The rain returned first, a pelting of large drops that grew to a roaring downpour, and the wind followed close behind. From the south it screamed, as Tamur had predicted, raging with such fury that in moments it was hard to believe it had ever diminished.
Wordlessly, for words were no longer possible, Conan led them down from the height, each man gripping the belt of the man ahead, stumbling over uneven ground, struggling against the wind with grim purposefulness. He did not draw his sword; this would be a matter for bare hands. Unhesitatingly Conan made his way across the sand, through blinding rain. Abruptly his outstretched hand touched wood. The side of the ship. A rope lashing in the wind struck his arm; he seized the line before it could whip away from him, and climbed, drawing himself up hand over hand. As he scrambled over the rail onto the forepart of the galley he felt the rope quiver. Akeba was starting up.
Quickly Conan’s eyes searched the deck. Through the solid curtain of rain washing across the vessel, he could see naught but dim shapes, and none looked to be a man, yet it was his fear that even in the height of the storm a watch was kept.
Akeba thumped to the deck beside him, and Conan started aft with the Turanian close behind. He knew the rest would follow. They had nowhere else to go.
A hatch covered the companionway leading down into the vessel. Conan exchanged a glance with Akeba, hunched against the driving rain. The Turanian nodded. With a heave of his arm Conan threw the hatchcover back and leaped, roaring, down the ladder.
There were four men, obviously ship’s officers, in the snug, lantern-lit cabin, swilling wine. Goblets crashed to the deck as Conan landed in their midst. Men leaped to their feet; hands went to sword hilts. But Conan had landed moving. His fist smashed behind an ear, sending its owner to the deck atop his goblet. A nose crunched beneath a backhand blow of the other fist, and his boot caught a third man in the belly while he still attempted to come fully erect.
Now his sword came out, its point stopping a fingerbreadth from the beaked nose of the fourth man. The emerald at his ear and the thick gold chain about his neck named him captain of the vessel as surely as their twin queues named all four sailors of the Vilayet. The slab-cheeked captain froze with his blade half drawn.
“I do not need all of you,” Conan snarled. “’Tis your choice.”
Hesitantly licking his lips, the captain surveyed his fellows. Two did not stir, while the third was attempting to heave his guts up on the deck. “You’ll not get away with this,” he said shakily. “My crew will hang your hearts in the rigging.” But he slowly and carefully moved his hand from his weapon.
“Why you needed me,” Akeba grumbled from a seat on the next-to-bottom rung of the ladder, “I don’t see at all.”
“There might have been five,” Conan replied with a smile that made the captain shiver. “Get Sharak, Akeba. It’s warm in here. And see how the others are doing.” With a sigh the soldier clattered back up the ladder into the storm. Conan turned his full attention on the captain. “When are those who hired you returning?”
“I’m a trader here on my own—” Conan’s blade touched the captain’s upper lip; the man went cross-eyed staring at it. He swallowed, and tried to move his head back, but Conan kept a light pressure with the edged steel. “They didn’t tell me,” the sailor said hastily. “They said I was to wait until they returned, however long it might be. I was of no mind to argue.” His face paled, and he clamped his lips tight, as if afraid to say more.
While Conan wondered why the galley’s passengers had affected the captain so, Akeba and Tamur scrambled down the ladder, drawing the hatch shut on the storm behind them. The Turanian half-carried Sharak, whom he settled on a bench, filling a goblet of wine for him. The astrologer mumbled thanks and buried his face in the drink. Tamur remained near the ladder, wiping his dagger on his sheepskin coat.
Conan’s eyes lit on that dagger, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing. Putting a hand on the captain’s chest, he casually pushed the man back down in his seat. “I told you we need these sailors, Tamur. How many did you kill?”
“Two, Cimmerian,” the nomad protested, spreading his hands. “Two only. And one carved a trifle. But they resisted. My people watch the rest.” A full dozen remain.”
“Fists and hilts, I said,” Conan snarled. He had to turn away lest he say too much. “How do you feel, Sharak?”
“Much refreshed,” the astrologer said, and he did seem to be sitting straighter, though he, like all of them, dripped pools of water. “Yasbet is not here?”
Conan shook his head. “But we shall be waiting when she is brought.”
“Then for Jhandar,” Sharak said, and Conan echoed, “Then for Jhandar.”
“They resisted,” Tamur said again, in injured tones. “There are enough left to do what they must.” No one spoke, or even looked at him. After a moment he went on. “I went down to the rowi
ng benches, Conan, to see if any of them were hiding among the slaves, and who do you think I found? That fellow from the other ship. What is he called? Bayan. That is it. Chained to a bench with the rest.” Throwing back his head, the nomad laughed as if it were the funniest story he had ever heard.
Conan’s brow knitted in a frown. Bayan here? And in chains? “Bring him here, Tamur,” he snapped. “Now!” His tone was such that the Hyrkanian jumped for the ladder immediately. “Tie these others, Akeba,” Conan went on, “so we do not have to worry about them.” With his sword he motioned the captain to lie down on the deck; fuming, the hook-nosed seaman complied.
By the time the four ship’s officers, two still unconscious, were bound hand and foot, Tamur had returned with Bayan. Other than chains, the wiry sailor from Foam Dancer wore only welts and a filthy twist of rag. He stood head down, shivering wetly from his passage through the storm, watching Conan from the corner of his eye.
The big Cimmerian straddled a bench, holding his sword before him so that ripples of lantern light ran along the blade. “How came you here, Bayan?”
“I wandered from the ship,” Bayan muttered, “and these scum captured me. There’s a code among sailors, but they chained me to an oar,” he raised his head long enough to spit at the tied figure of the captain, “and whipped me when I protested.”
“What happened at Foam Dancer? You didn’t just wander away.” The wiry man shifted his feet with a clank of iron links, but said nothing. “You’ll talk if I have to let Akeba heat his irons for you.” The Turanian blinked, then grimaced fiercely; Bayan wet his lips. “And you’ll tell the truth,” Conan went on. “The old man is a soothsayer. He can tell when you lie.” He lifted his sword as if studying the edge. “For the first lie, a hand. Then a foot. Then … . How many lies can you stand? Three? Four? Of a certainty no more.”
Bayan met that glacial blue gaze; then words tumbled out of him as fast as he could force them. “A man came to the ship, a man with yellow skin and eyes to freeze your heart in your chest. Had your … the woman with him. Offered a hundred pieces of gold for fast passage back to Aghrapur. Said this ship was damaged, and he knew Foam Dancer was faster. Didn’t even bother to deny trying to sink us. Muktar was tired of waiting for you, and when this one appeared with the woman, well, it was plain you were dead, or it seemed plain, and it looked easy enough to take the woman and the gold, and—”
“Slow down!” Conan commanded sharply. “Yasbet is unharmed?”
Bayan swallowed hard. “I … I know not. Before Mitra and Dagon I swear that I raised no hand against her. She was alive when I left. Muktar gave a signal, you see, and Tewfik and Marantes and I went at the stranger with our daggers, but he killed them before a man could blink. He just touched them, and they were dead. And then, then he demanded Muktar slit my throat.” He made a sound, half laughter, half weeping. “Evidence of future good faith, he called it. And that fat spawn of a diseased goat was going to do it! I saw it on his face, and I ran. I hope he’s drowned in this accursed storm. I pray he and Foam Dancer are both at the bottom of the sea.”
“An ill-chosen prayer,” Conan said between clenched teeth. “Yasbet is on that vessel.” With a despairing wail Bayan sank groveling to his knees. “Put him back where he was,” Conan spat. Tamur jerked the wiry seaman to his feet; the Cimmerian watched them go. “Is this galley too damaged to sail?” he demanded of the captain.