbow sharply into his ribs, hard enough for the Cimmerian to feel the jab through his brigantine.

'We are in the market for art objects,' Piris said smoothly. 'We were informed that you are a dealer in such matters.'

'In my small fashion,' said the priest. 'What sort of art do you fancy? Paintings? Ivory carving? Jewel work?'

'Might we have a look at your stock?' Piris asked.

'But of a certainty! If you gentlemen will come with me, I will show you my inventory.'' He led them past the altar and to a door that opened upon a flight of stairs. These descended to a room where a pair of slaves guarded a heavy door. The slaves were men of Shem, huge and hook-nosed, with black beards almost concealing the spiked collars that encircled their necks.

From his girdle the priest took a heavy key and thrust it into the door. Massive as the portal was, it opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. 'Bring lamps,' the priest ordered. The slaves complied, and moments later Conan and his companion were admiring a fine stock of valuables: jewelled swords, fine portraits, small statues carved from precious materials, jewellery of every description. At the far end of the vault there was a second door. This Conan had expected, and it was the main reason he had wanted to have a look at the temple.

'What lies beyond that portal?' he asked.

'Just the river,' said the priest. 'Sometimes goods must be moved in and out without bothering the authorities, if you take my meaning. Well, gentlemen, do you see anything such as takes your fancy?''

Piris caressed a ruby-eyed figurine of a rearing lion. 'Oh, much of this is most attractive, and rest assured that in time I shall come to make you an offer upon some of these items. However,

just now we have a more specific desire. It would be a small statue made of a most curious black stone. It will be quite unlike anything you have ever encountered before. Should this unique specimen come before you, and I think it well might within a very few days, you should find it very rewarding to inform us.'

'Ah, a specific item!' said the priest conspiratorially. 'It is not uncommon for me to be asked to keep watch for a specific item that someone is desirous of obtaining. I have seen nothing thus far such as you seek, but be assured that I shall let you know instantly should it come my way. At one time this would have been inevitable, but business has been greatly damaged of late by all these amateurs who have come to town. Where might you be contacted, good sirs?'

Phis gave the man the name of their inn, and for a while the two conversed professionally upon the subject of property acquired extralegally. While they did so, the Cimmerian examined the vaulted chamber in which they stood. The walls were of brick, curving to form the roof overhead. The bricks did not sweat moisture, which meant that they were well above the level of the river.

As soon as he had heard that the temple abutted the river wall, he had assumed that there would be a river access. In past times, when Sicas had been governed by Reeves more conscientious than Bombas, the priests of this temple would have required a convenient means of moving their nefariously acquired goods.

Conan had long ago learned that it is unwise to enter any house without first noting where all the possible exits lie. The same held true for towns. In a tight situation, it would be good to know that there was a convenient way out of the town that did not necessitate use of the gates.

Their business concluded, Conan and Piris returned to the streets of the Pit. They made a strange pair, the huge, savage-looking Cimmerian and the small, delicate and effeminate Zamoran, but in the Pit they did not rate so much as a second glance from passers-by. The inhabitants of the Pit were rarely of the conventional sort themselves.

As they made their way up a winding alley, Conan noticed that they were being followed. This was the Pit, not the Square. He knew that there would be no challenge to an open fight. Without so much as a word, the Cimmerian whirled, his sword hissing from its scabbard. The men behind them halted, unnerved by the abrupt move. Somewhat to Conan's surprise, Piris neither panicked nor ran. He whirled an instant after, drawing a long, thin-bladed stiletto.

'Whose dogs are you?' Conan snarled. One wore the red leather of Ingas's gang, but the rest were nondescript thugs of the Pit. There were six of them, each with drawn sword. Just above and behind them Conan noticed someone watching from a rooftop, but he had no attention to spare for the watcher.

'What matters that?' asked a man whose woollen cap covered holes once graced by ears. 'You and your pretty friend will be fish food ere dark.'

'It was to deal with such rascals that I hired you, Cimmerian,' Piris reminded him. 'Please attend to them.'

'You heard him,' Conan said to the six. 'Either begone or attack. I do not want to tarry in this stinking alley.'

As one man, the six attacked. The Cimmerian met them halfway, his sword shearing through an unguarded thigh as he ducked past a clumsy blow. He struck a bearded man in the chest with his shoulder, sending him smashing into a wall. The long sword of the man in red leather struck Conan's side, but its keen edge merely split the cover of the brigantine and skittered across the steel plates beneath. Conan's left fist crashed into that one's jaw and the man dropped with a sound of splintering bone. A cutlass glittered toward Conan's face, but he interposed his own blade and the steel rang. The instant the cutlass-wielder's blade halted, Conan grabbed his wrist, disengaged his own blade and smashed his pommel into the bridge of the man's nose. As that one fell, a man with a short sword leaped over the body, his weapon darting for Conan's side. The Cimmerian leaned aside and as the sword went past, clamped the attacker's arm between his own left arm and side. With his pommel, he smashed the elbow joint. Shoving the man off, he placed his back to a wall, his eyes sweeping the alley for more enemies. He was just in time to see the watcher dash away from the rampart of the nearby house. It was only a glimpse, but he had the impression that it was a woman, a woman with black hair and a mouth rouged scarlet.

Conan surveyed the men, who either lay still or groaned and writhed upon the filthy paving stones of the alley. The man he had knocked into the wall and one other, a man of Stygian countenance, lay shivering and jerking, their mouths drawn back in convulsive grins. He looked at Piris.

'I but scratched them,' the thief said, gesturing with his stiletto. Its point was stained lightly with blood but heavily with a green substance. He re-sheathed the weapon.

'Halt, you rogues!' They turned to see Bombas, his bulk almost blocking the alley, fisted hands on his hips. Behind him stood his three close henchmen and a half-dozen of his worthless guards.

'You are a long way from your headquarters, Reeve,' Conan said.

The fat man smiled evilly. 'And yet I am duty-bound to go forth and arrest those who would defy the law. Your weapons, please.'

Conan fumed, but Piris nudged him. 'We had best comply, my friend. We have business to conclude in this town.'

With ill grace, the Cimmerian complied, handing his weapons-belt to the Reeve. The man took Piris's stiletto and examined it, then looked upon the two men whose heels had ceased to drum upon the stone. He clucked ruefully.

'Did you not know that possession of an envenomed weapon is a violation of royal law?'

The Zamoran's eyes went wide in a parody of injured innocence. 'But I bought that weapon believing it to be an honest dagger! Am I an apothecary, to know that its tip was poisoned?'

Bombas did not deign to answer. He looked at the fallen men distastefully and turned to his guards. 'Drag this offal down to the river.'

'But some of them are still alive,' said a guard who carried a bill slanting over his shoulder.

'What of that?' demanded Bombas. 'Cut their throats and all will be corrected.' Shrugging, the guards drew their daggers.

'Now come with me,' Bombas ordered. Conan and Piris, closely followed by Julus and the two Zingarans, began to trudge toward the Square. Conan said nothing to his companion about the black-haired woman. He was not even certain that he had seen her; the impression had been too fleeting. As they passed through the Square, they drew many looks and some laughter, but Conan decided that most of this was due to the unaccustomed sight of Bombas, out of his headquarters for once.

The Cimmerian knew it was no coincidence that the fat Reeve had just happened to be in the vicinity where the two were set upon, in a part of town that Bombas probably had not visited in years. It was just one more among the multitude of conspiracies that had come to surround Conan. He had no doubt that this, too, would become clear in time.

Within the Reeve's palace, they were marched down a flight of stairs and into a stone-walled cell guarded by an iron-barred door. The door shut behind the two with a resounding clank and the jailer, an ox-like, bald-headed man, twisted a heavy key in the lock.

'Leave us,' said Bombas, addressing the jailer and his three henchmen.

'How long are we here for?' Conan asked.

Bombas shrugged. 'Perhaps for a short time, perhaps for the rest of your lives. I am always amenable to reason.'

'How much reason do we need to get out of here?' the Cimmerian demanded.

'Ordinarily fifty marks' worth of reason is sufficient, but with you two, I am not so sure.'

'This is an outrage!' Piris sputtered. 'I shall protest to the Zamoran ambassador, who is a personal friend.'

At this, Bombas laughed hard enough to set his fat jiggling.

'In the first place, little man, the Zamoran ambassador is in Tarantia, which is quite some way from here. You lack the aspect of a wizard, so I doubt that you can communicate with him from my dungeon. In the second place, I deal with people like you every day, and I think that the last thing you want is to come to the attention of the Zamoran authorities.'

'Will we be tried?' Conan asked.

'If I wish. But the next court day is not for many weeks. Even so—' he came close to the bars '—you two need not endure this at all. Tell me what you are in Sicas for. If it is something to my advantage, perhaps we can work out an arrangement. Remember that you are foreigners and have no rights here. I need not try you at all. What is your business?' Neither prisoner said a word. Bombas stepped back, frowning. 'Very well, then. I will release you upon payment of five hundred gold marks. Each!'

'Where would we get such a sum?' Piris wailed.

'What concern is that of mine?' Bombas said. He turned and stalked back up the stairs.

'Who set that swine upon us?' Piris asked.

Conan shrugged his massive shoulders. 'It's my guess that he was bribed to kill us if the thugs failed to do so. His men took one end of the alley, the thugs took the other. We killed the thugs first. He had not stomach for a fight with me, and he scents riches in keeping us alive. As to who hired him, the field is growing crowded. Incidentally, I think I might have espied your black-haired wench watching the ambush from a rooftop, but I cannot be sure.'

'That slut! If she has followed me here—'

'And is she, too, in search of the black scorpion?' Conan demanded.

'Cimmerian, you ask too many questions. My dealings are my own. I have retained your services to aid me, not to be my partner.' The little man fretted for a few minutes, then: 'By the way, my friend, have you enough gold handy to procure our freedom?'

At this Conan laughed. 'You remember my condition when

you found me! You advanced me two hundred dishas, much of which I spent in outfitting and travelling expenses.'

The Zamoran sat on a hard bench depending upon chains from a wall, his every line eloquent of despondency. 'Oh. I was hoping that your luck at gaming might have returned, or that you might have, well, acquired a bit of wealth through other means since you left Belverus.'

Conan strode close to Piris and looked down upon him with a thunderous glare. 'And what of the rest of the thousand dishas you promised me?'

'I told you that my departure from Belverus was precipitate. I was forced to leave much behind.' He looked up and smiled eagerly. 'But if we can just recover the scorpion, our fortunes will be restored!'

Conan glanced at the stairway. The ox-like jailer had not yet returned. 'Do you have your ring of picks?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Piris in a low voice. 'But I would rather not use it. We need to be able to move freely about this town, perhaps for several more days. Who knows when the scorpion may arrive?'

Conan went to the door and grasped the bars. He had been clapped in jail many times but he could never become accustomed to the sensation of confinement. His mind worked over the possibilities.

'Something may turn up,' he said. Now Piris released an annoying giggle. 'What is so funny, little man?' Conan demanded.

'Did you not say that under no circumstances would you sleep in the same room with me?'

Conan set his head against the bars and groaned. 'Crom has deserted me!'

IX

The Temple of Doorgah

Conan lay back upon his hard bench, fingers laced behind his head, and pondered the problem of five hundred marks. He had no intention of revealing where he had hidden his gold. He did not want to tap any of his current employers. Piris was already penniless, or claimed to be. Xanthus would have nothing to do with Bombas, and Casperus wished to retain anonymity. Anyway, it might cause them to lose confidence in him if they were forced to spring him from prison. He decided that he needed another employer, one willing to invest five hundred marks to secure the services of a champion swordsman.

He glanced at the next bunk and saw that Piris snored away amid a cloud of lilac fumes. The ox-like jailer was gone, replaced by a younger man who hobbled about on a crutch. The Cimmerian rose and walked to the door. 'Psst! Would you like to earn some money?' he whispered.

The man looked up from the table where he was carving a model of a river barge. 'I'll not unlock you!' he said, then amended, 'Not for less than a thousand marks.'

'Nothing like that. I just want you to deliver a message. Know you the house of Rista Daan?''

'Who does not?' the keeper said.

'When you get off duty, go to him and say this: 'If you wish to have your daughter back from the hands of Andolla, come to the Reeve's headquarters and buy Conan of Cimmeria out of jail.' Can you remember that? It is worth five marks to you.'

The man repeated the message. 'Where are my five marks?'

'Do I look like I have money?' Conan said impatiently. 'Daan will pay you.'

An hour later the lame man was replaced by the bald one. The Cimmerian knew better than to fret or grow impatient. Piris wheedled a gaming board from the jailer, and for a while they killed time playing 'King is Dead,' at which Piris cheated adroitly. Conan had lost his third straight game when Julus came down the stairs, escorting a man dressed in hose and tunic of sumptuous cloth, over which he wore a coat trimmed with rich white fur.

'Which of you is the Cimmerian?' the man asked.

'Would you mistake me for a savage?' Piris retorted indignantly.

'I am Conan.'.The Cimmerian stood and approached the bars, making the most of his intimidating size and appearance. The rich man looked him up and down, then turned to Julus.

'I would speak with this one privily.' Julus nodded to the jailer, who unlocked the door.

As the Cimmerian followed the others up the stair, Piris called after him, 'Conan! Get me out, too!'

Julus led them to a small room off the building's main hall. 'My lord,' he said, 'you had better let me stay in here with you. This one is a savage and has killed several men since coming to town.'

'I think not,' said the man. 'The town seems none the worse off for his activities. Pray leave us.'

'As you command.' Julus bowed and left, shutting the door behind him.

'Now, explain quickly the meaning of your message. Why should it be worth five hundred marks for me to procure your freedom?''

'How many thousands has Andolla cost you already?' Conan countered. 'Are you not Rista Daan?'

'I am, and what know you of me?'

'I was told that your daughter was one of those who have fallen under the spell of Andolla and now spends her days in the Temple of Mother Doorgah.'

'And what can you do about the situation?' Rista Daan demanded. His face was lean-fleshed and hard, with deep lines, his silver hair trimmed close. Except for his uncalloused palms, he might have been a soldier.

'I have taken this sort of task before,' Conan told him. 'Frauds like Andolla prey upon the foolish children of the wealthy. They keep the young ones until the money runs out, then kick them into the street.'

'I know all that. You say that you can go to the temple and bring her back to me?''

Conan shook his head. 'You know that will do no good. She will just get away and run back to Andolla. They always do. No, I will have to destroy his hold upon her.''

'And you think you can do this?' Now the man's attitude was less challenging.

'Aye. It will take a few days.'

Daan seemed to come to a decision. He nodded curtly. 'Very well. If you had claimed that you could restore her instantly, I would have told that fat fool of a Reeve to clap you back in the clink. I think there may be more to you than I had thought.'

At a desk near the entrance, Conan collected his weapons and armour while Rista Daan paid for his freedom. That done, they went out into the Square.

'Five hundred!' Rista Daan said as they walked toward his house, which was on the side of the Square exactly opposite Xanthus's. 'Why does Bombas value you so highly?'

Conan shrugged. 'The swine plays so many games that I think

not even he keeps track of them all. It's clear that not everyone gets jailed in this town just for killing a few men. And I but defended myself. At that, I did not kill as many as I might have. He ordered the deaths of the men I but disabled.'

'He just wants a piece of whatever villainy you are up to,' Daan said. 'It's no affair of mine. So long as you perform your task for me, I'll not trouble you about whatever else you occupy yourself with.'

They entered a spacious courtyard, this one lovingly tended. Roses grew lavishly despite the late season. The house they entered had luxurious furnishings and hangings of precious cloth. The servants wore fine livery and did not appear ill-treated. 'Did they feed you in the dungeon?' Daan asked. 'A few stale crusts and some water,' Conan grumbled. 'He pockets even the allowance for prisoners' rations,' Daan said. 'I am not surprised.' He clapped his hands and a servant rushed up. 'This man will conduct you to the bathhouse, of which you stand in sore need. When you return, we shall dine and speak of necessary matters.'

The Cimmerian followed the servant and soon was luxuriating in an immense tub of hot soapy water as attendants scrubbed him industriously. Afterwards he sat before a great looking glass while a barber shaved him and trimmed his dense, square-cut mane. Clean new clothes were brought to him and he dressed, noting that the cut in the leather covering of his brigantine had been expertly repaired with fine stitches. His steel cap had been polished. Even if Rista Daan turned out to be as villainous as the others, Conan thought, he could not be faulted for his hospitality. ' The servant now conducted Conan to a dining room, where Rista Daan sat at a heavy-laden table. At the man's gesture, Conan sat and a servitor filled his cup and began to heap the platter before him. For a while the two men ate in silence, Rista Daan sparingly, the Cimmerian ravenously.

When Conan was replete, he sat back and the rich man handed him a small, flat square of wood. In its centre was a miniature portrait, exquisitely detailed. It depicted a young girl with straight yellow hair and huge blue eyes.

'This is my daughter, Rietta. She is my only child. I want you to be able to recognize her, because she goes by another name within that foul temple. Andolla gives each of his followers a new name when they join him. It helps to sever their attachment to their families.'

'Save those attachments through which money flows,' Conan pointed out.

'Exactly. The young fools under his spell constantly send word to their families, begging for money. Sometimes they go home claiming that they have left Andolla forever. Then they raid the family coffers and flee back to the temple.'

'How did the girl come to follow the knave?' Conan asked.

A look of pain flitted across the man's face. 'I am a spice merchant. I have had to spend much of my life away from home attending to business. As a result, my daughter was in the care of her mother for much of her youth, and my wife was... not quite right in the head. This was not noticeable when we were wed, but it grew more pronounced as the years went by. Had I been home more, I might have taken more notice and done something about it.' He brooded in silence for a moment. 'Well, that is past and there is nothing I can do about it now.' He contemplated the depths of his wine.

'Rietta's mother found the state gods very dull, and she was greatly addicted to foreign religions, a taste she passed on to my daughter. As the years went by, my wife became obsessed that she lay under an ancient curse, handed down through the women in her family. She began to perform endless rites to protect Rietta from this imaginary onus. I learned much of this later, from the servants,' he admitted. 'My wife behaved almost normally when I was at home. In time, though, her sickness became apparent even to me, and I placed her under the close care of trusted retainers. It was no use. One night, in the midst of a terrible storm, she escaped from her room and fled to the roof of the corner turret. From there, she cast herself to the pave below.'

Daan was silent for a while, then shook himself and went on. 'Rietta was not only grief-stricken, but terrified: The curse had claimed her mother, and now it would descend upon her. At about that time, Andolla moved into the old temple and dedicated it to his foul Vendhyan goddess. Some of Rietta's young and stupid friends told her of Andolla, of what a wonderful man he was, of how he could solve any difficulty of supernatural origin. She went to see him.

'Of course the charlatan had picked up all the town gossip and knew exactly what to say to her. He knew how to protect her from the terrible curse if only she would come stay in his temple. She went, naturally, and has been there ever since. I sought to hire bravos to bring her out, but Andolla has paid off all the gang lords and has protection.'

'How does he bleed you?' Conan asked bluntly.

'Before fleeing to him, Rietta raided my strongbox, taking ten thousand marks in gold and far more in jewels. Andolla must have coached her in how to make an impression of my key. She is not strong enough to have carried it all, so he probably sent someone to help her.'

'He is thorough,' Conan said. 'Is there anything at all to his magical claims, or is he pure fraud?'

'That is difficult to say. He claims to be able to slay with curses, and some who have given him trouble have died mysteriously, but that could as easily be from poison. I am most careful of my food and drink these days. And he is not alone. He has a wife named Oppia, and it is my opinion that she is the more cunning of the two.'

'This grows complicated,' Conan said judiciously, 'but I can set the matter aright.'

'And what is your fee for this task?' Rista Daan asked.

'My usual fee is one thousand marks,' Conan said. 'But since you have already paid five hundred for my freedom...'

'Five hundred ten,' said the merchant, 'counting what I paid the jailer for delivering your message.'

'Ten!' said Conan. 'I told the man five!'

'We have small rogues in this town as well as the great ones.' At that, both men laughed. 'You'll have the balance of your money when Rietta is back with me. And I am not without influence, both here and in the capital. Whatever charges are against you will be quietly dropped. I like your look, Cimmerian. I think you will render honest service.'

Conan rose. 'Then I had better be about it. Look to have your daughter back within a few days. After that, Andolla should trouble you no further.'

The Square was enveloped in dusk when the Cimmerian left the house. He wanted to call at the temple, but thought it best to check back at the inn first. He had paid several days' advance for his room and Brita's, and he was concerned for her. He looked into the stable to make sure his horse was properly cared for, then climbed the stair to his chamber. As soon as he entered, Brita rushed in from the adjoining room.

'Conan! Where have you been?'

'In jail. Where have you been?' Despite himself, he was relieved to see her.

'Where have I not been? I think I have pried into every foul corner of this city, trying to find my sister. She has been seen, but the information is never recent enough to do any good. I fear that she may have fled the city.''

'Probably went back to Tarantia,' he said. 'You'd better do the same.'

'Not until I am sure. Why were you in jail?'

'I think I am the only man in town to be arrested for fighting. That was yesterday morning. Where were you two nights ago?'

'I came here as usual,' she said, 'and I climbed the stair, but I saw a man hanging about on the balcony near our doors, a little man in very strange clothes. I was frightened, so I spent the rest of the night in the carriage house below.''

Conan laughed shortly. 'That was just... oh, never mind. Listen to me, girl. I will be away for a day or two. I will contact you if I can, but business calls me elsewhere for a while.'

'Surely you are not leaving town?' she said anxiously.

'No, I shall be here. The rooms are paid for. Do nothing foolish. By now, everyone in town knows your mission. If your sister still wants to avoid you, you will not find her. If not, let her seek you out. Take no more foolish risks, because I will be unavailable for help. Do you understand?'

She looked down and clasped her hands. 'Yes.' He tilted her head back and kissed her.

'Now, stay out of trouble,' he admonished. She smiled and he left, feeling uneasy.

The portico of the temple was brightly illuminated by fires burning in bronze baskets, their smoke fragrant with incense. Prom within came the sound of endless, monotonous chanting. Two hulking young men guarded the doorway, their arms folded across their chests.

'I wish to speak with Andolla,' Conan said when he halted

before the two.

'Our master does not speak with just anyone,' said one of the youths. 'He is a holy man, and spends much time in meditation.'

'Unclean persons cannot simply call upon him,' said the

other.

'I just had a bath,' Conan told them. 'If your master is unavailable, perhaps his wife would speak with me.'

'The Holy Mother Oppia is likewise occupied with spiritual matters,' said the first.

Conan's patience, never lengthy, had reached its limit. He grasped his hilt. 'Would they respond to cries of pain and distress from the entrance?' he growled.

'What is this?' It was a woman's voice. Instantly the two guards turned and bowed as the speaker emerged and passed between them. She was small but well shaped, her hair long and black, her skin dusky. A diamond glittered from one nostril, and a smooth red jewel had somehow been set into the flesh of her forehead.

The guards clapped and chanted, 'Holy Mother Oppia, Holy Mother Oppia.' She waved a hand and they fell silent.

'My name is Conan of Cimmeria, and I think we have business to discuss.'

'I cannot imagine why,' she said, 'but it is never our way to turn away supplicants. Please come inside.'

The guards had given no impression that this was a hospitable temple. Doubtless, Conan thought, the woman just did not wish to be seen speaking with him on the portico. Inside, the temple was illuminated by candles and votive fires burning before idols. The austere Temple of Mitra had been renovated in the overdecorated Vendhyan style. Every surface had been painted to depict ' Vendhyan deities going about their activities, many of the pursuits bloody, others obscene, most of them incomprehensible. There were as many animal as human figures in the decorations, and small monkeys seemed to have the run of the temple.

The temple proper was a vast room in which at least two-score worshippers chanted endlessly, clashing tuneless instruments and making what was, to Conan's ears, a hellish racket. The object of their adoration seemed to be an idol of the same huge-breasted female deity he had seen in the procession. The goddess sat cross-legged, her feet atop her thighs, and in her lap sat a man in the same knee-wrenching posture. His eyes were shut and he was motionless.

The woman led him up a flight of stairs to a second-floor gallery that completely encircled the nave below. Skylights above revealed the moon and stars. Oppia wore a single band of sky-blue silk wrapped tightly about her shoulders and descending almost to her ankles. Her feet were bare, their soles stained bright red.

The room into which she led Conan opened off the gallery. It was bare and businesslike, furnished only with chairs and a large desk stacked with parchments. The decoration was minimal, although sticks of incense burned in the hands of miniature idols. The woman seated herself behind the desk and addressed him coolly.

'You are a man of violence, a swordsman,' she said. 'I have

heard of you. We reject all forms of violence and coercion. Why have you come here?'

'If you will not bear arms,' Conan said, 'then all the more reason for you to hire someone who is more than willing to do so.'

'We have guards, albeit unarmed,' she pointed out.

'Like those two at the door?' Conan all but sneered. 'They are worthless, and you know it. What happens when the families of your acolytes hire bravos to come retrieve their young?''

She leaned back slightly, studying him from beneath lowered lids. 'Misguided persons sometimes wish to kidnap our followers, but we have arrangements with those who control the men of violence.'

'Then before long, the aggrieved families will go outside of town to hire their strong-arm men.' He could see that the thought concerned her. 'And are there not times when some of your followers grow reluctant to stay?''

'Sometimes, very rarely, an evil spirit, an enemy of Mother Doorgah's, infects one of the acolytes with an unreasoning urge to leave, but with patience and goodwill, we overcome these sacrilegious compulsions.'

Conan grinned. 'I can overcome them very quickly. I am good at that sort of work. Also, while I am sure that you have concerned yourself only with spiritual matters, you may have heard that the gangs in this city are fighting each other more and more. Your agreements with them may not hold for much longer. I am not affiliated with any of them.'

For the first time, she looked him over closely and quite openly. 'It may be that we... that is, that Mother Doorgah can use a man like you. And if you abide here a while, who knows but that we may be able to bring you to the way of goodness and light?'' A minuscule, secret smile curved the corners of her mouth. 'Come, I will show you Mother Doorgah's domain here in the benighted west.' She came from behind the desk and he followed her back to the gallery.

'Here the faithful chant the daily offices,' she said, gesturing toward the nave below.

'How many are there?' he asked. 'Faithful, I mean, not offices.'

'We now have more than one hundred,' she said. 'We offer he blessings of Mother Doorgah to all, but we accept only those whose faith and devotion are sincere.' By which, Conan assumed, she meant as long as they kept the money coming in. 'Great-souled Andolla, my husband, is the conduit through which lows the word of Mother Doorgah.'

She led him into a side chapel. Here was another statue of the goddess; this time she was black, her naked body splattered with tainted blood. A necklace of human skulls depended from her leek, and she waved a sword as she danced atop a heap of entrails and severed limbs.

'This is Mother Doorgah in her aspect of the Drinker of Blood and Devourer of Entrails. All Vendhyan gods have both the creative and destructive aspects. We worship her primarily in her nurturing, birth-giving persona.' She smiled at him frostily. 'But re must not overlook her darker side.'

'That would be unwise,' Conan agreed. He disliked the eastern gods almost as much as he detested the pantheon of Stygia. He came of a dynamic, self-reliant people, and he had only contempt for the apathetic, fatalistic followers of such gods, who held inertia and nothingness as the highest good, oblivion as the only desirable state of existence.

'This,' said Oppia as they entered another room, 'is where lose whose faith falters practice austerities to restore them to the true way.' There were shackles hanging from the walls, and in the centre of the room was an X-shaped frame fitted with manacles and leg irons. Hanging from one of its arms was a multi-shed scourge, each thong studded with brass barbs.

'This should restore their belief if nothing else will,' observed the Cimmerian.

'I can see that you are a man of little faith,' she sniffed. 'That is only to be expected of a barbarian. Still, Mother Doorgah scorns no one, however base. Come.'

She showed him the gardens, the workshops, the kitchens and laundries, where all the housekeeping of the establishment was done. The temple owned no slaves. Rather, Conan thought, the acolytes were the slaves. They performed all the work. The beauty of the system was that ordinarily one had to pay for slaves. These actually paid to be enslaved. Far from running away, they had to be restrained from running back to the temple.

Behind the temple proper was a large house of four stories, with many rooms. Oppia showed him the large chambers used as dormitories by the acolytes. They were perfectly bare except for sleeping pallets, all of which were neatly rolled against the walls while the acolytes were at services. She described the daily routine of the worshippers, and Conan realized that the wealthy young converts were kept under a discipline stricter than that of military recruits. The offices went on day and night, and the acolytes never had more than two hours of sleep at any time. When they were not chanting, they were working. In the kitchens, he had seen that their diet consisted mainly of boiled gruel. In a state of perpetual starvation and exhaustion, their minds and wills were numbed. Conan was revolted, although he was careful not to reveal his feelings. It made ordinary slavery seem a clean thing by comparison. And yet he was certain that he had not seen the worst of it.

Finally she took him to a spacious apartment on the third floor. 'You will lodge here,' she said. 'I am sure that it is more comfortable than your accustomed quarters.'

'It'll do,' Conan said. 'Where do you live?'

She regarded him coolly. 'Why do you need to know that?'

'Times are unsettled, and half of the unhung thieves in Aquilonia are in Sicas. Mysterious people attract rumours, and ignorant men may think you hoard wealth in this temple. If rogues should break into your-quarters and you should raise an alarm, I would need to know where to run to your rescue.'

'That makes sense,' she said. 'On this floor, if you turn left in the hall outside your door, then turn right at its end, you come to a red door. Within is our apartment. Never enter those chambers save at my command or that of my husband.'

'I shall not,' said Conan, determining to explore their chambers at first opportunity.

'Very good. There remains the question of payment.'

'No question about that,' Conan said. 'My fee is one thousand gold marks. You may pay me half now. Soon your affairs here will be settled one way or the other and you may then pay me the balance.'

'What do mean you by that?' she demanded.

Conan shrugged. 'Either the gang-fighting will be resolved, with one pack left in control, or you and your, husband will leave town.'

'Leave town?' Her eyes flashed. 'Why-fore should we do such a thing?'

He grinned at her. 'Somehow I feel that Mother Doorgah may call you elsewhere soon. I suspect that this has happened many times before. I also suspect that your departure will be sudden and will occur late at night. Be assured that will notice and will come for the balance of my pay.''

She glared at him for a moment; then, abruptly, she chuckled. She reached up and with the long, pointed nail of a forefinger, traced a line down the angle of his clean-shaven jaw. 'Cimmerian, I think that you and I shall get on well together.' She ran her tongue lightly across her lips, increasing their shine.

'And I think you should pay me five hundred marks now,' Conan said.

'Wait here,' she ordered, and with a surprisingly girlish giggle, she left the room. He noticed that she turned left in the hallway outside the door. She was going to her apartments. He waited for a few seconds, then looked outside the room. She was nowhere in sight, but from the angle of the hall, he heard a key turning in a lock. So she kept the key upon herself.

When he heard the door shut, he ran silently up the hallway and turned right. A few paces before him was a red-painted door of heavy timbers strapped with iron. The lockplate was a massive thing, but the shape of the keyhole told him that the lock itself, while strong, was of a primitive design. It should prove easy to pick at need.

The hallway was low-ceilinged, illuminated by oil lamps burning in niches. He lifted the chased bronze lid of one and saw that its reservoir was half full. This told him that the lamps were filled once each day, in the morning. He would not have to worry about encountering an acolyte oiling the lamps at any other time.

He listened for the sounds of a strongbox being opened, but the door was too thick to allow any faint noise to pass. Judging that caution would permit him to stay no longer, he made his way silently back to his new quarters. He drew his dirk and was abstractedly sharpening it when Oppia returned.

She held a leather pouch in one hand. Her band-like garment had become artfully disarranged. It now exposed a narrow spiral of creamy flesh from her armpits almost to her ankles. She held out the pouch and Conan, sheathing his dirk, took it from her. The thin leather was stretched taut and held a satisfying solidity. He had no doubt that the woman would feel equally satisfying. But, he reflected, women were far more dangerous than gold.

'Perhaps I will convert you to the worship of Mother Doorgah after all,' she said, coming close.

'She's not my sort of goddess,' Conan said.

'Ah, but how do you know? I have told you that she has more than one aspect. Some of them are not for the ordinary acolytes. As Queen of Raptures and Unifier of the Flesh, her rites are such as you might find delight in. I am the sublime instructress in these rituals.'

'And the Great-souled Andolla?' Conan inquired. 'Does he take part in these ceremonies?'

She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. 'My husband is unduly occupied with his magical studies of late. We are not much in company, save when a ceremony of the Holy One requires the presence of us both.'

'Is the sanctified Andolla a master of sorcerous arts?' the Cimmerian asked.

' 'When he is not occupied with his devotions to Mother Doorgah, he seeks a deeper understanding of the supernatural world.' Her tone was faintly contemptuous. 'To that end he collects sorcerous tomes and other paraphernalia. His studies keep him long hours in solitude.'

'You must find that lonely,' Conan observed.

'Sometimes,' she admitted, 'the consolations of Mother Doorgah are not enough. And the male acolytes can be so boring.' She began to move toward him, but she stopped at the sound of a scream from above. It was a woman's voice, and it was a sound of utter terror.

'Crom!' Conan said, snatching at his hilt. 'Someone's being murdered!'

'The Mother curse her!' Oppia snarled. Then she placed a restraining palm upon his heavy arm. 'Be at ease. It is one of our female acolytes, and a most troublesome one. She is like this often. Come, she may need restraining.'

He followed her into the hallway and to the stair they had ascended before. This time she went up a final, narrow passage to the fourth floor. Though here the layout was the same as on the floor below, Conan noted that most of the doors stood open, the rooms beyond unoccupied. But one room was closed., bolted from the outside. At eye level it had a small window, shuttered so that it opened only from the outside, like that of a prison door.

Oppia opened the shutter and peered inside, then slid back the bar and tugged the door open. Conan went in behind her. As he entered the room, he noticed a smell so faint that it was barely detectable. In a second or two, with a faint outrushing of air, it was gone, but he knew he had not imagined it. Then his attention was drawn to a frail figure huddled in a corner of the room.

It was Rietta, the daughter of Rista Daan. He knew her from the miniature portrait, but she no longer greatly resembled that likeness. Her face was hollow and emaciated, her limbs shrivelled. Her once-lustrous hair hung lank and faded. She clearly had not been exposed to sunlight for months. Just now her eyes were wide with panic, staring at the corner of the room opposite that in which she cowered. One fist was against her mouth as she raised a skeletal arm and pointed toward the corner with her other hand.

'It was there! It came again! You promised that it would not come again! You promised!'

Oppia crouched and took the girl by the shoulders.

'I have told you that Mother Doorgah will protect you from the curse and that only Mother Doorgah can protect you. If your faith were strong, this thing could not trouble you. It is your own lack of belief that allows the thing to return every night. Why have you failed Mother Doorgah?''

'But I have tried to please the goddess,' the girl sobbed. 'I perform all the rituals, I chant night and day. I eat only the permitted foods, and I fast when I am commanded to. Why does it keep coming back?'

Oppia's voice dripped scorn. 'Mother Doorgah sees into your heart, and she knows that your faith is not true. She requires unquestionable proof of your sincerity.'

'What is left me to do?' the girl wailed. 'All I had I gave to her temple! My father is too hard-hearted to give me more.'

'If you had true faith,' Oppia said coldly, 'you would know how to make your father yield more.'

While the women conversed, the Cimmerian studied the room. It had the same plan as his own, but its only furnishing was a hard, narrow bed consisting of a wooden frame and a webbing of leather straps. The single window was covered by six upright bronze bars set into the stone. Its sole illumination was provided by an oil lamp burning behind a thick pane of glass. The lamp itself was in a room beyond.

Oppia beckoned to Conan. 'Place her on the bed.'

The Cimmerian lifted the girl and was shocked at her emaciation. He placed her on the webbing of leather straps and wrapped a thin blanket around her. The girl stared at him with fear-filled eyes and trembled.

'You must practice the Third-level Chant,' Oppia commanded, 'and meditate upon the Divine Nothingness. If that should prove too difficult, think upon how you may persuade your

father to send gifts to the temple. Mother Doorgah cares nothing for the wealth of this world, but in her infinite compassion, she will take you unto her bosom if you will prove your devotion. Think upon these things.'

They left the room, and the sound of the girl's sobbing followed them into the hallway. Oppia re-barred the door and closed the shutter.

'Who is that?' Conan asked.

'Her name among us is Amata. Her father is one of the richest men of the town. She is the victim of an ancient family curse, from which we seek to protect her.'

'There may be nothing left to protect before long,' Conan pointed out. 'The girl is nigh death from starvation.'

Oppia shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'What of that? It is all one to Mother Doorgah.'

'Is she dangerous?' Conan asked. 'You keep her confined.' 'Only to herself. That is why her window is barred. In her despair, she might hurl herself to the pavement, which is how her mother slew herself. And we permit her no fire, not even so much as a candle, lest she set fire to her room. She is a great bother, but there is yet much to be gained from her.' She smiled slyly. 'I refer, of course, to the otherworldly profit of saving another benighted soul for Mother Doorgah.'

Conan smiled back at her, but he refrained from telling her why he smiled. It was at the pleasant thought of destroying this place and how he might go about it. In the hall below, an acolyte ran up to them and fell to his knees, repeatedly knocking his brow against the floor at Oppia's feet.

'Holy Mother Oppia, the Beloved Father requests your presence at once for the ceremony of Blissful Adoration.'

Oppia sighed. 'Well, Cimmerian, another time. It seems that I am needed elsewhere. Keep in mind what I have said about the Holy One's more esoteric rituals. I know you will enjoy them.' 'I shall not forget,' Conan promised. She left, the acolyte dogging her scarlet heels. The Cimmerian noted with amusement that she had rearranged her garment so that the provocative display of flesh had disappeared. He went back into his quarters, giving the place a closer look now that he was free of distractions. The furnishings, while not lavish, were more than comfortable. Hangings covered the walls, and the floor was carpeted with thick Ophirean rugs. The lamps burned scented oil and this reminded him of something: When he had entered the room above, he had smelled smoke, yet the smell had disappeared almost instantly, and there had been not the slightest source of smoke within. There was not a single brazier, lamp or candle.

More significantly, it had not been any ordinary smoke. He had smelled its like before, and it was made by burning the dried stems and petals of the black lotus. This was used by certain students of the sorcerous arts to induce powerful visions. It was considered far too potent for any but the most advanced of students, and it could be dangerous even for them if the intake were not closely monitored.

He crossed to the window and opened the shutters. Leaning outside, he assessed his position. The window looked out over the pitched roof of the temple proper. The ridge of the lead-tiled roof was about five feet below his windowsill. He craned his head around and looked up. The girl's barred window was just above him. He chuckled. So they were worried that she would cast herself down upon the 'pave below'? Rather, they were worried that she might escape.

Beyond the temple lay the Square, now quiet beneath the moon. To his right, a narrow alley separated the temple from the town-house of Xanthus. To the left, an even narrower path separated the temple from the roof of another building, which, he remembered, was a public theatre, and thus probably deserted between performances. It was another of the grandiose structures erected during the city's brief years of prosperity. Lightly, he sprang from his window onto the lead-tiled roof. From the nearby skylights he could hear the monotonous chanting of the worshippers below. Incense smoke drifted up as he walked along the roof, sure-footed as the mountain goats of his native Cimmeria.

The alley separating the temple from the theatre was no more than a long stride in width, and Conan stepped across it, onto a wide ledge running around the third floor of the theatre. The façade of the building was covered with high-relief carvings, and these the Cimmerian climbed until he stood upon the structure's flat roof. Walking its perimeter, he surveyed the prospect beyond. Like the temple, the theatre fronted on the Square. To its west side lay the temple. Its rear abutted another building, and along its east side ran the high street of the town. Conan knew that with a running leap, he could vault the high street to the rooftop on the other side. In fact, except for the broad, open space of the Square, he adjudged that he would be able to make his way to almost any part of the town by crossing rooftops. The route would be as easy as using any of the city streets, and undoubtedly a great deal cleaner.

Satisfied with his explorations, Conan returned to the roof of the temple. Looking up, he saw that the window directly above his was the only one on this side of the structure that was barred. Below his own window and the one above ran a narrow ledge that carried around the corners of the building to either side. He stepped onto the ledge outside his window and, pressing himself closely to the wall, began to edge his way toward the western corner. The ledge permitted little more than his toes and part of the ball of each foot, and on this building there was no high-relief carving to provide handholds. Only the rough surface of the stone allowed for a precarious grip. Few men would have been tempted to try such a manoeuvre, but Conan had been raised amid sheer stone and crumbling cliffs and he had no fear of heights.

The corner presented a problem, since there he could not press himself flat against the wall and would have to lean back slightly as he made his way around it. He was aided somewhat by a drain spout that ran down the façade. The thin bronze creaked slightly beneath the vice-like grip of his fingers.

He edged along the eastern side of the building until he came to a tall window. This, he knew, opened to the room with the red door, to the quarters of Oppia and Andolla. With a cautious hand, he tested the wooden shutter. It was latched from the inside, but he could tell by its give that it was held by only a flimsy latch.

At a sound from within, he jerked his hand away and held his breath. It was the rattle of a key in a lock. There was the rasp of a door opening, then a rustling as several people entered the chamber. Nothing was said for a minute, but light began to seep between the boards of the shutter as lamps or candles were lighted within.

'You may go now,' said Oppia's voice. There were pious murmurs, and then the closing of the door. She had dismissed the slave-acolytes.

'It is here!' said a voice Conan did not recognize. 'It is in the city! I can feel it!' The voice was a man's. It was deep and resonant, like the voice of a trained herald or an actor, but it was full of an almost boyish enthusiasm.

'How do you know?' asked Oppia impatiently.

'Because it is magical and I can feel such things. When one has studied the arts and pried into secret and forbidden things as I have, the presence of an ancient source of great sorcerous power is not difficult to discern.'

'Oh, Andolla my husband,' Oppia said, 'why must you persist in these foolish pursuits? We are rich and powerful as we are. We have wealth and we have slaves to do our bidding. No one ever came to a good end meddling in these things.'

'Is what we do so grand?' he asked. 'Fleecing young idiots by relieving them of any responsibility for their own lives? I was meant for better things.'

'But, my husband,' she pleaded, 'where have we ever before found such a town? Here we need not be always looking over our shoulders for the king's men.'

'At great cost to us,' he asserted. 'Fully one-third of all we take goes to the King's Reeve alone!'

'One third of our admitted take,' she corrected. 'And a few hundred each month to every gang leader. The rest is ours! I tell you, husband, that we have fallen into a situation richer than those silver mines outside of town. But if you persist in these sorcerous

experiments, you will ruin it all. It is the sort of thing that draws notice. And if you buy this... this thing, the truly great mages may turn their attention toward this wretched little city. Would you attract the likes of Thoth-amon and the others?'

'With it in my hands,' he said haughtily, 'I will be their equal!'

'You cannot believe that!' she cried. 'A few years of dabbling in forbidden arts, studying a few books of doubtful authenticity, cannot make you the equal of those who have spent many human lifetimes in mastering the arts.'

'Nevertheless,' he said, 'I must have it, and I will have it!'

The squabbling voices faded, and Conan knew that the two gone into another room. He had heard enough. Carefully, he ma his way back around the corner and into his quarters.

He undressed and pulled back the luxurious covers of his bed, but before he lay down, he pulled a chair close to the bed and drew his sword. He set the weapon with its grip slanting toward the bed; his hand could grasp it instantly at need. It was a precaution he never omitted when he slept amid possible enemies. Nor, for that matter, when he slept amid friends.

X

The Royal Warehouse

He left the temple in the morning when he could no longer abide the endless chanting, the smell of incense, and the presence of mindless fools. It seemed astonishing to him that the victims could be so happy while being robbed and enslaved. -Even sheer stupidity could not account for it. He suspected that there might be a drug at work. If those in charge were willing to use black lotus smoke on just one of their victims, they would not baulk at using milder potions to keep the rest in line.

He had a specific goal this day. He now had a working knowledge of the town's streets and alleys. The rooftop routes were there, yet to be further explored, but that project would have to await the fall of night. Most civilized towns had a third means of access, usually unseen and unknown even to the citizenry, and he knew just where to find the information leading to it.

The Pit was, as customary, all but deserted in the-early morning hours, but he knew from experience that there was one class of inhabitant that conducted the first part of its business in the hours of darkness and concluded it in the early morning.

At the Temple of Bes he found a deep, shadowed doorway facing the entrance and waited patiently. Within the space of an hour, five men passed furtively within, each bearing a bulky sack. Each left with an empty sack, but the Cimmerian knew that each would have a bulging purse secreted upon his person. The sixth man turned out to be the one he needed. The man was small, and his shoes left damp footprints behind him. The sack he bore over one shoulder clanked slightly. The smell was unmistakable. When the man emerged from the temple, smiling and stuffing his now-empty sack into the breast of his doublet, he found the towering barbarian planted firmly in his path. Mouth agape, he looked up past the armoured chest to the glowering face.

'Wh-what business have you with me, stranger?' he stammered. Conan saw that he was little more than a boy. 'Some information,' Conan said.

At this the boy straightened and stuck out his chest in a pathetic show of defiance. 'Be you a king's man? I am no informer!' Since he did not add a qualifying price for such dishonourable behaviour, Conan's opinion of him went up by a notch.

'You may be the only man in town so scrupulous,' the Cimmerian told him. 'Nay, lad, I just need a guide. I've but newly arrived in Sicas and am not yet familiar with the town. As you know, there are times when a man needs to get about on matters of business without being seen by the common run of citizens. This is a well-built royal city, and I know that it has sewers and drains. I'll make it well worth your time to reveal to me the secrets of this system.'

Now the boy smiled complacently. 'Well, outlander, you have come to the right man. No enterprising businessman of this city knows the lower paths so well as Ulf the Unseen.' He tapped his bony chest significantly. Then he eyed the Cimmerian's bulk with speculation. 'I can show you the main passages. Some of the side tunnels may be too small for you.'

'That will be sufficient,' Conan assured him. 'I just need to know how to pass swiftly and invisibly from one district of the town to another.' He took a broad gold piece from his pouch and tossed it to Ulf. 'Let us be on our way.'

'Come,' said the boy. 'We'll start at the river drain.' They walked toward the confluence of the rivers, which was but a short distance away. Here the low river walls formed an angle, and within the angle was a stone slab set into the pavement. Ulf grasped a bronze ring embedded in the slab and tugged upward. Despite its obvious mass, the slab yielded easily to the frail youth.

'To one who knows not the craft,' said Ulf, 'this slab is very weighty. But it you twist the ring so—' he showed the Cimmerian how the bronze ring could be moved '—it releases a counterweight inside that does most of the work. This was installed more than three hundred years ago by the legendary burglar Mopsus the Locksmith. It has been a secret of the burglars' guild ever since.'

'Then will you not be punished for showing me the secret?' Conan asked. 'In other towns, the guilds have strict rules and severe punishments.'

Ulf shrugged wistfully. 'The days of honourable guilds are long past in this town, stranger. Most of them have been shut down by the outside gangs that have moved in. Maxio's men assassinated all of our guild chiefs last year. Those of us who got away have kept some of our secrets, but there is little point now.'

'Have they not tried to get the information out of you?' Conan asked.

'What need have they? Maxio's band are a haughty lot and act as if they are too good to be running around in sewers. They get their way by bribery and intimidation.' He dropped lightly through the manhole.

Conan dropped after him as lightly. ' 'I have not as yet encountered Maxio. What is he like?'

'Avoid him,' Ulf advised. 'He's a smooth little schemer, but as treacherous and murderous as any. The rules of our guild forbid us to carry arms while we are working, and they require that we leave at first sign of a wakeful person, even if it means abandoning rich loot. But Maxio's gang obeys no such rules. Not only

have they slain rival burglars, they have even murdered men and women who have come upon them at their work. Shocking behaviour! ''

Conan surveyed the chamber in which they stood. Its vaulted walls were of brick, forming an arch overhead. It was just high enough for Conan to stand upright. At its southern extremity, morning light came through a rusty iron grating that covered an opening about four feet on a side. At their feet, a narrow stream made its way out through the grate and down to the river, nearly five feet below.

'This is the Great Drain,' Ulf informed him. 'It runs beneath the high street for its full length. If ever you are lost down here, just determine which way the floor slopes and follow it downward. Eventually it will bring you to the Great Drain.'

Conan eyed the grate. 'Does the river ever rise high enough to back into the sewers?''

'It happens every few years,' Ulf said, 'and I would not wish to be here then. Usually there is plenty of warning, though. It happens only after heavy rains in the hills to the north.' 'Is it possible to get out through that grate?' Conan asked. 'That is not necessary,' Ulf said. He walked to the grate and Conan followed. 'Here at the grate you are outside the river wall.' He reached upward and pressed a brick that protruded slightly from the others. A section of the brick ceiling swung smoothly downward. Its upper surface was made of moulded cement that resembled a part of a boulder. Conan sprang up and gripped the edge of the hole with the tips of his fingers, then pulled himself up to look outside. He saw a rocky slope angling down to the river. Behind him was the angle of the river wall. He dropped back to the damp floor of the tunnel. 'Mopsus the Locksmith again?'

Ulf nodded. 'You'll be hearing a lot about him as you tour the deep ways.' He took a skin-covered object from his belt and peeled away the cover, revealing a small but finely crafted lamp. With flint and steel he struck a light and closed the crystal window. It cast a strong illumination for a lamp so small, and Ulf

proudly displayed the way its beam could be adjusted with a clever shutter.

'This lamp was my father's and his father's before him,' he proclaimed. 'All of the men of my line have risen high in the guild.'

Turning north, they began the tour. Ulf took the Cimmerian through the side tunnels that were large enough to admit the out-lander's size, identifying the streets and major buildings above. Occasionally they passed beneath grated drains in the centres of the streets, and when they did, Ulf closed the shutter of his lamp, although the likelihood of observation from above was slight. 'Guild rules,' was all he would say. 'Old habits are hard to break.''

Once Conan stopped and had the lad cast his beam toward an odd mark carved into the wall beneath a square hatch of heavy timber. 'This looks like the secret writing of the Guild of Poitainian Thieves.'

'You are a scholar, I see,' Ulf said approvingly. 'Yes, it is used throughout Aquilonia as well. This mark identifies that hatch as access to the cellar of the Wyvern.'

travelling northward in the Great Drain, they passed through a heavy stone foundation. 'This is the old city wall,' Ulf said, 'torn down two hundred years ago at the time of the great expansion. Naught but its foundations remain. The Great Drain is the only underground passageway through the old wall; you must remember that.'

Farther on, the tunnel was faced with stone instead of with brick and was somewhat more spacious. The smell, however, was no better. Soon they came to a tunnel that was almost as large as the Great Drain. A broad grate in its ceiling admitted abundant sunlight.

'This is the tunnel that runs beneath the Square,' Ulf said. 'That drainage grate is in its centre.' He shivered slightly. 'These last two years, I've seen blood coming down through that grate some mornings.'

'The gangs here are lively,' Conan agreed. 'Does this tunnel pass beneath the Reeve's headquarters?'

Ulf shook his head. 'It was decided not to cut into it. Too much chance of meeting with prisoners tunnelling their way out, you see. We couldn't very well let dishonourable men learn of our

passageways. Besides,' he added, 'it's all too easy to end up in those dungeons as it is.'

Still following the high street, they proceeded up the Great Drain, which was straighter than in the old city. Conan pointed down a tunnel branching to the left.

'Does that run beneath the new theatre, the big temple, and the house of Xanthus?'

'You've a good sense of direction,' Ulf complimented.

'Aye.'

'And are there accesses to all those buildings?'

Ulf shook his head. 'Beneath the theatre, yes, but riot beneath the others. The theatre cellar is one of our gathering places. The temple has a drain running from the main altar down through the cellar. That's for the blood of sacrificial animals and the oil and wine that are poured out to the god. Most temples have such a drain, but it is a passage only about a foot square, too small for a man to pass through.'

'And the house of Xanthus?' Conan inquired.

'The house of Xanthus is forbidden to us. That family has had dealings with our guild for generations and there is no access.'

That made sense. 'Show me the way into the theatre,' he said.

Ulf guided him down the side passage to another ceiling trap, which he pushed open amid much creaking. 'The trouble with the new part of town,' he said, 'is that we have no more of the fine doorways crafted by Mopsus the Locksmith.' He shook his head and sighed. 'The gods don't make them like Mopsus any more.'

'I want to have a look,' Conan said, pulling himself up through the trap. Ulf followed him. The lamp revealed a cavernous room full of props: masks, backdrop paintings, old benches, ropes, curtain weights, racks of stage lamps, and all the miscellaneous debris of a theatre that has been in operation for a good number of years.

'What do you want here?' Ulf asked. 'There is little worth stealing in a theatre. Besides, theatre people and thieves usually get on well together, having much in common.'

'I am more interested in the location than in the contents. Do you know the inside of the building well?''

'Intimately,' the lad said. 'As a boy, I explored the whole place when my father and uncles came here for guild meetings.'

'Show me how to get to the roof,' the Cimmerian said.

They went up a flight of stairs to a backstage chamber. The floorboards echoed softly beneath their feet. Behind the curtains, the stage surface was littered with rotting fruit. Apparently the last performance had been unsatisfactory and the company had departed without cleaning up.

In the wings beyond the stage, Conan followed Ulf up a wooden stair that zigzagged its way up to a catwalk from which the curtains were controlled. Another stair led from that to a cupola set atop the roof. Ulf opened the cupola's door and gestured outside. Both men squinted through the bright light at the lead-sheathed roof. Conan saw the parapet and the roof of the temple beyond.

'This is what I wanted to see,' he pronounced, shutting the door. 'Let's go back.'

They resumed their tour, always travelling up the Great Drain, occasionally going off into side tunnels, where Ulf identified their location when they reached various prominent sites of the city. Most of the accesses were marked with the enigmatic sigils of the Poitainian thieves' guild. The tunnel ended at a blank wall.

'We are now just below the main gate of the landward wall,' Ulf said.

'There is no passage to the other side of the wall?' Conan asked.

'No. I do not suppose that escaping from the city ever occurred to the guild. If one had to do that, the river hatch is a better way. There is seldom a watchman stationed on the river wall.'

'It is sufficient,' Conan said. 'You've been an excellent guide.' They walked back to the angle of the river wall, taking only a few minutes to traverse the length of the city. When they emerged, Conan tossed Ulf another coin.

'Here. You've served me better than I had hoped. And be of good cheer. I think that soon things in this town will settle back into the old ways and your guild can resume its former customs. Do not worry that you have revealed the secrets of the underground passages to me, for I'll be long gone.'

Ulf favoured him with a gap-toothed grin. 'You look like one who can truly stir things up, but I cannot believe that a single man can set things aright in this city.'

'Have no fear,' Conan told him. 'I will not be alone when things began to happen. The next few days may be a good time for you to lie low. Keep clear of the Temple of Bes, and watch out for Maxio's crowd. They may grow short-tempered very soon.'

The boy gaped. 'You have this all planned, do you?'

'Not entirely,' Conan told him. 'But things are shaping up nicely. With men as foul as those who run roughshod over this town, trouble is never far away. To bring everything down, it is only necessary to provide a lot of trouble all at once.'

Ulf shook his head. 'Well, it escapes me how you propose to do this.'

'Leave it to me. By the way, I have heard that Ermak's men rounded up the miners' wives and children and hold them hostage someplace to guarantee the miners' good behaviour. Know you where they might be?'

'Nay. The whole incident is a matter of rumour and whispers. The miners have kept to themselves, and they used to be the rowdiest men in the district. These days you see only a few of the old people from the mine settlement. No one speaks openly of it.'

'I'll find out,' Conan promised.

'I think you will,' Ulf said, nodding. 'Well, farewell, out-lander. I've had a long day's work and it is past my bedtime. I

think I'll sleep for ten days or thereabout, keeping your advice in mind.'

They parted, and Conan walked back toward the centre of town. He took a detour into the Street of the Shoemakers to buy a new pair of boots. His sojourn in the sewers had ruined those he had on his feet. The way people stood back from him reminded the Cimmerian that he had better remove the after-effects of his subterranean exploration before returning to the temple. He found a public bathhouse.

After turning over his clothes to the laundresses, he luxuriated in a deep wooden tub of near-scalding water, pondering his next move. He wanted a look at Maxio. He had yet to encounter Lisip or Ingas, but he had seen enough of their men to have a low opinion of the pair. He had been inclined to favour Ermak's men, who at least were professional fighting men like himself, until he learned of their abduction of the women and children of the mining community.

There was a knock at the wooden partition next to the tub. Conan's hand went to his sword-hilt; as always, the weapon was ready to hand. Then the panel slid back to reveal a familiar face and a good deal of the body below it. The sliding partition separated the men's and women's sides of the establishment. As in most such places, the necessity of separation was interpreted liberally, hence the movable divider.

'Good day, Cimmerian,' said Delia. Droplets of condensed steam clung to her hair, which she had piled on top of her head. She leaned back on her elbows, apparently perched on one of the deep tub's steps, for the water lapped only to her navel, which, Conan noted with interest, contained a very fine star sapphire.

'Greeting, Delia,' he said. 'Is it just a coincidence that we chose the same bathhouse today?'

'Don't be ridiculous,' she said. 'I saw you ducking in here and decided that I needed a bath as well.' A pearl necklace with a ruby pendant decorated her neck and the deep valley between her breasts, which were, as she had boasted, nearly as spectacular

as Mother Doorgah's. 'After all, we don't want to be seen too much in company publicly.' 'Do we not?' he asked.

'Well, it wouldn't be wise... not just yet, that is.' There was a conspiratorial edge to her voice, a tone he was growing weary of, having heard it so often in this town. 'And what about later?' he asked.

'Well, that depends upon what you do with what I am about to tell you,' she said, looking up at the ceiling with an expression of innocence that was utterly foreign to her handsome face.

'Out with it then,' he said impatiently. 'Be assured, you have gained my attention.'

'Getting a man's attention is easy,' she said wistfully, trailing her hands downward over her voluptuous body, from collarbones to hips. 'Keeping it is another matter.'

'Trouble with Maxio, eh?' the Cimmerian inquired. 'He is tiring of me,' she replied, 'and his eyes wander toward women not half as beautiful as I. He is bored with me. Can you imagine ever becoming bored with me?' she demanded, her lovely eyes flashing.

'I could not think of it,' Conan muttered. In truth, the woman was certainly difficult to ignore.

'You are a better man than Maxio,' she said. 'You know how to appreciate a woman like me. And for that reason, I will favour you with that bit of information we spoke of the other night.'

Conan was amazed that she had any memory of the evening at all. 'You mean Maxio's job?'

'Exactly. I now know when it will take place.' 'Then tell me,' he urged.

'Not so fast,' she chided. 'A woman must look out for herself, you know. You are a splendid figure of a man, and I think you and I may have a great future together, but suppose that you and Maxio kill each other. Where would I be then?' 'How much?' Conan asked. 'Two hundred marks,' she said. 'Gold.' He laughed. 'Twenty would be more like it!'

'Do you take me for some petty informer?' she demanded, splashing the water petulantly. 'One hundred fifty, no less.'

'Seventy-five,' he said, 'and I expect full details.'

'One hundred twenty-five, and it is only because you are so handsome that I even consider so low a sum!'

'One hundred,' Conan countered. 'Just imagine me as being ugly.'

She sighed. 'Done, but it is only because I burn for the touch of your hands upon me. It is to be tonight.'

'What time?' Conan demanded.

'Three hours after the fall of night. Do you know where the royal storehouse is?'

'I have seen it,' Conan answered.

'There are two floors, with no windows on the ground floor and only small, barred windows on the second. The roof is flat, made of heavy timbers covered with lead tiles. The walls are very thick.' She had put aside her flirtation, and her voice became brisk and businesslike.

'How does Maxio propose to get in?'

'For several months now,' she said, 'Maxio's men have been going up on the roof. They've detached certain of the lead tiles, and they've been sawing away quietly at the timbers with a special, very thin blade. While one saws, another sucks up the sawdust with a copper tube covered at one end with gauze. They're down to the last half-inch now, and tonight they'll go in.'

'How many of them?'

'Five besides Maxio to go inside. Three to carry the loot to their cart, and one in the cart.'

'How do they gain the roof of the storehouse?' Conan asked.

'Behind the storehouse is an alley and beyond that, the Temple of Anu. They've bribed the priest of the temple for use of an upper room, supposedly to hide out from other gangs, but really because you can get from there to the roof. In the room, they keep a plank bridge for crossing the alley. Tonight they'll have their cart hidden in a side courtyard next to the temple. They'll cover the loot with canvas, and on top of that goes a load of dung.

When the gate opens in the morning, it will be just another dung- ' gatherer's cart heading out to sell fertilizer to the local farms.'

Delia leaned back and raised water in her cupped hands, tilting it to cascade over her body. 'Maxio says that he will lie low, that the theft may not even be discovered for days, but I do not believe him. I think he will leave with the loot tonight, and abandon me here.'

'He is a treacherous wretch indeed,' Conan said.

'Well, do you not think that is worth a hundred marks to you?'

'Surely you don't think that Maxio would let me in on a feat that he has been preparing for months?' he asked.

She smiled slyly. 'A man of your wit will find a way to turn this information to advantage.'

'No doubt,' he answered. He took his belt pouch from where it lay by his sword and separated the requisite coins, which he placed in her damp palm.

She surveyed her bare, voluptuous form. 'Now where am I going to put this?' she asked, coquettishly.

'That is your problem,' Conan replied, sliding the partition firmly shut. From beyond it, he heard her full-throated laughter.

Treacherous bitch, he thought,- but he was unable to summon up much rancour toward her. There was something robustly innocent in Delia's amorality. She was, indeed, a lone woman among predatory men, and who would blame her for selling one to another, especially if that one was about to abandon her? She was an experienced woman, and Conan did not doubt that she was correct on that point. It must have happened to her with some frequency in the past.

A laundress brought in his clothes, newly scrubbed of their sewer effluvium and dried by the cellar furnace that heated the water for the baths. He had himself shaved by the establishment's barber, buckled on his brigantine, resumed his weapons, and went out to see what else the day had to offer.

In a stall on a side street he saw an old woman selling silken scarves. On impulse, he asked her if she had seen Brita. The crone eyed him sourly.

'That poor, mad lass who runs all over town seeking her sister? I see her nearly every day lately. If you are her man, you had best lock her up before she's killed, or worse. How she has stayed alive and free in this town is a mystery. I hear that she even roams about at night. She must be under the special protection of some god.'

'And her sister?' Conan asked.

'Could be any of a hundred girls around here.' A cunning gleam came to her eye. 'Perhaps she's just angry with you and that's why she's away from you all day and all night. A present might win her favour back. A silk scarf, perchance?'

He shook his head and left the old woman cackling behind him. A random check of gossipy shopkeepers confirmed that Brita was still engaged in her futile search. He was beginning to doubt her sanity. She needed a caretaker, but that was not a task he wished to assume. He was a free man, subject to all of the risks inherent to that state. He no more wanted to be tied down by a madwoman than by a wife.

Cloaked and hooded, the Cimmerian appeared at the headquarters of the King's Reeve with the fall of night. The rickety guards gaped at him from the doorway.

'I must have words with the Reeve,' Conan told them. 'But he is still at table,' said one.

'Then he can invite me to share supper with him,' said Conan. 'I have information that he greatly wishes to hear. Tell him that it is a matter of which we have spoken before.'

Shaking his head and clucking, one of the guards disappeared into the interior. Conan hoped the man would be able to retain the message in his aged mind. A few minutes later the hulking Julus appeared.

'My master will see you now. Do not waste his time.' Conan did not bother to answer; he merely followed the guard to a spacious room, where Bombas sat at table. The table was heaped with viands, but there was only a single setting. Numerous plates of bones and other devastated foodstuffs already littered the broad surface. Still biting into a joint of meat, the Reeve raised bleary eyes toward the intruder.

'What do you want?' he demanded past a mouthful of venison.

'You bade me come to you should I have certain information you desire.' Behind him, Julus lounged against a wall, arms folded casually across his broad breast.

'Say on.' Bombas set down the joint and wiped his fingers on a napkin.

'Do you still want Maxio?' Conan asked. 'I can give him to you, this very night.'

The bloodshot eyes sharpened and the Reeve almost smiled. He gestured to a seat opposite him. 'Sit you down, foreigner. Have something to eat.'

'I have already eaten,' Conan said, taking a chair. The Reeve signalled and a slave girl filled a cup, which the Cimmerian took.

'Now, tell me what you know.'

Briefly, Conan outlined what Delia had told him. The Reeve chewed and nodded. He drank heavily, but his eyes never lost their cunning gleam. When the recitation was done, he wiped his mouth.

'Very good, very good, my friend. You shall be richly rewarded for this.' He leaned forward. ''what you say proves to be true.'

'What do you mean?' Conan demanded hotly. 'Do you think I would lie?'

'Easy, man. Curb your tongue,' the Reeve cautioned. 'Your words have the sound of truth, but I must be cautious. How came you by this information?'

'I have made friends in the Pit,' Conan said. 'You understand, I would never learn anything if I let my sources of information be known.'

'Aye. I see that you know the rules of this game. Well, no matter. Nothing counts but that I have my brother's slayer in my grasp.' He closed a chubby fist as if squeezing something. 'Tonight we'll bag the lot.'

'Very good,' Conan said. 'And my reward?'

'Not so fast,' Bombas cautioned, chuckling. 'That comes only after I have Maxio.'

Conan shrugged. 'That suits me. I will come by for it on the morrow.' He made as if to leave, knowing that he would not.

'Just a moment,' Bombas said sternly. 'Sit down. I want you to go with us this night.'

'Wherefore?' asked Conan.

'Because I am yet uneasy about you. I want you to stay close by me until this business is done. Now tell me, barbarian, why a man like Rista Daan was willing to pay so well to have you out of my dungeon.'

'That is between him and me,' Conan answered. 'However, if the very wealthy and distinguished Rista Daan wishes to inform you, you need only ask him.'

Bombas shifted uneasily in his seat. 'Oh, well, I suppose it is of no account.' He turned to Julus. 'Get the men together,' he ordered. The big man smirked slightly at the word 'men' but went to do is master's bidding. When Julus was gone, the Reeve turned back to face the Cimmerian.

'What sort of man are you, Conan?' he asked. 'You are handy with weapons, but you haven't sought to join any of the gangs. You interest me.'

'I work for myself,' Conan said, not taken in by the Reeve's suddenly friendly tone. 'Sometimes people hire me for a particular service. I prefer that to long-term employment.'

'A mercenary, eh? Just pay, no oath of fealty for you, is that the way of it?'

'Something like that,' Conan agreed.

'Well, perhaps after tonight you'll wish to take service with me. I'm a generous master, just ask any of my men.' He chuckled merrily, apparently in the best of spirits.

'I did not think you hired men who were sound of limb,' Conan said, enjoying the way the fat face went red.

'I can always use a good man,' Bombas said, 'as long as he knows how to curb his tongue.'

They waited in silence for a few minutes; then Julus returned to report that all was ready. From the dining room they went to the armoury, where Bombas's contemptible force was assembled. Conan noted that all were now equipped with crossbows, the only weapons with which they could possibly be of menace to sound, experienced fighting men. The two silent Zingarans were there, and these two, along with Julus, were the only men to whom the Cimmerian accorded a second thought.

From the Reeve's headquarters they passed through back alleys unseen. In this better part of the town, all were indoors early, the doors barred and their windows shuttered. Honest citizens wanted nothing to do with a band of armed men moving about the city after dark. Conan thought wryly that in daylight, this group would provoke more laughter than fear.

Near the royal warehouse, Bombas stationed men in doorways and dark alleys on three sides of the building, leaving untended the side fronting the Temple of Anu. Last of all, he went into the small shrine of a local god. From it, one could see both the temple and the storehouse. The moonlight dimly illuminated the strip of sky between the two buildings. According to Delia, that strip would soon be bisected by the burglars' plank bridge.

'Now we wait,' announced Bombas. The fat Reeve, the bulky Julus and the two slight but deadly Zingarans, together with Conan, crowded the little shrine to capacity.

For more than an hour, no one spoke. The Cimmerian forced himself to the patient, but the task was not easy. The Reeve smelled sourly of wine, the others of the sweat of tension. Bombas's nerves began to play on him.

'Barbarian,' he hissed, 'have you brought us—'

'There!' Conan whispered. He pointed to the greyish strip of sky before and above them. Something slid across the space like the tongue of a dragon. 'The bridge.'

Moments later they saw stealthy forms crossing the plank, making no sound. Within the shrine all was gloom, but enough moonlight penetrated for Conan to see the shine of the Reeve's teeth as the man grinned triumphantly.

'You did not speak idly, foreigner,' said Bombas. 'We will wait here now. Let them busy themselves within. Let them feel comfortable. We do nothing until I give the signal.'

For several more minutes they waited. By straining their ears, they could just hear faint rustling sounds from above. There were some muffled cracks, undoubtedly signifying the completion of the rooftop passageway into the storehouse.

'Soon now,' said the Reeve. Then, when a number of minutes passed without further sound, he turned to Conan. 'Barbarian, I want you to go in there. Go up to the roof and drop through their hole. Tell them to surrender themselves and I will show them mercy.'

'Why should I do that?' Conan demanded.

'Because I order it,' said the Reeve. Then, in an almost wheedling tone: 'There will be no danger. You are a warrior, fully armed, and they are just burglars, probably not even carrying weapons.'

'But you have a key to the front door,' Conan protested. 'Why not just go in and shout up the stairs?'

'They would scatter,' said Bombas. 'You can block their exit from the hole they've made while we come in from the front.'

'Why not use one of your own men for the purpose?' Conan asked.

'They would make noise. I've always heard that Cimmerians can climb like mountain goats. You can do it easily and silently. Go now. There is no danger, and I will increase your reward. How sounds a thousand golden marks?'

'Half as good as two thousand,' said Conan.

'Two thousand then!' said Bombas, fuming. 'Now go!'

The Cimmerian stepped from the shrine and walked around to the front of the Temple of Anu. There was a cheerful spring in his step because he had enjoyed making the fat Reeve sweat. It amused him that Bombas had bargained, fully aware that he would pay nothing. Conan decided that meanness was so much a part of the man's character that he could not even feign generosity in order to tempt a victim to his death.

The front of the temple was plain, but the façade had been ornamented, some of the stones protruding a few inches from the others in pleasing patterns. These provided adequate finger-and toe-holds for Conan, who scaled the wall easily. At the parapet, he raised his head slowly until he could see across the roof. It was deserted.

He swarmed over the parapet and crossed the roof. The plank bridge was still in place. Before crossing, he went to the side of the building where Delia had said there was a courtyard. The cart was there, barely visible, its black-garbed driver clucking quietly to the draft ox, keeping the beast still.

The Cimmerian crossed the roof and walked across the bridge as easily as if he strode the stones of the Square. The roof of the royal warehouse was not truly flat, but had a noticeable slope for purposes of drainage. The dull lead tiles sucked up moonlight so efficiently that they were all but invisible, yet Conan could see a faint light gleaming through a ragged hole a few paces ahead. He strode to the hole and looked down. Below, voices spoke in loud whispers. It seemed to him that they also spoke in anger. He dropped through the gap and hung for a moment by his fingertips, then dropped the final few feet to the floor. Men turned to gape at him.

'Who are you?' demanded one.

'No time for that,' Conan said. 'You're betrayed! Bombas and his men are out there, and they intend to kill you all. If you would live, you had better get away at once. Which of you is Maxio?'

A wiry man of medium height came up to him. He wore dark clothes and a close-fitting hood with a long tail that dangled down his back. Like the others, he held a dagger, drawn at the sudden apparition of the huge barbarian.

'I'm Maxio, and just who are you?' He held his blade angled toward Conan's throat.

'No time for that,' Conan said again. 'They'll be storming through the front door in a moment, and Bombas has a grudge against you.'

A seam-faced man spat on the straw that was ankle deep on the floor. 'What have we to fear from Bombas or his men? I'd relish carving the fat toad myself!'

'Ermak's men are with them,' Conan said. Instantly, the men grew pale and staring.

'Ermak!' said Maxio, mouthing the name like a curse. 'That villain will take any man's pay!'

There was a crashing sound from below as the great front door swung open and smashed against a wall. 'Kill them!' bellowed a voice up the stairs. 'Up, and kill them all! No mercy!' It was Bombas.

'Do you believe me now?' Conan said.

A form appeared at the top of a stair to the lower floor. It was one of the Zingarans, and he had his crossbow levelled directly at Conan's breast. It was a powerful weapon, easily able to pierce the Cimmerian's light 'armour. The snap of the string's release and Conan's lightning-swift dodge occurred at the same instant. The bolt whizzed past him and made a sickening thud as it struck a hapless burglar. Even as the man fell, Conan snatched the dagger from the nerveless fingers, whirled and flung it with unerring accuracy and tremendous force. It pierced the Zingaran's throat and crunched through the vertebrae to protrude a hand-breadth behind the man's neck. He pitched back down the stair, spraying blood. Between the snap of the string and the impact of the dagger into the man's throat, scarcely two heartbeats had elapsed.

Maxio gave a low whistle of appreciation. 'You know your business, stranger.' Then, to his men, 'Out!' he snapped. They piled bales and began to climb out, but the first through fell back, a bolt in his chest.

'They're on the temple roof,' Conan said. No more faces appeared at the stair, but something more ominous did: smoke.

'The warehouse is afire!' cried one of the burglars, his voice rising with panic.

'Then it's burn or be skewered,' Conan said. 'Here, grab some of these bales of cloth and push them out ahead of you. They may absorb the bolts while you make a run for it.' The men faltered; then the sound of crackling came from below. At that there was a sudden burst of activity. Men snatched up thick bundles of cloth and scrambled up the improvised ladder. Most of them made it through, and the Cimmerian and his new companion could hear a commotion outside.

'Floor's getting hot,' Conan commented. 'Time for us to leave.' He all but ran up the piled bales and through the hole, then reached back and drew Maxio out. 'You know the rooftops better than I do,' he said. 'What's a good way out of here?' Dead men lay on the roof of the storehouse, and on the roof of the temple other men were struggling. The plank bridge had been knocked away. Nobody was shooting at them, and someone was raising a fire alarm. A lurid glare began to pulse through the ragged hole in the roof.

'This way,' said Maxio. They crossed to the side of the roof opposite the shrine from which Conan and the Reeve had watched the alley. Here a lower building abutted the storehouse, and the two men sprang down to its roof. They ran across and Maxio dropped from there onto a balcony, the Cimmerian following close behind. They sprang onto another balcony across a narrow street, then ran through the upper floor of what seemed to be a deserted building. From there they exited a ground-floor doorway onto an empty street.

'The old town is better for this sort of thing,' Maxio said. 'You can get anywhere without ever coming down from the roofs. We're far enough away to be safe now. Let's not hang about here, though. I am more comfortable in the lower city.'

'To the Wyvern, then,' said Conan. The two made their stealthy way until they reached the old town, where the near-black streets and the indifference of the inhabitants made stealth unnecessary.

At the sign of the Wyvern, they descended the stair to the door and stood upon the landing, surveying the scene. The tavern entertained its usual villainous clientèle, who surveyed the newcomers in turn. The two elicited only a passing interest before they descended to the main floor and secured an empty table in a corner. A large bloodstain on the wall behind one of the chairs identified the table as the scene of a disagreement earlier that evening. A candle guttered in a holder carven in the form of a naked Stygian dancer.

At their order, a server brought wine for Maxio, ale for Conan. The two men clinked their vessels together and drank. Maxio was first to speak.

'I do not believe we have met, and you are not the sort of man I would readily forget. Who are you, stranger?'

'I am Conan of Cimmeria.' He took a long drink. The brewing had just been broached, and it was excellent ale.

'I have heard of you. You've made a reputation for yourself in a short time. So tell me: How did you happen to drop through our hole in the storehouse roof just in time to warn us of the ambush?'

'Your woman Delia got wind of it and asked me to go warn you before Bombas laid his hands on you.'

'Delia!' he said, amazed. 'Well, perhaps the wench is not as worthless as I had adjudged. She's a beauty, but she drinks like the public drain and talks far too much. And I cannot abide her cats. I half expected her to sell me to Bombas. How did she find out about the ambush?'

Conan shrugged. 'I've no idea.' He would not complicate matters by inventing a story for her. Doubtless the woman would dream up one of her own.

'Why did she choose you to send?' Maxio asked.

'She saw me kill those three men of Ingas's the other day. Tonight she needed a man of courage and skill and so she sought me out, knowing that I am not working for any of the gang lords. And I expect to be paid.'

'Be assured of it,' Maxio said. 'I would not let such a service go unrequited.' He gazed into his wine cup. 'I will pay you... that is, as soon as I have restored my fortunes.'

'Did you get away with nothing from the royal storehouse?' Conan asked.

'There was nothing worth the stealing in the place,' Maxio

said, sounding mystified. 'Just bulk goods, no precious metals or jewels.'

' 'I thought I heard the sound of voices arguing before I dropped in,' Conan said.

'Aye. The men wanted to hold me responsible for the dearth. But the royal warehouse should be full at this time of year. The king's share is taken to Tarantia at the beginning of the new year, which is not far off.''

Conan smiled to himself as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. 'Tell me, why was there no watchman at the storehouse?'

'Because he was long gone ere you arrived,' Maxio said. 'He's just another of Bombas's drunken old beggars. I'd been paying him for months to hold his tongue, and tonight I gave him his final payment. He was to flee town with it.' Maxio nodded and stroked his chin. 'It was probably that old sot who tipped Bombas.'

'Perhaps,' Conan said. 'But doesn't it seem strange to you that the King's Reeve would set fire to the royal storehouse just to smoke out some burglars?'

'I didn't think of that in all the excitement,' Maxio admitted. 'The way the place was going up when we left, it must be naught but glowing embers by now.'

'And no way of saying what was in it before the fire,' Conan pointed out.

A look of sudden comprehension suffused Maxio's lean features. 'That fat, scheming pig! He's looted the place himself! Now he'll report that he went there to catch the thieves and that they set the fire to aid their escape.' He glared and called for more wine. 'Bad enough to be thwarted after so much work. Far worse to do Bombas such a good turn. Who would have thought that hog-eyed barrel of suet could be so clever?'

'It does not pay to underestimate men just because they look stupid,' Conan said.

Maxio drank deep of his second tankard of wine and slammed it to the scarred table. 'And Ermak! He's always hated me, but

Id work for Bombas just to catch me! That's it, then. From now on, it's to the death between me and Ermak!'

'Brave speech,' Conan said, 'but he is a professional, with a pack of trained killers. You probably lost half of your band might, and your men are just second-story burglars. How do you propose to deal with Ermak?'

'I will think of something,' Maxio said. He dipped his fingers into his wine and flung a few drops to the floor in token of a vow. ' 'There are many in this town who would aid me in ridding ourselves of those strutting bandits who call themselves soldiers.'

'Good fortune, then,' said Conan, 'and do not forget that you owe me for tonight.' He began to rise, then remembered something. 'By the way, what know you of a man named As-.Iras?'

Maxio's eyebrows rose slightly. 'You mean the man who was lurked out back in the alley a few nights ago? I diced with him a few times, as did nearly everyone in the Wyvern. Just another second-rate gambler and would-be adventurer, from what I saw, getting by mainly on looks and luck. Why do you ask?'

'I am not truly interested in him,' Conan said, 'but he is supposed to have come here in company with a young woman, little more than a girl, named Ylla. She is small and fair-haired. I lave you seen aught of such a lass?''

Maxio shook his hooded head. 'Neither seen nor heard.' He considered the question further for a moment. 'Asdras didn't talk much about himself, but from what he did say, it seemed to me that he was waiting for a woman to arrive. Once I heard him say that she was a beautiful black-haired wench, and as dangerous as a viper.'

'Did he speak her name?' Conan asked.

'Alta? Altena? I think it was something like that. I paid little heed at the time. There's small profit to be had in another man's problems with women. I've enough troubles with my own.'

'So you have,' Conan affirmed. He rose and bade Maxio farewell, then left the Wyvern. Stretching and yawning, he made his way through the deserted streets of Sicas. As he passed the Square, the moonlight glinted silver upon the marble monuments. To the north, a reddish glow proclaimed that the fire was not yet extinguished.

In the temple, he passed the nave by way of the second-floor gallery. Below, a handful of acolytes kept up their chanting before the statue of Mother Doorgah. As the Cimmerian returned to his quarters, he entertained himself with the thought that very soon now, all that chanting would stop for good.

XI

The Tavern Of The Iron Skull

He awoke with light streaming through the single window of his room, but it was the light of late day. He rose and stretched, then crossed to the basin of water that stood in a corner. He splashed his face and towelled vigorously. Through the window he could see a large part of the Square beyond the temple roof. The stall-keepers were dismantling their tables and awnings. From a dis-lance, he heard the great bell toll above the city gate. It would ring thrice, at intervals of about half an hour, and upon the third ring, the gate would be closed for the night.

He did not regret having slept the day away. In fact, he decided, might be the best thing to avoid moving about in broad daylight for a while. He was acquiring enemies at a great rate. The Cimmerian armed himself and left his room. As he passed along the upper gallery, his attention was drawn to the service in progress in the temple below.

The crowd was larger than usual, and he noticed that not all those present wore the robes of an acolyte. There were about twenty newcomers. They were of both sexes, and all of them were richly attired in silks and velvets. Here and there he saw the furs of marten and sable.

The air was thick with smoke, and a group of acolytes sat cross-legged behind the huge idol, making a clangorous, tuneless music with flute, drum, cymbal, and stringed instrument. Andolla stood before the idol, at his feet a golden basin, steaming over a green flame. With hands raised, Andolla sang in a wailing, high-pitched voice and in a language that Conan had never heard. When the priest turned to face the worshippers, his face bore a sheen of sweat and a rictus of ecstasy.

Just below the statue's dais, Oppia clapped her hands rhythmically, leading the acolytes and the newcomers in their chant. Andolla turned and took a great two-handled cup from the lap of the goddess and held it high. Instantly the music, clapping and chanting ceased. He bent low and dipped the massive silver vessel into the steaming pot. Once more he raised it, white drops falling from it back into the cauldron.

'Behold the milk of Mother Doorgah, with which she nourishes her children! Drink of this, and gain enlightenment!' Andolla drank from the cup; then Oppia ascended the dais and took it from his hands. She drank likewise before carrying the weighty vessel to the worshippers below. She took the cup from one to another, giving it to the newcomers first. As the vessel was passed, the music resumed, now quieter and at a slower tempo. Twice Oppia returned to the dais and refilled the cup as Andolla, now facing the idol once more, resumed his high-pitched song. Conan noted that the newcomers drank with some trepidation, making faces at the taste, while the acolytes snatched eagerly at the cup, as men dying of thirst will snatch at a cup of water. On more than one occasion, Oppia had to pry the vessel away from an acolyte with some force.

When all had drunk of the potion, the chanting resumed again. Conan set his back to a wall, stood in the shadows, and waited. Nearly an hour passed without incident, but he did not lose patience. He had a feeling that he was about to see something cruel here, the secret of these people's hold over their all-too-willing victims.

A shriek pierced through the chanting. The Cimmerian saw one 'I the newcomers, a young woman, pointing upward, toward the idol's face. He felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle. The Closed eyelids of the goddess had opened, and the exposed orbs glowed as if from an inner fire. In fact, now that he looked closely, lie saw that it was an inner fire. Low flames burned within the idol's head, behind the glass eyes. From somewhere in the temple, lights trained on the idol's countenance were being shifted, causing shadows to move, giving the semblance of changing expressions flickering across the face.

Conan looked back to the worshippers and saw that their eyes were raised ecstatically, tears running down the cheeks of many. A slight creaking announced another change in the idol. Slowly, I lie arms raised from the sides and swung forward, as if in benediction. From his vantage point, the Cimmerian could see that there were lamps placed in wells beneath Andolla's feet. These, lamps, invisible to the worshippers, began to wobble subtly. The effect was to make the huge breasts above seem to tremble.

It was an elaborate and fairly impressive display, Conan thought, but it should not have convinced a child, or even the sort of fools who thronged the temple... unless the fools were drugged. He knew that there were many drugs that could bring about illusions. With the tedious, mind-numbing chants to soften the audience's mental resistance, a clever magician, using a bit of impressive stage managing, could easily control the suggestible minds of onlookers and assure that they saw the visions he wished to bring about.

Either Andolla and his wife were immune to the effects of the drug or they had only feigned drinking from the cup. Neither shared the glassy-eyed stare of the others. After a few more minutes of the show, the idol resumed its wonted posture and the lights returned to normal.

'Mother Doorgah blesses you, her children!' Andolla cried. 'All things are possible to Mother Doorgah. There is no earthly

difficulty that she may not solve. You need but bring your sorrows before her and she will take them unto herself. Give thanks and obedience to Mother Doorgah. Make your offerings of the worthless material goods of this passing, ephemeral world to Mother Doorgah, and she will...'

Conan was not about to waste any more of his time listening to the priest's mindless drivel. He made his way to the kitchen. He found it deserted, since the acolytes were all in blissful communion with Mother Doorgah. He ignored the pots of bland gruel intended for the novitiates. Obviously, Oppia and Andolla did not live on such.

He found a separate pantry containing the private stock. It was not locked; mere acolytes would never violate so holy a place. On a cutting board lay several roast fowl and a large joint of beef. He helped himself to a roast duck and carved off a generous slice of the beef. Beneath a cloth he found fresh-baked loaves, still warm from the oven, and appropriated one. He helped it all down with a flagon of the excellent golden wine of Poitain.

Appetite satisfied and in excellent spirits, Conan went back into the temple. Andolla still led his flock in their endless chants, but Oppia was no longer among them. He found her in the vestibule, speaking to one of the newcomers, who was making an unsteady departure. The young man's over-refined face was filled with rapture and near-worship for Oppia. When the wealthy youth was gone, she turned and saw the Cimmerian.

'What have you been doing?' she demanded. 'You were away all night and then you snored the day away.'

'I have been looking out for your interests,' he said, 'as you hired me to do. A good thing for you, too. Last night, in the Pit, I heard talk of this place.'

'Oh?' she said. 'And what was the nature of this talk?'

'It seems that Rista Daan is hiring men to make a raid on the temple and fetch his daughter back to him.'

'I told you, we have arrangements with all the gang leaders here. They are well paid to leave us alone.'

'Apparently one of them thinks he is not paid well enough,' Conan said.

'Which one?' she demanded.

'Ingas.'

'Him! I settled with him just last week, and he has raised his bloody extortionate rates three times this year! I detest that robber! Well, if there is any more to this than mere talk, I know just I low to deal with a man who refuses to stay bought. I had hoped in avoid such trouble, but other hard men have crossed me to their regret.'

'This temple is a maze, and it is hard to get from one place in another quickly,' Conan said. 'I think you should give me a room on the same floor as the girl, so I can keep a closer eye on her.'

'I think not,' Oppia said. 'I want no one on that floor save her. The... the evil spirits are especially strong near her, and you would not be able to sleep. You might even come to harm.'

'As you will,' he answered. 'But I feel that I cannot guard her properly where I am. I go now to see what I can learn in the I'll,'

'See that you do not stay absent for long,' she ordered. 'You me away from the temple too much. When you are not here, you are of little use as a guard... or for any other use I might have for you.'

'Be assured, you are always in my thoughts. You'll not regret vim hired me.' He turned and left the temple, descending the steps to the pave below.

The broad, monument-studded Square was almost devoid of people at this late hour, but there was a lively commerce beneath the colonnaded portico, where the ladies of the evening plied their indolent trade. Sconce-held torches provided light by which the women paraded their wares and lesser merchants peddled the roods that always seemed to go with such traffic: drink, trifling small items, medications and potions guaranteed to restore flagging powers. A few dancers postured and pirouetted for tossed coins. Fortune-tellers offered their services to the gullible.

Feeling in need of a little diversion before getting down to the deadly serious business of the night, the Cimmerian ambled across the Square toward the colonnade to watch the human parade. As he neared, he saw a familiar form standing on the steps of the portico talking with a pair of gaily dressed women, their overused features disguised by heavy cosmetics and flattered by the soft, flickering torchlight. It was Nevus, his acquaintance from Ermak's troop. The man smiled when he saw the Cimmerian approach.

'Conan! Come join me. These two ladies would very much like companionship for the night. I confess that I have reached an age at which two women present a challenge that two swordsmen would not. Join us.'

'I regret to tell you that I have business to attend to this night,' Conan said. 'Another time, perhaps. But I would speak wit! you.'

Nevus turned to his companions. 'I will return presently, my lovelies. Seek no lesser company in the meanwhile.' He left amid soft laughter from the women.

'I thank you,' Conan said as the two stepped into a shaded alcove provided with a stone bench where citizens could take refuge from the sun in the broiling days of summer. 'Tell me, Nevus, where do Ingas's men disport themselves of an evening?'

The soldier gaped. 'You want to stay well clear of that place! The red-birds harbour little love for you since you slew three of them just a few paces from this spot. I wish I could have seen that. Ermak spoke highly of the feat, and he is a man sparing of his praise.'

'Nevertheless,' Conan said, 'I wish to call on them.'

'It is upon your head, then,' said Nevus. 'Most nights they keep to a dive called the Skull. It is in the Pit.'

Conan nodded. 'I've seen the sign. Tell me, Nevus, what do you know of your leader's dealings with Xanthus? I heard a rumour that he raided the miners' village for Xanthus and took away the women and children.'

The man would not meet his eyes. 'I know little of that. It was before I came here and joined the band. The others will not, I'm sure of it.'

'Little wonder,' Conan said. 'It is not worthy of a warrior to do so. That is work for slavers.'

'Well, I had nothing to do with it!' Nevus insisted. rejoice to hear it,' Conan said. 'Thank you for your aid.' he turned to leave when Nevus spoke.

'Conan. You should not go down to the Skull alone. Do you want me to go along?'

'No, but I thank you for the offer. Nevus, you seem to be an honourable warrior. I advise you to break your connection with Ermak and leave this town. Things are about to get very bad in here.'

'I do not know what you mean, Cimmerian. Bad times are when a warrior prospers best. And when I take service with a man, I stay by his side until he is dead or fails in his side of the bargain. Ermak has not yet failed to pay his men on time.' It was a mercenary's highest commendation, and there was no arguing with it.

'Farewell, then, Nevus.' The Cimmerian turned to leave.

'Good luck at the Skull,' said the mercenary.

'And good luck to you with those women,' Conan said.

You'll need it more than I.'

He wandered down the dark streets into the lower town. He recalled that in his explorations, he had passed a sign shaped like a human skull, curiously wrought from strips of blackened iron, it was but a few streets' distance from the Wyvern, and as Conan approached it, he saw that lights burned in the eye sockets of the strange sign, providing the only illumination to be had on the street. Sacks of copper had been added to the flames, for they burned ominously green.

Unlike the Wyvern, which was below street level, the Skull stood higher than the street, and Conan ascended a short flight of steps to its porch, beneath the skull sign. The door was closed against the chill of the night, and he grasped the massive bronze handle to pull it open.

Within, it was a far smaller establishment than the other, with only a scattering of tables. Besides a few women, all of ii inhabitants were men dressed in red leather. At his entrance, stared at him as if seeing an apparition. There were about a do; of them, and as soon as they were over their astonishment, they began to rise from their tables, snatching at their long swords.

'Hold!' barked a stern voice from the rear of the room.

Conan ignored them all as he crossed from the door to the bar. He displayed a slight unsteadiness as he moved, as though he were well into drink. He leaned on the bar and snapped his fingers at the woman behind it.

'Wine!' the Cimmerian called. It was delivered and he drank. His ears told him that no one drew near. With his tankard half emptied, he turned and leaned back with his elbows on the bar. Every eye in the room glared at him. At the rear, a man sat alone at a table. He was older than the others, with a clean-shaven face and a dissipated mien, but he bore the unmistakable stamp of the Poitainian nobility. He dressed in red leathers, like his men, but his were elaborately tailored, and richly embroidered with silver and gold wire. The left breast was embroidered with the crest of a high family of Poitain, but the emblem was slashed with the jagged, horizontal bar that signified the bearer had been disinherited. The man seemed to wear the symbol as a sort of defiance.

'You are a bold one to beard us in our very den,' said the man whom Conan knew could only be Ingas.

'A brave hunter beards lions,' Conan sneered. 'It is not necessary to beard jackals.' There was another stirring among the thugs, and another calming gesture from their leader.

'Who are you, Cimmerian?' Ingas demanded. 'Who has hired you to defy me? Who has paid you to slay my men?'

'I work for none of your rivals,' Conan said. 'As for those three fools, it was they who set upon me. They behaved insolently from the time I arrived in this town. Finally they challenged me in public as I sat at dinner. That I do not tolerate.'

'Aye,' Ingas said. 'They acted on their own, not upon my orders, wherefore I have let the matter rest and have not sent my men for your head. I might have let it stand at that, but now you have come to my own territory to cast your defiance in my teeth, mill that do not tolerate!'

'Am I to tremble at the threats of a Poitainian outcast?' Conan demanded, deliberately slurring his words. All the while, he kept Ins eyes upon the two men standing closest to Ingas. Both of them wore somewhat older than the rest of the gang. One was a tall man whose nose had been cut almost in half at some time in the past. The other was a squat, barrel-shaped lump of muscle, with huge hands.

Ingas sat back, smiling. 'No, you are not going to provoke me inst yet. Even a drunken Cimmerian would not come here like this without a reason. Someone has hired you to do this, foreigner. Which one? Ermak? Lisip? That fat scoundrel Bombas? Do their men await without?' Nervously, his men eyed the door, fingering their hilts.

Conan snorted. 'You are a coward, just as I thought.' He rained his tankard and slammed it down on the bar. 'I'll pay you and your effeminate red-birds no more heed. Farewell, I came here expecting a good fight, but you have disappointed me.'

Weaving slightly, he left the Skull. Once outside, he lost his drunken walk and began to head for the high street. From behind, lie heard the door of the Skull open and shut again. Now he resumed his slight stagger, which he continued affecting as he made his way back toward the new town. He was careful not to overdo it, as Ingas's men would grow suspicious were it an obvious ploy. He kept to the middle of the street.

Conan was certain that the killers would not attack him in the lower city. Ingas was now convinced that he was working for a rival. The men he had sent to follow the Cimmerian would be miller orders to find out where he was going before they were to kill him.

When he reached the Square, he stopped by a fountain and splashed water in his face, as if trying to clear the wine fumes limn his head. As he did so, he scanned the plaza. All was now deserted, the ladies gone from their portico. From a sconce along the front of the portico he took a low-guttering torch and carried it across the pave. He did not go to the temple. Instead, he went to the theatre.

At the top of the steps he passed between the massive pillars. Ignoring the large main-entrance doors, he went to a small, shuttered window to one side, where admissions to the performance would be sold. With a powerful wrench of his hands, he snapped the shutter's latch and opened it. Thrusting the torch ahead of him, he passed inside.

From an entrance hall he passed into the main floor of the theatre, where ranks of benches faced the stage. Above was a balcony where the more fashionable members of the audience could sit in comfort, aloof from the common rabble. The sides of the auditorium were lined with the sumptuous private boxes of the wealthy.

Walking slowly so that his followers would have no difficulty, Conan ascended the steps to the stage. At its rear was a stack of ladders for the use of the stage-hands. He appropriated one and carried it up the many steps to the catwalk above. Gazing down over the rail, he could just make out two stealthy forms crossing the stage, following the light of his torch. When he could hear their feet upon the steps, he crossed the catwalk, then went up the final stairs to the cupola. He moved out onto the roof and carried the ladder to the parapet. He did not need the ladder to cross to the temple roof, but he used it anyway, leaving it in place in case the men following him lacked his head for heights. He walked to the centre of the temple roof and halted just before his own window. Then he stood there, waiting.

He did not need to wait long. The two stalkers emerged from the cupola and scanned their surroundings. Conan heard them conferring in low whispers. The moonlight leached away all colour, but he could see that one was tall and lean, the other squat and barrel-shaped. This was what he had expected. By now, Ingas knew better than to send his inexperienced young thugs.

One of them saw the ladder and pointed to it. Almost tiptoeing, they went to the parapet and surveyed the roof beyond. Conan withdrew into the deep shadows against the wall beside his window. After a brief consultation, the men crossed the ladder, stepping gingerly, clearly nervous about the drop below. They then turned and squinted over the temple roof.

Conan stepped from the shadows. 'Are you looking for me?'

Two long Khorajan sabres slithered from their scabbards. 'What sort of chase have you been leading us, barbarian?' said die squat one. 'First the theatre, now the temple. Surely the fraud this woman have not hired you to trouble our master?'

By way of answer, Conan drew his own sword. 'No, but I have other uses for you.'

'You do not seem so drunk as you were but a little time past,' said the saturnine man, his voice heavy with the accent of Poitain's mountain province.

'Why have you followed me?' Conan asked.

'Our master decided that you had troubled him more than enough, even to insulting him to his face. He wishes you dead, foreigner, but he wants to know which of his enemies hired you.'

'That is a matter he will just have to wonder about,' Conan said, 'since the two of you will not be reporting back to him.'

'Enough of this,' said the taller, coming toward Conan in the Hat-footed glide of an experienced swordsman.

Abruptly, Conan shouted: 'Villains! What is your business here?' The two killers were disconcerted for a moment. The shorter man rushed in, swinging his sword horizontally. The Cimmerian blocked neatly with his own blade, then fended off an oblique cut from the taller man. He swung two blows in return, making them wide and forceful but a little slow, so that the attackers would be able to block them. He wanted to ensure plenty l loud sword-clashing.

When he was sure that everyone was awake within, the Cimmerian began to fight seriously. These two were not as inexpert as the three he had fought in the Square, and it would be folly to play with them further. In the dark, on the uncertain surface of

the roof, the two were having a difficult time of it in just keeping out of each other's way, but that would not last much longer.

Conan manoeuvred the shorter man between himself and the taller, then lowered his guard, inviting a high cut. The man seized the opening, making a swipe at the exposed neck. The Cimmerian ducked and felt the other's sword tick slightly on the top of his steel cap. As he ducked, he straightened his sword arm, running the man through his barrel chest. Drawing his blade free, Conan simultaneously placed a foot against the man's body and shoved him backward, sending him stumbling into the taller man. That one fell back a step, his arms flying wide in an attempt to retain his balance.

The Cimmerian vaulted across the squat man's body, bringing his sword down in a terrible slash against the exposed shoulder. The man was wearing a lightweight shirt of mail beneath his red-leather doublet, but it availed him little against Conan's sword, which crunched through flesh, bone, and mail indifferently.

Even as the man fell, Conan rushed to the parapet and grabbed up the ladder that spanned the alley between the temple and the theatre. He carried it across the temple roof and placed it just in front of his window, slanting against the wall below the window above.

'What's happening out there?' called a voice. A light flickered in his own room, and he could make out a number of forms crowding through the door. The voice belonged to Oppia.

'Come look,' Conan said. 'They came for her, just as I told you they would.'

With the aid of an acolyte, Oppia climbed out through the window. Several acolytes followed her, bearing lamps and torches. She stooped low and examined the two bodies, then straightened and faced Conan.

'Ingas! He shall pay for this! How did this come about?'

'I went to the Pit, as I said earlier I would. There I spoke with some contacts I have made here in the city. I learned from them that the kidnapping attempt would probably come tonight, so I rushed back and waited for them. I knew it would be far easier for them to reach her room by the rooftops than by coming up through the temple. They would have to come right here to my window, so I awaited within. As soon as they set up their ladder, I challenged them.'

She studied the bodies. 'How did they expect to get through the bars?'

Mentally, Conan cursed himself. He should have thought of this and brought a crowbar or other tools to scatter around. Thinking fast, he pointed at the corpse of the squat man.

'That one was said to be the strongest man in Sicas. Look at I he size of those hands. He must have planned to wrench the bronze bars from their settings bare-handed.'

'No doubt,' she said. Then she turned to the wide-eyed acolytes and pointed at the burly young men who had been guarding the doors. 'Take this carrion down to the river. See that you dispose of it before daylight.' They began to drag the corpses toward the window. 'No, you idiots! I don't want my floors bloodied. Just toss them to the alley below and collect them there.' Obediently, the men dragged the corpses to the parapet, lifted them over it and dropped them. A second later came a sickening duo of thuds.

'What is happening?' asked a male voice. Andolla climbed through the window.

'Ingas has reneged on his bargain with us, my husband,' Oppia reported. 'He sent two of his men to steal back Amata and return her to her father. This Cimmerian warrior, whose services I have engaged, has already earned his keep. He slew the kidnappers before they could reach her window.''

The priest glanced at Conan. 'Oh, good. Ingas, eh? I shall prepare a mighty spell for him. He shall regret this.'

'As you will, my husband,' she murmured.

Conan studied the man. It was the first opportunity he had had lo examine Andolla at close range. He was a tall man of middle years and dignified bearing, even standing upon the uncertain noting of the temple roof. Like his well-modulated voice, his

bearing carried the unmistakable stamp of theatricality, as if he were not a priest, but rather, an actor playing the role of a priest.

'Has this petty altercation drawn any notice?' he asked.

'The Square is as quiet as usual for this time of night,' Conan reported. 'If the guards at the Reeve's headquarters noticed anything, they've been careful not to show any interest.'

'Well, then,' Andolla said, 'I must return to my thaumaturgical labours. See to this, my dear.'

'I already have, husband,' Oppia said through delicately gritted teeth. She turned to a pair of whey-faced girls who stood by. 'Fetch mops and buckets and clean this up,' she ordered, pointing to the broad pool of blood that glinted black in the moonlight. In addition, two broad smears of blood made a trail, marking where the bodies had been dragged to the parapet. 'When that is done, go to the alley and wash down the bricks. I want no trace of this night's happenings visible when the sun rises in the morning.' The girls clapped their hands and bowed in ritual obeisance. They followed Andolla through the window, and soon Conan and Oppia were alone upon the temple roof.

'This was splendidly done, Cimmerian,' she said. 'Think you he will try again?'

'It is very likely,' he told her. 'Or perhaps Rista Daan will approach one of the other leaders. If Ingas betrayed you for gold, why not the others? Next time there may be more than two to contend with.'

'Curse them all!' she said. 'I long to be away from this place. It was a fertile field before, but now it is like some savage beast that has gone mad and has begun to devour itself. All these mobs of predatory men, banding together to prey upon the carcass of this town, no longer content to share the meat of the kill. Now they will turn and rend each other.' She looked up at the towering barbarian. 'But you are different. Though you are a man of blood and violence, you are not a mindless pack animal. You are like a lion among hyenas.'

'I am like them, Priestess. But I am a better fighting man than they.'

'I think it is more than that. Continue to give me loyal service and you may be destined for better things, just as the holy Andolla and I are so destined.' There came a commotion from behind. The female acolytes were manoeuvring their mops and buckets out through the window.

'I must supervise this,' she told the Cimmerian. 'Our devoted followers have perfect faith, but they cannot even do something as simple as cleaning up blood or disposing of bodies without someone to watch over them.' She paused. 'You were right, Conan. Tomorrow I shall have another room prepared for you, a room directly across the hall from Amata's.'

He nodded, satisfied. 'Very good, Priestess. I think I shall be able to accomplish more that way.' He looked up at the girl's barred window, wondering whether she had taken any notice of the night's doings.

XII

The Demon and the Curse

The day was blustery, with the fitful wind blowing sheets of rain across the Square. Conan left the temple swathed in his great cloak, its hood drawn over his head against the weather. Thus attired, he was distinguished by nothing except his size and tiger-like gait, and in this town there were no few men of his size, men who moved dangerously.

He knew that things were about to erupt in Sicas and that he could accomplish nothing if he remained aloof in the temple. He had a need to know what was going on in the town. To that end, he turned his steps toward the Pit. There were yet several places in the lower city where his presence was unlikely to precipitate immediate violence.

Just beyond the line where the old city wall had once stood was a small tavern called the Bear and Harp, and he had heard that it was frequented by the storytellers and minstrels, both those of the city and those just passing through. These were men and women whose livelihoods depended upon their knowing all about what was going on, and he could think of no better place to inform himself.

As he entered the tavern, he heard a woman's voice proclaiming a new poem, verses by the mad Tarantian poet, Caprio. It was well known throughout Aquilonia that Caprio only feigned madness, so that he could get away with his outrageously scurrilous verses defaming various highly placed personages of the kingdom. There was an ancient tradition that mad poets were under the special protection of the gods; therefore, there was little the authorities could do about the man, who in their eyes had earned death many times over.

In the entranceway the Cimmerian divested himself of his cloak, shook the worst of the rain from it, and hung it on a peg by a half score of similar garments. As he went into the common room, the patrons turned from the singer to study the newcomer. All were armed, as was only prudent in times like these, but they were not, for the most part, the professional fighters and criminals such as thronged the town. He saw two or three whose armour or general look of furtiveness identified them as part of the rougher clement, but they had probably come for the entertainment.

He went to the bar and ordered mulled ale. The barkeep took a pitcher from the hearth, where a crackling fire of well-seasoned hardwood logs gave forth a cheering warmth. As the Cimmerian drank from the tarred leather tankard, the woman singer's place was taken by a storyteller, who began to tell of events in the far provinces of the land. From all indications, Aquilonia was breaking up as the feudal lords, disgusted with King Numedides, reverted to their old ways and set up as independent suzerains, neglecting to send their annual tribute to Tarantia. Some defied the king openly; others were being more subtle, testing the power of the throne without risking an open breach. Only the frontier provinces of Bossonia and Gunderland remained firmly loyal. 'Those two provinces, although not populous, contained some of I he best fighting men of the kingdom.

Conan listened with interest. He would be finished in this town soon, and for a professional soldier, news of impending civil war was the finest of music. The civil strife in Ophir had been going on for years and the land was a picked-over carcass. Aquilonia was matchlessly rich and had been at peace for many decades. The loot of a city such as Tarantia would be incalculable. And that was just the largest of Aquilonia's many rich cities. Even the harrying of a minor province could give a common soldier wealth enough to retire from the wars. Not that Conan was ready to retire just yet.

'Let me stand you to your next tankard,' said a man next to him. This one was a small one, dressed in colourful hose and doublet. Atop his head was a long velvet cap, with several drooping feathers forming a somewhat bedraggled cockade. Slung over his shoulder was a small harp in a bead-decorated leather cover.

'Gladly,' said the Cimmerian. The harper beckoned to the barkeep, who hurried over with the pitcher.

'You are the northerner who has the hard men of this town, chasing their own tails with perplexity. You must have a fine story to tell.'

'I am just a humble warrior, minding my own business,' Conan said solemnly.

The harper guffawed. 'And I am the long-lost prince of Khitai, about to return home to reclaim my rightful throne. I expect more than that for a tankard of this exceptionally fine mulled ale, flavoured as it is with exotic spices of the east.'

'Story for story, then?' Conan inquired.

'It is a bargain. What do you want to know?' the harper asked, his eyes glowing with curiosity.

'I have been keeping out of sight all day. What has been happening among the gangs these last hours?'

'Well—' the man leaned close '—Maxio has let it be known that he is after Ermak and will kill him, even if he has to use poison to do it. The King's Reeve says it was Maxio who burned down the royal storehouse to escape after he'd looted the place. Something has Ingas's men all worked up, and they go about glowering, their hands on their hilts as if they want to cut anything that moves. Ermak says he will be happy to fight anyone who feels that he and his men should be run out of town. All the little gangs are hiring themselves out to anyone who seems to feel the

need of reinforcement. Lisip is growing worried that all this chaos IN apt to bring the royal troops down upon the city, and he is Ming for a peace conference, to settle matters without open war in the streets.'

'Is there any word that royal forces are on their way?' Conan asked.

'Not so much as a breath, but who can say? There may be royal spies in town. There are some who think that you are one such.' The harper raised his eyebrows and angled his head as if expecting to hear an admission from the Cimmerian. He got no such confession. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'you heard that last minstrel. The royal authority is in such disarray that it might be a very long time before the king takes note of this little corner of his domain. Now, what is your tale?'

Conan leaned close. 'You understand that you must not let it lie known where you heard this.' He did not make it a question.

The man reached into the breast of his doublet and brought out a tiny image that he wore around his neck on a chain. It was a medallion bearing the likeness of a god with a harp. He bestowed a kiss upon the image.

'I swear by lias of the Golden Fingers, patron god of all harpers.' He tucked the medallion away.

'Very well. I have been sent by one whose name I cannot reveal, even in the strictest confidence, to learn which way the wind blows here.' The harper nodded, hanging upon the outlander's every word. 'Bombas is looting the royal tax revenues, and has been at it for years, in league with Xanthus, the royal mine factor. To break the Miners' Guild, Xanthus brought in Ermak's mercenaries. They abducted the women and children from the mining village and hold them hostage for the miners' obedience. was Bombas who set fire to the royal storehouse to destroy evidence of his theft.'

The harper's mouth dropped open. 'And I thought was good at gathering news.'

Conan clapped a hand upon the man's shoulder. 'You gather information with your ears. I do it with my sword arm. My way

is faster, and it gleans many facts that men will not yield in ordinary conversation.'

'Such information,' the harper said, 'is worth more than a single mug of ale. Allow me to buy you another.'

The two drank and talked for a while, but the harper's look grew abstracted, and from time to time his lips moved silently. The Cimmerian knew that the man was working this new information into a song. When- the harper soon departed, Conan sat at a table, drinking mulled ale and listening to the singers and storytellers. He was well content with his work just accomplished. In the strange, swift way that minstrels had, this news would be all over Tarantia sooner than a swift horse could have borne it there. It was another stir to the boiling-over pot that was Sicas.

The rain had tapered off by the time Conan left the Bear and Harp. The wind blew less gustily as he made his way through the dim streets. The weather was depressing, and it seemed to have damped the fighting belligerence of the gangs. He knew it was but temporary. The gangs were, at most, unsettled and disoriented by the sudden changes and betrayals. Soon they would be ready for rampage, and then the blood would flow plentifully.

'Conan!' The voice was an urgent hiss, and he turned to see a cloaked, veiled figure in a doorway. At first he thought it was Brita, but then he saw that this woman was far too large for that. 'Come here,' she urged.

'Good evening, Delia,' he said, smiling. The woman all but hauled him through the door as she drew aside her veil. Inside was a perfumer's shop..At a glare from Delia, the elderly proprietor retired discreetly to an inner chamber.

'You treacherous dog! What have you done! Maxio is alive and free. He is hiding out from Bombas and Ermak, but he will come out soon!'

'Yes? But what of that? Surely you did not expect me to kill him for you?'

She looked around as if afraid of being overheard. 'I thought we had an agreement!' she hissed. Her face was a mask of terror.

'We did,' Conan said. 'I agreed to pay you money for information. I was to use that information however I saw fit, and whenever.'

'But now he will kill me for betraying him,' she wailed.

Nothing of the sort,' Conan assured her. 'He thinks that Ermak learned of the job and sold him out. I told him that you Inn I got wind of it and sent me to warn him. She closed her eyes and almost fainted with relief. After a few more breaths, she regained her composure and then glared at the Cimmerian as if her beautiful eyes could set him aflame.

What game are you playing, you scheming wretch? I've all but cast myself at your feet and you use me to further some plan of your own.'

'What did you expect?' he countered. 'You sold your lover for your own purposes.'

Of course I did,' she said, bewildered. 'But I put him in your hands because I wanted to be in your hands. It is not as if I handed him in to the authorities for a reward. I would never stoop In such a thing!' She seemed honestly indignant.

'I did not mean to impugn your honour,' Conan said.

'Well, you could at least have warned me,' she said, her anger dissipating with relief.

'I have been very busy, and also trying to keep out of sight.'

'I can well believe that you have been busy. Ever since you have lived in town, the place has been in turmoil. All the gangs had worked out agreements, and things went along with only a little howling and an occasional murder. Now nobody knows where anybody stands; they are all suspicious of one another. What are you doing?'

'Nothing that will endanger you,' he assured her, 'so long as you are careful.'

'Very well, I believe you,' she said, somewhat mollified.

Another question occurred to him. 'Delia, what know you of a Mack-haired woman, newly in town and most likely searching for someone, or some thing. She may be calling herself Altaira.'

That one!' she said. 'I have seen her in the Pit, where she goes about alone after dark as fearlessly as a pack of warrior armed to the teeth. And none dare molest her, either. I never saw a man who looks half so deadly as that woman. What want you with her?'

'Nothing. I but want to know what she is doing. I think she may be looking for someone or some thing, and possibly it is a matter with which I am concerned.'

'I heard that she is waiting for Mulvix,' Delia said. 'And who is Mulvix?' Conan asked, remembering where he had heard the name.

'He is a caravan master who visits Sicas once or twice a year. I Like many such, he is a smuggler. I've no doubt that he and the woman have some sort of smuggling business together.' Her boldly flirtatious look returned. 'Do you want me to find out! what I can about her? I can get close to her as no man in this town can. She would not see me as a rival in some scheme.'

'No!' Conan said. 'Stay away from that woman, and do not even ask questions about her. She has a way of disposing of any- one who arouses her suspicions.'

Delia pouted. 'Oh, very well, if you scorn my help...' She left him an opening to protest, which he refused to exploit.

'You would be best advised to patch up matters with Maxio,'! he said.

She stamped her expensively shod foot. 'I do not understand you at all!' She stormed from the shop.

A sweet aroma reminded Conan that this was a perfumer's shop, and he summoned the proprietor from the rear. He asked the old man if Brita had been in.

'Aye, near every day,' the man answered. 'She was in just this morning, asking about that sister of hers. Seems a decent, well-bred girl, although I think she is a little mad on this subject of her sister.' With a bony finger he tapped his grey temple portentously.

Conan nodded, musing. The presence of the black-haired woman Altaira and the imminent arrival of the caravan master Mulvix tied in with Piris's story. Whatever other truth his tale did contain was doubtful at best. These musings supplied Conan with inspiration. 'Have you any lilac scent?' he asked the perfumer.

Hut of course, sir.' The man went to a shelf and took down a flask. 'The very finest pressings from this year's harvest in Khemi, where the richest lilac blossoms are grown. Is it for the... ah... the lady who was just here with you?'

No,' Conan said. 'It is for another friend. I will want it delivered.'

That is no difficulty,' the shopkeeper said, taking quill and attachment from a desk. 'The recipient?' 'Piris of Shadizar,' Conan said. 'And this person's lodgings?' 'The city dungeon,' answered the Cimmerian. The poised quill faltered in its plunge toward the parchment. 'Did I her you aright, good sir? I almost thought that you said 'the city dungeon.''

'That is indeed what I said,' affirmed Conan. The old man shrugged philosophically. 'As you will. Any message?'

'Just say, 'Conan has not forgotten you. This is the very least I can do. It is almost in my hands.'' 'What is almost in your hands?' asked the old man. 'He will know what I mean.' Conan paid for the costly scent and left the perfumer's.

As he crossed the rain-washed Square, the Cimmerian all but inn into a fat figure waddling in another direction. It was the Reeve, who gasped as he recognized the face within the cowl. 'Cimmerian! You are alive!'

'Aye, no thanks to you!' His hand went to his hilt. He had wished to avoid the Reeve, and he disliked the idea of cutting the man down in full view in the middle of the Square, but he might have no choice in the matter. Amazingly, the man's fat face recovered what might only have been called delight, even though he was, for once, not backed by his remaining henchmen. 'Hut I thought that Maxio and his men had slain you! We saw you cross the bridge to the storehouse, and then there was nothing, no call from you and no sounds of a fight. We were sure that Maxio or one of his men had dirked you in the back as you dropped into the storehouse, so I resolved to show the villains no mercy. I rejoice to see you alive!'

'And well you should,' said Conan, 'considering that you set fire to the storehouse while I was in it.'

The Reeve looked around as if to see whether anyone stood near enough to hear his words. 'That was an accident. One of my blundering men knocked over an oil lamp with the butt of his glaive. The oil poured onto a great heap of the woven wicker they use to bale the wool for transport. The fire was out of control in seconds. Of course, in my official report I said that the burglar had set the fire to cover their escape. You understand these things do you not? They were truly at fault, anyway. Ah, my friend, did Maxio escape?'

The Cimmerian grinned. 'He was very much alive when last I saw him.'

'The gods curse the man! Conan, we have matters to discus Come back with me to my headquarters and we will talk.'

'I think not,' Conan said, unwilling to step into a trap. 'Over here.' He stepped into a small kiosk that housed a statue of long-dead benefactor of the town.

The Reeve followed closely. 'Conan, my friend, things in the city are getting far out of hand. You may have heard that Lisip has called a peace conference in hopes that things may be sort out before the whole town is aflame.'

'I've heard,' he affirmed.

'I have agreed to the conference and will be present. Will you attend as well, as my bodyguard?'

'You have your own men,' Conan pointed out.

'I can neither trust nor depend upon them,' Bombas said 'But you are now the most feared swordsman in the city. Your presence will ensure the good behaviour of all toward me. I will make it well worth your trouble.'

'All right,' Conan said. 'You need not pay me money. Just release Piris.'

Agreed. I will turn him loose as soon as we return safely limn the conference.'

No, release him when we leave for the meeting. Who knows ii. her either of us will return alive from it?'

The fat man's shoulders shrugged. 'Have it as you will. The man is nothing to me, in truth.'

'When is the conference to be held, and where?' Conan asked. The time and place are not yet agreed upon. Thus far, Ermak and Ingas have not assented to it, and who knows what Maxio will decide? The place will probably be the Wyvern, which is burial ground to most of these scum. I will give you word as it has been decided. Where do you lodge these days?'

'Never mind that. I will be in touch with you. If that is all, I must be going now.' Conan turned and left the kiosk without further words. As he did not want Bombas to see him enter the temple, he walked past the temple and the theatre and travelled along the high street.

He went to the inn to see how Brita fared, but she was not there. The innkeeper affirmed that she came and went at all hours and said further that a young man who wore two swords had been asking about the Cimmerian. Conan was not interested in meeting with Casperus just yet. The innkeeper promised to keep safe any messages sent to Conan; none would be delivered to the Cimmerian's rooms. The last thing Conan wanted was for Brita to be living into his doings.

It was fully dark when he returned to the temple. An acolyte inducted him to his new room, directly across the hall from Kid la's chamber. The shuttered window of this room opened onto ii stone-paved courtyard three stories below. He knew that the kitchen gave into this courtyard. Even as he watched, a female acolyte emptied a pail of hot water out the back door, further welling the rain-dampened stones.

Below his window was a narrow ledge, and by leaning back mill looking up, he saw that the roof was an easy climb from the ledge. He was beginning to consider this city more in terms of ' rooftops and sewers than of streets and buildings.

There was no one else on the floor save himself and the young woman across the hall. He peered through the door-window into her chamber and saw that she lay unnaturally pale and still, only the slightest rise and fall beneath the blanket drawn up to her chin proving that she still lived.

He looked into the rooms on both sides. One was featureless, unoccupied and unfurnished. The other had a window set into the adjoining wall, separated from the girl's room by a pane of thick glass. On the sill of the window burned an oil lamp, which provided the sole illumination for Rietta's chamber. The glass pane was not perfectly smooth, but he could see through it into the chamber tolerably well. He climbed out the window and pulled! himself up onto the roof, then crossed to the other side. Swinging! his legs over the low parapet, he dropped to hang by his finger- tips. The balls of his feet just touched the ledge outside his window. He re-entered his room, satisfied that he could pass from one room to the other unseen from the hallway. With no further business for the evening, he lay on the bed, still fully dressed. H wanted to be ready to take action without having to scramble into his clothes in the dark.

He awoke dizzy and disoriented. To Conan, who always awoke fully alert, this was distressing. Ordinarily, only a strong blow the head caused this sensation. Then he was aware of something else: the very faint odour of a pungent smoke. It was the same smoke he had scented before, in Rietta's room.

Swiftly, he rose and rushed to the window. Daring the effects of his unwanted dizziness, he went out onto the ledge and pulled himself up to the roof. He breathed deeply of the cold night air. The stars overhead appeared unnaturally bright, and they seemed to shift their position and colour; The illusion lasted for only moments; then all returned to normal.

Apparently the black-lotus smoke was quicker in its effect than the drug given to the worshippers below, and the influence dispersed as soon as the victim was free of the smoke. Whatever the mechanism for injecting the smoke into Rietta's chamber, enough of it leaked across the hall to mildly affect the Cimmerian. His clarity restored, he decided that it was time to see what was going on in the girl's chamber.

When he entered the room next to hers, he saw that the lamplight had grown feeble. No acolyte had entered to trim the wick in several hours. He saw a faint glow from the other room. Before peering through the glass separating the chambers, he extinguished the flickering flame, both to see more clearly and to prevent it from casting its glow upon his face.

In a corner of Rietta's room, near the door, something was taking shape. He felt that familiar prickle at the back of his neck, die crawling revulsion he always felt in the presence of sorcery. I''or he saw that this was true sorcery, not a mechanical illusion such as the frauds had produced with the statue of Mother Doorgah.

It was a shambling, unstable shape, its form vaguely manlike. Its legs were short and stumpy, but so large was it that the top of us spherical head touched the ceiling. It was greenish in colour, glowing faintly, not as if from within but rather as if the sun of another world shone upon it. Its eyes were deep pits, and its wide mouth worked as though it strove to speak. There were neither nose nor nostril openings that Conan could discern. Its mouth was lined with hundreds of needle-like teeth. Its form was hideous to him, and he could only imagine what it must seem to the poor, Drugged girl on the other side of the wall.

The shape stretched forth an ape-long arm, a taloned finger at the end pointing toward a corner of the room, where Conan as-Mimed the girl must be huddling in terror. Its mouth continued to work, and now a voice seemed to emanate from it.

'I come for thee, girl,' it said. The voice was deep, the words slurred. Also, it was oddly familiar. 'I come for thee,' continued the demon, 'and soon your protectors' spells will be for naught. The curse of your mother, and of your grandmother, and of all your female ancestors, has fallen upon you. The spell that surrounds you grows weak, girl. Soon I shall break through, and then you are mine! Perhaps even now...'

It shambled forward, and the girl began to scream. It was a wailing shriek that jarred even upon the Cimmerian's hardened nerves.

He heard the sound of feet upon the stairs and decided that hi had seen all that was needful for the moment. Quickly, he wan out the window, across the roof and back within his own room. He was about to go out into the hall when he remembered that it might rouse suspicion were he to appear fully dressed. He tugged off shirt and breeches, then drew his sword and stepped into the hall, dressed only in a loincloth.

A pair of acolytes turned, their eyes gone wide at his appearance. 'Open!' he ordered.

'Not until the Holy Mother Oppia or the Great-souled Andolla tell us...' The voice terminated in a strangled squawk as the point of the Cimmerian's sword went under the acolyte's chin and forced his head back against the door. The other acolyte scrambled to throw back the bar.

Pushing past the two trembling novitiates, Conan entered the chamber. There was the faintest tinge of smoke lingering, and he heard the same outrushing of air as he had heard the first time he had entered the room. The girl was twisted into a trembling knot in a corner. He laid his sword on the floor and gently took her by her arms.

'The phantom is gone, lass. Look at me.' The girl could hardly help doing so, so wide were her eyes. But now the unreasoning terror faded, replaced by a look of bewilderment. He wan aware that he presented a spectacle scarcely less daunting than that of the demon, but at least he was human.

'Who are you?' she asked, her voice weak and shaky but sounding sane enough.

'What are you doing in here?' The question came from one in the doorway.

'What was I hired to do,' replied the Cimmerian, standing, his sword now back in his grip. He turned to face Andolla. I glanced past the man's shoulder to the corner in which the demon had appeared. Now he saw a small, square opening in the wall nearby. The voice of the demon had been Andolla's, distorted but recognizable. Conan knew that the hole in the wall led to a speaking tube; such were sometimes used in wealthy households for the summoning of servants.

''You have no business in here!' the priest said. 'You were hired to protect the girl from those who would kidnap her. Those matters of the Spirit World must be left to me and to the Holy Oppia. Leave now.'

'When I am satisfied that she is safe from those kidnappers you mentioned.' He looked past Andolla to the gaping acolytes. 'Bring lights,' he ordered.

'What for?' demanded Andolla as the acolytes brought forth candles.

Conan went to the window. ' 'I want to see if anyone has been working at these bars,' he answered. 'If the girl saw faces at the window, it might have touched off this panic.'

'Fool!' Andolla said. 'Can you not see that the shutter is still closed from the inside?'

It was a good point, but Conan was not about to let him get away with it. 'And did you not know,' he sneered, 'that accomplished burglars can easily unlatch and re-latch any fastening to conceal evidence of their passage?'

'What now, husband?' said Oppia's voice. Conan did not turn around. Holding a candle, he carefully studied the sill by the bronze bars. Here he found another hole. Bending low and pretending to examine the base of the bars, he could smell a powerful aroma of old, stale smoke. This was how the smoke was injected into the room, and probably evacuated as well. A large blacksmith's bellows would likely do the job nicely. He straightened mid turned.

'No, the bars are sound. It was the demon again, I suppose.'

'This one is high-handed for a mere hireling,' protested Andolla. 'There is no place for an unbelieving, naked savage in our household.'

'Allow me to see to him and to the girl, Holy One,' Oppia said. 'These are trifling matters for one with your heavy duties

of study and ritual. Please, husband, return to your devotions and allow me to handle these matters.'

The tall priest reassembled his wounded dignity. 'As you say, my dear. But see if you cannot curb this disbelieving barbarian. His very presence offends Mother Doorgah.'

'Mother Doorgah has a use for every living soul,' she reminded him. 'I will attend to the matter.' Nodding and grumbling, the priest left. She looked at the acolytes. 'You may go as well.'

When they were gone, she took Rietta by the shoulders. The look of panic returned to the girl's eyes and Oppia slapped her several times, leaving scarlet finger marks on the wan cheeks.

'You have allowed it to come again!' Oppia said. 'By your weakness and lack of true faith, you have allowed it to come. The Great-souled Andolla and I exert ourselves with rituals and spells night and day to keep it in the Spirit World, where it belongs. How can you be so selfish? I despair of you, child. Soon, Mother ' Doorgah must despair of you as well. Unless you can furnish her proof of your devotion, our spells of protection will be futile, for only Mother Doorgah's love for you gives us the power to protect you. Forget about yourself and show Mother Doorgah how great is your love for her! Only tribute of gold or jewels will move her, for those substances are sacred to Mother Doorgah. To us, on this trifling, temporal plane, they are worthless trash, but in the higher world of the gods, they are magical. Bring us these things that we ' might give them in turn to Mother Doorgah and you might yet be saved, the curse that has plagued your ancestresses for generations broken!' She released Rietta's shoulders and stood, her face twisted with disgust as the girl collapsed into hysterical tears.

Conan pushed past Oppia and picked up the girl. She weighed next to nothing. His hand would almost span both of her thighs together. She was dangerously emaciated. Gently he put her on her bed and covered her with the thin blanket.

'Enough,' he said. 'Let us talk outside.'

In the hallway, he shut the door to Rietta's prison and closed the viewing-window. As he did this, Oppia studied him with great interest. His near-naked body was heavily muscled and seamed with old battle scars. The marks of blade and beast were all over him. More than size and scars, however, the sureness of his movements proclaimed his dangerous presence. He moved as a tiger moved, with absolute mastery of every muscle and bone, with a total awareness of where each body part was in relation to every other. There were many powerful men in the world, but it was this coordination, combined with the Cimmerian's bewildering swiftness, that made him a matchless fighting man. All this the woman read in her frank, intimate appraisal.

'She will not last long like this,' Conan warned.

'Never has one offered such resistance,' Oppia said. 'I do not know whether she is stubborn or merely stupid. Surely, in her mirror she can find a way to get more out of her father.'

He favoured her with an evil grin. 'Leave her to me. I'll bring her around.'

'My husband would never stand for that,' she said.

'You are the one who handles matters here,' he said. 'Give us a free hand with her and you'll soon see action out of her.'

'Very well,' she said. 'You have my leave. Think you that you can bring her around soon?'

'I must,' Conan said. 'This town is about to erupt. Either it will burn to the ground or the royal troops will arrive to restore it. Either will be bad for you. It is time to grab what you can, pick up your trick idol and go,'

She gave him a smile of complicity. 'We have the drawings for the idol and can always craft another. You saw through that quickly enough.'

'It's obvious to one who isn't drugged: What do you use on these fools?'

'A special decoction of blue lotus root that I purchase from Nivgia. It is horribly costly but it does bring in the donations.' She drew closer and felt of his arms, as one would test the muscles of a racehorse.

'The demon she sees,' Conan demanded. 'Is it real?'

'Aye. My husband summons it through his thaumaturgical arts, but it is a mindless, voiceless thing, as insubstantial as smoke. Andolla is convinced that with stronger sorcery, he can make it real. But let us not talk of these things. I have more pleasurable matters in mind.' She ran a hand across his chest and raised her lips toward his.

Oppia was a beautiful and desirable woman, but the Cimmerian was sure that once he put his hands upon her, he would squeeze her beautiful, swanlike neck until the breath ceased to pass between her lips. He stepped back.

'What disturbs you, Cimmerian?' she breathed.

'If he can summon demons,' Conan said, 'he can set one against a man who displeases him. A man who traffics with his wife, for instance.'

She laughed deprecatingly. 'Surely you do not fear phantoms, you who are so brave in combat.'

'I fear no man, and I do not tear fire or steel. But any man may fear supernatural things. It is no disgrace.'

'You disappoint me. I had thought you an experienced man of the world. Now you speak like a childish barbarian.'

'I am a barbarian. And I know that things of the Spirit World are not to be trifled with. What good is steel against a phantom that can strike through walls and armour?'

'And am I not a prize worth the risk?' she asked.

'You are a beautiful woman,' Conan said. 'And you are'. strong-willed. If you can put an end to your man's magical doings, then nothing would stand between you and me.'

She stepped away from him. 'We shall see. I must think upon this. You would have to prove that you are very, very valuable to me.' She glanced at the door to Rietta's prison. 'I think you know how to prove that.' She turned and walked toward the stair. 'Good night, Cimmerian.'

When she was gone, he returned to his chamber. Reflecting that living in this temple had much in common with living amid the crags and cliffs of his native Cimmeria, he went out the window once more. This time he descended from ledge to ledge until

In- stood in the deserted courtyard. He entered the kitchen through its back door and found the place deserted. The embers of the banked fires give him the light he needed as he gathered meat, cheese, fruit, and bread and wrapped them in a napkin. He filled up his flask with milk from a pitcher and stoppered it. This accomplished, he rescaled the wall and re-entered his room. He took two candles from his table. One was for light. For the other he had a different purpose.

At Rietta's door he knocked, then opened. The girl sat up, alarmed to see this near-naked savage in her room, illuminated by the sinister, flickering light of a single candle. She pressed against the backboard, her knees drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped tightly around them.

'Who are you? And why are you here?'

'I am Conan,' he said. He placed the candle on the floor and the bundle on her bed and left the room, returning seconds later with a chair. He sat and unwrapped the bundle. 'I am here to aid you. You are very weak and sick. This will help.'

'What is it?' she asked.

'An old Cimmerian remedy. It is called food. Eat it.'

'But the Holy Ones have commanded me—'

'Oppia has put your cure in my hands,' he said, silencing the protest. 'Eat it all, but eat very slowly, or it will make you even sicker than you are. Start with the fruit, then try a little of the meat or cheese. Dampen the bread with milk, or you may not be able to swallow it. If you've had nothing but that watery gruel for weeks, your body may have forgotten how to handle real food.'

She was puzzled, but by now she was so accustomed to submitting that she obeyed. While she applied herself to the food he had brought, he took the unlighted candle to the window. He drove the hard wax down into the smoke-hole, then pounded it nut of sight with the pommel of his dagger. When he had cleaned the last traces of wax from the rim of the hole, he sat by the girl's side. She watched him with apprehension, but she ate as ordered.

'Stop now,' he said when about half of the food was eaten.

'Let us see if you can keep that down. If so, you will finish the rest. Now, tell me about this curse that so plagues you.'

'It is the inheritance of the women of my line,' she said dolefully. 'Generations back, we were cursed for sacrilege, and the gods send demons to torment us until either the demons take us or we take our own lives to escape them, as my mother took her life to escape the demon that haunted them. Now it is coming for me.'

'And your mother told you all this?' Conan asked.

'Some of it. The rest was explained to me by the Holy Ones, along with the things I must do to purge the curse from my soul.'

'Child, your mother was sick in the head, and the curse she told you of existed only in her mind.'

'But the demon!' Rietta protested.

'Did you ever see it before you came to live here in the temple? Before you were put in this very room?' he asked.

'Well... no.' Her eyes grew vague, and the Cimmerian; knew that he was pressing her too much and too quickly.

'Rietta.' She looked surprised to hear her own name spoken.! 'Rietta,' he repeated, 'I swear to you that from this night hence, you will feel better, and that the demon will not come back to you. It is only an insubstantial wraith. It could never harm you, and it will trouble you no more. If all I say is true, will you trust me?'

Slowly, she nodded her head. He hoped that it was because she meant it and not because her spirit was so shattered that she would agree with anything said to her.

When she had finished eating, he gathered up all traces of what must to her have been a feast and carried them back to his own chamber. Then he lay on his bed to rest. Previously he had wanted simply to return the girl to her father, as he had contracted to do. Then he had resolved to expose and destroy the religious fraud perpetrated by Andolla and his woman. Now he wanted to raze this place to its foundations.

XIII

The Smuggler

When the Cimmerian entered the Wyvern, all conversation ceased. Scarred, branded, and tattooed faces turned toward the entrance, where the barbarian stood shaking the rainwater from his cloak. The one-eyed, slit-nosed, and earless watched with close interest as he folded the garment. He would not hang it upon the row of empty pegs set invitingly at the landing. In this place, it would be stolen the instant he turned his back on it.

He descended the stair and looked about for a table with a vacant seat. He saw one near a corner, where he could sit with Ins back to a wall and enjoy a clear view of the room. The three men who sat at the table looked no more verminous than did the rest of the patrons in the place. He walked to the table and looked down upon its occupants, who paused in their dicing.

'Do you mind if I join you?' he asked. Even the big Cimmerian would not violate the rules that governed such a place, win-re any lapse of manners could earn swift death. Unless, of course, he deliberately wanted to provoke a fight. A man with a black spider tattooed on his brow and one with a copper nose

strapped over the gaping hole where once there had been a nose of flesh and cartilage looked at him; then they looked to the third man.

This one was even more colourfully mutilated than the others. One of his legs protruded stiffly, its knee mangled beyond 'use. One arm ended in a wrist stump that was neatly patched and cauterized. Conan judged that it had been lopped for theft in some land where that punishment was favoured. The man was also wry-necked, his head canted at a permanent angle so that his right ear almost touched his shoulder.

'Join us, warrior,' he said in a surprisingly deep, rich voice. 'We are honoured to have the new terror of Sicas at our table. Barkeep, ale for the Cimmerian!' He chuckled. 'I hear that you have a taste for strong drink. I saw a few Cimmerians up in the Bossonian Marches, but they were dull company; morose water-drinkers who always looked as if they were attending a funeral.'

'I share few tastes with my countrymen,'.Conan said, 'else I would have stayed in Cimmeria.' He took the ale mug brought him by a server and raised it to the wry-necked man. 'I thank you.'

The man with the tattoo rattled a dice cup. 'The game is Shemitish Suicide,' he said curtly. 'Are you in?' It was a quick came, where money was won or lost on a single roll. The Cimmerian tossed a few coins into the centre of the table.

'In,' he announced. The cup was passed. Each man shook and upended it once. Conan rolled three stars and a dagger; a middling roll, but the others rolled lower. He raked in his winnings, leaving his next wager on the table.

'That is Spider,' said the wry-necked man, managing an angled nod toward the tattooed one, 'and that is Copper-nose,' indicating the other. 'I am called Falx the Lucky.'

Conan looked at the man sceptically. 'To my eye, you have seen more than your share of misfortune.'

The man grinned and tapped his twisted neck. 'Had you been hanged and lived to tell of it, you would count yourself lucky, too.'

No I would,' Conan said, shaking the cup and slamming it down on the table. He lifted it to reveal four eagles, the highest of scores. The others groaned. 'The goddess!' he proclaimed triumphantly, using the traditional name of that throw. It seemed a good omen, so he broached his real reason for coming to this place.

'Tell me, my friends: If a man wished to speak with Lisip, how would he go about it?' The others studied him with close evaluation.

'For one thing, he would attract attention,' said Falx the lucky. 'You have done little else since arriving here in Sicas. I expect that the old boss would be willing to grant you an audience.'

Could you arrange that?' the Cimmerian asked while Spider rattled dice in the cup.

'I think so. Hold the game for a while.' Falx rose and limped slowly from the table. Obediently, the others let the dice rest, although they seemed little inclined to engage their new companion in conversation. That suited Conan well. He had not come to this place to consort with the likes of these. He sat back and drank in ale, a thumb hooked into his studded belt.

The rest of the clientèle of the Wyvern paid him no heed after their first surprise at his appearance in their den. He saw no red either identifying Ingas's followers. None of those present had been among Maxio's men on the night of the raid on the royals. There were a few armoured men who might have been employed to Ermak, but he did not recognize any faces.

After a few minutes, Falx the Lucky came dragging his stiff leg back across the floor, which was sticky with spilled blood and wine.

'Lisip is upstairs,' he said to Conan. 'He will see you now.' Conan rose, and many eyes watched as he crossed the floor mid ascended a stair, following Falx's slow pace. There was danger here, but he was confident in his ability to carve an escape Lisip's men, who were even less competent than Ingas's, nothing like Ermak's.

His guide came to a door strapped with iron. Set into it was a small viewing-window; even that was covered with an iron grate. The window opened and a suspicious eye studied them both. The two stood well back so that the watcher could see that no one was with them. The door opened and they went through.

'In with you,' said the watchman, a burly lout with long, tangled hair and a vest made of woven leather straps, liberally studded with bronze nail-heads. He wore an iron-shod club thonged' to his belt, over which a hairy belly sagged. He shut and barred' the door behind them.

'What do you want of me?' said a voice from the dim rear of the room. The speaker sat behind a broad table. He was a huge man, both powerfully muscled and rotund. His massive, bald head was set squarely atop his sloping shoulders, obviating any visible neck. Old scars streaked the bare face and scalp, and immense hands that lay atop the table were gnarled and much' weathered. Except for the net of wrinkles that intersected the scars on his face, his age was difficult to judge. He looked like an ancient tortoise, and his black eyes were as expressionless as a reptile's. His lipless mouth was set in a straight, horizontal line.

'A few words privily,' Conan said.

'You may go,' Lisip said to Falx. 'Umruk stays,' he continued, indicating the watchman. 'He cannot hear.' Falx bowed his way out and Conan took a chair facing the old tortoise, making sure that Umruk could not see his lips move as he spoke.

'You injured my man out at the mines,' Lisip said without preamble. 'What were you doing there?'

'Xanthus hired me to sort some things out for him,' Conan ' said. ' 'I went to have a look for myself. Your man spoke insolently to me. I could have killed him. He has nothing to complain about.'

'What sort of business?' Lisip inquired.

'That is between Xanthus and me.'

'There has been much talk of you since you arrived here,' Lisip said. 'You slew three of Ingas's men in the Square. Some time ago, another two were sent to follow you from the Skull, they were not seen again. Was that your doing?'

Conan shrugged. 'What are Ingas's men to you?'

'Nothing at all. But I want to know where you stand as far as I am concerned. There is too much trouble in this town as it is, without some Cimmerian wild man running about making more. I need to have things here operating to my satisfaction. All the rogues of the town worked for me, and I saw to it that the respectable citizens were never bothered, save by the occasional burglary. And the burglars only stole; they never harmed anyone. Now all is changed.'

'The change happened long before I got here,' Conan pointed out. 'It may be that things can return to normal.'

'How?' Lisip asked. The reptilian eyes narrowed slightly.

'Ermak and Maxio are at war. One must kill the other soon. With either of them gone, things should cool down. If Maxio dies, Bombas will cease being overly distracted and begin to concentrate on the business that has been so profitable to everyone. If it is Ermak who perishes, his men will drift out of town or hire out in other gangs. They are nothing without him. Either way, you would be able to handle the survivor.'

'Aye,' said Lisip. 'But I do not think much of Maxio's chances. If it is Ermak who lives...'

'Very true,' Conan said. 'In this city, only I am a match for Ermak in an open fight.'

'Are you saying that you will go to work for me?' Lisip demanded.

Conan leaned back in his seat. 'I am saying that I am not your runny. Just now, I do not work for you or for any of the gang rulers. I have other matters to attend to. Later, who can tell? But say that should it come down to just you and Ermak, my sword may be for hire.'

'And in the meantime, you will stay out of this business?' The man's tortoise face grew as hard as stone.

'If I can. Much depends on how well I can stay clear of the s here. My plans will keep me in Sicas for some days more. I may need a hiding place, a bolt-hole where I can stay out; of sight for a while.'

'Is that all? I can supply you with that. There are cellars here in the Wyvern—'

Conan shook his head. 'Your former associate, Julus, now works for the Reeve. I'll wager he knows every hiding place in this city. No, I need something more secure, I have heard that! you have a stronghold somewhere near the city, a place where the brats and women belonging to the miners are held to keep their menfolk sweet and docile.'

'Aye, you'd be safe there. But you must keep this to yourself, No telling what sort of foolishness those rock-eaters might try if they knew where the sluts and cubs were.'

'Your secret is safe with me,' Conan said. 'After all, it's my neck, too.'

'South of here, about a half-day's ride, there is an ancient fort on the east bank of the river. It was a border fort once, back before the Ophireans were pushed beyond the Tybor River. Been abandoned for centuries, but still sound. That's where they're kept under close guard.'

'If I need to go there, how will I let the guards know I have your permission to hide out in the fort? I won't have time to send word ahead.'

Lisip opened a drawer and drew out a flat medallion of lead its surface stamped with a figure of a Wyvern. 'This is my seal. Show this to the man at the main gate and he will admit you.'

'Just the gate guard?' Conan asked. 'No sentries posted at the approaches?'

'My men?' Lisip said. 'Are you serious?' That was just what Conan wanted to hear. He took the seal and placed it in his pouch.

'Very well. I'll not move against you or your men as long as they do not molest me. When the situation has changed, we will speak further.' He rose to go, then turned back to Lisip. 'Oh, I have heard that there is to be a peace conference.''

Where did you hear that?' The words came out between lips MI ii scarcely seemed to move.

Bombas told me. He does not trust his own men to provide him with adequate protection. He wants me to come along as his bodyguard.'

Aye, there is to be such a conference, if I can persuade enough to attend. Will you be there?'

'It is a paying job,' the Cimmerian said. 'But it is just for this one night. It does not mean that I have thrown in with them.'

'Very well. You'll have no trouble from me. The swine has thought to vex him, anyway. Nobody here is insane enough to attack the King's Reeve, no matter how much we would like to.'

'Did Maxio truly slay Bombas's brother? I heard that it happened here in the Wyvern.'

The massive shoulders moved slightly in a shrug. 'It was Maxio's dagger. What care I which hand wielded it? Burdo was as worthless a swine as his brother, Bombas. He thought that we have an arrangement with the Reeve, he was entitled to report himself without payment and that he was safe from harm here in the Pit. He was wrong on both counts, most especially on that last one.'

'I shall keep that in mind,' Conan said. 'No man is truly safe here.'

'No man.' Lisip affirmed.

The Cimmerian took his leave and left the gang leader's sanctum. The common room seemed to hold the same crowd as before. The street outside was as black as always during the nights. He walked slowly toward the upper town, hand on hilt, stopping frequently to listen for following footsteps. He heard and saw nothing, but that did not cause him to relax his vigilance. This place was a dangerous town to begin with. Now his situation was more perilous than ever.

He made his way to the inn and called for ale at the bar. With his arrival the barkeep handed him a folded sheet of paper. 'It came for you this afternoon,' he said. 'Brought by the jailer.' The paper smelled faintly of lavender.

Conan opened it and read. In a delicate, Zamoran hand was written: 'It was, indeed, the very least you could do. When will you buy me out of here?' Laughing, The Cimmerian tossed the note into the fire.

He finished his ale, then went to the courtyard, where he found a torch and set it alight. As he ascended the stair, he noted some- thing amiss. Stooping low, he held the torch a few inches above the steps to discern whether he had seen aright. Drops of blood newly stained them. Slowly, he resumed his climb. The spattering of blood continued along the gallery; then there was a small puddle of it outside the door of his chamber.

Silently, the Cimmerian drew his sword. With a jerk, he snatched the door open and thrust the torch within, keeping hit wrist well outside lest a sudden descending sword unhand him, I Inside, all was quiet. Huddled on his bed he saw Brita, ashen-, faced and wide-eyed. For a moment he thought her dead, and the blood hers. Then, with relief, he saw the form stretched on the floor.

'Is anyone in there besides the dead man?' he asked, sword, still at the ready. She looked up, as if noticing for the first time that he was there, and shook her head. He sheathed the weapon and entered the chamber closing the door behind him.

'Are you hurt?' he asked. Again she shook her head. 'Then what is wrong with you? It's just a dead man. They do not cause! near as much trouble as the live ones.' He rolled the corpse onto its back. The man had a long, bony face, its length emphasized by a sandy, pointed beard. His heavy cloak and long boots were of the sort worn by caravaneers.

'How came he to be here?' Conan asked.

'Just a while ago,' she began, stammering, then gathering strength and firmness, 'there came a knock at the door. I opened,' thinking it to be you. This man stood in the doorway, his face like that of a man dead already, the front of his clothes soaked with blood. Oh, Conan, he was ghastly. He staggered inside, clutching a bundle to him. He said only: 'For the Cimmerian,' then collapsed there as you see him. I tried to turn him over, but In- was too heavy, and his life had already fled. I have been here ever since, terrified. I did not know what to do, thinking that his murderer might be just outside.'

Conan stooped and examined the man. Someone had nearly eviscerated him with a dagger. The weapon was not present.

'Must have been a bull of a man to climb those stairs cut like that,' he pronounced. 'Where is this bundle you spoke of?'

'There.' She pointed to a corner where something lay wrapped in bloodstained cloth. 'It rolled there when he fell. I have been afraid to move.'

Conan straightened. 'We don't want him found here. I will carry him to an alley near the Square and leave him there. He'll be found tomorrow, and maybe his comrades will want to give him burial. You clean up here. Get a bucket of water from the kitchen. Can you do that?' Wordlessly, she nodded.

''There is blood outside the door, also, and on the stairs. If you miss some, at least it will not look so much like someone died here. If anyone asks tomorrow, say that I staggered in drunkenly in the morning, bleeding from a head wound.'

'You think of everything,' she said.

'I will be back presently.' He lifted the corpse and draped it over a shoulder, ignoring the blood that smeared him in the process.

No one was stirring in the inn when he carried his inert load down the stairs, and the street without was too dark for any within to see him as he bore the body toward the centre of the town. He left it in an alleyway, then went to one of the public fountains and washed off as much of the sticky blood as he could manage. It disappeared readily from the oiled-leather covering of his brigantine. As for his clothes, he could always buy new.

He returned to the inn and found Brita industriously scrubbing at the floor like any housewife. It seemed that performing this chore had restored her usual serenity.

'I have already cleaned the gallery and the steps. I do not think I missed much.'

'No one in this town makes a great fuss about spilled blood,' Conan said. 'But until I know what this is all about, I do not want that particular corpse associated with me.'

Now he crossed to the corner of the room and picked up the cloth-wrapped package. It was astoundingly heavy for its size. He turned it over and over, examining the wrappings. Broad, bloody hand prints stained the cord bindings, as well as the cloth beneath them, so he knew that the wrappings had not been tampered with,

'But how could he know to bring it to me?' Conan mused aloud.

'What did you say, Conan?' Brita asked, wringing pinkish water into the bucket.

'Nothing. I must decide what to do with this.'

'What is it?' She stood and came closer, but he would not let her take the thing from him. The less she knew, the better.

'You need not concern yourself. But you have seen that it ii something men kill for. I must conceal it until I know where it should go.'

'Where will you hide it?'

'That is another thing you need not concern yourself about,' he said. Noting her downcast expression, he added, 'I do this only for your own good. This is an evil thing; the less you have to do with it, the safer you will be.'

'Oh, very well,' she said, pouting.

'I must be away. Soon it will be light. I will come back before long. Have you everything you need?'

'Yes. My wants are few. I wish that you were more in my company, though. Have I displeased you?'

'No, but who can keep up with you, the way you disappear for days on your mad quest? I have many things to do, and many enemies to avoid, and I cannot be lumbered with a woman.'

'Lumbered!' she said hotly. 'Is that what I am now, a mere impediment? Something that might get in the way of that sword arm of yours? Well, I can care for myself!'

'I've no time for this. Farewell until the next time, Brita.' He left, muttering imprecations against women and their too-easily hurt feelings.

In the high street, Conan paused. This was one mission that had to be kept absolutely secret. He found a street grate and lifted it. Returning to the inn's courtyard, he took a torch from a bundle by the stable door and returned to the street. He waited by the grate until he was certain that he was unobserved. Then he dropped into the Great Drain. Reaching overhead, he slid the grate back into place. At least the recent rains had washed the drainage system clean.

The air was dank, but it was not foul. He walked a few paces from the grate, then set the heavy package upon the damp stones. Sitting upon the bundle, he took flint and steel from his belt pouch and from his tinderbox he drew a bit of charred cloth.

Striking a light thus, working entirely by touch, was a tedious Business, but he had patience. After several minutes of striking, a spark took hold in the tinder, and its glow began to spread as the Cimmerian blew gently upon it. He pressed it into the oil-soaked tow that wrapped the end of the torch, blowing all the while. Soon he had a flame sufficient to illuminate his way through the Great Drain.

He emerged from the sewer into the theatre and ascended to the roof, whence he crossed to the roof of the temple, taking great care, for the thing he carried was weighty. He did not go to his chamber; rather, he descended the rear wall of the temple, his burden lashed to his back by his sword belt.

He entered the deserted kitchen and from it took the stair that led to the cellar. The cellar of the temple was cavernous, containing storage bins full of wood for the sacrificial and warming fires, unused furniture, offerings accumulated over the years, and much oilier debris. Here were also the furnaces, used for warming the water for ritual baths and for heating the entire temple by a system of pipes. A fire was kept burning at all times in one of the furnaces, and Conan first made sure that no acolyte was in attendance before he crossed the floor. He swung the furnace door wide, and by the light of the fire within, he unwrapped his parcel and tossed the bloodied bindings into the flames. Then he held up and admired the object of so much greed, intrigue, and bloodshed.

Despite the lurid red of the flames, the thing was blacker than the blackest night. It seemed to gleam brilliantly, yet at the same time it seemed to suck up all light and cast none back. Its body was that of a scorpion, so realistically portrayed that he would not have been surprised had it begun to crawl upon its six legs and snatch at him with its pincers. The tip of its stinger glistened as if with a special liquid blackness.

Its head was that of a woman, her beauty as serene as the insectile body was grotesque. Her eyes were open, black within black. They showed neither pupil nor iris, yet they gazed keenly, and he did not like to think what they might be seeing. Whatever its true origin, whether the image of Selkhet carved by the sculptor Ekba, as Casperus had said, or the nameless Atlantean idol carved from a diamond that fell from the heavens, as in Piris's tale, or something else entirely, he could not deny that the object had great magical force. Conan was sensitive to such things, and he hated them. The image's very weight was unnatural. It could not have weighed more had it been made of pure gold.

At least, he thought, he had a perfect place to hide the thing, right here in the temple. He carried his prize to the great chamber that lay beneath the nave. Near one end was a solid, rectangular structure of masonry that reached from the stone-flagged floor to the ceiling. It was a pedestal, and when this had been a Temple of Mitra, it had supported the colossal stone statue of the god that had stood in the temple above. Now it supported the trick statue of Mother Doorgah.

Once, many years before, Conan had performed a very special service for a renegade priest of Mitra. In gratitude, the man had revealed to the Cimmerian a secret of the ancient priesthood from which he had been expelled. In every Temple of Mitra, it was said, there was a place concealed within the pedestal of the god's statue where treasures, or even the priests themselves, could be hidden in moments of extreme danger. Then he had explained how one might enter such a crypt.

Conan went to the rear of the pedestal. Once more he looked around to be sure that he was unobserved. Counting carefully from the floor, he pressed certain stones; each moved a fraction of an inch. These stones were in appearance identical to all the others, and only one who knew the formula with which to find their positions, and who also knew the proper order in which they had to be pushed, could open the secret crypt. At Conan's final push, a section of the stones, almost man-high, swung smoothly, noiselessly, inward.

He stooped and went inside. Within, he groped at the wall to the right of the doorway until he found a niche in which were stacked a number of candles. He took one over to the furnace and lit it, then returned to the crypt. The chamber within was empty. Its walls were lined with niches, but nothing now stood in them save for the one reserved for candles. There were unobtrusive ventilation slots in the floor and ceiling. Otherwise, it was completely sealed except for the doorway.

A small stone pedestal rose from the centre of the floor to waist height. In the old days, a small statue of Mitra, identical but for size to the colossus above, would have stood on the stone post. Now the Cimmerian set the black woman-headed scorpion in its place. The thing gleamed balefully in the light of his candle. He blew out the candle, replaced it in its niche and re-entered the cellar. Then he reached back and touched a single stone near the opening. The stone portal swung shut. In an instant, it was undetectable. For the first time since finding the dead man in his chamber, Conan breathed easily. He would be supremely happy when he had this treasure off his hands.

He left the cellar, and as he passed through the kitchen, he did not forget to appropriate some viands for Rietta.

XIV

The Rogue's Conference

He had come to an agreement with Lisip, and Bombas wanted him for a bodyguard at the peace conference, should that ever take place. Maxio was neutral for the moment, as was Ermak. That left only Ingas and his gang as immediate enemies. Conan decided that he might as well go out in daylight.

The blustery, rainy weather of past days had given way to bright skies and warm sunshine. The Square was thronged, for most of the townspeople had not ventured out in the rain and now needed to replenish their larders, as well as to trade the latest gossip. Conan found the Square abuzz with talk of a number of killings that had taken place the night before. He asked a stall-keeper for details.

'Sometime after midnight, Maxio and his men staged a raid on Ermak's headquarters and killed three of Ermak's men. They missed Ermak, though.'

'Maxio?' Conan said. 'But his men are burglars, not warriors.'

'They went in fast, when everyone there was asleep. Burglars

are good at that sort of thing. Killed a few and ran. Sometime later, a pack of Ingas's men caught five of Lisip's in an alley in the Pit and cut them down. Then there was a caravaneer found dead this morning not far from here, but nobody knows if that was a part of the gang-fighting.'

The Cimmerian wended his way to the inn and took his horse from the stable. He rode out through the city gate to give the beast some exercise and make sure that it was sound of wind and limb. He planned to be using it in the next day or two. Before riding back into the city, he stopped by the pasture where the recently arrived caravan had picketed its beasts and unloaded its goods for the local merchants to bid on. He noticed several caravaneers sitting around a camp fire and dismounted.

'Is this the caravan of Mulvix?' he asked.

'Aye,' said one, looking up at the big foreigner. 'But Mulvix is dead. We buried him this morning.'

'How came he by his death?' Conan inquired.

The man shrugged. He wore a dirty cloth knotted around his head and he scratched in his beard. 'Mulvix was a man who carried many a dangerous cargo. I think that this time his luck deserted him. He took his latest treasure into the town last night, but he did not come back. Most likely somebody decided to kill him and take the thing instead of paying.'

'What was it he carried?' Conan asked.

The man shook his head. 'Mulvix was never one to let on about his little secret burdens. And we all knew better than to ask.''

'We are sorry to lose Mulvix; he was a good man,' said another. 'But we arc happy to have that thing gone from our midst. I think it was no honest smuggler's load.'

'How so?' Conan asked.

'Ever since we left Belverus,' he said, 'we've had bad luck. Accidents. Animals lost. And every one of us has had trouble sleeping, and we were plagued by bad dreams.'

'That is true,' said the man with the rag around his head. 'And the beasts have been all but uncontrollable; biting, kicking,

running away, and fighting their loads every morning as we packed up. And since last night, look at them!' He pointed to where about fourscore mules placidly munched grass. 'Like little lambs, just as they were before we stopped at Belverus.'

Mulvix trifled with something he never should have touched,' said a grey-bearded muleteer.

'He said nothing about who was to receive this thing?' the Cimmerian asked.

'Not a word,' said the first speaker. 'Mulvix never spoke of such things.' He looked Conan over suspiciously. 'Why do you ask?'

'I am working for the Reeve,' Conan said, half-truthfully.

'When did that fat rogue ever care for aught save his pay-off?' asked the grey-bearded one. 'We've always paid him the king's share plus his own payment, to keep him happy. What does he want now? Is there a tax to be paid for dying in his cursed town?'

'If so,' said the one with the head cloth, 'he can try to get it from Mulvix, or from whoever slew him. Not a coin more will he get from us. We may never come this way again. This town lies under a curse worse than the one on whatever it was that Mulvix bore hither.'

Conan smiled. 'Come back next time your path brings you close,' he advised. 'I think you will find a different, and much quieter, town.'

'Eh?' said the greybeard, but the Cimmerian had already remounted and was riding back toward the city gate. As he rode, he fell in with a group of forty or more men with the same destination. All were hard-looking specimens. The faces of some were deeply stamped with villainy. Others wore battle armour and were clearly mercenaries. Conan reined in beside a man who wore city clothes but whose sword and dagger looked well used.

'How is it that such a company rides into Sicas?' Conan asked.

'Word came to Shamar that Sicas is a lively place, and that any man with a sword to hire out can find good employment there. All the prominent leaders are hiring, and the pay is high.'

Conan turned to a little group of mercenaries. 'Do you come to join Ermak?'

'Aye,' said one. 'We were here until last year, when things grew too quiet to support so many good fighting men. We rode out for the wars in Ophir, but now Ermak sends word that we are needed once more.'

'How are things in Ophir?' asked Conan with professional interest.

'Bad,' said a man who wore a high-spired Zingaran helm. 'The war has gone on too long. There is plenty of fighting, but nothing left to plunder.'

Conan decided that when he -left Sicas, he would not ride to Ophir. While the newcomers were paying their gate duties, he rode on into the city. It seemed that the night's excitement had extended into the day, for there was a street fight in progress before the inn. Two bands of men were having it out with steel, battling in earnest. At the courtyard entrance, the inn's male workers blocked the way with sword and stave.

He saw Brita striving to press herself into a wall as the men fought just a few steps from her, their flailing weapons passing within inches of her. Conan cursed and spurred his horse forward. Could the woman not stay clear of trouble? He snatched a club from one of the stablemen and hefted its three-foot, knotty-headed length, waving it as easily as another man might handle a willow wand. He rode among the brawlers, flailing like a madman. The club rang on steel cap or cracked into bare pate indifferently. The result was always the same: a man stretched senseless on the cobblestones. Soon the standing men backed away, bewildered by this unexpected fury.

'Take your fight elsewhere!' the Cimmerian shouted. 'This inn is under the protection of Conan of Cimmeria. Are there any of you who wish to challenge me?' He dropped the cudgel and drew his sword. 'Speak up, dogs! I've not slain a man all day and my blade is athirst!' There were a few mutters, then the hiss of weapons being re-sheathed. Men stooped to lift their wounded

comrades, and the whole crowd, so fierce minutes before, turned and made its way down the high street.

'Why, sir,' said the innkeeper, 'I thank you for this.'

Conan dismounted. 'Well, let the scum curse me for a spoilsport, but a man must have one place in this town where he can find some quiet.' He went to Brita. 'Are you well, girl?'

'I am unhurt,' she said, brushing at some flecks of blood that decorated her mantle. 'None of this blood is mine; it flew from their weapons. I might have been killed, though, had it not been for you. I never saw a single man put an end to a fight like that!' Her eyes shone with admiration. 'Once again, I must thank you for rescuing me.'

'That is because I was the only man in the fight.' He turned to the innkeeper. 'Who were those dogs? I have not seen them ere today.'

'Two of the smaller gangs,' the man told him. 'One group has thrown in with Lisip. The others were old rivals, and now the first pack feels strong enough to attack them.'

'Well, things are about to get worse,' Conan said. He nodded toward the upper end of the street, where the newcomers were riding toward them.

'Mitra, be our aid!' the innkeeper moaned. 'More of them!' He summoned a slave. 'Go to the Square. Purchase extra fire buckets. Until I say otherwise, the men will sleep in shifts, with some on watch at all times for fire and riot.'

They passed into the courtyard and Conan handed his mount over to a hostler. He turned to enter the common room. 'Come, Brita, you can tell me of your...'but she drew back from the door.

'We will speak later,' she said. 'I have learned of a place where my sister may be hiding. I must go there now. I will rejoin you before long. Farewell, and thank you again for my rescue.'

He was about to call out to her when he was accosted by a man who stood just inside the common room. Within the dimness he could make out the figure of a young man wearing a brigantine belted with a matched pair of swords.

'I would have some words with you, Cimmerian,' Gilmay

'Make them brief,' Conan said. 'I've much to do.'

'Aye, you have been doing much these past days, but little of it seems to be the service for which my master engaged you.'

'I've not eaten today and am famished nigh unto death,' Conan said. 'If we must talk, then let's eat while we're at it. liven the sight of your face cannot spoil my appetite.' He saw the youth's countenance darken.

'You'll not provoke me into fighting,' Gilmay said. 'I know better than that.'

'Then you've more brains than ere now I credited to you,' Conan answered, taking a seat. 'Now, what is your business?'

Gilmay sat across from him. 'After so many days, you have not yet tendered a single report.'

'I've nothing to report yet,' said Conan.

'But my master knows the thing is now in the city! Through his arts, he can detect its presence.'

'Then will his scrying glass not tell him where it lies?' the Cimmerian inquired.

'If it could do that, would there be any need to hire a barbarian lout to find it?' Gilmay asked hotly. 'The thing's sorcerous nature makes it immune to such spying.'

'That is unfortunate,' Conan said, reaching for a platter of meat pasties. 'Casperus will just have to wait until I have something to report to him.'

'He grows impatient,' Gilmay said. 'You have been swaggering all over this town, getting into fights, making a nuisance of yourself, and doing us no good at all. Sometimes you stay here at this inn, other times you disappear. Where are you hiding out, Cimmerian?'

'If I told you that, I wouldn't be hiding, would I?' Conan took a pull at his ale, eyeing the youth warily through the glass bottom of the pewter tankard. He could see that he had pushed Gilmay as far as was advisable and that it was time to relent, just a little. He set the tankard on the table.

'Listen, Gilmay. There is soon to be a peace conference, and the King's Reeve has asked me to attend him there as bodyguard, Nobody, not even I, can make a decent search of this town until things quiet down. Everyone is too nervous and wary. Tell your master that I have made arrangements with the priest of Bes, who is the town's main fence, and I have ingratiated myself at the Temple of Mother Doorgah, whose priest fancies himself a sorcerer. If either of them lays hands upon the idol, I will know of it.'

'That is better,' said Gilmay, somewhat mollified.

'Now it is your turn to speak,' said Conan.

'What would you know?' Gilmay asked.

'What know you of a beautiful, murderous, black-haired wench who may call herself Altaira?' He watched the youth closely.

'I know nothing of such a woman!' Gilmay said, too quickly and far too emphatically.

'Yes you do,' Conan said. 'You will need many more years and much more experience before you can lie to me with success, lad. Now tell me what you know of a strange little man who dresses like a Shadizar harlot and favours lilac scent.' To his surprise, Gilmay's face flushed scarlet and he sprang from his bench.

'Just concentrate on finding the thing you were hired to find the barbarian!'

'Tell your master that he has little chance of seeing the idol he wants so badly until I know more of these two. Tell him also that a smuggler named Mulvix was found dead this morning, knifed by someone who relieved him of a small parcel. Now run along and inform Casperus. Tell him also that I want no interference, ' and no games.'

Gilmay whirled and stalked away. Conan was satisfied that he had given the bubbling pot another stir. He reapplied himself to his meal, but it seemed that he was not to be allowed even this to enjoy in peace. Another man came to stand before his table ' and he looked up to see the hulking shape of Julus, the Reeve's henchman. The brutish thug came without waiting for an invitation.

'The Reeve would speak with you,' said Julus.

'About what?' Conan asked.

'That is not for me to say,' Julus maintained.

'You are his dog and you know everything he does,' Conan said. 'Is it about the peace conference?'

Julus studied him with small, shrewd eyes. 'Aye. It is set for tonight. Why he wants you there is beyond me. I am all the protection he needs.'

Conan grinned at him with a predatory baring of teeth. 'Perhaps he does not trust you. I do not trust you myself. Tell me, Julus; the other night at the royal storehouse, was it Bombas who made the Zingaran shoot me with his crossbow, or was it you?'

The man's expression betrayed nothing. 'We thought you dead already. If the Zingaran aimed at you, he must not have known at whom he aimed. It was dark.'

'Aye, the light was poor until the place was set afire. Whose doing was that?'

'A clumsy guardsman,' Julus said, his face as bland as ever.

'That is what the Reeve told me,' Conan said. 'I wondered whether you would have a different story.'

'Why should I?'

The Cimmerian could see that he would get nothing this way. 'Why the sudden decision to hold the conference tonight? Does this latest round of killings alarm even the headmen of this town?'

'That is a part of it,' Julus admitted. 'But there is another matter. There are scurrilous, lying tales making the rounds. They are in the mouths of every minstrel and storyteller in the district. Those vagabonds are saying that the Reeve has been stealing from the king and that he himself set the fire at the royal warehouse.' The man's deep-set eyes were steely. 'Now where would they get ideas like that?'

'Ask them,' Conan said. 'Anyway, as you say, they must be lying.'

'More men have been hung because of lies than were ever condemned for a truthful accusation,' Julus pointed out.

'That is so,' Conan allowed. 'Perhaps it is time for you lo seek a new employer.''

Julus rose. 'Be at the headquarters at nightfall, Cimmerian.' He turned and left.

Conan released his grip on his dirk. He had thought that Emruk was the only truly dangerous man in the town. He had been wrong. He had allowed himself to be deceived by Julus's apish look and loutish manner to think the man was stupid. He had known many men to die for such misjudgements. The man was shrewd and dangerous, and like nearly everyone in this town, he was playing a game of his own.

When his meal was finished, Conan went to the Square and idled about until he saw Delia making her usual rounds. She smiled at his approach, but it seemed to him that the usually ebullient woman was wan and nervous.

'Conan! Where have you been?' she demanded.

'I have been active, but mostly in the hours of darkness,' he said. The two wandered into a dark corner of the portico to speak.

'Delia,' Conan went on, 'there is to be a peace conference tonight. I will be there, acting as the Reeve's bodyguard. He no longer trusts Julus. Will Maxio be there?'

'I do not know! He acts so strange lately. One minute he says that there must be peace, that things have gone too far, and the next he swears that he will kill Ermak on sight, or that he will slay Bombas. Twice today he has said that he will go to the conference to reason with the others, and twice he has said that he will not. I do not know what to tell you.'

'Tell him this for me: I will be there tonight, but I have undertaken to guard Bombas for only this conference. As long as Maxio does not threaten the Reeve, I care not what else he does. I do not as yet take sides in any of the goings-on here in Sicas.'

'Perhaps you do not take sides,' she said, her voice gone hard, 'but you are involved in them up to those blue eyes of I yours. I think there would not be half so much chaos here were it not for you.'

'What is the matter, Delia?' he asked cheerfully. 'Do you not like excitement?'

'If you were with me, I think I could enjoy all this,' she said forthrightly. 'As it is, I am frightened.'

''Just be careful and you will come to no harm,' he said. And relay to Maxio what I have told you.'

'I will,' she said. 'Now go. I am beginning to think that it is not a good thing to be seen in company with you. Leave me and I will go on in a little while.'

He bade her farewell and left the niche. He had one errand yet in perform. He wandered among the vendors in the Square until lie found what he was looking for. In a corner of the market, among the poorest and pettiest of the hawkers, an old woman sat on the pavement, her aged back against a stone wall. Before her was spread a blanket bearing clay pots and bowls for sale. It was the woman from the mining village, the one who had seen him slay Ingas's three men. Casually he walked over to her, then squatted and pretended to examine her pitiful wares.

'Greeting, Grandmother,' he said in a low voice.

'Greeting, Cimmerian.' Her sharp old eyes darted about to search out observers.

'I have a message for Bellas. Will you deliver it, exactly as I

give it to you?'

'Tell me!' Now her eyes glittered with hope.

'Tell him this: In the hours before dawn tomorrow, all the able-bodied men of the mining village must arm themselves and travel southward, down the riverbank, until they are well out of sight of the town. I know where the women and children are being held, and if Bellas will follow my instructions exactly, you will have your families back before sundown tomorrow.'

'I will tell him!' she said, her eyes shining with tears. She repeated his instructions word for word.

'Very good,' Conan said. 'Now, someplace within a half-day's march downriver, all must cross to the east bank of the river. Is there a bridge or a ford, or a ferry?'

'Aye, there is a small bridge, about five miles to the south.

There is no true road; the bridge is used only by herders to mow cattle from one pasture to another.'

'Perfect!' Conan said. 'Stone or wood?'

'Wood atop old stone pilings. It falls into poor condition if nobody uses it for a few seasons.'

'Then tell Bellas to bring along tools in case we need to repair the bridge.'

'I will do it,' she said. 'Go with the blessings of all the gods, Cimmerian.'

'Do not bless me until I return with your menfolk and the wives and bairns tomorrow night,' Conan cautioned. 'You could have cause to curse my name.'

'A man who even tries to aid us earns my prayers,' the old woman maintained stoutly.

Conan made his way back to the temple. He was glad that he knew the bridge might be in a ruinous state. He had known sizeable military operations to founder because no one had thought to bring a spade, or a rope, or any of a thousand mundane items that could prove to be crucially necessary. There was more to war than men, horses and arms.

Oppia saw him as he entered the temple. She -was upset, and for once it was not because of his lengthy absences from the place.

'Come,' she said. 'Look at this!' She took him by the hand and tugged him toward the nave. Inside were the acolytes, as well as some of the newcomers who had been there the night Andolla had performed his statue trick. The hall shook with loud chanting and the orchestra played as before, but now something was different. A dense, crimson glow hovered shapelessly above the head of Mother Doorgah. Andolla chanted with arms outspread. He sat cross-legged, but this time, instead of sitting directly upon the lap of the goddess, he hovered two or three feet above it.

'How is he doing it?' Conan asked. 'Wires?'

'No, you fool' she hissed. 'The glow began to form during the morning offices. This afternoon my husband attempted the spell of levitation, and this time it worked. His magical powers have increased tenfold!'

'Perhaps Mother Doorgah smiles upon him,' Conan said. Oppia favoured him with a withering glare.

'This is probably harmless,' she said, 'but I fear that his success may tempt him to try some truly dangerous work of wizardry.'

'Would that not attract even more worshippers, with yet more generous donations?'

'The risk is too great. I fear that my husband does not truly understand the powers he toys with. Something terrible could come of this.'

'That would be a great pity,' Conan said. 'Oppia, I must be away for part of this night.'

'It is good of you to tell me, for once,' she said in a voice that might have drawn blood.

'This is important business,' he went on imperturbably. 'There is to be a peace conference tonight, with most of the town's gang leaders in attendance. Bombas will be there as well, and he has asked me to go with him as his bodyguard. He no longer trusts his own men.'

'What makes him think he can trust you?' she demanded.

'We Cimmerians are known to be true to our word,' he said.

'All sorts of men have that reputation,' she said bitterly, 'but I have never encountered one of them.'

'Even so, the happenings at the meeting might be of interest to you,' he pointed out.

She thought about it for a while. 'Yes, you are right. It would be good to know whether there is to be peace here, and if not, how the battle lines are to be drawn. Go then, and report to me when you return.'

'You may be asleep when I get back,' he pointed out.

'I rarely get any rest now,' she said. She stared at the bizarre spectacle in the temple. 'And it looks as if I will be getting even less.'

Conan went to the upper floor and looked in upon Rietta. She was in deep and, for once, peaceful sleep. She was no longer a pale and listless as she had been, and she was putting on a bit of flesh. Soon, he judged, she would be strong enough for him to carry her away from his place without her dying from the shock.

When he arrived at the Reeve's headquarters, Julus and the remaining Zingaran eyed him without favour. Conan returned the look. Both men were heavily armed. None of the knock-kneed and feeble guards seemed to be present. Soon Bombas came from within his chambers, muffled in a heavy cloak.

'Do we go to the Wyvern?' Conan asked.

'No,' the Reeve said. 'Ingas will regard that place only as Lisip's territory. All finally agreed to the Guildhall of the Goldsmiths. It is but two streets south of the Square. It is a small place, only two stories, with no other buildings adjoining and grounds all the way around. We will meet on the upper floor. Each of us is to be accompanied by no more than three followers. Only one may accompany each leader upstairs. The others may stay downstairs or, if we wish it, on the grounds outside.'

'I've seen peace conferences between warring nations carried out with less caution,' Conan said.

'The stakes here are the same,' Bombas rejoined. 'Death one who walks into a trap unprepared.'

They left the headquarters and crossed the Square. The public area contained its usual evening population, but nobody spared a glance for the four hooded, arms-clinking men who walked southward. They entered the maze of side streets and in a few minutes stood before the goldsmiths' guildhall. This had once been a town-house and was surrounded by handsome gardens, where now armed men paced. Julus spoke to the Zingaran, and that one joined the milling men in the gardens.

'He will warn us if anybody of men tries to steal close, Excellency,' said Julus.

'Come along,' said Bombas, and the three men entered the hall.

The ground floor was well appointed, intended for the entertainments held periodically by the wealthy guild. Just now a number of men sat in the lavishly upholstered and carven furniture, their feet propped upon the fine dining table. Some had laid aside their rivalries and were dicing.

'Wait you here,' Bombas said to Julus. Then, to Conan, 'Attend me, Cimmerian.' Conan followed the Reeve up a broad, curving stair to the upper floor. They entered a long room, where the guild conducted business. It was as well appointed and highly decorated as the room below, but its only furnishing was a single long table, lined with massive chairs. Here sat the men they were to meet with.

'It is about time you got here,' said Ingas, his gold-embroidered, red-leather costume glowing richly in the light of many candles.

'I am the King's Reeve, and I hurry for no man who is not my better in rank. I see none such present.'

'What is that rogue doing here?' Ingas demanded, pointing at Conan.

'He attends me,' Bombas said. 'Each of us was to bring one guard, and he is mine. Has anyone an objection to that?' He stared haughtily down the table.

'I have no problem,' said Lisip.

Ermak shrugged armoured shoulders. 'You may come attended by a dancing bear for all I care.'

These three Conan recognized. There were others, leaders of minor gangs, but they kept silence in the presence of their betters. The Cimmerian made a circuit of the room, looking out of each window.

'Where is Maxio?' he asked when he had completed his survey.

'He has not arrived yet,' said Lisip. 'I doubt that he will show himself. Something has him acting like a madman lately.'

'Let's kill him and be done with it!' said Ermak, pounding a gauntleted fist upon the table. 'His little band are just burglars; they contribute nothing to our wealth.' He turned to Bombas, and his neatly trimmed beard was split by a narrow smile. 'Save

the percentage of their takings that they share with his Excellency.'

'We do not come here to speak of killing, but of an end lo killing,' Bombas said. He spread his hands in an appeal to calm and reason. 'At the very least, let us keep the slaying down to n sensible level, as we did in the old days. The blood-letting confined to the Pit, perhaps a throat-cutting or two, and the bodies in the river before daylight... who will take notice of such small matters? Certainly not I or my fellow royal officials. But pitched battles in broad daylight in the Square and in the high street? These things cannot but draw attention.'

'What will draw the king's attention,' said a loud voice from the doorway, 'is your plundering!'

'I wondered when you would show up, Maxio,' said Ingas. 'Now you and Ermak can have it out right here on the table.'

'I'd be as happy to cut that one's fat throat,' said Maxio, pointing at Bombas.

'Any who threatens the Reeve is a dead man,' said Conan. 'He is my charge for the evening. How you and Ermak want to settle things is up to you.'

Bombas looked at the Cimmerian with annoyance. 'Do not provoke them.' He turned back to face down the table. 'Now, how shall we settle this? First, I urge an immediate cessation of all hostilities. These raids and ambushes are worse than disruptive, they are unprofitable! Who gains from such tactics?'

'You,' said Maxio. He took a chair and propped his feet insolently upon the table. A gaunt, hollow-eyed dagger-man took up station behind Maxio's chair. 'Every battle weakens us and stuffs money in your purse. As you grow more frightened, your greed increases. Once we paid you ten percent of our takings to stay out of your dungeon. Then it became fifteen. Now, so terrified are you that you want twenty-five! I can see the tallow oozing out of your pores at the prospect that the king will take notice of you. How long before you want the whole of it?''

'Is that all?' Bombas asked. 'Very well. For the sake of restoring peace to my city, I am willing to accept ten percent once again. Now I ask you: Could I be more fair than that?'

'Just as I thought!' It was another voice from the doorway. All turned to see Xanthus standing there. 'You scoundrels now conspire to divide up my city in secrecy!'

'Your city!' shouted Bombas, his face crimsoning. ' am King's Reeve here, not you. You are a mere low-bred merchant, no better than a slave trader! What business have you here, mine factor?'

'You suffer from the delusion that you are a nobleman, you base-born heap of lard,' said Xanthus with withering contempt. 'You earned your rank through treachery, flattery, and your unfailing obsequiousness to your superiors. Do not strike haughty poses with me, Bombas. You are merely the richest thief in Sicas'

This, Conan thought, was even better than the bickering of the gang chiefs. Then Ermak spoke.

'Nay, that would be you, Xanthus. I keep the miners sweet for you, else you'd not have a head on your shoulders. You squeeze their blood and steal the king's silver. A gilded thief is still a thief.'

'We are all thieves here.' The monotone voice of Lisip cut through the banter. 'Let us get back to our business in this place. I did not come here tonight because I relish the company of this lot.'

'Aye,' said Ermak, 'let us settle things and be done with it.'

'Will you all,' Bombas said, 'agree to the immediate cessation of hostilities?''

After a few moments of sullen pondering, answers of 'aye' began to make the rounds of the table. Maxio kept his silence.

'You do not speak, Maxio?' Ermak prompted, his sardonic smile in place.

Pointing at Ermak's armoured breast, Maxio spoke not to him, but to the others. 'I will not trust this rogue's word. A murdering plunderer who pretends to be a soldier is not to be believed.'

'Now, Maxio,' said Bombas, veins standing forth on his brow

with the effort of speaking calmly. 'Why must you persist in this hostility toward Ermak?'

'Probably,' said Conan, 'because Ermak has called in reinforcements from Ophir. They rode into town yesterday.'

'Cimmerian!' hissed the Reeve. 'Will you not be still?'

'And who knows who comes into town better than you, Bombas?' jeered the aged Xanthus. 'It is your dogs who guard the city gates, although there is not a diseased cur in the town that is not better off than your guardsmen!'

'That settles it for me!' shouted Maxio. 'If Ermak is bringing more of his mercenaries into town, he does not mean peace!'

'Try to use such addled wits as you have left, Maxio,' said Lisip. 'Ermak must have sent for those men many days ago, long ere the peace talks were even proposed.'

Maxio whirled on the old gang leader. 'You are in league with him! I see it now! The two of you would squeeze the rest of us out and have the city all to yourselves!'

A shouting match erupted, and as it roared on, Xanthus sidled over to the Cimmerian and whispered urgently. 'Slay Bombas for me, barbarian! Do it tonight and you will have the rest of your pay. You need do no other service for me.'

'If the murder of a royal official were easy or safe,' Conan said, 'you would have done it yourself years ago. Besides, are you not afraid that when he dies, your own guilty deeds will become known?' With a snakelike hiss, Xanthus turned away.

'I am leaving!' Maxio shouted. 'Let none seek to follow me. I will observe the peace for the rest of this night, but after that, look to yourselves!' Followed by his gaunt companion, the burglar chief stalked from the room.

'I believe things would be much quieter,' Lisip said, 'if Maxio were out of the way.'

'I have no objection,' Ingas said boredly.

'You all know how I stand on the matter,' said Ermak.

'Very well,' Bombas said. 'Any of you may slay Maxio, no questions asked. He is a mad dog. He slew my brother, and I think I showed great forbearance in speaking to him so courteously this night.'

The talks continued for another hour, and all agreed to the cessation of hostilities, but Conan was confident that their words meant nothing. These were not the sort of men who could ever abide by such conditions. They were predators and scavengers, always eager to attack one they thought to be weaker. He saw Xanthus draw Ingas aside privily and speak with him. Then the man did the same with Ermak. The Cimmerian guessed that he was offering support to each man against the other.

'Are we agreed, then?' Bombas asked, rising. 'I think we shall have a quieter town now. Once Maxio is out of the way, there will be no need for further conflict, and you may all renegotiate your agreements with me. Now that you will not be needing your surplus men, it will be a good idea to dismiss them. I will not even charge them an exit duty at the city gates.'

'You are a greedy fool, Bombas,' said Xanthus. 'Your grasping blindness will be the ruin of us.' He stalked out, his face looking as if he had eaten something exceedingly sour.

'I do not think that Xanthus means you well,' remarked Conan to Bombas as he followed the Reeve from the upstairs room.

'Pay him no heed,' said the Reeve. 'He does not dare move against me, with so much of the king's lawful silver in his coffers.'

Julus and the Zingaran rejoined them in the gardens, and the four men made their way back to the Reeve's headquarters.

'Farewell, Cimmerian,' the Reeve said. 'You gave me good and honest service this night. I may wish to call upon you again.'

'Next time,' Conan said, 'I will want gold in payment.'

'I know that it is gold that buys men's loyalty,' said the Reeve with a sigh. 'And little enough loyalty does it buy at that. Go, Cimmerian.'

Conan left the Reeve's headquarters, the apelike Julus glaring at him all the while. He was not halfway back to the temple when a touch of lilac on the evening breeze told him that he had company. Piris rose from his seat on the lip of a fountain.

'Why did you leave me in there so long?' Piris asked.

'I have a better question,' said Conan. 'Why did I not leave you there for the rest of your life?''

'Because you took service with me,' Piris said, 'and you Cimmerians are known to be men of your word.'

'I recall no vow to keep you out of prison,' Conan said. 'I undertook only to find your scorpion goddess.'

'Have you found her?' Piris demanded eagerly.

'Aye,' Conan said.

'Where is she?' Piris's voice broke into a frustrated squeal.

'Better you should ask yourself where you are going to find the remaining eight hundred dishas you agreed to pay me for finding it for you.'

'But, but...' Piris sputtered. 'If I but had the image in my hands, I could pay you.'

'Pay me, and then you get your scorpion,' Conan said firmly. 'If you do not want it, there are others who would like very much to have the thing.'

Piris's eyes bugged. 'What? What are you saying? Who wants my scorpion?'

'I will tell you nothing more until you come up with the balance of the pay we agreed upon back in Belverus.' He swept an arm, taking in the city around them. 'In a place of such opportunity, a man of your skill should have no trouble finding the money. Good evening to you, Piris.'

Conan turned and left the little man sputtering behind him. He did not want Piris to see him enter the temple, so he walked past it and turned down the alley between the temple and the theatre. When he reached the wall around the temple's rear courtyard, he vaulted to the top and stretched his length upon it. Moments later, Piris came down the alley, looking this way and that, but never upward. When he was gone, the Cimmerian dropped to the courtyard and walked toward the kitchen door.

Abruptly that door burst open and a man came stumbling out, his eyes staring in terror, his mouth drawn back in a wordless scream. It was one of the male acolytes, a burly youth who sometimes stood guard at the door. Conan grasped the front of the young man's robe before he could dash past.

'What is it?' Conan demanded.

'Demons!' the youth shouted. 'Things with wings and claws. They came for me! Let me go!' For all his size, his struggles availed him nothing in the Cimmerian's iron grip. Conan could smell smoke on the robes he held. This was not the milk of Mother Doorgah.

'Just breathe deep, boy,' Conan commanded. 'It passes quickly.' He slapped the panicked face lightly to get the youth's attention and repeated his instruction. Within seconds, the terrified expression began to fade and the young man looked to be halfway lucid.

'Now tell me, lad,' Conan growled, his face an inch from the other's and looking twice as deadly as any demon's, 'what was it? Was it by any chance a little accident with a bellows?' He snapped out the last word and shook the acolyte hard enough to make his bones rattle.

'Yes!' the youth all but shouted. 'Holy Andolla brought the censer from his thaumaturgical study and connected it to the bellows. I placed the bellows to the wall pipe and began to work it. I do this every three or four evenings. But this time something went wrong. Smoke gushed back from the wall pipe. Then, then...' The eyes widened once more at the horror of the memory.

Conan pointed at the rear gate. 'Go! If you ever come back here, the demons will surely take you!' With a strangled cry, the youth dashed for the gate and snatched it open. He did not pause to close it in leaving.

'What is happening out here?' Oppia stood in the back door, a harried expression on her face and her hair in a wild snarl.

Conan scratched his head, gazing at the rear gate. 'I was just coming in when one of your acolytes ran past me, screaming as if all the demons of hell were on his trail.'

'Doubtless he thought they were,' she said. Then, sharply: 'And what were you doing, coming in the back way?'

'I left Bombas but a few minutes ago,' he answered. 'I did not want him to see me coming into the temple.'

'Oh,' she said. 'Yes, that is the wisest thing.' Distracted, she turned to re-enter the door.

'Do you not want to hear what happened at the peace conference?' Conan asked.

'Later,' she said. 'Tomorrow, perhaps. There has been an accident here, and I must set things aright.'

'Andolla has summoned mischievous spirits,' Conan said solemnly. 'They will make a shambles of all your undertakings if he cannot control them.'

'Aye, I believe that to be true,' she said, weariness in her voice. 'Go to your chamber, Cimmerian. I will call if I need you.'

Grinning, Conan climbed the stairs to his lodging.

XV

The Border Fort

At morning's first light, Conan awaited the opening of the river gate. The guard who opened the gate was not the same one who had been there when first the Cimmerian had ridden forth to bury his treasure and visit the mining village. This guard, a near-sighted fellow with a scraggly beard, brought out an official tablet.

'Name?' he said. He looked up, and his bleary eyes sharpened at sight of the golden coin that glittered between the fingers of the big barbarian.

'Are you fond of gold?' Conan asked.

'What man is not?' replied the guard.

'This is yours if you will make no note of my passing.'

The guard snatched the coin from him. 'I see no man. If you ride forth quickly, no one else will, either.' He pushed the gate open and Conan rode through. He crossed the bridge and turned south on the narrow dirt track that paralleled the river. He was out of sight of the city walls before the light had grown bright enough for him to be observed.

The morning was peaceful, and the song of birds accompanied him as he rode. The low ground near the river was forested, which suited his plans perfectly. A large number of men could travel this path without being seen.

He found the miners in a clearing by the path. There were about a hundred of them, strong and determined-looking. All were armed in one fashion or another. Iron-headed maces and spiked wooden bludgeons predominated. Powerful men, accustomed to the pick and sledgehammer, would be able to use such weapons with efficiency. A few had crude shields. Against Ermak's professionals, their lack of armour and discipline would be a terrible handicap, but Lisip's thugs would present no such difficulty.

Bellas came forward. 'Lead us to them, Cimmerian,' he said. The iron head of his mace bore a circle of pyramidal lugs; the weapon's handle was four feet long.

'South of here, on the other side of the river, there is an old border fort,' Conan told them. 'Do any of you know it?' No one had been there. He had expected as much. Most peasants and workmen like these had never travelled five miles from the place of their birth.

'Then I will have to scout it out when we get there,' Conan said. 'Come, let us not waste time.'

The men rose to their feet and followed him. They did not look the least afraid, but they were silent and grim. Even among the younger men there was none of the banter he usually saw in soldiers about to go into battle. These were men whose lives were hard, brutal, and lacking in any cause for optimism. They would not celebrate until the fight was over and they had their women and children safely back at home.

An hour's march brought them to the bridge. Conan dismounted and walked across it, examining every inch along the way. The abutments on the banks and the pilings that rose from the bed of the river were ancient, but they were solidly made of well-cut and dressed stone. At one time, he deduced, this must have carried an important road. The bed was crudely made of

limber; the road itself was of rough-hewn planks, now rotted in places.

'Cut wood and repair these bad spots,' the Cimmerian ordered.

'It's no trouble to cross if you're careful where you step,' protested Bellas, who was plainly impatient to get to the fort.

'When we come back this way,' Conan pointed out, 'we may he running, it may be dark, and we may be carrying wounded men or your women and children.'

'Hadn't thought of that,' Bellas admitted. He led a work party into the woods, bearing axes, saws, and adzes. Soon the sounds of woodcutting echoed through the morning air and men returned hearing sap-sticky lengths of wood. These men were used to fashioning mine timbers, and they shaped the wood to fit the bridge gaps swiftly. Ere long the bridge was sound and the men crossed lo the eastern bank. Here another small dirt road paralleled the course of the river.

'I will ride on and find the fort,' Conan said to Bellas. 'March in haste, but do not run, and keep close watch. If anyone comes riding southward, do not let him pass you and thus bear word of your approach to the fort.'

'We will be sure of it,' Bellas said.

The Cimmerian rode onward. Before he had gone far, another road angled in from the north-east to join the one he travelled. This road bore signs of frequent traffic, and Conan surmised that the men in the fort took it when going back and forth to Sicas.

He dismounted when he smelled smoke. Tying his mount in a copse of trees, he took to the bush, staying away from the road as he approached the source of the smoke. Within minutes he lay belly-down on a ridge overlooking the fort, which lay on low ground in a bend of the river and occupied no strategic advantage that Conan could discern. He decided that it had been a garrison post for troops ranging the old border and was abandoned as soon as the border shifted to the south-east.

It was a small place, laid out in a rough rectangle. Its lower walls were sound, but the upper battlements were in ruin. This made no difference in its current employment, which was a I pen for human livestock. Two stone towers flanked the gate, and smoke rose from one of the towers. More smoke came from the built within the yard surrounded by the walls. A few ramshackle sheds were built against the inner periphery. He guessed that Lisip's men were quartered in the towers, while the prisoners sheltered in the sheds.

With his practised soldier's eye, he measured the defences and turned over in his mind various means of storming the place. Its walls had lost a good six or seven feet from their original height. The miners had tools, and there was abundant wood nearby tor making scaling ladders. Had he been leading well-trained and drilled soldiers, he would have gone for a simple assault with scaling ladders, attacking two or three of the low walls simultaneously. But that was a tricky job even for professional soldiers.

The gate lay between the two towers, each of which rose perhaps ten feet higher than the flanking walls. New conical roofs had been erected over these towers, which had once themselves been topped with battlements. There were arrow slits in the towers, but the Cimmerian doubted that any of Lisip's men were armed with crossbows. This place had been renovated as a prison for keeping hostages in, not as a castle for repelling assault from without.

The gate itself was made of massive timbers. They fit the opening none too well, and to Conan's initial amazement, they appeared to be barred on the outside. He realized that it made sense when he recollected that this was nothing but a glorified cattle pen. He decided that entry would have to be made through the gate.

People moved about listlessly in the surrounded courtyard, but he could tell little about them save that all seemed to be women and children. A few men paced along the walls. These were likewise obscured by distance, but he saw no glint of armour on them, just the occasional metallic glint from the hilts and pommels of belted weapons. Then something different caught his eye.

A man came from one of the towers, not ambling casually, but hiding with purpose. Iron reflected a hazy silver light around his form, and as he made a circuit of the wall-walk, he slapped or punched or otherwise improved the alertness of the others. Conan cursed to himself. As he had feared, there was a leavening of Ermak's men among Lisip's thugs. How many might there be?

No matter. He and his group would have to fight whoever was here with what they had. The miners wanted their women and children back, and they were willing to accept many of their troop slain to accomplish it.

He examined the terrain to determine how close the miners could approach the front gate without being seen. There was a curve in the road where it rounded a low hill about three hundred paces from the gate. He could find no means that would allow I hem to come closer. Conan knew that he could get the gate open. The question was: Could he keep it open long enough for the miners to storm through?

An hour later, the men arrived. Conan was waiting for them

by the road.

'The fort is a little way farther down this road,' he told them. 'The prisoners are there. I could see them from above. Lisip's scum guard them, but I saw one of Ermak's men, and there may be more of those. I have Lisip's pass to get me through the gate.' He held up the leaden seal the old gang boss had given him.

'When I get the gate open,' he continued, 'you must attack immediately. The gate cannot be pushed shut from within. They must come out and pull it shut, and for that reason alone, I have a chance of holding it until you get there, but do not tarry along the way.' Whatever these men were, he thought ruefully, they were not foot-racers.

'Just get the gate open,' Bellas said. 'After that, you may stand back and let us do the rest.'

'Do not be too confident,' Conan cautioned. 'I do not know how many of Ermak's men are in there.'

'They will die like the rest,' Bellas said.

'They may take more killing, though,' said Conan. 'Do not try to fight them single-handed. If one shows himself, let two or three of you together attack him. Move fast, attack from more directions than he can defend, and do not get in each other way.' They nodded at the advice. He hoped that they would remember it in the excitement of battle.

'I go now,' he told them. 'Be ready to come running as soon as you see the gate open.'

He mounted his horse and set out at an easy gait. His weapons rested loose in their sheaths. The saddle beneath him gave forth a soft creaking of leather and wood. The midday sun shone brightly. It was deceptively peaceful, and for all his relaxed mien, the Cimmerian was ready for the sudden, furious outburst of violent action soon to come. He was a warrior, and he lived for battle. That this fight would present difficulties only made life more interesting.

He reined in before the gate, and a man thrust a dirty, shaggy head over the ruined battlement. 'Who are you, and what do you want?' he demanded.

'Lisip sent me,' Conan said, holding high the lead medallion. 'Let me in.'

The man squinted his bloodshot eyes. 'Throw it up here.'

The Cimmerian tossed the seal and the man managed to catch it on the fly. He did some more squinting. 'Looks like Lisip's,' he finally pronounced. 'Let yourself in. I'm not coming down there to help you.'

Conan dismounted and began to tug on the gate bar, making it seem far more of a struggle than necessary. 'What kind of fort is barred from the outside?' he asked.

'This is no fort,' the man answered. 'This is a slave pen. It's a damned nuisance, too. When we want to go out, one or two of us must go down a ladder to unbar the gate.'

'What goes on here?' A bearded face, framed by a steel casque, thrust over the wall. 'Who is this man, and by whose leave does he unbar the gate?'

The thug showed him the seal. 'The chief sent him. This is his pass. I know my master's seal.'

While the armoured man studied the thing, Conan hoisted the bar clear of its retaining brackets. He began to stagger back as if the weight of the iron were too great for him, then he stumbled and dropped it, managing to cast it a few paces farther from the gate. The mercenary looked toward him sharply.

'You clumsy oaf!' the man shouted. 'Must you botch a task so simple?'

'What of it?' Conan shouted up at him as he tugged the gate open, hoping to distract the soldier for a few crucial seconds. 'I will bring my horse through and then climb up there and come back down here by your ladder, then re-bar the gate, then go back up the ladder and pull it up after me. I never saw such a fort!'

'Why, you...' Now the soldier looked up, his jaw dropping as he saw what was coming down the road toward them. The head jerked back behind the rampart, and an alarm bell began to clang.

Hastily, Conan tugged the heavy gate fully open. He heard shouting from within, and his sword was naked in his hand as the first defenders reached the portal.

Suddenly he faced four men who stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder in the gateway. They were Lisip's thugs. All were armed with swords, and for several seconds the Cimmerian had his hands full just defending himself from the licking, glittering blades, with no time to counter-attack. He managed to deal one of the attackers a cut on the sword arm and to stab another in a too-advanced thigh. The wounded men merely backed out of the fight and their places were taken by two other thugs.

The Cimmerian retreated from the gateway as if he were being driven back. As he had anticipated, one incautious man advanced ahead of the others. With a little more room in which to manoeuvre, Conan beat the other's sword to one side with his own blade and ran him through the chest. As the man fell, he caused another to stumble, and Conan clove that one through the shoulder before the man could regain his balance.

The Cimmerian strode forward and re-engaged the defenders of the gateway. Moments later a pack of the miners rushed past him, swinging their crude weapons with terrible effect. They seemed not to care if they were wounded, so long as they could deal death in return. In seconds the gateway was gained and the fighting spilled into the courtyard beyond.

His part of the attack was finished, but the Cimmerian could no more desert a battle well commenced than he could stop breathing. Amid clashing weapons and roaring, smiting men, ho passed beneath the lintel. He saw the armoured man who had challenged him descending a stair and rushed to meet him.

Grinning, his bloodied sword at the ready, the Cimmerian met the soldier at the bottom step. He blocked a chop to his head and parried a swift thrust toward his throat, sending back a series of lightning jabs in return. These the mercenary parried, but he was forced back up the stair, whence he tried to take advantage of his higher position to slash downward at Conan's head and shoulders. As he blocked one of these blows, Conan leaned forward and grasped the man's ankle, tugging it off the step. The mercenary lurched sideways and as he did so, Conan thrust his point into the man's neck just above the gorget. The soldier toppled off the stair with blood in his scream.

The Cimmerian dashed up the stair to the wall-walk. Two of Lisip's men attacked him, but he merely knocked them from the walk into the struggling mass of men below. He surveyed the scene in the courtyard and was satisfied that the miners would have no difficulty in mopping up the rest. Lisip's men were falling everywhere. There were three or four of Ermak's still fighting, but they were being mobbed. The women and children were cheering and crying excitedly.

Sword still in hand, Conan went into the nearest of the gateway towers. The interior was foul-smelling. This one had housed Lisip's men. A quick check of all three levels disclosed no skulking enemies, nor anything of interest.

He crossed the walk over the gateway to the other tower. This one had been used by Ermak's men. The ground floor was an armoury-and-supply room. The second floor had been their sleeping quarters. He ascended the stair to the upper room. This one was full of chests. He whirled at sounds coming from behind, then relaxed as he saw Bellas, holding a child in one arm and leading a pretty young woman with his other hand. A huge grin divided the man's beard, and it struck Conan that this was the first time he had seen one of these people smile.

'I take it that the fighting is over?' Conan said, slamming his sword back into his sheath.

'All done,' Bellas affirmed. 'None of the dogs escaped to bear word of this to Sicas.' More of the miners came up behind him.

'Excellent. Some of you with maces break these chests open. I want to see what Bombas was hiding up here.'

Gleefully, amid much boisterous jesting, the miners did as he had bid them. They were in the highest spirits, and Conan learned that they had taken but few casualties in the brief, vicious battle. Lisip's men had been surprised, terrified, and outnumbered, and the miners fought with no trace of chivalry. Their own few dead and numerous wounded they accounted a small price for getting their women and children back.

'We lose more in a single cave-in,' Bellas said, shrugging off the butcher's bill.

As the Cimmerian had suspected, many of the chests contained silver, some of it in the form of coin, but more in bullion, still bearing the inspector's stamp from the mine. There were other valuables as well.

'You must bear all this back to your village and hide it,' Conan said.

'We did not come here for loot,' Bellas said, holding up his woman's hand as proof of what really mattered.

'This is not loot,' the Cimmerian told him. 'Unless I am much mistaken, most of this belongs rightfully to your king. He may even prove grateful if you keep it safe for him.' Conan had little faith in kingly gratitude, but these people would need whatever leverage they could muster when royal forces finally arrived to set the district in order. Then he noticed a cabinet standing in a corner.

'What is in that?' he asked, pointing. One of the miners turned and with a casual sweep of his mace, smashed the padlock, hasp and all, from the cabinet doors. He opened it and looked inside.

'Just some books,' the man said, shrugging.

Intrigued, Conan went to the cabinet and drew out a stack of large, heavy tomes bound in fine Shemitish leather. He opened the top volume and saw that it contained scant writing, but many columns of numerals.

'What are they?' Bellas asked.

'I am no scribe,' Conan said, 'but I have stood before many a paymaster to collect my wages and I know an accounting ledger when I see one. I will wager that these list how much treasure Bombas has taken in and how much he has paid out, and for what. And I would wager just as much that he has another set of these books in his headquarters, one that he shows the royal treasurer. Those books will show that he took in far less and paid out far, far more. You must take these and hide them as well. With these books, you can assure that Bombas will hang.'

'We will keep them safe,' Bellas vowed.

'Somewhere in there,' Conan said, 'will be his military accounts. He receives pay and rations for a hundred men, together with their mounts, quartering and stabling and all other expenses paid by the Crown. With that, he hires a score of half-dead derelicts and they probably do not receive half-pay. It is paltry compared to what he must be skimming from the mines, but no opportunity to steal is too small for a man like Bombas.'

'What will you do now, Cimmerian?' Bellas asked.

'Return to Sicas. I have a number of other matters to occupy me just now.'

'You play a dangerous game, my friend,' the miner said.

'That is the only kind worth the playing,' Conan told him. 'It is also the most rewarding.'

'Why not come back with us to the village?' Bellas urged. 'When the time is right, you can lead us into Sicas to finish this work.'

Conan shook his head. 'No, I have much to do in the city

before the time is ripe for that. There is great gain to be had there. Why let Bombas enjoy it all?'

'I think you are mad, but know that for this day's deeds, you are our friend for life. When you need us, do not hesitate to call upon us.' It was simply said, and Conan knew that it was meant.

He parted company with the miners as they were finishing their work at the old fort. The chests were being carried away on the strong backs of some of the men as others fired the fort. The sheds and the wooden interiors of the towers were torched, and a great heap of lumber and brushwood had been heaped in the courtyard as a pyre for the corpses of the enemy dead. Their own dead would be buried in the village after the customary rites. Conan rode northward until he lost sight of the great column of smoke that ascended to the heavens behind him.

He did not hurry, but rode at a leisurely pace. Although the sun was down, darkness had not yet fallen. Near the town, he rode through the camp ground where the caravaneers pitched their tents and built their fires. There were few traders at this time of year, and he saw that the party with which Mulvix arrived had

departed.

He passed through the city gate with the usual bribe and rode to the inn. The stableman wore an odd look as the Cimmerian walked his horse into the near-dark of the stalls. Conan was about to ask the man what was wrong when he felt something very solid crash against the back of his head.

The Cimmerian dropped bonelessly, not quite unconscious, but completely unable to make his limbs function. He could feel ropes being tied around his wrists and ankles, and he could do nothing about it. Then a heavy blanket was wrapped around him. The last thing he heard before drifting into unconsciousness was a man's

voice.

'Take him to the dungeon,' said Julus.

XVI

Chaos Descends

He awoke feeling as if a volcano had erupted in his head. Only savage instinct kept him from groaning aloud. Sounds of pain and helplessness might draw predators. He shifted, and straw crackled beneath him. It was not the first time he had awakened lying on a cold stone floor covered with straw, a ferocious pain rending his skull.

Slowly, he raised a hand and felt the back of his head. He touched the stickiness of drying blood. Grimly, stoically, he pressed his fingertips against the scalp, then tightened them as hard as he could, sending spears of blinding agony through his whole body, causing lurid lights to flash behind his eyelids. He ignored the pain. To his great relief, he felt no shifting of bone beneath the skin. His skull was not fractured. His steel cap and dense black hair had been sufficient to spare him a crushed skull.

Now that he knew he would not die of the injury, he struggled to a sitting position. Dizziness washed over him for a few moments, but he willed it away. He had been injured far worse in his time, and he knew that those who had cast him into this place had far worse in store for him. He heard footsteps approaching.

'Well, our prize lives, after all.' He looked through the bars and saw the hulking form of Julus. The man's image wavered, doubling for a moment; then it coalesced into sharp focus.

'Did you think you could kill me?' Conan asked.

'Assuredly, I did not want you to die,' Julus said. 'I gave Atchazi strict orders that you were not to be killed, but he is still full of resentment that you slew his friend, and he struck harder than intended. Think how our fun would have been spoiled had you died.'

'It was the Zingaran?' Conan asked. 'He must have a better arm than I thought.'

'You will see soon enough,' Julus said.

'Why have you dragged me here?' the Cimmerian demanded. 'I have done nothing that is forbidden in this town.'

Julus broke into roaring laughter. 'Do not speak like a fool, foreigner! What care I what you have done or have not done? I want to know what you plan to do. I brought you here to get some answers!'

'That would be a man's task, and I see no men besides myself in this place,' Conan sneered. Apparently they did not suspect him of the events at the fort. Perhaps they did not even know of the raid yet.

'Get in there and chain him up!' Julus commanded. Men crowded into the cell and dragged the Cimmerian from it. He tried to struggle, but simply sitting up had demanded all the strength he could summon. Even such men as these could handle him easily.

A rope was passed between his bound wrists, then passed through a ring set into the stone ceiling. Men hauled on the rope, and soon the Cimmerian's body was stretched painfully, only the balls of his feet touching the floor. Julus approached, an evil grin on his face and a short wooden club in his hand.

'This way,' Julus explained, 'we do not have to pick you up when you fall.' The club flashed out, and pain bloomed in Conan's side. A backhanded swipe smashed into his jaw. Even through the haze of agony, he knew that he would live, and he set himself to wait out the ordeal. Either blow could have splintered bone, but Julus had stopped just short of the necessary force. The man did not intend to beat him to death.

'Why are you here, barbarian?' Julus demanded. He punctuated the question with several blows of. the club to Conan's knees, elbows, kidneys, and beneath the arms. He knew where the nerves were to be found to cause the greatest pain.

'Who sent you? Are you a king's man?' he persisted.

For a long time the Cimmerian said nothing as the stick drew ever greater levels of pain from his body. The punishment was agonizing, but as yet, he had felt nothing of importance give way in his body. A blow landed across his nose and blood gushed out over his face and chest. He could taste it in his mouth as well. At least the brute avoided damaging his jaw and throat. He wanted Conan able to speak. A flurry of blows to his kidneys wrenched a gasp from the Cimmerian.

'I am here to get rich, like everyone else in this town, curse you!' He knew he could take more punishment, but there was no point in it. To speak sooner would arouse the man's suspicions. To wait longer would be to invite crippling injury. Above all, he must avoid that. The Cimmerian could endure pain that would drive a civilized man to death or madness, but his body had to be sound enough for an escape when the opportunity came.

'I do not believe you,' Julus taunted, but now his blows came less forcefully. 'What sort of bargain did you make with Lisip, Cimmerian? And what is your game with Maxio? You seem to be sharing his woman. That bespeaks something more than friendliness. Where do you hide of nights, when you are not at the inn?'

'I carouse in the Pit,' Conan said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, 'and I seek better ways to loot this place, same as you, dog.' His nose was swelling, his eyes blackening. He hoped that his eyelids would not swell shut. A blind man had little chance of escape.

Julus struck him across the calf muscles of both legs. Instantly the rock-like muscles knotted into vicious cramps. 'The truth,

Cimmerian!' Julus bawled. 'I will have the truth from you!' He rained a shower of blows on Conan's unresisting body.

Conan faded in and out of consciousness. From time to time he managed to mutter words, always sticking to his insistence that he worked alone, to enrich himself.

'I think you like this, Cimmerian,' Julus said, striking him again on the ribs. The man was sweating from the exertion. 'I think you enjoy this as much as I do. The gods have been kind to throw us together this way, have they not?' A commotion behind him caused Julus to turn. A man came running down the

stair.

'What is it?' Julus demanded. 'You had best have good reason to thus interrupt my sport.'

'The Reeve says come!' the man said urgently. 'We must all mount and ride at once! Make haste!'

'Now what is this all about?' Julus muttered. 'We will finish this later, Cimmerian.' With a casual backhanded swing, the club crashed against the side of Conan's head. Crimson light flashed before him, then darkness descended.

When he awoke, he could not feel his hands. He was still as he had been, his arms stretched above him, his feet barely touching the floor. His whole body was a mass of agony, except where it was numb. As near as he could determine, though, nothing was seriously damaged. He had not been cut badly, there were no broken bones, and he did not think that he had sustained any internal injuries, although he might need time to know that for certain. He had great faith in the healing powers of his rugged physique and knew that he would be hale within a few days. But first he must get out of this place, before Julus came back. Slowly, favouring a neck that had gone stiff, he raised his head, finding that his chin had stuck to his chest with dried blood.

For a minute he thought he had gone blind. He could smell the burning wick of an oil lamp, but he saw no light. Gradually he realized that his eyelids were likewise stuck together with dried blood. With much facial contortion, he managed to get one eye partially open and saw the lamp, burning in a sconce. In a chair tilted against a wall sat a jailer, dozing. He was a pot-bellied, shaven-headed man the Cimmerian did not recognize from his earlier stay. A ring of keys hung at the man's belt, and a knife was similarly attached.

Conan groaned loudly. The jailer's eyes opened slightly.

'Water!' Conan cried. 'Bring me water, for the love of Mitra!'

'Why should I bring you water, scum?' the jailer asked. 'I love neither you nor Mitra.' 'I die of thirst!'

'You'll not live long enough to die of thirst,' the man assured him. 'Julus will be back soon, and then he will resume his sport. That is what you will die of.'

'I will pay you,' said the Cimmerian.

'With what?' The jailer gestured toward a heap of clothing and arms in a corner. 'We already have your belongings. The money in your purse has long since been divided, though I got none.' The man's tone was resentful, and Conan saw a place wherein to drive a wedge.

'I have more, much more,' he said.

'Where?' the jailer demanded, his face animated with greed. 'First bring me water.'

Grumbling, the man left. He returned a few minutes later with a pail of water and a dipper. He filled the dipper and held it to the Cimmerian's mouth.,Conan drank thirstily. Two dippers satisfied him.

'Now pour the rest over my head,' he instructed. Shrugging, the jailer did as he was told. The water sluiced over the matted black locks, washing away some of the blood from Conan's eyes and reviving him somewhat.

'Where is this money?' the jailer demanded.

'One more thing,' Conan said. 'Lower me to the floor. I am nigh dead from the pain in my arms.'

'You said money for water. Do not play games with me.'

'Lower me, or I will not tell you,' Conan said.

'One more chance,' the jailer warned. He went behind Conan. Seconds later, the rope went slack and Conan dropped to the cold Mime floor. There he writhed, all but howling with the renewal 'I the torture. The jailer prodded him with a booted toe, then grasped a handful of the black mane and jerked Conan around to lace him.

'Now, dog, the money! Julus is not the only man here who can make you scream.'

'He did not make me scream, and neither did you!' Abruptly, Conan's bound legs lashed sideways, kicking the jailer's feet from beneath him: The man fell with a thud, squalling. He tried to get up but the Cimmerian's bound legs slipped over his head and the knees locked around his neck. Slowly, inexorably, the barbarian squeezed. The jailer flopped like a beached fish, but he could neither get loose nor make an outcry. He gave up his futile attempt to pry the iron legs from his throat and snatched at his knife. But already the man was weakening. Before he could cut, Conan slammed him against the floor with a violent wrench. The knife flew through the air.

The jailer lay inert. Just in case it was a ruse, Conan increased the pressure and held it for a few minutes longer. Then he released the neck and lay still for a while. Coming on top of the beating, this exertion had drained him. But he knew that it was no time to tarry. He crawled across the floor in search of the knife.

He pawed at the weapon, but his numbed fingers would not close around the grip. He managed to get the butt of the knife between his teeth and brace its point against the floor. By sawing his wrist bindings against the edge of the blade, he contrived to cut through his bonds with a few minutes' exertion. When his hands were free, he waved his arms in circles, forcing blood into the extremities. Now the agony was even greater than what had gone before. Gritting his aching teeth, he waited it out. The pain threatened to go on forever, but in time it passed. With his hands now functioning, the Cimmerian quickly cut his ankle bindings and stood. He was shaky and weak, but he could stay upright after a fashion.

He re-donned his clothing and armour and belted on his weapons. This made him feel immeasurably better, although he was aware that he could not wield arms with anything approaching his usual power. He needed to rest and recover.

Slowly, he climbed the stair, leaning against the wall as waves of dizziness swept over him. Before entering the headquarters' main floor, he waited and listened. All was quiet. He saw no guards flanking the front door. Apparently Bombas had taken even his worthless guards on his expedition. Conan had no doubt that they had ridden out to the fort to survey the carnage. He must be in safe hiding when they returned.

From Julus's questioning, the Cimmerian knew that they were unaware of his presence in the temple. He guessed that Rista Daan was too important a man for them to interrogate, so they knew nothing of his own mission to rescue the man's daughter. Even in the midst of his pain and peril, Conan felt a stab of concern for the girl. He had been too long away from the temple.

He staggered outside and stood within the shadow of the doorway. The night was dark and he saw no one in the Square. He did not walk across the plaza, but kept to the shadows of the buildings surrounding it. He was unmolested except for stray dogs that approached him hopefully, then slunk away at his unpromising look. When he passed the house of Xanthus, he went into the alley that separated it from the Temple of Mother Doorgah. In the rear of the temple he found the gate unbarred and passed through into the court.

Crossing the kitchen, he went into the main temple. There the acolytes chanted. Something seemed different about the chant, as if it were somehow deeper, more resonant, sending a vibration throughout the spacious structure. He decided that the ringing in his head was confusing him. Disoriented, he finally found a stair and ascended. He stepped off a landing and found himself before a door.

'Conan!' He turned to see Oppia standing there. She wore a filmy nightdress and an expression of consternation. 'Where have you bee—what has happened to you?' The Cimmerian realized that in his addled condition, he had come to his former quarters, on the same floor as the apartment of Andolla and Oppia. She hurried to his side and studied him by the light of her lamp.

'You look more dead than alive! Who has done this? These are not the marks of a brawl!'

'The henchmen of Bombas,' he said, belabouring his sluggish brain to come up with a story that would convince her to keep him hidden. 'The Reeve wants to know what goes on in this temple. He thinks that you hoard treasure. I would tell nothing. Some alarm called them all away and I managed to escape.'

'Come, we must get you cleaned up and bandaged.' Her voice sounded somehow different, lower and more vibrant. He decided that his hearing was still defective from the beating.

'I just need to lie down and rest for a day or two. I will heal by myself.'

'Nonsense,' she insisted. 'If nothing else, I do not want you bleeding all over the temple. Come with me.' She tugged at his hand and he followed her around the corner to the red door. Not only did she sound different, but it seemed to him that she appeared different as well. She had been a comely woman before, but now her beauty was in some way enhanced. As she walked before him, her hips seemed to have a fuller rondure and she swayed enticingly. Her already-slender waist looked even smaller. He shook his head; perhaps his vision had been affected also.

She unlocked the door and led him within. The anteroom held images of the goddess festooned with precious gems. The floors were covered with costly carpets, and the walls with hangings of equal value. The lamps were works of art. Conan saw no sorcerous paraphernalia. Apparently, Andolla kept all such materials in his study below. He followed the woman into a small room with a floor of green tile in which was sunk a deep tub of purple marble. Hot water gushed from the mouth of a golden dolphin at one end and drained from another into a catch basin.

'Get in there,' Oppia ordered. She began to tug at his clothing. Feeling no special inclination to resist, the Cimmerian stripped and climbed into the tub. With a grateful sigh, he lowered himself until the hot, steaming water lapped at his shoulders.'

'All the way under,' she ordered. Obediently, he submerged himself. When he came back up, she scrubbed at his scalp with a coarse sponge. He winced as it scraped over the lacerations, but he knew that he would heal the swifter for the cleansing. Oppia sat on the edge of the marble tub and laved industriously at his shoulders.

'Do not flatter yourself,' she warned. 'I am not your bath attendant. I would send one of the acolytes for this task, but I do not want an acolyte to see you looking thus. I want no tongues wagging. I had thought you a fine figure of a man, but just now you are something with which to discipline children. You are so bruised that your body is as black as a Kushite's, and your face is so swollen I would not have recognized you save for that black thatch and your armour.'

She shifted herself to his front to sponge his chest, and he studied her. The steam had caused her thin nightdress to cling to her every curve, and she might as well have been naked. Her breasts looked larger and fuller than before, and her belly, despite her tiny waist, was gently rounded. Impossibly, her face seemed to have broadened, without losing any of its beauty. The look reminded him of something, but he could not bring to mind what it might be.

'I want you to recover quickly,' she said. 'Strange things are happening here, and I grow afraid. My husband's spells have gained great strength, know not why. Things are not as they were, and I want a strong man close at hand to deal with trouble. Even I...' She stopped herself, perhaps fearing to reveal too much.

'Just keep me hidden away for a day or two,' Conan said. 'I shall be as good as new, and you need fear no enemies.'

'Wait here,' she said, rising. She swayed from the room and Conan relaxed in the water, letting the hot bath draw some of the

sting from his wounds. She returned a few minutes later, bearing

a large cup.

'Drink this,' she ordered. 'It is watered wine with herbs. It will help your injuries heal.' He took the cup and drank. For once, he did not suspect drugs or poison. When he had finished the potion, she signalled for him to stand. She helped him dry himself, then rubbed unguents into his cuts and abrasions.

'There,' she said. 'That is all we can do now. Get dressed and return to your quarters, if you think you can negotiate the stairs.'

'I can do it,' he said. 'I've been hurt far worse than this.' 'I will send acolytes to check upon you from time to time. Tell them if you need anything.'

'I thank you,' Conan said. 'Are you sure that Andolla does not mind you bathing hired swordsmen in his private bath?'

'My husband,' she said, 'is too busy of late to pay much heed to what I do. Go now. I will visit you in the morning.'

Dressed only in his loincloth, the rest of his belongings bundled beneath an arm, he left the apartment and walked to the stair. He ascended to his floor and went into his quarters, which seemed to be as he had left them. Leaving his clothes and arms, he crossed the hall and entered Rietta's chamber. She was sleeping peacefully, and she looked far less frail than before. There was no smell of smoke in the room.

It seemed that the new developments had caused Andolla and Oppia to neglect their charge. He went to the window and determined that the wax plug had not been tampered with. He left, closing the door silently.

He went into his own room, fell upon his bed and slept like a corpse.

He awoke feeling as if his body were carved from wood, stiff and unyielding. Groaning, he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs off the bed. He forced himself to stand, then stretched his limbs until he had worked some of the stiffness from his joints and muscles. As agonizing as the effort was, he knew that he would be fit the sooner for it. There came a knocking at the door, and he placed a hand on his sword hilt.

'Come in,' he said. An acolyte entered, his eyes widening at the sight of the near-naked, massively bruised swordsman.

'My mistress bade me see if you were awake and had need of aught, sir,' said the youth, bowing over clasped hands. The Cimmerian wanted nothing more than sleep, but he had someone else to look after.

'Bring me food,' he demanded. 'Bread and meat and some strong broth, and whatever fruit the kitchen has.' The acolyte bowed again and left. Truly, he was not very hungry, but he knew that Rietta had not eaten decently in at least two days. When the viands arrived, he dismissed the acolyte and crossed the hall.

'Conan!' Rietta was sitting in her bed. The eyes that widened at his appearance were bright and clear for the first time. 'Where have you... what happened to you?'

'I grow tired of that question,' he said, setting the tray on the bed before her bare toes. 'Here, you need some of this after two days of gruel.'

'Yesterday they forgot even the gruel,' she said, snatching at a loaf and tearing into it.

'I would have been here, but I spent the day in a dungeon.' He watched as she ate. Her appetite had returned and she absorbed the food swiftly. He nodded, satisfied.

'Now,' he said, 'get up and walk around the room.' She obeyed and he studied the way she moved. She was not yet fully recovered by any means, but her steps were firm and steady. He knew that he could not wait until she regained full strength. Strange things were happening in the temple, and he had a feeling that they would soon become even stranger.

'You cannot stay here longer,' he told her. 'I will take you to your father's house tonight. Be ready.'

'Tonight?' The smile that spread across her face was the first sane expression of joy he had seen in this place. Then the smile faded. 'Oh, but how can I face him? I stole from him and let these dreadful people use me like a puppet. How could I have allowed them to do such things?' Her face flushed with shame.

'They took advantage of your grief at your mother's death,' lie told her. 'Then they weakened you with their accursed drugs, until you had no will of your own. The fact they had to isolate you and starve you and drug you heavily shows that you were far stronger than the others here. Your father will forgive you, girl, else he would not want you back.'

'I hope you are right,' she said. 'I will be ready when you come for me.'

'It will be very late,' he told her. 'Perhaps not until just before dawn.'

'I will be ready,' she promised.

The Cimmerian returned to his own room and fell upon his bed. When he awoke again, it was almost dusk. Again he rose and stretched. Already his body was mending itself. He touched his face and knew that the swelling was almost gone. The rugged northland-bred people could surfer terribly and heal swiftly.

He smiled at the thought of catching up with Julus. Though the man had shrewdness, he lacked foresight. At the very least, he should have thought to cripple the Cimmerian's sword hand, but the lackey was too arrogant to anticipate the outlander's escape. He would have cause to regret it.

Armed and muffled in his cloak, Conan left the temple. With the light fading, people were scurrying from the Square, as if afraid to be caught in the streets after dark. In this hardened place, their haste seemed unusual. In return for some information, Conan assisted a stall-keeper in disassembling and folding his booth.

'Have you not heard?' the man said. 'There is full-scale war in town now! This-morning Lisip's men invaded Ingas's headquarters in the Iron Skull. Ingas and every one of his men were slain! There will be battles in all the streets tonight!'

'Excellent!' Conan said.

'What's that you say?' The stall-keeper looked, but the big foreigner was gone.

Conan made his way through the streets until he reached an imposing house, where he went up the outside stair to the second floor. There he rapped at the door. Gilmay opened, his hands going to his hilts. Conan ignored him and walked inside.

'Where is Casperus?' he asked.

'Cimmerian!' the fat man cried, waddling from a back room. 'I did despair of ever seeing you again! I have been plunged into a mood most melancholy, sir, most melancholy. And now you must at once render me the fullest accounting of your doings about the scorpion. You will apprehend, sir, that I do not ask for an account of all your doings, for I fear, sir, that I might-not live long enough to hear it out! For I suspect, sir, I deeply suspect, that you have not devoted the entirety of your time, and efforts upon my behalf.'

'You said you wanted the scorpion,' Conan told him.

'Indeed I did, sir.'

'I have it.'

'Splendid! I cannot help but notice, however, that you have omitted to bring it hither, sir. Where might it be?'

'I have it hidden, in a very safe place. It is extremely heavy for its bulk, and just now it would be unwise for me to go about the streets of Sicas carrying it. At any moment I may need both hands for fighting.'

'Indeed, sir, indeed,' Casperus said, his jovial mask slipping, allowing his seething anger to show through. 'You have been most busy, have you not? These pitched battles between the street gangs have been your doing, not so?'

Conan shrugged. 'They never needed my encouragement to kill one another.''

'And there is word in the town of a veritable storming and massacre at a fort near here. Do I detect your warlike expertise in this incident?'

'It is of no consequence to our business,' he answered.

'Oh, but it is, sir, it is! This town, which was merely disorderly when you arrived, is now chaotic! No one may move about freely save, perhaps, an expert warrior like yourself. I have no

choice save to trust your word, sir, since I may not go out and see for myself what you are up to.'

'You may always trust a Cimmerian's word,' Conan growled.

'Oh, aye, sir, that I may. I had expected integrity from you, and courage, and perhaps a certain species of low cunning, but never, sir, never did I expect subtlety!'

'I choose not to be insulted. I will send for you within two days, at which time I will lead you to where the scorpion is hidden. Bring the rest of my money.'

'Sir, you are an impudent scoundrel!' Casperus proclaimed.

'I shall be called many names far worse ere I die,' the Cimmerian said. As he turned to go, he found Gilmay blocking his way.

'There must be a reckoning between us soon, barbarian,' the youth said.

'Aye,' said Conan, pushing past him. 'Pray that you do not have to pay it.'

XVII

Things In The Temple

The moon was setting when he returned to the temple. He had spent much of the night prowling the town's taverns, collecting information. Screams, shouts, and the clash of arms seemed to come from every alley. There was a reddish glow in the sky above the Pit, where a number of fires burned. There was no longer any talk of peace. Every gang was at war with every other, and the Reeve huddled in his headquarters, completely unnerved. For years he had robbed the king of warriors' wages, and now he was paying for his greed. He had no men worthy of the name to call upon to restore order.

At least the Reeve's flunkies were not combing the town in search of the Cimmerian. Bombas had greater fears now. In a way, Conan found this disappointing. He truly wanted to encounter Julus again.

There was no sign of Ermak or of his men. Conan judged that they were holed up in their headquarters, waiting out the chaos. As battlefield soldiers, they had little taste for skirmishing in the dark streets.

There was also no sign of Brita. He told himself that her troubles were none of his affair, that he had warned her repeatedly to give up her mad mission here and go home. Even so, he feared the worst.

Piris seemed to be lying low as well, a fact that suited the Cimmerian. Undoubtedly the little man was trying to raise the rest of the money in payment for the scorpion. It was equally certain that he could accomplish this by illegal means, whatever that meant in this place.

He climbed the steps to the temple, briskly at first, then slowing as he neared the entrance, from which came decidedly strange sounds and flickering lights of many colours. To his ears came the monotonous chants. He had grown so accustomed to the sound that he scarcely heard them any more, but now there was a new intonation to them. There were deep, growling notes, unlike the product of human voices, and high-pitched wails of equally inhuman origin, seeming to squeal up past the threshold of hearing. The lights flashed green, red, purple, and other colours so nacreous that Conan had difficulty putting a name to them.

As he entered, something at his feet made him stop and stare. A procession of scorpions passed before his booted toes, their ranks equally spaced, as solemn and stately as a hieratic parade. Who ever heard of scorpions coming out in winter? he thought wildly. And these looked like the fat black scorpions of Stygia, not the small brownish scorpions common to the Aquilonian summer months.

Gingerly he stepped across the arthropodan procession and passed within, one fist clamped around his sword, his jaw clenched as tightly. He felt as if his hair were standing on end like the fur of a fighting tomcat.

An acolyte passed him, favouring the Cimmerian with an idiotic smile. The face had somehow grown prolonged and snout-like, and his arms, covered with hair, dangled almost to his knees. A stumpy tail protruded from the rear of the man's robe. He looked, Conan thought, remarkably like the monkeys sculpted on the façades of Vendhyan temples.

'Where are Andolla and Oppia?' the Cimmerian demanded. Despite the bizarre transformation, the acolyte did not appear in the least threatening. He raised a hairy arm and pointed into the nave. Conan ran past him and stopped just within the cavernous room, gaping at the sight looming ahead.

The crowd of acolytes chanted ecstatically, and every one of them was undergoing some sort of transformation. Many had the monkey aspect; others were sprouting insectile appendages. One stout acolyte had developed gigantic ears and a long prehensile trunk. After gawking at them for a few moments, Conan raised his eyes to the dais.

Andolla sat cross-legged as always, but he sat twenty feet in the air, unsupported. He was surrounded by a crimson aura, and light seemed to fall in drops from his fingertips. His voice boomed above the chants with the volume of a volcanic eruption.

Below him, Oppia stood on the colossal lap of the goddess. With eyes closed, she led the chant in a shrill voice. Her robes had slipped down, and she stood bare from the hips upward except for her jewels. She, too, had undergone a shocking transformation.

Her breasts were huge and perfectly hemispherical, unaffected by gravity. Above the exaggerated rondure of her hips, her waist appeared no more than a hand's span in circumference. Even her face was different. She had become identical in aspect to Mother Doorgah.

Then he noticed that the statue itself had altered. It's colour was almost black, and the majestic face was no longer that of Mother Doorgah, nor did it bear the features of Vendyah. Something cold and aquiline now inhabited the countenance, which was far more beautiful than before. With dismay, the Cimmerian recognized the face of the scorpion goddess.

He ran to the nearest stair and climbed. The higher he ascended, the less uncanny grew his surroundings, although there was still something unnatural about the light, and the angles of the walls seemed to be tilted out of proper alignment. By the time he reached the living quarters, all seemed to have returned to normal. As he went up the last flight of stairs, he saw someone climbing ahead of him.

'Out of my way,' he growled, reaching up for a shoulder. The other spun to face him.

'Crom's bones!' Conan cried, leaping back two steps and snatching out his sword. A greenish, shambling monstrosity stood on the steps above him, staring at him from eyeless pits in a misshapen face, its gaping mouth lined with slimy, needle-like teeth. It was the demon of Rietta's curse, given substance by Andolla's unwitting use of the power of the scorpion goddess, who now dwelled in the crypt below the colossal statue of Mother Doorgah.

The thing hissed and lunged at him. Instinctively, Conan thrust upward, leaning his shoulder into the action. The monster made a squealing sound as the blade sank deep. Swift as lightning, the Cimmerian withdrew the blade and thrust again, and yet again, sinking steel into the foul body repeatedly, trying to find a vital spot. The blood that poured from the wounds was partly green, partly red. Even as its talons scrabbled for his throat, Conan understood that this was yet another acolyte transformed by sorcery. The priest could not make something out of nothing, but his will had shaped an acolyte into the form of the insubstantial demon with which he had terrorized Rietta, and now the mindless thing climbed toward her room to follow its master's will.

Realizing that the creature must have some remnant of a brain left, Conan left off stabbing and instead brought the edge of his sword downward onto the scaly skull, cleaving it almost to the humped shoulders. Another blow cleft it further, and a third nearly hewed away the cranial remains. The thing moved about blindly for a while, then slowly collapsed, continuing to twitch for some time with unnatural life. Conan flattened himself against a wall and breathed hard, watching it die. The brief effort had left him drenched in sweat.

When he was sure that the demon was fully dead, he bounded over the monstrous corpse and dashed the rest of the way up the stairs. He hated to think what might have happened had he been just a few minutes slower. At the very least, Rietta would have been driven truly mad by the sight of the creature he had convinced her was but the vaporous construction of petty magic, drugs, and her imagination.

He first went to his own quarters, and with a sheet carefully cleaned the blood and ichor from his sword and garments. He saw nothing there that he needed to take with him and so he crossed to Rietta's room. He found her sitting on the side of her bed, her fingers clasped in her lap. She looked up with an affrighted face; then relief spread across her features when she saw who it was.

'Conan! Oh, how glad I am to see you! Since nightfall, the sounds from below have been hideous, and when an acolyte came to look in on me, she did not seem... exactly human.'

'Strange and unnatural things are afoot,' Conan confirmed, 'and we must be away from here. Are you ready?'

'More than ready!' She stood, dressed only in her shift. 'I certainly have nothing to gather up. Let us go!'

'You'll not freeze between here and your father's house, girl. Come with me.' He took her hand and led her across the hallway into his own quarters. He had no intention of leading her down the stair past the demon's corpse and then through the temple. He climbed out his window and hung from its sill.

'Now,' he ordered, 'come on out and cling to my back.'

'What if I fall?' she asked, her eyes huge.

'You probably won't die, falling from this height. It's better than staying here. Hurry up!' Taking a deep breath, the girl scrambled out and climbed down to wrap her arms around his neck and her legs about his waist, managing not to dislodge his grip in doing so.

Slowly, his toes finding minute purchase and his fingertips gripping tightly, he descended the wall. Within a few minutes they stood on the flags of the courtyard.

'You can let go now,' the Cimmerian said. She did so reluctantly. 'Come. Stay close to me.' They went out through the back gate, then down the alley between the theatre and the temple. When they were halfway across the Square, well away from the temple, she began to breathe a little easier.

'What is happening back there?' she asked. 'You said that they were frauds, but there is real sorcery in that place.'

'Something unexpected strengthened Andolla's paltry spells, and now he is no longer in control. It was not what I had planned, but those two are about to receive what they deserve.'

'What you had planned? You mean that you have had something to do with all this?'

'Strange things happen sometimes,' he told her. 'I needed to return you to your father, and I needed somewhere to hide out for a while, and the temple seemed a good place in which to do it. Then I needed to secrete something I had been hired to find, and I knew of a good place in the temple to that end. And all of that has led to this.' He turned and looked back toward the temple. It presented a deceptively tranquil aspect. He shook his head.

'Let's go talk to your father,' he said.

An hour later, Conan left the house of Rista Daan. A fat purse, pleasantly stuffed with four hundred and ninety marks, was tucked beneath his belt. The merchant's thanks had not been effusive, but they had been heartfelt.

Darkness still spread its mantle over the city, and the Cimmerian pondered his next move. He could not return to the temple. Bombas's men might come seeking him at the inn. Then he remembered one place in the town where he had an open invitation to call at any hour. He headed for the Street of the Woodworkers.

The brawling seemed to have died down, and he heard no more sounds of combat as he walked cautiously through the streets. Twice he had to step over bodies, but he was unmolested. Within a short time he stood across the narrow street from the sign of the Sunburst. Above the sign, the shutters were open and light poured out. The woman's fondness for nocturnal illumination was as extravagant as ever.

From a long habit of caution, Conan waited, dividing his attention between the apartment above and the street below. He did not expect Maxio to be there. Surely the man had more sense than to go where his enemies would be looking for him. Still, the Cimmerian knew better than to take anything for granted.

He had been watching for a few minutes when he realized that he was hearing something that was out of place. It was a common enough sound, but it was coming from the wrong direction. It was the piteous wailing of a cat, and it emanated from the windows above.

Conan strode across the street and up the stairs. The door to Delia's apartment was slightly ajar, and light streamed from it. His sword was in his hand when he entered. Inside, he stood and scanned the room, which was as cluttered as he remembered it. Cats were everywhere, prowling restlessly, and the many candles had burned to mere stumps. The sound of wailing came from another room, and Conan approached it slowly.

Within, a single white cat crouched keening upon a wardrobe, staring down at something on the floor. The Cimmerian stepped over to see what it might be, already knowing what it was.

Delia lay with sightless eyes staring up at the cat. Just below her left breast protruded the hilt of a dagger.

XVIII

The Black-Haired Woman

The Temple of Bes was deserted in the morning hours. The whole of the Pit was quiet, bracing itself for the day's inevitable bloodshed. When Conan entered the temple, the two Shemite guards came from behind an improvised barricade, spiked clubs in their hands.

'Summon the priest,' he told them. One stepped past him and peered out into the street to make certain he was unaccompanied. Satisfied that the Cimmerian planned no raid, he went in search of the priest, who arrived a few minutes later.

'Ah, my Cimmerian friend of a few days ago. Welcome, sir. I must apologize for these warlike preparations, but I no longer feel safe. It is as if everyone here has gone mad and all the violent men of the city rend one another like wild dogs!'

'I don't blame you,' Conan said. 'It will all be over in a day or two, I think.'

The priest raised both hands, palms outward, toward the image of Bes. 'For this I pray to my god daily. Now, my friend, how may I help you?'

'First, have you seen my companion of a few days ago, the small man?'

'Ah, he of the singular clothing and the lilac scent. Yes, he has been here with some frequency, most recently yesterday evening. I fear that I have not been able to give him just recompense for his... offerings, as it were.'

'Why is that?' Conan asked.

'If you will come with me, I will show you.' The priest led him down the steps to the crypt and pushed the door open, then gestured for the Cimmerian to enter. He did so, then surveyed the scene.

'Mitra!' he said with wonder. 'The thieves of this town have been busy indeed!'

'I prefer to think of them as worshippers,' said the priest. The crypt was stacked almost to the ceiling with loot. Chests of jewels and plate, fine lamps, inlaid tables, art objects of every description, spices and incense, all were crammed into every available corner.

'With the troubles proliferating in the town,' the priest said, 'many men wish to liquidate their holdings and transform their variously acquired valuables into ready cash, easily transportable should their leave-taking be precipitate. As a result, the temple is rich in valuables but cash poor, and for that reason, I have not been able to pay your friend proper value for what he has brought hither.'

'Considering what it cost him to get the goods,' Conan said, 'he should have little cause for complaint. Left he any message for me?'

'None, I fear,' the priest admitted.

'Well, then. Here is something I require of you. I wish free access to your river gate—' he pointed at the portal in question, to which only a narrow path through the loot allowed access '—at any hour of day or night. I want your guards to admit me and let me through instantly, without question, and to be silent about it afterward.' From the pouch at his belt he drew a smaller bag

of cloth and handed it to the priest. 'Here are a hundred silver marks.'

'I thank you, my friend. Bes thanks you. Bes is the most merciful of gods, and does not like to see men endure the sufferings of the rack, the scourge, and the noose. And these, I think, would be your inevitable fate in this town before very long. I can see that you have endured some rough treatment already.'

'Nothing I cannot pay back in kind,' said Conan, whose bruises were still livid.

He left the temple and thought about how to reach the other end of the town. There was always the sewer system, but he had tired of skulking about. If any man thirsted for his blood, let him come openly. The Cimmerian walked up the middle of the street in full daylight.

The town through which he passed was a place at war. The respectable citizens stayed behind their locked gates, barred doors, and closed shutters. The gangs roamed in steel-bristling packs. Whenever such a pack approached the big Cimmerian, his snarl drove them to the wall, letting him pass in peace. He was in no mood for trifling this morning. Delia's murder had wiped out the pleasure he had felt at returning Rietta safely to her father. Any man who wished to shed a little of Conan's blood had better be willing to lose quite a bit of his own in return. Men could read this in his bearing and therefore gave him wide berth.

He reached the inn without incident. The common room was nearly deserted. The servers sat at a table talking among themselves for want of customers.

'Has the woman I was with been in?' he asked the innkeeper.

'Not for two days,' the man said. 'In this town, that probably means she is dead.' His look was reproachful. 'You should have taken better care of her, an innocent, gently bred girl like that.'

'I wonder,' Conan muttered. 'Have there been any messages for me?' Wordlessly, the man reached beneath the counter and brought forth a folded piece of paper, sealed with wax and reeking of lilacs. Conan broke the seal and read.

'Meet me at dusk in the upper room of the Wyvern, ' the delicate script bade him. ' have the rest of your pay. '

Conan wondered whether this was a trap. The Wyvern was Lisip's territory. But how could the gang lord know that he had led the raid on the old fort? No one had escaped, and surely the miners would not have betrayed him. Most likely, Pins had merely arranged a local contact. As Conan had chosen the temple for a place to hide out, Piris had found quarters in the Wyvern's labyrinth of rooms.

Satisfied, he went to a table and ordered breakfast. He was impatient for the evening. It was time to collect his pay and be away from this place, before the royal authorities arrived. They would hold everyone who fell into their net, and many men would spend years in the dungeons, or at breaking rock in the royal quarries, or at rowing royal barges, while the investigations proceeded at a glacial pace. This was a fate Conan was most eager to avoid.

He was deeply troubled by Delia's murder. Who had done it? Maxio was the most likely candidate. In a fit of jealousy or pique, he might easily have slain her. In spite of her many glaring flaws, Conan had liked the big raucous beauty. He much preferred an honest trollop to any sort of hypocrite, and Delia had not had a hypocritical bone in her voluptuous body. Who else might it be? Ermak, possibly. He might have questioned her about Maxio's whereabouts and then killed her, but there had been no signs of torture or struggle. Truthfully, he had no idea of how many enemies the woman might have had. She relished playing with dangerous men, and those who shared that taste seldom enjoyed long life. The Cimmerian determined that whoever it might be, that one would pay for the deed.

He spent a few hours in the stable, caring for his horse and going over every inch of his harness. The damp winter weather was deadly for fine leather, and he scoured away every trace of mould and carefully oiled every bit of his riding gear, paying special attention to girths and other straps. Nothing was more embarrassing than, with pursuit but a few paces behind, to leap into

the saddle only to have it all tumble ignominiously to the ground because a neglected surcingle had parted.

When he was satisfied with his horse trappings, he gave equal attention to the animal's hooves, examining each in turn, testing the condition of the hoof and that of the shoe, then every nail of the shoe. Dissatisfied with one shoe, he had the smith across the street replace all four shoes, under the watchful eye of the rider. With that done, he gave similar attention to his weaponry, cleaning and oiling it scrupulously, going over each edge with a fine whetstone, testing hilt and grip for any slightest hint of movement. Age and climate could cause a grip made of bone or wood to shrink, robbing the blade of support at the crucial juncture of blade and hilt, thus weakening the whole weapon.

By the time all was to his satisfaction, it was late afternoon. He had dinner in the common room, then went out into the street. His steps led him south, past the Square and into the Pit, where he was to meet Piris. At one point he was forced to make a detour around a block where the narrow street was crowded with fighting men.

The Wyvern was not heavily populated as the Cimmerian entered. Of the men who sat drinking at the tables, many were bandaged; other men lay groaning on the floor. He went to the bar and called for ale. The barkeep brought him a jack of tarred leather, slopping foam as he set it on the ancient, nicked counter.

'Is Piris here yet?' Conan asked.

'I saw him go upstairs an hour ago,' the man said.

Conan decided that there was no rush, that Piris could wait until he finished his ale.

'He must be a popular man this evening,' the barkeep said.

'How so?'

'Well, just before you arrived, a woman came asking for him and I told her where he was. She went up after him.'

Conan all but choked on a mouthful of ale. 'What woman?' he demanded, slamming the jack upon the bar. 'Which room?'

'A black-haired wench with a dangerous look in her eye. What other kind would come into the Wyvern unescorted? As to what room, it is on the third level, with a cockatrice painted on the door. It's—' But now he was addressing the Cimmerian's back. 'Aren't you going to finish your—' Already, the big barbarian was leaping up the stairs. The barkeep shrugged and finished the ale himself.

The Cimmerian fairly flew up the steps, jostling aside trollops and their customers in the process. At the third level, he looked around frantically. He saw a door with a dragon, one with a serpent, one with a lion. At the far end of the hallway, he saw a yellow door with a red cockatrice painted on it. He moved toward the door swiftly but silently, his weapons held close against him lest they make a betraying clatter. By the time he reached the portal, he was balancing on the toes of his boots. There he stopped and listened. He heard the sound of squabbling voices but could make out nothing of what they were saying. Taking a deep breath, he thrust the door open.

Inside, two figures stood facing each other across the length of a table. Each held a dagger extended toward the other. The black-haired woman stood with her back to him. Piris faced him. The little man looked up at his entry, and relief flowed across the effeminate features.

'This is she!' he said in his odd, breathy voice. 'This is Altaira, the treacherous wench who betrayed me into the dungeon of Belverus! Slay her!'' He held forth his envenomed weapon as if he had little trust in the Cimmerian's ability to protect him from this virago.

'Turn, woman,' Conan said.

'Not while this vile little catamite holds his poisoned steel!' she hissed.

Conan's own sword slid from its sheath. 'I'll not let him stab you in the back, and if I wanted you dead, you would be dead already. Turn.'

Slowly, the woman turned to face him. The face was heart-shaped beneath its mass of black locks, the mouth a crimson slash, the eyes boldly outlined in cosmetic. The skin was as white as the purest snow. She seemed a stranger, yet there was something familiar about her features. Then he knew.

'Brita!' Never had he seen such a transformation. Except for the shape of the facial bones, there was no similarity to the shy, well-bred girl he had aided. Even the colour of the eyes was different.

'This is your Tarantian girl?' Piris asked with a squealing giggle. 'You have been gulled, my barbarian friend! But do not be too ashamed; she has taken in men far more experienced than you.'

'So,' Conan said. 'Many things become clear now.' His sword point was level with her throat. Ordinarily he never drew steel against a woman, but he had never encountered one as uniquely deadly as this one. 'No wonder those bandits I rescued you from were so well mounted. Their job was to present a sham ravishment, then get away as fast as they could.'

'Of course,' she said, her voice colder than any steel. 'I followed you and Piris from that tavern in Belverus, and I eavesdropped upon your meeting. I knew instantly that you were one of those foolish men who would go out of his way to rescue a woman, and then feel himself to be her protector.''

Conan laughed hollowly. 'As if you ever needed a protector. So it was you and Piris and Asdras who stole the scorpion from Casperus?''

'No!' Piris insisted. 'The scorpion is mine!' 'It belongs to whoever can keep it,' Altaira said. 'And we had it for a while. Yes, I planned to get the scorpion from the fat man. I sent Asdras ahead to Sicas, but Piris, who is far cleverer than you, Conan, would not leave my side and was too cautious to give me a chance to kill him. So I passed the idol to Mulvix, who was headed to Sicas with his caravan. He did not know what it was and always went by the smuggler's code, that a smuggler does not pry into the cargo he has agreed to deliver. He delivered it to me here as promised.' 'And she planted false evidence on me to have me thrown into

the dungeon before I could chase her down!' Piris said indignantly.

'I should have known,' Conan said ruefully. 'All the way. here, and after we arrived, you kept getting word of this 'sister' of yours, but never when I was with you.'

'That is because your brain is in your sword arm, Cimmerian,' she said. 'A more intelligent man would have noticed.'

Conan shrugged philosophically. 'I have ever been a fool where women are concerned. That you gulled me I do not hold against you. It is every man's duty to look out for himself. But I take it amiss that you took advantage of my better nature.'

'What do you mean?' she asked, clearly perplexed.

'It would be useless to explain it to you. The miners who live near here understand these things better.''

'I think you have gone mad,' she said.

'That first night,' Conan said, 'when you brought me here to the Wyvern... you had been down here first. You summoned Asdras outside and stabbed him. Then, all innocence, you dragged me down here so we could 'discover' him. One less with whom to share the scorpion.'

'And when we went to the Temple of Bes,' Piris said, 'she followed and set her hired rogues upon us. And just in case that should not be enough, she set the Reeve to arrest us and clap us in the dungeon here.'

'But you could not foresee,' Conan said to her, 'that the rich spice merchant would buy me out of jail to rescue his daughter from the Temple of Mother Doorgah.'

'Ah, is that what happened?' she murmured. 'Truly, I could not keep track of everything.'

'You acted strangely,' Conan said, 'when I told you of my interview with Casperus. It was the only time you allowed your mask to slip with me. When you realized your mistake, you seduced me to distract my mind from your mistake.'

'Seduced you!' she said. 'Does a mare need to seduce a stallion?'

'I would never have let that happen,' sniffed Piris.

'That I do not doubt one whit,' Conan said. Then, to Altaira: 'And when Mulvix came to our rooms at the inn, he was not dying as he climbed the stairs, was he? You had left him word of how to find you, and he came straight to you, and to your dagger. Then you took some of the blood and left it on the walk and on the stairs so that it would look as if he had trailed it all the way up. Why did you not take the scorpion then?'

She made an eloquent movement of her beautiful white shoulders. 'Piris was here, Casperus was still here. I had yet to deal with them, and when you hold the scorpion, it is not easy to manage anything else. I knew that you were trustworthy and stupid. You would hide it for me until I should want it back.'

'And hide it I did,' said Conan, grinning. 'Have you any idea where?'

'Wretch!' she cried. 'Where is it?' 'Why should I tell you?' he asked.

'Well,' she said, her voice turning conciliatory, 'I can see that I was wrong about you, Conan. I had thought you a simple, brainless savage. But, truthfully, you do have a brain in that head of yours, and you have been playing games in this town as subtle as my own. In fact, you and I could prosper mightily together.' 'Too late, Brita, or Altaira, or whatever your real name is,' said Conan. 'I know too much about you now, and no man who values his life would come near you. But tell me this: What is your story about the scorpion?''

'I suppose that this fool and the fat man have told you about what a great, magical idol it is?' 'They did,' Conan affirmed, 'each in his own way.' 'Well, they both lied,' she said. 'You have held it. How did it feel?'

'Heavy,' replied Conan.

'Of course it is heavy. Nothing is weightier than gold, and of all gold, the heaviest is white gold!'

'White gold!' Conan exclaimed. The metal was all but legendary. White gold was to silver what silver was to lead. Its brilliance was incomparable, and it was esteemed by goldsmiths as the noblest of metals. Most commonly, its value was pegged at ten times the worth of an equal weight of the finest gold.

'Aye,' she said. 'It is no ancient idol, no black diamond fallen from the heavens. It was cast no more than five hundred years ago as tribute from the king of Keshan to the priest-king of Stygia. In those days, Selkhet was the pre-eminent goddess of Stygia, the patroness of the royal house, and the king of Keshan, wishing to curry favour, gathered the white gold from the royal treasury and had it cast into this image and sent to Khemi, the capital.

'Not long after that, it was stolen. It has turned up over the years, and early in this time it acquired its present guise. It was coated with a black enamel, an amalgam made from powdered obsidian.'

'Not a magical talisman, eh?' said Conan, thinking of the very odd happenings in the temple of Mother Doorgah.

'Not at all,' she said. 'But what it is, is the most valuable single object on earth. Its value is incalculable, and it could make both of us rich beyond our wildest dreams.'

'She lies!' Piris shrieked. 'It belongs to my family! And it is unthinkably ancient and magical.'

'Oh, be quiet, both of you,' Conan said. He brandished his blade and the two stood back. 'I no longer care what the damned thing is. I want nothing to do with it, though it be made of white gold and give the owner eternal youth to boot.'

'But you promised to deliver the scorpion to me,' Piris squeaked. 'You accepted my pay!'

'So I did,' Conan said, 'although I assuredly would not have undertaken the task had you given me the full story of your 'treasure.' Not for a mere thousand dishas, at any rate,' he amended.

'That is immaterial,' Piris protested. 'You gave me your word!'

'I did that, to my regret,' Conan said. 'And lead you to it I shall.' He turned to the woman.

'Tell me one thing: Did you kill Delia?'

'Delia?' she said. 'You mean Maxio's slut? I did not even

know she was dead.' As near as Conan could judge, she was telling the truth.

'What?' exclaimed Piris, his eyes gone wide in mock amazement. 'You mean there is someone in this town she hasn't stabbed?'

'Listen to me, you two,' Conan said. 'I have matters to attend to. I am leaving you now. If you would have the scorpion, meet me at noon tomorrow in the Square, before the theatre.'

'You will leave me here alone with this she-demon?' Piris asked indignantly.

'I did not undertake to be your bodyguard,' Conan said. 'You two may kill each other for all I care. But if it is advice you want, I suggest that you come to an agreement. And now I bid you both good evening.' He backed through the doorway and shut the door. From the other side of the painted cockatrice, he heard the two voices resume their squabbling.

As he descended to the common room, something occurred to him. He went back to the bar and summoned the barkeep.

'Were you here a bit more than a month ago, when the Reeve's brother was stabbed upstairs?'

'Aye,' said the barkeep, wiping out a jack with a filthy rag. 'I think that was the only time Bombas ever showed his fat face in the Pit, when he came down to claim the body, surrounded by his worthless men.'

'Who discovered the body?' the Cimmerian asked. 'It was Julus,' said the barkeep. 'That was just after old Lisip drove him out for skimming. He went to work for Bombas right after Burdo was murdered.'

'Aye, I thought it might be something like that,' Conan said. 'What's that?' said the barkeep, but once again he was addressing Conan's broad, armoured back.

From the Wyvern the Cimmerian made his way through the dark streets to the Temple of Bes. When he presented himself, one of the Shemitish guards conducted him to the crypt and opened the river door for him. He stepped out onto the riverbank and made his way around the confluence of the rivers to the bridge. He climbed the abutment to the roadbed and set out at an easy walk.

He reached the ridge overlooking the miner's village in less than two hours. Despite the late hour, he saw several high-burning fires around the perimeter of the village. He walked down to the nearest blaze and three men, armed with crude spears, stepped forward to challenge him.

'Who goes... it's the Cimmerian!' Grinning, the rest came forward.

'Is Bellas here?' Conan asked.

'Nay, but he shall be,' said one. A boy was sent to fetch the head man. A few minutes later, he arrived.

'Ask what you will of us,' the man said simply.

'Would you see an end to all this business?' Conan asked.

'Aye, with every breath I draw, I would like to see that.'

'Then come all of you to the Square tomorrow, a little past noon. Come armed.'

'That we shall!' said Bellas, and the rest cheered.

'Do not celebrate just yet,' said Conan. 'It will be a hard fight this time. Ermak's men.'

'Good,' said Bellas. 'The last fight but whetted our appetite for revenge.'

'Then you'll have your fill tomorrow,' Conan promised. 'Remember, wait until just a little past noon, then come into the town. Force the river gate if you have to, but if you move swiftly enough, the dodderer on guard will have no time to shut and bar it.'

'We shall do as you say,' Bellas said.

'I will see you tomorrow, then,' said Conan. Moving like a ghost, he disappeared from the circle of firelight.

The Cimmerian walked back toward the town, but when he reached the river, he did not cross. He had no doubt that he could scale the low river wall easily, but he had no wish to do so. He had run out of safe havens in the town, some lair where he could enjoy a night's uneventful sleep. Instead, he walked into a nearby copse of trees and rolled himself into his cloak. He adjudged from the height of the moon that he had a good two or three hours before daylight. The morrow promised to be a busy day, and he knew that he would need to be alert. Within minutes, he was asleep.

XIX

The Final Battle

He crossed the bridge as the sun rose on what promised to be a fine, clear day. The gatekeeper was surprised to see a traveller waiting without as he opened the portal on creaky hinges. This was a man Conan had not seen before, younger than most of them but graced with a peg leg, and bearing a hook where his left hand

should have been.

'If it were you, stranger,' the man warned, 'I'd not come

into this town on this day.'

'Why not?' asked Conan, passing through. He tossed a coin, which the man caught adroitly with his remaining hand.

'Because there's a big fight brewing today. The gangs've sulked all night, and I hear they're going to have it out once and for all

in the Square.'

'That should be a fine show,' Conan said. 'I must go find a

good place from which to watch.'

'As you will,' the man said. He took a tablet from his belt and opened it, balancing the thing on his good knee and extracting a stylus from its resting place behind his ear. 'Name and business?'

Conan tossed the man another coin, which was caught just as adroitly as the first, though the hand was burdened with the stylus. The guard shrugged and put away the tablet.

'And now I have advice for you, friend,' said Conan.

'What might it be?' the man asked.

'Start looking for a job. You will need a new one soon.'

The man shrugged resignedly. 'I can always go back to begging.'

Conan walked through the Pit's deceptive early morning quiet. He passed into the newer part of town. The Square was entirely deserted. For once, no one had come to set up a stall. Word was all over the town that it was a day for battle and that this time it would not be merely an amusement for spectators.

When Conan entered the common room, the innkeeper gaped and hurried to his side.

'Cimmerian, you must be careful! Julus has been here a number of times, seeking for you. I think the Reeve wants to clap you in his dungeon.'

'Bombas and his dogs will be far too busy this day to trouble over me,' Conan assured him. 'What concerns me now is not the Reeve or his lackeys, but breakfast!'

The innkeeper shook his head. 'You are mad, like everyone else in this town, but have it as you will. Seat yourself and eat your fill. It may be your last meal, if the town gossip is to be believed.'

Conan sat at a table where a newly arrived lot of caravaneers made way for him. He laid in a substantial breakfast, not because he thought it might be his last, but because he was hungry and because he knew that soon he might have to flee the town, and he had no idea of when he would eat again. When his appetite was satisfied, he beckoned a serving boy to his side.

'What would you, master?' asked the boy, eyeing the Cimmerian's stalwart frame and gleaming armament with envy. Conan gave him directions to the house where Casperus was staying.

'Tell the fat man,' Conan instructed, 'or the ill-favoured lout with two swords, these words: 'Conan of Cimmeria has what you want. Meet him before the great theatre on the Square at noon and he will lead you to it. If you do not come as instructed, our agreement is at an end.' Now, lad, repeat that to me.' The boy repeated it accurately, twice. 'Good,' Conan approved, tossing him a coin. 'Be off with you.'

The boy left upon his errand, and Conan passed some time trading stories with the caravaneers. He was most interested to learn of the doings in the other areas of Aquilonia, where the barons were defying the king.

He went to his room and found his belongings as he had left them. These he packed; then he went to the adjoining room, where Brita had stayed. There was no trace that said she had ever

been there.

'I wonder,' he said to himself, 'how the wench managed to

change the colour of her eyes.'

Carrying the saddlebags, he descended the stairs and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse and tied the bags behind the cantle. He rolled up his cloak and tied it there as well. 'Do you ride out today, sir?' asked the stableman. 'Not just yet,' Conan said. 'But soon. I want the horse to remain saddled thus, and tethered here, just inside the doorway. Will you see to that?' He handed the man a coin.

'Oh, aye, sir. You are not the first to stay here who wished to be ready to leave at a second's notice. The lady will not be going

with you?'

'No, she will not. Has the horse had water and grain?'

'Aye, early this morning.'

'Good. Give it no more.' A foundered horse would be of no

use to a fleeing man.

He left the stable and stood in the courtyard, studying the sun. It was almost noon. He walked out into the street and began to walk toward the Square. The street was deserted, but many eyes observed him from behind shutters. People stood on balconies and on rooftops, and all watched the Cimmerian silently. He walked with easy confidence, his only sound the occasional clicking of a massive bracelet against sword or dagger hilt. He walked

slowly, for he had no wish to arrive betimes and have to hang about the Square, where he could not remain unseen for long.

When he rounded the corner of the theatre, he did not proceed into the Square but, rather, climbed its steps and stood within the gloomy shade of its portico, watching the events. The far end of the square, where the Reeve had his headquarters, was already swarming with men. Fighting had not yet commenced, but men stood about in groups of varying size, waving their weapons and shouting.

Ermak's men massed in a compact formation before the headquarters of Bombas. The Reeve must have bribed them to support him, Conan thought. Then he espied Casperus and Gilmay as they came into the Square from a side alley. They looked to be apprehensive and indignant, but the fat man radiated greed that could be felt even at a distance. Soon they were before the theatre, looking about, but they did not glance up the steps to where the Cimmerian stood.

People crowded the rooftops of the buildings ringing the Square; no one was able to resist the prospect of such a spectacle. They would regret their eagerness to see blood flow, Conan thought, should those buildings be set afire. Then he saw two people come across the Square from the direction of the Pit. One was a black-haired woman, the other a small man who wore luridly coloured clothing. Conan could almost smell the lilacs. Gilmay was first to catch sight of them.

'You two!' he cried. 'How came you here?'

'We came at the Cimmerian's invitation,' said Altaira with a withering curl of her scarlet lip. 'As, I have no doubt, did the two of you.'

'Ah-h,' said Casperus, smiling. 'Now we are all together again, except for our poor dear Asdras, who, as I am given to understand, has escaped the sufferings of this transitory life for the undoubted pleasures of the life to come.'

'He will soon have much company in that life.' said Conan descending the stair. They all turned at the sound of his voice.

'Ah, what a clever fellow you are, sir,' said Casperus. 'Now you expect us to bid against each other for the idol, not so?'

'No,' Conan said. 'I have come to lead you to it, as I agreed. How you decide who is to have possession is your affair.'

'Then lead on, sir, lead on!' said Casperus, chuckling. Conan began to walk toward the temple and they followed. At the far end of the Square, the screaming climbed to a crescendo; then sounds of clashing steel filled the air.

'The rogues of this town do seem bent upon mutual massacre,' said Casperus with a sigh. 'It is so sad. How we shall miss

them all.'

They paused before the steps of the temple. 'I will warn you,' Conan said, 'that there is great magic loose in this place. Casperus, if you have any of the sorcerous skills you claim, you may

need them.'

The fat man looked concerned. 'Why? What has happened?'

'The priest in here thinks that he is a wizard as well. When I hid the scorpion here, his spells grew in power.'

'What are you talking about?' asked Altaira. 'I told you that the image has no sorcerous power!'

'No power?' said Casperus, chuckling. 'My dear lady, how

wrong you are!'

As they entered, their ears were assailed by the hideous, discordant chanting of inhuman voices. They walked gingerly toward the nave, from which poured a frightful, unnatural glow.

'Mitra preserve us!' said Casperus. 'What has happened here?' They gazed upon the fearful spectacle within. Around the colossus, the remaining acolytes chanted and howled, but they were no longer even remotely human. They were either scaly or hairy, and fanged, pincered, even tentacled. Some had transformed into shapes without description. The statue was no longer that of Mother Doorgah, but was half-metamorphosed into the semblance of a gigantic black scorpion with the face of a woman. Upon its back danced Oppia, now fully transformed into the form of Mother Doorgah, but she was not the beautiful, benevolent goddess of the earlier statue. This was Mother Doorgah in her aspect of Drinker of Blood and Devourer of Entrails. From the ghastly mess of human remains upon which she danced, she had done exactly that to her husband, Andolla.

'Quickly,' Casperus urged. 'You must lead me to the place where he worked his sorcery.' His face was pale and sweaty.

'No!' Piris insisted. 'The scorpion! Take us to the scorpion!'

'Aye,' said Altaira. 'To the scorpion! It has nothing to do with this. It is not magical.'

'I think we will do as Casperus says,' Conan told them. 'I do not want whatever is happening here to get loose in the city.'

'And get loose it will, soon,' said Casperus. 'We will never get away from here alive unless I put a stop to this.'

Quickly, Conan led them along a gallery flanking the nave and into the rooms below. Soon he found the chamber where Andolla kept his sorcerous impedimenta. Swiftly and efficiently, Casperus studied the instruments and the books that lay open.

'The fool!' he said. 'He managed to assemble some powerful talismans, and even more powerful tomes. Only a wizard of the first rank should touch these! This is what happens when an amateur dabbles in sorcery.' With sure movements, incredibly fast for a man of such bulk, he began to rip parchments that bore strange symbols and to scatter sand paintings. With great precision, he altered geometrical patterns chalked upon the floor and tossed certain waxen effigies into a brazier, where they flared and melted.

'There,' he said when he was done. 'That may just contain the damage. Let us go.'

'We go to the cellars,' Conan said, taking a lamp from a table. 'Get lamps or candles and follow.' They did as he said and were very subdued as they walked down the steps behind him.

All was quiet in the vaulted chambers below the temple- there was no indication of the chaos above. Conan led them to a great support pillar and began to press the keystones.

'The big statue is directly above,' he told them 'I think it may have something to do with the way the thing reinforced Andolla's spells.'

'I have no doubt that it did,' said Casperus. 'You talk like fools!' hissed Altaira.

'Master,' said Gilmay, who was getting over the shock of the spectacle above. 'Why not let me kill this vicious strumpet?' He half-drew one of his swords.

'No killing,' Conan warned. 'There will be no killing until I give you the scorpion, as I promised. After that,' he shrugged, 'you may kill and eat each other for all I care.'

'My dear Altaira,' said Casperus, 'you have only greed, whereas I have greed and scholarship. You refer to the scorpion of white gold, do you not? I, too, know of that one. Did you think that was the one we had?' 'Is it not?' she said, paling.

'I fear not. That was a relic of a far later age. Once there was civil war in Stygia, and a contestant for the throne thought to have the copy made and substituted for the original, thinking that it would give him power. He used white gold because only that metal could duplicate the weight of the original. Many legends grew around it later, due to of its unique value. You must have heard one of them. I fear that the copy was melted down centuries ago. What our resourceful friend has secreted within this pedestal

is the true idol.'

'But... but...' She got no further, for now the door began to open. Their eyes shone with a combination of fear and avarice as the stone moved aside. Then the scorpion stood before them, just within the aperture.

'It has moved,' said Conan, the words almost freezing in his throat. 'I set it on the pedestal in the centre of the chamber, and it has moved to the door.' His scalp crawled as he backed away,

hand on hilt.

'Ah, is she not beautiful?' said Casperus, ignoring the Cimmerian's words. 'And now she is mine again!'

'Never yours, and not yours now!' Altaira said, drawing a dagger from within her sleeve and plunging it into the fat man's back. The huge bulk collapsed across the scorpion and she tried to push it aside. With a strangled shriek, Gilmay drew his swords and aimed a great double blow at the woman's body.

Unthinkingly, Conan drew his own sword, and with a lightning slash, he sheared away the youth's head. Even as the corpse collapsed atop the other, Altaira withdrew her dagger and favoured Conan with an evil smile.

'You just cannot get out of the habit of protecting me, can you, barbarian?' Catlike, she whirled and plunged her blade through Piris's throat. The little man's eyes bugged as he staggered back, hands at his throat, blood spurting between his fingers.

The woman gasped and stared with horror at a deep gash that ran the length of her forearm. The slender dagger in Piris's hand was stained with her blood, and with a darker substance.

'The scorpion is all yours,' Conan shouted, 'and I wish you all joy of it! Never did four people deserve each other more!' He went back up the stairs in a series of bounds that quickly brought him to the nave of the temple. The hellish noise had ceased, and the unnatural glow was gone. The light admitted by skylights illuminated a floor covered with writhing, groaning people, who seemed to be regaining their human aspect. The huge statue had collapsed to a heap of fragments. He saw Oppia lying atop the heap. If she was alive or dead, he neither knew nor cared.

After the temple, the bright sunlight and the cheerful sounds of battle seemed wholesome indeed. He saw that the miners had arrived, and now the whole Square was thronged with shouting, struggling men. Bodies lay everywhere amidst a little of broken weapons. From the rooftops, onlookers cheered the fighters on, without discrimination.

Conan worked his way around the periphery of the Square until he stood before the Reeve's headquarters. The steps leading up to it were ringed by a double line of Ermak's men. Conan passed behind them and went up the stair. On the third step from the top stood Ermak, directing his men. He was too busy to take notice of the Cimmerian, who passed within the headquarters.

Just inside the door, two men were screaming at one another. Conan was not surprised to see that the two were Bombas and

Xanthus.

'Fool!' Xanthus screeched. 'It is all over now! Your greed

has brought the royal forces upon us!'

'My greed?' yelled Bombas, his face gone scarlet. 'It was your idea to skim the royal silver!'

Julus spotted Conan and came forward. 'What are you doing here, barbarian?' The other two broke off their argument and stared at the newcomer.

'I've come to collect the rest of my pay,' Conan said. 'What pay?' Bombas demanded. Conan pointed to Xanthus. 'The pay he promised me for cleaning up his town. I have done it, and I want my pay.' 'What do you mean?' screamed Xanthus. Conan jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the Square. 'That is my doing. By the time the royal forces arrive, they'll be able to hang any surviving rogues with a single short rope. When the noise dies down, this will be a quiet town once

more. Pay me.'

Xanthus's face convulsed with near-apoplexy. 'But I did not... I did not...'He was unable to finish.

'By the way,' Conan said to Bombas, 'you will be one of those gracing that rope. I found your real account books in the fort when I led the raid there. They are in safe custody and will soon be in the king's hands. He is not much of a king, but he is enough of a sovereign to hang a thieving official.' Bombas's hand went to his throat as if he already felt the hemp.

'So all this is your doing, eh?' said Julus, coming forward with a sword bare in his hand.

'Aye, it is. And in a moment I am going to pay you for that beating. I am not tied up now. But first one thing: It was you who killed Delia, wasn't it?'

The brute smiled as if at a pleasant memory. 'That I did. How did you guess? The wench threatened to spread tales about me if I did not pay her. Slaying her was so much easier.'

Conan looked at Bombas. 'Do you know what she threatened to tell you about your henchman?'

'Do not listen to him!' Julus barked.

'She was going to tell you,' Conan went on, 'that it was Julus who slew your brother, using a dagger he stole from Maxio. Lisip had just expelled him for stealing, and he wanted to curry favour with you. So he killed Burdo, then went to you to say that Maxio had slain your brother, letting you know that he was just the right-hand man you needed to replace your brother. But Delia saw it, didn't she?'

'She guessed,' Julus said. 'She kept it to herself as a trick to keep Maxio sweet. When she gave up on keeping him, she came to me with her threat.' Abruptly he whirled and thrust his sword through Bombas's belly. Quick as a thought, he had the sword back out and turned to face Conan with a grin. 'The king will be grateful to the man who slew his thieving Reeve. Do you not think so?'

'He will not have the chance!' Conan said, hewing at the thug with even greater swiftness. Julus backed across the room, fending away blows with a confident look. Then his look was alarmed, then terrified as he knew that he would not be able to strike a blow in return. He began to bellow for help, but all sound was drowned by the racket from without.

'This is a little different from torturing bound men, is it not?' said Conan, not allowing his words to interfere with the deadly rhythm of his blows.

Eyes wide with horror, Julus abruptly leaped back, simultaneously hurling his sword at the Cimmerian. Conan expected the move and ducked below the hurtling steel. He felt the tick of the blade as it nicked his steel cap in passing; then he was running after the fleeing Julus. Three bounds and a lunge, and his blade spitted the man from back to front, a hands-breadth of steel standing out before the thug's breast. Conan withdrew his Made, and bright blood pulsed out of both wounds.

'A coward always dies like a coward,' Conan commented.

He turned and walked back toward Xanthus The old man stared at the corpse of Bombas with satisfaction. Then he looked up at the approaching barbarian.

'I—I cannot pay you just yet, Conan! I must assemble the money, but I promise you, I shall.'

'You'll do nothing,' Conan said, 'not even live much longer. Your name is on those books as well.'

A figure dressed in half-armour entered the doorway. It was Ermak, his blade stained as was Conan's. 'It is finished! Pick-swinging miners have broken my men and they flee!'

Xanthus pointed at Conan. 'Ermak, kill that man! I will make you rich if you will slay him for me!'

'Aye, I'll slay the rogue,' said Ermak. 'But not for your money, you foolish old skinflint. You're a dead man if ever there was one, with the king's men on their way, as they must be by now.'

'I will see both of you hanged!' screeched Xanthus. Then he looked down with alarm. A hand gripped his robe. The hand belonged to Bombas, and the fat Reeve began to pull the old miser inexorably downward. 'Let go of me! Julus slew you!'

'Because of you,' Bombas wheezed, 'my Lorinda died! Now I am going to kill you!'

'That was your doing. Yours!' Xanthus protested.

'Who is Lorinda?' Ermak asked.

'A woman they both loved, long ago,' said Conan. 'There is no need for us to fight. It is all over here. We are professionals, you and I.'

'Oh, but we must,' Ermak said grimly. 'This was the sweetest situation a warrior ever encountered. A whole town to loot without battle. And you ruined it. I do not know how you did it, but it was all your doing. From the moment you arrived, everything began to go sour. Guard yourself!' He gave the Cimmerian that much courtesy, then he attacked.

This was not like fighting Julus. Conan found himself defending his life with desperation. Ermak was strong, swift, and highly skilled. He was better armoured than Conan as well, and did not have to pay as much attention to defending his body, for the steel of his cuirass was proof against even Conan's blows, while Conan's brigantine might be pierced by a hard and well-aimed thrust.

For the first moments of the fight, the Cimmerian concentrated on defence, analysing his enemy, and plotting his own strategy. He found himself enjoying this. It had been far too long since he had felt himself fully tried in single combat with a worthy opponent. He lived for mortal combat, and now the fierce joy of it began to suffuse him, and this was his true edge. Ermak was a cold, hard, professional warrior, but Conan was a barbarian.

After his fierce initial attack, Ermak shifted to a more calculating strategy. His armour was heavy, and he knew better than to tire himself too quickly. Now Conan began his assault. Twice his blade rang from the other's casque, but without real force. The basket hilt of the other's sword prevented an attack to the hand, and the man guarded his sword arm well.

The half-armour ended partway down the thigh. Conan launched a flurry of high attacks, drawing Ermak's guard upward, then abruptly slashed low, gashing the man's leg just above the knee. Ermak did not waste time in seeing how badly he was hurt, but instantly took advantage of the low position of Conan's sword to slash at his opponent's face. The Cimmerian avoided the attack only by leaping backward, and only a man of his extraordinary swiftness could have accomplished the adroit move.

Ermak pressed the onslaught, forcing the Cimmerian to give ground, for once momentum has been lost in a fight, it is hard to regain. But the gang lord's leading leg was weakening from its wound, his high boot filling with blood.

'Damn you, barbarian!' he growled. 'Why?' Conan did not answer. Instead, he lowered his sword slightly. Ermak exploited the opening and thrust at the Cimmerian's throat. Conan parried the blade, not with his sword this time, but with the massive bracelet on his left wrist. He let the blade slide high past his left shoulder while he lunged with his whole body behind his weapon. His point caught Ermak just beneath the cheekbone. It passed upward through the rear of the eye socket, through the brain, and halted at the back of the skull. Conan needed a forceful wrench to free the blade. Ermak continued to stand for a few seconds, then toppled as stiffly as would a falling tree, the clash of his armour ringing loudly on the marble floor.

'That is how a warrior should die,' said Conan, cleaning his sword on a wall hanging. 'On his feet and facing his enemy.' He re-sheathed the weapon and went to inspect Xanthus and the Reeve. The features of the miser were twisted and empurpled, Bombas's fat beringed fingers buried in the flesh of his scrawny neck.

'So those soft hands were good for something after all,' Conan said.

He left the headquarters and walked out into the Square. It was carpeted with bodies, and citizens stood around surveying the carnage. An eerie silence reigned. He walked the length of the great plaza, noting in passing that Maxio lay dead, clutching his belly, his look of perpetual anger still upon his countenance.

He made a leisurely progress back to the inn. It seemed that there would be no rush after all. He went to the stable and claimed his horse. As he mounted in the courtyard, the innkeeper came up to him.

'What has happened?' the man asked.

'I think that this will be a quiet town now,' the Cimmerian answered.

He rode out into the street and contemplated which way to turn. He 'could ride southward through the Pit to the river gate and cross the river, there to dig up the substantial loot he had buried. But that would be weighty burden to carry and guard. He had a well-stuffed purse, and the treasure was safe where it lay. It was never a bad idea to have such a cache against hard times. He might someday need to raise a force of fighting men, and the cache would make a useful first payment for their services. He turned toward the landward gate.

He ignored the gate guard, who sat outside his booth, despondently gazing at the ground, undoubtedly contemplating a return to the begging bowl. It was a fine day, and the Cimmerian nudged his horse to a brisk canter.

Before he had ridden far, he passed a royal force riding the other way. It was a hundred strong, and at its head rode a royal official. Just behind him rode a royal executioner. Conan doubted that they would have much to do when they reached Sicas.

At the juncture with the high road, he encountered four armoured men, grim of mien and glowering at him. He recognized Nevus and three of the mercenaries he had met riding into Sicas a few days before.

'I see that a few of you escaped with your lives,' Conan commented.

'Aye,' said one. 'We waited here to see if Ermak would join us.'

'He will not join you,' Conan informed him. 'Ermak is dead.'

'Only you could have slain him,' said Nevus. 'That means it is our task to avenge him.' The four began to ready their weapons. Conan did not touch his own.

'It was a fair fight. There is nothing to avenge.'

'You spoiled one of the softest berths I ever had,' said another. 'We should slay you for that.'

'Then I'll ask you the old mercenary's question,' Conan said. 'Who's the paymaster?'

The four looked at one another for a while. Then, one by one, they put away their weapons. 'Aye,' said Nevus. 'What's the sense of fighting without pay?'

'Good,' Conan said. 'Let us all be friends.' He looked at the bulging purse each man wore at his belt. 'I see that each of you came away from Sicas with a full purse. So did I. Listen to me. I have been conversing with travellers. Numedides totters on his throne, and the barons are breaking away from him. There will be war soon, and the recruiters will be all over Tarantia. Let us go there and spend our money. By the time we've drunk and wenched and gamed it all away, we'll have a pick of good fighting positions.'

'Aye' cheered the four. They wheeled their mounts and took up the royal high road toward Tarantia. After they had ridden for a while, Nevus turned to Conan.

'Cimmerian,' he asked, 'back there in Sicas... how did you do it?'

Conan thought for a while, then turned to his new companion with a hard grin. 'That was a town of rogues, my friend, and I am the greatest rogue of all!'

Nevus shook his head in admiration. 'That you are, Conan of Cimmeria!'

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