“Good,” the Turanian said grimly. “She is of an age with Zorelle.”
“A tasty morsel, that girl,” Sharak said, sitting down on Conan’s other side. “Were I but twenty years younger I would take her from you, Cimmerian.”
Yasbet’s sword clanged on the deck, drawing all three men’s eyes. She glared at them furiously. “I am no trained ape or dancing bear that you three may squat like farm louts and be entertained by me!”
She stalked away, then back to snatch up the sica—her eyes daring them to speak, as she did—and marched down the deck to disappear within her small tent before the mast.
“Your wench begins to develop a temper, Conan,” Sharak said, staring after her. “Perhaps you have made a mistake in teaching her to use a weapon.”
Akeba nodded with mock gravity. “She is no longer the shy and retiring maiden that once she was, Cimmerian, thanks to you. Of course, I realize that she is no longer a maiden at all, also thanks to you, but at least you could gentle her before she begins challenging us all to mortal combat.”
“How can you talk so?” Conan protested. “But moments gone you likened her to your own daughter.”
“Aye,” Akeba said gravely, his laughter gone. “I was much concerned with Zorelle’s virtue while she lived. I see things differently now. Now she is dead, I hope that she had what joy she could of her life.”
“I have not touched her,” Conan muttered reluctantly, and bridled at their disbelieving stares. “I rescued her. She’s innocent and alone, with none to protect her but me. Mitra’s Mercies! As well ask a huntsman to pen a gazelle fawn and slay it there for sport.”
Sharak hooted with laughter. “The tiger and the gazelle. But which of you is which? Which hunter, which prey? The wench has you marked, Cimmerian.”
“’Tis true,” Akeba said. He essayed a slight smile. “The girl is among those aboard this vessel who think her your wench. Zandru’s Nine Hells, do you think to be a holyman?”
“I may let the pair of you swim the rest of the way,” Conan growled. “I tell you … .” His words trailed off as Muktar loomed over the three men.
The bull-necked man tugged at his beard, spread fan-shaped across his chest, and eyed Conan with speculation. “We are followed,” he said finally. “A galley.”
Conan rose smoothly to his feet and strode to the stern, Akeba and Sharak scrambling in his wake. Muktar followed more slowly.
“I see nothing but water,” the Turanian sergeant complained, shading his eyes. Sharak muttered agreement, squinting furiously.
Conan saw the follower, though, seeming no more than a chip on the water in the distance, but with the faint sweep of motion at its sides that told of long oars straining for speed.
“Pirates?” Conan asked, Although there were many such on the Vilayet Sea, he did not truly believe those who followed were numbered among them.
Muktar shrugged. “Perhaps.” He did not sound as if he believed it either.
“What else could they be?” Akeba demanded.
Muktar glanced sideways at Conan, but did not speak.
“I still see nothing,” Sharak put in.
“How soon before they come up on us?” Conan said.
“Near dark,” Muktar replied. He looked at the gray-green water, its long swells feathering whitely in the wind, then peered at the sky, where pale gray clouds were layered against the afternoon blue. “We may have a storm before, though. The Vilayet is a treacherous bitch.”
The Cimmerian’s eyes locked on the approaching ship, one huge fist thumping the rail as he thought. How to fight the battle that must come, and win? How?
“If we have a storm,” the old astrologer said, “then we will hide from them in it.”
“If it comes,” Conan told him.
“I have counted their oarstroke,” Muktar said abruptly, “and they will kill slaves if they do not slacken it. Yet I do not believe they will. No one cares enough about Hyrkanians to chase them with such vigor. And Foam Dancer is a small ship, not a dromond loaded to the gunnels with ivory and spices. It must be you three, or the wench. Have you the crown of Turan hidden in your bales? Is your jade a princess stolen from her father? Why do they follow so?”
“We are traders,” Conan said levelly. “And you have been paid to carry us to Hyrkania and back to Turan.”
“I’ve gotten no coin for the last.”
“You will get your gold. Unless you let pirates take our trade goods. And your ship. Then all you’ll receive is a slaver’s manacles, an you survive.”