Conan the Victorious by Robert Jordan
“What do they have to do with the Nemedian? I doubt they trust him as much as I do.”
“Less, of a certainty. But they are none too sure of setting out afoot either. It would not take much spark—say you and Prytanis attempting to slay each other—for half of them to try for the horses. Then instead of going to Vendhya, we can all kill each other on this Mitra-forsaken bit of coast.”
Conan shook his head ruefully. “You see a great deal with that one eye, my old friend. Karela would be proud of you.”
The bearded man scrubbed at his nose and sniffed. “Perhaps she would. Come. They will be wanting their gold and likely thinking they should have twice as much.”
The gold—three pieces laid in each man’s calloused palm—caused no squabble at all, though there were a few sharp looks at the leather bag Hordo tied to his sword-belt. The way it tugged the broad belt down less was clear the proof that he had shared out most of the contents. The division of the supplies was the source of greater friction.
Conan was surprised at how many arguments could arise over dried fruit ruined by heat and immersion, or coils of rope for which no one could think of any use at present. Eventually, however, water bags, blankets and such were parceled out in proportion to numbers. The live goat and the remains of the cooked one would go with the men afoot. The cage of pigeons was lashed to the spare horse, along with a sack of grain for feed.
“Better to give the grain to the horses,” Conan grumbled, “and feed ourselves what we can catch.” He tossed a stirrup leather up over the silver-studded saddle on the big black and bent to check the girth strap. The two parties had truly become separate now. Those who would ride to Vendhya checked their horses while a short distance away, the men who were returning to Sultanapur bundled and lashed their share of the supplies into backpacks, murmuring doubtfully among themselves.
“Mitra’s Mercies, Cimmerian,” Hordo told him, “but there are times I think you do your best just to avoid a few comforts. I look forward to a spitted pigeon or two roasting over the fire tonight.”
Conan grunted. “If we put less attention to our bellies and more to riding hard, we could catch that caravan by nightfall. The Vendhyans spoke as if it were not far off.”
“That,” said Ghurran, leading his horse awkwardly by the reins with both hands, “would be a good way to travel to Vendhya. We could journey in safety and in comfort.” As though realizing that he intruded on a private conversation, he gave an apologetic smile and tugged his horse on.
“That old man,” Hordo muttered, “begins to fray my patience. The Vendhyans nearly kill us, my boat is burned, and through it all nothing seems to matter to him except reaching Vendhya.”
“His single-mindedness does not bother me,” Conan said, “though I should be glad to be able to do without his potions.”
The one-eyed man scratched at his beard. “You know it would be best to forget this caravan, do you not? If the men we fought last night have gone to join it, there will certainly be trouble there for us. We will be strangers, and they members of the caravan already.”
“I know,” Conan said quietly. “But you must know the antidote is not enough for me. A man has tried to kill me, and perhaps succeeded, over chests that look to be worth more than their contents. I will know the why of it, and the answer lies with those chests.”
“But be a little careful, Conan. It will profit you little to be spitted on a Vendhyan lance.”
“We tried to be careful last night. From now on, let them be careful of me.” Conan swung up into the saddle and had to catch hold of the high pommel as his head spun. Grimly he forced himself erect.
“Let them be careful of me,” he repeated and kicked the Bhalkhana stallion into motion.
CHAPTER IX
Sand dunes quickly gave way to plains of tough, sparse grass and low, isolated hills. Scrub growth and thorn bushes dotted the land, though to the east taller trees could be seen along the banks of the Zaporoska. To the south the grayness of mountains, the Colchians, rose on the horizon. The sun climbed swiftly, a blazing yellow ball in a cloudless sky, with a baking heat that sucked moisture from man and ground. A puff of dust marked each hoof-fall.
Throughout the day Conan kept a steady pace, one the horses could maintain until nightfall. And he intended to maintain it that long and longer, if need be, despite the heat. His sharp eyes had easily located the tracks left by the Vendhyans and their pack mules. No effort had been made to conceal them. The harsh-voiced man had been concerned with swiftness, not with the unlikely possibility that someone might follow his trail. Enam and Shamil proved to be good hands with a bow, making forays from the line of travel that soon had half a score of lean brown hares hanging from their saddles.
The Cimmerian ignored suggestions that they should stop at midday to cook the hares. Stops to give the horses a drink from cupped hands he tolerated, but no sooner had he pushed the plug back into his water bag than he was mounted again and moving. Always to the south, though drifting slightly to the east as if not to get too far from the Zaporoska. Always following the tracks of two score of mounted men with pack horses.
The sun dropped toward the west, showing a display of gold and purple on the mountains, and still Conan kept on, though the sky darkened rapidly overhead and the faint glimmerings of stars were appearing. Prytanis was no longer the only one muttering. Hordo, and even Ghurran, joined in.
“We will not reach Vendhya by riding ourselves to death,” the old herbalist groaned. He shifted on his saddle, wincing. “And it will do you no good if I am too stiff and sore to mix the potion that keeps you alive.”
“Listen to him, Cimmerian,” Hordo said. “We cannot make the journey in a single day.”
“Has one day’s riding done you in?” Conan laughed. “You who were once the scourge of the Zamoran plains?”
“I have become more suited to a deck than a saddle,” the one-eyed man admitted ruefully. “But, Erlik blast us all, even you can no longer see the tracks you claim to follow. I’ll believe much of those accursed northern eyes of yours, but not that.”
“I’ve no need to see the tracks,” Conan replied, “while I can see that.” He pointed ahead where tiny lights were barely visible through the thickening twilight. “Have you gotten so old you can no longer tell stars from campfires?”
Hordo stared, tugging at his beard, then finally grunted, “A league, perhaps more. ’Tis all but full dark now. Caravan guards will not look with kindness on strangers approaching in the night.”
“I will at least be sure it is the right caravan,” Conan said.
“You will get us all killed,” Prytanis grumbled loudly. “I said it from the first. This is a fool’s errand, and you will get us all killed.”
Conan ignored him, but he did slow the stallion to a walk as they drew closer to the fires. Those fires spread out like the lights of a small city, and indeed he had seen many respectable towns that covered a lesser expanse. A caravan so large would have many guards. He began to sing, somewhat off tune, a tavern song of Sultanapur, relating the improbable exploits of a wench of even more improbable endowments.
“What in Mitra’s name?” Hordo growled perplexedly.
“Sing,” Conan urged, pausing in his effort. “Men of ill intent do not announce themselves half a league off. You would not wish a guard to put an arrow in you just because you came on him suddenly in the night. Sing.” He took up the song again, and after a moment the others joined in raggedly, all save Ghurran, who sniffed loudly in disapproval of the lyrics.
The bawdy words were ringing through the night when, with a jingle of mail, a score of horsemen burst out of the darkness to surround them with couched lances and aimed crossbows. They wore Turanian armor for the most part, but mismatched. Conan saw a Corinthian breastplate and helmets from three other lands. He let the song trail off—the others had ceased in mid-word—and folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle.
“An interesting song,” one of the lancers growle
“Wayfarers,” Conan replied, “journeying to Vendhya. If you also travel in that direction, perhaps you could use a few extra swords.”
The tall lancer laughed. “We have more swords than we can use, stranger. A few days past Karim Singh himself, the wazam of Vendhya, joined this caravan with five hundred Vendhyan cavalry sent to escort him from the shores of the Vilayet.”
“A great many Vendhyans,” Conan said, “to be this close to Turan. I thought they stayed beyond Secunderam.”
“I will tell Yildiz of it the next time I speak with him,” the lancer replied dryly. A few of his men laughed, but none of the weapons was lowered.
“Do you have other latecomers in your caravan?” Conan asked.
“A strange question. Do you seek someone?”
Conan shook his head as though he had not noticed the creak of leather and mail as the caravan guards tensed. In the long and often lawless passages between cities, caravans protected all of their members against outsiders, no matter the claims or charges. “I seek to travel to Vendhya,” he said. “But if there are other latecomers, perhaps some of them need guards. Possibly some of your merchants feel less safe, not more, for the presence of five hundred Vendhyans. Soldiers have been known to have their own ideas of what taxes are due, and how they should be collected.”
The lancer’s long drawn-out breath told that the idea was not a new one to him. Caravans had paid one tax to the customs men before, and then another to the soldiers supposedly sent to protect them. “Eight swords,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Two score and three parties of merchants make up this caravan, stranger, including seven who have joined us since we rounded the southern end of the Vilayet. There are always those—no offense intended—who think to make the journey alone until they see the wastes of the Zaporoska before them and realize the Himelias are yet ahead. Then they are eager to join the first caravan that appears, if they are lucky enough that one does. I will pass the word of your presence, but you must understand that I can allow you to come no closer in the night. How shall I tell them you are called, stranger?”
“Tell them to call me Patil,” Conan replied. Hordo groaned through his teeth.
“I am Torio,” the lancer said, “captain of the caravan guard. Remember, Patil, keep your men well clear of the caravan until first light.” Raising his lance sharply, he wheeled his mount and led the guards away at a gallop toward the caravan’s fires.
“I expect this is as good a spot to camp as any,” Conan said, dismounting. “Baltis, if you can find something to burn, we can make a good meal on roast hare before sleeping. I could wish we had saved some wine from the ship.”
“He is mad,” Prytanis announced to the ebon sky. “He gives a name that will bring men after us with blades in their fists, then wishes he had some wine to go with the hare.”
“As much as I hate to agree with Prytanis,” Hordo rumbled, “he is right this time. If you had to give a name other than your own—though, by Mitra’s bones, I cannot see why—could you not have chosen another than that?”
“The Cimmerian is wily,” Baltis laughed. “When you hunt rats, you set out cheese. This is cheese our Vendhyan rats cannot fail to sniff.”
Conan nodded. “He has the right of it, Hordo. There must be more than a thousand people in that caravan. Now I do not have to search for the men I seek. They will search me out instead.”
“And if they search you out with a dagger in the back? Or a few score swordsmen falling on us in the night?” The one-eyed man threw up his hands in exasperation.
“You still do not see,” Conan said. “They will want to know who I am, and what I do here, especially using Patil’s name. Think of the pains to which they have gone to keep those chests secret. What do I know, and who have I told? They can learn nothing if I am dead.”
“You begin to sound as devious as a Stygian,” Hordo muttered into his beard.
“For myself,” Ghurran said, lowering himself unsteadily to the ground, “I do not care at this moment if Bhandarkar’s Lion Guard descends on us.” He knuckled the small of his back and stretched, grunting. “After I find myself on the outside of one of those hares, I may feel different, but not now.”
“Well?” Conan said, eying the others. “Even if the first man Torio speaks to is one of those I seek, you still have time to be away before they get here.”
One by one they got down, Prytanis last of all, and he still muttering. By the time the horses were relieved of their saddles and hobbled, Baltis had a fire going, and Enam and Shamil were skinning and spitting hares. Water, Conan discovered, went very well with roast hare when nothing else was available.
The fire burned low, clean-picked bones were tossed aside, and silence replaced the talk that had prevailed while they ate. Conan offered to take the first watch, but no one seemed to have any interest in wrapping himself in his blankets. One by one all but Conan and Ghurran took out oil and stone to tend their blades. Each tried to act as though this had nothing to do with any possible attack but every man turned his back to the dying fire as he worked. There would be less adjustment for the eyes to the dark that way.
Ghurran fussed about his leather sack, at last thrusting the too-familiar pewter goblet at the big Cimmerian. A anticipatory grimace formed on Conan’s face as he took it. As he steeled himself to drink, a clatter of hooves sounded in the night. He leaped to his feet, slopping some of the foul-tasting potion over the rim of the cup, and his free hand went to his sword.
“I thought you were sure there would be no attack,” Hordo said, holding his own blade at the ready. Every man around the fire was on his feet, even Ghurran, who twisted his head about as though looking for a place to hide.
“If I was always right,” Conan said, “I should be the wealthiest man in Zamora instead of being here.” Someone—he was not sure who—sighed painfully.
Seven horses halted well beyond the firelight, and three of the riders dismounted and came forward. Two of them stopped at the very edge of the darkness while the third approached the fire. Dark eyes, seeming tilted because of an epicanthic fold, surveyed the smugglers from a bony, saffron-skinned face.
“I hope that your swords are not for me,” the man said in fluent, if overly melodious, Hyrkanian as he tucked his hands into the broad sleeves of a pale-blue velvet tunic embroidered on the chest with a heron. A round cap of red silk topped with a gold button sat on his shaven head. “I am but a humble merchant of Khitai, intending harm to no man.”
“They are not for you,” Conan said, motioning the others to put up their weapons. “It is just that a man must be on guard when strangers approach in the night.”
“A wise precaution,” the Khitan agreed. “I am Kang Hou, and I seek one called Patil.”
“I am called Patil,” Conan said.
The merchant arched a thin eyebrow. “A strange name for a cheng-li. Your pardon. It means simply a person with pale skin, one from the lands of the distant west. Such men are considered mythical by many in my land.”
“I am no myth,” Conan snorted. “And the name suffices me.”
“As you say,” Kang Hou said blandly. He gave no signal that Conan could see, but the other two figures came forward. “My nieces,” the merchant said, “Chin Kou and Kuie Hsi. They accompany me everywhere, caring for an aging man in his dotage.”
Conan found himself gaping at two of the most exquisite women he had ever seen. They had oval faces and delicate features that could have been carved by a master striving to show the beauty of Eastern women. Neither looked at all like their uncle, for which the Cimmerian was grateful. Chin Kou seemed a flower fashioned of aged ivory, with downcast almond eyes and a shy smile. Kuie Hsi’s dark eyes were lowered, too, but she watched with a twinkle through her lashes, and her skin was like sandalwood-hued satin.
“You are welcome here,” the Cimmerian said loudly. “You and your nieces both. The man who offends any of you offends me.” That got everyone’s attention, he noted with approval, and dimmed a few amatory fires by the sour looks he saw on their faces.
“I am honored by your welcome,” the merchant said, making a small bow.
Conan returned the bow and smothered a curse as he spilled more of the potion over his hand. Emptying the goblet in one long gulp, he tossed the cup to Ghurran, not quite hurling it at his head. “Filthy stuff,” he spat.
“Men doubt the efficacy of medicine without a vile taste,” Ghurran said, and Kang Hou turned his expressionless gaze on the herbalist.
“That is an old Khitan proverb. You have journeyed to my land?”
Ghurran shook his head. “No. I had it from the man who taught me herbs. Perhaps he went there, though he never spoke of it to me. Do you know much of herbs? I am always interested in discovering plants new to me, and the uses of them.”
“Regrettably, I do not,” the merchant replied. “And now, Patil, if I may rush matters unconscionably, I would speak of business.”
“Speak of what you will,” Conan said when he realized the other man was going to await permission.
“I thank you. I am a poor merchant, a dealer in whatever I can. On this trip, velvets from Corinthia, carpets from Iranistan, and tapestries from Turan. I joined the caravan but two days ago and would not have done so save for necessity. The captain of the vessel that brought me across the Vilayet Sea, a rogue called Valash, had promised to provide ten men as guards. After putting my goods and my animals ashore, however, he refused to honor his agreement. My nieces and I thus must try to tend half a score of camels with only the aid of three servants who, I fear, are of no use at all as protection against brigands.”