Part 3 (1/2)
A patrol of the watch trotted out of the shadows.
”Evening, Captain. Have you seen any trouble abroad?”
”None.”
Another profession Conan had followed was that of thief.
Thief-catchers, he believed, should do their own searching.
The patrol tramped off. Conan took the stairs at the Eleventh Step in two bounds, splashed water from a fountain on his hands and face, then turned in at the door of the Red Falcon.
”Ho, Conan! You look like a man who lost gold and found bra.s.s!”
”Moti, you've drunk too much of your own camel sweat to see anything clearly. Have you never spent a day breaking in new recruits?”
The scarred former sergeant of cavalry grinned. ”Enough so that I pray to be an officer in my next life as a soldier.”
Conan crossed the room, skirting the center where a pale-skinned Iranistani girl danced to tambourine and drum. She wore only a black silk loinguard, a belt of copper coins, and a s.h.i.+mmering coat of jasmine-scented oil. The rythmic swirling of her hips seemed about to divest her of even these scant garments. Watching her appreciatively, Conan noticed that the nipples of her firm young b.r.e.a.s.t.s were rouged.
She also seemed able to move those b.r.e.a.s.t.s independently of one another.
Moti thrust a ma.s.sive silver cup in the Vanir style at Conan. It came to the Red Falcon as a pledge for its owner's debt, which he never returned to pay. He was bones bleaching on the Hyrkanian sh.o.r.e, and the cup was Conan's when he drank at the Red Falcon.
”To worthy opponents,” Conan said, lifting the cup. Then he pointed at the girl. ”New, isn't she?”
”What of our Pyla, Conan?”
”Well, if she's free-”
”I am never free,” came a cheerful voice from the stairs. ”You know my price, and stop trying to beat it down, you son of a Cimmerian bog-troll!”
”Ah, the beautiful Pyla, as gracious as ever,” Conan said. He raised his cup to the raven-haired woman swaying down the stairs. She wore crimson silk pantaloons and carved mother-of-pearl plates over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Only the ripe curves of those b.r.e.a.s.t.s hinted that she was any older than the girl.
”I hardly know why I am gracious, either,” Pyla said, with a mock pout.
”Everyone insults me, claiming that I am worth no more than a wharfside trull.”
”You are worth more, of course,” Moti said. ”But not as much as you think. Indeed, you would be far richer if you charged much less. I doubt not that thinking of your price unmans half of those who would otherwise knock on your door-”
Moti broke off as five men entered from the street. Four wore leather tunics and trousers, with mail glinting at throats and wrists. Their heavy bronze-studded belts carried swords and short clubs.
The fifth man also wore tunic and trousers, but his were dark green silk, richly embroidered in gold. Gold likewise covered the hilt of his sword. Conan dismissed the party as some young n.o.bleman and his bodyguards, wandering the city in search of pleasure. He doubted they would spoil an honest soldier's drinking if they did not overstay their welcome.
Moti and Pyla seemed to think otherwise. Pyla vanished like smoke, and when Conan turned around it seemed she had taken the dancing girl with her. Moti pulled out his own cure for unruly customers, a s.h.i.+pyard maul that even Conan needed two hands to swing easily. Then he poured wine into Conan's cup until it slopped over the edge.
Very surely the five were not what they seemed to Conan. Just as surely, nothing short of torture would loosen Moti's tongue. Conan moved until he could see the whole room while he spoke to Moti, then drank until the cup no longer overflowed.
”You said you hoped to be an officer the next time?,” he prompted the innkeeper.
”If I remember what I learned this time, yes. Otherwise, small honor in being like him.” Moti made a silent and subtle gesture at the silk-clad man.
”Best hope you serve under High Captain Khadjar in his next life,”