Part 6 (1/2)

”This is my personal servant and bodyguard,” declared the leader, ”a Stygian. The others are hired guards, camel drivers, and slaves. By Ashtoreth, it is good to be safely within walls again! I had feared attacks from the Zuagir bands. My men are well armed, as the n.o.ble captain can see. But the G.o.ds protected us, so none of those stinking vermin of the desert a.s.sailed us.”

The captain of the watch grinned. ”Your precautions were wasted, my man. Just now a woman could ride alone and unmolested along the caravan trail. Yesterday a squadron of the Imperial Guards smashed a host of the desert rats and captured their chieftain. We think only one of the dogs got away.”

”Ah!” said the Shemite. ”That is indeed glorious news.”

”All in the day's work. But at least this show of force should stop the raids for a while. Veziz Shah has ordered us to slay any Zuagir, man, woman, or child, caught by our patrols. By the time you return to Yukkub, you will be able to travel the length and breadth of the Zuagir desert without fear.”

”I will burn an offering to Bel as a measure of my grat.i.tude,” said the merchant, as the last of the camels shambled through the gate. Four guardsmen closed the gate; its ironclad valves swung creakingly shut on hinges as thick as a man's leg. The ma.s.sive bolt bars clanged into their cradles.

The fort was really a small city. A high, crenelated wall of stone girded the ma.s.s of buildings with parapets and battlements. Watchful bowmen ranged the breastworks. The s.p.a.ce within was roomy, and merchants and thieves found their means of support in the profusion of buildings. Isolated as it was, Fort Wakla must contain within itself the means of civilized living, with drinking shops and gambling houses to keep the garrison happy.

At the s.p.a.cious market place in the center, mailed soldiers in spired helmets and robed merchants with exotic wares and veiled women milled about. The s.p.a.ce resounded with the cries of hawkers and auctioneers.

To one side rose the mighty citadel where the governor lived, a fortress in itself with gray stone walls, narrow windows, and heavy copper doors. Those who had been inside, however, averred that the interior belied the grimness of the outside. It was heaped with art treasures, fitted with comfortable furniture, and stocked with fine wines and viands.

Evening had come. The sky darkened swiftly, and here and there candles and lamps illuminated the windows. Sweating taverners bore wine casks from their cellars for the evening rush of customers. Gamblers rolled dice with practiced twists and turns. The colorful night life of a Hyrkanian city was beginning.

In the quarters by the western wall, reserved for visiting caravans, arguments raged around the campfires of Conan's band. Nearly all advocated staying there in safety, unsuspected, until the appointed hour had come. But Oman was of another mind. With a good two hours to spare, he meant to find out as much as he could about the disposition of the enemy. The quarters of the officers and common soldiers he had already located, close by the main gate, but he did not know the number of the troops quartered there.

”May the fiends cut off your tongues!” he rumbled. ”I will do as I have said. In the tavern district there will be scores of drunken soldiers off duty. From one of them I shall get the information I want if I have to wring it from him like a sodden cloth!”

The iron determination of the Cimmerian swept aside the objections of his followers. He wrapped his khalat about him and strode away, hiding his face under the kaffia. There was no reason to upset their carefully laid plans by letting some Turanian with a good memory recognize him.

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. The interior was much like that of a western tavern, though the garb was more colorful.

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 t.i.tters from the women. Taut muscles rippled under their tawny, sweating skins. A game of dice was in progress at a neighboring table. Gleaming coins and flas.h.i.+ng gems wandered from one side to the other across its rough-hewn and wine-spattered surface. The Cimmerian relaxed. Nervousness seldom a.s.sailed him, but his senses had been on edge as he entered the enemy's lair.

”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 gla.s.sily 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 peac.o.c.k 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. In fact he might have commanded that company. Here was an opportunity sent by the G.o.ds if Conan could but use it.

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 l.u.s.t, 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!”