“Not a word,” Conan said.
Leucas squeezed his eyes shut, muttering under his breath, and when he opened them he seemed to have gotten a grip on himself. “You agree that Garian must be removed, do you not?”
“That’s what you’re planning,” Conan replied noncommitally.
“But …” Leucas’ voice rose alarmingly; he pulled it down with visible effort. “But that has to be changed, now. We can wait no longer. What happened these few days past. The sun darkening. The ground trembling. The gods have turned their faces from Nemedia. That was a sign, a warning that we must remove Garian before they remove him, and with him all of Belverus.”
Conan’s own god, Crom, Dark Lord of the Mound, gave a man life and will and nothing more. Conan had seen little evidence that other gods did any more. As for the darkened sky and the trembling ground, it was his opinion that someone in Belverus worked at sorcery, despite Garian’s prohibitions. He had no love of such, but for once he was not involved, and he intended to remain that way.
All he said was, “You think your plans should be advanced, then? But why speak to me of it?”
“No, you don’t understand. Not those plans. Something different. More immediate.” The thin man’s face had a sheen now, from the sweat that covered it, and his voice shook, though he kept it low. “We are to be introduced into the palace, you see. With knives. Garian must die. Immediately. But I cannot. I am not that sort of man. You are a man of violence. Take my place.”
“I’m no assassin,” Conan growled.
Leucas yelped, eyes darting frantically. “Keep your voice down,” he almost sobbed. “You don’t understand. You have to—”
“I understand what you ask,” Conan said coldly. “Ask again and I’ll give you my fist in your teeth.” A sudden thought struck him. “Does Ariane know of this?”
“You must not tell her. You must not tell anyone. I should never have spoken to you.” Abruptly Leucas stumbled to his feet. Backing away from the table, he made vague and futile gestures. “Consider it, Conan. Will you do that? Just consider it.”
The Cimmerian made as if to rise, and with a yelp the philosopher scrambled away, almost diving into the street.
Conan’s mouth twisted angrily. How dare the man consider him so, an assassin, a murderer? He had killed, surely, and likely would again, but because he had to, not because he had been paid to. But more important than his feelings was Ariane. Conan could see no way for a man like Leucas, smelling of fear-sweat, to enter the Royal Palace without being taken. And once given a whiff of hot irons and pincers, the philosopher would babble every name he knew back to his mother. The Cimmerian could escape if worse came to worst, but Ariane would be a fawn in a snare. Would Hordo appear, he decided, they would find Ariane, and he would warn her about Leucas.
Thinking of Hordo reminded him of his wine. Where could that serving girl be? Nowhere in sight, that was certain. In the entire tavern no one was moving except the dancers and the three Kothians, apparently ambling closer for a better inspection of the wares.
Conan started to rise to go in search of the girl, and as he did one of the Kothians suddenly shouted at him, “I told you she is my woman, barbar!”
With practiced moves the three crossed their wrists and drew their forearm daggers. The flutes ceased their play, and the dancers ran screaming as the Kothians plunged at the muscular Cimmerian, a blade in each fist.
One-handed, Conan heaved his table over to crash before them. “Fools,” he shouted as he sprang to his feet, “you have the wrong man.”
Two of the Kothians danced aside, but one fell, rolling to his knees before Conan, daggers stabbing. Conan sucked in his belly, and the blades skittered off his jazeraint hauberk, one to either side. Before the attacker could move, Conan’s knee had smashed into his bony chin, splintering teeth in a spray of blood. Even as the man’s blades fell from nerveless hands, and he followed them unconscious to the filthy floor, Conan’s own steel was in his grasp, broadsword and belt dagger held low at the ready.
“You have the wrong man,” he said again. The remaining two split, gliding in the feline crouch of experienced knife fighters. Noise picked up at the tables as men took wagers on the outcome. “I’ve never seen you before, nor your woman.”
The two men continued to move, flanking the Cimmerian, blades held low for the thrust that would slip under the overlapping metal plates of his hauberk.
“You are he,” one said, and when Conan’s eyes flickered to him, the other attacked.
The Cimmerian had been expecting it, though. Even as his eyes shifted, so had his sword slashed. The attacking Kothian screamed, a fountain of blood where his right hand had been. Desperately clutching the stump of his wrist, the man staggered back, sinking to the floor with the front of his tunic staining deeper red with every spurt.
Conan spun back to face the third man, but that one was of no mind to continue the business. Dismay writ large on his dark face, he stared at his two fellows on the floor, one senseless and one bleeding to death.
The big Cimmerian pointed at him with his sword. “Now. You will tell me—”
Suddenly the door of the tavern was filled with City Guardsmen, a dozen of them, crowding through with swords in hand. The first one pointed at Conan. “There he is!” he shouted. In a mass the Guardsmen surged forward, plowing through onlookers and toppling tables in their haste.
“Crom!” Conan muttered. They looked to have no mind for asking who had begun the fighting, or why. Springing onto the narrow stage, he dashed for the door the dancers had used. It was latched.
“Take him!” a Guardsman howled. “Cut him down!” Bursting through the tavern’s patrons—most of whom would gladly have gotten out of the way had they been given a chance—the Guardsmen rushed for the stage.
Conan took a quick step back and hurled himself against the rough wooden door, smashing through in a shower of splinters. Dancers, shrieking now again, huddled in the narrow passage, at the end of which he saw a doorway letting onto the outside. Hurriedly he forced his way through the scantily clad dancers. At the doorway he paused, then turned, waving his sword overhead, and roared, making the most horrible face he could. Screaming with renewed energy, the dancers stampeded back onto the stage. Shouts of consternation rose as the Guardsmen found themselves caught in a deluge of hysterical female flesh.
That should hold them, Conan thought. Sheathing his steel he hurried out into an alley behind the tavern. Little wider than his shoulders and twisting like a snake, it smelled of old vomit and human excrement. He chose a direction and started off through the buzzing flies.
Before he reached the first turning, a shout rose behind him. “There he goes!”