This was not the first report of Tamira he had had. One had been a woman more than twice his age, another a potter’s apprentice with only one eye. The last of Jondra’s procession passed, pack animals and high-wheeled ox-carts, and the throng that had stood aside flowed together behind like water behind a boat.
“Take me to her,” Conan said.
Laeta grumbled, but trotted away down the street, her coterie of hard-eyed urchins surrounding her like a bodyguard. Under every ragged tunic, the Cimmerian knew, was a knife, or more than one. The children of the street preferred to run, but when cornered they were as dangerous as a pack of rats.
To Conan’s surprise they moved no closer to the Desert, but rather farther away, into a district peopled by craftsmen. The din of brass-smiths’ hammers beat at them, then the stench of the dyers’ vats. Smoke from kiln fires rose on all sides. Finally the girl stopped and pointed to a stone building where a sign hanging from chains showed the image of a lion, half-heartedly daubed not too long past with fresh carmine.
“In there?” Conan asked suspiciously. Taverns attracted likes, and a thief would not likely be welcome amid potters and dyers.
“In there,” Laeta agreed. She chewed her lip, then sighed. “We will wait out here, big man. For the silver.”
Conan nodded impatiently and pushed open the tavern door.
Inside, the Red Lion was arranged differently from the usual tavern. At some time in the past a fire had gutted the building. The ground floor, which had collapsed into the cellar, had never been replaced. Instead, a balcony had been built running around the inside of the building at street level, and the common room was now in what had been the cellar. Even when the sun was high on the hottest day, the common room of the Red Lion remained cool.
From a place by the balcony rail just in front of the door, Conan ran his gaze over the interior of the tavern, searching for a slender female form. A few men stood on the balcony, some lounging against the railing with tankard in hand, most bargaining quietly with doxies for time in the rooms abovestairs. A steady stream of serving girls trotted up and down stairs at the rear of the common room with trays of food and drink, for the kitchen was still on the ground level. Tables scattered across the stone floor below held potters whose arms were flecked with dried clay and leather-aproned metal workers and apprentices with tunics stained by rainbow splashes.
The ever-present trulls, their wisps of silk covering no more here than they did in the Desert, strolled the floor, but as he had expected Conan could see no other women among the tables. Satisfied that Laeta was mistaken or lying, he started to turn for the door. From the corner of his eye he saw a burly potter, with a round-breasted doxy running her fingers through his hair, look away from her bounty to glance curiously at a spot below where the big Cimmerian stood. Another man, his leather apron lying across the table before him and a squealing jade on his knees, paused in his pawing of her to do the same. And yet another man.
Conan leaned to look over the railing, and there Tamira sat beneath him, demurely clothed in pale blue robes, face scrubbed to virginal freshness … and a wooden mug upended at her mouth. With a sigh she set the mug on the table upside-down, a signal to the serving girls that she wanted it refilled.
Smiling, Conan slipped the flat throwing knife from his belt. A flicker of his hand, and the black blade quivered in the upturned bottom of her mug. Tamira started, then was still except for the fingers of her left hand drumming on the tabletop. The Cimmerian’s smile faded. With a muttered oath he stalked to t
he stairs and down.
When he reached the table the throwing knife had disappeared. He ignored the wide-eyed looks of men at nearby tables and sat across from her.
“You cost me eight pieces of gold,” were his first words.
The corners of Tamira’s mouth twitched upward. “So little? I received forty from the Lady Zayella.”
Conan’s hand gripped the edge of the table till the wood creaked in protest. Forty! “Zarath the Kothian would give a hundred,” he muttered, then went on quickly before she could ask why he was then only to receive eight. “I want a word with you, wench.”
“And I with you,” she said. “I didn’t come to a place like this, and let you find me, just to—”
“Let me find you!” he roared. A man at a nearby table hurriedly got up and moved away.
“Of course, I did.” Her face and voice were calm, but her fingers began to tap on the table again.”How could I fail to know that every beggar in Shadizar, and a fair number of the trulls, were asking after my whereabouts?”
“Did you think I would forget you?” he asked sarcastically.
She went on as if he had not spoken. “Well, I will not have it. You’ll get in my—my uncles’ attention. They’ll not take kindly to a stranger seeking after me. I led you here, well away from the Desert, in the hopes they’ll not hear of our meeting. You’ll find yourself with a blade in your throat, Cimmerian. And for some reason I don’t quite understand, I would not like that.”
Conan looked at her silently, until under his gaze her large, dark eyes began blinking nervously. Her finger-drumming quickened. “So you do know my country of birth.”
“You fool, I am trying to save your life.”
“Your uncles look after you?” he said abruptly. “Watch over you? Protect you?”
“You will find out how carefully if you do not leave me alone. And what’s that smug grin for?”
“It’s just that now I know I’ll be your first man.” His tone was complacent, but his every muscle tensed.
Tamira’s mouth worked in silent incredulity, and scarlet suffused her cheeks. Suddenly a shriek burst from her lips, and the throwing knife was in her hand. Conan threw himself from his bench as her arm whipped forward. Beyond him an appentice yelped and stared disbelieving at the tip of his nose, from which a steady drip of red fell to put new blotches on his dye-stained tunic.
Warily Conan got to his feet. Tamira shook her small fists at him in incoherent fury. At least, he thought, she did not have another of those knives. It would be out, otherwise. “But you must ask me,” he said as if there had been no interruption. “That will make up for the eight gold pieces you stole from me, when you ask me.”
“Erlik take you!” she gasped. “Mitra blast your soul! To think I worried … to think I … . You’re nothing but an oaf after all! I hope my uncles do catch you! I hope the City Guard puts your head on a pike! I hope—I hope—oh!” From head to toe she shook with rage.