Conan the Victorious (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 7) - Page 9

“You two fighting cocks settle your ruffs,” Hordo snapped. “We have a load of ‘fish’ to carry. The man who wants it shipped will be here any instant, and I’ll have no bloodshed, or snarling either, in front of him. He’ll seek elsewhere if he thinks we will slay each other before delivering his chests.” His bearded head swung like that of a bear. “I need my whole crew if we are to get the accursed things to the mouth of the Zaporoska in the time specified, and the only two who have heeded my call squabble like dockers with their heads full of wine.”

“You told me we’d not sail again for three or four days,” Conan said, walking over to examine the chests. Hasan moved warily out of his way, but it was the finely crafted boxes that interested him. “The crew are scattered among the taverns and bordellos,” he went on, “hip deep in women, and with wine fumes where their wits were four hours gone. I could enjoy a quick journey out of Sultanapur now, but if we find all twenty by nightfall, I’ll become an Erlikite

.”

“We must sail by dark,” Hordo said. “The gold is more for being faster than agreed, but less for being slower.” The scar-faced smuggler moved Hasan farther away from them with a look, then stepped closer to the Cimmerian and dropped his voice. “I do not doubt your word, Conan, but is it you the guardsmen seek? For this captain, perhaps?”

Conan shrugged, but did not stop his study of the chests. “I do not know,” he replied for Hordo’s ears alone. “The rumors say nothing of Murad, and my name is not mentioned.” The largest dimension of the chests was the length of a man’s forearm. Their sides were smooth and plain, and the flat, close-fitting lid of each was held by eight leaden seals impressed with the image of a bird he had never seen before. “The tongues of the street speak of Tureg Amal. Still, somewhere words have been spoken concerning what occurred at the Golden Crescent, or there would be no big northlander in the tale.” He hefted one of the boxes, trying its weight. To his surprise, it was light enough to have been packed with feathers. “Men from the northern lands are not so common as visitors in Sultanapur for that.”

“Aye,” the one-eyed man agreed sagely. “And it is said that when two rumors meet, they exchange words. Also that a rumor changes on each journey from mouth to ear.”

“Do you begin to quote aphorisms in your old age, Hordo?” Conan chuckled. “I know not the how or why of what has happened, but I do know that trouble sits on my shoulder until it is all made clear.”

“I am not too old to try breaking your head,” Hordo growled. “And when was the day trouble did not sit on your shoulder, Cimmerian?”

Conan ignored the question; he had long since decided a man could not live a free life and avoid trouble at the same time. “What is in these chests?” he asked.

“Spices,” came an answer from the doorway.

The Cimmerian’s hand went to his sword-hilt. The newcomer wore a dark gray cloak with a voluminous hood. As soon as he had closed the cellar door behind him, he threw back the hood to reveal a narrow, swarthy face topped by a turban twice as big around as was the fashion in Turan, fronted by heron feathers held by a pin of opal and silver. Rings covered his fingers with sapphires and amethysts.

“A Vendhyan!” Hasan burst out.

Hordo motioned him to silence. “I was afraid you were not coming, Patil.”

“Not coming?” The Vendhyan’s tone was puzzled, but then he smiled thinly. “Ah, you feared that I was involved with the events spoken of in the streets. No, I assure you I had nothing to do with the very unfortunate demise of the High Admiral. Such affairs are not for me. I am but a humble merchant who must avoid paying the custom both of your King Yildiz and of my King Bhandarkar if I am to make my poor profit.”

“Of course, Patil,” Hordo said. “And you have come to the proper men to see that Yildiz’s excisemen take not a single coin of yours. The rest of my crew is even now preparing our boat for a swift passage. Conan, go see that all is in readiness.” He half-turned his back to the Vendhyan and made small frantic gestures that only Conan and Hasan could see. “We must be ready to sail quickly.”

Conan knew very well what the gestures meant. He was to go upstairs and intercept any of Hordo’s crew who came staggering in with their brains half-pickled in wine. Five or six sots stumbling in and making it clear to this Patil that they were part of the crew would do little to convince him they could make good on Hordo’s promise of sailing quickly. But Conan did not stir. Instead he hefted the chest again.

“Spices?” he said. “Saffron, pepper, and all the other spices I could name come across the Vilayet from the east. What spice crosses from the west?”

“Rare condiments from islands of the Western Sea,” Patil replied smoothly. “They are considered great delicacies in my country.”

Conan nodded. “Of course. Yet despite that, I’ve heard nothing of such being smuggled. Have you, Hordo?”

The bearded man shook his head doubtfully; worry that Conan was putting the arrangement in jeopardy creased his face. Patil’s face did not change, but he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Conan let the box fall, and the Vendhyan winced as it thudded on the packed earth.

“Open it,” Conan said. “I would see what we carry across the Vilayet.”

Patil let out a squawk of protest directed at Hordo. “This is not a part of our agreement. Kafar told me that you were the most trustworthy of the smugglers, otherwise I would have gone elsewhere. I offer much gold for you to deliver my chests and myself to the mouth of the Zaporoska River, not for you to ask questions and make demands.”

“He does offer a great deal of gold, Conan,” Hordo said slowly.

“Enough to carry kanda leaf?” the Cimmerian asked. “Or red lotus? You have seen the wretches who would choose their pipes over wine, or a woman, or even over food. How much gold to carry that?”

Breathing heavily, Hordo scratched at his beard and grimaced. “Oh, all right. Open the chests, Patil. I care not what they contain so long as it is not kanda leaf or red lotus.”

“I cannot!” the Vendhyan cried. Sweat made his dark face shine. “My master would be furious. I demand that—”

“Your master?” Hasan cut him off. “What kind of merchant has a master, Vendhyan? Or are you something else?”

Conan’s voice hardened. “Open the chests.”

Patil’s eyes shifted in a hunted way. Suddenly he spun toward the door. Conan lunged to catch a handful of the Vendhyan’s flaring cloak, and the swarthy man whirled back, his fist swinging at the Cimmerian’s face. A tiny flicker of light warned Conan, and he leaped back from the blow. The leaf-shaped blade that projected from between Patil’s fingers sliced lightly across Conan’s cheek just below the eye. Conan’s foot came down on the dropped chest, which turned and sent him sprawling on his back on the dirt floor.

The instant he was free of Conan’s grasp, Patil darted to the door, flung it open and dashed through. Straight into three men who seemed each to be supporting the others as they walked, or rather staggered. All four went down in a thrashing, cursing heap.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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