The Sword of Skelos (3 page)

“Hardly. Besides, you’re a cripple.”

“I walk this way because of that bone you put in my buskin! I am sound as a Turanian gold piece!”

“Well, you’re in Zamora, now. Walk, Yavuz. I want to talk with an Iranistani, not a limpy scarface from Shadizar’s cesspools!”

“You are not going to kill me, are you, Conan?”

“Probably not. But I am growing impatient.”

Despite his limp, Yavuz speeded his gait. They turned onto a street a block beyond the bazaar, which marked the beginning of better Shadizar. A pair of uniformed men of the city’s Watch ambled along toward them, glanced at the pair without interrupting their quiet conversation. To say that Conan did not like such men was an understatement. Yet this night he was most definitely not looking for trouble with the enforcers of the laws of Shadizar. He made a great concession, gritting his teeth; he stepped streetward, to let the men of the Watch pass on the inside. They did, and went on.

A sign swung on creaky old chains; on it was depicted the head of a snarling lion. Head and mane were painted scarlet.

“Here,” Yavuz said.

“Peer within. See if you see our man.”

Yavuz did, briefly, and back-paced hurriedly. Coming thus down on his bone-lined buskin, he winced.

“Aye. He is there. In the back to the left near the keg, wearing a green kaffia.”

Conan’s hand again clamped Yavuz’s arm while the Cimmerian looked within. “Um.” He turned. “Your cloak will be hanging on a peg just inside the door on the morrow, Yavuz. You will need only give the taverner your name.”

“But—”

“It is not cold, and I need it just now while I walk back to that jackal’s table—to conceal his blade in my hand.”

“Mitra!” Yavuz said, and amended: “Crom! You are not just going to go in and stick him!”

“Whether I do or not does not concern you, little Yavuz,
very
little Yavuz. You are free, and alive. I bid you fly, and burrow deep.”

Released and so bidden, Yavuz wasted no time staring or expressing gratitude for his life. He scuttled —limping.

Conan entered the inn of the sign of the Red Lion.

The man seated alone in the rear corner of the Red Lion was middling handsome. His mustache and short, pointed beard were black, as his eyes very nearly were. He wore a headcloth in the eastern manner; the green fabric covered his crown and three sides of his head to the shoulders. A fillet of cloth, yellow and black woven in spirals, held it in place. His long-sleeved shirt was yellow and his full, loose pants red; so was the sash at his waist. Wideset eyes peered at Conan from a long face with a large thin nose and prominent jaw.

The Cimmerian went directly to that table. From beneath Yavuz’s dark brown cloak came his hands, to lay before the seated man two coins of gold and the three-foot “knife” from up in the Ilbars Mountains.

“These gold pieces I took from a man with a beard parted by a scar. They are not enough to pay the kind of man who could take me.”

The other man’s left hand remained wrapped around his henna-hued mug of earthenware; the fingers of his right remained visible on the table’s edge nearest him. He stared up at the very young man looming over him. Young or no, the fellow was dangerous; anyone could see that, anyone who knew what to look for. He was unusually tall and built massively. His mop of black hair was square-cut above blue eyes. He wore a short tunic of good green over nothing, and the garment’s unusual deeply v-cut front displayed the molded muscular plates of his great chest. Sword and dagger swung from a belt of worn old leather, which

was slung low on lean hips. A tribal amulet of pitiful “jewelry” lay on his chest, slung on a leathern cord: a longish blob of red-brown clay set with a bit of yellowish glass that was definitely not a gemstone. Probably something to do with his religion, whatever that might be, or a ward against disease or evil eye. His only other decor was a nice little gold ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. Set with an emerald of no great size, it did not appear to be a man’s ring.

About this youth there was a look, almost an aura of savagery barely contained, of constant readiness for violence. He spoke again.

“Once I knew another man of Iranistan. We met in the home of a certain man of certain powers. Only coincidence brought us there at the same time, of an evening. Together, we fought off guardians who were not… natural men. Then two serpents emerged from a panel in a certain door: vipers. Both bit the man of Iranistan. He died while I watched, powerless to aid him.”

Standing over the table, Conan removed Yavuz’s cloak while he watched the other man decide that Conan knew who he was, and choose whether to dissemble or no. When he decided to speak, his words were relatively straightforward, assuming that each knew who the other was and why both were here. At the same time he maintained some caution: “Was his name Yusuphar?”

“You are interested in talking? —With me
not
trussed up?”

“I may be.”

“Do you wait, then, while I give this cloak to the taverner. It belongs to Yavuz, whom I did not kill.”

The seated Iranistani showed a little frown. “The other—”

“He sought to strike me from behind. I dodged, and struck second. He did not dodge. Had I known he wanted only to take me alive, I might not have opened his throat with my sword.”

The other man nodded. “Deep?”

“He is dead,” Conan said, and walked among the tables to the taverner.

“This cloak was loaned me tonight,” he told that large-eyed man, “by a good friend. His name is Yavuz and he wears a scar that splits his beard, here.” Conan touched his own cleanshaven face. “I told him I would leave the cloak on that peg nearest the door.”

“It might disappear if you do that now. I know Yavuz. Best give me the cloak; I will hang it there when I open on the morrow.”

“Good. I would hate for it to disappear. Once a man tried to cheat my friend Yavuz, and now he is called Three-finger. I am joining the Iranistani. Do bring him another, and me a cup of your best wine. There’s gold on the table.”

The taverner looked. “Hmp. Also a sword. That will have to be put out of sight. You would do best to let me hold yours, too, until you are ready to go.”

“I shall get the other one out of sight. I am bodyguard to that wealthy Iranistani, and must keep my arms.” Without yielding time for a reply, Conan turned and walked back to the table. Standing, he said, “Lean your oversized knife against the wall there on your left.”

The Iranistani’s smile was tiny as he did so; the youth had swiftly noted that he was left-handed and could not quickly whip up a wall-leaned sword on that side. Conan sat down facing him.

“Was his name Yusuphar, this other man of Iranistan you met by accident in the home of a certain man of certain powers?”

“We both know that it was not,” Conan said. “His name was Ajhindar. He told me that another of his land was about: a spy on him. He bore a blade such as that one I took from two hired men—kidnapers, not killers. One is dead and the other probably still running. You have your weapon and your gold, and I am here. Why did you want me brought to you?”

The Iranistani’s left hand left his goblet, and the table. “Leave the dagger alone,” Conan said. “I’ll have mine through you before you have a good grasp on the hilt.”

A hip-swinging young woman in two beaded strips of scarlet cloth sewn with green thread appeared beside Conan, with wine for both of them. The two men did not look at her. She went off tight-lipped, noting how interested the pair seemed in each other. She saw all kinds.

“You are Conan, a Cimmerian.”

“I am. You are of Iranistan, far and far from here. You have traced me up here from Arenjun. Your name?”

“You Cimmerians are called barbarians. How is it then that you come to me and ask my name, rather than wait outside to kill me when I leave this place?”

“We Cimmerians are also curious, and known to give way to whims. Too, had we heard of Iranistan up in Cimmeria, we’d have called
you
barbarians, because you are not Cimmerians.”

The man smiled and leaned back. “My name is Khassek. Did Ajhindar in truth die as you say?”

Staring directly into Khassek’s eyes, Conan said, “He did.”

“You know… Crom take me if I don’t believe you!”

“Crom! You swear by the grim Lord of the Mound?”

Khassek smiled. “I have been learning all I could of Cimmeria.”

“And of me. Looking for me. Preparing to question me.”

“Aye, Conan. I would even bargain with you. You and Ajhindar both sought a particular… prize. I believe you have it.”

“Naturally I don’t know what you are talking about.” Conan sipped his wine. “You are paying, by the way. Is this thing you seek of some value, back in Iranistan?”

“You know that it is, Conan.”

“Why?”

A group of people across the inn erupted into loud laughter. Khassek gazed at Conan for a long while. At last he came forward, with both elbows thumping onto the table. “I believe,” he said, “that I shall tell you.”

“Name this prize you mention,” Conan said blandly. “A jewel?”

“Several,” Khassek said. “They form an amulet of far, far more value than your ring and that bit of earth and glass about your neck, Conan. Were the amulet called the Eye of Erlik placed in the hands of my khan, you could wear a gold one there, set with rubies… unless you prefer emeralds.”

“A god’s
eye
?”

“That is only the amulet’s name.”

“A yellow stone or two, perhaps.”

Knowing that Conan was hazarding no idle guess, Khassek only nodded.

Conan toyed with his wine mug. “A valuable amulet indeed. And he would give me one as valuable, your Khan.”

“More valuable, to you. Give listen Conan, Cimmerian. That amulet is important to the Khan of Zamboula. You probably know that. Zamboula lies between here and Iranistan. You have been there?”

Conan shook his head. “I am only a hill-country youth,” he said disengagingly.

“Who wears a tunic made in Khauran, I believe.”

“You have been astudying, Khassek! No, I have not been to Zamboula, and a month or so ago I had never heard of Iranistan. It lies beyond Zamboula, you say? That is very far.”

“I believe you know that it does. Iranistan plans no war on Zamboula, and no harm to its ruler, who is a satrap of mighty Turan. With the Eye of Erlik in his possession, though, my khan could negotiate a far better trade arrangement with Zamboula. That is our goal.”

“Perhaps,” Conan said. “As you thought the amulet was in the hands of a mage, and as Ajhindar sought it there… perhaps it is a sorcerous thing, a thing that will enable your ruler to torture or slay Zamboula’s worthy khan, from a distance.”

“Conan, it is not—as Zamboula’s khan is not worthy. Yet, even if it were so… does that concern you? I tell you that there is a rich reward for you if you aid me in placing the Eye of Erlik into my khan’s hands.”

“Two months away!”

“You have pressing business in Shadizar, Conan?”

“You are right,” the Cimmerian said. He shrugged. “The health of the satrap of Zamboula is of no more concern to me than Iranistan’s trade arrangements. Or—who owns a particular amulet. An eye!” He shook his head. “Is Erlik missing an eye, then?”

Khassek nodded. “Now let us suppose that you have it, or know where it might be found. If both of us returned to Iranistan with it, both of us would be rewarded. Do you have another thought in mind?”

“Iranistan is so far,” Conan said, continuing to tease—and to think.

“That is true. I have not journeyed so far to return without the amulet, and I won’t. What holds you here? I know that in Arenjun you are… still sought.”

“Ride so far with a man who paid two others to have me clubbed and captured, only to talk with me? Surely you meant to torture me to learn of this Eye, if necessary. An
Eye
!”

“I’ll not deny it. How could I know you might be a reasonable man? I thought you had killed Ajhindar.”

“And now you do not?”

“I have the feeling that you have told me the truth—about that,” the Iranistani added significantly.