Deftly she took the cloak out of his hands and wrapped it chastely around her. “At the moment I would like to have some wine. With you.” He looked at the cloak, raising an eyebrow questioningly, and she giggled. “It’s different up there. There I’m posing. Down here I’m just naked. Come, there’s a table emptying.”
She darted away, and he followed, wondering what difference the distance from the table to the floor made, wondering if he would ever understand women. As he slid onto a stool across a small, rough-topped table from her, someone thrust a clay jug of wine and two battered metal cups in front of them, disappearing while Conan was still reaching for his pouch.
He shook his head. “’Tis the first tavern I’ve ever seen, where payment was not demanded before a cup was filled.”
“Did not anyone explain last night?” she laughed.
“Perhaps they did. But there was more than a little wine being passed around.”
“Did you really do all you talked about last night?” She leaned forward with interest, the top of the cloak gaping to expose the upper slopes of her cleavage. A part of his brain noted that that glimpse was almost as erotic as her fully exposed bosom had been. He wondered if she knew that and did it on purpose.
“Some of them,” he answered cautiously. In truth he did not remember which stories he and Hordo had told. There had been much more than a little wine. He filled their cups from the clay jug.
“I thought so,” she said in tones of satisfaction. “As to the money, you give what you can. Everyone staying here does, though some who only come in the day give nothing. Some of us receive money from our families, and of course we all put that in. They don’t approve—the families that is—but they approve less of having us nearby to embarrass them. Whatever we have left over we use to distribute bread and salt to the hungry in Hellgate. It’s little enough,” she sighed, “but a starving man appreciates even a crumb.”
“Some of these have families rich enough to give them mone
y?” he said, looking around the room in disbelief. Suddenly her cultured accents were loud in his head.
“My father is a lord,” she said defensively. She made it sound a crime, both being a lord and being the daughter of one.
“Then why do you live here, on the edge of Hellgate, and pose naked on tables? Can you not write poetry in your father’s palace?”
“Oh, Conan,” she sighed, “don’t you understand that it’s wrong for nobles to have gold and live in palaces while beggars starve in hovels?”
“Mayhap it is,” Conan replied, “but I still like gold, though I’ve had little enough of it. As for the poor, were I rich, unless I misdoubt me I’d fill many a belly with what I spent.”
“What other answer did you expect?” a lanky man said, pulling up a stool. His long face wore a perpetual scowl, made deeper by thick eyebrows that grew across the bridge of his nose. He scooped up Ariane’s cup and drank half her wine.
“It is an honest answer, Stephano,” Ariane said. Stephano snorted.
Conan remembered him now. The night before he had named himself a sculptor, and been free with his hands with Ariane. She had not seemed to mind then, but now she took back her winecup angrily.
“He is a generous man, Stephano, and I think me he’d be generous were he rich.” She shifted her direct gaze back to Conan. “But can you not see that generosity is not enough? In Hellgate are those who lack the price of bread, while nobles sit safe in their palaces and fat merchants grow richer by the day. Garian is no just king. What must be done is clear.”
“Ariane!” Stephano said sharply. “You tread dangerous ground. School your tongue.”
“What leave have you to speak so to me?” Her voice grew more heated by the word. “Whatever is between us, I am none of your property.”
“I have not named you so,” he replied, matching heat for heat. “I ask but that you let yourself be guided by me. Speak not so to strangers.”
Ariane tossed her pretty head contemptuously, her big eyes suddenly cold. “Art sure there is no part of jealousy in your words, Stephano? No intent to rid yourself of a rival?” The sculptor’s face flamed red. “Stranger he may be,” she continued remorselessly, “yet he is the kind of man we seek. A warrior. Have I not heard Taras speak so to you a hundred times? We must needs have fighters if—”
“Mitra’s mercy!” Stephano groaned. “Have you mind at all for caution, Ariane? He is a northern barbarian who likely never knew his father and would sell his honor for a silver piece. Guard your tongue!”
With his left hand Conan slid his broadsword free of its scabbard, just enough so that the edge of the blade below the hilt rested against the side of the table. “When I was still a boy,” he said in a flat voice, “I saw my father die with a blade in his hand. With that blade I killed the man who slew him. Care you to discuss it further?”
Stephano’s eyes goggled at the sword, his scowl momentarily banished. He touched his lips with his tongue; his breath came in pants. “You see, Ariane? You see what kind of man he is?” His stool scraped on the floor as he rose. “Come away with me, Ariane. Leave this man now.”
She held out her winecup to Conan. “May I have some more wine?” She did not look at Stephano, or acknowledge his presence. Conan filled the cup, and she drank.
Stephano looked at her uncertainly, then took a step backwards. “Guard your tongue!” he hissed, and darted away, almost crashing into another table in his haste.
“Will you guard your tongue?” Conan asked quietly.
She peered into her wine a time before answering. “From the stories you told, your sword goes where the gold is. Do you choose only by who can pay the most gold?”
“No,” he told her. “I’ve ridden away from gold rather than follow unjust orders.” Sighing, he added truthfully, “But I do like gold.”