“Erlik take the woman,” Akeba moaned faintly.
“I think not just now,” Conan laughed. Taking Yasbet’s arm he led her away from the heaving form on the rail and seated her on an upturned keg before him. His face was serious now.
“Why look you so glum, Conan?” she asked.
“An there is trouble,” he said quietly, “here or ashore, stay close to me, or to Akeba if you cannot get to me. Sick or not, he’ll protect you. Does the worst come, Sharak will help you escape. He is no fighter, but no man lives so long as he without learning to survive.”
A small frown creased her forehead. When he was done, she exclaimed, “Why do you speak as if you might not be with me?”
“No man knows what comes, girl, and I would see you safe.”
“I thought so,” she said with a warmth and happiness he did not understand. “I wished it to be so.”
“As a last resort, trust Tamur, but only if there is no other way.” He thought the nomad was the best of the lot, the least likely to betray a trust, but it was best not to test him too far. As the ancient saying held, he who took a Hyrkanian friend should pay his burial fee beforetime. “Put no trust in any of the rest, though, not even if it means you must find your way alone.”
“But you will be here to protect me,” she smiled. “I know it.”
Conan growled, at a loss to make her listen. By bringing her along, for all he had done it for the best, he had exposed her to danger as great as Jhandar’s, if different in kind. How could he bring that home to her? If only she were capable of her own protection. Her own … .
Rummaging in the bales of trade goods, the Cimmerian dug out a Nemedian sica, its short blade unsharpened. The Hyrkanian nomads liked proof that a sword came to them fresh from the forge, such proof as would be given by watching the first edge put on blunt steel.
He flipped the shortsword in the air, catching it by the blade, and thrust the hilt at Yasbet. She stared at it wonderingly.
“Take it, girl,” he said.
Hesitantly she put a hand to the leather-wrapped hilt. He released his grip, and she gasped, almost dropping the weapon. “’Tis heavy,” she said, half-laughing.
“You’ve likely worn heavier necklaces, girl. You’ll be used to the weight in your hand before we reach Hyrkania.”
“Used to it?”
Her yelp of consternation brought chortles and hoots from three nearby sailors. The Hyrkanians looked up, still eating; Tamur’s face split into an open grin.
Conan ignored them as best he could, firmly putting down the thought of hurling one or two over the side as a lesson for the others. “The broadsword is too heavy,” he said, glowering at the girl. “Tulwar and yataghan are lighter, but there is no time to teach the use of either before we land. And learn the blade you will.”
She stared at him silently with wide, liquid eyes, clutching the sword to her breasts with both hands.
Raucous laughter rolled down the deck, and Muktar followed close behind the sound of his merriment. “A woman! You intend to teach a woman the sword?”
Conan bit back an oath, and contended himself with growling, “Anyone can learn the sword.”
“Will you teach children next? This one,” Muktar crowed to his crew, “will teach sheep to conquer the world.” Their mirth rose with his, and their comments became ribald.
Conan ground his teeth, his anger flashing to the heat of a blade in the smith-fire. This fat, lecherous ape called itself a man? “A gold piece says in the tenth part of a glass I can teach her to defeat any of these goats who follow you!”
Muktar tugged at his beard, the smile now twisting his mouth into an emblem of hatred. “A gold piece?” he sneered. “I’d wager five on the ship’s cook.”
“Five,” Conan snapped. “Done!”
“Talk to her, then, barbar.” The captain’s voice was suddenly oily and treacherous. “Talk to the wench, and we’ll see if she can uphold your boasting.”
Already Conan was wishing his words unsaid, but the gods, as usual in such cases, did not listen. He drew Yasbet aside and adjusted her hands on the sword hilt.
“Hold i
t so, girl.” Her hand was unresisting—and gripped with as much strength as bread dough, or so it seemed to him. She had not taken her eyes from his face. “Mitra blast your hide, girl,” he growled. “Clasp the hilt as you would a hand.”
“You truly believe that I can do this,” she said suddenly. There was wonder in her voice, and on her face. “You believe that I can learn to use a sword. And defeat a man.”