For hours, Conan explored the broad ways and winding alleys of Ptahuacan without arousing any special interest. Priests in such feathered robes were evidently a common sight along the high-walled, cobblestoned streets of the lost Atlantean city. Later, when the streets became wholly deserted, he found an empty, tumbledown hut and slept until dawn. Then he set forth on his expeditions again.
In the morning's light, Conan saw dozens of other tall, feather-robed figures stalking about on stilt-soled shoes. They strode grandly through the crowds, never deigning to reply to the humble greetings of those they passed. It would seem that the priest-wizards.of old Atlantis were the rulers of this city, also.
It would also seem that the populace was entirely subordinated to them. To Conan the people seemed a listless, downtrodden lot, with glazed, indifferent eyes and frightened faces. With apprehension in their dark eyes, they scurried out of the path of the tall, feather-robed priests, whose arrogant authority Conan strove to imitate.
Ptahuacan, Conan found, was built on ascending levels, and the parallel streets that ran along these levels were connected by sloping ramps and stairways. The city was a remarkable technical achievement, denoting a sophisticated culture with ancient traditions and well-developed artistic canons. The stonework was equal to anything Conan had seen in his own world; even the modern cities of his realm could not match the massive proportions of the mighty temples or the meticulous precision of their masonry. The fantastic, temple-crowned ziggurat in the central square, as large as any of the pyyramids of Stygia and reminiscent in its style of the fanes of some of the sinister cults of Shem, must have taken centuries of labor by thousands of workers to erect. Around the margins of the square ran a set of stone benches, rising tier upon tier until they could have held thousands of spectators facing the pyramid.
Conan stayed out of the square of the pyramid, for it seemed to be a holy place. He might well encounter many priests garbed like himself, who would not be timid about accosting him. So far, he had been able to dodge the feather-robed ones he saw in the streets. They did not seem a very companionable caste anyway. Aloof, unapproachable, and busy on their own unguessable errands, they rarely stopped to speak even with one another.
Conan spent much time in loitering near groups in order to hear something of the language. It was guttural and sibilant, given to long word-units. He could now understand many isolated words and a few phrases, but a long sentence spoken rapidly baffled him. Although its grammar seemed utterly different from that of any of the languages he knew, a few of the words he had learned from Catlaxoc did bear a faint resemblance to the corresponding words in his native Cimmerian,
It occurred to the old Cimmerian that the Atlanteans -who rose to civilization after the fall of Valusia, much of whose culture they adopted - were in part the ancestors of his own people. In the little-known era before the Cataclysm, the tribes and clans of an elder Cimmeria had warred and intermarried with the Atlantean colonists on the Thurian coasts. Many Cimmerian tribes, half-civilized through long contact with Atlantean colonists., had served Atlantis as mercenaries in the final centuries before the island continent sank beneath the sea. As the Cimmerian barbarians acquired the rudiments of civilization, they borrowed words to express more complex concepts from their ancient enemies. Hence, some faint resemblances lingered between a few words of similar meaning on both sides of the vast Western Ocean. Such resemblances, however, were not enough to give a stranger from across the sea a command of Antillian speech without much arduous practice.
From the occasional overheard word or phrase that he could understand, Conan grasped that the main topics of gossip in Ptahuacan that morning were two. One was the combat between the dragon-ships of the Sea Guard and the alien vessel from parts unknown. The other was the blasphemous assault upon one of the holy priests, who had been incredibly robbed of his sacred feather robe. Conan listened eagerly for news of the whereabouts and fortunes of his crew; but, if any speaker knew the answer to that question, he did not say.
While Conan was loitering near crowded market stalls in one of the larger bazaars, the chance that he had awaited presented itself. A sly-eyed little man in a tattered kilt lingered with elaborate casualness near the copper-bound box where a fat merchant kept his trade "metaclass="underline" slugs of lead, rings of copper and silver, and quills of gold dust. Even as Conan glanced, he saw the little man dip one bare, scrawny arm into the box with the deft speed of a striking serpent. In the blink of an eye, the man had removed two quills of gold dust.
The merchant, engaged in a voluble exchange with an aristocratic customer, who leaned from a slave-borne palanquin to haggle over a fine pelt from some large, catlike beast, saw nothing. A grin of joy wrinkled Oman's hidden features as he watched the thief glide away, the precious quills vanishing into his kilt.
As the thief slunk from the bazaar, Conan quietly followed him into an empty alley. Then in one lithe bound he was upon the little Antillian, who squeaked like a frightened mouse when Conan's massive hand clamped on his bony shoulder. Conan fended off the stroke of the needle-like little obsidian dagger that had appeared from thin air.
He seized and squeezed the man's hand, and the glass-bladed knife tinkled to the slimed cobbles.
As the little thief raised fearful, curious eyes to the giant in the feathered cowl, Conan growled in broken Antillian: 'Take me to king of thieves, or I break your arm!'
At last the dice were rolling in his favor. Like all cities, great Ptahuacan must have a criminal underworld. And, if one is in trouble with the ruling class, one can always find a welcome amongst the worldwide guild of thieves!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THIEVES OF PTAHUACAN
Black evils essence hither comes from some
unknown dimension far,
And those who leave earth's gate ajar
shall die as earthly life succumbs.
- The Visions of Epemitreus
Conan's captive led him by winding ways into the more sordid sections of the ancient city. Here, homeless derelicts and filthy beggars lounged in crumbling doorways. Raddled whores leaned from windows to compete for the trade of an occasional passerby.
As he penetrated the slum area, Conan began to realize the unthinkable age of the city. Here the stone steps and ramps were worn into sloping saddles by the tread of countless generations. The very stone of the walls was worn slick by the brushing of millions of shoulders. Ages of wind and rain had eroded much of the stone into porous, crumbling ruin. Long abandoned and tenanted only by vermin, many structures had collapsed. Whole blocks of houses lay in mouldering ruins in this, the most ancient sector of the city. Grass grew between tilted paving stones, while weedy trees sprouted amidst the tangles of long-overgrown gardens and courtyards. If the sight of a feather-robed priest-wizard in these shabby streets was unusual, none of the inhabitants gave evidence of this fact. For, as Conan passed with the weasel-faced little thief in tow, hardly one raised curious eyes. It seemed to be the custom in these parts of Ptahuacan ostentatiously to ignore the doings of others, probably as a means of self-preservation. Doubtless this was the thieves' quarter, where lawlessness flourished.
Only when they neared the headquarters of the thieves did Conan realize that his progress had been under surveillance all the time. As they passed down a crooked alley between walls that leaned awry, two burly figures, armed with cudgels, appeared in front of them, while another pair closed in from behind. They were all big and stout for Antillians and naked except for soiled, apronlike garments of patched leather. Fixing Conan with cold, somber black eyes, they advanced from either end of the alley toward the place where he stood with his captive.