Part 6 (2/2)
”Mine!” she shouted, as fierce as if Conan were another foe.
”Yours,” Conan replied. That pride demanded more than a nod. So did those sharp, ready, deadly-swift blades.
The woman stepped back, freeing her dagger and her opponent's sword.
Doubtless she expected an attack. Instead he turned and plunged into the alley. In a moment he was only the fading sound of pounding feet.
”G.o.ds, woman! Why did you do that? You think he'd have done as much for you?”
”I suppose not. There's still time to remedy matters, if you choose.”
”Chase a man through this maze when he may have been born here? Every time you open your mouth, more of your wits seem to fly out of it!”
”If you're afraid-” She blanched at Conan's face, as she had not at the ambush. ”Forgive me. Truly. I merely thought to give him an honorable end, not butcher him like a hog.” *
”Shake off your whims about honor, woman, if you want to live long in Turan. Mishrak will tell you that, if you won't listen to me.”
”He did. But-Master Barathres taught me well. Grat.i.tude to him, old habit-they will make me think of honor when perhaps I should not.” For the first time a smile lit her whole face. ”You are not so free of honor yourself. Else why did you take my part at the Red Falcon?”
”I hate to have a quiet night's drinking spoiled. Besides, I took your part only after I saw that Moti was too afraid of that lordling's kin to lift a finger for you. That's the first time I had to brawl at the Red Falcon. If it isn't the last, Moti will pay more than he did that night!”
”What did he pay, if you think it fit to tell me?”
No woman likes to hear of a man's exploits in bedding others. Learning that lesson had nearly cost Conan his manhood. ”He paid dearly enough, but I'd rather tell you when we've put a few streets between us and our late friends. The man you let flee may be summoning help.”
”I pray not.”
”Pray all you wish, but the sooner Mishrak's door closes behind us, the better.”
The woman nodded, grimaced at the nicks in her dagger, then sheathed it. Conan knelt, to examine the bodies, frowning as he recognized another. The man whose leg he'd slashed off was a soldier in Captain Itzhak's company. He'd seen the man at the Red Falcon once or twice, gambling and losing. Had he hired out his sword to pay his debts, or did his secret lie deeper than that?
Well, the woman was leading him to the man in all Turan most likely to know, if least likely to tell. She was already turning down the alley, sword in hand. Conan followed, considering that this was twice he'd fought shoulder to shoulder with the woman without knowing her name.
Three.
”WHO SEEKS ENTRANCE to this House?” said a soft voice. It seemed to come from the air above the great iron gate in the whitewashed stone wall.
”Captain Conan and she who was sent for him,” the woman replied.
They waited, while the owner of that voice studied them. At last Conan heard a series of clangs like a blacksmith at work, then a faint sc.r.a.pe of metal on metal as the gate slid open.
”You may enter this house,” came the voice again.
Entry was through a gateway more deserving of the name of tunnel. The walls of Mishrak's house were two men thick and solid stone every finger of the way. Conan counted four arrow slits and two dropholes in the walls and ceiling. At the far end lay another gate, this one of Vendhyan teak, lavishly carved with dragons and tigers in the Khitan style.
Beyond the second gate they entered a guardroom. Two of the guards were black, one of Vanaheim, and the last clearly a native of Shem. None but the Shemite was as small as Conan, and that one wore enough knives to let out the blood of six men before his own flowed.
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