Conan shivered at the thought, but pressed on while the other held his good mood. “I did not come today just to give you an orange, Peor. I look for a woman called Lyana, or perhaps Tamira.”
Peor nodded as the Cimmerian described the girl and gave a carefully edited account of their meeting, then said, “Tamira. I’ve heard that name, and seen the girl. She looks as you say.”
“Where can I find her?” Conan asked eagerly, but the beggar shook his head.
‘‘I said I’ve seen her, and more than once, but as to where she might be … .” He shrugged.
Conan put a hand to the leather purse at his belt. “Peor, I could manage a pair of silver pieces for the man who tells me how to find her.”
“I wish I knew,” Peor said ruefully, then went on quickly. “But I’ll pass the word among the Brotherhood of the Bowl. If a beggar sees her, you’ll hear of it. After all, friendship counts for something, does it not?”
The Cimmerian cleared his throat to hide a grin. Friendship, indeed! The message would come to him through Peor, and the beggar who sent it would be lucky to get as much as one of the silver pieces. “That it does,” he agreed.
“But, Conan? I don’t hold with killing women. You don’t intend to hurt her, do you?”
“Only her pride,” Conan said, getting to his feet. With the beggars’ eyes as his, he would have her before the day was out. “Only her pride.”
Two days later Conan threaded his way through the thronging crowds with a sour e
xpression on his face. Not only the beggars of Shadizar had become his eyes. More than one doxy had smiled at the ruggedly handsome young Cimmerian, shivered in her depths at the blue of his eyes, and promised to watch for the woman he sought, though never without a pout of sultry jealousy. The street urchins, unimpressed by broad shoulders or azure eyes, had been more difficult. Some men called them the Dust, those homeless, ragged children, countless in number and helpless before the winds of fate, but the streets of Shadizar were a hard school, and the urchins gave trust grudgingly and demanded a reward in silver. But from all those eyes he had learned only where Tamira had been, and never a word of where she was.
Conan’s eyes searched among the passersby, seeking to pierce the veils of those women who wore them. At least, the veils of those who were slender and no taller than his chest. What he would do when he found her was not yet clear in his mind beyond the matter of seeking restitution for his youthful pride, but find her he would if he had to stare into the face of every woman in Shadizar.
So intent was he on his thoughts that the drum that cleared others from the street, even driving sedan chairs to the edge of the pavement, did not register on his mind until it suddenly came to him that he stood alone in the middle of the street. Turning to see where the steady thump came from, he found a procession bearing down on him.
At its head were two spearmen as tall as he, ebon-eyed men with capes of leopard skin, the clawed paws hanging across their broad, bare chests. Behind came the drummer, his instrument slung by his side to give free swing to the mallets with which he beat a cadence. A score of men in spiked helms and short, sleeveless mail followed the drummer. Half bore spears and half bows, with quivers on their backs, and all wore wide, white trousers and high, red boots.
Conan’s eyes went no further down the cortege than the horsemen who came next, or rather the woman who led them, mounted on a prancing black gelding a hand taller than any her followers rode. Tall she was, and well rounded, a delight both callimastian and callipygean. Her garb of tight tunic and tighter breeches, both of tawny silk, with a scarlet cloak thrown well back across her horse’s rump, did naught to hide her curves. Light brown hair, sun-streaked with gold, curled about her shoulders and surrounded a prideful face set with clear gray eyes.
She was a woman worth looking at, Conan thought. And besides, he knew of her, as did every thief in Shadizar. The Lady Jondra was known for many things, her arrogance, her hunting, her racing of horses, but among thieves she was known as the possessor of a necklace and tiara that had set more than one man’s mouth watering. Each was set with a flawless ruby, larger than the last joint of a big man’s thumb, surrounded by sapphires and black opals. In the Desert men taunted each other with the stealing of them, for of all those who had tried, the only one not taken by the spears of her guards had died with Jondra’s own arrows in his eyes. It was said she had been more furious that the thief entered her chambers while she was bathing than at his bungled attempt at theft.
Conan prepared to step from the procession’s path, when the spearmen, not five paces from him now, dropped their spears to the ready. They did not slow their pace, but came on as if the threat should send him scurrying for cover.
The big Cimmerian’s face tightened. Did they think him a dog, then, to beat from their way? A young man’s pride, dented as much as he could stand in recent days, hardened. He straightened, and his hand went to the worn, leather-wrapped hilt of his broadsword. Dead silence fell among the crowd lining the sides of the street.
The spearmen’s eyes widened at the sight of the young giant standing his ground. The streets always cleared before their mistress, the drum usually sufficing, and never more than the gleam of a spearpoint in the sunlight required at most. It came to each in the same instant that this was no apprentice to be chivvied aside. As one man they stopped and dropped into a crouch with spears presented.
The drummer, marching obliviously, continued his pounding until he was between the two spearmen. There his mallets froze, one raised and one against the drumhead, and his eyes darted for a way out. The three men made a barricade across the street that perforce brought the rest of Lady Jondra’s cortege to a halt, first the mailed hunters, then the horsemen, and so back down the line, till all stood stopped.
The ludicrousness of it struck Conan, and he felt mirth rising despite himself. How did he get himself into these predicaments, he wondered.
“You there!” a husky woman’s voice called. “You, big fellow with the sword!” Conan looked up to find the Lady Jondra staring at him over the heads of her spearmen and archers. “If you can stop Zurat and Tamal in their tracks, perhaps you can face a lion as well. I always need men, and there are few who deserve the name in Shadizar. I will take you into my service.” A tall, hawk-faced man riding next to her opened his mouth angrily, but she cut him off with a gesture.”What say you? You have the shoulders for a spearman.”
The laughter broke through, and Conan let it roar, though he was careful not to take his eyes from the spearmen or his hand from his sword. Jondra’s face slowly froze in amazement. “I am already in service,” he managed, “to myself. But, my lady, I wish you good day and will no longer block your passage.” He made a sweeping bow—not deep enough to lose sight of the spear points—and strode to the side of the street.
For an instant there was stunned silence, then the Lady Jondra was shouting. “Zurat! Tamal! March on! Junio! The beat!”
The spearmen straightened, and the drummer stiffly took up his cadence again. In moments the procession was moving. Jondra rode past stiffly, her eyes drifting to the big Cimmerian as if she did not realize what she did. The hawk-faced man rode beside her, arguing volubly, but she seemed not to hear.
A knot of barefooted street urchins, all color long faded from their tattered tunics, suddenly appeared near Conan. Their leader was a girl, though at an age when her scrawniness could pass for either sex. Half a head taller than her followers, she swaggered to the muscular youth’s side and studied the array of hunters. The lion dogs passed, heavy, snarling brutes with spiked collars, pulling hard on the leashes held by their handlers.
“Dog like that could take your leg off,” the girl said. “Big man, you get a spear in your belly, and who’s going to pay us?”
“You get paid when you’ve found her, Laeta,” Conan replied. The trophies of the hunt were borne by, skins of leopards and lions, great scimitar antelope horns, the skull of a huge wild ox with horns as thick and long as a man’s arm, all held aloft for the view of the onlookers.
She cast a scornful glance at him. “Did I not say as much? We found the wench, and I want those two pieces of silver.”
Conan grunted. “When I am sure it’s her.”