''Crom!" growled Conan. For this was the ex-thief and priest, Ninus of Messantia, for whom Conan had waited so long.
With swift hands, the Cimmerian examined the body. The chart, which Ninus had promised to bring to the inn to sell him, was missing.
As Conan squatted back on his haunches, his thoughts raced swiftly behind his grim, impassive features. Who would wish the death of an insignificant little priestling, with no more than a few coppers in his purse? The chart was the only thing of any value that the priest could have carried. Since it was absent, logic asserted that the harmless Ninus must have been knifed so that his assailant could possess himself of the chart.
The upper limb of the rising sun reddened the towers and roof ridges of old Kordava. In its light, Conan's volcanic gaze burst into fierce blue flame.
Clenching his scarred fist, the giant Cimmerian swore that someone should pay for this deed, and in blood.
Gently, the Cimmerian lifted the small body in his powerful arms and strode swiftly back to the Nine Drawn Swords. Pushing into the common room, he barked at the taverner:
"Sabral! A private room and a surgeon, and quickly!"
The taverner knew that, when he used this tone, the Cimmerian brooked no delay.
He hastened to lead Conan with his burden up the rickety stairs to the second floor.
The eyes of the few remaining customers followed the Cimmerian's course with curious stares. They saw a tall man, almost a giant, of enormously powerful build. The dark, scarred face under the battered sailor's hat was clean-shaven, and the heavy, sun-bronzed features were framed by a square-cut mane of coarse black hair. The deep-set eyes under the massive black brows were blue. The buccaneer carried the body in his arms with as little effort as if it had been a small child.
None of Conan's crew was in the tavern. Conan had made sure of this when he had formed his appointment with Ninus, for he did not wish news of the treasure chart to pass current among the crew until he was ready to tell them himself.
Sabral led Conan to the chamber that he reserved for guests of quality. Conan started to lay Ninus on the bed, but he paused as Sabral whisked the bedspread out from under the body.
"No blood on my best spread!" he said.
"Fiends take your spread!" snarled Conan, laying Ninus down. While Sabral folded the spread, Conan examined Ninus. The priest breathed faintly, and his pulse fluttered.
"He lives, at least," growled Conan. "Get you gone, man, and fetch a leech! Do not stand gaping like an idiot!"
The taverner silently vanished. Conan bared Ninus' torso and crudely bound the wound, which still seeped blood.
Sabral entered with a yawning physician in a night robe, with a straggle of gray hairs escaping from under the edges of his nightcap. "The good Doctor Cratos," said the taverner.
The physician undid Conan's bandage, cleansed the wound, and bound it up again with a clean cloth. "Luckily," said he, "the stab seems to have missed the heart and the large blood vessels and to have only scratched the lung. With good care, he should live. Are you paying for him, Captain?"
Conan grunted assent. A few swallows of wine restored Ninus to partial consciousness. In a voice that was little more than a whisper, the priest told his tale:
"I ran into … two men … on the street. One … Menkara, the priest of Set. I cried … cried out. He told … the other … slay me."
"Who was the other?" demanded Conan.
"All wrapped up … wide hat and cloak … but me-thinks … buccaneer Zarono…"
Conan scowled. Zarono! That was the sneering privateer with whom he had quarreled, hours before.
Had Zarono heard of his rendezvous with Ninus and waylaid the priest to rob him of the chart? Everything pointed to a shrewd conspiracy to wrest the secret of the treasure from Conan.
He stood up, his face flushed with anger. "Here!" he rumbled. Digging a fistful of coins from his purse, he slapped them into Cratos' palm. Another handful was pressed upon Sabral.
"See that he has good care and gets well, you two!" said Conan. "We'll settle the exact charges when I return, and woe betide you if you do not your best for him! If he dies, bury him with the full rites of Mitra. Now I'm off."
Like a ghost, he vanished out the door of the chamber, glided down the stair, and plunged out the heavy front door of the Inn of the Nine Drawn Swords. He strode swiftly, with the heavy black cloak flapping about his boot heels.
As the risen sun gilded the masts and yards of the ships, the harbor bustled with activity. Sailors scrambled up and down the rigging, officers bellowed commands through parchment speaking trumpets, and creaking wooden cranes, powered by the muscles of longshoremen straining at winches and capstans, swung bales from pier to deck.
Conan came striding down to the waterfront. In answer to his curt query, the captain of the harbor watch told him that Zarono's Petrel had departed more than an hour previously and had long since vanished behind the hook that formed the eastern horn of the harbor. Conan growled rude thanks, spun on his heel, and went clattering up the gangplank of his own vessel, the carack Wastrel.
"Zeltran!" he bellowed.
"Aye, Captain?" said the mate, who was ordering the placing of provisions in the hold. Zeltran was a short, rotund Zingaran with a long, sweeping black mustache.
Despite his fat, he moved as lightly as a cat.
"Line the rascals up and call roll!" said Conan. "We shove off as soon as we can!"
Presently the entire crew of buccaneers was assembled in the waist. The majority were swarthy Zingarans, with a sprinkling of other nationalities. Three were missing, and the ship's boy was sent scurrying to drag them out of the dives in which they had overslept their liberty. The rest of the crew, lashed on by Conan's voice, speeded up their leisurely loading of the ship.
The missing men at last appeared at a run; the last bale was stowed; the cables were cast off from the quay. Eight sailors strained at the oars of the longboat to tow the Wastrel out to open water. When the first hint of a sea breeze caused the sails to lift and flap, the longboat came alongside and was hauled aboard.
Then, as her sails filled, the Wastrel leaned with the wind; the ripple at her bow grew to a white curl of foam. She rocked gently and rhythmically as she met the swells of the open sea, and the squeal of the circling gulls mingled with the splash of the bow wave, the groan of timbers, the creak of cordage, and the sigh of the wind in the rigging.
Conan stood at the forward end of the quarterdeck, leaning on the rail and peering moodily past the edge of the mainsail at the distant horizon. Having given the course that Conan had commanded and organized the watches, Zeltran bustled up to stand beside the Cimmerian.
"Well, my Captain," quoth he, "and whither away this time?"
"Know you Black Zarono's Petrel?'' said Conan.
"That big tub that put out an hour before you came to the ship? Aye, I know her. They say that Zarono's a skilled seaman but a hard, black-hearted man. He had connections among the lesser nobility; but they kicked him out, 'tis said, because of something he did that even those high-born reprobates wouldn't stand for. That's how he came to be a buccaneer. Be you at odds with Captain Zarono? He's no copemate to take on lightly."
"Keep it to yourself, rattlepate, and I'll tell you." Conan gave Zeltran a brief account of Ninus, the chart, and Zarono. "So," he continued, "if I catch him in open sea, I'll give him a proper taste of steel. If the Petrel is bigger, the Wastrel has finer lines and can beat closer to the wind."
"Oh, aye, we can catch her," said Zeltran, giving his mustache a fierce twirl. "And I've no doubt that I could slay six or seven of Zarono's knaves all by myself. But, Captain, weren't it cleverer to follow him without letting him know, thus letting him lead you to the treasure?"