Blood and teeth sprayed from the merchant’s face beneath Conan’s fist. The dagger dropped from nerveless fingers and struck the floor no more than an instant before Baratses himself.
The big Cimmerian frowned at the man lying unconscious before him. A sheath on Baratses’ forearm had held the black blade. Conan bent to remove that, and tossed it and the dagger atop the cloak. “An attempt on my life,” he muttered finally, “surely earns me the gold you brought.”
Unfastening the merchant’s purse from his belt, Conan emptied it onto his palm. There was no gold, only silver and copper. He counted it and grimaced. Three coppers more than a single gold piece. It seemed his death had been intended whether he had the goblet or not. Pouring the coins back into the purse, he added it to the dagger and sheath.
On the floor Baratses stirred and moaned.
Knotting his fist in the bony man’s tunic, Conan lifted him erect and shook him till his eyes fluttered open. Baratses let out a gurgling groan as his tongue explored splintered teeth.
‘‘I do not have the goblet,” the Cimmerian said grimly. Easily he hoisted the merchant’s feet clear of the floor. “I have never had the goblet.” He took a step and smashed Baratses against the shutter, which burst open. The bloody-faced man dangled above the alley at arm’s length from the window.”And if I ever see you again, I’ll break the rest of your teeth.” Conan opened his hand.
Baratses’ wail cut off as he landed with a squelch in equal parts of mud, offal and the emptyings of chamber pots. A scrawny dog, disturbed at its rootings, began to bark at him furiously. Scrambling shakily to his feet, Baratses stared wildly about him, then broke into a
slipping, sliding run. “Murder!” he screamed. “Murder!”
Conan sighed as he watched the merchant disappear down the alley. His cries would bring no aid in the Desert, but once he was beyond those cramped streets the City Guard would come quickly enough. And listen attentively to a respectable merchant’s tale. Perhaps it would have been better had he slit the man’s throat, yet murder had never been his way. He would have to leave the city for a time, until the furor died down. The fist that had broken Baratses’ teeth pounded the window frame. And by the time he returned Tamira would have accomplished her theft. He might never even know what it was, much less in time to get there first.
Hastily he made his preparations. The contents of Baratses’ purse were added to his own. The dagger in its sheath he fastened to his left forearm, then settled the black cloak about his broad shoulders. It fit a trifle snugly, but was ten times better than what he had.
He frowned at a lump over his chest, and felt inside the cloak. A small pouch of cloth was sewn there. From it he drew a small silver box, its lid set with blue gems. Inferior sapphires, his experienced eye told him. He flipped it open; his lip curled contemptuously at the sickly verduous powder within. Pollen from the green lotus of Vendhya. It seemed Baratses liked his dreams to come when he desired them. The small quantity in his hand would bring ten gold pieces. Upending the silver box, he tapped it against the heel of his hand to make sure all of the pollen fell to the floor. He did not deal in such things.
Quickly he ran an eye over the rest of his possessions. There was nothing there worth the bother of bundling. Near two years of thievery, and this was all he had to show for it. A fool like Baratses could throw away on stolen dreams as much as he could earn in a night of risking his life. Pushing open the door, he slapped the worn leather hilt of his broadsword with a mirthless laugh. “This is all I need anyway,” he told himself.
At the bar Abuletes came slowly in response to the big Cimmerian’s beckoning gesture. “I need a horse,” Conan said when the fat innkeeper was finally before him. “A good horse. Not one ready for the boneyard.”
Abuletes’ black eyes, deepset in wells of suet, went from the cloak on Conan’s shoulders to the stairs. “You need to leave Shadizar quickly, Cimmerian?”
“There’s no body to be found,” Conan reassured him. “Just a disagreement with a man who can get the ear of the City Guard.”
“Too bad,” Abuletes grunted. “’Tis cheaper to dispose of a body than to purchase a horse. But I know a man—” Suddenly he glared past Conan’s shoulder. “You! Out! I’ll have none of you filthy little thieves in my place!”
Conan glanced over his shoulder. Laeta stood just inside the door, glaring fiercely back at the tavernkeeper. “She has come to see me,” the Cimmerian said.
“She?” Abuletes said incredulously, but he was speaking to Conan’s back.
“You have news of Tamira?” Conan asked when he reached the girl. It was like his luck of late, he thought, that the news would come when he could not use it.
Laeta nodded, but did not speak. Conan dug two silver pieces from his purse, but when she stretched out a hand for them he lifted them out of her reach and looked at her questioningly.
“All right, big man,” she sighed. “But I had better get my coin. Yestermorn your wench went to the palace of the Lady Jondra.”
“Jondra!” So she was after the necklace and tiara. And he had to leave the city. Grinding his teeth, he tossed the coins to Laeta. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”
She tucked the silver under her torn tunic. “Because she left again. And,” she added reluctantly, “we lost her trail in the Katara Bazaar. But this morning I set Urias to watch Jondra’s palace, and he saw her again. This time she left dressed like a serving girl and riding a supply cart in Jondra’s hunting party. The lot of them departed the city by the Lion Gate. A good six turns of the glass ago, it was. Urias took his time telling me, and I’m docking him his share of this silver for it.”
Conan studied the girl, wondering if she had spun this tale. It seemed too fantastic. Unless … unless Tamira had discovered Jondra was taking the fabled necklace and tiara with her. But on a hunt? No matter. He had to leave Shadizar anyway. As well ride north and see for himself what Tamira was up to.
He started to turn away, then stopped, looking at Laeta’s dirt-smudged face and big, wary eyes, truly seeing her for the first time. “Wait here,” he told her. She eyed him quizzically, but stood there as he walked away.
He found Semiramis leaning against the wall at the back of the common room, one foot laid across her knee so she could rub it. Quickly he separated out half the coin in his purse and pressed it into her hand.
“Conan,” she protested, “you know I’ll not take money from—”
“It’s for her,” he said, jerking his head toward Laeta, who was watching him suspiciously. Semiramis arched a questioning eyebrow. “In another year she’ll not be able to pass as a boy any longer,” he explained. “Already she’s putting dirt on her face to hide how pretty she is. I thought, maybe, that you … .” He shrugged awkwardly, unsure of what he did mean.
Semiramis raised herself on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek.
“That’s no kiss,” he laughed. “If you want to say goodbye—”