Conan the Victorious (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 7) - Page 23

“I am Torio,” the lancer said, “captain of the caravan guard. Remember, Patil, keep your men well clear of the caravan until first light.” Raising his lance sharply, he wheeled his mount and led the guards away at a gallop toward the caravan’s fires.

“I expect this is as good a spot to camp as any,” Conan said, dismounting. “Baltis, if you can find something to burn, we can make a good meal on roast hare before sleeping. I could wish we had saved some wine from the ship.”

“He is mad,” Prytanis announced to the ebon sky. “He gives a name that will bring men after us with blades in their fists, then wishes he had some wine to go with the hare.”

“As much as I hate to agree with Prytanis,” Hordo rumbled, “he is right this time. If you had to give a name other than your own—though, by Mitra’s bones, I cannot see why—could you not have chosen another than that?”

“The Cimmerian is wily,” Baltis laughed. “When you hunt rats, you set out cheese. This is cheese our Vendhyan rats cannot fail to sniff.”

Conan nodded. “He has the right of it, Hordo. There must be more than a thousand people in that caravan. Now I do not have to search for the men I seek. They will search me out instead.”

“And if they search you out with a dagger in the back? Or a few score swordsmen falling on us in the night?” The one-eyed man threw up his hands in exasperation.

“You still do not see,” Conan said. “They will want to know who I am, and what I do here, especially using Patil’s name. Think of the pains to which they have gone to keep those chests secret. What do I know, and who have I told? They can learn nothing if I am dead.”

“You begin to sound as devious as a Stygian,” Hordo muttered into his beard.

“For myself,” Ghurran said, lowering himself unsteadily to the ground, “I do not care at this moment if Bhandarkar’s Lion Guard descends on us.” He knuckled the small of his back and stretched, grunting. “After I find myself on the outside of one of those hares, I may feel different, but not now.”

“Well?” Conan said, eying the others. “Even if the first man Torio speaks to is one of those I seek, you still have time to be away before they get here.”

One by one they got down, Prytanis last of all, and he still muttering. By the time the horses were relieved of their saddles and hobbled, Baltis had a fire going, and Enam and Shamil were skinning and spitting hares. Water, Conan discovered, went very well with roast hare when nothing else was available.

The fire burned low, clean-picked bones were tossed aside, and silence replaced the talk that had prevailed while they ate. Conan offered to take the first watch, but no one seemed to have any interest in wrapping himself in his blankets. One by one all but Conan and Ghurran took out oil and stone to tend their blades. Each tried to act as though this had nothing to do with any possible attack but every man turned his back to the dying fire as he worked. There would be less adjustment for the eyes to the dark that way.

Ghurran fussed about his leather sack, at last thrusting the too-familiar pewter goblet at the big Cimmerian. A anticipatory grimace formed on Conan’s face as he took it. As he steeled himself to drink, a clatter of hooves sounded in the night. He leaped to his feet, slopping some of the foul-tasting potion over the rim of the cup, and his free hand went to his sword.

“I thought you were sure there would be no attack,” Hordo said, holding his own blade at the ready. Every man around the fire was on his feet, even Ghurran, who twisted his head about as though looking for a place to hide.

“If I was always right,” Conan said, “I should be the wealthiest man in Zamora instead of being here.” Someone—he was not sure who—sighed painfully.

Seven horses halted well beyond the firelight, and three of the riders dismounted and came forward. Two of them stopped at the very edge of the darkness while the third approached the fire. Dark eyes, seeming tilted because of an epicanthic fold, surveyed the smugglers from a bony, saffron-skinned face.

“I hope that your swords are not for me,” the man said in fluent, if overly melodious, Hyrkanian as he tucked his hands into the broad sleeves of a pale-blue velvet tunic embroidered on the chest with a heron. A round cap of red silk topped with a gold button sat on his shaven head. “I am but a humble merchant of Khitai, intending harm to no man.”

“They are not for you,” Conan said, motioning the others to put up their weapons. “It is just that a man must be on guard when strangers approach in the night.”

“A wise precaution,” the Khitan agreed. “I am Kang Hou, and I seek one called Patil.”

“I am called Patil,” Conan said.

The merchant arched a thin eyebrow. “A strange name for a cheng-li. Your pardon. It means simply a person with pale skin, one from the lands of the distant west. Such men are considered mythical by many in my land.”

“I am no myth,” Conan snorted. “And the name suffices me.”

“As you say,” Kang Hou said blandly. He gave no signal that Conan could see, but the other two figures came forward. “My nieces,” the merchant said, “Chin Kou and Kuie Hsi. They accompany me everywhere, caring for an aging man in his dotage.”

Conan found himself gaping at two of the most exquisite women he had ever seen. They had oval faces and delicate features that could have been carved by a master striving to show the beauty of Eastern women. Neither looked at all like their uncle, for which the Cimmerian was grateful. Chin Kou seemed a flower fashioned of aged ivory, with downcast almond eyes and a shy smile. Kuie Hsi’s dark eyes were lowered, too, but she watched with a twinkle through her lashes, and her skin was like sandalwood-hued satin.

He was not the only one struck by the women, Conan realized. Baltis and Enam appeared to be mentally stripping them of their silken robes, while Prytanis all but drooled with lust. Hasan and Shamil merely stared as if hit in the head. Even Hordo had a gleam in his eye that spoke of calculation as to how to separate one or both of the women from the company of their uncle. As usual, only Ghurran seemed unaffected.

“You are welcome here,” the Cimmerian said loudly. “You and your nieces both. The man who offends any of you offends me.” That got everyone’s attention, he noted with approval, and dimmed a few amatory fires by the sour looks he saw on their faces.

“I am honored by your welcome,” the merchant said, making a small bow.

Conan returned the bow and smothered a curse as he spilled more of the potion over his hand. Emptying the goblet in one long gulp, he tossed the cup to Ghurran, not quite hurling it at his head. “Filthy stuff,” he spat.

“Men doubt the efficacy of medicine without a vile taste,” Ghurran said, and Kang Hou turned his expressionless gaze on the herbalist.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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