Tamur glared at the man, who shrugged and said, “What is there to watch for, Tamur? These scavenging dung-rollers?” Andar jerked his head at the mounted men, who sat their small, shaggy horses in a loose circle about those they herded.
“You did not keep watch as you were told,” Tamur grated. He turned and called to the other Hyrkanians, “Does any here stand for this one?” None answered.
Alarm flashed onto Andar’s face, and he grabbed for his yataghan. Tamur spun back to the mustached man, his blade flashing from its scabbard, striking. Andar fell, sword half-drawn, his nearly severed neck spurting blood into the sand.
Tamur kicked the still-jerking body. “Take this defiler of his mother’s womb into the dunes and leave him with the offal he thought was more important than keeping watch.”
Two of the Hyrkanians seized the dead man by his ankles and dragged him away. None of the others so much as twitched an eyebrow. Behind him Conan could hear Yasbet retching.
“At least you got the horses,” Conan said.
“They look more like sheep,” Akeba muttered.
Tamur gave the Turanian a pained look. “Perhaps, but they are the best mounts to be found on the coast. Hark you now, Conan. These horse traders tell me they have seen other strangers. Give them what they ask for the mounts, and they will tell what they know.”
“What they ask,” Conan said drily. “They would not be blood kin of yours, would they, Tamur?”
The Hyrkanian looked astonished. “You are an outlander, Cimmerian, and ignorant, so I will not kill you. They are the scavengers and dung-rollers Andar named them, living by digging roots and robbing the nests of sea-birds. From time to time they loot a ship driven ashore by a storm.” He thrust his blade into the sand to clean away Andar’s blood. “They are no better than savages. Come, I will take you to their leader.”
The men on the shaggy horses were a ragged lot, their sheepskin coats motheaten, their striped tunics threadbare and even filthier than when they were worn by seamen whose luckless vessels had ended on this coast. The leader was a stringy, weather-beaten man with one suspicious, darting eye and a sunken socket where the other had been. About his neck he wore a necklace of amethysts, half the gilding worn from the brass. It seemed one of those ships had carried a trull.
“This is Baotan,” Tamur said, gesturing to the one-eyed man. “Baotan, this is Conan, a trader known in far lands and a warrior feared by many.”
Baotan grunted and shifted his eye to Conan. “You want my horses, trader? For each horse, five blankets, a sword and an axe, plus a knife, a cloak, and five pieces of silver.”
“Too much,” Conan said.
Tamur groaned. For Conan’s ear alone, he mutter, “Forget the trading, Cimmerian. ’Tis the means to destroy Baalsham we seek.”
Conan ignored him. Poor traders were little respected, and a lack of respect would mean poor information if not outright lies. “For every two horses, one blanket and one sword.”
Baotan showed the stumps of yellowed teeth in a grin, and climbed down from his horse. “We talk,” he said.
The talk, Baotan and Conan squatting by one of the campfires, was more leisurely than Conan would have liked, yet he had to maintain his pose as a trader. Tamur produced clay jugs of sour Hyrkanian beer and lumps of mare’s milk cheese. The beer made Baotan’s eyes light up, but the one-eyed man gave ground grudgingly, and often stopped bargaining entirely to talk of the weather or some incident in his camp.
At last, though, the bargain was struck. The sky was beginning to darken; men dragged in more driftwood to pile on the fires. For the pack horses they needed, one sword and one blanket. For the animals they would ride, one axe and one blanket. Plus a knife for every man with Baotan and two pieces of gold for the stringy man himself.
“Done,” Conan said.
Baotan nodded and began to produce items from beneath his coat. A pouch. A small pair of tongs. What appeared to be a copy of a bull’s horn, half-sized and molded in clay. Before Conan’s astonished gaze, Baotan stuffed herbs from the pouch into the clay horn. With the tongs, the one-eyed man deftly plucked a coal from the fire and used it to puff the herbs to a smouldering burn. Conan’s jaw dropped as the man drew deeply on the horn, inhaling the pungent smoke. Tilting back his head, Baotan expelled the smoke in a long stream toward the sky, then offered the horn to Conan.
Tamur leaned close to speak in his ear. “’Tis the way they seal a bargain. You must do the same. I told you they were savages.”
Conan was prepared to believe it. Doubtfully he took the clay horn. The smouldering herbs smelled like a fire in a rubbish heap. Putting it to his mouth, he inhaled, and barely suppressed a grimace. It tasted even worse than it smelled, and felt hot enough to blister his tongue. Fighting an urge to gag, he blew a stream of smoke toward the sky.
“They mix powdered dung with the herbs,” Tamur said, grinning, “to insure even burning.”
From across the fire Akeba laughed. “Would you like some aged mussels, Cimmerian?” he called, near to rolling on the sand.
Conan ground his teeth and handed the clay horn back to Baotan, who stuck the horn in his mouth and began to emit small puffs of smoke. The Cimmerian shook his head. He had seen many strange customs since leaving the mountains of his homeland, but, sorcery aside, this was certainly the strangest.
When his mouth no longer felt as if he were attempting to eat a coal from the fire—though the taste yet remained—Conan said, “Have you seen any other strangers on the coast? You understand that I must be concerned with other traders.”
“Strangers,” Baotan said through teeth clenched around the clay horn, “but no traders.” Each word came out accompanied by a puff of smoke. “They bought horses, too. No trade goods. Silver.” He grinned suddenly. “They paid too much.”
“Not traders,” Conan said, pretending to muse. “That is strange indeed.”
“Strangers are strangers. Their boat was much charred at the back, and some of them suffered from burns.”