The fumes of sour wine, stale beer, and sweat struck Conan in the face as he entered the first drinking shop. The carousal was in full swing. Wenches hurried to and fro with jacks of foaming ale and flagons of wine, while painted hussies dawdled on the knees of half-drunken soldiers who emptied their wine cups and yelled for more.
Seeking out a small, secluded table in a darker corner, the big barbarian sat down upon a creaking chair and ordered a tankard of beer. Slaking his thirst in gulps, he looked around. A pair of drunken lancers were wrestling on the floor amid shrieks and titters from the women. A game of dice was in progress at a neighboring table. Gleaming coins and flashing gems wandered from one side to the other across its rough-hewn and wine-spattered surface. The Cimmerian relaxed.
"What about a drink, you silent dullard?"
With a crash of overturned chairs, a giant man-at-arms pushed through the throng, leaving a train of furious curses in his wake. He flung himself down upon the unoccupied seat at Conan's table. His eyes were glassily belligerent, and his gilded mail and silken sash were splashed with wine from his cup.
Conan's eyes narrowed. The man wore the scarlet mantle and white turban of the Imperial Guards. The turban sported a peacock feather, the emblem of a captain of these elite troops.
No doubt he belonged to that detachment that routed the Zuagirs and took Yin Allal prisoner
With a show of bluff intimacy, the big Cimmerian leaned forward, his face still hidden in the shadow of Ids kaffia. "Do not wonder that I find this place dull. I came in only to slake my thirst." He gave the soldier a friendly punch in the shoulder. "I'm on my way to a pleasure house where the women are so fair and skilled as to rival the courtesans of Shadizar!"
The captain hiccupped, shook his head, and focused his eyes with an effort. "Huh? Women? Good idea. Who are you, anyway?"
"Hotep of Khemi, bodyguard to the merchant Ze-bah. Come along with me, man! A visit to this place will surfeit you for a month."
Conan was not an expert dissembler. His performance would have aroused the suspicion of a shrewd and sober man. However, the drunken stupor of the Turanian left room for nothing but his most primitive instincts. Breathing hard with aroused lust, he leaned forward with a loud belch.
"Lead me there, man! I have wandered too long over the cursed desert without a woman."
"Were you with the party that ambushed the Zuagirs?"
"With them? I commanded them!"
"Good for you!"
"Aye; that was a noble fight. But the only wench in the caravan was the yedka Thanara, may the gods smite her haughty body with boils!"
"She refused you?"
"Worse! She slapped me when I tried to kiss her in her tent!"
"The insolence of her!" said Conan.
"Nor was that all. Would you believe it, she threatened to have me flayed in the great square of Aghrapur if I did not behave? Me, Ardashir of Akif! Behave myself! As if any red-blooded man could control himself when casting his eyes upon her!"
"It is shameful, how women treat us."
"Enough of that. Lead me to your pleasure house, Stygian. I need forgetfulness and surcease."
Rising unsteadily, the Turanian pushed through the throng. Conan followed. In the street, the cool night air was like a slap in the face with a wet cloth. The captain sobered visibly as he walked. Suddenly curious, he peered at the half-hidden face of his companion, who hurried silently along at his side.
"Ho," he said, "Wait a moment, my fleet-footed friend! You have not described the whereabouts of this magical house of women, of which I have never heard though I know Wakla well. Let's have a look under your headsheet—"
Ardashir's speech was cut short by a powerful hand on his throat. Normally accounted the strongest man in his company, he was, in his unsteady condition, helpless against the suddenness of the assault and the gorilla like power of the Cimmerian.
He was swiftly dragged into a dark lane, struggling for breath and clawing at the hands that throttled him. When he was almost unconscious, he was swiftly trussed with his own sash. Roughly turned over on his back, he felt the burning eyes of his captor upon him as the barbarian spoke heavily accented Hyrkanian in a sibilant whisper:
"You asked my name, Eastern dog! Have you heard of Conan, called Yamad al-Aphta by the Zuagirs? Chief of the kozaki and the Vilayet pirates?"
The Turanian could do no more than make a choking sound in his bruised throat. Conan continued: "I have returned from the West, and now I will have information from you if I have to burn out your eyes or skin the soles of your feet to get it!"
Though a tough and courageous man, Ardashir was paralyzed with shock. Normal enemies, such as Zuagir bands, Kshatriya legions, or the defending troops of invaded Western nations he had faced with the fatalistic hardihood of the seasoned warrior. But this barbarian giant, kneeling over him with poised dagger, was regarded with superstitious dread by the Turanians. The saga of his daring exploits had invested him with magical powers in their eyes, until his name was spoken like that of a mythical ogre. Ardashir knew that the barbarian's threats were not idle. Yet it was not the fear of torture but rather the numbing realization of the identity of his captor that loosed Ardashir's tongue.
By prodding a little with his dagger, Conan gathered his news. The regular garrison of twelve hundred horse was quartered in the barracks by the main gate, while the hundred men of the Imperial Guard were spread over the city in temporary quarters. The desert chieftain was chained in the dungeon beneath the governor's tower. The lady Thanara was also quartered in the tower.
Conan pondered the situation. He knew that the barracks formed a square with a single exit. He had over two thousand determined nomads at his disposal.
A glance at the moon told him the twelfth hour was near. It was time to hurry. He tested the bonds of his captive, gagged him with his own turban, dragged him farther into the lane, and left him there, glaring and straining.
"I must be growing soft," Conan said to himself. "Time was when I should have cut the cur's throat after questioning him."
Faint, rapid drum beats filled the luxurious apartment on the second floor of the governor's palace, where Thanara of Maypur lounged on a silken divan, nibbling fruit from a low table that stood on the thick rug in front of her couch. Her sheerly transparent gown revealed her seductive charms, but the man in the room paid scant attention to these.
This man was a small, bandy-legged and mud-colored fellow, clad in skins and furs. His flat, wrinkled, monkeylike face was painted with stripes and circles of red and black. His long black hair was gathered in greasy braids, and a necklace of human teeth encircled his neck. A powerful stench of sweat-soaked leather and unwashed human hide rose from him. He was a Wigur, one of those fierce and barbarous nomads from the far northeast beyond the Sea of Vilayet.
The little man sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the thin curl of smoke that rose from a brazier on a tripod in front of him. The wavering blue column soared up from its source for two feet, then rippled and curled up on itself in interwoven arabesques. All the while the man kept up a swift tapping of his finger tips against a small drum, less than a foot across, which he held in his other hand.
At last the staccato tapping stopped.
"What see you, Tatur?" asked the yedka.
"He comes," said the shaman in a high singsong voice. "He whom you seek is near."
"How can he be?" said the lady Thanara sharply. "Veziz Shah keeps a sharp watch, and no such conspicuous rogue could gain admittance."
"Nevertheless, he approaches," whined Tatur. "The spirits do not lie. Unless you flee, he will soon confront you."