Part 6 (1/2)

”Aesir or Vanir?”

”Vanir!” Even dying, the boy had the strength for indignation. Conan smiled.

”Did you... did you see me fighting? Did I do well?” Rasmussen gasped.

His northern fairness had turned the color of fresh-fallen snow. Only his eyes held color now.

”Twice, when I had time to look about.” Conan said. He had not in fact laid eyes on the boy until this evening, but this was one of those lies that any honest man would tell and any G.o.d forgive.

”I did well?”

”Ra.s.s, your strength-” the leech began.

”I... tell me, Captain!”

”You paid your way, Rasmussen,” Conan said. ”Few can do more in their first fight, and many do not do as much.”

”Conan tells the truth,” came Raihna's voice from behind Conan. ”I made a good bargain when I took you on.”

But she was talking to a set face and staring eyes. After a moment, she joined the two men beside the pallet and with her sword-callused thumbs, closed the boy's eyes. Then she swayed, and Conan contrived to keep her from falling without appearing to do so.

Presently Raihna was in command of herself again. No words were needed as they walked back to the hut Conan had chosen for them. Still in silence, they sat across from each other while Conan poured the last wine from a skin into two wooden cups.

”To old comrades,” Raihna said. They clicked cups, then drank. When her cup was empty, Raihna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and regained something of her old manner. Then she shook her head with a rueful grin.

”Conan, I wish I had half your skill in telling lies to soothe the dying.”

”What lies?” the Cimmerian growled. ”I said the lad had done as well as any man does in his first fight. He did not run, and all of his wounds were in front. That is as well as most men do.”

Raihna shook her head again. ”Conan, you were born a hundred years old.”

Conan threw his head back and his laughter raised echoes in dusty corners. ”Tell that to the thieves of Zingara. It was said, when I was learning their craft, that a wise thief would not be caught in the same quarter of the city with Conan the Cimmerian. The great lout would warn his prey, the watch, all soldiers sober or drunk, and even the fleas on the watchdogs!”

”They said that of you?”

”Not to my face, I grant you. But, in their cups, some forgot that I was hearing. I let it pa.s.s.”

He pulled off his boots. ”But telling tales of my past will be dry work with the wine gone. What of you? Caravan guarding seems to have done well for you.”

Raihna's men seemed well-seasoned, save for the lads, and they were certainly well-armed. They were also well-furnished with things like purgative herbs and spare boots. Conan had known the lack of such small matters to leave great gaps in the ranks of a company, even if it had no enemy to face.

Raihna wore baggy leather trousers-unable to disguise the long, supple legs within-that hung down over the best sort of Argossean riding boot.

The dagger on her belt was of good Aquilonian work, as was the mail now lying in the corner. Her tunic was red Khitan silk, tight enough to set off b.r.e.a.s.t.s that seemed as fine as ever.

”I have been one of the lucky ones,” she said. Her tale followed swiftly, for it was a short one. Caravan guarding drew many men, but kept few. They fell to bandits, to disease, and hards.h.i.+p, to the temptation to steal from the caravans. If they survived all those, they sometimes fell prey to mere disenchantment at discovering that the distant cities of their dreams had no towers of ivory or women clinking with gold.

”I survived all the perils and thereby learned to keep others alive as well,” Raihna concluded. ”After that it was a simple matter to win my own band. It was not so simple to win it a reputation.”

”Is that why you're here?”