Part 21 (2/2)

'Aye, wine!' echoed Publio mechanically. Instinctively his hand reached for a gong, then recoiled as from a hot coal, and he shuddered.

While Conan watched him with a flicker of grim amus.e.m.e.nt in his eyes, the merchant rose and hurriedly shut the door, first craning his neck up and down the corridor to be sure that no slave was loitering about.

Then, returning, he took a gold vessel of wine from a near-by table and was about to fill a slender goblet when Conan impatiently took the vessel from him and lifting it with both hands, drank deep and with gusto.

'Aye, it's Conan, right enough,' muttered Publio. 'Man, are you mad?'

'By Crom, Publio,' said Conan, lowering the vessel but retaining it in his hands, 'you dwell in different quarters than of old. It takes an Argossean merchant to wring wealth out of a little waterfront shop that stank of rotten fish and cheap wine.'

'The old days are past,' muttered Publio, drawing his robe about him with a slight involuntary shudder. 'I have put off the past like a worn-out cloak.'

'Well,' retorted Conan, 'you can't put _me_ off like an old cloak. It isn't much I want of you, but that much I do want. And you can't refuse me. We had too many dealings in the old days. Am I such a fool that I'm not aware that this fine mansion was built on my sweat and blood? How many cargoes from my galleys pa.s.sed through your shop?'

'All merchants of Messantia have dealt with the sea-rovers at one time or another,' mumbled Publio nervously.

'But not with the black corsairs,' answered Conan grimly.

'For Mitra's sake, be silent!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Publio, sweat starting out on his brow. His fingers jerked at the gilt-worked edge of his robe.

'Well, I only wished to recall it to your mind,' answered Conan. 'Don't be so fearful. You took plenty of risks in the past, when you were struggling for life and wealth in that lousy little shop down by the wharves, and were hand-and-glove with every buccaneer and smuggler and pirate from here to the Barachan Isles. Prosperity must have softened you.'

'I am respectable,' began Publio.

'Meaning you're rich as h.e.l.l,' snorted Conan. 'Why? Why did you grow wealthy so much quicker than your compet.i.tors? Was it because you did a big business in ivory and ostrich feathers, copper and skins and pearls and hammered gold ornaments, and other things from the coast of Kush?

And where did you get them so cheaply, while other merchants were paying their weight in silver to the Stygians for them? I'll tell you, in case you've forgotten: you bought them from me, at considerably less than their value, and I took them from the tribes of the Black Coast, and from the s.h.i.+ps of the Stygians--I, and the black corsairs.'

'In Mitra's name, cease!' begged Publio. 'I have not forgotten. But what are you doing here? I am the only man in Argos who knew that the king of Aquilonia was once Conan the buccaneer, in the old days. But word has come southward of the overthrow of Aquilonia and the death of the king.'

'My enemies have killed me a hundred times by rumors,' grunted Conan.

'Yet here I sit and guzzle wine of Kyros.' And he suited the action to the word.

Lowering the vessel, which was now nearly empty, he said: 'It's but a small thing I ask of you, Publio. I know that you're aware of everything that goes on in Messantia. I want to know if a Zingaran named Beloso, or he might call himself anything, is in this city. He's tall and lean and dark like all his race, and it's likely he'll seek to sell a very rare jewel.'

Publio shook his head.

'I have not heard of such a man. But thousands come and go in Messantia.

If he is here my agents will discover him.'

'Good. Send them to look for him. And in the meantime have my horse cared for, and have food served me here in this room.'

Publio a.s.sented volubly, and Conan emptied the wine vessel, tossed it carelessly into a corner, and strode to a near-by cas.e.m.e.nt, involuntarily expanding his chest as he breathed deep of the salt air.

He was looking down upon the meandering waterfront streets. He swept the s.h.i.+ps in the harbor with an appreciative glance, then lifted his head and stared beyond the bay, far into the blue haze of the distance where sea met sky. And his memory sped beyond that horizon, to the golden seas of the south, under flaming suns, where laws were not and life ran hotly. Some vagrant scent of spice or palm woke clear-etched images of strange coasts where mangroves grew and drums thundered, of s.h.i.+ps locked in battle and decks running blood, of smoke and flame and the crying of slaughter.... Lost in his thoughts he scarcely noticed when Publio stole from the chamber.

Gathering up his robe, the merchant hurried along the corridors until he came to a certain chamber where a tall, gaunt man with a scar upon his temple wrote continually upon parchment. There was something about this man which made his clerkly occupation seem incongruous. To him Publio spoke abruptly:

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