Scrambling to his feet, Conan hauled the struggling men out of the tangle, heaving each aside as soon as he saw that it was one of Hordo’s crew. The last was Patil, and the Vendhyan lay without moving. His large turban was knocked askew, and it came off completely as the Cimmerian rolled him onto his back. It was as Conan had feared. Patil’s dark eyes stared at him emptily, twisted with pain, and the Vendhyan’s teeth were bared in a frozen rictus. The would-be killer’s fist was jammed against the center of his chest. Conan had no doubt the push-dagger’s blade had been just long enough to reach the heart.
He brushed a hand across his cheek. The fingertips came away red, but the cut was little more than a scratch. It was luck, he thought, that the fellow had not simply stabbed at him. He might never have been aware of the small dagger until it found his own heart.
“Not the outcome you expected, is it?” he told the corpse. “But I would rather have you alive to talk.”
Hordo pushed past him to grab the Vendhyan’s robes. “Let us get this out of sight of anyone who wanders by the stairs, Cimmerian. No need to flaunt matters, especially as I’d not like anyone to think we killed this fool for his goods. Things like that can ruin a man’s trade.”
Together they dragged the body into the cellar and shut the iron-strapped door. The three smugglers who had inadvertently stopped the Vendhyan’s escape lay sprawled against a wall, and two of them stared blearily at the corpse when it was dropped at their feet.
“ ’S drunker ’n us,” muttered an Iranistani wearing a stained and filthy headcloth.
“ ’S not drunk,” replied the man next to him, a Nemedian who might have been handsome had his nose not been slit for theft at some time in the past. “ ’S dead.”
The third man emitted a snore like a ripping sail.
“All three of you shut your teeth,” Hordo growled.
Conan touched his cheek again. The blood was already congealing. He wa
s more interested in the chest he had dropped, though. He set it upright on the floor and knelt to study the lead seals. The bird impressed in the gray metal was no more familiar now than before. Vendhyan, perhaps, though seemingly the chests went in the wrong direction for that. The seals could be simply a means of keeping the chests tightly closed or a way to tell if they had been opened. He had also seen such used as triggers to launch venom-tipped needles or poisonous vapors at those who pried where they were not wanted. Such were not usually found on smuggled goods, but then again, these were apparently no ordinary “fish.”
“I’ll take the chance,” he muttered. His heart pounded as he pushed the point of his new dagger under one seal.
“Wait, you fool,” Hordo began, but with a twist of his wrist, Conan sliced through the soft lead. “Some day your luck will be used up,” the one-eyed man breathed.
Without replying, the Cimmerian quickly broke the other seals. The dagger served to lever up the tight-fitting lid. Both stared in disbelief at the contents of the chest. To the brim it was filled with small, dried leaves.
“Spices?” Hasan said doubtfully.
Conan cautiously stirred the leaves with his dagger, then scooped up a handful. They cracked brittlely in his grasp and gave off no aroma. “A man does not try to kill to hide spices,” Conan said. “We’ll see what is in the other chests.”
He half-rose from his knees, swayed and sank back down. The heavy thumping in his chest continued unabated. He touched the cut on his face once more; it felt as though a piece of leather lay between fingers and cheek. “That blade.” His tongue felt thick around the words. “There was something on it.”
The blood drained from Hordo’s face. “Poison,” he breathed. “Fight it, Cimmerian. You must fight it! If you let your eyes close, you’ll never open them again!”
Conan tried again to rise, to go over to the other chests, and again he almost fell. Hordo caught him, easing him to a sitting position against the wall.
“The chests,” Conan said. “If I’m dying, I want to know why.”
“Mitra curse the chests!” Hordo snapped. “And you’re not dying! Not if we can get Ghurran here.”
“I will go for him,” Hasan said, then subsided under Hordo’s glare.
“And how will you do that, who’s never seen the man before? Prytanis!” Hordo stalked across the cellar, and with a hand the size of a small ham hauled the Nemedian to his feet by a fistful of tunic. His other hand slapped the slit-nosed fellow’s face back and forth. “Grab your wits, Prytanis! Can you hear me? Listen, Erlik take you, or I’ll break your skull!”
“I am listening,” the Nemedian groaned. “By all the gods, do not hit my head so. It is breaking already.”
“Then listen well if you do not want it shattered,” Hordo growled, but he stopped his slapping. “Get you to Ghurran and fetch him here. Tell him it is poison and tell him there’s a hundred gold pieces for him if he gets here in time. Do you understand that, you sotted spawn of a camel?”
“I understand,” the Nemedian said unsteadily and staggered toward the door under the impetus of Hordo’s shove.
“Then run, curse you! If you fail in this, I’ll slit your belly and hang you with your own guts! Where do you think you’re going?” the one-eyed man added as Hasan made to follow Prytanis from the cellar.
“With him,” Hasan replied. “He’s so drunk he will not remember what he’s about beyond the first pitcher of wine he sees without someone to keep him to the task.”
“He will remember,” Hordo rumbled, “because he knows I will do as I said. To the word. If you want to do something, put a cloak over Patil so we do not have to look at him.”
“You do not have a hundred pieces of gold, Hordo,” Conan said.