Conan the Magnificent (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 5) - Page 5

“And I cannot take coin from you. I will not.”

He muttered an oath under his breath. “You always say that. Why not? I don’t understand.”

“Because you’re not a woman.” She laughed softly and traced a finger along his jaw. ‘‘A thing for which I am continually grateful.”

Conan’s face tightened. First Lyana had made a fool of him this night, and now Semiramis attempted the same. “Women never say their minds straight out. Very well. If you’ve no use for me tonight, then I’m done with you as well.” He left her standing with her fists on her hips and her mouth twisted in exasperation.

At the bar he dug into his purse and tossed coppers onto the cracked wooden surface. As he had known it would, the sound of coins penetrated the wall of noise in the room and drew Abuletes, wiping his fat fingers on the filthy apron he wore over a faded yellow tunic. The tavernkeeper made the coins disappear with a deft motion.

“I want wine for that,” Conan said. Abuletes nodded. “And some information.”

“’Tis enough for the wine,” the tavernkeeper replied drily. He set a wooden tankard, from which rose the sour smell of cheap wine, before the big youth. “Information costs more.”

Conan rubbed his thumb over a gouge in the edge of the bar, made by a sword stroke, drawing the fat man’s piggish eyes to the mark. “There were six of them, as I recall,” he said absently. “One with his knife pricking your ribs, and ready to probe your guts if you opened your mouth without his leave. What was it they intended? Taking you into the kitchen, wasn’t it? Didn’t one of them speak of putting your feet in the cookfire till you told where your gold is cached?”

“I have no gold,” Abuletes muttered unconvincingly. He could spot a clipped coin at ten paces, and was reliably rumored to have the first copper he had ever stolen buried somewhere in the tavern.

“Of course not,” Conan agreed smoothly. ‘‘Still, it was Hannuman’s own luck for you I saw what was happening, when none else did. ’Twould have been … uncomfortable for you, with your feet in the coals and naught to tell them.”

“Aye, you saw.” The fat man’s tone was as sour as his wine. “And laid about you with that accursed sword, splintering half my tables. Do you know what they cost to replace? The doxies were hysterical for all the blood you splattered around, and half my night’s custom disappeared for fear you’d cut them down as well.”

Conan laughed and drank deeply from the tankard, saying no more. Never a night passed without blood shed on the sawdust-strewn floor, and it was no rare sight to see a corpse being dragged out back for disposal in an alley.

Abuletes’ face twisted, and his chin sank until his chins doubled in number. “This makes it clear between us. Right?”

The Cimerian nodded, but cautioned, “If you tell me what I want to hear. I look for a woman.” Abuletes snorted and gestured to the doxies scattered through the common room. Conan went on patiently. “She’s a thief, about so tall,” he marked with one big hand at the height of his chest, “and well rounded for her size. Tonight she wore black leggings and a short tunic, both as tight as her skin. And she carried this.” He laid the thowing knife on the bar. “She calls herself Lyana.”

Abuletes prodded the black blade with a grimy-knuckled finger. “I know of no woman thief, called Lyana or aught else. There was a man, though, who used knives like this. Jamal, he was named.”

“A woman, Abuletes.”

The fat tapster shrugged. “He had a daughter. What was her name? Let me see.” He rubbed at a suety cheek. “Jamal was shortened a head by the City Guard, it must be ten years back. His brothers took the girl in. Gayan and Hafid. They were thieves, too. Haven’t heard of them in years, though. Too old for the life now, I suppose. Age gets us all, in the end. Tamira. That was her name. Tamira.”

The muscular youth stared expressionless at Abuletes until the fat tavernkeeper fell silent. “I ask about a girl called Lyana, and you spin me a tale of this Tamira. And her entire Mitra-accursed family. Would you care to tell me about her mother? Her grandfather? I’ve a mind to put your feet in the fire myself.”

Abuletes eyed Conan warily. The man with the strange blue eyes was known in the Desert for his sudden temper, and for his unpredictability. The tavernkeeper spread his hands. “How hard is it to give a name not your own? And didn’t I say? Jamal and his brothers wore the black garments you spoke of. Claimed it made them all but invisible in the dark. Had all sorts of tricks, they did. Ropes of raw silk dyed black, and I don’t know what all. No, Tamira’s your female thief, all right, whatever she calls herself now.”

Black ropes, Conan thought, and suppressed a smile. Despite his youth he had had enough years as a thief to learn discretion. “Perhaps,” was all he said.

“Perhaps,” the tapster grumbled. “You mark me on it. She’s the one. This makes us even, Cimmerian.”

Conan finished his wine in three long gulps and set the empty tankard down with a click. “If she is the woman I seek. The question now is where to find her and make certain.”

Abuletes threw up his pudgy hands. “Do you think I keep track of every woman in the Desert? I can’t even keep track of the trulls in my own tavern!”

Conan turned his back on the tavernkeeper’s grinding teeth. Tamira and Lyana, he was sure, were one and the same woman. Luck must be with him, for he had expected days of asking to find a trace of her. Denizens of the Desert left as few tracks as the animals of that district’s namesake. Surely discovering so much so quickly was an omen. No doubt he would leave the tavern in the morning and find her walking past in the street. Then they would see who would make a fool of whom.

At that moment his eye fell on Semiramis, seated at a table with three Kothian smugglers. One, with his mustache curled like horns and big gilded hoops in his ears, kneaded her bare thigh as he spoke to her urgently. Nodding in sudden decision, Conan strode to the table where the four sat.

The Kothians looked up, and Semiramis frowned. “Conan,” she began, reaching toward him cautioningly.

The big Cimmerian grasped her wrist, bent and, before anyone could move, hoisted her over his shoulder. Stools crashed over as the Kothians leaped to their feet, hands going to sword hilts.

“You northland oaf!” Semiramis howled, wriggling furiously. Her fist pounded futilely at his back. “Unhand me, you misbegotten spawn of a camel! Mitra blast your eyes, Conan!”

Her tirade went on, getting more inventive, and Conan paused to listen admiringly. The Kothians hesitated with swords half drawn, disconcerted at being ignored. After a moment Conan turned his attention to them, putting a pleasant smile on his face. That seemed to unsettle the three even more.

“My sister,” he said mildly. “She and I must speak of family matters.”

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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